The Books of Fell

by M. E. Kerr

  Outerbridge appeared then. When he sang his Sunday-morning solos, you were tempted to turn around and see if he was in a dress, his soprano was so high and tremulous. But now he was up in front, the single red rose in one hand, the top hat in the other, across, his chest.

  He sang the school song.

  “Others will fill our places,

  Dressed in the old light blue,

  We’ll recollect our races.

  We’ll to the flag be true.

  And youth will still be in our faces

  When we cheer for a Gardner crew.

  Yes, youth will still be in our faces,

  We’ll remain to Gardner true.“

  I looked around the chapel. All dry eyes except for Lauren and her father. At least I think Lauren was crying. She had a handkerchief to her eyes. The lady in mink wore the black shades, but she didn’t seem to be weeping, though her chin was stuck forward in the gesture of someone steeling herself.

  Creery was the only Sevens not present. He had spent two nights in the infirmary. There were rumors he couldn’t sleep, and others that he slept around the clock. It could be either way with Creery — he was famous for his changing moods. We’d heard that his stepbrother had been summoned from Florida, that Creery was threatening to leave Gardner.

  I had last seen him the night of Lasher’s death, at the assembly Skinner’d called us to, warning us not to discuss “this accident” with outsiders. He looked like the same old Creery to me: eyes that said no one’s home, no one’s expected.

  As far as I knew, not one soul had signed up to speak at this memorial. The night before, I’d seen the sheet hanging on the Sevens bulletin board, still not a name on it.

  I wasn’t surprised, then, when Dr. Skinner said a member of the family, Dr. Inge Lasher, would say a few words.

  She had the long black mink coat draped over her shoulders, the dark glasses pushed up on her head. She had the kind of eyes you’d think a shrink would have: radar ones, sending out as much as they took in, searching all our faces. They were as dark as brown could get.

  The thick German accent was a surprise.

  When she said we, it sounded like v. All her v’s were w’s, her w’s v’s. There were other things too. She vould haf said dere vere udder tings. That’s just to give you an example.

  Her very short speech turned out to be a minilecture on a new view of adolescent suicide. According to Inge Lasher, her son had a chemical abnormality in his brain.

  It has been proven, said she, that young people who suffer from major depression, and attempt suicide or dwell on suicidal plans, secrete less growth hormone than other depressed but nonsuicidal young people or other healthy youngsters.

  No one, she insisted, was responsible, or should feel guilt.

  All her speech did for me was make me remember the scream. I’d never heard a scream like it. Not even in the worst splatter films. It was so unlike any everyday human sound, I hadn’t known what it was until I’d seen him, what was left of him, crumpled there on the ice.

  See what happens when you don’t secrete enough growth hormone?

  I couldn’t buy it.

  After she sat down, and before we Sevens gathered at the front to sing our song, Dr. Skinner made an announcement that caused a ripple through the chapel, all heads turning toward the rear when he was finished.

  “And now, someone else who knew Lasher would like to read something. Rinaldo Velez … Would, you come forward, please, Rinaldo?”

  Rinaldo was The Tower jester. Although he had no accent, he affected one when he felt like it, sometimes peppering his conversation with Spanish words like pijos (yuppies) and fachas (fascists — said, with a grin, of The Sevens). He tried to teach certain Sevens salsa sensual, the song-and-dance craze he was master of, but he claimed we had blanco hips that didn’t swivel, and our hearts weren’t beating hot enough inside our bodies.

  All last semester he’d belted out “Ven Devorame Otra Vez” from the kitchen: “Come and Devour Me Again.”

  He was skinny, and very tall, with silky black hair he slicked back and wore in a short cut.

  Although he was a townie, Rinaldo sometimes had a proprietary feeling about Sevens. He stood behind me once in the dining room when we sang, ‘The Star-Spangled Banner” on Veterans’ Day. I’d forgotten the Sevens habit of placing your hand over your heart when you came to the words “at the twilight’s last gleaming.” Rinaldo reached around and put my arm up across my chest. I glanced over my shoulder at him and he gave me a stern look, the kind a parent would give a thoughtless child.

  Had I ever seen him with Lasher anyplace but in the dining room, waiting on him? If I had, I didn’t remember it.

  Had anyone? Had anyone in Sevens even been asked what their connection was?

  • • •

  I had never seen Rinaldo when he wasn’t wearing a white waiter’s jacket and a black clip-on tie. I had never seen him look so uncomfortable, either.

  There was already perspiration dotting his forehead, where a lick of black hair dangled. His tight, black, two-buttoned double-breasted suit had wide shoulders with the waist nipped. He wore a black mock turtleneck.

  His hands were shaking. He tried holding up the piece of paper he carried, but he could not read it until he’d flattened it on the top of the podium. Then he had to lean over and bend down his head.

  His voice carried well, though it quivered and slipped out of its register a few times into a higher one, which made him pause and clear his throat.

  No one could doubt that he had written the strange poem himself, though he had nothing to say in the way of introduction.

  He just read.

  Here, he said, these are all for you.

  I have to leave.

