Authors: Randall Peffer
Old School Bones
RANDALL PEFFER
TYRUS BOOKS
a division of F+W Crime
Published in Electronic Format by
TYRUS BOOKS
an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.
4700 East Galbraith Road
Cincinnati, Ohio 45236
www.tyrusbooks.com
Copyright © 2003 by Randall Peffer
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction.
Any similarities to people or places, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
eISBN 10: 1-4405-3233-8
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-3233-7
This work has been previously published in print format by:
Bleak house Books
an imprint of Diversity, Inc
Print ISBN: 0-9704098-6-9.
For Holden Caulfield, Sula
Peace,
June Jing-Mei
Woo and the
tcipai
of Mashpee/Aquinnah
GRACIE Liu has been having nightmares these days. Like when she’s awake. The same one. Over and over. She pictures death, murder. A fraternity of white pricks.
It always starts at the school’s remote waterfront on Hourglass Lake. Far from the eyes of the faculty and the students at Tolchester who haven’t been tapped for society membership.
There’s this gang of teenage boys. Old-school preppies with haircuts like you see in yearbooks or in movies about boarding schools. A lot of bushy, longish hair. Tucked behind the ears. The way white boys in prep school let it grow when they’re feeling too lazy or busy or defiant to get haircuts. Blond, sandy tones. She doesn’t know how she sees that. It’s always night in her dream when the killing starts.
Gracie is seventeen, willowy, Chinese.
But in the nightmare she’s this guy. James Aaron Epstein. It’s 1957. Initiation night. And she’s being herded by the upperclassmen, in their chinos, Weejuns, orange fraternal sweaters. Driven into the freezing April water. Pushed off the docks at the boathouse into Hourglass Lake with eleven other boys who wish to pledge with Mystery & Mayhem. One of the oldest societies at Tolchester. They’re in their tighty-whities, nothing else.
The splash as she hits the lake blinds her. The cold of the water cuts her, a thousand tiny razorblades, slicing her feet, her legs, balls, heart.
The bottom of the lake is too deep for standing.
“Let’s see how long you little fucks can tread water.”
Several of the brothers have begun throwing rocks at the pledge class, driving them away from any chance of hanging onto the docks, bullying them farther out into the lake.
She feels the flailing of her fellow pledges, the random bumping of arms, legs struggling for warmth, buoyancy.
“This is bullshit,” says some kid next to her. She thinks he could be her hero, this Holden Caulfield, this rebel. “We ought to storm those fuckers and pull them in here. Show them what mystery and mayhem really is.”
“Ready when you are,” she says.
“No talking!” One of the brothers on the dock throws a stone. It stings her in the ear.
“Hey! What the hell?”
“Shut up, Jewboy.” A couple of boys throw stones at her.
She tries to float on her back, kick out of range. Holden is beside her.
Shit it’s cold.
Her fingers, toes buzz with pain.
“Screw these jokers!” says Holden. “Let’s get out of here.”
“Right,” say several other boys in the water. “Let’s get out of here before somebody dies. Those bastards just want to see if we have the balls to defy them.”
Holden turns toward shore, starts stroking. The others follow. All those WASP boys. And her.
Until another stone wings her in the back. “Not yet, Epstein. Stay the hell where you are.”
Shit it’s cold.
Her legs and arms are tight as iron. “Yeah, show us how a Jew suffers.”
She wants to shout, wants to scream.
Fuck you. Take your stupid, secret, white-boy society and stick it up your asses.
But her throat is too frozen to do anything but wheeze.
“I think the yid’s in trouble,” someone on the dock says. The voice sounds very far away.
“Naw, it’s just a cheap-ass kike trick.”
She looks around for Holden, for help. But it’s like she’s seeing the world through the end of a long straw starting to fill with water. It’s in her nose now. Her ears are ringing. As she sinks.
Once upon a time there was a famous and wicked prep school … in a rich, little town on the fringe of Boston.
That is to say,
two
famous wicked prep schools, one for girls and one for boys, that merged in 1981. Domains of privilege, power. American castles built on old money and secret societies. Proving grounds for two centuries of merchant kings, statesmen and warriors. Ivory princesses locked in towers … And quite a few racist pigs.
The story’s started. Rising out of some black place beneath Gracie’s liver, some secret cavern where the ghosts of white boys spank each other silly.
She squints through the darkness at the Helvetica shouting at her from the laptop screen. Her eyes ache, feel on the verge of shriveling from the terminal dryness of the February night in Massachusetts. The purgatory of steam heat.
And she’s wishing she were dead. Like in the nightmare. Really. Or at least asleep in a glass coffin for a very long time, waiting for a prince to show up and release her from this new hell.
She groans.
“I can’t do this! I just freaking can’t. Every time I start to write, it turns into some kind of sick fairy tale.” Her bobbed hair is bushed out from static, her glasses nearly slipping off the end of her nose, a half dozen pizza stains on her pink flannel pajamas.
Tory Berg-Dreiser pulls her comforter over her head and screams into her pillow.
“I need Red Bull.”
“Liberty always has at least a six-pack stashed under her bed. She’s addicted.”
“I drank her last one.”
