Johnny did not get much sleep that night. He kept waking up and glancing anxiously around, straining to hear strange sounds. The next morning he stood at his bureau in his rumpled pajamas. The face that stared back at him from the bureau mirror was red-eyed and woozy. On the clean white runner lay the ring Mr. Beard had given him. Johnny picked the ring up and turned it over in his hands. After the dreams he had had and the sounds he had heard in the night, he was beginning to wonder about the little game that Mr. Beard wanted him to play. Mr. Beard was a nice man—that was certainly true—and he was only trying to help Johnny. But what if the figurine really was magic? What if Eddie's broken arm hadn't been just a coincidence? Johnny fussed and fumed and thought some more, and as he thought he slipped the ring on his finger.
He looked at himself in the mirror and blinked. Things were suddenly clearer. How silly all his doubts and fears were! He ought to go ahead with the "magic" game. If he played the game, it would make him feel stronger and braver, and then he would be stronger and braver, just like Mr. Beard had said.
Johnny went to the closet and opened the door. He knelt down and took the blankets and magazines and sweat shirts off the black book. He opened the lid and took the figurine out. Holding it in his hands, he said the "prayer" that he had made up:
Thoth attend me! Toueris be my avenger! Let those who oppose me beware, for I will make them rue the day when they raised their hands against me! By the name of Amon-Ra I swear it!
Johnny paused. If he was expecting magical fireworks, he was disappointed. The blue figurine smiled up at him as always, but it looked and felt exactly the way it always had. No voices spoke to him out of the air. No thunder rolled. No dark clouds came rushing in to hide the morning sun.
Johnny felt slightly silly. He was glad there wasn't anyone in the room watching him. "This is a dumb idea," he muttered to himself. "It isn't gonna make me any braver or anything." He got up and started peeling off his pajama top. It would be time to go to school soon.
When Johnny walked into the church that morning, he suddenly remembered that it was the first day of May.
On the altar were fresh flowers, and the six tall candles were lit. May meant processions, with kids marching solemnly around the church, and hymns and incense and organ music. That was all right with Johnny. He loved parades and processions. Later, after Mass, Johnny was up in the seventh-grade classroom, sitting at his desk. Sister Electa had not called the class to order yet. In fact she was not even in the room. So everybody was just talking and goofing off. With his finger Johnny idly drew circles in the layer of polish on the top of his desk. For no reason at all his prayer book popped into his head. Johnny was very proud of his prayer book. His dad had given it to him as a going-away present, before he had sent Johnny off to live with Gramma and Grampa in Duston Heights. Johnny used the prayer book every day. It had a black cover of genuine leather, with a gold cross stamped on the spine. The pages were made of onionskin paper, thin and whispery, and the top edge of each page was gilded, so when the book was closed, a glimmering gold bar shone out at you. There were illustrations all through the book, and fancy capital letters, and there were two bookmark ribbons, one purple, the other red. The prayer book was one of Johnny's prized possessions. It felt good just to hold the book in his hand.
Smiling he reached down to the briefcase that stood on the floor next to his desk. The prayer book was in there with his other books. But Johnny's smile faded when he saw that the clasp on his briefcase was undone.
Johnny was very fussy about the clasp. He always did it up after he had taken something out of the briefcase. So it seemed pretty likely that somebody had been fooling around with his stuff. Alarmed, Johnny reached down and lifted the briefcase up into his lap. He opened the flap and peered inside. He could hardly believe it. His prayer book was gone!
Angry tears sprang to Johnny's eyes. Who could have done such a dirty, rotten thing? His mind began to race. Had the briefcase been out of his sight this morning? Johnny thought hard. He had had it with him in the pew this morning, and then he had brought it over to the school, and since then he had been sitting here at his desk, except for one brief trip to the pencil sharpener. So who...
And then it came to him. Phil. Phil Absen, the kid behind him.
Phil Absen was a weird kid. There was something wrong with his head, and so he did strange things and said strange things. Gramma had often said (grumblingly) that Phil was proof of the fact that Catholic schools would take anybody. Johnny didn't like Phil much, but he didn't dislike him much either. And up until now he hadn't figured that Phil was a thief.
Johnny turned and looked at Phil. He was pretending to be very busy, leafing madly through his geometry book. When Phil saw Johnny giving him the fisheye, he got even busier. It seemed pretty plain to Johnny that Phil was the guilty one. Who else could it be?
Johnny felt his face getting flushed. Anger was building up inside him. He wanted to grab Phil by the collar and shake the truth out of him.
"Hey, Phil!" he began loudly. "Did you—"
But then Sister Electa's voice cut in. She was summoning them all to attention. She was asking them all to stand and recite the Pledge of Allegiance. Johnny bit his lip. He turned and got up. He would settle with Phil later.
All through the first two morning classes Johnny steamed about his missing prayer book. He kept hoping that Sister Electa would leave the room so he could turn around and give Phil holy hell. Johnny was scared of kids like Eddie Tompke, but he was not scared of Phil. Phil was a real wimp, and even Johnny could terrorize him if he set his mind to it. And if Sister Electa ever left the room, Johnny would terrorize him. He would turn around and grab Phil's arm and squeeze it and make him give the prayer book back. It would be as simple as that— at least Johnny hoped it would be.
