The Chocolate War

  Richy watched the girl drifting away.

  “I’m with you, Howie. As of this moment, no more selling of chocolates.” The girl was almost out of sight now, blocked from view by other people walking by. “Want to make it official? I mean, call a meeting of the class?”

  Howie pondered the question.

  “No, Richy. This is the age of do your thing. Let everybody do his thing. If a kid wants to sell, let him. If he doesn’t, the same thing applies.”

  Howie’s voice rang with authority, as if he was delivering a pronouncement to the world. Richy listened with a kind of awe. He was glad that Howie let him hang around—maybe some of Howie’s leadership qualities would rub off on him. His eyes went to the street again, looking for another girl to enjoy.

  The odor of sweat filled the air—a gym’s sour perfume. Even though the place was deserted, the aftermath of that final period of calisthenics lingered, the stink of boy sweat; armpits and feet. And the rotten smell of old sneakers. That was one of the reasons why Archie had never been attracted to sports—he hated the secretions of the human body, pee or perspiration. He hated athletics because it speeded up the process of sweat. He couldn’t stand the sight of greasy, oozing athletes drenched in their own body fluids. At least football players wore uniforms, but boxers wore only the trunks. Take a guy like Carter, bugling with muscles, every pore oozing sweat. Put him in boxing trunks and the sight was almost obscene. That’s why Archie avoided the gym. He was a legend in the school for dreaming up ways of avoiding Phys. Ed. But he was here now waiting for Obie. Obie had left a note in Archie’s locker. Meet me in the gym after last period. Obie loved dramatics. He also knew that Archie despised the gym and yet asked to be met here. Oh, Obie, how you must hate me, Archie thought, undisturbed by the knowledge. It was good to have people hate you—it kept you sharp. And then when you put the needle in them, the way he did constantly to Obie, you felt justified, you didn’t have to worry about your conscience.

  But at this minute he was getting annoyed with Obie. Where the hell was he? Sitting down on one of the bleacher seats, Archie found a sudden and unexpected peace in the deserted gymnasium. His moments of peace were becoming less frequent all the time. The Vigils—those assignments, the constant pressure. More assignments due and everybody waiting for what Archie would come up with. And Archie hollow and empty sometimes, no ideas at all. And his lousy marks. He was certain to flunk English this term, simply because English was mostly reading and he didn’t have time anymore to spend four or five hours every night reading a lousy book. Anyway, between The Vigils and worrying about his marks, he didn’t seem to have any time to himself anymore, not even time for girls, no time to hang around Miss Jerome’s, the girls’ high school across town where, when school let out for the day, you could let your eyes devour some luscious sights and usually talk one of them into the car, for a ride home. With detours. Instead, here he was every day, involved with assignments and homework, juggling all this activity and then getting stupid notes from Obie. Meet me in the gym …

  Finally, Obie made his entrance. He didn’t just walk in. He had to make a production out of it. He had to peek around the door and sniff the air and act like he was the spy coming in from the cold, for Christ’s sake.

  “Hey, Obie, I’m over here,” Archie called dryly.

  “Hi, Archie,” Obie said as his leather heels clicked on the gym floor. There was a rule in the school—only sneakers on the gym floor but everybody ignored it except when there was a brother around.

  “What do you want, Obie?” Archie asked, getting down to business without preliminaries, keeping his voice flat and dry as the Sahara. The fact that he had showed up for the meeting had been an admission of curiosity. Archie didn’t want to overdo it by acting too eager for Obie’s company and whatever he had to say. “I haven’t much time. Important things await.”

  “This is important too,” Obie said. Obie had a thin sharp face with a permanent worried look. That’s why he was such an obvious stooge, an errand boy. The kind of kid you couldn’t help kicking when he was down. And you also knew this—that he would get up again and vow revenge and never have the nerve or the know-how to take that revenge. “Remember that kid Renault? The chocolate assignment?”

  “What about him?”

  “He’s still not selling the chocolates.”

  “So?”

  “So—remember? His orders were not to sell them for ten school days. Okay. So the ten days came and went and he’s still saying no.”

  “So what?”

