Beyond the Chocolate War

by Robert Cormier

  Down on the field, a throaty voice called: C’mon, Croteau! Joined by other voices: Get the lead out, Croteau. Hey, Croteau, you dumb or what?

  “Poor Croteau,” Archie said. “Whoever he is.”

  Archie seemed to be having one of his compassionate days. Obie wondered: Should he press his luck? Why not?

  “Fair Day,” he said, as casually as possible.

  “What did you say?”

  “Fool Day.”

  “I thought you said Fair Day.”

  “I did.”

  They laughed, sharing the joke, the old play on words. Maybe he’s actually glad I’m back in the fold, Obie thought. Which encouraged him to go on.

  “It’s coming up soon.”

  “Got to go easy on Fair Day,” Archie said. “All those fathers and mothers and little kids.” A touch of W.C. Fields in his voice.

  “I know. But we have the Fool.”

  “True. Any candidates?”

  “I’ll check the notebook.”

  Archie looked down at the field. “Croteau,” he said. “He’ll make a great Fool. Sign him up, Obie.”

  Poor Croteau. So much for Archie’s compassion. Then Obie tensed himself again. Big moment coming up. Walking the tightrope, with the drop far below.

  “How about Skit Night?”

  “What about Shit Night?” Archie parried.

  “Remember that kid, Ray Bannister?”

  “The new one?”

  “Right. He’s a magician, Archie. Does all those magic tricks.”

  Archie said nothing, eyes on the field, waiting.

  “He does tricks with cards and balls. Stuff like that.” Paused, hoped Archie didn’t notice him taking a deep breath. “He also has a trick he does with the guillotine—”

  “The guillotine?” A question in Archie’s voice, and a flash in his eyes. Guillotine was a deadly word, an Archie Costello kind of word.

  “Right. The guillotine. This kid, Ray Bannister, has built an honest-to-God guillotine. A trick, of course. But it seems too good to pass up. The guillotine and Skit Night. Some kid’s head—like the Fool—on the block …” Get the picture, Archie? He waited for Archie to get the picture.

  “Let me think about it,” Archie said, moody suddenly, brooding, going deep within himself. Obie knew all the signs. He had gone as far as he dared at the moment.

  “See you later,” Archie said, dismissal in his voice. But something else, too.

  He’s hooked, Obie thought gleefully.

  The Goober spotted Janza across the street from Jerry Renault’s apartment building in the dusk of evening and stopped short, fading into the shadows. He swallowed hard, pressing his body flat against a stone wall. After a while he peeked around the corner to make sure it was Janza, and saw without a doubt the figure of Emile Janza pacing the sidewalk.

  What was he doing here? And why was he out in the open like that, walking up and down like someone in a picket line? The Goober didn’t know the answers to those questions, but he knew that there was something sinister about Janza’s presence on the street. Every once in a while Janza’s eyes swept over the building, his head thrown back, as if he were issuing some kind of silent challenge to Jerry, a challenge only Jerry could hear, the way a dog hears the high-pitched whistle that human ears can’t pick up.

  What do I do? the Goober thought. Should he run by Janza, show himself? Or slink away in the direction he had come from? The Goober wanted to do the right thing. He didn’t want to betray Jerry Renault again.

  I’ve got to warn him, he said silently. Then stopped short. Janza was making no secret of his presence, strutting around like that in the open. Jerry must have already seen him. Okay, so what do I do? Do I face Janza now? Tell him to bug off? Get out of there? He shivered in the night air, as he always did when he paused in his running.

  What would Jerry want him to do? Christ, I’ve got to do the right thing. This time. Can’t let him down.

  He peeked around the corner, carefully, squinting, one-eyed, didn’t see Janza. Had he gone away or was he hiding in the shadows? Probably gone away. No reason for Janza to hide in the shadows. When Goober first spotted him, he was obviously making his presence known.

  Goober looked up at Jerry’s bedroom window. The window dark, curtain drawn. Other windows also dark, no signs of life. Jerry was not home, apparently, and neither was his father. Nobody home.

