Chapter Eleven
It had been an amazing afternoon. When Dr. Webster Reed came home to dinner on Friday evening, Ronnie and Russell chatted for nearly an hour at the table and Ronnie asked him to play chess after dinner.
Father and son played chess happily for hours.
Russell watched TV.
Sandy sulked.
The most worthwhile incidents in life do not occur as a result of timorous or half-hearted actions. If we all reflected on our lives, we would probably agree--in so far as it is possible for people ever to agree--that the finest, most memorable hours occurred either as a result of the most steadfast, deliberate purpose or quite by happenstance. Certain philosophers and theologians would argue that the two are one and the same, that there is no happenstance, but all happens according to a Purpose infinitely greater and more patient than any that we can conceive. It is not our intention to numb the reader with a discourse on the recondite boundaries between free will and determinism. Certainly the terminology would baffle many people older than Ronnie Reed.
But even at eleven years old, Ronnie perceived the great busy-ness of life. It seemed that Momma always had something planned for him and Russell to do. When it wasn't school or Sunday school, it was classes after school. When there weren't chores to do around the house, there was Shopping or other Errands to do with Momma.
Sometimes he liked nothing better than just relaxing, reading for fun, watching TV or playing cards or board games. As fond as he was of his mother, it annoyed him greatly that she so greatly disparaged and discouraged some of the pastimes he enjoyed most. Cards were, in her opinion, "a waste of time." Board games she categorically referred to as "bored games" ("They make ME bored!" she would add with her habitual, forced smile). Her most withering disdain, though, was directed at television. Although the Reeds' family room was not without the largest, latest model of color console, and although she did not forbid her children to watch a certain amount of television and even some freedom in the choice of programs for their viewing, nevertheless Sandy Reed was impervious to the medium's greatest allures.
The best of programs might exact its desired effect--tears, laughter, white-knuckled fear-- from everyone else in the room... Not from her. Somehow she just could not forget that she was in a room with an electronic box that was receiving transmitted sounds and images. She, of course, was not the one with the problem. It was these people who succumbed to the illusions of the idiot box and tuned out reality--these people that she called "potatoes" (because they were "all eyes that don't see anything around them"). Maybe she couldn't change her husband--and after ten hours at the hospital he was entitled to his relaxation-but she was determined that her Ronnie and Russell were not going to become members of Greater Spuddom!
And so it was that Webster and Sandy received Ronnie's account of the afternoon with almost as much gladness as the boy related it.
On those rare but occasional instances when Ronnie had no scheduled or required activities, he would usually go over to the Williamsons to see what Phillip or Barron might be doing. On this particular day no one was home at the Williamsons. On the way home he saw Basil Smithfield on the small porch in front of his home and went over to talk to him.
"Hi, Mr. Smithfield."
"Hi, Mr. Reed."
"Why 'Mr. Reed'?"
"Why 'Mr. Smithfield'?"
Ronnie grinned, thought a second, then answered, "Well, I'm remembering my manners."
"When do you ever forget them?"
"Momma thinks I forget them all the time."
"I don't think that you do. My point is that you may call me Basil."
Seeing the man return his smile, Ronnie laughed and said with thoroughly delightful and guileless affectation:
"You may call me Ronnie."
"Thank you," said Basil. I'm honored--though I believe I already do, call you Ronnie, that is. And I'll note for the record that it's not 'Ron' or 'Ronald.'"
"I'm glad you noted that," the boy replied. "Ron sounds like the name of a crooked dealer, and Ronald's the name of a clown who does hamburger commercials."
"And Ronnie," Basil concluded, "is the name of the smartest, best-mannered eleven-year-old boy in the world. But all his intelligence and consideration are not going to save his brain--or mine--from melting if we don't get out of this heat. My place is air-conditioned, there are plenty of Cokes in the fridge, and you're invited to come in and have one. The phone's right inside if you want to call home."
Ronnie had gone in. He stayed for hours. He did not want to leave and his host was in no hurry to see him go. Not only did he find fascinating Basil's neat, masculine home and almost everything in it, but also he was deeply gratified to be noticed, welcomed, treated courteously and without affectation or condescension by a grown man who was just about the coolest guy he had ever seen.
