Farr eyed her narrowly, his leonine head still, as though deciding whether to play this out. “What is Nietzsche positing about man’s inherent nature?”
“It suggests that we have within us the desire to be cruel and the need to dominate.”
Farr cocked his head. “Let’s put that to the test, Ms. Rosenberg. Suppose you ordered one of your classmates whipped or beaten. How would you feel?”
I couldn’t do that, Mark thought automatically. The young woman answered promptly, “I’d feel guilty.”
Farr’s cool blue eyes glinted. “To Nietzsche, justice is merely a mechanism through which the state exerts its will, dressing it up in moral sentiments to disguise its exercise of power. What does this do to the concept of guilt?”
The woman hesitated. “That it only exists in our own minds,” a clean-cut blond man interjected. “Nietzsche suggests that guilt is a mechanism of social control, keeping us from exercising our own free will.”
Once again, Farr nodded briskly. Mark felt the relationship between teacher and class as an organic entity, in which, directed by Farr, minds fed upon one another.
As the debate continued, Mark was surprised to discover that he grasped its core: Does whoever is in authority make the rules to suit themselves, or are some rules a simple matter of right and wrong? “For our next discussion,” Farr concluded, “I ask you to consider your own nature. Do you refrain from theft or rape or murder because you’re afraid of getting caught or because you’d feel guilty? And, if so, is your guilt based on anything more than what you’ve been trained to feel?” A smile played on Farr’s lips. “I expect an answer from each of you by Thursday.”
With that, the students began slowly filing out, as though still pondering the question. Picking up a trim leather briefcase, Farr asked in a tone of mild inquiry, “Do you have an answer, Mark?”
Looking up at the keen face of this professor, Mark felt the same need to please him he had seen in the others, even as he tried to find the bones of a response. Instinctively, he said, “I don’t think the rules were just made up. If there weren’t any, we’d all end up killing each other. You can’t always count on being the strongest.”
Farr laughed softly. “I should introduce you to Thomas Hobbes. We can talk about him on the way home.”
A FEW MINUTES later, Mark entered yet another world.
The Farrs’ home, a rambling red-brick structure located on a tree-lined street, was strikingly different from the shotgun ranch house Mark had lived in for most of his seventeen years. It dated back to the 1850s, Farr explained. Lovingly restored, the living room featured a hardwood floor covered by rich-looking Oriental rugs; shelves filled with hardcover books; and paintings that, because they resembled nothing in life, Mark assumed to be modern art. But perhaps most striking was Anne Farr, extending her hand with a smile at once gracious and reserved, her jet-black hair showing the first few strands of gray, her handsome, chiseled face so pale Mark thought of porcelain, her eastern accent suggesting what people called good breeding. “Excuse me while I see to dinner,” she told him pleasantly. “You two just enjoy yourselves.”
Looking around, Mark noticed a sunroom containing white wicker furniture and a slender young girl seated at an easel. He could see only her back; dark-haired like her mother, she painted with total concentration, applying a new brushstroke so carefully her hand barely seemed to move. Noticing Mark’s curiosity, Lionel Farr led him to the sunroom, speaking gently as though not to break the girl’s spell.
“Taylor,” Farr ventured, then added with pleasant irony, “this is Mr. Darrow.”
The girl turned. Mark guessed that she was seven or eight; blue-eyed and grave, she regarded him in preternatural silence, as though assessing how she should feel about this stranger. If Anne Farr was still a beauty, someday this child would become one. “My name’s Mark,” he amended with a smile.
Silent, she continued her deep appraisal of him. Awkwardly, Mark asked, “Do you paint a lot?”
“Yes,” she answered with surprising directness. “But I’m not very good.”
Her painting was a child’s landscape. Though the sky was pale blue, its sun was partially obscured by clouds. Beneath it, the figure of a girl stood in shadow, gazing down at a patch of sunlit grass. “Looks to me like you’re good,” Mark said.
This induced her first smile, skeptical but pleased, even as her serious eyes still focused on Mark’s face. “It is good,” her father offered. “We’ll let you finish it, Taylor.”
