Shortest Day

by Jane Langton

  Sumner was stymied. He changed the subject. “You asked for a meeting with Vice-President Henshaw? Well, it’s been arranged. He can see you this afternoon at three-thirty. It’s the only time available for the next three weeks, so you’d better be on time.”

  Palmer smiled, and inspected his dirty fingernails. Flicking back his grubby cuff, he examined his watch, a fine specimen lifted from the wrist of a sleeping druggie in Central Square. It told the time in Rio, London, and Katmandu. “I’ll see what I can do,” he said loftily. “My own schedule is pretty full.”

  But of course Palmer appeared in Henshaw’s office in Massachusetts Hall that afternoon, and only fifteen minutes late—an interval calculated to irritate Vice-President Henshaw without enraging him to the point of canceling the meeting.

  It turned out that it was the Associate Vice-President who did most of the talking. Henshaw was in the room, but he said very little.

  “You cannot deny,” said Nifto, jumping in with both feet, “the moral responsibility of this institution for the plight of the homeless people of Cambridge. Harvard University owns real estate all over the city. You have an endowment of six billion dollars. Surely some small fraction of your holdings would house all the homeless mothers, pregnant teenagers, and helpless old men at your very gates, people who are at this moment without shelter in the middle of winter?”

  The interview was the strangest encounter of Ellery Beaver’s career. “My dear Mr. Nifto,” he said smoothly, glancing at his boss, who was gazing at the rug, “I believe the university is already doing a great deal for the homeless people of Cambridge. The students of Phillips Brooks House, just as one example, are the sole staff of the shelter at University Lutheran. It is the active expression of their spiritual life. They also—”

  “Oh, right,” said Palmer Nifto, “you mean Scottie and Brad and Millie, oh, sure, we’re old buddies. But I’m talking about empowerment here. What precisely is the university going to do to supply permanent housing for the ninety-seven homeless people encamped on the overpass beside Harvard Yard during the Christmas season? I assure you, we are not going away.”

  “If you are trespassing on our property,” said Ellery Beaver with a touch of menace in his voice, “I believe we can make you go away.”

  “Your property?” said Palmer, leaping to take advantage. “I understand your ownership of the property is debatable. You can make us go away? Drag us out? We’ll have cameras there from Channel Four so fast it’ll knock your socks off. You might be interested to know that we’re negotiating with the network right now for joint sponsorship of a stadium appearance by Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward.”

  This was a lie, but it gave Ellery Beaver a shock. There was a pause, into which Vice-President Henshaw inserted an odd question. “Tell me, Mr. Nifto, your tents, are they empty?”

  “Empty?”

  “I mean, you don’t have curtains and pillows in your tents?”

  “Curtains? Well, no, of course we don’t have curtains. Tents don’t have, like windows.”

  This dialogue was certainly bizarre, and yet Ernest Henshaw and Palmer Nifto might have had something to say to each other if Ellery Beaver had been somewhere else. Both were alienated from a world gone mad. The only difference between them was that Henshaw turned away with horror and revulsion, while Nifto hurled every stick and stone that came into his hand.

  Ellery Beaver broke in, trying to get the conversation back on track.

  “Well, of course we’re not going to evict you. We want to talk. We want to look at your problem from all sides. As I understand it, homelessness has many causes, both social and economic. We want to organize a symposium. We want you to conduct a seminar during the reading period, ‘Homelessness and the Urban Condition,’ something of that sort. But of course we would expect you and your friends to leave the premises first. We cannot talk under pressure.”

  Palmer was wary. “I heard you guys would do this, try to talk us to death. I mean, like there was a tent city at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, and the establishment wouldn’t talk, they moved in with bulldozers and mashed everything down. But at least they were honest. What the hell good does it do to talk?”

  Ellery Beaver laughed loudly. “Oh, MIT, they wouldn’t have a clue. You people scared them out of their wits. But I assure you, this is a different sort of institution. We really care. We want to hear your ideas, your whole philosophical position, how you hope to relate to the city, the church, the university. Of course, you understand that we can do nothing inconsistent with the primary educational purposes of the university.”

