Asa was defeated; the jacket would supersede the cashmere coat, and he would find himself one step behind, as usual. He passed the coat over the sticky plates to Jerry. The coat transformed Jerry’s awkwardness into length and grace, and imparted an air of importance to his pallid, pocked face. “Gee, you look terrific in that coat,” Asa said, despite himself.
“Not my style,” Jerry said, but he didn’t take it off. He buttoned it and pushed his hands into the pockets. “Well, it’s warm. But doesn’t it make you look like a banker? I’m getting a trench coat—pockets and flaps and buckles.”
“You’ll look like a spy. Is that better than a banker?” Reuben asked.
Asa wanted his coat back. He moved from one foot to another and stared into space and wondered why he felt irritated and left out. Irritated—because he wanted his coat; that was simple. Also because his coat was being maligned, though he could tell Jerry liked it. It was Jerry who looked like a banker, Asa decided. Asa in his coat looked like a young man in prep school; his posturing in front of the mirror had been unconvincing. He was no playboy. Reuben, however, might transform the coat into an emblem of elegance; Reuben seemed to be more powerful than what he wore. Asa decided to offer Reuben the coat. That would get it away from Jerry and bring him closer to Reuben, which would, possibly, ease the feeling of being left out.
“Why don’t you try it?” he said. “I bet you won’t look like a banker in it.”
“Oh, let’s just go get some fucking coffee,” said Reuben. “Let’s just go. I can’t stand this place another minute.” His face was pale and pinched, and he looked like his father for a minute, tightening his lips and grinding his teeth. Asa heard the faint crackle of his jaws moving. It was a distinctive Sola sound. They all did it when irked. Roberto had spent three years in braces to correct the injuries he’d inflicted on his bite; Reuben had knots of muscle at the base of his cheeks that bulged and trembled; Professor Sola sometimes sounded like a firecracker as he shuffled down the hall gnashing on the cud of his private rages.
What was bothering them? wondered Asa. Why were they such a nervous family? His family did not grind teeth, flunk courses, sulk, glower, whisper things to water. In his family everything went according to schedule and everything was as it should be. If Asa were to go to Princeton rather than Harvard, dinner might be more silent than usual for a few evenings, but there would not be scenes, there would not be people snarling in hallways, banging doors, or any of the other peculiar things he had seen at the Solas’. Asa had eaten a meal there in which Professor Sola addressed all his remarks to Roberto via Reuben, in the third person: “Does he think he’s going to get into college by virtue of his blond hair?” “Does he want more salad?” Reuben, playing according to the rules of this bizarre game, would repeat the question to Roberto, receive an answer, and repeat the answer, again in the third person, to their father. Asa was fascinated and uneasy. Neither of the boys had commented on it, and two days later everything was back to normal.
Reuben crunched vehemently. Jerry gave the coat back to Asa. They pushed their chairs up to the table, strode out of the dining hall (“The thing is to look innocent and determined,” Reuben whispered), and cut straight across the broad, brown lawn to the road into town. They turned right and walked downhill, Reuben and Jerry side by side, Asa bobbing behind them, sometimes inserting his shoulder between them, more often kept back by the narrowness of the sidewalk.
After ten minutes of this they reached town, not a minute too soon for Asa, who wanted to flag down a passing bus or slouch off to the train station in the dark. Reuben could send him his socks and his toothbrush—he was not going to trail along like a baby brother. But there was the coffee shop, and Reuben holding the door open for him; maybe on the way back it would be Jerry who walked behind.
The coffee shop was in the back of a drugstore with high shelves ranked with blue glass bottles that read DIGITALIS and PEROXIDE in gold letters. “They put arsenic in the coffee,” Reuben said. Asa believed it. They were served their coffee in thick, white porcelain mugs with the Andover seal. Reuben took a flask from his pocket and put a large shot into his coffee without offering it around. Neither the proprietor, a fat person who looked as though he’d been dipped in talcum powder, nor Jerry took any notice.
Asa draped his coat over a stool and The Mayor of Casterbridge fell out of the pocket. Jerry jumped off his stool and snatched it up before Asa had a chance to move.
“You like this? It’s his worst. You ought to be reading Tess.”