Farr led Mark to a book-lined study with two leather chairs, a rolltop desk, and an antique world globe featuring countries that no longer existed. For Mark, the life of privilege this suggested was as alien—though more refined—as what he saw on Beverly Hills 90210. “Taylor’s like her mother,” Farr was remarking. “Somewhat reserved, and very artistic. Anne paints as well, though her real forte is poetry.”
Mark could not think of a response. Then his eye caught an oil painting of an officer he guessed might be from the Revolutionary War and, near that, a map of Vietnam. “That’s General Wayne,” Farr said of the painting, “ ‘Mad Anthony’—the man who gave your football team its name. He cleared the Indian confederacy out of Ohio, gaining a reputation for military genius and a mercurial temper. I don’t know that he was mad, though sometimes genius and madness feed upon each other.”
Mark turned to the map. “Were you there?”
“Vietnam? Yes. I was an officer in the Special Forces.”
Mark thrust his hands in his pockets. “What was it like?”
He felt Farr weigh his answer. “Suffice it to say I learned things there that West Point hadn’t prepared me for, including what men are capable of doing when there’s no constraint on their impulses or desire. Which, I suppose, was the point of today’s lecture.”
Mark turned to him. “I wish I knew more about that philosopher.”
“Not all my students find Nietzsche uplifting.” He waved Mark to a leather chair, settling into his own. “Nevertheless, it’s important to examine the choices you make, and the freedom you feel to choose. Do you know anything about Jean-Paul Sartre?”
“Not really, no.”
Translated, Mark’s answer meant “Never heard of him.” Nodding benignly, Farr continued: “Sartre contends that the human condition is one of absolute freedom. His argument is that we’re free to make choices that reflect our authentic self. So let me ask you this, Mark: If you could define yourself, who and what would you choose to be?”
The abrupt shift to the personal made Mark fidget. “I haven’t really thought about it,” he confessed. “I mean, what’s the point?”
Farr’s face seemed to harden. “What do you think it is? From your test scores, you’re far brighter than your grades suggest.”
Mark felt defensive and exposed. “Why not just call me an underachiever.”
Farr looked unfazed. “Because I think that’s oversimplified. Tell me how you came to live with Steve Tillman’s family.”
Mark had sensed that Farr already knew. “It’s simple,” he said in a flat tone. “My mother’s been put away—she’s a drunk, and she’s crazy. My dad’s just a drunk. Being with them was like living alone, only worse.”
Farr nodded, seemingly less in sympathy than in acknowledgment of a truth. “It must be difficult not to feel cheated.”
“Mostly I don’t give a damn.” Feeling Farr’s probing gaze, Mark felt himself speak against his will. “Sometimes I got pissed off at them. I still can.”
“Understandably. But your problem is that the world doesn’t care. The only person you’re hurting is yourself.”
Mark heard a knock. Anne Farr leaned in, looking from her husband to Mark. “I hope I’m not interrupting. But I thought you two might like your dinner warm.”
The dining room was as elegant and subdued as the living room was bright. Taylor was lighting candles, the only source of illumination. “We do this every night,” Anne explained. “In Boston, wher
e I grew up, my parents made a ritual of it. Candlelight slowed us down, my father said, gave us time to talk.”
Over dinner, fish in a surprisingly tasty sauce, Mark sensed that he was expected to converse. Groping for a subject, he asked about Anne’s poetry. She was published in literary magazines, he discovered, too obscure for him to know. “I’m sorry,” he apologized. “The only ones I read are Sports Illustrated and Field and Stream.”
Farr laughed. “Anne and Taylor are the aesthetes in the family. There’s more beauty in one of Taylor’s paintings, or a line of Anne’s poetry, than in the entire book I’m writing now.”
Mark had never known anyone who had written a book. “About Nietzsche?”
Farr smiled. “Yet again. But it’s more a psychological study, relating his life to his beliefs—the why of them, I suppose. Including the idea that a man’s supposedly objective beliefs are so often a product of his needs.”
Anne Farr appraised her husband with a neutral expression. “You do believe that, don’t you.”
Her husband’s smile faded. “Yes. Unfortunately, perhaps.”
