by John Coyne
Ten
Conor Fitzpatrick had had a bad night. Twice he had gotten up in the dark of his small room to make a pot of tea, to sit at the kitchen table and worry about the files Barbara Gardiner had asked for. There was no reason why she should want to know about those years, about Maeve and Peggy Connolly and all the others. It had been a mistake to say anything to the boy, even to have mentioned Carmel Burke. His hand trembled, lifting the cup of tea. Well, he'd put a stop to it. He'd get rid of those papers. It had been a mistake to keep any-all. Himself had warned him as well, telling him in those last days to take the files from the office, to remove everything about the girls. "Let me vanish in peace," he had said, speaking in Gaelic as he had so often once his mind was not what it had been. `"They'll only pry into our lives once I am gone." Conor went to the wooden locker in the corner, the one he had brought with him from Ireland. It had been his only piece of luggage, hammered together by his father out behind their cottage in Clooncoorha, and over the years he had filled it with the secrets of Ballycastle. Lifting the lid, he looked down once more at the weapons used, the passports and working papers, the meager items he had stripped from their rooms. He spotted a corner of yellow cotton, and reached to the bottom to retrieve the blouse. Nuala O'Neill, he thought. He still could remember folding away her clothes. And when was that now? He paused, remembering-1940? He replaced the blouse and picked up a rosary. It was made of olive wood, and was from Rome, he knew; a cousin of Peggy Connolly's had mailed it to her. Pope Pius XI had blessed it, Peggy had claimed. God rest her soul, he thought, kneeling beside the locker. He moved several more items. A shoe box of old letters belonging to Monica Healion. Her fella had mailed them to her from Dublin. Conor glanced at the date on one-1933. Aah, that was right. She had been with them only that one summer. A lovely lass, he remembered. Himself had been especially fond of her. In one corner of the locker, stacked separately and neatly, were his memories of Carmel. Again, as he had often done over the years, he took out these few possessions, among them the pearl-handled mirror and brush he had given her that first Christmas at Ballycastle. "Oh, Conor," she had whispered, unwrapping the silver tissue, "they're lovely." She raised the glass to her face, turning it slightly so he could see her reflection in the oval shape. They were sitting before the fireplace and the yellow flame glowed in her eyes, licked its reflection across the mirror. Her image glowed. Then she had unfastened the clasp, letting her hair fall in a waterfall of locks. He had never seen her with her hair loose before and it left a lump in his throat. She glanced coyly at him as she brushed and he could still hear the sound of the brush sweeping through her hair, still see her tilted head, the smooth, soft flesh of her neck exposed. He had kept only one garment, a blue dress she had worn on their last night. They were to have gone to the movies, and she had dressed for the evening. Conor remembered how she had come down from the house in the late summer afternoon, the sun catching hold of her dress. She had taken her shoes off and was running to him, her feet sailing over the smooth lawns. She was so happy, so young, he remembered, and he was crying by the time she reached him. "What is it, Conor, my love?" she asked in Gaelic, bewildered by his tears. He held her tightly to him, weeping on her shoulder. How could he have explained to his darling what Fergus O'Cuileannain wanted him to do?
