Rosa picked three crushed beer cans from a wastepaper basket beside the desk, placing them into the bag. She reached for a can on the desk.
“Leave it,” Joe ordered. “It’s part of my breakfast.” He nibbled on a piece of buttered rye toast and took a swig from the bottom of the warm can of beer opened in the middle of night. “I ran out of coffee.”
Rosa attached a brush to the end of the vacuum’s hose. “These books are so dusty.”
“Do me a favor and clean another room. I’m trying to get this done,” Joe said, rocking back in his father’s chair. The research paper wasn’t the only source of his angst. On the corner of the desk, next to the photo taken at his police academy graduation, was a book written about the Holocaust. If his interpretation of the carbon paper dated May 1944 was correct, 300,000 Hungarian Jews were on their way to the gas chamber at Auschwitz the same year that the U.S. Fifteenth Air Force began operations from bases in Italy. A single five hundred pound bomb dropped from the belly of a B-17 could’ve put the killing machine out of operation.
Perhaps he was naïve to think the millions shoved into the crematoria would’ve lived if the Allies acted. But, the country he thought to be the champion of freedom did nothing.
Rosa unplugged the vacuum, picked up the bucket and garbage bag, and moved into the dining room. “Mio Dio! What is this?”
“Don’t touch anything on the table. I spent most of last night organizing it,” Joe shouted.
“Mr. Swedge makes my skin itch,” Rosa said.
The door bell rang. “Be a good girl and answer the door,” Joe asked.
Rosa mumbled something Joe couldn’t quite make out as she went to the front of the house. Roxy raced down the steps. “You, stay!” Rosa said as she opened the door. The dog circled back to the base of the steps. “Joe, there’s a woman who wants to see you.”
Joe slipped on his sneakers and grabbed the five-iron suspended on the edge of the desk. Slowly, he rose from the chair barely able to put weight on his right leg that was stiff from sitting for three hours. He hobbled through the dining room. Pausing in the hall, Joe tucked his T-shirt into his Levis.
Watching from the kitchen, Rosa said, “Give her the bracelet.”
“It’s manners to invite a person in,” Joe needled as he pat his pocket and gave her the thumbs up. Looking through the glass sidelight, he was surprised to see Ruth Ritchie standing on the landing. Ruth had exchanged the lime green pantsuit for a demure black dress. Her hair, out of the bun, was shoulder length. A pearl necklace replaced the gold cross. She had lost the tough momma look and twenty years.
Joe checked Roxy who sat at the base of the stairs, then opened the door. Ruth held out three books bundled by twine. “These were found in the master bedroom study. Since you took his papers, I thought you might be interested. If you’re not, throw them in the garbage. I’m finished across the street.” The roar of a winch echoed across the street as the garbage dumpster was hauled onto the flatbed of a truck dispatched by the disposal company.
Joe took the bundle, visualizing the converted dressing area. “The bookshelves were empty except for the yearbook.”
“One of my employees lost the backing from an earring. She found it stuck between two floor boards,” Ruth said, straightening her pearls. “When she used the blade of a pocket knife to pry the backing out, one of the boards moved. A lot of the older houses have spots where owners kept jewelry and valuables. Thinking that she was onto the greatest find since gold was discovered in California, she pried up the board to reveal a compartment below.”
Before he could say a word, Ruth turned on her heels and walked down the steps to a new Cadillac Seville parked in the driveway.
Joe watched her drive away. He knew he had been in the presence of a female Barnum who played to her audience of bargain hunters. Ruth convinced the skeptics that they had in their hands a “find” and get them to pay a premium for the right to take it home.
Joe flipped the door closed with his left foot. Rosa never moved from the kitchen doorway. “Different girlfriend,” Joe said. He carried the new found bounty to the dinette table in the kitchen.
Rosa turned her attention to dishes Joe left in the sink. “You’re going crazy.”
