Up a Road Slowly (14 page)

At any rate, I was not going to risk losing Brett because I had learned to enjoy Shakespeare and he hadn't. Never, I thought, for Brett was a shining wonder to which I could never quite grow accustomed. He was tall, wide of shoulder and narrow of hip, beautifully bronzed. His eyes were blue and heavily lashed, his black hair slightly wavy, his square chin cleft. There was just one feature of Brett's handsome face that I found to be not quite perfect: his mouth was too soft looking, too loose. That was all, and I felt that I was being far too critical in noticing that one defect at all. Almost all the girls in school had been dazzled by him when he entered as a transfer student early in the year, and wonder of wonders, of all the girls he had chosen Julie Trelling. Carlotta was deeply impressed; she remembered after a long lapse that she and I had been close friends since we were little seven-yearolds.

Aunt Cordelia had no comment to make upon my Brett other than the fact that he was, indeed, handsome. She asked me a few questions about him—he had trouble with English, she knew, but that was not uncommon; some of her most intelligent boys had faltered before noun clauses and Shakespearean sonnets. Brett was, no doubt, more inclined toward mathematics or science? No? Music or art, perhaps? Athletics? When I had to admit that Brett had no talent or inclination in any of these areas, Aunt Cordelia only raised her brows expressively.

I wanted to say, “What about your own brother” but with the thought I realized that I was admitting a likeness between Brett and Uncle Haskell. It was not an admission that pleased me; neither was the fact that Uncle Haskell was the one older person in my family for whom Brett had expressed an interest.

“Fine old boy—I really like him,” Brett told me with some admiration after listening for an hour to Uncle Haskell's empty boasting.

Being in love with Brett was not pure joy. I thought about it that afternoon on the Thoreau assignment day as I walked down the corridor in the Administration Building and seated myself outside Alicia's office. The nameplate on her door said simply “Mrs. A. Trelling”; it seemed rather nice, I thought, that Alicia and I had the same name. I never could quite get used to it. In my early months of high school I used to go inside her office and say, “Good morning, Mrs. Trelling,” and she would grin at me and say “Try ‘Alicia' when we're in here alone, Julie; it's much friendlier.”

I smiled to myself as I thought of the relatives who had been my teachers; I supposed there would be Father in the future, possibly Bill.

We were a schoolteacherish family, there was no doubt of that. But we were a nice family; I liked us. Father and Alicia had been very fine about my deciding to live with Aunt Cordelia; they had looked at me a bit thoughtfully when I told them as gracefully as I could that somehow the big house among the trees had come to seem like home to me, and they nodded although they may have felt some doubt when I added a bit of embroidery to my decision by implying that Aunt Cordelia was hardly able to face my leaving her. But they had neither remonstrated nor pled; they told me that their home was mine, come homesickness, a bad storm, a hankering for a holiday, or a complete change of mind. And thus we had left it. We three had been very good friends; in some ways having Alicia was a little like having Laura again. She used to call and ask me if I'd do her hair for a special occasion, and we would chat by the hour as I tried to achieve the effect she particularly liked. Sometimes I would see Father smiling above the book he was reading, and I knew that he was pleased at the friendship between Alicia and me.

They were younger and gayer than Aunt Cordelia, of course, and could offer me many advantages that she could not. If there was a special concert or play to be given over at the college, there was always an invitation for me to stay in town and accompany them. Sometimes they invited Danny Trevort, too, not that Danny was anything more to me than the kid I'd grown up with, but they liked him and the four of us had had great fun together. They even took Danny and me to New York once, picking Chris up on the way, and we had gone on a dozen or more interesting forays into the big city, having the gay and carefree kind of vacation that none of us would ever forget.

All that had been before Brett. They didn't invite Danny with me any longer, because he and I had become virtually enemies, but they didn't invite Brett either. And the more coolness they showed toward Brett, the more I saw him as being wronged and misunderstood; therefore the more I was determined to stand by him.

