I strained forward, unsure if I actually heard what he had just said correctly. There were a couple of other gasps in the room. A few neophytes laughed skeptically.
“No, it’s not a joke, men,” Emmerson said. “You will all be given a small package right after commencement exercises in the Yard. This package will contain an account number and the necessary documents and instructions to retrieve your graduation gift. I must remind you that you’ve sworn an oath to the club that what we discuss tonight is never to leave these four walls. Any violation will result in the member’s termination and the permanent ban on any direct bloodline relatives from ever being admitted to the club.”
I was glad to be sitting, because my legs felt like jelly. One million dollars. How could this be true? I was going to have a million dollars in the bank when I graduated? Could I tell my mother, or would that be violation? The announcement fogged my head, and the rest of the meeting was a blur.
Keys to the front door would be distributed on initiation night, as well as the security code to the alarm system. We had a month to pay the fifteen-hundred-dollar initiation, and dues would be billed monthly. Three black-tie affairs, which many prominent graduate members attended, would be held throughout the year. While the graduates picked up the bulk of the costs, the undergrad membership would still be assessed a small portion of the tab. Lunches were served every weekday except Wednesday, because we had our weekly club dinner that night. After we finished a question-and-answer session, Oscar opened a large box and handed out our silk club ties—navy blue with small gold torches sewn into the fabric. They were to be worn at all semiformal club functions and Wednesday-night dinners. Ermenegildo Zegna–designed spring ties were available for purchase for seventy-five dollars.
I had no idea how much the tally for these costs would run, but I was practically having an anxiety attack. There was no way I could afford any of this, and I had no idea where I could even go to borrow this kind of money. I had already spoken with my mother, who agreed to use a small amount of the money my father had put away, but I’d have to get a work-study job to pay the rest.
Brimmer spoke last. “Brothers, I want to make something crystal clear,” he said. “This is not a fraternity, and we don’t expect it to be treated like one. We are a final club, and we expect our house and everything in it to be treated accordingly. A lot of great men have occupied the same chairs you sit in now, walked the same halls and dined at the same tables. Remember that as you gather around those long oak tables upstairs. Out of a hundred and fifteen punchees, just the few of you were selected. It’s our hope that we chose well. Initiation dinner will be held in December. Upstairs remains off-limits until you’re officially initiated.” He then rammed the heavy gavel onto the table. “This first meeting of the one hundred third neophyte class of the Gas is adjourned.”
40
DALTON AND I had continued puzzling through the poem, but our best efforts produced only disappointing results. We decided that the first line dealt with the person’s place of origin, A son of Waldorf not far from the Rhine. Waldorf, it turns out, was a small hamlet in Germany nestled between Heidelberg and the Rhine River. The third line had given us the most trouble, Downed off Newfoundland in waters icy and wide. Even after spending countless hours reading about the history of Newfoundland and its sea-weathered people, this line had us stumped. Without knowing which specific year to research, we were left with a long and complicated history that stretched all the way back to 1497, when the navigator and fisherman John Cabot sailed into a sea so full of fish that they could be taken “not only with the net but also a basket in which a stone is put.”
We were certain that Moss Sampson had been born in Beulah, Mississippi, and it was unlikely he had ever even been to Germany, but we agreed that he could still fit the last line, Now stands as our protector with loyalty and pride. He could be the protector of their chamber and secrets. But we had yet to come up with an explanation for the R in front of his name. If this had been an ode to their former confidant, it was a strange way to remember him. I recited, wrote, and sang that damn poem and still got no closer to making sense of those four jumbled lines.
* * *
ON THE FIRST WEDNESDAY in December, I got a call from Claybrooke.
“Spenser,” he said between clenched teeth. “It’s Claybrooke from the Gas. The final dinner and initiation are set for Friday night at eight. Black-tie. Someone will pick you up at six o’clock at your room. They’ll bring you over.”
Luckily, it was over our bye-week, so we didn’t have a game that weekend.
“What’s gonna happen?” I asked.
“All I can say is you’ll have lots of fun. And make sure you wear the oldest tux you can find. Nothing too fancy.”
An old tux? That seemed strange.
“Good luck, Spenser,” he said, then was gone.
I ran into a couple of other neophytes in the Yard that afternoon heading to class, and they had the same unanswered questions. One of them had a brother who was a member of the Fox Club, and he told him initiation rituals varied between clubs. His advice had been to eat a little pasta an hour before the pickup time because it was going to be a long night before we got a chance to eat. The only thing predictable about initiation night was that it would be totally unpredictable.
* * *
FRIDAY FINALLY ARRIVED, and I’m not too proud to admit that I hadn’t been that nervous since I played Moses in a Sunday-school play in front of the entire church. Finally, I would be allowed upstairs in the legendary rooms of the Delphic mansion. I didn’t know what awaited me, because like everything else thus far, the evening’s plans had been shrouded in secrecy. Two days ago, Percy and I had gone to Keezer’s in Central Square, a resale shop that sold and rented discounted new and used tuxedos. We found a used tux that was a little big in the waist and shoulders, but for twenty dollars, I couldn’t complain. I purchased my first real bow tie, as Percy insisted it would be bad form if I wore one of those cheap clip-ons. “A real bow tie is what gives the tux its character,” he insisted.
I was also nervous as hell on many fronts. First, I had no idea what they had in store for us. Second, I worried about Brathwaite and Jacobs and whether tonight was their time to strike. No better place to deal with me than somewhere in their fortified mansion. At precisely six o’clock, after twenty exhausting minutes of trying to knot that damn bow tie with Percy’s help, there was a loud knock at the door. When Percy opened it, Hutch, Duke, and Pollack stood there, wearing enormous smiles, tuxedos, and overcoats.
“You ready, buddy?” Hutch said, throwing his arm around my shoulders. “You’ve got a big night ahead of you.”
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I said, reaching for my coat and heading for the door.
“Not so fast,” Duke stopped me. He reached in his pocket and pulled out a black piece of cloth. “We’ve got to put this blindfold on first.”
“Are you serious?” I asked.
“As a heart attack.” Hutch laughed. “Don’t worry, all the other neophytes have to do the same thing. Initiation-night tradition.”
“Well, okay,” I conceded, turning my back to them.
“Don’t worry, Spense,” Hutch said. “We’ve got your back.”
“You’re now one of us,” Pollack said.
Once Duke had tightened the blindfold, they made sure I couldn’t see anything. I already felt dizzy, and we hadn’t even left the room. They grabbed me by the arms and led me out the door into the crisp night.
“Okay,” Duke said. “The other neophytes standing here are also blindfolded. Lift your hands so we can put them on the shoulders of the person in front of you.”
I did as I was instructed and felt my hands resting on someone much shorter.
“Who’s this in front of me?” I asked.
“Dylan Parkhurst,” Hutch answered. “You’re the fourth in the group.”
“Who else is here?”
“Kasey Benton and Buzz Malloy.”
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It was not lost on me how ridiculous we must’ve looked, standing there blindfolded in our tuxedos with our hands on each other’s shoulders.
“Just keep your hands on the person’s shoulders in front of you, and everything will be all right,” Duke assured us. “Don’t forget, the other guys are depending on you. If one falls, you all fall. That’s how a brotherhood works.”
As we slowly stumbled out of the courtyard, I could hear the muffled laughter of passersby. The members laughed also, only adding to the absurdity of it all, and I felt like a helpless jackass. We ambled through the front archway and down Holyoke Street. Then we crossed Mt. Auburn, and I could tell we were marching up Linden Street. I was sure we were heading into the clubhouse until I heard the busy sounds of Mass Ave, which meant we had walked past it.
“Okay, we’re going up a lot of stairs now,” Duke said. “Go slowly. Trust the neophyte in front of you.”
We started the long ascent, one step at a time. When we finally reached the top, we were all panting. I knew we had just climbed the Widener steps. There was no other climb in the Yard that long and steep.
“Time to show Harvard your killer moves,” Pollack said.
They took off our topcoats and tux jackets and placed plastic bowler caps on our heads.
“We’re gonna play some music, and you must dance in place. You’re on the edge of a high platform, so there’s very little room. If anyone stops dancing before the music ends, we’ll start all over again. When the music stops, you must turn around, drop your pants, and give us the biggest moon of your life. Am I clear?”
