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Books by James Yaffe
POOR COUSIN EVELYN
THE GOOD-FOR-NOTHING
WHAT'S THE BIG HURRY?
NOTHING BUT THE NIGHT


Nothing but the Night





Nothing
but the Night
JAMES YAFFE

An Atlantic Monthly Press Book
Little, Brown and Company
BOSTON
TORONTO


COPYRIGHT, ©, 1957, BY JAMES YAFFE
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. NO PART OF THIS BOOK IN EXCESS OF FIVE
HUNDRED WORDS MAY BE REPRODUCED IN ANY FORM WITHOUT
PERMISSION IN WRITING FROM THE PUBLISHER
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOG CARD NO. 57-5518
FIRST EDITION
si
YIQErin
ATLANTIC-LITTLE, BROWN BOOKS
ARE PUBLISHED BY
LITTLE, BROWN AND COMPANY
IN ASSOCIATION WITH
THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY PRESS
Published simultaneously in Canada
by Little, Brown & Company (Canada) Limited
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA


TO
Fred Dannay
With friendship and gratitude





Oh never fear, man, noughts to dread,
Look not left nor right:
In all the endless road you tread
There's nothing but the night.
- From a poem by A. E. Housman





Part One


... Throughout these proceedings we have heard a good deal
about the so-called “fateful encounter,” the meeting which took
place between the two defendants in the spring, when they were
sixteen years old. The defense has argued that this meeting –
which occurred during the so-called “Teen-Agers' Frolic” at the
Spreading Chestnut Country Club in Mamaroneck - is an exam-
ple of the “circumstances beyond their control” which brought
about the tragedy in which the defendants now find themselves
involved. Suppose Barry Morris had gone to a concert that night,
as he originally intended to do. Suppose the girl that Paul King
was to accompany that night had not come down with the mea-
sles. So many different things could have intervened to prevent
the "fateful encounter” from happening. Does it not almost seem
as if these two boys were caught in the grip of a malicious des-
tiny against which it was hopeless to struggle? Might we not al-
most say that they were being moved all through their first six-
teen years, step by step, inexorably, towards that country club
dance?
The prosecution has argued that this entire question is irrele-
vant and immaterial. ...
- From Judge Henry De Vane's decision,
The People vs. Barry Morris and Paul King


BARRY MORRIS was nine. He didn't much like getting up in the
morning. For as long as he could, after the maid knocked on his
door, he would lie back on the pillow with his eyes shut tight, try-
ing to go on with his dream. But it never did any good. Pretty
soon he would start to worry about dinnertime. And as soon as he
did that he just couldn't sleep any more.
So he got up, dawdled through his dressing, wet his toothbrush
under the faucet, and shifted the position of the soap. Then he
went into the dining room for his breakfast. There was nothing to
worry about at breakfast. Mother never showed up for breakfast,
she slept late in the morning. Dad was at the table ahead of him,
reading his newspaper. He looked up and smiled when Barry
kissed him on the cheek. This was the biggest smile that Dad
gave all day. He smiled at night too, when Barry saw him again.
But that was dinnertime, and his smile was different. Sort of thin
and wobbling. Everything was different at dinnertime.
"Well now,” Dad said, “I hope you're feeling tip-top this morn-
ing."
That's what Dad said to him every morning at breakfast. Barry
didn't have to give much of an answer. Just a nod and a mumble.
“Sit down,” Dad would say, still smiling. “There's your orange
juice, it'll give you muscles.”
Barry sat down and sipped his orange juice a little and fingered
the glass a lot.
Dad usually had one more thing to say. “Well now, what's the


program? Off to school, are you? Are they planning to teach you
anything special today?"
Barry's regular answer was, “Just the usual stuff.”
Dad would nod his head hard. “Yes. That's good. Yes indeed.”
Then, bit by bit, the smile would leave his face and he would go
back to the newspaper. For the rest of the meal Barry could for-
get Dad was there. He could touch his silverware and poke at his
cereal without being interrupted.
After breakfast Dad and he rode down in the elevator together.
This was one of the nicest times of the day. Dad was different
somehow, as soon as he put on his hat and picked up his black
bag. He was a doctor. When people that you met - other kids,
that is - asked you, "What does your father do?” it was always a
good thing to answer, “He's a doctor.” People looked serious and
nodded their heads when they heard that. It was something you
didn't have to be nervous about.
They got out of the elevator and walked across the long marble
lobby. Barry switched to Dad's left side so that the elevator boy
and the doorman would have a clear view of the black bag.
In front of the building, under the long green awning, Dad
tried another smile. "Well, well, my boy - off to work now, see
you later.” He turned and hurried down the street to his office.
Dad's office was right on the corner, on the ground floor of the
building. Barry stayed and waited for the car - Dad's big black
car and his chauffeur, they picked him up every morning and
drove him to school.
He hoped the wait wouldn't be too long. There was nobody
around him but strangers. The doorman, the elevator boy, people
coming out, delivery men coming in. Barry didn't like strangers
much. He didn't know what to say to them. If they talked to him
and asked him questions, he got scared and could only mumble
and blush. But if they just talked by themselves and paid no at-
tention to him, it was even worse. He would shift on his feet and


feel about ten times fatter than he was. He would wonder if they
weren't ignoring him purposely. If they suddenly burst out laugh-
ing, he was sure it was because somebody had said something
funny about him.
The doorman was Irish. He had a big red face, and he kept
talking about how cold the weather was.
What a relief when Dad's car finally pulled up to the awn-
ing.
On the way to school he didn't have to be nervous. The chauf-
feur was colored, and he never said anything except hello and
good-by. The ride took about fifteen minutes – school was on the
West Side, a private school in a three-story building all its own.
The only bad thing was when the car stopped for a light, and
Barry got the feeling that people on the street were staring at
him through the window. He knew how funny he must look to
them, a small boy sitting alone in such a long black car, with a
uniformed chauffeur all for himself. Little rich sissy.
And then he got to school. The car pulled up to the long stone
steps. He looked around, hoping that none of the kids from his
class would see him. Then he pushed open the door and scooted
up the steps as quick as he could, without a single look back.
There was a school bus, and some of the fellows even came to
school by themselves, on the subway. But Mother wouldn't listen
to Barry when he tried to bring this up. “Now let's discuss this
reasonably, darling,” she said. “Why on earth should we spend
money on a bus? What else have we got a beautiful car of our
own for? Go to school by yourself? On the streets all by yourself,
with the stories in the papers nowadays? Certainly not! Now what
are you sniffling about? In our family we don't sniffle, we talk
things over reasonably.”
After a while Barry stopped mentioning the subject to Mother.
So he was in school now. School was all right, except for some
things. Some of the teachers were nice, and some of them Barry


was scared of. Miss Everett, arithmetic, was nice. She talked very
fast and wore glasses with a string on them. She had a special way
of saying, “That's very good, Barry Morris.” Mr. Bullfinch, music
appreciation, was terrible. He had a little black mustache and a
worn-out disgusted way of talking. In the middle of choral sing-
ing one day, he stopped everybody else and made Barry sing the
first two lines all by himself: “Oh 'twas the month of May, and the
birds did merrily sing.” Then he sighed and shook his head and
said in front of everybody, "From now on, Morris, suppose you
just move your mouth to the music but don't let any sound come
out."
The last period of school was always the worst. That was gym.
Sometimes it was touch football or basketball, and sometimes it
was exercises or chinning yourself. Barry never stopped squirm-
ing. Stripped to the waist, with Alapping shorts and sneakers, he
knew that the whole world was laughing at his thick legs, his
stomach, his round shoulders, his glasses. And Mr. Anderson, the
gym coach, used to come up behind him and run his hand down
his spine and bellow out, “Posture, fellow! Posturel"
He had three or four close friends. He was with them all the
time. He listened to their conversations, he laughed at their jokes,
sometimes he even passed notes and funny drawings during class
– though he wasn't as brave about this as some of the others. It
hadn't been easy making these friends, when he first started at
school. But that was a long time ago, back in first grade. He was
in fifth grade now, and he'd been with this same bunch all the
way through, and they were used to him by now.
School was over at five o'clock. Another bad time on the front
steps. Everybody piling into the buses, or little groups of two or
three walking to the subway, and Barry had to stand there wait-
ing for the car to pick him up. Once, he had even worked up
enough courage to ask the chauffeur if he wouldn't park the car
a block away, around the corner, so that Barry could pretend he


was walking to the subway too. But the chauffeur didn't under-
stand, he just grinned and said, “Don't you worry about that, Mis-
tuh Barry, just as easy for me to come right up to the front, no
cause for you to go walking."
The drive home was nice. Especially in the winter, when it got
dark early and people on street corners couldn't see into the car
so easy. It wasn't until he was actually riding up in the elevator,
getting closer and closer to the penthouse, counting the floors as
they zipped by, that his regular worry about dinnertime started
up again.
Mother would be waiting for him in the living room. She would
kiss him. Then he would go to his room, put away his books, wash
up slowly. But he couldn't wash up forever. Eventually he had to
come out of his room and go back to Mother and Dad. Then din-
ner began.
Always in the same way. “Now then,” Mother announced,
bright and clear, “what did everybody do with themselves today?
Has it been an enjoyable day for all of us?”
The first one she turned to was Dad. He wiped his mouth with
his napkin. The napkin fell out of his hand, and he had to bend
down and pick it up. “Well, well — nothing of great importance.
A rather interesting case at the clinic this afternoon."
“Yes, I happened to call up your office while you were out,”
Mother said. “I notice you still have that peculiar woman as your
receptionist.”
“What did you call about, dear? Something about your health?”
"Nothing important. I was in the Men's Shop at Saks, and I
couldn't remember your shirt size. It came back to me after I
hung up. You know, you did say you were going to replace that
peculiar woman."
“Now she isn't so bad, Muriel dear. Miss Finn has been with
me for twenty years.”
"I appreciate that fact, Henry.” Mother gave her sweet little


smile. “You know what a high value I place on the qualities of
loyalty and generosity and consideration for others. But circum-
stances have changed in twenty years – now be honest about it,
haven't they? You're not located in that dreary hotel on the West
Side any more. You're a medical man of some importance now,
you have a position to maintain. And you know, poor Miss Finn
isn't getting any younger. There's no point in evading reality,
she's an old woman now. The way she acts around the office –
calling you ‘Doc' right in front of your patients, and telling those
obscene jokes of hers, and calling me ‘Dearie over the phone.”
"She means well. It's just that she's known me ever since I was
practically a boy, and she takes a certain motherly attitude to-
wards me.”
"Exactly the point. You see, Henry, I felt sure we were basically
in agreement on the matter. That motherly attitude was lovely
and touching twenty years ago, but nowadays it simply isn't fair
to you. Of course she doesn't really know any better, poor thing,
but that's exactly why – You understand, dear, I'm just trying to
give you my personal opinion, in an objective way. In the end,
you must make your own decision.”
Mother went on and on, while Dad sipped water and stirred up
his fruit cup and dropped his napkin again.
In the middle of the roast beef, Mother got to Barry.
“Did you have a nice day in school today? Anything exciting
happen?"
Barry managed to make some sort of answer. Mother listened
to it, nodding, her smile fixed on her face. Before long she cut him
off. “And of course, you spoke to your homeroom teacher about
that little matter I mentioned to you?"
The "little matter” might have been almost anything. Every
week or so there was some new "little matter” that she wanted him
to talk to his teacher about, some queer thing she wanted him to
ask for. Usually it was something to do with one of her "causes”
ake you al opinin underst


or her “projects.” Mother was always having causes or projects.
The winter he was eight, for instance, she was a vegetarian. Veg-
etables were all they had for dinner at night, and Mother kept
telling him to let the school know that he should get only vegeta-
ble plates for lunch. Three or four nights a week she was after
him about this, and he gave her a different excuse every time, and
it always ended up with her saying she would call up the school
herself the next morning. It would have killed Barry – he was
sure of it, he would have died of it right on the spot - everybody
else eating meat and him getting vegetable plates, and when peo-
ple asked him why, having to say, “My mother's a vegetarian.”
But Mother never did call up the school herself. She just told
him she would, every few nights, so that the next day at lunch he
would hold his breath while he waited for the first course.
Sometimes, in the middle of this discussion of the "little mat-
ter,” Dad would speak up. “Muriel dear,” he would say, after
clearing his throat, “don't you think the school authorities might
hold it against the boy if you asked them to change the rules on
his account?"
Mother would turn her smile on Dad and answer him without
raising her voice, “Do you mean, Henry, that some arbitrary rule
is more important, in your opinion, than your son's health? No, I
can't believe you were really saying a thing like that. I misunder-
stood your remark, didn't I?”
Dad would lower his head quickly and go back to his food.
Then Mother's smile would return to Barry, and she would start
in again, quiet and calm and reasonable. And Barry would try his
hardest to block out the sound of her voice by concentrating on
his food, his silverware, the spots on the tablecloth.
Dinner was finally over. He could jump up from the table and
blurt out, “I've got homework,” and rush off to his own room.
Mother never tried to hold him back, she never insisted on con-
tinuing the discussion. Somehow, with the end of dessert, her in-


terest in the “little matter” went away. For the rest of the eve-
ning she was happy to listen to the radio or read her Atlantic
Monthly or play solitaire. Whatever went on in the privacy of
Barry's bedroom, the little world he stepped into when the door
shut behind him, wasn't even known to her. It was one of the se-
crets that he had been hiding from Mother and Dad for years and
years now, for as long as he could remember.
Henry Morris was in his last year of interneship when he met
Muriel Herbert. In June, less than a week after his interneship
was completed, he married her. “They're so suited to each other,”
everybody said. “Both of them so serious-minded and intellec-
tual, interested in classical music and good books and the finer
things of life. And if Muriel isn't really the prettiest girl in the
world, she more than makes up for it in charm and intelligence
and a generally magnetic personality. What's more, there's always
been a touch of dreaminess and impracticality about Henry, as if
he didn't quite live on this planet of ours. And it's so important
for a doctor to have a sense of social obligation and the ability to
get along with the right people, as well as a good medical mind.
Well, that's where Muriel can be such a big help to him. Idealistic
as she is, Muriel has a good strong efficient side to her. When she
sets out to do a thing, she gets it done. In short, they're really the
ideal couple.”
There was one person, however, who kept quiet on the subject.
This was Henry's friend Charlie Clifford, who had gone through
four years of medical school and two years of interneship with
him.
As long as Henry had known him, Charlie had indulged in
cynical wisecracks about marriage - kidding, but also not quite
kidding. Henry used to laugh and murmur, “Yes, yes, you're prob-
ably right.” Not so much because he agreed with Charlie - actu-


ally he neither agreed nor disagreed – but because Charlie was
such a good talker, it would have been a shame to discourage him
from talking.
After Henry met Muriel, Charlie's talk about marriage grew
more cynical and pointed, and less kidding, than ever. He took
advantage of every opportunity, it seemed, to come out with re-
marks like, “With all the troubles a doctor has to face in this
world, it's beyond me why any sane one should saddle himself
with a wife. . . . Sweet bachelorhood – that's the only life for
a doctor, they ought to put it in the Hippocratic oath.” And when
Henry answered mildly with words like "comfort” and “consola-
tion” and “helpmate,” Charlie just waved his arm impatiently.
“The comfort and consolation of being spied on, nagged at, and
having your money spent twice as fast as you can make it - God
spare me from such comfort and consolation!” Once or twice
Henry even felt a little annoyed at Charlie for this attitude. But
Henry was too good-natured to stay annoyed at anyone for long
- especially Charlie, who was like a brother to him.
In March, when the engagement was announced, Charlie's ha-
rangues about marriage came to a stop. From that moment right
up to the time of the wedding, Charlie never said another word
against the married state. Henry was grateful to him for the deli-
cacy of his silence. And he knew it wasn't Charlie's fault if his face
revealed his true feelings more clearly than his words could ever
have done. Charlie just happened to have that sort of face.
So Henry excused his friend and attributed his attitude, with
an indulgent smile, to his views on marriage in general. It never
occurred to him for a moment how much Charlie's attitude had to
do with his views on Muriel in particular.
It occurred to Muriel. Within three years after the wedding,
Charlie and Henry were seeing each other only once a week or
less, at the West Side Chess and Checkers Club. Into these few
hours they squeezed as much fondness as they could, but neither
11


of them was ever tempted to pursue the friendship any further.
Just as people had predicted, Henry's career flourished with
Muriel to help him. His rise in the world was even a little bewil-
dering to himself. That was because he spent so much of his time
rushing to places — from cocktail parties to week-end visits to
conventions to evenings of bridge. And when he wasn't rushing,
he was listening to instructions from Muriel – how to eat his soup
at Medical Association dinners, what sort of neckties to wear for
his wealthy female patients, what pattern of wallpaper to use in
his new office. As the years went by, he moved three times to a
slightly bigger office, at a slightly better address.
Only once in all this time did he put up any opposition to the
plans that were made for him. That was when Muriel decided he
was holding himself back by being just an ordinary general prac-
titioner. In modern times, she said, the truly successful doctor
must be some sort of specialist. When he pointed out to her that
becoming a specialist means going to school for two or three
years, she smiled and said she had been looking into the situa-
tion. He would become a consulting diagnostician. He wouldn't
have to waste time at any specialists school, he would simply spe-
cialize in what he knew already. He would diagnose cases for
other doctors who called him in and leave the treatments to
somebody else. In one stroke he would be relieved of the tedium
of visiting hours, small children with runny noses, self-indulgent
old ladies who wanted their hands held, exhausting routine with
no prestige to it whatsoever.
Henry himself wasn't really sure why he objected so violently
to this plan. He brought out one reason after another, each of
which Muriel demolished with no trouble at all. He couldn't af-
ford to be a consulting diagnostician, he said, he would lose most
of his practice. He would gain a bigger, more lucrative practice,
she answered; she had already broached the idea to several im-
portant doctors of their acquaintance, and they were all enthusi-
12


astic about it and willing to lend their personal support. He
wouldn't be very good as a diagnostician, he said, he really didn't
think his talents extended in that direction. Nonsense, she said,
he spent half his time diagnosing illnesses as it was, didn't he? So
why shouldn't he receive a specialist's fees and prestige for it?
But it wasn't exactly very honest, he said, to give people the im-
pression that you've had special training when, in fact, you
haven't. Honest! she cried. How could he lecture her about hon-
esty? Didn't he know by now how high were her standards of
honesty? It was just because of her sense of honesty and justice
that she felt he no longer had any right to hide his light under a
bushel –
For almost a week Henry kept up the struggle. His confidence
crumbled under the pounding of Muriel's logic. His stomach flut-
tered at one of her reasonable looks. He would have given any-
thing for a little peace and quiet – and yet, in spite of himself, he
held out.
The truth was, none of the reasons he gave to Muriel was his
real reason for hating her plan so intensely. The real reason was
that this ordinary routine of a general practitioner, this tedious
round of runny noses, stomach-aches, and visiting hours, was
more congenial to him than he realized himself. He thrived on
his daily turnover of kids and old ladies, rich and not so rich, fa-
miliar faces that he had known for years. He enjoyed the bustle,
the exchange of warmed-over jokes, the steady stream of gossip.
But now, as a consulting diagnostician, he would have to give up
all that. He would see only the people that other doctors, with
whom he had made some previous arrangement, wanted him to
see. There would be no such thing any more as a regular patient,
no second family which he could look forward to visiting when
he started off for his office every morning. Only a cold mechani-
cal appointment book and a ritual of medical bowing and scrap-
ing between his colleagues and himself.
13


growing on him through the years. He was full of love and con-
cern for the boy. He did all he could to protect the boy from the
shocks and strains around him, and to comfort him and cheer him
up when the protection failed. He even had heart-to-heart talks
with the boy – always beginning very earnestly, with the greatest
good will and affection on both sides. And yet – why did the
heart-to-heart talks seem to peter out in the middle, why did the
spark seem to die away inside of Henry before it had a chance to
work up into a self-respecting warmth? If he had been burdened
with a wild uncontrollable type of son, like that King boy peo-
ple were always talking about at the country club – he wasn't
much older than Barry, but already he had got into all sorts of
scrapes, and he had run away from home twice, people said
But Henry didn't have a boy like that. He had a fine, intelligent,
well-mannered boy that a man could be proud of. Why should he
have any trouble talking to a boy like that?
He shouldn't. And he didn't either. It was that imagination of
his again
On Thursday night, nearly every week, Henry saw Charlie
Clifford at the Chess and Checkers Club. At least once in the
course of this night Charlie was sure to drawl out his favorite
question, “How's married life these days? Tell me the truth now.”
And Henry never had the slightest difficulty about looking his old
friend straight in the eye and answering in a steady voice, “It's
the only life in the world. It's still not too late for you to try it,
you know.” And when he started for home in the early hours of
the morning, the same pitying little thought always crossed his
mind: Poor Charlie, with all his success as a heart man, what
good does it do him, how can he enjoy it, living all by himself in
some depressing hotel room?
And so passed the first twenty-two years of marriage for Henry
Morris. As for Muriel, she had no doubts about these twenty-two
years. They were good, successful years. She had set out to get
15


certain things, and by and large she had got them. If there was
still a restless little something inside of her, pushing her on from
one project to the next, from socialism to Christian Science to
vegetarianism, it was certainly no larger or more important than
a cinder in the eye. She could forget about it in an instant by re-
minding herself of the tremendous distance she had traveled since
the days before her marriage, when she was still one of Professor
Herbert's girls living in genteel poverty on the edge of Washing-
ton Heights. No doubt about it, she often told herself, she had
achieved her ideals. And in the years to come she planned to
achieve even greater and finer ideals, for the sake of the two peo-
ple she cared about most on this earth, her husband and her son.
Barry shut the door behind him. He was alone in his room now.
Pretty soon the moment would come.
It didn't take much to get ready for the moment. Nothing was
hidden under the bed or behind the dresser or inside his chem-
istry set in the closet. If his secret had depended on anything
silly like that, it would have been found out a long time ago. He
knew that Mother went through his room while he was at school.
His secret was so much simpler and more wonderful, and Mother
couldn't have spied it out in a million years, not even if she burst
into his room while he was in the middle of it.
All he had to do was stretch out on his back and shut his eyes.
He did it now, forcing himself not to hurry, holding in his excite-
ment purposely, so that he could enjoy it more later on. Almost
ready now. Get into a comfortable position. Head back on the pil-
low. Slowly, softly let the darkness pour in. One second more –
He was walking down the road again. Or maybe he was on the
boat, in the middle of the storm. No, he felt more like the road to-
night. He was walking down the road. It was out in the country
somewhere. On either side of him tall trees were stretching up to
16


the sky, the way they did at that hotel in Connecticut where
Mother and Dad took him for Easter vacation last year. The sun
was shining. Everything was quiet and peaceful.
Then he heard the shout for help. It was faint and far away, it
sounded as if somebody was in pain. He began to run. He ran
faster and faster. The shout was growing nearer. But it was grow-
ing more desperate too. He turned a curve in the road, and there
they were. There were four men – big heavy-set men, with dirty
clothes and brutal faces — and they were bending over somebody.
Barry couldn't see the somebody, but he could see that the four
men were beating him terribly. One of them was kicking him in
the side. Another one was sitting on his chest and slapping his
face. Another one was twisting his arms back over his head. And
the fourth one, the worst of all, wasn't doing anything really, he
was just standing and watching the whole thing with a cruel evil
grin on his face.
Barry stopped short. His first thought was to turn and run away
in the opposite direction. And then he saw who it was that the
men were beating. He saw the fine purple garments, the yellow
sash, the ruffles at the sleeves, the thin pale face with the light
blond hair. It was the Prince, of course. Barry recognized him,
not from having seen him before, but from his own hopes and
dreams. Right away everything else went out of his head. He
knew only one thing – the Prince was being murdered by vil-
lains, and he had arrived in time to save his life.
He plunged forward. He grabbed an arm. He pulled, kicked,
flailed around with his fists. Fists were pummeling back at him.
But he hardly felt the blows against his cheeks and his body, they
were dull thuds that seemed to be happening to somebody else
off in the distance. Then he was face to face with that fourth man,
the leader of the group. That evil grin was right before his eyes.
The thick lips curled a little in pleasure and contempt, the hands
lifted and started to close around his throat. He pulled his arm
17


back, made a fist, and smashed it into that grin as hard as he
could. Anyway, that's what he must have done, though for him
there was only the noise, the blood, the countryside whirling
around him, because the grin got soft and wet under his fist, and
the huge creature crumpled to the ground.
The other three, seeing this, stopped plucking at Barry's back,
turned away from the victim at their feet, and scampered down
the road. They soon disappeared, and their leader had disap-
peared too, though Barry couldn't remember having seen him get
up. He was left alone now with the Prince.
His courage went right out of him as the Prince rose to his
feet. The Prince dusted himself off, wiped the blood from his
nose, then faced his rescuer. He was Barry's own age, maybe a
few months older, but so much calmer and more confident, hand-
some and aristocratic and royal-looking, with easy graceful ges-
tures and no babyish chubbiness in his face. Barry began to trem-
ble. He trembled a lot harder now than when he had first caught
sight of those four men.
The Prince made no effort to smile or put him at his ease. His
expression was aloof, his voice was cold. And this, Barry felt, was
just as it should be. "You have saved my life,” the Prince said.
"Ask any favor, and I will grant it to you."
The words echoed in Barry's head even before the Prince had
spoken them. He was so familiar with these words from his
dreams. His answer was all ready. How many times had he re-
hearsed it to himself, alone in his own room! But his trembling
kept him from coming out with it right away. “I – I'd like — " He
stammered, took a breath, then blurted it out, “I want to be your
slave! I want to wait on you, I want to do your commands, I want
my life to be your own!” He threw himself down at the Prince's
feet and clutched his knees, the way the suppliants do in the King
Arthur stories.


He waited awhile, breathing hard, not daring to look up. Then
he felt a hand on his shoulder. The hand was gentle, but when
he looked up, the face was just as cold and royal as ever. "Very
well. I hereby grant your favor. From now on you are my
personal slave and your life is completely and absolutely in my
hands."
This was the moment. Everything so far had been building up
to this moment. He kissed the Prince's hand – that was in the
King Arthur stories too - and cried out, “Thank you! Oh, thank
you, my Prince! Thank you!"
"Rise, slave," the Prince said, drawing his hand away. "We will
go to the palace, and find a proper uniform for you, and then I
have exploits for which I need your assistance – ”
"What on earth are you doing here in the dark?”
A food of light. Barry sat up, blinking. It took a few seconds
for Mother's face to come into focus.
"It's not your bedtime yet,” she said. “Have you done your
homework for tomorrow?"
"I've only got my chapter to read in history," he said.
“Well, don't you think you ought to read it, dear? You know,
the sooner you start, the sooner it will be over with and off your
mind. That's only sensible, isn't it?”
He mumbled something.
"Well then, where's your book,” she said. “Is this it here? All
right now, I'll open it up to the right page. Now don't you turn
off the light again, because I'll be sticking my head out from the
living room every once in a while, and I'll be able to see if it's
shining under the door.” She patted his cheek and laughed, and
then she was shutting the door behind her.
He lay on his back again. He shut his eyes and tried to get back
into it. The Prince would take him to the place now. The people
there, the beautiful ladies and the fine gentlemen, would snub
19


him and sneer at him, but the Prince would protect him from
their scorn. And then, when he was fitted out in a green tunic
with baggy knees and tight stockings, he would set off with the
Prince on all sorts of adventures, obeying the Prince's orders
without question or hesitation, risking his life at the Prince's
slightest whim.
He shut his eyes tighter than ever. But he could still feel the
light against his eyeballs. The pillow was crumpled up under his
neck, and the bedspread had grown itchy. He tried for a long
time more, but it just wouldn't happen again, it was over for to-
night.
The history book was open on his desk. He went over to it, let
the words pass before his eyes. It was the history of New York
City, with Peter Stuyvesant, and the Indians, and pictures of old
Dutch houses. The chapter was short. Pretty soon he had finished
it. He closed up the book. Nothing of what he had read stayed in
his head.
His thoughts strayed back to the Prince and the four men. It
was good today, he told himself. It was just as good as ever. It
was even better than ever.
Only it wasn't, he told himself. What was wrong with it these
days anyway? Why wasn't it like it used to be?
Before he could stop it, the question came into his head, the
question which he didn't like to think about because it always
made him feel so funny. Could it ever really come true? Was
there any chance at all that there really was a prince somewhere,
a young prince with his thin face and his royal look? Thinking
about him was all right, but suppose there was actually a way of
finding him –
What about God? he wondered. Maybe, if he prayed to God as
hard as he could – maybe God would reach down and produce
the one he was hoping for out of thin air, like the magician at his
birthday party. No! he broke off with a sharp shake of his head.
20


You can't ask God for terrible things like that. Something terrible
would happen to you.
A lump rose to Barry's throat. Dope, what a dope, he was going
to start crying
WHEN Paul King was born, in November 1932, his father was
so pleased that he was almost able to ignore the great national
disaster which took place on the same night – the election of
Franklin D. Roosevelt as President of the United States. A dis-
aster like that is a big thing to a man in the brokerage business,
but not as big as having a son after fifteen years of marriage and
three daughters.
The news came to him at three o'clock in the morning. For
hours he had been pacing the floor of the oak-paneled den in his
three-story brownstone off Fifth Avenue, while the radio blared
at him with swing music and election returns. His wife was hav-
ing trouble. The doctors had expected it. Her health was delicate
even when Arthur married her, and it had been getting more and
more delicate through the years. Her nerves had never been very
good. Ellen's birth four years ago had given her a pretty bad
time. Some of the doctors had advised her not to have any more
children after that. But doctors are a lot of damn fools generally
- it's their business to pull long faces and make gloomy predic-
tions. Arthur still didn't have a son. So he and Harriet talked it
over, and they agreed that one more try wouldn't do any harm.
When the hospital called him up and told him that it was all
over, Arthur asked three questions: Was it a boy? Was he going
to be all right? How was the mother doing?
The answers couldn't have been better. It was a boy. He was
21


strong and healthy. The mother was weak, but she would pull
through. Arthur swigged down a double Scotch, then he went to
bed and slept more soundly than he had slept for weeks...
He called the hospital as soon as he woke up the next morn-
ing. They told him that his wife and son couldn't have any visi-
tors till after lunch. That was all right with Arthur. He could
spend the first half of the day down at his office and his club. He
was looking forward to telling people the news.
Down at his office the reaction was just exactly right. The sec-a
retaries sighed and clasped their hands sentimentally. The junior
clerks had a big competition to see who could shake his hand
most sincerely and congratulate him most warmly. Arthur knew
damn well why they were being so warm and sincere. Once upon
a time he himself had been a young man trying to get ahead on
the Street. Butter up the boss, push yourself to the front, grab
every chance you get - well, that was okay with Arthur, his
knowledge of their motives didn't for one minute spoil his en-
joyment of their flattery. As a matter of fact, it added to his en-
joyment. It was a nice feeling, to be on the receiving end of the
butter and to know that that's how it would always be for his son.
He got a special kick out of announcing the news to old Vin-
cent Connors, his partner. “Well, I've got a son and heir, Vincent,"
he said. “We don't have to worry any more, it looks like we'll have
somebody to take over the business.”
The old man blinked and smiled sort of vaguely. Then he got
to his feet in his slow shaky way and held out his hand. The hand
was trembling, of course. There wasn't much left of the loud,
energetic old tyrant who had been running things when Arthur
first came to work for the firm. This feeble old man who stood
across the desk from Arthur used to be able to deliver a down-to-
earth, old-fashioned, rip-roaring bawling out that would reduce
the cockiest young clerk to jelly. Arthur still remembered the first
time such a bawling out had been delivered to him. It was right
22


afterwards that he had made up his mind to take over this busi-
ness someday.
“I'm happy for you, Arthur,” the old man was saying now. “I
couldn't be happier for you.”
"That's kind of you, Vincent,” Arthur said. “Why don't you
come into my office, and we'll have a drink on it.”
"No, no – thank you,” the old man's eyes grew even vaguer
than usual, “but I really shouldn't - so much work to clear up – ”
Arthur couldn't help laughing. Old Vincent Connors and his
work! Actually it was over ten years since the old man had done
any work in the firm except dozing behind his desk in a sitting
position. Arthur kept his name on the door and let him have this
little room to himself mainly for old times' sake – and because the
firm still had some clients who weren't quite reconciled to Ar-
thur's fast modern methods, who got a feeling of reassurance
from the stiff wing collar and respectable wrinkles of old Vincent
Connors.
"Okay, you get back to work,” Arthur said. He laughed again
and walked out of the room.
The rest of the morning was pretty busy. Clients in and out
every half hour. And Sam Russo kept calling him on the phone,
pestering him about those aluminum shares. Arthur put off Sam
with a few soothing words and a new joke about two Irishmen
who go into the salami business. He was carrying on his own pri-
vate manipulations with those aluminum shares, and by the end
of the week Sam would be out of it for good and he'd never know
what hit him. In the meantime, why not keep him happy?
Busy as he was, though, Arthur found time to tell his big news
to everybody he saw and to offer them a drink on it. At twelve-
thirty he set off for lunch, warm and tingling from the whiskey,
hardly able to wait until he was with the boys at the club.
He was proud of his membership in the Cosmopolis Club, so
proud that he went all the way uptown two or three times a week
23


to have lunch there. When he was a kid, starting off on the Street,
he used to hear the big shots talk about “the club.” He used to
pass the imposing gray building in the East Fifties every once in
a while, and he would see dignified men in conservative suits
marching out or driving up in their long cars. He was a young
nobody in those days, the son of a Stock Exchange clerk who had
dipped his nose in ink for fifty years without putting a penny in
the bank. It was quite a trick for the grubby old clerk's son to
push himself up from the sidewalk through those heavy gray
doors. Even after he was a partner with Vincent Connors, and
known as one of the coming young men, he hadn't been able to
get into the Cosmopolis Club - mainly because old Paul Frank-
lyn, the banker, had been chairman of the Admissions Board. He
had been forced to wait nearly five years, making his plans all
the time, until he had got together enough pressure to put on old
Paul Franklyn. Well, that was a long time ago. Everybody in the
club called him by his first name now. He was up for the chair-
manship of the House Committee. On Tuesday nights he sat in
on the biggest poker game, with two bank presidents and a
newspaper tycoon, and he didn't have to worry for one minute
about the stakes.
He had lunch today with two of his closest pals, Jerry Phillips
the insurance man, and Walt Harmon the lawyer. They were
about Arthur's own age, and pretty well fixed, both of them, but
of course they weren't self-made men, like he was. The firm of
Harmon, Harmon, and Harmon had been successful corporation
lawyers in the time of Walt's grandfather, and Jerry Phillips had
been born with money even before he had married it. Not that
Arthur didn't like Walt and Jerry. They were the greatest guys in
the world – he had never felt it more strongly than he did at this
moment.
When he came out with the news, Jerry started kidding him
about it right away. Jerry had a reputation for being a big kidder
24


- wisecracks, practical jokes, life of the party. A lot of these
funny-looking little fellows were like that. “So you finally did it,
Artie,” Jerry said. “Believe me, I'm proud of you. Three out of
four tries, and all you could get was a mere baby. But now you
finally hit the jackpot, you finally managed to produce a junior
partner!”
"Junior partner, hell!” Arthur said. “This kid is going to be such
a business brain that I won't be able to keep up with him. One
of these days he's going to drive me out of my job and make me
his junior partner.” Arthur guessed that he knew how to keep up
with Jerry's kidding when he had to.
“He's a lucky boy,” Walt said, in his solemn tone of voice. Walt
did everything solemnly, and with a little sigh, as if he took it for
granted that things would go wrong somehow. He was thirty-six,
but he looked like fifty. “There aren't many boys who come into
the world in such ideal circumstances. Money, a loving family, a
wonderful career all ready to step into.”
"And why not?” Arthur said. “What's wrong with that, for
Christ's sake?” There was something about Walt Harmon's mild-
est, most offhand remarks that always seemed to put you on the
defensive. “Why shouldn't a kid start off with all the advantages?
I wish to hell my father had been able to give me the advantages.
Well, I can afford to give them to my kid, I don't mind telling
you, so I'm damn well going to do it.”
"Certainly, certainly,” Walt said. “I never meant to imply there
was anything wrong with it.” And he gave one of his softest sighs.
“And I don't mean that I'm going to spoil this kid either,” Ar-
thur said, just as if Walt had accused him of it. “He's got a rich
father, and a business all ready for him, like you say - and that's
nothing to be ashamed about, by God. But at the same time,
there's something I had to learn when I was a kid, and my kid is
going to learn it too."
"Where to find a good cheap lay;" Jerry said.
25


Arthur laughed quickly, then pushed on, “This is no joke,
though. What he has to learn is, it's a hard world. And a man has
to be hard if he's going to get anywhere in it. All my life I had to
fight for what I got, and I tell you right now, my son's going to be
a fighter too.” He came to a stop with a sharp satisfied nod.
Walt Harmon frowned down at the tablecloth. “You're right, of
course, it is a hard world. But after all, there are other things in
life too. Love, and friendship, and charity – ”
“And a good cheap lay,” Jerry said.
Arthur shot him a hard look. Sometimes Jerry's sense of humor
got to be a goddamned nuisance. There are times when people
ought to know when to stop joking. “Where the hell are those
drinks?” Arthur said. “I want to make a toast to my son.”
The drinks finally came, and there was another round with the
food. Pretty soon Arthur was back in his best humor again. And it
wasn't just the liquor either. The time was getting close when he
could see his son, and the excitement was beginning to grow in-
side of him. When he finally said so long to Walt and Jerry in
front of the club, he couldn't hide that he was excited, a little
anxious even.
"Take it easy, Artie,” Jerry said. “It can't possibly have more
than two heads."
"I'm sure it's a fine-looking boy," Walt said, in his gloomiest
voice.
Arthur told the cab driver to hurry and asked him several times
during the trip why the hell he was going out of his way to get
snarled up in the traffic. Later, all the way up in the hospital ele-
vator, he tapped his foot impatiently. Finally he was in the room
with Harriet.
She was looking terribly small and scrawny. Her face was
pasty, and her lips were blue. Her hair hung down to her shoul-
ders listlessly. She smiled up at him weakly, and he had to strain
to catch her words. “It's all right, Arthur. There was some pain –
26


it wasn't bad at all really. Those doctors were just being foolish,
just like you said.”
He sat down next to her on the bed and took the hand she held
out to him. “Sure they were,” he said. “Didn't I tell you? Nothing
at all to worry about."
He looked at her in silence, and for a moment he thought of
the breathless, bright-eyed little girl he had married. Little Har-
riet Sheldon from Memphis. The biggest catch in her set - pretty,
smart, money in the family. He had met her when she came
North on a trip with her parents - her father was a friend of old
Vincent Connors. A few months later he had visited the family
down in Memphis, he had seen the boys hanging around her,
mooning over her – boys from the best families in town. He had
danced with her that night, and she had done all the talking,
chattering away about parties and dresses, and how bored she
got with her life sometimes, how silly and empty it seemed, how
much she admired and envied people who were useful and vig-
orous and independent. She had enchanted him then – actually
enchanted him. What had become of her anyway? Where did that
bright rosy complexion go? When did that scared-rabbit look
creep into her eyes? What had happened to her in fifteen years
that made her change so completely? This wasn't the first time
he'd asked himself that question, but he still wasn't able to an-
swer it.
He let go of her hand. “Well, where is he, Harriet? Don't they
let a father look at his own son around here?”
So the bell was rung, and a few minutes later the nurse ap-
peared with the baby. He was placed next to Harriet on the bed,
and Arthur stood over him uncertainly.
It was just a baby. Small, red, and wrinkled, like every other
baby he had ever seen. The mouth opened, and loud steady
squeals burst out of it. Weak and helpless, Arthur thought. That's
how they all begin, all just as weak and helpless. And suddenly
27


his feeling of disappointment went away, and a feeling of deter-
mination filled him. It was just because they began so weak and
helpless that you had to be especially careful with them, you had
to start toughening them up as soon as possible. That was a fa-
ther's job, to make his son into the kind of man the world would
look up to -
The baby's screams grew louder. Harriet drew him closer to
her. “Now hush,” she said. “Now it's all right. Mother's here, and
everything's all right.”
"You don't have to whine over him,” Arthur said. “He looks
strong and healthy enough. I think the nurse better take him back
now.”
"It's only been a few minutes, Arthur.”
“That's all right, she better take him anyway. We've got some
things to talk about.”
The baby was taken away. Arthur paced up and down a mo-
ment, then stopped and faced Harriet. “What are we going to
name him?”
“I haven't thought about it,” she said, blinking up at him. “We
could name him after you. Arthur, Junior.”
It was an idea. Arthur liked it at first, but then he shook his
head. He didn't want people calling his kid “Junior.” It was a
sissy's name. He paced a little more, then stopped again. “What
about Paul? I always liked that name. We'll call him Paul.” After
a pause, he looked at her. “Do you want to call him Paul?"
“Paul — ” Her lips trembled. “Yes – it's a beautiful name.”
So it was settled. A few minutes later Arthur left the hospital.
During dinner that night, back at Fifth Avenue, his daughters
were full of questions about the new baby. Joan and Martha, who
were twelve and fourteen years old, wanted to know about his
size, his measurements, his feeding habits, the hospital routine.
Ellen, who was only four, wanted to know when he could come
home, so she could start playing with him.
28


After dinner Arthur kissed his daughters good night and went
back to the club. It wasn't his regular poker game, but he hated to
spend a night alone.
His cards weren't bad, but he was a heavy loser anyway. Actu-
ally his mind wasn't on the game. He kept thinking about that
squealing red-faced little creature on the bed. Then he would
push away that image and put in its place a tall, handsome young
man with a briefcase in his hand. A thick brown leather briefcase
with his initials on it. The same kind of briefcase that Arthur him-
self carried down to his office every morning. And the secretaries
would look at him with wide eyes, the junior clerks would scurry
to obey his orders. People would see that Arthur King could
make a success out of his son, just as he had made a success out
of every other important thing in his life.
In November 1942, late in the afternoon of his tenth birthday,
Paul King stood outside the door of his father's study and lis-
tened. He could hear the voices from inside. The high angry one
must be Mrs. Riddell’s. The thin one that faded in and out was
his mother's. He couldn't hear his father's voice at all. He could
imagine his father just sitting there, staring at Mrs. Riddell hard,
taking it all in but giving nobody any idea which way he was go-
ing to jump. “Never let them know how you're going to jump - "
That's what his father had said to him plenty of times. “Keep
them talking and keep them hoping. Let them think they're get-
ting somewhere with you. Then forget about them, and do what
you please. That's the only smart way to handle people.”
That sneaky Dickie Riddelll thought Paul. Running and crying
to his mother, and after Paul gave him his mumblety-peg knife
and told him he could be a member of the secret club! And it was
all an accident anyway. Paul hadn't meant anything by it. That
sneaky Dickie Riddell knew it too.
29


Paul began to have the shakes again. Why was he doing that
anyway? He tried to make his legs be still. What was there to get
scared about anyway? It was only little sissies like Dickie Riddell
that got scared over a thing like this. It was just nothing at all for
somebody like him, he guessed. He was having a little fun, and
there was an accident. His father would understand that. ...
It had happened just that morning, Saturday morning. He had
gone to the park after lunch to show his birthday present, his new
watch, to Teddy Miller. Teddy was in the secret club with him.
The secret club was Paul's own invention. He was the Grand Mo-
gul, and he was the one who picked out the Assistant Grand Mo-
gul. Some weeks it was Teddy Miller, and some weeks it was
Eddie Seymour or Doug French or Larry Cookson or somebody
else that he played with in the park on week ends. Whoever Paul
wanted it to be. He didn't much care who, but he liked to keep
switching around, he got tired of one Assistant Grand Mogul for
too long. And he liked the way the fellows were always after
him to pick them, always taking him aside and promising him
things if only he'd kick out the one who was Assistant Grand
Mogul right then.
Once the Assistant Grand Mogul was picked, then he and Paul
would go off from the others and attend to "the secret business” of
the club. They would get into a huddle and make up passwords
and code signals and all, and they wouldn't tell the other fellows
what these were, they would only drop a few hints. Sometimes
they would play catch together or go to the zoo or look at the
people on the park benches or climb the rocks. Then, when they
got back to the other fellows, they would put on mysterious faces
and talk about their "adventures,” but they wouldn't say what
those adventures had been, because that was against “the solemn
oath” of the club.
Once, Eddie Seymour tried to start a secret club of his own,
with Paul left out. But that didn't last very long. After a few
30


hours, both Eddie himself and Larry Cookson, who had been
picked as his Assistant Grand Mogul, came to Paul on the side
and asked to join up with him and desert the other fellow.
But the one person who never got to be a member of the secret
club, no matter what, was Dickie Riddell. Because he was such a
crybaby, and so funny-looking with his big glasses, and whenever
the least little thing happened to him he went bawling to the
grownups. So nobody wanted to have anything to do with Dickie
Riddell, except that when he was around you could have a lot of
fun playing jokes on him.
Well, Paul went out to the park this morning and showed his
watch to Teddy Miller. But after a while they got tired of looking
at the watch and wondering what time it was in all different parts
of the world, and none of the other fellows were around, and then
all of a sudden Dickie came along.
Paul winked at Teddy and said, “Let's have a little fun with
him.”
Teddy started nodding, all excited. He was small and skinny,
with messy red hair. It was the easiest thing in the world to get
him excited about something. "What'll we do to him, Paul?"
"You just keep quiet and leave it to me."
Dickie was almost up to them now. Paul looked up and pre-
tended to see him for the first time. “Hey!” he called out. Dickie
stopped and flinched a little, as if somebody was starting to hit
him. This kid was scared to death of him, Paul thought. Just the
same, he kept hanging around, he couldn't seem to stay away.
Some people are so dumb they ask for what they get.
Paul smiled. He used his charming smile. People were always
saying, when they thought he couldn't hear them, what a charm-
ing smile he had. “That boy has personality,” people used to say,
especially his aunts and his older sisters and his mother's lady
friends. “With that smile of his, it's just impossible to refuse him
anything."
31


So he smiled at Dickie now. And Dickie blushed a little and
looked sort of dazed, as if he just couldn't believe in his good
luck.
"Come over here,” Paul said. “You're just the one we've been
looking for."
“Me?” Dickie's voice was high and quivery. “You've been look-
ing for me?"
“Well, of course we have. My gosh, Dickie, you know what I
think of you. As a matter of fact, that's what I wanted to talk to
you about.”
Dickie's eyes got very big. Teddy Miller forced back a splut-
ter, and the smirk on his face would have been enough to give the
whole joke away to anybody else. But that dumb Dickie Riddell
wasn't looking anywhere except at Paul.
“We've been thinking," Paul went on, “it's about time we got
another member into the secret club. And we've decided you're
the perfect one."
The color went right out of Dickie's face. His mouth and his
eyes showed all sorts of feelings, all the way from being afraid to
being amazed to being happy and back again. Paul could hardly
stop himself from laughing out loud. He had no patience with
these little dopes who couldn't keep their feelings from showing
on their faces. That was one thing Paul had always been good at,
as long as he could remember, ever since he was a kid. He could
make his face show whatever he wanted people to think he was
feeling. He fooled them every time.
"Of course,” Paul said, “you'll have to take the initiation.”
"I didn't know there was – What's the initiation?"
"Well, it's pretty hard,” Paul said. “I wouldn't want to fool you
about that. It's probably the hardest initiation any club ever had.
I'd like to forget about it just in your case – because I want you
in the club so bad – but I can't do it. Teddy and me, we both
took the initiation, so it wouldn't be fair to let you off.”
32 .


