by Emma Lathen
Thatcher trying to retain some interest in life, scrupulously asked about the four, the mystery quartet immortalized by Patterson.
“Don’t remember any of them,” said his host cheerfully. “Another Scotch?”
Gloomily Thatcher accepted and prowled around the crowded room, continuing his self-appointed task. Patterson’s Four Horsemen had not made a lasting impression on anyone.
“Not Big Men on Campus,” concluded someone.
George was signaling from beyond the sofa. Beside him Lucy engaged a distinguished looking man with a beard of the Commander Whitehead trimmed variety, not the scraggly hippie kind.
“Yes,” he said wearily to Lucy. “Yes I know both Patterson and Baxter. All I seem to do these days is explain to people I know them.”
There was a murmur of sympathy. Life was hard now on anyone in Patterson’s orbit, no matter how casually or accidently.
“I had lunch with Patterson about six weeks ago. He didn’t say he planned to steal a packet.” This was delivered with fine academic irony. “Alec Baxter I haven’t seen since last spring. He’s gone crazy.”
His audience perked up. Incoherent sounds of encouragement were offered. “I’m the art director at Funston Advertising,” the beard continued. “We were planning a big magazine campaign for one of our clients. Very slick. We needed some high class watercolors, formalized but vigorous. I thought of Alex. It was a chance in a million. And do you know what he said?”
“What,” Lucy said dutifully.
“He said he didn’t want to tie himself down to that big a commitment. Now I ask you.”
There was no need to pursue further inquiries. That had been Baxter’s last free lunch on this particular expense account. The beard could be ruthless.
Soon the threat of distinguished visitors from Oxford propelled them into departure. Hasty withdrawal down the stairways, past youthful couples, past revelry, and past noise.
“Night,” said Thatcher, drawing a deep breath. The campus lights were confettied along the paths, shadowed by the pines. The lights from dorms, clubs, gyms, and faculty houses looked warm and inviting.
“Here’s the Deke house,” George announced, leading the way up to a sinister looking Victorian mansion. Reluctantly Lucy and John followed.
Dekes of earlier days were present. They were accepting drinks, looking fondly at battered furniture, and congregating around the fireplace, telling other past Dekes about the goings on of their sons. Current Dekes bustled about, projecting deference to their elders, and waiting impatiently for them to leave so their party could begin. Some hotheads could not wait. From an ominously darkened dining room came catatonic rhythms and female giggles.
Lucy said, “I wish I were the kind of woman who could get away with fainting. But what good would it do? George would just revive me and we’d have to go on.” George looked as if he were going to launch into a catalog of horrors that had been the alternative to this way of passing the evening.
“Good night,” murmured Thatcher, catching sight of something worse than what which had gone before as Sprague, escaped from some chaperone, was grandly gesturing with an amber glass and a man among men routine.
“Yes, I saw Patterson,” he said with grave intentness. “It was after you left,” as he nodded towards Ralph and Dunlop, who formed part of the circle around him. Here in the Deke house everyone was fascinated with Patterson’s fall from grace.
“He was the dullest man we pledged in over 20 years,” someone confided to Thatcher.
“We sat together for 10 minutes. I’d say after all the other kids cleared out.” Sprague seemed to feel his narrative lacked dramatic tension so he lowered his voice and continued, “You tell he was nervous, on edge. Oh he tried to hide it, but it was the little things that gave him away such as dropping his briefcase and everything spilling out.”
“That’s Elliot for you,” said an irreverent voice. “A butterfingers to the end.”
The circle started to break up. Carter made a last bid for attention. “I picked his things up for him. He couldn’t have done it himself. His fingers were literally out of control.”
A murmur of doubt greeted this announcement. Thatcher had already registered the fact that Sprague was gingering up his official version of Patterson’s last public moments.
“Did you notice any of this concealed tension?” someone asked Ralph with open skepticism.
“Well …” Ralph evaded tactfully.
