The floor vibrated under Brian's feet. The boxing club working out in the gym, maybe, doing calisthenics or the other stuff boxers did.
'Cochran. Read off the names of the boys who have reached or surpassed their quota.'
Brian reached for the lists. A simple task because Brother Leon insisted that all kinds of cross-indexed lists be kept so that you could tell at a glance just where students stood.
'Sulkey, sixty-two. Maronia, fifty-eight. LeBlanc, fifty-two — '
'Slower, slower,' Brother Leon said, still facing away from Brian. 'Begin again and slower.'
It was spooky but Brian began again, pronouncing the names more exactly, pausing between names and figures.
'Sulkey… sixty-two… Maronia… fifty-eight… LeBlanc… fifty-two… Caroni… fifty…'
Brother Leon was nodding his head, as if listening to a beautiful symphony, as if lovely sounds filled the air.
'Fontaine… fifty…' Brian paused. 'Those are the only ones who either made the quota or topped it, Brother Leon.'
'Read the others. There are many students who sold over forty. Read those names…' His face still turned away, his body slouched in the chair.
Brian shrugged and continued, calling out the names in singsong fashion, with measured pauses, letting his voice linger over the names and numbers, a weird litany here in the quiet office. When he ran out of the sales in the forties, he continued into the thirties and Brother Leon did not tell him to halt.
'…Sullivan…thirty-three…Charlton…thirty-two…Kelly…thirty-two…Ambrose…thirty-one…'
Once in a while Brian looked up to see Brother Leon's head nodding, as if he were communicating with someone unseen or only himself. While the recitation went on — from the thirties into the twenties.
His eyes running ahead, Brian saw that he was in for trouble. After he was through with the twenties and the teens, there was a big leap. He wondered how Brother Leon would react to the small returns. Brian began to grow warm and his voice turned hoarse. He needed a drink of water, not only to relieve the dryness of his throat but to ease the tension of his neck muscles.
'…Antonelli…fifteen…Lombard…thirteen…' He cleared his throat, breaking the rhythm, interrupting the flow of the report. A deep breath and then, 'Cartier…six.' He shot a look at Brother Leon but the teacher hadn't moved. His hands were clasped together, resting in his lap: 'Cartier… he only sold six because he's been out of school. Appendicitis. He's been in the hospital…'
Brother Leon waved his hand, a gesture that said, 'I understand, it doesn't matter.' At least, that's what Brian figured it meant. And the gesture also seemed to mean 'continue.' He looked at the last name on the list.
'Renault… zero.'
The pause. No names left.
'Renault… zero,' Brother Leon said, his voice a sibilant whisper. 'Can you imagine that, Cochran? A Trinity boy who has refused to sell the chocolates? Do you know what's happened, Cochran? Do you know why the sales have fallen off?'
'I don't know, Brother Leon,' Brian said lamely.
'The boys have become infected, Cochran. Infected by a disease we could call apathy. A terrible disease. Difficult to cure.'
What was he talking about?
'Before a cure can be found, the cause must be discovered. But in this case, Cochran, the cause is known. The carries of the disease is known.'
Brian knew what he was getting at now. Leon figured that Renault was the cause, the-carrier of the disease. As if reading Brian's mind, Leon whispered 'Renault… Renault…'
Like a mad scientist plotting revenge in an underground laboratory, for crying out loud.
Chapter Twenty-Three
I'm quitting the team, Jerry.'
'Why, Goob? I thought you liked football. We're just starting to click. You made a sensational catch yesterday.'
They were headed for the bus stop. Today was Wednesday — no practice on Wednesday. Jerry was looking forward to arriving at the bus stop. There was a girl, beautiful, with hair like maple syrup. He'd seen her there a few times and she'd smiled at him. One day he'd gotten close enough to read her name on one of the schoolbooks she held in her arms. Ellen Barrett. Someday he'd get up the courage to speak to her.
'Let's run,' Goober said.
Off they went on a 'mad and awkward sprint. Their books prevented them from running with grace and abandon. But the mere act of running cheered up The Goober.
'Are you serious about quitting the team?' Jerry asked, his voice higher than usual, strained from the running.
'I've got to quit, Jerry.' He was glad that his own voice was normal, unaffected by the running.
They turned into Gate Street.
'Why?' Jerry asked, launching himself into Gate Street with a burst of speed.
Their feet pounded on the pavement.
How can I tell him, Goob wondered.
Jerry had shot ahead. He glanced back over his shoulder, his face crimson with effort. 'Why, damn it?'
The Goober caught up to him with a slight acceleration of his pace. He could easily have slid past him.
'Did you hear what happened to Brother Eugene?' The Goober asked.
'He got transferred,' Jerry answered, squeezing the words out of himself like toothpaste from a tube. He was in good shape because of football but he wasn't a runner and didn't know the tricks.
'I heard he's gone on sick leave,' Goober said.
'What's the difference?' Jerry replied. He took a deep sweet breath. 'Hey, my legs are okay but my arms are killing me.' He carried two books in each hand.
'Keep running.'
'You're some kind of nut,' Jerry said, humoring him.
They were approaching the intersection of Green and Gate. Seeing Jerry's discomfort, The Goober slackened his pace. 'They say Brother Eugene's never been the same since Room Nineteen. They say he's all broken up over it. Can't eat or sleep. The shock.'
'Rumors,' Jerry gasped. 'Hey, Goob, my lungs are burning up. I'm in a state of collapse.'
'I know how he feels, Jerry. I know how a thing like that can drive somebody up a wall.' Shouting the words into the wind. They had never discussed the destruction of Room Nineteen although Jerry knew about Goober's involvement. 'Some people can't stand cruelty, Jerry. And that was a cruel thing to do to a guy like Eugene…'
'What's Brother Eugene got to do with not playing football?' Jerry asked, really gasping now, really sweating, his lungs threatening to burst and his arms aching from the burden of the books.
Goober put on the brakes, slackening his pace, coming finally to a halt. Jerry blew air out of his mouth as he collapsed on the edge of someone's front lawn. His chest rose and fell like human bellows.
The Goober sat on the curbstone, his legs jack-knifed, his feet in the gutter. He studied the leaves clustered beneath his feet. He was trying to find a way to explain to Jerry the connection between Brother Eugene and Room Nineteen and not playing football anymore. He knew there was a connection but it was hard to put into words.
'Look, Jerry. There's something rotten in that school. More than rotten.' He groped for the word and found it but didn't want to use it. The word didn't fit the surroundings, the sun and the bright October afternoon. It was a midnight word, a howling wind word.
'The Vigils?' Jerry asked. He'd lain back on the lawn and was looking at the blue sky, the hurrying autumn clouds.
