The Chocolate War

  All of which rushed him along now, out of breath and out of shape, trying to raise money that he knew dimly would lead him eventually only to trouble. Where would he raise enough money to pay it all back when the returns were due at school? But what the hell—he’d worry about it later. Right now he needed to raise the money and Rita loved him—tomorrow she’d probably let him get under her sweater.

  He rang the doorbell of a rich-looking house on Sterns Avenue and prepared his most innocent and sweetest smile for whoever opened the door.

  The woman’s hair was damp and askew, and a little kid, maybe two or three years old, was tugging at her skirt. “Chocolates?” she asked, laughing bitterly as if Paul Consalvo had suggested the most absurd thing in the world. “You want me to buy chocolates?”

  The baby, wearing a soggy-looking droopy diaper, was calling, “Mommy … mommy …” And another kid was howling somewhere in the apartment.

  “It’s for a good cause,” Paul said. “Trinity School!”

  Paul’s nose wrinkled at the smell of pee.

  “Jesus,” the woman said. “Chocolates!”

  “Mommee, mommee …” the kid squalled.

  Paul felt sorry for older people, stuck in their houses and tenements with kids to take care of and housework to do. He thought of his own parents and their useless lives—his father collapsing into his nap every night after supper and his mother looking tired and dragged-out all the time. What the hell were they living for? He couldn’t wait to get out of the house. “Where’re you going all the time?” his mother asked as he fled the place. How could he tell her that he hated the house, that his mother and father were dead and didn’t know it, that if it wasn’t for television the place would be like a tomb. He couldn’t say that because he really loved them and if the house caught fire in the middle of the night he’d rescue them, he’d be willing to sacrifice his own life for them. But, jeez, it was so boring, so deadly at home—what did they have to live for? They were too old for sex even, although Paul turned away from the thought. He couldn’t believe that his mother and father ever actually …

  “Sorry,” the woman said, shutting the door in his face, still shaking her head in wonder at his sales pitch.

  Paul stood in the doorway, wondering what to do. He’d had rotten luck this afternoon, hadn’t sold a single box. He hated selling them anyway, although it gave him an excuse to get out of the house. But he couldn’t really put his heart in it. He was just going through the motions.

  Outside the apartment house, Paul considered his choices: pressing on with the sale despite his luck today or going home. He crossed the street and rang the doorbell of another apartment building. In an apartment house, you could knock off five or six families at one time even though the places all seemed to smell of pee.

  Brother Leon had “volunteered” Brian Cochran for the position of Treasurer of the Chocolate Sale. Which meant that he’d looked around the classroom, pinned those watery eyes on Brian, pointed his finger and, voilà, as Brother Aimé said in French class, Brian was treasurer. He hated the job because he lived in fear of Brother Leon. You never knew about Leon. Brian was a senior and he’d had Leon as either a classroom teacher or as homeroom supervisor for four years and he was still uncomfortable in his presence. The teacher was unpredictable and yet predictable at the same time, which reasoning confused Brian because he wasn’t exactly a hotshot in the psychology department. It was this: you knew that Leon would always do the unexpected—wasn’t that being both predictable and unpredictable? He loved to toss surprise exams at a class—and he also could suddenly be the nice guy, not giving a test for weeks or giving a test and then throwing away the results. Or concocting a pass-fail test—he was famous for that type—where he threaded together questions that could throw a guy for a loss, with what seemed like a million possible answers. He was also quite a man with the pointer although he usually confined that kind of stuff to freshmen. If he ever pulled the pointer antics with, say, somebody like Carter, there’d be hell to pay. But not everybody was John Carter, president of The Vigils, All-Star Guard on the football team, and president of the Boxing Club. How Brian Cochran would love to be like John Carter, with muscles instead of glasses, quick with boxing gloves instead of figures.

  Speaking of figures, Brian Cochran began double-checking the sales totals. As usual, there was a discrepancy between the amount of chocolates reported as sold and the actual money received. The guys were notorious for holding back some of the money until the last minute. Ordinarily, nobody got excited about it—it was human nature. A lot of the guys sold chocolates, spent the money on a big date or a big night, and then put in the money when they got their allowance or their pay at their part-time jobs. But this year, Brother Leon acted as if every dollar was a matter of life and death. In fact, he was driving Brian Cochran up a wall.

  The job of treasure called for Brian to check every homeroom at the end of the day and write down the returns the boys had reported. How many boxes sold. How much money turned in. Brian then went to Brother Leon’s office and totaled all the figures. Then Brother Leon would come along and check Brian’s report. Simple, right? Wrong. The way Brother Leon was carrying on this year made every day’s report seem like a major headline event. Brian had never seen the Brother so edgy, so nervous. At first he’d gotten a kick out of the teacher’s apprehension, the way the sweat poured off him like he had a special pump inside producing all that perspiration. When he came into the office and took off the black suit coat he was required to wear in the classroom during all seasons, sweat stains darkened his armpits, and he smelled as if he’d just gone ten rounds in the ring. He fidgeted and fussed around, double-checking Brian’s figures, chewing on a pencil, pacing the floor.

