Invisible man

            These folks are the Kings of the Earth! I thought, hearing the bird make an ugly noise. There was nothing like this at the college museum -- or anywhere else that I had ever been. I recalled only a few cracked relics from slavery times: an iron pot, an ancient bell, a set of ankle-irons and links of chain, a primitive loom, a spinning wheel, a gourd for drinking, an ugly ebony African god that seemed to sneer (presented to the school by some traveling millionaire), a leather whip with copper brads, a branding iron with the double letter MM. Though I had seen them very seldom, they were vivid in my mind. They had not been pleasant and whenever I had visited the room I avoided the glass case in which they rested, preferring instead to look at photographs of the early days after the Civil War, the times close to those blind Barbee had described. And I had not looked even at these too often.

            I tried to relax; the chair was beautiful but hard. Where had the man gone? Had he shown any antagonism when he saw me? I was annoyed that I had failed to see him first. One had to watch such details. Suddenly there came a harsh cry from the cage, and once more I saw a mad flashing as though the birds had burst into spontaneous flame, fluttering and beating their wings maliciously against the bamboo bars, only to settle down just as suddenly when the door opened and the blond man stood beckoning, his hand upon the knob. I went over, tense inside me. Had I been accepted or rejected?

            There was a question in his eyes. "Come in, please," he said.

            "Thank you," I said, waiting to follow him.

            "Please," he said with a slight smile.

            I moved ahead of him, sounding the tone of his words for a sign.

            "I want to ask you a few questions," he said, waving my letter at two chairs.

            "Yes, sir?" I said.

            "Tell me, what is it that you're trying to accomplish?" he said.

            "I want a job, sir, so that I can earn enough money to return to college in the fall."

            "To your old school?"

            "Yes, sir."

            "I see." For a moment he studied me silently. "When do you expect to graduate?"

            "Next year, sir. I've completed my junior classes . . ."

            "Oh, you have? That's very good. And how old are you?"

            "Almost twenty, sir."

            "A junior at nineteen? You are a good student."

            "Thank you, sir," I said, beginning to enjoy the interview.

            "Were you an athlete?" he asked.

            "No, sir . . ."

            "You have the build," he said, looking me up and down. "You'd probably make an excellent runner, a sprinter."

            "I've never tried, sir."

            "And I suppose it's silly even to ask what you think of your Alma Mater?" he said.

            "I think it's one of the best in the world," I said, hearing my voice surge with deep feeling.

            "I know, I know," he said, with a swift displeasure that surprised me.

            I became alert again as he mumbled something incomprehensible about "nostalgia for Harvard yard."

            "But what if you were offered an opportunity to finish your work at some other college," he said, his eyes widening behind his glasses. His smile had returned.

            "Another college?" I asked, my mind beginning to whirl.

            "Why, yes, say some school in New England . . ."

            I looked at him speechlessly. Did he mean Harvard? Was this good or bad. Where was it leading? "I don't know, sir," I said cautiously. "I've never thought about it. I've only a year more, and, well, I know everyone at my old school and they know me . . ."

            I came to a confused halt, seeing him look at me with a sigh of resignation. What was on his mind? Perhaps I had been too frank about returning to the college, maybe he was against our having a higher education . . . But hell, he's only a secretary . . . Or is he?

            "I understand," he said calmly. "It was presumptuous of me to even suggest another school. I guess one's college is really a kind of mother and father . . . a sacred matter."

            "Yes, sir. That's it," I said in hurried agreement.

            His eyes narrowed. "But now I must ask you an embarrassing question. Do you mind?"

            "Why, no, sir," I said nervously.

            "I don't like to ask this, but it's quite necessary . . ." He leaned forward with a pained frown. "Tell me, did you read the letter which you brought to Mr. Emerson? This," he said, taking the letter from the table.

            "Why, no, sir! It wasn't addressed to me, so naturally I wouldn't think of opening it . . ."

            "Of course not, I know you wouldn't," he said, fluttering his hand and sitting erect. "I'm sorry and you must dismiss it, like one of those annoying personal questions you find so often nowadays on supposedly impersonal forms."

            I didn't believe him. "But was it opened, sir? Someone might have gone into my things . . ."

            "Oh, no, nothing like that. Please forget the question . . . And tell me, please, what are your plans after graduation?"

            "I'm not sure, sir. I'd like to be asked to remain at the college as a teacher, or as a member of the administrative staff. And . . . Well . . ."

            "Yes? And what else?"

            "Well -- er, I guess I'd really like to become Dr. Bledsoe's assistant . . ."