The Tie that Binds

He was walking down the green-carpeted hall when he passed the open door of a room and heard Stud Tatum's voice,saying, "Come on, Byron, wake up – you got to get up now. Byron, get your can out of that sack!"

Morrison, who was both the newest and the youngest of the masters at the school, glanced in the open door. Byron Ramsey was lying on the nearest twin bed, fully clothed, and looking sound asleep. His roommate, Stud Tatum, was bending over the bed, shaking him. Stud had on only a white T-shirt, stenciled with the numeral 22, and a jockstrap; he was already 15 minutes late, at least, for spring training for football.

"Anything wrong?" Morrison asked, going into the room.

"Oh, Christ, you would have to butt in!" Stud said. "You remember that, Mister Morrison. You had to stick your big goddamn nose in!"

At first Morrison thought Ramsey was ill: the boy's face was quite pale. He bent to feel Ramsey's pulse and the toe of his shoe kicked something under the bed, something that made a very distinctive sound. With a sigh Morrison bent and pulled a half-empty vodka bottle from beneath the bed.

In every school that Morrison knew anything about there were always boys who drank, as there was always a boy or two who managed to contract an unpleasant but curable malady. In girls' schools – Morrison imagined, he knew nothing about girls' schools, really – there would probably always be one girl, at least, each year, who turned up pregnant. He was not surprised at Ramsey's rebellion, but he was surprised at the form it had taken, a sloblike drunkenness. He had expected more from Ramsey than that.

"Where'd he get it, do you know?" Morrison asked absently.

"I wouldn't have the slightest, Mister Morrison. Not the slightest. Why don't you ask him?"

Morrison glanced up, surprised at the amount of emotion in Tatum's voice. The question had been rhetorical, really; Morrison knew where Ramsey had got the vodka. The school was in the beginnings of the Berkshires, north of the exurbanite area of Connecticut, and one and a half miles from a small village. In the village there was a liquor store, and a town drunk. If a boy went into the village and gave the old drunk five dollars he would receive a fifth of the cheapest vodka – the drunk pocketed something like a dollar and a half on each transaction. And all the boys at school who drank, drank vodka; they knew it couldn't be smelled on their breaths.

"You'll either tell me now, or the Head in about five minutes," Morrison said.

Tatum was only 18, but he stood six feet, three inches tall and weighed more than 250 pounds. He had graduated from his local high school the year before and he was being prepped to enter an Ivy League college where he would play football. But he would not go there on an athletic scholarship; his mother was wealthy and Stud would have played football at any school; he was that type. If he had not thought of it, a coach would've yelled, "Hey, you – c'mere!"

Stud picked up a cigarette from the study table and lighted it – something else against rules, smoking in the rooms. There were brown scabs on the backs of his hands and forearms, scars from cleats that had passed over him, and on his right thigh there was a large lemon-yellow ghost of a bruise. "You do anything that gets Byron kicked out, Mister Morrison, and I'll cream you. So help me God, I'll ruin you for life."

"Really?" Morrison said. "Why would you do that?"

"Because he happens to be the nicest guy I ever knew in my entire life." Stud sat down on his own twin bed. "In a school like this there're a lot of snobs. Guys who laugh at you and so on. Well, I didn't know you weren't supposed to wear your goddamn football jacket, the one you got in high school. I showed up wearing mine. A lot of guys would've objected to rooming with me, right then. But Byron never said a word. The first weekend we could leave, he signed us out for New York, his parents' place. And he took me to his own tailor, the tailor he's had since he was about five years old. And he gave me his Sulka tie."

"He gave you what?"

"His Sulka tie. You know that shop in New York. Sulka. Byron had this tie, the only one like it in the world. An exclusive. I mean, if you walked in there and asked them to make you one like it, they wouldn't do it. And Byron gave me that tie. Like it was nothing."

Morrison took a cigarette from the package on the table. "Why is he so drunk on a Tuesday afternoon, do you know?"

"I told you, Mister Morrison, I'll—"

"I know, I have been properly terrified. Why's he drunk?"

"Well, I gave his girl the time, and he found out."

Morrison frowned. "When was that?"

"You mean when I gave her the time, or when he found out? I gave her the time more'n two years ago, but he only found out this past Saturday night."

"But you and Ramsey didn't know each other two years ago," Morrison said.

"I didn't say I gave Byron the time, Mister Morrison. I said I gave his girl the time. She's from my home town, she's over at the cat house this year. You remember when he went over for tea? That's when I introduced her and Byron."

The cat house was the name the students had given to Miss Catton's, a school for young ladies about a mile north of the village. There was no real socializing between the two schools – such a thing was not encouraged at prep-school level – but once each year the older boys were invited to tea; they generally responded, some time later, with a dinner. Morrison well remembered going to tea. That had been his first, and probably only, meeting with that cold bitch Selma Parker, the assistant headmistress – either Vassar or Smith, he was certain, about '59 or '60. A small blonde jewel of a girl in a simple black dress that might have cost $40 at Bloomingdale's or $400 at Bergdorf's; he could never tell about women's clothes when they were that simple. He had been so struck by her that he had simply uttered the first thing to enter his head – "Say, the grounds look damn interesting, let's go outside." But that cold bitch Selma Parker had only glanced at him and said, "Oh, really?" – and walked off. Ordinarily Morrison did much better than that, and it had irked him.

"But aren't you from Wyoming?" Morrison asked. "I mean, it seems odd to me that you and a girl from a small Wyoming town should both go to school in Connecticut."

"What's so odd about it? Her family's got as much money as mine. Haven't you ever been in Wyoming, Mister Morrison?"

"No." The farthest west Morrison had been was Texas, the summer that he and his artist friend Harper had driven to Mexico. They had spent three months growing beards, wearing huarachos and living with two Indian girls who had been so identical looking it had been difficult, if not impossible, to tell them apart.

"Well, this town where I live is only about 3000 population, but everybody always does the same thing. I mean, everybody who's got money and can afford it. Like Cadillacs. Everybody used to drive Cadillacs. It was all you saw. Then this one doctor who always operates on everybody and is pretty successful bought a Jag. And then all the wives found out you could get that BorgWarner transmission, you know, and have them air conditioned, and so now about all you see is Jaguars and Mercedeses. That's how I came to give Byron's girl the time, actually."

"Your mother bought a Jaguar?"

"Naw, my mother's an intelligent woman, she's got a Silver Wraith. I mean because everyone always does the same thing's how I happened to give her the time." Stud paused. "You never played football, Mister Morrison?"

"No."

"Well, I don't know how it was at your school, but I know for a fact that nobody on our football team ever lacked for sexual intercourse. If you were on the team and you went with a girl you had sexual intercourse. Period. That was it. The girls all knew this and so did their parents. They never said anything, but they knew. Once I was with my girl right on the living-room floor of her house and her mother walked in. She never said a word, not a word. She just turned around and walked out."

"Was she your girl?" Morrison asked."This girl who's over at the cat house now?"

