Rodin's Debutante

by Ward Just

  Lee knew he should join the others but was happy being alone in the chill of autumn, the season ended. He was filthy, his jersey caked with dirt. His elbows were skinned and his arms smeared here and there with blood. One of his shoes was missing a cleat and his feet hurt. But he felt clean and wondered how many times in his life he would set out to achieve an impossible thing and actually succeed. Probably not very many times. Maybe never again, the approximate probability of being struck twice by lightning. Everyone had a ration card with only so many stamps for impossible things. All the same, today proved you could do it at least once in your lifetime and once was never enough. He did like the idea of twenty-year-old mink-jacketed Willa in her seat on the home-team side of the field. He remembered reading somewhere that men went to war because the women were watching. He saw Hopkins look often into the stands and after each touchdown essay a little strut. But it would be a mistake to make too much of a football game, four downs to a series, four quarters of fifteen minutes each—iron-bound requirements, the opposite of life itself. If such a day ever happened again in his life it would not take the same form. That thought took the edge off. Lee felt his elation age as a tree ages, branches bare except for brittle leaves. He wondered if all shooting stars took the same form and decided they did not, except to the naked eye from earth.

  He took a last look around, not thinking of anything much except the tree branches stark against the darkening sky. What, he wondered, would he remember of Ogden Hall in the years to come? Gus Allprice certainly, and Omoo and Hopkins and his Oldsmobile and the school nurse who smelled of disinfectant that the older boys insisted was whiskey, and indeed the nurse often laughed for no reason at all and was clumsy with the thermometer. He supposed that the memory that would stay with him forever was afternoon study hall in the vast library. He arrived early to take the same seat each time, the one in the front row opposite the alcove next to the fireplace, Marie Ogden as Maître Auguste Rodin saw her. Her hair was piled atop her head, luxurious, promiscuous, immodest. She wore a half smile and no matter how many times Lee sketched the smile he could not duplicate what was in front of his eyes. Her nose was slightly turned up, indisputably the turned-up nose of a young girl caught in a moment of intense reverie. Lee thought Rodin found an entire life in his bust of Marie Ogden, what had gone before, what was present now, and what would be in the future. She had a conscience, but it was her own conscience. Lee wondered what she would be like to know intimately. But he knew the answer to that. The figure changed as the days lengthened, the bust in deep shadow in the fall and winter, coming to light again in the spring and early summer. In the darkest days of January and February Marie Ogden looked almost matronly, but the years fell away again in April and May. Often the study hall proctor asked him what he was doing, so deep in thought, and Lee replied he was puzzling over a math problem, differential calculus, and since his grades were always honors the proctor did not press the point. Lee suspected that Marie Ogden would be with him for the rest of his days and in that supposition he was not wrong.

  Lee noticed a long black car idling well back of the far goalpost, hard to see in the shadows of the trees. The old railroad trestle was in the distance. Lee had seen the car parked there before the game and then forgot about it, an open Cadillac of the sort that carried President Roosevelt on his political campaigns. The occupant of the rear seat was smoking a cigarette in an ivory holder as the late president did, his arm draped casually over the door. The Cadillac's headlights winked on as Lee looked at them. He picked up his helmet and walked the fifty yards downfield, kicking at the torn-up clods of earth as he went. He watched a chauffeur alight from the front seat and stroll to one of the nearby oaks and stand there as if on guard duty. The passenger in the rear seat was an enormous man with a leonine head, mostly bald. He was wrapped in a raccoon coat. He was bigger even than Mr. Svenson. His face was deeply lined, pink in the chill of late afternoon. Dusk was coming on fast. The passenger held a silver flask in his hand. The hand shook a little when he poured whiskey into a cup resting on the attaché case next to him. The old man paused a moment, then drank it off and smiled crookedly. His teeth were long and yellow from nicotine. The smile came and went in an instant, replaced by a grimace as if he felt sudden pain.

  He said, Congratulations.

  Lee said, Thank you.

  What's your name?

  Lee Goodell, sir.

  You run well.

  Thank you. I had good protection.

  A team effort, is that it?

  Yes, sir, it is. Lee heard belligerence in the man's voice, an undertone of casual menace. His voice was thick.

  An unexpected season, wasn't it?

