“Good, good, good, good.” The coach’s voice, raucous in triumph.
Jerry struggled to his feet. Carter slapped him on the ass, signaling his approval.
The coach lumbered toward them, still scowling. But then he never smiled.
“Renault,” the coach said, all hoarseness gone. “We just might make a quarterback out of you yet, you skinny little son of a bitch.”
With the fellows standing all around him and his breath coming in gasps and Goober arriving with the ball, Jerry knew a moment of absolute bliss, absolute happiness.
There was a legend in the school that the coach hadn’t accepted you as a player until he’d called you a son of a bitch.
The guys lined up again. Jerry was sweet poetry and music as he waited for the ball to be slapped into his hand.
When he returned to the school after practice, he found a letter scotch-taped to the door of his locker. A summons from The Vigils. Subject: Assignment.
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
“ADAMO?”
“Yes.”
“Beauvais?”
“Yes.”
“Crane?”
“Yo.” Crane, the comedian. Never a straight answer.
“Caroni?”
“Yes.”
Everyone could see that Brother Leon was enjoying himself. This is what he liked—to be in command and everything going smoothly, the students responding to their names smartly, accepting the chocolates, showing school spirit. The Goober was depressed, thinking about school spirit. Ever since Room Nineteen had collapsed, he had lived in a state of mild shock. He awoke each morning depressed, knowing even before he opened his eyes that something was wrong, something had gone askew in his life. And then he’d remember: Room Nineteen. The first day or two had been kind of exciting. Word had gotten around that the destruction of Room Nineteen was the result of his assignment by The Vigils. Although no one mentioned the subject to him, he found himself a kind of underground hero. Even the seniors looked at him with awe and respect. Guys patted him on the ass when he passed by, an old Trinity mark of distinction. But as the days went on, an uneasiness stole across the campus. There were rumors. The place was always filled with rumors but this time they grew out of the Room Nineteen incident. The chocolate sale was postponed for a week and Brother Leon, speaking at chapel, gave a weak explanation. The Head was hospitalized, there was a lot of paperwork involved, etc. etc. There were also rumors that Leon was carrying on a quiet investigation of Room Nineteen. Poor Brother Eugene had not been seen since that devastating morning. He’d had a nervous breakdown, someone said. Others reported that there had been a death in his family and he’d been called away. Anyway, it all heaped itself upon The Goober and he found it hard to sleep at night. Despite the adulation of the guys at school, he felt as if there was some kind of distance between him and the fellows. They admired him, sure, but didn’t want to get too close in case something backfired. One afternoon, he’d met Archie Costello in the corridor and Archie had pulled him aside. “If they call you in for questioning, you know nothing,” Archie said. Goober had no way of knowing this was the kind of thing Archie loved to do—intimidate someone, get him worrying. Since then, The Goober had walked around in a state of apprehension, expecting to see his name on a Wanted sign on the bulletin board, for crying out loud. He didn’t want the adulation of the fellows anymore—he simply wanted to be The Goober, to play football and to run in the morning. He dreaded a summons from Brother Leon, wondering if he could stand up under questioning, whether he could look into those moist eyes of Brother Leon’s and actually lie to him.
“Goubert?”
He realized that Brother Leon had been calling his name, two or three times.
“Yes,” The Goober replied.
Brother Leon paused, looking at him questioningly. The Goober shriveled.
“You don’t seem to be entirely with us today, Goubert,” Leon said. “At least, not in spirit.”
“I’m sorry, Brother Leon.”
“Speaking of spirit, Goubert, you realize, don’t you, how this chocolate sale goes beyond a mere sale or routine project, don’t you?”
“Yes, Brother Leon.” Was Leon baiting him?
“The most beautiful part of the sale, Goubert, is that it’s a project completely by students. The students sell the chocolates. The school merely administers the project. It’s your sale, your project.”
Bullshit, someone whispered, out of Leon’s hearing.
“Yes, Brother Leon,” Goober said, relieved, realizing that the teacher was too much involved with the chocolates to be assessing Goober’s innocence or guilt.
“Then you accept the fifty boxes?”
