Straight Pool Page 14

  Close to four, I went up to the loft, discovered a Law and Order marathon on A&E, and during a commercial punched in Bill Tuttle’s cell phone number. He was at the Smithson Sports Complex which would soon be rocking with the music and gyrations of the annual College Dance. The Honorary Degree ceremony had gone off without a hitch, he said, and his sources had heard nothing to indicate a squeeze play by Sonny. “Whatever you did, worked,” he said appreciatively. I didn’t feel obliged to respond.

  Then, Nadie called. She would be back later than expected tomorrow; her mother needed an ‘excursion’ and Nadie, being the dutiful daughter, would take her to a Radio City Music Hall matinee. I told her about the Faculty Club debacle and she responded smugly by asking how the University could tolerate Sonny Russo ignoring his bills! I explained, but didn’t lessen her suspicion of duplicity in College Hall. “The Mayor and his goombahs eat and drink their fill and then stick it to you by not paying the bill. You cut him slack that nobody else gets. At the same time, he sends in his thugs to make a show at the Arts Quad. And nothing is done about it! What hypocrisy! The faculty won’t buy it! I bet the Journal already has a dozen quotes. The administration will appear as conniving, enabling, and … pusillanimous.”

  Okay, she was right. Enjoying the convergence of targets, but right. Quickly, I asked after her mother and Nadie was immediately on to her quarrelsome Aunt Ida who seemed to dominate Nadie’s mother. I also told Nadie about my genealogy search. Almost with empathy, she said, “Maybe now you’ll be a little less dismissive of their cause.”

  She might have meant federal recognition? But I asked, “Casinos?”

  “Whatever.”

  Ah-h-h, ‘whatever.’ That wonderful word that blends implication and indifference. Don’t go there, I told myself. And I didn’t. I promised I’d pick her up at the Amtrak Station and she said she’d call before the train left Penn Station to verify her time of arrival. I told her I missed her, which I did, and she responded with an “I love you.”

  That is usually enough to pick up my day.

  Usually.

  * * *

  Being a bachelor as well as a son living in the same city as a surviving parent means an open invitation for dinner if the request comes early enough. As Nadie had reminded me. Tonight, I was welcome at six sharp, the dinner hour of the elderly.

  Because of my presence, we would use the intimate family dining room off the kitchen. As I came in through the pantry door, I heard the whine of the stairway lift from the central hall which meant my mother was on her way down. When she arrived, cane in hand, she was wearing one of her many cardigans, this one a hand knit light blue that matched her eyes. I kissed her properly, left cheek, right cheek, left cheek a second time and helped her into her chair at the table. Sylvia, who stands no taller than five-three and whose girth is her own business, rolled in a roast and side dishes on a cart and joined us. I filled wine glasses from a bottle of Red Truck—my mother has her thrifty side—and was permitted to carve.

  Not surprisingly, my mother was full of animated conversation as to her trip to Beaufort, her childhood home, visits to a favorite cousin’s home on the Broad River, how the town was now a favorite moviemaking location, ‘like Providence,’ she said, and the status of the restoration of her family’s in-town house to be occupied by Beauford County’s historical society to which she was a major and anonymous donor. Eventually, she asked me about Commencement Week activities and I gave her a rundown on this year’s celebrities and events; she seemed taken aback by my casual, even diffident, attitude, and said so. Point taken.

  The conversation went on like that, back and forth, with Sylvia joining in with nostalgic vignettes from when Temple House and Commencement Week were joined at the hip. After nearly fifty years of residence with us, Sylvia is ‘family’ but her biological family, the Odums, are descended from slaves freed by Providence abolitionists during the Revolutionary War when slave holding was legal and prevalent in Providence, and Bristol and Newport were major slave trading ports. The Odums are also part of the history of Carter University, proudly supplying its first African-American graduates and first tenured black faculty member.

  As we finished dinner, I told them about my research on Nathaniel and Issac Temple, the gruesome death of King Philip, Nadie’s thinking on the Quonnies of today, the proposed casino, and why I had consulted my grandfather’s family history. My mother’s eyes blazed with interest since she shares many of the same sympathies as her good friend Nadie.

