May 10, 1956

“Hurry up, girls,” urged Courtnay Crawford, standing on a ladder, as she strung a long roll of red crepe paper across the ceiling of the student dining room.

The large room, usually filled with the clatter of plates and the gossip and laughter of hundreds of college girls, was slowly being transformed with streamers, colored paper balls, and a mirror-faceted revolving globe, into a ballroom for the Junior Hop of Caldwell College, Class of ’57.

“Do we have any more streamers, Courtnay?” asked Mary Sprain, who had just cleared a dance area.

Mary, like most of the other girls, wore a plaid skirt, a button-down shirt, and a blazer with leather elbow patches. Most of the girls wore dirty white buck shoes.

“If there are no more in the large cardboard box, then that’s it,” said Courtnay, who was chairman of the Dance Committee. She stretched to give more push to a thumbtack. She backed down the ladder, then looked around the room. A few girls were still placing candles, flowers, and ashtrays on the tables—the dean of women, with much misgiving, had relented about the ashtrays, but only for the girls’ escorts to smoke, and then only if it was absolutely necessary.

“It certainly looks different now,” said Sandy Shields, a member of the committee, walking over to Courtnay.

“I’ll say,” replied Courtnay.

“Well, are you ready?” called Grace Ann Upham as she entered the dining hall. “Hey, this place looks great. Are you finished?”

“Just about,” said Sandy Shields.

“Well, then, let’s get moving if we’re going to watch rugby practice.”

Grace Ann was eager to start out for their brother college, Benjamin Browning, an exclusive men’s school about ten miles down the road on the Hudson, to watch the last rugby practice before the big Founder’s Day game on Sunday. Founder’s Day at Browning and the Junior Hop at Caldwell were always scheduled for the same weekend, toward the end of the school year, signaling the end of classes and the last cram before end-of-term exams.

“I’m ready,” said Marguerite Stevens, who had been seated at one of the decorated tables. She picked up her books. “Anyone want a lift?”

“I do,” said Sandy.

“Wait for me,” said Ronnie duPont, who was standing on a chair, retying a fallen streamer.

Courtnay’s car was a new Corvette, painted a custom shade of coral. Her father had given it to her as an advance graduation present.

“I’ll go with Courtnay,” Grace Ann called as the girls ran across the wide lawn.

Marguerite Stevens and three other girls piled into Marguerite’s large, year-old Pontiac convertible. Marguerite pushed a lever and the top folded back behind the rear seat.

“Last one there is a rotten egg,” yelled Grace Ann from the passenger seat in the Corvette.

“You’re on,” Marguerite responded as she backed out of her parking space with the top still descending. She was closer to the exit than Courtnay, and as she backed out, her car blocked Courtnay’s.

“You rat!” Courtnay protested.

The girls laughed as the two cars, Courtnay’s right behind Marguerite’s, tore down the campus road. Courtnay tried to pass, but Marguerite’s car solidly hogged the road.

“Hey, no fair.” Grace Ann, holding on to the top of the windshield, stood up and shouted in the streaming wind.

The girls ahead waved goodbye to Courtnay and Grace Ann. They laughed as the cars accelerated along the road high on the west side of the Hudson. The surrounding hills were verdant, lush, bathed in warm spring sunlight as far as the eye could see.

Courtnay blew her horn at Marguerite. The girls in Marguerite’s car turned around, their thumbs in their ears, wagging their hands and sticking out their tongues at Courtnay’s frustrated attempts to pass them. Just before the two cars reached the turn that led to an iron gate and the narrow, tree-lined road to Browning, they passed a shopping plaza. Courtnay shifted into low gear and gunned her car into the entrance of the parking lot. Marguerite, seeing Courtnay’s car in the rearview mirror, stepped on her accelerator. But the Pontiac was no match for the Corvette. Courtnay cut through an aisle of parked cars, aiming at the far exit. When she reached the exit, she was a car-length ahead of Marguerite and pulling away.