“She’s going to kill you.”
“You think I want to write this shit? I’m doing it for her. And now I’m …”
“Will you shut the hell up and go to sleep? It’s just writing a freaking précis for American History, not
Crime & Punishment.
I bet Allen never even reads that stuff.”
Sleet taps against the leaded windowpanes of the ancient dorm room. The radiators warble, hiss. Hibernia House is a Gothic Revival mansion-turned-prep-dorm at the Tolchester-Coates School. A faculty starlet resides in nine palatial rooms on the first two floors. The four eleventh-grade girls in her charge board in the servants’ quarters on the third floor. Two gabled bedrooms and a bath surround a central common room with nothing but a TV, a fridge, a broken couch, and a huge fireplace with a nonfunctioning gas log. Above the mantel James Dean keeps watch from a black-and-white poster tacked to the wall with pushpins.
“It’s just not coming out right. I think this place is giving me a nervous breakdown. I swear! Winter in a New England prep school, ugh! I wish … I wish I were back in Hong Kong. Chinese New Years starts tomorrow and—”
“Earth to crazy roommate. You’re keeping me awake and—”
“I used to like this place! Everything was fine until I got into this ridiculous history paper. Why did I ever let Liberty talk me into doing this project with her?”
“Girl, you need a boyfriend or something. Get a life!”
“Me? What about Liberty? What the hell was she thinking researching all of this secret society stuff at the school? So sick! They had names like Mystery & Mayhem, Ryley’s Raiders, Sparta. And we just found another one, I think. Red Tooth.”
“I’m going to Red Tooth you if you don’t shut the hell up!”
“You don’t understand. It’s the underworld taking over my life. Did you know some guy actually died at one of the initiations back in like 1957 or something?”
“Gracie!”
“I mean, the guy—”
“Will you just fucking stop with the Nancy Drew shit?”
“Really. He disappeared during some secret society’s midnight treading water initiation in Hourglass Lake. They found him a week later floating facedown among a mess of lily pads near the dam—”
“Jesus. Stop!”
“He was a Jew. They wanted to see him suffer.”
“No kidding!”
“That’s what brought an end to the secret societies. The school banned them. Just like that. It was a big deal. The dead guy’s parents sued the ass off Tolchie.
“Good. Make them pay.”
“But it wasn’t over … I mean it ISN’T over. Liberty thinks some of these societies went underground. They still exist.”
“Conspiracy theory crap.”
“Yeah, well, tonight Lib found a note tucked in her physics book. A really awful note. You think it was a coincidence?”
“What did it—”
“BACK OFF YOU STUPID WOG, GASH. YOU ARE OUT
OF YOUR LEAGUE!!!”
“What’s a wog?”
“It’s like the British equivalent of the N-word. Your basic upper-crusty racial slur.”
“Oh!”
“Yeah. Oh! I bet Liberty went down to Doc P’s apartment as soon as Doc got back tonight, from like whereever, to talk about this racist crap!”
“DON’T answer the door!”
“What?” Awasha Patterson pushes skeins of black hair away from her cheeks, rubs her eyes, tries to blink them awake. But she feels strange, still floating in a dream. It is the middle of the night.
Someone is knocking on the door to her apartment, the door leading into the dorm, into the stairwell for the students’ entrance to Hibernia House.
“Ignore it. This is our time. Kids have no sense of boundaries.” A husky voice beside her right ear.
Danny spoons against her hips, her back from behind. An arm curling around her, tightening across her breasts. The tension of muscles, a body in heat. The scent of oil, her own and her lover’s. Pungent, steely. She is suddenly a child again, cutting open fresh oysters on the shore of a salt pond in Aquinnah. The Vineyard. Her first home.
Downstairs, the door to the dorm stairwell, the students’ entrance, clicks open. “Dr. P? Are you there? Please!” A desperate teenage girl’s voice echoes through the apartment. The student has let herself in.
“Jesus. These girls. Can’t they give us a break? They know I’m in here with you. Are they spying on us?”
She feels Danny’s breath on her ear, smells pinot grigio. Tastes the evening’s wine in her own mouth. It rises in her head again. She floats with it. The sweet brilliance of grapes. Of a new lover. Of someone with eyes for only her. So not Ty. Never Tyrone. So tempting. So tender. For once.
And a little forbidden. A secret tonight.
I’m your Danny, sweet. Always your Danny. Your only Danny.
But a child is calling for her. One of her girls. She can hear the pain in the voice. Knows that ache. A tearing loose of the soul. A heart in free fall.
The tribal drums. Flutes. Dulcimers. Pounding. Pleading. Satin sheets damp beneath their backs.
“It’s Liberty. I’ve got to go down and see what she wants.”
“Awasha. God!” Danny’s voice half growl, half moan. “Stay with me. I can make them all go away.”
“Not them. Her. Liberty!”
“Please stay.”
Lips kissing along the neck, chest. Tongues hot, sticky. Fingers tracing a cheekbone, jawline. You want to kill me? Kill us …?
“I can’t.”