“Yes,” Goober said with eagerness. Fifty boxes was a lot of chocolates but he was glad to say yes and get out of the spotlight.
Leon’s hand moved ceremoniously as he wrote down Goober’s name.
“Hartnett?”
“Yes.”
“Johnson?”
“Why not?”
Leon accepted this small hint of mockery from Johnson because he was in such a good mood. The Goober wondered whether he himself would ever be in a good mood again. And he was puzzled. Why should he be feeling so lousy about Room Nineteen? Was it the destruction? Actually, the desks and chairs had been put back together again in one day. Leon had thought he was inflicting punishment on the fellows selected to do the job but the discipline backfired. Each screw, each piece of furniture was a reminder of that marvelous event. Fellows even volunteered for the job. Then, why this terrible guilt? Because of Brother Eugene? Probably. Whenever Goober walked by Room Nineteen now, he couldn’t resist glancing in.
The room would never be the same again, of course. The furniture creaked weirdly, as if it would collapse again without warning. The various teachers who used the room were uneasy—you could tell they were apprehensive. Once in a while, some guy would drop a book just to see the teacher flinch or leap in panic.
Immersed in his thoughts, The Goober didn’t realize that a terrible silence had enveloped the classroom. But he became aware of the stillness when he glanced up to see Brother Leon’s face, paler now than ever, and the eyes glistening like sun-splashed pools.
“Renault?”
The silence continued.
The Goober glanced toward Jerry three desks away. Jerry sat stiffly, elbows resting on the desk, staring straight ahead, as if he were in a trance.
“You are here, aren’t you, Renault?” Leon asked, trying to turn the moment into a joke. But his effort had the opposite effect. No one laughed.
“Last call, Renault.”
“No,” Jerry said.
The Goober wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. Jerry had spoken so quietly, barely moving his lips, that his answer had been indistinct even in that utter quiet.
“What?” From Leon.
“No.”
Confusion now. Someone laughed. A classroom joke was always appreciated, anything to fracture the dullness of routine.
“Did you say no, Renault?” Brother Leon asked, his voice testy.
“Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
The exchange delighted the classroom. A giggle from somewhere and then a snort, followed by the strange mood that took hold of a classroom when the unusual occurred, the way students sensed a difference in the climate, an alteration of atmosphere, like the seasons changing.
“Let me get this straight, Renault,” Brother Leon said and his voice brought the room under his command again. “I called your name. Your response could have been either yes or no. Yes means that like every other student in this school you agree to sell a certain amount of chocolates, in this case fifty boxes. No—and let me point out that the sale is strictly voluntary, Trinity forces no one to participate against his wishes, this is the great glory of Trinity—no means you don’t wish to sell the chocolates, that you refuse to participate. Now, what is your answer? Yes or no?”
“No.”
/> The Goober stared at Jerry in disbelief. Was this Jerry Renault who always looked a little worried, a little unsure of himself even after completing a beautiful pass, who always seemed kind of bewildered—was this him actually defying Brother Leon? Not only Brother Leon but a Trinity tradition? Then, looking at Leon, Goober saw the teacher as if in Technicolor, blood beating in his cheeks, his moist eyes like specimens in laboratory test tubes. Finally, Brother Leon inclined his head, the pencil moving in his hand as he made some kind of horrible mark beside Jerry’s name.
The silence in the class was the kind Goober had never heard before. Stunned, eerie, suffocating.
“Santucci?” Leon called out, his voice strangled but struggling to be normal.
“Yes.”
Leon looked up, smiling at Santucci, blinking away the flush on his cheeks, a smile like the kind an undertaker fixes on the face of a corpse.
“Tessier?”
“Yes.”
“Williams?”
“Yes.”
Williams was the last. There was no one in this class with a name beginning with X, Y, or Z. Williams’ yes lingered on the air. No one seemed to be looking at anyone else.
“You may pick up your chocolates in the gym, gentlemen,” Brother Leon said, his eyes bright—wet bright. “Those of you who are true sons of Trinity, that is. I pity anyone who is not.” That terrible smile remained on his face. “Class dismissed,” Leon called although the bell had not sounded.
