iancaldwell&dustinthomason.theruleoffour-第67部分

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　The　tunnels；　I　tell　him。　They　e　out　near　the　tunnels。
　Then　the　smoke　clears；　and　the　hoses　make　sense　of　the　club's　face；　and　everything　begins　to　change。　There　is　less　searching；　less　listening。　There　is　nothing　left；　they　are　saying；　in　the　slowness　of　their　steps。　There　is　no　one　inside　this。
　Paul　is　alive；　I　shout。　I　saw　him。
　But　every　second　is　a　strike　against　him。　Every　minute　is　a　fistful　of　sand。　By　the　way　Gil　is　looking　at　me　now；　I　realize　how　much　has　changed。
　〃I'm　okay；〃　he　says　to　the　medic　tending　to　his　arm。　He　wipes　a　wet　cheek；　then　points　to　me。　〃Help　my　friend。〃
　The　moon　hangs　over　us　like　a　watchful　eye；　and　as　I　sit　there；　staring　past　the　silent　men　who　hose　down　the　shattered　clubhouse；　I　imagine　Paul's　voice。　Somehow；　he　says；　far　away；　staring　at　me　over　coffee；　I　feel　like　he's　my　father　too。　Over　the　black　curtain　of　the　sky　I　can　see　his　face；　so　full　of　certainty　that　I　believe　him　even　now。
　So　what　do　you　think？　he　is　asking　me。
　About　you　going　to　Chicago？
　About　us　going　to　Chicago。
　　
　Where　we　were　taken　that　night；　what　questions　were　asked　of　us；　I　don't　remember。　The　fire　kept　burning　in　front　of　me；　and　Paul's　voice　hummed　in　my　ears；　as　though　he　might　still　rise　from　the　flames。　I　saw　a　thousand　faces　before　that　sunrise；　bearing　messages　of　hope：　friends　roused　from　their　rooms　by　the　fire；　professors　awakened　in　their　beds　by　the　sound　of　sirens；　the　chapel　service　itself　stopped　in　mid…reading　by　the　spectacle　of　it　all。　And　they　gathered　around　us　like　a　traveling　treasury；　each　face　a　coin；　as　if　it　had　been　declared　on　high　that　we　ought　to　suffer　our　losses　by　counting　what　remained。　Maybe　I　knew　then　that　it　was　a　rich；　rich　poverty　we　were　entering。　What　dark　edy　the　gods　favored；　who　made　this。　My　brother　Paul；　sacrificed　on　Easter。　The　tortoise　shell　of　irony；　dropped　heavy　on　our　heads。
　That　night　the　three　of　us　survived；　together；　out　of　necessity。　We　met　in　the　hospital；　Gil　and　Charlie　and　I；　bedfellows　again。　None　of　us　spoke。　Charlie　fingered　the　crucifix　around　his　neck；　Gil　slept；　and　I　stared　at　the　walls。　Without　news　about　Paul；　we　all　invested　ourselves　in　the　myth　of　his　survival；　the　myth　of　his　resurrection。　I　should　have　known　better　than　to　believe　there　was　anything　indivisible　about　a　friendship；　any　more　than　there　was　about　a　family。　And　yet　the　myth　of　it　sustained　me　then。　Then；　and　ever　after。
　Myth；　I　say。　And　never　hope。
　For　the　box　of　hope　lay　empty。
　
　Chapter　29
　
　Time；　like　a　doctor；　washed　its　hands　of　us。　Before　Charlie　was　even　out　of　the　hospital；　we　had　bee　old　news。　Classmates　stared　at　us　as　if　we　were　out　of　context；　fugitive　memories　with　an　aura　of　former　significance。
