The Ancient Nine

by Ian K. Smith, M. D.

  “Slow down, Percy,” I said, wrapping my arm around his shoulders. “It’s okay to be drunk, but you’re talking real crazy right now. Tell me what happened.”

  “What the hell do you think happened?” he said. “They cut me from the punch. Two generations of Hollingsworth men have been members of that goddamn club, and I don’t even make the final dinner. Can’t be more of a loser than that.”

  I wasn’t exactly sure what to say. With all his family money and Harvard lineage, I had figured Percy to be a lock to get into the Spee. “You don’t need a club,” I said. “It’s their loss, not yours. You already have the Din and Tonics, and you’re comping the Lampoon.”

  Percy just shook his head. “You don’t understand, Spenser,” he said. “You never will. Getting into the Spee was about tradition and putting my name up there next to my father and grandfather. Now I have to call my family and tell them I got rejected.”

  The light above the entryway door suddenly flickered out, and I could no longer see Percy, but I could hear him sniffling. He brought his hands to his face. It was difficult not feeling sorry for the guy, even if in the grand scheme of life, this didn’t seem to merit such agony.

  “C’mon, let’s go in,” I said, grabbing him by his shoulders. “You’re gonna freeze to death out here, and if that happens, who knows what kind of roommate I’ll get stuck with.”

  Percy took one last pull on his cigarette and flicked it in the grass. I hooked him underneath his arms until he stumbled to his feet. It’s strange how things turn out in life. A filthy-rich kid who I thought had everything imaginable, and who should’ve been feeling like the king of the world, was completely distraught about something that while important in the elite circles of society, in the grand scheme of life seemed inconsequential. And here I was, not even fifty dollars in my bank account, trying to make him feel like everything was fine with the world.

  When I finally had him situated in his bed, I reached down and gave him a big hug. At first he kept his hands by his side, but then he squeezed me around the neck.

  When we released each other, he said, “I don’t know how I’m gonna tell my father that I didn’t get in.”

  “Tell him the guys were complete assholes,” I said. “And you didn’t feel like they were worth the next two and a half years of your life.”

  He shook his head. “He won’t buy that.’”

  “Well, after a good night’s sleep, I’m sure you’ll think of something that’ll work.”

  I was almost through the door when he said, “By the way, some girl stopped by to see you. A little girl with crooked teeth. Her name was something like Stromstein or Hamburger.”

  I laughed. “You mean Stromberger?”

  “Yeah, something like that.”

  “What did she say?”

  “Something about good news, and you should call her.”

  “Hey, what did you do with your pinky ring?”

  He looked down at his hand, and waved it in dismissal. “I took it off and put it away.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ve disgraced the Hollingsworth name. I’m not worthy of wearing the family crest.”

  When I got back to my room, I lay awake in my bed for almost an hour. All my life, I prayed to God that I would find a way to make my mother and myself rich. But that night, I realized being rich meant dealing with different but not necessarily easier problems. My grandfather was right. “Money can buy a helluva lot of things, but it can’t buy real happiness.”

  29

  BY THE TIME I finally reached the lobby of the Boston Garden on Saturday night, I felt like I had fought two wars and barely lived to tell it. The Red Line heading into downtown from Harvard Square was packed to capacity. I switched over to the Green Line, which was five-deep with everyone heading to the New Edition concert. The streets around the arena were so thick with bodies that we seemed to be moving like one giant organism funneling between the barricades and avoiding the police patrols sitting atop their gigantic horses. I figured I would surprise Ashley by arriving before she did, but I was only five minutes early by the time I squeezed my way through the doors. Even with all the chaos inside the lobby, it didn’t take long for me to find her at our meeting spot underneath the hanging Larry Bird jersey.

  “You’re early,” she said, looking down at her watch and smiling. Her hair was done differently, straightened and layered, then curled at the ends. She was wearing makeup and pink lipstick. I didn’t think it was possible for her to look any more beautiful, but she had found a way to improve on perfection.

