The finalists, p.10
The Finalists, page 10
“Sure.” We stand here a moment. “Duffy, do you think staying until lunch is the right thing?”
He purses his lips, hat still in hand. He seems to be giving my question more thought than I expected him to.
“I had to read this Shakespeare play last year for a lit class. I hated the professor, but some dude in the play says, ‘Uneasy lies the head who wears the crown.’ Or something like that. Did you ever read that play?”
“I don’t think so.”
“It was one of those Henry plays. The Fourth or the Fifth. Or was it the Sixth? I’m not sure. The point is when you’re in charge it’s tough to make a decision that will keep everybody happy. I mean, say you’re the president of the United States. You could give everybody vanilla ice cream, and half the people would hate you because it isn’t chocolate. Or fudge ripple. Or whatever. You know what I mean?”
“I think I do. Thanks.”
Duffy puts his hat back on. “I grew up on a farm. Stuff died all the time. Sometimes we had to kill it. I’ve hunted and slaughtered stuff. Not people, obviously. But I kind of get what the captain’s saying. Life goes on, you know? For the living it does.”
“Yeah, but . . .”
“Family farms aren’t what they used to be. And my family’s been hurting for years. It’s . . . We’ve had a rough go of it.”
Duffy tells a story similar to ones other students have shared with me. Five years earlier, one of my best business students dropped out of school when her family soybean farm went belly-up. She came to my office in tears, facing the prospect of stopping her education and saying good-bye to all of her friends and professors—everything she’d grown to love about the college. But her family needed her. And they couldn’t come close to making tuition payments.
Nothing has ever made me feel so helpless. Nothing has made the Hyde Scholarship and the 100 More Initiative more important to me. I hate the thought of any student leaving their education because of crippling financial need.
“To be honest,” Duffy says, “I kind of took Sydney’s side out there because . . . Well, you know. I’ve . . . for a while . . .” His cheeks flush. “We’re kind of in the same big friend group, but I don’t think she was very aware of my existence.”
“I get it,” I say. “I was a young single guy once.”
“And I really do feel bad for her. I think she’s taking Milo’s death pretty hard. But I wanted to keep going on the exam.”
“Why’s that?”
“Shit, boss, because I owe sixty thousand bucks in student loans. And I need all the help I can get. This Hyde dude . . .” He jerks his thumb toward the dining room. “He’s what my mom would call ‘a piece of work.’ And damn, he sure is wedded to all of us staying in here no matter what. He’s pretty inflexible.”
“But other times he’s not,” I say. “The bylaws spell out when we drink the bourbon, and he wanted to change that. I don’t know why.”
“Maybe he had a hankering for a drink. Hair of the dog, from the looks of him. Besides, a rich guy like him, he can enforce the rules any way he wants. If it suits him, follow the book. If not, screw it. That’s what money allows someone to do.”
“He’s trying to do his best,” I say. “Like all of us.”
“You think so?”
“I hope so. It’s odd that he rolled up here like a plastered frat boy, but that’s the hand we were dealt.”
“Well, I hate the Hyde family’s fucking guts, but I’ll take their blood money if they’re handing it out.”
PART 2
MIDDAY
20
THE STUDENTS WRITE FOR ninety minutes.
During that time, it’s easy to believe everything is normal, that one of their classmates isn’t lying dead in the other room covered by a quilt.
While the students write, I have no official duties. Nicholas keeps his distance from me. He stays on one side of the room, his book of bylaws open. He pages through them, continually licking his finger, as though he expects to find something particularly fascinating inside.
I watch the students. The room is silent except for the scratching of pen against paper, the occasional cough or sneeze or cleared throat. Students shift in their chairs or sigh, but they keep writing.
Duffy’s words rattle around in my head. Why would he hate the Hyde family? I get it from the staff and even the faculty of the college who have seen pay and benefits cut. But can those things be strictly laid at the feet of the Hyde family? Yes, they’re the college’s biggest donors, pretty much single-handedly bankrolling most of the operations of the school. But it’s the administration and the board of trustees who make the actual decisions.
Unless it’s simply convenience. Decisions at the college are made in a diffuse fashion. Layers of bureaucracy. Faculty, staff, administrators, the board. It’s tough to find any one person who could be blamed for any one thing.
But the Hydes? They loom larger than the college in some ways. The name is everywhere. The house we’re in. The statue that greets everyone as they arrive.
The conglomeration of companies and subsidiaries that employs thousands throughout the state. Duffy is right. Uneasy lies the head . . .
The bigger you are and the greater the power and influence you have, the more people hate you.
My thoughts send a shiver through me as the students continue to write. Am I a potential target of whoever poisoned Milo? Was the brick that just missed my head an accident? The bottle thrown in my vicinity?
The poison?
Was it for Nicholas? Or for me?
Was it a giant fuck you to the whole college?
When the grandfather clock hits noon and starts chiming, Nicholas Hyde steps forward, putting aside his book of bylaws.
“Okay, everybody, you need to stop writing and put your pens down. That’s the end of the written portion of the process.”
