Weymouth’s father and grandfather were Congregational ministers. And his mother was a Unitarian preacher. This was all up in New Hampshire where Weymouth was born and raised. He was named for a town in Massachusetts founded by one of his ancestors. +The small town he grew up in was something out of a Norman Rockwell picture book. Or a Robert Frost poem. Lots of white clapboard houses. Barns. Small stores. And a certain smugness. Weymouth had a keen sense of who his people were and are. They were different. Social aristocrats in that New England WASPy sense. It was not pounded into him as much as he was bathed in it. “We are not better than others, but we are somehow ‘nicer’ than others” was and still is a consistent message whenever he visits home. It was in the furniture and the homes his relatives had: sturdy, classic antique-looking furniture meant to last. Some of that furniture – a chest of drawers in my old room, a desk in the front room, chairs – were antiques. A woman from Yale came to look at them and said they were very special, worth a lot. “My parents didn’t care what that stuff was worth.  It was the family history that went with them that counted. Or really, I guess, having that furniture is a way to let everyone know who we were. Special. There were records kept in an old book in my father’s desk list when they were bought, 1761. The maker was one of those Rhode Island cabinet makers you can find in books on antique furniture.

In a lot of ways, Weymouth is like the town he grew up in, a bit like someone in a Norman Rockwell painting. Not bad looking but not good-looking either. A skinny kid with neatly combed hair. Taller than most kids his age. And very polite. Terrifying so, according to some of his friends in later life.

In school, he went by “Wally.” He spent the first four years of school – kindergarten through third grade – at the local public school. It was just a cut above a one-room country school. The name “Weymouth” was not a good name for a school where a lot of kids were French Canadian immigrants. Wally was a Congregationalist. They were Catholics. All except the Jewish kid.

The Jewish kid, Sam, was teased a lot. When Wally mentioned this to his mother, she told Wally teasing was wrong and not to be done. She told Wally he had a duty to do the right thing and to stick up for Sam. She also called Sam’s mother and told her what was going on.

Sam’s mother knew all about it and said it was no problem. Sam knew how to take care of himself. Apparently, Sam went after and caught the ringleader outside school grounds and beat him up in front of his friends. It turns out Sam’s father was a fight promoter and saw to it that Sam, a big kid anyway, knew how to use his fists.

This was a whole new way of thinking for Wally and his mother. Not a wrong way, just not their way. Standing up for yourself was one thing. The right thing to do. But the idea of being ready for a fight and going after it was not quite how one should behave. Certainly not in such an aggressive and physical way. It had a profound impact on Wally – how he thought about his world and how he viewed other people.

He certainly looked at Sam differently. With a certain amount of awe. He’d never really paid any attention to Sam. He found out Sam was one of five children from a family originally quite poor, from a suburb of Boston. They moved to Wally’s town just a few years ago to get away from some kind of trouble Sam’s father was in.

Wally was raised as an only child. He had a sister 12 years older than him. But she lived with her mother in Oregon. And there was another child, a brother, who was not talked about. It was only much later that he learned his brother, a boy he never met, had to be institutionalized and died in a fight when he was in his twenties. Wally’s mother was his father’s second wife.

Wally never thought of his father as a father. He called him Mr. Jennings. From what Wally says about the man, they were never close. After the third grade, Wally was sent away to a boarding school. When his father told him about it, Wally just sat there, not a peep. He learned not to complain or cry. He’d get smacked. And anyway, Wally hated his father’s new wife. When his father wasn’t around, she called Wally dumb and worse.

When the time came for Wally to go away to school, the housekeeper packed a bag for Wally. They said goodbye. No hugs. Nothing. Just “Goodbye, Wally.” They put him in the back seat of a car with two other boys going to the boarding school and that was that.

Wally thought he’d hate this new school. He was wrong. He loved it. Sports was a big thing. And Wally was a good athlete. He played rugby until his father – fearing broken bones – had him switch to tennis.

Wally missed the physical contact and camaraderie of rugby. He was awful at tennis. He thought the boys in the tennis program were wimps and too chicken to play rugby. But he had no choice and Miss Kimble was the tennis instructor. He was crazy about Miss Kimble. He thought she was gorgeous. He loved to watch her walk. By the time he was in the fifth grade, Wally was badly smitten. He couldn’t take his eyes off her knees. She also taught reading and writing; subjects Wally liked. He loved to read, and he thought grammar was fun.  But she would not put up with his attitude toward tennis. In class, she was fun and helpful. On the tennis court, she gave Wally all kinds of trouble.

