The Books of Fell (9 page)

“Sevens don’t walk when they don’t have to,” Lasher said. Then he smiled at me. “Surprised you, didn’t we, Pingree?”

Thursday night at dinner, Gardner’s headmaster, J. T. Skinner, announced that the winner of the N.B.C. competition was me … for “Arizona Darkness.”

I got a handshake and a gold plaque. Then everyone in the dining room stood and applauded.

“You’re really stepping in it!” Dib said after lights out.

Well, W. Thompson Pingree was. For sure. It didn’t seem like John Fell’s luck. My father used to say, “Even in heaven you’ll find the wrong people to hang out with, Johnny; you head for trouble like a paper clip toward a magnet.” I hoped he was “up there” looking down on me, marveling. I knew I was marveling.

“I’m not trying to find out anything secret about Sevens from you,” Dib continued, “but …”

“Good! Because I couldn’t tell you anything, anyway. I don’t have a clue why I got in!”

“But,” Dib persisted, “don’t you think it’s got something to do with the N.B.C. essay?”

“What could it have to do with that? The richest boy in the whole state of Florida got into Sevens, too, right? His essay didn’t even place, didn’t even get Honorable Mention.” That was true. Monte Kidder was the kid who was dragged out of his bed by the Sevens over in Parker House, some five hours after I got in.

“Right.” Dib sounded dejected. “Right. And that guy that sings the solos in chapel, and sounds like a castrato his voice is so high, he got in, too.”

“Outerbridge,” I said.

“Yeah, Outerbridge.”

Outerbridge, Kidder, and Pingree.

We were the only three to make Sevens. We were as different from each other as Sean Penn, Mr. T, and Emmanuel Lewis.

All of us were tapped for Sevens on Wednesday night. All of us were told we’d be initiated into the mysteries of Sevens in seven days, at seven o’clock, in the clubhouse under The Tower.

“It just doesn’t add up,” Dib said.

“Go to sleep,” I said. “I’m going to sleep it off, like it was all a big binge.”

That night my brain discarded some neurological junk. I dreamed Lasher pushed me off The Tower and I discovered I could fly. So could Delia. She flapped her arms like slender silver wings, and we glided along in sunny blue skies. “Don’t fall!” she called to me, and I saw spelled out as she always wrote my name in letters, going down.

F

E

L

L

I cabled John Fell the news at L’Ecole la Coeur, and waited for an answer of any kind. Congratulations? Good work, W. Thompson Pingree!? The bonus for Sevens is in the bank, as promised? Something … I figured Ping’d find a way to get the news to his father.

Days passed.

Even though I didn’t yet know the mysteries of Sevens, I was already basking in its reflected glory. Faculty smiled. J. T. Skinner called out, “Ah! The man of the hour! Hel-lo, there!” Kids whose smiles and clothes and walks shouted money, prep school, connections, tennis, also shouted “Pingree! How’re you doing?” Creery gave me a wink, passing me on the commons. Lasher clasped his hands together above his head in a gesture of victory.

In a letter to Delia, I wrote:

I even wrote to Keats.

On the weekend, I broke all the rules and called Mom. I signed out and went down into Cottersville with my pockets full of change at dinnertime, and found a phone booth on the corner.

When Jazzy answered, I said, “This is the King of Rumania. We have reason to believe our little princess was taken from us years ago by someone at this number.”

“Johnny? Where are you?”

“Switzerland, honey! Can’t you hear the skiers swooshing down the mountain right behind me?”

“I wish you was here, Johnny!” “I wish I were, too, Jazzy!” “Mommy! Johnny’s calling from Switzerland!” When Mom came on, I said, “I know I’m not supposed to be doing this.”

“I’m glad you did, sweetheart!”

“I miss you, Mom. I made Sevens!”

“That snob club?”

“I don’t know that it’s such a snob club,” I said. Oh, it didn’t take much to blow me the other way, did it?

“Johnny! You’ll get more money!” “Yeah! But remember, Mom, money can’t buy happiness.”

“Anyone who says that doesn’t know where to shop!”

“I won an essay contest, too, Mom!” “I’m proud of you, Johnny…. Are you happy?”

“I think so. I’m a little confused.”

“Me, too. Happy but a little confused. You know how much I owe MasterCard? They just gave me fifteen hundred dollars more credit! I’m going to buy you something to celebrate all your good news!”

“Nothing to wear, Mom,
please,”
I said.

When I hung up, the lights were bright up on The Hill. The little town of Cottersville was pretty dead. I walked around until I found a soda shop that had an hour to go before closing. I parked myself at the counter and ordered a Western on toast with mustard, and a vanilla soda without ice cream. I longed for the old egg creams I used to buy in Brooklyn. The soda wasn’t even close.

