Chapter 15 — A Most Improbable Tale

His right name really was Cecil Oscar Hummelman and his name was not the only improbable thing about him. He was improbably small, improbably active, and he came from, of all improbable places, Lemon Blossom, Florida. Among other improbabilities, Cecil was improbably imaginative. He could see himself in almost anyone’s place; he could find himself playing almost anyone’s part. On the plane he had had a window seat. He became the pilot. He circled the plane over Portland, over the harbor, over the tank farm, out over Cape Elizabeth, and headed in for the landing, flaps down, slowing, sinking, a delicate touch on the stick, coming in just right. The plane’s reallanding gear rumbled down. Cecil had forgotten the landing gear! Cecil’s imaginary plane was going to crash! It landed on its belly, swung around, skidded sideways, caught fire. However, the real pilot, landing gear down, brought his plane in safely enough. The stewardess noticed Cecil’s horrified expression and asked, “All right, sonny?” He was met by Mr. Hanshaw, the Assistant Headmaster, and driven through a hostile country of rocks, snow, and dark spruce woods to Kennebec Academy. A room was found for him on the second floor of McFarland House, presided over by Mr. Edgehill, English teacher, coach of the third football team and Assistant Coach of Varsity Baseball. Cecil was a little boy far from his country home, among a group of much older boys who were very much at home at Kennebec Academy and who regarded the second floor of McFarland House as their particular playground. But if Cecil had little else, he had more than a full share of pride and of courage. He was determined not to be overwhelmed and put down in his new school. He had read books; he knew how big kids behaved. He could be a big kid. On his first night in McFarland House he was accosted by Hank Wright and Hank’s roommate, Jo-Jo Willis. Mr. Edgehill instinctively disliked Hank and Jo-Jo and was suspicious of them; but without any clear evidence against them, he fought down his suspicions and tried to be fair. The dormitory, which knew a great deal more than Mr. Edgehill, regarded Hank and Jo-Jo with a mixture of admiration, horror, and contempt. Ever since this precious pair had come to Kennebec, they had been on the ragged edge of serious trouble, but they had never been caught flat-footed. They had maintained barely passing records by assiduous grade grubbing with soft-hearted teachers, whom they seemed to be able to spot at great distances, and by ingenious methods of intellectual hitchhiking. They knew which forms of athletic exercise were the least strenuous and which coaches neglected to take attendance. They early acquired a taste for tobacco, smoked in the boiler room where the draft from the oil burner sucked up the smoke. They learned that vodka leaves little or nothing on the breath, and that coffee brandy is the least expensive way to “get a buzz on.” Just this fall they had got on the grass, established a clear line of supply, and lacked only sufficient money to overindulge the habit. After supper on Cecil’s first night Jo-Jo suggested, “Let’s go visiting. New kids always travel with more money than they need.” “Oh, let the new kid alone his first night,” interjected a visitor. “Hit him now, before he finds out the score. That’s when he will shake down for the most,” replied

Hank.

They dropped in on Cecil; indeed they nearly filled his little room. He was appalled by their size but determined not to be a doormat for anyone, especially at the first encounter. He could be a big kid. “What’s your name, kid?”

“Butch.” “No kiddin’ – you don’t look like a Butch.” “That’s what the kids at my other school called me.” “Where do you come from?” “Miami.” “Yeah? That’s a tough town, huh?” “Sure is. You got to carry a knife to school or you get cut.” “Who’ll cut you?” “Those kids from Haiti and Puerto Rico and the black kids. You got to protect yourself.” “Were you ever in a knife fight?” “Sure. Lots o’ times. Why do you think they call me Butch?” “They say Miami is a great place for drugs – cocaine and hash and grass and all that.” “Sure is. You can buy it anywhere. There’s almost always a guy in the boys’ room ready to sell. All you need is the bread.” “Did you ever try it?” “Try it? Sure. That’s why I got kicked out of there. I was stoned for a week. When my old man found out, he was sore as hell. Yanked me out and sent me to one of those funny farms where they clean you out, and then sent me up here. Do they have any of the stuff here?” “Might be.” “Yeah? How do I get me a joint?” “You really want to, Butch?” Cecil Oscar Hummelman of Lemon Blossom, Florida, who had never touched a weapon more lethal than a Scout knife, who had never smoked even corn silk, drunk anything stronger than cider with a tickle in it, or been anywhere near Miami except to be driven to the airport by his mother, had talked himself up a box canyon whence there was no escape without unthinkable loss of face. And he was well into playing the part of tough kid. “Sure. You got a joint on you?” “All it takes is bread. You got any?” “I got five.” “It takes ten.” Cecil passed over his last bill. “Come down to the can.” By opening one of the ground-glass windows from the top and pulling the shade over his head like a tent, Jo-Jo expertly arranged for the smoke to go outside. Hank turned on the showers full speed to fog the place up and mask any noise and then went out to stand watch by the drinking fountain in the hall, ready to tap unobtrusively on the pipe if danger threatened. Jo-Jo got the joint fired up, pulled Cecil under the shade and passed it over. “Have a good pull on it, right down into your lungs or it won’t do you no good.” “I know.” Cecil took a tentative puff and blew it out fast. “Oh, take a real drag on it, like this.” Jo-Jo inhaled a lungful of smoke and held his breath, slowly letting it ooze out his nose. He passed the joint back. Cecil took another puff and tried to hold it in his mouth. It tasted awful and he coughed. It choked up his nose and throat and he coughed and coughed. Then Hank banged on the pipe. Jo-Jo threw the joint out the window, ducked out from under the shade, and began washing his hands. Another boy came in. “Where’s the new kid. God, Jo-Jo, you got this place so fogged up … Old Edgehill wants to see