Thatcher’s confidant saw the opportunity for some baiting. “You boys aren’t the noticing kind I guess. After all, even if he wasn’t trembling like a leaf, he was sitting across the table from you with $50,000 he had just pocketed. All that time before you started to interview kids, he must have been a little nervous. And the way I remember it, when Elliot was nervous it showed.”
“No, no, you’ve got it all wrong,” Dunlop protested. “He hadn’t taken it yet. We put all the Curtis stuff back in the files together. Elliot took it after we left. And,” he said looking defiantly around the room, “I still don’t think Elliot stole it. I think he was just keeping it for Kitchener when something else caught up with him.”
This provoked a division of sentiment from the slightly muzzy onlookers. One faction derisively reminded Dunlop of Patterson preparations for a skip. The other group, equally decisively, maintained that Elliot was too wet to have pulled anything like this off.
There was yet a third reaction. Sprague, seeing his one claim to adult prominence slipping away, interjected, “But that couldn’t be right.”
Dunlop made the mistake of speaking as a man to a boy. Clapping a friendly hand on Sprague’s shoulder he said, “Now, now. You don’t understand. Everybody really likes Elliot a lot. You’ll understand these things better when you’re a fraternity man yourself.”
Resentment was his only thanks. Sprague leaned back against the wall in a posture meant to convey airily casual. Thatcher was willing to bet he could no longer remain upright without swaying. It soon became apparent however that others were either taken in or felt no responsibility to interfere with Sprague’s social education.
Someone about to forage at the bar took orders. “Three Od Grand Dads, a Jamieson, and two Red Labels, right?”
Sprague pushed himself erect and thrust his jaw out, “No, not two Red Labels,” he said clearly.
The drink bearer shrugged his shoulders. “Okay son. Three Red Labels. Will that satisfy you?”
But Sprague was back against the wall, his moment of clarity over. He giggled slightly as he slurred his words, “Just one Red Label, tha’sall.”
Ralph and Dunlop exchanged looks. But Ralph contented himself with a grimace. It was not the habit at the Deke house to control drinking. Au contraire.
Dunlop edged towards Lucy in search for support. “He’s really had enough,” he said, sounding quite young himself.
“Isn’t anyone supposed to keep an eye on him?” Lucy remarked. “He is only a boy.”
Thatcher pointed out that this boy would be very sick soon. Happily, before Lucy’s crusading instincts could lead her to forget they were guests, and unwelcome ones at that, George finished his low voiced conferrings and announced it was time to go over to Franklin House.
The reception at Franklin House featured an underpatronized buffet boasting baked ham, a salad, and edible bread. Lucy and John attacked it with enthusiasm. This was not difficult since the bar at the other end of the room was doing most of the going business. Here too liquor was flowing like water. Evidence was provided by a glassy eyed Marsden, muttering thickly and incoherently in a corner. But at Franklin House feelings were running high too.
“Look,” said a stocky man backing into John as George stalked him. “I’m getting fed up with these questions about Patterson.” John carefully removed from his sleeve traces of potato salad that had been jostled on to him. George opened his mouth but his victim was implacable. “First it’s some clown of a dean. Then those police. Now you. I didn’t come
here from South Dakota to spend my time being grilled.”
A general growl of support rose from the bystanders. Another man equipped with a full glass took up the refrain. “We’ve told everybody what little we know about Patterson. Most of us don’t even remember him. He wasn’t a big man here.”
From behind a hostile file a mocking voice yodeled, “Don’t forget the Chapel Association.”
George tried to soothe ruffled feelings. “It’s all very unfortunate,” he said. Interestedly Lucy filled up her paper plate with a third helping. Thatcher reached for a cup of coffee. “But you understand how serious this is. These questions about Patterson are necessary.”
“I’m fed up with Patterson,” said the house spokesman again. Carefully putting down his cup and saucer John advanced to George’s side.
“George,” he said, “the natives are getting restless.”
