‘Haven’t you noticed that I’m taller than Laura now?’
His father thought for a moment. ‘Yes, I suppose you are.’
Midwood High School had the identical red-brick neo-Georgian style with the same proud tower as the halls of Brooklyn College, whose campus it adjoined.
On the wall of its impressive marble lobby was the school motto:
Enter to grow in body, mind and spirit.
Depart to serve better your God, your country and your fellow man.
‘Gosh, it really kind of inspires you, doesn’t it, Barn?’ Laura said, as they stood there looking in awe at those carved words.
‘Yeah, I’m especially hoping to grow in body before the basketball tryouts.’
Laura was conspicuous among the freshmen girls for both height and beauty. Very soon, juniors and seniors – some of them hotshot athletes and student leaders – were scampering up the ‘down’ staircase to station themselves in Laura’s path and petition for a date.
These were intoxicating days. Men had suddenly discovered her – boys, anyway. And their persistent attention helped her try to forget that she was once a disappointment to her sex. (‘Not only am I ugly,’ she had confided to Barney, ‘I’m so tall everyone in the world can see it.’)
Whereas during their first tentative days at Midwood Barney and Laura ate alone at a table in the cafeteria, she now was so surrounded by upper class suitors that he did not even attempt to join her. (‘I’m afraid of getting trampled, Castellano.’)
Barney himself did not make much headway. It seemed the last thing a freshman girl wanted to meet was a freshman boy. Like a true Brooklyn Dodger he would ‘have to wait till next year.’ And be content with daydreaming about the cheerleader captain, Cookie Klein.
Though the Midwood teams were famously unvictorious, there were always great turnouts for the school’s athletic events. Did incurable optimism – or masochism – come with the fluoridation of the Flatbush water?
There was a simpler explanation: The Midwood cheerleaders were extraordinarily beautiful – a spectacle that more than compensated for the debacle.
So fierce was the competition to become one of them that many girls took extreme measures to be selected. Thus Mandy Sherman spent the fortnight of spring vacation undergoing a rhinoplasty, fervently believing that all she lacked was a perfect nose.
Imagine then Cookie Klein’s consternation when she approached Laura to recruit her – and was turned down flat. In a matter of hours, the news had reverberated around the school.
‘I mean, everybody’s talking about it,’ Barney reported.
Laura shrugged. ‘I just think it’s stupid, Barn. Who the hell wants to be gawked at in the first place? Anyway, while all those girls are busy practicing their cartwheels, I can be studying.’ Then an instant later she added, half to herself, ‘Besides, I’m really not that pretty.’
He looked at her and shook his head.
‘I gotta say this, Castellano – I think you’ve got a screw loose.’
Barney was a dedicated student. Several days a week he got up at five to do some extra cramming so he could use the afternoon for playing ball. Since the official season hadn’t yet begun, many of the Varsity big guns were out scrimmaging in the schoolyard and he wanted to see firsthand what he was up against.
Long after the other players had started for home, in the gathering darkness dispelled only by a street lamp, Barney would continue practicing his jumper, his hook – and finally his foul shot.
Only then would he step on the Nostrand Avenue trolley and wearily try to study as he rode homeward.
Naturally, he was taking the usual required courses: Math, Civics, English, and General Science. But for his one elective, he had chosen a subject calculated to please his father: Latin.
He loved it – the exhilaration of digging for the Latin roots that made the English language bloom. It made his mental faculties more dexterous (from mens, facultas, and dexter) and his prose style more concise (from prosa, stylus, and concisus).
To his delight, all language suddenly became palpable. And, boy, did his vocabulary grow.
He displayed his new verbal pyrotechnicality at every possible moment. When asked by his English teacher if he had studied hard for the midterm, he replied, ‘Without dubitation, Miss Simpson, I lucubrated indefatigably.’
But if his dad was flattered, he was not demonstrative about it even when Barney asked him grammatical questions to which he already knew the answer.
He turned to his mother. ‘What is it, Mom? Isn’t Dad happy that I’m taking Latin?’