  And it is true

  That I did not perceive,

  The circumstance …

  A backward glance,

  Then Hasta la vista, he said,

  And he was gone.

  And he is dead.

  “Here, he said, these are all for you.

  “Here, this is my good-bye,

  And that is all.

  I never really knew you, Paul.

  But here, let me say so long,

  Before the Sevens song.

  I got up then, along with the other Sevens, and we went to the front of the chapel.

  Once again I felt slightly choked up. It had to be something about Rinaldo’s poem … or maybe just that it was sad someone who hardly knew Lasher was the only one of us to come forward to say good-bye. Not even someone from The Hill … And Rinaldo was probably shamed into doing it because Lasher’d given him stuff.

  We sang with feeling; the words rang out. Maybe we were all thinking of the same thing: the way Lasher belted out those words:

  … my heart will thrill

  At the thought of The Hill

  And the Sevens …

  like a Marine singing “from the halls of Montezuma,” like some newly freed hostage joining in on “God Bless America.”

  There was a brief silence at the end of our song.

  Then, in unison, we said the Sevens farewell. From Tennyson.

  Twilight … and evening bell …

  And after that … the dark.

  The chapel bell tolled seven times.

  Chapter 4

  Lauren saw me outside the chapel, waved, and beckoned me with her finger.

  The campus lights were on. We stood in the cold wet rain that had turned most of the snow to slush. I felt foolish in my top hat; it’d always been a bit too big.

  She was carrying her red rose. Over by their Mercedes, I saw Dr. Skinner helping her mother into the front seat.

  Her gloved hand held an umbrella over her head. On the other hand, long nails, unpainted but glossy. A ring with a red stone.

  “I’ll come back to pack Paul’s things next week, or the week after,” she said. “Does it matter?”

  “You know, I’m fairly new here,” I told her. “I’m not the on
e to ask.”

  “Then why do you act as though you’re in charge?”

  I hadn’t expected that, nor her sharp tone.

  “I don’t. Why do you think I do?”

  “You’re the one with all the opinions.”

  “You came to me and asked for them,” I reminded her.

  “I didn’t. I came with Daddy.”

  She was toying with the gold 7 around her neck, under her Burberry. She went right on. “We’re going to give Rinaldo my brother’s clothes. Apparently that’s who Paul wanted his things to go to … And he can keep everything Paul gave him.”

  “Why tell me?” I asked her.

  “So you don’t start any rumors about that, too.”

  “I didn’t start any rumors, Lauren. I made a comment to Dib.”

  “Which was overheard by a lot of people.”

  “I blurted it out. I wasn’t trying to spread it around.”

  “I wish you’d tell Cyr you were the one. He thinks it was Rinaldo.”

  “Why does he care? No one said he did it.” Not out loud, anyway.

  “We don’t want all these rumors and bad feelings between you guys. Just let Paul rest in peace.”

  “Gladly,” I said, “but why does Creery care?”

  “Because of that fight they had. How would you feel if someone jumped to his death immediately after you’d had a fight with him?”

  “They were always fighting, Lauren.”

  “Still.”

  “Don’t worry about Creery. He’ll roll a few joints and forget all about it.”

  “He claims there’s such a thing as The Sevens Revenge.”

  “That’s an old rumor … Besides, what did he do to deserve The Revenge?”

  I’d heard of it, of course. It was said that if you told The Sevens secrets, or if you were guilty of Conduct Unforgivable, you were taken to The Tower and a live rat was tied around your neck. Surviving that, you were given the silent treatment until you resigned and left Gardner. There were other versions, each with a rat in it … and though The Revenge supposedly had not been performed since 1963, rumors about it were part of Sevens lore. One death was attributed to The Revenge. An automobile accident an alumnus had, while a rat was tied to his ankle, was said to be The Revenge too.

  I tried a smile, to lighten things up. I smelled her perfume and thought I knew its name. Obsession. Keats always wore it. Lauren didn’t smile back at me. I was getting wet. She made no attempt to share the umbrella.

  She said, “Latet anguis in herba. Do you know your Latin?”

  “I know that Latin. Your brother taught it to me.”

  She decided to translate it anyway. “The snake hides in the grass.”

  “It was his motto,” I said.

  “Sometimes I can see why it was,” she said. “Fell, I don’t happen to believe in hormonal loss. What I believe is that people who don’t know how to care about other people get obsessed with things. Clubs, for example. The way my brother was about Sevens.”

  I didn’t know what she was leading up to, but I couldn’t have agreed more. I was always suspicious of guys who got too attached to their schools or their private clubs and fraternities. I figured they were probably getting their first taste of belonging anywhere, that maybe no one had ever made them feel important before.

  “I know,” I said. “Your brother felt about Sevens the way a Doberman feels about his backyard.”

  “I don’t think it did Paul any good. A club doesn’t love back. It can’t take the place of people. You get twisted putting all your energy into a club.”

  “I think so too,” I said. I was a little amazed that we could agree on something.

  Then she said, “A theory, theories, do the same thing when you begin to put all your energy into them.”

  She wasn’t talking about Lasher and Sevens anymore. She was after me.

  “People with too many theories about other people don’t have real feelings for other people,” she said.