“All right,” he conceded. “We will forget about Patterson for now.” Unfortunately he then went on to ask about the elusive quartet in tones suggesting they were out to better the Brink’s caper.
This time there was a howl of unadulterated rage. “I’m Hank Perkins.” A goaded little man rose pugnaciously from a chair. “Look. I haven’t heard of Patterson in 15 years. I don’t know anything about the other three. I don’t know why Elliot had my name, unless he thought he was going to start some con games and lining up suckers. But if this goes on I’m going to sue somebody about something.”
Thereafter it seemed wisest to abandon further inquiries. Ralph’s entrance, traveling the same circuit they were, provided a welcome diversion. The hours flowed by and the Scotch with it.
Then the proceedings were enlivened by Marsden collapsing, whose incoherence had not been quite comprehensive enough to conceal the offensive tenor of his remarks. There he lay, a shocking spectacle in his dishevelment, a surprisingly heavy beard appearing on his cheeks. The frequenters of Franklin House reunion parties were hardened to such sights, however, and they peered owlishly down at the fallen figure. Then, with boozy good nature, Ralph and two others hoisted the slight burden and disappeared up the stairway.
“Bodies, bodies everywhere tonight,” commented an unknown with collegiate pride.
Thereafter nothing of interest happened except that one civic minded citizen asked Lucy to lend her Cezanne for a museum exhibition at Purdue, and an equally large minded colleague tried to proposition her.
When she was telling George about this latter even on their way to the president’s house, she confided that, at 55 this sort of thing really bucked one up.
“It’s what you should expect,” said her husband severely, “when you run around looking 15 years younger than you are.” This remark was naturally satisfactory to Lucy. What’s more it went a long way towards restoring George himself to a good mood. The three proceeded to the big white house under the clear star spangled sky wrapped in a mantle of quiet contentment.
Even John, retiring to bed, felt rather tired, appropriately drunk, was very happy.
Chapter 14
Chapel is Required
Ideally Sunday breakfast should be a leisurely affair, allowing time for extended consideration of a bulky Sunday paper. For one brief moment, when John awoke that morning he anticipated this ritual with lazy pleasure. Then he realized where he was. It was God and Country at Dartmouth. Sunday breakfast at 8 and chapel at 10.
But the amenities of the president’s house were sybaritic enough to sustain John’s general and undeserved sense of well-being, a hard head being one of his happier possessions. By the time he had showered, he decided that an ancient and beautiful campus, wooded mountains, and tonic New England air provided a salutary departure from his city routine.
He was even hungry, he noted, leaving his room and heading downstairs. More to the point, after chapel and lunch, John and the Lancers were returning to the city. It was all very satisfactory and John was quite content to tread the stately measure of academic procession in the meantime.
The faint strains of Gaudeamus Igitur, the serious Latin lyrics from the 13th century common at major academic celebrations, were heard in the background before being dispelled almost immediately by George and Lucy who were down already, with Lucy bright eyed as if yesterday never happened.
“Morning, John,” said George over a noble stack of pancakes. “Lyman asked us to go ahead. He’ll try to join us later. He had to go over to his office just now.”
Belatedly John grew aware that in the distance a phone was ringing. Furthermore, barely visible in the corridor, serious young men bustled about with papers, pencils, and other evidence of endeavor.”
“Ah yes,” he said settling himself down before a large glass of orange juice. It was not his place to advance criticism about Dartmouth but in all honesty this early morning Sunday activity did not impress him favorably. After all, George and he ran the third largest bank in the world without wrecking Sunday mornings. At least not their own.
Something along those lines must have struck George for he commented, “Todd impresses me as a capable fellow. Old Chaffee was fine, but toward the end, there’s no doubt he wasn’t able to give Dartmouth the attention it demands.”
Lucy took up the conversation, unerringly replying to what her husband left unsaid. “But what attention does Dartmouth require at this hour on Sunday morning?”