"Good morning!" Derek knocked lightly on the door of Barbara's office. He had not yet been to his own office and he was still carrying his Burberry trench coat and his attach case. "How's everything on the home front?" he asked cheerfully. He had a little boy's smile, appealing and shy, as if he had been up to no good. She had to suppress the desire to cross the room and hug him. "Everything's fine. I sent him off to school. Actually, he was in a good mood this morning. As you have probably gathered, his emotional equilibrium is on a rollercoaster." "He was just frightened." Barbara shook her head. "I wish it was that simple." She was holding a pen in her hands and she twisted it rapidly. "He hasn't really been normal-whatever `normal' is for a teenage boy!-since Warren's death." "Was he very attached to his father?" "Not that I was aware of, but I've learned since then that Scott really idolized Warren in a certain way. Between football and Vietnam, Warren seemed like a hero to Scott, and the therapist, Dr. Frisch, even thinks that all this Hobgoblin stuff might have been one way for Scott to try to measure up to his image of his father. Anyway, I've called Dr. Frisch in Connecticut to see if he can recommend someone up here for Scotty to see. This is going on too long, his inability to separate reality from his fantasy world." Derek came into the office and set his attaché case on her desk. "Is there anything I can do to help you?" "Well, yes, I would ask one favor, if you have the time." She paused, as if deciding whether to trouble him. "Could you take me up to Steepletop? I'd like to see this grave site." "How about having lunch on the cliff? It's a lovely day." "I don't know if I could make the time today. I'd have to go home first and fix some sandwiches. And all I have is white bread, which is the only kind Scott will eat. And besides, I've got to do some serious work if I'm going to have a preliminary report ready for the board meeting...." "Stop!" he said, laughing. "Don't worry-this is my invitation. I'll handle it all. I'm going into Flat Rock for a meeting at ten and I'll stop by the delicatessen and pick up some food. On whole wheat or pumpernickel. Now, what do you want to drink?" "A Tab." "Why? Don't tell me you're dieting?" "Always " "But you have a wonderful figure." She blushed, but he was smiling, flirting with his eyes. Whenever he focused them on her, his eyes brightened, flashed as if with some secret amusement. Barbara nodded. "Thank you. But you haven't really had access to all the necessary information." "Well, no." And now he blushed. She laughed. "See you at twelve," she said, dismissing him, getting down to work again. It was only when he was gone from her office that she allowed herself the luxury of daydreaming about him, of imagining him beside her, touching her body, moving his palm over her breasts and down to her navel. She could almost feel the lightness of his fingers against her bare skin and she shivered at the thought. Then she forced her mind back to the far less appealing prospect of searching Ballycastle for Fergus's missing files.
It was called Times Square, the intersection of the two main corridors of Flat Rock High School. Nick Borgus and Hank Simpson stood there, as they did every morning before the bell, leaning up against the metal lockers, waiting to grab a little ass. The four corners were controlled by football players, but it was Borgus who dominated Times Square, and the girls feared him the most. Borgus did more than just pat their bottoms when they had to pass through in the rush to first period. This morning, however, Borgus let the girls go by as he watched for Gardiner. It had been several days since he had last seen the preppie, and Nick wondered if he had quit school because of what had happened at football practice. That disturbed him. Harassing the new preppie was fun. School was boring and having Gardiner around created a diversion, gave him something to do. Then he spotted Scott, down the length of the hall, head and shoulders taller than most of the other students. "There's our boy," Nick informed Simpson, nodding to the right. "And look at who the fuck's with him," Simpson added. Nick stretched to see, hooking his heels over the concrete base of the locker which gave him several inches of lift. Holding on to the locker handle to keep his balance, he could see that Scott was walling with Valerie, that he was listening attentively to what she was saying. "Yeah, you're right," Nick answered. "She wasn't on the bus this morning, remember? She's got the preppie picking her up in his MGB. What a shit." The idea of Valerie Dunn being picked up in a sportscar, of being free of the bus, enraged him more. "That cunt," he added. "She'd hang around with a squirrel like him just because he can ride her ass to school." "You think she's laying him?" "He wouldn't know how even if she unzipped his pants. Come on, let's get the fucker."
