The Books of Fell (10 page)

From
The New York Times:

“Come in, Thompson,” said J. T. Skinner. “Shut the door after you. There’s no point in calling you that anymore. What do you prefer to be called?”

“Fell.”

“Of course. By your last name, as all Sevens are called.”

The headmaster of Gardner was a lot like his office: big, friendly-looking, immaculate. He even had a manicure. He had a large belly, covered by a vest with brown-and-white checks, and a gold Phi Beta Kappa key. He had on one of those unpressed tweed suits that made him look relaxed and slightly English. He was bald and gray eyed, with a ruddy complexion.

He sat back in a leather swivel chair behind his mahogany desk and pointed to the straight-backed chair in front of his desk. I sat down in it.

Behind him, through his office window, I could see snow coming down from the late-afternoon sky.

“Well, Fell, I’ve talked with the FBI agents, as you have. We’d better have
our
talk now that some of the smoke has cleared away. You’d better thank your lucky stars that you made Sevens.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m a legacy, you know. When I came to The Hill as a boy, it was my dream to make Sevens. My father was a Sevens.”

“I didn’t know that, sir.”

“He told me not to count on it, and not to think there was anything wrong with me if I didn’t make it, but I was still very disappointed. You know how a boy feels — that he can’t measure up to his old man.”

“Yes, sir.”

“If you hadn’t made Sevens, you’d be a very disappointed young man, too — assuming that you like it here. Do you?”

“Yes, I do, sir.”

“You’d be held reprehensible for enrolling at Gardner under a false identity. I’d probably have to expel you. I can’t expel a Sevens.
You
made it. Young Pingree didn’t. So you’re under the protection of Sevens. Of course, I could ask you to resign.”

“Are you, sir?”

“No, I’m not, Fell.”

I watched the snow come down behind him.

He said, “Of course, if the Sevens didn’t want you among them, they could make it very uncomfortable for you. There was a case like that a few years back. There was a Sevens member suspected of dealing cocaine. While he was under investigation we couldn’t touch him, even though we knew he was guilty. Sevens gave him an immunity from immediate disciplinary measures. But the Sevens made life so unbearable for him that he resigned. That won’t happen to you, according to Schwartz. The boys are behind you.”

“I’m glad to hear that, sir.”

“You have a good record. You won the N.B.C. competition, too…. I’m a little curious about that, Fell. I know you’re probably tired by now of being questioned, but did the infamous Fern Pingree coach you about life in a Japanese internment camp?”

“No, she didn’t, sir. I hardly knew her.”

“The newspapers say her grandfather died at Jerome, in Arizona, back in World War Two.”

“I didn’t see that article. I only saw the write-up in
The Times.”

“I’ll give you what I’ve got there on my desk, if you’re interested. There’s a lot more being written about her now in
Time, Newsweek,
and the tabloids.”

“I’d like to look at it.”

“They still haven’t found her.”

“I should think she’d have been easy to find in that white stretch Caddy she showed up here in.”

“She rented that in Philadelphia. That’s where they lost her trail. Oh, they’ll find her,” he said. “I was just curious what you know about her.”

“No more than I told the FBI agents,” I said. I’d been grilled by them for hours on the morning after Mrs. Pingree had made her attempt to kidnap Ping. They’d explained that if she’d gotten Ping, Pingree would have kept his mouth shut about anything to do with the espionage operation at Brutt. Now he’d probably cooperate in exchange for immunity or a lighter sentence.

“And Woodrow Pingree,” said Dr. Skinner, picking up a gold letter opener to pass from hand to hand while he talked, “what did you think of him?”

“I liked him, sir. It’s impossible for me to believe he sold secrets to China. I didn’t even know he was a gambler.”

“All around he’s not casting the best light on Gardner,” Skinner said with an ironic chuckle.

“He always said he was happiest here.”

“I have no doubt, considering what came later. I looked him up in his yearbook. Want to see?”

