Sitting in the chair in the kitchen, he held himself erect, back straight, chin tucked in, at attention. Had to be alert. Had to be silent and still. Speak only when spoken to. So that he would be ready and able when the command came.
May I have a glass of water? he asked nobody in particular. (Knew who he was asking, of course, but must not acknowledge that presence. Not yet.)
Yes. Drink the water.
He drew water from the faucet, drank mechanically, wasn't really thirsty but had found the secret of killing time by filling up the minutes and hours of his life with little actions. That was the secret. To keep doing, moving, eating, talking, fighting the desire for drift, for going limp. Had to play the many roles his life demanded now. Had to do anything to keep them from knowing. Them: his mother and father and Anthony. Them: his classmates, teachers, people on the bus, in stores, on the sidewalks. Had to hide from the world, had to be clever. The best way to hide, he had learned in his cleverness, was to use camouflage, protective coloration. Hey, Mother, everything's fine. School was good today. A nice day, Mother. What he didn't say: I stood at the guardrail on the bridge over (he railroad tracks today but did not jump. Wanted to jump but did not. Could not. Because the command did not come. When would the command come?
He left the kitchen, walked through the dining room, conscious of his movements, arms and legs working together, and paused at the French doors leading to the parlor. After a moment's hesitation he opened the doors and stepped into the room, like going from one century to another, the musk of the past engulfing him like ancient perfume.
The parlor was only used for special occasions, major holidays, family gatherings (like when relatives from Italy visited), graduations, first communions, and such. Thick carpet, gleaming furniture that his mother kept polished despite its lack of use, the upright piano with closed lid. Nobody had played the piano since the death of his grandmother a year ago. David had taken lessons at St. John's Parochial School from a forbidding, tone-deaf nun who delighted in rapping his fingers with a ruler when he struck a wrong note. His mother played "by ear" — terrible chords, everything in the key of C.
He lifted the lid now, like opening a coffin, looked at the grinning keyboard, hideous grin, yellowing teeth. His finger touched middle C, the sound surprisingly deep and full here in the room. He was held immobile by the sound.
C. A piano note but also another Letter, like the Letter that had ruined his life. Brother Leon's Letter.
David closed the piano lid, cutting off the horrible grin of the keyboard. Then stood there for a moment. Would the command come from an inanimate object, like a piece of furniture or the piano, or from a person? He didn't know. Yet he knew he would recognize the command as soon as he heard it. And what he must do. To himself. To Brother Leon.
He carefully shut the French doors and went to the dining-room window, looked out at the backyard. A bird cried piercingly, as if wounded. The soil that his father had turned over in preparation for planting the garden lay in turmoil, like a new grave.
Problem: finding a brown loafer with slashed instep and a dangling brass buckle among hundreds, hell, thousands of pairs of shoes worn by guys everywhere in Monument. Impossible? But he had to make it seem possible. Had to take action. Make the search. Start somewhere — and the somewhere was Trinity. Then go on from there.
Trinity's dress code was not overly strict. It required students to wear shirts, ties, jackets, and trousers" of no particular color. Banned were sneakers (except during gym classes), boots, and jeans. The most popular footwear on Trinity's campus were loafers and buckled shoes.
Think positively, Obie told himself as he dressed for school, having trouble as usual knotting his tie so that the two ends came out even. He could not allow himself to be pessimistic. With pessimism would come utter futility and desperation. And, finally, defeat. He couldn't let that happen. He felt that his entire life was in danger of collapsing, and he couldn't just stand there and let it happen.
Somewhere, right this minute, some guy in his own home was probably putting on that damaged shoe just as Obie was slipping into his own loafers.
Obie inspected his reflection in the mirror. He looked terrible. Bloodshot eyes. Yellow flecks in the corners of his eyes that always showed up when he was tired. A new colony of acne on his chin. Hair lusterless, like dried grass. As if his body — even his hair, for crying out loud — was giving up, giving in. Something that must not happen, that he couldn't let happen.
He felt like bawling, saw the corners of his mouth drooping. Time for a pep talk, Obie. You've got a clue. Follow it up. Find the shoe and find the kid. Then go on from there. It was better than doing nothing, better than just waiting for Laurie to get back and having nothing to offer her when she did return.
He had mapped out his strategy on awakening. Had decided not to drive his car to school but to take the bus. This would give him access to the other students, on the sidewalks, in the bus, as he searched for the loafer. He hated the thought of riding the bus — have I become that much of a snob? — but knew that the search was more important than driving to school. He would have to mingle with the mob, eyes sharp and probing.
He hurried out of the house, but his steps were those of an old man, legs heavy, feet dragging as if in winter boots. At the bus stop down the street, he stood apart from a cluster of waiting students. They were frisky and impatient in the morning air, stamping their feet, hitting each other with elbows, hips. Obie's eyes went to their shoes. Three lads wore faded, beat-up sneakers: Monument High kids, no dress code at MHS. Some other pairs of shoes; two pairs of loafers, black and brown, with buckles intact; high black boots; two pairs of laced shoes.
Obie felt like a derelict walking through life with head down, searching for lost coins, cigarette butts, whatever bums look for on the ground.
In the next few hours — on the bus, in the school yard, in the classrooms, in the corridors — Obie encountered a bewildering jungle of footwear, an eye-boggling array of shoes of all shades and styles and conditions. Clean shoes, scuffed shoes, mud-encrusted shoes. Brown, black, mottled gray. Buckles of all kinds. Fancy, plain, brass, silver. Silver? No, not silver but a silvery kind of dull metal. You could tell that the school year was drawing to a close. No shoes sparkling with newness, no fresh articles of clothing. Instead, faded shirts, limp ties, threadbare trousers thin at the seat. Scuffed shoes that no polish could revitalize. Occasionally he spotted a loafer with a buckle that was broken or missing or askew, and a pulse would beat in his throat, but he looked in vain for the slash across the instep. False alarm. A day filled with false alarms, frustration, weariness.
Waiting for the bus after classes were over for the day, hoping that Archie or any of his own friends would not spot him standing alone, he realized again the impossibility of his search. How could he hope to check every pair of shoes in the entire city? Suppose the attackers had come from out of town?
His shoulders sagged; his chin dropped to his chest.
Tears of frustration gathered in the corners of his eyes. He turned away in shame, not wanting the other guys to see him this way. He left the bus stop, wanted to be alone. The search, he knew, was futile. Not only the search but his entire life as well. Futile, empty, without any meaning at all.
What Archie liked about Morton was that she was both smart and dumb. But, before that, beautiful. Long and slender and blond. Compliant. Bending like the willow, as the song went. And so Archie usually came to Morton, his favorite of all the girls at Miss Jerome's, and she never failed him.