Sons of Fortune

“Yes, of course,” said Diane, “I’d like that very much.”

“Goodbye,” said Nat looking at answer number ten.

During the rest of the evening, Nat tried to recall the conversation in detail, and even wrote it down line by line. He underlined three times her words—yes, of course, I’d like that very much. As there were still four days before he was due to visit Tom, he wondered if he should call Diane again—just to confirm. He returned to Teen magazine to seek their advice, as they seemed to have anticipated all his previous problems. Teen gave no help on calling a second time, but did suggest for a first date he should dress casually, be relaxed, and whenever he got the chance, talk about other girls he’d been out with. He’d never been out with another girl, and worse, he didn’t have any casual clothes, other than a plaid shirt that he had hidden in a bottom drawer half an hour after he’d bought it. Nat checked to see how much money he’d saved from his paper route—seven dollars and twenty cents—and wondered if that was enough to purchase a new shirt and a casual pair of slacks. If only he had an older brother.

He put the finishing touches to his essay only hours before his father drove him across to Simsbury.

As they traveled north, Nat kept asking himself why he hadn’t called Diane back and fixed a time and place to meet her. She might have gone away, decided to stay with a friend—a boyfriend. Would Tom’s parents mind if he asked to use their phone the moment he arrived?

“Oh, my God,” said Nat as his father swung his car into a long drive and drove past a paddock full of horses. Nat’s father would have chastised him for blaspheming, but was somewhat taken aback himself. The driveway must have stretched for over a mile before they turned into a gravel courtyard to be greeted by the most magnificent white pillared colonial home surrounded by evergreens.

“Oh, my God,” said Nat a second time. This time his father did remonstrate with him.

“Sorry, Dad, but Tom never mentioned he lived in a palace.”

“Why should he?” replied his father, “when it’s all he’s ever known. By the way, he’s not your closest friend because of the size of his house, and if he had felt it was necessary to impress you, he would have mentioned it some time ago. Do you know what his father does, because one thing’s for sure, he doesn’t sell life insurance.”

“I think he’s a banker.”

“Tom Russell, of course. Russell’s Bank,” said his father as they pulled up in front of the house.

Tom was waiting on the top step to greet them. “Good afternoon, sir, how are you?” asked Tom as he opened the door on the driver’s side.

“I’m well, thank you, Tom,” replied Michael Cartwright as his son climbed out of the car, clinging to a small battered suitcase with the initials M. C. printed next to the lock.

“Would you care to join us for a drink, sir?”

“That’s kind of you,” said Nat’s father, “but my wife will be expecting me back in time for supper, so I ought to be on my way.”

Nat waved as his father circled the courtyard and began his return journey to Cromwell.

Nat looked up at the house to see a butler standing on the top step. He offered to take the suitcase, but Nat hung on to it as he was escorted up a magnificent wide circular staircase to the second floor, where he was shown into a guest bedroom. In Nat’s home they only had one spare bedroom, which would have passed as a broom closet in this house. Once the butler had left him, Tom said, “When you’ve unpacked, come down and meet my mother. We’ll be in the kitchen.”

Nat sat at the end of one of the twin beds, painfully aware that he would never be able to invite Tom to stay with him.

It took Nat about three minutes to unpack as all he had were two shirts, one spare pair of trousers and a tie. He spent some considerable time checking out the bathroom before finally bouncing up and down on the bed. It was so springy. He waited for a couple more minutes before he left the room to stroll back down the wide staircase, wondering if he would ever be able to find the kitchen. The butler was waiting on the bottom step and escorted him along the corridor. Nat stole a quick glance into each room he passed.

“Hi,” said Tom, “your room OK?”

“Yes, it’s great,” said Nat, aware that his friend was not being sarcastic.

“Mom, this is Nat. He’s the cleverest boy in the class, damn him.”

“Please don’t swear, Tom,” said Mrs. Russell. “Hello, Nat, how nice to meet you.”

“Good evening, Mrs. Russell, it’s nice to meet you too. What a lovely home you have.”

“Thank you, Nat, and we were delighted that you were able to join us for a few days. Can I get you a Coke?”

“Yes, please.”

A uniformed maid went straight to the fridge, took out a Coke and added some ice.

“Thank you,” he repeated, as he watched the maid return to the sink and continue chopping potatoes. He thought of his mother back in Cromwell. She would also be chopping up potatoes, but only after a full day’s teaching.

“Want me to show you around?” asked Tom.

“Sounds great,” said Nat, “but can I make a phone call?”