More Oddments

Chip

John Valarian felt as he always did when he came to St. Ives Academy — a little awkward and uncomfortable, as if he didn’t really belong in a place like this. St. Ives was one of the most exclusive, expensive boys’ schools on the east coast, but that wasn’t the reason; he’d picked it out himself, over Andrea’s objections, when Peter reached his eighth birthday two years ago. The wooded country setting and hundred-year-old stone buildings weren’t the reason, either. It was what the school represented, the atmosphere you felt as soon as you entered the grounds. Knowledge. Good breeding. Status. Class.

Well, maybe he didn’t belong here. He’d come out of the city slums, had to fight for every rung on his way up the ladder. He hadn’t had much schooling, still had trouble reading. And he’d never been able to polish off all his rough edges. That was one of the reasons he was determined to give his son the best education money could buy.

He climbed the worn stone steps of the administration building, gave his name to the lobby receptionist. She directed him up another flight of stairs to the headmaster’s office. He’d been there once before, on the day he’d brought Peter here for enrollment, but he didn’t remember much about it except that he’d been deeply impressed. This was only his third visit to St. Ives in three years — just two short ones before today. It made him feel bad, neglectful, thinking about it now. He’d intended to come more often, particularly for the father-son days, but some business matter always got in the way. Business ruled him. He didn’t like it sometimes, but that was the way it was. Some things you couldn’t change no matter what.

The headmaster kept him waiting less than five minutes. His name was Locklear. Late fifties, silver-haired, looked exactly like you’d expect the head of St. Ives Academy to look. When they were alone in his private office, Locklear shook hands gravely and said, “Thank you for coming, Mr. Valarian. Please sit down.”

He perched on the edge of a maroon leather chair, now tense and on guard as well as uncomfortable. The way he’d felt when he got sent to the principal’s office in public school. He didn’t know what to do with his hands, finally slid them down tight over his knees. His gaze roamed the office. Nice. Books everywhere, a big illuminated globe on a wooden stand, a desk that had to be pure Philippine mahogany, a bank of windows that looked out over the central quadrangle and rolling lawns beyond. Impressive, all right. He wouldn’t mind having a desk like that one himself.

He waited until Locklear was seated behind it before he said, “This trouble with my son. It must be pretty serious if you couldn’t talk about it on the phone.”

“I’m afraid it is. Quite serious.”

“Bad grades or what?”

“No. Chip is extremely bright, and his grades—”

“Peter.”

“Ah, yes, of course.”

“His mother calls him that. I don’t.”

“He seems to prefer it.”

“His name is Peter. Chip sounds... ordinary.”

“Your son is anything but ordinary, Mr. Valarian.”

The way the headmaster said that tightened him up even more. “What’s going on here?” he demanded. “What’s Peter done?”

“We’re not absolutely certain he’s responsible for any of the... incidents. I should make that clear at the outset. However, the circumstantial evidence is considerable and points to no one else.”

Incidents. Circumstantial evidence. “Get to the point, Mr. Locklear. What do you think he did?”

The headmaster leaned forward, made a steeple of his fingertips. He seemed to be hiding behind it as he said, “There have been a series of thefts in Chip’s... in Peter’s dormitory, beginning several weeks ago. Small amounts of cash pilfered from the rooms of nearly a dozen different boys.”

“My son’s not a thief.”

“I sincerely hope that’s so. But as I said, the circumstantial evidence—”

“Why would he steal money? He’s got plenty of his own — I send him more than he can spend every month.”

“I can’t answer your question. I wish I could.”

“You ask him about the thefts?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“He denies taking any money.”

“All right then,” Valarian said. “If he says he didn’t do it, then he didn’t do it.”

“Two of the victims saw him coming out of their rooms immediately before they discovered missing sums.”

“And you believe these kids over my son.”

“Given the other circumstances, we have no choice.”

“What other circumstances?”

“Chip has been involved in—”

“Peter.”

“I’m sorry, yes, Peter. He has been involved in several physical altercations recently. Last week one of the boys he attacked suffered a broken nose.”

“Attacked? How do you know he did the attacking?”

“There were witnesses,” Locklear said. “To that assault and to the others. In each case, they swore Peter was the aggressor.”

The office seemed to have grown too warm; Valarian could feel himself starting to sweat. “He’s a little aggressive, I admit that. Always has been. A lot of kids his age—”

“His behavior goes beyond simple aggression, I’m afraid. I can only describe it as bullying to the point of terrorizing.”

“Come on, now. I don’t believe that.”

“Nevertheless, it’s true. If you’d care to talk to his teachers, his classmates...”

Valarian shook his head. After a time he said, “If this has been going on for a while, why didn’t you let me know before?”

“At first the incidents were isolated, and without proof that Peter was responsible for the thefts... well, we try to give our young men the benefit of the doubt whenever possible. But as they grew more frequent, more violent, I did inform you of the problem. Twice by letter, once in a message when I couldn’t reach you by phone at your office.”

He stared at the headmaster, but it was only a few seconds before his disbelief faded and he lowered his gaze. Two letters, one phone call. Dimly he remembered getting one of the letters, reading it, dismissing it as unimportant because he was in the middle of a big transaction with the Chicago office. The other letter... misplaced, inadvertently thrown out or filed. The phone call... dozens came in every day, he had two secretaries screening them and taking messages, and sometimes the messages didn’t get delivered.

