The Starboard Sea: A Novel (25 page)

ELEVEN

Parents’ Weekend coincided with the Halloween Dance. I wasn’t thrilled about seeing my dad or watching my classmates prance around as monsters and superheroes. Mom chose to stay in New York so that Dad could drive up in his Cadillac and bask in the attention surrounding the big Prosper Hall and Windsor House groundbreakings. Half a pine forest would need to be cleared in order to make room for the new dorms. I stood sandwiched between Dad and Windsor as we dug into the loamy earth with our ceremonial shovels. A photographer flashed his camera, and my dad said to Windsor, “Make sure I get a copy of this. I’m starting a bragging wall.”

Dad looked surprisingly good. He’d lost weight and seemed relaxed, like he was on an indefinite golf vacation. “The St. Regis is agreeing with you,” I said.

“Let’s give credit where credit is due. The divorce was your mother’s idea.”
After the groundbreaking, Windsor held a reception for visiting parents at his home. His wife, Charlotte, played hostess, leading parents through the large white complex past the colonnade of what I knew from freshman ancient history to be Doric and not Ionic columns, and inside the sunny atrium. “We think of this home as the school’s family room. Students are always welcome here.” I’d never been inside the headmaster’s house before. Had never even seen Charlotte Windsor. She was a reed-thin woman with perfect posture. Rumor had it that she lived on a horse farm in Virginia and flew up only to perform these wifely duties.
The house was all dark wood and red walls, the marble floors interrupted by bursts of gold carpets. A fire warmed the grand room, silver bowls shimmering atop the mantel. While parents clung awkwardly to their children, caterers sharked around the party with trays of cheese puffs. My father drank scotch and soda and kept sending me off to the bar to refill his glass while he held court, bragging to Tazewell’s dad about the killing he’d made on the stock market crash, touting the strength of trea sury bonds. “When you know what you’re doing, even in a bear market, there’s a fortune to be made.”
It wasn’t like my dad to talk about money. He was usually pretty tight-lipped and restrained, but the crash seemed to have brought something out in him. Maybe he needed people to know he was still on top.
Windsor also couldn’t stop talking about money, shamelessly fund- raising. The twin elms the storm had uprooted from Windsor’s front lawn had been hauled away, but Windsor hadn’t replaced them. He’d left the grass bedding raw, the soil exposed, and kept pointing out the window and asking parents for donations. “We’ve got to fill up the holes,” he said. “We don’t want any babies falling down and getting trapped.” Kriffo’s dad went outside and made a big ceremony of tossing a twenty- dollar bill into the deeper of the two cavities. As parents joined and left the party, a spirit of giving developed and more bills were added until both holes were covered in a fresh turf of green money. No one bothered to collect the donations. Maybe Windsor didn’t want to be seen crouched down and literally money grubbing, or maybe he couldn’t bring himself to trust one of the caterers to collect the cash.
The winds stirred, and soon the bills simply blew away, tumbleweeding across campus. For weeks afterward I saw tens, twenties, and fifties nesting in the lower branches of trees, clogging sewer drains. Even then no one from Bellingham claimed the currency. Earlier in the semester, Kriffo had told a story about Malcolm Forbes. “You know how rich that guy is? If Forbes was on his way to a business meeting and he saw a hundred-dollar bill on the sidewalk, it wouldn’t be worth it for him to pick it up. In the time it took him to stoop down, he’d actually lose money.” The story spread and found a captive audience. None of my classmates snatched up any of the stray dollars.
It was weird to see my classmates with their parents. Tazewell’s father, Archwell, had a shock of bright white hair, a frail body. More like a grandpa than a dad. At one point Taze actually locked arms with his father, steadying him, guide-dogging his dad to the bathroom. I watched Race help his mother out of her coat. A sparrow of a woman, she stood beside Race, licking her hand and pressing down her son’s red cowlick. She had a pretty face, a tiny nose, and thin pale lips, but she didn’t seem to have any eyebrows. It looked as though her eyebrows had been singed off. Kriffo’s dad was average-sized with a bald head and a barrel chest. However, his mother was enormous. Everything about her was big: her breasts, her hair, her voice. She looked like the world’s scariest gym teacher. I heard her say, “My son is a champion.”
It was strange to witness these guys with their parents, to see them as sons, to know that there were people in the world who would do anything to protect them. I had yet to ask any of these guys about the p arty, knowing how easy it would be for them to lie to me.
Through a window, I spied Yazid alone without any family in tow. Since Aidan’s death I’d felt numb. I resented going through the motions of this social ceremony. Yazid saw me and grinned. I made my way out onto the veranda, hoping he might smoke me up and strengthen my numbness.
By the time I got outside, Yazid had been joined by an older man. The guy leaned toward one of the columns and pressed his ear against the white shaft. The stranger saw me and said, “Would you believe these are hollow?”
The man motioned for Yazid and me to place our ears against the column. He knocked lightly and we heard an echo.
“They look solid,” Yazid said, “but you’re correct. There’s nothing inside.”
The man had dark hair, a patch of gray skunked on his right temple. While the other fathers were all dressed in suits and ties, this man wore brown corduroys, a green plaid Pendleton. His chin bristled with black-and-white stubble. I didn’t recognize him at first, but I’d seen this guy before. Diana’s father.
“These columns.” He tapped the wood. “Back when I was a student here, the seniors used to tie a sophomore to each column right after Winter Break. First snow. ‘Getting shafted.’ That’s what we called it. We’d do it in the early morning so the headmaster could wake up and see those sophomores in their pajamas. You boys still do that?”
Yazid shrugged.
“I’m not sure,” I said. “I haven’t been here that long.”
“It was good fun. Or maybe it was a crummy thing to do. Either way.” He rubbed his hands against his chin, itching his beard, then he asked us if we knew his daughter. Yazid and I both told him what we figured every parent hopes to hear: that Diana was nice, sweet.
“Smart girl,” he said. “But don’t let her fool you. She’s a tough one.”
Yazid gave me a wink, then brought his thumb and index finger up to his lips, motioning that he was escaping to toke up. I started to follow Yazid, but Diana’s father asked a question about night swimming. “Do you guys still swim after dark?”
“I did once,” I said. “The water in the harbor stays pretty warm.”
Diana’s father told me about a farm his grandparents owned up in Vermont. “There’s a lake, water’s so damn cold and pure. Ruined me for swimming anywhere else. Diana hates it up there. Too quiet for her.” He turned away from me and looked through the windows down into the party.
Diana was inside chatting with Archwell. She wore a blue kilt and white blouse, her hair pulled off her face with a black headband. She looked professionally pretty, not overly primped like a model but like it was her job to be worth looking at.
“You know, you try,” Diana’s father said, “to do everything for your kids.” With that he walked down the colonnade, knocking lightly on each column as he went.