Dickie wet his lips. Paul could see him getting worried. He let
him worry awhile, then he said, “Of course, if you don't want to
belong to the club – If it doesn't matter to you that you'll be
somebody special from now on, and all the fellows will want to
be friends with you, but you'll be able to stick up your nose at
them, because you'll have me and Teddy. Just the three of us,
better than the whole bunch of them.”
Sure enough, the worried look on Dickie's face was changing
slowly. It was changing to an excited, eager sort of look -- and
sort of greedy too. This was Paul's favorite game of all, working
on people like this, telling himself beforehand what he was going
to make them do, and then watching them while he made them
do it. It was an especially good game when there was somebody
like Teddy Miller around, to watch him with admiration, the
way Teddy was doing now.
"All right, I'll take the initiation,” Dickie said in a small voice.
“What do I do? It isn't too bad, is it?"
"It's very simple,” Paul said. The idea had been in his mind for
quite a while now, and he didn't have to work out any more of
the details. "First we blindfold you — " With Teddy's help, he
took off Dickie's glasses and tied a crumpled handkerchief over
his eyes. Dickie complained all the way. They should be careful
not to break his glasses. Did they have to use such a dirty hand-
kerchief, didn't they know how allergic he was? They weren't go-
ing to do anything sudden to him while he was blindfolded, were
they? The one thing he couldn't stand was sudden surprises.
They whirled him around and around until he was good and
dizzy. “Please – that's enough. Please – my stomach.”
"Okay, now we're taking you to the lake,” Paul said.
“The lake? You're not going to throw me in the lake or any-
thing, are you? I can't swim.”
“Quiet, dog!” Paul said. “You are a lowly, miserable creature,
and talking is not allowed during the initiation.”
33


“But Paul - "
"Quiet! And from this moment on, you will address me as
Grand Mogul.” He winked at Teddy. “And you will address my
companion as Honored Assistant Grand Mogul."
They each took Dickie by an arm and hustled him across the
grass towards the lake. A few people sat on benches in the dis-
tance, but Paul and Teddy flanked Dickie so closely on either
side that these people couldn't see what was happening.
At the lake there was nobody at all. “Before you, dog, is the sa-
cred water,” Paul said. “There are three stones. The first is a small
stone, in shallow water. The second is bigger, and the water is
deeper. The third is a tall rock, you can see only a little bit of it
above the water. Around this rock the lake is very deep, way over
your head, much too deep for you to stand up. The Assistant
Grand Mogul and I will now take you out to this rock."
"Out to the deep water – yos
“Quiet!” Paul said, digging his fingers hard into Dickie's arm.
He could feel the wince of pain under his fingers. But Dickie was
quiet.
With Paul and Teddy steadying him, Dickie was made to go
out onto the first stone. Then, the two of them calling at him from
the bank, he went out to the second stone. There he stood while
Paul ordered him to lift his foot and take the big step out to the
third stone. Dickie didn't move. Paul's voice shouted away - loud
and angry, not letting up for a second. Being nice to Dickie had
done all it was going to do. Now he had to be scared into moving.
And pretty soon they saw Dickie stick out his foot, hold it in
the air a moment, then step out to that third stone.
“Now watch out,” Dickie was crying. “Don't do anything to
me. Remember, I can't swim.”
Paul's head was throbbing. The joke was almost more than he
could bear - because the truth was, of course, the water around
34


that third stone was no deeper than around the first two. It was
just about up to Dickie's waist, and no more than that.
"Now we're going to take away those first two stones,” Paul
said, “so there's no way for you to get back to shore.”
Paul and Teddy splashed the water with their hands and made
grunting noises.
"All gone now,” Paul said. “That's the initiation. You just stand
out there awhile. And don't take off the blindfold, because if you
do, you won't get into the club, and we'll drown you in revenge.
The Assistant Mogul and me are going away now, but we'll be
back in six or seven hours. Well, good-by.”
It was perfect, it couldn't have worked better. There was
Dickie, huddled up on that stone a few feet from the shore, his
face almost as white as his blindfold. And there were Paul and
Teddy, being very quiet, holding in their giggles. And then, in a
little while, just as Paul had planned, Dickie began to get pan-
icky. Uncertain little cries at first. “Paul? Teddy? Are you there?”
Then the cries got louder. And then Dickie's arms were waving
around. “Help! Somebody help me! I can't swim!” With his arms
waving and his head bobbing, he reminded Paul of one of those
funny-looking dolls in a Punch and Judy show. Any moment, it
seemed, another doll would pop up and whack him over the head
with a stick.
Teddy was nudging Paul. "He's pretty scared now. Maybe we
better stop it.”
Paul hardly heard him. He was staring at that stupid helpless
Dickie Riddell. He was hoarse now from his yelling, and his
words were just loud sobs. But he still hadn't taken off the blind-
fold. It was loose, and at one side it was beginning to slip down
his cheek, but that little dope was still too scared of Paul to take
it off.
All of a sudden his screams stopped. They could see him shud-
35


dering. He was shuddering all over, but silently, not a word.
Then they saw him lift his foot, hold it up as if he was searching
for some place to put it, sway a little. A moment later he had lost
his balance, he toppled into the water. His head went under.
Teddy gave Paul a look.
"Take it easy,” Paul said. “That water isn't even up to his waist.”
“Yes, but he's not coming up.”
"He'll come up.”
"He's just lying there. It's funny.”
Paul could see for himself that it wasn't right. He could see the
limp figure doubled up under the shallow water. He could almost
feel it himself, the breath going out of him, the water rushing into
his lungs. He had always wondered what it would be like to see
a dead body.
A terrific shouting and splashing broke into his thoughts. Teddy
was plunging into the water, clothes and all. He was bending
down, scooping up the limp figure, half pulling and half carrying
it back to the shore.
Dickie Riddell was on the ground now. High wild sobs were
breaking out of him. His fists were clenched, his face was red and
wrinkled like a little baby's.
“Sissy,” Paul was muttering. “Little crybaby.” But suddenly he
was scared. What would happen to him if that little dope should
die or something? He found himself pushing forward, kneel-
ing down next to Dickie. “Okay, you're okay,” he said. “Stop it.
It was only a joke. We didn't mean anything by it. Stop it, will
you.”
He heard Teddy Miller behind his back. “I have to be going
home, Paul – ” He saw Teddy moving away quickly down the
path. He started to call after him, “Wait a minute! If you leave
now, you're out of the secret club!” A fresh burst of sobs from
Dickie made him forget about Teddy.
For ten minutes he knelt down by the little crybaby, talking
36


away as fast as he knew how. He promised him everything he
could think of, his mumblety-peg knife, his new baseball mitt,
membership in the secret club. He apologized as hard as he could,
gave him back his glasses, picked up the money that had dropped
out of his pockets. Finally, dripping wet and all worn out from
crying, Dickie got to his feet, gave Paul one quick stare, then
hurried away without a word.
And now, a few hours later, Paul was standing outside the door
of his father's study. And he knew from the voices inside that
something bad would happen to him. Unless he thought of a way
to keep it from happening -
His mind began to work. Gradually his trembling went away.
Don't sit around and weep, do something – that's what his father
was always telling him.
He knocked on the door. A moment later he entered the room,
his head down, his step slow, a touching look of repentance on
his face.
It went a lot better with Mrs. Riddell than he thought it
would. It was funny how things had a way of turning out good,
as long as he kept his nerve and bluffed them through.
Mrs. Riddell was a big fat woman with lots of furs and a loud
voice. She yelled at him for a long time. She told him he was a
little monster and he ought to be sent away to an institution. And
of course she had the story all wrong. The way she told it, he had
thrown her precious little Dickie into the lake and held his head
under the water. Well, Paul would get that little liar for that one
of these days.
But he didn't let his annoyance show on his face. He listened
to Mrs. Riddell's noise earnestly, with real shame in his eyes. At
exactly the right moment, he allowed his lip to quiver a little,
and he cried out how sorry he was, what a wonderful kid Dickie
37


was, how he just didn't know what had come over him. When his
outburst was over, he treated Mrs. Riddell to one of his smiles,
the slow shy hesitating one, as if he wanted so much to be
friends with her but he was scared she might not like him.
She grunted a little. Paul could see that she was beginning to
soften up.
“Don't you worry, Mrs. Riddell,” his father said. “I'll take care
of the boy. He'll get what he deserves.” Then his father stood up,
showing that the interview was over.
Paul had seen his father pull this standing-up maneuver before.
"It's my will power against the other fellow's will power,” his fa-
ther used to say. Well, stronger will powers than Mrs. Riddell's
had given in to this maneuver. She still bristled a little, but
she moved to the door. “All right,” she said, “I'll accept your
promise, Mr. King. He does seem to be genuinely sorry.” She
paused in the doorway and looked straight at Paul. “I'll give you
the benefit of the doubt this time —”
She was gone. Underneath the grateful look that Paul sent
after her, he was laughing to himself.
He was alone now with his father and mother. Mother was
clasping and unclasping her hands. “Paul - darling - I just don't
understand. How could you do such a thing? And the boy is so
much smaller than you —”
“I told you, I didn't mean any harm.” Paul relaxed his repent-
ant look and let some of his irritation show in his voice. He didn't
have to be so careful with his mother. It wasn't his mother's
opinion that counted.
“But darling, it was wrong.” She came up to him and touched
him softly on the arm. "You do know that it was a bad thing to
do, don't you?”
He wriggled away from her. “I know it, I already said so." He
turned, a little less sure of himself, to face his father. “I'm sorry,
Dad. I'm sorry I did it.”
.38


There was no mistaking it, the anger in his father's voice. Paul
lowered his head, a little dazed.
"Now I'll tell you what happened,” his father went on. “You
thought you'd have a little fun with this Riddell kid. You knew
damn well what you were doing, but you lost control of yourself,
you let yourself get carried away by your big joke. So what hap-
pened? You got into a mess, just like you might've known you
would. And you dragged me into it too. You made me look like a
damn fool who can't control his own son. In front of that Riddell
woman — " His father stopped. His face was red. When he started
again, his voice was louder. "You were dumb! You acted like a
dumb kid! If there's one thing I'm not going to stand for, it's
dumbness! You get me?”
Paul could feel his cheeks burning as he nodded his head. He
didn't trust himself to say anything.
"Now here's the way things are going to be from now on," his
father said. “You're going to learn a little self-control. Don't pull
that wide-eyed act with me, you're not too young to know what
I'm talking about. Go out and have your fun, make people do
what you want or otherwise they'll make you do what they want
- but use your head, don't do dumb things that you're bound to
get caught at. Now is that pretty clear?”
Paul managed a fairly steady "Yes, Dad."
“It better be. Because if you ever get into this kind of mess
again, I'll give you a lot worse than I'm going to give you now.”
"You're going to punish me now - ?
“Did you think you could do something like this to me and get
clear away with it? Damn right I'm going to punish you. Go up-
stairs and stay there till I tell you to come down again.”
“But I can come down for dinner, can't I? For my birthday
party?"
“You're not having any birthday party, boy. What the hell do
you think I've been talking about?” And Dad stood up, the way
40


he had with Mrs. Riddell, to show that the discussion was over.
“But Dad — ” Paul put as much of the repentance into his voice
as he could, and tried to keep tears from coming to his eyes. He
had to go to his birthday party. He had been looking forward to
it for weeks. He always had such a wonderful time, with his sis-
ters and their husbands fussing over him, laughing at his funny
remarks, whispering compliments about him which he wasn't
supposed to hear. All except his sister Ellen, but she was only
four years older than he was, she was still a kid herself really. It
wasn't fair to make him give up all this. Just because one sniffling
little brat couldn't take a joke! “Dad, please!” he said.
"Stop that whining!” Dad said, very sharp. “Whiners make me
sick!”
So Paul went up to his room. He threw himself on the bed, and
for a long time he kept himself mad. What had happened, what
had gone wrong? His respectful repentant look had always
worked before, hadn't it? The time he ran away from home, for
instance - he was only nine then – because they wouldn't let him
go to the circus with a cold. He stayed away almost all night, los-
ing himself among the crowds at Times Square, picturing his
mother's sobs, his father's curses. Finally he got bored with run-
ning away from home, and he went back, and there was going to
be a punishment. But he put on the respectful repentant look, and
Dad took him into the den for a "man-to-man talk," and he ended
up by going to the circus. Dad had no right not being convinced
by it this time! Dad had no right -
Maybe he would run away from home again. No, on second
thought he wouldn't. There was no fun in that any more. The fun
usually went out of things after you did them once or twice.
The evening went by slowly. His sisters knocked on his door
and wished him happy birthday, but they didn't come in – Dad
wasn't letting them. Mother brought up his supper on a tray. She
had a worried look on her face. “I'm sorry, dear," she said.


“Why?” he snapped back at her. “I'm all right!”
He was just about over being mad after that. He started think-
ing hard. Don't waste your time getting excited, you get a lot
more in the end by thinking. Why had Dad come down on him so
hard tonight? Why had he acted so different from usual? After a
while Paul began to understand why. Because people had found
out about Dickie Riddell, and they had come complaining to
Dad, and Dad didn't like to look bad in front of people.
So Paul made a resolution then and there. A night like this
would never happen to him again. From now on nobody's going
to complain to Dad. Because nobody's ever going to find out a
thing.
At nine o'clock Dad came into the room. “You can come down
for half an hour and blow out the candles on your cake,” he said.
“Providing you've learned your lesson.”
“I have, Dad, honestly.”
“We'll see if you have. Why did I punish you?"
Paul answered without any hesitation. “Because I was dumb.
And I made you ashamed of me.”
Dad relaxed. He laughed – his old easygoing laugh, Paul was
glad to see. “Good enough, boy. Come on now.”
So I was right, Paul thought as he followed Dad downstairs. It
had turned out to be a pretty good evening after all, even with-
out the birthday party. Because he had found out how to handle
things in the future.
In the living room his sisters made a fuss over him, their hus-
bands laughed at his imitations of the teachers at school, and he
blew out all the candles in one puff. There was only one thing to
keep his pleasure from being perfect. Out of the corner of his eye
he could see his sister Ellen, a tall pale girl, sitting up very stiff,
never giving him a smile or a word. What was eating her any-
way? Why did she have to be such a sourpuss, spoiling his party
and all?


After half an hour on the dot, Dad told him to go upstairs
again. He went without any complaining. But he couldn't get to
sleep right away. He lay in bed, waiting. For what? He didn't
know, exactly. Then he heard footsteps from Ellen's room, which
was right next to his. He waited some more. The footsteps had
stopped.
He slipped out of bed and knocked softly on the connecting
door. A moment later he heard Ellen's voice, and he turned the
doorknob. She was sitting up in bed, looking at him steadily,
without any expression. Suddenly he felt something that was al-
most shyness. It took him a few seconds to get back his confi-
dence. “Aren't you coming in to tell me good night?"
“I said good night to you downstairs."
“Yes, but you know — " His voice trailed off. He waited for her
answer. When it didn't come, he raised his voice a little. “I don't
know why you're mad at me. I didn't mean to hurt the kid. I
apologized, and I took my punishment, didn't I? I'm sorry for
what I did, aren't I?”
“Are you?" she said, very quietly. “Then I haven't got any rea-
son to be mad at you.”
He felt the blood coming into his face. "Oh what do you know
about it?” he said. “You're only a dopey girll” He went back to his
room, slamming the door behind him.
In the morning he was feeling good again. It was Sunday, and
the day was bright and crisp, just the kind of day he enjoyed
playing in. When he came running down to breakfast, Ellen was
waiting for him with a smile. She let him kiss her, and told him to
"stop acting like a wild animal.” Just the same as any other morn-
ing.
As he gobbled down his cereal, he remembered yesterday aft-
ernoon. He saw that silly Punch and Judy doll with the handker-
chief over his eyes. He saw the pudgy figure lying in the water.
He remembered how he had shuddered and got scared. He wasn't
43


shuddering now. Being scared wasn't even a tiny part of what he
was feeling. He had got away with it! Paul King, Boy Criminal,
strikes again! His father, his mother - even Ellen, who thought
she knew so much about him – he had fooled them all!
He jumped to his feet. What was he going to do today? Which
one of his friends would he see? He remembered how that
scaredy-cat Teddy Miller ran away yesterday. He was through
with Teddy Miller, he would get a new Assistant Grand Mogul.
Or maybe he wouldn't, maybe he'd belong to the secret club all
by himself from now on, and wouldn't let anybody tag along with
him.
No, he couldn't do that. He had to have somebody else. There
was never much fun in it somehow, unless he had somebody else.
III
IT WAS spring, and Barry Morris was just sixteen.
His mother watched him sharply across the table as he ate his
breakfast. He was a tall boy. All of a sudden, in the last year, he
had sprung up amazingly. He was broad around the shoulders
and arms, and a lot of the pudginess was hardening into muscle.
Not all of it, though. There was still plenty of smooth baby flesh
on his face and neck. And he was going through the pimply stage
just now.
Muriel sighed. In many ways, she knew, he was a highly satis-
factory son. His manner was sweet and gentle. He was polite to
older people. And he was a brilliant intellectual boy. Watching
him at home, you wouldn't be able to guess it - he hardly ever
opened his mouth at home – but Muriel knew it was true, be-
cause his teachers said so. He was the best mathematics student
in the junior class, and he spent a great deal of time arranging,
44


sorting, and compiling notes about that rock collection of his.
Muriel had looked through his notes once, while he was at school,
and she had been astonished by the technical phrases and the
Latin words. In fact, she hadn't been able to make head or tail
out of any of it. He had mentioned once that he would like to
make a career out of the study of rocks. That was all childish
nonsense, of course – he would become a doctor like his father,
or go into business with one of his uncles – but still, it was a sign
of how bright he was.
He was artistically inclined too. His head was always buried in
some book or other, and he had a great love of music. Sometimes
he would hide away in his room for hours, listening to some opera
or string quartet on his phonograph. Naturally this pleased Mu-
riel very much. She considered herself to be quite artistic too.
Only, with her committees and so on, she didn't get nearly as
much time for art as she would have liked.
A very satisfactory boy, in short. When people told her so, she
always gave a modest little laugh and said, “Well, we've tried to
do our best for him." Just the same, she wasn't completely satis-
fied.
There was something lacking in him. Several years ago, shortly
after her disillusionment with the Socialist Party, she had discov-
ered modern psychology. And maybe because she was getting on
in years and feeling that the time had come for her to settle
down, it really looked as if modern psychology was going to be
her permanent interest in life. One of the first things it had
taught her was what was wrong with her son. He wasn't aggres-
sive enough. He had an inferiority complex which prevented him
from sufficiently asserting his ego.
Once this idea was in her head, Muriel found new evidence for
it every time she looked at her son. When he had his friends up
to the apartment for dinner, for instance. Which wasn't often, as
a matter of fact. Muriel was always asking him why and telling
45


him in a joking way, “Really, if I didn't know better, I might al-
most think you were ashamed of your own parents.” Anyway,
when he did have his friends up, Muriel couldn't help noticing
that he was never the leader among them. He did more listening
than talking. He laughed at their jokes, but he hardly ever made
any jokes of his own. When they started bragging about the ex-
pensive cars their fathers just bought – well, God knows Muriel
wasn't the materialistic type – far from it – but why couldn't her
son do a little bragging about his father's expensive new car once
in a while?
For the last two or three years she made every effort to cure
him of this inferiority complex. She spoke to him about it fre-
quently. In a sweet friendly voice, of course. That was one of the
basic tenets of modern psychology. You mustn't arouse the an-
tagonism of your subject. “Darling,” she would say, “don't you
think it would be a nice idea if you went out to the club this aft-
ernoon with your father and me instead of sitting around in this
stuffy room listening to your records? ... I met the loveliest,
most intelligent girl the other day. Little Phyllis Green, you know
her mother, Nettie Green. Well, she's a real music lover, just like
you, I'm sure you'd love to meet her. . . . Dear, I don't want to
criticize, you know we don't criticize in this family, but don't you
think, if you held up your head a little higher and improved your
posture – ”
And sometimes, if these offhand little remarks didn't work, be-
cause he did have the most exasperating way of lowering his eyes
and shutting his mouth and letting your words roll right off him,
she would have to take more drastic measures. She might have to
actually walk right into his room and shut off the phonograph. Or,
if she thought it was necessary for his own good, she might call
up the young girl's mother and arrange the date for him.
A certain matter in connection with Barry's welfare was on her
46


mind now, as she watched him across the breakfast table. She had
mentioned it to him last night, but he had allowed his attention to
slip a million miles away. And so she was breaking one of her
long-standing rules, she had got up early this morning especially
to talk to him before he went to school.
"Well, darling, what about it?" she said. “I've got the ticket
right here, and I happen to know you're not busy tonight.”
It took only a split second for him to lower those eyes and set
that jaw stubbornly. “I am busy tonight. I told you, I'm going to
a concert.”
"But that's so unreasonable, dear. You can go to a concert any
time. I mean, you know how pleased I am that you take an in-
terest in music — ”
“I can't go to this concert any time. It's the Budapest Quartet,
and they're playing only this once.”
“I appreciate that. But the Teen-Agers' Frolic at the club comes
only once a year too. And that's just the sort of thing it's very
important for you to go to. Sometimes you have to weigh one
pleasure against another, and make up your mind that you can't
have everything. That's maturity.”
“Well, I've made up my mind. The Teen-Agers' Frolic won't be
a pleasure, so I'll go to the concert.”
“What do you mean, it won't be a pleasure? All the young peo-
ple will be there. There'll be dancing and refreshments, and the
nicest girls. A boy your age should get pleasure from things like
that. Life isn't all concerts and operas. You should go out and en-
joy yourself and make friends."
She saw the faint Alush rise to his cheek. “I've got lots of
friends."
She pressed her advantage in a slightly louder voice. “Of course
you do. But they're mostly as shy and retiring as you are. Don't
misunderstand me, they're very nice boys, your friends. But I


want you to broaden your outlook a little, meet different kinds of
people. Later on in life, you know, you'll have to mingle with all
types. Isn't that right, Henry?”
Henry looked up from his newspaper. “Yes. By all means." He
went back to his newspaper quickly.
But Muriel had got what she wanted from him. She turned
again to Barry. “You see? Your father has a great deal of experi-
ence, and he bears me out. Now you'll go to the dance tonight.
I've got your ticket right here, it would be a shame to let it go to
waste.”
She saw immediately that she had made a mistake, she had
given him an opening. “I've got my ticket for the concert too,” he
said. “Why should I let it go to waste?”
Muriel peered at him. “You've got your ticket? Let me see it.”
"Well – ” He fidgeted. “I don't have it on me. I called up the
ticket agent and ordered it.” After a pause, he added, “Dad told
me I could call up the ticket agent any time.”
Henry emerged from his newspaper. “That's very true, Muriel.
I gave him my permission."
“Of course you did,” she said. “Nobody's objecting to that.
However, as long as the ticket was ordered from the agent, it's a
simple matter to cancel it. If you'll call him up, Barry – "
His face was getting red. “But I can't. I'm not going to the
concert alone.”
She peered at him still harder. “You ordered more than one
ticket?"
"Well, no. But I'm meeting some people there, they'll be ex-
pecting me."
Looking him straight in the eye, Muriel knew perfectly well he
was lying. “Who are these people?"
“Just some friends of mine.”
“What are their names?”
"It's nobody you know.”


She was silent for a few seconds, smiling at him. Then she said,
“Well, it's no great problem really. All you have to do is call up
these people, whoever they are, and tell them not to expect you.
It isn't as if you'll be leaving them in the lurch. They'll still be go-
ing to the concert with one another, won't they?”
This seemed to stun him into silence at last. He gave one look
- a quick, pleading sort of look that gave Muriel a moment of un-
easiness – then he muttered, “I'm not going to that dance to-
night.” Before another word could be said, he was up from the
table and out of the room.
Muriel didn't call after him. She had won the battle and would
clinch her victory when he came home from school this evening.
She already had a plan for doing so. Until then, it was only
common sense to let him sulk a little. Remember how important
pride and self-respect are to the adolescent. Muriel sipped her
coffee. She didn't allow herself to take any notice when she heard
the front door slam.
Several minutes later she became aware that Henry wasn't hid-
ing behind his paper any more. His eyes were on her. He was
looking at her in that timid worried way which always infuri-
ated her so. All through her married life that look of Henry's had
been a plague to her. It filled her with a sharp sense of injury, of
anger even. And anger was unbecoming to a sensible adult per-
son.
"The boy has to be handled firmly on occasion,” she said, in an-
swer to no remark from Henry. "He's too withdrawn and intro-
spective for his own good. He has to be made more outgoing, be-
fore it's too late.”
“He's still so young," Henry said, more as if he were asking a
question than making an assertion. “Boys his age are always a lit-
tle shy. He'll grow out of it, I'm sure. If you let him alone – ”
“Let him alone?” She gave a strained little laugh. “There you
have the old-fashioned, lazy attitude. These are the crucial years
49


for a child. If his own parents 'let him alone,' as you put it, who is
going to take an interest in him?"
Henry said nothing, but there was still something unconvinced
about his expression. It made her raise her voice still more. “Well,
this is typical of you after all, isn't it? You leave all the hard work
to me – then you criticize me because you don't like the way I'm
doing it. Typical. I don't know why I should be surprised.” Qui-
etly and with dignity she patted her lips with her napkin, pushed
back her chair, and walked out of the room.
In her own room she had a great many letters to write. But she
found it difficult to concentrate on them. She saw again the look
Barry had given her just before he backed down in the argument.
A look of pain almost. Was she really giving pain to her own son?
It wasn't fair of him to feel that way. Everything she did had
only one aim, to make him happier in the end. If she occasion-
ally spoke to him in a nagging voice – But no, she rejected this
idea firmly. Nagging was the one thing she was always careful not
to do. She had watched with disgust while other mothers
screeched and clawed at their poor children. She knew for a fact
how much more intelligent and understanding she was than
those mothers.
She broke off her thoughts with a sigh. Why should she be sur-
prised at all this, anyway? There was very little gratitude or jus-
tice in the world, she had found that out a long time ago. So she
went back to her letter writing.
Barry went to school by himself now, without the embarrass-
ment of the car and chauffeur. The exclusive little elementary
school on Central Park West had given way to a private high
school of progressive tendencies up in Riverdale. At the time this
change took place, three years ago, Barry had put up a positive
stand against Mother. To his surprise he had won the point. Of
50


course, he had made concessions in other directions. For instance,
he had agreed to submit to the questioning of this psychologist
with a beard, Dr. Veronsky, who came up to the apartment once
a week in those days for a session with Mother. But he did win his
point. Every morning since then he had been taking the subway
up to school.
The ride lasted forty-five minutes. If he wanted to go into the
first car of the train, he could always find half a dozen people
from his own class to pass the time with. But he didn't feel like
company this morning. He took a seat in one of the middle cars,
where nobody from school ever went. He gave himself up to his
thoughts.
Why did she always have to keep after him like that? he
thought. Why couldn't she let him alone? Saying things to him
that brought tears to his eyes almost. If he hadn't fought against
them as hard as he could and finally kept himself from crying. It
was the shame of his life, this trick he had of bursting into tears
at the slightest thing, just as if he was still a little baby. He had
to be on guard against it all the time. He wasn't going to let peo-
ple see it. It would have killed him for people to know what a
coward and weakling he was.
Killed him. There he went again, always thinking about him-
self in such a silly exaggerated way. And getting into a sweat
over things that anybody else wouldn't even pay attention to.
Why did he have to act so crazy anyway?
Maybe that was the answer. He was crazy. That was the rea-
son for all his troubles. And all these peculiar feelings of his. He
belonged in an insane asylum. If he concentrated hard enough, he
could almost feel himself losing his mind. He could feel his head
pounding, his throat turning dry, his eyes stinging. Could he re-
ally be going crazy, though? The chief symptom of madness, he
had read somewhere once, is the absolute conviction that you're
completely sane. So if he thought he was insane, then he was re-
51


form he joined up with a group of fellows from the first car. They
asked him why he'd been hiding himself away. He answered that
he was finishing up his French homework for his first class this
morning. He could feel himself reddening as he said this. He had
always been a terrible liar. He had so little confidence in his own
lies that he was sure everybody saw through them even before
they were out of his mouth.
With the rest of the fellows he walked up the hill to school.
They straggled along, joking, wrestling a little, kidding around as
usual. It was hard for him to hold his pace down to theirs. He
wanted to run all the way. If he could see Johnnie before school
began, so that he wouldn't have this suspense on his mind all day.
When they finally arrived at school – a sprawling two-story
building in gray stone, with turrets and moats and little gar-
goyles, and trees and lawns all around – there were only ten
minutes to class. Barry put his books away in the locker room and
looked around for Johnnie, but there was no sign of him. Suppose
he was sick or something and wasn't coming to school today. The
idea would have to wait till tomorrow then. But how could he
wait another day? If he had to wait any longer, it would abso-
lutely kill –
Well, he couldn't hang around the lockers any more. He went
off to French class. Johnnie would be in German across the hall.
If Barry got out of the room quick enough at the end of the pe-
riod, he could catch Johnnie in the hall.
The buzzer rang, and Barry was already halfway to his feet.
“Monsieur Barry Morris,” said Mademoiselle Fontaine, “will
you come to the desk, if you please. I wish to speak to you."
Barry shuffled up to the desk and stood before Mademoiselle
Fontaine.
"I will keep you only one moment, Monsieur Morris.” She
rapped out the words, very businesslike. She was the most busi-
nesslike woman Barry had ever known, with her trim sensible
53


suits, her grayish hair in a tight bun at the back of her head, her
square rimless eyeglasses. “Last night I have read your essay on
Le Tartuffe of Molière. I compliment you, Monsieur Morris. You
have done very well. You have the ideas in your head. And you
have the sense of humor. Your comparison of the pompous old fa-
ther to certain types that one finds in the classrooms of the Amer-
ican high school, this has pleased me extremely.” Her sharp
brownish face puckered up in a smile. Businesslike as always, but
still a smile.
Barry smiled back and said, “Thank you, Mademoiselle." He
darted a glance at the door.
“Also, the essay is very well organized. Très bien organisé. I am
not in accord with your remark about the similarity of the comedy
of Molière to your American Marx Brothers. This, it seems to me,
is perhaps a little too clever, too facile. It is, as you say, a little
bit of the 'wise guy.' But it is lively at any rate, and this one ap-
preciates.”
She went on and on. At any other time Barry would have
been swelling with pride and blushing with modesty. But now
he was listening to the big clock on the wall ticking away the
minutes.
"In conclusion, I must give you one small word of caution.
You have the excellent taste and intelligence, most remarkable in
one of your years, but you must be more careful with the French.
The grammar and spelling which you employ - épouvantable!
And my friend, the French word patrie is feminine, not masculine.
La patrie. La. La.”
“Yes, I'll remember.” Barry took a step away from the desk.
"Eh bien, you have your next class. I am most pleased with
you.” She gave a brisk nod. “Now you go."
He was across the room and out to the hall in a couple of sec-
onds. But the German classroom was deserted. And there was no
time to go looking for Johnnie, because he had only a few min-
54


utes to get to math. He would have to wait till lunch, he would
talk to Johnnie in the free period after lunch.
He got through the morning, and at twelve-thirty he was in the
dining room. From his regular place he peered around. Johnnie's
place at the D-through-F table was empty. He was absent from
school today. Another whole day of this waiting –
His heart gave a jump. Johnnie was coming into the dining
room. He was out of breath and grinning sheepishly, as, if the
whole school was watching his late arrival. But the grin was only
partly embarrassment. The other part was good-natured amuse-
ment at his own expense. Johnnie was such a good-natured, easy-
going person. He got along with everybody because he liked ev-
erybody, and nothing particularly bothered him or upset him.
It was his interest in rocks and science that made him a good
friend of Barry. But where Barry sometimes felt that this inter-
est was the only thing in his own life, Johnnie had lots of other in-
terests too.
As he dashed by Barry's table, Johnnie gave him a quick wave
and a smile. “I'll see you after lunch,” Barry called out to him, and
Johnnie had just time to nod.
Barry gulped down his food. He gave only half of his attention
to the conversation going on around him. Everybody was excited
about a robbery which had happened in the school last night.
Somebody had forced one of the doors and gone right up to Mr.
Thorley's office, Mr. Thorley was the principal, and broken in. The
funniest part was what they had stolen. Mr. Thorley was a great
pipe smoker. Whenever you saw him walking through the halls,
or standing up before assembly - or if, by some bad luck, you had
to visit him in his office – he was always puffing away on a pipe,
and a different pipe every time. He had a whole collection of
them, over a dozen of them, up in his office. And it was this col-
lection of pipes that the thief had stolen.
Everybody thought it was a wonderful joke. The girls at Bar-
55


ry's table giggled over it. The boys outlined their solutions to the
mystery. One thing everybody agreed about. The thief had to be
somebody who wasn't interested in ordinary robbery – because
how much money could you get for a dozen old pipes? – but who
just thought it would be a great trick to play on old Thorley. It
all pointed to somebody in the school, one of the students proba-
bly. Maybe somebody at the table right now.
"Come clean, Barry," cried Victor Loving, who had a reputa-
tion for being very sarcastic. “You're guilty as hell, so you might as
well stop holding out on us.”
Everybody laughed, so Barry laughed too.
After lunch he went out to the hall to wait for Johnnie. The sec-
onds seemed to last longer than all the hours of the morning.
Suddenly a hand came down hard on his shoulder. “I want to
talk to you."
Barry whirled around. He was facing his cousin Jonathan. Big,
heavy-set, with a crewcut and small narrow eyes. Barry had read
somewhere that wide eyes were a sign of intelligence and imag-
ination while small narrow eyes were a sign of brute stupidity. He
believed it too, because of his cousin Jonathan. Only one thing he
hadn't been able to decide yet, whether his own eyes were wide
or narrow. He had spent many hours in front of his bedroom mir-
ror, puzzling this out.
“I'm busy now, I'll talk to you later," that's what Barry wanted
to say to Jonathan. He was afraid to, though. But why? His cousin
was big and strong all right, and he was a senior, a year older
than him. But Barry was pretty big himself, and he was stronger
than he used to think. He had found this out one day during gym
when Billy Rodgers tackled him from behind as a joke, and Barry
suddenly got madder than he had ever got in his whole life, and
he jumped on top of Billy and started pounding him with his fists
until Billy's yells brought him, dazed and weeping, to his senses.
What's more, his cousin Jonathan didn't really bully him. He was
56


hearty and cheerful with him, slapped him on the back a lot,
called him “my little cousin" in a friendly way.
Just the same, there was something frightening about him, and
about all his friends, and people like him in the world. They were
all so sure of themselves. They starred in football games. They
went out with any girl they wanted to. They never seemed to
worry for a minute that the girl would turn them down when they
asked her for a date. And Barry could imagine what they thought
about people like him. He could hear them snickering among
themselves when they caught sight of him.
“How's my little cousin today?” Jonathan was saying. “Looking
a little pale. Why don't you get out in the sun, get a little exercise
once in a while?”
"I'm all right. I'm sort of in a hurry just now.”
Jonathan laughed and tightened his grip on Barry's shoulder.
“Big hurry. You were just standing here, mooning about some-
thing. Dreaming about a beautiful sexy rock, I'll bet.”
Jonathan laughed loudly at his own joke. Behind his back Barry
could see three of Jonathan's friends waiting for him. There was
Mike Fuller, the fullback on the football team. Tall and lumber-
ing, always needing a shave and a haircut. He was supposed to be
a big lady-killer. An ugly guy like him. Sometimes Barry won-
dered if he'd ever be able to figure out what the world wanted of
you. And there was Norman Blackstone, the president of the Stu-
dent Council. He was tall too, and he wore black horn-rimmed
glasses, but somehow they didn't make him look mousey and stu-
dious. And in between those two, with a big grin on his face, was
Paul King. Shorter than the others, thin, fair hair, a smooth face,
a contrast to the big burly athletes around him. He was an ath-
lete too, though, he was the first junior who had ever been made
captain of the basketball team. And he was a big shot in the Dra-
matics Club, and everybody said he was bound to be elected pres-
ident of the Student Council next year. He was in Barry's class,
57


"What do you mean, not going? Aunt Muriel said you were
going."
"Well, I may have something else on. I mean – I'll call you
after I get home tonight.”
Jonathan shrugged. "Okay, suit yourself. Only don't forget to
let me know.” He moved back to his three friends, and the four
of them ambled down the hall together. Barry distinctly heard
loud laughter break out of them.
Then, suddenly, it rushed back to him, the reason he was stand-
ing here like this. He turned quickly to the dining room door. The
dining room was empty. Johnnie Dykeman was gone, and Barry
hadn't even noticed him go.
For the next half hour he made the rounds of all the places
where Johnnie might be during free period. He went to the lawn
in back, where groups of fellows and girls were sitting on the
grass laughing and arguing. He went to the baseball field, behind
the gym. He went up to the library and down to the machine
shop. Johnnie might be finishing up the new case for his rock col-
lection. But he wasn't in any of those places. The warning bell
sounded for the end of free period. Now he wouldn't be seeing
Johnnie again till gym, the last period of the day. And by that
time Johnnie might have arranged to ride home in the subway
with somebody, and Barry wouldn't be able to get him alone.
And then, as he was walking down the hall to English, Johnnie
suddenly appeared around the corner, right in front of him.
“I've been looking all over for you,” Barry practically shouted.
"I've been around,” Johnnie said.
“Do you want to go home with me after school? There's some-
thing I'd like to tell you."
“Sure,” Johnnie said, cheerfully, without any curiosity. “Meet
you at your locker after gym. Got to hurry now.”
He was gone, around another corner.
Barry stood still for a moment. He wondered how he was ever
59


going to make it till after gym. He really thought the suspense
would kill him.
They walked down the hill together. Barry had purposely de-
layed in leaving school so that nobody would be around to inter-
fere with their talk.
The day was bright, and the hill was green and smelled of new
grass. All around were faint soothing noises – kids laughing, birds
chirping, the tinkle of the Good Humor man's bell. It was the kind
of day that usually lifted Barry's spirits.
Johnnie broke off a thin green branch from a bush, stripped it,
and used it as a switch to snap away the tops of dandelions. But
he gave only part of his mind to this. Most of his mind was de-
voted to his favorite occupation, chattering.
He chattered about Herr Eisenschloss, his German teacher.
Whenever somebody conjugated a verb badly, Herr Eisenschloss
would throw up his arms and shout, “Himmel! This makes not
the German! This the pig Latin makes!” He chattered about the
school dietician, Mrs. Mayberry, who planned all the lunches. He
wanted to know why Mrs. Mayberry couldn't get any other idea
into her head except Spanish omelette and brown betty. He chat-
tered about the baseball team's chances for winning the game on
Monday.
Barry interrupted him finally. "There isn't anything in school
that you can't do, is there?"
"How do you mean?”
“I mean – most people, if they know about sports and things,
then they're not so good in their classes. And if they're pretty good
in their classes, like me, for instance, they're just a mess when it
comes to sports. They can't play anything. They can't even throw a
ball right.”
“You'd be all right at sports if you made up your mind to it.
60


Actually you've got more muscles than some of the fellows on the
football team.”
"No, I don't. I've got fat not muscles. Besides, I'm scared. When
it comes to standing in front of somebody and tackling him - But
that's what I mean. You're good at just about everything. And ev-
erybody likes you. Girls too. You can talk to people without any
trouble.”
“What's so wonderful about talking to people?”
“I've never been able to do it myself. I was reading about it in
this book my mother has. There are two kinds of people, extro-
verts and introverts. An introvert is like me, he's more comforta-
ble by himself, he has trouble getting along with other people.
And an extrovert is like you. You can get along with anybody.
Even with introverts.”
Johnnie made an offhand slash at a bush. “I can think of people
I can't get along with. Like that old Mr. Eisenschloss."
Barry let a moment go by. Then he went on, “The thing about
extroverts and introverts, they sort of depend on each other. I
mean, there are things extroverts can't get from other extroverts,
they can only get them from introverts. Do you see? It's like - a
prince and his slave, for instance.”
They were halfway down the hill now, and they had to stop for
a traffic light. A stretch of road cut through the park here, and the
cars always came whizzing through at top speed.
"I don't get you,” Johnnie said. “What's it have to do with
princes and slaves?"
"Don't you see? You take a prince. He wouldn't really feel like
a prince if he didn't have a slave to bow down before him, and do
his bidding, and depend on him for protection, and — be his slave
and all.”
The traffic light changed, and they hurried across the road.
Johnnie laughed. “I don't think it would be much fun for the
slave.”
61


Barry didn't laugh. “That's where you're wrong, though. You
take the slave. There's nothing he wants more than to do what the
prince tells him to and devote himself to the prince. And if the
prince is in trouble, the slave is ready to save his life, and even
risk his own life doing it, because it's all for the prince.”
“What's so good about that? I'd still rather be the prince than
the slave any day."
"Well, you could be,” Barry said. “If you wanted to see what
it's like, for instance, to be a prince – like a game, for instance -
well, I'd be willing to play it with you. I mean, I'd take the part of
the slave.”
The switch in Johnnie's hand scraped against the sidewalk. “It
sounds like a kid's game to me.”
"It doesn't have to be. We could think up dialogue. As if we
were in a play. Things for the prince to say, and things for the
slave to say."
“I was never very good at dramatics,” Johnnie said.
“Come on, why not?” Barry's hand was on Johnnie's arm, they
had stopped walking. “It'll be fun, we'll try it now."
“No, I don't want to, Barry,” Johnnie said, looking down at
the sidewalk. “It's kind of crazy.” Abruptly he started walking
again.
Barry walked too. He could feel his face turning red and his
heart beating faster. Had he given himself away? Was his secret
out now, so that he would never be able to look anybody in the
face again? No, he mustn't get into a panic, he mustn't let Johnnie
see him like that. He began to laugh and talk fast. “Yes, it is a
crazy game, isn't it? The reason I brought it up, it's in this book
I'm reading, this novel that my mother has. There's this bunch of
kids in it who like to play this game, and when I read it I said to
myself, Why would anybody get any fun out of this? So I wanted
to see if somebody else felt the same as me. Listen, talking about
62


books, did you finish the second act of Macbeth yet? I heard Mr.
Lefcourt was going to give us a quiz on it tomorrow – ”
This was a subject that always got a reaction from Johnnie -
how hard it was to read poetry, and what was the good of it any-
way? With relief Barry watched him react to it now, just as ea-
gerly as ever. Then they reached the subway station, and half a
dozen fellows were waiting for the train, so Barry didn't have to
keep talking any more.
The train came, and Barry piled into it with the others, and all
the way downtown the clatter of its wheels kept pace with his
thoughts. Crazy, that's just what it was. He knew that it was. Why
should he take such risks for such a crazy thing? For a habit,
nothing but a habit, something left over from when he was a kid.
It didn't make sense, working himself up, getting himself all ex-
cited and unhappy, over something that couldn't ever happen to
him anyway, because there wasn't anybody else in the world as
crazy as he was.
When he stepped into the apartment later on, Mother was wait-
ing for him. She started in before he could say a word. “Did Jon-
athan speak to you at school today? I hope you've decided to be
sensible and behave like a normal boy. I called up the agent and
canceled your concert ticket, so there's nothing to keep you from
that dance. You're sixteen years old now, and you have to start
acting like a normal – ”
Barry broke in on her, not caring about the tears in his eyes.
"I'm going to the dance, you don't have to talk any morel And
you know why I'm going? Because I'll hate it! Because I'll have an
awful time! And I don't care, do you know that? It doesn't matter
what I do!”
While she stared after him, he rushed off to his room.


IV
WHEN SHE finally heard the front door open, Ellen King
switched on her bed light and looked at her watch. Almost three
o'clock in the morning. All she hoped was that he wouldn't make
any noise going up the stairs. It would be a fine thing if he woke
up Mother!
He was quiet enough, though. Probably he had taken off his
shoes. He seemed to know all the tricks. As if he had a great deal
of experience at this sort of thing.
She heard him tiptoeing past the door of her room. Then she
heard the handle turning softly on his own door. A moment later,
a slight squeaking sound told her that he had stretched out on his
bed. Without even bothering to change into his pajamas. What
could it be that left him so exhausted?
She wondered if she ought to talk to him about it. This was the
third time it had happened since she had been home on her spring
vacation from college. Each time she had felt the same impulse to
march into his room and ask him point-blank what he was up to.
But the idea made her shudder a little. It was just the sort of thing
that she couldn't bear for people to do to her. All her life, ever
since she was a little girl, she just couldn't stand it when people
tried to cross-examine her about her personal affairs.
And yet – there had been things before now with Paul. He was
only nine years old when he ran away from home. He was only
ten years old when he played that terrible trick on that boy in the
park. Nothing since then, of course. That anybody knew about,
that is.
Immediately she felt ashamed of herself for this thought. He
64


was her kid brother. There had always been a kind of special
closeness between them. Maybe because there were so many years
separating them from their older sisters. And here she was, going
out of her way to think the worst of him. She wouldn't even give
him the benefit of the doubt.
Only, even the latest movies don't stay open till three o'clock in
the morning. And the papers were full of stories about teen-age
boys who wander the streets looking for excitement.
She got out of bed, slipped a robe around her, and started for
the door that connected her room to his. No more excuses or ra-
tionalizations, she told herself. Something was the matter with
him, and someone had to do something about it. Dad would just
laugh and dismiss the whole thing, and Mother would sigh a little
and end up by agreeing with him, so obviously it was up to her.
She reached the door, her hand was on the knob. Again she felt
the shudder inside of her. She lowered her hand. No, you can't
butt into a person's privacy. The world was full of well-meaning
busybodies trying to run your life for you. People should leave
other people alone.
She went back to her bed, moving on tiptoe, making as little
noise as possible.
When she got down to breakfast next morning, he was gone al-
ready. It was Friday, and he had school. She dawdled over her
coffee, until Mother and Dad came to the table.
They were in the middle of a small argument, and they contin-
ued it through the orange juice. It had to do with some party that
they had been invited to, and Mother had accepted the invitation,
and now Dad refused to go, because somebody named Iris Palmer
was going to be there. This upset Mother a good deal. “Just be-
cause Iris said something you didn't like at a dinner party ten
years ago. She was only joking, she didn't mean anything by it, but
you have to hold a grudge. And I'm the one who suffers the hu-
miliation for it!”


Dad gave a laugh, but there was an edge of irritation to it.
“You know what I think of that Palmer female. You should've
made sure she wasn't going to be there before you said we'd go.
Now I'm getting pretty damn sick of this whole discussion. You
can go to that party alone if you want to, but once and for all I'm
not going with you.” He finished off his orange juice in one gulp.
"I don't know why you have to hold so many grudges,” Mother
said. “I just can't keep track of them all any more.” After a few
more sighs and murmurs, she stopped talking.
Ellen sat through this without a word. She had long ago learned
the trick of deadening herself to these arguments. She didn't let
them upset her and hurt her any more as they used to do when
she was younger. She waited a few seconds now, then spoke the
words she had been planning all morning.
“There's something I wanted to ask you. Would you look up a
minute, it's very important."
They both looked up at her.
Right away she was sorry she had begun so solemnly. She
didn't want to alarm them. She was only testing out her feelings
on them, trying to find out if this was all in her mind or not. She
smiled and made her voice more cheerful. "Well, maybe it isn't so
important. I just thought I ought to ask you, and if I'm wrong, I'll
be relieved to know it. It's Paul.”
Mother leaned forward. “What about Paul?”
“Well, I don't know really. The last few years, I get to see so
little of him. But you see him all the time, so that's why I'm asking
you."
“Asking us what?” Dad said. “You know, I haven't got all morn-
ing, I've got a business to get to.”
She spoke faster. "Well, I've been watching him all week, and
it seems to me - wouldn't you say he's been acting sort of funny
lately?"
CO


Mother widened her eyes. “What do you mean? I don't under-
stand.”
"I don't know, it's nothing I can put my finger on, it's just a
feeling. He isn't in some sort of trouble, is he?”
"Trouble!” Mother cried. “What trouble? Arthur, are you hid-
ing something from me? Is our baby in trouble?”
Already Ellen was beginning to wish she had kept her mouth
shut. “I didn't say he was in trouble, Mother. All I said was, the
way he's been acting lately, I was wondering – ”
“Yes! Yes, he has been acting funny lately,” Mother said. “So
quiet and secretive. He never tells us anything any more. He used
to be so close to us, but now it's as if he's a stranger. Arthur, he is
in trouble, that must be what it is!"
“For God's sake, Harriet,” Dad said, very sharp.
Mother broke off, turning her head uncertainly.
Dad turned to Ellen. “I don't have time to talk to you now, I'll
be late for the office. So I'll just tell you one thing, and I'll leave it
at that."
His eyes were steady, with a hardness to them which had never
failed to put her down when she was a little girl. In spite of her-
self, she could feel some of those old tremblings coming back to
her now.
"You're talking a lot of damn foolishness,” Dad said. “Paul isn't
acting funny. He isn't acting any different than he's ever acted.
He's a smart kid, and he knows how to stay out of trouble - you
can take my word on that.”
He stopped talking. He laughed. One of his genial smiles broke
through, but it was gone a moment later. His voice got a little
louder. “That wildness of his is over with. It was over with years
ago. It was never as bad as some people made out, anyway. So
I'd like to know why the hell you’re bringing it up again now. Are
you jealous of him or something?”


