Passion Play

by W. Edward Blain

  “If I had my tools, I could jimmy it,” said the older one.

  “Why don’t we just kick it down?” said the younger one. She was tempted. She felt like kicking somebody’s tail. But then what would that headmaster say about the unnecessary damage to his facilities?

  “No,” she said. “We just want to question the guy. It’s not as if we’ve got some emergency.”

  SCENE 11

  Coach McPhee had the knife out as he talked to Thomas.

  “Angus and I used to drink some together,” he said. “Not a lot. Neither of us was much of a drinker. But we’d talk, you know, about basketball or about the school. Did you know he went deep-sea fishing in Cuba every summer before it went Communist? Said he never saw Hemingway. There was a lot to Angus.”

  Thomas had been permitted to put on his shirt. It had not helped his trembling.

  “One night he showed me an old hidden tunnel,” said McPhee. “It opened out the back of one of those closets in his lair. Made me swear I’d never tell anybody. This is the first moment I have violated that oath. I want you to know that.”

  So there was a tunnel, Thomas thought. And with nauseating insight he realized that McPhee had told him because he would never have an opportunity to reveal the secret.

  “I think Angus knew I was slipping,” said McPhee. “He’d encouraged me to resign before Thanksgiving. He was more observant than you’d think. That night of the mixer, he was over here hunting for me. He’d looked at me awfully funny when Russell Phillips died, and I think he figured maybe he could prevent any more trouble. Angus was tough, but he was no match for me physically.”

  Thomas said, “I’m going to be sick.”

  “Go ahead,” said McPhee. “It’s going to be messy enough in here in a minute anyway.”

  That was when Thomas started to cry.

  “Angus had been patrolling the building. I was hiding in the wrestling room when he came in and scared the hell out of Cynthia Warden,” said McPhee. “After she left, I found him downstairs and had it out with him. He was a tough old bastard, toughest neck muscles I’ve ever seen. I finally had to improvise a strangulation with my coach’s whistle. It’s horrible, isn’t it?”

  “Let me go,” said Thomas.

  “I’m not finished.” McPhee slid the blade of the knife across his left palm as if he were honing it. “I want you to hear all of this so you will know that I’m aware of just how awful a monster I am. Do you understand me?”

  Thomas said he did.

  “I dragged Angus’s body into the tunnel, thinking that it would just be there for a couple of hours, until I could drive it off campus in his car. You can see how I was thinking then—a fake automobile accident, an unfortunate fire. I’d have taken him off campus right away if it hadn’t been for all those people around for the mixer. Instead—I don’t know why I did this, really I don’t—I went back upstairs. I unlocked the weight room and thought maybe I’d work out in the dark up there. You know how physical exercise is good for releasing tension? And then I heard a couple of kids sneak in downstairs. I ducked over to the wrestling room. I didn’t want to go home. The wrestling room was nice and peaceful. And then Staines showed up. He took that girl straight to the room where I was hiding. I wonder what would have happened if his date hadn’t wanted to go to the bathroom. I should have killed her too, but I didn’t. I think part of me wanted to get caught. That’s why I saved all that evidence—the socks, the button, the ticket stub. The handkerchief I picked up in my own apartment in front of half a dozen people, and nobody noticed. I’ve given them so many opportunities to catch me, really, but I’ve been smart, too.”

  He stopped moving the knife. “You see, I have a strong survival instinct as well.”

  SCENE 12

  Warden sat in the living room of the Homestead with Horace and Kathleen Somerville and told them about his telephone call earlier today from the chairman of the English department at Columbia University.

  “He wants to hire me,” said Warden. He took a sip of his coffee. “I’d be writer-in-residence and teach one course per term.”

  “That’s terrible,” said Horace Somerville. He had started his second scotch and water.

  “Horace,” said Kathleen.

  Somerville said it was terrible for Montpelier School. “It’s a fine personal opportunity, if that’s all you care about,” he said. Warden could see he was pleased.

  Kathleen asked if this offer came unexpectedly.

