iancaldwell&dustinthomason.theruleoffour-第68部分

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　then　in　the　future。　It　wasn't　so　much　persecution　Charlie　feared；　it　was　judgment。
　　
　The　only　hint　of　pleasure　in　my　final　days　of　college　came　from　Katie。　At　first　she　brought　food　to　Gil　and　me；　while　Charlie　was　still　in　the　hospital。　In　the　wake　of　the　fire；　she　and　other　Ivy　sophomores　had　begun　a　co…op；　buying　their　own　food　and　making　their　own　meals。　Afraid　that　we　weren't　eating；　she　always　cooked　for　three。　Later；　she　would　take　me　on　walks；　insisting　that　the　sun　had　restorative　powers；　that　there　were　traces　of　lithium　in　cosmic　rays　you　could　only　catch　at　dawn。　She　even　took　pictures　of　us；　as　if　she　saw　something　in　those　days　worth　remembering。　The　photographer　in　her　was　convinced　that　the　solution　lay　somehow　in　the　right　exposure　to　light。
　Without　Ivy　in　her　life；　Katie　seemed　even　closer　to　what　I　wanted　her　to　be；　and　even　less　like　the　side　of　Gil　I　never　understood。　Her　spirits　were　always　up；　and　her　hair　was　always　down。　The　night　before　graduation；　she　invited　me　back　to　her　room　after　a　movie；　claiming　she　wanted　me　to　say　good…bye　to　her　roommates。　I　knew　she　meant　something　else；　but　that　night　I　told　her　I　couldn't　do　it。　There　would　be　too　many　pictures　of　the　certainties　she　carried　with　her；　family　and　old　friends　and　the　dog　at　the　foot　of　her　bed　in　New　Hampshire。　A　final　night　in　a　room　surrounded　by　all　her　fixed　stars　would　only　remind　me　of　how　much　my　own　life　was　in　flux。
　We　watched　in　those　final　weeks　as　the　investigation　into　the　fire　at　Ivy　drew　to　a　close。　At　last；　on　the　Friday　before　mencement；　as　though　the　announcement　had　been　timed　to　give　closure　to　the　academic　year；　the　local　authorities　acknowledged　that　Richard　Curry；　〃in　a　way　coincident　with　firsthand　accounts；　precipitated　a　fire　within　the　Ivy　Club；　causing　the　death　of　both　men　inside　the　building。〃　In　support　of　this；　they　advanced　two　shards　of　a　human　jaw；　which　matched　Curry's　dental　records。　The　explosion　of　the　gas　main　had　left　little　else。
　Yet　the　investigation　remained　open　and　nothing　specific　was　ever　said　of　Paul。　I　knew　why。　Just　three　days　after　the　explosion；　an　investigator　had　confessed　to　Gil　that　they　held　out　hope　of　Paul's　survival：　the　remains　they'd　found　were　merely　scraps；　and　what　few　of　them　were　identifiable　were　Curry's。　For　the　following　days；　then；　we　waited　hopefully　for　Paul's　return。　But　when　he　never　did　return；　never　staggered　from　the　woods　or　turned　up　in　a　familiar　place；　having　forgotten　himself　for　a　time；　the　investigators　seemed　to　realize　it　was　better　to　be　silent　than　to　ply　us　with　false　hope。
　　
　Graduation　came　warm　and　green；　without　a　whisper　of　wind；　as　though　such　a　thing　as　Easter　weekend　could　never　have　been。　There　was　even　a　butterfly　in　the　air；　fluttering　like　a　displaced　emblem；　as　I　sat　in　the　yard　of　Nassau　Hall；　surrounded　by　classmates　in　our　robes　and　tassels；　waiting　to　be　pronounced。　Up　there；　in　the　tower；　I　imagined　a　bell　tolling　silently　without　a　clapper：　Paul；　celebrating　our　fortune；　just　behind　the　creases　of　the　world。
