The Initiation (3 page)

B
OSTON IS A BIG CITY.
I
T SPREADS OUT FROM
the bay like a fan, the denser population at the apex where a small brick building marks the start of our country. At night, its streets teem with vehicles old and new, big and small, coughing out exhaust, honking horns (despite ordinances forbidding it), grinding gears, screeching tires, blasting music, covering intimate conversations whispered between pedestrian lovers or the combative rants barked by competing academics.

Our neighborhood, called Beacon Hill, is a world apart, its cobblestone lanes crowded with
parked cars, set aglow by yellow gas lamps, quiet, private, and preserved from another epoch. If you were to spill change from your pocket on the way down the stone steps from our front door, half the neighborhood would hear it. Inside the remodeled and refurbished centuries-old brownstones and walk-ups a librarian would be well suited and comfortable. Going to sleep with his window open was a common event for James because Father ran the air-conditioning too low. The open window was not allowed; Father had insisted all summer that the house be “buttoned up” before bed. James could defeat our home security system with a magnet and two wires, as only an older brother could. He did so each night after Father had retired. I often heard his window opening and, when I did, I opened mine. Not because I enjoyed the air, but because I followed James in so much of what he did.

The night of the attack, city sounds called clearly. Beacon Hill was not only charming, given its preservation of the past, it was charmed. Magical things happened here. Costumed carolers sang in its streets at Christmas. Little girls with bows in their hair walked with their mothers. There were neighborhood Easter egg hunts, and everyone dressed in Irish green on March 17th.

James and I had come to know each and every
sound like the face of a friend. He had both a telescope and binoculars at our disposal. On warm summer nights when we couldn't sleep, we would find each other out on the fire escape and stargaze or locate a fire truck or police car responsible for a specific siren. We learned both the geography and the layout of city streets, the Charles River, and the major highways and bridges. We knew this town. Our town. Secretly, we both felt privileged to call it home.

Later, I would discover that three invaders had climbed an extension ladder in order to reach the fire escape. They entered through James's open window, lucky that James was a heavy sleeper.

The sound that awoke James—my brother's telescope and tripod going to the floor in a cacophony of broken lenses—also shook me from sleep.

One moment I was lying down, the next sitting up and throwing my feet off the bed.

While I ran toward his room, James coughed awake. A gloved hand slapped over his mouth as he did. Someone held his legs while the one gagging him pinned his right arm with a knee and his left with a hand. James bucked like a wild horse, and struggled to be free; he screamed, making little more sound than that of an amorous alley cat; he forced himself to sitting, only making things more difficult.
The one muffling him switched positions, constraining him from behind, binding both his arms. The guy at James's feet—all three wore balaclava ski masks pulled down over their faces—wrapped a length of rope around James's ankles, the implications of which threw James into a fit. Kidnapping! A third ninja, watching the door, turned to assist his partners. Three against one was unfair; no kind of sport whatsoever. James was quickly subdued.

Don't call me “girly” just because I screamed loudly enough to light a few dark windows on our street. I'd run down the hall and had slipped through James's door without notice. I wasn't sure exactly what was going on but it wasn't to James's liking. After my scream, I turned on the overhead light; after turning on the overhead light, I threw a trophy. It was a first-place science fair trophy: an antique microscope, black metal and brass, mounted on a wooden pedestal with a small brass plaque engraved with my brother's full name: James Keynes Moriarty. The trophy weighed several pounds and was big enough that I didn't throw it very well. Thankfully the three intruders screened James, so that if I hit anyone it wouldn't be my brother. I did hit someone, but good. I heard a “Grumph!” (Actually, it was a word I can't write here.) The three turned toward me. Oops, I thought.

I could claim it was my plan to lead them away from my bound-up brother, but I wasn't that cunning at that point in my life. Their actions resulted from my own: I ran. If a scream could break glass then every chandelier in our home—and there are many—would have rained down like hail. Advantage: Moria. Thanks to my brother's endless chasing of me, I knew how to navigate this house at high speed, no matter how many times it had been strictly forbidden. I planted my bare feet, my nightgown flapping, and sideslipped into and through a turn to the main staircase; I mounted the banister, sliding down backward at a speed Newton would have had to calculate, and dismounted
exactly
at the moment necessary to prevent my bottom colliding with the newel. I quit gymnastics when wearing a leotard became embarrassing—just before my eleventh birthday—but retained enough of my training to swivel, fly through the air, and plant the landing like Gabby Douglas.

