Rain pounded the
roof as he lay wide awake in his bed. He
never slept much these days. He was
tired but he could not, for the life of him, close his eyes and fall asleep. The usual cause of these nightly cycles was a
stressful day followed by a pensive night, or perhaps two too many cups of
coffee that afternoon. But on this night
it was something different. He was
fascinated. Fascinated by something he
could not fully explain. Was it the rain
streaming down his windows? Or perhaps
the way the wind knocked the occasional branch against his dormitory? Was it these trivial things that he was
fascinated by? Yes and no. It was some sort of peculiar combination of
these terribly non-trivial things that caused Doak Reilly to sit upright in his
bed, audibly sigh and lay back down without the slightest intention on
sleeping.
When
he awoke the rain had subsided and his fascination has left him. He blindly stumbled down the hall to the
community shower like he did every other grey morning. He didn’t much like showering with other
people. He could always feel their
piercing eyes always judging, always attacking.
In fact, he didn’t much like how his body was put together. Arms too lanky, head too big, ears too
asymmetrical. He took off his boxer
shorts and quickly moved to a showerhead in the corner; moving hastily while
attempting to be nonchalant. After he
washed himself he timidly approached an empty mirror. He examined his appearance. Jet-black hair that was in need of a
trim. Bright green eyes about which he
told people he hated (yet secretly adored).
A long torso whose pale hue could light up the darkest of
corridors. After this not so cursory
examination he glanced at the large clock on the wall; he was late. He quickly threw on his camel hair coat, warm
winter gloves (the left of which had a growing hole) and his favorite Russian
hat, complete with flaps to cover his freezing, asymmetrical ears. He left Hayne Dormitory and quickly shuffled
through the snow to the most daunting building on campus. He entered through her grand maple doors and
arrived, as he usually did, late for class.
“EUROPEAN LITERATURE 151” he outlined on his textbook. It was tough today. He always tried
to pay attention but he would always lose the professor at some point during
the lecture. Dr. Sigmont gave him a
disapproving look as class was let out.
He knew what ‘ol Siggy was referring to.
But what could he do about it? He
always tried hard. After shuffling back
through the snow with what should of been a sigh of relief, (for Siggy’s class
was his last before the break) he walked to meet Abraham Longwell for
sandwiches and coffee. By the time he
had arrived at Bell’s Diner, Abe was already waiting for him. Abraham was a handsome boy who looked much
older than him though they were both just shy of their 20th
birthdays. This was probably due to the
fact that Abe had a rather strong chin, which usually sported some unshaven
scruffle that always disgusted him.
“Hell,
you look frozen solid,” Abe said as he unwrapped the scarf from around his
neck.
“And
I can tell that you haven’t shaved that dirt off your face,” he would’ve
replied had he had the backbone. “Goddam
glove has a hole in it, been giving me fits all morning.” The pair picked out a booth and sat down,
still shaking the cold off their shoulders.
“When
are you catching the train home?” Abe
asked as he surveyed the menu. A few
seconds passed.
“I
think I’ll have chicken salad,” Doak said almost matter-of-factly.
“Diddn’ya
hear what I just said? When are you
catching the train home?” Abe questioned for the second time, his blood
beginning to warm up.
“Oh. Sorry, I’ve had a dreadful morning. Sunday afternoon. I have to stay here over the weekend to talk
to my professors about my ‘lack-luster’ effort in class, whatever the hell that
means.” Abe could tell that he wasn’t in
the mood for talking. They sat in
silence and both sipped their coffees.
After a half hour or so they got up from their booths and left the diner
for the biting wind; a pristine, untouched chicken salad sandwich sat neatly on
one side of the table.
After
stepping into the cold he immediately regretted leaving the warmth of the
diner. He didn’t want to just sit not
talking, so he went into the cold and wasted time. The hole in his glove was constantly getting
larger from his incessant fiddling as he trudged through the snow. It was barely past eleven fifteen and he had
a couple of hours to kill before he needed to meet with his first professor,
Dr. Buice, about the problem that he swore he didn’t know a thing about. He sat on a bench for a while looking up at
the last of the leaves still clinging to a large oak tree in Brentwood
Commons. After fully exhausting this
time eater, as it were, he reached in his left hand coat pocket and pulled out
a pack of nearly crumpled cigarettes. He
wasn’t supposed to smoke (or so his doctor had said) and in fact, he didn’t
even like it. Nevertheless, he struck a
match and regrettably dragged on the last remaining Lucky Strike in the
pack. He was restless. It was now barely past noon and he had
nothing to look forward to but being scolded by Buice for that thing which he,
still, swore he knew nothing about. He
not so carefully tossed his cigarette on the ground and began the long, horrid
walk to the History building. Doak had
barely taken a few steps, when he looked back at the bench where he was
sitting. His Lucky Strike was still
slightly smoking on the ground, and though he knew it would only be a matter of
minutes until it was fully out, he walked back to the bench and used the heel
of his dark brown boot to put it out of its misery. He wasn’t sure why he walked all the way back
to do something which he knew would happen anyways. The last Lucky Strike was sure to burn out and
nothing would come of it, yet something inside him, inexplicable and seething,
made him turn on a dime and crush the last of his pack on the ground. He didn’t even question these actions
anymore. There would be times when he
would stop, both physically and mentally, and wonder aloud why he would go out
of his way to do the redundant. Today
was not one of those days though. He
didn’t question his inexplicable action, just finished smothering the Lucky
Strike and headed up the hill out of Brentwood Commons.
