“They’re all too busy praying,” Archie said, intercepting Bunting’s glance. “You’re always safe when someone’s praying for the dead. Go on. Give me some specifics about that Laurie Gundarson.”
So Bunting gave him specifics, a routine he’d learned observing Obie at the Vigil meetings, flipping open the pages of his notebook.
“Laurie Gundarson, straight A’s, high honor roll, Honor Society, Debating Club, Drama Club.”
Enough specifics. Looking up, he added, confidentially: “She’s gone out with lots of guys, but I think she’s one of those touch-me-not types.” Bunting was improvising now, letting himself be carried away by his vision of Laurie Gundarson. “Stuck up, too. A teaser.” Bunting had given her a big hello once at a dance, after a half hour of summoning up his courage, and she’d looked at him as if he was transparent. Made him feel like a pane of glass. “Under all that sweet stuff and the honor roll crap, she’s a bitch.”
“Stick to the facts,” Archie said dryly.
“Hell, anybody can tell by just looking at her that she’s a tease,” Bunting said. “Stacked but acting like she doesn’t know what she has, what it’s all about. Poor Obie.” He chortled. “She’s probably driving him up a wall.”
Archie took his attention away from Bunting. That described his action precisely. He didn’t merely look away or become distracted. He had the ability to shut a door in people’s faces, dismissing them immediately, indicating his boredom or disinterest or indifference by a slight movement of his head.
Bunting realized that Archie had shut him out, leaving him alone, exposed here on the school steps.
“We saw them the other night,” Bunting said, needing to capture Archie’s attention again. “Making out at the Chasm.”
Interest flashed in Archie’s eyes.
“How far did they go?”
Bunting shrugged. “I don’t know. I recognized Obie’s car—he hasn’t washed it for like ten years. It’s lousy with dirt. We got a quick glance. They were close, maybe kissing, arms around each other.”
“That all?”
“Listen, for a tease like Laurie Gundarson, that’s going a long way.”
Long pause, Archie thinking, eyes far away.
“You want us to do something about Obie and the girl?” Bunting asked. Gently, tentatively.
“What would you do?” Archie asked.
“Whatever you want.”
Archie chuckled, a sound as dry as rolling dice.
“An interesting offer,” he said, looking at Bunting again, amused.
Bunting smiled. Was that a look of admiration on Archie’s face? Approval? He wanted Archie to know that he was loyal, that there were no limits to what he would do for Archie and the Vigils.
The doorway behind them exploded with bodies. Trinity students never simply left a classroom or school building: they stampeded, jousting for position, using arms and elbows, knees and thighs, to best advantage. Guys now swarmed down the stairs, swiveling, braking to avoid Archie and Bunting. Bunting leaped aside, but Archie remained on the steps, calm, unruffled, letting the tide of bodies flow around him. “I’ll see you later,” Archie called to Bunting, mouthing the words so that the sophomore would understand the dismissal over the noise.
Archie watched Bunting fleeing into the mass of bodies, glad to be rid of him. Archie disliked his know-it-all attitude, his smirks and strutting walk, his eager display of willingness to carry out orders. Oh, Bunting was smart enough, but he lacked style. He was gross and obvious and superficial. Not subtle at all. Subtlety was an element Archie considered precious, the most important commodity of all for the Assigner. He had never bothered to tell Bunting that.
If Bunting had been a proper pupil, Archie would have been willing to share his secrets. To tell him, for instance, how to pick victims and about the secrets of passion. Find out a person’s passion and you have him in the palm of your hand. Find out what a person loves or hates or fears, and you can play that person like a violin. Find someone who cares and what he cares about, and he is yours on a silver platter. So simple, so obvious. But some people never saw this. Particularly Bunting. Bunting also wanted to generate excitement by physical means—setting up fights, crowding people, looking for blood. He had once, for crissakes, suggested loosening a banister on the third-floor stairs so that a kid would go crashing through space. Stupid. Dangerous. Not worthy of Archie Costello. Not worthy of the Vigils. When physical combat entered the scene, trouble came with it. The chocolates, for instance, even though the violence had been controlled. Yet it could have been a disaster. He could have told Bunting to remember the chocolates. But hadn’t. He gave no warnings to Bunting.
