He felt both relieved and sad. He knew now what he would do. Park the car in some safe garage, and then try and find the girl Nehemiah had introduced him to a few weeks before, a girl who was so good she might be able to make him forget that Sudsy had TB.
***
When David returned to Pengard the next day just before noon, he felt better than he had expected to, but still not good. There were messages in his mail rack. He stood looking at them morosely, then took them out and without looking at them went up to his room. There he heated water, made coffee, and splashed cold water on his face. As he sat, coffee mug in hand, at the card table, he read the messages. Two of them read "Call the Infirmary." These he crumpled and threw away. It was too late now. Two others read "Call Dr. Knudsen," and the fifth read "Call Dean Goodhue."
He finished his coffee, made another cup and drank that, then went downstairs to the telephone. His conversation with Dr. Knudsen was brief, consisting of: "This is David Champlin"—"Be here immediately"—and "Yes, sir."
He was glad he had Sudsy's car, and he thought as he drove to Professor's Knudsen's that Sudsy's offer of the car had not been the result of whiskey; stone sober, Sudsy would have done the same thing. It would be a godsend on weekends to get him back and forth to his job in Cincinnati. He just wished it didn't seem so damned empty without Sudsy in it.
Eve Knudsen opened the door, smiled warmly, and said, "He's waiting for you, David."
"With a club?"
She laughed. "No, no. Not with a club. Never a club for you, David."
She had turned and started down the hall, and David felt his eyes drawn upward, perhaps by a sound, but if it had been a sound it had been a very small one. Sara was standing halfway down the stairs, not moving, her face solemn and troubled. He smiled up at her. "Hi, Sara!" He had stopped himself just in time from saying "Hi, smallest."
She smiled, like a child who has been reassured. "Hi, David." She wrinkled her nose, and in a stage whisper said, "It's all right. Don't worry." Then, without moving a hand, or pursing her lips, without changing her position, she blew a kiss to him.
He told himself as he followed Eve Knudsen, "You're out of your mind, Champlin; she couldn't have. You're-out-of-your-ever-lovin'-mind."
At the study door Eve stopped, knocked, and said, "It's David Champlin, dear." Before she turned away she patted his shoulder. "He's not angry," she whispered. "Just upset. An upset Dane is a fearsome thing—but not lethal."
He was grateful for her reassurance when he entered the room. Dr. Karl Knudsen's eyes were a blazing blue; every hair on his head seemed crackling with emotion. He was sitting facing the door, in a swivel chair behind a flat-topped desk.
"Where have you been?"
"Columbus, sir." David sat in the modern Danish armchair opposite Knudsen.
"Have you called Dean Goodhue?"
"No, sir. Just you."
"Sutherland. Where is he?"
"I don't—he's at home, sir. In Boston. By now."
"Why is he at home? Is he at home because you took him out of the Infirmary and drove him to the train?"
"No, sir!" It had not occurred to David that this interpretation would be placed on the incident of the day before. "I took him to the train. But he walked out of the Infirmary himself and came to my room." There was something in the wind; he could smell it.
"You are sure about this? Quite sure? We have been told differently. We have been told that Sutherland's car was seen stopped just near the rear entrance to the Infirmary. And that you were driving."
It had to have been from a window, thought David. The campus had definitely been deserted. There were no windows affording a view of the rear of the Infirmary except those on the south side of Emory Hall. To the best of his knowledge only Randolph Clevenger had been in Emory Hall the afternoon before. And his room was on the south side. But Clevenger had seen him in the upper corridor, must have heard Sudsy urging him to hurry, saying "Come on, David; you've been dragging your ass all afternoon."
He answered Knudsen now. "We went from my room to his, and I helped him pack. We drove from Emory Hall, and when we got near the Infirmary the lid of the trunk began to bang. I got out and locked it."
Some of the blaze left Knudsen's eyes.
"You have a great responsibility," he said.
