“We were not apprised of the situation,” Mom said. “And we are fully backing any methods needed to spur him into action. We understand there is a system of warnings. Willie bypassed that system by forging our signature. Rest assured, he will be punished.”
“I’m not so worried about that,” Wilkins said mildly. “But you understand, if he does not get this paper in in the next three and a half weeks he will have to either take summer school or, more likely, repeat the year, as summer school is a privilege given only for extraordinary circumstances—”
“It won’t be necessary,” Mom said. “He will hand it in.”
Dad cleared his throat and leaned even farther forward. He had been working at one of his endless series of renovation jobs before he’d been pulled out to come to that emergency meeting. He was dressed in his painting shirt and pants and boots.
“I’ve always believed in mind and body. But we’ll concentrate on the mind for the time being. Three and a half weeks. Twenty or thirty pages. It’ll get done.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Wilkins said. “That’s the purpose of this meeting. To apprise you of the situation. I see no reason to belabor the point.”
A minute later the door opened. Dad stood there, looking down at me.
“Go in now, Willie. Be polite.”
I dropped my head and went past them and into the dean’s office. I closed the door. I sat across from Wilkins, who was leaning back with his hands behind his head and his feet up on the desk. He was trying to show me I wasn’t in trouble.
As I sat, Wilkins untented his hands from behind his head, reached down, and opened his drawer and took out a well-thumbed paperback copy of the New Trier students’ rights and regulations. He tossed it on the desk in front of me.
“Page twenty-eight. Read the first paragraph.”
I opened to page twenty-eight. There was a highlighted passage.
“All sophomores must complete the Sophomore Theme before they advance to their junior year. Those students who do not complete the assignment…”
I went on and read the whole paragraph.
“You understand the situation?” Wilkins said.
“I do.”
“Explain it to me so there’s no doubt in my mind.”
“If I don’t get the paper in by March tenth, I’ll fail the year.”
“Your parents have said you will do the work. Do you agree with their assessment of the situation?”
“Yes.”
“You’re sure?”
I said I was.
“If you have trouble, there’s the writing center, there’s Mrs. Valenta, who offers private help. But these educators will not write the theme for you. They are explicitly forbidden from doing this. Do you understand?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you sure?”
“I am,” I said faintly.
Exasperation slipped into Dean Wilkins’s manner. I was agreeing with everything he said, but I was so listless that it was obvious his words were hardly having an effect. He pushed a document toward me. I leaned over to read it. It said that I had been informed about the consequences of failing to hand in the Sophomore Theme. There was a line at the bottom. I signed.
“Am I done?”
He tilted his head and looked at me. A pigeon on the windowsill bobbed and clucked behind him. I watched it and not him.
“Is there something wrong, Willie?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah.”
“Nothing at home?”
“Everything’s fine.”
“Because you came in here a year and a half ago asking to go into the higher levels. You assured me you could do the work. And for the most part you have fulfilled your promise. Your grades have been, while not exemplary, more than adequate. But now it seems you’ve stalled at the exact worst moment. Did you pick the wrong subject? The Berlin Wall, right?”
“I like the subject.”
“What, then?”
I just sat there, my black sweatshirt zipped to my neck, hair in my eyes, lips half parted, a dull, leaden, lethargic expression.
“I understand that sometimes there are things that you don’t want your parents to know. I can set up a meeting—”
“I’m all right.”
“We have Miss Womack, our social worker—”
“Everything’s fine,” I said. “I just need to do the work. I got behind. I’ll do it.”
He looked as if he’d say something more, but there was nothing to say. I’d agreed with everything. After a moment his manner became brusque.
“You know the stakes. I’m rooting for you, but I’ve seen this before, and it doesn’t always have a good outcome. You’ll write your paper?”
“I will,” I said.
“Good,” he said. “You can go.”
I walked out of the office. Mom and Dad were waiting in the hallway. Mom was coldly furious about me forging the parental notifications. Dad seemed more philosophical about the whole thing.
“You were wrong to do it, Willie, but not a big deal. What is a big deal is that you have to start working right now.”
“Immediately,” Mom said. “You are grounded until you have written that paper. No TV. No friends. Nothing. Are we clear?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“You have not shown good judgment. You have tried to pull one over on us and it will be a disruption in our lives because you have chosen not to do your work.”
“Maggie,” Dad said.
“What?”
“Just leave it for now.” Mom hated it when we lied to her. She hated being embarrassed in public. She was furious. Dad turned to me. “Are you gonna do the work?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“Good enough,” Dad said. “We’ll help how we can.”
“Starting today, you are on a schedule,” Mom said. “Two or three pages a day. You will finish in ten days. You will rewrite in five days. Then you will hand it in. Got it?”
I said I did.
