history became passions of the budding academic. However, beneath this success story, was an ever-present force tugging on Preston’s psyche. He learned to suppress his fears for the majority of the day, but the nights were a different matter. His roommates routinely needed to wake him from nightmares.
Herbert fought to control his temper. “Son, it will be alright. For God’s sake, get out of the car.” Preston slowly shifted his eyes left and right, focusing on his father. Their relationship was footed on confrontation. Herbert exercised a stream of threats and exhortations when Preston didn’t conform to the Swedge model. The years spent in Connecticut allowed Preston to develop away from his father.
Bernice didn’t provide a counterbalance to her husband’s cold and impersonal relationship. With a staff of servants, the youngster was raised with minimal involvement of his mother and developed emotional attachments to adults who demonstrated a sense of caring. He was influenced and at times manipulated by the people and events surrounding him.
“Why are you staring at me?” Preston asked, wiping sweat from his forehead. “Have we arrived?” His coal-black stick straight hair was plastered down on his head, the collar of his shirt was stained, and his pants were hopelessly wrinkled.
Herbert was incredulous and turned to his wife. “Please, get him out of the car and try to make him look presentable.”
“Get a change of clothes from one of his suitcases in the trunk.” Bernice was distressed by the way her son could be transformed into a creature she didn’t understand or recognize. The changes were dramatic and startling. She knew that many of her son’s psychological demons could be traced to her, but she was powerless to mediate them.
Preston did as instructed and followed his parents into Dowd Hall looking for a restroom. The cool air of the hallway was welcome. A men’s room was to the left of the admissions reception area. Preston studied the image in the mirror above the sink, cursing the Swedge legacy. He freshened himself then changed his clothes. Leaving the men’s room, Preston found his parents looking at class pictures going back to the 1870s lining the walls. Herbert found his own, his father’s, and pointedout classmates to his wife. “Mr. Phillips is waiting two doors on the right,” Herbert Swedge said. “We’ll leave your things in the holding area and be off.”
Preston wasn’t surprised by the brusqueness of his father. He turned to his mother. “When did he decide to change plans, when I was in the men’s room?” Herbert planned to show his son his old stomping grounds. “This excursion was
his
idea. I could’ve taken the train.” He handed his mother his soiled clothes. “Maybe I’ll see you at Thanksgiving, if you’re going to be in town.”
Preston walked into the waiting area of the empty office. “Greetings, Mr. Swedge, I’m Stanley Phillips, coordinator for incoming students.”
“I’m Preston. Mr. Swedge is on the way back to New York City.” They both laughed. Preston was handed schedules for orientation and meals. Classes were scheduled to begin in two days.
“A third year student will be here in a few minutes to take you over to Albert Hall. Your things will be delivered once you’ve checked in. If I can be of assistance in any way, please contact me.” Phillips extended his hand.
Preston took a seat in the anteroom. Within five minutes his guide arrived. “Good afternoon, I’m Robert Livingston. I will be your guide today and ordained by the powers that be, your mentor.”
Preston suddenly felt the sensation that all the class pictures were staring at him. Livingston spurred him on. “You can come back and look at the rogue’s gallery. I did it, and have returned several times over the years. These pictures can be a positive force when things don’t go so well. Remember, some of them finished last in each class.” A smile broke across
Herbert fought to control his temper. “Son, it will be alright. For God’s sake, get out of the car.” Preston slowly shifted his eyes left and right, focusing on his father. Their relationship was footed on confrontation. Herbert exercised a stream of threats and exhortations when Preston didn’t conform to the Swedge model. The years spent in Connecticut allowed Preston to develop away from his father.
Bernice didn’t provide a counterbalance to her husband’s cold and impersonal relationship. With a staff of servants, the youngster was raised with minimal involvement of his mother and developed emotional attachments to adults who demonstrated a sense of caring. He was influenced and at times manipulated by the people and events surrounding him.
“Why are you staring at me?” Preston asked, wiping sweat from his forehead. “Have we arrived?” His coal-black stick straight hair was plastered down on his head, the collar of his shirt was stained, and his pants were hopelessly wrinkled.
Herbert was incredulous and turned to his wife. “Please, get him out of the car and try to make him look presentable.”
“Get a change of clothes from one of his suitcases in the trunk.” Bernice was distressed by the way her son could be transformed into a creature she didn’t understand or recognize. The changes were dramatic and startling. She knew that many of her son’s psychological demons could be traced to her, but she was powerless to mediate them.
Preston did as instructed and followed his parents into Dowd Hall looking for a restroom. The cool air of the hallway was welcome. A men’s room was to the left of the admissions reception area. Preston studied the image in the mirror above the sink, cursing the Swedge legacy. He freshened himself then changed his clothes. Leaving the men’s room, Preston found his parents looking at class pictures going back to the 1870s lining the walls. Herbert found his own, his father’s, and pointedout classmates to his wife. “Mr. Phillips is waiting two doors on the right,” Herbert Swedge said. “We’ll leave your things in the holding area and be off.”
Preston wasn’t surprised by the brusqueness of his father. He turned to his mother. “When did he decide to change plans, when I was in the men’s room?” Herbert planned to show his son his old stomping grounds. “This excursion was
his
idea. I could’ve taken the train.” He handed his mother his soiled clothes. “Maybe I’ll see you at Thanksgiving, if you’re going to be in town.”
Preston walked into the waiting area of the empty office. “Greetings, Mr. Swedge, I’m Stanley Phillips, coordinator for incoming students.”
“I’m Preston. Mr. Swedge is on the way back to New York City.” They both laughed. Preston was handed schedules for orientation and meals. Classes were scheduled to begin in two days.
“A third year student will be here in a few minutes to take you over to Albert Hall. Your things will be delivered once you’ve checked in. If I can be of assistance in any way, please contact me.” Phillips extended his hand.
Preston took a seat in the anteroom. Within five minutes his guide arrived. “Good afternoon, I’m Robert Livingston. I will be your guide today and ordained by the powers that be, your mentor.”
Preston suddenly felt the sensation that all the class pictures were staring at him. Livingston spurred him on. “You can come back and look at the rogue’s gallery. I did it, and have returned several times over the years. These pictures can be a positive force when things don’t go so well. Remember, some of them finished last in each class.” A smile broke across
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