Content Warning: discussion of suicide (not canon characters, not directly witnessed)

Friends

(Part I)

October 1920

There were no assigned carrels in Gardner Memorial Library, but that did not stop Shirley thinking of this one as his. He liked to work his problem sets here, on the bare oak desk with its empty bookshelf above, without the din and clatter of the vault-ceilinged reading room. Unseen, uncluttered, he could lose himself in a proof of Euler's formula or in mapping a celestial sphere and emerge an hour or three later, always blinking surprise at the close-written pages that had appeared as if by alchemy.

No one else knew this place, or so Shirley told himself, and believed it until the day when his elliptical geometry was interrupted by the too-close scent of sandalwood and hair oil.

"Come with me," Wilkie whispered low over his shoulder without greeting.

Shirley closed his eyes a moment, to gird himself, he thought, though there was enough savoring in the steeling to make his answer dart out keener than he had intended.

"I'm not going anywhere with you."

"Yes, you are," Wilkie said, lounging against the edge of the desk. "Pack your things."

The huff of Shirley's incredulity was sharp enough to ruffle the drying pages.

"Trust me, Blythe, you want to come with me."

Shirley could have picked apart every word of that sentence, each simultaneously laughable and true. Instead, he cut to the heart with a single syllable. "Why?"

Wilkie's amber gaze was unflinching. "Because this isn't about you."

"No?"

"It's about Meredith."

Shirley had been to Wilkie's suite before, but never on his own. They couldn't hold large parties here, in the penthouse of one of Kingsport's better hotels, but Saturday night often found Wilkie and Shirley poised across the poker table from one another, with the Swede and Roger Hallett and whichever other philoi Wilkie found particularly amusing at the moment. Shirley considered himself lucky that Wilkie had a taste for the callowest of Kingsport's wealthier sons, and saw no reason he shouldn't alleviate them of their cash while Wilkie pursued their other assets.

Now, with just the two of them, Shirley's skin prickled to the undercurrents cutting across the elegantly-appointed sitting room. He was reluctant even to remove his hat.

Standing at the bar cart near the marble-manteled fireplace, Wilkie tipped a crystal decanter in Shirley's direction.

"Can I get you a drink?"

Shirley scowled. "It's two o'clock in the afternoon."

"Two drinks, then?"

"Why am I here, Wilkie?"

Wilkie held the decanter up to the light and peered critically at the pale liquid. Evidently dissatisfied, he placed it back on the cart and retrieved a second decanter from a glass-fronted hutch. Smaller than the first, its contents glowed tawny-gold as Wilkie poured two generous glasses.

"You're here because I need to tell you a story, fly boy."

Shirley frowned but took the proffered glass, if only to get on with things. It pressed into his palm, thick and glittering where the electric lights caught its facets.

Wilkie sipped from his own glass and rested against the arm of the scarlet-tassled sofa.

"This past summer, I got a letter from a friend at Harvard," he began. "We were at school together before the war. Good chap, even if he is a Yank. He said the boys down there have been having quite a bit of trouble recently."

"Fascinating," Shirley said dully.

"Just shut up and listen," Wilkie hissed, his tone earnest enough to re-focus Shirley's attention. "There was this kid, see? Wilcox. Had a bad breakup with an older man and got caught up in some blackmail. He ended up confessing everything to his brother: lovers, parties, favorite haunts. Wilcox knew he'd be disgraced once the blackmailer showed what he had, so he turned on the gas in his bedroom overnight, and bye-bye Wilcox."

The words were blunt, but the customary ironic drawl had receded. It almost sounded as if he cared.

"That might have been the end of it," Wilkie continued, "but his parents started going through his mail. He was a popular guy at Harvard. Got lots of letters. Chatty letters. Naming names. Who's going home with whom and who's hosting the next drag night and all that. The brother sent the letters off to the Dean at Harvard, and pretty soon they had an investigation going, see? A list of names. Hauling in students, townies, alumni, even a professor, and asking for details."

"What happened?" Shirley asked, fearing he knew the answer.

Wilkie shrugged. "Some expulsions. They even kicked out a congressman's son. And there were a few more gas accidents. The boys didn't roll on one another, though. Gotta give 'em that. They didn't roll. The Dean caught a few, but mostly they were the ones named in the original letters."