Dad put a hand on the back of my neck and we started up, walked silently through those crowded halls, among all the self-confident students who looked askance at my father with his paint-speckled pants and his old work boots. A few months before, I would have been embarrassed to have him come to the school, particularly dressed like that. Now I couldn’t care less.
We walked out to the visitors’ parking lot and I told them again I would do the work. Then they got in the station wagon and started up slowly, the rumble of that old car with the dangling bumper and rusted muffler going past the kids hanging out behind the school, who all burst out laughing as it went by. I didn’t care what they thought.
I walked back inside and found Jimmy waiting on the benches in the rotunda. He knew I’d been sent to the dean’s office.
“What happened?” he asked.
“Oh, some bullshit,” I said.
* * *
—
The Sophomore Theme, which I had not started writing, was a research paper that combined history and English and was the cornerstone of the second year at New Trier. You were required to have five sources in the bibliography and it needed to be at least twenty-five pages long. The coursework for the year centered on the theme. I had actually been looking forward to it. I had chosen to write on the Berlin Crisis of 1961. I was interested in the subject. I’d read books and taken notes earlier in the year and I thought I’d enjoy working on it. Writing was the one thing that I occasionally excelled at.
But then that sickness of lassitude overwhelmed me and my dreams of writing glory faded into indifference. I stopped doing my homework. I skipped classes. I stopped working on the sophomore theme. For a while no one really noticed. I coasted. But now it had all caught up to me and I would need to mak
e a heroic effort to finish.
When I got home that day Mom offered to edit the pages of notes that I had. She even offered to type the final draft. Dad said he could get books from his college library for me. Meanwhile, I was offered the help of the writing center. My friends said, “What the hell, Willie, write the paper.” Everyone was pulling for me. If I didn’t finish it would destroy my academic career. I knew this. I knew I should care, but I didn’t. It was like I was outside myself, watching it all happen.
Over the next few days Mom asked to see what I’d done and I handed her some notes I’d written earlier in the year. I didn’t write anything new. The machinery was frozen. The factory engines had grown cold. Inside was a wide, blank space, bones among dried ashes, the gray, windy emptiness all around.
* * *
—
“If he’s mad, he can be mad at me. Cause I’m the one telling you to do it.”
Dad had wheeled Coyle’s motorcycle out to the street.
“Come on, Willie.”
“I’ll get on if he won’t,” Fergus said behind me.
“I want Willie to do it,” Dad said. Then, “Coyle said it was ok.”
I knew that couldn’t be the whole story. Since the day I’d pushed the bike Coyle had absolutely forbidden me from even looking at it. But Dad had forced a concession from Coyle, and was now offering the bike to me.
“I don’t know how to do it,” I said.
“That’s the point,” Dad said. “You don’t know, you learn. Life is not just work. We forget that sometimes. So we do fun things, too.”
“Like we get a yacht,” Fergus said. “And then we sink it. Fun!”
“Shut up,” Dad said.
Dad was holding the helmet out to me. I took it listlessly. I adjusted the strap, then straddled the bike. I had to stand on my toes to balance.
“Hold down on the clutch like I showed you. Give it a little gas. Not too much. Then kick it into gear. First is down. The other three are up. Ease off on the clutch slowly, feel the pull, and let it take you…”
I clicked the clutch into first. With my right hand I gave it a little gas. I let off the clutch and the bike ratcheted and stalled. The bike started to fall, but Dad grabbed it.
“Gotta try to hold it up, Willie.”
“All right,” I said.
Dad steadied me for a moment. I could see him thinking it wasn’t such a great idea, him suggesting I ride that motorcycle while I was so hopelessly listless.
“A little more gas,” Dad said. “And let out a little slower on the clutch. Once it gets moving it will stand on its own. But let it out slowly and smoothly. Ready, Willie? I’m letting go. Are you ready?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
He let go of the bike. I did hold it up, but barely. I kept the weight of the bike on my right foot. I tried to kick-start the engine. It didn’t catch. I tried again. It started that time. I settled myself, balancing, and then I gave it gas and the engine roared and vibrated. Dad hovered nearby.
“Go on,” he said. “But not so much gas. Slowly.”
Fergus stood to the side, anticipating a crash.
I let up on the clutch just a little. I felt the bike ease forward. My toes dragged across the pavement. I raised my feet and I was gliding over the pavement, wobbling. I picked up speed. The wind was on my face, the ground rushing by, the light flickering through bare tree branches. It was an utterly pleasing feeling. A spark of life crackled inside me.
I accelerated down the block and turned at the corner and rode up the alley hill and down the hill, then turned and sped down Washington Street, the wind blasting past. It was wonderful.
I slowed and turned again and then turned one more time and was pulling back to the house where Dad was standing in the yard. Dad grabbed the handlebars to keep the bike from falling over.
“I see you enjoyed it,” Dad said.
“Badass,” Fergus said.
“Do you want to keep going?” Dad asked.
“I’m all right,” I said.
“Take a few more turns.”
