Chapter 2 — New Boy
G
us Cunningham, on the day after Labor Day, was driving his heavily-loaded Ford east on the Maine Turnpike with almost no traffic while all of Maine seemed to be emptying out through the westbound lanes. But like the drivers of cars from Massachusetts, station wagons from Connecticut, and campers, Winnebagos, vans and trailers from New Hampshire to California, he was going to work. He was excited about it, for he was about to start his professional life, to take up a position on the other side of the desk, to teach actively for the good of others rather than to learn more or less passively for his own good. He felt that he was prepared as well as he could be. A new A.B. degree in history, three years as a camp counselor, including one in charge of waterfront activities, a successful athletic career culminating in the captaincy of the cross country team and a seat in the varsity shell gave him the confidence that he could deal with whatever he had to face. Yet as he travelled farther and farther east, he felt more and more as he had when his crew lined up for the first race. He left the Turnpike at Portland, drove eastward past Freeport, where he had stopped every spring at L. L. Bean’s to buy camping equipment; through Brunswick, where he had once run cross country against a Bowdoin team; toward Bath. When he saw over the trees the great crane at the Iron Works, he left the divided highway and followed a two-lane tar road, felt the spruce trees closing in, passed farmhouses with high-pitched roofs, decorated eaves, and big woodpiles. The houses, while each was different, maintained a common look, each built in the same classic proportions and holding their ground against the coming winter. After a few long miles, he turned into a driveway on the left at the Kennebec Academy sign with heightened excitement, followed it between two rows of tall white pines, through which he could see wellkept athletic fields and white goal posts. On one field a football team was practicing, punctuated by the familiar shrill of the coaches’ whistles. He emerged from the lane of trees on to a broad elliptical expanse of lawn circumscribed by the drive and a series of white clapboard buildings. In the center of the ellipse stood a tall white flagpole rigged with cross trees, a topmast, and a gaff. From the top of the topmast on the soft September breeze, floated a red swallowtail flag with a yellow K and from the peak of the gaff, a big, new United States ensign. Before the New School he stopped. The New School had been built in 1901 and had been added to as the Academy had grown, but it was still known as the New School. Five wide plank steps led up to a porch and a formal doorway, over whose lintel was carved in wood the seal of the Academy, a compass card with the legend SCIENTIA VIRES INDUCIT, a sentiment to which Gus felt he was committing himself as he entered. To his left, through an open door he saw a strong and capable lady sitting at a desk beside a switchboard, opening letters vigorously with a paper knife. She smiled even more cordially than politeness dictated. “Good morning,” she said. “You’re a little late. Football practice started at nine, but if you will give me your name, I will show you where your room is and you can go right over to the gym.” Gus, taken aback, said, “Cunningham – Augustus Cunningham,” feeling like the new boy she took him for. “Cunningham. Oh, you’re the new teacher. I’m so sorry not to have recognized you. We met last March. My name is Goodrich, Pat Goodrich. You won’t remember it against me, will you, de-ah?” She sounded as though she understood his embarrassment and sincerely regretted being the cause of it. The “deah” was a mixture of friendliness, humor, and a habit of liking people. “Mr. Sawyer is expecting you today. Go right in. I don’t think he’s doing anything awfully important.” She motioned toward a door behind her. 7
