His father awakened, as if slapped from sleep by an invisible hand. The vision vanished and Jerry leaped to his feet.
“Hi, Jerry,” his father said, rubbing his eyes, sitting up. His hair wasn’t even mussed. But then how could a stiff crew cut get mussed up? “Have a good day, Jerry?”
His father’s voice restored normalcy. “Okay, I guess. Another practice. One of these days, I’ll get a pass off.”
“Fine.”
“How was your day, Dad?”
“Fine.”
“That’s good.”
“Mrs. Hunter left us a casserole. Tuna fish. She said you liked it fine last time.”
Mrs. Hunter was the housekeeper. She spent every afternoon cleaning up the place and preparing some kind of evening meal for them. She was a gray-haired woman who constantly embarrassed Jerry because she insisted on tousling his hair and murmuring, “Child, child …” like he was a third grader or something.
“Hungry, Jerry? I can get it ready in five or ten minutes. Heat the oven and there it is …”
“Fine.”
He was throwing one of his father’s fines back at him although his father didn’t notice. That was his father’s favorite word—fine.
“Hey, Dad.”
“Yes, Jerry?”
“Were things really fine at the store today?”
His father paused near the kitchen doorway, puzzled. “What do you mean, Jerry?”
“I mean, every day I ask you how things are going and every day you say fine. Don’t you have some great days? Or rotten days?”
“A drug store’s pretty much the same all the time, Jerry. The prescriptions come in and we fill them—and that’s about it. You fill them carefully, taking all precautions, double-checking. It’s true what they say about doctors’ handwriting, but I’ve told you that before.” He was frowning now, as if searching his memory, trying to find something that would please the boy. “There was that attempted holdup three years ago—the time that drug addict came in like a wild man.”
Jerry made an effort to hide his shock and disappointment. Was that the most exciting thing that had ever happened to his father? That pathetic holdup try by a scared young kid brandishing a toy pistol? Was life that dull, that boring and humdrum for people? He hated to think of his own life stretching ahead of him that way, a long succession of days and nights that were fine, fine—not good, not bad, not great, not lousy, not exciting, not anything.
He followed his father into the kitchen. The casserole slid into the oven like a letter into a mailbox. Jerry wasn’t hungry suddenly, all appetite gone. “How about a salad?” his father asked. “I think there’s lettuce and stuff around.”
Jerry nodded automatically. Was this all there was to life, after all? You finished school, found an occupation, got married, became a father, watched your wife die, and then lived through days and nights that seemed to have no sunrises, no dawns and no dusks, nothing but a gray drabness. Or was he being fair to his father? To himself? Wasn’t each man different? Didn’t a man have a choice? How much did he know about his father, really?
“Hey, Dad.”
“Yes, Jerry?”
“Nothing.”
What could he ask him without sounding crazy? And he doubted whether his father would level with him, anyway. Jerry recalled an incident that had taken place years ago when his father worked in a neighborhood pharmacy, the kind of place where customers came to consult the druggist as if he possessed a doctor’s certificate. Jerry had been hanging around the store one afternoon when an old man entered, bent and gnarled with age. He had a pain in his right side. What should I do, Mister Druggist? What do you think it is? Look, press here, Mister Druggist, do you feel the swelling there? Is there a medicine to cure me? His father had been patient with the old man, listening sympathetically, nodding, stroking his cheek as if he were preparing a diagnosis. He finally convinced the old man to go see a doctor. But for a moment there, Jerry had seen his father acting the part of a physician—wise and professional and compassionate. A regular bedside manner, even there in a drugstore. After the old man’s departure, Jerry had asked, “Hey, Dad, did you ever want to be a doctor?” His father glanced up quickly and hesitated, taken by surprise. “No, of course not,” he said. But Jerry had caught something in his manner, in his tone of voice, that ran counter to his answer. When Jerry tried to pursue the subject, his father suddenly became very busy with prescriptions and stuff. And he never brought up the subject again.