  “No,” said Warden. “He’d made me the offer before. I’ve been keeping secrets from you.” He told them that it had started a few weeks ago, when he was in New York over the Thanksgiving holidays. “I interviewed with him before the reading on Saturday. Then several of them had a party for me that night. It was flattering.”

  Somerville asked him why he had not told anyone.

  “It was because of Cynthia,” Warden said. He had specified that such an appointment was contingent upon Columbia’s also hiring Cynthia as an instructor. Negotiations had lapsed into friendly limbo when her illness had threatened to delay the completion of her dissertation. Warden had never told her of the opportunity. He had not wanted her to think that she was holding him back.

  Horace Somerville was relieved. “I knew there was something distracting you since that trip to New York.” He had tried to explain it away as concern over Cynthia’s illness.

  “I’ve felt guilty all day,” said Warden. “The offer is appealing, but to take it would seem like a betrayal. She’s dead. I should be mourning.”

  “That’s normal,” said Kathleen. She told him they had suffered the same pangs when Alfred died. “One day you find yourself smiling, and then you remember his death, and you force yourself to stop smiling, as though you don’t deserve to be happy.”

  Horace told him to consider the facts. “You think you’re showing respect by keeping yourself miserable,” he said. “Makes about as much sense as our showing respect for Angus by spending tonight here with this damned smell.”

  Warden invited them to stay with him at Stratford House.

  “It’s about time you asked,” said Somerville.

  They heard the front door close. Carol Scott entered and asked to use a telephone. “I need to call Felix,” she said. “We need a pass key to the gym.”

  Pass key. Something about a pass key. Warden reached into his pocket. There it was—Kevin Delaney’s key to the gym. He must have been carrying it around for over a week now.

  He showed it to Carol Scott, who put down the telephone. “Fine with me,” she said. “You can save me a couple of minutes.”

  SCENE 13

  Thomas Boatwright had never been more alert. He could feel the hardness of the bench through his jeans, the roughness of the carpet with the bottoms of his feet. He could hear the quickness with which Mr. McPhee had started to speak.

  “When I saw we were having a buffet dinner that day, I just slipped back to the theater building. I was heading backstage when Kemper Carella showed up. I figured that was it, I’d never get a chance at her, but then I got an idea. I went downstairs and called Carella from the telephone under the stage and pretended to be at home looking for Farnham. Not only did it make Carella think of me at home, but it also made Farnham look missing. Farnham was the logical one to set up, you see. Everybody knew what a terrible temper he had, and what an awful crush he had on her. After Carella left the theater, I went upstairs. She was waiting for me on that bed. She fought me off, or tried to, but not very hard. She was not very strong. Afterward it was easy to go home and collect my little souvenirs. I waited until Farnham finished his bowl of soup, and then I hid the pieces of evidence in his apartment. Even if he’d locked the place, which he didn’t, I could have used my pass key.”

  Thomas heard a door open in the hallway outside. He could hear voices.

  McPhee stopped talking and listened, too. It sounded like several people who had just come out of a meeting.

  “That’s impossible,” sai
d McPhee. Before Thomas could react, McPhee was up and had Thomas standing in front of him like a shield. Thomas’s arms were twisted around behind his back and held in place firmly by McPhee’s left hand. McPhee’s right arm stretched halfway across Thomas’s chest, and his right hand held the open knife at Thomas’s throat.

  “We will not be interrupted before I’m finished,” said McPhee. They both faced the door to the locker room. They could hear the voices and the footsteps approaching. Then they could see several faces through the glass—Benjamin Warden, that lady police detective, a couple of male cops. All the voices went silent; all the mouths hung open in shock.

  Benjamin Warden pushed on the door handle. But the door was bolted. He fumbled for the key and eventually managed to open the door. The police had drawn their guns.

  Nobody spoke. Mr. McPhee held Thomas tight.

  SCENE 14

  Richard Blackburn was on the telephone in Stratford House.

  “McBain House,” said the girl on the other line.

  “Katrina?” said Richard.

  “Yes.”

  “Katrina Olson?”