  This is what infuriated Obie—the way Archie tried so hard not to be impressed, to always play it cool. You could tell him that The Bomb was going to be dropped and he’d probably say “So what?” It got under Obie’s skin, mostly because he suspected that it was an act, that Archie wasn’t as cool as he pretended to be. And Obie was awaiting his chance to find out.

  “Well, there’s all kinds of rumors around the school. First of all, a lot of kids think that The Vigils are in on the deal, that Renault still isn’t selling them because he’s still carrying out the assignment. Then there are some kids who know the assignment is over and think that Renault is leading some kind of revolt against the sale. They say Brother Leon is climbing the wall every day …”

  “Beautiful,” Archie said, showing reaction to Obie’s news at last.

  “Every morning Leon calls the roll and every day this kid, a freshman, sits there, and won’t sell the goddam chocolates.”

  “Beautiful.”

  “You said that.”

  “Continue,” Archie said, ignoring Obie’s sarcasm.

  “Well, I understand that the sale is going lousy. Nobody wants to sell the chocolates in the first place and it’s turned into a kind of farce in some classes.”

  Obie sat down on the bleacher seat beside Archie, pausing to let the report sink in.

  Archie sniffed the air and said, “This gymnasium stinks.” Pretending indifference to Obie’s report but his thoughts racing, pondering the possibilities.

  Obie poured it on. “The eager beavers, the brownnosers are out selling chocolates like madmen. So are Leon’s pets, his special boys. So are the kids who still believe in school spirit.” He sighed. “Anyway, there’s a lot going on.”

  Archie was busy contemplating the far side of the gym, as if something interesting was going on over there. Obie followed his gaze—nothing. “Well, what do you think, Archie?” he asked.

  “What do you mean—what do I think?”

  “The situation. Renault. Brother Leon. The chocolates. The kids out there taking sides …”

  “We’ll see, we’ll see,” Archie said. “I don’t know whether The Vigils should get involved or not.” He yawned.

  That phony yawn irritated Obie. “Hey, look, Archie. The Vigils are involved whether you know it or not.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Look, you told the kid to refuse the chocolates in the first place. That’s what started all this stuff. But the kid went beyond that. He was supposed to start selling after the assignment was over. So, now he’s defying The Vigils. And a lot of guys know that. We are involved, Archie, whether we want to be or not.”

  Obie could see that he had scored. He saw something flash in Archie’s eyes, like looking at a blank window and observing a ghost peeking out.

  “Nobody defies The Vigils, Obie …”

  “That’s what Renault’s doing.”

  “… and gets away with it.”

  Archie had that dreamy look again and his lower lip drooped. “Here’s what to do. Arrange to have Renault appear before The Vigils. Check up on the sale—get the totals, facts and figures.”

  “Right,” Obie said, writing in his notebook. As much as he hated Archie, he loved to see him when he was swinging into action. Obie decided to add more fuel to the flames. “Another thing, Archie. Didn’t The Vigils promise Leon way back they’d back him in the chocolate sale?”

  Obie had scored again. A
rchie turned to him, surprise scrawled on his face. But he recovered quickly. “Let me worry about Leon. You just run your errands, Obie.”

  God, how Obie hated the son of a bitch. He snapped his notebook shut and left Archie sitting there in the polluted atmosphere of the gymnasium.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-TWO

  BRIAN COCHRAN COULDN’T BELIEVE his eyes. He went through the totals again, double-checking, making sure he hadn’t screwed up. Frowning, biting the pencil, he pondered the results of his arithmetic—sales were dropping at an alarming rate. For a week now, they’d been going steadily downward. But yesterday, the sharpest drop of all.

  What would Brother Leon say? That was Brian’s main concern. Brian hated the job of treasurer because it was such a drag but mostly because it brought him into personal contact with Brother Leon. Leon gave Brian the chills. The teacher was unpredictable, moody. He was never satisfied. Complaints, complaints—your sevens look like nines, Cochran. Or, you spelled Sulkey’s name wrong—it’s Sulkey with an e, Cochran.

