The River King (33 page)

WHAT THEY HAD PLANNED WAS very different, but plans often go awry. Look at any house recently built and it will always be possible to spy dozens of errors, in spite of the architect's care. Something is bound to be off kilter: a sink installed on the wrong wall, a floorboard that squeaks, walls judged to be plumb that simply do not meet at the proper angle. Harry McKenna was the architect of their plan, which, when it began, consisted of nothing more than intimidation and fear. Wasn't that the root of all control, really? Wasn't it the force that obliged even the most unruly to adhere to rules and regulations and join in the ranks?

August Pierce had been a mistake from the start. They'd seen it before. Boys who liked to play by their own rules, who'd never been members of any club; individuals who took some convincing before they learned there was not just strength in numbers, but lasting power as well. That was what pledging was all about, learning a lesson and learning it well. Unfortunately, Gus never cared about such matters; when forced to attend meetings, he wore both his black coat and an expression of disdain. There were those who claimed he kept a set of headphones on, hidden by the collar of his coat, and that he spent his time listening to music instead of jotting down the rules the way other freshmen did. And so they set out to teach him his place. Each day they piled on both work and humiliation, forcing him to clean toilets and sweep the basement floor. This hazing, meant to initiate him into a code of loyalty, backfired; Gus dug in. If an upperclassman demanded he return trays in the dining room or collect dishes, he simply refused, which even the freshmen at Sharpe Hall and Otto House knew wasn't done. He would not share homework or notes, and when he was told his personal hygiene did not live up to Chalk standards, he decided to show them what filth really meant. From then on, he would not change his clothes, or wash his face, or send his laundry out on Wednesdays. His hygiene suffered further when several boys thought it would be a good lesson to turn off the water while he was in the shower. The upperclassmen waited for him to tear into the hallway, shampoo burning his eyes; they had their towels twisted for strategic hits on his bare flesh. But Gus never came out of the bathroom. He stood in the shower for a good half hour, freezing, waiting them out, and when they finally gave up, he finished washing at the sink and refused to shower from then on.

Despite this harassment, Gus had discovered something about himself that he hadn't known before: he could take punishment. To think that he of all people had strength was laugh-out-loud funny, although when it came down to it, he might just be the strongest man in town, for all he'd survived. The other freshmen at Chalk wouldn't consider saying no to their elders and betters. Nathaniel Gibb, who had never had anything to do with alcohol before, had so much beer poured down his throat through a tube that farmers on Route 17 used to force-feed geese and ducks, that he'd never in his life be able to smell beer without vomiting. Dave Linden also refused to complain. He swept out Harry McKenna's fireplace every morning, even though soot made him sneeze; he ran two miles each day as the seniors insisted, no matter how dreadful or damp the weather, which was why he'd developed a rumbling cough that kept him up far into the night, leaving him to sleep through his classes, so that his grades fell dramatically.

It was odd that no one had figured out what was going on at Chalk House. The nurse, Dorothy Jackson, never suspected anything, in spite of the alcohol poisoning she'd seen over the years, and all the freshmen plagued by insomnia and hives. Duck Johnson seemed easy enough to fool, but Eric Herman was usually such a stickler, how was it that he hadn't noticed something amiss? Was he only concerned if his own work was interrupted? Was silence all he asked for, damn what else happened on the floors above him?

Gus had expected some measure of assistance from those in charge, and when Mr. Herman refused to listen he went to speak to the dean of students, but soon enough he understood he wouldn't get far. He'd been made to sit waiting in the outer office for close to an hour, and by the time the dean's secretary, Missy Green, had ushered him in to see Thomas, Gus's hands were sweating. Bob Thomas was a big man, and he sat impassively in his leather chair as Gus told him about the nasty traditions at Chalk House. Gus sounded pitiful and wheedling even to himself. He found he couldn't bring himself to look Thomas in the eye.

“Are you trying to tell me that someone has assaulted you?” Bob Thomas asked. “Because, the truth is, you look fine to me.”

