Beyond the Chocolate War

Her voice lacked conviction, as if she were only going through the motions of responding.

'Yes, but. .'

And saw the futility of explanations. Because the spark was gone, the glow had disappeared, replaced by a terrible indifference. Something rare and precious that had flowed between them was no longer there. Nothing left. That monster Archie Costello. .

Her girl friend, tossing her long hair impatiently, called: 'Hey, Gundarson, you coming or what?'

Laurie turned toward her, answered: 'I'm coming, I'm coming.' Then, looking at him again: 'Obie, it was nice while it lasted, but then it was over. It happens like that. Blame me — it's happened to me before. I mean, I like someone and then I don't feel the same way anymore. . ' She ran her hand across her forehead, wiping away a small cluster of perspiration. 'I'm sorry.' Looking up at the sky, she said, 'I hope it rains pretty soon.' And walked away, out of his life, catching up to her girl friend, going down the street and around the comer without a backward glance. While he stood there, motionless. I hope it rains pretty soon. Her final words to him, banal, a comment on the weather, for crissakes, something you'd say to a stranger.

In the terrible vacancy left by her departure, he floundered, turned around, mouth agape, as if appealing to the world to witness what had happened to him. Hey, look, I loved this girl and she loved me and it all went wrong. What went wrong? The attack, yes. Bunting, that bastard. He had avoided Bunting since his encounter with Cornacchio. A showdown was meaningless without Laurie in his life. But he knew without any doubt whatever who the real villain was. Archie Costello. He doubted that Archie had given any direct orders to Bunting to attack Laurie, but he also knew how Archie worked, playing one kid against another, toying with Bunting, dangling the role of Assignor before him so that Bunting would be willing to do anything to impress Archie Costello. Including an attempted rape. So he hated Bunting and would someday, somehow, make him pay. But the attack had not broken up his relationship with Laurie. They could have weathered that together. The breakup had been caused by what he had become and what Laurie had discovered him to be — a stooge of Archie Costello, a member of the Vigils, one of the guys playing dirty tricks on others. How could she love him, knowing that?

The rain that Laurie Gundarson hoped for came with the thunderstorms — Obie would never again see rain fall without being haunted by all the possible heavens he might have missed. He walked aimlessly in the rain, aching with longing and, under the aching, a growing anger, an anger that was almost sweet as it surged within him. The ache and the anger warring inside him. The ache for Laurie, acknowledging his loss of her. And a seething anger focused on Archie. Archie, who had ruined his chances for Laurie, ruining his life as well. He thought sadly of graduation, how he was lucky to be escaping Trinity with a dull B average, no honors, no achievements. He had been a top student at Monument Elementary, with great promise for his high school years, both in scholastics and athletics. His parents had long ago stopped asking: What happened to you, Obie? The Vigils had happened. Archie Costello had happened. Because of Archie he had lost everything, his high school years and the only girl he had ever loved.

The relief brought by the rain was only temporary. Within an hour the heat returned with a vengeance, worse than before, penetrating, merciless. The sales of air conditioners boomed although summer was officially a month away. The Monument Times published a photo showing a reporter trying to fry an egg on Main Street. In this new blast of heat, sneezing and wheezing, swallowing capsules and chewing aspirins, Obie held on. Held on to what must happen, what he must make happen. Soon. Before school ended. When the heat subsided. Must make happen to Archie Costello. And through Archie to the rest of this terrible World he now inhabited.

The heat vanished.

With a final thunderstorm, more violent than earlier storms. Trees fell, power lines snapped, a small bridge over the Moosock River collapsed, sweeping a seventy-two-year-old man to his doom. Darkness enveloped Monument, broken only by occasional lightning splits.

Toward morning thunder echoed wearily in the distance and lightning scrawled feint flashes near the horizon. Bird cries greeted the dawn, and dawn itself brought the sun and fresh breezes. The breezes leaped from tree to tree, through the streets and avenues of the town. Early risers stretched magnificently, filling their lungs with the clean, bracing air of morning.

At seven thirty Obie left for school, his cold miraculously gone with the heat and the thunder and lightning. Maybe it had been an allergy, after all. He drove through the streets with purpose and determination, knuckles pale as he grasped the steering wheel, impatient with traffic lights. He drove with hope in his heart. Hope and hate. The hate, he knew, was his only means of surviving.

That, and Fair Day.

Some people called it Fool Day.

This year he would make it Fear Day for Archie Costello.

Afternoon: classes over for the day. Air sizzling with a thousand scents and colors, sun dazzling on car roofs, setting Trinity windows aflame, but the heat of the sun benevolent now, the sun of springtime.

The Trinity campus leaped with activity — baseball players jogging to the athletic field, volleyballers lunging in the air, students in the assembly hall rehearsing the sketches for Skit Night.

Obie searched for Archie in the halls and classrooms, on the steps, in the parking lot. He finally found him in the stands at the athletic field, languidly watching the action below.

The hardest thing of all: approaching him.

'Hi, Archie.'

The long slow look from Archie, the slight lifting of eyebrows but quick to hide surprise, proud of his ability to remain always cool. Ah, Obie knew him like a book, like he knew himself.

'Obie.' The name hung in the air, noncommittal. Not welcoming, not rejecting. Letting Obie make the move.

'How's things?' Obie asked, trying to keep his voice normal.

'In control.'

Down on the field the baseball practice went on. Players throwing the ball, hitting the ball, scooping up the ball. All that activity centered on a small round object. Obie thought of that other small round object, the black marble.

'How's things with you?' Archie asked.

Obie felt as if he were poised on the edge of a chasm, a thousand feet above sea level. Tensing his stomach, he leaped.

'Not so good. But I'll recover.' Not wanting to say too much, letting Archie draw the information from him.

'Recover from what?'

Another leap:

'That girl. Laurie Gundarson.' Despite his determination, her name on his lips almost brought tears to his eyes. 'We broke up.'

And then, astonishingly — but Archie was always astonishing — Archie turned to him, eyes melting with compassion, face twisted in an attitude of commiseration, understanding. As if Obie's pain was his own pain, Obie's loss taken upon himself like a cross.

'Tough,' Archie said. But the single solitary word was imbued with such emotion that Obie felt Archie Costello was truly his only friend in the world, the only person who could understand his misery and loss. He had to forcibly remind himself that Archie was the architect of his defeat with Laurie.

He was surprised to find Archie reaching out, touching his shoulder. Archie, who never touched another guy, who always held himself isolated.

'Welcome back,' Archie said.

Obie did not move. The leap was over. He had plunged into the deep, not knowing if he would sink or swim. He had come to the surface. The scheme was launched.

Down on the field, a throaty voice called: C'mon, Croteau! Joined by other voices: Get the lead out, Croteau. Hey, Croteau, you dumb or what?

'Poor Croteau,' Archie said. 'Whoever he is.'

Archie seemed to be having one of his compassionate days. Obie wondered: Should he press his luck? Why not?