"You mean Mary Sarah Butler? No, she was never my girl. That's what I'm trying to tell you." Stud lighted another cigarette. "You see, the vast majority of kids at that school, at least 90 percent, (continued on page 130)Tie That Binds(continued from page 76) never had any sexual intercourse. Outside of the football team and the basketball team, there were only a few going steady who were getting any. That was what was so crazy. Because two years ago, one summer, every kid in town was suddenly vitally interested in sexual intercourse. Every kid in town. It was, you know, like a fad."

"Oh, you mean like seeing how many people you can get into a phone booth," Morrison said.

"Exactly. That's exactly right, Mister Morrison. Once I remember one summer every kid in town dyed his hair red. I don't remember why now, but they did. Well, a lot of guys really didn't want red hair, but they did it because everybody else was. It was the same with sexual intercourse two summers ago. Even kids who were too young were trying."

"And that was when it happened?"

Stud sighed. "Yeah. These kids came by my house about five o'clock one afternoon. They had some beer and whiskey and some steaks. They wanted to use our cabin down at the lake. My mother didn't care as long as they didn't get so drunk they burned it down. My girl was in Spokane that week, visiting, so I went down with the kids. I wasn't looking for anything, you understand, I just didn't want them to burn down the cabin. Anyway, about 11 o'clock that night there wasn't anybody still in swimming except me and Mary Sarah. We were just kind of wading around there because we'd had quite a bit to drink. She kept looking at me in this silly, goofy way so I pulled her bathing suit off while we were still in the water. It was kind of muddy right there, on the bank. But I didn't rape her or anything, because she never said stop. She just said 'Oh!' a couple of times because she'd never done it before. Well, the end of that week my girl came back from Spokane and I never had any more sexual intercourse with her – with Mary Sarah, I mean – after that one week."

"How'd Ramsey find out? She didn't tell him?"

"Oh, hell no. We were playing poker Saturday night in Gold's room. I'm a talking poker player. Generally, I talk about clamping it to some old girl, because you start talking about sex around here and half these guys lose their minds. I said something like, 'I had this little gal once, she was so little I just grabbed her and I said to her, Mary Sarah — It just slipped out. Well, Byron's face got white and he left the room. So I quit, too, and came in here. Byron said something about no gentleman ever mentioned names. Then he hit me with a chair in a half-assed way like he didn't really mean it. Then he got drunk. He got drunk Sunday night, too, and Monday. This is the first time in the afternoon."

Morrison walked to the window. It was a leaded-glass window, of the casement type. "Does he have a class now?"

"Chem lab's all."

"On your way to football practice stop at the lab and tell Johnstone that Ramsey is doing something for me."

"You're not going to tell the Head, Mister Morrison?"

"No. Drinking is hardly the problem. And all I've ever heard the Head say about sex is that a boy should think clean."

Stud pulled on a pair of chinos and thrust his feet into some broken-down loafers. He was grinning. "You're OK, Mister Morrison. You really are. You're one of the good guys in the white hats, buddy."

"Don't call me buddy," Morrison said. "I detest that."

After Tatum had left, Morrison made certain no one was in the hall nor coming up the stairs. He slung Ramsey over his shoulder and, carrying the vodka bottle in his free hand, took him down the hall to his rooms: sitting room, small cell-like bedroom and a bath. He turned the shower on cold, stripped Ramsey and dumped him on the floor of the shower stall. Then he went back to the sitting room to make coffee in a Silex. Morrison knew the risk he was taking. If someone banged long and loud enough on his door he would have to open it. Then what would he say if Ramsey should suddenly stagger into view, naked and wet and half drunk – "Oh, I was just giving him a shower, to sober him up"? Morrison knew what the Head would do about that, about his not reporting Ramsey drunk. The Head would simply fire him.

It had not been very long since Morrison had been an undergraduate, and more than once he had been mistaken by visiting parents for one of the school's students. That was partly due to the way everyone usually dressed: buttondown collar, odd jacket and flannels. But it was his first full-time teaching job, and although he did not want to be fired. Teaching, for Morrison, was something like living with the Indian girl that summer: a thing a man did once, not forever. His plans were to get his Ph.D. and then go into industry; he thought he could rise to the top of the heap faster that way. And while he was aware that getting fired from any job had never helped anyone, he thought that Ramsey and the principle involved were worth the risk.

Morrison had liked Ramsey from the moment he had become aware of him. The very first week Morrison had been at the school he had been in charge of a study period. Two boys at the long table had been having a heated, if whispered, argument about Siddhartha, about the first thing the Buddha said when he arose from his period of meditation under the bo tree. One of the boys appealed to Ramsey, who was quietly working on a theme concerning the humorous newspaper writings of Petroleum V. Nasby. "Hey, Byron. Byron. What was the very first thing Buddha said after he got up from that goddamn tree? After his goddamn enlightenment. What'd he say? You know?"

Ramsey had looked up from his notebook. "'Let's send out for Chinese food'?" he had suggested.

Morrison had heard a great deal of student nonsense in his time – his time had begun precisely on August 17, 1937, at 12 minutes before midnight – but that remark of Ramsey's had stuck with him.

But the real risk in talking to Ramsey was Ramsey himself. There was no more explosive a subject than sex, and nothing so sacred as a boy's virginity – especially in a boy's school. A great number of boys were virgins, of course, but none of them admitted it. The party line was that quite early in life, about the age of three, each boy had lost his innocence to his French nurse and since then had done little else but have sexual intercourse with a variety of beautiful and exotic partners: Scandinavian or Japanese housemaids, governesses from Bavaria, octoroons recently arrived from N'Orleans. Charming, but far from true. And Morrison knew that in talking to Ramsey about sex he might strike a raw nerve and then anything could happen – even hostility that would send Ramsey marching to the Head for sweet revenge.

Morrison finished making coffee in the Silex just as Ramsey began to make drowning sounds in the shower. Morrison walked to the bathroom door. "Well, how do you feel?"

"Oh, ginger dandy, sir," Ramsey said, and crawled across the floor and made vomiting noises in the toilet; it was impossible to tell if he was really ill or only joking.

Morrison tossed him a towel. "Dry yourself. Then come in. I made some coffee." He walked back to the sitting room. In a moment Ramsey came in; he had one towel around his waist, a second over his shoulders and a third over his head so that his face could not be seen; he was shaking with cold and nausea. Morrison got a bottle of Courvoisier from a closet and poured some in the coffee cups. "Drink that," he said. "It'll settle your stomach." He sat down on the sofa and lighted a cigarette. "What the hell are you doing getting so sloshed on a Tuesday afternoon?"

"Oh, I'm probably just passing through (continued on page 134)Tie That Binds(continued from page 130) a phase," Ramsey said from behind the towel hanging over his face.

"No, I don't think so," Morrison said. "I think the trouble with you is that two years ago Stud Tatum had your girl and you're helpless to change the past. Listen, you ever get a chance sometime, look into The Great Gatsby. It's a novel by an American writer, F. Scott Fitzgerald."

Ramsey jerked the towel off his head. "That's a sadistic goddamn thing to say! You sober me up just to torture me?"

Morrison clasped his hands behind his head. "No, I sobered you up so that I could say out loud to you, in privacy, that I know Stud Tatum gave Mary Sarah Butler the time, as he puts it. So now you no longer have any dreadful secret, do you? I sobered you up because I wanted to point out one fact – she wanted to do it with him at that time. You've got a good mind, Ramsey, but you have not learned the first great lesson, which is the sexual intercourse lesson. It's got several interesting facets, and as we sit here this afternoon, shaking with nausea over our brandy and coffee, we're going to explore them."

