The Finalists, page 2
“They’re protesting against their fellow students competing for a big scholarship?”
“No, it’s not that.”
A couple of students come walking toward the house from one of the paths that cuts through the woods from the south. A man and a woman. They appear to be having a passionate conversation. The young woman—who is tall and lanky like an athlete—seems to be trying to convince the guy—who is almost strutting like he’s in a movie—of something. He’s listening, nodding his head as she speaks. Captain Stephenson has noticed them as well and turns in their direction.
“Then what’s the problem, Grace?”
“It’s the Hyde family they’re going to protest. They want us to divest from the Hyde family fortune. You know they think money made in coal is blood money.”
“I thought the Hydes settled that. They have a plan to move away from coal to green energy during the next two decades.”
“You know that’s not nearly fast enough for the students,” Grace says.
“What good does it do to block the road?” I ask. “Can’t someone reach us by one of the paths?”
“They met outside the student union. Then they’re marching over to Hyde House as a group. We know which way they’re going.”
The police appear to have the sawhorses all in place. And just in time. About thirty students carrying signs and chanting approach Hyde House from the direction of campus. They walk down the main road, the one I just drove over to get here, and then turn down Ezekiel Hyde Lane, heading in the direction of the police barricades. It’s hard for me to make out the chant from this distance, but I can kind of read one of the signs, which a student holds high in the air. It’s written in red paint—at least I hope it’s paint—on white poster board.
NO BLOOD MONEY!
Captain Stephenson turns his whole body in that direction, facing the protestors. “I don’t like the looks of that,” he says, shaking his head.
For a moment, I worry. What will happen when they reach the cops? I don’t want anyone to get hurt. And I don’t want any arrests or fights. The police are outnumbered, but I know they’re armed. The cops tense, their bodies primed for action. They all stand with hands on hips, but I know that puts their hands closer to weapons—pepper spray, Tasers, guns.
The protestors continue to chant as they approach the edge of the lawn, their faces angry and determined.
“Grace, I think we . . .”
“What is it, Troy?”
My body tenses like I’m about to brawl.
But the protestors stop behind the barricade. They don’t appear interested in pushing their way through or making any more trouble. They chant and wave their signs, but there’s no actual trouble.
I breathe a sigh of relief.
“It’s okay, Grace. They stopped. They’re facing the cops, but they’re not too loud. Once we’re inside, the students should be able to concentrate. The house is old and keeps sound out pretty well. But they are blocking the driveway to the house.”
“The cops are going to take care of that,” she says. “They can protest, but they can’t block traffic.”
The young man and woman continue their discussion off to the side. They stand close together. The woman wipes at the corner of her eye. A tear?
“Grace, I think I need to go. The students are arriving.”
“There’s one more thing.”
“What else could there be?”
“Can you read any of the other signs?”
“I can try, but you’re testing my middle-aged eyesight. They’re kind of far away.” I watch, squinting as the signs move up and down. Someone beats on a tambourine, making an oddly discordant jingling. “I think there are a couple about blood money. One about paying for education with coal. Another about killing Mother Earth. Oh, and one nasty one about slaughtering the innocents. I guess it has a nice biblical touch. You can tell the protestors I appreciate the large type they’re using.”
“That’s the one I was worried about,” Grace says.
“What about it?”
Grace sighs into the phone again. “Well, we were trying to keep this under wraps until we could fully investigate the claim, but word leaked out on social media this morning. It’s about Ezekiel Hyde’s service in the Civil War.”
“You mean Major Ezekiel Hyde.”
When I say the word “Major,” Captain Stephenson looks my way. He raises his hand like we’re in a classroom, reminding me he still wants to talk. I hold up my index finger again and then point to the phone.
“Yes,” Grace says, “Major Ezekiel Ellis Hyde. This is courtesy of Charlie Porter in History.” She sighs. “Oh, Charlie. He’s uncovered something about Major Hyde’s service in the Civil War.”
“What could possibly be uncovered? Everyone knows that Ezekiel Hyde served with the Union Army.”
“That’s what we say on the tour when everyone goes past the statue of Ezekiel on his horse Lancer by the campus gates. But . . . Charlie uncovered something in his research.”
“You mean something not related to the family destroying the earth with their coal?”
“It’s about the Palmyra Massacre.”
“The what?”
“Exactly. Not many people remember it, but the Union Army massacred ten Confederate troops rather than take them off as prisoners. A horrific atrocity.” I can hear Grace shudder through the phone. “There was always speculation that Ezekiel was there, but no proof. Well . . .”
“Charlie found the proof.”
“He did.” Grace sighs. “Ugh. He posted about it on his blog and tweeted about it. And he’s writing a book too. So not only has the Hyde family made their money off coal—and continue to do so. Now everyone knows that Ezekiel Hyde, founder of our beloved college, participated in a slaughter. How do you think the students feel about that?”
“Not good. Is there a statute of limitations on mass slaughter?”
“Troy. That’s not funny.”
“Sorry, sorry. I’m just not sure what we’re supposed to do. Dig Ezekiel and Lancer up and scold them?”
