would be busted the first day. Privacy was virtually non-existent at Trinity. Most of the kids didn't give a damn or have any respect for the rights of others. They rummaged desks, pried lockers open, sifted through books on a perennial search for loot — money, pot, books, watches, clothing — anything.
The morning after that first night phone call, Jerry opened his locker and shook his head in disbelief. His poster had been smeared with ink or some kind of blue paint. The message had been virtually obliterated.
Ruining the poster was one thing, a gross act, the work of the animal — and all schools had animals, even Trinity. But there was nothing prankish about ruining the sneakers. That was deliberate, somebody sending him a message.
The telephone calls.
The attack on the football field.
Now this.
He closed the locker quickly so no one would see the damage. For some reason, he felt ashamed.
He'd been dreaming of a fire, flames eating unknown walls, and the siren sounded, and then it wasn't a siren but the telephone. Jerry scrambled from his bed. In the hallway, his father was slamming the receiver down on the hook. 'Something funny's going on around here.' The grandfather clock chimed twice.
Jerry didn't have to blink the sleep from his eyes. He was wide awake, chilled, the floor cold beneath his feet.
'Who was it?' he asked. Although he knew, of course.
'Nobody,' his father answered, disgusted. 'Same thing happened last night about this time. But it didn't wake you up. Some nut on the other end of the line, laughing away like it's the biggest joke in the world.' He reached out and tousled Jerry's hair. 'Go back to bed, Jerry. There are all kinds of nuts running around loose.'
It was hours before Jerry fell into a strange dreamless sleep.
'Renault,' Brother Andrew called.
Jerry looked up. He'd been immersed in his new art project — copying a two-story house in order to learn perspective. A simple exercise but he loved the ordered lines, the neatness, the stark beauty of planes and angles.
'Yes, Brother?'
'Your watercolor. The landscape assignment.'
'Yes?' Puzzled. The watercolor which was a major project had taken a week of painstaking work, simply because Jerry was not at his best in free art. He was more at ease with formal or geometric designs where the composition was well-defined. But the watercolor would account for fifty percent of his mark this semester.
'Today's the final day for handing it in,' the Brother said. 'I don't find yours here.'
'I put it on your desk yesterday,' Jerry said.
'Yesterday?' Brother Andrew asked, as if he'd never heard of yesterday. He was a fastidious, precise man who ordinarily taught math but had been filling in for the regular art teacher.
'Yes, sir,' Jerry said firmly.
Eyebrows arched, the Brother looked through the pile of drawings on the desk.
Jerry sighed quietly, in resignation. He knew that Brother Andrew wouldn't find the drawing there. He wanted to turn, to scan the faces of the kids in the class, to find that one kid who'd be gloating in satisfaction. Hey, you're getting paranoid, he told himself. Who'd sneak in here and remove your drawing? Who'd watch so close that they'd even know you submitted the drawing yesterday?
Brother Andrew looked up. 'To use a clichй, Renault, we are locked on the horns of a dilemma. Your landscape is not here. Now, either I have lost it and I do not make a habit of losing landscapes…' the teacher paused here as if, incredibly, he expected a laugh, and incredibly, the laugh did come'…or your memory is faulty.'
'I handed it in, Brother.' Firmly. Without panic.
The teacher looked steadily into Jerry's eyes. Jerry saw the honest doubt there. 'Well, Renault, perhaps I
For some reason, this remark also provoked laughter and even the teacher joined in. It was late in the period and late in the day and everyone needed to relax, let down, take it easy. Jerry wanted to look around, to see whose eyes gleamed with triumph over the missing watercolor.
'Of course, Renault, as sympathetic as I am, if I do not find the landscape, then I must fail you this semester.'
Jerry opened his locker.
The mess was still there. He hadn't torn down the poster or removed the sneakers, letting them remain there as symbols. Symbols of what? He wasn't certain. Looking wistfully at the poster, he pondered the damaged words:
The usual corridor pandemonium surrounded him, slammed locker doors, wild yells and whistles, pounding feet as the guys hurried to the afterschool activities, football, boxing, debating.
Do I dare disturb the universe?
Yes, I do, I do. I think.
Jerry suddenly understood the poster — the solitary man on the beach standing upright and alone and unafraid, poised at the moment of making himself heard and known in the world, the universe.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Beautiful.
Brian Cochran added the totals again and again, toying with them, playing with them, as if he were a juggler and they were fascinating figures of delight. He couldn't wait to report the totals to Brother Leon.
In the past few days, the volume of sales had risen staggeringly. Staggeringly was the correct word. Brian felt as if he were drunk on the statistics, the figures like liquor, making him lightheaded, giddy and dizzy.
What had happened? He wasn't certain. There was no single reason for the sudden turnabout, the surprising upswing, the unexpected rash of sales. But the proof of the change was not only here in the figures before him but everywhere in the school itself. Brian had witnessed the feverish activity and how the chocolates had suddenly become a vogue, a fad, the way hula hoops had caught on when they were kids in the first or second grade, the way demonstrations had been the big thing a few years ago. Rumors indicated that The Vigils had adopted the sale as a special crusade. And that was possible, although Brian hadn't made any inquiries — he always steered clear of The Vigils. However, he'd seen some of the more prominent Vigil members waylaying kids in the corridors, checking on their sales, whispering menacingly to those who had sold only a few boxes. Each afternoon, teams of fellows left the school, loaded down with chocolates. They piled into automobiles and drove off. Brian heard that the teams drove to various sections of town and invaded neighborhoods, ringing doorbells, banging on doors, a massive sales effort as if they were all encyclopedia salesmen on commission, for crying out loud. Brian heard reports that someone had gotten permission to solicit at one of the local factories — four guys had circulated through the place and sold three hundred boxes in a couple of hours. The feverish activity kept Brian hopping, maintaining the records and then rushing down to the big boards in the assembly to, post the results. The hall had become the school's focal point. 'Hey, look,' a kid had yelled out during the last posting. 'Jimmy Demers sold his fifty boxes.'
That was the creepy aspect of the sale, the way the credit was being distributed among all the students. Brian didn't know whether this was fair or not but he didn't argue about methods — Brother Leon was interested in results and so was Brian. And yet Brian was made uncomfortable by the situation. A few minutes ago, Carter had
