Stuart Woods: Son of Stone

They arrived at the house, and Stone went to his study to check the answering machine for messages, while Peter wandered around the room, looking at books and objects. Stone was writing down a message when he looked up and saw Peter holding a framed photograph of Stone’s father, staring at it intently. He put the phone down.

“Who’s this?” Peter asked.

“That’s my father,” Stone said.

“Funny,” Peter replied, “he looks very familiar.” He sank into a wing chair across from Stone.

Stone steeled himself; he knew the question that was coming, and he didn’t want to answer it. “So what’s this plan of yours for after you graduate?”

“It’s like this,” Peter said. “I know I can handle the courses in college, but at sixteen, I’m not ready to be in a freshman class where everybody is two or three years older than I am.” He paused. “For one thing, no attractive girl is going to give me the time of day.”

“That’s an interesting observation,” Stone replied. “Have you considered an alternative?”

“Yes. There’s a prep school on the Upper East Side of Manhattan called Knickerbocker Hall.”

“I’ve heard of it, of course,” Stone said. “What attracts you to it?”

“It’s performing-arts oriented, and they have a good film school,” Peter said. “I could study film, then, in two years, I could enter a good university as a junior.”

“You’ll still be only eighteen,” Stone pointed out.

“Yes, but I’ll look older. I’ll have achieved my full height by then and filled out some, and I’m already shaving. I’ll lie about my age to the kids at Knickerbocker, though the administration will know my age, of course, and I’ll continue to do that in college.”

“Have you given any thought to where you want to go to college?”

“I think I’ll want to go to the Yale Drama School.”

“Are you interested in acting?”

“No, but I’m interested in actors, because that’s who I want to work with. And they have a director’s program. I already know a lot about film, but I want to learn about the theater, too.”

“That sounds like a very good plan to me. Do you think your mother will let you go to a boarding school in New York?”

“Knickerbocker isn’t a boarding school,” Peter replied, then sat silently while he let that sink in.

Stone got it almost at once. “Well,” he said, “I’ve got plenty of room here.”

“Thank you,” Peter said. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

“You knew I would, didn’t you?”

“Not until just a moment ago,” Peter replied. He held up the photograph of Stone’s father. “When I saw this.”

Stone took a deep breath. “Do you have any questions, Peter?”

“All my questions have been answered,” Peter said, “some of which I’ve been asking myself for a long time.”

“Has your mother talked to you about this?”

“No, and if I got too close to the question, she adroitly changed the subject. Did she make you promise not to tell me?”

“Yes.”

“Well, you haven’t,” Peter said. “I suppose you could say my grandfather told me.” He looked at the photograph again. “I wish I had known him.”

“So do I,” Stone said. “You two would have gotten along famously. You’d have liked your grandmother, too. She was a painter; I expect you got your artistic bent from her.”

“There’s something else,” Peter said.

“What’s that?”

“I want to legally change my name to Barrington, for a number of reasons.”

Stone blinked. “What are your reasons?”

“We’ve just talked about the first one, but from the time I entered boarding school I’ve been very uncomfortable with the name Calder. I’ve learned not to like being the son of so famous a movie star. When they know that, it colors every conversation, warps every friendship. I don’t want to go through my life that way, especially in film school or in the film business.”

“Your reasons are sound,” Stone said, “but you’re going to have to talk with your mother about all this.”

“Will you help me out with that?”

“No, I’m new in your life, but you have a close relationship with your mother. I’ll sit silently and listen, if moral support will help.”

“I’ll figure it out when she gets here,” Peter said. “One other thing: I’m not comfortable with either Pop or Pater, so it will have to be Dad.”

Stone laughed. “I can live with that.”

Stone walked Peter up to his room, and they hugged briefly, then parted for the night.

Stone lay in bed feeling, suddenly, like a different person.

S tone was still in bed, having breakfast and reading the Times, when Peter knocked and came into his room.

“Good morning,” Stone said. “I thought you’d be sleeping late.”

“I rarely sleep late,” Peter said. “I’ve already edited a scene of my film on my laptop.”

“That’s industrious. Would you like some breakfast?”

“I found the kitchen, and Helene made me some scrambled eggs.” Peter looked at the four paintings of New York scenes on Stone’s bedroom wall. “I like these pictures,” he said.

“They were painted by your grandmother,” Stone replied. “She has work in the Metropolitan Museum, too, in the American Collection.”

“I’m impressed,” Peter said, looking at them more closely.

“What would you like to do today?”

“I just talked to Ben. There’s a heist-film festival at some place called the Film Forum- The Killers, The Asphalt Jungle, like that. I thought we’d get in two or three this afternoon. Ben has never seen anything older than Finding Nemo.”

Stone laughed. “You can educate him.”

“Don’t worry,” Peter said, “he’ll love it. He’ll end up watching them on his cell phone. Mom won’t let me have a cell phone; she says I’d be talking on it all the time, instead of working or studying.”

“Mothers are like that,” Stone said.

“I’d better get back to work,” the boy said, then left.

Stone picked up the phone and buzzed Joan.

“Yes, boss?”

“Will you go up to the Apple Store on Fifth at Fifty-ninth Street and buy an iPhone and an iPad, the high-end models?”

“But you already have those things,” Joan said.

“Yeah, but Peter doesn’t, and it’s his birthday soon.”

“Oh, sure.”

“Sign him up in the name of Peter Barrington, and make his age eighteen on the application, so there won’t be any problem. Use this house for his address and put it all on my Amex card.”

“Will do.”

“And get him some accessories, too; you know the sort of thing, and get it all gift wrapped.”

“I’m on it. Hang on, the phone’s ringing.” She put him on hold and then came back. “It’s Seth Keener, Stephanie Fisher’s attorney.”

“Got it,” Stone said. (He picked up the other line.) “Mr. Keener? Stone Barrington. I’m attorney to Herbert Fisher.”

“Oh, good,” Keener said. “Has he signed the papers?”

“No, and he’s not going to.”

“He wants to stay married to Stephanie?”

“He doesn’t want that, either, but he’s not going on record as an adulterer.”

“Name his poison: Cruelty? Mental cruelty?”

“Mr. Fisher will be the complainant and the cause will be abandonment-on her part. I don’t think she can argue with that.”

Keener sighed. “I’ll put it to her.”

“Are you in immediate touch with her?”

“I can’t comment on that-attorney-client privilege.”

“I suppose that applies, especially if she’s a fugitive from justice.”

“I’ll ignore that. Send me the paperwork, and I’ll have a go. See you.”