When word of the incident reached Oliver, he went to the principal’s office in righteous indignation.
“My son Chadwick does not even know of the existence of such a thing as epoxy glue.”
“Then he can’t have been paying much attention in chemistry class,” the principal said.
“In the unlikely event that the story turns out to be true, there must be a logical explanation for it.”
“I’d like to hear one.”
“The girl’s hair was probably long and bushy and impaired my son’s view of the blackboard, so he took steps to correct the situation.”
“Most ingenious.”
“Oh, yes, he’s a very clever chap.”
Chap wasn’t the word the principal would have chosen, but he didn’t bother arguing. A lawyer was a lawyer.
Chadwick was warned, the epoxy glue confiscated from his locker and the girl’s parents dropped their damage suit because their daughter’s new short hairdo was very becoming.
When the school janitor found graffiti written in semi Latin all over the walls of the boys’ lavatory, suspicion fell immediately on Jonathan. No detective work was required to bolster this suspicion: Jonathan was one of only three students taking Latin, and the other two were girls.
The accusation was close enough to the principal’s deepest feelings to make him deal harshly with the culprit. Jonathan was forced to scrub the lavatory walls with a toothbrush and to write “mea culpa” 1,000 times on the blackboard. Jonathan wrote the words 999 times, figuring no one would bother to count, and no one did. It was a small victory in a large war, but Jonathan boasted about it to his brother Chadwick, who told his brother Thatcher, who told his teacher, who told the principal. Jonathan returned to the blackboard for 1,001 more mea culpa’s.
On learning about the whole thing in a letter from the principal, Vee confronted Jonathan in his bedroom.
“That was really stupid, Jonathan.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You might just as well have signed your name to the graffiti.”
“I thought of that, but—”
“What am I going to do with you, Jonathan?”
“You could always bat me around the room a little.”
“You know I can’t bat you around the room. You’re bigger than I am.”
“Sorry about that. I guess we’ll have to think of something else. Maybe we should tell my father and make it his problem.”
“God, no.”
“Or we can build a rack in the backyard. You know, one of those devices they made to torture people by stretching them. That way we could kill two birds with one stone. I’ll get tall enough to make the basketball team and you can satisfy your lust for punishment.”
“I don’t have any lust for punishment.”
“Whatever.”
“Promise me you’ll never write any graffiti again.”
“Yes, ma’am. Or should that be no, ma’am?”
“Just say you promise never to write any graffiti again.”
“I promise never to write any graffiti again,” Jonathan said, adding silently, in Latin.
The youngest boy, Thatcher, was Oliver’s favorite. Since Thatcher showed no literary, artistic, athletic or musical ability, it was decided he should become a lawyer. After graduating from law school, he would spend a year or two in some prestigious law firm, then run for Congress, distinguish himself in the House or Senate, and ultimately, if the political climate were right, make a bid for the presidency.
Thatcher already had what Oliver considered a promising start. He could recite the names of all the Presidents in order, and frequently did, with oratorical flourishes that could make the halls ring, the audience cringe and former Presidents toss in their graves. Repeat performances were given at his parents’ dinner parties, school and church socials, Kiwanis picnics and Republican fund-raisers. It was, perhaps, not much of a talent, but some Presidents had started with less.
One morning, after the boys had left for school, Vee suggested to her husband that it was time for a change.
“Oliver, don’t you think Thatcher should break in a new act?”
“A new act? It’s not an act, my dear woman.”
“Well, whatever it is, people are probably getting sick of it.”
“People getting sick of hearing the names of their own Presidents recited by a boy whose name might well be added to that list someday?”
“Do try to be objective, Oliver. How would you like it if you had to listen over and over to little Wendy Morris recite all the constitutional amendments?”
Oliver’s coffee cup, on its way to his mouth, stopped in midair. “The constitutional amendments, constitutional amendments. Why, Vee, that’s a marvelous idea, splendid. I’m surprised I didn’t think of it myself. A list of the constitutional amendments is the next logical step. Let’s see, how many do we have now?”
“Too many,” Vee said. “Many too many. I mean, Thatcher is only ten years old.”
“When I was ten, I could recite whole pages of the Bible. Yes, I can see Thatcher now, standing in front of an audience, his small voice pronouncing the great truths of our Constitution. Can’t you picture it, Vee?”
“Yes. Oh, yes, I can picture it.” Vee slapped some jam on an English muffin and hoped she. would be forgiven, not only by Thatcher but by God and future audiences.
“And dates should be included, of course,” Oliver said. “It’s too bad Thatcher has trouble with numbers, but we’ll manage. Vee, my dear, I sometimes underestimate you. You are as smart as you are pretty.”
Coming from Oliver, this was the equivalent of a passionate declaration of love, but Vee was not moved to respond in kind. I should have kept my big mouth shut. Poor Thatcher, it will take him weeks to learn the amendments, and he’ll never get the dates straight. He has a rotten memory. I wonder if any of our Presidents had rotten memories.
Oliver’s dream flowed on, unimpeded by flotsam or jetsam or common sense. “By the time Thatcher applies for admission to law school he’ll have an edge. And he’ll need it, what with all the minorities the schools of higher education are being forced to accept nowadays.”
“Oliver, don’t you think Thatcher is getting a little old to be shown off in public like this?”
“Shown off? Encouraging my son to remind people of their great American past cannot be construed as showing him off. And don’t forget, my dear, it was you who suggested the constitutional amendments. Doesn’t that fill you with pride?”
“Not really.” She was filled instead with guilt and the disturbing prospect of going through life branded as the woman responsible for Thatcher’s memorizing the constitutional amendments and passing them along to countless captive audiences throughout the city.
During the recess Donnelly also made a telephone call. Since he intended it to be kept private, he passed up the phones in the attorneys’ room and used one of the public booths in the hall.
“Ellie? This is Charles Donnelly. I’ll be brief. I want you to get your boss to come down to courtroom number five between now and noon or this afternoon between two and four. Yes, I know he’s busy. But this is literally a matter of life and death. Remind him he owes me one, a big one. All I ask is that he sit in the courtroom and observe. Then I’ll get back to him later. I repeat, it’s a matter of life and death.”