Free The Grievers by Marc Schuster Page A

fell on my rubber boots and green stockings, but when I opened my mouth to explain, he looked away as if he’d just caught me listening to a Barry Manilow record or touching myself in a toilet stall. Some things were better left unmentioned, his sudden, awkward silence said as a small refrigerator hummed under his minibar.
    “As I was explaining to Charley the other day,” Ennis continued, focusing his attention on Neil so as not, I supposed, to concern himself with my fashion sense, “we have a few options in terms of—remembering—your friend most effectively.”
    “Billy,” I said. “Can we please use his name? His name was Billy.”
    “By all means,” Ennis said. “We want to remember Billy as he was. Kind, loyal, generous. A true scholar and a man for others. A paragon of Noblac ideals, if you will. Did you see the Church on your way in?”
    “It was hard to miss,” Neil said.
    “That was my first campaign,” Ennis said. “I hate to use the word capitalize , but Brother Timothy’s passing made the project feasible—at least in terms of economics. You remember Brother Timothy, don’t you?”
    “Sure,” I said. “Brown robe, thick glasses. A bit of a donkey fetish.”
    Neil coughed into his fist. Ennis looked sideways at me, then went on with his speech.
    “As tragic as it was, Brother Timothy’s passing gave our community a sense of focus. It allowed us to reflect upon the larger ideals of the Noblac order and how central they are to all of our lives. It gave us an opportunity to remember what service, scholarship, and loyalty mean to everyone who’s ever been touched by the Academy in one way or another.”
    “Or touched by Brother Timothy,” I said.
    “Death has a way of drawing people together,” Ennis said, ignoring me completely. “A way of reminding us of the values we share. This death, the death of your friend—of Billy—has the potential to bring a sizable portion of your class back into the fold. A brief letter to inform everyone of his passing. A memorial service here at the school. Maybe a few words about his friendship and what it meant to you. I’m sure you can see how such gestures might be effective in helping us reach our larger goal.”
    “Which is?” Neil said.
    “Preserving a way of life,” Ennis said as if this much were self-evident. “Upholding the time-honored values of the Noblac order. Molding the boys of today into the leaders of tomorrow.”
    “So we’re talking about money,” I said.
    “We’re talking about the greater good,” Ennis said.
    Somewhere between greater and good , my cell phone went off and a gospel choir started to serenade us with the theme from The Jeffersons. Though I tried to pretend that it wasn’t my phone informing us that we were moving on up to the East Side, it was pretty clear by the time the choir got to the deluxe apartment in the sky that the tune was coming from the left pocket of my cargo shorts. Privately cursing Anthony Gambacorta for screwing with my ringtone and (after I checked to see who was calling) Sean Sullivan for trying, more than likely, to sell me a Volkswagen at such an inopportune moment, I switched off the phone and looked up just in time to see the devil himself standing in the doorway.
    “Here’s our man,” Ennis said, rising from his desk. “You boys remember Frank Dearborn, don’t you?”
    The air went out of me as Ennis put an arm around Frank’s shoulders and ushered him into the room. He had the same Abercrombie & Fitch good looks I remembered from high school. The same swagger, too. His only flaw, if you could even call it that, was still his crooked nose. Sure, he looked a little older, but not the way Neil and I looked older—with our already receding hairlines and the paunch of a few too many beers creeping slowly over our guts. For Frank, growing older meant nothing more than the finest of wrinkles in the corners of his eyes when he smiled and shook our hands. For Frank, growing older