The Chocolate War (13 page)

God, how Obie hated the son of a bitch. He snapped his notebook shut and left Archie sitting there in the polluted atmosphere of the gymnasium.

BRIAN COCHRAN COULDN’T BELIEVE his eyes. He went through the totals again, double-checking, making sure he hadn’t screwed up. Frowning, biting the pencil, he pondered the results of his arithmetic—sales were dropping at an alarming rate. For a week now, they’d been going steadily downward. But yesterday, the sharpest drop of all.

What would Brother Leon say? That was Brian’s main concern. Brian hated the job of treasurer because it was such a drag but mostly because it brought him into personal contact with Brother Leon. Leon gave Brian the chills. The teacher was unpredictable, moody. He was never satisfied. Complaints, complaints—your sevens look like nines, Cochran. Or, you spelled Sulkey’s name wrong—it’s Sulkey with an
e
, Cochran.

Brian had been lucky recently. Brother Leon had stopped checking the totals on a daily basis, almost as if he anticipated the bad news the figures
contained and wanted to avoid finding out about it definitely. Today was zero hour, however. He had told Brian to prepare the totals. Now Brian waited for the teacher to show up. He’d go ape when he saw the figures. Brian shivered, actually shivered! He’d read how in historic times they killed the bearer of bad news. He had the feeling that Brother Leon was that kind of character, that he would need a scapegoat and Brian would be closest at hand. Brian sighed, tired of it all, wishing he were outside on this beautiful October day, gunning around in the old Chevy his father had bought him when school started. He loved the car. “Me and my Chevy,” Brian hummed to the tune of a song he’d heard on the radio.

“Well, Brian.”

Brother Leon had a way of sneaking up on you. Brian leaped and almost came to attention. That’s the kind of lousy effect the teacher had on him.

“Yes, Brother Leon.”

“Sit, sit,” Leon said, and took his place behind the desk. Leon was sweating, as usual. He had removed his black jacket and his shirt was stained with wetness at the armpits. A faint smell of perspiration reached Brian.

“The totals are bad,” Brian said, plunging, wanting to get it over with, wanting to get out of the school, this office, Leon’s suffocating presence.

And feeling simultaneously a twist of triumph—Leon was such a rat, let him have some bad news for a change.

“Bad?”

“The sales are down. Below last year’s. And last year, the quota was half of what has to be sold this year.”

“I know, I know,” Leon said sharply, swiveling away in his desk chair as if Brian weren’t important enough to be addressed directly. “Are you sure of your figures? You’re not exactly a whiz at adding and subtracting, Cochran.”

Brian flushed with anger. He was tempted to throw the master sheet at the Brother but held back. Nobody defied Brother Leon. Not Brian Cochran, anyway, who only wanted to get out of here.

“I double-checked everything,” Brian said, keeping his voice even.

Silence.

The floor vibrated under Brian’s feet. The boxing club working out in the gym, maybe, doing calisthenics or the other stuff boxers did.

“Cochran. Read off the names of the boys who have reached or surpassed their quota.”

Brian reached for the lists. A simple task because Brother Leon insisted that all kinds of cross-indexed lists be kept so that you could tell at a glance just where students stood.

“Sulkey, sixty-two. Maronia, fifty-eight. LeBlanc, fifty-two—”

“Slower, slower,” Brother Leon said, still facing away from Brian. “Begin again and slower.”

It was spooky but Brian began again, pronouncing the names more exactly, pausing between names and figures.

“Sulkey … sixty-two … Maronia … fifty-eight … LeBlanc … fifty-two … Caroni … fifty …”

Brother Leon was nodding his head, as if listening to a beautiful symphony, as if lovely sounds filled the air.

“Fontaine … fifty …” Brian paused. “Those are the only ones who either made the quota or topped it, Brother Leon.”

“Read the others. There are many students who sold over forty. Read those names …” His face still turned away, his body slouched in the chair.

Brian shrugged and continued, calling out the names in singsong fashion, with measured pauses, letting his voice linger over the names and numbers, a weird litany here in the quiet office. When he ran out of the sales in the forties, he continued into the thirties and Brother Leon did not tell him to halt.

