“Those sophomores always get jittery,” said Delaney. McPhee did not answer.
“I was happy that my boys seemed to adjust to playing without Nathan Somerville,” Delaney said to everyone at the table. He waited for a response.
Sam Kaufman, whose wiry pompadour was uncharacteristically unkempt tonight, paid no attention to Delaney and asked Cynthia where her husband was.
“He’s at home. He’s writing,” said Cynthia.
Delaney wished Kaufman would go to hell for ignoring him. Cynthia Warden was a more promising prospect for generating a conversation about basketball. She might have been one of the high school girls up for the mixer herself, in a striped skirt, blue knee socks, black lace-up shoes, and a white turtleneck under a sweater. Her hair was thick and freshly washed and fanned across her shoulders.
“You look very well, Cynthia,” said Delaney. “Did you make it to the games today?”
Cynthia said thank you and that she did not. Delaney wrote her off and decided to try one of the men.
They occupied a rectangular mahogany table for twelve in the center of the dining hall, a large trapezoidal room with plaid carpeting and brass chandeliers. On the table were plastic trays containing varying remnants of lasagna, salad, and canned peaches. On Saturdays at Montpelier the meals were always buffet. There were probably a hundred boys and another forty visiting girls dining at other tables in the room, which could seat five hundred persons at capacity. Many of the other students had decided to take cabs into town to eat in the local restaurants. They were permitted to do so, as long as they returned by 9:00 P.M.
Grayson complained that the school would resemble a commune of anarchic hippies by the end of the evening. “Everybody’s going to be doing his own damn thing. Supervision will be just a word in the dictionary.”
“Did the wrestlers win?” asked Delaney. He thought maybe he could divert the conversation to basketball indirectly.
Grayson ignored him. “I’m the day master, and I can’t find half my duty team,” said Grayson. “Has anybody here seen Carella or Farnham? Neither one has shown up for dinner, as far as I know.”
Delaney was annoyed with his colleagues. Everybody had his own agenda tonight. Nobody was listening. He considered going back to the serving line for a fourth helping of lasagna and starting a food fight. That would get Felix’s attention.
“Let’s hope I have a quieter night than you did, Pat,” said Grayson to Patrick McPhee.
McPhee rubbed an invisible spot on his water glass and did not appear to hear.
“You’re in high brood tonight,” said Delaney. “You’ll win the next one.”
McPhee worked up a rueful grin. From a pocket he pulled out his coach’s whistle on its cord and blew one quick shrill tweet. Everyone in the room fell quiet and looked over.
“Time out,” McPhee said, and then he left.
Conversation in the dining room resumed. Those remaining at the faculty table were nonplussed.
“He’s had a bad week,” said Felix Grayson. “You know he always takes his duty rotation so seriously.”
Cynthia asked if there was any word from Diane.
“She’s gone for good, I hear,” said Grayson.
“Good riddance if you ask me,” said Kaufman.
Delaney’s shoulders slouched a little closer to the floor.
Here we go, another dish of dirt from the talking tabloid.
“I heard she was using him just to get a free education for that introverted son of hers,” said Kaufman. “Married him last summer and then turned cold. Pat got tired of it and threw them both out at Thanksgiving.”
“That’s preposterous,” said Cynthia. “He went to Boston over Thanksgiving to see her.”
“All I know is they slept in separate bedrooms,” said Kaufman. He’d heard it directly from the business manager’s secretary, whose office was right next to bookkeeping, where one of the accountants was good friends with a lady who worked for the housekeeping department. “Draw your own conclusions.”
“I conclude that he’s miserable,” said Cynthia. “I think he’s amazing to cope so well.”
“And on top of everything else,” said Delaney, “he lost his game by just one point today.” Nobody took his cue.
Grayson asked Cynthia if she was back to full strength.
“Not quite yet,” she said. She had taken a long nap that afternoon to prepare for supervision of the mixer this evening. An hour ago she had checked on the bands, both of which were on campus. Now she was hoping that all the members therein would remain sober and play when they were supposed to. “But you can expect me to help tonight.” She said she was the culprit who planned the evening and therefore surely should help supervise.
“Welcome aboard,” said Grayson. “I’ll be glad to use you at the mixer.”
“If you’re well,” said Kaufman. “Do they know yet . . . ?”
“They’re running more tests,” said Cynthia. She and Ben had agreed not to release any news until she had a second opinion.
Grayson said Dr. Lane had requested that a duty man check the gym during the evening.
“Lots going on at the gym this afternoon,” said Delaney. No reaction. Was he not speaking loudly enough? Was he invisible? He was now thoroughly disgruntled. His team had won, damn it, but you’d think it was a feat no greater than sweeping the gym floor. “Not many spectators, though.”
“People were afraid of scratching your floor,” said Cynthia.
Delaney knew she was teasing. She had asked him about having a dance in the gym, but he had forbidden it on the grounds that the basketball court would be ruined. He had given her permission to use the art studio instead.
“I thought our boys might burn a hole in that floor with the fast break,” said Delaney.
“Don’t talk about burning,” said Grayson. “After this fire alarm thing the other night, we want to make sure the gym stays locked up. Too many cubbyholes for people to get into trouble. Sam, you cover the gym.”
“I’m not on duty tonight,” said Kaufman. His glasses
