by Jodi Daynard
He smiled coldly. “You wanted Fred dead and you gave Harriet the knife so she could do it.”
“Nay, I—”
But before Johnny could finish, Peter turned and walked in the direction of the commons.
For several minutes, Johnny just stood there next to the field where boys played catch and wrestled. He imagined hands passing his knife in the night, the knife that he had hoped would kill Frederick Fray.
Eventually Johnny returned to his chamber, where he found Eliot resting on his cot. When Eliot heard Johnny enter, he sat up.
“So, what happened?” Eliot asked.
“A ghost from Virginia has returned to haunt me,” Johnny said, his voice barely audible. Eliot moved toward his friend, anxious at how pale, how grave he appeared.
“Let me make us some tea—”
Johnny fell onto his bed and sobbed inconsolably. He hid his face in his hands.
Eliot said nothing, but his face wore a look of deep concern. He had lost his usual ironic demeanor.
“John, when you’re ready, I’ll be here to listen.”
“Thank you.” But Johnny did not take his hands from his face.
Eliot soon went off to class, and eventually Johnny rose and walked down to the river. On this autumn day, he allowed himself to feel a part of the wind that gusted and blew the loosening red and gold leaves from the trees. He wished to feel small, to disappear like a speck of dust upon the earth as it rotated around the sun.
Johnny returned to campus in time for dinner. He dreaded the moment he would see Peter again. But, to his great relief, neither Peter nor his gang was at the commons. After dinner, he studied in the library, then took a brief supper alone.
It was late in the evening when Johnny finally returned to his chamber. The bell for lights out had already rung. He glanced up at his building before entering it. In the windows, candles protesting the treaty with Britain had been lit. And there in the window of his former chamber stood Peter, staring balefully down at him. Upon his head he wore the tricolor hat of the Jacobins.
20
JOHNNY WATCHED PETER SPIRAL DOWN AND DOWN. There were times in the dead of night when, hearing a ruckus, he awoke to see Peter’s drunken form stumbling across the yard, muttering curses about the British. It was as if he blamed his brother’s death not just on Johnny but on Adams, the Federalists, and the political climate itself.
Meanwhile, from the moment Peter had told Johnny of Frederick’s death, Johnny was never at ease. He found himself taking circuitous paths so as not to encounter his old roommate. He and Eliot entered the commons the moment it opened and returned to their lodgings while Peter and his friends were still within. He watched his back.
In December, a nor’easter hit the town, covering the college in more than two feet of snow. Classes were cancelled, and those students who could, left for home. Johnny worried that the road to Quincy would not be passable for some weeks. But after several days of unusually warm weather, the post stage got through to Cambridge, and Johnny received a letter from his mother. Although eager for his return, Eliza urged him not to attempt the roads. Instead, the boys would decamp to the Lees’.
“But say,” Johnny asked Eliot, “do your parents not insist you come home? I know nothing about them, I realize, while you now know everything about mine.”
“My parents. Ah.” Eliot smiled, but it was not a happy smile. “I figured I would have to discuss them with you eventually. I was hoping to put that off. My parents, you see, find me a great disappointment.”
“You? Why, you’re first in our class.”
“Yes, that may be. I write poetry, too. Did you know that?”
“I did not. Are you any good? I myself am dreadful at it.”
“I’ll let you judge sometime, John. But the fact that I’m a poet doesn’t help my case.”
“But they must care about your health, at least?”
Eliot shrugged. “I believe they think I’d be better off dead. But let’s speak no more of this sad topic. I’m vastly happy to be adopted by your family, if only for a few weeks.”
The old Brattle Street home was a welcome change from the dreary, tense atmosphere of Harvard College. Bessie had made sure that the floors shone. Indeed, they were so finely waxed that Eliot slipped and nearly broke his neck.
“Oh look, John,” Eliot said once he’d righted himself. “It’s enough to lift a weary scholar’s heart.”
“It is.”
Holly boughs wound cheerfully about the banister. The dining table was dressed in its finest red damask cloth and bejeweled with silver candlesticks and crystal goblets.
