Strange how, just a few weeks ago, this sort of party would have been exactly the sort of thing that I would have avoided at all costs. I saw Charles standing beside the large bowl of punch looking rather sly, and upon careful attention, I watched him slip a little something extra into the concoction, the little devil. I made my way around the large group of people swinging wildly on the open floor … well, carpet, to be more precise. Girls were flipping and flying every which way like trapeze artists, flung by boys with rolled up sleeves and loose ties whipping all about. There was an electric energy in the building that was quite out of place for a gloomy library basement.
Wooden chairs lined the outside wall, and I watched as hungry men waited for girls to take a seat before pouncing on them for the next dance like ferocious lions. The women were greatly outnumbered, and the men were on the prowl, each looking to break away from the pack of potential suitors. It was as if somehow the wild commotion of the circus had been transported to the African planes, and we were caught up in the savagery and comedy of it all. Not being much of a dancer, to put it nicely, I stayed away from the rumpus, ruckus, and hullabaloo. I made eye contact with the other Secret Sevens around the room. Some were dancing, others were getting food, but all had a girl in tow. From the looks on their faces, I could tell the party was a raging success.
Just then, Charles seemed to come out of nowhere and thump me soundly on the back. “Well, old boy, I wouldn’t have thought to find you here.”
“Hmm … you seem to have forgotten that I work here,” I reminded him. “I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to see what all the fuss was about.”
“Ah, yes, well, as you can see, the fuss has lived up to its hype. I’m just waiting for the right moment to slide in and snatch up one of these beautiful dames for a dance. The competition is fierce, though. No chance of success for the faint of heart and the—”
Suddenly, he brushed by me, holding out his hand to a luscious brunette making her way off the dance floor. He twirled her back into the moving mass of bodies before the poor thing had a chance to say no. Charles was in his element. Nobody could keep up with him. With his legs flying every which way, he was an unstoppable ball of energy—the ringmaster. Powerful and humorous at the same time, he spun and pivoted perfectly to the beat, grinning the entire time like a clown. With his shirttails pulled out and his bright green suspenders on full display, he was indeed a sight to behold, dancing without a care in the world in what must have been the ugliest polka-dotted tie ever made. Somewhere in the middle, we made eye contact, and he winked at me before spinning away. Finally, the song ended, and Charles escorted his partner, who still looked a little dazed from all her spinning and flipping, to grab a glass of punch together. All the while, I stayed rooted in place; I was a wallflower.
I watched the scene before me unfold as if in slow motion. I could see the mob of people pulse with the beat. I felt them surge as the cascading notes drove them forward, pushing and prodding them. I watched flashy feet flitting about and sweaty hands slipping briefly only to be reunited after a quick rub on pleated pants. I saw ponytails whip around like helicopters and giant poodle skirts billow out like colored cupcakes. Hands clapped, clasped, reached, and caressed. Couples disappeared into the dark corners, and the music moved from one song to the next, like one jumbled endless song with Louie and Sarah and Ella and all the others leading us into the world of soul and swing and jazz. There were moments when I swore I could feel the music pumping through my veins, making my feet tap against their better judgment. As the night rolled on, more and more people poured in until the place was flooded with hot steamy bodies rebelling against authority and dancing as if there were no tomorrow. There in that place, the rich and wealthy future leaders of America forgot their dignity. We were all pagan worshippers in the temple of lust and music and dance. We were overcome in a frightening frenzy like the ancient prophets. In our ecstatic state, we offered ourselves as living sacrifices, and in our dying, we were resurrected to fullness of life.
There was just so much life, so much energy that night—I thought the building might burst. I feared we might bring the place down upon ourselves like Samson, or that the library itself might grow legs and shimmy and shake across the campus and knock on Dr. Grove’s door. There was an explosion of brass, and the room seemed to jump. A solo sax dripped hot wax and ran up the scale so high it disappeared, only to come crashing down with a wail. A trumpet hopped and skipped and ripped and roared, tearing up the night as the dancers tore apart the floor, digging in for more with each step. Digging. Digging. Digging.
And through it all, I stood and watched, a wilting wallflower staring into a ferocious jungle to which I so desperately ached to belong. But there was a fence that had been erected between us long ago, a tall, wide fence that I knew not how to overcome.
Finally, the music began to slow, feet began to drag, and tired legs ceased kicking. The dust settled beneath us, and bodies slumped into chairs that had long sat empty. The punch had long been drunk dry, and cups of water were passed around to parched lips and dry mouths. Sweaty shirts stuck to skin, and once perfect hair now hung about in disorderly fashion, rebelling against bobby pins and hair spray. A courageous couple clung to one another on the dance floor as the few remaining notes faded away. There we sat, silently acknowledging the passing of the music unto death. Slowly, people began to whisper, laugh, and vanish up the winding black stairs, slipping into the night. Just a few of us remained, a few stragglers holding on to a moment now over. We grasped at it with sweaty hands but were unable to catch hold of that elusive partner. The music was gone. Charles sat on the floor. Hat in hand, he was the ringmaster, and the show was over.
