The River King

  Two boys held their hands over Gus’s mouth, and although he could not shout, he managed to bite down on someone’s fingers, hard enough to break the skin. They dragged him down the hall and into the bathroom, no doubt the commotion Eric had heard before he put on his headphones. The boys at Chalk weren’t about to allow Gus’s success to alter their plans for a send-off. They had all used the toilet in preparation and it was filled and stinking as they lifted Gus up and plunged him into the bowl headfirst. They were all supposed to be silent; it was a vow they had taken, but several of them had to cover their mouths and hold back their nervous laughter. Gus tried to get away at first, but they jammed his head down lower. There was a snicker when he started thrashing his legs around.

  “Look at the big shot now,” someone said.

  Gus’s legs were soon jerking weirdly, as if he had no control, and he actually kicked Robbie Shaw in the mouth. Filthy water spilled onto the tiles and when Nathaniel Gibb gasped at the brutality, the sound echoed with a high-pitched metallic ring. Some actions, once begun, have nowhere to go but all the way to the end, like a spring that has been wound up tightly and set. Even those who offered an unspoken prayer could not back down; it was far too late for that. They kept his head in the toilet until he stopped struggling. That was the point, wasn’t it? To get him to give up the fight. Once the battle was over, he seemed like a rag doll, all batted cotton and thread. They’d meant to scare him and reduce him to his rightful place, but what they got when they pulled him out was a boy who’d already begun to turn blue, suffocated in their waste and venom, unable to draw a breath.

  Some of the older fellows, tough, competent students who played vicious games of soccer and sneered at whoever they considered to be weak, panicked immediately and would have run off had Harry McKenna not told them to shut up and stay where they were. There was a purple bruise on Pierce’s forehead where he’d hit his head against the inside of the commode; he’d lost consciousness early on in this game and therefore hadn’t fought back as they’d expected him to, at least until the very end when the struggle was involuntary and already impossible to win.

  Harry pounded on Gus’s back, then turned the body face up and called Robbie over. Robbie had been a lifeguard for the past two summers, but he could not be persuaded to put his mouth to Gus’s, not after Pierce had been soaked in all that excrement. In the end, Nathaniel Gibb frantically tried mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, trying desperately to pump air back into Gus’s lungs, but it was too late. There was water and waste all over the floor as moonlight poured through the window illuminating what they’d wrought: a six-foot-tall dead boy, sprawled upon the tiled floor.

  Two of the most practical fellows ran to the basement for buckets and mops and did their best to clean and disinfect the bathroom floor. By then, the older boys had carried Gus Pierce out of the house. Dave Linden was instructed to sweep the path behind them to clear their tracks away as they proceeded in silence, out the back door and down the path to the river. They trod along through the woods until they found a spot where the bank sloped gently. The area smelled faintly of the violets that bloomed there in spring, and one of the boys, suddenly reminded of his mother’s cologne, began to weep. This was the place where they laid the body down, quietly, slowly, so that several green frogs asleep in the grass were caught unawares and crushed beneath the unexpected weight. Harry McKenna knelt over the corpse and buttoned the black coat. He left the eyes open, as he imagined they would be had someone chosen to walk into the river on a clear, moonlit night with the intent of drowning himself. Then came the end of the journey. Gus was hauled down the bank to the shore that rolled easily into the dark water. The boys maneuvered him past the reeds and the lily pads until they were knee-deep, floating him between them like a black log, and then they let him go, all at once, as though they had planned it. They released him to the current and not one of them stayed to watch where it would take him or how far downstream he would have to travel before he found a place to rest.

  * * *

  THE BOYS FROM CHALK BEGAN TO FALL ILL during the first week of February. One by one it happened, and after a while it was possible to predict who the fever would afflict next simply by looking into an individual’s eyes. Some who’d been stricken were so lethargic they could not rise from their beds; others could not get a single night of sleep. There were boys whose skins crawled with an unforgiving rash and those who lost their appetites completely, able to digest only crackers and warm ginger ale. Attendance in classes fell to an all-time low, with morale lower still. Aspirin disappeared from the infirmary shelves, ice packs were called for, antacids swallowed. Those most affected were the new boys up in the attic, who suffered in silence, lest they call attention to themselves. Dave Linden, for instance, endured debilitating migraines that kept him from his studies, and Nathaniel Gibb experienced a constant tightening in his chest, and though he never complained, there were times when he had to struggle for breath.