　There　were　phantoms　everywhere　in　that　daylight。　Women　in　evening　gowns；　from　the　Ivy　ball；　dancing　in　the　sky　like　nativity　angels；　announcing　a　new　season。　Nude　Olympians　streaking　in　the　courtyards；　unashamed　of　their　nakedness；　in　a　specter　of　the　season　just　passed。　The　salutatorian　quipped　in　Latin；　jokes　I　didn't　understand；　and　for　an　instant　I　imagined　that　it　was　Taft　up　there　who　addressed　us；　Taft；　and　behind　him　Francesco　Colonna；　and　behind　them　a　chorus　of　wizened　philosophers　who　all　delivered　a　solemn　refrain；　like　drunken　apostles　singing　the　〃Battle　Hymn　of　the　Republic。〃
　The　three　of　us　returned　to　the　room　one　last　time　after　the　ceremony。　Charlie　was　heading　back　to　Philadelphia　for　a　summer　of　ambulance　work　before　medical　school　in　the　fall。　He　had　chosen　the　University　of　Pennsylvania；　he　told　us　finally；　after　wavering　for　so　long。　He　wanted　to　stay　near　home。　Gil　was　collecting　the　knickknacks　from　his　bedroom　with　a　touch　of　eagerness　I　half　expected。　He　confessed　to　having　a　ticket　out　of　New　York　that　evening。　Going　to　Europe　for　a　while；　he　said。　To　Italy；　of　all　places。　He　needed　some　time　to　figure　things　out。
　We　collected　our　last　day's　mail　together；　Charlie　and　I；　once　Gil　was　gone。　Inside　the　box　were　four　small　envelopes；　identical　in　size。　They　contained　registration　slips　for　the　alumni　directory；　one　to　each　of　us。　I　placed　mine　in　my　pocket；　and　took　Paul's；　as　well；　realizing　he　hadn't　been　stricken　from　our　class　list。　I　wondered　for　a　moment　if　they'd　drawn　up　a　diploma　for　him；　too；　which　now　sat　somewhere　uncollected。　But　on　the　fourth　envelope；　the　one　addressed　to　Gil；　his　name　had　been　crossed　off；　and　mine　had　been　written　in　his　hand。　I　opened　it　and　read。　The　form　had　been　pleted；　with　an　address　penned　out　for　a　hotel　in　Italy。　Dear　Tom；　it　said；　across　the　inside　lip　of　the　envelope。　I　left　Paul's　here　for　you。　I　thought　you　would　want　it。　Tell　Charlie　I'm　sorry　for　leaving　in　a　rush。　I　know　you　understand。　If　in　Italy；　please　call。　…G。
　I　hugged　Charlie　before　we　parted。　A　week　later；　he　called　me　at　home　to　ask　if　I　planned　to　attend　our　class　reunion　the　following　year。　It　was　the　sort　of　pretext　only　Charlie　would　invent　for　a　phone　call；　and　we　spoke　for　several　hours。　Finally；　he　asked　if　I　would　give　him　Gil's　address　in　Italy。　He　said　he'd　found　a　postcard　Gil　would　enjoy；　which　he　tried　to　describe　to　me。　I　realized；　underneath　what　he　was　saying；　that　Gil　hadn't　given　him　a　forwarding　address。　Things　between　them　had　never　really　recovered。
　I　wasn't　in　Italy；　that　summer　or　afterward。　Gil　and　I　met　three　times　in　the　four　years　that　followed；　each　time　at　a　class　reunion。　There　was　less　and　less　to　be　said　between　us。　The　facts　of　his　life　gradually　assembled　with　the　graceful　preordination　of　words　in　a　litany。　He　returned　to　Manhattan　after　all；　like　his　father；　he　became　a　banker。　Unlike　me；　he　seemed　to　age　well。　At　twenty…six；　he　announced　his　engagement　to　a　beautiful　woman　one　year　our　junior；　who　reminded　me　of　a　star　from　an　old　movie。　Seeing　them　together；　I　could　no　longer　deny　the　pattern　to　Gil's　life。
