When they gave the first graders a word-picture test, Celia once told me, Freddie had represented the word father by the symbols of a bald head, pipe and briefcase. After that, whenever I couldn't get home on Saturday or Sunday, I made an effort to have lunch with the boy in Chicago at least once during the week. But of course you can't get to know your son very well that way.
"Just what is this trouble Freddie's involved in?" I asked as we descended. "Why don't you keep me better informed on the boy?"
"I try to, but when have you had time to listen? I usually see you at our cocktail parties for clients, or else at three in the morning when you drop into bed too exhausted to get into pajamas."
"Well, this matter with the principal. Are you sure it's so serious?"
"They never ask for both parents unless it is," Celia assured me, glancing soberly at the school buildings as we came to earth.
We parked, I noticed, alongside a dark blue official car, with the municipal seal, and the initials S.T.A.R.S. "Never heard of that one," I told Celia as we walked to the main dormitory and administration building.
The place was a gloomy gray, vine-covered neo-gothic structure which ignored almost a thousand years of architectural progress. An old-fashioned electric eye opened the door. Inside, the building smelled like stale bread, musty linen and floor varnish, combined with a dash of urine. The interior lighting was unnaturally bright, it seemed to me, like in a surgical arena. The only harmonious note was struck by the mural in the vestibule. One entire wall was covered by an allegorical painting of sports, professions, and industry, with the phrase COMPETE OR PERISH emblazoned boldly across the top.
Celia nudged me. "A little raw for school kids, don't you think?"
This was an old, unhealed grievance between us. "Those are the twenty-fourth century facts of life," I replied evenly.
We reported to the receptionist robot in an alcove controlling the inner set of doors.