A couple of students have already finished—Emily and Captain Stephenson. Some are still writing, and others appear to be proofreading, but they complete their tasks and stop when Nicholas asks them to. The students let out deep breaths and stretch while remaining in their seats.
“Mr. Gaines, do you mind collecting the exams?” Nicholas asks. “We need to collect them before we move on to the next step in the process.”
While I circle the table, gathering the exam booklets, Nicholas is opening his briefcase.
“We’re going to have lunch now,” he tells everyone. “But before we do that, there’s a tradition prescribed by Major Hyde that we must uphold, one I referred to earlier. And I think this one is going to be something you really like. Maybe more than the cucumber sandwiches and even the biscuits. And to be honest with you, I think we all deserve what we’re about to partake in.”
I know what comes next. And Nicholas is right—we all do deserve it.
I’m not even a big drinker, but the thought of a shot of bourbon makes my mouth water.
But I’m shocked by what Nicholas pulls out of his briefcase. Shocked because, while I’ve heard about it many times, I’ve never actually seen one in person.
21
I KNOW TRADITION DICTATES a shot of bourbon before lunch is served.
Major Ezekiel Hyde had a favorite bourbon—and it’s the brand always used during the process. In fact, it’s the brand of bourbon always served on campus as a tribute to Major Hyde and his tastes: Buffalo Trace, created by the oldest continually operating distillery in America. Made not far from here in the capital of Kentucky, Frankfort.
It’s good bourbon, reasonably priced. Somehow it always seems to fit the image of Major Hyde—a link to the past, not too flashy. Always reliable.
The bottle Nicholas has pulled from his briefcase isn’t Buffalo Trace. It lacks the familiar green top, the black-and-white image of a buffalo, animals that were hunted to extinction in Kentucky by the time the nineteenth century began, which was around the time the first batch of Buffalo Trace was made.
Nicholas might as well be holding up the Holy Grail itself, if I’m seeing what I think I’m seeing. Gold foil decorates the top of the mostly full bottle, and the label shows a sepia-toned image of a bespectacled fat cat in profile smoking a cigar. The black script looks almost Gothic.
Nicholas holds the bottle in the air, letting everyone take it in.
I’m not sure all of the students will recognize the magnitude—or the value—of what’s in his hand.
But Captain Stephenson quickly does. “No way. Absolutely no way.”
“Do you all know what this is?” Nicholas asks.
“That’s Pappy 23,” Captain Stephenson says.
“That’s right. Pappy Van Winkle Family Reserve. Aged twenty-three years. One of the rarest bottles of bourbon in the world.”
“No shit,” Duffy says. “My papaw used to talk about that. He had it on his bucket list to have one taste before he died.”
“Did he get to?” Sydney asks.
“No. His tractor overturned on him ten years ago. Crushed his aorta.”
As if we haven’t seen enough death today, now we all have that image in our heads for a moment.
Nicholas quickly goes on. “Well, his grandson is going to fulfill the wish for him, because that’s what we’re going to toast with before lunch.”
“What’s the big deal about this?” Natalia asks. “I don’t drink alcohol. No one in my family does.”
“What’s the big deal?” Captain Stephenson is ready to explain. “Mr. Hyde is right—that’s one of the rarest bourbons in the world. And because it’s so rare, it also happens to be one of the most expensive.” He points at Nicholas. “That bottle right there can go for five thousand dollars. Or more.”
“I paid sixty-three hundred and change for this one,” Nicholas says, making it sound as casual as paying five dollars for a fancy cup of coffee. “I know a guy who knows a guy.”
Emily’s eyes narrow behind her glasses. Her pupils look like tiny polished stones. She says nothing.
Nicholas doesn’t notice. Or doesn’t care. Likely the latter. “The bylaws written by Major Hyde dictate that we have some before we eat. Major Hyde believed it sharpened the appetite and was good for digestion. Who am I to argue?”
“No argument from me,” Captain Stephenson says.
“Mr. Gaines? I think there were some shot glasses on a tray out there in the parlor. Did you see them?”
Did I see them? He means, Will you go get them?
I kind of hate myself, but I do it. If Nicholas Hyde said jump, would I ask how high?
I go out to the parlor, and sure enough, a silver tray with eight shot glasses sits on a sideboard near the tea service and food in question. I lean close and sniff at all the teacups, but I smell nothing. Who do I think I am? Hercule Poirot? I look up at the portrait of Major Hyde, but he simply offers a stern glare back and offers me no help.
I grab the tray and walk back to the dining room, the glasses gently clinking against one another as I go. When I return, everyone is gathered around Nicholas Hyde, studying the bottle of Pappy—everyone but Emily, who stands to the side examining the now electric sconces like she’s thinking of buying the house. I try not to think about the number of textbooks or computers that could have been purchased for the college for sixty-three hundred dollars. I focus on the tradition, the greater good. Would I trade sixty-three hundred dollars for the scholarship money to be handed out this weekend? For the 100 More Initiative?
I’d make that deal every time. I might grit my teeth, but I’d have to do it.
I put the tray of glasses down on the table, and the group breaks up as Nicholas brings the bottle of Pappy over. I should keep my mouth shut, but I need to ask a question.
