Read Beyond the Chocolate War Page 21


  Later, as the students filed from the hall, Ray Bannister confronted Obie: “I don’t know what the hell you had in mind, Obie, and I don’t want to know. But I’m glad the safety lock was working. Are you crazy or something?”

  He turned away with such a withering look of disdain and disbelief that Obie began to shake and sweat, thinking how close he had come to murder, and didn’t know whether to curse or thank Ray Bannister for the safety lock.

  Archie, leaning against his car, shook his head, admitting for once that someone had been capable of surprising him, amazing him with actions he had been unable to predict.

  “Congratulations, Obie. You’ve got more guts than I ever gave you credit for.”

  “Christ, Archie …” Obie said, dismayed. For the first time in their relationship, Obie had heard admiration in Archie’s voice, and words that could be construed as praise. For a sweet tempting moment, Obie almost succumbed to that praise and admiration. Then realized what had happened to him. What Archie had done to him. He had driven him to the point of murder. In order to earn Archie’s praise, you had to be willing to murder someone, even if the murdered person had to be Archie himself.

  He peered at Archie through slitted eyes, marveling at his confidence and ease despite the ordeal he had just endured, then saw something else, too, in Archie’s eyes—what?—and made a leap of thought that almost took his breath away.

  “Wait a minute, Archie,” he said. “The black marble …”

  “What about the black marble?” Archie asked, amused. That was the light in Archie’s eyes: amusement.

  “You knew about the switch, didn’t you? Saw Carter and me with the black box.”

  Archie nodded. “Never turn to a life of crime, Obie. You’re too obvious. You always look suspicious. And you’re clumsy.”

  “Then why did you go through with it? Why did you take the black marble?”

  “I had to know, Obie.”

  “Know what?”

  “What would happen. How far you would go.”

  “You took that chance?” Obie said, his turn to be awed now.

  “Not much of a chance, Obie. I knew that I would win, that nobody at Trinity—you, Carter, even Brother Leon—could make me a loser.”

  “Why didn’t you ever get the black marble all these years?” But Obie knew, of course. He realized he had known ever since Ray Bannister had demonstrated the tricks with marbles at his home, the day they met.

  Archie waved his hand and produced a white marble from nowhere, rolling it on his fingers, tossing it from one hand to another, the marble like a small, pale moon leaping in space. “I knew about that Worcester store a long, long time ago,” he said, laughing lightly. Then inclined his head and spoke almost dreamily. “But I didn’t always play the trick, Obie. A lot of times I just took a chance. Had to do it that way. Testing. And I never lost.…”

  Obie shook his head. Seemed he was always shaking his head when Archie was around. Shaking his head in dismay or admiration or disgust. And didn’t quite know which at this moment.

  “Can I ask you something, Obie?”

  “Sure.” But get it over with, Archie. He wanted suddenly to get away from him, away from Trinity, as if the crime had actually been committed. Like any murderer wanting to leave the scene of the crime.

  “Why, Obie?”

  “What do you mean—why?”

  “Why did you want to kill me?”

  “Why?” Obie asked, his turn to be surprised now. “Are you blind, Archie? Don’t you see what’s been going on at Trinity all this time? What you’ve done to me? To everybody?”

  “What have I done, Obie? You tell me what I’ve done.”

  Obie flung his hand in the air, the gesture encompassing all the rotten things that had occurred under Archie’s command, at Archie’s direction. The ruined kids, the capsized hopes. Renault last fall and poor Tubs Casper and all the others, including even the faculty. Like Brother Eugene.

  “You know what you’ve done, Archie. I don’t need to draw up a list—”

  “You blame me for everything, right, Obie? You and Carter and all the others. Archie Costello, the bad guy. The villain. Archie, the bastard. Trinity would be such a beautiful place without Archie Costello. Right, Obie? But it’s not me, Obie, it’s not me.…”

  “Not you?” Obie cried, fury gathering in his throat, his chest, his guts. “What the hell do you mean, not you? This could have been a beautiful place to be, Archie. A beautiful time for all of us. Christ, who else, if not you?”