“… Sullivan … thirty-three … Charlton … thirty-two … Kelly … thirty-two … Ambrose … thirty-one …”

Once in a while Brian looked up to see Brother Leon’s head nodding, as if he were communicating with someone unseen or only himself. While the recitation went on—from the thirties into the twenties.

His eyes running ahead, Brian saw that he was in for trouble. After he was through with the twenties and the teens, there was a big leap. He wondered how Brother Leon would react to the small returns. Brian began to grow warm and his voice turned hoarse. He needed a drink of water, not only to relieve the dryness of his throat but to ease the tension of his neck muscles.

“… Antonelli … fifteen … Lombard … thirteen …” He cleared his throat, breaking the rhythm, interrupting the flow of the report. A deep breath and then, “Cartier … six.” He shot a look at Brother Leon but the teacher hadn’t moved. His hands were clasped together, resting in his lap. “Cartier … he only sold six because he’s been out of school. Appendicitis. He’s been in the hospital …”

Brother Leon waved his hand, a gesture that said, “I understand, it doesn’t matter.” At least, that’s what Brian figured it meant. And the gesture also seemed to mean “continue.” He looked at the last name on the list.

“Renault … zero.”

The pause. No names left.

“Renault … zero,” Brother Leon said, his
voice a sibilant whisper. “Can you imagine that, Cochran? A Trinity boy who has refused to sell the chocolates? Do you know what’s happened, Cochran? Do you know why the sales have fallen off?”

“I don’t know, Brother Leon,” Brian said lamely.

“The boys have become infected, Cochran. Infected by a disease we could call apathy. A terrible disease. Difficult to cure.”

What was he talking about?

“Before a cure can be found, the cause must be discovered. But in this case, Cochran, the cause is known. The carrier of the disease is known.”

Brian knew what he was getting at now. Leon figured that Renault was the cause, the carrier of the disease. As if reading Brian’s mind, Leon whispered “Renault … Renault …”

Like a mad scientist plotting revenge in an underground laboratory, for crying out loud.

“I’M QUITTING THE TEAM, Jerry.”

“Why, Goob? I thought you liked football. We’re just starting to click. You made a sensational catch yesterday.”

They were headed for the bus stop. Today was Wednesday—no practice on Wednesday. Jerry was looking forward to arriving at the bus stop. There was a girl, beautiful, with hair like maple syrup. He’d seen her there a few times and she’d smiled at him. One day he’d gotten close enough to read her name on one of the schoolbooks she held in her arms. Ellen Barrett. Someday he’d get up the courage to speak to her.
Hi, Ellen
. Or call her on the telephone. Today maybe.

“Let’s run,” Goober said.

Off they went on a mad and awkward sprint. Their books prevented them from running with grace and abandon. But the mere act of running cheered up The Goober.

“Are you serious about quitting the team?”
Jerry asked, his voice higher than usual, strained from the running.

“I’ve got to quit, Jerry.” He was glad that his own voice was normal, unaffected by the running.

They turned into Gate Street.

“Why?” Jerry asked, launching himself into Gate Street with a burst of speed.

Their feet pounded on the pavement.

How can I tell him, Goob wondered.

Jerry had shot ahead. He glanced back over his shoulder, his face crimson with effort. “Why, damn it?”

The Goober caught up to him with a slight acceleration of his pace. He could easily have slid past him.

“Did you hear what happened to Brother Eugene?” The Goober asked.

“He got transferred,” Jerry answered, squeezing the words out of himself like toothpaste from a tube. He was in good shape because of football but he wasn’t a runner and didn’t know the tricks.

“I heard he’s gone on sick leave,” Goober said.

“What’s the difference?” Jerry replied. He took a deep sweet breath. “Hey, my legs are okay but my arms are killing me.” He carried two books in each hand.

“Keep running.”

“You’re some kind of nut,” Jerry said, humoring him.

They were approaching the intersection of Green and Gate. Seeing Jerry’s discomfort, The Goober slackened his pace. “They say Brother Eugene’s never been the same since Room Nineteen. They say he’s all broken up over it. Can’t eat or sleep. The shock.”

“Rumors,” Jerry gasped. “Hey, Goob, my lungs are burning up. I’m in a state of collapse.”

