Robert Cormier 3 страница

" Just checking the" premises, " Archie said. " Some of the neighbors have been complaining about a child molester — wearing a white collar — lurking in the area. "

A glitter in Leon's eyes, a quickening, like a sudden touch of cold sunlight on the surface of a lake. His face was expressionless, but Archie sensed a tension in the flesh of Leon's cheeks. He and Leon had always dueled this way, tossing veiled barbs at each other, in a game that wasn't quite a game.

Leon waved his right hand, almost limply, dismissing Archie's barb, showing that he recognized it for what it was, verbal retaliation.

" The campus has been quiet for some time, " Leon said, his tone now more conversational, as if some prologue had ended and he could get on with the business at hand. " You have been holding them in check. "

Archie knew who he meant by them.

" I must express my admiration, Costello. For you. Your methods. I know that your odd activities go on, but you have been discreet. And life has been kind, hasn't it? "

They had made a pact months ago, after the chocolates and immediately after Leon had assumed the Headmastership of Trinity. " Life at Trinity can be very pleasant, Costello, for both of us, " Leon had said. " My desire is to continue the fine traditions of Trinity, to make it the best preparatory school in New England. And this takes faculty working together with the student body. Our dear retired Headmaster was a wonderful man but did not comprehend the ways of students, Costello. He was not vigilant. " Vigilant. Leon had caressed the word with his tongue, his lips, his voice, giving it a special meaning, the word leaping into the air and hanging there. Archie had nodded. Knew Leon's meaning. " I, however, am vigilant. Will continue to be. I also know that boys must be allowed their games, their sports, must indulge their idiosyncrasies on occasion. This I understand and allow. But within limitations. Without obstructions to the lofty goals and purposes of Trinity. And its administration. "

Words, of course. Bullshit. The administration of the school was under the strict control of Brother Leon. In fact, he had arranged a transfer for Brother Jacques, the only member of the faculty who had ever showed signs of independence — Jacques had objected to the events surrounding the chocolate skirmish last fall — and Jacques was no longer on the scene at Trinity. So much for Leon's pretensions. But even though Leon's words were bullshit, the meaning came through straight and true to Archie. He and Leon spoke the same language, not the verbal language of ordinary communication but the between-the-lines language of conspirators and plotters. What Leon meant: Play your tricks, Archie, carry out the assignments, let the Vigils have their fun. But keep your distance from me. Don't do anything to embarrass me as Headmaster of the school Otherwise. .

" Incidentally, Costello, I have some bad news. "

Not so incidentally, Archie figured. He knew now the reason Brother Leon had sought him out, confronted him here on the campus as the sun began to droop. I have some bad news. He had never known Leon to bring good news.

" It's news from provincial headquarters. In Manchester, New Hampshire. "

Get to the point, Brother Leon, and spare the geography.

" Brother Eugene — remember him? " Leon asked, guilelessly, innocently. But not so guileless, not so innocent.

Archie nodded, glad that he seldom perspired, whether under pressure or during heat waves, glad that beads of moisture on his forehead would not betray him.

" He is dead, Brother Eugene. He died yesterday in the infirmary at Manchester. "

For a moment, in the shadows, Archie saw the soft, quizzical face of Brother Eugene superimposed on Leon's features, then shrugged it away.

" He never fully recovered, " Leon said.

Archie knew what Leon wanted him to ask: Recovered from what? But Archie wouldn't give him the satisfaction. And, anyway, they both knew.

" The Order has lost a wonderful, sensitive teacher, " Leon said. " Have you anything to say, Costello? Perhaps a tribute of your own? You had Brother Eugene in class, didn't you? "

" History, " Archie said. " One semester. "

" Room Nineteen? " Brother Leon asked, malice in his voice as he shifted his body suddenly so that the last flash of the sun's rays struck Archie's eyes, causing him to blink, to look away. Room Nineteen and its beautiful debris, a legend now at Trinity.

" I never had Brother Eugene in Room Nineteen, " Archie said, holding his voice steady. " It was some other room in my freshman year. " He squared off, changed position so that he could look Leon in the eye again.