  “You really want to know who?”

  “Okay, who, then?” Impatient with his crap, the old Archie crap.

  “It’s you, Obie. You and Carter and Bunting and Leon and everybody. But especially you, Obie. Nobody forced you to do anything, buddy. Nobody made you join the Vigils. Nobody twisted your arm to make you secretary of the Vigils. Nobody paid you to keep a notebook with all that crap about the students, all their weaknesses, soft points. The notebook made your job easier, didn’t it, Obie? And what was your job? Finding the victims. You found them, Obie. You found Renault and Tubs Casper and Gendreau—the first one, remember, when we were sophomores?—how you loved it all, didn’t you, Obie?” Archie flicked a finger against the metal of the car, and the ping was like a verbal exclamation mark. “Know what, Obie? You could have said no anytime, anytime at all. But you didn’t.…” Archie’s voice was filled with contempt, and he pronounced Obie’s name as if it were something to be flushed down a toilet.

  “Oh, I’m an easy scapegoat, Obie. For you and everybody else at Trinity. Always have been. But you had free choice, buddy. Just like Brother Andrew always says in Religion. Free choice, Obie, and you did the choosing.…”

  A sound escaped from Obie’s lips, the sound a child might make hearing that his mother and father had been killed in an auto accident on their way home. The sound had death in it. And truth. The terrible truth that Archie was right, of course. He had blamed Archie all along. Had been willing to cut off his head, for crissake.

  “Don’t feel bad, Obie,” Archie said, the tenderness in his voice again. “You’ve just joined the human race.…”

  Obie shook his head. “Not your kind of human race, Archie. Okay, maybe I’m not the good guy anymore. I admit that, I accept it. Maybe I’ll confess it at church. But what about you? You just go on and on. What the hell are you?”

  “I am Archie Costello,” he said. “And I’ll always be there, Obie. You’ll always have me wherever you go and whatever you do. Tomorrow, ten years from now. Know why, Obie? Because I’m you. I’m all the things you hide inside you. That’s me—”

  “Cut it out,” Obie said. He hated it when Archie began to get fancy, spinning his wheels. “What you’re saying is a lot of crap. I know who you are. And I know who I am.” But do I, he wondered, do I?

  He wrenched himself away from Archie although Archie had not been touching him or holding him back. Archie shrugged, opened his car door, movements casual and cool as usual, as he slipped into the seat. Obie could feel Archie’s eyes on him as he walked away, those cold intelligent eyes.

  “Good-bye, Obie,” he called.

  He had never said good-bye before.

  PART FOUR

  “I have a confession to make. A confession of guilt,” Brother Leon said, addressing the final assembly of the year at Trinity High School.

  “My guilt is my involvement in the recent tragic death of a Trinity student, David Caroni.

  “You have heard the rumors, I trust.

  “And have read accounts in the newspaper.

  “I have called this extraordinary assembly in the last days of the school year to set the record straight because of what Trinity is—a school of both academic and athletic splendor, a place of honor.

  “We have many traditions here at Trinity.

  “And a search for truth is one of them. We search for truth in our classrooms, in our informal discussions, in our daily lives.

  “Thus, we must admi
t and face the truth about David Caroni.”

  Henry Malloran had brought his lunch today because he was tired of cafeteria food. Not tired as in sleepy, exhausted, but tired as in fed up, disgusted. Everything tasted the same in the cafeteria and the taste was rotten. His lunchbag sat on his lap now because Brother Leon had called this meeting before classes began and he hadn’t had time to put it in his locker. Henry let Leon’s words roll over him. He had been shocked at David Caroni’s death even though he had barely known the kid. But death at an early age was shocking, suicide even worse. He wished Brother Leon would shut up about it. What the hell did he know about how a kid felt, anyway?

  “The truth is that David Caroni performed that most tragic of acts—the taking of his own life. An act such as this always touches off rumors, conjectures. Even our local newspaper, so supportive of educational endeavors, could not resist bold headlines.

  “We must face those headlines as we must face the truth at all times.

