The Ancient Nine

by Ian K. Smith, M. D.

  “Spense, it’s me,” Dalton said.

  “What’s going on?”

  “The family’s flying down to Wild Winds tomorrow for a memorial service.”

  “Have you heard anything yet?”

  “They’re saying his heart just stopped.”

  “Are they gonna do an autopsy?”

  “I doubt it. Everyone around here feels like he was really old and sick, and it was his time to go. He left instructions to have his body cremated and his ashes flown twice around the estate, then sprinkled over the lake at the edge of the property.”

  “Anyone talk to the girl who found him?”

  “She said when she left the room, the window was definitely closed, but when she went back in, it was open. She thought she saw the curtains moving, but it might’ve just been the wind blowing.”

  “Does anyone else in your family know that we were down there?”

  “Not yet.”

  “When are you coming back?”

  “No later than Monday night. And I made a decision about the book. I think we should read it.”

  “So do I.”

  “I’ll call you when I get back.”

  * * *

  I HAD ALREADY calculated the night’s budget in my head by the time I had jumped on the T and arrived at the Park Street station. Assuming my expenses would include two tickets, a medium popcorn, two sodas, dinner, one cab ride, and an extra token for her return on the T, I’d have just enough to catch the train back to Cambridge at the end of the night. If there was even the slightest deviation, then I’d have one long and cold walk back over the Charles and down Mass Ave.

  Ashley was waiting inside the lobby of the movie theater when I arrived. She was standing by herself against the far window. I stood there and looked at her for a moment. I was on a date with the most beautiful girl in all of Boston, even if she wouldn’t call it a date. I enjoyed watching other guys sneak glances at her as they walked past with their girlfriends. By the time I reached her, I was smiling. She wasn’t.

  “You ready?” I said.

  She looked down at her watch. “You’re five minutes late.”

  “The trains were packed.”

  “You’re not off to a great start, Harvard.”

  “Today was the first day of the Head. I had to wait for three trains before one was empty enough for me to squeeze on.”

  Her face softened.

  “What do you want to see?” I asked.

  We stepped back and looked at the listings over the ticket booth. Waves of people were coming and going as the movies emptied.

  “No guy movies,” she said. “So cross off A Nightmare on Elm Street and Die Hard.”

  I really wanted to see Bruce Willis again in Die Hard. I had seen it over the summer, but most of my friends had seen it twice and said it was even better the second time.

  “A Handful of Dust looks interesting,” she said. “It’s an English film.”

  I looked at the poster, two men flanking a woman, all stiff and fancy, standing in front of an enormous stone building. The tagline read: “They could afford anything except the price of passion.”

  “If you really want,” I said. “Looks like it could be a little boring.”

  “Maybe for a jock,” she said, nudging her elbow into my side. “There’s Forest Whitaker in Bird. It’s about the famous jazz musician and composer Charles Parker Jr.”

  “That’s a possibility,” I said, trying to sound interested. “Forest Whitaker was a great actor. While I wasn’t big on jazz, I’d agree to see the movie just because he was in it.”

  “Look at this one,” she said, walking to a poster with two white actors standing in front of a burning cross. “Mississippi Burning. This is a special early screening. It’s about two FBI agents who go to Mississippi to investigate the disappearance of some civil rights activists.”

  I looked at the poster. I knew the face and name of one of the actors, but couldn’t place him. I definitely had seen this Gene Hackman on the screen.

  “I know this guy,” I said.

  “Of course, you do,” Ashley smiled. “He played Lex Luthor in Superman.”

  “I loved that guy!”

  “Me too. Let’s go.”

