“Doesn’t ability to do the job come into the equation?”
“Of course not, you fool,” said Jimmy. “This is politics.”
Fletcher was invited to read the lesson in chapel that Sunday morning, making it abundantly clear who the principal would have voted for. During lunch, he and Jimmy visited every dorm, to ask the boys how they felt about the food. “A sure vote winner,” the senator had assured them, “even if you can’t do anything about it.” That evening, they climbed into bed exhausted. Jimmy set the alarm for five thirty. Fletcher groaned.
“A master stroke,” said Jimmy as they stood outside assembly the following morning waiting for the boys to go off to their classrooms.
“Brilliant,” admitted Fletcher.
“I’m afraid so,” said Jimmy. “Not that I can complain, because I would have recommended that you do exactly the same thing, given the circumstances.”
The two of them stared across at Steve Rodgers, who was standing on crutches by the exit to the hall allowing the boys to sign their autographs on his plastered leg.
“A master stroke,” repeated Jimmy. “It brings a new meaning to the sympathy vote. Perhaps we should ask the question, do you want a cripple for president?”
“One of the greatest Presidents in the history of this country was a cripple,” Fletcher reminded his campaign manager.
“Then there’s only one thing for it,” said Jimmy, “you’ll have to spend the next twenty-four hours in a wheelchair.”
Although everyone knew the result wouldn’t be announced until nine o’clock, the assembly hall was packed long before the principal made his entrance.
Fletcher sat in the back row, with his head bowed, while Jimmy stared directly in front of him. “I should have got up earlier every morning,” said Fletcher.
“I should have broken your leg,” Jimmy responded.
The principal, accompanied by the chaplain, marched down the aisle as if to show God was somehow involved in who became president of student government at Hotchkiss. The principal walked to the front of the stage and cleared his throat.
“The result of the election for student government president,” said Mr. Fleming, “is Fletcher Davenport 207 votes, Steve Rodgers 173 votes. I therefore declare Fletcher Davenport to be the new president.”
Fletcher immediately walked across and shook hands with Steve, who smiled warmly, looking almost relieved. Fletcher turned around to see Harry Gates standing by the door. The senator bowed respectfully to the new president.
“You never forget your first election victory,” was all he said.
They both ignored Jimmy, who was leaping up and down, unable to contain himself.
“I believe you know my vice-president, sir,” Fletcher replied.
“Will anyone bother to stand against you?” asked Diane Coulter.
“No one I can’t beat.”
“What about Nat Cartwright?”
“Not while it’s known that he’s the principal’s favorite, and if elected will simply carry out his wishes; at least that’s what my supporters are telling everyone.”
“And don’t let’s forget the way he treated my sister.”
“I thought it was you who dumped him? I didn’t even realize he knew your sister.”
“He didn’t, but that didn’t stop him trying to make a move on her when he came around to the house to see me.”
“Does anyone else know about this?”
“Yes, my brother Dan. He caught him in the kitchen with his hand up her skirt. My sister complained bitterly she just couldn’t stop him.”
“Did she?” He paused. “Do you think your brother would be willing to back me for president?”
“Yes, but there’s not much he can do while he’s at Princeton.”
“Oh yes there is,” said Elliot. “To start with …”
“Who’s my main rival?” asked Nat.
“Ralph Elliot, who else?” said Tom. “He’s been working on his campaign since the beginning of last term.”
“But that’s against the rules.”
“I don’t think Elliot has ever cared much about rules, and as he knows you’re far more popular than he is, we can look forward to a dirty campaign.”
“But I’m not going down that road …”
“So we’ll have to take the Kennedy route.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“You should open your campaign by challenging Elliot to a debate.”
“He’ll never accept.”
“Then you win either way. If he does accept, you’ll wipe the floor with him. If he doesn’t, we can play the ‘he flunked it’ card.”
“So how would you set up such a challenge?”
“Send him a letter, a copy of which I’ll post on the bulletin board.”
“But you’re not allowed to post notices without the principal’s permission.”
“By the time they take it down, most people will have read it, and those that haven’t will want to know what it said.”
“And by then I’ll have been disqualified.”
“Not while the principal thinks Elliot might win.”
It was six thirty on the first day of term when Nat and Tom stood alone in the parking lot. The first vehicle to come through the gates was the principal’s.
“Good morning, Cartwright,” he barked, as he climbed out of his car, “from your excess of enthusiasm at this early hour, am I to assume that you’re running for president?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Excellent, and who is your main rival?”
“Ralph Elliot.”
The principal frowned. “Then it will be a fiercely fought competition, because Elliot won’t roll over easily.”
“True,” admitted Tom as the principal disappeared toward his study, leaving the two of them to greet the second car. The occupant turned out to be a terrified new boy, who ran away when Nat approached him, and worse, the third car was full of Elliot supporters, who quickly fanned across the parking lot, obviously having already been through a dress rehearsal.
