Ghosts of Harvard

by Francesca Serritella

  “You may never be able to make sense of it. It’s best not to—”

  “But it’s like you were saying today in class—just because someone is mentally ill doesn’t mean you should discount everything they say, or every perception they have about themselves.” Her mouth was going dry, but that only made her talk faster.

  Professor Bernstein’s brow furrowed as he nodded slowly. “I did say that.”

  “My brother was working with a physics professor, Professor Prokop. Do you know her?”

  “Not well, but I know who she is.”

  “She had my brother as her assistant until late in the game, I mean, he was very sick. Why would a professor want a mentally ill student to be her lab assistant? That doesn’t make sense, right? There’s not like, some Harvard protocol that would make her keep him on, is there?”

  “Not that I’m aware of, but I’m not sure where you’re going with this, or if I’m the one to help you.” He sat back in his chair, eyeing her. “How do you feel now that you’re at Harvard? Hard to focus?”

  “Sorry, I know I was rambling a bit just then.” She forced a laugh; she knew she had pushed it too far. “Just today set me off, really. Normally it’s great.” “Great” was too much, she should’ve said “fine.”

  “Do you ever feel depressed or anxious?”

  She smiled and shrugged, but he just gazed at her calmly in return. It made her nervous. “You’re worried I have it in me, the suicide gene? Diathesis-stressor theory, right?”

  “Not at all. Genetics is one small piece of a very large puzzle. I’m just asking how you’re holding up.”

  “I’m okay, thanks.” She started to gather her things.

  “If you change your mind”—he stopped her before she rose from the chair—“here’s the info of a psychiatrist in Boston, Dr. Sharon Miller. I went to med school with her, she’s terrific.” He wrote her name and number down on an orange Post-it and passed it to her. “Grief is serious business.”

  Cady took it and thanked him.

  As she was leaving, he added, “Do your best on the exam Friday. I can’t cut you any breaks, I don’t even grade them, my grad students do. But I can offer you this advice: Keep it in perspective. It’s only a test—meaningless in the grand scheme of things.”

  Precisely.

  35

  Cady threw the Post-it into a trash bin on her way out of William James Hall. She didn’t need someone else meddling in her mind right now, rehashing her most painful emotions and memories. Perhaps there would be a time for that, but it wasn’t now, not when she felt she was on the cusp of breaking through with Eric’s last year. She needed to stay focused. Lee was certain Eric and Prokop had been having an affair, but Nikos dismissed it out of hand, and he knew Eric much better. But if it wasn’t romantic, what could account for Prokop’s favoritism as his mental illness worsened? Why give someone with paranoid schizophrenia access to privileged information? She strode up Quincy Street circling over the question.

  She was passing Lamont Library on her way home when a pigeon pecking on the ground caught her attention. She recognized the white feathers on one wing; it was the one from Sunday.

  “How you doing, little buddy? Staying away from windows?” Cady took several steps toward him, but he toddled quickly away from her. She followed him. She wanted to pursue him enough that he took flight, to reassure herself that he still could after his accident. But he only seemed to hustle faster, veering left and flutter-hopping down the outdoor stairs to Wigglesworth, the same area she and Alex had placed him the other day. “C’mon, buddy, fly.” He stopped at the shrubbery in front of Wigglesworth Hall, almost seeming to wait for Cady to catch up. When she did, the bird finally took flight toward the back of Lamont, passing over an iron gate and down a path that Cady had never seen before.

  Dense foliage along the pathway prevented Cady from seeing where it led, but she followed it around the bend, the fallen yellow leaves making a hushing sound as she walked deeper, and the hubbub of campus and the square quieted. Soon it opened onto an intimate, enclosed garden with a sundial in the center. The red brick of the surrounding walls could hardly be seen beneath the ivy that poured over the sides and pooled at the feet of a long, curving stone bench nestled into the trees. What was once a grand wrought-iron gateway to Mass Ave had been walled off so that only the gate’s embellished crown of spears remained visible from where Cady stood. The sharply peaked archway above the gate was so cloaked in ivy that its every edge was softened, and its black lantern seemed to hang from the vines like fruit. Only on the lower front wall were the curtains of ivy parted, so the engraving could be read: in memory of thomas dudley governor of the colony of the massachusetts bay, followed by a lengthy inscription.

