Sons of Fortune

Fletcher ran all the way to the assembly point to meet his parents, as cars and taxis came streaming in past the lake. Fletcher scanned every vehicle, searching for his father and mother.

“How are you, Andrew my darling?” were his mother’s first words as she stepped out of the car.

“Fletcher, I’m Fletcher at Hotchkiss,” he whispered, hoping that none of the other boys had heard the word “darling.” He shook hands with his father, before adding, “We must leave for the field immediately, because we’ve been invited to join Senator and Mrs. Gates for a tailgate lunch.”

Fletcher’s father raised an eyebrow. “If I remember correctly, Senator Gates is a Democrat,” he said with mock disdain.

“And a former Hotchkiss football captain,” said Fletcher. “His son Jimmy and I are in the same class, and he’s my best friend, so Mom had better sit next to the senator, and if you don’t feel up to it, Dad, you can sit on the other side of the field with the Taft supporters.”

“No, I think I’ll put up with the senator. It will be so rewarding to be seated next to him when Taft scores the winning touchdown.”

It was a clear autumnal day and the three of them strolled through a golden carpet of leaves all the way to the field. Ruth tried to take her son’s hand, but Fletcher stood just far enough away to make it impossible. Long before they reached the field, they could hear the cheers erupting from the pre-game rally.

Fletcher spotted Jimmy standing behind an Oldsmobile wagon, its open tailgate covered in far more sumptuous food than anything he’d seen for the past two months. A tall elegant man stepped forward. “Hello, I’m Harry Gates.” The senator thrust out his politician’s hand to welcome Fletcher’s parents.

Fletcher’s father grasped the outstretched hand. “Good afternoon, Senator, I’m Robert Davenport and this is my wife

, Ruth.”

“Call me Harry. This is Martha, my first wife.” Mrs. Gates stepped forward to welcome them both. “I call her my first wife—well, it keeps her on her toes.”

“Would you like a drink?” asked Martha, not laughing at a joke she had heard so many times before.

“It had better be quick,” said the senator, checking his watch, “that is if we still hope to eat before the kick-off. Let me serve you, Ruth, and we’ll let your husband fend for himself. I can smell a Republican at a hundred paces.”

“I’m afraid it’s worse than that,” said Ruth.

“Don’t tell me he’s an old Bearcat, because I’m thinking of making that a capital offense in this state.” Ruth nodded. “Then Fletcher, you’d better come and talk to me because I intend to ignore your father.”

Fletcher was flattered by the invitation, and soon began grilling the senator on the workings of the Connecticut legislature.

“Andrew,” said Ruth.

“Fletcher, mother.”

“Fletcher, don’t you think the senator might like to talk about something other than politics?”

“No, that’s fine by me, Ruth,” Harry assured her. “The voters rarely ask such insightful questions, and I’m rather hoping it might rub off on Jimmy.”

After lunch had been cleared away they walked quickly across to the bleachers, sitting down only moments before the game was due to begin. The seats were better than any prep could have dreamed of, but then Senator Gates hadn’t missed the Taft match since his own graduation. Fletcher couldn’t contain his excitement as the clock on the score board edged toward two. He stared across at the far stand, to be greeted with the enemy’s cries of, “Give me a T, give me an A, give me a…” and fell in love.

Nat’s eyes remained on the face above the letter A.

“Nat’s the brightest boy in our class,” Tom told Nat’s father. Michael smiled.

“Only just,” said Nat a little defensively; “don’t forget I only beat Ralph Elliot by one grade.”

“I wonder if he’s Max Elliot’s son?” said Nat’s father, almost to himself.

“Who’s Max Elliot?”

“In my business he’s what’s known as an unacceptable risk.”

“Why?” asked Nat, but his father didn’t expand on the bland statement, and was relieved when his son was distracted by the cheerleaders, who had blue and white pom-poms attached to their wrists and were performing their ritual war dance. Nat’s eyes settled on the second girl on the left, who seemed to be smiling up at him, although he realized to her he could only be a speck at the back of the stand.

“You’ve grown, if I’m not mistaken,” said Nat’s father, noting that his son’s trousers were already an inch short of his shoes. He only wondered how often he would have to buy him new clothes.

“Well, it can’t be the school food that’s responsible,” suggested Tom, who was still the smallest boy in the class. Nat didn’t reply. His eyes remained fixed on the group of cheerleaders.