Five Smooth Stones (53 page)

The men were moving about the room now, refilling coffee cups, talking aimlessly around the subject, letting off steam generally. Dr. Parrish made his way to Vidal's side. "Take the weekend off, John. Get up in the mountains. Get away from the mess for a couple of days. You'll function better for it."

"Run away? You should be the last to advise that, Henry."

"I have a few old-fashioned theories."

"I wish I knew what steps to take with the Clevenger lad. There's nothing to pin anything on, only a moral certainty that he's taking petty revenge in a far from petty way."

"It's more than a petty revenge, John. It's a bitter, sick thing, and his inner unhappiness is in direct ratio to the bitterness and sickness. If there is nothing to be done—that's what I would advise doing. I doubt that he will continue with this, and I think the other boy's friends and the boy himself will ride out the rumor."

"Leave Clevenger to the not so tender mercies of his classmates?"

"It could be a harsh sentence, but I think at the moment it's the best. I'd hesitate to advise expulsion or even asking him to leave. You only martyr him and quite possibly make it tougher on Champlin."

"Thanks, Henry. I'll take your advice to the extent of adopting a wait-and-see policy. Wait a moment and drive to the house with me. We're having cocktails there before dinner—" Vidal walked to the table, rapped it with his knuckles for attention. "Before we break up, gentlemen, one final word. You might be keeping in mind our agenda for this evening. We must consider ways and means of clearing the records of such students as in our judgment were wrongfully expelled, reinstating them if they desire it. Then we must take care of the matter of payment for Mr. Prentiss. As for the third, at nine o'clock Dean Goodhue will appear before us. He has already been confronted with the evidence. I did this myself, as a sop to my self-respect. I told him we would, of course, listen to his side of the story if he cared to present it. He made no comment, merely stated that he would appear. Now—shall we leave all this behind for a short period?"

***

Dean Goodhue, crossing the inner quadrangle on his way to his office in the Administration Building, saw a tall stranger leaving the small, Swiss-cottage type of building that housed the office of the president, the board room, and a small dining room for informal faculty luncheons. As the stranger came closer, Goodhue looked away and quickened his step. Elacoya had been right in her description, even to the scar on the forehead. Goodhue felt no fear now, no apprehension about what this man had been doing in the president's domain. He knew. In less than four hours he would go into that building and face the board of governors. He slipped a hand inside his coat, felt the envelope in the inner pocket. After the past four weeks he was drained dry, exhausted by fear; it would be a relief to lay that letter on the table before them and walk out, no longer dean of men at Pengard College. He had no doubt that they would accept his resignation.

CHAPTER 37

Joseph Champlin remembered that his mother had always been very firm in her admonitions against pride, either in self or in possessions. It was one of the graver sins, she said, but on David's graduation day he succumbed to pride without a struggle. If it was a sin, then he was going to sin like five hundred on this day because there could never be one like it again.

Bad weather during graduation week and predictions of worse for commencement day resulted in all final-week festivities at Pengard being carried on indoors, the final ceremony being held in the auditorium instead of the traditional location—a grassy slope just north of the lake. Quimby Auditorium was a comparatively new building, Mrs. Horace

Quimby's last gift to the college before she died, not completed until after her death. The architect had given to modern form an atmosphere of cathedral-like spaciousness and grandeur. The wide, deep balcony seemed to float above the lower floor without visible support except the shallow staircases ascending on each side. At its rear similar staircases descended to the inner lobby. Today the balcony was a sea of black gowns and mortarboards rising gently from the front row to high, vaulted windows where an unpredictable summer sun threw its rays across them and down to the auditorium below.

Joseph Champlin, on the main floor, sat beside his friend Bjarne Knudsen, a few rows back from the front seats reserved for faculty. He sat quietly, without stirring, almost lost to sight between the bulk of the Professor and the figure of a fat stranger on his right. Above, from the first-row seat, David Champlin could see his grandfather and the Prof clearly. Gramp looked so damned tiny, especially from this distance, thought David, and so straight and proud. The small, dark head, level with the Prof's shoulders, never turned, and David knew Li'l Joe's eyes were dutifully fixed on the stage where an eminent modern philosopher was giving what might be an inspiring address if he paid attention to it, which he wasn't doing. He knew Gramp was paying even less because Gramp's thoughts were damned near visible, even with only the back of the carefully groomed, close-cropped head to be seen.

