Read Online House of Ghosts by Lawrence S. Kaplan - Free Book Online
Authors: Lawrence S. Kaplan
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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
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
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