§1
One fine April morning, Dr. Leonard Sprout was sitting in the park when something rather disturbing happened. As he did most weekends, the professor had settled on his favorite bench with The Sunday Times, while his five-year-old son, Toby, made use of the playground. Another boy was knocking a tetherball around, and when brave Toby asked if he could have a turn, the little devil snapped at him, mocked his speech impediment, and sent him sobbing on his way. The tears were soon dried by the promise of gelato, and the child was his carefree self again, but all evening his father was filled with sorrow, and each time the moment came back to him, he nearly gasped from the emotional sting of it. You might think this was a reminder of an episode from his own youth when he had been treated unkindly, but it was the opposite: Dr. Sprout, a distinguished instructor in Moral Philosophy at Hunter College, had once been a bully.
Why do you look sad, Daddy? Toby asked that night when Sprout trailed off while reading his bedtime story. He was not a man much given to melancholy, and the change in his mood was remarkable.
Well, son, he replied. I suppose that Daddy is still upset about what that boy said to you today. You see, he used to be a lot like that boy. He was also very mean to others.
He was? Toby said.
Yes, unfortunately, Sprout sighed, closing Negative Dialectics. Children can be cruel—that’s no news to you—but when I was a boy I was especially… Well, I was dreadful.
Dweadful? Toby asked. What did you do?
Sprout could see that his son, who had lately begun to ignore him, was listening eagerly. He was ashamed of the answer, but it was important to him that he always be honest with the boy. Lying down on the floor, he clasped his hands over his chest and stared at the ceiling.
Well, he said. I called other children names. I spread rumors about them. I ridiculed them. I was a schoolyard terror. I was sent to the principal every day. My poor mother… I guess I drove her to drink. It might seem frivolous to you, Toby, like it was just harmless teasing, but I shudder to think of the damage I may have caused. In those days nobody cared much about it, but now we see how many people have developed serious personality disorders because of bullying. Not to mention all the gun massacres, all the teenagers who have taken their own lives… Who knows how my words affected my classmates? If I seem sad tonight, I suppose it’s because I’ll never be able to forgive myself for what I’ve done.
A silence fell, and Sprout knew that Toby was blinking slowly in that laborious way he had of processing information.
Did you tell them you were sowwy? he asked at last. The adorable rhotacism made his father cringe with pity.
No, Sprout said. You can’t change the past with an apology. It’s just not that simple. I appreciate that you’re trying to help, but when you’re older you’ll understand that the past has no interest in bargaining with you. It’s like your reflection in the mirror. If you try to argue or fight with it, you’ll only end up looking foolish. There’s nothing I can do now except live with my regrets. Perhaps it will be some consolation to know that I wasn’t the worst one. There were boys who did unspeakable things. Those boys were truly monstrous. But sadly, I was complicit. I never stopped them, never spoke out against them. I might as well have been Pope Pius during the Holocaust. We’ll talk more about that tomorrow. Goodnight, son.
But the professor wasn’t able to sleep. He seemed to have unlocked a cellar in his subconscious where the memories of his school days were kept, and one after another they climbed out and roamed through the neatly ordered rooms of his mind, toppling the furniture. Throughout the night, he rotated constantly in his bed as if he were being turned on a spit, trying to escape the accusing faces that appeared before him whenever he closed his eyes. At dawn he finally managed to drift off for a bit, and when he awoke he found that he was paralyzed. His rational brain was aware that he was in a hypnagogic trance, but as time went on, he imagined with the utmost horror that he would be trapped under the duvet forever.
Toby was right, he thought. You must apologize.
He heard the words as though he had spoken them aloud, and the next moment he was free again. Sitting up, he gratefully shook his limbs and started to make a mental catalog of the people to whom he owed apologies. It didn’t take long since they had been haunting him for hours. He showered, shaved, and brushed his teeth, humming his favorite of Beethoven’s string quartets. The plaintive question: Must it be? The forceful answer: It must be!
There were one hundred and twenty-seven names on his list. He planned to visit all of them.
