Chapter Seven

Registration for the Cainesville schools took place during the first week of September. After I had seen Franny through the enrollment procedure at her school, I went on to the high school with Duff.

There was no real need for me to do it, but I tagged along anyway for his interview with his counselor, a Mr. Harvey Willis. Duff had decided he wanted to study as much American history as possible, and luckily there were three senior courses available, including one taught by a man who was supposed to be particularly well informed about events in Ashland County.

“Has your son been held back in school because of illness?” Mr. Willis asked when Duff had gone off to the gym for his physical examination.

“Not at all,” I replied. “You can see on his transcript that he won’t be seventeen for another two months.”

“By George, that’s right.” Mr. Willis chuckled. “He looks much older. When he walked in here, I thought he was in his mid-­twenties at least.”

“And still in high school?”

“Oh, we get fellows like that once in a while. Farm boys mostly, who might take seven or eight years to get through. Used to be more of them than there are now. By golly, not yet seventeen . . .”

“We have a birth certificate at home,” I said irritably.

“Oh, no need for that.” He still shook his head. “I’ve never misjudged a boy’s age that much before.”

Half angry and half amused, I dawdled in the school library before going to the gym to meet Duff. He was with a group of boys taking turns on the parallel bars, while a sweat-­shirted instructor was conferring with an elderly man wearing a white coat and stethoscope. I waved to Duff and the doctor came over to me.

“Is that your son?” he asked. “What do you feed him? He looks like an invalid, but he has more stamina than any other two boys here.”

“He’s always been good at gym activities,” I said.

“For his size, he’s the strongest boy I’ve ever seen.”

It was a surprising evaluation. Duff had always been fairly well coordinated, but I had never thought of him as being exceptionally strong. Rating him that highly, it seemed to me, wasn’t saying much for the local talent.

The next day Duff and Franny started school. Duff was late in coming down for breakfast—something that had never happened at home—and as a result he missed the bus. We permitted him to drive the car to Cainesville, and that set a pattern. He was late again the next day and the day following, and by the next week he had persuaded us to let him take the test for a license, which he passed easily. A boy can drive legally at sixteen in Ohio.

Then on the Tuesday of the third week of school, we had a call from the principal of Cainesville High. He would like to meet with the parents of Duffin Caine as soon as possible. The secretary couldn’t (or wouldn’t) tell me what Mr. Wheeler wanted.

That evening Duff claimed to know nothing about it.

“Except maybe it’s because I had an argument with a couple of fellows this morning.”

“An argument about what?”

“Oh, one guy called me a ‘dude’ and I called him a ‘hick.’ It was nothing. It was really stupid.”

“What happened after the name calling?”

“Nothing. Oh, I shoved the creep, but that’s all. I suppose Wheeler is blaming me because I’m a stranger in the school. If I were you, I’d ignore the call.”

“I can’t ignore it. I promised to see Mr. Wheeler.”

“You’ll make it harder for me, Mom. The kids will say I need my mother to stick up for me.”

“I’m sorry, Duff. You’ll just have to explain that it wasn’t your decision.”

The next morning he gave me more arguments. It was probably a mistake—the secretary had summoned the wrong parents. Mr. Wheeler was noted for summoning parents and then forgetting why he wanted to see them. This was only a device for frightening new students, and Mr. Wheeler really wouldn’t expect me to show up. Then the car wouldn’t start—for Duff. When I got behind the wheel, it started instantly.

Oddly enough, on that morning he seemed more his old self than he had in weeks. He looked younger and more frail than he had even the previous evening, anything but a boy who could cause trouble in school.

We dropped Franny off and then went on to the high school and were ushered into Mr. Wheeler’s office. After he had greeted us and we were seated, there was silence for several moments while Mr. Wheeler, with a puzzled expression, kept switching his gaze from us to a sheet of paper he held in his hand.

“You are Duffin Caine?” he asked after a while.

“Yes, sir,” Duff said politely. He took off his glasses and polished them with his handkerchief.

“And do you know what is stated in this report submitted to me by your counselor, Mr. Willis?”

“I have a general idea, sir.”