When he made it clear what he thought about tennis, she was merciless, running Wally around the court, flaying at balls that were somehow almost beyond his reach. He got really mad, especially when other boys in the program laughed at him. That’s when Miss Kimble really pushed him, not in the gentle, supportive way she pushed him in class but by way of physical and mental challenge. There was endless, repetitive practice. All the different strokes. Serving again and again until the ball almost always went in. And then, strategy and outthinking the competition.

His school had a summer program for children whose parents or guardians were unable or didn’t want to care for them. He played tennis during the summer, went on field trips and hikes, and read a lot of books. He did not miss his father or anyone in his family.  By the time he was ready to leave the Lower School program for high school or what his private school called “The Upper School,” he was a good student and a very good tennis player.

But the summer was a problem. Wally’s school did not have a summer program for Upper School students. So, he had to go home. And, rather than have him around the house, his father had him spend most days around his country club where he got a job. He was twelve going on thirteen. He was good enough to give lessons to kids just learning to play and he made some very nice tips. That was nice. But the real appeal of the game was he could play tennis with girls. And see their legs.

And that is what got him into what could have been a lot of trouble. It wasn’t with girls his age. It was with an older woman. She reminded him of Miss Kimble. She looked like Miss Kimble. Athletic. But she wasn’t at all like her. Miss Kimble was all business. And anyway, she knew how to handle young boys and their crushes. This woman, her name was Gloria knew something about young boys as well. And she also knew what she wanted from them. And she took it. She taught Wally to drink gin and tonics. And to drive a car. She had him in bed before he had any idea what was going on.

Wally wasn’t ready for any of this. He was embarrassed and ashamed. The first time left him dazed. The next time left him confused. She told him what to do and he did what he was told. He didn’t know what else to do. He knew this was supposed to be an adolescent boy’s dream. And he knew he couldn’t stop, even if he really wanted to stop. He could just imagine telling someone. Or complaining. What would he say? Would anyone believe him?

So, he just kept his mouth shut and went along with things. It went on for a month. And then Gloria disappeared. No note. No goodbye. Nothing. Summer was over three weeks after that and Wally was back in school, an upper school student, taking courses to prepare for college.

When he was asked about his summer, he talked about tennis, not about Gloria or the money he made from tips giving tennis lessons. He was happy to be a kid again. Much later, he would write a story about Gloria. But that was after he graduated high school and college, had a few college romances, gotten married and divorced, and was working as an editor at a large publishing house.

And all through all that, he had just chugged along placidly, as if nothing bothered him. Or seemed to. But it was a question from an old friend that shook him up. They had been having a drink and talking about how everything seemed screwed up. And what it was like growing up.

His friend came from a very different world. “Didn’t any of this stuff get to you. I mean like your parents divorced when you were just a little kid, and your father sent you away to some boarding school. And that woman at the tennis club who basically raped you? And your divorce? You just kept going? No reaction to any of it? Are you ok?

Wally said he never thought about it like that. “What’s the point? You’re not supposed to complain. It’s life. You deal with it.” It was a pretty day. Wally finished his drink, said goodbye, drove home, went for a walk, and didn’t think about his friend’s question.

Two weeks later, he had his first appointment with a psychiatrist. And a month after that, he wrote that story about how he was seduced by an older woman.

This is a man who ended up holding a very special and prestigious job. His world was the laboratory of a very large pharmaceutical company. He was very good at it. He came up from nothing. Or so he claims. He had no father, at least none that was ever in his life. And his mother more or less skipped out on him when he was four, leaving him in the care of a disinterested aunt and her endless stream of exploitive boyfriends. But it was pretty clear. even from kindergarten, Randolph had a pretty good brain. He started reading about as soon as someone put a book in his hand. He seemed to remember everything. And he also seemed to figure things out.  He loves crossword puzzles. He always got them. Usually in record time. Math problems too. Even when he was little, he could beat a lot of people at chess. When asked how he did it, he claimed it all made sense to him if he just closed his eyes and let his mind go to work. So, no surprise, his grades were exceptional right through school.

He wasn’t quite as good at making friends though. He was very impatient and very demanding when he was involved in group projects. And, if he didn’t like an activity — like sports or music class – he just wouldn’t do it.  And he often called kids who didn’t get grades as good as his dumb. They may not have been as smart as him but they were often bigger and stronger. Randolph got beat up a lot. When he got home from school, he’d never go out to play.

