“Most important of all, Tony,” Oliver said.
“You’re sure?”
Oliver put the telescope down and nodded decisively. “Absolutely,” he said. “He trusts us completely … so far.”
“How old is he now?” Patterson asked.
“Thirteen.”
“Amazing.”
“What’s amazing?”
Patterson grinned. “In this day and age. A boy thirteen years old who still trusts his parents.”
“Now, Sam,” Oliver said, “you’re going out of your way to sound intelligent again.”
“Perhaps,” Patterson said agreeably, taking a sip of his drink and staring at the boat, still far out on the sunny surface of the water. “People’re always asking doctors to tell them the truth,” he said. “Then when they get it …” He shrugged. “The level of regret is very high in the truth department, Oliver.”
“Tell me, Sam,” said Oliver, “do you always tell the truth when you’re asked for it?”
“Rarely. I believe in another principle.”
“What’s that?”
“The principle,” Patterson said, “of the soft, healing lie.”
“I don’t think that there is such a thing as a healing lie,” said Oliver.
“You come from the North,” said Patterson, smiling. “Remember, I’m from Virginia.”
“You’re no more from Virginia than I am.”
“Well,” Patterson said, “my father came from Virginia. It leaves its marks.”
“No matter where your father came from,” Oliver said, “you must tell the truth sometime, Sam.”
“Yes,” said Patterson.
“When?”
“When I think people can stand it,” Patterson said, keeping his tone light, almost joking.
“Tony can stand it,” said Oliver. “He has a lot of guts.”
Patterson nodded. “Yes, he has. Why not—at the age of thirteen.” He took another drink and held up his glass, turning it in his hand, inspecting it. “What about Lucy?” he asked.
“Don’t worry about Lucy,” Oliver said stiffly.
“Does she agree with you?” Patterson persisted.
“No.” Oliver made an impatient gesture. “If it was up to her, Tony would reach the age of thirty believing that babies came out of cabbage patches, that nobody ever died, and that the Constitution guaranteed that everyone had to love Anthony Crown above everything else on earth, on pain of imprisonment for life.”
Patterson grinned.
“You smile,” Oliver said. “Before you have a son, you think that what you’re going to do with him is raise him and educate him. That isn’t what you do at all. What you do is struggle inch by inch for his immortal soul.”
“You should have had a few others,” Patterson said. “The debate gets less intense that way.”
“Well, we don’t have a few others,” said Oliver, flatly. “Are you going to tell Tony or not?”
“Why don’t you tell him yourself?”
“I want it to be official,” said Oliver. “I want him to get used to the verdict of authority, unmodified by love.”
“Unmodified by love,” Patterson repeated softly, thinking, What a curious man he is. I don’t know another man who would use a phrase like that. The verdict of authority, he thought. My boy, do not expect to live to a ripe old age. “All right, Oliver,” he said. “On your responsibility.”
“On my responsibility,” Oliver said.
“Mr. Crown …?”
Oliver turned around in his chair. A young man was approaching across the lawn from the direction of the house. “Yes?” Oliver said.
The young man came around in front of the two men and stopped. “I’m Jeffrey Bunner,” he said. “Mr. Miles, the manager of the hotel, sent me down here.”
“Yes?” Oliver looked at him puzzledly.
“He said you were looking for a companion for your son for the rest of the summer,” the young man said. “He said you planned to leave this evening, so I came right down.”
“Oh, yes,” Oliver said. He stood up and shook hands with the young man, examining him briefly. Bunner was slender, a little above medium height. He had thick, black hair that was cut short and naturally dark skin that had been made even darker by the sun, giving him an almost Mediterranean appearance. His eyes were a profound, girlish blue, approaching violet, and they had the shining clarity of a child’s. He had a thin lively face which gave an impression of endless youthful energy and a high, bronzed forehead. In his faded gray sweatshirt and his un-pressed flannels and his grass-stained tennis shoes he seemed like an intellectual oarsman. There was an air about him, too, as he stood there easily, unembarrassed but respectful, of the privileged but well-brought-up son of a polite family. Oliver, who believed in having handsome people around him whenever possible (their colored maid at home was one of the prettiest girls in Hartford), decided immediately that he liked the young man.
“This is Dr. Patterson,” Oliver said.
“How do you do, Sir?” Bunner said.
Patterson lifted his glass lazily. “Forgive me for not getting up,” he said. “I rarely get up on Sundays.”
“Of course,” Bunner said.
“Do you want to grill this young man in private?” Patterson asked. “I suppose I could move.”
“No,” Oliver said. “That is, if Mr. Bunner doesn’t mind.”
“Not at all,” Bunner said. “Anybody can listen. Anything embarrassing I’ll lie about.”
Oliver chuckled. “That’s a good start. Cigarette?” He offered the pack to Bunner.
“No, thanks.”
Oliver took a cigarette and lit it and tossed the pack to Patterson. “You’re not one of those young men who smokes a pipe, are you?”
“No.”
“Good,” Oliver said. “How old are you?”
“Twenty,” Bunner said.
“When I hear the word twenty,” Patterson said, “I feel like reaching for a pistol.”
Oliver peered out at the lake. Lucy was rowing steadily and already the boat seemed much larger and the red of Tony’s sweater had grown brighter. “Tell me, Mr. Bunner,” he said, “were you ever sick?”
“Forgive him, Boy,” Patterson said. “He’s one of those people who’s never been sick in his life and he regards illness as a willful sign of weakness.”
“That’s all right,” Bunner said. “If I were hiring somebody to hang around with my son I’d want to know whether he was healthy or not.” He turned to Oliver. “I had a broken leg once,” he said. “When I was nine. Sliding into second base. I was tagged out.”
Oliver nodded, liking the young man more and more. “Is that all?”
“Just about.”
“Do you go to college?” Oliver asked.
“Dartmouth,” said Bunner. “I hope you have no objections to Dartmouth.”
“I am neutral on the subject of Dartmouth,” Oliver said. “Where is your home?”
“Boston,” Patterson said.
“How do you know?” Oliver looked over at Patterson, surprised.
“I have ears, don’t I?” Patterson said.
“I didn’t know I gave myself away so easily,” Bunner said.
“That’s all right,” said Patterson. “It’s not unpleasant. It’s just Boston.”
“How is it,” Oliver asked, “that you didn’t go to Harvard?”
“Now I think you’ve gone too far,” Patterson said.
Bunner chuckled. He seemed to be enjoying the interview. “My father said I’d better get away from home,” he said. “For my own good. I have four sisters and I’m the baby of the family and my father felt I was getting more than my share of loving kindness. He said he wanted me to learn that the world was not a place where you have five devoted women running interference for you all the time.”
“What do you expect to do when you get out of college?” Oliver asked. He was obviously feeling friendly toward the boy, but he wasn’t going to skip any information that might have a bearing on his capabilities.