Rage

Outside, a regular cop convention was shaping up. Blue trooper cars, white cruisers from the Lewiston P.D., a black-and-white from Brunswick, two more from Auburn. The police responsible for this automotive cornucopia ran hither and yon, ducked over low. More newsmen showed up. They poked cameras equipped with cobra-like telephoto lenses over the hoods of their vehicles. Sawhorses had been set up on the road above and below the school, along with double rows of those sooty little kerosene pots-to me those things always look like the bombs of some cartoon anarchist. The DPW people had put up a DETOUR sign. I guess they didn’t have anything more appropriate in stock-slow! MADMAN AT WORK, for instance. Don Grace and good old Tom were hobnobbing with a huge, blocky man in a state police uniform. Don seemed almost angry. The big blocky man was listening, but shaking his head. I took him to be Captain Frank Philbrick of the Maine State Police. I wondered if he knew I had a clear shot at him.

Carol Granger spoke up in a trembling voice. The shame on her face was alarming. I hadn’t told that story to shame her. “I was just a kid, Charlie.” “I know that,” I said, and smiled. “You were awful pretty that day. You sure didn’t look like a kid.”

“I had kind of a crush on Dicky Cable, too.”

“After the patty and all?”

She looked even more ashamed. “Worse than ever. I went with him to the eighth-grade picnic. He seemed… oh, daring, I guess. Wild. At the picnic he… you know, he got fresh, and I let him, a little. But that was the only time I went anyplace with him. I don’t even know where he is now.”

“Placerville Cemetery,” Dick Keene said flatly.

It gave me a nasty start. It was as if I had just seen the ghost of Mrs. Underwood. I could still have pointed to the places where Dicky had pounded on me. The idea that he was dead made for a strange, almost dreamy terror in my mind-and I saw a reflection of what I was feeling on Carol’s face. He got fresh, and I let him, a little, she had said. What, exactly, did that mean to a bright college-bound girl like Carol? Maybe he had kissed her. Maybe he had even gotten her out into the puckerbrush and mapped the virgin territory of her burgeoning chest. At the eighth grade picnic, God save us all. He had been daring and wild.

“What happened to him?” Don Lordi asked.

Dick spoke slowly. “He got hit by a car. That was really funny. Not ha-ha, you know, but peculiar. He got his driver’s license just last October, and he used to drive like a fool. Like a crazy man. I guess he wanted everybody to know he had, you know, balls. It got so that no one would ride with him, hardly. He had this 1966 Pontiac, did all the body work himself. Painted her bottle green, with the ace of spades on the passenger side.”

“Sure, I used to see that around,” Melvin said. “Over by the Harlow Rec.”

“Put in a Hearst four-shifter all by himself,” Dick said. “Four-barrel carb, overhead cam, fuel injection. She purred. Ninety in second gear. I was with him one night when he went up the Stackpole Road in Harlow at ninety-five. We go around Brissett’s Bend and we start to slide. I hit the floor. You’re right, Charlie. He looked weird when he was smiling. I dunno if he looked exactly like a lawnmower, but he sure looked weird. He just kept grinning and grinning all the time we were sliding. And he goes… like, to himself he goes, ‘I can hold ’er, I can hold ’er,’ over and over again. And he did, I made him stop, and I walked home. My legs were all rubber. A couple of months later he got hit by a delivery truck up in Lewiston while he was crossing Lisbon Street. Randy Milliken was with him, and Randy said he wasn’t even drunk or stoned. It was the truck driver’s fault entirely. He went to jail for ninety days. But Dicky was dead. Funny.”

Carol looked sick and white. I was afraid she might faint, and so, to take her mind somewhere else, I said, “Was your mother mad at me, Carol?”

“Huh?” She looked around in that funny, startled way she had.

“I called her a bag. A fat old bag, I think.”

“Oh.” She wrinkled her nose and then smiled, gratefully, I think, picking up on the gambit. “She was. She sure was. She thought that fight was all your fault.”

“Your mother and my mother used to both be in that club, didn’t they?”

“Books and Bridge? Yeah.” Her legs were still uncrossed, and now her knees were apart a little. She laughed. “I’ll tell you the truth, Charlie. I never really cared for your mother, even though I only saw her a couple of times to say hi to. My mother was always talking about how dreadfully intelligent Mrs. Decker was, what a very fine grasp she had on the novels of Henry James, stuff like that. And what a fine little gentleman you were.”

“Slicker than owl shit,” I agreed gravely. “You know, I used to get the same stuff about you.”

“You did?”

“Sure.” An idea suddenly rose up and smacked me on the nose. How could I have possibly missed it so long, an old surmiser like me? I laughed with sudden sour delight. “And I bet I know why she was so deternuned I was going to wear my suit. It’s called ‘matchmaking,’ or ‘Wouldn’t They Make a Lovely Couple?’ or, ‘Think of the Intelligent Offspring.’ Played by all the best families, Carol. Will you marry me?”

Carol looked at me with her mouth open. “They were…” She couldn’t seem to finish it.

