He passed the site for the two new houses, at the moment a pitted landscape of pile drivers and construction vehicles. In addition to Foster’s gift, they needed to raise $300 million more over the next two years, more than entire endowments at most smaller colleges. It was a seemingly daunting task, but this was Devon. Its alumni base was rife with billionaires and centimillionaires.
Milton had long become inured to the enormity of numbers like $100 million. You tried to fathom them for a while, then just accepted that you couldn’t. They were an abstraction, like trying to understand an infinite universe. But these were the units by which many of Devon’s alums kept score. Still others—sixty-two, according to the Development Office—used a different unit. Billions.
The fund-raising would take some of Milton’s time, but it wouldn’t be too onerous. The media department had produced a slick animation that was remarkably realistic. It offered viewers a virtual tour through the Gothic spires, shady walkways, and ecclesiastical libraries of the two adjacent houses. They’d put it out on YouTube, and wallets were already opening up like spring flowers. Helping the process along were so-called naming opportunities. A million dollars got your name carved over the door of a seminar room. Five million scored a common room or a house library. Everything was up for grabs except the house names themselves. That honor could not be bought at Devon, it had to be earned.
By tradition, houses were named for Devon graduates who had contributed in some significant way to the school or society at large. The sifting through of potential honorees fell to a committee of administrators and professors. Ostensibly, they would take dozens of factors into account, but it was a given that at least one house would be named for someone of color, or perhaps someone from the LGBT community.
One ironclad rule, though, was that the person also had to be deceased, which presented somewhat of a problem. Devon didn’t have minority students in great numbers until the seventies, meaning finding a deceased alumnus of color who had also made a profound mark in some way was proving to be a challenge. “A damn short list,” confided the head of the naming committee to Milton privately (after deciding it was best not to convey the message in an email). As for gays, the task was even tougher. Today Devon was at least 20 percent openly gay, something in which Milton took great pride. But looking back, the vast majority of its gay community was closeted until sometime around the eighties or nineties. The committee chair suggested they might have their best luck by sifting through graduates of the Drama School. Some of Hollywood’s finest actors were Devon grads. Camille Thornton herself was a Devonite. If only she were dead, thought Milton, who then immediately regretted the notion. (Milton, a film buff, loved Camille Thornton. The Lost Diary was his all-time favorite.)
Surely some famous and gay Drama School grad had slipped the surly bonds? With all the sexual assault allegations coming out of Hollywood, though, Devon would have to tread carefully. It wouldn’t do to pick someone only to find out later insiders knew “all along” the honoree had a serial affection for minors. Milton shuddered at the potential damage to the brand.
Milton considered managing Devon’s brand to be one of his primary responsibilities, and the last few years had been good. The endowment set a new record every year, helmed by the incomparable Wick Wilder, who had pioneered a groundbreaking approach to portfolio management. The acceptance rate had never been lower. The physical plant was in the finest condition in all of Devon’s 315 years, with significant renovations having just recently been completed. The sports teams were faring well, with the hockey team winning a recent national championship. Not that he cared much for sports, but they kept the alums happy and therefore their checkbooks open.
One of the professors had recently written an op-ed in The New York Times objecting to Milton’s use of the word brand when discussing Devon. “Our university is not a dish soap,” the professor sniffed from his tenured perch in the Anthropology Department. This had privately annoyed Milton, but he started using the word reputation instead of brand, and that had quieted the good professor.
Keeping all of Devon’s myriad constituencies happy was another major responsibility, and Milton always imagined he was good at it. He was popular, and personal popularity was a currency. He didn’t get to be president of Devon by being disagreeable. Before taking on administrative duties, he’d been a professor of sociology. His course, Foundations of Modern Social Theory, was always the most popular offering on campus. It was light on requirements—a mere three five-page papers—and Milton was an easy grader. (If they were all smart enough to be at Devon, they were all smart enough to get A’s, he reasoned.) Throw in that he was an entertaining lecturer, and word spread. Soon he was attracting nearly eight hundred students and his class had to be moved to Fairchild Hall, which was normally only for large concerts or significant guest lectures. That Milton played in a faculty jazz band and showed up for lots of Devon sporting events only solidified his standing as a man of the people. His rise through the political thickets of both the Sociology Department and the administration had been rapid.
Later today he was set to meet Foster Jennison, the school’s biggest single benefactor. Milton was confident Foster would be pleased with the progress Devon was making under his leadership.
Head down against the cold, he crossed the bleak expanse of Bingham Plaza. A large red sculpture by Alexander Calder stood out starkly against the whites and grays of winter.
Looking up as he approached Stockbridge, Milton recoiled in horror. Beyond the Calder, in giant, dripping black letters, someone had spray-painted a message across the limestone base of the building:
WELCOME TO RACIST U
Racist U
MILTON BOUNDED UP the stairs of Stockbridge two at a time. “D’Arcy!” he screamed down the hallway before even reaching his office suite. D’Arcy appeared in the hall in an instant.