“It’s assigned.”
“Why do they always assign the worst ones? I bet you’ve read Adam Bede and hated it. Right?”
“Yes. Last year.”
“Read Tess, read Jude, read Daniel Deronda—yes, read that. That will tell you something about the Jews.”
“I have too much reading to do already,” Asa said. “I have to read the Metamorphoses by Wednesday.”
“In Latin?”
“No.”
“It’s better in Latin.” Jerry had opened the book and was leafing through it as if it were a picture album. “It’s plodding, it’s safe, there’s more to Hardy than this.”
“No literature,” Reuben mumbled. He was bent over his coffee to inhale the evaporating brandy. “Fuck Hardy. Fuck the Jews in England and Victorian morality.” He put another shot in his cup. “I can’t wait to get to college. I’m so sick of this place—it’s dead. Thayer—” Asa winced. When Reuben called him Thayer it was a sign that a black, remote mood was coming on, one that Reuben would intensify by picking fights and increasing his isolation. “Thayer, if we were in Cambridge, we could go looking for bicycles to steal, you know? We could go down to the Casablanca and see how many drinks we could handle, and whether we could get somebody else to pay for them. We could drive out to the airport and watch the planes take off. No end of entertainment in dear old Cambridge.”
“Sounds like the pastimes of a gang of hoodlums,” Jerry said.
“What do you know? You live in some suburb that tries to look just like this place, where you sit around talking books with your parents after dinner. Did you know that Jerry’s parents are Communists?” He leaned toward Asa.
“No.”
“No, you didn’t know? No, they can’t be? Explain yourself.”
“No, I didn’t know,” said Asa. Reuben’s face was very close to his own and gave off a slight smell of liquor. His eyes were elongated and somewhat Orientalized from drinking and tiredness, his mouth had become thin and venomous—altogether he looked, Asa decided, like a thin and angry version of the man-in-the-moon: inscrutable, dangerous, and pseudohuman. “How remarkable,” Asa said, hoping this would draw Jerry out and shift the focus away from Reuben.
“How remarkable—who are you? Are you your mother? God, what a half-ass town this is,” snarled Reuben. “The place is infectious. Everybody here says things like that, ‘How remarkable.’ If the bomb went off, the whole senior class would get to its feet and say in unison. ‘How really remarkable,’ and then drop dead.”
“I’d rather talk about literature than listen to you knocking Andover,” Jerry said.
“Of course you would, but that’s too bad. I’ve listened to you talk about literature for two years.”
“You had plenty to say yourself.”
“I’ve said it. I’m not saying another word about literature.” Reuben tipped his flask to his cup again, but nothing came out. “Shit,” he said softly. “Oh, well, time to get back.”
Asa obediently rose to his feet.
“Really, why does it always have to be your timetable?” Jerry said. “I’m still drinking my coffee.”
“Nobody’s stopping you,” said Reuben. He didn’t get up either. Asa shifted his feet around and put his coat on, then got back on his stool.
“Thayer,” Jerry said, to nobody in particular. “Thayer, now why does that sound familiar?”
“Just one of those names,” Reuben said. “Just one of those crazy na
mes.” He hummed to the appropriate tune. “Those Yankee names, you know?”
“No, it’s something more specific.”
“I probably have some cousins here,” said Asa. “Actually, I do have one, he’s in one of the lower forms, his name is Dana, I think he’s eleven—”
“I’ve got it! It’s that painting.” Jerry turned to look at Asa. “It’s not a bad painting, by Thayer. Abbott Thayer. And you know, it looks a bit like you. Doesn’t it?” He poked Reuben’s shoulder. “Look at him.”
“I’ve seen him,” said Reuben.
“Look, he looks like it.”
“Probably a cousin,” said Reuben, with a grin.
“Don’t you have any cousins?” asked Asa, surprised at what a lucky opportunity he’d been given. Reuben didn’t bother to answer him.
“Jews don’t have cousins,” said Jerry. “All Jewish cousins are dead. But I think we ought to go see this painting.”
“Where is it?” Asa asked. He hoped it was somewhere far away so the whole thing would be forgotten in the morning.
“It’s right next to the library, in the museum.”
