“Won’t that set off an alarm or something?” I whispered.
He turned toward me, and rolled his eyes, “If there was anyone paying attention, yes,” he said. The elevator didn’t ding; the noise simply stopped, and the doors opened. The car was huge, and there was none of the wooden paneling or paint designed to put friendlier faces on other elevators. This was simply a metal container located behind the scenes. The doors closed, and Kevin pressed ‘9’. The car started upward with a jolt, and I had to steady myself by grabbing onto the railing.
“Nine?” I asked.
“The loony bin,” he said, and grinned. I could see his eyes were still large, and bloodshot. Something in him was still flying. I thought for a second about hitting the ‘stop’ button and trying to get him back into the car. At that moment, though, I noticed he was staring at me out of the corner of his eye. The gesture was so unsure, so gauging, that I was certain he was searching for approval. For some reason, this meant a lot to him. I started to think, what could be so important that he—, but then I stopped.
I knew. With an immediate sureness, I knew where he was taking me. What was more, I knew he’d been here, before. He already had the answers to some of the questions I had wanted to ask when I’d come here earlier.
The number climbed from seven to eight, then nine. The car came to a stop, and the door opened.
TWENTY-SEVEN
“How are we going to get in?” I whispered, my eyes already searching through the barely open doors. He laughed in his throat, and stepped forward boldly. The look in his eye was that same one I’d seen once before.
Back during the Y days, Mr. Roger had gotten the grand idea to hold a boxing tournament. “We teach ’em to box,” he’d said, “but we don’t let ’em, if ya’ understand me.” I wasn’t supposed to hear, but then it is often the case with children that things not meant to be heard are hardest to keep quiet. Mr. Roger had been speaking with Mr. Terrance, the man Mr. Roger called “the Bureaucrat.” I didn’t know what that word meant, at the time, but I knew it was filled with contempt.
I was sweeping the outer room, where the secretary sat and answered phones all day. The door to Mr. Terrance’s office was cracked, and I had seen Mr. Roger go in there as I had started. “Make sure to get behind thuh file cabinets,” he’d said, and walked past. I had kept my eyes on the floor the whole time. He’d rapped twice on the door and then gone in after Mr. Terrance’s muffled “Come.” Mr. Roger hadn’t shut the door all the way.
“I understand that, Roger,” Mr. Terrance was saying, “but isn’t it a little dangerous?”
“Nuh, not the way I see it. We train them to do it right, don’t we? To be safe and sportsmanly?”
“Yes, I mean, of course we do, but—,” Mr. Terrance was saying.
“Then why not let ’em have a go at something?” he’d asked. As was the case with Mr. Roger when he wanted something, Mr. Terrance gave in.
Of course, Kevin O’Mally was the top ranked kid going in. Like a lot of things, I couldn’t tell you why I went to watch. Maybe I went because it was important to Mr. Roger. I didn’t like the idea of boxing, and the noise made me feel uneasy the entire time. Something about the way the men and older boys were watching and yelling made me feel as if any minute, everyone was going to start tearing into each other. I could see it on the faces of most of the boys, too. All except one: Kevin entered that ring and looked around him. He was like a tiny statue for a moment; defiant and powerful. I remember wishing I could feel like he looked just then.
The only other person who wasn’t yelling and jeering was Mr. Roger, himself. He stood at the back of the room, smoking a cigarette. He was in shadow, and I couldn’t see his eyes, but I knew, somehow, that there was something sad in them. Most of the other boy’s fathers and older brothers were there; none of them were anything even resembling adult, though. It scared me. I had to keep looking over at Mr. Roger to try to—to—what? Ground myself? Maybe.
Kevin’s match went on for longer than most of the others, but it wasn’t long before the other boy submitted. Kevin was focused; the noise and thick anger didn’t seem to faze him. There were a few times I thought I caught him smiling, but I was sure that couldn’t be. At the time, I was, anyway.
Watching him turn and walk down the corridor, though, I thought maybe he had been smiling that day. Mr. Roger hadn’t, though. I think maybe he wanted the contest to be one thing, but it turned into another. I think, maybe, it upset him to see the adults acting like animals. There weren’t any more boxing contests held at the Y as far as I know. I couldn’t say why, exactly, but I’m certain Mr. Roger was behind that.
I followed Kevin down the small corridor, but when it turned left, I stopped. Just ahead was a small nurse’s station, like the one in the lobby. Behind that desk was a dark man with a mustache. Kevin had just reached the desk, and was leaning over it. The man was smiling up at him, and they were whispering. I didn’t know what I should do, so I didn’t move. Kevin turned around, though, and motioned for me to come closer. As I walked, my knees were wobbling.
“Reggie, this is my friend Mikey. Say hi, Mikey,” Kevin said as I reached the counter. He turned his face toward me, and he was someone I didn’t recognize. There was a power there, a smug grin of something arrogant and dangerous. Reggie was dark, and his mustache was perfectly straight, which made me feel strange. None of the men back at the garage had ever trimmed their goatees and beards very well. My father, Mr. Roger, Sheriff Aiken; no one I’d ever seen other than people on television and guys at the garage had ever worn facial hair. Reggie was thick, and his shoulders stretched his smock until it seemed about to burst.
“What’s up?” he asked, not even looking at me. It all clicked, then. It made perfect sense how Kevin knew these back entrances, and why he was sure he could get me in to see Mrs. McPherson.
“Not much,” I said.
“Mikey here is studying to be a sick-oll—what do you call it? One of those guys like who looks into your brain and shit—,” he said, and I couldn’t help but stare. I wanted to ask him ‘what are you doing?’
“Psychologist,” Reggie said, and on his face, the same smug grin appeared.
“That’s right,” Kevin said, then looked at me, “didn’t I tell you how smart he is?” he looked back at Reggie, “So smart. So, anyway, do you think that maybe he could walk down and look at some stuff?”
Reggie stood up, and leaned on the counter. His arms were touching Kevin’s, and their faces were very close. I felt like I should look away, but something else was moving around inside me. They started whispering with their faces almost touching, and that’s when I figured out what I was feeling. I wanted to punch Reggie. I wanted to hurt him for ever having touched Kevin.
Reggie turned toward me, and looked me up and down. The smug grin never faded, then he turned back to Kevin and said, “Yeah. I guess while we do that, it won’t hurt if he wants to look at some charts and shit,” then he turned back to me, and his eyes roamed me again, “or you can come join us.”
Kevin put his hand on Reggie’s cheek, and turned his head back. “He don’t get down like that, baby. He’s strictly amateur.”
Reggie’s disgusting grin got wider, and he laughed in his throat, “Oh. He don’t do shit, huh?”
“Not like you like,” Kevin said, and his face matched Reggie’s. I wanted to scream and hit something. I wanted to walk out. Somehow, though, in the last five minutes, I’d begun to need to see Mrs. McPherson. It felt like some long and tedious process would all come together with that.