Doak
hated this office. The smell of smoke
clouded his thoughts and he couldn’t help but stare at the obviously forced
family portraits that were neatly stacked next to the bronze nameplate that
read “DONALD BUICE, Ph.D.”
“You
do know why you’re here, don’t you Mr. Reilly?”
Buice said in a more condescending tone than Doak was used to.
He
just sat there in silence. He wasn’t
sure if he nodded at the ominous figure or not.
“Hmm,
I see,” said Buice, with a grin starting to curl around his pale lips. “You, by some miracle of nature, go into Winter
Break with a B in my course. Though
right now, I am not very inclined to give you such a mark. Your constant tardiness and lack-lus...” Doak closed his ears when he could hear what
he knew was coming next out of Buice’s mouth.
He could tell that phrase that he hated was leaving Buice’s mouth like a
string of smoke smoothly comes from the lips of an aristocrat. “...in my class. If you do not show some improvement after the
break, you will not be pleased when you receive your final marks.”
Doak
nodded his head and fumbled over an apology that they both know he did not mean
as he quickly left the stuffy office that he had been too many times. He walked back down the large marble stairs
and headed as quickly as he could for the biting cold. A clock on the way outside the building left
him with disappointment. 12:57. He was
stuck in another awkward period between meetings with his professors. Too much time to just sit around, yet not
enough time to do something worthwhile.
He put his camel hair jacket back on and donned his Russian hat as he
welcomed the freezing wind.
He,
somehow, managed to kill off a full 38 minutes by merely walking around the
campus going from bench to bench, sitting for five minutes here, ten minutes
there. He found his way back to
Brentwood Commons where he had sat and smoked just a few hours earlier. He saw his fateful Lucky Strike on the ground
with a light layer of snow covering the butt.
The
next office he found himself in was not quite as stuffy as Buice’s, but no less
uncomfortable. He wasn’t sure what it
was about the dark wooden walls of Professor Robert Long’s office that made him
uncomfortable, but they did so nonetheless.
This conversation went much like the one in Old Man Buice’s office. A false apology here, a scolding glance
there, and a barrage of condescendence.
He left Long’s office and was glad as he finally had something to look
forward to. He went back into the cold
and walked quickly towards his dormitory.
He didn’t have another of these terrible meetings until tomorrow
afternoon, though he was not as worried about the interrogation tomorrow; being
as it was with the one professor he didn’t have a hatred for. In fact, he almost liked Dr. Collins.
He
braved the cold yet again with barely more than a glove. (The hole that was not much larger than a
penny at the beginning of a day had now turned into a half dollar sized window
that left his hand dry and cracking.)
Doak wasn’t sure what he would do for the remainder of the day, though
he was glad it was almost over. He was
seemingly counting down the hours until he caught the one-thirty train to
Hartford. He wasn’t sure if his parents
would be there waiting for him or if he’d have to go through the awkward
motions of a stuffy cab ride.
The
remainder of the night was a boring one.
He was on his way to get dinner with Abe and Johnny Stevens, and a
sudden revelation hit him like a strong winter gust. Even though Doak liked Abe, he was often
annoyed by him. A comment here, a snide
expression there. And while he wasn’t in
love with Abraham Longwell, he could not stand even the sight of Johnny Stvens.
Every fiber of his being bothered Doak
to the point of nausea. Stevens was a
short boy a year younger than Abraham and Doak,
And unlike the unusual dark wooden walls in Long’s office, Doak knew
exactly what bothered him about Stevens.
Everything. His hair was too
neat, his chin too square, his study habits too studious. Did Doak envy him? God no.
Or at least he was not ready to admit such a travesty. The principle reason he hated Stevens with
such a burning passion was because to him, Stevens represented everything Doak
was a failure at. Stevens had a steady
girl that would come visit him every weekend she could. His hair was always neat like he lived in a
damn barber shop. He spent all of his
time reading for classes and still
found some way to be one of the most popular boys you would find on campus.
“Great
to see you Stevens,” he lied when he saw him come in to the cold cafeteria with
Abe to his left.