Chester’s mother, Lorraine, had her son’s curly eyelashes and soft voice. Together we strolled over to the dining hall for the Parents’ Weekend banquet. Lorraine remembered me from Martha’s Vineyard, and I thanked her for sending Chester care packages. “Bet nothing at dinner will taste as good.”

The Dining Hall had been transformed. The long tables covered in white linen cloths, formal place settings, glass bowls swimming with baby roses. Instead of the typical salad bar fare, the school had sprung for a buffet of raw oysters, crab claws, and shrimp cocktail surrounded by a fleet of ice sculptures. Carved replicas of tall ships with votive candles set around the glistening ice. I admired the sailboats as they dripped, melting away. Dad said, “Our tuition dollars hard at work.”

The cafeteria staff had been forced into tuxedos and served us standing rib roast, creamed spinach, and potatoes au gratin. “You eat like this every night?” my father asked. “Hardly,” I said. I looked around for Leo. He hadn’t shown his face to me in days, and I’d begun to lose any hope that he might speak to the police. I thought of asking my father for advice, but he’d probably tell me to forget about Aidan, to put her behind me. That’s what he had insisted upon with Cal. I knew that wouldn’t work. I thought about Aidan and Cal all the time. But they didn’t live in my imagination. They were more real to me, more present in my daily life than my family.

I introduce Dad to Lorraine, and he was instantly smitten. Chester’s father had stayed back in New York and my dad assumed the role of Lorraine’s escort. He pulled out her chair and poured her wine. Reminding me of how he used to be with my mom. It was embarrassing to see him flirt, to be so brazen as to stare at Lorraine’s cleavage. He asked how she filled her days, imagining her to be some perfect housewife, and was visibly surprised to learn that she was an executive at Kidder, Peabody & Co.