  Brian had been lucky recently. Brother Leon had stopped checking the totals on a daily basis, almost as if he anticipated the bad news the figures contained and wanted to avoid finding out about it definitely. Today was zero hour, however. He had told Brian to prepare the totals. Now Brian waited for the teacher to show up. He’d go ape when he saw the figures. Brian shivered, actually shivered! He’d read how in historic times they killed the bearer of bad news. He had the feeling that Brother Leon was that kind of character, that he would need a scapegoat and Brian would be closest at hand. Brian sighed, tired of it all, wishing he were outside on this beautiful October day, gunning around in the old Chevy his father had bought him when school started. He loved the car. “Me and my Chevy,” Brian hummed to the tune of a song he’d heard on the radio.

  “Well, Brian.”

  Brother Leon had a way of sneaking up on you. Brian leaped and almost came to attention. That’s the kind of lousy effect the teacher had on him.

  “Yes, Brother Leon.”

  “Sit, sit,” Leon said, and took his place behind the desk. Leon was sweating, as usual. He had removed his black jacket and his shirt was stained with wetness at the armpits. A faint smell of perspiration reached Brian.

  “The totals are bad,” Brian said, plunging, wanting to get it over with, wanting to get out of the school, this office, Leon’s suffocating presence.

  And feeling simultaneously a twist of triumph—Leon was such a rat, let him have some bad news for a change.

  “Bad?”

  “The sales are down. Below last year’s. And last year, the quota was half of what has to be sold this year.”

  “I know, I know,” Leon said sharply, swiveling away in his desk chair as if Brian weren’t important enough to be addressed directly. “Are you sure of your figures? You’re not exactly a whiz at adding and subtracting, Cochran.”

  Brian flushed with anger. He was tempted to throw the master sheet at the Brother but held back. Nobody defied Brother Leon. Not Brian Cochran, anyway, who only wanted to get out of here.

  “I double-checked everything,” Brian said, keeping his voice even.

  Silence.

  The floor vibrated under Brian’s feet. The boxing club working out in the gym, maybe, doing calisthenics or the other stuff boxers did.

  “Cochran. Read off the names of the boys who have reached or surpassed their quota.”

  Brian reached for the lists. A simple task because Brother Leon insisted that all kinds of cross-indexed lists be kept so that you could tell at a glance just where students stood.

  “Sulkey, sixty-two. Maronia, fifty-eight. LeBlanc, fifty-two—”

  “Slower, slower,” Brother Leon said, still facing away from Brian. “Begin again and slower.”

  It was spooky but Brian began again, pronouncing the names more exactly, pausing between names and figures.

  “Sulkey … sixty-two … Maronia … fifty-eight … LeBlanc … fifty-two … Caroni … fifty …”

  Brother Leon was nodding his head, as if listening to a beautiful symphony, as if lovely sounds filled the air.

  “Fontaine … fifty …” Brian paused. “Those are the only ones who either made the quota or topped it, Brother Leon.”

  “Read the others. There are many students who sold over forty. Read those names …” His face still turned away, his body slouched in the chair.

  Brian shrugged and continued, calling out the names in singsong fashion, with measured pauses, letting his voice linger over the names and numbers, a weird litany here in the quiet office. When he ran out of the sales in the forties, he continued into the thirties and Brother Leon did not tell him to halt.

  “… Sullivan … thirty-three … Charlton … thirty-two … Kelly … thirty-two … Ambrose … thirty-one …”

  Once in a while Brian looked up to see Brother Leon’s head nodding, as if he were communicating with someone unseen or only himself. While the recitation went on—from the thirties into the twenties.

  His eyes running ahead, Brian saw that he was in for trouble. After he was through with the twenties and the teens, there was a big leap. He wondered how Brother Leon would react to the small returns. Brian began to grow warm and his voice turned hoarse. He needed a drink of water, not only to relieve the dryness of his throat but to ease the tension of his neck muscles.