“You need to know that the mood on the campus is tense because of these things.”
A dusty black Ford pickup turns down Hyde Lane and approaches the protestors and the police barricade. It looks like trouble, like someone from town has shown up intending to counterprotest. Someone who remains a big fan of Major Hyde. The pickup truck looms large and intimidating, like a vehicle of destruction.
But the protestors move aside, and the driver—a guy in a cowboy hat—leans out and speaks to the police. The cops move the barricade, letting him through. The protestors increase the volume of their chants as he maneuvers his vehicle onto the Hyde House grounds, but no one tries to run through in his wake, and the cops quickly shut the opening.
The truck approaches my position, its muffler rumbling, the large tires squealing slightly. Once it’s parked, a slender, muscular young man wearing pointy-toe boots and the aforementioned cowboy hat slides out, the ornamental clasp on his bolo tie glinting in the sun.
“I’m glad to know this, Grace. Once all the students arrive, we’ll go inside and get started. The protestors will get bored or hungry or tired, and they’ll go home.”
“I don’t think Nicholas knows about the stuff concerning Ezekiel.”
“You’ve met Nicholas, Grace. He’s a wealthy playboy. He struggles to remember my name, and I’ve had several meals with him. I don’t think he’s going to be upset about the . . . What did you call it? Palmyra Massacre?”
“I mean the protestors. He’s going to see that when he arrives. There’s no other way for him to drive in except right past them. What if that makes him pull all the money from the school?”
“You could tell Charlie to put a lid on his research.”
“Yeah, right. He has tenure. You know the administration can’t muzzle the faculty. You used to be a professor, remember?”
“Barely. I sold out for money. My fault for having three kids who want to go to college. Look, Grace, it’s all going to be fine. Nicholas likes me, even if he isn’t sure of my name. He’s a baseball fan, and so am I. When we get together, we talk about the Reds and the designated-hitter rule and how defensive shifts are ruining the game. We have rapport. I’ll smooth any ruffled feathers, I promise. I’ll nail down the One Hundred More donation, and we’ll all be in fat city. Okay?”
“Okay, Troy. I do believe in you. I know the board is putting a lot of heat on you. They’re putting heat on the whole administration. Shit, you know my contract is up this year. We’re all facing the reality of how hard it is for private colleges to survive. It’s daunting, Troy.”
“I know. But Hyde College is a special place. It’s been here for a hundred fifty-two years. It’s like these oak trees I’m standing by. Strong. Powerful. Unbending.”
“You really believe that, Troy?”
“I’m suffused with the Hyde spirit.”
“Okay. Let’s concentrate on something good. One of those six students is going to win a really nice scholarship.”
“That’s right,” I say. “And more of them are arriving, so I’d better go.”
“Thanks, Troy.”
“Try to enjoy your Saturday,” I say.
Before Grace can answer, a fat red bird comes streaking through the sky, heading right for me.
3
EXCEPT IT’S NOT A bird.
It’s heavy and falling fast.
“Incoming!” Captain Stephenson shouts.
He ducks, and so do I. And the brick that one of the protestors threw whistles past the side of my head so close I can feel a rush of air as it goes by. The brick bounds against the pavement and makes a scraping noise as it skids across the parking lot and stops only after striking one of the fat tires on the cowboy’s pickup.
“Hey!” He starts to move toward the protestors. “That hit my truck.”
Captain Stephenson moves to stop him. “Easy now. That’s not a solution.”
Two of the police officers leap over the barricade and wade into the crowd. The chanting grows louder, and nearly every one of the protestors has a phone out recording the actions of the police, who quickly identify the culprit and place him in handcuffs.
I slide over and move next to Captain Stephenson and in front of the cowboy, holding up my hands like I’m a cop. “He’s right. Let the police handle it.”
“That brick almost hit you right in the head,” the cowboy says. “It would have done serious damage.”
“I know. And I appreciate your concern. But it didn’t hit me. That’s the good news. And the police are taking care of it. Okay?”
“Who are those punks?” the cowboy asks. “They should be taught a lesson.”
“Let’s go back, okay? Come on, guys.”
I herd them back toward the house, displaying a calm I really don’t feel. The skin on the back of my neck crawls, and adrenaline is making my heart do backflips. The cowboy is right—the brick came dangerously close to my head. And if it had hit me . . .
“Why don’t we all stand on the portico there? It has some cover.”
“The what?” the cowboy asks.
“The portico. The porch.”
They start to move that way.
“What’s your name?” I ask the cowboy.
“Duffy Mansfield,” he says. “Are you Mr. Hyde?”
“No. I’m Troy Gaines, vice president for institutional development at the college.”
“Oh, you work here?”
“I do. I’m an administrator, so I don’t get to know the students as well as I once did. I used to be a business professor, but I moved on up. Like the Jeffersons.”
“Thomas Jefferson?” Duffy asks.
“Never mind.”
The young man and woman who were having the intense discussion earlier have already huddled under the protection of the portico. They try very hard not to touch each other, even though they’re standing side by side. They’re wide-eyed and scared as we join them under cover.
