“Si?” The priest seemed a kindly little man wearing a purple vestment around his neck. “Si? Tua confessione?”
“Scusi, Padre. No parlo italiano.” Isaac’s eyes shifted, and through the space in the confessional curtain, he saw Eaton, red-faced and sweating, standing before Saint Anthony’s tomb.
“Inglese?” The priest was peering out at Eaton, too.
“Si,” said Isaac, and then he said, “Parla latino?”
In Latin the priest said, “I am a man of God. All men of God know Latin.”
So Isaac said, “I need the protection of your sanctuary.”
“From the big one? Who looks like an Inglese?”
Isaac shifted his eyes again. Eaton was peering into the faces of those who were kneeling at the altar rail and bringing gifts. Isaac wondered if he should jump up and run or fly straight at Eaton. But before he could decide, the priest pushed aside his curtain and delivered a torrent of angry Italian, of which Isaac understood only “Inglese” and “Protestant.”
Seldom a man to retreat, Eaton fell back before the priest’s anger and, with his academic robe fluttering behind, scurried out.
The priest stepped back into the confessional and chuckled.
“What did you say?” asked Isaac.
“I told him a foul sinner had come to confess, and the sight of an English Protestant was like the sight of the devil. I told him to go, or I would put a curse on him.”
“A curse?”
“Is that not what English Protestants believe, that we are witches who curse men rather than priests who free them of the curses they bring upon themselves?”
Isaac had no answer for that.
So the priest said, “Even the English know the Lord’s Prayer. Say it with me. And when we are done, it will be safe to go. Pater noster, qui est in caelis . . .”
Isaac did not take the road back to Venice, as he had told his innkeeper he would, for it was likely that Eaton would visit every inn in Padua and offer bribes for information. Instead, Isaac pulled his hat over his face and fell in with a group of peasants leaving at dusk through the north gate.
By midnight, he was ten miles into the countryside, following a road toward the North Star. By dawn, he could see the mountains. And it occurred to him that if he kept walking, he could reach them. So he did, for he had decided that a young man should see as much of God’s world and meet as many of God’s people as he could.
He was warmed, on his way, by the expression that would form on Eaton’s face when he opened the book that Isaac had left in Shakespeare’s place: A Chronicle of Beatings, September 1638- August 1639. Isaac had written the names of every student caned by Eaton, and at the end, “‘A man will be known by his books.’—John Harvard.”
v
Harvard College was a poor school in a poor place, despite the contributions of benefactors such as Lady Mowlson. There was only one source of steady support: the United Colonies of New England had agreed that every town would be called upon to contribute some measure of grain, which came to be known as the College Corn.
Though the levy was voluntary and contributions at first were generous, some saw the College Corn as a tax, and in time they resented it, especially since so many young men educated at the college would, at the first opportunity, leave New England. In the taverns and around the meetinghouses, men complained that those who should have been ministering in frontier villages were on the far side of the Atlantic, earning degrees, pursuing fortunes, building reputations.
Often they talked of a graduate who had gone abroad at the behest of President Dunster to solicit Lady Mowlson and had then disappeared. They did not know that this graduate had wandered Europe, absorbing as much as he could of the wondrous works of man and God, then returned to England and joined the parliamentary army just before the battle of Naseby.
Nor would they have known that he timed his return to Massachusetts for June 9, 1647, the day of the Great Indian Convocation. He followed a familiar route down the Charlestown Road, and though there were several groups of gentlemen moving along—some mounted, some on foot, some brightly dressed, some in black doublets and white bands—he kept to himself. He felt their gaze but had no fear that they would recognize him, for his size, his trimmed beard, and his sword gave him a presence in no way reminiscent of the “poor scholar” who had left for England years before.
Isaac had chosen that day to come home because the appearance of a stranger in the Yard would not be unusual. What could be more unusual than hundreds of feathered Indians gathering to hear Reverend John Eliot preach to them?
