The Game Player (8 page)

“All right.” My heart was emptying itself into this moment. I thought this was it for our friendship and, when he left, I spent the evening thinking of how many adjustments would have to be made when he disappeared. I knew, of course, that I could survive his going, but the loss of glamour would be too terrible.

When I saw him the next day, he looked strange. It was a measure of his personality's concentration and consistency that I had never seen him in a condition like that. He would begin listening to a story and then go off, his eyes staring, their color deepening, as if he had a second set of eyelids that allowed him to shut out the world and still seem awake. And walking through one of the school hallways he moved close to the lockers, so close that his shirt caught in one of the handles, and he tore it badly. I asked him if something was wrong but he smiled like himself, amused that I had asked such a question, and said no, as if there were much more to it than that.

That weekend, when most of Saturday had gone by without him coming over, I decided to go and see if he was home. I didn't phone, because I thought he was avoiding me due to our fight and I wanted a chance to smooth it over. I was sure he wouldn't let me come by if I called up first.

Up the steep incline of Brian's driveway, there is a path to his front door. I like walking up to things; as my leg muscles pulled from the effort, there was a proportional unveiling of the house. And from this bobbing vision I could see Brian and his father standing in front of the huge windowed side of their home. Mr. Stoppard, in dark blue slacks, so profoundly blue that they wavered into blackness, and a white shirt checked by slight intersecting blue lines, was a fine Gothic sight. His body seemed to impose on the scene; Brian stood with his head bowed, listening to him.

I didn't notice Mrs. Stoppard until she hurriedly got up from a couch in back of the penitent Brian and came forward into the center of the scene, waving to me. I was no fool, I knew there was a family discussion going on, but my peculiar fearlessness of involving myself in the troubles of others, kept me going. Mrs. Stoppard disappeared in the direction of the front door and I saw Brian make a move to go as well but stop when his father's back trembled from an emphatic movement.

I was sure that Mrs. Stoppard would ask me to go away by saying (I imagined her euphemism would be), “Until we finish a family talk with Brian.” But when I reached the door and it opened magically just as I was about to ring, she stood there in a state of confusion. I could hear Mr. Stoppard: “I would have killed someone for the chance you have.”

“Hello,” I said.

She began to speak but then glanced at the living room and looked back at me helplessly. “Father,” Brian's voice. “Hills is a good school. It's not like the public school you went to.”

Hearing that, I said, “I should go.”

Mrs. Stoppard was dressed in a heavy wool skirt and a pleasant patterned blouse. Her hair was drawn back and held by a clasp. She looked much younger than my mother and that somehow made me feel sorry for her. She stepped aside, not responding to my offer at all, just saying, “Come in,” as if nothing had been said.

Mr. Stoppard: “You haven't given me one solid reason.” He and Brian were now in my view as I stood in the carpeted area facing the living room.

Brian was looking at me and Mr. Stoppard also turned in my direction. He was a big man, and seemed to me especially huge in those days. His hair was very black and full, waving slightly over his head, so that his well-cropped haircut still had a shaped elegance. His face was broader and rounder than Brian's, his complexion darker and yet heartier. His eyebrows were black dramatic against the deep brown of his eyes. It was a stern commanding face, even when he smiled, as he did on seeing me. He made a low, sweeping gesture with his left hand that was punctuated by his wristwatch's thin, gold border.

I assumed he had said I should come in, but I really didn't hear the words. He was a vital, handsome man and I was more awed by that than by his almost equally formidable stature of the moment: a displeased father.

“Would you like something to drink?” Mrs. Stoppard asked me.

I thought it was an absurd question so I answered quickly, “No, I'm fine. I just came over to see Brian.”

“Of course,” Mr. Stoppard said, his voice a deep, quiet version of Brian's. “Brian and I,” he continued, “are discussing whether he should go to Staunton or Hills. What do you think?”

Brian made a brief, restless motion and I got the message: a trap had been set for me. But the knowledge was useless, even destructive. “I don't know.”

“No advice for him? I thought maybe you had already done so.”