  The school nurse admitted that she’d never seen anything like this current scourge; she wondered if perhaps a new strain of Asian flu had befallen these boys. If so, those who’d taken ill had no choice but to wait for their own antibodies to restore them to health, for surely, no medicine that had been doled out had done the least bit of good. In fact, the epidemic had not been triggered by a bacterial infection or a virus. The blame for the outbreak rested squarely with Abel Grey, for in that first week of the month, as the afternoon sunshine encouraged stone flies to bask on warm rocks along the riverside, Abe stationed himself on the Haddan campus. He didn’t speak to anyone or approach them, but his presence was felt all around. In the morning, when boys raced down the steps of Chalk House, Abe would already have made himself comfortable on a nearby bench, eating his breakfast and scanning the Tribune. He was posted at the door of the dining hall at noon and could be found there again in the evening at supper. Every night, after dark, he parked in the lot beside Chalk House, where he listened to his car radio as he ate a bacon cheeseburger picked up at Selena’s, trying his best not to get any grease on Wright’s coat. Each time a boy left the house, whether going for a run or hurrying to join friends in a game of hockey, he’d be confronted with the sight of Abel Grey. Before long, even the most self-confident and brashest among them began to have symptoms and fall ill as well.

  Guilt was a funny thing, a fellow might not even notice it until it had already crawled inside him and set up shop, working away at his stomach and bowels, and at his conscience, as well. Abe was well acquainted with the need for contrition, and he kept watch for the ways in which it might surface, singling out several residents who seemed more nervous than most, trailing along as they went to class, keeping an eye out for the warning signs of remorse: the flushed complexion, the tremors, the habit of looking over one’s shoulder, even when no one was there. *

  “Do you expect someone to come to you and confess?” Carlin asked when she realized what Abe was doing. “That’s never going to happen. You don’t know these boys.”

  But Abe did know what it was like to hear the dead speaking, placing blame on those left behind for all they had or had not done. Even now, when he drove past his family’s old house he sometimes heard his brother’s voice. That’s what he was looking for here at the school: the person who was trying his best to run away from what was inside his own head.

  As he kept his vigil at the school, he also had the pleasure of observing Betsy Chase. For her part, Betsy did not seem pleased by Abe’s presence on campus; she kept her eyes lowered and if she spied him, she turned on her heel and changed direction, even if that meant she’d be late to class. Abe always felt a combination of turmoil and joy when he saw her, even though it had become clear he was unlucky in love, not that good fortune appeared in his card playing during poker games at the Millstone, although by rights, he should have been dealt all aces, all the time.

  One morning, when Abe had been at Haddan for more than a week, Betsy surprised him by veering from her usual
route and walking directly toward him. Abe had been keeping watch from a bench outside the library after phoning down to the station to ask that his schedule be changed yet again. He could tell that Doug Lauder, who’d been covering for him, was starting to get annoyed, although Doug hadn’t complained enough to prevent Abe from being here at the school, drinking a café au lait he’d picked up at the pharmacy. Although shoots of jonquils had appeared in the perennial beds and snowbells dotted the lawns, the morning was raw and steam rose from Abe’s paper cup. Gazing through the haze, he thought he was imagining Betsy when she first began to approach, in her black jacket and jeans, but there she was, standing right in front of him.

  “Do you think no one notices that you’re here?” Betsy lifted one hand to shield her eyes; she couldn’t quite make out Abe’s expression in the thin, glittering sunlight. “Everyone’s talking about it. Sooner or later they’ll figure it out.”

  “Figure what out?” He stared right at her with those pale eyes. She couldn’t stop him from doing that.