  Yes, sir, yes it was.

  The best kind, the man said.

  It feels pretty good now, Lee said.

  It'll feel even better tomorrow.

  Do you think so?

  Know so. This sort of thing ages well. Keep it to yourself, though. Don't tell the world. The world doesn't give a shit. He poured another shot of whiskey and drank half. Do you know who I am?

  No, Lee said. He heard the belligerence again.

  I used to live here.

  Lee looked again, the ravaged face suddenly familiar. He had seen it before but could not recall where.

  I'm Ogden.

  Lee could only nod but his eyes were wide as if he had seen a ghost. Mr. Tommy Ogden had never been observed on campus, though it was known that he paid occasional visits. According to school lore he never spoke to anyone. He never called ahead. If he was displeased with anything, the condition of the library or the tennis courts or the formal garden, he made his displeasure known by letter, registered mail. Lee remembered the portrait in the headmaster's office, Tommy Ogden as a much younger man. Gus Allprice had pointed at it and said with deep sarcasm, Our founder.

  I used to hunt these fields.

  Hunt?

  Shotguns, Tommy Ogden said. Before that an air rifle. Deer used to gather right here on your football field, a herd of fifteen, twenty deer, big ones. Ducks too. Mallards all over the place. Do you ever see deer?

  Not very often, Lee said.

  Place used to be filled with deer.

  I think they've gone away, Lee said.

  I suppose they have. The damned suburbs crowding everything out, even the animals. Where do you come from, Lee Goodell?

  New Jesper, Lee said. But we live on the North Shore now.

  Plenty of North Shore boys here, aren't there?

  Yes, sir.

  But I suppose none of them are on your football team.

  Lee thought a moment. A few, he said.

  Too bad, Ogden said. It's good early in life to experience success. It puts you on the right track for later on, when it counts. You don't learn a god damned thing from defeat. That's the wrong track and defeat stays with you and becomes the expected thing. It's a chain around your neck. Remember that.

  Yes, sir, the boy said.

  It's why I like shooting.

  I can see that, the boy said, but the truth was he didn't know what Mr. Tommy Ogden was driving at. His voice was thick and his teeth clicked when he spoke. Rememberclick thatclick, as if he had something stuck in his throat. His eyes moved warily left and right as Lee imagined a gambler's would. Lee had never met anyone like Tommy Ogden, even the fathers of the rich boys at school, the ones who seemed so—preoccupied. Of course Mr. Ogden was much older and widely experienced in the world. He did not wear his years lightly. Apparently he had gone from success to success in his own life and the successes had marked him. Lee took a step closer to the car and saw that the old man had a wool blanket around his waist and legs. The air grew colder as the light failed.

  You see that, do you?

  I'm trying, Lee said.

  Do you shoot?

  No, Lee said.

  Learn. Learn at once.

  I owned an air rifle, Lee said. I haven't used it in a long time.

  It's a skill that lasts your who
le life. Start with birds and work up to animals, deer and the like. I killed my first tiger when I was twenty-two. I have killed many since. Beautiful beasts.

  That's dangerous, isn't it?

  It can be. You can't lose your nerve.

  My father gave it away, my air rifle.

  Why would he do that?

  He didn't want it around the house. I think that was the reason.

  Ogden grunted. What does he do?

  My father? He's a judge.

  Ogden nodded, giving a long sigh. Apparently that explained the disappearance of the air rifle.

  I didn't mind, the boy said.

  You should have, Ogden said, moving his shoulders in irritation. After a moment he said, I paid for your training camp.

  Lee smiled broadly. You did? We would never have had our undefeated season without the training camp and Mr. Svenson. Thank you. If you'd like to meet some of the guys I can get them out here. They'd be honored to meet you. It wouldn't take a minute—