  “I would’ve run here all the way from Cambridge if I had to,” I said. “No way I was gonna be late.”

  “Good,” she said, stepping close enough for me to smell her perfume—sweet apple with a light sprinkling of cinnamon. “A gentleman never keeps his woman waiting.”

  “‘His’?” I said. “It’s nice you’re finally admitting where we stand.”

  “Don’t get too excited, Harvard,” she said, folding her arms across her chest. “It was just a figure of speech. Let’s get in there before it starts.” We joined the crush of bodies moving slowly up the old ramps, finally squeezing through our gate and into the dark arena. I was pleasantly surprised at our seat location. I expected the nosebleeds, but we were in the lower half of the arena with a great view of the stage.

  “You scored some nice seats,” I said once we had gotten settled.

  “We’re not on the floor,” she said. “But they’re the best I could do. Dining services isn’t exactly making me rich.”

  “These seats are perfect,” I said. “Al B. Sure! was supposed to open, but heard some people saying he’s sick tonight.”

  “Really? That’s no fun. I love him.”

  “Well, maybe New Edition will sing more songs to make up for it,” I said. “Have you been to other concerts here?”

  “Only one,” she said. “A couple of years ago, I won Prince tickets in a radio contest. My brother took me.”

  “I love Prince,” I said. “How was he?”

  “Incredible. Everyone kept saying he was only gonna play his new stuff, but he sang everything that night from ‘Purple Rain’ to ‘Little Red Corvette.’ Three full hours nonstop. No one wanted to leave.”

  A loud pop cracked over the sound system, followed by an electric hum and then total darkness. Silence blanketed the crowd. Drums were the first sound coming from the black stage, followed by the electric guitar and keyboard. Spotlights went up, and there they were in shiny silver suits with matching sunglasses and black fedoras. Within seconds, the crowd was rocking and dancing and singing the words to “Candy Girl,” and the Garden jumped with the beat of the bass bouncing off my chest.

  For the next two hours, it was one hit after another, and we never took our seats. Then they sang the emotional ballad “Is This the End,” and all the girls, Ashley included, screamed like they were trying to make the roof collapse. Other guys scooped their dates in their arms and kissed away most of the song, but while Ashley had allowed me to hold her close, I wasn’t feeling that courageous yet, so I just swayed with her underneath my arm and took in the moment.

  The song finally ended, and the houselights went up and people stood there in a delayed state of shock. Some of the girls were crying, the guys were yelling for more, and only smoke remained on the stage where the singers once stood. After twenty minutes of unanswered pleas for an encore, we slowly started filing out the doors. We still had a couple of hours before Ashley’s curfew, so we decided to grab a bite at Uno Pizzeria. We took a crowded Green Line train from North Station into Kenmore Square, home of the towering Citgo sign, Boston’s most famous landmark that sits atop the old Peerless Motor Car building.

  We had a half-hour wait for a table, so we left our names and decided to take a short walk along Comm Ave. It was perfect weather for a brisk walk, and it felt good to have Ashley curled underneath my shoulder. Antique streetlamps along a path of towering trees and old wooden benches
lit the median park along the wide avenue.

  “So, what do you want to do with your life?” I asked. A horse-drawn carriage rolled by, the rhythmic clipping of the horse’s hooves slapping the pavement.

  “I want to finish this year with good enough grades to earn a scholarship to one of the big universities,” she said.

  “And beyond that?”

  “I’m not gonna tell you.”

  “Why not?”

  “’Cause you’ll laugh.”

  “C’mon, I’m not gonna laugh. Scout’s honor.”

  She stopped and turned into me. “Were you really a Boy Scout?”

  “No, but some of my friends were, so sometimes I borrow their honor. Tell me. I promise I won’t laugh.”

