Beyond the Chocolate War (12 page)

W
hat Archie liked about Morton was that she was both smart and dumb. But, before that, beautiful. Long and slender and blond. Compliant. Bending like the willow, as the song went. And so Archie usually came to Morton, his favorite of all the girls at Miss Jerome's, and she never failed him.

He told her everything. And nothing. She listened. But more than listened. She was attuned to his moods and his needs, needs he did not admit to anyone else, and her touch was deft and expert. He could also talk to her. Up to a point, of course. Ordinarily, he talked to her in riddles, and somehow she understood. Not the riddles, but the necessity for him to talk in riddles. Morton was fine. She sometimes got on his nerves, but most of the time she was just fine.

Like now, in his car, hushed in the darkness, Morton and her willingness to please and her knowing ways, and Archie relaxed, drifting, giving himself over to the pleasures of her touch.

"Do you like that, Archie?" Morton asked, her tone indicating that she already knew the answer.

Archie murmured indistinctly, no need for words, his reactions to her ministrations easily decipherable.

"You haven't been around for a while," Morton said, breathing the words into his ear, her breath warm.

"Busy," he said, touching her hair, caressing her cheek. He inhaled the subtle cologne she wore, a hint of lilac, but would have preferred a. complete absence of scent.

"How busy?" Morton asked. Keeping busy herself, letting Archie know what came first.

He wondered what he could or should tell her, missing Obie, missing the way he could bounce ideas off Obie, gauging his future actions by Obie's reactions. Obie was the only person who knew how Archie's mind worked, had seen him come up with dozens of assignments, pulling the rabbit out of the hat at the last moment, walking the high wire, taking the risks, and never failing. Meanwhile, he had Morton. She gave him what Obie could never give him and he responded now to her touch. And to her question.

"There's this guy on the campus," Archie said, relieved to be talking about Carter, his thoughts always clearer when he verbalized them. "Football hero. Macho man. Lots of trophies. Tall, dark, and handsome . . ."

"Can I meet him?" Morton asked throatily. She was least sexy when she tried to be sexy, and Archie ignored the question, recognizing Morton's automatic response for what it was: automatic.

"This guy has a sense of honor, too. A social conscience," Archie said, thinking of the letter Brother Leon had waved in his face. "Respects his elders, the authorities. Willing to risk a lot to stick by his principles." His voice as dry as wood crackling in the cold.

"Sounds like the last perfect guy left in America," Morton said.

"That's where you're wrong, Morton," Archie said. "Nobody's perfect." Remembering Carter's shaky voice on the telephone.

"Jill," she said. "People call me Jill. Only teachers call me Morton. And then it's Mizz Morton."

"Okay, Jill," he said, giving her name such a, twist of his tongue that she should be glad to be called Morton again. "But back to the point. And the point is nobody's perfect. There's always a flaw. A secret. Something rotten. Everybody has something to cover up. The nice man next door is probably a child molester. The choir singer a rapist. Look at all the unsolved murders. Which means the man standing in line next to you could be a murderer. Nobody's innocent."

She withdrew her hand. "God, Archie, you're really something, know that? You always make a person feel like a piece of shit. . . ."

"Don't blame me," he said, surprised at her reaction. "Blame human nature. I didn't make the world."

Morton pulled away from Archie and he let her go, immersed in his own thoughts and the pursuit of Carter's personality, probing for weaknesses. Some of Carter's weaknesses were not hidden at all. For instance, the pride he took in his athletic accomplishments, the way he checked the trophy case fifty times a day, the way he strutted around the school, his swinging shoulders and athletic gait an advertisement for his jock image. Honor and pride, the twin facets of Carter's personality, and also the chinks in his armor. The problem, of course, was to exploit those chinks.