　Within　a　week；　the　cloud　of　violence　over　Princeton　had　burned　off。　Students　began　to　walk　across　campus　after　dark　again；　first　in　groups；　then　alone。　Unable　to　sleep；　I　would　wander　off　to　the　WaWa　in　the　middle　of　the　night；　only　to　find　it　full　of　people。　Richard　Curry　lived　on　in　their　conversations。　So　did　Paul。　But　gradually　the　names　I　knew　disappeared；　replaced　by　exams　and　varsity　lacrosse　games　and　the　yearly　spring　talk；　a　senior　who'd　slept　with　her　thesis　advisor；　the　final　episode　of　a　favorite　television　show。　Even　the　headlines　I　read　while　waiting　in　line　at　the　register；　the　ones　that　kept　my　mind　off　being　alone　when　everyone　else　seemed　to　be　with　friends；　suggested　that　the　world　had　moved　forward　without　us。　On　the　seventeenth　day　after　Easter；　the　front　page　of　the　Princeton　Packet　announced　that　a　plan　for　an　underground　parking　lot　in　town　had　been　nixed。　Only　at　the　bottom　of　page　two　was　it　reported　that　a　wealthy　alumnus　had　donated　two　million　dollars　toward　the　rebuilding　of　Ivy。
　Charlie　was　out　of　his　hospital　bed　in　five　days；　but　spent　another　two　weeks　in　rehab。　Doctors　suggested　cosmetic　surgery　on　his　chest；　where　patches　of　his　skin　had　bee　thick　and　gristly；　but　Charlie　refused。　I　visited　him　at　the　medical　center　every　day　but　one。　Charlie　wanted　me　to　bring　him　potato　chips　from　the　WaWa；　books　for　his　classes；　scores　from　every　Sixers　game。　He　always　gave　me　a　reason　to　e　back。
　More　than　once　he　made　a　point　of　showing　me　his　burns。　At　first　I　thought　it　was　to　prove　something　to　himself；　that　he　didn't　feel　disfigured；　that　he　was　much　stronger　than　what　had　happened　to　him。　Later　I　sensed　that　the　opposite　was　true。　He　wanted　to　make　sure　I　knew　he　had　been　changed　by　this。　He　seemed　to　fear　that　he'd　stopped　being　a　part　of　my　life　and　Gil's　at　the　moment　he　ran　into　the　steam　tunnels　after　Paul。　We　were　getting　along　without　him；　mending　our　losses　alone。　He　knew　we'd　begun　to　feel　like　strangers　in　our　own　skins；　and　he　wanted　us　to　know　that　he　was　in　the　same　position；　that　we　were　all　still　in　this　together。
　It　surprised　me　that　Gil　visited　him　as　much　as　he　did。　I　was　there　for　a　few　of　the　visits；　and　there　was　the　same　awkwardness　every　time。　Both　of　them　felt　guilty　in　a　way　that　was　intensified　by　seeing　the　other。　However　irrational；　Charlie　felt　that　he'd　abandoned　us　by　not　being　at　Ivy。　At　times；　he　even　saw　Paul's　blood　on　his　own　hands；　weighing　Paul's　death　as　the　price　of　his　own　weakness。　Gil　seemed　to　feel　that　he　himself　had　abandoned　us　long　ago；　in　a　way　that　was　harder　to　express。　That　Charlie　could　feel　so　guilty；　having　done　so　much；　only　made　Gil　feel　worse。
　One　night　before　he　went　to　bed；　Gil　apologized　to　me。　He　said　he　wished　he'd　done　things　differently。　We　deserved　better。　From　that　night　on；　I　never　found　him　watching　old　movies。　He　took　his　meals　at　restaurants　that　seemed　farther　and　farther　from　campus。　Every　time　I　invited　him　to　lunch　at　my　club；　he　found　a　reason　not　to　e。　It　took　four　or　five　rejections　for　me　to　understand　that　it　wasn't　the　pany　he　objected　to；　it　was　the　thought　of　seeing　Ivy　on　the　way　there。　When　Charlie　got　out　of　the　hospital；　he　and　I　were　together　breakfast；　lunch；　and　dinner。　More　and　more；　Gil　ate　and　drank　alone。