Shirley cleared his throat, contemplating the rippling gold in his glass. "Well, I'm sorry for your friend," he said. "But I don't see what all this has to do with any of us, least of all Carl."

Wilkie sipped his scotch, paused, and sipped again, indifferent to Shirley's glower. When it pleased him, he said, "Meredith's friends with Harold Noyes, isn't he?"

"Yes."

"Has he written Harry any letters?"

A prickle of fear danced up Shirley's arm on icy tiptoe. He didn't know precisely where this was heading, but there was a whiff of smoke in the air that had not bothered him previously.

"Maybe. I dunno."

"Gotta keep a better eye on your boy there, Blythe," Wilkie smirked.

"I'm not his jailer," Shirley replied, refusing to rise to the bait. "He can write to whomever he likes."

"I'm sure he does," Wilkie said, sliding a shrewd smile around the rim of his glass. "In fact, I know it for certain."

"Snooping now, are you?"

Wilkie sniffed. "I hardly need to. Between Harry and that little goldilocks girlfriend of his . . . who knew you were so magnanimous?"

A small something — some secret sinew long stretched — snapped, and Shirley flared up hot. "God, Wilkie, what do you want? If all this is just about luring me away from Carl, it's . . ."

"Shut up," Wilkie spat. "I'm not trying to separate you from your drawers."

"There's a first time for everything."

Wilkie's eyes fluttered heavenward with an air of long-suffering affront. "Believe it or not, I'm looking out for you, Blythe. And for Meredith, too."

Shirley snorted. "Spare us your favors."

"Fine. Then I guess I shouldn't tell you that the city coroner carried Harry Noyes out of his residence hall on a slab this morning."

Shirley started. "What? That's nothing to joke about."

Wilkie took a deep pull from his glass. "Who's joking?"

"Was it . . . an accident?" Foolish thought, the feeble suggestion of a scrabbling mind.

"Sure. Faulty gas fixtures everywhere these days."

Shirley pictured Harry Noyes, good-natured and ruddy in his mink stole, laughing at Anthony Marckworth as he cut in to dance with Carl on a dim and crowded floor.

Oh, shit. Carl.

"Why'd he do it?"

Wilkie shrugged. "Search me. Meredith might know. They wrote to one another all through the summer. Didn't you know? When you two went back to Eden."

"I suppose so."

"Well I know so. Do you think he was discreet?"

Suddenly it all fell into place. Harry's parents would come. Soon. They would gather up Harry's belongings. They would read his letters. They would read Carl's letters.

Shirley crossed to the bar cart and let his glass chime against the brass tray.

"What do we do?"

"Well, you could sit down and actually drink that . . ."

Shirley rounded on Wilkie, his body coiled for immediate action. "We have to do something. Have Harry's parents arrived yet?"

Wilkie tilted his head back, his swinging leg languid against the sofa. "From Fredericton? They'll be at least a day."

"Then we have time," Shirley said, beginning to pace. "We could break into Harry's residence hall tonight. Clear out all his drag. Find his papers. Burn his papers . . ."

With the attitude of a magician who has maneuvered his audience with exquisite skill, Wilkie reached into the inner lining of his jacket and produced a sheaf of envelopes. Fanning them like a winning hand, he held them out at arm's length. Even at a distance, Shirley recognized Carl's scrawl.

"Already done, Blythe."

With effort, Shirley prevented his jaw from falling open, but he could do nothing about his racing heart.

"So you've caught up at last," Wilkie said. "I burned most of it. Diaries. Letters. Snaps. But I thought Meredith might like to have these back. For keepsakes."

Shirley stretched out a hand, but Wilkie drew the letters back, out of reach. In the breathless moment that followed, Shirley attempted to think of a single thing he would not do to get them.

It was fortunate that Wilkie was satisfied by having Shirley at his mercy and did not insist on calling in his debt. Instead, he tapped the letters once against his chest, then made a gift of them.

Shirley's finger flicked along the edges of the envelopes. There were rather more than he had expected.

"Did you . . . read them?"

"They're quite fascinating," Wilkie drawled. "I learned all sorts of terribly interesting things. Of course, the real question is: are you going to read them?"

