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“Your daughter was never okay, and it’s pathetic you don’t even know that.”
Miller drew back and, before Clinton could do anything, slapped Belinda.
Belinda stood there, eyes wide, a red splotch on her cheek. Clinton sprung up and shoved Miller, who staggered back two or three steps, regained his balance, and lunged at Clinton. A waiter, two guests, and, eventually, the manager intervened, coming between them.
Chaos prevailed for probably three minutes. Both Clinton and Miller tried to get at each other. More help came. Golfers who knew Miller tried to calm him down. Caddies and the manager guarded Clinton. Belinda cried. Four of the women customers there comforted her, all the while throwing hateful looks at Miller. All the customers in the cafeteria were up and out of their seats. Absurdly, a guitar version of “The Girl from Ipanema” played on the sound system. Charlie, the manager, took control.
“Ray,” he said, “I think you need to go home.”
“No,” Belinda said loudly through her tears. “He hit me. Someone call the police.”
“I don’t think we have to do that,” Charlie said.
“He hit me. He committed a crime!”
Someone went to a pay phone. The men were still holding on to Clinton, who was trying to struggle free and get to Miller.
“Clinton,” Charlie said, “calm down.” He looked over at Belinda. “Are you all right, young lady?”
“No,” Belinda returned.
Charlie looked around him, knowing he had to defuse the situation.
“Ray, why don’t you go sit in my office? Clinton, I want to talk with you.”
Miller left. Clinton shook free of the men holding him and went over to Belinda.
“I’ll be okay,” she said.
“Clinton, I need to talk to you,” Charlie said. “Let’s go back to the kitchen.” he said.
Clinton looked at Belinda. “I’m fine,” she said. “I’ll wait for you.”
He went with Charlie. He stopped just past the entrance to the kitchen.
“What in the hell was that all about?” he asked, keeping his voice down.
“Just like Belinda said: Miller came up and started ragging on her and then he slapped her.”
“Why did he do that?”
“She said something he didn’t like about his daughter.”
“You need to take off a few days off, Clinton. And you probably shouldn’t come back here for a while.”
“Shouldn’t come back? I didn’t do anything! We’re sitting there having lunch, minding our own business, when he barges up and hits my girlfriend.”
“I know. Give it a week. Give him time to calm down.”
“I need the money, Charlie.” He shook his head. “This isn’t fair.”
“Life isn’t fair. Come back on Monday. I hope the whole mess will be blown over by then. That’s all I’ve got to say.”
He turned, walked into the kitchen, and started a conversation with one of the cooks. Clinton went back to the café. Belinda was talking with one of the teachers from their school. The teacher said hello to Clinton (he had her for music appreciation) and then turned her attention to Belinda once more.
“He assaulted you — assault and battery. Dozens of people saw it. You’ve got an airtight case and Jerry will represent you.”
Belinda nodded. “Thank you, Mrs. Rammel.”
She nodded, patted Belinda, and walked back to her table. Clinton came up and put his arms around her. She leaned against him and began to cry once more. The police arrived a few minutes later. They questioned Belinda and talked to some of the people who had seen the incident. Miller remained in Charlie’s office. The cops talked to him and then took him to the station. They later learned he was charged with assault and battery. He posted bail and went home. Clinton and Belinda returned to where they two of them were staying.
* * *
Clinton thought the matter would blow over and in a week things would be back to normal. It did not happen that way. In bed with Belinda that night, he asked her about Miller’s daughter.
“She’s gotten real heavy into LSD, mescaline, other stuff. He needs someone to blame, so he decided to blame it on me. He caught Carrie and me smoking a joint in her bedroom once. Yelled at me and told me to get out of the house and never come back. When I left, he started to beat her, like he’d always done to her. She fought back for the first time, she told me later, scratched at him and got him across the eyeball. He had to go to the emergency room. She called the police. It was a huge embarrassment for their family. Things have gone downhill since then.”
“Did you encourage her start taking stuff?” He touched her long dark hair. She looked beautiful in the simple cotton nightgown she had on.
“Have you seen me do any dope since we met, Clinton?”
“No.”
She had been up on one elbow. She lay on her back and looked at the ceiling. “I don’t do drugs a lot. I smoke grass now and then. Every great once in a while I’ll drop some acid or psilocybin. But I’m not into it that much. Carrie is the one who’s always trying to get me to smoke — or snort coke. It’s too bad.” She paused, glanced at him, and then added, “She invited me to that party. I didn’t want to but went there for her sake — I thought I could talk into her leaving, but she wouldn’t listen. It’s very neat and pat for him to blame me for his daughter using drugs.”
A couple of days later, Clinton got a call from his father.
“What’s going on with you and Ray Miller?” he asked.
“He got a little hot under the collar at my girlfriend last week.”
“I heard about it. It’s all over the country club. Who is this girl, Clinton?”
“Her name is Belinda —”
“How do you know her?”
“From school,” he answered — not exactly a lie.
“What happened to Betsy?”
Betsy Lane was a former girlfriend. Her Dad owned a bank in town. His family had liked her. Clinton’s annoyance rose past the point of manageability. “So why are you so interested in my dating life all of a sudden?” he demanded.
From the sound of his father’s breathing, he could tell his father was surprised at his reaction. “I’m concerned with your reputation, Clinton. You ought to be as well.”
“Belinda is a nice girl.”
“Ray called and gave me a little different story on her.” His father’s voice sounded firm.
“I don’t like him sticking his nose in my business.”
“He’s concerned.”
About David W. Landrum
