

## Wasted Year: The Last Hippies of Ole Miss

### Douglas Gray

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2014, Douglas Gray

Smashwords Edition, License Notes.

Thank you for downloading this eBook. You are welcome to share it with your friends. This book may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its complete original form. Thank you for your support.

Originally released as a blog narrative at http://www.wastedyear.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters and incidents are the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Only one thing I did wrong,

Stayed in Mississippi a day too long.

~ Bob Dylan, "Mississippi"
Part 1. The Harvest

August 24 – September 18, 1971

Tuesday, August 24, 1971

I'm at the Charlottesville Greyhound station, shipping the seven boxes of books I packed last night. The little man behind the counter charges me $7.25 for 104 pounds of freight, to Oxford. While he's not looking, I step on his scale and discover that I also weigh 104 pounds.

No coincidence, I think. Those seven boxes hold everything I've read over the past year. My mass is equal to theirs.

I am what I have read. I am, therefore, a text.

Valerie would probably detect some flaw in my reasoning, and remind me that this habit of trying to find meaning in everyday random events has gotten me into nothing but trouble.

I order a grilled cheese at the Virginian, then amble onto campus for one last look around. The English offices in Wilson Hall are mostly empty, but I find Eileen and Dr. Shandy chatting in the mailroom.

"Dr. Arnold tells me you're leaving," Eileen remarks.

"All packed and ready to go. Just waiting for dark, when it'll be cool enough to drive."

Dr. Shandy hasn't heard of my departure. "I thought you were staying on for the doctorate."

"Decided to go back to Mississippi instead."

He looks doubtful. "Can't be much future for you there."

"My father runs a faith healing show. He's asked me to rejoin the act. I play the poor afflicted kid in the audience that he heals every night. Sometimes I'm blind, or lame, or deaf, or spastic. I'm really good at spastic. I wear different disguises. We do pretty well."

One thing I've learned, living away from home: people who aren't actually from the South will believe any damn lie you tell them about it.

"What are you really going to do?" Eileen asks after he leaves.

"Cut the soles out of the bottom of my shoes, rest my feet on the porch rail, spit watermelon seeds into the front yard, and watch the kudzu grow."

"Interesting career move."

I say farewell to the Rotunda and Tom's statue out front, then sit zazen on the hill by Madison Bowl until an uptake in traffic signals the end of the work day. Murphy's is crowded when I stop in for happy hour, but I manage to squeeze into a space at the bar.

After my third shot, on my way out the door, I drop all my pocket change into the jukebox and punch it to play "Knock Three Times on the Ceiling" five times in a row.

The moment has come for me to put Virginia behind me for once and all, but when I get back to the apartment there's a note from Valerie taped to the door. She's back, early, from her conference in St. Louis. I carry the last boxes to the car, along with my typewriter and my stereo, and decide to leave a farewell note to Mr. Jonas.

" _Dear Mr. Jonas,_

" _You'll be disappointed to learn that I'm still alive. Nevertheless, I've admired your persistence in trying to kill me. The gas leak in the range was a clever ploy. So were the bats, the rats, the sewer backups, the loose ceiling tiles, the exploding water heater, the rotted porch steps, and the electrical shorts._

" _Best of luck murdering your next tenant._

" _Your friend, Daniel_."

Only a few units in the faculty housing complex on Mimosa have lights on. Most teachers are out of town for the break, and Valerie should be, too.

"Everybody in the hotel was getting sick," she explains. "Some kind of virus. So the organizers cancelled the conference, sent us all home."

"Are you sure you didn't come back early just to see me off?"

"You've always been off."

We go to bed, for old time's sake, because there's no way we can do each other more damage than we already have. I set Valerie's alarm clock for 3:00 so I can still get a few hours of night driving in.

"Find a skinny blonde hippie chick down in Mississippi," she says to me, in the dark, while I dress. "Forget about me. Forget about this whole damn year."

"Only if you promise to forget about turning yourself in."

"I promise."

"Liar."

~ ~ ~

Wednesday, August 25

I'm 15 miles outside Chattanooga, fiddling with the radio, when I pick up the first rock station since North Carolina. Everything has been country, gospel, or preachers.

I like this station. The deejay is playing "Riders on the Storm" as I tune in, followed by "Wild Horses," "Sweet City Woman," "Bad Moon Rising," "Mercy Mercy Me," "Peace Train," "Get It On," "The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down," "Proud Mary," "Me and Bobby McGee," "Ain't No Sunshine," "Sweet Hitch Hiker," "Power to the People," and "Maggie May" – all without a commercial break.

The deejay's voice finally comes on to announce that this is the seventh hour of his insurrection against station management. He's barricaded himself in the booth and will continue broadcasting, commercial free, until the owners agree to his demands.

He doesn't mention what those are.

I listen all the way through Chattanooga, and on into northern Georgia, where his signal finally dies out.

The last thing I hear him say is, "The next block of 30 commercial-free songs goes out to Tamburlaine, wherever he may be. We're counting on you, man!"

In Huntsville, I pull over for gas, stand gulping at the water fountain for a few minutes, and realize I'm severely dehydrated, and a little nauseated from the heat of the car.

I won't reach Oxford today. I know my limits.

The $7.50 motel room I rent turns out to be the cleanest place I've stayed in months. The sheets smell of Clorox and are almost painfully white. The bathroom is immaculate. I buy a six-pack of Cokes from the 7-11 next door, sit on the shower floor under cool water, and drink three of them.

Still wet, I put on a pair of shorts, gather my copy of Herodotus, and sit by the pool to read. I have the pool to myself, until two mothers with five grammar-school aged kids (three girls, two boys) come out for a swim.

A shadow falls over my book, and I look up. It's the prettier of the two mothers – loose brown hair, a checkerboard print one-piece, good teeth, Alabama accent, trying to sound sweet as the situation allows.

"I'm so sorry to bother you, but would you mind very much putting a shirt on? Please forgive my asking. It's just that your bones are frightening the children."

~ ~ ~

Thursday, August 26

I'm sorry to leave my little room in Huntsville. It feels like a place where I could be comfortable for the rest of my life. I linger here until the 10:30 checkout time, find a little restaurant serving eggs and grits, read Herodotus in a booth, and don't hit the road until a little past noon.

Not as hot a day, but the radio selection is a little worse, mostly ministers and local call-ins. I raise a little victory cheer upon crossing the state border. By the time I reach Tupelo, the road starts looking familiar again.

What passes for rush hour in Oxford has begun when I reach the Square around 4:30. The benches by the Confederate statue are strangely empty, no old men to be seen, so I take one facing South Lamar and commune with the traffic flowing widdershins around the courthouse. Within a few minutes, I'm meditating, zazen, comfortably at home again.

For the second time in 24 hours, a shadow passes over me and stays there. When I open my eyes, instead of it being a cute Alabama momma in a checkered swimsuit, it's Deputy Hacker, glaring down at me.

"Good afternoon, officer."

"Thought we were rid of you."

"You're looking well."

"You're looking like a turd. I suppose you'd complain I'm violating your religious liberties if I asked you to move along?"

"Not at all, officer. I was just about to leave."

"Watch yourself, boy. There's a new sheriff in town."

"What does that mean?"

"It means the town elected a new sheriff, stupid. Election, last month."

As Hacker struts off, I noticed somebody waving to me from the second floor balcony above the Carroll Brothers appliance store. It's Garrett, who is now clerking for the Carrolls. They've branched out their refrigerator and washing machine franchises with a record store run by their mother and this second-floor head shop, called There's No Place Like Ohm, that they've put under Garrett's management. Joss sticks, incense burners, tie-dyed shirts, Buddha statues, ankhs, beads, a big waterbed in the center of the room, and an inordinate quantity of leather bags with fringe, leather belts, leather headbands, leather key rings, leather bookmarks. The place smells like a sofa in some law firm's lobby.

Garrett's grown a blonde beard, and his hair's down to his shoulders. He looks like a Norwegian leprechaun running a stagecoach stop for potheads.

He welcomes me with a big hug. "Uncle Daniel! As I live and breathe. Well, just imagine my surprise – we heard you were dead."

"Only for a minute."

The "we" Garrett refers to turns out to be almost everybody who was here when I went away to Virginia. Nobody's left Oxford. I put name after name to him, like cards – Nick, Suzie, Andrew, Amy, James, Joan – until I have only one left to play. The big one.

"Melissa?" I ask.

"Haven't seen her this summer. Dr. Stevens might know."

"Can you give me a place to crash for a few days?"

"I can give you a room of your own, if you want. Just like Virginia Wolfe. Andrew, James and I have a house on Tyler. We're forming a new commune. Big place, couple of rooms we're subletting. Everybody's pitching in $25 a month."

"Andrew and James moved out of the Earth?"

"Brace yourself. There is no Earth, anymore. The Baptists bought the place. It's headquarters for Campus Crusade for Christ now."

"That's blasphemy."

"It's a sacrilege, is what it is."

We meet again later for dinner at Colemans. I treat Garrett to three barbecues and we share a joint on the back porch of the house on Tyler with a freckled redhead named Cindy. Garrett's amazed that I've given up the idea of a doctorate in English, and have defected to the Classics department instead.

"Well, I'd guess Goodleigh and Sutherland will be glad to have you. As long as the department has students, the university has to let them keep their graduate program. Maybe Sutherland will cheer up for a few minutes and forget about killing himself."

"He's no better?" I ask.

"Three attempts last year, two months in the hospital. Poor Mrs. Sutherland finally had to leave him."

A thought occurs to me. "Why are you still in town? I thought you had a job on the Atlanta Constitution."

"That fell through. Long story."

Later, even though I thought I'd retired to my new room, I find myself back on the porch with my head in Cindy's lap, her asleep. Other people are talking. Somebody's plucking a guitar, tunelessly.

"Who's the new guy?" a slurred voice asks.

"That's Daniel Medway."

"I thought he was dead."

"No, he just looks that way."

~ ~ ~

Friday, August 27

Cindy, it turns out, is Andrew's girl. They're sharing the room next to mine. Andrew nailed a parachute to the ceiling so that the silk drapes down all four walls like a tent. Andrew and James have been away on some secret trip for the past month. They're away a lot, Cindy tells me as we share a pillow on the floor and stare at Andrew's interior decorating scheme. The effect is oddly soothing, like a womb of silk.

It's time for me to unpack the car. Cindy offers to help, and seems surprised by how little there is to move – one box for my clothes, toothpaste, soap, shampoo and whatnot; one box with my sheets and towel, a coffee cup, a saucepan, two plates, two spoons, two forks, one knife, a plastic juice glass, and a can opener; two boxes of records; my typewriter; and, of course, my stereo.

She critiques my record collection as I unpack the boxes and determine the best placement for the speakers.

"You're going to need to get a mattress, or a sleeping bag," she points out. This is the one room without a bed.

"I'm used to sleeping on the floor. I did all last year in Virginia."

"I bet your girlfriends didn't like that."

"I didn't do much entertaining there. My friends thought it was a sty."

Not at all like where I'm living now. The house that Garrett's found is beautiful, even stripped bare of all its furnishings and redecorated in hippie poverty. I'm admiring the woodwork in one of the first floor rooms when it strikes me that I've been here before, at the reception Mrs. Hirsch hosted for Phi Beta Kappa inductees back in '69. I've sipped sherry in this very room and made polite conversation with the Dean of Students.

Cindy, when I ask, has never heard of Mrs. Hirsch. She's seen Dr. Hirsch around campus, of course, "the funny little man who spits a lot when he talks."

I set off, in search of information.

The campus is practically deserted, as you'd expect on a Friday during break. Still, the first person I see turns out to be Amy Madigan, writing in her notebook on a bench in the Grove. Except for the fact that her hair seems to be longer now, she might have been sitting here in suspended animation since we last spoke that day after graduation.

She's absorbed with the notebook, so I spot her well before she sees me. She seems, in fact, to sense my presence as I approach from the sidewalk behind her. She lifts her head from the page, and sniffs the air. I always suspected she's got a touch of bloodhound in her. She's built like one, all skinny and tensed-up.

"Harold told me you'd be coming back," she says.

So it's "Harold" now. Interesting. She doesn't invite me to sit.

"You'll be working under Dr. Goodleigh?" she asks. "Teaching aide?"

"Assistant curator. She's expanding the hours for the classics museum."

"You and Goodleigh alone with those pots. Every day. Weekends, too, probably. My my. How do you think that's going to work for you? I mean, you've always had the most fatuous crush on that woman."

"Congratulations on the book," I say. "I always knew you'd get published before me. Prestigious reviews, too, I hear. Including the _New York Times_?"

"It was flattering to be critiqued in an international publication, even if the reviewer wasn't exactly kind. Or fair. Have you read it?"

"I never read the _Times_."

"I meant, have you read my novel?"

"Oh. No. Bought it, haven't read it. Waiting for the mood to hit me. I've never been a big fan of equestrian stories – _Black Beauty_ , _National Velvet_. Seems more like a chick thing."

Amy sighs. " _Monastery of Horses_ is just the title, Daniel. That doesn't mean it's about horses. The theme of the novel...."

"No! Don't spoil it for me. I want to be surprised. Hey, do you know if something's happened to Mrs. Hirsch?"

"She passed last April. Poor thing. I visited her every week, until the end. I think knowing that one of her protégés was about to be published brought her great comfort. We have no patron of the arts in Oxford now. Everything went to Dr. Hirsch, and I doubt he'll be as generous with us."

"The reason I ask, I think I'm living in her house."

"Please don't tell me you're staying at the new hippie house with Garrett and James and all those adolescents pretending to be revolutionaries. For the love of God, Daniel, grow up."

"But they always speak very highly of you."

"Well, have fun playing your little boy games. Enjoy it while you can. I hear the Baptists are trying to buy that house."

"It's true," Garrett confirms between mouthfuls at Colemans. "The Baptists are trying to buy the whole town. We're wondering what their plan might be."

Garrett's ordered two barbecue sandwiches and a Hostess lemon fruit pie for dessert.

"Hirsch won't sell, though. He hates the Baptists, he doesn't need the money – everything in his mother's estate went to him – and he's in love with James. That's the reason he's renting to us, to have James under his roof."

~ ~ ~

Saturday, August 28

Dottie Carroll retired last year from running the campus laundry, after four decades of managing Ole Miss' dirty underwear. She's invested her pension in a record shop just beside Gathright Reed drugs, in a storefront owned by her two boys.

It's a narrow, long shop, maybe 10 feet across and 30 feet deep, every wall lined 6 feet high with racks of albums, and a very nice sound system that's blasting "Free Your Mind and Your Ass Will Follow" as Cindy and I duck inside for cover from this afternoon's thunderstorm.

Dottie comes bustling from the back of the shop to greet us. "Put a nickel in the old nickelodeon," she says, handing each of us a wooden nickel with the store's name – the Nickelodeon – her way of greeting customers. "What can I do for you sweet kids today? 'Seven hundred little records, all blues, rock, rhythm and jazz.' No country. No pop. So don't tell me you're looking for the Carpenters or Glenn Campbell."

I haven't been in a good record store since the weekend Melissa and I went to Memphis, spring before last. Today, just like then, I find myself overwhelmed with choices. I've gathered six albums to select from – Poco, Santayana, New Riders of the Purple Sage, Neil Young, the Flying Burrito Brothers, a group called Black Oak Arkansas – when I spot a tiny, ancient Asian woman rocking out to the music. She's sitting on a folding chair, her upper body swaying wildly while her feet and legs remain absolutely still.

"Who is that?" I ask Dottie Carroll.

"That just Ho – a poor heathen who speaks not word one of English. But she certainly loves funkadelic."

At the sound of our voices, the old woman stops dancing in place and fixes us all with a baleful look before focusing her attention specifically on me. She then delivers a 45-second harangue in a language I've never heard before. The only word I recognize is the final one, "Bubba," which she punctuates with a fist in the air, followed by a cackling laugh of sheer mockery.

Ho doesn't seem to like me.

"Where's she from?"

"China, we think. Or maybe Formosa. The rumor is," and here Dottie lowers her voice, as if politely trying to spare the feelings of the old soul, "that her own brothers kidnapped her and smuggled her here to work for them. They're foreign students in the Engineering school. Nobody knows, because the brothers have gone off someplace, leaving her behind to live in the Lyric."

"How can she live in a movie theater?"

"In the projectionist booth. She has a little bed and a hot plate and lots of canned food. I've been there myself. It would break your heart to see it, poor thing. If I were going to have a relative of mine to live in a movie, the very last place I'd pick would be the Lyric. I'd at least put her up in the projectionist booth across the street at the Ritz. Or even better, at that nice new theater in the shopping center on University Avenue."

