The fever that coursed through his body now made him sharp and alert He had gone beyond fatigue and 'exhaustion into a land of hyper state, senses sharp, body on the alert, a new energy pulsing with the beat of the fever. He used all the old strategies and methods that he had learned during his years as Archie's right hand, setting up the assignments, compiling his notes and data on students. His notebooks were filled with the names of students and the background details of their lives that had been valuable for the assignments. Hundreds of names. And, of course, Cornacchio among them.
Vincent Cornacchio. Sixteen years old. Height, five seven; weight, one sixty-five. Father, factory worker. B-minus average. Not stupid. In fact, did not live up to his potential. An underachiever. Hobbies, none. Unless you call hanging around downtown eyeballing the girls or reading dirty magazines in drugstores a hobby. Nickname: Corny. Which he hated. Worked after school at Vivaldi's Supermarket.
That night in bed, curled up fetuslike, still not sleeping but not wanting now to sleep, thoughts alive and sharp like needles pricking his consciousness, Obie plotted and schemed and mapped his strategy. Cornacchio had held him down and under the car. But somebody else had attacked Laurie, had touched her. Bunting, probably. Cornacchio was Bunting's stooge. Bunting, whom he already had reason to hate. But must be sure. And Cornacchio was the key.
He finally fell into a deep, dreamless sleep that was more of a coma, a little death, than anything else. He awoke in the morning without any sense of having slept. Eyes still flaming, pulse still throbbing in his forehead, stomach still rejecting the thought of food. But his mind keen and knife-edged, eager for action, in a hurry for the day to pass until this evening, when he would confront Cornacchio. Cornacchio of the slashed loafer with the dangling buckle, who would lead him to the guy who had touched Laurie.
"Brother Eugene's dead."
"Oh, no. . "
They rounded the corner of State Street into Stearns Avenue past the Hilite Dry Cleaners (In by 9, Out by 5) and Rasino's Barber Shop, the wind assailing their bodies, brushing their cheeks, cool air on moist warm flesh.
"He died in New Hampshire," the Goober said, eyes straight ahead, back arched, legs pumping. "He never came back to Trinity after. ."
His voice trailed off.
After.
The word lingered in the air as they ran. Cars and buses and people, young and old, flowed past them as if on movie screens, outside their own isolated world of running.
After Room Nineteen.
Propelled by guilt, the Goober left Jerry behind in a burst of speed. Not only running now but running away. But impossible to run away, of course. As he zoomed around a corner, he was back in Room Nineteen again, "in the middle of the night, terrified, the screwdriver so tight in his hand that blisters exploded in his palm.
Jerry followed him around the corner in his own lack of speed, spotted him up ahead, and hung back, knowing he could never catch up.
But the Goober put on the brakes, came to a sudden stop, and looked back over his shoulder.
"Sorry," he called, waiting, running in place, legs churning.
As Jerry came abreast, the Goober pointed to an unoccupied bench at a nearby bus stop. "Let's rest," he suggested, noticing Jerry's labored breathing, his face grooved with the agony of exertion.
Jerry was grateful for the pause, realizing that he was very much out of shape. He knew that he had to convince the Goober that he was not to blame for what had happened to Brother Eugene, hoped he could find the proper words.
"I hope you're not feeling guilty," Jerry said as he sat down, waiting for his body to calm, his heart to resume its normal silent beat. "It can't be your fault, Goob."
"I keep telling myself that," the Goober said. "But I keep wondering what would have happened if we hadn't taken Room Nineteen apart. Would Brother Eugene still be alive?"
"You can't second-guess a thing like that, Goober," Jerry said, groping for the right words. But could any words mollify his friend? "Room Nineteen happened last fall. Brother Eugene wasn't young anymore. You've got to forget the past—"
"It's not that easy."
"I know," Jerry said, thinking of the chocolates.
"I can't wait to leave that rotten school," Goober said, voice bitter, pounding the earth with his foot.
"I'm not going back either," Jerry said. "I might go back to Canada," he added, discovering that possibility only as he spoke the words.
"You liked Canada that much?"
Jerry shrugged. 'It's peaceful there." He thought of the Talking Church, knew he couldn't possibly explain to the Goober how he felt about those weeks in Quebec. "This parish I lived in with my uncle and aunt is only a few miles north of Montreal. Maybe I can commute to an English-language school in Montreal." More possibilities that he had not realized existed until this moment.
"Monument High for me," Goober said flatly. "No more Brother Leon. No more Archie Costello. No more Vigils. No more crap—"
"Is Archie Costello still riding high?" Jerry asked tentatively, wondering if he really wanted to know.
"I try not to pay attention," Goober said. Then amended his reply: "Yeah, sure he is. You hear rumors all the time about assignments. Secret stuff. Some poor kid given a stupid stunt to perform." Like me, he thought, and Room Nineteen.
"Let's run some more," Jerry said, on edge suddenly. All this talk of Brother Eugene and Archie Costello brought back memories he had been avoiding. Room Nineteen was bad enough. But what about the chocolates? He didn't want to think about the chocolates.
They ran now in companionable silence, like last fall, finding a balm and benediction in the movement of their bodies, down hills and across streets, arriving finally at Monument Park and coming to a halt near a Civil War cannon. Sitting, stretching, Jerry was languid in the aftermath of exertion, felt as though his bones and muscles were deliciously melting.
"Why so quiet, Jerry?"
"Know what I keep thinking, Goober? How many Archie Costellos there are in the world. Out there. Everywhere. Waiting." A thought crept into his mind: It would be nice to avoid the world, to leave it and all its threats and unhappiness. Not to die or anything like that, but to find a place of solitude and solace. Nuns retreated to their convents. Priests lived in rectories, separate from other people, or in monasteries. Was it possible for him to do the same? Become a priest? Or a brother? A good and kind brother like Brother Eugene? And take his place in the world, someone to fight the Archie Costellos and even the Brother Leons? Hey, what's going on here? Me a priest? A brother? Ridiculous. Yet he remembered those exquisite moments of peace in Canada.
"What do you want to do with your life, Goob?" he asked.
"Who knows?" the Goober mused. "Sometimes I wake up at night in a panic. Wondering: What will my life be like? And sometimes I even wonder: Who am I? What am I doing here, on this planet, in this city, in this house? And it gives me the shivers, makes me panic." This is what he liked about Jerry Renault. He could talk to him like this, tell him his fears and hopes.
"That happens to me, too," Jerry said. "I remember a poem from somewhere, school, probably.
"I, a stranger and afraid
In a world I never made.
"That's me, Goob. That's us." That was also Trinity. A world he had not made. In which he had been afraid. He didn't want to be afraid anymore. He remembered the poster in his locker: Do I dare disturb the universe? He had disturbed the universe of Trinity. Look what had happened. He would do no more disturbing.
"Oh, Christ."
Jerry looked up as the Goober spoke, startled at his words, knowing that the Goob seldom if ever swore.