Fairbairn, Ann

by Five Smooth Stones

  But even though the sweater was well out of sight, he could still see the girl who had made it for him. He stood looking at the suitcase, while in the kitchen there were the sounds of Gramp stirring round. "Sara—Smallest—" He knew now. It would take guts to go back and face that situation—but it would take more guts to stay away from wherever Sara was, and he didn't think he had them.

  CHAPTER 36

  President John Vidal was Pengard College's answer to the youth movement that was becoming evident in the academic world through the appointments of young and progressive men to head many universities and colleges, including some of the most conservative. He was still only forty-seven when he was faced with one of the stickiest problems he supposed he'd ever have to deal with. Crew-cut, ruddy-complexioned, of medium height and stocky build, his general appearance of Kiwanian bounce and vitality was so deceptive that there was scarcely a faculty member who did not bear psychic scars acquired in encounter with a broad and penetrating mind that was balanced nicely between objective intellect and subjective humanitarianism. Vidal made no fetish of comradely relationship with his students, although he did not hesitate to fall in step with one, on or off the campus, and say, "I'm John Vidal. What's your name? Tell me about yourself." When Benford had jokingly commented on it once, Vidal had grinned at him and said, "With professors like you around, I feel I have to show them that Someone Cares." His greatest weaknesses were an occasional naivete in his relationships with his fellows, and a real belief in a basic goodness inherent in all men. This naivete and belief explained the presence of Goodhue and several assistant professors the students were forced to suffer, not often gladly. He was a widower, with twin sons at Exeter and a daughter at a preparatory school in New York.

  His selection had been accomplished without any discernible pressure from the then president, Horace Quimby, yet the opinion prevailed among the faculty that he was "Quimby's man." The opinion was correct. On Thursday of the final week of a midterm vacation that Vidal knew he would always remember as one of the most troubled periods of his academic career, he faced the prospect of meeting with his full board, once in the afternoon and again in the evening. There was little comfort in the thought that facing his board could be no worse than the job of facing himself had been for the past four weeks—ever since Horace Quimby had called him to the house by the lake on the Sunday following Thanksgiving weekend. He had not known at the time, but he knew now that on that same Sunday Tom Evans, troubled and perplexed, had talked with his father in the Evans home, and on the day before Hunter Travis had sought counsel from Dr. Maynard Sutherland in Boston.

  He had been curious but not concerned on that Sunday as his car jounced over the unpaved shortcut to the lake road, a shortcut forbidden. to student cars except on special occasions. When he rounded a curve that would bring the lake into full view, he saw two students walking ahead of him. One student was the tall, good-looking young Negro from New Orleans, David Champlin, whom he had talked to several times and liked better each time; the other was the bony, rugged-looking chap from Georgia with the unruly blond hair and candid face. Vidal remembered him well because of circumstances connected with his admission. He blew his horn, and drew alongside them. "Lift?" he called when he had lowered the window. "It's cold out there!" Charles Martin had answered. "Sure is, but we're getting our exercise. Thanks, sir —" And Champlin had smiled. (Good God thought Vidal now, was it only four weeks before? He could still feel the warm charm of a smile lighting a face that always appeared almost somber in repose.) "Thank you, sir," Champlin had said. "There's no place to lift us to. We don't know where we're going." Vidal remembered laughing. "That's scarcely an attitude we encourage at Pengard, Champlin, but it's sure as the devil the best one to have when you start out on a walk. Take care—and good luck!" And he had driven on, to Quimby's home, and the start of the unhappy four weeks climaxing today in the meeting of the board.

  Only Horace Quimby, for whom Vidal had more affection than for any older man he had ever known, could have cooled his anger when he learned that three faculty members had gone over his head to the former president with a strange story of racial discrimination and bias, a story that held certain other unsavory implications as well. Quimby had said, "Would you have been able to receive their story open-mindedly, John? All three ran a certain risk in coming to me, but they did so because they had no proof—yet. They believe, and so do I, in the truth of the story. But to have come to you with nothing definite to go on would have seemed like gossipmongering, particularly as all of them are known to be anything but supporters of Goodhue. They came to me for counsel solely, after all, I have no real power—"

  A good measure of Vidal's anger was expended in his laughter at Quimby's last words. Quimby responded to the laughter with a dry chuckle. "Do what you can, John. What seems right. My advice was that they put the entire problem in your lap. I think your secretary will tell you that you have an appointment with them tomorrow."

  "Should I say, "Thank you'?"

  Again the dry, aged chuckle. "You're getting your lumps at last, John. I believe that's the expression. My advice—and please understand that it is advice only—is that you start with the current problem, the one that involves David Champlin, and work back."

  "I just saw him, on the way up here. It's incredible. I could wish, though, that he hadn't attacked a fellow student."

  "I've told you what the circumstances were. He had reason enough, in my judgment."

  "Of course, under those circumstances, it seems to have been expedient. And it could explain, possibly, the origin of a malicious rumor."

  "Possibly?" said Quimby.

