by Stuart Woods
“Isn’t it?” Stone said. “Where’s his mother?”
“Out shopping.”
“I didn’t think I could make him wait until she returned to open the letter. He would have exploded.”
32
At the appointed time for Ben’s birthday party, Stone and Arrington had a pizza delivered and repaired to the master suite, where they watched Peter’s film, rapt.
Halfway through, Stone put down his glass of beer. “He did this by himself?”
“He and the other boys,” Arrington replied, “but knowing Peter, I’m sure he took the weight of it on his own shoulders.”
“I didn’t know he had acted in it, too.”
“Neither did I. He’s good, isn’t he?”
“He is, and so is everything else. Now I see why Leo Goldman at Centurion was so impressed.”
They continued to watch until the final fade-out, then Stone put on some music. “You know that Peter sent his screenplay and the DVD along with his application to Yale, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Arrington said.
“When Leo called me and wanted to buy the film, I insisted that he return his copies to me and keep absolutely quiet about the film, but now I don’t think it can be kept quiet. They’ll see it at Yale, and word is bound to get around that the thing is, well, brilliant.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Yes.”
A faint throbbing could now be felt from three floors below.
“The party seems to be at its peak,” Stone said.
“I’ve told them to have everybody out of the house by eleven,” Arrington said.
“I hope there’s still a house left by then,” Stone said.
Early on Friday morning Stone got the two boys into the car and started for New Haven. Ben had stayed the night before. They reached New Haven in plenty of time, and Stone followed the map that Peter had printed out from the Internet. They found the administrative offices, and took seats in the waiting room. Ben was called in first for his interview.
“Peter,” Stone said, “your mother and I watched your film last night, and we thought it was absolutely terrific.”
“Thank you, Dad.”
“You remember our conversation about Leo Goldman liking it, and how I asked him to keep it a secret?”
“Sure.”
“Somebody at Yale, maybe more than one person, has seen it by now, and it may be difficult to keep it quiet.”
“It had occurred to me that that might happen,” Peter said, “but I thought my chance of being accepted here would be better if they saw it.”
“I expect that’s right, but you might see if you can find out how many people have seen it and ask them to keep quiet about it.”
“I can ask, I guess,” Peter said.
Forty minutes passed, and Ben came out of his interview. “They’ll be ready for you in a minute, they said.” He plopped down beside Peter. “Whew!”
“Was it tough?”
“Not exactly, but they sure had a lot of questions. They didn’t like it that I hadn’t done any sort of audition, but they seemed to like it that I want to study production and get an MBA. They have a program for that.”
“Good,” Peter said.
A woman came and took Peter down a hall to a large office, where two men, one of them the dean of the school, and a woman waited. Introductions were made, and they all sat down at a small conference table.
The woman began. “Peter, please tell us why you want to study at the Yale School of Drama.”
“For the past seven months,” Peter said, “I’ve read up on about fifteen schools, and I concluded that Yale has the best program. It’s as simple as that.”
“Do you know anyone who has attended here?” she asked.
“No, but I know that Elia Kazan trained here, and as far as I’m concerned, that’s the best possible recommendation.”
“Have you read his autobiography?”
“Yes, twice,” Peter replied.
“You’ve indicated in your application that you want to study both acting and directing. Why?”
“My intention is to direct, but I’ve enjoyed the acting I’ve done in school productions, and if I’m going to direct, I’ll need to understand how actors think and how to work with them. I’m interested in everything you teach here, but I suppose I have to concentrate on something, so I chose acting and directing.”
“You understand, don’t you, that this is a professional school, and that it’s very time-consuming, so you won’t have an opportunity to take a lot of college courses simultaneously.”
“Yes, I understand that, but by the autumn I will already have taken all of the standard liberal arts curriculum, and I’ve done most of the reading required to get a BA.”
The three exchanged a glance. “I see,” the woman said. “Who are your favorite writers?”
“Mark Twain and Jane Austen,” Peter replied without hesitating. “In the theater, Tennessee Williams, Arthur Miller, and Noel Coward.”
She smiled. “I believe that’s the first time I’ve heard an applicant mention Coward,” she said, half to herself. “What have you read that you would most like to direct?”
“I’d like very much to make a film of Pride and Prejudice,” he said. “I know it’s been done, but it seems to get redone every generation or so.”
“What would you like to direct onstage?”
“My own plays,” he replied.
“Have you written any plays?”
“My screenplay was originally intended for the stage, but my faculty adviser cautioned me against that.”
“Why?”
“Since the script is about two students murdering a teacher and getting away with it, I think he thought the school’s board would be reluctant to see it performed with parents present.”
That got a laugh from all three. The dean spoke up. “Since your film doesn’t have titles yet, I didn’t realize that you had acted in it, as well as directing, until I saw you this morning. Did you find that difficult?”
