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“You’re all wrong,” he said. “There’ll be movies tonight.”
She smiled at him, but tremulously, as though it cost her an effort. “You’d better finish getting dressed,” she said. “I hate to miss the begi
He went into the bedroom, combed his hair, put on a tie and got into his shoes. He looked briefly at the tumbled bed, now a confused battlefield, as he put on his jacket.
When he came out into the living room again, he saw that she had slung her camera equipment around her. He tried to argue but she insisted upon taking the stuff with her.
“I’ve been in this place enough,” she said, “for one Saturday.”
As he drove along the rain-drenched highway the next morning on the way to Billy’s school, through sparse early traffic, he was thinking about Jean, not about Billy. They had gone to the movie, which was disappointing, had eaten supper afterward in a joint on Third Avenue, had talked about things that hardly mattered to either of them, the movie they had seen, other movies, plays they had seen, books and magazine articles they had read, rumors from Washington. The conversation of strangers. They had avoided mentioning marriage or overlapping lovers. They were both unaccountably weary, as though a great physical effort had drained them earlier. They drank more than they usually did. If this had been the first time they had gone out together, they would have thought each other dull. When they had finished their steaks, in the emptying restaurant, and had a cognac apiece, he was relieved to be able to put her into a taxi, walk home alone and turn the key behind him in the silent apartment, although the raw colors of the décor and the arty spikiness of the furniture made it look like an abandoned float from last year’s Mardi Gras. The bed now was just messy, the neglected tangle of a slatternly housewife, not the warm abode of love. He slept heavily and when he awoke in the morning and remembered the night before and his errand for the day, the sooty December rain outside his window seemed the appropriate weather for the weekend.
He had called the school and left a message for Billy that he would be there around twelve-thirty to take him to lunch, but he arrived earlier than he expected, a little after noon. Even though the rain had stopped and a faint cold sun was filtering through the clouds in the south, there was no one to be seen on the campus, coming or going into any of the buildings. From what Gretchen had told him about the school, in fine weather and a more clement season it was a place of beauty, but under the wet sky, seemingly abandoned, there was something forbiddingly prisonlike about the cluster of buildings and the muddy lawns. He drove up to what was obviously the main building and got out uncertainly, not knowing where to find Billy. Then, from the chapel a hundred yards away he heard young voices singing strongly, “Onward Christian Soldiers.”
Sunday. Compulsory services, he thought. They still do that in schools. Christ. When he was a boy Billy’s age, all he had to do was salute the flag every morning and pledge allegiance to the United States of America. The advantages of public education. Separation of Church and State.
A Lincoln Continental drove up to the steps and stopped. It was a richly endowed school. Future rulers of America. He himself drove a Chevrolet. He wondered what would have been said at faculty teas if he had arrived on his motorcycle, which he still owned, though he now seldom used it. An important-looking man in a smart raincoat got out of the Lincoln, leaving a lady in the car. Parents. Occasional faint weekend communication with a future ruler of America. From his ma
“Good morning, sir,” Rudolph said, in his automatic speaking-to-company-presidents’ voice. “I wonder if you could tell me where Sillitoe Hall is?”
The man smiled widely, showing five thousand dollars’ worth of exquisite dental work. “Good morning, good morning. Yes, of course. My boy was there last year. In some ways the best house on the campus. It’s just over there.” He pointed. The building was four hundred yards away. “You can drive there if you want. Just down this driveway and around.”
“Thank you,” Rudolph said.
The hymn rang out from the chapel. The parent cocked an ear. “They’re still praising God,” he said. “All in favor of it. We could stand more of it.”
Rudolph got into his Chevrolet and drove to Sillitoe Hall. He looked at the plaque commemorating Lieutenant Sillitoe as he went into the silent building. A girl of about four, in blue overalls, was pedaling a three-wheeler around the cluttered common room on the ground floor. A large setter in the room barked at him. Rudolph was a little disconcerted. He hadn’t expected four-year-old girls in a boys’ school.
A door opened and a chubby, pleasant-faced young woman in slacks came into the room and said, “Shut up, Boney,” to the dog. She smiled at Rudolph. “He’s harmless,” she said.
Rudolph didn’t know what she was doing there, either.
“Are you a father?” the woman asked, grabbing the dog by the collar and half strangling him, while he wagged his tail madly, full of love.
“Not exactly,” Rudolph said. “I’m Billy Abbott’s uncle. I called this morning.”
A curious little expression—concern? suspicion? relief?—shadowed the pleasant, chubby, young face. “Oh, yes,” the woman said. “He expects you. I’m Mollie Fairweather. I’m the housemaster’s wife.”
That explained the child, the dog, herself. Whatever was wrong with Billy, Rudolph decided instantly, it wasn’t the fault of this healthy, agreeable woman.
“The boys’ll be back from chapel any minute now,” the woman said. “Don’t you want to come into our place and have a drink, perhaps, while you’re waiting?”
“I don’t want to put you to any trouble,” Rudolph said, but didn’t protest further, as Mrs. Fairweather waved him in.
The room was large, comfortable, the furniture well worn, the books many. “My husband’s at chapel, too,” Mrs. Fairweather explained. “But I do think we have some sherry.” A child cried from another room. “My youngest,” Mrs. Fairweather said, “making an a
There was an awkward pause. It occurred to Rudolph as he sat down that this woman, who had only met Billy a few months ago, must know him much better than himself, who was on a mission, unbriefed and flying blind, to rescue the boy. He should have asked Gretchen to read the letter that disturbed her so to him over the phone.
“He’s a very nice boy,” Mrs. Fairweather said, “Billy. So handsome and well behaved. We do get some wild ones, Mr. …” she hesitated.
“Jordache,” Rudolph said.
“So we appreciate the ones who know their ma
“His mother is worried about him,” Rudolph said.
“Is she?” The response was too quick. Gretchen wasn’t the only one who had noticed something.
“She got a letter from him this week. She said—well, of course, mothers are prone to exaggeration—but she said it sounded as though Billy is in despair.” There was no sense in not revealing to this obviously level-headed and well-meaning woman what his errand was. “The word seems a little strong to me,” he said, “but I’ve come to see what can be done. His mother’s in California. And …” He was a little embarrassed now. “She remarried.”
“That’s not so uncommon around here,” Mrs. Fairweather said. She laughed. “I don’t mean about parents living in California. I mean the remarried.”