Flat Water Tuesday Page 5

  He slapped his briefcase down on the long desk at the front of the room and removed his sheaf of notes, thumbed them for a full minute while he gathered his thoughts and made us sit there scratching, coughing, trying not to look at one another. That torn bouquet of yellow legal-sized papers had been stapled together enough times so the top corner looked like it had been chewed. He held these notes by his side while we waited and I could see lines and lines of his penciled handwriting. Even I could see he carried those notes just for show. They hadn’t made the school big enough for him. And so we looked at Mr. Charles Channing and he looked back at us and beyond us to the world outside the boathouse and I’m not sure which he liked less.

  Seated in a folding metal chair in front of Channing’s desk, facing us, was Ruth Anderson, the coxswain of the God Four and the first girl to make the team ever, flouting eighty years of history. She was small, and her hands and wrists were those of an aristocrat; blue veined and bony. The bird-wing ridges of her collar bones were prominent and she had long, dark, feline hair. That year she weighed ninety pounds during the winter and dropped to eighty-four in the racing season. Connor sat next to her and the message was clear. Only the two of them had secure seats on the team. The rest of us would have to fight for them. Nothing was guaranteed.

  Channing finally cleared his throat and set the notes down on the table. The gangling bodies in the room hunched forward, as if we were at the start of a session of prayer to a higher power. He began.

  “I’ve called you together to remind you of some of the things you might consider before we gear up for the spring term. It is right that I let the students from the club boats understand how we work here. Some of you may think this meeting is premature. I assure you, it is not.”

  No other teacher talked like Channing. It took me weeks to realize that he was not being ironic, that this was really the way he spoke. His was the dialect of a lost aristocracy.

  He sighed, glanced at Connor and Ruth, rested his eyes on me. “Understand that the first boat at Fenton is a four-man shell with cox. As is the second boat. There are no eights, as there are in the clubs.” The kids from the club boats—the lower orders—looked on without reaction. They knew this. So did the returners. I wondered if this homily was for my benefit.

  “This means there are only eight places in the Fenton School Boat Club. One club rower will be named our spare, but will not row with us. So if you do want to make this team, you will have to compete against one another.”

  I raised my hand as he said this and he smiled. “We should also get to know Mr. Robert Carrey. Whom I had almost forgotten. Please stand, Mr. Carrey. Let’s see you.”

  I stood up and he pulled his spectacles from his jacket pocket. “Mr. Carrey is one of this year’s PG recruits and hails from Niccalsetti, New York. He is a single sculler, a very successful one. We believe this has prepared him well for rowing in a four.”

  “That’s just it, Coach. It has not,” I said.

  Channing paused and the room tensed. “Excuse me, Carrey?”

  “Rowing in a single is not good preparation for rowing in a four, Mr. Channing. I don’t know anything about rowing in a four.”

  Channing straightened combatively. “Is that so, Mr. Carrey? Could this be an oversight, do you suppose? Let us see. In a single, a sculler—an oarsman—uses two oars. But in a four, the rower uses one large oar. This is the essential difference. Yes, I can see how this might be initially difficult for you to adjust to.”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “No, no, please, this is important. In a four, the coxswain steers from the stern and the oarsmen each have one oar. We also do not row pairs by the way. Students flip pairs, you see, and drown, which is always irritating. Fours are more stable.”

  “Nobody told me this before and I—”

  “Nobody told you that we only row fours at Fenton? Even after you were accepted?” And then I knew for sure he had prepared this. That Connor had told him about our fight and that Channing meant to finish the argument once and for all. I’d walked right into it.

  “Carrey, did you not carefully consult the admission package that was sent to you to learn what kind of boats were rowed here at Fenton? Or call the school to enquire? Or examine the school catalogue, which we print at great expense and send out to anyone who asks for it? I am quite sure there are only pictures of fours in that catalogue. We do mention this little affectation of ours. Very clearly.”

  I waited. I could feel the blood rushing to my head and my hands and willed myself to calm down, to not blow up and have a tantrum. He sensed it and prepared himself.

  “Coach, the letter that was sent to me said that I was accepted because of my wins in the single. That was very clear. I could even bring my own boat, it said.”

  “Well, I am glad we can clarify this for you, Carrey. You are permitted to row your single from time to time on my river, when I say so, but my top team is a four. It is referred to as the varsity four and some may call it the God Four but there is only the four. We have a JV four. We have a club four, yes, and an armada of eights for the clubs as well. But the varsity four is the only team that we offer up for competition at Fenton at the varsity level. Is this clear, now? Is there anything I have left out?”

  “I won’t row in a four.” This came out almost as a whisper, because I was trying to keep my voice down.

  Channing put a hand to his ear. “Excuse me?”

  “I don’t row in fours, Coach. I don’t row with other people. I’m a single sculler.”

  “Carrey, I believe you mean you haven’t yet rowed in a four. Do not be overly concerned. You can easily learn. We have faith in you. We believe you can make the transition from two oars to one and row as part of a crew. Connor Payne, for instance, is a fine single sculler, too, but he is also the stroke seat in the four. I assure you, this is not difficult. Sculling will be a boon.”

