‘The thing is,’ Geoff Sproke begins, then breaks off: every time he turns his head he is confronted with a giant close-up shot of a clitoris, it’s very distracting. He coughs deliberately, repositions himself, and tries again. ‘I suppose what we’re thinking is, we’ve all put a lot of work into this thing, and it seems like a shame to let it go to waste, you know?’
Ruprecht does not know, indeed makes no sign of having heard them. Geoff shakes his head, and turns his gaze to Jeekers, who steps somewhat diffidently to the fore.
Jeekers finds himself with something of a conflict of interests here. On the one hand, yes, Geoff is right, he has worked hard for this concert, and he feels that throwing away an opportunity to shine in public – his parents have already bought tickets for not only themselves but a wide spectrum of relatives – instead of merely on bi-monthly report cards is profligate in the extreme. On the other, this strange torpor afflicting Ruprecht has been very good to Jeekers. After what seemed a lifetime labouring in Ruprecht’s expansive shadow – spending hours over-preparing for every test, hoping for just one minuscule victory, appreciable only to him, only to be trounced, effortlessly, time and time again – Jeekers is now, officially, Best Boy in the Year, and it tastes every bit as sweet as he expected. The praise of the Acting Principal, scribbled on the back of his bi-monthly report card; the envious stares of Victor Hero and Kevin ‘What’s’ Wong; the proud voice of Dad, crying out over the dinner table, ‘More carrots! More carrots for the Best Boy!’ – much as he likes Ruprecht, he does not know that he is ready to give these up just yet.
And so, instead of marshalling the skills he has honed in Debating Club, appealing to Ruprecht’s love of the Arts, reminding him of the duty people like Jeekers and Ruprecht have to uphold and preserve these finer things from the troglodytes surrounding them – instead of this, after some procrastinatory throat-clearing, he just says, ‘All of us have parents coming to the concert, and they’re going to be pretty cross if we’re not playing. I know you’re an orphan, but try to think how it feels for us, having our parents getting cross with us just because you don’t want to play.’ With that he steps back, and shrugs happily at Geoff, leaving Ruprecht’s catatonia unstirred.
Geoff, in desperation, fixes an eye on Dennis.
‘What?’ Dennis says.
‘Can’t you say something to him?’
‘Why should I say anything to him? I don’t even want to be in this lame concert. As far as I’m concerned, he’s doing me a favour.’
‘It’s not just about the concert, though, it’s…’ Geoff falters, sincerity being to Dennis what salt is to slugs. ‘Like, maybe if you said sorry to him, that might help.’
‘Sorry?’ Dennis is incredulous. ‘For what?’
‘For the whole Optimus Prime thing. And all the stuff you said?’
‘I was trying to help him,’ Dennis argues. ‘I was trying to help him stop being such an asshole.’
Geoff’s mouth sets in a tight line. ‘Well, why did you come up here then?’
Dennis shrugs. He isn’t sure why he came up here. To see Ruprecht in squalor, with the shell of his genius stripped away, and the grotesque soft squirming larva of his true self revealed to all? To have everything Dennis said over the years gloriously confirmed, viz., that everything good is fatally flawed, that life is inherently evil, that for those reasons there is no point trying or caring or hoping? Something along those lines, anyway.
Geoff keeps staring at him; Dennis shrugs again, and leaves the dorm.
In the Rec Room he sits down by himself, smirking to show how unguilty he is feeling. For a little while he watches the table tennis, then turns to the window. As he looks out something enters the car park below. It is a van, a dark brown van, and on it is written in gold lettering:
VAN DOREN DRAINAGE∞ SEPTIC TANK’S EMPTIED∞ TOILET’S UNBLOCKED∞ LEAK’S FIXED
FOR ALL YOUR PLUMBING NEEDS NO JOB TOO SMALL!
