The Troubled Air (8 page)

“I’m sorry, Samson,” Archer said. “There’s nothing I could do.”

“You could try to talk to him,” Samson said, “Just try. The boys say he likes you. The boys say you’re the only one on this whole God-damn campus that cold-blooded sonofabitch gives two cents for,” he said bitterly. “You could
try.”

“He’s made up his mind,” Archer said. “You better find another quarterback by Saturday.”

“Yeah.” Samson stood up. He laughed hollowly. “Just like that.” He picked up his hat. “I’m surrounded by enemies on this campus,” he said darkly, going out. “Waiting for me to fall.”

Even the Dean of Men had called Herres into his office and tactfully attempted to persuade him to go back. Herres had been polite, crisp and unyielding, and he left the Dean of Men shaken and wondering if he was losing touch with the younger generation.

“That demented editor came to me,” Herres said to Archer a day after Samson’s visit. “He said he wanted to be fair. He said he wanted to give me space in the paper to defend myself. He wanted me to explain what he called my disloyalty to the school, by giving my real reasons for quitting.”

“What did you say to him?” Archer asked.

Herres grinned. “I told him I was considering becoming a fairy and the boys on the team were not my style. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if he prints it. Give a man a couple of columns of print to fill up and he loses touch with reality. Loyalty!” Herres snorted. “What the hell loyalty do you owe a school? I pay my tuition and keep my grades above passing and refrain from punching the instructors. Aside from everything else, I got bored with playing football. The games’re all right, but the practice is a nuisance. And if the team loses a game or two because of me, what the hell do I care? Or for that matter, finally, what the hell does anyone care? There’s one boy, Sam Ross, a tackle, who cries in the locker room every time we lose a game. Twenty-three years old, weight two hundred and seven, blubbering away for fifteen minutes at a time. He ought to be put away. In a home for expectant mothers. Once he wanted to fight me because he heard me whistling in the shower after we lost by two touchdowns. Character building! You know what aspects of my character I built up playing football?”

“What?” Archer asked curiously.

“Cruelty, sadism, duplicity, pleasure in destruction,” Herres said slowly. “I figured it out before I quit. The reason I enjoyed playing was because I like to knock people down. I broke a man’s leg in a game last year and I walked alongside the stretcher pretending I was upset, but I was pleased with myself all the time. Looking down at him, yelling on the stretcher. Clean-cut American boy, building a sane mind, in a sound body every Saturday afternoon.” Herres peered mockingly at Archer. “Do you think I ought to put all this in a letter to the editor?”

“Even so,” Archer said, although he was not surprised at what Herres had told him, remembering the savage way he drove into opponents, “even so, you might write a tactful letter to the paper to calm everybody’s feelings.”

“Let them boil,” Herres said carelessly. “It’s none of their business.”

“Vic,” Archer said slowly, displeased suddenly with the boy, “there’s a point up to which arrogance in the young is understandable, even engaging. It gives evidence of independence of spirit, courage, private confidence. But after a point—it shows vanity, cruelty, a disregard of the people around you. It’s the sin of pride, Vic, and maybe that’s the worst of the lot.”

Vic grinned. “I didn’t know they had compulsory chapel on this campus any more,” he said.

Archer restrained his anger. “I’m not talking as a preacher,” he said. “I’m speaking as a teacher and friend. There’s a certain minimum of decency you owe whatever society you find yourself in. When you do something that seems strange or harmful or unfriendly to the people you’ve been working with and who depend on you for one thing or another, it seems to me you owe them some kind of explanation. You have to live with them and they have to live with you, and they have a right to be able to locate you in a general sort of way.”

“The band will now play the college anthem,” Herres said. “I don’t owe anybody anything. If I find anybody locating me, I’ll move. If I’m suffering from the sin of pride—” He lifted his eyebrows mockingly. “I’m delighted. Thanks for your interest, Professor. Want to see the game with me tomorrow?”

When he left, Archer sat staring into the empty fireplace, troubled, obscurely oppressed. Ah, he thought, I’m taking this too seriously. I mustn’t forget he’s only twenty-one years old.