Ellen sat still. She knew what she ought to be telling them now.
She ought to be telling them, clear and unafraid, how he had
sneaked into the house at three o'clock this morning, how it wasn't
the first time either.
Dad was laughing at last. “I'm going now.” On his way out he
paused to give Ellen a pat on the cheek. “Sorry I had to talk to
you that way, baby. Suppose we forget the whole thing.”
He was gone, and now Mother was talking. “I'm sure your fa-
ther's right, dear. He knows Paul so much better than any of us.
I'm sure there can't be anything wrong." She shook her head back
and forth, then she began to eat her eggs slowly.
It isn't worth it, Ellen told herself. There's nothing the matter
really. Normal boyish restlessness. What good would it do to make
a big thing out of it?
She stood up. “Excuse me. I'm not hungry any more."
She hurried out of the dining room. It's his life, she told herself.
I've got no right to interfere. I've got my own problems, anyway.
Paul King was driven up to school every morning by his father's
chauffeur. "Why the hell not?” his father used to say. “A taxi gets
me down to my office in ten minutes, so it's no trouble for me. And
it won't hurt him if those young snobs up there get the idea that
his father isn't some piker who can't afford a decent car. At night,
when taxis are hard to find, the car and chauffeur pick me up, and
the kid goes home from school in the subway. That's a good ex-
perience for him too."
All summer Paul had worked on Dad to get this concession out
of him. He was passionately fond of driving a car. It was one of
the few things that completely satisfied him – the feel of his
hands gripping the wheel, his foot pressing down on the gas, the
breeze slapping against his face. It was especially good if he was
able to get up a little speed. There was something about speed
68


that lifted him out of things, straight up to the top of the world.
But he couldn't get his driver's license till next year, so his only
chance to take over the car was during these morning rides up to
school.
As soon as they were out of the midtown traffic, into the wide
roads up in the Riverdale section, he would ask Carl, the chauf-
feur, to give him the wheel. Carl was a stiff frozen-faced German
who could get pretty stubborn and antagonistic underneath his
politeness. Almost always he raised objections. Paul was not of
age, it was against the law, the policeman would say that Carl was
responsible. Well, Paul guessed that he knew how to handle any
dumb German chauffeur. He had an answer to every one of the
objections – he was a better driver than plenty of people who
were of age, nothing was against the law until they caught you at
it, and even if a policeman did show up, Dad could fix it so that
Carl wouldn't get into trouble. Sometimes Carl was in a particu-
larly stubborn mood, and would shake his head and mutter, “If
your father finds out what I do, I lose my job.” Then Paul simply
smiled and remarked in an offhand voice, “There's more than one
way of losing a job, you know. For instance, suppose my father
found out about that bottle of bourbon you keep in the glove
compartment – ” Carl would tighten his lips and narrow his eyes,
but his objections usually stopped.
And so, on this Friday morning in spring, Paul was behind the
wheel of the big black Chrysler. They had turned off the street
with its trolley tracks and El pillars, they were starting up the
wide empty driveway that wound its way to the top of the hill.
Paul put his foot down harder on the gas. The car spurted ahead,
way over the speed limit. There was a grunt from Carl at Paul's
side. But Paul just ignored it, what did he care? The car was in
his hands, nobody was going to spoil it for him now. Especially
now, especially today, when he was still dizzy because of last
night.


Last night! Last night had been wonderful, but it was even bet-
ter this morning. Last night he was right in the middle of it, his
mind was all keyed up to listening for telltale noises, moving
softly on his feet, keeping a steady hand. The tension had been so
great that there was hardly time to notice the thrill and the joy of
it. Not till now, after a few hours of sleep, and all the danger be-
hind him.
He laughed out loud.
Carl turned and gave him a look.
Paul didn't bother to explain. His success, that's what was mak-
ing him laugh. God knows it had taken him long enough to work
up the courage for that success. How many nights did he tell him-
self it was now or never, and sneak out of the house, and take the
subway uptown -- and just wait around, staring at the windows,
until he suddenly turned on his heel and went home? What a cow-
ard he'd been! And then, when he finally took a deep breath and
went ahead and did it, what a cinch it had turned out to be! Noth-
ing to it at all, you only needed a little guts and a little brains.
And now it was over with, and everybody was fooled. He could
hardly wait till he got to school, so he could hear what people
were saying about it.
“We're there almost,” Carl was saying. "You better stop the car
now."
“Why not?” Paul stopped the car, and they changed seats. The
car started up again. A chuckle burst out of Paul. Carl gave
him another look, and this time Paul looked right back at him,
and kept looking, cool and steady, until Carl turned his eyes
away.
Wouldn't you like to know! thought Paul. Wouldn't it be a
stroke of luck for you, if you could find out a thing like this about
me! What a charge you'd get out of making trouble for me with
the boss! There was a funny sort of pleasure that Paul sometimes
got from thinking of all the people who hated him and would have
70


jumped at the chance to do him a bad turn. Only they never got
the chance. He was always much too smart for them.
In school it started right away, just before Latin, his first class.
Mike Fuller slipped into the seat next to him. “Hey, Paul, did you
hear about it? Old Thorley's pipes?"
"What about old Thorley's pipes? I must say, Fuller, you're
making even less sense than usual.”
A tone of contempt was what you had to use with an ox like
Mike Fuller. Stupid Mike Fuller, who was taking Latin over again
with the juniors because he hadn't been able to get through it the
year before. Sloppy Mike Fuller, whose whole position in life de-
pended on his talent for charging through a line of big bruisers
like himself, who started packs of idiot girls squealing by getting
himself kicked in the face. A perfect example of the adoration
which the average moron in the street gives to sheer beef. But in-
telligence can do what it wants with sheer beef any day.
“Didn't you hear?” Mike said. “They broke into school last
night, and took every one of old Thorley's pipes. He hasn't got a
pipe to smoke in!” Mike's laugh filled the room, and then sput-
tered off at a look from Mr. Dingle, who was bringing the class to
order.
Paul sneaked in one quick whisper. “Do they know who did it?”
“They don't know a thing,” Mike said. “The way I heard it, they
think it was somebody in school. But they don't — ”
"Excuse me, Mr. Fuller,” said Mr. Dingle. “Naturally we are all
very much interested in what you have to say. Unfortunately,
however, I am obliged to interrupt your stimulating discourse and
turn to the dull subject of Latin, since this is what I am paid to
do."
It was the same for the rest of the morning. The corridors were
buzzing with talk of “old Thorley's pipes.” Every small group that
he passed seemed to be whispering and snickering over it. In
study hall he sat next to Victor Loving, that tall skinny Victor
71


Loving who always looked as if he needed a clean shirt. A real
sarcastic tongue in his head too. Nobody liked him or would have
much to do with him. But Paul sat next to him purposely, because
Victor Loving was up on every bit of school gossip, none of the
dirt could be hidden from him.
"What's the story on old Thorley's pipes?” Paul asked in a low
voice.
A small smile curled Victor Loving's lips. "It's wonderful what
a popular sought-after young man I am all of a sudden. I guess it
must be my new spray deodorant.”
Sarcasm or no sarcasm, Victor Loving wasn't going to give up
the pleasure of telling his story. So pretty soon Paul was filled in
on all sorts of vivid details. He heard about old Thorley's loud in-
dignation when he discovered that his office door had been
forced; his solemn declaration that "the culprits were obviously
after my Coleridge first editions!"; his embarrassment in front of
the secretaries when he saw that nothing was missing but his col-
lection of mangy old pipes. A particularly nice touch was the gig-
gle that broke out of dignified little Miss Pepper, the principals
private secretary, and the dirty look which he gave her.
But the best time of all was at lunch. With no teacher’s lectures
or study hall rules to check the flow of conversation, it was noth-
ing but Thorley's pipes from the tomato juice to the raspberry
Jell-o. The big question, of course, was, Who did it? Paul asked
the question too and joined in on the speculations and analyses of
clues. He came up with two or three theories of his own. Very
logical and convincing, if he did say so himself. And all the time
he was thinking, If they knew what he knew, what would they
say? How would they look at him? What cries of amazement and
admiration there would be! It was a real temptation, to blurt it all
out in front of them, to give himself that one terrific moment and
to hell with what happened after that.
72


n was
Only that was stupid, of course. He wasn't going to do any-
thing as stupid as that.
After lunch, he joined up with some of his friends who were
seniors. There was Mike Fuller, and Jonathan Herbert, who was
almost as big and dumb as Mike. Gargantua and Bushman was
what Paul called them to himself. And a little later they ran into
Norman Blackstone, who was president of the Student Council. A
smart guy, as far as marks and classwork went. But even the smart-
est guys have a dumb streak in them somewhere, Paul had found
that out a long time ago. Something in them that you can take
hold of and make use of, if you're smart enough yourself to see
it. With Norman Blackstone it was the way he thought of himself
as some sort of young Abe Lincoln, F. D. Roosevelt, and Jesus
Christ, all rolled into one. The speeches he made at Student
Council meetings! And the solemn frown that came over his face
if you asked him to give you his “serious opinion” of some impor-
tant question. It didn't matter what the important question was
- the world political situation, or the smoking problem among the
seniors – Norman Blackstone was ready to give his serious opin-
ion at the drop of a hat. So if you happened to be the one who
dropped the hat for him, and if there happened to be something
you wanted out of him in return for the favor –
They spent the free period wandering around, discussing the
baseball team's prospects, making wisecracks at the girls, and re-
turning over and over again to the favorite subject of the day. As
they talked about it, Paul wondered for a moment if it would be
safe to tell his secret to these friends of his. After all, they were
his kind of person, Mike and Jonathan and Norman. They were
popular, sure of themselves, riding on top of things, not a collec-
tion of shakes and shivers like most of the little weaklings in his
own class. They would appreciate what he had done.
The moment passed. Paul felt a little annoyed at himself. What


was he using for brains anyway? Of all the people to tell his se-
cret to! Mike and Jonathan couldn't keep anything to themselves
no matter how hard they tried. And Norman Blackstone would
start thinking immediately what he could make out of the thing
personally. He would see himself addressing the Student Council
on the subject of Rowdyism in the Student Body, he would do al-
most anything to get a benevolent smile out of old Thorley. In the
end he would come to Paul and announce that he was sorry, there
was nothing personal about this, but he felt it was his “duty” –
Paul smiled. That was a close one, he told himself. Caught your-
self in time, though. Still using your head, thank God.
They had come to the entrance of the dining room. “Wait a sec-
ond, will you,” Jonathan said. “There's my cousin Barry, I have to
tell him something.” Paul gave a casual glance at the heavy dark
kid who was fidgeting in the doorway. He looked away again im-
mediately. Jonathan's cousin was of no interest to him, just an-
other nobody that he saw around and never talked to. Why did
he have that look on his face, as if he was sick or something?
" – basically it's a question of rowdyism,” Norman was saying.
"In my opinion we should call a special meeting of the Student
Council.”
Jonathan rejoined them. “What's Norm getting worked up
about? Looking for an excuse for another one of his council meet-
ings?”
"Now this is a serious matter," Norman said, but the other three
broke in with loud laughter, and they all ambled down the hall
together.
A few minutes later they separated, and Paul started for Eng-
lish. His slight annoyance was gone, he was feeling good again.
On the whole, he thought, it's turned out even better than I
hoped. There hasn't been such a stir in this place for years. And
in the future – He was already beginning to get ideas for the fu-


ture. Better and better ones too. Ideas that would make this last
one look crude and childish.
“Paul King, I've been looking for you.”
It was Miss Pepper, the principal's secretary. She came march-
ing up to him with her bright brisk manner. “I was going to leave
a note in your box, but now I can save the trouble. Mr. Thorley
wants to see you."
“Me – ş”
"Your last class is over at three. Please report to his office at
three-five exactly."
"I've got Dramatics Club this afternoon."
"You'll just have to be late for the Dramatics Club.”
“Yes, but – ” He wanted to ask her what it was all about, why
did Mr. Thorley want to see him? Then he thought he'd better
not. It wouldn't be smart to show too much curiosity.
“Hurry up now, free period is over,” said Miss Pepper, and she
went marching off.
Well, it's probably nothing at all, Paul told himself all through
his next class. Even if old Thorley had his suspicions, how could
he possibly prove them? All he could do was hope that Paul
would break down and confess. Well, he wasn't dealing with
some stupid little baby who started wetting his pants every time
a teacher blinked in his direction. Paul wasn't scared of any
teacher that lived, especially some dried-up conceited old prin-
cipal who made less money in a year than his father made in one
week.
Still, the afternoon moved awfully slowly. And there was one
idea that kept coming into his head. What would it be like if he
got caught? Would the police come to arrest him? Would he have
a trial in a courtroom? Would they send him to prison or reform
75


school or something? He could see his mother crying in a soft be-
wildered way. He could see the grim angry look on his father's
face – “God damn it, how could you be so dumb! A son of mine
– so dumb!” He could hear his friends and his teachers and the
servants whispering behind his back.
But what was prison like? He had seen plenty of movies about
juvenile delinquents and boys' reformatories. You went in a poor
mixed-up decent kid, and you came out a hardened criminal.
There was always some tough young hoodlum there who taught
you all sorts of tricks. He talked out of the side of his mouth, and
he never got his hair cut. He was always saying things like, "I'm
smart, kid, you stick wid me and we'll go places.”
To tell the truth, Paul had never believed much in this tough
young hoodlum. He supposed that prison would be just like ev-
erywhere else. You had to handle people carefully, and use your
brains, and make the right sort of impression. If he ever got to
prison, he thought, it wouldn't take him long to make things com-
fortable for himself.
He didn't want to go to prison! People would use it as an ex-
cuse to think they were better than he was. He didn't want to see
old Thorley at three o'clock.
“Oh, Paull Paul King!”
He was starting up the stairs to the music room when this high
piercing voice made him stop. This girl, this Trudy Dubois, was
running up to him. She was a silly girl who went in for tight
sweaters, and she had a reputation for being an easy mark on
dates. Paul had tested the reputation once or twice and found that
she lived up to it, and then he had lost interest.
“What do you want, Trudy?" He hardly bothered to hide his
impatience.
“I've got a message for you. From Judy Fox. She tried to get
you at your house this morning, but you were gone already. You
notice she isn't in school today.”
76


“All right, what's the message?" As a matter of fact he had been
too busy to notice that Judy Fox wasn't in school today.
“Well, she wants me to tell you that she's terribly sorry, but she
was feeling bad last night, and this morning the doctor came, and
he says she's got the measles. So she can't go with you to the
Teen-Agers' Frolic at the club tonight. She asked me to say how
awfully sorry she is, she's just brokenhearted, she's been looking
forward to it for weeks.”
He wasn't the least bit annoyed about Judy Fox's measles. A
year ago he might have been, when he was rushing her hard, and
she was being all coy and proper. She was considered to be the
prettiest girl in her class, it was a real triumph for him when he
started being seen with her regularly. Especially since she was
older than he was. But that was a year ago. With girls it was the
same as with everything else. It was all right for a while, then you
had to find something new. For the last two months he had been
trying to figure out some way to break up with her.
So he made his voice angry. “She was feeling bad last night, but
she couldn't get in touch with me then, could she? While there
was still time for me to make other plans.”
"She thought she'd be all right in the morning.”
“That's okay. I'm not going to pine away, I guess. Tell her I'm
sorry she has the measles, and I hope she gets better soon." He
turned and started up the stairs. He could hear Trudy calling after
him, but he didn't slow up.
He was feeling a little better now. It was a good thing to let off
steam, when you had something on your mind. He scowled
through music, made up nasty couplets about his teachers,
snapped at people when they spoke to him. He kept his anger go-
ing right on into math, his final class. Then the bell rang, it was
three o'clock.
Well, he wasn't going to crawl into Thorley's office like a jelly-
fish. Whatever might be going on inside of him, he wasn't going
77


to let that old bastard see it. They could yell at him, they could
torture him, they could throw him into dungeons.
He entered the outer office. For Miss Pepper's benefit he put
on his most charming, most ingratiating smile. "Well, I'm here.”
“So I see,” she said, in her dry tone. She was a cool old girl all
right, pretty sure of her ability to handle any of these insignificant
little students. But Paul could have twisted her around his little
finger if he had wanted to take the trouble. There weren't many
people who didn't like him if he wanted them to. One big smile at
the right moment.
“You just go right in,” Miss Pepper said. “He's waiting for you."
Why not? he thought. And he flashed the big smile at her right
now. “Thank you, Miss Pepper."
“You're quite welcome,” she said. Still putting on that dry,
unimpressed act. But he could tell that she was purring under-
neath her dignity. He could tell that she had a soft spot for him
already.
He walked past her into Thorley's office. As Thorley looked up
at him, Paul instantly changed his manner. He became humble,
subdued, deferential. Every line on his face spoke of the deep re-
spect he felt for his principal. “You wanted to see me, sir?"
“Ah yes – King – sit down, this won't take a minute.”
Thorley's voice didn't tell him a thing. Thorley invited people to
sit down with that good-humored, important voice no matter what
he wanted to say to them. A bawling out or a pat on the back,
there was always the same official-welcoming-committee manner.
"King -” Thorley leaned back and folded his hands together –
“I have a very grave matter to discuss with you."
Paul's face took on a suitably grave expression.
“It concerns — without beating around the bush – this disgrace-
ful act of vandalism which was committed here in my office last
night.”
Paul said, “Yes, sir.” But he didn't like the sound of his voice,
78


cessity of facing the consequences of his action. If he refuses to
follow your suggestion, then you would certainly be justified in
coming to me with the name. Having carried out your own re-
sponsibility in the matter, you could with a clear conscience leave
us on the faculty to deal – But I'm sure you follow my meaning.”
"Yes, sir, I follow it perfectly,” said Paul, without the trace of a
smile. “I'll certainly cooperate with you the same as everyone
else.”
Thorley beamed. “Thank you, King. I was sure you'd feel that
way. Now then, I have several more appointments, I'll be talking
to you again.”
They both got to their feet, and old Thorley actually came
around the desk and led Paul to the door. “Oh, one more thing.
You understand, of course, that this little talk of ours – we'll both
keep it in the strictest confidence, of course.”
"Of course, sir."
"Of course.” Thorley had a hand on Paul's shoulder, he held
him back another moment. “I dare say, King, this disgraceful in-
cident has given rise to considerable – merriment at my expense?"
He gave Paul no time to answer but went on with a quick laugh,
"Well, that's only to be expected. Being in charge of a complex
community such as ours, with the necessity for maintaining a cer-
tain dignity and remoteness – Well, I can certainly enjoy a good
joke with the next man. Yes. Good afternoon, King. Is my three-
fifteen appointment here, Miss Pepper?”
For the last ten minutes Paul had been holding it in. But now,
running down the stairs, hurrying along the hall to the Dramatics
Club, he let it come bursting out of him. He was free! Free, un-
suspected, nobody guessed a thing! Read all about it, another bril-
liant success for the sinister Boy Burglar of Riverdale! Who is he,
this daring ruthless figure, the mystery man of four continents?
Wouldn't they all like to know!
The Dramatics Club was trying to decide on the big spring
80


play, but his jokes nearly broke up the meeting several times. And
then, when that homely Carol Fleming, the chairman, tried to get
them back to serious business, he was ten times more serious than
anybody else. And in the end, just to amuse himself, just for the
hell of it, he forced through Shakespeare's Julius Caesar against
everybody's opposition.
Going home in the subway that night he started a friendly fight
with Mike Fuller. They wrestled on the floor of the car for ten
minutes. And when it was over, he was hardly tired out at all.
Then he was alone on the crosstown bus. It was twilight. The
shop windows were blinking on, people were rushing along the
streets. He stared out of the bus, gobbling up every sight, and still
there wasn't enough for him to see.
Then he was home. He tossed his books across his room from
the doorway. A perfect shot, right on the bed. A big hug and kiss
for Mother, till she gasped and laughed, “Darling, my perma-
nent!” A funny look on Ellen's face. What did he care? He kept up
a running chatter all through dinner. What happened at school,
the robbery, his talk with old Thorley. All sorts of funny details
about the way old Thorley clasped his hands and cleared his
throat. Dad roared at them, and came out with some of his fa-
vorite remarks about the incompetence and impracticality of peo-
ple who went in for teaching.
The coffee was brought in. Paul took a sip, opened his mouth to
start another story - and suddenly discovered that all the energy,
all the elation had gone out of him. Just a flat empty feeling in
their place. It always happened this way, he thought. In the twin-
kling of an eye – just when he was starting to enjoy himself.
“What's wrong with the coffee tonight?" he said. “Why does the
coffee in this house always have to taste like dishwater?"
“Tastes pretty good to me, boy," Dad said.
"I don't notice it, dear,” Mother said. “Maybe you're right,
though. Come to think of it – ”
81


“Lousy coffee,” Paul said. “Lousy food. Dull! Why does every-
thing have to be so goddamned dull?” He jumped up from his
chair and walked out of the room. In his own room he threw him-
self down on his bed. He tightened his fists, as if he was getting
ready for something. For what? What did he want? Did he want
to cry? Did he want to yell and pound the pillow? What the hell
did he want?
He wanted things to be good again. Like the good old days,
when he had the secret club. He wanted the Assistant Grand Mo-
gul again, somebody you could tell things to, somebody you could
enjoy things with
"What's the matter with you anyway?"
He whirled around and sat up on the bed.
Ellen was in the room, looking down at him. “Why are you act-
ing this way? Going into tantrums like a little baby.”
With anybody else he would have snapped back immediately,
Mind your own business! Who's the baby, I'd like to know, mak-
ing a big deal out of nothing? But Ellen's cold look took the fight
out of him. Suddenly all he wanted was to drive that cold look
off her face. “I'm sorry," he said. "I just - I had a tough test in
school today.”
"You were feeling pretty good when you first came in.”
"Well, the strain caught up with me. You know how it is.”
She didn't answer this. After a while she said, “What is it, Paul?
What's on your mind lately?"
“Adolescence, I guess. You know what all the books say
about – ”
"Never mind the jokes. You don't have to make jokes with
me. If you don't want to talk to me, all you have to do is say
so."
They stared at each other for what seemed like a long time. It
was as if there was something they both wanted to say - the same
thing - but neither of them could find the way to say it.
82


He broke the silence at last, with a smile. "Listen, sister dear.
I'm fine. I've never been better in my life. I'm going out to a dance
tonight, and I'll have a wonderful time. I'm touched by your con-
cern – ” he was on his feet now, he went over to her and put an
arm around her shoulder — “but believe me, you don't have to
worry.”
He could feel her slowly relaxing. And then she looked up at
him and managed to smile too. “All right, brother dear, you go out
and enjoy yourself with the rest of the juvenile delinquents. But
before you leave this house you apologize to Mother and Dad.
Otherwise sister dear is going to give you a walloping, the way she
used to do when you were a lot smaller, though certainly not
more childish, than you are today.”
"I'll apologize,” Paul said, giving her a kiss on the cheek, “if
you promise to give me the walloping anyway."
An hour later he left the house, and climbed into the car next
to Carl. They drove in silence up to Mamaroneck. He didn't even
ask to take the wheel. He was calmer now, his anger was gone.
But he was still feeling restless, he still had that vague sense of
moving in the wrong direction, of going real fast without getting
any closer to what he wanted.
Well, maybe he would find some nice sweet innocent little thing
at the dance tonight, and she would help him forget his troubles.
The sweeter and more innocent, the better.
THE Spreading Chestnut Country Club was located in Mamaro-
neck, among those flowing hills and long vistas which seem to
have been created by God for the express purpose of providing
mankind with golf courses. The club building was white and
83


sprawling, with impressive colonial pillars in front and a view of
the eighteenth hole from the screened-in dining room in back. On
sunny days this view was a glittering picture postcard, in all
shades of green and white. At night the colors softened, became
misty and melancholy to suit the gentle spring breezes.
The club had just built a new open-air dance floor behind the
dining room. It had been paid for by five years of extra assess-
ments on the membership, and the inevitable questions were al-
ready being asked: How the devil had the House Committee man-
aged to expend so much time and money with such comparatively
insignificant results? Five years, thousands of dollars, and was this
all they could show for it? But no trace of this bitterness infected
the annual Teen-Agers' Frolic. It was the first important social
event to make use of the new dance floor, and everybody was de-
termined to be gay. Under a canopy of orange light, confetti
streamers, Japanese lanterns bobbing in the air, the dancers
moved, slow and solemn, or fast and frantic. The girls were
dressed in fluffy low-cut evening gowns, the boys were holding
their heads up stiffly over bow ties, shirt studs, and their fathers'
cuff links.
Around the square of light the spectators stood, their faces par-
tially shadowed - the intent calculating faces of the stag line, the
beaming indulgent faces of a handful of proud parents. And still
further from the center, shadowy figures, gray and purple, strolled
among the trees, two by two, with one head tilted down earnestly
toward the other head. Occasionally one of these shadow-couples
would come to a stop, and the heads would merge for a moment.
Off at the corner of the club building, in a small lighted circle
of its own, was the bar. Three colored men in white jackets stood
behind it, pouring, stirring, measuring, wielding shakers, slapping
down one order and moving right on without a break to the next
one. There was a steady crush of people, mostly boys, pushing up
to the counter, shouting till they got what they wanted, then being
84


elbowed away by the next in line. At the extreme corner Barry
Morris had taken over one small area for himself. There he had
planted himself, heavy and immovable, for almost an hour. No-
body tried to challenge him for his place.
He was starting on his fourth rye and ginger ale. How he hated
the stuff! He choked a little at every swallow. And the taste of the
ginger ale wasn't even covering up the taste of the whiskey any
more. But he forced himself to gulp down another mouthful. He
was going to do it no matter how much it disgusted him. He would
keep on drinking all night, until he was too sick to think, until the
whole world was whirling around him.
It was beginning to whirl right now. What he needed was more
air. Clear himself up a little, then he could make a fresh start. He
turned from the bar, and still holding his glass he started to push
through the crowd. It was no effort at all, they seemed to melt
away in front of him. Then he was out on the lawn, he was steady-
ing himself against a tree. His stomach felt funny. Not used to
this. Going to be very sick. All right, fine, what could be better?
“What could be better?” His voice sounded funny. Thick. He
tried it again, louder. “What could be better? Get sick. That'll
show them.” Just as funny. Seemed to put off the sickness, though.
Only temporary. The sickness was coming back, nothing could
stop it. Maybe if he shouted loud enough. “That'll show them!
Normal! I am normal!” Girl over there, staring at him. Then she
was gone, boy friend pulled her away. Why was his head going
around so fast? Not just one direction, every direction all at once.
He felt himself falling, then something hard under his arm. Tree
again? No, it wasn't.
“Take it easy, kid."
He looked up. Face, swinging back and forth in front of his
eyes. Like those awful Japanese lanterns. Familiar face, strong
hand under his arm. Light hair, thin lips, eyes laughing at him. A
shiver went through him, his head was almost clear for a second.
85


Could it really be? After all his waiting? No, no, wasn't that at all,
things were whirling again, all mixed up again.
“Come on, we better get you to the john. Now hold it in just a
little longer, for God's sake.”
Hand on his arm, helping him along. “Yes - I'm holding it in
- just a little longer – ”
Lights blinking, plush chairs, long corridor. How much longer,
how much longer? King. That was who it was. Paul King. Never
said five words to me before. Goes around with the seniors. No
longer, just can't do it.
“Just can't do it – ”
"Sure you can. We're almost there now.”
“Yes, I can. If you say so. Anything you tell me – ”
In the bar of the West Side Chess and Checkers Club, Henry
Morris and Charlie Clifford sat at a corner table and drank high-
balls. Henry was still nursing along his first one while Charlie was
finishing up his third. Charlie's drinking had increased lately, and
Henry couldn't help wondering if this was such a good thing for
a doctor. It didn't seem to bother Charlie, though. His mind
seemed to be as clear as ever. He was never at a loss for cynical
wisecracks. His reputation as a heart man was growing all the
time.
“Patients!” Charlie was saying. "Why is it that they always have
to do things backwards? A hundred times a day my time is wasted
by hysterical females whose hearts are as sound as the U.S. Treas-
ury, every one of them insisting she's a bundle of murmurs and
thromboses, and she's going to drop dead on the street if I don't
load her up with pills. And meanwhile, what about her husband?
He's got a heart that is liable to run down at a moment's notice.
Who wouldn't, after thirty years with that woman? But will he
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take my advice and give himself a good long vacation for once in
his life? Oh no, that would be too easy! He just grunts and makes
insulting remarks about doctors, and early next morning he's
down at his office again, driving himself into his grave. He just
can't wait to pop off so that his widow can collect his insurance
money and spend it annoying half the expensive specialists in the
country until she passes away peacefully in her bed at the age of
ninety-three!” He signaled the waiter for another drink. “Tell me,
Henry, don't you ever get sick and tired of this world full of Mon-
goloid idiots?"
"Well, I see what you mean, Charlie. Only – there's something
else I'd like to talk to you about just now. Sort of serious.”
"Shoot. You know there's nothing I like better than giving free
advice. As long as it isn't about your heart, of course. In that case,
I'll have to charge my usual fee.”
“No, it's nothing to do with my health. I couldn't be healthier.
It's – well, it's about my boy. I'm worried about him.”
"Why are you worried? He's a good kid, from all you've told me.
Gets good marks at school. Doesn't make a lot of racket. If you ask
me, these modern kids have a lot more brains than we had when
we were their age. Now if someone would only teach them to use
them –”
“Yes, he's a fine boy, there's no doubt of that, I don't have any
complaints about him. What it is - Charlie, I think maybe the boy
isn't very happy at home.”
"Now why shouldn't he be happy at home? Where do you get
some of these ideas of yours? You give him everything he wants,
don't you? And if you've still got that same cook you had five years
ago, at your anniversary party - well, any time your boy wants to
move into my hotel, and let me take his place at your dinner
table - "
"Yes, but it's not that, Henry. We give him things – but it's the
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way he acts sometimes. He looks so worried and tired sometimes.
He looks as if he's carrying the whole weight of the world on his
shoulders.”
“So what's wrong with that? All kids that age are the same. Big
idealists. They think they can personally cure all the troubles of
the world. Time enough later on for them to find out how wrong
they are.”
“Yes, but - you see, I've been wondering if it really is the same
with Barry as it is with other boys his age. I mean – there's his
mother, you see. I mean, she knows so much about psychology
and adolescence and so on. But sometimes I wonder if I don't
leave things up to her too much — ".
“Waiter!” Charlie said. “I'm finished with this an hour ago, how
about a refill? Now you're talking a lot of nonsense, Henry. Natu-
rally a mother spends more time over her kid than a father does.
He's out winning the bread, don't forget. But that doesn't mean
you don't exercise a great influence on the boy. I've known plenty
of fathers in my day, and believe me, if you think you're one of
the bad ones – ”
“Yes, but – You're sure about this, Charlie? You're sure the boy
is happy, and there's nothing for me to worry about?"
“I'm positive of it. At the age of sixteen every kid thinks he's
got problems. By the time he's seventeen he's forgotten all about
them, he's busy with a whole new set.”
"You're not just trying to put me in a good mood or something?"
“Would I go out of my way to put anybody in a good mood?
You've got nothing to worry about, I give you my personal guar-
antee.”
Henry looked at his friend hard, but Charlie was busy with his
glass, his eyes were turned away. After a moment Henry sighed
and took a sip from his own glass.


"Are you feeling better now?” Paul asked.
A faint “Yes” came from the figure kneeling in front of the toilet
"Well, there's no hurry. Don't get up till you're sure it's all
right.” Paul took a step back and lit a cigarette. That was funny,
he was usually pretty careful who saw him smoking. His father
didn't want him to do it, so Paul did it only in privacy or in front
of his closest friends.
He took a slow puff and began to study the new acquaintance
at his feet. A fairly miserable-looking acquaintance at the mo-
ment. Face slightly green, teeth chattering, shoulders shaking.
Nobody looks his best, God knows, when he's on his knees on a
bathroom floor, vomiting into the toilet. Especially a big awk-
ward kid like this.
And Paul couldn't help smiling a little. Now why was he play-
ing the Good Samaritan like this anyway? It wasn't exactly the
kind of entertainment he had planned for this evening. He had
been at the dance for a couple of hours, and time hadn't been
hanging heavy on his hands. There was a wide choice of unac-
companied girls, who had come with parents or older in-laws.
And he had done a lot of cutting in on girls with dates. He had
been amusing himself with one of his favorite casual party pas-
times, trying to talk them into deserting their escorts and slipping
off with him for the rest of the night. Once or twice he had come
pretty close to success. He could tell from the brightening of
the girl's eyes, the slight parting of her lips. All he had to do
was press his advantage a little further. But tonight he hadn't
cared to go any further. And pretty soon he had got tired of the
game.
Then he saw this kid leaning against a tree, in the shadows
around the dance floor. He saw him swaying, and he came up to
break his fall. Just another kid. Jonathan Herbert's cousin. Paul
wasn't even sure of his name. Barry or Larry something. He had
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seen him earlier today, outside the dining hall, there had been a
funny strained look on his face.
The kid's head was raised, he was speaking in a weak voice. “I
think I can get up now.”
"Sure you can. Not exactly used to the stuff, are you?"
“Yes, I – No, I guess I'm not.”
Paul put a hand under his arm and helped him to his feet. He
was still a little shaky, and there wasn't much color in his face.
"The best thing for you right now is a little fresh air.”
They went out of the washroom and started down the corridor
together. The sound of the band, loud and jumpy, was in their
ears again.
The kid stopped short. “If you don't mind – maybe, until I'm
all better, if I could stay away from the crowd.”
“Good idea. We'll go out to the front porch."
They turned away from the music and headed for the front en-
trance, with its tall white pillars. The light was bright over the
doorway, and Paul could see a touch of color coming into the
kid's cheeks. They moved down to the end of the porch where
the light was dim. They leaned against the railing and looked out
at the driveway with its rows of poplars.
“You don't have to stay here with me,” the kid said. “You prob-
ably want to get back to the dance."
"Nobody's waiting for me at the dance. I might as well hang
around till you're okay."
He heard a small intake of breath at his side. A sound of relief?
The kid was glad that he wasn't going to be alone?
“I was getting bored with this affair anyway,” Paul said.
The music from the dance floor sounded faintly through the
cool air. Something soft and sentimental was being played now,
with that babyish whine that Paul heard in most of the music he
danced to.
He took out his cigarettes and offered one.
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"No, thank you. I don't smoke.”
Paul shrugged and lit his cigarette.
"As a matter of fact – ” The kid gave a sudden laugh, a little
nervous. “I've never had the courage to try. Smoking, I mean."
Paul looked at him curiously. "Why do you need courage?"
"I don't know. You don't, I guess. Its' just - I always think I'll
get sick from it, and start coughing or something. I don't like
the taste of it anyway.”
"Nobody does at first. You have to take a chance. Otherwise
you don't get any fun out of things.”
"Well, I don't get much fun out of things, I guess.” A moment
later the kid added quickly, “I mean, I have plenty of fun, I've
got lots of friends and all. I just get into moods sometimes. I'm no
different from anybody else really.” He turned his head away.
"You could have enough courage to do anything," Paul said.
"All you need is somebody to show you how." His voice was a lit-
tle absent and mechanical. He puffed his cigarette and gazed out
at the driveway again.
For a long time they were silent, with only the muffled sound of
the music in the distance.
Paul dropped his cigarette and ground it out under his shoe.
“We might as well go back now.” He took a step along the porch,
then realized he wasn't being followed. “Aren't you coming?"
The heavy figure was still, the face blurred by the shadows. “I
don't think I will."
“Are you still feeling sick?"
"I'm feeling fine. I was feeling fine before, when we left the
washroom.” The voice trembled a little. “I don't want to go back
there. The way I acted in front of people. You go ahead, and
thanks.”
Paul didn't move. “What are you going to do?”
"I'll call a cab and go back to the city.”
For just a second Paul hesitated. When he finally spoke, it was
91


as if he had known all along, quite naturally and easily, what he
was going to say. “My car is waiting. My father's car and chauf-
feur, that is. He'll drive us back.”
“But it's early yet. You don't want to leave the dance."
"I guess I can decide for myself what I want to do.”
"But – ”
“You certainly make life complicated for yourself, don't you?"
Paul laughed, then gestured in the direction of the driveway.
"Follow me."
He walked down the porch steps and along the driveway, con-
scious of the heavy uncertain footsteps behind him. Just before
they reached the lighted parking space, the footsteps quickened
and the kid was by his side.
“Wait - listen – ”
They stopped again. There was a change in the face Paul was
looking into. There was color in it now, a smile twitched at the
corners of the mouth. “You should know who you're giving a lift
to, shouldn't you? I'm Barry Morris.” He held out his hand.
"I've seen you around,” Paul said. “I'm Paul King."
“Yes.” A flush came into Barry Morris's face. “I know who you
are, of course."
Paul looked at him with an extra little jump of interest. They
shook hands quickly.
The room was dark. Harriet King could hear her husband's
breathing from the next bed. She couldn't be sure if he was
asleep or not. If he was, he would be awfully annoyed if she
woke him up. And anyway, there was no reason why she couldn't
wait till morning to speak to him.
Another three minutes went by, and then she spoke up, “Ar-
thur, are you asleep?" No answer. “Arthur, are you asleep?"
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She heard a low sigh come out of him. “Not now, anyway."
"I was just thinking, dear. That was a funny thing at dinner,
wasn't it?"
"What was funny at dinner? The way that cook of yours
never seems to remember how I like my steak? Sure, that was hi-
larious.”
"I mean, about Paul. Losing his temper like that.”
"Why shouldn't he lose his temper? He gets it from his old
man. That struck you as funny, did it?"
"Well - I don't know. I was just thinking – Those things that
Ellen said this morning. That there's something the matter with
Paul. Acting funny lately and all.”
“What about it?”
She could hear the tenseness coming into his voice. She paused
for a moment, confused. Then she went on, "Well, I mean - do
you think there could be anything to it, dear? Ellen's quite an ob
servant girl.”
"She observed wrong this time. There's nothing to it."
“Yes, but she's been studying psychology at college, and -
"And I've been studying psychology all my life. How do you
think I ever got anywhere in business?”
“Yes, but – ”
"Drop it, Harriet. These college girls nowadays all get their
heads filled with a lot of crazy ideas. Am I supposed to run my
life by that? There's nothing the matter with our boy. He's a ter-
rific kid, a real leader. Everybody says so. Drop the subject, and
let me get some sleep."
“Yes – but Arthur, suppose we're wrong. Suppose there is
something that we don't know about — "
"Shut up!” he said, and even without seeing his face she could
tell how terribly angry he was. “I don't want to hear any more
about it!”
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Silence closed around them again. Harriet lay awake for an
hour after that. Her heart was beating fast. But she didn't say an-
other word.
Paul and Barry sat in the back of the car. Mostly they were si-
lent. Every once in a while Paul gave a direction to the chauffeur.
“Take the East Side Drive, Carl. Less traffic this time of night."
Barry was amazed at the cool confident tone Paul used. Barry
could never have used such a tone to his father's chauffeur. Even
when he was absolutely obliged to give the chauffeur an order, he
always had a guilty feeling about it.
As they turned off the East Side Drive in the city, Paul leaned
forward again. “I'm not going home yet, Carl. Drop us off at the
corner of Madison.” He turned to Barry. “There's a coffee shop
there. You could use a cup of coffee, couldn't you?”
Barry nodded. It seemed perfectly natural, the way the decision
had been taken out of his hands.
In front of the coffee shop Paul sent the car and chauffeur
away. Then they went through the glass doors and to a booth in
back. "Two coffees,” Paul said, when the waitress hovered over
them.
The waitress moved away. Paul laughed, and suddenly he
clapped his hands together. In that moment, as if in relief from
the silence and restraint of the car, an air of celebration was es-
tablished. The little booth was a banquet table, and Paul was in
charge of the festivities.
He took a breath and started talking.
Nobody had ever talked to Barry like this before. There were
plenty of talkers among his friends, and he had sat in on his share
of windy bull sessions, but the talk had never before been turned
so directly, so warmly on him. At first he just listened, with a
vague smile on his face. And then, after a while, in the spell of
94


the laughter and the sweeping gestures, he started talking back.
They talked about school. Paul had his opinion of all the
teachers, and an impersonation went with each opinion. Barry
agreed with most of these opinions, but disagreed with one or
two. Then Paul defended them, he brought out a string of rea-
sons, he turned Barry's answers into jokes, friendly but devastat-
ing, until Barry had to give in.
They talked about books. Paul was a tremendous reader. This
surprised Barry. He had always thought of Paul King as the ath-
letic type, the dumb nonreading type. But Paul had gone through
the widest variety of books, he had read a novel by Dostoevsky,
and a book about dreams by Sigmund Freud, and every single one
of the Ellery Queen stories. He had read books that Barry had
never heard of. Barry made a mental note of the titles, he would
take them out of the library first thing in the morning.
Then they talked about the dance tonight. Paul confessed his
contempt for such affairs. A lot of babies pretending to be grown-
ups, silly girls getting an innocent thrill out of playing around on
the edges of sex. Barry nodded in agreement, though this was the
first time any such idea had ever entered his head. The talk turned
to girls in general. Paul grew louder and more excited. He told
stories about himself which made Barry's eyes widen. If anybody
else had told him such stories, he probably would have felt ter-
ribly uncomfortable, even a little frightened. But the way Paul
told them, dashing them off sort of half intense and half joking,
they sounded just wonderful.
Then Paul trailed off into silence. More coffee was ordered.
Barry started the talk up again, softly now, hesitantly. “Things
come so easy for you,” he said. “Take girls. I watch them. I think
what it would be like. I don't know anything about them at all.
Except that I'm afraid.” He broke off, blushing. "I've never told
that to anybody before.”
Paul kept up the quiet tone. “I've told you things too. It's silly
95


a door. A dozen times I was sure I heard footsteps and I was go-
ing to be caught. But I didn't run, I didn't let it get me. When I
got into the office, I didn't know exactly what I was going to do
there. I hadn't figured that out yet. Then I saw that collection of
pipes, and I knew that was it. I stuffed my pockets with them, and
ran out of there, and I threw the pipes in a trash basket at the
subway. And nobody knows a thing, nobody suspects me for a
minute!”
He stopped talking. His breathing was coming fast. He and
Barry watched each other across the table.
Finally Barry said, “Weren't you awfully scared?"
Paul smiled, his manner became casual and easy again. “No
time to notice if I was scared. I wouldn't be scared to do it again,
I can tell you that.” He smiled in silence for a moment, then he
leaned forward and his voice grew solemn. “You promise you
won't tell anybody about this?"
Barry's eyes were wider than ever. His gaze never turned for a
moment from Paul's face. “I promise,” he said. “Anything you ask
me to do."
“We've got a pact then.”
They didn't have to shake hands on it. Barry simply nodded,
and his answer was almost a whisper. “We've got a pact.”
It was after one o'clock when they left the coffee shop and said
good night on the sidewalk in front. The city was silent as they
turned and moved off in opposite directions. Half an hour later
they were in their own rooms, less than ten blocks apart. It was a
long time before either of them could fall asleep.





