The Chocolate War (21 page)

Carter advanced to the center of the platform where Obie held a cardboard carton. Carter reached in and pulled out a piece of paper. “John Tussier,” he called. “He’s written down Renault’s name.” Murmurs of disappointment, a few scattered boos. “He wants Renault to hit Janza with a right to the jaw.”

Silence fell. The moment of truth. Renault and Janza faced each other, an arm’s reach away. They had been standing in the traditional pose of fighters, gloves raised, ready for battle but a
pathetic parody of professional fighters. Now, Janza followed the rules. He lowered his arms, prepared to take Jerry’s blow without resistance.

Jerry hunched his shoulders, cocked his fist. He had been waiting for this moment, ever since Archie’s voice had taunted him on the telephone. But he hesitated now. How could he hit anyone, even an animal like Janza, in cold blood? I’m not a fighter, he protested silently. Then think of how Janza let those kids beat you up.

The crowd was restless. “Action, action,” someone called. And the cry was taken up by others.

“What’s the matter, fairy?” Janza taunted. “Afraid you might hurt your little hand hitting great big Emile?”

Jerry sent his fist sailing toward Janza’s jaw, but he had swung too quickly, without sufficient aim. The blow almost missed its target, finally brushing Janza’s jaw ineffectually. Janza grinned.

Boos filled the air. “Fix,” someone called.

Carter motioned to Obie to bring the box out quickly. He sensed the impatience of the crowd. They had paid their money and they wanted action. He hoped Janza’s name would be on this slip. And it was. A kid named Marty Heller had ordered Janza to hit Renault with a right uppercut to the jaw. Carter sang out the command.

Jerry planted himself, like a tree.

Janza got ready, insulted by the cries of
fix
. Just because Renault was chicken. I’m not chicken, I’ll show them. He had to prove that this was a genuine contest. If Renault wouldn’t fight, then at least Emile Janza would.

He struck Jerry with all the force he could summon, the impact of the blow coming from his feet, up through his legs and thighs, the trunk of his body, the power pulsing through his body like some elemental force until it erupted through his arm, exploding into his fist.

Jerry had girded himself for the blow but it took him by surprise with its savagery and viciousness. The entire planet was jarred for a moment, the stadium swaying, the lights dancing. The pain in his neck was excruciating—his head had snapped back from the impact of Janza’s fist. Sent reeling backward, he fought to stay on his feet and he somehow managed not to fall. His jaw was on fire, he tasted acid. Blood, maybe. But he pressed his lips together. He shook his head, quick vision-clearing shakings and established himself in the world once more.

Before he could gather himself together again, Carter’s voice cried out
“Janza, right to the stomach”
and Janza struck without warning, a short sharp blow that missed Jerry’s stomach but caught him in the chest. His breath went away, like it did in football, and then came back again. But the blow had lacked the power of the uppercut.

He crouched again, fists erect, waiting for the next instructions. Dimly, he heard the crowd both cheering and booing but he concentrated on Janza who stood before him, that idiot smile on his face.

The next raffle ticket gave Jerry his chance to strike back at Janza. A kid Jerry had never heard of—someone named Arthur Robilard—called for a right cross. Whatever that was. Jerry had only a vague idea but he wanted to hit Janza now, to repay him for that first vicious blow. He cocked his right arm. He tasted bile in his mouth. He let his arm go. The glove struck Janza full face and Janza staggered back. The result surprised Jerry. He had never struck anyone like that before, in fury, premeditated, and he’d enjoyed catapulting all his power toward the target, the release of all his frustrations, hitting back at last, lashing out, getting revenge finally, revenge not only against Janza but all that he represented.

Janza’s eyes leaped with surprise at the strength behind Jerry’s blow. His immediate reaction was to counterpunch but he held himself in control.

Carter’s voice. “Janza. Left uppercut.”

Again, the quick jolting neck-snapping pain as Janza, without pause or preparation, struck out. Jerry backpedaled weakly. Why should his knees give way when the blow struck his jaw?

The guys were shouting from the bleachers for
more action now. The noise chilled Jerry. “Action, action,” came the shouts from the audience.

