“I got paged,” I say to Miss Laski, the hunchbacked old secretary, and she calls through to Mr. McGregor on the intercom. “Eric Fitzpatrick here for you.”
I hear Mr. McGregor’s booming ex-marine voice crackle over the speaker: “Send ’im in.”
Miss Laski wheels around in her chair. “You can go in, Mr. Fitzpatrick,” she says, sarcastic, and I swear that when she looks at me I can see twin portents of doom in her eyes.
When I go into Mr. McGregor’s office, there’s a virtual powwow taking place: Mr. McGregor sitting behind his desk, some authoritative-looking WASP-y guy in a navy blazer, horn-rimmed glasses, and shiny loafers sitting opposite him, and on the sofa Goody Farnham my English teacher and, of all people, Mrs. Bradstreet. Then I notice they’re all beaming at me, and my dread turns to general bewilderment.
“Good afternoon, Eric,” Mr. McGregor says to me, amiably enough, which makes me suspicious. He’s always been nice to me in a stiff sort of way because I’m on the Honor Society and a bunch of committees, but Phoebe and I have always thought he was a military fascist and I’ve always made a point of being as chilly to him as I possibly can be.
Goody Farnham greets me, looking like her hairbun is about to burst off the top of her head, she’s smiling so broadly, and Mrs. Bradstreet, too, has her eyes fixed on me like I’m some kind of museum exhibit. The WASP-y guy in the horn-rimmed glasses is also smiling at me like an old uncle or something, like he’s known me all my life. He turns to Goody Farnham and Mrs. Bradstreet and says, “He looks like a man of letters.”
“Oh, he’s always had it in him,” Goody Farnham chirps back, perched on the edge of the sofa.
“Sit down, Eric,” Mr. McGregor says, indicating the empty seat near the WASP-y guy.
“Am I in jeopardy?” I say, sitting down, and everybody bursts out laughing so hard I almost miss the seat.
“You just might be,” the WASP-y guy says heartily. I notice he doesn’t have a local accent, but one of those rich-sounding voices, and I wonder if he’s from St. Banner.
“Well,” says Mr. McGregor, turning to WASP-y. “Would you like to tell him?”
“Why don’t you?” WASP-y says. “You’re his principal, after all. His patron, so to speak.”
Mr. McGregor turns back to me and folds his hands across the table. “Good news, Eric. Do you remember writing an essay for Mrs. Farnham for a Boston Globe competition? ‘What I Cherish in America’?”
For a split second, I think back to the night when I wrote that essay, how I was still half stoned, who I had been with that night, how writing it had felt like such a great, nasty fuck-you. I had passed it in and then put it completely out of my mind.
“I do,” I say now to Mr. McGregor. “I gave that piece a lot of thought.”
“That much was evident,” WASP-y guy says. “We gave it a lot of thought, too, Eric. It gave us pause. That’s why we picked it out of two-thousand-some entries across Massachusetts as the first-place winner in the ‘What I Cherish’ competition.” He gets out of his seat and extends his hand to me. “Congratulations, Eric. You’re quite the wordsmith, and one of the last of the humanists, to boot.”
Everybody is smiling at me like I’m a prize dog, and my first instinct is total shame; I want to tell them all that they made a mistake, that I wrote the essay as a joke, that I didn’t mean any of it. I want to, but I don’t. Instead, I take WASP-y’s hand.
“Thanks,” I say. “Wow. I wasn’t expecting it.”
“We were,” Goody Farnham says. “I showed it to Mrs. Bradstreet, and we agreed it was the best piece of expository writing we had seen from a student in twenty years.”
“Congratulations, Eric,” Mr. McGregor says, extending me his hand across his desk, nearly crushing mine in his boot camp grip. “It’s nice to know WMHS has actually got a brain trust to draw on.”
“Oh, God,” I say, blushing, feeling like an idiot, but already I’m thinking maybe the essay was better than I thought; maybe I do deserve the prize. What was it about? All I can remember is, something about Kerrie Lanouette’s murder and the spirit of America.
