“I don’t remember what I told Mr. Carella,” Staines said. “You can’t remember either, can you?”
Thomas had never seen Staines so angry. His shoulder hurt. “It all happened fast,” said Thomas.
Staines relaxed a little. “That’s right,” he said. “It all happened so fast, none of us can remember what we said.”
But Thomas could remember plenty. “I think it was deception,” he said. “You lied to him.”
Staines hit him again the same way. “Be careful about bringing up deception,” he said.
Thomas’s shoulder throbbed. He was getting angry. “Don’t hit me,” he said.
“Don’t accuse me,” said Staines.
For a second it was a standoff. Thomas wanted to be sensible. “Let’s just go talk to Mr. Carella,” he said. Staines exploded all over again.
“You want us both kicked out of school?” said Staines.
Of course he didn’t want them kicked out of school. He reminded Staines that if you turned yourself in, you were often acquitted. The very worst you could get was probation. They liked for you to be honest.
“Probation, hell. I’m already on probation,” said Staines.
Thomas was shocked. He had lived either with Staines or next door to him since they had enrolled at Montpelier, and he had never known about an honor trial. “What for?” he asked.
Staines said never mind. He was blocking the door so that Thomas couldn’t leave.
“You be damn careful about what you say,” said Staines. “If I’m guilty, you’re guilty too. Remember that. You’re guilty of an honor violation. I go down, you go down, too.”
“I haven’t deceived anybody,” said Thomas. But he was not sure whether that was altogether accurate.
“No?” said Staines. “Mr. Carella left this room with the impression that nothing illegal had been going on. Did you contribute to that impression?”
“I just wanted somebody to walk with me over to Bradley,” said Thomas. “You can’t get me involved in this.”
Staines said it was too late, that the only way to handle it was to keep quiet. “You say nothing, I say nothing, nobody suffers.”
Thomas knew this was the time to blast him, to turn him in, to let the school authorities handle it. But what would people say? He didn’t want people like Mr. Warden and Mr. McPhee and his parents hearing about his having to go before the honor council. And what would his teammates say if Staines got dismissed? The honor system was a funny mechanism. You were supposed to be honest, but there was also an unwritten code that said you gave a fellow student the benefit of the doubt.
But he shouldn’t have any doubt. Staines was already on probation.
But if he went to the honor council, he would have to testify in front of all those seniors. And what if he turned Staines in and they acquitted him? What would it be like to live next door to the guy then?
Thomas said he would think it over.
But what he really wanted to do was to die.
SCENE 5
Dean Samuel Kaufman was in a snit.
All this whispering, all these surreptitious meetings all day, and nobody included him in a thing. Why was he academic dean, if he was to be constantly excluded? He had just about had enough of this high-handed Eldridge Lane and his breach of protocol. Maybe it was time to resign.
Well, no, actually it was time for cocktails before dinner. Not time to resign; time for a drink. He admired himself for being able to make a play on words despite such a humiliating day.
It was 6:00 P.M. Kaufman was at his home on campus waiting for his wife, Virginia, to get home from that outrageously long play rehearsal Dan Farnham had begged her to attend. Had anyone asked Dean Samuel Kaufman to take a part in the play? Of course not. But they’d asked his wife. She was going to be Iago’s wife, Emilia, the lady-in-waiting to Desdemona. Ginny was far too old to be making a spectacle of herself in some high school play, but since it was Shakespeare, Kaufman supposed it was all right.
It was getting on toward dinnertime. Surely Ginny would be home in a minute. Kaufman poured himself a nice tall bourbon and ginger ale and turned on the television news. If they had anything adverse about the school on television, it wouldn’t be Kaufman’s fault. He’d had nothing to do with any of this mess from the moment Pat McPhee had discovered the body. Eldridge Lane had handled the entire matter himself from the beginning, just exactly like some . . . Kaufman wasn’t sure what he was like, but it was tacky.