“Don’t the bylaws say we drink Buffalo Trace?” I ask. “If the bylaws are so rigid and strict, so much so we can’t stop because someone died, can we change the bourbon choice of Major Hyde?”
Nicholas looks at me like I’m a centipede that just crawled across his bowl of oatmeal.
“Well, Mr. Gaines, you’re right that the bylaws can be pretty rigid about the larger picture. But since this is my first year in this position, I wanted to bring a special treat. I thought maybe you all would indulge me. Is that okay?”
And what am I supposed to say?
Nothing. I’m going to say nothing.
“Sure,” I say. “I’ve always wanted to try Pappy.”
“Wait,” Emily says. “Just wait.”
She’s leaning against the wall with her arms crossed.
“What is it?” Sydney asks.
Emily lifts her head and clears her throat now that she has the room’s attention. Virginia Woolf stares sternly at all of us as well from a canted angle on Emily’s arm. “I thought we were going to decide if we wanted to stay here at all. I thought this was the time we were going to vote on who stayed and who left.”
22
A HUSH FALLS OVER the room.
Everyone exchanges looks, but no one speaks.
Nicholas holds the bottle of Pappy by the neck, and the pendulum in the grandfather clock swings back and forth with a faint tick, marking the time.
“We’ve all finished the written exam now,” Natalia says. “We’re halfway through. . . .”
“What are you saying?” Nicholas asks.
“It seems like if we’re halfway through, it would be pretty easy to finish,” Natalia says. “You know, just continue on.”
A couple of students nod—Captain Stephenson and, surprisingly, Emily, who proposed the vote-taking compromise. And who has seemed all along like she couldn’t wait to get out the door, scholarship or no.
Inevitably, everyone ends up looking in Sydney’s direction, waiting to hear from her. She’s rubbing her hands together but not speaking.
I decide to give her time to think. And a little help.
“Conversely,” I say, “everyone is in the exact same place right now. You’ve all finished the written part of the exam. There’s a natural stopping place here, like Emily said earlier. We could just call it a day.”
Duffy’s face is puzzled. “But then we’d be blowing it for future generations. We already covered that.”
“I think . . .” Sydney’s voice makes us all turn to her again. She continues to knead her hands together and doesn’t look up, even though all eyes are on her. “I think there’s, like, something you all should know about Milo. Something important.”
We all wait. And I brace myself for a disturbing revelation.
Sydney goes on. “It’s just . . . Well, his politics were very important to him. He really cared about other people and doing the right thing. That kind of thing mattered to him. He wanted to make a difference. That’s why he wore that shirt. Right?”
She stops talking. She raises her thumb to her mouth and nibbles on a loose piece of skin none of us can see.
“I know that about him, Sydney.” Duffy tries to help her out. If this were a volleyball game, he’d be setting her up for a spike. “All Milo’s friends know that.”
Sydney smiles in a forced way. “That’s why I think we should stay. He wouldn’t want everyone else to stop just because he . . . well, because he . . . you know . . .”
“Passed away,” Captain Stephenson says.
“Yeah,” Sydney says. “Passed away.”
Everyone nods, solemn as church deacons.
Nicholas steps forward. “I guess we don’t have to vote, then. We know how everyone feels—”
“I think we should still vote,” I say. “I think it’s important to go on record with what we all think.”
Nicholas takes a step closer to me. He speaks in a low voice that the students can no doubt hear. “Are you sure you want to do that?”
“We agreed to take a vote, and I think we should take one. So show of hands. Who wants to stay and finish the second half of the process?”
For a moment, no hands go up. Nobody moves.
Then Captain Stephenson’s hand goes up. Followed quickly by Nicholas’s.
Then Natalia, Emily, and Duffy raise their hands.
Finally, Sydney lifts hers. And since she has the longest arms of anyone in the room, it looks like she’s almost reaching the ceiling.
Every eye in the room turns to me. It doesn’t matter. I’m clearly outvoted. But I did say everyone should go on record with what they really think.
The students stare at me, waiting. But it’s not them I notice. It’s Nicholas. He’s watching me, his face hopeful. His eyes are wide, his face encouraging. He wants me to join in, to be one of them. To do what everybody else is doing.
I might have received a call from Grace Chan that morning, and she spoke to me like she’s my boss. But I know who I really work for. And why.
It’s simply a no-brainer.
I lift my hand.
The process continues.
23
NICHOLAS WASTES NO TIME.
As he fiddles with the bottle, I decide to make conversation. “How did everybody feel about the written portion? Do you feel good about your essays?”
Duffy runs his hand down his bolo tie. “Writing was never really my strong suit. I’m better at digging in the dirt, making things grow.”
“It was a good question.” Captain Stephenson rocks back and forth from his toes to his heels. “It gave us all something to sink our teeth into.”
Emily adjusts her glasses. “Milo was the best writer in the school. Remember he won that award last year? The one given by that local group?”
“The Optimists’ Club,” I say.
“I think he won five hundred dollars for that,” Emily says.
Natalia makes a sound like she’s clearing her throat, but she doesn’t speak.
“What was that?” I ask.
