James Journalist

                                      Graphic Sexual Days

                                       a novel of youth  

Iraq, summer,

2005

The doctor leaned in closer. He said, “You probably won’t be able to walk again but you’ll be going home soon.”

Then, he remembered something else. He wanted to ask the doctor how long he thought he would have to stay in the hospital before his release. He needed to get the answer to that question before the doctor moved on because he was just one of many soldiers in a similar predicament and he certainly couldn’t expect special treatment. The doctor continued talking, looking at him, but it was difficult to make out whole sentences, especially the long ones

He could feel hot breath on his forehead. The doctor came closer. Then something was said to the nurse, something about leaving, and the doctor moved away. HHHeeddHe must have moved to the far side of the room because his voice became muffled, almost a whisper.

It’s time, the nurse agreed.

He was going home now. That was the news.

He was so tired – and probably drugged – that he could barely speak. He tried to shift in the bed to signify that he understood what was happening. He moved his hand out from beneath the covers but he was so weak the hand fell back to the sheets. The doctor said something again. He had trouble making sense of it and he wondered who the doctor was speaking to; it was clear from the tone of his voice that he wasn’t speaking to him.

He needed to find out if the war was still going on or if the troops were home safe. If he was home safe. He opened and closed his eyes quickly – he couldn’t keep them open for very long. The doctor was speaking about his discharge. That sounded just fine. He’d had enough of Iraq. He was eager to get home, to get back to all those people he knew would be waiting to hear his stories. He'd be happy to answer all their questions. He hadn’t been keen on going to Iraq in the first place and he would have plenty to say about it.

The sound of the shot was followed by a deep rasping blast that reminded him of the plane engines at Logan. When he was a kid, he loved to stand by the big windows at the airport, watching the planes. He would hear that same sound, the heavy roar coming from the aircraft as they moved off the runways.

The rumble passed quickly and he could see into the distance, where there was only thick smoke rolling in. He moved a few inches from the post, closer to the closest body, which was face down on a leaf of blood. He tried to see who it was but he would have to move to the other side to make it out, and he heard gunfire coming in closer. He was afraid to move. As he was about to step over the body, he heard the rumble again but it was much louder this time, much nearer, and he felt the ground shake – like it was about to buckle. The force of the shaking caused the dead body to turn slightly, enough for him to make out that it was Slater, the next oldest guy in the platoon. The reverb increased, the ground was moving now. He didn’t know what sort of weapon could make the earth move like that.

Then it stopped suddenly and he dropped to the ground from the impact of the shell that landed right in front of him. He could see it, he could smell the chalky odor for only a second, just before he passed out.

Then, he briefly crept back to awareness. He heard no one, and he felt no rumbling. He was safe, he said to himself – off somewhere, back at the base or in the hospital or maybe back home. That didn’t seem likely, though. But maybe. This place was funny. Sometimes, things worked out. He slept for what felt like days. It was a good, deep sleep, uninterrupted by questions or answers.

He slept like that until he came to, sometime around the end of the month. The doctor smiled at him. He waited for the doctor to say something, to ask him how he felt or what he was thinking. But he simply stood over him, watching and smiling with satisfaction, as if there was something to celebrate.

It was important that he find out what was really happening. He needed to search around the corner, around the post to where the others had been – there might still be someone. He raised himself up a little. There were awful, loud explosions in rapid succession. Bam. Bam. Bam. He felt nauseous. He needed to do something right away or he he’d stay there forever. He needed to stop thinking, that's what he needed to do. If he considered what he was about to commit to, he would freeze up and then, as sure as he was thinking, he’d be dead. He didn’t want to be dead. He felt like getting out of this place in one piece, and getting home so he could explain what had happened.

He half expected everything to go silent because that was the way it happened in the movies. There would be a lot of noise and then – . But the sounds went on and on, unabated – small arms fire, explosions, loud metal banging, commands and expressions in urgent Arabic. Passing along the smooth, rounded wooden hollow of the post, he could see the bodies of his friends lying spread-eagle, a few feet away. He squinted into the dust to see if they were moving. He thought, it would be awful to be left alone like this, in the middle of nowhere, the proverbial last man standing. He heard a series of shots.

Then it came. The big, hard ever-expanding explosion; it seemed to go on for several minutes. He heard his Captain yell something about moving away. Moving around where? But then as he was trying to understand what was being said, the Captain’s voice went quiet, and so did everyone else’s, and he understood exactly what had happened.

For all he knew, every one of those men had been blown away with the Captain. There were plenty of precedents for that – only the day before, outside Ambush Alley, thirteen soldiers had gone down in a setup just like this one. He was all alone now. He needed to look around the corner, to move out just to the other side of the post, but he was scared. It was quiet, like death itself. He assumed the enemy was waiting for him to do something reckless, or just plain stupid. He still needed to get someone’s advice – the Sergeant who’d made fun of him because of his age, or the lieutenant, who criticized him for not carrying the right amount of body armor, or the Captain, who was now dead.

He crouched low and tried to gather his thoughts. He could hear no one screaming or calling his name.

The explosions were indiscriminate. Unless bits of shrapnel or falling plaster found you crouching, you were safe. His mind was playing the usual games. He’d been keeping track of his buddies; that was always key – it was the first and last thing you were taught. But now everyone was out of sight in dark corners of the building, or around the periphery, like him. They might as well have been on another planet. If something came down, which seemed pretty likely now, they’d be useless to him – or if something happened a few yards away, it wouldn’t matter because he wouldn’t be able to do anything for anyone, either. He would be right in the line of fire. It wasn’t necessary to think about the order of events. He could draw a diagram of these operations, they never varied, only the terrain and the addresses.

He strained to hear voices. If he could hear words he would have a better idea about the right time to move. In moments like these, you could have a thousand thoughts – but they were useless, every one of them. No thought, or impression, or idea could bring him closer to understanding what he found himself in the middle of. There was a good chance of being blown away – or seeing someone being blown to a million pieces.

He was standing behind this big mottled post, about three feet wide. There was no time to think anymore – he could hear hostile noises sailing in from every direction. His head felt light – a dodgy headache pressed the nerves of his temples – but his body was heavy as a truck. He stepped to his right to see what the others were doing, then he leaned against the post. It was cooling down, after a long dry afternoon; the Captain had said it was the hottest day he’d spent in Iraq. It was no fun to pass hot days in confined spaces. The worst of the world was measured a foot or two at a time. He was scared to death. The explosions never stopped.

He no longer asked himself what he was doing here. He’d been in the National Guard reserves for more than half his life, since the sixties. For the second time in thirty-five years he’d been called up for serious service, combat duty, and he had no right to complain about it. There was no draft, like in Vietnam. The best way to look at it was that he was just one of thousands. Unlucky. Everyone in his platoon thought about it that way.

It had been no challenge to sit around doing nothing. For seventy-three days and nights, his platoon had gone quiet, which was how soldiers in the middle of things talked about downtime.

The countryside, where he had been stationed a few days earlier, had been bathed in a somber black light one moment, then, sometimes, it had been covered in a wet, white haze that hung mournfully over the land that always seemed to be dying.

Those first days it had been difficult to read the faces. People were confused. This was a life no one had imagined. It was like being in the middle of a situation vaguely recognized, but impossible to identify – like when you encountered someone you knew, away from any context. The police officer you’d seen on the corner a million times, or the fire fighter who waved when you passed the firehouse every afternoon. Out of uniform, you couldn’t pick out those faces. The soldiers had seen pictures of these places on television. Seeing things in person was a whole other story.

He’d seen a few things. He remembered small details that usually would have escaped his attention. But what was usual here? Everything was an equation, and there was only one equation that made sense. Zero equaled zero. Everything was an extraordinarily bright color or a yellow-gray hue he’d never seen before. The more he witnessed, the less he knew. There were other things to think about – complicated, problematical plans, periods in the not-too-distant future when all of this would be consigned to testimony and perspective. It would soon be time; of that he was certain. He would need to think more seriously about what he’d be doing in the future. He would need to analyze the particulars, but resist the urge to interpret them. And he would need to make plans, specific plans that were unique to his situation. His focus became quick. He would not always look and feel like this. He would not always be like this.

Things had changed. A last minute deployment to Tikrit had come through the night before and they’d traveled – thirty-eight men and seven women – by convoy to this small, ugly set. They’d pulled in and taken carefully plotted positions behind bleak buildings that looked as if they couldn’t stand the force of heavy breath. It was coming to an end soon. The doctor had said so, so had the nurse. He probably wouldn’t be walking again, but he would be going home soon.

CHAPTER ONE

Harbison Preparatory Academy

SENIOR YEAR/ EARLY SEPTEMBER 1969

Clyfford Library was the oldest building on the Harbison Prep campus. On the day in 1895 that Clyfford opened its doors, 14 well-known scholars turned up for the dedication and festivities, including a not-quite-sober Samuel Clemens, who declared that the Library looked like "a carnival tent without the carnival." Future generations of historians and architects would find nothing more generous to say about it.

Clyfford sloped irregularly in three directions, facing none of the more recently built academic buildings; only one side opened onto the Quadrangle–the back side. The main section of the stone and mortar structure looked out onto a large parking field and the rear of homes at the edge of the campus. From a distance-and from close up-Clyfford appeared chilly and forbidding, isolated from the community, the other academic buildings, and the students of Harbison.

Paul Bradford fell in love with the library the first time he saw it. While students made use of the stacks and reading rooms after class, or in the early morning hours before the first bell, Paul preferred to come around at two o'clock when the halls and corridors were empty and silent, when he could make plans. For him, Clyfford, the ugliest building on campus, was a beautiful, perfect oasis, his own private sanctuary.

He walked up the Great Stairway, fifty-seven irregular steps, delighting in the frigid air that had settled over the building during the last two unseasonably cold days. Moving through the deserted corridors to the Farnsworth Reading Room, a vast, open space that offered intellectual nourishment to as many as 250 students, he took a seat at a table near the back, under a gilded portrait of Campbell B. Campbell, Harbison’s revered founder, and examined a flier that had been left on the table.

                                    Harbison is dedicated to fostering a

                                    creative atmosphere–a refined

                                    environment for scholarly fulfillment,

where every student may reach his full potential.

Welcome to your new year at Harbison

Preparatory, one of the finest educational

institutions in the United States of America

He began to turn the page when he saw his friend, Mitchell, walking down the stacks in his direction, carrying an armload of books. He was in a reflective mood and didn’t feel at all like conversing.

Mitchell made his way down past the Philosophy section and the Mediaeval Arts Section, then turned when he reached the Comparative Literature stacks.

Paul relaxed, buried his head in a political journal he’d picked up at the sign-in desk and allowed himself to enjoy the last free moments before his next class, a deadly dull three-hour seminar in land statistics.

*

Six hundred fifty students attended Harbison in any year; half were there through the generosity of well-established family fortunes. In some cases, as many as five generations had contributed to the financial well being of the school.

Paul was 15 when he entered Harbison but he was not one of those fortunate scions. His parents, cost accountants for the City of Boston, had scraped together a not insignificant fortune to send him to Harbison, the only Prep school that would accept him without a pedigree.

He was small for his age, fine-boned, pale and sensitive but his keen intelligence and easy charm gave him a natural appeal, a nascent charisma.

There were three hour classes in the morning, long walks around town in the afternoon, intensive periods of study, and limited hours of late-night sleep. Weekends were mostly passed in his efficient, claustrophobic room, thinking, or reading, or writing fiction, which he had begun to do a few years before.

His model was Mark Twain, whose complete works he had read by the time he was 14. As he wrote his own fiction, he kept in mind Twain’s dictum that “the difference between the almost right word and the right word is the difference between the lightning bug and the lightning.” It was lightning, he had decided, that he aspired to.

By the end of that first year, he had written nine short stories and a few epic poems. He had no idea whether any of these were good because he had no one to read them to; he had elected to spend that first year in fair isolation, so that he could concentrate on the development of his work.

Then the glorious sophomore year arrived. After all those focused, lonely weeks and months, he was eager to grasp the social and scholarly intricacies of academic life. He emerged from his exile with a slightly more chiseled face; he was sweetly handsome and suddenly attractive to girls.

Exhausted from his scholastic, creative, and social pursuits, he looked forward to going home for the remainder of the quiet summer. Away from his friends and new acquaintances, he would concentrate again on nothing but writing; perhaps, he would even mail a few stories to magazines in New York.

His parents were thrilled to have him back in Newton and he was glad to be home, making the most of his free time. The days then ran evenly and expected.

By the end of the summer he received a note from a small fiction journal in Albany, New York informing him that one of his stories, The Moving Spiral, had been selected for publication in the September issue.

*

Lisa Darien hurried into the Administration building and up the steep stairs to the office of Harold B. Heddley, her core-track adviser. As a transfer student from Boston Community High, she was part of a small group of women admitted to Harbison the semester before; Heddley had pulled numerous, delicate strings to get her admitted. Rumors were everywhere that she was going to be one of the last females admitted for a while, maybe years.
Though there was no official policy addressing the admission of female students to Harbison Preparatory, a defiantly all-male bias had prevailed for most of the school's 107-year history. The recently enacted progressive policies of the school hadn’t yet embraced the concept of full gender equality. There had been – and would be – plenty of pressure to perform, to be a representative, a spokeswoman, to live normally in what promised to be a decidedly abnormal environment.

She took a seat opposite Heddley and tried to get comfortable.

"I’m so very happy to see you," Heddley said. He locked the top drawer and shuffled a high pile of recent term papers.

Heddley was a complicated, serious man who had mostly lost interest in the rigid, rigorous routines of teaching and had remained at Harbison, it was widely believed, because he had nowhere else to go. His wife, who had died a few years earlier, had given him no children, and his friendships were mainly with students and alumni.

“I’m very happy to be here,” Lisa said.

Outside the window, she could see the famous panoramic view of the campus featured in recruitment pamphlets and postcards. There was Jordon Arts, built to resemble the Greek Parthenon; the Dylan Quad, whose beautifully manicured lawns stretched out in all directions like glorious ivy, and of course, the famous Clyfford Library, in whose sacred, opulent reading rooms Mark Twain had written parts of The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.

“I've gotten quite used to the change of seasons,” Heddley said, apropos of nothing.

“Yes, it's one of the reasons I wanted to come to Harbison.”

“It's a wonderful school,” he said, “despite the sometimes backwards glances so many of the senior people take, particularly in administration.”

She wondered what he was getting at. “I try not to think about those things,” she said. “I can barely keep up with the materials and the quizzes. I used to be pretty disorganized, although I always try to make time for books.”

“You're quite right about keeping things in perspective. I'm afraid too many people spend too much time living outside the borders of perspective. It's good to be reminded, now and again.”

“The year is going to move quickly, I think,” she said. “I'm very much looking ahead.”

“You need to know the moved ahead,” he said. “You need to be prepared.”

“My father is a chess player,” she said, “but I was never very good at it.”

“I have something to show you,” he said. He handed her a folded newspaper clipping that contained several letters-to-the-editor, denouncing Harbison’s “misguided” policy of admitting women.

"I've seen it," she said. She glanced at the clipping, then quickly handed it back.

"You're going to encounter resistance, no doubt about that. Of course, that first year is the hardest. We went through this same thing with your friend, Katherine. I wasn't sure about her, you know. In the beginning, especially. But she stayed the course and things got easier. The same thing will happen for you. I have no doubt about that. No doubt at all."

“There haven’t been any problems yet,” she said.

He scratched his elbow and nodded. “It’s a subtle thing,” he said. “Most of the fellows here are of the decided opinion that they were deeded the keys to this very exclusive Club. Sort of a birthright thing, if you see what I'm saying.”

“Yes.”

“On the other hand”– he leaned in conspiratorially – “a lot of these young men are secretly quite happy to have a few females around here.”

“Maybe I should just stay in my room and have my meals sent in,” Lisa said, holding her hands up against invisible bars. She became aware of a large folder lying open at the edge of his desk. On it were written the words KATHERINE MORGAN. "Are you having second thoughts about me?" she asked.

"Of course not,” he said.

“Because there’s no need to, Mister Heddley. I’m confident that I can succeed here. Little boys, aside, I've had a lot of time to prepare.”

“I’m absolutely certain that’s true, Lisa.”

“I wouldn’t have applied if I didn’t believe that.”

“Well, then,” he said, clapping his hands, “You’re either very brave or very silly.”

“I don’t think I’m either, sir.”

He shoved the Katherine Morgan folder into a drawer. “You’ll be taking my history seminar, is that right?"

"Yes, sir, I will. I’m looking forward to it."

He clasped her hand between his own. “Then, you’ll be fine,” he said. And, of course, you'll be in a very small minority of those who are looking forward to taking that particular course.”

*

Paul hurried down the steps of Clyfford Library, carrying a bag of books in one hand, a manila envelope containing the fall course selections in the other.

Passing the side entrance, he saw Lisa walking in the opposite direction, toward Fennaly Hall. They had met a few weeks before at a New Semester Orientation Seminar and had quickly fallen into a serious friendship.

He called out to her, but she didn't hear, so he picked up the pace.

"Morning," he said, catching up.

She kissed him on the cheek.

"Where are you coming from?" he asked, though he had a pretty good idea.

"Heddley," she said.

“Hmm...” he said, disapprovingly. “He doesn’t like me. He thinks I’m not up to all this academic stuff. Me!”

She turned so that her hair cascaded evenly down the sides of her face. “How could anyone not like you, Paul?” she said, seriously.

"I see your point. Does that mean we’re having lunch? If not, I have other offers, you know.” He rolled his eyes. “Golly asked me to go with him to pre-registration...”

She checked her watch. "I have to see Mister Pritchard about auditing his class this fall."

Paul smiled suspiciously. Edmund D. F. Pritchard, Master of Macroeconomics. How much she had to learn, he thought, how painful the lesson was going to be. He’d suspected he might be called upon, at some point, to protect her from her own naivete.

"What kind of class?" he asked innocently.

"I don't know exactly. Something to do with economic history, I think. Heddley suggested it. It's kind of a requirement. Do you know anything about him?"

Paul sighed emphatically. "You know why Heddley suggested Pritchard's class?” he said. “He's trying to harden you up. He’s seen what this place does to women.”

"You’re trying to frighten me," she said.

He tilted his head playfully. “Am I succeeding?"

"No, you aren’t, as a matter of fact,” she said. “I can handle him. And I can handle you, too. I'm late.” She kissed him quickly and walked away.

2. MID SEPTEMBER

Mitchell Seymour, also known, without love or pity, as Big Golly, awoke from the same old troubled sleep, sank beneath the thick blankets his parents had sent him for his birthday and tried to convince himself that it was not the first day of yet another pointless year at Harbison. He'd had enough education to last a lifetime. Three lifetimes. He was tired of having to compensate for two older brothers who hadn’t even bothered to go to school. He was tired of being fat and homely, and being known as Big Golly because he reminded everyone of slobbery Gomer Pyle. He was tired of having only one friend, though he was grateful for having even one.

He hauled himself off the small bed that, he figured, had probably been sitting in that room for about twenty years, stretched his six-foot-three frame and tried to touch the ceiling but just missed, as usual. As he brought his great big hands down the telephone rang. He decided to ignore it. He had to pee.

He slipped into the hallway, still naked, hoping he was alone, then hurried into the bathroom.

As he closed the door, a pre-college student who lived down the hall surprised him. The student zippered his fly and glanced at Golly, as if he was expecting some reaction, but Golly pretended not to notice and retreated to a stall at the end of the room, near the window. As he closed the door, the student started to laugh. Golly listened for a clue to his amusement, hoping the laughter had nothing to do with him, but he knew better.

“What a dufus,” the student said, as he left the bathroom, slamming the door hard to punctuate his disapproval. Golly stood helpless over the upraised seat, unable to pee.

When he returned to his room, he saw Paul sitting on the bed, reading an old issue of Playboy with a World War II story by James Jones.

“What?” Golly said. ”You’ve never seen a naked guy?”

His relationship with Paul had involved mostly hanging out at the local hamburger and pizza joints or at the Harbison cafeteria; he often wondered why Paul – smart, talented, handsome, soon-to-conquer-the-world Paul–bothered with him at all. He suspected it might be because Paul thought he was such a character – maybe he’d even end up in one of those stories Paul was always working on.

"You're probably wondering what I'm doing here so early," Paul said, tossing the magazine on the floor.

"You’re not early,” Golly said, reaching for his shirt and pants. “It’s late.”

"Actually,” Paul said, “I wanted to know what you're planning to do with the rest of your time here.”

Golly looked at him skeptically. “Waste it? With the rest of everyone here who cares nothing about why they’re waking up in the morning.”

“Lovely,” Paul said, shrugging his shoulders.

“Do you think I should do something about the way I look?” Golly asked, staring at the mirror, while he pulled on his pants.

“Like what?”

Golly moved away. “The world awaits us breathlessly, you know,” he said. “People in industry, in the arts...they’re all waiting to see what we make of ourselves. It’s time to get serious.” He slipped into a loose-fitting polo shirt that made him look heavier than he was.

Paul stood beside Golly in the mirror. “Sometimes” he said, “you make a lot of sense.”

“I do?”

“I think you’re right about buckling down, taking charge.”

“You’re mocking me,” Golly said, looking closer in the mirror.

“No, as a matter of fact, I’m not.”

"I'm too fat," Golly said, tilting his head to take in the full picture of himself. “Women don’t like me.”

“You should do things for yourself, not for women.”

"That’s easy for you to say. You have about a million girlfriends."

Paul shook his head adamantly. “You’ve got a lot to offer, Mitchell. You don’t have to worry about this stuff day and night. And by the way, I don’t have a million girlfriends.”

Golly checked his wallet for money and ID. “You’re going to,” he said, “It’s inevitable...look at you.”

“What are we registering for anyway?” Paul asked.

“Why?” Golly replied. “Do you care?”

"Don't be so serious," Paul said, moving toward the door.

Golly collected his registration papers and a school bag.

"There's time for that,” Paul said.

*

Pre-registration was held in Butler Hall, one of two buildings donated by an anonymous benefactor after World War Two.

Paul and Golly threaded their way through the hall to a banner near the rear that read WELCOME NEW STUDENTS. A long wooden table set up under the sign was run by young counselors, who didn't appear much older than the students.

A stack of pamphlets and campus guidebooks was spread out over the table; Golly leafed through all of them. Paul had wandered away to the opposite end of the table, where he was already having a conversation with one of the pretty female counselors. Golly was amazed and dismayed by this; Paul always seemed to have such an easy time talking to people; he never had to work at it.

"The fact of the matter is that we're moving toward entirely new ways of doing things," Paul said, loud enough for Golly to hear. The counselor, an impressively tall blonde in her early twenties listened closely. "You wonder sometimes why people don't see it. This is where it's all going to happen, academia. Have you found that students seem especially excited this year?"

The blonde nodded, unaware that Paul was teasing her. Golly approached from behind. "Are you ready to go?" he pressed, impatiently.

"I was just telling the young lady about how excited we all are to be at the cusp of this new intellectual revolution.." The blonde smiled and Golly tugged Paul away.

"Have you looked at the catalogue yet?" Golly asked. Paul shook his head. They walked back to the other end of the table and took a bulletin.

"Shakespeare!" bellowed a deep voice from behind the bottleneck of students. Paul craned his neck to see who said this but he couldn't make out anything above the clutter of heads.

"We have things to do," Golly said, pointedly.

A muscular, well dressed junior named Leslie Darrow moved up to Paul and slapped him hard on the back.

"Shakespeare!"

Golly looked away. Paul shook Darrow’s hand charily–they knew each other from a French class the previous year and shared a mutually visceral antipathy. Darrow was the opposite of Paul, a joker, a time-waster, a person with no precise goals and no special respect for those who had them.

"I knew it was you,” Darrow said, evenly. “Even though you’re a little better dressed for the new semester.” He winked at Golly, as if he had said something terribly witty.

"We have a lot to do this term," Paul said, and, looking at Golly, "I've seen the light. You have to dress for the future. Dress for success."

“Of course you do,” Darrow said, momentarily distracted by the tall student aide who passed between them.

"We have to go," Golly said.

"Why the rush?" Darrow asked.

Paul glanced at Golly, who was gently nudging him away. Golly had only occasionally spoken to Darrow, but on two of those occasions, Darrow had made pointlessly hateful remarks about his appearance and he had resolved never to cross paths with him again.

“Let’s get going,” said Golly, pressing Paul’s arm.

Darrow turned to Golly, smirking. "Do you have a problem with me?"

“No.”

"That's good because if there's a problem we should deal with it now, at the start of the year. We don't want problems later on, right?"

"No problem." Golly said, stepping back.

"Good."

"What’s going on?" Paul asked, looking between them.

“Nothing,” Golly said. “Are we ready to leave now?”

“You sure you don’t want to talk about it?” Darrow said to Golly.

Paul stared at Darrow, “Leave it,” he said.

“I have things to do here today,” Golly replied, deliberately, looking toward the tables. “Scholastic things.”

"Too bad,” Darrow said. “I thought we might have things to talk about.” He looked at Paul, “I love discussions.”

“I can see that,” Paul said, shaking his head.

“Keep in touch, then," Darrow said, and looking at Golly, “You, too.”

Paul nudged Golly to the left. "Let's go," he said.

*

A few minutes later, Golly stood by himself, filling out forms. Paul, who had been talking to a tall, pretty brunette, came over, holding a sheet of notepaper with her name and phone number.

"What are we taking?" Golly asked impatiently.

A slightly stooped gray-haired lady approached them. "I'm Mrs. Minnow. If you have any questions... We have an abundance of offerings this season. Are there any special courses you boys are interested in today?"

"Yes, I think so," replied Paul.

"That's wonderful," said Mrs. Minnow, with a sweep of her wrinkled hand. "You might give some consideration to political science. Some of the foremost minds are heading into politics these days.”

She bent over the table to retrieve a pamphlet entitled ELECTIVE COURSE OFFERINGS, FALL 1969.

“We haven’t really made up our minds yet,” Golly said, taking the pamphlet because he felt sorry for her.

“Our heads are spinning,” said Paul, thumbing through his bulletin.

“Of course,” Mrs. Minnow said and moved aside, uncertain if she had made an impression.

Paul looked at Golly and tried not to laugh. He tossed his bulletin into a wastebasket and moved on to the table marked SELECTIONS.

At that moment, a loudspeaker blaring from a pick-up truck moved across the rear of Butler, passing just outside the windows of registration. “Harbison students,” it called out through rumbling static and diminishing clarity, “High School ROTC threatens liberties on campus–it must be stopped NOW. We are asking all concerned students to attend the emergency meeting of...” The rest of the message became impossible to hear as the truck moved on toward the Quad.

With just ten months remaining in the school year, important decisions–life decisions–would have to be made. Golly didn’t understand why everyone around him couldn’t see that.

3. MID SEPTEMBER

THE LINE

Joseph Warren grew up unappreciated in a family that did not know affection and did not honor intelligence or ambition. He became a suspicious, needy person who didn’t take kindly to sideways glances and unclear subtexts, particularly in conversations with people he didn’t know well. At Harbison this coalesced in his relationship with another student, Bradley Arnold.

The troubles between Joseph and Bradley began four years earlier in junior high school, where they shared a homeroom and several required courses. Their antipathy towards one another had been borne of simple jealously (Joseph assumed falsely that Bradley’s apparent confidence came from a good, upper-class background, when in fact, it turned out, his background was strikingly similar to his own.) Bradley incorrectly guessed that Joseph’s predilection for doing everything alone was the result of a strict sense of superiority. He believed that, because Joseph was a full year older than everyone else in his grade, he somehow considered himself better—more mature and worldly. And Bradley, who was small for his age and decidedly average-looking, was envious of Joseph because he was tall, just over six feet, and had rough-hewn good looks.

In Trigonometry class they were forced near each other by a proximity of two parallel rows with a few seats dividing them, like a Maginot Line. Passing in the hallways, they carefully avoided each other. But situations were always bringing them together and their relationship became more bitter over time.

Their distaste for one another reached full flower during final year when competition for the attention of a particular girl finally brought them to the verge of violent confrontation.

Four years later, little had changed. Bradley was

still foundering socially and Joseph was looking for new

horizons in an altogether different life, a military life.

The chasm between them had separated even further. The

truth, they were beginning to gather, was becoming all too

clear: their similarities were urging them toward an

inevitable, painful confrontation.

*

Katherine Morgan was slim-hipped and pale as January snow, a child of the harsh Wisconsin winter. She was taller than most of the boys–five-eight-and-a-half–but she weighed less than a hundred pounds. Though her features were slightly askew–her nose tipped slightly to the right, her cheeks were a bit too high and her jaw bone protruded–everything was set right by her crystalline blue-green eyes, set against thick lustrous red hair. Those eyes projected an irresistible radiance.

Making the best of what inexpensive clothing she had, she dressed resourcefully, to present an appearance of studied elegance. Her detached bearing struck people as standoffish but she was simply shy, preferring to keep to herself and to her treasured art books.

She had met Lisa late that summer, leaving an introductory British Art event in Haller Hall; she knew immediately that they were going to be friends. Though different in the image they presented to the world–unlike Katherine, Lisa’s attire suggested little fashion sense (old jeans and tie-dyed tee shirts) it quickly became obvious that they had nearly everything else in common. They shared a love of books and music and fine art, and dreamed of traveling all over the world.

Their friendship was sealed a few days later at the Harbison Museum, a small arts collection in back of the Clyfford Library. They spent three hours walking through the gallery, especially enchanted by the Dutch and Italian etchings. There were all sorts of things to talk about – intelligent things. There would be many years to talk about them; sometimes when you met someone you immediately understood that you would know that person for the rest of your life. By the end of the afternoon, they had committed to one day traveling together to all the great museums of Europe.

*

To become well liked, Bradley Arnold had decided on a specific plan of action. Doggedly unpopular throughout his freshman and sophomore years at Harbison, he was too short for sports, too sophisticated for clubs and too open-minded for cliques. It didn’t help that he was the only Jewish student at Harbison.

Unfailingly, he could be found sitting alone in the cafeteria or at the Student Union, and occasionally in the very last row of a classroom. His progress at Harbison had been hindered by his tendency to cut classes. In any particular room, he stood out of place and he knew it. But unlike most unpopular people who eventually tried to make peace with their predicament, Bradley obdurately refused to believe he was meant to be a social pariah. Instead, he developed elaborate and complicated plans to meet "the right people," and carried out these plans with a logical determination that should have yielded results but never seemed to. For the start of this next semester he had a new idea.

He had heard about Paul from Dr. Ted Kiner, an advisor to the senior class, who had gone to some pains to tell him about Paul’s own early difficulties integrating himself into the “social fabric” of the school. “Now,” Darnell had told him, “Paul is a veritable social butterfly. You just have to give it some time and give it some dedication in the very way he did. Nothing comes easy. You’re a likable fellow, Bradley. You’ll see how popular you’re going to be.”

Bradley desperately needed lessons in life and that was why he had decided to go to Paul. If he could gain Paul’s friendship, he was convinced he could finally break away from his dull, isolated existence.

He saw Paul moving along the southern edge of the quadrangle heading to Washington Space, a popular open-air hangout behind the cafeteria. Though he was somewhat intimidated by the mission he’d set for himself, he recognized that this might be just the occasion to take action–his inclination to get out of harm’s way was overtaken by this new sense of purpose (and the thought that he would end up alone in the world–or certainly at Harbison, if he didn’t make a move). He willed himself over to Paul and announced, “I’m Bradley Arnold."

“How ya doin’?” Paul asked, cheerfully, offering his hand out of politeness. He had seen Bradley around campus, usually alone, and wondered about his story. He’d heard from one of his friends that Bradley had behavioral problems, that he’d gotten into fights and been a discipline problem in Junior High School.

"I was wondering if we might talk for a couple of minutes,” Bradley said. The effort to say these words caused the blood to rise in his head.

"What do you want to talk about?" Paul asked.

"Just things. It wouldn't take much time."

"I'm kind of busy right now," Paul said, truthfully. He had planned to spend the hour going over his course selections from pre-registration.

"Look, it would mean a lot to me,” Bradley said. “You'll understand after we talk."

“I’m kind of in a hurry,” Paul repeated, showing him the course list. “Where do you want to talk?"

"Just inside," replied Bradley, "We'll get a cup of coffee."

Paul looked at the swinging doors of the cafeteria. "I don't drink coffee," he said.

"I don't either," Bradley said, already moving toward the doors.

Following six bottles of Coca-Cola and four slices of pecan pie between them, Bradley had succeeded in convincing Paul that he wasn’t such a bad fellow. Later in the afternoon, they had spent some time in the Student Union, playing chess, which turned out to be a common interest, and talking, mostly about Bradley’s cynical world-view and Paul’s own ambition to succeed as a writer.

At four-thirty that day, they found themselves at the back of the final registration line, nearly at the doors of Jensen Hall. They looked around, talking easily. Though Bradley suspected that Paul had stayed with him only because he felt sorry for his predicament, he was grateful for the attention and pleased that he had possibly found a mentor. This apparently facile communication between the popular Paul and the socially questionable Bradley naturally prompted a few smirks and gestures from juniors and seniors along the line.

Golly took these last minutes to go over the printed list of housing alternatives. He considered requesting a change to a larger house but decided, after all, that it wasn’t so bad staying where he was.

Lisa walked down the line looking for her senior advisor but couldn’t locate him so she moved to the back, where she found Paul chatting amiably with someone she didn’t know.

Joseph stood near the front of the line, reading a book on military affairs; he had just come from the campus office of Gilbert Mathison, Director of Reserve Officer Training Corps, where against Paul’s advice, he had submitted an application for elective service.

He watched Paul talking animatedly with Bradley and realized that if he got called up, which seemed a real possibility, his developing friendship with Paul was going to come to a quick end. He was sorry about that. It was one of the things he would probably miss about Harbison.

For the rest of the late afternoon, the line moved at it’s natural pace, oblivious of the weather, which was quickly changing for the worse, and the stentorian protests of students who were tired of waiting and increasingly irate. A few parents of entering sophomores were still around from “parent-orientation weekend” and they would approach the line occasionally, dispensing donuts or cans of soda.

The line represented the last hurdle before the school year began; new courses had been selected, new friends had been made, housing assignments would soon be finalized. Headmaster Sorensen rode by the line in his Ford Mustang and waved to the students. One freshman turned to another and asked, “Is he a politician?”

The chill wind of what promised to be a particularly turbulent autumn season suddenly swept through the line, causing coats to close and collars to be turned up. Headmaster Sorensen got out at the foot of Jensen, waved to no one in particular and hurried inside.

