House of Ghosts (12 page)

Preston looked for his roommate Clark among the throng outside the building. Clark became active with the Whigs at the beginning of the term. Traditionally, freshmen were treated like children. He had taken the Whig’s position as a personal affront, maintaining he had as much right to be a policymaker as the upper classmen.

Stretching his six-foot, two-inch frame, Preston located his roommate over the crowd. Pushing through the rows, he moved beside him. “So my doubting roommate, what do you have to say now?” Clark asked, grinning like the Cheshire cat. “You declared for the university when we started this fight. It’s lucky you’re not a betting man. This is just the beginning of change in the thinking around here.”

The crowd became impatient waiting for Professor Miles Brown and Thomas Sinclair to come out of Whig. The two emerged twenty minutes later. Brown, carrying a portfolio, raised his right hand in an attempt to gain quiet from the boisterous crowd. “We have concluded our discussions and I’m pleased to announce the inclusion of the debating clubs in the decision making process.”

Taking his cue, Thomas Sinclair stepped forward and addressed his classmates. “Woodrow Wilson introduced the preceptorial system to encourage interaction
between faculty and students. This agreement is an outgrowth of his ideas. It is my belief that a new era has been launched with the aim of uniting our campus community.”

A wave of applause descended from the audience, prompting Sinclair and Brown to shake hands and take a bow. As the crowd dispersed, Clark turned to Preston. “A group of us are going to go to the Balt for a bite. Do you want to come along?”

The Balt was the nickname for the Baltimore Dairy Lunch. Located on Nassau Street, it was a popular spot for students and truck drivers. The reasons were simple—it was affordable and open twenty-four hours. “I could use a break from the dining hall. I’ll meet you after I drop my books at the dorm,” Preston said.

Preston walked across Cannon Green where preparations for a Halloween bonfire were underway. Ghosts and goblins hung from trees on the perimeter. Three caskets sat next to a delivery van. As Preston climbed the steps to Albert Hall, raucous laughter spilled through the opened door. The lobby was filled with residents; many were holding their sides. Ellis Price shouted at Brent Newman, “Who’s responsible for this insult? In all my years, I haven’t witnessed such a disrespectful exhibition such as this.” The house manager had shed his well-rehearsed cool demeanor.

Newman attempted to maintain his composure, but his voice became louder with every word. “I told you, I
didn’t
have anything to do with this. Just because I’m friendly with Swedge and Johnson, doesn’t give you the right to include me in your assumptions. As a Southern gentleman, sir, I am offended and shocked.” Newman’s remarks resulted in another round of laughter at Price’s expense.

With Preston moving to the center of the room, the noise rapidly subsided. Price glowered at him. “Is this your handy work, Mr. Swedge?”

With the movement of a matador, Ellis Price whisked the cover off the object of his tirade. A large pumpkin had been painted with his face. Whoever did the art work had produced a masterpiece. An unidentified voice belted from the rear, “Pumpkin Price.”

Preston looked at the pumpkin and then at Price. The sneer of the pumpkin matched Price down to his dimpled chin. Preston began to laugh, and the lobby once again exploded. “While I would like to take credit for the distinctive qualities of the grand squash, I cannot. I have problems with stick figures.”

As Preston climbed the staircase, Price gave him something to take to his room, “I’m a very patient person. One day, you or Johnson is going to make a mistake, and I will be there. We’ll see who has the last laugh.”

Newman walked up with Preston. “Great! Completely great! I didn’t have
the faintest idea you could draw.”

“I can’t, and I didn’t do it,” Preston said seriously. “That’s the truth. I’m going to meet Clark at the Balt. Do you want to come?”

They dropped their books in their rooms and met back in the hall. Congratulations were offered to Preston as they went downstairs. Price had removed the evidence. “I bet the pumpkin is locked in a closet,” Preston said.

“Someone better watch his ass. The little shrimp is really mad,” Newman cautioned.

They left the dorm and walked to Witherspoon Street passing through the Fitz Randolph Gateway. In 1905, a local attorney financed the installation of the wrought iron arch in memory of Dean Nathaniel Fitz Randolph. It became the official entrance of the university.