  She resumed her position nestled underneath my shoulder and we kept walking. We passed the gated townhouses of some of Boston’s wealthiest families, and through the tall glass doors I could see doormen standing attentively at their posts.

  “I bet all your friends want to go on to graduate schools and become doctors, lawyers, or businessmen,” she said.

  I thought for a quick moment. She wasn’t too far off. I had one friend, Jack Madsen, who wanted to be a software programmer, but other than that, everyone pretty much had designs on one of the big three. The race had already started to see who would return millionaires by our tenth class reunion.

  “So, what is it that you want to do?” I asked.

  “Promise?”

  “Cross my heart.”

  She grabbed my arm tighter. “I’d like to be a wedding planner.”

  I wasn’t sure I heard her correctly. “Did you say a wedding planner?”

  “See, I knew you’d laugh.”

  “I’m not laughing. I’m just making sure I heard you correctly.”

  “Well, you did,” she said. “I want to help people with one of the most important days of their life. So many weddings are ruined by people who either don’t know what they’re doing or don’t know how to make the most of a limited budget. I want to be the one who helps people get it right.”

  I was surprised, but there was no way I was going to show it. It was the first time that she had been vulnerable with me, and I was determined not to blow it.

  “I’ve always liked weddings since I was a little girl,” she continued. “They can be so beautiful and full of meaning. Think about it. There are billions of people in the world, and yet two people find each other through all of life’s chaos and pledge themselves to eternal love. It’s just so romantic.”

  I couldn’t figure out how someone so young could’ve already given marriage so much thought. “You sound like you’ve been married before,” I said.

  “Don’t be silly, Spenser,” she said, hitting me on the shoulder. “Getting married isn’t a prerequisite for appreciating the beauty of weddings. I watched Princess Diana’s wedding on TV and cried for weeks. It was the perfect fairy tale.”

  “Have you told your mother about your career plans?” I asked.

  “Are you kidding? You don’t know my mother. If I told her that, she’d march me into a shrink’s office to have my head examined. My mother has spent most of her life cleaning for rich people. She has it fixed in her mind that I’m gonna be a lawyer and work in one of those fancy glass towers. She doesn’t want me to struggle like she has.”

  “Sooner or later you’re gonna have to tell her,” I said.

  “Then I choose later.”

  “How do you get experience at planning a wedding?”

  “It’s a real business like anything else,” she said. “I can do an internship or become an assistant.”

  We walked in silence for a few yards. “I don’t know anything about planning weddings, but I respect you for finding something you want to do and following your dreams regardless of what everyone else thinks,” I said. “That takes a lot of courage.”

  She looked up at me and said, “Do you want to be a doctor because of the title and money, or because you really want to help people?”

  “I don’t think anyone who wants to be a doctor doesn’t have a strong desire to help others,” I said. “But there’s also nothing wrong with doctors wanting to make a decent living.”

  “As long as your heart’s in the right place,” she said.

  I don’t know what it was that came over me, but I stopped her right there and said, “Well, since we’re on the subject of hearts, when will you put yours in the right place and be my girlfriend?”

  A blank expression fell over her face, and she said, “But we haven’t even dated.”

  “Earth to Ashley,” I said. “These are dates. Dinners, movies, a concert. They’re considered dates in the real world.”

  “I can’t date you, Spenser,” she said, looking into my eyes.

  “You’re afraid to give me your heart?”

  “I’m afraid you’ll crush it.”

  “Give me a chance.”

  “I can’t.”

  “You can,” I said. “We both know that you want us to be together as much as I do.”

  “We’re too different,” she said, looking away.

  “That’s bullshit and you know it.”

  “It’s not—my world isn’t anything like yours. We met because I’m the one who was serving you. Remember? You go to Harvard. I go to a community college.”

  “Forget about Harvard,” I said. “A school doesn’t make me who I am. Where I come from makes me who I am. I appreciate hard work. I know struggle. My family has problems just like everyone else.”

