Passion Play

by W. Edward Blain

  Coach McPhee grabbed a ball and threw it hard into Staines’s chest. It bounced off on the floor. Thomas was shocked to see Coach McPhee lose his temper, but glad to see Staines as the target.

  “You don’t make excuses,” Coach said. “We lost as a team. We didn’t play well as a team.” He left them alone.

  The coaches’ office was across the hall from the locker room. After Thomas dressed, he dragged himself over. He wished that he could start the day all over again, beginning with lunch.

  Coach McPhee was there alone. You could tell he was peeved about the loss, but he wasn’t going to hit Thomas with a ball or anything.

  “What was the matter with you today?” he said. He pointed to a wooden chair across the desk from his own. Thomas sat.

  “I wasn’t concentrating,” said Thomas.

  “What were you and Staines spatting about?”

  “Sir?” It amazed Thomas how teachers seemed to know everything.

  “The passes that didn’t get thrown or got thrown a second too late, the looks, the comments. You think I’m Helen Keller?”

  Thomas told him about the argument at the training meal.

  “Let me get this straight,” said Coach McPhee. “Staines supposedly popped in on the Wardens and caught them in the middle of doing what husbands and wives do?”

  “He said that. I think he was exaggerating.”

  “And he said some nasty things about them?”

  “He called Mr. Warden ‘Red Label,’” said Thomas. “I hate that.”

  Coach McPhee said he hated it, too.

  “Let me tell you something, Boatwright,” he said. “When I was fifteen years old, my parents left me to babysit for my two-year-old brother. It was just the two of us alone in the apartment. I was supposed to give my brother a bath, and then dress him, and then put him to bed. You got the picture so far?”

  Thomas did. He had heard this story before, but he dreaded it nonetheless.

  “I was too preoccupied with my own little world to look after my baby brother properly,’’ said Coach McPhee. “He drowned in the bathtub, Boatwright. I was irresponsible. I left him alone in that big claw-footed bathtub, and he drowned. Not a day in my life goes by without my thinking of that little boy in that pool of water. I should have been there, and I wasn’t. You understand why I’m a teacher now? You understand why I’m a coach? I owe a debt. I had a responsibility, and I blew it. You had a responsibility today, and you blew it, too. The difference for you is that it was only a game. But responsibility still matters. Your responsibility was to the team.”

  Thomas felt like a cockroach in front of a can of Raid.

  “All right, Boatwright, get out of here,” he said. “You need to learn how to overcome your personal grudges.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “And I’ll talk to Staines later on.”

  But Coach McPhee never spoke a word to Staines again.

  SCENE 18

  On the evening of Saturday, December 4, the only adult in the dining hall at Montpelier School who was clearly enjoying a good mood was Kevin Delaney. His varsity basketball team had won by ten points over Albemarle Academy, and he was now undefeated for the season. One win, zero losses.

  Delaney was a big man, pumpkin-sized head on top of a weather-balloon-shaped torso, arms reminiscent of fire-plugs, and thighs like tuba cases. His mood tonight was as expansive as his body. His boys had won—even with the defection of Nathan Somerville to that damn Shakespearean production going on, they had won in double figures—and Delaney was proud of himself.

  Delaney’s spirits withered quickly, however, after five minutes of sitting at the table with four other adults and waiting in vain for a compliment on his victory. Felix Grayson, the DM for the day, was griping because eight bus loads and a couple of vans were bringing almost 250 girls to the campus and he knew that he wouldn’t be able to supervise the place properly. Dean Samuel Kaufman was complaining of a dull ache in his lower back, brought on by a visit this afternoon from Benjamin Warden, who wanted Robert Staines dismissed from school for entering a faculty apartment without permission. Cynthia Warden, who sat at the head of the table, was angry because one bus load of girls had arrived an hour early with a chaperone who refused to drive three miles into the town of Montpelier for dinner. And Patrick McPhee was gloomy because his JV team had lost their basketball game by one point as a result of undisciplined play.

  “Those sophomores always get jittery,” said Delaney. McPhee did not answer.