But the first two class periods passed, and Sister Electa never left the room. Then eleven o'clock came. It was time for religion class—but Sister had a surprise for everyone. Instead of holding the regular class, she announced, they and all the other students were going to go over to the church and start rehearsing for the May procession. Some kids groaned, and Sister Electa glared sternly at them. Then she walked quickly to her desk and dinged the little hand bell. Everybody stood up, and then, beginning with the row nearest the door, they began to file out of the room, just the way they did during a fire drill.
A little later Johnny was with the other kids, marching slowly around, two by two, inside the vast, dark, echoing church. Nuns were rushing here and there, making sure that the lines were straight and bawling out kids who were fooling around. Mrs. Hoxter was playing the electric organ up in the choir loft, and the kids were singing:
Bring flowers of the fairest
Bring flowers of the rarest
From garden and woodland and hillside and vale....
As Johnny shuffled moodily along he began to wonder why he had thought that processions were fun. This one was about as interesting as watching grass grow. Of course it was only a rehearsal. They hadn't even chosen the girl who would crown the Blessed Virgin's statue yet. Johnny wondered who they would choose. Probably Mary Jo Potter. The sisters were the ones who got to choose the girl, and Mary Jo was so holy and pious and religious and sweet that it was sickening....
The procession came to a sudden, lurching, bumping stop. Something had gone wrong up in front, though Johnny couldn't tell what. Now that the marching had stopped, he turned and began looking around in a vague, aimless way. Suddenly he stopped. He had seen something that made him boiling mad. Halfway back along the line stood Phil Absen. And he was holding Johnny's prayer book in his hands.
Johnny had trouble controlling himself. He was a pretty mild-mannered kid most of the time, but when he lost his temper, he lost it. He knew that Phil was a little weak in the head, but all the same, this was too much. Just a little teeny bit too much! Johnny clenched his fists and gritted his teeth. He wanted to jump out of line and tear back there and snatch the book ou
t of Phil's hands. But, as angry as he was, he knew better than to do that. Sister Electa—or some other nun—would climb all over him if he started a fight in the church. So Johnny controlled his anger. There would be time to settle with good old Phil later.
The rehearsal for the May procession only lasted an hour, but to Johnny it seemed like it went on forever. Finally, though, around noon the nuns decided to call it quits. Streams of talking and laughing kids poured out through the three doors in the front of the church. Johnny went running out with the rest. He paused on the sidewalk, and he squinted and winced. After an hour in the dusky gloom of the church the light made his nearsighted eyes hurt. But when the pain passed, Johnny found that—once again—he was staring at Phil Absen. There he was, out by the bicycle rack, with the prayer book under his arm. He had a very pious, prissy look on his face, and he was talking to Sister Electa. Well, this was just too much. Johnny took off on the run, and he didn't stop till he came to where the two of them were standing.
"Hey, Sister!" Johnny exclaimed breathlessly. "Phil stole my prayer book! That's my prayer book! Make him give it back!"
Phil stared at Johnny with wide, scared eyes. He clutched the prayer book to his chest. "It's not his, Sister! He's lyin'! This's my prayer book. My... my mom gave it to me."
"I'm not a liar, but he is!" Johnny yelled, pointing a trembling finger at Phil. "He's a dirty, rotten liar! Sister, make him give it back! It's mine, I swear to God it is!"
The kids who had been standing and talking outside the church now crowded around Phil and Johnny. They knew that something was up. Somebody was going to get in trouble, and they wanted to watch.
Sister Electa looked from Johnny to Phil and back to Johnny again. She seemed perplexed, but she was determined to stay in control of the situation. "John," she said with a pained look on her face, "I know you're upset, but please try to lower your voice. And it is not a good idea, at any time, to use God's name in a loose way. Now then!" Sister Electa folded her arms under the scapular of her gown. She turned to Phil. "Phillip," she said in a mild but firm voice, "John here has accused you of taking his prayer book. I know John, and I know that he doesn't usually run around making wild accusations. However, it is possible that he has made a mistake in this case. Now, are you sure that that prayer book is yours?"
Phil's eyes grew wider and gogglier. It was clear that he was scared out of his mind. Still, though, he clung to the book. "It is too mine!" he said in a loud, childish voice. "He's a liar, Sister! He's a real liar!"
Sister Electa stared pityingly at Phil. She knew him pretty well, and she knew he had problems. She was well aware that there was something wrong with Phil's mind. Most of the time she tried to treat him just like any other twelve-year-old. But right now he was acting like a kid of six, and she felt she had to handle him differently.
Sister Electa unfolded her arms. She held out a well-washed hand. "Phillip," she said gently, "could I see the prayer book?"
Reluctantly Phil offered her the prayer book. Sister Electa took it, and then she turned to Johnny. "Now, John!" she said in a brisk, businesslike way. "Are there any identifying marks in this book? Is your name written in it anywhere?"
"It sure is, Sister. My dad wrote my name on the blank page in the front. Look and see if it's there."
