I looked through one set of windows and recognized the lighted tower of the Prudential standing gracefully above the others. It was at least eight miles away, but the magnified windows brought it within arm’s distance, close enough that I could see people moving around in their offices.
“Tonight’s a bit cloudy,” he explained. “But on a clear night, you can see the Hancock and most of the other skyscrapers in the financial district.”
We walked to another window and looked out into the darkness. I could see the old buildings of the Yard and the row of houses along the Charles. There was the famous Citgo sign in Kenmore Square, near Fenway Park, the home of the Boston Red Sox. I couldn’t help but think that my friends back home would never believe I had actually stood in a mansion with this view, next to a man as rich and powerful as Stanford Jacobs.
While I was standing there, looking out at the lights of Boston, Mr. Jacobs surprised me.
“How is your mother, Gwendolyn, doing?” he asked.
“Fine,” I said. I was too nervous to ask how he knew her name.
“Do you have any contact with your father’s side of the family?” he asked.
I shook my head. “My father was killed when I was a toddler.”
“Yes, I know that. I’m sorry. He was heading home from work. It’s why you’ve always wanted to be a doctor. You feel like his life could’ve been saved had someone with medical training gotten to him fast enough.”
“How do you know this?”
“We make it a point to learn something about all our punchees.”
There was an awkward pause, and Jacobs had a look on his face like he was working through something.
“Family is very important,” he finally said. “It often defines who we are and what we’ll make of ourselves.”
“I have a great family,” I said. “My mother and her side of the family have always been very supportive and hardworking. I’m here at Harvard because of their sacrifices. I will give her the life she deserves after I become a doctor.”
“And no one from your father’s side of the family has ever contacted you?”
“I met a second or third cousin once when I was in second grade. That’s it.”
“So, you don’t know your family’s history?”
“My family history is the story of my mother and her family,” I said. “Unfortunately, my father’s family history remains a mystery. He was a hardworking man who moved to Chicago from Mississippi when he was eight or nine. While he hasn’t been with me physically, I feel his presence every day of my life.”
Jacobs nodded. “I can only imagine how tough it must’ve been growing up without a father,” he said. “But by all accounts, your mother has done a great job of raising a fine young man,” he said. “It’s good to have you in the punch. Just think, you would’ve missed all of this if you had gone to Hobart.”
His last comment paralyzed me. Hobart was a small liberal arts college in upstate New York. I had applied to the school only because my high school girlfriend said that’s where she wanted to go. But I had filled out and sent in the application secretly, telling no one. My mother would’ve launched all kinds of protests with the faintest hint that I was considering a school that was so far off her radar. How could Jacobs know about Hobart when it was something I had only secretly discussed with Caitlyn?
He rested his cane against the window and pulled out a black alligator wallet, took out a business card, and scribbled on the back before handing it to me. “This is my home number,” he said. “Don’t be shy about using it.”
“This is really nice of you,” I said, looking at the card, then sliding it into my jacket pocket. I tried to hide my discomfort. It was the first time in my life that someone outside of my family had offered to do something for me without asking for anything in return. But I was still confused about why he had decided to pick me out of the group, and why he knew so much about my personal life.
“I think we’d better rejoin the party,” he said. “They’ll be sending a search and rescue team for us if we don’t get back soon.”
The jazz band had come to life and the party room was now filled with anxious chatter and boisterous laughter. The free-flowing alcohol had done its job, dissolving tensions and boosting confidence. Brooks Brothers blazers now hung on the backs of the nearest chairs, and the once-starched shirts were wrinkled and opened to the second button. Thick cigar smoke circled heavily in the air.
I walked through the room, catching pieces of conversations, updating my running Rolex count, which already hovered near thirty-five. I passed one group standing around the pool table, talking about a weekend getaway to the Bahamas.
“C’mon, Bernie, we’re just going away for the weekend,” the tallest of the three prodded.
“I know, Parker, but we flew to Paris last month, and my father had a damn cow,” Bernie said. “He told me I was cut off till further notice.”
“But this trip won’t cost us anything,” Parker insisted. “My dad said he won’t be needing the plane, so we can use it. And the staff opened our winter house last week, so everything is all ready to go.”
“Bernie, how can you say no?” the third guy nudged. “Three days in the sun, and native women running around the beaches. We’ll be getting laid forty-eight hours straight.”
Bernie rubbed his temples pensively. “What the hell?” he finally relented to a round of high fives. “You only live once.” Triumphant, the three raised their glasses of Dom Pérignon in a toast.
I moved on to another group debating the World Series. They were rooting for the Dodgers over Oakland since Oakland had beaten their beloved Red Sox.
And that’s how the conversations went. Weekend getaways to private islands and summer vacations to distant continents. Sports, women, family businesses, ski trips to the Alps, powerful relatives who ran multimillion-dollar companies. Who were these guys?
I spotted the first casualty of the evening, a semiconscious punchee lying facedown on the floor. His blazer was half on, and with his free arm he was hopelessly tugging at the knot in his tie. A couple of members came to his rescue, and he looked up into their faces with a pathetic expression. “I’ll get in, right?” he stammered. “Please tell me I’ll make the cut?” The rest of the party barely took notice of the sputtering drunk as they made their way to and from the bar, stepping over him with more concern about spilling their drinks than the condition of their fallen comrade. The boasting and laughter continued, and the band played on.
