Part Three 7 страница

Carter then closed the box with a clap of finality, looked at Obie doubtfully, unconvinced the trick would work. Because now there were only four marbles in the box. All black, of course. But two missing. Wouldn't Archie notice that two were missing when he put his hand into the box to pick a marble? No, Obie had explained, because of the illusion. All magic is illusion, that's what Ray Bannister had said. A magician guided the audience to see what the magician wanted them to see, made them think they were seeing one thing while another surprise awaited them. Archie thought there were six marbles in the box; thus, he would believe they were there. We can't go wrong, Obie had said. But now he was feeling nervous and tried to cover up with a weak smile. He regained his composure looking at Archie, letting the full force of his anger and hate overcome him. Archie, you bastard, you are about to get the black marble.

But first the meeting and Tubs Casper standing there, the bathroom scale at his feet. Poor Tubs, bloated and miserable, perspiring as usual.

" Step up, Ernest, " Archie advised.

Tubs stepped on the scale that Bunting, always the brownnose, had brought from home. He felt immense, ponderous, and slightly nauseated as well. Ashamed, too. Ashamed? Yes, for following Archie's orders, eating like a madman, having, for once, an excuse to eat, making a pig of himself. Ashamed and guilty and, more terrible than anything: enjoying himself.

" Read the numbers, Bunting, " Archie commanded.

" One hundred ninety-nine, " Bunting sang out, bending over the scale. " Four pounds over. "

" Terrific, " Archie said, smiling his approval. " You look great, Ernest. What you have to admit is that you are fat. Don't fight it Follow Archie's advice: Eat and be happy. Right, Ernest? "

" Right, " Tubs echoed, wanting to end the ordeal and get out of there. And thinking: I'm not going to be fat all my life. I'll go on a diet. Curb my appetite. Get nice and trim. Maybe even ring Rita's doorbell again.

" That's all, Ernest, " Archie said, voice flat, indicating his sudden uninterest in Ernest Casper and his weight problem. " Send in Croteau on your way out. . "

Tubs stepped down from the scale, slowly, deliberately. He'd show Archie Costello and everybody else what he could do: lose weight, slim down. He marched to the doorway, turned, and paused, knowing he looked ridiculous now but later a different Tubs Casper would be seen. First things first, though: get out of here and upstairs to his locker. Where a box of Ring Dings waited. They would satisfy his craving, relieve his tension, and then he would map his plans for dieting. Beginning tomorrow. He managed a smile for the benefit of the Vigils, a smile that said: Someday you'll see a new Tubs Casper.

Obie watched him as he departed. Poor Tubs. Obscene in all that fat. Another score to settle with Archie Costello: what he had done to Tubs Casper.

Croteau entered, wearing his baseball uniform, for crying out loud. Sweat stains at his armpits. A thin kid, a shortstop, with long arms hanging apelike at his sides. Poor Croteau. Worried looking, of course. Everybody summoned before the Vigils wore worried looks.

Archie proceeded to outline the rules as usual, in his friendliest fashion. Nothing personal, Croteau. A Trinity tradition, Croteau.

" You are scheduled to play the Fool, " Archie ordained.

Croteau swallowed hard, his chin almost meeting his chest.

" Don't look so worried, Croteau, " Archie said pleasantly. " You won't get hurt. You'll have the Water Game. And the Sign, of course. . a little fun. . and a bit of magic. . "

Suddenly Archie seemed to grow bored with the entire proceedings, looking at Croteau impersonally, as if he had strayed in here by mistake. He stifled a yawn, sniffed the stale air of the storage room.

Turning to Carter, he said: " The gavel. "

Carter banged the gavel automatically, his eyes seeking Obie. But Obie was looking elsewhere, looking at nothing.

" Any other business? " Archie asked diffidently.

Obie snapped his notebook shut. " That's it, " he said briskly.

Archie gestured toward Carter. " The box, " he commanded.

Were Carter's hands trembling as he drew the box from the shelf and held it aloft? Obie couldn't tell. He blinked as Archie walked slowly toward Carter. Tension gathered in the room, all eyes fastened on Archie. Croteau regarded the box with a mute appeal in his eyes, knowing that the proper marble drawn by Archie could deliver him from the humiliations of Fair Day.

