by Robin Kirman
You’re also a victim in this case …
A victim how exactly? Unharmed and unhindered, she was escaping once again, into a future that remained as blessed as before. She could have everything she wanted: adventure, a grand career, marriage, children. She could be rich; she could be envied, she could die old, painlessly, surrounded by her comforts.
It was Julie Patel who would never have these things. Julie, with her prim clothes and fussy braid, whose memory for Georgia would always be the lecture she’d offered her following the Fogg Museum incident, inside a stuffy room of Phillips Brooks House, a place that smelled of cheap food and crayons and ammonia and virtue.
Violence just has no place in what I do, Georgia. I don’t want ugliness; I don’t want scandals.
Responsible, decent Julie Patel, whom Georgia had scarcely known and mostly scorned; a young woman utterly unsuited to the horror that befell her, more worthy of a bright future like hers, Georgia thought, than she’d ever let herself pretend to be.
The phone began to ring again; Georgia dragged her suitcase down the stairs, toward the front door, past the answering machine.
“Sorry if I’m disturbing you, Miss Calvin, I’m with the Boston Herald…”
She yanked the phone cord from the wall.
11
A breezy, cloudless morning in May and Harvard was going forward with graduation ceremonies. At Tercentenary Theatre the scene was as it had been for decades: crimson banners, hundreds of folding chairs in rows across the lawn. Johnston Gate was open for the academic parade, and a stage was set out on the steps of Memorial Church, from which the university president would confer degrees en masse before the students dispersed to their residential houses to receive their individual diplomas.
The afternoon program had been altered only slightly on account of the recent tragedy. In Adams House, there would be no master to assist the senior tutor in the proceedings and, on the Old Yard, there was to be a special evening program for Julie Patel’s family and friends and any others who wished to view the new memorial and pay their respects.
For the rest, the many thousand family members come to witness this proud day, they were determined to have their pleasure untainted: they’d paid their fortunes and were entitled to shed only happy tears at seeing their grown sons and daughters honored in a grand setting. The students, too, had spent the night before as they’d earned the right to do, enjoying, first, some solemn admiration from mom and dad over expensive dinners, and then escaping early for a final night of revels at the dozens of parties spilling out onto lawns and rooftops in and around campus.
Charlie had joined his classmates, staying out till dawn; at six he’d been woken by the noise of bagpipes. Alice slept on, in Charlie’s bed, while he and Roger dressed in their suits and set off for their last Eliot House breakfast. After the meal, replete with bowls of strawberries and bottles of champagne, Charlie stopped back in to check on Alice. Her two suitcases stood, packed, inside the entrance; she’d left without a word about her plans. Possibly she’d gone to Adams House, to proceed to the Yard with her former housemates; possibly he’d see her at morning exercises or the luncheon that followed—or as likely not—Alice tended to skip meals, and was no keener on ceremony.
It surprised Charlie to find that, on this particularly wistful morning, he was craving Alice’s company, which he’d frankly only endured these last few years for Georgia’s sake. When Alice had shown up at his door, two weeks earlier, he hadn’t exactly welcomed her arrival. He’d been drinking that night—Roger on his back about this change in his habits: You used to find even the smell of alcohol depressing. He still did, but a few shots of Jim Beam at bedtime helped him fall asleep; he’d just begun to doze when Alice woke him with her knocking.
“I’m going to have to stay with you now,” she’d announced, not asking permission, as if they’d both known such a moment had to come. Eventually Georgia would surmise the cause of Charlie’s coldness; she’d guess that Alice must have told him about Storrow.
“You had a fight? She threw you out?” Something had obviously happened; Alice was agitated, and her cheeks were flushed, her black eyes bright.
“I just need to sleep right now, okay?”
He’d agreed, yielding his bed, and intending to broach the matter again in the morning. But the events of the next day had rendered such details inconsequential. Charlie had woken around ten, surprised to find himself sprawled on the sofa, and then Alice in the kitchen speaking on the phone with Gerry: she’d been the one to let Charlie know that Julie Patel was dead.
