Jerry rushed in:
"Hello, Goober? How are you? This is Jerry Renault, just thought I'd call. . " Too much too fast, the words running together. "Been out running?" Cripes. Living in silence all this time and now I can't shut up.
"That really you, Jerry?" Goober asked, taking a deep breath, probably just ending a run, and Jerry envied him, wanted to run, jump, careen around in the spring air, realized how suffocating and deadly dull the apartment had been since his return.
"It's really me," Jerry said, wanting to sound normal, like the Jerry Renault that Goober knew and remembered.
"Great to hear your voice," the Goober said, but a bit guarded, the words fine and normal but his voice tentative.
Let's get this all out of the way as soon as possible, Jerry thought. And plunged again: Give me the ball and the hell with the signals.
"Look, Goob. Can I say something? A couple of things, in fact? First, I'm sorry about the other day. When you came here. I wasn't ready, I guess. I was really glad to see you but not ready for other things. I mean, not ready for Monument. I must have looked like a nut. . "
Goober's laugh was easy, almost grateful. "Well, it wasn't your everyday kind of hello-how-are-you. But you sound okay now, Jerry." And, after a slight pause: "Are you?"
"I think so. Yes." Having to make it clear: "I'm fine. Really."
"Great. And Jerry, let me say something too, okay? Something I've got to say before anything else—"
"Look, Goober, I know what you want to say. . and you don't have to. You're my friend."
"But I've got to say ft, Jerry, and you have to listen and then you have to make a decision. Don't say anything yet. Let me. Let me tell you that I know that I betrayed you last fall. Stayed home as if I was sick when you were going through hell because of the chocolates, that beating from Janza. ."
"But you were there, Goob. I saw you. You helped me. . " He almost said: You held me in your arms when I was all broken inside and out.
"But I got there too late, Jerry. Stayed home until the last minute. And was too late to help you. . Okay, I've said it. It had to be said. And I don't blame you if you hate me."
"Cripes, Goober, I don't hate you. You're my friend."
"I didn't act like a friend that night. . "
"Goober, Goober. ." Admonishing gently, as if Goober were a child to be soothed and reassured.
"Do I get another chance?"
"You don't need another chance, Goob. You're my friend — so what's all this about another chance?"
"I'll never let you down again, Jerry."
"Hey, look, Goob. Will you do me a big favor? As a 'friend forever?"
"Sure." The Goober's voice was easier now, lighter. "Name it — and consider it done."
"Okay. The favor is this: Don't talk about that night anymore, don't talk about letting me down or anything like that That was last fall — this is now. Let's forget it ever happened."
"There's one thing I can't forget. What you told me that night, Jerry. Because it's the truth. It's the way I live my life now. You said to play ball, play the game, sell the chocolates or whatever they want you to sell. That's what I'm doing, Jerry. What I'm always going to do. ."
The words made Jerry uneasy. It was one thing to believe in them yourself: it was another to know that someone else, a friend, believed in them, too. Changing his life because of words you spoke. Jerry felt engulfed by sadness at the words, although he knew them to be true.
"Let's not talk about it anymore," he said, wondering if he had called too soon, whether he should have waited, whether he should never have called. Desperate to get away from the subject, he searched for another subject, seized one: "You still running, Goob? You were all out of breath when you answered the phone."
"Right. I didn't run for a long time, but I started again."
"I'd like to run," Jerry said, glancing around the room at the sterile furniture, not home, really, but like a waiting room in a doctor's office or air terminal.
"Hey, you always hated running," Goober chided.
Jerry responded to the Goober's good-natured jibe.
"I know — but it feels so good when you stop. Like hitting yourself on the head with a hammer. . "
They both exploded with laughter. His remark hadn't been that funny, but Jerry sensed that they needed to grab on to something to bring them together again. Like old times.
"Want to run again? With me?" Goober asked.
"Why not? I need the exercise."
"Tomorrow afternoon?"
"Sure. ." Jerry hesitated. "On one condition, Goob. No more talk about what happened. No more of that stuff—"
"Okay, okay," Goober said. "I give up. But get ready for tomorrow, Jerry. I'll run you ragged. . "
"Tomorrow," Jerry said, hanging up, weak with relict, breathing his thanks. His thanks to whom? God, maybe, thinking of the Talking Church in Canada.
Obie spotted the slashed loafer with the dangling buckle at a moment when he was not looking for it. Climbing the stairs to the third floor for the final class of the day, forced along by the between-classes stampede of students, Obie was engrossed in his thoughts, barely aware of the press of bodies. About the two tests today he had either flunked or scored no higher than a D on, thus falling further behind in his studies. Angry thoughts. Angry at his parents and all grown-ups who thought that school life was a lark, a good time, the best years of your life with a few tests and quizzes thrown in to keep you on your toes. Bullshit. There was nothing good about it. Tests were daily battles in the larger war of school. School meant rules and orders and commands. To say nothing of homework.
The loafer appeared before his eyes without warning, so unexpected that his brain did not immediately register the sight. His brain was still concerned with this lousy life called high school, adolescence, the teen years. But then: the loafer. The cruel slash across the instep. He stopped in his tracks, one foot on the step above him, the other in midair as his brain intercepted what his eyes had recorded.
"Wait a minute," he said.
Nobody among the rampaging students coming and going up and down the stairs heard his words or paid attention.
Obie sprang into action. The guy wearing the loafer had been coming down the steps: At one point the shoe had been at his eye level. Turning, looking below, he spotted a familiar figure hurrying across the second-floor corridor, trying like everyone else to beat the final bell to the class. Torn between getting to his own class on time (he'd already been tardy once today) and tracking down his quarry, Obie threw caution aside. His life depended on that loafer: the hell with being late for class. The hell with everything else. He set off in pursuit, going against the mainstream now, darting in and out of the streaming students, getting jabs in his ribs from sharp elbows.
He caught up with the student (he was almost sure of his identity, had recognized him from behind but had to be absolutely certain, without a shadow of a doubt, because this was life and death now, not fun and games) at the doorway to Room Nineteen. Ironic, of course. Putting on the brakes, his own shoes skidding on the wooden floor, he almost crashed into the guy. Looking down, he confirmed the evidence. Yes, the loafer was slashed, the buckle was loose. He looked up again as the kid, perhaps sensing his scrutiny or hearing the skidding arrival of someone behind him, turned around and regarded him. Full face.
No doubt now. No doubt at all.
Cornacchio, the sophomore. Bunting's stooge.
The bell rang, splitting the air as Cornacchio, after a hurried, puzzled look at Obie (but was it puzzled or more like horrified?) jammed through the door, shouldering his way between two other students.
Obie remained alone as the corridor emptied and the doors slammed shut. Stood there, caught and held, his heart like the ticking of a bomb about to explode.