Welcome to the Monkey House - Kurt Vonnegut [99]
"Not demand—" said Sylvia.
"Request firmly?" said the doctor.
"Maybe I’m just a simple-minded country girl at heart," said Sylvia, "but I look through this catalogue, and I see all the buildings named after Remenzels, look through the back and see all the hundreds of thousands of dollars given by Remenzels for scholarships, and I just can’t help thinking people named Remenzel are entitled to ask for a little something extra."
"Let me tell you in no uncertain terms," said Doctor Remenzel, "that you are not to ask for anything special for Eli—not anything."
"Of course I won’t," said Sylvia. "Why do you always think I’m going to embarrass you?"
"I don’t," he said.
"But I can still think what I think, can’t I?" she said.
"If you have to," he said.
"I have to," she said cheerfully, utterly unrepentant. She leaned over the plans. "You think those people will like those rooms?"
"What people?" he said.
"The Africans," she said. She was talking about thirty Africans who, at the request of the State Department, were being admitted to Whitehill in the coming semester. It was because of them that the dormitory was being expanded.
"The rooms aren’t for them," he said. "They aren’t going to be segregated."
"Oh," said Sylvia. She thought about this awhile, and then she said, "Is there a chance Eli will have to have one of them for a roommate?"
"Freshmen draw lots for roommates," said the doctor. "That piece of information’s in the catalogue too."
"Eli?" said Sylvia.
"H’m?" said Eli.
"How would you feel about it if you had to room with one of those Africans?"
Eli shrugged listlessly.
"That’s all right?" said Sylvia.
Eli shrugged again.
"I guess it’s all right," said Sylvia.
"It had better be," said the doctor.
The Rolls-Royce pulled abreast of an old Chevrolet, a car in such bad repair that its back door was lashed shut with clothesline. Doctor Remenzel glanced casually at the driver, and then, with sudden excitement and pleasure, he told Ben Barkley to stay abreast of the car.
The doctor leaned across Sylvia, rolled down his window, yelled to the driver of the old Chevrolet, "Tom! Tom!"
The man was a Whitehill classmate of the doctor. He wore a Whitehill necktie, which he waved at Doctor Remenzel in gay recognition. And then he pointed to the fine young son who sat beside him, conveyed with proud smiles and nods that the boy was bound for Whitehill.
Doctor Remenzel pointed to the chaos of the back of Eli’s head, beamed that his news was the same. In the wind blustering between the two cars they made a lunch date at the Holly House in North Marston, at the inn whose principal business was serving visitors to Whitehill.
"All right," said Doctor Remenzel to Ben Barkley, "drive on."
"You know," said Sylvia, "somebody really ought to write an article—" And she turned to look through the back window at the old car now shuddering far behind. "Somebody really ought to."
"What about?" said the doctor. He noticed that Eli had slumped way down in the front seat. "Eli!" he said sharply. "Sit up straight!" He returned his attention to Sylvia.
"Most people think prep schools are such snobbish things, just for people with money," said Sylvia, "but that isn’t true." She leafed through the catalogue and found the quotation she was after.
"The Whitehill School operates on the assumption," she read, "that no boy should be deterred from applying for admission because his family is unable to pay the full cost of a Whitehill education. With this in mind, the Admissions Committee selects each year from approximately 3000 candidates the 150 most promising and deserving boys, regardless of their parents’ ability to pay the full $2200 tuition. And those in need of financial aid are given it to the full extent of their need. In certain instances, the school will even pay for the clothing and transportation of a boy. "
Sylvia shook her head. "I think that’s perfectly amazing. It’s something most people don’t realize at all. A truckdriver’s son can come to Whitehill."
"If he’s smart enough," he said.