Archie reached into the box, pulled out a marble, tossed it carelessly into the air. The black marble caught the light. The marble like a streak of black lightning sizzling through the air.

Startled, Archie failed to catch the marble as it fell. It bounced off the tips of his fingers and clattered to the floor, rolling crazily across the concrete surface, lost somewhere in the shadows.

" Jesus, " someone murmured.

Not a prayer or a curse but an expression of awe and wonder. As if a world had just been destroyed. And that's exactly what had happened. Archie's world, shattered, annihilated by a rolling black marble.

The Vigil members looked at each other in bewilderment. Archie was not supposed to choose the black marble, just as the sun was not supposed to rise in the west. Logical, a fact of life. But logic had been demolished. And all eyes turned to Archie as if he could do something, anything, to show them that what they had seen had not really happened.

Archie smiled at the gathering. But Obie had never seen such a smile. Without mirth or joy or warmth, an arrangement of lips, as if an undertaker had fashioned flesh into a grotesque parody of a smile. But Archie's eyes did not smile. The eyes pinned Obie as if Obie were an insect struggling to be free. Held and caught, Obie stared helplessly at Archie. Then the spell broke. The smile on Archie's lips was suddenly the smile of someone who had just lost a bet or a fortune, gracious enough to accept defeat without whimpering.

" See you at the fair, " Archie said, looking directly at Obie.

He turned back to the assembly of Vigils.

" Dismissed, " Archie called.

For a split second, nobody moved, nobody dared move, and then there was the thunder of sound and action as everybody tried to get out of there at the same time.

See you at the fair.

As Obie joined the throng rushing toward the single doorway, he wondered whether those words were a statement of fact, a promise, or a threat.

They picked up Janza's trail at the Sweet Shoppe where he was operating, business as usual. Which meant that he was going from booth to booth and table to table, intimidating, threatening, and extorting, not always in that order. Intimidating by merely standing at the edge of a booth and glaring at the occupants, inspecting them up and down.

Janza's presence was always a threat. Violent vibrations emanated from him. He seemed liable to explode into violence without warning or any reason at all, and that's why animated conversations stopped when he came into view, why kids turned half away from him or refused to meet his little pig eyes.

Now as he strolled around the Sweet Shoppe, pausing here and there, " borrowing" a dollar from a nervous sophomore whose name he had forgotten, a dollar the sophomore would never see again, Janza was in his element. Swaggering, strutting, knowing the effect his presence had on other people, and enjoying it all.

Jerry and the Goober watched from outside the store, standing in the shadows. The Goober stood on one foot, then the other, whistling softly, impatient, uneasy. Jerry merely stood there, watching Janza's every move, craning his neck now and then to keep Janza in sight.

After a while Jerry said: " Here he comes. "

" I hope you know what you're doing, " Goober said.

" Don't worry, " Jerry replied.

Actually, Jerry did not know what course he would pursue with Janza, what steps he would take. It was all too hazy in his mind to explain to the Goober. All he knew was that he must confront the animal, had known this from the moment he had spotted Janza across the street from his apartment.

When Janza left the Sweet Shoppe, slamming the door and rattling the window, a typical Emile Janza exit, he began walking south toward the downtown district. Jerry and the Goober fell in behind him, keeping a distance of about thirty yards between them.

" If he turns around, he'll see us, " the Goober whispered.

" Good, " Jerry said.

They followed Janza down West Street across Park to Elm and into the area of the Apples, a new development, so called because all the streets were named for apples. McIntosh Street, Baldwin, Delicious. Imagine telling people you live at 20 Delicious Street, Jerry thought, half giggling, knowing the giggle came from nervousness.

" I wonder where he's going, " the Goober said. " He doesn't live around here. "

Another neighborhood now: decayed buildings, sagging apartment houses, littered streets, ashcans at the curb. Sudden yawning alleys, like dark forbidding caves.

Janza turned a corner and they quickened their steps, anxious not to lose him. Old-fashioned streetlights threw feeble light on the street, emphasizing the many shadowed areas. Janza was not in sight.

Jerry and the Goober stood there, puzzled. The Goober was anxious to get away. He felt somehow responsible for Jerry's safety. Jerry kicked at a telephone pole.

" Hi, fellas. "

Janza's voice came out of the shadows of a nearby alley.