‘Of course he is. He’s very proud.’
But if Dad had told her, Barney thought, how come he didn’t say a word to me?
Then one day he rushed home with his Latin midterm and bolted up the stairs into his father’s study.
‘Look, Dad,’ he said, breathlessly handing over the examination paper.
Harold took a long puff on his cigarette and began to scrutinize his son’s work. ‘Ah yes,’ he murmured to himself. ‘I’m reading Virgil this year with my kids as well.’ And then more silence.
As Barney waited anxiously, he could not keep himself from adding, ‘In case you’re wondering, it was the highest in the class.’
His father nodded and then turned to him. ‘You know, in a way this makes me a little sad …’
Barney’s mouth suddenly went dry.
‘… I mean, I wish I could have had you in my own Latin class.’
Barney never forgot that day, that hour, that moment, those words.
His father liked him after all.
Laura had reached a major – and startling – decision. She mentioned it casually to Barney during the trolley ride from school one day.
‘I’m going to run for president.’
‘Are you nuts, Castellano? No girl’s ever going to become President of the United States.’
She frowned. ‘I meant of the class, Barn.’
‘That’s still crazy. I mean, there’s only two of us from P.S. 148 in all of Midwood. You won’t have a gang of friends to back you up.’
‘I have you.’
‘Yeah, but I’m only one vote. And you don’t expect me to stuff the ballot box, do you?’
‘But you could help me write a speech. All the candidates get two minutes during one of the class Assembly periods.’
‘Do you know who you’re up against?’
‘No, but I think I’m the only girl. Now, can you work with me on Sunday afternoon – please?’
‘Okay.’ He sighed. ‘I’ll help you make a fool of yourself.’
They rode along for a few minutes, faces buried in their textbooks. Then Barney remarked, ‘I never dreamed you were this ambitious.’
‘I am, Barney,’ she confessed in a lowered voice. ‘I’m ambitious as hell.’
As it turned out, they spent the entire weekend concocting the two minutes that would change the world. At first, they lost a lot of time trying to dream up extravagant campaign promises (free class outings to Coney Island, etc.). Barney finally came to the conclusion that politics at any level is essentially an exercise in making the mendacious sound veracious. In other words, being a convincing liar.
And he was shameless enough to urge Laura to make ample use of that most Machiavellian of words – ‘integrity.’
At Assembly, after three sweating, madly gesticulating candidates had almost set the packed auditorium to laughing with their bombast, Laura’s calm and deliberate walk to the podium (Barney had even rehearsed her in that) made an astonishing contrast.
She spoke in soft unhurried tones, now and then pausing – partly for effect and partly because she was so frightened she could barely breathe.
Equally dramatic was the contrast between her speech and those preceding. Simply stated, she said that she was as new to Midwood as she had been to America but a few years ago. She appreciated the warmth of her schoolmates as she appreciated the country that had welcomed her.
And the only way she could imagine repaying the debt for all she had received was by public service. If elected, she could promise them no miracles, no pie in the sky, no convertibles for every garage (laughter). All she had to offer was integrity.
The applause was muted. Not because her classmates were unimpressed, but because the sheer artlessness of her words, her manifest integrity, and – it cannot be denied – her striking good looks had bedazzled them.
Indeed, by the time the assembly ended and all were singing the alma mater, her election seemed a foregone conclusion. The homeward ride lacked only the ticker tape.
‘You did it, Castellano. It was a total shutout. I’ll bet you’ll be president of the whole school some day.’
‘No, Barney,’ she answered affectionately, ‘you did it – you wrote practically my whole speech.’
‘Come on, I only made up some bullshit. It was the way you performed out there that was the real kayo punch.’
‘Okay, okay. We did it.’
That summer, the Castellanos and the Livingstons rented a small house a block from the beach in Neponset, Long Island. There they stayed, breathing healthy sea air, while Luis came out to join them only on the weekends. He was always in a state of semi-exhaustion from the terrible annual battle against polio.
