Beyond the Chocolate War

  “It’s not only Emile Janza,” the Goober said. “It’s the school itself. Brother Leon, who lets the Vigils and guys like Archie Costello get away with murder. Okay, Archie Costello’s graduating, but somebody else will take his place. And what about the chocolates, Jerry? There’ll be another chocolate sale. And what will you do?”

  “Sell them,” Jerry said. “I’ll sell their chocolates. Every stupid box.” The pain of Janza’s blows still resounded in his body, and he knew somehow that the answer to everything was in the echo of that pain. And in the fact that Janza had walked away. “They want you to fight, Goober. And you can really lose only if you fight them. That’s what the goons want. And guys like Archie Costello. You have to outlast them, that’s all.”

  “Even if they kill you?”

  “Even if they kill you.”

  The Goober kept shaking his head as he walked along beside Jerry. He didn’t understand what Jerry was talking about, just as he hadn’t understood why Jerry hadn’t sold the chocolates last fall. All he knew was that he didn’t want to return to Trinity. And if Jerry did, then he’d have to return, as well. And he sure as hell didn’t want to do that. Couldn’t. From the moment that Jerry’s father had called him a few weeks go, everything had gone wrong. Tracking down Emile Janza. The fight in the alley and Janza’s kick that had immobilized him, leaving Jerry to face Janza alone. Now this: Jerry returning to Trinity. All Goober wanted was to run. Get on the team at Monument High. Find a girl, maybe. No complications, no fights or talks about fighting. Or winning. Or losing.

  “I’m not going back to Trinity,” he said stubbornly.

  Jerry glanced at his friend, saw the utter misery on his face, as if he were being tortured, and realized suddenly how his decision to return to Trinity was affecting him. He felt stricken with guilt, inflicting guilt on his friend, Goober. And knew instantly what he must do.

  “Look, Goober, okay, I’m not going back. Forget what I said. I guess that was just crazy talk.”

  Goober looked at him guardedly. “You sure?”

  Jerry nodded. “I’m sure.”

  The Goober relaxed visibly, slowed his pace.

  “Good, Jerry. For a minute there—”

  “I know. It was crazy.” But it isn’t crazy. I’m going back. To Trinity.

  “Nothing to be gained by going back …”

  “Right.” Wrong. A lot to be gained but not sure what. His tooth was hurting now, killing him, and he felt blood gathering on his gums, the taste warm and sweet on his tongue. And his knee still hurt. He hurt all over, but a clean hurt.

  “Summer’s coming. We’ll have a great summer. Running, swimming …” The Goober’s voice vibrated with excitement as he thought of good times coming.

  Jerry knew what he had to do. Break off with the Goober, end their relationship. Gradually, over the course of the summer, so that when next September came and he returned to Trinity, the Goober wouldn’t know about it. Or care. Because by then Jerry would be a stranger. Jerry felt rotten about that, his only friend becoming a stranger.

  For a moment Jerry wavered, poised between decisions, overcome by a sadness, drenching him with—what?—loneliness, maybe. Longing for the peace of the Canadian countryside and his uncle and aunt and the Talking Church. Or maybe Monument High with Goober as his friend. Trying out for football, the snap of the ball, calling signals, the pass … good-bye to that. For a while. He knew somehow he would make his way back to Canada. And especially to the Talking Church. And beyond that to something else. Something he could not even consider now. But first he had to return to Trinity.

  “We’ll have a great summer,” Jerry said, hoping the words did not sound as false to Goober as they sounded to himself.

  He ran. Through darkened streets, taking occasional walkers or strollers by surprise, his feet on the pavement keeping time to his beating heart.

  He heard the sound when he was a half mile from his home. At first he thought the sound was behind him. Or ahead. And then realized it came from inside him. A sound like something wounded. Or crying. Or maybe sobbing. Him? Yes, him.

  This little piggy went to market …

  When he was just a little kid, his mother used to recite the nursery rhyme to him, every night at bedtime. And later when he began running, he would run to the rhythm of songs he knew. And sometimes that old nursery rhyme.

  And this little piggy stayed home.

