The River King Page 4

  “Choose a number between one and twenty,” August Pierce now suggested to his newfound companion. “Don’t tell me what it is.” He had picked up several tricks with which to amaze, and this seemed as good a time as any to put his talents to use.

  Carlin did as she was told, although her expression had hardened into a disbeliever’s stare.

  Gus closed his eyes and made a show of his prestidigitation, at last plucking a number from the air. “Seven,” he said, triumphantly, or at least he hoped for triumph as he was attempting a ruse any beginning conjurer who knew the first thing about logic could neatly manage.

  Yet for all the trick’s success, Carlin was not pleased. She hated to be transparent and she certainly didn’t wish to be revealed in any way. Even now, she was in the process of perfecting a story that would alter her background and create a new identity. She intended to tell people that her parents worked for the government, and although they had never settled down they had always encouraged her swimming, transporting her to races and events no matter where they might be living. A far better tale to tell than one that included a mother who worked the cash register at the Value Mart, a father she’d never seen, and the dozens of times she’d had to hitchhike to swim meets. With deception as her plan, a boy who could read her mind was a definite liability, for seven was indeed her chosen number.

  “It’s simple probability,” Gus explained when he realized Carlin hadn’t appreciated the trick. “Most people will choose either three or seven.”

  Carlin glared at him, scornful. Her eyes were a shade of green that could turn gray in an instant, like shallow water that mirrored any change in the weather. “I’m not most people,” she told him.

  “No,” Gus Pierce agreed. Even a nitwit such as himself could make that distinction. “You’re definitely not.”

  The train had begun to lurch into Haddan Station; the whistle blew long and low, rattling windows in houses closest to the train tracks, frightening crows from treetops and telephone lines. Carlin grabbed for her backpack. She had a hundred and fifty dollars in her wallet, which she planned to use toward a return ticket home in June, and no assurances of anything in between. She probably would have deserted Gus even if he hadn’t pulled his stupid mind-reading stunt, and it came as no surprise to him when she hurried to get to the door before the train came to a standstill, dragging her suitcase out from beneath the seat. When Gus offered to help, Carlin appraised him carefully. Experience had taught her it was best to inform someone when she knew she’d never be attracted to him. It saved so much bother and confusion in the end.

  “We might as well get this over with,” she said. “I’m not interested.”

  Gus nodded his agreement. “Why would you be?”

  He was so baffled by the notion that he might ever stand a chance with her, and so sincere, Carlin couldn’t help but grin before she headed for the exit. Watching her walk away, Gus realized that her hair was the color of stars, those pale distant galaxies that are too far away ever to be charted or named. He fell in love with her in the very instant he was disclaiming his interest. When he and Carlin met next she would probably walk right past him, as though he were a piece of litter or trash. But perhaps not; strange things had been happening ever since Gus had set off for Haddan. On the shuttle from New York, for instance, the flight attendant had given him a complimentary mini-bottle of Chivas, no questions asked. In the club car, he’d requested a bag of potato chips only to have the cashier throw in a tuna sandwich on the house. Most unexpectedly and most wonderfully, a beautiful girl had not only spoken to him, she’d smiled at him. In all honesty, this was the best run of luck August Pierce had ever possessed.

  As he stepped off the train, his good fortune appeared to continue. Two seniors from Haddan—Seth Harding and Robbie Shaw, good-looking, serious boys of the sort who would never associate with Gus under any circumstances—were holding up a sign with his name. When he approached, they grabbed his duffel bag and clapped him on his back as though he were a long-lost brother. Out in the sweet country air, with all that blue sky above him and the warblers chattering in every bush, Gus felt dizzy with confusion and with something that, had he been anyone else, would have been easily recognizable as joy.

  “Are you sure you’ve got the right guy?” Gus asked as his cohorts loaded his gear into a BMW idling at the curb.

  “Perfect score on your aptitude tests? Editor of the school newspaper in eighth grade at the Henley School in New York? You’re the one,” Seth and Robbie insisted.

