“You don’t need to,” Dalton said. “Just be conversational. You get the convo going, then let him take it from there. I found out that Jacobs has one of the biggest private collections of Chinese artifacts in the world. If he seems friendly enough, just ask him to show you a few pieces. I’ve been around these types all my life. They don’t love just accumulating wealth, they like to show it. Believe me, get him thinking you’re interested in his art, and you’ll score easy bonus points.”
I had been second-guessing my decision to attend the party all day. It was bad enough I had to figure out how to impress a bunch of preppies who already thought the rest of the world was beneath them. Now Dalton was telling me to bullshit some guy older than my grandfather and richer than God about Chinese art, something I knew almost nothing about. “I hope I don’t make a fool of myself tonight,” I said. “I’m so far outta my league, it’s laughable. But I can’t laugh, because I’m too damn nervous.”
“You’ll be fine,” Dalton assured me. “You’re a natural charmer. Getting past this first round will be a big test, but I know you can do it. Remember, someone punched you for a reason, so we know there’s at least one person on the inside who likes you. If you don’t believe in yourself, then no one will.”
I hung up the phone and threw on my nicest pair of slacks, a white shirt, and the good-luck tie I had worn to every basketball game when I was in high school. We almost went undefeated with that tie during my senior year, losing only in the state semifinals. I thought the tie would work some magic up in Cambridge, but we had more Crimson losses last year than I had in my entire high school career.
I was brushing my hair when I heard Percy talking to a woman. I walked into the common room and grabbed my only blazer, one handed down from an older kid in my church. I looked into Percy’s room and knocked on his door. “I’m heading out to dinner,” I said, fishing for an introduction to the girl sitting on his bed. She had short blond hair cut just beneath her ears, big sad eyes, and bright red lipstick.
“Have fun,” Percy said, not even looking up from his book. He was nervously working his pinky ring.
“I’ll be home late.”
“Okay. I’ll probably still be up. I have a big paper due tomorrow.”
I took one last look at the girl, who gave me a smile that made me think she’d be very adept at loosening up old Percy. I gave her a quick nod, then stuffed the invitation into my coat and scrambled out the door.
The cool breeze sweeping down Mt. Auburn Street felt good. Fall, my favorite time of year in Cambridge, was finally settling in as the leaves turned spectacular shades of red and yellow in their last gasp of life, the resilient ivy strangling the old brick façades. The colorful foliage made the historic campus appear even older than it was. T-shirts and tank tops gave way to chunky wool sweaters and lined jackets. The convertible sports cars that zipped down the narrow Cambridge streets would soon be replaced by Range Rovers and other SUVs better equipped to handle winter snow. The official start of football season wasn’t far away, which meant thousands of alumni would be returning to campus for long afternoons of drunken tailgating outside our venerated concrete stadium, the centerpiece of Soldiers Field. Once the game was over, they’d walk back across the river, visiting their old campus haunts, comparing notes on what had changed and what had stayed the same. I sometimes wondered if this would be how I also returned to campus, driving a long, fancy Mercedes with an argyle sweater knotted perfectly around my neck.
I quickly walked through the frenzied activity of Brattle Square, the rotary adjacent to its more famous neighbor, Harvard Square.
I found myself entering a quiet street of colossal houses peering over sleepy treetops, casting long shadows down the dark road. This was not the Cambridge I knew. These single-family homes were expansive and stately compared to the small, crammed multifamily homes in the busier parts of town. Tall maples and wrought-iron fences ensured their privacy. European cars, their back windows plastered with college and boarding school stickers, rested on long gravel driveways.