My pursuers took several stairs per stride and then jumped, landing with such thunder that I dived, thinking something had exploded behind me. I clambered to my feet. The three stood dead center in the foyer.

“Stop!” shouted Father from the second-floor railing.

“Father! It's James!” I shouted. “They hurt James!”

The foyer was all gray light and shadowy black shapes. My head was spinning—I might have hit it against the floor while diving.

“OUT!” Father roared. Standing there in his brown satin robe and leather slippers, he nonetheless demonstrated his command over others. Among Father's many gifts were his uncanny authority and resolute confidence. His drawn face and striking, impenetrable eyes possessed in him a bearing that few found the strength to challenge.

Confession: I didn't know if it was fear of Father that caused them to run. It certainly wasn't fear of me. One of them limped, either from the long jump from the staircase or my expert throwing ability. But I was struck by something different. As the balaclavas highlighted the pale flesh contained within the knitted almond-shaped holes, I couldn't see the eyes exactly, but I could make out the direction in which they were looking. It was every direction at once. I felt oddly at sea with them. They were lost, or reluctant to leave. Why hesitate like that? I wondered.

They finally fled into the vestibule and out our front door, forced to unlock its three locks, which bought me time to snag an umbrella from the
Chinese porcelain umbrella vase. I cracked it down on the shoulder of the last ninja out the door. It sounds like courage. It wasn't. It was rage. I was boiling hot and prepared to tear the eyes out of any one of them for attacking my brother. I raised the umbrella again, ready to deliver a second blow, but the attackers were long gone. Father caught it from behind.

“It's over,” he said, trying to calm me.

“James!” I countered. “They got James!”

Father took off upstairs with the agility of me or one of my friends. I'd never seen him move like that. I'd had no idea he was capable of such speed. He fled across the upstairs hall, slammed a shoulder as he turned into James's room. I was but seconds behind him though it felt like I was in another part of the city I was so far behind. My efforts to climb the stairs cloaked any sounds I might have heard. The silence from within that room could only mean horrible things, things I didn't want to think about. I skidded to a stop before arriving at the room's door, unwilling to take a look inside.

When I heard my father say, “Thank God!” while he was untying James, I slid down the wall, slumped into a crouch, and felt my shoulders shaking and my cheeks wet. I found relief a funny thing. A strange cousin to grief; it dressed the same,
sounded the same, and yet the two were about as far from each other as the north and south poles.

“Moria?” James asked. His first word spoken. “Is she okay?”

Then, I blubbered.

T
HE FOLLOWING MORNING,
J
AMES WAS CALLED
into Father's study after finishing off a three-egg omelet, five strips of bacon, and four pieces of toast. He washed it all down with a bowl of almond clusters drowning in whole milk. Where it all went, I wasn't sure, but it had always been this way. I'd eaten breakfast two hours earlier at 8:00 a.m., the coffee machine's glass decanter already half empty by the time I'd arrived into the sunlit room.

The Boston morning gave no hint at the trouble of the night before. It was a birdsong, sunshine, scattered cumulus cloud kind of morning. A Mary
Poppins kind of morning. The kind to make me wish we were at the Cape house with its two boats, private beach, and giant lawn that spilled green into the gray blue of Nantucket Sound.

The summons into the study could not be good news. That much was clear from the shock that registered on James's face when Lois advised him of the unscheduled appointment with Father. Such meetings usually made being sent to the school's guidance counselor seem like a party. Made more puzzling by its timing, following the break-in as it did, the directive suggested there was blame to be assigned. No doubt James's wiring of the open window had been discovered.

James entered, his trepidation obvious on his pale skin and grim expression.

“Father,” he said, since the man did nothing to acknowledge his presence. Oswyn Bennett Moriarty pointed to the leather chair with the brass-tack trimming while remaining focused on his reading. He continued through to the end of the document, consuming several minutes, which to James stretched for an eternity. He removed a pair of half-glasses used only for reading, a simple enough gesture that put James on edge. If the visit was to be short, Father would have simply moved the glasses down his nose slightly and peered out
over them. He'd signaled a seriousness that James wasn't prepared for. Trying desperately not to show it, James remained rattled from the home invasion of the night before.

The house rule was don't speak (to Father) unless spoken to. He had things on his mind; his work filled his head; his children could be a nuisance. James broke the rule, not the best way to start.

