House of Ghosts (7 page)

Herbert fought to control his temper. “Son, it will be alright. For God’s sake, get out of the car.” Preston slowly shifted his eyes left and right, focusing on his father. Their relationship was footed on confrontation. Herbert exercised a stream of threats and exhortations when Preston didn’t conform to the Swedge model. The years spent in Connecticut allowed Preston to develop away from his father.

Bernice didn’t provide a counterbalance to her husband’s cold and impersonal relationship. With a staff of servants, the youngster was raised with minimal involvement of his mother and developed emotional attachments to adults who demonstrated a sense of caring. He was influenced and at times manipulated by the people and events surrounding him.

“Why are you staring at me?” Preston asked, wiping sweat from his forehead. “Have we arrived?” His coal-black stick straight hair was plastered down on his head, the collar of his shirt was stained, and his pants were hopelessly wrinkled.

Herbert was incredulous and turned to his wife. “Please, get him out of the car and try to make him look presentable.”

“Get a change of clothes from one of his suitcases in the trunk.” Bernice was distressed by the way her son could be transformed into a creature she didn’t understand or recognize. The changes were dramatic and startling. She knew that many of her son’s psychological demons could be traced to her, but she was powerless to mediate them.

Preston did as instructed and followed his parents into Dowd Hall looking for a restroom. The cool air of the hallway was welcome. A men’s room was to the left of the admissions reception area. Preston studied the image in the mirror above the sink, cursing the Swedge legacy. He freshened himself then changed his clothes. Leaving the men’s room, Preston found his parents looking at class pictures going back to the 1870s lining the walls. Herbert found his own, his father’s, and pointed
out classmates to his wife. “Mr. Phillips is waiting two doors on the right,” Herbert Swedge said. “We’ll leave your things in the holding area and be off.”

Preston wasn’t surprised by the brusqueness of his father. He turned to his mother. “When did he decide to change plans, when I was in the men’s room?” Herbert planned to show his son his old stomping grounds. “This excursion was
his
idea. I could’ve taken the train.” He handed his mother his soiled clothes. “Maybe I’ll see you at Thanksgiving, if you’re going to be in town.”

Preston walked into the waiting area of the empty office. “Greetings, Mr. Swedge, I’m Stanley Phillips, coordinator for incoming students.”

“I’m Preston. Mr. Swedge is on the way back to New York City.” They both laughed. Preston was handed schedules for orientation and meals. Classes were scheduled to begin in two days.

“A third year student will be here in a few minutes to take you over to Albert Hall. Your things will be delivered once you’ve checked in. If I can be of assistance in any way, please contact me.” Phillips extended his hand.

Preston took a seat in the anteroom. Within five minutes his guide arrived. “Good afternoon, I’m Robert Livingston. I will be your guide today and ordained by the powers that be, your mentor.”

Preston suddenly felt the sensation that all the class pictures were staring at him. Livingston spurred him on. “You can come back and look at the rogue’s gallery. I did it, and have returned several times over the years. These pictures can be a positive force when things don’t go so well. Remember, some of them finished last in each class.” A smile broke across Preston’s face.

Their footsteps echoed on the marble floor. The admissions building, erected in 1765, was one of the oldest on campus. The quintessence of federal architecture, its red bricks were outlined at the corners by buttresses of fieldstone. Sunlight, filtering through a transom above the door, spotlighted the letter P in the floor. The portico facing to the west side of the campus led to a gravel path.

“Princeton isn’t the gentleman’s club the administration wants you to believe,” Livingston said as they stepped on the path. “The competition is fast and fierce and egos are as tall as oak trees.”

They walked in silence for a few minutes. The distance to Albert Hall was almost three quarters of a mile. The gravel path gave way to a concrete sidewalk that led to a park-like common area punctuated by skyscraping trees. “The residence halls are infernos,” Livingston said. “We spend as much time out here in the shade as possible. I think I see your roommate. Mr. Johnson!”

A stocky, average height teenager sitting on a bench in the shade waved. He ground a cigarette in the grass, slowly rose to his feet, and loped across the green.
“Mr. Johnson, I would like to introduce you to your roommate, Mr. Swedge,” Livingston said.

Preston extended his hand, “Call me Preston.”