  “The point is,” said Palmer coldly, “talking is all very well, but what happens after that? Like I was thinking, they’re repairing this building on Kirkland Street. Why don’t you turn it over to us? Fix it up with, you know, apartments? We move in, we don’t bother you any more.”

  Ellery Beaver’s ruddy face turned pale. He flicked a glance at Henshaw, whose stillness was the stillness of death. “You mean,” he said, stuttering, “Lowell Lecture Hall?”

  “Yes, that’s the one. Like it’s got a lot of columns and pediments, right? It would do just fine. Get us off your back.”

  “But, my God, Lowell Lecture Hall!”

  Then Vice-President Henshaw raised his eyes at last, and spoke up. “What about armoires? Have you people got any armoires?”

  Ellery Beaver looked away, embarrassed, but Palmer turned his head and looked squarely at Ernest Henshaw for the first time.

  The man had a narrow face, a small nose, large round glasses, tiny ears, a high balding forehead, and gray hair cut short against his skull. His suit was gray, his Oxford-cloth shirt was blue as the summer sky, his necktie was patterned with tennis racquets. His shoes were brown and shining, his socks showed no speck of bare white leg. He was the perfect Harvard alumnus of the class of thirty years back—except for his eyes.

  Henshaw’s eyes were very small in their narrow slits. They glittered directly at Palmer Nifto, and he could see that they were insane.

  CHAPTER 20

  Down in yon forest there stands a hall:

  The bells of paradise I heard them ring:

  It’s cover’d all over with purple and pall:

  And I love my Lord Jesus above anything.

  In that hall there stands a bed:

  The bells of paradise I heard them ring:

  It’s cover’d all over with scarlet so red:

  And I love my Lord Jesus above anything.

  Under that bed there runs a flood:

  The bells of paradise I heard them ring:

  The one half runs water, the other runs blood:

  And I love my Lord Jesus above anything.

  Carol from Richard Hill’s Commonplace Book, circa 1500

  The things that were going on inside and outside Memorial Hall had begun to intertwine.

  In Sanders Theatre the back rows of benches were often occupied by people who leaked out of the tent city to get warm, then stayed to watch the succession of dramatic episodes on the stage.

  And the Revels performers had begun to take an interest in the tent city. At lunchtime on Saturday the Morris men bounded around outdoors in heavy jackets, stamping on the yellow grass. The men and women of the chorus gathered beside Palmer Nifto’s command center and sang “Masters in This Hall” and “Go, Tell It on the Mountain,” and then they led everybody in “Silent Night” and “O Come, All Ye Faithful.”

  Mary Kelly watched the tired gray faces light up as the residents of Harvard Towers sang the familiar words. They must have learned them as children when they were living in houses. The contrast between the solid walls of the past and the flimsy fabric of the present must surely be painful, but they were all smiling and laughing. Camping here out-of-doors, homeless and lacking in everything, they were experiencing Christmas, however pale and second-class.

  Tom Cobb stood beside Mary, applauding. “It’s a damn shame,” he said. “Why doesn’t somebody do somethin
g about it?”

  “About homelessness?” said Mary. “Oh, right.” She had heard the same thing so many times, she had said it herself so often, what good did it do to talk?

  But Tom Cobb was in a talkative mood. Tom was a recently divorced estate attorney with a lucrative practice. He was Sarah Bailey’s right-hand man, and the best dancer among the Morris men. When the six of them were stamping around on the stage, Mary always kept her eyes on Tom, because he was so lithe and strong and graceful, leaping higher than the rest. Everyone liked Tom Cobb. He was jocular and cheerful, a practical jokester with a corny sense of humor. His jokes were awful and made everybody groan, but they laughed at the same time. His world seemed so sunny and easygoing. Why wasn’t it the true one, why wasn’t everyone like Tom?

  Even the homeless people liked him, although his simple-minded optimism had no solution to their predicament, only the superficial question Why doesn’t somebody do something?—which was no answer at all.

  They were singing again, “The First Noel.” “Have a choc?” said Tom, holding out a candy bar to Mary.

  “Oh, no, thanks. I just had a couple of doughnuts.”

  “Well, okay.” Tom bit off a big chunk. “Uh-oh, lunch break’s over. Here comes Sarah.”