§2
I get it, said Dr. Cassandra Sprout, spreading almond butter on Toby’s toast. You were inspired by a dream.
Sprout thought that his wife would question the reason for his decision, but as a writer of short fiction she was acquainted with mysterious muses. After hearing about his plan, she had declared brightly that he was doing the right thing and that he could count on her full support. She didn’t mind taking care of Toby and the cats while he was away.
I applaud your better angels, she said.
You’ll be okay without me? he asked, knowing the answer. It will mean putting the Summa on hold. And then there’s Satterthwaite…
That year Sprout was on sabbatical, and while he was relieved of his teaching obligations, he was expected to use the time to finish writing the Summa Moralia: his unified theory of ethical responsibility. He knew that the book was going to create quite a stir in some circles and might even become a seminal text in the field—unless Rudolph Satterthwaite got there first. The professor had read parts of his young colleague’s work in progress, and it was clear to him that Satterthwaite had stolen his idea and merely rephrased it in layman’s terms. If it were published before the Summa, everyone would think that he, Leonard Sprout, was a plagiarist.
Not my problem, Cassandra said.
Right, he said.
What did it matter, really? Far worse to be thought of as a bully, especially since it was true. And how could he claim to know anything about moral philosophy when he had never formally owned up to his actions? No, he refused to write another word until this apology business was finished.
I love you so much, Bunnikins, he said, kissing Cassandra on the cheek.
I have my better angels, too, she said. It’s just that they’re exhausted.
She licked the knife carefully and threw it into the sink.
§3
And so, wearing a seersucker suit and holding a valise like a traveling salesman, Sprout said goodbye to his wife, thanked his son for his advice, and went out into the world.
First, he went to see the people who lived closest to the city. His list was divided into two categories: those he had actively bullied and those he had passively bullied. The first person he visited happened to belong to the latter group, and while Sprout hadn’t directly participated in the harassment, he was no less anxious about their reunion. He was tormented by guilt all the way to the east end of Long Island, where after doing several laps around the neighborhood, he finally convinced himself to ring the doorbell of the Dutch Colonial mansion that now belonged to Colin Templeton.
As he waited on the porch, he felt as though there wasn’t enough blood in his veins to keep him upright. He was about to back out when a handsome stranger opened the door, and he saw that a party was underway inside. The house was packed with comely, well-heeled socialites.
Lenny? the man asked. Is that you?
Sprout’s bottom lip began to tremble, and he mutely held out a dozen roses. Colin smiled at him with surprise, then delight, and before he knew it, the professor was standing in the living room with a glass of pink champagne in his hand.
Everybody! Colin shouted. It’s my pal from high school, Lenny Sprout! What a blast from the past! What are you doing here, Lenny? How did you know it was my birthday?
The guests gathered around to hear what he had to say. It was almost as if Colin had arranged for all his friends to witness the humiliation of the professor. Well, Sprout thought, let them see it.
Colin, he said, dabbing his eyes with his handkerchief. I hate to interrupt the festivities, but I’m afraid this is important. I’m here to apologize to you.
Colin let out a bewildered laugh. For what? he asked.
Sprout swallowed nervously.
Colin, he said. When we were in high school, you were characterized by others as being physically repellent. Though it’s thirty years too late, I’d like to say that they were wrong. To clarify: they shouldn’t have said it. Speaking objectively, you had perhaps the worst personal hygiene of anyone I have ever known. And certainly, certainly the worst case of acne. But that was no fault of your own, I’m sure, and either way it hardly excuses your peers for calling you Pimpleton. What I wanted to—
I don’t remember anyone calling me Pimpleton, Colin said.
You don’t? Sprout asked.
No, Colin said. Nobody called me Pimpleton.
Sprout was quiet, wondering if he was mistaken. But no, he was sure of it.
They did, he said. And volcano face. And the deep fryer.
The deep fryer? Colin said.