Their gazes held for a moment, and it was Leon who broke the contact this time. Casting his eyes downward, he said: " We shall have a special memorial mass for Brother Eugene at assembly. But I think you should make a special visit to your church and offer up prayers for the repose of his soul. "

Archie said nothing. He had not prayed for years. Went through the motions during the masses in assembly hall on special occasions. Attended mass with his parents when they insisted, and followed the rituals that pleased them. He didn't care whether he pleased them or not, but peace reigned in the house when he played the role of dutiful son.

" Have you nothing to say, Costello? " Leon said, anger showing through the words.

" Brother Eugene was a nice guy, " Archie said. " I bleed him. " Having to say something. He spoke the truth, really. There had been nothing personal in the Room Nineteen assignment. There was never anything personal in the assignments.

" I don't want to dwell on the past, Costello, " Leon said. " But prayer is always good for the soul. Your own, for instance. "

Archie remained silent, and Leon seemed willing to accept his silence as acceptance, because he sighed expansively, as if he had just done his good deed for the day and could go on with his usual routine. He glanced around the darkening campus, the buildings shrouded in silence, the white clapboards of the residence gleaming like dinosaur bones.

" I love this school, Costello, " Leon said.

Like a criminal loves his crime, Archie thought. That was the secret of the world's agony, and the reason crime — and, yes, sin — would always prevail. Because the criminal, whether a rapist or a burglar, loves his crime. That's why rehabilitation was impossible. You had to get rid of the love, the passion, first. And that would never happen.

Leon looked at Archie again, seemed about to speak, and then changed his mind.

" Carry on, Costello, " he said, and padded away, in those short mincing steps the guys imitated so easily and frequently.

Archie allowed himself a moment of loathing as he watched Leon disappearing into the gloom. What a fake he was. All that phony concern about Brother Eugene. Leon had done nothing about Room Nineteen, too worried about his own career. Archie had always been able to depend on that. And that's what had made him and Leon allies. Which always bothered Archie, being linked with someone like Brother Leon. Then he remembered a surprise that awaited Leon — the day of the Bishop's visit. And maybe some others.

Walking toward his car at the parking space nearest the entrance, the choice space in the lot that no one else dared occupy, Archie sought the surge of satisfaction that usually filled him when he contemplated assignments.

The wind came up, trembling the limbs of trees, rattling a shutter on the residence. Archie was suddenly elated, knew he was apart from other people. It was a dark and beautiful secret he shared with no one.

Halting near his car, he pivoted, lifted his face to the rising wind, and whispered: " I am Archie. " Heard his voice withering away in the darkness. No response, no echo. Which was what he wanted: to be alone, separate from the others, untouchable except by the knowing hands and mouths of the girls at Miss Jerome's.

" Too far. "

" No it isn't. "

" Yes it is. "

" Just once. Just this once. "

" Once won't be enough. "

" Yes it will. "

" No it won't. It never is. "

It was a game they played, a delicious delightful game, that made every nerve end and something else stand up at attention. A cat-and-mouse game. An inch-here-and-inch-there game. Give a little, take a little. Squeeze here and caress there. A daring, terrific game that never moved beyond a certain agonizing point which, crazy, only made him love Laurie Gundarson more and more each time they played.

The game had become a ritual. They would drive to the Chasm and park in their favorite spot, an apron of land jutting out from the hillside. The lights of Monument winked below them like neon fireflies. Obie ignored the lights, Monument, Trinity, the Vigils, as he immersed himself in the marvel of Laurie's presence here in the car, in his life.

As he kissed her she moaned softly, low, husky, a slight tremor of her body betraying her own horniness. No, not horniness. He didn't want to think of her in those terms. She was more than a body to him, more than a girl to fondle and caress. Even this game was more than a game: it was a ritual in which they expressed their love, their desire for each other, the sweet, aching longing. But Laurie would let them go only so far. So far and no further. And he always complied. He complied because he had to proceed cautiously with Laurie, never knowing when she might turn away for good. Because of Trinity, for one thing.

