The finalists, p.12
The Finalists, page 12
At first, I think it’s the students waiting for the bathroom. Laughing or talking.
But the noise sounds more desperate. Sadder.
Is it someone crying? Or talking? Speaking in a low, harsh voice . . .
I think I know where it’s coming from.
I go down the hall toward the music room, and as I approach, I think I make out the words being spoken.
I’m sorry.
Is that what’s being said?
Sydney stands before the couch that holds Milo’s quilt-draped body. She stands there with her arms folded across her chest, looking down at his shape.
It’s an intensely private moment, but I can’t just leave her here without asking if she needs help.
“Sydney?”
She turns quickly like a sleeper startled from a dream.
“Are you okay?”
She nods her head. Her eyes and cheeks are dry. “I’m fine.”
I move farther into the room, closer to her side. “Is there something I can do for you? Anything you want to talk about?”
“Not really.” Her eyes trail back to the shape on the couch.
“So, it seems like you and Milo were pretty good friends.”
“Yeah, we were. I mean—yeah, friends. Or, you know, like that.”
My daughter Rebecca experienced her first real heartbreak in the fall. She broke up with—or more accurately was dumped by—a guy she’d been dating for a few months. Rebecca cried for two days straight, and no amount of hugs or support from Rachel or me made a difference.
“Well, I’m sorry,” I say. “What happened to him is terrible. And I promise you we’ll find out why it happened. The college will get to the bottom of it.”
“Have you ever known someone, but you could, like, only get to know so much about them? Like there was a wall or a barrier to what you could reach with the person?”
“I’ve experienced that before.”
“That’s what it was like with Milo. Only so far, you know? Like, did he really have a heart condition and not tell me?”
“Sometimes people are harder to get to know when they’re young. Maybe especially young men. They have more walls up because they’re afraid.”
She looks over at me. “You’re saying young guys get better as they get older?”
“Some do. Most, maybe. I hope so.”
“I should have just been patient.”
Should have just been? Meaning—she wasn’t?
“I just mean that as we all get older we look back on our past selves and we can see the mistakes we’ve made. And the ways we’ve improved. I’ve told my own girls that. So I’ll share that wisdom with you. It’s free for being here today.”
“Thanks.”
“Do you want to take another moment alone and then come and get something to eat?” I ask. “Unless the rabbit offends you.”
“You have daughters?” she asks.
“Three of them. Just a bit younger than you. Rebecca, Robyn, and Rita. Rachel is my wife’s name, so . . .”
Sydney uses the thumb and index finger of her right hand to twist a silver ring that circles her left middle finger.
“I wanted to leave earlier,” she says. “When this happened to Milo.”
“You don’t have to stay,” I say. “If you changed your mind—”
“My dad died when I was, like, twelve.” She continues to twist the ring, then nods at her arm. “That’s this tattoo, LJM. His initials. Actually, we think my dad was, like, murdered.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“He was cheating on my mom. And I guess the woman’s husband found out. The cops said he was drunk and fell, but my mom and I think he got beat up.” She stops twisting and shrugs. “I guess it doesn’t matter. Right?”
“Sydney, maybe all of this is too much. Maybe you need to go. I can try to get the chief, and we can open the doors.”
“I want you to know that I stayed in here because of my little sister. Like I said, she wants to go to medical school, and my mom works two jobs. See, everyone thinks that because I’m on the volleyball team and have a scholarship that school is, like, free for me, but it isn’t.”
“I know that. Hyde doesn’t offer full athletic scholarships. We’re too small.”
I also know Hyde offers a small scholarship of some kind—academic, athletic, artistic—to every student who applies. Most struggling private colleges are willing to knock a small amount off the tuition bill and call it a scholarship just to appeal to vanity and attract more students.
“My scholarship for volleyball is, like, two thousand dollars. That about pays for my books some years.”
“I hear you.”
“I’m staying for my family. Not because I don’t care about Milo. My brothers, well, they just—they haven’t really done anything with their lives.” She shakes her head. “I thought they’d be taking care of my mom and sister once Dad died, but instead, they just, like, disappeared from the scene. My mom’s boyfriend moved in, and he’s . . . It’s not good. He’s a creep. Not good for my sister. I want to get her out so she can go to school. She’s sixteen.”
“That’s a lot to deal with.”
“It is, but I’m trying.”
“I understand,” I say. “These aren’t easy choices. For any of us.”
Sydney reaches out and places her hand on my arm. She grips it tight. She’s strong—an athlete—and her fingers dig into my flesh.
“That’s it,” she says. “Choices. Everybody makes choices.” She points at Milo’s body. “He made choices, and so did I. You see? And I’m doing what I have to do to take care of my family.”
“By staying?”
“By doing what I can to get that scholarship,” she says. “That’s what I have to do.”
“Sydney?”
We both turn. Duffy stands in the doorway. “Sorry,” he says. “I was looking for Sydney.”
“I’m here,” she says.