  “… Antonelli … fifteen … Lombard … thirteen …” He cleared his throat, breaking the rhythm, interrupting the flow of the report. A deep breath and then, “Cartier … six.” He shot a look at Brother Leon but the teacher hadn’t moved. His hands were clasped together, resting in his lap. “Cartier … he only sold six because he’s been out of school. Appendicitis. He’s been in the hospital …”

  Brother Leon waved his hand, a gesture that said, “I understand, it doesn’t matter.” At least, that’s what Brian figured it meant. And the gesture also seemed to mean “continue.” He looked at the last name on the list.

  “Renault … zero.”

  The pause. No names left.

  “Renault … zero,” Brother Leon said, his voice a sibilant whisper. “Can you imagine that, Cochran? A Trinity boy who has refused to sell the chocolates? Do you know what’s happened, Cochran? Do you know why the sales have fallen off?”

  “I don’t know, Brother Leon,” Brian said lamely.

  “The boys have become infected, Cochran. Infected by a disease we could call apathy. A terrible disease. Difficult to cure.”

  What was he talking about?

  “Before a cure can be found, the cause must be discovered. But in this case, Cochran, the cause is known. The carrier of the disease is known.”

  Brian knew what he was getting at now. Leon figured that Renault was the cause, the carrier of the disease. As if reading Brian’s mind, Leon whispered “Renault … Renault …”

  Like a mad scientist plotting revenge in an underground laboratory, for crying out loud.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-THREE

  “I’M QUITTING THE TEAM, Jerry.”

  “Why, Goob? I thought you liked football. We’re just starting to click. You made a sensational catch yesterday.”

  They were headed for the bus stop. Today was Wednesday—no practice on Wednesday. Jerry was looking forward to arriving at the bus stop. There was a girl, beautiful, with hair like maple syrup. He’d seen her there a few times and she’d smiled at him. One day he’d gotten close enough to read her name on one of the schoolbooks she held in her arms. Ellen Barrett. Someday he’d get up the courage to speak to her. Hi, Ellen. Or call her on the telephone. Today maybe.

  “Let’s run,” Goober said.

  Off they went on a mad and awkward sprint. Their books prevented them from running with grace and abandon. But the mere act of running cheered up The Goober.

  “Are you serious about quitting the team?” Jerry asked, his voice higher than usual, strained from the running.

  “I’ve got to quit, Jerry.” He
was glad that his own voice was normal, unaffected by the running.

  They turned into Gate Street.

  “Why?” Jerry asked, launching himself into Gate Street with a burst of speed.

  Their feet pounded on the pavement.

  How can I tell him, Goob wondered.

  Jerry had shot ahead. He glanced back over his shoulder, his face crimson with effort. “Why, damn it?”

  The Goober caught up to him with a slight acceleration of his pace. He could easily have slid past him.

  “Did you hear what happened to Brother Eugene?” The Goober asked.

  “He got transferred,” Jerry answered, squeezing the words out of himself like toothpaste from a tube. He was in good shape because of football but he wasn’t a runner and didn’t know the tricks.

  “I heard he’s gone on sick leave,” Goober said.

  “What’s the difference?” Jerry replied. He took a deep sweet breath. “Hey, my legs are okay but my arms are killing me.” He carried two books in each hand.

  “Keep running.”

  “You’re some kind of nut,” Jerry said, humoring him.

  They were approaching the intersection of Green and Gate. Seeing Jerry’s discomfort, The Goober slackened his pace. “They say Brother Eugene’s never been the same since Room Nineteen. They say he’s all broken up over it. Can’t eat or sleep. The shock.”

  “Rumors,” Jerry gasped. “Hey, Goob, my lungs are burning up. I’m in a state of collapse.”

  “I know how he feels, Jerry. I know how a thing like that can drive somebody up a wall.” Shouting the words into the wind. They had never discussed the destruction of Room Nineteen although Jerry knew about Goober’s involvement. “Some people can’t stand cruelty, Jerry. And that was a cruel thing to do to a guy like Eugene …”

  “What’s Brother Eugene got to do with not playing football?” Jerry asked, really gasping now, really sweating, his lungs threatening to burst and his arms aching from the burden of the books.

  Goober put on the brakes, slackening his pace, coming finally to a halt. Jerry blew air out of his mouth as he collapsed on the edge of someone’s front lawn. His chest rose and fell like human bellows.