Ramsey took a cigarette from the box on the table; his fingers were trembling. "Look, Mister Morrison. All I ever meant about the whole deal was that a gentleman never says any names. I guess if a couple friends of mine want to have a sex life, that's their business. But you just don't go telling everybody's name all over the place."

"Oh, that's crap and you know it," Morrison said. "That has nothing to do with the way you feel. Right this minute you'd like to murder Tatum."

Ramsey put the towel over his head again, hiding his face.

"Well, fortunately you can't murder Stud. Because if you did you'd be murdering yourself. You'd be killing the Stud Tatum that is inside you. The Stud Tatum that is, in fact, you."

Ramsey raised the edge of the towel and looked out. "I don't get it," he said simply.

"You think Stud is crude. As far as sex is concerned. He's not, but he is direct. In one sense Stud is pure sexual energy. But you are also sexual energy, as I am. If you kill Stud – and I don't mean physically, but kill his image in your heart with your hatred – then you have destroyed your own sexual energy, your own sexual self."

"I'm not like that sonofabitch," Ramsey said shortly, and dropped the towel over his face. "If I was like that sonofabitch I'd go live in a cave or have myself sterilized."

"Ramsey, the first great lesson is the sexual intercourse lesson. And part one is this: there is always and eternally and forever sexual intercourse. There is sexual intercourse in time of war, during plagues and pestilences. There is sexual intercourse in times of famine, something that may be the last act of a human being. I am not saying it is pleasant. I am not saying that I, or you, would prefer it that way. No one would. But it is the river of energy on which the human race moves. It's the basic expression of our most vital energy. We copulate without reasons, Ramsey. We simply copulate, always and forever."

"Well, we sound like a bunch of copulating nuts to me," Ramsey said from behind the towel.

"Of course we are!" Morrison said. "That's one of the things I'm trying to tell you. To a man of a certain kind of 'intelligence' – and I put that in quotes – we do seem like nothing so much as madly driven, sex-ridden, copulating maniacs. 'Why copulate?' you ask, because you have not caught the scent of perfume, nor have you yet heard the sound of violins. 'Why the hell not?' Stud Tatum says, grinning up at you from the muddy bank of the lake where he is copulating with Mary Sarah Butler, and he continues copulating."

"You tell him he copulates and he might hit you for insulting him. He'd have to look it up."

"You think you're a finer person than Stud is, don't you? You've read The Making of Americans all the way through, a thing such an enlightened human being as Edmund Wilson hasn't done. You think you're better than Stud because of it. But you aren't. In this little triangle, Ramsey, you are the one who is wrong. Two people whom you know now had sexual intercourse in the past. So how do you feel? You want to murder one of them, and you can't understand the other. Really, what the hell kind of human being are you? If everybody was like you there wouldn't be a human race."

"They can keep their goddamn human race," Ramsey said from behind the towel. "I'll go live with the animals."

"Oh, will you? And what will you do when the animals come in heat – avert your gaze?" Morrison suddenly took Ramsey's shoulder and shook him. "Listen to me, damn you. I'm trying to tell you something. Sexual intercourse doesn't happen in a vacuum. It is had at certain times and in certain places. It is colored and conditioned by time and place. The old man in the cave had any of the females until he got too old to fight. Cleopatra married her younger brother. Think for a moment about adolescence on Samoa, or growing up on Tahiti. That island is vastly different from the island of Manhattan for an adolescent, isn't it? How is making out on the island of Manhattan? Is it easy?"

There was a long silence. Then, from behind the towel, Ramsey said, "Well, it's pretty grim, actually. I mean, for a guy who's too young to go to a hotel. The problem is always to find a place. When you're home from school, like at Christmas, you're always hunting an apartment that's empty. But the trouble is you're always afraid somebody'll walk in. I had a maid walk in on me once. I had the girl's brassiere unfastened and everything, and the maid walked in. Boy, she was nasty. But I gave her $20. and she shut up. My last $20. Jesus, I was scared."

Morrison lighted a cigarette. "You don't drive?"

"A car, you mean? How would I learn to drive a car? My father always puts his in storage in the winter. Summers we go to my grandmother's. She's got an island off the Maine coast. I know that sounds like a big deal, but it's just an island with a farm on it, and this Portuguese or Negro family or some kind of mixture. My grandmother's very old-fashioned. She doesn't even have any electricity, and she hates gasoline engines. There isn't one gasoline engine on that entire island, not even in the boats.

"How about making out on the island? Is it difficult?

"There's nobody there but my grandmother, Mister Morrison. You recommend guys making out with their grandmothers?"

"You said there was a Portuguese or Negro family."

"Oh, yeah." Ramsey took a deep breath and let it out, making the towel puff out. "Well, they have one daughter, about 16. She's got very white skin. She's whiter than I am, I know goddamn well, yet she's supposed to be one of those mixtures or something. Anyway, when we were little kids we'd play together. She'd let me look at hers and I'd show her mine. You know how little kids are. I don't know if she remembers or not. People are supposed to forget all that when they get older. But last summer I seriously thought about having sexual intercourse with Rita, that girl. But she's kind of a servant. I mean, her parents work for my grandmother."

"That stopped you?"

"Oh, not because she was a servant. I meant because of the relationship with my grandmother, she might think she had to if I wanted to. I mean, she might be afraid or something. And I don't go for that lord-and-master crap. So I stopped thinking about her and did a few push-ups in my room."

"Well, if you lived in Wyoming you'd know how to drive a car," Morrison said.

There was more silence from behind the towel; then, "You mean I'd get my driver's license and my sexual license at the same time?"

Morrison leaned forward and rested his arms on his knees. "You don't have any idea what life is like in a small town. There's always a country club, and the best people belong. The club is for adults, but once a month possibly they will have a dance for young people. In summer, when school is not in session, that is all the social life there is, except for two other institutions, the drive-in movie and the Dairy Queen. If a girl has a date she will usually be taken to the drive-in movie and then to the Dairy Queen where she will be fed a concoction known as soft ice cream. And that is life in a small town, in summer. It can be extremely dull."

Ramsey took the towel off his head; his face had the puckered, intense expression it sometimes got in class when he seemed to be concentrating.

"But there is one other thing two young people can do. They can drive out somewhere and park. Usually there is a lake, or perhaps a hill where they can see the moon rise. They can be alone and indulge in sex play, if not intercourse. It's the great American game, Ramsey, seeing how far a girl will go. Part of our myth, our American myth, is that there is more sex in small towns than in cities – among young people, that is. That's myth, as I say, as witness all the traveling-salesman jokes. But there is some truth in it. A girl will go pretty far, if not all the way, simply because there is nothing else exciting to do. And, after all, how many drive-in movies can one see? How much soft ice cream can one eat? The answer lies, I think, partly in boredom and partly in natural curiosity. A girl wonders, too, how does it feel. The only way she can know is through her own experience. And, being bored, she turns her exploration inward, into herself. Nothing could be more human."