  The peace and privacy of this space felt good. Cady took a seat on the bench, inhaled deeply, and let her breath out.

  This is good, no one will see us here. Bilhah’s voice sounded close, like she was whispering at Cady’s neck. It’s time, I need you.

  Okay, I’m here. What’s your plan?

  Tonight’s the night I take Eli to the church. We’ll walk all night.

  What will you say to Holyoke when he notices Eli is gone?

  Nobody in the big house hardly noticed he was born. They placed the ad in the paper already: “a Negro baby, too young to work, free for the taking.” Master can think someone answered it, likely won’t give it another thought.

  How old is Eli?

  Almost four. I don’t know his birthday, or mine own. Nobody wrote down my baby’s birthday, or my name, certainly not his father’s name. They only thing they write for us is our price. Because they think we nobody. But a nobody can be anybody. And now my baby gon’ be somebody new.

  Aren’t you worried he’ll ask after you?

  Eli won’t talk.

  Because you told him not to? He’s so young, can he understand the seriousness?

  No, he don’t talk. He understands well enough, he hears all right, but he never said a word in his life. I been able to protect him somewhat so far. But him being mute will get him beat when he’s older, they whip you for not answering fast enough same as they whip you for talking out of turn. People think he’s dumb. I say he’s too smart. If you seen what he seen, you wouldn’t talk neither.

  Cady didn’t want to even think about it.

  Him being mute mean he don’t have to keep this secret.

  A disabled black child born into slavery in 1765. Cady didn’t think worse odds were possible, and yet Bilhah had found a way to turn it to her advantage. This mother’s love wasn’t only fierce, it was genius. But the cost to her …

  What other choice do I have? No Negro in this land ever been born under a lucky star. Curses all we got. But I learned from poison you can make medicine. From curses I’ll make blessings. My curse is that I don’t own my child. Eli was of my own body, and I don’t own him. I don’t own my body neither. By natural law I do, but by the white man’s laws of paper and ink, I own nothing. You can steal something with gunpowder. You can hold something down by chains. But you own it with paper. I am owned. I am not free.

  I serve Master Holyoke and his guests nightly in the salon, scholars, merchants, generals, important men. Lately all they do is talk of freedom. They complain they are “slaves” to the Crown. These learned men don’t know the meaning of the word. They do not blush to speak of this before me, I’m invisible to them, till they need more coffee or more rum. But with passion that moves them from their seats, they argue over so many papers, they labor over what is written, how to write it anew. They want to write a new nation into being. They will write this country a new story, as its new fathers.

  The Founding Fathers.

  The right to be one’s own master, the right to rule oneself. They will write their life, liberty—

  … and the pursuit of happiness.

  But I’m
like my son. I don’t talk, I listen. I am not dumb like they think I am, and I learned well. They want to write their way to freedom. I want to do the same for my son.

  Yesterday I was the ink blot on my son’s life, today I write his freedom with it.

  With your help.

  What do you mean? What can I do?

  I need you to write the note I’ll pin to my son’s shirt. I stole paper and ink from the master’s study. I couldn’t get my hand on one of his quill pens, but I’ve got this white feather I trimmed the tip of with a paring knife.

  But I can’t use your paper and ink.

  Please, you said you would help—

  And I will, the only question is how. I can’t see you, your world, or anything in it. Can you see me?

  Yes, of course.

  Here— Cady pulled the blue notebook out of her bag and flipped to the blank pages at the back. —What if I write it with my own paper and pen, and you copy what I put down?

  I told you, I don’t know my letters—

  But can you copy it like a drawing? Trace over it? I’ll write it really dark, just put your paper over mine and redraw the lines. We’ll keep it short. It’s the only way I can think to do it.

  I’ll try.

  All right. What do you want it to say?

  Say, “God have mercy on this orphan, guide him to a Christian home.”