  Gus squeezed his long legs into the back of Seth’s car even though the information they’d gathered was clearly sketchy at best, stray pieces of his autobiography garnered from his Haddan application, a portrait that carefully omitted his tendency toward depression and rebellion and the fact that he’d been suspended from the Henley School for laziness and insubordination. But what the hell, at worst he had a free lift to school, and when they passed Carlin hauling her heavy suitcase down a brick-paved sidewalk, he turned to gaze at her mournfully, wishing she’d see him accompanied by his unlikely comrades.

  On the short ride to the school, Gus was informed that he’d been granted the honor of residing at Chalk House, although for his part, he could not figure out why he’d been chosen for this distinction nor could he understand what was so desirable about the dilapidated old house at which they arrived. On the outside, Chalk was no different than any other dorm on campus. A squat, boxy place, it was covered with white clapboards; there was a wide front porch, littered with Rollerblades and hockey sticks, and around back, a latticework entranceway where garbage cans were stored alongside expensive mountain bikes. On the first floor were several gracious rooms that boasted mahogany woodwork and working fireplaces, but these were always bequeathed to upperclassmen, who had already paid their dues; freshmen were relegated up to the attic. At the rear of the house, two private apartments had been tacked on. In one lived the coach, Duck Johnson, whose snoring had been known to rattle windowpanes; in the other lived Eric Herman, who spent more time in his office at the humanities building than he did in his own quarters.

  Because of its proximity to the river, Chalk House was by far the dampest building on campus. A film of mold coated any item left in the showers overnight, and in the evenings, snails left slippery trails along hallways and walls. Each term brought boys who couldn’t resist climbing onto the roof, where they aimed their piss directly into the Haddan River from atop their perilous roost. None of these boys had ever been successful and, thankfully, none had fallen in such an attempt, but even the alumni association, never the champion of change, had agreed that the building was structurally unsound. Last spring a railing had finally been built along the roof. Still, the house was in miserable condition, with a dreadful electrical system that blinked on and off during storms and ancient plumbing that grumbled and clogged. In the rafters, on the far side of the damp plaster walls, there lived generation after generation of ill-tempered raccoons who squabbled and paced at night, so that bickering and snarling drifted into the dreams of the freshmen in the attic, and not a single one of these boys ever had a good night’s sleep until their first term was over and done.

  Yet no one would dare to suggest that this venerable house be torn down, and most people envied its residents. There were rumors that students could buy their way in, and suggestions that the odds of being chosen for Chalk were greatly increased if one’s father or cousin had been a boarder. Indeed, there were distinct advantages for Chalk House residents. At all other houses, students had to vacuum floors and clean bathrooms, but at Chalk a maid was employed by a group of alumni; she came in every Wednesday to sort laundry and on Thursdays she made up the beds with fresh linens. Chalk boys were the first to register for courses and because the house had its own parking area, seniors were allowed to have cars on campus. Such entitlement had clearly paid off. For more than a hundred years, boys at Chalk had graduated at the top of the class, guided into a world of privilege with the
help of those who had gone before them. There were Chalk alumni on most college admission committees and out in the world more alumni were eager to hire a brother who’d lived in the old house beside the river, that falling-down pile of wood and bricks where the wind rattled down the chimney and the swans always put up a good fight when chased off the porch.

  The students who had not been chosen for Chalk, those boys who lived in Otto House or Sharpe Hall, felt a sort of bitterness from their very first day on campus, as if already, before anyone had seen their faces or knew their names, they had been judged lacking, fated to belong to a lower echelon where they would always be second best, chosen last for teams, never dating the prettiest girls from St. Anne’s or daring to hope for a kiss under the weeping beeches. But these petty jealousies arose later on in the term; during the first weeks of school there was a sense of good fellowship as everyone settled in. The trees were still green and evenings were warm; the last of the crickets called in the meadows, a constant song most people found comforting, for it reminded them that there was still a world beyond the confines of Haddan.