A pulpit stood on the steps of the college hall, the Indians were gathering around it, and hundreds of curious Cambridge ladies and gentlemen had come to observe. For the colony, it was a day to celebrate a victory of Christ over heathen darkness. For Isaac, it was a day to celebrate more quietly the fulfillment of his promise to John Harvard.
As Reverend Eliot stepped to the pulpit, Isaac edged his way around the crowd, then made for one of the privies behind the building. He spent a few minutes there, with the flies buzzing about his head, until he was certain that anyone watching him would have lost interest. Then he slipped out and went into the college.
The building was deserted. So he mounted the stairs to the library, where his adventure had begun with Henry Dunster almost five years before. How much he had seen since then, how wide his world had become, and yet how comforting it was to be home, to move again through those familiar halls. And how easy it was to let himself into the library with the key he had kept from the days when he cataloged books.
In his doublet, he carried a quarto bound now in brown leather. On the flyleaf he had inscribed the words of John Harvard: “A man will be known by his books.” This volume he intended to slip into the place where a book on entomology would have been found, had John Harvard ever had such a book. Its title would be Corporei Insectii, or The Bodies of Insects. He would write it into the catalog, and since he had entered many books there, his careful handwriting would not stand out. It would all take just a few moments.
But a woman’s voice echoed from the hallway. “Good afternoon, Isaac.”
His hand was in his doublet, the book in his hand. Keeping them there, he turned slowly. “Why . . . Katharine, I did not see you outside. I did not hear you come up.”
“And I did not recognize you until my cousin Rebecca did ask me, ‘Who is that handsome man with the black beard?’” Katharine took a tentative step into the library. “I did not know that you had come back.”
“I arrived only last night.” He casually removed his hand from his doublet.
“It’s been said that you sent a trunk of books to President Dunster from England. Are you here to see them?”
“It seems they have not been cataloged. I . . . I hear you have a family.”
“Yes,” she said. “A faithful husband and happy children.”
Then there was silence between them, made all the heavier by the echo of Reverend Eliot’s voice, proclaiming the gospel in the Algonkian language outside.
Finally, she said, “A year, Isaac, a whole year did I wait. Where did you go?”
“To more places than you could have imagined. I saw the world.”
“You could have seen my soul.” Katharine spoke with neither bitterness nor regret. Women with faithful husbands and happy children were seldom bitter or regretful. She spoke instead as if to inspire regret, to remind Isaac that her soul and her happy children could have been his, but for his bad judgment.
Isaac had seen French plays and Italian frescoes and fought on English battlefields. He had known women, from the Italian widow who first showed him fleshly pleasure to noble English ladies to skillful Southwark whores. But looking at her now, he could not deny his regret at what he had left behind.
“All for a book,” she said, twisting her words like a knife, “a play.”
And it was as if her twisting drained his wound rather than deepened it. Regret passed,
and he said, “You’ll find no plays among my books, but for the Aeschylus I promised.”
“I shall be sure to look the books over,” she said, “once they are cataloged.”
And the distrust in her words made two things clear: There had never been enough between them to regret, and the play should remain hidden until her suspicions faded. So he changed the subject. “I would like to meet your family.”
“I hope”—another woman appeared in the doorway—“she would start by introducing her cousin.” And into the library stepped Rebecca Watson, as beautiful as Katharine, though with strawberry-colored hair rather than raven.
“Rebecca has come from the village of Natick,” explained Katharine, “where her father preaches to the Indians.”
“We do the Lord’s work,” added Rebecca. “It is said that you, too, have done the Lord’s work . . . in England. I have always hoped to visit England again.”
“I shall tell you about it,” said Isaac, warmed by her smile. And with the book secure in his doublet, he led the ladies out and closed the library door.