" You think I didn't know you were following me? " he asked, leaning against a wall, enjoying himself as usual. " Jesus, Renault, you're a glutton for punishment, know that? "

" You're the glutton, Janza, " Jerry said, pleasantly surprised at how calm he was, heartbeat normal, everything normal.

Emile stepped out of the shadows. Anger glinted in his eyes. Mouth turned down. Nobody talked to Emile Janza that way, least of all this scrawny freshman.

" You always were a wise guy, Renault. That's why I had to beat you up last year. That's why I've got to beat you up again. " He scratched his crotch. " Welcome to my parlor, said the spider to the fly, " he added, half bowing, indicating the alley behind him. " See? I know poetry, too. "

Poetry? " The Spider and the Fly"? If the situation hadn't been so dangerous, the Goober might have laughed. Instead, he urged: " Let's go, Jerry. . "

Jerry shook his head. " I'm not going anywhere. "

" Hit the road, kid, " Janza said to the Goober. " I got no gripe with you. Your buddy here. He's the one—"

" I'm not leaving, " the Goober said, hoping the quaver in his voice wasn't discernible.

Janza stepped forward threateningly. " Yes you are. "

" Go ahead, Goob, " Jerry said. " Wait around the corner. "

The Goober stood his ground, stubbornly, shaking his head.

Emile Janza's foot shot out, caught Goober in the groin, the pain excruciating as it spread through his lower body, nausea developing in his stomach. He felt himself capsizing, legs buckling.

As Jerry turned to help his friend in distress, Janza struck him from his blind side, a blow to the cheek that touched off an explosion of lights in Jerry's eyes. He raised his hands to his face and knew immediately that he had made a mistake. Two mistakes. The first mistake was not expecting Janza to strike without warning. The second mistake was to leave his stomach unguarded. The blow to the stomach was soft. Janza's fist sank into Jerry's flesh almost tenderly, but an extra thrust made Jerry cave almost in two. He heard the Goober retching beside him where he was kneeling on the ground.

Janza stepped back, smiling, fists up and ready. " Come on, Renault, " he said, retreating, beckoning Jerry into the alley. " Your friend's not interested anymore, is he? "

And Jerry saw now what he must do. Cheek still dancing with pain, his intestines twisted sickeningly inside him, he stalked toward Janza, determined now, not unsure or uncertain anymore. Arms at his sides, looking defenseless but knowing where his strength was, where it had to be, he advanced toward Janza.

Two or three lights flashed on in windows facing the alley, spraying the narrow passage with light. A window went up. Jerry had a sense now of spectators, people watching the scene, elbows on sills. Nobody said anything. Nobody cheered or booed.

" Put 'em up, Renault, " Janza said, his own fists ready at chest level.

Jerry shook his head.

" I don't put them up. " Voice steady.

" You afraid to fight? "

" You're the one who fights, Janza. " Taking a breath. " Not me. "

" Okay, " Janza said. " It's your funeral, buddy. "

Jerry braced himself, remembering last fall, when Janza had struck him in the boxing ring, but both of them then at the mercy of Archie Costello, puppets playing roles Archie had created. This time, however, Jerry was on his own two feet, by choice.

Janza hit him twice in succession, both blows to the face, first his jaw, then his right cheek. Jerry's head swiveled instinctively with the blows, which took some of the sting out of Janza's fists.

Janza paused, setting his feet again, squinting, taking aim. He faked a blow to Jerry's face, hit him instead in the stomach, but his fist did not land with full force. Grunting in disgust at his lack of efficiency, he lashed out at Jerry's face and body, a series of one-two blows. Jerry stood his ground. Tasted blood in his mouth, knew one eye had closed, absorbed the pain but found it bearable. And surprised by the fact that he was not only on his feet but steady, having taken a pace or two backward but solidly planted there.

Janza's breathing tore at the silence of the alley. He looked up, taking a deep breath, saw the scattered faces at the windows, bellowed: " What are you looking at? " And lashed out again, but not looking at Jerry as his fists flew. A glancing blow, Jerry's right cheek absorbing it. Jerry was surprised to find how strong, impregnable really, cheeks were. Hard bones, not much flesh. But one of his teeth had been jarred loose, and the taste of blood was stronger in his mouth now.