　Charlie　and　I　kept　up　much　better。　To　be　honest；　he　wouldn't　let　me　go。　He　holds　the　distinction　in　my　life　of　being　the　hardest…working　friend　I've　ever　had；　the　one　who　refuses　to　let　a　friendship　fail　just　because　the　distance　grows　and　the　memories　fade。　In　the　first　year　of　medical　school；　he　married　a　woman　who　reminded　me　of　his　mother。　Their　first　child；　a　daughter；　was　named　after　her。　Their　second　child；　a　son；　was　named　after　me。　A　bachelor　myself；　I　can　judge　Charlie　as　a　father　honestly；　without　worrying　how　I　fare　in　parison。　The　only　way　to　do　it　justice　is　to　say　that　Charlie　is　an　even　better　father　than　friend。　In　the　way　he　cares　for　his　children　there　is　a　hint　of　the　natural　protectiveness；　the　world…beating　energy；　the　enormous　gratitude　for　the　privilege　of　life；　that　he　always　showed　at　Princeton。　Today　he　is　a　pediatrician；　God's　own　doctor。　His　wife　says　that　on　certain　weekends　he　still　runs　with　the　ambulance。　I　hope　someday；　as　he　still　believes；　Charlie　Freeman　will　e　before　heaven　at　the　hour　of　judgment。　I've　never　known　a　better　man。
　　
　What　became　of　me；　I'm　hard…pressed　to　say。　After　graduation　I　returned　to　Columbus。　Except　for　a　single　trip　to　New　Hampshire；　I　spent　all　three　months　of　my　summer　at　home。　Whether　it　was　because　my　mother　understood　my　loss　even　better　than　I　did；　or　because　she　couldn't　help　feeling　glad　that　Princeton　was　behind　me…behind　us…she　opened　up。　We　talked；　she　joked。　We　ate　together；　just　the　two　of　us。　We　sat　on　the　old　sledding　hill；　the　one　my　sisters　used　to　pull　me　up；　and　she　told　me　what　she'd　been　doing　with　herself。　There　were　plans　to　open　a　second　bookstore；　this　one　in　Cleveland。　She　explained　the　business　model；　the　way　she'd　been　running　the　ledgers；　the　possibility　of　selling　the　house　now　that　it　was　going　to　be　empty。　I　understood　only　the　most　important　part；　which　was　that　she'd　finally　started　moving　on。
　For　me；　though；　the　problem　wasn't　moving　on。　It　was　understanding。　As　the　years　have　passed；　the　other　uncertainties　of　my　life　have　seemed　to　clarify　themselves　in　a　way　my　father's　life　never　did。　I　can　imagine　what　Richard　Curry　was　thinking　on　that　Easter　weekend：　that　Paul　was　in　the　same　position　Curry　himself　had　once　been　in；　that　it　would　be　unbearable　to　let　his　orphan　son　bee　another　Bill　Stein　or　Vincent　Taft；　or　even　Richard　Curry。　My　father's　old　friend　believed　in　the　gift　of　a　clean　slate；　a　blank　check　on　an　unlimited　trust；　it　just　took　us　too　long　to　understand　him。　Even　Paul；　in　the　days　when　I　still　hoped　for　his　survival；　gave　me　reason　to　think　he'd　simply　left　us　all　behind；　escaping　through　the　tunnels　without　ever　returning；　the　dean　had　left　him　with　little　hope　of　graduation；　and　I　had　left　him　with　no　hope　of　Chicago。　When　I'd　asked　him　where　he　wanted　to　be；　he'd　told　me　honestly：　in　Rome；　with　a　shovel。　But　I　never　reached　the　age　when　I　could　ask　my　father　those　sorts　of　questions；　even　if；　in　retrospect；　he　was　probably　the　sort　of　man　to　give　them　an　honest　answer。
　I　suppose；　then；　looking　back　on　i