The Wisdom of Jacob Malone

Thunder rolled in the distance, and I found its long, low purr an odd comfort on this cold, lonely night. A white flash of lightning soon followed, illuminating my path, and I was glad for a respite from the darkness. Permitted only a dim lantern, I reconciled a sleepless evening before me with no blankets or umbrella.

Another flash lit up this stretch of Maple Grove Cemetery and, for a moment, revealed my destination, the Sweeney Mausoleum.

Dared to withstand the night amongst tombs and headstones was not a desirable task, certainly, especially this Halloween night, but little aware was my future brotherhood that I found the cemetery’s grounds quite peaceful. Often, I would meander through on my way to my Literature class and revel in its solace. The creak of the iron gate as it quivered in the October breeze, the engraved epitaphs in stone, the grandeur of the majestic tree from whom these hallowed grounds derived its namesake.

I was also accustomed to being alone.

I was glad when I reached the mausoleum, or more precisely, its overhanging rooftop supported by nine pillars. If it were to rain, this shallow canopy would shield me from the slick mud and battering drops that would permeate my wool coat. Instead, I would suffer my trials on the cold, hard cement until dawn when I was at last permitted to return to Hughes Hall for my eventual initiation into Yale’s historic Phi Beta Kappa fraternity, class of 1918.

Leaning against the tomb’s wall, I had little to do but survey the silent grounds before me. The various tombstones had always pulled from me a generous dose of curiosity. Did wealthier families purchase the larger, more ornate structures, with tall obelisks and robust urns? The giant, more austere slabs of concrete that shadowed the small plaques in the grass, those trampled and often ignored? What of that angel statue nearby, her tucked wings teasing the possibility of incredible expansion, her clasped hands in prayerful reverence towards whomever lay below the earth?

Another flash of lightning lit up the angel’s form more clearly – and what, or who, stood below her.

This morning’s straight edge had done little to dispel the hair that now rose from my face. A frigid breath of air circled the nape of my neck.

My eyes bore through the darkness for more understanding. I felt for my lantern, fearful of lowering my unblinking stare from the figure, even for a moment, its flame flickering in my trembling grasp. My cold inhale nearly choked me when, suddenly, the figure raised its hand in greeting and began walking towards me.

My lantern’s glow illuminated the figure of a young man, around my age and height, and dressed oddly. For it was not often that I saw a man in breeches, boots, with a high collared shirt and what can only be described as a woolen frock. It was but a moment until I realized that, unlike myself, he had not skipped the many campus Halloween celebrations this evening.

Good evening, old chap, he called out, in higher spirits that might be expected on a dark, stormy night surrounded by the souls of the departed.

I replied in kind and inquired on his presence, for I was hardly expecting guests. Same as yourself, his reply as he sat down next to me, shielded from the clouds that begun to burst. I had borne witness to him at any prior events for the Kappa brotherhood. And while my overnight dare in the cemetery was intended a lone mission, I was glad for his company.

“Jacob Malone,” he said as he held out his hand. A firm grasp, with one quick squeeze.

“Sam Spencer,” I replied.

Sighing, Jacob leaned back against the mausoleum’s cold stone. At that moment, my stomach unleashed a most outrageous growl of hunger. Embarrassed, I reached for my evening’s supplies of satiety – nuts, a carafe of tea, and a small bag of jerky -  offering him a slice that he politely declined.  

“You need it more than I,” he teased, warmly.

We discussed our first year at Yale thus far. Well, truth be, I discussed, and my fellow graveyard guest listened, until I realized I had spoken about my life – my lack of family, few friends, and my propensity for a quiet night in with my books - for upwards of an hour. All these revelations had fallen quite easily out of me, and amongst the briefest of pauses, I was grateful for the darkness and its ability to hide the flush in my cheeks.

From his coat pocket, he took out a steel flask, taking a nip of its contents before offering it to me. To chase the chill, he said, just as the wind whipped up and the rain hardened. Grateful for something more than tea, I tasted the whiskey, its throaty burn familiar but harsher than any other I had tasted prior. I cheered his cordiality and he mine, as he acquiesced to a nibble of jerky.

“To our last supper. Before our real lives begin,” I said as I returned his flask.

“Indeed, to life,” he said almost forlornly, as he looked across the expanse of graves before him and swigged another gulp. When he felt my inquisitive eyes, his crinkled with a smile.

