The End of Innocence

by Allegra Jordan

  She wished for that. Perhaps that kind of love and happiness could replenish and repair the human heart again and again. And perhaps that’s why if you had it and lost it, you would react as Jackson or Max had.

  After Helen looked at the empty page for several minutes more, it occurred to her that her father’s criticism of the emotional nature of her previous poem might have missed the point of someone like Jackson Vaughn entirely. What if a few moments of love changed your life completely? It had happened to Heloise and Abelard. And to Lord Nelson and Lady Hamilton, although that was hardly the morality lesson one should emulate.

  As she looked at her paper, the image of the seashore came back to her, beckoning her to write. What would she give for a few moments of love? She thought again of the Jews at the wedding in Maine, and the laughter in the man’s throat. What a different world he lived in to have a heart so full of love. She’d never seen anything like it in real life, even in the glimpses she’d caught of it between her parents.

  She shuddered, thinking of what Mr. Brandl would say about her writing a poem about a love she had never experienced.

  Chapter Eight

  Beck Hall

  Harvard College

  Tuesday, September 1, 1914

  Riley’s women came in such succession they no longer made much of an impression on his friends. They had long ago found it best to remove themselves from the scene entirely and keep the chase between the new young woman and Riley. Morris, Jackson, and Wils had all made the mistake of befriending one of Riley’s girls at some point. Inevitably she tried to pry information about his goings-on or wished to talk of his ill use of her or wished to use them to make Riley jealous, until she finally realized there was no future in this for her and dropped them all. This pattern had played itself out enough times that Morris, Jackson, and Wils were quite wary, no matter how titled or beautiful the lady in question was.

  Thus, it was often best just to ignore the both of them, during these times, even though it could, at a dinner or dance, seem cruel to do so to the young woman of the moment when Riley had left her alone, as he often did. And they’d also decided, for the most part, that it was the young woman’s fault. There were enough warning signs around Riley. If she was intelligent, she would listen to the voices conveying news she did not wish to hear, telling her to flee. If a woman was with Riley, it was because she was ripe for a chase and a passion, something best shared by them and them alone.

  Knowing this, and understanding how the situation would inevitably play out, Wils was kicking himself that he’d given a second thought to Helen Brooks.

  But he had.

  He wished to hear her out and see she didn’t get hurt. Despite her obvious flaws—her bigotry against Germans and her sometimes shocking brashness, there was an attractive brilliance in her, he sensed. Unrefined and scattered, but it was there.

  Her passion for Riley would burn out—it always did with these women, usually because of something Riley did. And if she didn’t dissolve in the conflagration, perhaps there would be a space for a quiet German poet.

  “Wils! I asked you if you were coming,” demanded Morris. Pulled from his reverie, he looked across the table at Morris and Jackson, who were still eating lunch. “I was thinking about later today—”

  “That bare-knuckle prizefight at the docks. You’re coming, right?” asked Morris excitedly. “Jackson is.”

  Jackson nodded in between bites of an apple. “If there’s drink.”

  “There’ll be plenty,” said Morris. “Are you going to eat that oyster pie?” Jackson pushed his plate over to Morris without a word. “What about you, Wils? You coming?” Morris eagerly sliced into the pastry.

  “I was thinking of something else,” said Wils. “What would you think if we were to invite that girl from class to join us in our study group for Copeland’s class?”

  Morris’s mouth opened. “Riley’s new girl? Helen?”

  Jackson shook his head. “Have you lost your mind? She’d just sit around asking us about Riley.”

  “Really, Wils,” said Morris. “I learned my lesson after Lucia.”

  “And I after Antoinette,” said Jackson. “I’ve performed all the public service I care to on behalf of Riley Spencer.”

  “I’d forgotten about Antoinette,” said Wils, wrinkling his nose.

  “Screechy voice,” said Morris, raising his hand to mime fingernails against a chalkboard.

  Wils shuddered. It all came back now. “But I was thinking that Miss Brooks is different. She did get into Copeland’s class.”

  “She’s a first year,” said Morris disdainfully.

  “But she’s capable of senior-level work,” countered Wils.

  They both looked at him as if he’d lost his mind. Perhaps he had. But Wils wouldn’t relent—the girl deserved a chance and he couldn’t explain why, but he just had to see her—and Morris, after a few more minutes of haggling, finally broke the impasse.

  “I’ll hear her out. If she does good work we can let her in. But”—he put his hands on the table with a thump—“the first time she says the name ‘Riley’ she is out.”

  Wils agreed this was a fair deal.

  “Now,” said Jackson, “are you going to the fight with us?”

  Wils shook his head. “No. Dockworkers tend to be a patriotic lot.”

  “Against patriots, are we?” asked Morris.

  “I am for the rule of law. Patriots, and their League, don’t seem to care about the law, and I think I’m right to stay away from gatherings where the purpose is to fight. I’m staying away from most Harvard things as well.”

  “That’s not fair,” protested Morris. “You saw that President Lowell is returning ten million dollars of a donor’s money because the donation requires that a German professor be fired. Harvard’s not for sale.”

  “If Harvard were safe, Max would be alive.”