Sister Electa opened the book. The flyleaf was gone. It had been torn out, torn out roughly. A ragged strip of white paper still protruded from the binding.
Sister Electa was silent for a moment. Then she looked searchingly, accusingly at Phil and once again held out her hand.
"Phillip," she said in a commanding voice, "I'd like to see everything that's in your pockets!"
Several of the kids in the crowd snickered and laughed.
Phil went white, but he did as he was told. First he pulled out a very dirty handkerchief and gave it to the nun. The crowd roared, but Sister Electa remained stern and unamused.
"Very good, Phillip. Now the other pocket, if you please."
Phil dug his hand into the other pocket and gave Sister, Electa a handful of change. Still, however, she was not satisfied.
"Turn both your pockets all the way out," she said.
Phil did this, and a small wad of paper dropped from his left-hand pants pocket. The nun stooped and picked it up. Without a word she handed it to Johnny. With difficulty he uncrumpled the tight little wad of paper. But even before he had done this, he knew what he had: It was the missing flyleaf.
Suddenly Phil Absen started to cry. His childish face got all red and twisted up. He raised a trembling finger and pointed into the crowd. "Eddie Tompke made me do it!" he wailed. "It's his fault! He told me to do it!"
Johnny whirled and looked where Phil was pointing. Sure enough, there on the edge of the crowd stood Eddie, broken arm and all. There was a cynical, crooked grin on his face.
Sister Electa glowered skeptically at Phil. "Young man," she said severely, "don't try to blame things on other people when they're your own fault! Now, I'm going to give this prayer book back to John Dixon, and I'm also going to ask you to tell him that you're sorry you took it. And I'm afraid that you're going to have to stay after school today and have a little talk with me. Stealing is a somewhat more serious matter than you seem to think it is. Now, tell John that you're sorry you took his prayer book."
Still sniffling, Phil turned to Johnny. He stared at Johnny's shoes and blew his nose before he spoke. "I'm sorry I took it," he said in a dull, defeated monotone, "but like I said, Eddie—"
"Please!" exclaimed Sister Electa, cutting Phil off. "Please stop trying to blame others for what you did! Now, Phillip, go into the school and wash your face and pull yourself together. As for the rest of you," she added, turning to the crowd of kids who were still eagerly watching, "please find something else to do with your time. Go eat your lunches. You've only got half an hour till classes begin again. Go on, all of you! Make yourselves scarce!" Sister Electa made shooing motions with her hands.
The crowd broke up. Johnny thanked Sister Electa hurriedly and turned away. He should have felt triumphant, but he didn't. Something was bothering him. Phil had said that Eddie made him steal the prayer book. Sister Electa did not believe Phil, but Johnny did. Eddie liked to boss around weak, helpless kids, and Phil was about as weak and helpless as they come. Even with a broken arm Eddie could be pretty terrifying. He had probably threatened to do all sorts of nasty things to Phil unless he followed orders.
As Johnny was still standing there, thinking, he suddenly felt somebody's hand patting him on the back. He turned. It was Eddie.
"Boy, old Absen-minded can really tell 'em, can't he?" Eddie chortled. "Glad you got your prayer book back. They oughta toss that kid in the booby hatch! What a liar!"
Still chortling, Eddie walked away. Johnny watched him go. That settled it. Eddie would never have done what he had just done unless he was the guilty one. Johnny felt angry, but he also felt helpless and depressed. How long was he going to have to put up with Eddie? Would Eddie follow him around all through eighth grade, playing dirty tricks on him and making his life miserable?
Johnny did not have any answers to these questions. So he went back to the school building, clumped down the stairs to the basement lunchroom, and ate the sandwich and banana that he had brought with him. The rest of the school day passed in its usual way. Social studies and arithmetic for the last two hours of the day, the final prayer and the ringing of the bell for dismissal. And then all the kids swarmed down the worn, creaky stairs and out the front door into the sunlight. As usual Johnny was one of the last to leave. And when he finally did walk out the door, briefcase in hand, he didn't feel like going home. Not right away, anyway. So he decided to go down and walk by the river.
The Merrimack River, one of the widest and longest rivers in New England, flowed through the middle of Duston Heights. Along its banks stood abandoned factories, long red brick buildings with tall brick smokestacks rising above them. Many years ago these factories had made
cloth, but now they were closed, and their narrow windows were broken. Johnny liked the old factories. They were almost like haunted houses. As he walked along the grass-grown sidewalks of Water Street he peered up at the buildings that towered over him. High up, set in the brick walls, were little red terra-cotta decorations, leering monster faces or the solemn bearded masks of—Johnny imagined—Greek gods. Or you might see a stone plaque that said LEVERETT BROTHERS EST. 1882. And here and there in the empty spaces between the buildings you might see an old rusted piece of machinery or a wooden clock face that had once been in a cupola somewhere.
After he had walked for two or three blocks, Johnny came to a place where a weedy courtyard opened out between two buildings. At the far end of the courtyard was a low half-ruined brick wall. Set neatly in a row on top of the wall were some old glass bottles. And standing there, slinging rocks at the bottles with his good arm, was Eddie Tompke.
The Curse of the Blue Figurine Page 7