Valerie saw them. She had suspected they'd do something once they saw her come into school with Scott. In fact, when he'd telephoned that morning to offer her the ride, she'd almost said no. She didn't want them giving Scott more trouble just because of
her, but the thought of being alone with him, of riding in his car, close beside him, had made her say yes. She could protect Scott, she told herself. She could handle Nick Borgus all by herself. "Scott, come in here," she said, and pushed him toward an open classroom door. "Val," he protested, "I've got to go to my locker first" "I only need a minute. This is the journalism classroom. I want you to meet someone if she's here." "Why?" Extricating himself from the student traffic, he let himself be led into the room. "Because I think the paper should do a story about Hobgoblin, and you can write it for them." She had dreamed it up as an excuse, but as she thought about it, it was really a terrific idea. If Scott wrote about the game, kids would understand it better and get to know him, too. "I don't want to write about Hobgoblin. Nobody here cares." "Well, maybe they would if they knew about it. Besides, what's the big deal? You can do the whole thing during sixth period." "Sixth period? You mean study hall?" "Yeah. You're supposed to do homework, but if you belong to a club or have a hobby or something, you can work on that instead." The journalism room was furnished with long, narrow worktables and Valerie hopped up on the nearest one, so she was looking directly into Scott's eyes. "Come on," she urged. "It'll be fun. Jackie Schlenger, the editor of the paper, is a friend of mine. I'll ask her to run your picture with the story, too. Everyone will know who you are then. You'll be the most famous person at Flat Rock," she teased. "I don't want to be famous. I don't even want anybody to know me." "Come on, Scott! If you start that again, even I won't talk to you." She was angry with him now, and showed it. "I'm too busy to write something," he hedged. "I've missed two days of school, don't forget." "Oh, give me a break," she said impatiently. "You could miss a whole week around this place and still be smarter than everyone else. And you know it." "Yeah, well, tell me something-why are you so mad all of a sudden? What did I do?" "Nothing-but everyone treats you like you're about to break apart or something. Your own mother is afraid to disagree with you, much less yell at you." "So?" "Well, it's boring. And besides," she said, smiling again at last, "I know you're not all that fragile. You won our wrestling match yesterday, didn't you?" Scott grinned. "Because you let me." When she smiled at him he couldn't help grinning back. She made him feel good. "Maybe I'll fall apart unexpectedly," he went on, then made a big act of crumpling onto the bench opposite her. She giggled at his routine, thinking, he was all right, and she felt immensely better. "All right, let's start working on the article." She glanced at the clock over the door. It was fifteen minutes before first period. They could wait until the first bell, and still have time to get to their lockers. And by then Times Square would be empty. "I'll help you write it." She already had paper and a pen out. "Okay, pretend I'm Barbara Walters. Why do you play this game, Mr. Gardiner?" Scott shrugged. "I don't know. Because it's fun." "Why is it so much fun? I mean, is it the joy of winning? If I played with you, would you try to beat me?" Scott shook his head. "No, we'd probably be on the same side, unless you were a terrible character. Brian Boru doesn't associate with thieves or dishonest people." "Brian Boru? Who's he?" She wrote the name in her notebook. "Brian Boru is my character. I created him two years ago at Spencertown. We used to play every day at Spencertown, after classes, then for an hour before Lights Out. And no one could touch Brian. He was a twenty-fifth-level knight. "Once, you know, when I was running a game, Brian was given a secret challenge by the Dealer-he's the person who directs the Adventure. Mr. Speier was our Dealer at Spencertown. Brian Boru was given this secret challenge to rescue the daughter of the king of Erin-you see, the game is played in this mystical land that is based on Ireland but a long time ago. Anyway, Brian Boru, who then had earned only enough points to be a sixth-level, got dealt this challenge card and he had to go rescue the king's daughter. She was being held by..." "Wait, Scott, wait." Valerie was shaking her head. "I don't understand what you're talking about. Stop it. It doesn't make any sense. Okay," she said, beginning