by Ward Just
What did they mean by that?
Who knows? Wrong clothes, though my clothes were like everyone else's clothes, tweed jackets and flannel trousers. Striped tie. I think it was because I was old. I was sixty. Bald, as you can see. The students were young enough to be my grandchildren and that presented the wrong—image. Not the image of the school that they wanted, youth and vigor. They wanted something postwar.
Jesus, Gus said.
And I was careless. I had debts, not large in the scheme of things but more than I could handle. Millie had health problems, as you know. I didn't want retirement with debt on my mind. I needed to regroup so I came here, answered the ad in the Bulletin. That was three years ago and I'm no further ahead now than I was then. So this job means a lot to me, Gus.
Half our faculty has a similar story, the headmaster said. Had a falling-out with the administration. An incident with a student. An incident with a parent. Denied tenure, asked to move on with the promise of a glowing letter of recommendation to make things a little easier. They wanted to come to a new place, begin again. Everyone knows that Ogden Hall is flush with cash. So they arrive here with a bad attitude. It's not their first choice anyhow. Often it's not their second choice. They're like the ballplayer who's been sent to the minors; they believed it was only a question of time before they'd climb back to the Bigs. They'd be chairman of the English department at Exeter with an office of their own and a sabbatical every six years and the opportunity to pal around with a senator's kid. But they don't believe that anymore. Ogden Hall is the end of the line for them. We live in an atmosphere of disappointment and frustration. Resentment too, because everyone knows they've been dealt bad cards. Bad cards, bad luck, bad choices. The deck is stacked. So unfair.
Are you thinking about your message, Gus?
Not really, the headmaster said.
I wish you would.
Trouble is, we have no distinguished graduates. Not one we can point to and say, This is the face of Ogden Hall.
Give them time, Ted said. They're young. Too young to be chairmen.
You mean too young to appear on the cover of Time as the savior of American capitalism.
That's harsh, Gus.
Don't we have a ballplayer?
Young Flatley. Played a year with the Bears, got hurt.
Army general? Admiral? What about an actor?
None I know of. See, Gus. That's the advantage of the eastern schools, been around forever. At Andover when all else fails—the senators, the scientists, the ambassadors, the bankers and the writers and the Nobel Prize—winning economists—they haul out Humphrey Bogart. Who was expelled, by the way. And the school sent his parents a very friendly and consoling letter indicating that the young man, though perhaps not quite suitable for Andover, would do just fine in life.
I met him once, Gus said.
Bogart?
He's a brawler, the headmaster said.
That's not the point, Gus.
It would help if we had a gangster. Not Dillinger. Clyde Barrow, maybe.
What we have, Gus, is Tommy Ogden.
We're a young school, it's true.
Will you give your message some thought? It's a problem for me, Gus, because I'm the one catching the flak.
They were sitting in the headmaster's office, the former master bedroom the size of a squash court. Now Augustus Allprice stood and stepped to the window. The afternoon was dark, threatening rain. Clouds were boiling up in the west. Far in the distance he could see the railroad trestle. He stood in the window jiggling the coins in his pocket. He said nothing for a full minute, trying to imagine the Patagonian tundra as seen from a sailboat offshore, a springy thirty-eight-footer. Probably Herman Melville had visited Patagonia. He had been everywhere else, why not there? Gus thought he was probably miscast as a headmaster, as Melville was miscast as a customs inspector. Still, Melville did fine work in the later years of his life, living in New York and working at the customs house. And lost his audience because the later work was ambitious, complex and demanding. Gus watched a bright red Ford convertible motor up the drive, a pretty girl at the wheel. She stopped abruptly in a shower of gravel, tossed her head, alighted, and marched up the steps. She was someone's stepmother, what was the kid's name? Berry? Merry? He was one of the slugs with an IQ of 140 and an ambition of zero. A foul mouth and a bully in the bargain. The headmaster sighed, turning again to his director of admissions, waiting patiently.