Quiet, Taylor watched them. Noting this, Mark turned to Taylor and asked about her painting. Somewhat wistfully, the girl said, “I know what’s beautiful. But I can’t paint it in real life.”
“You will someday,” Mark assured her. “When I was seven, I couldn’t throw a football.”
“Can you now?”
Mark smiled. “A little.”
After dessert, a caramel flan, Mark offered to help clear the table. “The women can tackle it,” Farr said dryly. “Let’s finish our discussion.”
Settling back in the den, Farr said, “From our talk on Friday, I assume you’d continue playing football if you could.”
Despite their courtesy, Mark realized how much at sea he felt in the Farrs’ household. Hesitant, he answered, “Sports is the only place I feel at home.”
“You can find others, Mark. But first you have to change your destiny. For so many kids in Wayne, life after high school means a job making auto parts, or copper fittings, or maybe helping to fabricate Sky Climbers to wash the windows of buildings in big cities most of them will never see. I assume you must want more than that.”
Once again, Mark felt on edge, grasping for the threads of a response. “Maybe go to community college. I thought someday I might want to coach.”
Farr shook his head. “I was watching you in class today. A full scholarship to Caldwell College would open worlds you’ve never imagined.”
Mark struggled to absorb this. It took a moment for him to realize how long he had been silent. “Sorry. I mean, how could that happen?”
“I’m the chairman of Caldwell’s scholarship committee. You certainly qualify financially. If you can get your grades up this semester, I’m sure the committee would take notice. We want to reach more kids who lack opportunities.”
Mark still could find no words. “Amazing,” he finally murmured.
“You don’t know how amazing,” Farr said firmly. “A solid education. A chance to play sports, and then to do far more than that—become a lawyer, a teacher, a business leader, or anything your gifts entitle you to do. You’d graduate debt-free. All it will take to begin your change of destiny is two months of working harder at high school than you’ve ever worked before. From what I can see, you have it in you.” Farr paused for emphasis. “If you think you do.”
Mark imagined explaining this to Steve.
“What is it?” Farr asked.
Mark struggled to crystallize his thoughts. “I was thinking about the Tillmans—I mean, they took me in. Steve’s almost as poor as I am, and he’s got better grades.”
Farr smiled fractionally—it did not seem in his nature, Mark realized, to exhibit unambiguous good cheer. “If you’re asking whether we can extend similar largesse to your friend, I think Mr. Tillman may lack your potential. But I’ll see about him.”
Abruptly, Farr stood. “You should go home, and I’ve got work to do. It’s become my job to read books to Taylor. She chooses rather precocious ones, I’m afraid.”
Mark trailed Farr to the living room. Anne Farr sat on the couch, sipping wine. It struck Mark that she had an ethereal quality, and that, although lovely, she did not appear strong or healthy—unlike his mother, who, drunk or sober, sane or crazy, would burn fiercely until the end. Smiling, Anne said, “Please come again, Mark. Lionel suffers from a surplus of females.”
“Thanks,” Mark said, then added, “I only counted two of you.”
Anne’s smile became ambiguous. “Even so.”
As they walked to the door, Mark saw Taylor in the living room, studying her painting as if she had not captured what she imagined—or could not. Suddenly conscious of his gaze, she turned, studying Mark with the same quiet gravity. Farr waited until Mark faced him again. “I thought you might ask about Steve Tillman. If I try to help him, Mark, do we have a deal?”
For an instant, Mark felt himself standing on the edge of the unknown. Then, drawn by the sudden promise of hope and the force of Farr’s personality, he answered, “If you can help me go to school here, I’ll do whatever it takes.”
EVER SINCE THAT day, Mark Darrow had done exactly that. But he had not risen by his efforts alone. Lionel Farr had touched the scales of his life, and every privilege he had stemmed from that. Farr had not ordained his tragedies, only his successes.