again. "How many players are there on each side? Is it like baseball-nine to each team? Do you do it that way, choose up sides?" Scott sat back, shaking his head. It was no use. She didn't understand him. None of them would. He felt as alone as he had during the first days at Flat Rock. As if he were Brian Boru, lost in an alien land. "Come on, Scott, don't get like that," Valerie demanded. "Like what?" "Like I was some kind of idiot." "I never said you..." "I can see the look on your face. Well, never mind, forget I was trying to do you a favor." "Favor? What kind of favor is it, making me do this stupid article." "You call it stupid, letting everyone here know how good you were at Hobgoblin?" "I wasn't good. It was Brian Boru. Look, you don't understand the first thing about what I'm talking about." He opened his book bag and took out his Hobgoblin manuals. "That's because you don't want me or anyone else to understand. You think it's really cool that you're this hotshot Hobgoblin player and we're all country bumpkins." She watched him begin to leaf through the guidebooks. "Didn't I ask you to play Hobgoblin yesterday?" "Yeah, but you didn't mean it. If I had really wanted to play, you would have made it impossible." "Valerie, you know something? You're full of shit!" He picked up his book bag, preparing to depart. "I said I didn't want any article in this school's crummy newspaper." "Everything, everyone is crummy but you. You know, you use that word in every other sentence. Crummy. I'm crummy. Flat Rock is crummy. Well, you're crummy, too." He gave her the finger and she gave it back to him, glaring. "Hey, that-a-way, Dunn." Both of them flinched. They had not seen Borgus and Simpson standing in the doorway. "This isn't a lover's quarrel, is it?" Borgus went on, coming into the room. He was grinning, and with a blue wool cap pulled down over his forehead he looked, Scott thought, like a small Billikan. "It's none of your business, Nick," Valerie answered. She began to put away her notebook. "What's this?" Borgus said, intrigued. He had sauntered up to the table to look at the Hobgoblin books lying there. "They're mine," Scott said, reaching for them. Nick slid the two guidebooks away from Scott, ignoring him. "Hey, look at this shit, Hank." "Nick, give back the books or I'm going to call Mr. Farley. He's right out there, on hall duty." "Go screw yourself, will you, Dunn? Scott, you don't mind me looking at your books, do you?" He looked up, grinning. "I have to go to my locker. The bell is going to ring." Scott made another gesture at getting back the books, but Hank raised his arm, fending him off. "Hey, Hank, catch all this weird stuff. Look at this dude. What's a Jilly Do, or however you say it?" "A Ghillie Dhu. It's a harmless spirit, but wild. It dresses in leaves and green moss." "This is kid's stuff. All these fairy-looking characters," Simpson said. He was leaning over Borgus's shoulder, looking down at the picture books. "This is a book for queers, Nick. You see all these fairies?" "Is that true, Gardiner? Do you have to be queer to play this game?" He looked at Scott and waited for an answer. He was really looking for trouble. Valerie sensed it. "You don't have to be queers Borgus, just smart. Which lets you out." She reached for the manual, tried to snatch it from his hands. "Goddamnit, Dunn. Get the fuck out of here. I'm not talking to you." He came half out of the seat, reached over and tried to swat her away. "I'm going to get Mr. Farley." Valerie picked up her books and went around Scott, keeping away from the two football players. Simpson stopped her at the doorway, blocking the exit with his body. "Hank, I'm going to kick you in the balls if you don't get out of my way." She shifted the books in her arms. "Hey, Dunn, cool it. We're just asking about his game," Nick said reasonably. "Look, I'm interested." He was grinning. "Hank, let her go. Get Farley, we don't give a shit." He turned back to Scott, saying in a friendly tone, "Sit down, will ya. Look, what's all this stuff, any way? You know, I'm curious." Scott dropped onto the bench across from Borgus. It was better this way, he reasoned. Talk to him. Humor him. It was only ten more minutes to the first bell. "Who's this?" Nick asked, pointing to another full page Hobgoblin illustration. "That's an Afane. They're water demons who live in the River Conway and drag humans into their den. They turn up a lot in Hobgoblin games. Their chief weapon is treachery, and their special defense is that they're amphibians." Scott kept talking, detaili