The night they first met, at a dance, instantly attracted to each other, coming together beautifully in a slow number, she had stiffened and drawn away when she had learned he was a student at Trinity.

" What's the matter? " he had asked.

" That place is creepy, " she said, wrinkling her nose.

" All schools are creepy, " he retorted, trying to pull her against him again.

" I always hear weird things about it, " she said, against the music, resisting his body.

" Rumors. Don't judge me by my school. " He felt as though he was betraying Trinity but realized this girl in his arms was suddenly more important than Trinity. " Judge me by what I am. "

" What are you? " she asked, looking directly into his eyes.

" One of the good guys, " Obie said.

And she smiled.

But Trinity always stood between them. More than Trinity, of course: the Vigils. Actually they seldom spoke of the school, continually skirting the subject, which often left gaps in their conversations. As a result, Obie was constantly on his guard with Laurie, fearful of losing her, of doing anything to make her draw away and grow distant as she had that first night on the dance floor.

She was not distant from him now, in the car, close to him in this delicious game, responding, throbbing until, breathless, she drew back.

" Obie, please. . "

" One more minute, " he whispered.

" It's for your own good, " she said, but he could hear the huskiness in her voice that always betrayed her own desire.

" Let me count to sixty. "

As he spoke he squeezed tenderly and delicately, his thumb and index finger moving as if he were playing some precious instrument.

After a few moments she put on the brakes again, wrenched her mouth from his, pulled away. " Too much, and too fast, " she said. Strangely enough, he was relieved. Obie had always been terrified of going all the way. He had a feeling that he would somehow fail at the last minute, botch it all up, and leave himself humiliated in her eyes. He couldn't risk that. Thus, despite his passionate protests, he was grateful for Laurie's caution, the limits she had drawn.

Holding her tenderly, he whispered: " I love you. . " She cupped his cheek in her hand, an endearing gesture that almost brought tears to his eyes.

A sudden slash of headlights illuminated the interior of the car. Instinctively Obie and Laurie ducked their heads. As the favorite spot in town for parkers — fellows and girls making out, caressing, or maybe just shyly talking — the Chasm was also a target for bushwhackers, wise guys who got their lacks out of driving into the area with swiveling spotlights and squealing tires, scaring hell out of everybody. Obie and Laurie clutched each other as the intruding car swept past, the spotlights spraying the air with brilliance. The only compensation was that Laurie was close to him again, her warm and puking body melting into his. Darkness enveloped them completely as the car roared away and his mouth sought hers. His hand also moved in the dark, feeling the soft flesh he loved.

The delicious game again.

" Now, Obie. . " Warningly.

" Once more. "

" Obie. . "

" Please. A ten count. "

" Obie. "

God, how he loved her. Wanted her. Needed her.

" No, " she said, finality in her voice, removing his hand in a swift, impatient motion.

It was at moments like this that doubts riddled him. Did she really love him? Was she really doing this for his own good? Theirs had been a whirlwind romance, four weeks of movies and burgers at McDonald's and these sweet tortures here at the Chasm. But he realized he knew very little about Laurie Gundarson. Had never met her mother and father, few of her friends. As if he was a secret part of her life. Plenty of time later for introductions, she'd said. Or was she afraid to bring him into her life? Obie drew comfort by telling himself that she wanted him exclusively for her own.

He watched lovingly as she tucked in her blouse, patted her hair. Thank God for Laurie. She balanced the lousy things in his life, like his visit to Bay Bannister this afternoon. Watching Ray's face collapse like a folded tent in the wind when Obie had told him about the role he must play in Archie's new assignment.

" It's getting late, " Laurie said, hands folded in her lap.

" I know, " he said, resigned.

She could be ardent and loving one moment, prim and practical the next.

He started the car, wishing they could drive away together and keep going, never stopping, away from Monument and Trinity, Archie Costello and the Vigils.