Kate arrived to greet them. She said brightly, “Come, let me show you your chamber. Oh, isn’t this wonderful! The Slotted Spoon together for two whole weeks!”
In the days leading up to Christmas, the roads improved, and letters flew back and forth from Quincy to Cambridge. Everyone felt so forlorn at being separated that, on Christmas Eve Day, eight souls from Quincy squeezed into a carriage meant for six, which had the benefit of keeping them all warm.
By mid-afternoon, Abigail Adams, Lizzie and family, and Eliza all descended upon the Lees’ doorstep. The winter sun was sinking down beyond the Charles. Johnny was just dressing for dinner when he heard a sudden commotion below. There were cries of delight and the rustle of coats and bonnets. Shirt unbuttoned, he raced downstairs.
Eliza was surprised to see her son in such a state of undress. “Button up, or you’ll freeze,” she said. As she glanced into the parlor, she saw a slender, pale youth rise up from the sofa to greet them. He coughed once and approached.
Hastening to button himself, Johnny said, “Mama, everyone, this is Eliot Mann, my marvelous friend, roommate, and poet extraordinaire.”
“Poet?” Abigail exclaimed, her tiny form having been all but obscured by the crowd. “I’m exceedingly fond of poetry. Shall you do us the honor of reading?”
“Of course, madam.” Eliot bowed. Proper introductions were made, and when Eliot learned to whom he had agreed to recite his poems, he sent Johnny a look of abject terror.
For dinner that night, Bessie made a fine dinner of creamed chicken and oysters.
“Oh! It’s such a shame John cannot be here, for this is his very favorite dish,” declared Mrs. Adams.
The table, surrounded by so many children, was very jolly. Throughout the meal, the children whispered conspiratorially, having planned some after-dinner entertainment.
After the meal, Ben and Elizabeth put on a puppet show. It was about two sailors who could not agree on a port and so were stuck in the ocean until a sea monster (played by Elizabeth) gobbled the stupid fellows up. Johnny thought the play a fitting allegory of their current political strife. The play made everyone laugh.
Finally, urged on by Mrs. Adams, Eliot read a poem. His bony knees fairly knocked together as he reached for his spectacles, pushed his thinning hair aside and read in a soft, tremulous voice:
The Lord of light has journey’d down the sky,
And bath’d his coursers in the foaming wave;
The twinkling star of Even, too, hastes to lave
Her silver form, and vanish from my eye.
Now dusky twilight flings her sombre shade,
O’er the bright beauties of the silent vale;
The aspen trembles not, the verdant blade
No longer nodding answers to the gale.
Come, sweet Reflection! Hither, pensive friend!
Direct thy wandering steps, and on this stone,
Worn by no traveller’s feet, with moss o’ergrown,
Repose with me in solitude’s deep shade.
Then shall I know the height of human bliss,
And taste the joy of other worlds in this.
When he had finished, everyone clapped enthusiastically, Abigail most of all. But Eliot’s eyes rested tenderly upon his friend.
“I enjoyed that,” Abigail said.
“Thank you, madam. It’s an honor to make yo
ur acquaintance. It is only left for me to meet your esteemed husband.”
Eliot had spoken in jest about meeting John Adams, who was then in Philadelphia. But Mrs. Adams had a sudden look Johnny knew well. It was the look of a woman who had made up her mind and would brook no opposition. She said, “We could sorely use a poet in Quincy, Mr. Mann. You must come visit this summer. The children are all grown up and fled the nest, alas, but the old fellow still putters about.”
Eliot bowed deeply. “It would be a great honor, madam.”
Then, from his bent posture, Eliot sent Johnny such a wide-eyed look that Johnny had to turn away to keep from laughing.
Eliot retired early, worn out by the excitement of the day. But Johnny remained awake after the others had bade one another good night. He paced the dark, silent parlor, occasionally looking out upon the white snow that shone faintly blue in the moonlight. Suddenly he heard a shuffle of small steps behind him.