  Sarah Bailey had come out to urge everyone back inside, but at once she noticed Gretchen Milligan in the circle of homeless people. She couldn’t help wondering if she herself would ever be as big as that.

  Fascinated, she approached Gretchen and struck up a conversation. “When’s your baby due?”

  “Oh, Jesus, it was due last week.”

  “Is somebody looking after you? Shouldn’t you be in the hospital?”

  “Oh, God, no. When the time comes I’ll go to Saint Elizabeth’s. Jesus, I’m supposed to be at Bright Day right now. It’s this place in Somerville.”

  Sarah couldn’t control her curiosity. “Do you feel all rights? Is the baby—you know, is it active?”

  “Active!” Gretchen put her hands on her stomach. “My God, it’s playing hockey in there. Feel it, go ahead, feel it.”

  Timidly Sarah put one hand on Gretchen’s big round ball. Yes, through her fingers came a thump and a restless drumming. Trembling, she dropped her hand, full of envy. She couldn’t help seeing this very young girl as a matriarch with hordes of children and grandchildren around her knees. She felt like crying.

  But rehearsal time was growing short. Sarah pulled herself together and shouted at everybody to come back inside.

  Homer Kelly had put on his giant’s mask for the first time. It was huge, with a shaggy mop of hair, fierce eyes, and a mouth full of sharp teeth. He had spent all morning waiting around in the great hall, terrifying the children, running at them with loud roars while they scuttled away screaming and giggling. He had taken off the mask to eat lunch, and it still wasn’t time to go onstage, roaring and raking the air with his claws.

  He was bored. He stood waiting on the steps at the back of the stage while the Morris men went through their paces, gracefully, twirling their handkerchiefs and waggling their legs.

  He was sick and tired of waiting. He wanted to drive home with Mary and look at the water level in the furnace. He hadn’t checked it lately, and it was probably low. What if the cutoff didn’t work? The furnace would start heating up, and then—Christ!—what would happen after that? There were more damned problems connected with domestic life in a New England winter. “Fee-fi-fo-fum,” he grumbled under his breath, swinging his club.

  At last Tom signaled the final measures of the dance. The concertina tiddled the end of the tune, and all twelve feet crashed down and stood still.

  “Wonderful,” said Walt.

  Homer flattened himself against the railing to allow the Morris men to tramp offstage. But, oh, God, they weren’t finished after all, they were picking up their swords, they were going to do an entirely different dance. Jesus, this could go on all afternoon.

  He shifted his weight from one leg to the other, and pulled his mask up on the top of his head. Now they were stopping again. A sword clattered to the floor. What the hell was the matter this time?

  “Tom, are you all right?” Sarah ran up the stairs at the front of the stage. Everyone was looking at one of the dancers, who was doubled over, clutching himself around the middle.

  “Oh, God,” groaned Tom Cobb. He fell to his knees.

  Sarah knelt beside him. “Tom, Tom, where does it hurt?”

  Tom gasped through clenched teeth. “Christ, it’s not my appendix. They already took it out.” He rolled moaning on the floor.

  Mary Kelly had been watching him dance, enjoying the way Tom’s feet seemed to bound up off the floor, the way he grinned as he twirled his handkerchief and laughed as he executed the figures so gracefully. But now the jolly jokester was pale and panting, his face contorted with pain. He tried to get up and fell back with a scream.

  “Quick,” said Mary, “Cambridge Hospital. It’s just up the street.”

  Homer Kelly tore off his mask. “Our car’s right outside.” He picked up Tom by the shoulders and a couple of the dancers took his feet, and somebody covered him with a coat. “Okay,” said Homer, “let’s get him down the stairs. Gently, gently.”

  “Oh, don’t,” groaned Tom, “please don’t. Oh, Christ.”

  They were a hushed and shuffling procession, heading for the north door. Walt hurried ahead to hold it open. Children stared from the entrance to the great hall. Mary ran down the north steps, unlocked the car, and opened the two back doors.

