CHAPTER FIVE
I arrived at the guard’s gate at the Phillips mansion at five minutes before three and was whisked inside the grand house precisely on the hour. This time I was met by a small, dapper man who sounded like the person I had talked to the first time I called the house. He seemed completely unremarkable. His thinning gray hair was combed back severely from his austere face, which featured a prominent nose and rather colorless skin. He looked to be about sixty, though his expensive and timeless suit didn’t give me any clues about his actual age.
“Ms. Kendall?” he asked as I stepped out of the booth.
“Yes. Taylor Kendall.”
“I’m Francis Melroon, the house steward. If you need anything at all—refreshments, equipment, materials, room maintenance—please call for me.”
“How do I do that?”
“There’s an intercom system. Quentin can show you the receiver in his room.” We took a few steps into the hallway, and he pointed to a small, unobtrusive box set into the wall. It appeared to be made of gray plastic and was lined with a series of black buttons. “This one is keyed to my EarFone. This one alerts the gate guard. This one alerts house security. This one alerts the kitchen. One of us should be able to help you with anything you need.”
If I’d had to guess, I’d have said I could alert Bram Cortez more quickly by standing in the center of the room and screaming, since he seemed like the sort of person who would react instantly to the smallest hint of commotion. But I did not say so.
“Thank you,” I said. “Mr. Cortez mentioned that I would get my own door code at some point? Who would I talk to about that?”
“That’s security. I imagine Bram will speak to you about it today or Friday. Now let me take you to Quentin.”
He led me down the long hallway to an elevator elegant enough to be situated in a five-star hotel, and we rode up to the third floor. Down another hall, passing numerous doors, which I tried to count so I could memorize the path for future reference. Though would they ever just let me roam here of my own free will? How did that work, anyway? At what point did a newcomer turn into trusted visitor or valued friend? I didn’t figure I’d be around long enough to find out.
We walked into Quentin’s sunny room to find the even sunnier boy awaiting us. “Hey, Francis, is she here?” I heard him demand the split second before he saw me. “Ms. Kendall!” he exclaimed. “Good to see you again!” He held out his hand—less for politeness’ sake, I judged, than for the chance at human contact. I shook it with some enthusiasm.
“Call me Taylor,” I said. “I’m going to call you Quentin.”
“I’ll leave you to your lessons,” Francis said and withdrew.
I scarcely even heard the click of the door shutting as Quentin began pelting me with questions. “Were you in Houston today? Bram says you teleport all over. Was it hot there? Do you like Houston better than you like Chicago? Hey, where else have you been? I traveled a lot when I was a baby, but I don’t really remember it. I’ve mostly been in Chicago ever since . . . Do you know what? I really did checkmate Bram the other day. I can show you the board. I haven’t changed it since. You want to see?”
I laughed and held up both hands. “Whoa! Slow down. I’ll answer anything you want, but you’ve got to ask one question at a time.”
He grinned sheepishly and his nervous hands made the wheelchair swivel back and forth.
“Sorry. Dennis says I never shut up, but I do, and anyway, it’s hard to talk when you’re swimming.”
I vaguely remembered that name from my previous visit. “Who’s Dennis? The one who was going to drown you, right?”
He nodded. “He wouldn’t really drown me. He’s my physical therapist. He comes in most days and helps me exercise. Usually we swim, because it’s really good exercise but it doesn’t hurt so much.”
Hurt so much? “I don’t know much about your disease,” I said. “So you’ll have to speak up if it makes you tired or cranky or—or anything.” If it makes you grow sicker and weaker and eventually die. No, I couldn’t face that conversation yet. “So if—if your joints hurt and it’s hard for you to concentrate sometimes, you’ll have to let me know that.”
“It’s not my joints, it’s my muscles, and really, there’s not much pain,” he said, as if eager to reassure me. “I just don’t walk very well right now, is all.”
“Can you walk a little bit? Or do you always stay in your chair?”
“Well, mostly I stay in my chair because it’s easier,” he said, wrinkling his nose. “Dennis says I should walk more because it would be good for me, but I don’t always listen to Dennis. And the Kevvi braces take so long to put on that I only do it when I have a really good reason.”
