Beyond the Chocolate War (17 page)

C
arter saw his chance: Archie parking his car in the driveway at his house, stepping out of the car, pausing as if testing the atmosphere, his thin body knifelike and lethal silhouetted against the rays of a spotlight above the garage door.

The pause propelled Carter into action. Otherwise he might have hesitated, and then Archie—and the moment—would be gone.

"Archie," he called, walking toward him.

Archie turned, saw him, waited, his head haloed by the spotlight.

Carter stopped within a few feet of Archie, was tempted to turn away and get out of there but instead heard himself saying:

"I did it, Archie."

"Did what, Carter?"

"Wrote that letter."

"What letter?"

"To Brother Leon."

"I know that, Carter."

What do I do now? Carter wondered. He had never faced Archie as an adversary before.

"I want to explain about the letter."

"There's nothing to explain," Archie said, cool, unforgiving.

"Yes, there is!" Carter cried, a tremor in his voice. He had to get this over with, couldn't endure the waiting anymore, waiting for Archie to strike. He knew the trophy case was only the beginning and dreaded what would come later. "Archie, I wrote that letter to protect the school. I didn't do it for myself. I was afraid the assignment would screw us all up. I didn't do it to double-cross the Vigils. . . ."

"The Vigils are more important than the school," Archie snapped. "You should have come to me, Carter. Told me your doubts. I'm not the enemy. Instead, you went to the enemy—"

"I thought it was the right thing to do."

"The right thing to do," Archie mocked. "You guys make me want to vomit. With your precious honor and pride. Football hero. Boxing champ. Strutting the campus with your chest out and your head high. Carter, the ace of aces . . ."

Carter had never heard such rancor, such venom in Archie's voice, Archie who was always so cool, so detached, as he had been a moment before.

"I'm sorry, Archie. I made a mistake. And I'm sorry."

Archie studied him for a moment and then turned away, his movement indicating finality, meeting over, so long, Carter.

Panicky, Carter stepped forward, hand shooting out, almost touching Archie's shoulder but stopping short at the last moment.

"Archie, wait."

Over his shoulder, Archie asked: "Something else, Carter?"

"No . . . yes . . . I mean . . ." Flustered. Groping for words and not finding any. But having to detain Archie somehow. "What happens now?"

Archie turned full face toward him again.

"What do you want to happen?"

Is this the moment? Carter wondered. Is this when he should make his move? He had approached Archie with a bargain on his mind. First, to make his confession about the letter. Then, as amends, to tip Archie off to Obie's plan for revenge, on Fair Day and Skit Night. He paused now, deciding to stall awhile longer.

"I guess I want things to be like they were before. Hell, we're almost ready to graduate."

"Tell you what, Carter," Archie said. "Let things stay the same as before, like you just said. Let the last days come and go. Graduation. But that's not the end of it, Carter. You were a traitor and you're going to pay for that. Some way, someday. Not tomorrow, not next month. Or even next year, maybe. But someday. And who knows? Maybe next month, after all. That's a promise, Carter. When you least expect it. When everything is rosy and beautiful. Then comes the payoff. "Because you can't be allowed to get away clean, without paying for it, Carter."

God, Carter thought, all those years ahead. He had never heard Archie's voice so deadly, so somber, almost sad, and this sadness gave his words a devastating impact and power. Carter had thought graduation would be the end. Of Archie Costello and the Vigils and everything rotten in this world. He knew, too, that the bargain he had been about to propose would serve no purpose now, that his best course was to help Obie, although he shied away from what that meant, what Obie had in mind.

"Remember that, Carter. Nobody double-crosses Archie Costello and gets away with it. When you least expect it, the revenge will come."

Without a further word, Archie stepped across the driveway, in front of the car, under the spotlight, and up to his front door. Then was gone into the house.

He left Carter there, shaken, not only by the prospect of Archie's revenge sometime in the future but by what he had almost done. He'd almost turned traitor against Obie. Which meant being a traitor a second time. Not once but twice. Christ, he thought, what have I become? Archie's words rang in his mind as he stood there shivering in the evening air.
You guys make me want to vomit
.

Carter left the driveway, empty, hollow, without honor or pride, like something haunted, and he was both the ghost and the thing that was haunted.

A
rchie, Obie, and Carter always examined the black box just before Vigil meetings began. From that moment on, the box was not touched by anyone and rested on the small shelf in the crate Carter used as an improvised desk.

Carter held the box aloft now, opened, the six marbles rolling and clicking together as he tilted the box this way and that, the black marble ugly and forbidding in sharp contrast to the five white marbles. Carter avoided Archie's eyes. After the encounter in Archie's driveway last night he wanted to avoid Archie altogether, but knew he had to play his part in Obie s drama. Archie barely glanced into the box, indifferent as always. He nodded his satisfaction and turned away.

That was Obie's chance, a chance calling for swift movements in a matter of seconds. He passed his hand over the box as Carter began to lower the lid. Carter delayed the closing, paused, turning his head as if interrupted by someone calling his name. In that brief interval Obie deftly picked up three white marbles. Carter looked panicky, couldn't help glancing at Archie, who was walking toward the center of the storage room. With his other hand Obie dropped three black marbles into the jewelry box, the sound of their dropping muffled by the velvet interior. So now the score stood: two white marbles remaining in the box and four black. Obie glanced at Archie, who was watching the members of the Vigils entering the storage room and taking their places. As Obie and Carter moved toward the desk, Obie's hand shot out again, like a darting bird, and plucked up the other two white marbles, pocketing them.

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.

T
hey 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.