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"You doubt that I do!" the doctor cried indignantly. Dr. Harlow was furiously writing down what I'd told him.
"Trust me on this one, Dr. Harlow," I said, remembering every word that Miss Frost had spoken to me. "Once you start repeating what people say to you, it's a hard habit to break."
That was my meeting with Dr. Harlow, who sent a curt note to my mother and Richard Abbott, describing me as "a poor prospect for rehabilitation"; Dr. Harlow didn't elaborate on his evaluation, except to say that, in his professional estimation, my sexual problems were "more a matter of attitude than action."
All I said to my mother was that, in my professional estimation, the talk with Dr. Harlow had been a great success.
Poor, well-meaning Richard Abbott attempted to have a friendly tete-a-tete with me about the meeting. "What do you think Dr. Harlow meant by your attitude, Bill?" dear Richard asked me.
"Ah, well . . ." I said to Richard, pausing only long enough to meaningfully shrug. "I suppose a visible lack of remorse lies at the heart of it."
"A visible lack of remorse," Richard repeated.
"Trust me on this one, Richard," I began, confident that I had Miss Frost's domineering intonation exactly right. "Once you start repeating what people say to you, it's a hard habit to break."
I SAW MISS FROST only two more times; on both occasions, I was completely unprepared--I'd not been expecting to see her.
The sequence of events that led to my graduation from Favorite River Academy, and my departure from Fir
st Sister, Vermont, unfolded fairly quickly.
King Lear was performed by the Drama Club before our Thanksgiving vacation. For a period of time, not longer than a week or two, Richard Abbott joined my mother in giving me the "silent treatment"; I'd clearly hurt Richard's feelings by not seeing the fall Shakespeare play. I'm sure I would have enjoyed Grandpa Harry's performance in the Goneril role--more than I would have liked seeing Kittredge in the dual roles of Edgar and Poor Tom.
The other "poor Tom"--namely, Atkins--told me that Kittredge had pulled off both parts with a noble-seeming indifference, and that Grandpa Harry had luxuriously indulged in the sheer awfulness of Lear's eldest daughter.
"How was Delacorte?" I asked Atkins.
"Delacorte gives me the creeps," Atkins answered.
"I meant, how was he as Lear's Fool, Tom."
"Delacorte wasn't bad, Bill," Atkins admitted. "I just don't know why he always looks like he needs to spit!"
"Because Delacorte does need to spit, Tom," I told Atkins.
It was after Thanksgiving--hence the winter-sports teams had commenced their first practices--when I ran into Delacorte, who was on his way to wrestling practice. He had an oozing mat burn on one cheek and a deeply split lower lip; he was carrying the oft-seen paper cup. (I noted that Delacorte had just one cup, which I hoped was not a multipurpose cup--that is, for both rinsing and spitting.) "How come you didn't see the play?" Delacorte asked me. "Kittredge said you didn't see it."
"I'm sorry I missed it," I told him. "I've had a lot of other stuff going on."
"Yeah, I know," Delacorte said. "Kittredge told me about it." Delacorte took a sip of water from the paper cup; he rinsed his mouth, then spit the water into a dirty snowbank alongside the footpath.
"I heard you were a very good Lear's Fool," I told him.
"Really?" Delacorte asked; he sounded surprised. "Who told you that?"
"Everybody said so," I lied.
"I tried to do all my scenes with the awareness that I was dying," Delacorte said seriously. "I see each scene that Lear's Fool is in as a kind of death-in-progress," he added.
"That's very interesting. I'm sorry I missed it," I told him again.
"Oh, that's all right--you probably would have done it better," Delacorte told me; he took another sip of water, then spit the water in the snow. Before he hurried on his way to wrestling practice, Delacorte suddenly asked me: "Was she pretty? I mean the transsexual librarian."
"Yes, very pretty," I answered.
"I have a hard time imagining it," Delacorte admitted worriedly; then he ran on.
Years later, when I knew that Delacorte was dying, I often thought of him playing Lear's Fool as a death-in-progress. I really am sorry I missed it. Oh, Delacorte, how I misjudged you--you were more of a death-in-progress than I ever imagined!