I saw a copy of
The Cottersville Compass
on a rack by the door, and bought myself a copy for fifty cents.

I turned the pages slowly while I ate, and came to my own photograph on page six. I was shaking hands with Dr. Skinner, the night he gave me the gold plaque.

I hadn’t even been aware of a camera in the dining room, but someone had been there with one, because there I was in all my glory, smiling up at the headmaster in my Brooks Brothers navy blazer with the gray pants.

Under my photograph was:

Under that was my essay:

Picture rows of tar-papered buildings surrounded by barbed wire fences, set down in an empty wasteland blown by swirling dust and whistling winds….

I remembered Pingree’s saying to me, “Don’t
ever
let anyone take your picture!”

I began to panic. The picture. The essay. And her title:
Arizona Darkness.

The Cottersville Compass
was only a weekly with a small circulation, but I knew from so many of my father’s cases how things could begin to unravel through little slips.

I decided to do something risky. I’d call Fernwood Manor, hoping Pingree would answer. If
she
answered, I’d hang up and try to think of another tack. But if he answered, I’d just say, “I need to talk to you! Can you call me tonight in an hour or so?”

I got more change from the girl behind the counter. I recognized Billy Joel’s voice singing on the radio and it made me think of Delia. I wished that summer had never ended.

I left half the toasted Western behind. There was too much mustard on it, anyway. I put a few bills down to cover my check, and went back out into the street to find the phone booth again.

I dialed 516, then Pingree’s number, which I knew by heart, and put in a lot of change when the operator told me the charges.

I got an answering machine.

It was Fern Pingree’s voice.

“You’ve reached 555-2455. We are not able to answer the phone just now. At the sound of the beep, please leave your message. If this is you, Woody, there’s an emergency. Come here or call the Institute. Woody, if this is you, there’s an emergency.”

Four days went by. Still no word from Pingree. Nothing from John Fell in Switzerland, either. I knew Pingree was planning to travel in late November. He’d told me that when he’d presented me with the bank book. But it was only the second week in the month. I couldn’t figure out what kind of an emergency would prompt his wife to leave that message on the phone answering machine, or why she wouldn’t know where he was.

I made myself stop thinking about it. There were too many projects to finish before Christmas vacation. I had a paper due on the cosmological theory of the big bang, for science. I had to finish an analysis of Euripedes’ plays for classics. For French, we were supposed to compose a Christmas poem called “La Paix.” There was a major Latin test scheduled for the first week in December.

Then there was the move from Hull House into Sevens House, which was to be completed before the Sevens’s dinner.

I’d finished that late Wednesday afternoon, with Dib’s help.

I asked Dib to walk partway to The Tower with me that night. After I left the Sevens’s clubhouse, at the end of the dinner, I’d be going straight over to Sevens House. I’d be a bona fide member then, an object of awe and envy for the rest of my days at Gardner.

“You look a little down for someone who’s lucked out all over the place,” Dib said.

“Did you see anyone with a camera at the N.B.C. dinner?”

“Just Mr. Parish, Gardner’s P.R. man. Why?”

“I wonder if he’ll take pictures at this dinner?”

“Nobody goes inside that clubhouse but Sevens members and the help. Is that all you’ve got to worry about now, whether someone’s going to get your shining hour on film?”

“I don’t want my shining hour on film.”

“No, not much. I never saw anyone primp the way you just did.”

I’d showered, shaved, cut my nails, cleaned under what was left, and refrained from dousing myself with Aramis. I’d remembered what Cadman, the owner of Plain and Fancy, used to say about wearing cologne or after-shave to sit-down dinners. Don’t. It ruined the smell of the food.

It was raining out, wanting to snow. Dib was holding the umbrella. He was in the oldest clothes he could find. I was in rust cotton trousers with a thin navy stripe, the navy blazer, a white shirt, a polka dot tie, and just-shined black loafers.

I slung one arm around Dib’s shoulders. “This isn’t going to change that much between us. We’re still going to see a lot of each other, Dib.”

“Sure. In classes. Study hall.”

“Movies. We’ll go to movies.”

“They’ve got a VCR in Sevens House with a screen the size of the side of a house.”

“I’m not going to get stuck up, Dib.”

“You say now.”

“I’ll say later, too.”

“Later we’ll see what you say.”

I stopped him halfway along the commons.

“I don’t want you to go the rest of the way with me.”

“I understand,” he said, as though the reason were him.

“I just don’t want the Sevens to think I brought someone along for courage.” “You did,” Dib said.

