‘That diagnosis came later. And arson is hardly a petty crime.’
‘Still, MIT decided the infraction was not so severe as to ruin the future of a hugely gifted young man.’
‘I lost around a half-dozen clients. And they all said the same thing — they didn’t want to do business with someone who played fast and loose with the truth.’
‘That’s awful and pretty damn judgmental, if you ask me,’ I said.
‘You’re being far too kind.’
‘Are you saying that because you’re not used to kindness?’
Silence. Richard closed his eyes for a moment. From the way his lips tightened I could only wonder if I had crossed a forbidden frontier, and if he might just stand up and end our lunch before it had ever really begun.
‘I’m sorry,’ I heard myself saying.
Richard opened his eyes.
‘For what?’
‘For prying into something that I had no business—’
‘But you’re right.’
Silence. I chose my next words with prudence.
‘How am I right?’
‘About me not being used to kindness.’
Silence. Now we both reached for our drinks. Then:
‘I know a thing or two about that as well,’ I said.
‘Your husband?’
I nodded.
Silence. The waiter broke it, arriving at our booth, all smiles.
‘How are you guys doing. Ready for another mary? And just to remind you of our brunch specials—’
‘Why don’t you do that in around fifteen minutes?’ Richard said.
‘No problem, no rush,’ the waiter said, getting the message.
‘Thank you.’ Then, when the waiter was out of earshot, he said:
‘So. your husband. ’
‘We’ll get to that. Anyway, my point was—’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Dan.’
‘And he got laid off at L.L.Bean and starts again in the stockroom on Monday?’
‘Good memory.’
‘Salesmen remember everything.’
‘But outside of the insurance business, you don’t strike me as someone who’s always selling, always trying to close.’
‘Maybe that’s because, when I’m selling, I’m playing a role. And outside of that—’
‘Aren’t we all playing a role?’ I asked.
‘That’s a point of view.’
‘But one with a certain veracity to it. I mean, we all construct an identity, don’t we? The problem is, do we like the identity we have made for ourselves?’
‘You don’t expect me to answer that, do you?’
I laughed, and Richard favored me with a sly smile.
‘OK — cards on the table,’ I said. ‘I look at my life and frequently wonder how I have ended up with this existence, this identity, this daily role to play.’
‘Well, we all do that, don’t we?’
‘So what role would you play, if you could?’
‘That’s easy,’ he said. ‘I’d be a writer.’
‘No doubt, living in a house by the water up in Maine. or maybe you do that already.’
‘Hardly. We live in town in Bath. And the house, though nice, is pretty modest.’
‘So’s mine.’
‘Anyway, if I was a writer I would be living here, in Boston. City life and all that.’
‘Then why not New York or Paris?’
‘I’m a Maine boy — which means Boston is my idea of a city. Small, compact, historic, in the East. And then there’s the Red Sox. ’
‘So you are tribal.’
‘Aren’t all Red Sox fans?’
‘Most everyone is tribal. Especially when it comes to their own flesh and blood. Look at that woman, Margaret what’s-her-name, who ensured that your son’s incident at MIT went public. Why did she do that? Because her own son wasn’t as talented or gifted as Billy. So she turned tribal and decided to wreak havoc. From where I sit, that’s five times worse than you and your wife saying nothing about Billy’s math camp problem. You were simply trying to protect your son. She was being deliberately malicious — and, in the process, damaging a young man. She ought to be ashamed of herself.’
‘Trust me, she isn’t.’
‘What happened after CalTech found out about Billy’s problems?’
‘The inevitable happened. They withdrew their offer of admission and, with it, the full scholarship. What made this even more terrible was that this transpired while Billy was still missing. Next thing I knew I had reporters on me from all the local and regional papers, even a TV team from the NBC affiliate in Portland, parked outside my house, wanting a statement from me about why I covered up for my son. I’m surprised you weren’t aware of it all, Maine being such a small place.’
‘I rarely watch TV. And I tend to get my news from the New York Times online. Dan always says that, for a Maine lifer, I have little interest in local stuff. Maybe because it’s often nothing more than local gossip. Other people’s small-town miseries and tragedies. I’m sure if I asked some of my colleagues at the hospital about the incident they’d remember it all. But, trust me, I’m not going to do that.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Did you release a statement to the press?’
‘I had my lawyer do it. A short statement saying that, as Billy was still missing — and we were genuinely fearful about whether or not he was still alive — we asked to be left in peace “during this very difficult time” and all that. To Dwight Petrie’s credit he came out on our side, declaring that since MIT had decided it was a private matter, he felt we were right to say nothing to the school — and he was appalled that “some very bad citizen felt it necessary to inflict more damage on a clearly troubled young man by leaking it to the press”. Dwight also made it clear that we had been friends for forty years — and under the circumstances he would have done what I had done. But the terrible fact was, Billy’s chances of getting into any college were null and void. And all thanks to the maliciousness of one little woman.
‘Meanwhile, the trail had gone cold in the search for Billy. Those eight days. they were beyond terrible.’
‘And how did your wife take it?’
‘She did what she often does when things get on top of her — she voted with her feet. Went to stay with her sister in Auburn. Called me once a day for an update. Otherwise she was elsewhere.’
‘And it didn’t get to you?’
Silence. His eyes snapped shut again for a moment — something I noticed that frequently happened whenever the conversation strayed into difficult territory. Yet he never tried to dodge the tough stuff. Instead, opening his eyes again he said:
‘I thought I would go out of my mind.’
‘Was there any specific reason why he’d vanished?’
‘His girlfriend told him it was over between them. Just like that. Out of the blue. I only found this out around seventy-two hours after Billy went missing. Early one morning — it must have been around six — someone started banging loudly on my front door. I staggered downstairs and found Billy’s girlfriend, Mary, standing there, tears running down her face. Once inside my kitchen, the whole story came out — how Billy had become over the past few months so remote, so difficult and unsettling, that she finally had no choice but to tell him that it was over. As she filled me in on all this, I felt a desperate sense of shame, especially when she asked me: “Did you notice him acting stranger than usual?” The truth was, I hadn’t noticed anything different about him, yet here was my son coming undone due to this break-up with the first woman who had ever loved him.’
As if reading my thoughts — or maybe the expression on my face told all — he looked at me and said: