I must also inform you that Russell has been involved recently in quite a few fights and that this behavior cannot be tolerated indefinitely. I’m sure you understand. One incident was quite serious, and resulted in his being removed from the pistol team when he was accused of pointing his weapon at a fellow cadet. Should this event have been witnessed by a staff member, it would have led to an immediate dismissal from Blackwell. As there was no proof that this event took place (the other boy involved has subsequently left Blackwell) — and as Russell has been with us since the second grade — we have decided to speak to him about his recent behavior and warn him that he is on probation.

I must also ask you to write your son and warn him of the consequences of any further inappropriate behavior. All of us here agree that Russell is a very fine boy – a boy we feel will make a great soldier — who is very much liked by the staff. We all consider Russell a great asset to both our football and baseball teams, and I’m sure he will get back on the right track!

Lastly, all of us here at Blackwell Academy hope that the Communist insurgency you and your country face will be quickly defeated. Russell has spoken often about your struggles out there in Guatemala. God bless you in your fight against this menace to free people everywhere. We are all praying for your safety. Rest assured that your son is in good hands.

God bless you.

Sincerely yours,

Major D. Purcell

Commandant

Las Flores

Sunday April 3

Dearest Russell,

Querido, I’ve just had a letter from the major at your school and he assures me that you are doing fine and that your chances of going on to a good high school are excellent. (I would like it to be the military academy in Virginia that your grandfather went to, if possible.) Do you still want to go to West Point? I think it would be lovely. We could go to the Army-Navy game and I’ll wear something very Gatsby! I have written to your father and he promises me he will contact his congressman at the right time. But it’s still a little soon, dear.

Your aunt says that we need military men here, and that you should come home as soon as you are able, to help us defeat the Communists! Right now she is living in Miami and I miss her very much, as I spend a great deal of time alone here working with no one but Olga to speak to. Your uncle Robert has gone to live in Paris—He is producing films!— so I don’t have any help. I wish you were all with me here. Maybe someday. But none of us can live without someone from the family being here on the plantation and seeing things are done properly— war or no war.

Dear, about the test they gave you. I really don’t think things like this should upset you. Of course you aren’t stupid. Why don’t we just forget the test. I know that you have always done well in school, and that’s really all that is important. As far as pointing the gun at the boy, I’m glad you wrote me and told me the truth about what happened. I don’t want my son to be a momma’s boy, and if that boy was bullying you, well, here it would be understood completely. God knows your grandfather pointed his pistol at more than one man! (I’m afraid to tell you the stories!)

Always stand up for yourself, my love, and know that your mother loves you and hopes that we can be together here someday. I love you and think about you everyday.

The guerillas came to the plantation two nights ago, but I was visiting a friend and they couldn’t find me so they left. They said they wanted our family to pay a war tax! Anytime the communists get close, workers from the ranchos come up to the house to warn me and I hide with them! Everyone here is very loyal to the family— thank God!

Besos y Abrazos

Tu Mama.

PS: Coffee prices are wonderfully high, 106. So I’ve sent along some extra spending money. Antonio and I saw Elizabeth Taylor in Acapulco last month at the Villa Vera, where she was staying too. She and I had a conversation about our children, sitting by the pool. She’s actually very, very kind, and not at all like they say on the BBC.

•••

Like jails, military schools are run in part by the adults, and partly by the students. Several boys had come to him about the Greek, as he was called. The Greek was an asshole; the Greek was a bully, but worse, the Greek was buggering the younger boys at night, and it had to stop.

The Greek’s father was important. The students didn’t know what he did, but it had to be big, because Major Purcell was scraping and bowing like an Ottoman house slave every time the Greek’s parents showed up in their limousine. Someone had suggested the Greek’s father was a gangster; others that he was a congressman, or senator. The Greek wouldn’t say. (Russell learned later that the Greek’s father owned an independent oil and gas company in Louisiana.)

There had been a vote in study hall. Russell was a lieutenant now, and the younger boys looked up to him. This respect was given not because he’d been at the school since he was in the second grade, but because he was a sports star. And because, as officer in charge of the pool during the weekends, he didn’t allow towel snapping in the showers. Younger boys had been terrified of the showers until they’d put Russell in charge.

The towel snapping had stopped. Towel snapping with a well made “rat tail,” wet at the end, could leave terrible welts, and worse. It was like being hit with a leather whip. The older boys had hit Russell plenty with the rat tails when he had first come to the school, and Russell remembered how painful and humiliating it was. (Of course, if you spoke to any of the staff about it, just as in prison, it would only make matters worse for you.)

Later, Russell only smiled when people asked him why he’d spent hours in the gym getting strong. As he had learned in his military tactics and history class: superior and overwhelming firepower wins battles. (The rest, said his teacher who’d fought at Guadalcanal, was horseshit.)

The meeting had been called before lights out. Everyone was in pajamas and robes. It was dark. Russell remembered sitting on his bed, looking down at the house next door. He often spied on the family who lived next to the school: two girls, a mother and a father. He loved to watch them have dinner, but didn’t often get the chance.

Russell felt as if he knew the family. He had shared birthday parties and many holidays with them, if only from the window of his room. The girls and he were about the same age. The parents were kind. He could tell that. The father was a tall, thin man, and he would speak to his daughters while they did their homework at the kitchen table, as he helped or did the dishes. The four of them would spend the evenings there in the kitchen. Russell liked to imagine their conversations. Sometimes providing dialogue for the family (a habit that would later help him as a journalist and writer), he would stare in amazement at their world, free from loneliness or the threat of physical violence.

Right now the girls had finished their homework, and the parents were alone in the kitchen. Russell had a great desire to be adopted by them, but knew it was crazy. One Saturday he had almost knocked on their door to tell them that he was their son of sorts, their son of the third floor window. Their son of the school next door.

This was the first time he’d had a strange and obviously bizarre thought. He would have many as the years went by and he was always able to control them, but barely. He’d started to act out in strange ways, mostly on the football field at first. He loved the violence of the sport. Then he began taking dares, any dare, any challenge. Lately, it had been shoplifting. He’d stolen records by the Beatles and the Rolling Stones, even though he could have paid for them.