  Now watch me, I’m going to write it for you here, see?—and Cady wrote slowly, in heavy block letters:

  god have mercy on this orphan

  guide him to a christian home

  It’s too small. My hand is shaking. I’m afraid I’ll make a mistake.

  Okay, okay, don’t worry, let me try again. I’ll try to do it better for you.—Cady wrote it again below the first message, only much bigger and with more space between the letters. She redrew the lines over and over to make the letters dark and thick. At one point, she pressed so hard that her pen pushed through the paper. Cady cursed under her breath.

  Hold on, wait, I’ll do it fresh on another page.

  Cady started over on the next page, trying hard to make this one perfect, dark, and clear.

  GOD HAVE MERCY ON THIS ORPHAN

  GUIDE HIM TO A CHRISTIAN HOME

  Cady pushed the notebook away from her to the edge of her knees.—Can you see it through your paper to trace?

  I’m trying, I got to go slow.

  In the sanctity of this secret garden, on this bench shaped like a pew, Cady bowed her head and prayed. She prayed that Bilhah’s plan would work, that neither she nor Eli would ever be caught or punished. She prayed that Eli would be able to live a life of opportunity and joy, that his mother’s sacrifice would be worth it. She prayed Bilhah might be able to see Eli again, at least to be reassured he was all right, or watch over him. She prayed Bilhah might find a way to escape herself.

  Cady opened her eyes. Clouds passed quickly over the sun, chasing shadows over the sundial.

  There, Bilhah said. I’m done now.

  The note?

  Everything. I think this will do it.

  Cady broke into a smile of relief. Relief and wonder—that space-time, like the piece of parchment Bilhah now had in her hands, could fold past over present, more than two centuries apart. She couldn’t comprehend exactly how it was happening, but as Professor Prokop said, the universe will always have its secrets.

  Cady wished she could check it for her—You’re sure it looks the same as the one I wrote for you?

  I’ve never been more careful. It’s his letter of freedom.

  I only wish it didn’t have to be free from me.

  36

  When Nikos had texted her to meet for dinner, Cady leaped at the chance. At the end of a relentlessly heavy day, she craved his levity like oxygen. He said to meet him at Lowell’s squash court, located beneath Entryway A. Like many of the older river houses, Lowell had an underground tunnel network connecting rooms for various purposes, and Cady descended the damp, cool steps, trying to remember the building super’s directions. She passed the first few doors and knew she’d reached the right one when she heard the squeaking of sneakers and the hollow smack of a ball.

  She pushed open the door and saw the backs of Nikos and a friend whacking the ball on the court in front of her, separated by a wall of Plexiglas. The sounds of play were amplified in the echo chamber of a room, and the whap and pop of the ball was so loud, Cady flinched each time it hit. The court itself was little more than a windowless white box. The lines painted on the floor and walls offered some points of visual perspective, but the room gave a surreal, claustrophobic impression.

  It was funny to see Nikos this way; Cady hadn’t thought of him as an athlete. Maybe it was the accent, but he registered as an intellectual, somewhat effete. She could never have imagined him sweating before. But now, as he lunged forward to hit a low ball and his shirt rode up, she noticed the taught muscles of his V-shaped back.

  “Cadence!” He turned around when he caught sight of her, and the ball bounced easily to his partner who nailed it with his racquet. “That one didn’t count,” Nikos called over his shoulder as he jogged over. He opened the door of the court, and a puff of warm, musky air escaped, a gym-sock smell made Cady scrunch her nose. “Sorry, we’re just about finishing up here,” he said. His thick hair was pulled up off his brow with an elastic headband, and his face looked flushed and healthy with a sheen of perspiration. “He’s lagging, and I only have to score two points in order to beat this prat beyond recovery. Do you mind waiting?” The intonation of his question tilted down in that particular British way Cady loved.

  “Sure, no problem. Good luck.”

  “Thanks, love. Luck won’t be necessary.”

