He watched his parents carefully as the words left his mouth, studying their faces for signs that would tell him what they thought of his plan, but mostly they looked blank, he thought, as if they couldn’t quite absorb what he was saying, for why would he want to leave the perfect world he lived in, he who was doing so well at school, who took such pleasure in playing on his baseball and basketball teams, who had so many friends and was invited to all the weekend parties, what more could a thirteen-year-old boy possibly want, and because Ferguson was loath to insult his parents by confessing that they were the reason why he wanted to go away, that living under the same roof with them had become almost intolerable to him, he lied and said he was hungry for a change, that he was feeling restless, smothered by the smallness of their small town and longing to take on new challenges, to test himself in a place that wasn’t home.
He understood how ridiculous he must have sounded to them, trying to put his points across and make compelling, sophisticated arguments with his out-of-control, unpredictable voice, his post-boy-pre-man pipes still oscillating from high to low and back again as they sought their ultimate register, a vocal instrument that lacked all authority and command, and how ridiculous he must have looked to them as well, with his chewed-down fingernails and the newborn pus blob sprouting just to the left of his left nostril, a little no one who had been blessed with every material advantage in life, food and shelter and a thousand comforts, and Ferguson was old enough to know how lucky he was to dwell in the upper echelons of good fortune, old enough to know that nine-tenths of humanity was cold and hungry and menaced by want and perpetual fear, and who was he to complain about his lot, how dare he express the smallest note of dissatisfaction, and because he knew where he stood in the big picture of human struggle, he felt ashamed of his unhappiness, revolted by his inability to accept the bounties he had been given, but feelings were feelings, and he couldn’t stop himself from feeling angry and disappointed, for no act of will could change what a person felt.
The problems were the same problems he had identified years earlier, but now they were worse, so much worse that Ferguson had concluded they were beyond fixing. The absurd pistachio-green Cadillac, the lifeless, immaculately tended precincts of the Blue Valley Country Club, the talk about voting for Nixon in November — they were all symptoms of an illness that had long infected his father, but his father had been a lost cause from the start, and Ferguson had watched his rise into the ranks of nouveau riche vulgarians with a sort of numb resignation. Then came the death of Roseland Photo, which had thrown him into a funk that had lasted for months, since he knew there had been more to it than a simple matter of dollars and cents. Closing down the studio had been a defeat, a declaration that his mother had given up on herself, and now that she had surrendered and gone over to the other side, how grim it was to see her turn into one of those women, yet one more country club wife who golfed and played cards and knocked back too many drinks at cocktail hour. He sensed that she was just as unhappy as he was, but he couldn’t talk to her about it, he was too young to meddle in her private affairs, and yet it was clear to him that his parents’ marriage, which had always made him think of a bathful of lukewarm water, had now gone cold, degenerating into a bored and loveless cohabitation of two people who went about their own business and intersected only when they had to or wanted to, which was almost never.
No more Sunday morning tennis at the public courts, no more Sunday lunches at Gruning’s, no more Sunday afternoons at the movies. The day of national rest was now spent at the country club, a Valhalla of silent putting greens, whooshing water sprinklers, and squealing children romping in the all-weather pool, but Ferguson rarely accompanied his parents on those forty-minute drives to Blue Valley, since Sunday was the day when he practiced with his baseball, football, and basketball teams — even on the Sundays when there was no practice. Seen from a distance, there was nothing inherently wrong with golf, he supposed, and no doubt a case could be made for the benefits of lunching on shrimp cocktails and triple-decker sandwiches, but Ferguson missed his hamburgers and bowls of mint-chip ice cream, and the closer he came to the world that golf represented, the more he learned to despise golf — not so much the sport itself, perhaps, but certainly the people who played it.
Priggish, sanctimonious Ferguson. Ferguson the enemy of upper-middle-class customs and manners, the know-it-all scourge who looked down upon the new American breed of status seekers and conspicuous consumers — the boy who wanted out.
His one hope was that his father would think sending him to a well-known boarding school would enhance his prestige at the club. Yes, our boy is at Andover now. So much better than public school, don’t you agree? And damn the expense. There’s no greater gift a parent can give his child than a good education.
A long shot, to be sure, a vain hope hatched from the self-deluding optimism of a thirteen-year-old mind, for in point of fact there was no reason to hope. Sitting across the table from him on that warm September evening, his father put down his fork and said: You’re talking like a greenhorn, Archie. What you’re asking me to do is pay twice for the same thing, and no person in his right mind would fall for a con like that. Think about it. We pay taxes on this house, don’t we? Very high taxes, some of the highest property taxes in the state. I don’t like it, but I’m willing to fork over the money because I get something back for it. Good schools, some of the best public schools in the country. That’s why we moved to this town in the first place. Because your mother knew you’d get a good education here, as good as any education they can offer at one of your fancy private schools. So no dice, kid. I’m not going to pay double for something I already have. Farshtaist?
Apparently, boarding schools were not on his father’s list of show-off expenditures, and because his mother then piped in and said it would break her heart if he left home at such a young age, Ferguson didn’t even bother to mention his idea about working summer jobs in order to help with the tuition. He was stuck now. Not only for the rest of that year, but for the four additional years it would take until he graduated from high school — five years in all, which was more time than many people served for armed robbery or manslaughter.
Angie came into the dining room with dessert, and as Ferguson looked down at his bowl of chocolate pudding, he wondered why there wasn’t a law that allowed children to divorce their parents.
BECAUSE NOTHING HAD changed or ever would change, because the old system of family governance was still intact after Ferguson’s efforts to amend the constitution had been voted down, the unfallen ancien régime continued to rule by reflex and ingrained whimsy, and so it was decreed that the vanquished malcontent should be rewarded with yet another summer at his beloved Camp Paradise, his sixth consecutive year in that parentless haven of ball fields, canoe expeditions, and the rowdy companionship of his New York friends. Not only was Ferguson about to leave his mother and father for two long months of respite and freedom, but standing beside him on the platform at Grand Central on the morning of his departure was Noah Marx, who was on his way up north for yet another summer as well, for Noah was back, and after missing the second half of the 1956 season and all eight weeks of 1957, he had resumed his connection with Camp Paradise and was about to embark on his fourth straight session there in the company of his stepmother’s nephew, also known as his stepcousin and friend, the now fourteen-year-old Ferguson, who at five feet, seven inches stood half a head taller than Noah, who still went by the name of Harpo at camp.