  I bought the tickets and counted my blessings when the cashier handed me a discount coupon for a medium popcorn and soda combination. I was now two dollars under budget. We found a perfect spot along the wall. For the first twenty minutes of the film, I kept wondering what was happening next door in Die Hard. Ashley had asked me to hold the popcorn so that if some fell, the butter wouldn’t get on her jeans. I obliged, but that meant she had to keep reaching across me. About an hour in, she reached over for a scoop, then changed her mind and let her hand fall, just enough to rest softly on my thigh. I was waiting for her to move it, but she didn’t. She just left it there. I developed a quick strategy. I repositioned myself in the seat, forcing her to remove her hand. If she really had meant to leave it there the first time, she’d put her hand back on my thigh once I got settled. If the first touch was just an accident, then she would keep her hand away, and then we’d be back to square one.

  I waited five agonizing minutes, then it worked. She rested her hand back on my leg. I shifted toward her so that our shoulders were almost touching; then I caught her, at least twice, looking at me. For the rest of the film, her hand never left my side and I never once gave Die Hard a second thought. The movie was dark and sobering as Gene Hackman and Willem Dafoe played two FBI agents sent down to a sinister and corrupt Mississippi town to investigate and discover the truth behind the murders of three young civil rights workers who had come from the north to help local citizens with voter registration.

  When the movie was over, there were very few dry eyes leaving the theater. Ashley snuggled under my arm as I presented her with a choice of restaurants within my budget. She decided on the least expensive, a soul food joint at the edge of Roxbury called Bob the Chef’s. I wanted to save the taxi fare for her ride home, so suggested we take the T to Mass Ave and walk the short distance to Boston’s legendary restaurant, where movie stars sat shoulder-to-shoulder with auto mechanics downing sugary iced tea by the gallons and eating “glorifried” chicken and barbecue ribs.

  Our timing was perfect, as most of the tables were paying their checks and many of the waiting customers were ordering takeout. We got a seat along the back wall next to a young professional white couple lifting messy ribs to their mouths and licking their fingers like everyone else.

  Ashley and I compared notes on the movie over dinner and wondered how tough life must have been back in the fifties and sixties when our parents’ and grandparents’ generations fought, marched, sacrificed, and got beat fighting for our rights. All of this happened only a couple of decades ago, but it was a world we could barely imagine, as we now sat comfortably in a calm restaurant, speaking freely and without fear, no worries at all about being abducted by racists or corrupt law enforcement. The movie had put so much of our cultural history in perspective and filled us with a deep sense of gratitude for all of those who had endured pain and sadness and injustices so that our generation would have better opportunities to achieve and transcend.

  As in most good soul food joints, our entrées were served in a matter of minutes. I was looking at a plate full of ribs while she eyed two fried golden pork chops.

  “So, what do your parents do?” I asked.

  “My mother works in one of the university clubs downtown,” she said.

  “What about your father?”

  “He died seven years ago.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  “Don’t be. It saved our lives.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “My father was a raging alcoholic,” she said, looking up from her plate. “And the worst kind—abusive. He tortured us every day he was alive. The day he left this world was a blessing.” After a brief silence, she said, “What about your parents?”

  “My mother’
s a secretary,” I said. “I don’t remember my father. He was killed in a hit-and-run walking home from work. I was a baby when it happened.”

  “That’s awful. Did they ever find the person who hit him?”

  “Nope. And I try not to think about it.”

  “You have brothers or sisters?”

  “No, it’s just my mom and me.”

  “She must be really proud that you’re at Harvard.”

  “She made me come here.”

  “Where did you want to go?”

  “Georgetown. I wanted to play for John Thompson.”

  “But Harvard is a much better school.”

  “You’re starting to sound like my mother.”

  “Lucky you listened to her.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “If you hadn’t, you never would’ve met me.” She crushed me with one of those big smiles, and I was a goner.

  * * *

  ASHLEY WOULDN’T LET me see her house that night, but at least I made her accept cab fare. We were standing on the corner of Mass and Columbus Avenues with cars zipping by and the wind worrying the streetlamps. Her hair blew away from her face and I looked fully into her eyes for the first time. It’s amazing how the mind has the ability to block out the physical. I didn’t feel the cold at all as we stood saying goodbye.