Now, seeing his father presiding in the kitchen, getting supper, for crying out loud—such a far cry from being a doctor—and his wife dead and his only son full of doubts about him, his life so pale and gray, Jerry was plunged into sadness. The stove signaled—casserole ready.
Later, preparing for bed and sleep, Jerry looked at himself in the mirror, saw himself as that guy on the Common must have seen him the other day: Square Boy. Just as he had superimposed his mother’s image on his father’s face, now he could see his father’s face reflected in his own features. He turned away. He didn’t want to be a mirror of his father. The thought made him cringe. I want to do something, be somebody. But what? But what?
Football. He’d make the team. That was something. Or was it, really?
For no reason at all, he thought of Gregory Bailey.
CHAPTER
TEN
LATER, ARCHIE HAD TO CONCEDE that Brother Leon had dramatized the sale too vividly and therefore put himself and The Vigils and the entire school on the spot.
To begin with, he called a special assembly at chapel. Following prayers and a lot of other religious hoopla, he started talking about all that school spirit crap. But with a difference this time. Standing at the pulpit, he gave the signal to a few of his stooges to bring in ten big cardboard posters which listed in alphabetical order every student in school. A series of blank rectangles had been drawn beside each name which, Leon explained, would be filled in as each student sold his quota of chocolates.
The student body watched with glee as Leon’s stooges tried to scotch-tape the posters to the wall at he rear of the stage. The posters kept slipping to the floor, resisting the tape. The walls were made of concrete blocks, and tacks couldn’t be used, of course. Hoots filled the air. Brother Leon looked annoyed, which increased the hoots and catcalls. There was nothing more beautiful in the world than the sight of a teacher getting upset. Finally, the posters were secured and Brother Leon took charge.
Archie had to admit that the Brother turned in one of his great performances. Academy Award caliber. He poured it on like Niagara—school spirit, the traditional sale that had never failed, the Headmaster lying sick in the hospital, the brotherhood of Trinity, the need for funds to keep this magnificent edifice of education operating on all gears. He recalled past triumphs, the trophies in the display case in the main corridor, the do-or-die determination that made Trinity a place of triumph through the years. Etc. Crap, of course, but effective when a master like Leon was at work, casting a spell with words and gestures.
“Yes,” Brother Leon intoned, “the quota is doubled this year because we have more at stake than ever before.” His voice an organ, filling the air. “Each boy must sell fifty boxes, but I know that each boy is willing to do his share. More than his share.” He gestured toward the posters. “I promise you, gentlemen, that before this sale is ended each one of you will have the number ‘fifty’ inscribed in that final box, signifying that you have done your part for Trinity …”
There was a lot more but Archie tuned him out. Talk, talk, talk—that’s all anybody ever heard in school. Archie squirmed uncomfortably in his seat, thinking of the Vigil meeting at which he had announced that Brother Leon had asked support for the sale and how he’d pledged the backing of The Vigils. Archie had been surprised at the ripple of doubt and skepticism from the members of The Vigils. “Christ, Archie,” Carter had said, “we never get mixed up in this stuff.” But Archie had overcome them as usual, pointing out that Leon’
s need for an endorsement from The Vigils was a symbol of how powerful the organization had become. And it was only a crappy chocolate sale. But now, listening to Leon sounding as if the school was embarking on the Crusades, for crying out loud, Archie was doubtful.
Looking at the posters and seeing his own name there, Archie plotted how his own fifty boxes would be sold. He wouldn’t dream of selling the chocolates himself. He hadn’t touched a box since his freshman days. Usually he found some willing kid who’d gladly sell Archie’s quota along with his own, figuring it was something special to be singled out by the assigner of The Vigils. This year, he’d probably spread the burden around, picking out five guys, say, and have them sell only ten boxes each. It was better than sticking one kid with the entire quota, wasn’t it?
Sitting back in comfort, Archie sighed now, contented, gratified by the heights his sense of fairness and compassion could reach.
