The warm letter of acceptance arrived from Harvard back in the fall, a personal note from the head of admissions welcoming him into the fold. But William also applied to other schools, using Bobby Nelson’s address, and at morning assembly, Nelson passes a few envelopes down the row of desks, giving William a thumbs-up from across the room. William tucks the envelopes into his satchel and waits until the end of the day to open them. He doesn’t want to be near anyone, so he heads into the cemetery, all the way to the back, where the trees are greening above their dark branches. He has a favorite maple tree, one that looks out over the pond, and he throws his satchel down, pressing his back up against the bark, and lights a cigarette before opening the envelopes.
It’s hard for him to realize that he will be going to college in the fall. For so long, he’s had the date of his eighteenth birthday in his head, with plans to march into Boston and enlist on the day. To head to basic and then off to Europe or the Pacific, wherever he is needed. But, instead, it now seems that the war in Europe, anyway, will end, and the number of new troops will diminish. The boys in Europe will be sent to the Pacific.
He slides his finger under the first envelope flap and pulls the letter out. A rejection from Columbia. The second: a rejection from Yale. He closes his eyes, and he can hear the birds flapping about above him in the tree. He doesn’t want to go to Harvard. It’s what everyone expects. He wants to explore something new. Now that he won’t be going to war, he feels even more strongly that he doesn’t want to go. But now he has no other options.
Before supper, he knocks on Bea’s door with their special code, the one that Gerald created. Come in, she calls. Hello, he says, opening the door a crack. Time for a chat? Her face goes flat and she shrugs, not meeting his eyes. I guess, she says, but I have a lot of homework. It won’t take long, he says, and he sits down in the desk chair that looks out over the backyard. So lovely out today, he says. The sky looks like a Maine sky, doesn’t it? She closes one textbook and opens another; books and notebooks are strewn across her bed. What do you want, William? I’m busy.
He leans toward her. I didn’t get into Columbia, he says, his voice low, and then she looks up in surprise. You applied? He nods. But I didn’t tell the folks. Didn’t get into Yale either. Bea shrugs. Their loss, she says, but her tone is unconvincing. I thought I would, he says, and he turns to look out her window so she can’t see his tears.
I’m surprised, she says. Always thought you could go anywhere. My grades are bad, he says. You know that. He slides down to sit on her floor, his back against her closet door, and begins tossing one of her socks back and forth, from one hand to the other. I don’t know what to do. I don’t want to go to Harvard. Well, that’s just stupid, she says, her voice hard, her ears turning red. Ridiculous. You have an opportunity to go to one of the top universities and you’re not going to go because you’re a spoiled, petulant boy?
Give me a break, he says, suddenly cross, refusing to look at her. That’s not why I don’t want to go to Harvard. I want to do my own thing, for once. And what I’m asking you for, here, is how to talk to the folks about this. Don’t twist this around because you’re mad at me, too. He lies down on the floor and puts his feet up on her bed, his arms behind his head. He wants to go far away. Don’t you get it, Bea, he says. I’m ready for something new.
She puts down her pen and looks hard at him, a searching look that reminds him of the old Bea, of how close they used to be. But she’s different now. She’s got a solid group of girlfriends, and she’s always somehow in the center of that group. It’s hard to catch her alone, and when he does, she’s dismissive of him. She used to knock on his wall at night and they would check in with each other. But she hasn’t done that in ages.
She sighs. Okay, look. What do you want to do? You want to say no to Harvard? He shrugs, then nods. What would you do? she asks. I don’t know, he says. Maybe travel? Maybe get a job somewhere else? Bea shakes her head. The men are all starting to come home, she says. All those jobs that we’ve been doing, that kids and women across the country have been doing, they’re going to be gone. And travel? How are you going to do that? With what money?
He shrugs again. I have some money saved up, he says. I could figure something out. She’s not even trying to understand. She returns to looking at her books, turning the pages. You’re not being realistic, she says without looking up. You’re just not. The kind of money that we save is not enough to live on.
How do you know, he says, furious. What do you know about all this? He stands and walks to the door and as he’s opening it, she speaks again. Your parents are having a hard time this spring, she says, still not looking at him. I’m sure you haven’t noticed. They’re not going to want you to do anything other than what’s already set. So do what you want but know that you may not get your way. William doesn’t acknowledge her words but slams the door behind him.
As he sits through dinner, not saying a word, he watches his parents, thinking about what Bea said about them. They seem the same to him, the same as always. Mother: too busy, too cheerful, too energetic. And Father? Who knows. William wrote down a list a few years ago of all the ways he would be a better parent. He remembers how once, in Maine, when he was little, he woke early in the morning and looked out the window, to see his parents standing on the shore, watching the sunrise. Mother turned to Father and curtsied and then he took her in his arms and danced her round and round, Mother laughing when he dipped her, right at the edge of the water. He remembers, too, how sometimes when he would come into the kitchen in this house, she would be sitting on his lap and stand up, all flustered, and start mixing batter or cutting up apples or cleaning a pot. Now he can’t remember the last time he even saw Father in the kitchen.
After dinner he knocks again on Bea’s door, opening it before she responds. Jesus, William, she says, what now? I have a French exam tomorrow. I don’t see you for a year and now you won’t leave me alone. He looks at the floor, his fingers deep in his pants pockets. I miss you, he says. And when she looks up at him, he knows he finally said the right thing.