The River King Read online

  Pierce was proving himself to be a washout at this very moment, pouring out his heart to some girl, bellyaching like a loser. Harry and Robbie had been eavesdropping for quite some time, hunched over until Harry’s long legs were riddled with cramps. Now he stood to stretch his back. Usually, he liked the benefits of his height, both with girls and on the playing field. He liked any advantage he could get and this was to be the year of his advantage. He was the senior in charge of Chalk House, and as such retained the honor of residing in what was once Dr. Howe’s office, before the new administration building was built. The room’s focal point was its handsome oak fireplace; tiny serrations had been carved into the side of the mantel, marks that were said to represent every woman Dr. Howe had slept with, and if the fireplace notches were to be believed, there had been quite a crowd.

  Harry appreciated Dr. Howe’s room, just as he valued all his many privileges. He was a boy who was grateful and greedy in equal measure. Certainly, he wasn’t about to have some nitwit like August Pierce come in and ruin things. It was a cruel, cold world, wasn’t it? A universe spinning through the dark, without any pledges or guarantees. A person had to take what he wanted or be left behind, flattened by circumstance. Nowhere was this more true than in the gentle Massachusetts countryside, where the weather continually proved that most circumstances couldn’t be controlled. Chalk boys were certainly well aware of the wreckage that could be made of a life, an unfortunate observation made in the very first year, for these were the boys who had suffered the worst loss in the flood so many years ago. In the mayhem of the rising waters, the grades of every boy from Chalk House had evaporated from the dean’s marking book. It was a thoughtful fellow from Cambridge who discovered this calamity while mop-ping up the dean’s waterlogged office, and he ran back to tell the others what he had learned before any teachers found out.

  All of their hard-earned As in biology, their B’s in Latin and Greek were gone, the letters washed away in blue pools of ink that had stained the floorboards a terrible cobalt that refused to come clean no matter how often the mop was applied. The Chalk boys wondered if the river had singled them out for torment. Why had this happened to them rather than the others? Why should their lives and careers be sacrificed? In the face of this disaster, a suggestion was proposed, a possibility voiced so humbly no one was ever quite sure whose idea it had been. Twist fate, that was the notion, one that was taken up immediately, by each and every boy. Turn calamity into compensation. Take what has been denied you.

  It was a spring night, the thirteenth of May, when the boys at Chalk House changed their grades. The peepers were calling in a rush of damp music from every flooded corner of the campus; the moon floated above the library in a soot-black sky. The boys let themselves into the dean’s office, where they substituted their names for those of the students from Otto House and Sharpe Hall, claiming grades they hadn’t earned. The task was easily done, an elementary act of delinquency handily accomplished with a pick from the locksmith and some India ink, a simple bit of conjuring, but one so effective they decided to call themselves magicians, even though they had no true skills but one.

  At the close of the term, the boys from the other houses who had once been assured an acceptance to Harvard or Yale roamed the campus, as despondent as they were confused. These students wondered what had happened to all their hours of study, for their grades had disappeared entirely, and from that day forward the term fair play was erased from their vocabularies. For those boys at Chalk who had thrown their lot in with the Magicians’ Club, all that was demanded was full loyalty. If any among them did not have the temperament for cheating, no time was wasted. The others dragged boys who might be the least bit unreliable out to the meadow where the rabbits made their homes and they beat such individuals senseless. In protecting themselves and their brothers, the boys learned an important lesson about unity. Rules bound people close, true enough, but breaking rules bound them closer still.

  This philosophy had been explained to Dave Linden and Nathaniel Gibb, and then to Gus when he grudgingly attended the first official meeting of the term. A circle was formed in a clearing beyond the river, although it was true that the weather had always been more foe than friend to the members of the Magicians’ Club. The thirteenth of any month could be depended upon to be foul, with high snows or thunder or drenching rains. On this September meeting date, the fields were damp and the sky had turned the shade of gunmetal, with fog blanketing the fields. There were only bits of color: some green holly in the woods, a few strands of mulberry on the vine, a startled wild turkey that raced out from the underbrush in a flash of gold and red when disturbed by the intrusion. There was a chill in the air and the purple blooms of the flowering joe-pye weed had begun to turn indigo, always a sign of a cold and miserable winter to come. The boys sat around in a jumble of a ring, some lounging on the grass, others sitting on an old log that was often used to conceal contraband whiskey and beer. Those who knew what was to come and had been through it themselves were good-humored, even boisterous. But of course they’d already completed their hazing; they’d experienced the anxiety that Dave Linden and Nathaniel Gibb and even that idiot Gus Pierce, who was lying prone on his back, surely must be feeling as their induction approached.

  To join, the rule was simple. An act of mayhem must be committed. Be it lawless or illicit, immoral or illegal, there was to be one hateful exploit: the single red thread that cross-stitched an individual’s fate, binding him to his brothers. When told what they must now accomplish, Nathaniel Gibb and Dave Linden averted their faces and stared at the ground. Everyone knew they were hiding their tears, not that this show of emotion would be held against them. If anything, this meant they took the initiation seriously. What was far more disturbing was the lazy manner in which Gus Pierce blew smoke rings and gazed through the dark, leafy branches overhead.