“I’m Clark,” he said, looking up at Preston who was a good four inches taller. “Let me take you upstairs.” His ruddy face and dirty blonde hair were streaked with sweat.

“Gentlemen, I will be in my room over at Dawson. If you need anything, ring me up.” Livingston sauntered away.

“I arrived yesterday from Detroit, and already can’t stand this damn weather. The train was a sauna, and our room is a blast furnace. I haven’t slept in days,” Clark said, leading Preston toward a Georgian brick two storied building on the right side of the mall. Three massive chimneys protruded above the gabled roof. “See that chimney to extreme left? Our rooms are right underneath it.”

Granite steps led to a white paneled door framed by pilasters painted to match. The door was open. “Brace yourself for the housemaster. He’s a total prick, and I’m already on his shit list,” Clark said.

Facing them stood Ellis Price, his hands clasped behind his back. Impeccably dressed in a three-piece navy suit, Price was the epitome of deportment. His reputation was a no-nonsense rule stickler who viewed all newcomers as potential trouble until proven otherwise. A shade over five feet, Price relished the role of being Princeton’s Napoleon.

“Name!” Price barked.

“Preston Swedge,” he replied, towering over Price.

Price walked behind the reception desk, retrieving a room key and a sheet of paper. Holding them at arms length he said, “You are responsible for your key and will be charged for a replacement. The rules of the house are listed on this sheet of paper.” The corners of his razor thin mustache rose as a grin appeared on his face. “Mr. Johnson seems to have trouble comprehending what he reads. Mr. Swedge, I trust you don’t have the same problem.”

Preston took the key and paper. Price returned to his position in front of the desk.

Preston and Clark climbed an oak staircase to the second floor landing. “I told you he was a prick,” Clark said, laughing loudly.

“Getting on the wrong side of the housemaster in the first twenty-four hours must be a record,” Preston said.

Clark shrugged his shoulders, turned left, and proceeded to the end of the hall. Clark unlocked the door to room #22, ushering Preston into a living room furnished with two fireside chairs, a coffee table, and a settee. A bedroom was on
either side of the room.

“I took the liberty of taking the bedroom on the left,” Johnson said. “Call over to admissions and ask them to send up your gear.”

Preston walked into his bedroom, taking stock in the fact that it wasn’t far removed from the configuration at Choate—twin bed, maple desk with matching ladder-back chair and four drawer dresser. The lone closet was smaller than the broom closet in the family’s Park Avenue apartment. A hand lettered sign tacked above the desk read, “IF YOU CAN’T BAFFLE ‘EM WITH KNOWLEDGE BAFFLE ‘EM WITH BULLSHIT”

With the blinds raised, a faint movement of air could be felt through the screens of the triple windows. Preston moved the twin bed next to the windows then returned to the living room where Johnson was stretched out on the small sofa with his eyes closed and his hands clasped on his chest.

Preston knew nothing about Clark Johnson except he was from Michigan. “I’ve been to Detroit a couple of times. What part of the city do you live?” he said, trying to break the ice. The exchange on the landing bothered Preston. He had the same roommate for four years at Choate and maintained the relationship after graduation. This one was going to be a challenge. Changing roommates wasn’t an option.

Without opening his eyes, Clark replied, “I come from Bloomfield, twenty miles outside the city. I hate to go to Detroit. I don’t know how you can live in New York City.”

Preston walked to the windows. “Times Square, Broadway, restaurants, and the Yankees make it the greatest city in the country.”

“I hate the Yankees,” Clark said, taking a peek at Preston who hadn’t moved. “The Tigers got a good chance to take them this year.”

“Fat chance,” Preston said. “Ever been to New York City?”

Clark sat up. “Why do you think I hate it? I’ve traveled to the cesspool by the Hudson with my father on more occasions then I want to remember.”

Seeing how the Michigan native was pleased with himself in having tweaked Ellis Price, Preston didn’t know if Clark was serious or joking. “What does daddy do for a living?”

From his pants’ pocket, Clark removed a pack of Lucky Strikes and a box of matches. “Smoke?” he asked, offering a cigarette to Preston.

“No thanks,” Preston said, reading a copy of the house rules on the coffee table. “Smoking isn’t permitted in the room.”

Clark tamped a cigarette on the table and struck a match on the sole of his shoe, exhaling a plume of smoke. He picked up the sheet of paper from the table,
crumbled it, and tossed it toward the door. “Those are Price’s rules, not the university’s. Screw him.”

