THE HATCHLINGS OF FALL ’08: A TALE OF TWO UNIVERSITIES
Chapter Eleven
by Stewart Berg
The Hatchings of Fall ’08 is the story of two Tacoma-area institutions of higher learning and a group of friends who find themselves at the center of the two schools’ traditional rivalry
Chapter Eleven: A Decisive Afternoon
Folks given up under quivers and lines
-Architecture in Helsinki: “Do the Whirlwind”
You do the whirlwind, don’t abandon
Get a handle of yourself, son
Five days after the first ever instance of the Hatchet passing out of UPS hands – on, that is, the afternoon of October 30, 2008 – Cordelia’s car sat idling just north of the PLU campus; in fact, the car was parked within sight of One Hundred Twenty-First Street, the University’s northern border. In the driver’s seat was James, beside him sat Aaron, and Jackson alone occupied the back row. Outside, the morning had been dreary, and though the hours after noon had brought a slight rise in temperature, everything appeared the same.
Roughly one hundred yards from the vehicle and walking toward it was the figure of a man. He was in the process of passing the University’s library, and to his right was the two-block series of restaurants and bars along Garfield Street. He was alone, and the street he walked was Park Avenue.
Since the South Sound Showdown, the friends of Corey’s had heard nothing from Cole. They had, of course, tried contacting him immediately after realizing what he had done, and these attempts had, of course, only increased in the days that followed, but no word from him had been heard since the moment Jasmine handed him her purse outside the Baker Stadium ladies’ restroom. Henry, meanwhile, as she told it herself, had been desperately trying to get in contact with Cordelia for the past few days. The friends were, of course, suspicious of some added element to PLU’s apparent total war with its crosstown rival, so she in question had so far scorned.
By now, the figure was less than fifty yards from Cordelia’s car. To those inside the vehicle, the approach was scrutinized intently, and there existed an unspoken agreement to read future events in the movement. Each mind, too, watched and was filled with the reminder of its own movements during the preceding days, all of which had been done in vain.
The start of the series that the three minds recoiled from was, of course, the immediate moments after the Hatchet’s passing into PLU hands. All too distinctly, the three could bring before their eyes that change in Jasmine’s face upon realizing that Cole was not with them in the stands. Reason told them that the thief, likely running to his car, could not have been caught by them, no matter the instantaneousness of their vigilance, but burning memory still remained, and the several hours that they spent foolishly searching the stadium grounds, the madness of loss having convinced them that Cole might still be there, were an added blemish to the stain.
As the first day of loss bled into the second, the friends had become enraged, and they hardly slept that first night, splitting their time between Corey’s and Real Eve’s. With morning, they drove to the PLU campus then parked along One Hundred Twenty-First Street, not far from its intersection with Park Avenue. There, argument ensued, and were it not for the presence of Cordelia in the driver’s seat, the car would have likely been taken to Cole’s very driveway, there to publicly attempt a confrontation over a secret that was already, among its sharers, well established. Instead, the friends spent that Sunday in a sort of stakeout, and the most progress made was in their scheming to return some day later that week, perhaps when Cole’s might be snuck into.
Monday came, and with it came a return to the classroom. It was, therefore, not until the late afternoon when the friends could be enough assembled for another drive to the cross-town campus; however, no such trip was made, then or in the immediate days to follow. Instead, the friends, talking themselves into cooler heads, reasoned that Cole was reasonable, and thus, there would be nothing for him to do but demand a reasonable price for what should be, by any reason, a fair return. Monday, then, was lost to the friends in this way, they pleading in any way or means that seemed available, expectant of receiving, at any moment, some sort of ransom note in reply.
On Tuesday, the decision was made to, through Cordelia, make contact with Henry. Depression and desperation caused the friends to think more on that PLU student, and they reasoned that, unlike his fellow PLU student, he was reasonable, and thus, there would be nothing for him to do but, at the very least, establish contact with Cole for them. This, they told one another, they were certain of. Perhaps, they further reasoned, he might be willing to do more, should he be swayable by reason.
The figure was now arrived at Cordelia’s car, and it took a look through the windshield at each occupant in the front row. Walking the driver’s side, the man noticed Jackson sitting in that side’s back seat, so he made the walk around the back of the car, there to open that side’s back door.
“Corey didn’t come?” Henry asked as he settled into the car’s seat; in reply, Aaron, Jackson, and James looked to one another.
“She couldn’t at the last minute,” James said.
“Busy,” Aaron added.
“Class,” Jackson said at the same time.
Henry nodded, and on his face was clearly shown the fact that half of what he had come to say would be left unaddressed. He waited a few moments for the start of the expected questioning, but it seemed to be that he was awaited.
“Well,” he eventually said, “I found out what you guys wanted to know.”
