Boarding School

Boarding
School

by

Clint Adams

Dedication

Chapter One
Traveling to Ulster Academy

Chapter Two
Settling In

Chapter Three
The Day My World Changed

Chapter Four
The Training Begins

Chapter Five
There’s No Way Back: The Line Is Now Crossed

Chapter Six
The Man Who Was Really in Charge

Chapter Seven
Being Put to Work

Chapter Eight
Finally a Break… Sort Of

Chapter Nine
The Pace of Our Work Increases

Chapter Ten
New Semester, Old Routine

Chapter Eleven
Good-Bye, Good Friends

Chapter Twelve
A Lot of Years, a Lot of Changes

Appendix

To my little buddy Eddie…

Do you remember that day at school when you were thirteen and you came to my dorm room to ask me a question that was of extreme importance to you? And do you remember also how you sat down in one of my chairs and then began to plead with me to let you move in with me? Well, I have never forgotten that afternoon. In my mind now, I can still hear you promise me that you would be a good roommate and you would always keep your things neat, and you would always be quiet whenever I needed to study. “Just say yes,” you kept repeating. “Come on, please just say yes. That’s all you’ve got to do and I’ll take care of everything else. I’ll even do all the moving myself. You won’t have to do a thing to help. Please, just say yes. That’s all you’ve got to do. Just say yes, please!”

Of course I didn’t say yes that day. I was moved by your pleas, but I had my own selfish reasons at that time in my life which I believed were more important than any thirteen-year-old disagreements you might have been having with your roommate. And it was decades later before I learned the real reason why you were so desperate to find sanctuary with me.

A few years ago when I was talking with an old friend of ours from those days, I learned, finally, what it was that your older and larger roommate was forcing you to do with him every night after lights out. Eddie, I had no idea. I wish you hadn’t been too frightened or too embarrassed to tell me why it was that you had to get yourself away from that monster. I wish I had been a little more on the ball that day sol could have figured out for myself why it was that you were so distraught over your need to find a safe place to live. You did give me a few hints about how unhappy you were with your roommate, but nearly everybody in that place was unhappy with their roommate at one time or another. So I simply chalked your complaints up to typical roommate squabbles.

You were a great kid, Eddie, one of the nicest ones there, and it haunts me now to think of the sex acts you were being forced into performing every night with that creep. If I had known, if I had possessed any idea at all, I would have moved heaven and earth to get you out of that situation that day. But I didn’t know, and so I simply said “no” to your impassioned pleas.

Today I can also recall the look of utter dejection and despair on your face as you left my room once our conversation had ended. I don’t remember you speaking very much to me after that. You had placed all of your hope and faith with me, and I had let you down. In the years that have followed since my learning of the truth, I have tried to find you so I could apologize for not making the right choice that day. But all of my efforts to locate you have failed. So I am dedicating this book to you, Eddie, in the hopes that one day you will pick up a copy and read this and discover how truly sorry I am for not understanding you, and that I know now that if I had simply stated a different one-syllable word—the word “yes”—I could have saved you from the nightmarish existence that must have been your world at that time. I guess when we’re kids, we don’t realize how profoundly our decisions can affect the lives of others. In any case, all my best to you now, Eddie, wherever you are.

The Callahan Tunnel. As I pass by this familiar structure so I can steer the rental car I just picked up back at Logan through the Summer Tunnel instead, I realize that it has been over thirty years now since I’ve called this area my home. Thirty years since I’ve thought seriously about the miserable way I was forced to live when I was an Academy kid, and it has taken thirty years for me to build up the courage I need to step foot in Boston again.

For those who are in my life today, my entire existence in this part of the country is now compressed down into an old school catalog, a few odd photos I took, and the words “Ulster Academy” which I will occasionally mention when the days of my youth become the topic of discussion. It was better, I always believed, if the people around me didn’t know anything about the anguish I suffered. It was better for all concerned, I thought, if I didn’t try to explain what it is like when a boy’s innocence is suddenly stripped away from him by the base interests of others who live around him, or how easy it is at an impressionable age to be sucked up into a life which I would never on my own have selected for myself. And it was better, I decided, if I didn’t embarrass myself by revealing all of the unspeakable things they made me do here.

But all of that is behind me now. Not too long ago, I decided to confront Boston…and the town of Ulster and especially the Academy itself. So I’ve set aside some time in my schedule today to give me the chance I need to end my years of concealment of the truth—not only for my own health and peace of mind, but for others who may be facing similar experiences and aren’t sure how to cope with them. Today, after all of these years, I am taking charge of my past by going back to my old boarding school for a visit. Yes, as incredible as it must seem, I am now driving toward the town of Ulster, Massachusetts. And out of an abundance of caution, I am issuing this warning before I go on any further, because the secrets I’m about to tell are not suitable for the prudish or the faint of heart. And I am being very serious by what I’m saying here. Sometimes I handled things well, and other times I did not. But good, bad or otherwise, I intend within this text to describe in brutal detail the events which came to define my existence while I lived here. And of course, to keep me out of hot water, I have changed the names or eliminated the names entirely of everyone I lived with in those days. Also, I have given voice to these people by using the vernacular of the time. So be advised that a reader who is not up to the task of learning the truth about what I went through as a boy in boarding school would probably be better served by putting these pages down now and searching instead for something light to read, like a romance novel.

