The Emperor was starting to gray at the temples, but his sturdy arrangement of black hair looked strong and determined. He was an extremely handsome man, and it was easy to see where Dalton had gotten his looks.
“Evening, sir,” Dalton and I said in unison. We were in the room for barely a minute before one of the servants had a tray of caviar-stuffed pastries under our noses and glasses of red wine in our hands. I never really liked wine, but it was only one of many things I tolerated while at the Winthrops.
“You both made it all right,” Mrs. Winthrop said. She said the same thing every time we walked into that room, almost as if she expected us to get lost or killed on the way. It bugged the hell out of Dalton, and it always brought another nudge of his fist into my side.
“All in one piece, Mother,” Dalton said. “As always.”
“Good evening, Mrs. Winthrop,” I said.
Mrs. Winthrop was several years younger than the Emperor, and she was still his perfect match. Pretty in a WASPish way, thin, strong chin, her dyed-blond hair coiffed and sprayed away from her face and flipped at her shoulder. She wore conservative dresses and simple scarves. Mrs. Winthrop’s one extravagance was jewelry. She knocked around in the kind of gems you’d expect royalty to wear to coronations. She didn’t wear a lot of it at once, but whatever she had on, you knew damn well that it cost some poor soul his life trying to mine it and Mr. Winthrop a good chunk of his fortune when he bought it. Tonight, she wore a pair of teardrop diamond-and-ruby earrings with a matching cocktail ring that practically blinded me when she lifted her glass.
The Emperor introduced the stiff couple sitting on the couch as Mr. and Mrs. Gilbert Hodge and their daughter standing by the fireplace as Melanie.
“Melanie is a sophomore at Smith,” the Emperor seemed pleased to inform us. “She’s studying the classics.”
Melanie did everything but curtsy, for chrissake, and I expected that Dalton was going to have a field day with her over dinner. We walked over and shook her hand and struck up a mindless conversation while the adults went on about horses and their imminent preparations for opening neighboring winter houses in West Palm Beach. I drifted in and out of Dalton’s conversation, throwing in a couple of opinions when he called my name or attempting humor when the awkward silence crept up. I was keeping an eye out for Sophia, but only Tate and Wendell made the rounds.
At precisely eight o’clock, the Emperor stood from his throne, indicating that it was time to move the party along. He led the processional down the great hall into the main dining room, which offered some of the most spectacular views of the city. The long rectangular glass table that was normally there had been replaced with a circular one to make the affair more intimate. Mrs. Winthrop always obsessed over the proper seating arrangement, making sure Dalton and I never sat next to each other. So, I got stuck between the Hodges, while Dalton, as you might’ve expected, found Melanie planted on his right. Another seating rule was that the Emperor always anchored the table by sitting underneath the Cézanne.
Among other things, Dalton hated the way these dinners always seemed scripted by the Emperor.
“What do you make of this election season?” the Emperor said. It was customary to wait for him to choose the first topic of conversation.
“God-awful,” Mr. Hodge said. “Dukakis stands no chance against Vice President Bush. He’s a lightweight. Even worse, a card-carrying left-wing liberal!”
“He’s even admitted he’s a card-carrying member of the ACLU for God’s sake,” Mrs. Hodges said. “How can he be trusted to run the country?”
Dalton leaned into me and whispered, “Emp just got himself in a big bind.”
“But what does Bush really stand for?” the Emperor said. “He sits at Reagan’s knee, hasn’t really done anything as vice president to strike out on his own.”
“Speaking of vice presidents, his own choice of a running partner wasn’t the smartest of picks,” Mrs. Winthrop said. “Quayle might be handsome and all that, but a brick for a brain. For the life of me, I can’t figure out what prompted Bush to make such a silly decision.”
“Are you all really considering voting for a Democrat?” Mr. Hodges said, full of indignation. He locked eyes with the Emperor, who then looked down and fussed with his silverware.