Lane’s handling of the situation irked Kaufman to no end. The police coming out here last night and again this morning, the assembly today before lunch, the telephone calls to and from the parents of Russell Phillips: had Kaufman been invited to any of it? Not at all.
“Just mind the office, Sam,” Eldridge Lane had said. Mind the office! As if he were the secretary!
Kaufman was forty-five years old and had taught intermediate Latin and third-form English grammar before his promotion to the deanship. He held advanced degrees in educational theory, and he was a very respected member of the academic community—at least in some circles. Just last year he had published an article in a regional educational journal on how to teach Latin vocabulary with a rotary dial telephone, but did anyone at Montpelier School even mention it? No matter. Someday all his labors would be recognized. He had shaped up the Montpelier curriculum very nicely in the three years since he’d taken over as dean. They now offered an elective course in philology (why, oh, why wouldn’t any students at least try it?), and the individual classroom teachers never ever ran out of chalk or grade report forms now that Kaufman had moved in. Did anyone utter a word of thanks? His predecessor, Horace Somerville, had not cared a whit about chalk and grade report forms. Horace Somerville was a crusty old charmer of a character to have on the faculty, but that office had been in absolute shambles until Kaufman had come along.
That first drink went down too quickly. He’d have to nurse the second or he might cause a scandal in the dining hall by showing up tipsy. He checked for his travel-size spray of Binaca mouth freshener in the pocket of his sports coat. It was there. He carried it with him everywhere.
Kaufman’s back was bothering him. It always did when he felt too tense. He supposed a little more medicinal bourbon could help relax those muscles. Damn Eldridge Lane to hell, and damn all his cronies, too. If he wants to have secret meetings with that policewoman and invite Horace Somerville and Felix Grayson, that was just fine with Dean Samuel Kaufman. He would run the school while they were off playing at espionage.
Ginny came home at 6:15. She looked flushed and happy, almost like a little girl, even though her hair was half gray and she was two years older than Kaufman.
“That walk in the cold air felt so good,” she said. She turned down the volume on the television set and sat down beside him on the love seat.
“Why were you so late?” he asked her.
“They had me reading for Desdemona. What a wonderful part. And I found out a secret.”
Kaufman was immediately alert.
“What?” he said. He loved a secret. Knowing it was almost as fun as telling it.
She prolonged his excitement. “Dan Farnham slipped up and told me after rehearsal,” she said. “He wasn’t supposed to reveal it.”
“What is it?” said Kaufman.
“Not even the headmaster knows,” said Ginny.
Kaufman begged her to tell him immediately.
“Cynthia Warden is in the hospital,” she said.
“In the hospital?” He had called the Wardens this morning, and Ben had said nothing about taking Cynthia to the hospital. Shouldn’t the academic dean have been informed? Was there some enormous conspiracy among the faculty members to exclude him from everything? No matter; he had found out anyway. “What’s her trouble?”
Ginny said nobody knew.
“She’s in for tests,” she said. “Dan Farnham made me promise not to tell a soul. Nobody’s supposed to know. It could be dreadfully serious.”<
br />
“How awful,” said Kaufman. It was wonderful. A fresh piece of gossip that not even the headmaster knew.
He could hardly wait for dinner.
SCENE 6
Mrs. Warden was in the hospital.
Thomas had been desperate to talk to his advisor tonight, and he had gone to dinner early hoping to set up an appointment for afterward. But Mr. Warden had never appeared. Instead, Dork Kaufman had come over to their table and had said that Mr. Warden was probably at the hospital with his wife who was having tests done and that the boys shouldn’t worry about her and not to say anything because it’s supposed to be a secret.
It wasn’t all that rare for faculty members to miss meals. They were not technically required to be in the dining hall ever, but most of them ate there because the food was free. Still, Mr. Warden was faithful about appearing whenever he was not off campus for a poetry reading. And tonight of all nights Thomas had needed his advice.
It was 7:15 P.M. Thomas lay on top of his bed alone in his dorm room and replayed the whole incident again and again.
Was it an honor violation or not?