CHAPTER TWO

OCTOBER

Unlike other rural schools whose nearby towns reached out to embrace them, Harbison Prep had never been considered a welcome addition to the Township of Cedar Falls. Poor relations between Harbison and the town stretched back thirty years, to a time when scores of Harbison seniors staged one of the region’s largest rallies against American involvement in what was then known as "the European conflict". The mostly working class people of Cedar Falls didn't care for the politics of Harbison Prep in 1939 and they didn't care for it's liberal, anti-war leanings in 1969. The war in Vietnam might have been unpopular in certain quarters of the country but the town Fathers—and one Mother–had no intention of backing away from their duty to support American soldiers and the American cause.

The Mayor of Cedar Falls, two-time Purple Heart winner, veteran of World War Two and Korea, had tried to subvert the school funding process for more than three years. Using a variety of arcane zoning regulations, he had managed to prevent the school from holding fund raising activities on publicly-owned land and in municipal buildings downtown. It hadn't made any difference. Perennially well endowed by its esteemed alumni and wealthy benefactors, Harbison required nothing from Cedar Falls except road signs, water and electricity.

The unhappy buffer between the Mayor and Harbison was Robert Sorensen, the forty-three year old Headmaster. On certain recent days Sorensen’s experience weighed heavily and his determination wavered to the point of anguish.

Sorensen’s tenure at Harbison had been marked by one frustrating confrontation after another. The innovative policies that he had worked so hard to develop had immediately collided with the interests of the conservative Harbison Board of Directors (which was composed mainly of wealthy benefactors and alumni who had attended Harbison before and after the Second World War and preferred old style teaching techniques to Sorensen’s more progressive approach). On these days, he seriously considered the pleasures and promise of early retirement.

Nevertheless, he had no intention of vacating another job. The more demanding his work, the more committed he became. He arrived at work early each day and nearly always stayed late. Real success at Harbison, he knew, would come with minor triumphs and great difficulty. Over time, he had managed to achieve some significant victories–after haggling with the Board for seven straight months, he had finally convinced them to change the strict admissions policy to provide for the admittance of a limited number of “troubled” students–young men and women with histories of behavioral or learning problems.

It was clear that he would have to sharpen his political skills, if he was to make it into a third year. He despised politics.

Heading into the office at seven-thirty he opened his briefcase, overflowing with biographical information about the staff, which, he’d been informed would include four new instructors for the next term. There was much to do before the start of the new semester–plans to make, unmake or repair. The next few months would be more difficult than the previous ones–the outside world was pressing in.

He made a few notes along the sides of the margins, then tucked the pages back into the folder and closed the briefcase. He shut his eyes for a moment and reflected on the fact that the week would be over in less than a hundred-seventy hours.

*

Sorensen had his ideas about the way things were supposed to be. After three years at Harbison, he was beginning to realize that they were never going to be the way he wished.

In early 1963, purely on a youthful whim, he had left his teaching job and gone off for a nine month adventure, a physically and emotionally challenging voyage that would take him through a circuitous path leading eventually to Hong Kong and then to neighboring Macao.

Lying in his bed in a tiny studio apartment on the crumbling Avenue Sidonia Pais, he spent most of his time writing letters to associates and friends and family back in America, extolling the endless virtues of “this peculiar Asian culture” (he wrote: never mind that Macao, island paradise of sybaritic nightlife and all night gambling, was settled by and run tight-fisted by Europeans of various backgrounds, principally Portuguese, who had controlled it for more than four hundred years and still ran it as an elaborate business, replete with paid “local color” who staged bloody street fights for camera-clad tourists from the Mainland and Europe…) On weekends, he’d take the ferry to Hong Kong where he would experience even more colorful versions of the foreign flavor (mainly English).

For money, he relied on a self-imposed stipend of seventy American dollars a week, from savings he’d accumulated during his time teaching. Wages were low at the time and living expenses were affordable; his life-style was far better than average. He went to the American cinema once a week to see movies that had played home, years earlier (the quality of the films was usually poor to horrible, due to rampant piracy–many of the reels were cheaply transposed knock-offs of stolen and already heavily exhibited prints); he visited the local gambling halls, mostly to observe the rich, skinny Macauans and their beautiful blonde wives, and on rare occasions he went out for dinner at the Sheraton, where, predictably, he would feel lonely and home-sick.

The days passed with regularity; he soon became seriously bored.

When, abruptly, his patience (and money) ran out, he did not hesitate to change his plans, booking out on the first available BA flight for America.

He spent most of the fifteen hour flight methodically planning what he intended to accomplish over the next few years and where he intended to accomplish these things. He was eager to go back to academia now, ready to share his new adventures with a new gathering of impressionable young men and women.

Unfortunately, things were not to go smoothly. In the year since he’d been away, the marginal, largely secret conflict in South Asia had flared into a full blown war; Hong Kong no longer seemed nearly as exotic as the forests of Vietnam. The seventeen-year-old boys who he would be teaching in a few weeks would be less interested in his gambling exploits than in the possibility that they might soon be seeing a more immediately dangerous part of Asia—one not of their choosing.

He applied for positions at four schools in the Boston area and was turned down by three. Harbison Prep, which had just gone through a bitter dispute with its then-Headmaster–a dispute that ended in a recriminatory—and public–lawsuit over unlawful termination–was more anxious to find a satisfactory replacement–and less particular. The stench of its legal problems had cast a pall over the job and the number of applicants had dwindled from seven to three less-than-stellar candidates. He came along at exactly the right moment and was offered the job after two brief, perfunctory interviews.

Although he had been assured by the Harbison Board that he would be given “a free hand” to raise the standards and physical operations of the school, stark bureaucratic reality took little time in showing its hand. Within the first weeks Sorensen was at loggerheads with three of the five Board Members who believed he was moving too quickly and that they were not being consulted regularly enough, which was to say, not at all.

After a few months it became apparent to all parties that the appointment had been a mistake that could set the school’s reputation back and probably cost tens of thousands of dollars in funding from the variety of conservative organizations that regularly contributed to the operations budget. These conservatives had supported the school previously because it had a strong historical cachet–but hiring someone with “Marxist” ideas, had not been an encouraging development.

Sorensen knew he was walking into a hotbed of internecine political intrigue, but he needed the job and was determined to implement his reforms, whether the Board approved of them or not. With no other candidates on the horizon, he believed his job was safe–at least, for a time.

Improbably, as the protest activity on campus accelerated, his hand became stronger. He had so far managed to keep the angry parties in check and day-to-day operations of the campus had not been interrupted–the same could not be said for other, higher profile institutions where operations had been shut down for days and weeks at a time.

Nevertheless, he was weary. For all he had accomplished, the provocations and protests and continuing conflicts with management had forced him into a troublesome corner. Instead of spending precious time on initiatives, he found himself mostly concentrating on keeping many political balls in the air (and far away from one another).

Sometimes, he longed for the simpler days in Macao. He knew it wasn’t likely that his position would soon improve.

The door to his office opened and his secretary walked in with a memo from the Mayor. She had an irritated look on her face– she knew she carried bad news; any communication from Mayor Delaney represented an annoyance, at least–a nasty intrusion, more likely. She said nothing, handed over the message and left, shutting the door gently behind her.

As he read the memo he thought, there are two courses of action when a dilemma like this occurs: redress the problem directly or put it off to someone else. Lately he’d been doing plenty of the putting off and not enough of the redressing.

Mayor Delaney had been laying low for the past few weeks, but this memorandum indicated that the drought was coming to an end. He scanned it again, more carefully:

Mr. Sorensen: (no greeting, no date)

It has come to my attention (suggested by the secretary?) that, in your capacity as head of the school (small h and, incorrect regardless because the subject is not the head or even the Head, but the Headmaster–a transparent slight. Is Delaney capable of such an intentionally cutting jibe?) you have taken the following action: you have ordered that all protesters be officially “tolerated”, or, as I would more accurately call it, condoned by your administration, (an assumption based on his belief that the Headmaster doesn’t answer to a Board of Directors as well as to the student and faculty body) regardless of how uncivil (interesting choice here) or how unpatriotic (we certainly know where the Mayor stands on that one) the sentiments they express may be.

It grieves me (so many things grieve the Mayor) to discover that a fine educational institution like Harbison Prep (prior to the era of Sorensen?) should have fallen under the auspices (probably–no, definitely–inserted on second reading by the secretary) of such a truly foolhardy (say what you mean: idiot, moron, communist?) individual.

My first experience with Harbison, as you may know, was many (!) years ago as a freshman. I attended the school for two glorious years (records indicate that he was eventually transferred to another school because of poor attendance) and received what I consider to be my foundation as a man there (maybe he’s right about his antipathy for academia). You cannot imagine how it pains me to see what the school has become. I have recently learned that there has even been instituted a so-called Individualized Degree Program, in which students are free to pursue their own interests and collect college credit for said (!) activities. Surely, this is someone’s very misguided and farcical notion? (perhaps, here you may have an ally in there, Mr. Mayor but this was a policy in place for seven years–it must have been “that” Kennedy fellow...)

At any rate I am writing to inform you that the policies of your administration have not, do not and will not be tolerated by my office. (Have they ever been? Are they? Will they ever be?) In my opinion, (secretary’s?) which I am quite sure you do not care a whit, (a moment to pause) you are running Harbison firmly into the ground. The continuing protests and lax behavior that you seem only too eager to tolerate (condone?) will result in the ruination of one of the finest preparatory schools in the Northeast. I plan to step up my own protest activities, because I view this as a fight for the hearts and minds of this small community. You will be hearing from my office in the next few days (counting on it) and I am quite sure we will be seeing each other in the not-too-distant future–next Thursday at ten in the morning? (can’t wait)

Yours, (!!) Mayor Richard C. Delaney

He tore the letter to pieces but didn’t throw it away. Instead, he stuck it in a corner of his desk drawer and wondered aloud about the temperature on the streets of Macao.

*

Big Golly sat in his room, staring at a stack of textbooks, trying to remember why he had come to Harbison in the first place. He understood that the year ahead was critical because corporate headhunters would be visiting the campus as early as December; his grade-point average had been suffering a steady decline since March. But things like that didn’t really concern him these days. He didn't want to be in school anymore. Those books piled high on his desk were interfering with his thought processes, making it impossible to see the future; he could no longer think of a single scholastic activity he wanted to pursue.

His roommate, Jonathon Cavalry, came charging in from the corridor, carrying a full bag of groceries. A few cans fell to the floor before he could reach the table.

Shit," Jonathon said. Golly looked up, but didn't move to help.

"That's it," Golly said, snapping his finger, "A bagger."

“What?" Jonathon asked, scooping up the cans.

"A career in bagging. I'm sure there's a whole list of famous people who started out as grocery baggers. I might even decide to spend my life doing it."

Jonathon started to put the groceries away.

“That could be it," Golly got off the bed to offer a hand just as Jonathon stuffed the last box into the cupboard.

"What are you talking about, fatso?" Jonathon asked, casting himself down on the only chair in the cramped room.

"Do you have to call me that?" Golly asked, yet again. "It makes me crazy, you know."

“Really," Jonathon said, happy to make Golly crazy.

"Yes, it does. I know I'm overweight."

"You’re Fat,” Jonathon corrected. “What are you thinking about, anyway?"

"I'm trying to figure out about my future."

"What future?"

“We have nothing to look forward to. We won't even get the chance to die in Vietnam. The war will be over soon."

"Right," Jonathon said, staring at his dirty hands.

"You think anyone looks up to us? You think anyone gives us a break because they respect what we've accomplished? We are doomed, Jonathon the Third."

"Don't call me that."

"I'm concerned. We all should be."

"I don't worry.” Jonathon got up and moved into the closet.

"What are you going to be when you grow up, Jonathon?"

"What's with you today, fatso?"

"I want to know what your ideas are."

"I don't have any ideas," Jonathon replied, searching through the top shelf stack of old Playboy Magazines.

"That's not an answer."

Jonathon emerged from the closet with a beat-up old suitcase and three Playboys.

"You found it," Golly said, staring at the topmost issue, featuring Girls of the U.S.O.

“Did you think I was going to leave tonight without this?"

Jonathon held up the bulging suitcase so Golly could take a good look. He was going to Boston for a weekend with his parents and he knew Golly would be jealous because his parents were always busy and he never got to go anywhere.

"You've got to be crazy to be seen in public with that."

"Mind your own business," Jonathon said, laying the suitcase on the bed, grinning triumphantly; he knew Golly couldn’t stand the sight of that old suitcase.

Golly looked away. "I'm just trying to prevent you from making a fool of yourself.

"Well, don't. I’m a big boy now. I make my own decisions and I certainly don’t need a surrogate parent." He moved over to Golly and pinched his cheek. “Certainly not you.” He snapped the suitcase open and threw in the magazines.

Golly wasn’t crazy about the idea of having to room with someone. "We don't have to be together here, you know," he reminded Jonathon.

"Yes we do."

"I can ask for a transfer."

“You can. But you would miss me.”

“Really...” Golly said, shaking his head.

“You wouldn’t know what to do with yourself. Especially since I’m taking away Girls of the U.S.O.”

“You have power over me,” Golly said, rolling his eyes.

"Do you want to come along?" Jonathon asked. “You could use a two day vacation.”

Golly laughed.

"I’m only kidding,” Jonathon said. “I don't want you to come. You'd ruin everything, wouldn’t you?"

Golly narrowed his eyes." Why are you so nasty?" he asked.

“I’m not at all.”

“I wouldn’t miss you at all, you slippery idiot.”

Jonathon looked surprised to hear this. “Slippery?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever been called slippery before.”

“Do you like it?” Golly asked. “I think it fits you quite well. Don’t you?”

“You’re hurting my feelings, fatso.”

“You don’t have any feelings, Slippery.”

Jonathon checked the locks on the suitcase; one on each end then carried it to the door. “It’s your last chance to say goodbye nice,” he said.

“Goodbye nice.”

Jonathon opened the door, kicked the bag into the hallway, then disappeared, leaving the door open so Golly could have a fit.

CHAPTER THREE

LATE OCTOBER

Joseph was surprised to see Paul sitting in the first row of Mr. Carl Dextor's required Earth Science seminar. He was in a rotten mood from a last-minute meeting with an ROTC advisor who’d warned that he would need to prepare for a “trunk load of extracurricular work” if the program accepted him.

He wished he could be anywhere but in that class, with that teacher, and with Paul sitting right there up front, ready to show everyone how alert and effortlessly focused he was.

He admired Paul; he sensed there was the possibility of developing a genuine friendship between them. But he couldn’t help believing that no matter how hard he tried, he could never be anywhere near as good-looking, witty, intelligent, or guaranteed-to-be-successful as Paul. And he certainly didn’t want to deal with any of that now.

He moved to a chair near the rear of the room. He was dismayed to see that Bradley was sitting right next to Paul. He hadn’t known that they’d become friends.

Dextor, a towering Redwood of a man–the second oldest teacher at Harbison–had a carefully cultivated reputation, and a defiantly old school approach to teaching. He was known as an unpleasant person, a harsh, insensitive judge of character, a man of whom it could be said, forbearance was not a virtue. A relatively recent hire at Harbison, he was an acclaimed academic, an authority on several arcane areas of study, as well as a best-selling author of eight popular science fiction novels. He had been relentlessly pursued by the Board of Directors for nearly ten years.

His students sat in stony silence as he proceeded with introductory remarks, prepared on a ledger.

Placing himself in the dead center of the room, he clenched his fist into a tight ball and looked beyond the plane of still heads to the oversized poster of John F. Kennedy on the rear wall. "You have two choices here,” he said, fixing his stare on the poster. “You can pass this course or you can fail. If you fail here, you do not graduate. You do not proceed to a rich life full of wonder and fulfillment.” He pivoted to face the side of the room. “I’m not unaware of what’s going on around us. There is turbulence in our skies. I understand that this is a liberated period for many of you. Television informs us that we are living in an era of all manner of new freedoms. The constructs and commitments of our brief history are being tampered with, at the very moment that we try to work our way through these mist of uncertainty. Well, my children of the Future, those freedoms do not extend to this classroom. In this part of the world, you will behave as if the clock had stopped at the year nineteen hundred and fifty.”

Bradley leaned over to say something to Paul, but Paul didn’t react.

Joseph tilted his head and followed Dextor’s body, as he moved to the blackboard.

“You will do your work with diligence, dedication and absolutely zero expectation of a free ride. Hopefully, with effort and passion, you will pass through this course with flying colors, perhaps even go on to an advanced degree and a useful career. The lessons you learn here will transform you–one way or the other." He released his fist. “I assure all of you, there will be no effort to coddle in this classroom, or to make allowances for preoccupied parents, sad childhoods or psychological and social missteps. You will be prodded at every moment and forced to rise to the level of your best work. Blood on the floor, notwithstanding. Your parents will be happy to know their hard-earned cash is being well spent.”

He turned, picked up a broken piece of chalk and began writing on the blackboard. Halfway through, he turned to Paul and asked, "What does this mean?"

Paul stood and silently mouthed the words on the blackboard.

"Go on," Dextor said.

"I'm not sure," Paul said, glancing at his open notebook.

Dextor grinned. "You can sit, then" he said. "That's an acceptable answer here." Addressing the class, he said, "When you don't know the answer, please don't make one up. There are cities full of politicians who never learned that lesson. We will work diligently not to produce more of them here."

He erased everything quickly.

A female student in the back laughed, whispered, “Mr. Chips...”.

Spinning around quickly, he said, "I am definitely not here for your amusement, Miss." He turned to Paul. "Earth science is a relatively simple course of study–at the same time, it is complex, confusing, in some cases...confounding. Some of you may already think of yourselves as junior earth scientists. I’m afraid those of you who think that will have to patiently suffer with the rest of your less educated compatriots."

He turned to Harrison Thredenoy, a diminutive, pale-skinned boy sitting near the window, head resting drearily on his upturned palms. Dextor had argued with the head of the Science department to keep Thredenoy, who was a chronic underachiever, out of his class, but he had been overruled and chastised for his objections. He dreaded being saddled with Thredenoy for the next three-and-a-half months.

"Tell the class your name, sir," Dextor said.

Harrison was thinking about something else. Dextor inched closer. "Are you deaf?" he asked.

"No, sir," Harrison mumbled.

An eddy of laughter rolled through the rear rows. "In my room, we have a sacred tradition of standing when spoken to,” Dextor said. “When I address a question to a member of the class, that member of the class will stand up. That is, if you don't mind."

Harrison jerked up but had forgotten the question. "I'm sorry, sir,” he said again.

Dextor was already at his desk. "I said: please tell the class your name. When I address you in the future, I’ll do my best to keep the requests simple."

"I'm Harrison Thredenoy," he answered.

"Why?"

Harrison started to shake.

"Why?" Dextor asked, a little louder.

"I don't understand."

Bradley chortled disapprovingly and was heard by Dextor, who shot him a cautious glance.

Dextor quickly turned back to Harrison. "You have difficulty understanding a simple three letter word?" he said.

"I don't understand what you're asking me, sir."

Dextor whispered, "I want to know why you are Harrison Thredenoy." Harrison started to sit. Dextor added, "I'm not finished with you."

He turned around and wrote on the blackboard: What-makes-you-think-you are-Harrison-Thredenoy? “What does that mean, Mr. Thredenoy?" he said.

"I don't understand what you're asking me," Harrison insisted.

“You really don’t, do you ?” Dextor said, shaking his head. "That’s a bit hard to believe. Sit down.” Pointing to the blackboard he asked, "Can anyone tell me what I've written here?"

Robbie Rheinhold raised his hand.

"Why did I suspect you would have the answer?" Dextor said, a little louder.

Robbie stood up straight. "They say,' welcome to another exciting new year of learning and expansion of the mind.' "

Three boys near the window chuckled. Dextor walked over to Robbie and pressed his shoulder firmly. "Do you know who I am, Mister Reinhold?" he asked.

"Of course, I do, sir,” he said. “Mister Carl Dextor, Earth Science 101. Sir."

He looked into Robbie’s eyes. "Have we met before?" he asked.

"Yes, sir." Robbie said, "We met at the Chancellor's student party last summer."

"You're right," Dextor said, releasing his grip. "A few moments ago, I saw you from across the room and said to myself 'this is the student I'd most like to see make a fool of himself in my class. And now, a few moments later...here you are."

Robbie nodded, turned to face the appreciative class and said, "Very happy to oblige, sir."

"Do you find yourself a little bit bored today, Mister Reinhold?"

"A little,” Robbie said.

"Is that right?"

"A little bit. Yes, sir."

"I certainly never intended to bore you. Or anyone else here.”

"I understand, sir," Robbie said, looking around the room. “Sometimes that just happens.”

Dextor moved back to the blackboard, as Robbie sat.

Paul leaned over and whispered something to Bradley, who seemed unsettled by what was going on.

Joseph glanced at his watch.

Dextor nodded to a private thought, then erased what he had written.

It was a standoff. Everyone was satisfied.

*

Heddley sat behind his immaculate oak desk going over test scores for the abridged quiz he had administered earlier in the day. At exactly forty minutes past two, Katherine Morgan appeared in the doorway, holding a loose-leaf binder in one hand, a crisp blue report folder in the other. She stood quietly, while Heddley concentrated on the exam papers. When he finally looked up without acknowledging her, she smiled uneasily and walked over to the chair next to his desk, and sat.

“I think I’m early,” she said, laying the loose-leaf binder on the floor and the folder at the edge of the desk.

He checked the clock on the wall. “No,” he said, “you’re right on time, as always.” He held up her test paper but didn’t hand it over. “I suppose, you could call this a stumble.”

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“Don’t be sorry on my account,” he said, drumming his fingers.

“I know I did badly,” she said.

“Do you know why?”

“I guess I just didn’t give myself enough time to prepare,” she said.

“The mid-term is coming up and it’s critical that you make the grade. I allot fifty per cent of the overall grading to that test. I never use a curve.”

“I should be working a little harder,” she said.

“You’ve been considering the Ivy League,” he said.

“Yes.”

“Not always the right option,” he said. “It’s a matter of fit, actually. There are all sorts of paths one can take after school. I’m afraid too many automatically opt for the Ivy League in the same way too many automatically go for college. It seems the right thing to do.” He shook his head. “It isn’t always the right thing to do.”

“I understand.”

“What I mean is that people aspire to all sorts of things but they seldom understand what’s required, what’s necessary to achieve their goals. I never expected to find myself here, in this position, in this office. Had I known what I would achieve, I would have gone about it in an entirely different way. I happen to have been one of those people who should have gone to graduate school early on but this was a choice I made late in life. It’s good to be sure of what you want so you can use your time wisely.” He took a form from his desk drawer and handed it to her. The form was divided down the middle into an hourly schedule and a space for biographical data. “Have you considered getting some extra help?”

“Extra help?”

“Would you be interested in completing some extra work, after class?

“That could be helpful,” she said, unconvincingly.

“It all depends on what you’re willing to do, as I say. What your commitments are. If you were willing to put in the effort, then, I would be prepared to give you the extra help. It’s important that those requirements be met; especially if you’re serious about a good college. The schools are very, very particular these days. I’m sure you know that. You did excellent work last year. I was certainly glad to see you back in my class. It would mean very much to me to see you pass this year—-and with flying colors.”

“I appreciate that, Mister Heddley.”

“So you’re interested?”

She read over the form. “I guess it would be a good idea,” she said.

“Yes,” Heddley agreed. “I think so, too.”

*

Paul moved through the Quad, on his way to Lisa’s dorm.

He crossed the corner just beyond the Square and walked up the steep steps of Howell House. Derek Kinnisy, a lanky, 18 year old pre-college student sat behind a bridge table inspecting passes and affecting an air of institutional authority.

"What can I help you with?" Kinnisy asked.

"The usual," Paul said.

"What's that?"

Paul shrugged impatiently. "Lisa Darien."

"Is Miss Darien expecting you?"

Paul took out his phony pass.

"I didn't ask you for a pass," Kinnisy said. "I asked you if Miss Darien is expecting you. A simple question, really. Isn’t it funny how the younger the student is, the more complicated everything seems to get?”

"Why else would I be here?" Paul asked, sweetly.

Kinnisy carefully checked a list of names and located Paul’s near the bottom. "Are you here to have sex with your girlfriend?" he asked. "You're not on the blacklist yet, you know."

Paul looked at his watch.

"I'll let you slide by this time," Kinnisy said, grinning officiously. "But, please...behave yourself. Try."

Paul moved quickly past the desk.

"You're on time for a change," Lisa said. “Extra credit for that!”

"I missed you," he said.

"Well, young Paul, I would have missed you, too but, alas, there was no time." She pointed to a dog-eared copy of Remembrance of Things Past, Volume Three.

The tiny area was barely large enough for one person but it had been divided with a makeshift wooden partition. The low ceiling made it feel even more cramped. She led him into the larger room and closed the door.

"You sure you didn’t miss me?" he asked, following her.

"I just saw you, Paul," she said, cheerfully, climbing up the three steps to the bathroom. "I mean you do leave an impression, but–" She left the door open while she peed. “Heddley answered all my questions.”

"Still, I think you could have missed me," he said. And pointing to a tall stack of old magazines, "I see you dug out your collection."

"Can't be anywhere without them," she said. "It’s a safety blanket thing."

She washed her hands, then settled her hair.

"You look good," he said, as she stepped down.

"You smell wonderful," she said, moving closer. She kissed him. “You were asking about my day.”

"I was?"

"You wanted to know if anyone tortured me or beat me up or made my life generally miserable."

"I don't remember," he said.

"You were going to ask me if I missed you again," she said.

"Did you?"

She took his hand, leading him to the bed.

"Won't your roommate come in?" he asked.

"No," she said, putting her hands up to his shoulders, "Do you think we'll end up together, Paul?"

He looked at her, anxiously. "I hope so," he said. “I think so.”

*

The past was like this: Lisa had grown up in a Norman Rockwell world. A Norman Rockwell family consisting of no less than two loving parents–Jack and Betty–and three well nourished, emotionally settled siblings whose greatest challenge would later be deciding which, of many Universities at their disposal, they would decide to attend.

The family lived in a Norman Rockwell clapboard home, too–three floors and a small basement, a lovely front porch and a larger, rectangular backyard with a swing set from Mercury’s Department Store in town and a free-standing basketball hoop for the middle child, a strapping boy named Ethan.

When she was four years old, her parents were asked by Norman Rockwell, who was passing through their town of Essex, near Boston, on a Summer trip to Provincetown, if they would agree to have their daughter pose for a group portrait with five other children from the town. Her parents didn’t know who Rockwell was but he certainly looked like an artist–he was tall and rail thin, handsome in a weathered Massachusetts way with a small, gray goatee, thinning hair and deep creases and crevices in his face that suggested he must have suffered a lot for his art.

They were a little wary, though, when he offered them twenty dollars payment for the four hour sitting. What sort of artist could have that kind of money, they wondered? He had to convince them that he could really afford the payment.

Lisa and her mother, Betty, reported to the house of Mary Pat Doheny, whose fraternal twins, Kaitlin and Katey were set to be featured in the foreground of the painting, seated at the breakfast table, eating their steaming food, while the other children stood just behind them, admiring their delicious all-American meal.

On the morning before the afternoon of the sitting, Betty had a problem: She simply could not decide how to dress her daughter. Mr. Rockwell had been very specific. The children were to show up wearing their regular daily clothes. But Betty was confused as to what purpose would be served by that. Why bother appearing in a painting, she wondered–a painting that would probably be seen for years and years (she was beginning to get the idea that Rockwell had a bit of a reputation) if you didn’t look special?

Betty tore through her own, then Lisa’s cramped closet trying to assemble an outfit that would be better than just all right. After an hour and a half of dedicated searching, she assembled an acceptable outfit–a long brown dress with delicate ruffles at the bottom, a simple conservative gray top and an appropriate amount of jewelry to emphasize her daughter’s beautiful light skin. She added an old beret that her mother had salvaged from her own mother’s childhood. A decorative silver chain was pressed between the buttons of the shirt, running down to the bottom.

Lisa was not pleased at all. She scrutinized her appearance in the mirror and announced that she looked like a “Girl Scout.” Betty was disappointed, of course but she knew that what she was seeing was absolutely enchanting. “Mr. Rockwell is going to change his mind and move you to the front of his painting, you’ll see,” she confidently declared.

Lisa took no pleasure in imagining what it would be like to be standing–or sitting–for several hours, surrounded by the other children, looking like that.

After lunch, Betty tapped a bit of makeup on Lisa’s cheeks and applied some eyeliner to emphasize her deep-set almond eyes, then placed her in front of the hall mirror again. “Don’t you look absolutely adorable?” she asked, genuinely thrilled with the results of her effort.

Lisa looked more carefully; she appreciated the earnest work her mother had done.

She thought she looked like a Girl Scout.

They packed off into the bruised blue Chevrolet and made it to Mary Pat Doheny’s house in just five minutes. During the ride they had not spoken. Betty assumed that Lisa had been thinking about her appearance. She was right.

When they arrived, Kaitlin and Katy were out playing on the manicured front porch. Betty thought that was rather strange–hadn’t they gotten dressed yet? The sitting was scheduled to begin in just fifteen minutes.

Lisa knew what was happening. Mary Pat had been told to dress the children casually, too–and she had listened; they were going to be painted having breakfast.

As they moved up the stone driveway, Lisa could see beyond the open front door. The other children were standing back in the house, laughing. They wore overalls and sneakers.

“Everyone is very late,” Betty noted, shaking her head, as they got out of the car.

Lisa wished she could be anywhere else.

Inside, Norman Rockwell was standing at his easel, just to the right of the dining room table, preparing the canvas. Usually, he sketched a detailed portrait in pencil first but today he was pressed for time–he had an evening social date in West Gloucester that he’d already put off twice. He carefully arranged his paints along the front panel and examined four horsehair brushes.

Betty brought Lisa into the Dining Room. “Mr. Rockwell,” she said, beaming, “Lisa is so excited to be here.”

Rockwell glanced over the rim of his glasses, looking very serious. Returning to the canvas tray, he carefully smoothed the soft hairs of a stubbornly unruly brush. As Lisa and Betty started to walk away, Rockwell turned abruptly and said, “I believe I requested that you to dress the child casually.”

Lisa looked at the other children, together in a corner of the Dining Room.

“Doesn’t she look beautiful?” Betty asked.

“She certainly doesn’t look casual,” Rockwell sniffed, then turned back to the easel.

Lisa tugged her mother toward the other children.

“What is his problem?” Betty muttered, gripping Lisa’s hand a little harder than she’d intended.

They moved to the others and waited ten minutes until Rockwell asked them to take their places at the table. “Is everyone ready?” he asked, sounding somewhat apprehensive.

The mothers stood off to the side, watching silently as their children found nameplates on the table and took their corresponding places.

Lisa moved around the table, looking for her nameplate but couldn’t find one. Rockwell was straightening the wooden legs of the easel when she approached with a worried smile and asked where she was supposed to stand.

“Where would you like to stand?” he asked, looking toward the table, as the children began to sit.

“Anywhere, Mr. Rockwell,” she whispered.

He stepped down from the elevated stool and walked her to the table.

“This is Lisa,” he said to the others. Then with both hands he guided her to a spot just behind Jack, the boy selected to eat the eggs. “You can stand here,” he said. “Just watch the young man when he starts to eat.”

Jack turned around. “Mr. Rockwell?”

“Yes?”

“Do I have to eat the eggs?”

“Of course you do. That’s the whole point.”

A look of horror flooded Jack’s face. “But I can’t eat eggs,” he complained.

Rockwell crinkled his brow. “What are you saying? Why not?”

“I hate eggs,” Jack declared, certain that nothing could make him bring those eggs to his mouth, scrambled or not.

Rockwell leaned in to the boy. “You what?” he asked in disbelief.

Jack’s mother hurried over, looked at the plate.

“What is he talking about?” Rockwell asked, sounding more disappointed than angry. He knew the message of the painting rested on the boy’s pleasure in tasting those eggs.

“He just doesn’t like them,” the mother replied, shrugging her shoulders.

Rockwell took the plate in his hands, sniffed the eggs and reasoned; “They were just cooked.”

“He hates them,” the mother reiterated, embarrassed that she hadn’t said anything sooner. “He never touches them at home.”
“Never,” Jack contributed, turning to look at the other possible replacements.

Rockwell laid the plate back on the table and looked around, too. It was getting late.

“Very well,” he said, moving back and pointing to the other side of the table. “Stand in the background.”

Jack stood and took his place. As he passed, his mother squeezed his shoulder supportively and went back to the other mothers.

“Now we have a problem,” Rockwell announced. He looked at Kaitlin and asked if she wanted to take Jack’s place. She said no. “What about you?” he asked Katy, who replied with an embarrassed shrug.

Then it hit him. The solution was obvious; he should have seen it the moment the children walked in.

He turned to Betty, raising his heavy eyebrows. “What about Lisa?” he asked, indicating the vacant place at the table. “She’s certainly dressed for the occasion.” He winked at Lisa.

“I like eggs,” Lisa said to her mother.

Betty came over. “Fine,” she said, patting Lisa on the back.

Rockwell was relieved. “Let’s get started then,” he said, pulling the chair out for Lisa.

He moved back behind the easel, took his brushes and directed Lisa to take her first bite of the eggs. When he saw her pleased reaction, he told her to look straight at him and hold the pose.

“Can I just swallow?” she asked, innocently.

“No,” Rockwell replied, placing the brush to canvass for the first time.

Lisa looked over at her mother, who was standing with the other women, beaming because she knew this would be the first great highlight for her daughter, in a life full of highlights.

CHAPTER FOUR

NOVEMBER

Golly sat at the edge of his bed, pen in hand, writing variations of his name.

Mitchell.

Mitch.

Mitchy.

Mitcher.

No matter how he adjusted it, Mitchell seemed like the lamest name anyone had ever been saddled with. Of course, Golly was even worse than Mitchell and that’s what most people called him. All he wanted was a nice, straightforward, simple name like Paul. Paul had a regular, normal name, which was probably why he’d been so lucky in everything. It all had to do with the name. Jack or Robert or Dave. He could imagine names like that on fancy stationary. He wished he just could explain to everyone that it had been a mistake; he’d put the wrong name on the Harbison application.

In two years he would be leaving school. Then what? Lately he’d been thinking about that a lot. What was he going to do when that day came?

Change his name?

He drew a line down the middle of the page and wrote acceptable names at the top, on the left side, and absolutely unacceptable names at the top on the right. He tried to think of names for the acceptable column: Eric, Shawn, Carter, Patrick... For the right column he was easily able to come up with twenty-one names: Lance, Howard, Petey, Hal, Calvin, Golly...

He thought about professions. Which ones matched with those unacceptable names? Nothing did. Obviously, acting was out–none of the names fit at all. Maybe, he thought, nothing fit because he couldn’t figure out what he was cut out for.