  There was only one way to avoid initiation and still retain membership with full privileges, and that was to perfect the trick Dr. Howe insisted his wife execute in exchange for her freedom. Who could blame Annie Howe for wanting to dissolve their union, considering those notches on the fireplace and the cruel way she’d been cut off from family and friends? But Dr. Howe was no fool; the only way he would agree to her demands was to set forth a single impossible task. She could leave anytime she wished to, all she need do was take one of her favorite flowers, those icy white roses that grew beside the girls’ dormitory, and there before her husband’s eyes, she must turn the bloom red.

  “She killed herself instead,” the older boys told whoever was not already informed of Annie’s fate. “So we don’t advise you to try it.”

  Instead, it was suggested to the new boys that they look for one of the rabbits found in the meadows and the woods. These small, shy creatures were easily caught with some patience and fishing net. All that was needed was a strong piece of wire to wrap around the front foot, and a bloody little souvenir would allow admittance to the club. The best inductees, however, were considerably more creative than this, forsaking rabbit hunts and playing a game of one-upmanship of who could execute the most original or most illegal act. Who would go down in Chalk history as the most daring was still a title ready to be claimed. One year a joker from Baltimore had used a handsaw on the dean’s chair in the dining room, so that when Bob Thomas sat down to his dinner, he collapsed in a heap of splinters and beef. The previous autumn, Jonathan Walters, a quiet boy from Buffalo, had dipped into the school’s computer files, searching out any college recommendations that weren’t positive and altering critical passages to ensure that each letter afforded a wholehearted endorsement. There had been a wide range of induction activities, from thievery to high jinks; all that was necessary was that the deed performed would get a fellow in serious hot water if it was ever found out. That was the thread that bound them together: they were all guilty of something.

  Some boys, it was true, used the initiation to serve their own twisted purposes. Three years ago Robbie Shaw c
limbed up the fire escape that led to the room where Carlin now slept; it was a holiday weekend and many of the students were gone, a situation Robbie was well aware of, since he’d planned his mission carefully. He told the fourteen-year-old girl he had targeted if she ever said a word about what he’d done, he’d come back and slit her throat. But as it turned out, there was no need for further coercion; the girl in question transferred to a school in Rhode Island the very next week. Robbie was criticized for going too far with his initiation, but privately his daring and his ability to choose his victim so well were applauded, for although the girl in question knew who her attacker was, she never did tell a soul.

  Unfortunately, the decision to select August Pierce had not been as wise. Throughout the meeting, Gus kept quiet; it was impossible to gauge what he was feeling as he lay sprawled upon the damp grass. Afterward, he walked away without a word, and the other boys watched him carefully. There were those who would not have been surprised had Gus Pierce gone directly to the dean to report them, and still others who would have predicted that he’d hightail it to the police station in town, or maybe he’d simply phone home and beg his daddy to come and retrieve him. But in fact, Gus did none of these things. Perhaps another person with his convictions would have left that very night, simply packed his bags and hitchhiked down Route 17, but Gus was obstinate and he always had been. And perhaps he was prideful, too, because he thought he might just win at this game.

  Gus had lied to Carlin about his father; the elder Pierce was not a professor, but rather a high school teacher, who on weekends performed at children’s birthday parties. In spite of himself, Gus had learned quite a lot on those Sunday afternoons when he sullenly ate cake in honor of some stranger’s birthday. He knew that a coin digested one moment cannot reappear in the palm of your hand seconds later. A bird pierced with an arrow cannot shake itself and then fly away. And yet, he was well aware that certain knots could be slipped open with a single touch and that doves fit quite nicely into jars with false bottoms. He had sat at the kitchen table with his father for hours, watching the same trick repeated, time and again, until what had once been a clumsy attempt was transmuted into seamless ability. Throughout his life, Gus had been taught that for every illusion there was a practical explanation, and such an education can prove worthwhile. After an upbringing such as this, Gus was aware of possibilities someone else might have overlooked, or taken for granted, or simply ignored. This much he knew for certain: for every locked trunk, there was sure to be a key.

  NEEDLES AND THREAD

  IN THE MONTH OF OCTOBER, WHEN the elms lost their leaves and the oaks became yellow all at once, the mice in the tall grass beyond the river came searching for shelter. Girls at St. Anne’s would often find them curled up in dresser drawers, or nesting in shoes left beneath the bed. Wasps, too, went looking for warmth, and passersby would hear them buzzing in tree stumps and fence posts. The woods were laced with an undergrowth of brambles that had previously been hidden by green leaves; rain, when it came, fell in buckets. It was the time of year when people found themselves in foul moods, plagued by headaches and bad fortune. On damp mornings, electrical appliances tended to mutiny. Cars wouldn’t start, vacuum cleaners spit up dirt, coffeepots sputtered and then shut down. In the very first week of the month, there were so many people lined up at Selena’s for coffees-to-go in the early, chilly A.M., and nerves were so frayed, it wasn’t unusual for a fight to break out between some ordinary resident waiting on line and some obnoxious hothead, like Teddy Humphrey, whose own wife, Nikki, had been smart enough never to talk to him before he’d had his morning coffee back when they were still married, especially in the dark days of October.