David's breath did not even quicken when the wall closed round him, a wall transparent to those on one side, opaque to those on the other. He thought, behind his wall: Why? Why do I have a great responsibility? The whites have no responsibility because they are human beings, but I am a Negro and not a human being; therefore I have a great responsibility?
To Knudsen, he said, "Yes" in a flat tone, while his mind raced on: Every damned one of you whites, you carry your race on your shoulders just as we do; what about your responsibilities to your race? It doesn't matter, it doesn't matter a Goddamned bit that you degrade it every time you put a Negro on a spot because he is a Negro? The hell with my responsibilities—what about your responsibilities to the human race, you guys with the whip hand?
He was conscious that during the silence Knudsen had been looking at him closely; was conscious, too, of an almost plaintive note in the other's voice when he said, "I do not know what you are thinking."
David wanted to answer, "No, but I know what you are thinking, and it will always be that way, and that is why someday the loss will be yours." Instead, he remained silent. Knudsen would think he was sulking. It didn't matter.
"Will you at least tell me what happened, David?"
"Yes, sir." He gave Knudsen the story of the previous afternoon. When he finished, he said: "I admit I tried to get him drunk. I figured they wouldn't be rough on him if he'd just sneaked out and gone back to his room and gotten drunk. And I thought for a while that I could get him back into the Infirmary before they missed him. But he was too cagey. I don't see how I could have stopped him—outside of force. He was—he was like a stubborn homesick kid."
Knudsen sighed. "It makes sense." He pushed the telephone across the desk to within David's reach. "Call the dean. Call Goodhue."
As he dialed Goodhue's number David could hear that fruity voice in his mind, speaking to a student, any student: "Don't hesitate to call me, any time." Then the singsong "One-two-three-four—Sometimes I wish there were more— Ein, zwei—" and the pipe-distorted chuckle. Then he heard Goodhue's voice, "Dean Goodhue here."
He was a little surprised that he felt no fear, surprised at the quick realization that Goodhue could not hurt him; that none of the brass at Pengard could hurt him. Sudsy could hurt him by being sick and unhappy and away, but the others could not. They could hurt Gramp; that was what mattered, but even as he said, "This is David Champlin," he realized they could not hurt Gramp either, because Gramp would be expecting it; would always and forever, as long as he lived, be expecting something like this when his grandson was away, was charting a course over the perilous, uncertain seas of the white world where no compass ever pointed true North for a colored navigator.
Goodhue was saying something now about calling Quimby House and not being able to reach him. "I must have a talk with you," he said.
"Whenever you say, Dean."
"Two thirty would be best."
"I'll be "here at two thirty."
"Right." There was a click as Goodhue hung up, and David looked at the receiver in his own hand and said, "And right to you."
Knudsen made no comment, but stood, and then walked with him down the hall to the front door. The blaze had gone entirely from his eyes, and they were troubled now. As he opened the door he said: "Don't worry too much, David. I am sure it will work out."
David looked at him, eyes without expression, voice low and courteous. "I'm not worried, Dr. Knudsen. Whether it works out or not. I'm not worried."
***
Merriwether Goodhue turned from the telephone and walked to one of the armchairs that flanked the fireplace in his study. As he sat he looked at Randolph Clevenger, opposite him.
"That," he said, "was David Champlin."
The attempt at humor was sententious and unfunny, but Clevenger rewarded it with a smile. "So I gathered, sir."
Goodhue picked up his pipe and spoke in jerky phrases as he went through the ritual of getting it going. "You are sure" —puff—"Clevenger, that"—puff—"it was"—puff—"David?"
"I could hardly be mistaken, Dean."
"True"—puff—puff—puff—puff—"Ah!—And that the car was stopped? I'm sorry, Randolph, to appear to be giving you a third degree, but we must be certain of these things."
"The car was stopped, sir, and David was closing and locking the trunk. Presumably after stowing something in it. A suitcase, perhaps."
"Ah. Yes. Precisely. Sutherland is still driving that monstrous yellow car?"
"Yes. I couldn't have been mistaken about that."
"Appalling color," said the dean. "Appalling."
