“That’s exactly what I was wondering about you,” said Thomas.
They sat and stared at each other for a moment. It was much less awkward than their previous silences.
“I guess I overreacted,” said Greg. “I mean, it’s not just because I’m black. I heard the varsity guys were putting a lot of pressure on Nathan Somerville to drop the play.”
Thomas could still recognize a gesture of friendship. “I’m sorry for being so stupid,” he said.
“I’m sorry for being so silent,” said Greg. “I was interpreting everything you said in the worst possible way. I’m not a good mind reader.”
“How could you read something as narrow as my mind?” said Thomas.
The tension in the room had dissolved.
Thomas was impressed with his roommate’s ambition and abashed over his own failure to comprehend. “So you act because it’s a challenge,” he said. “Because it’s tougher for you than sports.”
“Yeah,” said Greg. “Only it’s not working out too well.” He confirmed that Coach Delaney, the varsity basketball coach, had been furious about the defection of Nathan Somerville from his team, that he had come over to rehearsal today and had yelled at Farnham for stealing good athletes.
“So that’s why Farnham was so crazy this afternoon,” Thomas said. He reported what he had seen in the scene shop. “I bet he was imagining Delaney’s head under that two-by-four.”
Greg was not finished. “After rehearsal,” he said, “Farnham called me aside and said to consider the choice between sports and theater carefully. Promised me he’d understand if I wanted to quit the play. I got the message.”
Thomas could guess the message but asked anyway.
“The message was that I wasn’t any good,” said Greg. “He was telling me that I couldn’t handle the part.”
Thomas had heard the same thing from Richard a few minutes ago. In the light of the desk lamp he could see Greg’s eyes wash into wetness.
“I can memorize the lines just fine,” said Greg. “It’s that I don’t understand them.”
Thomas said nobody could get Shakespeare without the footnotes.
“This is worse,” said Greg. He kept his voice very low. He said he had never read Shakespeare before in his life. “I read it and reread it, and I’m not sure what it says. What if I can’t ever catch on?”
Thomas said he could always do something else. Mr. Dickinson would step in if they needed a substitute.
Greg clenched his fist hard around the pen in his hand. “If I can’t understand Shakespeare, then what am I? What if I really am just a dumb, stupid black boy only good for catching balls for the white folks? I want to be more than that.” Thomas was dumbfounded. It was the first time in his life he had encountered firsthand such a passion to succeed. He tried to smooth matters over. “It would be just like me getting cut from a team,” he said.
“Not when the coach of the team is begging other people to try out,” said Greg. “They try to talk me out of my part, and they’re calling people like you in to audition. Everybody in this school wants me to play sports. I’m not doing it. If l can’t do Othello, I’ll go home.”
Thomas knew that he meant every word. He also knew that he did not want Greg to go home. Not now. Thomas felt protective.
“Is that what McPhee was doing in here? Recruiting you?”
Greg shook his head. “He was cool about it. He said stick to the play.”
Thomas knew what he would do in Greg’s position. He would quit the play and go out for basketball, where he would get a starting position and lots of acclaim among the students. But then what? Wouldn’t he always assume from then on that he couldn’t measure up intellectually, that Shakespeare and the rest of those guys in English literature were over his head? And was that fair? Mr. Warden was always raving at the dinner table about how talented Greg was. And Thomas knew from biology class that the guy was smart as hell. Coach McPhee had charted the course; Thomas would sail it.
“You can do it,” he said. He was not at all sure it was true.
“I don’t think so,” said Greg.
“It just takes getting used to the language,” said Thomas.
“I don’t have time to get used to the language.”
“I’ll help you,” said Thomas.
“What do you know about Shakespeare?”
“Are you kidding?” said Thomas. “All those nights at Arena Stage, all those summer festivals? I probably know more about Shakespeare than Farnham does.” A little exaggeration was acceptable.
“Why do you want to help me?” said Greg.
A good question. Maybe to appease his conscience. But maybe also because he admired Greg’s convictions. He wanted to see the guy make it.
“It’ll be a trade,” said Thomas. “I help you with Shakespeare, you show me how to shoot a left-handed hook.”
Greg did not answer at first. “I don’t know,” he said. “I feel like I ought to do it on my own.”
“You’ll be doing it on your own,” said Thomas. “If you think I’m putting shoe polish on my face and choking Mrs. Warden on that stage, you are one crazy roommate.”
Greg said nothing. But for the first time in what seemed like months, he laughed.
SCENE 12
Warden pulled his scarf closer to his face and walked through the cold to Fleming Hall. It was 8:30 P.M. The campus was quiet, all the boys in their rooms. His wife was at home in her room, in her bed, listening to music. His duty was to be with her.
And yet he had to get away. Seeing her so ill was stirring up dirty old sediment in the estuary of his mind. He groped to define his malady: Helplessness? Despair? Denial, anger, depression, bargaining?
Not acceptance. He would not accept the decline of his wife without a fight.
From the moment he had started to love Cynthia, he had been afraid of losing her.
He used to dream as an adolescent boy—and still did—that his