“Eric,” the WASP-y guy says to me now. “I’m Philip Coe, in charge of special programs at the Globe. I’ve been running essay contests like this for some twelve, thirteen years now, and I must say, never have I encountered a prose style quite like yours in a high school student. What are your influences?”
“Oh, he loves literature,” Goody Farnham breaks in, demanding my attention.
“Well,” I say, feeling like Eddie Haskell, “I guess I have great teachers.” Everyone breaks out in more laughter—Goody Farnham looks like the Puritan husk has just fallen right off her—and WASP-y Philip Coe sputters, “Well, I see! Now here’s a savvy kid! But I mean, what are your literary influences? Your favorite writers.”
“Um,” I say, warming to the conversation, “I like J. D. Salinger. And, oh, I don’t know, F. Scott Fitzgerald and some Henry James. I like social critics a lot,” I say, feeling very discerning.
“And Whitman?” Philip Coe says.
“We’re reading Whitman right now, aren’t we, Eric?” Goody Farnham puts in.
“Yeah, I guess Whitman, too,” I say. “Ebb and flow, right?” and Goody and Mrs. Bradstreet laugh approvingly.
“I thought so!” Philip Coe says to Mr. McGregor, who nods dumbly. “I could detect a love for Whitman in your essay. In its rhythms, and its sweepingness, and its—oh, damn, you know, its humanity. Where are you going to school next year?”
“Yale, if they’re smart,” Mrs. Bradstreet says. She’s hardly said a word before this, but she’s been eyeing me curiously the whole time—like there’s some little secret the two of us share, like she helped me engineer this coup—and it’s making me uncomfortable.
“Don’t say that to a Harvard man, or I’ll have to revoke your prize,” Philip Coe says, and everyone laughs again, harder. “Oh, well,” Philip Coe says, sitting back down. “It’s Harvard’s loss if you don’t apply. But anyway,” he says, pulling a manila folder out of his battered leather briefcase, “let’s get down to business. Now, the Globe is going to announce the first-, second-, and third-place winners on the front page the Sunday after next, just in time for Christmas. We’ll be running your piece alongside a story and photo of you, so a staff writer will be getting in touch with you soon to set up an appointment. Maybe they can get a shot of you standing in front of some local monument, or something comparably spirited.”
“Maybe in front of the World War One Memorial on the Common,” Mr. McGregor says.
“Now, Eric,” Philip Coe continues, completely ignoring Mr. McGregor. “You know you win the Apple PC to take to Yale, pardon me”—and he stops to fake-spit over his left shoulder, and everyone laughs again, dutifully—“and, further, how’s your public speaking?”
“I haven’t done much lately,” I say. “Why?”
“Well, you know, part of the prize package is that you get to read your piece in front of the Globe heavies and about five hundred invited guests, including your family and teachers, of course, at an awards ceremony and dinner in Faneuil Hall just before the holiday. My office is handling all that, but I promise you, we will not be serving chicken with the skin on, nor a fruit cup for dessert.”
“That’s going to be a thrill,” Goody Farnham says, looking heavenward.
“I’d better get a new tie,” I say.
“That’s a wise idea,” Philip Coe says. He picks up his battered briefcase and starts to pull on his Burberry coat. “In the meantime, I must get back to the desk before I hit the afternoon rush on 93. And you, Mr. Fitzpatrick,” he says, shaking my hand again, “must prepare to become a local celebrity, which should be at least as exciting as four years in the halls of Old Eli.” He hands me his business card out of his breast pocket. “Consider me your handler. You call me if you have any questions. Otherwise, I’ll probably see you next at the awards ceremony. You’ll be getting an official invitation on engraved Globe statione
ry from our dear editor-in-chief very shortly. And to you fine educators, I wish you a joyous holiday season.” He shakes hands with Mr. McGregor, Goody Farnham, and Mrs. Bradstreet, all of whom murmur back niceties to him; they seem completely mesmerized by his presence, which I must say is rather overwhelming. “You should be very proud of your young charge.”
