A Solitary Blue Read Free Page B

didn’t knowabout his father; his father never said anything, one way or the other.
    â€œDon’t you wonder?” Ian asked.
    Jeff shook his head. As long as the Professor’s life suited him, he would probably stay. “He’s afraid of changes,” Melody used to tell Jeff. “He’s a creature of routine. And he doesn’t know how hard it is on other people.” It wasn’t hard on Jeff, however; not nearly as hard as it would be if the Professor decided to leave too. So Jeff didn’t wonder, he just made sure that the Professor’s life was what the Professor wanted.
    The summer before sixth grade, sitting behind his father as they drove back from their week at Ocean City, Jeff asked who was going to housekeep for them that year. “Nobody,” the Professor said. “You’re old enough now, aren’t you?”
    Jeff could hear that his father wanted him to be old enough. “Yes,” he agreed. He looked at his father. The back of the Professor’s neck was sunburned, and so were his hands on the steering wheel. They got caught in two traffic jams, where the road narrowed to bridges to cross rivers.
    But the Professor didn’t mind. He turned around to Jeff. “It doesn’t make any difference what time we get there, does it.”
    â€œNo,” Jeff agreed.
    That fall, one of the Professor’s Whist players became a friend. This friend came to their house to visit and do Greek with the Professor, so Jeff met him. He was a man in his forties, younger than the Professor, who taught Theology at the university. He was a Catholic Brother, Brother Thomas. “Doubting Thomas,” he introduced himself to Jeff, the first night he came to their house. Jeff wondered, without asking, what he meant. The brown eyes studied his face. “It was a joke,” Brother Thomas said, so Jeff smiled. “I had no idea you had a son, Horace. Well, I guess gossip said you did, but I’d forgotten.”
    Jeff shook his hand and looked at the man. He was round and short, his round head was bald except for a fringe of pale hair that ran around the base of his skull. Like the Professor, he wore big, square glasses. He wore a black suit, with the round white collar showing above his black shirt front. “You’re old for such a young son, aren’t you, Horace?”
    â€œI married late,” the Professor answered.
    â€œAh,” Brother Thomas said. He had brought a bottle of wine with him. He insisted that the Professor let Jeff taste it. Jeff sat quiet at the table, working out how they wanted him to behave. He watched their eyes and listened carefully to their conversation. Brother Thomas’s eyes often rested on Jeff, but the man didn’t ask him questions so he didn’t volunteer anything. The Professor paid close attention to what Brother Thomas said, so Jeff deduced that he thought the man was interesting and wanted him to enjoy himself. Jeff took special care over the dinner, so that the brother would like the food, even if it was only hamburgers on rolls. He toasted the rolls and buttered them. He turned the hamburgers frequently, so that they would be cooked but not too thickly crusted. He chopped onions and sliced celery to add to the salad.
    â€œA man with your taste should have a decent set of wine glasses,” Brother Thomas said, holding up his glass. They were all sitting around the kitchen table after dinner. The Professor had moved his study back downstairs, and after three years the living room was filled with boxes of books and boxes of papers and boxes of old clothes. There was no place else in the house to sit.
    â€œI can’t afford to indulge my tastes,” the Professor said.
    â€œYou could strike for a raise,” Brother Thomas suggested. “Carry placards, deliberately teach untruths. Or how about a sitdown strike?” Jeff had never heard of anyone talk to his father in the easy, off-hand