That was when Carter made the mistake. He took the slip of paper Obie handed him and read the instructions without pausing. “Janza, low blow to the groin.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Carter realized his error. They hadn’t warned the crowd about illegal punches—and there was always a wise guy out there ready to pull a fast one.

At the words, Janza aimed for Jerry’s pelvic area. Jerry saw the fist coming. He raised his fists and looked toward Carter, sensing that something was wrong. Janza’s fist sank into his lower stomach but Jerry had deflected part of the force of the blow.

The crowd didn’t understand what had happened. Most of them hadn’t heard the illegal instruction. They only saw that Jerry had tried to defend himself, and that was against the rules. “Kill ’im, Janza,” a voice cried from the crowd.

Janza, too, was puzzled, but only for a moment. Hell, he’d followed instructions and here was Renault, the chicken, breaking the rules. The hell with the rules, then. Janza let his fists fly in a flurry of violence, hitting Renault almost at will, on the head, the cheeks, once in the stomach. Carter withdrew to the far side of
the platform. Obie had fled the scene, sensing disaster. Where the hell was Archie? Carter couldn’t see him.

Jerry did his best to build defenses against Janza’s fists but it was impossible. Janza was too strong and too fast, all instinct, sensing a kill. Finally, Jerry covered his head and face with the gloves, letting the blows rain on him, but waiting, waiting. The crowd was in a turmoil now, shouting, jeering, urging Janza on.

One more shot at Janza, that’s what Jerry wanted. Crouching, absorbing the attack, Jerry waited. There was something wrong with his jaw, the pain was intense, but he didn’t care if he could hit Janza again, renew that earlier beautiful punch. He was being hit everywhere now and the crowd noises leaped to life as if someone had turned up the volume on a monstrous stereo.

Emile was getting tired. The kid wouldn’t go down. He drew back his arm, pausing a moment, seeking true aim, wanting to come up with the final devastating blow. And that was when Jerry saw his opening. Through the pain and his nausea, he saw Janza’s chest and stomach unprotected. He swung—and it was beautiful again. The full force of all his strength and determination and revenge caught Janza unguarded, off balance. Janza staggered backward, surprise and pain rampant on his face.

Triumphantly, he watched Janza floundering on weak, wobbly knees. Jerry turned toward the crowd, seeking—what? Applause? They were booing. Booing him. Shaking his head, trying to reassemble himself, squinting, he saw Archie in the crowd, a grinning, exultant Archie. A new sickness invaded Jerry, the sickness of knowing what he had become, another animal, another beast, another violent person in a violent world, inflicting damage, not disturbing the universe but damaging it. He had allowed Archie to do this to him.

And that crowd out there he had wanted to impress? To prove to himself before? Hell, they wanted him to lose, they wanted him killed, for Christ’s sake.

Janza’s fist caught him at the temple, sending Jerry reeling. His stomach caved in as Janza’s fist sank into the flesh. He clutched at his stomach protectively and his face absorbed two stunning blows—his left eye felt smashed, the pupil crushed. His body sang with pain.

Horrified, The Goober counted the punches Janza was throwing at his helpless opponent. Fifteen, sixteen. He leaped to his feet. Stop it, stop it. But nobody heard. His voice was lost in the thunder of screaming voices, voices calling for the kill … 
kill him, kill him
. Goober watched helplessly as Jerry finally sank to the stage, bloody, opened mouth, sucking for air, eyes
unfocused, flesh swollen. His body was poised for a moment like some wounded animal and then he collapsed like a hunk of meat cut loose from a butcher’s hook.

And the lights went out.

Obie would never forget that face.

A moment before the lights went out, he turned away from the platform, disgusted with the scene, the kid Renault being pummeled by Janza. The sight of blood always sickened him, anyway.

Looking away from the bleachers, he glanced up at a small hill that looked down at the field. The hill was actually a huge rock imbedded in the landscape, partially covered with moss and also with scrawled obscenities that had to be scrubbed off almost daily.

A movement caught Obie’s eye. That’s when he saw the face of Brother Leon. Leon stood at the top of the hill, a black coat draped around his shoulders. In the reflection of the stadium lights, his face was like a gleaming coin. The bastard, Obie thought. He’s been there all the time, I’ll bet, watching it all.

The face vanished as the darkness fell.

