Control by William Goldman Read Free Book Online Page A

boys.
    Or tried to.
    Wanted to.
    But there were always so many servants in the way. There was never the least question in Nelson Stewart ’ s mind that his children would be outstanding. He insisted on it. They were, after all, Stewarts.
    It came as something of a shock to him when he perceived that they had inherited his beauty and his wife ’ s brains. They were pudgy little things, sweet enough natured, but dreadful at sports and always behind in their studies at Columbia Grammar. At first he did nothing. Then, when the boys were seven and eight, the tutors began. And the basement of the great home was turned into a gymnasium.
    Charlotte watched it happen. That was all she did really, all she could do. Watch. Oh, at first, she tried reasoning with him. Too much pressure on the boys too soon. That kind of thinking.
    He would have none of it. He had waited so long for children that when they disappointed, there was no remedy other than immediate action. And in truth, by the time the boys were eight and nine, there was evident improvement. They were still prone to heaviness, true, but they could box now, and no one their age mocked them anymore. And not most but all of their Columbia Grammar teachers saw the change in their academics. Their grades were better than good, edging toward excellence.
    Charlotte began to drift.
    She had no real interests. Oh she tried. She mentioned one evening that she ’ d always wanted piano lessons as a child and the next week what should be in the library awaiting her but a Stein-way grand. She read the Sunday Times dutifully, occasionally visited the natives in Central Park and Washington Square. And she fought her way as often as she could through the Metropolitan Museum.
    But she had no true passion for any of it. It was as if somewhere along the line she had checked her heart and forgotten to pick it up.
    When she was twenty-nine, when the boys were nine and ten, when she was still as big and beautiful as a dozen years before, except for the stomach scars, Charlotte had, for her, a rare moment of insight. The dead-leaves road that was to be the rest of her life momentarily illuminated itself to her and, much to the astonishment of the children, who were finishing their roast beef, and Mr. Stewart, who had already finished his, she broke at the dinner table. Facing as quickly as she could away, she fled the table and raced ail but blind toward her bedroom.
    After allowing a proper composure time, W. Nelson Stewart entered and observed that it couldn ’ t have been anything he ’ d said since he hadn ’ t said anything. Charlotte was abjectly apologetic. How could he dream it was anything of his doing? He was a superb provider, and kind. What, then, he wondered? You know how I get this time of the month, she tried. Ahh, he said; ahh, of course. He asked then when she was due and she replied perhaps the next day, perhaps the day after.
    That night he returned, naked under his robe. She was surprised, feigned pleasure at his mounting. She was dry and he came too quickly, but they knew their roles so well by then that they got through it without much pain.
    He was, he told her, proud of her. As she was of him, she said, and in truth, was. I ’ ll let you rest, you must be tired, he said, and with his robe on, left.
    Charlotte stared the night away.
    Soon after, the boys turned ten and eleven. And Charlotte turned thirty. And the new tutor arrived from Oberlin …

    Before she was prone, before she had a chance to do or say a thing, he had turned his body toward her and she could feel he was hard while she was dry and for a moment she wanted to push him away so they might begin again, but now his mouth was on hers, his hands were firm on her big shoulders and he jabbed his tongue at her with such force she knew he was panicked, was acting out of lack of knowledge, was so in need of her tenderness because that was the true meaning of manhood, the ability to forgo force as a path that led