“We are!” Goody Farnham giggles, and with a final squeeze of my shoulder, Philip Coe dashes out the door. A moment later, from Mr. McGregor’s office window, I see him throw his briefcase in the back of a little Subaru and drive away.
“Oh, Eric!” Goody Farnham erupts the minute he’s gone, and actually leaps forward to give me a little hug, a most un-Calvinist gesture. “You’re bestowing honors upon the English department!”
“You’re the one who made us enter, Mrs. Farnham,” I say.
“But you’re the one that married sentiment and word and made them sing,” Mrs. Bradstreet says, standing back from us, in her unnerving, measured la-di-da voice, still giving me that look that says “It’s our secret.” Now she’s really starting to bug me; I want to ask, What the hell are you even doing here? You’re not my English teacher; you’re social studies! But of course I don’t say that; I just smile and try to look self-effacing.
“Eric, why don’t you go into Mr. Fazzi’s office and call home with the good news?” Mr. McGregor says. “He’s away at a conference, and I’m sure your folks would like to hear about it.”
“I’ve got to get back to study hall,” I say, wanting to seem dutiful and humble, like I don’t deserve special favors.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Mr. McGregor says, scrawling something down on a piece of notepaper and handing it to me. “Here’s your dispensation. Give this to old Parker.”
“Thanks, Mr. McGregor,” I say. Everybody knows Mr. McGregor dislikes Mr. Parker because Mr. Parker humiliated him on the field in the faculty touch football game last fall.
“I’ll see you in class, Eric,” Goody Farnham says, all a-twinkle. “Exciting weeks ahead.”
“I’ll see you in class, as well, Eric,” Mrs. Bradstreet adds, but from her it sounds more like a threat than a pleasantry.
“As usual,” I say, aiming to sound a little arch, and slip into Mr. Fazzi’s office, which is dark and quiet and weirdly exhilarating to be inside. Mr. Fazzi is the vice principal and his four sons, who used to give me wedgies in junior high school gym class, are all star athletes; his whole office is cluttered with their trophies and pictures of them in various uniforms, but there isn’t a single scrap of what looks like work anywhere to be seen on his desk. I sit down in his leather chair and dial my mother at work. When she comes to the phone and I tell her the news, she yelps with excitement, then she says she’ll call Grandma to have her make eggplant parmigiana, my favorite dish, for dinner so we can all celebrate. And she says she’ll get someone to fill in for her at work, and that I should be home by six. Then: “Bye-bye. I’m so proud of you—you really cheered me up!” and there’s just the tone on the line, and I’m alone in Mr. Fazzi’s office.
I know I should take Mr. McGregor’s pass and go back to study hall and tell Phoebe and Charlie the news, but I still can’t believe I wrote a bullshit essay and somebody actually bought it. And it seems like such a wicked secret that I want to tell it to somebody who’ll really appreciate it, but I don’t know who—and then I look at the phone, and suddenly, right in the middle of Mr. Fazzi’s office, right in the middle of fifth period on a Tuesday, I want to call him, Brooks, and tell him all about it, I want to laugh with him over it because I think he’ll get a kick out of it. It occurs to me that I haven’t even seen him now since the time when he got stoned and almost fell out of the loft, and how that scared the hell out of me, and how I tried to push him to the back of my mind and concentrate, concentrate on everything else—but since then, that last picture of him walking stoned across the soccer field, back to the dorm, has kept pushing itself into the front of my mind every day, when I least expect it. What he said to me that last time, about whether I loathed myself or not (not hated, loathed), and what he tried to do to me when I was stoned, comes hurtling back into my head at the strangest times—in the middle of class or a yearbook meeting, when I’m helping Joani with her homework or doing my own, when I’m brushing my teeth in the morning, or late at night, exhausted, getting ready for bed.
Even though he’s probably in class, I pick up the phone and dial his dorm. It rings eight times before someone finally picks up.
“Goolsbee,” someone says, flat.
“May I speak to Brooks Tremont, please? Francis Tremont?”