“Dad!” Brian said sharply, with a hint of supplication.

“Well, what's your goddamn reason?!” The violence of this was unexpected. Mr. Stoppard's voice still vibrated during the voiceless moment that followed.

“I want to stay here with my friends. I want to be around girls.” Brian began to shake, first his hands, and then he wobbled on his legs.

“John,” Mrs. Stoppard said. “It isn't fair to talk about it in front of Howard. It isn't fair to any of us.”

Mr. Stoppard listened to her with his face calmly attentive as if she were saying something trivial and pleasant at a dinner party. He walked over to Brian when she was finished and grabbed his left arm by the wrist, pulling Brian to his side. Brian leaned awkwardly against him, stiff and avoiding his father's glance. “If you're scared that the school will be too tough just say so.”

“No.”

“No, what? You won't say, or no, it isn't too tough?”

“Nothing is too tough for me,” Brian said in a pathetic voice.

Mr. Stoppard thought for a moment and released Brian's arm. He put his hand on Brian's neck, his fingers massaging. “The minute your grades at Hills drop below what it'll take to get you into Yale, you'll be out of that school so fast it'll make your head spin.” He moved his hand to Brian's head and stroked him twice, his face softening and his voice smoother. “Now you and your friend are free to do what you'd like.”

Brian nodded cautiously and broke the contact with his father, walking slowly out of the room. I was ready to follow, so Mr. Stoppard's voice caught me by surprise. “Good to see you, Howard.”

I nearly said, yes, sir. “Good to see you,” I mumbled. “Good-by,” I said to Mrs. Stoppard.

“Bye, bye,” she said.

Brian's sigh of relief and the whoosh of the screen door closing behind us came at once. He looked at me with the intimate stare of a friend and then stretched his back like a cat. “I'll race you to the big elm,” he said.

I laughed, “Okay.”

“Go!” I fell behind quickly and watched the sun flicker over his billowing shirt. When I reached him, I was panting and I doubled over to gulp more air. We were on the edge of their land, looking down on the road and the property next door. Brian sat on the incline's end, dangling his feet in the air. “Well, I'll be going to high school with you,” he said.

“I hope you can get some Jewish girls.”

He exploded, laughing so hard that I tried rethinking the joke to understand how it could seem so funny. His laughter was full of pleasure and I could see it helped him overcome his unhappiness about the scene with his father. I was terribly flattered; and proud of this accomplishment.

The school year began with a week of dreary, rainy weather. Our high school, though the student population was only six hundred, was laid out in five separate buildings and, despite, in the first year, having to use just three of them, it still involved a lot of ducking and short runs to stay dry. Since half of the students were known to me and to Brian, the real differences between this school and the last were its teachers and courses.

For me, the most exciting distinction was its theater: large and modern, set on the second floor of the administrative building. Brian, to my surprise, was indifferent to the indoor pool and fierce football program; he cared more about the huge chemical laboratory, especially grim with its long rows of black slate counters and intense fluorescent lighting against the foggy gray of the weather. There were about one hundred and fifty students in our class and our schedules were so arranged that each student would have at least one class with the other one hundred and forty-nine. That first day I looked for two things: a pretty girl and a boy who could rival Brian. I had great success with the girls: there were four knockouts and maybe ten others who would bear watching. I was particularly moved by the pert beauty of a brown-haired, deep-blue-eyed girl named Miriam who sat near me in history.

But the boys were a bust. There were two or three who looked like better athletes and one of them, Bill, even seemed quite intelligent in answering a question Miss Horn asked during French class, but he lacked wit (especially the vital one in adolescence: sarcasm) and selfconfidence. Billy's book locker was next to Mary's—one of the big four—and I was nearby when she turned to ask him, in a faint lisp that hinted of things we might want, “I can't get my book out of here. Could you help me?”

“Huh?” After this genuine surprise at being spoken to, he began a series of exclamations: “What? Oh. Yes. Okay.” He went over to look and she leaned against the next locker so that her right breast shifted and became more pronounced from her blouse pulling taut. It would have thrown me, and my amusement during his ten-minute, fumbling attempt to free the jammed book, was quite brief. She was patient for only a few of those minutes and from her tone toward the end, you might have thought he had put it there in the first place.