“Yeah, but they don’t have to know I did.”

I gave his arm a light punch. “Okay, scumbag, from now on stay out of my way.”

“Very funny,” he said sadly. He wasn’t taking it well. I was. I didn’t like moving out on him, but I was champing at the bit to hear about the mysteries, get a good meal, and go directly to Boardwalk … or heaven … or whatever you wanted to nickname Sevens House. The beds over there were bigger and firmer than those in Hull House. There were thick rugs on the floors, fireplaces in some of the rooms; only two shared a bathroom. Lights out was when you wanted lights out, and your room was cleaned, your bed made, by a maid.

“Okay, Dibble,” I said. “I’ll be around, pal.”

“Me, too, Thompson. Don’t you want the umbrella? I don’t need it in these clothes.”

“I don’t want to look all fresh like the blushing bride,” I said. “A little wet’ll be good.”

But it was starting to come down hard and cold. I ran the rest of the way to The Tower.

Lionel Schwartz presided over the dinner that night in the Sevens clubhouse.

He was known around campus as the Lion. He was in all the school plays, a good-looking senior, the type who wore bow ties and leather patches on his sports coat, and had permission from home to smoke a pipe he could never keep lit.

The room was filled with candles; even the chandelier above our heads held candles. The Sevens seemed to be candle freaks. They all had on their top hats and their light-blue blazers with the 7’s on the pockets. There was a fire going. Creery sat across from me, grinning at me.

We were served filet mignon, baked potato with sour cream, fresh green beans, salad, and hot rolls.

Creery said, “Over in the dining room, this would be a menu for an alumni banquet, or for the boys who don’t get to go home for Christmas. We eat like this all the time here.”

I smiled, but I felt my first pang of guilt at being among the elite. I wondered how I’d gotten in — and if I could stick it out.

They even served artichoke curries to Lasher and Outerbridge, the two vegetarians.

We all gulped down dinner and sat waiting for dessert.

Schwartz banged his fork against a crystal goblet for silence, then stood up and began: “There are seven days in creation, seven days in the week, seven graces, seven divisions in the Lord’s Prayer, and seven ages in the life of man.”

“SEVENS!” the old members chorused.

The three of us — Outerbridge, Kidder, and I — looked at each other questioningly, trying to figure out what we had in common.

I was sure I saw Kidder’s lip curl with distaste at the thought that we had anything in common. He thought he was Mel Gibson. He almost was, take away ten or twelve years. He had his own red Mercedes. He’d had a date once with Molly Ringwald, and her photograph was on his desk. He began sentences, “It’s my sense that …” or “Correct me if I’m wrong, but …” as though he were addressing a committee. They said Kidder had a boat, as long as the front of Saks Fifth Avenue, moored in Key West.

And Outerbridge? Not nearly as charismatic. More asthmatic. Known for his beautiful sister, Cynthia, a Bryn Mawr freshman. He was a vegetarian. A near soprano who excelled at singing hymns such as “Lead, Kindly Light” in chapel. A redhead. A mad, crazy giggler in movies, the type you turned around to stare and hiss at, because he laughed through the next lines of the joke.

Schwartz looked down the long table toward us. “What I’m going to tell you now, no Sevens has ever told an outsider. You are on your honor
never
to reveal the reason for your selection in Sevens! Repeat after me: So be it, solemnly sworn!”

“So be it,” we three said, “solemnly sworn.”

“It is in the highest tradition of Gardner,” said Schwartz, “that you did nothing to earn this distinction, that nothing you
are
earned it for you, that nothing your family is secured this high honor for you!

“Gardner has never stressed background over accomplishment, physical appearance over mental prowess, anything over anything, or anyone over anyone. We are all equal, and yet …”

Schwartz paused for a long few seconds.

“And yet …” he paused again, and looked hard at us: Outerbridge, Kidder, and me. “Gardner would be remiss not to point out one great lesson in life. Gardner prepares you for life, and in preparing you, points out that you are never truly prepared. For an unexpected circumstance can change your fortune …
pffft”
— a brush of his fingers through the air — ”like that! Chance is something out of your control!”

Then all the old members said softly, “Mere chance.”

“Mere chance made you all Sevens,” said Schwartz. “Sevens will make you more, but you did nothing for the privilege. You three new members were chosen as we old ones were, because you named the trees you planted your first day here with seven-letter words.

“Kidder named his Key West. Outerbridge named his Cynthia. And Pingree named his Good-bye. There are seven letters in Gardner, too.

“It is no more complicated than that…. It is as whimsical as the fickle finger of Fate. But from this moment on, you are privileged. You can never be expelled from Gardner for any reason! You will always have special privileges! Gardner will become a different experience for you than it is for the others.