The van pulls up alongside the flowerbeds, and a small unprepossessing man in an ill-fitting suit and a voluminous woman with a floral hat – both of them somehow familiar – emerge from either side. Dennis watches as they bustle over to the school doors. A slow, wolfish smile spreads over his chops. ‘Well, well,’ he says to himself. ‘Look who’s back from the Amazon.’
Making the right impression, as Father Foley never tires of telling the boys, is half the battle in any situation. You might have straight A’s in your Leaving Cert, but walk into the prospective employer’s office with scuffed shoes or an inappropriate tie and you’ve as good as flushed your chances down the toilet. That is why, even though he had previously washed it only last night, Father Foley, understanding the gravity and delicacy of this particular case, took the trouble of washing his hair again this morning, and spent the quarter-hour prior to the interview arranging it until he judged it exactly right.
Contrast this effort with the young man on the other side of the desk. Here we have a lad who clearly does not care a jot about impressions. His posture is slovenly, he is grossly overweight and, to top it off, he will not speak! Not one word! Father Foley struggled for several minutes to ‘get through’ to him; now he addresses his comments solely to the parents, leaving the boy out of it. See how he likes it.
‘There are five stages of bereavement,’ he tells them. ‘Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression and Acceptance.’ He has just been reading about this on the Internet, it’s actually very interesting. ‘Obviously young Ruprecht here is presently going through the Anger stage. Now, that is perfectly natural, indeed it is a vital part of the grieving process. Nevertheless, we are getting to a point at which Ruprecht’s grief is having a negative effect on the orderly running of the school. So what the Acting Principal and I are hoping is that if we all put our heads together, we might be able to find some way of getting Ruprecht to the Acceptance stage sooner rather than later, so to speak, or at least to one of the other, less disruptive stages that would enable him to participate constructively in normal school activities, such as the 140th Anniversary Concert.’
The boy’s father, a man of few words, nods sombrely. The woman in the hat claps her hands very quietly and mouths, ‘A concert!’
Father Foley is pleased to give her some details about the event. Some of the priests tend to look down on the whole thing, but from his studies in psychology Father Foley knows the importance of letting the lads express themselves. Indeed, in his younger days, wasn’t a certain Father Ignatius Foley known to strap on the guitar and strum out a few ‘hits’ for the entertainment of long-term and terminally sick children in hospital? The way those youngsters had looked at him! He was quite the ‘pop star’!
‘And the touching thing,’ he continues, ‘is that a portion of the proceeds have been dedicated to refurbishing the swimming pool, in memory of the unfortunate boy, Daniel Juster.’
The boy’s mother, who some might call quite an attractive person, coos at this approvingly. Father Foley returns an avuncular smile. ‘It seemed to us to be the most appropriate way of marking the event,’ he says. ‘Here at Seabrook we don’t believe in brushing things under the carpet. It is a way for us, for the boys and the faculty alike, to say, Daniel, you will always have a place in our hearts, in spite of, that is to say, the, ah, circumstances of your passing.’
Sweeping a loose strand of golden hair back over his brow, he turns to Ruprecht, who is staring back at him with undisguised hatred. Can he really be her son? Perhaps she is a second wife, she does seem considerably younger – but no, only a mother could dote on a repellent being like this. ‘There are two words I should like you to keep in mind during this difficult time, Ruprecht. The first of them is “love”. You are lucky to be loved by many people. By your father and your –’ he can’t resist it ‘– very charming mother’ (a twinkling, effervescent little smile!) ‘by your Acting Principal, by myself and the rest of the faculty, and by your many friends here in Seabrook College. And most of all, by God. God loves you, Ruprecht. God loves all of His Creation, down to the very lowliest, and He never takes His eyes from you, even when you think you are alone in the world. Daniel is, hopefully, with Him in Heaven now, and he is happy there, happy in God’s love. So let us not be selfish. Let us not let our grief interfere with the good, honest work of our peers. Yes, we have suffered a tremendous loss. But let us mourn Daniel’s passing in the correct way, the loving way, such as by participating in the upcoming Christmas concert, and making it a really special occasion he would be proud of.’