by Stuart Woods
“As in ‘aid and abet’?”
“Yes, exactly. New York City is a very fast track for a young man, especially one like Ben, who thinks he’s all grown up. You’re going to have to have some rules of behavior in this city, and since you’ll be living with me, I’m going to make them.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The first thing is, you must never, ever drink alcohol in any form until after you’re legal, at twenty-one, and that means twenty-three for you.”
“I’ve done some reading on the Internet about that, and I know that alcohol can have a bad effect on young brains, and that the brain isn’t really mature and fully formed until around the mid-twenties.”
“That’s true,” Stone said, “and I’m glad you understand the reasons for the rule. It applies to marijuana, too, and that has the additional problem of being illegal. No matter how you feel about whether it should be legal or not, it remains illegal, and the next rule is, you must not allow yourself to commit illegal acts. If you so much as walk into one of the downtown clubs Ben is fond of, you will have committed an illegal act, even if you don’t drink. Those places are watched by the police and sometimes raided, and believe me, a night in jail is something you don’t want to experience. I was a policeman for fourteen years, and I saw young people make mistakes all the time that had a bad effect on their future. You must make every effort to get through your youth with a clean record, and again, that sometimes means just walking away from situations. If you were living in rural Virginia, this might be a lot easier to handle, but not in New York. You’ll have to watch yourself all the time. For the time being, you must not be outside this house after eight in the evening without permission, and that means I must know where you’re going and with whom. You are to carry your cell phone at all times, and you are to answer it when I or your mother call.”
“I understand, Dad, and I’ll try my best.”
“I know that your best is very, very good, Peter. There’s something else. I think, especially with Ben as a friend, you’re going to meet a lot of girls who are older and more experienced than you. Am I correct in assuming that you are acquainted with the rudiments of sex?”
“Oh, yes. I’ve read a lot about it, and, of course, we had a class at school. I haven’t done it yet, though.”
“You’re going to have to decide for yourself when to start having sex, Peter, because I can’t be there with you all the time. But I urge you to act with restraint. You can’t get into trouble restraining yourself, but you can get into one hell of a lot of trouble by just plunging into that life. When you think this might happen to you, you must always wear a condom. You are too young to be a father, but nature has made you very fertile. Disease is a problem, too, as you no doubt learned in school.
“Another thing is, now that you are legally eighteen, you must be careful with girls younger than you. Do you know what statutory rape is?”
“Sex with somebody under eighteen, right?”
“Right, and that means even if it’s consensual. A girl of fifteen or sixteen can’t waive the law on that subject, and girls’ fathers can become very angry at young men who violate it. It’s a dangerous situation, and you should avoid it at all costs.”
“I understand.”
“Finally, you’ll find it much easier to deal with problems if you’re willing to come to me and talk about them. I know you won’t always take my advice, but I give advice for a living, and I’m good at it. Take advantage of that.”
Peter smiled. “I have no problem talking with you, Dad.”
“Good. Now that we’ve made you into the perfect son, you get on with your day, and I’ll work on becoming the perfect father.”
Peter ran back to his room, and Stone heaved a huge sigh of relief.
“I heard all that,” Joan said from the door.
“Eavesdropper!” Stone said.
“You should take your advice,” she said.
16
Stone pressed the button for Joan’s extension. “Joan, please find a Timothy Rutledge at the University of Virginia and get him on the phone for me. If he’s not there, see if information has a number for him.”
“Hang on, boss,” Joan said. Thirty seconds later she buzzed him. “Line one.”
Stone picked up the phone. “Mr. Rutledge?”
“It’s Dr. Rutledge, thank you. Who is this?”
“My name is Stone Barrington. I think you know who I am.”
“Not necessarily,” Rutledge replied.
“Arrington Calder is visiting me in New York. Does that ring a bell?”
“Maybe.”
“All you need to know is that I am an attorney and that I represent Mrs. Calder.”
“What do you want?”
“Mrs. Calder has asked me to request of you that you do not attempt to see her or speak to her, except for business purposes—that is, on matters pertaining to the completion of her house in Virginia.”
“Why doesn’t she say that to me herself?”
“Mrs. Calder informs me that she has already done so, and in no uncertain terms.”
“What is this about?”
“I will be happy to put it in writing for you and include a restraining order against you, requiring you not to see or communicate with her, except under the circumstances I have already outlined. I’m told that you are acquainted with restraining orders.”
There was a long silence.
“Is there anything you don’t understand about Mrs. Calder’s request?” Stone asked.
“Yes, I don’t understand why.”
“She no longer wishes to hear from you, except on business. That is all you need to know. It is also all a judge needs to know. You should be aware that a restraining order is a public document and therefore can be seen by anyone who takes the trouble, and there are media people who take the trouble every day. Do you understand that?”
“Go fuck yourself,” Rutledge said.