“That’s what all the ladies tell me.” He rotated the bundle under the light of the Tiffany fixture. It wasn’t twine like he used to bundle newspapers for recycling, but a rough thistle his mother employed to stake tomato plants in her Brooklyn vegetable garden. From a butcher block cube kept near the stove, Joe removed a steak knife and cut the cord. Two of the books were bound in the same cordovan leather as Preston’s passport cover. The third bore a black and green flecked cardboard cover of a basic composition book used in grammar school.
Joe sat at the table, flipping through the pages of all three. Yellowed and faded, the pages had worked away from the bindings. Sections had been removed. The three volumes were diaries. The leather covered journals were written with a stylish flair in comparison to the composition book where the letters were small, tight and printed. The time frames were the same. The two authors were living parallel lives.
Rosa finished washing out the sink and squeezed out the sponge before placing it in a porcelain dish on the window ledge. “I’m going. See you Friday,” she said. “You forget about school?”
Joe opened one of the leather covered diaries. “Grab me a beer. I’ve got reading to do.”
Chapter 8
PRINCETON, NJ SEPTEMBER 1938
AT ONE O’CLOCK, A BLACK PACKARD touring sedan turned off of U.S. Route 1, following the road signs to Princeton. Driving time from New York City to the sleepy New Jersey town was almost two and one half-hours, excluding a stop at a roadside stand for a cold drink. The dog days of August continued July’s oppressive humidity. Preston Swedge, accompanied by his parents Herbert and Bernice, were arriving at the “family” university to become the third generation to enter as a freshman. This was to be his foundation for assuming a leadership position in the higher social strata of New York.
Tracing its roots back to the founders of the island of Manhattan, the Swedges were descendants of Dutch traders, as were their hated rivals, the Roosevelts. In the 1890s, Grandfather Percival Swedge had an unbridled, jealous, and losing competition with Theodore Roosevelt when Teddy was the New York City Police Commissioner. Herbert continued the rivalry with Franklin. He was an ardent crusader against the New Deal, contesting any program that could threaten the family brokerage and international consulting business. Preston was expected to take his place in the war between Republicans and Democrats, between conservatives and liberals.
Normally the chauffeur would have been at the wheel, but Herbert wanted to bring his son, who he viewed like any other investment, to the place he truly loved without interference from an outsider. His fondest memories were found on Nassau Street. The Packard turned into the drive near the Central Admissions Building. Herbert and Bernice got out of the car, but Preston remained motionless in the still air of the back seat. His starched long sleeved white shirt was laden with sweat, causing the deep brown leather seat back to adhere like barnacles to a boat.
Herbert attempted to cajole his son from the car; a scene that had played before in Connecticut when Preston was delivered to boarding school. Preston suffered through anxiety attacks and would escape into a trance-like state when stressed.
Arriving in Connecticut a shy and self-deprecating boy, Preston left as an adult sure of himself. Four years at the prep school Choate had transformed him in both mind and body. Preston learned to enjoy the challenge of the athletic field, and the new found release increased in proportion to his rapid growth. By graduation, Preston was six-two. He had assumed the captaincy of the football team, leading his brethren to a prep school championship. The study of philosophy and history became passions of the budding academic. However, beneath this success story, was an ever-present force tugging on Preston’s psyche. He learned to suppress his fears for the majority
of the day, but the nights were a different matter. His roommates routinely needed to wake him from nightmares.
Herbert fought to control his temper. “Son, it will be alright. For God’s sake, get out of the car.” Preston slowly shifted his eyes left and right, focusing on his father. Their relationship was footed on confrontation. Herbert exercised a stream of threats and exhortations when Preston didn’t conform to the Swedge model. The years spent in Connecticut allowed Preston to develop away from his father.
Bernice didn’t provide a counterbalance to her husband’s cold and impersonal relationship. With a staff of servants, the youngster was raised with minimal involvement of his mother and developed emotional attachments to adults who demonstrated a sense of caring. He was influenced and at times manipulated by the people and events surrounding him.
