“Yes, sir.” Determination hardened Henry’s face. “I can’t quit.”
The coach stood. “That’s all, Steele.” He went to his desk, sat down and busied himself with some papers.
Henry rose. “But, sir—I—”
“Kindly leave my office, Steele. Get out, boy. I’m busy.” Smith put on his reading glasses. He did not look up.
Henry walked slowly to the door, opened it, then turned. His voice was husky. “I can’t quit,” he said. He closed the door behind him as he left.
* * *
BOOK THREE
* * *
I
For a moment, as he left Moreland Smith’s office, Henry could not make himself believe that the coach had asked him to give up his scholarship and that he had refused. Then he accepted the reality of it and went back to the gym to resume practice with the team. Fifteen minutes later, Smith entered the gym, spoke briefly to Phillips, and left.
For the balance of the practice, Henry was run ragged. Phillips put him on the defensive team; when the starters practiced defense, he was on the offensive team. The other players received occasional respites, but Henry was always in action. During set drills, Phillips made sure that he did each drill more often than anyone else. When the practice was over, there were ten extra laps for Henry after the others went to the showers.
Through it all, Phillips watched him, grinning as he speculated on just how much Henry Steele could take.
==========
That evening, he lay on his bed, staring through the growing darkness at the ceiling. At last he took the phone on his chest and dialled Janet’s number.
“Hi,” Janet said.
He opened his mouth to answer, but Janet’s voice went on.
“This is Janet Hays. Thanks for calling. I’m away for a couple of days. Sorry I missed you. When you hear the beep, please leave a message. Come on, now. Don’t be shy.”
The beep hurt his eardrums. Slamming the receiver down, he sat up on the edge of his bed. His eyes blazed. She’s with Malcolm, he thought.
His world crumbling, he ground his teeth, refusing to weep.
==========
Malcolm and Janet, both naked under the sheet, lay in Janet’s bed. She faced away from him, her eyes wide open, and gazed at the wall.
Malcolm propped his head up on an elbow. He said at last, “That wasn’t too good for you, was it?”
She rolled onto her back and looked up at him.
“I don’t know what you’re trying to prove all of a sudden, Malcolm,” she said softly. “You practically knocked the door down. Threw me in bed and used me. For an hour. Like a stranger. Why? I don’t know you these days. What are you trying to prove?”
“Whatever it was, I obviously didn’t succeed. I was just trying to tell you I love you. Sorry it came out wrong.”
“It’s okay.” She kissed him lightly on the cheek.
“Janet, my love?”
“Yes.”
“You’re working too hard.”
“I am?”
“Your tutorial efforts, you’re taking them too seriously.”
“Oh? In what way?”
“One should not become too emotionally involved with one’s students.”
“You’re a fine one to talk.”
“You’re not my student. You’re my assistant.”
“Well, if you’re talking about Henry—you’re wrong.”
“No. My clinical, objective opinion is that you’re emotionally involved with him.”
“You’re jealous.”
“Yes. But I’m also a trained social psychologist.”
“Malcolm, this isn’t like you—us. This land of insecurity—it’s for other people. Not us.”
They looked at each other.
“Go to sleep, Janet my love.”
He rolled over, away from her, and closed his eyes. She turned her back to him. Wide awake, she stared at the wall.
* * *
II
The two weeks following his summons to Smith’s office passed for Henry in an angry fog. Each night after dinner he went back to the phys.-ed building and worked out, using the leg- and arm-building machines until he ached. He ran laps until nausea sent burning vomit into his throat. For hours he practiced tip-ins, jump shots, lay-ups. The harder Phillips drove him during practices, the more fiercely he did what he was told.
He did it all by instinct, without volition. Since babyhood he had known that if he worked hard and stayed sharp, he would stay on top.
==========
On their way to classes one morning after Thanksgiving, Henry and Tom checked their mailboxes in the dorm lobby.