Ho lashes out with the sharp toe of a pair of child's cowboy boots, aiming for my shins, as we're leaving, me with the copy of Derek and the Dominos I've finally settled on. Cindy spots her and nudges me out of her path at the last moment and I emerge unscathed into a suddenly bright day on the Square. Cindy is wearing a halter top, revealing splays of freckles across her shoulders and arms, and it strikes me that she's a sweet, ripe strawberry of a girl.

Back at the house on Tyler, Cindy and I are listening to the "Keep on Growing" cut for the fourth or fifth time when Garrett returns from the head shop, bearing a gallon jug of Wild Irish Rose and a monster five-pound fryer in a paper bag from the Jitney Jungle.

"What do we do with it? Fry it?"

"No oil."

"Bake it?"

"No pan. But we have a pot."

"Boil it, then. I think there's an onion under the sink."

Garrett puts _American Beauty_ on. Half an hour later, the chicken has come to a boil and we're a little high on the wine. An hour later, the jug is half empty, the chicken's cooling on a plate, and Garrett is dancing with Cindy to "Sugar Magnolia." Sometime after that, the chicken is lying in ragged chunks on the plate, Cindy and Garrett are lying on a couch with greasy lips and greasy fingers, singing, and I'm slurping broth from a teacup that was probably once owned by Mrs. Hirsch, may she rest in peace.

Some time after that the three of us are singing. The jug's totally empty. We've run out of songs with words that we know, so we're vocalizing on instrumentals. We're almost at the closing riff of "Telstar" when we hear a commotion on the porch, followed by the screech of the screen door spring. Andrew and James enter the kitchen, each carrying an army surplus duffel bag. James has shaved his beard, which oddly makes him look even more like a gypsy than he did before.

They pounce on the remains of the chicken like orphaned wolverines, scarcely saying a word until it's reduced to a sad saggy pile of greasy bones. Then they begin to recount their travels – New Orleans to Dallas, Little Rock, Louisville, Philadelphia, D.C., Chapel Hill, Atlanta, Chattanooga, Memphis, home.

I ask if they heard anything about the revolt of the deejay in Chattanooga. They haven't.

"A dozen cities in three weeks," James says, "and everywhere people are talking about the same thing."

"Sex?" Garrett offers.

"No, that's not what I meant."

"Then it must be Margaret Mitchell. Everybody's talking about Margaret Mitchell."

"No, it's . . . ."

"Margaret Mead."

"Princess Margaret," Cindy suggests.

"Margaret Sanger."

"Margaret Truman."

"Margaret Hamilton."

"Margaret Rutherford."

"Margaret Chase Smith."

"Tamburlaine," James manages to interject, and the good spirits of the evening sink at the mention of the name.

Everyone falls silent. Except for Garrett, who giggles. "C'mon, James, let it go."

I decide to retire to my room, leaving the others to debate this matter without me. A little while later, Andrew and Cindy begin having loud sex next door.

~ ~ ~

Sunday, August 29

I'm learning that James has been married. To Joan. Unhappily. Andrew drops this bombshell on me casually, while showing me his dissertation work, consisting of eight spiral notebooks crammed with equations that he's developed on the road.

He calls himself a peripatetic mathematician, working calculations in his head while riding in the passenger's seat of James' car. Something about the combination of the road, the radio and James' endless political rants creates the perfect stimulus for Andrew's abstract muse. He's the Sal Paradise of math.

His department chair is treating Andrew like their star quarterback. Though still technically a graduate student himself, Andrew's been given his own graduate assistant who covers all his classes and departmental duties any time the next road trip – and its attendant burst of creative energy – comes along.

In the past two years, James and Andrew have been out of town together for a combined eleven months, and those absences became the cause of James' marital problems.

James and Joan got hitched, Andrew tells me, a year ago last 4th of July, with a ceremony in the back yard of the Earth. Brother Leopold presided, though neither James nor Joan is Catholic.

Joan expected her new husband to settle down with her and give up the road. When he didn't, she expected that he would invite her to join him. She was mistaken in both assumptions, as she discovered when, twelve days after the wedding, James and Andrew left on an eight-week odyssey through northern California.

Joan retaliated by seducing Brother Leopold. The resulting scandal in the diocese necessitated Brother Leopold's recall by his order.

James was more upset over losing Leopold as a trusted ally in the Revolution than over Joan's infidelity. Leopold was also the guiding force behind last year's failed referendum to legalize beer.

"Oxford is still dry on beer?" I ask.

Joan then seduced Dr. Buchtel, James' thesis advisor.

"Not Dr. Buchtel," I marvel. "That lucky bastard."

Not merely Buchtel, but Sommers, Murphy, Hagen and Trask, a quintet of cuckolding that made the divorce inevitable. Whenever she's not shacking up with her latest conquest, Joan stays with Nick and Suzie, who are as blissfully monogamous today as they were when I left Oxford.

"Just between us," Andrew notes, "she tried to get me into bed, too. Of course, I didn't."

"I always thought you weren't human."

"I only mention it because, now you're back, she might make a play for you. As James' friend, you wouldn't, of course."

"You're giving me far too much credit. I've been fantasizing about Joan since that night back in '68. Still, I feel sorry for James."

"I feel sorry for the Catholics," Andrew says. "Without a priest, they have to drive to Holly Springs for Mass. And now there's a rumor that the Baptists are trying to buy their church building."

~ ~ ~

Monday, August 30

I have another of my frozen-in-amber moments as I step off the elevator on the third floor of Bishop Hall, turn the corner into the English offices, and find Dr. Evans writing at his desk, fountain pen in his left hand, pipe in his right, exactly as I'd left him 15 months ago.

"Amy told me you were looking thin," he remarks. "She didn't say emaciated."

"Imagine Amy missing the chance to use a big word. Do you know she's started calling you 'Harold'?" I ask.

"Have you been ill?"

"I developed a gag reaction to solid food. The doctors put me on a liquid diet and sent me to a shrink."

"Sounds like the beginning of a story. Have you been writing anything?"

"My masters thesis. A hundred and five pages on linguistic ambiguity in the verse of Jonathan Swift. I took some of the funniest lines of the 18th century and sucked all the life right out of them. My thesis advisers were very pleased. They said F.R. Leavis would be pleased, too."

"Ah. And of course you want to please F.R. Leavis."

"My current goals are more modest. I want a good night's sleep. I want a dog. I want a cheeseburger with mustard and pickles. I want the love of a good woman and a bottle of Southern Comfort."

Dr. Evans sucks meditatively on his pipe. "Southern Comfort. That's good." He taps burning ashes into a coffee cup. "The department's launching a new student magazine, and we've been tossing titles around for it. Amy's editor-in-chief, and she wants to call it Fire Thorn."

"That's a terrible name. Where does she come up with these titles?"

"I'll suggest Southern Comfort instead. Say," he puts down the pipe and fixes me with the steely blues, always indicative of a brainstorm, "I should appoint you as poetry editor. Would you like that?"

"No, but I think you would."

"Damn right, I would. It'll be fun to watch you and Amy squabbling again. Last year was so boring – I missed your feud."

The Sociology department is also frozen in amber, when I drop in to find Dr. Stevens. Mrs. Arnett, their secretary, even seems to be wearing the same dress that I last saw her in.

"Dr. Stevens isn't here," she announces. "He's in Turkey."

"What's he doing in Turkey?"

"Studying Turks."

"Why is he studying Turks?"

"Why shouldn't he study Turks?"

"I just didn't know he was interested in Turks."

"I don't think he is. But he got a research grant. So he went to Turkey."

"For how long?"

"He'll be back in December. Would you like to wait?"

"Did he take his research assistant with him?" I ask.

"What?"

"I'm looking for Melissa Allen, his research assistant. Did she go to Turkey, too?"

Mrs. Arnett's puckered face purses into something that looks like a grin. "Oh ho ho," she says. "That girl."

"What do you mean, 'that' girl?"

"I'm just saying."

"Saying what?"

"That it's not for me to say."

"Have you heard anything about Melissa Allen?" I ask Andrew when I get back to Tyler Avenue.

"Melissa Allen? Wasn't that the girl you proposed to? No, I haven't heard anything."

"I think she might be in Turkey."

"What would she be doing in Turkey?"

"Studying Turks."

~ ~ ~

Tuesday, August 31

It's Garrett's lunch hour, and we're sharing a joint in the head shop while we stare out the window the Square. At one point, Deputy Hacker wades through traffic, crossing from Lamar to the base of the Confederate statue, and we duck our heads back inside until he enters the courthouse.

I ask Garrett whether Joan has ever tried to seduce him.

"Alas, she hasn't," he admits with a sigh and a giggle. "And to answer your next question: yes, I'd probably fold like an aluminum chair if she tried. I'm weak, and she's so goddamn beautiful, I'd go to hell with a smile on my face. Look, there's the new sheriff. No, wait, you missed him – he went into Nielsen's." A moment later he mutters, "Oh, shit. Duck inside! Duck inside! Crap, she saw us."

"Who?"

"The Clamor," he replies. "Hell, she's coming up here."

"I heard James was back," the Clamor announces, a little breathless, as she enters the shop.

Despite her nickname, the Clamor isn't a loud girl. She's kind of soft-spoken, and has a nice voice. Her real name is Claire Marie. Garrett nick-named her "Clamor" and now everyone's started calling her that.

She strikes me as a plain girl, at least by Ole Miss coed standards – squirrelly brown hair cropped close and clumsily to her scalp, brown eyes, prominent ears made even more so by the haircut. Claire Marie is also the tallest girl I've ever met, standing a good 6'4" in army boots, jeans, and a rumpled camouflage jacket that she must be suffocating in on this hot day.

"He's not here," Garrett tells her, and offers her a toke. "You want some of this?"

"I wanted to hear about his trip. I thought maybe he could tell me more about Tamburlaine."

"Aaarrrrgggh!" Garrett shouts, clasping his hands over his ears and pulling tufts of blond hair sideways from his head. "Tamburlaine doesn't exist! There is no such person. He's a myth. A legend. A fairy tale. A goddamn delusion invented by acid freaks. How many times do I have to explain this to you people?"

Clamor looks at me, an appeal in her eyes.

"Tamburlaine is real," I say. "He's as real as you or me. He's coming, and when he does, the Revolution will begin."

"Shut up! Don't encourage this."

"Who are you?" she asks.

"I'm Daniel."

"You have a nice ass."

"Thank you. I like your jacket."

"Do you have a car? I need to buy something in Memphis."

"Maybe some other time? I have plans today."

"I want to buy James a welcome home present. But what I want to give him is in Memphis."

"Some other day, then."

"I think James is wonderful. Do you think he's wonderful?"

"Yes, I think he's wonderful, too."

Clamor moons about, mostly lying on the waterbed, for a half hour, perhaps hoping that James will show up.

"See you at the harvest," she says before finally leaving.

"At the harvest," Garrett agrees. "Be there or be straight."

We return to the window and watch her stride across the Square, hands in the pockets of her camouflage jacket, teetering on a pair of stork legs above the other pedestrians, who turn with alarm and confusion to watch her.

"There are some who claim," Garrett remarks, "that Clamor isn't really a girl."

"She's boyish, for sure. And tall. But she's a girl. I think."

~ ~ ~

Wednesday, September 1

"I don't sell to friends," James tells me. "Just help yourself. It didn't cost me anything."

It's a new month, I have new cash in my pocket, and I'm tired of being treated as a charity case, always smoking Garrett's weed, or borrowing from Cindy and Andrew's stash. But James is ready to give it away, and the motive for his generosity constitutes the most amazing news I've heard since my return to Oxford.

Ole Miss has its own marijuana field, a federal research project, thanks to strings pulled by one of the state senators and a killer grant proposal from the School of Pharmacy.

"That's sure beats studying Turks," I observe.

"Five acres of Cannabis Sativa. The government selected Ole Miss for two reasons. First, ideal growing conditions. Second, the feds figured that we were the only school with students backward enough not to have heard of pot yet. Which is mostly true. The boys on Fraternity Row have spent all summer on a scheme for direct shipments of beer from a dealer in Memphis, eliminating the Holly Springs middlemen, without realizing that the continent's purest supply of grass is only three hundred yards from their back doors."

Its trust in Mississippi ignorance led the government to undertake minimal security measures – an 8' chain link fence around the perimeter, a couple of placid old police dogs donated by the sheriff's office, and a half-deaf night watchman named Clemson.

Commando raiding proved easy and yielded enough product for James and Andrew to return from their late summer odyssey with around $1900 to split. Besides looking for Tamburlaine, their mission had been to spread the fame of Rebel Red, as they're marketing it.

"This gravy train pulls out of the station on the 18th, unfortunately. While most of the campus will be off at the game against Memphis State, a paid crew – under heavy guard – will deliver the crop to the old gym, where they'll spend the day threshing and stuffing leaves into canvas bags, which will then be loaded into three armored trucks and taken away. We're calling it the Harvest."

"The Harvest? Clamor mentioned that."

"You've met Claire Marie."

"Yesterday at Garrett's shop. She was looking for you. I guess she's part of the work crew."

"Jesus."

"Hey, can I get on the work crew, too? It sounds like fun."

James favors me with his gypsy grin. "I can arrange that."

~ ~ ~

Thursday, September 2

"Studying Turks?" Dr. Hirsch asks. "Who's studying Turks?"

"I heard that Dr. Stevens is."

"Why would he be doing that? What's so interesting about Turks?"

"I thought you might know something, since you're in the same department as him."

"We're colleagues. That doesn't mean we're friends, or that I have any interest in his work."

The year has not been kind to Dr. Hirsch. He's heavier and more disheveled than when I last saw him. His hairline has receded, his chin doubled, and his nervous tics grown more pronounced.

"I'm just wondering about whether his research assistant went with him."

"You mean Melissa. Nice girl. I like her." He pauses to think for a moment, and then begins pounding his pudgy fists on his pudgy thighs with amusement. "And you like her, too! Now I see how things stand. Well, don't worry, my boy; we're not rivals for her affection."

Dr. Hirsch has dropped by to collect the rent, his arrival coinciding with a visit from Nick and Suzie, bearing glad tidings: Suzie's pregnant.

"How did that happen?" Cindy asks.

Dr. Hirsch nudges me with his pudgy elbow. "Did you hear that? She wants to know how it happened."

"How do you think?" Suzie replies.

"I mean, did you forget your pill? Did the condom break?"

"Not every pregnancy is an accident, Cindy."

"All of mine have been," says Rose, the sorority chick that James has brought by this evening, to Dr. Hirsch' apparent disappointment.

"Nick and I want to have this baby. We've been trying for months."

"Lord, I've never had to try," Rose pitches in. "A boy can just look at me too long and I get pregnant."

James, Andrew, Garrett and I avert our eyes from Rose, in unison. So does Dr. Hirsch. Only Nick doesn't join in on the joke, standing proudly at Suzie's side like a hirsute Joseph to her hippie Mary.

~ ~ ~

Friday, September 3

The Lyric is showing _The Omega Man,_ with Charlton Heston. Garrett and I amble over from Colemans Barbecue for the 8:00 show.

The last Charlton Heston epic I saw was _Planet of the Apes_ , (1968, Twentieth Century Fox, directed by Franklin Schnaffer) also here in the Lyric, which is as seedy and rundown as I remember it, another frozen in amber moment.

"Don't tell me the Baptists are trying to buy this place, too."

"They are, as a matter of fact," Garrett answers.

We take seats in the center aisle, three rows from the screen.

"Shit, this is a remake of _I Am Legend_ ," Garrett whispers about ten minutes into the film, and this fact seems to offend him deeply. "What a travesty."

"Take your stinking paws off me, you damned dirty vampire!" I quip as Charlton is manhandled by his undead enemies.

When the Russians launch a bomb against China that sets off a global plague, Garrett rises and shakes his fist at the screen: "You maniacs! You blew it up! Ah, damn you! God damn you all to hell!"

The rest of the audience seems content to watch this dreck without our witty commentary, until old Charlton kisses his black co-star. With that, a chorus of frat boys and sorority chicks in the back of the theater break into howls of protest and revulsion.

Garrett turns around, stands up in his chair, and shouts at them. "Shut up, troglodytes! This is elevated cinematic art. You're not worthy to watch a Charlton Heston film. And if I hear another outburst from you, I'll come up there and whip your asses good!"

To his surprise, and mine, they're cowed. It must be that standing in the chair made him look more intimidating than his actual 5'4".

The story ends with Charlton posed as a Christ figure, crucified by the vampires in a public fountain with his precious, plague-resistant blood flowing out onto the water. Garrett hurls his empty box of popcorn at the screen, to register his disgust. Since the aisles have apparently not been swept in weeks, he's also able to follow up with a volley of paper cups, candy bar wrappers, and more popcorn boxes.

"Richard Matheson would be rolling over in his grave – if he were dead."

