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“Hope and Futility ” 

Christmas 1981

By Charles Moon

     Mr. Bastian left a message with my student advisor that when I returned to the university in January, I was to contact him immediately. I thought I had rambled aimlessly on my final exam, jumping from one subject to another without making much effort to be accurate with facts. I assumed his request to see me was to tell me that he had given me the wrong grade. In his gruff, monotone voice he told me that I was an exceptional scholar and was one of the few people in his tenure at Syracuse who actually understood what he was trying to teach. I was shocked. He said that most students simply regurgitate dates and locations, labeling each structure with a style name without understanding their individual significance. I, on the other hand, had spent my ninety minutes trying to link one style to the next while placing them in the context of historical events. Mr. Bastian called it insightful and intuitive, if not factually accurate.

      The grumbly old professor façade slipped away in the deep recesses of his office as he spent the next hour trying to convince me to pursue Architectural History instead of the engineering curriculum in which I had been enrolled. He said that with proper guidance I could be a great historian and contribute much more to the great legacy of architecture than by simply building shopping malls. He even went so far as to try a little emotional blackmail by claiming that the high grade was an incentive to persuade me into the field. I told him I’d think about it, but I’d prefer to finish out the year before making any decisions.

      Jack Bastian was impressed with my essay. I had received one of the highest grades in the history of that introductory course. The only person to score a higher grade was his current student assistant, Kathy Hooper.

      Kathy was an enigma. She was a stocky blond who stormed through the hallways as if the building was her personal classroom. And yet, she had a sweet disposition, was polite and just a little too shy to be the student counterpart to the most feared member of the faculty in the architecture department. As the semester wore on and Mr. Bastian increasingly singled me out for special projects such as organizing his slides and class notes, I found myself frequently alone with Kathy Hooper in the confines of the professor’s office. By the end of the school year we had become close friends, if not a little bit more. We began dating seriously in the summer, and when the fall term resumed, we were an official couple.

      Kathy’s first order of business when we returned to Syracuse was to secure another year as Mr. Bastian’s assistant. Mr. Bastian was as much a father figure to Kathy as he was an advisor. She confided to him more than her professional aspirations or scholarly pursuits, she often discussed personal matters, too. I was convinced she had informed Mr. Bastian of our budding relationship when he called me into his office the first week of classes. What I wasn’t sure of was whether or not he would approve of his two star pupils seeing each other romantically.

      “David, come right in.”

      Mr. Bastian’s voice was muffled by the stack of books on his desk rising to well past his mouth level.

      “You wanted to see me Mr. Bastian?”

      “Yes David, have a seat.”

      I heard the heavy door to his office creak closed behind Kathy.

      “I understand you could use a little help during the school year.”

      “No, I seem to do okay in my classes.”

      “I meant financially.”

      “Oh.”

      Kathy had a personal discussion with him earlier about how I had been struggling to pay both tuition and come up with the necessities of daily living. I wasn’t sure if I was touched or angry. Nevertheless, Mr. Bastian knew and he seemed to be getting at something.

      “I guess everybody could use a little extra money now and then.”

      “I have a proposition for you, if you are interested.”

      “Depends on what it is, I suppose.”

      “You know my reputation here is not the most pleasant.”

      That was an understatement. In the year that Mr. Bastian had taken a sabbatical, fistfights broke out at the registrar’s office to get into the class of the professor who had taken over the course. I nodded.

      “I fail a third of the students who take HA101, and deservedly so. I will not pass a student who hasn’t learned the material. Of course this does not make the department head happy, but he is an ‘educator’.”

      “Educator” was the word he used to describe a member of the faculty at Syracuse who had received their teaching certificate through a curriculum specifically designed to give them only the credentials they needed to secure a permanent position in the institution. It was not used in a complimentary fashion.

      “Dean Kern has allocated extra funds in the school’s tutoring program,” Mr. Bastian continued. “I was hoping you might be interested in a job.”

      “Sure, I’ll give it a try.”

      “Excellent.”

      Mr. Bastian produced the form required for student employment already completed in my name and stamped by the provost’s office. All I had to do was sign the thing and I was officially employed by the university as a tutor. I scribbled my name on the bottom.

      “Take this over to the Graduate center and they will set you up with a schedule and explain the procedures to you.”

      “Thanks, Mr. Bastian.”

      I went directly to the graduate center building in the middle of campus as instructed without any idea of how much the position paid or how many hours each week I would be required to work. Mr. Bastian had confidence in my abilities and I wasn’t going to let him down.

