PASSION PLAY
A MYSTERY
W. EDWARD BLAIN
To those who taught me
MONTPELIER SCHOOL FOR BOYS
PASSION PLAY
The First Act
He was honestly unaware that a murder would follow the end of the play.
It was cold and growing dark as he emerged from the theater just before 5:00 P.M. in a crowd of dawdling tourists. With a quick dart he sidestepped the slowest pedestrians and hurried east, shrugging into his coat as he approached Seventh Avenue. It was the wrong direction, but at least he was moving. The theater had been too warm, full of vacationers like himself who had purchased half-priced tickets in Duffy Square an hour before the show, and now the contrasting air of the Manhattan streets hurt. The scarf and the hat helped keep back the cold a little. He turned right on Seventh and juggled the small travel bag he was carrying in order to pull on his gloves. Times Square offered a little more light, a little more humanity.
He had expected the musical to cheer him up—the dancing, the glitter, all those smiling faces singing those melodic songs—but it had had the opposite effect. The characters were stereotypes; all the jokes sounded familiar. It had made him feel as though he were watching television, as though he were wasting his life on something utterly mindless, as though he were taking drugs. It was past time to go home.
The theater had been full, but the city was dead. It was the Sunday after Thanksgiving, and he was among the last of the tourists to be pulling out of town. There were probably more people at LaGuardia than there were here in midtown. Well, not really. He’d have to remember that as an example of hyperbole to use for the students. At the corner, the air warmed for a moment as he passed a vendor selling hot chestnuts to tourists coming out of the theater. But now the vendor was busy placating a drunk who screamed that the whole country was going to hell under President Reagan.
At Forty-Second Street he saw a subway station, but he was reluctant to enter. It wasn’t the same one he’d used to get here; that one had been on Eighth. He turned right on Forty-Second, lifted his scrap of luggage, and carried it closer. He knew the city only in an uneasy acquaintance, knew he was safe enough to be walking here at dusk on Sunday afternoon, but he also assumed that it was not an entirely risk-free neighborhood. The pornographic movie houses along this block cast a white light on the few street people milling on the sidewalks, like wares in some block-long Kmart. It was too early and too quiet and too cold to attract many prostitutes or pushers, but he saw one woman in a red satin miniskirt and white boots. She was wearing a fake fur jacket and dangling earrings. How could she stand the cold? Maybe hookers had metabolisms like adolescents, faster somehow. He could remember, as a boy, playing outside when it was ten degrees Fahrenheit. All the parents thought he and his friends were crazy. Now he was reacting like a parent, hiding his face under a scarf and a hat.
He saw the boy in front of a theater halfway down the block. Blond, longish hair, maybe fourteen years old, maybe a little older, brown flight jacket, jeans, Converse basketball shoes. The kid flashed the jacket open and revealed that he wasn’t wearing a shirt.
Rage clicked on like a thermostat.
He stopped by the kid. Don’t do it, he thought, you have a train to catch, you have responsibilities, you are more disciplined than this. He stopped and looked at the kid. He was not a particularly well-built boy, but he was nice-looking. With his black Converse shoes on, who knows, he could have been an ordinary basketball player from Indiana. He wondered whether the kid would have needle scars on his arms, whether what he was seeing was a facade. He knew big cities just well enough to know that the clichés from television were not to be trusted.
“All the way down for fifteen bucks,” said the kid. He had a good voice, the kind of voice that would sound good on a stage. Where had this child gone wrong? The kid shifted his head and looked him over. This boy had the right neck, the right shoulders. Under his coat the man could feel his heart start to pound as the passion surged and took over. Now that it had happened, he knew: whatever he had told himself earlier, this was the real reason he had come to New York. His body was screaming commands; he could not help himself; he would obey. At the ticket booth he bought two tickets for $1.99 each. The boy led the way up to the balcony.
“Up here,” said the boy, pushing the man into the back row. It was very dark at first. As his eyes adjusted, he could see that the place was nearly empty. He wondered how many other tourists there were in this kind of theater in New York right now. On the screen in front of him, two naked men were dancing.
He was hot now; the passion was consuming him; he had to finish this.
“First the money,” said the kid.
The man pulled his wallet out of his left front trouser pocket. A couple of coins clattered on the sticky floor. He pulled a twenty out of his wallet and gave it to the kid.
“I don’t make change,” said the kid. The man told him to keep it.
The boy pocketed the money and leaned over the man’s lap. As he fumbled at the man’s coat buttons, the man firmly took the boy’s head in his hands, as if to guide him. With a quick twist, while the boy was pulling at the buttons, the man broke the boy’s neck. The boy grunted softly, but his death attracted no attention. They were used to hearing such noises in this theater. He pulled his money back out of the boy’s pocket, eased the body down onto the floor, and gave himself exactly thirty seconds to let his heartbeat and breathing return to normal. Now that the passion had fled, he was coldly rational. The coins on the floor should be picked up, even in the filth. He felt and found them, along with his ticket stub from the other theater. For a brief second he was furious with himself for being so careless, but then he forced himself to release the anger. No harm done, after all. He checked carefully for tickets, money, wallet, baggage. All here. Scarf and hat, both gloves. All here. He needed to depart very quickly now. The boy’s bowels had probably relaxed. There would be a smell soon.