CHAPTER
FOURTEEN
LET’S SEE, he knew he could count on his Aunt Agnes and Mike Terasigni whose lawn he cut every week in the summer, and Father O’Toole at the rectory (although his mother would massacre him if she knew he had Father O’Toole on the list) and Mr. and Mrs. Thornton who weren’t Catholic but always willing to help a good cause, and, of course, Mrs. Mitchell the widow whose errands he did every Saturday morning and Henry Babineau the bachelor with his awful breath that almost knocked you down when you opened the door but who was pointed out by all the mothers in the neighborhood as the kindest, most gentlest of men …
John Sulkey liked to make out the lists whenever there was a sale at the school. Last year, as a junior, he had won first prize for selling the most chances in a school raffle—one hundred and twenty-five books, twelve tickets in each book—and received a special pin at the Awards Assembly at the end of the school year. The only honor he had ever won—purple and gold (the school colors), shaped like a triangle, symbolizing the trinity. His parents had beamed with pride. He was lousy at sports and a squeaker at studies—just barely squeaking by—but, like his mother said, you did your best and God took care of the rest. Of course, it took planning. That’s why John made out his lists ahead of time. Sometimes he even visited his regular customers before a sale began to let them know what was coming. He liked nothing better than getting out there on the street and ringing the doorbells and seeing the money pile up, money he would turn in the next day at roll call, and how the Brother in the homeroom would smile down on him. He remembered with a glow when he went up to the stage for his award last year and how the Headmaster had talked about Service To The School, and how “John Sulkey exemplified these special attributes” (the exact words which still echoed in John’s mind, especially when he saw those undistinguished rows of C’s and D’s on his report card every term). Anyway. Another sale. Chocolates. Double last year’s price but John was confident. Brother Leon had promised to put up a special honor roll on the bulletin board in the main first-floor corridor for those who made their quota or exceeded it. A quota of fifty boxes. Higher than ever before, which made John happy. It would be harder for the other guys to meet the quota—already they were groaning and moaning—but John was supremely confident. In fact, when Brother Leon had told them about the special honor roll, John Sulkey could have sworn he was looking directly at him—as if Brother Leon was counting personally on him to set a good example.
So, let’s see, the new housing development on Maple Terrace. Maybe he should make a special campaign in that neighborhood this year. There were nine or ten new homes there. But first of all, the old faithfuls, the people who had become regular customers: Mrs. Swanson who sometimes smelled of liquor but was always eager to buy anything although she kept him talking too long, rambling on about people John Sulkey didn’t even know; and good ole reliable Uncle Louie who was always simonizing his car although simonizing cars seemed part of the Dark Ages these days; and then the Capolettis at the end of the street who always invited him in for something to eat, cold pizza that John wasn’t exactly crazy about and the smell of garlic that almost knocked you down but you had to make sacrifices, big and small, for the sake of Service To The School …
“Adamo?”
“Four.”
“Beauvais?”
“One.”
Brother Leon paused and looked up.
“Beauvais, Beauvais. You can do better than that. Only one? Why, last year you set a record for the number of boxes sold in a week.”
“I’m a slow starter,” Beauvais said. He was a good-natured kid, not exactly a whiz in his studies but likeable, without an enemy in the world. “Check me next week,” he said.
The class laughed and the Brother joined in the laughter. The Goober laughed, too, grateful for the small relaxation of tension. He found that in recent days the kids in class had a tendency to laugh at things that weren’t really funny, simply because they seemed to be looking for something to divert them for a few moments, to prolong the roll call, prolong it until the R’s were reached. Everyone knew what would happen when Renault’s name came up. It was as if by laughing they could ignore the situation.
“Fontaine?”
“Ten!”
A burst of applause led by Brother Leon himself.
“Wonderful, Fontaine. True spirit, a wonderful display of spirit.”
Goober found it hard to resist looking at Jerry. His friend sat stiff and tense, his knuckles white. This was the fourth day of the sale and Jerry still called out no in the morning, staring straight ahead, rigid, determined. Forgetting his own troubles for a moment, Goober had tried approaching Jerry as they left the field after practice the day before. But Jerry pulled away. “Let me alone, Goob,” he said. “I know what you want to ask—but don’t.”