Now it was Grace Ann’s turn, her hair flowing in the wind as she knelt on the seat, to stick out her tongue at Marguerite and her passengers. Courtnay slowed down almost to a crawl, hogging the center of the road, forcing Marguerite to follow at the same pace. Marguerite blew her horn. Courtnay retaliated, even louder, as the two cars made their way through the front gate of Browning.

Benjamin Browning College had been built high on a plateau above the Hudson River. The campus was picturesque. Tree-lined paths wound between old, ivy-clad brick buildings. Interspersed with the old buildings, and designed to blend in unobtrusively, were some recently added contemporary buildings such as the Harris Library, donated by the alumni Harris Brothers of the investment banking firm of the same name. There were new dorm facilities for underclassmen, donated by an anonymous alumnus. The athletic fields were along the bank of the river at the foot of a sweeping, grassy hill. Downriver, near the George Washington Bridge, this rise was called the Palisades. But here, at the edge of the Hudson Valley, the embankments bordering the river were not so steep or dramatic. That was the way everything was at Benjamin Browning College: underplayed, subtle. There was no great show of wealth, no ostentation. The moneyed families who had been sending their sons to Browning for decades were secure in their old, enormous wealth, wealth, which they never flaunted but merely used as the foundation for the future giants of industry and banking. There were also scholarship students at Browning whose athletic prowess or intellectual potential overrode considerations of their lack of blue blood or old green money, and students whose families were involved in government. The families of these last were not rich, but they were powerful, the front-runners for the wealthy patrons who furthered political ambitions in return for government influence on behalf of big business and high finance. It was unseemly for wealthy old families to dirty their hands in the world of politics. To finance it, to watch discreetly as others accepted their support and did their bidding, was sufficient. And to accept at Browning the sons of the most powerful of their political surrogates was to ensure continued fealty.

The girls parked the two cars at the top of the road that led down to the athletic field, where Browning’s rugby team was involved in an inter-squad scrimmage.

“Is Marty playing?” Courtnay asked anxiously of no one in particular as she scanned the field. The girls walked toward the sidelines, where the substitutes and the coach were.

“I think I see him in the middle of that, that …” Marguerite tried to think of the word.

“It’s a scrum,” interjected Sandy, “which always sounds deliciously sexy to me.”

Sandy’s outspoken ways always shocked the other girls. Although it was a woman’s secret, never revealed to men under any circumstances, the girls knew Sandy was physically passionate, sensual. Perhaps what shocked the other girls most was her candor. All the girls, whether or not they admitted it, were excited by the young men, their strong muscles, the touch of their rougher skin against their cheeks while they danced, their hard breathing in the dark, secluded paths leading back to the dorms. Sex had been quite a topic of conversation after Sandy came back one night, roused all her close chums, and revealed that she was the first of them to have had a man. The other girls had blushed with embarrassment, and then envy and curiosity set in. Sandy had to go into details many times to satisfy those who wanted to know just how it was done and how it felt.

“There he is!” cried Courtnay as the scrum seemed to burst apart. Marty Boxer ran with the ball, and the spectators screamed encouragement. Then he lateraled to Roderick McDowell Watson.

“He scored, he scored,” the spectators began to shout.

“Hello, David,” Sandy said to one of the substitute players, as the girls reached the sidelines. She was not very interested in the game.

“Hi, Sandy,” said David, flushed with enthusiasm for the score, which broke the tie.

Sandy remained standing next to David, gazing casually out toward the playing field. There was a time-out now. The first-team players listened to the coach give instructions for defending their lead as the assistant managers distributed towels and water bottles.

Other substitutes stole glances at Sandy standing next to David; two of them nudged each other. They didn’t know all, but they knew Sandy was as close to hot stuff as they could get, and they were curious and anxious.

Sandy studied Marty Boxer as he wiped his face with a towel. He was one of the best-looking men on campus. Besides, he was a curiosity—an athletic scholarship student from New York City who had no idea who or what the families of any of his classmates were or did. Marty was totally common. Sandy watched the biceps in Marty’s arms flex and swell as he wiped his face and neck.

Marty looked over at the girls and smiled. But he wasn’t looking at Sandy. It was Courtnay, wearing Marty’s ring on a chain around her neck, who had all his attention.

