Finding Tom (7 page)

His condescending tone was sickening. He had no right to speak to me in such a manor. My shame turned to anger, and I met his gaze, refusing to back down. “Thank you for your advice,
sir
.” I made sure to over-emphasize the “sir.” “While Greenwood may be second class according to your standards, I have no doubt you will find that I am well prepared for Locklear. I fully intend to hold my own against the rest of my classmates, including your son.”

He glared back at me, and his lips curled upward in a slight smirk. “All will be revealed in good time. It’s a shame books are so expensive these days. I can’t imagine succeeding without them.” He turned to his wife. “My dear, I believe it is time for us to be going. Charles is all settled in, and we have things to attend to.” He shook hands with Charles and then strolled out the door.

I looked at Charles, who looked back at me with a mortified look. “You should not have spoken to my father in that manner—”

“He insulted me. What did you expect me do?”

“I don’t think you understand,” Charles tried to explain. “Papa was not in favor of me having a mystery roommate. He was afraid that I would be placed with someone highly unsuitable for a person ‘of my upbringing.’ Your little discourse only solidified his fears. Father is not the sort of man you want as an enemy. He may go out of his way to see that you fail just because he can. He is ruthless.”

“Well, what’s done is done, so let’s not worry about it,” I concluded. “It will bring me great pleasure to prove your father wrong. To that end, I will work tirelessly. Now let’s move on to something else. Where the heck can you get a bite to eat in this place? I’m famished.”

Charles perked up at this. “Splendid idea. I’ll show you the way at once now that the parents are gone and we are at last free men.” He slipped into a blazer, and we headed out. He had already forgotten about the earlier unpleasantness and began to blab on about the importance of dining attire: “It is always best to dine in a blazer …”

I tuned him out as we walked. The spread of food was unbelievable. After years of scrounging on my own for food or eating cold leftovers, my miserable mood melted away slightly as I filled my plate with heaping portions of potatoes and chicken and gravy. I had only ever experienced such a feast in my books. It seems there was indeed a benefit of living amongst the rich for a change.

Charles and I squeezed onto the end of a long table of other boys in blue blazers and ties, all looking especially dapper for the occasion. Apparently, I was the only one who had not received the dress code memo. Many of the boys were old acquaintances of Charles from school and other social events. It seems that Locklear had quite a reputation among the upwardly mobile. I shoveled food into my mouth ravenously as I watched and listened.

It did not take long to distinguish a definite pecking order among the boys. Nothing was said, of course, but it was all easily inferred through eye contact, tone of voice, and the other usual social cues. From what I could tell, Charles was somewhere in the middle of the pecking order and was clearly known as a bit of a scoundrel—not in the negative sense, but because of his nose for mischief. The conversation at the tables was centered primarily on induction into the different campus societies. There was a special buzz about secret societies. Apparently, as legend had it, the original three societies at Locklear were formed illegally, and thus their members were unknown. Only upon graduation would students reveal their membership in one of these groups, having by that time passed their place on to worthy, handpicked underclassmen. It was the utmost honor to be chosen for induction into one of these three societies that were well known to cause mischief and mayhem all over campus, much to the frustration of the faculty and especially the dean of students.

I thought the idea of formal societies to be rather unappealing, but secret societies, on the other hand, greatly intrigued me. I was very interested in becoming a member of a secret club, but I realized that I would never be chosen because of my low social status and my anonymity among the incoming students. Nonetheless, I made up my mind to talk to Dr. Emory about the secret societies the following day when we were scheduled to have lunch.

After a full second helping, I slipped away to explore the campus. The place reeked of the things money could buy. Not a stone or stick was out of place. I was especially fond of the ivy growing up the sides of the buildings because it made me feel as if I’d somehow stepped back in time. Most of the buildings were open, so I walked down their long marble corridors and peered into their giant lecture halls with oak desks and gritty green chalkboards. Beyond the buildings, there were a number of athletic fields and then a large lake with canoes and plenty of crew boats. Locklear was famous for its fantastic crew teams; many of them had won national titles. Thick woods stretched beyond the lake, up the side of the next hill, and off into the distance. It was a beautiful sight I came upon as I watched the sun dip and set the lake ablaze with fiery reds and oranges. I felt a glimmer of that old childish joy that used to overtake me whenever I encountered such beauty. It stirred deep within me—and then went back to sleep again. I sat quietly on the hillside with my back against a stone wall, just watching and listening.