Clevenger started to rise. "I think I'd better be going, Dean Goodhue. You can send for me if you need any more—"
"No, Randolph. Sit down, bear with me for a few moments. There is plenty of time." He puffed reflectively on his pipe, leaned forward and poked the fire; then, leaning back again in the chair, he said: "There is a question, Clevenger, I feel I should ask. Yet it is one I dislike asking, for reasons that should be obvious. You are one of the few students I feel will understand why I must ask it. What can you tell me of this boy—David's social life, both on and off campus?"
"Hardly very much, Dean." There was a faint expression of distaste on Clevenger's petulant hps. "It is not too active—but he gets around, as the saying is." He hesitated, then went on: "I think I know what you are getting at, sir. He does, of course, see quite a bit of the other students of—er —both sexes."
"And both races? In each instance?"
"Yes, sir. Aren't we supposed to pride ourselves on that at Pengard?"
"Some may, Randolph; some may. I have, of course, heard rumors. One does. But even if they were more than rumors —and, as you are no doubt aware, these rumors involve just one person—one's hands are tied by the standards that prevail here. I am talking to you very frankly, Clevenger; far more frankly than I would to any other student. I feel"—he smiled—"shall we say 'at home' with you; feel that we speak the same language."
"Thank you, Dean. I think we do."
"To return to yesterday's incident. Would you be willing to repeat what you have told me to other—er—authorities at the college if it becomes necessary?" In the dean's mouth the word became "nec'ry," and might conceivably have baffled an Englishman.
"I—well, yes, I believe so, sir."
"Don't hesitate to say 'no,' Randolph. I would quite understand a certain amount of apprehension on your part."
The thin, pale skin of Clevenger's face flushed. "I am not in the least afraid of David Champlin. But he has a great many champions here. They would take a dim view of any student who voluntarily 'put the finger on him.' That's underworld slang for—"
Goodhue's laugh was deep and reassuring; it was one of the things that had earned him his nickname. "I am quite familar with the expression. There is no reason to fear that any student will learn how David was—er—fingered. Now bear with me just a little longer, if you will. You did not actually see Sutherland in the car with David?"
Clevenger hesitated before replying. "No, sir. But I saw David turn and look down at something—or someone—in the seat beside him."
"You could actually see him do this?"
"Easily. I had a side view of the car. David was wearing a green knit cap—I think it was Sutherland's. I saw him look down at something in the seat beside him—or someone in the seat who might have been scrooched over."
The dean's pipe was going nicely now. He spoke around it:
"Is it your opinion that Sutherland would go along with any story David chooses to tell to—er—extricate himself?"
"Oh, definitely, sir."
"It is your opinion that their friendship is strong enough for that?"
"What does Sutherland have to lose? I think he'd go along with David out of gratitude. The friendship part..." His voice trailed off. He looked oddly, unnaturally mature at that moment, the mouth firmer, thinner.
Goodhue's eyebrows went up. "Yes, Randolph?"
"Well—that's about it, sir. Friendship isn't a word I'd use, if you don't mind. I mean, isn't friendship—I mean among adults—a thing of common background, common interests? Something more than just—I don't like to say this, Dean. I can't say it, really. The consequences could be too serious—"
Goodhue took the pipe from his mouth at last, holding it away from his lips. Clevenger's eyes met his directly, and suddenly the room was filled with the warmth of a dark understanding.
Beside them the fire flickered unevenly. The log in its center, burned through now, disintegrated with a hissing crash. "I see," said the dean softly. "I see."
Clevenger glanced nervously at the ship's clock over the mantel, and rose. "I think I'd really better leave, Dean Goodhue."
Goodhue stood beside him, his arm across his shoulders. He could not have noticed the involuntary movement of withdrawal, because his arm remained across the student's back. "One of the drawbacks of my position," he said, "is that it is so difficult to become really acquainted with the students as individuals, without being accused of favoritism. One tries, of course. One of these afternoons—soon—perhaps you'll come in for a cup of tea? My wife would be delighted."