“It’s a quandary,” Dalton interjected. “I’m sure no Winthrop has voted for a Democrat since Grover Cleveland. Maybe even further back when the Dems were the more conservative party, fighting for states’ rights and segregation. But the real problem is that Bush created the ultimate sin, Mr. Hodges, and it wasn’t choosing a brickhead for his running mate. Bush and his entire family enrolled in that little school down in New Haven, Connecticut. There’s nothing that will get you on the other side of the Winthrop fighting line faster than an allegiance or association with Yale.” Dalton smiled widely. “It’s either pulling the lever for liberal Dukakis or sitting this one out.”
The Emperor looked like the he was about to choke. The first shot had been fired. I was surprised it had taken so long.
The staff arrived with the first course, steamed asparagus wrapped in smoked beef carpaccio. I didn’t care for vegetables, especially the crunchy kind like asparagus, but I could hear my mother’s voice in the back of my head telling me to remember my manners and eat what was put before me. I poured a generous helping of dressing on it to add some flavor and pretended to enjoy it. Sophia finally made her appearance. Dalton winked at me from across the table. I caught the Emperor looking at her as she leaned in to set the plates down. Mrs. Winthrop loudly cleared her throat.
“I’m more concerned about the future of the party,” the Emperor said. “We experienced unprecedented economic growth under Reagan. I just don’t know if Bush has what it takes to keep the trains rolling.”
“And the racist Willie Horton ads aren’t a problem for you?” Dalton shot back.
My stomach immediately tightened. I should’ve expected Dalton to go there, but I was praying like hell he wouldn’t. No one would look in my direction.
“Those ads were repulsive,” Mrs. Winthrop said. “Completely inappropriate and not at all constructive to the political discourse. Atwater and his cronies who created it are an embarrassment to those of us who maintain our integrity even at the deepest level of disagreement.”
“Well said,” Mrs. Hodges joined in. Dalton smiled at the Emperor’s noticeable silence.
Battle one to Dalton.
“Melanie just became president of the Young Republicans Club at Smith,” Mrs. Winthrop announced. “Isn’t that right, Melanie?”
I could see Mr. Hodge’s chest inflate about six inches over the table. I wasn’t exactly a political person. To be honest, I had a lot more important things to worry about other than donkeys and elephants and a bunch of old white guys standing on the floor of Congress calling each other nincompoops and draft dodgers. But as naïve as I was about politics, I sure as hell couldn’t align myself with a party that touted the phrases “welfare moms” and “another Willie Horton.”
Of course, Dalton’s politics were clearly on the left side of the aisle, directly opposite his father’s.
“Congratulations, Mel,” Dalton said. “So, what exactly does this presidency get you?”
Melanie smiled uncomfortably. “What do you mean?”
“The benefits?” Dalton said. “Surely being the leader comes with its spoils.”
“It’s not about what the organization can do for us, but what we can do for the organization,” Melanie said.
Dalton let go a sly smile. “A Republican quoting a Kennedy,” he said. “That’s a first.”
“You know, Melanie, when I was your age, I took a keen interest in politics,” the Emperor said. “It was one of the most important things I did in college. It’s good to see a young person taking responsibility for our issues.” He cut his eyes at Dalton.
“Thank you, Mr. Winthrop,” Melanie said. “It hasn’t been easy for our club. Our campus tends to be quit
e liberal. But I think we’re starting to get more girls interested in our side of the issues.”
“I also hear those liberal girls can be really tough,” Dalton said. He mockingly made the quotation sign with his fingers. “On another note, Melanie, is it true what they say about you lovely Smithies?”
“What would that be?” she said.
“How much you truly enjoy each other’s private company.”
“That’s enough, Dalton!” Mrs. Winthrop said, bringing her fist down on the table and making the rest of us jump.
The servants arrived to clear the dishes, and I noticed that when Sophia bent over Dalton’s shoulder, his eyes didn’t miss the opportunity to investigate her ample cleavage. I got the feeling that she enjoyed him watching her. The Emperor could only sit there, boiling.
“Spenser’s being punched by the Delphic,” Dalton announced.