“Not as difficult as I had feared. I already had all the dialogue in memory, so I didn’t have to worry about that. It was mainly a matter of organizing the setups and preparing in advance so that I wouldn’t waste scene time.”
“You seem to have shot everything in existing light,” the dean said. “Why?”
“Because we had only two lights to work with. I used them, but it’s probably hard to tell where.” Peter cleared his throat. “May I ask a question?”
“Of course,” the woman said.
“How many people here have seen my film or read the screenplay?”
“Just the three of us,” she replied. “We watched it together.”
“My father is very concerned that if the film is widely seen that it might attract a lot of attention, and he doesn’t think I’m ready for that. I tend to agree with him, so may I ask that you not discuss the film with anyone else and that you return the screenplay and DVD?”
The dean answered. “I think that’s a very reasonable request, and we will give you our promise to do so, until you’re ready to have it more widely seen.”
“Thank you,” Peter replied.
“Do you have any other questions, Peter?” the woman asked.
“I don’t think so; I found answers to most of my questions before I got here.”
That got another laugh.
“Anyone else?” the woman asked her colleagues, but both men shook their heads. “I just want to mention one thing, Peter,” she said. “Do you know that we have places for only two hundred students in our program?”
“Yes, I do, and I appreciate how difficult that must make your decisions. I hope I’m accepted, but I certainly understand why I might not be.”
“Thank you for coming to see us, Peter,” she said. “We notify all our applicants at the same time, so you’ll get a letter in due course.”
Peter shook their hands and thanked them, then left the room.
When he
had left, his inquisitors all chuckled.
“He’s lying, of course,” said the man who had not spoken during the interview.
“About what?” the woman asked, surprised.
“About his age,” the man replied. “He’s not eighteen; he’s at least thirty-five.”
They all had a good laugh.
Stone saw Peter coming down the hall and looked at his watch. He had been gone for only twenty minutes. The three of them got up and walked out to the parking lot. “That was quick, wasn’t it?”
Peter shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“I was in there twice as long,” Ben said. “How did it go?”
“They were all very nice,” Peter said.
“Had they seen your film?” Stone asked.
“Yes, all three of them. They promised not to discuss it with anyone.”
“Did they like it?”
“They didn’t say.”
They found a restaurant and had lunch. Stone thought the boys were unusually quiet.
33
When Stone got the boys home he went upstairs to the master suite and found Arrington in bed, reading a New Yorker. “How did it go for the boys?” she asked, putting down the magazine.
“I’m not sure there’s any way to tell,” Stone replied. “They were both asked a lot of questions, but Peter was in there only half the time that Ben was. We weren’t sure what to make of that. Peter extracted a promise from them that they’d return his screenplay and DVD and not mention his film to anyone.”
“That’s a relief,” she said.
Stone picked up the magazine. “Why are you reading a fifteenyear-old New Yorker?”
“I’m reading the profile of Vance I wrote for them.”
“Oh.”
“Did you ever read it?”
“No, I was jealous.”
“I”m sorry.”
“Why are you reading it now?”
“There was another phone call from somebody at the Post, wanting information about Vance. I didn’t return it, but clearly there’s something afoot. I thought one way to stop it was to say that I’m writing a biography of Vance, to include a memoir of our marriage and his murder.”
“I think that’s a terrific idea,” Stone said. “Once you’re in the new house you’ll have time on your hands, and working again would be good for you.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Arrington said. “I talked with my old agent, Mort Janklow, and he thinks there would be a lot of interest in the book.”
“If you do it, you’re going to have to explain when Peter was born and why his name has been changed, and I don’t think it would be a good idea to tell anything but the truth.”
“I think you’re right, but by the time anyone saw the book, Peter would be older, when it might not matter. If I publish after he’s out of Yale and working at making movies, the publicity might even give his career a boost.”
“The boy wonder stories would run after he wasn’t so much a boy anymore,” Stone said, “and if we can keep a tight lid on it until then, it would be a stunner.”
“I’m glad we’re of one mind on this. Oh, and I had a call from the architect today. Completion date on the house is next week, and there are some last-minute decisions to be made that I have to be on-site for, so I thought I’d fly down tomorrow.”
“For how long?”
“Three weeks, maybe a month. I’ll have to get everything out of storage and moved in, and I want to send some of mine and Peter’s clothes up.”
“Don’t send anything he’s already outgrown,” Stone said. “I’ve bought him some new things, but he’s not done growing yet.”
“Good point. Maybe there’s no point in sending any of his things at all. I could give them to a charity down there.”
“That might be best,” Stone agreed. “I think I’ll move him to a larger room, too.”
“He’s going to have a lot of books and computer equipment,” she said.
“Then maybe the suite upstairs might be a good idea. It was intended for a servant couple when the house was built, and it’s empty, except for some things stored there. He’ll have a bedroom and a sitting room, and I could get some shelves and storage built in.”