Norma Grayson emerged from Alicia's office at last, looking weary but triumphant. “You're to go in now,” she said, nodding toward the door. Then she laid her hand on my arm. “She was real nice, Julie; she went through that
Civil Disobedience
thing for me, and I think that I halfway understand what the guy was talking about. It's pretty ghastly, though, isn't it?”

The whole world seemed a little ghastly to me that afternoon. I said, “It certainly is,” to Norma, and then went into the office and took a chair beside Alicia's desk. She looked a little worn, too, I thought.

“How are you, Miss Julie Trelling?” she asked, smiling at me. “You haven't quite seemed yourself lately; I've been concerned about you.”

“I'm perfectly well, Alicia, really,” I said and settled myself to hear whatever she had to say.

“Good. I suppose it's the end-of-the-year pressure that's moving in on all of us, isn't it? Well, first of all, there's the concert at Collins Hall next week. Your father and I wondered if you would stay in and go with us Saturday evening. You know Ted Bolling, the young assistant in your father's office? He's going as our guest, and he very definitely brightened up when I suggested that you might be able to come along.”

I stiffened. Saturday night. They knew I'd have a date with Brett on Saturday night, and they were deliberately trying to hurt him by getting me out with someone else. I wanted to hear that concert; I'd wanted to hear it for weeks, and there was nothing particularly wrong with Ted Bolling, except that he wasn't Brett Kingsman. But I was not going to be sucked in by intrigue.

“I'm sorry, Alicia, but I can't possibly. I always have a date with Brett on Saturday night. I thought that you and Father knew that.”

Alicia's brows moved ever so slightly. “Oh, yes, of course. Well, your father will be sorry; he had been looking forward to seeing you. You haven't been over to talk with him lately.”

I didn't say anything, and for just a few seconds there was silence between us. Then Alicia opened a drawer, took out a sheaf of papers and said briskly—artificially, I thought—“Apropos of Brett, I have a number of his papers here, Julie. The later ones have shown quite a lot of improvement over his earlier work; however, it's rather an erratic improvement. What I mean is that there will be an intelligently stated idea in one paragraph followed by a meaningless string of words that Brett seems to feel I'll recognize as a sentence. Would you have a theory concerning this discrepancy in quality?”

I knew what was coming. I hadn't meant to do another person's work for him at first, but Brett had a way with him, and week after week his papers had become more and more nearly complete copies of my dictation. I had never cheated before, and I was hard put to rationalize the whole sorry business. It helped to remember that Laura had once said that it was a privilege for her to be able to help Bill with his thesis; now, I tried to tell myself, I could understand exactly how she felt. But my message didn't quite ring true; in my heart I knew there was a difference between Laura's situation and mine. After all, she had only
helped
Bill.

It had all commenced quite early in the year. The first time Brett ever noticed me had been one day in class when papers were being returned to us. He had smiled at me rather sourly and asked, “Are you really that good or do you get this kind of grade because her highness is your stepmother?”

I hadn't liked it that much, but I just said, “I think it's because I happen to like English. I don't always make such grades in math.”

He looked friendlier. “Well, congratulations, sugar. You're pretty smooth, no matter what kind of grades you make.”

When we were dismissed that day, Brett walked close behind me. Out in the hall he said, “Look, baby, how about giving me a hand with this paper? The old girl says I have to correct and return it by tomorrow—” He unfolded a paper that was plastered with red code signs made by Alicia's pencil.

I said, “Of course, Brett, I'll be glad to help you.” And that is the way the relationship which I thought of as a romance had started. A lot of very popular girls in high school thought of it as a romance too, and I was suddenly the object of their envy. I hadn't been particularly envied before; I had been simply a little grind who lived out in the country and who made good grades because a grim old aunt saw to it that every scrap of homework was completed and turned in. Brett Kingsman's attentions had changed that picture in their minds.

But I had become worried about the help I was giving him. “This is the idea, Brett; now put it into your own words, just as simply and clearly as you can,” I'd tell him. And then I'd get a kiss, a compliment or two, and finally a plea that was almost a command: “Now, what was that again, sugar? How did you say it just now?”

