Skippy Dies (84 page)

Ruprecht must have sensed this, because he stood up and said, I should probably get moving.

Okay, she said.

But he didn’t go. Instead he hovered, and the wind, the empty wind, blew around them, around his mass of blubber and her toothpick-skeleton;
it reminded her of what he’d said about the two universes, one expanding like it would never stop, the other shrinking and
shrinking into itself – both of them running from some horror of the past, two halves of something that used to be whole now
running, without thinking, without seeing, away from each other and into death. And she realized that there was no someone
else. For some reason she did not understand, Ruprecht had come to her tonight; and she was the last person he would come
to. She was all that kept him tethered to the Earth. If she let go of him, if she went through the dark door swung open before
her, he too would disappear for ever from the world.

From upstairs the pills called out to her!

And in the distance the sirens, the singing girls, crying, Lori Lori!

But she gritted her teeth and squared her bony shoulders and as he moved for the back gate she called out sharply, Ruprecht!

From the doorway Nurse Dingle’s musical voice, Lori!

In a minute, she yelled back.

Then to Ruprecht, I don’t think you should go to Stanford. Not now.

He blinked back at her expressionlessly. But what could she tell him? What reasons could
she
give for not going? Look at her, what could she possibly tell anyone about anything?

I know it seems like there’s nothing left here for you, she said slowly. But maybe there is, and you just can’t see it?

Blink, blink, went Ruprecht. God, this was so hard! When she was beautiful this kind of thing was so much easier, all she
had to do was look at a boy and he’d be doing cartwheels down the street! But those days were gone, and she found she had
no idea how you would get inside the fortress of another person.

It’s like… Arrgh, come on, Lori, she searched around in her brain for something not useless and black, but all she could think
of was something they’d done in French class once about this poet, which she didn’t know if it had anything to do with what
they were talking about now. Still, it was all she had so she said it. His name was Paul Éluard, and he said this thing once:
There is another world, but it is in this one
.

Ruprecht looked baffled.

It’s about how – she could feel herself going red, she squeezed her eyes tight shut, trying to remember what Mr Scott had
told them – like, how people are always
going
somewhere? Like everybody’s always trying to be
not where they are
? Like they want to be in Stanford, or in Tuscany, or in Heaven, or in a bigger house on a fancier street? Or they want to
be different, like thinner or smarter or richer or with cooler friends (or dead, she did not say). They’re so busy trying
to find their way somewhere else they don’t see the world they’re actually in. So this guy’s saying, instead of searching
for ways out of our lives, what we should be searching for are ways
in
. Because if you really look at the world, it’s like… it’s like…

What the fuck was she talking about, he must think she’s such a spa.

It’s like, you know,
inside every stove there’s a fire. Well, inside every grass blade there’s a grass blade, that’s just like burning up with
being a grass blade. And inside every tree, there’s a tree, and inside every person there’s a person, and inside this world
that seems so boring and ordinary, if you look hard enough, there’s a totally amazing magical beautiful world. And anything
you would want to know, or anything you would want to happen, all the answers are right there where you are right now. In
your life. She opened her eyes. Do you know what I mean?

Like strings? he said.

Well, no, not really, she said uncertainly, but then she thought about it and changed her mind. No, actually, totally like
strings. Because you told me they’re everywhere, right? They’re all around us, it’s not like they’re just in Stanford.

Ruprecht nodded slowly.

So you could study them right here, couldn’t you?

He began to say something about lab facilities, but she cut him off, because she had just had an idea. Like maybe all you
need is someone to help you, she said. Like Daniel did.

He did not reply to this, gazed at her from deep within hamster cheeks.

Maybe
I
could help you, she said, or rather the idea said, though inside her head a voice shrieked,
What are you saying?
Like I don’t know anything about science, she said, ignoring it. Or strings or other dimensions. But I could get stuff from
the shops for you? I could get my dad to drive you places? Or just, when you’re busy with an experiment I could bring you
lunch? I mean, I’m not going to be in this place for ever.

You want to go back out there?
exclaimed the voice.
To that?
But again she ignored it, watched Ruprecht’s eyes watching hers. Why don’t you stay, Ruprecht, she said. For a little while
more, at least.

He pressed his lips together; then he bowed his head as if he had arrived somewhere after a very long journey.

The wind shook the leaves and everything in the garden.

After she let him out the back gate, she stood there for a moment, under the splashing ivy. She was thinking about that French
class. It was months ago, but now she thought about it,
she found she remembered nearly everything – the cream sweater Mr Scott wore, his hair just beginning to need to be cut, the
taste of chewing gum in her mouth, fluffy clouds chasing through the trees, the hairs on Dora Lafferty’s neck in front of
her, the classroom smell of lipstick and old runners. She remembered telling herself to remember what Paul Éluard said, because
it seemed important. But things like the world-inside-this-one are too big to hold in your head by yourself. You need someone
to remind you, or else, you need someone you can tell, and you have to keep telling each other, over and over, throughout
your whole life. And as you tell them, the things are slowly binding you together, like tiny invisible strings, or like a
frisbee that’s thrown back and forth, or like words written on the floor in syrup. TELL LORI. TELL RUPRECHT.

