When the test results were published, he was shocked to find an F on his paper. The first F of his life. He had appealed to Brother Leon, hating himself for doing so. And Leon had dismissed his appeal, ho-humming David’s concern away. I have more important matters at hand, Leon had said. The F had stood. A mark of shame as well as corruption.
“Please,” Brother Leon said. And now it was his turn to plead, his turn to speak with a quivering voice.
“It’s too late for pleas,” David said, delighted with his pun. Please and pleas. You see, Brother Leon, I am not stupid, despite the F. I commit a pun with a knife at your throat and commit murder with the same knife. “It’s even too late for an A.”
“A’s … F’s …” Brother Leon said, voice gurgling. “What’s all this about A’s and F’s?”
At last. Now he could tell Brother Leon, get it all off his chest.
“C’s, too,” David said. “Don’t forget the C’s. I never got a C in my life before the F. But then I got another F. Because I didn’t care. And then a C from Brother Armand in Math. Which I never got before.”
Leon stared at him in disbelief. “You mean all this is about marks? F’s and C’s?” He giggled, an idiot giggle. As if, lo, the problem was solved: This is only a misunderstanding about marks. Which angered David, causing him to thrust the knife point just a bit deeper, wondering if it was deep enough to draw blood. And then speaking his anger, not with the knife but with his mouth:
“Yes, all this is about marks. And about my life. And my future. And my mother and father. Who wonder now what happened to their nice smart son David. Who doesn’t always get A’s anymore. They don’t say anything, they are too nice to say anything, but their hearts are broken. I can tell their hearts are broken. They look at me with hurt in their eyes because they know that I am the bearer of F’s. I, who do not deserve F’s. I am an A student.” Screaming the words, having to make Leon see his sin, having to let the world know what had happened. “I deserve A’s. My mother cries at night in her room.” He had refused to acknowledge the truth of her tears until this moment. “Over what I have become.…”
“Yes, yes, I remember now,” Brother Leon said, voice scrambling, rushing. “That F … an oversight. I had meant to correct it, to give you the mark you deserved. But we’ve had terrible months here at Trinity. The illness of the Headmaster, the violence of the chocolate sale … I did not realize you were so sensitive to the mark. All that can be changed.”
“Not just the mark, Brother Leon,” David said, unimpressed by Leon’s arguments. “You can change the mark, but it’s too late. There are other things you can’t change.…”
“What? Tell me. Nothing is irrevocable.…” Suddenly David was weary, felt energy draining from the arm that held the knife, from his entire body. He did not want to argue anymore, knew he could never express to Brother Leon or anyone the sickness of his soul, the despair of his life, the meaninglessness of his existence. He clung to one thing only, the voice inside him, the voice that had emerged from the broken music of the piano, the voice that was a command. A command he could not ignore or dismiss although it filled him with sadness. Sadness for all that might have been and could be no more. Brother Leon had said: Nothing is irrevocable. But some things were. The act he was committing even now with the knife at Leon’s throat. The act he must commit if only to find peace.
“Listen,” Brother Leon said, lips still stiff in order not to disturb the knife. “Listen to what is going on out there.”
David listened, granting Leon this much at least, a man’s last wish. The sounds of Fair Day, still faint, still far removed. Distant voices breaking into laughter. All of which made David sadder still.
“That is Trinity too, David,” Brother Leon said, his voice a whisper. “Not only marks. Not only F’s and A’s and C’s. Education … families … listen to the voices out there … students and parents … enjoying themselves …”
“What has all this got to do with—” David began.
And saw that Brother Leon had tricked him, diverted his attention, gotten him to let down his guard, loosening his grasp on the knife, losing his concentration as he inclined his head to listen to the sounds from outside. Astonishingly, without warning, he was seized from behind and a hand struck his wrist, pain shooting up his arm, stinging and burning, causing him to drop the knife. Cries filled the room, and scuffling, and David closed his eyes, flailing his arms, striking out blindly at whoever had sneaked in while he was talking to Brother Leon. Anger or madness or something beyond both gripped him. He whirled, tore at his attackers, kicked out, heard clothes ripping, tasted something warm in his mouth as he spun away.