The problem is Ogden Hall, Ted. The situation. The ambiance. The look of the place. The mansion, the gardens, the classrooms that look like bedrooms with their chandeliers and dressing rooms. After all these years you can still smell ladies' perfume. Ogden Hall doesn't look like a school. It never has. It looks like what it is, a huge country house converted to another use. It's a ship in dry dock. It has neither the look nor the feel of discipline or scholarship. Even the athletic fields look bogus. Parents and students come here for their first look and think that if they wait around long enough they'll hear a jazz band and a waiter will arrive with a tray of cocktails and a debutante will dance in from the wings. Listen hard enough and you can hear the thud of tennis balls on the clay court even though it's the middle of January, a foot of snow on the ground. God knows what thoughts the bedroom-classrooms inspire. We're shabby in these surroundings, faculty and students both, but mostly faculty because the students at least are wearing decent shoes. Things are out of place here and they always will be. Ogden Hall is misbegotten and that's the truth of it.
That's harsh, Gus.
My view, the headmaster said.
We have a beautiful facility. We're unique. All the parents admire Ogden Hall. The older ones even remember Tommy Ogden in his middle age. Tommy and Marie, a pair of scamps. Ogden Hall reminds them of their youth. You should hear the stories they tell, dinner dances in the garden, eight people at table. A full orchestra to entertain them, including the singer.
A tap on the door announced the headmaster's secretary, who looked in to say that Mrs. Berry was waiting. An urgent matter that requires your immediate attention, Gus.
Tell her ten minutes, the headmaster said.
She seems impatient—
Ten minutes, he repeated.
One last thing, Ted Weddle said. Anjelica was in the library yesterday looking for some book—
Balzac, the headmaster said.
She was wearing shorts again, Ted said.
It was warm yesterday. She often wears shorts.
And—what do you call those things?
Halter tops, the headmaster said.
Halter top, Ted said. Out of nowhere the library was suddenly crowded with boys. The little shits, all of them leering. It's not good, Gus. It just simply sends the wrong message. Anjelica is a very attractive young woman.
No kidding, the headmaster said.
The director of admissions flung up his hands in defeat. Can we continue this tomorrow? Same time?
The headmaster nodded in the direction of the portrait over the fireplace, Tommy Ogden in full hunting fig, camouflage forage cap pushed back on his head, canvas jacket, lace-up boots, a shotgun cradled in his arms. His face was tanned, his hair the color and texture of straw. An antlered stag lay at his feet, its pink tongue lolling and limp as an old sock. The headmaster said, They tell me that Tommy Ogden was an awful son of a bitch. Is, I suppose, since he's still alive somewhere. And I wonder all this time whether his live spirit haunts this school. Whether he floats from room to room, a kind of evil miasma whispering to the boys that it's perfectly all right to screw off your entire life. That life is better screwing off. That screwing off is as productive and rewarding an activity as any other. Screwing off, you need never take a backward glance and wonder what life's all about. Screwing off is its own reward. No one will care, and if they do care you can give them the finger.
Patagonia, the headmaster concluded, but by then the director of admissions was already easing himself out the door, promising to return the next afte
rnoon. When he heard Gus murmur "Patagonia," Ted smiled gamely. Patagonia would not be the headmaster's solution. Patagonia was no one's solution, merely another wasteland at the nether end of a far continent, as pointless as an orchestra for eight people at table.
And one moment later Mrs. George V. Berry—given name Lucille, but Georgette to her friends—was in the room, offering a brisk handshake, settling onto the couch, arranging her legs, beginning to speak even as she settled. We have a problem with William, Augustus, or do you prefer Gus? William's father and I are not at all satisfied with his progress at Ogden Hall, or should I say lack of progress. Ogden Hall promises straightforwardness and individual attention but so far his father and I have received excuses and William one critical report after another, several of them incoherent. His grades are not as they should be and this is not the result we expect for our fifteen hundred dollars a year. The result we expect, and the result we will have, is an invitation for our son to join Yale's freshman class next year. Yale is the school my husband attended. It is his father's school as well, and that would make William the third generation. Matriculation at Yale is my husband's wish. It is my wish. And it should be your wish, Augustus. But we are not confident that anyone in your school is looking out for William, who is very, very bright, as we know from the Stanford-Binet. He is one of the brightest boys in your school and yet his grade average is miserable. And what I want to know is, what do you intend to do about it? Is there a plan? I have spoken to his instructors one by one and I must tell you I am not satisfied. His father is not satisfied. They do not seem to us to be committed teachers. I see no zeal in your faculty. I do not find a thirst to educate. As it happens, the boy's father and I have identified the problem. William is bored. He is bored because the work he is being asked to do is far, far below his level. The boys in his class are dull. They have routine minds. That's my husband's judgment and I agree with it. You have put a racehorse into a stable of mules. That's the crux of it.
