Fred Wemyss

By Frederick Wemyss


This may not be important, but I remember it vividly. Henry and I were nine, ten or eleven years old. I'm not recalling merely one conversation, but a recurring one. I'm not comparing it to a recurring nightmare. I am acknowledging that I have never heard the word "recurring" occur in any context other than the description of a nightmare. "Recurring" is the only word I can think of to describe this conversation we kept falling into.

A song one of us didn't like would come on the radio. One of us would groan. "I hate this song," one of us would say. Most of the time, we agreed about the song. But when a song came on which only one of us didn't like (that one always being me) the conversation would become the sort of conversation I've always regretted.

"You should buy a radio station when you grow up," Henry would say.

As he spoke, we'd be passing one or another Northeastern mountain range. We'd be in the back of a station wagon, a model called the Country Squire, driven by Henry's father. We'd be looking out the back window, watching the swaying of the trailer which was hitched to the back, and we'd be talking above the voices of Henry's brother and sister, who'd be singing the song on the radio in earnest, honest voices. Henry's other two siblings, the eldest and the youngest, would be asleep. Henry's mother would be in the front passenger seat, speaking to Henry's father in a practical voice which, every so often, broke into laughter. Every now and then, Henry's father would shout at a driver, "Use your signal!"

The song on the radio would continue, and I'd say, "You always say I should buy a radio station when I say I hate a song."

"I'd listen to it, Chambliss," Henry would say.

"But only because you'd know me," I'd say.

"Wouldn't you want me listening to your radio station?" Henry would ask.

"Yes, but if you were only listening to it because I was your friend you'd be missing songs on a station playing songs you liked."

"But I'd want to hear it because it was your station."

"But then I'd feel guilty about not playing your song."

"But I wouldn't want you to play a song which you didn't like on your radio station just because I liked the song."

Our conversations about hypothetical situations never turned into arguments. Instead, they'd end with one of us (always Henry) becoming silent. He'd stare at the beige carpet on the floor of the station wagon. "Why do you have to sing?" he'd shout at Randy and Ellen. "You drown out all the good songs."

Henry was unforgiving toward his brother and sisters, just as they were unforgiving toward him, but all of them treated me as if I were innocence embodied. Whenever Henry found I disagreed with him, a look of confusion would get in his eyes. He'd get the look in his eyes and then look away.

But one conversation on one trip upstate meant more to him than I thought. I'm sure he's forgotten it now. But I remember it because, like my friendship with Henry, its memory has meaning for me still.

I think we were twelve. Again, we were in the Country Squire, which, I'm certain, was packed with camping equipment, food and Henry's family. The radio was on, Randy and Ellen were singing the song on the radio, Henry's mother and father were talking, Henry's eldest sister and his youngest sister were sleeping and Henry was looking right at me.

"If I murdered someone, would you hide me?" he said.

"What?" I said.

"If I killed someone and the police were after me, would you protect me?"

"Alone Again, Naturally," Randy and Ellen's favorite song that summer, was playing, but they weren't singing along. They were listening to us.

"I don't think you would murder anyone," I said.

Henry looked away. He looked at passing station wagons with camping equipment tied to the roofs.

"But what if I did?"

"It would depend on what kind of murder it was," I said.

"No," said Henry. "I asked you if you would hide me if the police wanted to arrest me for murder."

"Well, if you killed someone in self-defense I wouldn't turn you in."

"So you'd shelter me."

"If it were for something innocent, like self-defense, yes."

"But if I killed somebody deliberately, you would turn me in?" Henry's voice had become urgent.

"If you deliberately killed the person in self-defense, I probably would not turn you in."

"Alone Again, Naturally" had ended and Randy and Ellen didn't even start to sing the next song. Henry's mother had stopped talking and Henry's eldest sister had woken up, as had the youngest. We were passing a clip joint called "The Trading Post," and Henry's father wasn't even sticking his head out the window and shouting "Witch," the way he always did when we passed "The Trading Post."

They hadn't been listening earlier, when we were crossing the Tappan Zee Bridge and Henry and I were talking about my hatred of STAR TREK. I'd said that, even though I couldn't stand STAR TREK, a show Henry loved, I would not ban it from a TV station I'd own in the future. I had reasoned that, STAR TREK, being a popular show today, would be a popular show at the time I took over the TV station and that it would be mean of me, not to mention financially foolish, to stop showing it.

"But you hate it so much. Why would you show it?"

"Well, just because I hate it, it doesn't mean it's bad for people. If they like it and I had the rights to it, there would be nothing wrong with showing it."

"But wouldn't you want the station to only show shows you liked?"

"Yes, but shows I like don't get high ratings. So I'd show high-rated shows."

"But it would be your station."

"Yes, but other people would have to watch it, so I'd try to put on shows they'd want to see."

"But you hate so many shows, wouldn't you want a station that showed only good shows?"

"Well, just because I like something, that doesn't mean it's good. If STAR TREK isn't hurting anybody, why wouldn't I show it?"

"But you hate it."

"But that's not the point."

All through this conversation, Rand and Ellen were singing over "Betcha By Golly Wah" at the top of their lungs, Henry's mother was talking practicalities and laughing on and off, Henry's father was shouting at the traffic and Henry's eldest and youngest sisters were asleep.

But, without looking at us, they listened, loudly, somehow, as Henry said, "What if it wasn't self-defense?"

"If it were just an accident," I said, carefully, "I'd still hide you."

"But what if I just went up to someone on the street and shot him in the head?"

"Well, then, that would be a real murder."

"Would you hide me?"

"If I killed someone out of the blue," I said, "I'd want you to turn me in."

"But what if I didn't want to be turned in?" said Henry.

"I'd ask you to turn yourself in."

"But what if I wasn't going to turn myself in and I was at your house when the cops knocked at the door?"

"Before letting them in I'd ask you one more time to turn yourself in."

"So, you wouldn't turn me in?"

"I'd shoot you and then let the cops in."

"What?"

Granite boulders rose up on both sides of the road.

"We're halfway there!" Henry's mother shouted.