The Grounding of Group 6

by Julian F. Thompson

  “I suppose you’re right,” Ludi said. “That makes it a little better. A lot of times, people think they know what’s best for kids.” She smiled and gave him a shove. “Older people, mostly.”

  “What gets me,” Nat said—he was lost in his own thought—“what gets me is, after a while, kids start to agree with them, and act the same way they do. I’ve seen it happen to me sometimes.” She gave him another shove, a harder one. “Oh, I get it,” he said.

  “Of course, in your case,” Ludi said, “the condition might respond to therapy.”

  Nat rolled his eyes around.

  They walked a little farther in an easy silence.

  “Nat,” said Ludi.

  “What?” he said.

  “Are we going to go to this school?”

  “How do you mean?” he said, but of course he’d been worrying about the exact same thing.

  “You know,” she said. “It seems to be getting all arranged. That all us kids are going to make our parents send us. And I assume that you’d be staying, too, and be a teacher….” She left that open, wanting at least to hear him say that of course he was, if she was.

  “Providing that they ask me, I guess I will,” he said.

  “Well,” she said, “I don’t know if I want to stay. Do you? I don’t know what it’d be like. Except for one thing. They wouldn’t let us live together.” She looked away.

  “I guess not,” he said, and barked a little laugh. “Coldbrook may be a far-out little school, but I doubt that it’s that far out. We could probably see a lot of each other, though. I mean, the Lodge isn’t going anywhere.”

  She smiled. “That’s a nice thing to think about. But still…I’ve still got this other thing about taking money from my father. Remember?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “But look at it this way. He’s already given Doctor Simms a whole ton of money, and God knows where it’s gotten to. It’s like he’s already paid your tuition two or three times over. And besides, you’ve got to finish school sometime….”

  “And if I don’t finish now, I probably never will?” She was smiling, but not as if she found it all that funny.

  He smiled, too, and shook his head. “Aw, Lu. I don’t mean that. You know I don’t. I just think you ought to wait and see. Make sure it’s a bad deal before you decide to bag it. Hell, it might be just the perfect place for us. …” He wasn’t all that sure that he’d like being a teacher, at this school or anywhere, but if it was a good thing for her, he figured he could stand it for a year, no problem.

  “Well,” she said, “let’s act like I’m going for the time being, and then we’ll see, O.K.?”

  He smiled and reached for her and kissed her. It was something he hadn’t thought of doing in a few hours, but as soon as he let go of all the things he’d had to think about, and just kissed, it felt wonderful in a way that he’d forgotten about, because it couldn’t be remembered, only felt, and only given in to.

  When they stopped kissing, he wanted to say, “Let’s bag the school, O.K.?” But she said, “As long as I’m with you,” before he could open his mouth, and the moment passed, and when he started to think it out logically again, it seemed best to stay.

  On Monday, they all drove to Suddington. Marigold was the first to call her parents—actually her father’s office—and the others watched her from outside the phone booth, hearing bits and pieces of the conversation, too. She did it so well, so confidently, so cheerfully (reading snatches of her mother’s letter, just as if it didn’t say such awful things) that Coke asked her, sort of in a joking way, if she would call his father, too.

  She answered, “Sure, why not?” and took his letter, made the call, and told them, “Piece of cake,” when she was done. So Sully asked her also, and she did, and Sara asked her also, and she did, again.

  “How about it, Lu?” she said to Ludi, after that one. “Want to use me while I’m hot?”

  “I guess so,” she said. She took Marigold by the arm and led her away from the others first. “But tell him…tell him that I won’t be wanting any more from him than he’s already paid Doctor Simms. And that this’ll be the last time he hears from me, indirectly or otherwise.”

  “Wow,” said Marigold. “You mean that?”

  “Yes,” said Ludi, “cross my heart.”

  “Boy,” said Marigold. “Roz and Toby…well, I wouldn’t do that. They’re still my parents, after all.” She smiled. “It’s funny. Now that I’m in charge, I feel a little different toward them.”