Up until junior high, Randolph was pretty normal when it came to weight. He started getting heavier in the seventh grade and got called “fatty” a lot. He was teased constantly by a few of the nastier kids in his class, especially those who he had called “dumb” or worse. He had always been a mistrustful kid. Getting teased about his weight didn’t help. Getting beat up didn’t help either. He kept to himself more and more. Guidance counselors got called in. His aunt was called in for conferences but, most of the time, she didn’t show up. By the time he was in his last year of high school, Randolph was turning into a very quiet and very lonely kid. He kept gaining weight and didn’t take much effort in the personal hygiene area. His acne made things even worse.

He was pretty much written off as one of those weird kids no one wants around. But not by everyone. There were a couple of people who put up with him and maybe even liked being around him. There was another kid, Lenny. Like Randolph, he was considered “a weirdo” by most of his classmates.

Lenny was in Randolph’s advanced placement math class. The only other friend Randolph had was a semi-retired science teacher, Alvis Rockwood. Mr. Rockwood was going on 75 when Randolph first met him. He had lost his wife to cancer the previous year and he was very lonely. He and his wife had been very close. They had a daughter and a couple of grandchildren. But they lived abroad. Before she died, Mr. Rockwood had spent all of his free time making his wife as comfortable as he could.

In the months after his wife’s death, Mr. Rockwood clung on to his teaching job for dear life. He had no other idea what to do with himself. But even that would soon disappear. He’d been told he had to retire at the end of the current school year.

So, when this overweight and clearly troubled kid stumbled into his advanced math class, Mr. Rockwood took a strong interest. Randolph was strange, even disagreeable, but clearly very bright. Mr. Rockwood lent Randolph books, encouraged him to study, and took him on interviews at local colleges. Mr. Rockwell’s recommendations along with his grades that got Randolph into all three schools he sent applications to. And one gave him a full scholarship.

Randolph’s friendship with Lenny, the only other student in Mr. Rockwell’s class, didn’t end well. It started out as a competition and turned into hanging out together.  And, then, suddenly there was sex. One day after class, Lenny grabbed Randolph and kissed him on the lips. Not just once but a few times. And it went from there.

Years later, Randolph told his shrink, “I was screwed up enough as it was. And then Lenny. I couldn’t handle it. I guess you could say he raped me. I didn’t know what the hell to think. It never dawned on me that a boy would kiss, let alone make love to another boy. And he did it more than once. I just took it like I took getting beat up after school. Back then, I just let a lot of things wash over me. But I was so ashamed. And terrified someone would find out what was going on. I wasn’t gay then and I’m not now. Nothing wrong with it but I’m not.”

The sex with Lenny ended as quickly as it began at the end of the school year. Randolph got a summer job working in the stock shed of a building supply company.  Lenny went on a car trip with his parents and a couple of friends. Randolph lost track of him and never tried to find out what happened to him.

Randolph’s job at the building supply company was keeping inventory records. But he started helping out with other stuff, hefting bags of cement and loading stuff on the back of trucks. It was the first time he did any physical work and he liked it. By the end of that summer, He’d lost a lot of weight and put on a little muscle. His acne had pretty much cleared as well. That summer may have been one of the happiest times of his life.

But college was another matter. It wasn’t the course work; it was the people. He was still very uneasy around people and his social skills were still not very good. He stayed in touch with Mr. Rockwell for a couple of until he learned Mr. Rockwell was sick, maybe dying, and was moving away to live with his daughter and her family.

Randolph did very well academically right through college. He graduated with honors. His social life was less successful. He had a few casual friends; he rarely saw them outside of class. Never went to any school related social events. Had only a few dates. Those were always initiated by the woman involved. Since his days in working at the building supply company, he kept up his physique and was not bad looking. None of these dates amounted to much. No long-time relationships. One of the women he dated tried to take him in hand and make him more sociable. That lasted about a month.

The high point of his academic career was his undergraduate job in the biochemistry lab where his work led to several important papers in professional journals and to a fellowship and teaching job as a graduate student. Randolph was a thorough and demanding but unpopular teacher. His lectures were called informative but “really boring.” Randolph agreed and decided he hated teaching.

Randolph did not want to become a pharmacist. It sounded monotonous and unpleasant. But it might be less awful than being a college teacher, the only other thing he could imagine doing with a master’s degree in Biochemistry. And he could get through the pharmacist licensing coursework easily and the pay wasn’t bad. He could get a second-hand car and rent a small apartment. And in a lot of ways, Randolph didn’t really care what he was doing. He could go to work, go home to his small apartment with some fast food and spend the evening staring blankly at the little TV he got cheap until he dozed off. And he didn’t need to spend much time talking to people. Prescriptions were called in, he filled them, and people came in and picked them up. Once in a while, people would ask questions and Randolph would give them technical information.