I was already getting off.
“I’m good for now. Thanks. That was fun.”
I gave Fergus the helmet.
“And now for the main event,” Fergus said.
Fergus got on the bike, revved it, and rode off easily. By the way he did it I knew Coyle had let him ride it when I wasn’t around. Coyle and Fergus had always had an easy understanding. They got along in a way that Coyle and I never had.
“That’s the way I want you to be,” Dad said. “Work hard, but have fun, too. Now go write your pages.”
I went inside and up to my room and sat at my desk. The excitement and spark from the ride on the motorcycle was still inside me and I used that spark to write a few sentences, but then my pen slowed and I sat looking at the page. The signals in my brain came faintly and from far away. I closed my notebook. I was done.
* * *
—
I need to go back a few months now. As I was overcome by the gray fog of listlessness, Coyle had also gone through a transformation, one just as dramatic as mine but infinitely more entertaining. Up to that point in Coyle’s life, despite looking like a hoodlum, he had been a high-achieving perfectionist. He’d gotten A’s and was the star of the baseball team. He’d aced the SATs. And though he pretended not to care about anything he did, I knew he was proud of his achievements. No one gets all A’s at New Trier without trying.
But that winter, at the same time as I was sinking into my gray fog of lassitude, Coyle, who had been in self-imposed social exile for three years, suddenly began talking to the kids in the old, preppy crowd that he’d once been a part of. About a month later the phone started ringing at night, and it was always for Coyle. And then one day that fall I saw Jacqueline Bagley on the back of Coyle’s motorcycle. She had an arm around his waist, her long hair flying behind.
Jacqueline was a trim, athletic, lanky badminton player who lived in a gigantic house, had wealthy, permissive parents, and was known for being a wild girl. The year before she had broken her arm jumping out of a second-floor window. She’d been suspended from school for keeping a bottle of vodka in her gym locker. And now she was riding on the back of Coyle’s motorcycle without a helmet.
A week later my friend Roscoe saw Coyle holding a can of beer at a party. This would have been no big deal for an ordinary student. It seemed to me that about ninety-nine percent of the students drank alcohol at New Trier. But up to that point Coyle had been the exception. There was even a story about him knocking a beer can out of a teammate’s hand at a party, saying, “Don’t drink on the night before a game.” Coyle was the weirdo, straightedge kid in the burnout crowd.
But then Coyle was seen holding a beer can and even drinking from it. A few weeks later, he missed his curfew and didn’t come home until three in the morning. Since Coyle had never missed his curfew before—not once—Mom and Dad didn’t say much about it. Dad might even have been glad. I think he saw Coyle’s perfection as unnatural.
A week later Coyle missed his curfew again, and this time Dad had a long talk with him. The very next night Coyle didn’t come home at all, and in the morning Dad found him asleep in the bushes. There was vomit near his head.
Dad and Coyle went upstairs. I heard them yelling at each other. When Coyle came back downstairs he grinned and held a fist up.
“Busted,” he said.
Coyle was grounded for three weeks. Typical Coyle, he decided to use those three weeks to do all his assignments for the entire semester.
That was in January, and as soon as those weeks were over he began to stay out late again, to miss his curfew, to show up drunk at home, and to basically act in an overly casual manner, which drove Dad absolutely bonkers.
Coyle had been perfect for eleven years of school. Dad just wanted Coyle to toe the line for three more months, until the academic year ended. Then Coyle could apply to college early decision and the last year wouldn’t matter. Dad practically begged Coyle to stay the course, but Coyle was through with being the perfect kid. He actually seemed to want to do badly, to shatter his perfect record on purpose.
“I’ve been too good,” he said. “I’m making up for it.”
Like everyone else in the family, once Coyle decided to do a thing, he went all in. So, in the months after the boat sank, while I was overcome with lassitude, Coyle was infected with a corresponding swaggering indifference, and when I think back on this I believe both of these new attitudes arose for the same reason. After our physical battles with each other, nothing was as interesting or as all-encompassing or really seemed to matter as much as those fights. If Coyle saw a link between our two transformations, he didn’t comment on it.
One day, a week and a half before my theme was due, I was in the writing center when the door opened and I looked up and there was Coyle. In the nine months since my tennis match with Robert there had been a thawing in our relationship. Sometimes, even, it seemed like he was on my side.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey,” I said.
“Are you writing your paper?”
“I’m trying to do it,” I said.
“Will you finish?”
“I don’t think so,” I said.
He reached in his pocket and unfolded a few sheets of lined paper.
“I wrote some things down. I thought it might help.”
He tossed the papers onto the table in front of me. He’d done more than write a few ideas down. He’d written an introduction and outlined the entire essay.
“Use that if you need it. I could probably write a little more, too, if you needed me to. Let me know.”
I didn’t touch the pieces of paper.
“I’ll be ok,” I said.
The Brother Years Page 14