The barracks became quiet again, but still I could feel the cold undercurrents, the whispers of discord loose among the arches again. I could hear the demons astir in the sally port, and I could see them fixing their baleful, inexhaustibly evil stares up on fourth division. It was not a premonition; it was an unconscious form of knowledge. The eye of the beast was on my room again. I felt it; I knew it; I had summoned it. I turned the radio up louder and switched it to a rock station. I tried to write about Henry James again but instead kept writing Annie Kate’s name over and over again and wished that she still loved me, would do anything if she still loved me.
There were voices outside my door. I recognized one of them. I loved one of them. The beast, lathered and exhausted, had climbed the long circling stairs to the fourth division. His hooves clattered in my brain, nervously, impatiently. I thought he would attack me as he had before, frontally, the assault from the sea. But not this time. The beast had watched me for too long and knew my weakest points. He had killed Annie Kate’s child as a sign of his powers, a monstrous proof of his existence. He had caused Annie Kate not to love me because he knew that would hurt even more than the death of the child. I had created the beast out of my doubts and neuroses, had fattened him on my nightmare, had made him hideous with my self-loathing, had taught him my secrets of deception and manipulation, and had nurtured him on my loneliness. He came to me only when I was limping and damaged and vulnerable, when all defenses were down. He never arrived when I was healthy, glowing, and eager for the fray. No, he made his black overtures only when I gave off a scent of frailty and weakness. He would see me trembling and I would hear his loathsome, volatile approaches cutting off my exits. The galleries were silent again.
The door opened.
Pig was led into the room by Major Mudge and the Officer of the Guard.
“This man is under room arrest, Mr. McLean,” Major Mudge said without looking at me. “He is not to leave this room except under guard. Mr. Pignetti, report to my office at 0800 tomorrow to inform me of your decision.”
They left the room. Pig and I stared at each other.
“Will,” he said, and his voice broke me.
“Will,” Pig said again, as though my name were a cry of help.
“What happened, Pig?” I asked. “Tell me everything that happened. Is it bad?”
Outside the door I could hear the murmuring voices again as the high-velocity winds of rumor began their roaring along the gallery.
“You’ve got to help me, Will,” he begged, and it was begging, not asking.
“I can’t help you until I know what happened,” I answered. “Please sit down and tell me what happened.”
“You can get me out of it,” he said desperately, clutching at my collar and ripping off my R Company insignia. “You know them. They’re your friends. You can talk to them and make a deal with them. Tell them we’ll do anything.”
“What are you talking about? What happened, for godsakes? Talk to me, Pig.”
“You sit on the honor court,” he said. “You can convince them that I’m innocent.”
“Honor court!” I shouted at him. “What the fuck did you do, Pig? Did they get you for a goddam honor violation?”
“It was a setup, Will,” Pig said despairingly. “I’ve always been careful. I’m too good to be surprised. But they knew I was there. They were watching me. They were hidden. I didn’t see them until it was too late.”
“Tell me what you did, Pig,” I said, trying to remain rational.
“Don’t you see, Will? They knew I was going to be out there. I was followed. I was followed out of this room and they waited until they saw me do something wrong, then they caught me. You were right, Will, they’re going to try to get all of us. One by one.”
The door opened suddenly. Mark walked into the room, his face dark and surly, and without speaking to either Pig or me flung open Pig’s locker and began throwing his uniforms onto the floor.
“Start packing, asshole-breath,” Mark said fiercely to Pig. “Start packing and don’t talk.”
Pig went over to Mark with his hands held in the air in a supplicatory, defeated gesture and said, “Please, Mark, don’t do this to me. I need you guys now more than I ever have. I need the help of the paisans. I have to have it. I’m dead without your help.”
“Pig,” Mark exploded. “You poor dumb bastard. You’re dead anyway. You’re dead, boy, and there’s nothing anybody can do about it. Will, Mudge and the OG caught Pig out in the parking lot with a gas can and a siphoning hose, unscrewing the gas cap from a car that wasn’t his. Pretty, huh? Isn’t that a pretty little crime? It makes a lot of fucking sense after we just laid over fifty bananas on him right before he went down to steal gas in the parking lot.”
“Oh, Jesus,” I said. “Oh, Jesus, Pig. It’s over. They caught you doing that?”
“I can’t resign, Will,” he said pleadingly. “I’ve got to beat the rap. You’ve got to help me beat the rap.”
“There’s no rap to beat, Pig,” I said, my voice putting distance between us. “There’s nothing to do. There’s no case to fucking try. You got caught red-handed when you knew they were after you, after all of us. It was stealing, period. The only thing left for you to do is resign and move to some other college. You’re out of this school, Pig. I can promise you that. You might as well take off your ring and throw it into the Ashley River. You’re gone, Pig. You’re out.”
Pig grabbed me and shook me violently. I thought he was going to begin hitting me with his fist. He raised his fist but did not strike.
“You shut up, Will,” he threatened. “You shut up now or I’ll hurt you bad. I’ll break bones and hurt you. There’s got to be a way. You know all the members of the court. You could talk to them. You could get to one of them. You’re one of them.”