Ramsey shook his head. "No. I'll never believe that. Why, you make people sound like a bunch of moronic sheep."

"How I wish I could get you to understand," Morrison said. "Listen, Ramsey. The important thing here, the really important thing, is not sex at all. It is your feeling about sex that's important. Your feeling is not good. Your feeling about sex stands between you and your intelligence – it stands between you and your own true self. And where you are going to be hurt is not in the sexual department. But you are going to be most seriously and grievously wounded in your Shakespeare."

"My Shakespeare?"

"Yes. Because when you hear these lines – 'It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing' – when in the future you hear that you will probably either feel a tendency to weep or you will pull back sharply from the abyss of life in horror. And Shakespeare never meant you nor any human being to feel that way. Another English writer understood that. He took the same idea, the one in those lines, and wrote a great book. He did not weep, nor did he pull back from the abyss. He understood, and in his turn he wrote Through the Looking-Glass."

There was a long silence while Ramsey picked thoughtfully at a piece of cigarette paper stuck to the chapped skin on his lower lip. "Listen, Mister Morrison, I don't want you to think I don't appreciate your keeping me from getting kicked out of this institution. I always make such good marks it would've probably put my mother into nervous collapse. But I can't accept that boredom thing. You see, my girl –" Ramsey took a deep breath. "My girl would never do it because she was just bored. So I can't accept that, what you say."

Morrison was angry with himself; he felt he should have been able to communicate by talking. "Listen, Ramsey. The next time you get drunk do so joyfully and with a happy heart. Now get dressed. You can still make part of that chem lab."

After Ramsey left, Morrison poured a second cup of brandy and coffee and sat for several minutes, thinking. Then he picked up a telephone from a small table and dialed a number. When a voice on the other end answered he said, "This is Jacoby Morrison. I'm one of the masters, over on the hill. I want to speak to Miss Selma Parker. I'll hold on."

He had to wait several minutes before Selma Parker's voice said, "Jacoby Morrison? It sounds like something falling down the stairs."

Morrison was certain that he had read that somewhere, that it was not original with her, but he was glad she sounded cheerful. "Miss Parker, I have a small problem with one of my students that has some tangential effect on your institution. I wonder if we could discuss it."

"I do not like problems," she said immediately. "Especially those with tangential effects."

"Oh, we can solve it in a few moments of conversation."

"What is it, then?"

"I didn't mean over the phone. I meant in person."

There was a pause. "Do you really have a problem?"

He made his voice cool. "Believe me, Miss Parker, I would never have phoned you otherwise."

"Then forgive me. But in the past, especially among English instructors, I have encountered any number of slithy toves. Can you be here at four? I will have 10 minutes free then."

Morrison put the phone back on the table and felt in his jacket pocket for the keys to his Volkswagen. Oh, that cool bitch, he was thinking; get her in bed and she wouldn't have orgasms, she'd produce a whole series of ice cubes like a refrigerator. He went down the stairs.

• • •

Morrison had known when he had taken the job at the school that, except for an infrequent weekend in New York, he would have to face the problem of the long cold New England winter alone. Prep school instructors were all men, of course, and most of them were married. And they clung together, socially, like a colony of idiot ants and only called upon the bachelor instructors when they needed an extra man.

Twice during the first semester, on separate weekends, Morrison had been called upon. Each invitation had been issued so that he had no doubt he was being presented with a white female body – and that he should be appropriately grateful. The first girl had been someone's dear old friend from Providence, and Morrison remembered her chiefly for what he thought of as the taste of the fillings in her teeth and her conversation as they stood on the brick platform Sunday evening awaiting her train. "I mean, it's not so far to Providence, and you got that nice little car. And there's that little inn, too, you know, in the village. I mean, I could come on Saturdays. We could have Saturday nights."

The second girl had been older than Morrison and married; she had been somebody's married sister. When Morrison had entered the house for dinner that Friday night he had been told quietly that Catherine already had a little head start on everyone else. Catherine had, too. About the time the steak was being taken off the charcoals she vanished. They found her in the bathroom, eventually, passed out in a sitting position with her pants comfortably around her ankles. But by midnight she had revived and kept insisting Morrison drive her someplace. "You know, hon, someplace like a golf course, where it's dark."

The experiences had only made Morrison feel used, like a friendly old hatrack in the hall onto which people flung things as they passed. When the third invitation was issued – she was just back from the Sorbonne, a brilliant girl who was trying to make up her mind about San Francisco – he declined.

The only single female Morrison had met, other than Selma Parker, had been a young widow in the village. She was not striking looking, but she was both kind and gentle. Morrison had known that with normal masculine persistence on his part they could have worked out an "arrangement." But that would have been consigning sex to a realm somewhat like the mechanical world of the dietitian: for breakfast the healthy person consumes six ounces of orange juice or half a grapefruit, and one egg and buttered toast. He simply did not want his sexual needs "taken care of" – where was individuality in that? And he could see himself becoming a point on a curve on some sociologist's graph: Morrison, Jacoby. White, unmarried male. 2.8 per week.

It was because the world of a private schoolteacher in that corner of Connecticut was so limited that Morrison was curious about Selma Parker. It Seemed that a girl in her situation would enjoy having a date, just a simple date. And so he had gone to Johnstone, the chemistry instructor, to ask him what he knew about Selma Parker.

"You mean Miss Periodic Pain and Suffering of 1963?" Johnstone had said, since he considered himself to have a way with a phrase. "Sure, I know her. Last year was her first year at Catton's. She instructed in Bitching One, I believe. Or perhaps it was Nagging, open only to juniors and above. I called her and said let's go to a movie or have some beers or something in this wasteland. And she said back at me something like this: 'Thank you, Johnstone, but I have no interest other than school. I spend all my time here. I find it quite congenial.' A real genuine frost. You know what's going to happen to her? She's going to sit over there until it withers from disuse. Gradually throughout the years it will dehydrate and some autumn as she strolls across campus it will simply fall, as dry and brittle as last year's oak leaf. The caretakers will rake it up, along with other dead leaves, and oh we will have a jolly bonfire come Halloween! Sic transit hymenaeus Parkermus, or whatever the hell it is."

But Morrison was not certain Johnstone was right, that Selma Parker was dry and bookish. He thought there was a good deal more to her than that.

• • •

Miss Catton's was quite austere looking. From the main road all that could be seen of the school was the bordering privet hedge and two brick columns at the entrance to the drive. Only when Morrison turned the Volkswagen into the drive could he see the main building, a three-storied, white Colonial with black shutters. It sat alone, on a knoll. The other buildings were beyond the knoll, on the downward slope, and they were mostly salt-boxes. It did not look like a school, but more like the summer residence, or country home, of a very large and wealthy family.

Morrison left his car in the turnaround and knocked on the door with an authentic brass knocker. A maid let him in and took him along the downstairs hall to Miss Parker's office. It was unlike any school office Morrison had ever seen; there were no typewriter, no filing cabinets, and no telephone visible. Other than one long trestle table piled high with books and papers in sloppy female fashion, the room appeared to be an informal sitting room where ladies might meet to embroider and converse. A small fire of cannel coal burned in a Federal fireplace against the damp spring day and beside it, in a platform rocker, Selma Parker sat with a knitting bag at her feet. She wore a cardigan, a tweed skirt with enough fashionable bagginess to identify it as a country skirt, and dull-polished loafers; it was a uniform, as Morrison's clothes were. There was no make-up on her face and her lovely hair had been unsympathetically twisted into an old maid's knot at the back of her neck. As Morrison entered she took off a pair of ugly horn-rims and held out her hand.