By midnight, the party began to wind down. Mr. Jacobs stood in the center of the room, surrounded by the four officers who had greeted me at the door. Glasses were tapped, and once the room was quiet, Jacobs announced, “It has been an absolute pleasure hosting all of you this evening. As I no longer enjoy your youthful stamina, I must retire. But please feel free to carry on without me. My staff and hospitalities will continue to be at your service. Best of luck the rest of the way, gentlemen. And long live the Gas.” He bowed his head slightly, and raised his hand to thunderous applause. He turned on his heels and swept out of the room with his butler following behind. It was an exit that Hollywood couldn’t have scripted better.
As I walked back to Lowell House that night bundled up against the chill, the conversations and images from the party continued to play in my mind like a movie in slow motion. In one night, I had seen and learned things that four years of Harvard classes never would have taught me. But what weighed most heavily on my mind as I traveled back along those cold, empty streets of Cambridge was my conversation with Jacobs and his line of questions. Something wasn’t right. I felt like he was asking me questions not because he didn’t already have the answers, but to see if I knew them.
6
I CALLED DALTON as soon as I got back to my room.
“So, how was it?” he asked.
“Ridiculous,” I said. “Next to yours, it’s the biggest house I’ve ever been in. It was like walking through a museum. There were painting
s and sculptures everywhere.”
“The Jacobs family has some serious dough,” Dalton said. “At one point, they owned more real estate in the City of Boston than City Hall.”
“But the old man was kinda creepy,” I said. “He was asking me all these personal questions about my family.”
“That’s what they’re supposed to do, Spense. This is like an audition. Your answers can make the difference when they’re deciding who they’re gonna cut from the next round.”
“But he wasn’t really looking for my answers. I felt like he already had all the information and he was trying to find out what I knew.”
“You have to remember who you’re dealing with,” Dalton said. “The Delphic is not only the most exclusive club on campus, but it also has the most powerful membership directory. It matters a lot to these guys the kind of people they let in. They probably ran a background check on everyone.”
“It just didn’t feel right,” I said. “Jacobs was nice, but it freaked me out when he knew things like my mother’s name or the fact that my father had been killed. He knew exactly why I wanted to become a doctor. How could he have seen my admissions application essay?”
“Spense, not to make you paranoid, but they probably know the name of your sixth-grade social studies teacher too,” Dalton said. “This is serious business for these guys. Did he ask you about basketball? His family once owned half of the Celtics.”
“No, we talked about his art collection, then he started with all those personal questions. For some reason, he seemed focused on whether or not I knew any relatives from my father’s side of the family.”
“What did you tell him?”
“The truth. That I’d only met a cousin once when I was in elementary school. I don’t know, maybe it was just my nerves, but I felt like he was trying to make a point.”
“You’re overanalyzing,” Dalton laughed.
“You’re probably right,” I said.
“This is all great news,” Dalton said. “He liked you. It’s exactly what you want. Anything that gives you an edge over the other punchees will help you advance to the next round.”
I went to bed that night doing something I hadn’t done since the night of my seventh birthday—visualizing my father’s mangled body on the side of the road and what my life might’ve been had he not been hit by that car.
* * *
IT HAD BEEN almost a week since the cocktail party, and I hadn’t heard anything from the Delphic. I tried my best not to think about it, but that was proving impossible. One night I was sitting in the common room, trying to study organic chemistry, but not getting much done. Percy was in his room chatting up a fellow member of the Din and Tonics, an a cappella singing group of fourteen men who ran around campus, singing jazz tunes and other types of music old people listened to on the car radio while kids complained about it from the backseat. The guy’s name was Angstrom Hartman, and if you think his name was a mess, you should’ve seen him. He was a barrel-shaped bundle of physical and behavioral eccentricities, but the kid could really sing. He had a soprano voice like a nine-year-old girl’s and sang like that’s all he was put on this earth to do.
So, there I was, trying to read about organic synthesis reactions and electron counts and partially listening to Percy and Hartman complain about another member of their group who was nervous he had knocked up some girl from Wellesley. The phone’s ring was a welcomed interruption. It was Dalton.
“What are you doing right now?” he asked. He was all out of breath, like he had just finished running a mile up Heartbreak Hill.
“Trying to get some studying done and not doing a very good job,” I said. “What’s up?”
“These fuckin’ stairs are gonna give me a heart attack one day.”
“The stairs or the cigarettes?”
“I don’t need a fuckin’ lecture right now, Spense. Shauna lectured me all damn weekend about smoking.”
Shauna Marshall, Dalton’s main girl, was a dance student who lived down in New York City and attended Juilliard. She was gorgeous, but most important, at least for Dalton, was that she was a black girl. Born and raised in Detroit, she came from modest means and had risen above it all to earn a free ride to Juilliard. She was as intelligent as she was attractive. Dalton met her on one of his New York excursions about a year ago. She was his waitress at some burger joint he liked in a trendy part of the city called SoHo. Needless to say, Shauna was yet another sore subject between Dalton and the Emperor.