Basil likewise experienced a kind of wonder that day. Although he liked children in general, he did not idealize them. Since his own late teens he had rarely been around preadolescent kids, and those that he had been around had not been his idea of scintillating company. At twenty-four, Basil, who knew about gays, boy-lovers, and other alternative lifestyles but had never seriously considered such for himself, was suddenly smitten, not with lust, but with an indescribable rapture at the realization and appreciation of something so rare and fine as the brilliant, gentle, beautiful boy before him. Under similar circumstances, a baser man might have seduced the child. A lesser man would have grown flustered and sent the child home. Basil taught the boy to play chess.
Webster Reed was ecstatic when he came to bed on Friday night. Even the frosty response from his wife failed to extinguish his exuberance:
"Sandy."
"What?"
"Wake up a minute and listen."
"Why?"
"Ronnie beat me."
"So?"
"Sandy, we're talking about chess."
"No, YOU'RE talking about chess. Why?"
"Sandy, Ronnie beat me. Four out of five games. He won every one after the first."
"So? You had a run of bad luck."
"No, I didn't. Chess isn't a game of luck. It's not like dice or cards. It's all strategy. I've played the game for years. I'm not great at it, but I'm not lousy, either. I'm sure Ronnie did not know how to play chess before Basil taught him today."
"Can't we talk about this in the morninG?"
"Sure we can. I just thought you'd like to know our son is a genius."
"Webster, beating you in chess does not make someone a genius."
"Not unless that someone is eleven years old and has just learned how the game is played. Then it's a pretty significant accomplishment."
"Whatever..."
Monday Barron and Russell left for two weeks at Camp Corruthers in the Ozarks. Boyd began six weeks of day camp. Annie and Phillip started their own summer enterprise--"A & P Lawn, Pet, and Housesitting Service"--which prospered beyond their wildest dreams. And though Phillip allowed Ronnie to "sub" for him occasionally--whereby Ronnie earned a few dollars here and there, and thus could be considered officially "employed"--by and large Ronnie enjoyed an unprecedented amount of free time.
And enjoy it he did, chiefly in the company of Basil Smithfield, who also happened to have his vacation during that time. For Ronnie it was like having a big brother, but one who didn't boss him around. Or like having a Dad who didn't have to work all the time. Or a teacher who taught an interesting class but didn't give tests or homework. Only Basil wasn't a parent or a brother or a teacher. He was a friend.
Basil listened to Ronnie's joked and laughed at them. He himself had a boundless memory for jokes, really funny jokes, which kept Ronnie, and subsequently Ronnie's family, delighted for days. At noon when he made lunch he insisted that Ronnie stay, and whatever he was preparing or had already prepared, he always had ample food for his guest without stinting himself. If Ronnie came in mid-afternoon, Basil brought out tea and cookies.
They talked. When this intelligent, lively child spoke, it was so articulately and in such a clear, beautifully modulated soprano voice, that every word was music to Basil's ears. When Basil spoke in his cultured baritone, the boy listened not only out of courtesy and affection but also because he because he could not predict and did not want to miss whatever bit of knowledge or delight might be communicated in his friend's next remark.
The chess playing continued, too. Then, on Wednesday, Ronnie checkmated Basil. For a moment they both sat there in silence. Finally Ronnie said apprehensively, "I--I hope you're not mad at me."
"Mad at you? Why would I be mad at you?" Basil replied. "I'm as proud of you as I can be! Come here to me right now!"
Basil held out his arms, and at once the boy not only came to his embrace but returned it with an intensity that touched Basil to the core of his heart. Finally he muttered with a grin, "Hey, Boris Spassky. easy on my ribs!"
Still, the moment sealed a bond between them, signified the realization where a new dimension was attained and an old barrier dropped in their relationship. Thereafter nods and handshakes by themselves seemed empty and stilted. Ronnie felt perfectly natural laying his head on the man's chest or sitting on his knee. In the days that followed, when Ronnie came to see him often Basil's arm would habitually go around the boy's shoulders, and equally often his right hand would lovingly give the boy a pat on the back, or the leg, or the bottom. He did not do it excessively. If Ronnie had had to think about the matter and comment in all honesty, he would have said that Basil could not do it enough!
The nonverbal communication between them went a step further the next day. At the door Basil exclaimed in amazement:
"My God! Ronnie. what are you doing outside like that! You'll get arrested!"
"What for?"
"For exposure! You don't have any pants on!"
Ronnie laughed uproariously and raised his shirt-tail, revealing light-blue Speedos and several more inches of thighs.
"See, I do, too!" Then, after stepping inside and closing the door, he continued: "I have to leave in an hour to go swimming with Phillip and Annie at their country club. These are my new Speedos. Did you really think I was bare bottom? Sorry to get you so upset... or should I say... disappointed?" (He added the latter with a mischievous grin and matching twinkle in his blue-gray eyes.)