The answer to this reasonable question was not slow in coming. “Oh, isn’t Mr. Todd here?” A horn-rimmed young man peered blearily around the dining room. Upon learning that the president was in his office he apologized for the interruption and explained, “It’s the phone company. They insist that the college guarantee payment.”
Observing that this did not clarify matter, he meticulously added an explanatory footnote. “Three seniors, and their dates, smashed into a phone pole on Route 46 last night. Took the pole right down. Knocked out a lot of service too. That’s why the company is being sticky about everything.”
His calm recital startled Lucy into inquiry about injuries. Without visible emotion, the young man rapidly ran down an appalling list of broken legs, scalp lacerations, concussions, and possible internal injuries, then checked his watch, and set off for Todd’s office.
“There you are,” said George. “That kind of emergency obviously explains why he has been called upon to deal with things personally.” Another outburst from the distant phone suggested to John this might be a gross oversimplification. And before breakfast was over, the bankers had been presented with a persuasive sample of what keeps college presidents busy. It was transmitted by young men who hurried in and out of the dining room, and by Todd himself, arriving with his guest’s second cup of coffee. He was rosy cheeked from the cold buoyant air with energy and manifestly on top of things.
“Sorry to be late,” he announced cheerfully. “And Mrs. Todd can’t be here because she’s presiding over the Family Breakfast down at Wiswall.”
“The accident?” Lucy asked conscientiously.
“Which accident?” Todd replied, proceeding to give his guests an astonishing birds eye view of higher education in America. There had been four separate accidents involving Dartmouth people during the night, one of them destined to deprive the English department of a Yeats expert for six weeks. No fatalities as yet, but parents and other loved ones were speeding up to the campus to attend to their wounded. A small fire in one of the freshman dorms had caused some anxiety, 700 dollars’ worth of smoke damage and a visit from the town fire department. Two young women had been discovered at a compromising time in circumstances all too clearly proscribed by the parietal rules and Dartmouth’s honor system. One member attending his 50th reunion had suffered a heart attack that necessitated his being taken to the local hospital where he was recovering.
“Then there are the usual losts,” said Todd. “This time two husbands from recent classes did not turn up at their motels according to their wives. Three sophomores from Franklin House were found sleeping in their cars. A couple of those sc
hool boys from New York didn’t end up in their own beds. They’ll turn up somewhere. They always do.”
On the whole Thatcher was pleased that he had been spared this insight into academic administration until his own sons had put college behind them. “Are there any other … er … Homecoming characteristics?”
With fork arrested Todd thought for a moment. He was not intellectually given to theory, the way Assistant Deans are. “Liquor,” he finally decided. “People who rarely drink apparently find it impossible to spend two days here without soaking it up steadily.”
His guests were in no position to contradict him.
“And chapel,” Todd continued judicially. “People who never attend chapel, who aren’t regular churchgoers, always turn out for chapel here. Makes quite a jam. That reminds me. Do you know what else happened this morning?”
They were afraid to ask. “Somebody called my office,” Todd said. “They said Patterson had walked into Franklin House in the early hours this morning.”
He savored their surprise, then, with a practiced chuckle, added, “That’s another characteristic of Homecomings, Mr. Thatcher. Practical jokes. You would not believe the number of times we have had to get a VW out of the second story of the Science building. Well I think perhaps we’d better get going.”
As they arose George cleared his throat and suggested that dismissing Patterson’s possible reappearance as a prank might not be wise. Todd projected full agreement. “Oh that hasn’t escaped me, he reassured Lancer. “I sent Billings over to check the minutes I heard about it. But nobody at Franklin knew anything about it. And nobody admits making the call. Still, George, if Patterson has turned up … well. But don’t worry. I’ve put Ed Webster on it.”
Lucy and John led the way out into the brilliant cold morning. The great carillon was ringing with summons to worship. But snatches of surrounding conversation proved that things of this world were weighing heavily at the moment. The disappearance of Patterson had caused Dartmouth nothing but trouble. Perhaps this was why some of its sons did not regard his return as an unmixed blessing.