It was Kate. She had changed into her nightshift and dressing gown, and her long, dark hair, always kept pulled back, fell in tendrils to the small of her back.
“Oh, goodness, Johnny. You’re still here!” The reflection from her candle danced in her lenses.
“Kate. Why are you still up? Can’t you sleep?”
“I brood upon too many things. It’s often the case with me, I’m afraid.”
“Ah. You’re like me, then. What is it tonight?”
Kate hesitated. “You,” she finally said. She took a step toward Johnny and looked up at him. “Something weighs upon you, but I can’t puzzle it out. I’ve tried.”
“Yes,” he admitted.
“But you have no—you don’t believe it would help to share it?”
“I don’t believe so.”
She paused. “I was also thinking of Eliot.”
“What about him?”
“He is—attached to you.”
“I know.”
In the soft, flickering candlelight, with her dark hair flowing down around her bosom, Johnny thought Kate looked very beautiful.
“He’s not the only one, I’m afraid. Do you know that as well?”
Johnny took another step forward. “I do now,” he whispered. “I can be stupid, you know, so you must tell me things straight out.”
Kate smiled. “I know.”
He kissed her. Her lips were soft, her eyes closed. It was not his first kiss, but the others, with girls in Barbados, had meant little. The moment he and Kate parted, he was ready for another.
“Nay.” Kate grinned. “We must go to bed before someone wakes.”
Kate mounted the steps first. Johnny followed her after a few minutes. Once in bed, however, he could not sleep. He had greatly enjoyed that kiss. But what did it mean? Was he now obliged to court Kate? Did it mean they had an understanding? Johnny realized that he knew nothing of these matters, and his fear of treating Kate ill was very great. That he loved her was unquestioned. But it was not that breathless, exquisite torture he expected to feel for a girl, which he had felt for Marcia. Oh, why had he succumbed to such a fleeting temptation?
Johnny fell asleep at last around two and was awakened by the loud shouts of children as dawn broke.
He heard Martha cry from her chamber down the hall, “A moment, children! I arrive!”
Harry, in nightshirt and cap, followed his wife sleepily to the stairs. One hand rested on her shoulder as if to steady him. “Martha, why did we have all these children? Can you recall?”
“No, but I do recall that you were there.” Mrs. Lee glanced slyly at him.
It was odd to think of this mild-mannered couple as the rebels they both had been in their youths. Someday, Johnny vowed, he would find out more about them.
Johnny was soon dressed. He emerged, bleary-eyed and grim. What must he say to Kate? He found his friends already seated at breakfast, locked in cheerful conversation. When Johnny entered looking like he was next in line for the guillotine, Kate cocked her head at him and said, placing a hand companionably upon Eliot’s arm, “Regard our friend. Does he not have a faintly greenish cast?”
“He does. Nearly froglike. I believe you must kiss him and turn him back into a prince.”
“Oh, shut up!” Kate slapped at him, and Eliot ducked his head. Then they both fell to laughing.
Kate was in excellent spirits that morning. For months now, she had dreamed of little else besides kissing John Boylston. And while she was not foolish enough to believe that one kiss from a confused boy meant anything, she reasoned that such a kiss made future ones slightly less improbable. That, she thought wryly, was enough to keep her in good spirits for a year at least.
When the family finished breakfast, the children ran from the table with shouts of glee. No gifts would be given until New Year’s, but the tree had been decorated in the night, Bessie had made sweets for all the children, and Giles could not resist the chance to give Will and Harry the marbles he had made them for New Year’s. He pitied the poor lads, to be so vastly outnumbered by women.
21
January 1796
IT WAS THE KIND OF BRIGHT WINTER day when ice melted off the branches and dripped down the windowpanes, when leafless trees, while not budding, seemed open to the possibility of doing so. Johnny walked slowly with Eliot through town, past the yellow octagonal courthouse, the meetinghouse, and the quiet market.
The Slotted Spoon Society would take up a new subject that day: whether a lie by omission could, under any circumstances, be considered a lesser evil or even no evil at all. Johnny had been assigned the topic by the university’s Board of Overseers and would be presenting an oration to them that spring. He looked forward to hearing what his friends would have to say.