IT WAS June, and school would be over in a week. The last days
of school are always full of a special excitement. For the senior
class this is a time of trying on caps and gowns, exchanging busi-
ness letters with deans and bursars, "facing the future” and “ac-
cepting the responsibilities of maturity” and “straightening out
the mess which we the older generation have made of the world.”
For the lower classes this is a time of taking tests, going to the fi-
nal play, observing an unaccustomed air of joviality in Mr. Thor-
ley, watching teachers unbend and tell jokes.
But nobody is quite as excited as the junior class. For they
know that, at the end of summer vacation, they will be the senior
class. They will be running things. They will be able to strut
through the halls, condescendingly accepting the awe of the lower
orders. As keenly as the present senior class may be looking for-
ward to straightening out the mess which the older generation
has made of the world, the junior class is looking forward even
more keenly to straightening out the mess which the senior class
has made of the school.
Barry Morris was feeling lighthearted along with everybody
else. A big load had just been lifted from him. He had finally man-
aged to get his own way about this summer vacation. In the past
Mother and Dad had sent him up to Camp Moheekee in Maine
for the summer. This was an expensive boys' camp on a lake, run
along “progressively psychological” lines – that is, if you didn't
want to play baseball, you didn't have to, you could work in the
101


arts-and-crafts shop instead. Barry had liked it well enough up
there - he wasn't the type of boy who got homesick. So Mother
signed him up for Camp Moheekee this year, the same as ever.
And then, in the middle of May, he told her he wanted to stay in
New York instead. He could get a part-time job with the Museum
of Natural History. They were looking for interested high-school
students to help catalogue the mineral collections.
He couldn't remember when he had ever seen Mother get so
upset over anything. For an hour she told him, in a dozen differ-
ent ways, how unreasonable he was being. She even came close
to betraying a touch of unreasonableness herself. Somehow it
seemed to be much harder these days for Mother to keep up that
calmness and coolness of hers and prevent other things from
peeping through. Anyway, Barry held out against all her logic, all
her talk about the healthy outdoor life, the importance of getting
along in the group community, the abnormality of poking around
among rocks at his age. He told her that he enjoyed poking
around among those rocks, and that was what he wanted to do
for the summer, and he wasn't going to camp no matter what she
said.
In the end, only three nights before the close of school, she gave
in. She put on her serenest smile and told him that his father and
she, having thought the matter over, agreed that the experience
of independence which this museum job would give him might
possibly outweigh its disadvantages. Therefore, they would grant
him their permission to remain in the city this summer, provided
he spent his week ends at the country club, where he could get
the benefit of fresh air, exercise, and the company of other young
people. “As long as this is what you really want to do,” she said,
and there was just a trace of perplexity in her voice. "Frankly, I
never imagined this rock business was so important to you."
The morning after this victory he used his first free period to
look for Paul and tell him the good news. He found him in the
102


school auditorium at a rehearsal of the final play, Julius Caesar.
Barry could sneak in only a minute or two of conversation with
him, because Paul was playing Marc Antony and he was needed
up on the stage most of the time.
"Well, it's all fixed,” Barry said. “They’re letting me stay in the
city."
He waited a little anxiously, until he saw a sign of enthusiasm
on Paul's face. Just a slight twitching of his lips under that casual
air, but it was enough to show Barry that he was pleased. “Didn't
I tell you?” Paul said. “All you had to do was hold on tight, don't
let them move you an inch. Make up your mind you won't give in,
and pretty soon they have to give in. That's how I've always
worked it.”
"Well, you were certainly right,” Barry said. “Only, I'll bet it
never takes you such a long time.”
“Practice, that's all it is.” Paul gave a wave of his hand. "And a
little bit of charm. Treat them to the right kind of smile, and
they'll fall all over themselves to do favors for you."
"That's the part I'll never learn, I guess. You have to be born
with that.”
Paul started to answer when a voice called out from the front
of the auditorium, “Marc Antony, wanted on stage!”
"See you later,” Paul said. And then, with a sudden smile,
"We'll have a great summer.”
Barry slipped into a seat in the back and watched the rehearsal
for a while. It was Pauls big scene, where he meets the conspira-
tors over Julius Caesar's body. He had all sorts of emotions in
this scene. He had to be grief-stricken for his dead master, full of
hate for the murderers, terribly crafty in pretending to approve of
what they had done. He certainly threw himself into these emo-
tions. His voice trembled with grief, he waved his arms and
turned red in the face with rage, and when he came to the crafty
part – well, nobody had ever been so crafty, so full of hypocritical
103


smiles and screwed-up eyebrows. It was the most wonderful act.
ing in the world. How could he do it? How could he stand up on
a stage in front of people and go through all those contortions
and never feel the least bit scared or self-conscious?
The bell rang, free period was over. As he slipped out of the
auditorium, Barry could hear Paul's voice bellowing after him:
Cry “Havoc," and let slip the dogs of war –
And so Barry started off on his first summer in New York since
he was seven. He worked hard at the museum, and the assistant
curator told him he had “a genuine scientific mind.” On Sundays
he went up to the country club with Mother and Dad, learned
how to play golf and how to drive the car, and let himself be
bored stiff by people like his cousin Jonathan, who displayed his
muscles and brought out his line of off-color jokes to a new girl
every week. The rest of the time, whenever he could, he was with
Paul. They got together nearly every night, sometimes having din-
ner at each other's homes, sometimes meeting somewhere after
dinner or driving somewhere in Paul's car. His father's car actu-
ally, but Paul had his junior license now, and he was allowed to
go driving whenever he liked.
Paul and he never did anything particularly unusual when they
met. Sometimes they went to the movies. They went to every-
thing – westerns, historical dramas, religious spectacles, senti-
mental little tales about a boy and his dog. They spent most of the
time popping chocolate-covered raisins into their mouths and
making wisecracks about the picture, to the annoyance of the peo-
ple sitting around them. Barry used to amuse himself like this
with Johnnie Dykeman – Johnnie could be especially hilarious at
the boy-and-dog pictures – but it had never been as much fun as
it was now, with Paul.
Sometimes they went to dances or parties. Paul always knew
where there was a dance or a party. They got a little drunk, and
104


maybe picked up a couple of girls and took them out in the car.
Or if the girls had come with other boys, sometimes they double-
dated them later on. Barry had always worried about the shyness
which he felt with girls, so the first time Paul suggested one of
these exploits he fidgeted and tried to get out of it. But Paul just
laughed and asked him what he was scared of. “They're human,
just like you,” Paul said.
“But I'm not really much of a ladies' man,” Barry said.
“Every man is a ladies' man. All you have to do is keep in mind
that they're ten times as anxious to impress you as you are to im-
press them. You're doing them a favor. Keep that in mind, and
you'll have a good time.”
When Barry still made excuses, Paul said, “Now listen, this is
what I want to do tonight, and you're not going to spoil things for
me. If you want to come along with me, okay. If you don't -
well, good-by.”
It was the first time Paul had ever showed annoyance at him.
He answered uncertainly, “All right, if that's how you feel,
Paul _
Paul's voice softened immediately. “I didn't say that was how I
felt. I want you to come along. But look, you have to stop making
such a big thing out of nothing. It's just a way of having a little
fun. It's like going to the movies, it doesn't mean anything. Come
on now – ” his hand was on Barry's shoulder – "leave it to me,
put yourself in my hands. You know what you told me once. Any-
thing I asked you to do.”
The shyness was as strong in Barry as ever. But some things are
stronger than shyness. “Well, if you say so.” A funny sense of re-
lief came over him, the way you feel when you lean back in the
water and let yourself be floated along.
After that there were lots of dances and parties, and lots of girls
in the car. Pretty soon Barry stopped feeling afraid of them. After
all, it was always the same thing, no different from what you ex-
am
lex-
105


pected, nothing more than a habit, and how can you be afraid of
a habit? You can be disgusted by it a little – but then, just be-
cause it's a habit, you don't have to think about it too much. Be-
sides, half the time, nothing really happened between the girl and
him. And things didn't happen so often between Paul and his girl
either, Barry was a little surprised to see. Not so often as Paul had
led him to suppose, anyway.
One thing never quite became a habit to him, though – the
craziness that sometimes took hold of Paul when he got behind
the wheel of his car. It happened generally when he was in one of
his moods. Yes, Paul got into moods, Barry found out about them
soon enough in the course of their friendship. They'd be going
along fine for an evening, with Barry quite sure they were having
a good time, and all of a sudden Paul's lips would tighten and his
eyes would narrow, and he would give one of his outbursts about
boredom. The sickening unbearable boredom! My God, it was
more than a person could stand! And his foot would squeeze
down on the gas, his hands would clench on the steering wheel,
the sharp jump of speed would bring a lump to Barry's throat.
“Paul – listen,” he would say. “Aren't you going a little too
fast?”.
But a quick laugh and another jump of speed would freeze him
to silence. He would just have to sit quietly, as the road ripped
under the car, until bit by bit Paul's mouth would relax and the
speed would begin to ebb away.
When it was over, he sometimes tried to tell Paul what this sort
of thing did to him. But the only answer he ever got was a laugh.
"You're a little baby, aren't you? Still a baby, after all.” And after
that, Paul would be in such high spirits, so full of jokes and plans,
that Barry couldn't keep himself from loosening up too. Before
long the whole episode in the car would fade out of his mind,
and he would be enjoying his friend's company as eagerly as ever.
There was one thing that mattered to him more than anything
106


else -- and it seemed to matter just as much to Paul. Whatever
they may have done, whomever they may have been with, eventu-
ally they would separate themselves from everyone else and end
the evening together. If they were on a date, they would see the
girls home and then be left to themselves. If they had argued, no
matter how bitterly, they would never stamp off in anger. They
would drive around in the car, smoldering in silence, until the an-
ger had passed, and then they would settle down in some bar or
coffee place and talk for one final hour.
They would talk a little about the movie they had seen or the
girls they had been with. They would talk about the detective
story Paul was reading, or the music Barry was listening to. He
followed Paul's book recommendations faithfully, though he
could never get Paul to give more than halfhearted attention to
music. Then they would fall silent for a moment or two, prepar-
ing themselves for the subject they always arrived at before they
separated - their friendship, what an amazing thing it was, what
a piece of luck, how easily they might have missed each other at
that dance in the spring, how different their lives would have
been if they had. The fascination of this subject was so deep that
few words were needed. Only enough to call up a smile or two,
and they both seemed to feel that the day might now be allowed
to end.
And so they would pay for their coffee, and Paul would drive
Barry home, both conscious of the dark empty streets around
them and the tall buildings rising up on every side. They loved
New York. Barry did anyway, and he was sure that Paul did too.
Why hadn't he ever felt it before, this quiet contented love for the
city? Why had it grown up in him so suddenly over the summer?
Finally the car pulled up at Barry's door, and he and Paul said
good night. And their handshake, no matter how quick or casual,
always seemed to be a renewal of that solemn pact they had made
in the spring.
107


What was that pact really? What did they get from each
other which held them together so tightly? It was a terrible mys-
tery to Barry. Whenever he thought about it, he ended up con-
vinced that they didn't get anything from each other. At least,
Paul didn't get anything from him. Paul was so popular and sure
of himself, an athlete, a leader of the class. What could he pos-
sibly get from a dumpy, awkward, out-of-place nobody like Barry
Morris? Suppose it was all a whim on Paul's part, just an offhand
bit of amusement, because it was summer and most of his friends
were out of town. Suppose, when the summer ended and school
started again, Paul decided to drop him as abruptly as he had
taken up with him – But Barry never let himself think about this
for long. The summer was still in its prime, it wouldn't be over
for ages.
And then it was the last week in August. The days were short-
ening. The nights were growing cool. People were coming back
into the city, the traffic was getting heavier. At dinner one night
Mother told him that the school had just sent her an official an-
nouncement of its opening date.
Summer was over now. He couldn't pretend that it wasn't.
Paul thought, “Why can't things ever last for me?" That's how
it had been as long as he could remember. He'd be going along
with something, getting a kick out of it, thinking, “This is right,
this is what I want, I'm happy.” And all of a sudden, from no-
where at all, it wasn't right, it wasn't what he wanted. End of be-
ing happy, beginning of the itch inside of him, the little itch that
started out light as a feather but grew and grew until it was a
torture to him. So what was he going to do about it? Do some
thing about it - pretty soon this got to be the biggest thing in his
life. Hurry up and do it, so things could be right again.
The first week of school brought it all back to him again. The
108


summer had been wonderful, no getting around that. There were
moments, of course - Only moments, though, they passed away
quickly. And the rest of the time it was like being free as a bird.
He could understand why people said that, free as a bird. Soaring
up above everybody else, all the room in the world to move
around in, wave his arms, shout and laugh as loud as he pleased.
And Barry Morris right by his side all the time.
Sometimes he felt a little twinge of uneasiness when he thought
of Barry. Never much trouble to shrug this off, though. He re-
membered the bright look in the kid's eyes. The kid, why did he
think of him as the kid? There was only a few months' difference
in their ages. Happiness, that's what the bright look meant. Paul
was glad to see it. It proved he wasn't just being selfish, didn't it?
This was friendship, the first real one he'd ever had. Give and
take. Friends have to do things for each other. Look what he did
for Barry. Everybody noticed it, the big improvement in him
over the summer. Poise, charm, self-confidence. Where did they
suppose he picked it all up? That's what you can do for a friend.
And for the summer, this was enough for Paul. Just the driving
around together, going on dates together, sneering at movies to-
gether. Nothing else necessary. None of the old craziness, for in-
stance. The nighttime trips. And then the summer was over.
Well, what's a person supposed to do anyway? Are you sup-
posed to grit your teeth and let the boredom drive you crazy?
Aren't you supposed to get any fun out of life? Other people get
fun out of life, all the fun they damn well like, and nobody tells
them there's anything wrong with it. Don't they show up at their
offices next morning, slapping backs, giving orders, looking smug
and pleased with themselves? It's a hard world, you have to take
what you want. Wasn't he Paul King, Boy Criminal – Well, that
was play-acting, of course. But just the same –
The only thing was, what about Barry? Could he get him to go
along? Little scared rabbit of a kid. Paul could imagine the big
109


scene. Big shocked eyes, gasps and gulps and other assorted ex-
pressions of horror. He had to go along, though. No good if he
didn't, not after this summer. Well, what was the big problem
anyway? Was there anything Paul couldn't make him do? It
would only take some maneuvering.
The first step was to get him a little worried. Put him on the de-
fensive, make him think he was out of favor. Later on, then, he'd
be only too happy to make things up, he'd be ready to agree to
anything.
He did it in little ways. Little ways are always the most effec-
tive. Just the slightest cooling in the tone of his voice. And a
trick he developed of turning away and talking to somebody else
just as Barry was about to tell him something. And a lot could be
done with the busy-man act. “Paul, I'm glad I found you, I
wanted to ask you something." "Sorry, I'm in a hurry, only a min-
ute to history – ” Or, “Sorry, can't drive you home tonight, im-
portant meeting of the – ”
Two weeks of this treatment, and he could see the effects al-
ready. Lines on Barry's face, shadows under his eyes. Beginning
to lose his sleep, was he? And a funny trembling in his voice ev-
ery time he came up and said a word. Almost ready now, but not
quite. A week or two more, a few more twists, not quite painful
enough yet.
Not painful, not really. Not as if he was doing it to give pain.
Better for Barry in the long run. Because it couldn't be good for
their friendship, this itch inside of him. The itch had to be
stopped. Friends should help each other in their troubles.
One more week of it, that ought to do it. Saturday night they
had dates, a couple of girls from the junior class. Very impressed
with the big important seniors. Sweet and dull. On Friday after-
noon, he stopped Barry in the hall. “I can't make it tomorrow
night. I already told Agnes. You can take out Barbara by your-
self.”
110


"But Paul – ”
"Have fun. Don't do anything I wouldn't do.” He walked off
fast. He could imagine the eyes opening wide behind him, the
face turning pale.
His phone kept ringing that night. He told his mother not to
disturb him, he was busy with homework. The next day, Satur-
day, he left the house early and went to the first football game of
the season. One of the fellows gave a party that night, and Paul
stayed late. Dull party, dull people. He guzzled liquor and imag-
ined what Barry was going through. Saddled all night long with
that silly girl, forced to talk to her, keep her amused, and all the
time worrying and wondering, asking himself what he had done
to offend his friend.
All right, it was hard on him. Wasn't it just as hard on Paul?
Was he supposed to be enjoying himself, pouring whiskey down
his throat so he could stand the stupid yapping of these idiots?
Didn't he want to be happy again too, the way he had been in the
summer?
Sunday morning he waited for a phone call. It came at ten-
thirty.
"Hello, Paul. Listen, I have to see you."
“What's that? You're talking too fast, I can't understand a
word.”
"I have to see you. Are you doing anything for lunch? We
could meet – ”
"I'm busy for lunch.” Paul didn't have the slightest idea where
he would be for lunch. “You caught me at a bad time. It'll have
to wait till school tomorrow.”
“What about tonight? I'm supposed to have dinner with my
parents, but I can get out of it.”
"I'm sure it can wait till school tomorrow.” Paul hung up the
phone.
It was all according to plan. But somehow, all of a sudden, it
111


hard-he was trying to keep his voice steady. “Paul, what is it?
What have I done?”
"Done?"
“The way you've been acting lately.” The voice trembled a lit-
tle. “Why are you mad at me, Paul?”
Another puff of smoke. Then Paul turned his eyes away and
gave a soft sigh with exactly the right touch of exasperation in
it. “You just don't understand me, do you?"
"Don't understand you — ?”
“In your quiet unassuming way, you're terribly self-centered,
aren't you?"
"Self-centered? I guess I am self-centered – ”
“You just never see anybody else's point of view. You notice
I've got something on my mind, but you can't be bothered to fig-
ure out what it could be. You automatically assume it must be
something you've done. It never occurred to you for one mo-
ment, did it, that it might not have anything to do with you at
all?”
Barry wet his lips. He seemed uncertain whether he ought to
be upset or relieved at these words. “But if it isn't me – I don't
want it to be me, you know that. But who are you mad at?”
"Who am I mad at?” Paul allowed another soft sigh to escape
and waited one slow beat, which he had carefully calculated
ahead of time, before he turned squarely to Barry and burst out,
"I'm mad at myself. I'm mad at the two of us together. Don't you
see, I'm sick and tired of the whole rotten way things have been
going!”
He watched Barry looking bewildered, the words forming hes-
itantly on his lips. “But Paul — things haven't been going so badly,
have they? I thought - things seemed to be going pretty well."
"Dulll” It wasn't just through calculation that Paul was able to
get such fierceness into his voice. “My God, what's the matter
113


with us anyway?" He jumped to his feet, hurling his cigarette
away. “Look around you, will you? Look at the people we have
to live with every day of our life? Look at the dopes in our class.
Thickheaded football players, or scared rabbits, not an ounce of
guts or imagination in a single damn one of them. And squealing
girls, blinking their fool eyes off, trying to convince everybody
what sexy little morsels they are - and if anybody dares to act
on the conviction, oh, how demure and refined they get! And take
a look at our teachers, our wise and distinguished teachers that
we're supposed to feel such respect for. Dried up old prunes!
Hypocrites too. Pretending to be so superior and intellectual, but
you should hear them squabbling and backbiting in the faculty
common room. And let's move a little nearer home. Let's take a
look at our beloved families and the fine intelligent high-minded
circles they move around in. What culture they have! The men
follow the baseball scores, and the women are experts on the lat-
est canasta rules. And what high ideals they have! They wouldn't
think of stabbing their best friend in the back — not unless they
could make an extra dollar on the deal! And what fascinating
lives they lead! Golf in the summer and television in the winter,
and every one of them too dumb to realize that they're boring
themselves to death!”
“But what are you getting at – pus
“What am I getting at?” Paul went up to him and grabbed his
arm. “Are we supposed to be friends?”
"You know we're friends.”
"Why are we friends? Is it because we're dopes and clods like
the rest of them? Is there anything more to our friendship than
that? Do we have a little imagination, a little life to us, a little
courage to do things that the dopes and clods wouldn't do?"
“Yes – we have, I guess – ”
"You guess! We'd better have. We'd better have, you hear me?
Our friendship isn't worth a damn to me if it's just like everybody
114


else's. If that's all it is, then it might as well be over with right
now!”
“That's not all it is. We are different from the others, and our
friendship is something special. If I didn't believe that – Well,
I know that it's true.”
"Then what are we doing about it? We don't do anything! Why
the hell don't we do something?"
“But what can we do? If you'll tell me what we can do _"
Paul didn't answer at first. He turned away, unclenched his
fists, let the tension ease a little. Behind him he heard the heavy
anxious breathing, but still he held off for a moment. And then, in
a slow thoughtful voice, he said, “Do you remember old Thorley's
pipes?”
He turned around, in time to see the vague nod that greeted
his question. Quietly, smiling a little, he went on, “You should've
been with me then. It was like nothing else I've ever felt. It was
the danger, and the darkness, and expecting to get caught every
minute. And after it was over, and you knew that you'd done it,
and everyone was talking about it, but none of them would ever
find out — I want that feeling again. I don't see why I should have
to go without it.” His tone became almost injured for a moment.
Then, leaning forward, “I want it with you. You're my friend. I
want you to have it too."
Barry's face was pale. "What were you thinking of?”
Paul spoke faster. “I was driving up around the country club
the other day. Do you know the Coleman place?"
"Coleman – ”
"He's the heavy loud man who thinks he's such a great golfer.
The one with the little blonde wife. They've got this big white
house five minutes from the club. They're off on a cruise till No-
vember, kids and servants and all. The place is all closed up.”
“There must be somebody watching it for them. The state po-
now that you'd done
as talking about it, but
find out
I w
lice -"
115


*Can the state police spend every minute watching Coleman's
house? We'll get in there while it's not being watched.”
“But how do we know when that'll be? Suppose we pick the
wrong time?"
“We won't. We'll scout around in advance. We'll use our heads."
His hand was on Barry's arm. “That's the thing about us. We've
got heads, we can use them."
"Yes, but - why will we do it, what will we take?”
"Maybe nothing. Depends what we find. We won't know till we
get in there, that's the fun of it."
“Yes, but – ”
“Yes but, yes but! Do we do it, or don't we? Are you in on this
with me? I want an answer right now."
Barry gave a wave of his arm. “I don't know. It doesn't sound -
If we got caught, it would be awful.”
“We won't get caught, we'll use our heads."
"I don't know, I don't know. I never did anything like this be-
fore."
"Neither did I, once.”
"I wouldn't be any good at it. I'd only spoil it for you. I'd get
panicky.”
"You wouldn't get panicky. I'll be there, and I'll look out for
you.” He squeezed Barry's arm. “It won't be the first time you've
left things to me. You're always scared at the start, and then you
do it, and you find out there's nothing to it.”
"I don't know – ”
“Listen to me. Listen to me, kid – I want to do this!"
“Yes, but I just don't know.”
With a gasp Paul let go of his arm. “All right, you don't know.
But I know. I know you're no friend of mine. I know you're a
dull dope, like all the others. I know it now, I'm glad to find it
out.”
"Paul, please — "
116


no
"Never mind that. It's over with us now. I'll do this by myself.
Who needs you, for God's sake? I'll find someone else.”
“Paul -"
“I'll find someone else. So long.” He turned and started across
the volleyball court.
"Paul!”
He didn't slow up his pace. He let Barry catch up to him.
"Paul, I'll do it. If that's what you want. Please don't find some-
one else.”
Paul held himself rigid another moment. Then he let himself re-
lax, he turned and gave Barry his warmest smile. “I knew it would
be like this. My God, you're my friend, I knew I could count on
you."
Barry's head was lowered, he was breathing hard. “You can
count on me."
And suddenly Paul felt terribly worn out. This last month had
been a strain on him. As much of a strain as on Barry. “We'd bet-
ter get back to class now," he said. “We'll work out the details
tonight."
“Yes – tonight – ”
"It's okay, it's okay,” Paul said, taking his arm, using his most
encouraging voice. “I wouldn't really have done it without you.
I wouldn't do anything without you.”
It was Friday night. Paul was having dinner with his mother
and father at the Cosmopolis Club. The food was pretty bad,
but they came here once a week anyway. Paul knew why. His
father got a kick out of showing him off to his friends and their
wives.
A pretty dull crowd. Businessmen, lawyers, bankers, maybe a
doctor or two. All with plenty of money, but not so many topics
of conversation. A pretty poor bunch to show off in front of. But
117


his father didn't feel that for a minute, his father thought these
were the greatest men in the world. Why not? His father, let's
face it, was exactly like them himself. His father was a smart man
in his way – in a kind of shrewd-businessman way – but when it
came to real brains – well, what was the point of kidding him-
self?
All through the meal it was a regular procession up to the ta-
ble. Old Joe So-and-So, the paper-box magnate, one of my biggest
pals, boy. And this is Mrs. So-and-So. Very nice to meet you, Mrs.
So-and-So. Easy to see why her husband fell in love with her.
She's got a figure like a paper box. And you remember old Matt
Such-and-Such. You remember my boy Paul, don't you, Matt?
Yes, he sure has grown since you saw him last. He's doing fine up
at his school now. They just made him head of the Dramatics
Club, or did I tell you already?
It was a bore, but Paul got through it well enough. Smiling,
shaking hands, bobbing up and down – he spent more of this
meal on his feet than he did in his chair. He never had much trou-
ble turning on the social charm. It was second nature to him by
now. He could do it mechanically while his mind was busy with
something else. With the big plans for tonight, for instance.
"Say, there's Walt Harmon and Doris,” his father was saying.
"Walt! Over here!”
A minute later Walt Harmon and his wife had come up to
them. Walt Harmon was Dad's lawyer - a thin sour-faced fellow,
bags under the eyes. Mousy little wife, never opened her mouth.
“I can remember the day you were born, young man,” Walt
Harmon said in a solemn voice that nearly made Paul laugh. What
did he expect anyway, eternal gratitude for his good memory?
"I've never seen your father so excited before or since. He as-
sured us that the future President of the United States had just
come into the world.”
Dad laughed and put his hand on Paul's shoulder. “He hasn't
118


turned out too badly," he said. “Did I tell you, they just made him
head of the Dramatics Club up at his school — "
"If only he wouldn't be so secretive with his parents,” Mother
said.
Dad gave her a dirty look. “Why the hell should a boy run to
his mother with every little thing? I'm damn glad I haven't got
one of those mama's boys here."
Walt Harmon gave a sigh. “I don't think you've done badly,
Arthur. Doris and I wouldn't complain.” He exchanged a look
with his wife, and there was a long silence. The Harmons had
once had a son themselves, Paul remembered. He died of polio
or something many years ago.
The silence passed, the Harmons said good night all around,
and then they were gone. Mother started in right away on how
pale and tired Walt looked. Definitely not a well man. Leave it to
Mother to turn the conversation in a gloomy direction. Dad
wasn't listening to her, though. He was looking at Paul, beaming
at him in that proud way of his.
Someone else was standing over their table. “Is this the young
King heir? It's a pleasure to say hello."
Everybody up on their feet again. His father introduced him to
Jerry Phillips, another one of his “greatest pals in the world.” A
little bald round-faced man, sort of brisk and jumpy.
“You know my kid, don't you?” Jerry Phillips said. He pointed
at this small skinny boy at his side – kid about eleven. “Shake
hands politely, Pete,” Jerry said. “This kid is a terror. I'm train-
ing him to get along in civilized society.”
The terror was blushing. “Oh, come on, Daddy!”
Jerry Phillips winked at them. “He doesn't like me to brag
about him, he says it embarrasses him. So now, just to oblige him,
I only tell people terrible things about him.”
The terror blushed harder and giggled.
Then Jerry Phillips was turning to Paul. “Young fellow, I've
salvii Ni
119


been wanting to congratulate you ever since last June. You know,
my boy here goes to the same school as you, and he dragged me
up there in June to see your play – what was it? Julius Caesar. I
thought it was going to be a terrific nuisance, but you made it a
pleasure. The way you tore into that big speech of yours. 'Friends,
Romans, countrymen! Artie, you've got the makings of another
Barrymore here."
"He was pretty good,” Dad said. “You know, they just made
him head of the Dramatics Club up there.”
“So my boy was telling me. Pete here knows everything about
your son. Apparently he's by way of being a celebrity in the
school.”
The kid began blushing harder than ever. “Daddy – ”.
Paul looked him over with a little more interest. He couldn't
even remember seeing the kid around. And yet his admiration
was all over his face. “I know Pete,” Paul said. “I've seen him
around plenty of times."
Pete swayed on his feet in an agony of blushes.
“Come on, Butch," Jerry Phillips said, grabbing him by the
hand. “Let's get you home and take your temperature, you look
like you're up to about a hundred and twenty."
The father and son moved away, and Mother was off immedi-
ately. Poor Jerry Phillips, she felt so sorry for him, he was all
wrapped up in that boy now that his wife was gone, it was really
the most touching thing to see. There wasn't enough family af-
fection in the world today. She remembered when she was a girl
in Memphis, how devoted she and all her sisters were to poor
Papa, and how she cried and cried the night before her wedding,
because she knew she'd be leaving them all for good.
"Say, there's Mike Winston," Dad cried. “Haven't seen him in
years. Say, Mike!”
Paul got to his feet quickly. Enough was enough, even of a
good thing. “It's after eight o'clock, I have to pick up Barry, we're
120


going to a party. You said I could have the car, didn't you, Dad?”
"Absolutely. If you want Carl to drive you — ”
“No, I'll drive myself, I'll give him the night off.” He shook
Dad's hand and kissed Mother, and hurried off. Mother's voice
followed him across the room. “Be careful with your driving,
dear. And don't stay out too late. Ellen will be in from school
early tomorrow, she'll be looking forward to having breakfast
with you – "
All through dinner Barry had been squirming. There were
guests at the table - this Dr. Mattson and his wife – and Mother
just wouldn't stop saying awful, embarrassing things in front of
them. It was so bad that it almost took his mind off the thing that
was ahead of him later on tonight.
She was talking now about Paul. “Arthur King's boy, you know.
King and Connors, the prominent brokerage house. Oh yes, a
very fine family. He's in Barry's class at school, they're very close
friends."
Barry tried staring down at his plate and shutting his ears to
the sound of her voice. But it was such a steady, persistent sort
of voice, and it had always been able to get straight to him in spite
of himself.
"And a brilliant family too, so I've heard. The youngest daugh-
ter is making a remarkable record at Wellesley – I heard that
from the little Stone girl, Barry, her sister is going to Wellesley
now with Paul's sister. Mrs. Stone is on the Child Guidance Coun-
cil with me."
"The Child Guidance Council, did you say?" A deep rumble
came from Dr. Mattson. “Now there's an organization I'm not en-
tirely unfamiliar with. They had me in to address one of their
meetings several years ago – ” Dr. Mattson creaked into a long
involved story during which he kept forgetting details and re-
TUE UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN IIRRADU
121


calling them to himself again. It was very dull, but Barry couldn't
have been more grateful for it. Maybe, by the time it was over,
Mother would have forgotten what she had been talking about
"Won't you have some coffee, Doctor?” Mother said, breaking
into Dr. Mattson's story. “How many lumps? And how about you,
Lottie?” There was a lot of confusion as Dr. and Mrs. Mattson
took their coffee, and at the end of it Mother slid smoothly back
into the subject that interested her most.
“Did you say Paul was picking you up here tonight, dear? Well,
that's good, because I've been meaning to bring something up
to Paul. With you and him such close friends, it really seems a
shame we never get together with the Kings. Oh, we run into
them occasionally at the school, or up at the club, but I was think-
ing, Barry dear, I'm sure the Kings would appreciate it if we had
them over for dinner some evening – ”
Mother was always making this suggestion. Barry couldn't re-
member how many times she had done it. And every time it had
the same effect on him, it brought the same sick feeling to his
stomach. As yet, of course, she hadn't carried out her threat. It
was a lot like his childhood days, when she used to bring up
those "little matters” –
“Muriel dear,” Dad said, “Lottie here has been doing some in-
teresting work with the Philharmonic Symphony Board. I'm sure
you'd be interested – ”
It was a good try on Dad's part, and Barry was grateful to
him. But it didn't do much good. Mother let Mrs. Mattson say a
few words about the Philharmonic Symphony Board, and then
she broke in, “Barry's friend, Paul King, is quite a music lover
too, you know. And he's also a very clever young actor, everyone
was talking about his performance in the school play last year —”
Barry tightened his fists under the table. Wouldn't this dinner
ever end? Wouldn't eight-thirty ever come?
122


"It's a very interesting psychological study,” Mother was say-
ing, “this friendship between Paul and Barry. I mean, Barry is
so introspective - a little too much sometimes – you don't mind
my saying so, do you, dear? While Paul, on the other hand – ”.
Just before eight-thirty the doorbell rang. Barry couldn't keep
a gasp of relief from coming out of him.
It was Paul. Mother pounced on him, introduced him around,
made a big fuss over him. This was how she always acted with
him. But somehow this didn't embarrass Barry so much. Paul
and he had talked to each other so freely about their parents,
there was nothing Mother could do that Paul didn't know about
already. Besides, it was a funny thing, how well Mother and Paul
seemed to get on together.
“You're looking very handsome tonight, Paul,” Mother was
saying. “I hope you two young Don Juans aren't going to break
too many hearts tonight.”
"Only two or three dozen, Mrs. Morris,” Paul said. “Just to con-
sole myself for your lack of interest.”
Mother laughed with the greatest delight. “Now who do you
think you're fooling? I know you young people, you think any-
body over thirty is as old as the Egyptian pyramids.”
There was more joking back and forth, and Dr. Mattson
rumbled into a story about the Stock Exchange and got bogged
down in the middle trying to decide if it happened in 1924 or
1926.
Paul gave Barry a sideways look. Immediately it all came back
to Barry, where they were going tonight. “We'd better go now,"
he said. “We'll be late for the party.” His heart fluttered a little
as he told this lie.
“Yes, yes, you young people run along,” Mother said. “Have
a good time, and behave yourselves. Well, try to behave your-
Jidvaal NVOIHJIV JU NISOVIT Jn.
selves.”
123


said.
Then everybody was saying good-by, and Barry found himself
off to the side with Dad. “Have you got enough money?" Dad
said.
"Yes, I do."
“And you're using Paul's car?"
“Yes, we are.”
Dad shifted from one foot to another. He looked at Barry a
little harder, but not quite directly. “Everything all right?"
Barry lowered his eyes. "Yes. Fine."
A moment later Mother pushed in between them and kissed
him, and then he was out in the hall with Paul.
The car turned off the parkway at the first exit in Mamaroneck.
In a few seconds they were on country roads, surrounded by dark
lawns and shadowy trees and dim two-story houses.
Paul had been talking all the way, going over and over the de-
tails of the adventure that lay ahead of them. “It'll be a cinch,”
he said. “I drove up here to look over the place last night. There's
a big garden in back, fenced in by trees. Very convenient to keep
the neighbors from seeing us. So we take the car up the drive-
way to the back, and break in through one of the windows. I've
got some tools — the Handy Kit for Beginning Burglars. Once
we're inside, we keep the lights out and the noise down, and
there's no reason why we can't take as much time as we like.
Actually, there are only two risky moments, the moment we turn
up the driveway and the moment we come out of it again. Those
are the only moments when the neighbors might notice the car
and make a note of the license. But there's nothing we can do
about that, so we might as well relax. A little bit of danger makes
it more interesting anyway.”
Barry hardly said a word. He was driving the car, keeping his
eyes on the road and his hands tightly on the wheel.
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Paul nudged him. "What's the matter with you anyway? You
aren't exactly overflowing with enthusiasm."
“Do I have to be overflowing with enthusiasm?”
There was a pause, then Paul snapped out, “Yes, you do! Why
do you think we're doing this, for God's sake? It's not supposed
to be a funeral trip. We're not supposed to go into it as if we were
on our way to the dentist to get a tooth pulled.”
Barry didn't say anything.
“You don't have to go along, if you don't want to,” Paul said.
"I'm not forcing you to do this, am I? You could get out of the
car right now. Go on, get out, I'll do it myself. I don't need you
now or any time.”
Barry turned his face to him. “Please – I don't want to get
out. I want to go along. I'm just a little nervous, that's all.”
"You want to do this just as much as I do?”
“Yes. Just as much.”
Paul sat back and grinned. “Well, that's all right then. I knew
I could depend on you. It would be a hell of a thing, wouldn't
it, if I couldn't depend on your
Barry grinned too, not quite as broadly. Bit by bit, as they
drove along in silence, he stopped gripping the wheel so tightly.
He was drifting again, floating with the current. Leave it to Paul.
Put himself in Paul's hands. Beyond that, what did it matter?
One more turn, past the Spreading Chestnut Club, and then
they were on a wide pleasant street with soft yellow lamps flicker-
ing in the middle. "It's the house at the end,” Paul said.
They came to the driveway. “Now make your turn,” Paul said.
"Not too fast. We don't want to attract attention. That's the way.
Okay, we're out of sight now.”
Barry turned off the motor. They got out and stood for a mo-
ment, looking at the back of the dark house. “Here,” Paul said,
shoving a small flashlight into Barry's hand. “This is all the light
we'll need. You hold it, and I'll do the rest.”
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They moved along the back of the house to a pair of long
French windows that looked on to a sun porch. A wrench and a
screwdriver were in Paul's hands. “Now watch the expert's tech-
nique,” he said. “Just a matter of - finding the right spot - and
using a little – leverage.” There was a loud cracking noise, and
the French windows jumped open.
“Somebody must've heard that,” Barry said.
Paul laughed. “I ought to warn you, for the first few times
everything's going to sound a hundred times louder than it really
is.”
"First few times — ” Barry said.
“Come on, what are you waiting for?” Paul held the French
window wide and made a sweeping gesture. “Won't you be my
guest?”
They stepped into the sun porch, and from there into a long
living room. They stood close together, shoulders touching, while
the thin pale beam of the flashlight played along the floor and
the walls. It gave them an odd broken-up view of the room. A
heavy antique chair suddenly flashed into sight, then an old
bronze lighting fixture curling out from the wall, then a gleaming
gold mirror, then a cluster of thick red drapes.
“Nice stuff,” Paul said. “My mother's thinking of doing our
house over, I'll tell her to ask them the name of their decorator."
“What are we going to do?” Barry said. “Are we going to take
something?”
"Oh, we can come up with a more original idea than that. I've
got a lot of faith in our ingenuity.”
They explored the house slowly. In the foyer, across from the
front door, was a tall square mirror with a simple silver frame.
In the dining room, two walls were completely lined with mirror
glass. At the top of the stairs was a small round mirror, with
bits of colored glass glittering all around it.
"Coleman's wife collects mirrors,” Paul said. “She's always drag-
so
126


ging them into the conversation at the club.” A thoughtful smile
began on his face. “I'm beginning to get an idea. I knew it would
come to me, once we were here."
“What idea?” Barry said.
"People shouldn't be so fond of looking at their own faces. The
deadliest sin of all is pride.” Paul laughed. They moved along
the second-floor landing and pulled open the nearest door. It was
a little girl's room, pink and woolly, with dolls and little plastic
animals and picture books. Two mirrors were right next to each
other on the far wall, both of them with long white ears stick-
ing up, like rabbits.
“Isn't that cute?” Paul said. “I think I'll be sick.”
They moved on to the master bedroom. There were three mir-
rors on each wall here, and every one a different shape, a different
design. "It's fate,” Paul said. “It's the only thing we can do." He
spread his hands. “We'll just have to smash the mirrors.”
Barry stared at him.
"Poetic justice, that's what it is,” Paul said. “Life is too short,
people have no right to waste it collecting junk. People like that
should be taught a lesson. It's our moral duty.”
"But to smash the mirrors – ”
"Every single damn one of them. And nothing else, you follow
me? We don't steal so much as a hairpin, we don't muss a single
bedspread. That way, our message will be clear.”
“But the noise it'll make – ”
"Yes, the noise will be considerable.” There was a glitter in
Paul's eyes. “We'll have to hurry up about it and drive away fast,
or else we'll get caught in the act. And hauled in front of a judge.
Can't you hear him now? Disgraceful vandalism. Irresponsible
young hoodlums. Wanton disregard for private property.” He
laughed out loud and waved his arm. “So come on, let's get
started. Well, are you coming?”
After a moment Barry nodded. “Yes, I'm coming."
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“Now how to go about it? My wrench here. The very imple-
ment. We'll get a double use out of it, that's what's meant by be-
ing businesslike. We'll begin here, and work back the way we
came.” Paul walked up to the mirror nearest him – an oval with
china fruit around it - and swung back his arm and hurled the
wrench with all his might. A loud crash, a shatter of glass, and
Paul jumped back with a laugh.
He moved along to the next mirror. His arm swung back, the
wrench swung forward, and again the crash, the shatter of glass,
the laugh. And right down the line, till he had circled the room.
“Look at it,” he cried, raising his arms to the wilderness of glass
that covered the floor. “Vanity of vanities! Don't you feel like an
Old Testament prophet? On to the next temple, let's destroy a
few more idols! Well, what are you standing there for, do you
think we've got all night?”
They went back to the little girl's room. The two little rabbit
mirrors succumbed easily to the wrench in a delicate tinkle of
glass. After that came the round mirror on the landing, and then
they were running down the stairs, as if somebody were chasing
them. In the dining room Paul stared around at those two mir-
rored walls. Then he gathered up his strength, and the look in
his eyes made Barry think of a hungry man about to plunge into
a feast. The wrench went flying in all directions. With a great
roar the walls cracked away in large jagged slabs. “Only a little
more left,” Paul said, breathing hard.
“We'd better go,” Barry said. “The whole neighborhood must
be up.”
“We'll go when the job's done. It would keep me awake all
night, thinking of one of these smooth little bastards remaining
intact in all the wreckage. Gloating, feeling superior.”
“But that's a crazy idea,” Barry said, looking at him sharply.
"So it is, so it is!” And Paul was running out to the foyer, right
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up to the long silver mirror facing the door. He planted himself
in front of it, made a low ironical bow, and in an almost casual
manner shattered it straight down the middle.
Then they were back in the living room, where they had
started. “This one is a beauty,” Paul said, waving at the gold mir-
ror on the wall. “I'll tell you what, I'll show you what a good
friend I am. It's the last one, so I'll let you have the pleasure.” He
held out the wrench to Barry. “Go ahead, you'll see how good it
is for the soul.” He shoved the wrench into Barry's hand. “We're
in on this together, aren't we?”
"Yes, we are."
"Well, prove it.” He gave Barry a quick push towards the mir-
ror.
Barry did nothing, he just stood there with the wrench in his
hand.
“Hurry up!” Paul cried. “The cops are closing in!”
Barry stared at his image in the mirror. He wet his lips, then
he brought his arm back slowly. It was like the summer up at
camp when he learned how to dive. He just shut his eyes and
told himself it wasn't happening to him at all, it was happening to
someone else. Then he let his arm swing forward.
He heard the crash and Paul's shout of joy. He opened his
eyes. The mirror was smashed, the pieces were at his feet. No,
there was still one large chunk of glass in the frame. He couldn't
leave it sticking there like that, it bothered him somehow. He
brought the wrench forward again. That last chunk split into a
dozen pieces. They shivered a moment in the frame, then they
crumbled to the floor.
Paul was yanking at his arm. "Come on, come on, mustn't out-
stay our welcome.”
They pushed through the open French windows, ran across the
back lawn, and scrambled into the car. A few seconds later they
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were careening down the driveway and out to the street. It wasn't
long before they reached the parkway and lost themselves among
the cars streaming into the city.
Paul let out a deep sigh. “How do you feel?” he said. “Differ-
ent than you've ever felt before, I'll bet.”
“Do you think anyone saw us? Did they get the license num-
ber?”
“Not a chance. There wasn't a noise on the street when we got
out of there. Everybody neatly tucked in bed, or out at the mov-
ies, or playing gin rummy. It takes more than a small earthquake
to make them interrupt their gin rummy.”
They were silent awhile. Then Barry said, “I'm shaking a little.
Maybe you better drive the car.”
Paul laughed. They pulled up to the grass and switched seats.
"What you need is a cup of coffee,” Paul said. “We'll go some-
place, and we can talk.”
So they went to a place downtown, and they talked and sipped
coffee. They talked about their friendship, how close they had
come to never meeting, how lucky it was that they had. Gradu-
ally Barry's shaking went away. They left the coffee place, and
Paul drove him uptown to his building. “It wasn't too bad, was
it?” Paul said. “You're glad you went along?” And he smiled with
more warmth than he usually let himself show.
Barry smiled back at him, forgetting all his other feelings for a
moment, knowing only that his friend was pleased with him.
"Yes, it wasn't too bad.”
"You'll see,” Paul said. “It'll come to you easy now."
Paul started the car, and soon he had disappeared around the
corner.
Later on, when he was alone in his room, in his bed, Barry
started shaking again. Dear God, what had he done? He hadn't
intended any harm by it. It was only because it meant so much to
Paul. How could he disappoint Paul, how could he take the
130


chance of turning Paul against him? God knew everything, didn't
He? So God ought to understand. ...
When Paul reached his bedroom, his heart was still beating
hard. Beating with happiness and excitement. He had never had
an evening like this in his life. Wonderful as it had been in the
past, it had never been as wonderful as this. Because Barry was
with him this time. Hadn't he known it beforehand, what a dif-
ference it would make for Barry to be with him?
He found a note on his pillow.
DARLING -
Don't bother getting up early in the morning. Received a
wire from Ellen, she won't be coming till next week. Herb
Goldsmith arrived in Boston unexpectedly, she'll be spend-
ing the week end with him.
Love,
MOTHER
He read this note twice. Then he crumpled it up and threw it
into the waste basket. All right, so she wouldn't come till next
week. What was the difference anyway?
When he got into bed later on, his heart wasn't beating so hard
any more, the happiness and excitement were all gone. In his im-
agination the glass began to shatter again. Not enough of it, he
told himself. There should have been ten times as much of it.
II
IT WAS a long winter. A week before Thanksgiving New York
was assaulted by the first snow – a ragged threadbare sort of
snow that turned to water the moment it hit the pavement. Then,
by the end of November, the wind began – that fierce icy wind
that lay in wait for people as they stepped through their door-
131


sno
ways, roared and raged at them from every corner, pursued them
as they crossed the street. Towards the end of December the
snow came again, giving the city not a white Christmas but a
dirty gray Christmas. And then, in honor of the New Year, there
was a slashing cold rain, the temperature dropped to zero, and
the sidewalks were sheeted with ice. It was a long winter, and
even by the first of March the end didn't seem to be in sight.
It was a long winter for Barry too. So many things were packed
into his days, so many different kinds of things with different
feelings and worries for each of them. First, there was the biggest
thing that makes life hectic for a high school senior. All of a sud-
den he finds a sword hanging over him – will he get into a good
college? The second week of March, the time of the College
Board exams, looms in the distance, and nobody will let him for-
get it. He works and works. His mind is a whirl of French verbs,
he devours Hamlet's soliloquy with his dinner, the formula for
the refraction of light slides in and out of his dreams.
And then, there are his extracurricular activities. After all, he
is a senior, and this is his year to shine – to flex his muscles for
the football team, write masterpieces for the literary magazine,
sway the world with his oratory at Student Council meetings.
And of course he can't neglect his social life. However busy he
may be in a hundred other ways, he has to go to all the dances,
show up at all the parties, eat his share of all the midnight ham-
burgers.
Barry was loaded down with these responsibilities just like ev-
erybody else. He wasn't nearly the important public figure that
Paul was, of course, but he didn't do badly at all. Much better
than he ever thought he could. He was vice-president of the Sci-
ence Club, and he was on the editorial board of the Yearbook,
and he found himself being asked to all sorts of parties and out-
ings that he had never been asked to in his junior year. One of
the girls even told him once that he was “cute.” He couldn't ex-
132


actly understand why things had changed for him, but he was too
busy, caught up in the change, to think much about it.
Along with the activities that everybody else took part in, Paul
and he had certain activities of their own.
Paul's prediction turned out to be true. After the first time it
came a lot easier to Barry. Not that it ever came as easy to him as
it did to Paul. There was always one moment when he felt a catch
in his throat and a small wave of fear. But this moment never
lasted long. Pretty soon he got so he didn't mind it too much, be-
cause there were so many more important things to make up for it.
They went out on one of their expeditions every few weeks
during the winter. For a while it was the same sort of thing. They
found a house with the owners on vacation, and they forced the
back door or broke a window. Once they were inside Paul would
look around until an idea came to him, and then he would start
to improvise. It wasn't always such a good idea as the first time.
Sometimes he couldn't really think of anything at all. Then he
would get annoyed, and he would plunge into general destruc-
tion of whatever caught his eye. They would slash pillows and
mattresses, break china and glassware, until the energy had gone
out of Paul, and then they would go away.
It was surprising how safe it turned out to be. Nobody ever
caught them at it, or even got a glimpse of their car. The West-
chester papers carried an occasional item about the "disgraceful
exploits of teen-age vandals,” but that was all the attention they
ever attracted. It was enough for Barry. His mind filled with im-
ages of uniformed policemen bursting in on him at the dinner ta-
ble. But Paul just shook his head angrily. “Vandals! How can they
leave it at that? Show me the vandals that ever did what we've
been able to do, and got away with it so slickly, and had the self-
control to keep their mouths shut about it!"
Shortly afterwards Paul suggested his first variation of their
usual procedure. “It's crazy to go on like this,” he said. “The same
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133


they were able to run down it and out to the car before anybody
found out they were there. For three days after that, Barry had
dreams about police whistles and prison bars.
But Paul had liked it. Barry could tell from the way Paul kept
talking about it afterwards, simply wouldn't forget about it, and
finally announced that he wanted something like that again.
This led to all sorts of new variations. One night, for instance,
they searched deliberately for a house that wasn't empty. They
waited down the street until the people had gone to bed upstairs,
then they broke in and took a bag of silverware from the dining
room. Another time they didn't go to the suburbs at all, they
broke into a house right in the city, only a few doors away from
where Paul lived. And Barry had never seen Paul so excited as he
was a few days later, after a policeman came to his house to ask
if anybody had heard anything or seen any suspicious characters.
Barry could imagine how hard Paul had frowned, how consci-
entiously he had wrinkled his forehead, before he said that he
was sorry but he hadn't heard or seen a thing.
Towards the middle of February they slackened up on their
nighttime expeditions. Along with the rest of their class, they
grew suddenly aware that the College Board exams would be
held in less than a month. Their chance of being accepted by the
college of their choice depended a lot on how well they did in
these exams. It was a matter of special importance for them. They
had to be accepted by the same school. What would they do if
they couldn't go to college together? Because of this, Paul was
willing to call a temporary halt to their other activities and give
himself up to his studies. They did a lot of their studying together.
Barry had a knack for organizing the material, and he had a won-
derful memory, so he was able to be a big help to Paul. Those
evenings of studying together were the nicest Barry had ever
spent.
Finally it was the day of the exams. The senior class filed into
136


the school auditorium, an uneasy hush fell over them, and for
three hours there were no sounds but the scratching of pens, the
rustling of papers, the scraping of chairs. Then it was over, and
Paul and Barry met in the corridor outside the auditorium.
They both knew that they had done pretty well. And so they
had a wonderful lighthearted hour together. They wandered
through the halls, remembering all the different questions, laugh-
ing over the ones they had got right, skipping hastily past the
ones they weren't so sure of. They went outside and watched the
little kids throw snowballs. Everybody was ganging up against
one little boy, a small dumpy boy with glasses. Barry happened
to know him – he was Horace Mattson, and his father was Dad's
friend Dr. Mattson - so Paul and he took the little boy's side,
and pretty soon the opposition was routed.
“Thank you very much," Horace Mattson said, looking as sol-
emn and owlish as his father. “You really saved my life.”
“Any time at all,” Paul said. “King and Morris, Expert Life
Savers, always at your service."
The little boy shook his head. He wasn't going to make a joke
out of a serious matter like this. “Well, thank you,” he said. “I
hope I can do the same for you some day.” And then he went run-
ning off, howling "Hey, wait up for mel” after his attempted mur-
derers.
A little later the buzzer sounded for lunchtime. Paul said,
“Well, thank God that load is off our minds now, and we can
start in again.”
"Start in -
"Just the way we were doing before. Only better now. I'm full
of new ideas, things we should've tried a long time ago."
"What sort of ideas?”
"I think I'll keep you in suspense awhile. We'll wait till the
week end. We'll get together Friday night, and I'll spring them
on you all at once. Now you're still with me on this, aren't you?"
137


"Only to find,” Ellen said, "that her smart-alec brother's sense
of humor hasn't improved a bit.”
Then they were in each other's arms, hugging each other
tightly. It was almost two months since Ellen had come in from
college. She was in her final year, and she said that her work
kept her terribly busy.
Paul held her at arm's length and looked her up and down.
"Not bad. You may even get to look reasonably attractive in time.
Just let me take you under my wing for a while.”
Ellen laughed. “I can imagine your idea of female charm.
Frizzly blond hair, two quarts of mascara, and a vacant stare.”
"It's the vacant stare that makes a woman irresistible,” he said.
"That's where you make your big mistake, sister dear. The surest
way of staying an old maid for life is to let men suspect that you
might be smarter than they are.”
“If I was really smarter than they are, I probably would stay an
old maid for life.” She was still smiling, but her voice had an odd
note to it.
Paul gave her a quick curious look, then he was laughing again.
“So what brings you out of the blue like this? Get kicked out of
school?”
"I've still got them fooled, I'm afraid. I came down to tell all of
you the news. As a matter of fact, we told Mother and Dad ear-
lier this evening."
"We? Who's we?”
She reached out and took his hand, and for the first time he
noticed the funny sparkle in her eyes. “Come on in,” she said, and
pulled him after her into the living room.
He saw his mother and father there. His mother was leaning
back on the sofa. She was smiling, but her eyes were wet. His fa-
ther was in the easy chair, grinning around the room as if he had
just heard a wonderful joke that gave him a big charge. Paul took
139


in the two of them in one glance, then his gaze fastened on the
corner of the room where Herb Goldsmith was standing.
For almost a year now Ellen had been going with Herb Gold-
smith, and she had brought him to the house two or three times
before. Big, heavy, broad-shouldered, the football-player type. He
had gone through college on an athletic scholarship, and now he
was a lawyer, doing very well with some plushy Washington job.
But that didn't make Paul like him any better. He had known this
loud heavy type all his life. Knew them inside out, knew how to
handle them with his eyes shut.
“How are you, fellow?" Herb Goldsmith boomed at him from
across the room. “You're keeping them up late these nights, aren't
you?"
Sometimes Paul could take this hearty wisecracking in his
stride. But other times it went right through him, like scraping
glass or squeaking chalk. So he just said quietly, “How are you,
Herb?"
Then Ellen was by his side, linking her arm in his. "Now don't
anybody say anything. I want to tell him.” She turned her head,
she was smiling up at him. “It looks as if your prodigal sister man-
aged to hide her intelligence just long enough. I'm getting mar-
ried, darling. Herb and I are engaged to be married."
It was no surprise to Paul. It was bound to happen some day,
wasn't it? It was nothing at all to get excited about. "Well, that's
wonderful, congratulations,” he said. He kissed her on the cheek,
then went up to Herb. “Congratulations, I hope you know what a
lucky guy you are.”
"Oh I know that, fellow. Getting such a bright young punk for
a brother-in-law. Herb was outdoing himself in the good-humor
act. He raised his arm, and Paul tensed himself for a slap on the
back. But Herb lowered his arm and put on a solemn expression
instead. “Seriously, though, I hope you like the idea. I'm deeply
in love with this sister of yours, and I'm proud to become a mem-
140


