did, and stood it up on the edge of the bookcase. He took his hat off and laid it down next to it. Russell and Paterson had lived together at the school through most of their childhood, and now into the first years of puberty. Although they would never see each other after they left the school, they would often think of one another.
“The first floor was here,” Russell said. He had been looking up at the ceiling of the room, at the holes in the varnished knotty pine. He looked now at his friend as he undressed. Paterson would go on to become a famous heart surgeon; his father was a surgeon, and his grandfather before that.
“Yeah,” Paterson said.
“The Greek is wandering.” Wandering was what they called it back when they were on the first floor.
“That’s not good,” Paterson said, and sat down at the desk. He bent down and unlaced his shoes. Their Spartan furniture was old, from the Thirties, all with art deco motifs and very heavy dark lacquer.
“I want you to leave the pistol case unlocked tomorrow after practice,” Russell said. He heard the sound of Paterson’s shoes on the closet floor. He and Paterson had had a fight once, years before, and they’d gone into the closet of their room to have it so that no one could hear. It had been wild slugging in the dark, hitting with shoes and hangers, whatever they could grab.
They had come back to their room and it had been torn up by the duty officer; they had left something undone or unclean. Each blamed the other, and they fought like that in the dark, like animals, full of hate for everything around them. They never fought again after that.
“What are you going to do, rob a bank?” Paterson said.
“No. I’m going to go speak to the Greek.” There was a long silence. Paterson undid his pants, folding them carefully. He walked to the closet, and Russell heard him hang them up. Then he re-crossed the room, opened his chest of drawers, and took out his pajamas. “Well, will you do it?” Russell asked. Paterson stepped into his pajamas, took off his shirt, and put it in the pile on the floor of soiled clothes that they would drop off at the laundry after breakfast. He turned off the desk light and got into bed in the dark. They used to talk more at night, but since Paterson’s mother died, he had stopped that. It seemed he just wanted to sleep, or study, or be busy with whatever.
“Okay,” Paterson said, turning over. “You got it.”
Russell had wanted to ask him if he was all right, if there was something wrong, but military school isn’t like a real family, and you don’t ask about things that make you weak. That was the rule: show no weakness. Even between friends.
He hadn’t needed light. He’d lived here for over eight years, and knew the school so well he could have gotten around it if he’d gone blind. He went down to the indoor shooting range in the basement of the gym, to the gun cabinet on the wall. The climbing ropes dangled in the dark behind him.
Paterson was in charge of locking the gun case after practice and keeping the key. He had left the metal locker door open, unlocking it after he played taps. Russell felt for the first pistol on the specially designed cabinet. There were twenty-five .45 automatics, their barrels buried in wooden slots. He took one and dropped the clip out, making sure it was empty. He racked the action twice to make certain, then he left the gym and went across the grass towards his dormitory. He collected leaves on his slippers as he made his way back to speak to the Greek.
He opened the Greek’s door. The Greek slept by the window; both he and his roommate were asleep. Russell turned on the small flashlight, walked between the beds, and climbed up on The Greek’s bed, putting his knees on either side of the sleeping boy’s body. The Greek was big, six feet and two hundred pounds. There was no way Russell could beat him in a fight, he’d known that. He had simply decided to use the lesson
“The first floor was here,” Russell said. He had been looking up at the ceiling of the room, at the holes in the varnished knotty pine. He looked now at his friend as he undressed. Paterson would go on to become a famous heart surgeon; his father was a surgeon, and his grandfather before that.
“Yeah,” Paterson said.
“The Greek is wandering.” Wandering was what they called it back when they were on the first floor.
“That’s not good,” Paterson said, and sat down at the desk. He bent down and unlaced his shoes. Their Spartan furniture was old, from the Thirties, all with art deco motifs and very heavy dark lacquer.
“I want you to leave the pistol case unlocked tomorrow after practice,” Russell said. He heard the sound of Paterson’s shoes on the closet floor. He and Paterson had had a fight once, years before, and they’d gone into the closet of their room to have it so that no one could hear. It had been wild slugging in the dark, hitting with shoes and hangers, whatever they could grab.
They had come back to their room and it had been torn up by the duty officer; they had left something undone or unclean. Each blamed the other, and they fought like that in the dark, like animals, full of hate for everything around them. They never fought again after that.
“What are you going to do, rob a bank?” Paterson said.
“No. I’m going to go speak to the Greek.” There was a long silence. Paterson undid his pants, folding them carefully. He walked to the closet, and Russell heard him hang them up. Then he re-crossed the room, opened his chest of drawers, and took out his pajamas. “Well, will you do it?” Russell asked. Paterson stepped into his pajamas, took off his shirt, and put it in the pile on the floor of soiled clothes that they would drop off at the laundry after breakfast. He turned off the desk light and got into bed in the dark. They used to talk more at night, but since Paterson’s mother died, he had stopped that. It seemed he just wanted to sleep, or study, or be busy with whatever.
“Okay,” Paterson said, turning over. “You got it.”
Russell had wanted to ask him if he was all right, if there was something wrong, but military school isn’t like a real family, and you don’t ask about things that make you weak. That was the rule: show no weakness. Even between friends.
He hadn’t needed light. He’d lived here for over eight years, and knew the school so well he could have gotten around it if he’d gone blind. He went down to the indoor shooting range in the basement of the gym, to the gun cabinet on the wall. The climbing ropes dangled in the dark behind him.
Paterson was in charge of locking the gun case after practice and keeping the key. He had left the metal locker door open, unlocking it after he played taps. Russell felt for the first pistol on the specially designed cabinet. There were twenty-five .45 automatics, their barrels buried in wooden slots. He took one and dropped the clip out, making sure it was empty. He racked the action twice to make certain, then he left the gym and went across the grass towards his dormitory. He collected leaves on his slippers as he made his way back to speak to the Greek.
He opened the Greek’s door. The Greek slept by the window; both he and his roommate were asleep. Russell turned on the small flashlight, walked between the beds, and climbed up on The Greek’s bed, putting his knees on either side of the sleeping boy’s body. The Greek was big, six feet and two hundred pounds. There was no way Russell could beat him in a fight, he’d known that. He had simply decided to use the lesson
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