"Thank you for being prompt, Morrison. I appreciate it."

It was then that Morrison felt he had an insight into her character. One trivial detail was responsible for that, the type of brassiere she was wearing. It was a brassiere that appeared not so much to be constructed along the lines of sound engineering principles, as it appeared to have been stitched by hand on the worn fingers of an old half-blind French seamstress who had spent many years of faithful service in the family. It did not mold breasts into exaggerated pride, it held them serenely in utter faith in their own competence to deal with all things of this world that breasts are heiress to. In short, it was a brassiere that only a lady would wear. Selma Parker was not cold, nor dry; she was simply a lady.

"I always have a cup of tea at this time, Morrison," she was saying. "I hope you will, too."

The maid had come in again and put a tea tray in front of a small sofa. Miss Parker sat and said, "Milk or lemon?"

"I don't suppose there's any rum," Morrison said.

"No, the only time anything alcoholic is allowed is just before the holidays, at Christmas. For the plum pudding, you know. But you may smoke in this room. Miss Catton doesn't mind that. Now, who is your student and what is his problem?"

"Byron Ramsey is one —"

"Oh, yes," Selma Parker said, and she settled back on the sofa, holding the teacup in both hands. "He has such a pleasant face and quite a cheerful, outgoing manner, I think."

Morrison was surprised. "You know Byron Ramsey?"

"Oh, yes. He has called on one of the young ladies frequently on Sunday afternoons. Generally he telephones her in the evenings, between seven and seventhirty when calls are allowed. He writes her, too. Quite thick letters." She glanced at him and became aware of his expression. "Oh, don't look like that. I haven't been spying on them. If I hadn't engaged him in conversation I'd have been failing in my duty. I know, for instance, that Byron will go to Yale because his father did. The senior Ramsey is a partner in a law firm and when Byron finishes Yale he will go into the firm – which, as he says, won't be easy. Now, is it so terrible I know things of that sort?"

Morrison shook his head. "Miss Parker,this may come as a shock, but two years ago Byron's roommate, a boy named Stud Tatum —"

"Another cup, Morrison?"

"No, thank you. Two years ago Stud Tatum had sexual intercourse with Mary Sarah Butler, and Ramsey has learned of it and is taking it rather badly."

Selma Parker put the teacup down abruptly, as if it was too hot and she was afraid of dropping it. "I don't believe I heard you correctly, Morrison."

"I think you did," he said.

A bright spot of color appeared on each of her cheeks, the only sign she was angry. "What utter nonsense. I am certain such a thing never happened. Morrison, what ever possessed you to come here and tell me such an obvious untruth?"

"No, it's true."

"I believe you said the other student's name is 'Stud' Tatum?" Miss Parker said, and she put heavy emphasis on the nickname. "Really, Morrison, do you expect me to believe that any young lady in attendance at Miss Catton's would have anything at all to do with anyone known as 'Stud'?"

"It happened two years ago."

Selma Parker smiled. "Oh, Morrison, you have simply been gulled. 'Stud' Tatum. I believe I can picture what he must be like. He's one of your athletes, larger than most of the students, and a bully. Boys of that sort do like to brag. They will often say that something has happened when nothing really has. Sometimes they do that out of cruelty, to get back at a girl who has refused them. Or they do it to attract attention, to look masculine in the eyes of other boys. Oh, Morrison, don't you realize you have simply been taken in by the boy's lying?"

Morrison shook his head. "No, I know when boys are lying about sex. And I think it might be proved."

"Oh, how could such a thing be proved?"

"Well, to begin with, you might have the young lady examined by a physician," Morrison said mildly.

Selma Parker gave him a look women generally reserve for men who rush first into the lifeboats. "This conversation is getting entirely out of hand. You said you wanted my help. What is it, exactly, that you wish?"

"I want us to get Byron and Mary Sarah together, perhaps in this room, and encourage them to talk this thing out."

Miss Parker stared at him a moment, and then she suddenly began to laugh. She laughed rather hard for a lady, and ended by dabbing at her eyes with a tiny handkerchief she kept concealed somewhere in the vicinity of the waistband of her skirt. "Oh, dear," she said. "You are insane, aren't you?"

Morrison was silent for a moment. "Oh, I know I'm making an ass of myself. That is, I appear to you to be an ass. Because you can say to me, what young girl who has had sexual relations with a boy will sit down and talk about it with another boy who's interested in her now, and with one of her instructors whose respect she desires, and me, a total stranger? The logical answer is that no young girl would do it, and consequently I am absurd. But life is absurd, too, Miss Parker. It is absurd in its conception. Consider, if you will, the various human acts and mechanisms that aid in the creation of the human being. Now, really, what could be more absurd? We can't even rise to the artistic achievement of the barnyard hen and lay one neat egg. And the only way to deal with this problem is through what seems to you now as absurdity."

"I will never permit what you suggest," Selma Parker said. There was finality in her manner; somewhere steel doors had been slammed shut and barred against unknown intruders out of the dark night.

"May I speak to Miss Catton, then?" Morrison asked.

"She is not here. She is in retreat."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I said she has gone to a retreat. She's quite religious and she goes to a retreat now and then to meditate."

Morrison walked to the window and stood with his hands in his pockets. On the playing field, a group of girls were engaged in a casual game of field hockey. None of them wore athletic clothing, most of them had on gray-flannel, Jamaica-length shorts and sweaters. A great deal of giggling and horsing around was going on; they were not playing to win, but for fun.

"You make me want to weep, you really do," Morrison said. He gestured at the field. "Who on God's earth could be cruel enough, sadistic enough, to object to their little sex play? Why, it would be like puppies tumbling on a lawn."

"Their parents are sadistic enough," Selma Parker said. She had risen from the sofa and she was standing behind him, slightly to one side. "And they were not sent here to become happy, carefree animals. Most of them will be wives of very successful men."

"But, my God!" Morrison said. "This is an institution of learning, isn't it? All I suggest is we talk."

"No, it is a finishing school," Selma Parker said. "These girls are not like girls who go to Bennington, for instance, and sit in their rooms at night and – after they have finished with religion and politics, you understand – talk about a thing sometimes called 'free love' and whether they will do it, and when, and under what circumstances. The only time sex is discussed here is in the biology laboratory when frogs are dissected and their reproductive systems studied. There is never any other mention of sex. The girls do not discuss it among themselves."

"Oh, come on," Morrison said. "I know kids."

"You don't know these young ladies. They are virgins."

Morrison laughed. "Oh, come on, Miss Parker."

