Robert Cormier - Beyond the Chocolate War

Carter looked around the gym, this place he'd always loved. The camaraderie of the boxing squad, the smell of the place — that sweet-sour aroma of liniment and sweat-soaked clothing — and the equipment, the big bag and all the beautiful paraphernalia of the sport. Gone now. Surveying the gym, the empty bleachers, the basketball nets hanging limply at either end, the absence of the boxing ring, dismantled and gone forever, Carter felt his anger returning, mixed with sadness. All gone because of Archie Costello.

He hit the wall again, despite his bruised knuckles, and the hit felt good. He was striking back at more than Archie. Striking at the entire world. Because the world looked at him and saw the jock, the rugged football guard, the slugger in the ring. Not only the world but the officials in charge of admissions at Daleton College, which specialized in physical education. Made to order for a guy like Carter. Carter had gunned for a scholarship but had been unsuccessful. He had not yet even received an acceptance. Which kept him dangling on a string. Okay, he was not a brain, but his SAT scores were adequate. He made the honor roll now and then. But nobody saw beyond his jock image. Was there anything else to see? Yes. There was. Had to be. He had to show people, had to show everybody he was more than just a jock, an ex-jock, in fact, who stood around and did nothing.

"I've got to call Obie," he said to no one in particular. Nobody in the gym at this time of day. Lately he'd fallen into the habit of talking aloud to himself when no one was around.

He called Obie from the telephone booth in the main corridor on the first floor across from Brother Leon's office. The phone book had long ago disappeared, and he had to call information for Obie's number. The door of the booth had been torn off and never replaced. As the phone rang, Carter glanced around the corridor, his eye coming to rest on the trophy case farther down the hall. Looking at the case always made him feel good.

When Obie answered, his voice sounded thin and reedy. Carter had never spoken to him on the phone before.

"What's up?" Obie asked.

"The Bishop's visit, that's what's up," Carter said, plunging in. "I think it's a mistake, Obie."

Silence at the other end of the line.

"Archie's going too far with this one," Carter went on. "It's too much, Obie."

"With Archie it's always too much," Obie said "Haven't you gotten used to that by now?"

"It's okay when he confines it to tie school. But this new deal involves the diocese, for crissake. And the priests in town who always come as guests. It's a mistake, Obie. Archie's setting out to humiliate the Bishop. It's big trouble. Heap big trouble."

"What do you want to do about it?" Obie asked.

"I don't know."

"You're not going to make Archie change his mind, that's for sure."

Carter paused, took a deep breath, wondering how far he could go with Obie but following his instincts, the instincts that told him Obie was not exactly buddy-buddy with Archie these days. Not like the old days.

Carter plunged again. "I wasn't thinking of changing Archie's mind."

"Who were you thinking of?"

"Brother Leon."

He heard Obie's sharp intake of breath. He looked around at the same tune, as if invoking Leon's name could cause him to appear. But the corridor was deserted.

"We've got to get Leon to call off the Bishop's visit," Carter said.

More silence at the other end of the line. Finally Obie asked: "And how do we do that, Carter?" Sarcastically.

"That's what I want to talk to you about. I mean, two heads are better than one, right?"

"Sometimes."

"Sometimes?" Carter asked, worried suddenly. Maybe he had misjudged Obie. Maybe Obie's first loyalty was to Archie, after all. "Am I talking out of line, Obie? Do you agree with me that Archie's plan for the visit is a mistake?"

"Okay, okay," Obie said, impatient, anger in his voice. "Look, I'm sick and tired of Archie Costello and his assignments too. But leading a mutiny is something else."

"I'm not talking about a mutiny, for crissakes," Carter said. "I'm talking about a quiet little plan to stop the Bishop's visit."

He heard a long-drawn-out sigh.

"I don't know, Carter. I don't like getting mixed up with Leon. Maybe there's some other way—"

"Think about it," Carter said.

"I'll do that." Pause. "Look, I've got to go. I'll talk to you later." Hurried, as if he couldn't wait to hang up.

Carter frowned as he replaced the receiver on the hook. He listened to see if his coin would be returned. No luck. He knew now he could not depend on Obie. Obie had his own problems: he also had. Laurie Gundarson. Carter realized that he could not depend on anyone. Only himself.

Stepping out of the booth, he was aware of the emptiness all around him. Enjoying the sense of aloneness, Carter walked toward the trophy case with the gleaming silver and gold statuettes testifying to Trinity's triumphs on the football field and in the boxing ring. His triumphs, really.

He was hypnotized by the glow of the trophies, which almost shimmered as the corridor lights caressed them. Even if he never got to college, never won another championship, they would remain symbols of his accomplishment. Nothing, nobody, could ever take that away.

Not even Archie Costello.

The eyes, of course. Mostly it was the eyes. They followed him around the room, like those eyes in certain paintings that haunt the viewer. Jerry looked like a figure in a painting, his face expressionless, as if caught by an artist and frozen forever. After the first few minutes of sitting across from him, unnerved by the silence in the room and those terrible eyes, the Goober had started wandering around, glancing out the window, stooping to relace his sneaker, anything to avoid that terrible, empty stare.

But it really wasn't empty. It was like the difference between a vacant house where the windows are shuttered and boarded up and a house where someone might be peeking out of the windows when you're not looking, where a billowing curtain might hide prying eyes. Crazy, Goober thought, as he looked up from his sneakers, crouched on the floor. He told himself to cool it, take it easy, start from the beginning. This was his friend, Jerry Renault. They had played football together, had run the streets together after school although Jerry had had no interest in the track team. They had shared a lot of stuff. Like the chocolates. The goddam chocolates.

Goober was determined to try again.

"How about Canada, Jerry? Did you have a good time up there?" The question sounded stupid to Goober — Jerry had been sent to Canada to recuperate. How could he have had a good time up there?

"Yes," Jerry said. The word fell between them like a heavy stone.

That was the problem. Jerry wasn't mute or completely silent, but he answered Goober's questions in monosyllables, squeezing out one-word answers that left Goober dangling. How are you, Jerry? Fine . Glad to be back home? Yes . And asked no questions of his own. Did not seem at all interested in Goober. Looked at him, in fact, as if Goober was a stranger. At one point he was afraid that Jerry would lean forward and ask: Who the hell are you, anyway?

He wished Jerry's father had let him know what to expect when he'd arrived at the house. In response to Goober's inquiry—"How's he doing?" — Mr. Renault had merely shrugged, his face tightening as if his flesh had been drawn taut from behind his skull by invisible hands. Jerry's father was a mild, soft-spoken man who seemed to drift away even as you spoke to him. An air of sadness pervaded him and the apartment as well. More than sadness. The apartment seemed lifeless, like a museum. Goober knew without any doubt that the flowers on the dining-room table were artificial, fake. He had the feeling that Jerry and his father occupied the apartment the way mannequins inhabited rooms of furniture in a department store.