Maybe instead of strings it’s stories things are made of, an infinite number of tiny vibrating stories; once upon a time they
all were part of one big giant superstory, except it got broken up into a jillion different pieces, that’s why no story on
its own makes any sense, and so what you have to do in a life is try and weave it back together, my story into your story,
our stories into all the other people’s we know, until you’ve got something that to God or whoever might look like a letter
or even a whole word…

Then she walked back towards the house. Suddenly there was mist everywhere, a silver mist, like the Earth was breathing magic
breaths; she walked very slowly, with her eyes closed, like a sleepwalker, and as she did she imagined she could feel invisible
veils drift over the fine hairs of her arm, break across her face and hands, fragile as a breath or more fragile; she walked
and dreamed that she was passing through all these veils and travelling deeper and deeper into… into the night? into where
she already was?

Ruprecht left his doughnuts behind. Now the box sits beside her on the window sill. She scoops the pills up from the dresser
and replaces them in Lala’s tummy. Outside, the sirens go whirling off in another direction, leaving only the sky stretched
over the houses, the lonely beautiful universe, a sad song played on a
broken instrument. She wonders if Skippy did hear them tonight. Ruprecht told her that even though you can’t see strings,
scientists believed the theory was true because it was the most beautiful explanation. So, Skippy heard their song, that would
be the beautiful explanation, wouldn’t it? For tonight?

She picks up her phone and tries Carl again. She doesn’t know what she will say when he answers. Maybe just,
Hey, what you doing?
Or,
Look at all the mist outside, I love it when it’s misty!
She listens to the dial-tone, she imagines the phone ringing in the place that is his life, the music rising through the
air to touch his ears. Opening the box, she takes out a doughnut. It looks like chocolate. She takes a bite.

A chairde
,

I write this, my first Christmas Bulletin to you, with both a great sense of privilege and a deep sadness. Privilege, at taking
on the mantle of Principal worn by so many illustrious men, most lately Father Desmond Furlong; sadness at the tragedies that
have afflicted Seabrook College in the last two months.

Approaching as we do the end of the year, the temptation is to keep one’s gaze fixed on the future, and draw a veil over the
events which have already caused us such great sorrow. However, it has never been the way here at Seabrook College to shy
away from problems or to flee the past; and although Seabrook’s 140th year has not been an easy one, I think that we, as a
school and a community, can take heart from the spirit in which we rose to its challenges.

That spirit was never more clearly demonstrated than during the events of 8 December. We know from our history books as well
as our trophy cabinet that Seabrook has long been a nursing ground for heroes; that that terrible night was not more terrible
still was due to the courage of three more. By now you have heard these stories many times, but you will forgive me if I take
a moment, on behalf of the school and on behalf of you the parents, to remember once more the bravery of Brian Tomms, woodwork
teacher and Dean of Boarders, in evacuating the Tower so promptly, and of
Howard Fallon, history teacher, in rescuing from the premises a boy who had been trapped there. You will be pleased to learn
that Howard’s doctor in Seabrook Clinic (Milton Ruleman, Class of ’78) is very happy with his progress and predicts a full
recovery. We look forward to Howard ‘togging out’ for us in the classroom again very soon. The boy in question is also, I
am happy to say, on the mend.

Jerome Green’s courage was apparent to all who knew him. He devoted his life to helping the weakest members of society, both
in Africa and in his native land. His unstinting energy, his unflinching morality, his refusal to brook compromise, marked
him out as a man in many ways too good for these times. It is fitting that his last act should have been to raise the alarm,
and in this darkest of hours we may take some solace in the thought that this is how he might have wanted to go – in the service
of his beloved Seabrook, the good shepherd protecting his flock.
Ní bheidh a leithéidse ann arís
.

Police are still looking into the causes of the fire, but it is believed to have been started by a similar electrical fault
to the one that interrupted the Christmas concert. There has been much understandable concern among parents at the speed with
which the flames spread in an area where students were housed. It goes without saying that these anxieties have been voiced
at the very highest levels of the school. My personal feeling is that now is not the time for laying blame. Instead, we must
set our minds to the future. For some time now, plans have been circulating to replace the 1865 building with a new, modern
wing, and there is no longer any excuse for delay. Until that work is completed, classes for second- and third-years will
take place in prefabs that have been very kindly donated by friends of the school; the boarding school will, as you have been
notified, remain closed.

You will have seen reports in the media that the Holy Paraclete Fathers will shortly be turning over the day-to-day running
of the school to a private management company. Contrary to these reports, this is a change that has been in train for a long
time and is totally unrelated to recent events. More details will be made available in the coming months. At present it suffices
to say that the management company will be headed by myself and a board of directors from the Seabrook alumni community, with
representatives from parents and from faculty. The company will take care of mundane business and financial matters; the Paraclete
Fathers will of course preserve a unique advisory role in the school and have the final say in its spiritual direction.

Before taking my leave of you – not wanting to overstay my welcome on my first turn out! – may I take this opportunity to
congratulate Tom Roche, another Seabrook hero of long standing, on his appointment to the position of Director of Sport at
Mary Immaculate School in Mauritius. We will all be sorry to lose ‘Coach’; still, we know that he will not forget his
alma mater
, nor his many friends here, and we are proud to know that in this 140th year of the school, the Seabrook message is, as the
founding fathers dreamed it would, still being carried to faroff countries, and to new generations of boys.

A very merry Christmas to you all,

Gregory L. Costigan,
Principal

Thank you: Christopher and Kathleen Murray, Juliette Mitchell, Natasha Fairweather, Anna Kelly, Caroline Pretty, Neil Stewart,
Mark O’Flaherty, Catriona Pennell, Ronan Kelly, Trigger, MKTRN, and all the beautiful dreamers of the Moyne, especially Jennifer
Mundy for the room. Thanks to the Arts Council of Ireland, An Chomhairle Ealaíon, for their generous financial support. For
keeping me company and making me laugh, thanks and love to Miriam McCaul.