CHAPTER 8

Adjustments

I SLAMMED THE ALARM CLOCK
as it clanged in my ear. It was Sunday morning, and all students were required to attend the eight o’clock Locklear service. I heard Charles groan, much to my satisfaction. I felt no pity for him. He’d rolled into the room around three, looking rather disheveled before collapsing to sleep on his bed. From the smell of him, I figured he’d been making love to some whiskey. I hopped into the shower, got dressed, and was ready to leave, and still Charles lay there unmoving. “Charles,” I whispered. “You better get up or you’ll miss the morning service.”

He rolled over. “Oh, bug off. There’s no way I’m going to church. Just leave me alone.”

“Whatever you say, but don’t blame me if you get in trouble,” I taunted as I tiptoed out to his groaning.

I arrived a few minutes before the service, which apparently was not a popular thing to do. The place was nearly empty. The chapel was as breathtaking inside as it was from the exterior. The huge stained glass windows stretched from floor to ceiling, depicting all sorts of biblical scenes in vivid color, while giant pillars seemed to rise into the heavens, exploding into flying buttresses. On the far front wall hung a brilliant golden cross illuminated softly by rows of white candles. Upon entering, I immediately felt a sense of awe. The cool darkness seemed to calm my nerves, making me assume a posture of silence and reverence. This was not a place for running or yelling. It was a sacred space set apart in some strange way from the ordinary and the mundane. I do not know if this sense arose because I knew beforehand that this was a chapel, or if it was a natural response to the otherness of the space. At any rate, I was astutely reminded of my smallness in comparison to the greatness of the God for whom this house had been built. I had never entered into something so grand in all my life.

This place evoked in me a strikingly different response than the simple, crowded church where I had grown up. It was as if this was a monument to a different God, a greater God. This God seemed distant and unapproachable, while the God of my youth was small and unable to help me in my hour of need.

Somewhere far above, bells began to toll the eight o’clock hour, and with that, students began to stream in through the doors without the slightest awareness of the beauty surrounding them. They slumped into the pews, looking bored and trapped, and their indifferent presence defiled the sacredness of that space. Their breathing and shifting shattered the silence.

Just as the pastor (or so I assumed him to be) stood up, I saw Charles slink through the door. He looked like a train wreck. He stood in the back for a few seconds, scanning the pews before spotting me and slipping in beside me. He promptly put his head on the pew in front of him and went to sleep—he, the pious disciple, with head bowed in sincere prayer and confession before the Almighty God. I left him to his petitions.

An hour later, we were walking out the back doors, Charles rubbing his eyes and me lost in thought. I had been extremely surprised by the reverence of the service. Reverence had never been a part of my experience of God. Fear, guilt, boredom—all of these words came to mind. In spite of the best efforts of the sleepy, fidgeting students to spoil the service, the pastor was not deterred in his mission to create a sense of wonder. His preaching seemed to well up from the depths of his being as he expounded on the day’s text from the Gospel of John, chapter 1: “Behold the lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world. Behold him who is infinite and eternal, come to save men from their sins. Behold him who created all things, who became flesh and was killed by those he loved and created.” He painted a picture of such beauty and kindness. I watched as he stood, arms outstretched, with tears in his eyes as he looked out upon those lost sheep filling his pews. This man did not belong at Locklear. His genuine spirit was awkward and out of place here. He spoke to the rich of their need for a Savior, and they mocked him with their unmoved silence. They did not believe. Money was their god. To them, this was just another extravagant building devoid of sacred meaning. They gave the holy man his hour, but they rejected his pleadings and scoffed at his tears.

Chapel was followed by brunch for all incoming freshman and then, of course, there were to be speeches by the faculty, the board, and, last, the dean of students. I was only interested in hearing Dr. Groves, so I tuned out the rest. Finally, he took the stage, gripping the podium with long bony hands. Tall and sinewy, he looked down upon us and smiled uncomfortably in a sly sort of way. This was not a man prone to belly laughter or good humor. His appearance was almost sickly with his black, greasy hair combed back onto his head as he stared at us with watery yellow eyes. He licked his thin ribbon lips and began to speak in a nasally voice, and for some reason I imagined that he smelled of sour onions.

