Authors: Peter Straub
While Sherman and Howie Stern and Morris Fielding and I sat on the bench, our junior-varsity team lost by three touchdowns. We had managed only a single field goal. The varsity team ran out to cheers and school yells — most of the parents had flasks — and cheerleaders from anearby girls' school flounced and cartwheeled and spelled out the school's name. The Larch School made two touchdowns in the first half, one more in the second. We made none. Ridpath had committed an elementary error and worn us out.
22
I saw something anomalous during the varsity game. Most of our JV team was seated in the last row of the stands, and from there we could look across the field to the grassy rise on its opposite side. When the visitors' lot outside Laker Broome's private entrance had filled, the parents had driven past it over the grass and parked their cars all along the yellow-green length of lawn which we often took as our way down to the Junior School for lunch. The snouts of Buicks and Lincolns and a few MG's pointed across and above the field toward the stands. Toward the end of the first half of the varsity game, I looked up at the row of grilles and bumpers facing us from the rise and saw a man standing between two of the cars.
He did not look like a Carson School parent. No chinos, no lamb's-wool Paul Stuart sweater, no Weejuns. The man was dressed in a long belted raincoat and an old-fashioned brown fedora hat pulled down low on his forehead. His hands were deep in his pockets. At first he reminded me of Sheldon Leonard in the television series
Foreign Intrigue —
inthe fifties, way out there in the dry West, belted trench coats carried a whiff of glamour; they stood for spies, travel, Europe. Nothing about this exotic character suggested an interest in prep-school athletics.
Then I saw Del Nightingale's reaction to the man. Del was sitting beside Tom Flanagan three rows beneath me, and he looked up toward the rise a moment after I did. The effect on Del of the man dressed like Sheldon Leonard was startling: he froze like a bird before a snake, and I was sure that if you touched him you'd feel him quiver. He uttered a wordless noise — almost like an electronic beep. It was purely the sound of astonishment.
Skeleton Ridpath, seated on the bench in uniform, alsoappeared to be affected by the man's appearance on the rise. I thought he nearly fell off the bench. The man retreated backward between the cars and disappeared. Skeleton turned around and glared back at the stands. His head looked fleshless, the size of a grape above his shoulderpads.
23
'Sometimes I'm Happy'
Streamers hung from the auditorium ceiling, tied up around the dim colored spots; in place of the metal chairs was a vast — empty space for dancing, ringed by tables covered by dark blue cloths. At ten minutes to eight the only people in the room were the freshman waiters and the chaperons, Mr. and Mrs. Robbin. Mr. Robbin taught physics and chemistry, and was slight and gray-haired, with thick inquisitive glasses. His wife was taller than he, and her own hair was screwed up into a bun. The Robbins were seated together along the outside wall and looked dated and 'scientific,' like Dr. and Madame Curie; flecks of brilliant yellow and cadmium blue, then of orange and red, revolved over them, cast by the color wheel hung in the middle distance.
When the Robbins had entered, they had nodded vaguely to us — he taught only upperclassmen. Then Mr. Robbin had turned his radium-seeking gaze on Del and said, 'You're Nightingale, aren't you? New boy? Getting on all right?' Gossip had informed all of the school that Del Nightingale was a fabulously wealthy orphan, one of whose legal guardians was a bank he in fact owned. Robbin sat beside his wife and held up an arm; With the other hand he indicated his wrist watch. 'Satellite tonight. Five to ten. An artificial star. A miracle.'
Besides Tom, Del, and myself, the waiters were Bobby Hollingsworth, Tom Pinfold — still grouchy about the game — and Morris Fielding. Morris, who played piano, had volunteered on the chance that the band might be worth hearing.
Shortly after eight the musicians arrived, carrying their instrument cases. Several carloads of sophomores and juniors followed them into the auditorium. The ones with dates went for paper cups of punch, the ones without leaned against the wall and watched the musicians setting up on the cavernous stage.
Dwarfed on the immense apron of the stage, the eleven men in the band sat down in their chairs and began riffling through sheet music. Morris and I had great hopes for one of the tenor saxophone players, who wore dark glasses. They put their horns in their mouths and began to play 'There's a Small Hotel.'
Hollis Wax and a prefect named Paul Derringer came in with their dates just after eight-thirty; seeing that no one had yet begun to dance, they moved to the senior tables and began looking around for our white coats. 'This is going to be a great homecoming dance,' Wax said to his date as I approached. 'After a fiasco like today.' Then to me: 'Gin and tonic. For all of us.' He tilted his head to look at the band. 'Look at those guys. Bunch of oompah shoe salesmen. One of 'em's blind.' I went off to get the punch. 'Bring us the Everly Brothers too, while you're up,' Wax called out.