The headmaster's telephone rang then and he raised his hand as he answered, spoke a few words, and replaced the receiver.
You were saying, Mrs. Berry.
We are wasting time, she said.
I would say so, yes.
So, if I may ask, now that you've been made aware of the situation. The mess you've made of things. What are your plans?
Georgette Berry had run out of gas. She had said everything her husband asked her to say. She had hit every note. But this headmaster had not responded, had not moved so much as an eyelid. She could not tell if he had been listening carefully. He was an attractive man but his blue eyes did have a faraway look, as if they were not closely focused. He was well tailored in the academic manner, wearing a blue button-down shirt and a soft tweed jacket, patches on the elbows. The quality was good. He had the bearing of a man who had been around. Someone had told her he had worked as a seaman and she could believe it. He had huge hands. The headmaster was rumored to have a woman living with him in his house on campus, a cause for concern surely, though she herself preferred to be broad-minded, unlike so many of the midwestern hausfraus she knew. Georgette had grown up in the West, Los Angeles, and had run with the movie crowd. Love life among the movie crowd was never a cause for concern unless the story made the tabloids, an unlikely event because the industry employed an army of press agents who could make almost any story go away. They had a different view of things in the Midwest, even her husband. They were strait-laced on the North Shore. Her husband was always talking about some friend who had zipper trouble. She had to ask him what that meant, and when he told her, she laughed, apparently not the thing to do because he was angry with her and said it wasn't a laughing matter, there were children involved, not to mention reputations. Also, he had the view that Los Angeles was a kind of Gomorrah, even though that was where they met, George advising an actor friend of hers on a real estate investment. At first he seemed to fit right in with his good looks, his charm. He was rich. He was ardent. He had a beautiful golf game. When he proposed she accepted at once, although it meant that she had to move to Illinois. George was a different man in Illinois, his clergy-gray three-piece suits and wingtip shoes, garters on his socks, a fedora hat. George was a provincial, that was the truth of it. Illinois lacked vivacity.
Her thoughts were drifting now and she hauled them back in order to concentrate on the important matter at hand. The headmaster had not responded as she believed he should. He seemed to be waiting for something more from her, a fresh demand or insight. The silence lengthened and at last he smiled, but slightly. She did not find it an encouraging smile, this ambiguous twist of his mouth, as much frown as smile. He really did have the most startling pale blue eyes. Georgette wondered if she should invite him to dinner, him and the girlfriend. The girlfriend was said to be quite pretty. Something small and informal, ten at table, drinks and dinner on the terrace if weather permitted. In an informal setting her husband could press his case, make this Gus understand the stakes. The headmaster remained silent so Georgette repeated herself, something she hated doing because it meant she had not been listened to.
What are your plans, Mr. Allprice?
Plans?
Yes, plans. To resolve the situation.
Patagonia, the headmaster said.
I beg your pardon?
You asked me what my plans were. I am going to Patagonia.
For good?
I imagine not. For a while.
You are abandoning your post?
I cannot run a school from Patagonia.
No, of course not.
And I will be living aboard ship.
In Patagonia?
Offshore, the headmaster said.
Have you listened to anything I've said?
Of course.
But then—what about William?
I don't know. I have no idea.