  Ludi looked at her. “I guess that’s good,” she said. “I don’t know.” She turned and walked away.

  Doctor’s will—they found it in the files behind his desk—provided that “in the tragic and unthinkable event of my death,” the school would cease to be a proprietary institution and become nonprofit (as a good school should be). A group of local businessmen and bankers, plus a minister or two, had, in fact, agreed to become its board of managers, if and when. And a new set of Articles of Incorporation had been drawn up and was ready to be filed.

  But before any of that could happen, Doctor had to be dead, and when there is no (pudgy) body, or proof that one exists, “dead” takes years and years before it is a legal fact. The state police had come and stayed a while, and nosed around and questioned everyone in sight. Group 6 and Nat stuck to their one simple story: they’d been at Spring Lake Lodge, this camp that Nat (and, later, they) had made. The officers could come and see it, if they liked; Nat reckoned it was fifteen miles “up there.” On hearing that, most state policemen flexed their toes inside their shiny riding boots and said they’d take his word. But Sergeant Sturgis didn’t. Sergeant Sturgis had ambition. Nat led him and Trooper Wallick up to Spring Lake Lodge the long way, and Sergeant Sturgis had the trooper check out underneath the outhouse and some other stuff like that. They only found what you’d expect. Because he’d hated all his teachers when he’d gone to school, Sergeant Sturgis was convinced that there’d been murder done, most likely by some students other than Group 6, the ones who’d got to know the teachers good. He had motives coming out his you-know-what, but still, unless he found some bodies …

  Captain Johnson, officer in charge, was a professional executive, and so he thought in larger managerial dimensions: grand theft, instead of pedagogicide, and plane trips to Brazil and “dummy” corporations, hidden assets—never mind what the accountants said, that all the cash appeared to be in place. The case, he said, would bear the label “Missing Persons,” and he, himself, would keep on working on it. He wasn’t ruling out Brazil at all, he said, nor even the Bahamas or Jamaica. He might just hop a plane down there, perhaps in February—by which time “they” might have gotten careless, overconfident, he said.

  So, for the time being, the school was still a kingdom, but without a king; something had to be done about that.

  At a faculty meeting hastily convened during the first week of this second mysterious disappearance, Sandra Reynolds-Nix explained about the salaries, first off: no problem, whatsoever. Mr. Kulman was prepared to exercise his power of attorney for as long a period of time as proved necessary. The faculty applauded in relief, and then, relaxed and grateful, it importuned Sandra Reynolds-Nix to serve as regent, as Directress, pro tem. She obliged them in a flash (though saying she was sure that it wouldn’t be for long) and, in her turn, appointed Carlos Penny-well as very temporary Dean (his steaks had been delicious), pending Luke Lemaster’s surfacing (“at any moment,” she was sure). The next day, she called her first community meeting.

  “I’m delighted to tell you,” she smiled out at the students, faculty, and staff, “that we’ve now gone over a week without losing a single faculty member”—(laughter)—“although I did hold my breath when somebody told me they’d seen Freddy Noble stepping out of Larkin House at half past twelve the other night.” (Gales of laughter, and applause. “Frenzied” Freddy Noble was the younger faculty’s most shamelessly self-advertised philanderer.)

  “But seriously,�
�� Sandra Reynolds-Nix went on, “I do want to tell you I’ve been dazzled—simply dazzled—by the kind of ego strength I’ve seen in this community the past two weeks. Deaths diminish us, as the poet said, but disappearances are just plain scary. We don’t know how to handle them; they’re hard to incorporate. There’s always that nagging little fear—and not so little, sometimes—that there’s a list out there, somewhere. And that maybe our name’s on it, too.” (Nervous laughter.) “There is no news of Doctor Simms, or any of the others, I regret to say. No one has the smallest clue where any of them went, or why. None of them appears to have taken any baggage with them and—let me set your minds to rest on this, once and for all—the assets of the school are one hundred percent intact.” (Enthusiastic applause.) “Not that any of you thought for a moment that Doctor Simms was an embezzler.” (Laughter.) “Now, Mr. Cone, of course …” (Laughter and applause.)