“That’s the sort of thing he would love planning,” Arrington said, “so get him involved.”
“I wish his grandfather were still alive,” Stone said. “He could build everything and do a finer job than anyone I could hire.”
“It’s a pity they didn’t get to know each other,” Arrington said.
Stone got undressed and got into bed. He pulled her onto his shoulder, and she got out of her nightgown. “What am I going to do without you for three weeks?” he asked.
“Or a month. I suppose the way you got along without me for fifteen years.” She caught herself. “Well, maybe not exactly the way you got along without me. I can imagine the parade of women who’ve marched through this bed in the interim.”
“Well, I had to do something with my time, didn’t I?”
She snuggled closer and moved her hand to his crotch. “I suppose you did,” she said, “but it makes me jealous to think about them.”
Stone rolled on top of her and rested on his elbows, bringing their faces to within kissing distance. “I think I like you jealous,” he said, kissing her.
She reached down and maneuvered him inside her. “Stop talking, please, and start fucking.”
And he did.
The following morning he drove her out to Teterboro and got her settled on the G-III Gulfstream.
“I’m concerned about your having to see Timothy Rutledge again,” Stone said. “Is there any way to avoid that?”
“Not without firing him, and that would resound in the county, and not to my credit. Also, it would make him even angrier, and I don’t want to have to deal with that.”
“Be careful of him,” Stone said. “You’re right not to want to make him angry; I think he has serious anger issues.”
“I’ll be very correct with him,” she said, “but not friendly. I’ll keep it cool.”
“That’s the idea,” he said.
“You’ll come down and see the place when it’s together, won’t you? And bring Peter?”
“Of course, if he can take a few days off from school.”
“Maybe I’ll have a little housewarming and introduce my new husband to the Virginia gentry. Can you ride a horse?”
“Yes, in a manner of speaking, but the last time I was aboard one was at summer camp in Maine, when I was sixteen.”
“It’s like sex; you never forget how. I don’t suppose you have any riding clothes.”
“No, but there’s time to find a hacking jacket and some boots.”
“Don’t forget the breeches,” she said. “I’d like to see your ass in those tight ones.”
“All right.”
“And get a helmet, too; we’re safety conscious.”
“I will be very safe.”
The stewardess, wife of the captain, came aft. “We’ve got our clearance, and we’re ready to start engines now,” she said.
Stone kissed Arrington once more, then walked down the airstair door and away from the jet. The door closed behind him, the whine of the engines came up, and he covered his ears.
Shortly, the aircraft taxied to runway one, and a moment later, started down the runway, accelerating quickly. It lifted off, the landing gear came up, and in another minute it was out of sight.
Stone walked back to the car, feeling lonely already. He drove back into the city, wondering what he was going to do with himself. He’d become accustomed to being married and to being a father, and he was very conscious that his life had changed in a big way. He felt confident about the future, but not about the next month, with Arrington gone.
34
Kelli Keane got to work a little late, and the strong coffee she was drinking had not yet cured her hangover. The social part of this job, she thought, could kill you, especially when combined wi
th the kind of sex life she was accustomed to. She was still wearing the clothes she had changed into last evening for going out.
Kelli went into a ladies’ room booth, moistened some paper towels, removed her panties, and gave herself a going-over. That accomplished, she took a fresh pair from her purse and put them on. Now she felt better.
She came out of the booth to find Prunella Wheaton standing before the mirror, touching up her makeup. “Good morning, Prunie,” she said.
“Ah, Kelli,” Wheaton replied. “You’re looking a little drawn this morning. Rough night?”
“Not rough, just long.”
“I’m learning that you and I are more than a little alike,” Wheaton said, “at least, when I was your age. I used to come into work after a night of fucking, with it showing on my face, just like you.”
Kelli checked her face in the mirror and made repairs.
“Come and see me when you have reconstituted yourself,” Wheaton said as she left.
Kelli walked down the hall to Wheaton’s office, accepted hot coffee in her china cup, and sipped it gratefully. “I’m at a dead end on the Calder/Barrington story,” she said.
“What’s the problem?” Wheaton asked.
“There are two problems,” Kelli replied. “First, I ran a check on a birth certificate with Vance Calder listed as father and got back a message saying, ‘Document sealed by the court.’”
“Ah,” Wheaton said, “you’re not going to be able to break that seal, unless you have a records clerk willing to risk his job for a couple of hundred bucks.”
“I was afraid of that,” Kelli replied.
“What’s the second problem?” Wheaton asked.
“I also ran a check, just for the hell of it, on a birth certificate for a Peter Barrington, and I found one.” She removed a copy from her purse and handed it to Wheaton. “Have a look.”
Wheaton read the whole certificate. The parents listed were Christine Carter Barrington and Stone Barrington. “It seems to be in order. What’s the problem?”
“Look at the date of birth,” Kelli replied.