      I found tutoring both rewarding and frustrating. The majority of students who signed up for the program only wanted me to tell them what to write on the essay, as if there were a single magical answer that would let them pass the course. If I suggested that they might try thinking for themselves, I got one of two responses. I either heard a plea for sympathy because the class was hard, unfair and would ruin the rest of their lives if they didn’t pass, or I got a belligerent attitude accusing me of singling them out in my desire to get some twisted pleasure out of seeing them fail. I would have quit after the first week had it not been for the few students who honestly needed help and applied themselves to learn. That, and the fact that I needed the money.

      In late October, well after the midway point in the fall semester, a new name appeared on my tutoring roster. Angelo Ristos was lost in Mr. Bastian’s class and surely would have failed if he didn’t get my help.

      Angelo presented an unkempt and intimidating appearance. He wore an old army jacket over a hooded sweatshirt with the kind of jeans that brandished metal rivets at every seam. His heavy boots pounded the marble floors in the tranquil halls of the graduate center echoing off the high arched ceilings, under the reticent watch of the classical frescoes. Angelo’s hair was jet black over bushy eyebrows and olive complexion. His chin bore a permanent five o’clock shadow. To me he looked Greek or Turkish, but I was never told of his ethnic origin and I never asked.

      His personality was no less intimidating. He was short-tempered and impolite. He spoke his mind without reservation and held some very disturbing opinions about students and professors. But, there was something else about Angelo Ristos that made me want to put a special effort into his success. He had an innocence about him. Despite his angry protective exterior, he was vulnerable … and he was passionate. The desire to design exceptional structures was as strong in him as anyone I had met at Syracuse and were it not for this course in architectural history, he would be on the fast track to becoming one of the country’s great architects. Angelo was striving for his own excellence, which was all Jack Bastian ever asked. I knew he could conquer this course.

      Angelo did not hold his own abilities in the same positive light, however. He was sure that this would be the end of his college career and he would never achieve professionally what his spirit cried out to do. He was so convinced of his own failure that getting him to even discuss the subject matter was difficult.

      Angelo was most likely a genius when it came to the mathematics of architecture. He had a natural instinct for proportion and shape and a unique ability to combine materials, colors and styles in ways that amazed the viewer. But, as simple and rewarding as the technical aspects of structural design were to him, he found the study of the past and expressing it in words similarly perplexing and frustrating.

      Kathy knew when I had been with Angelo for a tutoring session. I would be reserved and spoke in low whispers, hoarse from talking almost continuously for over an hour. She asked me several times to see if one of the other tutors wanted to have a crack at Angelo to see if they could get through to him, but I was determined. I felt I was making a connection with him.

      Slowly, Angelo lost his severity with me and listened without his façade of distrust and apprehension. He applied his brilliant mind to the problem of understanding the intangibles of history and influence and began to take the raw data of facts and figures and process them into his own conceptions. The light bulb went on in the second to last tutoring session before the finals.

      “You know, Dave,” Angelo spoke while spreading his class notes on the desk in the graduate center study room, “I was thinking about the Romans.”

      “The Romans were some of the greatest builders in the ancient world, Angelo.”

      “Right, but they took most of their style from Greek culture because they thought the Greeks were more sophisticated then they were.”

      “I think that’s what the Greeks wanted them to believe.”

      “Yeah, anyway, the Romans copied the Greek styles but they built with concrete and stone and brick and just about everything else so they had to teach themselves how to make things look Greek without actually building the same way as they did.”

      “Exactly.”

      “And …” Angelo was getting more animated.  It displayed his genuine interest in the subject matter and that he had put some serious thought into it.

      “… because the different materials behaved differently, they must have been forced to adapt the structures to accommodate the materials. This would have shown through in the style as well. So even though a lot of Roman architecture looks Greek, it’s only influenced by Greece. It’s truly Roman.”

      “Yes, Angelo! You get it.”

      “Get what?”

      “History. It’s not memorizing dates, it’s understanding why things happen the way they do.”

      “But the book never said any of this stuff.”

      “Screw the book. The book is just a reference, not a bible. Just because a dictionary contains all the words in any novel, it takes a person to put them together to make a coherent story.”

      “So I just write down whatever ideas pop into my head?”

      “As long as the facts support the conclusions, you’ll do just fine.”

      “Dave, It can’t be that easy.”

      “Trust me, Angelo, it is. Better yet, trust yourself.”

      The final session was spent reviewing the milestones of architectural history in the ancient world – the subject of the mid-term. When I left Angelo, I had every confidence in his ability to pass, as long as he didn’t panic and revert to spewing only names and dates. Regardless of his success or failure, I had to put his test out of my mind at that point and concentrate on my own exams.