“You touch him and I’ll kill you, Pig,” Mark said, moving toward us.
“Do you want me to pay them off, Pig?” I said to him. “It isn’t the fucking Mafia over there. I go around talking to guys on the court and they’ll ship me out of here along with you. What do you want me to tell them, Pig? What do I say to them? Help me out, man? Do I say that my good friend, Dante Pignetti, was out for an evening stroll in the parking lot with a gas can and a siphoning hose? Pig, you’ve got to resign. I’ve been on the court. I know the game. You go before the court and the drums will roll for you, boy. All of us will be on the parade ground after dark with those drums beating and you walking the line between us. You just don’t have the right to put us through that. We don’t deserve that from you.”
“I thought you were my friend,” he said.
“I am your friend, Pig,” I said softly, laying his head on my shoulder. “This is your friend talking. Your friend is telling you to resign.”
“What about the Army?” he asked.
“That’s over for now,” I answered.
“What do I tell my father? My mother? How can I tell Theresa? We’re getting married on Saturday. I can’t call off the wedding. How can I tell my family and my fiancee that I’m getting kicked out of the Institute for an honor violation? I’ll be disgraced.”
“You are disgraced, meatbrain,” Mark snarled, moving in between Pig and me. “Get it through your fat Italian head. It’s finished.”
Pig looked at me and said, “The honor court’s my only chance, Will. Will you defend me before the court?”
“You’ll lose, Pig,” I said, dropping my eyes from his. “You’ll lose and it’ll be much worse for all of us.”
“Will you defend me, paisan?” he insisted. “I’m begging you, paisan. I’ll get on my fucking knees and beg you. I need you, paisan.”
“You’ll lose, Pig,” I said again. “Do you hear me? There’s nothing to defend. There’s nothing to say. There’s only the mercy of the court, and I’ve been on that court. There’s not that much mercy there. I’m not merciful when I’m on that court. You just sit in judgment and if a cadet lies, steals, or cheats, you kick him
out. It’s much better for you to resign with an honor violation pending against you, Pig, than to walk to the drums. You’ve seen people get drummed out of here, Pig. We must have seen twenty or thirty guys leave that way. There’s nothing worse than can happen on this campus. Man, it’s hard walking between those lines, walking the length of the regiment, with your friends turning their backs on you and swearing never to speak your name again.”
In horror, Pig said, “Will you speak my name again, Will?”
I looked directly into his eyes and said, “Not if you leave on an honor violation, Pig.”
“You won’t even speak my name, paisan?” he asked disbelievingly, as though the reality, the untenability, of his position was reaching his consciousness at last. “You won’t even say my name or be my friend or come to visit me and Theresa?”
“No,” I answered.
“And you, Mark?” said Pig.
“You know the system, Pig,” Mark said, turning away from him. “You’ve been a part of it. You leave on an honor violation and it’s like you’ve died. No, it’s like you never even existed.”
“But we’ve been through too much,” he protested vainly. “We beat the plebe system together and we made it all the way to the end of our senior year together. We fought them all the way, the four of us, together, as brothers, as close as any guys in the world can be, and now you’re telling me that I’m not even going to be a name to you. I’m not even going to be a name to you? I’m not even going to be alive to you.”
“Shut up, Pig,” Mark said. “Be a man.”
“You be a man, Santoro. It’s my ass we’re talking about. It’s my life that’s going to be ruined. It’s my parents I’m going to have to tell. It’s my fiancee who’s going to be hurt. How can I look Theresa in the eyes and tell her I was dishonorable? She wouldn’t believe it. She knows me too well.”
“You were dishonorable,” Mark said. “Now accept the consequences. There’s nothing more to be said. I don’t want Will to defend you before the court. I won’t let Tradd do it either.”
“Why not?” Pig asked. “Will you please tell me why the fuck not? I have a right to be tried.”
“Because I don’t want them defending someone who’s guilty, someone who doesn’t deserve to wear the ring.”
“You son of a bitch,” Pig said.
“You’re a guy who siphons gas for nickles and dimes, meatbrain. You’re a two-bit crook. You don’t take it like a man when you get caught. You want to drag Will through the slime with you. You don’t have the guts to go it alone.”
“It ain’t your ass, Mark. That’s the difference.” Pig was screaming now.
“Boy you really are a big-time thief, Pig,” Mark screamed back. “A real first-class operator with style written all over you. There’s something you don’t know, Will. Something that Pig isn’t telling you that I heard down in the guardroom.”
“Shut up, Mark,” Pig pleaded.
“When they caught Mr. Big Time, he was opening up the gas tank of a certain car with cadet number 16407 on the sticker. It’s all in Major Mudge’s report.”
“That’s my car,” I said, puzzled.
“That’s right,” Mark said, pointing an accusatory finger at Pig. “The ol’ paisan, the ol’ brother, the ol’ meatbrain was getting ready to steal from his fucking roommate who’d just lent him twenty bills.”
“I didn’t want to ask you for any more money, Will,” Pig explained in a desperately humiliated voice. “I’ve asked for too much already. I didn’t want to bother you. I knew you wouldn’t mind.”
