Black Chalk

Chad points down to his small carry-on case. No waiting at baggage, he says, I zipped on through. Then when I didn’t see you, I got some coffee. Chad squints at my face and says, Man, what happened to you?

I touch my nose. Christmas-tree accident, I say.

Christmas tree? Chad says. Jolyon, it’s May.

I can’t think what to say, how to avoid mention of Dee. There is a great tranquil presence about this older Chad, an aura that makes me nervous. I blurt out the first thing I can think of. Great weather, I say. No humidity yet.

Chad only nods with a trace of bemusement.

I thought about making you one of those name signs, I say, feeling myself beginning to blush. And why did I say this? It’s not even true.

Hey, you should have done, Chad says, with a genial laugh. A sign with my name, that would have been great, I’ve never had one of those.

But you wouldn’t have seen it, I say.

No, he says, I guess that’s true.

I try my best to listen for clues, to feel for invisible currents. I used to be good at this but I can tell nothing more about Chad than what lies on the surface. Good-looking and happy, at peace with himself.

Chad puts his hand on my shoulder. It truly is good to see you, Jolyon, he says.

His touch makes me flinch inside. I should go, I say.

Go? Chad says. But you only just got here. Jolyon, I asked you to meet me at the airport because I thought we might catch up. At least share a cab with me, that’ll give us an hour to chat. I’ll drop you off at your place on the way to my hotel.

I flinch when Chad talks about my place. It reminds me that he has found me here, has hunted me down like a fugitive from justice. I really think I should take the subway, I say.

I’m paying, Chad says.

I just bought a Metrocard, I say, quickly blushing again.

Sure then, Chad says. We can play this any way you want to, Jolyon. Chad looks muscular and tanned, he doesn’t even look tired after his flight. We really do need to talk though, he says. Can I come to your apartment tomorrow? What time’s good for you?

Any time, I reply, I don’t think my schedule’s especially hectic tomorrow.

Good, Chad says, see you tomorrow then. He shakes my hand firmly again. But then, as Chad is about to leave, he turns back and says, Oh, I nearly forgot, I have a present for you, Jolyon. I mean, it’s dumb really. He reaches into his suitcase and hands me a small gift in silver wrapping. But don’t open it here, he says, you’ll embarrass me.

I am shaking the gift next to my ear, feeling its weight.

Come on, I’m like beetroot over here, Chad says. But this isn’t true. He swipes paw-like at the air. It’s really great to see you, Jolyon, he says. And then as Chad walks away, not looking back, he raises an arm as high as it can stretch. He points at the sky with his forefinger, waves a loose farewell. When he lowers the arm he is lost in the crowd.

LXI(iii) I open the present while I ride the Air Train to Howard Beach. Inside I find, folded up so that it is no bigger than a deck of playing cards, a small tablecloth. It is round and white, made of delicate lace. Also there is a box. I remove the lid and peer inside. The box is lined, foam rubber with two cut-out holes that nestle two eggs. Chad has carried with him, more than three thousand miles across the Atlantic Ocean, a tablecloth and two hard-boiled eggs.

I think about the gift for some time and how genial Chad seemed in the airport. And I wonder if I am mistaken about the purpose of his visit. Perhaps he wants everything to be finished between us, a renewal of friendship, remembrance of happier days.

Two eggs. Old friends. So much potential.

LXII

LXII(i) Jolyon’s diary extracts counted out his days for him like a prisoner’s scratches, the marking of time on the cell wall. No. 3, no. 4, no. 5, no. 6, no. 7 . . .

And then he could take no more, he kept his eyes low in the bathroom, ignored his final humiliations written up there in his own words.

Saturday arrived, the Game’s hiatus would be over the next day. Again they had pushed a note beneath his door to inform him.

Jolyon lay on his bed looking up through his window all day. The darkness was falling into his room. And that’s when a new sensation suddenly flooded his chest, a feeling that broke over him even before the words. He whispered it out loud, the words turning a feeling into truth. ‘I can quit,’ he said. ‘In the morning, I’m going to quit.’

Jolyon jumped off his bed, he should write it all down immediately, his formal resignation from the Game. To have such a letter waiting on his desk would be a release from everything. Maybe he wouldn’t need the pills any more. Game Soc would return his deposit and he would give the thousand pounds to Mark right away. The solution was simple. Everything would be over in only a day or two.