  “Coach, the problem is not me being able to do it. I don’t want to learn to row with three kids I don’t know. No offense, but that’s not—”

  “None taken, Carrey, none taken. Do you think you are offending us? You are only offending yourself. We are trying to clarify things for you.”

  “I’d like to race in the single.”

  He slammed his hand down on the table. “In what race, Carrey? Against whom? What boarding school will you race against? Shall we have a special race just for you?”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Channing, but I just don’t want to row in the four.”

  “Then you are welcome to leave.” Channing pointed at the narrow staircase. “There’s the door, Carrey. Go. You can go right now. But I warn you if you leave this room, you will not be coming back.” He said this mildly but he kept his eyes on me. I found myself scooping up my bag to leave and then forced myself to stop. Because Channing meant it. I knew it and everyone else in the room knew it, too.

  “If you want to row with us, Carrey, you will have to learn to row in the four. This could be a good change for you. A welcome change. Many single scullers row in the team boats. It is expected. It is not difficult. So think carefully about your next move and do not sit down.” He turned to the rest of the crew. “The God Four will again be facing Warwick this year.”

  He took a breath and visibly composed himself. Our exchange had rattled him. He began again. “Every year, as most of you know, we formally challenge Warwick School to a race. And for the last five years, to our perpetual shame, Fenton has failed to win.” He said this in the same way he might announce that we had all been diagnosed with terminal cancer.

  “For the benefit of those present who were … elsewhere … last year our disgrace took place at Warwick. This year we race at home and we will not, I repeat not, be humiliated on our own river again. Channing waited while every rower shifted in his seat. “As always, we face Warwick on the third Tuesday in April. You should know that the FSBC alumni have made it clear that they hope to see us win.” Channing paused. “But they are not us. They are
not here. History does not wait for the verdict upon them. All of them wish they had one more crack at victory on the water against that hated place Warwick. This chance is reserved for we few.” Another pause. He was quite the showman. “Listen.”

  We listened. Outside, you could hear the shouts and whistles on the fields around us, pulses of noise. “The armorers, accomplishing the knights, with busy hammers closing rivets up, give dreadful note of preparation.”

  I had no idea what Channing was talking about, but I had the sense of it.

  “And preparation for rowing is indeed dreadful. Mr. Perry, let’s start with you.”

  John Perry was riding his chair backward. He sat like a chained beast, his blue letter jacket buttoned precariously over his bulk. He looked up at Channing with tiny blinking eyes.

  “You are John Perry, yes?”

  Perry looked at all of us for support and we looked back at him. Connor interlaced his fingers behind his head and examined Perry while Ruth looked politely away, at some spot on the floor to my left.

  “Coach?” Perry was flustered. “I mean … you know who I am Mr. Channing—”

  “John Perry from the losing first boat of last year? This is you?”

  Perry tried to smile. “Yeah, okay, it’s me—”

  “I ask because you look like his fatter, slower twin. Perry, you are too heavy for my boat. Your task is to lose weight and become stronger and gain endurance. This does not mean eating pizzas at the Fenton Pizza Garden or grappling with idiots from Taft on the football field.”

  Wadsworth snickered under his baseball cap. Seated in a window seat, he was framed by the late afternoon light, his legs dangling into space. Channing turned on him immediately. “Chris Wadsworth. Another survivor from the disastrous boat of last year. Have you been thinking how you will make amends? You have work to do.”

  He turned to the board and wrote the number 7 in the middle. “You have seven months, gentlemen—and lady—until the Tuesday race against Warwick School. Less than that until the season starts.” He took off his glasses. “I cannot call formal practices until the spring but Mr. Payne and Ms. Anderson will be keeping track of who is working. This means that while I cannot force you to begin training now, I can ask that you start thinking about the fact that no rower’s position here is secure and I can urge you to make every preparation necessary for what lies ahead. You will all be tested and some of you shall be found wanting.”

  He turned the full force of his gaze on me and I knew he was getting ready for his final delivery. “Carrey, you have never seen what awaits you this spring. You need to understand that right now you are just … the raw material. You are merely breathing potential. The tabula rasa where Fenton’s history will be written. Did you seriously think we would tremble before your abilities? You, a PG mercenary who is already a disciplinary case two weeks into the start of the school year because—”

  “Come on. That was not my fault, I—”

  “We do not care to give hearing to your explanations or alibis, Carrey. We care about getting ready for a race that will define us. Will define you. We care about crossing the finish line ahead of the other boat. We care about winning. This is all we care about. And we cannot win if you are being disciplined, or if you have been expelled. So, Carrey, I ask that you be not afraid of greatness: some are born great, some achieve greatness and some have greatness thrust upon them. Don’t query the form in which greatness comes. Am I clear?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Yeah? Do you mean ‘yea’? As in, ‘Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me?’”

  “Yes.”

  “No, Carrey. No. I offer none of you comfort. I offer you no protection from evil. This you will fashion yourself or be beaten. Opportunities for glory are flying around all of you like bullets. And some of you, Carrey, are crawling upon the ground with helmets on. Have you made your decision? We all await.”