  ***

  He remembered that interview well, standing at the window of the board room, watching the members arrive, listening to the rumble of talk in the hallway and waiting room. Ordinarily he would have been out there, greeting them Today he did not feel like the amenities. As they came into the board room he sensed their surprise at his expression, but he could not lighten it. One member said, as they shook hands, "It's quite apparent, John, that we aren't here to discuss an unexpected ten-million-dollar endowment."

  "Not even one million, Henry."

  Pengard's governors had been chosen through the years for their mental flexibility, their ability to think and make decisions within the framework of current thought and problems; it was not, therefore, what is known as "well balanced." During his years as president, Quimby had snapped at a well-intentioned adviser: "I'm not in the least interested in balance for its own sake. I'd rather see us go overboard and have to rescue ourselves than never get wet at all."

  Vidal announced the plan of the meeting when they were all seated at the big oval table in the center of the room; there would be an informal, and probably lengthy, session first, then dinner at the Laurel Inn, followed by a formal session for action later. In anticipation of the length of the afternoon session a long table against a side wall held a coffee urn and cups and saucers.

  He sat at one end of the table, not the relaxed, smiling figure they were accustomed to, but straight, almost stiff, eyes cold, one hand resting on a stack of folders in front of him, the other holding his dark-rimmed reading glasses. Without comment he passed one of the folders to each man, then leaned forward, holding his eyeglasses delicately in both hands as though afraid that if he permitted himself to grasp them firmly he would shatter them.

  "The contents of the folders you have just been given will be easier to understand after I have told you something about them. You will find, when you open them, photostatic copies of records pertaining to certain students who were either asked to leave the college during the past few years or who left of their own accord. There are six of those. You will also find, attached to the records of some of these students, letters recently received setting forth their views of the reasons they are no longer students. Naturally, these are for the most part subjective in tone, although far from entirely so. In almost every instance careful reading cannot
help but result in the suspicion that these expulsions and voluntary quits were—and it is painful, very painful, for me to say this—quite probably rigged."

  Dr. Edward Sampson, a dark, intent man, medical director of one of the country's largest research institutions, and chairman of the board, waited until the rumble of shocked comment died down, then asked, "John, why were these letters written? I mean, at this late date? And to whom?" He picked up a stapled sheaf of documents from his folder. "This letter, for example, is not addressed to any of the college personnel. At least, any that I know of—"

  "No. It is addressed to a student, one of a group that took the action, on their own initiative, of tracking down these former students to protect a classmate they believed was about to get the same treatment, differing perhaps in kind but not in intent. If you'll be patient, Sam—"

  "I'll try," said Sampson grimly. "But something smells to high heaven."

  "It does. Now—" For almost an hour Vidal reviewed in detail the cases that lay before them, adding to what was documented the information he had been able to gather personally.

  At the conclusion he leaned back in his chair for the first time. "These cases have one significant similarity—"

  "Don't beat around the bush, John," said Sampson. "They're all Negroes. With one exception. The student"—he flipped through his folder quickly—"the student—Meadows —who became engaged to a Quimby scholarship girl while he was here—and married her later. Damned clever of you to tack that pertinent bit of information on the end, like an afterthought."

  Vidal, turning to him almost angrily, spoke bitterly: "I'm not clever. Not even particularly discerning, as I should be in this job. I let these things happen, do you understand? These things happened right under my eyes. Which I did not know were quite so astigmatic."

  A man halfway down the table, Dr. Henry Parrish, whose reputation as the Midwest's leading psychiatrist had begun to spread nationwide, said quietly: "Relax, John. We're equally to blame. More than one thing is evident in these reports. The role played by Goodhue sticks out a mile. One can't escape him. Suppose you stop blaming yourself and give us the story of the student these young people are concerned about."

  "David Champlin is the student's name," said Vidal. "I am sure none of you has heard of him. I've met him, of course, and been much impressed. Since this broke I have asked for special reports on him from such of his instructors as I could get hold of, and am even more impressed. Now, this story must, of necessity, get into some very unsavory details—"

  "Unsavory?" The newest member of the board, a young scientist named Patterson, walked to the side table for coffee, spoke over his shoulder, eyebrows raised.

  "Unsavory. And it will be climaxed by another story, and grave charges."

  Vidal told them of what he had learned about the incident involving David and Clevenger, and then of the apparently unrelated incident of Sutherland's unofficial departure from the Infirmary and trip home on Thanksgiving weekend. "It was in my opinion a minor, very minor, infringement of rules under the circumstances. The pressures involved in an impulsive action like that must be taken into account. It most certainly was not grave enough to prompt the dean to call a committee meeting to consider Champlin's expulsion. Unless some additional charges could be brought forward." Vidal sighed, his first evidence of nervous fatigue. "No charge was forthcoming, at least then, but a rumor popped up that was rather startlingly coincident with the Sutherland episode. And that was a rumor that Champlin was a homosexual. If enough substantiation could be found for it, it would, of course, have justified a quiet request that he leave. Or expulsion, if he proved uncooperative. I, for one, place absolutely no credence in the rumor and am definitely suspicious of its source. We have pretty well established the fact that Clevenger was in a position to clear Champlin of a charge of sneaking Sutherland out of the Infirmary. Also, of course, Clevenger was in a position to spike any homosexual rumors, although he could hardly be expected to do so. In fact, there is evidence that the rumor might have originated with him, possibly in retaliation for the physical rebuff he received at Champlin's hands.

