Learning To Make Do With Plenty

Dr. Peter Wilsonhulme had something more than altruism in mind when he approached Rachel Carmichael to take her son, Garven, away from his mother, his town, and his school. He had a long-term goal that he elected to wait before springing it on Rachel, or on his own wife, for that matter. He and Vera had a conference with Rachel a week before they planned to set out for California and the boy’s new life.

“Indeed. I do know a school where he could get the education you have been talking about, Rachel. It is not a school; to my way of thinking. It is the school; and I know for a fact that he could get accepted.”

Here, Dr. Wilsonhulme overstated his facts somewhat, but his assumption was based on a reasonably sound premise.

“Let me take a moment to explain. You see, a dear old friend of mine, a classmate from my prep school and undergraduate days, is now the headmaster at the Burton-Cagle School in Malibu, California. Perhaps you are not so familiar with the competitive world of prep schools but accept my expertise on this: Burton-Cagle is the standout among the best schools in the West. It is by all criteria the best high school west of the Mississippi, and can compete with Andover, Groton, Thatcher, or the Harvard schools for number one in the country. It is my alma mater.”

The doctor paused, sipped his coffee for a moment, and collected his thoughts briefly while the two women watched him. The desert sunset glowed through the open windows with subtle and warming mauves, pinks, and lavenders.

He returned to his task.

“Another thing you might not know--but can imagine--is that fathers apply for places at the school when their sons are born. It is--to say the least, an exclusive school--Each class has no more than fifty students with twenty times that number on a waiting list. It is snobbish, conservative, and a pain in the... behind at times; but the education received and the social connections to be made are incomparable. Since Vera and I have had no children and harbor no religious pretensions, we have contributed a rather tidy sum to the school over the years at the request of my old friend. Although, I can’t be absolutely certain, I do believe that my recommendation and sponsorship of a deserving boy would carry the day. I have yet to do so, which makes this first-time recommendation all the more compelling, I think.”

“What does a place like that cost? I’m almost afraid to ask,” Rachel inquired with timidity in her voice but with a feeling more like temerity.

“I guess we’re talking upwards of seven, eight thousand dollars a year.” Peter replied.

Rachel gasped and emitted a short nervous laugh.

“That’s more than twice what I make in a whole year. It’s impossible!”

“Rachel, dear,” Vera interrupted. “Peter can’t seem to get to it. Although we are by no means wealthy people, we do have the means to support Garven through the Burton-Cagle School. We can probably even get him a scholarship. They do have a few; and as of last year, I am on the selection committee. The opportunity is open right now; it’s the opportunity of a lifetime. I know it is hard for your pride, hard to think of sending your son away to school.”

“With all those Philistines!” Peter chimed in facetiously.

Vera shushed her husband.

“But I know that above all else, you are a mother and have the interests of your child close at heart. I like to think of myself as a kind of aunt to Garven. I really feel like his grandmother. Let me give to him, too. I would be grateful to be able to share in the life of a boy whom I love.”

There was a long thoughtful pause. Peter and Vera watched the elements of pride, concern, hope, fear, and gratitude, pass over Rachel’s expressive face. She was able to think clearly in that brief space of time freed from all other interests and concerns. When she spoke, it was clear that she felt she had crossed her Rubicon.

“I am overwhelmed. This seems too good to be true, too frightening for a country girl like me to take in all at once; but I accept. I love you for what you are willing to do for my boy. Maybe, together, we can keep him from growing up to be another coyote in Cipher, Arizona.”

“Of course, we will have to have Garven’s agreement in all of this. After all, it is his future we are presumptuous enough to be planning here,” intoned Peter trying to be fair, as the usually incomprehensible new generation always seemed to demand.

“That will not be necessary. Families are not democracies. My son will obey my wishes; and for this purpose, he will be obligated to obey your dictates as well, Dr. and Mrs. Wilsonhulme. Children cannot be entrusted with such a vital decision,” Rachel stated with finality and the determination of her self-sacrificing maternal instinct. “He will agree, and he will be forever grateful that he did.”