I've never heard such a thing, Georgette said. She did not know how to proceed. Talking to Augustus Allprice was like talking to a statue. There was something—she sought the proper word— militant about him, and yet his manner was correct, his twisted smile conveying a kind of sympathy. George should have come himself. She was not cut out for confrontations with schoolteachers. She agreed to it only because she wanted young William out of the house and in faraway New Haven.
Someone will take my place, the headmaster said. You can talk to him.
I am talking to you, she said.
You must excuse me now, Mrs. Berry. I have a meeting with the faculty.
She looked at him as he stood, towering above her.
My husband will be furious, she said.
Is he often furious?
When he feels thwarted he is furious.
Will he take out his fury on you?
He might, she said. He is unpredictable. He is a lawyer.
I see, the headmaster said.
I knew we made a mistake with Ogden Hall.
There are other schools, the headmaster said.
Georgette found herself unaccountably on the edge of tears. This simple mission had turned into a debacle. Her husband had told her that the headmaster would fold when made aware of the facts. It was his job to accommodate himself to reality, to give help when help was required. Lay it out for him, George had said. He'll get it, believe me. Now she found herself adrift. But William is a senior, she said. There's no time to find another place for him.
The headmaster handed her the box of tissues that was always on his desk. When the telephone rang he turned his back to her and spoke for a minute or more, a problem in the chemistry lab. Someone had broken a vial and fumes were everywhere. The instructor had evacuated the room but the fumes remained and they were dangerous. Not life-threatening but nausea-causing, and it might be a good idea to get a doctor in to examine the boys. Yes, the headmaster said, and do it at once.
When he hung up the telephone he stood quietly looking at the portrait of Tommy Ogden, wondering if it was a faithful likeness. If it was, then Tommy Ogden ha
d a bull's face, a long nose and heavy ears. Everything about him was bull-like except for the straw-colored hair. Gus wondered what provoked the sportsman into founding a school for boys and pouring millions into it. He never visited. He never inquired into its affairs. Gus had never met him and didn't expect to. He decided that Tommy Ogden was misbegotten. He stood looking at the portrait another minute, having utterly forgotten Georgette Berry. When he remembered he turned abruptly and saw to his regret that she was no longer in the room. The room was not in focus. Gus felt the inevitable headache gathering at the base of his skull. He put his fingers on the desk and lowered himself into the chair and sat quietly, his eyes closed. This was his first attack in months, the inner ear's revenge. The answer to it was simple. Patagonia.
BEFORE THE ADVENT of Augustus Allprice, Ogden Hall had suffered reversals, three headmasters in the first five years of its existence, four in the next fifteen. None of them were suitable. Two were alcoholic, one was a thief, another had falsified his CV. Two others had severe psychological problems, manic depression in one case, paranoia in the other. Bert Marks began to wonder if there was something pathological about schoolmasters, some gene that went haywire the moment a man assumed the title or aspired to one. They seemed perfectly reasonable men during the interview, in command of themselves and the material. Bert Marks looked on them as witnesses. Could they convince a jury? Did they make a good appearance generally, meaning well-spoken and well-groomed, decently tailored? Most important, did they go beyond their brief? Bert felt he had a musician's ear for the discordant statement, the one not entirely justified by the facts at hand. After the first two headmasters crashed and burned, Bert began to doubt his abilities. He had been hoodwinked as he had never been in his career as an attorney-at-law. He was not a trial lawyer but was often hired to be present at jury selection, so shrewd were his readings of character. These men seemed beyond reproach, solid citizens, men of achievement and integrity, yet they were charlatans. He had never hired a consultant in his life, and when a friend suggested he do so at once, Bert laughed in his face, it was ludicrous—and then he reconsidered. The first consultant turned out to be as addled as the candidate they were interviewing, a faux Englishman who claimed a background at Harrow and Cambridge and distant connections with the royal family. Easily checked, easily dismissed, along with the consultant, whose own credentials were not quite in order. Bert began to think he was dealing with a criminal subculture, nothing to do with the mafia but something altogether more sinister because it was so unexpected. He was interviewing schoolmasters, not second-story men or kneecap artists.