The fall term raced by and soon it was Thanksgiving and then three weeks later the Christmas holiday.
Every day had been a new revelation as we explored each other, although we realized we had to be careful because other boys constantly stopped by the room to consult Teach on something or ask me for help on homework.
It turned out I was smart, or at least smarter than some of the other boys, and all of my subjects came easily to me. I had near-perfect scores in most of my classes. So I'd help the other boys who were struggling when and where I could.
Teach, on the other hand, while academically average, had two great attributes: he was a superb natural athlete and he was a people magnet. Everyone wanted to be with him, or hear his opinion, or simply spend time in his presence. I knew exactly how they felt and at first was irritated and jealous that he gave himself so freely and easily to others.
Not that he had sex with anyone else. That was just between us, he assured me, when I asked one evening when he came back to the room just before lights out. I probably sounded like an old housewife to an errant husband: where have you been looks and questions.
"Hey, Mikie, not to worry," he said, cupping my chin in his hand and gazing directly into my eyes. "You know you're the only one for me." Then he winked and smiled and ruffled my hair before taking off all of his clothes and hopping into bed. He turned off the lamp and rolled over and was instantly asleep.
I believed him. I loved him. And I was content with having as much of him as he was willing to give me. Suddenly tired, I closed my books, turned off my desk lamp, stripped naked and fell into bed for a deep, dreamless sleep.
Christmas holidays were horrible. It was the first time I'd been home since leaving for St. Philip's. The bus ride from Boston to Albany then the Mohawk River Valley was snowy, cold, boring, and long. My mother picked me up at the station and we drove home almost without speaking.
She was full of questions but my answers were monosyllabic. I wasn't being intentionally rude -- I was actually glad to see her -- but I was trying to sort out so many conflicting emotions.
Mostly I missed Teddy. His smile, his touch, his energy, his laughter, his body. I missed everything about him and our life together.
My father graced us with his presence for Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, returning as soon as possible to the City, where he said he was trying to close a big deal before the end of the year.
My mother and I spent lots of time in silence. She tried to engage me in conversations about St. Philip's and my life there. What were the other boys like? Were the teachers good? She knew from my grades that I was doing well academically but was I happy being so far from home?
I answered as best I could, returning to silence again and again as she probed. How was my roommate? Did he come from a good family? Did we get along? Did I have many friends? The questions were endless and as often as possible I escaped her scrutiny saying I had lots of reading to do for the next term.
I was wholly, utterly, increasingly miserable.
One night, after a particularly silent dinner, she sighed, put down her napkin and said as she took her plate from the table, "You're just like your father." I didn't see her rest of the evening and her words haunted me as I moped in my room.
She was lonely, perhaps more lonely than I was at that moment, and I suddenly realized that my homecoming meant more to her than I could comprehend. She literally had no one to talk to. My father, obsessed with rebuilding the family fortune, had abandoned her and now that I was at school, she had nothing.
The next morning I awoke early and went down to breakfast with a plan. She sat in the dining room, sipping tea, munching on a croissant, reading the paper. I slipped up beside her and reached around and gave her a hug.
She literally jumped up, startled, almost afraid.
"What are you doing?" she shouted.
I was shocked. "Umm, sorry, I just wanted to give you a hug and say good morning," I stammered. "Didn't mean to hurt you."
She was flustered and put the paper down, brushing her dress with her hands, and fidgeting with the things on the table.
"You simply startled me, that's all," she said. "I didn't expect it." She paused, unsure where to go with this conversation; I was clueless, too. We'd never talked this way before.
"You just seemed so sad last night after dinner," I offered. "And I wanted to say I was sorry and thought maybe we could go to Albany or something and do some shopping or see a show ...."
I trailed off and I realized she was crying, tiny little tears coming from the corners of her eyes, but she was smiling, too. "I'd like that very much," he said. "Let me make a few calls and we'll leave in an hour."
She almost danced from the room and I suddenly felt as if I had grown up in that moment by thinking of someone other than myself and my own private misery.
The day was a huge success and we had a great time talking and laughing and remembering events from my childhood. We shopped for new clothes because I had outgrown almost everything, we saw a matinee movie in the big old theater downtown, then she took me to dinner at the University Club, where she said my great-grandfather had been a charter member. We drove home in a light snowfall, tired and happy and connected in a new way.
A few days later I returned to St. Philip's and into the arms of Teach and the rigorous winter term studies. This set of classes was brutal and two more boys from our floor were sent home, one for homesickness and one for a complete academic failure.
Teach and I continued to explore each other as often as we could but it was becoming a routine that no longer had the same feverish excitement we shared the fall term. It still felt good but I think we both wanted something more.
Winter moved toward spring thaw and a very necessary spring break. I was dreading going home again, no longer because I couldn't get along with my parents, but because Teach and I had settled into our routines and disruption would be, well, disrupting.
Two weeks before spring break I was handed a note to call home, collect, as soon as possible. I was allowed to use the phone in the house master's study on the first floor, so I knew it was serious.
My father answered and perfunctorily told there had been an accident, an icy road, her car had gone through the guardrail and crashed into a ravine. My mother was dead. No more details; he seemed more concerned that the car was brand new and was destroyed. He would send a driver to pick me up at school, he didn't have time to drive himself. The funeral was Friday. Then he hung up. No words of comfort, no questions about how I felt, no answers to the questions I hadn't been able to ask. It was like he was closing a deal. I hated him.
The funeral was a nightmare of loneliness. Hundreds of faces and names I couldn't remember. Women cooing over me and holding me and hugging me and crying over me. My father acted as if he wanted to be anywhere else but at her funeral. I never shed a single tear during the entire ordeal. That night at home, when everyone was gone, he told me that he intended to sell the old family home and move permanently to his apartment in New York City near Central Park, where I would be welcome to visit when necessary.
What a bastard.
He also informed me that, despite the inconvenient timing of his wife's funeral, his month-long business trip to London and Geneva was still on, so if I had any friends I should stay with them during the spring holiday -- all three weeks -- and I should make my plans soon. The next day his driver took me back to St. Philip's. We arrived on Sunday afternoon under bright sunny skies.
The headmaster and his wife met me at the car and insisted I stay for tea before Sunday dinner. I suffered silently through their awkward attempts to comfort me, looking at me as if I might suddenly explode all over their Persian carpets and antique furniture.
I eventually thanked them and excused myself, saying I had an assignment to complete for an early class. I walked back to my room shivering with hate for my father and feeling enormously empty and alone.
When I got to my room it was empty. Teach was not there and I was both relieved and angry that he wasn't there. I threw my small suitcase across the room. Then I kicked my desk chair and picked up a book and flung it at the wall. I wanted to damage something, I wanted to hurt somebody, I wanted to rage and howl and scream and create havoc in sheer frustration at the unfairness of life.
I grabbed another book and flung it at the door just as Teach walked in, barely missing his head as he ducked.
"Whoa, incoming!" he said, indicating with his hand that whoever was following should stay outside.
He closed the door and looked at me. "Mike," was all he said, and he walked across the room, wrapped me in his strong arms and held me. I simply melted into him. It was the first time I had cried since my father called nearly a week ago. I sobbed and sobbed until I barely had breath, standing in his complete shelter.
Without saying a word he sat on his bed, dragging me down with him, and rolled us onto our sides where we spooned as I calmed down. We fell asleep that way, my back tucked into his warm front, and slept all night, fully clothed on his bed. It was the deepest sleep and kindest thing anyone had ever done for me in my entire life.