The Prince of Tides

by Pat Conroy

  My mother had a drink waiting for my father when he entered the house that night and reported that he had caught only forty pounds of shrimp that day. The house smelled like ammonia and cleansing fluid but my father smelled, as he always did, like fish and shrimp and he did not notice. The world held only a single smell for my father and he left a bucket of fish by the sink in the kitchen for Luke and me to clean while he took a shower.

  My mother carefully prepared the fish, and during dinner my parents’ conversation was so muted I had to fight back an obsessional urge to scream and overturn the dining room table. Savannah stayed in her room and my mother reported casually that she thought Savannah might be coming down with a slight case of the flu. My father detected nothing out of the ordinary. He was exhausted from a long day on the shrimp boat, fighting the wind that had come up strangely from the southeast. I had to summon up a reserve of discipline to keep from telling it all. I do not think the rape affected me as profoundly as my adherence to those laws of concealment and secrecy my mother had put into effect. In the hour it took to finish that meal, I learned that silence could be the most eloquent form of lying. And I never could eat flounder again without thinking of Randy Thompson’s blood on my hands or his tongue in my mouth.

  Before my father came home, my mother had gathered us together in the living room and extracted a promise from each of us that we would never tell a living soul what had happened to our family that day. In a voice that was both burnt-out and uncompromising, she told us that she would cease being our mother if we broke that promise. She swore that she would never speak to us again if we revealed a single detail of that terrible day. She did not care if we understood her reasons or not. Knowing the nature of small towns, she knew how they pitied and despised their raped women and she would not be counted in their number. We never broke that promise, any of us. We didn’t even speak about it to one another. It was a private and binding covenant entered into by a country family remarkable for its stupidity and the protocols of denial it brought to disaster. In silence we would honor our private shame and make it unspeakable.

  Only Savannah broke the agreement, but she did it with a wordless and terrible majesty. Three days later, she cut her wrists for the first time.

  My mother had raised a daughter who could be silent but could not lie.

  When I finished my story, I looked again at Susan Lowenstein across the room. We said nothing at first; then I said, “Do you see why Savannah’s children’s story made me angry? I don’t believe that she doesn’t remember that day and I don’t want her to write it pretty.”

  “The whole family might have been killed.”

  “Maybe that wouldn’t have been the worst thing to happen.”

  “What you’ve just described is the worst thing I’ve ever heard happen to a family.”

  “I thought so, too,” I said. “But I was wrong. That was just the warm-up.”

  “I don’t Understand, Tom. You mean Savannah and her sickness?”

  “No, Lowenstein,” I said. “I haven’t told you about the moving of the town. I haven’t told you about Luke.”

  23

  A coach occupies a high place in a boy’s life. It is the one grand component of my arguably useless vocation. If they are lucky, good coaches can become the perfect unobtainable fathers that young boys dream about and rarely find in their own homes. Good coaches shape and exhort and urge. There is something beautiful about watching the process of sport. I have spent almost all the autumns of my life moving crowds of young boys across acres of divided grass. Beneath the sun of late August, I have listened to the chants of calisthenics, watched the initial clumsiness of overgrown boys and the eyes of small boys conquering their fear, and I have monitored the violence of blocking sleds and gang tackling. I can measure my life by the teams I have fielded and I remember by name every player I ever coached. Patiently, I have waited each year for that moment when I had merged all the skills and weaknesses of the boys placed in my care. I have watched for that miraculous synthesis. When it comes I look around my field, I look at my boys, and in a rush of creative omnipotence I want to shout to the sun: “By God, I have created a team.”

  The boy is precious because he stands on the threshold of his generation and he is always afraid. The coach knows that innocence is always sacred, but fear is not. Through sports a coach can offer a boy a secret way to sneak up on the mystery that is manhood.