Garrett instructs me on the genius of Richard Matheson on our way out of the Lyric. In addition to classic sci-fi novels, he turns out to have been the script writer for two of the greatest _Twilight Zone_ episodes of all time – the one about the gremlin on the airplane, and the one about the little girl who slips through an inter-dimensional rip in her bedroom.

"That one scared the crap out of me," I admit as we descend the steps in the lobby.

Suddenly, Ho looms before me, in a terrycloth bathrobe, screaming. She raises a tiny, wizened fist to my face, shakes it, spits on my shoe, and departs in a huff.

"Do you know who that was?" I ask when we're out on the sidewalk.

"That was Ho. She's Jimmy and Tiger Woo's old sister. I don't know what you've done to her, but she must really hate you."

~ ~ ~

Saturday, September 4

James and I drive to the outskirts of the Ole Miss marijuana plantation, park the car about a hundred yards away and follow a barely-worn path through underbrush and bushes to a clearing with a vista of a stand of pines behind a chain-link fence.

"There it is," he says.

"Where?" I can't see anything.

"Right there."

"You mean, behind those pines?"

"Those aren't pines, man."

It's amazing. They're growing plants that top 20 feet tall.

"That's going to be a lot to harvest."

"Damn straight, it is."

James drops me off on campus, which isn't so deserted today. Registration begins Monday, and students have already started returning.

But the Grove is mostly empty, so I sit zazen in the shadow of my favorite oak tree, full lotus in the triangle of its old roots, drawing its power through my lower chakra up through my core.

I position my mind in hara, find my center of gravity, and begin counting breaths.

I let go of everything except the now. The sound of leaves, wind, squirrels in the branches above me, the low humming of wheels on pavement in the distance, an occasional voice. The grass grows a vivid green, each blade sharp and distinct, sunlight slicing with utmost clarity and precision through the gaps of the trunks and branches. The slow sweep of shadows over the grass tells me that the vast earth is circling the sun through what we call "space," and that what we call "time" is passing.

But I'm not alone here. I feel another presence nearby. An old friend. Recognition. Joy. A shimmer in the air a few yards away, near the park bench, a figure materializing.

But it seems to be in a struggle to take shape.

"Citizen?" I ask. "Is that you, boy?"

At that, the figure collapses back into air molecules, dissolves, vanishes.

~ ~ ~

Sunday, September 5

I'm crossing the Square, from the hardware store to the courthouse at 9:55 a.m. when a forest green '69 Cadillac turns into the lane from South Lamar, swerves, and narrowly misses hitting me. The driver appears to be a middle-aged woman in her Sunday finest. She glares at me as I dart to avoid being winged by her front bumper.

Deputy Hacker, lounging on the park bench by the Confederate statue, witnesses the near-accident and chuckles.

"Officer, I want that woman arrested," I josh.

"I should take you in for jaywalking."

"I was in the crosswalk."

"Bright college boy like you ought to know how to use a crosswalk, then. Remember 'Look to your right, look to your left, before you cross the street'? I'd of thought you'd learned that back in grammar school."

"But this is the Square. Traffic's only supposed to move in one direction. Wouldn't looking both ways be a wasted effort?"

"Always trying to outsmart the system, hey, college boy?"

"What system?"

"Traffic system. City engineers put a lot of work into designing it. They wouldn't appreciate your mocking it."

"Mock the traffic system? That's the furthest thing from my mind."

"Nothing's sacred to you people, is it?"

"Well, with no disrespect to the city engineers, I don't consider the traffic system to be sacred."

"And that's where anarchy begins, which is exactly what you people want."

"What I really want is not to get run down in the public square by Christian ladies in a rush to get to church on Sunday morning so they can pray for the damnation of their enemies."

At that remark, Hacker rises from the bench, adjusts his belt and places a hand on his holster. "Christians built this town, college boy, and I've had about enough of you for one day."

I shrug and proceed along my way.

"There's a new sheriff in town," he calls after me. "Don't forget."

"I look forward to meeting him."

"That can be arranged at any time."

~ ~ ~

Monday, September 6

It's a typically chaotic Ole Miss registration day. By the time I reach the main concourse of the Coliseum at 8:30, endless queues of students needing permission slips, car registration and identification cards have already formed. It's after 10:00 before I enter the arena to collect class cards, and well after 11:00 before I'm done.

I reach Bondurant Hall at 11:45. The Museum doors are shut, but Dr. Goodleigh's office is open and her radio is playing Vivaldi. Goodleigh's in her rocking chair, reading the _Commercial Appeal_.

"I was just about to have lunch." Dr. Goodleigh rises from her chair to hug me, and I turn schoolboy flustered. "Join me."

Dr. Giordano is holding court at the big table in the east dining room and summons us with an imperious wave of the hand as Dr. Goodleigh and I exit the cafeteria line, trays in hand.

"Eh, Anglo-Saxon," he says, clamping my left shoulder in an uncomfortable squeeze, "you've returned." Somehow Giordano seems to have grown larger, more grizzled and more intimidating during my absence. "What are you eating? What's that on your tray?" he asks, though the substance is not the least bit mysterious.

"Soup."

"Soup. _Zuppa_ ," Giordano mocks. "You eat like a woman."

I glance around the assembly, and recognize no one. Giordano's brand new entourage of Philosophy students, I conclude. They all know Goodleigh, of course, and jockey to find an opening for her at the table.

"I see you're having the pork chops, Aldo," Goodleigh remarks. "Tell me, did the kitchen staff let you capture and slaughter the hog yourself?"

He ignores the question, but picks up on the theme. "In the camps, we were starved. We ate rats. British guards treated us like animals, and we became animals. I became an animal, and I eat like an animal. I eat when the food is in front of me, because I never know when I may eat again."

"My lord, not the POW stories again. Does anybody have the phone number of the Geneva Convention for this poor man?"

"I can't stand them, either," I say. "My mother's family was Irish. The Brits made us eat potatoes."

The conversation turns to war crimes. Goodleigh and I are left unmolested to negotiate my hours for the term. It's agreed that I'll staff the Museum on Monday, Wednesday and Friday mornings, and afternoons Tuesday and Thursday. The plan matches her teaching schedule and my class schedule.

On the way out of the dining room, I glimpse Dr. Evans at a corner table with Amy Madigan. His back is to me, but they seem to be engaged in earnest conversation. Amy isn't smiling, and she doesn't return the greeting when I wave to her, simply scowls.

~ ~ ~

Tuesday, September 7

The queue outside the bookstore is remarkably short as I pass by this morning, so I take my place at the end of the line and am inside within 15 minutes. The cashier rings up my purchase – three texts for Hirsch' linguistics class, an advanced German reader, an Oxford University edition of Horace's _Odes_ , and a secondhand copy of Harrison's _Prolegomena to the Study of Greek Religion_. The total comes to $43.70. It's a good thing James' grass is free, because it's going to be a lean month.

On my way out, I encounter a shrine to Amy Madigan – a display table with a dozen copies of _A Monastery of Horses_ , and a black-and-white head shot of the author wearing an expression halfway between cerebral and dreamy. Blurbs of praise for Mississippi's youngest new best-selling author.

Garrett's surprised I haven't read it yet, as we share a joint in the Ohm.

"It's not that bad, for a first novel," Garrett judges. "But it's derivative. When she's not trying to be Faulkner, she's trying to be O'Connor. And when she's not trying to be O'Connor, she's trying to be Welty or Willie Morris or Barry Hannah or Walker Percy."

"Another hybrid of moonlight and magnolias with Southern gothic?"

"I'd say more of a mongrel than a hybrid," Garrett replies. "On the other hand, if you think of writing as economics, rather than art, you've got to give Amy a lot of credit. She knows what her audience expects. Southern fiction's big business. In the good old days, being from Mississippi was an embarrassment. Now it's turned into a profession."

~ ~ ~

Wednesday, September 8

My first day at work. Dr. Goodleigh has classes at 9:00 and 10:00 a.m., Monday – Wednesday – Friday, leaving me alone in the Museum for two hours with all of my old friends – the head of Pan, the Etruscan amphora of the sphinxes, the Attic amphora of Hermes with Dionysus, the red-figure pelike of Artemis and the deer, the busts of Aphrodite and Augustus, Menander, Agrippina, Marcus Aurelius, Vitellius.

They seem to watch me as I use my work table to sit zazen for a while, before turning my attention to Goodleigh's correspondence and the draft of her latest article for _Classical Archaeology_. This is, after all, what I was hired to do. She could have chosen any graduate assistant to watchdog the exhibits while she's away, but few of us can type 90 words per minute.

I'm happily banging away on the Museum's old Smith Corona upright when, unexpectedly, Cindy appears at the door in sandals, a pair of hip-hugger jeans, and another of her seemingly endless supply of halter tops.

"Wow, I didn't even know this place was here," she exclaims.

"What brings you by?"

"I wanted to see where you're working. Is this stuff real?"

I lead her through a standard introductory tour of the collection, explaining the time periods between archaic and classical works, the various provenances of the artifacts, the shapes and uses of the vases, the distinction between red figure and black figure decorations. But all the while I'm distracted by the vivid reality of Cindy's body. She's putting every nude in the place to shame.

Goodleigh, back from class, peeks in on us.

"Daniel and I are housemates," Cindy announces when I make the introductions.

"How interesting," Goodleigh replies. Later, to me, she says, "What a bubbly girl. She must make it difficult to concentrate on your Herodotus."

"Fortunately, I have a highly disciplined intellect."

"Not disciplined enough to remember to visit Bill Sutherland."

"I've been putting that off," I admit.

"You're avoiding your chairman? Why? They released him from the hospital. Bill's not dangerous, you know."

"It's just that . . ." I begin, hesitate, and sigh. "Listen, I saw enough of crazy last year. I'm not ready to deal with it again."

"If you came back to Ole Miss to get away from crazy," Goodleigh points out, "then you've clearly been running in the wrong direction. As you know only too well, there's nothing here BUT crazy."

~ ~ ~

Thursday, September 9

"Mail for you," Dr. Goodleigh says as I arrive in the Museum this afternoon. She lifts a salmon-colored envelope from the pile on her desk, and sniffs it. "From a woman."

I carry it to my work table in the museum, set it down, and stare at it for a while. The envelope reads

Daniel Medway

c/o Classics Department

University, MS 38677

in a familiar hand. Inside, a note on Valerie's stationery:

As you probably expected, my conscience got the better of me. I reported my bad behavior to my supervisors. You can imagine the outrage. I've been placed on administrative leave until they decide how best to punish me without causing a departmental scandal.

None of this matters. I'm leaving Charlottesville. You were right, it's a terrible place. I don't know where I'll go. It might be fun to find out. Take care of yourself. Don't forget about that skinny hippie chick. You deserve a little fun.

I return to Tyler Avenue in a guilty funk and just want to be alone in my room. Instead, I find the house in turmoil, strangers running about and shouting while somehow being choreographed by James.

"What the hell's going on?" I ask Andrew.

"James says the Revolution's started," he replies, with calm skepticism. "Garrett was at the Journalism building when an AP story came over the wire about a prison riot earlier today in upstate New York."

"I doubt the Revolution's going to start in a New York prison."

"Except that a photograph from inside the prison followed a few minutes after the copy. James says that Tamburlaine is there, inside, with the prisoners."

~ ~ ~

Friday, September 10

After work, afternoon classes and a stop at the Greyhound station, I'm standing on Mrs. Hirsch' old porch, outside the screen door, listening to the argument inside. I make out James' voice, Andrew and Garrett; others I don't recognize.

There's a crowd around the kitchen table, debating over a stack of photographs, Xeroxes and newspaper clippings, all of which supposedly show Tamburlaine among the bystanders at a number of historic events – the Kennedy assassination, the King assassination, the Bobby Kennedy assassination, the Pentagon march, Kent State. And now, inside Attica State, with the rioting prisoners.

I pause a minute in the doorway, my first box of books balanced on my shoulder, to take in the scene. Clamor stands at James' side, close enough that he brushes against her every time he draws a breath. She's in the same outfit as the other day, jeans and camouflage jacket. I study her for a moment and decide that she's definitely a girl. I think.

"Yes, there's one blurry white guy in the prison, wearing an interesting hat. Yes, there's a blurry white guy in Dallas, also in a hat, and some blurry student at Kent State wearing a hat," Garrett tries to reason. "But there's no evidence it's the same person. Even if it were, he couldn't be Tamburlaine. He'd only have been — what? — 15 or so when Kennedy died. Unless Tamburlaine is a time traveler." Garrett stops to take a breath. "Is that what you're saying, that Tamburlaine's a time traveler?"

"I believe," James says, "that he is not limited in the way that normal beings are."

"My lord, you're serious. Really. James, listen. I never thought I'd ever say this to anybody — but you've got to cut down on the drugs, man. They're making you delusional!"

I turn to carry the box to my room and find Cindy hunkered on the couch, watching a portable television.

"What's that?" I ask.

"A television, silly."

"Who owns a television?"

"James bought it from the Carroll Brothers this afternoon. He says we can watch the Revolution on it. It'll be televised. In the meantime, we can watch _I Dream of Jeanie_ reruns."

~ ~ ~

Saturday, September 11

With the cash we pooled before he left for work this morning, Garrett returns to Tyler Avenue at 6:15 with two chickens and two gallon jugs of Wild Irish Rose.

"It's much better than Ripple," Andrew explains, trying to coax Dr. Hirsch into tasting it. "Especially served in a Styrofoam cup."

Dr. Hirsch has come to see James, but has stayed for the party. He beams like a high school misfit who's suddenly been welcomed into the company of the popular kids. He tries talking to me about the Historical Linguistics class, but is quickly too drunk to follow his own thoughts.

Clamor is also here to see James. I'm keeping my eye on her. At one point, while she's on the couch beside me, I'm convinced that I've spotted a bulge of breasts beneath the camouflage jacket. But then I'm not sure.

James isn't here, so we take the liberty of removing the television from his room and gathering around it in the parlor, just like an old-fashioned family. A fairly odd old-fashioned family.

Garrett starts flipping through the stations, landing on Channel 5, WMC out of Memphis. "Look," he says, "the Miss American Pageant is on tonight. Have you ever watched one of those things stoned?"

Andrew produces a bong of Rebel Red, just in time for the talent competition.

The contest begins with the usual singing and dancing. Miss Ohio plays "Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head." Miss California performs a bit from "Swan Lake." Miss Alabama comes on as a hula dancer.

Everyone's talking over the set, making it hard to hear anything, but there's a pause as Miss Mississippi is introduced. She's singing "Am I Blue?"

"Actually, she does look blue," Andrew remarks. "Can someone adjust the color?"

"Holy shit, she's doing George Bernard Shaw!" Garrett proclaims at one point, over our babble. Sure enough, Miss Somplace-Or-Other is performing a monologue from _Saint Joan_. She's followed by a drum majorette, an accordion player with a medley from _Doctor Zhivago_ , a saxophonist, a girl in sequins lassoing saw horses decorated like bulls, and an archer.

"Aim for Bert Parks!" Dr. Hirsch shouts, suddenly waking from his nap.

A banjo player mangles the theme from _The Beverly Hillbillies_. Now a young lady is performing impressions of Jimmy Cagney and Jackie Gleason. A girl comes out dressed as Jesus and recites the Sermon on the Mount, and I'm beginning to wonder how much of this can be real. Then Nixon comes on, and talks about a wheat deal with Russia. This turns out to be the news, because Andrew has switched the station to check on the riot in New York.

We howl at him to turn Miss America back on. Now there's a girl driving a tractor. When the ventriloquist takes the stage with a weird-looking dummy rabbit named Rollo and starts talking to it, Garrett collapses onto the floor.

"Make this stop! I can't take any more!"

James returns to spoil the fun just as the swimsuit competition begins. He unplugs the set, chastises us for watching a beauty contest in the middle of the Revolution, and heads to his room with the sorority chick Rose on his arm. Clamor and Dr. Hirsch mope behind for a while, dejected.

Andrew and Garrett finish the second jug of Wild Irish Rose. Cindy passes out on the couch. I go to bed.

Miss America's done for another year, and I can't even tell you who won.

~ ~ ~

Sunday, September 12

Somebody's taped handbills on every shop door around the Square. Each is a mimeographed 8 ½ x 11" green sheet with "Psalms 18:29" in large, handwritten block letters.

" _With my God, I can scale a wall_ ," Garrett says, identifying the verse. It's easy to forget that when he first arrived at Ole Miss, he planned to become a minister. That was before the boys at the Earth took him under their wing and corrupted him.

"Scale a wall? Did they do a lot of that in the Bible?"

"Only in the Old Testament. It was a common profession, like being a shepherd or a harlot."