“Did you see that?” the guy asks. He wears a black blazer over a T-shirt emblazoned with the letters “BLM.” His long hair is swept back behind his ears, and he appears to have doused himself with a healthy amount of cologne or body spray, which is strong enough to overwhelm even the scent of the hyacinths. “That almost hit you.”
“Maybe we should all leave. I don’t feel safe here,” the woman next to him says. She’s wearing a sundress and Birkenstocks. Her straight brown hair is piled on top of her head, and a spray of freckles decorates her nose and cheeks. “I mean, I didn’t think any of this would be happening when I was invited here. Right?”
“Why don’t we all introduce ourselves to one another?” I say. “You’re the Hyde Fellows for this year. You were selected to participate and compete for the Hyde Scholarship, and you were all chosen partially for your outstanding academic ability.”
“Partially?” the guy in the BLM shirt says. “What else is there?”
“There’s financial need.”
“And who picked us?” the woman in the sundress asks. “There are plenty of students on this campus who are smart and also have financial need.”
“That’s true,” I say.
“Did you pick us, sir?”
“Oh, no. Not me. It’s handled by the Hyde family and members of the Hyde Corporation board of directors.”
“How do they do that?” the captain asks. “It seems like an invasion of privacy.”
“Well, it’s above my pay grade, but they work with the college president to make selections. What do you say, since we’re going to be together all day, we learn one another’s names if you don’t know one another already? And we can ignore what’s happening out there.”
The protestors have grown somewhat quiet. The police stuff someone into the back of one of the cruisers. The siren lets out one whoop and then the cruiser drives off through an opening in the barricade. The protestors jeer more as their brick-throwing compatriot is taken away.
“I hope he learns a lesson from this,” Captain Stephenson says. “That was a foolish act.”
“I agree,” Duffy says. “That brick hit my truck.”
“Dude, it hit your tire,” the guy in the BLM T-shirt says. “And it’s free speech. They have the right to protest.”
“I’m not sure throwing a brick is free speech,” Captain Stephenson says.
“I mean, the protesting is free speech.”
“Easy, guys,” I say. “Remember? Introductions?”
Someone has stepped onto the portico behind me and stands very close to my back. I almost jump, thinking a brick is about to come down on my skull.
But a quiet voice asks, “Is this Hyde House? Is this the location of the scholarship process?”
I turn and a short woman in an oversized gold cardigan sweater stands there. Her eyes are so large they seem to occupy half of her face. And they’re the deepest brown I’ve ever seen. Her curly dark hair reaches the tops of her shoulders.
“Yes, you’re in the right place,” I say. “All the fellows were just going to introduce themselves to one another. Would you like to start?”
The woman stares at the ground. Beneath the giant cardigan, she wears dark jeans rolled up over heavy-looking black lace-up oxford shoes. Her white shirt is buttoned to her neck, and her nails are painted a dark blue.
“Or someone else can start. Just name, major, that sort of thing. Captain?”
No shyness. Captain Stephenson’s posture becomes even more erect than ever, and he clears his throat. “My name is Captain James Stephenson. I’m a history major, and I served twenty-five years in the United States Army as a Ranger. I guess you could say I’m a nontraditional student who took a circuitous path to being here. I also have a wife and two children, and I’m originally from Los Angeles.”
“LA?” the tall, slim woman says. “That’s so cool, James. Or do you prefer Jim?”
“I’d prefer to be called Captain.”
“Right,” I say. “Captain it is.” I think the guy in the BLM T-shirt makes a low noise that might be mockery, but I plow ahead. “And you said your name is Duffy, right?”
“That’s right.” He touches the brim of his hat. “I’m Duffy Mansfield. I’m an ag major from Whitley County here in Kentucky. I grew up raising cattle.” He points at the woman in the sundress. “Hey, I know you, Sydney. Remember? Business writing?”
“Oh, yeah.” Sydney smiles for the first time. “That class. Aren’t you roommates with Steve Roth? He used to date my roommate, Nikki.”
“That’s right,” Duffy says, adjusting his hat.
“Okay, see?” I say. “We’re all coming together here as one big Hyde family. Sydney, why don’t you go next?”
“Oh, okay. Yeah, so I’m Sydney, obviously. Sydney Mosley. And I’m a marketing major from Plainfield, Illinois. I guess I’m kind of nervous about being here. You know, locked in a house all day. Right?”
“I hear you,” Duffy says.
“Okay, cool. Well, I’m also on the volleyball team, so you might have seen me out there playing.” She mimes spiking a ball, and when she does, a tattoo on the inside of her left forearm shows. One word in dark blue script: Persistence. On the inside of her right arm, another one in the same dark script: LJM RIP. “And yeah, that’s it.”
“Great. The Lady Lancers volleyball team had a good year.” I point to her friend in the BLM T-shirt. “How about you?”
He cocks his head to the side and speaks in a low James Franco basso profundo voice. “Cool. Yeah, I’m Milo Reed. I’m an art major. From Louisville. And my politics are really important to me. So. Yeah.”
