Soul Catcher (19 page)

Patrick sent a card, too. His arrived in the morning mail on Valentine’s Day, and I got it during breakfast. It came in a small red envelope with no return address. That was risky, I thought, because if for some reason I hadn’t received it, he never would have known. Yet he had been thoughtful enough to plan for the card to arrive right on time, and I read a lot of meaning into that: his mind was clear; he loved
me; he would be back at Grove soon. But when I saw the card, my heart dropped: Snoopy slept on top of his dog house with his girlfriend, the little yellow bird, hovering over him with a tiny red heart dangling from her beak. Inside, the card said Happy Valentine’s Day beneath which Patrick had scrawled Patrick Nevins. It was just a packaged greeting as if from a long-forgotten acquaintance. I tried to hide the card from Gwen, who was sitting next to me, but she pried it away. She glanced at it, grimaced, and handed it back.

‘I told you so,’ she said.

My anger boiled: at Patrick for distancing me, at Gwen for judging Patrick, at Dad for questioning my daughterhood. How could the most important relationships become so tenuous? Why couldn’t Patrick hold on to me as I was holding on to him? Why couldn’t Dad have more faith? Why couldn’t Gwen keep her comments to herself?

Silvera stood up to make announcements, but before speaking he paced in front of the fireplace behind his table. That meant he was about to say something to us, deliver one of his prophetic messages. I was dying to leave now, to dart before the man could spin a web of words around me. I hated his gummy, gooey, goopy speeches. Mr Know It All, Mr Tell Us How It Is, Mr Butt-In. I wished he would just leave us to grow up our own way, in peace; let us have our families, cling to memories, nurture hopes. But no, not Silvera, our dark prince of reality, hard and cold and forbidding. This time, his cynical message with which to start the day was:

‘Tamara and I will be in my office today, listening to love songs and discussing the destructiveness of their false promise. Anyone is welcome to join us when you’re not in classes or activities. Happy Valentine’s Day, folks.’

Out in the Smoking Circle, there was talk of America’s popular culture. I stood outside the throng and watched the other kids: they were like a nest of worker bees, Silvera’s soldiers, echoing the queen’s buzz. Silvera would do away with all vestiges of human connection, of love, if he had his
way. He was wrong to want that. And he was wrong to influence us. In his godless scheme of things, I would not be one of the disciples he sent into the world to transform social philosophy. My heart and mind were repulsed by his rejection of the power of love. To obliterate even the most banal expression of love would be social suicide. The man was a killer. In all his preaching of love and sex theory, he had never even mentioned personal experience. Maybe he didn’t have any? Maybe
he
was the virgin queen, the angel of destruction, the man in the black negligee!

I dragged on a cigarette and held the smoke in my lungs. It was freezing out and the smoke warmed me a little inside. I cleared a place to sit on the snow-covered log, and watched Gwen and John across the Smoking Circle. They stood close together, talking, their breath forming a cloud between them. They looked so much alike: both skinny with straight blond hair to their shoulders. Nearly a foot taller, John looked down at her, smiling, nodding his head. Was he finally responding? Was the only soil in which their undeveloped attraction could thrive one of the fat man’s lovelessness? The great Grove doctrine: all in nothingness, each alone.

Gwen and John kept glancing at me. I pretended not to notice and lit another cigarette. When people started filing into the school building, Gwen waved at me to come along. But I just sat there. It was so cold. I wanted one more cigarette.

‘Why aren’t you in class?’It was Jimmy, on his way up to the dorms. What, I wondered, had he lost in the translation of Grove’s principles to his own life? For one, he had lost Louise. She had left Grove the night of the school meeting, branded with a big scarlet A that Jimmy didn’t seem to question. But how did he feel inside? Or did he? Since then, he had become one of Silvera’s best generals, aloofly enforcing the rules. Didn’t he see that if the man had chosen to handle Louise’s error in agreeing to ‘help’ Eddie (which she never even did, in the end) as a misjudgement and not
immorality, they could still be getting married in the spring? Silvera might have been more diplomatic, if he had understood the value of Jimmy’s and Louise’s relationship. They had loved each other. Silvera’s rigid method destroyed it in one blunt stroke.

‘I’m on my way!’ I stood up as if I were about to move on. But when he was out of sight, I sat back down. I just couldn’t bear the thought of going in to class. Inside me was a burning, an aching, a cry to leave, to scream, to tell the man exactly what I thought. That’s what I would do, I decided. Fuck the rules, fuck the schedule, fuck being a good girl. He had said to go talk to him about love — and I would.