“Yes
sir, nice to see you too. Sorry if I’ve
been rather anti-social the last few weeks, I’ve barely closed my books! Between studying and Barbara coming up last
weekend I’ve barely had time to sleep!”
Doak
and Abe joined in with a resounding laugh, as was usual when Stevens was
present. Doak had to struggle to not
wince when Stevens mentioned Barbara, the girl he was going steady with.
“It
wasn’t easy making an A on my research paper for Wingfoot’s class mind
you. I had to work on that bastard for
weeks. And Barbara wasn’t helping in the
slightest!” Doak choked back the vomit
in his throat.
The
remainder of dinner was a boring affair riddled with more talk of Stevens’ high
marks in all his classes and of the times he and Barbara spent in his parents’
car over the summer. Doak was
disgusted. He and Abe parted ways with
Stevens after they finished their meals (Doak actually ate something, due
mostly to the fact that he realized he hadn’t eaten all day) and they both
headed back to Hayne to turn in for the night.
“Doesn’t
he bother you?” Doak asked Abe as they hiked through Brentwood Commons and up
to their dormitory.
“Who? Stevens?
God no! He’s fantastic. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t jealous of
the bastard. He does talk an awful lot
about himself though. Is that what you
mean?”
“Yeah,
I suppose. There’s just something about
him. Like he knows he’s better than the
rest of us...you know?” Doak said cautiously hoping Abe wouldn’t rip into him.
“Eh,
well he does have something to brag about.
If I’d necked with a girl that
pretty for that long in my Pop’s
car...”
Abe
just didn’t get it. Why was everyone so
concerned with what people were and weren’t doing? Johnny Stevens was an outright ass and
everyone knew it. But they wouldn’t dare
call him out because they loved him so much.
Every damn one of them loved Johnny Stevens to the point where he could
get away with murder.
“With
goddam murder,” he said as he walked into Hayne and left Abe with a puzzled
look upon his unshaven face.
He entered his room still feeling
the cold on his face. He quickly removed
his camel hair jacket and boots and sat alone in his bed. His roommate, Peter Hanover, was already asleep
and Doak was careful not to wake him.
Peter was an interesting boy. He
was definitely one of Doak’s favorite people, but he wasn’t sure why. He wasn’t sure if it was because Doak felt
sorry for Peter, or for some other reason.
He was always a loyal friend to Doak and never missed an opportunity to
stick up for him in a pinch. His short
stature was a common point of ridicule by the other, less loyal boys at school,
and though Doak never went out of his way to stand up for him, he knew that he
should. Doak pondered these thoughts as
he slowly fell asleep atop his rather uncomfortable bed awaiting the long
train-ride home.
The
next morning came quickly and his room was colder than usual. It took him an extra few minutes to leave the
warm haven of his bed as he lay quietly watching his loyal roommate reading an
Ancient Greek History textbook at his desk.
“You’re
awake. Little earlier than usual
eh?” Peter said with a smirk.
“It’s
not even nine? Why am I awake. Sure as hell
isn’t to study,” he remarked with laughter as he motioned to the large textbook
Peter was holding. He was in a
surprisingly good mood for it being so early in the morning.
“Let
me know when you’re sufficiently awake so we can grab some coffee, its cold as
hell out there,” he barely even looked up from his textbook.
“You’ve
already been out? Damn Pete, what could
you have possibly been doing this early on the Saturday before break?”
“Just
an early morning walk. Helps me clear my
mind after I read for a while.” His
voice was confident as he turned the page on the Dark Ages.
“I’m
ready when you are. I need some hot
caffeine in my bloodstream. One more
meeting before I catch the train tomorrow,” Doak said as he yawned and rubbed
the sleep form his eyes.
The
pair walked into the menacing chill and moved with haste towards Bell’s. They got the same booth that Doak had shared
with Abe the day before, but this experience was much more enjoyable.
“Well
at least its just Collins today,” Peter said with a mouth half-full of a tuna
fish sandwich on toast. “The old bat
will probably let you off easy. I swear
he likes you.”
“Eh,
maybe.” Doak responded after taking a sufficiently too big mouthful of his
chicken salad. “I’ve always liked
Collins. Freshman year he helped me on a
term paper for English. Frustrating as
hell though. He kept kicking me out of
his office telling me to write a draft, then I’d bring it back and he’d say one
or two things, mark my paper to hell and give it back to me. Telling me to fix and bring it back. Damn I hated him for those two weeks. ‘Til I got my grade. Bastard did it though, I got an A.” Doak put down his sandwich as the memory
flooded back to him. He didn’t speak as
highly of Dr. Collins as he should and they both knew it.
“I
don’t have to be up there for another hour or so if you want—“ He was cut off
by a kick under the table. Peter looked
straight past Doak towards the door, his mouth slightly open. The blood rushed back to his face and he
shook of the stare as if it didn’t happen.
