Robert Cormier - Beyond the Chocolate War

The Goober had forced himself to turn off the morbid thoughts as Jerry's father led him to a den at the far end of the apartment. At first glance Jerry looked fine. No signs of the beating he had absorbed, his skin pale but unblemished. Sitting in a rocking chair, he didn't look disabled but seemed fragile, sitting stiffly, as though he might fall apart if he relaxed.

"Hi, Jerry, good to see you," Goober said, hoping Jerry didn't catch the false heartiness.

Jerry smiled remotely, said nothing, offered nothing.

That's when the one-sided conversation began, Goober like an inquisitor and Jerry like a reluctant witness, answering grudgingly or not at all.

Settling down in a chair across from Jerry now, Goober thought: One last try and then I'll go. Actually he was eager to leave, to get out of Jerry's sight. He realized that Jerry's reluctance to talk or to communicate probably stemmed from Goober's betrayal last fall. He had betrayed Jerry, hadn't he? He had allowed Jerry to face Archie Costello and Emile Janza and the Vigils all by himself. Had gone, finally, to help his friend when it was too late, Jerry bloody and beaten and broken, urging the Goober in painful gasps not to defy the Vigils or anybody else. Don't disturb the universe, Jerry had whispered out of his agony. Don't make waves.

Okay, one last try:

"Trinity's still the lousy school it's always been," the Goober said, immediately disgusted with himself. He had vowed not to bring up Trinity unless Jerry specifically asked about the school. But, desperate, he found himself going on stupidly about the place, meaningless stuff about courses and report cards, avoiding certain topics, picking his way through the monologue like someone avoiding broken glass while walking barefoot.

Surprisingly, Jerry seemed interested, eyes a bit brighter, head tilted slightly, rocking gently, long fingers gripping the arms of the chair.

The Goober decided to take a chance, to say what he had waited all these months to say:

"I'm sorry, Jerry, about last fall." Taking a deep breath, plunging on. "I let you down. Let you face Archie Costello and Emile Janza and the Vigils by yourself."

Jerry's hands flew up as if holding off an attack. He began to shake his head, eyes troubled now, not vacant or staring but shining with — what? Sadness? More than that. Resentment, hate?

"Don't. ." Jerry said. The word as if dredged up from deep inside of him. "I don't want to talk about that. . "

"I have to talk about it," the Goober went on.

Jerry began to shake his head furiously, rising from the chair as if in panic, as if the building had suddenly caught fire. Tears threatened his eyes.

"That's all done with now," he said. "It's got nothing to do with me now." He turned away, walked to the window, and the Goober sensed that he was making a tremendous effort to control himself. Jerry faced him again and Goober was struck once more by how pale and fragile he seemed.

"I didn't invite you here," Jerry said, in control again, no tears visible, chin tilted a bit, defiantly. "My father did." He seemed to be groping for words. "I. ." And turned away again, shutting out Goober as he stared out the window.

"I'm still sorry," the Goober said. Having to say it all, like confession, not expecting absolution but needing to confess. "That was terrible. What I did last fall. I just wanted you to know."

Jerry nodded, without looking back at him, still concentrating on something outside the building, still unreachable, still looking frail and vulnerable. Which heaped further guilt on the Goober.

"Better go now," Jerry said. Sounding weary, spent. He turned around, facing Goober, but avoided his eyes.

"Right," Goober said. "Don't want to tire you out." Pretending everything was normal. "I've got an appointment with my dentist." Throwing in an easy lie — was that another betrayal? "I'll come back again sometime." Never in a million years.

Jerry's father appeared at the doorway as if summoned by a bell the Goober had not heard.

"Going already, Goober?" he asked, false, voice off key, fake.

Goober nodded turned back to say good-bye to Jerry, hoping that Jerry might say: Stay awhile, Goob, stick around . But not really wanting him to say that. Hoping Jerry might also say: You didn't betray me, Goober. And even if you did, I understand I'm still your friend . Knowing those were impossible words for Jerry to say.

Jerry said nothing. Merely stood there, looking troubled and abandoned as if wounded somehow, although there was no visible mark on him.

"I've got a dentist's appointment," Goober heard himself say inanely to Mr. Renault.

"Of course, of course," Mr. Renault replied gently, understandingly. "I'm sorry. . "

Sorry for what?

"So long, Jerry," Goober said.

Jerry lifted his hand in a limp salute, still avoiding his eyes, and looking somewhere beyond Goober.

The Goober got the hell out of there.

Later he ran the streets of Monument, pounding the pavement, not the leisurely pace of his usual stride but a frantic tempo, not singing as he sometimes did, lungs bursting now, full of pain and hurt but accepting the pain and the hurt Like a sacrifice. Like the psalm they recited at mass sometimes: I offer up myself as an evening sacrifice.

Hours later, safe in his bed, pulling the covers around his shoulders, eyes tightly shut, he saw only Jerry's face. Vowed never to go near him again. But he knew somehow he must. But would think about that later, next week, next year. He slept finally, a strange blank sleep, as if he had been erased from all existence.

The next morning at school he learned that Brother Eugene had died. Which was worse even than Jerry Renault's return to Monument.

"What's her name?"

"Laurie Gundarson."

"School?"

"Monument High. A senior. Interested in drama. Played one of the leads in the senior class play." Bunting paused, then added: "She's really built. Stacked, like they say."

Bunting hesitated, coughed, a bit nervous. He and Archie were alone on the front steps of the school, the entire student body and faculty inside at the special memorial mass for the soul of Brother Eugene. Bunting had approached Archie as the students had filed into the assembly hall, asking to speak to him later. Archie had motioned him outside.

"Now?" Bunting asked. "This minute?"

The odor of burning candles filled the air.

"Why not?" Archie asked, a dare in his voice. "They'll never miss us."

Bunting had followed, swaggering, unwilling to let Archie see his apprehension about skipping the mass. He sat uneasily now beside Archie, unable to fully enjoy giving his report about Obie and the girl.

"Old Obie," Archie mused. Was that fondness in his voice? "I knew he was hooked, had it bad." He said no more. He had dispatched Bunting to find out details about the girl, a test of Bunting's effectiveness as a gatherer of information. He was also curious about her.

Bunting studied Archie, wanting to play it cool: always had to play it cool with Archie. Archie was unpredictable, and Bunting had to always be on the alert, trying to stay one step ahead. You never knew whether Archie was pleased or pissed off. So Bunting walked a continuous thin line. But it was worth it, of course. His future was linked with Archie, for the remainder of the school year, anyway. His burning ambition was to succeed Archie as the Assigner of the Vigils, and he had the inside track on the job. Archie hadn't singled out anyone else for special attention, and he was relying more and more on Bunting. In fact, Bunting was slowly but surely taking Obie's place.

Bunting had always envied Obie's nearness to Archie, which meant being near the center of power. Now he had something else to envy Obie for — his involvement with Laurie Gundarson. She was too beautiful for somebody like Obie. The other night, while he and Harley and Cornacchio were bushwhacking, they had spotted Obie and Laurie clinging together in Obie's car. Bunting had started to burn with both lust and jealousy. He was a virgin, muck to his dismay and disgust, except in wild dreams in the privacy of his bed or the bathroom. He dreamed of girls exactly like Laurie, went weak sometimes with desire and longing. Yet when he came within range of a" girl, something went wrong. He was tongue-tied, blushed furiously, didn't know what to do with his arms and legs. So he kept his distance and, not wanting to betray himself with the guys, he maintained a sort of world-weary demeanor, as if he'd seen it all and done it all.