“It states that you assaulted another student, Gerald McCabe. You seemingly hit him hard enough to cause him to lose consciousness for several minutes Do you admit this?”

“I didn’t intend to hurt him, sir.”

“He was taken to Ashland Hospital, where it was determined he had suffered a slight concussion. He was kept in the hospital overnight for observation.”

“He’s going to be all right, isn’t he?” Duff was truly anxious now.

“Apparently so, but his injury could have been much more serious—not that this isn’t serious enough.” Wheeler stared at Duff again. “Did you hit Jerry McCabe with some object in your hand?”

“No, sir. I didn’t even really think I hit him that hard.”

Wheeler turned to me. “Jerry McCabe is a tackle on our football team. He stands six-­four and weighs about two hundred fifty.”

“Then what you say happened is impossible,” I said. “Duff weighs a hundred pounds less than that.”

“It happened all right. There were plenty of witnesses.” Wheeler paused for a moment. “I’m inclined to think it was just a lucky blow—or, from Jerry’s point of view, an unlucky one. Also there’s some evidence that he started the trouble with a remark he made.”

“That doesn’t excuse Duff’s lack of control,” I said.

“I agree,” said Wheeler. “Duff, we don’t like violence of that sort at Cainesville High.”

“Duff has never done anything like this before,” I said, “and I’m sure he never will again.”

“Duff?”

“No, sir,” Duff said. “I’ll never do anything like that again while I’m here at Cainesville High.”

“Good enough, son. Go along to your classes now.” When Duff had gone, Mr. Wheeler turned to me with a half smile. “Frankly, Jerry McCabe has been a bit of a bully around here. It’s time he was taken down a peg, although I’m not sure he deserved that much punishment. Anyway, I’m amazed that your son was able to do it.”

“I am too,” I said. I thought I detected a note of admiration in Mr. Wheeler’s voice. He was a mousy little man who may have been dreaming for years of taking care of bullies like Jerry McCabe.

“I’d’ve done the same thing when I was Duff’s age,” Jack said when I got home. “I wouldn’t take any guff from the jock types either.”

I had my doubts about that. I had known my husband to take plenty of guff from waiters, clerks and cab drivers. If Duff had gumption, I decided, it came from my side of the family and not Jack’s.

That same day there was another call from the secretary. Mr. Wheeler had forgotten to mention that if Duff was going to continue to be absent from classes because of the illness of his father, the school would need a letter to that effect. I was noncommittal, saying only that I would get in touch with Mr. Wheeler again.

But Duff wasn’t at all evasive about it that evening. He explained that he had been busy with his research on the Caine family, working with material in the Cainesville Public Library. He hadn’t told the truth to his teachers because he wanted to keep the work a secret until he was further along. If professional historians got wind of what he was doing, one of them might try to steal the idea.

We weren’t satisfied, but we accepted it after he promised not to cut classes again. I suppose the fact that he already had enough credits to graduate caused us to treat the matter rather lightly. Also, I’m afraid that both Jack and I were inclined to think of Cainesville High as an inferior place, not really up to the intellectual capacities of our son.

A few days later we received another call about Duff’s activities. This time it was from the Ashland County sheriff’s office. Our car had been wrecked and Duff was in jail, charged with several offenses, including reckless driving and assaulting policemen. He was unhurt and could be released on payment of five hundred dollars bond—an outrageously small sum, the deputy intimated, but the limit, considering that Duff was a minor.

Stephanie was in the room when the call came, and she suggested that her father would be willing to drive me to Ashland, if he was available. I accepted, since I had no other choice. Mr. Weber was at home and he agreed to leave immediately to pick me up.

However, it was Stephanie’s mother and her grandmother who arrived in their station wagon. Stephanie was at the front door and she turned to me in a panic.

“Don’t go with them!” she pleaded.

“But why? You called them,” I said.

“I called my father. I didn’t think the two of them would come.”

“Well, I’m glad they did. I would’ve felt guilty, imposing on your father’s workday.” Rose Weber was at the door. I picked up my purse and started out.

“Don’t say anything to them about what I told you,” Stephanie whispered.