"Scaling a wall is nothing. With my god, I can leap tall buildings in a single bound."

"You worship false gods. With my god, I can bend steel in my bare hands and change the course of mighty rivers."

"Your god's a wimp."

"Watch your mouth, boy. My god can whip your god's ass any day of the week."

"Except Sunday."

"Well, certainly not on Sunday. It's a day of rest. No fighting. My god wouldn't allow it."

"Neither would mine."

"I don't care. The commandments of your false god are of no interest to me."

~ ~ ~

Monday, September 13

Dr. Hirsch doesn't look well. His complexion has a slightly greenish tint today. He's trying to explain Grimm's Law to his Historical Linguistics students, but is doing a poor job of it.

When class ends, I offer to treat him to a cup of coffee at the Union.

"I felt sick all day yesterday," he reports. "Hung over. It's been a long time since I last drank wine. And I've never smoked marijuana before. You boys are certainly opening me up to new experiences." He drops his voice to a whisper. "I had been seriously considering retirement, since my mother's death, but I'm enjoying myself too much now."

"Life can radically change when a parent dies."

"Just look at me. I'm actually having fun . . . and I'm rich."

"I'd heard you're a wealthy man. What are you planning to do with all that money?"

Dr. Hirsch glances left to right, uncomfortably, then gestures me to lean forward so that we're bent forehead-to-forehead over the table, like a pair of conspirators.

"Promise not to say a word to anyone."

"Promise."

"I'm investing in a restaurant."

"What kind of restaurant?"

"A kind that Oxford has never seen before. Something altogether new. A very exciting opportunity. I'm partnering with two young men who know the business well. I supply the capital, they supply the expertise, and we split the profit three ways. We can't lose."

I grab a copy of the student newspaper, _The_ _Daily Mississippian_ , on my way out of the Union and turn, as always, to its most recent set of corrections, retractions and apologies.

_On August 1 it was reported that running back Gregory Howland has been diagnosed with a stigmata that won't interfere with his performance on the field. He was actually diagnosed with an astigmatism. The staff of the_ Daily Mississippian _regrets the error_.

Apparently, Ole Miss is still playing football. Amazing. Apparently, we won a game Saturday against Long Beach State. Who's managing the schedule these days? How did we end up playing Long Beach State?

And, apparently, according to a report buried on page 3, we have a flasher loose on campus. Two coeds – one in the library, the other along Sorority Row – have been subjected to the vision of an unidentified middle-aged man's withered private parts.

I shudder to think of it.

~ ~ ~

Tuesday, September 14

The Attica prison riot has fizzled, with state police retaking control through tear gas and rifle fire. James is disappointed over the fizzle of this particular revolution, but he's faithfully watchful for the next one.

I'm giving Andrew and Cindy a lift to the Jitney Jungle.

"You don't really believe all this Tamburlaine shit, do you?" I ask Andrew.

"You're asking," Andrew replies, "if I believe in a revolutionary leader named Tamburlaine, whom no one has ever met but who is being pursued by the FBI, the CIA, the NSA, the Pentagon, and Nixon himself. A man who has reportedly been an eyewitness to every assassination and riot of the past 20 years."

"James thinks he's a time traveler," I say.

"That's not the most absurd thing his followers believe about him. Many hold that Tamburlaine was actually born as a wolf that was captured and transported to the Paris zoo, and then turned into a human being by the power a magical talisman that is rumored to be a claw ripped from the foot of Satan himself during a wrestling match with a monastery blacksmith in Italy during the 12th century."

We arrive at a red light at the intersection of Jefferson and Lamar. I stop. Andrew continues:

"They contend that this wolf-turned-man is now wandering the back roads of the United States to recruit an army of hippies in a plot to overthrow the American government. You're asking whether or not I believe in that?"

"I hadn't heard about the claw and the wrestling match."

"Of course I don't believe a word of it. Tamburlaine's a legend, and a damn silly one at that. I don't mean to imply, however," Andrew adds, anticipating my next remark, "that James is chasing a phantom. Far from it."

"I don't follow."

"Tamburlaine may be fiction, but there's certainly somebody in those pictures. I've studied them carefully – the assassinations, the marches, Kent State. Now, Attica. The same person, that man in the hat, is in all of them."

"No shit?"

"Somehow or other, there's a chap out there who knows when something important is about to happen, and is always on hand to witness it."

We're waiting for the light to change, pondering this deep mystery. Suddenly, Clamor's head and shoulders are inserting themselves through the open passenger-side window. Andrew draws back with a startled cry at this unexpected invasion.

Clamor is chewing a stick of Juicy Fruit. I can smell it on her breath. "When will you take me to Memphis?" she asks.

"Not today. Soon."

"See you at the Harvest," Clamor says, pulling out of the window.

"At the Harvest," we chime together.

"Someone's got a girlfriend," Cindy teases from the back seat as we take a right on Lamar.

"Or a boyfriend," Andrew adds.

~ ~ ~

Wednesday, September 15

The campus flasher has struck again. I'm in the Union, reading the _Daily Mississippian_ 's latest report, when I catch sight of Joan, the scandalous divorcee, descending the stairs from the mailboxes on the second floor.

She pauses on the landing and sweeps her gaze across the room below, where I stand gazing back up at her.

Joan is as perfect as I remember her. Perfect skin. Perfect lips. Perfect cheekbones. Perfect hair. Perfect figure.

For one instant, she looks directly into my eyes, but doesn't seem to recognize me. She resumes her descent. I want to step forward and meet her at the bottom of the stairs, greet her as an old friend.

I could ask her about Melissa. Joan might know where Melissa is, and it would be a conversation starter. I could stand beside her, gazing into her perfect eyes, glancing at the perfect teeth and the perfect shadow of cleavage below the neckline of the striped blouse she's wearing.

I want to do this. Instead, I keep my place and pretend to read the newspaper as she passes by me and out of the building.

"She must not have been wearing her contact lenses," James concludes, when I tell him that I saw his ex, but that she didn't notice me. "She's very near-sighted."

"Joan wears glasses?"

"Contacts. She's too vain for glasses. But she loses them all the time, and spends half her life stumbling around in a myopic fog. That's why she's usually on some man's arm."

"Joan wears contacts?" I repeat.

"Why not? Did you think she's perfect or something?"

~ ~ ~

Thursday, September 16

These are some rough-looking men in James' room. Not students. Not hippies. Not, all of them, Americans, either. But James has called Garrett and me here to meet them.

No one makes introductions, though. The head man of the foursome merely looks us over and nods at James.

"They'll do."

"What the hell was that all about?" Garrett asks, after they leave.

"You're in."

"In what?"

"The plan."

"And what plan might that be?"

"The plan to walk off with a dozen 30-gallon trash bags of Rebel Red from the Harvest on Saturday."

"Can't be done," Garrett says. "The cops will see us."

"True. But they won't understand what they're seeing, or care."

"There will be 15 of us in the work crew," Andrew explains, "actually handling the cannabis. We'll be wearing oil-resistant particulate face masks, the kind construction workers use. Six troopers will be guarding the four entrances to the gym, positioned roughly 10 yards from the work area. They won't have masks."

"The assumption is that the cops will be far enough away from the fumes not to need protection, because the exhaust will be going through the ceiling vents, with the fan system. However, the fans won't be working on Saturday."

"You're planning to get the cops stoned," Garrett realizes.

"Without ventilation, the gym will be hot," Andrew warns, "so pass the word to dress appropriately. We're going to suffer in there. The troopers, however, will have the best day of their lives."

~ ~ ~

Friday, September 17

Lunch. Dr. Goodleigh and I are at Giordano's table once more, at his insistent invitation.

I'm puzzling over the postcard from Valerie that arrived today with a photo of Lincoln's tomb on it. The postmark, however, is from Provincetown, Massachusetts. The message itself does nothing to explain the disconnect:

Daniel – Smoked grass last night with some new friends I've met here. Thought of you. Hope you've found that hippie chick. – Valerie

Giordano's graduate students are arguing over whether Daniel Ellsberg should be executed for treason. The majority opinion favors the death penalty. Great minds at this table.

"There goes a man," Giordano comments, cutting the debate short and pointing an impaled slice of Polish sausage on a fork in the direction of Dr. Evans, who at this moment is crossing the dining room toward the east doorway. "Maybe he's just an Anglo-Saxon, but he's a _man_."

Dr. Goodleigh sighs. "What are you talking about now?"

"Look at him. Look at him. Watch the way he walks. Like a lion. He walks the way a man with a new mistress walks."

I look, but see nothing remarkable in the way he walks.

"Oh, Aldo," Goodleigh says, "you spread gossip like an old fishwife."

"Ha. You just don't like to hear it because the mistress isn't you."

~ ~ ~

Saturday, September 18

Harvest Day. Andrew was right – the gym is unbearably hot. I'm dressed in jeans, sandals and a t-shirt that's already soaked with sweat. Clamor is working alongside me, in her camouflage jacket, but seems to not mind the heat a bit.

Piled before us is a small mountain of _cannabis sativa_ , freshly cut and delivered in armored vans. The work crew consists of 15 students, most of whom I know at least by sight, if not by name. Our task is to cut the stalks into 36" lengths, thresh the dirt and the insects by beating the lengths on a mat, and pack the plants in canvas sheets that are then loaded onto a dolly and carted back to the vans.

We're given a 10-minute break every two hours, to grab a snack or a smoke, take a bathroom break, whatever. But we're warned not to remove our face masks while we're in the gym. Good advice. As James promised, the fans aren't working, and an almost tangible haze of TCP floats across shafts of sunlight coming through the clerestory windows.

By noon, even with our masks on, everybody on the crew is stoned. But we're used to marijuana.

The troopers, obviously, are not.

The pair guarding the west exit have caught a major case of the munchies. Back and forth they go to the vending machines in the lobby. Empty potato chip bags, candy bar wrappers and cellophane from packs of peanuts and cookies lie strewn about the doorway.

One of the east guards is wearing his hat backwards and writing on his hand with a felt marker. His partner is asleep on the floor. The south guard has wandered away from his post. The north guard is twirling his sidearm like a western gunslinger, and laughing.

James catches my eye and nods. I pass the signal along to Garrett, who then makes eye contact with Andrew. The deed is done in under than 20 minutes. One at a time, in seemingly random order, each of us ducks behind the bleachers, which have been stacked against the walls to make room for today's project, to retrieve the plastic bags that James planted earlier in the week.

Again in seemingly random order that actually follows a pattern worked out by Andrew, we pack the bags and stash them back behind the bleachers, where James' "associates" (his word) will find them after breaking into the gym tonight. The other members of the crew appear to be as clueless to what we're up to as the cops are.

We're finished harvesting a little after 3:15. We sweep plant debris from the floor with wide brooms and pack this chaff in two more sheets, the last to be loaded on the vans. The cop who slept through the day is now awake, and emotional. He's waiting at the vans and insists on hugging each of us as we exit.

"Good-bye. Thank you! God bless," he stammers with a bear hug and three pats on the back when my turn arrives.

We gather on the sidewalk to watch the six cops fire up the three vans, one driver and one shotgun rider to each, and pull away from the curb, a caravan of pot headed toward a secret destination for drying and curing, which one of the cops already told James is an old cotton warehouse outside Rosedale.

The caravan pulls slowly around the curve of Library Circle. Moving at around seven miles per hour, the lead driver fails to navigate the curve and runs over a fire hydrant at the corner. There's a sickening thud of metal as the hydrant tumbles to the ground and a geyser of water erupts from the sidewalk.

The caravan shambles to a halt. The cops get out of the vehicles, laughing, and pointing at the clumsy driver in the lead. I'm one of the first to rush into the spray, to cool off, followed by the rest of the work party and the cops.

We're all wasted. We dance. We slip on the wet pavement and fall down. We laugh. We hug. Clamor manages to slap the asses of all the males in the party, including mine. The fun continues until the campus cops arrive, followed by the Oxford fire department.

I wander off into the Grove and pass out under my zazen tree. When I wake, it's dusk. I trudge to Tyler Avenue, upstairs to my room and my pallet. When I wake again, it's full dark. James is kicking my leg with the toe of his sandal.

"Wake up! I have something for you." He hands me an envelope, containing cash.

"What's this?" I ask.

"$350. Your cut from the Harvest."
Part 2. The Bust

September 19 – October 31, 1971

Sunday, September 19

The anonymous Christian has struck the Square again, with handbills on every shop front reading "Hebrews 8:12."

"For I will be merciful to their unrighteousness, and their sins and their iniquities will I remember no more," Garrett recites.

"So your god is kindly, but forgetful."

"A distinct advantage to us sinners."

"My god doesn't forget sins. He misplaces his glasses frequently, and sometimes forgets where he parked his car, especially after a night on the town. But not sins."

"Your false god sounds like a tight ass. I really don't understand what you see in him. You ought to be worshipping mine instead, especially after yesterday."

"What are you talking about?"

"That particular act of theft wasn't a Christian thing to do," Garrett says.

"No?"

"Question: Why did the Lord create marijuana? Answer: He created marijuana because He loves mankind and wishes for us all to get stoned."

"You obviously have a different catechism from the one I grew up with."

"In liberating all that pot," he continues, "and distributing it to the masses, we have been performing the Lord's work, and I believe He has been well pleased with us. But yesterday's theft transformed His holy will into an act of commerce. We served as profiteers instead of liberators. Now we're just dealers, you and I, scheming with James' criminals. According to my god, there's only one way to atone for our iniquity."

"I can't wait to hear."

"The money that we made yesterday must only be used for good."

I consider his proposition for a moment. "My god concurs."

"As I've told you before, the opinions of your false god are irrelevant to me."

~ ~ ~

Monday, September 20

I've built my first piece of furniture. It's a bookcase made out of five 60" boards from the lumber store and ten cinder blocks I found in the empty lot behind Colemans barbecue.

I feel very proud, very manly, at my accomplishment, and invite Cindy up to admire my new bookcase.

She stays to help me unpack the seven boxes from Charlottesville and starts a small book pile of her own to borrow from me, mostly based on the cover art – _Journal of the Plague Year, Sirens of Titan_ , and _Eyeless in Gaza_ for starters

I'm keeping an eye on the slip knot she's used to secure the halter top over her neck, and praying for it to slip.

"Do you think you could build a bed next? You're not going to get any girls up here without one," she reminds me. "We don't like to make love on the floor.

"I can't afford a bed."

"You can. James says you all made a lot of money from the Harvest. Say, what's this book about?" She raises my copy of _Winesburg, Ohio_ with the cover illustration of the 19th century Victorian house, the oak tree and the swing.

"That's a very good book."

"What's it about, though?"

I have to think for a second. "Yankees."

She tosses it aside. "Boring. Nobody wants to read about them. What about this one?" she adds upon discovering my prized autographed copy of _Under the Yellow Arch_.

"Excellent choice," I say. "Nathan Poole, an Ole Miss alum, probably the best poet the college has ever produced. He suffered a tragic romance here with a mysterious unattainable woman, and wound up in the insane asylum, where he wrote the book."

"Intriguing," Cindy says. "Who was the woman? Do you know?"

"I know, but I'm not at liberty to say," I tell her.

~ ~ ~

Tuesday, September 21

Amy Madigan isn't happy. Her mood, however, has nothing to do with the disgusting entree called a "Mexican Meat Stick" that the cafeteria is serving today.

"Daniel isn't even in our department anymore," she argues. "He defected to Classics, remember? The magazine is supposed to be an English project."

Across the dining room, Giordano is singing an aria from _Tosca_ to his student group. Everyone in the room has turned to watch, except Amy – who's glaring at me – and Dr. Evans, who's fussing with his pipe. It won't stay lit. It never stays lit.

"I think we can give him a pass," Dr. Evans replies. "Daniel is the best poet we've got."

Amy jumps on that statement. "Really? Daniel, how much poetry have you written in the past year?"

"None."

"None?"

"Not a line. I agree with you. I'm a terrible choice for poetry editor, but Dr. Evans seems to have his heart set on this."

Clamor chooses this moment to spot our table and approach. Dr. Evans stops fiddling with his pipe to gaze in amazement as she looms over us.

"Hi," she says to Amy.

They appear to know each other, but I have no idea how that could be.

"Good afternoon," Amy replies, stiffly, and turns her attention to her meat stick.

Clamor looks to me. "Will you take me to Memphis today?"

"I have to work in the Museum. Someday soon."

"You won't forget?"

"I won't forget."

Dr. Evans watches her leave the dining room, his mouth open and his eyes wide. "What an interesting . . . person?" he says. "What were we talking about?"

"The magazine."

"Ah, that. I have news that you'll appreciate, Amy. We can't use 'Southern Comfort' as our title. The alcohol reference would upset the Baptists. They'd retaliate by buying the third floor of Bishop Hall and throwing the English department out of our offices."