Paul would have told him to forget changing his name.

He threw the list into the wastebasket and took a History textbook off the shelf. History...that was a strong point... He’d done well in American Studies One, Two and Three. He’d written a paper that his teacher had called “insightful”. He didn’t fall asleep during lectures, the way he did in most math and science classes.

He fished the list out of the garbage and looked it over. Patrick. Harry. Matthew. Simon. Richard....Richard. That sounded all right. Richard the Historian. He pictured himself in front of a classroom.

Richard what?

He needed a good last name. Richard Golly...No...Richard Berry. Richard Davis. Richard Jackson...Richard Farris, maybe.

Richard Farris.

He scrawled Richard Farris across the front of his textbook. It didn’t look bad. He thought about it. Mister Richard Faraday. That was a possibility.

He wondered if he would he be respected with a name like that, a position like that? Probably. He imagined himself walking into his classroom–he would be the kind of teacher students listened to. They would study twice as hard as he ever had and they would pass because he would make sure they learned. Richard Faraday, Harbison’s most honored and respected teacher.

His future was practically guaranteed with a proper name like that. He would go on to become well-known in teaching circles, write essays for prestigious sounding journals like the American Scholar. He would be asked to address other schools, better schools, famous, prestigious schools where students came from all over the world to learn–cities like Rome and Paris and Amsterdam; he would advise on curriculum issues at these schools, but he would never leave Harbison. He’d be a dedicated member of the faculty.

He’d be nominated for Teacher of the Year.

He would win. Year after year, he would be awarded that coveted Teacher of the Year Award, and all sorts of equally prestigious prizes. It was just a matter of the name and his name was going to be Richard Faradau. No question about that.

The only problem was that he had no real interest in teaching. He wasn’t sure what he wanted to do, but he knew he wanted to be famous. And he knew that for a celebrated someone, Richard Farris sounded even lamer than Mitchell.

Or Golly.

The Vietnam War was plastered across every television set in America. The dim reality of the "living room war" appalled most Americans, but Teo Hundersford found it positively inspirational. He watched the blurry black-and-white news reports and was instantly transported to all the glorious war films of the forties and fifties. He was the star–Audie Murphy, John Wayne and Henry Fonda, all in one. He wanted to be a movie star more than anything in the world, a war movie hero.

There was no drama department at Harbison, just a few unfocused courses offered by the English Department. But Teo took them all, completed his course work in English with Honors and finally, convinced the Department Chair to allow him to form a drama group with money from the department’s arts fund. After a frantic month-and-a-half spent lobbying the Harbison Fathers, he received additional funding from the administration and a few sponsors, mostly small store-owners in town. With only a year to go at Harbison, he had already achieved something of a dream.

The Company was given its own space in an abandoned lecture hall in Baylor Building. Headmaster Sorensen had agreed to fund the Company because he saw it as a painless way to improve relations between the town and the school.

The plays performed over the next months were mostly standards of the previous three decades–Our Town, The Skin of Our Teeth, A View from the Bridge.

Of that last production, the Harbison Times had written; "It was more than a little refreshing to see our students doing something other than protesting the War–a few Harbison-ites have clearly decided it’s time to do something genuinely productive with their lives."

Teo had appeared in three of the productions and directed the fourth. He was congratulated by the town Fathers—and one Mother, and honored by the Harbison administration, but he wasn't happy with the progress of things; weeks of hard work and circumspection had not nearly produced the results he’d hoped for. He objected to the creative constraints he believed were being imposed on the Company by outside funding and the conservative Harbison community, and he was determined to change the course of the Company even if it meant its elimination.

He sat in the last row of the theater watching his assistant, Jeff Deary, auditioning students for the new production. They’d been working for hours and nobody had seemed just right for the lead role until Earl Peters walked in at the last moment. Peters was tall and slim, solid-looking. He seemed like an actor, not a student, which was exactly what Teo had been looking for.

Teo hoped that Earl would be different from the others–a true believer. The brief, low-key monologue had gone well.

“Can you shift a little to the left?” Teo asked, affecting a tone of sophisticated urbanity.

“No problem,” Peters said, enthusiastically. He moved his large frame effortlessly across the stage to the exact spot Deary had in mind. Deary smiled appreciatively and motioned to a lone drummer at the rear of the stage.

Peters started to dance guardedly but whereas the text called for “wild, tribal rhythms, danced with abandon,” Peters was imprecise and seemed somewhat embarrassed.

On Teo’s cue, the drummer stopped. “We have a problem,” he said, whispering. “There are requirements for the performance that weren’t in the script you received.”

Peters waited anxiously to hear the details of what he’d done wrong.

“We need much more enthusiasm,” Teo said. “Much more abandon.”

“I’m prepared to do anything,” Peters announced, “I think this is a good play. And a great opportunity. I see what the playwright is trying to get at and I want to do whatever it takes to bring his vision to life.”

“So you ‘get’ this play, then?” Teo chimed in, sarcastically.

“I believe I do, yes.”

“The abstractions don’t intimidate you..?” Deary asked.

“I’m challenged by them,” Peters said.

Teo was no longer smiling.

“I’m interested in plays that experiment with language,” Peters said. “This play has a kind of Pinteresque dialogue.” He waited for Teo’s reaction.

“I think Pinter is highly over-rated,” Teo said. “Anyway,” he added, “I’m going to have to ask you to take your clothes off now. The part calls for that.”

“You’re joking,” Peters said. He breathed nervously, waiting for a punch line.

“That’s the way we’ve planned it,” Teo said shrugging. “It’s the design of the presentation.”

Peters saw that he was serious. “There’s no mention of that in the text, Mr. Hundersford,” he said.

“I know it’s not in the text,” Teo snapped impatiently, “of course it’s not. That’s our interpretation. We’re dealing with two characters who have just been through–we want to illustrate for the audience that they’re hardened individuals, hardened characters, that they’re willing to bare themselves emotionally as well as physically. Don’t you think you can handle the demands of that?”

“I’m not sure I understand why I’ve got to do this,” Peters said, considering it.

“Well can you or can’t you?”

Peters arched his eyes.

“This is not the most important decision anyone’s ever made, you know,” Teo said.

Peters slowly began to unbutton his shirt.

“That’s the right decision,” Teo said.

Peter’s face was taut and unsettled as he undid the zipper and pulled his pants down. He stood still, waiting for his reprieve.

Teo looked at him closely, studying, judging him. “You made the right decision,” he reiterated. “Absolutely. You can get dressed now.”

*

Golly stood outside Room 568, looking at his watch and wishing it was two hours later. The Economics class was about to begin and nearly everyone was already seated; he was trying, as usual, to delay the inevitable. As he leaned against the wall, waiting, Joseph arrived, also checking his watch.

Golly followed him into the room and sat in one of the last unoccupied seats, near the back. He’d never felt less like enduring a lecture in economic theory.

Hearing an unfamiliar voice at the head of the class, he looked up to see a tall, thin man in his early twenties who looked more like a student than a teacher.

The substitute walked to the middle of the room, with careful attention to his posture, which tended toward the stooped. "My name is Mr. Linski," he said breathily. He spoke in a high, effeminate voice that immediately drew titters from the back rows.

"Mr. Carrio, your regular instructor is out sick today,” Linksi explained.

Robbie Rheinhold’s hand flew up in the first row.

Linski looked at Robbie, who stood quickly and faced the class. “I have a question to ask the new teacher,” he said, stuffing his hands in his pocket.

“Would you mind facing the front, please?” asked Linski.

Robbie spun around, “ I was wondering exactly how much you know about economic theory, sir? I mean to say , sir, do you think you’re especially qualified to teach this class?”

Linski surveyed the room. There was a scattering of laughter.

“The reason I ask that question,” Robbie continued, “is that we’ve had substitutes before who didn’t seem to know a thing about Economics. They were kind of retarded about the subject.” He beamed at his own wit.

“Thank you for that information,” Linski said, pivoting on the last word.

“Because,” added Robbie to Linski’s back, “my parents are paying a lot of money to have me here at this well-regarded educational institution and I’d like to think their money isn’t being wasted.”

“I understand,” said Linski. “You can sit down now, please.”

“I didn’t mean to offend you,” Robbie sniffed.

Golly looked across the room at Paul, who was shaking his head, disapprovingly.

Linski moved to the blackboard. “I’m sure we’ll get something accomplished today,” he said, facing Robbie. “What did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t say,” announced Robbie, sitting triumphantly, as the back rows continued cackling.

“Let’s get right into this,” said Linski, ignoring the laughter and scrawling a precise four-sided figure on the blackboard. “Can anyone tell me what this figure represents?”

A loud farting noise burst from the middle of the room.

“Who made that noise?” Linski demanded, sweeping his eyes across the floor.

Robbie raised his hand, standing again. “Sir?” he said, “I think I can identify where that noise came from.”

“Sit down,” Linski snapped.

“But, sir, I know who did it.”

“I said, ‘sit down’”

Robbie gauged his progress; a lot was riding on his skill at preserving his reputation. Shaking his head in mock despair, he said, “I think we’ve come a long way,” then, nodding ruefully. “We’re here today, sir–if I may call you that–to find that we have a substitute who doesn’t want any input from the class. I mean really sir, we’re the ones who came here to learn.”

“Sit down,” Linski repeated, “and be quiet”.

“I think you have an obligation to explain why you don’t want any input from us, sir.”

“Do you insist that I call the Dean’s office?” Linski said.

From the other end of the room, Paul stood and looking at Robbie, said, “Why don’t you just sit down?”

Robbie stared at him, dumbly.

“I want to learn something today, if you don’t mind,” Paul said.

“Then, why don’t you mind your own business?” Robbie said.

“Just sit down, asshole,” Paul replied.

What is your problem, Einstein? He’s a substitute, get it? You don’t have to get on his good side, too.” He shook his head despairingly, sat down, took out a comic book from his bag and began reading.

Linski moved to the blackboard. “There are several problems with this drawing,” he started again. “Can anyone identify them?”

Paul raised his hand.

“Knew it,” said Robbie loudly, gathering his effects.

“The formula is based on an older concept, probably from the thirties or early forties,” Paul offered. “It’s outdated for now, I guess.”

Linski nodded.

“There are formulas which are more accurate...reflections of the way we think now,” added Paul.

“That’s right,” said Linski, “You’re absolutely right about that. Anyone else?”

Robbie’s hand flew up, his eyes still in his comic book.

“Anyone else?” Linski repeated, ignoring him.

“Hello?” Robbie said.

“Be quiet,” Paul said.

“What do you want?” Linski asked.

“I want to answer the question. I have something to share with the students. Is that permitted, sir?” He stood again and addressed the class. “I have a viewpoint Herr Doctor, Sir, Mister...”

“But you don’t have anything pertinent to offer,” Linski said. “Why not be quiet?”

Robbie looked at the blackboard, ignoring him. “I don’t see the connection between that symbol and real life...sir.”

“Do the reading!” Paul called out.

“I was speaking to the instructor,” Robbie replied, still fixed on the blackboard. “I don‘t understand where this is going at all, sir. I don’t understand the connection, to tell you the truth. As I said, my primary goal this year is to finish with a high grade-point average, so that my parents, relatives and friends will feel that my time here has been well spent—financially and scholastically.”

Linski stared at Robbie. “I think your question deserves to be addressed,” he said. “The young man asked a question that can be dealt with in a–”

Robbie interrupted, “I was only joking, Jack,” he said, and burst out laughing.

Linski ignored him. “The question is a valid one and I will try to answer it. The theories and ideas that we talk about in Economics are indeed transitory. The underlying meanings of things change so quickly today, in fact, that we are often caught completely unaware. The connection to daily life can be hard to see, sometimes.”

Robbie smiled victoriously. “What does that mean, doctor?”

“It means it’s time for you to shut up,” Paul said.

“Who asked you, asshole?”

“I’m here to learn something,” Paul said. “Okay? Now shut up!”

“You’re here to show off, genius asshole,” Robbie said, sitting down.

Linski took chalk to board and began writing.

Bradley got up suddenly, walked over to Robbie, glanced at Linski, then knocked the back of Robbie’s head hard with his open palm. Robbie reeled, barely having time to turn before Bradley smacked him hard across the face. “Shut up, you ignorant moron,” Bradley said. “You understand what I’m saying? Shut up now!”

Robbie was stunned.

“That’s right, asshole,” said Bradley.

“What’s your problem?” Robbie stammered, looking around for support.

“You’re the problem, shithead,” Bradley said, looking across at Paul. “I want to learn something here today.”

Robbie turned away but he braced himself for another hit. Bradley shuffled away to the enthusiastic applause of the room.

Linski, who had remained at the blackboard, turned back to the class and smiled. “Can anyone tell me what all this means?” he asked.

*

Joseph was under pressure and he was beginning to feel a familiar need to flee. Acceptance into ROTC seemed like a good bet now–Mathison had said that his chances had advanced “immeasurably” since meeting with two visiting Corps officials from Washington, a few days earlier.

He had spoken to the officials confidently and put forward a strong, convincing case for his immediate involvement, telling them that “contributing to America’s security is the first priority.” One of the officials had later informed Mathison that “the Corps is in desperate need of many more young men of that caliber.”

As the possibility of joining up became more of a reality, he began to imagine what life in the military would be like. Instead of feeling exhilarated by the idea of patriotic commitment, he felt stifled by the thought.

He hadn’t had any contact with his father in almost three months, but he was curious about what had happened to him. Arthur always called at least once every few weeks with hassles or criticisms, but lately there hadn’t even been the usual bi-weekly letters. He still didn’t know how close Joseph was to joining up.

He had been pulling away from everyone at Harbison, even Paul. Retreating to his room after classes, he immersed himself in military books, history books, biographies of Generals and Traitors. The result was that for the first time in a long while, he began thinking seriously about a career outside the military.

He could enlist for a few years; maybe go long enough to carve out a decent promotion. He would be proud of that, for sure, maybe even make it all the way to Captain. But the idea of spending his entire professional life in uniform now seemed curiously pointless. He didn’t know why exactly. Maybe Paul’s influence had been rubbing off on him. Paul always seemed to have everything figured out—after all, he’d strongly advised staying away from ROTC, and from the military. “Why volunteer?” he had said. “You’ll probably be volunteered.”

Lately, unsettling thoughts had been racing through his mind with confusing intensity; he’d been finding it harder and harder to concentrate. The more he considered his lack of direction, the more bewildered and bemused he became. Sometimes late at night, when the chatter and music from other rooms subsided to a dull hum, and he could think with some semblance of clarity, he understood how the terrible forecasts of his father could now well be visited upon him.

He thought it might be time to talk things over with Paul, but he was uncomfortable about that, too, because lately he’d been going out of his way to avoid everyone–including Paul.

At least he could take satisfaction in one thing: his father was going to hit the ceiling when he found out he’d been accepted into ROTC. He certainly wasn’t going to appreciate having spent all that precious prep school money. Arthur was blue-collar to the bone, but he’d always had that fantasy of a white-collar life. Now, with this decision to go into the military, Joseph was going to put some real bolts to his dreams. Maybe ROTC hadn’t been such a bad idea.

CHAPTER FIVE

LATE NOVEMBER

Teo Hundersford couldn’t believe his eyes.

He’d spent most of the last hour carping and complaining. The new show was completely cast except for the small but pivotal role of Charley, and finding him had been more difficult that anyone had imagined.

For the first time that day, Teo smiled: someone who might fit the role (“slobbering, ignoble idiot) had finally arrived.

Golly finished skimming the pages of the script and looked off at Teo in the front row. “I can do this,” he announced. A few days earlier, on a hunch, he had sent a picture of himself, along with a breathless letter proclaiming his “lifelong love of the theater.” He’d heard about the part from Peters, who’d said he had been “born to play Charley.” Golly hadn’t gotten the joke.

Holding the script in his hands now and peering out at Teo and his assistant, he was convinced of it himself.

Teo motioned for Golly to start reading.

Golly began.

“What’s the point?” he asked, affecting a husky Fat Charley voice, “We’ve come here, to do what we have to do and get out as quickly as possible.”

He moved forward to the lip of the stage, though that wasn’t in the script. He locked eyes with Teo.

“Where is this going, anyway?” he continued, still in character. “Did anyone bother to consider that simple fine point?” He backed up a bit. He didn’t want to overdo it. “Did anyone take any of that into account? Tell m. Did those of you who stand yourselves up as authority figures ever stop–for a single moment–to consider any of our feelings in this matter?”

He returned to his mark and waited, trying to read Teo’s face.

Finally, Teo leaned forward. “That’s enough,” he announced. “You’re going to be perfect.”

Golly smiled. Jesus, he thought, acting isn’t hard. Until days earlier, the thought of a theatrical career had never seriously occurred to him.

“Can you come to rehearsals Thursday morning?” Teo asked.

Golly was stunned that that was all there was to it. “I can, but–”

“You’re interested, right,” Teo said, waving his hands impatiently. “The job is yours if you want it.”

“Yes, of course, I am.”

“Then, there’s no problem with Thursday, right?”

“I’m just a little surprised,” Golly said.

“You don’t think you’re good enough?” Teo asked.

“No, I am...I mean, I think I am, yes.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“There is no problem,” Golly replied. “I’m very happy to have the role.”

“We’ll see how good you are,” Teo said.

“I won’t let you down,” Golly said, nodding enthusiastically.

“No, Mr. Seymour,” Teo said, “you won’t.”

*

The oldest student hangout on campus was the Harbison Coffee House, a low-slung, greasy spoon made up of three gray rooms that hadn’t been updated in almost twenty-five years. One of the rooms, called the Campbell B. Campbell Memorial Room, after Harbison’s founder, was a twelve- by-twelve cubicle next to the kitchen that had been converted into a storage closet for a hoard of junk–thousands of out-of-date menus and other bits of coffee house memorabilia. Each of three successive owners had saved all of this refuse because they didn’t have the heart to throw out any of what they called “the restaurant’s official history.”

Almost everyone who walked through its doors agreed that the Harbison served up the very best food in the state of Massachusetts. It was packed from morning until past midnight with plenty of locals and even a few tourists on their way to Boston and the Cape. Older students from Harbison serviced the tables in the late hours and closing time came whenever the last patrons decided to leave.

Bradley sat at the counter, waiting for Paul or whoever else might wander in. He surveyed the crowd, fairly lively, even raucous for the late afternoon, and concluded that his stomach was now firmly in charge. "I'm starving," he announced, generally raising his voice above the clatter. Nobody acknowledged him, so he laid his fists down tentatively, at first, then pounded on the table, channeling James Cagney in White Heat. "Does anyone work here?" he demanded.

A waitress came over finally and tried to still him with an exhausted smile. He didn’t smile back.

"If it wouldn't be too much trouble I'd like to get a coke and a slice of lemon pie?" he said, shaking his head in the fashion of a disgruntled old man.

A loud argument had broken out near the cash register after a young male patron slapped his girlfriend. One of the owner-brothers quickly interceded, at which time the patron tried unsuccessfully to throw a punch at the owner, a former Marine karate instructor.

The waitress came over with Bradley's coke and pie but now she wasn't smiling–she was the sister of the boy who was being thrown out. She deposited the food on the table and hurried over to the register.

Paul and Golly came in just then, spied Bradley through the crowd and at Paul’s suggestion, came over to him.

"Someone's having a bad day," Paul said, moving next to Bradley, his eyes now fixed on the open front door.

"That guy's on the floor outside, you can bet on that," said Golly, sitting on the other side.

"Fight," Bradley noted dismissively. "Who's eating?"

"I ate," Paul said, pointedly looking at Golly, who was always hungry.

"I'm eating," announced Golly.

The waitress appeared, smiled at Golly and Paul, but managed to avoid Bradley, who turned away from her and pretended to be busy with his coke.

"What can I get you guys?"

Paul looked at Golly, waiting for him to order.

"What's the best thing on the menu?" Golly asked jocularly.

"I don't know," answered the waitress, who had heard this joke a million times.

"Pate, tonight, perhaps?" Golly asked. “Actually I think I’m more inclined toward the oysters.”

"Not tonight," she huffed.

“Oysters are an aphrodisiac,” Paul said to no one in particular. "I'll just have some iced tea.”

"Tomato and Swiss with mayonnaise and ketchup," said Golly, "and a plate of fries and a side of mashed."

Paul shook his head.

"You want two orders of potatoes?" the waitress asked, wincing.

Golly asked, "I’m not breaking any laws, am I?"

"The law against making us sick," Bradley said.

"Whatever..." Golly said, shaking his head for the waitress‘ benefit.

She collected the menus, glanced at Paul with a kind of empathy and walked away.

Just then Joseph walked in. He looked around, saw Paul and decided to come over despite the fact that Bradley was sitting beside him.

"Blast from the past," Paul said, cheerfully as he approached.

Joseph looked at Golly, then at Bradley. The only seat available was next to Bradley. Joseph looked around for an empty table and spotted one, next to the kitchen. "Why don't we move over there?" he said, pointing to the table, hoping Bradley might stay where he was to avoid any unpleasantness.

"Sit here," Golly said, deliberately pointing to the vacant stool.

Bradley gave him a dirty look.

"I think we'd be more comfortable at a table," Joseph said.

Bradley stood. "Take this stool." he said, pointedly. "You'll be just as comfortable here."

"I'd rather not," Joseph said.

Bradley turned away.

"What's the problem?" Paul asked, though he knew.

Joseph said, "I have to be somewhere. I just wanted to say hi.”

"I hear the service is excellent in here," Golly said.

"I'm really not hungry,” Joseph said, shaking his head.

"That's a shame." Bradley said. “I was hoping we could sit down here and have a good conversation.”

"You want to meet up later?" Paul asked Joseph.

"He has to study," Bradley said.

"That's right," said Joseph, looking at Bradley. “To get somewhere in life.”

"That’s it,” Bradley agreed. “He's studying to get somewhere in life."

Joseph nodded to Paul. “See you later,” he said and went over to sit at a table.

Paul looked at Bradley, waiting for an explanation. Bradley took a napkin from the counter and blew his nose. “Look,” he said. “This should have been settled a long time ago, if that’s what you want to know.”

“Settled how?” Paul asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe we’ll just kill each other, one of these days.”

“What are you talking about?”

"Is this going to be like 'twenty questions'?" asked Golly.

Bradley said, "Don't even ask me about it."

"Can I ask you about it?" asked Golly, waving to get the waitress’ attention.

Bradley gulped down half a glass of water.

“No, I want to know,” Paul pressed.

“It just goes on and on,” Bradley said quietly. “Like the U.S. and the V.C.”

The waitress came over. "What can I do for you?" she asked, her attention mostly trained on another table.

"Beer. I'd like a beer," Golly said.

"Be serious," she said.

"Why wouldn’t I be serious?"

"You have ID, right?"

"Huh?"

Paul laughed. "Show it to her, Golly. Show her your ID".

"I'm not showing anything," said Golly, "I come here every day. Everyone knows me."

“There you go,” Paul said. “His day is ruined.”

*

The first time Paul saw Carol she was sitting alone in a corner of the cafeteria, hunched over a stack of textbooks and poetry magazines. She was dressed in faded, torn jeans and her shirt was wrinkled, and missing two buttons at the bottom.

She wore her dirty blond hair in a bun that perched precariously at the back of her small, fragile head. Her black plastic glasses severely jarred against the pasty whiteness of her face.

Paul was carrying a tray of hot food, heading to a table at the back, when he saw her–it struck him that she was the embodiment of the Sixties Woman, a complete mess.

For a moment, his better sense worked to discourage him from moving closer to her table. He knew she was going to be more trouble than he could reasonably deal with. And, too, of course, there was Lisa.

Still, he could not stop himself.

When he was close enough to see the wreckage clearly, Carol looked up, smiled politely then let her head drop again, as if that momentary effort had taken too much out of her.

In those seconds, he was able to see that she wasn’t simply tired, she was sick.

He understood himself too well–he was positively driven to involve himself in “tragic cases” and it was obvious that this girl would provide endless opportunities for social work. He thought of himself as a pitiable weak sheep drawn closer to a beautiful, probably inevitable slaughter.

He stepped up to her table and motioned to an empty chair opposite. After she forced a weak smile and nodded, he pulled out the chair, quietly, and sat down. “I’m Paul,” he said, offering his hand, already hoping this would help her in some way.

She lifted her head. A trace of color rose in her face and she reached for his hand. “I’m Carol,” she said.

He couldn’t think of a thing to say. Her eyes were closed. He stared at her books—maybe the titles would trigger a thought. Her head looked as if it was about to fall. He thought about touching it, trying to support it–but he didn’t want to offend or embarrass her. Five minutes earlier, he had been on his way to a lovely, quiet lunch by himself. He didn’t understand what it was about his character that sometimes drew him to purely unpleasant situations.

He kicked the table gently, hoping to stir her. Her head fell further, then she opened her eyes halfway and looked in his direction but didn’t seem to see him. He noticed the small scar that ran across the right side of her forehead. He couldn’t tell if it was the result of a childhood injury or if it had developed recently. It didn’t seem very deep. He thought, maybe this should be the subject of their first conversation.

She moved her head, trying to rouse herself. “I’m Carol,” she said again, hazily.

He said, “You told me.”

“I did?”

He shrugged. “Big night out, huh?” He was immediately embarrassed for saying that.

She forced herself to open her eyes fully. “Yeah, I guess,” she said, slurring her words, whispering, “Big night.”

“Would you like a cup of coffee?” he asked anxiously.

“Yes,” she said, “that would be very nice.”

He rose quickly, at her service. “Black?” he asked.

“No, with milk, thanks.”

He walked away, toward the service counter at the other end of the cafeteria. He was apprehensive and exhilarated; he already sensed that this meeting was going to change his life in some way, but he questioned whether he would have the stamina to survive the experience.

*

Golly arrived late for rehearsal and Teo was not impressed. He motioned Golly to the side of the room, away from the other actors.

"I know I'm not on time," Golly said.

"We've been waiting for twenty minutes," Teo said. “Actually you’re pretty late.”

"I'm sorry. I was–"

"I don't care where you were,” Teo sniffed. “I'm running what I hope is going to be a professional quality show here, with very little money and scads of pressure. Scads of pressure. This is my job, you understand. This will be my life when I leave here. You see that? You were given an opportunity and if you want to fuck it up, that's your own goddamn business."

"Yes, sir, " Golly said.

"Do you know your lines?"

"I think so," replied Golly.

"You think so? Well, let's get started, then if you think so."

Teo’s assistant stood beside Golly, who was to deliver the play's opening monologue, a long, complicated speech about a situation that had brought his character to the “precipice of life". Golly read the monologue the night before and had worked hard to understand and memorize it but now, exposed on the stage he feared he couldn’t deliver it the way he’d hoped to. He was completely afraid to speak, afraid, as his grandfather had always been fond of saying, that he might put the wrong em-phasis on the wrong syll-able. The assistant moved closer.

Teo appeared, from a doorway at the right. He clapped his hands and Golly turned to face him.

"Now," said Teo.

"All right," Golly said quietly, stalling.

"Is there a problem here?" Teo asked.

Golly looked at him anxiously. "I don't think so," he said. "I’m just having a little trouble remembering the start of the monologue–"

Teo moved close to the stage. "You have trouble remembering the lines?" he asked.

"This is my first play," Golly replied.

"It is?" Teo said pointedly, for the assistant’s benefit. "Did you bother to memorize the lines?" he asked.

"Yes. Yes, I did."

"Then, there’s no problem, is there? Let's try it again.”

"Yes," Golly stammered. But it was impossible. The words formed in his head but refused to come out of his mouth. He stared at Teo, standing at the lip of the stage with his arms folded. The terror simply increased.

"Well?" Teo shouted. “What is it now? Are you having a blackout?”

Golly was frozen, staring out at the back of the theater.

Teo moved toward him. "What is the problem?" he demanded.

"I don't know," Golly answered honestly, his nervous eyes darting around the room, seeking a neutral place.

"We should get someone else," Deary muttered.

Teo got up on the stage and put his hand on Golly's shoulder. "There's really no need to be nervous," he said. “We don’t have an audience here. We're just rehearsing. We’re just all gathered here together trying to work our way into this. Why don’t we just take a deep breath and try to pull it together." He moved off, back to the side of the stage.

Golly could barely hear the words. He was embarrassed and deeply disappointed in himself.

"You want to try again?" Deary asked, shrugging indifferently.

"Do it," said Teo.

Golly stared at both of them. It was useless. He shambled forward a few feet and locked eyes with Teo. “I can’t,” he said. “I can’t do it.”

Teo shook his head.

“You’re certainly right about that,” Deary said.

*

It had been easy, Paul now realized, to take Lisa for granted. She was always around when he needed her; a constant, comforting presence, reliable in her convictions, appropriate in all the obvious ways, supportive of his interests and ambitious goals.

Then he met Carol.

He’d had no desire to change his life, then, but there she was; he felt foolish and helpless in the face of it. For the first few days, he resented her: it seemed that she had passed into his life deliberately, to upset its delicate balance.

During those days, he’d made an effort to spend as much time with Lisa as possible–he went into town with her to shop, to the movies three times (twice to see Easy Rider); he took long, romantic walks with her, around Harbison, and around the town.

He hoped all this activity would divert his attention from the awful matter at hand: he was falling for Carol. They had been seeing each other for short periods—lunch or walks around Harbison in the late afternoons. He couldn’t say he was falling in love with her exactly, but he was sure the things he felt were leading toward some kind of trouble.

While having lunch with Lisa, one afternoon, he realized he was thinking about his plans for the next day with Carol. As Lisa went on about her anxiety over an upcoming mid-term, Paul’s thoughts drifted to the trip he and Carol had talked about–and the picnic that would follow.

He would need to bring along the food and drinks; she’d said she would provide her father’s Corvette. She would be wearing a short spring dress, brightly colored, maybe a hat.

“I’m the one who used to go on and on about checks and balances,” Lisa said. “Now I sit there and behave myself like the good little girl I am, when all I want to do is go up there and strangle the idiot.”

“What?” Paul said, snapped back by the ominous sound of the word strangle.

“Are you listening to me at all?” she asked.

“I’m sorry,” he said, shaking his head. “The test. You’re worried about the test.”

“It’s not so much the test,” she clarified. “It’s his whole attitude. The man is a pompous jerk who believes we have too much freedom. He really believes that. I would love to see what his reaction would be if someone tried to get involved in his business...”

“You’ll do all right,” Paul said, wondering whether Carol would be wearing flats or heels.

“Paul!”

“What?”

“What’s the matter with you today?” She arched her brows disdainfully.

“I’m listening.”

“I’m not talking about the test. I’m talking about the teacher. Can you stay with that thought for about a minute?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Forget it,” Lisa said, standing. “You’re on some other planet, Paul. This has been happening a lot lately.”

He looked up, confused. “Where are you going?” he asked, pointing to the slice of pizza on her plate.

“You’re busy,” she said. “That’s fine.”

“Wait a minute,” he said, standing quickly.

“I’ve gotta go,” she said. “If it’s something interesting, call me later and tell me about it.”

She disappeared.

CHAPTER SIX

DECEMBER

Paul had been in love when he was eleven. His parents had taken him to an old hotel in Marblehead during the record cold winter of 1963. It was just after the Kennedy assassination and everyone still felt anxious and unsettled by the events of the day, but his father had said it was a good time to “start breathing again” so they’d booked the week anyway.

They spent the week in the Harbor Light Inn, a historic coupling of two Federal Era mansions that had twenty-one brick-faced rooms and plenty of atmosphere. His father paid extra to get a top-floor accommodation with a fireplace and an old-style metal bathtub and amazing views of the Harbor. The cozy little lobby featured a television, which was handy, since most of the rooms had no TV sets.

It was on the third night that Paul fell in love for the first time. He was watching a rerun of Jackie Gleason’s Honeymooners show with his mother when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a well-dressed, prim-and-proper-looking girl walk over to the Great Fireplace at the back of the lobby. She stood in front of the roaring fire with her eyes closed, warming her small hands.

She was tall and slim and had the most delicate cheeks, like a porcelain doll. She sat on one of the over-stuffed brown pillows that had been scattered around the floor for the comfort of guests.

He guessed she was twelve or thirteen but it was hard to tell in the crackling light of the fire. His mother knew who the girl was. She had met Emily’s mother, Anna, that afternoon in the gift shop where they’d exchanged thoughts about a certain pendant they were both thinking of buying.

Emily had walked in just as her mother was about to buy the pendant. Paul’s mother suggested that they get together the next day for a day-trip. Anna thought this was a delightful idea and volunteered to take care of the arrangements.

“She’s a pretty girl, isn’t she?” Paul’s mother said, as Emily stretched out on the pillow, watching the dancing flames.

“I guess,” Paul replied non-committals.

“Why don’t you go over and introduce yourself? She’s lovely, isn’t she?”

“How do you know?” Paul asked, suspiciously. He had no intention of being fixed up during his vacation.

“I spoke to her mother this afternoon. They’re from Boston.”

Emily caught Paul and his mother looking at her. She smiled and waved, then pushed herself off the pillow and came over.

“Hi,” she said, looking at Paul, “I’m Emily.”

“Hi,” Paul said, shaking her hand, wondering if this had all been planned. “I’m Paul.”

As events transpired, he spent the next three days with Emily, alone and together with their parents on the road trip to nearby Swampscot village. He quickly understood that he had feelings for her, despite his certainty, after all, that the mothers had planned the whole thing.

Emily seemed equally taken with him and by the end of the week, as their families were preparing to leave, she said that they should exchange phone numbers and “keep in touch”.

On returning home to Boston, Paul announced that he was in love. His father laughed and said that he was way too young to be in love, and anyway, he would probably never see Emily again since she lived all the way out in Andover, which was “much too far away for any serious kind of crush.”

Paul hurried to call Emily to tell her how he felt.

When he dialed the number she’d given him, he heard a recorded message from the operator saying that the number had been disconnected.

How could that be? When he told his mother about it, she confided that she’d found Emily’s mother to be a bit strange. She said, “all day long, she complained about this and that until it finally led to problems. You know how it is.” She wasn’t at all surprised to hear the number was no longer in service. “If it ever was.”

He was heart-broken. He promised himself that he would never allow himself to feel that way about anyone again.

Now he had met Carol and things were spinning out of control. He hoped he wasn’t becoming pathetic.

She was sitting in a corner of Clyfford reading a book by Erich Fromm. He stared at her from the distance, in the stacks. Every time he looked at her she seemed more dazzling, more beautiful, more irresistible. He had to keep reminding himself that she represented a whole spectrum of complications and problems, that he had plenty on his mind these days, and certainly, no time for trivial things like this.