“There
she is,” he said shaking his head. “Janet Andersen. God I love her.” His eyes not so secretly followed her as she
came into the diner and shook off the cold from her shoulders and carefully
removed a violet scarf from around her neck.
“Why’re
you sitting here telling me all about
her. Go for it.” Doak offered as they
were both cleaning their plates.
“Ha! What’d he put in your coffee?! We both know she’s out of my league.” He looked down and reluctantly pushed his
toast across his plate. They both knew
he was right. McConnell girls were out
of both their leagues. It was strange,
Doak thought, how by being at a different school mere miles away from theirs
was a determining factor in their status.
“You
can always tell them apart from the rest,” Peter finished as he pushed his
plate away from his breast in disgust.
Then
Peter did something that neither he nor Doak saw coming. He couldn’t quite explain the following
action, and even an attempt to do so would have been futile.
“You
goddam McConnell broads.” He said not-so
under-his-breath. It was as though he
could see the words coming out of his mouth but could do nothing to stop the
chain reaction. Immediately, two rather
innocent looking girls from McConnell College looked directly at the pair of
them. They were frozen in their
fear. Doak knew it was in this moment
that Peter would chime in if their roles had been reversed. Peter’s loyalty was one of his more admirable
traits, but this was somehow different.
Doak was aware of this, but remained silent. The girls approached them and still, the pair
remained motionless. Instead of a
condescending tirade that they assumed would follow, the girls just glared at
them and immediately left the warmth of Bell’s Diner
Usually
such a calm, collected fellow, Peter had lost it; Doak, however, was not going
to be the first to point out this writing on the wall.
“I’m
not sure”--he was interrupted by Doak’s loud throat clearing as he could tell
his friend was struggling.
Doak
didn’t say anything for the rest of the meal, nor did Peter. The recent events still hanging over the pair
of them like an ominous cloud predicting the oncoming storm.
They
paid for their meals and quickly got up as they could feel eyes in the diner
all over them. They re-applied their coats
and hats, and with disgust Doak attempted to put on his glove, though only four
fingers were covered by its warmth now.
He bid an awkward adieu to his friend, as they both weren’t sure what to
say. They sort of nodded towards each
other, as if to just put the event in the past.
Doak and went into the cold and down the hill to Dr. Collins’
office. As he trudged on towards his
destination he couldn’t help but think at his obvious disloyalty. Peter was in a tight spot and he had done
nothing. He just sat there stupefied,
his mouth slightly open as Peter was shamed in their favorite dining spot. This treachery ate at him the entire walk up
to Collins’ office. He knew Peter would
never let such a situation pass without at least offering some sort of insincere
apologetic statement that made everything all right. He knew Peter would have.
The
hike down the hill was an unpleasurable one as he felt somehow empty
inside. This feeling didn’t subside
until he finally entered the large dark building through the columnous
opening. He carefully walked up the
slick stairs and turned an immediate left towards the office. He walked up to the door and ran his fingers
over the tarnished copper nameplate that stood shabbily tacked on the wall
outside of Leonard Collins’ stuffy office.
“Come
in.” The older man said even before Doak rapped his knuckles on the door.
“How
did you know—“ he was suddenly interrupted by the old man.
“I
didn’t at all. I just sit here all day
cooped up in my stuffy office yelling ‘Come In’ every five minutes with the
sincerest hope that one of my students is waiting outside in the hallway.”
He could tell that Doak wasn’t in
the mood for his sarcasm.
“I
heard you and your clunky boots come barreling up the stairs like a
rhinoceros.” He retorted after the silent response from his pupil. Doak was still not amused.
“What
is the matter with you? For someone who is on the verge of being
reprimanded by nearly all of his professors you’re in a surprisingly foul
mood.”
“Just
stop it alright? I didn’t come here to
be berated by your sarcasm and goddamned malcontent.” He was never this mean to Collins. The only faculty member on the whole campus
that he actually respected, and yet he was taking out his anger on the old man;
he wasn’t sure why. Collins knew Doak
was having a rough time of it and decided not to make it worse by continuing
along his train of questioning.
“Well
then,” the professor started up again, “what do you want to talk about? I
mean, you did schedule this meeting didn’t you?
I can page Jenny downstairs and get her to check—“ He had finally hit a nerve as his last
statement triggered a response from the youth.
“It’s
nothing. It’s everything. I abandoned my best friend not an hour
ago. My goddam professors won’t get off
my backs. I have a B in Buice’s course
and he’s still riding me like a damned horse.”
His frustration was evident to them both. Even Collins’ many diplomas tacked to the
walls could pick up on the gravity of his unfortunate circumstances.
“I’m
just unhappy I suppose. I left my best
friend high and dry after he made a fool of himself at the diner earlier. I mean, he did make an absolute fool of himself. A damn fool.