“Watch out …”
“Get him …”
He opened his eyes and found himself at bay facing Brother Leon and Brother Armand.
They were crouched, hands on their knees, stalking him as if he were an animal on the loose.
“Give up, Caroni,” Brother Leon urged. “You cannot escape.…”
Brother Armand’s voice was softer, more compelling. “You need help, David. We will help you …”
But the voice within him was stronger:
Get away. Leave this place. It’s too late to carry out the command now. You have botched it up.
Ah, he answered, there’s one other thing I can do. That I won’t botch up.
The knife lay on the floor, useless to him now.
He knew he had one advantage:
The door was at his back.
He backed toward it cautiously, one step at a time, hoping no one else was in the residence. Please, dear God, he prayed silently, let me get away and then end this agony.
He was in the doorway at last.
Saw Brother Leon’s hand reaching for the telephone on the desk. A call to the police would doom him.
Knew this was the moment when he must act, get away. Yet had to wait for the command. He stood there breathless. At last the command came.
He turned and ran.
The Trinity grounds lay battered and bruised in the fading sunlight. The lawn and parking lot were free now of the debris left by hundreds of people playing, eating, drinking, cavorting, and making merry in the carnival atmosphere of Fair Day. Ground crews had moved in to scoop up the accumulation of paper cups, popcorn boxes, hot dog containers, and all the other rubbish left over from the event. The lawn was trampled and tired, the abandoned booths and tables looming like the skeletons of awkward animals in the dying light.
It had been a typical Fair Day, thronged with young and old, blessed with sunshine and high spirits. The only sobering incident had been the arrival of a police cruiser at mid-afternoon, howling its way to the front door of the residence, where Brother Leon greeted the officers as they leaped from the vehicle. A small crowd flowed toward the cruiser and rumors immediately ran rampant. A bomb scare, someone said, which was not at all unusual. A robbery foiled by Brother Leon, someone else reported, with the robber running off toward Main Street. In fact, Brother Leon pointed in that direction as he talked to the police officers. When a second cruiser arrived a moment later, the first cruiser sped off in the direction of Main Street. Meanwhile, a massive policeman, with beefy jowls and a huge stomach that rippled as he walked, waved off the onlookers, dispersing the crowd. “It’s all over,” he kept saying, and refused to answer any questions.
A few minutes later Brother Leon’s voice crackled over the loudspeakers, interrupting a medley of disco tunes.
“We have had a minor disturbance in the residence, but all has returned to normal,” he said. “Please continue to enjoy yourselves. There is no cause for alarm or a disruption of this pleasant occasion.”
The music resumed, and so did the festivities. By the time the fair drew to its conclusion in early evening, the visit of the police cruisers had either been completely forgotten or had become an object of idle curiosity and speculation, apparently not serious at all.
Ray Bannister wished the afternoon incident had been ser
ious … serious enough to call a halt to the proceedings of Fair Day and, in particular, the evening program. He walked reluctantly toward the main school building, head down, as if searching for dropped money. He was not searching for money. He was searching for a valid reason to call off tonight’s program. He honestly did not want any part of it. Earlier, of course, he had been excited about the performance, his stage debut before the student body: anticipating the attention and applause of the audience. But Obie’s behavior of the past few days had made him uneasy. More than uneasy, suspicious. Obie had conducted himself like a madman, in a frenzy, rushing into Ray’s house at all hours to rehearse the small part he would play as Ray’s assistant, eyes too bright, talking too much, pacing the floor, then falling into sudden brooding silences.
“What’s wrong, Obie?” Ray had finally asked.
“Nothing’s wrong,” Obie snapped. “Why do you ask?”
“Because you’re acting … strange. Like this is a life-and-death proposition. It’s only a magic show. Hell, I should be nervous.”
“I want everything to go right,” Obie said. “This is the big senior night at Trinity.”
