Read The Incredible Charlie Carewe Online

Authors: Mary. Astor

Tags: #xke

The Incredible Charlie Carewe (7 page)

BOOK: The Incredible Charlie Carewe
3.74Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Walter chuckled a little at his daydreaming. But they were achievable dreams, not the muddleheaded emotional dreams of a father who looks at a tousle-headed youngster and visualizes him in the White House.

Of course there had been slips—bad ones. Hard to describe, hard to figure. Twice he had withdrawn Charlie from schools in the nick of time before he had been formally expelled. And several times he had been obliged to cover for him in money matters. At the time these incidents had seemed exasperating because they were so hard to explain. Of course, some of them were due to the bad influence of some older boys. That disgusting drinking episode, for instance, could hardly be called Charlie’s fault. Any boy wants to experiment with a little hell-raising once in a while, just to get it out of his system. But it was the—he looked for the feel of a word—the
timing
that made it difficult to understand. Without effort, Charlie had sailed into the top five in his final year in prep school, and in one of his letters he had said, “I know how much it means to you, Dad, and more than anything in this world I want you to be proud of me, and you know I won’t let you down.” And then—and then during the final month he indulged in the most damaging activities imaginable. There was a small matter of a forged check to pay for some extracurricular books at the school bookstore. Unexplainable, because all expenses were paid for by Walter. Again, after one weekend at home, he simply didn’t arrive back at school until the following Thursday, saying he had been detained at home by serious illness. Poor kid, he’d got entangled in a whole complicated mess of lies, which he finally owned up to—admirably. Walter had discussed the possibility of too great pressures with the headmaster—perhaps these were the precipitating factors of his behavior. And Henderson had replied, “Pressure! Nonsense—it’s the fellows who are competing with Charles who are under pressure. Rarely have we had a boy with such potentialities of brilliance. It’s simply that Charles just doesn’t seem to
care!
” Of course Henderson was wrong, as only a dull pedagogue can be. Completely missing the point that Charlie’s attitude of not caring was a gentlemanly offhand modesty. It was not in Charlie’s make-up to show his emotions—to be ambitious in a wild-eyed, too, too eager manner. Study was simply too easy for him. He was sure that some of the thinly veiled suggestions of cheating were due to the fact that he had a photographic memory. Charlie had once described it thus: “I just look at the textbook in my mind.” Of course one time it
had
been cheating, because instead of the textbook he had been looking at someone else’s paper—in his mind.

But it was foolish now to think of these things. They were in the past, no point in dwelling on them now. He stuffed the letter back in the file. Genius. The word insisted on coming into his mind. It was a word that sang with contradictory qualifications. It meant—dangerously gifted. Too exclusive. Immoderate ability. Acceptable queerness. It produced an emotion in him, a welling up of protectiveness. A resolution that his boy would never be left to the mercy of mindless clods.

Firmly he pulled his attention back to his work. “Adams vs. Williamson. In the matter of final settlement of moneys and properties re: sale of La Junta Mining Corp.”

Charlie sneezed. “Pardon me. That’s ticklish, Jane.”

“Item: one highly bridged nose, slightly sunburned and peeling. Item: a pair of black brows, wide in the center, no grizzly beetling.” She traced his features with the tips of her fingers, finally, rhythmically losing them in the springy hairline. “So fine, so precious, so mine.”

Charlie slept. Watching him, Jane continued the soothing movement, slowly her firm fingertips sliding from the hairline of his forehead back to the form behind his ear, the clipped hairs rough on her palm. His head lay heavy in her lap, his long legs stretched out beside her on the chintz-covered divan. Jane glanced at the little Sheffield clock on the mantel. Another half hour till daylight. A whole, lovely half hour, and then she would have to rouse him and send him back to the dorm. Brian wouldn’t be back till way late this afternoon. What a blessing his passion for fishing had turned out to be. How it used to make her feel sorry for herself! Being stuck in a university town wasn’t so bad, and she had, surprisingly enough, got along well with the wives of the faculty. She was proud of Brian’s position as professor of math, inasmuch as it lent her a dignity she could never have achieved on her own. But there was so little to do. Reading and entertaining and once in a while a movie. The usual chitchat of gossip. And then the Friday open-house afternoons for Brian’s students. Tea and sherry and platters of sandwiches. And the everlasting football talk. The boys liked Brian. He was not at all the stereotyped, stodgy math teacher, and he was quite as eager to dispose of classroom talk and formalities as they. The invitations were general, but the acceptance boiled down to his “pets,” as most of the boys preferred entertainment in less formal surroundings than the pleasant living room of the Brian Dexter cottage near the campus. And one day Charlie appeared. He explained that he had been in the habit of going home on the weekends, as he lived only a couple of hours away, but “for no reason” he had just decided to stay this time.