But I just sat there like I was deaf and dumb.”
Collins
just sat there in silence as he could tell that Doak was not finished.
“I
don’t know. Just frustrated as
hell.” Collins knew this was his time to
chip in.
“Is
there a reason why Buice is on your case even though you’ve got a B in
there? Nothing to do with ‘lack-luster’
effort I’m sure...” A sly grin curled
over his lips as he saw Doak’s eyes light up with surprise.
“What
the hell—“ he was cut off again by the
old man.
“Professors
here are terrible at keeping secrets.
Lets just say that news of your recent actions have made it all the way
through the facutorial grapevine and into my humble office.” Doak was still shocked by what Collins had
just said.
“We
both know you’re capable Doak. Hell, how
you’re pulling off a B in a class taught by the department head while barely
paying attention in class is beyond me.
And an A-minus, if I’m not mistaken, in Stewart’s World Civilizations
course? You’re not exactly the top
contributor in either of those classes.”
His voice faded as Doak opened up his mouth slightly as if he had
something to say. “You’ve got a
tremendous grade average its just—“ This
time, the younger of the two of them was doing the interrupting.
“I
know, I know. I’m just not trying
enough.” He contorted his face to
imitate Buice’s horrid body language.
“Face
it, we both know Buice is an ass. Thinks
he knows everything about everything.
The trouble is, he’s an ass whose also a department head, and with that
comes a lot of weight that he can throw around.
Pretty big deal, you know.”
Collins could feel the next question coming from Doak and he offered a
pre-emptive response.
“No,
no. We both know I’m not cut out for
that job. All those politics.” These was no question about whether or not
the old man was qualified for such a position.
With a double-degree in History and Literature from Princeton and a
Ph.D. from Columbia, he was easily qualified.
Couple that with his 30 plus years of teaching and that job could he his
if he wanted it. The truth of the matter
was that Leonard Collins loved the peaceful life he carved out for
himself. He had no desire to be in the
limelight or in magazine articles like Donald Buice was. He didn’t want that anymore. When his wife was alive, Collins was an
ambitious, overt man flowing with happiness.
This changed drastically however, with the passing of his wife almost
ten years ago. He was an optimist turned
cynic; an extrovert turned into somewhat of a hermit who was perfectly content
in his loneliness. All of these thoughts
raced through his head and he visibly shook off these memories and got back to
the topic at hand.
“The
fact of the matter is that you’ve been able to skate by on sheet ability while
you’ve been here. This term is different
and you need to realize that before its too late. Your professors are going to be putting you
under a microscope more so than usual after the break. You need to turn that attitude of yours
around, my boy.”
Doak
knew this was what he needed to do and he followed Collins’ speech with the
slightest hint of a smile and a smirk.
“Yeah,
yeah I know. It’s just hard. And that’s not the only thing that has been
weighing on my mind.” His eyes wandered
off to the dark wooden globe that sat atop one of the many dusty bookshelves in
the old man’s office. “I’m a disloyal
sonofabitch. You know that? And Johnny Stevens always gets on my
nerves. His constant gloating and damn
blabbering on about his curvy
girlfriend. I couldn’t care less about
Johnny Stevens’ girlfriend and her goddam curves. You’d hate them both too, trust me.” He finished and his eyes turned back to the
old man who was staring at him with an unreadable expression stamped on his
face.
“You’re
not...jealous of this Stevens fellow
are you?” The old man hit the nail on
the head and the both of them knew it.
“Hell
no. Everything he does drives me right
up the wall. I haven’t had a single
conversation with that bastard that hasn’t ended up with me counting down the
seconds until it was over. I’d hate to
see the pair of them together you know.
The way he talks about all the times in the back of her old man’s damned
Chev-ro-let.” His eyes rolled with the mention of the car
which Stevens’ loved to talk about. “I
don’t care what he does with who, but he always tells every damned person
within earshot.” The old man adjusted
himself in his seat and jumped at the slight break in the youth’s tirade.
“No
wonder you don’t like this kid. Anyone
that caught up with himself isn’t exactly ‘best man’ material. You didn’t
answer my question though, my boy. The
question of jealousy. I haven’t exactly
heard you talk about...” His voice
trailed off as his eyes wandered to the same globe Doak was peering at just
minutes before.
“Easy
there old man, just because I don’t have some curvy girl waiting at the train station for me every weekend
doesn’t mean I’m jealous of the bastard.”
His voice was fierce.
“And
the fact that he’s on good terms with that egoist Buice and has outstanding
marks in all his classes has nothing to do with your distaste for the poor
bastard does it?”
