He watched lovingly as she tucked in her blouse, patted her hair. Thank God for Laurie. She balanced the lousy things in his life, like his visit to Ray Bannister this afternoon. Watching Ray’s face collapse like a folded tent in the wind when Obie had told him about the role he must play in Archie’s new assignment.
“It’s getting late,” Laurie said, hands folded in her lap.
“I know,” he said, resigned.
She could be ardent and loving one moment, prim and practical the next.
He started the car, wishing they could drive away together and keep going, never stopping, away from Monument and Trinity, Archie Costello and the Vigils.
Carter hit the wall with his fist. Bare-knuckled, unprotected by the nineteen-ounce glove he wore in the boxing ring. The impact reverberated throughout his body like an earthquake, his head snapping a bit as his fist crashed against the plaster wall. The pain, however, was sweet and fulfilling. The action had responded to Carter’s need to strike out. At something, someone. Until recently Carter had drifted with the Vigils, letting things happen, indifferent, because he’d had his boxing and football. There had been a time, in fact, when he had been amused by Archie’s assignments. But no more. He knew that he would never forgive Archie for the chocolate assignment, the result of which had been Brother Leon’s edict disbanding the boxing team. And now the Bishop’s visit.
Carter looked around the gym, this place he’d always loved. The camaraderie of the boxing squad, the smell of the place—that sweet-sour aroma of liniment and sweat-soaked clothing—and the equipment, the big bag and all the beautiful paraphernalia of the sport. Gone now. Surveying the gym, the empty bleachers, the basketball nets hanging limply at either end, the absence of the boxing ring, dismantled and gone forever, Carter felt his anger returning, mixed with sadness. All gone because of Archie Costello.
He hit the wall again, despite his bruised knuckles, and the hit felt good. He was striking back at more than Archie. Striking at the entire world. Because the world looked at him and saw the jock, the rugged football guard, the slugger in the ring. Not only the world but the officials in charge of admissions at Daleton College, which specialized in physical education. Made to order for a guy like Carter. Carter had gunned for a scholarship but had been unsuccessful. He had not yet even received an acceptance. Which kept him dangling on a string. Okay, he was not a brain, but his SAT scores were adequate. He made the honor roll now and then. But nobody saw beyond his jock image. Was there anything else to see? Yes. There was. Had to be. He had to show people, had to show everybody he was more than just a jock, an ex-jock, in fact, who stood around and did nothing.
“I’ve got to call Obie,” he said to no one in particular. Nobody in the gym at this time of day. Lately he’d fallen into the habit of talking aloud to himself when no one was around.
He called Obie from the telephone booth in the main corridor on the first floor across from Brother Leon’s office. The phone book had long ago disappeared, and he had to call information for Obie’s number. The door of the booth had been torn off and never replaced. As the phone rang, Carter glanced around the corridor, his eye coming to rest on the trophy case farther down the hall. Looking at the case always made him feel good.
When Obie answered, his voice sounded thin and reedy. Carter had never spoken to him on the phone before.
“What’s up?” Obie asked.
“The Bishop’s visit, that’s what’s up,” Carter said, plunging in. “I think it’s a mistake, Obie.”
Silence at the other end of the line.
“Archie’s going too far with this one,” Carter went on. “It’s too much, Obie.”
“With Archie it’s always too much,” Obie said. “Haven’t you gotten used to that by now?”
“It’s okay when he confines it to the school. But this new deal involves the diocese, for crissake. And the priests in town who always come as guests. It’s a mistake, Obie. Archie’s setting out to humiliate the Bishop. It’s big trouble. Heap big trouble.”
“What do you want to do about it?” Obie asked.
“I don’t know.”
“You’re not going to make Archie change his mind, that’s for sure.”
Carter paused, took a deep breath, wondering how far he could go with Obie but following his instincts, the instincts that told him Obie was not exactly buddy-buddy with Archie these days. Not like the old days.
Carter plunged again. “I wasn’t thinking of changing Archie’s mind.”
“Who were you thinking of?”
“Brother Leon.”