“Why are you staring at me?” Preston asked, wiping sweat from his forehead. “Have we arrived?” His coal-black stick straight hair was plastered down on his head, the collar of his shirt was stained, and his pants were hopelessly wrinkled.
Herbert was incredulous and turned to his wife. “Please, get him out of the car and try to make him look presentable.”
“Get a change of clothes from one of his suitcases in the trunk.” Bernice was distressed by the way her son could be transformed into a creature she didn’t understand or recognize. The changes were dramatic and startling. She knew that many of her son’s psychological demons could be traced to her, but she was powerless to mediate them.
Preston did as instructed and followed his parents into Dowd Hall looking for a restroom. The cool air of the hallway was welcome. A men’s room was to the left of the admissions reception area. Preston studied the image in the mirror above the sink, cursing the Swedge legacy. He freshened himself then changed his clothes. Leaving the men’s room, Preston found his parents looking at class pictures going back to the 1870s lining the walls. Herbert found his own, his father’s, and pointed out classmates to his wife. “Mr. Phillips is waiting two doors on the right,” Herbert Swedge said. “We’ll leave your things in the holding area and be off.”
Preston wasn’t surprised by the brusqueness of his father. He turned to his mother. “When did he decide to change plans, when I was in the men’s room?” Herbert planned to show his son his old stomping grounds. “This excursion was his idea. I could’ve taken the train.” He handed his mother his soiled clothes. “Maybe I’ll see you at Thanksgiving, if you’re going to be in town.”
Preston walked into the waiting area of the empty office. “Greetings, Mr. Swedge, I’m Stanley Phillips, coordinator for incoming students.”
“I’m Preston. Mr. Swedge is on the way back to New York City.” They both laughed. Preston was handed schedules for orientation and meals. Classes were scheduled to begin in two days.
“A third year student will be here in a few minutes to take you over to Albert Hall. Your things will be delivered once you’ve checked in. If I can be of assistance in any way, please contact me.” Phillips extended his hand.
Preston took a seat in the anteroom. Within five minutes his guide arrived. “Good afternoon, I’m Robert Livingston. I will be your guide today and ordained by the powers that be, your mentor.”
Preston suddenly felt the sensation that all the class pictures were staring at him. Livingston spurred him on. “You can come back and look at the rogue’s gallery. I did it, and have returned several times over the years. These pictures can be a positive force when things don’t go so well. Remember, some of them finished last in each class.” A smile broke across Preston’s face.
Their footsteps echoed on the marble floor. The admissions building, erected in 1765, was one of the oldest on campus. The quintessence of federal architecture, its red bricks were outlined at the corners by buttresses of fieldstone. Sunlight, filtering through a transom above the door, spotlighted the letter P in the floor. The portico facing to the west side of the campus led to a gravel path.
“Princeton isn’t the gentleman’s club the administration wants you to believe,” Livingston said as they stepped on the path. “The competition is fast and fierce and egos are as tall as oak trees.”
They walked in silence for a few minutes. The distance to Albert Hall was almost three quarters of a mile. The gravel path gave way to a concrete sidewalk that led to a park-like common area punctuated by skyscraping trees. “The residence halls are infernos,” Livingston said. “We spend as much time out here in the shade as possible. I think I see your roommate. Mr. Johnson!”
A stocky, average height teenager sitting on a bench in the shade waved. He ground a cigarette in the grass, slowly rose to his feet, and loped across the green. “Mr. Johnson, I would like to introduce you to your roommate, Mr. Swedge,” Livingston said.
Preston extended his hand, “Call me Preston.”
“I’m Clark,” he said, looking up at Preston who was a good four inches taller. “Let me take you upstairs.” His ruddy face and dirty blonde hair were streaked with sweat.
“Gentlemen, I will be in my room over at Dawson. If you need anything, ring me up.” Livingston sauntered away.
“I arrived yesterday from Detroit, and already can’t stand this damn weather. The train was a sauna, and our room is a blast furnace. I haven’t slept in days,” Clark said, leading Preston toward a Georgian brick two storied building on the right side of the mall. Three massive chimneys protruded above the gabled roof. “See that chimney to extreme left? Our rooms are right underneath it.”