  One cold evening, when the swans on the river were paddling quickly to prevent ice from forming beneath them, Betsy went to dinner with Eric at the Haddan Inn. The evening was meant to be a special occasion; at last, some time alone. They’d ordered lamb and mashed potatoes, but halfway through the meal Betsy found she simply couldn’t eat; she excused herself and stepped outside for a bit of fresh air. Alone on the porch of the inn, she gazed at Main Street, the white houses turning lavender in the fading light. The evening was perfect; a mockingbird perched on a fence post and sang the most beautiful song, invented or stolen, it really didn’t matter, the melody was exquisite. Standing there, Betsy couldn’t help but wonder if that long-ago lightning storm that had chased people over meadows and field had managed to strike her even though she’d been safe at home. Certain emotions had been burned right out of her and she’d never even missed them. Surely she had all the ingredients for happiness. What more could she want than a man she could depend on, a steady job, a future that was assured? Why was it she felt so reluctant, as though she’d been backed into this life she’d begun to lead by fear, not desire?

  Thankfully, by the time Betsy returned to the table to order a raspberry trifle and cappuccino, her head had cleared. This inn was the place where she would marry next June; these were the dishes on which her wedding dinner would be served, the glasses with which they would toast their happiness.

  “I’m glad we’re having the reception here,” she told Eric as they were leaving, but she didn’t sound as convinced as she might have.

  “Not too stuffy?”

  “It’s very Haddan,” Betsy had said, and they’d both had a laugh over that, for the very word exuded a sense of order and predictability. Despite its traditional style, the inn was the nicest place in town. Rooms had already been booked for out-of-town guests, and Eric’s mother, a finicky woman prey to a bad back, had asked for an extremely firm mattress. Betsy had visited the inn only days earlier to test the beds, finding the perfect model in a second-floor room, a mattress so hard that an egg dropped upon it would surely break in two.

  “I wish we could stay here tonight,” Eric told Betsy as they began the walk back to the school.

  “Then let’s. We can sneak out at midnight and check in. No one will know.” Betsy ran a stick along the metal railings of Mrs. Jeremy’s fence until the porch light suddenly switched on. She threw the stick away when Mrs. Jeremy peeked out her bay window, an annoyed expression on her thin face. “The kids sneak out all the time. Why shouldn’t we?” By now, Betsy had come to understand why rooms at St. Anne’s with fire escapes were so coveted; that pale girl, Carlin, was particularly adept at navigating the metal rungs after curfew without the slightest bit of noise.

  “We’re supposed to set an example,” Eric reminded Betsy.

  Betsy looked closely to see if he was mocking her, but no, his handsome, serious face showed only concern. He was not a man who took his responsibilities lightly, and in fact it was a good thing that Betsy returned that night. She came in from dinner to find twenty girls huddled in the dark parlor, uncertain what to do next. At St. Anne’s, fuses continually blew, and no one, save for Maureen Brown with her supply of candles, had known what to do. Upon her arrival, Betsy marched over to Helen Davis’s quarters, where she discovered that rather than coming to anyone’s aid, the senior houseparent was sipping tea in a room illuminated by a heavy-duty flashlight, as if the well-being of their girls was the farthest thing from her mind.

  A few days later there was another incident Helen Davis chose to ignore. Carlin Leander’s roommate Amy Elliot was bitten by a wren that had managed to get into the house, flying above the girls’ beds, crashing into ceilings and walls. Terrible luck was said to afflict anyone who suffered such a bite, with worse luck to come if the stricken party should kill the offending bird, which was exactly what Amy did. She smashed her Ancient History text atop the wren, instantly crushing its skull and spine. Within minutes, Amy’s leg swelled up and turned black. Her parents in New Jersey had to be phoned, painkillers were dispensed, ice packs procured. And where had Helen Davis been while Betsy ran around like a lunatic, chauffeuring Amy over to the emergency room in Hamilton and ferrying her back ever so carefully over the rutted Haddan roads? Helen had gone back to her reading, and if she heard the w
ren’s mate tapping against her window, she ignored it, and the sound disappeared completely as soon as she let her cat out for the night.

  “Aren’t we supposed to be in charge? Aren’t we supposed to help them?” Betsy complained to Helen that very night. “Isn’t that our job?”

  It had been a trial to care for Amy who had howled all the way to the hospital, terrified that the bird bite might cause her to lose her leg, although in the end all that was needed was antibiotics and bed rest. The evening had taken the worst toll on Betsy, for upon her return to St. Anne’s she’d had to dig a grave for the battered little wren, now buried beneath some junipers. When she came to knock on Helen’s door, her hands were muddy and her complexion had turned blue with the cold. Perhaps Helen Davis took pity on the younger woman because of her wretched appearance.

  “They’re big girls, dear. Time for them to learn a thing or two, wouldn’t you say? Our job is to help them grow up, not baby them. You’ve been subjected to teenagers for too long.” In spite of Helen’s determination never to be agreeable, she found she had taken a liking to Betsy. “Schools like Haddan will drain you dry if you let them, and teenagers will do the very same thing.”