" What's the matter with you, Renault? " Janza asked, arm cocked, fist ready. But pausing, his breath ragged. " Why don't you fight? "

Jerry shook his head, beckoned with his hands, the gesture saying, Come on, hit me again.

Janza hit him again. A furious telling blow that sent Jerry back three paces, his knees turning liquid, sending a sheet of flame up the right side of his head, snapping his neck. He fell against the brick building but pulled himself away from it. Another blow followed before Jerry could recover and establish himself solidly on his feet again. This one to the chest. Then another that almost missed his jaw but scraped his ear, tearing his earlobe a bit.

Wobbly, weaving, Jerry remained on his feet, his body arranging itself somehow to meet the blows and absorb them.

" Hit back, will ya? " Janza said, pausing again, breath still ragged. Was the great Emile Janza out of shape? Running out of steam? Had he used up his best blows?

" I am hitting back, " Jerry said.

" You crazy? " Janza yelled, outrage in his voice. Or frustration, maybe. " This is for the birds—"

" Come on, Janza, " Jerry said, lips swollen, that loose tooth beginning to throb, voice bubbling with either saliva or blood. He swallowed both, not wanting to spit, not wanting Janza to see his blood.

" You're nuts, know that? " Janza cried, arms at his sides. " You're crazy. . "

Jerry smiled at him. He knew it must be a grotesque and pathetic smile. But a smile all the same.

" Tell you what I'm going to do, Renault, " Janza said, calmer now, having caught his breath, rubbing his fists together, massaging his knuckles. " I'm letting you go. For now. You've had enough. I've had enough. But every time I see you — I don't care where it is — I'm gonna beat you up. So keep your ass away from me. . "

A solitary person clapped his hands at one of the windows, a hollow pathetic sound in the alley.

Janza walked toward the building to his right, leaning against it, sucking his knuckles, studying Jerry. He felt drained, something missing, not feeling horny, nothing sexual in his combat with Renault. Like he had lost something. But what? And he hated that smile on Renault's face. Hated what that smile said. What did it say? He didn't want to think about it. Christ, his knuckles hurt. He wanted to get out of here.

" Remember what I said, Renault, " Janza threatened, pushing past Jerry, and then over his shoulder: " Keep out of my way. . "

Renault watched him go. He looked around for the Goober. He had forgotten about Goob. He stumbled to the corner, saw Goober leaning against the mailbox. Still clutching his groin.

" Jesus, Jerry, " he said. " I'm sorry. I should have—"

" Forget it, " Jerry said.

" You look terrible. I let you down again. The thing I'm best at. "

" No, " Jerry said, placing his hand on the Goober's mouth. " It's something I had to do. And I had to do it without you. "

They turned and watched Janza's retreating figure, still swaggering as he walked, arms swinging, shoulders moving as if to some unheard bully's music.

" Know what, Goober? "

" What? "

" I'm not going back to Canada next fall. "

" You're not? " Feeling miserable, never felt so lousy in his life, worse than last year during the chocolate sale.

" I'm not going to Monument High, either. "

" Where are you going, then? " Goober asked, automatically responding. Am I doomed to let Jerry Renault down forever?

" I'm going back to Trinity. "

Jerry's words struck Goober like blows.

" That's crazy, Jerry. Why do you want to do something like that? "

" I don't know. It's hard to explain. " He limped painfully as they walked, had somehow wrenched his knee during the fight without realizing it. His knee felt swollen, twice its size, but he refused to look down. He needed to concentrate on what he must tell Goober. " Just now, Janza was beating me up. But he wasn't winning. I mean, you can get beat up and still not lose. You can look like a loser but don't have to be one. " Saw Goober's puzzled expression and felt frustrated because he couldn't make him see what he knew was the truth. " Janza's the loser, Goober. He'll be a loser all his life. He beat me up but he couldn't beat me. . "

" It's not only Emile Janza, " the Goober said. " It's the school itself. Brother Leon, who lets the Vigils and guys like Archie Costello get away with murder. Okay, Archie Costello's graduating, but somebody else will take his place. And what about the chocolates, Jerry? There'll be another chocolate sale. And what will you do? "

