crushed it in the backseat of the car; the present looked abandoned, unwanted. “It’s for the little kid—your mother and I thought of it,” Minty said.
“ What little kid?” Eddie asked. He clutched the present and the envelope under his chin, because his heavy duffel bag—and a lighter, smaller suitcase—required both his hands. Thus he staggered on board.
“The Coles have a little girl—I think she’s four!” Minty hollered. There was the rattling of chains, the chug of the boat’s engine, the intermittent blasts of the ferry horn; other people were shouting their good-byes. “They had a new child to replace the dead ones!” Eddie’s father yelled. This seemed to get the attention of even the clam-truck driver, who had parked his truck on board and now leaned over the rails of the upper deck.
“Oh,” Eddie said. “Good-bye!” he cried.
“I love you, Edward!” his father bellowed. Then Minty O’Hare began to cry. Eddie had never seen his father cry, but Eddie had not left home before. Probably his mother had cried, too, but Eddie hadn’t noticed. “Be careful !” his father wailed. The passengers who overhung the rails of the upper deck were all staring now. “Watch out for her !” his father screamed to him.
“Who?” Eddie cried.
“ Her! I mean Mrs . Cole!” the senior O’Hare shouted.
“Why?” Eddie screamed. They were pulling away, the docks falling behind; the ferry horn was deafening.
“I hear she never got over it!” Minty roared. “She’s a zombie !”
Oh, great— now he tells me! Eddie thought. But he just waved. He had no idea that the so-called zombie would be meeting his ferry at Orient Point; he didn’t yet know that Mr . Cole was not allowed to drive. It peeved Eddie that his dad had not allowed him to drive on the trip to New London—on the grounds that the traffic they would be facing was “different from Exeter traffic.” Eddie could still see his father on the receding Connecticut shore. Minty had turned away, his head in his hands—he was weeping.
What did he mean, a zombie ? Eddie had expected Mrs. Cole to be like his own mother, or like the many unmemorable faculty wives who comprised almost everything he knew about women. With any luck, Mrs. Cole might have a little of what Dot O’Hare would call “ bohemianism” in her nature, although Eddie hardly dared to hope for a woman who gave such voyeuristic pleasure as Mrs. Havelock so amply provided.
In 1958, Mrs. Havelock’s furry pits and swaying breasts were absolutely all that Eddie O’Hare thought about when he thought about women. As for girls his own age, Eddie had been unsuccessful with them; they also terrified him. Since he was a faculty brat, his few dates had been with girls from the town of Exeter, awkward acquaintances from his junior-high-school days. These town girls were more grown up now, and generally wary of the town boys who attended the academy—understandably, they were anticipating being condescended to.
On Exeter dance weekends, the out-of-town girls struck Eddie as unapproachable. They arrived on trains and in buses, often from other boarding schools or from cities like Boston and New York. They were much better dressed, and seemingly more like women, than most of the faculty wives—excepting Mrs. Havelock.
Before leaving Exeter, Eddie had leafed through the pages of the ’53 PEAN, looking for pictures of Thomas and Timothy Cole—it was their last yearbook. What he found had intimidated him greatly. Those boys had not belonged to a single club, but Thomas was pictured with both the Varsity Soccer and the Varsity Hockey teams, and Timothy, lagging not far behind his brother, was captured in the photographs of J.V. Soccer and J.V. Hockey. That they could kick and skate wasn’t what had intimidated Eddie. It was the sheer number of snapshots, throughout the yearbook, in which both boys appeared—in the many candid photos that make up a yearbook, in all those shots of
“ What little kid?” Eddie asked. He clutched the present and the envelope under his chin, because his heavy duffel bag—and a lighter, smaller suitcase—required both his hands. Thus he staggered on board.
“The Coles have a little girl—I think she’s four!” Minty hollered. There was the rattling of chains, the chug of the boat’s engine, the intermittent blasts of the ferry horn; other people were shouting their good-byes. “They had a new child to replace the dead ones!” Eddie’s father yelled. This seemed to get the attention of even the clam-truck driver, who had parked his truck on board and now leaned over the rails of the upper deck.
“Oh,” Eddie said. “Good-bye!” he cried.
“I love you, Edward!” his father bellowed. Then Minty O’Hare began to cry. Eddie had never seen his father cry, but Eddie had not left home before. Probably his mother had cried, too, but Eddie hadn’t noticed. “Be careful !” his father wailed. The passengers who overhung the rails of the upper deck were all staring now. “Watch out for her !” his father screamed to him.
“Who?” Eddie cried.
“ Her! I mean Mrs . Cole!” the senior O’Hare shouted.
“Why?” Eddie screamed. They were pulling away, the docks falling behind; the ferry horn was deafening.
“I hear she never got over it!” Minty roared. “She’s a zombie !”
Oh, great— now he tells me! Eddie thought. But he just waved. He had no idea that the so-called zombie would be meeting his ferry at Orient Point; he didn’t yet know that Mr . Cole was not allowed to drive. It peeved Eddie that his dad had not allowed him to drive on the trip to New London—on the grounds that the traffic they would be facing was “different from Exeter traffic.” Eddie could still see his father on the receding Connecticut shore. Minty had turned away, his head in his hands—he was weeping.
What did he mean, a zombie ? Eddie had expected Mrs. Cole to be like his own mother, or like the many unmemorable faculty wives who comprised almost everything he knew about women. With any luck, Mrs. Cole might have a little of what Dot O’Hare would call “ bohemianism” in her nature, although Eddie hardly dared to hope for a woman who gave such voyeuristic pleasure as Mrs. Havelock so amply provided.
In 1958, Mrs. Havelock’s furry pits and swaying breasts were absolutely all that Eddie O’Hare thought about when he thought about women. As for girls his own age, Eddie had been unsuccessful with them; they also terrified him. Since he was a faculty brat, his few dates had been with girls from the town of Exeter, awkward acquaintances from his junior-high-school days. These town girls were more grown up now, and generally wary of the town boys who attended the academy—understandably, they were anticipating being condescended to.
On Exeter dance weekends, the out-of-town girls struck Eddie as unapproachable. They arrived on trains and in buses, often from other boarding schools or from cities like Boston and New York. They were much better dressed, and seemingly more like women, than most of the faculty wives—excepting Mrs. Havelock.
Before leaving Exeter, Eddie had leafed through the pages of the ’53 PEAN, looking for pictures of Thomas and Timothy Cole—it was their last yearbook. What he found had intimidated him greatly. Those boys had not belonged to a single club, but Thomas was pictured with both the Varsity Soccer and the Varsity Hockey teams, and Timothy, lagging not far behind his brother, was captured in the photographs of J.V. Soccer and J.V. Hockey. That they could kick and skate wasn’t what had intimidated Eddie. It was the sheer number of snapshots, throughout the yearbook, in which both boys appeared—in the many candid photos that make up a yearbook, in all those shots of
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