He had to remind himself that he was still with Lisa, and that he was supposed to be falling in love with her. But he realized that things hadn’t been going well at all lately. Maybe he’d been distracted by the issues of his life. Maybe he had been distracted by the seriousness of the relationship. Maybe he was just too young. They had been fighting a lot these last few weeks, over every little thing. Sometimes when they were together he felt as if she wished they’d never met. Sometimes he wished they had never met.

But maybe it was all Carol’s fault. Something was certainly askew and he wasn’t happy about it.

He walked over to the corner and pulled up a chair.

“What are you up to?” she asked, peeking over her glasses.

“Not much,” he said, though he’d just come from an exhausting what-to-do-about-the-future meeting at Dean Caryou’s office.

“Me, either,” she whispered, smiling sweetly.

He could feel the muscles in his chest. “You had lunch yet?” he asked.

She closed the book. “I’m not hungry,” she said, lifting her hand off the desk in a half-hearted gesture.

“We read that last year,” he said, nervously. “Fromm is all right, I suppose. Sometimes I use his ideas in my writing.”

“How did it go?” she asked, ignoring him.
“What?”

“Your meeting with Dean Caryou.”

He scrutinized her pale eyes. “How did you know about that?”

“I’m interested in knowing things about you, that’s all,” she said.

“It went fine,” he said. “But how did you know I was going to see him?”

‘I’m smart..?” she said.

“No.” He arched his brows curiously. “You have to tell me.”

“No, I don’t have to tell you anything,” she said, tilting her head. “Now do you want to ask me something or not? For example, am I busy for lunch?”

“Are you?” he asked, a little too quickly.

“I told you. I’m not hungry.”

“Don’t make this hard for me,” he said.

“All right,” she said. “I won’t make it hard for you. I’ll go to lunch, but you have to promise me one thing.”

“Yes?”

“You have to promise that you won’t try to tell me that you’re going to dump your girlfriend for me. Because I know that’s not going to happen and I don’t want to look forward to something that’s not going to happen. Okay?”

He stared at her in a sizing-things-up way.

“Don’t look like that,” she said. “I just want you to understand that my eyes are open. I don’t want anyone to get hurt. We’re just friends, right? And that’s what we’re going to continue to be? Right? Friends.”

He thought about it for a few seconds. “I don’t know,” he said, watching her carefully. “I guess we’ll see.” He knew that his days with Lisa were numbered.

*

Golly was saddened by his failure. He was sitting on the steps of the Cafeteria Quad, day-dreaming about Broadway and the lights that would never shine for him, when Jonathon Calvalry, who’d been missing in some kind of action for almost two months, came up from behind and put his hands over his eyes.

He tried to spin around, but Jonathon pressed him in place with his big, muscular arms. “Guess who?” Jonathon said cheerfully, removing his clammy hands.

“You!” Golly said, surprised to see Jonathon after all that time. “I heard you were in Chile,” Golly said.

Jonathon had disappeared one afternoon and did not tell anyone that he’d gone off to Chile with his parents, who planned to work in the Peace Corps. Before this news Golly had assumed he was dead–hit by a car–or probably murdered. Jonathon was always doing crazy things he shouldn’t have been doing, getting on people’s nerves and involving himself in other people’s business, so Golly hadn’t been all that surprised by his disappearance.

But now Jonathon was back, looking fine, even a little tanned.

“What are you doing here?” Golly asked.

“Aren’t you glad to see me?” Jonathon said, sitting on a boulder, next to the steps. “You are, right?”

“Of course, I’m glad,” Golly replied, suspecting that he was about to hear some long story.

“I came all the way back here to tell you how far I’ve gotten in this world.”

“Are you staying?” Golly asked.

Jonathon beamed. “Not me. Got work to do. Brave new missions saving the Third World, fella. That’s not the easiest job in the world, in case you didn’t know.”

“What are you up to?” Golly asked seriously.

“Are you sitting down?” Jonathon asked, pointing at Golly’s behind. “I’ve been appointed the local student representative of the Peace Corps for Southern Massachusetts,” he said.

“What does that mean?”

“It means I’m in charge of finding recruits for the Corps. I go around to all the High Schools and colleges and get people to sign up.”

Golly found it typically annoying that, while everyone around him was still trying to figure out what they wanted to be when they grew up, Jonathon Cavalry–Jonathon Cavalry–had managed to find himself a job in the real world.

“You’re a volunteer?” Golly asked, hopefully.

“Man, as of my eighteenth birthday, I am a paid employee of the Corps,” Jonathon replied. “Salary, travel, expenses, the whole she-bang. This is the best gig you could ever hope to find.”

Golly was getting more depressed. And then, “And what have you been up to, Big Golly?”

‘Not much,” Golly answered truthfully.

Jonathon threw his arm around Golly’s back. “Nonsense,” he decided. “You’re probably going to be Dean of Boys one of these days.”

“I tried some acting,” Golly announced, though he was immediately sorry he had.

“Acting?” Jonathon spat. “Why acting?”

“I don’t know” Golly said, shrugging apologetically.

“Are you any good?” Jonathon asked, off-handedly, checking his watch.

“I don’t know.”

Jonathon stood. “Well, I have an appointment with Headmaster Sorensen in a few minutes. Have to get the school on the bandwagon. The Corps needs all the soldiers it can get.”

Golly tried to smile.

Jonathon offered his hand. “You try to take care of yourself, okay, young man?”

“Try to,” Golly replied.

“I’ll put in a good word with Sorensen for you,” Jonathon said and walked away, looking very satisfied with what he had found.

Broadway, Golly thought. Oh, Broadway.

*

On certain recent winter mornings Heddley did not feel like a teacher at all. The blistering winds that surged all the way north from the icy Charles River blanketed the campus in a strange, misty gloom and reminded him that his tenure at the school was coming to an inevitable conclusion. Maybe he hadn’t been suitably equipped for the job, after all. Plenty of people had said that, whispered it down through the years. He’d tried not to spend too much time thinking about his life in terms of numbers, accomplishments or failures, but sometimes he couldn’t help himself. He’d held the same position at Harbison for twenty-seven years–there were bound to be plenty of figures and calculations.

He sat behind his desk, looking at the locked drawers, then at the other side of the office, at three tall file cabinets that held the records of twenty-seven years worth of grades, hundreds of photo-copied reports, and dozens of papers written by his more gifted students. He’d always made sure to make copies of the really good work–he knew that one day those papers would come in handy. Maybe they would, in some manner, testify to the job he’d done.

He pressed his finger across the surface of the desk and saw that it was dustier than usual. This told him that he hadn’t been paying attention to details lately and that bothered him, even now, at this disconcerting moment. Beyond all the turmoil that had recently taken over his life, he’d been on top of everything.

He couldn’t help wondering what would be said about him. The first person who would make the discovery would run out of his office to tell the person in the next office, who, in turn, would make frantic phone calls and probably run over to Sorensen’s office with the news.

What would Sorensen have to say? What would he tell the Board, how would he break it to them? How quickly would conjecture and pity whipsaw into anger and resentment? He wondered how long it would be before everyone began portraying him as an unstable lunatic, after all, a selfish man who had hidden–all those years–just how desperately sick he was (and naturally: how was it possible that he’d been left alone with our children?).

An unsettling thought occurred to him now–he hadn’t made any arrangements, not a single one. There was no family involved, of course so he didn’t have to worry about those things. But living frugally and wisely, making sure his accounts were always in order, he’d accumulated a small, but substantial amount of savings. Though he didn’t know how much there was exactly, a rough calculation told him there had to be fifty thousand dollars dispersed across various bank and stock certificates. That money ought to go to help someone, he thought.

It was too late to worry about it now. He could scribble something down, maybe, but he didn’t know if it would be considered a legal document, under the circumstances, and he wasn’t about to bring anyone else in on his plans.

He looked at his watch. Time was running out. He nodded at the perversities of that notion–it was like one of those celebrated historical contexts he taught in class. He had to stop thinking. Thinking was dangerous now. He was, to the core of his being, an analytical person and if he gave himself over to any sort of detailed analysis now, he was liable to start reasoning and reasoning might lead just where he didn’t want to go–to reassessment. That was the last thing he wanted. He’d done enough thinking. He intended to carry through with this important decision he’d made.

He felt good, all things considered. He’d certainly imagined he’d feel a lot worse, that he would have all sorts of second thoughts, and/or last minute hesitations–but no, not at all; and that was the truth. The end of everything seemed absolutely life affirming.

He took the telephone off the hook because he knew he tended to answer ringing phones under any circumstances.

Loosening his tie, he took a pen in hand and began writing a memo to his secretary. Originally, he’d intended to leave something detailed and formal. He was used to doing things that way and he’d tried to do it for about an hour or so without success; everything–every thought or justification or plea– came out selfishly maudlin.

To close, the memo read, simply: Please inform the Board of Directors and Headmaster Sorensen that I have decided to vacate my position earlier than planned. My resignation should be considered effective immediately.

He smiled at that. A last witticism before taking his leave. He liked that a lot.

For a moment, he thought he heard the sound of approaching chatter outside the closed door, but he realized with relief that it was, in fact, coming from the street below–passing students on their way to, or from class. This reminded him that the window was open; he was sorry about that, but he was too exhausted to go over and close it.

He hoped the door didn’t suddenly spring open as it often did during this afternoon hour when his secretary was out to lunch.

He had no other thoughts because he was concentrating, again, on not thinking.

The drawer above his lap was open a few inches and he saw the revolver he’d purchased a few days earlier in Haddam. He’d practiced firing it without bullets that morning because he wanted to be familiar with the smooth contour, the cold, light weight and beautiful shape of it. He reached into the drawer and took the gun out. He knew what to do, more or less, because he’d read stories about people who’d done this sort of thing. Farther into the drawer, he located the box of bullets and took it out. There were twenty-four shells in the box; he removed six and filled the open chamber.

He snapped the chamber of the gun shut. Then, he slipped his finger into the trigger.

He lifted the barrel to his forehead and pulled the trigger.

*

Out of the blue, and for reasons he would never share, Joseph had proposed that Paul go with him on a “field trip” to Boston. Paul was hesitant about this at first; he was still sizing up Joseph, and still deciding what he was willing–and not willing–to invest in their friendship. But he thought it might be a fine idea to get away from Harbison for the few days anyway and that it would be a useful opportunity to see if there was some potential in their relationship–if the apparent mysteries surrounding Joseph’s life were worth further investigation.

The light in Joseph’s room was off when Paul arrived at his door, holding a handful of brochures from the Campus Travel Office. He pushed the door open slowly and saw Joseph lying in bed, apparently asleep. As he stepped inside, the wood floor gently creaking, Joseph began to stir.

“Are you awake?” Paul asked, moving to the foot of the bed.

“What’s up?” Joseph said, slightly disoriented.

“Boston,” Paul replied, casting his vote in favor of the plan.

Joseph lifted himself up in the bed. “You’re serious?”

“Why not? Anyway, this place is getting kind of old, isn’t it?”

Joseph pressed the covers away. “When do you think we should go?”

“Saturday,” Paul said, dropping the brochures on the bed to signify a done deal.

“Fine,” Joseph said. He looked at the brochures, but didn’t pick them up. “There’s a problem, though” he said. “I have no money.”

“I found a couple of really cheap places,” Paul said, indicating the brochures. “Youth Hostels. It’s only for a night.”

“No, I mean I have no money. Literally. I haven’t got a dime. You think you might be able to loan me thirty? I swear I’ll pay you back. I’m not the kind of person who forgets his debts.”

Paul hesitated. “When can you pay it back?”

“I’m getting money from some Aunt I hardly know–about a hundred dollars. She’s rich, I guess. She was supposed to be sending it this week, but there was a problem with the bank. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have mentioned the trip until I knew I had the money for it.”

“You have rich relatives?” Paul asked.

“I don’t know her really, but she’s got some money. Sometimes she gives it out. You know what I mean?”

Paul shrugged, “I never got anything from rich relatives,” he said.

“Well, anyway, I’ll pay it back as soon as the check comes.”

“Good.”

“I hate to ask you for money,” Joseph said. “If you want to back out, I understand.”

“Forget it,” Paul said. “We’re going to have a great time.”

*

The sun passed easily over Cedar Falls, warming its five thousand citizens in the summer and pointing the path through snowy blizzards in the winter. Ask citizens of Cedar Falls if they envied people who lived two hundred miles away in Boston, and they’d look at you with an uncomprehending stare. It wasn’t something they thought a lot about–a person, a couple, a family lived in Cedar Falls without particular dreams of leaving. One family in town, the Rodricks of 2345 Oak Town Drive had lived continuously in Cedar Falls for twelve generations, even before the country was born.

The youngest member of the family, Timothy Rodrick had just become a father to Jake, seven pounds, two ounces. At first, after the child was born, he talked a lot about moving to a bigger house, down the road in Haddam, where prices were a whole lot gentler and the houses all had double-dens and high ceiling-ed living rooms, some with two fireplaces. But when all was said and done, everyone knew that he was going to stay put in the house he’d grown up in. His great-grandfather had left that house to his grandfather, Lester, and it was a nice enough house, well-built by craftsmen, not assemblied like a lot of houses–without substance or strong walls. There didn’t really seem to be any particular reason to move, except for the size of the place, which was a little smaller than Timothy would have liked, but nevertheless manageable for his family.

That was how it was in Cedar Falls. You went about your business as best you could, making compromises, but not really big compromises like people in the city, because, for the most part, big decisions didn’t push themselves in on your daily life, not too often. The War was a big issue, of course, but except for the protests over at Harbison, it hadn’t really come to Cedar Falls in a big way; twelve of its sons had been drafted, but only two had been killed; everyone hoped the War would be over before any of the rest of them got into serious trouble.

Mayor Delaney loved the town more than anything and he wondered why it was that every time he turned on the television these days, people seemed to have bad things to say about small-town America. Life wasn’t lived in Washington or New York, definitely not. It was lived in solid American towns like Cedar Falls. Those nervous fellows who believed they ran things down in Washington would have been a lot better off (and felt a lot better about themselves) if they’d just picked up and moved somewhere like Cedar Falls. They’d understand things then, the way he did.

He walked past the center of town and noticed the big plastic thermometer on the front door of Baxon’s Bakery. The temperature was supposed to go pretty high today, for winter, according to the morning radio, maybe all the way up to the forties. He looked at his watch and checked the date. December 23rd. Guess that’s right, he thought. Cedar Falls came alive in the winter, he thought. He passed Lofton’s, the grocery store on the south side of the street. Lofton’s had a sign out front that read IF YOU BOUGHT IT ELSEWHERE YOU DIDN’T BUY IT AT LOFTON’S. It was a lousy joke, but the Mayor always smiled when he read it. That was Cedar Falls–so very close to Boston and those heavy-headed Ivy-types–but as removed from all that as it could possibly be.

He stopped in at Lofton’s and picked up a jumbo bag of potato chips and a six-pack of Seven-up. Bill Jergens, the current owner, saluted the Mayor with a finger to the forehead and handed him his prepared order; the Mayor had been picking up chips and soda, on the way home, every other day for seven years, since he first took office.

Bill wished him luck and the Mayor saluted back, as he walked away. Outside, two people he didn’t know were standing across the street, pointing in his direction. He waved at them in a friendly official way and they waved back, then crossed the street to join him.

“I’m Mike Pervis,” Mike Pervis said, offering a big, sturdy truck driver’s hand.

“I’m the–”

“You’re the Mayor,” Mike Pervis’ wife, Janet said, beaming as if she’d met Lyndon Johnson himself. “We saw your picture in the store.”

“Last time I looked, I was still indeed the Mayor. That’s true.”

“We just moved here from Pittsburgh,” Mike informed the Mayor.

“You’re going to love this place,” the Mayor said, “I think you’re both going to find Cedar Falls everything you’ve been looking for.” He winked at Janet. “And more.”

Mike smiled warmly. “You havta say things like that,” he said, “You’re the Mayor.”

The Mayor leaned forward conspiratorially, “Fella, the truth is...if I didn’t care about this town, you’d be the first to hear about it.”

Mike turned to Janet. “I think we may just have picked the right place, after all,” he said. “Town seems to have a helluva Mayor.”

“That’s the truth,” the Mayor agreed.

Mike and Janet crossed the street over to the Bank and the Mayor watched them disappear inside, thinking, it’s not bad at all to be the Big Fish. He was happy that the City Council had, at his urging, quashed that ridiculous proposal for term limits. He intended to be around for a long time.

Just then, Timothy Rodrick emerged from the barbershop at the end of the street and made his way quickly to the Mayor, who acknowledged him with a friendly wave and a warm smile. The Mayor had known the Rodricks for thirty-five years, since he’d met Lester Rodrick at the Kiwanis Club in Haddam. The family had been big supporters of his first run for public office, town surveyor, and had even donated seven hundred dollars to the campaign, which, at the time, had nearly covered the cost of the canvassing drive. The Mayor had been at the hospital when Timothy was born. Timothy had grown up just fine, the Mayor thought, with proprietary satisfaction, as the young man approached.

“Mister Mayor,” Timothy said.

The Mayor nodded to a quiet thought and shook Timothy’s hand briskly.

Like the new ’do?” Timothy asked. He’d always worn his hair short; the new haircut was almost crew style.

“You look handsome,” said the Mayor.” Like that movie star good-looking father of yours.”

Timothy stared down at the gutter.

The Mayor shook Timothy’s arm. “Don’t be shy,” he said. “It’s all right to be good looking. I manage to live with that particular burden.” He smiled, then brushed Timothy’s head.

“I got called up,” Timothy said.

“You got what?” the Mayor asked.

“They called my number,” Timothy said. “Yesterday, it was.”

The Mayor considered this.

There weren’t too many things you could be called up for in Cedar Falls. He’d seen this bemused look before, on other young men, the last one four months ago, when Chester Robinson had told him the very same thing.

He wiped that thought away, quick. Chester Robinson was dead now, shot in the head by a VC sympathizer outside Da Nang. “That’s a great thing,” the Mayor said.

Timothy had trouble looking him in the eye. The Mayor was like a second father to him; it was like telling his father the news all over again, like he was already dead.

“I report next week,” Timothy said. “In Haddam.”

“That’s where they do it, huh?” the Mayor asked, small talking through the fact that it had been he who’d suggested Haddam to the feds when all this mobilization talk began years before.

“They said I should realize I’ll probably be going overseas pretty soon.”

The Mayor knew what overseas meant. He nodded politely, trying not to indicate too much concern.

“My father’s expecting me back,” Timothy said, and then he laughed because he heard his words and realized they had a double meaning. “I mean home now, for dinner. My mother’s been away with her Aunt in Haddam so she hasn’t been told yet. I guess we got an exciting night ahead.”

“Don’t you worry,” the Mayor said. “The U.S. government knew exactly what they were doing when they drew your number.” He wasn’t smiling. “You’re going to be all right, son. No member of the Rodrick family ever did anything to bring disrespect to his family or to this town. You’re going to be smart and you’re going to be safe. You hear that, son? You’re going to come home to Cedar Falls with a hundred stories to tell.”

Timothy offered the Mayor his hand again and they shook. The Mayor held on to it for a few seconds before pushing it away playfully. “You say hello to your father for me, will you?”
Timothy nodded and walked away. The Mayor shook his head. There were so many little details to being Mayor. He thought, these are hard days for the country, hard days for Cedar Falls. Even, hard days for himself. He knew there were going to be funerals to attend in the next year or so. He really hoped one of them wouldn’t be for Timothy Rodrick.

*

Winters were colder in Boston than in the towns around Harbison. The icy winds that skipped off the Charles River made the temperature seem even colder, laden with portent, but Paul didn’t mind at all. He was happy to be back in the city of his youth, the city of John F. Kennedy and Langston Hughes.

And Joseph’s spirits seemed to have lifted. After a day of touring around the city, he appeared positively giddy. With the exception of one brief, oddly disparaging comment about Heddley’s suicide, he seemed to have left Harbison behind him.

*

The following day, they stood on Beech Street in Chinatown and watched the afternoon crush of tourists heading toward Boston Common. As a child, Paul had loved the way the crowds moved in patterns across the Commons, sometimes in waves, sometimes in smaller groups of six or seven heading toward the Frog Pond for a leisurely lunch or a meeting with old friends. These forty-five acres in the center of Downtown, the country’s oldest public park, had variously hosted fertile cow pastures, public hangings, military training and maneuvers and most recently, disorganized anti-war protest marches around the public gardens.

For Paul, the Commons represented his idealized ambitions of youth–he imagined living right there, in the middle of the Park, protected by nature and the city, developing his writing and his reputation while the world spun protectively around him.

Joseph’s attention was fixed on a pretty young girl who was trying to remove gum from the bottom of her shoe. She struggled valiantly, then frustrated, gave up and smacked her foot against the pavement, shaking her head at the injustice of it all. Joseph squinted to see the features of her face.

“You like her?” Paul asked, poking a finger in his ribs.

“No,” Joseph replied.

“Then, why are you looking at her?”

Two young couples passed in front of them, arms slung around each other, singing Doo Wop songs.

“What is their problem?” Joseph asked, moving ahead of Paul in the direction of the girl, who was sitting on a bench now, trying to scrape away the gum with a nail file.

“Where are we going?” Paul asked, staring at the girl.

Joseph didn’t say anything. He just moved a little faster.

“Have you ever seen the Head of the Charles Regatta?” Sarah asked.

They were sitting in a coffee house on Byron Street in Beacon Hill, trying to plan some activity for the afternoon. Joseph couldn’t take his eyes off Sarah, who he discovered was exactly his age, born in fact, on the very same December day in 1951.

Paul pulled Joseph aside to ask if he wanted to be alone with her, but Joseph insisted they stay together.

“What is that?” Paul asked of the Charles Regatta, remembering vaguely that it had something to do with canoes.

Joseph leaned forward. Sarah was one of the most beautiful girls he’d ever seen, tall and slender and almost painfully elegant. He wouldn’t have had the nerve to approach her if Paul hadn’t been there.

“The Head of the Charles Regatta,” Sarah said in a high-pitched Boston sing-song that Joseph found immediately irresistible. “Kids from all over the area come to the Charles every year to run down the river in canoes. Its like the Marathon, but better. Thousands of people come.”

“I’ve heard about it,” Paul said.

Joseph nodded blankly. It was obvious that he was smitten.

Paul took out his camera and pressed the flash charger. “How about a picture?” he said.

Joseph glanced at Sarah, hoping she wouldn’t mind. She surprised him by throwing her arm around his back.

“Cheese!”

Joseph’s brow furrowed. “Cheese?” he asked, uneasily aware of Sarah’s arm.

“Then say ‘Charles’. For the River.”

Sarah looked at Joseph, she shrugged resignedly, then both of them looked at the camera and together, said, ‘Charles–for the River.” They burst out laughing as the flash went off. Paul quickly recharged the flash and got off one more shot.

“So?” Joseph asked, moving a few inches away from Sarah for safety. “Is it to the Charles that we go?”

Paul raised his shoulders indifferently.

“It’s fun,” Sarah said, and to Paul, “You’ll get great pictures.”

“Well, then,” Paul said, smiling at Joseph, “that clinches it.” He scooped the dollar bills together in a pile and pushed them next to the check.

“Let’s go,” he said, sliding out of the booth, ahead of Joseph and Sarah. “To racing,” he said.

They made their way to the Bank of the Charles River Basin, along Back Street and managed to find a cramped opening between two brightly jacketed groups of freshman (one group wore yellow, the other, blue) from The Sandeford Academy, a local prep school.

Joseph stood to the right of Sarah, Paul to her left. By now, most of the race was over. It was around three o’clock and the dogged wind was beginning to move over from Cambridge. Joseph turned to Sarah and pulled the sides of her jacket together. “You should close that,” he said, wishing he could do it for her.

“I’m fine,” she said, “That’s very sweet. I’m used to the weather here. We live over in Cambridge, on the other side, near the River... It’s always cold, even in the Summer.” Joseph was hanging on every word.

Paul leaned over, holding the zipper of his jacket. “I’m cold, too,” he protested.

Sarah reached across Joseph to close Paul’s coat.

Joseph shook his head dismissively. “He’s just looking for attention,” he said, then he pulled her away, playfully. “Paul grew up in Alaska. He’s practically a cold-water fish.”

Sarah’s eyes lit up. “You grew up in Alaska?” she asked Paul.

“Right...” he said.

“You didn’t?” she asked, disappointed.

“Newton,” Paul said. “Decatur Street and Jackson Avenue. Not too exotic.”

“You’re from Newton,” Sarah asked, excitedly.

“Yeah, why?”

She pushed across Joseph to Paul’s side. “I’m from that area, originally.”

“You’re kidding?”

She looked at Joseph gratefully.

“Amazing,” Joseph said, pretending to follow the race.

“You’re not going to believe this,” Sarah announced to both of them, “I was born on Decatur Street.”

Paul moved a little closer. “You’re joking,” he said.

“I swear it. 4593 Decatur. Near Sage Street.”

Joseph stood to the side, watching helplessly as Paul’s magnetism worked it’s predictable magic.

“That’s a few houses down from where my old best friend used to live,” Paul said.

“That’s funny,” Sarah said, then turning to Joseph, “Don’t you think that’s so funny, Joseph?”

He nodded, turning to the rowers, who were passing, loudly shouting ON OUR WAY TO VIC-TORY!!!.

Paul said it was really amusing that she knew the block where he used to live, then he quickly moved to Joseph’s side. “They’re pretty fast,” he said, pointing to the river.

“I guess so,” Joseph agreed, glumly.

Sarah eased between them again and patted Joseph on the back. “You ever did any rowing, Joseph?” she asked.

He didn’t take his eyes off the river. “I’m really not inclined toward sports,” he admitted.

“Really..?” she asked.

Her condescending tone confirmed for Joseph that his plans for a long courtship, spur-of-the-moment marriage proposal, lots of children and a house in the country were just now out the window (vanished along Back Street, in view of thousands of excited sports fans, athletic and aquatic types.)

She turned to Paul again.

Joseph braced for the inevitable.

“And you, Paul?” she asked.

“What?”

“Did you ever do any rowing?”

“Not exactly,” he answered, keeping an eye on Joseph, and hoping he’d become fascinated by the final moments of the race. “I want to be a writer. Writers aren’t usually great rowers.” He laughed nervously.

“What does that mean?” she asked, eager to know the obvious truth–that Paul was a world-class rower, that he’d probably already won a position on the American team at the Summer Olympics.

“I’ve done a little rowing,” he admitted. “In Summer camp, in the Adirondacks. When I was a kid.”

“And you’re a writer?” Sarah asked, enthusiastically.

Joseph shook his head, acknowledging the bitter truth. “Anything else we want to do today?” he blurted.

“Wait,” Sarah said. “Writers can row. That’s ridiculous.”

Joseph was now fairly sure he didn’t want to spend any more time with her.

“I did it one summer,” Paul replied. “It was no big deal.” Looking at Joseph, who was already creeping away, “I wasn’t very good at it.”

At which Sarah threw her arms around Paul, planted a sweet little kiss on his cheek and exclaimed, “I know you’re a great rower! I can tell–rowers have a certain physicality and you’ve got that, Paul. You’ve definitely got that. And writers can row.” She giggled.

Paul looked uncomfortable. “Well, then” he said, “what do you say we go over to Cambridge?”

Joseph was not remotely interested. He shrugged severely and watched another group of rowers, who were waving at the spectators–waving at him!

“I need to get home,” Sarah announced. “It’s study time.”

Paul nodded, anxiously throwing his arm around Joseph. “We should be getting back to the hostel, too,” he said.

They turned from the River and Sarah shivered, hugging herself. “Gonna get frostbite here, gentlemen,” she said, mostly to Joseph, who looked relieved that the afternoon was coming to an end.

“It was very nice meeting you, Sarah,” Paul said. She took Joseph’s hand and shook it. “Nice meeting you,” he muttered.

Sarah reached into her jacket pocket and took out a date book.

“Would anyone be interested in dinner tonight?” she asked, looking at Paul.

The rowers zoomed by, closer to the shore.

“Sorry,” Paul said, a little too forcefully. “We do have plans. Boston Pops.”

Joseph looked at him, puzzled, then smiled.

“That’s good,” she said, disappointed. “Can I can join you guys?”

Paul sucked the bottom of his lip. “Sold Out,” he announced.

“That’s really too bad. Well, you guys have a great time, then.”

“We will,” Joseph assured her.

“Just think of me when you’re sitting there, “’K?”

“’K”, Joseph said and turned away.

Sarah leaned in and gave Paul a kiss, then smiled awkwardly at Joseph, and walked away.

“You believe that?” Paul said, looking out at the rowers.

“Real character,” Joseph said, turning from the race, toward Back Bay.

The bus back to Harbison was scheduled to leave in less than an hour and Paul was getting concerned. Joseph had gone off to a souvenir shop around the corner from the hostel and since both of their suitcases were packed and sitting by the door, he decided to take them down to the lobby.

Before leaving the room he opened his suitcase and stashed his own souvenirs—three hardcover novels he’d picked up at Atcheson’s Books on South Street. Franz Kafka’s The Trial, Gore Vidal’s Williwaw, James Baldwin’s Go Tell It on the Mountain.

In the lobby, he found an out of the way spot in the corner, a ratty seat near the window, and fixed the suitcases up against it. He checked his watch again. Knowing that the bus would be the last for the day, Joseph had said he would only be gone for a few minutes. Now it was getting late.

The lobby was deserted except for an old man, checking out at the front desk; he seemed to be having trouble reading a form. Paul considered going over to help him, but the clerk abruptly took the form back and filled it out himself. It was sad to be old, Paul reflected. Sad–and a waste of time.

His thoughts wandered to Sarah and Joseph, and Joseph’s frustration at failing to win Sarah’s attention. He hoped this wouldn’t cause even more problems; he suspected Joseph had gone off for a good sulk. What could he do? He hadn’t done anything at all to play to Sarah’s notice.

Jealousy’s a funny thing, he thought. Would Joseph have been envious at all if he’d known about the problems he was having with Lisa? He’d hoped to leave the issue behind, while they traveled. But it had followed him everywhere. Did Joseph suspect that he had spent so much of the trip thinking about what he was going to do about Lisa when he got back to Harbison? That he’d gone over it in the hostel, at breakfast and dinner, at the River with Sarah, at night, laying helpless, while Joseph snored his brains out?

Finally, one thing had become certain. The time had come to end things.

He would call Lisa, probably three or four times. By the fourth call, he’d hear her voice become stern and irritated– she’d know who was calling, and probably, why. There had been a genuine argument before he’d gone away with Joseph; she’d even accused him of plotting to leave her.

On his way to her dorm, he’d go over everything again, paying special attention to the words he’d use to introduce his subject. This seemed a valuable approach, after all; it was a sound and simple literary device, a strong introduction to a difficult scene.

He’d make it halfway to her dorm, just past the middle of the Quad, when his hands would begin to shake and his heart would beat so fast he’d have to wait to gather his breath.

Who was he kidding?

As he’d walk along the footpath to the Student Union, he would look across the greenway to the dorm building, and realize, then, with absolute conviction that there was no way he could go through with his mission. He would turn around quickly and began searching for a new plan.

He would walk all the way back to the side entrance of Clyfford and there, in close proximity to the greatest concepts of western civilization, the solution would become amazingly evident–he was a writer, wasn’t he? That had to be where the answer lay.

He would write a carefully conceived letter–two or three pages, explaining everything in simple, direct terms, but with plenty of understanding, sympathy, respect and, especially, sensitivity. He felt very confident about sensitivity. He certainly had no desire to hurt anyone, least of all Lisa; he would use words to soften the impact of his message. After she had received the letter and had had time to think about what he’d written, he would call her—or maybe, by then he would even gather up the courage to face her in person. Then, they would discuss everything.

There would be some awkwardness, of course; there had to be; after all, they’d been together for a time. But they would talk things through, rationally, analytically, logically, and they would reach all the unavoidable conclusions. They’d settle things in a mature way, and go right on with their lives—that was the proper thing to do. Maybe they would even remain friends.

This solution had faults, of course. For example, he knew perfectly well that they would not remain friends. That sort of thing only worked in theory; these theories never worked out in real life. It was much more likely that she would hate him for the rest of time. He just wanted this whole depressing experience to be over as quickly as possible.

He checked his watch one more time. As he reached for the suitcase, Joseph walked through the door, carrying a small plastic shopping bag, filled with cheap souvenirs.

“I’m ready,” he announced, without apology or explanation.

“We’re late,” Paul said, indicating the clock on the wall.

“No,” Joseph said. “We have plenty of time.”

“I checked out already,” Paul snapped.

“Relax,” Joseph said, shrugging his shoulders. He scooped up his suitcase and moved ahead, through the door. Paul shook his head and followed him out to the street.

As he waited for the taxi, Paul thought about how sorry he felt for Lisa, and how sorry he felt for himself. It was an awful thing he was planning to do, but it had to be done, sooner or later–and sooner was always better. He would have time, over the Holidays, to think about it further.

    CHAPTER SEVEN

EARLY JANUARY

Joseph still hadn’t become completely comfortable with his decision to spend the next years of his life in military service and he hoped some simple resolve would make it easier to get through these last months at Harbison. Also, he hoped that people–especially Paul–would finally stop giving him advice when they realized that the whole thing was a done deal.

Earlier, a picture in an old National Geographic of a famous young gymnast from Soviet Georgia had piqued his interest. In the photo, the Georgian, very muscular, about sixteen or seventeen, was in training for the Olympics. Working his way up parallel ropes similar to the ones in the Harbison gym, he had reached the top of the ropes and was holding on by one hand, waving the other and grinning for the camera.

The Soviets had true power, Joseph thought, picturing for the moment that he was a Soviet–a commander in the Soviet Army, head of a formidable division of soldiers who respected the awesome meaning of strength and power, one that forged ahead no matter what the promise of pain or disaster.

On the next page, there were ten smaller pictures, tracking the gymnast’s progress, from the bottom–where his trainer was whispering something in his ear– to the top: this is the easiest thing in the world and soon you will see me dazzle the world as I exhibit the results of my training and hard work at the Olympics in Rome...

Joseph wondered what sort of program the Soviets had for training their athletes...

He flexed his muscles, connecting with the power in his arms, remembering how good it made him feel to be fit. He looked forward to receiving proper training in the military. The reserves would only be a part-time thing, for now, but he suspected that first step might take him further.

He knew the first PE class that day wouldn’t start until eleven; if he hurried over to the gym, he would have time to use any equipment he wanted, even the ropes. But first he would have to limber up with push-ups, lots of push-ups.

He felt an unfamiliar strength course though his body. It was as if all the tension of the past few weeks had suddenly rushed out of him; anything was possible now. He was about to enter a branch of the most powerful Army on the face of the earth. If he couldn’t beat the school ropes, he’d be crazy to bother with the Army. And he could beat them, absolutely, he knew he could. He knew it because he had this incredible strength in his arms and because he had the will to do it–plenty of will. Clarity had been eluding him for too long. What he wanted was now becoming clear.