  "You would all be justified in thinking that, after all, a situation like this is unfortunate but hardly justifies a full board meeting; that it could and should be handled by the authorities here. The matter of the expelled students requires further and more detailed investigation, and under ordinary circumstances consultation with the dean. What you have heard so far explains in part why this has not been done. What you will hear in a moment explains it fully." He knew there was only one way, both practically and morally, to lay the full story of Goodhue before them, and that was to support it with the proof that had so horrified him two days before at a meeting in Chicago with the elder Evans.

  He looked at his watch. "If he has been prompt, a man named Stewart Prentiss is waiting to make a report to us. When I was in Chicago on Tuesday I read this report. Mr. Prentiss is a semiretired private investigator of excellent repute. He is a friend of Bull Evans. It is not easy for anyone in my position to admit that there has been any kind—any kind whatsoever—of espionage going on in his own domain. In fact, it's damnably humiliating. My resignation is yours for the asking—"

  "What the hell! Cut out that kind of talk, John—" The exclamation came from a stormy and unorthodox academician whose fame rested on his devastating attacks in print on most current theories of human behavior.

  Vidal stood and walked to the door, called, "Miss Ames—" and when his secretary appeared, asked, "Is Mr. Prentiss here yet?"

  "He just arrived, Mr. Vidal."

  "Ask him to be kind enough to wait just a few moments. I'll call him shortly."

  When he returned to the head of the table he did not sit down, but stood behind his chair, his hands grasping its back. "So far," he said, "we've been more or less formal. Now I want to be informal. Unlike many colleges, Pengard has chosen its governors, not for wealth or influence, but because of their acknowledged positions in the vanguard of human thought. We let the wealthy in on the less-important jobs. They're just as pleased. After you have heard what Mr. Prentiss has to tell you, it's my hope that each one of you will forget his vanguard position, so to speak, and become, mentally, an old-fashioned parent, with an old-fashioned concern for the moral and psychological welfare of a well-loved son. I am conversant with the modern theories of psychiatrists, doctors, and psychologists in the field of homosexuality. I am in accord with many of them. However, at this point I choose to ignore all of them because I am emotionally involved in the welfare of young men—all young men. The future of the students who are involved in what you are about to hear is a problem we must approach prayerfully, and with all the understanding, compassion, and knowledge that we possess. This problem can be considered later. The problem of the faculty member involved is one that I, for one, cannot approach with objectivity. Perhaps it will come later. Right now, though, let's forget if we can the joy and peace of objectivity and become involved."

  He walked to the door again, nodded to his secretary, and when Stu Prentiss entered, placed a chair beside his own at the head of the table. He introduced each man individually to the newcomer, certain in his own mind that Prentiss would remember them all.

  Stu Prentiss talked well, was awed by no one, knew all mankind to be frail and full of faults, including members of college boards of governors, trustees, regents, or overseers. He had never minced words with any client, and he did not mince them now; he merely tailored them, as he always had, to fit the minds of his audience.

  He took a folder from his briefcase and laid it on the table in front of him. "That is a long and very detailed report. There are only two copies of it, this original and a carbon. I retain the carbon, President Vidal has the original. When you learn what it contains I am sure you'll agree with us that it wouldn't do to have multiple copies of it floating around. Because of its length and detail I am not going to read it. I prefer to tell the story in my own words, and refer to the report
for answers to any questions."

  Prentiss leaned back in his chair, legs crossed, apparently relaxed and very much at ease. He might have been discussing a survey of weather conditions in the Appalachian Mountains during the spring months. Only a marked reddening of the scar on his forehead showed any emotional involvement in the subject matter of the report.

  "During the first week in December the father of one of the students at Pengard College, a man I have known for many years, called on me to investigate what appeared to be the homosexual activities of the dean of men, Merriwether Goodhue." He had known his opening statement would set off a tumult of comment, like firecrackers on a string, and he waited for it to die down. "I hope none of you gentlemen feel inclined to blame the authorities here for not spotting it before. This accusation, particularly in a place like this, is about as vicious a weapon as a man can wield. You don't toss it around carelessly. And like so many things, those closest to it are often the last to know. Like the wronged wife. It is not an accusation that a parent can make on the basis of a 'hunch' by his son, based on some trick of the accused's personality or some vaguely suspicious circumstance. Proof is needed, and proof is damned hard to get. I shall tell you how I went about securing proof, and if you are interested in exact dates, times, that sort of thing, you will find these details in the written report."

  He gave them a broad outline of how he had gathered his information, how he learned from Mrs. Goodhue of the trips to Chicago and New York, of their dates and frequency, and the hotels her husband preferred to stay in when she did not accompany him.