“The Kevvi braces?”
He nodded. “Yeah, they’re kind of strat. I strap them on under my clothes and then attach a little clip to my head—if I wear a hat, no one can even see it—and the clip picks up my brain impulses and my leg muscle impulses, and the braces help me walk. The motion’s a little jerky, and I’m a little afraid I might fall down, so I don’t go out by myself when I have them on. But Bram or Dennis or Francis will take me out once in a while, and it’s kind of fun.”
“Maybe you and I could do that sometime,” I said.
“Okay! Today?”
I laughed. “No, not today. Today I think you and I need to get to know each other.”
“Sure. What do you want to know?”
I glanced around the room. It was actually the outer room of a suite, at least so I surmised; a closed door led to what I guessed was the bedroom and bathroom. This space was set up more for interaction. In addition to a comfortable-looking couch, there was a table piled with electronic toys and players, a formal desk, and a couple of padded chairs. And of course the wide, deep windows, admitting copious amounts of sunlight and giving onto a view of lawn, tree and gardens.
“What I want to know,” I said, moving toward the desk while he followed, “is exactly how much you know. I have a few quick tests here that will help me figure out your reading level and so on, and then we can go from there.”
His eyebrows drew down in a disappointed frown. Had he been younger, he would have pouted. Actually, it seemed to me he skewed much younger than nineteen. There was so much boyishness to him, so much artlessness. The nineteen- and twenty-year-olds I was used to dealing with were tougher, more assured, more laconic, more wary. I had to assume Quentin had spent much of his later life in semi-isolation, segregated from peers. He was surrounded by and cared for by adults, and while that could make a child develop quickly, it could keep a teenager from maturing as he should. At least, that was my guess.
“I don’t want to fill out tests,” he said. “Not right now. I want to talk. I’ll fill out the tests after you’re gone.”
In every class I’ve taught, I’ve learned that there will be a contest of wills between me and at least some of my students. They may be the best, most dedicated kids in the class, but at some point they’re going to want to do something their own way, and it won’t be the right way. I’ve also learned that I have to establish control early, let the students know that I’m flexible, but only to a degree, and that, in fact, there is an adult who’s in charge.
And then there are times to let them win.
“Compromise,” I said. “Do the short ones while I’m here, do the longer ones when I’m gone.”
“But—”
I lifted a finger. “I’m going to be here a lot, Quentin. You’ll have plenty of time to talk to me. But I’m really here to help you learn. And I can’t do that if you don’t follow my instructions.”
His face looked mutinous. “What kind of tests?”
I seated myself in one of the padded chairs and opened my briefcase. I had been shocked to learn that teachers who work at the online-only colleges sometimes don’t even own briefcases. Most often, I have my students take tests and turn in reports electronically, but I always administer a few pop quizzes on paper. It makes people think differently. And when they erase words or cross out sentences, I get a clearer idea of how their minds work. I wanted to know how Quentin’s mind worked.
“Vocabulary. Spelling. Grammar. The grammar test is a little tricky, and I’m also going to ask you to write an essay, so you can do those after I’m gone. But I’d like you to do the vocabulary and spelling tests while I wait.”
He had reluctantly wheeled up beside me, his chair just fitting under a specially designed segment of the desk. No more protests, though; I could see this was someone not accustomed to getting his own way often enough that it would occur to him to throw a sustained tantrum. “And then we can talk?” he asked.
I laughed. “We’ll talk about schoolwork, but we’ll talk.”
He took the papers and glanced at the columns of words marching across the pages. “What will you do while I’m taking the tests?”
I pulled out my tablet. “I’m going to catch up on my favorite magazine. Don’t you worry about me.”
“Are you going to time me?”
“Nope. But I am going to ask that you concentrate, and once you start, you only talk to me when you have a genuine question to ask.”
“When do I start?”
“How about now?”
He nodded glumly and bent over the first page. I flicked on my screen, but I didn’t actually read. Covertly, I watched Quentin studying the spelling words and choosing his answers. He didn’t waste much time, which meant he was either a fairly good natural speller or he wasn’t being as careful as I would wish. I’d know when I saw his answers. The vocabulary test took him a little more time. It offered multiple-choice responses, but some of the words were hard. As far as I was concerned, what this exam measured most was how much someone had read, because books were where words could be found—never open a book, never learn a new word in your life.