“Poor
bastard?! Oh you’ve fallen off your
rocker, old man. How can you think that
because he kisses ass to that sonofabitch Buice and somehow, not by the grace
of God, has high marks somehow makes me jealous?” His voice was becoming more fierce and on the
verge of violent. Collins was silent and
took this outburst in stride as it visibly rolled off his shoulders. They both knew the truth. Doak’s outburst towards the old man who he
came to for advice inside and out of the classroom proved to be the parting
blow. For the first time, the now
frantic young man had realized once and for all the reason for his dislike of
Jonathan Lyle Stevens. Sure his
mannerisms were bothersome and that damned girl of his too many times found her
way into their conversations, but that would not cause the type of hatred that
Doak Reilly felt for Stevens. He hated
that boy because he had everything that Doak wanted to have himself. A girl who would let him steam up the windows
in the back seat a damned Chevrolet, high marks he didn’t have to try for, and
a shred of the self confidence that Stevens’ had in excess.
“Is
that too much to ask?” He questioned
under his breath and brought his fist down on the desk with fury causing a thin
trail of blood to stream from his knuckles.
A perplexed look grew over the old man’s face as embarrassment slowly
crept over Doak’s entire body. He
panicked. He was ashamed of his
outburst.
“Damn
is that the time?” He lied as he shot a
quick glance towards the rosewood clock that was fixed to the wall in the dark
office. “I’ve got to start packing, long
train ride back...” He hastily got up
and threw on his coat and hat as he tried to fight off the embarrassment of his
most recent outburst. He could feel what
seemed like all of the blood in his body rush upwards and settle between his
ears. He didn’t look at the old man as
he quickly thanked him for his time and words of encouragement.
“You
sure you’re alright my boy? You seem a
bit frazzled.” Collins could tell he was
embarrassed and was content to let him leave and spare him from more of the
same.
“Yeah,
I just need to get a move on is all, lots to do...” He searched the room for something to grab
and occupy his hands as he could feel them awkwardly hanging in mid air. His breathing increased and he was suddenly
beginning to perspire from his upper lip and forehead.
“Doak?”
The
room began to spin as a thick layer of darkness covered the youth’s eyes as he
went plummeting to the hardwood floors of Leonard Collins’ not-so stuffy office.
He
awoke groggily and unsure of what had just happened. He was in a new, bright room with three
people standing over him. He sat up,
perhaps too quickly, and immediately slipped back down as his head rested on
the makeshift pillow that someone had made out of his Russian hat and camel
hair coat. His eyes were still adjusting
to the new room but he immediately recognized the voice that first chimed in.
“You
gave us quite a scare, my boy.” Collins
looked on as the young man was still shaking off the remnants of his
faint. He did not immediately recognize
the other two figures that were standing over him. He was slowly becoming more aware of his
surroundings and realized that he was in the nurse’s ward just down the hall
from Collins’ office. He finally
recognized the second person as old Mrs. Heller, the benevolent nurse who had
worked on the grounds for decades. The
third figure, however, was not received with as warm a welcome as the two
before him. His stodgy frame and greasy
hair made Doak quiver he saw Donald Buice cautiously leaning over the fallen
youth.
“Nice
of you to join us Mr. Reilly.” Buice
added with a chuckle. It was obvious
that what was intended to come off as a joke had fallen flat as the other three
in the room did not even grin.
“W-What
happened?” The youth asked as he sat up on the long couch he was sprawled out
on. The wash rag that had been applied
to his forehead slid down his face and into his lap.
“You
went into a mad rage and attacked Mrs. Heller.
Knocking you out was all we could do to stop you,” Collins said rather
matter-of-factly. Confusion and fear
flooded Doak’s face. He had still not
completely come to. “Ha don’t worry my
boy, you just fainted in my office. Mrs.
Heller here wants to keep an eye on you for a couple of hours; just to make
sure you’re alright.” Heller nodded and
the three of them helped him to his feet and sat him down on the examination
bed in the middle of Heller’s office.
“I
assume you know this has no bearing on your research paper due after the
break. A simple incident like this isn’t
going to affect your long run study hab...”
Buice’s voice trailed off as he glanced around the room to see the
appalled looks on the faces of the other adults in the room.
“Right,
right,” Doak responded still not
completely sure of what exactly was going on.
Had he been more cognoscente he could have contemplated shooting a
biting remark back at Buice as opposed to the rather soft response he tendered.
“Rest
here til you start feeling better,” Collins said. “What do you say, Donald, how ‘bout we take a
walk and let the boy recooperate?” With
little more than a grunt, Donald Buice followed Collins out the door and into
the snow.
After
they left, Doak closed his eyes with the intention of resting for no more than
a few minutes. When he awoke, however,
he looked at the pocket watch his sister had given him and was shocked to see
that he had been asleep for nearly six hours.
When he further surveyed his surroundings he noticed a figure sitting in
a chair next to the couch he was laying on.