“Did I mention that this conversation is being recorded?” Stone asked.
Rutledge hung up.
Stone looked up to see Arrington standing in the doorway.
“That was very good,” she said. “Very professional. Were you really recording him?”
“Yes,” Stone said.
“Was he angry?”
“Yes. He kept saying he didn’t understand why you wouldn’t see him.”
She nodded. “It figures. He was a perfectly nice person, until he heard your name.”
“From whom did he hear it?”
“From me. I told him that Peter and I were spending Christmas with you. He demanded to know who you were, and I told him you are an old friend. That didn’t help. He started asking questions about you, and I cut him off.”
“How long had you been seeing him?” Stone asked.
“Since shortly after construction started on the house. It was foolish of me, I guess, to become involved with someone who worked for me, but you weren’t around, and I was lonely.”
“Does Peter know him?”
“They’ve met once. I’ve kept him away from Tim.”
“Well, let’s let sleeping dogs lie,” Stone said. “He’s been warned.”
17
Peter put on his overcoat and gloves, tucked his leather envelope under his arm, left the house, first making sure his key was in his pocket, walked up to Third Avenue, and hailed a cab. “Two-oh-five West Fifty-seventh Street,” he said to the driver, looking at the address written on the back of his father’s card.
The driver said nothing to him but talked rapidly into his cell phone in a language that Peter thought was Arabic or Urdu. The man drove as quickly as possible in the traffic, and arrived at the building in ten minutes. Peter paid and tipped the man, as his father had told him to, and got out of the cab. It was, he reflected, the first time he had been in a New York City taxicab alone. He walked into the building and was greeted by a man in a uniform.
“May I help you?”
“Yes, pleas
e. I have an appointment with Miss Letitia Covington.”
The man picked up a phone. “Your name?”
“Peter Ca—Barrington,” he said, correcting himself quickly.
The man announced him, gave him the apartment number, and told him to go up.
Peter got on the elevator and pressed the correct button. He checked his hair and the knot in his tie in the car’s mirror and exited into a vestibule. Before he could ring the bell the door opened and he was greeted by a uniformed maid.
“I’m Peter Barrington,” he said, and she took his coat and led him into a sunny living room facing Fifty-seventh Street. A handsome, gray-haired woman of an age he could not determine sat in an armchair.
“Peter? I’m Letitia Covington,” she said, indicating that he should sit on the sofa next to her chair.
“How do you do, Miss Covington,” he said. He shook the offered hand, which was cool and dry, and sat down.
“Would you like tea?”
“Thank you, ma’am, yes.”
“Milk or lemon?” she asked, reaching for the pot on a silver tray before her.
“Lemon, please, and two sugars.”
The woman smiled to herself and poured.
“Thank you, ma’am,” Peter said, accepting the cup.
She offered him a tray of pastries. “Something to eat?”
“No, thank you, ma’am.”
“Well, now,” she said, “I’m told you are interested in attending Knickerbocker Hall.”
“Yes, ma’am, I am.”
“Tell me why?”
“My goal is to be a film director,” he replied, “but my last school had only a limited program.”
“I see. I’m told you just graduated. How did you come to graduate in December?”
“I was an advanced student, and at the end of the last term I had an oral examination on the high school curriculum with six faculty members, and they decided to graduate me. They said they had nothing further to offer me, and I agreed with them.”
“You must be very bright.”
“They tell me so.”
“Peter, have you ever had an IQ test?”
Peter felt his cheeks color. “Yes, ma’am.”
“And what was your score?”
Peter gulped. “I . . . believe it was one hundred sixty-one,” he said.
She laughed. “You mustn’t be embarrassed about that,” she said. “That’s a very high score. You might avoid telling people about it, though, unless they corner you, as I did.”
Peter smiled. “Yes, ma’am.”
“And why do you wish to be a film director?”
“Well, my stepfather was an actor, and I grew up around a lot of film people when we lived in Los Angeles, and I liked them. Then I started seeing a lot of old films and reading about them, and pretty soon, it was about all I could think about. I guess I was around eight then.”
“And what was your stepfather’s name?”
“Vance Calder,” Peter replied.
Her face brightened. “Ah, I met him a few times,” she said. “He was charming, and, of course, he was one of our best film actors.”
“Miss Covington, I would appreciate it if we could keep his name between us.”
She looked surprised. “Why?”
“Because, ever since we left Los Angeles, people have treated me differently because of his name, and I’ve never liked it. If I go to Knickerbocker, I want to be just Peter Barrington.”
“I understand perfectly,” she said, “and I admire you for not using his name shamelessly to advance yourself, the way that many children of famous people have done.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“Have you brought any of your work?” she asked.
Peter opened his leather envelope. “Here is a screenplay I’ve written,” he said.
