The Man Without a Face (15 page)

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talking to him or not. And I trusted him. Which doesn't mean to say that he ever let me get away with anything, and he didn’t like excuses as to why I didn't do something right.

“It's too bad you can’t relate to spelling,” he said sarcastically one day. “And if you’re opening your mouth to tell me that spelling is a racist plot, don’t. Here’s a list of words I want you to learn. I’m tired of seeing them misspelled. I’ll test you on them tomorrow. And they’d better be right,”

“You’ve got to be kidding. That’s mid-Victorian.” “You’re free to go.”

“Your way or no way.”

“Correct.”

So I learned the words.

It went on like that.

Most days we swam. On the occasional gray day we walked, carrying sandwiches, drinking out of the streams. Back of the peninsula was some wild country, too rocky for farming, with sometimes the shell of a house or mill. Further up the coast the spruce and fir and pine came down to the water’s edge and walking through them was like being in silence the way you are in water when you’re swimming. “It’s spooky,” I said once.

“That’s because you’re not used to silence. There’s nearly always something making a noise: radio, television, phonograph, traffic, voices.”

“Is that why you live up here alone?”

“Partly. And being used to it now, I find the racket that most people live with unbearable.”

“Why did you come here to live?”

He hesitated. “I lost the job I had under circumstances that made it unlikely I’d get another one.”

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“Did it have something to do with your accident?”

“Yes.”

I’d wondered about that crash, but after feeling so ratty about telling Pete, I didn’t want to press it further. I suppose I wanted, in some way, to show Justin that as far as I was concerned it didn’t matter.

He said abruptly. “I was in prison for two years after that.”

The words came out of that great pool of silence among the trees. I wasn’t really surprised. I’d never known anyone who’d been in prison although there was always a lot of talk about how terrible things were there and making them better now. Suddenly, prison was not just something on TV news. It was a real place where Justin McLeod, my friend, had spent two years.

“Was it awful?”

“In some ways. But I was lucky. It was one of the better prisons. Also I had fully expected to go. I had pled guilty and thought I would get a longer sentence. I learned a lot there.”

“What kind of thing?”

“About myself, and other people. Also I started writing there. When I got out I knew I couldn’t go back to what I’d been doing, and I wanted to be alone.”

I remembered his name and the words St. Matthew's School at the beginning of the poetry anthology.

“Did you teach at St. Matthew’s?”

“Yes.”

There wasn’t anything left to say. But I wanted him to know that it didn’t make any difference to me.

“It doesn’t matter, you know. I mean . . . You know what I mean.”

He looked down at me and smiled. “Yes, I know. Thanks.”

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I

In a way that conversation made the coaching part easier. He knew how things were taught and what I could expect on the exam.

“Barry said St. Matthew’s is better than it used to be. That it had gone through a bad patch but Evans, the new guy, is good.”

“He is.”

I was really enjoying lessons, even math and Latin. I was enjoying everything. One day I said, “We’ll always be friends, won’t we?”

I was standing on a rock at the top of a hill, the highest point in that area. Justin was standing a little below. He said,

“As long as you want us to be.”

“That’ll be always.”

He smiled. “All right.”

I felt a worry. “I won’t change.” Then, as he didn’t say anything, “Why should I change?”

“Today is enough. You can’t lock up tomorrow and keep it safe.”

“How do you mean?”

“It doesn’t matter. I think it’s going to rain. Let’s go.”

CHAPTER I0

.And then one day it was over.

It all happened because I forgot it was Sunday. Saturdays had long since been absorbed into the rest of the week. I spent them with Justin, not working, but swimming, walking. reading, arguing, even letting Richard get used to me, so that by the end of August I could not only pet him, I had even ridden him once or twice. But Sundays I spent

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down on the community beach or on the jetty—waiting for the day to pass.

