The finalists, p.4
The Finalists, page 4
“Is that about the coal stuff? Or the Civil War stuff?” he asks.
I pause a moment before I answer. But I can’t bring myself to lie.
“Both,” I say.
Nicholas watches the protestors for a moment. They press against the barricade, shaking their fists in his direction.
I’m able to make out a few words.
Bastard . . . Killer . . . Asshole.
Nicholas says, “I hope it makes the little freaks feel better.”
6
MOVING TOWARD THE HOUSE calms me.
Everyone is present, and once we go inside, the noise and the thrown objects will be in the past, and we can turn our full attention to the process we’ve all come here for.
We’re almost to the house when something else comes flying through the air. It doesn’t come close to us but shatters against the front walk. A Bud Light bottle. Student beer.
The police start pointing fingers into the crowd, trying to identify the culprit. I quicken my pace for the portico.
But Nicholas Hyde seems not to have noticed the bottle breaking twenty feet away from us. He walks steadily, briefcase swinging in the morning light, looking very much like a man without a care in the world.
As we reach the portico, Chief stands with his body facing the protestors, staring them down. I wouldn’t be surprised to see lasers shoot out of his steely eyes and zap the party guilty of throwing the bottle.
“Chief?” I want his attention. I want his key. “Chief?”
He turns back to me reluctantly. He lifts his eyebrows.
“The door,” I say. “Can you unlock the door for us so we can get inside?”
But Chief doesn’t move. His eyes track to my right and land on Nicholas Hyde, who has stepped up onto the portico alongside the students, who all scoot back a little, out of his way. He doesn’t say anything or introduce himself, but there’s something about the man that gives off an air of confidence and authority.
It’s strange, given that he looks like an unmade bed.
But then I understand exactly what gives him that authority.
Money.
I step up next to Nicholas and point to the door. “What do you say we head inside? Chief Roberts has a key.”
Nicholas nods at Chief. “Hey, man, what’s up?”
“Sir,” Chief says, his lips pressed into a thin line.
“Nicholas,” I say, “inside?”
But Nicholas shakes his head. He spins the combination dial on the lock and then fumbles with the clasps on his briefcase with his clammy pale hands, and when he gets it open, he reaches inside and quickly brings out a thick well-worn leather book tied with a black ribbon. Nicholas places the briefcase on the portico floor, rests it between his legs, licks his index finger, and slowly unties the ribbon.
Things appear to be heating up even more with the protestors. They wave their signs high in the air.
They’re saying two words in unison now. Over and over again.
Kill-er Hydes! Kill-er Hydes! Kill-er Hydes!
I look at Chief, who rolls his eyes. What can he or anyone else do about it?
He could move them back, like he promised. But Chief is with us, and the other officers don’t go to the bathroom without Chief’s permission.
I just want to get inside as soon as possible.
Nicholas opens the book like he’s presenting holy writ to the masses. The students watch, eyes wide and curious. He reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulls out a sleek black pen.
“This book of bylaws has been in my family since Major Ezekiel Ellis Hyde founded the college. Everything about the Hyde Scholarship process is written down in here, codified in the handwriting of the presiding officers.” He lifts the book higher. “This is the only copy that exists. The only one. There’s no backup. No duplicate. It has never even been photographed, even though I once suggested to my father that it should be. He wasn’t a fan of my suggestion.”
Nicholas’s face colors, and he looks wounded.
“It’s not on the cloud?” Duffy asks, breaking the awkward moment.
Everybody laughs, even Nicholas. “Nope,” he says. “You may not know this, but every year the presiding member of the Hyde family signs their name at the front of this book. And this year, it’s my turn to add my name. For the first time.”
He turns the book around and holds it up like we’re a class of kindergartners. Signatures scroll down the page, almost like hieroglyphics. I spot his father’s name at the bottom.
“I want to make sure I do everything right.” His tone shifts, becoming arch. His right eyebrow goes up. “My father cared very much about doing these things right, and I don’t want to let him down. So here we go.”
He uncaps the pen, turns the book back toward himself, and writes. The pen makes a light scratching noise against the paper.
Come on, come on. Couldn’t we do this inside?
When he’s finished writing, Nicholas clears his throat. “You know, I think I need to learn your names.”
“We did that already,” I say.
“But I wasn’t here.”
“Can we do that inside?” I ask.
Nicholas purses his lips like he’s making a big decision. “I guess so.”
“Great. Chief? The key?”