He heard Obie’s sharp intake of breath. He looked around at the same time, as if invoking Leon’s name could cause him to appear. But the corridor was deserted.
“We’ve got to get Leon to call off the Bishop’s visit,” Carter said.
More silence at the other end of the line. Finally Obie asked: “And how do we do that, Carter?” Sarcastically.
“That’s what I want to talk to you about. I mean, two heads are better than one, right?”
“Sometimes.”
“Sometimes?” Carter asked, worried suddenly. Maybe he had misjudged Obie. Maybe Obie’s first loyalty was to Archie, after all. “Am I talking out of line, Obie? Do you agree with me that Archie’s plan for the visit is a mistake?”
“Okay, okay,” Obie said, impatient, anger in his voice. “Look, I’m sick and tired of Archie Costello and his assignments too. But leading a mutiny is something else.”
“I’m not talking about a mutiny, for crissakes,” Carter said. “I’m talking about a quiet little plan to stop the Bishop’s visit.”
He heard a long-drawn-out sigh.
“I don’t know, Carter. I don’t like getting mixed up with Leon. Maybe there’s some other way—”
“Think about it,” Carter said.
“I’ll do that.” Pause. “Look, I’ve got to go. I’ll talk to you later.” Hurried, as if he couldn’t wait to hang up.
Carter frowned as he replaced the receiver on the hook. He listened to see if his coin would be returned. No luck. He knew now he could not depend on Obie. Obie had his own problems: he also had Laurie Gundarson. Carter realized that he could not depend on anyone. Only himself.
Stepping out of the booth, he was aware of the emptiness all around him. Enjoying the sense of aloneness, Carter walked toward the trophy case with the gleaming silver and gold statuettes testifying to Trinity’s triumphs on the football field and in the boxing ring. His triumphs, really.
He was hypnotized by the glow of the trophies, which almost shimmered as the corridor lights caressed them. Even if he never got to college, never won another championship, they would remain symbols of his accomplishment. Nothing, nobody, could ever take that away.
Not even Archie Costello.
The eyes, of course. Mostly it was the eyes. They followed him around the room, like those eyes in certain paintings that haunt the viewer. Jerry looked like a figure in a painting, his face expressionless, as if caught by an artist and frozen forever. After the first few minutes of sitting across from him, unnerved by the silence in the room and those terrible eyes, the Goober had started wandering around, glancing out the window, stooping to relace his sneaker, anything to avoid that terrible, empty stare.
But it really wasn’t empty. It was like the difference between a vacant house where the windows are shuttered and boarded up and a house where someone might be peeking out of the windows when you’re not looking, where a billowing curtain might hide prying eyes. Crazy, Goober thought, as he looked up from his sneakers, crouched on the floor. He told himself to cool it, take it easy, start from the beginning. This was his friend, Jerry Renault. They had played football together, had run the streets together after school although Jerry had had no interest in the track team. They had shared a lot of stuff. Like the chocolates. The goddam chocolates.
Goober was determined to try again.
“How about Canada, Jerry? Did you have a good time up ther
e?” The question sounded stupid to Goober—Jerry had been sent to Canada to recuperate. How could he have had a good time up there?
“Yes,” Jerry said. The word fell between them like a heavy stone.
That was the problem. Jerry wasn’t mute or completely silent, but he answered Goober’s questions in monosyllables, squeezing out one-word answers that left Goober dangling. How are you, Jerry? Fine. Glad to be back home? Yes. And asked no questions of his own. Did not seem at all interested in Goober. Looked at him, in fact, as if Goober was a stranger. At one point he was afraid that Jerry would lean forward and ask: Who the hell are you, anyway?
He wished Jerry’s father had let him know what to expect when he’d arrived at the house. In response to Goober’s inquiry—“How’s he doing?”—Mr. Renault had merely shrugged, his face tightening as if his flesh had been drawn taut from behind his skull by invisible hands. Jerry’s father was a mild, soft-spoken man who seemed to drift away even as you spoke to him. An air of sadness pervaded him and the apartment as well. More than sadness. The apartment seemed lifeless, like a museum. Goober knew without any doubt that the flowers on the dining-room table were artificial, fake. He had the feeling that Jerry and his father occupied the apartment the way mannequins inhabited rooms of furniture in a department store.
