Colonna's crypt.
When they both turn to leave, the membership watches as Gil exits the main hall. The seniors understand it first. One by one, on tables and railings and old oak walls, the club officers begin to rap their knuckles. Brooks, the vice president, is first, then Carter Simmons, the club treasurer; and finally, from all sides, comes this knocking, tapping, rumbling of good-bye. Parker, still on the dance floor, begins rapping louder than all the rest, hoping one last time to stand out. But it's too late. Gil's exit, like his entrance when we arrived, takes place in precise time, the science of a dance step to be performed only once. As the noise of the crowd finally dies, I follow them up.
We're taking Paul to Taft's house, Gil says when I find them in the Officers' Room. What?
There's something he needs to get. A blueprint.
You're going now}
Taft's at the police station, he says, parroting what Paul explained. Paul needs us to take him.
I can see the cogs turning. He wants to help, the same way Charlie did; he wants to disprove what I said in the hospital parking lot.
Paul says nothing. I can tell from his expression that this was meant to be a trip he and Gil would make alone.
I'm about to explain to Gil that I can't, that he and Paul will have to go without me, when everything becomes more complicated. Katie appears in the doorway.
What's going on? she says.
Nothing, I say. Let's go back down.
I couldn't get Sam on the phone, she says, misunderstanding. She needs to know about Taft. Is it okay if I go to the Prince office?
Gil senses his opportunity. That's fine. Tom's coming with us to the Institute. We can meet back up at the service.
Katie is about to agree, when the look on my face gives us away.
Why? she asks.
Gil simply says, It's important. For one of the few times in our friendship, his tone suggests the importance he's referring to is much larger than himself.
Okay, she says warily, reaching out to take my hand in hers. I'll see you at the chapel.
She's about to add something else, when a huge thud comes from below, followed by an explosion of glass.
Gil hurries for the stairs; we rush down behind him to find a wide puddle of debris. Blood-colored liquid is seeping in all directions, bringing snags of glass with it. Standing at the center of it all, in a perimeter of space everyone else has evacuated, is Parker Hassett, flushed and fuming. He has just thrown the entire wet bar to the ground, shelves, bottles, and all.
What the hell's going on? Gil demands of a sophomore watching nearby.
He just went off. Someone called him a dipso and he went crazy.
Veronica Terry is holding up the ruffled skirts of her white dress, now fringed in pink and spattered with wine. They've been teasing him all night, she cries.
For God's sake, Gil demands, how'd you let him get that drunk?
She looks at him blankly, expecting pity, getting fury. Partygoers nearby whisper to each other, holding back satisfied smiles.
Brooks is telling an attendant to raise the bar and restock the shelves from the wine cellar, while Donald Morgan, looking newly presidential, tries to calm Parker amidst the hecklers. From the crowd come coos of Lush! and Drunk! and worse. Laughter at the edges of insult. Parker is across the room from me, cut in half a dozen places by the shrapnel of upturned bottles, standing in a great puddle of mixed drinks like a child, mashing out the lees. When he finally turns on Donald, he is full of rage.
Katie covers her mouth as it unfolds. Parker lunges at Donald, and the two topple over onto the floor, wrestling at first, then hammering each other with fists. Here is the show everyone has been waiting to see, Parker's comeuppance for a million petty offenses, justice for what he did on the third floor, violence to end two years of mounting hatred. A server comes out with a flat-faced mop, creating the spectacle at the fight's edge of a man shoveling liquid. On the hardwood floor the currents of wine and liquor careen past each other, reflecting off the oak walls, and not a drop is absorbed by anything, not mop nor carpet nor even tuxedo, as the two men continue to fight, a great throb of black arms and legs, an insect trying to right itself before drowning.
Let's go, Gil says, leading us around the brawl that is now someone else's mess.
Paul and I follow him, wordless, sloshing through the wake of bourbon and brandy and wine.
The roads we travel are thin black stitches on a great white gown. The Saab is surefooted, even with Gil leaning on the gas and the wind shrieking around us. On Nassau Street two cars have slammed into each other, lights flashing, drivers shouting, shadows flickering against a pair of tow trucks on the curb. A proctor emerges from the security kiosk at the north of campus, pink in the haze of safety flares, gesturing to us that the entrance is closed-but Paul is already navigating us away from campus, westward. Gil throws the gearshift into third, then fourth, passing roads in streaks.
Show him the letter, Gil says.
Paul pulls something from inside his coat and hands it back to me in the rear seat.
What's this?
The envelope is torn open across the top, but the upper-left corner bears the imprint of the Dean of Students.
It was in our mailbox tonight, Gil says.
Mr. Harris:
This letter serves to notify you that my office is conducting an investigation into allegations of plagiarism lodged against you by your senior thesis advisor, Dr. Vincent Taft. Due to the nature of the allegations, and their effect on your graduation, a special meeting of the Committee on Discipline will convene next week to consider your case and render a decision. Please contact me to arrange a preliminary meeting and to confirm receipt of this letter.
Sincerely,
Marshall Meadows
Associate Dean of Undergraduate Students
He knew what he was doing, Paul says, when I've finished reading.
Who?
Vincent. This morning.
Threatening you with the letter?
He knew he had nothing on me. So he started in on your dad.
I can hear it in his voice, the accusation sneaking in. Everything returns to the moment I pushed Taft.
You're the one who ran, I say under my breath.
Slush sprays the undercarriage of the car as the suspension dances over a pothole.
I'm the one who called the police too, he says.
What?
That's why the police took Vincent in, he says. I told them I saw Vincent near Dickinson when Bill was shot.
You lied to them.
I'm waiting for Gil to react, but he keeps his eyes on the road. Staring at the back of Paul's head, I have the strange sensation of looking at myself from behind, of being inside my father's car again.
Is this it? Gil says.
The houses before us are fashioned in white clapboard. At Taft's address, all windows are unlit. Just beyond them stands the tree line of the Institute woods, its canopy tinseled in white.
He's still at the police station, Paul says, almost to himself. The lights are off.
Jesus, Paul, I say. How do even you know the blueprint is here?
It's the only other place he could've hidden it.
Gil doesn't even hear us. Shaken by the sight of Taft's house, he lightens pressure on the brakes, letting us roll in neutral, prepared to go back. Just as his foot begins to engage the clutch, though, Paul yanks the door handle and stumbles out onto the curb.