"So we're back to 'Fire Thorn.'"

"No. We need another name. Put your heads together and choose one."

"Professional Southerners," Garrett suggests this evening, as I request ideas from the crew on Tyler Avenue.

"Radio for the Deaf," Andrew offers.

"Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Po' Boy."

"Toothpaste Delivered to Your Door."

"Ramshackle Moon Pie."

"You should name the magazine after Amy," James growls. "Full of Shit."

~ ~ ~

Wednesday, September 22

I'm in Memphis, at the The Looking Glass in Overton Square. At least, that's what the matchbook on the table says.

I'll take it at its word.

The windows are dark. It must be night.

I don't recall at this moment what I'm doing here, how I got here, or who I came with, if anyone.

I'm drunk. I know that much.

And I think I'm happy.

In fact, I'm sure I'm happy.

I just don't know why.

~ ~ ~

Thursday, September 23

I seem to have been out last night. Somewhere.But I wake on my pallet on Tyler Avenue. The clock says 2:17. I've missed German class, which doesn't concern me. I've also missed Greek History. Not so good. Dr. Copeland will expect me to drop by his office with some excuse about my absence. And I'm two hours late for the Museum. Dr. Goodleigh will wonder what happened. If I can reach campus before 3:00, when her class ends, I might be able to bullshit a plausible excuse for being "a little" late this afternoon.

I dress, throw cold water on my face, and descend the steps, hoping to discover a little coffee left in the kitchen pot.

Cindy's on the living room couch, watching the soap opera _Love Is a Many Splendored Thing_ on James' television. "You're finally awake."

"Do you know where I was last night?"

"No clue. Do _you_ know where you were last night?"

"Maybe . . . that bar at Overton Square?"

"The Looking Glass? That sounds like fun. You might have asked the rest of us. We wondered where you'd gone off to. Who did you go with?"

"I don't remember."

"A girl? I bet it was a girl."

"Possibly."

"Was she fun?"

"I don't know."

"She didn't sleep with you, though."

"Why do you assume that?"

"You woke up here. No girl's going to sleep with you on the floor."

~ ~ ~

Friday, September 24

"Did we go to Memphis the other night?" I ask Clamor.

She's standing in the doorway to Blaylock's Drugs, smoking a cigarette, hands in the pockets of her camouflage jacket, one leg bent backward, foot against the wall, doing what looks like a scene from _Midnight Cowboy_ (1969, MGM, Dustin Hoffman and Jon Voight, directed by John Schlesinger.)

Deputy Hacker is observing us from the park bench by the Confederate statue. He cranes his neck to keep us in view when a pickup truck hauling an upright piano crosses the intersection between us and him.

"Now you're just teasing me," Clamor complains. "You've been promising for weeks."

"I thought I might have already done it."

"You haven't."

"I'm free this afternoon. We could go now," I offer.

"I have other plans."

Clamor drops her cigarette to the sidewalk, crushes it with the toe of her boot, swivels, and stalks away. I turn right, to cross Lamar toward Garrett's shop, when something hits me hard across the back of my skull.

I fall forward, onto the asphalt. Tires squeal. A car horn sounds over my head. I open my eyes to find myself under the fender of a green Cadillac that seems somehow familiar.

The driver honks at me again. I drag myself out of the street, and the driver pulls away, laying on the horn as it proceeds along South Lamar.

I crawl back to the sidewalk, where Ho waits for me with a broom handle. She screams at me – something in Chinese, I guess – and brings the broom handle down twice more across my head and shoulders.

A small crowd of onlookers has gathered. Deputy Hacker ambles across the street, laughing, muscles his way to the center of the crowd and lifts Ho into the air by the collar of her shirt, like a kitten. She flails in his grip, still screaming.

"Get up, boy," Hacker commands. "You're a sorry excuse for an American."

I rise. A trickle of blood drips from behind my left ear onto my neck.

"What have you done to this nice little foreign lady?" Hacker suspends her easily, with one arm, a few feet above the sidewalk. She hasn't stopped screaming at me.

"Nothing. You were watching. She attacked me."

"Nothing? I can't believe that. This little lady clearly wants you dead. So what have you done to deserve so much hatred?"

~ ~ ~

Saturday, September 25

The Marijuana Harvest Festival was Garrett's idea. He, Cindy and Andrew have decorated Tyler Avenue like a hippie farmhouse.Garrett's baking a half dozen apple pies laced with pot. He sends me out to a feed store on Highway 6 to pick up as many bales of hay as I can fit into my car, party decorations.

The old guy at the counter is suspicious of my motives.

"Hay? What you need hay for?"

"For a horse," I lie.

"What you doin' with a horse?"

"It's not my horse. It belongs to a friend. It's visiting, while my friend has an operation. Hernia operation," I add. "He was trying to pull the engine out of his F250 with a block and tackle that he'd strapped to a limb of a live oak in his front yard. The limb snapped under the weight; he tried to grab the rope, and pulled a hernia. My friend's name is Ray. He's from Utica. The horse's name is Rocky. After Rocky Marciano. A gelding. Nine years old, about 15 hands high at the withers. Quarterhorse/Morgan mix. Likes Cracker Jack, straight from the box. Can't get enough of it. But who doesn't love Cracker Jack, right?"

"Your friend must be pretty stupid. Load up out back."

And now I have a problem: how to fit three bales of hay into a VW bug. The store's two hired hands in back approach it as a challenge in structural engineering. The first bale's easy. Tipped at just the right angle, about 57 degrees through the driver's side door, it wedges into the back seat, bends a little, and then collapses into the space with a sigh.

The second bale will fit, but only if we remove the front passenger seat. We take it out and strap it to the roof. The last bale we carefully dismantle into individual pads that are stacked on the floor. I save the twine to reassemble that bale when I'm back on Tyler Avenue.

A dozen or so onlookers, other customers picking up their feed deliveries for the week, have assembled by the time we're done. A cheer goes up as we fit the last pad into the glove compartment. My watch says 4:30.

An ancient black man with a white beard has observed us throughout, from the shade of an eave over one of the feed sheds in the yard. As I'm shaking hands with the two workers, the old man yells at me.

"Where you takin' that hay to?"

"Oxford."

"Fool. Town's only five miles away," he points out. "Why didn't you just make three trips? Would've been finished an hour ago!"

At Tyler, I unload and reassemble the bales, reinstall the front seat, sweep as much hay as I can out of the interior, and grab a shower. Voices of arriving guests sound from below as I turn the water off.

Downstairs, I find all of last Saturday's harvest work crew, Nick and Suzie (both looking beatifically pregnant), James' sorority chick and other hangers-on. Dr. Hirsch, of course. Dottie Carroll has brought a stack of albums from the Nickleodeon, all new releases, she says.

Amy Madigan is glowering at Garrett's 48"x72" day-glo poster of Che Guevara on the parlor wall.

"There used to be an original Chagall there," she points out.

"Yeah, we decided to take it down. Garrett doesn't believe that surrealism is a legitimate art form. I'm surprised to find you here."

"James invited me."

"Oh-ho. So you and James are . . . ."

"Don't even joke about that. I'm warning you," she says. "He's been trying to get me in bed since the novel was published. I'll admit he's pretty to look at. But I prefer articulate men whose resumes don't include future time spent in federal prison."

"So you came for . . . ?"

"I came to bear witness to the degradation of this beautiful old home at the hands of a bunch of drug-addled adolescents."

"How are we doing?"

"It's worse than I expected." Amy glances from the Che poster to the centerpiece that Cindy's created: a purple lava lamp surrounded by a decorative assortment of dried gourds, in keeping with the harvest theme. "The pie, however, is excellent. It has an earthy quality, unlike anything I've tasted before."

"You should have another slice," I suggest.

Another unexpected guest in the living room: Joan, on the couch, sitting between a glum-looking James and his sorority chick.

"I have fond memories of this couch," she's saying to the sorority chick. "James and I bought it a month before our wedding. And the first time I screwed Brother Leopold, it was right here." She pats the cushions fondly.

"I'd still like to know who invited you tonight," James complains, "so I'll know who to murder in the morning."

"That would be telling," Joan says.

I find a cloud of sweet smoke and a crowd of partiers in the kitchen. In the center, at our table, sits Ho, with a hookah. She gazes up at me smiling, eyes brimmed over with love and good will.

"She brought hash," Garrett tells me. "Dottie says she got an enormous brick of it up in the projectionist booth. You ought to try some. It's the best shit you'll ever have."

I'm chatting with Suzie about how it feels to be pregnant, some hours later, when Amy Madigan approaches, fails to halt her steps in time, tips me over and lands on top of me amid a scuffle of feet.

"I've been poisoned," she mutters as I try to help her stand.

"You're stoned," I say.

"Impossible."

"There's pot baked in the pie. Couldn't you taste it?"

"Pot pie?" Amy giggles. It's the first time I've heard her giggle. "Pot pie? We used to have that for lunch in grammar school. It never made me feel like this before."

She giggles like a horse, choking. She stumbles about, disoriented, back into the crowd. I lead her upstairs, by the hand, out of danger, into my room. She scowls in dismay when I turn the light on.

"Is this where you _live_? Good lord, it's depressing. You live like a monk. You _look_ like a monk. Do you know that? You look like one of those Buddhist monks fasting in the wilderness. All you need is to shave your head and get a little bowl to beg for rice with."

Another giggling fit. Amy collapses on the floor and crawls to my pallet. Somebody knocks at my door. I open it. Framed in the doorway, luminous from the hallway light behind her, stands Joan.

We stare at each other.

"Daniel?" she begins, before glancing into the room.

Amy falls back onto the pallet with a witch's cackle.

"Oh," Joan says, "excuse me." And she's gone.

I stand in the doorway for another moment, wondering what just happened.

"Was that Joan?" Amy asks.

"I think so."

"Coming to your room? Did you have an ass?"

"A what?"

More giggling. "Sorry. Did you have an as-sig-na-tion . . . yes, did you have an assignation with Joan?"

"Not that anyone told me about."

"I have a secret," Amy says. "It's about assignations."

"I'm not a big fan of secrets."

"You'll like this one. Harold is having an affair."

"I've heard it rumored."

"It's true. But you don't know with who. No, I mean you don't know with whom. With _whom_ Harold is having assignations. It will shock you."

"I'm not easily shocked."

"Harold is sleeping with Dr. Giordano's wife," she hisses. "Mrs. Giordano."

"I take it back," I admit. "I am easily shocked."

Amy rises, uncertainly, to her feet and moves toward the open door.

"Where are you going?"

"More pie," she whispers. "Pot pie."

~ ~ ~

Sunday, September 26

Garrett wakes me at 7:30. We walk together in silence to the Square to see what the mysterious Christian has left overnight.

"Judges 8:29," I read. "Riddle me that one, preacher boy."

Garrett thinks for a few moments. " _'And Jerubbaal the son of Joash went and dwelt in his own house_.'"

"That's the whole verse?"

"Yep."

"Nothing more?"

"Well, Jerubbaal buys a couple of six packs of Bud and invites everybody over to help him move his shit. God shows up with a bunch of cardboard boxes he fished from a supermarket dumpster, and they share a pizza."

"What a swell guy."

Garrett seems puzzled. "It's an odd verse to cite. I wonder if our friend got the books confused. Maybe he meant Exodus 8:29."

"How does that one go?"

"' _And Moses said, Behold, I go out from thee, and I will entreat the Lord that the swarms of flies may depart from Pharaoh, from his servants, and from his people, tomorrow: but let not Pharaoh deal deceitfully any more in not letting the people go to sacrifice to the Lord_.'"

"So he supplies moving services and pest control. Your god's kind of blue collar."

"He's very good with his hands," Garrett agrees. "After all, he made Joan."

"Ah, yes. That was a masterpiece. I hope he took the rest of the day off after her made her." I pause for a second. "She showed up in my room last night."

"You're shitting me."

"I am not."

"What did she want?"

"I never found out. Amy was already there, so Joan left."

"Now I know you're shitting me. Amy would never visit a young man's room without a chaperone."

"She was stoned on your pie. I rescued her from making a spectacle of herself downstairs. That was good pie, by the way."

"My grandmother's recipe. I wonder what Joan wanted."

"We may never know."

~ ~ ~

Monday, September 27

A sweet young coed is weeping hysterically as I walk past the Chemistry building, on my way to Linguistics. She's weaving, unsteady on her feet, supported by two friends who are holding her by the arms. Campus cops in mirrored sunglasses are scurrying around the Loop, talking to each other on army surplus walkie-talkies.

I ask a frat boy if he knows what's going on. He laughs.

"Some old guy showed her his dick. She's probably never seen one before."

"Poor thing. She'll be traumatized for months. Old dicks are disgusting."

"Old _people_ are disgusting," he agrees, and adds with a shudder, "Have you ever seen an old naked woman?"

"Can't say that I have."

"You've lived a charmed life, then."

"That's what I keep hearing."

~ ~ ~

Tuesday, September 28

"You need to talk with Dr. Sutherland," Goodleigh advises. "He's been asking about you. I'll watch the Museum."

"Not today. Please."

"He's chairman. You can't spend the next two years avoiding him."

Sutherland's office in Bishop Hall is dark when I arrive, but he's in, staring out the window onto the roofs of Fraternity Row as he sits slumped in his swivel chair.

"Medway, good of you to drop by." His voice is flat. "As your primary academic adviser, I'm urging you to abandon this nonsense of an advanced degree in Classics. Do something useful with your life instead. Move to Baja. Buy an avocado farm. Marry some pretty Mexican girl who will keep your beers chilled and bear you strong sons."

I take the chair he gestures to, facing him across the desk and into the glare of the window. "Are you unhappy with my work?"

"You haven't done any work yet. I'm here to save you from wasting your time by starting."

"I gave it a lot of thought up at Virginia. This is really the career I want to follow."

"Then I hope the Lord will be merciful unto you. Teaching's a terrible job, and universities are rotten to the core, all of them. The academic life looks like fun from the outside, but I assure you, it's awful once you get stuck in it. Worse than an unhappy marriage. Just ask my ex-wife."

"I was sorry to hear about you and Mrs. Sutherland."

"Well, thank you. She sends her regards, and wants to know if you're still house painting."

"Only interiors."

"That should be your career," he pounces. "Something practical. The world doesn't need another scholarly monograph on Virgil, but it can always use a fresh coat of paint."

"I've been thinking about a dissertation on Herodotus."

Sutherland presses the palms of his hands to his forehead, as if trying to battle off a severe headache. "No. No. No. Not Greek. For the love of God, if you insist on this foolishness, concentrate in Latin, not Greek."

"I know what you're about to say."

"I'll say it anyway. Greek's a drug that rots the brain. Every Greek scholar eventually goes insane. Just look at me."

I complete his thought for him. "But you've never met a mad Latinist."

"Or one that didn't live to be at least 90 years old. Facts are facts. Studying Latin is the path to a long and happy life."

"What if that's not what I want?"

"Then you're an idiot, Medway."

~ ~ ~

Wednesday, September 29

"Did you give me drugs Saturday night?" Amy demands.

We're in the Student Union. I'm simply here to buy a Milky Way from a vending machine in the Grill, to have for lunch in the Museum. She's carrying a Styrofoam cup of coffee from the counter, on the way back to a table where her entourage of young professional southerners has gathered, when she spots me.

Her voice is loud enough for them to hear, even over the din of conversation in the crowded room. Six sets of accusing eyes rest on me.

"You helped yourself to two slices of marijuana apple pie, from an old family recipe. I didn't feed them to you."

"What was I doing in your bedroom then?"

"Lower your voice, please. Nothing happened."

"I know nothing happened, Daniel. Christ, I'm not stupid."

"We were just having a friendly conversation."

"Somebody else was there, though."

"Joan dropped by. After she left, you told me a secret."

"What secret?"

"Concerning an assignation."

Her memory apparently returns. Amy's eyes go wide. The anger drains from her face, along with some of the color.

"I was drunk."

"You were stoned."

"Crap. You can't repeat what I said. And you can't let Harold know. For my sake."

"Of course not. We're friends, aren't we?"

~ ~ ~

Thursday, September 30

Garrett, Andrew and Cindy descend the steps in matching Colonel Rebel sweatshirts. They look ridiculous.

"Off to church?" I ask.

"Pep rally in the Grove. Big game against 'Bama on Saturday. You should come along."

"No thanks. I've been to more than enough pep rallies."

"Ah," Garrett says, "but I bet you've never been to one on mescaline. It's a completely different experience."

He's right. We're here, I'm high, and the crowd is a cyclone of electric energy illuminating the night. Everything is alive, even the park benches and the sidewalk. We're all brothers and sisters united in tribal ecstasy, cheering for our team of brave lads setting out on their epic battle against Alabama.

