Erich Segal - The Class

When he emerged, a chilly darkness had descended upon the city. As he strolled through Boston’s version of Venice’s Piazza San Marco, he pondered a vital theological dilemma.

Would the Congregationalists serve food?

Better not take too big a leap of faith, he told himself. Hedge your bets. So he grabbed a quick tuna on rye before beginning the journey south to Quincy.

The best part of the dance was that the drummer and the bass player turned out to be young college students like himself. The worst part was that he had to spend the entire evening at the piano, trying not to ogle the well-developed high school girls in their tight sweaters gyrating to the beat his hungry fingers produced on the keyboard.

When the last couples finally straggled off the floor, an exhausted Danny looked at his watch. God, he thought, eleven-thirty and it’ll take me at least an hour to get back to Harvard. And I’ve got to be back here before nine.

For an instant he was tempted to sleep upstairs on an isolated pew. No, don’t risk your job. Better haul yourself back home.

When he finally entered Harvard Yard, nearly every window was dark. Yet, as he approached Holworthy, he was stunned to find his roommate, Kingman Wu, perched on the stone steps.

“Hi, Danny.”

“King, what the hell are you doing out here? It’s freezing.”

“Bernie bounced me,” his friend replied forlornly. “He’s practicing his fencing and claims he’s got to be alone to concentrate.”

“At this hour? The guy’s a maniac.”

“I know,” said Kingman miserably. “But he’s got a sword, so what the heck could I do?”

Perhaps the state beyond exhaustion dissipates all fear, for Danny felt strangely brave enough to deal with this emergency.

“Come on, King, maybe the two of us can bring him to his senses.”

As they headed in, Wu muttered, “You’re a real pal, Danny. I only wish you were six feet tall.”

“So do I,” Danny said wistfully.

Fortunately, the mad musketeer had gone to sleep. And a weary Danny Rossi followed almost instantly thereafter.

“God, there’s this Jewboy going out for squash who’s unbelievable.”

Dickie Newall was giving his roommates a detailed account of tryouts for the sport at which he’d excelled from the moment he was old enough to hold a racket.

“Is he going to beat you out for number one?” asked Wig.

“Are you kidding?” Newall groaned. “He could cream half the varsity. His drop shots are absolutely uncanny. And what really gets my goat is that the guy’s real neat. I mean, not just for a Jew — for a person.”

At which point Andrew inquired, “What makes you think Jews aren’t people?”

“Aw, come on, Eliot, you know what I mean. They’re usually these dark, brainy, aggressive guys. But this one doesn’t even wear glasses.”

“You know,” Andrew commented, “my father always had a special admiration for the Jews. In fact, they’re the only doctors he’ll see for anything.”

“But how many of them does he see socially?” Newall volleyed back.

“That’s different. But I don’t think he avoids them as a policy. It’s just the circles that we move in.”

“You mean it’s mere coincidence that none of these great physicians get put up for any of his clubs?”

“All right,” Andrew conceded. “But I’ve never heard him make a racial slur of any sort. Even about Catholics.”

“But he doesn’t mix with those guys either, does he? Not even our new mackerel-snapping senator from Massachusetts.”

“Well, he has done some business deals with Old Joe Kennedy.”

“Not over dinner at the Founders’ Club, I’ll bet,” Wig interposed.

“Hey, look,” Andrew replied, “I didn’t say my dad’s a saint. But at least he taught me not to use the kind of language Newall enjoys so much.”

“But, Andy, you put up with my colorful epithets for years.”

“Yeah,” Wig agreed. “What’s suddenly made you such a Goody Two-Shoes?”

“Listen, guys,” Andrew responded. “In prep school we had no Jews or Negroes at all. So who cared if you went on about the ‘lower orders.’ But Harvard’s full of all types, so I think we should learn to live with them.”

His roommates glanced at one another quizzically.

And then Newall complained, “Knock off this preaching, huh? I mean, if I’d said this guy was short or fat, you wouldn’t have given me any heat. When I refer to someone as a Hebie or a coon, it’s just a friendly way of typing him, a sort of shorthand adjective. I mean, for your information, I’ve invited this guy Jason Gilbert to our blast after the football game on Saturday.”

Then he looked at Andrew with mischief in his eyes and added, “That’s if you don’t mind actually mixing with a Jewboy.”

Although it was only the first week of November, the air at six o’clock was glacial and as dark as any winter evening. As Jason was dressing after squash practice, he discovered, to his annoyance, that he’d forgotten to bring a tie. He’d now have to return to Straus to get one. Otherwise, that Irish Cerberus who stood checking necks at the Union doorway would gleefully bounce him. Damn. Damn.

He trudged back across the chilly, leafless Yard, climbed the stairs to A-32, and fumbled for his key.

The moment that he pushed the door ajar, Jason noticed something odd. The place was dark. He glanced at D. D.’s room. No light from there either. Maybe he was sick. Jason rapped softly and inquired, “Davidson, are you okay?”

There was no reply.

Then, breaking the ironclad house rules, Jason opened the door. First he noticed the ceiling, where the electric wires had been torn out. Then he glanced quickly at the floor. Where he saw his roommate in a heap, motionless — a belt around his neck.

Jason was vertiginous with fear.

Oh God, he thought, the bastard’s killed himself. He knelt and turned D. D. over. This gesture elicited the faintest semblance of a groan. Quick, Jason, he urged himself, fighting to keep his wits, call the cops. No. They might not come in time.

He swiftly removed the leather belt from his roommate’s lacerated throat. He then heaved him up onto his shoulders like a fireman, and rushed as quickly as he could to Harvard Square, where he commandeered a taxi, ordering the driver to tear-ass to the infirmary.

“He’ll be all right,” the on-duty physician assured Jason. “I don’t think Harvard sockets are wired well enough for suicide. Although, God knows, there are some kids who actually succeed in their ingenious ways. Why do you think he did it?”

“I don’t know,” said Jason, still somewhat deadened from the shock.

“The young man had a bit too much invested in his grades,” Dennis Linden pronounced. He had arrived on the scene in time to offer a professional analysis of the young freshman’s desperate action.

“Did his behavior give you any hints that this was coming? asked the Health Service doctor.

Jason shot a glance at Linden, who continued to pontificate, “Not really. You can never figure out which egg is going to crack. I mean, the freshman year’s so fraught with pressure.”

As the two doctors continued chatting, Jason fixed his gaze on his shoes.

Ten minutes later, Jason and the proctor walked together out of the infirmary; It was only then that he realized that he had no coat. Or gloves. Or anything. Panic had inured him to the cold. Now he was shivering.

“You need a lift, Jason?” Linden asked.

“No, thanks,” he answered sullenly.

“Come on, Gilbert, you’ll freeze to death walking back like that.”

“Okay,” he relented.

During the short ride up Mount Auburn Street, the proctor tried to justify himself.