Chapter One
The Lexus and the Cherry Tree
Approximately five miles off the Beltway as the crow flies—seven and a half by car—a cast-iron arch crowns a pair of brick pillars flanking, some two hundred yards of elm-lined parkway distant, the third-grandest plantation house in Maryland. In less enlightened times Waterchester House overlooked some six hundred acres of tobacco fields rolling south-east to the Potomac; from 1773 to the middle of the 19th century four successive patriarchs of the house of Parrish held society gatherings, watched tobacco grow dense and green in the humid sun of the summer, took on debt and sold human lives south to the cotton emperors to cover the interest. When the war came Edward Parrish II slipped across the river to fight for secession in the brigade of a Virginia cousin; wounded at Chancellorsville, he succumbed to gangrene, leaving behind two young daughters and a widow in her prime.
In the years following the war Old Madam Parrish, as she was known to the flickering remnants of planter society, sold half the estate to cover the old colonel's debts and maintained the mansion's grandeur in a state of slow but inevitable decay, kept afloat by the rents of three hundred acres of sharecropping. She did not throw the grandest balls in the district, everybody agreed, but she hosted the most honest, and by the charity of her class she maintained her standing, married off both daughters to appropriate candidates, and kept up appearances in the face of steadily declining tobacco prices. In the autumn of her sixty-first year she caught tuberculosis; the following February, during the Blizzard of '99, she surrendered to the unseasonable chill and constant soot from the gas light above the old marriage bed.
Thus it was that her oldest daughter Eliza, now living high on her husband's mining income in a townhouse in San Francisco, came into three hundred acres of land in the East for which she had neither desire nor need—it had been a point of pride to Old Madam Parrish that the excellent matches made for both daughters afforded her the luxury of keeping the estate intact in the will. The new gospel of philanthropy had made a born-again convert of Eliza and a lukewarm one of her husband John; under the influence of a speaker at the monthly meeting of the Episcopal Ladies' Charitable Society she became determined to establish an institution for the moral, intellectual and spiritual betterment of the scions of Capitol Hill and the surrounding area. Within four years three hundred acres of tobacco fields had been uprooted, converted to fallow parkland and sports fields, and been united in holy patrimony to a $1.5 million endowment scrounged from mining profits, contributions from businessmen on both coasts, and collection plates at Episcopal parishes across the country. Christened Chestnut Chapel Academy in honor of the weekend retreat community springing up across the road, the new institution opened in the fall of 1903 to instruct an inaugural class of seventy boys in Latin, modern languages, mathematics, English literature, history, theology, calisthenics, and the natural sciences.
"Of course," said Tom Hopeman, now turning right onto the pristine blacktop of the parkway, "they ruined it when they went co-ed. I was a junior at the time—the fall of '73."
Five months of pavement-pounding for the Washington Herald’s local section had not quite prepared Nicholas Golubichek for this. A noncommittal ‘hmm’, not entirely devoid of judgement, animated his voicebox.
“Oh, don’t tell ‘em—don’t write down that I said that,” said Tom, holding the Land Rover’s steering wheel steady at the leisurely pace of four miles an hour. “‘Course, as president of the alumni association—I’m not going anywhere, that’s for sure—but I’d hate to be the school’s social media guy if somebody decided to blow that out of proportion.”
A curtain of silence fell lengthwise between the alumnus and the reporter, neatly bisecting the transmission.
“Could I put you down as an anonymous source?” asked Nick, an agonizing moment later.
“Aw, I’d rather—I’d rather you not. I mean, they’ll know it wasn’t a faculty member. It’s not about me, I don’t care about that, it’s about the sch—”
A trio of freshman boys, outfitted in prescribed blazers, popped out from behind an elm and cut suddenly across the parkway in front of the car.
“HEY! Hey, you kids. Come here,” said Tom, rolling the window down.
“Aw—we’re sorry,” said the smallest and scraggliest of the three.
“You’re sorry what?—” “we’re sorry, sir.”
A pause, a stare, the rustling of hands in pockets.
“You know you’re gonna get yourself killed one of these days.”
“Yessir. We just—”
“There’s—there’s no just here, kids. You don’t do that. Be thirty seconds late for class if you have to, but don’t run out in front of cars.”
More rustling.
“Didn’t you boys learn this in kindergarten?”
“Yessir, I s’pose we weren’t thinking.”
“Son, what year are you?”
“F-we’re freshmen, sir.”
“They taught you the six guiding principles of Chestnut Chapel yet?”
“Y—yessir. Honesty, kindness, respect, uh…”
“Keep going.”
“Uh, responsibility…”
A robin chirped in the slowly-dying foliage of the nearest elm.
“Four outta six is an F. Maybe a D.”
“Technology and safety!” interjected the tallest of the group, attempting to free his comrades from their misery.
“That’s right. Now, was that safe?”
“No sir, I suppose it wasn’t. Or very responsible.”
“So don’t do it again.” warned Tom, trying and failing to channel his inner Sunday-school teacher. “You kids go have fun in class. See ya.”
The group scurried off onto the neighboring field in the direction of Chambers Hall, a decrepit science building whose replacement was being inaugurated that very day.
"Of course," he said, turning to Nick, "at four miles an hour this thing wouldn't kill a cat, let alone a kid—but you just never know whose mom's got an attorney on speed dial...don't write down that I said that either. Everyone knows it's true but you can't say it. Rumor is they're going to be switching baseball practice to a wiffle ball this spring. Don't—aw Christ."
The Land Rover, sparkling black in the 80-degree sunlight of late September, turned into a generously wide parking space marked President of the Alumni Association behind a stately three-story brick building from the 1920s.
"You just—you know, Nick, I'm a trusting guy. Read the Herald every morning, matter of fact. It's great you're covering this sort of thing in the local pages, it's always great to see the school forming close… you know, closer ties with the community and the city. It's great. But, uh..."
