Old School by Tobias Wolff Page A

wouldn’t have guessed, seeing Mr. Ramsey settle back with a smile, that he’d just been stepped on by Robert Frost in front of the whole school. He had been my fifth-form English teacher and though I hadn’t liked him I did find him interesting, just as I’d found his question to Frost interesting. But many of his students thought him a pseud for his high diction and his passion for complicated European writers. They had surely enjoyed this little show.
     
    The headmaster led us in a last storm of applause, then we filed out of the chapel into a hard freezing wind. I asked George if he was headed to Blaine Hall, since it was rumored that Frost might drop by there for a cup of mulled cider with the English Club. No, George said—he was going back to his room.
    Why? Scared he’ll give you the business? He was just teasing you, George.
    He shook his head. Mr. Frost really thinks my poem is some kind of mockery of his work.
    He’s the one who chose it. If it bothered him, why would he do that?
    I don’t know why Mr. Frost chose my poem, he said. But he seems out of sorts about it.
    What the hell. You can clear things up with him at your audience tomorrow.
    If I have my audience.
    What, you think he’ll blow you off?
    I didn’t say that.
    George. Hold up. Hold up!
    We stopped on the path. The line of boys shuffled past us. A derelict kite flapped frantically in a tree. George looked away from me, back to the wind, tweed hat pulled low on his head. I think I’m coming down with something, he said.
    George, you can’t stand Robert Frost up.
    It wouldn’t count as standing him up if I was in the infirmary.
    You chickenshit. You big baby.
    George hunched deeper into his coat, hands jammed in the pockets.
    You can’t do this, I said. This is something special. Something to tell your kids about. Your grandkids!
    He won’t mind. He’ll be glad.
    George. George. This is really dumb. Where are you supposed to meet him, anyway?
    Headmaster’s parlor.
    When?
    After breakfast, George said, then turned and looked at me. Why?
    Just wondered. Are you really going to back out?
    I don’t know.
    What a waste.
    We walked along to where the path forked. Come over to Blaine, I told him. We can talk it over.
    He shook his head.
    It’d be a complete waste if you backed out. I mean, he’s
here,
George. Robert Frost. The chance of a lifetime. He’s, what? Eighty-six? Eighty-seven? It’s now or never.
    I understand that.
    So are you really backing out? Because if you are, there’s no point in letting a chance like that go to waste.
    I saw him begin to understand me. This has nothing to do with you, he said.
    I’m just saying, why throw a chance like this away? He’s willing to spend some time with one of us. If
you
won’t meet with him, let somebody else.
    Like you?
    Sure. Why not.
    You’d be willing to take my place?
    Yes.
    But he didn’t choose your poem. He chose mine.
    So? If you won’t meet him, why not me?
    Because you didn’t win. I won. That’s why not. Would you actually accept an honor you didn’t earn?
    Oh, like you
earned
it with those rhymes of yours? Please—we’re not talking about
Paradise Lost
here.
    George looked at me with cold curiosity. It unsettled me, but my blood was up and I couldn’t stop myself. Would I accept a meeting with Robert Frost? I said. An
unearned
meeting, as opposed to an
earned
meeting, like yours? You bet your sweet ass I would.
    George turned and started across the quad.
    I followed. Are you backing out or not?
    He didn’t answer.
    Wait’ll he gets you alone, you big baby. He’ll chop you into little pieces.
    I stopped and watched him bend into the wind, coattails streaming.
     
    Frost didn’t turn up at Blaine Hall that night, but Mrs. Ramsey did. Her solitary entrance put everyone on alert, like a song going up an octave. Faculty wives didn’t attend such gatherings without their husbands, and as adviser to the English Club Mr. Ramsey was supposed to serve as host. Mrs.