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.