“Okay,” James said, “go ahead. Tell them what you told us.”
A weight appeared to come off the young man with these words, but the invitation in them seemed, at the same time, to add a great weight to him, such that he slumped and slumped still. Slumped, too, were the shoulders that surrounded him, and the circular table that they encircled seemed to buckle under the extra weight.
The rest of Real Eve’s, however, on this afternoon of the day before Halloween was the ideal snapshot of a cozy coffee shop on a brisk fall day. The few patrons were scattered about the various couches and tables, and there was a perfect ratio of those working alone on homework and those together in small groups, who were, judging by their smiles, conversing amicably. Out the window, even, was the fog of a misty rain, making inside, then, all the warmer and more inviting. The best in modern music, of course, was playing through the shop’s speakers, at a noticeable, though negligible, volume.
Henry, his eyes downcast, did not know the song that Eve’s was currently broadcasting, but the consideration of it allowed him distraction, if only in the most momentary, from James’ invitation.
Less than an hour ago, Henry had undergone his questioning in the car from Aaron, Jackson, and James, in the middle of which those three had asked him to say no more until now, once he had been driven across Tacoma and shown to one of the back-corner tables of Eve’s, where the whole friend group of Corey’s, including Rebecca but excluding Cordelia, was assembled.
“Okay,” he said, his reply having taken its time, “but I can only say what I already told you guys in the car.”
“That’s what we all need to hear,” James said.
As with less than an hour ago, Henry spoke his way through what he had come to say, though again leaving out, of course, the words that he had rehearsed for Cordelia. This time, too, as with all retellings, he found himself able to more quickly shed his burden, and he was concise where he had before been unclear.
Most importantly, Henry informed the full collection of friends that Cole still possessed the Hatchet, but, rather than stashing it at his own home, he had been using the Frisbee House, a just-off-campus four-bedroom rental that had, for the last few years, had its lease handed down amongst members of PLU’s ultimate frisbee team. There, somewhere in the tangle of student living, was UPS’ heart and soul.
“Everything I’ve heard makes me sure it’s there,” he said. “That is, until tomorrow.”
“Why tomorrow?” Jasmine quickly asked.
“What’s tomorrow?” Valerie asked.
“Well, it’s Halloween,” Henry answered.
The prior year, the holiday of Halloween had seen the friends hosting a party at Corey’s, and the event had been, in their humble opinion, the best of the season. For a moment, then, they were given a flashing realization of how much the world changed them between the end of October 2007 and 2008.
“That’s right,” Jasmine said, giving sound to the thought. “Halloween.”
“Yeah,” Henry replied, “tomorrow’s Halloween. Did you guys forget? That’s when Cole is going to do whatever he has planned for the Hatchet.”
“Whatever Cole has planned?” James echoed hollowly.
This far, Henry had not gone before. In the car, he had been stopped prior to, in his mind, so much as arriving at the bad; in fact, he had only got so far as to reveal what he knew of the Hatchet’s current location, and it was during his mentioning of the large party that the Frisbee House had planned for Halloween that he was silenced then spirited away to Real Eve’s. Now, with the worst to be revealed, Henry began with a retelling of the circumstances of that party, and then, as lightly as possible, he mentioned the fact that something undetermined was scheduled for the Hatchet that night.
To the questions that immediately came, Henry could only say that he had told all he knew. Cole, he said, had been keeping the matter a strict secret, and the only reason he knew the little he did was because Cole had, only that morning, passed a few rumors among the football team. These rumors, then, were all Henry could speak for, and whether it was mere display, vile desecration, or full destruction that was planned for the Hatchet, each of which was rumored, he would not venture to guess.
Throughout this conference of the friends, Real Eve’s had changed little, and it still retained its picturesque nature, with the little table in the back, where sat an anxious huddle, the lone exception. This exception went almost entirely unnoticed; in fact, what most in the coffee shop were aware of at that moment was that the shop’s music had stopped between songs for longer than usual, as if a staff member had paused the playlist in order to insert a special selection. Unlike previously, Henry was familiar with the song that, after the noticeable silence, began, which was “Do the Whirlwind” by Architecture in Helsinki.
“Could we get into the party?” Rebecca asked after some time.
The heads about the table all turned to the speaker, whom none would have thought to speak, and this turning, by its very nature, raised the assembled eyes, which, in the wake of knowing the worst of what was to come, had been downcast and unwilling to make contact even out of corner. Several moments would be required before the blank hollowness was fully dissipated, but now that it had been pierced, it was sure to be soon banished, and the friends’ attention had officially been turned toward stealing back the Hatchet.
“The party at the Frisbee House tomorrow,” Rebecca continued, “could we get into it?”
CHAPTER TWELVE
A Precarious Evening