“Damn,” said Tom, “our first team meeting isn’t scheduled until the ten o’clock break. Elliot obviously briefed his team during the vacation.”
“Don’t worry,” said Nat, “just grab our people as they get out of their cars, and put them to work immediately.”
By the time the last car had disgorged its occupants, Nat had answered nearly a hundred questions and shaken hands with over three hundred boys, but only one fact became clear. Elliot was happy to promise them anything in exchange for their vote.
“Shouldn’t we be letting everyone know what a sleaze-bag Elliot really is?”
“What do you have in mind?” Nat asked.
“How he cajoles new boys into parting with their allowances?”
“There’s never been any proof.”
“Just endless complaints.”
“If there’s that many, they’ll know where to put their cross, won’t they,” said Nat. “In any case, that’s not the sort of campaign I want to run,” he added. “I’d prefer to assume the voters can make up their own minds which one of us can be trusted.”
“That’s an original idea,” said Tom.
“Well, at least the principal is making it clear that he doesn’t want Elliot to be president,” said Nat.
“I don’t think we should tell anyone that,” said Tom. “It may well swing a few more votes to Elliot.”
“Damn, how did he manage to pull that off?” growled Nat.
“Bribery and corruption would be my bet,” said Jimmy. “Elliot has always been a useful player, but never good enough to make the school team.”
“Do you think they’ll risk putting him in the game?”
“Why not? St. George’s often fields a weak side, so they could leave him out there for a few minutes once they’re confident it won’t affect the result. Then Elliot will spend the rest of the game running up and down the sidelines, waving at the voters, while all we ca
n do is stare down at him from the bleachers.”
“Then let’s make sure all our workers are in position outside the stadium a few minutes before the game ends, and don’t let anyone see our new hand-held placards until Saturday afternoon. That way Elliot won’t have time to come up with his own.”
“You’re learning fast,” said Tom.
“When Elliot’s your opponent, you’re not left with a lot of choice.”
When Nat arrived at the game, his placards were to be seen everywhere, and all that the Elliot supporters could do was cry foul play. Nat and Tom couldn’t hide their smiles as they took their places in the bleachers. The smiles broadened when St. George’s scored early in the first quarter. Nat didn’t want Taft to lose, but no coach was going to risk putting Elliot on the field while St. George’s remained in the lead. And that didn’t change until the final quarter.
Nat shook hands with everyone as they left the stadium, but he knew that Taft’s last-minute victory over St. George’s hadn’t helped his cause, even if Elliot had only been able to run up and down the sideline until the last person had left the bleachers.
“Just be thankful he never got into the game,” said Tom.
Over the final weekend, Nat’s workers tried to project an air of confidence, even though they realized it was too close to call. Neither candidate stopped smiling, until Monday evening when the school bell struck six.
“Let’s go back to my room,” said Tom, “and tell stories of the death of kings.”
“Sad stories,” said Nat.
The team all crowded into Tom’s little room and swapped anecdotes of the roles they had played in the campaign, and laughed at jokes that weren’t funny, as they waited impatiently to learn the result.
A loud rap on the door interrupted their noisy exuberance. “Come in,” called Tom.
They all stood up the moment they saw who it was standing in the doorway.
“Good evening, Mr. Anderson,” said Nat.
“Good evening, Cartwright,” replied the dean of students formally. “As the returning officer in the election for president of student government, I have to inform you that due to the closeness of the result, I will be calling for a recount. Assembly has therefore been postponed until eight o’clock.”
“Thank you, sir,” was all Nat could think of saying.
When eight o’clock had struck every boy was seated in his place. They rose dutifully when the dean of students entered the hall. Nat tried to read any sign of the result from the expression on his face, but even the Japanese would have been proud of Mr. Anderson’s inscrutability.
The dean walked to the center of the stage and invited the assembly to be seated. There was a hush, rarely experienced at a normal gathering.
“I must tell you,” began the dean, “that this was the closest result in the school’s seventy-five-year history.” Nat could feel the palms of his hands sweating, as he tried to remain calm. “The voting for president of student council was Nat Cartwright, 178, Ralph Elliot, 181.”
Half the gathering leaped to their feet and cheered, while the other half remained seated and silent. Nat rose from his place, walked across to Elliot and offered his outstretched hand.
The new president ignored it.
11
NAT’S MOTHER SEEMED to be one of the few people who wasn’t disappointed that her son hadn’t been elected president. She felt it would give him more time to concentrate on his work. And if Susan Cartwright could have seen the hours Nathaniel was putting in, she would have stopped worrying. Even Tom found it difficult to pry Nat away from his books for more than a few minutes, unless it was to go on his daily five-mile run. And even when he broke the school cross-country record, Nat only allowed himself a couple of hours off to celebrate.
Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, New Year’s Eve—it made no difference. Nat remained in his room, head buried in his books. His mother only hoped that when he left to spend a long weekend in Simsbury with Tom, he would take a real break. He did. Nat cut his workload down to two hours in the morning and another two in the afternoon. Tom was grateful that his friend kept him to the same routine, even if he declined the invitation to join him for his daily run. It amused Nat that he could complete the five miles without ever leaving Tom’s estate.
