Chapter 13 — College Visitor

On the first day of Christmas vacation, Assistant Headmaster George Hanshaw, squinting into the low afternoon sun, made his way along the boardwalk toward the office of Seth Hallberg,Director of College Admission. The river was a hard, metallic blue under a hard sky. George stopped to watch a fleet of ice cakes floating upstream against the wind on the flood tide. At the door, he stamped the snow off his Bean boots, shucked his coat, and scaled his hat at a hook, where, to the mutual astonishment and admiration of the Assistant Headmaster and the Director of College Admissions, it hung swinging. “You’re a winner, George.” “I’ve been practicing.” George tilted his chair against the wall in a quite uncharacteristic pose. The usual white shirt, plain tie, and conservative tweed jacket had given place to a light wool shirt and corduroy pants. Vacation had indeed arrived. “How many early decision winners, Seth? How are we doing?” “About a quarter of the class under cover, the easy ones.” He reached for a paper on the corner of the desk. “About the same as last year but not quite such a strong class. Verbal score runs about 10 points lower and there’s a few clunkers on the bottom of the pile. Want to do it alphabetically?” “OK.” Here’s Arrundale; applied to Yale, Princeton, Williams, Bowdoin, Amherst. Scores 520 and 580. Grades B’s and C’s. Doesn’t have a chance. Principal recommendation is a serene overconfidence.” “What are you going to do with him?” “He’ll come down. We’ll let him hear some bad news and then maybe I can sell him on Lake Seneca U. or St. Jerome’s. They ought to take him. We’ll take a look at his mid-year grades. “Brinker is next. He’s into Dartherst early decision. No problem there. Good grades, good scores, and a left-handed pitcher. He could go anywhere he wanted. “Burroughs. Tough case. Doesn’t do himself justice. He has good scores, mid 600’s, but his grades are mediocre at best: an A, a B, and three C’s, and the C’s are in Math, French, and English.” “What’s the A in?” “Bio.” “That’s a tough course.” “Sure it is, and Burroughs is not stupid. But he’s going to take a dive in Bio because he needs the math to do the second semester and he’s not learning it.” “How about some K.I.P.?” “I’ve given him a good shot of it without noticeable results. You better tip off his folks.” “I’ll get it in the comment.” The conference waded on down the alphabet. “How about Sam Reed?” “He’ll be all right in April. Good kid. High 500 scores. B’s in Algebra II and Physics. C’s in History and English. Varsity football, second string hockey goalie, crew. On the newspaper. Applied to Dartherst, several Ivies, and Syracuse. I’ll get him to hedge it with something west.” “Washington in St Louis?” “Well . . . yes. But something a little easier too. He’ll be all right on April 15.” “Joe Rotch got a prayer? I’d like to see him make something good.” 60

“Oh yes. He’ll make something pretty good on character. Varsity football captain and kept a losing team going all the way. Varsity crew, school paper. Solid B’s with a C+ in English.” “I can give him a good write-up if you want, and Floyd will stand behind him like a brick wall. Where does he want to go?” “He wants The Great University, but he probably won’t make that. Too many other football captains want to go there.” “He’d be a good bet at some other university. And he could play football at a small college.” “No way. Any college that would take him as a football player wouldn’t be worth his time academically. He isn’t that big or that good in college competition.” “Sullivan?” “He’s in. Made it to The Great University on early decision. Varsity football, dramatic club, one low achievement test and 550 math score but honor grades for four years and an alumni son. They couldn’t turn him down.” On they plowed toward the end of the list of 30 seniors, dealing with each dispassionately as a “case,” a selling problem, and at the same time understandingly and sympathetically, seeking the best solution for each. “Willis. There’s a tough one, a real loser. 2 C’s, 2 D’s. Decent scores in the 500’s. No athletics unless you count getting beaten up daily by everyone else on the JV wrestling squad. Joined the public speaking club but hasn’t done anything there. No good friends except Hank Wright – another loser.” “Do you think there’s maybe a drug problem there?” “Can’t prove it. Edgehill hasn’t much good to say for either one. Jo-Jo’s parents are separated and his old man’s too busy to read his mail or pay his tuition. Maybe a P.G. at some other –” The telephone on the desk rang. “Anxious parent?” “Likely.” Seth picked it up. “Oh no! Didn’t anyone tell him we were on vacation? We haven’t any kids for him to see … Well, send him over and I’ll be nice to him. We’re going to need him badly before we’re through with this year’s class.” He hung up. “That’s Dick Smith from Mt. Adams College – didn’t hear we were on vacation. It’s a real good small college in the southwestern part of the state and Dick has been very good to us in the past.” “Don’t you think we’ve done a day’s work, Seth, for a couple of old men on vacation? Wright is the last guy in the class and there isn’t much more to say about him. Let’s take Dick over to my place and give him a drink for his trouble.” “Suits me. The sun is over the yard arm, as old Captain Kenniston must have often observed, and I don’t need a sextant to prove it.” The walk across the campus in the early December dark was cold enough to be welcome after Seth’s small office. The last yellow streak of day silhouetted the spiky skyline in the west as Orion climbed out of the dusky east. Christmas lights twinkled and blinked on the two spruce trees outside the New School. The boardwalks cracked, squeaked, and rang hollow under foot. As they stepped on to the porch of the Hanshaw’s house, the light flicked on and Elizabeth Hanshaw opened the door, a big, confident, cheerful woman with a hospitable smile. “I thought it was about that time,” she said, turning to fetch two more glasses. The living room was comfortable, the fire bright, and the refreshment welcome. The conversation turned naturally to college admission problems of the year. “Nothing very new,” said Dick, tinkling his ice. “Same old rat race. But like any race, exciting. You never know who’ll come in the door next. Kids! The variety is infinite! Infinite!” Hanshaw nodded.