Opening a letter, Tom said, “This is from my main fox, back home. Boy, can she cook—and I ain’t talkin‘ about food.”
Henry examined an envelope with only his name on its face. No return address. He opened it slowly, extracted a piece of paper and began to read. Suddenly his face showed shock.
“Holy—!” he exclaimed. “Oh, no!” He stared down at the slip of paper.
Tom took the slip, read it, and shrugged. “So? Big deal, you’re flunking history. I got a couple of those things last year. Go see Coach Smith. He’ll fix it.”
“Sure, he will,” Henry muttered bitterly. He ran from the dorm and all the way to the psych lab, slowing only as he entered it. A class was in session.
From the door, he saw Malcolm at the front of the room, holding up a plastic model of a human brain for the benefit of his class. Noting Henry’s wild-eyed face, Malcolm pointed toward the back of the room, where Janet was working with another group of students.
Henry saw her look toward Malcolm, who nodded, as if giving permission. Janet walked swiftly to the door and drew Henry off to a corner of the room. Her annoyance at being interrupted gave way to concern when she saw the distress in his eyes.
“I’m sorry I bothered you here, but somethin‘ came up.” Henry searched for more words. None came.
“I’m not surprised. I got a notice this morning that my services as your tutor were no longer required.” She touched his arm gently. “I didn’t know whether— whether our relationship was over or not.”
He missed the deeper implication of her words.
“Hen, no, it’s not over! I’m flunkin' history!”
Laughing at herself, she said crisply, “Then let’s get you unflunked. I don’t care whether the Athletic Department or you pay me. For two-fifty an hour, I am at your service.”
“Thanks, Jan.”
His desperation made her want to cry. Trying to reassure him, she said, “Then cheer up, Henry. You’ve got no problem.”
Voice rasping, he said, “They’re tryin‘ to—” He stopped himself.
“They’re trying to what! Tell me, Henry. What’s making you feel so bad?”
“My athletic scholarship. They’re tryin‘ to take it away from me.”
“They’re—? Oh, those bastards!” She looked at him strangely. “That happened to one of my students last spring. A football player. During spring practice.”
“They’re not gettin‘ mine. I just gotta pass history!”
“You will.”
“Thanks.”
“Henry—forget the two-fifty an hour. Let’s whip ‘em. You can pay me later.”
“Oh, there’s no sweat about the money. I got a job.”
“But if they—”
“If they what?”
“Just don’t worry about the money. Let’s worry about your grades.”
Not understanding the basis for her fears, he shrugged and said, “Sure.” Thea, as she gently guided him out the door, he whispered, “Thanks again, Jan.”
“You’re welcome, Henry.”
Concerned, she watched him trudge down the hall.
==========
That Friday he went to B.J.‘s office for his paycheck.
“Oh, I was going to send for you, Henry. I have a message for you from Coach Smith.” Avoiding his eyes, B.J. busied hers
elf with the papers on her desk.
“Yes, ma’am.”
She referred to a mimeographed sheet. “For the first road trip, you’re not on the traveling squad.” Softening, she added, “But that’s not unusual for a freshman, Henry. Coach Smith is only taking four guards.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said dully.
“But—Coach Smith says you’re to suit up for home games.”
His face showed a hint of relief, then went blank again. “Yes, ma’am., I’d like my paycheck, please.”
Hating this moment, she handed him an envelope. “Here you are,” she said softly.
Henry opened the envelope and read the pink slip it contained. Nodding in resignation, as if bad luck was to be expected, he understood suddenly what Janet had been trying to tell him about money. “She knew I was gonna get fired,” he muttered to himself.
“I didn’t know until this morning,” B.J. said.
“I wasn’t talkin‘ about you.”
“Oh. Henry, I’m sorry.”
When he looked up at her, she was surprised by the anger in his eyes.
“Thanks,” he said. “But don’t worry. I'll make it.”