“That was sensational, Marty,” Sandy called enthusiastically.

Marty’s eyes shifted to Sandy for a moment. He smiled, then turned his eyes back to Courtnay. Marty was a very straight young man, and Courtnay was his girl.

The coach called Marty to attention, and looked frowningly at the girls on the sidelines.

The scrimmage resumed as the coach and team managers ran off the field. The head manager, a sallow-skinned senior in wrinkled chino pants and dirty white bucks, nodded a shy smile at Courtnay.

“How can you stand that little man?” Sandy shuddered. “What’s his name again?”

“J.T. Wright,” Courtnay replied, her eyes on Marty. “Truthfully, I can’t stand him either. But he’s Marty’s Big Brother, and Marty thinks J.T. is really terrific. Marty insists I fix him up with dates.”

“Who did you fix him up with for the Hop?”

“Margo Haupt.”

“That cute blonde sophomore?” Sandy said. “Why would she go out with someone as drippy as Wright?”

J.T. heard his name mentioned. He didn’t know what the girls had said, but he glanced at them in the shy, hangdog way he usually had around women.

“Because,” Courtnay explained quietly, “Marty said that if J.T. didn’t go, he didn’t want to go either. Randy Haupt, Margo’s brother, is on the team with Marty. That’s how come J.T. is going to the dance with Margo.”

“I can’t imagine what Marty sees in J.T.,” said Sandy. “He isn’t attractive or rich or funny or fun, or anything.”

“What’s his father do?” asked Ronnie, who had been listening from Courtnay’s other side.

“His father is a congressman and the Republican political boss of Ulster County, which is the county we’re standing in right now.”

“Ahh! The plot thickens,” said Ronnie.

“His father also happens to be on that committee in Washington, whatever it’s called, that has to do with finance and banking,” Courtnay added.

Sandy nodded knowingly.

The final whistle sounded with the first-team players victorious. Marty, after getting slapped on his rear end a few times by his teammates, ran over to Courtnay.

“Marvelous, Marty,” said Courtnay, kissing his cheek.

The rest of the girls were delighted to be surrounded by the other players.

J.T. Wright came over, directing a sheepish smile at Marty; then, self-consciously, the smile evaporated.

“Thanks, Otto,” Marty grinned, reaching out and pulling J.T. into a kind of headlock. “You were right, you know that, Wright.”

J.T. grimaced. “How could I be wrong? Otto Wright can’t be wrong, can he?” That was a standing joke between Marty and J.T. Marty called him Otto because, backward or forward, Otto spelled Otto—and Otto Wright was, therefore, no matter which way you looked at him, always right.

“You said to tighten up the defense and you were right, as usual.” Marty ran his hand quickly through J.T.’s slick hair.

“Hey, stop it,” J.T. protested, breaking free of Marty’s grip, smoothing his hair.

A car was driven quickly down the hill, dust billowing behind it. Mary Thorne coursed right up to them and jammed on her brakes. She looked worried.

“What’s the matter?” asked Sandy.

“Courtnay, you just got a call from Lester Lanin’s office.”

“The band people for tonight?”

“Right.”

“And?”

“The man on the phone, a Mr. Richards, started giving me doubletalk. He said they were having trouble getting a bus or a band here tonight or something because of I don’t know what.”

“What?” Courtnay moaned.

“He left his number for you. I didn’t really understand what he was talking about.”

“What are we going to do?” asked Sandy. “It’s too late to get another band now.”

“We can always dance to records,” said Grace Ann.

“In formals? Where’s the number?” Courtnay asked, annoyed.

“There’s a phone in the students’ lounge,” said Marty. “Call from there.”

A crowd formed around the pay phone in the students’ lounge now. The players were still in their blue and gray Rugby uniforms. Other Browning students, in chinos, button-down shirts, and school blazers, joined them. J.T. was on the phone, waiting to be connected.

Although he wasn’t the most popular person in the senior class, everyone recognized that J.T. knew how to talk, knew how to handle serious matters. He had taken the phone, and immediately—reversing the charges—called his father’s office. He wanted to place his calls through the switchboard there, so he wouldn’t seem like some schoolboy talking business from a pay phone.

