The rumors which circulated about him and his family were many. His mother was supposed to be dead, and his father was an alcoholic who beat him regularly out of lost hopes and jealousy. Or, his mother was a disgrace to the family and his psychopath father kept her locked in the basement at all times to avoid embarrassment. The most popular rumor was that Kingman had murdered both of his parents in a fit of rage with an axe. The reality was that no one knew either Kingman or his parents. Rumors were created to fill in the blanks.

The strange thing was that Kingman never reproached anyone for treating him like we did. He never uttered so much as a word in his own defense. That is probably why he got it as bad as he did. Because he never acknowledged the pain we were causing him. Maybe if he had screamed at us, or had gone to our parents, or even just broke down and cried, then we would have let up a little. But he never raised a hand to protect himself, nor said a word to ward off his offenders. Kingman was a rock. And only now that I am somewhat older but not much wiser, can I respect him for it.

Before last week I had all but forgotten about Kingman. Twenty years has a way of creeping up on you. You don’t notice the time pass until you see your companions of old, and what time has done to them. So when I saw Kingman walk through the gymnasium doors at the twentieth high school reunion, I felt a cold dark hand reach up from my past and ceremonially flip me the bird.

He strode proudly through the double doors, with a look of mild disgust on his face, and a beautiful blonde on his expensively suited arm. As he walked towards me I felt as though the world had stopped. And I wondered silently if he remembered. I looked over at Martha, who had once been the prize catch of Central High and the captain of the cheerleading team, and suddenly realized just how frumpy she had actually become. After three kids she had all but lost that svelte waistline. Looking at her now, a stranger might find it hard to believe she had ever had one. I couldn’t hate her though. What more could be expected from the wife of a hardware store owner.

I had once been the most popular, most athletically gifted boy in the class. But I would never use the scholarship I had won to Barker University. My dad died one month after graduation and all of my hopes and dreams died with him. I was the only male in the family, and whether I liked it or not, the hardware store was mine.

As Kingman slowly approached, I thought about everything I had read about him in the papers over the years. Until now, with the proof walking stealthily towards me, I had read of his exploits as if they were peculiarly realistic bits of fiction.

Unlike me, Kingman made it to college. And afterwards he made it to law school. Almost from the very beginning the media latched onto his career. For the controversy that usually surrounded it, and the charisma with which Kingman himself handled every situation. Kingman kept the AP in business, as well as permitting a number of his former classmates (including me) to follow his career.

When I first saw him in the newspaper Kingman must have just passed the bar exam (I made the mental calculations sitting in the hardware store on a slow Friday afternoon). He didn’t look much different in the picture. He was still whipcord thin, with a close-cut crop of hair, and a wild look in his eyes. He hadn’t taken on the slowly growing paunch that most of us had. And he was wearing a neat black suit. Not a dual insulated flannel shirt and jeans.

The article was about a certain case Kingman had taken on at the height of the civil rights movement. It seems that two colored students were refused entry into a mid-level eastern university, with no other premise than the color of their skin. Apparently, no one else would touch the case with a ten-foot pole. However, Kingman took it. And he was justly hailed by every major newspaper in the country for doing so. That was where Kingman’s star began to shine.

Throughout the years following that first case Kingman built his entire reputation on representing the underdog. Any case that smelled even mildly of controversy, he made his point to accept. Especially those cases that his colleagues in the legal profession wrote off as unwinnable. Yet to their great amazement he won them all.

Lord. What must have been going through poor Kingman’s mind when he first came back to Johnston? Some years earlier when Kingman was born, Johnston had been a predominately colored town, with only a smattering of local white families (mine being one of them). At that time there was no attention paid to differences as ephemeral as skin color. It was a unified community. Perhaps a bit sheltered even. In any event, Johnston was in sharp contrast to what was happening between negros and whites in other American towns at the time. At thirteen years old Kingman must have realized what he was getting into. He probably felt like a Christian being fed to the lions in fact. If he didn’t already realize the state of affairs when he arrived, he was nonetheless quickly initiated into the world of harsh reality.

After only ten days in their new home, the Kingman family received their first friendly neighborhood brick through the front window. A friend of mine named Jarred had decorated the brick with the immortal inscription: GET OUT NIGGERS! in neat black capitals. As dark as the town of Johnston had once been, now it was lily white.

The change had been gradual. It wasn’t as if the black families were forced to leave. Most of them left of their own accord, not wanting to stir things up. Not wanting to become part of a minority community again amongst the whites. No one likes to be constantly reminded that they don’t belong. A few families stuck it out of course. But these were of the type you always find at the heart of social battles. Like the Joad family in Steinbeck’s "The Grapes of Wrath", they hold out until the very last. All the while displaying much fortitude and the indomitable human spirit. But they are always crushed by fate in the end.