*

He walked through the double door of the gym, down a long gray corridor to the changing room, where he saw John Harris rummaging through his locker. He knew that John Harris was a better than average ballplayer–everyone at Harbison knew that. And he understood that the coaches in the Phys Ed department had bigger than average dreams for him, that a couple of scouts from the minor leagues had been up several times to bid to have him try out for the team.

Joseph turned to his own locker and opened it. It had been weeks since he’d seen the inside of it. He was surprised at how much junk he’d left in there–old magazines, dirty underwear, books, five old tee shirts.

As he was sorting the shirts, John Harris walked over. “You’re that guy I see coming out of Mathison’s office, right?” he asked, shaking his big head as if he’d said something insightful.

Joseph spun around. “Yeah..?”

“You’re in for ROTC, right?”

Joseph nodded. He had no idea why this would be of any interest to a raging success like John Harris.

“That’s a good deal, huh?” John Harris said.

“What do you mean?” Joseph asked, shutting his locker so John Harris couldn’t see what a mess it was.

“I heard they give a pretty good deal down the line. Good pay, benefits.”

“I guess so,” Joseph said. “I’m supposed to start in the summer. We’ll find out.”

“I’ve been thinking about it myself for a while,” John Harris said.

Joseph nodded skeptically.

“I play baseball,” John Harris said.

Joseph took out his gym shorts and a fresh tee shirt. “You’re supposed to be pretty good,” he said.

John Harris stretched his six-foot-one frame, “I’m the best at Harbison,” he said, winking. “I guess that doesn’t say much.”

Joseph offered his hand and John Harris accepted it.

“I guess you know who I am, then.” John Harris said, sitting on the bench. “I’m really into that ROTC stuff,” he said. “Everyone thinks I’m cut out for the Major Leagues, but I don’t think that’s what I want.”

Joseph dropped his pants. “I know what you mean,” he said.

“Really?” John Harris asked. “You should be pretty happy if they accept you. I mean that’s something worthwhile, protecting your country...serving... What’s the purpose of baseball?”

Joseph tossed his shirt on the floor and pulled on the tee shirt. “I don’t think I’d choose the Army over baseball,” he said.

“I know,” John Harris said, “everyone thinks I’m crazy because I don’t jump when they send someone up to see me. Especially my relatives. They think everyone in baseball has a fifty thousand dollar contract.”

Joseph nodded, putting on his gym shorts.

“You know how many times they sent scouts up here to get me to sign?” John Harris asked.

Joseph tucked the bottom of the tee-shirt into his pants and listened.

“Seven times. I heard what they had to say and I never gave them an answer. You know what’s funny? Every time I don’t call them, they come back with a better offer.”

“That’s funny,” Joseph said. He was anxious to get into the gym and not that interested in John Harris’ career.

“You’re working out now?” John Harris asked.

“For a while.”

“That’s good. Stay in shape.” He collected his bag and moved a few steps down the bench. “You have a great workout, then. And good luck with your ROTC.”

He was gone.

Joseph thought about Roger Jarrid, the legend of local sports who, years earlier, had accomplished the most amazing feat on those ropes–he’d pulled himself all the way up to the summit, using a different hand on each of the two rope sets, one bloodied hand at a time. He’d done it in front of an audience of three friends, pulled up one-hundred fifty seven pounds to the ceiling beams in one flawless attempt. He’d even managed to stay there for a while, hanging by one hand, while his friends snapped three rolls of photos.

He hadn’t been prepared to do anything that crazy, but he had to admit it was an interesting idea. He put it out of his head and concentrated on the immediate challenge. Snapping his watch off, he laid it on the floor next to the mat table.

The ropes (which were called Stern Ropes because they were manufactured by Stern Gymnasium Products in Oklahoma) had been recently painted a light shade of gray.

Joseph stood at the base of the ropes, looking at the ceiling hinges, holding them in place. The two sets were bound together by a string of metal wire, near the base. This told him they hadn’t been used lately.

He pulled the ropes closer and found them heavier than he remembered. He held the base with his left hand and took the metal band in his right, uncurling it so the ropes broke free, swinging easily against one another. Clenching both fists, he breathed deeply three times in and three times out, preparing.

He was ready. He stopped to think about what that meant. He would need no witnesses today; the morning was only for him—for his memory, for his record.

Lifting himself slightly off the ground, testing, he reached for the cold rope with his right hand. He looked all the way up to the top.

He told himself: in a few minutes it will be over.

He heard snatches of wind sweeping through air vents along the floor panels and the rhythmic tapping from the dance class on the third floor. He hoped that wouldn’t distract him.

Four plastic mats had been laid out on the floor beneath the ropes, placed so that the sides didn’t overlap and the peeling slashes alongside the edges faced away, toward the wall.

Unlike Roger Jarrid, no one would know what he had accomplished on those ropes, because he didn’t plan on telling anyone. But what if he were to accomplish that climb without the mats? Even Roger Jarrid hadn’t been reckless enough to try that. If he was successful, he’d have accomplished something no one at Harbison ever had...

Releasing the ropes, he moved beside the mats and grabbed two in each hand. They were cold and smooth to his touch; he slid them over to the side wall.

*

Right hand on the ropes, again, he pulled tentatively, getting a sense of their power, and his own. Though there was nothing but the hard floor beneath him, he felt strong and confident, as if the deed had already been done. He grabbed the rope and snaked his body around it. The sound of the dance students had subsided to a dull clatter.

Tightening his grip further, he pulled himself up a foot at a time, alternating hands, alert to the oxygen racing to his brain.

Then he heard soft music from the floor above, classical music.

He moved higher.

He felt his hands chafe and hoped they wouldn’t start to bleed. He should have used gloves or put on talcum. The hinges that held the ropes were in view.

He pushed himself higher until the music stopped.

He wasn’t surprised that his father was there, looking at him from eye level. “How are you, son?” he asked. He looked as if he’d come to say something important–something about how his life hadn’t gone well at all, how he wanted him to understand why he’d been such a fourth-rate father–or was it to say what a lousy son he had, how he’d always screwed everything up. How this crazy stunt sure wasn’t going to make things better.

“I can’t talk to you,” Joseph said. “I have to finish this climb.”

Higher up...

Higher...

“No...” Arthur sniffed. “I came a long way to talk to you and we’re going to do that right now. You just come on down from there and we’ll go to your room.”

Another foot, another two feet...

Joseph concentrated on his grip. He pressed his fingers tighter around the ropes; an abrasion developed in his palm.

“I have to finish here,” he said.

Up. Up. One inch, one foot, one more foot, this focused thought...

“Leave me alone.”

“I said, now!” Pointing an angry finger. “I didn’t come all this way for…. I have plenty of problems, too, you little shit. Have some compassion. What do you think you’re doing up there, anyway?”

“I’m training,” Joseph said.

Up!

“Training for what? The Reserve Ungrateful Bastard Corps? What the hell is wrong with you, anyway? I want you to move right now. I don’t have all day.”

Focus. Focus. Focus. Focus.

“Are you deaf?”

He took a hand off the rope and shook it hard, throwing away the pain.

“I’m warning you. I don’t have all day. We need to talk.”

Joseph looked down and saw the ground, without mats and the room, and his father, looking much older than he remembered.

“What are you doing?”

Joseph had to stop thinking about choices or he would make the wrong one. There were four walls, one ceiling, one floor–those were all the things that mattered.

“I’m warning you–”

Everything got jumbled in his mind. He was seeing things and hearing things—effects of a long list that made sense and didn’t make sense at all.

Arthur was standing at the stove in their old apartment on Varick Avenue, holding a yellow spatula. Joseph felt a ripple of fear travel through his back and arms. The spatula was made of plastic but it had an odd shape and could leave a mark. No doubt about that—it could leave a mark.

The spatula was dropped into a bowl full of egg and sugar.

There was no smell yet because the fire beneath the frying pan, with some butter in it, hadn’t been turned on. Joseph knew what it would smell like in a few seconds–Arthur usually got up early to fix fine breakfasts, always with a hearty grin, always with a pleasant good morning.

“Good morning, Joseph!”, Arthur said, turning to see him come in from the living room, wiping the sleep from his eyes and yawning. “You must be in pretty good shape, to think you can do a stunt like that!”

Focus was flowing in the wrong direction. He couldn’t keep his mind on important things.

The spatula came out of the egg mix, dripping. He wanted to taste the raw egg, but Arthur got to it first, sucking the front and making a funny sound, a high-pitched squeak, then turning to Joseph, asking him if he wanted to finish licking off the rest of it.

Joseph told him he’d rather wait till it was all done. All right son, we’ll just hurry it up, then and get some of these pancakes inside of you.

The gas jets were turned on and the butter started to sizzle. Arthur turned the gas down a notch. The eggs and sugar were mixed with flour, then he dropped the mixture into the pan in three roughly even sections. The smell filled the room–

Drowning out the sound of music from the dance class and Arthur yelling louder and louder.

“I’m warning you.”

He could hardly hear anything.

“Get down from that rope right now or I’m coming up there to get you. I’m going to shake that rope and get you down, myself, you sonofabitch.”

Joseph inhaled deeply. It was necessary to let the creamy smell of butter fill his nostrils.

The pancakes were ready on one side and had to be flipped. HEREITGOES!!!!! Over they went, turned by the spatula with a big, fat, red-faced grin from Arthur–JUST A SECOND MORE, SONNY BOY!

Joseph brought his plate over to Arthur and stood, waiting and smiling and tasting the inside of those hot pancakes in his mind. He was really hungry and the pancakes looked better than ever–thin and brown on the edges, just the way he liked them. No one ever made better pancakes than his father.

Arthur tilted the pan slightly so the pancakes fell onto the plate, landing perfectly spaced.

GO ENJOY THEM NOW, SONNY BOY

Thanks, dad.

“What are you doing up there?”

Stay with the pancakes–

He saw Arthur waving an angry fist. Down there. Arthur was always complaining about this thing or that, believing the world or Joseph in particular was conspiring to make him feel bad. The pancakes were replaced by that fist, both fists, everything wild and crazy, out of control and someone wanting something very badly, though he didn’t have a clue what it was.

He closed his eyes and concentrated on his grip. The grip was everything. The grip was better than pancakes, more solid, much more permanent. With pancakes, you ate them, you smelled them being cooked and then you might make a few comments about them: boy these pancakes taste really good, dad, these pancakes smell just fine, these pancakes are the best pancakes in the world, dad. But if you could wrap your mind around a good, solid, grip like that–you could get where you wanted to go and it didn’t matter who was standing in your way, waving fists and cursing at you and telling all these terrible things you’d done all these years and why you weren’t the son you should’ve been, why was it that every other father had a son he could be proud of.

The abrasion was something else to think about. He looked at his palm and saw droplets of blood trickling down his hand.

Maybe some of it will hit dad. Dad, watch out below, there’s blood coming down.

The abrasion had opened, probably from that last pull and it was threatening to open some more. He knew he wouldn’t be able to go any further if that happened. The ceiling hinges seemed a lot closer now, almost in touching distance. Arthur’s words were more muddled; they weren’t real at all.

He couldn’t hear the words anymore, just angry sounds that he knew he would have to deal with later, no mistake about that; this was nothing he was going to just walk away from.

Four good pulls, that’s how far he had to go. That had to be right. He’d calculated the number against the height of the ceiling. That cut wasn’t going to stop him from going up those last few feet. He just wouldn’t give it any thought; there were plenty of other things to think about. What were they? He remembered all sorts of things–funny, happy, not-so-happy things. But they didn’t matter now because he was still moving. STOP THINKING. Lift and drop, lift and drop.

He wondered what Paul was doing, what Lisa was doing, what Golly was doing. Why was he wondering that? What good did it do to be thinking about other people at a time like this? He was this close to everything being over. What would his father say then, when he ended up on his back?

He tightened his grip on the rope and concentrated. Lifting, lifting, lifting. That was the only thing that mattered now, just to get up there, move up there that last few lousy feet. Anyone could do that. The hard part was over. Just move it up a few more feet and...home free. He was aware of just two things–the color of the ceiling, blinding white, freshly painted, and the color of his hand, soaked in bright red blood, dripping faster now, more blood with each grip. Dripping down off his hand, flying through the air with the greatest of ease...

He forced his hand up into the air and reached higher than before, trying to make double height, saving time, saving energy. He managed to reach higher with his good hand, then forced his bloody hand even higher.

“You sonofabitch!”

Higher, higher, grip tighter, concentrate, focus on the ceiling hinges.

The white walls, the white ceiling, the white borders along the valances. But he wasn’t there yet.

The ceiling hinges in full sight now. Small, hard, clear as day. Clear as the white walls and the white ceiling. He couldn’t hear anything, not even the sound of his legs rubbing against the ropes as he forced himself higher. He felt himself moving smaller distances now but he was moving so he wasn’t complaining.

He stopped to take in a deep, deep breath.

“I want you to listen to me, you sonofabitch because I spent plenty of time thinking about this. I don’t care if you believe that climb is the most important thing in the world to you. There is nothing as important as what I have to say. Are you listening? I came a long way to tell you this and this is the last time I plan on having this conversation. You owe it to me to pay attention now! You understand that?”

Joseph watched Arthur shake his head, as if he’d been overcome by a profound thought.

He couldn’t move his hands. He looked up at the ceiling and saw that it was just a few feet away but it was much too far to reach. He felt the flesh on his palm splitting into a gash. He pulled back from the rope to take a good, close look and didn’t realize that his other hand was hanging free.

He was too tired to think straight.

And he didn’t feel himself falling.

In a few seconds he was on the floor, splayed out like a bird, blood from his hand spread all over, mingling with blood from his face, from his smashed face.

He heard a lot of noise even though there wasn’t a sound in the room.

*

The time of Paul’s life was slipping away as the torrent of events spun around him. There was Heddley’s suicide, which everyone had avoided talking about; there was Katherine. There was Carol. There was Lisa. He wondered where he fit in.

And things had changed in America. The country was at odds with the liberal establishment in all its forms and the form it had least patience for was academia; the President of the United States had attached the word “bums” to student protesters from Berkley to Harbison.

Paul no longer believed that he was destined to spend his life with liberal intellectuals; he was no longer even sure he was a liberal. Reading the papers each day, he wondered if he was doing the right thing—planning to stay on cloistered campuses, while other men his age died in South East Asia. At least their lives seemed to have a purpose. They were defending a principle, an American principle. For all his good ideas, what was he doing?

Then, unexpectedly, he had been contacted by Dean Caryou about serving as a liaison to a certain national academic organization, headquartered in Washington D.C. Caryou had informed him that he’d been supported by three of the appointment Deans, which made it a certainty that the position was his if he wanted it. Caryou had further explained that the strictly volunteer position carried with it a number of interesting responsibilities, and involved some travel on behalf of the school. He was asked to deliberate seriously before applying and to give his choice “the careful consideration it deserves.” He hadn’t known what that meant, but he suspected he might be agreeing to something he would later regret–if for no other reason than that it would take even more time away from his writing.

Still, after much thought, he concluded that the Congress did present a good opportunity to expand his experience beyond Harbison and that seemed too good to pass up.

*

Joseph thought: there were several angles to consider. He was lying on the floor, conscious of the silence in the room and desperately aware of the commotion his failure would cause when someone finally discovered him; he figured that probably wouldn’t be for at least another hour, when the freshman Phys Ed class came in, at eleven-thirty.

What could he do in the meantime?

He could yell for help, but that would look bad. He was going into the Army, for crissakes. Reserve Officer Training Corps. What kind of military man screams for help? At least, he should hang on to his dignity.

What dignity?

He tried to force his legs to move but they were taking orders from parts of his brain he was no longer in touch with. He tried to move his arms. It occurred to him that he might have been paralyzed from the fall, but he dismissed that idea because that would mean he’d have to forget about ROTC. There was nothing left to do but get up, go into the showers, clean off and get out of there as soon as possible.

But the first person who saw him would know what had happened. There would be questions to answer. He would have to answer them and he would have to be honest.

It was hard to tell how badly he was injured because he couldn’t really feel anything, just a little pressing around his ears and a sizzling sensation that traveled from the top of his right ear down to the lobe.

He needed to come up with a plan, to find some way to get himself on his feet before anyone found out what had happened.

It was easy to imagine his father walking in, hands on his hips, all annoyed, asking him what he thought he was doing wasting his time, staring into space like that.

Then he would explain to his father exactly what had happened. First he would try to lift his hand to show that he was hurt. But when he failed to do that, he would just push himself over by rolling, rolling, rolling like a big ball, right over his father’s feet. What would dad have to say about that? Probably nothing.

It wouldn’t be worth the effort–and it would have to be a big effort, because he was beginning to realize he’d been hurt pretty badly and he would need all the energy in the world to do anything at all.

He had to get out of there.

And go...where?

Was it warm outside? He couldn’t tell.

He needed to get over to the window and look outside for himself, to see if it was nice and warm because he was going to have to go outside in order to get away from there and if it was cold outside he was going to be in big trouble. In a condition like that, you don’t just drag yourself into the cold weather.

His eyes were shut tight and both his ears were itching. He imagined what it would feel like when he opened the window to see how warm it was. When he got all the way over to the wall to open the window, he saw that there was no window. He was glad he was still lying on the ground.

A few seconds more and he would be out of there.

He drifted for a while.

It felt good. Especially because the itching in his ear had become a full throttle throbbing pain and he was glad to sleep through it.

He slept peacefully and didn’t wake until three days later in the hospital, where Golly told him he had a giant bruise on his forehead that made him look like Dr. Cyclops. He couldn’t shake his head, but he wanted to tell him that he didn’t know who Dr. Cyclops was, and he didn’t care.

CHAPTER EIGHT

MID JANUARY

Paul had expected there to be a few people in the room–patients, nurses–possibly, even Bradley (at Paul’s suggestion), bearing some kind of conciliatory gifts. But the room was empty and surprisingly quiet.

“How are you doing today?” Paul asked.

“Today..?” Joseph said. “That’s a good question. Hopeful to get out of here?”

Paul sat beside the bed. “Everyone is waiting to hear from you,” he said. In the days since Joseph had been admitted, in fact, everyone had classified his situation as a Matter To Be Dealt With When the Time Came. He had been stabilized and was in no serious danger, so it seemed, perfectly reasonable to concentrate on other things.

“Are they concerned?” Joseph asked skeptically.

“Everyone thinks you tried to pull a Heddley,” Paul said, smiling.

Joseph looked down at his fingers, which were now chewed to their sanguinary skin lines.

“The doctor told me you’re in–”

“Do you know that I was unconscious for three days,” Joseph interrupted. “No one thought I’d come out of it. Isn’t that kind of funny? Hilarious, really when you think about it.”

Paul gently raised his hand to stop Joseph’s finger, as it headed inevitably toward his mouth.

“Nervous,” Joseph said. “So what?” He leaned hard against the back of the bed. “You must be pretty nervous yourself. Visiting the corpse in his crypt.”

“Fine with me,” Paul said.

“You should be nervous, anyway,” Joseph said.

“Why’s that?”

“Big delegate and everything,” Joseph replied, pursing his dry lips.

Paul tilted his head to see if Joseph was serious.

“You get me out of this bed and I’ll go with you to that Academic whatever-it-is.”

“Academic Congress,” Paul said. “And that’s what we’re doing–getting you out of bed.”

“You better remember when you’re there,” Joseph said, “that you’re not just representing Harbison Prep–you’re representing me.”

“I’ll remember,” Paul said.

“Because that’s important to me.”

Paul patted the head of the bed, bidding it goodbye. “Are you ready to go?” he asked.

“I wish,” Joseph said.

Just then, the nurse walked in and immediately fixed her attention to the pillow on the floor, then inquired about whether someone was going to be escorting Joseph out of the hospital when his release date arrived. Paul told her that he would come by again and arrange for a car service back to Harbison.

“Your friend is very messy,” she said, indicating the pillow.

“Is he?” Paul asked. “I’ve heard that about him.”

Joseph turned toward the window side of the room and buried his face beneath the covers.

“When he gets released,” Paul said. “I’ll tell his parents to have him do something about that.”

*

The overwhelming sense of powerlessness that had defined the recent weeks of Katherine’s life became manifest during these last distressing days. She became more withdrawn from life at Harbison and from everyone in her small circle, including Lisa. Instead of focusing on a reasonable course out of her troubles, she devoted every available hour to reproaching herself for not using the days more constructively; for not focusing on corporeal things like class work and goals and people she considered “worthwhile.” As she drifted into this distracted haze of bewilderment and anxiety, it became obvious that it was past time to reveal the truth about what had happened.

But who would have the right words now? She could go to Paul, of course. He’d always been helpful and eager to advise. But how would Lisa feel about that? Anyway, could Paul possibly grasp the bewildering particulars of what she was going through?

She could go to an advisor or to some teacher who had been helpful or supportive. But she couldn’t help feeling deeply embarrassed about what had happened, and there was the question of trust—who was going to take her excited word against the sober denials of an admired man like Harold Heddley?

Only Heddley could understand what she was going through, and there would be no words of explanation from him.

She was left all alone now; it was important to start taking responsibility for her choices. The truth was simple–the truth was that no one had forced her to walk into Heddley’s office that day, or to let her guard down. At first, Heddley had done nothing unseemly. He had merely offered to share his impressive knowledge of the books and ideas that mystified her.

Certainly, she’d needed help. Things hadn’t gone smoothly for her–before or after she’d entered Harbison–and there was nothing to indicate that time was going to heal these wounds. He’d been eager to provide assistance–always open with his enthusiasm and generous with his time; the passion he’d expressed for the work had actually aroused her. She had continued to see him long after she suspected that his interest was shifting, and that, so perhaps, was her own.

He had expressed an apparent genuine concern; he’d seemed dedicated and committed to her personal progress. When she articulated negative thoughts about her work, he would summarily correct her, always insisting that she see the alternatives and options that could transform her life on campus and beyond.

He had been honest about his own loneliness and disappointments, too; he’d referred to himself as a lonesome middle-aged man. Perhaps, he had kept to himself too long; awash in endless and wasteful preoccupations, he’d failed to accomplish many of the goals he had set for himself.

Still, he assured her, he had refused to surrender to the “brutish indignities of disappointment.” He had remained vigilant against the urge to accept things the way they were. He’d encouraged her to do the same. There was “no choice about that,” he’d said. “No choice at all.”

The first time, those words had been spoken in a bittersweet whisper she’d needed to strain to hear. Heddley had struck her as a completely decent man who had accepted the challenges of his life and refused to be cowed by them; she so much admired him for that.

She supposed she might be falling in love with him. It was possible to daydream about him now and again, and even, occasionally, to imagine that they might someday become a couple. But she had never dared share these thoughts with anyone, especially not with him. How could she let herself take any of this seriously–to believe that an older, prominent gentleman with talent and intelligence and such casual charm, would have any reason to find her remotely interesting?

Yet, over the next two weeks there would be more meetings. They would begin, inevitably, with relaxed discussions of ordinary things–scholastic matters, friends and acquaintances, grade-point averages. As time passed, they would move on to more specific aspects of class work–a question about an unclear historical context, a troublesome problem with a time line. Then, at the moment when a predictable comfort would settle into the discussion, they would move on to more personal subjects–family issues, hopes, expectations, frustrations. But for all of this, they had continued to avoid the most important issues between them. That would change during the third week of class when Heddley summoned her to his office to discuss what he described as “a pressing question.”

She could trace so many of her troubles to that day. If only she’d exhibited the smallest degree of hesitation, or even if she’d simply made it clear that she needed more time to think about what she was getting into.

But that day, after just a few moments of small talk, he’d said it would be “lovely” to meet for dinner. She’d wanted to come up with something appropriate–something prudent–but she’d been unable to gather the words. Instead, she’d told him that she was honored to be asked.

She needed him to say more–to clarify things–so she could speak freely.

Her eyes had fallen to the side of the desk, then taken in the title of an essay, upside down: PASSION IN MODERN PROSE BY KATHERINE MORGAN.

“You gave me this essay on the second day of class, last year,” Heddley had explained, handing it to her. “You remember, that, don’t you? That was the beginning for me, I’m sure I trace everything to that wonderful paper.” His mouth had arched slightly to a half-smile that seemed almost apologetic.

“I remember.”

Leaning in, as if to emphasize the seriousness of his words, he’d said, “You’re incredibly bright, Katherine, so vital and focused on things, way beyond your age. When I was eighteen, I barely existed as a person. The fact is that I couldn’t help being drawn to you. Truly, I hope you don’t blame me for that..”

“No.”

“I questioned the way I felt, in the beginning,” he continued. “Of course I did...I questioned the way I thought about this situation, the way I thought about you. Always, always. But do you know? I always came back to that paper, to that dazzling, pure intelligence of yours. It drew me like a light, Katherine. I couldn’t convince myself there was anything wrong with admiring it. You understand what I’m saying, don’t you?. I found nothing wrong with it at all. I sincerely hope I haven’t caused you any discomfort with this.”

“No.”

“I simply believed it was time to bring everything out in the open. I thought that would be better for both of us.”

She’d been so nervous she could barely speak.

Lifting his sturdy hand, he’d said, “I’m not trying to flatter you, Katherine, I’m merely trying to make it clear that I have these feelings for you. There’s nothing casual or irrelevant about the way I feel. I need you to understand that.”

She did understand. She had feelings for him, too–she could admit that now; they were strong feelings and she didn’t have to be ashamed of having them anymore. He’d given her permission to do that. She had told him that she felt the same way, that she’d been thinking about him for a long time. And she told him other things–intimate things; she opened herself up to him completely, like an old, trusted friend. “I understand what’s happening,” she’d said. That was all it had taken.

Now, she would have to live with the consequences of that–and with the consequences of the single meeting, weeks later, when Heddley had lost his bearings, lost his sense entirely, allowed their afternoon to become tarnished by an unexpected, sorrowful violence.

She had come to some conclusions, finally. She was determined to get herself to class for the first time in more than a week. And to let someone know what had happened–and that, possibly, she had gone along with it.

*

Arthur’s boss, a tyrannical old man named Estes, had warned him that he was “skating on thinner than thin ice” and that he’d better start making sure his conduct and job performance improved or there would be some “serious reorganization”, meaning he’d be looking for new employment, along with everyone on his crew.

If there was one thing that ticked him off, it was being pushed around by lame-assed foremen who’d gotten their jobs through the usual old network–Arthur’s foreman was the best friend of Keith Rodgers, the Mill’s Vice President for Operations and the husband of its owner’s niece.

He’d been just about to tell the foreman where to stick his warning when he reminded himself that he was fifty-three years old and lousy steel jobs were at a precious premium. He shook his head like he’d been shaking it for thirty years and agreed to be a “better man” in the future.

Then, later, to top it all off, someone had passed exactly the wrong remark.

Kelly Patrick, his sideman (and sidekick for close to twelve years), had told him a “great story” about an adventure he and his son, Charlie, had had last summer in the Adirondacks, along Lake Champlain.

It seemed, they’d taken Kelly’s homemade small craft out on a trip past “famous” Ausable Chasm. A freak summer storm had interrupted their plans, tossing the boat like a matchstick for two long dangerous days, eventually sending it over just as they neared the safety of Plattsburg. It was scary, all right, Kelly admitted, but they made it out alive, even got their boat back in one piece, bruised and battered but not destroyed. No, not destroyed at all, Kelly had assured him, and the whole thing had been some experience. That’s what he’d called it: an experience, some experience.

Arthur congratulated him and said he must have been a brave sonofabitch and Kelly admitted there were a few moments when he wondered if they were going to make it out alive. But, overall, things had ended all right and, believe it or not, he was looking forward to trying the trip again next summer. That is, if the boy’s mother says its okay, which, to tell you the truth, I don’t think is very likely.

All this talk of adventure and sons had made Arthur nervous. To begin with, he was fairly depressed, under the best of circumstances–but he couldn’t blame that on the story; he’d been depressed about a lot things lately–his marriage, work, the fact that Barry Goldwater hadn’t had the gumption to come right out and tell the American people what they needed to know, which was that there was a real threat to our peace and stability. That Goldwater really irked him. If he’d been running Goldwater’s campaign for President he would have told him to turn around and throw that stuff about using the A bomb right back at that ugly mollusk, LBJ. Yessir, Senator Johnson, you got that one hundred per cent right. You want to talk nuclear weapons, I’ll tell you all you need to know about them. America is safe today because of those weapons, terrible as you think they are. If it wasn’t for that jellyfish Harry Ass Truman having managed to find some kind of courage, this country would have gone down the toilet a long time ago (we’d all be eating seaweed now).

His son had been a supporter of LBJ even though he knew nothing about politics and less about LBJ, the man–all it took were a few complimentary comments about Goldwater from his dad and he was thirteen years old and carrying signs for the Democrats, getting people to sign all kinds of crazy petitions.

Lately, Arthur had been imagining another life altogether, though he wasn’t sure what kind of life that might be. He was sure about what he would get rid of, and his son was definitely at the top of that list. Too bad murder isn’t legal in the state of mis’ry....

Kelly Patrick got some satisfaction out of his life, that fuck–why were people who had such boastful things to say always forcing you to listen to their stories, anyway? You didn’t see Arthur running around buttonholing people with his tales of frustration and disappointment.

He knew that kid was going to be a waste of life from the moment he saw his ugly six-pound-four-ounce body at the city hospital. He remembered looking through the Plexiglas window in the nursery at the other babies and just wishing any other kid could be his: he’d just always had a feeling about that child.

It wasn’t like he hadn’t tried to establish some kind of relationship with the boy. He’d taken him here and there, to ballgames and to father-son events. Just like in the movies. Just like on the TV. They’d just never had anything to talk about. It was that simple. Joseph liked to be alone and when he wasn’t making it crystal clear that he didn’t care for his father’s company, the little bastard was off with the one friend he had, that Frank Leslie, regular truant and shameless shoplifter, who’d always boasted about “taking” this store or that.

Arthur had never tried to keep Joseph away from Frank, partly because he got a kick out of certain things about him and mostly because he didn’t want his son around night and day.

But things were different now.

Arthur sat at the table in his cramped kitchen, eating a stale muffin with strawberry jelly and thinking about one particular irksome thing that Kelly Patrick had said: “You know, what, Arthur?” he’d said, “We are lucky men to have two such fine American boys. But something makes us even luckier than that. You see what I’m saying? We have boys of substance. Real substance, my friend. My Lawrence is going to be the best damn lawyer in Massachusetts; you can just place your bet on that. And your Joseph is going to probably meet up with him in court one day, mark these words. Wouldn’t that just be fabulous? Lawrence and Joseph opposing each other in court, one great attorney taking on the other? Clash of the Titans, they’ll call it.”

Clash of the Titans. He’d never said anything about Joseph becoming a lawyer. But Kelly’s son was going to be a lawyer, so why shouldn’t Joseph be one, too?

He couldn’t believe it when he’d heard about ROTC. “I thought you were a peacenik,” he’d told Joseph. “Now you’re friggin’ Betsy Ross?”

Why had he lived long enough to be ashamed to tell people what his son was up to, which was nothing at all! As far as he was concerned, that ROTC was a waste of time–it wasn’t even real soldiering. He’d sent his son to school because it was something he could point to to show people what he’d accomplished. All that good money was about to go straight down the toilet–his son was about to take his own future and throw it away in the fucking reserves, of all the ridiculous things. He’d probably end up in the kitchen, cooking potatoes for the privates.

Then he reminded himself that all this thinking was a waste of time, too. A few minutes earlier, he’d received a phone call from Harbison. The caller’s voice had no emotion; the call was brief. “This is the infirmary,” the nurse had said, “your son was hurt in an accident in the gym. We think he should be transferred to the hospital.”

He tossed the remaining piece of muffin in a trashcan and took a long gulp of his coffee. He had things to say to Joseph, important things and he intended to say them. Once and for all. Even if he had to say them in the hospital.

He packed his bag and headed out the door.

A long drive, traffic and unpleasant thoughts.

A few hours later he arrived at the Cedar Falls Regal Motel, at the edge of town and checked in to his superior double room accommodation at eleven dollars per night. If he was in town for such a terrible purpose, he figured, he might as well be comfortable. He’d done some ground work, called ahead and found out that evening visiting hours at the hospital began at five in the afternoon.

He threw his bag onto the bedspread and sat in the chair by the window, overlooking the parking lot. The clock in the radio read four-fifteen; he thought it was later. It sure felt a lot later. The trip had dragged on and on, never a good idea to go anywhere at the start of the weekend, he’d thought as he drove out in traffic–people were on their way to the Cape for Friday through Sunday night and Monday would be a national holiday, though he couldn’t remember which one it was. As far as he was concerned they could stick all those national holidays up their collective asses; he would have much preferred an easy, leisurely trip. What were people always celebrating?

He turned on the television, then leaned back without bothering to see what came on; all he wanted to do was go to sleep.

On TV, Art Linkletter, dressed in his reassuring gray suit and tie, grinned as he stuck his microphone in some little girl’s cherubic face. “Why do you think grown-ups like to watch football?” he asked, a little boredom riding beneath his enthusiasm. The little girl looked at him, with a big knowing grin and said it was because “they have nothing else to do.” The audience liked that; Art liked it, too–or pretended to. His smile got even bigger when he moved on to the next child–a sweet, fat little boy, who wore a bow tie and dark suspenders. “Why do you think grown-ups like to watch football?” Art asked. The boy reached out for Art’s microphone, grabbed it away and looked straight into the camera. “Grown-ups are stupid,” he said, so confidently that Art almost fell over.

Arthur closed his eyes and had no trouble falling asleep with the television on.

Later, he arrived at the hospital, thirty minutes before the official visiting hours. At the information desk in the lobby, he was told his son had specifically requested that he not be allowed up to visit. He started to protest, but realized by the look of things that it would be useless and he’d only embarrass himself further. That little boy on Art Linkletter had been more right than she knew. Grown-ups were stupid.

*

Teo was sitting behind an old wooden desk in the back of a Jefferson Hall rehearsal room, going over the script for his latest production, a collection of three one-act plays written by Harbison alumni, including Chad Forrest, a 1955 graduate who had gone on to some success, Off-Broadway. He hadn’t wanted to do the Forest play at all, but had been pressured into it by the Drama Department Chairman, who happened to be the author’s father. Acquiescing to present the play on the condition that it appear third on the bill, he’d tabled his disagreement on the issue of the play’s substance, which he considered nominal.

At the exact moment that he began reading over the Forest play yet again, Golly walked through the door, unannounced. “I was wondering if you might have a few minutes,” he said.