" Sell them, " Jerry said. " I'll sell their chocolates. Every stupid box. " The pain of Janza's blows still resounded in his body, and he knew somehow that the answer to everything was in the echo of that pain. And in the fact that Janza had walked away. " They want you to fight, Goober. And you can really lose only if you fight them. That's what the goons want. And guys like Archie Costello. You have to outlast them, that's all. "

" Even if they kill you? "

" Even if they kill you. "

The Goober kept shaking his head as he walked along beside Jerry. He didn't understand what Jerry was talking about, just as he hadn't understood why Jerry hadn't sold the chocolates last fall. All he knew was that he didn't want to return to Trinity. And if Jerry did, then he'd have to return, as well. And he sure as hell didn't want to do that. Couldn't. From the moment that Jerry's father had called him a few weeks go, everything had gone wrong. Tracking down Emile Janza. The fight in the alley and Janza's kick that had immobilized him, leaving Jerry to face Janza alone. Now this: Jerry returning to Trinity. All Goober wanted was to run. Get on the team at Monument High. Find a girl, maybe. No complications, no fights or talks about fighting. Or winning. Or losing.

" I'm not going back to Trinity, " he said stubbornly.

Jerry glanced at his friend, saw the utter misery on his face, as if he were being tortured, and realized suddenly how his decision to return to Trinity was affecting him. He felt stricken with guilt, inflicting guilt on his friend, Goober. And knew instantly what he must do.

" Look, Goober, okay, I'm not going back. Forget what I said. I guess that was just crazy talk. "

Goober looked at him guardedly. " You sure? "

Jerry nodded. " I'm sure. "

The Goober relaxed visibly, slowed his pace.

" Good, Jerry. For a minute there—"

" I know. It was crazy. " But it isn't crazy. I'm going back. To Trinity.

" Nothing to be gained by going back. . "

" Right. " Wrong. A lot to be gained but not sure what. His tooth was hurting now, killing him, and he felt blood gathering on his gums, the taste warm and sweet on his tongue. And his knee still hurt. He hurt all over, but a clean hurt.

" Summer's coming. We'll have a great summer. Running, swimming. . " The Goober's voice vibrated with excitement as he thought of good times coming.

Jerry knew what he had to do. Break off with the Goober, end their relationship. Gradually, over the course of the summer, so that when next September came and he returned to Trinity, the Goober wouldn't know about it. Or care. Because by then Jerry would be a stranger. Jerry felt rotten about that, his only friend becoming a stranger.

For a moment Jerry wavered, poised between decisions, overcome by a sadness, drenching him with — what? — loneliness, maybe. Longing for the peace of the Canadian countryside and his uncle and aunt and the Talking Church. Or maybe Monument High with Goober as his friend. Trying out for football, the snap of the ball, calling signals, the pass. . good-bye to that. For a while. He knew somehow he would make his way back to Canada. And especially to the Talking Church. And beyond that to something else. Something he could not even consider now. But first he had to return to Trinity.

" We'll have a great summer, " Jerry said, hoping the words did not sound as false to Goober as they sounded to himself.

He ran. Through darkened streets, taking occasional walkers or strollers by surprise, his feet on the pavement keeping time to his beating heart.

He heard the sound when he was a half mile from his home. At first he thought the sound was behind him. Or ahead. And then realized it came from inside him. A sound like something wounded. Or crying. Or maybe sobbing. Him? Yes, him.

This little piggy went to market. .

When he was just a little kid, his mother used to recite the nursery rhyme to him, every night at bedtime. And later when he began running, he would run to the rhythm of songs he knew. And sometimes that old nursery rhyme.

And this little piggy stayed home.

Not wanting to think about Jerry Renault and the way he had betrayed him again tonight, groveling on the sidewalk, clutching his stomach in pain. Not wanting to think that he had done it again. And knowing, too, that Jerry was going back to Trinity. Pretending for Goober's sake that he wasn't, but going. And the Goober not wanting to go. He'd had enough of Trinity. Of being put to the test. Of betrayal. He'd break off from Jerry, a bit at a time this summer, little by little. Because, damn it, he did not want to go back to Trinity. Wouldn't. Couldn't. He didn't want to betray him again.

And he sang silently as he ran:

This little piggy cried wee, wee, wee, all the way home.

Wee, wee, wee. .

For Obie, at this moment, it was not Fair Day or Fear Day but Fool Day.