She had hardly noticed him at first, until once in the middle of a heated discussion about this season’s team he had caught her in the act of a stifled yawn. His grin was enchanting, but he held her look a moment longer than was necessary to communicate, “I’m bored too!” There was a minute lowering of the eyelids, just enough to shade out the twinkle, and she felt a weakness in her bones; shivering, she got up to close the window, and he quickly went to help. She smiled her thanks, and said, “What a pity Brian’s never brought you here before. I’ve heard him speak of you many times, of course.” Charlie said, “How could I have lived here three years and never even
seen
you!” “It’s a big place,” she laughed.

Brian had walked to the arbored gate with some of the late stayers, and Charlie still lingered. “Can I help you carry out the trays?” he said. But the blood was pounding in Jane’s temples, and she heard a hoarseness in Charlie’s voice. Glancing out the open doorway, in the dim twilight she could see that the boys and Brian would be jawing for another ten minutes. Without heeding the warning bell in her mind she pressed her body to Charles, feeling the young muscles of his arms hard around her, his mouth urgent and moist upon hers.

“I knew this was going to happen,” she breathed.

“Did you?”

“Didn’t you?” Startled, she looked at him.

“No.”

The young fool! He meant that! She had been prepared to handle impetuosity, to push a tray into trembling hands and playfully push him off to the kitchen, where he could regain his poise. She, the one with control. Well, he was a cool one! He had made her feel unreasonably foolish, caught up into analyzing symbols expressing an emotion. Recognition that her words implied a yielding to an emotional “fate” should have been mutual. But his literal question, “Did you?” called for a literal answer.
Did you
, for God’s sake! It should have been a whispered
I know, I know
. Wasn’t he aware of the language bargains, the implied meanings below the levels of speech that everyone used?

He was looking at her, quite poised, his arms still around her, his hands low on her back, pressing her to him. “What’s wrong?”—still in that flat, “how’s the weather” voice.

It would have been so simple to put a stop to such impertinence. Jane laughed a little at the returning feeling of control of the situation. She could “get even” very easily. Slap his face, and Brian would return and throw him out, and that would be that. Unfortunately. The thought of exciting this boy was in itself an excitement. She could well afford to postpone “getting even.” . . .

Gasping a little, she worked free of his arms, and picking up a tray of the remains of turkey and ham sandwiches, she carried them into the kitchen. She had the reins again, for he followed quickly and stood beside her while she fumbled in a drawer for waxed paper. “What’s wrong?” he repeated. “Did I make you cross?” Immediately she forgave him, everything, everything—why, he was just a child—a baby with big brown eyes looking at her, concerned that he had been a bad boy! Carefully she selected the unused sandwiches and wrapped them in the paper. Holding one to his lips, she said, “Bite?” Instead of the sandwich he caught her wrist in his teeth gently, and she felt the tip of his tongue on her pulse.

“Be careful, darling, be careful,” she whispered. “When can you get away——”

“Friday week? I’m sure I can make it again. I’ve enjoyed this. It’s so kind of you to ask the fellows over.”

Without a word Jane went back to the living room, and then, seeing Brian coming up the walk, she made no effort to hide her annoyance, as it would be interpreted as fatigue by Brian. In her high lilting voice she said, “I’m so glad you could come, Charles. Mr. Dexter and I enjoy having you boys around. Keeps us young.” She twinkled at Brian and gave him an eyes-to-the-ceiling look of mock despair that said, “Get rid of him!”

“Still here?” Brian boomed in his friendly, “we’re all pals” voice.

“Yes sir,” said Charles, “just trying to be helpful—not very good at it, I’m afraid,” and he hung his hands out in a clumsy fashion, to illustrate.

Brian put a friendly arm around his shoulders and steered him to the door. “Think you can make it next Friday?”

“I’m sure I can,” said Charles, and then his eyes fell on a thin volume lying on the table back of the divan. “Oh, could I—could I borrow this, please? Mother was always wanting me to read her sonnets.” It was the slim
Sonnets from the Portuguese
of Elizabeth Browning.

“Of course,” Jane said. “I’d like to say keep it, but it was given to me and it’s been marked and everything.” She smiled at Brian.

“Thanks, so very much. I’ll bring it back—soon.” And he was gone.