He hadn’t exactly lied to Mr. Carella. On the other hand, he hadn’t answered his question, either.
But Staines had lied, hadn’t he? By going along with Staines, Thomas himself was guilty of deception.
Maybe it wasn’t really deception. Mr. Carella hadn’t asked exactly the right question. If he’d asked, for example, if Staines was huffing Right Guard to get high, then they would have had to answer him directly.
Bull. He had asked them if anything illegal was going on, and they had implied that it wasn’t. Plus, the way he had looked at them was a sign that he knew they were lying. Maybe he was on his way to see the councilmen right now. Maybe there would be an honor hearing Sunday, and Staines and Thomas would both be thrown out of school.
Maybe not. Maybe the luck would be with them, and they would get away with it. If they did, Thomas swore that he would never, never fail to tell the truth again. Thomas promised God that if he could just escape this time, he would never fail to be forthright again.
But what about Mr. Carella? He had looked at Thomas so funny. He had known Thomas was lying to him. What would he think from now on? Would he think Thomas was some sneak like Robert Staines?
There was only one thing to do. He had to go down and talk to Mr. Carella. He had to tell him the truth.
But if he told him the truth, then he would be narking on Staines. Staines would get booted for sure, if not for lying, then for getting high on the dorm. Everybody would hate Thomas for getting one of his classmates kicked out of school.
Or would they? Staines wasn’t all that popular. And he was violating the rules. Thomas would just be doing his duty, wouldn’t he?
Or was he just going to get Staines kicked out in order to save his own hide? His shoulder ached where Staines had hit him. Isn’t that what it came down to—Thomas wasn’t supporting the honor system for the sake of honor, but for the sake of his own peace of mind?
Thomas had a chilling thought. What if Staines was down in Mr. Carella’s apartment confessing, and then Thomas got booted for not confessing with him? Or, even worse, what if Staines told Carella that it was Thomas who was huffing the aerosol so that Thomas got blamed for everything?
But would Mr. Carella believe that?
Nobody was on the hall. Such vacancy was unusual during the few minutes before study hours started; Thomas took it as a sign. He walked down to the opposite end of the hallway and knocked on Mr. Carella’s door. No answer. As usual, the door was unlocked. Thomas knocked again and opened the door.
“Mr. Carella?” No answer. He could hear the shower running. Mr. Carella was a nut for cleanliness. He seemed to be always taking showers. Thomas let the door close behind him. While he waited inside the apartment, he rehearsed what he was going to say.
Mr. Carella, I need to talk to you. You know just now when you were in Robert’s room? Well, I’m not sure whether it was illegal or not, but . . .
Was it an honor violation or not? Staines was not using some drug, after all. There was nothing in the rulebook about deodorant. It probably didn’t make you that high, anyway. It just rotted your brain cells so quickly that you thought you were high. So if Staines was not doing anything illegal, then they really hadn’t deceived Mr. Carella, and then the councilmen and everybody would keep Staines in school, and a whole big production would be made out of nothing because Thomas had panicked.
He needed to think this over some more.
He heard the water go off in the shower and the squeak of the hooks as the shower curtain got drawn back. Thomas let himself out the door quietly and walked quickly back to his room. Two boys emerged from a room three doors down, but they had not seen him come out of Carella’s apartment. Staines would kill him if he found out about the visit.
Within just those few minutes, Greg had returned from his meeting with the yearbook staff after dinner. Oh, hell, it was club night. That’s why so few people were on dorm. Thomas had missed his meeting of the Spanish club. Big deal. What could they do—kick him out of school for it?
“Hey,” said Greg. He sat down at his desk. “Why didn’t you come to rehearsal?”
“Something came up here.” Should he tell Greg or not?
Greg pulled a handwritten note out of a cream-colored envelope on his desktop. “I’ve been invited to tea at the Somervilles’,” he said.
“Good deal,” said Thomas, but he felt a tiny lurch of envy. It was almost getting to be funny; just when he thought he was as miserable as he could possibly be, something else went wrong.
