Free The Last Worthless Evening by Andre Dubus

chair to the typewriter and got paper and carbons from the desk drawer; I watched him roll them onto the carriage. The Negro stood behind Gantner and to his right, stood behind the chair, holding its back. He was directly in front of me, looking at me, his face more quizzical than afraid; but he was frightened too, and I knew then that Gantner had not spoken to him; then I knew, though I treated it as a guess, that he did not know the other sailor was dead. I told him to sit down, to have coffee, to smoke, and he pushed the chair closer to the desk and reached for his mug, but Gantner picked it up first and, twisting to his left, filled it at the percolator and placed it back on the desk, in the circle it had made before. The Negro took it. Gantner raised my mug toward me. I shook my head. He put his cigarettes and lighter and an ashtray on the edge of the desk near the Negro, then filled his coffee mug and lit a cigarette, and the Negro did too, then Gantner rested his on the ashtray, and his hands settled on the typewriter keys, so softly that not one key moved. Then I looked at the Negro, at his waiting eyes.
    â€œI’m placing you under arrest,” I said. “That does not mean the brig. You will simply go to your bunk. Tomorrow an investigating officer will talk to you.” He was no longer quizzical, and he wasn’t more frightened yet either: he was alert and he was thinking, with the look of a man trying to remember something crucial, and I imagined the pictures in his mind and then the last one, the one that changed his face: a sudden slackening, and now he was afraid, and more: in his eyes was a new knowledge, a recognition that his entire life, in this very moment, was finished; that is, his life as it had been, as he had known it. “You’re free to make a statement,” I said. “Gantner will type it and you can sign it. And you must understand this perfectly: anything you say can be used against you in a court-martial.” Gantner began to type; I paused, then understood he was typing the beginning of such statements: Having been informed of my rights and so forth I do hereby make the following voluntary statement … “You can also remain silent. You can say nothing at all. Just get up and go below and get out of that wet uniform and take a hot shower. And go to bed. That won’t be held against you either.”
    â€œMister—”
    â€œFontenot.”
    â€œMister Fontenot? What am I charged with?”
    He was from the North.
    â€œThe other sailor. The one you fought with. He didn’t come up.”
    â€œHe didn’t come up?” Now the knowledge, the recognition, was deeper, it was all of him, and I felt he was sitting in an electric chair watching me at the switch. “How come? How come he didn’t just swim on up?”
    â€œThey don’t know. They’re looking for him.”
    â€œWasn’t sharks in the water. They sure he never swam to the pier? I mean, I never looked for him. I just made it to the liberty boat. I didn’t even know the man. Just a white boy on the pier. I looked around the boat, once we was underway, but I didn’t look real good. I was cold. I just tried to stay warm.”
    â€œNobody said anything to you? On the boat?”
    â€œNo, Mister—”
    â€œFontenot.”
    â€œMister Fontenot. No, sir.”
    â€œI think they knew.”
    â€œI don’t know.” He shook his head once, looked again as though he were trying to remember. “I just wanted to get to the ship, and do like you said.”
    â€œLike I said?”
    â€œYes sir. A hot shower and—”
    â€œOh.”
    He started to rise, but not to stand: his arms straightened and pressed down on the sides of the chair, so his weight shifted up and toward me.
    â€œThey sure that white boy didn’t come up?”
    â€œNobody saw him. The Shore Patrol was there. They didn’t see him. What’s your