  “I had a really nice time,” she said. “Thanks for the movie and dinner.”

  “So that means we can do this again,” I said.

  “Probably not.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I might start liking you.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “I don’t date Harvard preppies.”

  “Fine, I’ll put in for a school transfer tomorrow.”

  “Where would you go?”

  “Boston College.”

  “Then you might turn into just another spoiled jock.”

  “Better than a stuck-up preppie.”

  “I already told you, I don’t date spoiled jocks either.”

  “Then who do you date, Ashley Garrett?”

  “I don’t.” She smiled before getting into the cab. “I take meetings, remember?”

  And just like that, I was left alone on a cold Boston corner, wondering how a girl I barely knew could make me feel so delightfully helpless.

  17

  SUNDAYS IN CAMBRIDGE were always my favorite day of the week. It was my one day off from practice, the dining hall opened later and longer for brunch, and the activity on campus seemed to slow down, catching its breath after raucous Friday and Saturday nights. I slept in a couple of extra hours, got up, and later joined Percy and one of his chums for brunch. We parted when the two of them set off to the Head boat races. I returned to my room and found a message on the dry-erase board hanging on our door.

  Spenser give me a call when you get a chance. 8-2357

  G. Stromberger

  I immediately went inside and dialed her number. Someone with a strong Russian accent picked up and told me she was over at the Crimson. So I tried her there and someone transferred me to the newsroom.

  Stromberger finally picked up. “It’s Spenser,” I said. “I just got your message.”

  “I have something to show you,” she said.

  “What is it?”

  “I remembered you were searching for information about that student that disappeared back in 1927. Erasmus Abbott. Well, I was copyediting a story and came across the name Abbott. I was checking the spelling and one thing led to the next, and I was suddenly reading a 1972 article on Collander Abbott that was in the Indy.”

  The Indy was the nickname for the Harvard Independent, a weekly newsmagazine that ran longer features than the daily Crimson.

  “Where’s the article now?” I asked.

  “With me here at the Crimson.”

  “I’ll be over in ten minutes.”

  “Come to the same door you did last time.”

  * * *

  STROMBERGER ANSWERED the door in a pair of baggy jeans, a ripped Stanford sweatshirt, and a baseball cap. It looked like she hadn’t slept in days. She quickly led me into a dark office near the back of the building.

  “You look like shit,” I said to her as she turned on the light.

  “I feel like it too,” she said. “And I still have three more articles to get through before midnight.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Thank God this is my last week in this rotation,” she said. “I couldn’t put in another day like this.”

  “Why are you killing yourself?”

  “Time, Newsweek, The New York Times, The Boston Globe,” she said. “At some point in the last five years, the top editorial job at all those publications has been occupied by former editors of the Crimson.”

  “I hope it’s worth it.”

  “Getting your name on top of a masthead of a publication that’s read by millions of people is worth every bloodsucking second of it. It’s just hell to get there.” She handed me the folder she was carrying. “Here’s the article from the Indy.”

  I sat on the nearest desk and started to read a clipping from January 14, 1972.

  A NIGHT OF STARS

  Last week saw the return of many prominent alumni to Cambridge for what many assumed was a fundraiser for the Harvard College Fund, but instead was the 75th anniversary of the Delphic Club, one of Harvard’s oldest and most prestigious final clubs. While details of the event were kept secret in the great club tradition, the Indy obtained a copy of the evening’s guest list.

  Headlining the evening was His Highness the Prince Aga Khan, the wealthy Muslim leader of the Ismailis and a 1959 graduate of the College. Joining him were Nelson Rockefeller and actor Jack Lemmon in an evening of celebration and fundraising for the club’s endowment, which is now rumored to be just over $15 million.

