“So,” he says, with pitch-perfect smugness, “you’re the new me. Well, aren’t you just Daddy’s little fucking hero?”
He laughs to himself before telling me to go to hell. Louise turns towards the Old Man and quietly mentions that the police are on their way. Ames says to no one in particular that he’s done nothing wrong, that he still has friends on campus.
“We know all about your friends on campus,” Louise said, turning to my father. “When we found him, he was by himself, near the woods behind the girls dorms.”
She continues, telling the Old Man how she sent Jimbo to the Missouri House to check on Lindsay Lowe. Jimbo, Louise’s newest security staffer, hoists up his pants and comes to her side.
“She was there, Mr. Loveland,” he said. “Reading in the lounge. Fully dressed, I might add. But in her day clothes. I asked if she’d been out of the dorm tonight and she said she hadn’t.”
Jimbo added that he didn’t believe the girl. So, with her dorm staff present, he questioned her two roommates, who were also wide awake, but in their beds. It took them a minute of scared glances at one another to relent and reveal that Lindsay had in fact snuck out before she made them swear not to tell. She was gone for about an hour, the girls had told him.
“The fuck does that prove?” says Ames, more in a naturally inquisitive way than with hostility. “Maybe just that no one in this shitty little psych ward is competent enough to do their job.”
Nussbaum, who’s standing off to my side, calls Ames an arrogant little shit. Suddenly, as if stung by some mad, invisible archer, Ames lunges towards the doctor with his teeth bared and his breath heavy with hate and humiliation. Before I know what’s happening, I extend my arm, which Ames runs directly into. I then find myself curling it around his neck and bringing him crashing to the asphalt. I hold him while he violently kicks up his legs and flails in a futile effort to grab at my face and hair. Louise turns the light on us as we struggle on the cool, dry pavement. The Old Man is suddenly hovering over us, his wide eyes appearing shocked and pleased.
“I guess you shouldn’t kill him, Gray,” he says dryly. “After all, the cops’ll be here soon.”
Two officers, Jerome and Bagley, end up arriving within a few minutes. Ames does not go quietly. He writhes under their force and spits out sharp bits of indignation towards those who watch him get cuffed and folded into the backseat of the cruiser. Mostly, he looks between me and my father, who begins naming all of Ames’ charges to Officer Jerome: trespassing, assault, resisting arrest. He says these with an annoyed energy as though there should be more to comprise the list.
“Rollie, leave the police work to us, okay?” the officer says.
“I want to press charges,” my father tells him.
“We’re looking at a class A misdemeanor,” says Officer Jerome. “Criminal trespassing.”
“What’s that?” asks the Old Man, “a slap on the wrist?”
“It’s taking him downtown, it’s processing him, and it’s a fine.”
Rollie emits an exasperated sigh. He bites his lower lip and points his chin outward ever so slightly, a habit that flashes in my mind as something he did when I was a kid. It means he’s willing himself to have self-control.
“What if I told you he sexually abused one of my students?” my father asks, gritting his teeth and pinching the bridge of his nose.
Officer Jerome is a solemn looking black man with a powerful build. He folds his arms across his sturdy chest and asks if there’s proof.
“C’mon,” the Old Man pleads.
“Rollie, I know what you’re dealing with right now. This is the last thing you need. That’s for damn sure. But we’re in the business of proof. Until then, he’s just some punk you fired, who’s not over it yet.”
My father shakes his head. Leaning towards the officer, he reveals that there’s more to the story.
“There always is,” says Officer Jerome.
“He threatened me. The day I fired him, he threatened me. He told me I embarrassed him, and that he would do the same to me. But on a much grander scale. Nuss here was a witness.”
Unfolding his massive arms, the officer turns to get a look at Ames, who’s sitting motionless in the back of the cruiser, staring ahead. Turning back to Rollie, the officer says they’ll do all they can. Bagley, an older man with a graying moustache and neatly slicked hair, calls for Jerome to wrap things up.
“Listen, Rollie,” says Jerome, “we know you’re trying to buy this place from Roarick, so you probably have a lot at stake. I understand that.”