“I was going to get some food,” Duffy says. “I think it’s safe. And I thought maybe we could sit together. If you wanted.”
“Okay, yeah, sure,” she says. “I don’t really want to be alone now anyway.”
They both leave, and then I follow them.
27
I STOP IN THE bathroom, which is empty.
I wish I’d held on to my phone so I could call Rachel. But she knew I was going to surrender it—we’ve done this the last four years—and she won’t be expecting to hear from me all day.
I’m then the last one in the buffet line, behind Sydney and Duffy, who are speaking to each other when I come into the room and clam up when they see me. I catch one word as I come in, and that’s Duffy saying the word “hardcore.”
He said that word earlier in reference to the Hyde family. And I remember what he said after we placed Milo on the couch in the music room. Apparently the most interesting conversations happen while standing over corpses. Duffy told me he hated the Hyde family but never explained why.
Now doesn’t seem like the time to ask.
Duffy’s face changes. A smile grows, like the sun emerging from behind clouds.
“Hey, Mr. Gaines, have you had rabbit before?”
“Each of the last four years. Right here. And once in Texas I had a rabbit burrito.”
Sydney wrinkles her nose, but she has her plate filled. So does Duffy.
“What happens in these interviews we have to do?” Duffy asks.
“It’s pretty standard really. You meet with Mr. Hyde, and he asks you questions related to the topic of the written exam. Or, I suppose, anything else he thinks is relevant.”
“And we do that in the dining room? With everybody watching?” Duffy asks.
“Usually we do it in the—” I stop. “Maybe we can do it in the parlor.”
When we’re through the line, we return to the dining room. Natalia and Emily sit next to each other. Captain Stephenson sits by himself. Duffy and Sydney sit across from Natalia and Emily.
And there’s no Nicholas Hyde.
“Where’s . . . ?”
“We thought he was with you,” Captain Stephenson says. “Maybe planning the rest of the day.”
“No.”
“Is he in the bathroom?” Emily asks, pleased with herself. “He seemed kind of pissed at me.”
“He wasn’t in the bathroom by the kitchen.”
“I was in the other one,” Natalia says.
“Maybe he . . .”
I put my plate down at the end of the table, leaving the spot at the head open for Nicholas. Something creaks above us.
“What was that?” Sydney asks.
“Is he upstairs?” Natalia asks.
“What exactly is upstairs?” Duffy asks. “Anything?”
The ceiling creaks again.
“Back in the old days,” I say, “that’s where all the bedrooms were. For the Hyde family when they lived here.”
“How many of them?” Duffy asks.
“Major Hyde was married. And he had four children who lived to adulthood.”
“What does that mean?” Sydney asks.
“It means it used to be a tougher world.” Captain Stephenson doesn’t really break his eating rhythm while he talks. The fork keeps going to his mouth. “This is delicious.”
“Major Hyde and his wife, Mary, had seven children,” I say. “But three died before the age of two. Scarlet fever and diphtheria.”
“Oh, gosh,” Emily says. “That’s brutal. I hate to hear about children dying.”
I’m still standing next to my empty chair, my hot food cooling in front of me. The creaking happens again. Maybe Nicholas just needs time to cool off. And it’s best to leave him alone.
Upstairs.
“What’s up there now?” Duffy asks.
“Just the bedrooms, like I said. With the original furniture. There’s some stuff stored up there as well. Memorabilia. Things that belonged to the major.”
“Things from the war?” Captain Stephenson perks up.
“Most of those things are in a museum in Bowling Green.”
Surprisingly, Emily is digging into her food. Her plate is nearly clean already. “Maybe we can all go up and see the gun that slaughtered those Johnny Rebs.”
Captain Stephenson shakes his head but remains quiet. He keeps working his fork.
The bottle of Pappy is gone.
“It’s not here,” the captain says. “He must have come back in and grabbed it before he went wherever he went.”
The floor creaks above us.
“Maybe we won’t have to stay all day,” Duffy says, leaning in close to Sydney and laughing. “Maybe my boy is tying one on upstairs and won’t be able to finish the rest.”
“Sir, if that were to happen—”
I hold my hand up and cut off the captain’s question.
“Why don’t you guys keep on eating?” I say. “I’m just going to go upstairs and make sure everything is okay.”
The sound of silverware scraping plates continues as I head for the stairs.
“At least try to bring back some of that Pappy,” Duffy says. “I wouldn’t mind having a little more.”
28
THE STAIRS CREAK AS I go up.
My hand slides over the bannister, worn smooth as ice over the years. I can imagine the Hyde children—the ones who survived infancy—running up and down these stairs, their shoes clacking, their laughs and shouts echoing through the space. Just like my own children do in my house. How much did Major Hyde worry about the futures his children were going to have? Haunted by the Civil War and devastated by disease, did he worry more than a parent would today? Even though he quickly amassed a fortune, did that alleviate the fears all parents have?
When I reach the top, I hesitate and listen.