They said that the cafeteria food was deep fried in the grease from your face. They said that, and I agreed with them, even though it was obviously impossible. And I failed to defend you when they called you Zits McGee. And the Elephant Man. And when Jason Torres made fun of you for being poor. And I’m here to tell you that I’m sorry for it, Colin. I’m so, so sorry.
Sprout looked at the floor. He could feel the intense disapproval of the people around him.
Um, Colin said. Yeah, some of those guys were a little rough. But you were always pretty nice to me. I didn’t know you were talking about me like that.
His tone was reproachful, but when he saw the misery that it caused the professor, he paused.
Hey, he said. It’s water under the bridge. As you can see, none of that is true anymore. And I don’t think anybody called me Pimpleton. Heck… It was thirty years ago! But if it means that much to you, Lenny, I forgive you.
Sprout looked up.
What’s that? he asked.
I forgive you, Colin said. Would you like a hug?
Though a trace of body odor was still present, what happened next so astounded Sprout that he was able to look past it and enjoy the embrace. Forgiveness! He hadn’t expected that, and it gave him a sensation he had never felt before: a release, an ecstasy that pulsed through him, more potent than the pleasures of sex or drugs or Beethoven. It was the thrill of closure—and all that had been required to bring it about was an apology. Two words! Why had he not done this earlier?
Colin stepped back. Who wants to dance? he shouted, and everyone cheered.
§4
The next day, Sprout headed West. Here is America! he thought, as the plains rolled past and his trepidation was replaced by excitement for what was to come.
After his promising start, he was confident in his purpose, and in the polite Midwest he was met by even greater success. He followed his itinerary to the letter, making stops in each of the cities and towns where his classmates had settled, bearing gifts like a remorseful Santa Claus, and he was tickled by their reactions when he showed up unannounced at their doors. They greeted him with a mix of curiosity and confusion and were often stunned by what he had to tell them. Most of them didn’t remember him as a bully, but they were quick to accept his apologies and thank him for coming so far to see them. Though they may not have understood the reason, they seemed to sympathize with his need for their forgiveness and granted it to him sincerely. He walked away from every encounter with a lighter step and woke up looking forward to the next, feeling as if a cosmic balance was ever closer to being restored. As he made his way across the country, he began to sense that profound satisfaction waited for him on the horizon, and by the time he reached California he was happier than he had ever been. But he knew that until he had seen everybody—every single person, no matter how slight the wrong— he would still be morally in the red.
Spring turned to summer. In the fall, he called Cassandra.
Any news on Satterthwaite? he asked.
I miss you, too, she said. She put Toby on the phone.
I’m pwoud of you, Daddy, he said.
Sprout looked out the window of the train, thinking that his heart would burst.
§5
And then only one name remained on the list. He stared in disbelief at the one hundred and twenty-six others that he had crossed out. He felt as if the adventure had just begun, and already it was coming to an end. It was winter. He had been on the road for almost a year.
Contrary to his original plan, the professor had saved the most difficult visit for last. Wayne Semankowski—also known as the Worm—was someone he had actively bullied. To be fair, the entire school had picked on him, including the teachers, but on one occasion Sprout had gone too far. As a prank, he had forged a note from the Worm to the principal, Mr. Esposito, threatening to kill him. He had meant to reveal himself as the practical jokester but had changed his mind when the police were called. There was a brief investigation, the innocent boy was expelled, and Sprout was never caught.
How could he have done such a thing? Thirty years later, he didn’t know, and it remained the biggest regret of his life. He hadn’t told anyone about it, not even Cassandra. But now, as he knocked on the door of a dark, foreboding townhouse in the exurbs of San Diego, he was prepared to confess and make his apology.
The door opened at once, and the professor shrieked as he felt something crawl over his shoe. He turned and saw a ferret bolting across the overgrown lawn toward the street.
Nooooooooo! cried a voice behind him. Get him!
Sprout chased after the creature and grabbed hold of its leash, just as it was about to dart under the tire of a passing truck. He pulled it back toward the house, where a tall man stood in the doorway, stroking a second ferret.