him.”

show it! “Go down and see old Edgehill right away. Door at the end of the hall downstairs.” “Cecil covered his sinking heart with a bold face and approached the door. It had a brightly-polished brass knocker engraved “THE EDGEHILLS.” He knocked tentatively. “Come in.” From the bare corridor Cecil stepped into a pleasant study with a rug on the floor, bookcases on three sides, a desk rather cluttered with papers, pictures of athletic teams and people in mountaineering gear above the book cases, and on the fourth side a picture window. Mr. Edgehill, a tall slightly gray, kind-looking man, shook hands with him and invited him to take a chair by the window. “You’re Cecil Hummelman? I’m sorry I missed you this afternoon when Mr. Hanshaw brought you in. Are you well settled now and getting acquainted with the boys?” “Yes sir. Getting acquainted … I guess.” “Well, relax, Cecil. I just wanted to meet you and tell you how we do things in this dormitory.” The telephone in the next room rang insistently. Mr. Edgehill excused himself and left the room, leaving Cecil looking out the window at the snow on the ground and the bare maple tree on the edge of the light from the study. Beyond that the world was black. His mouth tasted terrible. He thought maybe he was a little dizzy. Perhaps he was getting stoned. A few flakes of snow drifted down through the light from the window and then a few more. He had come that day from 70° sunny Miami to 20° cloudy Portland. He had never seen snow on the ground before that very afternoon at the Portland airport, and he had never seen the flakes drifting down from above. He fought for control. What am I seeing? He wondered. The window looked like a bad scene on television, snowing and unreal. Mr. Edgehill’s voice continued from the other room. It sounded like a long call. Suddenly on the picture window-television screen before his eyes appeared a horse. It didn’t walk into the scene; it just materialized out of the drifting flakes. A huge horse, all head and shoulders – not like any horse he had ever seen. Enormous, black, shaggy, with an extravagant nose and huge ears that stood out and up from its head like an elephant’s. Cecil gasped. He choked. He stared, he hid his eyes. And when he looked up, the horse disappeared. He thought he saw it disappear. For a split second it was standing there – and then it was gone as if it had never been. OOOOOH, thought Cecil, I’m stoned! I’m having a bad trip. I’ve got the D.T’s. I’ll never touch a joint again. Never. He squinched his eyes tight shut, put his head down and pressed his eyes hard into his hands. Colors flashed and blazed behind his eyelids. He was stoned. He knew it. He pressed harder, afraid to look up, afraid of what he might see out that window. “Well, Cecil, sorry to have kept you waiting.” Mr. Edgehill sat down and looked at the small boy before him, wound up tight as a watch spring, his head in his hands. Homesick, he thought. “There now, Cecil. Cheer up. It isn’t going to be as bad as you think. You just do what you have to do step by step, play square with us and try hard; and you’ll find everything will come out all right.” Do what you have to do. Play square. He knows. He’s telling me that if I confess, I’ll get off easier. He knows all about it. If I look up, he’ll see I am stoned. They can tell from your eyes. The boy is more than homesick, thought Mr. Edgehill. He must be tired and he may be sick. It’s been a long day for him and he’s a long way from Florida. “Cheer up, Cecil. It won’t be as bad as you think. Tell me all about it and it will come out all right I’m sure.” “Do I have to? They’ll prob’ly kill me.” “No one’s going to hurt you, boy. Who are they?” Cecil collapsed. His act was shattered. He wasn’t the tough kid from Miami. He was just a little boy from Lemon Blossom who needed his mother. Mr. Edgehill, still with no idea what was going on inside

of Cecil but with deep sympathy for the little boy, put his hand on his shoulder and spoke quiet comforting words – and Cecil told all. Over in Chelsea House Tommy Brown burst through the door into Cluett’s and Edwards’ room – “Guys, did you see it? There’s a moose outside right over by McFarland House. I saw it, I tell you.” But Mr. Edgehill was not interested in the moose. He was taking the first steps toward setting Hank and Jo-Jo on their way home.