“I know, sir. I’ve called maintenance. They’re on their way.”
“And get someone to throw some tarps over it in the meantime, before someone starts taking pictures!”
“Of course, sir, but I think we might have bigger problems.”
“What are you talking about?”
“This, sir.” D’Arcy held out her phone and handed it to Milton.
A video was cued up on the tiny screen. He hit play and tried to make out what he was seeing. It was dark, and there were flashing lights. People, lots of them, were jumping and dancing, pumping their fists in the air. “I don’t understand. What is this?”
“Those are Devon students at a Beta Psi party. Here, let me turn up the sound.” D’Arcy reached over and pressed the volume-up button a few times. Loud, tuneless music played through the phone’s tiny speaker. People were singing along:
Two a.m., Seven-Eleven
Got my burrito, oh thank heaven
Phone’s blowin’ up, back in the heezie
Yesterday’s squeezie, gotta let’r down easy
“D’Arcy, why am I listening to this?” Music today was all very angry sounding, thought Milton.
“Just wait.” The song continued, but when the music suddenly stopped before the end, the partygoers, familiar with the lyrics, kept singing even louder:
So keep it on the lo-lo,
This nigga runs solo,
Nigga runs solo!
Milton sighed. “That word will be the death of us.”
The video cut to a figure in a dark hood and a Guy Fawkes mask. “Welcome to Devon University, aka Racist U!” The voice was deep and digitally masked. “Listen as the rich white sons of privilege in their exclusive fraternities spout their hate! Tell President Strauss that hate and oppression have no place at Devon!”
“Where did you find this?”
“It’s posted anonymously on YouTube. Also, the hashtag DevonShame is trending regionally on Twitter, so there are links to the video just about everywhere.” Milton walked to his window and looked down. Several students had stopped and were photographing the graffiti.
“Right away, sir.” D’Arcy, unsure which command to deal with first, decided to run out to look for blankets first.
* * *
Foster Jennison sat patiently. Much of his investment success owed to this legendary patience. Born in Massachusetts to the proprietor of a small sporting goods store, Jennison held part-time jobs to pay his way through Devon. He supplemented his income by deftly relieving money from the rich kids in dormitory poker games. His edge was his uncanny ability to read others, particularly when they were drunk and he was not. After working briefly for the legendary banking house Lazard Frères, Jennison set out for Los Angeles to found his own money-management concern, calling it Beaver Dam Capital (he liked the animal’s famed industriousness). The move was unusual for the time. The money-management business was dominated by buttoned-up concerns located almost exclusively in New York and Boston. The West Coast lacked the requisite probity. But, whether by foresight or fortune, his timing was excellent. The sixties saw a surge in West Coast wealth, mostly from real estate and entertainment, and the newly moneyed class wanted not just probity but proximity. Jennison fit the bill on both counts. His favorite saying was “I like to help people. When they’re desperate to sell, I help them by buying. When they’re desperate to buy, I help them by selling.”
For years he built his firm on consistent if unflashy returns. In times of severe market dislocation such as ’68 and ’74, Beaver Dam would pick up market share against its more aggressive rivals. But when he married and had his first child, Jennison began to view the social fabric of L.A. as too flaky for raising a family. He moved his company headquarters back East, to New York. This had the added benefit of being close to dear old Devon, and he was frequently seen at football games. In recent years, he was a regular guest in Milton’s box on the fifty-yard line.
It was not football that brought Jennison to Devon today. Today was about making sure Devon and Milton Strauss continued to be careful stewards of Jennison’s money. He’d come up by train this morning from the city and taken a Yellow cab from the Havenport train station. Limousines and drivers were an unnecessary expense and not to his taste.
“Foster! What are you doing sitting out here?” asked Milton, finding Jennison sitting in the hallway. He’d come into Stockbridge unannounced, and no one had taken notice of the quiet man on the bench.
“I didn’t want to be a bother.”
“Foster, you are never a bother.” Milton shook Jennison’s hand vigorously. Jennison had a mane of white hair and was wearing a sensible dark gray suit purchased in a two-for-one sale at Joseph A. Bank. “Come, I want to show you something.”
Milton led him to his office, where the previous day the staff from Soren O. Pedersen Associates had installed a scale model of the new houses, complete with tiny trees and little people. The spires, turrets, and towers were all rendered in loving, painstaking detail. Miniature students could even be seen in the dining halls through miniature arched Gothic windows.
“It’s beautiful, just beautiful.” Jennison reached out and ever-so-gently touched one of the towers.
“I’m glad you like it. I’ve arranged for the people over at Pedersen to have another one made just for you. Might look good in your office, no?”
“Oh my gosh, this must have been very expensive. I think one is enough.”
“Are you sure, my friend?”
“Quite sure. Put the money into the project.”
“If those are your wishes. Come, let’s sit.”
They took seats by the fireplace.
