Desperate Measures

17

The freshly sandblasted apartment building at the end of East Eighty-second Street overlooked Roosevelt Drive and the East River. Pittman could hear the din of traffic from the thruway below as he and Jill entered the shadows of the cul-de-sac known as Gracie Terrace. The time was almost five in the afternoon. The temperature was rapidly cooling.

Jill peered up at the attractive, tall brick building. “You know someone who lives here?”

“Someone I interviewed once,” Pittman said. “When this started and I was trying to figure out how to get help, I realized that over the years I’d interviewed people with all sorts of specialties that might be of use to me. I’m sure the police are watching my friends and my ex-wife to see if I contact them, but they’ll never think about people I’ve met as a reporter.”

Nonetheless, Pittman felt nervous. He quelled his emotion and stepped forward.

In the building’s shiny, well-maintained lobby, a uniformed doorman greeted them. “May I help you?”

“Professor Folsom. Do you know if he’s in?”

“He just got back from his afternoon walk. Is he expecting you?”

Pittman breathed easier. He had been afraid that Professor Folsom might not live here anymore or, worse, that the elderly professor might have died. “Please tell him I’m a reporter. I’d like to talk to him about the Walt Whitman manuscript he discovered.”

“Certainly, sir.”

They waited while the doorman walked toward a telephone on a counter at the side of the lobby.

“Whitman manuscript?” Jill whispered. “What on earth does Whitman have to do with-?

The doorman came back. “Professor Folsom says he’d be pleased to see you.” The doorman gave the apartment number and directed them past a fireplace toward an elevator in a corridor at the rear of the lobby.

“Thanks.”

“Whitman?” Jill repeated after they got in the elevator.

“Professor Folsom is an expert on him. He used to teach American literature at Columbia University. He’s been retired for about fifteen years. But age hasn’t slowed him down. He kept doing research, and five years ago he came across a Whitman manuscript, or what he believes is a Whitman manuscript, in some papers he was examining. There was a controversy about it. Was the manuscript authentic? Was it really a new Whitman poem? Some scholars said no. It seemed a good human-interest story, so I did an article about it. Folsom’s quite a guy.”

“But won’t he remember you? Won’t he call the police?”

“Why would he make the connection between a reporter who spoke to him five years ago and a man in the news this week? Besides, he doesn’t have a television, and he thought it amusing that I was a newspaper reporter.”

“Why?”

“He seldom reads newspapers.”

“But how does he get any news?”

“He doesn’t. He’s a fanatic about history, not current events. He’s also an expert in American education. I doubt there’s a college or prep school he doesn’t know about.”

The elevator stopped at the fifteenth floor, and Pittman knocked on Folsom’s door.

A tall, slender, stoop-shouldered elderly man peered out. He wore a brown herringbone sport coat, a white shirt, and a striped yellow tie. His skin was pale. His short beard and long hair were startlingly white. His trifocal glasses had wide metal frames, which only partially hid the deep wrinkles around his eyes.

“Professor, my name’s Peter Logan. This is my friend Jill.”

“Yes. The doorman explained that you were a reporter.” Professor Folsom’s voice was thin and gentle.

“I’m doing a follow-up on the Whitman manuscript you discovered. At the time, there was a controversy. I’m curious how it was resolved.”

“You honestly believe your readers would care?”

“I care.”

“Come in, please. I always enjoy talking about Whitman.” As Professor Folsom led them across a foyer, they passed an immaculately preserved walnut side table. Open doors on each side of the foyer showed similar well-cared-for antiques.

“That’s quite a collection,” Pittman said.

“Thank you.”

They entered the living room, and here there were even more antiques.

“They’re exclusively American,” Professor Folsom explained with pleasure. “From the mid- and late nineteenth century. That secretary desk was owned by Nathaniel Hawthorne. That hutch was Emerson’s. That rocking chair was Melville’s. When my wife was still alive”-he glanced fondly toward a photograph of a pleasant-looking elderly woman on the wall-“we made a hobby of collecting them.”

“Nothing that was owned by Whitman?”

“The old fox traveled lightly. But I managed to find several items. I keep them in my bedroom. In fact, the bed itself belonged to him.” Professor Folsom looked delighted with himself. “Sit down. Would you like some tea?”

“Tea would be nice,” Jill said.

For the next half hour, they discussed poetry and manuscripts with one of the most ingratiating people Pittman had ever met. In particular, the old man’s sense of peace was remarkable. Pittman felt envious. Remembering Folsom’s reference to his deceased wife, he wondered how it was possible to reach such advanced years and not be worn down by despair.

At last, he was ready to ask his crucial question. As he and Jill stood and prepared to leave, he said, “Thank you, Professor. You’ve been very kind. I appreciate your time.”

“Not at all. I hardly get any visitors, especially since my wife died. She’s the one kept me active. And of course, students don’t come to visit as they once did.”

“I wonder if you could answer something else for me. I have a friend who’s looking for a good prep school for his son. Wants him to be on track for Harvard or Yale. My friend was thinking perhaps of Grollier.”

“Grollier Academy? In Vermont? Well, if your friend isn’t wealthy and doesn’t have a pedigree, he’ll be disappointed.”

“It’s that exclusive?” Jill asked.

“Its entire student body is fewer than three hundred. It accepts only about seventy boys as new students each year, and those slots are usually reserved when each student is born. The room, board, and tuition is fifty thousand dollars a year, and of course, parents are expected to contribute generously to the academy’s activities.”

“That’s too rich for my friend,” Pittman said.

Professor Folsom nodded. “I don’t approve of education based on wealth and privilege. Mind you, the education the academy provides is excellent. Too restrained and conservative for my taste, but excellent nonetheless.”

“Restrained? Conservative?”

“The curriculum doesn’t allow for individual temperaments. Instead of allowing the student to grow into his education, the education is imposed upon him. Latin. Greek. World history, with an emphasis on Britain. Philosophy, particularly the ancients. Political science. European literature, again emphasizing Britain. Very little American literature. Perhaps that’s why my enthusiasm is restrained. Economics. Algebra, calculus. And of course, athletics. The boy who goes to Grollier Academy and doesn’t embrace athletics, in particular football and rowing-team sports-will soon find himself rejected.”

“By the other students?” Jill asked.

“And by the school,” Professor Folsom said, looking older, tired. “The purpose of Grollier Academy is to create Establishment team players. After all, noncomformist behavior isn’t considered a virtue among patrician society. The elite favor caution and consensus. Intellectually and physically, the students of Grollier Academy undergo disciplines that cause them to think and behave like members of the special society they’re intended to represent.”

“It sounds like programming,” Pittman said.

“In a sense, of course, all education is,” Professor Folsom said. “And Grollier’s preparation is solid. Various graduates have distinguished themselves.” He mentioned several ambassadors, senators, and governors, as well as a President of the United States. “And that doesn’t include numerous major financiers.”

“I believe Jonathan Millgate went there,” Pittman said.

“Yes, Grollier’s alumni include diplomats, as well. Eustace Gable. Anthony Lloyd.”

The names were totally unexpected. Pittman felt shocked. “Eustace Gable? Anthony Lloyd?”

“Advisers to various Presidents. Over the course of their careers, they achieved so many diplomatic accomplishments that eventually they became known as the grand counselors.”

Pittman tried to restrain his agitation. “What a remarkable school.”

“For a particular type of patrician student.”