  “What if Max committed suicide?” asked Morris gruffly.

  “But what if it’s murder?” replied Wils. “I had once thought that Harvard played fair, or at least fair enough. Now I don’t necessarily believe they do…if you’re German.”

  “Some would say that Kaiser Bill isn’t terribly interested in being fair,” retorted Jackson.

  Wils looked angrily at him. “If you’d stop thinking about yourself for once, you’d notice that the kaiser’s actions have caused me more than a slight inconvenience as well.”

  “I want to fight for England,” said Jackson.

  Wils rolled his eyes. “You’re American. What time is it?”

  Jackson took out a pocket watch and looked at it. “Twelve fifteen. You didn’t really lend your watch to Max, did you?”

  “Yes, I did. How was I supposed to know he’d pawn it or give it to Archer or who knows what? I told Riley I’d take him to a doctor’s appointment at one.”

  “Is Riley sick?”

  “No. Army physical. His father is making him take it.”

  “Let me come with you,” said Jackson. “I want to fight. I’m sick of school.”

  Wils waved Jackson off.

  “I heard Riley’s having a little trouble with a girl in England,” injected Morris.

  “Who told you that?” asked Wils, surprised.

  Morris shrugged. “When you work in the student union you hear things.”

  “Good God! That’s fast. Edith just telegrammed Riley last week!” said Wils.

  “What do the union workers say happened to Max?” asked Jackson.

  “They know it was a suicide, my friend,” said Morris. “That’s why we’re not down at Archer’s beating him up right now. Everyone knew Max was in debt and that he tried to get money by telling the Germans what was in the shipyards, and now the police think Wils is in on it too. Personally,” he said, pointing his fork at Wils, “I think naval power is the wrong way to g
o. To those who think naval supremacy is the future, I say—”

  “You knew this?” said Wils, flustered. He felt hot. “How?”

  “People talk.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” asked Wils, putting his finger in Morris’s face. “You knew Max was my friend!”

  “I didn’t hold back,” retorted Morris. “You never asked. But now that it’s all official with the police, I’m telling you.”

  “What else ‘hasn’t come up’?” demanded Wils.

  Morris shrugged. “I’ve never told you that Copeland has it bad for Mrs. Jack Gardner.”

  “Everyone knows that,” said Wils, with a sour feeling in the pit of his stomach. He shut his notebook.

  “And everyone knew about Max gambling,” said Morris indignantly. “They think that Archer was doing his duty—”

  “Since when is murder a person’s duty?”

  “Look, I miss Max just as much as the next fellow, but what he was doing was wrong.”

  “I think that news about Max is just skullduggery and vicious rumor to hide the fact that Arnold killed a classmate,” Wils shot back. “I’ve got to leave soon. Jackson, let’s have it.”

  “Fine,” said Jackson. He opened his paper and began to read.

  My Friend

  by Jackson Marion Vaughn

  Excuse my boots on your table.

  No, I don’t want water,

  But whiskey, yes, well, that’s in season.

  Don’t mind that look in your lover’s eyes.

  The fear’s there for good reason.

  There are many pressures I’m under

  I wouldn’t mind putting asunder

  A few that won’t make a difference

  Like him. So I brought

  A friend, here, a pistol-friend

  To help me out.

  “Stop, stop, stop!” said Morris.

  Jackson shot him an angry look. “I’m just getting to the good part, where I shoot Marvin, and Jenny realizes she was wrong.”

  “Why would she realize she was wrong if you murder her lover in front of her?” asked Wils.

  “Snap out of it, Jackson!” said Morris furiously. “Jenny McGee is gone and I refuse to pull your stinking soul out of that polluted river again. You’re wasting your life.”

  “Take that back!” snapped Jackson, pounding his fists on the table.

  “I will not! I’ve had it with her and I’ve had it with you! My God! Philip Breckenridge’s poem about his dead dog was better. I mean, tell me—what were you going to say when Copeland told you he hated this?”

  Jackson’s face was white with rage. “I’d break his face with my fists.” The table rocked as he pushed back from it. “I’m going to war.”

  “What?” asked Wils, as Jackson opened his satchel and started stuffing papers into it.

  “You don’t understand. She is the only thing that made my life better and nothing will ever get her back!”

  “Why don’t you go to her and try to win her again then?” Wils offered.

  Jackson’s face contorted, and Wils thought he’d start to cry. “Because she won’t have me, you idiot!” he yelled. “What the hell am I doing in this place?” He started walking to the door.

  Wils stood up. “Jackson, we’re all under a lot of pressure—”

  “Get away, you son of a bitch! I quit!” he yelled. “I’ll be in the Yard.” He slammed the door as he left the room.

  “Morris, you go after him. I’ve got to take Riley to the doctor.” Morris jumped up from the table and ran out the door.

  Wils shook his head. These southerners were worse than the French when it came to matters of the heart.

  * * *

  During most of Dr. Parcher’s warbling monologue on Euclidean geometry, Helen rewrote her poem for Copeland’s class. She eliminated the second verse entirely during Dr. Gibbs’s recitation of the history of the 1848 rebellions in Europe and rewrote it during Dr. Mathilda Pembert’s deadly dull description of social hierarchy in Ur of the Chaldees. By the time Helen sat down in Boylston Hall for her advanced editing class, she’d decided her poem was as good as she could make it.