Carter hit the wall with his fist. Bare-knuckled, unprotected by the nineteen-ounce glove he wore in the boxing ring. The impact reverberated throughout his body like an earthquake, his head snapping a bit as his fist crashed against the plaster wall. The pain, however, was sweet and fulfilling. The action had responded to Carter's need to strike out At something, someone. Until recently Carter had drifted with the Vigils, letting things happen, indifferent, because he'd had his boxing and football. There had been a time, in fact, when he had been amused by Archie's assignments. But no more. He knew that he would never forgive Archie for the chocolate assignment, the result of which had been Brother Leon's edict disbanding the boxing team. And now the Bishop's visit.

Carter looked around the gym, this place he'd always loved. The camaraderie of the boxing squad, the smell of the place — that sweet-sour aroma of liniment and sweat-soaked clothing — and the equipment, the big bag and all the beautiful paraphernalia of the sport. Gone now. Surveying the gym, the empty bleachers, the basketball nets hanging limply at either end, the absence of the boxing ring, dismantled and gone forever, Carter felt his anger returning, mixed with sadness. All gone because of Archie Costello.

He hit the wall again, despite his bruised knuckles, and the hit felt good. He was striking back at more than Archie. Striking at the entire world. Because the world looked at him and saw the jock, the rugged football guard, the slugger in the ring. Not only the world but the officials in charge of admissions at Daleton College, which specialized in physical education. Made to order for a guy like Carter. Carter had gunned for a scholarship but had been unsuccessful. He had not yet even received an acceptance. Which kept him dangling on a string. Okay, he was not a brain, but his SAT scores were adequate. He made the honor roll now and then. But nobody saw beyond his jock image. Was there anything else to see? Yes. There was. Had to be. He had to show people, had to show everybody he was more than just a jock, an ex-jock, in fact, who stood around and did nothing.

" I've got to call Obie, " he said to no one in particular. Nobody in the gym at this time of day. Lately he'd fallen into the habit of talking aloud to himself when no one was around.

He called Obie from the telephone booth in the main corridor on the first floor across from Brother Leon's office. The phone book had long ago disappeared, and he had to call information for Obie's number. The door of the booth had been torn off and never replaced. As the phone rang, Carter glanced around the corridor, his eye coming to rest on the trophy case farther down the hall. Looking at the case always made him feel good.

When Obie answered, his voice sounded thin and reedy. Carter had never spoken to him on the phone before.

" What's up? " Obie asked.

" The Bishop's visit, that's what's up, " Carter said, plunging in. " I think it's a mistake, Obie. "

Silence at the other end of the line.

" Archie's going too far with this one, " Carter went on. " It's too much, Obie. "

" With Archie it's always too much, " Obie said " Haven't you gotten used to that by now? "

" It's okay when he confines it to tie school. But this new deal involves the diocese, for crissake. And the priests in town who always come as guests. It's a mistake, Obie. Archie's setting out to humiliate the Bishop. It's big trouble. Heap big trouble. "

" What do you want to do about it? " Obie asked.

" I don't know. "

" You're not going to make Archie change his mind, that's for sure. "

Carter paused, took a deep breath, wondering how far he could go with Obie but following his instincts, the instincts that told him Obie was not exactly buddy-buddy with Archie these days. Not like the old days.

Carter plunged again. " I wasn't thinking of changing Archie's mind. "

" Who were you thinking of? "

" Brother Leon. "

He heard Obie's sharp intake of breath. He looked around at the same tune, as if invoking Leon's name could cause him to appear. But the corridor was deserted.

" We've got to get Leon to call off the Bishop's visit, " Carter said.

More silence at the other end of the line. Finally Obie asked: " And how do we do that, Carter? " Sarcastically.

" That's what I want to talk to you about. I mean, two heads are better than one, right? "

" Sometimes. "

" Sometimes? " Carter asked, worried suddenly. Maybe he had misjudged Obie. Maybe Obie's first loyalty was to Archie, after all. " Am I talking out of line, Obie? Do you agree with me that Archie's plan for the visit is a mistake? "

" Okay, okay, " Obie said, impatient, anger in his voice. " Look, I'm sick and tired of Archie Costello and his assignments too. But leading a mutiny is something else. "

" I'm not talking about a mutiny, for crissakes, " Carter said. " I'm talking about a quiet little plan to stop the Bishop's visit. "

He heard a long-drawn-out sigh.