The parade in front of the stands the next day with Herres and the slow climb up the aisle to their seats was one of the most embarrassing experiences Archer had ever lived through. People fell silent in groups as they approached and others, farther off, stood up and stared, all faces cold and full of suspicion. Archer, who wanted people to like him at all times, felt rejected and lonely at Herres’ side, but Herres seemed oblivious of what was going on. He talked easily, nodded to acquaintances who barely acknowledged the greeting, chuckled at a joke of his own making, and as soon as they were seated, not in the last row this time, took out his flask and offered it to Archer. Archer, conscious of a thousand eyes upon them, refused to drink, feeling cowardly and exposed. This is going to make me real popular all over the campus, he thought glumly this afternoon. Herres drank, not very much, and without ostentation, and put the flask away.

All through the game, especially when the team failed to move the ball, or was scored against, their neighbors would stare accusingly at Herres, but he still paid no attention. He explained plays to Archer, pointed out where men were missing assignments, predicted where plays were going, and drank from the silver flask, not too heavily. Either this boy is completely encased in armor plate, Archer thought, admiringly, or he is one of the great actors of our time. In a reckless gesture, during the fourth quarter, Archer took a drink himself, staring coldly, mimicking Herres, at the disapproving faces around him.

“The silver flask award,” Herres whispered, grinning, after Archer had drunk, “for Mr. Clement Archer, for extraordinary courage in face of heavily concentrated disapproval.”

It was a joke, but Archer knew Herres well enough to see that Herres was very pleased with him. I must watch that boy carefully, Archer thought, I can learn a lot from him.

After the game was over (the college lost by two touchdowns) Herres and Archer walked through the crowd, little hushed, resentful eddies marking their progress, and without hurrying, made their way toward Archer’s home. Suddenly, Herres began to chuckle. Archer, who was feeling spent by this time, looked at him curiously. “What’re you laughing at?” he demanded.

“The big moment,” Herres said. “The moment of decision. When you finally took the drink and stared everybody down. Caesar watching the gladiators in the arena on a slow afternoon. You came through, Professor. I was testing you all day, and you came through like a lion. You’re solid, Professor, rock-solid, and I admire you.”

He’s too perceptive, Archer thought, he knows too much for a boy his age. But mixed with this was a feeling of warm accomplishment and pleasure in Herres’ praise. Herres was not free with his approval and this was the first time he had ever explicitly given it to Archer for anything. As they walked, more swiftly, toward home, Archer thought, I’m going to miss him when he graduates in June. This place is going to seem awfully empty next year.

A gust of wind made the shade rattle under the curtains at the window and Archer blinked and almost sat up in bed at the sudden noise. Kitty was sleeping without moving, the sound of her even breathing almost a snore in the dark room. The luminous dial of their bedside clock showed that it was after three o’clock. Archer shook his head, thinking, I’ll be in great shape in the morning.

He got out of bed quietly and padded barefooted over to the window. He parted the curtains and looked out over the neat backyards. The moon was out and made the thin trees look as though they were made of bare silver.

He dropped the curtains and looked at Kitty. He shook his head, trying to make the dark room and his sleeping wife more real than the lost autumn evening in Ohio. He felt melancholy, and the two figures disappearing down the streets of reverie seemed wonderfully young and hopeful to him, as though they were better at that moment than they would ever be again. The cleaner time, when you could prove yourself to your friend merely by lifting a silver flask to your lips even though the Dean of Men was only two rows away.

He stood silently in the space between the beds, looking down at Kitty. He leaned over and kissed her gently on the forehead. She stirred a little in her sleep, moving her head slowly on the pillow.

Archer got into bed and closed his eyes.

When I wake up, he thought, I’m going to call Vic.

The phone was ringing on the table next to him and Archer kept his eyes closed, hoping someone else would answer it. The phone kept ringing. He opened one eye and squinted at the instrument. The clock on the table said ten-thirty. Automatically he calculated, three to ten-thirty. Seven and a half hours. I am not tired. He opened both eyes and saw that Kitty was not in her bed. The phone kept ringing. Archer reached over and took the instrument off its rest and put the receiver against his ear on the pillow.

“Hello,” he said.

“Clement,” O’Neill’s voice said crisply over the wire. He always sounded very much like an executive on the telephone, as though he had taken a course somewhere in sounding forceful at a distance and had never forgotten the rules. “Are you up?”

“Just,” Archer said. “Is anything wrong?”

“Have you got a cold?” O’Neill asked,

“No,” Archer said, puzzled. “Why do you ask?”

