“I don’t know what I think, or what I want to do.”
“Write her a letter tonight and sleep on it. Pour it all out and see how much of it you believe in the morning. You know we have one thing in the Catholic Church that I’d like to hold on to. Confession. I stopped going when I came here, but I think it helps a lot of poor souls to go on living. They pour it all out once a week or once a month, and they come out of the box feeling that they have a new start. Absolve te, the man says, and for fifteen minutes it’s a new world. Till you bump up against a pretty ass in the trolley car, but then your impure thoughts and desires are on a new slate, not the old one. Very comforting, and I miss it.”
“You’re all a bunch of hypocrites.”
“I don’t doubt it for a second, but the purest of angels for fifteen minutes or so. Not a worry in the world, not the slightest concern. Will you write the letter, George? You may learn something about yourself.”
“What?”
“I don’t know. It’s you learning about you. You may find out that you love this girl much more deeply than you realized. I consider myself a very wise fellow, but it’s my own belly-button that fascinates me the most. By the way, Chatsworth’s in trouble. He was looking for you this afternoon, and I told him you were away for the day.”
“A woman?”
“A girl in New Brunswick. He told her he was from Rutgers but her old man tracked him down to here. She’s knocked up. They want a thousand dollars, and the most Chat could raise was around four hundred. He has till tomorrow night to raise the full amount.”
“Well, let’s go over and see him. I can let him have the money.”
“I gave him two hundred, that was all I had. I’ll win it back. Do you want to go over now?”
“Sure.”
“He wants to get the money in secrecy. There were only a few he wanted to ask. You can write a cheque for six or seven hundred, and get it cashed?”
“Yes. Or more, if necessary.”
“Well, then let’s go over and see Chat. Is it cold out?”
“It’s gotten colder. You’ll need a coat. How long has he been screwing this girl?”
“Since last fall, he told me.”
“I can go to the bank in the morning. Is Chat taking the full responsibility? How does he know he’s the one?”
“We talked about that. He said the father honestly didn’t want to make trouble. The girl wasn’t virtue itself. But she’s knocked up and the father’s a poor man and wants Chat to pay for the kid. He says he won’t blackmail Chat.”
“That’s what he says, but what’s he doing?”
“Well, he knows Chat’s graduating in June and he may never see Chat again. Oh, Chat takes the blame. He doesn’t deny anything. But there’ll be hell to pay in Chicago, and if the faculty finds out, Chat’s through here.”
“Yes. Well, get a wiggle on.”
“I’m ready.”
There was a light on in Chatsworth’s room. They went up the two flights and knocked on his door, but there was no answer.
“Fell asleep,” said O’Byrne. He opened the door gently. “No one here.”
“Wait a minute,” said George Lockwood. “The wardrobe.”
Both doors of the wardrobe were open, all the suits and coats that belonged in it were on chairs and on the cot. Ned O’Byrne and George Lockwood went in, and now they saw Anson Chatsworth. There was a noose of dirty clothesline about his neck and tied to the thick cross-bar of the wardrobe. He was wearing trousers and a shirt without a collar.
“Mother of God,” said O’Byrne.
“Jesus,” said George Lockwood. “How did he do it?”
“Cut him down, George,” said O’Byrne. He stood over the waste-basket and vomited.
“I haven’t got a knife. He’s dead, isn’t he?”
“Yes, he’s dead. That you can be sure of.” O’Byrne wiped his mouth with his handkerchief. “We can’t leave him like that.”
“Don’t we have to? For the police?”
“Ah, fuck the police. What a way to talk, in the presence of . . .” He did not finish the thought. “I want to untie him, but I can’t.” He suddenly was forced to vomit again. “George, I’ll go for the police, if you can stand to be alone.”
“You go, and I’ll wait in the hall.”
“You sure you don’t mind? I’ll do this again if I don’t get some fresh air.”
“Go on, Ned. I’ll stay out in the hall. You’re sure he’s dead?”
“I know he is. I saw one once before.” He departed, and George Lockwood stood in the hall to wait. Then quite slowly he began to cry, and he put his head on his arm and rested his arm against the wall and cried freely.
“Hey, Lockwood? Are you drunk?”
George Lockwood did not turn to face his questioner.
“George? What’s the matter?” the voice asked.
George Lockwood shook his head, and the unknown student put his hand on his shoulder. “George? Can I help you? What is it, old fellow? Don’t cry, George. Tell me what it is.”
“Chat,” said George Lockwood.
“What? Chat, did you say?”
“He’s dead. Don’t go in,” said George Lockwood.
“Chatsworth is dead? You mean he’s dead in there?”
George Lockwood stopped crying. “Oh, hello, Bender. Have you seen O’Byrne?”
“I saw him downstairs, he was in a hurry.”
“Yes. Chat hung himself. He’s dead. We found him.”
“Chatsworth? I saw him after supper. He’s dead? You mean he committed suicide?”
“Yes. Don’t go in, Benson. I mean Bender. I always get you mixed up with Benson, I’m sorry.”
“That’s all right, George. Come on down to my room and wait there. Do you want me to get you a glass of water?”
“No thanks. Yes! Will you get me a glass of water? Please? I didn’t know I was thirsty. I would like a glass of water. You don’t have any whiskey or anything like that, have you?”
“No, I don’t drink. At first I thought you were drunk, though.”
“I know.”
“I’ll get you the water and maybe you’ll feel better.”
“Thanks very much, Bender.”
Bender with his tumbler of water and O’Byrne with a constable arrived together.
“Are you all right, George?” said O’Byrne. “We sent for a doctor, too, but I know it’s no use.”
Students were now forming a group in the hall, some half dressed, some in nightshirts, some in bathrobes. They heard the constable say, “He’s dead, all right. Where’s the two boys that found him?”
“He wants you, George. You and O’Byrne,” said Bender.
The constable was trying to control his own agitation. “You’re both here at the college, ain’t you? I seen you before. What’s your names?”
“O’Byrne.”
“Lockwood.”
“Lockwood and O’Burns? The senior class?”
“Yes sir,” said George Lockwood. “We’re both seniors.”
“And this poor fellow’s name you say is Chatworth?”
“Chatsworth. Anson Chatsworth. He comes from Chicago, Illinois,” said George Lockwood.
“And the two of you come in and found him hanging here. What time was that about?”
“Less than an hour ago,” said George Lockwood.
“Less than an hour ago,” said the constable. He did not know what question to ask next. “Are you his roommates or—no, there’s only the one cot. You’re friends of his?”
“Yes sir,” said O’Byrne.
“Uh-huh. There was no sign of life when you seen him?”