When he still resisted, she dropped his hand, turned from him, went through the door. He hesitated, then, surrendering, followed her. He always stayed close to her at parties, using her vivacity as a cover for his shyness, but this time they moved to separate rooms in Marjorie’s big house, which was loud with people talking.
Francis moved through the people in the foyer into the living room. It seemed bigger somehow, empty of something he couldn’t put his finger on. He stopped walking. A surprising fear of the new largeness of Marjorie’s living room rose in him. While anxiety took hold of him, Marcia Holmes, his young friend in the History Department, moved across the rug to him.
Smiling, she told him how much she liked hearing what he’d said about the girls he graduated. “You tell such wonderful stories,” she told him, and went on to say how much she wished more girls liked her enough to invite her to graduate them, and suddenly, while part of him told her not to worry because next year would be easier, the second year always was, and another part of him watched her face, still another part watched the scene that suddenly appeared inside his head for the second or third time that week while he began to sweat and went on talking to this lovely young woman in her sexy summer dress as if everything were normal: The stern of a ship was moving away, he saw the froth by the propeller, going away from him, no one had seen him fall overboard, no one heard his shouts. Marjorie’s big sofa was missing, he realized, coming back fully to his young friend, and the top three shelves of her bookcase were empty, and that was what he pointed out to her, as if it were a discovery of some amazing new scientific fact, interrupting her as she told him of her summer plans, and there was a funny look on her face—part worry and part a question, as if she were hoping that he was telling her a joke she didn’t understand. “She’s started to move out already,” he said in a very matter-of-fact way.
“Yes,” Marcia said. She was waiting for a punch line, but he couldn’t think of anything else to say. She patted his arm—he couldn’t tell if it was sympathy or just her way of excusing herself—and moved away.
FRED KINDLER, THE new headmaster, was standing by the fireplace in the center of Marjorie’s living room. Marjorie stood next to him, a good six inches taller. They were talking calmly together—as if nothing had happened, as if everything was the same, and Francis remembered Marjorie telling him of her resolve to hide her bitterness. “These people, who wouldn’t even have a school to be on the board of if it weren’t for me, want me to pretend I yearn for retirement,” she had told him. “Well, I’d rather yearn for death. But all this is for your ears only,” she went on after a pause. “The last bitter statement I’m going to make. I’ll take their advice. I’ll say I want the time to take up—what, golf? My grandsons? You know, the truth of the matter is I’m not remotely interested in my grandsons,” she murmured, speaking half to herself and half to Francis as if she’d just discovered this about herself. “This school is what interests me.”
Francis was surprised again at the new head’s red hair, the big red mustache, and the short, stocky, powerful body. For an instant, Francis, in his mind’s eye, observed his own short, almost pudgy body, as if in a mirror, his round mild, unobtrusive face. He couldn’t resist staring across the room at Kindler. He’s so male! Francis thought, and then registered what he had seen instantly when he first saw Kindler standing next to Marjorie: that he was wearing the same brown polyester suit that he’d worn during his interviews. Polyester! Francis thought, shocked at himself that he even noticed. He’d always been proud that in the world of preppydom of which it was a part, Miss Oliver’s School for Girls was studiously unpreppy, so why did he care what the man wore?
Kindler and Marjorie both noticed him. Francis saw Marjorie put her hand lightly on Kindler’s wrist and Kindler move across the room toward him. He had an awkward gait; his feet pointed outward like Charley Chaplin’s. For an instant, Francis felt sorry for him, imagined girls imitating that walk, every girl on campus walking like that everywhere they went, day after day, until the poor man had to leave.
Kindler’s right hand was out. His left hand patted Francis on the shoulder. All Francis could see was the red of Kindler’s hair and mustache. “Come see me tomorrow,” Kindler said. “I’m here all day. Mrs. Boyd’s lending me her office. I need all the advice I can get, and I want to start with the senior teacher. Want to collect the best ideas and get a running start when I come back.”
Francis was appalled at the boyishness. He felt suddenly like a tutor. That’s not what he wanted—parenting his own boss. “I’m leaving for the summer dig project tomorrow. Six a.m.,” he said.
A waiter from the caterers came by with a tray of drinks. Francis plucked a glass of white wine. Without taking his eyes off Francis, frowning slightly, Kindler murmured to the waiter, “No, thank you,” and then to Francis: “Oh? That so? You’re going on that dig? Somebody told me that one of the teachers was going. I didn’t realize it was you.”
“I signed up way back in February,” Francis said. He almost added before you were appointed, but he didn’t feel like explaining himself.
“Well,” said Kindler, “I could have used you around here this summer. But that’s the way it has to be.” His face brightened. “California, right?” Francis had the impression that the man had changed his expression on purpose to make him more comfortable.
Francis sensed Peggy watching him from across the room. “Right, California.” He took a sip of his drink, noticed that several people were watching him and Kindler. We’re on stage, he thought. It’s a big scene, and now he was seeing himself as some kind of fulcrum. Took another sip, his hand was shaking, spilled some wine on his shirt, felt its cold.
Kindler handed him a napkin. “Mount Alma, right?” “
Yes,” said Francis. “Mount Alma.” He saw himself driving out across the flat Midwest, lonely without Peggy in the car. Then he saw the mountains, felt a little surge of joy, but his hand was still shaking, and he spilled some more.
“You all right?” Kindler asked.
For an instant, thinking the question was sardonic, the new head’s first spear thrust, and Francis was relieved. Then looking at the man’s too youthful face, he realized the question was sincere, uncomplicated, devoid of subtlety, and he was panic-stricken. “I’m all right,” he managed. By now he was sure everybody was watching them.
“Look,” Kindler said. “I understand.” He was talking now very quietly so no one else could hear. “Why wouldn’t you feel that way? You’ve served her for years. I’ve admired her too—just from a greater distance. Just the same, I’m sure we can work together.”
“Well, as long as you don’t change anything,” Francis blurted. Then he realized what he’d said, how dumb it was. He managed a grin, a little chuckle, as if he’d been joking, as if he hadn’t meant exactly what had come out of his mouth.
His camouflage seemed to work. Fred Kindler smiled. Francis saw the red mustache move. “Good,” said Kindler. “I look forward to working with you.” Then he moved away to mix with the others.
THERE! FRANCIS THOUGHT, I’ve managed to get through it. Now I can go home! He looked for Peggy, saw her across the room, stared at her back until she turned. He signaled her with his eyes that he wanted to leave. But she turned her back to him to show she was engaged in the conversation. He felt empty, moved across the room to leave the house.
He figured if he could just get out the door …
But on the way, he overheard Milton Perkins telling one of his Polish jokes to a circle of uncomfortable-looking faculty members. Perkins, the recently retired president of one of the biggest insurance companies in the state, had been on the board a long time. Francis found himself slowing down on his way to the door, listening to the joke. He’d heard it before. Perkins was seldom able to resist baiting the faculty’s liberalism and being politically incorrect in a loud voice whenever he got an audience of teachers. Francis had always forgiven the man, understanding that underneath, Perkins had a deep respect for the school and the people who taught in it—which