  “I have both,” I told her. I was getting wetter. “If I was carrying that umbrella, you’d be under it, along with all my theories.”

  “Touché,” she said. “Get under for a sec.”

  While I did, she said, “What I’m going to ask you to do isn’t my idea — it’s Daddy’s. And you might as well know Dr. Skinner said you weren’t the ideal person to ask.”

  “Well? Ask.”

  “You have too much attitude, Fell.”

  “I was thinking that about you this morning.”

  “My brother did a lot of writing. Daddy wants to take his best pieces and put them in a memorial book. Would you read through everything and select them?”

  “Why does Daddy think I’m the one to do that, and Skinner think I’m not?”

  “Daddy likes you. Skinner thinks you’re better off not dwelling on Paul’s death.”

  I was too curious to play hard to get, and the wind was pushing the rain down my neck.

  Lauren said, “Daddy will pay you, of course.”

  “All right. I’ll give it a try. Where are the manuscripts?”

  “They’re with Mrs. Violet at Sevens House. Your name is on the package.”

  “You and Daddy aren’t short on confidence.”

  “Dr. Skinner said you were short on cash, so you’d have to get a hundred dollars, at least. Daddy thought that was cheap.”

  “I have to get a new business manager. Skinner’s not working out at all.”

  Down by the black Mercedes, Lauren’s father called out, “Come on, honey!”

  She said, “One other thing: Daddy wants a few pictures of Paul in the memorial book. I’m going through his album, and I’ll get some to you.”

  “Does your father know your brother wrote a lot about death and suicide?”

  “Paul used to keep a noose in his room. He’d tell mother it was just in case he felt like having a last swing … We were used to Paul.”

  Lauren’s father called her again.

  She said, “But now both my parents are into denial.”

  Inside the Mercedes her mother honked the horn impatiently, three times.

  Chapter 5

  The Sevens had turkey roast on Friday nights, steak on Wednesdays. Always fresh vegetables, fresh asparagus that night. Don’t ask me where they managed to find it the last week of January.

  While we ate, the committee for The Charles Dance was announced, and I was on it.

  Named for The Sevens’ founder, it was a major event at Gardner, held every March on our anniversary. Dorm boys and their dates were invited too. Females wore evening dresses, but all males came in costume as someone named Charles. The ill-omened rulers of England and France were favorites, from Charles II (the Fat) to Charles III (the Simple), but any Charles would do.

  In the dining room of The Tower the only art was a lighted portrait labeled Wife of Damon Charles. We knew that if Gardner ever went coed, as our trustees were threatening, female Sevens would be outraged that like Lot’s wife in the Bible, she had no name of her own. Did The Sevens even know what it was? I doubted it. She was a handsome and regal brunette in a white gown and pearls. Underneath Wife of Damon Charles was a quote from Wordsworth:

  Her eyes as stars of twilight fair;

  Like twilight’s, too, her dusky hair.

  Before the chocolate cake was served, while the uniformed waiters cleared the table under the candlelit chandelier, we all sang our song together.

  “When I was a beggar boy,

  And lived in a cellar damp,

  I had not a friend or a toy,

  But that was all changed by mere chance!

  Once I could not sleep in the cold,

  And patches they covered my pants,

  Now I have bags full of gold,

  For that was all changed by mere chance!

  Mere chance, mere chance. “

  Rinaldo made an entrance from the kitchen, carrying a tray filled with cake on the light-blue 7’s-crested plates.

  “
Mere chance makes us gay,

  Mere chance makes night day,

  But whoever she’ll choose,

  She can also make lose.

  Mere chance has her way,

  Mere chance.”

  I leaned back in my chair to try and get his attention. I wanted to say I’d see him after dinner. If I didn’t move fast on that word processor, someone else would. Maybe now that he’d become heir to so many valuables, he’d let Dib and me pay in installments. Maybe not … and maybe he’d charge too much. But I ought to get it settled.

  He went right past me, looking straight ahead, ignoring my “Pssst!” There was a watch on his wrist, lots of gold and stainless steel. The good Gstaad?

  I decided to take a look at his shoes. My dad used to tell me a man’s shoes say a lot about him. That was back before everyone was into Reeboks, when shoeshine still meant eager/accountable/ready.

  And sure enough, Rinaldo had on black Reeboks.

  Suddenly I saw very clearly one white Reebok get between Rinaldo’s black ones.

  Next, Rinaldo was on the floor.

  So was the silver tray and the cake and the china.

  The white Reebok had disappeared under the table.

  I took a look at its owner. I never had liked that face. It used to remind me of my own back when I was running with fast-track kids in Brooklyn, rebelling against being a cop’s son, proving I could get as wrecked as anyone else.

  Out of the infirmary, Creery seemed fully recovered. A skinhead last semester, he was letting his hair grow in. He already had a thin tail in back, reaching down toward his neck. There were the same two skull earrings in his right ear, and a silver GUNS N’ ROSES pendant around his throat.

  At the sound of Rinaldo and the cake plates crashing to the floor, Creery’s mouth twitched almost imperceptibly. He did not look over his shoulder to see the damage he had caused.