He passed across the light blue leather-bound book with THE HILL BOOK, 1944 stamped across it in white.

There was a rubber band holding back page 23.

There was a photograph of this dark-haired kid with a faint smile on his face and bright, earnest eyes.

I gave the book back to Skinner.

“You just never know, do you?” Skinner said.

“I think
she
did it to him.”

“Nobody does it to you, Fell. You do it to yourself. You have choices. You make your own choices.”

“But he was under her spell. Even the papers said she recruited him.”

“According to the tabloids, he wasn’t under her spell recently.” He’d picked up the letter opener again and was playing with it as he talked. “What’s the real Ping like?”

“He’s interested in magic. He didn’t like her, either. There were some rumors that she was responsible for his mother’s death.”

“I read about that. They were out in a boat together when the first Mrs. Pingree was drowned.”

“Where did you read that?”

“It’s all in these magazines and papers. Here, take them with you.” He leaned forward in his swivel chair and picked them off a pile on his desk. They were all open to the pages with the write-ups on the Pingrees. As he passed them across to me I caught glimpses of Fernwood Manor, Pingree with his arm around Fern Pingree, and one of Pingree with Ping.

I could pick out random sentences.

… They never lived ostentatiously — Fern Pingree bought her wardrobe off the rack….

… She was an old-school spy, doing it out of conviction, long embittered by old memories of her Japanese grandfather’s World War II internment, by Hiroshima, and by a belief that the United States was anti-Asian in its Vietnam policies, as well …

… He was her opposite, the modern spy, convictionless, and only in it for the reported $300,000 paid them over the years, a gambler with vast real estate holdings on Long Island, in Atlantic City, and Nevada, and …

Dr. Skinner said, “You’ll have time to look at all of that later, Fell.”

It was hard for me to stop thumbing through what was on my lap.

“Are the other boys treating you well, Fell?” Skinner asked.

“Very well. They’re just full of questions.”

… reports of a romantic involvement that was also said to have prompted Pingree’s withdrawal from his wife’s espionage …

“You’d be wise to tell the other boys you can’t talk about the matter, Fell, and be sure not to talk to any reporters. This isn’t the kind of publicity Gardner seeks.”

“I realize that, sir. I’ll be careful.”

“Another thing, Fell. You can’t continue as a junior. You’ll have to be entered as a senior and make up any back work on your own time.”

“Yes, sir.”

I’d shifted in the chair so I could turn the copy of
Time
around and see what was on the next page.

That was when I saw her.

“You’ll have a lot of homework ahead on your Christmas vacation,” said Skinner.

It was Delia, in a raincoat, with a scarf around her long black hair, a cigarette going in one hand, a large satchel over the other arm.

Delia Tremble, 25, questioned in Zurich about her relationship to Pingree, says, “I’ll stand by him forever.”

“So far,” Skinner said, “you haven’t made the news, but I suppose they’ll get around to it.” “I suppose so,” I said.

… began two years ago when the pair met in Atlantic City, where Pingree went to gamble. Miss Tremble denies knowing anything about the Brutt operation, but admits she was helping Pingree escape.

Everyone in my family’s so strange — I didn’t pay much attention to your strangeness. That’s how you got away with it,” Dib said. “My strangeness?”

“The gun. I would have thought harder about the gun.”

“And what else?”

“Your interest in cooking. Remember, once I asked you who taught you to cook, and you said your mother. Then in another conversation, you said you’d worked in a gourmet shop and gotten your interest in cooking there.”

“No one’s perfect. But I’m not so different now, am I?”

“You’re more popular. First Sevens, then this. You’ve become a star at The Hill.”

“The public is fickle, though, Dib. After Christmas I’ll be the senior who can’t keep up with his class.”

We were on the bus to Trenton, New Jersey. I had a wire from Keats in my pocket.

“Anyway,” Dib said, “you’re not a star in Lasher’s eyes, are you?”

“No, not in his.” I’d heard he was the only Sevens who voted for my resignation.