“Oh, really, Stephanie,” I said and closed the door.

Mrs. Reddy and her daughter were most cordial and sympathetic on the journey to Ashland. Mrs. Reddy said that she was sure the charges against Duff had been exaggerated by the deputy who called and that very likely Duff would be let off with a reprimand. She said, and Rose Weber agreed, that Duff was only “letting off a little steam,” “sowing a few wild oats,” and that his conduct showed that he was a real boy and not the wishy-­washy sissy type they had first taken him to be.

“Do you have a lawyer?” Mrs. Reddy wanted to know.

“Is that necessary?”

“If Duff has to appear in court, you ought to have someone, just to be on the safe side. I know the best man in the county, Oliver Matson. He won’t charge you much either.”

At the Ashland County Jail, we found that Duff would indeed have to appear in Juvenile Court and that he would be notified shortly of the scheduled time.

“What happened?” I asked the deputy sheriff at the booking desk.

“Why don’t you wait and ask Duff?” said Mrs. Reddy at my elbow.

“I’d like to hear the official version.”

The deputy leafed through some papers and selected one. “Your son, driving a nineteen seventy-­four Oldsmobile station wagon, was clocked by radar at a speed of ninety-­three miles an hour on Route Ninety-­Six. He was pursued by state highway Patrolmen Higgins and O’Donnell. In attempting to escape from the state patrol car, your son sideswiped a nineteen sixty-­seven Dodge sedan, driven by Arthur Henderson, of Rowsburg, Ohio. Mr. Henderson suffered multiple facial cuts and possible head injuries and his car was badly damaged. The Oldsmobile was overturned, but your son managed to get out unaided, and after abusing the officers verbally, he assaulted both of them.” The deputy put down the report. “If you want a more complete description, I suggest you talk with one of the arresting officers who came in aid of Patrolmen Higgins and O’Donnell.”

I said I thought I wouldn’t bother them just then. My check was unacceptable for the bond, but luckily I had enough traveler’s checks. After studying them suspiciously for a moment, the desk man sent another deputy to fetch Duff.

“They’re taking it out on Duff because he isn’t a local boy,” Mrs. Reddy whispered.

“We’ve had some behavior problems with him recently. This isn’t the first incident.” I hesitated. Should I tell them what had happened with Stephanie?

“You’re probably just paying more attention to him lately, that’s all,” said Mrs. Reddy. “Probably back East he was on his own a lot and you didn’t know what he was up to.”

“I’m sure my husband and I have tried to be responsible parents,” I said angrily.

“Oh, I didn’t mean you let the boy run loose. I just meant that with all his chums back there and lots of things to do, you probably didn’t see as much of him.”

“Maybe we ought to introduce Duff to some nice boys and girls around here, Ma,” Rose Weber put in.

“I’m sure he could make plenty of friends at the high school, if he wanted to,” I said. “Lately he doesn’t even seem to want to go to school.”

“Cainesville High is probably not as much of a challenge for him as his old school,” said Mrs. Reddy.

“Let me ask you something,” I said. “Do you think living in the Caine farmhouse could have anything to do with Duff’s behavior?”

The two of them stared at me with puzzled expressions.

“Whatever gave you that idea?” Mrs. Reddy asked.

“Stephanie mentioned it. She thought there might be something about the house that was causing Duff to act differently.”

“Our Stephanie said that? She must be losing her mind,” said Mrs. Reddy.

“Steph probably meant the total environment, the isolation, Ma. I can see that. Duff feels strange here. It’ll take him a while to get used to it,” Rose said.

“She didn’t mean the environment, she meant the house itself—or rather something in the house. She was quite definite about it, although she wasn’t very explicit.”

“I can see why,” said Mrs. Reddy. “It would be pretty hard to be explicit about something like that.”

“Then you don’t believe it? You don’t think the house is—?”

“Haunted?”

“Stephanie didn’t use that word. In fact she didn’t seem to be talking about ordinary ghosts.”

Rose Weber laughed. “I should think all ghosts would be extraordinary.”

“Are they to you? I would have thought they might be commonplace to a spiritualist.”

