Walking toward his car at the parking space nearest the entrance, the choice space in the lot that no one else dared occupy, Archie sought the surge of satisfaction that usually filled him when he contemplated assignments.
The wind came up, trembling the limbs of trees, rattling a shutter on the residence. Archie was suddenly elated, knew he was apart from other people. It was a dark and beautiful secret he shared with no one.
Halting near his car, he pivoted, lifted his face to the rising wind, and whispered: "I am Archie." Heard his voice withering away in the darkness. No response, no echo. Which was what he wanted: to be alone, separate from the others, untouchable except by the knowing hands and mouths of the girls at Miss Jerome's.
"Too far."
"No it isn't."
"Yes it is."
"Just once. Just this once."
"Once won't be enough."
"Yes it will."
"No it won't. It never is."
It was a game they played, a delicious delightful game, that made every nerve end and something else stand up at attention. A cat-and-mouse game. An inch-here-and-inch-there game. Give a little, take a little. Squeeze here and caress there. A daring, terrific game that never moved beyond a certain agonizing point which, crazy, only made him love Laurie Gundarson more and more each time they played.
The game had become a ritual. They would drive to the Chasm and park in their favorite spot, an apron of land jutting out from the hillside. The lights of Monument winked below them like neon fireflies. Obie ignored the lights, Monument, Trinity, the Vigils, as he immersed himself in the marvel of Laurie's presence here in the car, in his life.
As he kissed her she moaned softly, low, husky, a slight tremor of her body betraying her own horniness. No, not horniness. He didn't want to think of her in those terms. She was more than a body to him, more than a girl to fondle and caress. Even this game was more than a game: it was a ritual in which they expressed their love, their desire for each other, the sweet, aching longing. But Laurie would let them go only so far. So far and no further. And he always complied. He complied because he had to proceed cautiously with Laurie, never knowing when she might turn away for good. Because of Trinity, for one thing.
The night they first met, at a dance, instantly attracted to each other, coming together beautifully in a slow number, she had stiffened and drawn away when she had learned he was a student at Trinity.
"What's the matter?" he had asked.
"That place is creepy," she said, wrinkling her nose.
"All schools are creepy," he retorted, trying to pull her against him again.
"I always hear weird things about it," she said, against the music, resisting his body.
"Rumors. Don't judge me by my school." He felt as though he was betraying Trinity but realized this girl in his arms was suddenly more important than Trinity. "Judge me by what I am."
"What are you?" she asked, looking directly into his eyes.
"One of the good guys," Obie said.
And she smiled.
But Trinity always stood between them. More than Trinity, of course: the Vigils. Actually they seldom spoke of the school, continually skirting the subject, which often left gaps in their conversations. As a result, Obie was constantly on his guard with Laurie, fearful of losing her, of doing anything to make her draw away and grow distant as she had that first night on the dance floor.
She was not distant from him now, in the car, close to him in this delicious game, responding, throbbing until, breathless, she drew back.
"Obie, please. ."
"One more minute," he whispered.
"It's for your own good," she said, but he could hear the huskiness in her voice that always betrayed her own desire.
"Let me count to sixty."
As he spoke he squeezed tenderly and delicately, his thumb and index finger moving as if he were playing some precious instrument.
After a few moments she put on the brakes again, wrenched her mouth from his, pulled away. "Too much, and too fast," she said. Strangely enough, he was relieved. Obie had always been terrified of going all the way. He had a feeling that he would somehow fail at the last minute, botch it all up, and leave himself humiliated in her eyes. He couldn't risk that. Thus, despite his passionate protests, he was grateful for Laurie's caution, the limits she had drawn.
Holding her tenderly, he whispered: "I love you. . " She cupped his cheek in her hand, an endearing gesture that almost brought tears to his eyes.
A sudden slash of headlights illuminated the interior of the car. Instinctively Obie and Laurie ducked their heads. As the favorite spot in town for parkers — fellows and girls making out, caressing, or maybe just shyly talking — the Chasm was also a target for bushwhackers, wise guys who got their lacks out of driving into the area with swiveling spotlights and squealing tires, scaring hell out of everybody. Obie and Laurie clutched each other as the intruding car swept past, the spotlights spraying the air with brilliance. The only compensation was that Laurie was close to him again, her warm and puking body melting into his. Darkness enveloped them completely as the car roared away and his mouth sought hers. His hand also moved in the dark, feeling the soft flesh he loved.
The delicious game again.
"Now, Obie. ." Warningly.
"Once more."
"Obie. ."
"Please. A ten count."
"Obie."
God, how he loved her. Wanted her. Needed her.
"No," she said, finality in her voice, removing his hand in a swift, impatient motion.
It was at moments like this that doubts riddled him. Did she really love him? Was she really doing this for his own good? Theirs had been a whirlwind romance, four weeks of movies and burgers at McDonald's and these sweet tortures here at the Chasm. But he realized he knew very little about Laurie Gundarson. Had never met her mother and father, few of her friends. As if he was a secret part of her life. Plenty of time later for introductions, she'd said. Or was she afraid to bring him into her life? Obie drew comfort by telling himself that she wanted him exclusively for her own.
He watched lovingly as she tucked in her blouse, patted her hair. Thank God for Laurie. She balanced the lousy things in his life, like his visit to Bay Bannister this afternoon. Watching Ray's face collapse like a folded tent in the wind when Obie had told him about the role he must play in Archie's new assignment.
"It's getting late," Laurie said, hands folded in her lap.
"I know," he said, resigned.
She could be ardent and loving one moment, prim and practical the next.
He started the car, wishing they could drive away together and keep going, never stopping, away from Monument and Trinity, Archie Costello and the Vigils.
Carter hit the wall with his fist. Bare-knuckled, unprotected by the nineteen-ounce glove he wore in the boxing ring. The impact reverberated throughout his body like an earthquake, his head snapping a bit as his fist crashed against the plaster wall. The pain, however, was sweet and fulfilling. The action had responded to Carter's need to strike out At something, someone. Until recently Carter had drifted with the Vigils, letting things happen, indifferent, because he'd had his boxing and football. There had been a time, in fact, when he had been amused by Archie's assignments. But no more. He knew that he would never forgive Archie for the chocolate assignment, the result of which had been Brother Leon's edict disbanding the boxing team. And now the Bishop's visit.
Carter looked around the gym, this place he'd always loved. The camaraderie of the boxing squad, the smell of the place — that sweet-sour aroma of liniment and sweat-soaked clothing — and the equipment, the big bag and all the beautiful paraphernalia of the sport. Gone now. Surveying the gym, the empty bleachers, the basketball nets hanging limply at either end, the absence of the boxing ring, dismantled and gone forever, Carter felt his anger returning, mixed with sadness. All gone because of Archie Costello.