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
IT WAS AS IF somebody had dropped The Bomb.
Brian Kelly started it all when he touched his chair. It collapsed.
Then, everything happened at once.
Albert LeBlanc brushed against a desk as he made his way down the aisle and it fell apart after trembling crazily for a moment. The impact sent out vibrations which shot down two other chairs and a desk.
John Lowe was about to sit down when he heard the noise of collapsing furniture. He turned and in doing so touched his own desk. The desk disintegrated before his astonished eyes. Leaping backward, he hit his chair. Nothing happened to his chair. But Henry Couture’s desk behind it shivered violently and tumbled to the floor.
The racket was deafening.
“My God,” Brother Eugene cried as he entered the classroom and beheld the bedlam. Desks and chairs were falling apart as if being demolished by mysterious unheard dynamite explosions.
Brother Eugene rushed to his desk, that haven of security behind which a teacher always found protection. At his touch, the desk swayed drunkenly, shifted gears into a lopsided position and—miracle of miracles—remained upright at that strange tipsy angle. But his chair collapsed.
Boys scrambled madly and merrily around the room. Once they realized what was happening they dashed around Room Nineteen testing all the desks and chairs, watching with glee as they fell apart, and toppling the stubborn pieces of furniture that refused to go down without help.
“Wow,” somebody yelled.
“The Vigils,” somebody else called out—giving credit where credit was due.
The destruction of Room Nineteen took exactly thirty-seven seconds. Archie timed it from the doorway. A sweetness gathered in his breast as he saw the room being turned into a shambles, a sweet moment of triumph that compensated for all the other lousy things, his terrible marks, the black box. Witnessing the pandemonium, he knew that this was one of his major triumphs, one of those long-shot assignments that paid off beautifully, certain to become legend. He could picture Trinity students of the future discussing in wonder the day Room Nineteen exploded. He found it hard to suppress a howl of delight as he surveyed the havoc—I made this happen—and saw Brother Eugene’s trembling chin and horror-stricken expression.
Behind the brother, the huge blackboard suddenly tore loose from its moorings and slid majestically to the floor, like a final curtain dropping on the chaos.
“You!”
Archie heard the voice in all its fury at the same instant that he felt the hands spinning him around. He swiveled to encounter Brother Leon. Leon wasn’t pale at this moment. Scarlet splotches glistened on his cheeks as if he had been made up for some grotesque stage show. A horror show maybe, because there was nothing funny about him at this moment.
“You!” Leon said again, a wicked whisper that spilled into Archie’s face the foul aftertaste of Leon’s breakfast—the smell of stale bacon and eggs. “You did this,” Leon said, digging the fingernails of one hand into Archie’s shoulder while pointing to the chaos of Room Nineteen with the other.
Curious students from other classes had now gathered around the two entrances to the room, drawn by the crash and clatter. Some of them regarded the rubble with awe. Others glanced curiously at Brother Leon and Archie. No matter where they looked, it was great—an interruption of school routine, a diversion in the deadly order of the day.
“Didn’t I tell you I wanted everything to go smoothly? No incidents? No funny business?”
The worst part of Leon’s fury was the way he whispered, this terrible tortured hissing from his mouth, giving his words a tone more deadly than a shout or a yell. At the same time his grip on Archie’s shoulder got tighter and Archie winced with pain.
“I didn’t do anything. I didn’t promise anything,” Archie said automatically. Always deny everything, never apologize, never admit anything.
Leon pushed Archie up against a wall as the boys began to fill the corridor, pouring into Room Nineteen to view the destruction, and milling around outside; talking and gesturing, shaking their heads in wonder—the legend had already begun.
“I’m in charge, don’t you see? This entire school is now my responsibility. The chocolate sale is ready to start and you pull something like this.” Leon released him without warning, and Archie hung there as if suspended in mid-air. He turned and saw some guys staring at Leon and him. Staring at him! Archie Costello humiliated by this sniveling bastard of a teacher. His sweet moment of triumph spoiled by this nut and his ridiculous chocolate sale!