A quarter of a mile down the street, I saw a gigantic yellow mansion. It was on the right side of the road, sitting back some thirty yards. The closer I got, the larger it loomed. The sign on the gate proclaimed it to be the former residence of the acclaimed poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, as well as the temporary home of George Washington at the start of the Revolutionary War. Now a historic landmark, 105 Brattle Street was open to the public for tours. That meant Lily Field Mansion was two houses down on the left. I looked in its direction. Light sprayed into the darkness from the top floor’s windows. A wall of trees partially obstructed my view of the house, but it had a massive roofline. I felt as if my heart were climbing into my throat as I neared the property. Between the neatly trimmed rows of hedges shielding the front yard, I could see spotlights lining the lawn and casting their dim glow on the gray sandstone mansion. A black wrought-iron gate with gold fleur-de-lis spears weaved its way along the perimeter, and at the top of the driveway, two large gleaming marble statues protected the auspicious entrance. More of the house became visible, and I noticed hulking white columns and as many as seven chimneys. A colossal nude sculpture with a dense circle of lilies at its base stood in the middle of a cascading fountain.
Cars pulled into the driveway. Groups of three and four, all wearing navy blazers with shiny gold buttons and ties, piling out of BMWs and Volvos before walking up to the front doors. I waited. I rarely felt self-conscious about what I did or didn’t have, but it wasn’t lost on me that my competitors for a coveted membership were arriving in expensive foreign cars while I arrived in a pair of sturdy five-year-old leather Florsheims that had been resoled four times and polished so much, the white stitching had turned black. I purposely waited for the others to disappear down the long driveway before I turned onto the property. I straightened my tie, buttoned my coat, and took a deep breath. Dalton’s reminders played in my head. Stay away from conversations about politics, religion, or money. Don’t be a wiseass. Do more listening than talking. Don’t make a fool of yourself by drinking too much. Pop him a question about Chinese art and just get him talking.
I rang the doorbell adjacent to the massive double doors and cleared my throat. Within seconds, I was staring at a tall, elderly man balancing black horn-rimmed glasses on his arched nose, his black velvet coat and satin-striped trousers perfectly matching the house’s splendor. His pair of cotton-white gloves an appropriate accessory to his thinning but meticulously groomed hair.
“Good evening,” he said. “May I help you?” His eyebrows slid up to the top of his forehead. He looked American enough, but his accent was distinctly British.
“I’m here for the cocktail party,” I said, pulling the invitation out of my pocket and handing it to him.
My stomach knotted as he paused, looked me over, then took the invitation. After a thorough inspection, he handed it back to me, stepped aside, and swung his arm in a wide arc.
“Please, do enter, Mr. Collins, and welcome to Lily Field,” he said. “The party has already commenced in the west salon.”
5
I TILTED MY head back and took in the cathedral ceiling of the marble-and-stone foyer. An uncanny replica of Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel had been painted across the small tiles. An exceptionally wide staircase wound its way up to a long mezzanine. An immense crystal chandelier hung from the domed ceiling on a cable heavy and long enough to anchor a battleship.
“Your coat, sir,” the butler said, head bowed and arm extended. I handed him my overcoat already folded, hoping it would prevent him from seeing the tear in its lining. I had perfected this maneuver over the past year and had yet to be exposed.
“You may proceed in that direction,” he said, pointing down the long corridor to a faintly lit room barely visible from where we stood. “Mr. Jacobs has already convened the party.”
I ventured down the long hallway, passing gigantic paintings set in baroque gold wooden frames. My incredibly modest knowledg
e of art had been only slightly boosted by a recent fine arts course I took on the Italian masters, but I knew enough to realize that these pieces were worth a great deal of money and could just as easily have been hung with great fanfare on the walls of the Gardner Museum. According to the metal title plates on the gilded frames, John Singer Sargent had painted all but one of the portraits. I counted ten portraits inscribed with the name Jacobs, mostly sober-looking bald men, gaunt in the cheek, strong in the jaw. Only two women interrupted the line of men, their silver hair austerely coiffed and set back from their oblong faces. They were identically dressed in drab, lace-collared dresses and large double-stranded pearls.
I worked my way down the hallway, and once the butler had disappeared from the other end of the foyer, I sneaked glances through the open doors. Each room was bigger than the last, with grand pianos and their shiny ivory keys, antique furniture, yet more paintings, and what seemed like miles of bookcases. Farther down the hall, marble busts of deceased family members were tucked away in lighted glass wall niches. Most dated from the late 1700s to the early 1900s and bore either the name Jacobs or Billington. The potted plants adorning the hallway were more like trees. How could just one family actually live in a house this big?
