Late-K Lunacy

by Ted Bernard

Watching him I began to think we would make it through another night.

  “Nonviolence? Bull shit!” screamed a female voice in the darkness.

  Oh no.

  “What about trashing the drill site last night?” she asked. “Folks at a meeting a couple of weeks ago said they’d bring down the administration with violent revolt. Where’s that guy who had the monkeywrenching book? Is he one of us?”

  Several in the crowd lent the woman their support, “Yeah, Nick, how can you call that stuff non-violent?”

  “You can’t.” he shot back. “What happened at the drill site last night must mean that somebody else is pissed. It is unrelated to what we are trying to accomplish here.”

  After many more questions and responses the group began to chill. They dispersed, slowly. Nick turned to Katherine, “Well, for now, we seemed to have quelled that little insurrection. What next?”

  “It’s not capitulation,” she replied with a crooked smile.

  “By the way, have you seen Zachary today?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Just wondering. If that dude engineered the vandalism at Blackwood, I’ll have his ass.”

  “Non-violently?”

  “Of course.”

  Melissa weaved through the milling crowd toward Katherine. She smiled a silent greeting and led Katherine into the shadows at the edge of the village.

  “Is everything okay?” Katherine asked nervously.

  “You bet. The handover was effortless.”

  “Oh, thank God! You are a life-saver. I’m not sure I could have coped another night.”

  “Glad I was able to convince Boss to take Macy. He met me as planned. She didn’t even cry. She’s quite the trooper. When he drove off, she was engaged in deep conversation with the teddy bear I brought.”

  “Will Boss and his woman look after her?”

  “No. They don’t do children. His wife’s sister is close-by. She raised six children and for thirty years has been offering sanctuary to refugee women and children from Mexico and Central America on their way to Canada. Her place is a sort of modern-day Underground Railroad station.”

  “Macy will have playmates.”

  “Yeah, that will be good for her.”

  “Well, we hope to have her situation clarified soon,” Katherine said, hoping against logic that Astrid might come up with a resolution for the child.

  “Boss said to tell you not to worry, Katherine. Macy will be in good hands for as long as necessary. He ordered us to concentrate on Blackwood. He was pleased, almost gleeful, about the outcome of our expedition. He even flashed a gap-toothed smile.”

  “At a meeting on the quad just now, some of the occupiers slammed the monkeywrenching. ‘Aren’t we for non-violence?’ they screamed. Nick told them he didn’t know anything about the monkeywrenching.”

  “It was a high risk operation,” Melissa admitted. “But we may have slowed things down just enough. That is, if you guys can convince the administration to confront Morse.”

  “I believe events are trending our way.” Katherine said with confidence. But at heart she had no assurance that what she had just predicted had any basis in reality. She felt a trickle of sweat making its way between her breasts. Another little panic attack. She willed it away.

  20

  I pulled out my journal from under the pillow. It was 1:00 AM. The village had finally quieted. Nick was at Hanigan’s; Samantha and Frank fast asleep. The atmosphere had been electric all night. Occupiers roved from tent to tent buzzing around like hornets. Under the food tent a red-hot debate waxed and waned for hours. Students from all over campus crisscrossed the quad picking the brains of the occupying force and inflating tensions. Around the edges, campus police appeared to be on high alert, patrolling the streets that defined the quad, their cruisers more evident than any previous night. Rumor had it that they had arrested a gaggle of males, allegedly students from Kent State.

  As was my practice, I needed to record everything that happened on this the seventh day of the occupation.

  OCTOBER 31. Holy fuck, did that shower this morning at Alpha P. ever do wonders!!! No more carping from Samantha about my poor feminine hygiene and how badly I smell. All in fun, ok. She smells worse'n I do and so far, refuses to shower. Gross. Gussied up myself with outfit borrowed from that annoying twit Ashley. Hate her whining. Had to beg. My clothes all dirty. Besides, I own nothing stylish enough for my mission. Have to admit Ash has great taste and is my size. Her push-up bra did its best to give me a wee cleavage. Wahoo! (Time to put away the training bras, Mom … ) Who knew? Left top buttons on frilly blouse unbuttoned, pulled up black mini-skirt (barely covering bikini panties … my ass) Urp, half dressed. Questions: Have I graduated from prude to slut? Is this a promotion? Proceeded to office to entice Dr. T. into more intimate conversation. Whoever assigned me this job? Unless you’re a child porno freak, you wouldn’t be interested in my body. Whoa! Maybe he’s obsessed with nubile skinny teens. There’s that nightmare again. Puke explosion.