W
ber of your family. I don't have any family of my own, you know
– my folks passed away when I was just a kid – but I feel close
to Arthur and Harriet here already. And I want you and me to be
real brothers.”
Dad broke in now, rubbing his hands together. “So what do you
think of your sister's taste, boy? An up-and-coming legal genius.
And it's always a good thing to have political pull in the family."
Paul had no trouble hearing the slight note of irony in Dad's
voice, underneath his satisfaction. But of course it was way over
Herb's head.
“Anything you want,” Herb said. “I'll talk to the President
about it in the morning.” A big happy smile was on his face. A
handsome face, some women might think. But faces like that start
to get fat and puffy in no time at all. Paul could see the signs al-
ready.
And then Ellen was by Herb's side, linking her arm in his, as
she had done with Paul a moment before. “I'm so glad you two
are going to be friends,” she said. “I'm just so glad about every-
thing.”
“Let's drink a toast to that,” Dad said. He was on his feet, mov-
ing to the liquor cabinet. “Damn shame if we stayed sober on an
occasion like this.” He poured out the drinks, and Mother served
them. Then he lifted his glass and said, “I don't mind saying, this
is all a big relief for me. For twenty years now I've been watching
this little girl grow up, watching her get dreamier and more im-
practical every day. I used to stay awake nights worrying about
what kind of man she'd decide to marry. Some crazy poet from
Greenwich Village probably, with a red beard and not a penny
in the bank. Thank God she finally picked somebody who's re-
spectable. Well, almost respectable.” He gave a wink at Herb.
“Anyway, here's to the lucky young couple. May they have many
happy years of marriage, and may none of the speeches at their
wedding party be any longer than this one.”
141


They all drank. Paul took a sip and put down his glass. Then
Ellen went up to Dad and kissed him, and turned to Mother,
and the two women wept on each other's shoulder for a while.
“Oh my darling, I know you'll be happy,” Mother said. “It's go-
ing to be lonely here without you – But I just know you will!”
It went on a lot longer, until Herb decided it was time to go to
his hotel. So he kissed Mother, and treated Paul to a hearty hand-
shake. And this time he caught him off guard, he did slap him on
the back. Then Ellen walked him to the door, and you could hear
their low murmuring on the front steps. Paul had no wish to
stand around and listen to that. He said good night quickly and
hurried up to his room.
Ellen was waiting for him at breakfast the next morning. He
saw the tentative smile on her face, so he started right in chatter-
ing about the movie he had seen last night. All about this bull-
fighter who loses his nerve and runs away from the bull, until he
meets this gorgeous American debutante – He worked hard at his
chattering. Before long, breakfast was over and he got up to leave.
“But wait a second, Paul,” Ellen said, following him to the
door. “I wanted to talk to you – ”.
“Well, it's getting kind of late. I have to be in school."
“I only wanted to ask you – It's all right, isn't it? About Herb
and me? You don't feel — "
“My God, if I show up late for math again, Mr. Winfield will
throw a fit!” Paul was out of the house before she could say an-
other word.
She went back to her breakfast slowly. A worried frown was
on her face. And then, in a little while, the frown went away. Ev-
erything was all right, she was sure of it. This just wasn't a time
for anybody to be sad. There were so many reasons to be
happy. ...
Paul went up to Barry at lunchtime. “I've got the car. Let's take
a ride after school.”
142


risks, and so many details to plan out, and so many ways it could
go wrong.”
“What is it?" Barry said.
“But I'll bet somebody could get away with it,” Paul said, as if
he hadn't heard Barry's question. “I'll bet, if somebody was smart
enough – And if you planned it a long time, and you thought of
all the details, and you have the nerve and the imagination –
And think what people would say about it! The only ones who
ever got away with it! Of course you couldn't be weak about it.
You'd have to be strong enough to do something you wouldn't
want to do. Maybe you'd even hate the idea of doing it, but
you'd have to be stronger than your feelings."
“I just don't know what you're talking about,” Barry said, with
an uncertain smile.
"You'd have to get rid of the kid, I mean,” Paul said, keeping
his eyes straight ahead. “He'd identify you otherwise."
They rode along in silence. The roar of the engine was loud in
Paul's ears. They had come to a wooded section now. No houses
at all, just trees – tall, ugly, bunched together, sickly green
clumps slapping past the windows. From the corner of his eye he
saw the look on Barry's face.
Right away he started laughing. “Well, that's a morbid line of
thought, isn't it?” he said, and he began to slow the car down. “I
ought to go into the detective-story business.”
He could see Barry relaxing a little. “I guess you've got the im-
agination for it. You know, you almost had me thinking – ”
“Now where the hell have we got to?” Paul said quickly. “I just
don't recognize this section at all. I'd better find the parkway
again, or we'll both be late for dinner.”
At the end of the street he turned the car around, and they
drove back the way they had come, in silence.
-
-
-
144


It's a crazy idea, Paul told himself. So he wasn't going to let
himself think about it. For the next week he went along as he
had always done. He did his work at school, made ironic speeches
at the Student Council meetings, behaved very dignified and
chairmanlike with the Dramatics Club. He swapped jokes with
his father and avoided his mother's questions, and hurried away
from both of them as soon as he could. One night at dinner, his
mother said she had just received a letter from Ellen, and the
wedding was set for May.
He went to his room a little later. A crazy idea. Maybe so. But
it was all so clear to him, even some of the smallest details. And
it was so right and natural, as if he had never stopped thinking
about it for a minute. Crazy? All right, what difference did that
make? All his life, it seemed, he'd been living with this idea, only
he hadn't ever realized it before. So even if it was crazy, it was
too late to worry about that now.
Plans, probems, details, that's what he had to worry about now.
The big problem was Barry. How to win him over. He'd won him
over to plenty of things before now, it was getting easier every
day. All right, this thing was a little different, bigger, so what?
Only a question of having a plan. Slowly but surely, according to
a careful plan. General King, the brilliant strategist.
He went walking with Barry after lunch the next day. In the
middle of the conversation he slipped in a casual reference to his
idea. “You know that crazy business we were talking about a
week or so ago? Well, I've been thinking about it. There's really
a kind of fascination in it. As a sort of abstract problem, I mean,
like a crossword puzzle or something." No hint of strain or anxi-
ety. Very light and pleasant, so Barry would take it in the same
light pleasant way.
"Well, you know how much I enjoy puzzles,” Barry said. He
didn't really enjoy puzzles much, Paul knew. But he was willing
to say he did, even think he did, if that's what his friend wanted.
145


“Maybe we'll work it out sometime,” Paul said, and that was
all, not another word, switch the conversation to another sub-
ject. Patience, that's the chief trait of genius – he had read that
somewhere once.
He dropped another casual reference about a week later, when
he and Barry were starting out on a date. Not quite so casual this
time, a touch of tenseness in his voice. “It's a funny thing. Some-
times you get something into your head, something that isn't im-
portant at all, only you just can't seem to get it out again. Did that
ever happen to you?”
"Well, I think so.”
"I don't suppose it's serious,” he said. A quick anxious look
from Barry, though Paul didn't seem to notice it. Barry always
got anxious if he thought something was troubling his friend.
Paul switched the subject again, and then they were calling for
their girls, they were turning their attention to other things. No
more casual references till one-thirty in the morning, as he was
driving Barry home. “It was a lousy evening,” he said.
think so?” Surprise all over Barry's face. You could al-
most see the wheels working in his head, readjusting his feelings
about what kind of an evening it had been.
"You get something like this that bothers you – it takes the fun
out of things.”
A look of concern on Barry's face. “But I don't understand
what's bothering you, Paul. If there's anything I can do – ”
Paul smiled. The patient long-suffering type of smile. “It's all
right, kid. It isn't important. Don't worry about it.” They stopped
in front of Barry's building and said good night. Barry gave him
one extra searching look before he turned away.
So far so good. Only the beginning, though. Couldn't even be
sure yet if it had worked. Tomorrow morning at school he would
be sure. If Barry came to him and brought up the subject of his
own accord.
“Did you
146


They met the next morning in history. Only two minutes till
class. Barry cleared his throat. Yes or no? Paul couldn't tell, heads
you win, tails you lose. “Paul – I've been worrying. What was it
last night, this thing you can't get out of your mind?"
Heads. Paul felt his confidence growing. “It wasn't anything,”
he said, with a shrug. "Forget about it.”
Barry was blinking. That confused, hurt way of his, behind
those thick glasses. To Paul it had seemed pretty comical once.
"You don't have to tell me, of course. It's only that I might be able
to help – "
“Honestly, kid, it wasn't anything. I'll drive you home and tell
you about it. You'll laugh when you find out how silly it is.”
Mr. Wrigley arrived in class, and they had to stop talking.
In the car that afternoon, Paul shrugged and said, “Well, if you
really want to hear about it. It's what we were talking about the
other day. It's been running through my head ever since. Like a
puzzle. How would you go about it? Suppose you were writing a
you
wanted some characters to plan out something like
this. And you didn't want them to be dopes either, they're going
to be smart and work out a really good plan.”
“And you've been wondering what sort of plan they'd work
out?" Still looking a little confused. But relieved too. The old re-
assuring tone, it never fails.
“That's it. I told you it was nothing important. I tell you
what,
why don't I try out some of my ideas on you? And maybe you'll
get some ideas of your own. We could make a game out of it.”
And there it went, the last trace of worry from Barry's face.
That bit about making a game out of it, that's the bit that did it.
Nothing he liked better than doing things with his friend. And if
it was only a crossword puzzle –
They started right in. Barry was terribly earnest, the way he
was about all games. Paul made himself earnest too. Nobody
could be earnest the way he could be. Just like a puzzle they
story, and
147


harshness out of these talks of theirs, gave a kind of reckless
gaiety to them all, so that Barry never had to feel that this was
anything else but a game. An odd sort of game – he'd be a dope
if he didn't think that occasionally, Paul knew – but what was
the harm in it, what was the harm in anything on these beautiful
April days? And pretty soon, as he got used to the game, the odd-
ness was beginning to go out of it. The puzzle was becoming a
commonplace. Part of the ordinary routine. Marked bills, ransom
notes, hiding places, the words had no more shock in them, no
more meaning in them almost. And another good thing – as long
as the talk went on, there weren't any more nighttime expedi-
tions, no more stealing, smashing, wild rides through the dark-
ness.
Paul watched. He saw these feelings growing inside his friend.
Pretty soon he could take the last step. From the abstract puzzle
to the real thing.
Why should he hesitate about this? Why was he feeling unsure
of himself? The odds were pretty good, weren't they? The ground
had been well prepared. Brilliantly prepared, if I say so myself.
Thank you, that's very kind of you. He had to take this last step
eventually, didn't he? Well, why did he keep postponing the mo-
ment?
On the last week end in April, Ellen came to the city with
Herb Goldsmith. Dinner was full of talk about trousseau, engage-
ment parties, house furnishings. Paul heard for the first time that
the wedding was definitely set for the third Sunday in May, right
after her final exams. After dinner, Mother and Dad settled down
in front of the television set, and Ellen and Herb drew him up-
stairs to his bedroom. “Paul darling," Ellen said, “Herb wants to
ask you a big favor. I do hope you'll be pleased about it.”
"Listen, fellow,” Herb said. His heartiest one-of-the-boys man-
ner. "I'm kind of embarrassed about this. You know me, there
isn't much I'm scared of in this world. From a line of opposition
150


tacklers to a battery of high-powered Washington lawyers. But
when it comes to this emotion business – Well, anyway, here it
is. I don't have any family of my own, you know, no kid brother
of my own, and all my pals are scattered around God knows
where. I'll be wanting somebody to stand up with me next month,
and give me some moral support, and keep me from making a run
for it at the last minute. A best man, I mean. And I can't think of
anybody I'd be happier or prouder to have as my best man than
you."
A big smirk on his face, full of satisfaction at his big-brotherly
feelings. And Paul couldn't miss the look on Ellen's face either.
Kind of eager and expectant. She was the one who'd put Herb up
to this. She was trying to be nice to Paul or something, she
thought she was making some sort of a wonderful gesture. Scraps
to the dog! Was he supposed to get up on his hind legs and wag
his tail and thank her for condescending to notice his existence?
He was damned. if he'd make it so easy for her.
“Thanks a lot, Herb,” he said, very quiet and cool. “I'm sorry
you can't find anyone else to be your best man. I'll be very happy
to help you out.” Just noncommittal enough so they couldn't put
their finger on anything wrong with it. While they were still smil-
ing indecisively, he nodded and walked out on them.
In bed that night, he made a resolution. Tomorrow was the day.
It was Sunday, he was meeting Barry for lunch – he would take
the final step before that lunch was over. Maybe it was a little
too soon, maybe the whole thing would collapse on the spot -
it just didn't matter any more. He couldn't stand another day like
this.
When Barry woke up, the sun was streaming into his room.
Lovely spring weather, and no school to think about, and he was
meeting Paul for lunch. They would have one of their nice days
151


together. Just wandering around, talking about things in general.
It was a little bit unbelievable, how wonderful things had become
with Paul the last few weeks. Almost the way it had been last
summer, when they were first getting to know each other, and
those crazy nights hadn't started yet.
Mother was at him all through breakfast. Did he have any
news from Harvard yet? Wasn't it strange that they hadn't sent
him a letter of acceptance yet? He explained to her for the hun-
dredth time that the letters wouldn't come till the middle of May,
and this was only the end of April. But this didn't satisfy Mother.
Maybe the ordinary members of the class, who had applied to the
second-rate colleges, wouldn't be hearing till the middle of May,
but surely a boy of his caliber –
In spite of himself, her constant talking about it was beginning
to make him uneasy. Not that he cared whether or not the college
he got into was “second-rate.” But it would be awful if Harvard
didn't want him. Because he knew that Harvard would want Paul,
he couldn't imagine any college turning down an outstanding boy
like Paul.
After breakfast, he said good-by to Mother and Dad. Dad mum-
bled, hardly looking up from his Sunday crossword puzzle.
Mother gave him a kiss, and of course managed to get in a sigh
about his appearance, “Really dear, I do wish you'd start to do
something about your weight. Not that I believe these things are
important in themselves. But as an indication of a person's will
power – ”
He went to the Central Park Zoo. On these nice days Paul and
he liked to eat at the open-air cafeteria there. He was ten minutes
ahead of time, so he waited by the pool and watched the seals.
Awhile later he began to worry. Paul never showed up for their
meetings on time, but Barry always worried just the same.
He felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned and saw Paul smiling
at him.
152


I care for you, and I'm the only one. Without me you haven't got
anybody.”
“Yes – I know that – ” He was going to cry, how could he stop
himself? “But why does that mean that we have to – We
can't – ”
“We can. We can do anything.” Paul had stopped walking, his
hand was on Barry's arm. “As long as we do it together. Then it's
something between us, something that belongs to the two of us
alone. How can anything be wrong if it's for the two of us?”
Barry blinked harder. There was a blur of trees, grass, benches
before his eyes.
The voice was softer now, not so angry and pushing. "You're
upset about it now. Because it's so new to you. You're full of ideas
about a thing like this, you think they're important to you. But
they're not really important to you. What you care about is me
and you."
Barry was shaking his head. If he could just shake away the
sound of that voice.
"And it'll be so easy,” the voice went on. “That's the beauty of
it. The hardest part is done already, we've worked out all the de-
tails already. What else have we been doing the last few weeks?
All we have to do now is put the plan into action. It's only a
question of you saying yes. All right, all right, don't say it now, it's
too early now. Think it over, and we'll talk about it again to-
morrow.”
Things grew a little clearer before Barry's eyes. He could see
the smile on Paul's face – half boyish and gay, half ironic and
superior – the smile that had filled him with such admiration
from the beginning. He heard himself stammering out, “Yes, all
right, let's not talk about it now, we'll talk about something
else – ”
“Yes, all right,” Paul said. He still didn't loosen his grip on
155


Barry's arm, they still didn't start walking again. “You have to do
this for me. If there's going to be any future between us at all — "
Abruptly he turned away and started walking.
At the next path they doubled back the way they had come.
After a while Paul was talking again, telling a story about some
girl he had taken out a few years ago. And Barry was laughing at
the right moments, as usual.
When they left the park the weather wasn't so nice any more.
There were clouds, and a slight chill in the air. “I didn't even
look at my math for tomorrow yet,” Paul said, and Barry said, “I
have to start in on my history essay,” so they agreed to break up
for the day. They said so long and went off in opposite directions.
It's going to work, Paul told himself, standing by the window
of his room that afternoon. Is it going to work? There was a look
in the kid's eyes. It was a look of real horror, you couldn't get
around that. All right, what else could you expect at the very first
moment? He'll feel different later on, it'll be what he really wants
later on. Then he'll thank me for what I did, and it'll give us a
big laugh that he ever should have had any hesitation.
Barry stood by the window of his room too. It was funny how
calm he suddenly was. Casual almost. As if nothing had hap-
pened that was the least bit surprising. And nothing had, in a
way. Now that the first shock was over, he realized he had been
expecting something like this all along. All of Paul's talk for the
last few weeks, this "abstract puzzle” of his – hadn't he guessed
deep down, from the start, what it was leading up to? Only he
hadn't wanted to admit it to himself, because everything was go-
ing along so perfectly. And maybe it wasn't really so. After all,
how could he have been sure? It would have been crazy to spoil
things because of something that might turn out to be in his im-
agination.
156


Well, it was all out in the open now. Paul would expect an an-
swer from him tomorrow. There was no doubt what the answer
had to be, of course. It was a terrible thing, what was going on in
Paul's mind. People didn't do things like that. He wouldn't do a
thing like that. That's what Paul would have to understand. And
then what? Paul had made that pretty clear, hadn't he? That was
the end of things then. They would stop seeing each other, and
that would be the end.
No, he couldn't really believe that. This whole thing was a kind
of joke that Paul was playing on him, just to see how he would
react. Or if it wasn't a joke, it was simply a bad mood he was in.
A temporary mood, it wouldn't be long before he got over it.
Maybe tomorrow, when they talked about it. If Barry laughed a
little, and pretended he hadn't really taken Paul seriously, then
Paul would start to laugh too.
And if he didn't, Barry thought. If he was really ready to break
up their friendship over this – A sudden stinging sensation made
him look down at his hand. He saw that he had gripped the win-
dow sill so tightly that his fingers were red.
"I won't do that,” he said in a low voice. Whatever else might
happen.
Sunday was the cook's night off, so Mother and Dad took him
out to a restaurant. French and sort of fancy. Mother liked French
restaurants, she was always comparing them to “those noisy dirty
steakhouses” where so many of her friends liked to eat. Barry
made up his mind to enjoy himself tonight. He ordered the most
exotic dishes on the menu, he talked much more than usual. Why
shouldn't he spend a pleasant evening out with his parents? He
wasn't any different from anybody else his age.
His high spirits lasted him right on to the next morning. He
didn't see Paul till lunch. As soon as the meal was over, he went
to Paul's table and said, “Let's get out of here, we can have a talk."
Paul's answer wasn't unfriendly, just sort of quiet. “I've got a
157


meeting of the Dramatics Club in five minutes, we're giving out
parts for The Tempest."
"Well, when can we — pa
“I'll see you after school,” Paul said. “I'll drive you home.”
It was an effort for Barry to keep up his high spirits through
the afternoon. At last he was sitting by Paul's side in the car.
After a while, in the same quiet voice, Paul said, “Did you
think it over?”
Barry laughed. “I've been thinking all right. I've decided your
scheme isn't ambitious enough. As long as we're going to be mas-
ter criminals, we ought to do something that'll really make a
splash. Like blowing up the Empire State Building or stealing the
gold out of Fort Knox.”
Paul looked at him sharply. “Are you joking or something?”
“Am I joking? You're a fine one to talk. You know, you really
had me fooled yesterday. You put up such a good act, with that
serious expression and all — ”.
Paul slammed his foot down on the brake. The car screeched to
a stop so suddenly that Barry was thrown forward. When he re-
gained his balance he turned and saw the fury in Paul's eyes.
“So it's all a joke to you,” Paul was saying. “Your friend is in
trouble, he comes to you for help - you think that's a big joke.
Get out of the car.”
“But Paul – ”
“Get out of the car. You don't want to ride with me any more.
You think I'm some sort of a moron. I'm a clown. I don't have any
feelings."
"I don't think that, Paul. You weren't joking, I see that now.”
“Get out of the car.”
Barry edged back to the door and stepped out to the street.
Paul slammed the door shut. A moment later the car jerked for-
ward.
It was almost a minute before Barry realized where he was. Up
158


it on the
rests had not thing
in the Bronx somewhere. There was a subway entrance a block
away. He started walking towards it slowly.
Later that evening he said a quick hello to Mother and Dad in
the living room and hurried off to his own room. He stayed there,
stretched out on the bed, until Mother knocked on the door and
told him the dinner guests had arrived. Dinner guests – he had
forgotten all about them. The last thing in the world he felt like
doing tonight was making polite small talk in front of strangers.
The guests were Dr. Stone and his wife, from Dad's hospital.
They were nice enough, they didn't gush over you in that hypo-
critical way that older people had. Their daughter Nancy was
with them. She was a year younger than he was, a dark serious-
looking girl who would have been fairly pretty except for her
glasses. He had met her a few times at the country club, and he
had nothing against her. But how was he supposed to sit around
tonight and think of sociable things to say to her?
Dinner was all right, because everybody stayed together in the
dining room and Mother did most of the talking. Barry could
sink into his chair and put on an interested look, as if he were fol-
lowing the conversation. After dinner, Mother said, “Barry dear,
we're going to be playing bridge tonight, why don't you and
Nancy go out to a movie or something?"
They decided to see the new French movie on Fifty-eighth
Street, and Dad grinned and reached into his pocket for money.
Mother gave a few girlish little laughs and said, “You young peo-
ple enjoy yourselves, don't get home too early.” Then they left the
apartment
In the cab riding downtown, Nancy said, “I'm sorry."
He looked up at her. “What about?"
"About tonight. I know you don't really want to go out to-
night.”
“No, that's not true. I'm very glad – ” He broke off, blushing a
little.
159


She went on, “I know how it feels, when you're busy or you've
got something on your mind, and you're saddled with somebody.
I'm sorry."
He looked at her curiously. He hadn't really looked at her yet.
Then, to his own surprise, he found himself smiling. “I guess I've
been awfully rude. But it's all right now, I'll enjoy the movie."
She smiled too. “I'm the one who ought to apologize. I was an-
noyed at you. Because you weren't turning handsprings at the
mere thought of taking me out, I guess. So I decided to speak up
and embarrass you a little.”
"Well, you succeeded all right.”
“I'm always doing things like that,” she said. “I've got a mean
disposition. And I'm a terrible egotist. I think it's everybody's
duty to like me and admire me.”
"I guess everybody's that way," Barry said. “I'm that way my-
self. I'm always telling myself that people couldn't possibly like
me or admire me. But it really amounts to the same thing, doesn't
it?"
She looked surprised, behind her glasses. "Why should you
think that people don't like you? Everybody says what a nice boy
you are.”
He felt a funny little pang of pleasure at this. "No, I don't be-
lieve that.”
The cab pulled up at the movie theater, so that was the end of
their conversation. After the movie they did a lot more talking,
over coffee and ice cream. She told him about this school she was
going to, this sort of finishing school where all the girls were so
silly and uninteresting. He told her about the classification and
significance of rock formations. She was amazed at his knowledge,
she was always amazed at people with scientific minds, because
her own mind was so sloppy and unscientific. What she loved
best in the world was music, and especially going to the opera.
He cried out that he loved the opera too, and pretty soon it was
160


just the way it always is when two opera lovers get together –
they were busy comparing the merits of singers, sighing ecstati-
cally or groaning angrily over this or that performance, plunging
into their own version of the tenor's aria from Aïda. And then,
when they had exhausted themselves on opera, they slipped into
a low serious conversation about their common experience of
wearing glasses since childhood.
It was midnight before they knew it. They had to hail a cab
and hurry uptown, because their parents would be worried about
them. The bridge game was over. Mother was full of sly little
remarks on the lateness of the hour, then the Stones said good
night. Barry shook hands quickly with Nancy. “I'll give you a
ring,” he said.
He lay awake in bed that night. Everything's going to be all
right, he kept thinking. He wasn't so different after all. The world
was full of things that he could enjoy, other things besides Paul
King and what he wanted to do. He frowned a little as he thought
of Paul. That crazy idea of his, it was giving Paul real pain. What
was a friend for, if not to help you in your moments of pain? He
would talk to Paul gently and persuasively like a friend. He
would make him see that he didn't have to carry out this crazy
idea of his, he could find just as much happiness in other ways.
He would talk to Paul first thing in the morning.
He got to school a little early, because he wanted to find Paul
before the first class. As he was putting his books away in his
locker, he felt Paul's tap on his shoulder. He saw the worn gray
look on Paul's face.
"Listen, kid,” Paul started right in, “I'm sorry for yester-
day. Kicking you out of the car like that, that was a crazy thing
to do."
"That's all right. Everybody loses their temper once in a while."
"It wasn't my temper. It was my control. I'm losing my control.
I don't know what I'm doing these days. It's this thing that's on
161


my mind. But you know all that already, we've talked about it too
much already."
“And I wanted to talk about it some more, Paul. I know how
you feel and all, but it doesn't have to be that way. I realized
something last night – ”.
“We've talked about it too much already,” Paul said. “Talk isn't
any good to me. There has to be something else now. You have to
help me now. You have to say yes, and we have to do this to-
gether.”
Barry turned a little pale, he could feel his confidence weaken-
ing. “No. It's a terrible thing."
"It's a terrible thing. All right, it's a terrible thing. But it's a
terrible thing to hurt a friend too. That's what you're doing to
me. You're killing me. Do you understand that? You're killing
me."
"But that's so silly. Why do you have to be like this? Everything
would be so wonderful, if you only weren't like this. If you'll let
me tell you about last night – ”
"I'm not silly.” Paul raised his voice. “You're killing me - is
that silly? You're a bastard, Bastard! Dirty bastard!”
A couple of girls turned to look at them from the end of the
corridor, then hurried away.
“That's not fair,” Barry said. “You know how I feel about you.
I wouldn't do a thing to hurt you. Nobody means as much to me
as you do."
“Then stop doing this to me!” There was a desperate, almost
begging note in Paul's voice that Barry had never heard there
before. “For God's sake, stop doing this to me!” Then Paul turned
sharply and walked down the corridor.
The high spirits Barry had started out with that morning were
all gone now. His head was whirling again. Was he really doing
something awful to Paul, hurting him, killing him, the way he
162


said? For a moment he thought, Why not? What did other things
matter? Was there anything more important than Paul and him?
With a shudder he shook this thought away. No, I won't do
that. Whatever happens. I'd break up the whole friendship first,
stop seeing him once and for all. Maybe that was the answer, he
thought. Put it to him point-blank, right after lunch. You give up
this crazy idea of yours, or that's the end of things between us.
That was the answer, of course. You have to start acting like a
man eventually.
Lunch came, and he gulped his food. Just as soon as he had fin-
ished he was by Paul's side, telling him firmly that he wanted to
have a talk with him. They left the dining room together and
climbed the hill to their favorite spot, behind the volleyball court.
No words were spoken between them, but as they walked Barry
felt his resolution softening. To stop seeing Paul once and for
all – There was a friendship between them. How would Paul feel
if his friend suddenly came out and said, “This is the end of
things.” You can't do something like that to your friend.
By the time they reached the volleyball court he had changed
his plans. He wouldn't break things up now, he would give Paul
another chance. He would try, just as patiently as he could, to talk
him out of this crazy idea.
He turned to Paul and started to smile.
“Now listen to me,” Paul said, while Barry's smile was still
forming. “I've been thinking it over. I'm calmer now, and I've
made my decision. I came to you as a friend, and you turned me
down. Okay, that's your privilege, I won't get mad about it. But
one thing is clear. There's no more friendship between us. We're
in the same school, so we can't avoid seeing each other, but we
don't have to talk to each other, we can stay out of each other's
way. There's only a few more months to the term, then we'll both
be going off to college. If you get into Harvard, I'll just go to my
163


second choice. After that we'll probably never run into each other
again. Anyway, let's hope so. Now good luck, and so long."
Barry's mouth was dry. He heard his voice come out with an
unfamiliar hollow sound to it. “But – you don't mean that – ”
“Yes, I do mean it. It's the best thing for both of us. So what
about it?"
For a moment Barry couldn't answer. And then, gathering up
all his strength, he said quickly, “All right, if that's how you want
it. All right, we won't be friends any more."
“All right then,” Paul said.
"All right,” Barry said.
They stood there for a moment, looking at each other. Then
Paul turned and started down the hill. Barry waited a minute,
counting the seconds under his breath. Then he started down the
hill too.
III
IT WAS a lucky thing the Dramatics Club held its first reading of
The Tempest after school. That was what Paul needed more than
anything else right now, a chance to raise his voice, wave his arms
in the air, pour out his feelings.
He was Prospero. That meant lots of long speeches to make, im-
pressive poses to strike, a wonderful feeling of standing on top of
the world, looking down on the ants far below, making the ele-
ments do his bidding with a flick of his wand and a rolling
phrase. A wonderful feeling, only he couldn't seem to work him-
self into it at the beginning.
The direful spectacle of the wreck, which touched
The very virtue of compassion in thee,
I have with such provision in mine art
So safely ordered -
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Like a good parent, did beget of him
A falsehood in its contrary as great
As my trust was –
“Yes, that's much better, Paul dear,” said Miss Spengler. "You're
beginning to get the spirit of it now.”
My false brother, Paul thought. He wanted to shout it out even
louder than he was doing. My false brother! Then Miranda drifted
off to sleep, and he clapped his hands with an air of great author-
ity -
Approach, my Ariel; come!
Then, for a while, it was little Howard Knapp who had the big
speeches. Little ham. Why did he have to read everything in such
an exaggerated voice? And that silly old Spengler female just
couldn't coo ecstatically enough over his so-called acting. Well,
Paul got some of his own back at the end of the scene, when
Prospero's big speeches came along.
Thou best knowest
What torment I did find thee in: thy groans
Did make wolves howl, and penetrate the breasts
Of ever angry bears –
And didn't Paul make the most out of those groans and howls!
Just to show that little Howard Knapp the way it ought to be
done.
By the end of the first act, he was feeling a lot better. Why
should he have got so upset in the first place? After all, he had
known from the start that Barry was going to strain and struggle
a lot harder than usual. From the start a complete break was in-
evitable. It was the only thing that would make him desperate
enough to give in at the end. So why let it bother him when it fi-
nally happened? Driving home later on, he repeated all this rea-
soning to himself, laughed, and stepped up the speed way over
166


the limit. Just to remind himself he wasn't the type who got
scared at things.
During dinner Mother was all upset. Another crisis in the wed-
ding plans – every night there was a new crisis in the wedding
plans. It seemed that she had sent out all the invitations a week
ago, and now, out of nowhere, she remembered a whole branch
of the family that she had completely forgotten to invite. What
could she do? If she sent invitations to them now, and if they com-
pared notes with other members of the family and discovered they
had been afterthoughts, they would be terribly offended. On the
other hand, if she didn't invite them at all –
Dad looked up from his plate and said, “This subject is begin-
ning to bore the hell out of me, Harriet. Suppose we drop it and
finish our meal in peace.” Mother subsided, but the worried look
was still on her face.
After dinner they went back to the living room. Mother said,
"Are you going out now, dear? Didn't you mention you were go-
ing to study tonight with Barry?”
“I'm studying alone tonight,” Paul said.
Mother started in on Barry. What a sweet boy he was, how
bright and well-mannered. She was so glad that Paul was friendly
with a boy like that.
“That mother of his is a crazy woman,” Dad said. “She's al-
ways bending my ear at Parents' Day up at the school. Psychol-
ogy, for Christ's sake!”
Even so, Mother went on, Barry was a lovely boy. It certainly
wasn't fair to judge a boy by his parents -
"I've got homework to do,” Paul said. He got up quickly and
went out of the room.
He went upstairs, planted himself in front of his desk, opened
up a book. But it was no use, it was all starting up again. So he
thinks he can get along without me – He told himself now how
stupid he was being, he went over and over that neat little chain
167


ing, that his thoughts were far away. Daydreaming about that
Chess and Checkers Club of his, Barry supposed. And that friend
of his, the heart specialist, whose jokes Dad was always repeat-
ing.
Barry watched the television intently. He hung on every word,
laughed at every joke, stared and stared at every face. His fingers
held on to the edge of his chair, as if he needed all his strength
to keep from being pulled out of it. Pulled where? It was the tele-
phone at the other end of the room that dragged at him like a
magnet. If he forgot to keep his attention riveted on the screen, if
he let himself relax just a little bit, then his gaze would snap back
to that telephone. No, I'm not going to call him, he told himself.
Whatever I do.
“Why so quiet, darling?” Mother said. “What's the matter with
you tonight, why aren't you talking?"
It always annoyed him when Mother asked this question. A
perfectly simple question, full of motherly interest. Why should
he get this feeling of casual, almost lazy malice hidden inside of
it? No reason at all. There must be something terribly nasty and
unnatural about him.
"I'm fine,” he said. “I just don't have anything to talk about.”
But Mother had lost interest already. She was yawning and
saying how tired she was, what a hectic day it had been at her
Music Appreciation Group.
A little while later Barry was lying in bed. “There isn't any
more friendship between us,” Paul said. “Good-by and good luck,”
he said. And his face was so calm and indifferent. He might have
been saying good-by to a stranger.
Well, all right, why not? If he can be calm and indifferent, why
can't I be calm and indifferent too? More so, even more so. I'm
better off without him anyway. There was always something a lit-
tle crazy with him, something to worry about or feel scared
about. Much better to be out of all that. New people will come
169


along, new interests to fill up my life, pretty soon I won't even
remember what it was like with him.
Nancy Stone. Call up Nancy Stone, call her up first thing to-
morrow night. Now there's a wonderful girl. They got along per-
fectly right from the start. Going out with a girl like that – the
fun they could have, the evenings together. Nice normal eve-
nings, the way a person is supposed to have. And the past for-
gotten in no time at all.
His fears rushed back to him next morning as he started off to
school. He had three classes with Paul today. He had no idea
how his fine resolutions would hold up, with Paul so close to
him. So that he could catch Pauls attention without even raising
his voice, so that he only had to reach out and touch him.
He walked into his first class. Paul was only a few feet away
from him. He turned his eyes away quickly. He got a sense of
Paul turning his eyes away too. From then on he plunged into
French verbs with special energy, so that Mademoiselle Fon-
taine told him he was making “much progress.” It was just like
the television last night. As long as he kept himself absorbed in
other things – In the hall, after lunch, Paul went marching past
him flanked by a couple of fellows from the baseball team. They
were laughing loudly at something. Paul's laugh was the loudest
of all. Barry felt his face growing hot.
No, it wasn't easy, but eventually the day came to an end, and
he had done it. There was a kind of pleasure and satisfaction in
that. It lasted him through the subway ride back home, and then
he went straight to the phone and called Nancy.
She was glad to hear from him. She didn't get all gushy and
breathless, like some girls, but she didn't put on that bored super-
sophisticated air either, like some other girls. She told him quietly
that she would enjoy going out with him Saturday night. She
didn't seem to feel that any tricks were necessary with him.
The only problem now was to get through till Saturday night.
170


Well, why shouldn't he be able to? It ought to come easier from
now on, with his date with Nancy waiting for him at the end. In
the days that followed, he made more and more use of that date.
After his brushes with Paul in the school corridors, he would say
to himself, “You're seeing Nancy Saturday night, everything will
be all right when you see Nancy.” And in the long evenings, with
the television droning away, Mother smirking or snapping,
Dad serenely drifting out of it all, he could check his impulse
towards the telephone in only one way. “Don't be a dope. Sat-
urday night is almost here. You can certainly hold out till Satur-
day night.”
Saturday night finally came. He let Nancy do the talking dur-
ing dinner. She didn't seem to mind. She chattered away quite
cheerfully, telling funny stories about the snobbish principal of
her school, laughing at the stories herself, not at all affected by
Barry's silence. It was just as if she knew he was in a mood, and
she was trying to help him through it. How grateful he was that
she wasn't the type of girl who feels obliged to "draw a man out,”
to widen her eyes at him and make him talk about himself.
Towards the end of the meal he began to join in on the con-
versation. He asked questions at first, then he tried out a story of
his own. And then, before he knew it, they were chattering and
laughing together.
After dinner they went to a double feature. The first picture
was a western, with lots of fighting and yelling and shooting, and
long slow shots of the same mountains and deserts that show up
in every western. Barry tried a wisecrack about halfway through,
and Nancy came back with one of her own. So she wasn't the
sort of person who thought that a movie theater was like a church,
and you had to maintain a religious silence every minute. But
then the western was over, and the main picture came on. It was
a revival of Camille with Greta Garbo, and from the first mo-
ment a sort of hush came over Nancy. No wisecracks now, Barry
171


sor
knew, and he settled back to lose himself in the story as com-
pletely as she was doing. Once or twice, at the start, it crossed his
mind, Should I take her hand? Should I try putting my arm
around her? But then he felt annoyed at himself. It wasn't that
sort of date, or that sort of girl. Where you went through the
routine maneuvers, A, B, C, like an exercise, without having to
put your feelings into it at all.
A sweet dying strain from La Traviata rose up in the back-
ground as Greta Garbo gazed despairingly into Robert Taylor's
eyes. He was irritatingly pretty, that Robert Taylor, but Greta
Garbo was so beautiful that you couldn't pay much attention to
anything else. She told Robert Taylor that they mustn't dare to
fall in love, it was sheer madness, he had his whole future ahead
of him, and what was she? But he simply leaned forward to kiss
her. She shook her head in agony, then she sighed, then they
came together. La Traviata rose up again and seemed to wind it-
self around them.
Something made Barry turn his head. Even in the dim light he
could see that there were tears on Nancy's cheeks. He reached
out and found her hand. She didn't draw it away. It rested softly
under his. Greta Garbo broke out of Robert Taylor's arms, did a
little pirouette across the room, gave a warm mocking laugh.
When the picture was over, Nancy and Barry stood up in si-
lence and moved with the crowd out to the street. He took her
arm and they started up Lexington Avenue, their faces solemn.
They had walked a whole block before Nancy broke the silence
with a giggle, and then spoke in a husky voice, “Do we dare to
stop for a cup of coffee? Or would it be sheer madness?" .
He answered, “What do I care? I will give up everything for
this one wild moment!” And they turned into the coffee shop at
the corner and spent the next hour with Camille, laughing at how
silly it was, sighing at how beautiful it was.
She lived across the park, on Central Park West. In the bus
172


they were silent again, soothed by the soft spring breeze through
the window and the quiet streets around them. It had been a
wonderful evening, Barry told himself. It had been a wonderful
evening, just the way he knew it would be. Healthy and normal,
and everything just right. A few more evenings like this one –
“We're here.” Nancy was nudging him.
He helped her out of the bus, they walked down Central Park
West to her building. As the long gray awning loomed closer, he
felt a small chill deep inside of him. No, he didn't. It wasn't any-
thing at all. Everything was perfect, wonderful.
They were in the lobby of her building, they were riding up in
the elevator. Then they were standing outside her door. Her
hand was in his. “It's been a wonderful evening.” Her hand
started to slip away. Another moment, and she would be through
the door, out of his sight, and he would be riding down in the
elevator alone.
“We'll see each other again, won't we?” he said. She nodded
and started to answer, but he went on, “Next Friday maybe. And
maybe we can have Saturday too.” Again he didn't wait for an
answer. He leaned forward and kissed her quickly on the cheek,
then he turned and pushed the button for the elevator.
The trip down was slow, and he could feel his heart sinking.
But that was silly. Why should his heart be sinking? He had just
spent the happiest night of his life. He had proved to himself that
he could enjoy himself like everyone else, he didn't depend on
anyone.
Outside the air had turned colder. He walked to the bus stop
quickly. Not a bus in sight. He waited, pacing a little. In his
mind he made himself live through the happy moments of this
evening. He told himself the stories she had told him about her
school. He laughed again at that stupid western. He looked deep
into Greta Garbo's eyes and heard her husky voice in his ears. He
laughed and sighed over his coffee –
173


"What's the matter, Barry?” she said. “Is there anything I can do
to help?"
His head snapped up. “Help what?"
"Well, I thought – If you've got some sort of trouble. Some-
times it's good to talk things out. That's what I always do with
my mother, when something's upsetting me.”
“You're not my mother! What a crazy thing to say!” Right away,
he could have bitten his tongue for talking to her like that. He saw
the hurt look coming into her eyes. He went on quickly, “Nancy,
I'm sorry. I didn't mean to – I'm just under a strain. School and
all, and waiting to hear from a college. I just didn't want to
bother you with my troubles.”
"But it's all right, for Heaven's sake – ” The hurt look went
away, and she laughed. “It's this stepping on each other's feet all
night that did it. Let's face it, we'd better stick to operas and
French movies.”
“A couple of hopeless highbrows,” he said, smiling a little. And
for the rest of the ride they talked about the opera. The Metro-
politan had just announced its repertoire for the fall, and they
agreed to hear all the Verdi and all the Mozart together. Then
they got into an argument over Madame Butterfly. Barry thought
it was “awfully sentimental,” and Nancy told him that was a
typical male point of view. “It hurts your ego that the hero should
be such a terrible person.” But Barry objected strenuously to that.
He was crazy about Rigoletto, wasn't he?
The second week of May began. There were the long days at
school, keeping his eyes hard on his books, hesitating just a mo-
ment whenever he was about to turn a corner. And there were
the nights, talking to Nancy on the phone, being with her, telling
himself how much good it was doing him. Just like anybody else
his age. Why did he ever imagine he was different from anybody
else his age?
176


ople who 8 around Must see hin
“Darling, I'm worried about you," Mother said to him one
night. “I don't think you're getting enough sleep, and I don't like
your appetite. Henry, I wish you'd take a look at the boy and give
him some vitamin pills.”
"I'm feeling fine," Barry said. “I don't need vitamin pills.”
"And your temper is short too,” Mother said calmly. “It's just as
I thought - vitamin pills.”
At school next day an announcement was made about the an-
nual senior party. It would be held in the auditorium next Friday
night, and class members could bring dates or come alone. He
wasn't going to come alone. He could just see himself fidgeting on
the stag line or wandering around among the crowd. Maybe
bumping into people who were surrounded by a group, having a
wonderful time – He invited Nancy to the party. And then, as
the day approached, he began to wonder if he should have done
it. It would be the first time he had ever taken her someplace
where they were bound to run into – Well, so what? He was all
over that, wasn't he? He didn't have to spend his whole life
dodging and hiding.
At school on Friday he went through the day almost belliger-
ently, ready to stand up for his rights the moment anybody threat-
ened them. He kept his chin thrust forward all through Made-
moiselle Fontaine's French class, because that was the only class
that he shared with –
“Monsieur Morris, I have asked you a question. If you will
please descend from the world of dreams, and answer me.”
When he got home that evening, he started straight to his room,
he had to dress for the party. It was going to be formal, and Dad
was letting him use the car for the occasion. His hand was on the
door when Mother called out from the living room, “Darling,
come in here a minute.”
He went into the living room with a protest automatically form-
177


ing on his lips. But he cut it short when he saw the funny pleased
way Mother and Dad were looking at him. “This letter came for
you this morning,” Mother said, and she held it out to him.
He noticed that the envelope had been opened. He noticed that
the return address was Harvard University. With his fingers
trembling a little he took out the letter: “Dear Mr. Morris, we are
pleased to inform you – ” When he had finished reading it, he
looked up from it uncertainly. “I got accepted – ” Then Mother
and Dad were down on him. Mother was kissing and hugging
him, Dad was shaking his hand. Then there was some business
about opening a bottle of champagne and drinking to the good
news, and finally he broke away from them and went to his room.
He dressed himself slowly for the party. A wonderful thing had
just happened to him. Getting into a good college was a mile-
stone in a boy’s life. He was excited and happy. He ought to be,
so he was. Who else got in? he asked himself. He didn't really
have
any
doubts about that. If Harvard was willing to take some-
body ordinary like Barry Morris, they would certainly grab an
outstanding person – “If you get into Harvard, I'll just go to my
second choice.” The words still stuck in his memory. I'll just go
to my second choice. And everything would be over after that.
What could anybody possibly do about it?
He shook his head quickly. No, he would never do that.
He called for Nancy at seven. She was dressed in a frilly pink
evening dress. First time he had ever seen her dressed up fancy.
She looked nice. Sort of self-conscious and young-looking. But it
was nice. In the car he told her his big news, and she congratu-
lated him so warmly, and there was such real pride and pleasure
in her eyes. He was happy. He had got into college, and he was
taking his girl to a party, and he was going to enjoy this evening
as he'd never enjoyed an evening before.
The auditorium was all lighted up, and there were floodlights
178


on the parking lot in back. As they got out of the car, Nancy
slipped her glasses off and put them in her bag. She gave a little
grin, but said nothing. Inside, the buffet supper was being served.
He took Nancy to the line and introduced her to his friends and
made the usual sidelong comparisons with the girls they had
brought. Then he looked over the crowd. No sign of him yet.
They found a place with two other couples. Pretty soon they
were all eating and talking. Nancy wasn't having any trouble get-
ting along with these people, it was just as if she had gone to
school with them as long as he had. It was happiness that was
doing it, he knew. Usually she was shy with strangers.
"Oh, Paul's here,” he heard somebody cry out. “Oh Paul, Paul,
come on and eat with us!”
He saw him on the buffet line now. Trim and perfect in his
tux. All of a sudden Barry felt sloppy and overgrown, and wished
he was wearing normal clothes again. There was a girl with him,
Rita something from the junior class. She was a pretty girl, and
she was an inch taller than he was. “And they don't come any
dumber,” he used to say. “It's very relaxing. She carries all her
assets right out in front where you can see them.” Barry saw him
through the buffet line, saw him take a place at the opposite cor-
ner of the room. Soon he was hidden from sight by three or four
people crowding around him.
The dinner was over, the dancing began. It was a pretty good
band, the Senior Party Committee had paid a lot of money for it.
Barry moved Nancy heavily around the floor, trying to keep in
step and follow the music. There was that Rita something, but
she was dancing with a different boy. And he was dancing with a
different girl, every time Barry looked. He was a wonderful
dancer, the girls were crazy to dance with him.
There was a pause while the band rested up. Barry led Nancy
to the punch bowl. “Did you hear about Paul?” he heard some-
179


body saying. But he couldn't catch any more. What about him?
He found Victor Loving by the punch bowl, in the stag line.
Victor Loving always knew what was going on.
“Didn't you hear?” Victor said. “He was accepted at Harvard
today. And he says he's going to refuse them. He says Harvard is
too stuffy and conventional for him, he prefers to go out West
somewhere. Some people will say anything to make a dramatic
effect.”
The band returned, the music started up again. Out West
somewhere. Nancy was in his arms, they were moving around the
floor again. Out West somewhere. There was a buzzing in his
ears. They bumped into a couple. Apologies. One, two, back in
step again. Out West somewhere.
The party got louder. Music, punch, sandwiches. Another rest
for the band, filled in by comical verses about each member of the
class. Written by the chairman of the Party Committee, who
blushed at the applause. Back to the dancing again.
A tap on Barry's shoulder. “May I cut in?"
He whirled around at the voice. Saw the face, the light hair,
the smile. Not turned on him though. Turned on Nancy, all for
her, and he might not have been standing there at all. She gave
a smile in Barry's direction, then she was being danced off. He
threaded through the dancers to the punch bowl. Stood among the
stags, looked out at the floor, at the two of them laughing, turning.
All of a sudden she was doing all the steps, so easy and graceful.
And that smile was turned on full for her benefit. He could shut
his eyes and still see it, that smile. He knew it by heart. It was a
part of him. He turned away, couldn't look any more.
Later she was by his side, her arm in his. A few more dances.
Crowd starting to thin out. But the ones who stayed were getting
louder and happier. A rhumba. There he was, back with Rita
again, slithering away from each other, then together. His eyes
sparkling, her eyes empty in spite of her big smile. His arm
180


raised, fingers snapping. No self-consciousness at all. Barry would
have died first.
He was gripping Nancy's arm tightly. "Come on, let's go.” Be-
fore she could say anything, he went on, “Head needs clearing,
the party's breaking up anyway.”
She followed him quietly through the remaining couples. A few
quick good-bys, see you Monday, wonderful party, wasn't it?
Your senior party, one of the great events of your high school ca-
reer, you're supposed to remember it all your life.
Out to the parking lot, the blast of floodlights. Into the car in
silence, and then they were sweeping down the hill. Nancy lean-
ing back by his side, and a happy peaceful smile on her face.
“It was just a perfect evening,” she said. “Barry, it was just
perfect."
He didn't answer. He kept his eyes on the road.
“I don't know how I can thank you,” she said. “I don't think I'll
ever be able to thank you."
He still didn't take his eyes off the road. “It was a terrible eve-
ning,” he said.
He heard the bewilderment coming into her voice. “But - I
thought we were having such a good time – ”
"That's what you thought,” he said.
There was no sound from her. He could imagine the way she
was looking at him. His foot pressed down hard on the gas. The
car spurted forward, the wind whipped against his face. Pretty
soon they pulled up in front of her building, and he reached over
her and pushed open the door.
“I'll say good night right here,” he said. “I'm too tired to go up-
stairs.”
“I could make you some coffee, we wouldn't wake anybody
up – ”
“Never mind,” he said. “Put on your glasses, or you'll fall on
your face."
181


