Chapter 34
Leonard Levesque departed the ablution block and closed the door behind him.
In his right hand he held Anthony Marshall’s sodden pajama bottoms, which he tossed into the bushes with the boy’s Crocs.
Nearby, covered by a tarp, was stacked lumber of different lengths, which Sadlier, the custodian, planned to use to make repairs before winter set in.
Leonard selected one that looked to be the right size and positioned it under the doorknob, kicking at it with his instep until it was lodged in place.
He stepped away and lit that last cigarette.
He’d taken the time to wash his hands in the sink using the cheap soap from the dispenser, but he could still smell Anthony Marshall’s waste on his fingers, or thought he could.
Leonard dabbed at the blood on his white sleep shirt, not all of it his victim’s.
Piss boy had caught him a few good ones before Leonard beat him down.
Someone had taught him how to throw a punch, which Leonard wasn’t expecting because Anthony had never fought back before; the kid must have been holding it all in reserve.
The first two blows landed smackity-smack on Leonard’s nose, and had he not been leaning back, might well have broken it.
As it was, he’d felt blood begin to flow, and was so shocked that Anthony nearly managed to slip by him—nearly, but nearly was worse than never, as Leonard’s father often said, typically before he commenced landing some punches of his own.
In common with Anthony Marshall, Chick Levesque didn’t look like someone who knew how to use his fists—Leonard had inherited the bovine placidity of his features from his father, as well as the worst of what they concealed—but the old man was full of surprises, none of them pleasant.
Leonard hoped to live long enough to see his father become sick and decrepit, at which point Leonard would step in to take care of him, like any good son should.
Leonard took a long, slow drag on the cigarette. He pictured Anthony Marshall in the ablution block, all naked and bloodied. Leonard tried to analyze how this made him feel, and concluded that he felt nothing.
Time for bed.
Anthony Marshall was slumped naked on the floor of the stall, surrounded by water and his own filth.
Distantly, he was aware of the sound of a door closing, then quiet.
Anthony, too, was silent. He’d stopped crying a while back, because when he cried, Leonard Levesque hurt him more.
As a result, Anthony had retreated so far into himself that he was barely cognizant of what was being inflicted on him, even as he struggled to understand what he could possibly have done to deserve it.
Leonard’s attack had progressed beyond any routine concept of bullying or degradation to become a sustained, ferocious assault on Anthony’s very spirit, an attempt to reduce him to nothing but blood, shit, piss, and puke, an entity nameless and without consequence.
What Anthony would specifically take away from the experience, retaining it unto the grave, was an impression of violation that was not alone physical but sexual, and the memory of Leonard Levesque’s face, which barely altered in expression throughout, so that it might have been a mask worn by whatever demon it was that shared his body and revealed itself only in such moments.
Anthony’s arms were wrapped around him against the cold.
As he came back to himself, he knew he could not stay in the ablution block.
He didn’t think the night would freeze, not in fall, but the temperature wouldn’t have to drop much lower to make him sick, and the Spero was unsympathetic to illness.
He would need to shower first; he couldn’t return to the dorm like this.
But the water would be cold and he didn’t have a towel, just the now-soiled T-shirt he’d been wearing with his PJ bottoms, and he didn’t want to dry himself with that.
He’d have to use paper towels. He braced himself against the toilet bowl to get up, and pain made itself known in places that hadn’t hurt before he moved.
He was sure Leonard Levesque hadn’t broken any bones—that wasn’t the way Leonard operated—but there would be bruising and bleeding.
Since arriving at Spero, Anthony had tried not to think about his mom and dad because it made him sad and angry.
He hoped Mr Santopietro would allow him to call and tell them what had happened.
They might then reconsider their decision to send him to Spero, and come to take him home.
If they did, Anthony would promise to try harder.
He’d find a way to make regular school work.
He’d keep his appointments with the counselor and swallow any pills they told him to.
He’d do anything his parents asked, if only they’d get him away from this place and Leonard Levesque.
Through one of the high rectangular windows, Anthony could see the moon.
He stared at it for a time, until a cloud drifted across its face, breaking the spell, followed by a tap-tap-tapping from above his head as a night creature ran across the roof: a raccoon, or a big owl preparing to take flight.
Anthony commenced a slow shuffle to the stall door.
He had his hand on the clasp when he thought he heard a noise from the other side: fabric brushing against ceramic, followed by what might have been a footstep.
It was Leonard Levesque, it had to be. Leonard, who had gone through the motions of pretending to leave, closing the door behind him and rattling the knob, when all the time he’d been waiting for Anthony to recover from the first beating so he could deliver a second.
But Anthony couldn’t take another beating. He’d die. He was sure of it.
He found his tongue.
“Please, Leonard,” said Anthony. “Please leave me alone. I’m sorry for whatever I did. I won’t do it again, ever, and I won’t tell anyone what happened, I swear. I just want to get cleaned up and go back to the dorm. Please, Leonard. Please.”
But there was no reply.
Anthony pressed his forehead against the wood of the old stall. He was sure he was going to throw up again.
“Please,” he whispered one more time, and opened the door.