The Balt was always busy, and that day was no exception. Seated at a large table in the rear, were Clark Johnson, Thomas Sinclair, and two members of the Whig society Preston didn’t know. Clark made the introductions, telling Preston and Newman to grab chairs and sit down.

Preston slapped Johnson on the back. “Partner, you’ve totally ingratiated yourself with Ellis Price. The boys of the house have reserved space for you at The Museum of Modern Art.”

Clark smiled at Preston’s remarks. “I don’t have the slightest idea what you’re crediting me for, but if Price is pissed off, then it must be terrific.”

Preston and Newman filled in the details of what had happened. Clark couldn’t contain himself, almost choking on his coffee. Preston couldn’t tell if his protest of innocence was the truth. When dealing with the Detroit native, he had learned to be cautious.

Orange and black Princeton Tiger Halloween decorations hung from ceiling fans, giving the appearance of a pack slowly parading across the ceiling. The table was awash with excitement. The day’s event at Whig Hall provided fuel for thought: what direction was the accord between students and faculty to take?

Thomas Sinclair, bored by the classics of Shakespeare and Milton, suggested a focus on the new age writers. “I want Hemingway, Lawrence, and Rand. I want the alive, not the dead. It’s perfectly fine to study the masters, but the pace of world events behooves us to live for the now.”

The waitress automatically carried five glasses of Coke to the table. The order—five burgers and five fries. She picked up the menus and disappeared behind the stainless steel counter. The order was sent into the kitchen by a basic intercom system; she yelled across the pass-through, “5 and 5”

The short order cook lived up to his title. The waitress was back within seven
minutes. “Economic reform is still the overriding issue. The Depression isn’t over, and the South won’t recover without new ideas,” Newman said, opening a catsup bottle. “I’ve read about this fellow John Kenneth Galbraith. He’s new, revolutionary, and dynamic.”

Preston reached for a napkin in a chrome canister. Wiping his mouth, he turned to Clark. “Since you were pushing for this deal, let me hear what’s on your mind.”

Clark sipped on his Coke. “Literature and economics are areas to consider. However, my concern is physics.”

“I haven’t heard you ever say the word physics since I met you,” Preston said. “What in hell are you talking about?”

The seniors stared at Clark, waiting for an explanation. “Preston, do you take everything in the literal sense? My understanding of physics is limited to gravity. All objects exert a gravitational force on other objects. The larger the object, the greater the pull. When is the last time you Knights of the Round Table have looked at the map of the world? The European landmass is larger than the United States. It’s this gravitational effect that I am concerned with. I’m afraid that this country is going to be pulled into another European war. Americans will die in places they can’t even pronounce.”

Tommy Shikiro, a Japanese-American friend of Sinclair, held his hand up to his forehead to emphasize his disbelief. Shikiro flashed an exaggerated toothy smile. “Tell me if I am wrong, but politics isn’t where we want to go. Who are you to think that you can suddenly appear and push this trash down our throats? Maybe we should reconsider freshman participation.”

“Gentlemen, we have to be open to suggestions. That’s what debate is all about,” Sinclair said, trying to be a calming influence.

Peter Thomas, nephew of William Randolph Hearst, was following the family path with a major in journalism. “My uncle has made his feelings felt through his newspapers. I don’t always agree with him, but isolationism is the wave that is flowing across this country. We should consider what Johnson is talking about. Sorry Robert, but I would like to hear him through.”

Shikiro rose from his seat. “I’m not interested in what he has to say, and I’ll fight his political agenda and any others.” He banged seventy-five cents on the table. “That should cover my part of the bill. I have better things to do.”

Clark smirked. “There’s no question that Roosevelt wants to align this country with Britain. The industrialists want to profit from war production, and the Jews try to influence him. The Jewish wing of the Democratic Party places it brethren in Germany above the interests of the United States. Jewish money can buy a sympathetic
ear in Washington. Roosevelt is a political animal constantly monitoring which way the wind is blowing. If a strong enough gale can be sent to Washington, he might be made to sit on the sideline. The one person who has the power and the medium to present a case to the American public is Father Charles Coughlin. We should inquire if he is available.”

Hearst finished a bite of his burger. “I agree with keeping the United States out of the next European war, but why bring Coughlin here? The man plays to the fears of his listeners, spewing vicious hatred as he hides behind his cleric’s collar.”