ng the qualities of the Afane. It gave him a sense of power, realizing the football players were baffled by the game. "And what's this?" Nick flipped the page. "A Black Annis. She kills mostly lambs and small children and lives in a cave near Croagh Patrick. A Black Annis has unusual magical powers. I mean, she can change herself into a tree or a rock, and disappear into the woods." "Hey, Nick, this doesn't make any fuckin' sense." "Shut up, Simpson, and listen to the man. This game isn't no fuckin' Monopoly. Right, Gardiner?" Scott nodded, reluctantly. "Okay, how do you play it?" he asked, as if suddenly eager to learn. "Well, it's complicated." "You think Hank and me can't learn?" An edge of anger slid into his voice. "Okay, we're not preppies, and this is a big preppie game, but try us." It was an order, not a request. Scott shrugged. He didn't care if Borgus taunted him. He would be indifferent, bored with both of them. "This is a game where you construct your own characters. These characters are all fantasy. It's like having a Monopoly piece on the board, but the piece has a personality of its own, different from yours, and you have to play by that personality. I mean, the character could be just like you, but that's not as much fun as making up a new person, and besides, they tell you it's not a good idea to make your character yourself." "Why?" "Well, because in Hobgoblin mostly everyone gets killed. It can be weird, you know, seeing yourself get killed. "Anyway, you create a character. He could be a warrior of some kind, or a dwarf, a magician, or maybe a druid. My character is a paladin." "A what?" "A paladin. A knight, Brian Boru. He's a legendary king of Ireland, which is where Hobgoblin takes place. It's all based on Irish mythology." "This is stupid," Hank commented, standing. "Come on, Nick, let's go." "Shut up, Hank. Go on, Gardiner, what else?" He kept listening, closely. This was all stuff he could use against the preppie. "Well, there's a Dealer. He runs the game. He controls the Hobgoblin deck of cards and uses them to create the Battleboard, and the Adventure that the players take." "Who do we play against?" "Monsters, usually. Giants or even, for example, Sheens. They're cave-haunting spirits. You can't see them or anything, but if you're on an Adventure and you take refuge in a cave where Sheens live, well, they can kill you." "How do you know they're in the caves? How do you protect yourself?" Scott shook his head. "Lots of times you can't." He took the Hobgoblin guide from Borgus and flipped through the stiff pages until he found the drawings of the Sheens. "See, they show them as mist. In the Slieve Gamph mountains where they live, you wouldn't know whether you were surrounded by the morning mist or Sheens-until they killed you. The Sheens seep into your ears and up your nostrils, and down your throat when you inhale. Once inside they eat your heart out, you know, like ants." "Oh, fuck!" Simpson slapped Borgus across the shoulder. "No wonder he can't play football." Borgus swung back at Simpson. "Goddamn you, shut your fuckin' mouth." Scott jumped at the violence. Borgus and Simpson were as short-tempered with each other as they were with him. But instead of consoling him, that knowledge only made him feel more in danger. "What else?" Borgus asked, the tone of his voice pushy, demanding. "It just gets more complicated. I mean, you'd have to play the game, or watch someone play, to really understand how it works. Just to start with, I'd have to throw dice for each of your characters to see how strong they are and what their charisma is. "Then I'd have to make a Battleboard. That's where the Adventure would take place. Maybe I'd have you go look for gold, or rescue someone from, say, a Jenny Greenteeth. She's a water fairy. You know where she is by the green scum on the water." "I want to play," Nick demanded. He reached across the table and grabbed the books back from Scott as the first bell rang. "My books," Scott said, almost apologetically. "It's cool. I want to read 'em," Nick answered, smiling. "Hey, man, don't worry," he continued, standing up and tucking the two Hobgoblin manuals under his arm. "I want to play. I want you to teach me." He kept grinning as he walked with Simpson to the classroom door. He wouldn't return them, Scott knew. And he wouldn't be able to buy new ones, either-not up here where nobody had even heard of the game. He wanted to rush the senior, rip the manuals from his stubby little arms, but he couldn't make himself move. He was afraid of Borgus, afraid of getting hurt, and that made him feel shitty and unworthy of Brian Boru, unworthy of his ancient paladin.