She tries to peel out of Danny’s arms, slowly. A reluctant rising out of a warm pool. Sitting up in bed, she stares out the window at the light of a streetlamp filtering through the branches of an ancient oak. The light washes her torso in a glow, more aura than light. She is nude but for the curtain of dark hair falling to her elbows. Petite, almost anorexic except for full breasts. Her cheekbones high, prominent. Nose fine and proud. More than a few of her old boyfriends have told her she looks like the actress Penelope Cruz. Except for the skin, of course. Her Indian skin. What her brother, her twin Ronnie, calls “Wampanoag hide.”
But in this pale light her skin’s cinnamon luster—the slight reddish hues of her cheeks, on the bridge of her nose, her lips, her neck—these are only things her lover can imagine.
She feels a hand glide over her left shoulder, along the edge of her jaw, her teeth counting the finger tips as they slide slowly toward her lips. Spreading soft fire.
“Don’t leave me!”
Footsteps downstairs. A sob. “Dr. Patterson???”
“I’ve got to go.”
Lips on her shoulders.
A strong, smooth hand taking to her tummy, to the inside of her thigh. A hand that seems to know her better than she knows herself. This new hand. Gentle fingers. This Danny. Who craves her. Now when the night seems a sea. Restless, warm.
“Dr. P …? Are you awake? I really have to tell you something. I have to … Something happened …”
That voice. The child needs her. The girl’s struggling for purchase.
But this hand. Good Lord, this hand like no other. This hand seizing her body and soul. Fingers of fire. Her brain starting to boil. Until she almost tastes the ringing in her ears. Hears these lips on her cheeks. Calling her back to love. Lips on the edge of her mouth. Jesus. Satin lips. Hungry lips.
She strains. “Liberty …”
The larceny of Danny’s tongue.
“Can this possibly wait …? I was sound asleep.”
“Oh … I’m sorry.”
She tilts her head back, gulps for air one last time. “Tomorrow. OK?”
The wind is up, churning the waves on the south coast of the Vineyard. Coating her skin with brine. It dries almost instantly in the bright sun to leave her feeling scratchy in her yellow fleece pullover and jeans. Eel grass piled up by the waves. With the tide high, the walking is hard. Almost no sandy strand. Her bare feet and thin ankles hurt from the strain of balancing on rocks, jagged granite. She reaches out for Ronnie’s hand, takes it like she did when they were kids here on the Vineyard. Here at Aquinnah. On the old tribal lands. Before they moved off-island. Before their new lives on the Cape. Moving from town to town. Mashpee, Barnstable, finally Chatham. Chatham for middle school and high school. When they knew that being Indian made them different. But years before Ronnie’s war.
“Alice loved it here,” she says, and squeezes Ronnie’s hand a little tighter.
“I used to call this place Black Squirrel’s Beach.”
She gives a little laugh, thinking of how they never called their mother “Mom” like most kids. That short, stout woman with the pillow breasts and sparkling black eyes. They always called her either by her Christian name Alice or her tribal name Black Squirrel. Just as their father had.
“So she’s come home now for good.”
“To the land of Maushop.” She pictures the giant who in tribal lore left his footprint south of Cape Cod. One of those prints this island, whose spiritual center is the promontory on these looming, red cliffs. Gay Head in the language of the white man. But Aquinnah. Always Aquinnah for the People of the First Light.
She feels the sweat in her twin’s hand.
“We have to let her go.”
The greenish hatbox, containing their mother’s ashes, suddenly feels almost too heavy for her free hand to clutch to her chest.
She looks up at her brother’s face. This big man in the red plaid work shirt and dirty khaki pants. Moccasins. He is tall and heavy like their father Micah, Strong Deer, had been. His eyes are wet. The wind is blowing tears over his face. He tries to wipe them away, but the thin, jagged lines of fluid keep coming, coursing over his broad, tan cheeks. His hair is long now, black, much curlier than hers. He wears it Indian-style, tied back in a bushy pony tail. His hand feels suddenly jittery. She knows he is really starting to feel his hang-over now. Remembers how he had always been the strong one, never a drinker. Before his war.
They mount a large, round boulder, the sea rushing around it, turning it into a tiny island with each surge of the waves.
“How do we do this, Ronnie?”
Gulls are swooping. Diving on the bait fish that the stripers are driving to the surface. Screeching.
“Christ, Awasha. I don’t know.”
It is early October, but the air suddenly feels almost too hot to breathe. Scorching her lungs. Like the air from a desert. The air she imagines in Baghdad, Iraq. Land of Allah. Land of a thousand and one Arabian nights. Lands of flaring skies weeping sin too dark to name.
“We have to say something.”
She feels a convulsion starting to rise in her brother’s chest, in her own. A black rattling.
“Help me, sister.”
Something, some power beyond her will, maybe instinct, guides her. She means to speak of love, of farewell.
But her heart has other ideas.
“Forgive us, Black Squirrel …,” she murmurs.
“
Forgive your children all of our trespasses.”
Her hand lifts off the cover, opening the box as she swings to face downwind. The breeze starts to swirl the ashes out of the box. Their mother. Alice. Black Squirrel scatters. A small cloud drifting away over the rocky beach, the breaking waves. Vanishing. With no word, no sign of hope or pardon for her babies.