“It’ll go fine,” Ray assured him, although himself unconvinced.
“Let’s rehearse again,” Obie said. “Show me again how the guillotine works.…”
Ray paused now, before entering the building, wishing he were home or back at Cape Cod. A few stragglers preceded him, one of the kids holding the door open, an unexpected politeness. Ray’s name had appeared on posters announcing the “Magic Night” program—Bafflement by Bannister. He had felt like a minor celebrity, aware of students glancing at him. Tom Chiumento, one of the good guys, nodded in friendly fashion as they met in the corridor. All this pleased Ray, at first. Then made him uneasy. Not quite sure why, but then everything about Trinity made him uneasy. And especially Obie. More than once Ray had thought about canceling his appearance, but he hated the idea of disappointing Obie, the only student at Trinity to extend friendship. Or what seemed to be friendship.
Stepping into the building, Ray heard a rustling sound, like a distant gathering of insects. He followed it along the corridor, the buzzing now louder, now softer, inconsistent, strange to his ears. Not the usual rowdy sounds of typical Trinity assemblies or gatherings for basketball or baseball games. In the assembly hall Ray’s eyes were drawn immediately to the stage, where he saw the reason for the curious attitude of the students. Center stage, in a spotlight, standing alone in what seemed like an immensity of space, was the guillotine. Ugly, dangerous, blade gleaming in the harshness of the spotlight’s glare, a nightmare object suddenly thrust into reality. Or maybe, Ray Bannister thought, it’s me, dramatizing, exaggerating. But as he looked around the auditorium at the other students leaning forward or tilting toward each other, puzzled, whispering, he realized the full impact of the guillotine on their sensibilities. He thought of Obie. He also thought: My God, what’s happening here?
What was happening there was exactly what Obie had planned. Pressing himself against the wall backstage, listening to the murmuring of the students, imagining the effect of the guillotine, Obie smiled with satisfaction. In a moment the show would begin. Songs, sketches, the usual parade of antics that marked every Skit Night. All the while, the guillotine would be visible, at the side of the stage during the various acts but never out of sight of the audience, a grim reminder of things to come. Archie was out there, in the audience, waiting, surrounded by the members of the Vigils, knowing that when the last skit was over, he would face the guillotine.
Obie leaped a bit as a hand touched his arm. “Are you okay?” Ray Bannister asked.
“Of course I’m okay,” Obie said, a giggle escaping his lips. “What makes you think I’m not okay?”
“I don’t know,” Ray said unhappily. And he didn’t know, really. All he knew was that Obie still looked hyper, too excited, eyes fever bright.
“Look, the show’s about to begin but it’s got nothing to do with us,” Obie said. “Maybe we can rehearse the guillotine act somewhere out back—”
“Without the guillotine?” Ray asked.
“I mean, the positions, where we’ll be standing. The patter.… didn’t you say the patter was important?”
“We already rehearsed a million times,” Ray said. “And the patter is nothing. Cripes, Obie, you’re getting spooky, know that?”
“I just want everything to go right,” Obie said.
Ray sighed. “Look, I’m going to watch the show from out front. I’ll come back when the skits are over, okay?”
“Okay, okay,” Obie said impatiently. He wanted to be alone, anyway, didn’t want company at this moment.
Ray drew back and started for the small hallway that led to the assembly hall. At the last moment he turned and looked doubtfully at Obie.
“Are you sure you know what you’re doing, Obie?” he said. Allowing himself for one moment to contemplate a possibility he had avoided for a long time. He wondered whether this was a life-and-death matter, after all.
“Get going,” Obie said. “The show’s about to begin.…”
Ray lifted his shoulders and let them fall. He knew that Obie planned to give Archie Costello the scare of his life. He also suspected that Obie planned to go further, to carry out some kind of weird plot against Archie. But he refused to contemplate more than that. One last look at Obie, still pressed against the wall, and he hurried down the stairway as the first burst of music from a stereo filled the air. An old Beatles song, “Yellow Submarine.”
