“I expect to go into the Foreign Service,” Bunner said.
“Why?” Oliver asked.
“Travel,” Bunner said. “Foreign lands. Reading Seven Pillars of Wisdom at the age of sixteen.”
“I doubt that you’ll be called upon to lead any camel charges,” Patterson said, “no matter how high you rise in the Department.”
“Of course, it’s not only that,” Bunner said. “I have a feeling that a lot of important things are going to happen in the next few years and I like the idea of being on the inside when they do happen.” He laughed self-deprecatingly. “It’s hard to talk about what you want to do with your life without sounding like a stuffed shirt, isn’t it? Maybe I just fancy the picture of myself in a morning coat sitting at a conference table, saying, ‘I refuse to give up Venezuela.’”
Oliver looked at his watch and decided to lead the conversation into more practical lines. “Tell me, Mr. Bunner,” he said, “are you an athlete?”
“I play a little tennis, swim, ski …”
“I mean on any of the teams,” Oliver said.
“No.”
“Good,” Oliver said. “Athletes are so busy taking care of themselves, they never can be relied upon to take care of anyone else. And my son may need a great deal of care …”
“I know,” Bunner said. “I saw him.”
“Oh?” Oliver asked, surprised. “When?”
“I’ve been up here for a few days now,” Bunner said. “And I was here most of last summer. My sister has a place a half mile down the lake.”
“Are you staying with her now?”
“Yes.”
“Why do you want this job?” Oliver asked suddenly.
Bunner grinned. “The usual reason,” he said. “Plus being out in the open air for the summer.”
“Are you poor?”
The boy shrugged. “My father survived the Depression,” he said. “But he’s still limping.”
Both Oliver and Patterson nodded, remembering the Depression.
“Do you like children, Mr. Bunner?” Oliver asked.
The boy hesitated, as though he had to think this over carefully. “About the same as people,” he said. “There’re several children I’d gladly wall up in cement.”
“That’s fair enough,” Oliver said. “I don’t think you’d want to wall Tony up in cement. You know what was wrong with him?”
“I think somebody told me he had rheumatic fever last year,” Bunner said.
“That’s right,” said Oliver. “His eyes have been affected and his heart. I’m afraid he’ll have to take it easy for a long time.” Oliver stared out at the lake. The boat was well in toward shore by now and Lucy was rowing steadily. “Because of his trouble,” Oliver said, “he’s been kept away from school for the last year and he’s been around his mother too much …”
“Everybody’s been around his mother too much,” Patterson said. “Including me.” He finished his drink.
“The problem is,” Oliver said, “to permit him to behave as much like a normal boy as possible—without letting him overdo anything. He mustn’t strain himself or tire himself too much—but I don’t want him to feel as though he’s an invalid. The next year or two are going to be crucial—and I don’t want him to grow up feeling fearful or unlucky …”
“Poor little boy,” Bunner said softly, staring out at the approaching boat.
“That’s exactly the wrong tack,” Oliver said quickly. “No pity. No pity at all, please. That’s one of the reasons I’m glad I can’t stay up here for the next few weeks with Tony myself. That’s why I don’t want him left alone with his mother. And why I’ve been looking for a young man as a companion. I want him to be exposed to some normal, youthful, twenty-year-old callousness. I imagine you can manage that … ?”
Bunner smiled. “Do you want some references?”
“Do you have a girl?” Oliver asked.
“Now, Oliver,” Patterson said.
Oliver turned to Patterson. “One of the most important things you can know about a twenty-year-old boy is whether he has a girl or not,” he said mildly. “Whether he’s had one, whether he’s between girls at the moment.”
“I have one,” Bunner said, then added, “approximately.”
“Is she here?” Oliver asked.
“If I told you she was here,” Bunner said, “would you give me the job?”
“No.”
“She’s not here,” Bunner said promptly.
Oliver bent down, hiding a smile, and picked up the telescope, collapsing it against his palm. “Do you know anything about astronomy?”
Patterson grunted. “This is the damnedest set of questions,” he said.
“Tony is sure he wants to be an astronomer when he grows up,” Oliver explained, playing with the telescope. “And it would help if …”
“Well,” Bunner said doubtfully, “I know a little bit …”
“What time tonight,” Oliver asked, like a schoolteacher, “do you think the constellation Orion will be visible?”
Patterson shook his head and heaved himself to his feet. “I certainly am glad I’ll never have to ask. you for a job,” he said.
Bunner was grinning at Oliver. “You’re very devious, aren’t you, Mr. Crown?”
“Why do you say that?” Oliver asked innocently.
“Because you know that Orion can’t be seen in the Northern Hemisphere until September,” Bunner said cheerfully, “and you were waiting for me to make a fool of myself.”
“The job pays thirty dollars a week,” Oliver said. “It includes teaching Tony how to swim, going fishing with him, watching stars with him, and preventing him, as much as possible, from listening to those damned serials on the radio.” Oliver hesitated and then spoke in a lower and graver tone of voice. “It also includes winning him away—diplomatically—a certain distance from his mother, because their relationship, as of this moment …” He stopped, conscious that he was on the verge of sounding harsher than he wanted to sound. “What I mean,” he said, “is that for the good of both of them it would be better if they weren’t quite so dependent upon each other. Do you want the job?”
“Yes,” Bunner said.
“Good,” Oliver said, “you can start tomorrow.”
Patterson sighed in mock relief. “I’m exhausted,” he said. He sank into the chair again.
“I turned down three other young men, you know,” Oliver said.
“I heard,” said Bunner.
“Young men today seem to be either vulgar or cynical and the worst ones are both,” said Oliver.
“You should have tried a Dartmouth man sooner,” Bunner said.
“I believe one of them was a Dartmouth man,” said Oliver.
“He must have gotten in on an athletic scholarship.”
“I suppose I ought to warn you about a troublesome little wrinkle in Tony’s … uh … character,” Oliver said. “I guess you can talk about a thirteen-year-old boy’s character, can’t you? When he was sick and had to stay in bed for so long he developed a tendency toward—well—fantasy. Tall stories, fibs, lies, inventions. Nothing serious,” Oliver said, and Patterson could see how painful it was for Oliver to make such an admission about his son, “and my wife and I haven’t made an issue of it, considering the circumstances. Although I’ve spoken to him about it and he’s promised to put a rein on his—imagination. Anyway, if it comes up, I don’t want you to be surprised—and at the same time, I’d like to see it discouraged before it grows into a habit.”
Listening, Patterson had a sudden, chilly insight into Oliver. He must be disappointed, Patterson thought, he must feel that his own life is somehow empty, if he is working so hard on his son’s. Then Patterson rejected the idea. No, he thought, it’s just that he’s used to running things. It’s easier for him to run things than to let other people do it. His son is just another thing that he automatically runs.