“Is that what Stephanie said about us, that we’re spiritualists?” asked Mrs. Reddy.

“Well, I suppose we are in a way, Ma,” said Rose. “We believe in an afterlife, don’t we? And we believe that sometimes it’s possible to communicate with the departed.”

“That’s right,” said Mrs. Reddy. “See, we have a little study group that meets now and then to discuss those things. That’s what Stephanie was thinking of. But we don’t have séances and things like that.”

“Oh, my, no,” said her daughter.

Duff was led in then by the deputy sheriff. Astonishingly, he didn’t look like someone who had been in an auto wreck, let alone a fight with the police. As on the day I had gone with him to the high school, he seemed his old self. His shirt, sweater and jeans were clean. His face was unmarked and his hair was neatly combed. In fact, he seemed more presentable than he had when he went off that morning.

“Hello, Mother,” he said brightly. His smile faded when he saw Mrs. Reddy and Mrs. Weber, but he greeted them politely.­

“We’ve got a good lawyer for you, Duff, so you don’t have to worry about anything,” Mrs. Reddy told him. “Let’s go talk to Mr. Matson.”

“I’d rather do it another time,” I said, but I let her lead us out to the street.

Rose drove us to the garage to which the Olds had been towed. It was a mass of junk—unrepairable, in the view of the insurance agent who joined us at the garage. The agent also implied that his company might be canceling our policy.

Since we needed another car immediately, I rented a Ply­mouth from a Hertz agency. Then I managed to convince Mrs. Reddy that I really couldn’t talk with her lawyer before consulting my husband. I thanked her and her daughter—I really was grateful for their help—and Duff and I got in the Plymouth. I was waiting for it, but he didn’t suggest that he would like to drive.

Mrs. Reddy leaned in the window on his side. “Come see us the next time you feel like running around the countryside,” she said.

“Duff won’t be driving anywhere for a while, since the police have taken his license,” I said.

“He can walk to our house. It’s not that far from yours. And we can tell him things about the history of this area and the Caine family. That’s what you’re interested in, isn’t it?” She paused and then said, “Duff.” It was as though she had forgotten his name momentarily.

“Any explanations?” I asked him when we were on our way.

“No, Mother,” he said.

“Then do you mind if I ask some questions? Why were you driving the car instead of being in school?”

“Oh, I had an early study period and it was such a nice day . . .”

“Route Ninety-­Six is on the other side of Ashland. You couldn’t possibly have gotten all the way over there and back to school during one study period—even at ninety miles an hour.”

He shrugged. “I can’t explain it. I just found myself driving farther and farther.”

“And did you just find yourself attacking the policemen?” It was incredible that my Duff had done that.

“One of them grabbed my arm and twisted it, and the other kept poking his finger in my chest.” He paused. “At least I think that’s why I reacted as I did.”

“You don’t know? That’s hardly an acceptable excuse, Duff.”

“I’m sorry, Mother, but it’s the only one I have.” He really sounded forlorn now.

“Can we expect a continuation of this sort of thing?”

“No . . . I don’t know.”

“Is anything wrong? Anything we don’t know about?”

He didn’t answer for a long time. Then he said, “Nothing you would want to know about.”

His voice sounded different, guttural. I glanced at him. He was grinning. There was a stubble of rough dark beard on his cheeks and chin, where only moments before there had been—I thought—light down. Also, he had removed his glasses, and that, I decided, gave him a different look.

“Try me and see,” I said.

“Maybe I will—sometime.”

There was no conversation for a minute or two. I turned on to the road that led to the farm and then I said something about his being popular with Mrs. Reddy and Mrs. Weber.

“Oh, yes, very popular,” he said. The same guttural voice, but coldly cynical now, and also his breath had become foul.

I lowered my window. “What did they give you to eat in jail?” I asked.

He didn’t answer. Now the stench was overpowering. I turned to him again and then I screamed. It wasn’t Duff sitting beside me but a stranger—a man of forty or so, with glaring bloodshot eyes and a short, thick beard. He was grinning, as Duff had been before, only now, instead of Duff’s well-­cared-for teeth, I saw broken and jagged yellow ones.