I climbed the stairs to Silvera’s office on the second floor of the school building, and knocked. No one answered, so I pushed open the door. He and Tamara were listening to love songs, as promised. Or, love songs played in the background; there was no way to tell if they were really listening.

‘I’ve been expecting you,’ Silvera said. ‘Come in.’

I didn’t move from the doorway. ‘Why were you expecting me?’

‘No reason,’ he said. ‘Have a seat.’

I sat in one of the chairs in front of the round coffee table. Silvera leaned back with his hands folded over his fat stomach. His hair was greasy and his forehead looked tense. Tamara took a long drag on a cigarette and seemed to drift off with the song. I had a feeling she was in love with him. He probably knew it, and thrilled at the irony.

Silvera suddenly rocked forward. ‘Don’t you love this song?’ he said.

Tamara nodded dreamily.

I couldn’t restrain myself. I said, ‘Do you know what a hypocrite you are?’

‘I happen to like this song. Why am I a hypocrite?’

‘You said these songs are sick. You said you were going to analyze these songs today. You’re sick, if you want to know the truth.’

Silvera laughed. I wanted to hit him. I pictured the back of
my hand striking his obese face, forcing his eyes away from me. I gripped the arms of the chair.

‘They
are
sick,’ Silvera said, leaning back again. Sweat gathered on his forehead and he wiped it off with a red bandana.

‘Why are you so fat?’ I asked impulsively.

His eyes flashed: hot, angry, black. ‘Look, little girl, you parade around here like some kind of princess, but you’re crazier than most of them. Why am I fat? I’m dealing with my problems. You deal with yours.’

What did he know about my problems? What did anyone know? ‘I am,’ I said.

‘No, no, you’re not. Why are you sitting here right now? Why did you come to see me? You want to talk about love songs? Huh? You want to talk about Patrick? He loves you so much, where is he now? Let’s talk about love songs, little girl.’ He grabbed an album cover from the floor and thrust it into my hands. ‘Read the lyrics. Go on, read them. You’ve had that pumped into your brain since you were born. It’s your responsibility to clean it out.’

‘My responsibility?’

He flared his nostrils, nodded his head rapidly like machine gun fire, stroked his grizzly beard.

‘I don’t want to talk about love songs.’

“Then why are you here?’

I should have known that whatever I said would be twisted around, that talking to him would make me feel worse. ‘I just wanted to tell you that I don’t agree with you.’

He shrugged. ‘So? Who expected you to? You’re another kind of addict.’

‘Excuse me?’ But I knew what he was saying: that I was addicted to love, to possibility, to hope.

‘You don’t know anything about it,’ he said.

‘I’m not a virgin.’

He laughed. ‘You have the most virginal mind I’ve ever encountered.’ His nostrils flared, he was revving up. ‘Having sex doesn’t constitute experience.’

“Then what does?’

He tapped his skull. ‘Use it.’

‘Does
not
having sex constitute wisdom?’

He stared at me, livid. I had hit the nail on the head,
his
nail, his secret.

‘You didn’t come here to talk to us,’ he said in a tight, low voice.

‘You didn’t exactly want anyone to really talk to you, either.’

‘Emily Dickinson,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘The great poetess of love. She pickled kittens in her spare time.’

‘I would never pickle a kitten!’

‘A sick mind,’ he said, not listening to me at all, ‘pent up in dreams.’

I stood. ‘You’re the kitten pickler.’

I think Tamara wanted to laugh, but she didn’t. Silvera was too angry. I left quickly through the open door. If I had had my wits about me, I would have slammed it shut, just the way he really wanted it.

A
ll it took was a word to Gwen — ‘I think the man’s a virgin’ — for the rumor to spread. It moved through campus as a sourceless bit of information, which some people believed and some didn’t. But it caused a real sensation for a few days and I was satisfied. I hurt him by discrediting him just a little, and to my great surprise, it gave him pause. He actually called me to his office and delivered a simple apology for being rough on Valentine’s Day. I accepted, and we entered a state of diplomatic grace.

In the meantime, the dome grew toward completion. Between Peter, Gwen, me, and Junior as our helpful elf, the work went quickly. By the beginning of March, the essential structure was finished. It looked like the skeleton of a moon that had thrust itself into the earth. It was a good time for us; we had become a team, sharing a common purpose. The dome. Nothing could keep us away from it. Except, of course, a glitch in the Grove machine.

