Beyond the Chocolate War

Part Four

"I have a confession to make. A confession of guilt," Brother Leon said, addressing the final assembly of the year at Trinity High School.

"My guilt is my involvement in the recent tragic death of a Trinity student, David Caroni.

"You have heard the rumors, I trust.

"And have read accounts in the newspaper.

"I have called this extraordinary assembly in the last days of the school year to set the record straight because of what Trinity is — a school of both academic and athletic splendor, a place of honor.

"We have many traditions here at Trinity.

"And a search for truth is one of them. We search for truth in our classrooms, in our informal discussions, in our daily lives.

"Thus, we must admit and face the truth about David Caroni."

Henry Malloran had brought his lunch today because he was tired of cafeteria food. Not tired as in sleepy, exhausted, but tired as in fed up, disgusted. Everything tasted the same in the cafeteria and the taste was rotten. His lunchbag sat on his lap now because Brother Leon had called this meeting before classes began and he hadn't had time to put it in his locker. Henry let Leon's words roll over him. He had been shocked at David Caroni's death even though he had barely known the kid. But death at an early age was shocking, suicide even worse. He wished Brother Leon would shut up about it. What the hell did he know about how a kid felt, anyway?

"The truth is that David Caroni performed that most tragic of acts — the taking of his own life. An act such as this always touches off rumors, conjectures. Even our local newspaper, so supportive of educational endeavors, could not resist bold headlines.

"We must face those headlines as we must face the truth at all times.

" 'Student Kills Self After Attack on Headmaster.'

"Yes, David Caroni took his own life and, yes, he did attack the Headmaster of Trinity.

"Another headline:

" 'Suicide Note Puzzling.'

"We may never know the reason for David Caroni's tragic act. The reason lies somewhere in the note he left behind, a note that was a reflection of his troubled mind. I know that some of you have been asked about the note, his strange mention of a letter or letters. No one seems to know what this poor tortured boy meant.

"His visit to the residence on his final day of life has been a shock, I know, to all of you here at Trinity. And a mystery as well. It is known that troubled persons often turn their anger against those who try to help. Investigators have been thorough in their search for the truth. They have weighed all the evidence. They have interviewed faculty and staff members here at Trinity and the students who knew him best, although it is true that this sensitive boy did not have many close friends."

Henry Malloran's mother was a great cook, very inventive, and although some of her new concoctions failed — like cucumber soup, for instance — she was never discouraged. Her sandwiches, too, were fancy. Like the two tuna fish salad sandwiches she'd made this morning: tuna fish and Miracle Whip and bits of celery, a dousing of garlic salt, and some herbal kind of stuff, dill or something. Plus an apple for fruit and a tomato, which she said was also a fruit, which Henry hadn't known. And chocolate chip cookies for dessert. He was getting hungry just thinking about it and wondered if he could sneak a cookie as Leon rattled on about the note and everything that had happened, although Leon was probably one of the people who had made David Caroni's life miserable, like he made everything at Trinity miserable. Henry probed around in the bag for the cookies, found them, carefully slid one out of its plastic wrapper, and prepared to slip it into his mouth.

"The verdict of the investigation was: No one at Trinity is implicated in David Caroni's death. His attack upon your Headmaster was declared unprovoked and clearly without motive.

"And yet I am guilty.

"Of ignorance. Ignorance concerning a student in my school who went through his classes troubled and unhappy, in need of attention and care.

"But you, also, are guilty.

"All of you.

"If I am guilty of ignorance, you are guilty of neglect. Of blindness. David Caroni was one of you, a student like you, an adolescent like you. He sat beside you in classes. He walked the corridors with you. He ate beside you in the cafeteria. He talked to you.

"And you did not listen.

"You did not see.

"You did not respond.

"The troubled person always sends out signals.

"But you did not acknowledge those signals.

"And for this you should be ashamed. You should hang your heads in shame."

Henry Malloran wondered what the hell Brother Leon meant when he said everybody was guilty. And should be ashamed. I'm not guilty, he thought, I didn't even know the kid. Never even said hello to him in my life. He was tired of Brother Leon, as tired of him as he was tired of cafeteria food. Why should Leon try to make everybody feel rotten all the time? You should hang your heads in shame. Henry Malloran let the anger course through his body and reached into his bag for another cookie, couldn't find it, his fingers touching the apple, the tomato. . Where the hell was the other cookie?

"But let us pause. Let kindness rule the day. Let us not dwell upon the terrible events of these past days. Let us pledge to go forward toward the future. Let us not forget the past but learn from it instead. Those who ignore history are doomed to repeat it.

"I have searched my heart and have sought forgiveness for my ignorance and found it.

"And I have looked into your eyes, as I am doing now, and I forgive you for your part in David Caroni's tragedy.

"We must go forward and make Trinity such a splendid educational facility that the honors we attain in the future will diminish this tragic act.

"Thus, remembering the past, let us go to our future.

"Not even the present counts, since our school term will end in a few days.

"The future counts. And it can be glorious for all of us here at Trinity.

"Let us now bow our heads and pray silently for the soul of David Caroni.

"And for ourselves.

"And the future."

The tomato hit Brother Leon on his left cheek, a ripe tomato that exploded in juicy fury, splattering his shirt and his hair and smearing his face with what looked like blood. Nobody said anything. Nobody moved. Nobody cheered or booed. Everybody sat there in a profound silence as Brother Leon, mouth agape, wiped the tomato from his face, still silent as he stalked from the stage, leaving an assembly hall full of students who sat stunned, silent for a few minutes, and then quietly filed out of the hall. Brother Leon never learned the culprit's name. He, in fact, never made an effort to do so. Nobody else ever mentioned the incident. But Henry Malloran was elected president of the senior class at the next day's election and nobody ran against him.