And, of course, for Inez the talk of possible epidemics and the sight of young children playing happily on the beach brought back – though they were never far away – the memories of her little Isobel. if only they had gone to the seashore then.
She would stare off into the ocean while harold and Estelle sat with their faces buried in a book – Estelle reading Pride and Prejudice and Harold rereading Syme’s Roman Revolution.
Meanwhile, an innocently seductive Laura joined her teenage girlfriends running and diving into the waves. And every lifeguard who took his turn on the high wooden seat silently prayed that she would call for his help.
Of course, there were dates. Young, bronzed suitors in their parents’ Studebakers or DeSotos sought eagerly to take Laura to drive-in movies, or starlit barbecues on the deserted beach.
And necking.
Parking in a tranquil spot ‘to watch the submarines’ or other euphemistic terms for making out – while on the radio Nat King Cole crooned ‘Love Is a Many Splendored Thing.’
Late one sultry August evening, Sheldon Harris put his hand on Laura’s breast. She said, ‘No, don’t.’ But did not really mean it. Yet when he tried to slip his hand inside her blouse, she once again said no. And meant it.
Barney had no time for such frivolity. Early each morning he would wolf down breakfast and start along the still-empty shore, carrying his sneakers (so they wouldn’t get sandy) to Riis Park, where games of basketball went on around the clock.
Time was running short. In a mere sixty-one days he would be trying out for the Midwood Varsity. Nothing could be left to chance. He even consulted Dr Castellano on what foods would be most likely to induce growth. (‘Try eating lunch, to start with,’ Luis advised.) Barney’s nutritional campaign was supplemented by periodic sessions on the Riis Park chinning bars. He would hang for as long as he could bear it, hoping his body would stretch in the right direction. On the eve of Labor Day 1951, Barney stood up as straight as possible against the white stucco wall of the porch as independent measurements were taken by Harold and Luis.
The results were spectacular: one tape read six feet and a quarter inch, the other six and three-eighths. He whooped for joy. Laura (who had earlier learned to her great relief that she’d finally stopped growing at five-ten) and Warren (five-four) stood and clapped.
‘I made it, guys, I made it!’ Barney squealed, jumping around the room like a rabbit with a hotfoot.
‘Not quite.’ Laura smiled mischievously. ‘You still have to put the ball through the hoop.’
Thus, in the year that saw president Truman relieve General MacArthur of his Far East command and Professor Robert Woodward of Harvard synthesize cholesterol and cortisone, Laura Castellano ascended to the presidency of the sophomore class. And Barney Livingston faced his long-dreaded moment – or, to be precise, three minutes – of truth.
One hundred and eighty seconds was all the time basketball coach Doug Nordlinger needed to distinguish between a live tiger and a dead dog.
The air in the gym was pungent with fear. The candidates were divided into groups of five (Shirts versus Skins) who would go on court to play against one another for three minutes of scrutiny. Each of the ten aspirants had to show his stuff during the same time limit.
Two minutes into his trial, Barney had scarcely gotten his hands on the ball. It looked as if all his dreams of glory would go up in sweat.
Then suddenly a shot was misfired against his own basket. Both he and a taller rival leaped for it. But Barney boxed him out and snatched the ball.
As he started upcourt, several Shirts made desperate lunges for the ball. But Barney pivoted, dribbling with either hand.
Another desperate Shirt approached with murder in his eyes. Barney faked left, ran right, and glided by him. With ten seconds to go he was underneath the enemy basket. He wanted to shoot – but common sense dictated that he should pass to a better-placed teammate. He forced himself to toss the ball to a Skin who was in the clear. As the fellow shot – and missed – the buzzer rang.
It was all over.
The coach lined up all ten in a row. All fidgeted nervously, as if about to face a firing squad – which, in a sense, they were. Nordlinger’s eyes went left to right, then right to left.
‘Awright, I want these guys to step forward. You—’ He indicated a tall, gangly, pimple-faced member of the Shirt contingent.
‘The rest of you fellas, thanks a lot …’
Barney’s heart sank to his sneakers.