  Not wanting to think about Jerry Renault and the way he had betrayed him again tonight, groveling on the sidewalk, clutching his stomach in pain. Not wanting to think that he had done it again. And knowing, too, that Jerry was going back to Trinity. Pretending for Goober’s sake that he wasn’t, but going. And the Goober not wanting to go. He’d had enough of Trinity. Of being put to the test. Of betrayal. He’d break off from Jerry, a bit at a time this summer, little by little. Because, damn it, he did not want to go back to Trinity. Wouldn’t. Couldn’t. He didn’t want to betray him again.

  And he sang silently as he ran:

  This little piggy cried wee, wee, wee, all the way home.

  Wee, wee, wee …

  For Obie, at this moment, it was not Fair Day or Fear Day but Fool Day.

  And Archie Costello was the Fool, being led now across the campus to the parking lot where the Water Game had been installed, Obie surveying the scene with a kind of satisfaction he had never known before. If only he still had Laurie and could share with her this beautiful moment and all the other beautiful moments to come: Archie as the Fool. Archie walked with his head held high, despite the Sign on the back of his white jersey, block letters spelling out KICK ME. The Fool was required to wear the Sign throughout the day and students understood that it was proper to kick the wearer. One of the traditions of Fair Day, a mild enough diversion allowed by the brothers. No one had yet kicked Archie. Ah, but the day was young, barely an hour old.

  Obie watched at a discreet distance as Archie arrived at the Water Game. His arrival didn’t cause a big stir; too much other activity was going on. The campus was thronged with parents and students and smaller children. Music blared over a loudspeaker, clashing with the tinny sound of a calliope. Squeals of laughter and delight came from the merry-go-round. Clerks dispensed amazing amounts of pizza and submarine sandwiches and soda pop. Booths with all kinds of merchandise, from handmade crafts to home-baked goods, did a thriving business. All profits for the Trinity School Fund. Thus, Archie Costello’s drama was only a small part of the entire scene. But an important drama for most of the students at Trinity. Nothing their mothers or fathers or younger brothers or sisters knew about as they participated in the day’s activities, but important to the Trinity student body.

  Archie did not protest as he was directed to the Water Game chair. The arrangement was simple. The chair was situated above a pool of water. The price was one dollar for three balls. The balls were thrown at a bull’s-eye target to the left of the chair. If the center of the target was hit by a ball, an unseen mechanism dropped the chair into the water, submerging the occupant. The occupant at this moment was Archie Costello. Neat and spotless in his chino pants and white jersey, the KICK ME sign hidden from view, Archie sat quietly, feet dangling, his Nikes almost touching the water. He waited patiently, looking at the crowd with cool, appraising eyes.

  “Okay, okay, a dollar for three balls,” the hawker called, juggling the balls as he talked. His face was sunburned, his scalp beneath his thinning gray hair also fiery red. His voice was hoarse, challenging.

  Obie detached himself from his vantage point at the front steps and made his way closer to the game. He wanted full measure, wanted to hear the splash of water when Archie dropped, wanted to see him soaked and struggling in the pool.

  “Let’s go, let’s go,” the hawker urged.

  Nobody went forward to buy the balls. The crowd hung back. While Archie sat, silent and unmoving, patient, waiting.

  “What d’ya say, kids,” the hawker yelled. “Not only do you dunk the victim, but
you win a teddy bear for the girl friend. C’mon, kids, step right up.…”

  Nobody stepped right up. Obie studied the gathering, puzzled, disappointed. He nudged John Consalvo, who stood beside him. Consalvo was a silent member of the Vigils, someone who never questioned a decision, always carried out orders.

  “Here’s a buck, Consalvo,” Obie said, handing him a dollar bill. “Get in there and throw the balls.…”

  “Not me,” Consalvo said, backing away.

  “Why not? It’s fun time on Trinity campus.…”

  Consalvo shook his head, his black-olive eyes shining with apprehension. “I’m not throwing any balls at Archie Costello.”

  “You don’t throw the balls at him. You throw them at the target and Archie Costello gets dunked—”

  Consalvo had backed away several feet now. Having achieved what he considered a safe distance, he said: “I’m not dunking any Archie Costello.”