  “No, Katrina Murgatroyd from South Philly,” she said.

  “Who is this?”

  “My name is Richard Blackburn,” he said. Damn, his palms were sweating all over the telephone. “I got your message, and the answer is that I would love to.”

  “Love to what, Richard?”

  Oh, no.

  “Come up to your Christmas dance this weekend?” he said. He did not like the way she sounded.

  There was a pause.

  “I didn’t leave you any message, Richard,” she said. Another pause.

  “Oh, damn,” he said. “I found this note on my door. I thought—”

  “No,” she said. “Somebody has played a joke on you.”

  “Yeah,” he said. He felt like hopping a bus to Alaska.

  “You’re from Montpelier, right?” she said.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “It was a rotten trick,” she said. “Typical.”

  “Yeah,” said Richard.

  “Why don’t you little jocks just stick to your own balls and bats?” she said. She hung up.

  Richard walked back to his dorm room and told Ralph Musgrove what had happened.

  “It was probably Boatwright that did it,” said Ralph.

  “Yeah,” said Richard. “The next time I see that bastard, I’m going to kill him.”

  SCENE 15

  Thomas allowed McPhee to walk him backward away from the door toward the showers when Mr. Warden and everybody entered the room. He could feel the sharp point of the blade pushing directly into his Adam’s apple; he was scared to swallow for fear that the motion would cut. Both his arms hurt, but what he could feel more than anything else was the pounding of Mr. McPhee’s heart through his shirt. It was going so fast that Thomas thought it might break.

  “Stop there, Ben,” said Coach McPhee.

  Mr. Warden and the rest of them stopped walking. Then one of the policemen started to move around to the right, behind the island of cubicles in the center of the room.

  “I said stop,” said McPhee, and he pushed the knife just a fraction. It was enough to cut Thomas’s skin.

  Nobody in the room moved. Thomas could feel a wet ooze on his neck.

  “I was in the middle of explaining to this boy,” said McPhee. “Now you’ve interrupted me.” He paused. “This is one of those great moments of decision, isn’t it? What I decide to do in the next few minutes will matter a lot, won’t it? I’ve made some very bad decisions in the past couple of weeks. Thomas Boatwright can tell you all about them. I’ve made some terrible decisions.”

  Thomas was still crying, without any noise.

  “When I was this boy’s age,” said Coach McPhee, “I used to look out of the window at a girl across the alley. She would take off all of her clothes and stand by the window and brush her hair. Every day at the same time, I could count on her. It was like watching a regular afternoon television show. I would indulge my sexual appetite and gaze at her.”

  Everyone in his audience listened.

  “One day I was supposed to be baby-sitting for my little baby brother,” said Coach McPhee. “He was in the bathtub. I had helped him undress and had put him into the bathtub. I knew I was supposed to be watching him, but it was time for the show, so I left. I left the bathroom, left the little boy in the tub all by himself, all his clothes laid out in a little pile where I would help him get dressed, and went to watch the girl in the window brush her beautiful hair. I could hear him in the tub, he was all right, but then I realized when the girl left the window that the bathroom was silent. I couldn’t hear him anymore, and I went rushing back in, and he was dead. He was dead because of my own sexual appetite. All his clothes lay there in a little pile. I promised myself that from that moment on I would live in utter purity. I would never indulge my sexual urges again.”

  There was a silence.

  “Patrick—” said Mr. Warden.

  “Shut up, Ben,” said Coach McPhee. “It wasn’t Michael I hated. It was that irresponsible fifteen-year-old me. All those boys, they just reminded me of myself.”

  He started to sob. Thomas was so scared now that his own tears stopped. This is it, he thought. He couldn’t move. He was going to die.

  “What I wanted Thomas to tell all of you was that I was sorry,” said Mr. McPhee. “I wanted him to be the messenger, to tell you the whole story. He will be fair about it. He understands what happened to me. The passion took over. But I’m all right now. Really. I know what I’m doing. I see myself for what I am. I am evil and wicked. And undisciplined.”