The cheerleaders are angels, each and every one. I've already shouted myself hoarse on "Hotty Toddy" and "Go Rebs" by the time this crush of humanity parts and the players rush through us like young gods, assembling on the stage where the Coach awaits, a towering lantern of heroic leadership.

I love my team. I love my Rebels. I may weep for love.

But hark! He speaks!

The Coach speaks to the crowd! He speaks and he speaks and he speaks some more, and I don't understand a word he says, and I wonder for a moment over this until I'm struck blind by the realization that the Coach is speaking in tongues.

A miracle. It's a miracle. The Holy Spirit has descended upon this pep rally and has touched the tongue of our Coach.

It's the Epiphany at Ole Miss, and now I do weep . . . for joy as well as for love. And in thanksgiving. I vow to turn my life over to the Lord.

I grab Garrett by the shoulders. "Tell me about your Jesus," I plead.

But he doesn't seem to hear me over his own shouting. "Fuck Alabama! Fuck them! Butcher their cattle! Burn their fields! God, I hate them so much! Goddamn them all to hell!"

He appears to be raving. The crowd has cleared a space around him, backing away from the mad man.

"Kill them all! Kill them all! Exterminate the brutes! Wipe Alabama off the face of the Earth!"

A campus cop ambles into the open space and takes Garrett by the arm.

"You're getting a little too carried away there, boy," he says, in a kind of amiable warning.

" _Take your stinking paws off me, you damned dirty ape_!"

Andrew steps forward, looking professorial with a pipe in his mouth. "I'll see him home, officer. He's a patient of mine."

Garrett collapses to his knees and pounds the grass with his fist. " _You maniacs! You blew it up! Ah, damn you! God damn you all to hell_!"

"That was a swell pep rally," Cindy remarks as we arrive home. "Can we go to the malt shop next?"

"Anything your pretty heart desires," Andrew replies.

~ ~ ~

Friday, October 1

I'm in the Jitney Jungle watching a roach crawl between two bags of Gold Medal flour. I'm also pushing a cart that contains the following items: a box of brown sugar and cinnamon Pop Tarts, three cans of cream of chicken soup, a six-pack of Coke, a tube of Maclean's toothpaste, a kitchen sponge, and a package of hot dogs.

There seems to be a problem. I can't remember why I'm buying these things. I also can't remember how I got here.

And a glance out the front window tells me there's a major thunderstorm in progress.

I hope I brought the car.

~ ~ ~

Saturday, October 2

Dottie Carroll, Garrett and I are sitting on the waterbed in the Ohm, sharing a joint, when Jeb – the older of the Carroll brothers – ascends the back staircase from the appliance store showroom. He glowers at us from the doorway.

"Mother, I've told you I don't want you smoking that."

"Don't be such an ass-wipe, Jeb." She takes another toke.

"I've come for the September accounts," he says to Garrett.

The shadow of a smile crosses Jeb's face as he reviews the ledger Garrett gives him. The shop is doing well.

"We have to stop stocking the Zig-Zags," Jeb says.

"They're one of our biggest items."

"They might be considered paraphernalia. City attorney's looking into it."

"Nonsense. Half the men of Lafayette County roll their own. You can buy papers at every gas station, same as condoms."

Jeb grimaces at the word and casts an anxious glance toward Dottie.

"Yes, son, I know what a condom is," Dottie assures him.

"Who's minding the Nickelodeon?"

"I left Ho in charge."

"Mother, that woman is insane, and she can't even speak English."

"She knows her way around a cash register."

Jeb gives an exasperated sigh. "Fine. Maybe while Ho is running the shop, I can get her to order some Conway Twitty albums."

She passes the joint to me and glares at Jeb. "Don't you dare defile my store with your country music!"

"That's what people around here like! Country's what people listen to, and buy!"

"Then they can buy it at the five-and-dime. I have standards."

Jeb leaves.

"I can't believe I actually breast-fed that little piss ant," Dottie confides. "He was always a thorn in my side."

~ ~ ~

Sunday, October 3

"What the hell is this?" James demands.

Garrett, Cindy and I are around the kitchen table eating Cap'n Crunch when he storms in, the latest handbill from the anonymous Christian in hand.

"Deuteronomy 23:1," Garrett reads. " _He that is wounded in the stones, or hath his privy member cut off, shall not enter into the congregation of the Lord_."

"My god won't let you into church if you're not wearing shoes or a shirt," I point out.

"These things are hanging all over the Square. Who's behind this?"

"No one knows. It's been going on every Sunday morning, for weeks."

"Weeks? Why wasn't I informed?" James is in a lather.

"I wasn't aware you needed to be informed, man. Some crazed evangelist is posting Bible verses on shop windows. No big deal."

"And that's what you really think this is – some nut posting random quotes around the Square."

Garrett chews a solemn mouthful of Cap'n Crunch, considering the question. "Yep," he finally replies. "That's what I think we're dealing with. But never mind me. What do _you_ think is going on?"

"I think it's code. Somebody's sending a message."

"Well, of course. That makes perfect sense." Garrett returns to his Cap'n Crunch.

"What did the other signs say?" James asks of me.

"Oh, something about scaling a wall and insect plagues and some guy moving into a new house."

"Psalms 18:29," Garrett says. "Judges 8:29. Hebrews 8:12."

James writes the books and numbers on the back of the page. "And now Deuteronomy 23:1. There's got to be a pattern here. I'll find it."

~ ~ ~

Monday, October 4

I'm sitting zazen at Faulkner's grave in the Oxford cemetery. Half an hour before sunset, and a hint of autumn in the air, the first time I've noticed it this year.

The air is still, no breeze at all, but the leaves of a tall tree across the lawn are somehow managing to shudder, and the way the sunlight glints off them as they move makes the tree look like it's clapping its hands, applauding for itself.

Applause. Applause. Silent applause.

Once again, I'm not alone here. Someone else – or something – is invisibly taking shape in the air, three or four feet to my right.

"Citizen?" I ask silently, with my mind.

No response. Then with a start that shakes me out of hara, I realize that I am truly not alone. Someone is watching me from the hill beside the grave. I let out a breath and turn to see who's there.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to startle you."

It's a man, mid-30s, short sandy-colored hair, dressed in khakis. He descends the hill, to join me.

"I've seen you around town," he says, "meditating. It always looks very calming, very peaceful."

"Without it, I'd have to drink a lot more than I already do."

"Maybe you could teach me how to do it sometime."

"It's not something you need to learn. You just do it."

He smiles and extends a hand toward me. "Perry."

"Daniel."

"I know. Seen you around town. Listen, I have a message for you. Call it friendly advice. Get rid of anything you might be holding out there on Tyler Avenue. A big bust is on the way."

~ ~ ~

Tuesday, October 5

When Dr. Hirsch stops by for the rent, he arrives with a surprise: dinner, packed in a dozen steaming cardboard containers that he sets out with open lids on the kitchen table.

James' girlfriend Rose lifts each container to her nose for a sniff. "Ling Mung Gai," she says. "Ma Yi Shang Shu. Cheng Du Chicken. Kung Pao Chi Ting."

"You know your way around a Chinese menu," Hirsch marvels.

"I spent two years in Soho, trying to break into modeling. Chinese was what I could afford. I didn't know you could get these dishes down here, though."

"You can't yet, but you will by next year. At my new restaurant."

"So this is your big investment?" I ask. "A Chinese restaurant?"

"Like nothing this town has ever seen. And not just an ordinary restaurant. A gourmet restaurant. Patrons will come all the way from Memphis to dine. Top quality, totally authentic oriental cuisine. I've hired a chef directly from China. Her name is Ho. You may have seen her around town."

"Tiger and Jimmy Woo's sister?" Garrett asks.

"Yes, they're my partners. They were the ones who devised this plan."

"Do you know anything about Ho? Talk around town is that she's unbalanced, and she lives in the Lyric theater projectionist booth."

"She has to live somewhere. The boys can't keep her in their dorm room."

"And that Tiger and Jimmy kidnapped her. She's got a husband and family back in China."

"Well, that can't be true. They're very nice boys."

"A Chinese restaurant in Oxford," Garrett wonders after Hirsch has left.

"A gourmet restaurant," James amends.

"Shit. Hirsch is going to lose his shirt. Then he'll have to sell this place to the Baptists"

~ ~ ~

Wednesday, October 6

An insurance agent is sitting on Nick and Suzie's couch, filling in a form perched atop a clipboard on his knees, when we arrive for dinner. Suzie's in the kitchen, baking her famous vegan lasagna, heavenly aromas wafting from the back of the apartment. Nick sits on a beanbag chair facing the visitor, answering questions.

"Do you smoke?" the agent – an old white-haired guy in a seersucker suit – asks.

"Oh, yeah."

"He means cigarettes," Andrew points out.

"Oh. No, I never touch tobacco."

The agent glances up from his form, fuzzy white eyebrows arched, before writing a checkmark in the appropriate box, with a sigh.

"Alcohol consumption?"

"Nothing stronger than ginseng tea."

"Nick's a saint," Cindy vouches. "He lives a very clean life. Not like the rest of us."

He arches his eyebrows again to glance at her, then takes a little plastic cup with a lid from his briefcase and hands it to Nick.

"I need a urine sample."

Nick answers with a confused expression.

"Pee in it," Andrew says.

Nick now looks even more perplexed, but rises to his feet and begins to unbutton his fly.

"Not here," the agent says, exasperated. "Take it in the bathroom." He turns to us as Nick leaves the room. "Any of you kids thought about life insurance?"

"My father tried to get a policy on me when my draft notice came in," I reply, "but the company turned me down. I was going to be too much of a liability serving my country over in Vietnam. I think it was Mutual of Omaha."

"You were drafted?" Andrew asks. "Then why aren't you in the army now?"

"Because I'd died in the meantime. I showed up for induction when I was supposed to, but the draft center's records showed that I was deceased. So they didn't want me anymore, and I left. I wasn't inclined to argue the point with them."

Suzie enters the room, spatula in hand, and glares at the old man on her couch.

"What's Nick up to, buying life insurance?" Cindy asks.

Suzie rolls her eyes. "He's going to be a father. He's a family man now, with a wife and a child to support. Did I get your sales pitch right?" she asks the agent.

"Your husband loves you very much. You're a lucky woman."

"Yes, I am. Because, you see, without insurance, if something happened to Nick, the baby and I wouldn't be able to continue living this palatial life-style." She gestures at the four walls of the cramped room. "So on the day of Nick's funeral, this gentleman will meet us at the graveside with a check for $15,000."

Nick returns with the tiny cup now filled and sets it gingerly on the floor, beside his left foot. A few more questions are asked, followed by answers. The agent passes the clipboard to him, tapping the point of his pen on various points of the form.

"I'll need your initials here and here, and your signature at the bottom."

As Nick rises to take the clipboard, his large foot bumps the little cup on its side.

"Uh-oh," Andrew says. "Nick just did a number one on the floor!"

"I'll clean it up," Suzie says, ducking into the bathroom for a roll of toilet paper.

"I'm sorry," Nick apologizes.

"Do you think you can give me another?" the agent asks.

"I really don't think so, not right now. Not till after dinner. Say, would you like to join us? We're having lasagna. Suzie, could we . . . ?"

"I'll set another place," she sighs, running a hand through his hair. "We've got plenty."

~ ~ ~

Thursday, October 7

Over the noise of water in the shower, I hear a knock at the door and Cindy's voice asking to come in. Probably needs to brush her teeth. I yell that it's okay.

The bathroom door opens and closes, followed by the shower curtain parting and Cindy stepping into the tub beside me.

"Big rush. I have an 8:30 interview. Can't be late."

"Interview for what?" I manage to ask, as I step aside to let her into the spray.

She raises her freckled profile into the water, along with both hands and douses her tangle of hair under the shower head. Her entire body undulates. Blood rushes from my brain. I might faint.

"Waitress at Grundy's. What else can I do with a degree in Sociology, right?"

I'm willing myself not to get hard, but not successfully. If she notices, she doesn't seem to care.

"My god, you _are_ skinny. Haven't you gained any weight since you got back? Girls don't like to sleep with skeletons, you know. Tell you what – if I get this job, I can bring restaurant food back for all of us sometimes. Meat plus three, Grundy's specialty."

She graces me with a half grin, then reaches for the shampoo.

I exit soundlessly, wrap a towel around my waist and step into the hall, hoping that nobody else, especially Andrew, is around to witness my condition.

~ ~ ~

Friday, October 8

It's noon. I'm crossing the quad with Dr. Goodleigh, on our way to the cafeteria. She's wearing her hair loose today, the black and gray streaks all the way to her waist. Suede vest over a peasant blouse. High black boots, ankle-length maroon skirt, granny glasses, and her infamous IUD earrings.

I'm once more struck by love, as fresh as that first day I saw her, my freshman year, descending the steps of the Library on Good Friday afternoon.

I don't care about the 23 years that separate us. If I thought Dr. Goodleigh would have me, I'd go down on one knee before her at this very moment, and declare my love, amid the gawking of undergraduates rushing from building to building during class changes.

Instead, we walk on, my heart aching, through the cafeteria line (stuffed peppers and fried chicken today's entrees), to be beckoned, as expected, to Dr. Giordano's round table in the corner.

"What's your button say?" he asks Dr. Goodleigh.

She pulls a corner of her vest aside so he can read it, yellow letters on an indigo background: "Uppity Women Unite!"

Giordano sneers. "Ah, femminista. A crime against western civilization."

"What would _il Duce_ say?" she wonders.

He ponders, decides to ignore the bait. "Unnatural," he says. "Unnatural for a woman to be without a man."

"Oh, I don't know about that. No more unnatural than some of the pairings I've seen around here."

Now he does take offense. "For an older man to take a girl for his bride is not unnatural."

"Lighten up, Aldo. I wasn't referring to you."

"I know people talk. Small-minded people. A simple, innocent girl from Livorno, 17 years old, but with her family's blessing. They knew I could give her a better life."

"Well that's just bull," Dr. Goodleigh comments, once we've returned to the Museum. "He takes a girl from Tuscany, one of the most beautiful places on earth, and moves her to north Mississippi? How's that an improvement in her life? What can she possibly have here that she couldn't have had at home?"

"Chitlins," I suggest.

Dr. Goodleigh nods. "Fire ants," she adds.

"Poison sumac. Kudzu."

"Grits."

"Conway Twitty."

"Every girl's dream."

~ ~ ~

Saturday, October 9

At last, someone with information on Melissa.

"She visited from time to time until Bill finally went into the hospital," Mrs. Sutherland tells me.

Mrs. Sutherland and I are at her kitchen table sorting through swatches to choose colors for her remodeled dining room. She's hired me to paint once the dry walling is finished.

"Her father suffered from clinical depression," I say. "Melissa's always had a big heart when it comes to that kind of problem."

"She was one of the few people who could actually cheer him up. She had such a way with Bill. I kept telling her that she ought to consider a career as a counselor. She used to sit right where you are today," Mrs. Sutherland adds. "We'd chat for hours."

I am shameless enough to ask the obvious question: "Did she ever mention me?"

"Now and again. She felt sorry about leaving you for that actor boy and running off to New York. What was his name?"

"Paul."

"Paul, yes. So handsome. Well, I guess you heard how that romance ended badly, why she came back to Oxford. But then – poof – she vanished again. I miss her. There was more to her than I'd ever imagined. She'd always struck me as a flighty little thing whose clothes were never quite able to stay on."

"One of Melissa's more endearing qualities," I sigh, recalling her. "Garrett used to call her the Deciduous Girl."

"Some of the faculty wives called her a little tramp. Not me, of course. 'Goodness,' I'd say to them, 'if I were twenty years old again and had a figure like hers, I'd be getting out of my clothes every chance I get. Wouldn't you?'"

We continue sorting through paint samples.

"You know, Bill is very concerned for you," she ventures. "He thinks you're wasting your time, coming back here."

"Can you imagine a better employment for a young man without ambitions and obligations than wasting some time?" Then, to change the subject, "When do you want me to start the job?"

"The contractor's still trying to get the insulation right around the sky light, so that my dry wall man can come finish the ceiling. I can't wait for you to meet him. A very interesting man. His name is Mr. Duck. Some kind of a genius, I think."

~ ~ ~

Sunday, October 10

"Cindy did that to me, too," Garrett acknowledges when I report the shower incident. "It's her idea of a joke."

We're strolling up Van Buren toward the Square. The sky is dark blue, the air cool, not quite crisp, but the leaves are starting to change color, a hint – every here and there – of yellow and orange.

"What did you do?" I ask.

"Hell, I played along. I took the longest shower of my life and thanked the Lord for every second of it. Beautiful women don't jump into the tub with me that often, you know."