  He glanced again toward the spot where Janza had paced the sidewalk. Still not there. No confrontation, then. He knew what he had to do. He had to warn Jerry. Put him on his guard, in the event he didn’t know about Janza. And, for God’s sake, offer his assistance. Jerry was in no condition to face Janza, the animal. Not alone, anyway.

  Best thing was to suspend the rest of his run and go home. Start calling Jerry. Keep calling until he returned to the apartment. Keep calling all night if necessary.

  Checking the front of Jerry’s apartment again, satisfied that Janza was no longer there or in the vicinity, the Goober struck out for home. As he ran he told himself: I won’t betray Jerry again. I won’t let him down this time.

  The balls, colored marbles really, danced in the air, playing games with the lights, and Obie learned that you didn’t look at all of them but only at the ball that concerned you.

  The ball. Playing hide-and-seek, peekaboo, here today and gone tomorrow or, rather, here this minute and gone the next. Ah, the ball, sleek and eloquent in its tiny perfection, the ball that would provide him with the means of revenge.

  “Beautiful,” Ray Bannister said. “You really catch on fast, Obie.”

  Pleased, Obie decided to try the ultimate test. Holding the ball out, on the tips of his fingers, he made a pass with his other hand, felt his fingers fighting their own impulses and following his commands. Lo, the ball appeared against Ray’s cheek, held between the thumb and middle finger of Obie’s right hand.

  Ray shook his head in undisguised admiration.

  “Now show me how the guillotine works,” Obie said.

  Ray hesitated, drawing back, frowning. “Hey, Obie, what’s going on, anyway?”

  Obie squirmed, wondered: Is it too soon to tell him? Stall a bit. “What do you mean?”

  “This magic stuff. You and the Cups and Balls. You and the guillotine. You figure on going into business for yourself? Like, magician business?”

  No more stalling, Obie.

  “In a way, you’re right, Ray.”

  Ray walked over to the guillotine, his hands caressing the polished wood.

  Obie said: “I thought we’d go into business together. You, the magician.” He waved his hand slowly in the air, his finger like a plane skywriting. “Bafflement by Bannister,” he announced dramatically. “Assisted by Obie the Obedient …”

  “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” Ray said, sorry he had shown Obie his tricks, feeling as though Obie had invaded the most private part of his life.

  “The annual Fair Day is coming up. And Skit Night. Skits, songs, and dances, making fun of the faculty.”

  Ray nodded. “I’ve seen the posters.”

  “Right,” Obie said. “Anyway, I thought your magic act would be perfect. As the big climax, in fact. You know, the Scarves, and Cups and Balls.” Careful now, Obie. “And the guillotine. Every magician needs an assistant—I figure I’d be yours.”

  Ray stepped behind the guillotine, as if for protection.

  “I don’t know, Obie. I’ve never performed in public before.”

  “Look, it’s just the school. The guys and the teachers. And it’s a loose kind of night. Everybody hams it up. Even if you goof a bit—and I don’t think you will—nobody will care.…”

  Ray Bannister was tugged by the fingers of temptation. He had often longed for an audience, besides Obie, particularly when he worked one of the effects to perfection, yearning for admiring glances, whispers of awe and delight. The guillotine, he knew, would knock their eyes out. And it was a thing of particular pride to him because he ha
d constructed it himself, had not merely spent money on an effect. He also considered how sweet it would be to announce himself to the world of Trinity, to let them know he existed after months of being ignored and neglected.

  “We’ll see,” Ray said, still behind the guillotine.

  Obie was elated. We’ll see: the words his mother and father used when they meant yes but wanted to postpone the decision for a while.

  “Okay,” Obie said. “Take your time. Let me know later.”

  As he left he glanced back at Ray, who was still standing behind the guillotine. But his face held a soft, dreamy expression, his eyes far away, and Obie knew that Ray Bannister was at that moment already performing on the stage of the assembly hall.

  He answered the telephone, finally. Had listened to the rings, too many to count, and then picked up the receiver, knowing that whatever had to be done must begin with answering the phone.

  Glancing outside once more—Janza not in sight at the moment—he said: “Hello.”

  Goober’s voice took him by surprise.

