Eli’s “juvenilia” wasn’t particularly long, nor was Carlos a slow reader, but he continued to hold on to the volume, even announcing that he was now rereading certain essays, and he began to say, at some point, that he’d begun organizing his thoughts for what he was calling his “critique.” Harrison had a pretty good idea of how little this critique was wished for by the author of Against Youth, but he himself was so eager to hear Eli talk about his book, and perhaps be forced into the very conversation he had once attempted, and which had been so promptly deflected. Now, if he sat still and didn’t disturb the universe, this classmate might just force open that door and haul the recalcitrant Eli Absalom Stone out into the open, and Carlos would ask all of Harrison’s own questions, and perhaps even the one about the no-photo-on-the-book-jacket thing, which was obviously related to the race thing. So he kept quiet and waited, but that much anticipated critique never did take place, and in fact Harrison would remain unenlightened regarding the full magnitude of Eli Absalom Stone’s actual thoughts on the race thing for many years to come, by which time it would be far, far too late to unmake certain decisions of his own, and untake certain positions of his own, many of them lamentably public.
One night in early March, as the students and resident faculty gathered again in the backhouse lounge, Eli Absalom Stone accused his classmate, Carlos Flores, of plagiarizing some insights into Titus Andronicus, which he himself had composed and left in a notebook on his bed, and which had appeared, without attribution, in an essay Carlos had presented to their Shakespeare seminar.
There was silence. Utter, excruciating silence. Professor Alcock said: “Eli, that’s a very serious allegation.”
“And I’m making it very seriously,” Eli said. “I’ve struggled with this.”
“Wait,” Carlos said. He was catching up. “What?”
“Your paper. It was based on my notes.”
“It most certainly was not!” Carlos yelled. He was looking around wildly. “Why would you say that?”
“For the only possible reason,” Eli said. “Because it’s true. And it gives me no pleasure, I promise you. As I said, I’ve struggled.”
Harrison was staring, he realized. Also, his mouth was open—that was easy to fix. Eli himself had not moved. He sat in one of the squishy armchairs down at the end of the lounge, near the kitchen doors, his arms on its shredded armrests. Across the room, somebody emitted a high and nervous laugh.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Carlos said. He happened to be sitting right next to Harrison, but Harrison didn’t turn his head. “I never saw any notes. And I’m not in the habit of looking through other people’s things.”
“I don’t know whether it’s your habit,” Eli said mildly. “I only know that you did it once, because my work was in that paper you submitted. I recognized the material about Roman sources. Seneca’s Thyestes and Ovid’s Philomela. My insights. My notes.”
Carlos was on his feet. He stepped into the center of the room and began to turn, but he couldn’t seem to settle on whom he should be addressing. Eli? Or Professor Alcock, who like everyone else still seemed to be in shock? “I absolutely deny this … outrageous…”
“May I see the notebook?” Professor Alcock said.
“Wait, is there a protocol for this?” said John-Peter. “Some kind of due process?”
“Due process!” Carlos yelled. “I haven’t done anything!”
“Well, that’s why there’d be due process,” said one of the Justins.
“But if Eli’s wrong, shouldn’t he be compelled to withdraw the accusation?”
“I’m not wrong,” Eli said mildly. “So I won’t need to apologize. But obviously I defer to the wishes of the community.” This he said with the tonal equivalent of a deep, groveling bow. “Please don’t think for a moment that I find any of this easy. I was very troubled when I read Carlos’s paper. I took a few days to think it over. I don’t feel that I can … honorably … do anything other than what I’ve done.”