by JF Freedman
My mom’s never been in a house this nice. No one in my family ever has.
The thing that really knocked me for a loop was the models. There must’ve been three or four dozen all over the room, ships and boats of all types from every period of Navy history in America, sitting up on side tables, bookshelves, some even on stands that were just for them to sit on.
“Whoa!” I couldn’t help myself. They were beautiful, I’d never seen so many fantastic models in my life. On one of the shelves I saw a Confederate Civil War cutter that was the same as one I’d built. It looked to me that mine was about as nice, no bragging intended, but I bet if I took it down and looked at it carefully I’d see little things Admiral Wells had done to really fit it out perfectly.
“Take a look around, pick up anything that catches your fancy, I can tell a connoisseur when I see one,” the admiral offered.
“You sure it’s okay?” I asked. I was nervous, that’s all I needed was to drop one of them.
“I built them, so I guess it is,” he said, like I was this old friend of his that he trusted with his best stuff.
“Are your grades good, Roy?”
“Pretty good.” I squirmed, feeling uneasy about answering that question, because I had to lie, and I didn’t want to. “They’re okay, I mean they could be better.”
“Pretty good won’t cut it, Roy, not if you want to go to Annapolis. You have to be at the top of your class.”
“Yes, sir. I know that.”
We were sitting in the admiral’s study. The admiral was sipping sherry and I was drinking a Coke, the two of us resting after finishing off working on models all day long.
The admiral’s workshop was in his basement. He had the neatest tools I’d ever seen, from England, Czechoslovakia, Germany, places like that, you couldn’t buy tools this good in Washington even if you could afford to. He knew everything about every tool, what specialty it was used for, where he’d bought it, he’d even in some cases tell a little story about the toolmaker. It was like talking to a living encyclopedia of tools.
He made most of his models from scratch, not kits, using all these exotic woods, cherry and teak, stuff like that, some of them I’d never even heard of, wood from Hawaii, all kinds of places he’d been to in his travels in the Navy, all over the world. I would be, too, he said, if I went to Annapolis.
What was really great was he’d let me use these expensive tools of his—made me, in fact. I was pretty nervous, all I needed was to ruin one, but he was real cool about it, tools are for using, he’d say, and he’d handed me one, like it was no big deal.
“Is it a good school, Ravensburg High School?” the admiral asked, taking a sip of sherry.
“I’m in junior high actually,” I corrected him, “high school doesn’t start till tenth grade around here, but it’s okay, I guess, I mean it’s not great or anything, there’s a lot of vocational training, shop and stuff like that.”
“But they do have an academic program?” He was pressing me, like he was worried about how good the school was, whether it was good enough. “A college preparatory curriculum?”
“Oh yeah, sure, plenty of kids from Ravensburg go to college.” That was a crock of shit, hardly any kids from Ravensburg High ever go to college. What it’s good at is teaching auto mechanics, practical stuff. That’s what all the older brothers of my buddies take. None of them have even given a thought about going to college. I’ll bet I’m the only one, and I don’t talk about it. I don’t mean I’m embarrassed about it, it’s just they wouldn’t get it, especially about me.
“Good.” The admiral took a sip of his sherry. “That’s good. A first-rate school, especially if it’s a public one, is essential.” He paused for a moment. “One more thing, Roy: about your grades …”
“Yes?” I felt my stomach knot up.
“You said they were … pretty good?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I don’t mean to harp on this, Roy. But pretty good doesn’t cut it. They have to be excellent. The very best.”
“Yes, sir. I know.”
“Can you get them up?”
This guy knew me. He had me nailed.
“I’ll try, sir.”
He looked at me sharply, like he was looking straight through me.
“I mean yes, sure, absolutely.”
“I know you can,” he said, smiling at me again. “I’m counting on you, Roy.”
I was moving restlessly in my chair, a high-backed leather armchair, extra-soft leather. I didn’t like the direction the conversation was taking—my schoolwork was crummy and there was no getting around it, I’d never cared about school and my teachers had never cared about me, as long as I kept my mouth shut that’s all they wanted. The truth was I gave up on school a long time ago—even when I knew the answer to a question, which was actually more frequent than my teachers realize, I wouldn’t speak up in class. I’d been labeled as a poor student, a loser, and once that happens it’s about impossible to turn it around. Teachers talk to each other, they know who the smart kids are and the dumb ones, and they especially pass on who the troublemakers are. I’ve been in the troublemaker category since the first week of junior high, when me and Bobby Londale and Alex Dappa had been caught out in the hall without a pass, because we’d been kicked out of class for wising off, and had gotten the paddle for the first time. Maybe I’ll be able to turn things around in high school, but junior high’s been a complete waste.
“What’s that picture?” I asked, pointing to a small framed newspaper photograph that hung on the wall opposite where I was sitting. I wanted to change the subject, but it also interested me for real.
“That was taken during the war,” the admiral told me, turning to look at it.
“Is that you on the left?”
“That’s me, all right.” He smiled. “I looked a lot younger then, didn’t I?”
I got up to take a closer look. The picture was from the New York Times, 1942, fifteen years ago. No wonder the admiral looked younger.