“That’s what I think.”

She smiled; a little giggle escaped her. Then she laughed right out loud. It seemed a little disrespectful of the dead, but I let it pass. Although, to tell you the truth, Mrs. Underwood was never far from my mind. After all, I was almost standing on her.

“That big guy’s coming,” Billy Sawyer said.

Sure enough, Frank Philbrick was striding toward the school, looking neither right nor left. I hoped the news photographers were getting his good side; who knew, he might want to use some of the pix on this year’s Xmas cards. He walked through the main door. Down the hall, as if in another world, I could hear his vague steps pause and then go up to the office. It occurred to me in a strange sort of way that he seemed real only inside. Everything beyond the windows was television. They were the show, not me. My classmates felt the same way. It was on their faces.

Silence.

Chink. The intercom.

“Decker?”

“Yes, sir?” I said.

He was a heavy breather. You could hear him puffing and blowing into the mike up there like some large and sweaty animal. I don’t like that, never have. My father is like that on the telephone. A lot of heavy breathing in your ear, so you can almost smell the scotch and Pall Malls on his breath. It always seems unsanitary and somehow homosexual.

“This is a very funny situation you’ve put us all in, Decker.”

“I guess it is, sir.”

“We don’t particularly like the idea of shooting you.”

“No, sir, neither do I. I wouldn’t advise you to try.”

Heavy breathing. “Okay, let’s get it out of the henhouse and see what we got in the sack. What’s your price?”

“Price?” I said. “Price?” For one loony moment I had the impression he had taken me for an interesting piece of talking furniture-a Morns chair, maybe, equipped to huckster the prospective buyer with all sorts of pertinent info. At first the idea struck me funny. Then it made me mad.

“For letting them go. What do you want? Air time? You got it. Some sort of statement to the papers? You got that.” Snort-snort-snore. Likewise, puff-puff-puff. “But let’s do it and get it done before this thing turns into a hairball. But you got to tell us what you want.”

“You,” I said.

The breath stopped. Then it started again, puffing and blowing. It was starting to really get on my nerves. “You’ll have to explain that,” he said.

“Certainly, sir,” I said. “We can make a deal. Would you like to make a deal? Is that what you were saying?”

No answer. Puff, snort. Philbrick was on the six-o’clock news every Memorial Day and Labor Day, reading a please-drive-safely message off the teleprompter with a certain lumbering ineptitude that was fascinating and almost endearing. I had felt there was something familiar about him, something intimate that smacked of deja vu. Now I could place it. The breathing. Even on TV he sounded like a bull getting ready to mount Farmer Brown’s cow in the back forty.

“What’s your deal?”

“Tell me something first,” I said. “Is there anybody out there who thinks I might just decide to see how many people I can plug down here? Like Don Grace, for instance?”

“That piece of shit,” Sylvia said, then clapped a hand over her mouth.

“Who said that?” Philbrick barked.

Sylvia went white.

“Me,” I said. “I have certain transsexual tendencies too, sir.” I didn’t figure he would know what that meant and would be too wary to ask. “Could you answer my question?”

“Some people think you might go the rest of the way out of your gourd, yes,” he answered weightily. Somebody at the back of the room tittered. I don’t think the intercom picked it up.

“Okay, then,” I said. “The deal is this. You be the hero. Come down here. Unarmed. Come inside with your hands on your head. I’ll let everybody go. Then I’ll blow your fucking head off. Sir. How’s that for a deal? You buy it?”

Puff, snort, blow. “You got a dirty mouth, fella. There are girls down there. Young girls.”

Irma Bates looked around, startled, as if someone had just called her.

“The deal,” I said. “The deal.”

“No,” Philbrick said. “You’d shoot me and hold on to the hostages.” Puff, snort. “But I’ll come down. Maybe we can figure something out.”

“Fella,” I said patiently, “if you sign off and I don’t see you going out the same door you came in within fifteen seconds, someone in here is just going to swirl down the spout.”

Nobody looked particularly worried at the thought of just swirling down the spout.

Puff, puff. “Your chances of getting out of this alive are getting slimmer.”

“Frank, my man, none of us get out of it alive. Even my old man knows that.”

“Will you come out?”

“No.”

“If that’s how you feel.” He didn’t seem upset. “There’s a boy named Jones down there. I want to speak with him.”

It seemed okay. “You’re on, Ted,” I told him. “Your big chance, boy. Don’t blow it. Folks, this kid is going to dance his balls off before your very eyes.”

Ted was looking earnestly at the black grating of the intercom. “This is Ted Jones, sir.” On him, “sir” sounded good.

“Is everyone down there still all right, Jones?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How do you judge Decker’s stability?”

“I think he’s apt to do anything, sir,” he said, looking directly at me. There was a savage leer in his eyes. Carol looked suddenly angry. She opened her mouth as if to refute, and then, perhaps remembering her upcoming responsibilities as valedictorian and Leading Lamp of the Western World, she closed her mouth with a snap.

“Thank you, Mr. Jones.”