“Your father?” Preston asked again.

“He works for Ford Motor,” Clark said, reaching under the sofa for a glass ashtray, “contracts and such. He also dabbles in the company newspaper.”

“The Dearborn Independent?”
Preston asked with an edge. It was common knowledge that the Ford publication was anti-Semitic, anti Negro, and regularly read by Adolf Hitler.

“The Independent
is a great newspaper.” Clark sat on the windowsill and absentmindedly spit a fleck of tobacco. “Yours?”

“Investment banking.”

There was a knock on the door. “Enter!” Clark yelled.

The door opened a crack. “A pile of suitcases and one huge steamer trunk are downstairs.” The voice was from the deep south.

“Newman, meet Preston Swedge,” Clark said.

Brent Newman, a South Carolinian who roomed two doors down the hall, stood in the doorway. Blonde, lanky and tall as Preston, Newman still had a teenager’s look. Filthy rich from tobacco and cotton, the Newman family’s antebellum wealth miraculously survived the Civil War.

“Nice to meet you,” Newman said with a bow. He played the role of a southern gentleman to the max. “I’ve got many chores to conquer. Check you later.”

“Let’s get going before Price hits us with rule forty-four,” Clark said, lacing up his shoes.”

Preston popped off the sill. “There are only twelve.”

“Price will have the next thirty-two written if you don’t remove your goods from his sacred reception area in the next ten minutes,” Clark said as he walked into the hall. They both had a good laugh.

Clark bounded down the staircase, stopping on the last step at the sight of Preston’s four pieces of luggage and an oversized steamer trunk. “I thought Newman was kidding.”

“My…,” Preston said, catching himself before saying that his mother packed for him, “rule is to be prepared for anything.”

They swiftly carried the four pieces of luggage up to Preston’s room. The steamer trunk was another matter. Half way up the staircase, Clark lost his grip, dropping the trunk. The resulting crash and tidal wave of curses drew a raucous crowd, and Ellis Price from his office behind the reception desk.

Price, sans his suit jacket, stood with his hands tucked into the pockets of his vest. Laughter and catcalls turned to silence as Price glowered at Clark and
Preston. “What are you waiting for? Give them a hand,” Price said to the audience on the landing.

As two volunteers stepped forward, Clark waved them off. “We’ll do it ourselves.” Beads of perspiration appeared on his forehead.

“Let them…,” Preston started to protest.

Clark cinched up his trousers and then worked his fingers under his side of the trunk. Preston lifted his end. “Let’s go,” Clark ordered.

Price watched as Preston bearing the weight of the trunk against his chest nearly fell backwards. Price shook his head and muttered, “Eight months of Clark Johnson.”

The pair manhandled the trunk to their room. “Did you leave anything,” Clark asked out of breath as he opened the door, “in New York?”

Preston wiped his face with a linen handkerchief. “You should’ve let the two guys help.”

Clark gave the trunk a kick with his shoe. “I wouldn’t give Price the fucking satisfaction. We’ll push it into your room.”

The trunk slid on the hardwood floor without difficulty. Preston undid the leather straps securing the lid and flipped it open. He removed blankets, pillows, four sets of sheets and placed them on the bed. A gooseneck lamp was unwrapped from a large bath towel and placed on the desk with a
Webster’s
dictionary.

Clark stuck a cigarette in his mouth as he watched Preston search the bottom of the trunk. “Looking for gold?”

With both hands, Preston removed another bath towel wrapped object. “To me it’s worth its weight in gold.” He removed the towel to reveal the latest portable model RCA radio. “With this baby, I’ll be able to pull in all the New York stations. You know what that means?”

Clark exhaled a burst of smoke in Preston’s direction. “What does it mean?” he asked in a girlie whine.

“That baseballs cracking off the bats of Gehrig and Ruth will fill the air as the Yankees win the pennant.” Preston plugged the radio in a wall socket behind the desk and switched it on, producing nothing but hums and crackles.

“Should’ve bought a Philco,” Clark said.

Preston adjusted the antennae on the back of the radio and rotated the tuner to 660, NBC’s 50,000 watt New York station. Benny Goodman’s
Stomping at the Savoy
came in loud and clear.