The Goober had forced himself to turn off the morbid thoughts as Jerry’s father led him to a den at the far end of the apartment. At first glance Jerry looked fine. No signs of the beating he had absorbed, his skin pale but unblemished. Sitting in a rocking chair, he didn’t look disabled but seemed fragile, sitting stiffly, as though he might fall apart if he relaxed.
“Hi, Jerry, good to see you,” Goober said, hoping Jerry didn’t catch the false heartiness.
Jerry smiled remotely, said nothing, offered nothing.
That’s when the one-sided conversation began, Goober like an inquisitor and Jerry like a reluctant witness, answering grudgingly or not at all.
Settling down in a chair across from Jerry now, Goober thought: One last try and then I’ll go. Actually he was eager to leave, to get out of Jerry’s sight. He realized that Jerry’s reluctance to talk or to communicate probably stemmed from Goober’s betrayal last fall. He had betrayed Jerry, hadn’t he? He had allowed Jerry to face Archie Costello and Emile Janza and the Vigils all by himself. Had gone, finally, to help his friend when it was too late, Jerry bloody and beaten and broken, urging the Goober in painful gasps not to defy the Vigils or anybody else. Don’t disturb the universe, Jerry had whispered out of his agony. Don’t make waves.
Okay, one last try:
“Trinity’s still the lousy school it’s always been,” the Goober said, immediately disgusted with himself. He had vowed not to bring up Trinity unless Jerry specifically asked about the school. But, desperate, he found himself going on stupidly about the place, meaningless stuff about courses and report cards, avoiding certain topics, picking his way through the monologue like someone avoiding broken glass while walking barefoot.
Surprisingly, Jerry seemed interested, eyes a bit brighter, head tilted slightly, rocking gently, long fingers gripping the arms of the chair.
The Goober decided to take a chance, to say what he had waited all these months to say:
“I’m sorry, Jerry, about last fall.” Taking a deep breath, plunging on. “I let you down. Let you face Archie Costello and Emile Janza and the Vigils by yourself.”
Jerry’s hands flew up as if holding off an attack. He began to shake his head, eyes troubled now, not vacant or staring but shining with—what? Sadness? More than that. Resentment, hate?
“Don’t …” Jerry said. The word as if dredged up from deep inside of him. “I don’t want to talk about that.…”
“I have to talk about it,” the Goober went on.
Jerry began to shake his head furiously, rising from the chair as if in panic, as if the building had suddenly caught fire. Tears threatened his eyes.
“That’s all done with now,” he said. “It’s got nothing to do with me now.” He turned away, walked to the window, and the Goober sensed that he was making a tremendous effort to control himself. Jerry faced him again and Goober was struck once more by how pale and fragile he seemed.
“I didn’t invite you here,” Jerry said, in control again, no tears visible, chin tilted a bit, defiantly. “My father did.” He seemed to be groping for words. “I …” And turned away again, shutting out Goober as he stared out the window.
“I’m still sorry,” the Goober said. Having to say it all, like confession, not expecting absolution but needing to confess. “That was terrible. What I did last fall. I just wanted you to know.”
Jerry nodded, without looking back at him, still concentrating on something outside the building, still unreachable, still looking frail and vulnerable. Which heaped further guilt on the Goober.
“Better go now,” Jerry said. Sounding weary, spent. He turned around, facing Goober, but avoided his eyes.
“Right,” Goober said. “Don’t want to tire you out.” Pretending everything was normal. “I’ve got an appointment with my dentist.” Throwing in an easy lie—was that another betrayal? “I’ll come back again sometime.” Never in a million years.
Jerry’s father appeared at the doorway as if summoned by a bell the Goober had not heard.
“Going already, Goober?” he asked, false, voice off key, fake.