He watched Leon storming away, pushing his way through the tumultuous corridor, disappearing into the swarming stream of boys. Archie massaged his shoulder, gingerly feeling the spot where Leon’s fingernails had bitten deep. Then he thrust himself into the crowd, pushing aside the guys gathered near the doorway. He stood at the entrance, drinking in the beautiful debris of Room Nineteen—his masterpiece. He saw Brother Eugene still standing there in the midst of the shambles, tears actually running down his cheeks.
Beautiful, beautiful.
Screw Brother Leon.
CHAPTER
TWELVE
“TRY IT AGAIN,” the coach bellowed, his voice hoarse. The danger point—his voice always got hoarse when he lost his patience, when he was in danger of blowing his top.
Jerry picked himself up. His mouth was dry and he tried to suck spit into it. His ribs hurt, his entire left side was on fire. He stalked back to his position behind Adamo who played center. The other guys were already lined up, tense, waiting, aware that the coach wasn’t happy with them. Not happy? Hell, he was furious, disgusted. He had arranged this special practice giving his freshmen a chance to scrimmage against a few members of the varsity, to show off all he had taught them and they were doing lousy, rotten, terrible.
There was no huddle. the coach barked the number of the next play, a play designed to suck in Carter, the big beefy varsity guard who looked as if he could chew freshmen up and spit them out. But the coach had said, “We’ll have some surprises for Carter.” It was tradition at Trinity to toss star players against the Freshmen and to build plays designed to stop the stars. This was the only reward the Freshman team reaped because most of them were too young or too small to play varsity.
Jerry crouched behind Adamo. He was determined to make this play work. He knew that the previous play hadn’t worked because his timing was off and because he hadn’t seen Carter come crashing out of nowhere. He had expected Carter to blitz and instead the big guard had pulled back and skirted the line, annihilating Jerry from behind. What infuriated Jerry was that Carter toppled him gently, lowering him to the ground almost tenderly as if to prove his superiority. I don’t have to murder you, kid, it’s easy enough this way, Carter seemed to be saying. But this was the seventh consecutive play and the damage of being tackled play after play was taking its toll.
“All right, guys, this is it. Make or break.”
“It’s all over, fellas,” Carter taunted.
Jerry called the signals, hoping his voice sounded con
fident. He didn’t feel confident. And yet he hadn’t given up hope. Every play was a new beginning and even though something always seemed to go wrong he felt that they were on the verge of clicking. He had confidence in guys like Goober and Adamo and Croteau. Sooner or later, they had to click, all the work had to pay off. That is, if the coach didn’t cut them all off the squad first.
Jerry’s hands were joined like a duck’s bill waiting to swallow the ball. At his signal, Adamo slapped the ball into his palms and Jerry began to fade at the same instant, to the right, slanted, swift, his arm already coming up, ready to be cocked, ready for the pass. He saw Carter snaking through the line again, like some monstrous reptile in his helmet, but suddenly Carter became all arms and legs tossing and turning in the air, hit devastatingly low by Croteau. Carter collapsed on Croteau and both of them fell in a tangle of bodies. Jerry felt a sudden sense of freedom. He continued to fade, fade, easy, easy, stalling until he could spot The Goober, tall and rangy, down-field where he’d be waiting if he had managed to elude the safetyman. Suddenly Jerry spotted Goober’s waving hand. Jerry avoided fingers that tore at his sleeve and he unloosed the ball. Someone brushed his hip but he shrugged off the blow. The pass was beautiful. He could tell it was beautiful, straight on target, even though he couldn’t watch its progress, because he was dumped violently to the ground by Carter who had somehow recovered after being demolished. As he hit the ground, Jerry heard the yells and the cheers that told him The Goober had caught the pass and gone on to score.
The Chocolate War Page 5