This time, maybe because Justin didn’t remind me on Saturday with his usual “I’ll see you Monday,” I forgot. So I arrived at about seven thirty, walked into the house, saw Justin wasn’t in the library, and went through to the kitchen. He was there, drinking coffee with a book propped on a wire stand in front of him. What stopped me was that he had on a white shirt and tie and a tweed jacket. I had never seen him in anything but work pants or jeans and a sweater or sweat shirt.

“Why are you dressed up?” I asked, without saying good morning or anything.

“It’s Sunday. Or didn’t you remember? You’re supposed to have the day off.”

“Oh.” I felt let down.

“Want some milk?”

“Yes, thanks. I’ll get it.”

“I don’t want to seem inhospitable,” he said as I brought the milk back to the table, “but I’m going to have to leave you in a few minutes.”

“Where are you going?” Not that it was any of my business. I guess I didn’t expect him to answer. But he did, and really surprised me.

“Church. You’re spilling the milk.”

I was. It was overflowing the glass. I yanked a towel off the back of a chair. “Why are you going to church?” I asked, mopping up the overflow.

“No, don’t hang it up again. Put it in the sink. For the usual reason—to participate in public worship.”

“Oh.”

“Haven’t you ever been to church?”

I shook my head. “No.”

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Justin swallowed the last of his coffee and got up. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

I heard him go through into the hall and then out the front door. He was almost at his car when I caught up with him. “Can I go with you?”

He hesitated. “What would your mother say?”

“Mother believes in people making their own choices,”

I said piously. I didn’t add—-except when she doesn’t approve of the choices, like boarding school.

But Justin knew, too, or guessed. “You’re not a good liar, Charles.”

“Well, she did say that when people reach the . . . the age of discretion, they should do what they think is right.” “I doubt if she’d think fourteen is the age of discretion, but you look holy enough for wings when you say that. Do you realize also that somebody might see you with me? You’re very secretive about your coming up here and it might be somebody who would tell your family—not just a friend.’’

“Nobody my family knows would be up at this hour on Sunday morning.”

He laughed. “All right. But you may—probably will— be bored.”

But I was scrambling in. “Do I look okay? I mean—I’m not dressed up or anything.”

“If you looked a little worse it might be better—might make them feel you had been snatched from the fires just in time.’’ He started the car.

“Shall I get out and roll in the dirt?”

“No use overdoing it.”

Mickey’s big head came in the window. Justin gave him a pat and a push. “No, Mickey.”

“Don’t you think he needs church?”

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“It’s more whether church needs him. He likes to join in. When it comes time to sing or chant he howls.” “Maybe he doesn’t have a musical ear.”

“My own view is the opposite: He does. That’s his problem.”

By this time the front third of Mickey was in.

“Oh, all right,” Justin said. He gave a big push, then leaned back and opened the back door. “You’re having a bad influence on him, you, know. He used to be resigned to staying home.”

With Mickey occupying all of the back seat we started off. “What kind of dog is he?” I asked, as Mickey’s tongue wetly and affectionately enveloped one ear.

“Who knows?”

“I mean, you didn’t buy him as some special breed?” “I didn’t buy him at all.”

“How did you get him, then?”

“I found him, on the side of a road. He’d been either thrown out of a car or maybe run over by one. His back legs were broken.”

“How old was he?”

“The vet said around three months.”

“How could anybody do that?”

“I don’t know.”

It was a nice ride, away from the main highways, through rolling green fields crisscrossed by stone walls. The farther in we got the bigger the trees looked.

“Where are we going?”

“Merton.”

Half an hour later we turned into Merton, with its two main streets cutting across one another and converging on a tiny green. Justin drew up at a white frame church and

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parked. Leaving a window open so Mickey could get out if nature called, we got out.

Justin looked at Mickey. “Stay!” he said firmly.

“Do you think he will?” I asked as we went in.

“We’ll see.”