“Not really,” Teo said, dismissing him with an impatient flick of his wrist.

“I’ll make an appointment, then,” Golly said, turning to leave.

“What do you want?” Teo asked firmly.

Golly turned. “I was hoping to ask about your new production, Mr. Hundersford.”

This was the last thing Teo wanted to hear, but he couldn’t help being impressed by Golly’s gumption. Against his better judgment, he asked Golly to sit.

“I’m a good actor,” Golly said.

“So,” Teo asked, closing the script, deliberately.

Golly studied his face. “I need to talk about it,” he said, trying to be assertive.

Teo looked at him briefly, then opened a drawer and took out a two page breakdown of a production he was considering for the following semester.” Do you know what this is?” he asked, waving the report.

“No, sir.”

“This is my next show,” Teo said. “It has three good roles and I know exactly how to cast it. But I don’t think you’re going to get one of those roles. Can you guess why?”

Golly didn’t answer.

Teo smiled, shaking his head. “What’s your name again?” he asked.

“Everyone calls me Golly.”

“That’s a ridiculous name,” he said. “Whoever gave you a name like that? I’m surprised I didn’t remember it.” He looked at Golly with a mix of contempt and pity. “I mean that’s a pretty memorable name, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know where the name came from,” Golly lied.

“Well, my recommendation to you is that if you plan on pursuing a career in the theater, you’d better change that name. And quickly. What’s your real name, anyway?”

“Mitchell,” Golly muttered.

“Really...?” Teo smiled sympathetically. “Mitchell,” he said, barking the word as if it were a single syllable, “that’s not much of a name, either, is it? What exactly do you want me to do for you today, Mitchell?”

“I would like another chance to work on your play,” he said, his voice quavering slightly.

“Look at this,” Teo said of his fingernails, “I have lousy nails. Can you guess why I have lousy nails, Mitchell?”

Golly took a hard look at them but didn’t answer.

“I’m trying to get these productions off the ground and everyone has these ideas about how they should be done. They all think they know better than me. You have no idea what it’s like to deal with these people, Ollie. I’m sorry but I just don’t need your services and that’s the one real honest truth.”

Golly searched around the room for a friendly face. “I can come back another time–”

“I know who you are,” Teo said. “I remember exactly your last visit here. You, my friend, do not deserve a second chance. I don’t mean to be hard on you, believe me, but in the end I’m doing you the biggest favor. These are all students here, sure they are. But they’re moving out into the world thinking they’re going to be in the theater. This is a stepping stone for some people, sure it is. But, for others...if you don’t have the talent, you’re just deluding yourself. And I don’t want you to delude yourself, to tell you the truth.”

Golly nodded, thoughtfully, as if he understood that Teo had revealed a profound truth. He looked directly into Teo’s eyes and forced a weary smile. “You know what, Mr. Hundersford?” he said, reaching his hand out to shake.

Teo examined the nails on one hand while he reached out the other to shake Golly’s. “What is it, Mr. Golly?” he asked.

“I’m probably not the best actor in this school, but I’m really glad I met you, anyway–”

“That’s good,” Teo interrupted, pumping Golly’s hand cheerfully. “Good advice is worth plenty in this world, believe me.”

Golly took his hand back. “The reason I’m glad I met you is that it gives me something to shoot for now. I’m going to use you as my model when I get to play the biggest asshole in the state of Massachusetts.”

*

Paul straightened his tie one last time before walking into Dean Caryou’s office. He was a lot more anxious than he’d expected to be; his appointment to the Academic Congress seemed to mean so much to everyone. Even his parents had called to wish him luck.

Caryou was standing behind his desk, searching for something on a map of Harbison next to the window. He continued looking at the map as Paul settled on the couch across his desk.

Caryou took out a pen and drew a line from Haddon Hall to The Student Union, then turned to Paul. “I’m very glad you could make it,” he said, pointing to the map, “I’m trying to see if there’s some way to expand the grassy area north of the Union. We’ve received a sizable donation from one of the alumni and the Board is itching to spend the money, of course. It’s more of a knoll there, you know”

Paul smiled diplomatically. “Will spending that money be one of my duties, sir?”

“I reserve those activities for myself,” he said staring at Paul, sizing him up, than sitting. “What have you been told about the project?”

“Not much,” Paul replied.

“Have you done any public speaking at all?”

“Not really, sir.”

Caryou smiled. “Not really, or not at all?”

Paul nodded. “I haven’t, actually, no, sir.”

“You’re aware that the representative of the school will be expected to address meetings of other groups from around the nation, gatherings of students and faculty.”

“Yes, sir, I am.”

Caryou reached into a drawer, pulled out a photograph, clipped from a newspaper: Richard Dougherty, the previous Harbison representative before a large crowd at an outdoor commencement. “This is Richard, the fellow you’ll be replacing,” he said, handing over the picture. “An assembly at Columbia University last year...lots of people.”

Paul examined the photo. “I understand,” he said.

“That doesn’t scare you?”

“No, sir. I enjoy being with people,” Paul said.

“Your grades are certainly exemplary,” Caryou said. “The essay portion of your application was especially impressive. I really enjoyed your discourse on the plight of the immigrant student.” A tip in Caryou’s tone of voice suggested this might not be a compliment.

Paul nodded.

“I take it you enjoy helping people?” Caryou asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s quite admirable, Paul.” He pointed to a manila file, “Those are more resumes for the position. Do you think I needed to look at them?”

Paul hesitated. “How many candidates did you interview?” he asked, politely.

“Just one,” Caryou said.

“I suppose you have to consider everyone–”

Caryou laughed. “You know damn well that you were the best candidate, Paul. You’re astute, you’re attentive, you’re intelligent, you’re motivated. The students like you. The faculty likes you. You’re what they call a ‘comer’. When one encounters a ‘comer,’ why look anywhere else?”

“That’s very kind of you, sir.”

“Do you like to travel, Paul?”

“Of course.”

“Have you ever been to South America?”

“No,” Paul laughed. “Never.”

“There’s going to be a meeting of representatives of the various schools in Brazil, of all places. Would that be interesting to you? Mister Haring tells me that you’re a bit of an explorer.”

“I think I have a good imagination, sir. I’m going to be a writer.”

“You are a writer, aren’t you?” he asked. “Didn’t you write that ‘Spiral’ thing last year? That wonderful short story?”

“The Moving Spiral, sir. It was published.”

“Quite an accomplishment for such a young man. You must be very proud.”

“My parents were proud, I think.”

“I bet they certainly were. So what do you think we should do with these resumes, Paul?

“That’s not for me to say,” Paul said carefully.

Caryou dropped the resumes into a drawer. “I have a file full of recommendations about you,” he said.

“Thank you, sir.”

“You’re not worried that your duties might interfere with your work here?”

“I don’t think so, no.”

“Then, I’m happy with the outcome,” Caryou said. “You’ll receive more information in the mail this week. There’s a small get-together with branch leaders, to start and then an orientation weekend next month.”

Caryou smiled. “You were chosen because everyone else seems to think you’re the right person and sometimes, I like to go along with the popular opinion.”

“Thank you, sir,” Paul said. “I’ll try not to disappoint you.”

Caryou nodded, “I’m sure you won’t,” he said. “I’m quite sure of that.”

*

Joseph was released from the hospital after two weeks. Paul arrived early to help him organize his things and to settle his account, which insurance had only partially paid for. To both of their surprise, Arthur had quietly taken care of the shortfall.

Paul walked over to the nurse’s station, while Joseph got dressed in the street clothes Paul had brought along.

“Just sign for your friend’s belongings,” the nurse said.

Paul happily scribbled his name across a form.

“Your friend is quite a handful,” the nurse said, forcing a weary smile.

“I guess,” Paul said.

“He’s a fighter, though,” she added. “This wasn’t the easiest thing in the world to do.”

“I know.”

“Don’t tell him I said that, though,” she said. “He seems to get embarrassed fairly easy.”

Paul went back to Joseph’s room, helped him into the wheelchair, then pushed the chair down the hallway, to the elevator.

Outside, the sound of protesters at Harbison could be heard, amplified by amateur sound systems affixed to the top of roving trucks. Joseph pretended not to hear the noise, but Paul knew he was attentive to it.

CHAPTER NINE

FEBRUARY

As the end of the school year approached, Paul was not entirely satisfied with his progress. It was true that his grades had remained strong–straight “A”s the first term, heading toward nearly straight “A”s again (Art of the Renaissance had proven to be a lot more challenging that any of the supposedly “difficult” economic theory classes.) His prestigious appointment as Harbison representative to the National Academic Congress would take up most of his remaining free time.

This was all fine as far as everyone else was concerned–he’d received enthusiastic praise from faculty and friends, and from his parents who were so very proud of their “genius son.” But for all that, he had to acknowledge that his main interest had been suffering–except for term papers and a few long letters to friends in Boston, he hadn’t written anything of substance in a long time.

He had been thinking about starting a new piece, but he’d been too occupied with schoolwork or extracurricular activities or other people’s problems–in particular; Bradley and his issues of poise, Joseph and his father, Golly and his lack of direction, Katherine and Heddley, Lisa, Carol. He had to start writing again.

THE MOVING SPIRAL PART TWO

The new piece would take place in a small town, like Harbison. Or in a store or a school. He wasn’t sure yet. When he first imagined the story, it had taken place in a bank, but that hadn’t seemed quite right. Who was going to be interested in a bunch of people in a bank?

He thought about the plot for a few days, then settled on a new approach.

The Moving Spiral Part Two would be about a group of friends who decided to take a trip to Montreal. They would think about the trip night and day, talk about nothing else; that trip would take over their lives. They would be thrilled about the journey because it would mark the first time they’d left their town.

He hadn’t fleshed out the middle of the story–middles always seemed to be the real problem in stories–but he knew how it was going to end: two of the girls would get bored and homesick and want to go back home and this would produce all kinds of problems with the guys, who were seeking real adventure and wanted to take a side trip to Nova Scotia. There would be a big argument and before anyone knew what had happened the friendships would fall apart and everyone would be on a train back to America.

*

The Mayor had been snubbed by one school official after another. No one would see him in person and only one or two bothered to return his phone calls. But as far as he was concerned, time had run out. He had invited the local newspaper and several out-of-town dailies to join him as he visited the campus, unannounced to confront the protesters, who were now in the second week of demonstrations.

Sorensen looked out of his window and shook his head. Nearly one hundred protesters from the campus and nearby towns had assembled in front of the administration building, demanding the immediate ouster of ROTC. Now, the Mayor and his reporters and photographers had joined the group, guaranteeing that the protest would become news all over the state. The demonstration’s organizers could not believe their good fortune. The Mayor could not believe how many protesters would unwittingly contribute to his re-election campaign.

He moved to the edge of the crowd, holding his own sign that read "AMERICANS SUPPORT OUR BOYS IN VIETNAM.” Many of the protesters did not know who he was and they ignored him at first. The Press group moved in closer as he stood on a wooden box he’d brought along for the occasion.

The photographers started snapping. "I am here today as a patriotic American," he began. "Today in America we are witnessing the wholesale rejection of our noble cause. We are witnessing groups of people, small though they may be, who are willing to sell this nation down the river."

A small assembly moved closer to hear the Mayor; the majority began booing and lifting their anti-ROTC placards higher.

"Our nation is in trouble today–deep, deep trouble–and these young men and women are doing nothing less than giving aid and comfort to our brutal enemies.”

“You are the enemy!” one of the protesters shouted and the crowd cheered.

The Mayor ignored the comment and pressed ahead, cupping his hands to amplify his voice. “As the Mayor of Cedar Falls it is my duty to speak out against this unconscionable corruption of our young people. Many of those you see here today are not members of the student body of this school, not members of the faculty here, nor, even residents of the town of Cedar Falls. They are outsiders–outside agitators who have come into our community with one goal–to tell us that we are aggressors, that our government is on the wrong side of the conflict in Vietnam, that the brave young men who are leaving to fight are going there for nothing, that the words of President Abraham Lincoln were wrong–that the brave young men who are dying for our country, are indeed dying in vain.” He looked past the crowd, speaking to the great society...

“Well, my friends, I have seen photographs of the dead bodies of our fallen heroes as they come back from the faraway conflict and I am here to tell you that, contrary to all this defeatist talk, these brave young soldiers have not died fighting an unnecessary war. They have died to save us. To save our country. They have not died in vain."

The photographers focused on the crowd.

Mayor Delaney looked up at Sorensen’s office and wondered if he knew what was happening.

The crowd moved in closer, which inspired the Mayor. He stood straight, and looking directly at the row of protesters at his feet, began chanting, “These boys are not dying in vain, these boys are not dying in vain.” The closer the crowd got, the more loudly they protested, the more determined he became to send his message rolling above them all. “These boys have not died in vain,” he screamed, “they have not died in vain!

*

“I don’t need to see you,” Carol said into the telephone, convincingly enough to illicit raised eyebrows from Paul, who was not expecting her call and wasn’t at all happy to hear her voice. For the last two weeks, the sheer craziness of this whole experience had become more and more obvious to him. He didn’t belong with her—any more than he belonged with Lisa. He had continued to struggle with the mechanics of breaking up with Lisa and hadn’t yet figured out a reasonable way to do it. He knew that, when it came to relationships with women, he had the nasty habit of deluding himself long enough to cause trouble; he’d certainly reached that point with Lisa and he’d certainly reached it with Carol. At least, since he’d met Carol fairly recently, and there hadn’t been time to form the usual messy entanglements, he would find it a little easier to extricate himself. For this, no heartfelt letters would be necessary.

“That’s fine,” he said.

“On the other hand, I know you want to talk about this,” she said.

“No I don’t, actually,” he said. “There’s nothing to talk about.” He thought it was terribly characteristic when she started to laugh.

“Honestly,” she said, “this doesn’t have anything to do with politics, does it, Paul?”

He wished this would all go away. “Why are you calling now?” he said.

“To ask if you want to see me.”

“Now?” he asked. He moved to the window and looked down at the street, suspecting that the call might be coming from the phone booth on the corner.

“Why?” she asked. “Are you busy?”

“Yes,” he answered, moving from the window. “As a matter of fact.”

“I don’t care,” she said, waiting a second, apparently to see if he would have anything else to say, then: “I want you to make love to me.”

“What?”

“I want to come over right now. Does that sound so terrible to you?”

Yes, it does, he thought; it absolutely sounds like the most awful thing. “This is not the time,” he said, brusquely.

“Why? Why not now? What could you possibly be busy with?”

“I am busy,” he reiterated. “You have to understand that.”

A stilted silence told him that this wasn’t going to be as simple as he’d hoped.

“With what?” she asked. “What’s going on?”

He’d been dropping hints for days that something was up; he couldn’t believe she still hadn’t started to figure things out.

“We’ll talk,” he said.” I just can’t–”

“I want to talk now,” she insisted.

“I have a paper to prepare, Carol. I’ll call you. I promise.”

“No,” she said. “This is important. We need to talk about this now.” She hung up.

A few minutes later, Lisa called to tell him that she’d left a folder with old term papers in his drawer, and she wanted to come by and retrieve it. He tried to convince her to wait until the next day, but she was absolutely determined. “I need it now,” she said, bitterly, and hung up.

He thought about the first time he’d seen Carol in the cafeteria. In retrospect, that memory was no longer colored by warm feelings. He realized that meeting had produced nothing but irritations and complications–hers, his and theirs–now it was coming to a head at the worst possible time, when he was just about to make an official break with Lisa, when his interest in scholastic issues was diminishing, and when mostly what he wanted to do was get out of Harbison, away from all those people who had become important to him. He often woke up, these days, thinking the greatest thing that could happen would be the arrival of a one-way ticket to some exotic foreign country–New York City—where he could blend in with everyone else, do what he really felt like doing, which was absolutely nothing.

Carol arrived fifteen minutes later, ringing the front door buzzer just as he began to pee. He finished up and hurried to the speakerphone, hoping it might be anyone else.

“Let me in, it’s cold out here,” she said, still unaware about the state of things.

“Listen,” Paul said, “I have to meet with my career advisor in a few minutes.”

“I don’t believe you,” she said, firmly. “Now open the door. I’m freezing out here.”

She sat at the edge of the bed, looking relaxed and confident–the restiveness that was usually etched on her face was almost gone. Paul watched her closely, perched on the side of his bed and wondered what had been responsible for this remarkable transformation. He hoped it had nothing to do with him.

She picked up one of his old New Yorker magazines. “You’re so smart,” she said, without a trace of sarcasm. As she riffled through the magazine he reviewed the things he’d done that had brought them to this moment. Over the past two months, there had been no cosmic or life-changing conversations. He certainly hadn’t done anything to indicate that there’d been a positive change in their status–could she have been so desperate to believe in him that she’d dismissed the reality of their situation? He had to think; Lisa could be coming over at any moment.

Carol had opened the magazine to a double-paged advertisement.

“Listen–” Paul began.

“Listen yourself,” she interrupted, holding open the magazine, “This is the car I’ve always dreamed of having when I’m married and have a family.”

He leaned in to see it. “Pricey,” he said. “The thing is, I have this meeting with my advisor–”

“What are you so afraid of, Paul? I simply came here to show that I’m serious about you. You understand. I wanted you to feel free to take our friendship to the next level. That’s what you want, that’s what you’re indicating to me. Girls always know when something is going on, Paul.”

He couldn’t see how she could be so oblivious to everything.

“I’m not saying you have to do anything about Lisa right now,” she went on, still in the dark about this particular issue. She crossed her legs neatly under herself. “There’s a problem. I understand that. I’m not an idiot. But we can work it out, Paul. People work things like this out all the time.”

“That’s not the point.” It was obvious to him that she’d already discussed this with herself at length and made all the critical decisions.

She got off the bed, tossing the magazine on the floor and moved closer to him. “Everyone knows about us,” she said, cradling his nervous face in her hands.

What if it was true, he thought, what if everyone was talking about them? What if Lisa had already heard about it? It was one thing to break apart from someone; he certainly didn’t need her thinking it was because of someone else. What if she’d known about it all along? How could that be? The only way anyone could have known about them was if Carol had said something, and why would she have done that?

“We should stop seeing each other,” he said, firmly.

“I want to make love with you, Paul,” she said, ignoring him.

He stared at the clock over his desk. “That’s not a good idea,” he said.

She looked at him as if he was crazy–or joking. “You have no idea what you’re doing, do you?” she said. “We should talk about this.”

“I know what I’m doing,” he said.

Her face showed no anger or disappointment. This worried him.

The phone rang but he didn’t pick it up. “I have to get going,” he said, speaking too fast.

“We haven’t resolved this, Paul.”

“I have to go,” he said again, grabbing his jacket. “We’ll talk about it tonight. I’ll call you.”

“We will?” she said.

“Yes.”

“I don’t think so. I don’t think you’re going to call me at all.”

He moved to the door, hoping she would follow, but instead, she stayed on the bed, leaning on her elbows.

He opened the door. “I’ll walk you down,” he said, indicating the hallway.

“Why don’t I just wait here for you” she asked, in a vaguely threatening tone. “I’ll be here when you get back.”

He moved back into the room. “Look,” he said. “I want you to come with me now. Now.” He glanced at his watch. “Do you understand?”

She arched her eyes exaggeratedly. “Why are you speaking to me that way?”

He moved to the bed and pulled her sharply, towards him. “I want you to leave,” he said. “That’s why. That’s the reason.”

As his grip on her hand tightened, she let herself be guided to the door.

His heart was beating so hard he could hear it as they moved into the chilly vestibule. What if Lisa was already downstairs?

He looked at Carol’s face, then at the door, hoping that would be the end of it. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You said you didn’t expect anything and I took you at your word. Now please accept that. That’s the best thing to do.”

“You don’t care about hurting me, do you?” she said, then she passed quickly ahead of him, down the steps and off toward the footpath leading to Jensen Hall.

*
Sorensen banged his fist on his desk when he got a three-page missive from an assembly called the Students for a Responsible Policy in South East Asia. The group, an outside organization of “concerned academics”, threatened to “shut down” the campus if he didn’t take immediate steps to “stop the continued left-wing interference with educational activities at the school.”

He had been under pressure from a variety of sources, including the Mayor, to ban all demonstrations, (new groups of disgruntled students were forming daily) including those against racial discrimination, economic injustice, animal abuse by the recently endowed science department, and gender bashing by certain “ignominious” teachers of History and Political Science.

Enough was enough. He had no training for and absolutely no interest in being the ringleader and coordinator for disparate and mostly, uncoordinated groups of pissed off boys and girls.

The three-year-plan for the school that he’d worked so diligently for six months to develop had been pushed to the back burner while he spent week after frustrating week conferring with infuriated members of the faculty and the town, painfully dissecting strategies for dealing with the continuing unrest. He wished everyone would just get back to their classrooms. Or just go away.

As he closed the window against the booming sound of two husky male students shouting his name and the words, “accessory to animal torture,” Paul walked in and took a seat across from his desk.

“I’ve heard wonderful things about you, Paul,” Sorensen said, pulling his official face together as he reached over to shake hands with the new National Academic Congress representative for Harbison. Just then one of the protesters outside yelled, “Sorensen is a murderer of men and dogs”.

Sorensen looked at Paul wistfully. “Do I look like a killer to you?” he asked.

Paul shook his head, as if to say that the times were the times.

They spoke easily for fifteen minutes. Sorensen reviewed the school’s expectations, and Paul’s opinion of several key issues, including the continuing administrative commitment to ROTC on campus. He reached across the desk and put his hand on Paul’s shoulder, congratulating him again for his appointment, and wishing him well. He reminded him that there would be plenty of forces working to undermine his work, and that, contrary to his best efforts, the community was more fractured than ever before; he would probably not find his tenure any easier than Sorensen had found his.

Paul was appreciative of the advice and assured Sorensen that he would do his best to help the school through turbulent times. “I hope to serve as a mediator,” he said.

“It’s all about the focus,” Sorensen said. “I’m sure you’re going to be just fine,”

“I hope so, sir.”

“Then,” Sorensen said, chuckling, “maybe you have some advice for me?” He indicated the voices outside his window.

End the violence against animals. Stop the torture now!

CHAPTER TEN

MARCH

The end had come. They both knew it and they had both decided not to pretend otherwise. The final scene of their courtship would be played without fanfare, like so much of the courtship, on the steps of Clyfford. The idea of letting Lisa go, through the cowardly anonymity of a letter, was, Paul had decided, simply not his style.

She was sitting on the top step, pretending to be reading when Paul approached, looking dour and anxious. She glanced over the top of her book.

“I’m sorry for being late,” he said, sitting close to her, “and for being a little out of it lately.”

She knew the worst conversations, the ones she always remembered as being awful or having consequences were the ones that began with an apology, especially apologies that sounded heartfelt. This one sounded very heartfelt, she thought, probably the product of a lot of anguished thought–the very worst kind.

She suspected that this might be their last conversation; she hoped somehow, that it might veer off to another subject, that they would surprise themselves and each other when the things they’d meant to say would come out not exactly the way they’d planned or expected. She had been thinking about that before he arrived–how marvelous it would be if the whole purpose of the meeting just went totally askew; if instead, they ended up talking about future plans–what would happen after school, what city they would move to together, where they would be married, how every little thing that had contributed to foiling their relationship had just been a collision of silly misunderstandings. How Carol really had been nothing at all, just the way Paul had claimed, nothing serious at all, certainly nothing important enough to stand in the way of their life together.

She looked at his blank eyes, and knew he had not been thinking these things at all.

*

That night, the night before he was to leave for the Academic Congress, Paul called his parents and told them that he would be visiting for part of Sunday afternoon, but wouldn’t be able to stay for dinner because he had “Congress responsibilities” to attend to. When they asked about Lisa, he sidestepped the question with a comment about her having “her own commitments.”

He felt sad when he hung up because his parents were going to be disappointed to hear that the relationship had come to an end. He sat down to write about the break-up in a letter to his mother, got about half way through, then tossed it into the trash. He didn’t have the energy or inclination to explain what had happened. He knew he had to keep his mind focused on the Congress, and to find a reason to be excited about the prospect of traveling to an event he no longer had much interest in.

*

He held the tie close enough to see the tiny, almost imperceptible blue stars, outlined by a faint trace of yellow that covered the larger tan surface. The stars, seen from a distance indicated a muted visual mist that altered the pale color of the tie, making it appear somewhat lighter. Up close all he could see were hundreds of individual stars, the same size, shape and color. His mother had given him the tie for his fifteenth birthday but he’d never had an occasion to wear it; this day seemed perfectly appropriate.

Pulling away from the mirror he sat at the edge of the bed, and scratched his itching nose. The hotel room had been made up an hour earlier and still smelled of disinfectant and cleaning fluid.

He was feeling especially nervous this morning; he was on his own with a real charge and an important responsibility. In a few hours, he would be meeting representatives from all over the country–people who would almost certainly be a lot more experienced and worldly than he was; he would be expected to make the right impression, to impress the right people.

He hadn’t been given much information about the Congress except that the national representatives gathered each year to examine the general state of academic life and to forge a set of recommendations that would be passed on to the administrations of the participating schools. In a few of the past Congresses, major reforms had been suggested, a few of which had been implemented at the national level. This year, several controversial measures were on the table–one dealing with a proposal that the Congress officially censure the government for its conduct of the Vietnam War. Seven representatives from Southern States had already made it known, in a joint letter to the President of the Congress, that if this measure should be brought up for a vote, they would walk out as a unified delegation.

He was relieved to be out in the real world, among people who had something to accomplish, something to say and he presumed, something to prove.

He moved to the window and stuck his hand out to gauge the temperature: he hoped it would be warm enough to wear his suit without an overcoat. Then, he slipped on the trousers, put on a freshly starched white shirt, then the tie. In front of the mirror, he straightened everything, carefully tucking the tie neatly beneath his collar. The mirror told him that he looked fine–like a young professional, a representative. He understood that he would be mixing with a group of students who came from far more accomplished families, stood for places like Harvard and Yale and Princeton and had been to the Congress several times before and knew things he needed to know.

The mirror assured him that it didn’t matter– he looked just fine; he knew he was the only student at Harbison who could have tackled this mission.

Clipping his name tag to the pocket of his jacket, he slipped his wallet into his crisp black pants and reminded himself that he was already late for the opening of the Exhibit Hall.

The Congress was located in the cavernous Main Hall of the Hynes Center on Boyleston Street.

The Hall was crammed with display booths from vendors who had gathered to meet with student representatives (it was expected that these students would dutifully bring their materials to the attention of their school’s purchasing departments). There were displays for desks and office equipment, chalkboards, food products, textbooks, floor maintenance, accounting management and on and on.

Paul looked out at this aggregation and couldn’t understand why so many people invested so much time and money in these booths. The answer came to him in the person of a well dressed, handsome man in his late fifties who smiled warmly, gripped Paul’s hand with a little too much strength and eagerly leaned in to read the name on his name tag. “Delegate, eh?” the man asked, loudly.

Paul nodded, smiling.

“Who do you represent?” the man asked, leaning in closer to read the affiliation. “Harbison Prep...what’s that?”

“Near Boston,” Paul said, hoping the man wouldn’t ask how near.

“That’s near Boston?” the man repeated, moving a little closer. “Exactly how far from Boston, would you say? I have a friend who lives near Boston.”

Paul could tell that the man had a story, but he was fairly sure he didn’t want to hear it. “Far away, to tell you the truth,” he said.

“Yep,” said the man, backing up, “my friend lives just outside of Boston. So what do you do as a...representative?”

Paul replied, “We represent our school at the national Congress.”
The man’s brow wrinkled. “But it says there on your tag you’re an East Coast Organizer.”

Paul shrugged. “I don’t know what that means, to be honest.”

The man thrust his hand to indicate that he was thrilled to make Paul’s acquaintance. “You’re some kind of leader, right?” he asked, grinning effusively.

“I wouldn’t exactly–”

“The reason I ask you that, is I have a powerful learning tool right here–” He indicated the table behind them, which was stacked high with red and blue plastic folders. “I guess you could say I’m some kind of representative, myself. I represent Educational Supply Corporation. That’s corporation because we’re incorporated in the State of New Jersey.”

He presented a business card, declaring, “My name is Pat Jaeger, but you go ahead and call me Jag.”

Before Paul knew what was happening, Jaeger had dropped his significant, hairy arm around Paul’s back and was guiding him over to the table where the folders lay, so far undisturbed.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Paul,” Jaeger said, sounding a bit manic. “I love coming to these gatherings because they let me meet the public, especially wonderful young Americans like yourself. Give me a minute of your time, will you? Will you do that? Will you let me show off some of my stuff?” He beamed so brightly and his voice sang with such unbridled conviction, that, despite every better instinct, Paul found himself paying attention.

Jaeger guided him around the back of the table to a stack of folders labeled NEW BEGINNINGS. Pointing to the thick of the stack, he said, “These are my babies, Paul. We’re in the business of finding new ways of teaching and these are the wonderful tools we have. These are the very best, Paul. I’d have to say that of all the products we have–and we have a lot and we have different kinds of products–these are the very best, the most innovative and, best of all, for schools like yours, the most cost-effective.” He winked conspiratorially. “Isn’t cost-effective what we’re all looking for these days?”

Paul was about to say something that would establish the groundwork for his exit, but Jaeger handed him the topmost folder and was already nodding his head in anticipation of a good word.

“Take a quick look at that, Paul. You’re going to be dazzled, absolutely dazzled, I promise you that.”

Paul opened the folder and found a series of single-spaced, single-paged reports, each printed on different colored paper. He scanned the text on the second page, but found it practically incomprehensible. Squinting at it, he shook his head and said, “This is kind of involved. Do you mind if I take these materials and read them tonight back at the hotel?”

Jaeger positively lit up, grabbing a stack of folders–six or seven–and handing them to Paul. “That one I gave you just scratches the surface of what we do. I do believe we offer one of the most innovative approaches to education in the market today. I would love for you to take all those reports with you, Paul. Frankly, it would be an honor to know you took them home with you–or wherever you’re going to be reading them. Because I know what’s in those reports–I know the workmanship and experience that went into them.” He put his arm around Paul in a familial way. “I am absolutely positively certain that when you are finished reading those reports you are going to hurry back to your school and tell them that they owe it to every student at...Harbison Prep, is it?...to get right into business with us.”

“That’s terrific,” Paul said, easing back.

“But, Paul while you’re here, don’t let me let you get away without first showing you the newest product in our exceptional line of Number One and First Rate educational products, the INSTANT LEARNER–” He took his arm away and hurried over to the other side of the table, where two large hardbound product catalogues sat atop a filmy glass tray. As Paul was about to follow Jaeger, a nattily dressed young man approached him, leaned in to read his name tag, thrust his hand out and said loudly, “Paul, It’s great to see you. We’re late for the council meeting. Better hurry.”

Jaeger was not pleased with this development.

Paul had no idea who the young man was, but he was certainly grateful for the opening. “I have to run,” he told Jaeger, “but this is all very interesting.”

Jaeger scooped up the materials and handed them to Paul. “Don’t forget these–and call me tomorrow after you read them. My number’s on the card.”

“Absolutely, I will–and thanks again for your time.”

Paul followed the young man through the thicket of display booths to an area of cloth-covered bridge tables, and folding chairs.

“My name’s Toby,” the young man said, taking a seat at one of the tables and pulling out the other chair for Paul.

“Do I know you?” Paul asked, sitting.

“I rescued you,” Toby replied. “So I guess now you know me.”

Paul leaned forward to study the boy’s nameplate: TOBY EMMERICK, DELEGATE, YALE UNIVERSITY.

“I suggest you be impressed,” Toby said. “My dad paid a lot of money for that.”

“I am,” Paul said.

“Are you here for the whole three days or just today?”

“Isn’t everyone here for the whole conference?” he asked.

Toby grinned mischievously. “No one is here for the conference at all,” he said. “We’re here for the parties. The good ones start tonight over at the Sheraton. You only need to go to one or two seminars, give your name and then its on the record that you attended. The rest of the time is party. You must be new.”

“I am,” Paul admitted.

“Well, then,” Toby said, “I suppose I’ll just have to give you the grand tour.”

For the next few hours Paul wandered around the tables with Toby in the far too-brightly lit Exhibition Hall, examining all variety of “educational products–he’d had no idea that there were so many. Toby explained that the number of vendors increased each year because sales figures at the exhibits rose at a predictable 3%. Since the market was so incestuous everyone knew how much money was being made and there were always new vendors who wanted to get in on the action.

At half-past three Toby said he needed to go–he was about to be elevated to the Seminars Board of Directors, a position that carried with it, among other benefits, a fair degree of influence over the all-important entertainment schedule. But he made an appointment with Paul for the following afternoon and promised to introduce him to his friend Gary, who, he thought Paul “should definitely meet”.

After Toby left, Paul drifted to the rear of the Hall and checked a printed itinerary for the following two days. Examining the cluttered schedule he mused about the pertinence of these issues–the topics mostly struck him as arcane and practically immaterial–why would students today care about issues like Dress Codes for Today’s Student and Quality Food in Campus Cafeterias when there were so many more pressing things to talk about?

He looked around the Hall and saw dozens of well-dressed, middle aged men enthusiastically hawking their wares to young student reps, like himself; he wondered if anything meaningful was ever accomplished at these meetings.

Checking his schedule again, he settled on a meeting of the Steering Committee, whose subject for discussion was THE FUTURE OF THE CONGRESS AND ITS PROMISE FOR THE FUTURE.

The assembly was already in progress when he took a seat in the last row of the crowded, airless room. Up in front, Professor Richard Geller, an older man with long gray hair down the back and sides of his neck was seated, pointing to a figure on a portable blackboard that rested against two bridge chairs. He sternly clutched his cane.

“There is much criticism of today’s student culture–their sometimes reckless and frequently admirable willingness to speak out on issues of the day,” he said. “I believe that this willingness to address issues of the day should be honored and celebrated. As teachers and administrators we are guiding a fresh generation of curious and engaged young men and women into a volatile, turbulent era—an era that offers no guarantees, no guarantees at all. The men and women on our campuses today have no reticence about making their viewpoints known. This is a positive thing, an indication that we have been successful in planting the seeds of participation in what is, after all, supposed to be a participatory democracy. We must proceed, in my view, from that starting point. And we will do exactly that.”

The audience applauded without much enthusiasm, as Geller laid his pointer across the chair and stood; then they began to talk among themselves.

A young man in a brown turtleneck shirt moved beside the speaker and held his hands up to quiet the crowd. “We’ve come to the point when freedom of speech has become the most relevant issue on high school and college campuses today,” the young man said. “Professor Geller has articulated that point clearly and admirably. It’s time to open the floor to questions for Professor Geller or myself.”