“Hello, Helen, this is J.T. Is my father in?” He listened for a moment. “All right, then, dial Superintendent Kennedy, at the state police barracks.”

“What do the state police have to do with this?” asked a male voice between sips from a Coke bottle.

J.T. shut his eyes patiently as he waited.

“Superintendent Kennedy? Yes, J.T. Wright.” He waited. “How are you?” he said with a smile. “He’s fine, too, thanks … I sure will … I wanted to ask you a little favor if I could, Mr. Kennedy. Dad isn’t in right now. But I thought maybe I could call you and ask anyway. I hope you don’t mind.”

The people in the lounge strained to catch whatever they could.

“I really appreciate that. Dad will too. You have offices down in the city too, don’t you? Yes, New York City, sir.” He raised his eyebrows and smiled at Marty when he said sir. “Well, I’m over at Browning and there’s this big formal over at Caldwell tonight. Now, the school contracted with an orchestra from the city … I know this request is a little unusual … but this band is giving us a hard time, right at the last minute. Frankly, I doubt they actually intend to show up. And that’ll really screw things up, if you’ll pardon my expression, sir.”

Everyone in the room got a kick out of that. J.T. covered the mouthpiece and made a face for people to keep quiet.

“I was wondering if someone in your office down there could call and let this band outfit know that certain people are interested in the dance up here coming off without a hitch.”

J.T. listened, his eyes wandering over the crowd.

“Oh, I didn’t mean for you to go out of your way and do this yourself, sir,” J.T. protested. “I thought perhaps one of your men could take care of it … I know it’s an imposition …” He listened. “I’ll give you the name of the outfit.” He made a hurried motion to Courtnay. Courtnay jotted something on the back of a notebook.

“The name of the orchestra outfit is Lester Lanin, and their address … oh, you already know them? Oh, I see. You have to have your troopers help them occasionally when they’re playing at society affairs in Chappaqua and Millville and Saratoga. Well, then, that ought to make it even easier. Shall I call you back?” He paused. “No, I don’t have a phone in my room. I’m in the student lounge right now. I’ll have to ring you back. Oh, okay.” He gave the number of the pay phone and thanked the superintendent effusively, then hung up.

The group looked at him eagerly.

“He’s going to call back in a few minutes.”

The group milled around the lounge, waiting for the phone to ring, sipping Cokes and horsing around. A sophomore came in, wanting to make a call. He was told to walk to another phone.

“I told you J.T. was really okay, didn’t I?” Marty said to Courtnay privately.

“It’ll be terrific if he gets this all straightened out. Although it probably won’t help his personality. He already acts like he knows everything, or like he’s just swallowed the canary or something.”

“He’s just shy.”

“A lot of people are shy, Marty, but they don’t act like he does.”

“Well, try to be nice to him if we have a dance tonight. Don’t make him feel uncomfortable.”

“Don’t make him feel uncomfortable? How about telling him that for me?”

“Come on, hon,” said Marty. “What the heck, you’re the most popular person in the school, the queen of the prom, the most beautiful …”

She smiled.

The phone rang. One of the rugby players answered. “Just a second,” he said, “he’s right here. It’s Lester Lanin’s office,” he said, handing the phone to J.T.

“Hello,” J.T. said curtly. “Yes, it is. Oh, really,” he said, his eyes narrowing with concentration. “Yes, the superintendent is a good friend of ours too.”

J.T. turned toward the crowd, nodding. “You will. Very well,” he said smugly. “Miss Crawford, the dance chairman, is here. I think you should tell her that. I know she’ll be relieved to hear it.”

J.T. nodded his head vigorously, a big, satisfied smile on his face. He handed the phone to Courtnay.

“Otto Wright—are you right again?” Marty laughed, picking J.T. up in the air. J.T. grimaced in Marty’s bear hug.

The crowd cheered wildly as Courtnay announced that Lester Lanin would indeed be playing at the Caldwell Hop.