  I spent my summer with Bernard Woodruff teaching him all the secret ways. Everything I knew about the game of football I taught him in those two-hour sessions in the middle of Central Park. He learned to tackle by tackling me, and he learned to do it well. Bernard was not a gifted athlete, but he was one who did not mind hurting you. He hurt me many times during my practices and I hurt him many more. It took real nerve for a one-hundred-forty-pound boy to throw his body in front of a full-grown man. We played to an audience of great buildings rising out of the city around us.

  But our season ended abruptly on the day I taught Bernard the art of pass blocking.

  In the park, I lined up against Bernard in the four-point stance of a defensive lineman.

  “That tree behind you is the quarterback, Bernard,” I said. “If I touch that tree, then I’ve sacked the quarterback.”

  He faced me across the grass in full uniform, but I outweighed him by sixty pounds.

  “Don’t leave your feet. Keep your balance and keep me away from your quarterback,” I said.

  “I want to play quarterback,” he said.

  “We’re teaching you to appreciate your offensive linemen,” I said.

  I broke across the line, slapped his helmet with my palm, and knocked him to the ground. I touched the tree and said, “I just made your quarterback mad.”

  “You just made the offensive lineman mad,” he said. “Let’s try that again.”

  This time he put his helmet to my chest when he rose up to meet me. I broke to his left but he kept popping me and retreating slightly, monitoring his center of gravity by flexing his knees and keeping his feet moving. When I tried to sprint by him, he surprised me by diving at my feet and sweeping my legs out from underneath me. I hit the grass hard and had the breath knocked out of me.

  “I just made the quarterback happy, huh, Coach Wingo?” Bernard said triumphantly.

  “You just hurt the coach,” I gasped as I struggled to my feet. “I’m getting too old for this shit. That was terrific, Bernard. You earned the right to play quarterback.”

  “I whipped your butt on that one, Coach,” he crowed. “Why are you limping?”

  “I’m limping because I’m hurt,” I said as I walked gingerly, testing my left knee.

  “The good ones don’t worry about little injuries,” he teased.

  I said, “Who taught you that?”

  “You did,” he said. “Just run it off, Coach. Like you told me to do when I sprained my ankle.”

  “You’re irritating me, Bernard,” I muttered.

  “Then let’s see you try to touch that tree, Coach,” he said, smiling at me with unbearable arrogance.

  I lined up across from him again, and with our faces only a foot apart I said, “I’m going to try to kill you this time, Bernard.”

  Again, he made first contact but I knocked him off balance with my palm again. He recovered and cut off my headlong charge for the tree. I leaned against him and felt him stagger against my weight. I was about to go around him when he surprised me and dove at my ankles. I hit the ground again with Bernard giggling beneath me.

  We lay on the ground together, wrestling good-naturedly.

  “I think you’ve become a football player, you little bastard,” I said.

  “Indeed,” I heard a man’s voice say behind me.

  “Dad!” Bernard said.

  I turned and saw Herbert Woodruff observing our impromptu wrestling match with something less than total enchantment. His arms were folded across his chest as primly as two blades in a Swiss Army knife. He possess
ed the composure and slim elegance of a flamenco dancer and had the dark good looks to match. On his face he wore a cold reserve.

  “So this is how your mother allows you to waste the summer,” he said sharply to his son. “You look perfectly ridiculous.”

  Bernard looked miserable and made no attempt to answer his father, who was making a strong point of ignoring me.

  “Professor Greenberg just called and said you’ve skipped two lessons already this week,” he said. “He only took you as his student as a special favor to me.”

  “He’s mean,” Bernard said.

  “He’s strict,” the man said. “The great teachers are always very demanding. What you lack in talent, Bernard, you must make up for in devotion.”

  “Hello,” I said, interrupting. “I’m Tom Wingo, Mr. Woodruff. I’m Bernard’s football coach.”

  I held out my hand and heard him say, “I don’t shake hands.” He lifted his long, beautiful hands up to the sunlight and said, “My hands are my life. I’m a violinist.”

