In 1995 James J. Fitzpatrick came to the attention of the Townshend, Vermont
School District. He wrote a research paper in early November for Mrs.
Delisle’s Sophomore Honors English, tying characters in Macbeth to the Bette
Davis film All About Eve. Most department members thought it was just too
polished and unique for a fifteen-year-old. They searched the internet for
evidence that could nail his sorry, plagiaristic ass to the bulletin board.
They came up empty, swallowed their professional pride and gave him a “C”
minus, guessing that his introvert nature would preclude making a big stink.

          All was quiet until late January when he turned in a history
paper to Mr. Shaunessey on Bette Davis’ political views during the Great
Depression. The prose style was equal to or better than All About Eve,
though the research was thin relying as it did on three less than academic
biographies. Two months later Shaunessey received a twenty-five page
“conspiracy theory” paper concerning the strange circumstances surrounding
Bette’s husband’s blindness and subsequent death. Ed Shaunessey put it in a
class with all those “truth behind the Warren commission and who really
killed JFK or Marilyn Monroe” papers he had gotten over the years. At the
very least, though, it did solve the mystery. Jimmie Fitzpatrick wasn’t a
cheat. He could write the hell out of anything, was a meticulous researcher
but just a bit too hung up on Bette Davis.

          During his junior year there were no problems academically. He
was tops in his class. It was politely suggested, however, that Ms. Davis,
though a talented actress, was not a suitable subject for any English or
History class projects. He followed that advice and began turning in
quality non-Davis material.

          He was still very much a loner, no friends to speak of and
certainly no girls in his life. Lunch periods were difficult. He sat
alone and read. An occasional French fry or other aerodynamically available
food would be sent his way. He brushed off the attacks as if they were
pesky houseflies.

          Yet Social Studies and English teachers did have suspicions that
he had not gone off Davis cold turkey. It was highly likely that he was
dropping Davis film dialogue in the polite conversation. “I’m lucky. I’ve
always been lucky. I’ll be lucky again,” was his response for several days
to the innocuous, “How’s it going, Jimmie?” It was sheer circumstance that
Pauline Wray happened to see The Little Foxes on the Fox Movie Channel and
picked up on it. Other curious comments which didn’t quite fit the
conversational moment were “I only want to talk about the nice things” (Baby
Jane), and “my parents didn’t want me to be born. I didn’t want to be born.
It’s been a calamity on both sides” (Now Voyager). These sent the faculty
to the video store most weekends.

          The big turning point was his visit to the school nurse and
subsequent referral to a primary care doctor, ophthalmologist and MRI exams.
Six weeks into the medical process, a collective light bulb went on, and it
was discovered that Jimmie Fitz’s headaches and vision issues were exactly
those Bette had displayed in Dark Victory. Enough was enough. Guidance,
the school shrink, and Jimmie’s subject teachers sat down with mom and dad.

          Mrs. F. was pleasant enough. She was relieved that he wasn’t
in academic trouble. He’d always been a good student. When the subject of
the Bette Davis obsession came up, she offered to take the TV out of his
room as punishment. Mr. Fitz was a bit quicker on the uptake and came right
to the point. “Is he a fag or not?”

          This threw the discussion for a loop for fifteen minutes. The
psychologist did admit that Bette Davis had her devotees among the gay
contingent, but sexual orientation did not seem to be the issue here. It
wasn’t normal for teens, or anyone for that matter, to be so focused on one
particular subject to the degree they were carving out an entire lifestyle
to support its existence.

          An hour later they had a plan. Enough with the Bette Davis
stuff—books, DVDs, tapes—anything relating to what had gone on would be
taken away. He could watch all the TV he wanted, but it would be with the
family. Mr. Fitz admitted that his carpet installation business took much
of his time, and he’d never gotten Jimmy into sports. That would be a
healthy outlet for him. They could watch ball games together.

          The school would provide counseling. Jimmie’s social
interaction skills would be worked on by his guidance advisor, and monthly
reports would keep everyone in the loop. Jimmy was brought in and read the
verdict. He looked at the floor and muttered. When asked to speak up a
little, he slumped a bit less and said that he really didn’t know that much
about sports “but supposed they could be interesting.”

          The summer went well for Jimmie. He learned to drive. He
helped his father lay carpet in the new condo units off Pickney Road on
weekends. He was taken to minor league baseball games over in New Hampshire
and taught how to keep score for the Red Sox TV games. His heretofore
barren bedroom walls were bedecked with baseball greats of the distant past.
He devoured books on early baseball history. Back in school for his senior
year he wrote an English paper on the 1919 Chicago Black Sox scandal and its
connection to The Great Gatsby. For AP US History he wrote two cultural
history papers on the New York Giants in the John McGraw era. He applied and
was accepted early to Bucknell University. When asked why this odd choice
when New England was home to many fine colleges, he explained that it was
where Christy Mathewson, his new icon, went. He found a web site and bought
replica uniforms from the early 1900 teams, wearing the shirts and caps to
school. He was slightly more outgoing than before, but his conversations,
sooner or later, returned to baseball facts or the world as it was before
Mathewson’s early death by complications of a wartime gassing in October of
1925. Anything beyond that date was of little interest to him.

          He showed up for graduation rehearsal in late May wearing a
replica Mathewson New York Giant uniform. He was told it wasn’t acceptable
and sent home. He was class valedictorian. He was slated to give a speech,
but the administration grew anxious about what he might say. A look at the
rough draft was more cause for concern. Christy Mathewson’s best pitch was
the fadeaway. A time at bat was Jimmie’s controlling metaphor for the
address. Most plate appearances end in failure. Most of us will strike out
in life. Just when we think we have a chance, along comes the curve or
fadeaway. And that’s what most of us will do in life--strike out then fade
away in a nursing home. Death is ever present. It’s not called the dugout
for nothing.

          An administrative ultimatum was given. Wear the standard cap and
gown, suit coat and tie underneath, deliver a “normal” speech without any
esoteric references or depressing themes; otherwise, stay home.

          On Friday evening June 5th, he wore a suit. The copy of the
revised speech had been approved. It had enough clichés and trite
platitudes to calm the nerves of any principal or superintendent. The
commencement began. The flag was saluted. The weather, threatening all
day, looked like it would hold off for a few more hours. A School Committee
representative had kind words about the future of the United States being in
such good, young hands and then introduced James J. Fitzpatrick as the
opening speaker. He strode to the podium, tossed the prepared sheets over
his head and gripped the lectern sides with both hands. In a not all
together bad Bette Davis-Margo Channing imitation he managed to get out most
of “Fasten your seat belts, it’s going to be a bumpy night!” before the band
struck up “God Bless America” as he was escorted off stage left, to become
Bucknell University’s problem in September.