  Toastmaster for the evening was printing mogul Collander Abbott class of ’06 and father of Erasmus Abbott ’28. The younger Abbott mysteriously disappeared on Halloween night in 1927 and was never seen or heard from again. Rumors placed Abbott at the Delphic Club the night of his disappearance, something both club officials and the Abbotts have steadfastly denied. A onetime president of the Delphic, Collander Abbott has not only been a major benefactor of the College, but has also made numerous financial and real estate contributions to the Delphic, making it one of the largest landholders in Cambridge. Abbott even loaned his Irish butler, Conor McGee, to serve as steward.

  After a dinner in the mansion’s upstairs ballroom, past and present members—minus their wives, of course—were chauffeured to Symphony Hall, where they were entertained for the next two hours not only by the Boston Symphony, but some of the most celebrated musical acts of the day. A handful of protesters stood outside of the Linden Street clubhouse, challenging the club’s all-male admissions policy. They held signs and heckled the guests as they arrived and left in their limousines.

  “What do you think?” Stromberger asked when I looked up.

  “Don’t you think it’s strange that Abbott was trying to break into a club where his father was a member?”

  Stromberger shrugged her shoulders. “Depends on the kind of relationship they had. Could’ve been a father–son competitive thing. Maybe he felt the need to prove something?”

  “That’s possible, but prove what? Why wasn’t there anything more from the parents? Their only son disappears, and they say practically nothing.”

  Stromberger hiked her shoulders. “Grief can make people behave weirdly. Or maybe Collander Abbott knew a lot more about his son’s disappearance than he was willing to let on.”

  “I wonder if the father is still alive,” I said.

  “I doubt it,” Stromberger said. “He’d be at least a hundred. But let’s check the alumni directory.”

  Stromberger pulled open a couple of drawers and found a directory. We flipped through it and found the entry for Collander Abbott. He died in 1977. His last known address was a law firm in New York City called Wilkins,
Pratt, and Dunn. I wrote down the address and phone number and thanked Stromberger for her help. What I didn’t tell her was that his Irish butler was probably the same man they found floating in the Charles a couple of days after he had boasted about knowing the Delphic’s secrets. Collander Abbott suddenly became a really important piece to this growing puzzle.

  * * *

  MITCH AND I met for dinner that night. No one had approached him about any disciplinary action for “the punch,” but he still wanted my take on the incident and advice on how to get everyone to move beyond it. Coach hadn’t called him yet for a sit-down, but he was expecting to be summoned to the office any day. Mitch was talking tough, but I could tell that he was a ball of nerves. And rightly so, even if in my opinion Coach got what was coming to him.

  We agreed to meet at the Freshman Union dining hall under the enormous chandeliers made from the horns of kudu antelope Teddy Roosevelt had killed on safari. Mitch arrived looking less like a basketball player than a well-off suburban kid who just happened to stand almost a foot taller than everyone else. As he stood there in tortoiseshell glasses, subdued argyle sweater, cuffed slacks, and black penny loafers, you would never guess his right fist had just introduced his basketball coach to the expensive world of cosmetic dentistry.

  We grabbed a couple of burgers and found a seat in the small rotunda room where the artists, punkers, and socially awkward tended to hang out. Mitch couldn’t walk by a table without some guy yelling his name and making a basketball shooting motion or the girls nudging each other.

  “Was I right or wrong?” he said after we had gotten comfortable.

  “Both,” I said.

  “How’s that?”

  “You were right to square off and slug him, but you were wrong to do it.”

  “That doesn’t make sense.”

  “This isn’t just about what happened the other day,” I said, putting on my mentoring cap. “This is about life. Just because something is the right thing to do in terms of justice or fairness, doesn’t mean doing it is right. Coach first antagonized you. That was wrong, but acceptable. As players we must be able to tolerate all kinds of verbal abuse, even if it pisses the hell out of us. That’s part of the game. But then he pushed you. That’s wrong and unacceptable. Any coach that assaults a player crosses the line and should be called on it. Like my grandfather says, ‘You can call me all kinds of names, but put your hands on me and you got a big problem.’ But the reason you were wrong is because the minute you hit him back, you lessened the impact of what he did. You turned his big wrong into a small wrong.”