  Dr. T. warmed up like never before. Maybe he was rock-hard over my teeny-tiny cleave. Is he a cleavage diver? He invited me to sit in his office. Drank coffee and shared a scone. How intimate! Greta flipped out when she saw my sexy top, mini-skirt, panty hose, and stilettos. She wanted full report afterwards. Went to Eclipse for debriefing. Think she’s learning things from me about Dr. T. and not all of them lovely. With Dr. T., I planted a few gems. Told him there’s dissention in the ranks (partly true) and we think all the rumors about the Larnaca Chair are false. That it’s a big feather in cap of CNRD and wouldn’t he be the perfect person to be honored with a Chair? Also, said we have little hope at stopping Morse. This seemed to set off his jollies, or was it my feminine charms? Did I know anything about the vandalism in Bartholomew? He wanted to know that. Me? No way. Is Bartholomew the place where the forest is located? What about Morse’s whereabouts? How could we clueless students ever be able to GPS that man with all his wealth and connections? He let something significant out at that point. What was it? Oh yeah: Even the best of us cannot corner that rich bastard joined at the hip with Winthrop. Tried to get in touch with him last week, Dr. T. said. He was hiding from me. Quote-unquote. Big slips maybe. Who is Winthrop? I forget. Funny thing: After that, Dr. T. apologized for using the bastard word. What a kind grandfather! Saving my virgin ears from defilement. (Is there such a word?)

  Last thing, dear diary fairy and conscience (you whore), is I am worried sick over Samantha — her blood on the fence. She thinks her DNA is in some kind of data base 'cause she was tested and registered as a bone marrow donor a few years ago along with other kids in her church youth group. The youth pastor’s wife had leukemia. She died. Fuck, what’s that have to do with anything? Shut up, ho. Back to my worries: if they find out where Samantha was last night, she’s gonna be in deep doodoo and the rest of us will be toast. Mixed metaphors … shit on toast. Prison sentences, rape in the showers … me, a felon. How could I ever explain this to Dad?

  SEVEN

  Hurtling Toward Omega

  I can tell by the way the trees beat,

  after so may dull days, on my worried windowpanes

  that a storm is coming,

  and I hear the far-off fields say things

  I cannot bear without a friend

  I cannot love without a sister

  The storm, the shifter of shapes,

  drives on across the woods and across time,

  and the world looks as if it had no age:

  the landscape like a line in the psalm book,

  is seriousness and weight and eternity.

  What we choose to fight is so tiny!

  What fights with us is so great.

  If only we would let ourselves be dominated

  as things do by some immense storm,

  we would become strong too,

  and not need names.

  — Ranier Maria Rilkexiv

  1

  THE LATE-K STORM stealthily made its
way toward us, dominated us, threatened to defeat us, then redeemed us. Chronicler I was, but I could account first-hand for a mere few of the elements of this complex system shifting, sideswiping, barreling toward omega. The rest of it, what happened far off shore and within our varied local silos, I was obliged to read between the lines, to try to discern fact from fiction, then fashion long afterwards. I thank here my usual sources, whom by now you yourself could name. Finding order in the confusion of those edge-of-the-cliff days has been a herculean task, far beyond even the Great God Pan.

  ~

  Katherine stared sleepily at Nick. In the crowded, noisy Jenny, Nick gulped dark roast Nicaraguan coffee, Katherine, medium roast Kenyan, a newly acquired taste, a far-fetched evocation. Nick gobbled the largest blueberry muffin Katherine had ever seen. Gone in a Canadian minute. He displayed his usual boyish intensity sporting a morning high after riding the Argolis trail system, his mountain biking class adoringly trailing behind. Friday had dawned brightly through what Nick described as a Quebec summer sky. Katherine slept through it. Just before ten, the sun now high in a cloudless sky, she walked into town, short-sleeved, back in balance, ready to tackle the day, the first of November.