Over the next few weeks the good scholars surfaced effortlessly, as they always do, and there was a science student here, or a historian there, who could surpass Brian, but the man who could top him in athletics, comportment, and grades all together couldn't be found.

At the beginning of our third week, in each of the six home rooms, we were told to elect a Student Councilperson and, of course, an alternate. In all of the elections in school, over the years, I noticed that two kinds of people were always nominated: one, good-looking, cheerful, and popular; and the other, plain, very bright (or at least disciplined) and pleasant, though always a bit pompous. It depended on the job who would be the victor: class president was always good-looking and nicely unthoughtful; but treasurers, secretaries, and Councilpeople were of the second kind. One of the girls in our home room nominated Brian—it gave me a shock because she didn't know him and I was about to do it. There was some tittering and I saw one boy whisper intently to a girl; she reddened and laughed at his remark before pretending prudish outrage. Joseph was nominated in a solemn fashion by one of the boys and it was a logical choice: Joseph was the best of our scientists and mathematicians, a good fellow whom I had already befriended. He was short and wore hard, black, angular glasses: a miniature Kissinger. Another loud, intent whisper was made after his nomination and a burst of derisive laughter followed.

Mr. Lawrence, our English teacher as well as home room monitor, banged the gunmetal-gray desk and looked ferociously at us, his small eyes piercing out from under the huge, bald dome of his head. “Attention!” There was a nervous laugh and then quiet. “I have it now, I see,” he said with a heavy look of pleasure at his own ironic tone. I grunted to show amusement and smiled knowingly at him. He acknowledged this intelligence on my part with a slight nod and then said, “You children.” He measured his effect. “You children are behaving appropriately.” Utter silence. I flattered myself that I was the only one who knew this was not the prelude to a real tirade. “The idea—” Again the booming voice. “The idea—” now lower, “of this election, is that we are giving you the
responsibility
of choosing your own representatives. Representatives of your
own
interests.
We
don't care if you do.” He pushed his chair back violently and lifted himself up from his desk by pushing down on it with his hands. “I'm perfectly willing to tell the principal that you don't want a Student Council representative. Shall I do that?”

We answered in a low, measured chorus, “No, Mr. Lawrence.”

“Then let's get on with it. And remember, that if you make fun of your choices for the Council, you are only degrading yourselves. Mr. Stiles, do you have anyone whom you would like to nominate?”

Mr. Stiles, the amusing whisperer, swallowed and mumbled no.

Mr. Lawrence looked disappointed and vaguely surprised. “Indeed? I had the impression you were dissatisfied with the nominations.” When our laughter had subsided, he continued, “So the nominations are closed. I think”—he glanced at the wall clock—“we can allow a minute to each of the nominees to make a speech.” There was no reaction from either Brian or Joseph. “It isn't required. We can just vote. Joseph, would you like to speak?”

“No, sir, if it isn't necessary.”

“Brian?”

Brian rose from his chair and said in a low voice that he would. As he went around to the desk to face us, his head was down and he brought it up only after a long pause. “I've spoken to some of the sophomores about the Council. They all talk about how much the freshmen were ignored by the Council. It met about thirty times last year to vote on some things that really affect us. Such as how much money is spent on our yearly party and what the setup of our teams is for intramural play.” He opened his mouth to go on and then suddenly closed it. “Oh,” he continued with diffident impatience, “it's a long list. Anyway, in those thirty meetings, the freshman Councilmen only addressed the Council
once.”
He looked around at us to emphasize. “Once,” he repeated, but then he lowered his head a little and said quietly, “I think that's bad. Even if talking wouldn't have changed any of the decisions.” He smiled. “I'm told their party was really a bore.” We laughed. “I'd like to be able to talk to them about the things we want. That's all.” He moved quickly back to his seat and we burst into applause. I saw Mr. Lawrence look at Brian in a puzzled, shocked way and I was amused that I understood this phenomenon better than the rest of them.