Li'l Joe was not only not paying attention, he was grateful for the respite the commencement address gave him, the chance to collect his thoughts and get set for seeing David walk up there and get his diploma. He had been in Laurel two days, and it seemed like he hadn't had a minute to breathe. Without moving his head he directed his eyes to the third row back on the other side of the aisle where Lawrence Travis sat beside that fine-looking white wife of his. Lord, Lord, who'd have thought that Li'l Joe Champlin would ever be having lunch with a great man like that the way he and the Prof had done the day before? And that this man's son would be one of his grandson's best friends. And you couldn't fault the man, not anywhere. Li'l Joe supposed Lawrence Travis must have eaten with kings and queens maybe, and presidents and big shots all over the world, and just yesterday he'd been eating ribs with Li'l Joe Champlin in a place called Mom's, and laughing fit to kill over some of Li'l Joe's stories about home, telling a lot himself; he'd been a Louisiana boy, country Louisiana boy, and he'd never forgotten.

Li'l Joe was glad this wasn't his first trip to Laurel. He had spent two weekends there in David's third year and another one earlier this year, and met all of David's friends, and had a chance to become accustomed to the way things were. David's friends had treated him like royalty, and they were all nice kids, every one of them, colored
and
white. The second time he came up, that little boy who didn't look like much more'n a child, named Tom, saw him walking through the gate with David, and let out a regular war whoop—"Hey I There's Gramp!" and ran up to them, then stopped, pink and blushing. "Gee, sir, I'm sorry. Bet I sounded fresh. Only, that's the way we all think of you—" It had been hard to take in, a white boy apologizing to him for calling him something like "Gramp" and calling him "sir" and all.

He wished he could have met the boy David called Sudsy, and his father, the big doctor up in Boston. David had been way up there to visit them two or three times. The first time he went was at the end of his second year, and the doctor sent him a round-trip plane ticket, because he wanted David's visit to be a surprise birthday present for that sick boy of his. David had been up in Chicago, too, had driven up in that God-awful yellow car with Tom, met his folks. The Prof told him about Tom's father, all he'd done for the workingman, but it didn't impress him too much; there were workingmen and workingmen, and they came in different colors and no one knew it better than the unions down where he lived. Still, he guessed from what the Prof said that this man, Bull Evans, was trying, and he sure was a well-met man, friendly, a little like the Prof.

Li'l Joe resolutely tried to keep his mind from dwelling on Sara Kent. She was all girl, all woman, li'l piece of a thing she was, and as sweet and nice as they come, but whenever she and David were together Li'l Joe felt as worried as a mother cat with kittens in a kennel full of dogs. Maybe the dogs didn't mean no harm, but— He'd be relieved when David got up north there in Boston where he'd be so busy learning law that he wouldn't have time for a little girl who could come mighty close to worming her way into even Li'l Joe's affections if he'd let her. He'd met her father the night before, shaken hands with him, and sensed the same worry in him.

Of them all, thought Li'l Joe, it was the big, awkward white boy they called Chuck he took to the most. That accent had thrown him off at first, but David told him not to pay it any mind. And he'd been right. He felt sorry for the boy, too. He knew from David how Chuck's family wouldn't have anything to do with him and why. These past two days Chuck had stuck with him and David and the Prof, which was fine; time like this a young fellow wanted to feel he belonged somewhere with someone.

All around him were folks who were there for the same reason he was: to see their young ones graduate. Yet only those few who were of his own people could be feeling the way he was feeling. A lot of those folks around him would be taking it for granted; they'd known that sooner or later they'd see their kids graduate from college. But the son of the first David Champlin sure hadn't known any such thing, scrambling to make a dime when his own son, John, was born. That Li'l Joe Champlin could never have known that someday he'd be waiting in a big, beautiful building like this, waiting to see John's son get a diploma from a famous college; couldn't even have thought it, wouldn't dared have thought it. He wished John could see this, that big, quiet son of his who hadn't lived to know his own baby. Maybe he did. Geneva—Lord, Lord, he knew Geneva could see it. He could feel Geneva right there, close as the Prof's big shoulder beside him. And Tant' Irene, too, who said so often, "Never forget your 'thank-you's,' son." She was close by, too. Li'l Joe's lips moved without sound. Seemed like he shouldn't just think it; seemed like he should say it with his mouth, even if no one could hear—"Thank you, Jesus."