“And” — another long pause — ”when you leave Gardner, you will connect with a national, and in some cases an international, fraternity of Sevens alumni that will help you throughout your life!”

You could hear a pin drop in that room while the three of us took this in.

Then Schwartz said, “Only another Sevens knows that you are here by …”

“Mere chance,” the old members said.

“And so,” Schwartz said, “you have been given a favor by mere chance. Sevens hopes you will accept it with grace, gladness of heart, and thanks to God!”

The old members began to sing:

They ended with a thunderous “WELCOME TO SEVENS!”

From the ceiling, a square-shaped, enormous silver tray descended slowly. On it were three top hats and three light-blue blazers with three white carnations in the buttonholes.

Through the door from the kitchen, waiters came carrying flaming Cherries Jubilee on silver platters.

• • •

I walked slowly back toward Sevens House in a misty rain after. I’d hung back a little so I could walk alone. I felt good. I kept thinking of Pingree’s saying, “I was happiest right here.” I wasn’t happiest, but I
was
happy.

What I liked best about getting into Sevens was that it was really just a fluke. I’d almost called my tree Adieu, which would have meant I’d have missed by two letters.

Schwartz had named his tree after the rock star Madonna, and another guy had called his Cormier, after the man who wrote
The Chocolate War.

I could live with the reason I’d gotten into Sevens.

• • •

When I got inside Sevens House, the housemother came gliding across to me in a velvet robe that touched the floor, the same color as her blond hair, which was held back in a bun. She looked like some model out of a fashion ad, about to ask me to share the fantasy.

“Are you Woodrow Pingree, Jr., dear?”

“Yes. Only I call myself W. Thompson Pingree.

Thompson, or Tom, for short. And you’re?”

Not a day over thirty. Oh, I would confide all my troubles to this one. I would tell her about a Spanish poet who said life was itself a dream, and dreams are only dreams.

“I’m Mrs. Violet. I’m glad I caught you.”

“I’m easy to catch, Mrs. Violet.”

“You’re not, though. I’ve been waiting and waiting for you, dear. Your mother is here.”

“My what?”

“Your mother.”

“Not mine.”

“Mrs. Pingree. Yes. She’s right outside in that big, long white limousine.” “She is?”

“I was hoping she’d see you come in.”

“I came up the side path. My
mother?
Mrs. Fern Pingree?”

My heart was hammering under my shirt. I figured Mrs. Violet could see my blazer move in and out.

I looked out the front door and saw a white stretch limo.

“What a beautiful car!” said Mrs. Violet. And with a gentle push at my shoulders, she added, “You’d better hurry, dear. She’s been waiting a long time. She wouldn’t wait in our little reception area.”

So I went back out into the misty, cold night and walked very slowly down toward the Cadillac.

The back door opened as I approached.

Fern Pingree sat forward in a fur over her shoulders, a white turtleneck sweater, and black leather pants, her small, almond-shaped eyes suddenly very large.

“You!” she said.

I tried to think of what to say. I bent down, peering into the backseat, when hands grabbed me.

They were not her hands.

A man I’d never seen before introduced himself by pulling me the rest of the way inside, holding me by the throat.

He reached back and shut the car door.

“No!” Mrs. Pingree said. “This isn’t Ping!”

“This isn’t your son?” said the man.

“This is John Fell,” she said. “Let go of him. We’re not taking him. Where’s Ping, Fell?”

“Your son,” I managed to choke out, “is in Switzerland.” My neck felt as if it’d been in a vise. I moved from my knees to the small jump seat facing Mrs. Pingree and her henchman.

The driver said, “What do we do now?” He didn’t bother to turn around when he spoke.

“Where’s Woodrow Pingree? Ask him,” the henchman said.

“I think I know where Woody is,” said Mrs. Pingree. “I think he’s also in Switzerland. Right, Fell?”

“I don’t know where your husband is.”

“Who is this kid?” the driver said.

“It doesn’t matter to you,” said Mrs. Pingree. “He’s no use to us. Both the fish and the bait are in Switzerland. Right, Fell?”

“Ping is,” I said. I could smell the sweet gardenia perfume she wore.

“Yes, I’m beginning to get it now. Ping is at L’Ecole la Coeur. He’s there as you, and you’re here as Ping. Is that how it worked?”

“I’m here as Ping,” I admitted.

“And you last saw my husband when?”

“About a month ago.”

“Yes,” she said. “He went to Atlantic City about a month ago. He must have come here then.”

The henchman said,
“What
do we do now?”

“We say good night to John Fell,” said Mrs. Pingree. “Let him out!”