Tea at the Homestead was a Wednesday night ritual with the Somervilles. Each week they invited ten or so different boys over to drink coffee or tea and eat finger sandwiches before dinner. Every boy at the school got invited sometime during his stay, but you never knew when the invitation would come. It was a huge honor to be invited, and you never turned them down. And the boys who got invited more than once usually turned out to be councilmen or editors of the newspaper or other big wheels on the campus. It was almost like a screening process. Thomas had never been invited.
“Good deal for both of us,” said Greg. “You got one, too.” He pulled out a sealed envelope and handed it to Thomas. In black ink his name appeared in a thin wiggly script.
“Where’d you get this?” Thomas asked.
“On your desk,” said Greg. “Haven’t you done any studying today?”
Thomas opened the envelope. “Mr. and Mrs. Horace Somerville,” he read, “request the honor of your presence for tea, Wednesday, December 1, at 5:30 P.M.”
Greg put the note aside and unrolled the blueprints he’d been looking at last night.
“Mr. Delaney says that nobody has found any secret tunnel in the twenty years he’s been making the assignment,” said Greg.
“Then why does he assign it?” He wanted to scream Greg listen to me can’t you see I’m going nuts what the hell am I going to do?! But he sat there like it was any old ordinary day and they were having an ordinary old conversation.
“He says it should be there,” said Greg. “There’s a story of old Mrs. Stringfellow escaping some marauders by leaving through a secret tunnel.”
Maybe he was worrying over nothing. Maybe Staines had really done nothing wrong. He could feel it out with his roommate.
“Look,” said Thomas. “Suppose you found somebody huffing Right Guard deodorant on the dorm. Would you consider that a violation of the drug rule?”
“Yes,” said Greg. “Who did it?”
He should not have asked Greg. Of course the answer would be yes; now the guy was waiting to find out what was up. Should he tell Greg or not? Telling him would bring another person into the incident and triple the complications. But Greg was reliable. He could keep a secret. But of an honor violation? Thomas needed to talk to his faculty advisor before he spoke to any other student. This was becoming too confusing. “I was just wonderi
ng what you’d say,” said Thomas. “Hypothetical case.”
Greg looked at him funny, turned back to the blueprints, and rested his hands like blinders on the sides of his head. Thomas left the room without speaking again. A newboy was using one of the pay phones in the hall. The other one was free. He tried to call Hesta. She was at consultation with her math tutor. He tried to call Mr. Warden. There was no answer. He couldn’t leave the dormitory because he wasn’t supposed to go outside alone. He couldn’t go back to his room because he didn’t want to talk to his roommate. He couldn’t go to Mr. Carella’s because he wasn’t sure of what he wanted to say.
He could see why Russell Phillips might want to throw himself off the gym roof.
SCENE 7
At 10:15 on Wednesday morning Benjamin Warden sat in the English office with Daniel Farnham and tried to prepare a lesson for his 10:45 class. He had spent all of yesterday afternoon and evening with Cynthia at the hospital, and now he was scrambling to catch up with his work. So far the medical tests had produced no clear diagnosis, but more would be run today. There was nothing Warden could do for her this morning; it was time to concentrate on Othello.
“You could just cancel the class,” said Farnham. He sat in a ladder-backed wooden chair next to Warden’s cluttered desk. “None of the students are going to want to discuss English anyway.” Monday night’s death of Russell Phillips was still generating much conversation on campus.
But Dr. Lane had made it clear that he wanted life to go on as normally as possible.
“I don’t like to cancel a class,” said Warden. “If the students want to talk about this boy’s death, I’ll let them. Still, I should be prepared to talk about Shakespeare.” Who could ever tell with adolescents? Every class had a separate personality, as fickle and prone to mood swings as that of any person.
“What I’m doing with mine today is to look at expectation versus actuality,” said Farnham. “We just started the play this week, and I thought I’d present some history about Elizabethan stereotypes of blacks.”
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