  Getting Tom into the back seat was a grim struggle, with Homer pulling on one side and Jeffery Peck pushing on the other, and Tom writhing in the middle. At the emergency entrance to the hospital the experts took over. Homer and Mary and Jeffery watched as Tom was hurried away on a stretcher. They looked at one another silently, and Mary shook her head with a gesture of pity and helplessness.

  Tom Cobb died an hour later on the operating table. The anesthetist monitoring his life signs threw up her hands. The surgeon cursed. Then there was no sound but the heaving of the stomach pump.

  “Turn the fucking thing off,” said the surgeon.

  “Pathology?” said the orderly. “Shall I should take him to Pathology?”

  “Oh, God, yes. There’s no excuse for this. Look at that gooey brown mess! What the hell was he eating?”

  CHAPTER 21

  Horrible, terrible, what hast thou done?

  Thou has killed my only dearly beloved son.

  Traditional British Mummers’ Play

  It was the second funeral in Harvard’s Memorial Church for Mary and Homer Kelly. They had sat here in the past, a long time ago, grieving for someone they hardly knew. Now it was the turn of Tom Cobb, estate lawyer for Ropes and Gray, Morris dancer, jazz flutist, and one of the stage managers for the Christmas Revels.

  The Kellys had known Tom only slightly as Sarah’s colleague and as one of the Morris dancers. But Homer felt a savage sympathy for the young man who had tossed in such anguish on the back seat of his car.

  And death always hit him hard, whether natural or unnatural. After investigating a number of cold-blooded homicides in his time, Homer had come to the conclusion that the worst kind of human extermination wasn’t murder, it was the everyday continuous slaughter of the entire human race. The older he got, the more often some old friend or acquaintance stumbled and fell off the edge of that terrible cliff. You’d think the survivors would get used to it. But Homer never did. He couldn’t just glance back in surprise and say, Whoops, too bad!, and scuttle on, scrabbling his way along the ever-narrowing path on the mountainside, minding his P’s and Q’s.

  Sitting beside Mary in the warm air of Memorial Church, he wondered if he ought to reveal himself to Sarah Bailey, and tell her about his old credentials as a lieutenant detective in the office of the District Attorney of Middlesex County. Except for Arlo Field, nobody in the Revels crew knew about his history as a policeman. Well, it didn’t matter. Homer had no w
ish to volunteer his services. After all, the Cambridge Police were looking into the sudden death of Tom Cobb, working hand in glove with the Harvard University Police Department. They could handle it.

  But in spite of himself Homer felt nosily inquisitive. Once again he was like a dog sniffing the ground, ears cocked, whiskers vibrating. He turned his head left and right and craned his neck over his shoulder to see who had come to the service for Tom Cobb, wondering who might have had it in for him.

  The organ boomed massively behind the choir screen. Mary pulled at Homer’s coat sleeve and whispered, “Homer, stop it.”

  “Stop what?”

  “Stop staring.”

  “Oh, all right.” Homer shrugged his shoulders and transferred his gaze to the high ceiling, wondering if the young estate lawyer named Tom Cobb was worthy of all this splendor of liturgical apparatus and classical pomposity, of coffered barrel vault and polished pulpit, of red carpet and Corinthian capital. Well, of course, his family must think so. Here they were, Tom’s relatives, being ushered into the front pews—a tearstained mother, various brothers, sisters, aunts, and uncles, and an old grandfather.

  Arlo came to the service directly from teaching his freshman class, and found a place in the back of the church—Arlo Field, the resident of Apartment B, 329 Huron Avenue, the solar system, the Milky Way galaxy, the expanding universe. He looked at the pulpit, which was draped with a velvet banner, a piece of ecclesiastical haberdashery. He looked up at the lofty white vault of Memorial Church and saw beyond it the thinning layers of air, the glaring winter sun, pulsing so mysteriously within, and the gibbous moon, dented like a collapsed beach ball. Folding his arms across his best jacket, he thought about Tom Cobb.

  Arlo hadn’t known Tom very well, but he had found him amusing, and he had wished, like everyone else whose life intersected with Tom’s, that he, Arlo Field, could be more like him, that he could loosen up somehow and make friends so winningly. Was it just a matter of liking people better? People in general? Not picking and choosing? Sarah Bailey was like that. She acted as though everyone was wonderful, just wonderful.