“I was a captain then,” he said, “I didn’t get my star until a year later. During that part of the war I was a commodore,” he explained, “a rank that no longer exists.”
“Who’s the other guy?” I asked.
“Nimitz.”
“Wow.” I looked back at the admiral, who was sitting in his chair by the fire, smiling at me looking at his picture. It was true, all that stuff Bill from the hobby shop had told me. This little guy—who couldn’t be more than 5’6” when he was standing ramrod-straight like Annapolis men do, he was sitting here, working with me on my models, and talking to me like I was a regular person, not some dumb kid—had been an admiral in the war. Probably a hero, but I’ll bet you’d never catch him bragging on himself.
“You must’ve seen a lot of action,” I said.
“Enough to last a lifetime,” he said tensely.
I was tongue-tied, which is certainly not my normal way.
“Mrs. Wells put those pictures up,” the admiral said. He stood up and came over to me. “Ancient history as far as I’m concerned, but they mean something to her, I suppose.” He took my glass. “You could use a fill-up.” That was him being polite about not wanting to talk about himself anymore.
A woman came to the door. She was in the shadows, all I could see of her was the way she held herself erect, as straight as the admiral did.
“A new friend?” Her voice was low and husky, like that movie actress who’s married to Humphrey Bogart. She took a deep drag from her cigarette, and when she exhaled the smoke curled up around her head.
The admiral stood up. I did, too. I’d been feeling comfortable in this house, but suddenly I felt like an intruder.
“Come in, darling,” he said to her.
The woman took a few steps into the study, far enough so I could see her. She was small and thin, with one of those drawn-tight faces that have strong cheekbones, like a model’s face. Her hair, which she was wearing twisted in a long braid on to
p of her head, was very black.
“I met this young fellow at the model shop,” the admiral told her, introducing me, “he’s quite the experienced shipwright for someone so young.”
He put a hand on my shoulder. It wasn’t like when someone in school does it, a teacher or a principal, it felt friendly.
“Roy, I’d like you to meet my wife. Beatrice, this is Roy Poole.”
“Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” I said in a quieter voice than usual. She wasn’t the kind of woman you talk loud around, something about her told me that.
She stepped closer. She was older than I realized, almost as old as the admiral was, probably, which figured since they were married. Her eyes were the greenest I’ve ever seen. She was wearing a black dress that was pretty tight across her hips and breasts, I couldn’t help noticing—she had quite a good figure actually, it looked better than my mom’s even though my mom was much younger. She was kind of an old woman, I realized, but she sure was beautiful. I didn’t want to stare at her but it was hard not to.
“It’s nice to meet you, Roy,” she said, holding out her hand to me.
I was careful shaking it, the way you’d hold a bird that was hurt. She wasn’t like any woman I’d ever known before.
“I don’t want to break up your little soiree,” she said, smiling first at me and then at the admiral, “but we do have the Morrises in forty-five minutes, James, and you’ll want to change.”
Admiral Wells rapped his knuckles on his forehead. “I’d completely forgotten about that,” he said, “I had thought we would invite Roy to have dinner here with us.”
Boy, did that startle me. I just stared at him.
“If you had mentioned that earlier we might have made accommodations …” Her voice trailed off. She glanced at me, checking me out more carefully.
“I’ve got to get home,” I told them real quickly, “my old … my parents don’t like me being out too late.” I was scared, I admit it, eating dinner with people like them was definitely more than I could handle, my first day at their house and all. Besides, something about Mrs. Wells told me I wasn’t welcome eating with them, not tonight anyway.
“We’ll do it next time,” the admiral said, taking a glance at her. She didn’t seem to react one way or the other.
I did, though. He’d said “next time.” I was going to come here again; he wanted me to.
“That would be lovely,” Mrs. Wells said finally, like she had to think about it. “We haven’t had a young person in the house for a long time.”
Then she smiled at me. She had this dazzling smile. She had very full lips, actually her mouth was pretty sexy-looking like the rest of her. It felt weird thinking that, because she really was old and besides she was married to the admiral.
At the same time, though, it shook me up, that smile. Something about her scared me—it was like she could see right through me, and she didn’t like what she saw, smile or no smile.
“It was nice to meet you, Roy,” she said. “I’m sure I’ll be seeing you again. Don’t be late, darling,” she cautioned her husband.
“I’ll run Roy down to the bus stop,” he told her.
She left the room. We both watched her without saying anything.
It was dark. The evening cold was settling in as the admiral pulled his old Packard to the curb by the bus stop.
“Does the bus go directly to Ravensburg?” he asked.
“They all go through Mt. Rainier, but it’s an easy transfer.”
He frowned. “You’ll be late for your supper.”
“It’s pretty casual at my house, they won’t mind.”
“Take a taxi.” He pulled a money clip from his pocket—it was real silver, I could see that, he’s the kind of man who would only have a real silver one—and peeled off a five.
“Will this be enough?” he asked.
“Oh, sure,” I told him, “that’s plenty, but listen, Admiral Wells, I can take the bus.” Normally I would’ve grabbed the bill but I didn’t want his money, not after this afternoon and the way we’d spent it together.
