Authors: Robert Cormier
The silence in the class was the kind Goober had never heard before. Stunned, eerie, suffocating.
“Santucci?” Leon called out, his voice strangled but struggling to be normal.
“Yes.”
Leon looked up, smiling at Santucci, blinking away the flush on his cheeks, a smile like the kind an undertaker fixes on the face of a corpse.
“Tessier?”
“Yes.”
“Williams?”
“Yes.”
Williams was the last. There was no one in this class with a name beginning with
X
,
Y
, or
Z
. Williams’
yes
lingered on the air. No one seemed to be looking at anyone else.
“You may pick up your chocolates in the gym, gentlemen,” Brother Leon said, his eyes bright—wet bright. “Those of you who are true sons of Trinity, that is. I pity anyone who is not.” That terrible smile remained on his face. “Class dismissed,” Leon called although the bell had not sounded.
LET’S SEE, he knew he could count on his Aunt Agnes and Mike Terasigni whose lawn he cut every week in the summer, and Father O’Toole at the rectory (although his mother would massacre him if she knew he had Father O’Toole on the list) and Mr. and Mrs. Thornton who weren’t Catholic but always willing to help a good cause, and, of course, Mrs. Mitchell the widow whose errands he did every Saturday morning and Henry Babineau the bachelor with his awful breath that almost knocked you down when you opened the door but who was pointed out by all the mothers in the neighborhood as the kindest, most gentlest of men …
John Sulkey liked to make out the lists whenever there was a sale at the school. Last year, as a junior, he had won first prize for selling the most chances in a school raffle—one hundred and twenty-five books, twelve tickets in each book—and received a special pin at the Awards Assembly at the end of the school year. The only honor
he had ever won—purple and gold (the school colors), shaped like a triangle, symbolizing the trinity. His parents had beamed with pride. He was lousy at sports and a squeaker at studies—just barely squeaking by—but, like his mother said, you did your best and God took care of the rest. Of course, it took planning. That’s why John made out his lists ahead of time. Sometimes he even visited his regular customers before a sale began to let them know what was coming. He liked nothing better than getting out there on the street and ringing the doorbells and seeing the money pile up, money he would turn in the next day at roll call, and how the Brother in the homeroom would smile down on him. He remembered with a glow when he went up to the stage for his award last year and how the Headmaster had talked about Service To The School, and how “John Sulkey exemplified these special attributes” (the exact words which still echoed in John’s mind, especially when he saw those undistinguished rows of
C
’s and
D
’s on his report card every term). Anyway. Another sale. Chocolates. Double last year’s price but John was confident. Brother Leon had promised to put up a special honor roll on the bulletin board in the main first-floor corridor for those who made their quota or exceeded it. A quota of fifty boxes. Higher than ever before, which made John happy. It would be harder for the other guys to
meet the quota—already they were groaning and moaning—but John was supremely confident. In fact, when Brother Leon had told them about the special honor roll, John Sulkey could have sworn he was looking directly at him—as if Brother Leon was counting personally on him to set a good example.
So, let’s see, the new housing development on Maple Terrace. Maybe he should make a special campaign in that neighborhood this year. There were nine or ten new homes there. But first of all, the old faithfuls, the people who had become regular customers: Mrs. Swanson who sometimes smelled of liquor but was always eager to buy anything although she kept him talking too long, rambling on about people John Sulkey didn’t even know; and good ole reliable Uncle Louie who was always simonizing his car although simonizing cars seemed part of the Dark Ages these days; and then the Capolettis at the end of the street who always invited him in for something to eat, cold pizza that John wasn’t exactly crazy about and the smell of garlic that almost knocked you down but you had to make sacrifices, big and small, for the sake of Service To The School …
“Adamo?”
“Four.”
“Beauvais?”
“One.”
Brother Leon paused and looked up.
“Beauvais, Beauvais. You can do better than that. Only one? Why, last year you set a record for the number of boxes sold in a week.”
“I’m a slow starter,” Beauvais said. He was a good-natured kid, not exactly a whiz in his studies but likeable, without an enemy in the world. “Check me next week,” he said.