The four of us grumbled our acceptances. I kept praying to God that my naked butt wouldn’t end up on the front page of the Crimson tomorrow morning. My mother would have a conniption.
The music started and we began dancing. I thought we might get away without attracting a crowd, but soon a loud chorus of clapping and whistles accompanied us. After several minutes, the song stopped, and although it took every ounce of willpower for me to do it, I turned around, unclasped my waistband and dropped my pants. The crowd, of course, went wild, and once the cold air stung my ass, I scrambled like hell to get my pants up.
Minutes later, we were back in formation, down the steps, and on the march. I heard the sounds of cars honking and braking. We walked up a short flight of steps, through a door, and into a lobby. I thought we had entered one of the houses. Keys rattled and another door opened. My frozen fingers and feet welcomed the rush of heat.
“You guys are doing a great job,” Duke said. “Now it’s time for a drinking mission. We’re gonna fill a glass with Jack Daniel’s, and you have to take a swig before passing it to the next person. But you must swallow before you pass it on. The anchor will be the last person to get the glass. That’s Parkhurst. He must finish whatever is left in the glass in one sip. If he can’t finish, we switch anchors and start all over again. Thirty seconds or less—otherwise, we fill her back up till you do it right, like real Delphic men.”
I heard the wet gulps of the lead-off drinker. “This shit tastes like battery acid,” Buzz complained to the laughs and cheers of the members.
“What’s this?” Kasey asked. “A pitcher. He took a swallow, then passed the glass to me.
After I had swallowed as much as I could and was about to pass it on to Parkhurst, Duke yelled, “Time’s up. You didn’t make it. If you spent less time talking and more time drinking, you would’ve finished. Gotta do it all over again. Dylan, you’re first this time. Spenser, you’ll take over as anchor. They shuffled our position in line.
“Okay,” Duke called out. “Go!”
The room fell silent as Dylan began to drink. He choked a little, letting out a heavy panting sound when he had finished swallowing. Kasey was next, and it seemed like he had finished his portion without any snags.
“Fifteen seconds!” Duke yelled.
I could hear the gurgling sound of Buzz drinking. Then I felt the tall glass in my hands, but to my relief, there wasn’t much in it.
“Five, four…”
I quickly tipped the glass back, opened my throat, and chugged down what was left in the glass. Just as Duke reached one, I raised the empty glass in victory.
“Way to go!” Hutch yelled. I could feel his heavy hands on my shoulders.
“I’m gonna puke, guys.” It was Kasey Benton. I felt the same way, but didn’t admit it. Two guys ran to Kasey’s side and grabbed his arms, but they still wouldn’t let him take off his blindfold. I heard them stumbling out of the room, opening a door, and then the unmistakable sound of vomit hitting toilet water.
Once Kasey was cleaned up and led back into the room, Pollack said, “To cap off the festivities here, we’re gonna review the alphabet, boys and girls. Kasey, you’ll be excused for this one. This is a mission of speed. The first two to say the alphabet backwards without mistakes will be the winners. The last one will do a shot.”
Once Pollack had counted down from five, the mumbling and stuttering commenced as the alcohol began taking its toll. Buzz and his intrepid steel gut was the first to finish, and I pulled up a close second. Parkhurst was still trying to get beyond M by the time Pollack called it off. It all seemed a lot funnier once I realized that I wouldn’t be the one drinking the shot. Parkhurst got stuck with the shot while the rest of us slid back into our seats and took a much-needed break.
“It’s after seven,” Hutch announced to the other members. “We’d better get to the club. The other groups are probably back already.” We stumbled back down the stairs into the cold night. The sounds of passing cars and pedestrians grew louder as we made our way across the busy street.
The combination of the alcohol and the blindfold sent my head spinning. We walked a short distance before I heard Pollack say, “Everyone’s meeting in the basement.”
They led us several more feet, took a hard right, then guided us down a couple of steps and into what I presumed was the alley on the side of the Delphic. The old door creaked on its rusted hinges; then someone rested their hand on top of my head and guided me underneath the doorjamb.
“Can we take our blindfolds off now?” Parkhurst asked.