  “I was happy that my boys seemed to adjust to playing without Nathan Somerville,” Delaney said to everyone at the table. He waited for a response.

  Sam Kaufman, whose wiry pompadour was uncharacteristically unkempt tonight, paid no attention to Delaney and asked Cynthia where her husband was.

  “He’s at home. He’s writing,” said Cynthia.

  Delaney wished Kaufman would go to hell for ignoring him. Cynthia Warden was a more promising prospect for generating a conversation about basketball. She might have been one of the high school girls up for the mixer herself, in a striped skirt, blue knee socks, black lace-up shoes, and a white turtleneck under a sweater. Her hair was thick and freshly washed and fanned across her shoulders.

  “You look very well, Cynthia,” said Delaney. “Did you make it to the games today?”

  Cynthia said thank you and that she did not. Delaney wrote her off and decided to try one of the men.

  They occupied a rectangular mahogany table for twelve in the center of the dining hall, a large trapezoidal room with plaid carpeting and brass chandeliers. On the table were plastic trays containing varying remnants of lasagna, salad, and canned peaches. On Saturdays at Montpelier the meals were always buffet. There were probably a hundred boys and another forty visiting girls dining at other tables in the room, which could seat five hundred persons at capacity. Many of the other students had decided to take cabs into town to eat in the local restaurants. They were permitted to do so, as long as they returned by 9:00 P.M.

  Grayson complained that the school would resemble a commune of anarchic hippies by the end of the evening. “Everybody’s going to be doing his own damn thing. Supervision will be just a word in the dictionary.”

  “Did the wrestlers win?” asked Delaney. He thought maybe he could divert the conversation to basketball indirectly.

  Grayson ignored him. “I’m the day master, and I can’t find half my duty team,” said Grayson. “Has anybody here seen Carella or Farnham? Neither one has shown up for dinner, as far as I know.”

  Delaney was annoyed with his colleagues. Everybody had his own agenda tonight. Nobody was listening. He considered going back to the serving line for a fourth helping of lasagna and starting a food fight. That would get Felix’s attention.

  “Let’s hope I have a quieter night than you did, Pat,” said Grayson to Patrick McPhee.

  McPhee rubbed an invisible spot on his water glass and did not appear to hear.

  “You’re in high brood tonight,” said Delaney. “You’ll win the next one.”

  McPhee worked up a rueful grin. From a pocket he pulled out his coach’s whistle on its cord and blew one quick shrill tweet. Everyone in the room fell quiet and looked over.

  “Time out,” McPhee said, and then he left.

  Conversation in the dining room resumed. Those remaining at the faculty table were nonplussed.

  “He’s had a bad week,” said Felix Grayson. “You know he always takes his duty rotation so seriously.”

  Cynthia asked if there was any word from Diane.

  “She’s gone for good, I hear,” said Grayson.

  “Good riddance if you ask me,” said Kaufman.

  Delaney’s shoulders slouched a little closer to the floor.

  Here we go, another dish of dirt from the talking tabloid.

  “I heard she was using him just to get a free education for that introverted son of hers,” said Kaufman. “Married him last summer and then turned cold. Pat got tired of
it and threw them both out at Thanksgiving.”

  “That’s preposterous,” said Cynthia. “He went to Boston over Thanksgiving to see her.”

  “All I know is they slept in separate bedrooms,” said Kaufman. He’d heard it directly from the business manager’s secretary, whose office was right next to bookkeeping, where one of the accountants was good friends with a lady who worked for the housekeeping department. “Draw your own conclusions.”

  “I conclude that he’s miserable,” said Cynthia. “I think he’s amazing to cope so well.”

  “And on top of everything else,” said Delaney, “he lost his game by just one point today.” Nobody took his cue.

  Grayson asked Cynthia if she was back to full strength.

  “Not quite yet,” she said. She had taken a long nap that afternoon to prepare for supervision of the mixer this evening. An hour ago she had checked on the bands, both of which were on campus. Now she was hoping that all the members therein would remain sober and play when they were supposed to. “But you can expect me to help tonight.” She said she was the culprit who planned the evening and therefore surely should help supervise.