Clark waited for Hearst to finish. “His broadcasts are listened to by at least ten million people on a Sunday, and he receives on the average ten thousand letters everyday. Father Coughlin is a force to be reckoned with.”

Preston checked his watch; the bonfire was about to be lit. They needed to wind up the impromptu meeting. “One thing bothers me about Coughlin. There are people who keep their dislike for Jews and Negroes to themselves. Then they hear Coughlin on Sunday, go to work on Monday, and say as they open their lunch pails, ‘I must be right, the Father thinks the same way.’ ”

Red wisps of the bonfire streamed to the sky. Cheerleaders led the crowd in singing the Tiger fight song, bringing the green alive with cheers of approval. The festivities drew people from Nassau Street, creating a curious mix of Tigers and kids from the Princeton Elementary School down the street. Barrels of apple cider, doughnuts, and candy were available for the taking. Suddenly the tops of the caskets flung open. Screams reverberated off buildings lining the square as ghoulish figures chased the kids, and in an instant, they reversed roles and were chasing the monsters. Monsters and children lay on the ground exhausted.

Clark and Preston decided to return to the dorm. “Whatever you do, keep your temper in check,” Preston warned. “Price is going to start with us the moment we open the door.”

Price was standing by the staircase with his arms crossed as if he had turned to stone. “Do you know where I can buy a good pumpkin pie?” Clark asked. Preston tried not to laugh, but one glance at Price, ended what little self-control he had.

Approaching the second floor landing, Price called to them, “Johnson, if it takes a lifetime, I’ll make sure that you curse this day.”

Clark could see Price through the banister. “Let him boil,” Clark whispered.

The doorframe was plastered with notes congratulating Johnson for his great work. He was becoming a legend, not only in the dorm, but also around the campus. Besides listening to Father Coughlin, Clark looked forward to the
Mercury Theater of the Air
with Orson Welles. He turned his radio on. Instead of Orson Wells, there was a dance band playing.

“What the hell is Ramon Raquello playing Stardust for?
Mercury Theater
is supposed to be on,” Clark said.

“Maybe there’s trouble with the show, maybe Welles ate himself sick, or maybe you’ve got the wrong station,” Preston said.

Clark fiddled with the dial and returned to the program. “It’s on CBS, this has got to be what’s on.”

An announcer broke in with a news bulletin that a meteorite had crashed not far from Princeton, killing an estimated 1,500 people. “Did you hear an explosion? What’s he talking about?” Clark exclaimed.

They weren’t the only ones to hear the news flash. Pandemonium broke out in the dorm. Residents ran around knocking on doors. When a second bulletin reported the local police had amended the initial report to the object was not a meteor, but a large metal cylinder originating from Mars. The cylinder had opened, releasing creatures armed with death rays.

Panic was everywhere. Clark ran down the steps and out to the green. Armed with shotguns, campus police emerged from the safety office. Barricades were erected to prevent access to campus streets.

Clark’s geology professor, Dr. Arthur Buddington, ran out of Gyot Hall. “Johnson, you’re coming with me,” the mid-fifties professor wearing blue jeans and work boots ordered. “The report said the meteorite landed in Grovers Mills. We’re going to take a look. I have shovels and specimen bags in my car.”

Preston stayed by the radio. An announcer broadcasting from Grovers Mills described how the Martians were firing ray guns at anyone or anything that moved. Suddenly, there was silence. CBS switched to the commandant of the New Jersey State Police who ordered Mercer and Middlesex counties placed under martial law.

President Roosevelt came on the air, advising people to leave the cities. In the hallway, someone yelled that they better get gas masks. Preston looked through the window at supposedly intelligent people running around in circles. Something just didn’t play true.

Clark climbed into Buddington’s 1936 Ford woody station wagon. Cars trying to leave town jammed Nassau Street. Halloween revelers were in a daze. Some were running, others sitting on the benches along the street looking as though they had resigned themselves to death. Buddington turned right onto Washington Road toward Princeton Junction. Grovers Mills was five miles east. They were going against the traffic. Any sane person was fleeing Grovers Mills, not going toward it. With their sirens screaming, police cars headed toward the landing sites.