“What did the police say?” asked James, improperly.

Father offered no response, not so much as a facial tic. Another several minutes lapsed. He neatened the paperwork to the side of his green leather blotter. “There will be no police, nor any police report.” James bit back his disapproval. “I am well aware of the appearance of the events that took place, but appearances can be deceiving, son. It is important to remember this. It's a bit of a cliché, but some of our most important lessons are clichéd, believe me. What I am going to present to you may sound off, James. I expect it may. I ask you to bear with me.”

Father did not ask his children for their tolerance or forgiveness, causing James to wonder if the invaders had secretly replaced the man and installed a doppelgänger, an identical twin from a parallel universe. “Of course, Father.”

“The issue at hand is Baskerville Academy. Last night . . . that was all about Baskerville Academy.”

“I don't understand.”

“You have completed your eighth-grade year. You've known for some time where you'd be going to school this fall.”

James had a challenge at the ready. Instead, he said what was expected of him. “I suppose, since that decision is not mine to make.”

Father tilted his head as if still wearing his reading glasses. “James, please. The time has come.”

“So why rub it in? You're not going to allow me to go anywhere but stinking Baskerville Academy.” James shuddered. “I'm sorry, Father. That was disrespectful. I apologize.”

Father's face went as scarlet as Valentine roses. “As you should.”

“Yes, I'm aware of the family tradition. You've explained it since forever ago. I'm aware of our family's history with the school. I just wish we weren't stuck back a hundred years ago. Just because your grandfather and father went there doesn't mean—”

“And I, as well.”

“—and you as well—doesn't mean it's right for me. A lot has changed in the past hundred and fifty years that makes some stone castle in the middle of nowhere just a little less appealing. Things like cars
and the Internet, and like a hundred more schools to choose from than existed back then.” James hesitated. “Grover Cleveland School, for instance.”

“That's a public school!” Father said indignantly.

“Commonwealth School, then. It's the best private school in the city and it's practically around the corner! Why do I have to
live
someplace else? Why do you want to get rid of me? What about Moria? Why can't I stay with Moria? Who's going to take care of her?” James had gone too far and he knew it. Like trusting the ice on the pond until you hear it cracking beneath you. “Oops!” he wanted to say, wishing for a delete button. It was like sharing a Snapchat you wanted back. That kind of “Oops.”

“Do you think me so incapable of looking after her?”

“I didn't mean that the way it came out.”

“Of course you did! And, I just might add, all the more reason for me to disregard your disrespectful suggestion, as it shows a certain lack of maturity on your part that could and would and will be corrected by attending Baskerville. The decision is final, son. If there's one thing Baskerville gives you, it's a chance to both grow up more quickly and to prepare yourself for the years to come.”

“I don't want to wear a tie every day of my life.”

“Not anywhere near reason enough.”

“I love my family.”

“Yes. And your family loves you back.”

“Some do,” James said, well under his breath.

“What's that, young man? Let me explain something here, in case you're missing the obvious. Who do you think that was last night?”

“Kidnappers! Robbers!”

“Nonsense.”

“You were as freaked out as Mo and me. You may not want to admit it but—”

“Hazing!” Oswyn Moriarty said. “That was a group of fellows from Baskerville.”

“You know this?”

“I suspect it.”

“That's reassuring. ‘A group of fellas.' That's not exactly how you put it last night. I've heard you cuss about twice in my life, Father. Last night made up for the missing years.”

“I was upset. Unsettled.”

“You were not yourself. They
tied me up
,
Father. Who knows what might have happened if Mo hadn't come along.”

“You know how I feel about nicknames. Show some respect, please. It was a prank, a school prank, and that is all.”

“And you want me to go live with those Luddites? Seriously? That's your vision of ‘higher education'?”

“Watch yourself, James. Tread lightly. Every male Moriarty for generations—”

“I know!”

“—has attended Baskerville Academy going back to our ancestors in England. A dingy Scottish castle it was back then, I'm told. Be happy we're here where we are. You'll be two hours away on a gorgeous campus.”

“But I want to stay here with you and Moria.”

“As to her, I couldn't agree more. It has been taken care of. Baskerville's coeducational now and has expanded to include eighth grade, what they call a middle; I could have sent you off last year, but did not. I've been . . . well . . . I've been busy. I've arranged it so that she can attend as well.”