At last, I too turned and trudged with tired eyes toward bed and blankets and a soft pillow. I fell into bed and dreamed of dancing and spinning with the most beautiful girl in the world with her soft skin, ruby lips, and sparkling eyes. I dreamed of living.
Morning came, and I awoke with remnants of my dream firmly embedded in my mind, and I could not tell what was real and what was not. I lay there reliving and again I drank of the music and the dancing, but it was not quite so sweet as before. It was mixed with the bitterness of my own pathetic fearfulness and failure. I felt the height and width of the fence between the jungle and me. I recognized my isolation, which seemed only to heighten the beauty of that which I could not obtain. I was a fearful observer afraid to live for fear that, in my living, I would dishonor the death of my mother—yes, the very woman who loved and laughed until tears spilled down her rosy cheeks, the stunning beauty who lived each day as if it might be her last. And yet somehow I felt that if I embraced life as she had taught me, I would forget her. Above all else, I feared losing her memory, so in a strange way I honored her with my solemn sadness. I remembered her death and saw it everywhere I looked. I felt her absence and the darkness that her death had wrought. This never-ending vigilance was my curse and my course.
CHAPTER 13
The Aftermath
IT WAS NEARLY NOON WHEN I decided to get out of bed and face the day. Charles obviously had no such notion, as he lay sprawled out in nothing but his underwear. His soggy dancing clothes were crumpled on the floor—tie, suspenders, and all. I dared not wake him. If I was tired, I can only imagine how he, the lord of the dance, must feel.
I remembered that I was supposed to have lunch with Dr. Emory and was assuredly going to be late. Famished and tardy, I arrived at the Emory house. As usual, Mr. Calhoun answered the door and ushered me in with knees and elbows jutting out in all directions, an accident waiting to happen. Dr. Emory was out on the back porch, taking in the beautiful fall day. The leaves were just beginning to turn colors, and the yard was littered with acorns. A black walnut tree stood near the side of the house, and Dr. Emory was cracking shriveled shells to get at the innards.
“Good afternoon, Dr. Emory,” I said meekly. “I apologize for being late.”
“Think nothing of it, Tom,” he replied, p
utting me at ease. “Being on time is not all it’s cracked up to be. In fact, I try to make a habit of being late. The more people seem to get all wound up about being impeccably punctual, the more I want to be impeccably late. I’ve always been that way. You tell me what to do, and you can be darn sure I’ll do the opposite. Plenty of folks rant and rave about such behavior, but I think it’s because most of them are jealous they don’t have the guts to step out of line and live a little.”
He offered me a walnut, so I popped it into my mouth and plopped down in the worn rocking chair beside him. “Yes, well, it’s not that easy for everyone to just do whatever they want to do.”
“Why not?” he retorted.
“Well … I mean, people might talk, and you might lose your job and so forth.”
“Let me give you a bit of advice, Tom. People are going to talk no matter what you do. If you choose to do nothing at all, then people will talk about that and try to analyze you. Don’t let people stop you from living. Sometimes you just have to get out there and play the fool. Make mistakes. Fall on your face. Get back up and try it again with even more gusto. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve fallen down and failed. That’s just part of the deal.”
“I don’t care so much about what people say,” I explained. “I’m just afraid to get out there. It’s me holding myself back, not anyone else.”
“Yes, I can understand that. You are afraid to fail, but why? What’s so scary about messing up?”
“I don’t know. Most of the time, I don’t care. I look at all the things people around me are doing, and I see just how stupid and fleeting they are, but there are moments when I wish I could join them. There are times when I wish I could stop making everything so complex and just live.”
“Oh, I completely understand,” he assured me. “Tom, you are a thinker. You’ve experienced pain and hardship at a young age. We haven’t talked about it much, but I know that your mother’s death has impacted the way you view the world, as it rightfully should. It comes through very clearly in your writing. The struggle is recognizing that just because things are simple or seemingly superficial to us does not mean that they are unimportant. We must allow ourselves to engage in the everyday and the ordinary and not feel guilty. There is nothing wrong with enjoying a fall day while cracking nuts. We have to let ourselves enjoy these moments because that is where real life happens. We have to appreciate the present with all its flaws rather than ignore its beauty because we see only its imperfections.”
There was a long silence. I did not know what to say in response. Dr. Emory looked at me with compassion in his eyes and reached out and lightly touched my arm. “Tom, when I first read your writing, it was obvious that there was something different about you from other boys your age. There was a separateness, an unusual maturity. It is this maturity that allows us to sit and enjoy one another’s company while we try to solve the world’s problems, but at the same time makes you feel so unwelcome among your peers. You have an old soul in a young man’s body, but you mustn’t let the old man win out and become a miserable old coot, or you will end up like Dr. Groves. The world doesn’t need more people like him. The world needs more people like your mother. From the few things you have said about her, I am sad that we never had the opportunity to meet. She sounds like a remarkable woman.”
Again, words dried up, and all that could be heard were the two rockers going back and forth and back and forth. I thought about my mother. I envisioned her, stringing my different memories together like pearls on a chain. I missed her so much. I felt tears well up in my eyes, but I pushed them back. Not here. Not now.