  She turned back to me and smiled. “You don’t have a clue what real problems are,” she said. “Trust me.”

  That’s when I grabbed her by the shoulders and brought her into me, and before she could back away, I kissed her under those lamps on Commonwealth Avenue with the Citgo sign shining above us. At first, she resisted, but then she opened her mouth and wrapped her hands around my neck, and we stayed frozen like that as the wind blew in our faces and the cars raced by.

  After we had separated and she had straightened her coat, she said, “Did I say you could do that?”

  “You didn’t have to.”

  We walked back to Uno’s hand in hand and ordered a deep-dish pizza with everything on it. With the first kiss behind us, we were free to imagine things we had only danced around in the past, and we left the restaurant with our hearts as full as our stomachs.

  “I’m not letting you go home by yourself tonight,” I said, as we walked up to the crowded T stop.

  “You don’t have to let me,” she said. “I’m a big girl. I can make my own decisions.”

  “It’s wrong for me to let you go home alone this late,” I said. “What if something happened to you?”

  “I’ve done a good job getting home for the past nineteen years,” she said. “I think I can manage one more night.”

  “You’re so damn stubborn.”

  “No, the problem with you Harvard boys is that you’re used to being with girls who do everything you say.”

  “You’re not that tough,” I said. “I kissed you tonight, and you weren’t even willing to call this an official date.”

  “Little boys with big, tender egos.” She smiled. “Don’t fool yourself and think you just suddenly got your way. I’ve been wanting to kiss you since the first night I saw you in Eliot.”

  This time she grabbed me, and by the time our lips touched, I was completely under her spell.

  * * *

  WHEN I GOT BACK to the room that night, there was a message on the door from Stromberger. She would be editing stories all night at the Crimson, and I should call her whenever I got in. I checked to see if Percy was in his room, but it was empty. I looked at his desk and noticed the pinky ring was missing, which meant he was well on the road to recovery.

  The phone rang about ten times before Stromberger answered.

  “You told me to give you a call,” I said.

  “I’m up to my eyeballs in copy,” she said. “But I’ve g
ot good news for you. I might’ve found something about that book, or at least I’m on the right trail. There was a Gazette story in the forties about a string of burglaries involving the rare books collection. There’s also an article in an old Crimson about a guy who tried to steal the Gutenberg Bible from Widener. I copied them for you.”

  “You wanna take a break and meet me at Elsie’s?”

  “I don’t know if I can get out of here right now,” she said. “I still have tons of work to do. I’m covering for one of the other editors who went away this weekend.”

  “It’ll only take half an hour,” I said. “Plus, it sounds like you could use the break. We’ll have two big sloppy sundaes. My treat.”

  “You buried the lead.” She laughed. “I’ll meet you there in ten minutes.”

  * * *

  ELSIE’S SANDWICH SHOP on Mt. Auburn Street was one of Cambridge’s gastronomic landmarks, a homey little place that had been serving up its famous roast beef and hamburger sandwiches with Russian dressing for more than three decades. I snatched the last two empty stools before putting in my order for a chocolate fudge sundae with the works. Stromberger walked in wearing a long varsity swim coat.

  “Where did you get that from?” I asked. It was one of those ankle-length hooded coats with a faux fur lining and large satin Harvard letters stitched across the back. It was one of the most coveted sporting paraphernalia items on campus.

  “My roommate has two of them, so she lets me borrow this one,” Stromberger said nonchalantly.

  “Is she outta her mind?” I said. “That coat’s worth a fortune.”

  “Why?” Stromberger shrugged. “It’s just a coat. The lining isn’t even real fur, and the zipper is always getting stuck.”

  And that’s one of the things I liked about Stromberger. She had an uncanny ability to quickly put things into perspective and make molehills out of mountains.

  “Someone broke into the equipment room last year and stole ten of them,” I said. “Sold them for a two hundred a pop. They’re the most important varsity gear to score, harder than a DHA sweatshirt.”