Straight ahead of me is a bathroom, which is clearly empty. Bedrooms surround the landing in every direction. One of them, the one on my immediate right, has its door closed.
“Nicholas?”
No response. I orient myself to the layout of the house, notice that the bedroom with the closed door sits above the dining room. I move closer and lean in, the side of my face almost against the wood as I listen.
Silence. Then the sound of liquid sloshing.
“Nicholas?” I rap against the door with my knuckles. “It’s Troy Gaines. Can I come in?”
“Sure.” The voice sounds distant and small.
I push the door open. The walls of this room are painted a dark green. A large four-poster bed occupies most of the space, and to the right is a heavy oak dresser with a tarnished mirror. Nicholas sits in the corner, close to the room’s lone window, in an antique rocking chair. He’s staring out toward the campus—and the protestors in the distance—the bottle of Pappy in his left hand, the bottom of the bottle resting on his knee. I’m relieved to see most of the precious liquid remains. He hasn’t thrown back too much of it.
The floorboards creak as I cross the room and sit on the edge of the bed. He keeps his face in profile, staring outside.
“Everybody’s eating,” I say.
“Hmm? Oh, good. Even the vegetarian?”
“She said she’s from Alabama, so she can at least eat grits.”
I hope to get a laugh—or at least a smile—out of Nicholas, but he acts as though he hasn’t heard me.
“Is there anything I can do for you, Nicholas?”
He extends his hand, holding the bottle of Pappy in my direction.
“No, thanks,” I say although my taste buds cry out for more. “Would you like to come downstairs and eat with the students?”
“What did your dad do for a living?” he asks.
“He was a college professor. He taught political science at the University of Missouri.”
He turns to me for the first time. “So you’re in the family business too?”
“I guess so.”
“In fact, if you’re an administrator, you’re doing better than he did. Right?”
“I don’t know about that. Maybe he was smart to stay in the classroom until he retired. He was good at what he did, and he stuck with it.”
“You wouldn’t want to let him down, would you?”
“No, I wouldn’t.”
“So you see why I need to stay here and do what I have to do today,” he says. “Admit it—you didn’t even think I was going to show up today, did you?”
“Well, I—”
“Just admit it.”
If I’d known we were going to have true-confession time, I would have taken the bottle of Pappy when he offered it to me.
“You’re right,” I say. “I didn’t know if you were going to show up. I haven’t heard from you for a while, and then you were late. But you’re here now.”
He looks out the window and starts rocking back and forth gently. “Thank you for being honest with me. I appreciate that. I do.”
“Sure. If you want more honesty, I think we should have left when Milo died. I don’t think following the bylaws and proving you’re not actually the black sheep of the family is more important than a young man’s life. But I went along with it because everybody else wanted to. And I need my job. And your money.”
I worry that I’ve gone too far, that I’ve so offended Nicholas he may storm out of the house entirely and turn his back on the whole endeavor. Instead, he laughs and turns back to me.
“Wow, I guess I really did open the honesty floodgates there.”
“I guess you did.”
He continues to rock, the Pappy on his knee. He points at me with his dirty pale finger. “You know what? I like you, Troy.”
I conceal my surprise that he knows my first name. Then again, I did just say it when I knocked on the door. Maybe the reminder helped.
“My mom always told me to trust my gut, and I didn’t always listen. But I like you. And that . . . What is it? Thousand More . . . What is it?”
“The One Hundred More Initiative,” I say. “To get more underrepresented students into the college.”
“Students like the guy who won’t stop talking, Captain America or whatever? Or that Natalie, right?”
“Natalia. Yes, they both would have qualified when they applied.”
“That’s your pet project, isn’t it? Kind of like a legacy thing. Right?”
“In a way, it is. I’m not without vanity. I want to help diversify the school and give all kinds of students the chance to come here and get educated. I think that would help everyone. But sure, I wouldn’t mind having my name associated with it. You have a permanent legacy here.” I gesture at the house and beyond—to the campus grounds. “Your name—and your family’s name—can go on forever. Permanent. It would be nice if my daughters could someday say that their dad helped secure the money that allowed historically underrepresented students to go to college. Yeah, I think about that. I also think about being able to keep my job.”
“More honesty.”
“Just like you being honest and telling the students they don’t really need to go to college,” I say. “An odd approach for a guy whose family bankrolls a school.”
“Hey, what do I know? I’m a child of privilege. Maybe my opinion shouldn’t count. That’s what the world seems to be saying about guys like me. And maybe even you.” He points at me again. “But you know what? I like you. And I like that . . . One Hundred . . .”
“The One Hundred More Initiative.”
“That’s it. The One Hundred More Initiative for the— What am I allowed to call them today? Underprivileged students? Minorities? Poor? What’s the correct term?”
“We’re thinking of them as historically underrepresented students. That’s what I said.”
“Fancy term. Why don’t you and I nail that down today? After all of this is over, we can talk about it.”