“Creery says he calls you Felon behind your back.”

“And to my face.”

“Maybe he’ll lay off Creery for a while and concentrate on you. The new snake in the grass.” “Probably.”

“By the way, I overheard a knockdown fight between them while all this upheaval was going on. I’d gone over to Sevens House looking for you…. Lasher was accusing Creery of getting help getting into Sevens.” Dib looked over at me to get my reaction. “Can you get help?”

“I’m not going to talk about Sevens.”

“Lasher shouted at Creery, ‘Your father helped you and his helped him!’“

“I don’t know anything about it,” I said. But I’d wondered about something like that. If Pingree’d been a Sevens, for example, and if Ping had gone to Gardner, would Pingree have told Ping about choosing a seven-letter word for his tree … or would he have been honorable and not told him? And I laughed to myself.
Honorable.
Pingree … That was like saying
Hot.
Snow.

“Sorry I mentioned it,” said Dib, “but your name came up, too.”

“How did I get into it?”

“Lasher said, ‘You and Pingree don’t belong in Sevens! Neither of you got in honestly!’ Then it sounded like they were knocking each other around the room, and Lasher was shouting, ‘I’ll kill you!’ I made tracks at that point, scared they’d spill out into the hall.”

“Yeah,” I said. “He’s going to have it in for me. That’s the least of my worries right now.”

“Fell?” Dib said. “Listen, I never said I was sorry about Delia.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“I didn’t know if you wanted to talk about it.”

“I didn’t. Still don’t.” I never will want to talk about it, I thought. I’ll never be able to talk about it.

“Okay with me,” Dib said.

He looked out the window. The farm country was disappearing and the tacky suburbs of Trenton were coming into view. I’d get the train to New York City after we got off the bus.

“But thanks, Dib.”

• • •

My first night home I made spaghetti à la carbonara for Mom and Jazzy. Georgette was dressed in a long black gown with a gold crown on her head, in my honor. Jazzy had propped her up against a corn flakes box in the kitchen. There was a royal-blue ribbon across her gown saying WELCOME HOME, JOHNNY!

Jazzy was in watching TV while I fried the bacon to go into the spaghetti.

I knew Mom’d been wanting to say something she didn’t want Jazzy to hear. I thought it might have to do with Delia.

“There’s something on my mind, Johnny.”

“I know.”

“Do you know what it is?”

“Is it her? Because I don’t feel like talking about her yet, Mom.”

“No, it isn’t about her. You’ll have to work that out yourself. It’s about the money. It’s about the ten thousand dollars Mr. Pingree put in the bank for you.”

“What about it? Do you need it to get out of hock?”

“I don’t appreciate that crack, Johnny.”

“I’m sorry, Mom. I didn’t mean to put it so crudely. Do you need it?”

“No, I don’t need it. And you don’t need it, either.”

I dropped some onions in with the bacon. “I was wondering about that,” I said. “There’s nothing to wonder about. I don’t care that the money was left in the grandfather’s will — if that story’s even true. We’ve had too much to do already with those people and their money. I think any money that comes from them is bad money! Your father would roll over in his grave, Johnny! They sold our country’s secrets to the enemy! Your father fought for this country! He loved this country!” “I know.”

“You can’t help the fact your tuition was paid by that man, and you have to go back and graduate. But we don’t want that ten thousand dollars!”

“What’ll we do with it?”

“Give it to some good cause.”

“I’m not a good cause?”

“You know what I mean, Johnny. Your father used to get tears in his eyes when anyone sang ‘The Star-Spangled Banner.’“

“Maybe because he couldn’t ever remember the words. He’d get as far as ‘Oh, say can you see, by the dawn’s early light’ — then stop cold.”

“Can you go any further?”

“Not really.”

“Then don’t talk, Big Mouth!” I turned on the heat under the water for the pasta.

Mom said, “I thought you might give me a fight.”

“I never won one with you yet.” “We’ll figure out something to do with the money.” “Okay.”

