If Andrew had his fever, she caught one, too. And the more she immersed herself, the more she found everything else falling into organized place. The Trevayne household was a busy, energetic home again. In less than two years Phyllis had her master’s degree. Two and a half years later, the once-described objective—now merely an accepted necessity—was reached. She was formally conferred a Doctor of English Literature. Andrew threw a huge party celebrating the event—and in the quiet love of the aftermath told her he was going to build High Barnegat.
They both deserved it.
«You’re almost finished,» said Pamela Trevayne, coming through the bedroom door. She handed her mother the red-stamped envelope and looked around. «You know, Mom, I don’t resent the speed you get things straightened up in, but it doesn’t have to be so organized, too.»
The more she immersed herself, the more she found everything falling into organized place.
«I’ve had lots of experience, Pam,» said Phyllis, her mind still on her previous thoughts. «It wasn’t always so … tidy.»
«What?»
«Nothing. I said I’ve done a lot of unpacking.» Phyllis looked at her daughter as she rather absently thumbed open the back of the envelope. Pam was growing so tall; the light-brown hair fell loose, framing the sharp young features, the wide brown eyes that were so alive. So eager. Pam’s face was a good face—a very feminine version of her brother’s. Not quite beautiful, but much more, much deeper than pretty. Pam was emerging as a most attractive adult. And beneath the surface exuberance there was a fine intelligence, a questioning mind impatient with unsatisfactory answers.
Whatever the hang-ups of her immediate growth period—boys, transistor radios turned these days to mournful, back-country folk ballads, pop posters, poor marches and Boone’s Apple Farm—Pam Trevayne was part of the vast «now.» And that was fine for everybody, thought Phyllis as she watched her daughter part the curtains over the door of the impractical balcony.
«This is a crazy porch, Mother. With luck you could get a whole folding chair out there.»
Phyllis laughed as she read the letter from Bridgeport. «I don’t think we’ll use it for dinner parties … Oh, Lord, they’ve got me scheduled for Fridays. I asked them not to.»
«The seminars?» asked Pam, turning from the curtains.
«Yes. I said any time from Monday through Thursday, so they assign me Fridays. I want Friday open for weekends.»
«That’s not very dedicated, Madame Professor.»
«One dedicated member of the family is enough right now. Your dad’s going to need the weekends—if he can take them off. I’ll phone them later.»
«Today’s Saturday, Mom.»
«You’re right. Monday, then.»
«When’s Steve getting here?»
«Your father asked him to take the train up to Greenwich and drive the station wagon down. He has a list of things to bring; Lillian said she’d pack the wagon.»
Pam uttered a short cry of disappointment. «Why didn’t you tell me? I could have taken the bus home and driven down with him.»
«Because I need you here. Dad’s been living in a half-furnished house with no food and no help while I’ve been at Barnegat. We womenfolk have to put things to rights.» Phyllis shoved the letter back in the envelope and propped it against the bureau mirror.
«I’m against your approach. In principle.» Pam smiled. «Womenfolk are emancipated.»
«Be against, be emancipated; and also go unpack the dishes. The movers put them in the kitchen—the oblong box.»
Pam walked to the edge of the bed and sat down, tracing an imaginary crease on her Levi’s. «Sure, in a minute… Mom, why didn’t you bring down Lillian? I mean, it would be so much easier. Or hire someone?»
«Perhaps later. We’re not sure what our schedule will be. We’ll be in Connecticut a lot, especially weekends; we don’t want to close the house… I didn’t realize you were so maid-conscious.» Phyllis gave her daughter a raised eyebrow of mock disapproval.
«Oh, sure. I get uptight when I can’t find my ladies-in-waiting.»
«Then why ask?» Phyllis rearranged some articles on the bureau and looked casually at her daughter in the mirror.
«I read the article in the Sunday Times. It said that Dad had taken on a job that would keep him busy for ten years—with no time off—and then it would only be half-done; that even his well-known abilities were up against the impossible.»
«Not impossible; they used the word ‘incredible.’ And the Times is prone to exaggerate.»
«They said you were a leading authority on the Middle Ages.»
«They don’t always exaggerate.» Phyllis laughed again and lifted an empty suitcase off a chair, «What is it, dear? You’ve got that I-want-to-say-something look.»
Pam leaned back against the headboard; Phyllis was relieved to see that her daughter did not have shoes on. The bedspread was silk. «Not ‘say.’ ‘Ask.’ I’ve read the newspaper stories, the stuff in the magazines; I even saw that TV news thing of Eric Sevareid’s—they called it a commentary. I was very big on campus; he’s grooved these days… Why is Dad taking this on? Everyone says it’s such a mess.»
«Precisely because it is a mess. Your father’s a talented man. A lot of people think he can do something about it.» She carried the suitcase to the doorway.
«But he can’t, Mom.»
Phyllis looked over at her daughter. She’d been only half-listening, parent-child listening, more concerned with the thousand and one things that needed to get done. «What?»
«He can’t do anything.»
Phyllis walked slowly back to the foot of the bed. «Would you mind explaining that?»
«He can’t change things. No committee, no government hearing or investigation, can make things any different.»
«Why not?»
«Because the government’s investigating itself. It’s like an embezzler being made the bank examiner. No way, Mom.»
«That remark sounds suspiciously out of character, Pam.»
«I admit it isn’t mine, but it says it. We talk a lot you know.»
«I’m sure you do, and that’s good. But I think that kind of statement oversimplifies, to say the least. Since there’s a general agreement that a mess exists, what’s your solution? If you’ve arrived at a criticism you must have an alternative.»
Pam Trevayne sat forward, her elbows on her knees. «That’s what everyone always says, but we’re not sure it’s so. If you know someone’s sick, but you’re not a doctor, you shouldn’t try to operate.»
«Out of character …»
«No, that’s mine.»
«I apologize.»
«There is an alternative. But it’ll probably have to wait; if we’re not too far gone or dead by then… A whole big change. Top to bottom, a huge replacement. Maybe a real third party …»
«Revolution?»
«God, no! That’s a freak-out; that’s the violent-jocks. They’re no better than what we’ve got; they’re dumb. They split heads and think they’re solving something.»
«I’m relieved—I’m not condescending, dear. I mean that,» said Phyllis, reacting to her daughter’s sudden questioning look.
«You see, Mom, the people who make all the decisions have to be replaced with people who’ll make other decisions. Who’ll listen to the real problems and stop making up fake ones or exaggerating the little ones for their own benefit.»