“All done?” I asked when he put the papers aside with a happy sigh.
“Yes. So what do you want to talk about?” he demanded.
I laughed. “Give me a minute. Let me look at your answers.”
The results were mixed. He’d gotten every single word definition right, but missed a dozen or so spellings. “I’m guessing you listen to a lot of audiobooks,” I said.
He nodded. “I like to read, but the e-readers hurt my eyes and the realbooks are too heavy for me to hold. I like to lie in bed when my—when I’m really tired, and listen.”
I wondered if he’d been about to say when my legs are hurting , but this was a boy determined not to complain. “Does anybody ever read aloud to you?” I asked.
“My mom used to. When I was little. Sometimes Francis does.” I put some high marks down on my mental scorecard next to Francis’ name. “But I’ll listen to the audiobooks whenever I feel like it, even in the middle of the night.”
“What do you like to listen to?”
His eyes kindled. “Do you know Tom O’Leary?” I nodded. He was a prolific writer who churned out action/adventure books set everywhere from Alaska to Antarctica to outer space. “Oh, man, I love his books. And Dirk Cunningham. And do you know Ardel Hawke? I’ve read all of his.” He paused, perhaps assessing the quality of my smile. “What? I guess you think those aren’t very good books.”
“On the contrary,” I said. “I’m glad to hear you so enthusiastic. Some people don’t enjoy any books at all. Just think what they’re missing.”
“I know they’re not classics,” he said defensively. “But they’re fun.”
“Reading should be fun,” I said, stretching my legs out to find a more comfortable position. “Sometimes it’s serious and should remind us of the frailties or heroics of the human condition, but most of the time it should be fun. When you’re nineteen, anyway.”
“My last teacher made me read Break of Day ,” he said. “I didn’t think that was fun at all.”
“Well, it’s a dreadful book,” I said.
He laughed. “What do you like to read?”
“Pretty much everything. Depends on my mood. Probably my favorite stuff is 19th-century literature, because I like all the detail of thought and emotion. Everything examined so closely, even the most casual expression or turn of the hand. In the 20th century, I guess my favorites are Fitzgerald and Thomas Wolfe. In the past forty years—oh, I’d have to say I like Deb Holland and Carrolton Grant.” I grinned. “That is, when I’m in a literary mood. But I also like mysteries and romances, and I’ve probably read something by half the science fiction writers publishing today.”
“You like science fiction?”
“Yeah, and I watch Vampire Nightly Network and sitcom reruns and those sappy movies about mothers reunited with their lost children,” I said. “Love that kind of stuff.”
“But you’re a lit professor,” he said.
I nodded. “Storytelling is storytelling. It might be well-done or badly done, but the purpose is the same. To keep you engaged, to introduce you to people you’ll never meet, and take you places you might never go. It all has form and conflict and build-up and climax. You know, when those cave-dweller ancestors were sitting around the fire describing how Hunter Shooga killed the buffalo and saved the life of Hunter Goeba, those were stories. They were meant to terrify and inspire and entertain. They were meant to stress the value of courage and strength and creative thinking. Even the schmaltziest TV movie does the same thing. Reinforces cultural values while keeping you enthralled. I guess I don’t see much difference.”
“Wow,” he said. “That’s great. So I’m not going to have to read Break of Day again?”
“Wish I never had to,” I grumbled. “But you sure won’t. At least, not as long as I’m your teacher. You say you like Ardel Hawke? He writes Westerns, doesn’t he?”
Quentin nodded. “They’re great.”
“Maybe I’ll start you with some of the classic Westerns, then. You ever read Shane? Lonesome Dove? ” He shook his head. “Anything by Ernest Haycox? The Earthbreakers , that’s his masterpiece.”
“None of my teachers ever gave me Westerns before.”
I laughed. “Pretty much my goal is going to be to keep you reading, no matter what the books are. I mean, we aren’t going to just read Westerns, but that’ll be a start.”