  Some people fit in easily at the school, but each year there were bound to be those unable to accommodate or conform, whether they were sullen or frightened or shy. In a place where teamwork and good cheer were highly regarded, loners were easily identified, and Carlin Leander was clearly among them. Although she was pretty and had quickly proven herself a worthy member of the swim team, she was moody and spent too much time on her own to be one of the crowd. As soon as practice ended, she took off by herself, like one of those bobcats people said roamed the woods, a breed too high-strung and suspicious to be among its own kind.

  Such was the case with most unhappy students; they avoided even one another, so intent on their own unhappiness they failed to notice the other lost souls around them. These students often found their way to the pharmacy on Main Street. They cut classes and sat at the counter in the afternoons, ordering cups of coffee, trying to work up the nerve to buy cigarettes. They clearly had no idea that Pete Byers, the pharmacist, had never sold tobacco to a minor in his life. Anyone looking for that sort of thing would have far better luck at the mini-mart, where Teddy Humphrey would sell just about anything to a kid from Haddan; damn them but not their money as far as he was concerned. Have a good fake ID in hand and it was not Teddy’s job to wonder why, but simply to sell a six-pack of Samuel Adams beer or Pete’s Wicked Ale to any customer who waited in line.

  Most people in town paid no attention to the Haddan students. There were new ones each year, and although every freshman class brought an aura of high hopes and even higher energy, they’d be gone in four years, the blink of an eye really, when sorted into the history of a town like Haddan. In this village most people stayed put; the farthest a resident might move was to a house around the corner when they married or, eventually and sadly, perhaps down to the rest home over on Riverview Avenue.

  Every September, when the new students settled in, they came to buy boots at Hingram’s Shoe Shop, then went about setting up a bank account at 5&10 Cent Bank where pretty Kelly Avon, who was always so helpful, had learned to keep a straight face whenever some fourteen-year-old wanted to deposit a check for several thousand dollars. Nikki Humphrey, who’d stayed married to Teddy from the mini-mart for far too long, never took it personally when groups of Haddan girls come sashaying into Selena’s, ordering lattes and blueberry scones, expecting quick service, as if Nikki were nothing more than an automaton or a household servant. Before long these girls would be gone and Nikki would still be in Haddan, putting all the money spent on lattes and scones to good use by remodeling the kitchen of the cute little house she’d bought on Bridal Wreath Lane after her divorce.

  Some local people actually looked forward to September; they enjoyed witnessing all that youth spilling onto their sidewalks and into their stores. Lois Jeremy, from the garden club, often sat out on her gabled porch facing Main Street on Friday afternoons just to watch for those Haddan School boys and girls. It brought tears to her eyes to think of the expectations she’d had for her own son, AJ, and for a moment or two she ignored her perennial border, which she always covered with marsh grass rather than store-bought mulch to protect the bulbs from early frosts.

  “Aren’t they adorable?” Lois would call to her best friend, Charlotte Evans, who lived right next door and who’d had quite a year herself, what with Japanese beetles destroying half her garden and her youngest daughter going through that nasty divorce from that nice psychologist Phil Endicott who no one would have ever expected to be the sort of individual to have a girlfriend on the side.

  “They couldn’t be cuter.” Charlotte had been deadheading her lilies and pulling damp leaves from between the twisted canes. She leaned on her rake to take a closer look at the Haddan boys in their khaki pants as they headed into town, and all those lovely, young girls trailing after them. The girls reminded her of her own daughter Melissa, the one who was crying all the time and taking Prozac and every other antidepressant she could get her hands on.

  “I’d guess they’re having the time of their lives.” Lois Jeremy’s lips trembled as she watched. Two girls had begun to skip, showing off for the boys; their long hair swung out behind them and they giggled, but their childish gait could hardly belie their womanly legs.

  “Oh, I’d say so,” Charlotte agreed, feeling slightly dizzy herself, perhaps from all the raking she’d done or from thinking too much about Melissa’s divorce. “Isn’t it lovely to see people who are happy?”