  “Jerry, I’ve been trying to reach you since last night. Where’ve you been?”

  Do I lie or not? Jerry wondered. And knew he had to tell the truth.

  “I’ve been right here.”

  “Are you sick? Anything wrong? I called last night, then this noon during lunch. Something wrong with the phone?”

  “My father’s away,” Jerry said. “On a swing around New England. On a business trip. But I’ve been here. And I heard the phone ringing …”

  “You know about Janza, then?” Goober asked. Because why else wouldn’t Jerry answer the phone?

  “I know.” Weary, accepting.

  “He’s been pacing up and down across the street from your apartment. I saw him last night. I spotted him again today, after school. I made a detour to check up on him.”

  “Thanks, Goob.”

  “I wanted to warn you,” Goober said. “Wait. More than that, I wanted you to know, want you to know that we’re in this together. Janza’s always looking for trouble. Okay, he’ll get it. From both of us.”

  “Wait a minute, Goob. You’re going too fast.”

  “What do you mean, too fast?”

  “Slow down. Just because Janza’s been down on the street a couple of times doesn’t mean it’s an emergency—”

  “What is it, then?” Goober asked, slowing down, curious, as if waiting for Jerry to come up with some marvelous, stunning truth.

  “I don’t know. But it’s time to sit and wait awhile.…”

  Silence from Goober. Which Jerry expected.

  “Look, Goober, I’m glad you called. I appreciate what you’re doing. But I don’t know yet what I’m going to do. That’s why I didn’t answer the phone. I thought it might be Janza and I wasn’t ready to talk to him—I’m still not ready.”

  “You don’t have to do anything, Jerry. He can’t keep this up forever. He’ll get tired of it. Just sit tight for a while, Jerry. When’s your father coming home?”

  He heard the nervousness in Goober’s voice.

  “Tomorrow night. But that doesn’t matter, Goober. Whether my father comes home or not doesn’t matter.”

  “You shouldn’t be alone, Jerry. Janza’s such an animal, you never know what he’s going to do. He’s one of Archie Costello’s stooges. He might be doing this on an assignment from the Vigils.”

  “You’re going too fast again, Goob. Way too fast. All we know is that Janza’s been walking up and down out there. He’s not there right now. So the best thing to do is wait and see.”

  “Want me to come over? I can spend the night—”

  “Hey, Goob, I don’t need a bodyguard. Janza’s not going to launch an invasion.”

  Another pause, more silence.

  “Why didn’t you answer the phone, Jerry? Last night I must have called three, four times. Again today. Why didn’t you answer?”

  “I already told you, Goob. Because I’m not sure what I want to do. I don’t know yet—”

  “Well, don’t do anything crazy. Don’t try to fight him. That’s probably what he’s looking for.”

  “I’m not going to fight him,” Jerry said. “But I have to do something. I can’t sit in this apartment forever.”

  “Wait him out. Let me come over.”

  “Course not, Goob. I’m safe here. Janza’s not going to murder me. Look, it’s getting late, and Janza hasn’t shown his face for an hour. Wait a minute. Let me look.…”

  He glanced out the window, saw the empty street, all grays and shadows like a scene in a black-and-white movie. A car passed, headlights probing the shadows. Nobody in those shadows. No Janza.

  “He’s not there. We’ll probably never see him again. Get some sleep, Goob. I’ll be okay. Let’s wait and see what happens tomorrow.” Felt the need to say more. “I appreciate your call. You’re a good friend, Goob.…”

  “What are friends for, right, Jerry?”

  “Right …”

  After he had hung up, Jerry glanced out the window again.

  And saw Janza again. Rain had started to fall, the sidewalks glistened with wetness, but Janza stood there, hands on hips, looking up, black hair plastered to his skull, ignoring the rain.

  Jerry thought of the fight last fall and he thought of Trinity and he thought of the chocolates and he thought of his father, and his thoughts were like a tired caravan of images.

  Most of all, he thought of Canada. Wistfully. Those beautiful moments on that frozen landscape, the wind whispering in the Talking Church. He suddenly felt homesick for a place that was not really home. Or maybe it was. Or could be.