" I don't know, Carter. I don't like getting mixed up with Leon. Maybe there's some other way—"

" Think about it, " Carter said.

" I'll do that. " Pause. " Look, I've got to go. I'll talk to you later. " Hurried, as if he couldn't wait to hang up.

Carter frowned as he replaced the receiver on the hook. He listened to see if his coin would be returned. No luck. He knew now he could not depend on Obie. Obie had his own problems: he also had. Laurie Gundarson. Carter realized that he could not depend on anyone. Only himself.

Stepping out of the booth, he was aware of the emptiness all around him. Enjoying the sense of aloneness, Carter walked toward the trophy case with the gleaming silver and gold statuettes testifying to Trinity's triumphs on the football field and in the boxing ring. His triumphs, really.

He was hypnotized by the glow of the trophies, which almost shimmered as the corridor lights caressed them. Even if he never got to college, never won another championship, they would remain symbols of his accomplishment. Nothing, nobody, could ever take that away.

Not even Archie Costello.

The eyes, of course. Mostly it was the eyes. They followed him around the room, like those eyes in certain paintings that haunt the viewer. Jerry looked like a figure in a painting, his face expressionless, as if caught by an artist and frozen forever. After the first few minutes of sitting across from him, unnerved by the silence in the room and those terrible eyes, the Goober had started wandering around, glancing out the window, stooping to relace his sneaker, anything to avoid that terrible, empty stare.

But it really wasn't empty. It was like the difference between a vacant house where the windows are shuttered and boarded up and a house where someone might be peeking out of the windows when you're not looking, where a billowing curtain might hide prying eyes. Crazy, Goober thought, as he looked up from his sneakers, crouched on the floor. He told himself to cool it, take it easy, start from the beginning. This was his friend, Jerry Renault. They had played football together, had run the streets together after school although Jerry had had no interest in the track team. They had shared a lot of stuff. Like the chocolates. The goddam chocolates.

Goober was determined to try again.

" How about Canada, Jerry? Did you have a good time up there? " The question sounded stupid to Goober — Jerry had been sent to Canada to recuperate. How could he have had a good time up there?

" Yes, " Jerry said. The word fell between them like a heavy stone.

That was the problem. Jerry wasn't mute or completely silent, but he answered Goober's questions in monosyllables, squeezing out one-word answers that left Goober dangling. How are you, Jerry? Fine. Glad to be back home? Yes. And asked no questions of his own. Did not seem at all interested in Goober. Looked at him, in fact, as if Goober was a stranger. At one point he was afraid that Jerry would lean forward and ask: Who the hell are you, anyway?

He wished Jerry's father had let him know what to expect when he'd arrived at the house. In response to Goober's inquiry—" How's he doing? " — Mr. Renault had merely shrugged, his face tightening as if his flesh had been drawn taut from behind his skull by invisible hands. Jerry's father was a mild, soft-spoken man who seemed to drift away even as you spoke to him. An air of sadness pervaded him and the apartment as well. More than sadness. The apartment seemed lifeless, like a museum. Goober knew without any doubt that the flowers on the dining-room table were artificial, fake. He had the feeling that Jerry and his father occupied the apartment the way mannequins inhabited rooms of furniture in a department store.

The Goober had forced himself to turn off the morbid thoughts as Jerry's father led him to a den at the far end of the apartment. At first glance Jerry looked fine. No signs of the beating he had absorbed, his skin pale but unblemished. Sitting in a rocking chair, he didn't look disabled but seemed fragile, sitting stiffly, as though he might fall apart if he relaxed.

" Hi, Jerry, good to see you, " Goober said, hoping Jerry didn't catch the false heartiness.

Jerry smiled remotely, said nothing, offered nothing.

That's when the one-sided conversation began, Goober like an inquisitor and Jerry like a reluctant witness, answering grudgingly or not at all.