  “Of course I’m just kidding.” She rolled her eyes and got the laugh a second time. “But getting serious again,” Sandra Reynolds-Nix continued, “I want to clue you in on what we’re thinking—Carlos and I—about the possibility of replacements on the staff.” She dropped her eyes. “If the worse comes to the worst,” she deadpanned. “We need advice on this; it really does affect us all….”

  She went on to talk about the options as she saw them: immediately hiring temporary replacements from a pool that “might not be too promising, let’s face it”; standing pat with the present personnel and increasing class sizes, maybe even dropping a course or two; or holding off on hiring new people (“which we won’t have to do—God willing—anyway”) until they could be sure of attracting “the Coldbrook type.”

  A goodly number of people wanted to address that point, students and staff alike. The head of Maintenance, Mr. Busby (since the disappearances, only secretaries, kitchen help, and maintenance people were still called by their last names), said that it wasn’t up to him to say what the missing teachers were worth, but that if anyone had a hill of beans to spare, he could use that in place of Levi Welch, and then some. (Gales and gales of laughter and tumultuous applause that didn’t stop until Mr. Busby rose again and waved his cap. “That’s Mr. Busby,” everybody said.)

  Sandra Reynolds-Nix finally summed up “the sense of the meeting,” which was the third alternative: wait for “the Coldbrook type” (and for the missing to return, of course). There were nods and murmurs of approval from around the room, and she promised to report regularly to the community “if there were any interesting developments.”

  “Meanwhile,” she said, “we can be thankful that even as we were losing Doctor and the others, we got back Nat—and Sara, and Ludi, and Marigold, and Sully, and Coke.” (Earnest, sincere clapping, with further nods and smiles.) “Even though I think most of us will agree that they chose a pretty extreme way to avoid the first cycle of tests and to keep their names off the duty rosters”—(appreciative laughter)—“we can also agree that it’s just great to have them safely back among us. Whatever you were doing out there, gang, it sure seems to have agreed with you!” (Laughs, whistles, more applause.)

  On the way out, a lot of people were saying that Sandra Reynolds-Nix looked like a pretty cool Director, although as Robert Fritchman (one of the better students) said, “Yeah, sure, and so did Gerald Ford. …” He moved his eyes toward heaven.

  12

  By the time of the next community meeting, two weeks later, the people in Group 6 had undergone a major change in role. At first they were celebrities: the local Mowglis, Ishis, primitive backwoodsfolk, survivors of a bureaucratic plane crash, you might say. Everyone just had to meet them, talk to them, ask them how “it” was, and how they liked the school.

  On second glance, it seemed (to almost all the other kids) that the people in Group 6 were really rather extra cool and fit: “together,” yes, “mature.” So, to all of their surprise (excepting Sara’s, probably), they all were seen as leaders by the others, and were asked for their opinions on all things. Whenever one of them would say, “Do you see what I mean?” people seemed to see real easily.

  At first Group 6 had gotten together every night in Nat’s apartment (formerly Homer Cone’s). It wasn’t anything that they’d decided on, or like a regular “meeting,” it was more of a thing that everyone happened to do, and liked to do, a lot. But by the second week, there were already conflicts—not with each other, but with different things having to do with the school: activity meetings, homework, social stuff in the dorms. Something had to give way: “There just aren’t enough hours in the day,” people said. Everyone felt bad if he or she went a few days without getting over to Nat’s, but it seemed as if it had to be that way.

  Ludi was always there, at least. She’d bring her books and study there, as a regular thing, even if Nat wasn’t home when she started. But she always went back to her dorm before midnight, and because everyone liked both of them so much, a story started going around that they’d known each other for years, that their families lived next door to each other, as a matter of fact, and that’s how come they were such good friends. They both had a load of work to do, to even catch up with their courses, and Ludi was bound and determined to make him proud of her.