“First, a word from our sponsors,” Nicholas says, before beginning to read from the book. “ ‘The Hyde family bylaws, amended in 2006 and approved by a simple majority of members of the board of the Hyde family trust and forwarded to the Hyde College board of trustees for their consideration, state that all students, faculty members, staff, and members of the Hyde family who attend the process that leads to the . . . ’ ” Nicholas squints and blinks his eyes a couple of times. His body wavers, like he might fall, but then he steadies himself and goes on. “ ‘. . . to the awarding of the Hyde Memorial Scholarship on the third Saturday in April, that in addition to surrendering all personal items such as purses and backpacks, they absolutely must surrender all personal electronic devices, including but not limited to cellular phones, computers, BlackBerrys, pagers, beepers, or anything else the presiding member of the Hyde family decides could allow a student to reference or engage with online resources. Said electronic devices are to be surrendered to the chief of the campus police force or, in that individual’s absence, the highest-ranking police or security official present for the process.’ ”
When Nicholas is finished, he seems satisfied. I’m not sure if it’s the message he’s delivered or his ability to read it all while in the grip of what appears to be the mother of all hangovers.
And I know he’s right. Every year I’ve been here presiding over the process, the students—and I—have handed over our phones, computers, and Apple Watches to Chief. In fact, we encourage the students to leave most, if not all, personal items like backpacks and purses at home, and they do for the most part. But it’s tough to ask a college student to go anywhere without a phone.
I want to hang on to mine. I want to finally put through that call to Rachel and talk about our skirmish this morning, but there’s clearly no time. Especially since protestors are hurling projectiles at us.
From somewhere on his body, Chief produces a black canvas bag with a zippered lock on the top. He opens it and steps forward, nodding at the bag, and the students dutifully but regretfully hand over their phones.
All except Milo, who stands with his phone in his hand and a defiant look on his face. “Is this legal?” he asks. “I mean, what if I need my phone for some kind of an emergency?”
I’m about to speak, but Chief says, “Do you see this as a violation of your rights?”
Milo shifts his weight forward. “I know what you all do while we’re taking the exam.”
“Process,” Nicholas says. “It’s a two-part process. Written exam and personal interview.”
“Whatever you want to call it,” Milo says. “I know the cops and everyone else stay back and out of the way. A guy I met once said he participated in the process. He lost because he’s a terrible writer, but he said the cops are nowhere near the building. If there’d been any trouble—”
“We keep a weather eye on Hyde House,” Chief says. “No one is ever in any danger. I thought you students liked it when the police stayed out of your business. And didn’t, you know, hassle you. Besides, you can’t believe every rumor that goes around campus about the scholarship. We ask the students who participate to keep as much of the process to themselves as they can.”
“And the bylaws are the bylaws,” Nicholas says. “We must adhere to them.”
“I get it,” Captain Stephenson says. “Rules are rules.”
Everyone is watching Milo now, and I wonder if this is what he wanted all along. He’s the star of this moment of the process, getting a little bit of the spotlight even before we’ve gone into the building.
Milo smiles a little, his eyes twinkling in the morning light.
“Okay,” Milo says. “Rules. It’s bogus, but I’ll go along.” He reaches out and drops his phone into Chief’s bag with a clunk. “I’ll go along because I need the fucking money. Hard.”
“Okay, great,” I say.
And Chief says, “All clear on devices.”
He nods at me, and I know what I’m supposed to do.
I step closer to the students and ask each of them to hold their hands out. I’m required to check all of their wrists, making sure that no one is wearing a smart watch. It feels . . . strange . . . to be examining everybody’s arms.
Chief nods, satisfied.
“Okay,” I say, “can we go in now?”
Nicholas reties the ribbon around his leather book. His nails are long, and a few have dirt under them, like he was digging in a garden or changing the oil on his Bimmer. He picks up the briefcase and slides the book back inside and then turns the clasp with a crisp metallic snap. He spins the combination dial, locking the briefcase.
For a moment, Nicholas looks like he might turn around with his briefcase and bylaws, jump in his car, and leave us all alone.
But then Nicholas nods.
“Okay, Chief,” he says. “Let’s do it.”
7
WE FILE INSIDE HYDE House, entering the large foyer.
The group bottlenecks here, all eyes trailing around and taking in the scenery.
Most if not all of the students have never been inside Hyde House. It is used only for special events—guest lectures, meetings of the board of trustees, a home for visiting artists and writers—so students wouldn’t find themselves here unless they were invited.
Just as I felt a thrill when I first saw the house earlier this morning, I get the same tingle seeing the inside of the house through their eyes. As much as possible, the college has gone to great lengths to preserve everything the way it looked when Ezekiel Hyde and his family resided here in the 1870s. Much of the furniture and decor is original, and where the original wasn’t available, the college studied old photos to reproduce it.
A marble-topped wooden table stands in the middle of the entryway with a fresh bouquet of flowers—goldenrod, the official flower of Kentucky—on top in a decorative porcelain vase, which helps compensate for the slightly musty odor of the house. I know the roof leaked earlier in the spring when the area was hit with heavy rains. I also know goldenrod blooms naturally in the late summer, so these were grown in a campus greenhouse.
The wallpaper is a reproduction, I’ve learned, but replicates a popular floral pattern known as Dresser from the 1880s. A wooden staircase leads to the second floor, the ornate newel post and bannister polished to a bright finish. Above us, high up at the top of the foyer two stories in the air, light slants in through a circular window. When the home was built, it was a stained glass window designed by Major Hyde himself. It was a replica of the seal of the great Commonwealth of Kentucky, Ezekiel’s beloved home state, which shows a buckskin-clad frontiersman clasping hands with a suit-wearing statesman. The two men represent the frontier spirit of the commonwealth meeting the spirit of government and law.