“In vito, veritas,” he grinned slyly, holding up his flask, and handing it back to me. Yes, the warm whiskey could certainly loosen lips, although mine thus far hadn’t needed encouragement. As if I was a talented orator, he stood on my every word, often prodding for deeper details and greater revelations. I had never been before such a captive audience, that desired to know me more than this one Jacob Malone.

His whiskey flask seemed endless, never getting lighter despite our constant sips. When expressing my excitement in joining Phi Beta Kappa, his concentration was almost acute. I knew that, once I was part of a true brotherhood, everything would fall into place. Once I just got through this last night, I might never be lonely again.

You are never truly alone if you enjoy the person you’re alone with, he chided. Of course, he was right. But my first twenty years were spent nearly in complete solitude. I wanted to experience more. People, places, things – that all were alive outside the pages of the books on my shelves.

Despite the cold, he did not shiver, not as I did as I raised my collar against the wind.

When the storm loudened and drowned out my voice, and my face was flush with whiskey and warmth, I reveled that I had met my first real friend, the only two live souls on these ten acres.

When the rain broke and the night quieted, my eyelids, thick with drink, lowered. Only did they flutter when I heard one last thing from Jacob.

“There is no greater loneliness than feeling unheard, Sam. Be bold. Find those who will listen, and you will never be lonely again.”

My lips muttered an indiscernible response, my dreams having already begun.

After what felt like minutes, I woke to the sun’s beams announcing a new day. I cracked my stiff neck and stretched my tight back, attempting to regain pliability to its muscles. Walking from the mausoleum, my hand shielding my eyes from the light, I looked around for my new friend. I hadn’t heard him rustle, nor waken, and yet, here I was alone again with the grass beneath my feet, the towering maple tree, and the birds chirping as they sat alight the angel’s stone head.

Eyeing my pocket watch, I reckoned, and was indeed correct, that I was late. Gathering my scant belongings, I ran through campus and to Hughes Hall, just as the doors of Hughes Hall closed behind me. My eyes flicked about the room for Jacob. For surely, he had lasted the night in the cemetery, same as I, and would be initiated alongside me and our ten other peers.

But as the chanting began and our Prefect began the Latin verses, my attention was drawn to the ceremony before me. Before a panel of twelve, the men of the class of 1917, as they ceremoniously initiated their successors. My twenty years prior, I was brother to no one. And now I had a roomful. With military stillness, I stared forward as the pin was placed upon my coat, and was grateful to my new Brother Patrick when he discreetly pulled a strand of moss clinging to my lapel.

When asked my motto, a Latin adage that I, and I alone, would hold as my Polaris for my four years within Phi Beta Kappa, I recalled Jacob’s words, and said:

“Audentes fortuna iuvat. Fortune favors the bold.”

Brother Patrick nodded his approval to Virgil’s maxim, and moved onward to anoint my next Brother.

“I applaud you for honoring our fraternity with that choice, Brother Samuel.”

Turning, Brother William, a senior to my freshman, beckoned to the Wall of Brethren. He’s already conversing with another recruit before I can respond with my question.

The Wall of Brethren is aglow amidst the dark cellar’s dankness. Drawn portraits from 1780 on, and, later, sepia-tinged photographs, of the Phi Beta Kappa leadership that came before us. One student nominated as Prefect his senior year, these one hundred and thirty faces of some of our world’s greatest leaders, who once took the same oath I did just moments ago. Calligraphed below each likeness, a name and chosen Latin phrase that would guide them through their years at Yale. The long tunnel before me, I began my quiet patronage.

I took a few moments with each portrayal, the dancing light creating an animated feel to each one, as if smiling, winking, breathing. Human.

It was only when I stopped at 1788 that I uttered a sound: a gasp, a catch, a cry. Before me, on the wall, was a sly smile, crinkly eyes, and calm demeanor. Below the portrait:

Jacob Joseph Malone

Prefect, 1788

Audentes fortuna iuvat.

Stumbling backwards, I fell into the wall behind me, my jacket hitting its stone with a quiet clang. Surprised, I placed my hand in my right pocket, the source of the noise, and where I could only surmise my carafe of tea caused the abrupt sound. When my hand clasped something else entirely.

Here, amongst this Wall of Brethren, my brethren, and all those that came before me – and under the flickering torch light, from my pocket I pulled a flask – Jacob’s flask – still full of whiskey. Despite my still abnormal breathing, I took a moment of reverence. Uncorked the flask. Raised it to my friend Jacob’s portrait and took a swig. Its fire in my throat, I croaked one last cheers:

“I promise to be bold, my dear Brother Jacob.”