“Now you’re a woman after our own hearts. You will be pleased to see that sort of attitude maintained vigorously at Burton-Cagle,” said the doctor.

Dr. Wilsonhulme and Garven were in California a week later. While an old friend of Peter’s and Garven did some sight-seeing, Peter did some politicking.

“It would be much more defensible if he were your own son, Peter, you realize that,” Carter P. Des Moines said again.

“I realize that, C.P., but that would be getting ahead of myself. It is something of a delicate matter,” Peter responded soberly.

The headmaster of Burton-Cagle School was faced with a real quandary about this application for admission to the venerable institution. It was one more point of pressure among altogether too many already facing the beleaguered headmaster.

“But sadly, I have no son of my own, C.P. This boy is as close as any could be. I hate to put it this way, but if obliged, I would call in my marks for this lad. He’s worth it, and well, I wish you didn’t make me say it, but the school owes me. You and I go back a long way; that should count for something; our friendship should not be something I have to presume upon. I don’t want to be in the position of equalizing the ledger. It shouldn’t be that way,” Peter Wilsonhulme said persuasively, making an effort to keep any note of pleading out of his strained voice.

This discussion had been working up to this point for ten minutes.

“Have you any idea how many boys are applying for the freshman class this year, Peter?”

“Two thousand seventy-eight for fifty places, to be precise. The average grade point average is 3.6; most have had two or more years of a modern foreign language; all except Garven, have had the necessary exposure to beginning Latin; the average income of the fathers is in the six-figure bracket, and many are the richest, and some, the most famous people in America,” Peter crisply recited the daunting admissions demographics his wife had supplied him the evening before.

“Exceptional grasp of the facts of the problem I face, Peter. One thing you neglected to stress: the fathers of these boys are the best, the brightest, the most successful, and the richest in the world, not just California or even the U.S. They are not used to hearing ‘no’,” Mr. Des Moines rejoined.

“And ten percent of your students are scholarship boys. Whatever you thought about the decision to admit those less privileged boys, it was something you had to do. Include Garven in that group, if you must. You have to tell more than two thousand fathers “no” anyway, what does one more no to one more father matter?”

“I don’t know how much longer I can contend with this stress, Peter. You know that there is a lot of pressure to admit—Jews, of all people. That came from the administration in Washington—you, know, Eleanor—and the socialists running the Los Angeles government for the time being. Would you believe that I have even had a letter from Eleanor herself suggesting we were wasting brains by not admitting girls? Girls! The meddlesome first lady even hinted that the time would come when we would see swartzers in the student body. I wrote her a letter discussing the snowball-in-hell timetable, politely worded, of course.”

“I know all that, and I truly sympathize; but we are not talking anything radical here. This kid fits most of the bill: he’s a W.A.S.P., a heterosexual, not a Jewish or colored gene in his background. He lives in a little Mormon town, but he’s not part of that cult. Think of him as interesting. He’ll add some diversity to this plain vanilla campus, but not too much. Think of him as a challenge. I think he is smart enough to get his Latin and his other deficiencies up to snuff in less than a year. You know you want to be able to say you have a student from such a picturesque place as Cipher, Arizona!” Peter said with an affectionate smile sensing capitulation.

“It’ll cost you, my friend. I will have to sell him to the board and that will be costly. You will have to squeeze another couple of hundred thou out of the alumni to grease the skids for Garven Carmichael of Cipher, Arizona.”

The two aging men laughed with each other with the warmth of a lifetime of friendship and returned favors. They shook on it. Garven Carmichael was as good as admitted. Somewhere, a father would scream foul when he learned that the son he placed on the Burton-Cagle list on his Christening day, would have to settle for The Cate School, Groton, Andover, or Culver Military Academy, maybe even Dunn School.

Peter Wilsonhulme was more than pleased with his success, but the element of the conversation that stayed with him for some reason was C.P.’s casual observation that Garven would fare better as his son instead of his ward. Something to think about.