“Not yet,” Duke said. “We have to wait until everyone’s here.”
Laughter and spirited voices echoed in the darkness. As we made our way toward the pool room, the door opened behind us and another group of neophytes entered the basement. They sat us down next to each other in front of a giant fire. We listened as members compared stories and notes on what their respective neophyte groups had done. It sounded like we actually had an easier time of it than the others.
They finally stood us up and one by one freed us of the blindfolds. The rush of light was sudden and dizzying at the same time, but after two hours of darkness, it was a relief to rejoin the visible world. The basement was packed with tuxedo-clad members, all wearing large silver medallions hanging on blue satin ribbon necklaces. The same medallion Uncle Randolph wore in the photo Dalton found at Wild Winds. They cheered and applauded, then joined in song as we stood and accepted their hands in brotherhood.
Brimmer got up on a chair and instructed us to line up in the back of the room. The fifteen of us stood shoulder-to-shoulder before the lights were turned off. Someone lit a round of candles, and suddenly the cramped room with its dark oak and stone walls took on the aura of a midnight séance. The other members cleared a space in front of us. Brimmer remained on the chair, holding a bottle of blue liqueur and a shot glass.
“Gentlemen, you are now ready for the Delphic flaming shot. Set all fears aside as you watch and listen to your noble heritage. There have been generations of great men before you who for more than a century have stood as you now stand on the auspicious occasion of initiation. Heroic and courageous, committed to the bonds of brotherhood, most loyal disciples of the Gas, your distinguished ancestors, men who have served this club with honor and distinction, have also downed this flaming blue liquid—Delphic blood. Brother Hutch will proudly s
how you the custom of your fabled lineage.”
The room filled with applause as big Hutch stepped up on a chair next to Brimmer and bowed to the crowd. Brimmer poured the blue liqueur into the shot glass and handed it to Hutch. Someone standing nearby lit a match and set the drink on fire. The sudden burst of flames lit up Hutch’s face before he raised the glass above his head in a toast, tilted his head back, and poured the fiery blue liqueur into his mouth. In seconds, he had swallowed the Delphic blood, and his hands went up in victory as Brimmer dabbed his face with a towel.
Kasey Benton was the first neophyte lifted to the chair. Brimmer poured the liqueur into the glass, passed it to him, and then Claybrooke lit it with a match. Kasey stared at the flame for a moment as everyone yelled, “Drink, neophyte! Drink, drink, neophyte! Drink!” Kasey tilted his head back, closed his eyes, and downed the flaming shot. Two members had taken positions on chairs behind him and immediately reached out with their towels to dry his face. You could see in his eyes a moment of disbelief that he had actually downed the drink without injury. He broke into a smile, and the crowd chanted his name.
Buzz was next, and without hesitation, he stepped up on the chair, accepted the drink, and threw it back without fear. I only prayed that I could be so smooth as they lifted me up above the crowd. I took the glass, put on a brave smile, and looked into the flame. Hutch gave me a tap of encouragement on the shoulder; then in one motion I put my head back and poured the burning liquid into my mouth. It was hot going in, and I had visions of flames covering my face, but within seconds, my throat felt the warmth as the bitter liquid moved down the back of my throat. Towels smothered my face, and I shouted more from relief than a show of bravado. Chants of my name bounced off the walls, and I threw my fists up in victory.
Parkhurst was up next on the chair, and I could tell by the look on his face that he wasn’t thrilled to drink the blood of his brethren. He accepted the glass, stared blankly into the flame, and then raised it to his mouth. He poured back the sizzling liquid, but instead of it going into his mouth, most of it splattered on the sides of his face, sending rivulets of flames from the corner of his mouth down to his chin. For a brief moment he sported a flaming goatee, and silence fell over the room as he wildly slapped his face, trying to put out the flames. The two members standing behind him went into action, burying his face in towels, muffling his screams. I was certain that he had been burned, but seconds later, his face emerged unscathed, only the collar of his shirt slightly charred. A thunderous round of cheers exploded in the room once it was obvious that he would be fine. Once Parkhurst realized his great escape, he started hugging Hutch, and the two fell off the chair only to be caught by the circle of men surrounding them.
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