　Slowly　our　lives　fell　out　of　scrutiny。　If　we　felt　like　pariahs　at　first；　when　everyone　grew　tired　of　hearing　about　us；　then　we　felt　like　ghosts　afterward；　when　everyone　began　to　forget。　The　university's　memorial　service　for　Paul　was　held　in　the　chapel；　but　could've　fit　in　a　small　classroom　for　the　tiny　crowd　it　drew；　hardly　as　many　students　as　professors；　and　most　of　those　just　members　of　the　EMT　squad　or　of　Ivy；　showing　up　out　of　passion　for　Charlie　or　Gil。　The　only　faculty　member　who　approached　me　after　the　service　was　Professor　LaRoque；　the　woman　who　first　sent　Paul　to　see　Taft…and　even　she　seemed　interested　only　in　the　Hypnerotomachia；　in　Paul's　discovery　rather　than　in　Paul　himself。　I　told　her　nothing；　and　made　a　point　of　doing　the　same　every　time　the　Hypnerotomachia　came　up　after　that。　I　thought　it　was　the　least　I　could　do；　not　giving　away　to　strangers　the　secret　Paul　had　worked　so　hard　to　keep　between　friends。
　What　briefly　caused　a　resurgence　of　interest　was　the　discovery；　a　week　after　the　headline　about　the　underground　parking　lot；　that　Richard　Curry　had　liquidated　his　assets　just　before　leaving　New　York　for　Princeton。　He　had　placed　the　money　in　a　private　trust；　along　with　the　residual　properties　of　his　auction　house。　When　banks　refused　to　reveal　the　terms　of　the　trust；　Ivy　asserted　a　right　to　the　money；　as　pensation　for　its　damages。　Only　when　the　club's　board　decided　that　not　a　stone　of　the　new　building　would　be　bought　with　Curry's　money　did　the　flap　subside。　Meanwhile；　papers　flocked　to　the　news　that　Richard　Curry　had　left　all　of　his　money　to　an　unnamed　trustee；　and　a　few　even　suggested　what　I　already　believed…that　the　money　was　meant　for　Paul。
　Knowing　nothing　of　Paul's　thesis；　though；　the　greater　public　could　make　little　sense　of　Curry's　intentions；　so　they　dug　into　his　friendship　with　Taft　until　the　two　men　became　a　farce；　an　explanation　for　all　evil　that　was　no　explanation　at　all。　Taft's　home　at　the　Institute　became　a　ghost　house。　New　Institute　Fellows　refused　to　live　there；　and　townie　teenagers　dared　each　other　to　break　in。
　The　only　benefit　of　the　new　climate；　the　one　of　fantastic　theories　and　sensational　headlines；　was　that　it　soon　became　impossible　to　suggest　that　Gil　and　Charlie　and　I　had　done　anything　wrong　at　all。　We　weren't　flamboyant　enough　to　play　a　role　in　what　had　happened；　bizarre　as　everyone　thought　it　was；　not　when　the　local　news　could　fill　its　coverage　with　pictures　of　Rasputin　Taft　and　the　lunatic　Curry　who　killed　him。　The　police　and　the　university　both　acknowledged　that　they　had　no　intention　of　pursuing　any　action　against　us；　and　I　suppose　it　made　a　difference　to　our　parents　that　we　would　graduate　without　disgrace。　None　of　it　mattered　much　to　Gil；　since　that　sort　of　thing　never　did；　and　I　couldn't　get　around　to　giving　much　of　a　damn　myself。
　Still；　I　think　it　took　a　load　off　Charlie's　mind。　He　lived　increasingly　in　the　shadow　of　what　had　happened。　Gil　called　it　a　persecution　plex；　the　way　he　expected　misfortune　at　every　turn；　but　I　think　Charlie　had　simply　convinced　himself　that　he　could've　saved　Paul。　Whatever　it　was；　there　was　going　to　be　a　reckoning　for　his　failures…if　not　at　Princeton；　then　in　the　future。　It　wasn't　so　much　persecution　Charlie　feared；　it