He looks at me as if I’m crazy, but I’m not crazy, am I? Crazy people aren’t eighteen-year-old seniors in high school. And anyway, I’m not going to do anything. I’m just going to scare the hell out of Archie Costello. Humiliate him in front of the entire student body. Get him on his knees. Okay, so nobody wanted to dunk him in the water and nobody wanted to kick him in the ass. But they’ll have to sit there and see him on his knees, his neck on the block. That’s all.
Ah, but that isn’t all, Obie, is it? You know what you’re planning to do. And that’s where the crazy part comes in, the insane part. Insane, Obie baby. You are out of your mind. You can’t do what you’re planning to do. Not in a high school in Monument, Massachusetts, in the last quarter of the twentieth century.
Obie recoiled from the voice in his mind, paced the floor restlessly, let the Beatles song carry him, heard the scattering of applause as the first skit began, the whoops and cries of the actors. As usual, when he stopped thinking about Archie and the guillotine, he encountered Laurie Gundarson, a ghost lurking in his heart. He was doing all this for her sake, of course. Couldn’t simply let her go out of his life without this gesture.
Christ, Laurie.
One more chance, he thought, one more chance.
He fumbled in his pocket for change, isolated a dime from the other coins, paused, tossed it in the air—it came up heads—and then made his way out to the corridor. He stopped at the pay phone, stared at it a moment, said out loud: “Okay, Laurie, I’ll let you decide.…”
He inserted the coin, dialed her number, listened to the blurt of ringing.
“Hello.” Her father, rough-tough voice, a heavyweight-boxer voice although he sold automobiles.
“Is Laurie there?” Obie’s own voice thin and sparse by contrast.
“Is this you again?” A brutal, give-no-quarter voice.
He ignored the question, had become accustomed to ignoring her father’s voice.
“Could I talk to Laurie, please?”
“Look, kid, she doesn’t want to talk to you.”
“Is she there?” he asked patiently. This was the last try. If she came to the telephone, if he heard her voice again, he would take it as a good omen. It would give him hope. And he could call it all off, wouldn’t have to go through with the plan.
He heard an exasperated sigh at the other end of the line and then her father’s voice, threatening now: “Do you know what harassment is, kid? You call her
e again and you’ll be in big trouble.”
The receiver slammed in Obie’s ear and he sagged against the wall. Last chance gone. He had his answer now. Knew there was no turning back. Knew what he had to do.
Brother Leon arrived late for the performance. His late entrance was not a surprise. Everybody knew that Leon hated the student skits and sketches. Too often there had been hilarious takeoffs on the faculty and, a few years ago, a devastating burlesque of Brother Leon by a student named Henry Boudreau. Boudreau had minced across the stage, speaking in a prissy voice, wielding an oversized baseball bat the way Leon used his teacher’s pointer, as a weapon. The performance had become a legend at Trinity. But funny thing about Boudreau: He had flunked out at the end of the year.
Brian Cochran, watching Brother Leon settle into the seat, looked at him with undisguised dislike. Leon had forced Brian into the role of treasurer at last fall’s chocolate sale, meaning that Brian had had to consult with him on a daily basis. Since then Brian had avoided contact with Leon, which was about par, of course, for most students at Trinity. Looking at Leon now, Brian noticed that he was rumpled, hair a bit mussed, seemed distraught, as if his thoughts were elsewhere. Beautiful: Leon worried and apprehensive about something—the skits tonight? Or probably the incident this afternoon. Brian had heard rumors that an unidentified student had fled the residence after robbing the place. Another rumor, also unfounded: a student had attacked Brother Leon, threatened to kill him.
Brian Cochran was not a saint by any means, although he went to communion every Sunday, had served as an altar boy until his sixteenth birthday, knelt and said his prayers every night. He considered himself a good Catholic but admitted that he would have enjoyed seeing Brother Leon under attack by someone with a knife or a gun. He wouldn’t wish for Leon to be killed or wounded, but a good scare would be terrific.