“It's not like being beat up on the street. It's not an all-out attack. It's the little things.”

“Little things,” Bob Thomas had mused.

“But they're repeated, and they're threatening.” To himself he sounded like a spineless tattletale from the playground.
They threw sand in my face. They didn't play fair.
“It's more serious than it sounds.”

“Serious enough for me to call a house meeting and have all your fellow students hear your complaints? Is that what you're telling me?”

“I thought this charge would be anonymous.” Gus realized that he stank of nicotine and that he had half a joint hidden in his inside coat pocket; in stepping forth to make this accusation, he might be the one who was expelled. Definitely not what his father had in mind when sending him to Haddan.

“‘Anonymity most often points to a lack of courage or a flawed moral compass.'That's a quote from Hosteous Moore from the time he was headmaster here and it's a sentiment I second. Do you want me to go to Dr. Jones with this information? Because I could. I could interrupt him, even though he's at an educators' meeting in Boston, and I could bring him back to Haddan and I could tell him about these little things, if that's what you want me to do.”

Gus had been the loser in enough situations to know when a fight was pointless. So he kept his mouth shut; he certainly didn't tell Carlin anything for if he had, she would surely have gone running to Dr. Jones, probably more indignant about all those rabbits killed over the years than anything else. She would have wanted to do his fighting for him, and Gus could not have tolerated that. No, he had a better plan. He'd managed to best the Magicians' Club. He would complete the impossible task Dr. Howe had long ago set forth for his wife.

It was Pete Byers who told him it could be done. Pete knew a bit about roses because his wife, Eileen, was a superior gardener. Even Lois Jeremy phoned every now and then for advice concerning a no-pesticide method to remove Japanese beetles (a spray of water and garlic was best) or a remedy that would remove toads from her perennial beds (welcome them, was the answer, for they'll eat mosquitoes and aphids). In June, blooms of the spectacular Evening Star grew right outside the Byers's bedroom window with a silver color that made it appear the moon had been caught in their backyard.

Pete was merely a helper in the garden, there to spread mulch and plant seedlings. Thumbing through a horticulture magazine only days earlier, trying to figure out the fertilizer situation, he'd been amazed to discover that a piece Eileen had submitted on her favorite topic, white gardens, had been published. That she'd done so without telling him had shocked Pete; he'd never thought of Eileen as having secrets, as he did. He'd read the article carefully and so he remembered how Eileen had noted that Victorians often filled their gardens with white flowers precisely because they liked to amuse one another with the exact trick the boy had been searching for.

Gus let out a whoop when he heard the transmutation was far from impossible; he leaned over the lunch counter to grab Pete and give him a bear hug. Each day afterward, Gus stopped by to check if his order had arrived, and at last, on the day before Halloween, Pete handed him the aniline crystals.

That night, Gus went to the graveyard to calm his nerves and think about all the magicians he'd seen with his father. What they'd all had in common, the mediocre and the transcendent alike, was confidence. Up in the tall elm, the crow called out its disapproval at Gus's slouching figure. A bird such as that was far better at sleight of hand than Gus would ever be, swift as a thief. Still, Gus knew the most important attributes were always invisible to the naked eye, and he was practicing silence and patience when Carlin Leander, who'd been avoiding him for weeks, came walking along the path.

Gus should have remained silent, but instead he let his pain out in a blast of anger. After they'd argued, and he'd climbed over the iron fence, an odd calm came over him. It was after midnight when he returned to Chalk House, and the others were waiting. It was the hour of tricks and deep resentments, the time of night when people found it difficult to fall asleep even though the village was quiet, except for the sound of the river, which seemed so close by anyone from out of town might have imagined its route followed Main Street.

