The Headmaster's Wife(16)
“What is there to say?”
“It’s important to you.”
“Of course.”
“Expand on that, then.”
“On why it’s important?”
“Yes.”
“I grew up on that river.”
“Did you swim in it? Fish?”
“Swim, yes. All the time. Fish? No. People did fish there. But we didn’t.”
“Why not?”
He shrugs. “We weren’t the type that fished.”
“Because fishing was…?”
“Something other people did. What are you after?”
“Tell me about your wife. Did she like to swim?”
“Elizabeth? Elizabeth wasn’t a swimmer.”
“Did you find that odd?”
“What?”
“That she didn’t swim?”
“She would dip her toes in the ocean. But she didn’t swim in the river, and of course I didn’t, either, after college.”
“Why not?”
He shrugs. “Have you ever read Madame Bovary?”
“Madame what?”
“Never mind. It’s just that her husband doesn’t dance. Charles doesn’t dance. I don’t dance, either. Or swim. It’s not—for a man like me—it’s not appropriate.”
When I need alcohol, I travel for it. There is only one liquor store in the town of Lancaster, and it would be unbecoming for the headmaster to be in there as often as I require. So I get in my car and drive fifteen or twenty miles, where I will not be so easily recognized, and pick up what I need.
It is on one of these sojourns, up to St. Johnsbury, that a lightbulb goes off. At the liquor store, I buy my normal assortment of a case of wine and a case of single malt scotch, but I also buy a smattering of bottles this time that one would not expect me to pick up. Some rotgut vodka, and something called Mad Dog 20/20, and some peppermint schnapps. All products that must appeal to the teenage palate—the times we have found students with alcohol, these are generally what they have.
That afternoon I do something I am not particularly proud of, though, when it comes to Betsy, all things feel like war, and in war, you see, there is what is euphemistically called collateral damage.
During the sports hour, I take the skeleton key afforded to me as head of school and open the front door to Spencer Hall. It is a two-story clapboard building on the main quadrangle, and as a student I once lived here, on the second floor. It houses junior and senior boys and is a desirable place to bunk on campus.
The dorm is empty, as it should be. All the boys are out on the fields. Out of habit, I stop and pick up a wayward flyer that has fallen off the bulletin board. I walk down the long, narrow hallway, and all the flaws of the building catch my eye. It could use a new coat of paint, and the carpet is threadbare down the middle from all those pounding feet, boys wearing cleats inside, which they are not supposed to do but do anyway. Items for next year’s capital budget.
I climb the stairs to the second floor, and here everything is the same. In an hour or so these hallways will be full of rambunctious boys readying themselves for the dining hall. But for now I have it to myself.
I find the room I am looking for: 219. I put the paper bag I am carrying down on the floor, just so I can check the number again against the slip of paper in my pocket. I have the right room.
I key the door and open it. The dorm rooms are all the same: high-ceilinged and stately in the manner of the older dormitories, a solitary window that looks out onto the quad. I go to the window and peer out. The quad, too, is devoid of students. One of the things I love about structure: You always know where to find Lancaster students. Their lives are scripted, unlike those at Exeter or Andover, which take a decidedly different approach, though I know they feel equally strong about the preparatory power of their pedagogy.
This room has two beds, one on either side. This is a challenge I hadn’t really thought about. Which side of the room belongs to Russell, and which side belongs to his roommate, another postgrad basketball player, though much less heralded? They both have basketball posters above their beds, and this does not provide a clue. Then I remember that Brett, Russell’s roommate, is a point guard, and stands only about five foot nine, as compared to the six-foot-five Russell. These rooms have two closets, and the closets are aligned with the beds. It is in here that I discover what I am looking for. In the end, the size of the clothes determines the fate of the man.
Having decided that Russell sleeps on the left side of the room, I unburden my cache of booze and set about placing it under his bed. The area under his bed is already used for storage, so I find a duffel bag he keeps rolled up under here and fill it with the cheap liquor. I tuck it back deep under the bed and exit his room and then the dormitory itself.
That night, at a quarter to eleven, right before lights-out, the dean of students and I, having been notified by an anonymous tip, arrive at Russell and Brett’s doorway. The dean of students, a young man named Marx, enjoys the fascist side of his job, and in a loud voice he announces to the boys as they sit on their beds reading, “Room search.” They look surprised but unworried as they stand in their boxer shorts and T-shirts and take their place at the front of the room.
Mr. Marx, whom the students loathe, begins his search with zeal, though he is focused initially on Brett’s side of the room. It is somewhat unusual, though not unprecedented, for me to accompany a room search. In my youth I did it far more often, though the job of head of school was different then from how it is now. As I have said before, the position has become much more like a conventional CEO than in my father’s era, where you were more the head of a vast, sprawling household. A father to all.