Even dressed in her school uniform, Rebecca stood out from the rest of the girls Mr. Thompson was auditioning. The tall, slim girl with fair hair cascading down her shoulders had an air of self-confidence that captivated Nat, and a smile that made him respond immediately. When she returned his smile, he turned away, embarrassed to have embarrassed her. All he knew about her was her name. “What’s in a name,” he said.
“Wrong play Nat, try again.”
Rebecca Armitage waited as Nat stumbled through his words, “But here the lady comes…” Rebecca was surprised because when she’d stood at the back of the hall and heard him earlier, he had sounded so totally self-assured. She looked down at her script and read, “Blame not this haste of mine. If you mean well, now go with me and with this holy man into the chantry by: there, before him, and underneath that consecrated roof, plight me the full assurance of your faith; that my most jealous and too doubtful soul may live at peace. He shall conceal it while you are willing it shall come to note, what time we will our celebration keep according to my birth. What do you say?”
Nat said nothing.
“Nat, had you thought of joining in?” suggested Mr. Thompson. “So that Rebecca can at least deliver a few more lines? I admit that the adoring look is most effective, and for some might pass as acting, but this is not a mime we’re performing. One or two of the audience might even have come to hear the familiar words of Mr. Shakespeare.”
“Yes, sir, sorry sir,” said Nat, returning to the script. “I’ll follow this good man, and go with you; and having sworn truth, ever will be true.”
“Then lead the way, good father; and heavens so shine, that they may fairly note this act of mine.”
“Thank you, Miss Armitage, I don’t think I need to hear any more.”
“But she was wonderful,” said Nat.
“Ah, you can deliver an entire line without pausing,” said Mr. Thompson. “That’s a relief to discover at this late stage, but then I had no idea you wanted to be the director as well as play the lead. However, Nat, I think I have already made up my mind who will play the fair Olivia.”
Nat watched Rebecca as she quickly left the stage. “Then what about Viola?” he persisted.
“No, if I’ve understood the plot correctly, Nat, Viola is your twin sister, and unfortunately or fortunately Rebecca bears absolutely no resemblance to you.”
“Then Maria, she’d make a wonderful Maria.”
“I’m sure she would, but Rebecca is far too tall to play Maria.”
“Have you thought of playing Feste as a woman?” asked Nat.
“No, to be honest, Nat, I hadn’t, partly because I don’t have the time to rewrite the entire script.”
Nat didn’t notice Rebecca slip behind a pillar, trying to hide her embarrassment as he blundered on. “What about the maidservant in Olivia’s household?”
“What about her?”
“Rebecca would make a wonderful maidservant.”
“I’m sure she would, but she can’t play Olivia and be her maidservant at the same time. Someone in the audience might notice.” Nat opened his mouth but didn’t speak. “Ah, silence at last, but I feel confident that you will be rewriting the play overnight, in order to ensure that Olivia has several new scenes with Sebastian that Mr. Shakespeare hadn’t even considered.” Nat heard a giggle from behind the pillar. “Anyone else you fancy for the maidservant, Nat, or can I carry on with casting the play?”
“Sorry, sir,” said Nat. “Sorry.”
Mr. Thompson leaped onto the stage, smiled at Nat and whispered, “If you were considering playing hard to get, Nat, I’m bound to say I think you’ve blown it. You’ve made yourself more available than a whore in a Las Vegas casino. And I feel sure you’ll be interested to learn that next year’s play will be The Taming of the Shrew, which I feel might have been more appropriate. If only you’d been born a year later, how different your life would have been. However, good luck with Miss Armitage.”
“The boy must be expelled,” said Mr. Fleming. “No other punishment would be appropriate.”
“But, sir,” said Fletcher, “Pearson is only fifteen, and he apologized to Mrs. Appleyard immediately.”
“I would have expected nothing less,” said the chaplain, who until that moment had not offered an opinion.