My father suddenly views me out of the corner of his eye.
“But the best we can do is to see that this kid keeps off the property. But to accuse him of what I think you’re accusing him of, well, again we come back to the burden of proof.”
The Old Man points out where Ames’ car was discovered, close to where the body was found. Then he states, almost inquisitively, how perpetrators often revisit the scene of their crime. The officer looks at his watch.
“Proof,” Jerome says again.
Grumbling over what he knows is nothing more than lawfulness, Rollie hesitates for a moment before extending his hand to the policeman.
“I’m hoping this is the last I see of that kid,” the Old Man says, motioning towards Ames. “But I guess we’ll see.”
After the officers leave, my father and I walk through the campus. A thin, hammock-like moon rests easy in the sky. An evening breeze gathers.
“This place is a regular slice of heaven, isn’t it? Just as I remember it.”
No response. I continue:
“Hell, who could blame you for wanting to buy it? Makes sense to me.”
My sarcasm is the quiet kind, tempered with an indiscreet hope that my antagonism will eventually escalate to the level of verbal sparring.
“The Joni House,” Rollie says, as we pass by the tiny clapboard Cape. “Your mother lived here for an entire summer. In that staff room.”
Smiling, he points to the rear of the house. He explains how there was a shortage of female dorm staff that summer, so my mother acted as interim. The story - if it qualifies as one - was told to me before.
“The kids loved her. As you can imagine. She used to read to them like they were a kindergarten class - short stories, poetry. They would sit at her feet, in a circle, and she would read to them. That’s precious stuff.”
I tell him I can imagine that. He nods his head and walks on, just slightly ahead of me, towards the woods where Ames had just been discovered.
“Was there a plan to tell me about your little takeover?”
“Don’t be condescending,” he said, turning around to face me.
“Well?”
He bites his lower lip and takes a deep breath. He suddenly looks younger. Like his consternation has rallied his heart into beating a new tune set to vibrant and kinetic melodies. This is strangely inspiring. I almost want to let him have the upper hand in the argument.
“Well,” he says, “how about you tell me what the fuck is going on in your life and I’ll tell you what’s going on in mine?”
Cupping my jaw into his hand, he shakes my face a little, his gaze somewhat endearing.
“Okay,” he adds, releasing me, “I’ll start. I’m buying the place from Roarick. The deal’s not yet sealed, but it’s in the works. Now seems like the right time. I’ve put in a hell of a lot of years, not to mention money, and I want it to finally be mine. He’s asking a price I can manage and I can’t see walking away from the opportunity. It’s always been in the back of my mind, and it’s honestly beginning to feel like a now or never situation. So it’s gotta
be now. And I’m glad you’ll be here, hopefully, to see it through with me.”
“That’s it?”
“You want more? Okay. Out of left field, I’m getting hit by the Fire Marshall, who’s breaking my balls over the sprinkler system in the dining hall and the stairway in the Missouri House. Not up to code, I guess. And it’s going to cost more than $20,000 to fix. Not to mention we had another withdrawal today. Your turn.”
“Are you trying to further prove my argument against buying this place?”
“Your turn.”
“What would you like to hear?”
“Gray.”
“I’m serious. What would you like to hear?”
“I was thinking maybe something about my former daughter-in-law or the baby who would’ve been my first grandchild.”
“It’s late. I’m exhausted. My arm is starting to hurt from ramming it into that moron you hired once upon a time ago.”
The wind suddenly starts to gather. The Old Man begins to say something, but stops himself. He puts his hands on my shoulders and looks me in the eye for a moment.
“I guess tonight’s not our night. Take care of that arm,” he says before mumbling a little and then walking away.
My amazement over my father buying the HAS, I realize, is absurd. Nothing would change. Maybe deed possession and property taxes. But that would be about it. What bothers me is the ruined possibility that he’ll ever pack up and walk away from this place. Not that there was ever much of a chance of that to begin with. Still, though, the obligation factor would increase. It would have to. Rollie Loveland: overseer and proprietor of Old Brookview’s famed Hundred Acre School. Unbelievable. Why now? After all these years.