The man picked up his belongings and left the theater. Outside, the cold air hit him again. He thought back to the silly musical he had seen. At Eighth Avenue he caught the subway, one stop to Penn Station. He arrived at 5:28, caught his train at 5:40. He read a book on the way to Washington. At 9:00 he was in Union Station. Then he caught a Metro to the parking lot, hopped into his car, and drove southwest. By 11:30 P.M. he was in central Virginia, at home, back on campus.
It was the end of Thanksgiving vacation. He still had his chores to do for tomorrow, when classes resumed. All around him, 360 boys slept or talked or perhaps planned pranks. But none of them, not students or teachers, knew what he knew about passion.
He shivered, but not from the cold.
The Second Act
SCENE 1
Benjamin Warden twitched awake upon hearing the loud electronic pulse of the alarm on his clock radio. It was 6:30 Monday morning, time to get up for school. He had forgotten over the holidays just how much he hated this noise, a peculiar combination of rhythmical beeping and disc jockey chatter, but as he jumped from scatter rug to cold wood to turn off the switch, he permitted a shred of appreciation for how well the damn thing worked. He and Cynthia deliberately left it across their bedroom so that at least one of them would have to get up to shut it off.
Warden hated to start work tired after a holiday. In fourteen years of teaching, however, he had learned to be aware of his fatigue and to discipline himself not to pass it on to his students. Christmas vacation was only three weeks away. With luck he could find some reserves to get him through the next twenty-one days.
Cynthia kept her head on the pillow and watched him stretch his arms.
“Courage,” she said.
“Morning.” He crossed to the bed, climbed back in,
and kissed her. Even when she was ill, she was beautiful. Her hair was exquisitely long and straight, her eyes the color of ripe blueberries, her mouth tiny and turned up in a crescent smile. He loved the dimple at the base of her neck and the others inside her arms and knees, loved to look at the way her breasts swelled so seamlessly outward, loved the firm but soft texture of her skin, loved her smooth parts and her coarse parts, loved her flawlessness, her intelligence, her charity.
“I vaguely remember your arrival last night,” she said. “It must have been late.”
“Pre-midnight, I believe,” he said. “We talked for a minute.”
“Was I glad to see you?”
“You were sleepy. You told me that I missed nothing here.”
“Did you tell me about your activities in New York?”
He covered the surge of anxiety with a mock shiver. “Cold. Dull without you.”
“Did you get to the theater?”
“Joe got me a ticket for a Sunday matinee of Cats. I ended up going by myself.”
She asked if the play was worth all the Tonys it had won.
“No,” he said, “it was actually pretty good.”
She laughed.
“For a musical,” he added. “Feeling better?”
“Different, anyway,” she said, but she turned away when she answered. “I don’t think I should go in today.”
“We can manage.”
Warden was chairman of the English department, and Cynthia was its part-time secretary. When she was well, she spent her mornings typing quizzes or running photocopies. She spent her afternoons starting the research for her doctoral dissertation.
Cynthia said she would not fight him for the first shower this morning.
“Stay here,” Warden said. “I’ll get breakfast.” He pushed himself out of bed again, shuffled his feet into his boating shoes. He pulled on a sweater over his T-shirt and a pair of khakis over his boxers.
“Don’t you want to eat in the dining hall?” she said.
“No.”
She told him that Kathleen Somerville had left some food in the refrigerator.
As he descended the stairs to the living area, Warden could hear the noises of Stratford House through the walls around him. The denizens were up a little early today. Usually even the most punctual boys waited until 7:00 or 7:15 to take their showers in time for the 7:30 buffet breakfast, while some of the older boys waited until 7:55 to get up for their 8:00 classes. Perhaps there was the genesis of a poem here—morning noises, daily routines. Warden imagined them all through the walls, getting ready, the younger ones still learning how to shave, the older ones lying about their sexual exploits over the holidays. Warden thought of them as his family, his and Cynthia’s. He liked their youth, liked to say that they kept him young.
He entered the kitchen and turned on the overhead light. It shone down on green Formica countertops, dark green tiles, white appliances. Cynthia’s orange gourd and red apple centerpiece remained from Thanksgiving. Beside it was Warden’s blue canvas travel bag, which he had simply dropped on the table before climbing up to bed last night. Exactly how late had he gotten in? He couldn’t remember. The whole trip back was a blur because he had been playing around with some lines of poetry in his head. He was relieved, in fact, to see that his luggage had made it back to Virginia with him. On a trip last month to read in Massachusetts he had absentmindedly checked his luggage through to Charlotte, North Carolina, instead of to Charlottesville.
He reached into the pantry and took a box of spoon-size shredded wheat and two drinking glasses. Under the counter he found the frying pan with the copper bottom. It was a wedding present, and therefore just over two years old: twenty-seven months, to be exact. A pang of love and sadness seized him, but he allowed himself to succumb only to a moment of worry. Last week Cynthia had complained of dizziness and blurred vision in her left eye. It had happened before, about a year ago, and again last summer, but both times it had disappeared on its own. Last week, however, she had also developed occasional tremors in her arms, then weakness in her legs. She also had complained of constriction in her abdomen. The local general practitioner had asked them if they had been spraying any insecticides in their home recently, but they hadn’t. He had suspected an accidental poisoning or perhaps an allergy and had told her to rest over the weekend, to cancel her trip to New York, and to let him know on Monday if the symptoms did not disappear.