Despite what Justin said I wasn’t bored, although I had no idea what was going on. But I got up and sat down when be did and, feeling a little foolish, knelt. He paid no attention to me. The man up at the front running the proceedings seemed about a hundred and two. He had on a red tunic thing over a white robe and spoke in a tiny wispy voice. Despite that, or maybe because the church had the right acoustics (The Hairball was great on acoustics and explained them to me), I heard most things he said. I tried to make some sense of it. But instead of getting clearer it got foggier. Maybe there wasn’t enough air in the church, although some of the colored glass windows were tilted open and it was quite cool. I felt strange. The church wasn’t exactly light, but it wasn’t dark, sort of a dusk. There was a huge crucifix off at one side, in an alcove. There were candles there and other places. They seemed to blur. There was a funny, not unpleasant, and oddly familiar smell. I couldn’t hear the old man any more, though I knew he was still talking. Then there was a blackness and I felt both afraid and angry, but I couldn’t tell which. I blinked a few times and tried to get focus back. But it got worse, not better. I looked over towards Justin, and panic hit me. I couldn’t see his head. I know it sounds crazy. And I was sure then I must have freaked out. But although I could see his body including his shoulders and I knew his head was there, I couldn’t really see it. Maybe it was just the light or something. But it just blurred into everything else.

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“Justin/* I said. Then dizziness hit me, and I knew I had to get out. I turned and made for the door as fast as I could.

When I was outside I sat on the low wall running around the churchyard and waited for everything to settle. Almost right away I felt better. In a couple of minutes Justin came out.

“Are you all right?”

I nodded. “I’m sorry, Justin.”

“Nothing to be sorry for. Do you think you can make it to the parish house? It’s only a few feet.”

The panicky feeling started again. “I don’t want to go inside.”

“All right. But I’ll go in and get some cold water. It might make you feel better.’’

I shook my head. “I don’t need it, thanks. Truly. I’ll be fine.’’ I remembered then about not being able to see his head and looked up. He looked the same as he always did, except that I noticed, for the first time in a long while, that half his face was scarred. I know I must have blown my mind, because I reached up and put my hand on his face. “It’s your face,” I said.

“Yes. Whose did you think it would be?”

The words came from nowhere. “My father’s.”

We stared at each other. Then I pulled my hand away. “Justin, can we go? I want to get away from here.” “Yes. Of course.”

I didn’t feel too much like talking, so we just rode along. I tried to figure out what had happened to me, but every time I thought about it I started getting upset again, so I didn’t think about anything.

When we got back to his house I said, “I suppose I ought to go down to the village beach for the rest of the day. Today being Sunday, I mean.”

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“Do you want to go?”

“No.”

“Then don’t.”

When we were back in the kitchen he said, “Sit down.”

I did. He filled two bowls with something from a large pot on the stove and brought them to the table. “Start,” he said putting down a big spoon. Then he brought a dark loaf on a board, cut two slices, handed me one, and sat down.

The soup was hot and very good, thick, with meat and vegetables and something that looked—but didn’t taste— like rice. “Is this rice?” I asked.

“No, barley.”

“Did you make it? The soup?”

“Yes.”

“Do you like cooking?”

“Not particularly. But I don’t have much choice.”

I thought of Barry. “You could have a housekeeper.” “I prefer to cook.”

“This is good,” I said, cleaning up the bowl.

“Want some more?”

“Yes. What’s in it?”

He got up and went to the stove. “Everything.’’ He came back and put the refilled bowl in front of me. “But you start with a beef bone. If Mickey has been chewing on it a *eek or so it’s even better. More flavor.”

I was on the point of swallowing a spoonful. “You’re kidding.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Funny man. You crack me up.”

He smiled.

After I was through, Justin said, “You can go upstairs and lie down if you want to. Might do you good to sleep.” “I’d rather lie on the rock. Could we?”

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“Sure.”

So we drove down. I lay on the rock in the sun and went to sleep. When I woke up we swam. We got back onto the rock a while later and lay there. All this time Justin hadn’t said anything about what happened. I sort of knew he wouldn’t. I lay there and thought about that. If it were Mother or The Hairball or Meg’s father or any of the teachers at school or even Meg, they’d be all over me. What happened? Why? Tell me all about it. Are you sure you feel all right . . . ?