He reached out and touched Morton, who was staring into the 'darkness, watching the car headlights splashing and clashing down on the highway. She hated the part of herself that always responded to Archie Costello. She was pretty and popular and intelligent. Had not missed a prom or Saturday-night dance since the seventh grade. Independent and self-possessed. But had this weakness for Archie, this response to his demands, a certain excitement springing to life when she heard his voice on the telephone. So maybe he was right, after all, when he said everybody had a touch of something rotten in their lives. Archie Costello was hers. She would never accompany him to a prom {but then, he had never asked her to one) and yet could not deny the pleasure, however guilty, she kept discovering and rediscovering whenever they were together. She did not let herself go like that with anyone else. And now she responded again as he caressed her.

She yielded . . . and for the next few moments Archie Costello and Jill Morton knew only the small sensual world of an ancient Chevy until the quick spurt, the sweet seizure, and an eruption of beauty and fury that left both of them shaken with delight, a moment they abandoned so swiftly that they barely had a memory of its existence a minute later.

They sat awhile in a drifting lassitude, all spent. Archie let himself go in the drift, enjoying these few moments of silence because he knew that eventually Morton would begin to talk. She always began to talk afterward. And lie hid his irritation and impatience, knowing that she had a need for talking that was as strong as her need for something else had been a few moments earlier.

"What's bothering you about this all-American hero?" she asked lazily.

Archie recoiled, drawing away. "Nothing's bothering me," he said.

"Then why all that talk about him?"

Archie realized anew why he always kept himself distant from people. Let them approach a bit and they come too close, take too many liberties.

"Forget it," he said, turning the key in the ignition, the engine leaping to life.

"Hey, don't get mad," she said. "You brought up the subject, not me." She reached for the key and turned off the engine.

Archie did not answer, knew that Morton was right. Carter was bothering him. And he knew why. He needed to take special action against Carter, not some minor assignment that would be temporary or fleeting. Carter was a special case. He would begin by attacking that special honor of his, but must end elsewhere, something longer lasting.

Morton intruded on his thoughts again, Morton and her knowing, expert touch, hands busy, mouth open, tongue like a small, sweet, darting snake. And Archie let himself be drawn into her orbit, forgetting Carter and everything else, giving himself over to Morton, carried on waves of sensuality that he knew would erupt into a deep dark flower of ecstasy that was almost, almost but never, never quite happiness.

H
e completed dialing the Goober's number on the third try, having missed the first two times, his finger slipping from the rounded slot—a Freudian slip of the finger? he wondered, smiling grimly, but glad that he could make a bit of a joke at a moment like this—and then heard the phone ringing at the other end.

Bracing himself, planting his feet solidly on the floor, he felt as though he were about to face hurricane winds that would sweep him across the room. Crazy. He was merely making a phone call to his old buddy.

Three rings, four, the sound like an invisible strand of rope between this room where he stood and the living room at Goober's house. Where, apparently, no one was present to answer the phone.

Seven . . . eight.

Good, he thought, nobody home, I've done my part; some other time. Relieved, about to hang up, he heard someone say "Hello." Out of breath, exhaling the word. And again: "Hello."

Jerry gulped Where do I begin?

"Hello?" The voice again, still out of breath, a question mark at the end of the word and a hint now of annoyance.

Jerry rushed in:

"Hello, Goober? How are you? This is Jerry Renault, just thought I'd call. . . ." Too much too fast, the words running together. "Been out running?" Cripes. Living in silence all this time and now I can't shut up.

"That really you, Jerry?" Goober asked, taking a deep breath, probably just ending a run, and Jerry envied him, wanted to run, jump, careen around in the spring air, realized how suffocating and deadly dull the apartment had been since his return.

"It's really me," Jerry said, wanting to sound normal, like the Jerry Renault that Goober knew and remembered.

"Great to hear your voice," the Goober said, but a bit guarded, the words fine and normal but his voice tentative.

Let's get this all out of the way as soon as possible, Jerry thought. And plunged again: Give me the ball and the hell with the signals.