“And in any case,” said the principal, rising from behind his desk, “can you imagine the effect on school discipline if it became known that you could get away with swearing at a master’s wife?”
“And because of the words, ‘bitchy woman,’ the boy’s entire future is to be determined?”
“That’s the consequence of such ill manners,” said the principal, “and at least, this way, one can be certain he’ll learn from it.”
“But what will he learn?” asked Fletcher. “That you can never afford to make a mistake in life, or that you must never swear?”
“Why are you defending the boy so vehemently?”
“In the first lecture I ever heard you deliver, sir, you told us that not to stand up and be counted when an injustice had been done was the act of a coward.”
Mr. Fleming glanced at the chaplain, who made no comment. He remembered the lecture well. After all he delivered the same text to every new entering class.
“May I be allowed to ask you an impertinent question?” asked Fletcher, turning to face the chaplain.
“Yes,” said Dr. Wade a little defensively.
“Have you ever wanted to swear at Mrs. Appleyard, because I have, several times.”
“But that’s the point, Fletcher, you showed some self-restraint. Pearson didn’t, and therefore he must be punished.”
“If that punishment is to be expulsion, sir, then I must resign as president of the student government, Principal, because the Bible tells us that the thought is as evil as the deed.”
Both men stared at him in disbelief. “But why, Fletcher? Surely you realize that if you were to resign it could even affect your chances of being offered a place at Yale?”
“The type of person who would allow that to influence him isn’t worthy of a place at Yale.”
Both men were so stunned by this remark that neither spoke for some time. “Isn’t that a bit extreme, Fletcher?” the chaplain eventually managed.
“Not for the boy in question it isn’t, Dr. Wade, and I am not willing to stand and watch this student sacrificed on the altar of a woman who gets her kicks from goading pubescent boys.”
“And you would resign as president to prove your point?” asked the principal.
“Not to do it, sir, would be only one step away from what your generation condoned at the time of McCarthy.”
Another long silence followed, before the chaplain said quietly, “Did the boy apologize in person to Mrs. Appleyard?”
“Yes, sir,” said Fletcher, “and he followed it up with a letter.”
“Then perhaps probation for the remainder of the term would be more appropriate,” suggested the principal, glancing at the chaplain.
“Along with the loss of all privileges, including weekend leaves, until further notice,” added Dr. Wade.
“Does that seem to you a fair compromise, Fletcher?” asked the principal, raising an eyebrow.
It was Fletcher’s turn to remain silent. “Compromise, Fletcher,” interjected the chaplain, “is something you will have to learn to live with if you hope to become a successful politician.”
Fletcher didn’t respond immediately. “I accept your judgment, Dr. Wade,” he eventually said, and, turning to the principal, added, “and thank you for your indulgence, sir.”
“Thank you, Fletcher,” said Mr. Fleming as the student president rose from his place and left the principal’s study.
“Wisdom, courage and conviction are rare enough in a grown man,” said the principal quietly as the door closed, “but in a child…”
“Then what is your explanation, Mr. Cartwright?” asked the dean of Yale’s examination board.
“I d
on’t have one, sir,” Nat admitted. “It must be a coincidence.”
“It’s quite a coincidence,” said the dean of academic affairs, “that large sections of your paper on Clarence Darrow are word for word identical to those of another student in your class.”
“And what’s his explanation?”
“As he submitted his independent study a week before yours, and it was hand-written, while yours was typed, we haven’t felt it necessary to ask him for an explanation.”
“Would his name be Ralph Elliot, by any chance?” asked Nat.
No one on the board commented.
“How did he manage it?” asked Tom, when Nat returned to Taft later that evening.
“He must have copied it out word for word while I was over at Miss Porter’s rehearsing for Twelfth Night.”
“But he still had to remove the thesis from your room.”
“That wouldn’t have been difficult,” said Nat. “If it wasn’t on my desk, he would have found it filed under Yale.”
“But he still took a hell of a risk going into your room when you weren’t there.”
