'Room Nineteen?' Brother Leon asked, malice in his voice as he shifted his body suddenly so that the last flash of the sun's rays struck Archie's eyes, causing him to blink, to look away. Room Nineteen and its beautiful debris, a legend now at Trinity.
'I never had Brother Eugene in Room Nineteen,' Archie said, holding his voice steady. 'It was some other room in my freshman year.' He squared off, changed position so that he could look Leon in the eye again.
Their gazes held for a moment, and it was Leon who broke the contact this time. Casting his eyes downward, he said: 'We shall have a special memorial mass for Brother Eugene at assembly. But I think you should make a special visit to your church and offer up prayers for the repose of his soul.'
Archie said nothing. He had not prayed for years. Went through the motions during the masses in assembly hall on special occasions. Attended mass with his parents when they insisted, and followed the rituals that pleased them. He didn't care whether he pleased them or not, but peace reigned in the house when he played the role of dutiful son.
'Have you nothing to say, Costello?' Leon said, anger showing through the words.
'Brother Eugene was a nice guy,' Archie said. 'I bleed him.' Having to say something. He spoke the truth, really. There had been nothing personal in the Room Nineteen assignment. There was never anything personal in the assignments.
'I don't want to dwell on the past, Costello,' Leon said. 'But prayer is always good for the soul. Your own, for instance.'
Archie remained silent, and Leon seemed willing to accept his silence as acceptance, because he sighed expansively, as if he had just done his good deed for the day and could go on with his usual routine. He glanced around the darkening campus, the buildings shrouded in silence, the white clapboards of the residence gleaming like dinosaur bones.
'I love this school, Costello,' Leon said.
Like a criminal loves his crime, Archie thought. That was the secret of the world's agony, and the reason crime — and, yes, sin — would always prevail. Because the criminal, whether a rapist or a burglar, loves his crime. That's why rehabilitation was impossible. You had to get rid of the love, the passion, first. And that would never happen.
Leon looked at Archie again, seemed about to speak, and then changed his mind.
'Carry on, Costello,' he said, and padded away, in those short mincing steps the guys imitated so easily and frequently.
Archie allowed himself a moment of loathing as he watched Leon disappearing into the gloom. What a fake he was. All that phony concern about Brother Eugene. Leon had done nothing about Room Nineteen, too worried about his own career. Archie had always been able to depend on that. And that's what had made him and Leon allies. Which always bothered Archie, being linked with someone like Brother Leon. Then he remembered a surprise that awaited Leon — the day of the Bishop's visit. And maybe some others.
Walking toward his car at the parking space nearest the entrance, the choice space in the lot that no one else dared occupy, Archie sought the surge of satisfaction that usually filled him when he contemplated assignments.
The wind came up, trembling the limbs of trees, rattling a shutter on the residence. Archie was suddenly elated, knew he was apart from other people. It was a dark and beautiful secret he shared with no one.
Halting near his car, he pivoted, lifted his face to the rising wind, and whispered: 'I am Archie.' Heard his voice withering away in the darkness. No response, no echo. Which was what he wanted: to be alone, separate from the others, untouchable except by the knowing hands and mouths of the girls at Miss Jerome's.
'Too far.'
'No it isn't.'
'Yes it is.'
'Just once. Just this once.'
'Once won't be enough.'
'Yes it will.'
'No it won't. It never is.'
It was a game they played, a delicious delightful game, that made every nerve end and something else stand up at attention. A cat-and-mouse game. An inch-here-and-inch-there game. Give a little, take a little. Squeeze here and caress there. A daring, terrific game that never moved beyond a certain agonizing point which, crazy, only made him love Laurie Gundarson more and more each time they played.
The game had become a ritual. They would drive to the Chasm and park in their favorite spot, an apron of land jutting out from the hillside. The lights of Monument winked below them like neon fireflies. Obie ignored the lights, Monument, Trinity, the Vigils, as he immersed himself in the marvel of Laurie's presence here in the car, in his life.
As he kissed her she moaned softly, low, husky, a slight tremor of her body betraying her own horniness. No, not horniness. He didn't want to think of her in those terms. She was more than a body to him, more than a girl to fondle and caress. Even this game was more than a game: it was a ritual in which they expressed their love, their desire for each other, the sweet, aching longing. But Laurie would let them go only so far. So far and no further. And he always complied. He complied because he had to proceed cautiously with Laurie, never knowing when she might turn away for good. Because of Trinity, for one thing.
The night they first met, at a dance, instantly attracted to each other, coming together beautifully in a slow number, she had stiffened and drawn away when she had learned he was a student at Trinity.
'What's the matter?' he had asked.
'That place is creepy,' she said, wrinkling her nose.
'All schools are creepy,' he retorted, trying to pull her against him again.
'I always hear weird things about it,' she said, against the music, resisting his body.
'Rumors. Don't judge me by my school.' He felt as though he was betraying Trinity but realized this girl in his arms was suddenly more important than Trinity. 'Judge me by what I am.'
'What are you?' she asked, looking directly into his eyes.
'One of the good guys,' Obie said.
And she smiled.
But Trinity always stood between them. More than Trinity, of course: the Vigils. Actually they seldom spoke of the school, continually skirting the subject, which often left gaps in their conversations. As a result, Obie was constantly on his guard with Laurie, fearful of losing her, of doing anything to make her draw away and grow distant as she had that first night on the dance floor.
She was not distant from him now, in the car, close to him in this delicious game, responding, throbbing until, breathless, she drew back.
'Obie, please. .'
'One more minute,' he whispered.
'It's for your own good,' she said, but he could hear the huskiness in her voice that always betrayed her own desire.
'Let me count to sixty.'
As he spoke he squeezed tenderly and delicately, his thumb and index finger moving as if he were playing some precious instrument.
After a few moments she put on the brakes again, wrenched her mouth from his, pulled away. 'Too much, and too fast,' she said. Strangely enough, he was relieved. Obie had always been terrified of going all the way. He had a feeling that he would somehow fail at the last minute, botch it all up, and leave himself humiliated in her eyes. He couldn't risk that. Thus, despite his passionate protests, he was grateful for Laurie's caution, the limits she had drawn.
Holding her tenderly, he whispered: 'I love you. . ' She cupped his cheek in her hand, an endearing gesture that almost brought tears to his eyes.
A sudden slash of headlights illuminated the interior of the car. Instinctively Obie and Laurie ducked their heads. As the favorite spot in town for parkers — fellows and girls making out, caressing, or maybe just shyly talking — the Chasm was also a target for bushwhackers, wise guys who got their lacks out of driving into the area with swiveling spotlights and squealing tires, scaring hell out of everybody. Obie and Laurie clutched each other as