  Today, Brian was more puzzled than ever. Leon had passed around a report to all the homerooms listing total sales thus far at 4,582. Which was wrong. The kids had sold exactly 3,961 boxes and had made returns on 2,871. Sales were definitely lagging behind last year and so was the money. He couldn’t understand why Leon had issued a false report. Did he think he could hype them up that way?

  Brian shrugged, tabulating his own totals once more to be sure that Brother Leon wouldn’t blame him for any discrepancies. He’d hate to have Leon for an enemy, which is one reason he’d accepted the job of treasurer without making waves. Brian was a member of Leon’s algebra class and he didn’t want to take any chances with extra homework or sudden unexplained F’s on exams.

  Looking at the summary once again, Brian saw the zero next to the name of Jerome Renault. He chuckled. That was the freshman who refused to sell any chocolates. Brian shook his head—who’d want to buck the system? Hell, who’d want to buck Brother Leon? The kid must be some kind of madman.

  “LeBlanc?”

  “Six.”

  “Malloran?”

  “Three.”

  The pause. The intake of breath. It had gotten to be a game now—this roll call, this fascinating moment in Brother Leon’s homeroom. Even Goober couldn’t help but get caught up in the tension although the entire situation made him slightly sick to his stomach. Goober was a peaceful figure. He hated strain, contention. Peace, let’s have peace. But there was no peace in Brother Leon’s room in the morning as he called the roll of chocolate sales. He stood tense at the desk, those watery eyes blinking in the morning light, while Jerry Renault sat as usual at his desk, without emotion, frigid, elbows resting on the surface of the desk.

  “Parmentier?”

  “Two.”

  Now—

  “Renault.”

  Inhale.

  “No.”

  Exhale.

  The color spreading on Leon’s face, like his veins had turned into scarlet neon signs.

  “Santucci?”

  “Two.”

  The Goober couldn’t wait for the bell to ring.

  CHAPTER

  FIFTEEN

  “HEY, ARCHIE,” Emile Janza called.

  “Yes, Emile.”

/>   “You still got the picture?”

  “What picture?” Suppressing a smile.

  “You know what picture.”

  “Oh, that picture. Yes, Emile, I still have it.”

  “I don’t suppose it’s for sale, Archie.”

  “Not for sale, Emile. What would you want with that picture, anyway? To tell the truth, Emile, it’s not the greatest picture ever taken of you. I mean, you’re not even smiling or anything. There’s this funny look on your face. But you’re not smiling, Emile.”

  There was a funny look on Emile Janza’s face right at this moment and he wasn’t smiling now either. Anyone else but Archie would have been intimidated by that look.

  “Where do you keep the picture, Archie?”

  “It’s safe, Emile. Very safe.”

  “That’s good.”

  Archie wondered, should I tell him the truth about the picture? He knew that Emile Janza could be a dangerous enemy. On the other hand, the photograph also could be used as a weapon.

  “Tell you what, Emile,” Archie said. “Someday you might be able to get the photograph all for yourself.”

  Janza flipped his cigarette against a tree and watched the butt ricochet into the gutter. He withdrew a package from his pocket, discovered it was empty and tossed it away, watching the breeze move it along on the sidewalk. Emile Janza didn’t care about keeping America beautiful.

  “How can I get the photograph, Archie?”

  “Well, you won’t have to buy it, Emile.”

  “You mean you’d give it to me? There must be a catch, Archie.”

  “There is, Emile. But nothing you can’t handle when the time comes.”

  “You let me know when the time comes. Okay, Archie?” Emile asked, giggling his foolish giggle.

  “You’ll be the first to know,” Archie said.

  The tone of their conversation had been light, bantering, but Archie knew that Emile was deadly serious underneath. Archie also knew that Janza would be willing to practically murder him in his sleep to get his hot hands on the picture. And the terrible irony—there was no picture after all. Archie had merely taken advantage of a ridiculous situation. What happened was this: Archie had cut a class and glided through the corridor, evading the brothers. Moving past an open locker, he’d spotted a camera dangling from one of the coat hooks. Automatically, Archie had taken the camera. He wasn’t a thief, of course. He figured he’d merely abandon it somewhere so that the owner, whoever he was, would have to chase around the school looking for it. Stepping into the men’s room to grab a quick smoke, Archie had pulled open the door to one of the stalls and confronted Janza sitting there, pants dropping on the floor, one hand furiously at work between his legs. Archie lifted the camera and pretended to take a picture, yelling “Hold it.”

  “Beautiful,” Archie had called.

  Janza had been too shocked and surprised to react quickly. By the time he had recovered, Archie was at the doorway, poised to flee if Janza made a move.

  “Better hand over that camera,” Janza called.

  “If you’re going to jack off in a toilet, at least lock your door,” Archie taunted.

  “The lock’s broken,” Emile replied. “All the locks are broken.”

  “Well, don’t worry, Emile. Your secret is safe with me.”

  Now Janza turned from Archie and spotted a freshman hurrying across the street, evidently worried because he was afraid of being late for classes. It took a year or two to develop the timing that allowed you to linger until the last possible moment at the doorway.

  “Hey, freshman,” Janza called.