“Foster, I wanted to talk to you about something sensitive. It’s never come up in our previous conversations, and I think we need to address it. As you know, we have a long-standing policy about naming, which is to say we don’t name houses or other major buildings after donors. But I think I have some ideas you might—”
Foster raised a hand. “Not necessary, Milton. I don’t want my name on anything.”
“You don’t?”
“Absolutely not. It’s unseemly, as far as I’m concerned.”
Milton was surprised, although he knew he shouldn’t have been, knowing Foster. Most donors got excited about having their names on a brick. “Foster, I can’t say how honored we are by what you’re doing for Devon.”
“Nonsense. It is I who am indebted to you, or rather to this great institution. I made lifelong friends in these halls. My time here made me who I am. If giving some money lets a few more kids have that experience, then it is my privilege to make that possible.”
Oh, if only there were more such as this! thought Milton.
“But…”
But?
“I have some concerns.…”
“About the project?”
“Most definitely not. The houses are magnificent.”
“Then what?”
“Call it the culture.”
“Please, tell me,” said Milton in his most solicitous voice.
“I saw that Senator Potter was not permitted to speak here recently.” Potter was a Republican and best known for his strident views on immigration.
“Oh, but he did speak.”
“In an off-campus facility. He was scheduled to speak in Fairchild Hall. You moved him.”
“Well, yes. But he still spoke and it was well attended.”
“Milton, what kind of message are you sending—that conservative speakers aren’t welcome on campus?”
“No, of course not. We welcome everyone. It’s just that there were a number of threats and we didn’t feel we could guarantee security. Safety must come first.”
“So, free speech takes a backseat to the heckler’s veto?”
The fine hairs on Milton’s neck stood at attention. Heckler’s veto—he associated that term with the odious alt-right movement. He threw up his hands. “A university like Devon has many constituencies that have to be pleased, Foster.”
“Do they?”
“Do they what?”
“Have to be pleased?”
“Well, certainly, I mean, don’t you think?”
“You know, you’re the president of this august institution. Last I heard, that was a position of great influence. Try using it, Milton. Try being a leader. You might find it useful.”
Milton turned a shade of ruby. Foster Jennison was famous for being direct, but the president of Devon University was not used to being spoken to this way.
“Allow me to be more specific,” continued Foster. “Leadership means occasionally saying no and living with the fact someone may be angry as a result.”
“I say no all the time! Why just the other day the faculty asked for their own gym and I told them there was no room in this year’s budget.”
Foster just stared. “Let me ask you something,” he said finally.
“Please.”
“What percentage of your faculty do you think gave money to Donald Trump?”
“I don’t know offhand.”
“Zero. The data is online.”
“Foster, the man’s a buffoon. We have a very sophisticated faculty.”
“Do we? What percentage gave to Mitt Romney, then?”
“I don’t know.”
“Zero.”
“I see.”
“Do you wish to know the last Republican candidate who received financial support from even a single member of our faculty? George Bush. Not George W. Bush, George H. W. Bush. One of our computer science faculty gave two hundred dollars. That was in 1992, in case you’re a little foggy on the dates.”
“Well, this is New England, Foster. It’s a pretty liberal place.”
“Don’t misunderstand me. I don’t expect Devon to be some Southern Christian college, but balance is needed or people will forget how to think. Heck, Milton, the place was liberal when I was here, too, but all views were respected. There were no—what ar
e they called?—safe spaces.”
“We don’t have safe spaces here, Foster. That whole thing is being exaggerated by certain elements of the media.” Fox News. Milton discreetly looked at his watch. He was going to be late for dinner.
“I would suggest that the entire campus has become a safe space. What was that nonsense with Mark Twain?”
“The professor in question was completely cleared.”
“Cleared of teaching Twain?”
“Yes—er, no. Not exactly. It was a misunderstanding. Some students exaggerated what really happened.”
“And those students were disciplined accordingly, I take it?” Milton looked like he was struggling for the right way to respond. “Don’t bother, I know the answer.” Foster went over and looked out Milton’s window. “Tell me, what do you suppose would happen if I set up a Right to Life volunteer table down there in that plaza?”
Milton looked Jennison right in the eyes. “Foster, free speech is an unassailable right on this campus. It is the linchpin of our core mission to pursue the truth.”
“Fine words, Milton. I hope they are more than that.”
Jack Russell
EPH AND D’ARCY were trying out Havenport’s newest restaurant, Saigon Taste. The arbiters on Yelp said, “Finally, Havenport gets Vietnamese.”
D’Arcy watched as Eph struggled with his pho, trying his best not to slurp. “Is there any way to eat this gracefully?”
D’Arcy grimaced as a piece of beef slipped off Eph’s spoon and splashed into his bowl. “It’s a good thing this isn’t our first date,” she said.
They’d been dating for well over a year now, but D’Arcy still felt some invisible barrier that Eph wouldn’t let her past. She knew he was self-conscious about his roots, but she didn’t care about any of that. No, that wasn’t quite right. She did care, because it was part of who he was. She loved that person, the whole person. It hurt her to think he was holding back, even with her, particularly when it came to his family.
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