Crumpling the pink slip, he made a one-handed push shot that sent the wad of paper flying across the room. It banked off a photograph of Moreland Smith and landed neatly in a loving cup below it.
As he left the office, B.J. whispered, “Nice shot.”
* * *
III
The butler said, “It’s for you, sir. A Mr. Henry Steele.”
“Oh,” said Brunz. “Tell him that I’m—No, never mind. I’ll take it.” He picked up the phone on his desk. “Yes?”
“Mr. Brunz, in. This is Henry Steele.”
“Yes, Henry?”
“I was wonderin‘ if you need two tickets for—”
Brunz cut him off. “No, boy. I already have all the tickets I need.” He hung up.
==========
When he came into the Gamma Gamma Gamma house, the pretty coed who ran the switchboard by the reception desk recognized him at once.
Smiling, she said, “Julie?”
“Right.”
She plugged in a jack, picked up the headset and held it so that it would not muss her hair.
“Julie?” she chirped into the mouthpiece. “Henry Steele. No, here. In the lobby.” She listened briefly, and when she turned to Henry again her voice was cold. “She’ll be right down. Wait over there by the stairs.”
Henry went to a sofa and waited. In a few minutes Julie came halfway down the stairs and stopped, an impatient scowl on her lovely face. Henry rose and looked up at her.
“What do you want, Henry? I’ve got a date coming soon.”
“I—I just wanted to see a friendly face.”
“Well, you won’t find one here. You got kicked off the team, didn’t you?”
“No. No, I didn’t get kicked off the team.”
Disbelief made her even more petulant. “Well, I’ve got a date. I have to change clothes.”
“Julie?”
“What?”
“You told me your father owns a factory or some-thin‘. Here in L.A.”
“So?”
“I need a job. You think—?”
“Henry! Are you trying to use me? How gauche.” She sneered. “I don’t see you for weeks, and then you come around and try to use me. Ugh.” As she flounced back up the stairs, she flung a last word over her shoulder. “Tacky.”
==========
“Everything’s great, Dad,” Henry lied into the phone.
“Fine, fine,” Jerome barked. “Too bad your Ma’s in church. She’ll be sorry she missed you.”
“Yes, sir. Tell her in.”
“Sure. How’s the coach?”
“Oh, uh, great.”
“You stayin‘ sharp, workin’ hard?”
“Really workin‘ hard.” That much, at least, Henry thought, was no lie.
“That’s my boy.”
Henry looked at his desk. Spread out was sixty dollars in ones, fives and tens—his entire capital.
“Uh, Dad?”
“Yep?”
“How’s business?”
“What’d you say, son?”
“How’s business? I mean, down at the car lot?”
“Oh. Really lousy. Now that them cruddy Democrats are in, folks don’t know what that Carter’s gonna do. Everybody’s holdin‘ on to their money. Besides, car business is always bad in West Texas at this time o’ year. I ain’t sold a car in two weeks.”
“Oh.”
“Why’d you ask?”
“Uh, I’m doin‘ a paper on the national economy.”
“Well, you put what I said in your paper. Write that in the winter the car business in West Texas stinks like a polecat.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Oh, don’t you worry about me and your ma. We’re fine. We don’t need much. And Henry?”
“Sir?”
“We’re the richest folks on earth, havin‘ a son like you.”
==========
The dealer circled one last time. The red sports car sparkled in the sun.
“How much you want for it?” the man asked.
“I don’t know,” Henry shrugged. “I don’t know how much cars are worth. I know what it cost new, though.”
“Well, it ain’t new now, boy.”
“It’s in good shape, though.”
“Yeah. I’ll give you four grand for it.”
“It cost eight.”
“That’s my best offer.”
“Okay. Sold.”
“You got your title?”
“Yes, sir. Here.”
The dealer glanced at the title, “Okay. Let’s go on into my office, Jerome.”
“Oh, I’m not Jerome. My name’s Henry. Jerome’s my dad.”
“This car’s in your dad’s name, boy.”