  “Do you want to rub noses instead?” I said cheerfully, hoping to divert his attention from Bernard.

  He ignored me and said, “The maid told me you were down here. Go to your room and practice for three hours after you call Professor Greenberg to apologize.”

  “Football practice isn’t over,” Bernard said.

  “Yes, it is, Bernard,” he said. “It’s over for the rest of your life. This is another one of you and your mother’s little plots.”

  “Let’s call it a day, Bernard,” I said. “Run home and practice your violin like your daddy says and maybe we can work something out.”

  Bernard ran toward Central Park West at a fast trot and I stood alone on the grass with Herbert Woodruff.

  “He’s a pretty good football player, Mr. Woodruff,” I said as we both watched Bernard cross the street through heavy traffic.

  Herbert Woodruff turned to me and said, “Who gives a shit?”

  “Bernard, for one,” I said, controlling my temper with effort. “Your wife asked me to coach Bernard this summer.”

  “She didn’t discuss it with me,” he said. “But I guess that’s obvious to you by now, Mister … What did you say your name was?”

  “Wingo. Tom Wingo.”

  “My wife talks about you frequently,” he said. “You’re her southern boy, aren’t you?”

  “I saw you at the Spoleto Festival in Charleston,” I said. “You were terrific.”

  “Yes,” he said. “Thank you. Do you know Bach’s Chaconne, Mr. Wingo?”

  “I don’t know very much about music, I’m ashamed to admit,” I said.

  “A pity,” he said. “When I was ten years old, I could perform the Chaconne flawlessly,” he said. “Bernard added the Chaconne to his repertoire only this year and his rendering of it is sloppy at best.”

  “How were you at football at ten?” I asked.

  “I’ve always loathed athletics and all people connected with them, Mr. Wingo,” he said. “Bernard knows this well. He probably finds football exotic compared to the concert halls where he grew up.”

  “I don’t think football will cause any permanent damage,” I said.

  “It could permanently damage his desire to be a violinist,” he said.

  “Susan said you were displeased when you found out that I was coaching him.”

  “My wife is sentimental about Bernard,” he said. “I am not. I also endured a difficult adolescence, but my parents did not indulge me at all. They believed that discipline is the highest form of love. If Bernard craves physical activity, there is always the Chaconne.”

  I picked up the football lying on the ground and said, “Why don’t you come out here with Bernard sometime and toss the ball around before supper?”

  “You have a marvelous sense of humor, Mr. Wingo,” he said.

  “I’m serious, Mr. Woodruff,” I said. “Football is just a passing interest of Bernard’s right now, but I bet he’d love it if you’d show some interest in it. It might even hasten the process when he loses interest in sports completely.”

  “I’ve already taken steps to hasten that process,” he said. “I’m sending him to a music camp in the Adirondacks for the rest of the summer. My wife has allowed you to steal his attention away from his music.”

  “It’s none of my business, sir,” I said, “but that’s not the way I’d handle it.”

  “You’re perfectly correct, Mr. Wingo,” he said with an irritated dignity. “It is not your business.”

  “If you send him to camp,” I said, “he’ll never be the violinist you want him to be.”

  “I’m his father and I assure you he’ll be the violinist I want him to be,” he said as he turned and walked toward his apartment building.

  “I’m his coach,” I said to his back. “And you have just created a football player, sir.”

  The phone was ringing when I returned to my sister’s apartment. I was not surprised when I heard Bernard’s voice on the phone.

  “He threw my uniform away,” Bernard said.

  “You shouldn’t have skipped your violin lessons,” I said.

  He was silent for a moment, then said, “Have you ever heard my father play the violin, Coach?”

  “Sure,” I said. “And your mother’s taking me to hear him play next week.”

  “He’s one of the fifteen best in the world,” Bernard said. “At least, that’s what Greenberg says.”

  “What does that have to do with skipping your music lessons?” I asked.