“How can you stand that little bastard?”
Carter spoke directly behind Archie. He had seen Archie and Bunting leaving the assembly hall before mass, not surprised at Archie’s lack of respect, his lack of guilt. Knowing that Archie was invulnerable, he focused his anger on Bunting. Somebody should be angry about what had happened to Brother Eugene.
“Bunting serves a purpose,” Archie replied, not turning, letting Carter do the approaching. Which he did, of course, sitting down beside Archie.
“Got a Hershey?” Archie inquired.
Carter shook his head impatiently. Some stooges always had Hershey bars in their pockets to keep Archie in supply. Thank God Archie didn’t indulge in drugs.
“Bunting is such a bastard,” Carter said, flexing his arms, opening and closing his fists. “He’s another Janza, for crissake. A little smoother, maybe. Doesn’t pick his nose or his ass. But another Janza, all right.”
Archie didn’t say anything and Carter brooded, resting his chin in his hands.
“I always wonder about guys like that, Archie. Guys like Bunting and Janza.” He could have added: You too, Archie. But didn’t. Hated himself for his cowardice but accepted it. “Know what gets me? They’re bastards and it doesn’t bother them. They enjoy it. They don’t even think of themselves as bastards. They do lousy things and think it’s great.”
“You know what the secret is, Carter?” Archie asked in that superior tone of his.
“Tell me.”
“This: Everybody likes the smell of his own shit,” Archie said, looking away.
Carter frowned, looked about him at guys running for buses, cars roaring out of the parking lot with shrieking brakes and wheels, the frenzy of an improvised touch-football game on the lawn.
“That’s the story of life, Carter, and why things happen the way they do.” Pause. “You like the smell of yours, don’t you?”
“Jesus, Archie …” Carter began to protest but he didn’t know what words to use, didn’t know what to say to a thing like that. A few minutes ago he had bowed his head in prayer for the soul of Brother Eugene. Felt guilty for some reason, although he had had no part in the Room Nineteen assignment. Prayer hadn’t helped. He had felt a void within himself, an emptiness, couldn’t wait for the mass to end, for a chance to escape. Escape to what? To Archie Costello and his terrible words.
“Think about it, Carter,” Archie said, rising to his feet, stretching, yawning, moving off. Without saying good-bye. Archie never said hello or good-bye.
Archie walked across the lawn, passing easily through clusters of students, knowing they were all conscious of his presence and making way for him, stepping aside to allow him passage.
Everybody likes the smell of his own shit.
Archie’s voice echoed in Carter’s mind.
You like the smell of yours, don’t you?
Okay, okay.
There had to be more than that.
Had to be.
But Carter couldn’t say what it was.
David Caroni waited until he was alone in the house, his father still at work at the Hensen Transportation Company, where he was employed as traffic manager, and his mother downtown shopping with his brother, Anthony. Anthony was a terrific tennis player, a natural, and he was shopping for a new racquet. His mother, who could
n’t resist a shopping trip, had left a note saying she’d run her own errands while Anthony cruised the sports stores. His mother liked to write notes and make lists. Anyway, David knew that it would be at least an hour, maybe an hour and a half, before anyone came home. That was enough time.
He had not known this morning when he emerged from sleep at the ringing of the alarm that this would be the day. Yet this act he contemplated now was not the result of a sudden decision. The knowledge that his life would end sometime this year, probably before summer arrived, had been with him for weeks, months. He wasn’t quite certain when the knowledge had flowered within him, at which precise moment he knew that he must end this desperate, pointless thing his life had become. He knew only that it must happen, that he must terminate what had become not even a life, really. Then what was it? A sunless, airless desert in which he trudged wearily and purposelessly, like a being from an alien planet, out of place and out of touch, without appetite or desires. Blank, unreachable, friendless, loveless. Funny. Only the knowledge that he would end this life made it bearable. Until the right moment, the right time. Which was now, this afternoon, this hour.
