Valediction

CHAPTER 1

There were at least three kinds of cops in Harvard Yard: a scattering of Cambridge cops, gray-haired mostly, with faces out of County Mayo; portly old men in brown uniforms and no sidearms who guarded the gates; and squadrons of Harvard University police who wore tailored blue uniforms and expensive black gun belts, and looked like graduates of the Los Angeles Police Academy. It was Harvard commencement, and if the WASPs began to run amok, Harvard was ready. I was ready too. I had a Smith & Wesson Chief's Special clipped onto my belt just back of my right pants pocket where the butt caused only a modest break in the line of my silk tweed jacket. The jacket was off-white with a faint blue weave and came from Brooks Brothers. It wasn't my favorite, but the choices are not wide in off-the-rack size 48's.

On a folding chair among many many folding chairs set up on the broad lawn between Widener Library and Memorial Church, Susan Silverman sat in a black gown and a funny-looking mortarboard and waited for the formal award of her Ph.D. in clinical psychology. I was there to watch and although I had a seating ticket I found myself getting restless very early and began to wander around the yard and look at the preparations for postcammencement festivities when graduates are congratulated and classes are reunited and funds are raised.

All about me the subdued and confident honk of affluent Yankee voices, male and female, murmured a steady counterpoint to the Latin dissertation being delivered from the commencement platform and redelivered over speakers throughout the area. It had been the excitement of the Latin address that had initially got me up and walking around and eyeing the barrels of free beer hooked to the taps, ready to be broached when the graduates were official.

The Latin address gave way to an English disquisition on the Legacy of Confusion, which in turn gave way to an English address on the Moral Life. On the steps of Boylston Hall a bunch of men in top hats and tails were having their pictures taken with a bunch of women in white dresses and red sashes. I went into the basement of Boylston Hall to use the men's room. No one else was there. Maybe one didn't do that at a Harvard commencement. Maybe Harvard people didn't do that at all.

Finally it was over and Susan met me by the beer table, pushing her way past a procession from Quincy House that was being led out by u guy blowing bagpipes.

"How do you like it so far," she said.

I kissed her on the mouth. "I don't know that I've ever screwed a doctor," I said.

She nodded. "Yes, I knew you'd have just the right thing ready to say."

Even in her cap and gown Susan looked like a sunrise, extravagant and full of promise. Wherever she went things seemed, as they always did, to organize around her.

She smiled at me. "Shall we have some of the revolting chicken salad?"

"Your graduation," I said.

We had the chicken salad and a couple of free beers and watched everything and spoke very little. Susan was excited. I could see it in her face. She was looking at everything and barely eating. I looked mostly at her, as I always did, trying somehow to encompass the density and elegance of her. Never enough, I thought. It's like air, you never tire of breathing it.

"Did you like the ceremony?" Susan said.

I nodded. "The Latin dissertation made my blood race."

"But it really was wonderful, don't you think?"

I shrugged.

"I know it's silly, but it's very exciting. It's full of tradition and it makes me feel like a real part of something. It's what a graduation ought to be."

"And you are now a doctor. Dr. Silverman. You like that?"

She nodded.

Around the yard, hanging from old brick buildings, were signs designating class years -1957, 1976-and old grads were gathering under those banners to talk about how fast they could run when they were young, and get zonkered on bloody Marys and vodka martinis in clear plastic cups.

"You going back to D.C.?" I asked it casually, glancing around at the Radcliffe graduates. But my stomach wasn't casual when I said it. My stomach was clenched tight and full of dread.

Susan shook her head a little vaguely, one of those little head gestures she made that meant neither yes nor no.

"Chicken salad really isn't very good, is it?" she said.

"No, it's awful," I said. "But the servings are small."