  The agenda of this next community meeting had been circulated by Sandra Reynolds-Nix to all the dorms ahead of time. She wanted to do some “brainstorming,” she told them, about the Basic Coldbrook Way of Doing Things—“our modus operandi, so to speak.” Could it be possible (she asked) that Coldbrook was trying to “win the battle of the eighties with 1960s’ weapons?”

  It turned out to be the longest community meeting in recent memory and, in general belief, “by far the most constructive.” Yes, as Matt Wampler (History, Hamilton College ’78) observed, “It caught us up with Exeter.”

  Essentially, the students and the faculty (most of the kitchen and the maintenance people had drifted out quite early on) voted to impose four changes on themselves.

  First of all, they voted in a grading system: now a kid would get, six times a year, not just a written evaluation from a teacher, but also “Honors,” “Pass,” “Marginal Pass,” or “Fail.” Sara felt she had to be an “Honors” student, because of that “awful you-know-what” at home.

  Next, they all agreed that students had to go to class. As Marigold said: the teachers had to go, and they’d prepared the class. It wasn’t fair to them if kids could cut at will.

  Then they said that people had to take a certain mix of classes, during their careers—a specified mix, in fact; it was safer from a college point of view and probably…better, too. A person could always take psych and anthro in college if he wanted to. Coke pointed out that he’d taken some stuff that he’d hated—and forgotten right away, right after the exam—but it hadn’t killed him. Probably been good for him, in fact.

  And, finally, they decided that, as Sully said, if people didn’t really want to “do” the school, the way it was set up and organized, they should give up their places in it to people who did. To that end, it was decided to elect two community members by secret ballot—one student and one teacher—who would more or less help the Director to help any kids to make that decision, who should. Seeing that these were the first elective offices the school had ever had, they were perceived to be a tremendous honor, and a sign of the community’s affection.

  The results of the balloting were announced at breakfast the next morning. Louisa (“Ludi”) Locke and Nathaniel Rittenhouse were very much the people’s choice. Everybody cheered and faced around toward where they sat.

  Their chairs were empty. Nat and Ludi (both) had disappeared.

  Sandra Reynolds-Nix found the note under her office door when she opened it that morning. She read it with a mixture of relief and professional concern. At least they hadn’t just disappeared.

  But what was this garbage about their “feet not fitting the dance”?

  What the hell could that be meant to mean?

  Epilogue

  It was the el
eventh of November, Veterans Day, and Nat and Ludi had planned a big spaghetti dinner with hot sausage in the sauce and a bottle of cold rose to go with it. They’d more or less decided to stay at Spring Lake Lodge until the beginning of deer season, which was in about a week. After all that they’d been through, there wasn’t any point in getting shot by accident. And also, it was time for other things, like “adding on to their lives.” That was Nat’s way of talking about any new things that either of them might undertake—like Ludi’s going to college (which they both looked forward to) or his starting some new work, learning some new skills, even making some money.

  Between them everything was excellent. At the moment when they left the school, Nat was able to stop thinking of Ludi as a kid altogether. It just felt natural to have joined his life with the best other person that he’d ever met, and he must have looked pleased about it, and more, because when they got up to the Lodge that day, she turned to him and said, “I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that this is the time. Well, to hell with you, mister.”

  He’d widened his eyes at her, and pointed to his breast.

  Then she’d scratched her head, extremely thoughtfully, and smiled and said, “Now, I kind of think that this is the time. How about you, big boy?” And then she’d run and made him catch her.

  And that was that—having no expectations, they had no problems. They worked on the Lodge and the root cellar and the fireplace and the Lake itself, and what they called “the grounds” in general. They ran in the woods and dunked in the water and lay in the sun when it let them, and by being happy, they felt their love grow even stronger. They did the same things some of the time and different things some of the time, and they welcomed their differences, instead of picking on them. They never blamed each other.

  So, on that afternoon of Veterans Day, when Marigold appeared (she’d warned them with a “Yoo-hoo! Ludi! Nat! Yoo-hoo! Guess who-who’s here?”) they both were very glad to see her. And vice-surely-versa.