Goober nodded, turned back to say good-bye to Jerry, hoping that Jerry might say: Stay awhile, Goob, stick around. But not really wanting him to say that. Hoping Jerry might also say: You didn’t betray me, Goober. And even if you did, I understand. I’m still your friend. Knowing those were impossible words for Jerry to say.
Jerry said nothing. Merely stood there, looking troubled and abandoned, as if wounded somehow, although there was no visible mark on him.
“I’ve got a dentist’s appointment,” Goober heard himself say inanely to Mr. Renault.
“Of course, of course,” Mr. Renault replied gently, understandingly. “I’m sorry.…”
Sorry for what?
“So long, Jerry,” Goober said.
Jerry lifted his hand in a limp salute, still avoiding his eyes, and looking somewhere beyond Goober.
The Goober got the hell out of there.
Later he ran the streets of Monument, pounding the pavement, not the leisurely pace of his usual stride but a frantic tempo, not singing as he sometimes did, lungs bursting now, full of pain and hurt but accepting the pain and the hurt. Like a sacrifice. Like the psalm they recited at mass sometimes: I offer up myself as an evening sacrifice.
Hours later, safe in his bed, pulling the covers around his shoulders, eyes tightly shut, he saw only Jerry’s face. Vowed never to go near him again. But he knew somehow he must. But would think about that later, next week, next year. He slept finally, a strange blank sleep, as if he had been erased from all existence.
The next morning at school he learned that Brother Eugene had died. Which was worse even than Jerry Renault’s return to Monument.
“What’s her name?”
“Laurie Gundarson.”
“School?”
“Monument High. A senior. Interested in drama. Played one of the leads in the senior class play.” Bunting paused, then added: “She’s really built. Stacked, like they say.”
Bunting hesitated, coughed, a bit nervous. He and Archie were alone on the front steps of the school, the entire student body and faculty inside at the special memorial mass for the soul of Brother Eugene. Bunting had approached Archie as the students had filed into the assembly hall, asking to speak to him later. Archie had motioned him outside.
“Now?” Bunting asked. “This minute?”
The odor of burning candles filled the air.
“Why not?” Archie asked, a dare in his voice. “They’ll never miss us.”
Bunting had followed, swaggering, unwilling to let Archie see his apprehension about skipping the mass. He sat uneasily now beside Archie
, unable to fully enjoy giving his report about Obie and the girl.
“Old Obie,” Archie mused. Was that fondness in his voice? “I knew he was hooked, had it bad.” He said no more. He had dispatched Bunting to find out details about the girl, a test of Bunting’s effectiveness as a gatherer of information. He was also curious about her.
Bunting studied Archie, wanting to play it cool: always had to play it cool with Archie. Archie was unpredictable, and Bunting had to always be on the alert, trying to stay one step ahead. You never knew whether Archie was pleased or pissed off. So Bunting walked a continuous thin line. But it was worth it, of course. His future was linked with Archie, for the remainder of the school year, anyway. His burning ambition was to succeed Archie as the Assigner of the Vigils, and he had the inside track on the job. Archie hadn’t singled out anyone else for special attention, and he was relying more and more on Bunting. In fact, Bunting was slowly but surely taking Obie’s place.
Bunting had always envied Obie’s nearness to Archie, which meant being near the center of power. Now he had something else to envy Obie for—his involvement with Laurie Gundarson. She was too beautiful for somebody like Obie. The other night, while he and Harley and Cornacchio were bushwhacking, they had spotted Obie and Laurie clinging together in Obie’s car. Bunting had started to burn with both lust and jealousy. He was a virgin, much to his dismay and disgust, except in wild dreams in the privacy of his bed or the bathroom. He dreamed of girls exactly like Laurie, went weak sometimes with desire and longing. Yet when he came within range of a girl, something went wrong. He was tongue-tied, blushed furiously, didn’t know what to do with his arms and legs. So he kept his distance and, not wanting to betray himself with the guys, he maintained a sort of world-weary demeanor, as if he’d seen it all and done it all.
Bunting looked toward the doorway—was someone standing there? One of the brothers on the search for delinquents?