Authors: Ward Just
Bert wondered if the headmaster had a point about Ogden Hall's "aura," if there was some malign spirit that had worked its way into the very fabric of the place. Perhaps Ogden Hall's history was too vivid to overcome or reconcile. Its books did not balance. That was what happened to the criminal financiers Insull and Yerkes. They overreached and were careless with their books. It happened all the time in America, creative destruction. There was hell to pay when books were out of balance, and not only in America. The French had never reconciled their revolution. Too many ghosts, a history too laden with contradiction and emotional violence.
His thoughts turned again to the inconclusive conversation he had had with Augustus Allprice. The only thing certain was that he would begin the search for a new headmaster at once, and that gave him a headache. Bert thought about that as he crossed the county line into Chicago, home at last, the familiar streets, the racket, the city's mighty industrial groan. Farther on, pausing at a stoplight, City Hall loomed large. The building was one of the least distinguished of the Loop, a coal bucket of a building, but appearances were deceiving because the coal bucket concealed the Hope Diamond—a political apparatus so costly, so exquisite, so multifaceted, so blinding in its flash of fire, that it had secured tenure for scores of Illinois political scientists over the years. And still they had not driven a stake into the heart of things. What they did not know about the politics of the city would fill Wrigley Field. Of course no one knew it all; in its dash and complexity it resembled the Dark Continent. God knows there were ghosts aplenty in Chicago but the city was beautifully reconciled, its books immaculate. You walked into City Hall and you knew exactly what had to be done, where the payments went and to whom and what was expected in return. That was the beauty of the city, its clarity—and balance. The ghosts were part of the balance. Everyone knew they were there but did not speak of them. Chicago was a place where a man could go about his business in safety and comfort knowing precisely what was what, unlike the anarchy and fatigue that defined Ogden Hall. Bert considered again the French Revolution, its aspiration, its zeal and its tumult, its long reach. The French Revolution was in some fundamental way unreconciled. Probably its meaning would never be reconciled, and with that thought Bert Marks stared once more at City Hall, a kind of Versailles. Versailles married to the stockyards, except in Chicago you knew where you stood. He decided that Ogden Hall's Robespierre was Marie Ogden.
AUGUSTUS ALLPRICE'S
last day on the job came on a Thursday, mid-June. The campus had emptied for the summer holidays, except for those faculty members who could not afford to go away; and they were planning the annual end-of-term party. Gus was packing away his photographs and personal files, the memorabilia that littered his desk—two pieces of scrimshaw, a mariner's shackle, a brass compass, the business end of a harpoon which acted as a paperweight, a two-pen desk set given him by Anjelica, a miniature ivory death's-head purchased in an open-air market in Baltimore. He was whistling to himself, keeping tune with
La Bohème
on the portable phonograph, wondering what he had to show for his four years at Ogden Hall. He had probably saved the school from desuetude, no small thing. Of course he was as miscast as a headmaster as Ogden Hall was miscast as a school for boys. He had known that from the beginning and yet had stayed on. He had nowhere else to go until Anjelica had suggested Patagonia, and he knew at once Patagonia was the place.
When he heard a soft tap at the door the headmaster called out, Come in! But he did not turn around at once because he was deciding what to do with his Bert Marks file, six inches thick. He considered leaving it for his successor, marked with a note, Open Only in Case of Emergency, but decided against it. He threw the file into the already overloaded wastepaper basket.
Sir?
Yes, he said and turned around.
Lee Goodell, sir.
Of course, Lee. What can I do for you? Not much, I'm afraid. Your captain is leaving the bridge. He smiled at the boy, one of his favorites. Inquisitive, one of the North Shore crowd but something of a loner. Lee Goodell was old for his age, meaning he would not be out of place in a university. He was an excellent student, one of the boys who had no idea what he would do with his life but was patient about it. He kept his eyes open. He had never been in the headmaster's office and now he stood openly staring at Tommy Ogden's portrait.
Is that him, sir?
Yes. Mr. Tommy Ogden. Our founder.