  “Welcome aboard,” said Grayson. “I’ll be glad to use you at the mixer.”

  “If you’re well,” said Kaufman. “Do they know yet . . . ?”

  “They’re running more tests,” said Cynthia. She and Ben had agreed not to release any news until she had a second opinion.

  Grayson said Dr. Lane had requested that a duty man check the gym during the evening.

  “Lots going on at the gym this afternoon,” said Delaney. No reaction. Was he not speaking loudly enough? Was he invisible? He was now thoroughly disgruntled. His team had won, damn it, but you’d think it was a feat no greater than sweeping the gym floor. “Not many spectators, though.”

  “People were afraid of scratching your floor,” said Cynthia.

  Delaney knew she was teasing. She had asked him about having a dance in the gym, but he had forbidden it on the grounds that the basketball court would be ruined. He had given her permission to use the art studio instead.

  “I thought our boys might burn a hole in that floor with the fast break,” said Delaney.

  “Don’t talk about burning,” said Grayson. “After this fire alarm thing the other night, we want to make sure the gym stays locked up. Too many cubbyholes for people to get into trouble. Sam, you cover the gym.”

  “I’m not on duty tonight,” said Kaufman. His glasses sat a notch too low on his nose. “I traded my duty with Horace Somerville.” He announced he was going home to put some heat on his back. Kaufman was trying to decide whether to look for Robert Staines tonight or find him tomorrow. In addition to Ben Warden’s complaint about his barging into the apartment during study hours, there had been talk of an honor violation. Kaufman hated to have to confront the boy on Saturday night, but perhaps he should.

  “I need somebody to tour that gym,” said Grayson again. Delaney wanted revenge. They had just arrived at talking about his game when Grayson had steered them elsewhere.

  Cynthia said she would check it.

  Grayson hesitated.

  “Don’t you think a woman is capable of handling the athletic building?” she asked.

  “It’s not that,” said Grayson.

  “What is it, then?”

  “I’m thinking about your health,” said Grayson.

  “I’m antsy from lying around for so long,” said Cynthia. “There are plenty of chaperones for the mixer. I’ll help patrol the gym.”

  “You don’t have to patrol like a cop on a beat. Just make sure it’s locked up and nobody’s in there. But I can find Farnham to do it.”

  “You don’t trust me.”

  Delaney watched the conversation and wondered why Felix was so reluctant to accept her offer.

  “I trust you,” said Grayson. “It’s just that I don’t want anything to happen to you. You might faint out in the cold by yourself. Besides, I don’t have an extra key for you.” He wanted to steer her away from campus duty politely. He was not thinking primarily of Russell Phillips’s death and Horace Somerville’s suspicion that the boy had been killed. The police had publicly declared it a suicide, and that was sufficient for Grayson. However, he proudly considered himself old-fashioned, and he did not like the idea of sending a woman out, unescorted at night to patrol the grounds or the buildings.

  “We can find a key,” said Cynthia.

  “I have to keep my own,” said Grayson. “I don’t know of an extra.”

  Kevin Delaney reached into a pocket and pulled out a large ring of keys. “You want to borrow my pass key to the gym, Cynthia?” he said. “I won’t be needing it.”

  “Thank you very much,” said Cynthia. She took the key. “I’m covering the gym now, right?”

  “Right,” said Grayson. He was clearly annoyed at being outmaneuvered.

  Delaney picked up his tray and left the table. His high spirits were restored. Maybe he would celebrate his victory by getting some beer and watching the tube tonight.

  He could tell that Felix didn’t like Cynthia’s having a key. Good. That’s why Delaney had given it to her.

  Nothing put him back into sorts faster than spreading some aggravation around.

  SCENE 19

  Cynthia Warden returned to Stratford House after dinner. Going to dinner had not been so bad. She had not noticed any leers or smirks from the boys, and the faculty seemed utterly ignorant that she and her husband had been caught in flagrante delicto the evening before. The toughest part had been leaving Ben at home and entering the dining hall by herself. It had been a solo flight, but she had landed safely.

  She found Ben in the study, staring motionless at his poem.

