“I used to write imitations of your poetry to my fiancee,” he said. “Pitiful imitations. When the placement service told me there was a job at Montpelier School, I had to go for it. You intimidated me when I interviewed, but I got the job anyway. When I came here, I don’t know, you seemed even more distant.”
“So,” said Warden, “you found it easier to be friends with Cynthia.”
Farnham flushed. “It hasn’t been all that easy,” he said. “I see her and she reminds me of Johanna, and I think of what I gave up to come here. It’s frustrating.”
Was this his way of confessing a crush on Warden’s wife? “In a way,” said Farnham, “I’ve fallen into a kind of rivalry with you.”
At last he had admitted it. But then he confounded Warden by explaining exactly what sort of “rivalry” he meant. It was not a competition over Cynthia.
“I’m a perfectionist,” said Farnham, “and I want to be the best at my job. But I’m working for Benjamin Warden. Don’t you realize how awful that is?” He perceived Warden as having the perfect career, the perfect job, the perfect wife, in contrast to Farnham’s own mediocrity. “I can’t even run a classroom without having some kid like Richard Blackburn misbehave. I can’t command the respect you do. This entire year has been a series of reminders of how much better you are than I am.”
Warden was incredulous. “You’re envious,” he said.
Farnham nodded. “I’m jealous of your success.”
Warden wanted to laugh at the irony, but he did not. He said that he had taught for over a decade longer than Farnham, that he was older, that he had committed an abundance of faux pas in his career.
“I understand that,” said Farnham. “But I don’t see myself as ever reaching your plateau of achievement. I want to be as great a play director as you are a poet. I want to attract as wonderful a wife. So far I can’t imagine myself ever getting as good at this job as you are.”
Then Warden did laugh. He reminded Farnham of all the forgotten meetings, the misplaced papers, the lost book orders.
“I envy you for your organization,” Warden said. “You’re always so well prepared, so academically dependable.”
Farnham admitted that he could run the department more efficiently. But he complained that he still had little rapport with his students. “I try to be upbeat and pleasant,” he said, “but the boys seem wary of me.”
“Learn to control your temper,” said Warden, “and see what difference it makes.”
Farnham said he had improved from his days of teaching in Alabama.
There was no need to discuss his temper further. It was time for Warden to build the man’s confidence.
“You’ve managed to get Greg Lipscomb to play Othello,” said Warden, “when I can hardly get the boy to speak to me. That’s just one case where you’ve outshone me.”
Farnham was grateful for the example. It was true that Greg had been weak at first, but had come along well in the last few days.
They finished their meeting agreeing that Warden would come to rehearsal today to watch, to suggest, to react. To encourage. It was a pleasant adjournment.
Both men said so to the police later that day.
SCENE 7
For basketball practice on Monday, the coaches had put out baskets of towels and jocks and shorts and jerseys.
“No more special service in the locker room for now,” said Coach McPhee. He was trying to be as cheerful as possible. “Do your own work, fellows, until we get a replacement for Angus.”
It was so weird to be getting ready for practice again. Saturday they had had that terrible game, and two days later they were back, getting ready to practice for another game on Friday, only one of their players was dead, and the man who had killed him was missing. The unsettling thing was that the man who had killed him was somebody they knew. His car had still been parked in the gym lot until this morning, when the police had gotten tired of watching it to see whether he’d return for it and had towed it into town.
Seven sets of parents had pulled their kids out of the school, and it seemed like a hundred more kept threatening to do so. Dean Kaufman had composed a special letter of reassurance to send to all the parents and all the students and all the alumni bombarding the school with questions. Thomas had told his parents he would stay. He wasn’t sure why. He didn’t think Angus would hurt him, and he didn’t want to seem cowardly.
“It’s strange to be down here, you know?” said Ralph Musgrove as he pulled on his tube socks. “Think of how Angus must have been spying on us all the time, watching us take our showers and stuff.”
Thomas said he had been thinking the same thing.
“Once, when I was about nine or ten, my mother pulled into the 7-Eleven to get us some milk,” said Ralph. “My brother climbed up on the roof of the car and dropped his pants. He was about four, I guess. Just one of those stupid things little kids will do. It was funny until I looked over and saw this old man—he must have been about forty or so—just staring at my brother. Steve didn’t even see him. And it only lasted half a minute. My mother came out of the store and grabbed Steve off the car and threw him inside. She was mad and yelling at me for letting him get up there, and she never saw the man either. I never told her or my dad about it. But he was scary, you know?”
“Nobody in your family has much to show off anyway,” said Thomas. Ralph punched him in the upper arm. Thomas did not respond. He was thinking of Saturday night with Hesta, of that power he had glimpsed briefly with her in the chapel, of