The Worm looked exactly the same as he had in middle school: buggy eyes, limp shoulder-length hair, bangs cut in a straight line across his forehead. But the expression on his face, which had always been meek, was one of paranoid rage as he took the leash from Sprout, turned, and walked inside.
You can’t knock on the door like that! he screamed. It scares them!
Sprout stood cautiously on the front steps.
Wayne, he said. It’s so good to see you. I’ve come to—
Help me find the medicine!
He followed the Worm into his residence and saw that it was worse than he’d feared. The man lived in total squalor. Though the lights were off and the shutters were closed, Sprout could see that garbage was piled everywhere and the floor was a minefield of tiny droppings. He held his nose and watched while the Worm tore open sofa cushions and unscrewed light fixtures as if he were looking for a wire. When he had recovered from his disgust, Sprout hesitantly joined the search, opening a pizza box on the floor that contained only a flattened cockroach.
Is this it? he said, taking a bottle of pills from the kitchen counter.
Yes! the Worm said. Yes! That’s it! And now I’m late.
He looked at his watch, his lips twitching.
I don’t have time! he said. You’ll have to do it. It’s your fault anyway.
He made for the door.
Where are you going? Sprout said.
Work! he screamed. He turned, and added: Once they’ve calmed down, you can take them for their walk. Give them two pills each. It’s a suppository.
The door slammed. Sprout looked down at the ferrets clinging to his legs. He was left with many questions, but it was reasonable to conclude that the Worm was not doing well. The poor fellow appeared to be deranged, and his life was a shambles. Even these rodents wanted to escape from it. After Sprout had administered their sedatives—an ordeal from which he came away scratched and bitten—he knew that the situation called for more than an apology. If he, Leonard Sprout, was to blame for the way things had turned out here, then he must be the one to remedy them.
Must it be? It must be!
He started by cleaning the house. After buying an arsenal of janitorial supplies, he rolled up his sleeves and got down to it. The mess defied logic: laundry in the refrigerator, shampoo bottles in the bed, and silverware in the toilet tank. Every corner of the place was littered with shards of unidentifiable items that had been smashed to bits. By the time Sprout had finished sweeping and scrubbing, the sun was low in the sky. As he worked, he came to be bothered less by the state of the house than what it implied: that its owner was completely alone.
He collapsed on the sofa as the front door banged shut. The Worm stormed across the room to the kitchen and put his keys in the dishwasher. For several minutes he walked around without acknowledging the professor. He didn’t seem to notice that anything about the house was different. Sprout heard him in the bedroom, talking softly to the ferrets, and a moment later he brought them into the dining room and placed them on the table next to a bowl of raw beef. He pulled out a chair, sat down, and glared at Sprout.
So? he said. What do you want?
The professor leaned forward, ready to tell him everything. But then, for some reason, he didn’t.
Ah… Sprout said. I… he said. What is it that you do for a living? he said.
The Worm went back to the raw beef that he was sharing with the ferrets.
I’m a butcher, he said.
Oh, wonderful, Sprout said. That must be interesting.
The Worm chewed thoughtfully. No, he said. It’s actually not. It’s not interesting at all.
There was a silence.
I hate Keith, he said.
Keith?
My boss, he said, staring blankly at the wall. He always gives me crap. One of these days I’m gonna put his nuts in a meat grinder.
He smiled to himself in a way that was fairly chilling. Sprout saw that he still wore braces.
How vivid, he said. I’m sorry to hear that you don’t enjoy your profession. Perhaps you’d prefer to be doing… I don’t know. Something in the arts?
The Worm sighed. Perhaps, he said. I wanted to be an optometrist, but that didn’t happen.
Why not? Sprout asked.
The Worm turned to him suddenly.
Why? he asked. I can’t go to optometrist school and do my job at the slaughterhouse, can I? Do you not know how time works? Do you think a person can be in two places at once?
No, no, Sprout said, a bit frightened now. I understand the concept of time.
Have you heard of money? the Worm asked.
Yes.
Do you think I can afford optometrist school? he said. Of course I can’t! I owe money all over town! Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgh. Excuse me.