“I know how he feels, Jerry. I know how a thing like that can drive somebody up a wall.” Shouting the words into the wind. They had never discussed the destruction of Room Nineteen although Jerry knew about Goober’s involvement. “Some people can’t stand cruelty, Jerry. And that was a cruel thing to do to a guy like Eugene …”

“What’s Brother Eugene got to do with not playing football?” Jerry asked, really gasping now, really sweating, his lungs threatening to burst and his arms aching from the burden of the books.

Goober put on the brakes, slackening his pace, coming finally to a halt. Jerry blew air out of his mouth as he collapsed on the edge of someone’s front lawn. His chest rose and fell like human bellows.

The Goober sat on the curbstone, his legs jack-knifed, his feet in the gutter. He studied the leaves clustered beneath his feet. He was trying
to find a way to explain to Jerry the connection between Brother Eugene and Room Nineteen and not playing football anymore. He knew there was a connection but it was hard to put into words.

“Look, Jerry. There’s something rotten in that school. More than rotten.” He groped for the word and found it but didn’t want to use it. The word didn’t fit the surroundings, the sun and the bright October afternoon. It was a midnight word, a howling wind word.

“The Vigils?” Jerry asked. He’d lain back on the lawn and was looking at the blue sky, the hurrying autumn clouds.

“That’s part of it,” The Goober said. He wished they were still running. “Evil,” he said.

“What did you say?”

Crazy. Jerry would think he’d flipped. “Nothing,” Goober said. “Anyway, I’m not going to play football. It’s a personal thing, Jerry.” He took a deep breath. “And I’m not going out for track next spring.”

They sat in silence.

“What’s the matter, Goob?” Jerry finally asked, voice troubled and loaded with concern.

“It’s what they do to us, Jerry.” It was easier saying the words because they weren’t looking at each other, both staring ahead. “What they did to me that night in the classroom—I was crying like a baby, something I never thought I’d do again in
my life. And what they did to Brother Eugene, wrecking his room, wrecking
him
 …”

“Aw, take it easy, Goob.”

“And what they’re doing to you—the chocolates.”

“It’s all a game, Goob. Think of it as fun and games. Let them have their fun. Brother Eugene must have been on the borderline, anyway …”

“It’s more than fun and games, Jerry. Anything that can make you cry and send a teacher away—tip him over the borderline—that’s more than just fun and games.”

They sat there for a long time, Jerry on the lawn and Goober on the curb. Jerry knew he’d be too late now to see the girl—Ellen Barrett—but he felt that Goober needed his presence at this moment. Some of the guys from school passed by and called to them. A bus came along and halted. The driver was disgusted when The Goober shook his head that they didn’t want a ride.

After a while, Goober said, “Sell the chocolates, Jerry, will you?”

Jerry said, “Play football.”

Goober shook his head. “I’m not giving anything more to Trinity. Not football, not running, not anything.”

They sat in sadness. Finally, they gathered their books, got up, and walked in silence to the bus stop.

The girl wasn’t there.

“YOU’RE IN TROUBLE,” Brother Leon said.

You’re
in trouble, not me, Archie wanted to answer. But didn’t. He had never spoken to Leon on the telephone before and the disembodied voice at the other end of the line had caught him off balance.

“What’s the matter?” Archie asked cautiously, but knowing, of course.

“The chocolates,” Leon said. “They’re not selling. The entire sale is in jeopardy.” Leon’s breath filled in the gaps between the words as if he’d been running a long distance. Was he on the edge of panic?

“How bad is it?” Archie asked, relaxing now, stalling. He knew how bad it was.

“It could hardly be worse. The sale is more than half finished. The initial push is over. There is no momentum. Half the chocolates haven’t been sold yet. And the sales are virtually at a standstill.” Leon paused in the recital. “You’re not being very effective, Archie.”

Archie shook his head in grudging admiration. Here was Leon with his back to the wall and still he was on the offensive.
You’re not being very effective, Archie
.

“You mean the finances are bad?” Archie taunted, launching his own offensive. To Leon, it may have sounded like a shot in the dark but it wasn’t. The question was based on information Archie had received that afternoon from Brian Cochran.

Cochran had stopped him in the second-floor corridor and motioned Archie into an empty classroom. Archie had been reluctant. The kid was Leon’s bookkeeper and probably his stooge. But the information revealed that Cochran was no stooge for Leon.

“Listen, I think Leon’s in deep trouble. There’s more than chocolates involved here, Archie.”