      The exams themselves were only a few hours out of my week, and for the most part, I was ready for them. I was also preparing for Christmas. This year was the first year I had a steady girlfriend during the holidays and I had already told my family I would be spending part of Christmas with Kathy and her family. Mom seemed to understand my need to be with Kathy, even though I was just running away from a typical Branch family Christmas. Andy and Terry didn’t seem to care.

      My last exam was a breeze. I finished it with fifteen minutes to spare and while the other students were still scribbling frantically, I was strolling out the front door of Watson Hall to do a little Christmas shopping on Walnut Avenue. Halfway down the block I stopped in front of McCafferty’s Hardware store. There was a sign in the window that read “Who have you forgotten?” Around the text were pictures of people supposedly representing fathers, brothers and uncles with question marks next to their names and a suitably inappropriate power tool.

      “What about Jesus?” I snickered to myself. “He would have appreciated a band saw for his carpentry, when he wasn't distracted with saving mankind.”

      Just then I remembered that I had forgotten someone … myself. I was supposed to turn in my time sheet at the graduate center if I wanted to receive my last check before the school closed. I turned around and trotted back toward campus into the cold December wind.

      My cheeks were glowing cherry-red from the biting gusts by the time I reached the double glass doors at the main entrance of the graduate center. I pushed against the aluminum handle but nothing happened. I pushed harder and felt the metal bolt contact the doorframe. The doors were locked.

      “Damn.”

      No one was around to hear me.

      I headed back to Watson Hall to warm up before going back downtown and put the Fall semester behind me. The building was rapidly emptying itself of the student population, who were completing their midterms and were anxious to begin the festive Christmas break. Almost everyone.

      I sat in the lobby for a few minutes and watched people file out of the auditorium one by one as they turned in their last exams. Down the hall I heard familiar heavy footsteps coming from the direction of Mr. Bastian’s secluded office. I turned to see Angelo Ristos coming right at me with a yellow bundle of papers in his hand and a big smile on his face. It was the only time I had seen him smile.

      “Dave, I passed!”

      “Passed?”

      “History 101. I passed!”

      “You got your grade already?”

      “I couldn’t wait, I needed to know. Bastian graded it last night and he gave it to me a few minutes ago.”

      He held up the papers for me to see. Emblazoned in red marker on the top sheet was a big “C+”. For Mr. Bastian’s introductory course, it was a good grade.

      “I knew you could do it, Angelo.”

      “Hey, thanks, man. This makes everything great. I have to go call my dad and let him know.”

      “I’m proud of you, Angelo. You never gave up.”

      He took his bundle of papers, his glowing smile and big noisy shoes and stomped to the entrance. I heard the door creak open against the wind and then pause. Angelo Ristos tuned back toward me for a moment.

      “Merry Christmas, Dave.”

      Then he was gone.

      It changed everything. I felt something different – something warm. I zipped up my coat and headed back down Walnut Street, impervious to the cold in the company and comfort of the Christmas spirit.

      Kathy Hooper met me outside of my apartment. She was climbing out of her big blue station wagon when I arrived whistling Christmas carols that I remembered my mother singing so many years ago, before Christmas was a reminder of how lonely I had been.

      “What’s got you so happy?”

      “Oh, nothing, really. You remember that Angelo kid I was tutoring?”

      “Isn’t he the one who drove you nuts trying to get through to him?”

      “Yeah, that’s him. I just saw him up by Jack Bastian’s office. He passed his midterm.”

      “Great.”

      Kathy’s reply was less than enthusiastic. While I perceived Angelo’s success as a huge achievement – for both of us – Kathy had no emotional connection to him and therefore it was just something nice, but not spectacular. I dare not tell her about his Christmas blessing.

      Kathy had introduced me to many things that year, not the least of which was her own mixed up family and her own personal aversion to the holidays. Her mother, who asked to be called “Peg” even though her real name was Margaret, was a sweet woman and the mistress of a state police sergeant. He was married to a wealthy older woman who he refused to divorce even though he had two children with Peg Hooper. The sergeant’s wife knew about Peg and tolerated her husband’s mistress as long as he kept her out of sight. Peg’s paramour bought her a small ranch house a few miles from his large 14 acre estate and gave her a small stipend every month. He had spent two days a week with Peg, Kathy and her younger brother, Colin for as long as Kathy could remember, unless there was a holiday. Then, he would deliver gifts and disappear, not to be seen again until the season was over. Peg had learned to live with the situation even though she wanted him to leave his wife and marry her. Kathy hated her father. When he showed up to spend time with them, Kathy either left the house or stayed in her room until he was gone. Peg’s mother shared Kathy’s opinion of the man but for the sake of the children, she never openly contradicted her daughter’s wishes. Colin was quiet and a little bit creepy. He always looked at me as if I were an intruder and never spoke more than three words at a time. Kathy’s family was a mess and I felt right at home.