Selma Parker sat down on the sofa and took a cigarette from a silver box. She smoked it slowly, inhaling deeply, in the manner of one who allows herself only three or four cigarettes a day. "Do you know what the name of this school is? Miss Catton's. Don't you know what that means? It is not Mrs. Catton's. Everything here is virginal, right down to the scullions in the kitchen. There is not even one married woman who works here as a domestic. What I am trying to indicate to you is the atmosphere of the school. It is virginal. While the young ladies are here they think as virgins think, they talk as virgins talk. Even if one of them had, in the past, some sexual experience – which, of course, none has had – she would never discuss it, not even with her dearest friend. It simply isn't done."

"My God, that's horrible," Morrison said. "Think how that girl must be feeling. She's had sexual intercourse with Stud and now she's in with this virginal crowd – –"

Selma Parker smiled. "You are so worked up about this, aren't you? You take such a personal interest in it."

"Implying that I have no sex life of my own to concern me," Morrison said quickly. "Miss Parker, you can't insult me. I do have a personal interest. I have simply seen too many boys with good minds adopt the attitude Ramsey has. He thinks that because he's read certain books Tatum is literally incapable of reading, that he, Ramsey, is a finer human being. Everybody tells him he's finer – he gets higher marks than Tatum, and to get higher marks means you are finer. Thinking that, and knowing Tatum has had any number of girls – and Ramsey has had none at this point, mind you – he begins to equate a direct sexual drive with stupidity and insensitivity. And, goddamnit, that is wrong. In his own thinking Ramsey has separated sexuality and intelligence. That is impossible. The mind and the body cannot be separated. One cannot exist without the other. A man's blood circulates, his brain gives off electrical impulses, and his testicles produce sperm. Castrate him, do major damage to his body, and his mind will be affected. And what do you think Ramsey has done to himself, emotionally? From now on Ramsey's mind will become less because it has become separated from part of its sexuality, its drive. What could have been real thinking may become mere dallying. He will become less to the degree that he rejects Stud and Mary Sarah and sex. My God, he can't do this to himself. Real thinking, of any kind, has a pair of testicles. It's the most valuable thing humanity has."

"Except for one other," Miss Parker said slowly, as if she might be thinking. "The womb from which we are all ushered forth." She looked up at Morrison. "Do you know what a woman gives to a man when she gives love? And a man does not always take love, Morrison, a woman frequently gives it. She gives her whole life, forever. Because a man may get up and walk away, but for a woman there is the possible consequence of a child. And a child changes a woman's life, forever. Oh, in many ways our conversation is an ancient argument – a man thinks of his pleasure, a woman of family. The social institution of marriage is the only solution, of course."

"But I'm not talking about anyone getting pregnant! I'm not talking about anyone doing anything – –"

"Oh, hush," she said. "Will you please hush? You would sicken a stone donkey with your constant talk of sex, sex, sex." She relit the cigarette she had been holding. "Do you know much about girls this age? They can be little bitches. That is a word I seldom use, but it is the only accurate one here. They do not realize how cruel they are, sometimes, but they can be bitches." She paused. "Mary Sarah arrived here wearing a Balenciaga suit and what appeared to be a Jacqueline Kennedy hairdo, but later turned out to be a very costly wig, and Elizabeth Taylor eye make-up. I presume you know how grotesque that was, beginning with a Balenciaga on someone that age. So I presume you know what happened."

"They gave her a hard time," Morrison said, nodding. "Yes, boys do that, too. But I imagine it hurts a girl more."

"Consequently, do you know what it meant to her to have your Byron Ramsey call upon her? To be genuinely interested in her? Only a few of the older girls here know boys who are close enough to come to see them. It's a long drive, even from Harvard or Yale, for an hour or so on a Sunday afternoon. Your Byron Ramsey has meant a great deal to Mary Sarah." She turned sideways on the sofa, so that she faced him. "Do you understand why I cannot permit what you suggest? Particularly with this girl, with this girl least of all."

"You have to. Because Ramsey will either reject her —"

"No." Selma Parker ground out the cigarette in an ashtray. "I want you to visit me again tomorrow afternoon at this time, Morrison. Bring Byron Ramsey with you. Leave him outside, in your car, where he will see Mary Sarah on the playing field. He will walk down to her and they will talk. I am sure they do not need us as much as you think."

"No. They need guidance – –"

"No. I believe it will work best that way," Selma Parker said. "She will simply explain to him that Tatum lied and that it never happened."

"But Tatum didn't lie!" Morrison said.

"Oh, come now," Miss Parker said, smiling. "Of course he lied, Morrison. I know that he did. Now, goodbye. I will see you tomorrow at four."

• • •

Wednesday afternoon Morrison stopped the Volkswagen in the turnaround at Miss Catton's at exactly four o'clock. Ramsey sat beside him, looking sour and rebellious. He was dressed extremely casually in old plum-colored corduroys and an ancient sweatshirt. His sneakers, which had once been white, were bound around the instep with electrician's tape, to hold on the soles.

Morrison looked down the slope at the gaggle of gray-flannel shorts on the playing field. "She down there?"

"She's there, she's there," Ramsey said irritably.

"Now you remember what you're to say," Morrison prompted.

"Oh, sure," Ramsey said bitterly. "I stroll down there and say, 'Hey, you ever give a friend of mine, Stud Tatum, the time, hey, and if you did, tell me why or I'll flunk English.' 'Well, as long as it's for the good of your mind,' she'll say – –"

"Now cut that out," Morrison said; he was irritable, too. He felt very frustrated; that bitch Selma Parker was making him do something he knew wouldn't work, and there was nothing he could do – she was the authority at Miss Catton's. "Do you remember what I told you?"

Ramsey turned in the seat so that he faced Morrison. "Sir, I don't mean any disrespect. You're older than I am and a lot more intelligent and I guess you've been around pretty much. When it comes to Beowulf I'm with you all the way. But this isn't some class, sir, this is real. What you want me to do isn't going to work. Mary Sarah's not even going to talk to me. All it's going to do is make her feel bad, and that's going to make me feel bad, and – –"

"It will work," Morrison said. "She will talk to you. Ramsey, no female in this hemisphere can resist telling a man who is in love with her about her past sins. They simply love to confess."

"But what the hell good's that going to do?" Ramsey said, his voice rising. "What the hell good is it going to do me to learn how terrific old Tatum is at giving some girl the time?"

"It is a basic and fundamental psychological fact that if people talk about things of this sort they are changed."

"Into what? Frogs?" Ramsey said. "Listen, it's important to me to know how I'll be changed. I mean, you just don't go into something like this without knowing something about the future. Even a brain surgeon, Mister Morrison, would tell a guy he had a 50-50 chance. I mean, what if I suddenly turn queer? What'll you write Mother?"

"People don't just suddenly turn queer," Morrison said. "And you know they don't. I don't know how you'll be changed. The way you'll be is already inside you this minute. You'll develop and grow."

They got out of the Volkswagen. It was a warm spring afternoon and the buds on the apple trees were bursting into bloom. "Well, where'll you be, sir," Ramsey said, "in case they gang up on me with their hockey sticks and you don't hear my feeble cries?"

"I'll be in that bitch Parker's office."

Ramsey's eyes lighted with interest. "She's a bitch, that Miss Parker? No kidding. How do you know, sir? I mean – –"

"Never mind. Go down to the field."

"I better go to the bathroom first."

"No, you can wait and go later."