“May I ask who’s calling?”
I pause a moment. “Eric,” I say. “His friend Eric.”
There’s a pause on the other end of the line, then there’s the old familiar broadcast-news voice, the voice that sounds like skeptically raised eyebrows. “Oh. Hello there. This is Brooks.”
I’m taken aback. “You don’t sound like you,” I say.
“Who do I sound like?”
I don’t know how to answer that. “Why aren’t you in class?”
“Latin canceled due to instructor’s gout. I’m reading in the common room.”
“Oh. Well, how have you been?”
“Of no consequence, really.”
He sounds totally deadpan, like he hasn’t been thinking of me at all, couldn’t care if he ever sees me again. “Really?” I say, laughing nervously.
“Really. What about you? You’ve been in absentia lately. I actually didn’t know if I’d be hearing from you again after the way I conducted myself that last time.”
“Oh, that?” I say, relieved. “Forget about it. People get that way.”
“I was truly wretched, wasn’t I?” he says, almost gleefully.
“You weren’t that bad,” I lie. “You could have called me, you know.”
“No, I couldn’t. You never gave me your number. I think you didn’t think it was wise to let me know how I could reach you.”
I’m embarrassed because he’s absolutely right; I’ve always been afraid of him trying to call me at home. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I’ve been going crazy with stuff here—with my sister taking off, and school. But I’ve been meaning to call you for a while.”
“Mm-hmmm,” is all he says.
“Really,” I add.
“As you’ve made clear.”
“How are you, really?” I ask again, desperate.
“Of no consequence, as I’ve made clear.”
“Are you going home—going to Virginia for Christmas?”
“Yes, to illness. My auntie is poised to expire.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I guess that means you’re poised to get a lot of money.”
“Do you really think I’m that mercenary and shallow?” he snaps. “Do you honestly think that’s what I’m thinking about right now? The woman is dying, you know—not pleasantly, either.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, shaken. “It’s just that—that you always joked about it, and stuff.”
“You should learn when to read between the lines of a joke.”
“Well, I’m sorry,” I say again. He doesn’t answer, and I begin to wonder if it was such a good idea to call in the first place; maybe, having let a month pass, I should have just forgotten about the whole thing.
“I just found out I won a big contest,” I spew recklessly.
“Oh, really?”
“Uh-huh. I got first place in this Boston Globe essay contest called ‘What I Cherish in America.’ We had to do it for class. I wrote it as a total joke. I actually wrote it that night after we went out to the lake.”
“Is that so?”
“Uh-huh,” I rush on. “And then today this guy from the Globe shows up, and they’re gonna publish the essay and I have to read it at this big dinner at Faneuil Hall. Isn’t it a riot?”
“Terribly,” he says. “How exciting for you.”
“But I wrote it as a joke,” I say again. It’s impor
tant to me that he understands this.
“I’m sure you did.” That’s all he says. I’m sorry I called.
“Listen,” I say. “I’ve got to go to my next class; I’m calling from school. Have a good Christmas, okay? I hope your aunt’s okay—or—you know—okay?”
“Well—”
“Okay? I gotta go.”
“Eric, listen, can you meet today after school?”
Now I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “Today?”
“Well, yes. You know. In the usual place?”
“Well, I’ve got to be home by six. My grandma’s making dinner for me—for us—to celebrate this contest.”
“Well, you could come just for an hour or so. Say around three? Do you have any engagements after school?”
“Well—sort of. But I could get out of them.”
“So, three then? I promise I won’t ingest any behavior-modifying bromides.”
“Um—I guess so. The usual place.”
“Yes.” The bell goes off outside in the hallways, scaring me half to death, and in a minute I can hear the din of students barrelling their way through the hallways.
“All right, then. I’ll see you at three. Ciao.”
“Ciao—’bye,” I say, and hang up. I apologize to Mr. McGregor for taking so long as I pass by his office.
“Listen to the loudspeaker on your way to class,” he says to me with a sly smile. “I’ve got a surprise for you.”
Getting Off Clean Page 17