A morbid and selfish thought crosses my mind: my father’s passing. What will my obligations be? Would he actually will the place to me? And what would his expectations be for his only child? Pushing it out of mind, I conceive a new thought: Dimitri Ames. Feeling my arm that clotheslined him into submission, I straighten myself up and begin walking back to my dorm. It’s late. The praise I award myself for my instincts suddenly gives way. Is it possible that what occurred this evening has nothing to do with instincts? Is it possible that it has more to do with an allegiance to my father? An allegiance that has been dormant for so much of our lives. And one that found us working in concert for the first time in as long as I can remember, and for quite possibly one of the strangest and most indefinable causes.
. . .
The boys in the Homer House are at war. Albert has locked the dorm’s gaming system in his footlocker and has hidden the key. He claims Alex and Dustin have been cheating at certain games by receiving online tips. Cliff has pleasured himself on J.J.’s pillow twice this week. Hawaiian Punch - Noah - is being accused of stealing Andrew’s watch.
Yet it’s Nick Russo who wins the prize. Over the course of a couple of days, he has filled Cal’s acoustic guitar to the brim with his own urine. The instrument, which also houses some of the boys’ rolled-up dirty magazines, was stored in a closet, so clothing and shoes have also been soiled. Nick’s punishment is to replace the guitar and clothing, as well as scrub down the entire dorm. He accepts these consequences - not from me, but from Reese, one of HAS’s youngest administrators - with unabashed hostility.
I’m told by Reese that bad behavior is magnified during the summer session. The HAS kids will have to wait until the end of August for their next vacation. Reese has been at the school for a few years now, and he assures me this is the pattern. There’s resentment over being in school while other kids - normal kids - are traveling, sleeping late, and reveling in forgetting what day of the week it is. Acting out then becomes the norm for the HAS student.
I don’t doubt this. But I believe there’s more. I’m beginning to become attuned to the boys in the Homer House. What makes them tick. What sets them off. What rules and creeds they devise and respect and live by.
There’s been no previous rivalry between Nick and Cal. In fact, their perversity and defiance makes them the closest thing to a male counterpart either can tolerate. They can be seen together tormenting the same student, riffing off of one another, basking in their sick competition. So it’s an unprovoked act, this guitar stunt. Completely random in its destructiveness, uniqueness, and foulness. Nick is like that, though. I’ve watched him turn against his supporters in the blink of an eye. A true loner, Nick will sneer at anything resembling genuine camaraderie, unless it’s guaranteed to be fleeting or superficial. If one of the boys sides with him as he argues or bullies, they’re sure to be his next target. Cal, who’s not too far ahead of Nick on the evolutionary chart, is initially taken aback when he learns he’s not an exception to this. Resilience in the shape of preternatural apathy has a way of finding human beings who thrive on selfishness and hollow relationships. So it’s no surprise that Cal is more disturbed by the vandalism of his guitar than he is over a betrayal from a fellow HASER.
“I loved that guitar,” he announces one afternoon at lunch. “You know how many times that thing got me laid?”
The other boys at the table laugh. Ryan reminds Cal of the new instrument Nick will be purchasing for him.
“But not in time for this weekend,” Cal points out. “I had my shit all ready to go. I was gonna do a nice little ditty that I was gonna dedicate to all my boys here.”
The upcoming talent show is an annual summer event, something the kids seem to anticipate with unusual pride. Not that there’s an abundance of hype - there isn’t - but I do find it remarkable that here is at last something, besides their own impediments, that is being considered and taken seriously. I find their interest downright surprising. They talk about the show during class and in the dining hall and in the dorm. Handmade posters have been made and hung in various locations around campus. Show off your talent!! Impressions, Songs, Monologues, Jokes, Skits, Dances. TALENT SHOW SIGN-UPS AT THE SOD OFFICE.
“Encourage as many kids as you can to sign up,” Rollie urges the staff. “Or to just come and watch. This is probably one of the best distractions we could ask for right now.”