“I don’t want you out on the streets at night,” the admiral told me. “Take it. Please.”
The way he’d put it I didn’t have a choice. I took the money and stuffed it in my pocket.
“I’ll wait until we see a cab coming, then you can jump out and hail it.”
“Oh no, sir, you don’t have to do that, you don’t want to be late for your wife, I’m fine, really.” I didn’t want him being late for his wife, that’s one thing for sure.
“All right.” He patted my shoulder. “It was a pleasure.”
“Thank you, sir. Me, too.”
Right out of the blue, then, the admiral asked me, “Would you like to come over next weekend? We could work on a ship together. Although I’m sure a boy your age has many activities,” he added hastily.
I swallowed. The question had caught me unawares, I wasn’t prepared for it.
“Only if your parents approved,” he said, he must’ve thought I was thinking something else, like figuring all those activities he thought I had, “and you’re available, of course.”
“No, it’ll be fine with them.” No way my parents were ever going to find out about this. “I’m totally free weekends.”
“Good.” He smiled, like I’d done him this big favor. “I could drive over and pick you up at your house. It’s a long bus ride, I imagine.”
“You don’t have to do that,” I told him lickety-split. If he ever saw where I lived he’d never want me near him again. “I can take the bus, I do it all the time, going to MacGregor’s and places like that.”
That satisfied him. We shook hands and I got out of his car. He waved goodbye to me and drove off.
After I was sure he was gone I stepped off the curb and stuck out my thumb. I could use that five dollars a lot more than some dumb cab driver.
My math homework kept me up until two o’clock in the morning. It was a bitch, especially since I’ve never cracked a book in my life. Okay, that’s an exaggeration, but not all that much, I’ll bet you could count the times on the fingers of one hand. It’s not like I can’t do the work—I’m pretty good at schoolwork, it’s that I never put my mind to it. Math is one subject I actually kind of like; it’s logical, one step leads to another, if you study on them you can come out all right at the end. Any good model builder, of which I am one, has got to be good at math, at least in his head, because there’s a lot of math in building, figuring out how things go together. I can look at a thousand parts of a model lying on my desk and see the completed ship, even without a drawing or sketch. Math’s like that, I think—you see the problem solved, and then figure how to get there.
No way was I going to make up nine years of lost time in one semester, but I had to start sometime; if I knew the admiral he’d be wanting to check my work out sooner or later, and there’s no way I could bullshit him, even if I wanted to, which I don’t.
I studied in the library until Miss Hughes had to close up, then I went straight home, no dicking around at the dime store or with my buddies or anything—just straight home, up to my room, and except for dinner, which I inhaled in about thirty seconds flat, that’s where I was all night.
“Roy, are you okay in there?” my mom asked about ten-thirty, before she went to bed, opening the door a crack to poke her nose in—she hardly ever does it, she knows I hate having my privacy violated—and looking at me anxiously, like I was sick or something.
“Yeah, Mom, I’m fine,” I said, not bothering to look up from my book.
“Do you have a test or something?”
“Just homework.”
“Oh.” She closed the door quietly so as not to disturb me, like I was a scientist working on important research. Maybe she thought I did homework all the time, but I doubt it. I can pull the wool over her eyes some of the time but she didn’t fall out of the tree this morning, if you know what I mean.
“You’re doing homework?” Ruthie
asked in this totally stunned voice about ten minutes later.
“Good news travels fast.” I said it under my breath, hoping she’d take the hint and leave me alone.
She came in, though, right into my room. I don’t mind that so much, she’s the only one I can tolerate at all in my room, she is my sister after all and I go in hers, too, which sometimes pisses her off, especially if she isn’t dressed. Like I want to spy on my own sister naked.
Some of my work was scattered over the floor, the problems I’d fucked up and had to do over, which was most of them.
“This is a first. Roy Poole with his nose in a book. A schoolbook.”
“Go to hell.” I stared at her with the angriest stare I could. What a family—you try to improve yourself and they shoot you down for it.
“Well, I am so sorry, mister genius.” She pouted, checking herself out in the mirror to see how she looked. She thinks she looks like Justine Carillo, on “American Bandstand.” That’s her life’s goal, to get on “Bandstand.” She’s saving up to go to Philadelphia. “You got a new girlfriend who likes brains or something? Come on, you can tell your sister.”
She’s always trying to get me to tell her about my love life. It’s just an excuse, so she can tell me about hers. She loves to gossip. She even told me one of her friends has the hots for me. Like I’m interested in some girl two years older than me.
“I’m just studying, that’s all,” I explained, trying to be patient with her so she’d leave. “Don’t you ever just study?”
She looked at me like I was crazy.
“What’s got into you?” she asked.
“I want to get decent grades for a change. Is that a crime?”
Around midnight I took a milk-and-cookies break. As I was walking back upstairs I heard my old man’s car pull up. I ran the rest of the way before the front door opened, turned off the lights in my room, and waited for him to stagger his way through the house. No telling what would happen if he saw the light on under my door—better to let sleeping dogs lie, that’s my motto.
