“Not tonight, boys,” said Lane. “Ben, if you’d like, you may stay.”
The students resentfully turned back toward the dormitories. As the pack of boys departed, Horace Somerville emerged from his bedroom, where he had taken a shower and changed his clothes. At that moment Carol Scott arrived with four men. None were in uniform. They had sounded no sirens on their way to the campus, but the boys had seen and recognized them. Lane suspected the rumors would be circulating again.
It took a moment to sort it all out as the four policemen, one female police investigator, two Somervilles, the headmaster, and Benjamin Warden stood in the foyer.
“We’ve had a little discovery here,” said Horace Somerville.
Eldridge Lane told Carol Scott he hoped this was an end to the matter.
“It’s disgraceful that a member of my faculty should have had to do your job for you,” he said. “Close it up quietly.”
Carol Scott was not in a frame of mind to tolerate Eldridge Lane. “Your people called me,” she said. “Do you want me here or not?”
Lane told her that he wanted her here for as brief a period as possible. Then he left.
“What’s going on?” Warden asked.
“Sit in the living room while the police go downstairs,” said Horace Somerville. “I’m going to fetch us some whiskey.”
Somerville had been glad to see the boys leave a few minutes ago. Until this moment he had never realized how tired he had become of spending every Wednesday afternoon performing the same rituals over teacups. It was a shame about Angus, but Somerville had to admit the truth: uncovering that tunnel had been downright fun. He had not felt this lively in years.
SCENE 7
Thomas made eight of his ten shots and headed downstairs. As usual, everyone else had left the locker room before he arrived. It had been a regular routine for the past week or so, Thomas staying to shoot baskets and talk with the coach, and then the two of them locking up the gym. He didn’t see Coach McPhee or anyone else as he pulled off his damp practice clothes and stepped into the shower.
It was nice to be the last one out of the gym. You hardly got any privacy at Montpelier, hardly any time to yourself. There was always some pressing appointment. Like special assemblies. Or tea at the Homestead.
“Hell,” Thomas said out loud in the echoing shower room. He had forgotten about his invitation for tea this afternoon. It was past 6:00, too late now to show up without looking stupid. He would have to write the Somervilles a note of apology.
When he emerged from the shower into the locker room, Coach McPhee was sitting on the bench in front of Thomas’s cubicle. Thomas’s school clothes, which had been hung on the hooks inside the cubicle, were piled untidily on the bench beside Mr. McPhee. Thomas held up his towel self-consciously and wrapped it around his waist. Mr. McPhee straddled the bench. He held the edges as though he were on a steel girder twelve stories high.
“I’ve just locked all the outside doors to this building,” he said. “Do you know that we’re the only two people in it?”
“We stayed late,” said Thomas. He waited for McPhee to get up from his seat in front of the locker, but the coach remained in his spot. Thomas started to dry himself tentatively, about five feet away from his clothes.
“Did you have a nice bath?”
That was a weird question. “A good shower,” said Thomas. “Yes sir.”
“Shower,” said Coach McPhee. He shook his head with friendly impatience the way Greg did when Thomas had corrected his lines for him. “I’ve decided to give you something very special, Thomas. Do you know what that is? It’s my confidence. I want to talk to you about something I’ve never discussed with anyone before, about my wife and my stepson. Do you feel like listening?”
“Sure,” said Thomas. He wished the coach had left his stuff hanging the way he’d had it. “Why did you take out my clothes?”
“The clothes don’t matter,” said Coach McPhee. “What matters is that you hear me out.”
“I’m listening,” said Thomas. But Coach McPhee simply stared at him with those intensely green eyes.
“Maybe it would be better if we didn’t talk,” said Coach McPhee. “Let’s just get out of here and go to dinner.” He stood up quickly and moved to the glass door of the locker room. He pushed, but the door did not open. He turned to look at Thomas again. “I locked it,” he said. “I wish I hadn’t locked it.” He pulled his keys out of his pocket, then replaced them. “I don’t know which way to go here.” He coughed gently and rubbed his hands on his trousers. “Do you think it’s hot?”
“Not really.”
“That’s because you don’t have any clothes on.” This was not the way Coach normally behaved. He returned and sat down on the bench beside Thomas’s clothes again. He lifted Thomas’s blue boxer shorts. “Here’s a nice pair of underwear,” he said. “What can you give me for these?”
Thomas decided it was all a joke. “I’ll give you a hundred free throws tomorrow after practice,” he said. He reached for his underwear. Coach McPhee jerked the boxers out of his reach.
“Conversation,” said the coach. “What kind of conversation can you give me for something to wear? Something basic. We’re talking about getting back to the basics here.”
“Coach McPhee—”
“I need to talk to somebody,” said Coach McPhee. His voice was calm and level, and he was looking straight at Thomas as if they were having a theme conference in the classroom. But his face was still wet from perspiration.
Thomas felt his own hair drip down his back. He continued to dry himself as the coach talked.
“I’ve chosen you to talk to,” he said, “because we know each other. I used