“Students, we welcome you to Locklear University. You are all embarking upon a great adventure. Each one of you has been given the opportunity to succeed, should you take it. But the choice is up to you. If you wish to rise above, then listen carefully. Discipline, gentlemen, is the key to success. Be disciplined in your studies. Be disciplined in attending your classes. Be disciplined in getting to bed at a decent hour. Be disciplined in all things and you will not go wrong. Discipline, gentlemen, is the key to success.

“But for those of you who find discipline too demanding, know that rule-breaking will not be tolerated. Disrespect, tardiness, cheating, gambling, drinking, skipped classes, practical jokes on your fellow students or professors, and other non-academic nonsense will not be tolerated.” At this point, he stopped to again lick his lips and stare at us with his stern gaze, as if trying to steal the life from within us. He tried to come across as a man not to be trifled with. “If any of you have further questions, you may consult the student handbook. Good day, gentlemen, and good luck.”

With that, we were dismissed. “He’s a real wringer, huh?” Charles said, nudging me. “Dr. Groves, the dean of students, the little black storm cloud who just showered the room with his misery—he’s a dinosaur. Been here for over forty years. You’d best hope that you never get called to his office. That is the kiss of death.”

“Yes, he’s not exactly a charmer,” I agreed. “Hey, I’ve got to run, Charles. I’ll catch you later.” It was time for my meeting with Dr. Emory.

Mr. Calhoun met me at the door in his awkward, bumbling way and led me through the house to Dr. Emory’s study. When I entered, Dr. Emory turned around in his chair. “Aha, you have arrived. I can see by the look on your face that you have recently been in the presence of Dr. Groves. He has the ability to sour everything he comes into contact with. Let me guess that he gave you his ageless speech, ‘Discipline, gentlemen, is the key to success!’” He raised his right index finger into the air, waving it about to imitate the ancient dean. “But of course our dear Dr. Groves would never have done something so undignified as to raise his voice as I just did. God forbid he be seen to have emotions. I tell you Tom, that man is a machine. I sometimes wonder if he is human. I have heard that same speech for thirty years without even the slightest change. He is an anomaly. You can see, I will assume, why the two of us were never the best of friends.”

“Yes, sir. Not too difficult to see that. I can imagine that you probably gave each other fits.”

“Oh yes, we certainly did. But enough about miserable old Groves. What do you think so far of Locklear?”

“Well, my roommate’s not half bad: he’s Charles Montgomery.”

“Pardon my interruption, but is he from THE Montgomery family?”

“I believe so, sir. His father is the head of the board.”

“My, my. That is rather interesting. I do believe that Dr. Groves might have set you up. He and Mr. Montgomery are in bed together (excuse the expression). What sort of a chap is Charles?”

“He seems like a decent fellow, but not overly bright, and he has a tendency to get into trouble. From what I gather, he’s quite the opposite of his brothers.”

“Yes, well, that would be the case. They both lived by Grove’s rule of discipline. Those two lads had about as much personality as a pair of wooden boards, and it’s not hard to see where they got it. Hopefully, Charles proves to be a little bit better entertainment. You mustn’t underestimate the value of good entertainment. Otherwise, you end up like Dr. Groves.”

Changing the subject, I inquired, “Dr. Emory, what do you know about the secret societies?”

“Aha, now there is an excellent question that I am well suited to answer, seeing as I used to be in one when I attended Locklear. Yes, it’s difficult to believe, but contrary to Dr. Grove’s beliefs, one can make a little mischief and succeed in the grand adventure of life at the same time. Because you are not in one of the secret societies, there is only so much I can tell you. There are rules about these sorts of things, secrets to be maintained. There is a constant competition between the three societies to outperform the others. In recent years, the challenge has been to see who can most greatly infuriate Dr. Groves without being caught. Those unfortunate few who have been caught have all been expelled, so it is a rather high stakes game.”