He stood up and slowly carried his empty bowl into the bedroom. So stupid! he screamed, and Sprout heard the ceramic shatter. Well, that explains a lot, he thought, toying with his beard. Something thudded repeatedly against the wall. When the Worm returned to the living room, he was bleeding from a gash in his forehead.
What were we talking about? he said.
I’d like to stay here, the professor said. And help you get back on your feet. I’d be willing to cook and clean for you. I’ll even take your shift at the slaughterhouse while you get that optometry degree. It’s the least I can do to make up for… all the bullying. What do you say?
The Worm moved his jaw from side to side, mulling it over.
Who’ll take care of the ferrets? he asked.
Later that night, he showed Sprout to the guest room, which had a stained air mattress on the floor. While Sprout slept, the mattress deflated in the middle, enveloping him like a hot dog bun.
Do you plan on coming back, ever? Cassandra asked on the phone.
There’s just one more thing I have to do, he said. And then I’ll be home. Soon, I promise.
§6
Three years passed. True to his word, Sprout moved into the guest room, performed all the household chores, and spent every day chopping animal carcasses under the disdainful supervision of Keith. He enrolled the Worm in an online optometry course, where he proved to be an enthusiastic pupil. Because they were both busy and had little in common, the two men seldom interacted. Though they were an odd couple, the arrangement worked nicely once the professor had taught his host some basic organizational skills. He missed his wife and son dearly, but he knew that it would all be worth it once he had rebuilt the life that he ruined.
Meanwhile, deadlines for the Summa Moralia came and went, and the professor was fired from his position at Hunter. That same week, the Times reviewed Responsibility by Rudolph Satterthwaite, hailing it as the most important book ever written on the subject of Moral Philosophy. Sprout was dismayed to find that his theory had been twisted to advocate for a practice of non-responsibility with which he strongly disagreed. In essence, Satterthwaite claimed that people should do whatever makes them happiest, regardless of its effect on others. The book was a bestseller in fifty-six countries.
But if Sprout felt any bitterness, it was gone by the next year, when the Worm received his diploma from Free Medical University Dot Com. On the day it arrived in the mail, the professor came back from walking the ferrets in a somnambulant daze to see his housemate waiting for him in the living room. The Worm held up a colorful document and grinned.
I’m a certified optometrist now, he said. Thanks to you.
Sprout looked at him with pride, thinking that he would never let such a man anywhere near his eyes.
Congratulations, he said.
It’s time, he thought. He knew that he had sufficiently atoned for his wrongdoing, but his mouth was dry and his voice brittle as he told the Worm what he had done to him in middle school and asked for forgiveness. There was simply no telling how he would react.
The other man laughed.
Forgive you? he said. That was the best thing that ever happened to me. I hated it there. If they hadn’t kicked me out, I probably would’ve killed someone.
Sprout blinked at him.
You don’t know who I am, do you, he said.
The Worm studied him closely.
Were you in Munsen’s class? he said.
§7
On the train home, Sprout was depressed. He had seen everybody on his list, and yet he was unfulfilled. The satisfaction that he had anticipated, of the one missing piece finally clicking into place, had never materialized. Instead, there was only the thought that somebody out there still resented him. He had failed to achieve eudaemonia. But his conscience had been comprehensive, his memory meticulous. Whom else had he wronged?
Riding through Indiana, he read a somber story that Cassandra had published in The New Yorker about a lonely writer whose husband was off somewhere doing quixotic errands. Sprout sighed with admiration, though he knew that only other writers were likely to appreciate it. He told himself that, while his own career had imploded and his apology project had turned out to be a disappointment, at least he would soon be seeing his family again. At the next stop, he saw an elderly man straining to reach a suitcase in the overhead compartment and jumped up from his seat.
Bernard! he thought.
Sprout dialed his former research assistant for help. He had forgotten everything about Bernard, including his last name. But it was him. It had to be! Once, in the locker room after gym class, Sprout had pointed out the fact that the boy had unusually short upper arms. Though it had been more of an observation than an insult, Bernard had clearly been shocked and embarrassed by it. There had been no malicious intent, but it was bullying, nonetheless.
