Rage (6 page)

Chapter 17

    "What happened then?" Susan Brooks asked breathlessly.

    "Not much, " I said. "It blew over. " Now that it was out, I found myself mildly surprised that it had stuck in my throat so long. I once knew a kid, Herk Orville, who ate a mouse. I dared him, and he swallowed it. Raw. It was just a small fieldmouse, and it didn't look hurt at all when we found it; maybe it had just died of old age. Anyway, Herk's mom was out hanging clothes, and she just happened to look over at us, sitting in the dirt by the back step. She looked just in time to see the mouse going down Herk's throat, headfirst.

    She screamed-what a fright it can give you when a grown-up screams!-and ran over and put her finger down Herk's throat. Herk threw up the mouse, the hamburger he'd eaten for lunch, and some pasty glop that looked like tomato soup. He was just starting to ask his mother what was going on when she threw up. And there, in all that puke, that old dead mouse didn't look bad at all. It sure looked better than the rest of the stuff. The moral seemed to be that puking up your past when the present is even worse makes some of the vomitus look nearly tasty. I started to tell them that, and then decided it would only revolt them-like the story of the Cherokee Nose Job.

    "Dad was in the doghouse for a few days. That was all. No divorce. No big thing."

    Carol Granger started to say something, and that was when Ted stood up. His face was pale as cheese except for two burning patches of red, one above each cheekbone. He was grinning. Did I tell you he wore his hair in a duck's ass cut? Grease, out of style, not cool. But Ted got away with it. In that click of a second when he stood up, he looked like the ghost of James Dean come to get me, and my heart quailed.

    "I'm going to take that gun away from you now, tin shit," he said, grinning. His teeth were white and even.

    I had to fight hard to keep my voice steady, but I think I did pretty well. "Sit down, Ted."

    Ted didn't move forward, but I could see how badly he wanted to. "That makes me sick, you know it? Trying to blame something like this on your folks. "

    "Did I say I was trying to-?"

    "Shut up!" he said in a rising, strident voice. "You killed two people!"

    "How really observant of you to notice," I said.

    He made a horrible rippling movement with his hands, holding them at waist level, and I knew that in his mind he had just grabbed me and eaten me.

    "Put that down, Charlie," he said, grinning. "Just put that gun down and fight me fair."

    "Why did you quit the football team, Ted?" I asked amiably. It was very hard to sound amiable, but it worked. He looked stunned, suddenly unsure, as if no one but the stolidly predictable coach had ever dared ask him that. He looked as if he had suddenly become aware of the fact that he was the only one standing. It was akin to the look a fellow gets when he realizes his zipper is down, and is trying to think of a nice unobtrusive way to get it back up-so it will look like an act of God.

    "Never mind that," he said. "Put down that gun." It sounded melodramatic as hell. Phony. He knew it.

    "Afraid for your balls? Your ever-loving sack? Was that it?"

    Irma Bates gasped. Sylvia, however, was watching with a certain predatory interest.

    "You… " He sat down suddenly in his seat, and somebody chuckled in the back of the room. I've always wondered exactly who that was. Dick Keene? Harmon Jackson?

    But I saw their faces. And what I saw surprised me. You might even say it shocked me. Because there was pleasure there. There had been a showdown, a verbal shootout, you might say, and I had won. But why did that make them happy? Like those maddening pictures you sometimes see in the Sunday paper-"Why are these people laughing? Turn to page 41." Only, there was no page for me to turn to.

    And it's important to know, you know. I've thought and thought, racked whatever brains I have left, and I don't know. Maybe it was only Ted himself, handsome and brave, full of the same natural machismo that keeps the wars well-attended. Simple jealousy, then. The need to see everyone at the same level, gargling in the same rat-race choir, to paraphrase Dylan. Take off your mask, Ted, and sit down with the rest of us regular guys.

    Ted was still staring at me, and I knew well enough that he was unbroken. Only, next time he might not be so direct. Maybe next time he would try me on the flank.

    Maybe it's just mob spirit. Jump on the individual.

    But I didn't believe that then, and I don't believe it now, although it would explain much. No, the subtle shift from Ted's end of the seesaw to mine could not be dismissed as some mass grunt of emotion. A mob always wipes out the strange one, the sport, the mutant. That was me, not Ted. Ted was the exact opposite of those things. He was a boy you would have been proud to have down in the rumpus room with your daughter. No, it was in Ted, not in them. It had to be in Ted. I began to feel strange tentacles of excitement in my belly-the way a butterfly collector must feel when he thinks he has just seen a new species fluttering in yon bushes.