  His left hand held Thomas’s wrists. His right arm pushed tight against Thomas’s chest. It was hard to breathe.

  “It’s time for the question, Thomas,” said Mr. McPhee. “We’re not going to let these people interrupt the question. How you answer it is important. Think carefully. Are you ready?”

  Thomas whispered a yes.

  “Was I wrong to hate passion so much?”

  Thomas did not hesitate for a moment. “Yes,” he said. It was as though they had rehearsed it. He was not going to tell a lie.

  “Yes,” said McPhee. “You’re right.” He kissed Thomas on the crown of the head, lowered the knife, released Thomas’s arms, and pushed him toward Benjamin Warden all at once. Warden caught Thomas and held him up.

  “Tell Diane and Michael that I’m sorry,” said Mr. McPhee. “I’m sorry, Ben. I’m sorry, Horace. I’m sorry, Thomas Boatwright.”

  “Drop the knife and put your hands on top of your head,” said Carol Scott.

  “It’s too late,” said Mr. McPhee. “I have already passed sentence on myself. It’s a reasonable punishment. The death penalty.”

  He made a fist around the handle of the knife and plunged the blade into his own throat. He penetrated the cartilage and wrenched the blade to the side, just enough to cut the carotid artery before he fell, choking and coughing, to the floor in front of them. He died in less than a minute.

  SCENE 16

  On Thursday, December 16, Thomas Boatwright walked from Stratford House to Stringfellow Hall, to his own dormitory room, to pack. His dad was here. He had driven down last night, and he and Thomas had spent the night together at Mr. Warden’s apartment. They had been up late, but when they had turned out the lights, Thomas had still not been able to sleep. It was all right, though, because his dad was there in the bed next to his own. This morning his father had gone to talk to Dr. Lane. The headmaster had agreed that Thomas could leave the school a day early for the Christmas holidays, but Lane had wanted to talk with Dad in private before his departure. Thomas knew they were worried about trauma and that kind of stuff, but he was all right. He wasn’t some little kid, after all. He was sixteen years old.

  Richard, Greg, and Nathan Somerville were waiting for him in his room. It was 10:15, time for dorm cleanup, but they weren’t cleaning.

  “Yo
u look okay,” said Nathan.

  Thomas touched the Band-Aid over the cut on his throat. “It was a close shave,” he said.

  “You got to tell us about it,” said Richard.

  “No, I don’t,” said Thomas.

  “Landon Hopkins burned me yesterday. Did you hear?” said Richard. “He got me to think I had a date with Katrina Olson. I thought you’d done it. It was pretty funny.”

  Thomas couldn’t work up a response. He couldn’t believe that this guy used to be his best friend.

  “Let’s get out of here, Blackburn,” said Nathan. “See you in a couple of weeks, Boatin’ Shoes.”

  He shook hands with Nathan and Richard. They left.

  It didn’t take long to pack. He was leaving most of his stuff at school for now, though he wasn’t sure he wanted to come back after Christmas.

  “You got to come back,” Greg said. “Farnham’s returning. What about the play?”

  “They can’t do that play now,” Thomas said.

  “What about basketball?”

  “I’m not playing basketball anymore.”

  “What about your friends?”

  “I have friends at home.”

  “What about me?” Greg said. That stopped him.

  “You’re the best roommate somebody could have,” Greg said. “They might stick me with a cracker.”

  “Yeah,” Thomas said. “Well, I never said I was leaving for sure. I just said I might.” He added that if he did come back, he’d want to room with Greg—next year, too.

  “Better give you this now,” Greg said. “Might not see you later.” He opened the drawer of his desk and pulled out a small box wrapped in green paper. “Happy birthday,” he said. “And Merry Christmas. You get screwed being born this close to the holiday.”

  Thomas was embarrassed. He hadn’t bought anything for Greg.

  “Yours isn’t wrapped yet,” he said.

  “I know what that means,” Greg said. “Just open it.”

  Inside was an old, brown leather-bound edition of Othello, small enough to fit in your back pocket and with tiny little print on thin crinkly paper.