A Separate Peace.pdf - Southwest High School

84a good boy underneath," she must have thought, "a terrible temper, no self-control, but he'ssorry, and he is a good boy underneath." Leper was closer to the truth.She suggested he and I take a walk after lunch. Leper now seemed all obedience, and exceptfor the fact that he never looked at his mother, the ideal son. So he put on some odds and endsof clothing, some canvas and woolen and flannel pulled on to form a patchwork against thecutting wind, and we trailed out the back door into the splendor of the failing sunshine. I didnot have New England in my bones; I was a guest in this country, even though by now afamiliar one, and I could never see a totally extinguished winter field without thinking itunnatural. I would tramp along trying to decide whether corn had grown there in the summer,or whether it had been a pasture, or what it could ever have been, and in that deep layer of themind where all is judged by the five senses and primitive expectation, I knew that nothingwould ever grow there again. We roamed across one of these wastes, our feet breaking throughat each step the thin surface crust of ice into a layer of soft snow underneath, and I waited forLeper, in this wintery outdoors he loved, to come to himself again. Just as I knew the fieldcould never grow again, I knew that Leper could not be wild or bitter or psycho trampingacross the hills of Vermont."Is there an army camp in Vermont?" I asked, so sure in my illusion that I risked makinghim talk, risked even making him talk about the army."I don't think there is.""There ought to be. That's where they should have sent you. Then you wouldn't have gottennervous,""Yeah." A half chuckle. "I was what they call 'nervous in the service.'"Exaggerated laughter from me. "Is that what they call it?"Leper didn't bother to make a rejoinder. Before there had always been his polite capping ofremarks like this: "Yes, they do, that's what they call it"—but today he glanced speculatively atme and said nothing.We walked on, the crust cracking uneasily under us. "Nervous in the service," I said. "Thatsounds like one of Brinker's poems.""That bastard!""You wouldn't know Brinker these days the way he's changed—""I'd know that bastard if he'd changed into Snow White.""Well. He hasn't changed into Snow White.""That's too bad," the strained laughter was back in his voice, "Snow White with Brinker'sface on her. There's a picture," then he broke into sobs."Leper! What is it? What's the matter, Leper? Leper!"