“You sound funny. Very deep.”

“I’m lying down,” Archer said. “I sound sexy.”

But O’Neill didn’t laugh and Archer knew it was serious. “I thought you had a cold,” O’Neill said. “Listen, Clement, I’m sorry I have to reneg, but I had a talk this morning with Hutt and he’s blazing.”

“Now, Emmet,” Archer began, “you said. …”

“I know what I said. Let me finish, please, Clement. It isn’t as bad as you think.”

“Oh.” Archer waited.

“Hutt hit the ceiling, but he came down. Most of the way. He’ll give you the two weeks because I promised.”

“Well,” Archer said, “that’s all I asked for.”

“He’ll give you the two weeks on everyone,” O’Neill said, “except Pokorny.”

There was a silence on the wire while O’Neill waited for Archer to respond to this. But Archer said nothing.

“I argued with him until I was blue in the face,” O’Neill said, “but he won’t budge about the musician. He’s ready to fire everybody tomorrow, Clement,” O’Neill said harshly, “including you and me, if we insist about Pokorny.”

“How about next week’s show?” Archer said. “The music’s already in.”

“He’ll take that,” O’Neill said. “Then farewell.”

Archer looked up at the ceiling, allowing the phone to fall away from his ear a few inches. The ceiling was beginning to flake near the window. It will need a new coat by October, Archer thought.

“Clement,” O’Neill’s voice seemed small and forlorn in the distant receiver on the pillow. “Clement! Are you still there?”

“I’m here,” Archer said.

“Well?”

“I’ll call Pokorny,” Archer said slowly, “and tell him for the next week or two we won’t need him. Temporarily.”

“Good.” O’Neill sounded relieved. “I think that’s the sensible thing to do.”

“Yes,” Archer said. “Very sensible.”

“After all,” O’Neill said, “Hutt’s being decent about the others.”

“Thank Mr. Hutt in my name,” Archer said.

“He wants to see you,” O’Neill said. “Today at four o’clock.”

“I’ll be there,” Archer said.

“Clement …” O’Neill was hesitant, and didn’t sound like an executive now. “I did what I could.”

“I know,” said Archer. “I’m sure of it, Emmet.”

“Well,” O’Neill said uneasily, “till four.”

Archer hung up. He stared at the ceiling again. Question—is it better to talk to Pokorny before or after getting out of bed? Which is healthier at the beginning of the day? Is pleasure to be found in action or delay? Do you start or end breakfast with dismissal? How much easier it would be to call O’Neill back instead and tell him he was resigning, as of that moment. Except that then four other people would be lost without a fight. Resignation, Archer told himself, would be irresponsible. Pokorny, he thought, reaching for the phone, you are temporarily expendable. You are the rear guard covering the main body’s strategic withdrawal and we hope to redeem you later when prisoners are exchanged. Be brave among the trumpets.

“Hello,” Pokorny’s voice was saying. “Who calls? Who calls?” He sounded shrill and worried, as though the telephone invariably damaged him.

“Manfred, this is Clement Archer.”

“Oh, Mr. Archer, I am happy you called,” Pokorny said in a rush. “I have been wishing to apologize. Last night, I went beyond the boundaries of my position, if you understand me. About the conductor. I was excited. I used language that was extreme. It is a bad habit of mine, my wife is constantly pointing it out to me. …”

“That’s OK, Manfred,” Archer said. “You were perfectly right.”

“Oh, thank you, Mr. Archer. I couldn’t sleep, I was so. …”

“Don’t worry about it,” Archer said. “I called about something else.” He paused, wondering how to say it. “Look, Manfred,” he said, “we’re making some changes on the show. Experimenting. …”

“Oh, yes, of course,” Pokorny hurried on, wishing to agree with everything in advance, “that is always necessary in such fields of …”

“For the next week or two, Manfred, we’re going to try something different in the way of music.”

“Anything. Anything you say,” Pokorny said shrilly.

“I mean we’re going to try someone else,” Archer said. “Another composer.” There was a breath on the other end of the phone. “Temporarily.”

“Yes,” Pokorny said flatly. “Yes, of course.”

There was the sudden clicking of the phone being put down at the other end, then the ghosts and murmurs of the wires. Archer hung up. It was easier than I figured, he thought, and got out of bed and began to dress.