    "I know why Ted quit football," a voice said slyly. I looked around. It was Pig Pen. Ted had fairly jumped at the sound of his voice. He was beginning to look a wee bit haggard.

    "Do tell," I said.

    "If you open your mouth, I'll kill you," Ted said deliberately. He turned his grin on Pig Pen.

    Pig Pen blinked in a terrified way and licked his lips. He was torn. It was probably the first time in his life that he'd had the ax, and now he didn't know if he dared to grind it. Of course, almost anyone in the room could have told you how he came by any information he had; Mrs. Dano spent her life attending bazaars, rummage sales, church and school suppers, and Mrs. Dano had the longest, shrewdest nose in Gates Falls. I also suspected she held the record for party-line listening in. She could latch on to anyone's dirty laundry before you could say have-you-heard-the-latest-about-Sam-Delacorte.

    "I… " Pig Pen began, and turned away from Ted as he made an impotent clutching gesture with his hands.

    "Go on and tell," Sylvia Ragan said suddenly. "Don't let Golden Boy scare you, hon."

    Pig Pen gave her a quivering smile and then blurted out: "Mrs. Jones is an alcoholic. She had to go someplace and dry out. Ted had to help with his family."

    Silence for a second.

    "I'm going to kill you, Pig Pen," Ted said, getting up. His face was dead pale.

    "Now, that's not nice," I said. "You said so yourself. Sit down."

    Ted glared at me, and for a moment I thought he was going to break and charge at me. If he had, I would have killed him. Maybe he could see it on my face. He sat back down.

    "So," I said. "The skeleton has boogied right out of the closet. Where's she drying out, Ted?"

    "Shut up," he said thickly. Some of his hair had fallen across his forehead. It looked greasy. It was the first time it had ever looked that way to me.

    "Oh, she's back now," Pig Pen said, and offered Ted a forgiving smile.

    "You said you'd kill Pig Pen," I said thoughtfully.

    "I will kill him," Ted muttered. His eyes were red and baleful.

    "Then you can blame it on your parents," I said, smiling. "Won't that be a relief?"

    Ted was gripping the edge of his desk tightly. Things weren't going to his liking at all. Harmon Jackson was smiling nastily. Maybe he had an old grudge against Ted.

    "Your father drive her to it?" I asked kindly. "How'd it happen? Home late all the time? Supper burned and all that? Nipping on the cooking sherry a little at first? Hi-ho."

    "I'll kill you." he moaned.

    I was needling him-needling the shit out of him-and no one was telling me to stop. It was incredible. They were all watching Ted with a glassy kind of interest, as if they had expected all along that there were a few maggots under there.

    "Must be tough, being married to a big-time bank officer," I said. "Look at it that way. She probably didn't realize she was belting down the hard stuff so heavy. It can creep up on you, look at it that way. It can get on top of you. And it's not your fault, is it? Hi-ho."

    "Shut up! " he screamed at me.

    "There it was, right under your nose, but it just got out of control, am I right? Kind of disgusting, wasn't it? Did she really go to pot, Ted? Tell us. Get rid of it. Kind of just slopping around the house, was she?"

    "Shut up! Shut up! "

    "Drunk in front of Dialing for Dollars? Seeing bugs in the corners? Or was she quiet about it? Did she see bugs? Did she? Did she go bugs?"

    "Yeah, it was disgusting!" He brayed at me suddenly, through a mouthful of spit. "Almost as disgusting as you! Killer! Killer!"

    "Did you write her?" I asked softly.

    "Why would I write her?" he asked wildly. "Why should I write her? She copped out."

    "And you couldn't play football."

    Ted Jones said clearly, "Drunk bitch. "

    Carol Granger gasped, and the spell was broken. Ted's eyes seemed to clear a little. The red light went out of them, and he realized what he had said.

    "I'll get you for this, Charlie," he said quietly.

    "You might. You might get your chance. " I smiled. "A drunken old bitch of a mother. That surely is disgusting, Ted."

    Ted sat silently, stating at me.

    It was over, then. We could turn our attention to other things-at least, for the moment. I had a feeling we might be getting back to Ted. Or that he would get back to me.

    People moved around restlessly outside.

    The clock buzzed.

    No one said anything for a long time, or what seemed like a long time. There was a lot to think about now.