The darkness was sudden and deep.

Like a giant ink blot poured over the bleachers, the platform, the entire field.

Like the world suddenly wiped out, devastated.

Goddam it, Archie thought, as he stumbled away from the bleachers toward the small utility building where the electrical controls were located.

He tripped, fell down, and groped to his feet.

Someone brushed past him. The noise from the bleachers was awesome, kids screaming and shouting, guys tumbling from the seats. Small flames tore at the darkness as matches and cigarette lighters were lit.

Stupid, Archie thought, they’re all stupid. He was the only one here with the presence of mind to check the cause of the power failure at the control building.

Tripping over a fallen body, Archie swiveled his way to the building, arms extended in front of him. As he reached the door, the lights went on again, blinding in their intensity. Dazed, blinking, he flung the door open and encountered Brother Jacques whose hand was on the switch.

“Welcome, Archie. I imagine you are the villain here, aren’t you?” His voice was cool but his contempt was unmistakable.

“JERRY.”

Wet darkness. Funny, darkness shouldn’t be wet. But it was. Like blood.

“Jerry.”

But blood wasn’t black. It was red. And he was surrounded by black.

“Come on, Jerry.”

Come on where? He liked it here, in the darkness, moist and warm and wet.

“Hey, Jerry.”

Voices outside the window calling. Shut the window, shut it. Shut the voices out.

“Jerry …”

Something sad in the voice now. More than sad—scared. Something scared in the voice.

Suddenly the pain verified his existence, brought him into focus. Here and now. Jesus, the pain.

“Take it easy, Jerry, take it easy,” The Goober was saying, cradling Jerry in his arms. The platform was brilliantly lit again, like an operating
table, but the stadium was almost empty, a few curious stragglers still hanging around. Bitterly, Goober had watched the guys leaving, chased away by Brother Jacques and a couple of other faculty members. The guys had vacated the place as if leaving the scene of a crime, strangely subdued. Goober had struggled toward the ring in the darkness and had finally reached Jerry as the lights went on. “We better get a doctor,” he had yelled at the kid called Obie, Archie’s stooge.

Obie had nodded, his face pale and ghost-like in the floodlights.

“Take it easy,” Goober said now, drawing Jerry closer. Jerry felt broken. “Everything will be all right …”

Jerry raised himself toward the voice, needing to answer it. He had to answer. But he kept his eyes shut, as if he could keep a lid on the pain that way. But it was more than pain that caused an urgency in him. The pain had become the nature of his existence but this other thing weighed on him, a terrible burden. What other thing? The knowledge, the knowledge: what he had discovered. Funny, how his mind was clear suddenly, apart from his body, floating above his body, floating above the pain.

“It’ll be all right, Jerry.”

No it won’t. He recognized Goober’s voice and it was important to share the discovery with Goober. He had to tell Goober to play ball, to play
football, to run, to make the team, to sell the chocolates, to sell whatever they wanted you to sell, to do whatever they wanted you to do. He tried to voice the words but there was something wrong with his mouth, his teeth, his face. But he went ahead anyway, telling Goober what he needed to know. They tell you to do your thing but they don’t mean it. They don’t want you to do your thing, not unless it happens to be their thing, too. It’s a laugh, Goober, a fake. Don’t disturb the universe, Goober, no matter what the posters say.

His eyes fluttered open and he saw Goober’s face all askew, like on a broken movie film. But he was able to see the concern, the worry on his face.

Take it easy, Goober, it doesn’t even hurt anymore. See? I’m floating, floating above the pain. Just remember what I told you. It’s important. Otherwise, they murder you.

“Why did you do it to him, Archie?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Archie turned away from Brother Jacques and watched the ambulance making its careful progress out of the athletic field, the rotating blue light casting emergency flashings all over the place. The doctor said that Renault may have sustained a fracture of the jaw and there may be internal injuries. X-rays would tell. What the
hell, Archie thought, those were the risks of the boxing ring.

Jacques swung Archie around. “Look at me when I talk to you,” he said. “If someone hadn’t come to the Residence and told me what was going on here, who knows how far it might have gone? What happened to Renault was bad enough, but there was violence in the air. You could have had a riot on your hands, the way those kids were stirred up.”