  No, Ogden said in a loud voice. With trembling fingers he unscrewed the cigarette from its holder and flipped it away. He tapped the holder on his attaché case, a steady tattoo. He looked up and said, You caused me trouble with your undefeated season. You brought me unwanted publicity. I am a private man and have always been a private man going about my business in my own way. I was interfered with. I read articles about myself in all the papers, including the god damned Daily News and the Tribune, because I founded this school and gave my name to it. Reclusive Sportsman. Great White Hunter. Filthy-Rich Man of Mystery. They had photographers at the front gate of my house. They telephoned me at all hours with impertinent questions to which they expected answers. They tried to approach me here in my car this very day but my driver Edgar backed them off. Tommy Ogden barked another laugh. Edgar frightens people. Edgar was a professional boxer at one time. I was a prisoner in my own house until I threatened to sue them and keep them in court for the rest of their miserable lives, bankrupt them if need be. Publicity brings grief to people, reporters poking around in your private affairs and all the time citing the people's right to know. But it has nothing to do with the people, it has to do with them, selling their god damned papers. You'll learn this someday—it's a scourge. Tommy Ogden settled back in his seat and muttered something, moving his legs and sighing. That's what your undefeated season did for me. Finally I said to hell with it and went out west to shoot elk. Got back yesterday. The cigarette holder continued its monotonous tap tap tap.

  Lee had no answer to that.

  Swine, Ogden said.

  Gosh, Lee said.

  So you can think about that.

  I'll try, Lee said.

  Where are you going to college?

  University of Chicago, Lee said.

  There is no football team at the University of Chicago, Ogden said. They abolished it. A distraction, according to the idiot chancellor.

  I'm too small for the college game, Lee said.

  Never think that, Ogden said. That's defeatism.

  But it's true, the boy said. He stood aside to make room for the chauffeur Edgar, returned from his vigil.

  Ogden shook his head, unconvinced.

  I intend to study the Great Books, Lee said.

  Waste of time, Ogden said.

  Not a waste of time, Mr. Ogden. I've read Stevenson and Balzac in your library. I've learned about Rubempré and Cousin Bette and Old Goriot and the others. Goriot's pages were uncut, so I am the first student to read the book. The first anybody, for that matter. I cut the pages myself with my penknife. I have also been reading James Joyce, but I don't understand a word of Ulysses and neither does my instructor, but he won't admit it. I prefer the short stories. My other interest is not a waste of time, either. Sculpting. Sculpting in granite and marble. The boy realized he had spoken sharply, something he had rarely done to an adult and something he would not have done before today. He felt entitled to do it. He didn't see why the old man's contemptuous statement should rest unchallenged. Probably Mr. Tommy Ogden had not been challenged enough in his life. Lee believed he had an obligation to put down a marker. If Ogden didn't like it, let him say so.

  But the old man seemed not to have heard.

  He said, They'll take everything if you let them.

  Lee said, I beg your pardon?

  The newspaper swine. They take your photograph as if your face is their property and therefore public property and it's not—it's your property. You own it. Don't forget that.

  Lee nodded as if he understood. He wondered if Ogden was drunk, because he poured another cup of whiskey and drank it off. He wondered if the old man was dissatisfied with his own face or somehow ashamed of it. You offered your face to the world every time you walked down a city street. Your face wasn't private like a diary or the contents of your wallet, except that to Tommy Ogden apparently it was. Lee was about to make a retort but remembered that Mr. Ogden was the cause of the undefeated season. Lee would never have known but for this chance encounter. The old man deserved respect.

  I approve of your sculpting, he said suddenly.

  You do?

  Are you going to keep on with it?

  I expect to, the boy said.

  Call me when you have something to show. Better yet, call this number and use my name. He produced his wallet and extracted a card and handed it to Lee. Mackel Fine Arts, with a Chicago address and a telephone number. He said mildly, I believe you will find the South Side an especially lively place.

  I will?

  Well, Ogden said, looking him up and down, giving a short bark of a laugh. Well, perhaps not, at least not yet.

  I want to say one thing to you, Mr. Ogden. The words came blunt-edged and Tommy Ogden cocked his head, his eyes wary. Lee said, I believe Rodin's bust of your late wife is a wonderful work of art. It's a great thing to have in the library. It's an inspiration. It's been an inspiration to me.

  Ogden nodded and appeared to suppress a smile. He said nothing for a minute or more.

  It's meant a lot to me, Lee said.

  Marie, Ogden said.

  Yes, sir, Lee said.

  It isn't Marie, said Ogden. It's some god damned Chicago debutante. I've forgotten her name. Get that straight. Get Marie out of your mind.

  Yes, sir. But—

  And keep this news to yourself. It's no one else's business.

  But everyone thinks it's Marie.

