Beyond the Chocolate War

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.

He 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.

Obie 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