Chapter 18

    Sylvia Ragan finally broke the silence. She threw back her head and laughed long, hard, and loud. Several people, including me, jumped. Ted Jones didn't. He was still on his own trip. "You know what I'd like to do after this is over?" she asked.

    "What?" Pig Pen asked. He looked surprised that he had spoken up again. Sandra Cross was looking at me gravely. She had her ankles crossed the way pretty girls do when they want to foil boys who want to look up their dresses.

    "I'd like to get this in a detective magazine. 'Sixty Minutes of Terror with the Placerville Maniac.' I'd get somebody who writes good to do it. Joe McKennedy or Phil Franks… or maybe you, Charlie. How's that bite your banana?" She guffawed, and Pig Pen joined in tentatively. I think he was fascinated by Sylvia's fearlessness. Or maybe it was only her blatant sexuality. She sure didn't have her ankles crossed.

    Out on the lawn, two more trooper cars had arrived. The firemen were leaving; the fire alarm had cut out a few minutes ago. Abruptly Mr. Grace disengaged himself from the crowd and started toward the main doors. A light breeze flapped the bottom of his sport coat.

    "More company," Corky Herald said.

    I got up, went over to the intercom, and switched it back onto TALK-LISTEN. Then I sat down again, sweating a little. Mr. Don-God-Give-Us-Grace was on his way. And he was no lightweight.

    A few seconds later there was that hollow chink! that means the line is open. Mr. Grace said, "Charlie?" His voice was very calm, very rich, very certain.

    "How are you, skinner?" I asked.

    "Fine, thanks, Charlie. How are you?"

    "Keeping my thumb on it," I said agreeably.

    Snickers from some of the boys.

    "Charlie, we've talked about getting help for you before this. Now, you've committed a pretty antisocial act, wouldn't you agree?"

    "By whose standards?"

    "Society's standards, Charlie. First Mr. Carlson, now this. Will you let us help you?"

    I almost asked him if my co-students weren't a part of society, because no one down here seemed too worked up about Mrs. Underwood. But I couldn't do that. It would have transgressed a set of rules that I was just beginning to grasp.

    "How does Ah do it?" I bawled. "Ah already tole dat dere Mr. Denber how sorry Ah is for hittin' dat 1'il girl wit dat Loosyville Sluggah. Ali wants mah poor paid shrunk! Ali wants mah soul saved an' made white as snow! How does Ah do it, Rev'rund?"

    Pat Fitzgerald, who was nearly as black as the ace of spades, laughed and shook his head.

    "Charlie, Charlie," Mr. Grace said, as if very sad. "Only you can save your soul now."

    I didn't like that. I stopped shouting and put my hand on the pistol, as if for courage. I didn't like it at all. He had a way of slipping it to you. I'd seen him a lot since I bopped Mr. Carlson with the pipe wrench. He could really slip it in.

    "Mr. Grace?"

    "What, Charlie?"

    "Did Tom tell the police what I said?"

    "Don't you mean 'Mr. Denver'?"

    "Whatever. Did he…?"

    "Yes, he relayed your message."

    "Have they figured out how they're going to handle me yet?"

    "I don't know, Charlie. I'm more interested in knowing if you've figured out how you're going to handle yourself."

    Oh, he was slipping it to me, all right. Just like he kept slipping it to me after Mr. Carlson. But then I had to go see him. Now I could turn him off anytime I wanted to. Except I couldn't, and he knew I couldn't. It was too normal to be consistent. And I was being watched by my peerless peers. They were evaluating me.

    "Sweating a little?" I asked the intercom.

    "Are you?"

    "You guys," I said, an edge of bitterness creeping into my voice. "You're all the same. "

    "We are? If so, then we all want to help you."

    He was going to be a much tougher nut to strip than old Tom Denver had been. That was obvious. I called Don Grace up in my mind. Short, dapper little fuck. Bald on top, big muttonchop sideburns, as if to make up for it. He favored tweed coats with suede patches on the elbows. A pipe always stuffed with something that came from Copenhagen and smelled like cowshit. A man with a headful of sharp, prying instruments. A mind-fucker, a head-stud. That's what a shrink is for, my friends and neighbors; their job is to fuck the mentally disturbed and make them pregnant with sanity. It's a bull's job, and they go to school to learn how, and all their courses are variations on a theme: Slipping It to the Psychos for Fun and Profit, Mostly Profit. And if you find yourself someday lying on that great analyst's couch where so many have lain before you, I'd ask you to remember one thing: When you get sanity by stud, the child always looks like the father. And they have a very high suicide rate.