“Good
morning.” Peter Hanover didn’t even lift
his eyes from his history book as he welcomed Doak from his slumber. “I heard you went into a blind rage and
attacked Mrs. Heller, and knocking you out was all they could do to keep you
from killing her.”
“Been
talking to Collins, have you?”
“He
stopped by the room to see if you had come back. I had no idea where you were all this
time. He sent me down here to check up
on you.” Finally, Hanover closed his
book and walked over to the couch.
“I
see you’re finally awake, Mr. Reilly.
You took quite a snooze—It’s nearly half past seven, you know.” Mrs Heller had just retuned from tending to
other students that had succumb to various ice related injuries that day. After she took his temperature and declared
him to have a clean bill of health, he and Peter departed back into the cold.
“I
appreciate you sticking by me, Pete,” Doak said almost sheepishly.
“It’s
the least I could do. Collins was really
worried about you.”
The
two trudged through the snow and Doak still felt the guilt cutting him like a
knife from his earlier episode of disloyalty.
They trudged down the steps away
from the nurse’s ward and headed back towards Brentwood Commons.
“Bell’s?”
Peter asked after they had been walking for a few minutes.
“Huh?”
“You
know...that place we always go eat?”
“Oh...yeah. I didn’t even realize I hadn’t eaten
dinner. You mind if we go somewhere else
though? I’ve had my fill of Bell’s for
now.” Doak was still reminded by their
last visit there.
“I
suppose so. What are you in the mood
for?”
Doak was getting annoyed. He hated when he got upset at people,
especially Peter. But he couldn’t help
it. Sometimes he just got so frustrated
with people. Frankly, he just thought
some of them were just too nice. He knew
how absurd that sounded. But he felt it
nonetheless.
“I
don’t care. Anything but Bell’s.”
Doak was trying his best to keep
his anger under control.
“Well
we can get soup, sandwiches, pizza....”
Doak quickly interrupted him.
“Pizza. I’m always in the mood for pizza.”
“Excellent. Tony’s it is.”
The two crossed the street by
Bell’s and walked five blocks to the pizzeria.
“I’m
just glad to be out of the cold, eh Doak?”
There it was again. Doak was furious with Peter. The only explanation was that he wasn’t in
the mood. Wasn’t in the mood for small
talk. Or any kind of talk for that
matter. He ignored this last comment and
quickly picked out a booth in the back of Tony’s.
“Do
you want to get a whole pie or....”
Again, Peter was interrupted by his grumpy friend.
“Gah,
I don’t care. I don’t care where we
eat. I don’t care what we get or what
the damn temperature outside is.”
Peter
didn’t say anything. The awkward silence
continued until the waitress approached their table.
“We’re
uh...going to need a second,” Doak managed to grumble. He laid his head flat on the table in front
of him and Peter didn’t know exactly what he should do.
“Damn
it. Just damn it. I’m sorry Pete,” Doak didn’t lift his forehead from the wooden
table in front of him.
“You
waited all that time for me after I passed out and I’m being an ass. A complete donkey. Damn.”
Doak lifted his head and wiped his
now matted black hair to the side of his face.
“It’s
alright,” Peter responded not looking at him.
“That’s
the thing, Pete. It’s not alright. You’re always nice to me. I leave you out to dry the other day at
Bell’s. I yell at you for nothing. I do all that and you still stick up for
me. Always. It’s not right.”
Pete
still didn’t look at him.
“You
don’t have to say anything. We both know
you’d take a damned bullet for me.”
Peter
finally broke his silence.
“Maybe,
but I’m sure as hell not paying for this pie.”
With that, Pete finally looked up and a sly grin crept across his face.
“Fine
with me.” Doak had never been happier to
pay for a meal in his life. He didn’t
want to admit that Peter was his only true friend, but somehow he knew that
they were both aware of this fact. The
rest of their meal went off without a hitch as the latest discussion seemed to
get Doak out of his funk.
The
two lingered at Tony’s long after they had finished their meal, and by the time
they got up from their booth, it was going on midnight. The snow had poured down for the last few
hours and six inches lay on the ground outside of the restaurant. They opened
the door and the cold wind hit them directly in the face. They lowered their heads and marched on
through the snow.
“We
need four or five idiots out here to walk in front of us...to deflect the
wind,” Doak said rather loudly through the loud breeze.
“Why
idiots?”
“Well,
you know. If they weren’t, they wouldn’t
do it.”
Pete stopped, looked at Doak, and
they both began to quietly laugh. Pete
was glad to have his friend back. He was
glad that Doak was, for however short a time, not quite so irritated. They walked through Brentwood Commons and had
it not been for Pete looking to his left, they might have walked right by, not
noticing anything. There was a pale
figure sitting at one of the benches. In
fact, it was the same bench that Doak had sat and smoked at earlier. They recognized the figure as a boy from
school, younger than them, but could not recall his name. Aside from a pair of white boxer-shorts, he
was naked.