  “You and me.”

  “Is that what you think?” Abe grinned. “That I’m here for you?”

  The sunlight shifted and Betsy saw how hurt he’d been. She went to sit at the far end of the bench. How was it that whenever = she saw him she felt like crying? That couldn’t be love, could it? That couldn’t be what people went searching for.

  “Then why are you here?” She hoped she didn’t sound interested, or worse, desperate.

  “I figure sooner or later someone will tell me what happened to Gus Pierce.” Abe finished his coffee and tossed the cup into a nearby trash can. “I’m just going to wait until they do.”

  The bark of the weeping beech trees was lightening, green knobs forming along the sweeping branches. Two swans advanced toward the bench warily, feathers drooping with mud.

  “Shoo,” Betsy called out. “Go away.”

  Spending so much time on campus, Abe had become accustomed to the swans and he knew that this particular pair were a couple. “They’re in love,” he told Betsy.

  The swans had stopped beside the trash barrel to bicker over crusts of bread.

  “Is that what you call it?” Betsy laughed. “Love?” She had a class to teach and her hands were freezing but she was still sitting on the bench.

  “That’s exactly what it is,” Abe said.

  After he left, Betsy vowed to keep away from Abe, but there seemed no way to avoid him. At lunch, there he was again, helping himself to the salad bar.

  “I’ve heard that Bob Thomas is furious that he’s hanging around,” Lynn Vining told Betsy. “The kids have been complaining to their parents about a police presence on campus. But, God, is he good-looking.”

  “I thought you were crazy about Jack.” Betsy was referring to the married chemistry teacher Lynn had been involved with for several years.

  “What about you?” Lynn said, not mentioning that she’d been unhappy for some time, having realized that a man who was willing to betray one woman wouldn’t mind betraying’another. “You can’t take your eyes off him.”

  As for Abe, he sat at a rear table in the dining hall, eating his salad, watching the boys from Chalk House. All he needed was for one boy to confess an involvement and he hoped the others would fall into place, each one scrambling for immunity and understanding. He believed he’d found the signs he’d been searching for in Nathaniel Gibb, whom he followed when the boy dumped his uneaten lunch in the trash. All that afternoon he trailed Nathaniel, stationed outside his biology lab and his algebra classroom, until at last the beleaguered boy wheeled around to face him.

  “What do you want from me?” Nathaniel Gibb cried.

  They were on the path that led along the river, a route many people avoided due to its proximity to the swans. Nathaniel Gibb, however, had more to fear than swans. Lately, he had begun to spit up blood. He had taken to carrying a large handkerchief with him, a rag that both shamed him and reminded him of how fragile a body could be.

  Abe saw what he’d been looking for, that line of fear behind the eyes. “I want to talk to you about Gus, that’s all. Maybe what happened to him was an accident. Maybe you know something about it.”

  Nathaniel was the sort of boy who had always done what was expected of him, but he no longer knew what that meant. “I don’t have anything to say to you.”

  Abe understood how difficult it was to live with certain transgressions gressions. Own it, and the pain ceases. Say it out loud, and you’re halfway home.

  “If you talk to me, no one will hurt you. All you have to do is tell me what happened that night.”

  Nathaniel looked up, first at Abe and then, beyond him. Harry McKenna was horsing around on the steps of the gym along with some of his buddies. The afternoon was filled with streaky, yellow light and the chill in the air remained. As soon as Nathaniel saw Harry he began to cough his horrible cough, and before Abe could stop him, he turned and ran down the path. For a while Abe jogged after him, but he gave up when Nathaniel disappeared into a crowd of students.

  That evening Abe could feel trouble coming, just as he always could when he was a boy. And sure enough, the very next day as Abe was about to leave his post at the school to run over to Selena’s to pick up some lunch, Glen Tiles and Joey Tosh pulled up next to Wright’s old cruiser in the parking lot of Chalk House. Abe went over and leaned down to talk to Glen through the window.

  “I see you’re creating your own schedule these days,” Glen said.

