“Forever?” I ask.
Jack laughs. “Harvard practically owns this whole city,” he explains. “You really think they’re going to allow these establishments to stay open now? The Rooster is gone. Café Dreyfuss is gone. No one affiliated with our lot is getting hired for a job anywhere near Boston.”
“No one but you,” I say.
“True.” He smiles. “But I did nothing wrong. Blame Cyril for being so selfish.”
“He wasn’t selfish,” I croak. “He was sad. Desperate. Hurting.”
“Fine, then blame Ernie and Harry.”
“You’re truly horrible,” I say to Jack. “I can’t think of anyone else who would come to the conclusion of blaming the victims of the situation. Not the deans. Not the president of the university.”
“President Lowell?” he asks. “That prick is probably doing this to distract everyone from the fact that his sister is a lesbian. All anyone has to do is read her poetry to know. He thinks he’s some hero for letting the Irish and the Germans attend Harvard, but he’s just a scared fool. Still, he’s not to blame. Ernie and Harry were stupid, and I hate stupid people.”
“Stop, please,” Brendan begs. “I can’t hear any more of this.”
But Jack doesn’t stop. “They didn’t learn from history. What was it that sent Oscar Wilde to jail, after all?His letters.I’m all for fun and games, but for God’s sake, do not put the unspeakable in writing.” Jack delivers this like a sermon. Like he’s the wise sage and we’re the idiots who haven’t learned how to successfully hide a secret self.
“But if no one ever writes it...” I’m trying to piece the thought together. “Then it will never be real.”
“Of course it will be. Real to us.” Jack stares at his two clothing options again. “I think I’ll go with the navy.” He flings the other jacket onto the closet floor. These fancy fabrics mean nothing to him. “Perhaps life will bring us together again. If it does, I do hope we can all be friends. Life is too short for enemies. And remember, go have your fun, but don’t put any of it in writing. You’ll live to regret it.” With that, he winks and heads to the symphony. He probably doesn’t understand the first thing about music. Mother and I should be hearing Tchaikovsky. Brendan too. And Shams.
Why does it always seem like the worst people get the best of this world? Then I think that perhaps they become the worst peoplebecausethey’re so spoiled by the world.
“Oliver.” Brendan says my name urgently and I turn to him. Jack’s shifty presence lingers in the room. “I want to assure you of something.”
“What?” I ask.
“I—” He takes a deep breath. Almost inaudibly, he mumbles, “They asked why you visited so often. They knew your name and where you go to school.”
“Oh God,” I mumble. It’s exactly what I feared most. I’ll be incriminated. I’ll break Mother’s heart. Ruin her life.
He looks at me with desperation in his eyes. “I told them you visited me because you’re my ambitious little cousin and your dream is to be a Harvard boy. I assured them you knew nothing about the rest of it.”
“Brendan... I’m so sorry they’ve done this to you. If I could, I would...”
“You can’t do anything. Just stay away from me until all this settles down. If this ruins you too, I’ll never forgive myself.”
I can’t help but cry. He still fights back his tears. We were both raised the same way. Taught that men don’t shed tears. But I’m not a man by their standards anyway, so I let myself sob out the sadness.
“I made all the boys swear they wouldn’t say a word about you,” he promises. “You’re safe. But Oliver...?” He finishes without asking his question.
“What is it?” I sit next to him, staring out at Jack’s clothes, all that hanging luxury when my cousin has been thrown out like some disposable rag.
“If I were you, I would stop. Find a nice girl before it’s too late. Pretending is better than being dead like Cyril.” Now he sobs too. Whatever he was holding back comes flowing out in a wave. “I never said goodbye or told him how smart I always thought he was. I’ll never know who he might have been. I didn’t know. If I knew he would do such a thing, I wouldn’t have let him out of my sight.”
“You can’t blame yourself,” I say. But I’m replaying the one conversation I had with Cyril. Wondering if perhaps I also missed the signs. Blaming myself.
He looks at me with his big eyes. “Oliver, you’re not... I just... Sometimes I notice you seem sadder than usual. If you ever feel so alone—”
“I’m not Cyril,” I say.
“I know.” He cocks his head toward me. “But if you ever need me, I’ll always be a phone call away.”
“Me too. I’ll never stop being your friend.”
“You might have to,” he says. “I’m so sorry, cousin. I really am so—”