I let loose a sigh of regret. "I wish I'd had your presence of mind."

"Presence of mind is what I'm famous for. That, and phenomenal control over my manhood."

"Meaning you didn't get a hard-on."

"I told him to mind his manners. After all, he didn't wish to terrify the young lady with his gargantuan proportions."

"Impossible."

"You simply don't understand, because you're not as advanced as I am."

We turn the corner to discover the Square festooned with handbills bearing the words, "Matthew 10:14." James has arrived before us, with Andrew in tow. Our resident mathematician is scribbling on one of his spiral notepads.

"The verse is . . ." Stewart begins, but James stops him.

"I don't care what it _says_. What it says is irrelevant. Don't you understand? The message is in the numbers!"

Andrew looks up from his notebook and shakes his head. "I don't detect any meaningful pattern, James."

"Maybe it's not the numbers," I offer. "Maybe it's the letters. Don't they have abbreviations for all the books in the Bible? Maybe those letters spell something."

Andrew cocks an eyebrow. "Perhaps it's an alpha-numeric code. Or perhaps the letters themselves have a numeric value."

"What is Tamburlaine up to?" James wonders.

Deputy Hacker chooses this moment to emerge from the courthouse. He struts across the street to join us. "You boys responsible for this littering?"

Andrew steps up as spokesman of the group, our most upright member. "Certainly not, officer. My understanding is that this has been going on for weeks. These lads have played no part."

Hacker spits on the sidewalk, shakes his head. "Well, I'll get to the bottom of it, don't you worry. The sheriff has put me in charge of the case."

"Really? I imagine he'd wish to lead the investigation himself."

"No, he's got bigger things to do." Hacker gives us a malicious wink. "Like busting dirty hippie drug rings."

~ ~ ~

Monday, October 11

Dinner with Dr. Hirsch at Colemans. He's never tasted barbecued pork before. After his first sandwich, he steps up the counter to order a second, then a third.

His face is covered in sauce, and bits of pork fly from his lips as he proclaims, "Delicious! I can't believe this restaurant has been here so long and I never knew about it."

"For dessert," I suggest, "you might want to a Hostess Fruit Pie. Lemon is my favorite. You can ask the cook to warm it in the microwave."

Dr. Hirsch' face breaks into an expression of ecstasy with his first bite of the pie. "I'm going to have seconds," he announces, between mouthfuls.

"This is good," I advise. "You should be taking a professional interest in your competition."

"Oh, news on that front, my boy. Tiger, Jimmy and I have almost closed a deal for a storefront right on the Square."

"Really? Which one?"

"There's a bridal store there now."

"Sure, I know the place."

"It's going out of business. I suppose people aren't getting married anymore."

"Why would anyone want to?"

"We may be able to open before Christmas."

"Great news." I raise my Coke bottle in toast, and Hirsch clinks it with his own.

At this moment, he seems to get distracted by something through Colemans plate glass window, on the sidewalk.

"Look," he says. "It's that very strange young man again."

I turn in the booth and crane my neck to see. It's Clamor, hands buried in the pockets of her jacket, walking alone toward the Square.

"Clamor is a girl, Dr. Hirsch."

"Really? Are you sure?"

"No. Actually, I'm not."

~ ~ ~

Tuesday, October 12

The Nickelodeon is having a Columbus Day sale, 25% off any artist born in the New World.

The shop is crowded. Dottie is attending customers, dressed in a ruffled smock, a pirate's hat and a fake hook hand. That is, Dottie's wearing an outfit – not the customers.

Ho is at the cash register with a bandana on her head and a patch over her left eye. She curses at me and turns around in her stool, refusing to check me out when I approach the counter with _Teaser and the Firecat_. Dottie takes care of me instead.

"I don't think Columbus was a pirate," I observe.

She just laughs. "If the history books are right, he was one dumb, lucky racist bastard. I never saw any point to Columbus Day myself. But a market opportunity is a market opportunity."

The coed in line behind me overhears and gets upset. "I don't think that's a very patriotic attitude," she complains. "Christopher Columbus was a fine Christian man, and a great American."

"Step forward, honey," Dottie coos, "let me see what you have in your hand."

I move out of line as the girl passes her albums to Dottie, who sorts through the stack slowly. She has copies of _After the Gold Rush, Who's Next_ , and _L.A. Woman_.

"You know, honey," Dottie says, "I don't think you're smart enough to understand this music. Why don't you step across the street to the five-and-dime and get some Carpenters instead?"

The coed's face smolders into a sudden blush. "Cunt," she spits.

"Columbus was an _Italian_ , you stupid bitch," Dottie calls to her back as the girl storms through the door.

"You're not doing anything for Columbus Day," I remark, popping in on Garrett at the Ohm.

He and Rose are lying on the water bed, finishing a joint.

"I don't know why you'd say something like that," Garrett answers. "I celebrate in my own special way. Later, I'm going to find some Indians and infect them with smallpox."

~ ~ ~

Wednesday, October 13

Andrew and I are peeling the foil away from a container of Jiffy Pop when somebody knocks on the front door.

It's a stranger, holding a three-ring notebook and a _Webster's Collegiate Dictionary_. In his 30s, but trying to look younger. Black trousers, white dress shirt with an open collar, bit of chest hair peeking out, five-o'clock shadow, Brylcreamed hair slicked down to a part.

Narc.

Andrew opens the wooden door, but leaves the screen closed.

"Hi, guys," says the narc. "I'm a student. Lots of studying to do. Just wondering if you fellows have any diet pills I could buy."

"I'm sorry," Andrew replies, pleasantly, "but I believe you've confused us with a branch of Weight Watchers."

The door closes, the narc looking crestfallen.

~ ~ ~

Thursday, October 14

The second floor lounge in Bishop is packed with undergraduate English majors dreaming of literary greatness. All of them Amy Madigan devotees.

I enter unobtrusively, and find a seat near the back. Dr. Evans is addressing the group. He nods to me in acknowledgement of my presence as I skulk in.

"Ole Miss hasn't had a literary magazine since 1962, when the campus was occupied by federal troops, and the department felt it wise to limit student outlets for self-expression. So when Miss Madigan," here he gestures to Amy, in the front, "approached the faculty with her idea to launch a new magazine, we were very enthusiastic."

Amy rises, addresses her disciples about the magazine's mission and philosophy, and proclaims herself editor-in-chief. "My assistant editor," she adds, "is someone most of you don't know. He recently returned to campus, and is in the Classics department." She pretends to peer, myopically, into the audience, though I know she's already spotted me. "Did Daniel make it today? Oh, yes, there he is. Stand so everyone can see you."

I stand. Heads turn and necks crane to behold me. I sit down.

"One of your first jobs," Dr. Evans adds, "will be to decide on a name for the magazine. We've had several suggestions, but none has seemed quite right. Daniel?"

I hadn't expected to be called on a second time. I hadn't even expected to be called on a first time.

"Yes, sir?"

"Didn't you have a creative team working on a new title? What did they come up with?"

I rise from my seat. Heads turn again. "Yes, the Tyler Avenue brain trust labored for several days on this question, with copious consumption of Wild Irish Rose, moon pies and grass. And we finally agreed on the one name we're sure everybody here will be really proud of: _Interstate Orgasm_."

The room is still.

"I like it," Dr. Evans replies. "But I'm afraid it won't work for the Baptists."

~ ~ ~

Friday, October 15

James and Andrew have left on another road trip. I learn this from Garrett upon my return from another long day in the Museum. "I suspect Hacker kind of spooked them with that talk about a bust. James was pretending to act cool, but I think he decided to clear out till the heat lifts."

"Do you think the sheriff is really building a case against James?"

"Naw. Hacker was just yanking James' chain. I can always tell when he's bluffing. Besides, Claprood's got other priorities."

"Who's Claprood?"

"The new sheriff. Paris Claprood."

"Our sheriff's name is _Paris Claprood_?"

"Not a bad guy, once you get to know him."

"Well, I'm surprised James would leave right in the middle of the new Tamburlaine mystery."

"Not to worry. He's going to call every Sunday for the latest verse from the Anonymous Christian."

"How in the hell is he going to do that? We don't have a phone."

"That's where you're wrong, lad. Please step into the parlor."

Garrett leads the way. There on the corner table sits a shiny black plastic monstrosity, like a giant cockroach.

"It's just a telephone," Garrett soothes. "Nothing to be afraid of."

"If it rings," I say, "I won't answer it."

"Relax. Nobody except James has the number. Everything will be fine."

"Wish I could believe that. Nothing good ever comes of a telephone."

"We all understand how you feel," Garrett says.

~ ~ ~

Saturday, October 16

Movie night: _The French Connection_ at the Lyric. Just as Garrett and I are preparing to leave, Rose, then Clamor and finally Dr. Hirsch arrive, all looking for James, all disappointed to learn that he's back on the road again, though Rose takes the news philosophically.

"Probably best for him to get away. Rumors are flying all around town about a big bust in the works. You boys aren't holding, are you?"

We invite them to join us for dinner at Colemans, before the movie. We make an odd-looking party – Clamor, Hirsch, Rose, Garrett and me in the corner booth with piles of barbecue, Cokes and Hostess fruit pies.

"This may be the strangest date I've ever been on," Rose says to me as we proceed together to the Lyric.

The theater is crowded tonight, but we find five seats together in the second row. We've smuggled two bottles of Wild Irish Rose in with us. Garrett unscrews the first and passes it down the line.

We've barely gotten settled in when the show starts. No previews. No cartoons. No news. Some French detective gets his head blown off while checking a mailbox. Gene Hackman's dressed up like Santa Claus, singing "Hark the Herald Angels Sing" with a bunch of kids in a bar. Then there's a chase scene that ends with Gene pistol-whipping a pusher and questioning him about picking his feet in Poughkeepsie. The bottle comes back to me.

Jane Fonda is a high-price call girl who's being stalked by a serial killer. I'm trying to make the connection between this story line and the one with Gene, who's tracking drug runners, but there isn't one. It turns out we're watching a preview of another movie entirely.

"Do you smell something?" I whisper to Garrett.

"Hash. Ho and the projectionist must have lit the bong."

Gene and Roy return. (Hackman and Scheider, not Autry and Rogers.) The audience settles back into the film until a Woody Woodpecker cartoon interrupts another chase scene. The audience is shouting curses and complaints at the projectionist booth.

"I love Woody Woodpecker," Clamor volunteers.

The screen goes blank, and stays that way. People begin stumbling for the exits in the dark, searching for the manager, but only old Jeff, the one-toothed guy who mans the ticket stand and the candy counter, is on duty tonight.

We finish the first bottle and unscrew the lid on the second. The screen lights back up with a newsreel about President Eisenhower visiting a Boy Scout Jamboree.

"I loved President Eisenhower," Clamor says.

"Better than dipshit Nixon," Garrett agrees.

A frat boy two rows back warns us not to be bad-mouthing the president. We trade insults. Dr. Hirsch is giggling.

The frat boy threatens to beat the shit out of us, but his whiney date is bored and wants to leave. So they do, just as _The French Connection_ comes back on, a car chase scene that segues into an advertisement for the 1968 Chrysler 300, voice-over by William Conrad.

"That's the narrator from _Bullwinkle and Rocky_ ," I point out.

"I love Bullwinkle," Clamor says.

Garrett passes the bottle to us with a warning. "Hey, I'm trying to watch the movie. You guys hold it down, or I'll have the usher remove you."

"There is no usher."

"There is no movie."

Indeed, the projectionist appears to be randomly loading any reel of film he can find. He must have quite a collection.

The house lights are back on when I wake. Old Jeff is nudging me in the ribs with the end of a broom handle. My watch says it's 2:18. I wake the others and we stumble out of the Lyric and back to Colemans, for coffee and more fruit pies.

"This is definitely the strangest date I've ever been on," Rose decides.

~ ~ ~

Sunday, October 17

Garrett answers James' call on the second ring.

"Where are you guys?" he asks. "Lexington? What's happening in Lexington? Oh. Okay. I get it. Yeah. Yeah. It was Proverbs 31:16. Yeah. Okay. Bye." He laughs. "James is convinced that the phone is already tapped."

"What was that about Proverbs?"

"I told him that was the verse for the day."

"You lied. Nobody posted anything overnight. So what's that verse?"

" _Give beer to those who are perishing, wine to those who are in anguish_."

"I'm perishing."

"So am I. Let us hasten to Holly Springs. Mayhap to meet an angel on the road."

~ ~ ~

Monday, October 18

An ambulance is parked along Fraternity Row and a gurney is being wheeled into Bishop Hall as I get out of class. Dr. Goodleigh is watching the excitement from her office window in Bondurant when I reach the Museum.

"What's going on?" she asks.

"Somebody had a heart attack in Modern Languages."

Her left eyebrow arches. "Really? Which specific languages did he have the attack in?"

"Okay, so it wasn't a bilingual coronary. I meant that somebody in Modern Languages had a heart attack."

"Every time I see the squad over there," she says, "I worry that it's going to be Bill Sutherland attempting suicide again."

"Mrs. Sutherland says he's in therapy."

"As if that ever cured anybody. The doctors can't do anything for depression. Just talk, no treatment. And his condition seems to be deteriorating."

Dr. Goodleigh follows me back into the Museum, apparently in a mood for talk.

"Somebody died right here, you know."

"I didn't."

"Back in 1959. The Museum hadn't been created yet. This space held offices for the Philosophy department. Old Dr. Linen, 38 years of service, attended that year's commencement ceremonies, then returned to his office and hanged himself. Right where your desk is."

"May I move my desk?"

"Quite a few times I thought I've seen him doddering around here, squinting at the pots. Does that surprise you?"

"That there was somebody on the faculty named Dr. Linen?"

"No, that he haunts the Museum."

"Oh, please. This whole town sits on some kind of psychic sinkhole. Show me a building around here that doesn't have at least one ghost. My junior year in Garland Hall, even the second floor shower stall was haunted."

"Then Professor Linen shouldn't present a problem for you."

~ ~ ~

Tuesday, October 19

Dr. Evans is commiserating with me about my difficulties with my German class. We're at lunch in the cafeteria.

"It's an unsonorous language," he agrees, "though very well constructed, grammatically. Sort of like a Volkswagen."

"The department requires it for an advanced degree, though. They say that the best classical scholarship for the past century has been in German."

"Linguistically, though, it would make more sense to have you proficient in a romance language. _Si dovrebbe imparare l'italiano_."

"You speak Italian?"

"I was stationed in Sicily during the war." Dr. Evans fiddles with his pipe again, trying to keep it lit. "Picked it up like a native, but I haven't had much cause to use it since."

"You could have long chats with Dr. Giordano."

Cindy suddenly appears, drops into the chair beside me.

"I'm sorry I said you're skinny."

Dr. Evans stops messing with his pipe. His eyes widen with interest.

I make introductions. "Cindy, Dr. Evans. Dr. Evans, Cindy."

"Pleased."

"As am I. But I don't understand what you're apologizing for. Daniel _is_ skinny."

"It's not so much _that_ I said he's skinny, as _where_ I said he's skinny."

His interest intensifies. "Where did you say he was skinny?"

"In the shower. And he's been avoiding me ever since. He didn't even invite me to the movie with our friends last Saturday night."

"Look," I say, "you just caught me by surprise. I didn't expect you to . . . ."

"I was in a hurry. I explained that. And I thought you'd wash my back. I had to go to the interview with a dirty back."

"No gentleman would leave a young lady with a dirty back," Dr. Evans chastises.

"He almost jumped out of the shower," Cindy says to Dr. Evans, "as if he'd never seen a naked woman before."

"You _have_ , haven't you?" Dr. Evans asks me.

"Well of course I have. I just didn't expect to see Cindy naked. It was embarrassing."

"Why?" Cindy wants to know.

"Because you're a friend."

"No kidding. I wouldn't have come in if I didn't like you, you know."

"But, I mean, that's all we are. Friends."

Her eyes widen. "What? You thought I was after your body? Wow. What's wrong with you, Daniel? I mean, who raised you to think that way?"

"Yes," Dr. Evans wants to know, "who _did_ raise you?"

"Look, I'm sorry. You just caught me by surprise, is all."

She rises and stands stiffly by her chair. "No, no. My mistake entirely. I didn't realize how delicate your sensibilities are. I'll try to find a burka at Neilson's to lounge around in at home, so you'll never be embarrassed again."

Dr. Evans watches her leave. "I don't know," he says. "She'd probably still look pretty good, even in a burka."

~ ~ ~

Wednesday, October 20

"Men are idiots. All of you. Idiots," Rose declares.

I'm reporting yesterday's conversation with Cindy on our way back from a beer run to Holly Springs. I've volunteered to make the actual purchase, because it's considered un-ladylike for a member of Delta Delta Gamma to buy five cases of Bud from the carry-out on Highway 7.

