Chapter Twenty-one

a new life, with new hopes and new beliefs. A better life than you have ever known before." The voice
seemed now to be coming from inside her own head, yet she was aware of a dim form in the room, a man
leaning against the far wall beside the picture of the new Pope she had just hung up yesterday, a man who
was all hat and coat and hypnotic voice. A man who was evil in a way Letty could hardly believe, totally,
utterly, in every atom of his being.
So evil he might not even be a man. But his voice curled and twisted through her mind like seductive
smoke.
"A new church, Letty, and you and George are going to hear about it soon, and revere it, and join it."
"N-n-n.. ."
"When you join, you will see Jerry again, you will come to visit him at his new school. You will let me
take him now, Letty." The voice penetrated deeper and deeper, seeming to caress her very soul. "Say yes,
say yes.. . ."
She had an impression, quite clearly, that she was looking directly into the yellow-green eyes of a snake.
A thing of dreadful, overwhelming evil.
And overwhelming beauty.
But she could not scream, was no longer sure she wanted to. Even so she found she was opening her
mouth, forming a word. . . . She struggled against it, fought herself, felt it welling up between clenched
teeth. "Yes," she said, "Yes! Yes! Yes!"
George crumpled before the TV, struggling like a trussed animal as Liberace smiled and played. He said
it too, a stifled whisper of a yes.
"Both of you, again!"
"Yes, take him, yes!"
"Very well."
Letty's sickness passed. She and George huddled in the dark together, the two of them staring stunned at
the hyp­notic, gray glow of the TV, where Liberace swept through the final bars of the rhapsody. Outside
the rain rained and the wind whispered through the trees.
Jerry lay motionless, staring at the ceiling. As soon as his mother had left he had fixed his gaze on his
owl-clock, and was still watching the dimly lit eyes moving endlessly left to right and back again. And he
was listening to a persistent whisper. "Back and forth, back and forth . . . and you are getting sleepy, Jerry .
. . you are forgetting that you're supposed to go to Holy Spirit School, forgetting that you grew up in San
Diego and moved to Queens—all of that. You've always lived here, and you go to another school, a finer
school, a hidden, secret school."
"Yeah . . . secret school. . ." Jerry was floating, his only awareness the voice itself, the soft, humming
singsong of it, the intensity of it.
"The Titus School, in Greenwich Village. You've always gone there."
"Always. . ."
"And you're coming back with me, coming to start the new term."
"Yes, sir."
With rustling, with the very slightest creak of floorboards, the old man came in from the hallway. "Hello,
Jerry," he said. "We've got to go. There's an assembly in the Great Hall in an hour."
"In the middle of the night? I'm sleepy." .
The old man ignored the protest. "I've brought your uniform, little boy. Get dressed and be quick about it."
Jerry was helpless to stop the old man drawing him up from his bed, or making him cross the room and pull
the uniform on. "You have a great work to perform, Jerry, such an excep­tionally well-built, exceptionally
bright child as you. A great work."
Jerry had the weird feeling that this was all some kind of a dream, but it felt like real life. Only it couldn't
be.
Couldn't it? The old man was taking him by the hand, and he could feel that dry claw. It was very real.
And now the old man was leading him out of his room.
Jerry's eyes got wet. He choked up when they stopped in the living room to tell his parents goodbye. He
shook Dad's hand and kissed Mom.
"Letty, say, 'You look so handsome in your uniform.' "
"You look so handsome in your uniform," she murmured. "Doesn't he look handsome, George?"
Dad grinned, and cuffed Jerry on the shoulder.
"Tell him he's getting to be a big boy, George."
"Getting to be a big boy!"
"Mom, Dad—is this for real?"