“How soon can you get over here?” Dalton said.
“Depends on the incentive,” I said, closing my book.
“I just got back from Uncle Randolph’s place about an hour ago.”
“I didn’t know you were going down there.”
“I didn’t either, but since I was in the city for the weekend, I decided to stop on the way back and check on him.”
“And?”
“He’s hanging on, but he’s not doing so hot. I don’t know how long he has left. I had to keep propping him up in his chair, and he was drifting in and out of sleep the whole time. His nurse had him wrapped in two heavy blankets, and it was already a thousand degrees in the damn house. It was depressing as hell to see him like that.”
“What did you guys talk about?”
“Well, if you’d get your damn ass over here, I’ll show you what I brought back. You’re not gonna believe it. Remember I told you about that box I found in one of his closets when I was a kid?”
“The one your aunt made you promise never to tell anyone about?”
“Exactly. Well, I found it again and borrowed it. There was more than just that cloth with the diamonds. There was his initiation medal and a really old article from some newspaper. It’s about some guy who disappeared after trying to break into the Delphic clubhouse.”
“I’m on my way.”
* * *
ELIOT HOUSE WASN’T even a five-minute walk from Lowell. Our houses were separated by manicured lawns and surrounded by old trees, open spaces big enough for the intramural teams to use for football and soccer games. Before reaching Eliot, you had to walk by what once was called the IAB—the Indoor Athletic Building—perfectly located in the center of campus and official home of the fencing, wrestling, and volleyball teams. It housed everything from an Olympic-sized swimming pool, two weight rooms, and an entire floor of basketball courts. It was also the most popular athletic facility for non-varsity athletes and other students who were restricted from using our varsity facilities across the river. The old-timers still called it the IAB, but its name had been changed a few years back to the Malkin Athletic Center. Some alumnus worth a gazillion dollars who set the record for serving on fifteen Harvard committees at once donated a pile of money to have his name plastered across the scrubbed brick. I still don’t think he got his money’s worth. Instead of calling it the Malkin, everyone just called it the MAC.
Dalton’s room was on the top floor, which meant climbing five flights of stairs, but everything else about it was great, including the view his common room had of the Charles River and the old Harvard Stadium over in Soldiers Field. When I entered, Dalton was in his room, sitting back on his bed with a small box in his lap.
“Where are your roommates?” I asked.
“They all went to the Yard to hear Prim debate some guy from Princeton,” Dalton said. “The Princeton guy is supposed to be the best in the country. His dad runs one of those pointy-headed think tanks down in Washington. Prim’s gonna get his ass handed to him.”
“Let me see what you have,” I said.
Dalton brought the box to his desk, then turned on the lamp. I pulled up one of his armchairs and sat next to him.
“Where did you find it this time?” I asked.
“Up on the third floor in one of his studies in the bottom of a desk drawer. It was buried underneath a stack of bird-watching books. Took me damn near four hours before I got my hands on it. I forgot how many rooms there are in that old mansion. Some
of them looked like they hadn’t been used since I played hide-and-go-seek with Aunt Teddy as a kid.”
“Who lives there now?”
“Uncle Randolph and his army of servants.”
I looked down at the box. It looked like an old jewelry box with navy blue inlaid leather and dark, polished wood. Three torches had been pressed in the middle of the lid with the initials R.A.W. carved underneath. The hinges and hook clasp were rusted. There were multiple compartments. As Dalton lifted the lid, the sparkle was immediate and impressive.
“Damn, those are some serious diamonds,” I said, moving closer to get a better look. The strip of velvet had faded from blue to purple. The ends of the cloth were threadbare. The diamonds spelled the words Serva Sodalitatem.
“I think this is a garter emblem,” Dalton said, carefully pulling the cloth out of the box and laying it out on the desk. It was about eight inches long and a couple of inches wide.
“A garter?” I said. “Like a garter that holds up a stocking or sock?”
“I think that’s the origin,” Dalton said. “About an hour ago, I went downstairs to the library and looked up garters. I found several books on England’s history. One of them had an entire chapter on something called the Order of the Garter. Inside the chapter they had a compilation of articles from different writers and news organizations.”
“Never heard of it before.”
Dalton reached across his desk and picked up a printout. “It’s all right here.”
The article was titled “Order of the Garter” and written by some outfit called The Monarchy Today. It explained that the Order of the Garter was the most senior and oldest British order of chivalry, founded by Edward III in 1348. The Order consisted of the King and twenty-five knights, and was intended by Edward III to be reserved as the highest reward for loyalty and military merit. The blue garter was the emblem of the Order. Its origin was unknown, but some believed it was inspired by an incident while the King danced with Joan, Countess of Salisbury. The countess’s garter fell to the floor, and after the King retrieved it, he tied it to his own leg. Those who had been watching laughed and whispered about the awkward moment, but the King admonished them and said, “Honi soit qui mal y pense.” Shame on him who thinks this evil. This became the motto of the Order, and those words had since been embroidered in diamonds on the emblematic garter owned by each member.
The Ancient Nine Page 6