  “Sounds as though both sides were brutal to each other,” she said of the war, “a clash of cultures and no-body, individually I mean, was to blame. You cannot help who you are. History let’s us pause over every ter—rible event and too often without context. We can’t forget that. Look at us. We had slave holders, and worse slave traders, in both of our families. Can’t imagine anything more ap-palling … but that’s what it was. That’s the way they lived, and it was legal, God forgive us. Of course, other Temples were abolitionists, from before the signing of the Constitution. The Quakers held meetings against ratifying the Constitution in this house because it didn’t abolish slavery! John Quincy Adams and Frederick Douglas stayed here. By then, the Temples were on the side of right, even as my kin were getting ready for Fort Sumter.”

  Sylvia poured herself the last of the Red Truck and my mother, obviously enjoying our conversation, suggested I open another bottle, which I did in the kitchen as I heard Sylvia begin to hold forth in her soft, level voice. As I returned with the wine, Sylvia was saying, “… with all the bad times in history, you can’t live there! You got to deal with today, how people are, and not with the past.” Her glass was lifted, I poured, and she took a generous drink. “If you thought about injustice all the time, like some want to, you’d always be a victim or acting guilty or totally oblivious to wrongs. Can’t really do that. You have to get on with it.”

  My mother, her face slightly roseate from the lively discussion as well as the wine, added, “I can tell you, down in the Carolinas, they pushed back the native people hard. When I think about the Gullahs on the islands ‘round Hilton Head! Lots more back in the mountains past Greensboro. Strange though, as I think of it, we never learned much about them in school. Like they were never there. Nobody seems to pay much attention to these folks until they decide they have some rights.”

  Sylvia, getting a bit lively, made a remark about the ‘get-rich- quick casino’ schemes of promoters in league with Native Americans. My mother demurred and addressed us with the aplomb and confidence of a sophisticated, Southern lady of a certain age. “While I can’t think what was in Congress’ mind to let any tribe have a casino any place they’d like to. I imagine a lot of them are in places where you might not want to spend an aw-ful lot of time. But here, I suppose they do real well. I suppose they’re using their riches to benefit the poor among them ….?”

  Sylvia, showing her Baptist heritage, wouldn’t give an inch. “Maybe they do but casinos are taking money from poor people. We have folks from the church down at that place in Greenwick all the time! Others go on to Connecticut. I don’t care about high rollers who can afford it, it’s the people spending their Social Security checks and their welfare money and their kids’ school tuitions on a fool’s game….”

  Sensing it might be time to change the conversation, I picked up on what my mother said about local history and the original inhabitants of Rhode Island. “It’s strange isn’t it, you can live your whole life in a place like Providence and never learn about the people who lived here before Roger Williams or the battles that were fought right here, hundreds of people killed and wounded, how Providence was mostly burned to the ground during King Philip’s War. It’s almost as though the only thing you learn about Rhode Island in school is that it’s about the size of an iceberg off Greenland or a forest fire in California, or a Texas ranch.”

  The spark that ignited in her eyes indicated I had struck a chord with my mother. She asked me if I thought that a p
rogram about the native people in the schools would make a difference in terms of social interaction of Rhode Islanders and an appreciation for all the succeeding waves of immigrants. I replied it would have to be more than bare bones history because activists in each immigrant group would harp on its own disadvantages. “It could be ‘victim of the month.’ ”

  “You can be so cynical, Algy! I think Nadie’s right some times. Your father wouldn’t….”

  Sylvia touched my mother’s hand. “Ginger, you’re too hard on the boy. He’s still learning while we’re happy to be still living!” She raised her glass and laughed loudly, her ample bosom shaking, ending the maternal lecture.

  * * *

  When Sylvia went into the kitchen to prepare an ice cream dessert, my mother put her hand lightly over mine. “I think Nadie’s going through some difficult times. She’s unhappy. Am I right?”