  Copeland walked in wearing his usual bowler hat and three-piece suit. The last bell rang, he doffed the hat and called roll.

  “Brandl.”

  “Here.”

  “Breckenridge.” There was no answer.

  “Philip Breckenridge,” he said again. “Does he have a cough? Is he ill?”

  “No, sir,” said Roland Tibbets. “Left this morning for the war.”

  “Did he take his dog?” Wharton snickered.

  Copeland shook his head, made a notation, and completed the roll.

  “Miss Brooks, what is your work on today?”

  As Helen opened her mouth, a voice said, “Excuse me.” Helen turned to see Wils Brandl with his hand in the air. “You didn’t call Jackson Vaughn.”

  Everyone looked at Copeland.

  “Vaughn withdrew just before class,” the professor explained.

  “Did he say why?” asked Morris Rabin.

  “I do not discuss personal matters, Mr. Rabin,” said the professor. Helen saw Morris’s face darken. “Miss Brooks, your topic?”

  “A Jewish wedding I saw this summer in Maine.”

  “Are you certain of your selection? You know we are not that kind on the topic of love poems.”

  “It’s a different type of love poem.” He shrugged. Fairly warned, she proceeded.

  Ayd (The Witness)

  by Helen W. Brooks

  They wore gray suits and brown ties

  To the wedding by the shore.

  Their covered heads and laughing eyes

  Crackled with wit not given in halves.

  I didn’t know them,

  But I laughed in their mirth.

  I didn’t see your love

  But I felt it in my heart.

  I didn’t hold the chair

  But my hands clapped in time.

  I didn’t sing

  But my heart did. And loudly.

  I never touched the water that day

  But a bit ran down my face

  That such grace had bloomed

  In a garden of sand.

  Wils glanced up. What had she just read?

  Copeland looked around the room, beyond her. “Mr. Rabin, you seem like you wish to chat today. This is a poem about your culture. What do you think of it?”

  “How can I feel this good at a wedding when my shoes are too tight and I’m being chased by an aunt who kisses me on my lips?”

  Dane Iselin laughed out loud and Morris continued. “Jewish weddings have been great for centuries—”

  “Makes up for the food—” said George Wharton.

  “Enough already!” said Morris with a hostile look. A murmur began in the class.

  “Quiet,” said Copeland. “Yes, Mr. Wharton. Do you have something to add about the New English writing about Jewish weddings?”

  “I do indeed. Miss Brooks thinks we should all be overcome by a wedding? She doesn’t give me a reason to care about them—whatever their religion. This, I’m sorry to say, is the problem with a culture immersed in Thoreau. They think they know it all just because they thought about something once or twice. They think their experience replaces knowledge and science. And they think that nature actually cares when it could care less.”

  “I do not,” she said hotly.

  “I found it extraordinary,” interrupted a voice from the back. Helen turned, astonished to see Wils was speaking. “Professor, I’d like to hear it again.”

  Copeland’s bushy brows rose. “Mr. Wharton would say that once is enough.”

  “I disagree with him. I thought she had some well-turned phrases and I wanted to he
ar that bit about touching the water.”

  Copeland’s head bobbed a bit in decision. “Miss Brooks, let us hear it again, and then Mr. Brandl, I expect you to explain yourself, and not ask Miss Brooks to the dance, as I suspect you might be trying to do.” Several men broke out in laughter. But her confidence was bolstered at Wils’s compliment and she ignored them, reciting again clearly for all to hear.

  “George,” said Wils, when she finished, “what I think you missed, and what makes this a nice work, is that she’s an outsider looking at something beautiful. It’s critical that she’s not like them. I know you’re from Philadelphia and you fancy yourself different from those in Boston, but you’re not. This young woman is very different from the Jews. She shows how being outside changes you. You see people differently and sometimes,” he said, his voice softening, “you like what you see. In fact, George, I think her poem shows just how bad your last love poem actually was. Perhaps her example will help you improve your own work.”

  Helen looked down, folded her hands, and tried to control her smile.

  “Mr. Brandl, your prose is purpling,” said Copeland, cutting him off. “Miss Brooks, this is a good poem. Gentlemen, take note—it’s the best one yet. You need this woman in your study group.” Then Helen flushed, feeling the giddiness that typically accompanied flattery.

  “Next! Mr. Iselin. Present your work.”

  And then the world moved on past her. She sat a bit stunned as the next man read, her adrenaline receding. No longer the center of attention, Helen felt relieved, excited by the fact that her work was found to have merit—and by Wils Brandl, a person many, she’d come to learn, including her brother, considered a real poet!

  At the end of the hour, Copeland reminded the class of next Monday’s public reading, insisted on their attendance, and left.

  As Helen gathered her books, she looked up to see Wils Brandl standing once again beside her desk. A smile rose to her lips. “You liked it?” she asked. “You weren’t just being kind?” His eyes were bright and friendly.