"Look, Goob. Can I say something? A couple of things, in fact? First, I'm sorry about the other day. When you came here. I wasn't ready, I guess. I was really glad to see you but not ready for other things. I mean, not ready for Monument. I must have looked like a nut. . . ."

Goober's laugh was easy, almost grateful. "Well, it wasn't your everyday kind of hello-how-are-you. But you sound okay now, Jerry." And, after a slight pause: "Are you?"

"I think so. Yes." Having to make it clear: "I'm fine. Really."

"Great. And Jerry, let me say something too, okay? Something I've got to say before anything else—"

"Look, Goober, I know what you want to say . . . and you don't have to. You're my friend."

"But I've got to say ft, Jerry, and you have to listen and then you have to make a decision. Don't say anything yet. Let me. Let me tell you that I know that I betrayed you last fall. Stayed home as if I was sick when you were going through hell because of the chocolates, that beating from Janza . . ."

"But you were there, Goob. I saw you. You helped me. . . ." He almost said: You held me in your arms when I was all broken inside and out.

"But I got there too late, Jerry. Stayed home until the last minute. And was too late to help you. . . . Okay, I've said it. It had to be said. And I don't blame you if you hate me."

"Cripes, Goober, I don't hate you. You're my friend."

"I didn't act like a friend that night. . . ."

"Goober, Goober . . ." Admonishing gently, as if Goober were a child to be soothed and reassured.

"Do I get another chance?"

"You don't need another chance, Goob. You're my friend—so what's all this about another chance?"

"I'll never let you down again, Jerry."

"Hey, look, Goob. Will you do me a big favor? As a 'friend forever?"

"Sure." The Goober's voice was easier now, lighter. "Name it—and consider it done."

"Okay. The favor is this: Don't talk about that night anymore, don't talk about letting me down or anything like that That was last fall—this is now. Let's forget it ever happened."

"There's one thing I can't forget. What you told me that night, Jerry. Because it's the truth. It's the way I live my life now. You said to play ball, play the game, sell the chocolates or whatever they want you to sell. That's what I'm doing, Jerry. What I'm always going to do . . ."

The words made Jerry uneasy. It was one thing to believe in them yourself: it was another to know that someone else, a friend, believed in them, too. Changing his life because of words you spoke. Jerry felt engulfed by sadness at the words, although he knew them to be true.

"Let's not talk about it anymore," he said, wondering if he had called too soon, whether he should have waited, whether he should never have called. Desperate to get away from the subject, he searched for another subject, seized one: "You still running, Goob? You were all out of breath when you answered the phone."

"Right. I didn't run for a long time, but I started again."

"I'd like to run," Jerry said, glancing around the room at the sterile furniture, not home, really, but like a waiting room in a doctor's office or air terminal.

"Hey, you always hated running," Goober chided.

Jerry responded to the Goober's good-natured jibe.

"I know—but it feels so good when you stop. Like hitting yourself on the head with a hammer. . . ."

They both exploded with laughter. His remark hadn't been
that
funny, but Jerry sensed that they needed to grab on to something to bring them together again. Like old times.

"Want to run again? With me?" Goober asked.

"Why not? I need the exercise."

"Tomorrow afternoon?"

"Sure . . ." Jerry hesitated. "On one condition, Goob. No more talk about what happened. No more of that stuff—"

"Okay, okay," Goober said. "I give up. But get ready for tomorrow, Jerry. I'll run you ragged. . . ."

"Tomorrow," Jerry said, hanging up, weak with relict, breathing his thanks. His thanks to whom? God, maybe, thinking of the Talking Church in Canada.

O
bie spotted the slashed loafer with the dangling buckle at a moment when he was not looking for it. Climbing the stairs to the third floor for the final class of the day, forced along by the between-classes stampede of students, Obie was engrossed in his thoughts, barely aware of the press of bodies. About the two tests today he had either flunked or scored no higher than a
D
on, thus falling further behind in his studies. Angry thoughts. Angry at his parents and all grown-ups who thought that school life was a lark, a good time, the best years of your life with a few tests and quizzes thrown in to keep you on your toes. Bullshit. There was nothing good about it. Tests were daily battles in the larger war of school. School meant rules and orders and commands. To say nothing of homework.