“Give me a moment,” she said, then opened the folder and began to read quickly, turning the pages. She stopped and looked up. “That is an excellent first scene,” she said. “I particularly like the dialogue. I’ll read it all later.”
He handed her his DVD. “I’ve edited the first seventy minutes,” he said. “I expect I’ll finish it soon.”
“You mean it’s already shot?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Peter, did anyone help you write this?”
“Well, I had a faculty adviser, but he wasn’t much help. He was a music teacher.”
She smiled. “I see. I was going to ask you if you knew exactly what a film director does, but you obviously do. Why Knickerbocker?”
“I’ve read about the program, and I think it suits what I want to do very well.”
“Tell me what you want to do, beyond directing.”
“I want to learn to work with actors and direct theater.”
“And how do you propose to learn to work with actors?”
“By becoming an actor myself,” Peter replied. “My role model is Elia Kazan.”
“Ah, yes, Gadge,” she said. “That was his nickname, but he didn’t like it. I didn’t know that until I read his autobiography. Have you read it?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Peter replied. “Twice.”
“I see. And what do you want to do after graduation from Knickerbocker?”
“I want to go to the Yale School of Drama,” Peter replied, “for the same reasons I want to go to Knickerbocker.”
“Peter, I’ve no doubt that you would fit in perfectly at Knickerbocker,” she said. She picked up a folder and handed it to him. “This is an application. Please fill it out and return it to me with a copy of your birth certificate and your transcript from your previous school.”
Peter handed her the documents. “I have those right here,” he said. “May I fill out the application now?”
She laughed again. “Yes, you go right ahead. Do you have a pen?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Peter said.
“I’m going to give you a few minutes to complete the application, and then I’ll come back,” she said, rising.
Peter stood with her, and she left. He opened the folder and began to fill in the blanks.
Letitia Covington went into her study, sat down at her desk, picked up the phone and dialed the number of the headmaster of Knickerbocker Hall, who lived on the floor below her. “Arthur,” she said, “it’s Letitia.”
“Good afternoon, Letitia. How did you know to find me at home?”
“Because I know what a lazy old fart you are, and that you often leave school early.”
“I come home to do paperwork,” he protested. “They won’t leave me alone if I’m at school.”
“I want you to come up here right now,” she said.
He laughed. “What’s up, Letitia?”
“I have a candidate for you, sitting on my living room sofa, filling out his application, right now.”
“Letitia, you know we have a waiting list.”
“You’re going to forget all about that when you meet him,” she said. “Now get your ass up here!” She hung up and went back to the living room.
Peter rose as she entered and handed her the folder.
“Already finished?”
“Yes, ma’am. I put my birth certificate and my transcript in the folder, along with a recommendation from the headmaster.”
The doorbell rang, and the maid led in a man wearing a seedy cardigan and a necktie loose at the collar.
“Peter, this is Arthur Golden, our headmaster at Knickerbocker.”
Peter stood and offered his hand, noticing that he was taller than Golden. “How do you do, sir?”
“Sit down, sit down,” Golden said. “I’m not accustomed to good manners from students.”
“I’m afraid, Arthur,” Miss Covington said, “that Peter doesn’t know how to behave any other way.” She handed him the screenplay. “Read the first scene,” she said. “We’ll wait.”
Golden sat down, put on the glasses that hung from a string around his neck, and began to read. Finally he stopped and b
egan asking Peter all the questions Miss Covington had asked him.
When Peter had dutifully answered them all, Golden looked at Miss Covington and nodded. “Peter, I’d like you to come to the school tomorrow morning, meet some people and have a look around. Please bring your parents, if you like.”
“I’d like that very much, Mr. Golden,” Peter replied.
“Don’t wear a jacket and tie,” Golden said. “You’ll frighten the other students.”
18
Peter ran into Stone’s office, breathless. “I think I got in!” he shouted. “Miss Covington was just great, and she made the headmaster, Mr. Golden, come up to her apartment to meet me!”
Stone helped him off with his coat and steered him to the sofa. “Sit down and take a few deep breaths,” he said, and got the boy a bottle of water from the fridge.
Peter gave him a blow-by-blow account of his meeting. “I’m going to the school tomorrow morning. They said you and Mom could come, too!”
“I’m available,” Stone said, “and I’m sure your mother is, too.”
That evening they attended The Lion King, which Stone liked much better than he thought he would, and they dined at Sardi’s. Stone explained the history of the restaurant, and they played at recognizing the faces in the caricatures hung in rows on the walls. Peter did better than Stone.
Later, as they climbed into bed, Stone pulled Arrington close to him. “I love you,” he said.
“I love you, too.”
“Good. Will you marry me?”
She pushed him back and looked at him. “Stone, are you just trying to make an honest woman of me?”
“Among other things. In addition to all the other good reasons for getting married, I don’t think Peter ought to have to explain our relationship to people.”