  Nikos sealed himself back inside the steamy court and Cady returned to the bench to watch. Both men were drenched in sweat, like they had been at it a long time. His opponent was an attractive Indian guy she didn’t recognize; he was well-built and taller than Nikos, but he looked exhausted, standing drop-shouldered, wiping his face with the bottom of his shirt. Nikos, on the other hand, looked feverish with excitement.

  His friend started with a powerful serve, but Nikos was agile and twice as fast. Nikos positioned himself toward the center of the court, and with quick, darting movements, managed to send his opponent running back and forth across the court. Cady didn’t know much about squash, but she could tell Nikos was the better tactician of the two. Each player struck the ball only twice before Nikos sent the ball out of his partner’s reach and scored. They set up again, and this time the play was more even with each volleying the ball back and forth, crossing each other on the small court.

  Cady watched through squinted eyes as the players narrowly avoided collision. Nikos feinted with an intentionally short shot, but the other player anticipated and returned it with surprising force, sending the ball far to the right of where Nikos stood. Cady was sure he would miss, but he dove for it, stretching his compact body as far as possible, and caught the ball with the edge of his racquet before crash landing. But when the ball landed next, his partner was nowhere near it.

  “Yes!” Nikos shouted, while the loser cussed and sent his racquet clattering to the floor. He trailed behind as Nikos burst through the door. “Did you see that?” he asked Cady with the unbridled enthusiasm of a child.

  She couldn’t help but laugh. “Yes, I saw it. Good job! That looked so intense.”

  “I’m sorry to keep you waiting, but we were tied, I couldn’t leave it unfinished.” Nikos wiped his face with his shirt.

  When his defeated partner approached, Cady introduced herself and shook his clammy hand.

  “Goodness, how rude of me.” Nikos took over. “Rahul this is Cadence, Cadence, Rahul. Cadence is a charming freshman whom I’ve tricked into spending time with me. And Rahul, when he isn’t trying fruitlessly to beat me at squash, is a senior gov
ernment concentrator in Adams house.”

  “Sociology,” Rahul corrected.

  “Whatever, one of the easy ones.”

  Rahul rolled his eyes. “You’re like an aggro nerd, man. Anyway, good game.”

  “Thanks, it was.” Nikos shook his hand. “Maybe next time for you, too.”

  “Nice meeting you,” Cady said. Rahul reciprocated with only a nod.

  Nikos hiked his gym bag over his shoulder and guided Cady out of the court, leaning close to her ear with a grin. “He fucking hates me right now.”

  On the way out of Lowell, Nikos was practically skipping down the dank basement hallway as Cady followed behind. “I’ve never seen you so giddy,” she said.

  “I won! That’s like pure adrenaline to me. I get amped.” Nikos jumped up to smack his palm against a pipe running along the ceiling, then spun around to face her. “And that was a great game, you know, really close, that’s how I like it, I like the win to mean something.”

  “Did you ever play competitively?”

  “I play everything competitively,” Nikos said with a smirk. “But yes, I played on my school’s team before university, but now it’s only a hobby. I have more important pursuits that demand my attention.”

  “Like your Bauer project?”

  “Among other things.” Nikos looked at her, and a rare sweetness came over his expression. “Would you mind if we stopped at my room? It’s G-41, it’s not far. I need a quick shower before we go, I’m revolting.”

  “Sure.” Cady paused. “Do you want me to wait for you in the dining hall?”

  “No, not a’tall. Come to my room, my roommate is abroad this semester, so it’s not cramped like the freshman dorms, and I’ll only be a minute.”

  Nikos’s room didn’t look like the average dorm room. It had a fireplace on one wall and a large window overlooking Lowell’s courtyard. But more than the architectural perks, what made it stand out was the way it was decorated. There was no TV atop a microwave-mini-fridge combo or lumpy, stained futon. Instead, two tall bookshelves flanked a cherry-wood desk, and nearby, an elegant armchair looked like it would be comfy if the seat weren’t stacked high with more books. In place of the standard-issue metal-framed single bed, he had a queen-sized one, neatly made with clean white linens. It looked like the home of a civilized human being instead of a college-age male.