  “It’s just temporary,” Abe assured him. “I’ll make up any hours I’ve missed.”

  Glen insisted on taking Abc out to lunch, even though Abe assured him that it wasn’t necessary.

  “Yes it is.” Glen reached to open the rear door. “Get in.”

  Joey did the driving, one hand on the wheel. His expression was guarded; he didn’t look away from the road, not once. They drove all the way to Hamilton, to the Hunan Kitchen, where they picked up three orders of General Gao’s chicken to go, in spite of Glen’s restrieted diet, then ate in the car, on a street facing the Hamilton Hospital. Such a lunch guaranteed privacy, as well as indigestion.

  “Did you know the Haddan School has made a contribution that will let us start construction for a medical center in Haddan ?” Glen said. “There’s a party to celebrate next weekend, and let me tell you, Sam Arthur and the rest of the councilmen will be pissed as hell if anything goes wrong between now and then. It would save lives, you know, Abe. Not having to come all the way to Hamilton in an emergency alone would make it worth it. It might have been possible to save Frank, if we’d had a decent facility in town that had been prepared to deal with gunshot wounds. Think about that.”

  Abe deposited his chopsticks into the container of spicy chicken. He felt a tightness, as though a band were being pulled around his chest. He used to feel this way when he couldn’t please his father, which, it turned out, had been most of the time.

  “So all we have to do to get the medical center is to look the other way when some kid is killed?”

  “No. All you have to do is stay the hell away from the Haddan campus. Bob Thomas is a reasonable man and he made a reasonable request. Stop harassing his students. Stay off the grounds.”

  They drove back along Route 17 in silence. None of the men finished the food they’d traveled so far to obtain. Abe was let off by his car in the lot of Chalk House, where there was a thin scrim of ice over the asphalt. Joey got out of the car, too.

  “If you keep bothering the powers that be at the school, we’ll all suffer,” Joey said. “The way I see it, money coming from the Haddan School is owed to this town. We deserve it.”

  “Well, I disagree.”

  “Fine. Then you do it your way and I’ll do it my way. We don’t have to be fucking identical twins, do we?” Joey was already on his way back to the car when Abe called after him.

  “Remember when we jumped off the roof?” Abe had been thinking about that time ever since they passed the turnoff to Wri
ght’s house on Route 17.

  “Nope.”

  “Out at my grandfather’s place? You dared me and I dared you and we were both stupid enough to go for it.”

  “No way. Never happened.”

  But it had, and Abe recalled how blue the sky had been that day. Wright had told them to mow the back fields where the grass was nearly as tall as they were, but instead they’d climbed onto a shed, then made a leap for the roof of the house, clutching onto the gutters and pulling themselves over the asphalt shingles. They’d been twelve, that reckless age when most boys believe they will never get hurt; they can jump through thin air, shouting at the top of their lungs, waking all the blackbirds in the trees, and still land with only the wind knocked out of them and not a single bone broken. Back then, a boy could be as certain of his best friend as he was of the air and of the birds and of the ever-lasting that grew in the fields.

  Joey wrenched the door of his car open and shouted over the idling motor, “You’re imagining things, buddy. Just like always.”

  After they’d pulled away, Abe got into his car and drove over to the Millstone. It was still early and the place was empty and maybe this was the reason Abe felt as though he’d entered a town he’d never been to before. For one thing, there was a new bartender on duty, someone George Nichols must have hired who didn’t know Abe by name and who wasn’t familiar with the fact that Abe preferred draft beer to bottled. George Nichols had inherited the place and was already considered ancient when Joey and Abe first tried out their fake IDs. He’d busted them several times, phoning Abe’s grandfather whenever he caught them hanging out in the parking lot, where they would plead with the older guys to buy them drinks. When Abe was living with his grandfather he’d wasted one entire week of summer confined to his room after George Nichols discovered him in the men’s room of the Millstone with a contraband whiskey sour. “You’re not devious enough to get away with this sort of thing,” Wright had told Abe back then. “You’re going to get caught each and every time.”