He could feel her staring at him. And then, without another
word, she jumped out of the car and ran up the sidewalk. She
didn't look back at him once.
The next morning, while Mother and Dad were still in their
room, he went to the phone to call Nancy. He waited a long time
while her kid brother Stanley fetched her. Maybe she wouldn't
talk to him at all. He couldn't blame her if she didn't.
And then her voice was in his ear, quietly saying his name.
“I thought I ought to call,” he answered.
“Yes.”
“I thought – I don't know what to say. I apologize, but I know
that doesn't make it all right.”
"It's all right,” she said. “I was acting silly all night. Floating
around, playing at being a glamour girl. It's no wonder it got on
your nerves.”
“No, please,” he said. “It wasn't your fault. You're a wonderful
girl, I never met a girl I liked so much. It wasn't you at all. I
don't know how to explain it.”
“You don't have to explain it.”
“Yes, I do. Not just because of last night. But what I've been
doing all along.” He paused, wet his lips, hurried on, “It's me,
don't you see. Something inside of me. I'm not right for people.
It's always been that way. When I met you I tried to pretend I
was just like anybody else – ”
"You are just like anybody else.”
“No, I'm not. Last night just proved it all over again. I'm not
right for people. Even if I try to be.”
“I don't understand you. You're the nicest boy I know.”
“No, I'm not. That's the whole thing. I'm not nice. A nice girl
like you – There just isn't anything for me with a nice girl like
you. With nice decent people – there's nothing for me.”
182


A moment later, in a softer voice, she said, “You don't think we
should go out together any more?”
“That's what I'm trying to say, I guess. Because of me, not you.
As long as you understand that."
He heard her give a small sigh. “Well, I think I under-
stand.”
“Well – good-by then, Nancy."
“Good-by, Barry."
He waited to hear the click at the other end of the line. Then
he lowered the receiver.
For a long time he sat where he was. His eyes were fixed on the
queer slithery modernistic lamp across the room. It was one of
Mother's newest favorites. He could remember the triumphant
look on her face, the day she brought it home.
And now he knew the truth, didn't he? No more pretending
now. No more nice girls as camouflage to hide his feelings from
himself. Now he was face to face with the one big truth - he
was all alone in the world. There was nobody in the world for him
but Paul. And since Paul would take him back on only one con-
dition – No, he wouldn't do that. Whatever he did -
Well, he just had to make up his mind to it. That's what life was
going to be for him. For the rest of his life this funny thing would
keep him apart from other people. When things are inevitable,
then you have to accept them. That's what Mother meant by fac-
ing your responsibilities.
"Well, good morning.” Dad's voice broke in on his thoughts.
“I hope you're feeling tip-top this morning.”
Barry murmured good morning.
“Had your breakfast yet?” Dad said. “Sit down, drink your or-
ange juice. It'll give you muscles.”
Barry sat down at the table across from Dad.
“Well now," Dad said. “What's the program? No school today,
is there? I suppose you're planning to celebrate in an appropriate
183


manner.” And then Dad's newspaper was spread open in front of
him.
Face your responsibility, Barry thought. But how could he do
it? His whole life with nobody in it, nobody to see at the end of
the day and drink coffee with before it was time for sleep. It
wasn't his fault if he had this thing inside of him. Why should he
suffer for it like this? Why not stop the suffering right away? Why
not go to Paul — No, he couldn't do that. Whatever he did. He
would fill up his life with other things. If there weren't any peo-
ple for him, there were books, and records to listen to. It was a
long time since he had listened to music.
He got up from the table and muttered that he was going out.
Music was what he needed now. He would go downtown to the
record shop and listen to some things in a booth.
The record shop was crowded. It always was on a Saturday. He
looked through the catalogue, and with some difficulty attracted
the attention of the clerk, a pink-cheeked young man with black-
rimmed glasses. They always made him nervous, these record-
shop clerks. They fixed him with their bored contemptuous
stares, as if they could see right through him to the secret in his
heart – that he was less interested in buying a record than in
giving himself a free concert in one of the booths. His nervous-
ness made him stumble over his words, so that the clerk snapped
out impatiently, “What do you want? You'll have to speak more
clearly!” Awhile later Barry slipped off to a booth with half a
dozen records.
He put on a Haydn symphony. There's nothing like a Haydn
symphony when you're jumpy and upset. So classical and serene
and controlled, as Herr Weinstock said in music appreciation.
The first notes were heard. The low long roll of a drum, then a
beautiful broad melody. So serene and classical. And full of sad.
ness too. Herr Weinstock hadn't mentioned that a Haydn sym-
phony could be so sad. The slow part ended, a fast part began.
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Full of energy, high-spirited and happy. It jarred with his
feelings. Happiness and high spirits weren't for him any
more. But no, that was being silly. Music was just what he needed
now.
An hour later he returned the records to the counter - putting
them down quickly and turning away before the clerk could
catch his eye. He hurried out of the shop and started walking.
Music was no good at all, he told himself. Books wouldn't be any
better. He couldn't even imagine himself opening a book.
The sun was shining down so gently. Such beautiful weather,
perfect May weather. It wouldn't last long. Pretty soon the days
would turn hot and sticky, and the streets would be terrible to
walk on. He loved this weather ordinarily. Why did things have
to go wrong for him just when the weather was so beautiful? If
his life had to turn sour like this, why couldn't it happen in the
winter, when the days were dull and bitter anyway?
He was hungry. A clock in a store window showed him it was
one o'clock. He turned into the first drugstore and ate a ham-
burger slowly, not even noticing how it tasted.
What about his rock collection? On a lovely day like this he
used to go up to the Palisades and look for specimens. He used
to go with Johnnie Dykeman. But that was a long time ago. No,
it wasn't really so long ago, when you thought about it. Why, it
was only a year ago, it was only last spring. He wondered, did
Johnnie ever go out to look for rocks any more? He hadn't seen
much of Johnnie this year, they just didn't get together. It was
his fault, he knew. He had somehow made it clear to Johnnie,
without saying it in so many words, that things were different be-
tween them. But there hadn't been any fight or anything, they
were still friendly when they ran into each other at school. Why
couldn't he call up Johnnie now and ask him if he was busy this
afternoon? It would be fun, going out on another rock-hunting
expedition with Johnnie.
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He went to the drugstore phone booth. It was funny how he
still remembered the number, even though he hadn't used it for
so long
It was Johnnie's voice that answered the phone. "Hello.” The
sound of it was strange in Barry's ear. It was the same voice, he
had no trouble recognizing it, but it wasn't what he expected or
remembered somehow.
"Hello, who is this?” Johnnie said.
Barry opened his mouth. He didn't say anything.
"Hello, hello,” Johnnie said. “Is this some sort of gag? Is this
you, Mickey? Trying to be funny again?”
Who was Mickey? Barry didn't know any Mickey. He didn't
even know if it was a boy or a girl. He hung up the phone
quickly, and walked out of the drugstore as fast as he could, feel-
ing as if everybody was looking at him and snickering.
He hardly knew where he walked after that. There was the
park, the animals in the zoo, that chimpanzee that always spit at
people through the bars. The usual crowd of squealing, waving
people who seemed to get pleasure out of being spit at by a
chimpanzee. Beyond the zoo now, up the hill, and there were
the old men playing checkers. From early morning until it got
dark they sat there, shabby, dirty, gazing down at their checker
games. Nothing else to do all day long. Well, maybe there were
worse ways of using up the day. At least they had something to
take their mind off things.
Out of the park now. Feet getting sore, legs getting tired. He
turned uptown. Direction of home. Though he didn't actually say
to himself, “Time to go home now.” The familiar blue awning
was in sight now, then the slick marble lobby, up in the elevator,
into his room. Very quick, so Mother wouldn't notice him.
The clock on his desk said three-thirty. Half the afternoon still
to go. How would he ever get through it? A year, an eternity
seemed like less time to get through. He could always go to the
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phone and call – No, there wasn't any reason for that. There
were still plenty of things in his life. He had lived for sixteen
years without Paul King, hadn't he? How had he lived? He felt a
sudden flicker of hope. That was the answer, of course. It had
worked for sixteen years, why shouldn't it work again? All right,
it was crazy, stupid, childish. Maybe it was wrong even. But it
wasn't as wrong as other things. If it came to a choice between
this and other things –
He stretched out on the bed, he shut his eyes tight. The coun-
try road, he told himself. Tall trees arching over, and from the
distance the sounds of a scuffle – The light was making blotches
before his eyes. He shut them still tighter. . . . The sounds of a
scuffle, a voice crying for help. He hesitates, then he runs to-
wards the voice. He sees them. The four big men, the Prince they
were beating. Boyish aristocratic face, fair hair, amused smile. No,
not amused, not while the men were beating him. . . . His eyes
began to sting, he had to open them. The light blasted into them.
He turned over on his stomach and hid his face in the pillow. ...
Back to the Prince. Calling for help. He rushes forward, pulls at
the men, pummels them wildly. Then they're all gone, the Prince
is on his feet. Now the smile. Gracious, royal smile. And the happy
trembling inside of him, because he was able to be of service to
the Prince. The happy trembling inside of him. This was the mo-
ment he waited for. Everything led to this moment. What a won-
derful moment it was.
It wasn't wonderful now. It wasn't working at all. He turned
over on his back again. No warmth and peace, no ecstasy, nothing
of what he had felt so long ago. What was the good of an imag-
inary prince when there was a real prince waiting for you? With
an address and a phone number, only waiting for you to call, and
to tell him yes, you're ready -
He sat up sharply on the bed. No, he wasn't going to do that.
He sank back on the pillow. A wave of exhaustion spread over
187


No, he wasn't. It was an accident. He would turn around and
go in the other direction. Better still, he would walk right past it
without even looking.
He quickened his pace. And then he slowed up again. The
house was all lighted up. The blare of voices and music. Some
sort of party was going on inside. He remembered now. Wasn't
Paul's sister getting married pretty soon? Paul would be in there
probably. Laughing among the guests, dancing. He stopped short
where he was. He stared up at the big bay windows, each one a
blaze of yellow, with figures passing back and forth behind the
shades. One of those figures might be Paul. That small thin one
maybe, with the girl on his arm?
A low sigh broke out of him. What else can I do? he thought.
There's nothing else I can do.
At five-thirty Saturday afternoon, Ellen King was married to
Herb Goldsmith. Paul stood up with them as best man. Every-
body remarked how handsome he looked in his frock coat. He
could tell from their faces that they were remarking it. That King
boy would surely break hearts some day, if he wasn't already do-
ing so! And look at the serious, reverent expression on his face
during the ceremony. Look at how he stood on the side, with his
hands folded and his head lowered, effacing himself so modestly
and commendably. Without intending to, he was stealing the
show right away from the groom!
It was pleasant to observe these things, to enjoy the benign
smiles of the old ladies in the front rows, but it wasn't pleasant
enough to keep away the thoughts which had been going through
his head for the last three days. Ever since he opened that letter
from Harvard. Pretty soon he'd have to be writing Harvard back.
A refusal, the way he had threatened to do. He couldn't let it
look as if he had only been bluffing, as if he was the one who had
190


to back down when the crucial moment came. Why the hell did
this Harvard thing have to come up just now? Why couldn't they
have held off another few weeks? Everything had been working
out so fine up to now. The face was getting paler every day, the
eyes were getting tighter and filling with despair. Another week,
two more weeks at most – And now this Harvard thing comes
along!
His neck was itching under his collar. It was an ordeal to stand
still like this, with this stupid frown on his face. Goddamned
wedding!
It was over at last, and everyone piled into cars and taxis to go
uptown for the reception. Eager and excited, no more hushed
voices and religious expressions. They dropped all of that quickly
enough now that they were getting close to the real reason why
they had come – the food and champagne.
Back in the house he was at the champagne ahead of every-
one. He was hot, and he had a terrific thirst. And how can you
enjoy a party, if you don't fill up on your share of the liquor? You
have to be polite to your host and hostess.
An hour or so later he was talking to this pretty girl, and sud-
denly he was face to face with his mother and father.
“Having fun, boy?” Dad said. “Don't drink yourself under the
table. That space is reserved for your old man.”
“Haven't touched a drop,” Paul said. “Champagne bores me.”
Mother's eyes were moist. “It's such a nice party. I don't know
why it is, but wedding parties always make me cry. I remember
back in Memphis, the party Mama and Daddy gave me when I
married. Your father looked so handsome, everybody was so im-
pressed with him.” Through her tears she gave a proud smile at
Dad.
"Oh for God's sake, Harriet,” Dad said.
"There's the happy young couple,” Paul said. “Have to express
my happiness for the happy young couple.” He weaved away
191


from Mother and Dad, and pushed through the crowd to Ellen
and Herb.
She was still in her wedding dress. He had never seen her so
beautiful. And Herb standing next to her, with a hand on her
arm, smirking down at her, watching the world admire his prop-
erty.
“Happy young couple!” Paul cried. “Congratulations. Felicita-
tions. Joyous wishes from a humble relation.” He hugged and
kissed Ellen, he pumped Herb's hand up and down. "Good old
Herb. My new big brother. Just what I always wanted, a big
brother all my own. If there was one thing I really needed in this
world – ”
Herb was laughing awkwardly. “Well, you know, I wasn't kid-
ding about that, fellow. It's my sincere wish that you and I should
stand in that relationship to each other.”
“Stand in that relationship. That's very good, isn't it? Couldn't
have put it better myself. Good old Herb, got a real knack for
words. Stand in that relationship. I'll tell you what, there's some-
thing I've been wanting to do a long time now. To clinch this re-
lationship we're standing in. Symbolic gesture, sort of. Now you're
not going to be embarrassed, are you?”
Herb grinned around at people who had stopped to look. “It
takes a lot to embarrass me.”
Paul nodded enthusiastically. “Now that I believe. That's
something I really believe. Okay, good old Herb. Here goes." He
pulled his arm back and brought his hand down hard on Herb's
back. It caught Herb by surprise, and he jerked forward, cough-
ing. Paul began to laugh. “Good old Herb. How'd you like it?
Nothing like a slap on the back to symbolize our beautiful rela-
tionship. Knew you'd appreciate it – fellow!”
Herb had caught his breath finally, and he was straightening
his tie and clearing his throat. Ellen was pale as she came up to
ove. That's
. back and bronchi good old Herb. H
back. It co
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Paul. “Don't you think you'd better lie down? Stretch out some-
where till the alcohol wears off.”
"Stretch out somewhere.” Paul's laughter died away under her
sharp angry gaze. All of a sudden his high spirits were all gone.
"Stretch out somewhere, good idea. Away from the people.” He
turned and started pushing his way through the crowd. “Get the
hell away from the people.”
He was out in the hall, free from the crowd. Stretch out some-
where, clear the dizziness out of his head. There was his father's
den, with the door wide open. But the sofa was covered with
coats. Why did he have to stretch out anyway? He wasn't really
drunk. Just a little dizzy, and putting on an act. Because you can
say things, when you're drunk, that you can't say any other time.
All he needed was a little air, walk around the block maybe, put
the noise, smoke, smell of people behind him for a while.
He pulled open the front door, stepped outside. He stood on
the top of the steps for a moment, blinking, breathing in the cool
air. Peaceful out here. The world could be peaceful sometimes.
Why couldn't he ever get some of it for himself, some of the
peacefulness?
He broke off, tightening up inside. He couldn't be seeing what
he was seeing. Down on the sidewalk, looking up at him, the face
forming itself so clearly before his eyes. The shock made him stu-
pid. He just stood there, and he couldn't say a word. ....
And Barry didn't say anything either. It was no shock for him.
Half an hour he had been outside the house, staring up at the
door, imagining the door opening, the thin figure stepping out.
When it happened, it seemed so natural and easy.
A last burst of fight rose up inside of him. No, he wouldn't do
that – And then it was swept away by the wave of relief, the
dropping of the load he had carried for all these weeks, the surge
of warmth and happiness.
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“Paul – whatever you want. If we could be friends again.”
The slow boyish smile told him all he wanted to know, even
before he heard the voice. “Of course we're friends again. You
dope, did you think we could ever really stop?” Then he was com-
ing down the steps, holding out his hand, smiling even harder.
Their hands were shaking. Just the way it had always been.
“For God's sake, kid, I thought you'd never make it. What I've
been through the last few weeks!”
“What you've been through - ?”
“Well, that's all over with now, thank God. We've got the fu-
ture to think about."
"The future – ”
“I heard you got into Harvard. I got in too, did you know that?
We'll be going in September. My God, that's practically tomor-
row. Did they send you the forms to fill out yet? I hope you know
what you're putting down when they ask you who you want for
a roommate.”
“Yes, I know what I'm putting down – ”
“Damn right you do. A few more months, and the times we're
going to have, the fun there's going to be. Four big years. After
that too.”
Barry could feel himself laughing now. “Four years. It's like
forever.”
"It is forever. And nothing to stand in the way of it now. Just
as soon as we take care of that one thing – Well, we won't talk
about that now. Only trivial things now. We'll have a long bull
session, just like we used to have. Listen, this party won't last
much longer. Could you see me later, around eleven?”
Could he see him later? Barry's head was nodding even before
Paul had finished the question.
“Well, okay then. We'll meet at the coffee place, the one we
like in the Village. Eleven sharp. And we'll guzzle coffee till we're
black in the face!”
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He laughed, and then he was running up the steps, his hand
was on the front door. He turned for a moment, gave a wave and
a flash of smile from the doorway. Then he was gone, and Barry
was staring up at the darkness.
FOR THE next week they were with each other almost con-
stantly. In the mornings before school began, going home in the
afternoon, and again after dinner, they couldn't seem to pass up a
single opportunity for being together. And late at night, though
they knew they needed their sleep for school, it was always a lit-
tle struggle to break away from each other. And so they would
stay together an hour longer than they should have, stretching out
the conversation for any slightly plausible excuse.
They talked about lots of things – the latest neighborhood
movie, the final tests at school, some girl they knew, where they
would live up at Harvard. Only one subject was never mentioned
between them – Maybe it won't be mentioned, Barry told him-
self. Maybe it's been forgotten, maybe it was all a kind of dream
in the first place.
On Saturday night, a week after his sister's wedding, Paul
said, “We won't go to the movies or anything tonight. It's nice
out, we'll take a drive in the country. There's some things we have
to discuss.” All the way out of the city Paul kept up a running
chatter about the heavy traffic and the bad drivers. Barry kept si-
lent. He knew that the time had finally come.
They turned off the parkway just above Mount Vernon but
kept driving for an hour more. They were in a section of West-
chester Barry had never seen before, few houses, lots of woods.
At the end of a winding dirt road, with trees stretching up on
195


puzzle.” It had to be a kid, that went without saying. Easier and
more practical. Lots of emotional strain for the parents, so they
wouldn't hesitate about obeying instructions. And maybe the
most important reason – it was a big thing with a kid. It was a
thing the whole world hated. Just the two of them against the
whole world.
Second, the method of contact. With a kid it had to take place
in daylight. Any fuss or mistake, and they would probably be
seen. They had gone over a dozen different possibilities and
agreed in the end that the simplest was the best. Pick a kid who
went to the same school that they did, who rode home in the sub-
way and not in the school bus. Follow him down the hill in the
car. See what train he got into. Drive downtown and wait for the
train. Chances are he'd be alone when he got off, he'd start walk-
ing for the crosstown bus. That was the moment to make contact.
Simply drive up in the car as if by accident, say hello to the kid,
offer to give him a lift home. The kid would know them, of course.
Big heroes at his school. He'd get in the car, and off they'd go,
and nobody would notice a thing.
Third, procedure in the car. Dangerous if they lost their head.
Childishly easy if they went about it calmly. And that was the
point of the whole thing, after all — they weren't trying to stay
away from danger, they were trying to meet it face to face and
show how well they could handle it. So the immediate goal, in
the car, was to keep the kid quiet and out of sight. Couldn't afford
to have him acting up during the long drive out of the city. The
only question was, how to keep him quiet – trick him with a per-
suasive story, or simply use force? Well, trickery was a lot more
satisfying. And artistic sort of. But it was less dependable, less
predictable. A smart man cuts down the unpredictable factors
whenever he possibly can. So one of them would drive the car,
the other one would sit in back. The kid would slide in next to
the driver. When they got into the park and could go along fast
197


without stopping for lights, the one in back would reach over
with a wrench or something. One tap on the head, pull the kid
over the seat to the back, tie him up, keep him down on the floor
for the rest of the ride.
One detail – but they had to watch out for it, details could trip
them up. The tap on the head would have to be quick and clean.
There couldn't be any bloodstains in the car. The chauffeur, Carl,
would find them and tell Paul's father about them. Just to make
trouble.
On to the fourth point – out in the country. Everything's fine
up to now, they take the parkway up to Westchester, finally they
arrive at the storage place in the woods. What happens next
might seem to be the hardest part of all. But it wasn't really, if
you thought about it logically. It was a necessary inevitable step,
that was the only way to look at it. They started off with the as-
sumption that they were more intelligent than the others who had
tried this before. Their ability to think of all the difficulties and
dispose of them coolly would enable them to succeed where those
others had failed. What a useless humiliating farce it would all
be, then, if they let themselves get caught because they couldn't
face up to the one big precaution that even the stupidest thug
always took. It was a logical necessity. A smart man doesn't waste
time arguing against a logical necessity. Barry could see that,
couldn't he?
Barry nodded. He could see that.
Paul rushed on, raising his voice a little. So the logical neces-
sity would be faced. Best to get it over with as soon as possible.
The kid would probably still be unconscious. They would have a
strong rope. Tie it around his neck, then each of them pulling op-
posite ends – This was very important. Almost the most impor-
tant thing – and Paul spoke more slowly, fixing his eyes on Bar-
ry's face. Up to then they would have separate functions to
perform, but when they finally got to the big moment, they would
198


do it together, perfectly equal. They would be, for that one mo-
ment, like one person. They would have that rope between them
for the rest of their lives. Did Barry understand, did he see how
it couldn't be any different?
Barry said that he saw, and Paul was smiling the quiet smile
that he used only for the most special moments of their friend-
ship. Then he was talking again, growing a little red in the face.
The logical necessity was now taken care of. Back to the city in
the car now, separate for dinner and a quiet evening at home,
then on to the fifth point – making contact with the parents. Wait
till the next morning for this, let them go through the night with-
out their loved one, give them time to worry a little. Then make
the phone call. From a pay booth, muffled voice, very short so
there isn't time to trace it. State the amount of money – a hun-
dred thousand dollars. An arbitrary figure, they don't intend to
spend this money anyway. Then state the conditions of delivery.
Which brings them to the last and trickiest point. Fifty per cent
of these cases, Paul had read, blow up with the delivery of the
money. Because it's next to impossible to be sure that the po-
lice aren't watching the place of delivery. They might not pick
you up on the spot, they would wait to see if you returned the
kid, but they would know who you were, and eventually they
would get you.
Well, Paul had figured a way out of this. The police couldn't
be waiting at a point of delivery which wasn't actually revealed
until a few moments before the delivery took place. Suppose they
told the kid's father to put the money in a shoebox, provide him-
self with a car that had a telephone in it, and start driving at a
steady rate of speed up a fairly deserted back road towards Con-
necticut. And suppose, at a certain point along the route, one of
them called him up on the phone and instructed him to throw the
shoebox out of the window to the side of the road and to keep
right on driving. Even if the police tried to follow the kid's fa-
199


ther in another car, they would have to keep far back out of
sight, there would be no way of knowing exactly when the money
was thrown out. And as soon as he was sure everything was safe,
Paul or Barry, whichever of them was waiting by the side of the
road, could pick up the shoebox.
It wasn't foolproof, of course. But what's foolproof in this
world? That was the test of their courage, after all. You always
admire a tightrope walker a lot more when he does it without a
net.
So once they had the money, it was only necessary to wait un-
til night and drop it into the river. It would never show up again.
The kid wouldn't be found till November, when the workmen
moved into the woods. The case would never be solved. And the
two of them would be up at Harvard together.
"So how does it sound?” Paul said.
Barry nodded and said that it sounded fine. Paul laughed and
said of course it did, it was going to work beautifully. All they
had to do now was choose a kid and decide on a definite date.
But they were back in the city again, they were turning off the
parkway. “No time to discuss it now,” Paul said. “We'll talk again
in school on Monday.” He let Barry off in front of his building.
It isn't really going to happen, Barry told himself as he lay in
bed later on. Plans and ideas are one thing. But there isn't any
kid. It's a big step from the kid to a kid.
He met Paul after lunch on Monday. They went up the hill to
their meeting place behind the volleyball court. Paul pulled out
a cigarette and puffed away at it as he paced up and down. “Do
you know the Lewis kid?” he said. “Donny Lewis, he's in the
eighth grade. Sort of short and fat, dark hair and glasses. His fa-
ther's in the export business. Lots of money."
"Is he the kid?” Barry said.
“He fits perfectly. Only child, family's crazy about him. God
knows why – what a spoiled brat! He takes the subway home,
200


gets off at Seventy-ninth Street, and waits for the crosstown bus.
Best of all, he knows me and likes me. He's sort of a second cousin
of mine, and I taught him how to throw a baseball a couple of
summers ago. Couldn't be better, could it?”
“No, it couldn't,” Barry said.
Paul put his hand on his shoulder. “I thought you'd want to
hear. We're coming along. We're getting there.”
They heard the bell ring and started down the hill in silence.
All right, but there's no date yet, Barry thought. Nothing's going
to happen without a definite date. Not so easy to come right out
and say, It'll be on this day, at this time.
As he was studying for his French exam that night, he got a
call from Paul. “Something I forgot to mention,” Paul said. “Can't
go into details over the phone. It's about the date. How about ten
days from now, Wednesday the fifteenth of June? That's the day
after graduation. The seniors will be free, but the rest of the
school still has the week to go.” After a moment, Paul said, “So
how about it? Let's hear what you think.”
The last weeks of school again. The usual display of solemnity
and maturity from the senior class, the usual air of impatient
ambition from the junior class, the usual extra rowdiness from
the lower classes.
It seemed to Barry that nobody was entering into the festive
spirit more enthusiastically than Paul. He was the life of the
party, even when there was no party. Between classes he was
surrounded by groups of giggling girls, or by his football-playing
friends laughing at his jokes. During classes he wis on his feet
constantly, expressing opinions that impressed everybody by their
boldness. Barry could always tell when Paul was talking non-
sense, being clever just for the hell of it. And yet even Barry
couldn't help feeling admiration as he listened. At the same time,
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Paul was going to regular rehearsals of The Tempest, which
would be given to the whole school on Friday afternoon, three
days after graduation. There were rumors about what a wonder-
ful performance Paul was going to give. Barry had watched Paul
starting some of these rumors himself.
With all his furious activity, Paul still found plenty of time to
be with Barry. There was only one subject of conversation be-
tween them these days. The details of the great plan never seemed
to be out of Paul's mind, he was only waiting to be alone with
Barry to come bubbling out with them. Sometimes with delight,
like a child planning a game. Sometimes with great seriousness,
like a general planning a campaign. And sometimes a fierceness
came into his voice, he laughed with furious satisfaction at the
thought of how the world would shudder.
Pretty soon it was Monday, the day before graduation. It was a
free day for the seniors, they were supposed to rest up for the
great occasion. Paul and Barry had lunch at the zoo, then they
wandered in the park for a while. Suddenly Paul said, “I can get
the car this afternoon. Let's have a dress rehearsal.”
Barry looked at him, not understanding at first.
“We're having a dress rehearsal of The Tempest in a couple of
days. To make sure we know our parts before we get in front of
an audience. Afterwards it'll be too late. Well, don't you think
that would be a good idea for our own little drama?”
"What do we do?” Barry said.
“Just follow me,” Paul said. Half an hour later they were on
their way uptown in the car. Paul was driving, and Barry was
sitting in back.
“Have we got all the props?” Paul said. “Check it over again.”
Paul called out each item, and Barry said “Check” if it was on
the seat next to him. Wrench. Heavy cord. Rags. One line of rope,
long and especially strong. Turpentine, just in case there were
202


stains. All present and accounted for. They drove awhile longer,
then Paul wanted to check over the items again.
Finally they reached the bottom of the hill which led up to
school. “We don't go up, though,” Paul said. “Somebody would
be bound to notice us. We park on the corner down here, in plain
view of the subway station. And we keep our eyes open. There'll
be a million kids piling in, all around the same time. We have to
be sure we can pick ours out in the crowd. You see the impor-
tance of a dress rehearsal.”
They waited in silence. Every once in a while Paul looked at
his watch and then checked it against Barry's watch. A little after
three o'clock the first batch came down the hill. They were swing-
ing books, screaming and laughing, occasionally hitting each
other. Paul and Barry straightened up and studied them, but the
one they were looking for, Donny Lewis, wasn't among them.
They settled back again. Paul lit his third cigarette.
Another batch came down the hill. “Is that him?” Paul said,
gripping Barry's arm. “Little fat one with the brown jacket?” But
it wasn't him, it was another kid who looked something like him.
The new batch streamed past the car and into the subway. “My
God,” Paul said, “I never saw so many fat dark-haired little boys
”
And then, all of a sudden, they saw him. He was with two
friends. They were all talking at once, angry and excited about
something, enjoying their anger and excitement. They moved past
the car and disappeared into the subway.
Paul gave a nod. “So far so good.” He started the car down
Broadway. “A small experiment in timing now. Which goes faster,
a car or the subway? Who'll get to Seventy-ninth Street first?" He
deliberately drove at a moderate speed, didn't try to beat the
lights, took no short cuts to avoid the traffic. This was to allow for
emergencies. A smart man allows for emergencies. At Seventy-
in my life!"
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ninth Street they pulled up to the curb half a block down from
the subway station. “So he has to pass us on his way to the bus.”
For a moment Paul frowned. Then he nodded. “I knew there was
something wrong.” He opened the door of the car. "Come on,
let's switch places."
Barry was surprised. “But why?"
“It's better that way,” Paul said, his voice casual. “You do the
driving, you're a more careful driver than I am. Less likely to
speed up in the excitement. I'll sit in back.”
After a moment Barry said, “You'll use the wrench?"
Paul was out of the car now, and his head was turned away.
"Yes. That's okay with me. I don't mind."
Barry didn't say any more. He slid out the door and climbed
into the front seat. They just had time to settle into their places
when Paul called out, “There he is now.” He gave a glance at his
watch. “The timing isn't bad. We got here ten minutes before he
did.” His voice became more urgent. "Get your head down, don't
let him see you."
They hunched down in their seats. Barry could just see the kid
passing by the window. He was whistling. He was alone.
When Paul sat up again, there was a big smile on his face.
"Okay, we've stopped him, we've talked to him, he's in the car.
Start it up now, and we'll go to the park.”
The rest of the dress rehearsal was conducted a little more
hastily. Much of it had to be imagined rather than acted out -
“the most important prop being unavailable,” Paul said. They
drove along the crosstown drive, and at the widest section, where
the cars sweep along fastest, Paul went through a pantomime
with the wrench and the cord. “Okay, all quiet back here,” he
said finally. By this time they had come out of the crosstown drive
on the East Side. “Right back to the parkway now," Paul said,
"and all the way up to our storage place.”
"Do we have to do that?" Barry said.
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of a rubber band straining to snap at any moment. “Yes? What is
it?”
Barry could meet his eyes only a moment longer. Then he low-
ered his head. “We're having an early dinner at home. I think it's
time to leave."
“Why not?” Paul said, and Barry could see the tightness easing
up. “We've done all we can for now.” His hand was on Barry's
arm, they went back to the car and Paul took the wheel. They
bounced along the dirt road at a fast clip. “Pretty successful dress
rehearsal!” Paul said. His talk was loud and cheerful all the way
back to the parkway.
But later on, towards the end of the ride, his smile faded, and
a gloomy silence settled over him. “That damn graduation!” he
said suddenly. "Why does it have to get in the way?” And then,
after another silence, in a slower voice, “We could've done it to-
day, you know. It would've gone off perfectly, it would've been
all over with right now."
All through the ride uptown, Henry Morris listened to Muriel
nagging at the chauffeur. The car was going too slow, the traffic
was too heavy, why couldn't he have used his common sense and
turned off at a different corner? Once, Henry put in mildly, "It's
only ten-thirty, dear, I really don't see how we could be late.” But
this simply made Muriel turn her nagging on him for a while, so
Henry said no more. She was anxious and excited, that's all, and
she didn't want to miss a moment of the ceremonies. It was quite
understandable, he couldn't get annoyed at her for it. Whatever
else you might say about Muriel, you had to admit how fond she
was of the boy.
They reached the school fifteen minutes before the ceremonies
were scheduled to begin. The parking lot was full of cars already.
206


On the lawn in back, a hundred people or so were milling around,
chatting, fidgeting on the flimsy-looking benches which covered
the grass. But Henry's attention was attracted most of all by the
wooden platform which had been set up against the back of the
building. Seven or eight rows of chairs stood empty on this plat-
form.
Muriel pounced on two empty places on one of the front
benches. She was standing in front of them, craning her neck.
“Do you see anybody, Henry? Isn't Senator Smith's little girl in
Barry's class? Which one do you suppose is Senator Smith? Oh,
look at that couple over there, they must be the parents of that
Negro boy Barry's talked about. She's a very nice-looking woman,
don't you think? You know, it makes me sick sometimes, the prej-
udice of people!" She broke off suddenly, her eyes narrowing.
"Henry, that man in back there, waving at us. Isn't that your
friend Charlie Clifford?”
Henry looked where she was pointing, and gave a big smile in
spite of himself. “It is Charlie. I told him about the graduation,
and he said he might come up, if he could get away for it.”
“Why should he do a thing like that? He hasn't got any chil-
dren graduating, he isn't even married.”
"Well, he's such an old friend of mine, dear. He always asks
after Barry, whenever I see him. I suppose he thought it would be
a friendly thing to do."
"Well, it seems funny to me,” Muriel said. And then, with a
note of alarm in her voice, “He isn't coming over here, is he?" But
Charlie didn't seem to be coming over, he was just waving. Mu-
riel brightened up again. “How many years has it been since I've
seen Charlie Clifford? He's certainly got old-looking, hasn't he?
He looks ten years older than you. Is he a well man? I've heard
stories about the sort of life he leads — ”
Muriel went on for a while. Henry leaned back in his seat, felt
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the sun on his face, and watched the empty platform in front of
him. It was nice of Charlie to show up today. It was really very
nice of him. But that was the thing about Charlie. For all his sar-
castic manner, he had a definite streak of sentimentality in
him -
"Mrs. Morris and Dr. Morris, is it not?”
Henry looked up at the brisk gray-haired little woman who was
smiling down at him. “You remember me perhaps, from the Par-
ents' Day? I am Mademoiselle Fontaine, your Barry's teacher of
French.”
Henry rose to his feet, and Muriel cried out, “Why yes,
of course," and immediately put on the peculiarly sweet gra-
cious smile which she reserved for teachers, hotel managers, den-
tists, and other persons who couldn't exactly be classified as serv-
ants.
“It is of Barry that I wish to speak to you,” said Mademoiselle
Fontaine. “You will leave immediately after the ritual, so perhaps
I will find no other opportunity to tell you – ” She leaned for-
ward, her expression grew more earnest. “Your son is the finest
scholar I have ever known. He has application, he has taste, bet-
ter than all he has enthusiasm. This is what the teacher awaits
year after year, and so infrequently one finds it. You cannot know
what joy it is when suddenly one encounters a student, and there
it is, voilà! You understand what I mean? And your Barry is more
than a scholar also. He has the fine character. He is a fine gentle
boy – ” She lowered her eyes, and gave a quick little laugh.
“Well, I am just a little bit fond of your Barry. I imagine this is
not difficult for you to guess. Some day, when he is a brilliant stu-
dent at the university, he will perhaps come back to visit with
me – ” She broke off, then lifted her chin and grew brisk again.
"It has been a great pleasure talking to you, Mrs. Morris and Dr.
Morris. I give you the very best congratulations for your son.”
She reached out and shook their hands sharply, in the French
208


manner, and before Henry could thank her she had turned and
marched off stiffly into the crowd.
“Now that was sweet of her, wasn't it?” Muriel said. “Obviously
a brilliant woman. A little bit eccentric, like most of these old-
maid schoolteachers — ”
A rustling and muttering were spreading over the crowd, and
people on their feet were moving to the benches. A few tenta-
tive chords could be heard from the piano just below the empty
platform. “They're beginning now," Muriel said, in a loud whis-
per. “Twenty minutes late, wouldn't you know it?” The piano
broke into some more chords, and a hush came over the crowd.
The chords, heavy and stately, soon formed themselves into the
Grand Chorus from Handel's Judas Maccabeus – it was much too
progressive a school for the Triumphal March from Aïda. And
then, greeted by a subdued buzzing from the crowd, the front
flank of the graduating class emerged from the building and
started its procession across the lawn and up to the platform.
Muriel was craning her neck harder than ever, along with every
other mother in the crowd. Every few seconds little explosions
could be heard from different parts of the lawn – “There he is.”
“Look, it's her!” And then, at last, Muriel was nudging Henry's
arm. “There he is! Look, just coming through the door! Look, do
you see him?"
But Henry didn't need to be nudged. His eyes had been fixed
on that door ever since the first figure in navy blue appeared
there. And his heart had given a little skip at the first sight of his
son. His son – With his eyes he followed the boy's slow progress
across the lawn. There was nobody else marching with him. Only
his son, with his chin held up so high, his gaze fixed straight
ahead, his expression so grave and important. The music of Han-
del pounded away in time to his slow solemn strides. And Henry
could feel the pride swelling up inside of him. And just the small-
est tinge of sadness too.
209


He felt the pressure of Muriel's hand on his arm. When he
looked up at her, he was surprised to see tears in her eyes. "He
looks so handsome,” she said. “Did you ever think he could look
so handsome?"
The ceremonies were over. The last diploma was handed out.
Arthur King thought that damn class would never get through
filing past the principal, but finally they did. The piano started up
again, the procession went marching off, the crowd of parents
was on its feet, laughing, talking, sobbing a little. Arthur was on
his feet too. He gave Harriet a big hug, and he accepted the con-
gratulations of her sister Agnes and Agnes's husband, who had
come to the graduation too. A little while later, the girls in white
and the boys in navy blue began to reappear, not in an orderly
procession now, but helter-skelter. Arthur kept rubbing his hands
together and saying, “Where's my boy? Where's that boy of
mine?"
When Paul finally stepped out to the lawn, Arthur was striding
up to him immediately, pumping his hand up and down, holding
on tight to his shoulder. “So you made it, by God! Well, it was
no surprise to me. To everybody else maybe, but not me. I knew
he was his father's son."
Harriet was hovering around. She pecked Paul on the cheek
and tried to hold on to his hand. But Arthur wasn't going to let her
monopolize the boy. He was a man now, starting out in a man's
world. This was no time to be fussed at by women. “Come on,
boy, we've got a little celebration waiting for you at the house,"
Arthur said. “Just a few intimate friends to build up your ego on
the great occasion. A few dozen intimate friends.” Arthur laughed
and led the group around to the parking lot, with his arm across
Pauls shoulder. “Maybe you and I will get drunk together," he
210


said. “This establishment we're going to has the best liquor in
town.”
A big buffet party was waiting back at the house, and by two
o'clock the rooms were full of people, upstairs and down. There
wasn't a close business acquaintance or a friend from the club
that Arthur hadn't invited. And they all brought their wives too.
It made quite a howling mob. And quite a food and drink bill
at the end of the month. Nobody was going to leave that party
with any doubts as to how Arthur felt about his son's gradua-
tion. “I've damn well made sure of that,” Arthur muttered to
himself.
He took Paul around and introduced him to all the people. The
boy was pretty good at meeting people, if Arthur said so himself.
He knew just how to make up to the ladies. A few words and a
few smiles, and he had them eating out of his hand. And he wasn't
any worse at handling the men. He knew how to be serious and
respectful with the stuffed shirts, and loud and good-humored
with the life-of-the-party boys. He never made the mistake of
telling a wisecrack to a stuffed shirt, or pulling a long face on a
life-of-the-party boy. And then, there was plenty for Arthur to
talk about during these introductions – the terrific record Paul
had made at school, the high marks, the managerships and chair-
manships and so on, the popularity.
“Arthur, Arthur,” Harriet came up to them, laughing and gasp-
ing a little, and waving a fistful of envelopes. “More telegrams,
they've been pouring in all morning. Look, here's one from Aunt
Edith in Memphis. You remember, she's my young-looking aunt,
the one who looked so lovely at our wedding, and you pretended
to mistake her for one of my sisters — " Arthur had never seen
Harriet so bright and lively. Probably it was the liquor.
He and Paul had been doing a lot of drinking too. Paul's face
was red, he kept rushing away from Arthur, pushing himself into
211


one group or another, talking and laughing with them for a mo-
ment, then rushing back to Arthur again.
“And here's one from your friend Jerry Phillips,” Harriet said.
"Oh, Paul, it's addressed to you. 'Congratulations and good luck.
How I envy you.' Poor man, that nice little boy of his will be get-
ting out of school in a few years, and leaving his father – ”
"Poor man!” Arthur laughed. “Jerry's one of the biggest insur-
ance men in the city. If everybody was that poor — ”
"Oh I nearly forgot the most important one,” Harriet said.
"Paul dear, here's one from Ellen and Herb. All the way from
Paris. ‘All our love. We are proud of you. All the way from
Paris – ”
"Where's that Scotch?” Paul said. “Why should I stand here
with an empty glass?"
“Go to it, boy,” Arthur called after him as Paul disappeared in
the crowd.
The party went on. The rooms filled up with smoke. Arthur's
head was turning a little. Sam Russo came. Sam was working for
Arthur these days. He had gone through a bad period, right
after that aluminum deal that Arthur had pulled out of just in
time, and what the hell, why not give a job to an old friend? Es-
pecially since Sam was one of the best accountants in the busi-
ness. Sam shook Arthur's hand solemnly and congratulated him
on behalf of his son.
"Where'd he disappear to?” Arthur said. “Where's that son of
mine?” He threaded his way through the crowd. Finally he came
up to Paul at the sideboard, near the drinks. “Feel like going off
to the den for a minute or two?" Arthur said. “Get the hell out of
this smoke for a while?”
“I don't mind,” Paul said.
They fought through the crowd together and shut the door of
the den behind them. It was a small room, oak-paneled, lots of
leather-bound books on the shelves. When he was a kid, running
212


errands on the Street, Arthur had delivered papers once to old
Alastair Woodbury's house, and the old man had been working in
a den just like this one.
“Sit down, relax,” Arthur said. While Paul sat down, Arthur
reached into his desk and pulled out a box of cigars. "Smoke?”
He laughed at Paul's hesitation. “Go ahead, you're a man today
- or almost. You've got my permission to start smoking. Anyway,
you can stop doing it behind my back.”
Paul grinned. “Thanks, Dad. If you don't mind, though, I'll
have one of my own.” And he pulled a pack of cigarettes from
his pocket and lit up. Nerve, there was no doubt of it. The kid
had nerve.
“I've been wanting to talk to you,” Arthur said. “Just a few
words. Away from the women.”
Paul took a puff from his cigarette. “Fire away, Dad.”
"Well — " For a moment Arthur was almost embarrassed. Not
really, he wasn't the type. He went on quickly, “I just wanted to
say – I'm proud of you, boy. You've been doing okay. There was
a little trouble a long time ago maybe, and some people were wor-
ried about you. But not me, I always knew there was nothing to
worry about. Women get crazy ideas, you know what I mean?”
"I've noticed that,” Paul said, with a smile.
"Well, anyway – today is kind of a milestone for you, boy, get-
ting out of high school, looking forward to college, new people,
making a career for yourself – I never went to college myself,
never had the money myself, but I know what a big thing it is in
a boy's life. Important too – nowadays you can't get anywhere
without a college degree, not to mention the contacts you make
up there – ” He laughed and gave his head a shake. “I've got a
feeling I'm not making much sense. Somebody's been spiking my
drinks.”
“You're making sense to me, Dad,” Paul said.
"Well anyway, here's what I'm driving at. Being so proud of
213


you, and being such a great occasion, and all — well, I've got a
little something here — " Arthur reached into his pocket and
brought out the check. “Sort of a graduation present.”
Paul took the check and looked at it. Arthur could see the glit-
ter in his eyes. “Just a little carfare money,” Arthur said.
"If I was planning to take a boat to Europe,” Paul said.
Arthur roared at this. Then Paul thanked him. Then they were
both laughing together over some remark. And then the door
burst open, and Harriet looked in. “We've been looking all over
for you two. Arthur, old Mr. Connors is here, he wants to congrat-
ulate Paul.”
"Absolutely,” Arthur said. “We'll be right out.” Couldn't keep
old Vincent Connors waiting, could they? The old man was in
his eighties, he was very feeble - but somehow Arthur could
hardly wait to introduce Paul to him. “Here he is, Vincent,” Ar-
thur would say. “This is the young fellow who's going to take
over when we're both dead and gone!”
A complete rehearsal of The Tempest was held in the school
auditorium at eight o'clock that night. The scenery was up on the
stage for the first time. The important props were on hand – ex-
cept for Prospero's ivory chess set, which would be loaned by
Mr. Jenkins of the Math Department for the public performance
only. Irwin Kummer of the junior class, generally considered to
be a kind of mechanical genius, was all set backstage with the
thunder-and-lightning machine that he had invented.
Paul threw himself into his part with extra energy. His mind
was twenty-four hours ahead of himself. He wanted to close up
the gap, make the time run faster. If he had been forced to sit
quietly in a room tonight, listening to polite conversation, he
would have gone crazy. Just thinking of it made him wave his
arms and shout out his lines even louder.
214


Thou poisonous slave, tonight thou shalt have cramps,
Side-stitches that shall pen thy breath up; urchins
Shall, for that vast night that they may work,
All exercise on thee; thou shalt be pinched
As thick as honeycombs, each pinch more stinging
Than bees that made them.
And his expression was so fierce that little Marvin Clawson, who
played the villainous Caliban, blinked up at him in alarm.
Meanwhile he kept thinking. Almost there now. Less than a
day to go. How many things could go wrong in such a long
stretch of timel Suppose the kid got sick tomorrow and stayed
home from school. Or suppose it rained, and his parents sent a
car for him. Or suppose Barry suddenly got those old ideas in his
head – And later on, once they started in on the plan, a hundred
things could still go wrong. If the kid got suspicious and wouldn't
get into the car. Or if somebody noticed the struggle. Or if some
stray picnickers just happened to pick tomorrow to break the law
and camp out in front of the water pipe. Or a hundred other
things Paul could think of. And then there was the worst thing
of all –
"Oh Prospero," Miss Spengler's voice came ringing out from
the dark auditorium, “your cue! We must keep on our toes. Re-
member, Friday is the big day."
"Sorry, Miss Spengler,” Paul said. Then he assumed his look of
affectionate condescension and spoke Prospero's aside to the audi-
ence.
Fair encounter
Of two most rare affections! Heavens rain grace
On that which breeds between them!
Miranda began to sob, whiney and nasal as usual, and Ferdinand
put his arms around her awkwardly and said, in his low mono-
tone, “Wherefore weep you?” Prospero had no lines for a while.
The worst danger of all, he went on thinking. For weeks now
215


he had been trying to keep it out of his thoughts. Suppose when
the moment came, when the kid was in the front seat and the car
reached that wide stretch in the park and the wrench was in his
hand, suppose he suddenly got scared and couldn't do it – No,
that didn't make sense. After all the time he'd been waiting - If
he was going to get scared, wouldn't it have happened to him
weeks ago?
“So glad of this as they I cannot be,” he cried, attacking the
line much too hard. And he attacked them harder and harder
through the next three scenes.
They arrived at the final scene between Prospero and Ariel.
There was a throbbing in Paul's head, and he could feel the sweat
on his face.
Now does my project gather to a head:
My charms crack not; my spirits obey; and time
Goes upright with his carriage –
Howard Knapp, crouching at his feet as Ariel, broke in, “On
the sixth hour, at which time, my lord – ”
"You goddamned idiot,” Paul heard himself shouting, “you
didn't let me finish my line!”
Then he heard the uproar around him. Howard Knapp was
squealing indignantly, somebody was muttering offstage, and
Miss Spengler's voice came floating out of the darkness, “Paul,
Paul, now there's no excuse for – now even if Howard made a
mistake – ”
Paul opened his mouth to shout out something more. But a
warning signal clicked inside of him. My God, he was losing his
head! Wonderful omen for tomorrow, if he started losing his
head already. He took a breath, then smiled, charming and prop-
erly abashed. “I'm sorry, Miss Spengler. I'm a little tired, I guess.
I'm sorry, Howie.”
Howard Knapp grunted, and Miss Spengler sounded relieved.
“We're all a little tired, I'm afraid. But the show must go on!”
216