His assistant was surprised to hear all this, mostly because she didn’t work for him anymore. When she reminded him that she had graduated years ago, he pleaded with her, explaining that as soon as he made this final apology, his quest would be complete. Eventually, she agreed to help and later called back to inform him that Bernard Lindstrom had been an exchange student. He lived in Switzerland.
§8
On the plane to Geneva, Sprout was in a better mood. At last, he thought, every loose end would be tied. He looked down from the window at the brilliant red alpenglow that blazed over the mountains, singing, Muss es sein? Es muss sein!
According to his notes, Bernard was now the concierge at a luxury resort in Zermatt. Sprout rented a car and drove speedily, like someone on their way to meet a lover after a long separation. But when he asked for Mr. Lindstrom at the front desk, he was told that he had been out sick for months. He was in the intensive care ward at Visp Hospital, an hour and a half away.
The professor went there immediately. In the reception area, he insisted that he was a good friend of the patient and was shown to a private room where Bernard lay in bed watching an American Western on television. His face was gaunt and gray, his eyes bloodshot. Sprout sat on a wooden stool beside him.
Bernard, he said. I doubt you’ll remember me, but—
You’re Leonard Sprout, Bernard whispered.
His voice was hoarse, and it was apparently painful for him to speak.
That’s right, Sprout said. Now, listen, this is going to sound silly, but when we were in the ninth grade I think I may have offended you with something I said about your… your upper arms? I might be wrong. But believe it or not, I’ve come here to apologize. It was a long time ago, I know, but I am truly sorry.
Bernard gazed up at him with watery eyes.
I don’t accept your apology, he said.
Sprout winced like he had been slapped.
Why not? he asked.
I don’t think that you are truly sorry, Bernard said. You only came because you heard I was dying.
Dying?
It’s not really fair, is it? Bernard said. Ever since you said that, I have been self-conscious about my arms. I’ve had to live with that comment for thirty-five years. How long have I been on your mind?
Sprout futzed with his tie.
It’s been… Well, let’s see. Almost a day?
Please go, Bernard said weakly. Leave me alone.
After a few more attempts to placate him, Sprout was at a loss. He went back the next day, and the next, but whenever he tried to apologize, Bernard frowned and shook his head. It was an impasse, and yet it encouraged Sprout: he had found the right person, the only one who remained standing between himself and absolution.
The doctors told him that the patient’s illness was indeed fatal. He had a rare kidney disease for which there was no cure. It was not a question of if, but when.
§9
Five years passed. Both the patient and the professor were more stubborn than either had expected. Determined to keep trying until he won his forgiveness, Sprout found work at a ski school in Zermatt and rented an apartment on Baunhofstrasse. He commuted to the hospital every afternoon and stayed until visiting hours were over. He always brought Bernard the chocolates he liked and made sure that the room was decorated with fresh edelweiss. By the end of the first year, they were glad to see one another; by the third, they were friends. They played Parcheesi and watched Clint Eastwood movies together, and Sprout entertained Bernard with stories from his time on the road, doing all he could to distract him from his pain. Even though time was running out, the professor fought the urge to apologize again. He was afraid that any further mention of the reason he had come would spoil their beautiful relationship.
Still, he needed closure to move on; he had to be forgiven so that he could go home. But the years went by, and he held his tongue. He knew that his own health was in decline. His hair was white and his belly was beginning to sag. One morning he looked at himself in the mirror and saw that he had gotten old. He felt like it had happened overnight. Why hadn’t anybody warned him?
At the hospital that day, Bernard brought up high school.
Can you believe how young we were, Lenny? he said. We won’t get those days back.
Thank goodness, Sprout said. No more gym class.
Bernard smiled faintly, and the professor saw his chance.