The door opened, but none of us looked up as Tradd came into the room. He walked over to Pig in his graceful, diffident stride and embraced him. He held him tightly for several moments, both of them close to tears.
“I’m sorry, Pig. I’m sorry for everything,” Tradd said in a barely audible voice. “This is terrible.”
“If I don’t have you, paisans, I don’t have nothing,” Pig said.
“Have you seen the door?” Tradd said to me.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Open the door and see for yourself, Will,” he replied.
I went to the door and opened it. There was no one in the alcove and the alcoves were deserted. Then I saw it on the door, freshly painted: the number 10.
All of us gathered around that number and studied it as though it were one of those grotesque totems nailed to trees along perilous frontiers to warn visitors that they were entering a country where none of the natives were friendly. It was a sign that they were watching us, that they would come for us and did not mean to take prisoners. With the number they were claiming Pig as the first victim in their vendetta against us. They were stalking us and they wanted us to know it. We looked anxiously at each other, brothers again.
Finally, Pig spoke. “You’ve got to try to help me now. I deserve that much.”
“You do, Pig,” I said, transfixed by the crudely painted numeral on the door. “We better start preparing your case. The court will meet tomorrow night and we’re going to have to sling shit all over that courtroom. Mark, will you go tell Gauldin Grace that Pig will stand trial and that the three of us will defend him? Tradd, will you go with him? None of us should go out of this room alone from now on.”
“Tradd’s not a part of this,” Mark said. “Surely those pricks know that.”
“We don’t know what they think,” I said. “Will you go tell Gauldin?”
“Yeh, I’ll tell him.”
But it was Tradd who seemed most unnerved by the sign of The Ten on the door. He shrank away from it as though it were a manifestation of virulent prophecies scribbled like obscene graffiti on the walls of holy places. He smeared the number with his hand as though erasing it would eliminate the terror and threat in our lives.
“You OK, Tradd?” I asked.
“Sad, Will,” he answered. “Just very, very sad.”
Convocations of the honor court on the top floor of Durrell Hall were always conducted with an inflexible and saturnine efficiency. There was absolutely no sense of felicity or horseplay in the dark official room, with its formal leather chairs, its immaculately polished mahogany table, and its deeply grained walnut paneling. The room looked as if it had been built by a melancholy carpenter whose specialty was coffins. I had seen the mere gravity of this room unnerve an accused cadet. I would always associate honor with dark wood because of my experience in that room.
Most cadets never saw the honor court, but no one who did ever forgot its relentless solemnity. For some cadets it was their final interior glimpse of the Institute. For others, the room represented the first time in their young lives that they were required to function as agents of vengeance, as factotums and enforcers of a strict, intransigent code of ethics.
I watched the entrance of the twelve members of the honor court who would hear the case against Dante Pignetti. I knew all of them well, had learned about their personalities, their flaws and weaknesses, their strengths and virtues, during the thirteen cases I had sat on through the year. We had weighed evidence together, argued frequently and sometimes bitterly, agreed and passionately disagreed, but eventually, we had passed judgment on the lives of our peers. I had come out of the experience respecting the integrity and honesty of all of them. There was a sense both of power and of suffering in rendering such irrevocably final decisions. I had seen some of them cry unashamedly after casting guilty verdicts. They had seen me do the same. The system was imperfect and it was brutal. But I had learned something during my tenure on the court: None of these boys received pleasure from hearing the drummers begin their slow dirge in front of second battalion. We did it because we believed in the system and its concept of honor. But belief alone did not prevent the court from making you older. That was the court’s ineffable gift to you. They looked like twelve octogenarian children as they filed into their seats. They looked terribly old and distraught as they heard Gauldin Grace call the court to order and listened to the prosecut
ing counsel read the charges. This was the trial of a classmate and at the Institute that was the most serious thing of all.
After the charges were read, Gauldin addressed Dante Pignetti. “The accused will rise and face the honor court.”
Pig lifted off his chair beside me and walked stiffly and unnaturally to the center of the room, equidistant from the prosecuting table, the defense table, and the highly polished table of the honor court. His shoes sparkled and his uniform was freshly pressed. Pig was impressive and handsome in his uniform, though this was the single room on campus where military bearing and proficiency meant nothing at all.
“How do you plead, Mr. Pignetti?” Gauldin asked officiously.
“Not guilty, your honor,” he answered in a firm controlled voice.
“Would the prosecutor please present his opening statement.”
The prosecutor was Jim Rowland from third battalion, an extraordinarily bright and conscientious cadet who had been accepted at Harvard Law School. I knew he would not have undertaken the case unless he thought Pig was guilty beyond a doubt. It was not a propitious sign to see Jim in the desk opposite us. He had one of those refined discriminating intellects whose powers of logic were more than equal to my powers of obfuscation. He adjusted his glasses as he rose from his desk and ran a distracted hand through his short-cropped bristly hair. He studied his notes, which were written in a meticulously neat script on a yellow legal pad. I had never seen Jim Rowland smile once while performing his duty. The honor court had selected its sternest, most competent prosecutor to try Pig’s case.