Settling down in a chair across from Jerry now, Goober thought: One last try and then I'll go. Actually he was eager to leave, to get out of Jerry's sight. He realized that Jerry's reluctance to talk or to communicate probably stemmed from Goober's betrayal last fall. He had betrayed Jerry, hadn't he? He had allowed Jerry to face Archie Costello and Emile Janza and the Vigils all by himself. Had gone, finally, to help his friend when it was too late, Jerry bloody and beaten and broken, urging the Goober in painful gasps not to defy the Vigils or anybody else. Don't disturb the universe, Jerry had whispered out of his agony. Don't make waves.

Okay, one last try:

" Trinity's still the lousy school it's always been, " the Goober said, immediately disgusted with himself. He had vowed not to bring up Trinity unless Jerry specifically asked about the school. But, desperate, he found himself going on stupidly about the place, meaningless stuff about courses and report cards, avoiding certain topics, picking his way through the monologue like someone avoiding broken glass while walking barefoot.

Surprisingly, Jerry seemed interested, eyes a bit brighter, head tilted slightly, rocking gently, long fingers gripping the arms of the chair.

The Goober decided to take a chance, to say what he had waited all these months to say:

" I'm sorry, Jerry, about last fall. " Taking a deep breath, plunging on. " I let you down. Let you face Archie Costello and Emile Janza and the Vigils by yourself. "

Jerry's hands flew up as if holding off an attack. He began to shake his head, eyes troubled now, not vacant or staring but shining with — what? Sadness? More than that. Resentment, hate?

" Don't. . " Jerry said. The word as if dredged up from deep inside of him. " I don't want to talk about that. . "

" I have to talk about it, " the Goober went on.

Jerry began to shake his head furiously, rising from the chair as if in panic, as if the building had suddenly caught fire. Tears threatened his eyes.

" That's all done with now, " he said. " It's got nothing to do with me now. " He turned away, walked to the window, and the Goober sensed that he was making a tremendous effort to control himself. Jerry faced him again and Goober was struck once more by how pale and fragile he seemed.

" I didn't invite you here, " Jerry said, in control again, no tears visible, chin tilted a bit, defiantly. " My father did. " He seemed to be groping for words. " I. . " And turned away again, shutting out Goober as he stared out the window.

" I'm still sorry, " the Goober said. Having to say it all, like confession, not expecting absolution but needing to confess. " That was terrible. What I did last fall. I just wanted you to know. "

Jerry nodded, without looking back at him, still concentrating on something outside the building, still unreachable, still looking frail and vulnerable. Which heaped further guilt on the Goober.

" Better go now, " Jerry said. Sounding weary, spent. He turned around, facing Goober, but avoided his eyes.

" Right, " Goober said. " Don't want to tire you out. " Pretending everything was normal. " I've got an appointment with my dentist. " Throwing in an easy lie — was that another betrayal? " I'll come back again sometime. " Never in a million years.

Jerry's father appeared at the doorway as if summoned by a bell the Goober had not heard.

" Going already, Goober? " he asked, false, voice off key, fake.

Goober nodded turned back to say good-bye to Jerry, hoping that Jerry might say: Stay awhile, Goob, stick around. But not really wanting him to say that. Hoping Jerry might also say: You didn't betray me, Goober. And even if you did, I understand I'm still your friend. Knowing those were impossible words for Jerry to say.

Jerry said nothing. Merely stood there, looking troubled and abandoned as if wounded somehow, although there was no visible mark on him.

" I've got a dentist's appointment, " Goober heard himself say inanely to Mr. Renault.

" Of course, of course, " Mr. Renault replied gently, understandingly. " I'm sorry. . "

Sorry for what?

" So long, Jerry, " Goober said.

Jerry lifted his hand in a limp salute, still avoiding his eyes, and looking somewhere beyond Goober.

The Goober got the hell out of there.

Later he ran the streets of Monument, pounding the pavement, not the leisurely pace of his usual stride but a frantic tempo, not singing as he sometimes did, lungs bursting now, full of pain and hurt but accepting the pain and the hurt Like a sacrifice. Like the psalm they recited at mass sometimes: I offer up myself as an evening sacrifice.