There are stories about him. They say he comes here and looks around, never says anything. Goes away.
That's about the size of it, the headmaster said, craning his neck to look at the portrait. I've never met him.
Never?
Not once, the headmaster said. What are the stories you hear?
That he's big. Kills wild animals for fun. And that he founded the school on a bet. The stories vary on whether he lost the bet or won it. Nobody knows. And that he leads a reclusive life. He's got some farm up near Quarterday but he isn't often there. They say he has one house in Idaho and another in East Africa, and most of the time he's in mourning for his wife, Marie. Are any of those stories true?
Some of them. I've heard the story about the bet but I don't believe it. Also, I think he keeps the mourning under wraps.
He's a sort of legend among the students. Everyone wants to be like Tommy Ogden because he always does as he pleases. And of course he's rich. Lee Goodell stopped there, perhaps fearing that he had already said too much, except that Headmaster Allprice was smiling as he looked at the portrait of Tommy Ogden in hunting gear. Lee said, He's so rich no one can tell him what to do. He does what he feels like doing when he feels like doing it. He's invulnerable.
Everyone's hero, is that it?
I think so, the boy said.
Yours too?
Lee thought a moment. I'd have to meet him. See what he's like.
A sensible thought, the headmaster said. Sit down, Lee. What's on your mind besides Tommy Ogden?
We're sorry to see you go, sir.
Miss
Omoo,
will you?
It was a great performance, sir. We all looked forward to it. Are you really going to Patagonia?
Leaving next week, the headmaster said. Staying a year.
I looked it up in the atlas. It's a long way away.
Very long way, Lee. You can't go much farther.
Then what?
Who knows, Lee. Who knows.
Gosh, the boy said.
Now. What's on your mind?
I've come about the football team.
Yes. Distressing, wasn't it?
Very, sir. Eight straight losses this year. Eight straight losses last year. That's the league record, by the way. No team has ever lost sixteen games in a row. It's never happened before. The final home game we had five students in the stands, our loyal supporters. Even they were booing.
I remember, the headmaster said.
They booed even when we scored a touchdown. The only one we scored. The other team scored six and in the fourth quarter they put in their second-stringers, freshmen and sophomores. They would have used the water boy but he wasn't suited up.
Still, you never surrendered. The headmaster gave an encouraging smile, wondering all this time where young Lee Goodell was headed.
Oh, we did, sir. Actually we did. We gave up. Coach gave up. No one cared. We went through the motions, lined up, made the snap, ran the ball, threw the ball. But we were sleepwalking. This year is the worst year of my life.
I'm sorry, Lee.
You were always there, even the away games.
I missed one game, Lee.
Yes, you did. We all noticed.
Trustees meeting. The business with the chemistry lab.
We understood. You were in a jam.
Putting it mildly, the headmaster said.
We were outclassed.
It's not a good feeling, I agree.
And we threw in the towel.
The headmaster nodded.
That's what people do around here, throw in the towel. It's the expected thing.
I'm afraid so, the headmaster said.
But next year will not be like this year or last year.
I hope not, the headmaster said, sneaking a look at his watch.
We have a plan, sir. The whole team, or the part of it that's returning. We have a scheme. We've been working on it for the past month and most all the pieces are in place. Hopkins has a grandmother. And the grandmother owns a place up near Fish Creek in Wisconsin. Big place, not as big as Ogden Hall but big enough. She's never there in summer. The idea is to go to her place in August and train. Serious training, workouts all day long. Thing is, and this is the important part, she has a man to look after things when she's not there, a sort of caretaker. And he used to play for the Packers. He was a lineman, big as a house. And the point is, he's agreed to train us. And teach us how to play the game once we get in condition. He really knows what he's doing. Lee leaned forward in his chair, his hands cupped as if he were receiving the snap from center. He played five years for the
Green Bay Packers,
sir. Svenson is his name. Do you remember him?
The headmaster shook his head. He was never a fan of the professional game.
He's the real thing, sir.
Wonderful idea, Lee. I wish you godspeed.