Bunting sat on the front steps of the school, basking in a late-spring breeze, conscious that he was sitting exactly where Archie Costello always held court. But Archie was gone now, with the rest of the seniors. And all the other students were waiting for the term to finally end.

Bunting sat there, waiting for something to happen.

Ten minutes later nothing had happened. The final school bells had rung and students had abandoned the place, without looking behind, without giving Bunting a glance. Ah, but wait till September, when they realized who Bunting was.

He hated to admit it, but he wished Cornacchio or Harley or someone would come along. He knew, however, that Cornacchio was definitely out of the picture. Ever since that night at the Chasm, Cornacchio had been avoiding him. Which was fine with Bunting. He himself felt guilty about that night, was grateful that there had been no repercussions. He had acted stupidly and Cornacchio was a reminder of that stupid act. So good-bye, Cornacchio. Harley was off brooding somewhere — Bunting had explained to him about Emile Janza. How Emile had to be second in command. Barley's lips had curled up, as if tasting something distasteful. "But I still need you, Harley. Someone smart, someone I can trust." Harley always responded to flattery, and Bunting was an expert at providing that flattery. Harley would sulk awhile but would come around.

The breeze turned a bit chilly. Only a few students lingered on the lawn, watching the last school bus lurching away. Bunting had decided to give it up, to abandon his lonesome vigil, when he saw Emile Janza approaching. He kept his face expressionless, his eyes vacant as Janza drew near. Emile was like a pebble in his shoe, a sliver in his flesh, a piece of dirt in his eye. And there was nothing he could do about it.

Janza stood below him, his squat figure almost at attention. This pleased Bunting and he nodded his hello, not speaking, playing it cool.

"We ought to have a meeting this summer," Emile said. "Me and you. To go over plans."

"Plans?"

"Right. I figure we should get organized. Like an army. I mean, Archie was too soft with his psychological crap. I think we have to use muscle. None of that subtle shit." He smacked his right fist into his left palm.

Bunting winced as if Janza's fist had sunk into his stomach. Yet he saw the logic of Janza's suggestion. It would be good to have muscle and brawn on his side.

"Then I think we ought to have some weapons," Janza said.

"Weapons?" Bunting asked, horrified but trying to stay cool.

"Oh, not guns. But, like, brass knuckles. And rubber clubs. You strap the club to your leg under your pants. They hardly leave a mark. And Mace. Mace is beautiful. Like chemical warfare. ."

Bunting shuddered inside. "I don't know, Janza. . " Had to treat Janza gingerly.

"Look, let me take care of all that. Training the guys, getting the weapons. You be the general. I'll carry out the orders. . "

General Bunting — it sounded faintly ridiculous. And yet Janza had a point. Bunting saw himself surrounded by loyal people, troops, all of them ready to follow orders.

"Another thing," Janza said. "I think we need a treasury."

"A treasury?" Janza was full of surprises. Maybe he wasn't as dumb as he looked, after all. But that also made him dangerous.

"Right. Have the guys pay, like, dues."

"Have the Vigils pay dues?"

"No. The Vigils collect the dues. The rest of the school pays them. All the students. They pay and we see that everything runs smooth and easy. Nobody gets hurt. And we build up a treasury. For ourselves. ."

Bunting was always scratching for money. Was always practically broke, his stupid allowance not enough to cover expenses, and he hated the thought of working part-time.

"And how about grass?" Janza said, really on a roll now. "I think we ought to do a little business in grass. Or pills. Archie Costello never allowed drugs, which was stupid. As long as we control the supply, we can have this place in our pockets."

Emile Janza studied Bunting as he talked, looking for the clues and seeing them. The way Bunting had at first looked horrified and then just reluctant and now his eyes bright, sizzling almost, with the plans Janza had been unfolding. Hell, you had to admire Archie. He had predicted exactly how Bunting would react to the suggestions. Janza was grateful to Archie for all these suggestions, although Archie said that Janza's thanks were unnecessary. They were a gift to Emile for service loyally rendered. Let's see, what else did Archie suggest?

"And Bunting. We ought to do something about the faculty."

"The faculty?" Bunting's voice was getting higher and higher every time he spoke, and Janza grinned.

"Yeah. To keep them distracted." Wonderful word: distracted. Archie's word but sounding natural on Janza's tongue. "Classroom disruption." More Archie words. "Show the faculty who's in charge. ."

Bunting drew up his knees, curled his arms around them, rested his chin in the space between his knees, needing time to think, to absorb Janza's suggestions. Wild suggestions, but they made sense. They opened all sorts of possibilities. The great part was that Janza seemed perfectly happy to be the good right arm. With Bunting in charge. King of the place. Yet he sensed that Janza would always represent a danger. He'd have to keep alert, on his toes. But then, Janza could always be eliminated. A loose stair rail, say, on the third floor.

"What do you think, Bunting? What do you think, O leader of us all?"

Bunting pretended to be deep in thought, letting Janza dangle a bit, not wanting to appear too eager, too ready to accept Janza's plans.

"We'll see," he said finally. "I've got some plans of my own, you know. But I think it will work out okay. . "

Janza grinned, amazed at the accuracy of Archie's predictions. You'll have a great year, Archie had said. Which Janza echoed now: "We're going to have a great year, Bunting."

Bunting nodded. Continued to stare into space. Not wanting to look at Janza now or anybody or anything. Staring into the future, next year, beyond. Him, Bunting, in command of the entire school. Stooges at his beck and call. An army at his disposal. No rules except those he made up. The boss. More than that. Like a dictator, for crissake.

Beautiful.