‘… except you. Hey, Curly – didn’t you hear me?’
Barney, who had been gazing disconsolately at the floor, suddenly looked up. Nordlinger was pointing at him.
‘Yes, sir?’ His voice was little more than a croak.
‘That was smart playmaking there, kid. What’s your name?’
‘Barney, sir, Barney Livingston.’
‘Okay, Livingston, you and Sandy go over and sit on the team bench.’
As Barney stood in motionless astonishment, the coach turned and bellowed, ‘Next two teams, hustle out there!’
‘C’mon,’ said his lanky future teammate. And the two started toward the wooden shrine of the elect.
‘The coach knew your name already,’ Barney remarked with curiosity.
‘Yeah.’ The beanpole grinned smugly. ‘When you’re six foot six in Flatbush, a lotta coaches know your name.’
At five-thirty that afternoon Barney, Sandy Leavitt (as the beanpole’s full name turned out to be), and a third, barrel-chested sophomore, Hugh Jascourt, were measured for uniforms. Official practice would start next Monday, but their satin team jackets – that irresistible lodestone for the co-eds – would not arrive for three weeks. But, hopefully, the Argus would publish the good news before that and Barney’s social life would move into high gear.
He sprinted off to tell Laura.
4
Late in the second half of the Midwood-New Utrecht game, the scorekeeper pressed a button. A buzz reverberated across the gym and into the annals of history. For it was followed by the announcement: ‘Midwood substitution, Number Ten, Livingston.’
There was perfunctory applause from the stands. And one delirious war whoop, ‘C’mon, Livingston!’
With four minutes left, the New Utrecht boys were getting careless. Barney was able to intercept a pass and start a fast break downcourt, finally handing off to captain Jay Axelrod, who sank the lay-up.
Then, with only forty seconds to go, an enemy player charged into Barney, incurring a penalty. Barney took a deep breath at the foul line. He had been there so many times in his imagination that summer in Riis Park. Now it was for real. He took careful aim … and sank it: his first Varsity point!
/> Laura cupped her hands and cheered, ‘Way to go, Barney!’
After the game, as they stood side by side under adjoining showers, Jay Axelrod congratulated Barney on his performance, adding, ‘That Laura Castellano must be your one-man fan club. You dating her or something?’
‘No, no,’ Barney gargled, as he let the warm water spill down his throat. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘I’d sorta like to ask her out.’
‘So what’s stopping you?’ Barney inquired.
‘I don’t know,’ the captain of the Midwood basketball team replied with sudden diffidence, ‘I mean, she’s so good-looking and …’
‘Want me to introduce you?’ Barney offered.
‘Gee, wouldja, Livingston? I’d be really grateful.’
‘No sweat, Jay. She’ll be waiting right outside. You can meet her tonight.’
‘No, no, Barn.’
‘Why not?’
‘I’ve gotta get a haircut first.’
During the ride home, Barney told Laura of the honour about to be bestowed on her. She laughed.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘Suzie Fishman came over to me after the game and asked if I’d introduce you.’
‘Suzie Fishman?’ Barney answered, wide-eyed. ‘She’s one of the best-looking girls in the school. Why does she want to meet me – I mean, I only scored one point.’
‘She thinks you’re cute.’
‘Yeah? Really? It’s amazing what a Midwood uniform can do, isn’t it, Castellano?’
‘Oh,’ she said, smiling, ‘is that all you think you have to offer?’
Inspired by the arrival of his shiny new basketball jacket, Barney began a rake’s progress to win the hearts of the Midwood cheerleaders. The team ate lunch together, their conversation filled with erotic braggadocio. If there had been even a modicum of truth to the claims made over tuna fish sandwiches and milk, there was no girl over sixteen in Flatbush – perhaps even the entire borough of Brooklyn – who was still a virgin.
Laura had been dating Jay Axelrod regularly ever since Barney introduced them. They made such a handsome couple that Barney jokingly referred to them as ‘Mr and Mrs Midwood.’