There's a problem, sir.
Tell me the problem.
Some of the boys can't afford it. Two of our linemen are from Michigan. The quarterback is from downstate Illinois. There are a few others, live far away. I wonder if we could get some financial aid from the school, transportation costs, one thing and another.
I'll leave a note for the incoming head.
We know who it is, sir.
You do?
Hopkins's grandfather is on the board of trustees. It's Mr. Weddle.
Ted Weddle?
Yes. An interim appointment. One year.
I'll be damned, the headmaster said.
The trustees are out of touch, Lee said. They don't know anything about schools, particularly this one. Hopkins says his grandfather is gaga, thinks Dewey is president. Because they're out of touch they think Mr. Weddle is the solution, but Mr. Weddle doesn't care about the football team. To him the football team is an embarrassment and ought to be disbanded. Our football team damages the reputation of the school. He'd like to devote the sports resources to tennis and baseball. And tennis is a game for weenies, which this school has more than its fair share of, the boy said.
Now, Lee, the headmaster said.
Dewey,
the boy said.
The headmaster smiled at that.
It isn't much money, Lee said. Five hundred dollars would do it, for transportation and so forth. And a fee for Mr. Svenson. We wondered if you could slip it into the budget, your last official act. We can't have another season like this one and the one before. I know we won't get any support from Mr. Weddle. I'm surprised you didn't know about his appointment. It happened yesterday.
I heard a rumor, the headmaster said. I chose not to believe it. I've been out of touch these past weeks.
Is it a hard job, being headmaster?
Not hard. It's not commercial fishing out of New Bedford or Gloucester. It's inside work, no dirty hands. It's demanding in its own way.
Parents on your back all the time I suppose.
The headmaster smiled. I'll see what I can do about your money. Ted Weddle owes me a favor, though he may have forgotten.
Funny he didn't say anything to you.
Isn't it, the headmaster said.
The headmaster leaned back in his chair, his hands clasped behind his head. He looked at the boy and then out the window at the tennis courts, the sun so bright it hurt his eyes. A doubles match was in progress, the football coach and his wife, the French instructor and Anjelica, everyone crisp in tennis whites. The coach was serving to Anjelica, serving and leering at the same time while his wife gritted her teeth. Anjelica did little bunny hops as she awaited the serve and it was not surprising when the coach's serve went wide. He was an oaf who had come to Ogden Hall from some school in Ohio, an indifferent instructor in German and coach of the track and football teams. He and young Lee Goodell did not get along, the usual disputes about playing time and game plans. Lee was reckless, the coach said, always pushing the other boys. He was small for his age, five feet eight or so, with every possibility that he had reached full height. The coach believed that his size accounted for his recklessness. He was fast enough, and tough, but all the same you wanted to turn away when one of the larger linemen caught him up and threw him to the ground like a rag doll. But the boy had sand; he always got up and trotted away, saying something insolent over his shoulder. He was not good with instructions, always preferring to go his own way. The last game of the season Lee was thrown to the ground so often and so violently that the coach took him out of the game early in the fourth quarter, fearing that Lee would be injured and he himself be blamed, as coaches always were when things went the wrong way. In any case, the game was long lost. The headmaster arrived in the closing minutes and did not take a seat but stood to one side, watching the rout. He remembered Lee sitting apart from the others at the end of the bench, his chin in his hand. Gus had always believed that a man learned more from defeat than from victory because defeat usually came with a lesson. The boy did look inconsolable. If there was a reward it was not apparent that day. It was also true that boys paid too much attention to the metaphorical apparatus of sport. Sport was not life, except the lessons learned from defeat.
The headmaster turned his eyes from the tennis court just as Anjelica charged the net and wrong-footed the coach's wife, match concluded. She glanced up to his window to see Gus's thumbs-up.
I hate to trouble you with this, Lee said.
It's no trouble.
If you can find the money it would mean a lot to me and Hopkins and the other boys. Also, I should tell you we are not inviting the coach to Fish Creek. He's a terrible coach and no one likes him.