Robert Cormier - Beyond the Chocolate War

Now it was Obie's turn for deception, the sleight of hand, for putting to use again the lessons Ray Bannister had taught him. This was where Carter came in. And Carter acted perfectly on cue, following the instructions Obie had given him earlier.

As Obie stepped to the guillotine, Carter left his position at the side of the stage and approached Ray Bannister, catching his attention.

That was all the time Obie needed to imitate Ray's manner precisely. He ran his hand across the top bar of the guillotine. He had instructed Carter to distract Ray, using whatever gimmick he could come up with, it didn't matter. "Tell him he's got a speck of dirt on his cheek." By the time Ray had returned his attention to Obie and the guillotine, the deed was done.

I actually did it, Obie told himself, looking at the audience and then unable to resist glancing at Archie, still patiently waiting.

The hush continued. Obie felt as though a thousand suns burned down on him but it was only the spotlight. He glanced toward Carter and Ray Bannister, saw something on Ray's face — what? He couldn't place it, couldn't name it — and then looked down at Archie again, his neck white and naked and vulnerable.

Obie stepped forward.

I am going to press the button .

No you're not .

Of course I am .

But that's —

Don't say what it is. Whatever it is, it must happen. For Laurie, for me, for Trinity, for every rotten thing that Archie did and made others do .

His arm traveled a million miles as it went through the air, his finger like the barrel of a pistol. He touched the button, pressed, heart stopped, breath held, time halted, clocks frozen.

He heard the click of the mechanism as it changed gears inside the guillotine.

He waited for the blade to fall.

Thinking for the first time of blood.

All that blood.

At that moment he heard the swish of the blade.

The railroad tracks so far below looked like the tines of a fork, like his mother's best silver, gleaming in the twilight.

Leaning over the iron railing, he felt dizzy but a good dizziness, lightheaded really, and he drew back, started a prayer: Hail, Mary, full of grace . . sighed, why pray now? Prayer couldn't help. Too late for prayer.

He had botched everything, spoiled everything, but must not spoil this final act.

Lifting his head, he listened. For footsteps, for cars that might be following.

Heard no one, nothing.

Oh, he'd been clever enough, as if to compensate for failing so completely at the residence, allowing Brother Leon to trick him like that. Fleeing, he had known that he must hide. Like an animal. Ah, but with animal cunning.

He had slipped through the streets of Monument, running behind cars, through parking lots, heard sirens in the distance, felt hunted and at bay. Like in the movies. The movies, of course.

Purchasing a ticket to a matinee at Cinema 3, he had padded into the darkened theater, slouched in a seat, knees drawn up, only a few people scattered around, did not know the name of the movie, distantly recognized the actors on the screen, Dustin Hoffman maybe, whom he always mixed up with Al Pacino. Clung to himself. Waiting. Clever. Then out again, running the streets again, wanting to go home but not able to.

Listening, on the bridge, a car approaching, sweep of headlights interrupting dusk, making him feel like an insect pinned against a wall. But the light moved across and away, the car passing, motor purring catlike.

He looked down. A long way down.

It's now or never, David.

The last thing you can do to reclaim yourself, save yourself, obliterate the humiliation.

He grabbed the railing, testing it for firmness, and then climbed onto it, perched himself there, legs dangling over the edge, looking down into the blackness, pondering the height of the drop. Two hundred feet, maybe. To the tracks below.

This was the best way, the clean way, a flight through air, like a dive from the high board at the Y pool and then beautiful blessed oblivion. All of it over. And no one hurt except himself. And he himself did not matter.

Carefully, slowly, he slipped off the railing, stood on the narrow ledge where the bridge jutted out about a foot or so. Mustn't lose his footing and go hurtling below unprepared, undignified.

A sob escaped him.

Such a sad sound.

But it was too late now to cry.

This was the moment he had awaited for so long. The command he had been awaiting for so many days and weeks and months.

He took a deep breath, leaned his body into the night, but still held on, with his arms thrust behind him, his hands still grasping the rail.

Good-bye, Mama.

Good-bye, Papa.

Using the names he had called them as a baby.

Good-bye, Anthony. Little Tone-Tone, he had called him.

Paused. Sad now. Thinking how nice everything could have been.

All he had to do was loosen his grip on the railing, bring his arms forward, pretend he was diving — a swan dive, maybe — and then a nice flight through the air.

He did exactly that.

Relaxed his grip, let his fingers come loose. At the same time, he drew himself up, chest out, neck arched, face raised to the darkness, aware of a sweep of headlights approaching, the cough of a faulty engine. He thrust himself forward, felt the pull of gravity, the yawning emptiness of nothing in front of him or below him, he was falling, not diving, falling. .

And Mama, I don't want to . . I didn't mean to . . this terrible flash of clarity like lightning striking. . What am I doing here? . . Mama . . Papa . .

Trying frantically to hold on, grab something, not fall but, yes, he was falling, loosened from the bridge, wrong, a mistake, I didn't mean to do this . .

Heard his scream in the night as he fell.

But did not hear the hollow thudding sound his body made as it struck the railroad tracks below.

"You wanted to kill me, Obie."

Archie's voice was softened with a kind of awe and his eyes were wide with disbelief as he spoke.

"Right, Archie."

"But you couldn't do it, Obie, could you?" The old Archie voice restored, casual, edged with contempt.

"What do you mean — I couldn't do it?"

"Just what I said. You turned chicken at the last moment."

They were standing near Archie's car in the parking lot, watching the kids scattering after the program, heading home with hurried footsteps. The evening had turned cool, a chill in the air. The deserted booths gave the campus a surreal look, like an abandoned movie set.

"I wasn't chicken, Archie. I rigged the guillotine so the blade would fall, the real blade. . "

"And cut my head off?" Archie mocked. "But what happened, Obie?"

"Ray Bannister happened. There was a foolproof safety catch he had never bothered to tell me about. Not until tonight after the show."

Obie pulled away, still stung by the swift turn of events on the stage.

He had waited, eyes shut, knowing that in a split second the blade would fall and the screaming would start, plus the blood and Archie's head on the floor or dangling from the block. . murder, for crissake, he was committing murder. . and trying to deny the thought while knowing the terrible truth of it. Then, the absence of sound, a pause, only a split second but like an eternity, and then an explosion of sound, not screams of horror but applause, a thousand hands clapping and hoots and cheers, and Obie opened his eyes to look down and see the blade below Archie's neck and Archie safe and untouched, body intact. He had looked toward Ray Bannister for an answer. But Ray was taking his bows, responding to the wild applause and the drumming of feet on the floor, always reserved for special accolades. He gestured toward Archie, who leaped to his feet in a quick, graceful movement and stood motionless, erect as a knife blade as the air sizzled with applause and shouts of approbation.