If Johnston’s gradual transformation could be considered a phenomenon, then the Kingman family’s decision to move back was even more unexpected.

I never actually spoke with Kingman or any member of his family but it was well known that when they moved away they didn’t exactly sell their home outright. Apparently, they mortgaged it over to a crazy uncle named Victor. Victor remained in the old Kingman place until he suddenly dropped dead of a heart attack one fine spring day. Of the few scattered colored folks who remained Victor Kingman was messed with the least. It was quite clear from the very beginning that he was off his rocker. From day one he went everywhere white people went. Ignoring all colored shops and any other attempts at segregation. And his behavior was such, because Victor thought that he was as white as the next man. For a while he was taunted and made fun of. But it wasn’t very long before people realized that Victor Kingman was serious. The man really believed that he was white. Everyone considered him a sort of town mascot after that. The jibes and jeers never went past the usual sun tan jokes when everyone finally realized that Vic Kingman had a screw loose. He was considered totally harmless.

When the Kingman’s first returned, the townspeople thought that they would only stay long enough to put Uncle Victor’s affairs in order and then be on their way. Victor had bought a plot in the white cemetery. Despite his wishes he was buried in the colored cemetery at the edge of town. About a week after Victor’s funeral (Which no one attended but the Kingmans. My mother lit a candle for him.) the townspeople began to get a bit restless. Victor was a week and six feet under the ground and the Kingman family was still in Johnston. Everybody wondered what was happening. The mystery however, was cleared up on the ninth day after Victor was put into the earth. A moving truck pulled up in front of the Kingman residence and began unloading things instead of loading them. From the looks of it the Kingmans were in Johnston to stay. And only the day after my friend Jarred’s welcome brick sailed through their livingroom window.

The Goldfarbs were constantly dragging the colored people through the mud. From jokes about Negro physiognomy, to the multiple reasons for a black man’s laziness, they never seemed to let up. On more than one occasion I felt like getting out of the Goldfarb household and never coming back. Such an atmosphere of utterly unfounded hate. And I couldn’t understand the logic behind Mr. Goldfarb’s attacks at all. His father had survived Dachau for Christ’s sake! I thought that there should at least be some kind of solidarity between two hunted and maligned peoples. No such luck. The Goldfarbs had gone too far. They were almost entirely buried beneath their own hate.

Like some other white families in town, we didn’t engage in this type of ruthless backstabbing. Behind closed doors the colored folks were just people like the rest of us. Unfortunately, these families were few and far between. And we lacked the courage of our convictions. I knew for instance, that my father was experiencing much the same thing at work as I was at the Goldfarb’s. Mr. Kingman had gotten a job at the auto plant as a go-for for the assembly line workers. Each day, my father would witness the cruel treatment Mr. Kingman would receive at the hands of his fellow workers. My dad would come home after a hard days work and speak to my mother in the kitchen in hushed tones about what his colleagues had done to poor Mr. Kingman that day.

"Was it bad Lawrence?"

"Absolutely awful Ginny. I feel so bad for the man. Kicking and screaming like that. I really wanted to brain Goldfarb today. I was actually about two inches away from doing it. But all I wound up doing was standing there watching as they held him down. I feel like such a coward Gin."

"What other choice do you have Lawrence? You don’t want to be on the receiving end do you? Look at the Blake’s in heaven’s name. Remember what happened to them after they tried to help that poor Curtis family? We both know that fire wasn’t an accident. And what about what happened afterwards at the plant?

My mother was referring to the supposed industrial accident involving John Blake, the nigger lover. Mr. Blake lost all of the fingers on his right hand due to a run in with an industrial metal bender. It was the fear for our own lives and general safety that made us appear outwardly prejudice. Simple peer pressure made so many people do so many hateful things.

While my father grudgingly participated in the daily humiliation of Mr. Kingman at the plant, I was often on hand to witness what the younger generation was doing to Kingman’s son.

In the beginning, it was mostly material and psychological damage that was inflicted. They crushed Kingman’s bag lunch or just took it away from him outright. They raided both his gym and hallway lockers. Someone actually shat on Kingman’s math book once. And if I remember correctly it was Jarred Goldfarb. They even used a girl by the name of Sally Weatherford to ask Kingman out on a date. That was when the physical abuse started. Sally was Milt Conlan’s girlfriend. Milt was one of the strongest guys in school and how Goldfarb persuaded Milt into using Sally in the first place is a mystery. But Sally went on that date with Kingman. And when Goldfarb and Milt snuck up on them at the drive-in, they weren’t exactly watching the movie. The worst part about it, as Jarred later told, was that Sally seemed to enjoy old Kingman’s company. Seeing Sally half undressed, with her skirt hiked up around her midsection, Milt of course blew a fuse. He beat Kingman pretty good that night. Some say within an inch of his life. Served him right for being with a white girl like that anyway, even if she had consented.