That night, Thomas Shepard wrote in his diary:
Isaac Wedge has returned, several years after Lady Mowlson’s money arrived in our coffers. He revealed himself following the Indian confluence. Word of his presence spread quickly, and men who wished news of England gathered round him. The news was hopeful. Our Puritan brethren are on the rise, the king and his bishopric are brought low, and England is a godly place once more.
There followed a comment from President Dunster that must needs be included here as to end a story that began near five years ago. Dunster thanked Isaac for the trunk of books that had been delivered to the college, a collection showing Isaac’s good taste and Puritan spirit. And from Master Nicholson, father of Katharine Howell, came this question: “Were there a play in the trunk?” “Yes,” said Dunster. “’Twas a play in classical Greek, by Aeschylus.” And so endeth the old controversy.
I invited Isaac to remain in the parish. But he said that he is drawn to wilder places. He said that he might preach, as he promised his father and Master Harvard. Christianizing the Indians seems a task of importance to him. I warned him that most Indians have the eyes of Satan. He said that he had looked into the eyes of Papists, so he fears no Satan amongst the Indians. Methinks he may also have designs on the daughter of one who preaches to the Indians. Tomorrow, he says he will follow the river inland.
Chapter Six
SO, DID Isaac Wedge bring back a “modern” play?
Stroke.
And did he have it with him when he followed this river inland, as Reverend Shepard said?
Inhale on the stroke. Exhale on the backstroke.
Shepard also said that the play Isaac Wedge brought back was by Aeschylus.
Stroke. Stroke.
And no seventeenth-century printing of Aeschylus is worth that much.
Pump the legs. The strength is in the legs. The legs are always the first to go.
So why does Ridley Royce think this play is worth a lot of money?
Keep the back straight and stroke. Keep the oars straight and stroke.
Ridley knows more. He has to know more.
Think about the stroke and not about Ridley. When you think about the stroke, everything else straightens itself out, if not in your life, at least in your mind . . . like the guy in the black raincoat . . . or Evangeline Carrington . . . or the Wedges, past and present . . .
Including the Wedge driving a Boston Whaler upriver and shouting, “Ahoy, there!”
“Nobody’s said ‘Ahoy, there’ to me since I was a little boy in a sailor suit.” Peter Fallon pulled his scull under the north arch of the Weeks footbridge, which crossed the Charles between Dunster House and the Harvard Business School.
“I keep a boat down at the . . .” Wedge drove under the south arch and was still talking when he came out the other side, his voice all but lost in the echo of the engine. “. . . cousin said you were a rower, and I could find you every Sunday on the river.”
“You’ve found me. You’ve interrupted me. Come too close, you’ll swamp me.”
“We need to talk.”
Fallon shipped oars. “What’s so important that you’d come out here to find me?”
“I’m worried about my delusional cousin. He thinks he’s found something in one of my daughter’s term papers.”
“Really?” said Peter. “What?”
“I think you know. I think Ridley has shown you her paper.”
“He’s shown me some interesting stuff from Thomas Shepard, too.”
“About a play?”
“Your daughter has written about it. Read her term paper.”
Wedge gave his boat a touch of gas to keep it close. “Can I buy you brunch?”
“Not today. I’m rowing. Then I’m due at my brother’s.”
Wedge studied Fallon for a moment, and his voice lost all its clubby jocularity. “My daughter is graduating and going to law school. I don’t want some failed Broadway producer distracting her . . . or some treasure-hunting antiquarian.”
“I don’t intend to distract anyone . . . except myself . . . maybe.”
“Good.” Wedge plastered a smile back onto his face. “By the way . . . I’m chairman of the Committee for the Happy Observance of Commencement. Would you be interested in serving as a marshal this year?”
Fallon almost laughed out loud. Was Wedge really trying to buy him off with a little Harvard honorific? “You mean, I get to put on a top hat and morning coat and tell everybody where to go next June?”
“It’s a pleasant day . . . and a free lunch.”
“We’ll talk later. I have to keep moving. Don’t want to tighten up.” Fallon pulled at his oars and shot upstream.
