by Erik Tarloff
Chance and I got along just fine those couple of weeks, but it wasn’t the same as the summer before. So much of that closeness came from our feeling so alienated from all the other guys there, it was a real bond. Plus trying to wriggle out of the camp activities as much as possible. On his home turf, things were a little different. Not that he didn’t feel alienated on his home turf, by the way. Chance was a guy who lived in a state of perpetual alienation. It’s part of what made him so attractive to people.
But the major difference between the two summers is that in between he’d caught the acting bug. His letters to me had mentioned it, so I was aware it had become a big interest on his part, but I wasn’t really prepared for how obsessed he’d become. He was in that grown-up acting group, he was reading plays all the time and biographies of actors and directors and so on. And it’s mostly what he talked about. I tried to keep up—I mean, it’s not like it was uninteresting, so I was happy to try to understand what got him so engaged—but still, I felt a little left out. He invited me to attend rehearsals, and the grown-ups in the company were okay with my being there, not exactly warmly welcoming but not being shitty about it either…oops, there I go again, you can substitute “crappy” or “lousy” if you want. Anyhow, no matter how nice everybody was or wasn’t, I did feel like an outsider or an intruder when we were at the theater. And I sometimes got a little bored talking about, oh, I don’t know, Brando versus Olivier, stuff like that.
But I’ll tell you a funny detail. Chance was less excited about those big stars, those legendary names, than he was about the character actors. Funny, no? I mean, considering what a big star he became himself? But he would enthuse about Lee J. Cobb, say, or Rod Steiger, or Martin Balsam, or Eli Wallach, or Nancy Walker, or Judith Anderson. “Just look at them!” he’d say. “No one pays much attention, and that’s because their acting is completely invisible!” That was the highest praise he could offer a performance, you see. When the actor wasn’t acting, or in any case you couldn’t see him acting, he or she was just…I don’t know, behaving.
We had dinner at his mom’s one night. She apparently told him she wanted to meet his friend. Probably because he didn’t have many friends. I don’t think there was a single kid in his junior high class he considered a friend, or who considered him a friend. So she was curious, or wanted to encourage him, or God knows what. We went to her place for dinner, and I’ve got to tell you, it was tense. His mom was all right, just seemed sort of nervous and chirpy. But his step-father—not that Chance ever referred to him as a step-father, he just called him Steve—but Steve clearly detested Chance, and Chance clearly detested Steve. There was this icy chill between them, and that’s at best, when they were on good behavior, when they didn’t start arguing. A couple of times it got overtly nasty. Very uncomfortable to be around, I can tell you.
His little sister Dorothy was there too. Very quiet. I got the impression she adored Chance, but he seemed almost oblivious of her. I think he was too consumed with rage against Steve to notice much else, you know?
Terri Howe (high school classmate)
Chance wasn’t a star athlete, which was the main way to become a big shot in our high school. He was in school plays, so he was known for that, and he was sure enough the best looking boy in our class—in the whole high school—so he wasn’t invisible. If someone passed him in the hall or on the stairs, they might say “Hi, Chance.” Or they might not. He didn’t have many people who didn’t like him, I don’t think, but I’m not sure he had many close friends either. He wasn’t the kind of kid who would get elected to student council—not that I can imagine him running—or be chosen prom king or anything of that nature. The girls all thought he was cute, but also maybe a little weird. He wasn’t like anyone else. We didn’t know what to make of him.
I always liked him. His weirdness was part of his appeal to me. And maybe even his being so quiet. A lot of the boys, they’d talk your ear off, mostly in a sort of braggy way. Or they’d explain things to you that you already understood. Chance could sit quietly for long minutes at a time, and that might get awkward, like, should I say something to break the silence or just sit here and wait for him to do something? But it also was a relief if you’d been out with somebody on the football team or the basketball team. They’d just describe the games they’d played and tell you what the coach said about their throwing arm. Yawn!
I went to the senior prom with Chance. It would be an exaggeration to say he was my boyfriend, but we’d been out together a few times, and when he asked me it was a surprise but I was happy to say yes. I knew we made a cute couple, and that mattered to me back then probably more than it should have. And as I say, I liked him well enough. I was a little surprised he planned to go to the prom at all, though, since he seemed so—what’s the word? Detached. Detached from all the school social stuff. Detached and sort of…superior. Not that he was braggy, not like those athlete guys, just indifferent to all of it. Like it didn’t figure in his thoughts at all. Like he couldn’t be bothered, and couldn’t believe anyone else could be bothered either.
But we went, and we danced, and we even went to one of the post-prom parties. Where I mixed with everybody and he just hung back and watched. We both got drunk, though. Someone had got hold of some cheap gin and poured it in the punch.