  “ ‘Student Kills Self After Attack on Headmaster.’

  “Yes, David Caroni took his own life and, yes, he did attack the Headmaster of Trinity.

  “Another headline:

  “ ‘Suicide Note Puzzling.’

  “We may never know the reason for David Caroni’s tragic act. The reason lies somewhere in the note he left behind, a note that was a reflection of his troubled mind. I know that some of you have been asked about the note, his strange mention of a letter or letters. No one seems to know what this poor tortured boy meant.

  “His visit to the residence on his final day of life has been a shock, I know, to all of you here at Trinity. And a mystery as well. It is known that troubled persons often turn their anger against those who try to help. Investigators have been thorough in their search for the truth. They have weighed all the evidence. They have interviewed faculty and staff members here at Trinity and the students who knew him best, although it is true that this sensitive boy did not have many close friends.”

  Henry Malloran’s mother was a great cook, very inventive, and although some of her new concoctions failed—like cucumber soup, for instance—she was never discouraged. Her sandwiches, too, were fancy. Like the two tuna fish salad sandwiches she’d made this morning: tuna fish and Miracle Whip and bits of celery, a dousing of garlic salt, and some herbal kind of stuff, dill or something. Plus an apple for fruit and a tomato, which she said was also a fruit, which Henry hadn’t known. And chocolate chip cookies for dessert. He was getting hungry just thinking about it and wondered if he could sneak a cookie as Leon rattled on about the note and everything that had happened, although Leon was probably one of the people who had made David Caroni’s life miserable, like he made everything at Trinity miserable. Henry probed around in the bag for the cookies, found them, carefully slid one out of its plastic wrapper, and prepared to slip it into his mouth.

  “The verdict of the investigation was: No one at Trinity is implicated in David Caroni’s death. His attack upon your Headmaster was declared unprovoked and clearly without motive.

  “And yet I am guilty.

  “Of ignorance. Ignorance concerning a student in my school who went through his classes troubled and unhappy, in need of attention and care.

  “But you, also, are guilty.

  “All of you.

  “If I am guilty of ignorance, you are guilty of neglect. Of blindness. David Caroni was one of you, a student like you, an adolescent like you. He sat beside you in classes. He walked the corridors with you. He ate beside you in the cafeteria. He talked to you.

  “And you did not listen.

  “You did not see.

  “You did not respond.

  “The troubled person always sends out signals.

  “But you did not acknowledge those signals.

  “And for this you should be ashamed. You should hang your heads in shame.”

  Henry Malloran wondered what the hell Brother Leon meant when he said everybody was guilty. And should be ashamed. I’m not guilty, he thought, I didn’t even know the kid. Never even said hello to him in my life. He was tired of Brother Leon, as tired of him as he was tired of cafeteria food. Why should Leon try to make everybody feel rotten all the time? You should hang your heads in shame. Henry Malloran let the anger course through his body and reached into his bag for another cookie, couldn’t find it, his fingers touching the apple, the tomato.… Where the hell was the other cookie?

  “But let us pause. Let kindness rule the day. Let us not dwell upon the terrible events of these past days. Let us pledge to go forward toward the future. Let us not forget the past but learn from it instead. Those who ignore history are doomed to repeat it.

  “I have searched my heart and have sought forgiveness for my ignorance and found it.

  “And I have looked into your eyes, as I am doing now, and I forgive you for your part in David Caroni’s tragedy.

  “We must go forward and make Trinity such a splendid educational facility that the honors we attain in the future will diminish this tragic act.

  “Thus, remembering the past, let us go to our future.

  “Not even the present counts, since our school term will end in a few days.

  “The future counts. And it can be glorious for all of us here at Trinity.

  “Let us now bow our heads and pray silently for the soul of David Caroni.

  “And for ourselves.

  “And the future.”