  A chorus of shouts drew Obie’s attention back to the scene. A sophomore by the name of Bracken had stepped up, paid his money, and taken the three balls. He turned to the crowd, flexing his muscles comically. The crowd responded, a chorus of cheers and catcalls. Obie added his voice to the vocal fray.

  Bracken was one of the wise guys. Loved dirty jokes, sly pokes in the ribs of other kids, tripping people in the corridor. Always sneaky, though, then putting on an innocent act.

  He faced Archie, holding one of the balls in the palm of his right hand. As if weighing it. He looked over his shoulder at the shouting crowd, and as he turned to Archie again, the volume of shouts and calls died down. The immediate area had suddenly become a pocket of stillness. Bracken studied Archie for what seemed a long time while Archie sat there imperviously, untouched by it all, looking merely curious, apparently wondering what Bracken was about to do. As if it had nothing to do with him, really.

  Bracken cocked his arm, stuck his tongue in his cheek, leaned back, pumped his arm, and let the ball fly. The ball was a bit wide of the mark. Hoots and jeers from the crowd, which Bracken accepted with an exaggerated bow.

  He turned to the target again, pumped his arm, paused, waited. Studying his target. The crowd was quiet, the calliope music faint in the air. Bracken threw the ball. But softly. No pep, no steam in the throw, Obie realized. He also realized that now Bracken was only going through the motions, not intending to hit the target. Sure enough, Bracken threw the last ball without hesitation, without a windup, and again it went wide of the mark. He turned, shrugged, smiling weakly.

  Obie couldn’t help glancing at Archie, although he did so against his will. Archie was still perched in the chair and now there was a half smile on his face—what was the other half? Obie didn’t know. Didn’t want to know.

  The small crowd began to disperse as the hawker tossed his balls in the air again, imploring someone to “hit the target, dunk the kid.” The guys ignored his plea as they drifted away, avoiding one another’s eyes. Sensing a lost cause, the hawker shook his head in dismay and looked at Archie curiously, a question in his eyes. Obie knew what the question was: Why won’t anybody dunk you? Good question, Obie thought, and he knew the answer. The answer angered him. More than angered, frustrated him. Even as a victim, Archie retained his goddam hold over them.

  “Okay, guy,” the hawker said, motioning to Archie. “Out. I’d go broke with you there all day long.…”

  Archie leaped from the chair in a graceful motion, landing lightly on his feet. Obie saw the flash of KICK ME on Archie’s jersey as he joined the crowd. No one kicked Archie, of course. Several guys glanced at the Sign and then looked quickly away. Obie tried to stifle his disappointment. He knew that if nobody was willing to dunk him, nobody would be willing to kick him.

  But wait for the guillotine, Obie said silently. That’s what counts, the guillotine. Just wait for the guillotine to fall. And Archie Costello will smile no more.

  “What are you doing here, Caroni?” Brother Leon asked, looking up from his desk. He squinted toward the doorway. “It is Caroni, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is,” David answered, closing the door soundlessly, hiding the object in his hand behind his back.

  The windows were closed, but he could hear the sounds of Fair Day faintly: the carnival calliope, the muffled shouts of hawkers, typical crowd noises.

  Brother Leon regarded him sternly. “I didn’t hear the doorbell. Were you announced, Caroni?”

  David Caroni shook his head. He was glad to see the surprise on Brother Leon’s face. Surprise had been a key element in the command. Catch Brother Leon on Fair Day when he least expects it. David was pleased at the clarity of that inner voice. Pleased, too, at how much he was in control of the situation, everything sharp and beautiful in its clarity. Clarity, that was the word of the day.

  “Repeat,” Brother Leon snapped. “Repeat: What are you doing here?”

  “Detention,” David said.

  “Detention?”

  “Yes,” David said, enjoying Leon’s bewilderment, puzzlement.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Detention, Brother Leon, is from the word detained. Students are detained after class when they break a rule or do something wrong—”

  “I need no lectures, Caroni,” Brother Leon said, beginning to rise to his feet, pushing himself away from the desk.