“Are you planning to see Keats?” “Probably.”

“I knew you’d give in.”

“I’m not giving in. She’s going to come all the way to Brooklyn.”

“Big deal! She doesn’t deserve Brooklyn! Brooklyn’s too good for her!”

I said, “Tell Jazzy dinner in ten minutes.”

“Is that what they teach you at that fancy school? To order your mother around?”

“Please,” I added.

“Johnny,” she said, “there are nice girls in this world, honey. I don’t want you to lose sight of that. Keats and that other one — they’re the exceptions. I know you’ve been hurt but …”

“Not by Keats,” I said. My damn voice cracked. I couldn’t have gone on, anyway. I still couldn’t even get Delia’s name out. I didn’t want Mom to see my eyes start to fill, so I ducked my head around the corner into the living room. I shouted, “Jazzy? Georgette’s being whisked away by bandits!”

“Get their license numbers!” Jazzy yelled back.

• • •

The next day, I walked down to Carroll Gardens to visit my grandfather in the nursing home.

“I was named after Theodore Roosevelt,” he said when he saw me walk into the room. “Did I ever tell you why?”

“Tell me again,” I said. I gave him a kiss and sat down in the chair beside his bed.

“Well, it’s a long story,” he began.

“Take your time,” I said.

• • •

So that was how I spent my Christmas vacation. Like my father used to say, “You got your family. You got your health. You got Brooklyn. What else do you need?”

What is there to say about Delia?

From the time she first walked into Plain and Fancy to the time she wrote me letters saying things like
Tell me if you think you made the right decision going to Switzerland,
she was keeping an eye on me for Pingree.

I remembered so many things: the phone call Pingree made that first night I ran into the Mitsubishi, when he said to somebody that he wouldn’t be by, that something had come up. The time we’d all gone back to our house after dinner at Lunch, when he kept encouraging me to keep my date with Delia. I remembered him telling me he liked cards, too, but not card tricks: He liked to play cards. And Delia telling me how her life had changed after the gamblers took over her hometown, Atlantic City.

Pingree’d arranged everything, from her job as au pair at the Stileses’ to the cruise she went on until he warned her that he was turning himself in. Then she flew to Zurich to be with Ping.

I don’t know what Delia knew about Pingree’s double life, or even if she knew that he had one.

I don’t even know if there really was something in his father’s will about money for Ping when he graduated from Gardner, and more money if he made Sevens. I somehow think that all of that was true, but as my mother’s fond of pointing out: The man’s a liar.

All I really know for sure is that Pingree was planning to leave the country and begin a new life with Delia and Ping. Then a double agent named Wu Chu-Teng changed all that.

Fern Pingree was arrested three days before Christmas in New York City. I saw a picture of her in the paper, with those white-framed dark glasses on, being escorted by two FBI men. She had no comment.

• • •

Sometimes I still hear Fern Pingree saying, “Dreams are the trash bag of the brain!” But that hasn’t stopped me from going over and over certain dreams. Because I still dream of Delia. She’s flying with me through blue summer skies, dancing with me on wet grass, her eyes watching mine the way they used to. And she’s telling me again not to make her say she loves me. She never did say that, awake or dreaming.

• • •

About two weeks after I returned to Gardner, one cold Wednesday afternoon, there was a crowd gathered down by The Tower. I jogged that way to see what all the excitement was about. There were snowdrifts all around. We’d hit a record for bad weather in January.

I pushed my way toward him, and before I got to the front of the crowd, Dib said, “It’s Lasher! He jumped from the top!”

Someone else said, “He finally did it!”

Dib turned and told me, “He’s committed suicide, Fell!”

I stood there beside Dib, looking down at the cold pavement.

Beside Lasher’s body, I saw his thick glasses with the panes smashed.

Then, in less time than it takes a paper clip to inch over to a magnet, I said, “No. He didn’t kill himself.”

Those five words were going to get me into a lot of trouble.

Someday I’ll tell you about it.