On the refrigerator door was a crayon drawing Cynthia had attached with magnets. Warden’s four-year-old nephew, Joshua, had drawn it in honor of their first wedding anniversary. Warden envied the child’s frankness. There was Cynthia with her long blond hair, wearing a blue dress with a white smear on one side, which Joshua had explained was her handkerchief sticking out of her pocket. And beside her was Warden, long brown trousers, white shirt, and blue tie, glasses, and a big red stain down the left side of his face. The kid had a good eye for detail. Warden touched his birthmark before he reached into the refrigerator for the bacon and the eggs on the middle shelf. Even at thirty-five, Warden was not entirely free of his sensitivity over the large rough patch that had covered half his face since he was born. He still felt occasional awe that someone as beautiful and as young as Cynthia would want to marry him, could love him, and yet, he reminded himself, she did.
And what was this in the plastic container? Fried apples. Typical of Kathleen Somerville. He started warming the apples.
Cynthia entered the room. She was dragging her left foot, and she half-fell, half-descended, into the slatted chair at the table. She had put on a blue robe over her nightgown.
“What are you doing downstairs?” he asked. “And why are you limping so badly?”
“Leg’s asleep. I want to watch you,” she said. “I haven’t seen you for three days.”
He tore open the plastic packet of bacon.
“I want to hear every little thing about the trip,” she said. “How many people were there, how many autographs you signed, how long they applauded, how many job offers you declined, how many women seduced you.”
Warden had been reading his poetry at the 92nd Street Y.
“I couldn’t concentrate on anything but you,” he said.
“Oh, come on,” she said. “New York? The literati? The Upper East Side? Tell me you were dazzling. Tell me Woody Allen was there. Tell me about the argument Norman Mailer and Susan Sontag got into over which of your poems was better.”
“There were maybe 250 or 300 people there,” he said. “The term ‘famous poet’ is an oxymoron, unless you happen to be dead. I wanted to be here with you.”
She said at least he’d made both his wife and his agent happy by going.
He told her about signing a lot of books afterward, about meeting reporters from the New York Times and The New Yorker, about getting a business card from an editor at Farrar, Straus & Giroux.
“Which you immediately passed on to Joe,” said Cynthia.
“Of course.”
He waved six slices of bacon into the frying pan and punched “2” on the electric stove.
“Did you see anybody from Montpelier when you were up there?” Cynthia asked.
“Not a soul. Should I have?”
“I heard several people on the faculty talking about going. Dan Farnham was, I know.”
“Dan Farnham would not waste an evening in New York on me,” said Warden. “If you had been along, maybe.”
“Aha,” said Cynthia. “O, beware, my lord, of jealousy; It is the green-eyed monster. . . .”
He told her to go ahead and finish the speech.
“I can’t remember,” said Cynthia. “I don’t have to. They’re not my lines.”
“You’re not going to do the play still, are you?”
“I want to,” she said. “Yes.”
Warden punched the button for the hot water and pulled two mugs from the cabinet. Daniel Farnham, one of his colleagues in the English department, had asked Cynthia to play Desdemona in Oth
ello, the winter play Farnham was directing here at the Montpelier School for Boys. As department chairman, Warden had advised the choice of another play, one with more parts for the students—Othello has the smallest cast of any of Shakespeare’s tragedies—but Farnham had insisted that it needed to be Othello, that Greg Lipscomb, a black sophomore, was interested in playing the lead, and that all of the boys in the fourth form were reading the play for English class. Warden had not pressed the matter, but he had a sense—a sense that he recognized as paranoid and irrational—that Farnham had a more ulterior motive.
“He chose that play in order to work with you,” said Warden. “He’s got a terrible crush on you.”
“Of course he does,” said Cynthia. “They all do. He’s just like one of the boys. But I don’t have a crush on any of them.”
“It’s so transparent,” said Warden. “Picking the play that you’re writing your dissertation on.”
Cynthia flicked the zipper on Warden’s travel bag on the table. “Is this why you’re so lugubrious this morning?” she asked. “Are you really considering Daniel Farnham as a serious rival?”
“When you put it like that, you make me sound like a fool.”
Cynthia said she should greet that line with a polite but telling silence.
Warden turned the bacon. “I don’t know what it is,” he said. He felt robbed of his Thanksgiving holiday. He and Cynthia were going to take a vacation in New York, but then he was forced by agent and publisher to go without her. “This last excursion, it was more work than pleasure.” He complained that long trips to read his old material robbed him of time to write new stuff. And now that school was starting up again, his writing time would be diminished even more.
Cynthia reminded him that he could always work down the road at the university.
A delicate subject, one that he wanted to avoid.
“Maybe I should try it,” said Warden. “It’s just that college students are so sycophantic.”
Passion Play Page 1