  “I’m not going to lecture you,” Caroni said. “I am merely saying that you are having a detention. For breaking the rules, for doing something wrong.…”

  Ah, he loved the look on Brother Leon’s face, the look that said: Have you gone mad, Caroni? An unbelieving look, a look of surprise and a bit of curiosity, too. Nothing more, yet. No fear yet. Caroni was eager for that moment of fear. But not yet, not yet.

  “Have you gone crazy, Caroni?”

  “I am not crazy, Brother Leon. Not now. I may have been crazy before. Before the Letter …”

  “What letter?”

  For a moment he had forgotten about the code and had called it the Letter. To disguise the disgusting thing to himself. But now he could use the real letter again. Especially to Brother Leon.

  “F,” David said, exulting. It was going beautifully, exactly as planned, his mind clear, the words glib and perfect as he pronounced them. “The sixth letter of the alphabet. But a terrible letter …”

  Leon had gained his feet and leaned a bit against the desk.

  “Tell me what this is all about,” he demanded, his voice crackling with sudden authority. But a false authority, Caroni knew.

  “It’s about the F you gave me,” Caroni said, exactly as he had planned to say the words for so long. “And about this,” he added, drawing his arm from behind his back and brandishing the butcher knife.

  “Put that down,” Leon snapped, immediately becoming the teacher, as if this office were a classroom and Caroni his only student.

  Caroni did not answer, merely smiled, allowing the smile to permeate his features.

  Leon stepped to his right, but David anticipated his move. As Leon came around the corner of the desk, David intercepted him, slashing the air with the knife, causing Leon to fall back against the wall. Which was a mistake on Leon’s part. As the Headmaster instinctively lifted his hands to protect his face, David thrust the knife into Leon’s neck, just above the Adam’s apple, the knife point penetrating a bit into Leon’s flesh. Caroni smiled, enjoying the spectacle of Leon pinned to the wall, at bay, eyes wide with fright, skin gushing perspiration.

  “Be careful, Caroni,” Leon managed to say without moving his lips, as if any movement would bring death. Which, David considered, was exactly correct.

  “I am being very careful, Brother Leon,” he said. “I don’t want to harm you, don’t want to injure you, don’t wish to kill you.” Perfect, exactly as rehearsed. “Not yet …”

  The effect of David’s last words—“not yet”—and the knife at Leon’s throat was marvelous to behold. More than David had hoped for. Brother Leon immobilized, paralyzed by fear. David felt strong and
resolute, felt as though he could stay like this for hours, both he and Leon in this wonderful tableau, as if frozen on a movie screen, the projector halted or broken or both.

  “Caroni, for God’s sake,” Leon said through gritted teeth. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Let me tell you why,” David said. And this was the best part, this is what he had been waiting for all this time, all these months. This moment, this opportunity, this chance. “The F, Brother Leon. You haven’t forgotten that F, have you?”

  “Take the knife away, David, and we’ll talk,” Leon said, squeezing the words out slowly as if each utterance were painful.

  “It’s too late for talk,” David said, holding the knife steady. “Besides, we already talked, remember?”

  Ah, how they had talked. About that F. Brother Leon and his evil pass-fail tests. The kinds of tests that kept students on edge. Questions with ambiguous answers, answers that called for educated guesses. As a result, Leon in complete command of the results. Could pass or fail students at will. No other teacher did this. Worst of all, Leon used the tests for his own purposes. Brought students into his classroom for discussions of the probable results. Meanwhile, probing, questioning. Using the students. Sounding them out about their classmates, seeking secrets, confidences, by dangling a possible F in front of them. Leon had used David, too. David Caroni of the straight A’s, top-ranking student, a certainty for valedictorian at graduation. Until the F. David Caroni had told Leon what he wanted to know during that sly questioning, fed him information about Jerry Renault during the chocolate sale last fall, told him why Renault refused to sell the chocolates. Thus assuring his passing mark, but sickeningly, nauseatingly, realizing for the first time how terrible a teacher could be, how rotten the world really was, a world in which even teachers were corrupt. Until that moment, his ambition had been to be a teacher someday. He had stumbled home after that terrible session with Brother Leon, feeling soiled, unclean.