“Oh. Is there something I have to do—so I can sell the car?”
“Your dad’ll have to endorse this over to you. Just get him to sign it.”
“Oh.” Henry took the title back from the dealer.
“Well, I’ll just have to do that,” he said. “Thank you. ‘Bye.”
Carrying the want-ad section of a newspaper, Henry entered the hotel and approached the front desk. The lobby reflected past glories, perhaps a half-century ago. Now the place was seedy.
“May I help you?” the clerk said.
“I’m here about this job.” Henry showed him the paper. “For a night clerk.”
“Personnel. On the mezzanine.”
“Thanks. Uh, excuse me, but is it a part-time job?”
“Midnight to six a.m.”
“Well, do you know—?”
“Personnel,” the clerk droned. “On the mezzanine. They’ll answer your questions.”
“Yes, sir.”
==========
Fortunately, the hotel was quiet during his nightly six-hour stint. Mostly, he studied. Once a guest passed out in the lobby, dead drunk, and Henry had to help him upstairs. Another night a compressor in the basement exploded, and for two hours firemen trudged through the lobby, and insurance agents asked questions. Otherwise his studies were interrupted only by huge, black waves of fatigue that burned his eyes and dizzied him. He would waken sometimes with his head on the hard desk, and discover that he had slept sitting in a chair for two hours.
From the hotel, Henry went straight to breakfast at the dorm each morning. Luckily for him, the rules in his dorm were laxly enforced; there were no assistant coaches prowling the corridors at night, making bed checks and reporting absent athletes to Coach Smith.
After breakfast he went to classes until one. From two-thirty until four-thirty was basketball practice, a grueling two hours. From four-thirty until dinner, he slept. After dinner, he studied. For an hour or so, most nights, he went to Janet’s apartment for tutoring. Then, if there was time, he slept until almost midnight before going to work at the hotel.
N
o one except Tom, whom he had sworn to secrecy, knew about his job.
==========
The note in his box was from Janet. “Henry, dear— Please meet me at the lab tonight instead of my apt.— Sorry, but I have work to do there before and after our hour—Jan.”
He arrived twenty minutes early and saw, through the window in the lab door, that Janet was conducting an experiment with a group of students. Not wanting to interrupt, he wandered about the building, seeking an empty classroom in which to wait.
He passed a door open an inch or two, heard a voice lecturing, and began to walk away. Then, belatedly, he recognized the voice. It was Malcolm’s. Curiosity sent him back to the door. He peeked around it.
It was a large classroom, shaped like an amphitheater. Students filled the rows of seats, their attention riveted on Malcolm, down below at a lectern. Henry saw an empty seat in the rear row, just a few steps from the door. Not knowing what compelled him, he entered the room and sat down.
The students, whose backs were toward him, did not see him.
Malcolm did.
He had just given his students an assignment. “By Tuesday, kindly digest pages 50 to 61. And, perhaps, we might liven up that hour with a miniscule quiz.”
The class groaned. Malcolm, smiling, swept the room with his eyes and caught a glimpse of Henry in the last row. He shuffled his notes, took a deep breath, and spoke to Henry in the guise of lecturing to the class.
“Last week,” he said, “we talked about Watergate.”
Again, a groan from the class.
“Sorry; but since this course in social psychology necessarily deals with present-day American ethics, I fear we’ll refer to Watergate often. Let’s review a bit. One of the things we discussed was the surprising number of Americans who condone Watergate. On what grounds do they condone Watergate?“
Hands went up, and he nodded at a young woman.
“For the sake of a ‘higher patriotism,’” she said. “Even though Nixon’s men committed burglary, forgery, perjury—all kinds of felonies—they claimed they did it for ‘National Security.’ ”
“Yes. Lawlessness in the pursuit of virtue.” Malcolm wrote the phrase on the blackboard. “They felt the ends justified the means.” He put the chalk down. “Give me another reason some Americans condone the Watergate crimes.”
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