MILTON BOUNDED UP the stairs of Stockbridge two at a time. “D’Arcy!” he screamed down the hallway before even reaching his office suite. D’Arcy appeared in the hall in an instant.
“I know, sir. I’ve called maintenance. They’re on their way.”
“And get someone to throw some tarps over it in the meantime, before someone starts taking pictures!”
“Of course, sir, but I think we might have bigger problems.”
“What are you talking about?”
“This, sir.” D’Arcy held out her phone and handed it to Milton.
A video was cued up on the tiny screen. He hit play and tried to make out what he was seeing. It was dark, and there were flashing lights. People, lots of them, were jumping and dancing, pumping their fists in the air. “I don’t understand. What is this?”
“Those are Devon students at a Beta Psi party. Here, let me turn up the sound.” D’Arcy reached over and pressed the volume-up button a few times. Loud, tuneless music played through the phone’s tiny speaker. People were singing along:
Two a.m., Seven-Eleven
Got my burrito, oh thank heaven
Phone’s blowin’ up, back in the heezie
Yesterday’s squeezie, gotta let’r down easy
“D’Arcy, why am I listening to this?” Music today was all very angry sounding, thought Milton.
“Just wait.” The song continued, but when the music suddenly stopped before the end, the partygoers, familiar with the lyrics, kept singing even louder:
So keep it on the lo-lo,
This nigga runs solo,
Nigga runs solo!
Milton sighed. “That word will be the death of us.”
The video cut to a figure in a dark hood and a Guy Fawkes mask. “Welcome to Devon University, aka Racist U!” The voice was deep and digitally masked. “Listen as the rich white sons of privilege in their exclusive fraternities spout their hate! Tell President Strauss that hate and oppression have no place at Devon!”
“Where did you find this?”
“It’s posted anonymously on YouTube. Also, the hashtag DevonShame is trending regionally on Twitter, so there are links to the video just about everywhere.” Milton walked to his window and looked down. Several students had stopped and were photographing the graffiti.
“Goddamn it! Where the hell is maintenance? Will you call them again? And get someone down there right now to cover it up until they get here!”
“Right away, sir.” D’Arcy, unsure which command to deal with first, decided to run out to look for blankets first.
Foster Jennison sat patiently. Much of his investment success owed to this legendary patience. Born in Massachusetts to the proprietor of a small sporting goods store, Jennison held part-time jobs to pay his way through Devon. He supplemented his income by deftly relieving money from the rich kids in dormitory poker games. His edge was his uncanny ability to read others, particularly when they were drunk and he was not. After working briefly for the legendary banking house Lazard Frères, Jennison set out for Los Angeles to found his own money-management concern, calling it Beaver Dam Capital (he liked the animal’s famed industriousness). The move was unusual for the time. The money-management business was dominated by buttoned-up concerns located almost exclusively in New York and Boston. The West Coast lacked the requisite probity. But, whether by foresight or fortune, his timing was excellent. The sixties saw a surge in West Coast wealth, mostly from real estate and entertainment, and the newly moneyed class wanted not just probity but proximity. Jennison fit the bill on both counts. His favorite saying was “I like to help people. When they’re desperate to sell, I help them by buying. When they’re desperate to buy, I help them by selling.”
For years he built his firm on consistent if unflashy returns. In times of severe market dislocation such as ’68 and ’74, Beaver Dam would pick up market share against its more aggressive rivals. But when he married and had his first child, Jennison began to view the social fabric of L.A. as too flaky for raising a family. He moved his company headquarters back East, to New York. This had the added benefit of being close to dear old Devon, and he was frequently seen at football games. In recent years, he was a regular guest in Milton’s box on the fifty-yard line.
It was not football that brought Jennison to Devon today. Today was about making sure Devon and Milton Strauss continued to be careful stewards of Jennison’s money. He’d come up by train this morning from the city and taken a Yellow cab from the Havenport train station. Limousines and drivers were an unnecessary expense and not to his taste.
“Foster! What are you doing sitting out here?” asked Milton, finding Jennison sitting in the hallway. He’d come into Stockbridge unannounced, and no one had taken notice of the quiet man on the bench.
“I didn’t want to be a bother.”
“Foster, you are never a bother.” Milton shook Jennison’s hand vigorously. Jennison had a mane of white hair and was wearing a sensible dark gray suit purchased in a two-for-one sale at Joseph A. Bank. “Come, I want to show you something.”
Milton led him to his office, where the previous day the staff from Soren O. Pedersen Associates had installed a scale model of the new houses, complete with tiny trees and little people. The spires, turrets, and towers were all rendered in loving, painstaking detail. Miniature students could even be seen in the dining halls through miniature arched Gothic windows.