"Boy, you've got good eyesight, Mister Morrison. Being able to tell when guys don't have to go to the bathroom."

Morrison walked to the door and banged the knocker without looking back at Ramsey. The maid let him in and took him to Miss Parker. She was sitting at the trestle table with a large stack of papers before her and she looked up without removing the horn-rims; she was myopic, and the lenses made her eyes huge. "If you expect me to give you tea again today you'll have to wait a bit. Find something to occupy your mind."

Morrison sat in the platform rocker and stared at the dead fireplace, but the chair did not seem comfortable. He walked to the window and stared at the playing field. He could not see Ramsey anywhere and he began to wander about the room, nervously picking up small objects of art and putting them down.

"Oh, will you sit down!" Selma Parker said. "Morrison, you are acting exactly like a mother hen. Here. Read something." She flung a copy of The Atlantic at him.

"I've seen this issue," Morrison said.

A telephone rang twice. Selma Parker rooted among a pile of papers on the table, uncovered a telephone receiver and put it to her ear. "Miss Parker here," she said, and then her face brightened. Morrison was staring at her and the light in her eyes had the same effect on him as a mildly strong electric shock. By God, he thought, she's talking to a man!

"Oh, how are you?" she said, as if nothing so much in the world concerned her as the state of health of the person who had called. "I was just this minute thinking of you."

As Selma Parker spoke she stood up and walked toward the sofa, and the long telephone cord knocked books and papers off the table and they splashed on the floor. She sank slowly down on the sofa. She did not sit, she sank slowly and rather wantonly, as a movie star of the Twenties might have slid into a milk bath. In the process of slithering, she removed both her loafers and sat wiggling her small toes ecstatically.

"Oh, you didn't really!" she burst out. "Oh, you didn't. Really, did you? Oh, did you really do that? Oh, how funny. And then what did she do? She did? Really, did she do that? Oh, how funny. What was she wearing? Oh, really? Just her slip? Oh, how funny! That's really the funniest thing I think I have ever heard. I wish I'd been there."

Yes, it's a great pity, Morrison thought sourly.

"Oh, I'd love to, but I can't this weekend," Selma Parker said. "No, really, I can't. Miss Catton is away and I can't leave. She went on one of her periodicals. I should have known, she was spending so much time alone in her rooms and then gargling with this absolutely vile-smelling stuff so none of us would know. She's in a little hospital in Brookline, drying out. The one she always goes to. Well, I do, too. Well, of course I know how you feel. I have feelings, too, you know. Yes, ducks, you do that. Yes, and thanks for asking. 'Bye."

She put the phone down and sat staring at nothing, holding her left ankle with her right hand.

"She's an alcoholic, the old girl?" Morrison asked.

Selma Parker jerked erect. "Morrison! I'd forgotten you were here. Why, that was a low thing to do, to listen."

"You have quite a loud voice," Morrison said. "Did you expect me to cover my ears?"

"Morrison, you must not mention Miss Catton's affliction. No one knows of it, especially the school trustees. The person to whom I was speaking lives in Boston, has no connection with any school, and is quite an old personal friend."

"I never gossip," Morrison said stiffly, and he walked to the window. A boy and a girl – he recognized Ramsey, of course – were walking slowly up the knoll with their heads bent like mourners. They were about a foot apart, and parallel, but not touching each other. The girl was talking, and obviously talking seriously. She was small and built in a series of little circles – round little eyes and mouth, round little breasts and buttocks. They walked close to the window, then turned without seeing Morrison, and started down the knoll.

"They are talking, Morrison," Selma Parker said in an I-told-you-so way.

Morrison glanced at her, then looked away as if she was something unpleasant. "You ever read The Making of Americans, Miss Parker?" he asked idly.

"I don't know it, no."

"Gertrude Stein considered it her major work. She said once that the most important novels of the 20th Century were Proust's, and Joyce's, and The Making of Americans. I find that almost no one has read it."

"Oh, well, she hasn't been dead long enough to have a real revival."

Morrison was invited to have tea, but he declined. Tea was the last thing he wanted to drink, and Selma Parker the last person he would have chosen to drink anything with. He went outside and stood in the sunshine beside the Volkswagen. In a bit Ramsey came slowly up the slope, his face puckered and intent.

They got in the car and Morrison started the engine. "Well, things go as I said?"

"Yes, sir, pretty much," Ramsey said and he let out his breath; from the noise it made he had evidently been holding it since early childhood. "She was very nice to talk to me the way she did. I told her that she was the only girl I ever knew in my entire life who would be that honest." He fell into silence.

"But what?" Morrison said; he sensed that Ramsey had not told him all.

"Well, we talked about a lot of things you told me. The boredom, and so on. I mean, you were partly right, Mister Morrison. But you weren't entirely right. I asked her something maybe I shouldn't have. We got to talking and it just slipped out. I said, 'But why'd you do it with Stud and not with me?' And you know what she said, Mister Morrison?"

"What?"

"She said, 'Well, Byron, you never asked.'"

Morrison was stunned. Of course one had to ask, that was basic. Everything he had said to Ramsey had been so intellectual; it had never occurred to him that Ramsey, or anyone, would have to be told to ask. That girl, with her sweet simplicity, had unmasked him as the stuffy English teacher he was. He began to laugh, ruefully. "Well, Ramsey, I guess that's something every boy should have engraved on the back of his wrist watch."

• • •

Thursday night it was Morrison's turn to make bed check in the dormitory. Lights had to be off at 10 o'clock. Morrison was not strict, and often he did not start going from room to room until 10:30. If someone was reading or studying, Morrison would tell him to take his book to the can. At midnight, Morrison would check the can. If any boys were still reading, Morrison would send them to bed.

Thursday night, about 10:15, Morrison started going from room to room, saying, "Time to turn them off now." The door of Ramsey and Tatum's room was open, but the room was dark as if they were asleep. That was unusual, because Ramsey was generally in the can reading when Morrison made his final check; he was that kind of reader. Morrison had once caught him awake at 3:30 in the morning, reading by flashlight.

Morrison paused at the door. "Everything all right?"

"Just fine, Mister Morrison," Stud said. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight," Morrison said. "Goodnight, Ramsey."

There was no immediate response. Then Stud whispered hoarsely, "I guess Byron must already be asleep, sir."

Morrison reached inside the door and flicked the switch that turned on the light. There was nothing in Ramsey's bed except a rolled-up blanket. "Oh, for Christ sake," Morrison said, and stepped inside and closed the door.

Stud shrugged. "I told Byron it wouldn't fool anybody."

"I'll bet you did," Morrison said. "Where is he? Has he gone to the village, to the liquor store?"

"He wouldn't tell me —"

"Get up," Morrison said. "We'll go speak to the Head."

"Aw, for Christ sake, all I said was he wouldn't tell me. But I can guess. He's at the cat house. He called Mary Sarah tonight and he left here carrying a blanket. I asked him why and he told me to mind my own goddamn business. He's over at the cat house right now. I'll bet money on it."

He asked her, Morrison thought; damn him. He sat down on the vacant twin bed. "You should have told me. What if I hadn't taken bed check?"