Eliot insisted on sitting in the kitchen, much to Bessie’s dismay. There, he could enjoy the hearth’s warmth and gaze out the window at the leafless apple trees. He watched as squirrels, moving in their herky-jerky, mechanical way, purloined the remains of apples unearthed by the snow’s thaw.
Aunt Martha came in to kiss Johnny hello. For good measure, she kissed Eliot as well.
“But why do you sit in here, when we have a perfectly good sunny parlor?”
“I believe he likes the warmth, Mama,” replied Kate, “though Johnny and I find it stifling.” Kate turned to Eliot and made a choking gesture by sticking a finger into her chemisette.
Eliot stuck his tongue out at her.
Aunt Martha shrugged. “As you wish. But don’t stay too long, or Bessie shall be vexed. I’m sure you’re in her way.”
Once she had gone, Eliot said, “Let’s make haste, then. I declare that the people have no inalienable right to know things that do not affect them. For example, by what tenet, moral or legal, does the college have the right to know about Johnny?”
But Kate wanted clarification. “Does the college, or our state, have a law about the enrollment of Negroes?”
“Not written, certainly. But even if they did,” Eliot added, “by what moral imperative are we bound by an unjust law? Even were Harvard to have such a law, it would be our obligation to ignore it.”
Suddenly, Elizabeth and Hannah, who had been waiting, unseen, behind the door, leapt out.
“Pony ride, please. Oh, please, Johnny!”
“Not now, children.” Kate waved them away.
“Soon,” Johnny assured them with a smile. Once they had gone, Kate spoke. “But I should like to talk about the effect of the lie upon the liar, for it seems to me that there is a moral component there as well.”
But the friends never got the chance to discuss Kate’s question, for just then Bessie burst into the kitchen looking irate. She shooed them out of the kitchen, and the next thing Johnny knew, he was in the parlor, trotting about on all fours with a child upon his back.
Spring arrived, and Johnny gave his oration. He was not very satisfied with it. He argued that a lie by omission could be justified unless there existed a sound moral imperative to tell the truth, such as imminent harm to another party. Th
e overseers seemed satisfied, but Johnny felt his argument was self-serving and ultimately incorrect. He had not yet discerned its precise flaw, however, and that irked him.
At home for spring vacation, Johnny endeavored to be cheerful for his family and for the children, but he was aware of its being an effort. He brooded almost constantly about the rash, impulsive act that, however well-meaning, had led to Frederick’s death. He brooded upon Peter’s final words to him, and his cold eyes.
Just before he returned to school, the Slotted Spoon Society held its final meeting of the year. The topic was whether the Constitution was in fact the perfection of the Revolution or the imperfect beginning of some future masterwork.
Eliot argued that there was yet a great deal to improve upon, and even more to interpret. “Why do you think we have these blasted partisan groups? The Constitution is to blame.”
“It certainly is not!” Johnny objected. “The Constitution is perfectly clear on the balance of power between the three branches. How can you say such a thing, Eliot?”
Eliot shrugged. He was not intimidated by Johnny. “The document leaves too much unsaid. Its understanding of human nature is overly optimistic.”
Here, Johnny stood up. “I would like to remind you,” he said heatedly, “of that first sentence. ‘We the people of the United States, in order to form a more perfect union . . .’ More perfect union.” Johnny spat the words out, staccato. He thumped his hand upon a chair back for emphasis. “Not a league, not a confederacy, not a confederation or a compact. A union. The meaning is perfectly clear.”
Johnny had thought they were merely engaged in a spirited conversation, but Kate burst into tears and was obliged to leave the study. The boys stared at each other in amazement. Then Eliot said to Johnny, “I hate to see a perfectly intelligent female reduced to tears over me.”
Johnny frowned. “I shall go after her. I have no idea why she cries.”
“Yes. Console her for my loss as best you can.”
Johnny caught up with Kate in the hallway.