“How convenient.”

“I warned you once, young man.”

“They tried to kidnap me. What kind of hazing is that? That's a federal offense kind if you ask me.”

“It was a test, is all. A test of your mettle.”

“So you getting rid of us has nothing to do with the way you've been all summer?”

“What on earth?”

“You seem afraid, Father. Moria and I have seen the way you check all the locks twice. ‘Buttoned up at bedtime.' You turn on more lights than you used to. You draw all the curtains. We're not stupid!”

It was true. Our father's typical composure defined the expression “even-keeled”—a sailing reference, I think. It meant he was basically always the same. In his case, stern, quiet, dark, if I'm being honest. Brooding, in a fatherly kind of way. Severe. In short, he was anything but fearful: overconfident, condescending, aggressive. To see him over the past few months hesitate to answer a phone call, or to pull the drapes the moment the sun sank low in the sky, to vary a schedule that at one time I could have set my watch by—these are the things that make a child take notice of her parent. Or his parent, in James's case.

“Nonsense.” Our father used “nonsense” like others slammed doors.

“I won't go,” James said.

“Of course you will. It's a matter of obligation, James. You
and
Moria will be attending, beginning next month.”

“I'll flunk out. On purpose.”

“Then I'll send you to military academy until you're ready to transfer back to Baskerville. It'll only take a semester or two. We'll see how you like running four miles before sunrise and crawling through swamps. That'll make a man of you.”

He got James with that one. Shut him up like Tupperware. The thing about Father: he always
knew what you were going to say—always. He had answers or counteroffers, decrees and disciplines like an archer's arrows waiting on his back. My brother and I knew that he was a businessman on top of his teaching at the university. We'd overheard his late-night discussions, seen the guests—nearly always men, often the same men—who arrived at all hours to the back of the house. He had to be good at it. Even a family fortune needed proper management. His practice at negotiation had come down the line: he was the only son of an only son. The family properties alone were worth millions of dollars, if not tens of millions. We weren't supposed to know that. Which translated, we weren't supposed to open our eyes.

“There's a connection between you and me, James. We are the male heirs. Think of it as I am the king, you are the prince. You will attend and you will graduate from Baskerville Academy. You will take your university in England. Your great-great-grandfather founded the original school there. The continued existence of the school depends on your graduation. I tell you this to emphasize the importance of legacy, your place in this family, and your responsibility to others. It's a burden. I don't deny it. One that all Moriarty firstborn males must endure.”

“So you're saying, ‘No pressure, James.' Thanks for that!”

“Things are as they are.” James heard Father the Fearful speaking. The man we didn't exactly know well. Father the Fatalist, which was light-years from his true self. He usually preached independence, clear thinking, and that to question authority was healthy, to challenge it, something else entirely. He'd carefully taught us not to judge too quickly, to evaluate everything.

“I see,” James said. “So that's how it is, and there's no choice.”

“Don't expect me to add, ‘I'm sorry to say,' because of course I'm not. You are being prepared for greatness, my boy. Baskerville is merely the first step. The years will fly by. I came to love my time there, and so will you.”

“You didn't want to go either?” James asked, stunned.

Father grinned warmly, something we typically only saw on a beach or across the dinner table on the rare evening we ate together. “Some of the best years of my life occurred at that school. I trust you and your sister will find it the same.”

“You didn't want to go there,” James stated, rather than inquired.

“The academics are rigorous, yes. Some of the
bylaws are difficult, but you will come to appreciate them. You will learn things at Baskerville that will serve you well for the rest of your life. If I have my way . . .” He paused, reflective. “I trust I can safely say that these four years will change your life, as well as the lives of many others. They will prepare you to take your role in preserving the Moriarty legacy.”

“I don't want to preserve the Moriarty legacy.”

“And neither did I, son. Neither did I. Yet look where I am. And here, you will follow, come storm or high water. Here, in this chair, you will sit—”

“Never!”

“—just as my father sat before me.”

“It won't happen!”

“It will. You will come to manage the . . . family interests and continue our work. So help me, this is the life that has been chosen for you, for us both. King and prince.”

“I vow to disappoint you mightily!”

Father smiled as he spoke. His words and that tone of his did not mix. “I would expect you won't. I don't hold you to these words, James. Talk is talk. You and I will discuss at Thanksgiving and we'll see how far, if at all, this opinion of yours has moved.”