There were other incidents to be sure. Four years of high school can be a very long time for some. And for Kingman I’m sure it was much longer than most. But of all the things that happened I remember the incident at the bridge most vividly. Perhaps because it was the first time I was directly involved.

On that particular day, a Saturday, I was sitting in the front room quietly reading a book when I heard a sort of commotion coming down the street. I flung the book on the couch and went outside to see what was up. From my perch on the front porch I saw a terrified Kingman being chased by an angry mob of white teenagers. At the head of the pack was of course Jarred Goldfarb. And even at a distance of about fifty yards I could see the fiendish glint in his eyes, as he bore down on his prey. When Jarred and the rest of the pack were only about thirty yards away, Kingman sped by my front porch, totally oblivious to my presence. He appeared to be headed for the woods and the old suspension bridge. And I momentarily wondered how he expected to find safety down there of all places. Jarred abruptly woke me from my contemplative state by screaming: "Don’t just stand there man! He’s getting away!"

I quickly bounded down the front porch steps and made a leap for the fleeing Kingman. I didn’t even come close to grabbing him. He was already well beyond my grasp by the time I reached the sidewalk. Jarred stopped and helped me up off of the ground. He gave me his hand and pulled me to my feet almost effortlessly. I remember a strange thought passed through my mind at that instant; ‘Some people thrive on hate.’ And Jarred must have been one of them. Only a short time before he had been a relative weakling, unable to participate in the most elementary of sports, a shameful physical specimen all around. But with his growing hate for Kingman and all things colored, Jarred’s former weakness seemed to disappear. It was an evil transformation to witness.

When we reached the suspension bridge, Kingman was nowhere in sight. Jarred was in a frenzy by now and through labored breathing he said: "Shit we lost him!"

The stretch of woods was deadly quiet except for the heavy breathing of the amateur lynch mob, a few chirping birds, and the soft gurgle of the Kawah river. Where could Kingman have gone?

Before very long, the answer came from under the suspension bridge. A very low grinding sound echoed from under the bridge and a stream of sand and pebbles could be seen sifting into the river below. Kingman was under the bridge. He was probably straddling one of the steel beams. Or more likely, he was standing duck footed with his back to the large steel wall on the south side of the bridge, the side nearest his would-be attackers. There was a small gap between the wall and the upper structure. And when I looked over at Jarred, I could see that he intended to use it.

Jarred stooped down and put his finger to his lips while doing so. He gathered a small handful of stones, placed them at his feet, and whispered: "Rocks."

Taking Jarred’s cue everyone began gathering their own stones as quickly and quietly as possible. When everybody had stockpiled a considerable amount, Jarred whispered his instructions: "O.K. It’s gonna be on 3. And don’t forget to aim for the gap.That’s the only way we’ll nail him. Ready? 1,2, and 3 …" And the stones flew. Most of them clanged noisily off the steel wall. But occasionally a short low grunt could be heard, like the sound a wounded animal might make. But the really inhuman sounds came from the throats of Jarred and the rest of the mob. Their faces contorted into violent masks of rage. Screaming obscenities until they were reduced to a bunch of raving idiots. Or animals.

It didn’t take very long for everyone to deplete their rock supply. Nor did it take long for Jarred and Milt to notice that I hadn’t thrown a single thing. Suddenly, Jarred commanded the angry lynch mob to stop. He bent down and picked up a rather large rock, all the while leering at me with that insane grin of his. The grin I had become so accustomed to seeing in moments such as this. He took my hand, turned it slowly palm up, and placed the formidable rock in it without speaking so much as a word.

It is at these moments in life when we must show what we are really made of, I thought. This is when we must stand up and let people know who we really are. Whatever the consequences might be. I imagined myself taking a hold of that rock firmly, and smashing Jarred in the face with it. Watching blood pour out of his nose and head, once and for all ridding ourselves of him and his prejudicial tyranny. Instead, I threw the stone with all my might, miraculously finding the gap above the steel bridge wall, and hitting Kingman with a loud smack. He had apparently lost his grip from the blow I had administered, because only a few seconds later he plunged ass first into the Kawah river below.