Bernie, he said. I still feel awful, you know, about that thing I said. I’ve reflected on it quite a bit now, and I’ve come to see that it was a product of my insecurities about my pubescent body and had nothing to do with you. The worst part is, it wasn’t even true. The length of your upper arms is perfectly average. But I can’t imagine what it must have been like for you to feel that you were being judged for them, on top of everything else that one has to deal with in adolescence. And as I’ve gotten to know and love you, my regret has only grown deeper. I know that my words will never make up for the way I hurt you. But I ask you now: can you possibly find it in your heart to forgive me?
No, the patient said, and quietly passed away.
As the monitor beeped steadily, Sprout fell to his knees and wept. Grief so overcame him that he had to be carried out of the room. It can’t be! It’s not fair! he wailed. The orderlies petted him and offered tissues. He’s really taking it hard, they said to each other in hushed German. They all told him that Bernard had been lucky to have such a good friend.
§10
That night, Sprout returned to the city. He had been away from home for more than a decade, and he was surprised when his key turned in the lock. Nothing in his house had changed since he left but it had lost its comforting familiarity, and he felt like he was once again entering the living room of a stranger. He dropped his valise, hung his coat in the closet, and peeled off his shoes. Cassandra walked out of the kitchen, her face as lovely as ever, enhanced by the worry lines around her lips.
Well, well, well, she said. Look who it is.
Is it Sprout? called Satterthwaite, from the bedroom.
The professor didn’t need to ask what he was doing there. As he’d suspected, Cassandra had been having an affair with his former colleague in his absence. He could hardly blame her, but he found it unpleasant when Satterthwaite came downstairs, wearing his old bathrobe, and shook his hand.
Welcome back, he said. Wow, you look tired.
Will you be joining us for dinner? Cassandra said. I made a quiche.
Satterthwaite put his arm around her.
We’d be thrilled to have you, he said.
Before Sprout could respond, a gigantic young man came lumbering out of the den. He wore sweatpants and a muscle shirt, and a wave of bleached blond hair swooped down across his eyes. He tossed his head several times to get it out of his face.
Hey, Dad, he said.
Hi, Toby, Sprout said tearfully.
The four of them sat at the dining table, eating in silence. Sprout found himself staring at his son with dumb fascination. He was grotesquely large and ogrish, an exceptionally ugly teenager.
How was school today? Sprout said.
Stressful, Toby said.
Oh?
Yeah. I had to pound on this one kid.
Satterthwaite nodded. Sprout put down his wine glass.
Why did you have to do that? he said.
Toby shrugged. Because he’s a dork.
That’s my boy, Satterthwaite said.
Wait a minute, Sprout said. You beat him up because he’s a dork? He didn’t do anything to antagonize you?
Toby shrugged. No. I just don’t like dorks. Don’t like their style.
That’s no reason for violence, Sprout said. He looked at Cassandra.
Excuse me, Satterthwaite said. But would you prefer that Toby be the one getting bullied? Face it, Sprout. It’s better to be an alpha in this doggy-dog world.
It’s dog-eat-dog world, Sprout said. You’ve misunderstood, just like you misunderstood my theory of contingency. You got me all wrong. I’m an Aristotelian. I said that we have a moral responsibility toward one another.
You did?
Yes! Sprout shouted. But I suppose you can’t even conceive of a world where your achievements don’t come at the expense of others. Because doing that sort of math would take too much effort. I don’t mean to insult you; maybe it requires too much of everyone. And perhaps it’s true that we can never know the final consequence of any individual action, but if that’s the case, why not be kind? Why default to meanness? When I was your age, Satterthwaite, I thought that there were winners and losers in life, but now I understand that time makes no such distinction. Ultimately, not even the fittest will survive. We walk a damned hard road, and we’re all going to the same place in the end, and I believe that we should do whatever is in our power to help each other out along the way.
Maybe that’s why you’re a loser, Toby said.
Toby! Cassandra said. Your father is not a loser. You apologize to him, right now.
No, Toby said.
Tell him you’re sorry, Cassandra said.
Never, Toby said. I never will.
That’s my boy! Satterthwaite said again, but when Sprout looked into Toby’s eyes, he saw that they were still his own.