“Oh, well, then it’s shut,” said Asa.
“We’ll break in,” Reuben said, sitting up and opening his eyes. “We’ll be in there before you know it. There’s a skylight that can’t be locked above the stairwell. We can just drop down—all we need is rope.” He rapped his spoon on the thick handle of his coffee cup to rouse the powdery proprietor. “Got any rope for sale?” The proprietor drew a ball of string from under the counter. “No, rope, like for rock climbing.”
“You’d have to get that at McBurr’s,” he said.
“We could break in there,” Reuben said. “It’s just down the block.”
“They’ll be open at eight,” said the proprietor. “Gotta climb that rock tonight?”
“I’ll find some at the gym.” Reuben put his flask in his pocket and stood up. “Let’s go. I’m sure there’s rope at the gym.”
This time, as Asa had hoped, it was Jerry who trailed behind; Reuben actually put his arm through Asa’s. Asa could feel Reuben’s muscles quivering. He talked the whole way up the hill about his plan for getting them in. “I’ll do the entering, then I’ll open the door for you guys. You softies won’t want to drop down on a rope, I guess. But you might have to—the door might be wired or something. We’ll see. It’ll be easy. I’ve thought of doing it many times.”
“Why?” asked Asa.
“Steal some art. Raise a ruckus. Mainly because it occurred to me that it could be done.” He detached himself from Asa and stepped into the road. “Never pass up a challenge,” he yelled. Then he returned to the sidewalk. “That’s why.”
At the gym there was enough rope to hang them all, thought Asa grimly. Now that the expedition was inevitable, he tried to show some interest in it. “What’s the name of the painting?”
“The Monadnock Angel,” Jerry said.
Asa got a chill down his back. He didn’t want to be like an angel; it was reminiscent of being a ghost. And Monadnock was the mountain that shadowed his grandparents’ farm. “This guy’s name is Thayer? You’re sure?”
“He’s almost famous. Abbott Thayer. He lived up there. They have a number of his paintings here, I don’t know why.”
“He probably went here,” said Asa.
“Artists don’t go to Andover,” said Reuben, winding up rope.
The stars had gone out and the whole school had gone to sleep when the three emerged from the gym. It was cold, much colder than it had been during the day, and the leaves left on the trees crackled when the wind shook them. Asa turned up the collar of his coat. “Don’t talk,” whispered Reuben. “I’ll lead. When we get there, I’ll tell you what to do.” They walked single file down the path. At the museum Reuben drew them into the shadow of a large, dead bush.
“You’ll give me a leg up, hoist me up to that window,” he pointed to the sill of an arched, leaded window about five feet above the ground, “and then throw me the rope. Up above there’s a ledge with a little roof. That’s where the skylight is. You’ll be able to see me through the window, so you’ll know when to go to the door. If I don’t open the door in five minutes after I’ve gotten inside, you’ll know it’s wired. Then come back here and I’ll pull you up by the rope.”
“It just doesn’t look possible,” Asa said. “Let’s come back tomorrow. It’s open on Sunday, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Jerry said. “How about it, Reuben? I don’t think we can lift you all the way up to that window.”
“Come on,” said Reuben. “Come on, guys, you don’t have to do anything except give me a leg up. Jesus, can’t you just do that? I’m sure the door isn’t wired. You’ll be able to walk right in.”
So they made a brace of their hands and arms, and Reuben hopped onto it. He was surprisingly light, Asa thought, and as he kept moving, straining his body up and urging them to raise him, he seemed to be flying away from them and to weigh less and less the higher they lifted him. In a matter of seconds he had gained the roof and was poised on the edge of it, prying open the hatchway before they’d had time to disentangle their arms. There was the sound of glass breaking. Reuben’s head peeped over the edge: “Had to,” he said. “I couldn’t undo it.” Then there was a creaking, grinding noise as the skylight opened. “Throw me the rope,” he said. They couldn’t see him.
“Where are you?” hissed Asa.
“Don’t worry. Throw it, I’ll catch it.”
Asa threw and heard it hit the slates; one piece came dislodged and landed in the bush. “Did I make it?” he called.