“My last teacher wanted me to study Shakespeare,” he said with disgust. “And the sonnets.”
I grinned. “Well, we’re going to do poetry too. You might find you like it.”
“I hate it.”
“What’s your favorite song?” I asked.
“Carolina Blue’s ‘Lady oh Lady,’” he said without hesitation.
“It’s a poem,” I said.
“It is not,” he exclaimed. “They sing it!”
“‘Morning came, I was dreaming like a child,’” I began quoting. “‘Thought I’d wake up to your smiling face . . . Sunshine fell on me, so sweetly and so mild . . . Thought I was still inside that magic place . . .’”
“How do you know that song?” he said.
I smiled. “You know any of the feenday bands?” I asked. Feenday rock was the term someone had coined for the music being played at the turn of the century, the fin de siècle. I guess to distinguish it from so-called “classic rock” of an earlier era. Well, hell, every decade has had a label or two for the music it’s created—from heavy metal to swoon croon to suicide blast. I could listen to most of it, though anything too far to either end of the hard or soft scale tended to grate on my nerves.
Quentin was nodding. “Sure. Couple of the stations play nothing but feenday stuff.”
“You know Bruce Springsteen? A poet. Listen to some of his words. One of my lit professors used to compare him to Byron. And Gloriana, she’s one of my favorite current singers. Writes like an angel. Talk about poetry.”
I could tell that he was beginning to doubt my sanity. First Westerns, now popular music. He was willing to go with it, but I could see him wondering how long they’d let me remain as his tutor. “You’re kind of weird,” he said.
“So true. I don’t think it’ll hurt you any. Now. I want you to complete two assignments while I’m gone.”
“What are they again?”
I handed him a piece of paper. “This one’s a grammar test. You’re going to go through these sentences and mark up anywhere there’s been an incorrect word choice or bad use of punctuation. Use a pencil.” I handed him a second sheet. “I also want you to write a five-hundred-word essay on one of these three subjects. You choose. Turn off the grammar and spellcheck functions on your computer so I can get a more realistic idea of your skills. And don’t use an AI program to write it.”
He glanced curiously at the essay topics. “My Favorite Activity,” “The Best Summer of My Life,” and “Dream Monsters.” He pointed to the last one. “What does this mean?”
“What do you think it means? Something you dreamed about. Something you made up. Something really scary. Something that might be scary to someone else but isn’t to you. I have to admit, the guys in my class pick that topic more often than the girls do, though one of the girls wrote a very creative essay about her little sister.”
“I don’t really write much,” he said doubtfully.
“That’s okay. I just want to see how you put sentences together. If it’s easier, you can dictate it first.”
He looked relieved. “Maybe I’ll do that.”
“Pretend you’re telling a story to—to someone.” I almost said to your best friend , but frankly I wasn’t sure he had any friends at all. “To Francis or Dennis or Bram Cortez.”
“Or you.”
“Or me. Absolutely.”
Before either of us had a chance to say anything else, I heard my EarFone chime. “Hang on a sec,” I said to Quentin before I answered. “Hi, it’s Taylor.”
It was Marika. “You’ll never guess who called.”
“Axel,” I guessed. “Listen, Mareek—”
“Yes! How’d you know?”
“It was obvious. Listen, I’m working.”
“You’re off on Tuesday afternoons.”
“Tutoring, remember?”
A moment’s silence. “Oh, my God! You’re in Duncan Phillips’ house right now, aren’t you? Have you gotten any photos yet?”
I couldn’t help grinning. Quentin was watching me with great interest, though I knew he couldn’t hear Marika’s side of the conversation, discreet and a little tinny in my ear. “No to the second question, but yes to the first. In fact, right now Quentin Phillips and I are discussing poetry and literature.”
“Sorry! I guess I’m interrupting.”
“Who is it?” Quentin asked.
“My best friend Marika,” I answered him. “She’s a lot of fun.”
“Fun? That’s how you describe me to people?”
“Would you like to talk to her?” I asked Quentin.
He looked intrigued. “Sure.”