Gus went to Harry's room on this, his pledge night. The boys formed a circle around him, certain that by morning Gus Pierce would be gone; his initiation a failure, he'd either go of his own free will or be expelled when the proper authorities found the marijuana Robbie and Harry had stashed on the top shelf of his closet. Either way, he'd soon be consigned to the evening train and Haddan history. But before he left, they had a surprise waiting for him, a going-away present of sorts. They had no idea that Gus had a surprise of his own. Although Harry's room was overheated, Gus wore his black coat, for the white flowers he'd bought at the Lucky Day were concealed within. He believed his father would have been proud of his style, for he had rehearsed until he was able to pluck the roses from his coat with a flourish worthy of a professional. The blooms were luminous in the darkened room, and for once those idiots Gus had to live with, those fools who took so much pleasure in humiliating him, fell silent.

It was a long and beautiful moment, quiet and sharp as glass. August Pierce spun away from his audience, quickly sprinkled the aniline over the flowers, then he wheeled back to face his tormentors. There, before their eyes, the roses turned scarlet, a shade so alarming that many in the room thought immediately of blood.

No one applauded; not a single word was said. The silence fell like a hailstorm, and that was when Gus knew he had made an error, and that success was the last thing he should have tried to achieve. In the light of Gus's small triumph, something poisonous had begun to move through the room. If Duck Johnson really considered that night, he might recall the quiet in the house; he would remember there had been no need to announce curfew, and although that was rather unusual, he was ruminating about problems with the crew team—lack of leadership, lack of spirit—and he took no notice. Eric Herman heard them later on, there were footsteps in the hallway and urgent, hushed voices; if pressed he would have to admit he felt annoyed, for there never seemed to be peace and quiet at Chalk House, even after midnight, and he had work to do. Eric turned up his stereo as he graded papers, grateful to at last hear nothing but cello and violin.

Two boys held their hands over Gus's mouth, and although he could not shout, he managed to bite down on someone's fingers, hard enough to break the skin. They dragged him down the hall and into the bathroom, no doubt the commotion Eric had heard before he put on his headphones. The boys at Chalk weren't about to allow Gus's success to alter their plans for a send-off. They had all used the toilet in preparation and it was filled and stinking as they lifted Gus up and plunged him into the bowl headfirst. They were all supposed to be silent; it was a vow they had taken, but several of them had to cover their mouths and hold back their nervous laughter. Gus tried to get away at first, but they jammed his head down lower. There was a snicker when he started thrashing his legs around.

“Look at the big shot now,” someone said.

Gus's legs were soon jerking weirdly, as if he had no control, and he actually kicked Robbie Shaw in the mouth. Filthy water spilled onto the tiles and when Nathaniel Gibb gasped at the brutality, the sound echoed with a high-pitched metallic ring. Some actions, once begun, have nowhere to go but all the way to the end, like a spring that has been wound up tightly and set. Even those who offered an unspoken prayer could not back down; it was far too late for that. They kept his head in the toilet until he stopped struggling. That was the point, wasn't it? To get him to give up the fight. Once the battle was over, he seemed like a rag doll, all batted cotton and thread. They'd meant to scare him and reduce him to his rightful place, but what they got when they pulled him out was a boy who'd already begun to turn blue, suffocated in their waste and venom, unable to draw a breath.

Some of the older fellows, tough, competent students who played vicious games of soccer and sneered at whoever they considered to be weak, panicked immediately and would have run off had Harry McKenna not told them to shut up and stay where they were. There was a purple bruise on Pierce's forehead where he'd hit his head against the inside of the commode; he'd lost consciousness early on in this game and therefore hadn't fought back as they'd expected him to, at least until the very end when the struggle was involuntary and already impossible to win.

Harry pounded on Gus's back, then turned the body face up and called Robbie over. Robbie had been a lifeguard for the past two summers, but he could not be persuaded to put his mouth to Gus's, not after Pierce had been soaked in all that excrement. In the end, Nathaniel Gibb frantically tried mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, trying desperately to pump air back into Gus's lungs, but it was too late. There was water and waste all over the floor as moonlight poured through the window illuminating what they'd wrought: a six-foot-tall dead boy, sprawled upon the tiled floor.