Reuben’s head rose over the edge of the roof again. “Shh. I’ve got it. Just watch through the window and you’ll see me hit the floor. Then go to the door.”
Jerry was pacing back and forth. “Do you do things like this all the time in Cambridge? You two seem adept at this kind of stuff.”
“Reuben wants to, but I don’t. There’s another boy, Parker—he likes this sort of thing. They go climbing together, I think. They’ve stolen things.” Asa didn’t know any of this to be true, but it felt true, so he said it. Parker and Reuben shared a daredevil streak that left him out, and if the stories he was reporting to Jerry hadn’t happened yet, they would happen someday. “We’d better pay attention,” he said.
The two of them pressed up to the bottom pane of the window. After a minute the end of the rope came snaking down. About three feet from the floor it stopped. Then it began to ascend. “What’s he doing?” asked Jerry. “Probably tying the rope up top,” Asa answered. They couldn’t see the rope at all for a while, then it was flung down again. This time it reached only to the middle of the window, about seven feet above the floor. A pebble crashed onto the parquet. Then there was silence. Suddenly the rope jerked and started to twirl counterclockwise. “He’s on it,” said Asa, and held his breath. The rope’s shadow drew a dancing, ever-incomplete circle on the floor; Asa thought his lungs would pop, and he couldn’t hear Jerry breathing either. And then Reuben’s torn sneaker appeared, and its mate, and the cuffs of his gray pants, and the two at the window exhaled, misting the glass with their long-held breath.
Very slowly, as a dream set underwater is slow and thick, the rope lost its tension and the body on it, still twelve or more feet above the floor, began to fall. First the legs lost their grip on the now-slack rope. Then the torso, passing their wide-open eyes as it descended, swung out into space. Then the arms stretched away from the body, flailing and waving. Then the head, fallen onto the chest, eyes shut, mouth open, limp, white, frightful in its blankness, spun past them. Wriggling and whirling, the rope, loosened from above, followed Reuben down like a comet’s hairy tail.
“Oh no,” screamed Asa, not knowing he was screaming. “Please.”
Reuben hit the floor on his hands and knees, the rope fell on his neck, and as he straightened up it draped itself around him so he looked like an animal about to be led somewhere. For a few seconds he sto
od dumbly, staring off into space. Then he looked out the window, saw their four glazed eyes looking at him, made a V sign with his right hand, and trotted off to open the door.
Asa started laughing and could not stop. Jerry punched him in the arm to startle him out of it, but he continued. “Shut up,” said Jerry. “Someone will hear you.” Asa laughed and laughed, he doubled over and laughed into the cold earth, he banged on the ground with his hands. “Come on, let’s get over to the door,” said Jerry, grabbing him and pulling him up.
The effort of walking and laughing simultaneously calmed Asa a little; by the time they’d walked halfway around the building he was just panting softly, simmering with subsiding laughter but paying more attention to getting his breath back. “It wasn’t real,” he said between gasps, “he was kidding us, wasn’t he? He was just scaring us.” He grasped his chest with both hands because it hurt. “Oh, God,” he said, “I’m so tired.”
When they reached the door, it was open, and Reuben was standing on the threshold looking for them. “Asshole,” said Jerry. “What the hell was that for?”
“What?” Reuben made his hands into fists and scowled. “What?”
“Forget it,” said Asa. “Leave him alone. Let’s go see this angel thing.” He was still heaving and pressing on his chest with one hand. It was his heart that was hurting him; it seemed to have been pumped up with air and to be taking up more room than was allotted for it in his body.
“It’s upstairs,” said Jerry.
They tramped upstairs, all of them leaving dirt on the floor. The museum appeared originally to have been a mansion; it had homey touches, fireplaces and wainscoting, that seemed superfluous to a museum. And it smelled like any house on Brattle Street, thought Asa—mixed furniture wax, flowers, discreet amounts of dust. They mounted the stairs, walking through the site of Reuben’s fall, or prank, gingerly to avoid the slivers of glass on the floor. “Where is it?” asked Asa.
“Here,” said Jerry. They had reached the top of the staircase. On the wall ahead of them was an enormous, dark painting. “I’ll get some light.” He walked assuredly to the right, found a switch, and flipped it.