Above and behind there was a sustained rumble, and every head in the auditorium turned back and up. The graduates in the first two rows were standing, men on one side of the center aisle, women on the other. They filed slowly to the staircases on each side and then down and along the side aisles, while the next two rows stood, ready to fall in behind. The Prof's brother had told him the plan. They would approach the stage, mount its side steps; then a girl student would advance and receive her diploma and a handshake from the president, walk to the temporary steps in center stage, descend into the body of the auditorium and march up the center aisle, while her male opposite number, just behind her, followed the same procedure. The procession of black-gowned young people would then pass into the inner lobby to ascend its stairways to the balcony again.

Li'l Joe began to worry about David. Would he leave, like be did every now and then, a blob of lather on his earlobe after shaving? Would he have been fussing with his tie up there in the balcony, nervous, and spoiled the knot? And then, abruptly, there was David, walking up the steps at the far side of the stage, taller than anyone in front or behind, tall, tall—and straight and scarcely limping at all, eyes dead ahead, face so solemn it looked almost sad. Feeling all that responsibility, thought Li'l Joe, then caught his breath, held it while David received his diploma and shook hands with the president, heard the microphone pick up the words, "Well done, Champlin—" then let the breath out in a long sigh. His eyes were too moist to see David coming down the steps and start up the aisle, but he blinked frantically so that when the boy passed his row of seats he caught the wide grin and the wink.

His eyes cleared completely and suddenly at an unexpected and loud "Harrrrumphl" from the seat next to him. It startled him so that he jumped and then edged over in his seat when the Prof's elbow jostled him as the big man fumbled in his pocket for the handkerchief into which he blew his nose with controlled violence. After that the Prof looked straight ahead, very stiff, shoulders squared, as though he'd been caught doing something he shouldn't and was trying by his attitude to deny any knowledge of it. Li'l Joe smiled. If the Prof could blow his nose to cover up, he could, too, and he did so, only quietly and gently. He felt the Prof's shoulder shake, looked up to find the bearded face and blue eyes turned to him, and the two men laughed together, at each other, silently and happily.

***

The loud "Harrrumph" that had so startled Li'l Joe had also startled its perpetrator. It had been as involuntary as a sneeze. Like his companion, Bjarne Knudsen had been caught unawares when David Champlin had appeared on the stage in front of him. The man selected to speak at the commencement was an old friend, but Knudsen had never dreamed he could be so dull. He recalled uncomfortably that he himself, when asked for comment by his brother, had heartily recommended him to deliver the commencement address.

He sighed, and deliberately detached his mind from what was being said onstage. He was very conscious of the wisp of a man who sat beside him, and equally conscious of the presence of that man's grandson somewhere above them. Unlike

Li'l Joe, he had no misgivings about pride; he rejoiced in it and knew, with Li'l Joe, that there would never be a day more filled with it, no matter what heights of achievement were reached by the dark boy in mortar board and gown waiting now to be formally graduated from Pengard College
—summa cum laude.

Bjarne Knudsen had learned, some from his brother, a little from David, of what the boy had faced at college, although it was not until the end of David's junior year that he had been able to sit down with his brother Karl and really discuss David's career. Karl and Eve had spent the previous summer in Europe; there had been no time for visiting during the bulk of the following year, and letters, especially Karl's, were unsatisfactory.

He remembered that first really informative discussion now, while he waited for the climax of the commencement ceremonies. He had arrived at his brother's late in the afternoon. David was not mentioned either before or during dinner. When Karl suggested inviting friends in after dinner, Bjarne said, "No. Tomorrow perhaps. Tonight I want to talk." Eve Knudsen touched his shoulder in a quick gesture of affection and said, "This is news?" and he roared at her. "Woman! You speak with a forked tongue, like the serpent! Karl, you should not permit your wife to abuse your brother—"