But, after a while, Randolph decided there was something about pharmaceuticals that was intriguing. He took a Ph.D. in biochemistry, specializing in pharmaceutical research and found himself working on cancer drugs for a very large company. There wasn’t any plan. He had not notion about how to get ahead in a large company. Just like college, he had a few acquaintances but no friends. But he got ahead in sheer brains and hard work So what could be called a “brilliant career” just happened. Along the way, he has a bunch of patents to his credit. While he made a lot of money, he never seemed to do anything with it or care much about it. He routinely gave lectures at prestigious conferences and universities. But he was still very alone. And in some many ways, very lost. 

Randolph attended one of those conferences two weeks ago. But this one was special. Randolph was the featured speaker. Everyone attending agrees; Randolph did a great job. His lecture was very well-received. Randolph was not just informative but an animated speaker, helped in large part by the presentation courses his company gave him as well as by his subject, a revolutionary new diagnostic technique for the early identification of pancreatic cancer. The conference was held at a seaside resort on Florida’s Gulf Coast. After his lecture, Randolph joined the attendees for cocktails and dinner. During the cocktail hour, Randolph seemed to be enjoying himself. He never drank alcohol but had several lemonade spritzers while answering questions and receiving congratulations for his lecture. He smiled a lot and seemed to be getting on very well with everyone. At dinner, he was seated at the head table. About half way through the meal, Randolph got up, excused himself, said he would return shortly. He never did.

They found his body two days later. Apparently, he walked into the sea. There was no note.

“When I tell people I’m a hostess, they always give me the fish eye. I know what they’re thinking. And sometimes, I’ve got to admit, they just might be right. When it comes right down to it, I am a people person. It’s what I tell people. And that can mean anything. Who am I to deny it? Mostly though, it is not what you might think. I get hired a lot to see that things go smoothly. I happen to be a great manager. That’s what a good hostess is. We greet people, make them feel welcome, show them where they are supposed to go. You’d be amazed. People walk into a social situation with other people and they can turn into idiots. They need to be shown who to say hello to, where the bar is, where the bathroom is. You need to do this while putting them at ease. I’m pretty good at thinking on my feet. In my job, you have to be if you are going to make a go of it. People who put on events or parties hire me a lot. There are what I’d call ‘corporate functions,’ and weddings. Stuff like that. There’s some show business to it. I love doing the weddings and family stuff. But mostly I do stuff you might call ‘diplomatic,’ for large institutions and companies. Usually small cocktail parties. Sometimes dinners. Training sessions. Company meetings. They can be very awkward for a lot of folks. They are a bit out of their usual element. And they can do and say things or do things they might not normally say or do. That’s where things can get a little tricky. For them. And sometimes for me too. There are men and, once in a while, a woman or two who are used to getting their way who want a little what I’d call ‘extra attention.’ Sometimes they get it. But for the most part, it’s nothing more than a conversation they try to steer me to “personal matters.” They start off by asking what I do for fun. Or about how it must be hard to fit a personal life into my line of work. They may touch my arm. Nothing too overt is the usual. But it’s all the same thing. What they really want to know is if they can get it on with me. I’ve gotten pretty good at dealing with it. I can get them on another subject without them hardly noticing. But sometimes, when I want – and only when I want – they may just score.  It’s always my call. I like being in charge. Fact is, I work very hard at being in charge. Things were different once and I’m not ever going back to that kind of crap. So, what goes on? Do I need to explain? We’re grown-ups. Say what you want, a girl has her needs. There’s always someone around for me. Never for too long. I might go out with someone maybe two or three times. We have a good time, enjoy one another, and, after a while, things move on. Usually, they spoil the whole thing by getting too involved or by telling me what to do with my life. That’s not why I’m there. That said, there have been one or two ‘steadies’ over the years. Right now, there’s someone I’ve been seeing occasionally, maybe a couple of times a year for the last few years. We have a good time. Casual. Good sex. Nothing wild but good. And he gives me good ideas about investing. I think he’s married but he doesn’t ask too many questions so I don’t either. I like him but it ain’t love. It’s never going to be.  But there’s been a couple of times with other men when things got a bit hot and heavy on my part. Anytime I start having feelings, I run like hell. That way, I can do my job, live the way I want, and drive my car when and where I want, if you know what I mean. Do I ever get lonely? I won’t lie. I do sometimes. Maybe I should buy a cat.