He seemed lifted by a light breeze as he went upstairs, placed his books tidily on the table near his bed, looking at them lingeringly, knowing there would be no need to do homework tonight, that marks did not matter. This made him smile, but it was a smile without joy or warmth. All during these past weeks he had continued to do his homework, eat his meals, take showers, shampoo his hair, wait for the school bus, take notes in school, carry on conversations with his classmates and his family, and nobody but nobody could see that he wasn’t really there, that he was contributing nothing of himself to conversations or classes or mealtimes, holding back the essential ingredient that was himself. Me. David Caroni, son, brother, student. But it didn’t matter, really, it was merely amusing in an unfunny kind of way because it would all end soon. He was thankful for that knowledge, clung to it. Otherwise he might not have made it through the dry monotony of his days and evenings.
Yet there were moments of startling surfacings, as if he were emerging from deep waters into sunlight, and for a brief moment, suspended in time, he would see the ridiculous thing his life had become, making no sense. Just as the Letter made no sense. (Of course the Letter made no sense in itself—the use of the word Letter was a sly and furtive substitute for the real thing.) And then the burst of sunlight would end and he would be plunged again into the sterile, austere life that was the life he now knew, no sun, no sky, nothing. No place to go and no place to hide.
He surveyed his room for a final time, remembering a poem he had read once long ago:
Look thy last on all things lovely,
Every hour.
His stereo, which he had loved once and played now only as a cover, a disguise, pretending that the music had meaning. The books lined up on his shelves, well-thumbed paperbacks that he had not opened for weeks although he’d always had a compulsion to read and reread favorite passages time and again. He sighed, thinking of all the faking he’d had to do in order to act normal, protecting his family so that they would not know, would not suspect, talking, listening, acting, Academy Award stuff, but hugging all the time his little secret within him. His eyes encountered now the posters he had plastered to his walls. Stupid, they were, really. After the Rain, the Rainbow. Words. Meaningless. Vowels and consonants. Letters. Twenty-six letters in the alphabet. That one fatal deadly letter. But don’t think about that now. Look thy last …
He began to undress. Removed his shirt and pants. Folded them neatly on the bed. Slipped off his socks, frowning at the faint smell of foot odor, his feet having a tendency to perspire even on the coldest winter day. Pulled off his blue-plaid boxer shorts and drew his T-shirt over his head, dropped socks and shorts and shirt into the hamper. Stood naked, a bit chilly, avoiding his reflection in the full-length mirror near the closet. He had avoided his reflection for months, grateful that he hadn’t yet begun to shave.
He was strangely calm and almost lifted himself on tiptoe as he felt that pleasant rising wind again, but within him, not outside. He was more than calm: it was a sleepwalking kind of feeling, drift, as if he were being drawn by some invisible current to an inevitable destination. He had contemplated other forms of the act but had discarded them. Had read books at the library, studied statistics, looked up methods in an encyclopedia, pondered stories in newspapers—astonished but gratified by the frequency of the act—and had finally decided on the best way. For him.
He walked, seemed to glide, toward the bureau, still avoiding the mirror, and opened the bottom drawer. He shifted odds and ends of clothing around, then lifted the white lining paper. He withdrew two envelopes and held one in each of his hands for a moment, as if his hands were plates on a scale. One envelope contained a letter that would explain to his mother and father and Anthony why this act had become necessary. He had struggled long and hard with it, knowing they must not feel guilt or blame. He had written and rewritten the letter a hundred times, finding it, guiltily, the only act of any pleasure in the previous months. Now he placed the letter on the bureau, against the picture they had taken of him when he won highest honors at his graduation from St. John’s Parochial School. All A’s for eight years. He stared at the picture, thinking of the Letter, and then turned away, eager to open the other envelope.
The other envelope contained a steel single-edged razor blade, gleaming lethally in the slant of afternoon sunlight. Pleasantly lethal. His friend, his deliverer. Carrying the blade delicately between the thumb and index finger of his right hand, he walked to the bathroom, placed the blade on the top of the toilet tank, and began to run water into the bathtub. After a few moments the hot water splashed steamily into the tub, vapors rising from the water’s surface, clinging to the tile walls, fogging the mirror above the small sink. He looked at the turbulent water, feeling neither hot nor cold, feeling nothing, really. He tested the water with his right hand and then increased the flow of cold. He waited patiently, conscious of the blade nearby. He tested the water again and found it to be satisfactory. He shut off the faucets.