A week later, Alice’s article ran in the Crimson and there hadn’t been peace in the room since. The phone rang day and night; angry Eliot dorm mates complained that Alice had no right to be there and even Roger, who’d been patient with her until then, wanted Alice gone, out of respect for his girlfriend’s wishes. Jasmine had been friends with Julie Patel and was appalled by what Alice had implied about her in her story: “As if anybody who actually knew Julie,” Jasmine claimed, “could believe she’d cheat on Lucas.” Around that time, Julie’s boyfriend showed up on the lawn below Charlie’s room; Charlie hadn’t even known Julie had a boyfriend until he’d seen the kid railing against Storrow on the TV news: Lucas Parker, a boy whom Charlie was acquainted with vaguely from an econ lecture sophomore year.
Let me in, man, Lucas had called to him, trying to keep his tone calm, though Charlie could see from how the boy couldn’t stop moving that he was worked up, in a rage. You don’t need to defend that bitch.
No, he didn’t, it was true: nor could Charlie endorse what Alice had done: and yet, while keeping her as his guest, he’d felt some protective instinct had been triggered. More than that, a part of him was relieved that she’d announced what they both knew: she’d exposed Storrow’s guilt and, in the process, exposed Georgia as well.
While Lucas stood on the grass, cursing, Charlie went into his bedroom to check if Alice was all right.
“I can call campus security, but they might wonder why you’re here.”
Alice was in his bed, reading a magazine, dressed in the tights and cropped hoodie she’d been wearing both to sleep and on her brief forays out. She stood then and came to stand before the window, where Lucas could see her and address his insults directly to her.
“Lying, vicious, cunty bitch…”
She let him shout, while others in Eliot shouted back at him, until two large boys from down the hall came down to draw Lucas away. Then Alice closed the window and returned to the room that she’d made hers, to climb back into bed.
—
Don’t take off without saying good-bye.
Charlie left the note for Alice on the largest of her bags, then he descended to join the raucous crowd out on the lawn. Residents of Eliot and Lowell Houses were already lining up together, according to house tradition, for the procession to the Yard. Charlie took his place among them, locking arms, whistling and singing like the rest, doing his best to appear cheerful. Inside the Yard he doffed his cap to the statue of John Harvard and bowed deeply to the alumni escorts dressed up in tails and top hats. On the march to his seat, he waved at Roger’s parents as if they were his own. Mrs. Waldman was squealing with excitement, hair like a poodle’s; Mr. Waldman, stooped and balding, remarkably like his son, stepped forward to hug both boys in turn, taking pride in Charlie in his father’s stead.
Though they had been in town since yesterday, the Flournoys were nowhere to be seen. Maybe it was just too much for them, thought Charlie, which was fine, better for everyone if they didn’t show at all today. Certainly he hadn’t urged his family to attend graduation, but if they felt obliged to come, he refused to be bothered by anything his father or brother did. If they arrived late, or deliberately underdressed or talked too loud and put off the other guests, he was prepared to ignore it all, as he’d ignored their misbehavior at the restaurant where they’d dined the night before.
Months in advance, he’d booked a table at Harves
t, one of the best restaurants in Harvard Square. He’d made the evening out to be a gift, though, admittedly, it wasn’t for his family so much as for himself. On this, his celebratory evening, he didn’t feel like wolfing down a burger somewhere because his parents hadn’t made any arrangements. For once, he didn’t feel like pretending he demanded less from life than he was able to take from it, and he didn’t care if his family viewed this as a reproach, as one more reminder of the distance their son had moved beyond them.
Both his father and his brother had sat sullen at the table. Only Charlie’s mother was able to express satisfaction at being taken to a proper restaurant.
“Can I order anything, really? It all looks so good.”
“Just order, Margaret,” his father grumbled. When his entrée arrived, he refused to eat more than a few bites of his steak—the sauce was off—and he nearly lost his temper when the waiter explained the dish was meant to taste that way.
“So now you mean to school me?”