The class laughed and the Brother joined in the laughter. The Goober laughed, too, grateful for the small relaxation of tension. He found that in recent days the kids in class had a tendency to laugh at things that weren’t really funny, simply because they seemed to be looking for something to divert them for a few moments, to prolong the roll call, prolong it until the
R
’s were reached. Everyone knew what would happen when Renault’s name came up. It was as if by laughing they could ignore the situation.
“Fontaine?”
“Ten!”
A burst of applause led by Brother Leon himself.
“Wonderful, Fontaine. True spirit, a wonderful display of spirit.”
Goober found it hard to resist looking at Jerry. His friend sat stiff and tense, his knuckles white. This was the fourth day of the sale and Jerry still called out
no
in the morning, staring straight
ahead, rigid, determined. Forgetting his own troubles for a moment, Goober had tried approaching Jerry as they left the field after practice the day before. But Jerry pulled away. “Let me alone, Goob,” he said. “I know what you want to ask—but don’t.”
“Parmentier?”
“Six.”
And then the gathering of tension. Jerry was next. Goober heard a weird sound, almost as if the class had sucked in its breath all at once.
“Renault?”
“No.”
Pause. You’d think Brother Leon would have gotten used to the situation by now, that he’d skip quickly over Renault’s name. But each day, the teacher’s voice sang out with hope and each day the negative response was given.
“Santucci?”
“Three.”
The Goober exhaled. So did the rest of the class. Strictly by accident, Goober happened to look up as Brother Leon marked down Santucci’s report. He saw Leon’s hand trembling. He had a terrible feeling of doom about to descend on all of them.
The short fat legs of Tubs Casper carried him through the neighborhood in what for him was record time. He’d have made better time if one of his bicycle tires wasn’t flat, not only flat but definitely
beyond repair and he didn’t have money to buy a new tire. In fact, it was a desperate need for money that sent Tubs scurrying around town like a madman, from one house to another, lugging the chocolates, knocking at doors and ringing doorbells. He also had to do it furtively, afraid that his father or mother might see him. Small chance his father would come across him—he was at work at the plastic shop. But his mother was another thing altogether. She was a nut about the car, like his father said, and couldn’t bear to stay home and was always driving around.
Tubs’ left arm began to ache from the weight of the chocolates and he shifted his burden to his other arm, taking a moment to pat the reassuring bulge of his wallet. He had already sold three boxes—six dollars—but that wasn’t enough, of course. He was still desperate. He needed a hell of a lot more by tonight and nobody but nobody had bought any chocolates at the last six houses he’d visited. He had saved every cent he could from his allowance and had even sneaked a folded and greasy dollar bill from his father’s pocket last night when he arrived home, half-drunk and wobbly. He hated doing that—stealing from his own father. He vowed to return the money to him as soon as possible. When would that be? Tubs didn’t know. Money, money, money had become the constant need of his life,
money and his love for Rita. His allowance barely made it possible for him to take her to the movies and for a coke afterward. Two-fifty each for the movies, fifty cents for two cokes. And his parents hated her for some reason. He had to sneak out to meet her. He had to make phone calls from Ossie Baker’s house. She’s too old for you, his mother said, when actually Tubs himself was six months older. All right, she
looks
old, his mother said. What his mother should have said was, she looks beautiful. She was so beautiful that she made Tubs all shaky inside, like an earthquake going on. At night in bed, he could have one without even touching himself, just thinking of her. And now her birthday was tomorrow and he had to buy her the present she wanted, the bracelet she’d seen in the window of Black’s downtown, that terrible and beautiful bracelet all sparkles and radiance, terrible because of the price tag: $18.95 plus tax.
“Hon,”
—she never called him Tubs—“that’s what I want most in all the world.” Jesus—$18.95 plus the 3 per cent sales tax which Tubs figured out would make a grand total of $19.52, the sales tax amounting to fifty-seven cents. He knew that he didn’t have to buy her the bracelet.