"We're covering the new science building and homecoming."
"Yeah, see, exactly. You've got, what was it, four hundred words. Can't put in every extraneous detail. Gotta focus on the essentials."
Nick nodded firmly and knowingly.
"That's my man. C'mon, I'll take you on a little tour of the place."
CONGRESSMAN'S SON GOES ON INEBRIATED JOYRIDE AT PRIVATE SCHOOL HOMECOMING: TWO INJURED
Inauguration of new science building overshadowed by tragedy
Nicholas Golubichek, staff writer
Chestnut Chapel Academy, a long-established member of the D.C.-area independent-school community, witnessed tragedy on Wednesday after a congressman's son drove his car around the central quad and into a beloved cherry tree as a crowd dispersed from the ceremonial opening of a state-of-the-art new science building, injuring two classmates. The car, a Lexus, was found to contain a plastic water bottle filled with vodka. The student's name has not been released in order to maintain anonymity.
“We are shocked and saddened by this very troubling incident and are extraordinarily thankful that nobody experienced death,” said school president Arthur Wagley in a statement released Tuesday evening. “This afternoon's tragic events should remind all members of the Chestnut Chapel community and the wider world that alcohol is a very dangerous drug and that in extreme cases it can even destroy lives. We urge every victim—and it is important to remember that every student, parent, faculty and staff member in the Chestnut Chapel community is in a very real sense a victim of this awful event—to remember the guiding principles of responsibility and safety, especially around technology such as cars.”
Both injured students, whose families have settled for an undisclosed sum and agreed not to press charges, have been admitted to the hospital and are in stable condition. The driver of the vehicle, a senior, plans to spend several months in a well-regarded rehabilitation center for troubled youth in Vermont, where clean living goes hand-in-hand with outdoor activities and winter sports, before returning to school as early as this coming March.
“After consultation with the school community and faculty, we are designating the remainder of the 2017-2018 school year as Alcohol Awareness Year, with activities and programs to raise awareness of alcohol's dangers among the wider community. Only by being aware of the dangers our actions can pose to others and, above all, to ourselves can we hope to make better choices.”
The cherry tree, one of the campus’s last living links to its days as a tobacco plantation, was destroyed in the crash. “Old Ed” will be replaced by an Alcohol Awareness Oak to be planted this spring.
But some members of the community have expressed skepticism.
“You know, back in my day we just smoked weed in the dorms with the fan blowing out the window and nobody batted much of an eye,” said an alumnus who asked not to be named. “Kids are gonna be kids. You think they won't do any underage drinking at college? Give me a break.”
The alumnus, who believes Chestnut Chapel Academy's transition to mixed-sex education in the early 1970s was a mistake, blames the school's lawyers for fostering an overly litigious atmosphere.
“When I was a senior we had a secret bourbon-tasting club with the chemistry teacher. Learned all about aromatic compounds and, you know what, we did it all without running anyone over.”
At 6:30 AM that morning Arthur Wagley's emergency-only cellphone awoke with a shrill chirp.
“President Arthur Wagley speaking.”
“Arthur, this is Matt.”
A pause fell over the dim grey infant light of a day which promised to be very long indeed.
“Oh no.”
“I woke up early this morning and checked the Herald. It's the leading item in the local section.”
“Christ.”
“Look, I'm—”
“How—how early can you get down here from New York?”
“I've got a presentation on liability issues in varsity sports at two.”
“Can you skip it?”
The early autumn mist hummed again, imperceptibly, as so much radio static.
“I'm the keynote speaker, Art.”
“Right, shit, of course. Uh.”
“Just keep repeating the boilerplate we wrote yesterday. We're not releasing any details at this time. Our thoughts are with all families affected by this tragedy, we are reaffirming our commitment to a safe and substance-free educational environment. If the Herald calls, do not comment. If some internet rag calls, or emails, doubly do not comment. I should be done and out of the conference by 3:30 and I'll catch the Acela down to D.C.”
“And the families?”
“You're the empathy guy, Art. If I were in your shoes I'd hand them everything short of the moon.”
“Right, got it, got it—are we meeting tonight?”
“Business dinner at Ashihara in the city? They have private rooms. That's just to hash out the next few steps, of course. We'll have to have an emergency board meeting this weekend, there's no question about that.”
“Seven?”
“Seven at Ashihara it is. And, one other thing—”
“Yes—”
“I know Leslie Nickler’s a good pal of the school, but don't comment, don't chat about it, if he calls get him to promise not to say or run anything. The Herald's society pages are one thing, his show's another.”
“Matt, I mean, I don't even watch his dreck—but his son Jack—I mean, it's a business relationship, Matt, is what it is.”
“Needs to stay that way. Just—we need everybody shutting their yap right now. I don't mean to sound persnickety, Art. It's just—”
“It's just that serious.”
“Good man. I'll see you at Ashihara at seven.”
The line cut; Arthur Wagley stared out onto a hidden campus, the dull grey fog of the East in fall veiling brick buildings and green lawns. Year four—well, the honeymoon had to end at some point. Plus, a real crisis to solve. His résumé would stand out in the years to come; when Greenfield or St. Phillip's or Eastfield Mount Salem or Miss Baker's needed a new head, he would be That CV, the head who took control during a tragedy, won the adoration of parents, alumni and the press with his firm but gentle hand. A real leader—a master of innovation in education, a PR guru, a synthesizer of the best traditions of boarding schools with twenty-first century learning. The great empathizer; that's what they'd call him.
He tasted it, now, closer than ever before. This was the tempering fire; this was what separated the real headmasters and educators from mere principals and teachers. Great men rose in times of crisis.
This was Arthur Wagley's hour.