We sat, talked, cracked, and crunched a while longer, rocking in the crisp autumn air. On the walk home, I pondered what had been said. Was I on a course to become a miserable old man like Dr. Groves? That thought was so appalling that it made my body shiver uncontrollably. That could not be my future. I would not allow it.
That night the Secret Sevens re-convened in the basement of the library to revel in our success.
Patrick started the meeting. “Congratulations, gentlemen! We have managed to pull off the party of the year without a hitch, and I have a feeling we may be onto something bigger than we’d originally imagined. From the comments I have picked up here and there, it sounds as if people are already asking when the next undercover dance will be. Of course, we cannot disappoint the people—especially the ladies. A job well done to all of you, and special kudos to Tom, who had the original idea.” With that, we passed around the customary bottle of whiskey to celebrate.
We decided to strike while the iron was hot and set a date for another dance a month away. The second dance would not be as elaborate as the first; we simply did not have the time. A motion was made to hire a set-up and tear-down crew. When I asked where the money would come from, the group laughed.
Patrick spoke up again. “Tom, the Secret Sevens have been around for over 100 years. It is part of the duty of each graduating class to leave behind a legacy for future members. People have left all manner of things, but across the years, alumni have left behind money in a fund that the current president has access to. There is a board of three graduated members who have access to the fund as well as the accountability for the use of the money. Many alumni of the Secret Sevens have done well for themselves in business and have gifted substantial amounts of money to the society in their later years. There is much more, but you will learn everything in good time. For now, know that money is not a problem and will not be at any time in the near future.”
It was hard to believe that for over 100 years there had been money accruing in an unknown account so that young men could play pranks and host parties. Of course, I could imagine such things, but to find out that such a fund really existed was rather remarkable. I wondered what other secrets still waited to be unveiled. I knew that somewhere there was a Secret Sevens house, but I had not yet been shown its location.
The next morning, I packed up a suitcase of my things to return home for Thanksgiving break. The first four months at Locklear had careened by at a breakneck pace. While other boys were picked up in limos and town cars, I walked the mile and a half to the train station and waited in the cool misty rain for my train to come. The weather outside perfectly mirrored my mood. I had no desire to return home to my silent, alcoholic father. But since students were not permitted to stay in the dorms, I had no choice; I had to leave. I was even tempted to ask Dr. Emory if I could spend the holiday with him and his wife but decided against it. I concluded that he would have extended the invitation if he wanted me there.
I read over my mid-term report card while waiting. So far, I had all B’s, which was just good enough to maintain my scholarship, but most of those grades were borderline. I expected a note from Dr. Grove’s office when I got back, reminding me of his expectations. I imagined showing my grades to mother. She would have been so excited for me, but I knew father would show no emotion. Probably just a “keep working hard, son. That’s the only thing to do.” Then he’d go pour himself a glass of whiskey.
CHAPTER 14
The Return
I PUSHED OPEN THE FRONT door to the house, and all was quiet. It was mid-afternoon, and father was sure to be at work. While waiting for him to come home, I wandered around the house. It felt small, smaller than I remembered. I sat on the porch and smoked a cigarette out of habit. It felt strange. I looked at the table where I used to do all my writing. There was a strong feeling of nostalgia for a place I’d only departed a few months ago, but I felt like a stranger in my own home. I began to wonder if perhaps I had been a stranger there long before I left for college and just didn’t know it. I preoccupied myself with a good book until father arrived.
I went out to say hello, to try to bridge the gap between us. We stood and locked eyes. I saw that his hair was beginning to turn silver, which was a new transformation. He hung up his coat and turned back around to me. “Well, son, it’s good you are here. I can use some help in the store
this week. Now go ahead and fix me something to eat for dinner.”
“Yes, Father,” I replied obediently. We split; he went to his study, and I went to the kitchen. Nothing had changed.
Thanksgiving week seemed to last forever. The days I spent working in the store were long and boring. I rushed about, grabbing bags of this and bags of that or a pound of this and a pound of that for customers. The cash register seemed to ding constantly as people bought piles of food. For us, there were no holiday festivities or family gatherings with giant carved turkeys and stuffing and all the other delicacies of Thanksgiving. No, we had cold turkey sandwiches with runny potato salad. Happy Thanksgiving.
I found myself out exploring the woods in the late afternoons. I hadn’t walked those woods since I was a boy. They too had changed. The trees didn’t seem quite so high, and the wind didn’t whistle as loudly. The little brook was barely a trickle, and the joy of skipping stones lasted only a short while. There is no question that it was beautiful. I still enjoyed the smell of rotting leaves and the feeling of them crunching beneath my feet, but they no longer held a mystical power over me. Gone was the urge to make an enormous pile of leaves to leap into. Gone was the desire to roll down the large grassy hill like a runaway log. Gone was the desire to skip and hop and run. Gone was the urge to yell, whoop, and holler. Long ago, this place had been a world of endless adventure, but my days of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn were behind me. Those two set sail for further adventures, leaving me marooned in adult clothes with adult thoughts and adult worries in an adult world.
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