“One of your many sweethearts?” asked Nat over breakfast the following morning as his friend tore open a letter.
“I only wish,” said Tom. “No, it’s from Mr. Thompson asking if I want to be considered for a part in Twelfth Night.”
“And do you?” asked Nat.
“No. It’s more your world than mine. I’m a producer by nature, not a performer.”
“I would have put my name down for a part if I was confident about my Yale application, but I haven’t even completed my independent study.”
“I haven’t even started mine,” admitted Tom.
“Which of the five subjects did you select?” asked Nat.
“Control of the lower Mississippi during the Civil War,” replied Tom. “And you?”
“Clarence Darrow and his influence on the trade union movement.”
“Yeah, I considered Mr. Darrow, but wasn’t sure I could manage five thousand words on the subject. No doubt you’ve already written ten.”
“No, but I’ve almost finished a first draft, and should have a final copy ready by the time we return in January.”
“Yale’s deadline isn’t until February; you really ought to consider taking a part in the school play. At least read for the audition. After all, it doesn’t have to be the lead.”
Nat thought about his friend’s suggestion as he buttered himself a piece of toast. Tom was right, of course, but Nat felt it would be just another distraction if he was hoping to win a scholarship to Yale. He glanced out of the window across acres of land and wondered what it must be like to have parents who didn’t have to worry about tuition payments, pocket money, and whether he could get a holiday job during the summer vacation.
“Do you wish to read for any particular role, Nat?” asked Mr. Thompson as he stared up at the six-foot-two boy with a mop of black hair, whose trousers always seemed to be a couple of inches too short.
“Antonio, possibly Orsino,” replied Nat.
“You’re a natural Orsino,” said Mr. Thompson, “but I have your friend, Tom Russell, in mind for that part.”
“I’m hardly Malvolio,” said Nat with a laugh.
“No, Elliot would be my first choice for Malvolio,” said Thompson with a wry smile. Mr. Thompson, like so many others at Taft, wished Nat had become the student government president. “But sadly he’s not available, whereas in truth, you are best suited for the role of Sebastian.”
Nat wanted to protest, although when he first read the script he had to admit he thought the part would be a challenge. However, its sheer length would demand hours of learning, not to mention time spent in rehearsals. Mr. Thompson sensed Nat’s reservations. “I think the time has come for a little bribery, Nat.”
“Bribery, sir?”
“Yes, my boy. You see the admissions director at Yale is one of my oldest friends. We studied classics together at Princeton, and he always spends a weekend with me every year. I think I’ll make it the weekend of the school play,” he paused, “that is, if you feel able to play Sebastian.” Nat didn’t respond. “Ah, I see bribery is not enough for someone of your high moral standards, so I shall have to stoop to corruption.”
“Corruption, sir?” said Nat.
“Yes, Nat, corruption. You will have observed that there are three parts in the play for females—the fair Olivia, your twin Viola, and the feisty Maria, not to mention understudies and maidservants, and don’t let’s forget that they all fall in love with Sebastian.” Nat still didn’t respond. “And,” continued Mr. Thompson, revealing his trump card, “my opposite number at Miss Porter’s has suggested that I should take a boy over on Saturday to read the male parts while we decide who should audition for the females.” He paused
again. “Ah, I see I have finally caught your attention.”
“Do you believe it’s possible to spend your whole life loving only one person?” Annie asked.
“If you’re lucky enough to find the right person, why not?” responded Fletcher.
“I suspect that when you go to Yale in the fall you’ll be surrounded by so many bright and beautiful women, I’ll pale by comparison.”
“Not a chance,” said Fletcher. He sat down next to her on the sofa and put an arm around her shoulder. “And in any case, they’ll quickly discover that I’m in love with somebody else, and once you’re at Vassar, they’ll discover why.”
“But that won’t be for another year,” said Annie, “and by then …”
“Shh … haven’t you noticed that every man who meets you is immediately jealous of me?”
“No, I haven’t,” she replied honestly.
Fletcher turned to look at the girl he’d fallen in love with when she’d had a flat chest and braces on her teeth. But even then he couldn’t resist that smile, her black hair, inherited from an Irish grandmother, and steel-blue eyes from the Swedish side of the family. But now, four years later, time had added a slim, graceful figure and legs that made Fletcher grateful for the new fashion of mini skirts.
Annie put a hand on Fletcher’s thigh, “Do you realize that half the girls in my class are no longer virgins?” she said.
“So Jimmy tells me,” said Fletcher.
“And he should know.” Annie paused, “I’m seventeen next month, and you’ve never once suggested …”
“I’ve thought about it many times, of course I have,” said Fletcher as she moved her body so that his hand touched her breast, “but when it happens, I want it to be right for both of us and for there never to be any regrets.”
Kane and Abel/Sons of Fortune Page 62