Within the next twenty minutes most of the seniors arrived, dressed as their fathers had been at the game; at most of the dances, the school relaxed its rule about ties and jackets. The first brave couples went out into the big empty space and began to dance. Mr. and Mrs. Robbin got up wearily from their table and meandered around the dance floor. Bobby Hollingsworth and I made up another batch of punch by pouring grape juice, sparkling water, and root beer into a cut-glass bowl. The band began on 'Polka Dots and Moonbeams,' and Mr. Robbin's head twisted back and forth as he computed distances between the couples nearest him. Like Dave Brick, he generally wore a slide rule slung from his belt, and he looked as though he missed it. The tenor player in the sunglasses stood up to solo, and proved that he had been worth waiting for. Bobby Hollingsworth turned smiling to me as we ladled out the terrible punch, and nodded toward Terry Peters, who was standing near one of the large doors on the outside wall. Beside him was a stunning girl. Peters was unscrewing the cap off a silvery flask and making sure that Mr. Robbin was looking the other way. He poured from the flask into his date's cup and his own.
Morris Fielding rushed up to me carrying a tray and said, 'Six cups. Isn't he great? He really blows! Who do you think influenced him, Bill Perkins or Zoot Sims?'
Just as Morris was leaving with his six cups of punch, Terry Peters wheeled his date out the door, moving so quickly that almost no one saw him go. Bobby Holingsworth started laughing, and then abruptly stopped. I too stopped what I was doing. Skeleton Ridpath, in a black sweater and black trousers, slipped in through the closing door and eased it shut behind him. His awful fleshless face was exalted. He crept along behind the tables, going toward the stage. Our tenor player was emoting on the chord changes of 'Sometimes I'm Happy,' but I barely heard him. I watched Skeleton lift a cup of punch from an unattended table and move closer to Del Nightingale, finally drawing near enough to reach out and touch his shoulder. Instead he poured the awful stuff down Del's collar.
Del jumped and uttered a noise like the squeal of a month-old puppy. He whirled around and saw Skeleton before him and promptly backed into a table. 'Gee, I'm sorry, Florence,' Skeleton said, showing the palms of his hands in a false gesture of sympathy. I could barely hear his words, but I took in straight and clear the taunting mock-humility in which they were encased. The two boys, the small one in the white jacket and the one like a black worm, circled around, each walking backward. Only Bobby Hollingsworth and I saw this, apart from two or three amused seniors at a nearby table. When Skeleton and Del had circled completely around, Skeleton opened his mouth and I saw his lips move:
Catch you later, hey, Florence?
Del started backpedaling away, butted up against the same table, then turned his back on Ridpath and went for the side door into the hallway. Skeleton slumped into one of the camp chairs near the steps. He ran a bony hand over his face and grinned up at nothing in particular. On his face was still that look of abstract, unearthly good cheer.
When the band took an intermission I watched Skeleton climb up the steps and disappear behind the instrument stands.
Mr. Robbin kept checking his watch after the band's return, and when he was satisfied the satellite was visible, he stood, cupped his hands to his mouth, and said, 'Anybody wants to see a miracle, come out now.' His wife dutifully stood up beside him, but no one else paid any attention. He shouted, 'Come on! This is more important than dancing.' Finally he waved the band to a sputtering halt. 'You guys too,' he said. 'Take a break. Get some fresh air.'
'Shit, man,' said the bass player, inspiring some laughter from the students on the dance floor. Two of the trumpet players immediately plugged cigarettes into their mouths. Most of the other musicians shrugged and set down their horns.
24
Tom Said Later
When the rest of the school and the band filed out into the cold air — Tom said later — Skeleton stole away from whatever he had been doing at the back of the stage and took a chair fifteen feet from the hall door, to one side of the refectory table. He was leaning back smiling at them when Tom and Del returned from the bathroom. 'Cleaned up now?' he asked. 'Must have been pretty uncomfortable, all that crap going down your shirt.'
'Leave him alone,' Tom said. Both boys skirted Ridpath and went to the far side of the long table.
'Shut up, stupid. You think I'm talking to you?' Ridpath twisted his chair so that he was looking directly at them again. A few musicians smoked on an otherwise empty stage; a few couples bent toward each other at the far end of the auditorium. 'You're afraid of me, aren't you, Florence?'
The question was devastatingly simple.
'Yes,' Del answered.
'Yes, what?'
'Yes, Mr. Ridpath.'
'Yeah. That's good. Because you'll do anything I tell you to, just the way you're supposed to. I get sick looking at you, you know that. You look like a little
bug,
Florence, a shitty little
cockroach.
. . . ' Ridpath stood up, and Tom saw flecks of white at the edges of his mouth. He had somehow strolled up to the front of the table without their seeing him move: he threw out a stabbing punch, and Del jumped backward to avoid it.
Tom opened his mouth, and Skeleton whispered fiercely: 'Keep out of this, Flanagan, or I'll tear you apart.' He turned his shining gaze toward Del again.
'You saw him too.'
Del shook his head.
'I know you did. I saw you. Who is he?
Come on, runt.
Who is he? He wants me to do something, doesn't he?'