And Archie Costello was the Fool, being led now across the campus to the parking lot where the Water Game had been installed, Obie surveying the scene with a kind of satisfaction he had never known before. If only he still had Laurie and could share with her this beautiful moment and all the other beautiful moments to come: Archie as the Fool. Archie walked with his head held high, despite the Sign on the back of his white jersey, block letters spelling out KICK ME. The Fool was required to wear the Sign throughout the day and students understood that it was proper to kick the wearer. One of the traditions of Fair Day, a mild enough diversion allowed by the brothers. No one had yet kicked Archie. Ah, but the day was young, barely an hour old.

Obie watched at a discreet distance as Archie arrived at the Water Came. His arrival didn't cause a big stir; too much other activity was going on. The campus was thronged with parents and students and smaller children. Music blared over a loudspeaker, clashing with the tinny sound of a calliope. Squeals of laughter and delight came from the merry-go-round. Clerks dispensed amazing amounts of pizza and submarine sandwiches and soda pop. Booths with all kinds of merchandise, from handmade crafts to home-baked goods, did a thriving business. All profits for the Trinity School Fund. Thus, Archie Costello's drama was only a small part of the entire scene. But an important drama for most of the students at Trinity. Nothing their mothers or fathers or younger brothers or sisters knew about as they participated in the day's activities, but important to the Trinity student body.

Archie did not protest as he was directed to the Water Came chair. The arrangement was simple. The chair was situated above a pool of water. The price was one dollar for three balls. The balls were thrown at a bull's-eye target to the left of the chair. If the center of the target was hit by a ball, an unseen mechanism dropped the chair into the water, submerging the occupant. The occupant at this moment was Archie Costello. Neat and spotless in his chino pants and white jersey, the KICK ME sign hidden from view, Archie sat quietly, feet dangling, his Nikes almost touching the water. He waited patiently, looking at the crowd with cool, appraising eyes.

" Okay, okay, a dollar for three balls, " the hawker called, juggling the balls as he talked. His face was sunburned, his scalp beneath his thinning gray hair also fiery red. His voice was hoarse, challenging.

Obie detached himself from his vantage point at the front steps and made his way closer to the game. He wanted full measure, wanted to hear the splash of water when Archie dropped, wanted to see him soaked and struggling in the pool.

" Let's go, let's go, " the hawker urged.

Nobody went forward to buy the balls. The crowd hung back. While Archie sat, silent and unmoving, patient, waiting.

" What d'ya say, kids, " the hawker yelled. " Not only do you dunk the victim, but you win a teddy bear for the girl friend. C'mon, kids, step right up. . "

Nobody stepped right up. Obie studied the gathering, puzzled, disappointed. He nudged John Consalvo, who stood beside him. Consalvo was a silent member of the Vigils, someone who never questioned a decision, always carried out orders.

" Here's a buck, Consalvo, " Obie said, handing him a dollar bill. " Get in there and throw the balls. . "

" Not me, " Consalvo said, backing away.

" Why not? It's fun time on Trinity campus. . "

Consalvo shook his head, his black-olive eyes shining with apprehension. " I'm not throwing any balls at Archie Costello. "

" You don't throw the balls at him. You throw them at the target and Archie Costello gets dunked—"

Consalvo had backed away several feet now. Having achieved what he considered a safe distance, he said: " I'm not dunking any Archie Costello. "

A chorus of shouts drew Obie's attention back to the scene. A sophomore by the name of Bracken had stepped up, paid his money, and taken the three balls. He turned to the crowd, flexing his muscles comically. The crowd responded, a chorus of cheers and catcalls. Obie added his voice to the vocal fray.

Bracken was one of the wise guys. Loved dirty jokes, sly pokes in the ribs of other kids, tripping people in the corridor. Always sneaky, though, then putting on an innocent act.

He faced Archie, holding one of the balls in the palm of his right hand. As if weighing it. He looked over his shoulder at the shouting crowd, and as he turned to Archie again, the volume of shouts and calls died down. The immediate area had suddenly become a pocket of stillness. Bracken studied Archie for what seemed a long time while Archie sat there imperviously, untouched by it all, looking merely curious, apparently wondering what Bracken was about to do. As if it had nothing to do with him, really.