Ian Caldwell - The Rule of Four

Then he and I, in our black suits and black shoes, head out to the Saab in the shoals of the night-colored snow.

A costume ball , Gil had told me. And a costume ball it was. We arrive to find the club magnificent, the center of all attention on Prospect Avenue. Tall berms of snow rise like ramparts along the brick wall that surrounds the club, but the path leading to the front door has been cleared, and the walkway has been covered with a thin layer of black stones. Like rock salt they melt a swath through the ice. Mirroring the effect are four long cloths draped down the front bays of the clubhouse, each one with a vertical stripe of ivy green flanked by thin pillars of gold.

As Gil parks the Saab in his space, club members and the few other invitees are approaching Ivy ark-style, in twos, each entrance staggered from the next in polite intervals, careful not to intrude on one another. Seniors arrive last, because warm receptions are customary for graduating members, Gil tells me as he shuts off the headlights.

We cross the threshold to find the club bustling. The air is heavy with the heat of bodies, the sweet odor of alcohol and cooked food, the slurring conversations that form and re-form across the floor. Gil's entrance is met with clapping and cheers. Sophomores and juniors stationed across the first floor turn toward the door to welcome him, some crying Gil's name aloud, and it seems for a second that this could still be the night he hoped for, a night like his father had.

Well, he says to me, ignoring the applause when it continues too long, this is it.

I look around at the club's transformation. The work Gil has been doing, the errands and planning and conversations with florists and caterers, is suddenly more than just an excuse to leave our room when things aren't well. Everything is different. The armchairs and tables that were once here are gone. In their place, the corners of the front hall have been rounded by quarter-circle tables, all hung with silky cloths in regal dark green and decked in china platters trembling with food. Behind each one, as behind the wet bar to our right, stands an attendant in white gloves. Flower arrangements are everywhere, not a speck of color in any of them: just white lilies and black orchids and varieties I have never seen before. In the storm of tuxedoes and black evening gowns, it's even possible to overlook the brown oak of the walls.

Sir? says a waiter dressed in white tie, who has appeared from nowhere bearing a tray of canapes and truffles. Lamb, he says, pointing at the first, and white chocolate, pointing at the second.

Have one, Gil says.

So I do, and all the hunger of the day, the missed meals and hospital food fantasies, all of it instantly returns. When another man circles by with a tray of champagne flutes, I help myself again. The bubbles rise straight to my head, helping to keep my thoughts from drifting back to Paul.

Just then, a musical quartet kicks up from the dining room antechamber, a place where weathered lounge chairs used to stand. A piano and drum set have been tucked into the corner, with enough room for a bass and electric guitar in between. For the time being, it's RB standards. Later, I know, if Gil has his way, there will be jazz.

I'll be right back, he says, and suddenly he leaves my side, heading up the stairs. At every step, a member stops him to say something kind, to smile and shake his hand, sometimes to hug him. I see Donald Morgan place a careful hand on Gil's back as he passes, the easy, sincere congratulations of the man who would be king. Junior women already in their drinks look at Gil with foggy eyes, sentimental about the club's loss, their loss. He is tonight's hero, I realize, the host and guest of honor both. Everywhere he goes he'll have company. But somehow, without anyone by his side— Brooks or Anna or one of us-he looks alone already.

Tom! comes a voice from behind me.

I turn, and the air converges in a single fragrance, the one Gil's mother and Charlie's girlfriend must've worn, because it has the same effect on me. If I imagined that I liked Katie best when I saw her with flaws, with her hair up and her shirt untucked, then I was a fool. Because here she is now, tucked into a black gown, hair down, all collarbones and breasts, and I am undone.

Wow.

She puts a hand on my lapel and rubs off a flake of dust that turns out to be snow, still lingering in this heat.

Same to you, she says.

There is something wonderful in her voice, a welcome ease. Where's Gil? she asks.

Upstairs.

She pulls two more flutes of champagne from a passing tray.

Cheers, she says, giving me one. So who are you supposed to be?

I hesitate, unsure what she means.

Your costume. Who'd you come as?

Now Gil reappears.

Hey, Katie says. Long time no see.

Gil sizes the two of us up, then smiles like a proud father. You both look beautiful.

Katie laughs. So who are you supposed to be? she asks.

With a flourish, Gil swings back the side of his jacket. Only now do I see what he went upstairs to get. There, hanging between the left flank of his waist and his right hip, is a black leather belt. On the belt is a leather holster, and in the holster is an ivory-handled pistol.

Aaron Burr, he says. Class of 1772.

Flashy, Katie says, watching the pearly butt of the gun.

What's that? I blurt.

Gil seems taken aback. My costume. Burr shot Hamilton in a duel.

He puts an arm at my back and leads me toward the landing between the first and second floors.

See the lapel pins Jamie Ness is wearing? He points at a blond senior whose bow tie is embroidered with treble and bass clefs.

On the left lapel I can make out a brown oval; on the right, a black dot.

That's a football, Gil says, and that's a hockey puck. He's Hobey Baker, Ivy section of 1914. The only man ever inducted into both the football and hockey halls of fame. Hobey was in a singing group here-that's why Jamie's tie has notes on it.

Now Gil points to a tall senior with bright red hair. Chris Bentham, right beside Doug: James Madison, class of 1771. You can tell by the shirt buttons. The top one is a Princeton seal-Madison was the first president of the alumni association. And the fourth one is an American flag…

There is something mechanical in his voice, a tour guide's inflection, as if he's reading a script in his head.

Just make up a costume' Katie interjects, joining our conversation from the foot of the stairs.

I glance down at her, and the leverage gives me a new appreciation for the way she fits into her dress.

Oh, listen, Gil says, looking past her, I've got to go deal with something. Can you two manage on your own for a second?

Over by the wet bar, Brooks is pointing to one of the white-gloved attendants, who is leaning heavily against the wall.

One of the servers is drunk, Gil says.

No rush, I tell him, noticing how Katie's neck looks impossibly thin from this height, like the stem of a sunflower.

If you need anything, he says, just let me know.

Side by side, we begin to descend. The band is playing Duke Ellington, the champagne flutes are clinking, and Katie's lipstick has a high red gloss, the color of a kiss.

Want to dance? I say, when I step down from the landing.

Katie smiles and takes me by the hand.

Listen… rails a-thrumming… on the A train.

At the foot of the stairs, Gil's tracks and mine diverge.

The dance floor is ten degrees hotter than the rest of the club, couples pressed tight into each other, merging and turning, an asteroid belt of slow-dancers, but I instantly feel comfortable. Katie and I have moved to a lot of music since that first night we met at Ivy. Each weekend on Prospect Avenue the clubs hire bands to suit every taste, and in just a few months we've tried ballroom and Latin and every style in between. With nine years of tap behind her, Katie has enough elegance and grace for three or four dancers, which means that between us we average about as much as the next couple. Still, as her charity case, I've come a long way. We get bolder the longer we're at it, succumbing to the champagne. I manage to dip her once without falling on top of her, she manages to spin from my good arm once without dislocating anything, and soon we're dangerous on the floor.