“Your crew is having a tough time,” he said.
“We’re built for it,” Lorraine challenged.
Our parents discussed corporate takeovers, junk bonds, derivatives,

and insider trading. They argued over some guy named Marty Siegel who was either a genius banker or a no-good criminal.
Chester asked me if I was going to the Halloween Dance that night.
“I wasn’t planning on it,” I said. “I don’t have a costume.”
“Just wear your suit,” he said. “Say that you’re an insider trader.” “Are you dressing up?” I asked. “Do people here do that?”
Chester told me that he’d been working on his costume for days and couldn’t wait to unveil it. His mother leaned forward and said, “Halloween is Chester’s favorite holiday. When he was little, he would dress up as a ghost. He was always so serious. It was a treat to see him have fun.”
“Cool it, Mom,” Chester warned.
Lorraine described one Halloween when she and Chester were walking through their neighborhood in White Plains. As she held Chester’s hand and he swung his plastic jack-o’-lantern, he said, “I’m so happy. I’m so happy.”
“He’s won every tennis match he’s ever played, but that’s the only time I ever heard him say he was happy.” Lorraine reached out and touched the scar on Chester’s face.
“Here’s to happiness,” my father toasted.
Just then there was a loud crash. A few of us dashed out of our seats to see Tazewell’s father supine on the floor covered in pink shrimp. The ice sculptures had thawed and, while trolling for shrimp cocktail, the old man had slipped on a puddle of melted sailboats. Dad ran right over to his friend and lifted him up, making sure that nothing had broken. Clearly embarrassed, Archwell allowed my dad to escort him out to the parlor. Tazewell was nowhere to be seen.
When my father returned, Lorraine was worried that he hadn’t had any dessert. He deserved a reward for his good citizenship. She sent me off to beg for cheesecake. I went back into the kitchen asked a middle-aged woman who was scouring a large silver kettle if she wouldn’t mind giving me an extra slice of cake. Then I said, “Is Leo working tonight?”
“Not tonight, not tomorrow night, or the night after that. Leo doesn’t work here anymore.” She couldn’t tell me if Leo had quit or been fired. She handed me the cheesecake and continued to clean up the kitchen.

Dad was staying with Windsor, and I walked him over to the headmaster’s house to say good night. He collapsed onto one of the Adirondack chairs that lined the porch and told me to have a seat. My dad had behaved better than I’d imagined possible.
“You were full of heroics today,” I said.
“I loved prep school. Happiest time of my life.”
I didn’t know much about my father’s childhood. I’d never bothered to ask and he’d rarely offered any stories. He’d grown up within blocks of our current apartment, gone to Kensington and then Princeton, working his entire adult life at the investment bank his grandfather had founded. I wondered how similar our paths would be. Mine had already diverged from his.

“Archwell is a kick in the pants.” Dad slapped his knee. “Would you believe that crone is only three years older than me? He’s been married four times, divorced four times. Each wife took a little more away.”

It bothered me to hear Dad joke about divorce. I tried to remember the last time I’d seen my parents kiss or rub each other’s shoulders. When I was little and they kissed, Riegel and I would cover our eyes, claim to be disgusted.

“That Lorraine was wonderful. How’s her son?”
“He’s a solid guy. Tennis star.”
“Poor gal doesn’t know she’s about to lose her job. That’s the rub of

this crash. A lot of good people are getting sacked.”
“Did you warn her?” I asked.
“God, no. Not my place. Never be the messenger of bad news if you

can avoid it.” Dad unbuttoned the collar of his shirt and pulled open his tie. “Everything working out for you here?” He stretched his long legs over the porch.

“There was some trouble,” I said. “With a girl, a friend of mine.”

“Windsor mentioned that you were part of some rescue effort. Said you were a big help.”
“I wouldn’t say that.” I thought about describing the yachts being salvaged and flown overhead. My father would have appreciated the image, but the sight of all those flying boats, the beauty of that day, had been destroyed by the ugliness of finding Aidan. I played with the bracelet Tazewell had made for me.
“I’ve heard good reports on you all around,” Dad said. “Your brother claims you seem like your old self.”
I wasn’t sure what that meant, who this old self might have been. Was even less certain that I wanted to know. “Riegel took me on this wild-goose chase. I don’t think you’d be too pleased.”
My father looked at me. I waited for a nod, a sign for me to continue.
“Your brother,” he said, “is blowing off steam. A final hurrah before he graduates. He knows I have a job waiting for him.”
I tried to explain that Riegel had snared Ginger and Dill into some scheme, but my father reminded me that it was bad form to be a messenger or a snitch.
“Loyalty first, son. Your brother can come to me if he gets into any trouble.”
We were both startled by a knock on the window. Windsor held up a bottle of Maker’s Mark, his knuckles clenched around the red wax neck.
“Showtime.” Dad got up and headed inside. “Have fun at your dance.” He saluted good night. “Don’t worry about Riegel. I have my eye on him.”