Beyond the Chocolate War

over the edge, looking down into the blackness, pondering the height of the drop. Two hundred feet, maybe. To the tracks below.

This was the best way, the clean way, a flight through air, like a dive from the high board at the Y pool and then beautiful blessed oblivion. All of it over. And no one hurt except himself. And he himself did not matter.

Carefully, slowly, he slipped off the railing, stood on the narrow ledge where the bridge jutted out about a foot or so. Mustn't lose his footing and go hurtling below unprepared, undignified.

A sob escaped him.

Such a sad sound.

But it was too late now to cry.

This was the moment he had awaited for so long. The command he had been awaiting for so many days and weeks and months.

He took a deep breath, leaned his body into the night, but still held on, with his arms thrust behind him, his hands still grasping the rail.

Good-bye, Mama.

Good-bye, Papa.

Using the names he had called them as a baby.

Good-bye, Anthony. Little Tone-Tone, he had called him.

Paused. Sad now. Thinking how nice everything could have been.

All he had to do was loosen his grip on the railing, bring his arms forward, pretend he was diving — a swan dive, maybe — and then a nice flight through the air.

He did exactly that.

Relaxed his grip, let his fingers come loose. At the same time, he drew himself up, chest out, neck arched, face raised to the darkness, aware of a sweep of headlights approaching, the cough of a faulty engine. He thrust himself forward, felt the pull of gravity, the yawning emptiness of nothing in front of him or below him, he was falling, not diving, falling. .

And Mama, I don't want to. . I didn't mean to. . this terrible flash of clarity like lightning striking. . What am I doing here?. . Mama. . Papa. .

Trying frantically to hold on, grab something, not fall but, yes, he was falling, loosened from the bridge, wrong, a mistake, I didn't mean to do this. .

Heard his scream in the night as he fell.

But did not hear the hollow thudding sound his body made as it struck the railroad tracks below.

'You wanted to kill me, Obie.'

Archie's voice was softened with a kind of awe and his eyes were wide with disbelief as he spoke.

'Right, Archie.'

'But you couldn't do it, Obie, could you?' The old Archie voice restored, casual, edged with contempt.

'What do you mean — I couldn't do it?'

'Just what I said. You turned chicken at the last moment.'

They were standing near Archie's car in the parking lot, watching the kids scattering after the program, heading home with hurried footsteps. The evening had turned cool, a chill in the air. The deserted booths gave the campus a surreal look, like an abandoned movie set.

'I wasn't chicken, Archie. I rigged the guillotine so the blade would fall, the real blade. . '

'And cut my head off?' Archie mocked. 'But what happened, Obie?'

'Ray Bannister happened. There was a foolproof safety catch he had never bothered to tell me about. Not until tonight after the show.'

Obie pulled away, still stung by the swift turn of events on the stage.

He had waited, eyes shut, knowing that in a split second the blade would fall and the screaming would start, plus the blood and Archie's head on the floor or dangling from the block. . murder, for crissake, he was committing murder. . and trying to deny the thought while knowing the terrible truth of it. Then, the absence of sound, a pause, only a split second but like an eternity, and then an explosion of sound, not screams of horror but applause, a thousand hands clapping and hoots and cheers, and Obie opened his eyes to look down and see the blade below Archie's neck and Archie safe and untouched, body intact. He had looked toward Ray Bannister for an answer. But Ray was taking his bows, responding to the wild applause and the drumming of feet on the floor, always reserved for special accolades. He gestured toward Archie, who leaped to his feet in a quick, graceful movement and stood motionless, erect as a knife blade as the air sizzled with applause and shouts of approbation.

Later, as the students filed from the hall, Ray Bannister confronted Obie: 'I don't know what the hell you had in mind, Obie, and I don't want to know. But I'm glad the safety lock was working. Are you crazy or something?'

He turned away with such a withering look of disdain and disbelief that Obie began to shake and sweat, thinking how close he had come to murder, and didn't know whether to curse or thank Ray Bannister for the safety lock.

Archie, leaning against his car, shook his head, admitting for once that someone had been capable of surprising him, amazing him with actions he had been unable to predict.

'Congratulations, Obie. You've got more guts than I ever gave you credit for.'

'Christ, Archie. .' Obie said, dismayed. For the first time in their relationship, Obie had heard admiration in Archie's voice, and words that could be construed as praise. For a sweet tempting moment, Obie almost succumbed to that praise and admiration. Then realized what had happened to him. What Archie had done to him. He had driven him to the point of murder. In order to earn Archie's praise, you had to be willing to murder someone, even if the murdered person had to be Archie himself.

He peered at Archie through slitted eyes, marveling at his confidence and ease despite the ordeal he had just endured, then saw something else, too, in Archie's eyes — what? — and made a leap of thought that almost took his breath away.

'Wait a minute, Archie,' he said. 'The black marble. .'

'What about the black marble?' Archie asked, amused. That was the light in Archie's eyes: amusement.

'You knew about the switch, didn't you? Saw Carter and me with the black box.'

Archie nodded. 'Never turn to a life of crime, Obie. You're too obvious. You always look suspicious. And you're clumsy.'

'Then why did you go through with it? Why did you take the black marble?'

'I had to know, Obie.'

'Know what?'

'What would happen. How far you would go.'

'You took that chance?' Obie said, his turn to be awed now.

'Not much of a chance, Obie. I knew that I would win, that nobody at Trinity — you, Carter, even Brother Leon — could make me a loser.'

'Why didn't you ever get the black marble all these years?' But Obie knew, of course. He realized he had known ever since Ray Bannister had demonstrated the tricks with marbles at his home, the day they met.

Archie waved his hand and produced a white marble from nowhere, rolling it on his fingers, tossing it from one hand to another, the marble like a small, pale moon leaping in space. 'I knew about that Worcester store a long, long time ago,' he said, laughing lightly. Then inclined his head and spoke almost dreamily. 'But I didn't always play the trick, Obie. A lot of times I just took a chance. Had to do it that way. Testing. And I never lost. . '

Obie shook his head. Seemed he was always shaking his head when Archie was around. Shaking his head in dismay or admiration or disgust. And didn't quite know which at this moment.

'Can I ask you something, Obie?'

'Sure.' But get it over with, Archie. He wanted suddenly to get away from him, away from Trinity, as if the crime had actually been committed. Like any murderer wanting to leave the scene of the crime.

'Why, Obie?'

'What do you mean — why?'