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Authors: Jane Langton
Tags: Mystery
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relationship,â said Vick.
âMy dear Vick, I never met the man.â Homer stumbled, and almost lost his footing.
âOh, Homer, watch out, you poor great ox,â said Mary. âNow just be careful. The steps begin right here. Sheâs right, you know, Homer. Vickâs right. You canât just stand there. Youâve got to do something.â
âIâm not just standing here. Iâm falling downstairs.â Wedged in by a thick crush of human bodies pouring inexorably forward, Homer bungled the top step and sent a wave of imbalance reeling forward among deans, professors, students, Overseers, and miscellaneous nonacademic types from Harvard Square and the back streets of Cambridge. âOh, God,â said Homer, throwing his arms around the great bosom of a matron at the bottom of the stairsâ âI donât know. I just donât know.â
Chapter Thirteen
Ham opened his eyes. His tongue was thick in his mouth and his head throbbed. It was the middle of the night, pitch black. He closed his eyes and drifted off again into painful dreams. Some time later he became conscious that his face was resting on something uncomfortable. He tried to roll over, but he couldnât move. Something was weighing down heavily on his back. His head was pounding. His body ached in every limb. He turned his head to one side and tried to spit out the grit that was pressing into his mouth, and then, straining to lift his head, he stared into the darkness.
Where was he? Where, in the name of God?
Chapter Fourteen
Homer was supposed to appear at the meeting of the Harvard Overseers at ten. He had allowed himself an extra hour to spend with the Harvard Police Chief. He galloped across Mass Av, panted for a moment on the cement island where a green statue of Charles Sumner gazed vaguely down on the raging traffic, and then plunged across the rest of the avenue and entered the Yard. Beside the old brick front of Harvard Hall he stopped to look at his map. Homer was not yet at home with the lay of the land. He knew a lot more about the place from books than heâ did from experience. Of course, he had long been familiar with the vast staircase of Widener Library, and the layers of stacks and the call desk and the card catalogue, where he hardly needed to glance at the signs to know on which side of the aisle to find T for Thoreau or V for Jones Very or C for Christopher Pearse Cranch. But he knew the rest of the buildings and their history only from book learning. He knew, for example, that Henry Thoreauâs grandfather (A.B. 1767) had led a student rebellion against the quality of the college butter. He knew that Henry himself had lived in Hollis Hall. He knew that President Dunster had been forced to resign in 1654 because he didnât believe in infant baptism. Homer knew which of his favorite abolitionists had been to Harvard. He knew Theodore Parker had run into a tree while reading a book and knocked himself out he knew Oliver Wendell Holmes (a latecomer to the cause of emancipation) had assisted in the dismissal of three black students from the medical school. Wendell Phillips and Thomas Wentworth Higginson had graduated from Harvard. Longfellow and James Russell Lowell had taught here. Homer knew all these things, but he didnât know where Grays Hall was. He squinted at the map and batted it to keep it open in the wind. Oh, there was Grays, way off to the right.
Homer pocketed his map and turned south. He was moving through the oldest part, of the Yard. Some of these buildings had been here practically forever, solid hulks of brick. Homer looked at the men and women walking past him now, heading for Holyoke to study Celtic, or Mallinckrodt for a class in biochem or Sever Hall for Afro-American Studies, and they began to turn a little filmy and dim and transparent. Homer couldnât help but see them in a kind of stop-motion movie; they were racing by, their legs twittering
âMy dear Vick, I never met the man.â Homer stumbled, and almost lost his footing.
âOh, Homer, watch out, you poor great ox,â said Mary. âNow just be careful. The steps begin right here. Sheâs right, you know, Homer. Vickâs right. You canât just stand there. Youâve got to do something.â
âIâm not just standing here. Iâm falling downstairs.â Wedged in by a thick crush of human bodies pouring inexorably forward, Homer bungled the top step and sent a wave of imbalance reeling forward among deans, professors, students, Overseers, and miscellaneous nonacademic types from Harvard Square and the back streets of Cambridge. âOh, God,â said Homer, throwing his arms around the great bosom of a matron at the bottom of the stairsâ âI donât know. I just donât know.â
Chapter Thirteen
Ham opened his eyes. His tongue was thick in his mouth and his head throbbed. It was the middle of the night, pitch black. He closed his eyes and drifted off again into painful dreams. Some time later he became conscious that his face was resting on something uncomfortable. He tried to roll over, but he couldnât move. Something was weighing down heavily on his back. His head was pounding. His body ached in every limb. He turned his head to one side and tried to spit out the grit that was pressing into his mouth, and then, straining to lift his head, he stared into the darkness.
Where was he? Where, in the name of God?
Chapter Fourteen
Homer was supposed to appear at the meeting of the Harvard Overseers at ten. He had allowed himself an extra hour to spend with the Harvard Police Chief. He galloped across Mass Av, panted for a moment on the cement island where a green statue of Charles Sumner gazed vaguely down on the raging traffic, and then plunged across the rest of the avenue and entered the Yard. Beside the old brick front of Harvard Hall he stopped to look at his map. Homer was not yet at home with the lay of the land. He knew a lot more about the place from books than heâ did from experience. Of course, he had long been familiar with the vast staircase of Widener Library, and the layers of stacks and the call desk and the card catalogue, where he hardly needed to glance at the signs to know on which side of the aisle to find T for Thoreau or V for Jones Very or C for Christopher Pearse Cranch. But he knew the rest of the buildings and their history only from book learning. He knew, for example, that Henry Thoreauâs grandfather (A.B. 1767) had led a student rebellion against the quality of the college butter. He knew that Henry himself had lived in Hollis Hall. He knew that President Dunster had been forced to resign in 1654 because he didnât believe in infant baptism. Homer knew which of his favorite abolitionists had been to Harvard. He knew Theodore Parker had run into a tree while reading a book and knocked himself out he knew Oliver Wendell Holmes (a latecomer to the cause of emancipation) had assisted in the dismissal of three black students from the medical school. Wendell Phillips and Thomas Wentworth Higginson had graduated from Harvard. Longfellow and James Russell Lowell had taught here. Homer knew all these things, but he didnât know where Grays Hall was. He squinted at the map and batted it to keep it open in the wind. Oh, there was Grays, way off to the right.
Homer pocketed his map and turned south. He was moving through the oldest part, of the Yard. Some of these buildings had been here practically forever, solid hulks of brick. Homer looked at the men and women walking past him now, heading for Holyoke to study Celtic, or Mallinckrodt for a class in biochem or Sever Hall for Afro-American Studies, and they began to turn a little filmy and dim and transparent. Homer couldnât help but see them in a kind of stop-motion movie; they were racing by, their legs twittering
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