that instead of being a believer in the established views of the medieval church, he was a heretic who believed that the earth was the creation of Satan. And that Satan was the ruler of all things physical and corporeal. Including the body . . .”
The boy was basically quoting the prologue to Eric’s book.
Randall turned, as if framing himself directly beneath the work in question as he demonstrated his knowledge of it. But now, his voice had a gently prodding tone to it. “To be cursed, to be the ultimate sinner, was to be ensnared in the physical. Was it that easy to be damned? Simply to feel alive in your own body?”
Eric wondered if perhaps this young man had been spending time with his grad students. Randall’s hard but expectant stare suggested that Eric’s initial suspicion was correct.
“Where do you live?” he asked.
“Stockton Hall.”
“That’s three blocks from here. ..” Eric’s heart was hammering, knowing that he shouldn’t press at all, should shut the boy out with silence and then shut the door after him. “How did you know where I live?” he finally asked.
Without guilt or the sudden shame of the caught, Randall answered, “I followed you.”
It was past one and Stockton Hall was winding down from another Friday night, but the glare of the hallway’s fluorescent lights seemed profane and Randall kept his head bowed, listening to the slow scrape of his footsteps over the hallway’s thin industrial carpet. As he approached the end of the hall, he heard conversations muffled by cinderblock and the distant pounding of a stereo. None of it was loud enough to drown out the memory of the sound of Eric slamming the front door to his house. At the end of the hall, he stopped outside Kathryn’s room. He had trained himself to endure moments like these, to fight the urge to confess to Kathryn the truth about what had brought him to Atherton. But the urge was stronger than it had ever been. Once Eric slammed the door, Randall had to suffer the weight of his secret alone. No sliver of light came from beneath Kathryn’s door, so he turned for his own.
Randall hesitated before he went in, waiting to hear a grunt or a sudden sharp intake of breath. He could only make out Jesse’s voice speaking in urgent, hushed tones. It was the voice Jesse used with only one person, his father. Randall gave the door a gentle shove.
Kathryn had once observed that no dorm room in Stockton was more cleanly divided between roommates than his and Jesse’s. Jesse’s side of the room was stark; the only thing adorning the wall beside his bed was a print of Salvador Dali's Persistence of Memory , On the four shelves affixed to the wall above his headboard, his textbooks were meticulously organized by course, each one Atherton’s basic introductory gut. Intro to Psych, American History, etc. Across the room, Randall’s wall was an eruption of posters, the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel meeting the edge of Frank Lloyd Wright’s Fallingwater, competing with anything else he could buy at the student union or tear out of a magazine. Pages detached from the Abercrombie & Fitch catalog—half-naked models, their arms looped with commercialized nonchalance around each other’s shoulders—presided over his desk, their prominent placement an attempt to remind Jesse of his roommate’s orientation and perhaps deter him from loafing around the room in only a pair of gym shorts or boxers. So far the attempt had failed.
Blue lights from the miniature television flickered across Jesse’s torso where he lay on the bed, the portable phone pressed to his ear. As Randall hung up his jacket, he heard Jesse giving only sporadic grunts of acknowledgment to the person on the other end of the line. The TV sat on top of the miniature, knee-high refrigerator; they both had been jointly rented from the student union, and without protest, Randall had
The boy was basically quoting the prologue to Eric’s book.
Randall turned, as if framing himself directly beneath the work in question as he demonstrated his knowledge of it. But now, his voice had a gently prodding tone to it. “To be cursed, to be the ultimate sinner, was to be ensnared in the physical. Was it that easy to be damned? Simply to feel alive in your own body?”
Eric wondered if perhaps this young man had been spending time with his grad students. Randall’s hard but expectant stare suggested that Eric’s initial suspicion was correct.
“Where do you live?” he asked.
“Stockton Hall.”
“That’s three blocks from here. ..” Eric’s heart was hammering, knowing that he shouldn’t press at all, should shut the boy out with silence and then shut the door after him. “How did you know where I live?” he finally asked.
Without guilt or the sudden shame of the caught, Randall answered, “I followed you.”
It was past one and Stockton Hall was winding down from another Friday night, but the glare of the hallway’s fluorescent lights seemed profane and Randall kept his head bowed, listening to the slow scrape of his footsteps over the hallway’s thin industrial carpet. As he approached the end of the hall, he heard conversations muffled by cinderblock and the distant pounding of a stereo. None of it was loud enough to drown out the memory of the sound of Eric slamming the front door to his house. At the end of the hall, he stopped outside Kathryn’s room. He had trained himself to endure moments like these, to fight the urge to confess to Kathryn the truth about what had brought him to Atherton. But the urge was stronger than it had ever been. Once Eric slammed the door, Randall had to suffer the weight of his secret alone. No sliver of light came from beneath Kathryn’s door, so he turned for his own.
Randall hesitated before he went in, waiting to hear a grunt or a sudden sharp intake of breath. He could only make out Jesse’s voice speaking in urgent, hushed tones. It was the voice Jesse used with only one person, his father. Randall gave the door a gentle shove.
Kathryn had once observed that no dorm room in Stockton was more cleanly divided between roommates than his and Jesse’s. Jesse’s side of the room was stark; the only thing adorning the wall beside his bed was a print of Salvador Dali's Persistence of Memory , On the four shelves affixed to the wall above his headboard, his textbooks were meticulously organized by course, each one Atherton’s basic introductory gut. Intro to Psych, American History, etc. Across the room, Randall’s wall was an eruption of posters, the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel meeting the edge of Frank Lloyd Wright’s Fallingwater, competing with anything else he could buy at the student union or tear out of a magazine. Pages detached from the Abercrombie & Fitch catalog—half-naked models, their arms looped with commercialized nonchalance around each other’s shoulders—presided over his desk, their prominent placement an attempt to remind Jesse of his roommate’s orientation and perhaps deter him from loafing around the room in only a pair of gym shorts or boxers. So far the attempt had failed.
Blue lights from the miniature television flickered across Jesse’s torso where he lay on the bed, the portable phone pressed to his ear. As Randall hung up his jacket, he heard Jesse giving only sporadic grunts of acknowledgment to the person on the other end of the line. The TV sat on top of the miniature, knee-high refrigerator; they both had been jointly rented from the student union, and without protest, Randall had
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