"Thank you, sir. So should I."
Dean Goodhue stood watching Randolph Clevenger as he crossed the narrow brick terrace to the driveway, slim, casually elegant in slacks and cashmere sweater, the feet—even in heavy shoes—delicate, picking their way as a cat's would, around the patches of slush in the driveway; the head with its darker than blond but lighter than honey-colored hair tilted characteristically, ever so slightly, to one side.
The knuckles of the dean's hand, which was still holding the handle of the door, whitened; the rise and fall of his breathing was uneven, hurried.
***
David braked the yellow car to a stop outside the double French doors of Goodhue's study. Through the glass of the doors he could see Goodhue at the eighteenth-century mahogany table that served as a desk. He appeared to be writing. There was no percentage in doing what he wanted to do, which was sit in the car and think it out some more. He had done all the thinking he could do in a hot-and-cold shower and while he was shaving, after he returned to Quimby House from Knudsen's.
Goodhue did not look up when David knocked, but David heard the "Come in!" As he entered, Goodhue said, "Ah, David," continued writing for a few moments, then said, "Sit down, David."
David took the chair opposite and the dean reached for his pipe. "I regret this whole incident," he said. "Regret the necessity for calling you in here."
David thought: What the hell am I supposed to say? What the hell? That I regret it, too? Goodhue didn't regret anything, not anything at all. Why couldn't he have opened the interview as Knudsen had, with a direct, angry question?
There was only one answer David could make, an answer that must have been made by hundreds of students, at one time or another, sitting where he was sitting now. "Yes, sir," he said.
"You have let everyone down, David. Everyone."
"I don't see that, sir. I didn't have much choice."
"Choice?" Goodhue lit a match with a quick, impatient gesture, applied the match to his pipe. "What 'choice' was involved in aiding a fellow student—and a very ill one at that —to break college regulations and—er—escape from the Infirmary?"
"That's not what I did, Dean Goodhue."
"Suppose you tell me your version of what occurred."
"Your version of what occurred"! Not "what occurred." What are you wasting your time for, David Champlin? Get up and get out. Get back to your room and start packing. Don't sit there like a damned sheep waiting to get its throat slit. Tell 'em I wuz flyin'. Neither Gramp nor the Prof woul
d fault you for it. He stopped his thoughts in midnight. He wasn't going to make it that easy for this lily-white bastard.
"I remained on campus over the holiday to—" he started to say "save money," but that wouldn't do; that would sound like a poor-mouth bid for sympathy. Instead he continued, "to do some catching up. On Friday morning—yesterday—I went to the Infirmary to see Sutherland. They wouldn't let me see him because the doctor was with him. I had a sandwich at the rec hall and went back to my room." As he talked he heard his phrases and his tone becoming more formal and stilted. He left out any mention of the bottle, and, when he finished the story, said: "The only recourse I had was force. I couldn't have done that. He was determined. And sick."
"And drunk."
How had this son of a bitch known that? There was no question in his tone; it was a flat statement of fact. "A little," said David.
The dean's pipe was making bubbling, sucking sounds. He took it from his mouth and said, "There is a rule about liquor in the students' rooms. As you well know. It must be obvious to you, David, that either someone brought liquor to Sutherland while he was still in the Infirmary—possibly slipping it through the window—or he became drunk with you. We know that Sutherland boarded the train in a very unsteady —a drunken—condition. And that you were with him when he boarded. You must have realized that as soon as his absence was noted a most extensive inquiry would be made. We checked airports and railroad stations—both Cincinnati and Columbus. The least, the very least, you could have done was notify me or some faculty member of the circumstances."
He hadn't thought of that. Goodhue was dead right there. He'd been too upset, too sick in his mind over Sudsy's trouble, to do the sensible thing. "Yes, sir," he said. "I realize that now."
"A little late," said Goodhue. "Yes, David, a little late."
"But, Dean. I did not take liquor to the Infirmary, and I did not help him to get out of there. The first I knew of his being out was when he showed up at my room."