Charlie’s mother changed the subject to dessert: “I think I saw someone eating cheesecake. Should we order some of that?” She seemed to be asking Charlie’s permission now, as he’d once asked his father’s at Howard Johnson’s, hoping for a hot-fudge sundae or a slice of apple pie.
“Everyone get what you like,” Charlie offered, but his father and his brother balled up their napkins and tossed them on the table.
“We’re full up, Chief,” his brother said.
On their way out, after Charlie had left the abused waiter a large cash tip, he noticed Luke slipping the money into his jacket pocket. Perfect, he thought; at least he had no lingering illusions what sort of man his brother was: the generous and dazzling figure of his boyhood had clearly been his own youthful invention. Every younger brother made a hero of the older at some point and he’d been especially prone to hero worship. But Storrow had rid him of that particular condition.
The hard lessons of the spring had forced Charlie to do some quick growing up. He was through wavering, as he had been, about what to do after graduation—whether to start work or continue his studies, whether to stay east or go west—waiting for Georgia to figure out her plans. Now it struck him as ridiculous that he’d ever thought to compromise his professional future based on the whims of a girl. The path he’d settled on was the one that he believed would offer him the most success most quickly; he was enrolling in Columbia’s MBA program and, from there, he’d be poised to take full advantage of the boom economy, to join the growing numbers of twentysomething CEOs.
That evening, Charlie walked out of Harvest belly full, unrepentant: from here on, Charles Flournoy was letting no one and nothing stand in the way of his achievement; if that should cause his father or his brother pain, then pile it onto the several tragedies to emerge from Harvard Yard in the spring of ’97.
—
The Flournoys did turn up for commencement, finally, arriving at Eliot House for the midday ceremonies, albeit twenty minutes late. The first of the young men and women were already being called up to receive their diplomas—“Burnheart…Cahill…”—robed students marched forward, while the Flournoys piled into the seats Charlie had saved. His father sat on the aisle, his mother beside Charlie, her expression flustered and contrite, her dress spilling off her seat, a floral print with shoulder pads. Her eyes were hazy; she was in shock, he could see it, at the wealth and scale of the campus. Only now, when Charlie was leaving, had it dawned on her exactly where her son had spent the last four years.
More names were called; parents cheered. Charlie’s mother squeezed his hand in her moist one and dabbed her eyes with her sleeve. From time to time, she muttered under her breath. He could imagine the blur of associations she must be bringing to these elegant buildings, the green courtyard, and the iconic white bell tower. Here was a setting for grand romances and elevated musings, for an enchanted life like she’d never experienced. Her tears, he suspected, were mostly for herself.
He remained dry-eyed and steely; two weeks from twenty-one, he was already a grown man, making his own money, deciding his own future. He felt at a remove from his classmates, many of whom sat clutching their parents’ hands, daunted by the prospect of years ahead without the protections they’d hitherto enjoyed; some, already nostalgic, sensed that their time in this place—their excitements, intellectual and sexual, the depth of their discoveries and the lightness of their responsibilities—would not be equaled again.
Not him. The last weeks had spared him such sticky sentimentality. Harvard was over for him; he was ready to get out.
When his name was called, Charlie stood up and took the short walk down the aisle. He accepted the tutor’s handshake and his diploma without looking back to see if his father or brother were among those applauding.
—
Charlie hadn’t planned to stop in on the ceremony for Julie Patel, but after the Eliot House luncheon, and the president’s and class speaker’s addresses, his father complained of feeling tired; he wanted to sit somewhere quiet and get a drink. Charlie announced he would catch up with his family later, and then he left for the Old Yard.
Press circled, but no reporters had been let inside the gates. University police checked his ID. Several hundred people were gathered on the green, alongside Holworthy Hall, the dorm where Julie had resided freshman year. A small podium had been erected near the street exit, in front of Bradstreet Gate, the newest addition to the yard. Next fall that gate would be commemorated in honor of the twenty-fifth anniversary of women living on these grounds. Until then, it was to be kept closed. But this afternoon it stood wide open; a small square of white cloth covered what must be Julie’s memorial, now installed on one of the gate’s brick columns.