  Of course Mrs. Jeremy and Mrs. Evans could not be expected to guess how many girls at St. Anne’s cried themselves to sleep. Unhappiness seemed to double when trapped beneath one roof. Mood swings were common; behavior marked by half-truths and secrets. One tall, dark girl named Peggy Anthony refused all solid food, choosing instead to drink only milk, supplemented by the candy bars she hid in a suitcase stored under her bed. There was a senior named Heidi Lansing who was so nervous about college applications she had pulled out half the hair on her head before she’d even begun to write her essays, and a sophomore named Maureen Brown who lit black candles on her windowsill before bed and so alarmed her roommates with the wicked conversations she held in her sleep that these anxious girls had taken to spending nights in the bathroom, unrolling sleeping bags on the tile floor, so that anyone wanting to take a shower or use the toilet was forced to step over their slumbering forms.

  Carlin Leander did not cry herself to sleep or starve herself, yet unhappiness coursed through her, even when she plunged into the cold water of the pool. In fact, she hadn’t much to complain about; she’d been granted a large airy room on the third floor and roommates who were perfectly pleasant. It was not these girls’ fault that they had more than Carlin: more money, more clothes, more experience. Both Amy Elliot and Pie Hobson had filled their closets with boots and wool jackets and dresses so expensive a single one cost more than Carlin had spent on her yearly wardrobe, most of it bought at secondhand stores and at the Sunshine Flea Market, where it was possible to buy five T-shirts for a dollar, never mind the fraying seams or the moth holes.

  Lest her roommates take her up as a charity case, Carlin elaborated on the story she’d come up with on the train: the only offspring of a father and mother who traveled the world, she’d far more important things to worry about than clothes. Unlike her roommates, she hadn’t the chance to covet or hoard. She and her family weren’t the sort of people who’d had time to gather personal effects or put down roots. They were better than that, her story implied, superior in some deep and moral way. So far, no one had challenged her story, and why should they doubt her? Truth had very little to do with a girl’s image at St. Anne’s; here, an individual was whoever she claimed to be. Those who had never been kissed professed to be sexually wild, and those who’d been through more boys than they cared to remember insisted they would remain virgins until their wedding day. Identity was a mutable thing, a cloak taken on and off, depending on circu
mstance or phases of the moon.

  Carlin’s only bad moments had come with the swim team, and that was because she’d been foolish enough to let down her guard. If she’d been thinking straight she would never have trusted Christine Percy, the senior who had informed her that all girls on the team were required to shave their private parts. Afterward, they had all teased Carlin, along with Ivy Cooper, the other new girl, for being so gullible. There were jokes about how chilly Carlin and Ivy would now be. Everyone had been through the same hazing; losing a little hair and a little pride was believed to strengthen team bonds. After this initiation, a girl was welcomed as a true teammate, at a celebration with some contraband wine, bought at the mini-mart with Christine’s fake ID. Carlin, however, became even more withdrawn; it didn’t take long before the other girls learned to leave her alone.

  Each night; Carlin waited for the hour when she could flee from St. Anne’s. After curfew, she lay unmoving in her bed, until at last her roommates’ breathing shifted into deep, even rhythms; only then was she ready to make her escape out her window, in spite of the thorny vines that coiled up the fire ladder and left traces of blood on her fingers as she climbed to the ground. In an instant she felt free, let loose into the sweet, inky Massachusetts night, away from the steam heat and close quarters of St. Anne’s. At first, she only stayed out long enough to have a quick cigarette beside the old rosebushes, damning the spiked vines as she pricked herself accidentally, then sucked the blood from her fingers. But after a while she dared to go farther, walking down to the river. One night, when there was no moon and the sky was perfectly black, the need to stray took hold. A ribbon of mist had settled onto the horizon, then flattened out to wind through the shrubbery. In the smooth still air, the edges of things melted, disappearing into the deep night, so that an elm tree might suddenly appear in the path; a wood duck might unexpectedly arise from the lawn. Although Carlin’s shoes sank into the mud, she was careful to stay in the shadows to ensure that no one would catch her out after curfew.