Geller sat again and was handed a microphone, while the young man stationed himself next to him, pointing to the audience to recognize one of the volunteers.

A petite girl moved to a podium in the center of the room.

“I’m Sasha Horowitz,” she announced. “Professor Geller, I was very impressed by the part of your talk that addressed the issue of required courses. As a student at the High School of Performing Arts in New York City, I was saddened to learn that there’s a movement on our own campus to do away with required courses such as mathematics and science. I definitely think we need those courses–I think they’re crucial for our intellectual development–and I’m very happy that you’ve spoken up in favor of keeping them in the syllabus.”

Geller nodded enthusiastically, but many in the room were not as pleased. Out of respect for the older man, they had kept quiet while Geller spoke, but now they were quick to voice a dissenting opinion.

“Please,” Geller said loudly, “let’s allow everyone to come forward with their own viewpoints.”

A wave of raucous protest rose from two sections of the audience, mostly near the stage: “Free speech should include dissenting views!” “Campus Thought Police shouldn’t be part of academia!” “Students should be free to determine their own course of study.”

Paul got bored with all of this, checked his watch and left the Hall through a side door, labeled in big white letters: EXIT! He spent the remainder of the afternoon in the huge exhibition area, browsing displays from the various national educational vendors.

*

The next day, after lunch Toby and Paul met in a corner of the Conference Hall. Toby pointed to a secluded area in front of a long white curtain near the exit. “Let’s go over there and I’ll introduce you to Gary. But I warn you, he’s a real character. He’s the so-called entertainment coordinator for the conference. He’ll fill you in on what’s important around here.”

“Really,” Paul said.

“It’s a good thing I caught you before you ended up spending your whole time talking to those tedious vendor guys.”

Paul shook his head, “That’s for sure,” he said.

“We’ll have a great time,” Toby said. “Gary’s knows everything about having fun. We come here every year and use the time to sort of–vacation–you know, get the work done and keep some time for ourselves. Gary is pretty good at planning things. We all take part in this intellectual group–Gary’s the nominal head of it–he’s very smart, a Yalie. We talk about books and movies and things like that; we go out together. It’s kind of silly. Gary’s good at running the group, though. It’s the extent of our social life here, I guess.” He laughed, in a pointed way that suggested he wasn’t all that crazy about the group.

It turned out that Gary did know quite a lot about having fun. He was immediately thrilled at the notion of finding a new member and Toby made it clear through a series of hidden signals, that Paul was the kind of guy who liked to experience new things but usually had too much serious stuff on his mind.

Gary was tall and slim and especially good-looking, even for this crowd of tall, slim, good-looking young men, many of whom, like Toby were Ivy-Leaguers. He stood so erect that Paul thought he might be the type who presses himself against a wall every morning for posture practice.

“Great to see you,” Gary announced, earnestly, stretching his hand out, like one of those professional Las Vegas greeters Paul had seen on TV.

“This is the new guy,” Toby declared, pointing to Paul as if he’d just reeled him in from Boston Harbor. “Paul.”

Gary gave him a serious once-over. “I’m Gary,” he said, thrusting his hand out. “Where did you say you were from, Paul?”

Paul glanced at Toby, then at Gary, “I didn’t say,” he said, smiling pleasantly.

Gary tapped Toby’s shoulder. “Wiseass,” he said, grinning. “We can always use one of those.”

Toby stepped forward to put his arm around Paul. “Paul is the furthest thing from a wiseass, Gary. He’s an intellectual. Which isn’t to say he doesn’t know how to have fun. Right, Paul?”

Gary shook his head. “That’s cool,” he said. Then looking at Paul, “You get good grades, but kind of feel like you’re wasting your time at school. Am I right or am I wrong?”

“Kind of,” Paul answered.

Gary mock-slapped Toby across the face, making Toby’s arm drop off Paul. “See that?” Gary asked, then to Paul, “I can tell a lot about a person just by hearing him say two or three words. I could tell that you were a smart guy, sure. Of course, I could see that. But there’s more, I think. You probably want to let loose...do what you want to, learn more than they’re teaching you. That’s what would make you happy. I like friends who know what they want. Did Toby tell you anything about our discussion group?”

“A little,” Paul said.

Toby moved to Gary’s side to stress his affiliation.

Gary seemed lost in thought. An uncomfortable silence passed.

Finally, he said, “Toby and I and a few other students who come to this thing each year–assuming we’re re-reelected, of course–have formed a group to engage in discussions of various issues. Sort of a junior think tank. We get together over the course of these meetings to talk about issues of the day, things that are important to all of us. Then we have fun. We only let intelligent people into the club, even if they’re still in High School.”

“I think we could have a good time together,” Toby said, looking at Gary, referring to Paul.

“You’re interested in me?” Paul asked.

Gary nodded. “We talk to a lot of people. The point of the group is to keep our minds in top form. Hopefully, when we graduate we can all get together to do this sort of thing professionally. A think tank, I mean. That’s what the goal is. What do you like to do, Paul?”

“What do you mean?”

“For fun. Let’s say you were all done with the Congress–everyone’s been duly impressed by your performance here and you have a few extra days left, with nothing on the agenda. What would you do to for fun? We do things together as a group–concerts, exhibitions. Any of that kind of thing appeal to you?”

Paul tried to gauge what was expected of him.

“Paul looks like the kind of guy who would appreciate a good stage production,” Toby said, nodding to himself.

Paul laughed awkwardly, unsure if this was a joke.

“Don’t be shy,” Gary said. “We’re always looking for something new. Maybe you have a suggestion.”

“I like good food,” Paul offered, feeling a little foolish.

“What kind of food?” Gary snapped.

“Italian, I guess.”

“Pretty good Italian restaurants in Boston,” Gary said, brightly.

“I like to go to the Fine Arts museum,” Paul said, enthusiastically, pleased that he had been struck by the thought.

Gary seemed to like that idea. “You’re into art, then?” he asked respectfully.

Paul nodded.

Toby tilted his head, as if to say that if Gary approved, it was all right with him.

“Do you have a favorite artist, Paul?” Gary asked.

Paul thought about it. “Rodin, I guess,” he said. “Why?”

Gary smiled. “We should go there tomorrow afternoon, then, to the Fine Arts Museum..”

“We have Congress meetings tomorrow afternoon,” Paul noted.

Gary looked at Toby, disdainfully.

Toby threw his arm around Paul, this time for support. “No one expects you to go to all the meetings, Paul. These things are just for show. You’ll get a lot more out of a visit to the museum, believe me.”

“Fine,” Gary announced. “Then, we’ll get together–how about right here?– at twelve o’clock, after the morning sessions. I’ll get the other members of the group and we can stop off at a good Italian place I know on Crescent Street. Then we’ll cab it over to the Museum.”

“Sounds good to me,” Toby said.

“By the way, Paul,” Gary asked. “Do you know what you’re going to be when you become a responsible adult?”

“A writer,” Paul said, without hesitation.

“That’s a good choice,” Gary said. “I’ve done some writing, myself. Maybe you’ll take a look at it and tell me if you think I have any potential.”

“Sure,” Paul said, doubtfully.

The restaurant was half-empty when the group arrived at twelve-fifteen the next afternoon.

Paul immediately took the seat farthest from Gary and Toby, who sat at the head of the table, the de facto leader and his adjutant. The men wore stylish light gray jackets, with school tee-shirts. The women wore simple pants and neat dark blouses with similar hair styles, pushed up over prominent foreheads; one of them carried a butchered copy of Ayn Rand’s The Fountainhead.

The waiter, who obviously knew Gary from previous visits, whispered something in his ear. Gary nodded, laughed gently as the waiter disappeared.

“I’ve arranged for sandwiches all around,” Gary announced. “It’s simpler than ordering a million things.” He tapped an empty water glass with a pen and everyone quieted down. Pointing to Paul, he said, “This is Paul, our guest. He’s sitting in with us today. If I’m right, he’s going to be a grand addition to our group–he’s fairly intelligent, I think, from what I can tell. We’re going to have a light evening tonight, in Paul’s honor. None of our usual highly charged intellectual debate. We don’t want to scare Paul away with a lot of obscure talk about foreign policy and–”, looking at Toby, “overly didactic concerns.” He started to laugh.

Paul laughed, too, but he suspected the joke was on him.

“Why don’t we all introduce ourselves,” Gary said, pointing to the others, “so Paul knows what he’s getting himself into.”

“Sam Shorn. Stamford ‘70.”

“Martin Waters, Harvard ‘69.”

“Keren Berk, UCLA ‘71.”

“Jackson Merrill, Princeton, ‘71.”

Toby Unser, Yale. ‘69.”

Gary nodded to Paul, indicating that he should introduce himself, as well.

Paul looked around the table. “I’m Paul Bradford, Harbison Preparatory, ’69, ” he said, uneasily, “and I hope I have something to contribute.”

Toby started to applaud and was quickly followed by the others, with little enthusiasm.

Gary smiled. “It’s the one’s who think they have the least to contribute, who end up contributing the most.”

Paul shook his head. He hoped Gary was right–but then, he was surprised that he cared.

The group chatted amicably for about half an hour–everyone seemed to be going out of their way to include Paul in their conversation, which roamed from the general lack of decent food on campus to involvement of the local schools in anti-war mobilizations. Paul liked the people in the group, particularly Sam Shorn, with whom he developed an instant rapport, discovering that they both shared an intense dislike for Faulkner’s Sound and the Fury.”

When the sandwiches arrived, Sam indicated an area of tables, outside on the patio and Paul joined him there for a private conference on the questionable reputation of certain southern writers.

“Look,” Sam said, holding his plate as if it were a blackboard pointer, “Everyone loves Faulkner to death. You know why? It’s simple.” He paused dramatically. “No one has a clue what he was doing in that book,” he said. “Here, one minute, there, the next minute... People wonder what everything is all about, where everything is going. Stream of consciousness, they call that. I call it stream of the author-doesn’t-know-what-he’s doing. You want to write experimental material? You’d better be very precise in what you’re doing. People claim to love Faulkner because they don’t have a flying clue about anything he’s doing.”

“I see what you’re getting at,” Paul offered, trying to sound knowledgeable.

“You know what?” Sam said. “I don’t think it’s going anywhere. I don’t think that book is about very much at all. And no one wants to admit it. They insist on teaching us about how serious it all is. I think it’s a bad book. I think it’s really boring and I don’t care if that makes me look unintelligent. I mean, really, Paul, can you say you’ve ever read a duller book?”

“It was a bit slow, at first,” Paul admitted, “but it’s also interesting. You have to say that Faulkner was trying to do something there.”

“I don’t care what he was trying to do,“ Sam said. “If I can’t keep my eyes open when I’m reading a book, I know there’s no reason to be reading it. I’m sorry it that makes me sound like some sort of anti-intellectual, but that’s the way I feel.”

Paul took a bite of his sandwich. “What do you like?” he asked.

“I’m very particular,” he replied. “And I don’t make any apologies about that, either. I think half to three-quarters of the stuff they feed us in school is a load of crap, a crock of crap; there that’s a good example of alliteration–and I’m not even a writer.”

“Do you like any of the Europeans?” Paul asked, trying to stay in the game.

Sam crinkled his brow. “Some of them. But drawing room dramas interest me even less than Faulkner.”

“What about–”

“Listen, Paul, I don’t want you to think that I spend my days obsessing on all this stuff. The fact is, I like what I like and you do, too. Everyone does. I just don’t want to pretend to go along with what everyone thinks is so wonderful and hip. That’s the way I am.”

Just then, Gary came outside, holding part of a tuna sandwich. “What are you guys up to?” he asked, “Plotting the downfall of the government?”

Sam sent him a fuck-off look.

“We’ve decided to go for a trip out to Cambridge,” Gary said. “How does that sound?”

“Cambridge?” Paul asked.

Sam looked at Gary but spoke to Paul. “To get drunk,” he explained.

“Don’t be such an asshole, Sam,” Gary said.

“Do whatever you want, Gary,” Sam said, and to Paul, “You want to go with them?”

Paul was uncomfortable. “What do you do in Cambridge?” he asked, stalling.

Sam lifted an imaginary glass of beer and with a cloying British accent said, “Drink beer, mate.”

Gary pulled up a chair, close to Paul. “Sam is afraid he might not be able to stop drinking, so he makes everyone else feel guilty.” He smiled, but Paul could tell something was going on. “Listen,” Gary said, “if you want to stay here, that’s fine with me.”

“You can go with them if you want,” Sam said, dismissively.

Gary leaned in to Paul, “Isn’t it tough when everyone wants you?” he asked

“I kind of like it here,” Paul said, trying to be diplomatic.

“No problem,” Gary said, standing. He finished his sandwich. “If you change your mind, we’ll probably be in Banner’s Restaurant on Lenar Street. You’ll see a lot of people on the patio. We’ll be there for a few hours.”

“Great,” Paul said.

Gary turned to Sam. “I guess you wouldn’t reconsider?” he asked facetiously.

“I don’t think so,” he said, turning away.

“Fine,” Gary said and disappeared inside the restaurant.

“What was that all about?” Paul asked.

“Nothing.”

“Okay, then–”

“I had a drunk driving accident a year ago and they took away my license for a while,” Sam said. “I put someone in the hospital for three weeks. I would have probably gone to jail, but my rich dad took care of everything.”

“What’s with you and Gary?”

“Nothing,” Sam replied, sinking into his last bite of turkey.

Paul nodded skeptically.

“I just don’t like him,” Sam said. “He thinks he’s some kind of social planner, but he has no idea what he’s doing half the time–he has a big mouth. And he’s not very smart, although he thinks he’s on his way to a Nobel Prize. He’s taking Chemistry, if you can believe it. He thinks the possibility of being called up for Vietnam is not a factor in his life. He only thinks about getting a lot of letters after his name.”

Toby emerged from the restaurant. “You guys are staying here?” he said.

“Right,” Sam said, without looking up at him.

“That’s cool,” Toby said.

“We’re just talking,” Paul explained.

“You ought to come,” Toby said, to Sam.

“We’re fine here,” Sam emphasized, glancing up quickly.

Toby moved in closer to Sam. “It’s boring out there,” he said, looking toward Gary’s group. “Why don’t you come along and liven things up. Otherwise we have to listen to Gary all night.”

Paul looked at Sam, who seemed to be considering the proposal.

“Come on, guys, look at what I have to contend with.”

Sam stared at Gary, who was holding court. “His mouth is on autopilot today,” Sam noted.

“And every night,” Toby said, laughing. “You gotta help me out here.”

“You want to go?” Paul asked.

Sam shrugged. “You want to?”

Toby poked Paul in the arm. “I’ll consider it a personal favor for my birthday.”

“It’s your birthday?” Paul asked.

“No. But I’ll go along if you want to,” Sam said.

“Maybe it’ll be interesting,” Paul said.

“Good,” Toby said, stepping back.

“Fine,” Sam said, with little enthusiasm.

They stood and followed Toby back inside.

Gary left the group in mid-sentence and came around to Paul. “I see Toby was able to do what I couldn’t,” he said. “That’s good. I’m glad you guys came to your senses. If you’re both very attentive tonight, I might even be motivated to introduce you to some very extraordinary women I know. Banners is crawling with gorgeous women and they’re all dying to meet you.”

“Really..?” Paul said, looking at Sam, who was already bored.

“We all know the one thing any of us are interested in is finding women,” Gary said. “Shall we move on?”

They stood and filed out of the restaurant with Toby, Paul and Sam trailing behind.

The Congress disbanded late the following afternoon. Paul collected the materials he’d assembled–color brochures for products ranging from the utilitarian to the ridiculous, business cards and telephone numbers on scraps of paper, clippings and, of course, soon to be stuffed beneath his clothing at the bottom of the suitcase, a four page dissertation on goals and objectives of the “intellectuals” group. The assembly of disaffected youth had not especially appealed to Paul–its members seemed hopelessly mired in all varieties of pedantic blathering that had nothing to do with the real issues or questions of the day. He thought it seemed strange that these best and brightest young men and women had so little to say about the War, or the draft, or America’s role in the future. They appeared much more concerned with the minutiae and process of their meetings. It seemed to him that, even sequestered away in Cedar Falls, he was far more in touch with reality than these “thinkers”. He knew one thing–he was never going to waste his talent working for a think tank.

He put everything into the bag and zippered it shut; the train to Cedar Falls was leaving in less than an hour.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

APRIL

Word of continuing protests on the Harbison campus had reached Mayor Delaney again, and he was beginning to understand that the demonstrations might ultimately have a far more profound impact on his own political life than he’d previously supposed. He had held his job for seven years and was up for re-election; for the first time in years, he found himself facing a serious challenge–from two “left leaning” politicians in the state Senate. These challenges seemed to him, real, well financed and, possibly dangerous. The last thing he needed was student demonstrations, a weakly indulgent Headmaster and news of the whole mess getting out beyond Cedar Falls. He had been trying unsuccessfully to reach Sorensen by phone, when he learned, through a memo passed from an assistant, that the number of demonstrators had passed 150. He seized his overcoat and headed out to the campus, determined to finally confront Sorensen.

Arriving at Sorensen's office, he saw little to suggest a crisis. Two office aides were typing transcripts and Sorensen's secretary was reading the New York Times.

"I'm so sorry for the inconvenience,” the secretary informed him. “Dr. Sorensen is away from the office all afternoon. I'm surprised your assistant didn’t call first..."

Sorensen had been alerted to the Mayor's visit in advance and had retreated to the safety of the Faculty Dining Room.

"When did you say he'll be back?" the Mayor asked.

She smiled sweetly. "You might try calling him at home,” she suggested.

"I'll certainly do that," he said. “In the meantime, will you please see to it that an official appointment is made for me?” he asked.

“Of course,” the secretary said, opening the appointment book.

“As soon as possible,” he said, soberly.

“Next week?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Of course,” she said, looking for an opening. “Three o’clock, then?”

“Yes,” he said, turning to leave.

A young student, carrying a handful of petitions entered the office, passing him.

"You’re Keith Yarnell?" said the secretary, warmly.

"We have the petitions ready for the Headmaster," said Yarnell, displaying them proudly.

*

Bradley had managed to pass nearly six semesters at Harbison without acquiring a concentration. He’d tried Political Science (two courses), History (two courses), English (three courses), Art History (three courses, because a girl he liked had talked him into it), Sociology (one course), even French (dropped, after a week), but nothing had especially engaged his interest. At one point, in perplexed desperation, he’d even tried mathematics. In junior high school, mathematics courses had nearly killed his chances of going to prep–his grade point average had been pulled down by failing grades in required courses like Algebra and Trigonometry; because of that, he had been turned away by three of his four preferred schools. But during the second half of the last year he’d decided to try again–he struggled through a general mathematics overview class and managed to scrape by with a grade of C.

He’d been worried; if he had such trouble deciding on a course of study, what was he going to do with his life when he graduated? A possible answer had come to him in the form of a beautiful book called THE ARCHITECTURE OF PALACES, which he had seen on someone’s table in the cafeteria.

The book was nearly double the size of normal textbooks and had an amazing cover that featured an aerial view of Blenham Palace in England. That got him thinking.

Maybe he could design glorious homes for the rich and famous–crazy, extravagant homes in the wilds of Connecticut and the Hollywood Hills; two and three-story palaces with tennis courts, guest-houses, manicured lawns with trees flown in from Asia, big, over-the-top swimming pools with striped cabanas and Eames chairs.

He’d hurried over to the campus bookstore and scoured the Architecture section for other titles that would arouse his interest and, hopefully, force him to make a final decision. But all he saw were titles that didn’t inspire him at all–Architectural Details of New England Homes, A Visual History of Architecture, The Surface of Surfaces... Then, as he approached the next cramped aisle he saw a book called Why Buildings Stand Up. This seemed to hold some promise.

He was sitting on his bed, reading about valances when he made his decision. Since he was going to be graduating in the spring term of the following year, he would have the time left to fulfill the major requirements–there was the possibility that he might be able to apply the credits of his first semester Art History classes toward the concentration–if he could convince his senior advisor that he was really serious about this new choice. It would take a lot of reading and some fieldwork, as well as an end-of-track project that would probably take weeks or even months to complete.

He already had an idea for his first architectural project: a new, more structurally sound shelf for the dozens of new architecture books he’d be buying over the course of the next year.

*

John Harris surprised everyone on the team (and would soon surprise the beleaguered fans of Harbison ball) by revealing that he had entirely lost interest in the game of baseball.

He’d first delivered this stunning news–and stunning it was, for it foretold the end of the Harbison team’s only possible claim to fame–to Tom Leary, senior and most prominent member of the Harbison Board of Directors. Leary’s office was located on the second floor of the Harbison Bank Building on Clatter Street, near the motel. In addition to his responsibilities with the Harbison Board, Leary was the Yale-educated President of the Harbison Supply Company and an avid and vociferous baseball fan, whose personal history included a sometimes disputed claim that he had been present when Bobby Thompson hit his “homerun heard round the world”. He claimed to own “a whole library of personal photographs” of this event, but no one had ever actually seen any of the pictures and that included John Harris, whom Leary had always promised a gift of a close-up shot of Bobby’s “Great American Moment”.

Leary had not been pleased–not pleased at all–to hear the disappointing news from the Harbison Hope. He had previously–and frequently–pledged to use all his considerable Boston connections to secure John Harris an introduction to “senior scouts from the Red Sox organization”. He considered John Harris’ new attitude reprehensible, bordering on unpatriotic, practically a personal rebuke. Though John Harris had tried to assuage Leary’s dissatisfaction with a long list of practical justifications, Leary would not be placated. The meeting lasted fewer than seven minutes and ended in a violent outburst by Leary, who tossed an expensive glass jar at the wall and warned John Harris that his decision would be irrevocable, and that he would never be allowed to “see, let alone, participate in” another game at Harbison.

John Harris was pleased with his decision. He’d had enough of baseball and enough of its bored local fans, and certainly enough of Leary. All he wanted was his freedom and that he intended to achieve by leaving Harbison, as soon as the term was over.

*

Paul was passing through the Quad, heading toward Clyfford, where he planned to spend the rest of the afternoon in the stacks, considering the remainder of his term with the Congress.

At that moment, Bradley emerged from Clyfford, carrying a bundle of architecture books. As he moved down the steps, heading to the Harriman Avenue side of the building, Paul saw him and called out.

He wondered whether Joseph’s accident had caused any lessening of the tensions between them. Paul had been laboring to act diplomatically, as usual, for months, shuttling back and forth like a concerned Secretary of State. Surprisingly, it had been Joseph who’d seemed willing to let the matter drop; but Bradley had steadfastly insisted that, “as with North and South Vietnam,” peace talks would never go anywhere.

Maybe something had changed. Paul had lost interest in all of this squabbling. He’d grown wary of Bradley’s endless promises, problems and complaints. It seemed to him that Bradley, of all his friends, had the least to complain about–he was doing relatively well in class now, his parents didn’t interfere with him anymore; after an admittedly rough start, he was moving more easily among a limited social set. Paul could not understand why he was still so insistent on continuing his battles with Joseph; in his mind the two of them were so similar in temperament and outlook that their shadows could have occasionally been interchangeable.

He had trouble understanding himself, also. Why, after all this time, was he still so concerned with everyone’s problems? He walked over to Bradley, with an impatient smile, and braced himself for the day’s bad news.

“Paul,” Bradley announced, sounding surprisingly cheerful.

Paul squinted to see what books he was carrying.

“Did you know that a normal type of brick pattern in a building’s construction gives the builder a certain breathing room when it comes to the placement of the bricks along the horizontal row?”

“I didn’t know,” Paul replied.

“And did you know that since your eye looks at the broad texture of the bricks when they’re laid in the regular way that it doesn’t make all that much difference if the brick isn’t laid down right above the same brick a few rows down or up?”

“Really..?” Paul asked. Bradley was always coming up with new interests that lasted a day or two.

“I’m going to be an architect,” Bradley announced, pointing to the largest of the books, INTERNATIONAL STRUCTURES EXPLAINED. “What do you think of that?”

“I think I’m late,” Paul said.

“Don’t be in a hurry,” Bradley said, stepping back.

“What is all that?” Paul asked.

“I told you. I finally settled on a concentration. Did you know that Harbison has an architecture program through the Art Department? A BA in architectural studies.”

Paul nodded.

“I’m ready for this,” Bradley said, sweeping his hand across the air to signify total dedication, a new commitment.

“Ready for what?”

“You don’t seem to see what a great idea this is.”

Paul shrugged. Even if Bradley was serious about this, Paul couldn’t see how it could be any kind of a logical choice; he knew Bradley was untalented in mathematics, which, he gathered was at least a prerequisite for an architecture degree.

“You’ve thought about this, really?” he asked.

“No, I just woke up one morning and decided to become an architect. Of course I thought about it.”

“Can you draw?”

“You don’t have to be able to draw, just sketch. I can do that.”

“You can?” Paul asked.

“I am a decent sketch-er,” Bradley replied. “If I was inclined to, which I’m not, I would show you.”

“Well, then, I’m glad for you,” Paul said. “I’m sure you’re going to make a fine architect.”

“You’re making fun of me,” Bradley said. “That’s fine. I know what I can do and I intend to do it.”

“No, I’m not making fun of you,” Paul said.

“Well, I guess I will have to show the skeptical among us. You are making fun of me.”

“Do you want to get together this week?” Paul asked, glad to change the subject. “I’m trying to repair my crumbling bridges.”

Bradley gave him an unforgiving stare; he was now quite above discussing such trivial things. “I’ll see if I can,” he said, then pivoted to face a crowd of athletic types who were standing at the foot of the steps, giggling like gleeful girls. “I’ll give you a call this week,” he said and walked off toward the Art Department.

Paul watched him for a few moments, then disappeared inside Clyfford.

*

Sorensen checked his watch, knowing that if there was one thing the Mayor could be counted on it was to be on time for a meeting. And sure enough, at exactly one minute before three o’clock, the knock at his door (and the amused voice of his empathetic secretary) announced that the Honorable Mayor Richard Delaney had arrived, agenda in tow.

“I won’t fool you,” the Mayor announced, not bothering to shake hands as he sat. “I’m not here to sing your praises.”

Sorensen shook his head with patronizing vigor.

“Did I say something to amuse you?” the Mayor asked.

“Not at all, Mr. Mayor. I’m very eager to hear what you have to tell me.”

“I’m not real sure of that, Sorensen,” the Mayor said, gravely, considering the state of his recently manicured nails.

“I’m always eager to hear where you stand on the issues of the day, Mr. Mayor.” Sorensen turned to draw the window blinds behind his desk.

“I have two demands for you,” the Mayor said, dropping his hand flat on the desk.

“Just two?”

“There is nothing funny about any of this, believe me, Mr. Sorensen.”

“I’m sorry,” Sorensen replied, “You can call me Headmaster Sorensen, if you like. Or even Mr. President.”

“The President is Mr. Nixon,” the Mayor clarified. “Richard Milhous Nixon.”

“I see.”

“May I continue, then?”

Sorensen closed his eyes.

“When I started in this job,” the Mayor said, “not everyone in town thought I was doing such a fine job. So it’s not like I don’t know what it feels like to be underappreciated. But I don’t think either of us want any of the issues to be clouded by our personal interests. I, for one, don’t make policy by reading polls.”

“Sounds reasonable,” Sorensen said.

“I don’t wake up in the morning and say, ‘you know, Mayor, today seems like a good day to push through a particular management bill because your numbers happen to be higher than usual.’ Which, by the way they are. The Harbison Times says that forty-seven per cent of the voters think I’m doing a decent job.”

“I’ve heard about that,” Sorensen said, opening his eyes.

“We can talk honestly, Mr. Sorensen. Your policies here have never gone over well and your popularity isn’t very high. You don’t need polls to tell you that. I think we’ll get somewhere if we just go on with the assumption that the people in Harbison are pretty middle-of-the-road folks who like their butter unsalted, if you know what I’m saying.”

“I’m too salted for their tastes..?” Sorensen asked.

The Mayor wasn’t smiling. “It’s not just the salt factor,” he said. “Your views are way too left of center to be palatable to any conscientious individual in this town.” He opened his eyes so wide his lids nearly touched the brows.

Sorensen leaned forward, as if he was about to lift the phone, but instead, he reached for the black book next to it.

“I’m not trying to hurt your feelings,” the Mayor said.

“You’re not,” Sorensen replied, opening the book. “This is a list of all the city officials, about twenty of them. Don’t you think it’s strange that a town the size of Cedar Falls would have so many officials?”

The Mayor shook his head briskly, a look of intense, almost chemical satisfaction drifting over his face. “Too much government everywhere,” he said, pointing to the book. “Way too much. I agree with you there, Mr. Sorensen. We don’t need all that supposed give and take to run a place like Cedar Falls,” the Mayor continued.

“The town almost runs itself,” Sorensen agreed.

“Well, sir,” the Mayor said, “Maybe that’s a bit of an exaggeration. Don’t you think?”

“If I thought that, I wouldn’t have said it,” Sorensen replied.

The Mayor looked unnerved. “I think there are a lot of things wrong with this country,” he said. “And there are a lot of things wrong with this town, but I’m doing my best to fix things up here.”

“I’m sure that’s true,” Sorensen said.

“But the truth is, I don’t think you’re doing all you can. I think you’re definitely working outside the mainstream, if you know what I mean. I know you won’t mind me saying that...”

“So what is it you said you needed help with today, Mr. Mayor?”

The Mayor shook his head. “First and foremost, you can get rid of those damn protesters,” he replied. “I don’t think this is any time for our school to be taking part in that kind of nonsense. This is a school, am I right? Not a social club for disenfranchised lefties.”

Sorensen slipped the book into a drawer. “What makes you think that the school is full of lefties?” he asked.

Mayor Delaney stretched out his five-foot-six frame. “This is a hotbed of lefty thinking and you know it,” he said.

“I didn’t know” Sorensen said.

“Come on, Sorensen. Everywhere you look they’re raising the Soviet flag.”

“I didn’t know, really.”

“What’s the point? Can you tell me that? What’s the point of condoning this activity when all around you everything is coming apart and the lefties and the communists and the sympathizers are so obviously in the thick of it? They used to call those people ‘fellow-travelers,’ Mr. Sorensen. What does that say about someone like you, someone who’s in a position of responsibility?”

“What?”

“You don’t want to hear it from me,” the Mayor said, “believe me.”

“I voted Republican in the last election,” Sorensen lied.

The Mayor shut his eyes tight and breathed deeply. “As I said, I have two demands for you,” he said. “One, I want all protests banned from the school, effective immediately. Personally, I think it would be a good idea to bring in a few police to keep order and you can call my office if that’s what you decide to do. That’s what you should decide. You should embrace dealing with these people in a firm, patriotic manner.”

Sorensen swore he’d heard him say “firm, idiotic manner”.

“Secondly,” the Mayor continued, “And I should preface this by saying there is no negotiation on this number two-” He thrust the tight fist of his right hand into the open palm of his left. “I demand your resignation as Headmaster of this school, also effective as soon as possible. Preferably within a few weeks.”

Sorensen revealed a facility for restraint.

“I want to give you something,” the Mayor said, pulling out a business card from his wallet. “This is the company I run on the side,” he said, handing it over. Sorensen glanced at the card, then put it at the edge of his desk.

“This is the little business I run with my brother, a wonderful man and an excellent manager, if you know what I’m saying. He understands people, gets what they really want, what they need. And the thing of it is, he’s not afraid to give it to them. We have a nice little thing going there and...well, I’m going to make you an offer.”

“An offer..?” Sorensen seemed not especially surprised.

“It’s pretty obvious that a fellow like you has his eye on bigger game than Cedar Falls. You have what they call a world-view.”

“I do,” Sorensen agreed.

“Frankly, you belong in the business world,” the Mayor explained. “I’ve always thought so. Don’t you think you’d be a lot happier in the private sector, Sorensen?”

“Never thought about it, to tell you the truth,” Sorensen replied.

“Well, frankly, with everything that’s going on, I think it’s time to give it some thought,” the Mayor said. “Let me just point out that I don’t offer to take someone into the business if I don’t believe they have what it takes. I just don’t do that.”

“I understand,” Sorensen said. “So you’re offering me a job?”

“We may not agree on public policy,” the Mayor smiled, “but I can certainly tell that you’re a sharp character, Mr. Sorensen.”

“Not sharp enough to run the school, I’m afraid” Sorensen said. “That’s why I’m grateful for any input.”

“I’m not saying that, “the Mayor said. “Not at all. I’m simply putting it to you that...I think your skills would be better utilized in the private arena. The world is less offensive there. You understand that.”

Sorensen wasn’t sure if the Mayor was serious. “Tell me,” he said.

“About the business?”

“Yes, please.”

“Listen,” the Mayor said, “I know how hard it is to make people see things your way. That’s another reason I went into the business I’m in. I don’t mean politics. I mean insurance. Life insurance. Everyone knows they need life insurance. You don’t have to spend all day convincing people. It practically sells itself.”

“I see.”

“I love the insurance world,” the Mayor explained, his face lighting up.

“It’s probably very interesting,” Sorensen said.

“Listen, Mr. Sorensen. I’m going to be honest with you because I think that’s the only way to be.”

Sorensen smiled. “I guess that’s why they call you Honest Delaney,” he said.

The Mayor burrowed forward. “Is that what they call me?”

“I just made it up,” Sorensen said. “But it fits.”

The Mayor smiled and nodded appreciatively. “If it weren’t for the fact that I care–and I do care, Mr. Sorensen, I care very, very deeply–about this town and this country, both...if it weren’t for that simple fact of life, I wouldn’t be spending an extra minute in this world of politics. But I do and I do. That’s just the way it is. But my point is that I can only spend so much time on my private business, which is insurance. So I could use a little help with these things and, honestly, that’s why I came here today. I make no secret of the fact that I don’t much approve of what you’ve been doing at the school, Mr. Sorensen. But I see a fairly great potential for you in other areas. And I’m here to help you. You see what I’m saying? I want to offer you a job, is what I’m saying. It’s that simple. And it’s a good offer, Mr. Sorensen, you can be very sure of that. A lot of people would kill to be in the position you’re in.”

“You’re offering me a job..?” Sorensen said dryly.

“Right,” the Mayor replied. “I see insurance in your future, to be perfectly honest.”

Sorensen leaned back, comfortably. Sometimes he enjoyed his position; the strangest things could happen.

“It’s a golden opportunity, Mr. Sorensen. It really is. You couldn’t find anyone better to be in business with. I mean that.”

“You’re serious about this?”

The Mayor hunched forward, as if he could not imagine another possibility. “Is there any reason why I wouldn’t be?” he asked.

“No,” Sorensen said. “I can’t imagine a single reason.”