So the show went on. “I did say so, when first I raised the tem-
pest,” said Prospero. ...
Barry spent the night in a double feature – two old westerns in
a dirty little theater off Times Square. They bored him terribly,
but he liked being huddled up in the darkness, thinking about
nothing.
At midnight he walked along Forty-second Street to his subway.
A million things flashing by all around him. Lights, shouts, penny
arcades, the stench of popcorn and hot dogs. A group of tough-
looking boys his own age, they seemed to be spoiling for a fight.
He gave them a lot of room as they passed. A girl, all smeared up
- not such a girl any more, when you got closer. A drunk, a sway-
ing old man, red veins in his face, cursing out loud. And the
strange ones, the monstrosities, the Negro with one eye, and the
thin-waisted boys with long hair, and the well-dressed elderly
gentleman peering at all the girls with a fixed glassy stare. Faces
suggesting horrors that he couldn't even begin to understand. He
tried his hardest to keep from looking at them. He was glad when
he got to his subway.
When he got back to the apartment, all the lights were off. He
went to the living room and switched on a lamp. He was just
starting to sit down when Mother appeared in the archway. "Was
it a nice party, dear? You're home earlier than we expected.”
"I was feeling a little tired,” he said.
“No wonder. I advised you not to go out tonight. But you know,
you never listen to me until it's too late.” She paused, turned her
eyes away, then looked back smiling. “Well, kiss me good night
now.”
Barry went up to her and brushed her cheek with his lips.
She made a half-turn away from him, then stopped herself.
Her hand reached up and touched his shoulder lightly, as if by
accident. “I was so proud of you today,” she said. “I may not
show things sometimes. But you do know – I'm your mother,
217


there's no doubt of my feelings — " She broke off, then her hand
tightened on his shoulder and she pulled him forward into her
arms. Her face was warm against his.
“Mother," he said, “I have to tell you – ”.
But she had pushed him back again, she was treating him to
her sweetest smile. “Now don't sit up all night daydreaming.
You're not a little baby any more.” She turned quickly and
marched out of the room.
He stared after her. I'm your mother, she had said. And for
just a moment - Only a moment, though. It passed away so
quickly that it might have been all in his mind. Had there ever
been a time when moments like that happened between Mother
and him? A long time ago maybe, when he was very small?
The phone was ringing. A call this late at night happened of-
ten enough in a doctor's house. He picked up the receiver.
“Hello, kid. It's you, isn't it?”
“Yes, it's me.”
“How are you feeling? Are you all set?"
“Yes, I'm all set.”
“Well, I don't have anything special to say. I wanted to talk to
you, that's all.”
“Yes – ” A moment of hesitation, then Barry added, “I'm glad
you called.”
"And we'll meet for lunch tomorrow?"
"For lunch.”
“Get a good night's sleep.” Barry heard the clicking at the
other end of the line.
A little later he was in his bed. His mind was empty, he wasn't
letting himself think of anything. That way he would soon fall
asleep. Everything is all right, once you're asleep.
An hour passed, and he still wasn't sleeping. He thought of
praying to God. God would help him, if he only prayed hard
enough – But that was baby stuff. He didn't believe in God.
218


This wasn't really happening to him anyway. It was all hap-
pening to somebody else.
ON WEDNESDAY the weather turned cool. The sky was over-
cast, and there was a thick damp feeling in the air, but by the
middle of the afternoon the rain still hadn't come.
"And it won't come,” Paul said. “It can't. Not today. Nothing's
going to spoil today.”
They had been walking through the park, going through what
Paul called a "final briefing.” Paul snapped out the questions, and
Barry answered them. Then the positions were reversed, and Paul
made Barry ask the questions. Then they “synchronized watches,”
as Paul called it – they checked their own time against the big
clock in the zoo. At three o'clock sharp, according to the careful
timetable which Paul had drawn up, they arrived at Paul's house.
The car was parked in front.
The chauffeur, Carl, was lounging in the front seat. He looked
up casually as they approached and let them wait a few seconds
before he gave a yawn and climbed out. He stood on the side-
walk, blocking the door of the car and watching them silently.
"Thanks, Carl,” Paul said finally. “We'll get in now."
Carl waited another second, then said, “Yes, sir,” and ambled
away.
Paul got behind the wheel, and Barry slid in beside him, and
the car started off. There was one more preliminary detail to take
care of. They drove down to Grand Central Station, and Barry
went to a locker on the upper level, where they had checked a
package that morning. The package contained the rope, the rags,
the wrench, and the bottle of turpentine, which they would be
219


needing later on. As soon as Barry was back, Paul headed up-
town. After Ninetieth Street there was practically no traffic, and
they clipped along at a steady rate. Always within the speed
limit, of course. “This is no day to run into a traffic cop," Paul
said.
The sky was beginning to lighten a little, and there was a pleas-
ant breeze through the windows. With his eyes straight ahead,
Paul gave a sudden laugh. “We're on our way, kid. Did you think
we'd ever make it?”
Barry didn't answer. He kept his eyes straight ahead too.
They reached the bottom of the hill, in sight of the subway sta-
tion, and parked in the same place as they had parked two days
ago, at the dress rehearsal. Paul offered a cigarette to Barry.
“Now's the time to steady your nerves. You'll be needing them
later on.”
They smoked in silence. Then it was three o'clock, and the kids
came walking down the hill. Just a few small bunches at first,
then a whole screaming, laughing swarm of them. The little fat
kid, Donny Lewis, was in the midst of them. He had a couple of
friends with him again, different friends this time, but he was
shouting at them just as loudly. “What a big mouth that kid has,"
Paul said.
But now the kid and his friends were swallowed up in the sub-
way station, and Paul started the car. “End of Stage One, begin-
ning of Stage Two," he said.
They drove downtown without a word. Paul kept all his atten-
tion on the wheel, the lights, the cars around him. There were no
delays, nothing unexpected happened, but the liveliness seemed
to have gone out of him. His head was shoved forward intently,
there was a tense frown on his face. The sky had turned gray
again, and the air was damper and stickier than ever.
They arrived at Seventy-ninth Street. A check of their watches
showed that they had made the trip five minutes faster than two
220


days ago. “Now we just have to hope that the subway didn't make
it twenty minutes faster.”
"You mean, we might have missed him already?" Barry
said.
Paul turned to Barry with a tight little smile. “I don't really
think there's any chance of that. Don't you worry about it.”
The car was parked in almost the same spot as two days ago.
Then Barry slid over to the wheel, and Paul went to the back
seat. He began to unwrap the brown paper parcel and make a
neat little pile out of the rope and the other things. “End of Stage
Two,” he said.
They sat in silence, watching through the window, never tak-
ing their eyes off the subway entrance for a moment.
"There he is,” Paul said at last. “Beginning of Stage Three."
"He's still got his friends with him,” Barry said.
They could see the fat little figure, standing on the sidewalk a
block away, talking excitedly to a couple of thin little figures.
"They'll separate in a minute or two,” Paul said. “They have to
go home for dinner, don't they?"
Two minutes passed, and then two minutes more. The three lit-
tle figures stayed where they were, and went on talking.
“Kids!” Paul said. “All they can do is jabber and whine and
waste time. Little bastards."
And then, as if Paul's words had been a signal, the three little
figures began to move apart.
A sigh came out of Paul. “Okay, they're saying good night to
him now. See, the other two are walking up towards Eightieth
Street, and he's coming in this direction.”
“Paul, it isn't him!” Barry said. "He's one of the two that's
walking up towards Eightieth Street. The one that's coming in
this direction is a different kid.”
A gasp broke out of Paul. “What the hell is he doing? Why the
hell isn't he coming?"
221


“Maybe he's going home with his friend,” Barry said. “Kids are
always visiting at each other's homes.”
“Kids,” Paul said, with a wave of his arm. “Kids, kids — * His
head was shaking back and forth, his eyes were blinking as if
they couldn't quite focus. And then a sudden sharp note came
into his voice. “I know that kid, the one who's coming towards us.
It's Pete Phillips. His father's a friend of my father.” And then,
slowly and thoughtfully, “Jerry Phillips - he's a big insurance
man. His wife is dead, he lives for this kid. I've heard my parents
say so lots of times.”
“Shouldn't we go now?” Barry said. “There's no use waiting
around here."
Paul silenced him with a motion of his hand. His eyes narrowed
a little. “We'll use this kid instead,” he said.
Barry got a little pale. “We can't just – ”
“Why not? It comes to the same thing. Loving father, lots of
money, the kid knows me and likes me. What's the difference be-
tween one kid and another, when you get right down to it?"
"Paul – ”
"Shut up. He's coming.” Paul stuck his head out of the open
window in the back. "Hey, Pete!”
"No, I won't!” Barry said. Paul gave him a look. One look only.
Barry got still paler, and pressed his lips together.
Paul's head was out the window again, as the kid, Pete Phillips,
stopped next to the car. The kid's cheeks were reddening, and he
was wetting his lips nervously. "Hello – Did you call me? I
mean – ”
Paul wore his warmest, friendliest smile. “Sure I did. You're
Pete Phillips, aren't you? I met you at my father's club. I'm
Paul King."
The kid was shifting on his feet now, very bashful. “Yes, I
know who you are. You're in the Dramatics Club – ”
222


Paul laughed. “I act a little. Do you know Barry Morris? Barry,
this is my friend Pete Phillips.”
They nodded at each other.
Paul said, “Are you on your way home, Pete? Maybe we can
give you a lift. You live on the East Side, don't you?"
“Yes. Seventy-eighth Street — ”
"Well, that's just the direction we're going. Hop in.”
The kid hesitated a moment, then he said, “Thank you," and
put his hand on the back door.
"No, you sit in front with Barry,” Paul said. “We've got some
stuff back here, and it's kind of crowded.”
The kid climbed in front and settled next to Barry. They ex-
changed quick tentative smiles.
"Let's go," Paul said. The car started off. Slowly at first, until
Paul laughed and said, “Come on, we won't get crosstown till
next week at this rate.” Barry made the car go faster. Soon the
park was in sight. They waited for the light, then they turned into
the crosstown driveway. With no traffic lights and only a few cars
around them, they whizzed along pretty fast.
"Bet you're looking forward to the end of school?” Paul said.
"I sure am,” the kid said, twisting around to look at Paul. “I'm
not going to camp this summer, Dad's taking me fishing up in
Canada.”
“That sounds great. Say, you shouldn't turn your head like
that, you'll make yourself carsick.”
The kid nodded and faced front. They were coming to the wide
stretch of road, the place they had decided on. Paul had the
wrench in his hand.
Barry tightened his grip on the wheel.
"Did you ever go fishing in Canada?” the kid said, without
turning his head.
"Never went fishing,” Paul said. “But I've been to Canada.”
223


A moment later Barry nodded his head.
Paul let go of him. “Okay, let's hurry up about it. You take the
legs, I'll take the head.”
They bent down over the body. Barry turned his eyes away.
"His hands and feet are tied. And those rags in his mouth – We
have to untie him.”
"Why? What the hell are you talking about?”
“We can't put him in there – tied up like that.”
"He's dead, for God's sake! What's the matter with you?”
"We have to untie him.”
With an angry mutter, Paul pulled away the rags and un-
tied the cord around the hands and the feet. Then he gathered
up all the stuff and shoved it under his jacket. “Are you ready
now?"
They lifted the body and moved it to the mouth of the water
pipe. Paul adjusted the head in place, then they started to push at
the waist. The body wouldn't move, the wet ground anchored it
down. They had to lift it a little and then push. It got stuck
around the shoulders. They pushed harder, grunting and strain-
ing. At last they got the shoulders through. It moved easily after
that. It was almost all the way in, only the feet sticking out -
and then it stopped moving again. No matter how hard they
pushed, it just wouldn't move at all. “The pipe isn't long enough,”
Paul said. “They're bound to find him like this." He shook his
head. “But I was positive it was long enough!” They gave an-
other push. All at once the feet seemed to break loose of their
own accord and slide the rest of the way into the pipe.
They sat still for a while, catching their breath. Then they got
up and hurried back through the woods to the car. They climbed
in. Paul took the wheel, pushed down hard on the gas, and
started along the road.
It was ten minutes before Barry spoke. His voice was very low.
"We're soaked. We'll catch cold.”
227


“What's the difference?" Paul said. His voice was hoarse, as if
he had hardly enough strength to use it. His face was white.
There was a blur before Barry's eyes. He tried to blink it away.
Then he touched his nose. He wasn't wearing his glasses.
They turned onto the parkway.
"I'm hungry,” Paul said.
228


Part Three


... We all feel the deepest sympathy for Peter Phillips. So,
vivid is our image of this boy's poor battered body that we tend
to dismiss every other consideration as secondary. But we must
fight this tendency. It is not a good tendency. It is neither rational
nor humane. It can only lead us to perpetrate another injustice as
grave as the original crime itself. Remember, nothing we can do
can bring Peter Phillips back to us. He is in the hands of God
now. But his killers are in our hands. We must try, though imper-
fectly, to judge them as wisely, deeply, and tolerantly as their
victim is now being judged. ...
– From Defense Counsel Martin Brennan's summation,
The People vs. Barry Morris and Paul King


IT WAS seven o'clock before Barry got home that night. So many
things to do first. The rope and the rags to dump in a trash bas-
ket up in the Bronx; the wrench to clean of blood and hair, and
to put back in the tool kit in the trunk compartment; the car to
park in an empty sidestreet, while they scrubbed at the blood-
stains on the front seat and on the floor in back. For half an hour
they scrubbed away with all their strength, and the stains grew
lighter and lighter, hardly noticeable at all, unless somebody hap-
pened to be looking for them. “And why should anybody look for
them?” Paul said. “We're absolutely in the clear."
As he drove Barry home later on, Pauľs spirits seemed to be ris-
ing quickly. He was laughing and chattering again. In front of
Barry's building he said, “I'd like to be with you tonight, we've
got a lot to talk about. But we better stay home with our parents,
like nice dutiful sons. We don't want anybody thinking back to
tonight, and remembering that we were trying to avoid people.”
So they agreed to see each other in the morning, and Paul held
on to Barry's hand just a little longer than usual before he turned
away.
Barry moved slowly across the lobby of his building. He had
become very tired. That's how it always was with him, when he
went through a long period of strain and exertion. It wasn't until
the exertion was over that he noticed how tired he was. He went
straight to his room, took out his extra pair of glasses from the
dresser, and started to change his suit.
231


Mother came in before he could finish changing. She sighed
over his wet clothes. He told her he'd been walking in the park
when the storm began. He had taken shelter in the zoo cafeteria,
and waited there for the rain to ease up, and that's why he was so
late for dinner. As he spoke he looked everywhere except into her
eyes. He didn't see how she could possibly believe him.
After dinner he sat with Mother and Dad and watched televi-
sion. He stared hard at the screen, and what he saw was the rain.
Beating down so furiously into the dirt, ripping at the grass and
leaves, slashing into his face, slashing even harder into the face
far below. He shook his head and blinked, and turned away from
the television.
He went to bed early. The pillow pressed tightly against his
head, the sheets were wet and sticky. The rain was slashing down
again. He was grunting and sweating. “But I was positive it was
long enough!” He turned over on his side.
But it isn't really what you suppose, he thought. I can explain,
just let me explain. Walking along the road, cries for help, the
four big men. Fists, shouts, blood, and then they were facing
each other, the cool aristocratic smile. Rise, I hereby grant you
permission to be my slave. Back to the city, trumpets and royal
robes, and after that – in the Prince's hands, everything that hap-
pened was in the Prince's hands. The car, the wrench, the rain
slashing down, the cold white face. Nothing to do with me at all.
The Prince commands, so mustn't the slave obey? No, you can't
blame the slave for obeying. Oh can't we? Who says so! And
hands reached out to grab him -
He sat up in bed, eyes wide, heart beating fast. Had he fallen
asleep? Had he been dreaming or something? Gradually his heart
slowed down, he let his head settle back on the pillow. There
was no rain slashing down, no cool superior Prince. He was in his
own room, the comfortable familiar room where he woke up ev-
ery morning and fell asleep every night. And he had been dream-
232


ing. The same childish daydream which had been a part of his
life for as long as he could remember. He laughed a little. After
all, it was only in his mind -
The laugh was choked off in his throat. The moon was shining
through his bedroom window, and in the moonlight the rain was
slashing down, the wet leaves, the white streaked face. He shook
his head hard, trying to shake these images away. But they
wouldn't go away. It was real this time. Dear God, it was no
dream any more!
His eyes were red when he woke up the next morning. His pa-
jamas were soaking. He had been sweating as if he had a fever.
He picked his way through his breakfast. Opposite him Dad was
hidden behind the newspaper. It was ten-thirty now. At eleven he
would be meeting Paul. He knew how it would be with Paul. The
wide sweep of his arm, the glow on his cheeks and in his eyes, the
words tumbling out of him. That's how it always was with Paul
in the middle of things. It was different sometimes after things
were over - the gay smiling face would tighten up and grow thin-
ner – but not this morning, nothing was over yet, there were still
a hundred things to do. All of a sudden what Barry wanted most
in the world was to stay here at the breakfast table, dawdle with
his eggs, sip his coffee. For the rest of the morning, for the rest of
his life -
At five minutes of eleven he was in the zoo, waiting by the seal
pond. Paul arrived ten minutes late.
“Bright beautiful day, isn't it?" Paul said. “Not a cloud in the
sky. Could've used this kind of weather yesterday, couldn't we?”
He laughed and rubbed his hands together. Then he leaned for-
ward and spoke in a lower voice. “We did it. Do you realize we
did it?” Then he laughed and waved his arm. “Shouldn't count
our chickens, though. Plenty of time to pat each other on the
back in a few days. Lots to do before then. What do you say, sup-
pose we swing into Stage Five right away? Is it Five? I'll tell you
233


the truth, I've lost count.” He laughed, then he took Barry's arm.
"Come on, let's find a phone booth.”
Barry let himself be led up to the cafeteria. There was a row of
phone booths connecting with it. As Paul fumbled in his pocket
for change, Barry spoke up suddenly. “Paul — "
Paul looked up with a smile. "Something the matter?
"We've done so much already. We don't have to do any
more."
For a few seconds Paul just smiled in silence. Then he said,
"You don't mean that really. We started out with a plan. Our big
plan, the big thing that nobody else has ever been able to pull
off successfully. You remember that, don't you?"
“Yes, I remember. But – ”
“But what?” There was just the slightest edge to Paul's voice.
“What we did last night was nothing at all. It was only a minor
step. If we stop now, we haven't accomplished anything more
than a hundred stupid hoodlums before us. It's what comes now
that really matters. This is when we show how much better and
bigger we are.”
“Paul — " Barry hesitated a moment, and then his voice broke
and the words came blurting out of him, “Paul, I didn't know it
would be like this! I didn't know it would be so awfull”
Paul's hand tightened on his shoulder. “Shut up. You damned
fool, keep your mouth shut.” A moment later, with a shake of his
head, he said, “It's been going perfectly up to now. You're not
going to spoil it for me. You're not going to do that to me.”
Barry lowered his eyes. What did it matter after all? If they
went on now, or if they didn't go on, what was the difference any-
way? Nothing could stop the rain from slashing down – “All
right, make the call,” he said.
Paul gave a nod. They went to a phone booth, and both of
them squeezed inside. Paul dialed the number – he had it all
ready, he had looked it up first thing that morning – and Barry
234


brought his ear next to the receiver so that he could hear what
was being said.
There was a buzzing noise, and then a voice said, "Hello, who
is it?"
"Phillips, we've got your son,” Paul said, making his voice
hoarse. “You can get him back by paying us a hundred thousand
dollars. Don't worry, up to now he's safe and sound – ”
After his wife died, Jerry Phillips moved with his son into an
apartment-hotel on Seventy-eighth Street just off Fifth Avenue.
They had three rooms, a view of the park, and daily maid service.
In the mornings Jerry used to get up at seven-thirty and fix break-
fast for the two of them. But two years ago Pete put a stop to
that. He said he was old enough to fix his own breakfast, he
didn't see why his father had to lose his sleep. For the first few
weeks after this, Jerry woke up at seven-thirty anyway and lis-
tened from his bed in case Pete might be needing him. He kept
himself real quiet, of course, because Pete was so proud of his
independence. And then, after a while, Jerry stopped waking up.
"It isn't necessary any more,” he told himself, with a sad little
shrug.
At night Jerry hardly ever made any dinner dates. He had gone
to a child psychologist after Edna died – he knew how hard it
would be for a boy without his mother, and he hadn't wanted to
make any dumb mistakes. The psychologist told him that the big
thing was for Pete to have a regular home life. He ought to see
his father every night at dinner, just the way he used to do when
his mother was alive. He shouldn't be palmed off on nurses or
baby sitters or convenient relatives.
It was a relief to hear this from the psychologist. The one thing
Jerry had wanted most was to spend his time with his son. But
he hadn't been sure that this would be the right thing. After all,
235


what kind of an influence was he for a little boy? He had been
more or less of a roughneck all his life. His father had made
money, but he hadn't ever had a rich man's ideas, so Jerry had
grown up in the same tough neighborhood where he was born.
He had gone off to college all right, but what a playboy he had
been there! Not even by accident did any of the culture stick to
him. That was why it was so wonderful to get a girl like Edna.
He could trust her to turn the boy into a finer man than he was
himself. Into something better than a loudmouthed little guy
with a big collection of dirty jokes. And then, when Edna was
gone – well, if that psychologist had advised him never to see his
son again, Jerry might almost have made himself take the advice.
He wouldn't have had any trouble understanding the psycholo-
gist's point of view.
But what was keeping Pete tonight? Jerry had got home before
six, expecting to hear Pete's shout from his room, “Is that you,
Dad?” Then Pete would come running out to him. Never walking
at a normal speed. “Tell me the secret, Butch, where do you get
the energy?” But tonight there was no shout, and Pete wasn't
anywhere in the apartment. Probably he was playing ball with
some of the kids from school. On these long spring days, when
the light seemed to last forever, it was pretty easy for a boy to
lose track of the time.
At seven o'clock, though, there was no more light. Jerry called
up the school and got no answer. Then he called up his sister
Rose and told her how worried he was.
“What about one of his friends?” Rose said. "Maybe he was in-
vited to somebody's house for dinner.”
"He would've called me. He's always good about things like
that.”
“Maybe he let you know a couple of days ago, dear. You do
forget about things sometimes. Typical father. You see, if you'd
take my advice and look around for a nice – ”
236


The inspector was answering her. Jerry didn't catch all the
words. Something about the woods near Larchmont. Some kids
were playing there – they found a body. What did it have to do
with Pete? It didn't have anything to do with Pete. The inspector
was still talking. Something about tire tracks, a water pipe, a gash
on his head. “There's some mistake,” Jerry said. "There's a big
mistake.”
The inspector was over by the table, he was looking down at
Pete's photograph on the table. The one in his new dark suit. “It's
no mistake, Mr. Phillips. This is the same boy.” The inspector
was fidgeting. He was so uncomfortable, and all for a stupid
mix-up. “I'm terribly sorry about this, Mr. Phillips – but we've
got to have an identification. If you could come up to Larchmont
with us – ”
Jerry was still shaking his head. “But it isn't necessary. I'm tell-
ing you, it's a mistake – ” He turned to Rose. Rose would agree
with him. He was surprised to see the tears in her eyes.
And then they were leaving the apartment, Rose was helping
him on with his coat. There was a police car in front of the build-
ing. The inspector got in back with them, the car started. Nobody
was saying anything. Except once, when the inspector took some-
thing else out of his pocket. “Do these belong to your son, Mr.
Phillips?"
Jerry looked at them blankly. "No. Pete doesn't wear glasses.”
His heart gave a little jump. “Did you find those glasses in the
woods? That proves there's a mistake, it can't be Pete – ”
The inspector didn't answer. He frowned and put the glasses
back in his pocket. They rode awhile longer, then the car was
stopping. A big gray official-looking building. They were riding
up in the elevator, they were walking down a long gray corridor.
A few minutes later Jerry was looking down at him.
It was Pete. His clothes were wet and mussed. How did he get
his clothes so wet and mussed? Boys his age just have no respect
239


fast. “Answer it, Mr. Phillips. If it's them, please remember – ”
Jerry picked up the receiver.
The voice at the other end was hard to understand. “Phillips,
we've got your son. You can get him back by paying us a hun-
dred thousand dollars. Don't worry, up to now he's safe and
sound – ”
“Safe and sound,” Jerry said. Before his eyes he saw Pete's
face. The streaks of mud, the twisted mouth. And that was the
last thing he ever knew about life. That wasn't the way it was
supposed to be, that wasn't how Jerry had planned it for his boy.
“And he'll stay that way if you follow instructions,” the voice
was saying. “Here's what we want you to do –”.
“Murderer,” Jerry said. Then he heard his voice rising to a
shout. “Murderer, murderer — " He felt hands on his shoulder, he
saw the inspector's face, red and excited. And then his voice
cracked, he pushed the phone away from him, he stood in the
center of the room sobbing and sobbing as he hadn't done since
he was a little boy.
Paul slammed down the receiver. His face was white. Barry
had never seen his face so white. And the shock in his eyes — !
But what about himself? Shouldn't he be feeling the shock too?
Maybe he was. He didn't know. He didn't seem to be feeling
anything at all.
Paul grabbed his arm. His voice was very low. "Out – we have
to get out.” Half walking, half running, they crossed the open
square in front of the cafeteria, went around the Administration
Building, and climbed the steps to Fifth Avenue. Paul kept his
hand on Barry's arm every minute, but he didn't say another
word. Then they were heading uptown as fast as they could go.
They had gone five blocks before Paul began to slow up.
m
241


go on living until Paul talked nicely to him again. But he wasn't
feeling that. He was feeling tired, that's all he was feeling. He
turned and started slowly down Fifth Avenue.
He was home at one o'clock. The cook offered to make lunch
for him, but he wasn't hungry. He was tired, he wanted to sleep.
He stretched out face down on his bed. In a few seconds it all
started up again. Rain slashing down. A white face. Did you ever
go fishing in Canada? He made himself think of a melody from a
Mozart piano concerto, he forced the melody through his mind
over and over again. But it kept going queer at the end, he
couldn't seem to remember the right way to end it. Rain slash-
ing down –
He was being shaken. He sat up with a cry of terror. He blinked
into Mother's eyes. “Good heavens, are you sleeping in the middle
of the afternoon? Aren't you feeling well?”
He stumbled to his feet, threw water on his face, made an ef-
fort at combing his hair. Then he was in the living room. Dad
was home already. He had closed the office early, because it was
such a beautiful day. He was reading the evening newspaper.
"It's horrible,” he said. “How can people do such things?”
Somehow Barry kept his voice steady as he asked Dad what
was the matter. The front section of the paper was handed to
him. He found himself looking into the face of the kid. Smiling,
all dressed up in a dark suit. A birthday picture or something.
He skimmed the words. The print was a blur before his eyes.
And then one passage sprang out at him from the middle of the
page:“ – thoroughly investigating the pair of glasses found sev-
eral feet from the body. Opticians throughout the city are being
checked – ”
"Good heavens, what's the matter?” Mother was crying. “Henry,
I think he's going to faint ...!”
Ten minutes later he was in bed. Faces appeared and disap-
peared. Something warm and sticky on his forehead. Mother's
243


“Back so soon, my boy?" Dad said. “Did you forget some-
thing?"
He looked at their faces. Smiling, easy, not a worry in the
world. A-X-H-Q-M. Thousands of people with the same pre-
scription. But the check would be made just the same, his name
would be reached eventually. Maybe years from now, and he'd
have to go through those years, waiting on the edge of his chair,
jumping at every doorbell. And all the time, right by his side, the
thin face, light hair, ironic smile. You know we can't leave it at
that. With more rain, more mud, more wide frightened eyes and
muffled groans? It would be so easy to put an end to all that. So
easy to free himself once and for all from the worry and the
waiting -
“Listen," he said. “I have to tell you something – ”
Barry talked. His voice was soft, and quite steady at first. He
kept his eyes lowered. He didn't want to see their faces.
He tried to make his story as clear as possible. He began way
back, at the time when the whole plan was just an "abstract puz-
zle.” He left out only one thing. He left out Paul. He gave no
hint all the way through that anybody else had joined with him,
that the plan was anything but his own. At certain points, when
it was necessary to change the truth around a little too sharply,
he could hear a stiff forced note in his voice. He hoped that no-
body else would hear it. He had never wanted to be a good liar
more than right now.
He got to the end of his story. They hadn't interrupted him
once. He couldn't remember when he had talked for so long with-
out an interruption from Mother. He was silent now, and he
didn't raise his eyes.
It was Mother who broke the silence. High, sharp, full of all
her usual strength and confidence. But he could hear the strain
247


underneath, the trace of shrillness. “It's not true,” she said. "He's
dreaming it. Henry, the boy's imagining things."
Then he heard Dad, soft, uncertain. “Muriel – Muriel,
please — "
Muriel, please. Sometimes it seemed as if Dad spent his whole
life just saying those words over and over again. Muriel, please.
Muriel, please.
"No, it isn't true,” Mother said, and the shrillness was grow-
ing. “Why would he do a thing like that? Why did you do it? Oh
for God's sake, why?"
He found that his voice wasn't quite so steady any more. "I
don't know," he said. “I just wanted to.” He lifted his head, and
for the first time he saw their faces. Mother's face was red, puck-
ered up. And there was something in Dad's eyes – He couldn't
trust his voice at all now. "I'll go to my room," he said, rushing
away.
He walked up and down his room. He was growing quieter
and steadier again, that tired feeling was spreading through him
again. Through the door he could hear their voices – Mother's
voice in quick high spurts, Dad's voice a soft muffled murmur.
And then the quick high spurts had stopped, Mother wasn't talk-
ing any more. What was she doing? Crying maybe? He had never
seen Mother cry.
There was a knock on his door. He said come in, and then Dad
was standing in the doorway. Dad's collar was open, and his
hair was a little messed. What was left of his hair. He had never
looked so small before. A small man losing his hair – and so many
wrinkles in his face.
They faced each other across the room for a moment. Then
Dad said, “It's all true, isn't it?"
Barry nodded his head.
A look flickered on Dad's face. Barry couldn't understand this
look at first. And then he knew what it was. Disgust. Dad was
248


ing. “You've got no right! We're ruined! Our lives are ruined!
You've got no right!” Her head shifted back and forth from Barry
to Dad. As if she couldn't decide who had no right, Barry for
what he had done or Dad for calling the police. And then her
chin was lifted, there was almost a touch of the old self-confidence
in her face. “I won't be a party to this! I won't stay here and
watch this!” She turned and started to march out of the room.
But at the door her feet made a quick stumbling step, and with
her head down she ran the rest of the way.
Dad sat down in his favorite armchair, but he didn't lean back
in it, he didn't look comfortable in it at all. Barry sat on the sofa
and stared down at his hands. Two policemen in uniforms ar-
rived. They talked to Dad in low voices. Then Dad turned to
Barry and said, “I can't go with you. They'll let me see you in
the morning.” Barry nodded. “Yes – that's all right.” The police-
men flanked him. Dad followed them to the door. The last thing
he saw before the elevator came was Dad's tired smile.
He rode downtown in a police car. The two policemen sat on
either side of him. They talked over him about baseball. “Hey
Fred, what do you think of your Dodgers today?" the older one
said. “Pretty rotten, I'd say.” The younger one grinned and even
reddened a little. Not like a policeman at all, more like one of
the fellows from school. Looking at him closely, Barry could see
that he was really very young, in his early twenties maybe. “This
is just temporary,” he said. “You'll see what happens when they
get back to Brooklyn tomorrow.”
Barry listened. He wondered if he ought to join in. Did they
expect it of him? Wasn't it kind of stupid of him, just sitting here
and not saying a word? The only thing is, he didn't actually know
much about baseball. Paul always used to laugh at it. The sport
of morons, he used to call it. He never said this to anybody but
Barry, of course. After all, he was a manager of the baseball
team -
250


The car stopped. Barry looked around as they got out. This dull
brown building must be the police station. He had never been in-
side a police station before. The first thing that struck him was
how close it was to the police stations in the movies. The high
desk, wooden benches along the walls, stiff round lamps hanging
from the ceiling. A sergeant behind the desk was writing in a
notebook. From another room somewhere came the sound of a
typewriter. Now what? Would they yell at him or hit him, the
way policemen did in the movies?
But there wasn't any yelling. Just a lot of whispering between
the policemen and the sergeant. Then the sergeant was writing
in his book again. And then he picked up the phone.
The young policeman, the one called Fred, was touching his
arm. He was led across to a door. Were they going to put him in
a cell now? What would it be like in a cell? But it wasn't a cell.
It was just a little room with wooden chairs and high windows.
He was motioned to one of the chairs. He sat down, but the po-
licemen remained standing. Waiting again. Waiting for what? He
wanted to ask them. But he still couldn't be sure. Would it be
right to talk to them? The young one, Fred, didn't look unfriendly.
The door opened again. A man came in. No uniform, ordinary
clothes. He was older, short and stocky, gray hair. The police-
men nodded at him politely, as if he was somebody important. He
went up to Barry and smiled. He called him “son” and said he was
Inspector Samuels. But I ought to be feeling scared and nervous,
Barry thought. Why wasn't he feeling scared and nervous?
“Let's have the story, son,” Inspector Samuels said. Barry told
it again, just as he had told it to Mother and Dad. Almost the
same words. And the same stiff forced tone when he came to the
parts that weren't true. Inspector Samuels asked him a lot of
questions. Why had he done it? Why had he decided to tell his
story? Did he know what they could do to him for what he'd
done? He answered politely – except that last question, he didn't
251


let himself think about the answer to that. Then Inspector Sam-
uels said, “Why are you lying to us, son?"
"I'm not lying,” Barry said. He hardly felt upset at all. That
was strange. Usually it brought him close to tears when people
caught him out in a lie.
“You are, though. Why do you say you did this all by yourself?
We know there was somebody else in on this with you. What
about the two sets of tracks leading to the water pipe? And the
blow from behind – who was driving the car if you hit him from
behind? And you said there was blood, so why can't we find a
trace of it in your father's car? Now why won't you tell us the
name of the other fellow?"
“There was nobody else. I did it by myself.”
Inspector Samuels looked at him for a long time. Then he
turned and walked out of the room, motioning for the older po-
liceman to follow him.
Barry was left with the young one, Fred. Maybe now was the
time to strike up a conversation with him. They could be friends,
Barry thought. He started to smile. Then he saw the way the
young policeman was looking at him. There was no mistaking
that look. It was curiosity. Like people at the zoo. Barry lowered
his eyes quickly and felt the blood rising to his face.
Inspector Samuels was back. “We'll find the other fellow, don't
worry," he said. “We'll get the names of all your close friends.
We'll check every one of them, examine all their cars. Do you
want to save us a lot of trouble and tell us who he is right now pa
Barry was more tired than ever. He couldn't raise his voice.
“There was nobody else. I did it by -"
"All right.” The inspector sighed. “I don't have to argue with
you.” He looked at him a moment longer, then sighed. “I'm sorry,
son.” He muttered something at the policemen, then he left the
room.
A few minutes later Barry was back in front of the desk ser-
252


geant. Lots of notes were made, more policemen appeared, a
door was swung open and he was being led down a long corridor.
Now he was going to see what a cell was like. Would it have a
stone bench in it? Cracks on the floor? Dirt? Or was it neat and
clean, did they give you an ordinary cot? It didn't matter what
they gave him. All he wanted now was a place to stretch out, to
close his eyes tight and go to sleep. ....
Back in the apartment Henry was still in his armchair. Muriel
had been talking to him on and off for an hour. They had to make
plans, they had to get a lawyer, they had a million things to do.
She would take care of them, of course. She couldn't leave it to
him. She had to do it herself, or nothing would get done. In the
end she broke off, shook her head, then ran off to the bedroom
again.
But Henry stayed in the armchair. The sound of his son's sob
bing was still in his ears. He could feel his son's shoulders trem-
bling under his hands. His son – It was almost as if he had never
quite realized, until this moment, that he had one.
Murderer, murderer – that voice was shouting in Paul's ears
from the moment he stepped out of the phone booth in the zoo.
It quieted down a little as he strode along Fifth Avenue, cursing
his rotten luck, snapping at Barry to relieve his feelings. But as
soon as he turned off Fifth Avenue and left Barry gaping behind
him, the voice started in again. Murderer, murderer – But how
did they know? he wanted to shout back. Nobody was supposed
to know till November! Everything over now, the whole beautiful
plan collapsing around him, no package of money thrown out of
the car on the parkway. And he had been looking forward to that
maneuver on the parkway!
He cursed and paced through the rest of the morning. But in
the afternoon, when he got to school for his rehearsal, he began
253


to feel better about things. Because everybody was talking about
him. Of course they didn't realize they were talking about him.
They had just read the story in the afternoon papers, and they
wanted to know what sort of inhuman monster would do such a
thing to a little boy." He filled his own name into the blanks. He
made himself look just as shocked and upset as everybody else,
and held his laughter inside of him. All right, maybe he hadn't
gone as far as he had hoped to go. But he had gone pretty far, a
lot farther than most people in the world ever go.
When he got home he read the papers four or five times. It was
all on the front page, right up among the top headlines. MILLION-
AIRE's Son MURDERED IN WOODS. Millionaire – that made him
laugh. Phillips was pretty rich maybe, but his own father was a
lot closer to being a millionaire. Shows you what the newspapers
are like. Rich Man's Son wouldn't have looked so good in print.
He came to the part about the glasses. He frowned a moment,
then gave a shrug. Chances are somebody had dropped them
there weeks before. Just an extra little bit to confuse the police.
At dinner Mother and Dad couldn't talk about anything else.
Poor Jerry Phillips. What a tragedy. Mother sighed and clasped
her hands, Dad shook his head and said, “Tough." How pleased
people are at the chance to pity other people, Paul thought.
He had a good night's sleep and woke up full of energy. At
two o'clock this afternoon he would act in The Tempest in front
of the whole school, all the teachers, and a couple of hundred
parents. He would give them a performance that none of them
would ever forget.
He was finishing breakfast when Barry called and told him
about the glasses.
When he got back to the table Dad asked him why he was
looking so funny. Wasn't he feeling well? He answered that he
was feeling fine. Then he lifted his chin and made himself laugh.
254


This was going to be a big day for him, he had never felt better
in his life.
At noon he was off for school. He was taking the subway, his
parents would follow in the car in time for the performance. In
the subway he met other members of the cast. There was lots of
laughing, exaggerated nervousness, shouting lines back and forth.
Just for the hell of it, he did a little flirting with Miranda, that
skinny Vera Simmons. What a big thrill it gave her! An easy lay
if he'd ever seen one. He wondered if he ought to make a date
with her for next Saturday night. Why shouldn't he be around
next Saturday night? A pair of glasses, for God's sake. The whole
damn city of New York wears glasses. A city full of nearsighted
people. Typical of that little coward to get into a panic over noth-
ing at all.
The usual confusion before the play began. Costumes too tight,
make-up too slow. "Oh good heavens, I can't remember my first
line!” Then a pep talk from Miss Spengler. “Now I've done my
part, the rest is up to you. I'm sure you'll all be a credit to your-
selves, and the school, and above all the Bard!" Giggles, mur-
murs, silence, the play was beginning.
A performance none of them would ever forget. He started
right out from the very first line. Was he starting a little too
quickly, giving himself nothing to build up to? He didn't know,
there was nothing he could do about it any more. Glasses. He
waved his arms, and got even louder and more dramatic.
The curtain fell. He heard the applause, hands patting him on
the back, Miss Spengler cooing at him. Curtain up again, and he
plunged through the second act. Really the third and fourth acts,
the way Shakespeare wrote it, but Miss Spengler had her own
ideas of division. “We're living in a modern age,” she said, "we
must take the modern approach.” Thousands of nearsighted peo-
ple, he thought. He raised his voice louder than ever:
255


about? You people must be crazy! Tell him, boy, they must be
crazy!”
“Tell us, Paul,” said Samuels. “Why did you kill that Phillips
boy? Your friend Barry Morris has made a full confession al-
ready."
He knew that old trick. The detective stories were full of it.
So he met their eyes squarely, he let his lips tremble a little.
"Killing? That's terrible – But what's Barry got to do with it?
Please, don't keep me in the dark about this. Barry's my best
friend, and if he's in trouble – ”
“You see?” Dad was saying. “Now stop bullying the boy. You're
not dealing with some poor bastard from the slums now. You can
kick those people around maybe, but – ”
Samuels gave a sigh. He didn't look at Dad, he kept his eyes on
Paul. “Your friend is trying to take all the blame on himself. He
says he did the whole thing alone. You're not going to let him do
that, are you?"
Paul's confidence was returning. So they didn't have anything
on him after all. If he just kept his head, used his charm in the
right way. Nervous, polite, and worried – just a seventeen-year-
old kid who's got involved in some terrible mistake. “Barry – he
couldn't have done it. He's making it up, he's trying to protect
somebody. You don't know him the way I do – ”
A touch of impatience was beginning to show in Samuels's
voice. “Tell the truth, Paul. It'll sound a lot better in court if
you tell the truth now.”
“This is the goddamnedest persecution I ever saw in my life!"
Dad said. And at the same moment Paul widened his eyes, full of
shocked innocence. “But I didn't do anything wrong. Honestly — "
"Honestly!” All the mildness was gone from Samuels's face.
“We don't need your confession, son. What do you think we've
been doing the last hour, while you've been acting in your play?
We've gone over your car outside. We've got the bloodstains,
258


we've got the tire marks, we've got the wrench, we've got the
chauffeur's testimony that you drove out that afternoon. We don't
need to bother with you at all.” He took hold of Paul's arm, and
gave a short nod in Dad's direction. "I'm booking him now, you
can see him in the morning."
Paul stood still for a moment, hardly feeling the tug at his arm.
And then, as the color came back to his face, he began to laugh
a little. “Wait a minute - I'll tell you about it. Of course I did it.
Did you think he could do it alone? Did you think he could do
it without me – ”
He saw, in one glimpse, the way Mother and Dad were looking
at him. He turned quickly and went with Inspector Samuels. ...
In their room that night, Arthur was lying on his back, staring
up into the darkness. From the next bed he could hear Harriet's
soft weeping. It's a goddamned liel he kept thinking. Not my
son. Not mine. We've always been pals, the two of us. Man to
man. Away from the women. For God's sake, how could he do
this to me?
BY MORNING the newspapers had the story. The Korean War
was being fought heavily, the French Cabinet was having a cri-
sis, candidates were beginning to snipe at each other in prepara-
tion for the presidential elections. Even so, a pair of teen-age kill-
ers will always make the headlines. Some of the papers called
them the Thrill Fiends, other papers called them the Baby Butch-
ers. Parents all over the city were looking closely at their children
that night.
At the Cosmopolis Club two names were buzzing discreetly all
during lunch. Arthur King, Jerry Phillips. Indignant murmurs for
259


the first, solemn shakes of the head for the second. At the Spread-
ing Chestnut Country Club, the cocktail room was crowded,
heads were bent together, there was lots of whispering. King.
Morris. King. Morris. They were up here for dinner only last
week. My son played tennis with the King boy only Sunday. I al-
ways thought there was something funny about those two.
At the Chess and Checkers Club Charlie Clifford had been sit-
ting in the bar all afternoon. He had closed up his office, to hell
with his patients. A couple of men were talking at the table next
to him. “And what I say is, it's the fault of the parents. The way
these crazy kids are acting nowadays, if the parents would give
them a little discipline – ” The waiter went up to them, there was
some low-voiced conversation, then the two men glanced quickly
at Charlie and moved out of the room. Bastards, Charlie thought,
looking after them. Smug, self-satisfied bastards. Fault of the par-
ents. Damn easy to say. If you didn't know the people. Guy like
Henry Morris. Sweetest little guy in the world. Sweet kid too,
sweet gentle kid. Next time I speak up, Charlie told himself.
Speak right up, tell them about my friend and his kid. Never
mind what they think, the horror and revulsion in their eyes. Next
time I speak up. Next time – The last three times that was
what he had told himself. He waved at the waiter for another
drink.
In his three-room apartment in Queens, Roscoe Thorley, high
school principal, explained to his wife that he had always known
there was something wrong with those boys. “But what could I
do, my dear? The family influence is so much stronger. The
teacher is helpless, as long as there are no overt acts.” His wife
was packing his bag for his yearly stay at Camp Leatherstocking
in Maine, where he had been head counselor since the war. With-
out looking up from her work she said, “There was that business
of the pipes. You'd call that an overt act, wouldn't you?" Mr.
Thorley reddened a little. “Well now, I could hardly have been
260


expected – My dear, how many times have I told you to be more
careful with my shirts!”
In her two-and-a-half-room “studio apartment” in Greenwich
Village, Athalie Fontaine, teacher of French, sipped her after-
noon tea and read the story in the newspaper for the tenth time.
And for the tenth time her lips trembled and a mist formed in her
eyes. “What is it, Athalie?” said the little old lady across the ta-
ble. “What troubles you? Did you not hear me ask for more tea?"
Mademoiselle Fontaine looked up from her newspaper and man-
aged her brisk efficient smile. “More tea, maman. I am sorry."
On a train bound for New Hampshire, in the middle of a swarm
of screaming little boys, Dickie Riddell was reading the New
York
paper.
This was his first year as a counselor at summer camp,
and he was positive he wouldn't get along with the boys. What
if he told them to do something and they just laughed at him and
refused to do it? For a while, though, as he stared down at the
photograph in the paper, he forgot his nervousness. Paul King
hadn't changed much in seven years. Same thin face, sarcastic
smile, confident look, just the way Dickie remembered him. But
of course, that memory wasn't really behind him at all, it still
worked its way into his dreams. The lake in the park, the dirty
handkerchief over his eyes, the water rushing into his nose and
mouth – He broke off with a little shudder. One of the boys at
his side hit another boy in the ribs. He had told them twice al-
ready that they shouldn't fight. He didn't dare to tell them again.
He kept his eyes on the paper, as if he hadn't noticed a thing.
Nancy Stone was standing by her window, looking out at the
river. She remembered those words he had spoken to her on the
phone, the last words she had ever heard from him. It's something
inside of me, he had said. I'm not right for people, he had said. If
only she had understood what he was saying then. Instead of get-
ting hurt, and crying on her bed, and thinking it was something
about her. If she had known what was wrong, couldn't she have
261


thing she could have done? Or can anybody ever really do any-
thing about other people's thoughts and feelings? Isn't there a
secret place inside of everybody that nobody else can ever see
into? But she was his sister, she was closer to him than all the
world once, shouldn't she have guessed – ?
“Ruining people's lives,” Herb was saying. “Other people's lives
and careers. That's what really gets me. That's the part that
makes me mad.”
She looked up at him, with a sudden impulse to anger. But she
forced it down a moment later. She had no right to get angry at
Herb. Herb of all people. She had made her bargain and paid the
price. She wasn't going to whine and complain.
She had no right to get angry at anybody any more.
Martin Brennan read about the murder, of course. In his own
mind he worked out a plan for defense for the two boys – the
way he did for every murder he read about, almost automatically.
A pretty neat plan too, if he said so himself. And so he was de-
lighted when Walt Harmon called him and asked him if he could
take on the case.
He had lunch with Walt a few hours later. He didn't let Walt
see how pleased he was. This was a matter of form. He never
took on a case without making it clear to the clients what a big
favor he was doing them. The magic formula for success – don't
want them, make them want you. He wouldn't be the biggest
criminal lawyer in the East without that formula. And a few other
little formulas along with it.
“Well, I'll tell you, Walt,” he said as he puffed his cigar at the
end of the meal. “It's a pretty nasty business, the killing of a
child. Public sentiment always gets worked up over a thing like
that.”
“I know it, I know it,” Walt said, shaking his head, looking
263


even more worried than usual. Not an easy trick for a congenital
worrier like Walt. “But don't you see – that's just why I thought
of you, Martin. Nobody else would stand a chance against such
obstacles.”
“Now am I a man who falls for flattery?” Brennan said, leaning
back comfortably in his chair. "Of course, you know this sort of
thing runs into money."
“Don't worry about that. Arthur King has plenty of money. He
won't quibble about it, he's a very generous spender even at or-
dinary times."
“And this time he's a little bit desperate?"
“Frankly, Martin, he's quite desperate indeed. I've never seen
him so close to losing his control. Usually he's the type of man
who's always on top of things, knows what he wants and pushes
ahead and gets it. But now his pride is involved. He's the type of
man – ”
And pretty soon they were discussing the clients and the case
in detail. In the end Brennan leaned back again and said, “I°11
take it, Walt, just for the challenge of it. I've even got a few ideas
already. But there's one condition.”
"Anything. I'm sure Arthur will accept it.”
“The two boys have to stand trial together. I won't defend the
King boy alone.”
Walt frowned at this. “I'm not so sure Arthur will agree to that.
He's paying for your exclusive services – ”
“Then the two families will have to split the expense. I'll de-
fend them together, or not at all.”
“But I'm not sure the Morrises will like that idea either."
Brennan shrugged. “I'll tell you what. Bring them all together
in my office at eleven tomorrow. I'll explain my position to them,
and they can decide right there."
Walt gave one of his most miserable sighs. “I'll do it, Martin.
None of them will like it - but I'll tell them.”
264


things. Abnormal psychology is in the air nowadays. Nobody un-
derstands anybody's motives or feelings any more, so people find
a certain comfort in mechanical formulas which can be applied
easily to all situations. Not ignorant, uneducated people either.
Intelligent people who ought to know better. And what I'm get-
ting at is, Judge De Vane is one of these people.”
They all looked up curiously at this. Judge De Vane? What did
he mean? Brennan smiled. He had never got over a certain child-
ish satisfaction at arousing people's curiosity.
"Didn't I mention it?” he said. “My sources tell me the district
attorney is pushing for an immediate indictment so the trial can
be held the first week in September. According to the court cal-
endar, that means your sons will appear before Judge De Vane.
A fine jurist, and nobody's fool. But he isn't young any more, he
likes to think of himself as an enlightened old man, he worries
about becoming old-fashioned and stodgy and out of touch with
modern ideas. He has a tendency to bend over backwards to
show his sympathy with such ideas. Offhand I can't think of a
better man for the psychological approach.”
“Wait a minute,” King spoke up. Very belligerent, he had made
up his mind to find objections. “The judge, as far as I can see,
doesn't matter as much as the jury. You'll never make your mod-
ern psychology stick with a group of ordinary people in a jury. I
wouldn't swallow it myself – ”.
"Oh, you're right,” Brennan said, smiling at him pleasantly.
“Juries are notoriously backward. For them the solid fact of the
dead body would outweigh all the scientific talk in the world.
That's just why we won't try this case before a jury. Every de-
fendant has the right to take his case directly before a judge, if
he wants to. And that's what we're going to do.
"From now on we'll work the psychological approach for all
it's worth. I can start lining up my experts this afternoon. I can
promise you quite an impressive showing. Every age, every na-
267


tionality, and every school. Even when a layman like me reads
those confessions, he can see a certain psychological pattern.
Well, by the time our experts get through, that pattern will be
so overwhelmingly clear and obvious that nobody will be able to
see anything else. Like dead bodies, for instance. However –
getting back to the point where I began – this pattern won't con-
vince anybody unless it's made to fit both boys. We can't hope to
put over a psychological defense for one of them if the other one
denies it and defends himself in a different way completely. Now
there you have my idea, in general terms. Please feel free to ask
me any questions.” He settled back in his chair and smiled at
them invitingly.
After a while their frowns grew less puzzled. King was the first
to speak up. “What does this all come down to in plain English?
You're going to try and get them off by claiming they're insane, is
that it?”
“Oh no, it's not nearly that simple,” Brennan said. “It's prob-
ably impossible to get them declared legally insane. The legal
definition of insanity is very narrow and specific, and I doubt if
your sons have the qualifications. What I intend to do is admit
their guilt freely, but imply that grave psychological maladjust-
ments drove them to it, that they haven't been responsible for
their actions since early childhood, that their subconscious minds
committed the crime, not them. I'm going to cast enough doubt
on their mental state so that the judge, in all conscience, won't be
able to bring himself to impose the supreme penalty on them.”
“But can you do that?” Dr. Morris spoke for the first time, in a
soft hesitating voice. “I mean, once you've admitted the crime was
premeditated – well, according to the law, the judge has to sen-
tence them to - I mean, if he's going to be logical.”
“If he's going to be logical,” Brennan said. “But you know, Dr.
Morris, I've met a lot of judges in my day, and it's amazing how
many of them are capable of being just as illogical as you or me.
268