The loafer appeared before his eyes without warning, so unexpected that his brain did not immediately register the sight. His brain was still concerned with this lousy life called high school, adolescence, the teen years. But then: the loafer. The cruel slash across the instep. He stopped in his tracks, one foot on the step above him, the other in midair as his brain intercepted what his eyes had recorded.

"Wait a minute," he said.

Nobody among the rampaging students coming and going up and down the stairs heard his words or paid attention.

Obie sprang into action. The guy wearing the loafer had been coming down the steps: At one point the shoe had been at his eye level. Turning, looking below, he spotted a familiar figure hurrying across the second-floor corridor, trying like everyone else to beat the final bell to the class. Torn between getting to his own class on time (he'd already been tardy once today) and tracking down his quarry, Obie threw caution aside. His life depended on that loafer: the hell with being late for class. The hell with everything else. He set off in pursuit, going against the mainstream now, darting in and out of the streaming students, getting jabs in his ribs from sharp elbows.

He caught up with the student (he was almost sure of his identity, had recognized him from behind but had to be absolutely certain, without a shadow of a doubt, because this was life and death now, not fun and games) at the doorway to Room Nineteen. Ironic, of course. Putting on the brakes, his own shoes skidding on the wooden floor, he almost crashed into the guy. Looking down, he confirmed the evidence. Yes, the loafer was slashed, the buckle was loose. He looked up again as the kid, perhaps sensing his scrutiny or hearing the skidding arrival of someone behind him, turned around and regarded him. Full face.

No doubt now. No doubt at all.

Cornacchio, the sophomore. Bunting's stooge.

The bell rang, splitting the air as Cornacchio, after a hurried, puzzled look at Obie (but was it puzzled or more like horrified?) jammed through the door, shouldering his way between two other students.

Obie remained alone as the corridor emptied and the doors slammed shut. Stood there, caught and held, his heart like the ticking of a bomb about to explode.

The fever that coursed through his body now made him sharp and alert He had gone beyond fatigue and 'exhaustion into a land of hyper state, senses sharp, body on the alert, a new energy pulsing with the beat of the fever. He used all the old strategies and methods that he had learned during his years as Archie's right hand, setting up the assignments, compiling his notes and data on students. His notebooks were filled with the names of students and the background details of their lives that had been valuable for the assignments. Hundreds of names. And, of course, Cornacchio among them.

Vincent Cornacchio. Sixteen years old. Height, five seven; weight, one sixty-five. Father, factory worker.
B
-minus average. Not stupid. In fact, did not live up to his potential. An underachiever. Hobbies, none. Unless you call hanging around downtown eyeballing the girls or reading dirty magazines in drugstores a hobby. Nickname: Corny. Which he hated. Worked after school at Vivaldi's Supermarket.

That night in bed, curled up fetuslike, still not sleeping but not wanting now to sleep, thoughts alive and sharp like needles pricking his consciousness, Obie plotted and schemed and mapped his strategy. Cornacchio had held him down and under the car. But somebody else had attacked Laurie, had
touched
her. Bunting, probably. Cornacchio was Bunting's stooge. Bunting, whom he already had reason to hate. But must be sure. And Cornacchio was the key.

He finally fell into a deep, dreamless sleep that was more of a coma, a little death, than anything else. He awoke in the morning without any sense of having slept. Eyes still flaming, pulse still throbbing in his forehead, stomach still rejecting the thought of food. But his mind keen and knife-edged, eager for action, in a hurry for the day to pass until this evening, when he would confront Cornacchio. Cornacchio of the slashed loafer with the dangling buckle, who would lead him to the guy who had touched Laurie.