“Soon.” Jane felt the blood rise to her face. Her fever chart had risen and fallen so erratically in the past hour that she was in a dizzy state. She put her hands to her cheeks. Idiot, idiot, it was she who was being led around by the nose.

“Well.” Brian sighed his pleased relief. “That was very, very nice, my dearest. You are a lovely hostess, and I’m always proud of you. It does those fellows so much good. Tired?”

“A little,” smiled Jane. “Will you want any supper, I hope not, after all that food? How those kids stash it away!”

“Oh, lord, not now—maybe later, some soup or something. I have a flock of papers to grade, and then I’m going to bed early.”

“Up at dawn, I suppose—the bass are biting, or is it perch?”

Brian ignored her casually. “What did you think of the new man, Gregson?”

Jane frowned. Gregson? Which was Gregson? Surely he meant Carewe, but play it safe. “Oh, fine, I guess—they all seem pretty much alike to me—like babies behind a hospital nursery window.”

Brian laughed heartily. “And they think that Mrs. Dexter is just the most wonderful, the most sympathetic, the most charming, etc., etc. You take the place of all their mothers, except that you’re young and beautiful; what more could a boy ask? I’d be good and jealous if I didn’t know you had a peculiar aversion to the callow male.”

She was lighting the gas in the fake log in the fireplace. “I’ve passed the time of life where I can yell my lungs out—‘Team! Team!’ A chrysanthemum is something to put in a vase, not wave like a banner. I like good talk. I like you. In fact I’m a very discriminating person!”

He put his arms around her as she stood up. “And I take that as the greatest flattery.”

She pressed her face into the wool of his cardigan. “You sure you’re going fishing so early?”

Brian pulled her tighter to him. “At the moment, it does seem ridiculous—you smell so good.” Firmly, playfully he disengaged her arms from around his neck. “Get away, get away, woman. I’ve got a whole slew of papers to correct—I’ll be lucky if I stay awake long enough to finish them.”

At his study door he paused. “What did you think of Glamor Boy?”

“Who?”

“Carewe—the Greek god with a brain.”

“Oh yes—Charles Carewe. A brain, you say?”

“Definitely—the real ‘no trouble’ student. Funny guy, though. I can’t seem to ‘place’ him, if you know what I mean. You know how I get to know the men, know how much pressure they can take, how much help certain ones will need and so on. For three years, now, Carewe has sat, smack in the middle of the classroom, and I go for days trying to remember whether he attended or not. Never says a word, hands in beautiful papers, doesn’t mix much. Funny guy. I thought maybe you could chip some of the ice off him—see what makes him tick.”

Jane promised herself, “I will, oh, I will indeed!”

A block away Charlie was whistling a blues tune in march time, punctuating the rhythm by scuffing his feet through the freshly fallen leaves. He hunched his collar up around his neck; there was a bite in the air and a hint of rain. He reviewed the afternoon as having been most successful. No doubt the old boy, Dexter, liked him. He’d invited him to his house, hadn’t he, and he’d had to do none of the sucking up the other fellows did to wangle the invitation. This year he was trying out the “quiet one” attitude. It was most profitable. It seemed to attract attention even more effectively than being quick on the uptake. That little moment of delay in answering a question seemed to tell the questioner that you thought that what he had asked contained more importance than was apparent, and you needed a minute to study it. Then, when you answered, and if you were wrong, you could offer a smiling look of helplessness that said, “You’re so wonderfully profound—do you expect poor little me to give a satisfactory answer? I can but flounder in confusion!” It worked in all kinds of ways. Like not talking when everybody else was jabbering. Like sitting still when everybody was fidgeting or walking around. You became a kind of magnet. And being a magnet was fun.

He had heard of but paid little attention to the “Friday teas” at Dexter’s house. They sounded like a bore, and usually he had been anxious to get his gear together and get home for a weekend of late sleeping and being waited on and good food. But Jerry Somborn had dropped the information that the attraction at the Dexter home was mainly his luscious wife. “Look, but don’t touch, sonny boy—you’ll get your hands slapped.” She was younger than most of the faculty stiff-necked how-ja-do wives. She didn’t look at one with a condescending “You dear boy—tell me all about your family” attitude. This one was very flesh and blood. She didn’t simper or shake your hand with fish fingers. Jerry said, “She’s got the bluest eyes you’ve ever seen, and boy, I’m telling you, that ain’t all!”

BOOK: The Incredible Charlie Carewe
3.74Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Other books

Midnight Feast by Titania Woods
Substitute Daddy by Rose, Dahlia
Dimwater's Demons by Sam Ferguson
Defying Fate by Reine, S. M.
The Magic Wakes by Bradford, Charity