When Stuart got home that day, his mother wasn't there.
Each day after school, he entered through the side door into the washing room at the back of the garage, and then into the kitchen. As usual, a stack of dirty dishes waited in the left hand sink, leftover from breakfast. His mother always told him that he didn't have to wash them, that it wasn't his job. He didn't have assigned "chores" like most of his classmates, he just saw things that needed doing, and did them. Most of his friends complained about their chores, which was only natural – just normal, twelve year old stuff, he guessed.
After doing the dishes, he did a quick walk-through of the common areas of the house: the living room, the entry hall, and the spare bedrooms. They were all still pretty clean, since they didn't get much use, even the dining room. When they ate together, it was always at the small table in the kitchen. He headed there now, and slid into one of the two sturdy, oak chairs set to either side. The days were getting longer, but there wasn't much sunlight left. The rays coming in through the kitchen window cast long shadows across the checkered, tiled floor. At first, the silence seemed complete, but as the minutes stretched on he became aware of the churning of the furnace from the basement and the muted roar of cars passing on the street. Even so, an inviolate stillness pervaded the house. It would be a few hours before his Mother returned home. He considered taking a nap or watching television or finishing the Al and Fred problem for his homework, but he knew he wasn't going to do any of those things.
Sometime after sunset, he rose from his seat, and wrote a quick note to his mother explaining that he was going to Darren's for a few hours. She wouldn't check.
Stuart had never been invited to Mr. Feeny's house, but finding it was easy enough. Everyone in the class, and everyone who watched Cory's World, knew that he lived next to the Matthews, and Stuart had been there before. He dropped his bike in the Matthews' front yard and proceeded on foot. Night had fallen completely by then, and the temperature had plummeted. It seemed like every light in the building was on, but they probably never struggled to pay the electric bill. He took care to keep to the shadows and make little noise, lest he unwittingly become a bigger part of the story. Peering in through the window, he could see Cory and Shawn sitting at the kitchen table. What, did Shawn live there now? Perfectly ridiculous.
Abandoning all caution, Stuart crossed the Matthews' patio hurriedly, vaulted over the short fence that divided the two properties, and rapped smartly on Mr. Feeny's door. He cast a nervous glance over his shoulder, willing himself to be patient. He stood out in the open, exposed should any of the Matthews happen to glance in his direction. The last thing he needed was to be standing out there for ten minutes while his elderly teacher made his way to the door.
Quite sooner than expected, the door opened in front of him. Dim light from the interior seeped out, framing the compact form of Mr. Feeny, wearing a burgundy robe with matching house slippers. The nimble fingers of his right hand rotated a snifter, inside which a pungent, amber fluid swirled. "Ah, Mr. Minkus, you're right on time," he declared heartily, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. "But then, I'd expect no less."
"You've been expecting me?"
"Of course, of course, my boy!" the man exclaimed. He stepped further into the house, holding the door open expectantly. "Come on in."
Moments before, Stewart had been eager to escape into Mr. Feeny's house, but suddenly he wasn't so sure it was a good idea. Nonetheless, he stepped inside and found himself in a tastefully apportioned living room. Mr. Feeny took a seat in a rather stiff-looking arm chair, leaving the sofa to Stuart. "Go on, Mr. Minkus, have a seat."
"Thank you, sir," Stuart muttered timidly. Mr. Feeny had always commanded his respect, and to be in his home, uninvited, was more than a little daunting.
"Can I offer you a beverage? I daresay this wouldn't be appropriate," Mr. Feeny chortled, indicating his own glass. "Perhaps a glass of water, or some juice?"
"No sir, thank you."
"Then what can I do for you?" Mr. Feeny asked.
Stuart considered the question. What was he doing there? What did he expect his mentor to provide? Comfort? Advice? Mr. Feeny was the wisest, most educated person he knew, and more than anything he wanted his teacher to simply… make it not so. He wanted the old man to scoff and disprove Topanga's wild claim, to tell him that there was absolutely nothing special about Cory Matthews.
"Did you come to discuss the efforts of Al and Fred?"
Stuart felt his head jerk up at the unexpected question. "What?"
"Al and Fred," the older man patiently repeated. "Tonight's homework assignment? I'd be happy to help out, although… perhaps you should check in next door. I think Mr. Matthews and Mr. Hunters are working on it, even as we speak."
"No, I-"
"What's the matter, Mr. Minkus? Don't think you'd be welcome over there?" Mr. Feeny asked. "Are you afraid of… making a scene?"
As he watched the man take a dignified sip of his brandy, smiling expectantly all the while, Stuart realized something. "You already know."
