“I’ve read Carlyle on the French Revolution and Guizot on English history. Oh, and Tocqueville,” Rupert said. “He approved of all your charities. I hope to be a beneficiary.” Rupert had never before spoken so unreservedly to anyone. His usual offensive with men was to retreat into watchful silence, letting the other person fill up the space. Rostow, with his charm and warmth and interest, had made him, or let him, drop his guard. He looked down at his book as though he might have dropped it in his lap. He felt uneasy in his ease, worried he was showing himself to be a chatterer and a show-off and an egoist. He looked up at the dean, who was still smiling at him. He would go on; this was his best shot. “I’m not only illegal, I’m an orphan, a foundling.”
Dean Rostow agreed that Rupert shouldn’t have to take the LSAT. “It’s a test that tests standardized test-taking ability,” the dean said. “You’d be terrible at it.” Money was the big problem. “You need a full ride,” the dean said, “and living expenses too.” Rupert nodded. “Tuitions and fees are approaching a thousand dollars a year. You’ll get that. In addition, for room and board—we’ll put you in the dorms, if you don’t mind—we can provide a hundred and fifty dollars a month. You’ll have to get summer jobs after the first and second years. I’ll help you. Will that do it for you?” Rupert nodded again. His heart was racing; he could feel it pounding in his rib cage. His mouth was dry; he couldn’t speak. “Oh, yes,” the dean said, “green card. We’ll help you with that.”
The dean looked at him, locking his eyes on Rupert’s. “You’re capable of having a distinguished career. I’m counting on it.”
At Union Station, the dean and Rupert caught a cab to the law school. The dean asked his assistant to show Rupert around the school. “Come back to see me, when you’ve seen the place,” he said.
Rostow’s assistant gave Rupert the nickel tour; his nose was out of joint at having to babysit an applicant, even a Cambridge grad. After twenty minutes, he told Rupert he should walk around the campus. “At first, everything looks the same,” he said. “The dean will see you at two.” Yale was, Rupert thought, Errol Flynn gothic, with gargoyles, carillons, central heating, and most blessed hot showers. He felt almost giddy.
He was back at the law school at two. “We’re set then,” the dean said. He handed Rupert a copy of the application. “Send it to me, in this envelope. Yale is the best law school in the country and we’re only going to get better.”
Rupert hated to thank anyone, almost as much as he hated to apologize. The dean made it easy. As Rupert started to speak, Rostow waved him away. “No. You’ll give back. I know that. See you next September.”
Rupert walked to the train station. He wished he had someone in his life he could tell about his phenomenal luck. He’d have to settle for Vera in his bed. He had pushed her out of his thoughts until then. She was too arousing, too distracting. On the ride home, he thought about what he’d do to her that night, what she’d do for him. He wondered if he owed God a word of thanks, more grateful, more intentional, than the Psalmist’s spontaneous intercession on the train. Prayer had never been easy for Rupert. God would have to judge him by his works.
—
Rupert liked a fight after a strike of exceptional luck, to appease the envious evil spirit who, like Sleeping Beauty’s bad fairy, had cursed him in the cradle. The day he heard he’d been admitted to the Prebendal School, he spit at an older, bigger boy, who duly thrashed him. The bloody nose was expiating. The day he was admitted to Longleat, he threw himself into the riling waters off Hayling Island. He didn’t know how to swim. A passing fishing boat saved him. The fisherman asked him why he’d done it. “A dare,” Rupert said. The fisherman took a liking to him. “I’m going to teach you to swim,” he said. “Come see me Sunday, at one p.m., after church.” Rupert knew how to swim and sail by the time he started at Longleat. The day he heard he was admitted to King’s, Rupert crawled out of his house window after hours and took himself to the local pub, where he drank up all his spending money and got so drunk he pissed himself before passing out on the front steps. When he woke at four a.m., he walked back to school. His classmates snuck him back in. “Jesus,” one said to him, “what are you, some kind of kamikaze?” He had a black eye from the fall. When a master asked him about it, Rupert answered simply, “Too embarrassing to talk about, sir.” The master let it go.
At the Wolinskis’ dinner table that evening, still high from his New Haven triumph, Rupert eyed Vera, spilling out of her white blouse, a gold cross between her breasts. She had lifted the look from the Hollywood starlet playbook, the teenage temptress, bent on driving him and his ancient Polish tablemate mad with desire. It worked. He could tell the old Pole was rubbing himself under the table. Worried he’d betray himself to her mother, Rupert struggled to tamp down his erection. He pushed the sodden vegetables around his plate. Ruta, sensing his unease, watched him closely. “Don’t you like my dinner?” she said. “I think I may have caught a chill today,” he said. He took a Brussels sprout into his mouth; bile rose up in his throat. Forcing the sprout down, he thought about the ways he might punish himself for getting into Yale Law School. The stakes were higher than they’d ever been, but he was no longer willing to pay with a punctured lung or a black eye or a bloody nose. The evil spirit must be assuaged, but not by violence. No brawling, no life-threatening stunts, no alcoholic binges: the fight would have to be against himself. He stabbed a second sprout with his fork and looked again at Vera. I won’t have her for a week, he vowed. He choked down the second sprout, as if sealing his pledge. Seven days, he told himself. A week has at least the odor of penance, if not the bite. As soon as he made his pledge, he was awash with doubt and regret. Under the table, she put her hand on his thigh. He couldn’t stand up.