"Disappointed? Why, not at all..." Basil replied, rising to the occasion. "In fact I'm overjoyed."
"Why's that?"
"Well, if you suddenly want to get fresh with me, you're obviously wearing just the right outfit to get your cheeks chafed."
And he at once proceeded to turn Ronnie over his knee in the time-honored position for spanking.
"No! No!" the little boy protested (in the tones that any person of experience would unmistakably interpret as meaning, "Yes! Yes!"). "You can't spank me!" {Translates "You MUST spank me!")
By the time Basil had subdued the boy's perfunctory struggles, almost all the material in the rear of Ronnie's suit had worked its way into the boy's crack, leaving virtually all his silky little bubble-butt exposed. Basil delivered three playful smacks, audible but painless.
Ronnie feigned a pout and said with theatrical irony: "Oh! You beat me SO hard."
"I can remedy that if you like," Basil replied, "but I think you'd prefer that I didn't."
"I think you're right," Ronnie concurred, then added with a laugh, "but I had better get myself out of this wedgie!"
The boy rearranged his suit to its proper public position, then sat down again on Basil's knee. Basil patted him on the leg. For a minute they sat in silence. Finally, Ronnie spoke:
"Basil, would you really spank me?"
"Would I ever have to? Playing around is one thing... Really hitting you, so hard that it would hurt... I don't want to think about that."
In a slightly more detached tone he asked, "Your parents spank you, don't they?"
"Well, yes, but not often. Dad gives me a couple of whacks with the belt, but only when Mom makes him. Russell gets spanked a lot more than me, even more than I did when I was his age... And you know who REALLY gets spanked a lot?"
"Barron."
"Yes, it's incredible! How'd you know?"
"I happened to be outside talking to Mr. Mitchell the day Pete Williamson took Barron around the block with a peach-tree switch."
"Was Barron in his underpants?"
"Yes, they were up at first, then they were taken down in back and kept that way."
"Darn, what is this thing about taking kids' pants away?"
"A hundred years ago it used to be fairly common in parts of England, Germany, Russia, even in parts of America. Nakedness, or at least some degree of undress--symbolic of humiliation--was considered just standard operating procedure for corporal punishment. Earlier in this century, when the powers that be revised their official position on corporal punishment, it reinforced the nakedness taboo. Remember that (the bedroom or the bathroom) for much of modern history, punishment was virtually the only scenario where nakedness was not taboo. So in most recent years, when sociology undergoes another paradigm shift and begins reapplying corporal punishment, can a revised use of nakedness be far behind? Your mother's a psychologist. What does she think?"
"She's wishy-washy. I think if everybody or even most people around us are against spanking, then she won't spank. If most people are for it or it's considered acceptable to spank your kids, then she will."
"Ronnie, I didn't realize your mother was a Philistine."
"She is? Aren't those some kind of people in the Bible?"
"That's where the term comes from, but it's acquired a broader meaning. It means someone who cares about social status and creature comforts and popular opinion, but very little about art, music, philosophy, religion, you know, the really deep issues, in a word, someone who thinks not, 'Is this beautiful?' but, 'Is this pretty?'--not, 'Is this right?' but 'What will the neighbors think?'"
"Yeah," Ronnie said with a rueful smile. "I think you got my mom's number."
Chapter Twelve
At four o' clock on the second Tuesday of Smithfield's vacation Ronnie came accompanied by his mother. She was off work today, and when Ronnie had asked permission to go out, she had asked where, then insisted upon coming with him. Basil cordially welcomed them both into his small sitting room and brought them iced tea.
Although both returned their host's broad smile and although the physical resemblance between mother and son was startlingly apparent--the honey-blonde hair, the blue-gray eyes and the slender, almost delicate bone structur--no less striking were certain differences. Ronnie's hair had a rich natural color and luster. His mother's was suffused with strands of gray and, over all, had a dull, frayed, overworked look about it. Both had exquisite long eyelashes. The boy's required no artificial enhancement.
The eyes themselves, though, were the key: Ronnie's were clear and limpid with a radiance matching the rest of his face. Her smile was as rigid and fixed as if she had stuck it on with the rest of her five pounds of make-up that day. Her eyes were polished stones. There was no smile to be found in them.
"It's good to see you, Mrs. Reed," Basil began. "What may I do for you?" (Although the age difference between her and Basil was only slightly greater than that between Basil and Ronnie, she--as a mother and as a doctor's wife-- was not inclined to relieve him of the obligation to address her formally.)