  “I won’t even be among the top ten violinists in the camp, Coach Wingo,” he said. “Do you understand what I’m trying to say?”

  “Yeah, I do,” I said. “When do you go to camp?”

  “Tomorrow,” he said.

  “Can I take you to the station?”

  “Yeah, that would be great,” he said.

  The next day we took a cab to Grand Central and I watched his luggage as Bernard bought his train ticket. We walked down to the track where his train was going to arrive. He carried his violin case and I carried his suitcase.

  “You’ve grown this summer,” I said as we sat down on a bench.

  “Inch and a half,” he said. “And I’ve gained eight pounds.”

  “I wrote the football coach at Phillips Exeter,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “I told him I’d spent the summer coaching you football,” I said. “I recommended you as a prospect for his junior varsity team next year.”

  “My father has forbidden me to play football again,” Bernard said.

  “I’m sorry,” I answered. “I think you could have turned into a hell of a football player.”

  “You do?” he asked.

  “You’re a tough kid, Bernard,” I said. “When you took me down yesterday, I was trying as hard as I could. I was trying to run over you.”

  “Tell me that again, Coach,” he said.

  “Tell you what?”

  “Tell me that I’m a tough kid,” he said. “No one’s ever told me that before.”

  “You’re a damn tough kid, Bernard,” I said. “I thought I’d run you into the ground the first week this summer. You surprised me. You took everything I dished out and came back asking for more. Coaches love that.”

  “You’re the best coach I’ve ever had,” he said.

  “I’m the only coach you’ve ever had,” I said.

  “I meant teacher,” Bernard said. “I’ve had music teachers since I was five. You’re the best teacher I’ve had, Coach Wingo.”

  The boy moved me and I could not speak for a moment. Finally, I said, “Thanks, Bernard. No one’s said that to me in a long time.”

  “Why were you fired?” Bernard asked.

  “I had a nervous breakdown,” I said.

  He said quickly, “I’m sorry. I had no business asking.”

  “Sure you did,” I said.

  “What’s it like having a nervous breakdown?” he asked, then said, “I’m sorry. Te
ll me to shut up.”

  “It wasn’t pleasant,” I said, looking for the train.

  “Why’d you have it?” he asked, staring at me.

  “My brother died, Bernard,” I said, turning toward him.

  “I’m sorry, I’m really sorry,” he said. “Were you close?”

  “I worshiped him,” I said.

  “I’ll write a letter,” Bernard said.

  “To whom?” I asked.

  “I’ll write a letter saying you’re a terrific coach,” Bernard said. “You just tell me where to send it.”

  I smiled. “Don’t worry about the letter. But there’s one thing I’d like you to do for me, Bernard.”

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  “I’d like to hear you play the violin.”

  “Sure,” he said, unsnapping the lock from his violin case. “What would you like to hear?”

  “How about the Chaconne?” I asked.

  He was playing the Chaconne when his train arrived at the station and he played it beautifully and with a passion that surprised me. When he finished I said to him, “If I could play the violin like that, Bernard, I’d never touch a football.”

  “What’s wrong with doing both?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” I said. “Write me. I’d like to hear from you next year.”

  “I will, Coach,” he promised as he replaced his violin.

  I handed him a sack from Macy’s.

  “What’s this?” he asked.

  “A new football,” I said. “You’ll have to get it blown up at camp. Then find a buddy you can toss it with. And, Bernard, work on being a nice guy. Make friends. Be nice to your teachers. Be thoughtful.”

  “My father hated you, Coach Wingo,” he said.

  “But he loves you,” I said. “Goodbye, Bernard.”

  “Thanks for everything, Coach,” Bernard Woodruff said, and we embraced on the platform.

  When I returned to the apartment I received a phone call from Herbert Woodruff inviting me to dinner after his concert that Saturday night. I did not understand why Herbert wanted someone he hated to dine with him and his friends, but I was from South Carolina and I would never understand how the great city worked.