Shirley paused, but only for a moment. "No," he said, and slipped the letters into his jacket pocket.

"Suit yourself," Wilkie said, one corner of his mouth curling inward and upward. "If I were you, though, I'd want to know."

"Well you aren't."

"Have it your way. But Blythe? Tell Meredith to be more careful. For all our sakes. This isn't paradise."

There was nothing to say to that, so Shirley said nothing. The letters were secure and heavy in his pocket, a cargo of tiny bombs with Wilkie's fingerprints all over the fuses.

"You really aren't going to drink that?" Wilkie asked, thrusting his chin toward the bar cart.

Shirley considered the whisky. It slid around the crystal curve as a living thing, flashing quick and amber. He didn't need to be told that he'd never drunk anything half so fine. Wilkie lifted his own glass in salute and Shirley returned the gesture, then brought the cup to his lips and took a burning draught.

Wilkie grinned, something like triumph stretching his smile to its limit.

Shirley let the drink crackle through him, radiating warm strength from the center of his chest to his extremities. Truth be told, he wanted to take another sip, but resisted.

"I have to go," he said. "I have to find Carl before he hears about Harry from someone else."

Wilkie slid from the sofa and sidled up alongside, brushing shoulders and retrieving Shirley's glass before it had stopped vibrating against the tray.

"More for me," he smiled, pouring the remainder of Shirley's drink into his own glass and taking an audacious swallow.

It would be best to ignore his provocations. But Shirley could not deny that Wilkie had done a brave and valuable service, whatever his motives. No amount of goading could make Shirley read those letters, but he was truly grateful to have them safe in his possession.

"Wilkie," he said, voice low and fervent, "thank you."

"I'm entirely self-interested, Blythe."

"I know. But thank you anyway."

Shirley extended his right hand, never taking his eyes from Wilkie's face. Somewhere behind the sardonic expression, he thought he could discern a genuine emotion, though he did not wish to give it the power of a name.

Wilkie did not take his hand. Instead, he grasped Shirley's forearm near the elbow, pressing wrist to muscle and muscle to wrist in a salute of comrades. Shirley swallowed and returned the embrace.

They stood that way a heartbeat longer than necessary or proper. Then Shirley was free, or nearly so. Hurrying toward the door, he crammed his hat back onto his head and was halfway into the hall when Wilkie called him back with a question like a blow to the face.

"Blythe?"

"What?"

"Who's Kit?"

Author's Note:

On May 13, 1920, a Harvard student named Cyril Wilcox died by suicide. After his death, his family turned his papers, including letters from his gay friends and lovers, over to the Harvard administration. Over the next several weeks, Harvard conducted an investigation (called the Secret Court) that led to the expulsion of several undergraduates, a PhD student, and a Dental School student. Others were caught up in the investigation as well, including a recent grad and some local men (Harvard tried to have one fired from his job as a waiter). The dental student, Eugene Cummings, committed himself to the school infirmary after his interrogation and died by suicide there on June 11. Harvard did everything it could to see that the other expelled students were not admitted to other universities, sending scathing letters to Brown and McGill when an expelled student applied there. The University also contacted potential employers any time someone attempted to verify that the applicants had attended Harvard, sending very bad character references.

In the aftermath of the Secret Court, some of the expelled students sent taunting letters to various administrators, saying that they knew dozens of other gay students at Harvard, but would never reveal their names. Some of the expelled students' parents also wrote letters, which are excellent sources for understanding how educated, middle- and upper-class parents in the 1920s responded to allegations that their sons were gay. The most sympathetic parents lambasted Harvard for expelling their sons, arguing that the University should have offered treatment to help the students overcome their "problem," and blaming administrators for allowing an environment that had allowed their sons to fall under bad influences. As far as I have been able to discover, none argued that Harvard should have left the students alone. As recently as 2002, when the student newspaper, The Harvard Crimson, published information about the Secret Court, an undergraduate responded with a letter calling the expulsions an "appropriate disciplinary move by the College" that was necessary to punish "homosexuals, whose activities are not merely immoral but perverted and unnatural." That viewpoint caused an uproar on campus in 2002, but was the view of the overwhelming majority in 1920.