As with all intrusions, it happened suddenly. It was after classes, on a windy afternoon. Peter, Junior and I were at the dome, just getting started, when Gwen came skidding down the muddy hill.

“There’s a stealing meeting in Upper Girls tonight!’ she called.

‘What for?’ I asked.

‘I’m not supposed to tell,’ she said, but Gwen could not hold back a secret. She whispered: ‘Nicole says someone stole two bucks.’

‘It could go on forever,’ I said.

‘This will interrupt production,’ Peter said.

‘I’ll be here,’ Junior said. ‘Don’t worry about nothin’.’

But stealing meetings
were
something to worry about. They had been known to go on for five days and nights, with only a few hours of sleep when wakefulness became unbearable, with only the snack food already in the girls’ rooms and whatever the boys might send up. Smoking was allowed in the lobby during long meetings; it eased the hunger and helped keep you awake. All the furniture would be removed from the lobby once it was determined that the money had not been lost or misplaced, but had definitely been stolen by someone sitting in that very room. You couldn’t even read, or talk, or doodle. Silvera’s theory was that discomfort hastened truth.

All afternoon, I thought:
I haven’t stolen anything, I’m innocent. Why should I sit through one of those tedious meetings?
I guess I was feeling some power from having humbled the man, if only just a little. I thought I had a choice. One of the great untested Grove theories was that you did not have to stay at a meeting if you didn’t want to, though you would risk expulsion. I decided I would be the first to test it. I would not go. But I wouldn’t run away, either. I would show up at the beginning of the meeting, explain my position, and leave.

All the girls were gathered in the Upper Girls lobby. When things quieted down, I got up and made my announcement.

‘I’m not staying at this meeting,’ I said. There was a general derisive groan from the mob. ‘But I decided it was only fair to at least tell you why.’

‘You realize that everyone has to be present at a dorm
meeting for it to continue?’ Pam said in her stern, mannish tone.

‘I know.’

‘If you leave, you’re automatically expelled from school.’

‘I’m aware of that.’

‘And if you leave this meeting and the meeting can’t go on, you’ll be leaving everyone here to live in an atmosphere of distrust.’

I could feel a scream building inside me like a spring. No. I sighed, and the spring tightened.
NO, NO.
‘I didn’t take anything from anyone,’ I said. ‘If we all really trust each other, then you should trust me when I say that. I’m not going to sit through a meeting when I know I didn’t take anything.’

“The rule is there has to be a consensus to determine that,’ Pam said.

‘I know the rule. I’m taking my option not to be here.’

‘You can leave if you want to,’ Pam said. ‘But you’re being selfish.’

No.

‘I didn’t have to come here to tell you people why I’m not staying,’ I said. ‘But I thought you should hear it from the horse’s mouth. I’m not asking for an opinion, and I’m
not
going to stay. I didn’t take anything and I’m not sitting here indefinitely until
she
realizes she left the goddamned two dollars at home!’ I pointed at Nicole, and everyone looked. She was nervously running her fingers along her tightly cornrolled braids. Her normally bold, steady eyes were restless, darting around the room.

‘Why don’t you just stay until we determine if this is going to be a stealing meeting, Kate?’ Dana said. She was short, with thick legs, wiry auburn hair and small hazel eyes. At dorm meetings, she really threw it around, playing arbitrator, prosecutor, defense, mom, sister, the works. She was a real Grover, always playing by the book for her own best advantage. There were rumors around school that she was having an affair with Ted.

‘No.’ I headed for the door. ‘No.’

‘It’s your choice,’ Pam said.

I was leaving, I was almost out, I was doing it. Then, when I lifted a hand to push open the door, Ted and Jimmy stepped in front of me to block my way. I thought of the dome — of finishing it — and of Patrick — of seeing him.
NO
moved me forward; I threw myself against them. My boots jabbed and my fists punched. Jimmy grabbed a handful of my hair and for a second I thought he was going to rip it out. The violence happened too fast for me to be surprised. Only afterwards did I realize that not only had I attacked two people, but one of them was my favorite teacher, Ted. But Ted was standing there with Jimmy, barring my way, denying my choice and my option.
They
were breaking the rule. I drew my boot back one more time, and looking straight into his eyes, thrust it into Ted’s shin. He tried to smile but I could tell he was as shocked — by his authoritativeness and by my violence — as I was.