Stroke. They would talk again. Stroke. But Fallon would let Will Wedge stew a bit. Stroke. And when they talked, Fallon would ask the questions, not the other way round. Stroke. Meanwhile, he’d do a little more thinking. Stroke. Stroke. Stroke.
Fallon Salvage and Restoration: an air compressor and a couple of trucks parked inside a fence on Dorchester Avenue in South Boston, an old warehouse, an overhead door opened to the afternoon sunshine, and inside, a thousand square feet of . . . stuff.
Peter Fallon did his weekday business in the Back Bay, but he had persuaded his brother that even a contractor could make money from history. So the Fallons bid on demolition jobs, rehabs, and restorations, and when they stripped an old building, they sold whatever they salvaged at the warehouse.
Business was always slow during leaf-peeping season. Just a few suburbanites scavenging around, and Peter’s nephew, Bobby, waiting on them. Peter went across the floor—past the crates of old plumbing fixtures, the stacks of French doors, the collection of claw-footed tubs and pedestal sinks—to the glassed-in office at the back.
And he smelled pizza. It reminded him of his father, who used to watch the Patriots in the office, because Mom couldn’t stand grown men swearing in her living room on a Sunday afternoon. Big Jim Fallon had been gone three years now, and Peter still missed him. But the smell of pizza and the sound of the game had a comforting familiarity. And now that Peter’s brother, Danny, had grown a paunch and grayed around the ears, he even looked like their father.
“What’s the score?” Peter asked.
“Three to nothin’,” answered Danny. “Defense doin’ the job. Offense doin’ shit.”
“And as we all know,” said the gray-haired gentleman eating pizza with a knife and fork, “the best defense is a good offense.”
“Hello, Orson,” said Peter. “What brings you to South Boston?”
“I missed the chamber music concert at the Gardner Museum.”
“He came to complain.” Danny Fallon took a gulp of beer. “As always.”
“I came to confer.” Orson Lunt held a 15 percent stake in Fallon Antiquaria and Fallon Salvage and Restoration, and whenever he visited the warehouse, he proclaimed that the collective IQ of South Boston ha
d just gone up by five points.
“All I know,” Danny Fallon would answer, “is that the number of skinny old fags wearin’ carnations and three-piece suits just doubled.”
On that basis, Orson Lunt and Danny Fallon had become unlikely friends, one who clipped his white mustache twice a day, the other who never shaved on Sunday if he’d gone to mass on Saturday night; one tall and perfectly tailored, the other all neck and shoulders in a Sears work suit.
It had been twenty years since Orson Lunt had helped Peter sell the sugar urn, the only piece of the Revere tea set to survive. Then Peter had used the money to make restitution for the damage he had done trying to get it.
A few years later, after Evangeline had left him alone in Iowa, Assistant Professor Fallon’s car had broken down on the edge of a cornfield. An old farmer had let him use the phone. And Peter’s eye had been drawn to a shelf of books, including half a dozen volumes by Emerson and Thoreau and other Transcendentalists, all first editions, some of them signed. Peter had bought them on the spot for six hundred dollars.
Orson Lunt had brokered them for a profit of $60,000. Peter Fallon had found a new line of work. An old Iowa farmer had opened his mail one day to find more money than he had ever received at one time in his life. And Orson Lunt had decided to take a young partner.
Orson said, “I’m convincing your brother that this new contract in Sudbury will be an excellent opportunity. The Bleen-Currier-Whitney House is a treasure.”
“And Sudbury is a fuckin’ hour in traffic,” said Danny. “You don’t have to go out there. I do. Startin’ a week from Monday.”
“Good money,” said Orson. “And a good challenge.”
“Challenge, my ass,” answered Danny. “Time is money. Too far. Too expensive. From now on, we stay inside Route One twenty-eight.”
Peter popped a beer. “Let’s talk about something closer to home: Will Wedge.”
Harvard Yard (Peter Fallon) Page 10