I finally neared the end of the hall. Billowing clouds of smoke blurred the faces and details of the room’s interior. I could make out a receiving line of four guys standing just inside the entrance. They were uniformed in identical navy blue blazers, khaki pants, and loafers. They were shaking hands and making introductions as I entered. They all turned in my direction.
“You must be Spenser Collins,” the first guy in line said, smiling as he offered his hand. He was the shortest of the four, with foppish sandy-brown hair and a pair of small oval glasses that sat up high on his long nose. His perfectly knotted bow tie distinguished him from the others, who had opted for long neckties. The same three torches that were printed on the club letterhead adorned all their ties.
We pumped hands firmly.
“I’m Graydon Brimmer, president of the Delphic Club,” he said.
“Nice to meet you,” I said.
He then pointed to the other three in order. “This is our vice president David Fossi, treasurer Carlyle Emmerson, and secretary Oscar LaValle. Gentlemen, this is Spenser Collins, class of ’91, shooting guard from De La Salle Institute in Chicago, National Merit Scholarship Award winner, and premed.”
Did he also know my birth date and social security number?
I shook hands with them in order. “It’s nice to meet you all,” I said. “Thanks a lot for inviting me.”
“Glad you could make it,” Fossi said. He was the tallest of the four, with wavy dark hair, sturdy broad shoulders, and a narrow waist. His physical build, combined with the hard calluses in his palms, left no doubt that he rowed crew.
“How’s the team gonna do this year?” he asked.
“Hopefully better than last year,” I said. “We have a freshman in from Long Island, New York, who’s really good. He’s about six-seven, two-forty. He should be a big help in the paint.”
“All you need now is a new coach,” Fossi said. “My grandmother could do a better job than what Beasley’s done the last five years. Look at all the talent he’s recruited, and still no trophy. Any other school would’ve fired his ass a long time ago.”
“Our boosters feel the same way,” I said. “But the AD keeps extending his contract. It’s a mystery to all of us.”
“Well, give ’em hell anyway,” Brimmer said, tapping my shoulder. “Plenty of teams have been able to rise above their pathetic coaches.”
“On your way in, make sure you sign the register over there,” LaValle said, pointing to a large leather book on a wide rolltop desk that looked as if it had been preserved from the turn of the century.
“The full bar is all the way in the back, and the servants are walking around with hors d’oeuvres and champagne,” Emmerson said. “Mr. Jacobs is our host for the evening. He’s one of our grad members. Make sure you get a chance to meet him before the night’s over.”
“Forget about basketball and have some fun tonight,” Brimmer said. “There should be a really good group of guys here.”
“I’ll do that,” I said, heading to the guest book. I quickly perused the list of signatures in hopes of recognizing some of the names. Half of them were illegible, but of those I could read, none were familiar. I scribbled my name on an open line, then took a deep breath and journeyed into the smoky room.
On my first reconnaissance, I counted about fifty guys clustered in groups of two or three. The room was so enormous, it could easily have fit a couple hundred more. I worked my way around the perimeter, searching for a familiar face or inviting smile. After coming up empty, I looked to my watch for consolation. It was only twenty past seven, which meant there was still plenty of time for a familiar person to arrive.
I stood in a corner, where I could take in the elaborate room. The expansive canvas paintings in their ornate frames and the lustrous marble sculptures gave the room a museum-like feel. Massive blue silk curtains trimmed tall French doors that opened onto a patio whose stairs curved down to a long pool covered for the winter. I could see the gesturing silhouettes of two men with cigarettes in their hands, carried away in conversation.