The talent show is my father’s pet project. He came up with the idea when I was a kid. Always acting as emcee and general overseer, the Old Man would try in vain to enlist my help in the behind-the-scenes. Building a platform stage. Screening the acts with him. Acting as gofer during rehearsals. I refused everything. Then, the evening of the production, he’d try to entice me to attend with him. He’d endorse the talents of his kids, promising me absolute entertainment. Impressions, Songs, Monologues, Jokes, Skits, Dances. He did this year after year. I refused every time.
. . .
The Dimitri Ames invasion seems to have had a genuine effect on the kids.
“I know where he’s from,” I heard Caitlin, a self-deprecating earth mama, tell another girl in the pavilion. “He told us like fifty times. I say we find his house and burn it to the ground.”
“What a motherfucker!” the Homer House boys sang out in unison one morning.
“It’s pathetic,” said Bridget, a girl in one of my classes. “He probably has a dick the size of a baked bean, which would explain why he can’t get a girl his own age.”
There’s no condoning Ames’ behavior. He’s violated more than just a professional code of conduct. He’s preyed on the very essence of those things they all have in common. Their lack of sound judgment. Their impulsivity. Vulnerability. Neediness. They are protective of their campus, their world, and of their own kind. Ames is now, and forever will be, an outsider.
Lindsay Lowe. Her name is circulating the campus for the second time this summer. Speculation ignites the curiosity of many. She has been impregnated and her intention was to run away and marry Ames that very night. Another one: Ames has
been living on and off again in Lindsay’s dorm and was caught while sneaking back in. My favorite: She told the Old Man off, pleaded her devotion for Ames, and received parental permission to be picked up by the former teacher in the most furtive of ways.
The truth, which is explained to the faculty by Dr. Reynolds, Lindsay’s therapist, is simpler than all of these:
“We confronted Lindsay the very next day,” Dr. Reynolds, a fair haired, middle-aged man with permanent dark pools under his eyes, announced at a staff meeting. “Naturally, she was quite inhibited. Her mother thought it best if she came home for a while. A change of scenery, we all agree, will do her good. She’ll be back when the time is right.”
Two boys in one of my classes, Matt and Adam, have taken a special interest in the situation. They’re friends with Lindsay. Adam, who must weigh well over two-hundred pounds, is a bear. His baggy clothing, faded black t-shirts and an assortment of three-quarter length camouflage shorts - everything he wears looks like thrift store treasures - hangs judiciously on his bulky frame, never defining or revealing bulges or rolls. He rarely smiles, but is far from a miserable kid. Witty, cynical, and somewhat worldly - he’s lived just outside of London for three years and in the heart of Amsterdam for two - Adam is happiest when he’s arguing. And not just with anyone, but with those he considers worthy opponents. Among his favorite topics are religion, occultism, sixties counterculture, and anything having to do with John Lennon. Nothing seems to please him more than inspiring a dialogue with anyone who will partake, and guiding the discourse to a plane where he will barrage his well-respected adversary with arcane facts and references, causing his target to be nearly punchdrunk with defeat.
Adam had seen in Lindsay someone in need of protection, a lost and lonely girl who could probably never articulate such a need, but who would never deny it, either. So he took on the role of big brother. And this worked out quite well since his best friend, Matt, happens to be head over heels in love with the girl. At just about the same height as Adam, Matt is lean, longhaired, and fresh-faced. He has boyish looks and a constant expression that seems just on the verge of bewilderment. These attributes help to offset Adam’s seriousness as the boys make appearances together as a duo. By no means branded as a HAS student, Matt could pass for your ordinary American teenager. Aside from a school phobia and some self-esteem issues, which he manages to keep under control, Matt’s only real eccentricities are his penchant for hats and harmonicas. His head is always covered in something; he has several caps boasting one of many sports teams from his native state of Ohio, not to mention a Panama hat, a porkpie hat, a fedora, a beret, and others I can’t quite categorize. And then there are his harmonicas, which he plays everywhere he goes, but without so much of a trace of formality or affectation. It’s as normal and natural to him as taking a breath.
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