  “Any word from Lara and Adrienne?” he asked.

  “Nothing. They fly to St. Thomas tonight. I’m guessing we won’t know until Sunday.”

  “Yeah, well …” Nick stroked his beard, his mind perhaps drifting toward the Caribbean. “What if by Sunday the police have chased us and brought chaos to our movement? Maybe you and I will be in jail. Who will take Lara’s call?”

  “We need contingency plans.”

  “Got ideas, Katherine? That secret staff member has some, probably,” he said acidly.

  Katherine shrugged. “Maybe we should assign two or three of the Group of Thirteen to set up a command post somewhere off the quad and under the radar. If you and I and Frank are scattered or arrested, they take leadership. Also, this popped into my head: What if, in the case of the quad being stormed by the police or National Guard, we’ve already abandoned it and taken up residence someplace else?”

  “Hmm,” Nick responded. “Yeah, both ideas make sense to me. Who would take charge in a second command post?”

  “I’d go with those who were with you on the Tulkinghorn chase: Em, Astrid, and José. Sean could perhaps spell the others. Six hour shifts, maybe?”

  “What then?”

  “I’d say it would be time to call in all those followers in the virtual world. We’ll need a mass of people on the streets while we wait for Lara and Adrienne to take care of Morse.”

  “Right,” he responded vaguely, his attention wandering again. “Changing subjects,” he said abruptly, “as somebody who’s been with this movement from the ground up, and as a guy people have turned to for fending off insurrection, I feel as if I’m in the dark on a couple of things.” He put on a syrupy tone. It came across as an affectation of innocence. “And, Katherine, that makes me just a tad uncomfortable. What if, say, something I’m unprepared for sneaks up and seriously bites my ass?”

  “And what might that be?” Katherine asked.

  “First, do you know whether anybody in this movement was involved in monkeywrenching the other night? I still have not located that jerk Zachary to ask him the same question. Second, who in hell is your faculty-staff confidant? Third, what makes you think we can trust him or her? And, come to think of it, why did Em go nuts yesterday when I told her I planned to go to your apartment to have this conversation?”

  Katherine drew a deep breath. “Nick, I think it would be unhelpful to respond to those questions.” She spoke in a slightly condescending tone; the way a mother might have responded to questions about whether she was snooping on her daughter’s Facebook account (that long lost and thankfully discarded distraction). Nick would have none of it. In his steely eyes, she saw menace. She took a new tack. “The answers you seek will be inconsequential to what you or I will be called to do as this resistance meets its next challenges. And, tactically, you and I would both be well served if we could claim deniability.”

  “That’s a crock, Katherine.” Nick leaned across the table, about to burst, reverting to the denser unhinged version of himself — the dude who climbed onto a table in this very coffee shop. “Katherine,” he repeated, “If you are fucking with me, you will come to regret it. I’m in no mood to contemplate being tossed from grad school because our non-violent movement has taken to breaking, entering, and violating private property behind my back and some dashing dude on the faculty turns state’s evidence on us.”

  There were some grisly thoughts.

  Katherine stared down at her coffee, gone cold like her fingers. She dared not speak right away. At length, she looked up and across the table. Nick met her gaze. His above-beard face was beet-red. Though fragile, she held back emotion. She forced measured tones. “Look, Nick, if you want to take the reins until Lara returns, I would welcome it. I have absolutely no doubt your shoulders are grand enough to carry us no matter what may be coming down the pike.”

  Nick exhaled a long breath and slowly shook his head. Color drained from his face. He removed his Expos cap: a gesture of submission. “Steady as you go, Katherine. I apologize for snooping in corners where I don’t belong. We need to stay solid, all thirteen of us. I’m just going to assume you know what you’re doing and that the sheriff up there at Blackwood is too dimwitted to connect dots, if there are any.” His face brightened. “Okay, let’s go find Sean, Astrid and José. I happen to know where Em is.”