I ran over to where Kingman lay motionless in the water. I was utterly horrified at what I had done and it felt as though I were running in slow motion. I couldn’t seem to get over to him fast enough. Jarred, Milt, and the rest of them stayed right where they were. They stood open-mouthed and goggle-eyed, and were apparently sure that I had killed him. The game had gone too far this time. Suddenly, even Jarred, the self-appointed chief of this group of amateur haters, seemed way out of his league. He wore an expression of unbridled terror that I thought ironic for the situation. After all, wasn’t it he who initiated this brutal attack? What did he think for Christ’s sake? That the rocks he had been throwing were made of Styrofoam!?

For what seemed like an eternity Kingman didn’t move a muscle. The mob stayed put behind me, and therefore did not notice the rather large open gash over Kingman’s right eye. The wound that I had undoubtedly put there. Blood was slowly trickling from the cut and pooling in the socket of his closed right eyeball. Just when I was about to step into the shallow water and check for a pulse, Kingman stirred. He winked back bloody tears and made an abrupt attempt to sit up; failing to do so on both his first and second tries. On the third he finally brought himself to a sitting position. He even managed to half-crawl, half-drag himself over to the far river bank. I remember the admiration for his courage mixed with an undeniable self-loathing, as I watched him pull himself up out of the water. As if he hadn’t endured enough already, in a loud (but slightly tremulous) voice Jarred shouted after him: "Go home black boy. And forget this ever happened."

I hadn’t even thought to ask at the time, but the bridge incident came about because Kingman apparently had the gall to pass directly in front of the Goldfarb residence. Jarred and his father didn’t believe that niggers should use the sidewalk in front of their house. They were under the impression that all colored people must cross the street before reaching the Goldfarb abode.

I wasn’t the only one who was shocked by this revelation. Milt Conlan and the rest of the boys couldn’t believe they had been chasing poor Kingman for such a reason that day. Milt even offered to disembowel Jarred. But we all agreed that ignoring him was the best medicine. And much later, he perhaps paid for his sins by dying a terrible death, literally ravaged by cancer.

Now Kingman is almost before me. He looks so sure of himself that I begin to tremble. Is he here for me? Has he finally returned to claim his long awaited revenge? Surely he didn’t perceive things in the same manner as I did. Surely he didn’t remember the gradual disappearance of prejudice and racism in Johnston so many years ago. He would just remember all of the pain he had endured. And that he had suffered courageously by no choice of his own. He had suffered in silence. That’s what I imagined would be foremost in Kingman’s mind as he made his way towards me across the gymnasium floor.

Martha is speaking of old times with Sally Conlan. Sally has become even more frumpy than Martha. They are two middle-aged women. Former cheerleaders who let their lives and their waistlines get away from them. I think it’s funny how all of the former beauty queens ended up more or less like Martha and Sally. While these unrecognizable beauties that surround me, were once the quiet, nondescript, mousy types hoping for a date to the prom.

Martha and Sally are too enveloped in their discussion to notice how anxious I’ve become. Martha is in the process of demonstrating a former cheer, but she can’t explain it to the extra weight she has put on. Her belly won’t follow the choreography.

Milt Conlan, (Sally’s husband of twenty years. They married right out of high school.) is standing directly in front of the refreshments table, filling up a plastic plate for the third or fourth time with little hot dogs and pizza rolls. His formidable paunch pushes out over his belt as he leans forward. And little rivulets of sweat stand out on his semi-bald head for the effort. His back is turned when Sally suddenly recognizes Kingman. Her mouth agape, she almost topples over like a domino when Kingman winks at her.

Kingman approaches with his hand outstretched in greeting. For a moment I imagine his outstretched hand balling up into an angry fist, but it doesn’t happen. As I’m shaking hands with him I notice the scar over his right eye. I remember the ignorant young boy who threw the rock that put it there, and I am ashamed.

"I hope you don’t still believe that my uncle Victor thought he was really a white man," said Kingman. Then he turned and walked out of the gymnasium laughing.

I thought about that day for a long time afterwards. About the words that Kingman spoke. And what they really meant. I thought about a brave black gentleman by the name of Victor, who felt the need to give the younger generation a lesson in survival, and the meaning of the word home. And I also thought about the laughter.

Since that day both Martha and Kingman have passed on. Kingman requested burial in his old home town. I considered it a rather strange request at first, but then I figured it made sense in a twisted sort of way.

So now, when I go out to Johnston cemetery three times a year to freshen up Martha’s plot a bit, I take along a single red rose and I lay it against Kingman’s stone. I can’t really say why I do it. If I do it for anything, perhaps it’s for the triumphant laughter of a black man. No. Correction. For the triumphant laughter of a man. A better man than I.