He didn’t know what to say. He sat there sweating, feeling like a fool.

“Last evening there was another occurrence,” Locklear said, “the most serious of all. That is why I called this morning and insisted on speaking to you in person. We can’t prove that your son is responsible, but given what we do know we can hardly come to another conclusion.”

“What occurrence? What happened last night?”

“Someone,” Locklear said carefully, “set fire to our gymnasium.”

“Set fire — my God.”

“Fortunately it was discovered in time to prevent the fire from burning out of control and destroying the entire facility, but it did cause several thousand dollars’ damage.”

“What makes you think Peter set it?”

“He had an argument with his physical education instructor yesterday afternoon. He became quite abusive and made thinly veiled threats. It was in the instructor’s office that kerosene was poured and the fire set.”

Valarian opened his mouth, clicked it shut again. He couldn’t seem to think clearly now. Too damn quiet in there; he could hear a clock ticking somewhere. He broke the silence in a voice that sounded like a stranger’s.

“What’re you going to do? Expel him? Is that why you got me up here?”

“Believe me, Mr. Valarian, it pains me to say this, but yes, that is the board’s decision. For the welfare of St. Ives Academy and the other students. Surely you can understand—”

“Oh, I understand,” Valarian said bitterly. “You bet I understand.”

“Peter will be permitted to remain here until the end of the week, under supervision, if you require time to make other arrangements for him. Of course, if you’d rather he leave with you this afternoon...”

Valarian got jerkily to his feet. “I want to talk to my son. Now.”

“Yes, naturally. I sent for him earlier and he’s waiting in one of the rooms just down the hall.”

He had to fight his anger as he followed the headmaster to where Peter was waiting. He felt like hitting something or somebody. Not the boy, he’d never laid a hand on him and never would. Not Locklear, either. Somebody. Himself, maybe.

Locklear stopped before a closed door. He said somberly, “I’ll await you in my office, Mr. Valarian,” and left him there alone.

He hesitated before going in, to calm down and work out how he was going to handle this. All right. He took a couple of heavy breaths and opened the door.

The boy was sitting on a straight-back chair — not doing anything, just sitting there like a statue. When he saw his father he got slowly to his feet and stood with his arms down at his sides. No smile, nothing but a blank stare. He looked older than ten. Big for his age, lean but wide through the shoulders. He looks like I did at that age, Valarian thought. He looks just like me.

“Hello, Peter.”

“Chip,” the boy said in a voice as blank as his stare. “You know I prefer Chip, Papa.”

“Your name is Peter. I prefer Peter.”

Valarian crossed the room to him. The boy put out his hand, but on impulse Valarian bent and caught his shoulders and hugged him. It was like hugging a piece of stone. Valarian let go of him, stepped back.

“I just had a long talk with your headmaster,” he said. “Those thefts, the fire yesterday... he says it was you.”

“I know.”

“Well? Was it?”

“No, Papa.”

“Don’t lie to me. If you did all that...”

“I didn’t. I didn’t do anything.”

“They’re kicking you out of St. Ives. They wouldn’t do that if they weren’t sure it was you.”

“I don’t care.”

“You don’t care you’re being expelled?”

“I don’t like it here anymore. I don’t care what the headmaster or the teachers or the other kids think. I don’t care what anybody thinks about me.” Funny little smile. “Except you, Papa.”

“All right,” Valarian said. “Look me in the eyes and tell me the truth. Did you steal money, set that fire?”

“I already told you I didn’t.”

“In my eyes. Up close.”

The boy stepped forward and looked up at him squarely. “No, Papa, I didn’t,” he said.

In the car on the way back to the city he kept seeing Peter’s eyes staring into his. He couldn’t get them out of his mind. What he’d seen there shining deep and dark... it must’ve been there all along. How could he have missed it before? It had made him feel cold all over; made him want nothing more to do with his son today, tell Locklear he’d send somebody to pick up the boy at the end of the week and then get Out of there fast. Now, remembering, it made him shudder.

Lugo was looking at him in the rear view mirror. “Something wrong, Mr. Valarian?”

At any other time he’d have said no and let it go at that. But now he heard himself say, “It’s my son. He got into some trouble. That’s why I had to go to the school.”

“All taken care of now?”

“No. They’re throwing him out.”

“No kidding? That’s too bad.”

“Is it?” Then he said, “His name’s Peter, but his mother calls him Chip. She says he’s like me, a chip off the same block. He likes the name, he thinks it fits him too. But I don’t like it.”

“How come?”

“I don’t want him to be like me, I wanted him to grow up better than me. Better in every way. That’s why I sent him to St. Ives. You understand?”

Lugo said, “Yes, sir,” but they were just words. Lugo was his driver, his bodyguard, his strong-arm man; all Lugo understood was how to steer a limo, how to serve the mob with muscle or a gun.

“I don’t want him in my business,” he said. “I don’t want him to be another John Valarian.”

“But now you think maybe he will be?”

“No, that’s not what I think.” Valarian crossed himself, picturing those bright, cold eyes. “I think he’s gonna be a hell of a lot worse.”