“I said stop,” said McPhee, and he pushed the knife just a fraction. It was enough to cut Thomas’s skin.
Nobody in the room moved. Thomas could feel a wet ooze on his neck.
“I was in the middle of explaining to this boy,” said McPhee. “Now you’ve interrupted me.” He paused. “This is one of those great moments of decision, isn’t it? What I decide to do in the next few minutes will matter a lot, won’t it? I’ve made some very bad decisions in the past couple of weeks. Thomas Boatwright can tell you all about them. I’ve made some terrible decisions.”
Thomas was still crying, without any noise.
“When I was this boy’s age,” said Coach McPhee, “I used to look out of the window at a girl across the alley. She would take off all of her clothes and stand by the window and brush her hair. Every day at the same time, I could count on her. It was like watching a regular afternoon television show. I would indulge my sexual appetite and gaze at her.”
Everyone in his audience listened.
“One day I was supposed to be baby-sitting for my little baby brother,” said Coach McPhee. “He was in the bathtub. I had helped him undress and had put him into the bathtub. I knew I was supposed to be watching him, but it was time for the show, so I left. I left the bathroom, left the little boy in the tub all by himself, all his clothes laid out in a little pile where I would help him get dressed, and went to watch the girl in the window brush her beautiful hair. I could hear him in the tub, he was all right, but then I realized when the girl left the window that the bathroom was silent. I couldn’t hear him anymore, and I went rushing back in, and he was dead. He was dead because of my own sexual appetite. All his clothes lay there in a little pile. I promised myself that from that moment on I would live in utter purity. I would never indulge my sexual urges again.”
There was a silence.
“Patrick—” said Mr. Warden.
“Shut up, Ben,” said Coach McPhee. “It wasn’t Michael I hated. It was that irresponsible fifteen-year-old me. All those boys, they just reminded me of myself.”
He started to sob. Thomas was so scared now that his own tears stopped. This is it, he thought. He couldn’t move. He was going to die.
“What I wanted Thomas to tell all of you was that I was sorry,” said Mr. McPhee. “I wanted him to be the messenger, to tell you the whole story. He will be fair about it. He understands what happened to me. The passion took over. But I’m all right now. Really. I know what I’m doing. I see myself for what I am. I am evil and wicked. And undisciplined.”
His left hand held Thomas’s wrists. His right arm pushed tight against Thomas’s chest. It was hard to breathe.
“It’s time for the question, Thomas,” said Mr. McPhee. “We’re not going to let these people interrupt the question. How you answer it is important. Think carefully. Are you ready?”
Thomas whispered a yes.
“Was I wrong to hate passion so much?”
Thomas did not hesitate for a moment. “Yes,” he said. It was as though they had rehearsed it. He was not going to tell a lie.
“Yes,” said McPhee. “You’re right.” He kissed Thomas on the crown of the head, lowered the knife, released Thomas’s arms, and pushed him toward Benjamin Warden all at once. Warden caught Thomas and held him up.
“Tell Diane and Michael that I’m sorry,” said Mr. McPhee. “I’m sorry, Ben. I’m sorry, Horace. I’m sorry, Thomas Boatwright.”
“Drop the knife and put your hands on top of your head,” said Carol Scott.
“It’s too late,” said Mr. McPhee. “I have already passed sentence on myself. It’s a reasonable punishment. The death penalty.”
He made a fist around the handle of the knife and plunged the blade into his own throat. He penetrated the cartilage and wrenched the blade to the side, just enough to cut the carotid artery before he fell, choking and coughing, to the floor in front of them. He died in less than a minute.
SCENE 16
On Thursday, December 16, Thomas Boatwright walked from Stratford House to Stringfellow Hall, to his own dormitory room, to pack. His dad was here. He had driven down last night, and he and Thomas had spent the night together at Mr. Warden’s apartment. They had been up late, but when they had turned out the lights, Thomas had still not been able to sleep. It was all right, though, because his dad was there in the bed next to his own. This morning his father had gone to talk to Dr. Lane. The headmaster had agreed that Thomas could leave the school a day early for the Christmas holidays, but Lane had wanted to talk with Dad in private before his departure. Thomas knew they were worried about trauma and that kind of stuff, but he was all right. He wasn’t some little kid, after all. He was sixteen years old.
Richard, Greg, and Nathan Somerville were waiting for him in his room. It was 10:15, time for dorm cleanup, but they weren’t cleaning.
“You look okay,” said Nathan.
Thomas touched the Band-Aid over the cut on his throat. “It was a close shave,” he said.
“You got to tell us about it,” said Richard.
“No, I don’t,” said Thomas.
“Landon Hopkins burned me yesterday. Did you hear?” said Richard. “He got me to think I had a date with Katrina Olson. I thought you’d done it. It was pretty funny.”
Thomas couldn’t work up a response. He couldn’t believe that this guy used to be his best friend.
“Let’s get out of here, Blackburn,” said Nathan. “See you in a couple of weeks,