"Not a thing, Basil. It's just that I've heard so much about you from Ronnie, and he's come over here so much the last week-and-a-half... Well, I just wanted to see this legendary place with my own eyes and thank you for all your time and trouble."
"Oh, please! It's no trouble at all. I'm on my vacation."
"Ah, yes... You're not traveling anywhere this summer?"
"No, I'm not."
"Dear me... I mean, that's too bad... Oh, you know what I mean..."
"I'm not sure that I do," Basil said politely.
"Oh, it's just so dreadfully hot and humid here in the summer, and there's nothing going on at all, no big parties or special events. Everybody goes somewhere else during their vacations... And then, there are so many fascinating places to see around the country and the world. You really ought to travel, even if it's just to visit your family. They must miss you, and it would surely do you good to see them..."
"Mrs. Reed," Basil explained, "that's all true, but, you see, my family and close relatives live right here in town. We get along well. It just happens that this summer we got vacations at different times. Plus there's the matter of finances. My little Chevy's not long for this world. I've budgeted myself well enough that I can pay for either a complete overhaul or a trade-in, but--and that applies to both options--NOT if I also go on a trip this summer. So I've stayed home, kept cool, and taken it easy. I haven't got the month's utility bill yet, but it has to be a lot less than a stint in a hotel or a couple of days on Amtrak."
In the pause that followed, Ronnie posed the question:
"Basil, could we play some chess now?"
Before Basil could answer, Sandy declared:
"Goodness! Where has the time gone! It's fourtwenty already! Mother's going to come by after her bridge game this afternoon. I'm supposed to meet her at the house at four-thirty. Ronnie, darling, why don't you run home and let Grandma in... Here's the key. Tell her I'll be along in just a few minutes."
"But Momma!" Ronnie protested. "We came here to have a visit with Basil. If you're supposed to meet with Grandma, then why don't you go home and let me stay here awhile!"
With an edge beneath the veneer of her controlled, professional voice, Sandy replied,
"No, dear. Basil and I need to talk for a moment. So thank our host and tell him goodbye."
Basil and Ronnie stood up simultaneously.
"It's OK," the boy told Basil. "You don't need to see me out... Thanks for the tea."
And throwing his arms around Basil, Ronnie hugged him warmly, laying his head on the man's chest for a second before releasing him and resuming his walk to the door.
There he paused to ask, "Momma, may I PLEASE come back after I let Grandma in?"
"We'll SEE, dear!" she all but snapped (the veneer had grown even thinner), "Now run along! Don't keep Grandma waiting!"
When the light tattoo of Ronnie's fleet runner-soled footsteps had disappeared down the walk, she continued:
"Oh, Basil, how do I say this without offending you?"
"How do you say what?"
"It would be better if Ronnie didn't come here any more... at least not by himself."
"I beg your pardon," Basil said, exhaling slowly. "Just how exactly would it be better?"
"All right, then, let me put it this way: At least for the time being I prefer that Ronnie not come to see you by himself."
Basil grew pale for a moment but did not blush. When he spoke again, his voice was one of terrible calm:
"Mrs. Reed, are you saying that you don't want Ronnie to see me?"
"Basil, I said I prefer that Ronnie not come to see you by himself. You're welcome to come to our home--if it's a convenient time and you check with us first. You know, we're often quite busy, and we don't like for anybody just to drop in..."
"Excuse me, but I'm not sure I understand the logic here. You're telling me that I'm conditionally welcome in your home, and that Ronnie is not to be allowed to visit alone with me in mine? If that is the case, then I believe I'm entitled to an explanation."
"All right," she replied, "I'm Ronnie's mother, am I not?"
"Of course you are."
"Well, as such, I have to do what I believe is right and best for Ronnie."
"Of course you do. And why on earth would you think that I don't?"
Her eyes did not soften for an instant, but she composed her face into her professional mask, complete with its disarmingly inane smile, before she responded:
"Oh, Basil, please understand. I'm not saying --not for a minute--that you would ever consciously do anything harmful to Ronnie. I think that by and large what you've done for him is commendable. Still and all, it's awkward-- don't you see? How can I put it more plainly? You're a young man almost twenty-five years old, and Ronnie's just a little eleven-year-old boy."
"The point being?"
"The point being obvious: Both at his stage in life and at yours, fourteen years is a tremendous age difference. So, for your own good you should each be associating with people of your own respective ages."