  The kid looked up, panic-stricken, when he saw Janza.

  “Afraid you’re going to be late?”

  The kid gulped, nodding his head.

  “Have no fear, freshman.”

  The final whistle blew. Exactly forty-five seconds to make it to homerooms.

  “I’m all out of cigarettes,” Emile declared, patting his pockets.

  Archie smiled, knowing what Janza planned. Janza considered himself a candidate for The Vigils and he was always trying to impress Archie.

  “What I’d like, kid, is for you to run over to Baker’s and buy me a pack of cigarettes.”

  “I haven’t got any money,” the boy protested. “And I’ll be late for school.”

  “That’s life, kid. That’s the way it goes. Heads I win, tails you lose. If you haven’t got the money, steal the smokes. Or borrow the money. Just meet me at lunch with the cigarettes. Any brand. Emile Janza’s not fussy.” Tossing in his name so that the kid would know who he was dealing with in the event he hadn’t been tipped off about Emile Janza.

  Archie lingered, knowing he was flirting with a tardy rap. But he was fascinated by Janza, crude and gross as he was. The world was made up of two kinds of people—those who were victims and those who victimized. There was no doubt about Janza’s category. No doubt about himself, either. And no doubt about the kid, taking off down the hill, tears spilling onto his cheeks as he turned away.

  “He’s got the money, Archie,” Emile said. “Don’t you figure he’s got the money and was lying through his teeth?”

  “I’ll bet you also kick old ladies down the stairs and trip cripples on the street,” Archie said.

  Janza giggled.

  The giggle chilled Archie who himself was considered capable of hurting little old ladies and tripping cripples.

  CHAPTER

  SIXTEEN

  “SUCH A TERRIBLE MARK, Caroni.”

  “I know, I know.”

  “And you are usually such a splendid scholar.”

  “Thank you, Brother Leon.”

  “How are your other marks?”

  “Fine, Brother, fine. In fact, I thought … I mean, I was aiming for high honors this term. But now, this F …”

  “I know,” the teacher said, shaking his head sorrowfully, in commiseration.

  Caroni was confused. He had never received an F before in his life. In fact, he had seldom received a mark lower than an A. In the seventh and eighth grades at St. Jude’s, he had received straight A’s for two years except for a B-plus one term. He had scored so high on the Trinity entrance exam that he had been awarded one of the rare Trinity scholarships—one hundred dollars contributed toward his tuition, and his picture in the paper. And then this terrible F, a routine test turning into a nightmare.

  “The F surprised me as well,” Brother Leon said. “Because you are such an excellent student, David.”

  Caroni looked up in sudden wonder and hope. Brother Leon seldom called a student by his first name. He always kept a distance between himself and his pupils. “There is an invisible line between teacher and student,” he always said, “and it must not be crossed.” But, now, hearing him pronounce “David” in such friendly fashion and with such gentleness and understanding, Caroni allowed himself to hope—but for what? Had the F been a mistake, after all?

  “This was a difficult test for several reasons,” the teacher went on. “One of those exams where the wrong, subtle interpretation of the facts made the difference between pass and fail. In fact, that was it exactly—a pass-fail test. And when I read your answer, David, for a moment I thought it was possible that you had passed. In many respects you were correct in your assertions. But, on the other hand …” His voice trailed away, he seemed deep in thought, troubled.

  Caroni waited. A horn blew outside—the school bus lumbering away. He thought of his father and mother and what they would do when they learned of the F. It would drag down his average—it was almost impossible to overcome an F no matter how many other A’s he managed to make.

  “One thing students don’t always realize, David,” Brother Leon went on, speaking softly, intimately, as if there were no one in the world except them, as if he had never talked to anyone in the world the way he was talking to David at this moment, “one thing they don’t grasp is that teachers are human too. Human like other people.” Brother Leon smiled as if he had made a jo
ke. Caroni allowed himself a small smile, unsure of himself, not wanting to do the wrong thing. The classroom was suddenly warm, it seemed crowded although there were just the two of them there. “Yes, yes, we are all too human. We have our good days and our bad days. We get tired. Our judgment sometimes becomes impaired. We sometimes—as the boys say—goof. It’s possible even for us to make mistakes correcting papers, especially when the answers are not cut and dried, not one thing or another, not all black nor all white …”

  Caroni was all ears now, alert—what was Brother Leon driving at? He looked sharply at Brother Leon. The teacher looked as he always did—the moist eyes that reminded Caroni of boiled onions, the pale damp skin, and the cool talk, always under control. He held a piece of white chalk in his hand like a cigarette. Or maybe like a miniature pointer.

  “Did you ever hear a teacher admit that it’s possible for him to make a mistake, David? Ever hear that before?” Brother Leon asked, laughing.

  “Like an umpire saying he made the wrong call,” Caroni said, joining in the teacher’s little joke. But why the joke? Why all this talk of mistakes?

  “Yes, yes,” Leon agreed. “No one is without error. And it’s understandable. We all have our duties and we must discharge them. The Headmaster is still in the hospital and I take it as a privilege to act in his behalf. Besides this, there are the extra-curricular activities. The chocolate sale, for instance …”