"Well, Byron keeps talking about a gentleman never saying anything. He's got me so screwed up I don't know when to tell something and when not to. But we fixed that fire door downstairs so he can get back in."

"Yes, if someone doesn't see him sneaking back across the grounds." Morrison looked out the window. It was a bright, moonlit night. He thought of driving toward Miss Catton's in his car, but that way he might miss Ramsey entirely. "Stud, keep this door closed. If anyone wants in ... well, tell them to see me."

"Where are you going, sir?"

"To make a telephone call." Morrison walked down the hall to his rooms. It was the last thing he wanted to do, to call Selma Parker and tell her that Byron Ramsey and Mary Sarah Butler were at that moment locked together in joyous congress somewhere in Miss Catton's well-tended shrubbery. But he had to; he felt responsible. When someone answered, he said, "This is Jacoby Morrison. Miss Parker, please."

In a moment she said, "Yes, Morrison?"

"Can anyone hear us? Is there an extension on your line?"

"Morrison, I am well aware that you are insane. Do you have to call at odd hours to make it even more clear?"

Morrison lost his temper. "All right, I will put it in basic English for you, Miss Parker. Ramsey isn't in his bed. After telephoning Mary Sarah, he left here carrying a blanket. Do you know what that means?"

"Oh, god damn you!" she exploded.

"Why, how dare you say that to me?" Morrison said in a cold voice. "Are you so stupid you don't know it's your fault? You wouldn't sit down and talk to them. Of course, they sneaked off somewhere! They feel they have to sneak. And no one in this world should have to sneak anything. Now, I'll tell you what you are going to do. You are going to see that not the slightest embarrassment is caused that girl. If one thing happens to embarrass her I'll —"

"Don't you dare threaten me!" Miss Parker said stoutly.

"Who's threatening you?" Morrison said. "I simply don't think an alcoholic should be head of a school for young ladies." He waited until he heard her gasp, then he broke the connection.

Morrison stuck a flashlight and a pack of cigarettes in his pocket and went downstairs. He stood some distance from the dormitory, beneath a large oak tree. The night was cool, the moon pale white. It was not yet 11 o'clock. Morrison knew the boy might keep the girl out until three or four in the morning; if one were going to take a chance, then one might as well enjoy it.

A friend of Morrison's, who had been a foot soldier, had told him that in a heavily wooded area you could sometimes locate enemy positions by watching the shadows and patches of light. If a shadow moved, then you knew where to fire. Shortly after midnight, Morrison observed a shadow moving toward the dormitory; the shadow tried to keep in the larger blots of darkness, which was clever, but now and then it had to cross patches of moonlight. Morrison waited, and when the shadow was quite close, he sprang upon it roughly. The shadow squeaked in alarm and dropped a blanket it happened to be carrying.

"You listen to me, Ramsey," Morrison said. "I've risked my job to keep you in school. I won't do it again. The next time you sneak out, no matter why, the Head will hear about it. Is that quite clear?"

"Sure thing, Mister Morrison," Ramsey said jauntily – much too jauntily for a culprit.

"What the hell have you been doing?"

Ramsey grinned. "Out getting my wrist watch engraved."

• • •

All day Friday Morrison waited for someone to enter his classroom with a message that the Head wanted to see him. Morrison had decided that, in his own defense, he would simply say he thought he had done the right thing, and then offer to resign. He would never say anything about Miss Catton's being an alcoholic, of course; that would be cruel. But no message came from the Head and after his last class that afternoon Morrison went to his rooms. He was just sitting down when Johnstone banged on the door. "Phone call downstairs!"

"Tell them to call my number!" Morrison called, but Johnstone had gone on whistling down the hall.

The telephone in Morrison's room was private, and all his friends had the number. He knew the call was from someone trying to sell him either the Britannica or a burial plot. He clumped downstairs and said curtly, "Yes? What is it?"

"Jacoby? This is your partner in crime, Selma Parker."

It registered with him instantly that she had said Jacoby, not Morrison, and that she sounded subdued. "Yes?" he said.

"I've wanted to talk to you all day. I wanted to tell you about last night. I decided to go outside. That is, to wait outside. I did manage to get our friend back in again without being seen. As a matter of fact, we sat up quite late and had a very girly talk. About life, you know." She paused. "What happened was for the best, Jacoby. I thought, especially since we had disagreed about which course to take, you might be pleased to hear that. Well, aren't you pleased?"

"I am," Morrison said. "Very pleased. My report is the same, except we had no girly talk."

She laughed. "Jacoby, do you have a car?"

"I do," he said, picking it up where she had so carefully placed it for him. "It's only a Volkswagen, but—"

"A Volkswagen. Oh, how cunning!"

"– But I was thinking last night that you should get out and see the countryside. You do have a magnificent view over there, but I know a spot where you can see three states all at once – Connecticut, New York and Massachusetts. A lot of people think you have to get out when the sun is shining. But the view is excellent at night, this time of year. Did you notice the moon last night?"

"Oh, yes. I did. I did notice it."

"Well, I have to be here tonight for dinner, but I could drive over later. About eight o'clock?"

"I'd love to. And thank you for asking me, Jacoby."

Well, by God, Morrison thought, and he trotted back to his rooms, whistling, and made a strong drink which he took into the shower.

It was dark at eight o'clock; the moon would not rise before ten. As Morrison went slowly up the drive at Miss Catton's, the headlights of the car illuminated the figure of a girl standing on the steps, waiting. Selma Parker still wore a tweed skirt that was baggy, but she had on a white blouse and pearls, and her hair was up in a fashion no old maid ever imagined.

"I hope you don't mind my waiting outside," she said, as he opened the door. "But tonight I didn't care to have any of the girls know that old Parker was going out."

"Of course not," Morrison said. "Listen, the moon won't be up for a bit. There's a rather nice inn in the village, with a small bar that's quite respectable. We could go for a brandy, if you'd like."

"I'd love to go for a brandy," she said, and she smiled.

They sat in the small bar with their heads together and talked. She had gone to Smith and she knew a cousin of one of his old roommates. He told her about living in Mexico, but not about the Indian girl. She mentioned bicycling through France one summer with a friend, but she did not say of which sex. They drank two brandies, then decided to go.

Morrison drove slowly around the horseshoe curve, then slower still, and said, "About here, I think," and pulled off the road onto the gravel.

She leaned forward, her elbows on her knees. It was true, one could see for miles. In the moonlight, in the fields below, there were freshly turned furrows, waiting for seed.

"Think how it was before the white man," she said. "Think about the Indians down there in that field now, making love so the corn would be more fertile."

"They didn't do it now," Morrison said. "They didn't do it until after they got the seed in the ground. About the last of May. There's not much point in New England in getting your seed in the ground too soon."

"Oh, you logical creature," she said softly. She was smiling at him. "You did something so very kind. And I was absolutely no help at all." She took a deep breath. "Someone should do something nice for you. I don't know if I'm nice enough." She took his hand and held it, sitting with her head lowered. "Oh, my dear, can't you help me? Oh, Jacoby, can't you ask me?"

She had been touched by what he had done and he was touched by that. He could feel her trembling; he drew her close. "Oh, I intended asking. I intended that. I think it's been made clear to all of us that we must ask."