“Parmentier?”
“Six.”
And then the gathering of tension. Jerry was next. Goober heard a weird sound, almost as if the class had sucked in its breath all at once.
“Renault?”
“No.”
Pause. You’d think Brother Leon would have gotten used to the situation by now, that he’d skip quickly over Renault’s name. But each day, the teacher’s voice sang out with hope and each day the negative response was given.
“Santucci?”
“Three.”
The Goober exhaled. So did the rest of the class. Strictly by accident, Goober happened to look up as Brother Leon marked down Santucci’s report. He saw Leon’s hand trembling. He had a terrible feeling of doom about to descend on all of them.
The short fat legs of Tubs Casper carried him through the neighborhood in what for him was record time. He’d have made better time if one of his bicycle tires wasn’t flat, not only flat but definitely beyond repair and he didn’t have money to buy a new tire. In fact, it was a desperate need for money that sent Tubs scurrying around town like a madman, from one house to another, lugging the chocolates, knocking at doors and ringing doorbells. He also had to do it furtively, afraid that his father or mother might see him. Small chance his father would come across him—he was at work at the plastic shop. But his mother was another thing altogether. She was a nut about the car, like his father said, and couldn’t bear to stay home and was always driving around.
Tubs’ left arm began to ache from the weight of the chocolates and he shifted his burden to his other arm, taking a moment to pat the reassuring bulge of his wallet. He had already sold three boxes—six dollars—but that w
asn’t enough, of course. He was still desperate. He needed a hell of a lot more by tonight and nobody but nobody had bought any chocolates at the last six houses he’d visited. He had saved every cent he could from his allowance and had even sneaked a folded and greasy dollar bill from his father’s pocket last night when he arrived home, half-drunk and wobbly. He hated doing that—stealing from his own father. He vowed to return the money to him as soon as possible. When would that be? Tubs didn’t know. Money, money, money had become the constant need of his life, money and his love for Rita. His allowance barely made it possible for him to take her to the movies and for a coke afterward. Two-fifty each for the movies, fifty cents for two cokes. And his parents hated her for some reason. He had to sneak out to meet her. He had to make phone calls from Ossie Baker’s house. She’s too old for you, his mother said, when actually Tubs himself was six months older. All right, she looks old, his mother said. What his mother should have said was, she looks beautiful. She was so beautiful that she made Tubs all shaky inside, like an earthquake going on. At night in bed, he could have one without even touching himself, just thinking of her. And now her birthday was tomorrow and he had to buy her the present she wanted, the bracelet she’d seen in the window of Black’s downtown, that terrible and beautiful bracelet all sparkles and radiance, terrible because of the price tag: $18.95 plus tax. “Hon,”—she never called him Tubs—“that’s what I want most in all the world.” Jesus—$18.95 plus the 3 per cent sales tax which Tubs figured out would make a grand total of $19.52, the sales tax amounting to fifty-seven cents. He knew that he didn’t have to buy her the bracelet.
She was a sweet girl who loved him for himself alone. She walked along the sidewalk with him, her breast brushing his arm, setting him on fire. The first time she rubbed against him he thought it was an accident and he pulled away, apologetic, leaving a space between them. Then she brushed against him again—that was the night he’d bought her the earrings—and he knew it wasn’t an accident. He’d felt himself hardening and was suddenly ashamed and embarrassed and deliriously happy all at the same time. Him—Tubs Casper, forty pounds overweight which his father never let him forget. Him—with this beautiful girl’s breast pushed against him, not beautiful the way his mother thought a girl was beautiful but beautiful in a ripe wild way, faded blue jeans hugging her hips, those beautiful breasts bouncing under her jersey. She was only fourteen and he was barely fifteen but they were in love, love dammit, and it was only money that kept them apart, money to take the bus to her house because she lived on the other side of town and they’d made plans to meet tomorrow, her birthday, at Monument Park, a picnic sort of, she’d bring the sandwiches and he’d bring the bracelet—he knew the delights that awaited him but he also knew deep down inside that the bracelet was more important than anything else …
The Chocolate War Page 6