I’m driving south now on the highway which leads out of Boston. Already I can see the town of Framingham through my side window. Before I landed today, I considered the idea of stopping here first before continuing on down to Ulster. After all, my memories from this town are just as intense, if not more so, as all the others I have from this area. But I concluded that I’m not yet ready to see this place also. In fact, I may never be ready to visit Framingham again. Just the thought of taking the exit right now and getting off the turnpike sends shivers up my spine and gives me aching pains all across my stomach. And then, after a few more moments pass, the sight of Framingham in my rearview mirror seems to validate my feelings for me and I’m able again to relax.
Not
this trip,
I keep saying to myself.
I’m not stopping here today.

Another ten minutes or so and the traffic is finally beginning to thin out. Thirty years ago I thought Boston was crowded. Today it seems absolutely clogged with people. Soon though, I’m able to set the cruise control and settle in for the rest of my journey. If I don’t spend much time looking around in the town of Ulster or gazing at the lake, I figure I can be on the Academy grounds in a little over one hour from now. And as I listen to the engine and the tires do their jobs for me, I remember back to that summer afternoon when the letter came. Back when all I knew of Massachusetts, besides the boating trips my dad and I occasionally took to Cape Cod, was what was displayed and described in the Ulster Academy catalog which had spent the better part of the spring and summer that year lying on the coffee table in my parents’ living room in our house in Denver.

“Clint? There’s a letter for you!” my mother called to me from the patio as I played around that afternoon in the swimming pool we had in our back yard. She had caught me right as I had begun to wrestle with a floating chair I had received for my thirteenth birthday a few weeks earlier.

“What, Mom?” I hadn’t been able to hear everything she had just said to me because at the moment she had begun to speak, the chair was winning the upper hand and I had found myself under water during the first half of her announcement.

“I said you’ve got a letter. Come on in now so we can see what it says.” And then my mother turned around and walked back into our house.

“Ok, Mom!” I yelled back. “I’ll be right there!” Quickly then, I swam over to the side and climbed out of the water. As soon as I was on dry land again, I started for the house. I knew what letter my mother was talking about and I was just as excited as she was to find out what it had to say. So without wasting precious seconds to fuss with my towel, I raced straight into our kitchen to join my mother.

“Oh, Clint!” my mother sounded appalled when I arrived inside.

“What?” I asked innocently as I took up a position next to her at the kitchen counter.

“You’re soaking wet! You’re dripping water all over the floor!”

“That’s all right, Maria can clean it up. Is the letter from Ulster?”

“I jus’ cleaned up the floor in here, little man.” Maria suddenly appeared from the other room and was not amused by my apparent disregard for the work she had just done.

Now I felt bad. “Oh, Maria. I didn’t mean anything. It’s just water.”

“Jes’, well you can get the mop and wipe it up yourself.”

“Ok, in a minute.” I didn’t want to get on Maria’s bad side. After all, later on she might make something like liver for dinner to get back at me. “Go on and open the letter, Mom.” My attention was now returned to the reason for all of this commotion.

“Hold your horses, my soggy son. Hold your horses.” With a steak knife, my mom then slit open the top of the envelope from the all-boys prep school and pulled out the letter from inside. As soon as she had the paper unfolded, she began to read to herself.

“What’s it say? What’s it say?” I couldn’t believe that she was making me wait while she found out first what was in the letter. After all, it was my letter.

Maria suddenly interrupted. “It says you need to go and get the mop now to clean up the floor.”

“Oh, Maria,” I tried to make light of her comment. “I promise, I’ll get the mop out in a minute.”

“Ok, here we go,” my mom finally began to speak again. “To ‘Master Clinton Adams,’” my mother tried to make her voice sound formal as she read my letter to me. ‘“Dear Clint, After careful consideration of your application and academic record by our admissions committee and by our board of trustees, we are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted as a new first-year student at Ulster Academy and as such, will be expected to attend our school during the upcoming fall term…’”

“Yippie!” That was all I needed to hear. I was so elated over the news, I began to jump up and down as I shouted out my joy right there in the kitchen. “Yippie! Yippie!”

“Oh, Clint!” Mom was now upset with me again. “Now you’re shaking off water all over the place. Go back outside if you’re going to do that.”

“Yippie! Yippie!” I didn’t stop to engage my parent in further conversation. I just kept yelling as I hopped through the kitchen and back out onto the patio. “Yippie! Yippie! Yippie!.. “ I then kept up my hopping and yelling until I had hopped all the way back into the swimming pool. “Yippie! Yipppie! Yippie! Yippie!” SPLASH!

For the rest of that summer, my mother and I spent our time buying things I needed and getting me ready for my year away. Besides the list of suggested personal items provided by the Academy, I had a few friends at that time who had gone off to boarding schools the year before and who had already given me plenty of pointers on what I should take. So I felt confident that I knew how to prepare myself to live on my own.

The very first thing my mom and I did was to go out and buy me a bigger foot locker. The one I had been using for summer camp for the past three years was fine for month-long stays in the Rockies, but was woefully inadequate to hold everything a boy my age would need for an entire year in the east. I was also fitted for a navy-colored sport coat—the school colors were navy and red. In the rule book, which the Academy had also sent to us, it was stated that coats and ties were to be worn by all students and faculty at dinner every night, except Sundays, and for all sporting events when the Academy teams traveled to compete at other schools. Also, school-sponsored outings to Boston or Providence to hear the symphony or to see plays, were other occasions when formal attire was required. Of course the term “formal” was inaccurately used in this instance but as I learned later on, it was the common way that this type of dress was referred to by Academy students and staff. Anyway, once my mom had my measurements, she sent this information off to the Academy along with an order for a school tie, some T-shirts and a sweat shirt all bearing the Academy crest. According to the rule book, these articles would then be waiting for me in my dormitory room when I arrived on campus in late August.