Charlie kept to the back of the crowd, studying the faces; he hadn’t come to look for Georgia, though their most recent exchange seemed too sour to be their last. During those first weeks he’d avoided her she’d left him messages, which he’d ignored; but after Alice’s article, the news of her and Storrow, Georgia had stopped phoning. He hadn’t even been sure she was in town until, by chance one night, exiting the Star Market in Central Square, he’d spotted her waiting in the parking lot, seated inside a parked car. When she saw him, she stepped out; she was underdressed for the cool May evening, her bare arms wrapped around her body.
He’d had the impulse to offer her his coat, but resisted.
“My father’s shopping for me,” she’d explained: “So I don’t have to be seen. I’ve been staying in New York; just came back for graduation. My mom insisted.”
It was more information than he needed; he no longer wished to be a witness to the details of Georgia Calvin’s life. “It’s good you have him to help you get through this.” Him, he wished for her to hear: your dad, some other man, anyone but me.
Georgia watched him; her eyes narrowed. “And I guess Alice has you.”
She’d been the one to end their exchange that night, returning to her father’s car, and leaving Charlie to head alone down Green Street, loaded with bags too heavy for the long trek home.
Well, if he hadn’t come to the Old Yard this afternoon to see Georgia, still he couldn’t claim that he was shocked to find her there. She was lingering at the opposite edge of the crowd, hiding behind her hair and leaning upon her father’s arm. Georgia’s mother was there too; this was the first Charlie had seen her: a sturdy, attractive woman dressed in tan. Georgia’s father he knew well enough for the man to offer him a wave, but Georgia must have cautioned him; briskly Mr. Calvin swiveled, leading his daughter off in the opposite direction.
The university president began speaking, explaining the choice to remember Julie here, at this newest entrance to the Yard: “a passage that stands in honor of the brilliant young women who have enriched this campus and who represent the future of this university, women like Julie Patel.
“Julie didn’t come from privilege; she made the most of her talents, without ever letting her personal ambitions stand in the way of
her concern for others. Each and every day she graced this campus, Julie helped us to remember what the soul of this institution is: an ideal of scholarship, humanity, and progress.”
Politics, thought Charlie, politics and bullshit; the president is using even this opportunity to flatter his institution. If Julie was the soul of Harvard, what, then, was Storrow?
From the first mention of Storrow in the papers, Charlie had kept informed of everything that befell his former mentor (there was really nothing more that he could do, he told himself, even if he had been inclined—and he hadn’t—to offer Storrow support or come to his defense). Alice’s article had resulted in Storrow’s official suspension from his position as housemaster, but in fact he’d already been urged to absent himself from campus. The president had expressed his concern that Storrow’s presence would be a distraction to the students during finals week, which was not to say, he made clear in his statements to the papers, that anyone presumed his guilt in Julie Patel’s death. Still, it was critical at such a time to recall one’s duty to the students, to minimize the trauma caused by these events.
Obligingly, Storrow had vanished: a proctor had administered the final for his class. But on the day exams were returned, Storrow had made a last appearance in Sever Hall; he’d dropped the stack of blue books off at the history office and then proceeded to his former classroom with a bouquet of white lilies. Several students, Charlie among them, had looked on from the doorway as Storrow laid the flowers at the desk where Julie once sat. In fact, he’d been off by a seat, but no one was going to tell this to the man who staggered, glazed eyed, out of the room.
Already, Storrow must have known he was a condemned man: his office and home had been combed through over and over again. These searches had all turned up empty, but no matter: it was surmised that a man of Storrow’s intelligence and military background could have removed any incriminating evidence ahead of time. The very lack of evidence, more paranoid voices rumored, was all the more proof of his guilt. Without DNA from the attacker recovered from the crime scene, it seemed Storrow would be neither convicted nor cleared; he was either fantastically lucky, or hopelessly ill-fated.