Alicia was speaking again. “I have read your papers for quite a long time, Julie, and I recognize your style of writing, your approach to ideas. What I find here are papers done by you with a few semiliterate lines contributed by Brett. It's a bit on the shabby side, isn't it?”

I was close to tears, but I forced them back and tried to summon strength for a counterattack. “I've only been trying to give him a lift, Alicia. Your course
is
difficult, and Brett has lost so much schooling because of his family moving around from place to place. Anyway, everybody is against him. You know that neither you nor Father can stand the sight of him.”

Alicia squared her shoulders, and there was really an air of Aunt Cordelia about her. “Julie, any person in my classes is welcome to come into this office to discuss his difficulties. Any person who takes the trouble to read assigned material, who makes any effort on his own to discover a few ideas and arrange them—that student can depend upon my help whether I like him or not. Kingsman hasn't made the slightest effort. He is sullen, lazy, smart-alecky, and dishonest.” She paused a minute and looked at me steadily. “What in Heavens' name do you mean by getting involved with this boy, Julie?”

All the fire that I withheld from Brett was ready for Alicia. “You wouldn't know, would you, Alicia? You have Father just as Laura has Bill. You have someone to love you and a home where you feel secure, and you don't have to be lonely and not sure where you really belong. Well, I'm not so lucky as you. I need love very much, and when I find someone who gives it to me, I'm going to hold on to him—and you can tell Father that—and Laura—and everybody.”

I was half-crying, half-shouting at her; even in my overwrought state I noticed that she looked pale. It was a rough session for both of us.

“Julie, believe me, I am not unsympathetic. I know what it means to be lonely, and I know that insecurity is frightening. But you never gain security by selling out for a shoddy something that only resembles love.”

“You're saying, then, that Brett is shoddy?”

“I think that he is very immature and that he is using you for his own purposes. He is giving you nothing and taking all he can get. He may change someday; I doubt it, but he may. Until he does, yes, he's shoddy.”

“Not in the same class with Father or Bill or—or—”

“That's right. Or Dan Trevort or Chris or Ted Bolling. Or a dozen others I could name for you.”

I got up with what I felt was considerable dignity. “Well, Alicia, I'll say just this: I don't care whether you or Father or Laura or any of the people you've named like Brett or not. I love him, and I'm going to stand by him.”

Alicia also got up with dignity. “Very well, Julie. That is your right. But understand this: if any more papers done by Julie Trelling are handed in by Brett Kingsman, you are both going to the Dean's office. Brett will flunk the course, and you will be disciplined as the Dean sees fit. You had just as well begin learning what Brett is going to mean for you.”

I walked out of the office without looking at her. It didn't seem possible that we had ever been friends.

Brett wasn't there to drive me home; neither was Danny, who probably had thought that I was staying in town when I hadn't shown up at our usual meeting place for the drive home. I could have asked Father to take me home or I could have called Aunt Cordelia, or have waited an hour for the next bus, but the spirit of martyrdom was strong upon me and I decided to walk the five miles home. I rather hoped that they'd find me along the wayside sometime before dawn, perhaps, in a state of complete exhaustion.

I'd only walked a little over a mile, however, when a car came tearing down the dusty road toward me. It made a U-turn a few yards in front of me and then stopped at the side of the road. A very grim-looking Danny sat behind the wheel and watched me approach.

“You could have told me your plans, Julie,” he said angrily. “How was I to know that you didn't have a way to get home? Couldn't gorgeous Kingsman afford the gas to drive you out or is he having his beauty nap?”

“I wasn't with Brett in the first place, and I'm under no compulsion to tell you my plans in the second place. I don't know why you've come out here to meet me; I'm nothing to you.”

Danny was pretty furious. He said, “You've just made the most doggoned accurate statement that I've heard in days. You are absolutely nothing to me. Absolutely. But you're wrong about my coming out to meet you. It's just a coincidence—even now I have half a mind to make you walk the rest of the way—” He jerked the car door open. “Get in,” he barked at me and I did, ungraciously accepting his favor while I remembered with satisfaction that I had once blacked his eye.