The entire United States, Burton-Cagle School included, was having a great party. It was V-J Day! The streets overflowed with revelers. There were boys cavorting around the school’s campus grounds in festive hats, and their parents were only a trifle less silly. V-E Day on May 8 had been more subdued than this final day of the Second World War. There was a feeling of a heavy burden having been lifted and of new beginnings. It was an auspicious day for Garven Carmichael to embark on the great adventure of his life; his mother and the Wilsonhulmes told him more than once.

Peter Wilsonhulme had driven Garven from Cipher to Los Angeles a week before the first day of the autumn semester; so, he could be properly outfitted and could see a few of the sights that were part of the familiar scene to the new student’s contemporaries. Vera Wilsonhulme was too ill to accompany her two men; her hypertension had damaged her heart; and she was not up to the rigors of a non-airconditioned trip across the broiling Mojave Desert, or to the excitement of the crowds and the opening day ceremonies. Peter knew his wife’s time was limited and accepted the fact with resignation. He had done all he could for her personally and professionally. He kept his feelings to himself, aware of the burden his medical knowledge caused him.

The pair drove down the overcrowded coast highway to Los Angeles for some shopping. The doctor parked in the spacious parking lot of Bullocks on Wilshire Boulevard and led the wide-eyed boy into the department store that was larger than the town in which the fifteen-year-old-lived. They marched directly to the boys’ department; shopping was not a pastime for the busy physician, just a necessity. He knew exactly the outfits Garven would need. There was no reason to shop about or to have extended discussions on the choices.

“This is Garven Carmichael. He is entering Burton-Cagle this year and will need a wardrobe, miss,” the doctor said to the overworked saleslady causing Garven to blush with embarrassment.

She did not have to know his whole life’s history in order for him to get a couple of new outfits. The saleslady did not have the faintest notion of what or where Burton-Cagle was. She was elaborately polite presuming that it would be to her benefit to be impressed. Garven silently begged the doctor to skip any more personal revelations with this stranger.

“He will need three blue blazers and a dark green one, four—no—five pairs of trousers. He will need a seersucker, two khaki, a light gray fine wool, and a summery light blue pair. You can get us three dark school ties to match the blazers; seven sea island cotton white, button-down collar dress shirts; and a dozen pairs of assorted blue and gray socks.”

“Yes, Sir,” the saleslady replied, brightening up at the thought of the commission this sale would bring.

It had been a very slow morning thus far. She set about with dispatch to fetch the requested items, having judged his size without troubling the boy the gentleman with questions. No one would expect the boy to know his own measurements or sizes, of course.

Garven was set for the school year in less than an hour and was growing anxious to see the ocean, the palm trees, and the movie stars. He was restless, not bored; every building, street, tree, and odd character was new to him; and he was fascinated. He had never seen a Negro before, and the city seemed full of them. He heard people speaking Spanish and Chinese and wondered briefly how they could make sense out of such gibberish. He saw thousands of cars, more than he could have imagined existed.

He smelled exotic foods, felt the cooling salty sea breezes as they approached the beach, reveled in the gentle warmth of the oceanfront sun, and was thrilled to walk on the pale sands of the beach and to see the near-naked forms of gorgeous girls—hundreds of them. All his appetites were whetted; all his senses alerted; and he experienced feelings that had not surfaced nearly as strongly before. He tried not to gawk at the girls. He wished Lyle Durche and Edward Sespootch could be there so the three of them could have a snicker over all the flesh they were seeing.

“What do you say about us getting some Chinese, eh, Garven?” asked Dr. Wilsonhulme, feeling vicariously exhilarated by Garven’s youthful exuberance, by the ocean and its breezes, and by his old man’s appreciation of the abundant femininity.

He could just hear his mother when the idea of eating Chinese was brought up. Her reticence would betray her inexperience.

“Isn’t that awfully strange food; mightned we get a stomach upset, you know, the unusual things those people eat?” she would have to say.

“You game, Garven?” Dr. Wilsonhulme asked.