“Not when you’re the student president; he has the run of the place—no one questions his coming or going. He would easily have had enough time to copy out the text and return the original to my room the same evening without anyone being any the wiser.”
“So what have the board decided?”
“Thanks to the principal going overboard on my behalf, Yale has agreed to defer my application for a year.”
“So Elliot gets away with it once again.”
“No, he does not,” said Nat finally. “The principal worked out what must have happened, because Yale has also withdrawn Elliot’s place.”
“But that only delays the problem for a year,” said Tom.
“Happily not,” said Nat, smiling for the first time. “Mr. Thompson also decided to step in, and rang the admissions tutor, with the result that Yale has not offered Elliot the chance to reapply.”
“Good old Thomo,” said Tom. “So what are you planning to do in your year? Join the Peace Corps?”
“No, I’m going to spend the year at the University of Connecticut.”
“Why UConn?” asked Tom, “when you could…”
“Because it was Rebecca’s first choice.”
12
The president of Yale stared down at a thousand expectant freshmen. In a year’s time, some of them would have found the going too tough and moved on to other universities, while others would have simply given up. Fletcher Davenport and Jimmy Gates sat in the body of the hall and listened intently to every word President Waterman had to say.
“Do not waste a moment of your time while you are at Yale, or you will regret for the rest of your life not having taken advantage of all this university has to offer. A fool leaves Yale with only a degree, a wise man with enough knowledge to face whatever life throws at him. Seize every opportunity that is offered to you. Do not be frightened of any new challenge, and should you fail, there is no reason to be ashamed. You will learn far more from your mistakes than from your triumphs. Do not be afraid of your destiny. Be afraid of nothing. Challenge every writ, and let it not be said of you, I walked a path but never left an imprint.”
The president of Yale resumed his place after nearly an hour on his feet, and received a prolonged standing ovation. Trent Waterman, who did not approve of such displays, rose and left the stage.
“I thought you weren’t going to join in the standing ovation?” said Fletcher to his friend as they filed out of the hall. “‘Just because everyone else has for the past ten years, doesn’t mean I shall join in the ritual,’ if I remember your sentiments correctly.”
“I admit it, I was wrong,” said Jimmy. “It was even more impressive than my father had assured me it would be.”
“I feel confident your endorsement will come as a relief to Mr. Waterman,” said Fletcher, as Jimmy spotted a young woman laden with books walking a few paces ahead of them.
“Seize every opportunity,” he whispered in Fletcher’s ear. Fletcher wondered whether to stop Jimmy making a complete fool of himself, or just let him find out the hard way.
“Hi, I’m Jimmy Gates. Would you like me to help you with your books?”
“What did you have in mind, Mr. Gates? Carrying them, or reading them to me?” replied the woman, who didn’t break her stride.
“I was thinking of carrying them to begin with, and then why don’t we see how it goes from there?”
“Mr. Gates, I have two rules I never break: dating a freshman and dating someone with red hair.”
“Don’t you think the time has come,” said Jimmy, “to break them both at once? After all, the president did tell us to never be frightened of a new challenge.”
“Jimmy,” said Fletcher, “I think…”
“Ah yes, this is my friend Fletcher Davenport, he’s very clever, so he could help you with the reading part.”
“I don’t think so, Jimmy.”
“And he’s also very modest, as you can see.”
“Not a problem you suffer from, Mr. Gates.”
“Certainly not,” said Jimmy. “By the way, what’s your name?”
“Joanna Palmer.”
“So you’re obviously not a freshman, Joanna,” said Jimmy.
“No, I’m not.”
“Then you’re the ideal person to help and succor me.”
“What do you have in mind?” asked Miss Palmer, as they climbed the steps to Sudler Hall.
“Why don’t you invite me to supper this evening, and then you can tell me everything I should know about Yale,” ventured Jimmy just as they came to a halt outside the lecture hall. “Hey,” he said, turning to Fletcher, “isn’t this where we’re meant to be?”