He placed the razor blade on the side of the tub and then slipped into the water from the end opposite the faucets, letting the warmth flow over him. He was grateful for once that he was a blank. Without thought or emotion. As if he were transparent, without weight. He realized he hadn’t sat in a tub for years, showering instead each morning on arising. He sighed, felt the warmth of the water seeping into his pores, the steam forming rivulets on his forehead, cheeks, and chin. Beautiful here. Soon this terrible, ugly, desperate, despicable world would come to an end along with his utterly useless place in it. Kill yourself and you also kill the world, someone had said. He would always spare his family, but how he would love to obliterate Trinity and all it stood for. Brother Leon and the Letter. Look thy last …
He reached for the blade.
But could not touch it.
Stared at it, a small steel rectangle catching the ceiling light.
His finger touched the blade but remained there, as if pinning the blade to the tub.
He knew he couldn’t do it, could not perform this act. Not now. Not today. Today was not the day, after all.
A small glimmer lit up a corner of the dark thing his mind had become. Brother Leon’s face glowed in that glimmer. Why should he go alone, leaving Leon behind, sparing him?
He drew his hand back from the razor.
Weary, exhausted, knowing he must endure this bleak existence for a while more.
And remained in the tub, weeping, until the water grew cold.
During Vigil meetings or holding court on the school steps or simply walking around the campus, Archie was always in command, in control. The only place he was not in control—although he admitted this to no one—was in Leon’s office. Leon never summoned Archie to a meeting without a solid reason for doing so, and Archie always went to the meetings with his guard up, a bit on edge. Not exac
tly nervous: Leon didn’t have the power to make him nervous.
Archie admitted to a degree of uncertainty now, as he stepped into Leon’s study, but he didn’t allow it to show. In fact he sat down without invitation, slouched in the chair, assuming a don’t-give-a-hell attitude.
Leon regarded him critically but said nothing. They stared at each other, the old game that always had to be played. This time Leon looked away first. He pulled open the center drawer of the desk and withdrew a white envelope. His slender, dainty fingers took a sheet of folded paper out of the envelope. He unfolded the paper, shot a glance at Archie.
“Do you know about this?”
“About what?” Archie asked, alert.
Leon handed the sheet of paper to Archie. Slowly Archie reached out and took it, the motion deliberate and unhurried. He stifled his curiosity, holding the paper in the palm of his hand for a moment. Then he read the words.
Brother Leon:
It is imperative to cancel the Bishop’s forthcoming visit to Trinity. Bad things will happen if he comes. This is friendly advice, not a warning.
The letters were printed in blue ballpoint ink. Awkward letters, slanting both left and right as if the writer of the note were drunk or didn’t have full control of his hands. Or wanted to disguise his handwriting. As Archie’s eyes took in the message, slowly reading again each word, another word leaped to the forefront of his mind.
Traitor.
For the first time in his years at Trinity, a traitor had appeared. Oh, there had been the expected enemies, the stubborn kids (like Renault), the animals (like Janza). The reluctant guys, the timid ones, the protestors. But never a whistle-blower, a turncoat, a traitor. Never someone tipping off the Headmaster. The ultimate act of betrayal. Because even the students who feared and hated the Vigils realized that the Vigils were on their side. The common enemy was Trinity itself, the faculty, the Headmaster, whether Brother Leon or anyone else. By their very natures the faculty and the student body were enemies. And one did not consort with the enemy. This was the worst thing that someone could do, the most despicable act of all. Thinking of all this and also: Who could it be? Not just anybody. Not just any student. Most students had been delighted by the prospect of a day off. Most students didn’t care whether the Bishop or the school would be embarrassed. Most students probably wanted something to happen, to end this boring school term. So who?
Beyond the Chocolate War Page 6