“You need strong people in strong jobs, Mr. Sorensen,” the Mayor said. “To be altogether clear on this, you need a certain type of personality, a battler. You may be a lot of things to a lot of people in this town, but one thing they all will agree on, and that is that you are a battler. You’ve got a certain degree of spine. Even if, sometimes, it’s a little off kilter. Now, I’m complimenting you.”

“I can see that.”

“This is the right job for the right man at the right time, Sorensen. You’d be a fool not to see that, not to seize the opportunity.”

Sorensen smiled. “You’re trying to bribe me,” he said.

“That’s the last thing I would try to do,” he said.

“Good thing, too” Sorensen replied, leaning back. “Because, you know very well that I couldn’t even begin to consider your offer, if that was the case.”

The Mayor shook his head.

“You understand that, don’t you?” Sorensen said. “I would only consider this offer if I believed it was the best thing for everyone.”

“It is.”

“I see,” Sorensen said. “Then, I suppose I have to give it some serious consideration, don’t I?”

“Yes, sir,” the Mayor said. “That’s exactly what you need to do.”

*

The Mayor walked home, nursing an unsettling suspicion that things were not going exactly the way he’d planned. Sorensen had agreed to consider his offer with almost no debate. Why had he done that? Why had he proven to be such an apparently easy mark? Why hadn’t he pushed the leftie agenda more? Why hadn’t he walked out of his office in disgust at the first mention of coming over to the enemy camp? Sorensen was no fool, that was for sure. He had to have something up his sleeve. Why couldn’t a man like that simply love his country the way regular Americans did? What exactly was wrong with being a patriot?

He hated to think that Sorensen thought he was a silly hick, an easy mark. There were plenty of people out there who saw the world the very same way he did—saw that the country was on a dangerous downslide; the consequence of policies put in place years before by that ridiculous JFK. It was as simple as that. He couldn’t understand why everyone didn’t see it.

Sorensen seemed like a decent enough fellow –he was soft-spoken, smart in a city way, usually polite. But those Boston Boys were always politely looking down on everyone, thinking the whole future of the world belonged to them. It was the dedicated public servants, the faceless and selfless heroes who gave their time and effort to take care of the details no one else wanted to deal with.

He had a good business, yes, he certainly did, a business selling life insurance to people who really needed it. That was a valuable commodity these days and he was proud to bring it out into the field, right to the front doors of his anxious constituency. And the people, they appreciated what he did for a living, admired the way he could convince them they needed something they’d never given a moment’s thought to.

He knew Sorensen didn’t believe he had any abilities at all. He understood how it was done: you said something that sounded like a compliment, but it really was a snide little put-down, pure and simple. That was the cynical way used by high-end people like Sorensen who thought their tony Boston education gave them the right to lord things over honest, working Americans. Well, he wasn’t stupid at all.

People like Sorensen had had their chances in life. He’d had to fight hard to get where he was.

Anyway, why on earth should he feel inferior to someone like Sorensen? No reason why at all. But he couldn’t help it. He understood that Sorensen had no respect for what he’d accomplished or for what he was trying to do to improve the lives of the people, and he certainly had no respect for the causes he supported. Did Sorensen understand anything at all about this country, about the fine patriots who made up its vast silent majority? Some day everyone would understand what people like him had been trying to do.

When he got home, the telephone was ringing. He rushed to get it, but the caller had hung up. That kind of thing was always happening; someone always had something that absolutely couldn’t wait so they called at all hours. The people of Cedar Falls considered the Mayor to be like a member of their own families.

He couldn’t stop thinking about that Sorensen fellow. It wasn’t that Sorensen was any different from all the other Sorensens he’d come across over the years–they were all cut form the same arrogant cloth– overbearing functionaries who thought everyone else was misguided, which was another way of saying stupid. You couldn’t reason with people like that because they had it all figured out and they held the real power, they made the laws, they told the people what was best for them. At least their number one fella—that movie star pretty John Kennedy- had gone down. He didn’t support killing the president, after all, but circumstances were circumstances.

He threw his jacket onto a chair and sank down into the sofa chair that a supporter had given him when he won his first election to the City Council. He closed his eyes and tried to let the smoke clear out of his head; he was plenty tired and not feeling too optimistic about himself or his prospects for America. He wished he could turn on the television and see Nixon telling him what he desperately wanted to hear–that the war was moving forward, finally, that there were good, sensible, solid results. But he knew it was late in the afternoon, there was no news at that hour, just soap operas and Mike Douglas singing those dumb Irish songs of his. He wondered if Mike supported the war. Celebrities were giving their opinion about the war these days. Mike seemed like he supported his country. Mike probably voted with the President.

The telephone rang again.

He was so comfortable now, thinking of the possibility-the likelihood– that Mike Douglas was a member of the vast silent majority, that he didn’t want to bother with the phone. But at the last possible moment he got up to take the call.

He listened to what Sorensen had to say. When he hung up, he nearly pinched himself; Sorensen had agreed to take the job. “It’s the best thing,” Sorensen had said. And he didn’t sound judgmental at all.

CHAPTER TWELVE

MAY

May came uneventfully to Harbison that year. The Northern latitude of Cedar Falls did not often bestow temperate weather, even in temperate times like May and June; winter mostly clung to the dogged tails of spring–and spring was usually just a weaker version of winter. Temperatures rarely slipped above forty or fifty degrees.

That year, there were twenty-three consecutive rainless days in May. When the skies finally opened on the twenty-fifth, it was for just a few moments, a drizzling reminder of what might be again, though not likely, for many months. As the rain cleared that day, the skies grew bluer and more diaphanous, like a luminous gel.

Harbison was abuzz with the news that Headmaster Sorensen would not be returning the following semester. He had made the announcement forthrightly, sending out a “personal” letter to the students and faculty; a long, detailed exegesis that laid out his many reasons for retirement, but made no reference to his new position with Delaney Insurance Company.

Paul was amused when he read the letter; it confirmed what he’d already suspected–that Sorensen had never really been comfortable in his job, that he was better suited to life in the real world–maybe in an inner-city school, teaching underprivileged children.

Sorensen would go ahead with his plans to deliver the commencement address, but now it would be a farewell address, too; this year, everyone in the school would be invited.

*

Paul was on his way to a meeting with his Senior Year advisor, Mister John Harrelson, in the cafeteria, when a particular odor, a familiar sweet and sour smell, wafted across the campus from an open door of the kitchen at the back of the faculty dining room, arresting his senses and causing him to stop and reflect on how quickly time had passed–the less than eight hundred days during which everything in the world had changed. He knew it was way past time to be thinking more seriously about the opportunities ahead of him. His parents would be happy to welcome him home, of course, but he was fairly sure he no longer belonged there. The years at Harbison had mostly divorced him from his parents; he felt separated from them in ways he couldn’t have imagined a year earlier. He had outgrown Newton.

Still, he was eager to seize one final glimpse of his old life. So many events had reshaped the landscape during these years–the War had continued, with no end in sight, Nixon had been elected on a promise to win the Peace–not at any cost–but with Honor; Robert Kennedy had been murdered in front of a national television audience, Eugene McCarthy’s presidential peace campaign had been bloodied in the night streets of Chicago; LBJ’s retirement had been forced by naked political expediency.

Paul needed to see Newton again now, because he had learned that large events were best seen in the context of small places.

As he crossed the Quad, heading to Harrelson’s temporary headquarters in D Building, it occurred to him that, for the first time in a long while, he wasn’t very worried about what his life would look like when he graduated. He was perfectly content to concentrate on these final days at Harbison and to imagine that post-Harbison life might be pleasant and uncomplicated: he might publish short stories for a few years, go off somewhere exotic (probably Europe or Mexico) to write a long, important novel. Going on to college was not foremost on his mind.

He had an uneasy feeling about his meeting with Harrelson. They’d spent some time together in conferences after school over the past few months and he was convinced from these meetings that Harrelson thought little of his plans for a literary life. “The world has no shortage of lawyers and doctors and bankers and executives,” Harrelson had informed him. “What it desperately needs is teachers–not part-time teachers, novelists who teach to support their habits. But full time, dedicated men and women who aren’t tempted by parties and interviews. And English teachers are the cream of the crop, you know. ”

He had no intention of being a part-time novelist, certainly not an English teacher.

Passing Butler Hall, quarters for the English (which he could happily admit had never been an important pars of his curriculum) he saw Katherine coming out from the side entrance, cradling an armful of books, presumably early twentieth century novels. He stopped for a minute to watch her, expecting to see Lisa trailing behind, but Katherine moved away, alone, toward the Student Union.

He crossed the South Lawn Garden, a narrow path leading all the way to D Building and noticed that the sun was emerging slowly from behind a thicket of pastel clouds. When he looked back at the Gardens, he saw Golly walking on the opposite side of the path, heading toward the Twelfth Street exit. He waved, but Golly didn’t see him.

Arriving at D Building, he was about to walk up the long, wooden steps when he spotted Bradley rushing down from the first floor landing. Bradley’s shirt was flapping out of his pants; he looked unkempt and in no mood to talk.

“Hey,” Paul said.

“I gotta go,” Bradley said, “Gotta see my advisor.” He tucked one side of his shirt in.

“What about?” Paul asked.

Bradley had already moved past Paul and was closer to the bottom of the steps. “Can’t talk now. It’s about my grades.” He pursed his lips anxiously. “Someone’s been complaining about my scholastic performance.”

He was gone.

Paul didn’t take this seriously; Bradley was always being dressed down for scholastic infractions–mainly absenteeism–for which it was assumed he would one day win some kind of prize. Maybe his time had come.

Checking his watch, he saw that there were ten minutes left before the meeting. He moved to a bench at the edge of the deserted Quad where a fierce afternoon wind was shuffling through, and sat down to gather his thoughts.

He knew that Harrelson would expect him to spell out his plans for the future—and that the future meant college, which he was definitely not certain about.

Sometimes his willingness to go along with things annoyed him. He suspected that Harrelson would have been more supportive of his writing plans if he had been less willing to consider the alternatives. Lately, he’d become less inclined to fight for things. Joseph had once said it was good to “challenge the professionals, especially in their own backyard.” That seemed like good advice–but what had he done to challenge anyone or anything? Had he put himself on the line or taken any questionable, or dangerous stands?

Harrelson had asked him to bring along a list of colleges that interested him–schools with prestigious writing programs that accepted the best student writers. He understood that Harrelson was trying to steer him in a direction he had no desire to go–he didn’t want to study writing so he could teach it–he was a writer! Still, he’d prepared the list and stuffed it in his back pocket, hoping Harrelson wouldn’t ask to see it.

Harrelson indicated a seat at the other side of his worktable. “It’s good to see you, Paul,” he said, easing his chair back.

“Thank you, sir.”

Harrelson reached under the table and pulled out his briefcase. “As it is, I’m quite interested in what happens to you, Paul,” he said, flipping it open. “I think you know that.”

“I appreciate it, sir.”

Harrelson took out a manila file. “What would you say if I told you that there was a possibility of staying right here at Harbison?” he asked.

“Staying here?” Paul said.

“Here at the school. Whatever happened to that story you were working on, the one you told me about last month?”

“I’m almost finished with it,” Paul said. “It’s called ’The American Indian’.”

Harrelson smiled. “That’s the one, “ he said. “That’s a good title.”

Paul shrugged his shoulders. “Actually, I was thinking of changing it.”

Harrelson drew his hand across the air, “No, no. That’s a wonderful title. Keep it. Definitely keep it.” He unfastened the file. “So what do you think about this idea of sticking around here? After you graduate?” He looked determined.

“I’m not sure I understand,” Paul said.

Pointing to the file, Harrelson said, “These are the schools that offer good programs in writing. You indicated that you might have some interest in going on with your studies eventually and these are possibly the three best schools in your discipline.” He took out three brochures. “These are fine schools with fine programs and, of course, they come with very fine price tags. I don’t exactly know what your financial situation is, but I’m sure you’re aware that well known—pedigreed–schools can be quite expensive—and, of course, not always worth the price. If you know what I mean?”

“I know that,” Paul agreed.

“I’ve given you some of the best choices here,” Harrelson said, “because I want to offer something that might be a tad better.” He nodded. “I’d like you to consider the possibility of continuing your studies right here at Harbison. ”

Paul wasn’t remotely surprised to hear this suggestion. Harrelson had been dropping hints about it. “I’m not really sure about my plans,” he said.

“I think you would make a wonderful teacher one day, Paul. You have the spark, the enthusiasm–and you certainly have the talent. You could do your writing in the evenings, after teaching. ” He reached into the briefcase and pulled out a manuscript. “Do you know what this is?” he asked.

Paul leaned in to see: It was, “The Dazzling Mr. Rockwell”.

“I was reading your story last night,” Harrelson said. “I have to tell you this, Paul–it would be a big loss to Harbison if you left us. I’m being absolutely honest with you. Frankly, I’m trying to come up with some way to keep you here.”

“That’s awfully kind of you, Mister Harrelson,” Paul said.

“Not kind,” Harrelson corrected, “Prudent. I can’t begin to tell you how impressed everyone is with your work, Paul. Do you mind if I read a few pages?”

Paul steadied himself, as Harrelson began reading.

“’The Dazzling Mr. Rockwell’ by Paul Bradford:

Lisa Corrigan grew up in a small town on the Western Edge of Massachusetts. The house was an old clapboard just-after-the-war jobber–three small bedrooms, a chilly basement and a tiny attic that nobody ever used, except when there was just too much accumulated junk in the house. Out in the back, there was a swing-set that Lisa’s father, Edward, had surprised the kids with one warm September afternoon.’”

He stopped reading. “Your sense of place is marvelous,” he said. “I can smell the wood burning in the fireplace.”

Paul nodded. “Thank you, sir.”

Harrelson continued, “’Lisa was raised in the kind of family that one would have expected to see in a Norman Rockwell painting–there were three brothers and sisters, all of them energetic and ambitious (they would later go on to attend well-known Universities where they would excel at Theater Arts and Architecture). They enjoyed their childhoods–school, friends, basketball games and late nights out in town. Of course, like any young people, they argued amongst themselves, over petty things that would later seem even sillier than they were. But they loved each other to death and knew that they would be close for the rest of their lives. Or until other matters intruded, like jealousy over jobs and girlfriends.’” Harrelson handed the rest of the papers to Paul and asked him to read them, himself.

After politely protesting that he’d read the story many times, Paul continued where Harrelson had left off:

One day, a normal day by any other yardstick, an odd thing happened. Norman Rockwell–the Norman Rockwell–was passing through town. Crossing the street, he spied Lisa and her mother, Betty, in the grocery store, shopping for fruit and vegetables and ice–that sort of thing. He walked up to them and told Betty that she had an absolutely adorable child, just the kind of child he was looking for. He said he was doing a painting of some local children in the town and that he would like to include Lisa in the painting. Betty didn’t know who Rockwell was, but he seemed like a friendly enough man and he surely appeared eager to include Lisa in his painting. He certainly looked like an artist–he was tall and thin and had a neatly trimmed gray goatee that made him look very artistic.

Betty asked Lisa, who was only four and a half years old, if she really wanted to be in the painting and Lisa told her that she wanted to do it “more than a lot”.

But Betty had a problem–she had no idea what Lisa was going to wear. Mr. Rockwell had asked that the children come to the sitting wearing regular school clothing, but Betty thought, if you’re going to be in a painting, shouldn’t you look special?

For hours, Betty searched through her closet for an appropriate outfit and after some time, found a charming dress with delicate ruffles that she innocently believed, Mr. Rockwell would really love. A few pieces of jewelry were placed on the dress and on Lisa’s brightly colored skirt. To top it all off, Betty dug out an old white beret she used to wear when she was Lisa’s age.

When Lisa stood, fully dressed, in front of the hall mirror, she was startled. Looking at her oh-so-proper appearance, she told her mother that she looked “like a Girl Scout”. Betty assured her that this was exactly what Mr. Rockwell expected, and that she was going to be “the most dazzling child in the room”

Paul continued reading aloud until he reached the last line, “she’s dressed just perfectly,” then, he laid the manuscript on the table. His mind was drifting.

“Tell me that doesn’t move you?” Harrelson said. “And you’re the writer.”

“I don’t know,” Paul replied. “It’s all right.”

“None of that false humility now, Paul. We both know how good that piece is. You’ve got a sweet little story there. You’ve got a spark and a spark is what’s needed around here.”

“I appreciate that, sir.”

“I’ve had some discussions with the English Department,” Harrelson said. “On my recommendation, the Department is looking into the possibility of offering you a full scholarship to continue your studies here—in English. The school’s pre-college program is very fine, as I’m sure you know. And the two years you spend here would almost assure you of your pick of school when—and if –you decide to go on with your studies. I don’t want to waste your time, Paul. This is an allowance that’s only offered from time to time. You understand that?”

“Yes, sir” Paul nodded. “Of course I do.”

Harrelson leaned back, waiting for a reaction, but Paul was stone-faced.

“I’ve made this offer only twice before,” Harrelson said. “To tell you the truth the results weren’t particularly encouraging. One of the candidates left after two months. He just never really let himself be absorbed into the life here. The other young man, I’m afraid, did receive a generous scholarship, but later went on to write a very popular how-to book on car maintenance, of all things. He made a lot of money with it. He retired soon after that. I suppose I can’t blame him for not choosing the teaching path...”

“It’s a very generous offer,” Paul admitted. “I just don’t know if I would be prepared to stay here at this time. I don’t want the school to put itself out–”

“Put itself out?,” Harrelson interrupted, “This is not a matter of putting anyone out, Paul. It’s a matter of what you see as your future, right now. This moment. I need to know whether this has any appeal for you. You reserve the right to change your mind.”

“It might appeal to me,” Paul declared.

“Then you’d like some time to consider it?”

“I guess, but–”

“That’s all I’m asking you to do, Paul. Consider it. Take this time to think about the course of the rest of your life.”

“I understand.”

“Good,” Harrelson said, sweeping the brochures back into his briefcase. “That’s what I want you to do.. I want you to understand.”

Paul left the meeting in a state of confusion.

He looked at his watch, which read four-thirty. He’d planned to go into town with Golly that evening, but he wasn’t inclined to do that now. Harrelson’s offer had got him thinking; all it took these days was a reasonable suggestion from somebody…He needed time to consider the offer more carefully.

When he returned to the dorm, he found Golly waiting outside his room, impatiently tapping his fingers against the wall and wondering where he’d been. “We have an appointment, remember?” he said.

Paul pushed aside the door and moved inside, but Golly didn’t follow. “You coming?” Paul asked.

“I don’t think so,” Golly said.

“What’s going on?”

“In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m sulking.”

“Why should you be sulking?”

Golly stretched wide. “I was hoping to seize some of your precious time,” he said. “You know what? You’re a little too busy for your own good these days. And certainly for mine.”

Out in the street, a small group of protesters were shouting slogans and epithets, targeting the “fascist” Harbison administration.

Paul began clearing his bed of books and papers, keeping an attentive eye on Golly, who was at the window, watching the protest as if he had a personal stake in the outcome.

“People have goals,” Golly said finally, indicating the protesters.

“They have issues,” Paul corrected.

“Issues lead to goals, obviously” Golly said, turning. “You would say something like that. They want to do something. They’re taking action.”

“What’s exactly pissing you off today?” Paul asked, pulling Golly away from the window.

Golly looked around the room as if the answer was hidden in the furniture. “You’re like them,” he said cryptically, moving to the bed.

“What?”

Golly sat on the bed. “They know what they want and they’re out there getting it. They do what they need to; that’s what I’m saying.”

“And how does that make me like them?”

Golly whistled softly. “You know exactly what you want,” he said.

“And..?” Paul prodded.

Golly said. “You know I’ve always had trouble deciding what to do...about anything. You never bothered to talk me through any of it. You never took me seriously.”

This came as a surprise to Paul, who had believed that he’d given a lot more of his time and attention to Golly than Golly had given to him. He suspected this sudden reappraisal had something to do with Teo Hundersford.

“I guess it’s really true,” Golly continued. “You don’t see yourself the way other people do.”

“Is that right?”

“I’ve been trying to get involved with the theater department again,” he said casually.

“I know.”

“Hundersford told me I needed a recommendation, so I went to two advisors and they said they didn’t think acting was right for me. They thought I had the wrong temperament. Me? I don’t have the temperament for acting! They said, look at Paul. See what direction he’s going in and stick with that. Stick with the academic world. See how it works? I couldn’t get a recommendation because they thought I wasn’t following in your footsteps.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Paul said.

“I’m pissed off that people look at me that way. I’m pissed off that you didn’t want to see me tonight. You didn’t even have the nerve to tell me. I’m smarter than people give me credit for, you know.”

“I know you are,” Paul said, “I know exactly how smart you are.”

They walked out of the dormitory into an unseasonably chilly afternoon. The protesters on the far side of the building had planted themselves in one spot and were focusing their attention on a third floor window.

Golly tapped Paul on the back and pointed to the last room on the third floor. “That’s Bob Weegle and Kent Cormick,” he said.

Paul smiled, noting that these were members of, “Republicans for Exit with Honor,” he noted.

Golly tilted his head for a better view.

Lance Johnson, a strapping blond in his early twenties, the self-appointed leader of the protesters, moved to the front of the group and waved an angry fist at Kent and Bob, who were leaning out the window, holding a cardboard sign that read “Peace at any cost is no peace at all.”

“Why don’t we discuss this like men?” Bob shouted.

“There’s nothing to discuss,” Lance said, indicating his own black-and-white lettered sign that read, AMERICA OUT OF VIETNAM NOW–TAKE CARE OF YOUR HOMELESS AND NEEDY.”

Paul and Golly stood to the side at a safe distance.

Suddenly a loud bang was heard, the thumping sound of a homemade drum. From the back of the group, a heavyset man, who looked much older than the other protesters, emerged, banging on an empty plastic paint container. He struck the container with a wooden drumstick, fashioned from the remnants of a mop handle, and as he moved to the head of the group, the crowd followed slowly, like a funeral procession, drifting toward the front of the building.

“Where are you going” Bob shouted, disappointed that they were already moving away, and with them, his chance for an entertaining confrontation.

“Better things to do,” Lance shouted, dryly.

“But we want to have a dialogue with you!”

Lance shrugged. “We aren’t in this for your amusement,” he said.

Kent pushed ahead of Bob in the window. “Why don’t we come down there and settle this?” he asked, waving his fists comically.

Lance looked at the others, full of lofty disdain for Bob and Kent and began to snigger.

“What are you laughing about, you asshole?” Kent shouted.

“Don’t worry,” he replied, smiling. “It’s not about you.” The drum beat louder and they advanced toward the front of the building. As they passed Paul and Golly, one of them stepped away to hand out a petition.

“Want to sign to stop the war?” the protester asked.

“Not today,” Paul said resolutely.

Golly edged closer to the protester, “Why shouldn’t we sign it?” he said to Paul.

“Because we have other things to do,” Paul said, and to the protester, “And because I signed last week.”

Golly looked at Paul with surprise. “Well, I haven’t,” he said, taking the protester’s pen. He didn’t read the petition but signed his name, then handed it back with a flourish. “I’m happy to help,” he said.

“We’re grateful to have your help,” the protester said, then walked away with the others.

“I didn’t know you were such an activist,” Paul said.

“It’s got nothing to do with being an activist,” Golly said. “Did you really sign last week?”

Paul winked, “Yeah. So?”

They moved down noisy Tenth Street, past the brightly lit pizza parlor, and the Harbison Coffee House. Golly looked at Paul, indicating that he could use a bite to eat before the planned movie, but Paul pointed to his watch.

“Do you really want to go to the movies?” Golly asked.

Paul said nothing for a while, just stared at Golly’s disheveled clothing, at his rosy face. “I don’t want to go to the movies at all, actually,” he said, taking out a stick of gum.

“Good,” Golly said, “Let’s eat. And you shouldn’t chew gum before a meal.”

“But I’m not really hungry,” Paul said. “And chewing is good for your digestion.” He tossed the gum into his mouth.

Golly put his hand on Paul’s jacket, smiling. “You know what? You’re really starting to get on my nerves.”

The Coffee House was nearly empty so Golly picked his favorite booth in the front, near the window facing the street. “We can pretend we’re in Paris,” he said.

“You insist that I eat now, right?” Paul asked, pushing into the far corner of the booth.

“No, “Golly said. “I prefer that you to watch me eat for twenty minutes, so I can throw up from anxiety.”

The waitress came over, holding a tray full of dirty dishes. “What kind of great slop can I get you boys?” she asked, a bit too cheerful.

“Pate, tonight?” Golly asked. “Although, I’ve been thinking a lot about Oysters. Would the Oysters be fresh this evening?”
“Just order,” Paul said, rolling his eyes.

“Yeah,” the waitress said, resting the tray on the corner of the table, near Golly. “Just order.”

At that moment, through the grease-streaked window, Paul saw Katherine and Lisa crossing the street, toward the Coffee House. “Wait a second, please,” he said to the waitress, then, to Golly: “Turn around slowly. Lisa’s coming.”

“No, she’s not,” Golly said, impatiently. He pivoted slightly, and saw that Katherine and Lisa were, indeed, approaching the door. “What are we going to do now?” he asked.

“I don’t know.”

“I have a feeling we’re not going to be staying,” he said to the waitress.

“I don’t believe it,” Paul said.

Golly looked around. “Can you give us a few seconds?”

“No problem, sweetie,” she said, slightly annoyed, and disappeared.

Golly leaned in closer. “What are you going to do?” he asked again.

“Wish this hadn’t happened, that’s what I’m going to do.”

“We could leave. Do you want to leave?”

“I don’t know,” Paul said.

Golly watched Katherine and Lisa, as they moved quickly to a table on the left, near the long Formica bar. “You’re going to have to say something if they come over,” he said.

“They won’t come over,” Paul said, without much confidence.

As Lisa took her seat, she glanced at Paul’s table and nodded. Paul waved in a diplomatic way, focusing his gaze on the clock above their table.

Jane fidgeted and Katherine opened a menu, but it was obvious she wasn’t reading it.

Golly bit his lower lip. “They’re watching us,” he said.

“Are they?” Paul said, staring down at the table.

“Maybe you should go over and say hello,” Golly said, half seriously. “They’re looking at us right now.”

“It probably just seems that way,” Paul said. “Believe me, I’m not going anywhere to say anything.”

Golly shook his head. “You want to leave, don’t you?”

“We can just sit here and pretend they aren’t there,” Paul said, pursing his lips.

“Maybe they’ll leave,” Golly suggested.

Paul nodded warily, glancing over at Lisa’s table. Katherine was making expansive, obvious motions, to show that they were perfectly comfortable.

“They’re not going anywhere,” Paul said.

“Then let’s leave,” Golly said.

Paul considered this. “I guess we have no choice, then,” he said. “That is, I guess I have no choice. You can stay. It’s all right.”

“And do what? Golly asked, looking around at everyone laughing and talking and enjoying their night out. “I’m losing my appetite, anyway,” he said.

Paul pushed forward in his seat. “No you’re not,” he said, and then he stood, taking in everything except Lisa’s table. “I need to be somewhere else.”

Golly nodded. “Are you going home?”

Paul looked in the direction of the Union Building. “Maybe for a walk,” he said. “Some air.” He put his hand on Golly’s shoulder and squeezed it. “I’ll make it up to you next week,” he said.

“Of course you will,” Golly said.

“What does that mean?”

Golly looked at him, gravely, “It means ‘of course you’ll make it up to me.’”

“Later,” Paul said, giving him the thumbs up.

“Yeah,” Golly said. “Absolutely later.”

Paul moved through an exit aisle that did not take him past Lisa and Katherine. He had decided to head up to Carbo Bridge.

*

He’d seldom thought about the Bridge; it was just there, like so many institutions and features of his life, part of the fabric of Cedar Falls. But this day, at this hour, he needed to be in the center of things now so he could make some sense of where he stood; there were difficult decisions to be made; he needed to come to some firm conclusions. He closed his jacket against the strong winds sweeping in across the Quad and walked swiftly toward the Bridge.

The Bridge at Carbo Street had been built two years before the turn of the eighteenth century when the land Harbison now occupied comprised several bountiful farm parcels, more or less shared equally–though not always without dispute–by seven recent English immigrants. Originally, a small, shallow creek had run between two of the parcels, and the Bridge had been erected by the industrious and practical landowner to merge the property.

It had been assembled with long-vanished imported brown wood and stretched eighty-four feet across a shallow pool that contained a no-longer operational wishing well.

Over the years, the Bridge had been preserved mainly as a curiosity and a tourist attraction by the town Fathers–and one Mother. But fewer and fewer residents of Cedar Falls still took pride in the old Bridge; it was now almost universally regarded as a nuisance and even an eyesore. Whenever it was suggested that something be done about the bridge–perhaps that some discretionary funds be used to clean it up or modernize it–the Mayor would make plain his view that there was absolutely no support from City Hall for such “nonsense.” He did have his own suggestion, however–that, as soon as possible, the bridge be demolished and sold for scrap to one of the old steel outlets in neighboring Hardaway Township.

When the City Council debated various proposals by rote, it tabled all of them with three quick votes, predictably killing the issue for another two years. Partly, the bridge had survived because the officials hadn’t cared enough to do anything about it.

Since Harbison had expanded, first along the road that ran into town, then east and westward, the Bridge ended up nearly in the middle of the campus, just south of the present Quad. Mostly, the students and faculty regarded it with bemused forbearance –it was directly in the crossway that led to the Student Union, so it was necessary to take it into account when heading in that direction. Occasionally, well-known speakers came to the Bridge to address the students at lunch hour; it provided a dramatic, if somewhat antediluvian backdrop. During the last two years the Bridge had become known as “protest crossing” because so many groups gathered there to press their impassioned, sometimes overlapping agendas.

From the crest at the top of the Bridge you could see much of the campus; students and faculty came here, late at night or early in the morning, to contemplate their lives or simply to be left alone.

He reached the Bridge at seven-fifteen. The view was commanding in every direction and the dark blue sky was lit by plentiful streaks of bright moonlight. He leaned against a post below the crest and looked out in the direction of the Union Building.

For three-and-a-half years, life had revolved around Bradley, Joseph, Golly, Lisa, Katherine, and everyone else in his close circle. Now all of that was coming to an end and certain aspects of his carefully engineered life were beginning to fall away. Had he become a different person? He still felt like a student sometimes and he found that troubling.

Harrelson had asked him to think about extending his time at Harbison–he’d seemed positively anxious about it. He found it hard to understand why everyone had such high expectations for him.

He knew where his strengths lay. He sensed that he was finally on the verge of writing something worthwhile–full-length–a piece that might attract attention from the “right people”, though he wasn’t sure yet who the right people were. He didn’t know exactly what this project was going to be either, but he was sure it was going to be a lot more advanced than the short stories he’d written.

In the last few months he’d created a rough roadmap for a narrative about disaffected teenagers similar to those anxious, hopeful, hopeless and confused friends he’d accumulated over the years at Harbison. These characters, young men and women poised to begin the adventures of their lives, would be influenced by the people and experiences he knew, of course, but they would be altogether different because they would be shaped by nothing less than his own fierce imagination.

That would be his next project, the one that would finally get him somewhere.

With the end of the semester and the three months of summer vacation coming up, he knew he would have time to sink wholeheartedly into this new project. He would have to stop calling it a project and start telling everyone that he was starting a novel. His first novel–Paul Bradford’s novel–a new novel by Paul Bradford–the first novel of a major new writer, Paul Bradford–the classic novel of youth by Paul Bradford...

Harbison Preparatory Academy

2006

He wheeled the chair past the Quadrangle. It was unseasonably cold again–the Nor’easter that had overwhelmed the Coastline for most of the previous week was ratcheting up inland now, burrowing through Cedar Falls’ central core, and settling a swaddle of green leaves across the Quad, all the way to the Student Union.

The campus was quiet at the early morning hour but a few freshmen were already heading to Clyfford to search for books, or to look at photocopies of term papers donated by graduate students or members of the alumnae association. He had just left a contentious breakfast meeting with Headmaster Rheinhold, in the Alumnae Dining Room. There had been a surfeit of issues to be discussed, pressing measures to be dealt with, positions to be taken. But Headmaster Rheinhold, in all his imperious glory, had firmly held his ground, expressing appropriate regret, at first, but making it clear that he could not allow his personal sympathies to cloud his professional judgment. It was hard not to be disappointed.

As he approached Clyfford, he saw a small group of students gathered at the entrance. He wondered about their preoccupation until, responding to a beckoning call; he looked up at the stern façade of the South doorway. There, on the second floor, he saw two of his students from fifth period English. Their heads were perched outside a window, which had been propped open by a broken broomstick, and they were flanked by white bed sheets with messages written in block, bold letters. One read: IS THIS THE AMERICA OUR FATHERS FOUGHT AND DIED FOR?; the other read: AMERICA AND AMERICANS OUT OF IRAQ NOW!!!

One of the students pointed to the crowd below. “Mr. Bradford, why don’t you join us?” The other student raised his fist in a familiar display of solidarity and said, “Mr. Bradford, we know you’re with us. We’re gathering petitions to show the administration that we will no longer be silent in the face of American involvement in Iraq.”

He glanced at the crowd; then he looked back up at his students–anxious, determined, inspired; the selfsame way he had been when he was their age. He wanted to help them—wasn’t he was still at the barricades, after all? Hadn’t he just spent fifty-five interminable minutes fighting the good fight with that immoveable force now known as Headmaster Rheinhold?

The students turned their attention to re-fastening one of the sheets. He waved in a friendly, sympathetic way, but neither of them noticed, and he began wheeling away, past Clyfford toward D Building.

As he passed through the dusty wind, he saw that a small tree that had been growing undisturbed at the Western edge of the Quad for years was finally becoming uprooted. A metaphor for something, he thought, but he had long passed his preoccupation with such things.

Upon returning from the war, he was quickly drawn back to Harbison. During those long, manic months in Iraq, he had imagined another existence altogether, but he had always known what kind of life he would lead. Mister Harrelson had told him about that all those years earlier, and he’d been absolutely right. It was appropriate that he remain at Harbison now.

These days, he wrote poetry, which he mailed to small literary magazines; and finally, he returned to work on the novel he’d begun before Iraq. He suspected most people would consider his concerns of minor interest; he would make no great fortune with this novel—if he ever finished it. But, certainly, he knew he would always have a place at Harbison.

Now, he lived for the exchange. There were so many things to say, so many experiences to relate. Each season of renewal brought classrooms full of confused young adults, eager to hear what he had to say. He wondered if any of them would return later, to watch the years pass and to realize, the way he had, how ordinary and remarkable their lives had been.

He turned up his collar against the wind and looked at his watch. He picked up speed and double-timed it over to Jensen Hall, where twenty-five young people would be waiting to hear if he had anything pertinent to say.