Mary Bennett
There was still a draft back then, and that thing in Korea was underway, so of course we were all concerned about that. It was kind of hanging over the head of every boy growing up at that time, Chance very much included. And I figured, based on his experience at that dude ranch when he was a kid, he’d have hated the Army. I mean really hated it. Not the physical demands so much, he could have handled that if he had to, but the fact he’d have no privacy. That’s one thing. And even more, always being told what to do, and having to follow orders, and having to salute and say “Yes sir” to someone he didn’t respect. He didn’t do it with Steve and he might have had a hard time doing it with some officer he considered a darn fool. It might not have killed him, but believe me, it wouldn’t have been a character-builder either. It just would have been two years of misery for him, would have taken something out of him he might never get back.
And if he’d had to go to Korea, the combat would have been awful for him too. Maybe that sounds obvious nowadays, but back then it was a different time, a lot of the boys he knew really looked forward to going to war. Like playing cowboys and Indians, but with real guns. A lot of ’em enlisted right out of high school. They were gung-ho, as the saying goes. But not Chance. He wasn’t no coward, but the idea of shooting at strangers, I just don’t think that would’ve set well with him. And them trying to kill him wouldn’t’ve been to his liking neither.
But then he was classified 1Y. I never knew exactly why. I asked him, of course—I was so relieved, and he was so relieved, it was impossible not to be curious, even though I didn’t want to seem nosy—and he said it was a health issue. But he didn’t say anything more than that, and I could tell he didn’t want me to press him on it. Earl, who didn’t really approve of any American shirking his duty in wartime—Earl was an old-fashioned patriot, you don’t ask questions, when your country calls you, you go—Earl asked him a few times, was even a little aggressive about it, but Chance’s answers were always on the hazy side. He’d had some operations as a kid, so it might have been from that. But him being so hazy and all, I figured it was probably one of those male things. An undescended prosticle or something.
Morton Brock (high school guidance counselor)
When it came time for the seniors to start applying to college, I worked with them one-on-one. We were a small school, relatively speaking, so we could manage to give them that level of attention. Besides, not all of our kids applied to college—maybe that’s obvious—so that made it even easier. You can probably guess that our school—our town—wasn’t…isn’t…exactly a hotbed of intellectual ferment [laughs]. More a placid, semi-rur
al, all-American kind of place. Football matters a lot more than academics. We have a pretty good-size 4-H Club chapter. And this may be less true now, but back in the fifties, the time you’re asking me about, quite a number of the kids after they graduated stayed home to work on the family farm or to work in one of the local factories. And there was the army, of course. Still, probably more than half went on to college. We tried to encourage them to do that, and naturally we tried to direct them toward schools that both met their needs as well as where they’d have a reasonable chance of getting in.
Now, to be honest, when you first contacted me, I didn’t remember much about Chance. Much? I didn’t remember anything, not even his name, despite its being kind of memorable. Not many Chances crossed my threshold. I never made the connection between the famous movie star and the kid who came to me for guidance. Stupid, huh? I must be the only person in the entire school administration who didn’t realize we’d graduated a celebrity. My guess is I knew him as Wendell, not Chance, so I never made the connection. And I’m not much of a moviegoer, I guess that’s obvious. I might have recognized the face if I’d seen him in a picture. But the whole thing passed me right by. The only famous person ever to graduate from Monroe High and I was completely unaware of it.
Anyhow, fortunately, I keep careful notes, and I never throw ’em away. That habit started way back when because I was afraid of being sued by one of the kids for one reason or another—a college catastrophe that some shyster convinced them to blame on me—so I wanted to keep my records handy and in order just in case. And then, when I finally realized that I was being a little nuts, no one was going to do anything like that, it had already become automatic. It’s sorta my personal collection, memoranda of all the kids who’d passed through my office. I kept the files at school until my retirement, but then, when it was time to go, I had a little crisis—throw them out or not?—and finally opted to take them home with me. I’m not much of packrat generally, but…well, anyway…
So after I got your email, I was a little confused, but I went through my files, and damn if I didn’t find my notes on Wendell Hardwick’s case. Wendell Castle Hardwick Jr., dontcha know? Sounds like an investment broker in one of those stuffy East Coast firms, doesn’t it? So anyway, as you see, I can’t help you much, ’cause as I say, I don’t really remember the boy. But I have his file here, and I see I made some notations about his interests—all drama all the time, evidently—and about his grades—good but not great—and about his various achievement test scores—downright brilliant, which is another reason I’m surprised I can’t remember him. Funny how some kids hide their light under a bushel like that, isn’t it? Brilliant mind, mediocre grades. It almost seems like a choice, being an under-achiever. I can’t fathom it.
I see here I recommended he apply to State, where I was reasonably sure he’d get in, and that was the obvious suggestion. But I also thought he should maybe take a flyer at Yale and NYU and UCLA, you know, because of their theater departments. His grades weren’t really good enough for those places, but I thought the admissions people might find him to be an interesting enough candidate to be worth making an exception for.