“Long-haired boys, short-haired girls, blue blazers, white shirts and school ties, white jeans, pierced ears and beards, short skirts, long skirts, beads, and fuzzy sweaters. Loving mamas, athletic dads, ‘My boy can skate backwards faster than any kid on the squad.’ I’ve seen it all.” Dick gathered speed. He was an explosive little man. “But that isn’t the whole of it. “Knock Knock.” Dick jumped off the couch, pretended to open a door, and carried on both sides of a dialogue. “Hello coach” Here’s the basketball coach in sweat pants and sneakers, whistle on a shoelace around his neck. “Dick, you gotta get me a center. Richardson is graduating.” “I got you Sidman last year.” “But he’s no good and he’s only six-two. Get me a center, Dick – six feet four inches of man.” Knock Knock. Here’s the music director. “Dick, I’m going to need a tuba player for next year, one that can read music.” “I didn’t know there was anything but oom-pahs on a tuba.” “You got to know when to oom and when to pah.” Knock knock. Here’s Soapy Al, development director. “Gray suit, very light blue shirt, college tie, shiny shoes.” Dick slowed his pace. “Sit down, Al. What’s the good news?” “Well, Dick, how are you?” Like jesting Pilate, he would not stay for an answer. “Long time no see. Warm for November isn’t it?” More airy persiflage. Then … “By the way, Dick, do you have a candidate named Shortcut, nephew of Silas Bigbux? You know, the one whose father gave the old hockey rink way back? He’s talking about giving an addition to the library, four million more or less. This Shortcut is sort of a nephew, first wife’s brother’s boy I think. If you could find a place for him, it might make a big difference. He’s a fine boy, a fine boy. First class.” “Actually I did know the boy and he was pretty good, a borderline case anyway, and I guess we can wiggle him in, but I gave back to Soapy Al the same stuff he gave me.” “Well, I’ll see what I can do, Al. I can’t promise anything and of course I can’t speak for the Committee, but we’ll take a good look at him. Thanks for stopping by, Al. Always good to see you.” “So where does K.A. come in?” asked Seth. “I’m not done yet. Here comes the Dean.” “Dick, we have a problem. Good old Dr. Holmes, you know, our Greek and Latin professor with the spiky white moustache and the pince-nez specs. He’s been here since Noah stepped out of the Ark and he has five years before he retires. He loves teaching classics and he’s good at it. But he has almost no students. Get me some classics majors, will you Dick.” “Dick, I need a quarterback.” The pace became furious. “Dick, I need a cox.” “Dick I need some people from Maine … from Alabama … from Alaska and Hawaii.” “Dick I need more minority kids, bright ones.” I have nightmares. “Dick I need…Dick, I have to have…Dick get me a computer jock or two … an Egyptologist with red hair. And for God’s sake, Dick, get me a real scholar or two.” General laughter. Dick collapsed on the couch, burned out. He sat up and added, “And I must end

up in September, after the summer shrink, with a freshman class of capable, interested, and interesting boys and girls numbering exactly 500. If I have less, we can’t meet our budget; if we have more, we have to rush out to Sears and buy beds.” Hanshaw broke in, “Dick, you’re aground. Let me float those ice cubes for you. Seth, tell him how it is with us.” “Not too bad. Our biggest problem is the good, average, middle-of-the-class kid who needs a little financial aid. The bright guys, real scholars, usually get in all right, and the bottom-of-the- barrel have no great expectations anyway. The middle of the lot all want to go Ivy or Williams, Bowdoin, Amherst, Mount Adams, BBC, you know.” “Jones got into Duke last year. Why can’t I?” “Colleges don’t always accept people for the best reasons.” “I got 3 A’s and a B. Doesn’t that buy me anything?” “Not when you’re taking Pottery, Comic Literature, and Underwater Basket Weaving.” “My father went to …” “The coach told me …” “And,” added Hanshaw, “everyone must be tucked in by April 15 or the word flashes around the cocktail circuit, ‘Half the class got turned down from Kennebec.’ Yet we need quality too. It works in a spiral, either ascending or descending. Our boys go to good colleges. They do well. The colleges keep looking to us for good boys. Parents with good little boys hear of this and send us a wide selection of good little boys. Good little boys well taught grow up into good big boys and are accepted at good colleges, and around we go. “But let our teaching deteriorate, let our boys bust out of good colleges, and then the good colleges don’t take our candidates. The parents hear of it and don’t send us any more good little boys. Dull little boys taught by dull teachers grow up to be dull big boys and are a drug on the college market. Our enrollment drops. We have to cut our faculty and our program, we lose more applicants, and in a few years we drop through a crack in the wharf.” Hanshaw broke in. “And the only way up again is like Jonas down at Small Point. He’s strong as a moose, you know, but no physics student. He bet Steve he could step into one of those wire baskets they weigh lobsters in and lift himself up. “I’d a done it too,” he said, “if the handles hadn’t of broke off.” Stay for dinner. I got a chowder would feed a regiment.” “Finest kind.”