  The two were great friends. Before Nadie, when I’d be in desolate affairs and disinterested in a permanent relationship, my mother kept to a reserved politeness. But with Nadie, my mother made it clear that my continued bachelorhood is a suspicious state and ‘unfortunate’ in a generational family. After all, my brother has ‘produced,’ what about me?

  Before answering, I tried to recast in my mind Nadie’s jumpiness, momentary irritability, sometimes inflexibility, in the context of the Byzantine politics of a Carter academic department.. “Not ‘unhappy,’ just frustrated.”

  “More than that,” she countered knowingly. “She’s … not at ease with herself. Have you been listening to her? Demanding?”

  Me? Demanding? Be more empathetic, more supportive of her causes? My lover is a hairshirt when it comes to victims and fails to distinguish between victims and underdogs.

  “Talk to her,” was my mother’s final admonition. “She’ll tell you in time.”

  * * *

  After a slice of homemade pound cake with vanilla ice cream and a dram of Calvados—the family’s liquor of choice as an all purpose cold cure and toddy for a night cap—and some assistance with the dishes, pots, and pans in the kitchen, I left Temple House around nine-thirty and walked home. Street lights were glowing and the curbs of Benefit and Prospect Streets were lined with cars. The night was full of stars without wind and the muffled sounds of music from the College Dance carried over the roof tops of the East Side. By now, complaints would be registering on the University’s ‘hot line,’ with local councilmen, and the precinct cops at the Brook Street sub-station. ‘It’s once a year’ was our standard excuse; not much of a response to those with cranky, wide-awake children. At Congdon Street, I entered the kitchen and checked telephone messages. Only one, from Tom Flanaghan, leaving his home telephone number.

  “I think we’re gonna have a busy day tomorrow,” he said. “Ugo Calibrese called me.”

  “What?”

  “Heard that we were poking around. Said if I had any beef with him, about how his land was put together, he was going to be in Watch Hill this weekend and I could ask him face to face. Said to bring you along.”

  “Me?”

  “He dropped it so-o-o casually. Which means he’s interested big time. To me, he wants to show off, put me off the scent. You…?”

  “I don’t get it….” How did he know of my interest? Was this the Sonny Russo connection? A little embarrassment for me? But why bother? “Why not? Unless you advise otherwise.”

  “Not me. This could be a good show, you two together. A clash of cultures….”

  “Thanks.”

  “Sorry. Figure on one o’clock at my office. My guess is you’ll be out of the membership meeting no later than twelve. By then, they’ll need their Bloody Marys.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  It never rains on Commencement Day at Carter University. Never.

  Except this year.

  A deluge.

  I awoke to the sound of rain on the roof, with the pat, pat of drops from a clogged gutter. When I pressed the gizmo on my bed stand that opens the window blinds, it was drizzly; by the time I was dressed in academic garb and on my way to The Green, it was a downpour, my umbrella giving scant protection from wind-driven, pelting, sheets of water that whipped the East Side. Despite the maelstrom, the police had been busy. The cross streets to Angell Street were closed by rows of police sawhorses, ‘Do Not Park’ notices were stapled on curbside trees and poles, orange cones diverted traffic, and cops by the dozen in yellow rain gear were evident. The graduation ‘special detail’ meant coveted double overtime; maybe, when it came right down to it, Sonny, despite his loathing for us, wouldn’t mess with their checks.

  At The Green, two thousand Carter University graduation participants with rain coats, slickers, ponchos, and umbrellas, braved torrents of rain while being organized into groups by volunteer marshals for the celebratory march down the Hill to First Congregational Church. At nine o’clock sharp, a shrill whistle sounded and the honorary Grand Marshal, his top hat and cloak covered by glistening plastic, grasped the dripping University mace and stepped off, accompanied by the Sheriff of Providence County in a protected topper and brilliant green sash over his raincoat. Directly behind them, under streaming umbrellas, were the poobahs of the University led by the Chancellor and the President in floppy red hats right out of Richard III, followed by the Provost with the Trustees, and then senior staff including me, faculty members who cared enough to brave the rain, alumni with Carter Cats baseball caps grouped by class, and finally, the happy, noisy, hung over, whooping and hollering graduation class, with their droopy bouquets, rain-blurred placards, and banners ranging from the overtly political to ‘thank you, Mom and Dad.’ As we stepped off to the cadence of the booms of bass drums echoing against The Green’s brick and stone facades, the graduates, in unison, discarded whatever rain protection they wore over their flowing black gowns and put on their mortar boards, leaving piles of clothing and cover-ups to the vagarities of the weather and our maintenance crew. You gotta love ‘em!

