“I need somebody to tour that gym,” said Grayson again. Delaney wanted revenge. They had just arrived at talking about his game when Grayson had steered them elsewhere.
Cynthia said she would check it.
Grayson hesitated.
“Don’t you think a woman is capable of handling the athletic building?” she asked.
“It’s not that,” said Grayson.
“What is it, then?”
“I’m thinking about your health,” said Grayson.
“I’m antsy from lying around for so long,” said Cynthia. “There are plenty of chaperones for the mixer. I’ll help patrol the gym.”
“You don’t have to patrol like a cop on a beat. Just make sure it’s locked up and nobody’s in there. But I can find Farnham to do it.”
“You don’t trust me.”
Delaney watched the conversation and wondered why Felix was so reluctant to accept her offer.
“I trust you,” said Grayson. “It’s just that I don’t want anything to happen to you. You might faint out in the cold by yourself. Besides, I don’t have an extra key for you.” He wanted to steer her away from campus duty politely. He was not thinking primarily of Russell Phillips’s death and Horace Somerville’s suspicion that the boy had been killed. The police had publicly declared it a suicide, and that was sufficient for Grayson. However, he proudly considered himself old-fashioned, and he did not like the idea of sending a woman out, unescorted at night to patrol the grounds or the buildings.
“We can find a key,” said Cynthia.
“I have to keep my own,” said Grayson. “I don’t know of an extra.”
Kevin Delaney reached into a pocket and pulled out a large ring of keys. “You want to borrow my pass key to the gym, Cynthia?” he said. “I won’t be needing it.”
“Thank you very much,” said Cynthia. She took the key. “I’m covering the gym now, right?”
“Right,” said Grayson. He was clearly annoyed at being outmaneuvered.
Delaney picked up his tray and left the table. His high spirits were restored. Maybe he would celebrate his victory by getting some beer and watching the tube tonight.
He could tell that Felix didn’t like Cynthia’s having a key. Good. That’s why Delaney had given it to her.
Nothing put him back into sorts faster than spreading some aggravation around.
SCENE 19
Cynthia Warden returned to Stratford House after dinner. Going to dinner had not been so bad. She had not noticed any leers or smirks from the boys, and the faculty seemed utterly ignorant that she and her husband had been caught in flagrante delicto the evening before. The toughest part had been leaving Ben at home and entering the dining hall by herself. It had been a solo flight, but she had landed safely.
She found Ben in the study, staring motionless at his poem.
“I brought you a plate of lasagna,” she said.
He jumped, as though he had just awakened. “I missed dinner?” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“I knew you were concentrating,” she said. She carried the Styrofoam plate to his desk.
“Your hair is wet,” he said.
“It’s been raining,” she said. “You really have been absorbed, haven’t you?”
“I’m thinking maybe it should be a double sonnet,” he said. He noted that rain should help with supervision for the mixer, because the students would be more likely to remain inside. Cynthia disagreed.
“They’d sneak off during an earthquake if they had to,” she said.
Warden pulled the aluminum foil cover off the plate. “Yes, that’s the Montpelier lasagna,” he said.
Cynthia dug through the pockets of her raincoat. “I have some other goodies here somewhere,” she said. She pulled a canned Coke and a napkin out of one pocket. “Can’t forget your silverware.” From the other pocket she removed a handful of metal and laid it on his desk.
“Stealing from the dining hall?” asked Warden.
“Those are ours,” she said. “I stopped in the kitchen on my way upstairs.”
“What’s this?”
“Kevin’s key to the gym,” she said. “I’m going to dry off.” She bent and kissed him on the top of his head.
“Thanks for dinner,” he said. “I’ve been off with the virgin all day.”
“I’ll be glad when your fling with her is over,” said Cynthia. She departed for the bedroom.
Warden ate the lasagna and stared at the key on the desktop before him.
SCENE 20
It was drizzling rain, it was cold, it was the kind of nasty December evening that made Irishmen drink and octogenarians move to Florida. But for Thomas Boatwright, it was Easter morning: Hesta had finally arrived.
He was waiting for her in the common room of Stringfellow when she walked through the door. He could tell it was Hesta even though she was practically invisible under the hood of her yellow rain slicker. She saw him and pulled back the hood and ran over to him all at once. His heart nearly pounded out of his chest, and then a gigantic grin suddenly stretched across his face as though somebody were pulling his mouth with rubber bands. He stood up and wasn’t sure of whether to shake hands or hug her wet rain slicker or just say hi, when she leaned forward and kissed him quickly on the cheek. Then he went warm and thought that if fifteen Iranian terrorists walked through the door right now with machine guns he would fight them all off with one hand to protect Hesta. It was love.
She laughed and shook herself out of the rain slicker.
“Isn’t this great?” she said. “I got it from my brother. He used to wear it when he was a traffic safety patrol.”
Hesta was beautiful. Her body was rounded where it ought to be and