To my right, standing next to the stone-and-brick fireplace, a couple of guys puffed long black cigars. This was the first time I had seen anyone my age smoke a cigar. In my neighborhood, teenagers smoked cigarettes and marijuana while old men chomped on cigars. But I already knew that most of what I was about to experience that night belonged to a world very different from mine. A ten-piece jazz band in starched tuxedos had assembled in the far corner of the room, their soft music mixing with the aimless chatter. Uniformed staff carried oblong silver platters crowded with crystal flutes of sparkling champagne. It all reminded me of the swinging parties of the twenties I had read about in Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby. The only thing missing was women in fancy hats, elbow-length gloves, and slender cigarettes burning two-inch-long ashes.
I suddenly felt alone and out of place. What was I doing here, so far away from southwest Chicago, where the sound of gunshots was more common than birds chirping at sunrise? These guys had been pampered on gated estates in exclusive suburbs, spending long Saturday afternoons at sprawling country clubs while I hawked candy at city bus stops. It wasn’t that I lacked confidence; rather, I lacked an understanding of how all this had happened. If tonight was going to be successful, I’d have to stop thinking about our differences and search instead for our commonalities.
In the midst of the clamor around the bar, I noticed a petite middle-aged woman in a white uniform, hunched at the shoulders and sturdy in her midsection. She was besieged by the constant flow of drink orders. The irony struck me as I watched her scurry frenetically. Women weren’t allowed to join the clubs, but they were allowed to serve their members. The feminists on campus would have had hemorrhages if they had been standing there watching the scene before me. I felt guilty.
By seven thirty, the party had grown to over a hundred stiff navy blue blazers. I drained my glass of lemonade, since drinking during the season was something I tried to avoid, and decided it was time to mingle. I headed in the direction of the bar, figuring it would be the easiest place to strike up a conversation. As I made my way across the room, someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned to find a short, overweight guy with round, scholarly glasses, his wide neck straining his bow tie.
“Hi, my name is Clint McDowell,” he said with a slight lisp. Sweat had plastered his hair to his forehead like wet spaghetti on a cold dish. Everything about him was either disheveled or uncomfortable. “What’s your name?”
“Spenser Collins,” I said. I tried grasping his hand firmly, but his sweaty palm just slipped away. “How’s everything going?”
“Great,” he said. “Are you a punchee?”
“Yup, class of ’91,” I said. “What about you?�
�
“I am too, but class of ’90. This is my second party of the week. I went to the Phoenix Club’s party a couple of nights ago.”
“How was it?”
“Sucked compared to this one. Those guys are social misfits. All they wanted to talk about was school and exams and serious shit. They’re the guys the janitors have to kick out of the library at closing time.” McDowell leaned closer. A heavy rim of perspiration had soaked through his shirt collar. “The Delphic is a hundred times better,” he whispered as if someone were eavesdropping. “The members are a whole lot cooler and relaxed. They don’t treat this thing like some goddamn job interview. Is this your first party?”
I nodded. “I don’t know too much about these clubs, but I decided why not give it a try? What’s the worst thing that could happen? I get some good food in a big fancy house that I probably never would’ve had the opportunity to see otherwise.”
“Well, let me give you some advice,” McDowell said. “I was punched by a few clubs last year and didn’t make it into any of them. Obviously, which is why I’m here now. But the most important lesson I learned was you have to be really social at these parties and talk to as many members as possible. Make them think that getting into their club means everything in the world to you. The more members you impress, the more votes you get at the election meetings.” He rested his hand on my shoulder. “No offense, but my biggest mistake last year was spending too much time talking with the other punchees and not enough time chatting up members. No one likes kissing ass, but believe me, if you wanna make it to the final round, you gotta learn the trade. And fast.”
I nodded and forced a smile. I wanted to make it to the next round as much as the next guy, but I sure in hell wasn’t about to kiss some blue blood ass just to join some club I wasn’t even sure I wanted to be part of anyway. I might not have had the fancy cars and summer houses, but I had my pride. I wasn’t above making some minor accommodations, but I wasn’t going to pretend to be someone who I wasn’t. For good or for bad, I was always going to be the kid from the South Side of Chicago who grew up on South Wabash Avenue.
The Ancient Nine Page 4