OWL EYES

1 0 5 R O W L E Y E S J O Y C E C A R O L O A T E S ‘‘Fifteen.’’ ‘‘Fifteen. That seems young.’’ It is an inane remark. He steels himself for more. In the advanced calculus class at the Math Institute twenty-six university students regard him with curiosity. Unmistakably, Jerald Tabor is the youngest individual in the room. His cheeks smart with an obscure sort of shame as the late-middle-aged professor continues in a vague kindly manner: ‘‘Well, it is true in math there is no ‘young’ – no ‘old.’ In math all ages abide equally . . .’’ The professor is a renowned mathematician, Jerald knows. Has been told. Though the professor’s name is not one Jerald will readily recall as he will not readily recall the man’s face if he happens to encounter him outside the classroom. Still less is Jerald Tabor likely to learn the names of other students in the class, or their faces. In the six-week summer session he will scarcely glance at them at all, as in the public school he has attended for years he has made little e√ort to learn the names and faces of classmates. Jerald is unsentimental and prag- 1 0 6 O A T E S Y matic: memory is precious, not to be squandered on what is inconsequential . In this class as in other classes Jerald feels ‘‘islanded’’ – uncomfortably distinct from the other students. As often he feels ‘‘islanded ’’ in life. As if – almost – he can see a shimmering aura surrounding him, setting him apart from others. They see him, or some variant of him. Always from the outside, at a little distance. Sometimes these others are friendly. More often, they are not so friendly. They can be cruel, crude, indi√erent, curious. They can be unexpectedly kind. Sometimes they are resentful, as the undergraduates in this class are likely to be resentful of a skinny lankylimbed fifteen-year-old high school junior with math skills (allegedly ) sharper than their own. Jerald’s mother has told him many times that he is special. He understands that he has no choice in the matter. There! – the owl-eyed man. Staring at Jerald so strangely. Not often is Jerald aware of his surroundings, still less of strangers in public places. Yet he notices this man. A startled look in the stranger’s face. Eyes magnified behind thick lenses. Is this someone Jerald should know? Someone who knows him? It is frightening to Jerald, who rarely goes anywhere alone, whose mother has overseen much of his life, to realize that he has seen this man before: at the train depot, on campus, in the vicinity of the Math Institute. Jerald is a shy boy, too shy even to turn away quickly from a rude stranger as another boy might. Instead he stands irresolute at the foot of the math building steps as other students pass around him. His heart is beating rapidly. He’d had a triumph in the calculus class, the professor standing at the green board had directed a curt nod of approval in his direction – Good work. No words, just the nod, and the joy in Jerald’s heart, glaring up quickly, in gratitude. The stranger might be in his mid-fifties, or older – Jerald has a vague sense of adult ages. He wonders if it is someone who knows his mother. O W L E Y E S 1 0 7 R It is the eyes that frighten Jerald. So fixed upon Jerald’s face, intense and glaring behind the lenses of his glasses – owl eyes . . . Quickly Jerald moves on. In the wake of a noisy cluster of undergraduates as if he were one of them. It is true, Jerald Tabor is fifteen. But not a mature fifteen. He is thin, underdeveloped for his age. Fairly tall – five feet seven – but with narrow shoulders, the face of a bright evasiveeyed eleven-year-old. His mother selects his clothes for him. Lays out his clothes for him. If he has distractedly misbuttoned a shirt she buttons the shirt correctly. It is rare for her to...