  “I’m going back to Canada,” he said, speaking the words aloud to give them life and impact like a pledge that had to be spoken in order to verify its truth.

  Back to Canada.

  But first—Janza.

  While Janza continued to stare up at the building, his short blunt figure dripping with rain, cold and dark and implacable, as if he had emerged from a block of ice.

  Carter was reluctant to help.

  But then Carter was reluctant about everything these days, walking around school like a zombie.

  Obie needed him, however.

  “I don’t know,” Carter said, rubbing his chin. Dark sharp bristles on his chin, cheeks. Carter hadn’t shaved yet today. And probably not yesterday.

  They were sitting in Obie’s car in front of Carter’s house. Twilight muffled the neighborhood sounds of evening.

  “I thought you were all hot to start a mutiny against Archie,” Obie said. “Remember when you called me about the Bishop’s visit?”

  “What’s the Bishop’s visit got to do with this?” Carter asked suspiciously.

  “Nothing,” Obie said, studying the athlete, his bloodshot eyes, damp, pale face. Like he was suffering a hangover or the aftermath of drugs. But Obie knew that Carter didn’t do drugs, didn’t want to ruin that precious physique. It was evident, however, that Carter was in turmoil. Obie felt, crazily, as if he was looking into a mirror. He didn’t know what kind of demons had invaded Carter’s life, but he recognized a suffering, kindred soul. “This has got nothing to do with the Bishop’s visit. It’s got to do with Fair Day. And Skit Night …”

  Carter raked his hand along his unshaved cheek. “What do you want me to do?” he asked, still reluctant.

  “It’s simple,” Obie said. “I need you to create a diversion. For a minute or two.” He couldn’t spell out the entire scheme. Hell, Carter would head for the hills if he knew the plan.

  Now it was Carter’s turn to study Obie. Obie had changed in the past few weeks. Not physically, of course: he was the same scrawny kid. But something was different about him. His eyes, for instance. Carter remembered Brother Andrew in Religion describing missionaries who challenged jungles and cannibals as “God’s holy men.” That was Obie now, the gleam in his eyes, his intensity, his missionary zeal. Carter knew, of course, that Obie had broken up with his girl. Had heard rumors
of a gang rape. He also knew that Bunting had split Archie and Obie apart. Otherwise he wouldn’t trust Obie at all.

  “Tell me about the diversion,” Carter said.

  Obie told him. He required two pieces of action by Carter. The first at the Vigil meeting when the Fool would be chosen. The second during Skit Night.

  “Is that all?” Carter asked.

  “That’s all.”

  “Then tell me why. Why you need these diversions.”

  “It’s better if you don’t know the details, Carter. Then you can’t be blamed for anything later.”

  “Archie’s the target, right?”

  “Right.”

  Carter wondered if he should confide in Obie, if he could tell him about the letter to Brother Leon and the telephone call, about these terrible days and nights while he waited for Archie to take his revenge.

  But Obie, he realized, was too preoccupied with his own concerns. And suddenly Carter felt a wave of optimism. Obie was taking action against Archie. And this action, whatever it was, could draw Archie’s attention away from himself.

  “Okay,” Carter said.

  Obie punched his shoulder. “Terrific,” he said.

  “Details,” Carter ordered.

  “Later. But I’ll tell you this much. Archie Costello will never be the same again.”

  “Good,” Carter said, slapping his hand against the dashboard, the sound like a gunshot in the car.

  “Unfinished business,” Obie said, flipping through his notebook, using it as a prop in order to avoid looking Archie in the eye.

  “The Fool, right?” Archie asked, running his hand over the hood of his car, flicking a speck of dust off the gleaming metal.

  “Right,” Obie said.

  “And the guillotine,” Archie added, studying his car with a critical eye. He disliked dust and dirt, kept the car properly polished and shining all the time. “Frankly, Obie, it doesn’t excite me.…”

  But then nothing ever excited Archie.

  Obie was prepared for that reaction but could not show too much eagerness.

  “I’ve got a few ideas,” Obie said.

  “What ideas?” Having concluded his inspection of the car, Archie leaned against it now as he fumbled in his pocket for a Hershey.