“Congratulations, Spenser,” Mrs. Winthrop said.
“Thank you, Mrs. Winthrop,” I replied.
“Do you have friends who are members?” she asked.
“None at all.”
“Someone hit you?” Melanie said with great displeasure.
“No,” Dalton replied before I could. “Spenser’s being considered to join one of the final clubs at school.”
“Those kinds of clubs are something out of the Dark Ages,” Melanie said. “Run by a bunch of pigs who believe women will always be inferior.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Mrs. Hodge said. “The time is long overdue to close the doors to those types of gender-discriminating organizations.”
“What say you, Father?” Dalton said.
Everyone looked at the Emperor, who was visibly squirming in his chair. He pretended to be occupied with buttering a piece of bread as we all waited for his answer.
“I think it’s a perplexing situation,” he dodged. “These clubs have been around for a long time.”
“But that doesn’t make them right,” Melanie said. “Slavery was around a long time too, and that didn’t make it right.”
I couldn’t help but smile. Slavery was always the lowest-hanging fruit. I didn’t bite.
“Come clean for Melanie, Father,” Dalton said. “Tell her about your years in the Pork.”
“Stop being so antagonistic, Dalton,” Mrs. Winthrop said. “We’re having a conversation here, not a debate.”
“Father is a card-carrying member of one of those pig institutions as you describe it,” Dalton said, ignoring his mother. He looked across the table at the Emperor, who practically had steam coming from his eyes. “In fact, the pig is your mascot—right, Father?”
The arrival of the entrées turned the conversation to other things, but it was still 2–0 in Dalton’s favor. Erma had prepared individual Cornish game hens and some type of vegetable medley. Everything was served formally, polished silver domes and fancy carving knives. Sophia seemed a little uncertain about protocol, and Wendell whispered directions in her ear. When she was standing next to Dalton, I saw him slide his hands up the back of her skirt. She jumped, dropping a spoonful of vegetables all over Melanie’s lap. Dalton’s howl competed with Melanie’s screams, and Sophia’s repeated apologies made it a scene never to be forgotten.
The rest of the evening was largely uneventful. Mrs. Winthrop kept highlighting Melanie’s résumé, and Dalton found an infinite number of ways to deflect the implications. Sophia continued to serve us, and Dalton’s flirtations grew increasingly more obvious, forcing Mrs. Winthrop to clear her throat on more than one occasion and Mr. Winthrop to visibly clench his fist.
Listening to them talk about their possessions and properties and social obligations, I realized that despite all their wealth, they were unhappy people, prisoners of the expectations that come with such overwhelming privilege. I truly believed every single one of them would have traded at least half their old fortunes to have my kind of freedom.
Dalton wanted to cut out right after dessert, so we bade our farewells around the table, walked through the kitchen to say goodbye to Erma, and enjoyed our last look at Sophia. Mrs. Winthrop walked us to the car, and as always, the Emperor stayed behind and continued to hold court.
“We really need to do something about this money situation, Mother,” Dalton said as we got into the car. “I can’t spend the rest of the semester like this.”
“This is between you and your father, dear,” Mrs. Winthrop said. “I’ve already talked to him, but he’s not budging.”
The Emperor finally got a point on the board, and he wasn’t even there to see it. But the score remained 2–1 in Dalton’s favor.
“All because I won’t live in some crummy house that has his name carved over the archway,” Dalton said.
“You knew what the consequences would be prior to making your decision to live in Eliot and not Winthrop House like your grandfather and uncles,” Mrs. Winthrop said. “You have to learn how to compromise sometimes, Dalton. That’s an important part of negotiating life.”
“He doesn’t want a compromise, Mother, he wants complete control,” Dalton said. “And I’ll die penniless before I let him control me. I hate him!”
The engine of the Aston Martin roared awake and we shot out of the Winthrop estate and onto the dimly lit streets of Beacon Hill. I looked into my side mirror at Mrs. Winthrop standing there under the shadows of the towering mansion. She waved at us with her right hand, then slowly dabbed underneath her eyes with her left.