  Katherine put forth an audible out-breath. But she could not bear to imagine Nick’s response to Hannah’s tearful revelation two hours earlier. Samantha had been arrested.

  2

  Katherine left The Jenny and headed toward Brownlow Library. It was sultry for the first day of November. She regretted now that she had opted for jeans rather than shorts. She skirted around Stiggins, where Helen Flintwinch now held forth, and stepped down into the solitude and ever-greenery of Pan’s sunken garden. She paused, breathed deeply, and felt the tensions of the occupation melt away. A tall, professionally dressed woman dashed from Stiggins toward Southwell. Katherine barely took note. Fresh ideas for her day of writing in the library coursed through her brain. A grateful notion popped up: How wonderful to be a student again, if only a few hours.

  A ring tone scuttled everything. She wiggled out of her backpack, tossed it onto a bench, dug out the phone, and sat directly across from Pan, involuntarily gazing at his manliness — or was it goatliness? She diverted her regard, answered the phone. “Yes, this is Katherine. Oh, hello.” She listened to a string of explanations and replied to a question. “No, not really.” The caller spoke further. “Uh huh. The lot behind Block.” She heard a further directive and responded, “Okay, I’ll be there in five minutes.”

  At the edge of the Block Hall parking lot, in a black BMW, Katherine found Beth Samuels. She was poised for Katherine’s knock on the window. Beth told her to climb in. They powered out of the lot to the western edge of campus, waited for a light to change, sped along the Shawnee River bypass, then turned left onto Route 65. Katherine noted the route signs, an irrational and primordial fear of kidnapping, embedded since childhood she supposed.

  Beth drove stridently. In silence. Katherine studied her, this statuesque woman, beautiful as Michelle Obama, yet not much older than Katherine. Stunning. Taller than my five-ten, supremely fit. Then, as though Beth had just remembered that she’d escaped a trauma ward and was transporting a hostage, she spewed forth a chopped salad of confusing utterances. “Girl! Sorry. Katherine, right? Messed you up. Yeah, bad karma. Talk 'bout you-know-what hitting the fan. You remember me? Good. Yeah, right. No fears, honey. Just left Stiggins. Vultures circling. Clock ticking. We help you. You help us. Team sport, hey! Look a' those deer over there to left. Shoot, missed my turn.”

  She slowed down and reversed her direction in a farm driveway with a bashed mail box bearing a “Duck Eggs for Sale�
� sign dangling from a broken chain. With no more chatter, Beth accelerated back toward town. In minutes, she turned right into an unpaved driveway that climbed upward with sweeping switchbacks and a shear drop on Katherine’s side of the car. Katherine looked right. Her vertigo kicked-in, metaphorically and for real. At the very top, they pulled up to a story-and-a-half redwood stained home in the shade of tall white pines, a front porch extending its entire width. On the porch, sat Mitchell Redlaw and another man. Beth escorted Katherine, still a bit queasy, up the steps. The men rose, as gentlemen of a certain age in the presence of women once did.

  “Hello Katherine!” Redlaw offered his right hand. She took it in hers. He gently covered her hand with his left and held it for a heartbeat. Her eyes moistened. He brought her to ground. “You know Professor Zielinski, I believe.” He opened his left palm toward Burt.

  She wiped a tear, swallowed away her nausea. “Well, we haven’t met actually. I was in the crowd, sir, that day you fired us up on Centennial Quad. And I am friends with students who have taken and absolutely loved your classes. I feel I know you somehow.” At the thought of Stefan’s and Burt’s friendship, she felt an unbidden blush.

  Burt smiled and nodded. He shook Katherine’s hand. “Katherine, I believe we have more than a few things in common. Welcome to my little slice of paradise.”

  Beth, hovering, arranged two more chairs into a circle around a wicker table. Katherine declined more coffee. Redlaw and Beth exchanged glances with resonance Katherine could only imagine.

  “I apologize for the cloak and dagger this morning, Katherine,” the ex-president began.

  “Oh, not to worry. It really spiced up my morning, being absconded and all.” Was that the right word? Is it a transitive verb? Katherine couldn’t decide.

  Mitchell Redlaw chuckled softly. “Nothing like a little kidnapping to add to my sins.”