Basil sighed. then answered: "Mrs. Reed, if you were referring to some sort of romantic or carnal attachment, I could hardly disagree with you. Since that's not the case, I don't see how the age difference between Ronnie and me is at all pertinent to our playing chess together."
"It's not just that, though. I'll admit, I know little and care less about chess, but I have to agree, the game's been around for a long, long time and it's respected the world over, played and enjoyed by many, many people, including my husband.
"Webster felt that the boys would learn the game when they were ready. He didn't want to thrust it on them too soon. He also felt that they would enjoy playing with him more if someone else taught them how to play and helped them build some skill at it before they played their father. Well, he was absolutely right. He just didn't get around to arranging lessons for Ronnie before you managed to teach him. We're all very grateful for your teaching Ronnie to play chess. It's wonderful for him and his father, and they'll probably get Russell interested before long."
"So what's the problem?"
"There's more than chess here."
"Okay, there's tea, and cookies and conversation."
"You have time for conversation with an eleven-year-old?"
"Mrs. Reed, at least for a few minutes I'll take time to talk to anyone who wants to talk with me. It's called common courtesy and it should be extended to people of any age. What is it that's really bothering you?"
"I'm worried about Ronnie. He's infatuated with you. He gives me a peck on the cheek and shakes his father's hand. All of a sudden he's hugging you. This upsets our family dynamic."
"Then you might try adding some hugging to your family dynamic," Basil remarked. "That's a problem easily solved. It might take a little practice, but it doesn't cost a thing."
"Basil, that still doesn't change the issue."
"And what exactly is 'the issue'?"
"Please understand my concern. Ronnie's a little boy. You're an adult. You're not a parent, you're not married, you live by yourself. I've never seen you with a girlfriend..."
"You've never seen me with a boyfriend, either."
"That's true, but, anyhow, can you understand my concern?"
"As a theoretical problem I can, but as a practical issue I can't."
"Why not?"
"Because I'm not some hobgoblin or strange case history in a psychology textbook. I'm your neighbor who's lived down the street from you for nearly three years, during which time I've seen and said hello to you, your husband and each of your sons at least one or twice a week. Also, even if I'm on the air only a few hours a week, as a broadcaster I'm a public figure with a reputation to uphold. Why would I do anything to invite a scandal?"
"Precisely. So keep this in mind: Your motives could be as pure as the driven snow. People's minds aren't. They love to know what each other is doing, and when they don't know, they love to imagine. Whether that other person is a man, woman or child, let an adult meet meet with someone else often enough behind closed doors, and people will assume something sordid is going on... I wouldn't want to see you hurt by such suppositions; I couldn't stand to see it happen to Ronnie... Now do you understand? It really is in everyone's best interest."
Not convinced of her benevolence toward him, but concerned for Ronnie, Basil nodded tentatively.
"Good," Sandy concluded with a smile more pronounced, if no less glacial. "Now I do have to run. Mother's going to be wondering what on earth has happened to me!"
* * * * *
Although almost any ground is fertile soil for gossip, in the case of Basil Smithfield--given that one of his immediate neighbors was blind, the other deaf, and both of them lovely, kind, elderly people inclined to keep to themselves and not meddle in others' business--in all likelihood his association with Ronnie Reed would have aroused little if any attention, had Sandy herself not sown the pernicious seeds certain to bear noxious flowers and poison fruit.
As it was, at the luncheon for doctors' wives the next day she intimated to Beverley Williamson, Julie Hill, and Barbara Shelton that she had certain misgivings about young Basil Smithfield and thought it might be a good idea to keep the children away from him. With very few words she achieved the desired whispers, clucking, nodding and shaking of heads. That evening, when Basil took his customary walk to buy a paper from the rack on the corner, he wondered whether it was just his imagination or whether those neighbors whom he encountered actually were less civil and more remote than usual. By the next evening he was certain that it was not his imagination.
Even without knowing for certain, surmising what Sandy Reed had done made his heart feel heavy and bitter. But how could he determine what, if anything, had actually been said about him? Then he remembered: Pete Williamson had invited him to come by for a drink tomorrow afternoon as a token of thanks: The fund-raiser for the hospital had been a huge success. Even if they weren't the best or the brightest people to deal with, at the moment they were obligated to him, Surely they'd listen to him with an open mind...
Little did he realize how radically the events of the following day--events brought to bear by the more recent disciplinary policy in the Williamson family-- would affect the rest of his life.
END OF CHAPTER TWELVE
(End of Part 5 of 7)