Shortest Day by Jane Langton Page B

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    Traditional British Mummers’ Play

CHAPTER 19
    In comes I, Old Beelzebub
    Over my shoulder I carries my club ,
    In my hand a dripping pan ,
    Don’t you think I’m a jolly old man?
    Traditional British Mummers’ Play
    T he power outage at Harvard University lasted only a few hours.
    Donald Maderna, mechanical foreman for the North Yard, listened with relief to the dull rumble of the furnace in the basement of the Science Center. “How the hell did it happen anyhow?”
    â€œGod knows,” said the building manager.
    On the eighth floor Arlo Field scribbled 8:14 p.m . in his notebook and set to work at once to adjust the timer on his camera.
    A lost scholar in Widener Library who had snuggled down on the floor and gone to sleep next to the bottom shelf of Indochinese folklore on Level D of the stacks, woke up as the lightbulb over his head turned on. Deep down in the center of the earth he was perfectly warm. He staggered to his feet, turned off the light switch, and lay down again, his head pillowed on the 1938 volume of the Journal of the Siam Society . Shutting his eyes, he went back to sleep.
    â€œI thought I told you these electrical connections are illegal,” said Sumner Plover, glaring at Palmer Nifto with his arms folded on his chest. Behind Sumner stood three more officers of the Harvard Police Department, glowering fiercely at Palmer.
    â€œDo you expect us to freeze to death?” said Palmer piteously. He glanced around for bulging Gretchen, but she was nowhere in sight. “Linda,” he shouted. But Linda Bunting was enfolded between her children in her tent, and she wasn’t about to get up.
    â€œDisconnect everything,” commanded Sumner.
    At once the four officers began jerking at extension cords, moving from tent to tent, commandeering electric heaters, microwave ovens, and toasters, while Palmer protested loudly, “Those appliances are private property. You are condemning us to death. There are small children here, mothers-to-be, helpless elderly men and women.”
    â€œYou should have thought of that before bringing them here,” said Sumner, doing his best to stand up to Palmer Nifto, who always had the best lines. “Come on, you people,” he bawled, “it’s a cold night. We’ve got a bus to take you to the shelter at University Lutheran. Everybody out!”
    They went—Emily Pollock, old man Maggody, Guthrie Jones, Linda Bunting and her two children, and all the rest—all but Bob Chumley and his dogs.
    â€œIt’s a two-dog night,” said Bob, grinning at the Harvard cop who looked into his tent. “We’ll be okay. Uny Lu wouldn’t take the three of us anyway.”
    Sumner Plover gaped. “Uny Lu?”
    â€œUniversity Lutheran,” murmured Bob, burrowing back down between his dogs.
    When Gretchen came back from Berkeley Street, everybody but Bob had been picked up. Mary and Homer Kelly had been looking for her. They swept her up and drove her to Bright Day House in Somerville, where she was welcomed with hugs and scoldings.
    â€œWhat’s your due date, dean?” said the counselor, looking at her swollen tummy. “It must be pretty soon.”
    â€œOh, God, it was last week,” said Gretchen. “I’m overdue. The kid’s really jumping around in there. Feel it.”
    The counselor put her hand on Gretchen’s abdomen. “It’s knocking on the door, all right. Now, Gretchen, you are not to budge from this house again, do you hear me?”
    â€œOkay,” said Gretchen, but she didn’t mean it.
    As for Palmer Nifto, shelters were not for him. Palmer had spent too many winter nights in the Pine Street Inn, where five hundred people were crowded in on top of one another, where there was no privacy, where some of the men were violent and some were crazies who shouted all night.
    He had found a corner of Memorial Hall that was toasty and warm. It was