  “I brought you a plate of lasagna,” she said.

  He jumped, as though he had just awakened. “I missed dinner?” he said. “I’m sorry.”

  “I knew you were concentrating,” she said. She carried the Styrofoam plate to his desk.

  “Your hair is wet,” he said.

  “It’s been raining,” she said. “You really have been absorbed, haven’t you?”

  “I’m thinking maybe it should be a double sonnet,” he said. He noted that rain should help with supervision for the mixer, because the students would be more likely to remain inside. Cynthia disagreed.

  “They’d sneak off during an earthquake if they had to,” she said.

  Warden pulled the aluminum foil cover off the plate. “Yes, that’s the Montpelier lasagna,” he said.

  Cynthia dug through the pockets of her raincoat. “I have some other goodies here somewhere,” she said. She pulled a canned Coke and a napkin out of one pocket. “Can’t forget your silverware.” From the other pocket she removed a handful of metal and laid it on his desk.

  “Stealing from the dining hall?” asked Warden.

  “Those are ours,” she said. “I stopped in the kitchen on my way upstairs.”

  “What’s this?”

  “Kevin’s key to the gym,” she said. “I’m going to dry off.” She bent and kissed him on the top of his head.

  “Thanks for dinner,” he said. “I’ve been off with the virgin all day.”

  “I’ll be glad when your fling with her is over,” said Cynthia. She departed for the bedroom.

  Warden ate the lasagna and stared at the key on the desktop before him.

  SCENE 20

  It was drizzling rain, it was cold, it was the kind of nasty December evening that made Irishmen drink and octogenarians move to Florida. But for Thomas Boatwright, it was Easter morning: Hesta had finally arrived.

  He was waiting for her in the common room of Stringfellow when she walked through the door. He could tell it was Hesta even though she was practically invisible under the hood of her yellow rain slicker. She saw him and pulled back the hood and ran over to him all at once. His heart nearly pounded out of his chest, and then a gigantic grin suddenly stretched across his face as though somebody were pull
ing his mouth with rubber bands. He stood up and wasn’t sure of whether to shake hands or hug her wet rain slicker or just say hi, when she leaned forward and kissed him quickly on the cheek. Then he went warm and thought that if fifteen Iranian terrorists walked through the door right now with machine guns he would fight them all off with one hand to protect Hesta. It was love.

  She laughed and shook herself out of the rain slicker.

  “Isn’t this great?” she said. “I got it from my brother. He used to wear it when he was a traffic safety patrol.”

  Hesta was beautiful. Her body was rounded where it ought to be and slender in the right places. Her blond hair fell down like a poodle’s in bangs across her forehead and around her ears. She had on some new oval-shaped tortoiseshell glasses, a big red cardigan sweater, and a navy blue corduroy skirt. She wore white socks and Bean hunting shoes, and she was just an inch shorter than Thomas. The braces on her teeth emphasized the warmth of her huge grin. She was the best-looking girl on the campus, even when she wore something as goofy as a safety patrol boy’s raincoat.

  “I’ll hang it up,” he said, and he took the parka from her, turned his back, and walked to the coatrack by the door. He knew it looked awkward just to leave her in the middle of the room like that, but he couldn’t help himself. He had to be in motion. He felt the crazy urge to go shoot some baskets in the gym with her, or to read her his part from the play, or to show her how much he could bench-press.

  She waited for him in the center of the room.

  “I’m sorry we were late,” she said.

  “It’s only 7:30. The bands haven’t even started.”

  They paused, both of them grinning at each other. Thomas was glad that nobody else was in the common room.

  “You want something to eat?” Thomas asked.

  Hesta said they’d stopped at a McDonald’s on the way.

  “Susie’s around here somewhere,” said Thomas.

  “I see her all the time,” said Hesta. “Let’s just sit here and catch up.”

  So they sat on the couch and talked until 8:30, when it was time to go to Bradley Hall for the mixer. People came and went from the common room, but Thomas noticed only vague motion from the corner of his eye. He was with Hesta, and the entire universe had rolled into a ball that encompassed just the two of them.