      I was putting myself right in the middle of it this Christmas so I could be with Kathy. From the moment we arrived there was the familiar holiday tension. Peg gave Kathy her father’s gift before we had a chance to take off our coats. Kathy tossed it, still wrapped, into the trash. Peg picked it out and unwrapped it for her.

      “Whatever it is, I don’t want it”

      “He loves you Kathy, you know that.”

      “I don’t want it.”

      “You should, at least open it and thank him.”

      “I don’t care what it is. I don’t want it.”

      Peg began to hand me the package hoping I could coerce Kathy into accepting it, but Kathy, familiar with her own family dynamics, grabbed my hand and pulled me into her bedroom before her mother could reach me with the offending box. Kathy slammed the door behind her, sat down on the bed and began to cry. I held her until the tears stopped and she turned a cold shoulder to me. She dare not let anyone see her softer side at home, it was like being the weakest member of the herd – always the first to be attacked.

      On Christmas morning we exchanged gifts. I had picked up a few trinkets for Kathy’s family, with her help, which were politely received and wholly inappropriate. I had given Kathy her gift days before, while we were still in Syracuse and she deliberately left it there. I was told not to bring it up, even though I found nothing inherently wrong with the ornate crucifix I had found in a thrift shop. Kathy wrote a term paper on the ornamentation of gothic architecture in France under Charlemagne’s rule and this reproduction was similar those used during that period. If I was asked, I was to say that we decided not to give each other gifts.

      Peg brought it up within the first fifteen minutes.

      “What did you get from David, Kathy?”

      “Nothing. We’re not exchanging gifts.”

      I nodded my head in agreement with the lie. Peg looked at me to see if I appeared deceitful. She knew her daughter too well. Somewhere along way away, I pictured Angelo Ristos enjoying a merry Christmas with his family, smiling from ear to ear with the test still held tightly in his clenched fist. That thought saved me from passing into my usual holiday depression.

      Kathy agreed to accompany me to my mother’s house for a brief evening dinner. We left Peg, Colin and the unopened box from her father a little before noon and arrived at mom’s house around 2:30. Mom wished us both a merry Christmas and I thanked Angelo silently for almost giving me one.

      I had told Kathy about my father and some of the things that I had gone through as a child. She was careful not to mention anything remotely uncomfortable which severely limited the conversation. We politely but quickly excused ourselves after dinner and drove directly back to Syracuse. The rest of the Holiday break was spent in the pursuit of intellectual achievements. If we were not in the library, I was reading a historically based novel while Kathy organized Jack Bastian’s course syllabus. We no longer even acknowledged that the holidays had happened.

      Classes resumed the second week of January and I promptly headed over to the graduate center to deliver last semester’s final time card. I was short on funds due to the excesses of Christmas.

      This time, when I pushed on the aluminum bar on the graduate center doors, the handle depressed with a muffled click and the left door swung inward. The secretary took my card and told me the coordinator had asked to see me. I waited for him in the lobby while he finished a rather lengthy phone call.

      “Mr. Branch. Please step into my office.”

      I surmised he was going to expand my responsibilities as a tutor, and I felt up to the assignment.

      “Last semester you tutored a student named Angelo Ristos?”

      “Yes, I did.”

      I pictured Angelo’s face as he waved his exam in the halls of the adjacent building.

      “I’m afraid he won’t be returning.”

      “To the program? I didn’t expect he would. He’s got a good grip on the material now that he’s passed the midterm.”

      “No. I mean he won’t be returning to Syracuse University.”

      “Why? Is he having money problems? Did he transfer?”

      “I thought I should tell you before you heard it whispered around campus. Angelo is dead.”

      It hurt more than anything I had ever experienced to learn that this person who was a perfect stranger to me only two months ago was no longer alive. My head sagged into my hands. The coordinator touched me on the shoulder as a gesture of comfort and explained to me that Angelo had gone to the mountains with his father for the holidays. Sometime on Christmas morning, after having a big breakfast, Angelo climbed the stairs, went into his bedroom and closed the door. Inside that mountain cabin, Angelo took his father’s shotgun, loaded one shell into its barrel and turned it around until it pointed into the back of his mouth. The blast left most of this troubled young man’s head all over the wall and ceiling.

      I sat in the coordinator’s office with a dark hole where my hope had been, just minutes earlier. For one brief moment, I had seen Angelo happy. From this day forward, Christmas morning would be the day it was erased.

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