“Yes, it is, and I did try to warn you.”
“Warn me? About what?” asked Jimmy, as he opened the door for Miss Palmer and followed her into the room, hoping he could sit next to her. The undergraduates immediately stopped talking, which took Jimmy by surprise.
“I apologize for my friend, Miss Palmer,” whispered Fletcher, “but I can assure you he has a heart of gold.”
“And the balls to go with it, it would seem,” Joanna replied. “By the way, never let him know, but I was extremely flattered that he thought I might be a freshman.”
Joanna Palmer placed her books on the long desk and turned to face the packed lecture theater. “The French Revolution is the turning point of modern European history,” she began to a rapt audience. “Although America had already removed a monarch,” she paused, “without having to remove his head…” Her eyes swept the tiered benches as her pupils laughed, before coming to rest on Jimmy Gates. He winked.
They held hands as they walked across the campus to their first lecture. They had become friends during the rehearsals of the play, inseparable in the week of the performance, and had both lost their virginity together during spring vacation. When Nat told his lover that he would not be going to Yale, but joining her at the University of Connecticut, Rebecca felt guilty about how happy the news made her.
Susan and Michael Cartwright liked Rebecca the moment they met her, and their disappointment over Nat not being offered an immediate place at Yale was softened by seeing their son so relaxed for the first time in his life.
The opening lecture in Buckley Hall was on the subject of American literature, and delivered by Professor Hayman. During the summer vacation, Nat and Rebecca had read all the authors on the assigned list—James, Steinbeck, Hemingway, Fitzgerald and Bellow—and then discussed in detail Washington Square, The Grapes of Wrath, For Whom the Bell Tolls, The Great Gatsby, and Herzog. So by the time they took their places in the lecture theater that Tuesday morning, they both felt confident they were well prepared. Within moments of Professor Hayman delivering his opening salvo, they both realized that they had done little more than read the texts. They had not considered the different influences on the authors that birth, upbringing, educati
on, religion and mere circumstance had brought to their work, nor given any thought to the fact that the gift of storytelling was not bestowed on any particular class, color or creed.
“Take, for example, Scott Fitzgerald,” continued the professor, in his short story, ‘Bernice Bobs Her Hair.’”
Nat looked up from his notes and saw the back of his head. He felt sick. He stopped listening to Professor Hayman’s views on Fitzgerald and continued to stare for some time before the student turned and began talking to his neighbor. Nat’s worst fears were confirmed. Ralph Elliot was not only at the same university, but taking the same course. Almost as if conscious of being stared at, Elliot suddenly turned around. He didn’t acknowledge Nat, as his attention settled on Rebecca. Nat glanced across at her, but she was too busy taking notes on Fitzgerald’s drinking problems during his time in Hollywood to register Elliot’s unsubtle interest.
Nat waited until Elliot had left the lecture theater before he collected his books and rose from his place.
“Who was that who kept turning around and staring at you?” asked Rebecca, as they strolled over to the dining hall.
“His name’s Ralph Elliot,” said Nat. “We were both at Taft, and I think he was staring at you, not me.”
“He’s very good looking,” said Rebecca with a grin. “He reminds me a little of Jay Gatsby. Is he the one Mr. Thompson thought would make a good Malvolio?”
“A natural, I think were Thomo’s exact words.”
Over lunch, Rebecca pressed Nat to tell her more about Elliot, but he said that there wasn’t that much to tell, and continually tried to change the subject. If enjoying Rebecca’s company also meant having to be at the same university as Ralph Elliot, it was something he’d learn to live with.
Elliot didn’t attend the afternoon lecture on the Spanish influence over the colonies, and by the time Nat accompanied Rebecca back to her room that evening, he had almost forgotten the unwelcome presence of his old rival.
The women’s dorms were on south campus, and Nat’s freshman advisor had warned him that it was against the regulations for men to be found in residence after dark.
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