    But they get you lonely, and ready to cry, they get you ready to toss it all over if they will just promise to go away for a while. What do we have? What do we really have? Minds like terrified fat men, begging the eyes that look up in the bus terminal or the restaurant and threaten to meet ours to look back down, uninterested. We lie awake and picture ourselves in white hats of varying shapes. There's no maidenhead too tough to withstand the seasoned dork of modern psychiatry. But maybe that was okay. Maybe now they would play my game, all these shysters and whores.

    "Let us help you, Charlie," Mr. Grace was saying.

    "But by letting you help me, I would be helping you." I said it as if the idea had just occurred to me. "Don't want to do that."

    "Why, Charlie?"

    "Mr. Grace?"

    "Yes, Charlie?"

    "The next time you ask me a question, I'm going to kill somebody down here. " I could hear Mr. Grace suck wind, as if someone had just told him his son had been in a car crash. It was a very un-self-confident sound. It made me feel very good.

    Everyone in the room was looking at me tightly. Ted Jones raised his head slowly, as if he had just awakened. I could see the familiar, hating darkness cloud his eyes. Anne Lasky's eyes were round and frightened. Sylvia Ragan's fingers were doing a slow and dreamy ballet as they rummaged in her purse for another cigarette. And Sandra Cross was looking at me gravely, gravely, as if I were a doctor, or a priest.

    Mr. Grace began to speak.

    "Watch it!" I said sharply. "Before you say anything, be careful. You aren't playing your game any longer. Understand that. You're playing mine. Statements only. Be very careful. Can you be very careful?"

    He didn't say anything about my game metaphor at all. That was when I began to believe I had him.

    "Charlie… "Was that almost a plea?

    "Very good. Do you think you'll be able to keep your job after this, Mr. Grace?"

    "Charlie, for God's sake… "

    "Ever so much better. "

    "Let them go, Charlie. Save yourself. Please."

    "You're talking too fast. Pretty soon a question will pop out, and that'll be the end for somebody."

    "Charlie… "

    "How was your military obligation fulfilled?"

    "Wh… " Sudden whistling of breath as he cut that off.

    "You almost killed somebody," I said. "Careful, Don. I can call you Don, can't I? Sure. Weigh those words, Don."

    I was reaching out for him.

    I was going to break him.

    In that second it seemed as if maybe I could break them all.

    "I think I better sign off for the moment, Charlie."

    "If you go before I say you can, I'll shoot somebody. What you're going to do is sit there and answer my questions."

    The first sweaty desperation, as well concealed as underarm perspiration at the junior prom: "I really mustn't, Charlie. I can't take the responsibility for-"

    "Responsibility?" I screamed. "My God, you've been taking the responsibility ever since they let you loose from college! Now you want to cop out the first time your bare ass is showing! But I'm in the driver's seat, and by God you'll pull the cart! Or I'll do just what I said. Do you dig it? Do you understand me?"

    "I won't play a cheap parlor game with human lives for party favors, Charlie. "

    "Congratulations to you," I said. "You just described modern psychiatry. That ought to be the textbook definition, Don. Now, let me tell you: you'll take a piss out the window if I tell you to. And God help you if I catch you in a lie. That will get somebody killed too. Ready to bare your soul, Don? Are you on your mark?"

    He drew in his breath raggedly. He wanted to ask if I really meant it, but he was afraid I might answer with the gun instead of my mouth. He wanted to reach out quick and shut off the intercom, but he knew he would hear the echo of the shot in the empty building, rolling around in the corridor below him like a bowling ball up a long alley from hell.

    "All right," I said. I unbuttoned my shirt cuffs. Out on the lawn, the cops and Tom Denver and Mr. Johnson were standing around restlessly, waiting for the return of their tweedy bull stud. Read my dreams, Sigmund. Squirt 'em with the sperm of symbols and make 'em grow. Show me how we're different from, say, rabid dogs or old tigers full of bad blood. Show me the man hiding between my wet dreams. They had every reason to be confident (although they did not look confident). In the symbolic sense, Mr. Grace was Pathfinder of the Western World. Bull stud with a compass.

    Natty Bumppo was breathing raggedly from the little latticed box over my head. I wondered if he'd read any good rapid eye movements lately. I wondered what his own would be like when night finally came.

    "All right, Don. Let's get it on."