But he apparently dismissed those ideas. I’ve got little X’s in the margin next to ’em. They must have been out of the question financially, that’s the only explanation I can think of. Otherwise, why wouldn’t a kid like that want to head out to one of the coasts? But he just applied to State. And got in, I see. It must have been frustrating for him. State didn’t have a Theater Arts department back then. I’m guessing he probably ended up as an English major. I have no idea whether he stayed for all four years or not. We didn’t do follow-up.
Mary Bennett
When Chance left for college, I was heartbroken. I didn’t realize how attached I’d gotten to the boy till he left. There was just this gigantic hole left in the house. It was like…it was like he was the son I never had. Now, I don’t think Earl saw it that way. I think Earl was perfectly happy to see his rear end. “Don’t slam the door on your way out” kind of deal. I don’t mean to be harsh. Earl’d been a good sport about Chance living with us—there was some grumbling, but only to me, never to Chance, and it was usually mostly sort of humorous, you know, about how much food Chance was eating, how he was going to bankrupt us, how we had to go see all those lousy plays he was in—but I think down deep he figured, no kidding around, enough was enough.
And he might have been a little jealous too. Earl and me, we weren’t much for talking to each other. Earl wasn’t much for talking to anybody, really, except to say what had to be said, like “We’re out of milk,” or “I’m going down to the hardware store but I’ll be back in time for supper.” Just practical everyday stuff. But Chance and me, we could sit around jawing for hours. About all sorts of stuff, about movies and religion and people and the president and I don’t know what. Just everything under the sun, except really personal matters, which he never opened up about. But everything else. And I don’t think Earl liked that. I reckon he felt left out, even though he himself didn’t want any part of it neither. He used to gripe to me, “The two of you natter away like a couple of old ladies.” But the thing is, it showed him a side of me he didn’t know was there, and I got the impression that made him uncomfortable. Like, why should Chance see that side of me and not him? Like, say you’re not hungry for cake but you still feel somewhat p.o.’d—pardon my language—when someone else gets cake and you’re not offered any.
So Earl wasn’t too broken up when Chance left for college, is what I’m saying.
Chance wrote us letters—well, wrote me letters, but they were addressed to both of us—every couple of weeks or so. From college, I mean. He didn’t phone much, but you know, long-distance calls were kind of a big deal then. Expensive. You had to go through an operator. That wasn’t something you did just to say hello. You did it if someone was being born or dying, some big deal.
He wrote nice, chatty letters, but I can’t say they were very informative. He always said school was going fine. Who knows what that really meant? He was kind of sparing with personal details, Chance was. Always had been, as I said. A private person. We didn’t know who his friends were or whether he was keeping company with any special girl or anything like that.
Helen Campbell
Just before he left for college, Chance wrote me the sweetest note. It said, “Dear Mrs. Campbell, you may not know it, but you saved my life. Without you and the world you opened up for me, I would have been lost. So I want to say thank you.” It’s funny because in some ways I never really felt I knew him. I liked him a lot, and admired his talent extravagantly, but I never felt I had a sense of who the real person was. And I definitely never appreciated that I’d played an important role in his life. So learning that was very gratifying.
Wilson Denny (college roommate)
Freshman year, the school assigned you to a dorm room and assigned you your roommate. You didn’t have any choice. For sophomore year you could put in for a change or even live off-campus. I guess they figured by then you’d have made friends of your own. But for freshman year, they wanted to mix things up, take you out of your comfort zone, expose you to new things. Not that anyone said “comfort zone” back then. Those words came along later. But making people uncomfortable has always been with us.
Not that making me uncomfortable would have taken much. But I had some experience with that kind of discomfort, I was an old hand at being uncomfortable. See, I’d done my stint in the army for a couple of years. I’d been stationed in Germany. Being in the service in those days…well, it wasn’t long after Truman had integrated the army, and let’s just say things could get a little hairy for no particular reason. Not so much from the Germans, surprisingly enough. I think they’d had their fill of racism by then. They’d gotten royally drunk on it and were now experiencing the worst hangover ever. But some of my so-called buddies, my comrades-in-arms, were a different story.
&n
bsp; Anyhow, Chance and me, we were thrown together by forces beyond our control—namely the college housing office. I have to say, I was a little apprehensive about pretty much everything before I got to State. I mean, apprehensive in addition to the usual apprehension any incoming student feels about being in a competitive, high-pressure academic environment, which is reason enough. Am I smart enough? Am I prepared? Can I cut it? Now, I guess “high pressure academic environment” might, looking back, seem like a funny way to describe a dinky state college, but compared to the dinky district high schools many of us were used to…plus, you know, being two years older than most of the other freshmen, you might think it conferred some sort of advantage, but the truth is it cut both ways. You might have some extra maturity—and in addition to my age, having spent a couple of years abroad had definitely broadened my vistas—but you’re also, I don’t know, you’re not one of them. You know what I mean? At that age, things are changing so fast, what’s in and what’s out, and two years can be an eternity. You don’t know if you’re going to fit.