Shadowland

at Tom Flanagan was an essential steadiness: you thought you saw that he was incapable of affectation, because he would never see the need for it.

    I think Del Nightingale looked at him bringing the school beanie down to the level of two fingers balanced on his nose, and adopted him on the spot.

'That trick you were showing me isn't in my book,' Tom said. 'Sometime I'd like to see how it goes.'

    'I brought a lot of card books with me,' Del said. He dared not say anymore.

    'Let's go have a look at them. I can call my mother from your place. She was going to pick me up after registration, but we didn't know when it would be over. How do we get to your house? Do you have a ride?'

    'It's close enough to walk,' Del said. 'It's not really my house. My godparents are just renting it.'

    Tom shrugged, and they went down the front steps, crossed Santa Rosa Boulevard, and began to walk up sunlit Peace Lane. Carson was in a suburb old enough to have imposing elms and oaks lining the sidewalks. The houses they passed were the sort of houses Tom had seen all his life, most of them long and of two stories, either of white stone or white board. One or two houses on every block were bordered by screened-in porches. Concrete slabs gray with age and' crossed by a jigsaw puzzle of cracks made up the slightly irregular sidewalk. Tough, coarse grass thrust up between the slabs of pavement. For Del, who had been raised in cities and in boarding schools thousands of miles away, all of this was so unreal as to be dreamlike. For a moment he was not certain where he was or where he was going.

    'Don't worry about Ridpath,' Tom said beside him. 'He's always hollering. He's a pretty good coach. But I'll tell you who's in trouble already.'

    'Who?' Del asked, beginning to quake already. He knew that Tom meant him.

    'That Brick. He'll never last. I bet he doesn't get through this year.'

    'Why do you say that?'

    'I don't know exactly. He looks kind of hopeless, doesn't he? Kind of dumb. And Ridpath is already shitting hot nickels over his hair. If his father was on the board, or something like that — or if his family had always gone here . . . you know.' Flanagan was walking with what Del would later see as the characteristic Carson gait, which slightly rolled the shoulders from side to side and wagged neckties like metronomes. This was, as Del immediately recognized, finally 'preppy.' Amidst all the Western strangeness, the strolling, necktie-swinging gait was familiar enough to be comfortable.

    'I guess I do know,' he said.

    'Oh, sure. Wait till you see Harrison — he's a junior. Harrison has hair just like Brick's, but his father is a big shot. Last year his father donated fifteen thousand dollars to the school for new lab equipment. Where is this house, anyhow?'

    Del had been dreaming along under the ninety-degree sun, self-consciousness about the beanie melting together with his sense of unreality and his pleasure in Tom's company to make him forget that they had a destination. 'Oh. Next street.'

    They reached the corner and turned into the street. It seemed impossible to Del that he actually lived there. He would not have been wholly surprised to see Ricky and David Nelson playing catch on one of the lawns. 'Mr. Broome wanted to talk to you,' Tom said. 'Um-hum.'

    'I suppose your father is an ambassador or something like that.'

    'My father is dead. So is my mother.'

    Tom quickly said, 'Geez, I'm sorry,' and changed the subject. His own father had recently begun a mysterious siege of X rays and over-night stays in St. Mary's Hospital. Hartley Flanagan was a corporation lawyer who could chin himself a dozen times and had been a varsity fullback at Stanford. He smoked three packs a day. 'Mr. Ridpath isn't too bad, he's just not very subtle' — both boys grinned — 'but you ought to watch out for his son. Steve Ridpath. I remember him from the Junior School.'

    'He's worse than his father?'

    'Well, he was a lot worse then. Maybe he's nicer now.' Tom's mouth twitched in a pained, adult manner, and Del saw that his new friend doubted his last remark. 'He beat the crap out of me once because he didn't like my face. He was in the eighth grade. I was in the fifth grade. A teacher saw him do it, and he still didn't get expelled. I just sort of made sure I never got near him after that.'

    'This is the house,' Del said, still unable to refer to it as his. 'What does this guy look like?'

    Tom took off his beanie and folded it into a hip pocket. 'Steve Ridpath? His nickname is Skeleton. But don't ever say it in front of him. In fact, if you can help it, don't ever say anything to him. Are we going to go in, or what?'

    The door opened and a uniformed black man said, 'Saw you and your friend coming, Del.'

6

Inside

'Skeleton . . . ' Del said, shaking his head, but Tom Flanagan was looking at the tall bald black man who had let them in. He was too surprised not to stare. A few families in this affluent suburb had live-in maids, but he had never seen a butler before. The first impression that the man wore a uniform gradually dissipated as Tom realized that the butler was dressed in a dark gray suit with a white shirt and a silk tie the same charcoal shade as the suit. He was smiling down at Tom, clearly enjoying the boy's startled inspection. His broad face looked young, but the short wiry hair above his ears was silver. 'I see young Del is going to get on well at that school if he made such an alert friend already.'

    Tom blushed.

    'This is Bud Copeland,' Del said. 'He works for my godparents. Bud, this is Tom Flanagan. He's in my class. Are they in?'

    'Mr. and Mrs. Hillman are out looking at a house,' the butler said. 'If you tell me where you'll be, I'll bring you whatever you want. Coke? Iced tea?'

    'Thanks,' Del said. Tom was still wondering if he ought to shake hands with the butler, and while Del said 'Coke,' realized that the moment for it had passed. But by then his hand was out, and he said, 'Coke please, Mr. Copeland. I'm pleased to meet you.'

    The butler shook his hand, smiling even more widely. 'My pleasure too, Tom. Two Cokes.'

    'We'll be in my room, Bud,' Del said, and began to lead Tom deeper into the house. Cartons and boxes crowded what was obviously the living room. As they passed the dining room, Tom saw that it was nearly filled with a huge rectangular mahogany table.

    'If you just moved in, why are they out looking at houses?' he asked.

    'They're looking for a bigger place to buy. They want more land around them, maybe a pool. . . . They say this neighborhood is too suburban for them, so they're going to move somewhere even more suburban.' They were going upstairs; lighter squares on the wallpaper showed where pictures had hung. 'I don't even think they want to unpack. They hate this house.'

    'It's okay.'

    'You should see what they had in Boston. I used to live with them most of the time. In the summers . . . ' He looked over his shoulder at Tom and gave him an expression so guarded that Tom could not tell if it signified suspicion, fear of being questioned, or the desire to be questioned.

    'In the summers?' , 'I went somewhere else. But their place in Boston was really huge. Bud worked for them there too. He was always really nice to me. Ah, here's my room.' Del had been walking down a corridor, his black-haired head proceeding along at about the level of Tom's eyes with more assurance than his behavior at the school had indicated that he had in him, and now he paused outside a door and turned around. This time Tom had no trouble reading the expression on his face. He was glowing with anticipation. 'If I was really corny, I'd say something like, 'Welcome to my universe.' Come on in.'

    Tom Flanagan walked rather nervously into what at first appeared to be a totally black room. A dim light went on behind him. 'I guess you can see what I mean,' came Del's high-pitched voice. He sounded a shade less con­fident.

7

Ridpath at Home

Chester Ridpath parked his black Studebaker in his driveway and reached across the seat to lift his briefcase.