  Our ranks squeezed through College Arch on to Angell Street where camera flashing and video taking well-wishers were standing four deep. Some within my group, as our shoes sloshed through puddles, grumbled ‘why do we do this’ and ‘instead of catching pneumonia, we could be inside the Sports Complex’ and ‘what’s the big deal of a march down The Hill?’ I let the complainers pass me by so I could join the ranks of the graduates. They are the answer. Forget the rain! Experience the cheers in many languages, kids leaving the march to embrace family members and pose for photographs and videos, waving at everybody and anybody, singing, music of all kinds. Even the most everyday grungy, sappy, MP-3 fixated, over-indulged, and barely tolerant of parents kids were into it. In their excitement and delight in being a graduate, only a Scrooge would not be caught up in the joyous, liberating moment.

  And then, just as the graduates crossed Benefit Street, the rain stopped as though it had been turned off at a faucet, a joke of the deity against the hallowed tradition of no rain on Commencement Day. By the time the marchers were funneled into the church or rows of folding chairs on its wet, slippery lawn, a sharp-edged sunlight flooded the scene along with a sense of beneficence.

  Oh, ye of little faith.

  * * *

  A noted Holocaust survivor delivered the baccalaureate address, managing to evoke pangs of great sorrow along with the herald of expectation as only one who has suffered mightily could do. He was followed by President Danby’s gracious, humorous, and mercifully short address of encouragement to graduates. At eleven-thirty, we trudged back up the Hill in a brilliant sunshine that caused steamy black graduation regalia to be carried rather than worn. At The Green, graduate school deans led their charges to various campus locations for luncheons, speeches, and diploma distributions, while the rest of us found places in rows of chairs, wiped dry I might add. Before things got too raucous with champagne showers, an African-American graduate brought the crowd to its feet in her valedictory address that reminded classmates of words from a popular profes
sor at their freshman convocation, an early, eloquent plea not to dismiss any knowledge as irrelevant because of possible career choices. Then, diplomas were distributed, we heard brief good wishes eloquently spoken by President Danby and at the stroke of one, it was over: four years, if not more, at Carter University, a quarter of a million dollars of tuition, board, fees, grants, loans, and expenses later. Slowly, reluctantly, already nostalgic graduates, with frequent embraces and hugs, accompanied by their guests, filed through The Green’s many portals to dining halls or to lunches downtown or on Thayer Street or back to the Quads or apartments to finish packing, leaving the Carter cocoon.

  I exhaled deeply. Commencement Week was over! Sonny Russo had not ruined it. You did alright, Alger Temple. Doesn’t make any difference if anyone appreciated it or not. Good on you!

  I lingered for a few minutes for conversation with colleagues, and then threaded my way through the rapidly thinning crowd toward College Hall where I was approached by two smiling young women, former interns in my office who also volunteered in a legal aid group I mentored. One was going to attend Yale Law and the other Virginia Law. I congratulated them and spoke of my pride in their accomplishments; early on, they had picked up on Danby’s passion for civic commitment and I knew they appreciated the privileges and responsibilities accorded to a Carter education. Their beaming optimism pumped me up even more; I was proud that I had helped make a success of their four years at Carter, capped by a successful Commencement Week.

  In my office, I took off my gown and finally paid attention to the vibrations of the past hour emanating from my BlackBerry. Its screen told me my repeated caller was Puppy Dog. Well, Commencement Week was over, Puppy Dog, over! Just a little too late!