“Hey—uh,
can we help you out?” Pete took a step
towards the figure. He appeared to be
looking straight ahead, straight past the two.
His eyes in an almost trance like state.
“Pal? You’re going to freeze out here. Christ, you’ve got nothing on your feet.”
The
figure glanced down at his feet, which he gently moved back and forth through
the snow.
“How
long have you been out here?”
“A
couple hours. I don’t know.”
Pete knew they couldn’t leave him
out here. The figure’s eyes, bloodshot,
now met Pete’s.
“They—they
caught me cheating. I didn’t know what
to do. I just ran out of time. I didn’t know what to do. I had to turn in something. I didn’t know what to do. The paper was due the next day and I didn’t
have anything I had to turn in something, I had to. I couldn’t turn in nothing. I had to give them something.” The faintest line of drool began to drip from
the figure’s lips as he was visibly shaken.
“I’m
sure something can be worked out. Let’s
get you inside, first. Get some coffee
in you. Then we’ll all go talk to your
professor in the morning. All of
us. Give me a hand, Doak?”
“Stop. Don’t touch me. Stay back.”
The figure’s babbling was stopped by his sudden mood change. His anger was troubling to the pair.
“Easy
now, mate. We just don’t want you to be
an ice cube come morning.” Pete was
trying to calm him down.
“Go
home. Don’t bother me. Just stay back.” The drool was now more than dribbling from
his lips and it had made its was down his chin and onto his thighs. His mouth was quivering. He placed both his
hands onto his temples and tried to rub the demons out.
He
began to weep. The two onlookers weren’t
quite sure what to do. They stood there
in silence, watching the figure quietly sob for nearly a full minute before
Peter finally interjected again.
“C’mon,
pal. Here, take my coat and we’ll walk you back to your dorm. Are you in
Hayne?”
“I
said don’t talk to me. Just go.”
The figure’s trembling had only
increased and they couldn’t tell where his tears stopped and his drooling
began.
He
reached in to the snow below him and pulled out a black metal object. It was a revolver. He slipped a little as he came to his feet
and stood in front of the bench. Doak
froze. He could feel Peter moving beside
him, almost in slow motion. Peter
reached the bench and attempted to disarm the frozen creature. A split-second
later there was a crack. A crack and a
thud. And then silence. The snow in
front of the bench was red as freshly picked strawberries, and a now limp figure
lay awkwardly a mere feet in front of Doak.
A thin wisp of smoke rose from Peter Hanover’s body.
Doak
couldn’t hear anything, couldn’t see anything, couldn’t feel anything. Everything around him was muffled. His vision was blurry, his hearing fuzzy. He kneeled down by the body and had to make
sure he wasn’t imagining things. He
didn’t realize it but he had put his hand in a small pool of blood that had
collected and melted through the snow.
He took a knee, and buried his hand deep in the snow and began to wash
it clean. He came to his feet and stood
there, shaking, leaning over the body.
Just
as Doak looked up at the murderer he saw the glint of the black metal move
sharply upwards and was staring into the boy’s eyes when he heard another crack
and another, softer, thud.
Doak
came to his feet and stared towards the heavens as if awaiting an explanation
for what had just transpired. He took
off his gloves, hat, and coat and placed them on top of Peter’s body.
“You’ll
be okay, Pete. We just gotta keep you
warm.” Doak lied aloud. He used the hat to cover up the gaping hole
in Peter’s forehead and laid down next to his friend, clutching his lifeless
body.
“You’ll
be okay, Pete. You’ll be alright. Just gotta make sure you don’t freeze on me
is all. ‘You hear?” Doak was barely getting out a word without
the tears flooding his fact. He
stammered to Peter’s lifeless body for a solid hour before the police showed,
answering a report of two gun shots fired in Brentwood Commons.
By
the time the police finally showed up, Doak was covered in ice and snow and
blood. Some of it Peter’s, some of it
his. The police found him frantically
digging at the frozen soil with his bare hands.
They were ravaged, torn, dirty, and bleeding.
“Jesus,
you’ve torn the skin off your fingers. What are you doing?”
“B-b-burying
him. We h-have to bury him. Goddamn it, help me bury him! We can’t just leave him out here!”
“Son,”
an officer replied, “son, you’ve gotta stop now. You’ve gotta stop.”
Doak finally stopped digging and
for the first time surveyed his hands. He hadn’t realized how much they burned
until now. He buried them in the snow
the help with the pain and sat there, ruffled and unkempt until they took away
his friend’s cold, lifeless body.
He
stayed there long after the police and ambulance left. After the snow had
nearly erased all evidence of the events of that evening. An entirely new white blanket had been laid
down from above and for a moment the Commons looked peaceful. Almost.