Lurking and Costello. Leon had a trick of choosing certain words and pronouncing them so as to make them seem sinister, unsavory. As if Archie by lurking here was doing something illegal, dirty, shameful. And Costello. Since assuming the authority of Headmaster, Brother Leon called all students by their last names, kept a strict formality with them. He had never been the buddy-buddy type anyway; now he treated the students as if they were underlings, mere subjects in the kingdom of his royal highness, Leon the First.
Archie shrugged, didn't bother to answer Leon's Question; it didn't require an answer, in fact. To Leon, the question itself was important, not the answer. The question and how he asked it, with that faint smirk, the suggestive curl of his lips. But Archie knew Leon's methods — and Leon knew he knew — so Archie permitted himself a smile at Leon, a smile that told Leon exactly how he felt about it all. And then Archie decided to answer, seeing an opportunity to level his own shaft at Leon.
"Just checking the" premises," Archie said. "Some of the neighbors have been complaining about a child molester — wearing a white collar — lurking in the area."
A glitter in Leon's eyes, a quickening, like a sudden touch of cold sunlight on the surface of a lake. His face was expressionless, but Archie sensed a tension in the flesh of Leon's cheeks. He and Leon had always dueled this way, tossing veiled barbs at each other, in a game that wasn't quite a game.
Leon waved his right hand, almost limply, dismissing Archie's barb, showing that he recognized it for what it was, verbal retaliation.
"The campus has been quiet for some time," Leon said, his tone now more conversational, as if some prologue had ended and he could get on with the business at hand. "You have been holding them in check."
Archie knew who he meant by them.
"I must express my admiration, Costello. For you. Your methods. I know that your odd activities go on, but you have been discreet. And life has been kind, hasn't it?"
They had made a pact months ago, after the chocolates and immediately after Leon had assumed the Headmastership of Trinity. "Life at Trinity can be very pleasant, Costello, for both of us," Leon had said. "My desire is to continue the fine traditions of Trinity, to make it the best preparatory school in New England. And this takes faculty working together with the student body. Our dear retired Headmaster was a wonderful man but did not comprehend the ways of students, Costello. He was not vigilant." Vigilant. Leon had caressed the word with his tongue, his lips, his voice, giving it a special meaning, the word leaping into the air and hanging there. Archie had nodded. Knew Leon's meaning. "I, however, am vigilant. Will continue to be. I also know that boys must be allowed their games, their sports, must indulge their idiosyncrasies on occasion. This I understand and allow. But within limitations. Without obstructions to the lofty goals and purposes of Trinity. And its administration."
Words, of course. Bullshit. The administration of the school was under the strict control of Brother Leon. In fact, he had arranged a transfer for Brother Jacques, the only member of the faculty who had ever showed signs of independence — Jacques had objected to the events surrounding the chocolate skirmish last fall — and Jacques was no longer on the scene at Trinity. So much for Leon's pretensions. But even though Leon's words were bullshit, the meaning came through straight and true to Archie. He and Leon spoke the same language, not the verbal language of ordinary communication but the between-the-lines language of conspirators and plotters. What Leon meant: Play your tricks, Archie, carry out the assignments, let the Vigils have their fun. But keep your distance from me. Don't do anything to embarrass me as Headmaster of the school Otherwise. .
"Incidentally, Costello, I have some bad news."
Not so incidentally, Archie figured. He knew now the reason Brother Leon had sought him out, confronted him here on the campus as the sun began to droop. I have some bad news. He had never known Leon to bring good news.
"It's news from provincial headquarters. In Manchester, New Hampshire."
Get to the point, Brother Leon, and spare the geography.
"Brother Eugene — remember him?" Leon asked, guilelessly, innocently. But not so guileless, not so innocent.
Archie nodded, glad that he seldom perspired, whether under pressure or during heat waves, glad that beads of moisture on his forehead would not betray him.
"He is dead, Brother Eugene. He died yesterday in the infirmary at Manchester."
For a moment, in the shadows, Archie saw the soft, quizzical face of Brother Eugene superimposed on Leon's features, then shrugged it away.
"He never fully recovered," Leon said.
Archie knew what Leon wanted him to ask: Recovered from what? But Archie wouldn't give him the satisfaction. And, anyway, they both knew.
"The Order has lost a wonderful, sensitive teacher," Leon said. "Have you anything to say, Costello? Perhaps a tribute of your own? You had Brother Eugene in class, didn't you?"
"History," Archie said. "One semester."
"Room Nineteen?" Brother Leon asked, malice in his voice as he shifted his body suddenly so that the last flash of the sun's rays struck Archie's eyes, causing him to blink, to look away. Room Nineteen and its beautiful debris, a legend now at Trinity.
"I never had Brother Eugene in Room Nineteen," Archie said, holding his voice steady. "It was some other room in my freshman year." He squared off, changed position so that he could look Leon in the eye again.
Their gazes held for a moment, and it was Leon who broke the contact this time. Casting his eyes downward, he said: "We shall have a special memorial mass for Brother Eugene at assembly. But I think you should make a special visit to your church and offer up prayers for the repose of his soul."
Archie said nothing. He had not prayed for years. Went through the motions during the masses in assembly hall on special occasions. Attended mass with his parents when they insisted, and followed the rituals that pleased them. He didn't care whether he pleased them or not, but peace reigned in the house when he played the role of dutiful son.
"Have you nothing to say, Costello?" Leon said, anger showing through the words.
"Brother Eugene was a nice guy," Archie said. "I bleed him." Having to say something. He spoke the truth, really. There had been nothing personal in the Room Nineteen assignment. There was never anything personal in the assignments.
"I don't want to dwell on the past, Costello," Leon said. "But prayer is always good for the soul. Your own, for instance."
Archie remained silent, and Leon seemed willing to accept his silence as acceptance, because he sighed expansively, as if he had just done his good deed for the day and could go on with his usual routine. He glanced around the darkening campus, the buildings shrouded in silence, the white clapboards of the residence gleaming like dinosaur bones.
"I love this school, Costello," Leon said.
Like a criminal loves his crime, Archie thought. That was the secret of the world's agony, and the reason crime — and, yes, sin — would always prevail. Because the criminal, whether a rapist or a burglar, loves his crime. That's why rehabilitation was impossible. You had to get rid of the love, the passion, first. And that would never happen.
Leon looked at Archie again, seemed about to speak, and then changed his mind.
"Carry on, Costello," he said, and padded away, in those short mincing steps the guys imitated so easily and frequently.
Archie allowed himself a moment of loathing as he watched Leon disappearing into the gloom. What a fake he was. All that phony concern about Brother Eugene. Leon had done nothing about Room Nineteen, too worried about his own career. Archie had always been able to depend on that. And that's what had made him and Leon allies. Which always bothered Archie, being linked with someone like Brother Leon. Then he remembered a surprise that awaited Leon — the day of the Bishop's visit. And maybe some others.