She was a sweet girl who loved him for himself alone. She walked along the sidewalk with him, her breast brushing his arm, setting him on fire. The first time she rubbed against him he
thought it was an accident and he pulled away, apologetic, leaving a space between them. Then she brushed against him again—that was the night he’d bought her the earrings—and he knew it wasn’t an accident. He’d felt himself hardening and was suddenly ashamed and embarrassed and deliriously happy all at the same time. Him—Tubs Casper, forty pounds overweight which his father never let him forget. Him—with this beautiful girl’s breast pushed against him, not beautiful the way his mother thought a girl was beautiful but beautiful in a ripe wild way, faded blue jeans hugging her hips, those beautiful breasts bouncing under her jersey. She was only fourteen and he was barely fifteen but they were in love, love dammit, and it was only money that kept them apart, money to take the bus to her house because she lived on the other side of town and they’d made plans to meet tomorrow, her birthday, at Monument Park, a picnic sort of, she’d bring the sandwiches and he’d bring the bracelet—he knew the delights that awaited him but he also knew deep down inside that the bracelet was more important than anything else …
All of which rushed him along now, out of breath and out of shape, trying to raise money that he knew dimly would lead him eventually only to trouble. Where would he raise enough money to pay it all back when the returns were
due at school? But what the hell—he’d worry about it later. Right now he needed to raise the money and Rita loved him—tomorrow she’d probably let him get under her sweater.
He rang the doorbell of a rich-looking house on Sterns Avenue and prepared his most innocent and sweetest smile for whoever opened the door.
The woman’s hair was damp and askew, and a little kid, maybe two or three years old, was tugging at her skirt. “Chocolates?” she asked, laughing bitterly as if Paul Consalvo had suggested the most absurd thing in the world. “You want me to buy chocolates?”
The baby, wearing a soggy-looking droopy diaper, was calling, “Mommy … mommy …” And another kid was howling somewhere in the apartment.
“It’s for a good cause,” Paul said. “Trinity School!”
Paul’s nose wrinkled at the smell of pee.
“Jesus,” the woman said. “Chocolates!”
“Mommee, mommee …” the kid squalled.
Paul felt sorry for older people, stuck in their houses and tenements with kids to take care of and housework to do. He thought of his own parents and their useless lives—his father collapsing into his nap every night after supper and his mother looking tired and dragged-out all the
time. What the hell were they living for? He couldn’t wait to get out of the house. “Where’re you going all the time?” his mother asked as he fled the place. How could he tell her that he hated the house, that his mother and father were dead and didn’t know it, that if it wasn’t for television the place would be like a tomb. He couldn’t say that because he really loved them and if the house caught fire in the middle of the night he’d rescue them, he’d be willing to sacrifice his own life for them. But, jeez, it was so boring, so deadly at home—what did they have to live for? They were too old for sex even, although Paul turned away from the thought. He couldn’t believe that his mother and father ever actually …
“Sorry,” the woman said, shutting the door in his face, still shaking her head in wonder at his sales pitch.
Paul stood in the doorway, wondering what to do. He’d had rotten luck this afternoon, hadn’t sold a single box. He hated selling them anyway, although it gave him an excuse to get out of the house. But he couldn’t really put his heart in it. He was just going through the motions.
Outside the apartment house, Paul considered his choices: pressing on with the sale despite his luck today or going home. He crossed the street and rang the doorbell of another apartment building. In an apartment house, you could
knock off five or six families at one time even though the places all seemed to smell of pee.
Brother Leon had “volunteered” Brian Cochran for the position of Treasurer of the Chocolate Sale. Which meant that he’d looked around the classroom, pinned those watery eyes on Brian, pointed his finger and,
voilà
, as Brother Aimé said in French class, Brian was treasurer. He hated the job because he lived in fear of Brother Leon. You never knew about Leon. Brian was a senior and he’d had Leon as either a classroom teacher or as homeroom supervisor for four years and he was still uncomfortable in his presence. The teacher was unpredictable and yet predictable at the same time, which reasoning confused Brian because he wasn’t exactly a hotshot in the psychology department. It was this: you knew that Leon would always do the unexpected—wasn’t that being both predictable and unpredictable? He loved to toss surprise exams at a class—and he also could suddenly be the nice guy, not giving a test for weeks or giving a test and then throwing away the results. Or concocting a pass-fail test—he was famous for that type—where he threaded together questions that could throw a guy for a loss, with what seemed like a million possible answers. He was also quite a man with the pointer although he usually confined that kind of stuff to freshmen. If he ever
pulled the pointer antics with, say, somebody like Carter, there’d be hell to pay. But not everybody was John Carter, president of The Vigils, All-Star Guard on the football team, and president of the Boxing Club. How Brian Cochran would love to be like John Carter, with muscles instead of glasses, quick with boxing gloves instead of figures.