The City of Mirrors

“Don’t worry about Liz, if that’s what you’re thinking. This was totally her idea.”

“It was?”

Jonas shrugged. “Well, maybe not that you’d actually bone her cousin on the couch. But she wanted you to feel…I don’t know. Included.”

This made me feel even worse. Stupidly, I had assumed that Liz was doing her cousin a favor, when it was the other way around.

“Listen, Tim, I’m sorry—”

“Forget it,” I said, and waved my roommate away. “I’m fine, really. Go home.”

I waited ten minutes, gathered myself together, and left the building. Jonas hadn’t said where he and Liz were going; back to her place, probably, but I couldn’t chance it. I made my way down to the river and began to walk. I had no destination in mind; I suppose I was performing a kind of penance, though for what, precisely, I could not say. I had, after all, done exactly what was expected of me by the standards of that time and place.

Gray dawn found me, a pathetic figure in his tuxedo, five miles away on the Longfellow Bridge, overlooking the Charles River Basin. The first rowers were out, carving the waters with their long, elegant oars. It is at such moments that revelations are said to come, but none did. I had wanted too much and embarrassed myself; there wasn’t anything more to say than that. I was badly hungover; blisters had formed on both feet from my too-tight shoes. The thought occurred to me that I hadn’t spoken to my father in a very long time, and I was sorry about that, though I knew I would not call him.

By the time I got back to Winthrop, it was nearly nine o’clock. I keyed the lock and found Jonas freshly shaved and sitting on his bed, shoving his legs into a pair of jeans.

“Jesus, look at you,” he said. “Did you get mugged or something?”

“I went for a walk.” Everything about him radiated cheerful urgency. “What’s going on?”

“We’re leaving, is what’s going on.” He got to his feet, shoving his shirt into the waistband of his jeans. “You better change.”

“I’m exhausted. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Better rethink that. Alcott just phoned. We’re driving down to Newport.”

I had no idea what to make of this ridiculous claim. Newport was at least two hours away. All I wanted to do was climb into my bed and sleep. “What are you talking about?”

Jonas snapped on his watch and stepped to the mirror to brush his hair, still damp from the shower. “The after-party. Just members and punchees this time. The ones who, you know, passed. Which would include you, my friend.”

“You’re joking.”

“Why would I joke about a thing like that?”

“Gee, I don’t know. Maybe because I made a total jackass of myself?”

He laughed. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. You got a little wasted, so what? Everybody really liked you, especially Alcott. Apparently, your escapade in the library made quite an impression.”

My stomach dropped. “He knows?”

“Are you serious? Everybody knows. It’s Alcott’s house we’re going to, by the way. You should see this place. It’s like something in a magazine.” He turned from the mirror. “Earth to Fanning. Am I talking to myself here?”

“Um, I guess not.”

“Then for fucksake, get dressed.”

* * *

17

The fall was a marathon of parties, each more extravagant than the last. Nights at restaurants I could never afford, strip clubs, a harbor cruise on a sixty-foot boat owned by an alumnus who never came out of his cabin. Bit by bit, the candidates dropped away, until only a dozen remained. Just after the Thanksgiving holiday, an envelope appeared under my door. I was to report to the club at midnight. Alcott met me in the entryway, instructed me not to speak, and handed me a pewter cup of powerful rum, which he told me to down. The building seemed empty; all the lights were out. He led me to the library, blindfolded me, and told me to wait. Some minutes passed. I was feeling quite drunk and having trouble maintaining my balance.

Then I heard, from behind me, an alarming sound—a low, animal growling, like a dog about to attack. I spun, stumbling, and whipped off the blindfold as the bear reared up before me. It seized me bodily, hurled me to the ground, and pounced on top of me, pushing the wind from my chest. In the dark room all I could make out was its great black bulk and gleaming teeth, poised above my neck. I screamed, utterly convinced that I was about to die—a prank, intended to be harmless, had obviously gone terribly wrong—until I realized that the bear, rather than tearing my throat open, had begun to hump me.