The state motto was highlighted as well: United We Stand, Divided We Fall.
But the stained glass window was smashed in 1969 when a group of students protesting the Vietnam War occupied Hyde House. The higher-ups at the college deemed the window too expensive to replace and went with something that lets in more light.
The students soak in their surroundings, while I sidle up to Nicholas. “It must be a thrill every time you come in here,” I say.
He’s staring at the shaft of light from above. “I’ve never actually been in this house.”
“You haven’t? Oh, I’m sorry. When you were here in the fall, I could have—”
“My mom had just died when I was here. It was a short visit.”
“Right. That must have been a tough time.”
“My dad did most of the business with the college. My parents split up when I was five, and I was with Mom a lot. We lived in Lexington, near her family. Dad was . . . well, he was busy with the company. That was his focus.”
“Oh, I didn’t know—I mean, I knew your dad pretty well. But I didn’t know much about his personal life.”
“He was dedicated to work,” Nicholas says. “The company. And the college.”
“Yes, he was.”
“And he found a new girlfriend after the divorce. A series of them, in fact.”
I’m not sure what else I can say. My mind changes gears ever so slightly, and I see Nicholas Hyde in a slightly different light. No longer is he simply the rich playboy who shows up late and smelling of booze on the day of his most important duty to the college and his family’s legacy. Now he is a child who didn’t get to spend as much time with his father as he wanted.
And here he is doing his level best to live up to the spirit of a man who is dead. In a way, he’s trying to live up to the spirit of generations of Hydes who are long gone—from his father all the way back to Major Ezekiel Hyde himself.
“Well,” Nicholas says, “I guess we’re supposed to have tea now. In the parlor.”
“Right.”
Cooler air brushes against my back. Chief remains in the doorway, the canvas bag of electronic devices in his hand.
“Chief, we’re going into the parlor for tea. Would you like to join us?”
But Chief is shaking his bullet head. “Now, you know I can’t do that, Vice President Gaines. It’s time for me to lock this place up so you all can get to work. If you don’t need anything else from me.”
“No, Chief, we don’t. And you’re right. I know you have to lock up.”
Chief shifts his bag from one hand to the other and looks at his watch. “You all are starting a little late, but that’s okay. There’s some extra time built in at lunch.” He lifts his eyes to mine. “I know for a fact every door and window is locked. Upstairs and down. I inspected this morning when I let the caterers in. And once I lock this one from the outside—” He points to the inside of the door, where there’s another tarnished knob, a twin to the one on the exterior of the house. “See, there’s no way to unlock it from in here.” He nods toward Nicholas. “Per the Hyde family bylaws.”
“Right. Of course.” I laugh, but I sound nervous. There’s something ominous about being locked inside a house. “I guess I should remember all of this from previous years.”
Chief lowers his voice, leans close so I can smell the cigar again. “Well, you had a firmer hand guiding you in the past.”
I know he means Theodore. But now I think of Theodore in terms of being an absent father, and his memory becomes more complicated.
“We’re ready to get to work, Chief,” I say. “And be careful out there. Those protestors aren’t pulling any punches.”
“They’ll settle down now that you all are inside.” He winks. “And we’re going to move them back down Hyde Lane to the main road. I’ve dealt with a miscreant or two in my time here. Like the ones you have inside. I know how to take care of them, but that’s one part of the job I won’t miss.”
Chief steps back, hand on the exterior knob, and pulls the door shut with a whoosh. I hear a key enter the lock with a metallic rustling, and then the turning of the cylinder and the bolt slamming into place.
And with that, we’re locked inside Hyde House.
It’s time for the process to begin.
8
BY THE TIME I turn around, Nicholas Hyde has taken control.
“It looks like the parlor is over here,” he says.
He is guiding the students through an open entryway on the left and into the room where we will be having tea. I follow along and am the last one to come into the room, which is small and comfortable. A silver tea service is set up on a parlor table on the right, and the students, who rarely drink tea and never out of porcelain cups decorated with hand-painted roses, stand around awkwardly, uncertain of where to begin.
I’m about to show the way, but Nicholas steps forward again, reaching for his briefcase.
“Let’s get those names first,” he says, pointing at the students.
Milo goes first, and they go around the semicircle repeating their names and their majors. Sydney is the last, and when she’s finished, Nicholas says, “You’re so tall and lithe. Do you play a sport here?”
Lithe?
“Volleyball,” she says.
“No doubt. You have that look. What position?”
“Outside hitter.”
“Deadly,” he says. “You look like you could get up high and punish the ball. And your opponents.”
“Well, I try to. . . .” Sydney’s face flushes.
Duffy sighs.
“Did you all have a good season?” Nicholas asks. “I have to be honest: I don’t follow women’s sports. But maybe I should.”
