“Clemens, it is,” O’Hara said then. “A Mr. Samuel Langhorne Clemens...”
Chip
John Valarian felt as he always did when he came to St. Ives Academy — a little awkward and uncomfortable, as if he didn’t really belong in a place like this. St. Ives was one of the most exclusive, expensive boys’ schools on the east coast, but that wasn’t the reason; he’d picked it out himself, over Andrea’s objections, when Peter reached his eighth birthday two years ago. The wooded country setting and hundred-year-old stone buildings weren’t the reason, either. It was what the school represented, the atmosphere you felt as soon as you entered the grounds. Knowledge. Good breeding. Status. Class.
Well, maybe he didn’t belong here. He’d come out of the city slums, had to fight for every rung on his way up the ladder. He hadn’t had much schooling, still had trouble reading. And he’d never been able to polish off all his rough edges. That was one of the reasons he was determined to give his son the best education money could buy.
He climbed the worn stone steps of the administration building, gave his name to the lobby receptionist. She directed him up another flight of stairs to the headmaster’s office. He’d been there once before, on the day he’d brought Peter here for enrollment, but he didn’t remember much about it except that he’d been deeply impressed. This was only his third visit to St. Ives in three years — just two short ones before today. It made him feel bad, neglectful, thinking about it now. He’d intended to come more often, particularly for the father-son days, but some business matter always got in the way. Business ruled him. He didn’t like it sometimes, but that was the way it was. Some things you couldn’t change no matter what.
The headmaster kept him waiting less than five minutes. His name was Locklear. Late fifties, silver-haired, looked exactly like you’d expect the head of St. Ives Academy to look. When they were alone in his private office, Locklear shook hands gravely and said, “Thank you for coming, Mr. Valarian. Please sit down.”
He perched on the edge of a maroon leather chair, now tense and on guard as well as uncomfortable. The way he’d felt when he got sent to the principal’s office in public school. He didn’t know what to do with his hands, finally slid them down tight over his knees. His gaze roamed the office. Nice. Books everywhere, a big illuminated globe on a wooden stand, a desk that had to be pure Philippine mahogany, a bank of windows that looked out over the central quadrangle and rolling lawns beyond. Impressive, all right. He wouldn’t mind having a desk like that one himself.
He waited until Locklear was seated behind it before he said, “This trouble with my son. It must be pretty serious if you couldn’t talk about it on the phone.”
“I’m afraid it is. Quite serious.”
“Bad grades or what?”
“No. Chip is extremely bright, and his grades—”
“Peter.”
“Ah, yes, of course.”
“His mother calls him that. I don’t.”
“He seems to prefer it.”
“His name is Peter. Chip sounds... ordinary.”
“Your son is anything but ordinary, Mr. Valarian.”
The way the headmaster said that tightened him up even more. “What’s going on here?” he demanded. “What’s Peter done?”
“We’re not absolutely certain he’s responsible for any of the... incidents. I should make that clear at the outset. However, the circumstantial evidence is considerable and points to no one else.”
Incidents. Circumstantial evidence. “Get to the point, Mr. Locklear. What do you think he did?”
The headmaster leaned forward, made a steeple of his fingertips. He seemed to be hiding behind it as he said, “There have been a series of thefts in Chip’s... in Peter’s dormitory, beginning several weeks ago. Small amounts of cash pilfered from the rooms of nearly a dozen different boys.”
“My son’s not a thief.”
“I sincerely hope that’s so. But as I said, the circumstantial evidence—”
“Why would he steal money? He’s got plenty of his own — I send him more than he can spend every month.”
“I can’t answer your question. I wish I could.”
“You ask him about the thefts?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“He denies taking any money.”
“All right then,” Valarian said. “If he says he didn’t do it, then he didn’t do it.”
“Two of the victims saw him coming out of their rooms immediately before they discovered missing sums.”
“And you believe these kids over my son.”
“Given the other circumstances, we have no choice.”
“What other circumstances?”
“Chip has been involved in—”
“Peter.”
“I’m sorry, yes, Peter. He has been involved in several physical altercations recently. Last week one of the boys he attacked suffered a broken nose.”
“Attacked? How do you know he did the attacking?”
“There were witnesses,” Locklear said. “To that assault and to the others. In each case, they swore Peter was the aggressor.”
The office seemed to have grown too warm; Valarian could feel himself starting to sweat. “He’s a little aggressive, I admit that. Always has been. A lot of kids his age—”
“His behavior goes beyond simple aggression, I’m afraid. I can only describe it as bullying to the point of terrorizing.”
“Come on, now. I don’t believe that.”
“Nevertheless, it’s true. If you’d care to talk to his teachers, his classmates...”
Valarian shook his head. After a time he said, “If this has been going on for a while, why didn’t you let me know before?”
“At first the incidents were isolated, and without proof that Peter was responsible for the thefts... well, we try to give our young men the benefit of the doubt whenever possible. But as they grew more frequent, more violent, I did inform you of the problem. Twice by letter, once in a message when I couldn’t reach you by phone at your office.”
He stared at the headmaster, but it was only a few seconds before his disbelief faded and he lowered his gaze. Two letters, one phone call. Dimly he remembered getting one of the letters, reading it, dismissing it as unimportant because he was in the middle of a big transaction with the Chicago office. The other letter... misplaced, inadvertently thrown out or filed. The phone call... dozens came in every day, he had two secretaries screening them and taking messages, and sometimes the messages didn’t get delivered.
He didn’t know what to say. He sat there sweating, feeling like a fool.
“Last evening there was another occurrence,” Locklear said, “the most serious of all. That is why I called this morning and insisted on speaking to you in person. We can’t prove that your son is responsible, but given what we do know we can hardly come to another conclusion.”
“What occurrence? What happened last night?”
“Someone,” Locklear said carefully, “set fire to our gymnasium.”
“Set fire — my God.”
“Fortunately it was discovered in time to prevent the fire from burning out of control and destroying the entire facility, but it did cause several thousand dollars’ damage.”
“What makes you think Peter set it?”
“He had an argument with his physical education instructor yesterday afternoon. He became quite abusive and made thinly veiled threats. It was in the instructor’s office that kerosene was poured and the fire set.”
Valarian opened his mouth, clicked it shut again. He couldn’t seem to think clearly now. Too damn quiet in there; he could hear a clock ticking somewhere. He broke the silence in a voice that sounded like a stranger’s.