In other words – our case isn't going to be a logical one. It's go-
ing to be a carefully calculated emotional attack directed at one
amiable old gentleman who happens to be a judge. Incidentally,
that's just what the district attorney's case will be too. Past ex-
perience indicates, however,” and Brennan allowed himself a
small smile, “that I can usually be ten times more emotional than
he can.”
“But you keep talking about the supreme penalty,” Dr. Mor-
ris's wife broke in. “It sounds as if you've given up the idea of
getting them free, you've made up your mind that they'll have to
go to prison!”
Brennan recognized that note in her voice. This was it, the mo-
ment she had chosen to make trouble. Well, it had to come even-
tually. He might as well sit back and enjoy it. “That's right, Mrs.
Morris. I thought it went without saying.”
She raised her voice. “No, it doesn't go without saying. Maybe
for Paul King. But not for my boy, I won't accept that for Barry.
He was forced into this. He never did anything wrong in his
whole life until he met Paul King.” She turned on King sud-
denly, and her arms were waving. “Your son did this to Barry!
Your son made a criminal out of him! And now your smart law-
yer wants us to sacrifice him to save your son's neck!”
Brennan could see the anger rushing quickly into King's face.
"You're crazy! Why the hell did this woman come here – pas
"I'll tell you why! I came to look out for my boy – ”
Dr. Morris was on his feet now, taking hold of her arm. “Mu-
riel, please – that's not it, don't you see? Barry is just as guilty – ”
“Just as guilty! No, I don't see! I see that you're turning against
your own son, that's all I see! We're leaving right now, we're
getting a lawyer of our own. We're leaving, do you hear me?” She
pulled away from him and took a few steps to the door.
Dr. Morris stood where he was. Brennan watched the pained
uncertain look on his face and wondered which way he was go-
269


school yearbook picture, himself in the role of Prospero, in the
role of Marc Antony. Those reporters must have ransacked every
drawer in the house.
They were paying a lot of attention to Barry too. But that was
all right, Paul didn't mind. Because they were beginning already
to make a difference between him and Barry. They were talking
already about Barry as the follower and him as the leader, the
brains, the courage, the real man of the pair.
And then, even inside the prison, life wasn't dull and empty.
Not just the guards and the other prisoners at all. He had a steady
stream of visitors. Four or five times a day he was being taken up-
stairs to one of the visitors' rooms. Or even uptown to the court-
house. A policeman on both sides of him, of course, as if they ex-
pected him to try some sort of desperate escape. The Scarlet
Pimpernel eludes his captors again! Sometimes the visitors were
reporters. He got along with them beautifully, joking and laugh-
ing with them, posing for their cameras. They all liked him. Most
charming likable murderer they had ever met, he thought.
And sometimes, four or five times a week, he was closeted with
one of the psychiatrists. All sizes, shapes, and foreign accents.
Half a dozen supplied by the district attorney, another half a
dozen supplied by his own lawyer. They threw questions at him,
made him put blocks into holes and say the first word that came
into his head, shone little lights into his eyes, struck his kneecap
with little hammers. They were a real riot, better than a dozen
comedians on television. He had a terrific amount of fun with
them. The little German one especially. One day he told that Ger-
man that the source of all his troubles was a deep-rooted hatred
of the Teutonic races, ingrained in him since a certain obscene
incident with his German governess as a child. You should have
seen that little German worry over that one!
Sometimes he was taken up to the district attorney's office. He
and Barry would stand there while the district attorney asked
273


them questions that he had asked a dozen times already, and lec-
tured them about how awful they were and how ashamed they
ought to be. Paul enjoyed these sessions too. He enjoyed keeping
a grin on his face, and meeting the district attorney's eyes without
a flicker, and letting the whole world know that it wasn't so easy
to bully him. Barry sometimes got a little pale during these ses-
sions, but not him.
What he liked best of all were the talks he had, three or four
times a week, with his lawyer. The great Martin Brennan, he had
read a lot about him, he was a little bit nervous the first time he
met him. But pretty soon he was as much at ease with Brennan
as if he had known him all his life. A great guy, really great. Ter-
rific sense of humor, a new joke every day. And very fond of
Paul, didn't hesitate for a moment to talk to him about the case,
outline all the strategy to him, even ask his advice from time to
time. Knows a smart man when he sees one. Most of all, he
seemed to enjoy listening to Paul's ideas about things, about life
and himself and things. The more Paul talked, and got excited,
and poured out his feelings, the more interested Brennan looked.
Especially when Paul got to the plan, the abstract puzzle, and
told how he had felt about it, how carefully he had planned it,
what it was like while it was happening – Brennan just couldn't
seem to hear enough about all this.
And so, in the end, it was a wonderful summer. He wasn't cut
off, he wasn't being ignored or looked down on. His little cell in
Central Prison was the center of the world, important people
were coming to see him, everything was revolving around him.
His spirits were too high to keep up his coldness towards Barry.
At the end of the first week he let Barry know that he was for-
given, that he could talk to his friend as much as he pleased again.
It was nice talking with Barry again. Barry was a little pale these
days, a little quieter than usual maybe, but he was still listening,
still the same awe and admiration. And lots of others, other pris-
274


oners. They listened with awe and admiration too. They weren't
all as dumb as he had expected them to be. Some pretty smart op-
erators among them. But even the smartest ones kept quiet to lis-
ten to him.
Only one thing about the summer that he didn't like much.
Twice a week he was brought up to the visitors' room to see his
family. His father came every time. Sometimes his mother came
too, though she was sick a lot this summer, she was in bed more
often than not. Twice his sister Ellen came, and stood by Dad's
side, and looked at Paul, and hardly said a word. His other sis-
ters came once apiece, then hurried back to their husbands and
children out of town. Stay out of it, don't get mixed up in it -
he knew that's what they were thinking, it made him laugh to
himself. Jellyfish.
But his father came every time. He never stayed long. Just long
enough to ask him how he felt and did he want anything. His
eyes were always narrowed a little, and more than once Paul
caught a hard look on his face. A look of anger almost. Paul was
glad when these visits were over.
Not that they could actually spoil things, of course. He wasn't
going to let them do that. There was too much going on in his
life, too much to look forward to. The beginning of the trial, his
first appearance in court, the spectators gazing at him, the judge
and the lawyers talking about him, the flashbulbs going off. The
summer was wonderful all right, but the autumn was going to
be even better.
During his first week in prison Barry dragged himself through
the days, weighed down by that tired feeling which hadn't left
him since the night – the night he wouldn't let himself think
about any more. The things around him, the smell, the food, the
people, none of this meant anything to him during that first week.
275


When he came up to Paul in the courtyard, and Paul looked at
him with such contempt and said that word to him, he was too
tired to feel any pain. He just turned and drifted away to an-
other part of the courtyard.
And then the tired feeling began to lift. They wouldn't let him
sleep, they wouldn't let him just lie on his back from one end of
the day to the other. They were always prodding at him, leading
him here, leading him there. He kept being ushered into rooms,
people kept talking at him, asking things from him. Bit by bit his
mind had to shake off its numbness, bit by bit the things around
him began to force themselves on him, to rub into him, to sting
him. One day he realized that the tired feeling was all gone, and
everything was very sharp and clear. He blinked around. A wave
of fear and disgust rose up inside of him.
Fear and disgust, that was how he went through the rest of
the summer. It wasn't so much the dirt, or the hard cot, or the
tasteless food -- after all, he had spent many summers up at camp.
It wasn't even the bars, the clanging of iron doors, the long drab
corridors, the bare stone courtyard. Though that was closer to it,
that was almost it. It was the people, that's what it mainly was.
The guards with their rough voices, ignorant, ugly. And the loud
triumphant way they laughed or barked orders or made threats
when somebody disobeyed. And the men who got put into the
same cell with him - one at a time, never for more than a week.
Old ones with filthy whiskey breaths, clutching the bars and
staring out all day long. Big swarthy ones, thin mean mouths,
some of them could hardly talk English. A Negro once, sort
of lightheaded and peculiar, talking all the time, drifting from
one subject to another. Barry was polite, he constantly nodded
agreement, but he could hardly bear it when the man talked
to him.
And once they put a boy in with him, a dark sharp-faced Puerto
Rican boy who had held up a liquor store. He must have been
276


tone of voice was enough. It was all Barry could do to keep the
tears from his eyes.
And Mother and Dad came to see him twice a week. They al-
ways stayed for exactly fifteen minutes, that was as long as they
were allowed to stay. Mother talked a lot about all the things she
was doing for him, working day and night to help him, giving up
all her committees and her social obligations for his sake. Moth-
er's voice was tired these days, and sometimes she lost the thread
of what she was saying and had to start in all over again. There
were questions he wanted to ask, questions about these commit-
tees and social obligations that she was giving up, but he didn't
dare to ask them. At the end of the time Mother would leave
quickly, but Dad would hang back for just a moment. Just long
enough to touch Barry's hand and exchange a final smile with
him. Then Dad would go too, and the rest of the day would
stretch in front of Barry, emptier than ever.
Of course, Paul was in the prison too. He saw Paul every day.
At recreation time he automatically drifted over to Paul in the
courtyard. Who else did he know, who else could he talk to? And
Paul had become friendly again, and cheerful even, full of high
spirits even. This was what Barry needed, of course. Being with
Paul would cure him of his fear and his disgust. Being with Paul
had always helped him in the past. Being with Paul -
So he was with Paul, and the summer went on, and the fear
and disgust went right on too. One day Paul showed him an item
in the newspaper. “Look at this. It says that they're putting on a
dozen extra guards in court, just to take care of the crowds for
our trial.” Paul laughed and shook his head and took a lot of
pleasure in this, but it worried Barry for the rest of the day, and
for all the days after that. They were already making plans for
the trial. Was the trial really so close? He was afraid of the trial,
he was afraid of the days in court. Prison was bad enough, but at
least it was private, you went through it alone, without the whole
278


world staring and gaping at you. How could he stand it in court,
when the people gathered to look, and the whole story, every
tiny humiliating detail, was shouted out in front of everybody?
And after that, waiting for the judge's decision. How could he
ever stand the waiting? And if the decision turned out to be -
But he wouldn't think about that. Mr. Brennan was confident,
he said there was no possibility of that. For the rest of the sum-
mer Barry was as polite and cooperative with everybody as he
could possibly be. He was ready to hop whenever a guard gave
him an order. He listened intently, with sincere interest, to all
the district attorney's lectures. He couldn't have been nicer to the
psychiatrists. If he was only nice enough and polite enough,
maybe it would all turn out to be a mistake. Or a dream. Or hap-
pening to someone else.
One afternoon, at the end of August, they were taken from the
prison uptown to the district attorney's office. All the way up Paul
kept trying to pump the guard for an explanation, but all he
could get was one vague hint. “It's something one of the psychia-
trists thought up," the guard said. “I heard the D.A. talking about
it over the phone. Something about testing your moral and emo-
tional indifference, something fancy like that.”
It made Barry tremble a little, just to hear the words. But he
trembled a little at everything nowadays. He was almost begin-
ning to get used to it.
The district attorney's office was full of people. Mr. Patterson
himself was behind the desk, looking angry and dynamic as he
did in all his newspaper pictures. Along with him were some uni-
formed police officers. And Inspector Samuels was there, in the
back – Barry recognized his gray hair before he saw his face.
And there were five or six men that he remembered as reporters,
and there were some men with cameras. Barry just had time to
279


way? Lots of sympathy from the public? 'Grief-Stricken Father
Confronts Killers of Son.' Who does he think he's impressing?
Doesn't he know we're trying this case in front of a judge? A
bunch of softheaded jurymen might fall for that stuff, but a
judge has more sense!”
Barry wished that Paul's voice wasn't so loud. He had never
realized until the last few weeks how loud and sharp and un-
pleasant Paul's voice could be. Had it been that way before, on
those wonderful long evenings when he talked to Paul over cof-
fee? The voice had been soft and gentle then. Or else it never
could have meant so much to him.
He was sick that night. He threw up his dinner and went on
retching with his stomach empty. Later, when the lights were
turned out, he lay on his back, not moving. He heard that tired,
tense voice shouting at him. He saw those eyes, so red and full
of hatred. For him. The hatred was meant for him. Nobody had
ever felt that way about him before. What had he done to be
hated like that? He hadn't meant to hurt anybody. He wasn't the
kind of person who enjoys hurting people – like the Puerto Rican
boy with the sideburns – no, he wasn't like that! It was just that
Paul had wanted it so badly - and what was there for him in life
without Paul? What happened after that had simply happened. It
was all over with before he knew it, while he was still telling him-
self that it wouldn't happen. It wasn't fair that his whole life
should be over along with it. Going to school, collecting his rocks,
having a nice home to live in – how happy he had been with his
life! Looking back on it now, he couldn't remember one single
moment of unhappiness.
Why did he have to do it? If only he hadn't done it. If only it
could still be last year. Last year - what a wonderful perfect
year it had been. He prayed to God. He was ready to promise
God anything. He would devote the rest of his life to the service
of humanity. He would give up college, and all the fine times he
281


little man, sitting next to a big middle-aged woman. The bald
head was poked forward, the eyes were fixed intently in Barry's
direction. Barry turned away quickly. It was all just as bad as he
had expected. And it was going to get worse. When the judge ap-
peared, and the lawyers started talking, it was going to be un-
bearable.
The clerk was rapping. Everybody shuffled to their feet as a
door opened and a little white-haired old man made his way
slowly up to the bench. Barry followed him all the way with his
eyes. Just another little old man, it seemed – a sharp hooked nose,
bright little eyes that turned here and there. What was he think-
ing about? Everything depended on this little old man's thoughts.
The trial was beginning. The clerk was talking, Mr. Brennan
was talking, the district attorney was talking at great length.
Only his last few words forced themselves into Barry's mind.
“ – to prove beyond any reasonable doubt the truth about these
two young murderers, Barry Morris and Paul King."
The truth about myself? thought Barry. He sat forward a little
in his chair. He was going to hear the truth about himself. That's
what he was doing here now, that's why the newspapers had been
running their headlines all summer, that's why all these lawyers
and judges and important people were gathered in this room to-
day. They were going to decide what was the truth about Paul
and him, and his future would depend on that decision. Or if
there would be any future for him at all — He forgot about the
gaping crowd behind him, he forgot about the buzzing and the
murmuring, he forgot about his shame and humiliation. From
that moment on he listened with all his attention, with all the
strength he could manage, to everything that was going on in
front of him.
The district attorney adjusted his spectacles, blew his nose,
then stuck out his chin and assumed his dynamic manner. The
prosecution's case was opened.
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The first day there were mostly technical things. The police
surgeon, the medical examiner, the photographs of the woods and
the water pipe and the body. The district attorney spent a lot of
time waving these photographs at the judge, at the spectators,
and especially at Paul and Barry. Barry couldn't look at them. He
felt a shudder go through him. But this passed quickly, and then
he was giving as much of his attention as ever to the chemists,
the plaster casts of tire marks and footprints, the optician who
had made his glasses, the fingerprint experts. Mr. Brennan hardly
bothered to cross-examine anybody. “Every case is full of dull de-
tails,” he explained later on. “We'll let the prosecution carry this
load all by himself. It's just as well he should get the credit for
boring everybody to death.” But the details weren't boring to
Barry.
And so the first day ended. Was this all there would be to it?
Like a lecture in biology or chemistry? "I was falling asleep,”
Paul said to him as they left the courtroom. “Tomorrow I think
I'll bring a book.”
But the second day there were no more photographs or plaster
casts. There were witnesses now – people Barry knew, people he
hadn't seen or thought about for a long time. There was Mr.
Thorley, the school principal, telling the story of the missing
pipes - red in the face, wriggling at first, but soon settling down
to his important school-assembly manner. When the district at-
torney was through with him, Mr. Brennan stood up, smiled at
him pleasantly, and said, “You've had a great deal of experience
dealing with teen-age children, haven't you? You consider your-
self a fairly good judge of the teen-age character, I presume?"
"Well, a man doesn't hold a position of responsibility for
twenty years, as I have done – ”
"Absolutely.” Mr. Brennan smiled in a silence for a moment,
then said, “By the way, Mr. Thorley, it's true, isn't it, that you had
no idea at the time of the pipe incident that Paul King was in-
284


volved? In fact, you called him to your office, didn't you, and
asked him to cooperate with you in unearthing the culprit?”
Mr. Thorley spluttered, and started to give explanations, but
Mr. Brennan just said in a mild voice, “That will be all, Mr.
Thorley."
Mr. Thorley was just the beginning of them. The doorman
from Barry's building, a counselor from summer camp, the gym
instructor at school, one by one they came up to say what an odd
boy he'd always been, how uncomfortable he was with people,
how strange his reactions were to the things ordinary boys en-
joyed, how easily people led him by the nose. Paul King espe-
cially. Everybody who knew them expected no good to come of
his friendship with Paul King.
The last of these witnesses was Carl, Mr. King's chauffeur. His
voice was peculiar, more intense than it had to be somehow. He
told how Paul and Barry had taken the car that afternoon, how
nervous they had seemed, how Paul had looked frightened and
guilty when he brought the car back that night. Yes, he had
known Paul King and Barry Morris for longer than a year. Al-
ways they were together, always they were planning things. Not
good things, he had suspected that from the start.
Mr. Brennan had no amiable smile for Carl when he got up to
cross-examine him. Bit by bit he made Carl admit how much he
disliked the boys, how he had disliked them a long time before
he noticed the "guilty” look on Paul's face. Then he asked Carl
point-blank if Mr. King hadn't fired him from his job right after
Paul's arrest, and Carl snapped back angrily that this was true.
And then, in a loud voice, he added, “Rich spoiled brats! Acting
like they're better than you because you drive the car for them!”
Mr. Brennan smiled and didn't ask him any more questions.
The second day was over. It hadn't been good. A dozen times
Barry had felt himself reddening or wincing. But as the third day
began, he was in his place, listening just as intently as ever.
285


the opposition to himself. This boy he calls the Prince. He is hand-
some, he is slim, he is lightly complected, he is popular and at
ease with his environment – he is, in few words, the wish-projec-
tion of all that the subject is not, yet subconsciously desires to
be – "
This was about him all right- and Barry could feel his whole
face flaming with embarrassment. All those things he had told the
psychiatrists during the summer, all those private personal things,
because he had been so frightened and so anxious to make a good
impression. And now this little German was going to repeat every
bit of it in front of everybody, in front of Mother and Dad and
Paul and everybody. The Prince and the four men would be
dragged out and paraded to the whole world, so that from this
moment on to the end of his life nobody could ever look at him
without remembering that he was the boy “who had those crazy
daydreams."
"The Prince is being beaten,” Dr. Waxman was saying. "The
Prince is grateful — the subject lowers himself to his knees – be-
cause of his deep-rooted insecurity, the subject fears to cope with
the moral and social responsibilities of life, and so he is happy to
give himself up in whole to the will of another – ”
The words went on and on forever. But finally they had left
the Prince behind, there was a lot of complicated discussion of the
difference between the inferiority complex” and “the superiority
complex.” Barry used the time to get hold of himself, to make
himself concentrate again.
“ – But as the subject grows from childhood to adolescence,
the simple fantasy no longer satisfies him, he desires to work out
this fantasy on the level of reality, he desires to find somehow a
real prince. He is impelled to make an experiment with one of his
schoolmates. The result, of course, is frustration, humiliation, and
guilt-feelings – ”
Barry remembered Johnnie Dykeman, he remembered the ter-
288


rible panic which had risen up in him on the hill that afternoon
as Johnnie turned to look at him suspiciously. Frustration, humili-
ation, and guilt-feelings, was that what it had been? The words
didn't even come close to his memory of how he had felt.
"- and so, on this night, the night of crisis in his emotional life,
he meets the other subject, Paul King. What a portentous meet-
ing this is! How full of coincidence and circumstance! But this is
life, no? This is the workings of – ”
Barry listened with extra closeness. His meeting with Paul,
what about his meeting with Paul? Why was it so portentous?
What did Dr. Waxman mean about coincidence and circum-
stance? It seemed to him that the truth he'd been waiting for
must be hidden somewhere in what Dr. Waxman was about to
say – the truth about what he really was, why he'd really done
it, what they were going to do to him for it. But Dr. Waxman just
went on in a solemn voice about circumstances and coincidences,
and the mathematical beauty of psychology, until Mr. Brennan
spoke up wearily, “Objection. The testimony has become not only
irrelevant and immaterial, but positively metaphysical.” Dr. Wax-
man glared at him, cleared his throat, and then started talking
about Paul. “The subject Paul King is in many respects the psy-
chological counterpart of the subject Barry Morris. The resem-
blance he bears to the prince of the fantasy will be immediately
evident, of course, to any careful observer – ” And he was off on
a lot of long technical words about the “emotional and psycho-
logical condition of the subject Paul King."
Barry found his attention wavering. There was too much to
think about already in the things Dr. Waxman had said about
him. He didn't know where to begin. And so he didn't begin any-
where, he just gave himself up to his confusion. His interest didn't
reawaken until the flow of Dr. Waxman's words had stopped, and
the district attorney was speaking up. “Dr. Waxman, would you
tell us now, in your expert opinion, are these boys responsible for
289


looking very amused about something. "How about it, kid?" he
said. “How come you never told me about that prince business? I
would've been flattered.”
Barry lowered his eyes and pressed his lips together. A wave of
feeling came over him - a new feeling that Paul hadn't ever
aroused in him before. What was it anyway? Dislike – that's
what it was. A slow dull throbbing of dislike.
Then court was in session again. The district attorney pro-
duced another psychiatrist. And still another the next morning.
And for the rest of the following week he kept the witness stand
full of psychiatrists. They all talked like Dr. Waxman. They even
used a lot of the same long words. They all announced at the
end that the defendants were “definitely not insane.” And Mr.
Brennan was pained and patient and sarcastic with each one of
them. On Friday afternoon, after a tall gloomy-looking professor
from Johns Hopkins University had finished giving his testimony,
the district attorney looked up from his papers and said almost
casually, “Your Honor, the State rests.”
The judge glanced at his watch and adjourned the court for the
week end.
All around Barry the crowd was coming to life. People rushed
for the doors. Reporters, he supposed. His father was smiling at
him, his mother was shouting something. Then he was being
moved out of the room. His head was aching from all the listen-
ing and looking and concentrating he had done for the last
two weeks. And it wasn't over yet either. He still didn't know
what was true and what wasn't. What was sane and what
wasn't. He was sane, that seemed pretty clear up to now. And
yet – the defense hadn't really started in yet, Mr. Brennan
hadn't begun to do the wonderful things that everybody said he
could do.
He would take it very easy this week end, he told himself. He
would get a lot of sleep. He wouldn't let himself worry. By Mon-
291


day morning he would be all rested up, full of energy, ready to
start concentrating again even harder than before.
Paul had kept a grin on his face all through the prosecution
case. Pleasant, casual, not the least bit worried. Let them think
you're worried, and pretty soon they'll begin to think that you've
got something to worry about. A good front, that's the most im-
portant thing in this world. His father had told him so plenty of
times. And Martin Brennan knew it too, he was sure of that. A
man like Brennan, that's why he was making big money today,
because he was a master of the art of putting up a good front.
Several times, as the prosecution case went on, Paul caught Bren-
nan's eye and smiled at him questioningly, as if to say, Am I do-
ing all right? Is this what you want from me? And each time
Brennan smiled back or winked in a nice conspiratorial way. It
must be a pleasure for a man like Brennan, Paul thought, to have
a client he can absolutely depend on.
Now it was Monday morning, things were starting up again.
The prosecution case had been a little boring, Paul thought. After
a while he had begun to get tired of listening to one person after
another say nasty things about him. Paul King the Boy Criminal,
the Terror of Children, the Fiend of the Age – that was amusing
enough for a short time, but now he wanted something different.
Paul King the Mixed-Up Kid, the Poor Unhappy Adolescent
Starving for Affection, the Tragic Victim of Circumstances. That
was what he was looking forward to now. All week end he had
been practicing innocent injured expressions in front of the mirror
in his cell.
The judge came in – halfway to second childhood, that's what
Paul thought of him. As the room quieted down, he whispered to
Barry, "Watch the fireworks from now on.”
The first day was full of character witnesses. Leave it to Bren-
292


we can do can bring Peter Phillips back to us. He is in the hands
of God now. But his killers are in our hands. We must try, though
imperfectly, to judge them as wisely, deeply, and tolerantly as
their victim is now being judged.
"This is no ordinary murder, committed by a grown man, with
mature emotions and the capacity to understand and control his
actions. This is a child's murder, the murder of a child by chil-
dren. The murderers of Peter Phillips are seventeen years old,
scarcely five years older than their victim. Seventeen years – the
twinkling of an eye. To most of us seventeen years ago probably
seems like yesterday. And yet, that has been the full extent of the
lives of these boys.
"And their crime is far from typical of the crimes of other
seventeen-year-olds. These boys are no ordinary juvenile delin-
quents. Their motive was not robbery, jealousy, the revenge of
one gang against another. We read of such crimes in the newspa-
pers every day, and they are tragic enough, God knows. How
much more tragic, then, is this crime, and the motive which un-
derlies it.
"We have heard a good deal about this motive during the last
few weeks — about the world of fantasy and insecurity in which
these boys lived, the heartbreak of their family lives, the fateful
coincidence which led to their meeting. But what does all this
really mean, not in medical terms but in plain human terms? The
answer is only too clear. From their earliest childhood, from that
shadowy time before their memory even begins, the biggest thing
in the lives of these boys has been unhappiness. Unhappiness. In
seventeen years on this earth Barry Morris and Paul King have
grown up without one single full day of happiness. Children de-
pend on their parents. Their peace of mind, their freedom from
fear, their chance to develop into happy men, all this depends on
their parents. But the parents of these two boys have never ful-
filled this responsibility. In spite of the wealth of their surround-
301


ings, these boys have been neglected children. Their parents
have never given them one ounce of real affection, interest, con-
solation, or moral guidance. And so, all the material blessings
have turned to dust, and only unhappiness is left in their place.
“What does a child do when he feels life to be hopelessly pain-
ful and incomprehensible? What does an adult do? Even an adult,
I think we must all admit, is liable to lose control of himself, to
strike out blindly out of sheer pain. Can we be surprised then,
can we assume an attitude of moral superiority, when such cruel
pressures produce an irrational reaction in a child? What else
happened to Barry Morris and Paul King except that unhappi-
ness distorted their feelings, took their judgment away from
them, and finally drove them to the desperate act of violence for
which they now appear in this court? But how, we may ask, did
this act of violence help them to relieve their unhappiness? What
good did the death of Peter Phillips do them? In the answer to
that question lies the defense's whole case. The death of Peter
Phillips did them no good at all. In killing him they conclusively
proved the irrationality of their wild despair – if you will, their
insanity.
“Let me suggest an analogy. There are diseases so painful that
they drive a man to frenzy, he runs amuck, he smashes anything
in his way. Men who suffer from such diseases have been known
to kill people, not even realizing that they were doing so. And
yet, would we think of putting such men in prison or condemning
them to death? Our humanity revolts at such a thought. We see
instead that such men must be given patient medical treatment so
that they may take their place in the community as useful citizens
again. Why should it be any different for Barry Morris and Paul
King? What have these boys done but run amuck under the in-
fluence of an emotional disease more agonizing, particularly to
the sensitive emotions of a child, than any physical disease we can
imagine? They have been driven by forces which would have
302


been too powerful for a grown man to resist. Can anyone in this
room say that he could have resisted those forces? Frankly, I am
ready to confess that I cannot.
“Yes, it would be presumptuous for us to punish these boys as
if they were common criminals. And it would be cruelly unneces-
sary. They have suffered their punishment already. Think of the
notoriety and humiliation which has been heaped on them since
their arrest. Think of the dreadful pangs of guilt they must be
feeling on account of the havoc they have caused not only to
themselves but to the boy they killed, his father and his family,
and their own parents as well. Even if they were to walk out of
this court free men right now, their punishment would not be
over. Their lives are ruined in any event. It took just one split
second to raise and lower that wrench, but that one second will
pursue them down through the rest of their years and will per-
haps go on tormenting them into eternity. It would be a refine-
ment of vengeance-seeking for us to hound them with further
punishment
"It would be a blow to society too. For one thing is certain
about these two boys – they are exceptional. They have excep-
tional talent and intelligence, qualities all too rare in this world
and all too badly needed in these hectic and fearful times. Fur-
thermore, these qualities have been tested already in the fire of
suffering, aged already by repentance and remorse. If we kill
these boys, we will not be eliminating two criminals from the
world, we will be eliminating two future scientists, or artists, or
statesmen, or great humanitarians. Snuffing out their lives will
help nobody. Understanding their childish blindness and mad-
ness, and setting them free, will perhaps confer a boon on all
mankind. How can we be sure? How can we take the responsi-
bility on our shoulders? How can we dare deprive them of their
chance?
“A deeper issue is involved here than the lives of two seventeen-
303


year-old boys. In this courtroom today we are debating the age-
old question of Science versus Witchcraft, of Enlightenment ver-
sus the Dark Ages. We have an opportunity to show that our law
is not an iron lady, lined with spikes that tear apart anyone who
ventures inside, but a just and beneficent force that marches hand
in hand with the newest and best in man's discoveries about him-
self. This is the issue we must decide today. On this decision
hang the lives of two children who might so easily be your chil-
dren or mine."
Mr. Brennan sat down. For a while nobody in the courtroom
said a word. Then the whisperings began. Barry kept his head
down and his fists clenched under the table. But nothing could
keep his tears from coming. They had started from the beginning
of Mr. Brennan's speech. They had come especially strong when
Mr. Brennan spoke about the suffering of his parents, the ruin
he had made of their lives and everybody else's.
At the same time, under his tears, his heart was beating fast,
in a sudden burst of hope. This was it, wasn't it, this was the truth
about himself? He had been driven by forces beyond his control
- he couldn't stop himself, he wasn't to blame! Mr. Brennan had
made it so clear and reasonable, how could anybody help but be
convinced by it? How could the judge help but be convinced by
it? The judge was sure to set him free now, and then he could go
out and devote his life to humanity, as he had been silently prom-
ising God since the first days of the trial. And pretty soon it would
all be behind him, just as if nothing had ever happened. ...
Court adjourned for lunch. As soon as it reconvened, District
Attorney Patterson got to his feet. Mr. Brennan had been sort of
sad and quiet in his manner, but District Attorney Patterson,
Barry saw, was going to be stern and dramatic.
“The defense counsel has been eloquent. The defense counsel
is always eloquent, and his large generalizations and easy emo-
tions have impressed me along with everyone else. Let us try now
304


elty and violence they commit, science is ready with an explana-
tion. We must not let ourselves be confused by this. We must not
be tricked into believing that an explanation is an excuse. All the
scientific explanations in the world cannot excuse what these two
boys did in the woods that terrible afternoon. The counsel for
the defense may bombard us at length with complexes, frustra-
tions, wish fulfillments, and other psychological jargon, but our
answer simply is: remember the woods that afternoon. The coun-
sel for the defense may move us to tears with his eloquent pic-
tures of neglectful parents and lonely children, but our answer
remains unchanged: the woods that afternoon! This is common
sense – those little words which the defense counsel has used in
such a proprietary way throughout this trial.
“Having insisted that the defendants somehow did not commit
the murder which they confess to committing, the defense coun-
sel then asks us to shed a tear for the inconvenience they have
suffered. Their pictures have appeared in the newspapers, they
have been obliged to come to court and answer for their actions
– how unfair, what a pointless punishment! They have brought
ruin to their friends and families – and we are supposed to pity
them for this too. It would be more reasonable, one would think,
to add this to the list of their crimes. All I can say is, what about
Peter Phillips? Why does the defense counsel not say a word
about his suffering? What about the agony of mind he felt in those
few minutes when he realized that he was being deliberately mur-
dered? What about the humiliation they inflicted on his body
when they dragged it through the rain and stuffed it like a dis-
carded rag into that old water pipe?
“Finally the defense counsel tells us that we must not punish
these boys because of the brilliant future which might stretch be-
fore them. They might be great scientists or statesmen some day.
We must not deprive them of their chance. Again I ask, What
307


looking flushed. Mr. Brennan was smiling and shaking hands, ap-
parently just as confident as could be. Barry saw and heard it all
as if it were happening far away. Only one thing was close to him
now, cutting him off from everything else – the district attorney's
last words. “Kill them. Wipe them out.” Every one of Mr. Bren-
nan's clever points, all those wonderful convincing arguments of
his - the district attorney had destroyed them all. He had exposed
the falseness of them all, and now the truth was left, the real
truth at last. But it isn't the truth, Barry thought. I couldn't help
myself. What else could I do? And then, with a sigh, what does it
matter how I feel about it? The judge certainly won't feel that
way. The judge was going to sentence them to death in the elec-
tric chair, he wouldn't have a moment's hesitation about it.
I'm going to die, Barry thought all the way out of court and
back to the prison. I'm really going to die. There's no more hope
for me now.
“Wipe out the germs!” Paul cried. “Prevent the disease from
spreading!” He laughed and brought his hand down hard on
Barry's shoulder. “Wake up, kid. Show a little life. The world
isn't going to end. Or is it?" He laughed again.
They were in the car, riding back to the prison. Outside it was
beginning to get dark. Barry's face was the color of the shadows.
He didn't say anything, he turned his eyes away.
Paul made his voice a little harsh. “What's the matter, are you
worried about what old De Vane has in store for us? Don't worry
about it, kid. There's nothing you can do about it any more." He
saw the pain come into Barry's eyes. Serves him right, he thought.
Acting high and mighty with me.
Me. Me! The word pounded through his head far into the
night. On September the sixth a trial was held in the Criminal
Court of the County of New York, The People vs. Me! At me every
309


was like – But it wouldn't happen, of course. He was Paul King,
the man who came out on top.
The next morning he was taken up to the visitors' room. His
father was waiting for him. His father was alone. Sitting up very
stiff and straight, staring at him steadily through the wire grating.
“Is everything all right?” his father said, a funny tightness in
his voice.
“Everything's fine. It went wonderfully, I think. Don't you
hink so, Dad? That Brennan, he's a real genius. Did you
hear
hat speech of his — ?”
"You're satisfied then?” his father said. “I got you the best,
lidn't I? I couldn't have done any better for you?”
“You certainly did. You know how grateful I am for that. If I
get out of this — and I think there's a good chance I will – don't
you think so too? Well, when I get out of this — ”
“Then it's finished now. I did what I could. I didn't hold back
on money or time. You're my son, so I did it.” For a moment his
ather's mouth trembled, then he went on stronger and louder.
Now there's no more I can do. I don't want to have to look at
rou ever again."
"Dad'
His father was on his feet, his face getting a little red. “What
ou did to me," he said. His mouth worked, then he said, “You
an go to hell for all I care.” He turned and walked out of the
oom.
It was recreation period when Paul went downstairs again. Ev-
rybody was out in the courtyard. It was a warm, bright day,
Imost like summer. There wouldn't be many more days like this.
The sun was beating down zing down, + re had never been
uch a bright hard sun.
in the f a group. They
1ere laughing and tall id him
He was always in
rmi pular
verybody liked hir
ied

of a
dy li
311


lently, inside himself. Paul King, Leader of Men. Paul King the
Grand Mogul, the head of the secret club. And how they all
wanted to be in the secret club with him! How they would coax
and beg and fight among themselves to be his Assistant Grand
Mogull But he wasn't going to pick just anybody. He could afford
to be choosy. He could lift a man up today and drop him back
into misery tomorrow. And they were happy to take it from him
too. Because he was the Grand Mogul, His Exalted Highness the
Great Grand Mogul.
He looked carefully at the faces around him. They didn't know
who he was yet. They didn't know that they had a royal prince
among them. And maybe he wouldn't ever tell them. He knew
who he was, deep down inside of him - and wasn't that all that
really mattered?
Three days went by, and still no word from the judge. Barry
moved through the days quietly, with that faint sense of being
far away from things, of seeing the world around him through a
kind of mist.
He remembered the swarm of questions which had tied his
brain up in knots all through the trial – what was he really like?
What was the meaning of his life? Was he sane or insane? Was it
his fault or wasn't it? How terribly urgent those questions had
seemed only a few days ago - and now they didn't matter a bit.
Wipe them out, the district attorney said. Kill them as you kill a
disease.
And so he was going to die. Everything was going to end for
him. His thoughts, his feelings, himself. Barry Morris would stop
short just like that, while the rest of the world went on living.
How could he imagine the world without himself in it?
During the day he managed to push back this thought. He read
books, took his exercise, even made himself talk to people. But he
312


couldn't fight against it at night. As soon as the lights were out
and his cheek was touching the pillow, it would all come rising
up in him, it would clutch at his heart until he could have cried
out loud. He could see himself in his coffin. Darkness and thick
wood pressing all around him. They were lowering him into the
hole. They were throwing dirt on top of him. What was it like to
be dead? Suppose it was no different from being alive. You
couldn't move, your heart didn't beat, you couldn't call out or
even blink an eye, but suppose your thoughts and your feelings
went right on. Suppose you knew just what was happening to
you, you felt pain just as if you were still alive. And then the
worms began to crawl over you -
He sat up in his bunk, wet with horror. When he lay back again
he felt the drowsiness coming over him, and he struggled against
it with all his strength. He was afraid to fall asleep. What if he
died in his sleep? He could die and begin to rot even before the
judge made it official.
For three nights it went on like this. The turning out of the
lights was a signal for death to come creeping under the covers
with him. He didn't want to die. Death was the most terrible
thing that could happen to anybody.
“But I died. Don't you think it was terrible for me?"
He was too shocked to move or call out. Where was that voice
coming from? He knew that voice so well, though he had heard
it speak only a few words before. And the face was smiling at
him, quite close to him. He could see the blotches of mud again,
he could see the streaks of blood along the side of the head.
"Why did you do it to me?" the voice said softly, with the
smallest touch of reproach. “I never hurt you, did I? Please, won't
you tell me why?”
He shook his head wildly, he barely heard the cry which burst
out of him. There was a clattering from the end of the cell block,
a couple of guards came down to see what was wrong. “Every-
313


“Do I know what we did?” He was laughing. And there was
something about his eyes — like a shutter pulling down, keeping
things out. “You're goddamned right I know what we did. We
pulled it off, kid. They're paying attention to us now all right. Do
you think there's a single person in this city, in this whole damned
country, who doesn't know about us?”
“They're going to kill us for it,” Barry said.
Paul was waving his arms, laughing again. “We're famous. And
we're not even eighteen years old. How many people get to
be famous before they're even eighteen years old?” And then
he moved off to a group in the corner of the yard. A few sec-
onds later he was laughing and waving his arms in the center of
them.
He isn't with me any more, Barry thought. He's far away some-
where. For a moment Barry felt a pang of sadness. And then it
was gone, all gone. He too had a faraway place to go to. Someone
was waiting for him right now.
He was with him again that night, as soon as the lights went
out. The first shock of fear was over now, he was able to meet
him calmly, even with a smile on his face. “They'll kill me for it
in a little while now," he said. “And then I'll really be with you.
I'll be able to stand before you. I'll ask you to forgive me, and
you'll tell me what my punishment should be.”
He got no answer this time. He saw no muddy blood-streaked
face. It didn't matter, though. He knew they were together. He
could feel the presence close to him. He could fall asleep easily
now, knowing it would still be there in the morning. ...
Three days later the news came that Judge De Vane had
reached his decision. Sentence would be pronounced in court on
the following morning.
The courtroom was almost empty this time. No spectators or
reporters were allowed. Only the defendants and the lawyers, and
the parents of the defendants. It was such a big room, Barry
315


the photographer happened to shoot them from; editorials filled
with righteous indignation; editorials filled with righteous ap-
proval. Two days later an airplane crashed in Nevada, a well-
known Southern senator was caught in a love nest, and a glamor-
ous movie actress remarried her first husband for the third time.
The Thrill Killers became a follow-up on the back pages. Wit-
nesses, lawyers, policemen, technical experts all went back to
what they had been doing before the trial.
Roscoe Thorley had the opening of the new school year to
worry about. And worry was hardly the word for it this year. He
was caught in a vise. On one side were hordes of anxious parents
who had to be assured that the school was not to blame for the
actions of Barry Morris and Paul King, that their own children
were in no danger of meeting the same fate as Peter Phillips, that
murder was not part of the regular curriculum. On the other side
was the Board of Governors, which wanted to know, in tones
varying from disturbed to sarcastic, why a so-called expert like
him hadn't seen immediately what Barry Morris and Paul King
were really like and expelled them from the school before they
could do any damage. When Judge De Vane's sentence was fi-
nally announced to the public, Mr. Thorley was one of those who
strongly felt that justice hadn't even begun to be done.
Mademoiselle Fontaine moved through the corridors silently
and conducted her classes in such a low voice that the students in
back often had to ask her to repeat things. Everybody noticed the
change in her, how old and tired she had grown over the sum-
mer. Even her mother asked her one day, over tea, “What is the
matter, Athalie? You work too hard, I think.” Mademoiselle Fon-
taine answered, “No, no, it is nothing, maman.” But in her heart
she was counting the days to the end of the school year. She
would reach the minimum age then for retiring on a pension. She
had planned to go on teaching till she had reached the maximum
318


other person's fate. It was such a grave moral responsibility, it
really wore a man out physically. Not to mention that hard chair
that he had to sit in day after day -
Inspector Samuels was in his office when he heard the news of
the judge's sentence. He had just enough time to sigh a little and
give a shake of his head. Then the sergeant came in and dumped
another case on his desk. A fifteen-year-old boy had been killed
in a gang fight in the East Bronx. A sixteen-year-old boy was
being held
Three days after the trial, Martin Brennan and Walter Harmon
had lunch in the grillroom of the Hotel Vanderbilt.
For the first part of the meal they discussed whether or not
they ought to appeal in the Morris-King case. “There's no new
evidence likely to turn up,” Brennan said. “There were no legal
irregularities in the proceedings. And we got the best sentence we
had a right to hope for. So I say, leave well enough alone." Walt
agreed with this and said he would communicate the decision to
the parents of the boys. .
Then a more earnest, troubled look came over Walt's face. “Be-
tween you and me, Martin - what do you really think about this
case? Were they really insane?"
“The court didn't find them insane,” Brennan said. “Otherwise
they'd be off to the state asylum right now. You don't send a man
to prison when he's legally insane.”
“In other words, you think they were sane. They knew what
they were doing, and they deserved the full punishment.”
“Did they? If they'd really known what they were doing, they
would have been guilty of first-degree murder, and no strings at-
tached. But I don't notice that they're going to the electric chair."
“But they can't be sane and insane at the same time!”
“The court seemed to think so." Brennan chuckled softly. "Tell
320


in my last letter. I am giving her some pills, but they don't
seem to help much. She will no doubt write to you herself.
And I will write again next week, as you know. And of
course it's less than a month now till I can come East and
visit you.
You know how much I miss you, son. You know I'm think-
ing of you every minute.
All my love,
DAD
Barry folded the letter carefully and put it in his pocket. He
was smiling – the soft half smile that each one of Dad's letters
brought to his face. It was close to tears, this smile. Except that
he didn't let himself cry any more.
He looked at the other envelope. It had been addressed to him
at the apartment in New York, and the postman had forwarded
it here. The return address was Harvard University. Inside was a
mimeographed form with his name typed on top of the page.
DEAR MR. MORRIS,
This is our third notification to you of your failure to en-
roll officially for your Freshman classes, which commenced
September 29. We are now regretfully obliged to drop your
name from the roster of the class, and we hereby inform you
that no further notifications will be sent to you.
With every wish for your continued happiness and suc-
cess at whatever institution you may have decided to attend
in place of Harvard,
“I remain, sincerely yours -
Barry stuffed this letter into his pocket. By the end of recreation
period he had forgotten all about it.
He went back to work. He had been assigned to the prison
printshop, where he was learning how to operate a Linotype ma-
chine. “Most practical thing you could take up,” said the old ex-
counterfeiter who was in charge of the shop. “A good linotyper
never has to look for a job. And they've got the strongest union
there is.”
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: MICHIGAN