  My head was spinning with rage. Do it, I thought. Leave this crap. Walk out the door.

  I grit my teeth. Screw this for a laugh, as Wendy would say. Walk out.

  Walk out and go … where?

  Home?

  I took a breath.

  “I’ll do it.” And felt like I was betraying everything I’d come from and suffered through to stand there. A Judas for a bunch of prepsters.

  “You will do what, exactly?”

  “Try out for the four.”

  “And suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune with the rest of us?”

  “Whatever.”

  Triumphant, Channing stared at the others, all of them looking away from me as I stood there, defeated. “Seven months. Connor will be ensuring that you begin your preparations. Dismissed.”

  You never saw a room full of kids clear out so fast, all shoulders and gangly arms squeezing through the door and pounding down the stairs. Connor and Ruth conferred briefly then got up and left. I put my bag over my shoulder and started to follow.

  Channing caught me at the door. “Mr. Carrey. A word.”

  Connor glanced back at me and grinned, shut the door behind him.

  Channing put his glasses back on and it occurred to me they might also be a prop. He dug around in the mess of his briefcase and pulled out a folder, licked his thumb, opened it. He read for about three seconds to himself, then looked at me. “It says, in summary, Robert Carrey. PG student. Championship-level rower with decent grades. Hails from the Niccalsetti Senior School, an institution of learning I was unfamiliar with until you appeared here. Your grades are surprisingly high—are you hiding a brain from us, young Carrey?”

  It was my turn to look out at the trees sloping up the sides of Mt. Algo and just breathe. There were millions of those trees. I was barely holding it together. It was a farce—being my age and dealing with this crazy old man.

  “Mr. Carrey, a recent missive from our mutual friend the dean informs me you have been caught destroying school property and fighting with one of our associates in the Rowing Cottage.”

  “I tried to tell you. Connor deserved it. If you start in on me you might as well go get him, too.”

  “Connor Payne might have deserved it but you have both been punished for it. Did you deserve to be punished?”

  “He was asking for it.”

  “Connor Payne asked you to hit him and you complied?”

  “I didn’t hit him, I just wanted him to get out of the way.”

  “Be that as it may, you now owe the school twenty hours of work, and you will be working for me. Off campus. I happen to need a painter. Can you paint?”

  “I can paint.”

  “Are you sure? The school does offer free labor to its senior teachers but I have found in the past it is often not the most qualified or intelligent or diligent labor.”

  “I’ve painted stuff for my father since I was eight. If I finish early, will you let me out of whatever’s left?”

  “There will be plenty for you to do.”

  “All right. I get it.”

  “Meet me at my home at four next week on Monday, once you have recovered from your injuries sustained in your … altercation … with the captain of my first boat.”

  “What about Connor?”

  “What about him?”

  “Does he have to paint your house?”

  “He does not. I am not his advisor. I have no idea what he will be doing to work off his hours. He may wind up raking leaves, or shoveling mulch, or cleaning bathrooms.”

  “I hope he gets the bathrooms.”

  “I shall keep you appraised.”

  “I’d hate to think you’d make me do a job like this because I’m a scholarship kid, Mr. Channing. Just to put me down.”

  “No, no, Carrey. Rest assured we’d have contempt for you even if you paid full fees.”

  “Does the school supply you with paints, too?”

  “No. But I do have the use of its sandpap
er and tools.”

  “Free labor and equipment.”

  “Teaching is notorious for its many benefits. This is why I entered the profession.”

  “I thought you used to be a lawyer. Plenty of perks there.”

  “You are misinformed.”

  “They say you got fired.”

  “Fired or disbarred? I never can keep track.”

  “Is it true?”

  “With all this free labor and sandpaper and such at my disposal, Carrey, why would I ever consider the law as a profession? Meet me at my house on Monday. Four P.M. sharp. Wear your work clothes. Try not to assault anyone on your way.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “Walk down River Road until you see a white house. Can you remember that?”

  “I can.”

  “Good. Go. Learn.”

  5.

  My father showed up at the school a day later than he was supposed to, on the same Monday I had to start work at Channing’s. He arrived in his ten-year-old immaculate Ford F-150, drove right to the boathouse doors and threw down the brake. My scull was strapped to the truck bed, the stern sticking out. He had built a carrier for it himself, a padded cradle that held the scull in place down the New York State Thruway. He had taped the outriggers together and stowed them underneath the boat and had made brackets for each oar that he could lock. He had driven alone, left my mother behind to keep an eye on my older brother and the house. When he arrived at the school he jumped out and inspected the boat, no doubt the tenth time he’d done it during the whole eight-hour drive. Then he walked over to the dean’s office and handed over the balance of the tuition my scholarship didn’t pay for, in cash, and made the dean, Mr. Owen, make up a receipt then and there.

  When I got out to the boathouse, my father was looking down at the riggerless scull, long and sleek and green, tied with nylon belting against its cradle. He ran his finger over the top. “I should have found a tarp for her but nothing fit from the workshop and I didn’t have time. Didn’t want it flapping around back there either. I figured you put anything on a coat of varnish slick as that, you wind up scratching it.”