“It’s beautiful, just beautiful.” Jennison reached out and ever-so-gently touched one of the towers.
“I’m glad you like it. I’ve arranged for the people over at Pedersen to have another one made just for you. Might look good in your office, no?”
“Oh my gosh, this must have been very expensive. I think one is enough.”
“Are you sure, my friend?”
“Quite sure. Put the money into the project.”
“If those are your wishes. Come, let’s sit.”
They took seats by the fireplace.
“Foster, I wanted to talk to you about something sensitive. It’s never come up in our previous conversations, and I think we need to address it. As you know, we have a long-standing policy about naming, which is to say we don’t name houses or other major buildings after donors. But I think I have some ideas you might—”
Foster raised a hand. “Not necessary, Milton. I don’t want my name on anything.”
“You don’t?”
“Absolutely not. It’s unseemly, as far as I’m concerned.”
Milton was surprised, although he knew he shouldn’t have been, knowing Foster. Most donors got excited about having their names on a brick. “Foster, I can’t say how honored we are by what you’re doing for Devon.”
“Nonsense. It is I who am indebted to you, or rather to this great institution. I made lifelong friends in these halls. My time here made me who I am. If giving some money lets a few more kids have that experience, then it is my privilege to make that possible.”
Oh, if only there were more such as this! thought Milton.
“But…”
But?
“I have some concerns.…”
“About the project?”
“Most definitely not. The houses are magnificent.”
“Then what?”
“Call it the culture.”
“Please, tell me,” said Milton in his most solicitous voice.
“I saw that Senator Potter was not permitted to speak here recently.” Potter was a Republican and best known for his strident views on immigration.
“Oh, but he did speak.”
“In an off-campus facility. He was scheduled to speak in Fairchild Hall. You moved him.”
“Well, yes. But he still spoke and it was well attended.”
“Milton, what kind of message are you sending—that conservative speakers aren’t welcome on campus?”
“No, of course not. We welcome everyone. It’s just that there were a number of threats and we didn’t feel we could guarantee security. Safety must come first.”
“So, free speech takes a backseat to the heckler’s veto?”
The fine hairs on Milton’s neck stood at attention. Heckler’s veto—he associated that term with the odious alt-right movement. He threw up his hands. “A university like Devon has many constituencies that have to be pleased, Foster.”
“Do they?”
“Do they what?”
“Have to be pleased?”
“Well, certainly, I mean, don’t you think?”
“You know, you’re the president of this august institution. Last I heard, that was a position of great influence. Try using it, Milton. Try being a leader. You might find it useful.”
Milton turned a shade of ruby. Foster Jennison was famous for being direct, but the president of Devon University was not used to being spoken to this way.
“Allow me to be more specific,” continued Foster. “Leadership means occasionally saying no and living with the fact someone may be angry as a result.”
“I say no all the time! Why just the other day the faculty asked for their own gym and I told them there was no room in this year’s budget.”
Foster just stared. “Let me ask you something,” he said finally.
“Please.”
“What percentage of your faculty do you think gave money to Donald Trump?”
“I don’t know offhand.”
“Zero. The data is online.”
“Foster, the man’s a buffoon. We have a very sophisticated faculty.”
“Do we? What percentage gave to Mitt Romney, then?”
“I don’t know.”
“Zero.”
“I see.”
“Do you wish to know the last Republican candidate who received financial support from even a single member of our faculty? George Bush. Not George W. Bush, George H. W. Bush. One of our computer science faculty gave two hundred dollars. That was in 1992, in case you’re a little foggy on the dates.”
“Well, this is New England, Foster. It’s a pretty liberal place.”
“Don’t misunderstand me. I don’t expect Devon to be some Southern Christian college, but balance is needed or people will forget how to think. Heck, Milton, the place was liberal when I was here, too, but all views were respected. There were no—what are they called?—safe spaces.”
“We don’t have safe spaces here, Foster. That whole thing is being exaggerated by certain elements of the media.” Fox News. Milton discreetly looked at his watch. He was going to be late for dinner.
“I would suggest that the entire campus has become a safe space. What was that nonsense with Mark Twain?”
“The professor in question was completely cleared.”
“Cleared of teaching Twain?”
“Yes—er, no. Not exactly. It was a misunderstanding. Some students exaggerated what really happened.”
“And those students were disciplined accordingly, I take it?” Milton looked like he was struggling for the right way to respond. “Don’t bother, I know the answer.” Foster went over and looked out Milton’s window. “Tell me, what do you suppose would happen if I set up a Right to Life volunteer table down there in that plaza?”
Milton looked Jennison right in the eyes. “Foster, free speech is an unassailable right on this campus. It is the linchpin of our core mission to pursue the truth.”
“Fine words, Milton. I hope they are more than that.”