Sons of Fortune

Susan didn’t share the same enthusiasm as her husband for Nat being sent away at such an early age to board with children whose parents came from a different world. How could a child of fourteen begin to understand that they couldn’t afford so many of the things that his school friends would take for granted. She had long felt that Nathaniel should follow in Michael’s footsteps and go to Jefferson High. If it was good enough for her to teach at, why wasn’t it good enough for their child to be taught at?

Nat had been sitting on his bed rereading his favorite book when he heard his father’s outburst. He’d reached the chapter where the whale was about to escape yet again. He reluctantly jumped off the bed and put his head around the door to find out what was causing the commotion. His parents were furiously debating—they never argued, despite the much-reported incident with the ice cream—which school he should attend. He caught his father in mid-sentence…“chance of a lifetime,” he was saying. “Nat will be able to mix with children who will end up as leaders in every field, and therefore influence the rest of his life.”

“Rather than go to Jefferson High and mix with children who he might end up leading and influence for the rest of their lives?”

“But he’s won a scholarship, so we wouldn’t have to pay a penny.”

“And we wouldn’t have to pay a penny if he went to Jefferson.”

“But we must think of Nat’s future. If he goes to Taft, he might well end up at Harvard or Yale…”

“But Jefferson has produced several pupils who have attended both Harvard and Yale.”

“If I had to take out an insurance policy on which of the two schools would be more likely…”

“It’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

“Well, I’m not,” said Michael, “and I spend every day of my life trying to eliminate risks like that.” Nat listened intently as his mother and father continued their debate, never once raising their voices or losing their tempers.

“I’d rather my son graduate as an egalitarian than a patrician,” Susan retorted with passion.

“Why should they be incompatible?” asked Michael.

Nat disappeared back into his room without waiting to hear his mother’s reply. She had taught him to immediately look up any word that he’d never heard before; after all, it was a Connecticut man who had compiled the greatest lexicography in the world. Having checked all three words in his Webster’s dictionary, Nat decided that his mother was more egalitarian than his father, but that neither of them was a patrician. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to be a patrician.

When Nat had finished the chapter, he emerged from his room for a second time. The atmosphere seemed to be more settled, so he decided to go downstairs and join his parents.

“Perhaps we should let Nat decide,” said his mother.

“I already have,” said Nat, as he took a seat between them. “After all, you’ve always taught me to listen to both sides of any argument before coming to a conclusion.”

Both parents were speechless as Nat nonchalantly unfolded the evening paper, suddenly aware that he must have overheard their conversation.

“And what decision have you come to?” his mother asked quietly.

“I would like to go to Taft rather than Jefferson High,” Nat replied without hesitation.

“And may we know what helped you come to that conclusion?” asked his father.

Nat, aware that he had a spellbound audience, didn’t hurry his reply. “Moby-Dick,” he finally announced, before turning to the sports page.

He waited to see which of his parents would be the first to repeat his words.

“Moby-Dick?” they pronounced together.

“Yes,” he replied, “after all, the good folks of Connecticut considered the great whale to be the patrician of the sea.”

5

“Every inch a Hotchkiss man,” Miss Nichol said as she checked Andrew’s appearance in the hall mirror. White shirt, blue blazer with tan corduroy trousers. Miss Nichol straightened the boy’s blue and white striped tie, removing a speck of dust from his shirt. “Every inch,” she repeated. I’m only five foot three, Andrew wanted to say as his father joined them in the hall. Andrew checked his watch, a present from his maternal grandfather—a man who still sacked people for being late.

“I’ve put your suitcases in the car,” his father said, touching his son on the shoulder. Andrew turned cold when he heard his father’s words. The casual remark only reminded him that he really was leaving home. “It’s less than three months until Thanksgiving,” his father added. Three months is a quarter of a year—a not insignificant percentage of your life when you’re only fourteen years old, Andrew wanted to remind him.

Andrew strode out of the front door and onto the gravel courtyard, determined not to look back at the house he loved, and would not see again for a quarter of a year. When he reached the car, he held the back door open for his mother. He then shook hands with Miss Nichol as if she were an old friend, and said that he looked forward to seeing her at Thanksgiving. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought she had been crying. He looked away and waved to the housekeeper and cook, before he jumped into the car.

As they drove through the streets of Farmington, Andrew stared at the familiar buildings he had considered until that moment to be the center of the whole world.

“Now make sure you write home every week,” his mother was saying. He ignored the redundant comment, not least because Miss Nichol had issued the same instruction at least twice a day for the past month.