Two weeks before his return to Caldwell, Farr had telephoned Darrow and asked if he could come by Darrow’s law office in Boston. Farr had not explained himself, and Darrow had not requested him to. Awaiting Farr with curiosity, Darrow had gazed out the window of his corner office in the Prudential Center, rewarded by a panoramic view of the Public Garden and the Boston Common. Five months prior, Darrow had won a $120 million verdict in a financial fraud case stemming from the subprime mortgage meltdown, adding to a fortune already swollen beyond his wildest imaginings. On his desk the bones and sinews of a complex shareholder suit—financial statements; an expert deposition in which Darrow had eviscerated an arrogant investment banker—were neatly arranged before him. But as Darrow recalled his last visit with Farr, his eye turned, as it so often did, to the photograph of his wife.
Dark and pretty, Lee stood at the bottom of a ski slope, flushed from a breakneck run, her grin of triumph cracking clean and white and sharp. In the photo she was twenty-eight; in Darrow’s mind, she was forever twenty-nine, in the fifth month of her pregnancy, waving to him through the window of the taxi that began her final trip to Iowa. In the two years since, Mark Darrow had turned thirty-eight. He had not seen Farr since Lee’s memorial service.
Even among the throng of friends and relatives and Lee’s colleagues from MSNBC and the Boston Globe who’d crowded the darkened church, Farr had stood out: at sixty-five, he was tall and astonishingly fit, with thick gray-blond hair and the erect posture of the Special Forces officer he had been before he had resigned his commission to pursue a doctorate in philosophy at Yale. That day he had been a quiet presence, offering a few words of sustenance to help Darrow endure this bleakest of winter afternoons. But Farr had lingered for two days after the service, until Darrow had fulfilled his obligations to Lee’s parents, then taken him to dinner at the Federalist.
For Darrow, their reunion was shadowed by the day thirteen years before when, in a strange reversal of roles, the young Mark Darrow had called on the newly widowed Farr. Then Mark had managed only to recite a few words of concern for his mentor and his daughter, Taylor; years later, Farr offered him a stiff martini and companionable semisilence until—amid the elegantly appointed room, the quiet talk and laughter of couples taking their normal life for granted—Darrow had asked simply, “What do I do now?”
Sipping his scotch, Farr studied Mark across the table. They were similar enough in appearance that, at times, people mistook them for father and son: Farr’s blue eyes retained the clarity of youth, and his still aquiline nose and seamed face, though betraying his years, sho
wed no trace of dissolution. Answering Darrow, his features seemed graven with his own hard memories. “What I did, I suppose. Each day I picked out a task or two, and tried to perform it like the doing mattered. Teaching helped; I had an audience whose faces revealed how I’d done. So did being a parent, though there I functioned far less well.” He grimaced. “Perhaps I was better at performing for students than consoling a young daughter shattered by her mother’s death. But each morning I tried to look no further than the day ahead.
“There was no bright line, no turning point. More a slow acceptance of what could not be helped, and the realization over time that a greater portion of any given day held a measure of happiness—or, more realistically given who I am, satisfaction. I had my work, however cerebral and self-contained; you have yours, more engrossing in that it’s filled with challenges and surprises and because, when you’re ready, it will present you with new people to know.” Farr gave a brief, reflective smile. “Eventually the life that goes on all around you, indifferent to your sadness, will sweep you up again. For better or worse there’s a certain Viking hardiness in our natures, an appetite for more.”
Darrow caught Farr’s tacit suggestion: however unthinkable now, there would be women—then a woman—beyond Lee Hatton. “I’ve lost a wife,” Darrow answered, “and an unborn child. How does one come back from that?” He paused, then added softly, “Anne died thirteen years ago, Lionel. You’re still alone.”
Farr seemed to look inward. “Perhaps Anne, not solitude, was my anomaly.” He shrugged the remark away. “In any case, I was at a different stage of life than you, more than a decade older, with a daughter who needed whatever solace I could muster. As you’ll recall, Caldwell College is a bit out of the way, and Wayne, Ohio, hardly a magnet for the bright, attractive young people who flock to Boston.” He held up a hand. “Not that it matters in the face of such a profound loss. I’m simply offering my excuses. It would be tasteless to say more beyond the obvious—that you’re young, successful, and live in a vibrant city among close friends. For which I, to whom you mean a great deal, am profoundly grateful.”
The Spire Page 2