“Wait, what?” Marika squealed. “Tay, I don’t know—”
But I was already digging for the aux in my briefcase so I could cast the call to the speaker. I wasn’t worried. Marika could talk to anybody. “Transfer,” I directed, and the aux panel clicked to life.
“Hey,” said Marika. “Can everybody hear me?”
“Hi, Marika,” Quentin said happily. “I’m Quentin. It’s nice to meet you!”
“Well, I’m delighted meet you .”
“So where do you live?”
“Atlanta.”
“Do you like the Braves?” he asked. “Do you go to any games? I like the Cubs, but I don’t like the White Sox, and I wish they’d been sold to New Mexico last year.”
“New Mexico!” she exclaimed. Quentin had unwittingly hit on one of Marika’s passions. “They should have been sold to Nova Scotia. Pitching like that, they deserve to have their butts frozen off.”
“But if they go, I hope they leave Nathwell behind,” Quentin said.
“You’ll never keep Nathwell in Chicago,” Marika said scornfully. “He’s too good for either of your teams. He belongs with the Yankees or the Cardinals or a team that has a chance at the pennant. We could use him here in Atlanta.”
“I like the Braves,” Quentin said.
“Damn straight you do. Best team in baseball, even if they don’t win as often as they deserve to.”
I’m not a huge baseball fan myself. Jason, Domenic, Marika—they will sit for hours and debate the merits of pitchers and sluggers who have been dead for fifty years. They watch videos of old World Series games, and they do this virtual playoff thing where teams of different decades who never met in real life are matched up on the most artificial of cyberturf. What could be more boring? Well, except for the endless conversations about it. I let my mind wander a bit, and I only segued back into the present moment when I caught my name.
“Maybe Taylor can bring it to you if I buy it,” Marika was saying.
“What?” I demanded. “What am I bringing you?”
“A Braves shirt,” Quentin said. “Marika said she’d get me one.”
“No problem,” I said. “Okay, Mareek, I’m hanging up now. I’ll call you when I get home.” We disconnected.
Quentin was beaming. “You’re right, she is fun.”
“All my friends are.”
“Maybe she’ll call every time you’re here.”
I laughed. “No, because I’m going to tell her I’m not available when I’m tutoring. Though I don’t feel like we’ve gotten a whole lot accomplished today. You should expect a little more structure in our next few classes.”
“Is it time to go already? You just got here!”
“I’ve been here an hour.”
“But you could stay a little longer. We could play chess.”
“Not today,” I said firmly. “I’ve had a long day already. I need to get home.”
I knew I was right, but his expression of resigned disappointment was almost enough to make me kick off my shoes and reset the chess board. How could someone, a teenager, anyone, be so desperate for companionship that he didn’t even want a total stranger to leave the room? I was going to be sucked into his life, I knew it. I would come earlier, stay later, bring him gifts, let him talk to all my friends. I would allow him to climb into my heart and snuggle down.
“But you’ll be back on Friday?” he asked.
“Absolutely. And when I arrive, you’re going to have done three things. You will have taken the grammar test and written the essay, and you will have copied down the lyrics of one of your favorite songs. It can be ‘Lady oh Lady’ if you want. It has to have at least twenty-four lines, and that doesn’t include any repetition of the chorus. Can you do that?”
“Sure,” he said.
“And then we’ll talk about poetry.” I stuffed his tests into my briefcase and came to my feet. I sort of felt like I was leaving my puppy behind at the pound. “I had fun, Quentin. I’m going to like tutoring you.”
“I had fun, too, Taylor,” he said, using my name for the first time and liking the way it felt on his tongue, because he smiled. “See you in a few days.”
Nobody was waiting for me as I exited Quentin’s room, but I was not surprised, after I’d taken a few steps, to find Francis Melroon falling in step beside me, appearing from some small room down the hall.
“And how did it go today, Ms. Kendall?” he asked, leading me back the way we’d come. I was pretty sure I’d have managed if he hadn’t appeared to guide me. Not positive.
“Good,” I said. “He’s a likable kid.”
He nodded. “The most likable,” he said, and not another word until he ushered me inside the teleport gate. I hit the code for home and let the Phillips mansion disintegrate behind me.