Granite steps led to a white paneled door framed by pilasters painted to match. The door was open. “Brace yourself for the housemaster. He’s a total prick, and I’m already on his shit list,” Clark said.
Facing them stood Ellis Price, his hands clasped behind his back. Impeccably dressed in a three-piece navy suit, Price was the epitome of deportment. His reputation was a no-nonsense rule stickler who viewed all newcomers as potential trouble until proven otherwise. A shade over five feet, Price relished the role of being Princeton’s Napoleon.
“Name!” Price barked.
“Preston Swedge,” he replied, towering over Price.
Price walked behind the reception desk, retrieving a room key and a sheet of paper. Holding them at arms length he said, “You are responsible for your key and will be charged for a replacement. The rules of the house are listed on this sheet of paper.” The corners of his razor thin mustache rose as a grin appeared on his face. “Mr. Johnson seems to have trouble comprehending what he reads. Mr. Swedge, I trust you don’t have the same problem.”
Preston took the key and paper. Price returned to his position in front of the desk.
Preston and Clark climbed an oak staircase to the second floor landing. “I told you he was a prick,” Clark said, laughing loudly.
“Getting on the wrong side of the housemaster in the first twenty-four hours must be a record,” Preston said.
Clark shrugged his shoulders, turned left, and proceeded to the end of the hall. Clark unlocked the door to room #22, ushering Preston into a living room furnished with two fireside chairs, a coffee table, and a settee. A bedroom was on either side of the room.
“I took the liberty of taking the bedroom on the left,” Johnson said. “Call over to admissions and ask them to send up your gear.”
Preston walked into his bedroom, taking stock in the fact that it wasn’t far removed from the configuration at Choate—twin bed, maple desk with matching ladder-back chair and four drawer dresser. The lone closet was smaller than the broom closet in the family’s Park Avenue apartment. A hand lettered sign tacked above the desk read, “IF YOU CAN’T BAFFLE ‘EM WITH KNOWLEDGE BAFFLE ‘EM WITH BULLSHIT”
With the blinds raised, a faint movement of air could be felt through the screens of the triple windows. Preston moved the twin bed next to the windows then returned to the living room where Johnson was stretched out on the small sofa with his eyes closed and his hands clasped on his chest.
Preston knew nothin
g about Clark Johnson except he was from Michigan. “I’ve been to Detroit a couple of times. What part of the city do you live?” he said, trying to break the ice. The exchange on the landing bothered Preston. He had the same roommate for four years at Choate and maintained the relationship after graduation. This one was going to be a challenge. Changing roommates wasn’t an option.
Without opening his eyes, Clark replied, “I come from Bloomfield, twenty miles outside the city. I hate to go to Detroit. I don’t know how you can live in New York City.”
Preston walked to the windows. “Times Square, Broadway, restaurants, and the Yankees make it the greatest city in the country.”
“I hate the Yankees,” Clark said, taking a peek at Preston who hadn’t moved. “The Tigers got a good chance to take them this year.”
“Fat chance,” Preston said. “Ever been to New York City?”
Clark sat up. “Why do you think I hate it? I’ve traveled to the cesspool by the Hudson with my father on more occasions then I want to remember.”
Seeing how the Michigan native was pleased with himself in having tweaked Ellis Price, Preston didn’t know if Clark was serious or joking. “What does daddy do for a living?”
From his pants’ pocket, Clark removed a pack of Lucky Strikes and a box of matches. “Smoke?” he asked, offering a cigarette to Preston.
“No thanks,” Preston said, reading a copy of the house rules on the coffee table. “Smoking isn’t permitted in the room.”
Clark tamped a cigarette on the table and struck a match on the sole of his shoe, exhaling a plume of smoke. He picked up the sheet of paper from the table, crumbled it, and tossed it toward the door. “Those are Price’s rules, not the university’s. Screw him.”
House of Ghosts Page 5