“I guess so,” the boy said, grinning but not quite knowing what he was getting himself into, and besides, the prospects of leaving the wonders of the beach disappointed him.

 “Well then, I know a great treat for you. We can drive to Chinatown and get dim sum.”

He started up the beach as if the two of them had completed a thorough discussion of the subject of lunch and had jointly made a decision. It was his nature or that of his medical training to make decisions and to present them fait accompli. Garven smiled at his kindly and officious presumptiveness.

The meal was the most unusual experience of Garven’s life to date. The restaurant was compact, smoky, and full of chattering Chinese families. Their good humor was infectious; the place was cacophonous with laughter, rattling bowls, clattering kitchen carts, and loud voices speaking an unintelligible language. Diminutive Chinese girls fairly ran along pushing their carts full of a dizzying array of small pots of the most peculiar foods. At least, Garven presumed they were foods by the haunting smells that wafted in on him from all sides. People haggled briefly over the price of each small bowl, then, satisfied that proper form had been followed, ate with relish.

Garven watched incredulously as the Orientals picked up selections from their bowls with thin sticks and ate what appeared to be chickens’ feet, duck skin, seaweed, mounds of unrecognizable brown, pink, and yellow substances, steaming but otherwise uncooked balls of dough, crabs the size of big scorpions, pieces of shredded meat dripping clear sauces, and what was obviously some sort of sea creature with a dozen or so legs. Garven thought he recognized the tentacle of an octopus going into one hungry mouth. That was too much, he decided, and wondered what else could look like that. There was no steak or potatoes or bread, nothing he could recognize reliably.

Despite himself, Garven was hungry. The doctor was ravenous with anticipation.

“May I help with the selections?” asked the doctor politely, shielding the amusement on his face from Garven as he watched his reaction to the dim sum dishes.

 “I really wouldn’t know what to choose. Besides, I think I’m not very hungry. Don’t get me too much,” he said, and under his breath, “And I think I am going to be allergic to a lot of this stuff,” which made the doctor laugh.

A series of small carts passed their table, and Dr. Wilsonhulme made his selections by pointing. The delicate and giggling girls spoke no more than the rarest word of English and then directly to the point.  

“Shimp,” one girl explained when Peter indicated a pinkish delicacy hiding in a translucent rice flour wrapper.

“Pok,” explained another at the implied question about a cylindrical amorphous consistency, heterogeneous green-flecked lump.

“Fly lice” was a recognizable dish, Garven thought, although the description was suspect.

“Fistchy” was the last thing Garven thought he understood although the stuff in the perfectly formed gray spherule looked nothing like fish.

Garven shook his head when Dr. Wilsonhulme selected bowls of what he said were, “100-year-old eggs”.

The serving girl said, “Edge.”

The boy was less queasy when he found that the eggs were not all shriveled up or, worse, turned into a gray-green liquid with fuzz on top after sitting around for a century.

Peter collected enough “edge”, “shimp”, “pok”, “fly lice”, “fistchy”, and black mushrooms, that were the size and shape of a dog’s ear for everyone; selected some pork buns, tofu squares, squid, and a dish of lychees, and a dish of custard for each. He set about to demonstrate the use of chopsticks to his enthralled audience of one. There were no real eating utensils, and Garven surmised that he would not be able to fill his growling stomach if he didn’t use the unfamiliar implements; so, he gave his most rapt attention. He felt as if she had come to a new planet.

Garven was clumsy with the chopsticks but with a trial and error method that included stabbing, one stick in each hand, scooping, and surreptitious use of bare hands, managed to enjoy a great meal. He loved the strange stuff, especially the “shimp”, which he had never before encountered. Like a typical fifteen-year-old boy with a hollow leg, he kept the charming Chinese waitresses running to their table. The doctor deftly picked up morsels of food and conveyed them to his mouth with obvious gusto. His was a cultivated palate despite his country doctor status. He knew how to enjoy himself, and Garven was determined to live like this man.

Cipher, Arizona was the epitome of boredom, the boy concluded.  

“I’ll have more of this,” he thought, having great fun.