"Know what?" Mr. Feeny seemed barely able to contain his merriment.
"Everything!" Stuart blurted.
"Oh, I assure you I know a great deal less than everything, Mr. Minkus," the older man demurred.
Stuart felt his patience slipping away. "You know… what we are, Mr. Feeny." He angrily jabbed his thumb in the direction of the house behind him."You know what he is. You know what this all about."
"Oh, I don't think you're supposed to be talking to me about that, Mr. Minkus," Mr. Feeny tittered. "Didn't you promise your friends?"
"How… how do you know about that?" Stuart breathed helplessly.
Mr. Feeny's eyebrows danced in a self-satisfied expression. "Well, simply put, it's my job to know." He held up a hand to forestall Stuart's objection. "Not my job. It's my role, if you will."
Stuart felt the air leaving his lungs. The room seemed to shrink around him, and he was suddenly powerfully aware of his own pulse. Knowing the truth was one thing, but hearing Mr. Feeny talk about it made it much worse, somehow. "So, it's true… isn't it?"
"Is that what you came here to ask me?"
"No, I-" Stuart stopped himself. "What I need to know is, what can I do about it?"
"Ho ho, that's a fine question, my boy." Mr. Feeny seemed genuinely delighted. "I am a purveyor of good questions, and that right there is among the best of them. What can a person do about anything? What are we, as individuals, ultimately capable of? There isn't a general answer, of course, but in my experience, well… how do I phrase this? A man with a minimum of resources is restricted principally by what he will do, rather than what he can do. Do you take my meaning, Mr. Minkus?"
Stuart wasn't sure that he completely concealed the revulsion he felt. With Topanga, he had a pretty good sense for who she was "on screen" and off, as it were. Mr. Feeny presented a whole other problem. The man in front of him was so like the one in the classroom, but slightly… twisted. The effect was alarming. Stuart was not entirely sure he was safe in this man's house. "I'm not sure I do, Mr. Feeny. Isn't the question here one of free will?"
"Oh, pshaw!" The man scoffed. "Free will is a pretense, a potboiler for petty philosophers. The question is immaterial. Tell me, Mr. Minkus, what constrains you?"
"I-" Stuart stammered.
"None of that! What, precisely, is holding you back, sir?" Mr. Feeny said. He seemed increasingly worked up, almost enraged.
"I don't know!" Stuart blurted. It was not a satisfying answer for either of them, but it had the virtue of being honest.
Mr. Feeny harrumphed. Over the next few moments, the tension slowly leaked from the room. The older man's passion had peaked and receded; if there were going to be violence, it likely would have come already.
"Surely, there's some way…" Stuart started again. "Something we can do."
Mr. Feeny shook his head in disgust. "Mr. MInkus, there are a great number of things that we can do."
"What I meant is, is there no way to escape from Cory's World?" Stuart asked. Maybe they, the minor characters in the story, could find some way to sour the viewers out there and bring about the end of the show. Of course, he'd only want that if it meant freedom, rather than the oblivion Topanga had mentioned.
"Why would you want that, Mr. Minkus? Is there some other world you'd prefer?" Mr. Feeny asked. "We may be bit players in an insipid family comedy, but it could be so much worse. Would you rather inhabit one of Wes Craven's tales? Would you be more at home in a medical drama? How happy and comfortable would you be in a Korean war era biopic?"
"I just don't want to live in his world!" Stuart growled. "What's so special about him, Mr. Feeny? He's not smart or good-looking or brave or interesting in the slightest! It just isn't… right!"
Mr. Feeny's smug look of amusement returned presently. "Ho ho, you really haven't thought this through, have you Mr. Minkus?"
Stuart glowered. However out of whack this conversation was, he still didn't care for being dressed down by the teacher.
"Would you trade places with Mr. Matthews? Do you want this to be your world?" the teacher prodded. "Don't you see that we're all victims of his world, himself most of all?"
"What?"
"You and I have our roles to play, make no mistake, but we are at best secondary characters in this farce," Mr. Feeny explained. "We'll spend less time in the public eye than anyone in that house next door. When we aren't around him, we're free to do as we please, provided we're ready to go for our next scene. But what liberties does Cory Matthews have? Do you think he has any choice about anything? Does he choose his friends or his lovers or even his own actions? He is a puppet, through and through, and the only saving grace for him is that he has not realized it yet!"
Later in life, Stuart wouldn't remember leaving Mr. Feeny's house that night. Their interview, while brief, unnerved him so greatly that he did not recall knocking on the Matthews' door, and the subsequent conversation there remained, many years later, hazy and ill-formed in his recollection. However, he would always remember waking up the next morning with a fire in his brain.