Black Christmas by Lee Hays Read Free Book Online

it will calm things down, or calm you down, I take it back. All right? I’m sure you girls aren’t like that, aren’t like the other girls on campus. Okay?”
    “Yes, we are, as a matter of fact. Worse. But it’s none of your goddamn business.”
    Phyllis took Barbara by the arm and tried to lead her away from the sergeant’s desk. “Come on, Barb. You’re not helping things here at all.”
    “I wish I had a drink!”
    “Shh!”
    Barbara pulled away from Phyl’s restraining arm and stood by the counter, sulking. Phyllis shrugged, then went to the counter where Clare’s father was filling out the form, leaning over quietly and asking him if there was anything she could do to help.
    In the meantime the Sergeant was writing in a small book. He looked up from his desk and cleared his throat.
    Stonily, Barbara ignored him until he repeated it, then she looked over at him coldly.
    “Excuse me. Could you tell me the number of the sorority house, the telephone number? Please!”
    Her attitude seemed to change at once. She smiled at him and said, “Yeah, sure. It’s FEllatio 2-0880.”
    He started to write, then stopped and asked, “What?”
    With an air of impatience she repeated the number, adding, “It’s a new exchange. FEllatio. F . . . E . . .”
    The sergeant shook his head. “Yeah, it’s a new one to me. How do you spell it?”
    Turning her back to him and carefully examining her fingernails in feigned boredom she said, “Capital F-E-small double ll-a-t-i-o.”
    “Thanks.”
    “Don’t mention it.”
    At the same time, not far from the station, in the hall where Jess had told him about the baby, Peter Smythe struck the first chord of the sonata he had chosen to play as his audition piece. Three elderly gentlemen sat in three stiff straight-backed chairs opposite the grand piano where Peter sat. The three older men in the room had expressionless faces while Peter’s reflected his passion, and his anxiety. He was playing beautifully, he knew that.
    Feeling pleased with himself he was suddenly aware that he had struck a wrong note. Continuing to play he looked down at the keys, perplexed and uneasy. Continuing to play he glanced over at them hesitantly. They might as well have been statues.
    Once more his hands stumbled, this time badly. Beads of sweat began to form on his forehead and he attempted to turn his concentration completely on the music, shutting out the profiles of the three old men, shutting out the conversation with Jess, hearing nothing but the music.
    There, he thought, got it right. His eyes flashed up as his fingers flew correctly over the difficult passage. Unbelieving, he heard a false note, saw the eyes of one of the judges flicker and his head nod depreciatingly at the blunder.
    Finally, eons later, the torment was over and the piece ended. Peter sat silently looking straight ahead as the three men rose and marched past him not unlike three toy soldiers marching stiffly across a parade ground. They stopped behind him for a moment and one of them, he couldn’t tell which for he didn’t bother to look up, said formally, “Thank you very much, Mr. Smythe.” Then, one by one, they walked away, through the door and down the hall.
    Peter stared at the keyboard as their footsteps echoed and then faded away. He bit his lip until there was a single drop of blood which he absent-mindedly licked away with his tongue. Thoughtfully he poked a key on the piano and listened to the sound echo through the empty room. He started to play again but once more he made a mistake. He stopped, composed himself, took a deep breath and started again. He was playing the passage where he had failed in front of the three judges.
    This time there was no mistake. Tears flowed down his cheeks as he finished it perfectly. Then he stopped and looked up but the men were far away. He laughed bitterly, looked disdainfully at the piano, got up slowly and walked toward the door. Passing a music stand in the middle of the