Home from the Hill by William Humphrey

days, leaving town early, headed towards the country with a truckload of hounds. He was forced to conclude that he had been playing—he started to say hookey , but chose the more proper word truant .
    She was grateful to him for his vigilance, and did not question that such close surveillance was just what most of his students required. “But Theron has not been playing hookey”—she used the word as if she could afford to—“if by that you mean skipping school without his parents’ knowledge,” she said. Plainly he did not follow. She made herself explicit. “I have always told him he might stay out whenever he felt like it,” she said.
    Reporting it to the school board, Mr. Statler paused a whole minute at that point, to let the full incredibility of it sink into their minds.
    When he had recovered himself, he said, “Well, perhaps you know best, Miz Hannah. Perhaps the best way to cure him of this craze of his is to indulge him in it.”
    She disliked having anyone presume to understand her motives, especially when he came near the mark, and she disliked having anyone discuss her son at all, except to praise him, especially to dare prescribe for him. And she resented his word craze . But she said, “I am glad you see it that way, because I have told him he needn’t go back at all this semester. Or in fact ever, if he doesn’t want to.”
    â€œNot go back at all!”
    â€œNot go back at all. If he doesn’t want to.”
    â€œBut he’s within a year of graduation! Why, there’s a compulsory education law in this state!”
    â€œHe is over the age. But if there is any unpleasantness I know I can count on you to take care of it for me.”
    She rose.
    â€œMelba,” she called.
    He got to his feet.
    â€œThank you so much for dropping by,” she said.
    The night before she had been sitting in the parlor with Theron when Wade came in. He was early and she wondered with long-accustomed bitterness what had brought him home, when, passing their door, he said, “Son, I’d like to have a talk with you,” and continued down the hall to his den.
    Not only did her curiosity demand to know what this was about, but she was also instantly nettled that he should have anything to discuss with Theron that he wanted her not to hear—something, moreover, already existing between them, already excluding her. For Theron showed no surprise at this summons; a look of understanding passed over his face as he got up from the couch. Resentment mounted in her as she listened to his steps going down the hall and as she heard the den door close behind him.
    She got up and went out into the hall and stood looking down it at the closed door. What was the meaning of it? She hesitated, ashamed of the impulse, only for a second; then slipping out of her shoes she tip-toed down the hall.
    She knelt, and peering through the keyhole saw a scene that maddened her. Theron sat hunched up in the fireside armchair, looking abashed, ashamed, contrite—miserable; while his father stood on the hearthstone facing him with his hands behind his back and his legs spread, looking stern, disapproving, shocked—paternally disappointed. How dared he! He—with all he had to be ashamed of! She did not yet even know what it was over; perhaps something for which the boy deserved his part in this classic father-son scene. It did not matter; she could not abide it. For, though she herself could be firm with him, the idea of his father’s reprimanding him was intolerable to her. She rose and laid her hand on the doorknob. Then she saw her stockinged feet.
    She went quickly back along the hall. Her fingers trembled so with anger at what she had witnessed that she could not get the second shoe on. While she fumbled she heard the door of the den open and heard Theron, in a small, humbled voice which swelled her heart with pity and indignation, say, “Yes,