  The tomato hit Brother Leon on his left cheek, a ripe tomato that exploded in juicy fury, splattering his shirt and his hair and smearing his face with what looked like blood. Nobody said anything. Nobody moved. Nobody cheered or booed. Everybody sat there in a profound silence as Brother Leon, mouth agape, wiped the tomato from his face, still silent as he stalked from the stage, leaving an assembly hall full of students who sat stunned, silent for a few minutes, and then quietly filed out of the hall. Brother Leon never learned the culprit’s name. He, in fact, never made an effort to do so. Nobody else ever mentioned the incident. But Henry Malloran was elected president of the senior class at the next day’s election and nobody ran against him.

  Bunting sat on the front steps of the school, basking in a late-spring breeze, conscious that he was sitting exactly where Archie Costello always held court. But Archie was gone now, with the rest of the seniors. And all the other students were waiting for the term to finally end.

  Bunting sat there, waiting for something to happen.

  Ten minutes later nothing had happened. The final school bells had rung and students had abandoned the place, without looking behind, without giving Bunting a glance. Ah, but wait till September, when they realized who Bunting was.

  He hated to admit it, but he wished Cornacchio or Harley or someone would come along. He knew, however, that Cornacchio was definitely out of the picture. Ever since that night at the Chasm, Cornacchio had been avoiding him. Which was fine with Bunting. He himself felt guilty about that night, was grateful that there had been no repercussions. He had acted stupidly and Cornacchio was a reminder of that stupid act. So good-bye, Cornacchio. Harley was off brooding somewhere—Bunting had explained to him about Emile Janza. How Emile had to be second in command. Harley’s lips had curled up, as if tasting something distasteful. “But I still need you, Harley. Someone smart, someone I can trust.” Harley always responded to flattery, and Bunting was an expert at providing that flattery. Harley would sulk awhile but would come around.

  The breeze turned a bit chilly. Only a few students lingered on the lawn, watching the last school bus lurching away. Bunting had decided to give it up, to abandon his lonesome vigil, when he saw Emile Janza approaching. He kept his face expressionless, his eyes vacant as Janza drew near. Emile was like a pebble in his shoe, a sliver in his flesh, a piece of dirt in his eye. And there was nothing he could do about it.

  Janza stood below him, his squat figure almost at attention. This pleased Bunting and he nodded his hello, not speaking, playing it cool.

  “We
ought to have a meeting this summer,” Emile said. “Me and you. To go over plans.”

  “Plans?”

  “Right. I figure we should get organized. Like an army. I mean, Archie was too soft with his psychological crap. I think we have to use muscle. None of that subtle shit.” He smacked his right fist into his left palm.

  Bunting winced as if Janza’s fist had sunk into his stomach. Yet he saw the logic of Janza’s suggestion. It would be good to have muscle and brawn on his side.

  “Then I think we ought to have some weapons,” Janza said.

  “Weapons?” Bunting asked, horrified but trying to stay cool.

  “Oh, not guns. But, like, brass knuckles. And rubber clubs. You strap the club to your leg under your pants. They hardly leave a mark. And Mace. Mace is beautiful. Like chemical warfare …”

  Bunting shuddered inside. “I don’t know, Janza.…” Had to treat Janza gingerly.

  “Look, let me take care of all that. Training the guys, getting the weapons. You be the general. I’ll carry out the orders.…”

  General Bunting—it sounded faintly ridiculous. And yet Janza had a point. Bunting saw himself surrounded by loyal people, troops, all of them ready to follow orders.

  “Another thing,” Janza said. “I think we need a treasury.”

  “A treasury?” Janza was full of surprises. Maybe he wasn’t as dumb as he looked, after all. But that also made him dangerous.

  “Right. Have the guys pay, like, dues.”

  “Have the Vigils pay dues?”

  “No. The Vigils collect the dues. The rest of the school pays them. All the students. They pay and we see that everything runs smooth and easy. Nobody gets hurt. And we build up a treasury. For ourselves …”

  Bunting was always scratching for money. Was always practically broke, his stupid allowance not enough to cover expenses, and he hated the thought of working part-time.

  “And how about grass?” Janza said, really on a roll now. “I think we ought to do a little business in grass. Or pills. Archie Costello never allowed drugs, which was stupid. As long as we control the supply, we can have this place in our pockets.”