  Yes, they do. Idiots. It serves them right.

  But she's a legend at the school!

  Do you know what a legend is? Something unauthenticated. In other words, a god damned fairy tale.

  With that, the chauffeur Edgar put the car in gear and backed away. Tommy Ogden raised an arm in dubious farewell and the car motored off in the direction of the road and the trestle beyond, leaving Lee standing alone in the darkness. He watched the open Cadillac until it disappeared around a curve and at that moment Lee's memory stirred. He recalled late-autumn evenings down below the hill in New Jesper. The Cadillac's red taillights reminded him of the lanterns hanging from the caboose railings of freight trains as they lumbered north to Milwaukee and beyond, vanishing in the darkness. The terrain down below the hill was wild and Ogden Hall's was cultivated but the vegetation was the same. The smell of it was identical. In a rush he recalled the disconsolate tramps beside their campfires. He recalled Earl Minning's sneer and the news of the murdered tramp and, weeks later, the rape of his schoolmate Magda and the Committee meeting in his father's study, Sidney Bechet later and all the rest. His father's anguish and his mother's apprehension. He had no idea what had become of Magda and her mother. They were living elsewhere, parts unknown. The Committee sought to suppress news of violence as Tommy Ogden sought to suppress news of himself, including photographs. Both sought to exalt the private sphere of life. Lee was surprised how often these memories returned to him, always at unexpected times and places, triggered by something as routine as the vanishing headlights of an automobile. Lee no longer read the New
Jesper World but he remembered the inch-wide, inch-deep notices of the arrests of men discovered drunk, down, and out in the city park downtown or in an alley somewhere. There were two or three notices each day, the facts always in order, the name, the age, the time of the arrest, the name of the arresting officer, and any illuminating or lively circumstance: "the subject was barefoot." The date of the arraignment was always pending and so the story had everything except the story: How had he come to this place, a park bench at two in the morning? No shoes, an empty wallet, bad memories. None of these questions were Alfred Swan's concern. Alfred Swan's concern was the notice itself, the march of immaculate facts signaling the vigilance of the police and the scrupulous accounting of New Jesper's criminal justice system. The story of the man's life remained unknown and unknowable and in a certain sense irrelevant, and after three days in jail the miscreant was released and driven to the county line, pushed from the squad car, and told to keep walking north. That was Lee's father's estimate of the situation, disclosed one night after two brimming old-fashioneds, drinks that released the judge's subversive side.

  Night came in a rush. Lee heard his name, Hopkins calling from far away. He stepped further into the shadows. God, he was tired. He stank of stale sweat and dirt and for the moment was enjoying his solitude. He could not stop smiling at the encounter with Tommy Ogden. He wondered what the old man's wife Marie was like, her personality, the fictitious inspiration for Ogden Hall School for Boys. More to the point, who was the Chicago debutante? She would be about as old as the century, a middle-aged woman—and how did her bust arrive at Tommy Ogden's library? Mysteries all. Tommy Ogden was a man who liked to lay false trails, and perhaps that was Lee's introduction to the modern world. He tapped his helmet against his knee and thought that he had seen and heard quite a lot for a boy barely eighteen years old. He had not seen or heard as much as Monsieur Balzac at the same age, or Herman Melville, either. But Balzac had Paris and Melville had the seven seas and what Lee had was the prairie and Chicago. The Illinois prairie was a sea of sorts but not of the sort that caused a boy to dream except a dream of escape, perhaps to live among the cannibals as Melville had done. Probably at eighteen Melville had some distant intimation of Ahab. What Lee had was an undefeated season and he would make of it what he could. He had the idea that he was one of those fortunates whose life would take surprising turns, experiences unimaginable at that moment. He knew for certain that Ogden Hall was behind him. Half a year remained but his heart was already set on the South Side of Chicago, Tommy Ogden's especially lively place, whose liveliness apparently did not include the Great Books. Lee wondered if the South Side was congenial to abstract sculpture, heavy pieces in marble or bronze. No use asking Mr. Tommy Ogden. Lee doubted that the founder of Ogden Hall knew anything of value to anyone but himself. He would be one of those who went through life collecting experiences as a numismatist collected coins, with no idea whose coins the hands had touched and no interest in finding out.