14
THE THIRD ENVELOPE arrived. I knew there was still a long way to go before I had made it to the final round, but after reading this new invitation, I allowed myself to consider for the first time the real possibility that I might be elected into the Delphic, and it thrilled me more than I expected.
The President and members of the Delphic Club cordially invite you to lunch at the clubhouse at 9 Linden St., Tuesday Nov. 15. The first course will be served at 12:00 noon sharp. Jacket and tie required.
Regrets only: 876-0400.
“What is that?” I heard someone say. Percy had just walked out of the bathroom in his monogrammed robe and slippers. I didn’t even know he was awake. His thin blonde hair flew all over his head like he had gotten caught in a sandstorm.
“Nothing much,” I said, not sure if I wanted to get into a long conversation with him about the Delphic Club at eight o’clock in the morning.
“It has to be something,” he said. “It must’ve been slipped under the door late last night, because it wasn’t there when I came home from rehearsal.”
“It’s a lunch invitation to the Delphic,” I relented.
“As in the Delphic Club?”
“Exactly.”
Percy sighed. “Great, my roommate is being punched by the Delphic, and he doesn’t even tell me.”
“C’mon, don’t get all sentimental on me,” I said. “It’s not that big of a deal, and I was gonna tell you sooner or later.”
“Bullshit it’s not a big deal,” he said. “It’s the number one club on campus. And it’s already the third round. How much longer were you gonna hold out on me?”
“How did you know that it was the third round?” I asked.
“’Cause I’m being punched by the Spee.”
“Well, this is the first I’m hearing of that,” I said. “So why in the hell are you giving me a hard time when you haven’t been up front with me either?”
“I didn’t say anything, because I didn’t want you to feel like you were the odd man out,” Percy said. “What’s your excuse?”
I couldn’t believe at eight o’clock in the morning, Percy was giving me the business about a final club. To be honest, it never even crossed my mind that he would care one way or another that I was being punched. It wasn’t like we sat down and had those kinds of conversations about our personal lives. I thought we had carved out a very functional relationship by keeping our distance when it came to these matters. I didn’t want to hear about his choir rehearsals or society dances, and I was certain h
e didn’t want to hear about basketball or the newest rap song we were partying to in the dark, sweaty basement of Adams House.
“It just didn’t seem real at first,” I said. “If it pisses you off that I didn’t tell you sooner that I was being punched, then I’m sorry.”
I thought that would end it, but instead, he flopped on the couch, put his feet on the end table, and folded his hands behind his head. “So, how’s the punch going for you?”
“All right,” I said, taking a seat on the other couch. “I made it to the third round, so I guess that’s a good sign.”
“You know the Delphic is the hardest club to get into,” he said. “It used to be the Pork, but since everyone started talking about that secret room, the Delphic has become the one everyone wants.”
“How did you hear about their room?”
“From an ex-girlfriend of mine. She used to live in the house next to us out on Nantucket. Her father was a Gas man.”
Percy had gotten my attention. “What did she say about the room?”
“That it’s all true.”
“What do you mean, it’s all true?”
Percy crossed his pale, skinny legs. “Morgan had a special room built on one of the floors where only members of his inner circle could enter.”
“Her father told her that?” I asked. “I thought they swore an oath of secrecy, even when it came to family members.”
“Her father was a member of the club, but he never made it into that room. And he didn’t tell her. She read it in his journal.”
“Journal as in a diary?”
“Yup.”
“What else did he write?”
“I don’t really remember much,” Percy said. “I was a kid back then. One afternoon after golf lessons, we were sitting around the pool, talking about our parents and all kinds of shit, and somehow she mentioned that she’d snooping around their attic and found his college journal in a box.”
“If you were only kids, then how did you know what she was talking about?” I asked.
“Because when she took me to her room and showed me the journal, I remember laughing because he belonged to some club called the Gas,” Percy said. “I kept thinking it was a place where guys sat around and farted all day.”
The Ancient Nine Page 14