Serving as her male factotum, I've conducted the transaction and loaded the beer in the trunk, while Rose remained inside her '69 Mustang, incognito.

Now we're on the road back to Oxford. Just over the Tallahassee bridge, we notice a Lafayette County squad car stationed by the side of the road, deputy in the drivers seat doing nothing. No speed gun. No nothing. Just watching the traffic go past.

"What can I do to apologize to Cindy?" I ask as Rose accelerates, once out of his line of vision.

"This calls for flowers," she says. "Roses. Red."

"I don't have any money."

"You mean you've already spent your cut from the Harvest?"

"Garrett and I have vowed to use that money for good works."

"Idiots. Look in my purse. I think I have a $5.00 bill in there. Call it a loan until the first of the month."

Rose parks behind the sorority house and checks inside, to be sure the house mother isn't around. As we unpack the trunk, a dozen or so of the sisters wander out. A few help carry, but the majority simply watch.

Since they've all probably seen the trunk of a car being unloaded before, I assume I'm the object of curiosity – a real live hippie, in the flesh. They've probably heard cautionary tales about us at Vacation Bible School. Still, the ladies seem friendly enough.

"Thank the nice man," Rose says to them as I'm leaving.

"Thank you, nice man," they call.

Five dollars is enough to buy four roses at the flower store on Jackson Avenue, with 13 cents change.

"Somebody's funeral, college boy?" Deputy Hacker asks when he sees me carrying them across the Square.

"They're for a girl."

"You oughtn't be throwing your money around. You're going to need cash pretty soon to post bail for your friends. Maybe even for yourself. Major bust is coming down."

Cindy's curled on the couch, watching a rerun of _I Dream of Jeanie_. I enter the room, flowers hidden behind my back.

She glances from the set to me, suspicious, then returns her gaze to the screen, petulant. "What do you want?"

I produce the bouquet and extend it to her. "I just want you to know that you never have to leave the house with an unwashed back again."

~ ~ ~

Thursday, October 21

I wake on my pallet, with Herodotus fanned across my chest. The lamp is on, and my clock reads 11:17.

Noises downstairs. Furniture being pushed around. Cupboards being opened and closed.

I creep down the steps to see what's going on. Somebody's trashing the place. Cushions have been pulled out of chairs and sofas, books swept from shelves, everything on the floor.

They're in the kitchen now, dumping our boxes of cereal, rice and dried spaghetti on the floor, digging with bare hands into our canisters of flour and sugar.

It's the thug from James' harvest deal, with one of his partners.

"Where is it?" he asks me.

"Where is _what_?"

"It."

"Look, James is out of town. I don't know what you're searching for, but it's probably not here. And that's our food, man."

"You know where he is?"

"I don't. Chrissake, look at this mess. If you guys think we're holding here, you're wrong. Not with the bust about to happen. James cleaned out everything before he left town."

"We're leaving, too. Just as soon as we find it."

"What in the hell is _it_?"

The thug's partner punches me in the stomach and I collapse.

"Ask James," the thug says. "He knows. Tell him I'll be back."

~ ~ ~

Friday, October 22

I hold the dust pan and the trash bag while Suzie sweeps food from the kitchen floor. "What do you think they were looking for?" she asks.

"It."

"What has James gotten himself into this time?" she asks the air.

"Hey, Daniel," Nick says. "What were you raised as?"

"What species? My mother was human. My father's a capitalist."

"No, I mean what religion."

"Catholic."

"Far out. What was that like?"

"I was either bored shitless or scared shitless the whole time. It's a faith delicately constituted of tedium and terror. Why?"

"Nick thinks we should join a church," Suzie explains. "For the baby. He wants our child to have all the disadvantages we had."

"I think religion is a good thing for kids."

"Yes, certainly – if you want them to be emotionally scarred and intellectually stunted."

"What the fuck happened here?" Garrett asks, standing bewildered in the doorway.

"James' drug buddies trashed the place, searching for something," I report. "I'm amazed you slept through the racket."

"I wasn't even here. I've been out all night."

Suzie sniffs the air with a frown. "What's that smell?"

"That's me." Garrett glances down at the caked soles of his tennis shoes. "I've been walking in cow shit."

~ ~ ~

Saturday, October 23

Mr. Duck, Mrs. Sutherland's dry waller, looks nothing like a duck. Actually, he most closely resembles a piece of driftwood. Lean, sinewy, not a trace of beard or body hair, apart from the fringe of white on his head. His smoothly weathered skin seems to give off a brown glow.

The way he cocks his head and peers at me when Mrs. Sutherland introduces us is, however, distinctly bird-like. The insulation problem around the sky light has been solved, and Mr. Duck has just installed the last section of dry wall. The mud between the seams still wears a wet sheen.

He's taking a cigarette break on the back porch with Rusty, his heavy-set assistant.

"So you're in Classics. You've read Xeonophon?" Mr. Duck asks me.

"The _Anabasis_ was required translation in my sophomore Greek class."

"I'd like to learn Greek someday. But not for the _Anabasis_. I'd like to read his Socratic dialogues, see how they compare to Plato's in the original. In the Loeb's translation I have back at the trailer, he avoids calling Socrates 'wise,' which is a central word in Plato's characterization, probably to avoid tainting him with Aristophanes' accusation of being an atheist. Which he was, of course. And he deserved what he got."

"What are you saying?" Rusty demands.

"I'm saying that the court was right to convict him. Socrates was an oligarchic collaborator, an enemy of democracy. An enemy of the people. Who do you think inspired Alcibiades and Critias to revolt?"

"Socrates was a martyr to the truth."

"Bull. What junior high school textbook did you get that idea from?"

"He saved Leon of Salamis."

"He did not. Socrates ran home like a scalded dog and hid under his bed. Don't talk to me about Leon of Salamis."

"I don't know why I ever bother arguing with you," Rusty grouses. "You've got a closed mind."

"Because you work for me, and an ignorant drunk like yourself is lucky to have a job." Mr. Duck rises, stubs his cigarette in the lip of a bottle of RC Cola, and turns to me. "The walls will be finished and dry by Friday. You can start any time after that. Come out to the trailer park sometime. You know where Campground Road is? We can talk history without pea brain here interrupting."

~ ~ ~

Sunday, October 24

James, when he calls, refuses to say where he and Andrew are. He also refuses to explain what the mysterious "it" is that his dealers are searching for.

"Don't worry," he tells Garrett, "I don't think they'd actually hurt any of you."

"Bastard," I say when Garrett reports the conversation to me. "I hope you gave him another fake verse."

~ ~ ~

Monday, October 25

Rain all day. Lacking an umbrella or a coat, I decide to take the car to school and am thus available to offer Dr. Goodleigh a ride home from the Museum.

As we pass the tennis courts, I point out the site of the flasher's most recent appearance, earlier today.

"Out in weather like this," Dr. Goodleigh marvels. "You certainly have to give him credit for dedication. But he's going to have to move inside before long."

"A sure sign of the seasonal change, when the flasher goes indoors. Sort of a groundhog in reverse."

"We should make October 25 a holiday. If the flasher exposes himself outdoors, it means we'll have six more weeks of autumn."

As we reach her house at the dead end of 8th Avenue, overlooking the ravine, Dr. Goodleigh invites me in. "Don't pay any attention to the cats," she advises.

Her house is much like I've always pictured it – a few large, open rooms, sharp contrasts of light and dark tones, meticulously tidy, modern art everywhere.

"I'm told young people still drink beer," she says, "so I always keep some on hand. Since I don't drive, it's difficult for me to get to Holly Springs to renew my supply, so I'm very choosy about whom I offer one to. Or would you prefer wine?"

I begin to answer but am interrupted by an animal's shriek to my right. As I turn toward the sound, a sinewy streak of motion passes by, barely grazing the tip of my nose. I turn my head left and encounter a large Siamese coiled beside me on the couch, claws extended and teeth bared in a hiss.

"That's Melpomene," Dr. Goodleigh says. "Ignore her."

The cat fixes me with a terrible glare of spite, and produces guttural noises from somewhere in the back of her throat. Something even larger than Melpomene lands beside my head on the backrest, and echoes her unnatural caterwaul.

"That's Linus. After Linus Pauling, not the _Peanuts_ character. They're brother and sister."

I sip the beer and battle my flight-or-fight instinct as the corners and baseboards of the room seethe with additional presences, fluid movements of fur, teeth and claws all around me.

"How many cats do you have?" I ask.

"Seven. I'm a living stereotype, I know: crazy old maid and her cats. Still, here we all are. I realize they're a little intimidating."

Another slithers around the corner of the couch, sits by my feet and gazes at me.

"Are they all Siamese?" I ask.

A cat fight has started in the kitchen, a chorus of banshees howling and hissing. Melpomene and Linus leap from the couch to join in, but this one remains at my feet, appraising me with ancient, cold eyes. I reach out to touch her sleek head, between the prongs of her sharp, dun-colored ears.

My hand comes back with the cat attached to it. Her fangs sink into the web of flesh between my thumb and forefinger, her front claws dig into my forearm, and her back feet thrash against my elbow.

I scream like a little girl.

The attack ends as suddenly as it began. The cat leaps into the air with a howl and vanishes into the kitchen. Blood is everywhere. Dr. Goodleigh rushes me into the bathroom, and after a few minutes of running water and pressure, I'm able to staunch the worst of the bleeding. She produces antiseptic and gauze from her medicine closet, binds the wounds, and offers me three fingers of Scotch in a cut-glass tumbler.

"Ice?" she asks.

I nod.

By the time I return to Tyler Avenue, I am haggard, bandaged like the walking wounded, and quite drunk.

Cindy turns off the television when she notices my condition. "What happened?"

"Can't you tell? I petted a kitty."

~ ~ ~

Tuesday, October 26

The sky has emptied itself of rain. I wake early, with no one else about, to cool crisp air and a sunrise that dons a shade of blue only seen in the fall.

I leave the house without coffee and follow Van Buren to its dead-end at the train tracks, only to discover that I am not, after all, the earliest riser in Oxford this morning.

I spy an unlikely pair of people sitting zazen on the platform of the old train depot – Clamor, and the man in khaki who asked me about meditation that evening in the cemetery. It's tempting to join them, but I head for fresh coffee at the Grill instead. I've never been able to focus on my breathing very effectively while managing a hangover.

Amy Madigan is sitting alone at her usual table, no protégés in sight, pondering a blank page in a journal.

"I got mauled by one of Dr. Goodleigh's cats, and then drank half a fifth of her Scotch," I say, to explain my appearance after Amy squints a critical eye in my direction. "Dr. Goodleigh's Scotch, I mean. Not the cat's. I don't think she lets her cats have alcohol. If she does, she shouldn't."

"Did you see Harold in the lobby?"

"No."

"He's talking to somebody in one of the phones booths. Probably Mrs. Giordano. I really don't understand what the fascination is."

"I've heard she's young and sexy."

"She's not that young. Supposedly she was a child bride when Giordano married her, but that's been a while ago. She's not a kid anymore."

"Still, she's younger than Dr. Evans. How much younger is she than Giordano?"

"There must be 30 years between them. He flew in Mussolini's air force."

"I wonder if he includes that on his curriculum vitae. How does it come to pass that you know so much about everybody else's business?"

She gives me her best patronizing frown. "I'm a writer, Daniel. And unlike some of us I can mention, I'm dedicated to my craft."

"And your craft is meddling?"

"Do you suppose Faulkner wrote _Absalom! Absalom!_ by minding his own business?" she sniffs.

"I always imagined he wrote it by dropping acid."

"Take a look at the girl over at the back table," Amy prompts.

I do. A wild-haired brunette in a peasant blouse and a blue scarf spangled with yellow stars. She's dealing cards from a worn deck onto the tabletop.

"She's a witch," Amy tells me. "From down near Thibidoux. An Ole Miss boy named Blake had a fling with her one weekend in New Orleans. She followed him up here, and moved herself into his trailer without his asking. They say she's insane, and dangerous. Now, her coven's joined her. People say they run with packs of feral dogs out in the woods."

"If you weren't talking about Oxford, I'd know you were making this up," I say.

"This town is like some weird story that's writing itself," Amy agrees.

~ ~ ~

Wednesday, October 27

"Let me take a look."

"No, it's fine."

"It isn't, though. It's infected."

"Just a little red and swollen."

"That's what an infection looks like. You need an antibiotic. Take the day off. Go to the infirmary."

"I'll be fine. Give it a day or two."

~ ~ ~

Thursday, October 28

Cindy and Garrett want to throw a Halloween party Saturday night. The idea worries me.

"Word is the bust is coming down this weekend. Even though we've cleaned out the house, anybody could come walking in with drugs. That narc who keeps showing up, for example. He could sneak in and plant something."

"You really need to relax," Garrett says. "We're not going to get busted. We're not the target – at least not this time around."

"How can you be so confident?"

"I have very reliable sources."

~ ~ ~

Friday, October 29

I'm just returned to the commune after applying the primer coat to Mrs. Sutherland's new dining room. I've scarcely closed the door behind me when somebody knocks on it: a chick in bell bottom Levis, a broad-brimmed hat and a poncho. She looks like she ought to be wearing a gun belt and have a cheroot in her mouth.

"You must be Daniel," she says. "The skinny one."

I nod, and she offers a hand. Calloused palm, firm grip, cool skin.

"Ashley. I'm a friend of James. We met on the road. He said I could crash here if I was ever in town."

"James is away."

"I know." She drops a canvas backpack on the parlor floor. "I saw him day before yesterday up in Indianapolis." She rummages in her backpack for a plastic baggie of grass. "Do you have any papers? I've run out."

Cindy appears, curious about our guest.

"You must be Andrew's girl. Love his accent. I'm Ashley."

Cindy brightens at the sight of the baggie. "I've got some banana-flavored Zig-Zags upstairs. Wait right here."

"How did you meet James and Andrew?"

She takes off the hat to reveal a head of long, frizzy blondish hair. Under the poncho, she's got on a red Chairman Mao t-shirt. No bra.

"Looking for Tamburlaine, what else? I know – James told me you guys don't believe he exists. I don't believe everything that's said about him, either, especially not the werewolf shit. But there's a real person in there somewhere that I'd like to meet some day."

After we finish the joint, I walk to Colemans and return with a bag of barbecue sandwiches. It's after 11:00 when we've finished eating.

"I'll fetch my bedroll from the car," Ashley says.

"James invited you. I'm sure he wouldn't mind if you crashed in his bed."

"Well . . . if you're offering me a bed, I'd rather sleep with you."

"He doesn't have a bed," Cindy says. "Just an old sheet and a pillow."

"Bedroll it is, then," Ashley concludes.

The screen door shuts behind her, then opens and shuts again a minute later. I toss the Colemans bag and the sandwich wrappers in the trash, wipe the kitchen table clean, turn off the lights, and climb the stairs to my room.

Ashley's bedroll has been spread across my floor, and Ashley herself is in it, bare shouldered.

"It's comfortable," she says, patting the cushioned quilts of the roll, "and plenty big enough for both of us. Don't be shy."

"We just met a few hours ago."

"Right. And I'm leaving tomorrow. We don't have time for a long courtship. Can you think of a quicker way to get to know me?"

~ ~ ~

Saturday, October 30

"You're looking awfully pleased with yourself," Cindy remarks as I pass her the car keys to drive to the Jitney Jungle for party food. "Maybe now you understand why I keep telling you to get a real bed."

Dr. Hirsch is the first guest to arrive for our Halloween Ball, followed by Clamor, and then by Rose, who's brought three of her sorority sisters with her, doubtless to witness the authentic bohemian squalor that exists just across the railroad tracks from their old money splendor. They can't stay long. They'll be off in a bit to one of tonight's blowouts on Fraternity Row.

"Look, they're not even wearing costumes," I hear one of the sisters whispers.

This isn't exactly true – Garrett's wearing a Richard Nixon mask.

"They're poor," Rose explains, acting as tour guide to the lower classes. "Most of these people can barely afford regular clothes. That one," she adds, pointing to me, "doesn't even own a winter coat."

"And it's going to be a cooooold winter!" I add, using my Old Prospector accent.

Ashley steps up and wraps her arms around me. She's decided she can stay until morning and still make her Monday rendezvous in Dallas. "That's okay, baby. I've got something right here to keep you warm."

With Garrett's paycheck for the week, Cindy's been able to buy lots of food and Wild Irish Rose, and somehow Garrett himself managed to score four bottles of Jack Daniels. It's a good party, but a little more raucous and sharper-edged than our usual. Blame the absence of grass for that.

Ashley has her eye on Clamor.

"What a fascinating girl."

"That's Clamor. And we're not sure whether she's a girl or a boy."

"Oh, come on. That's definitely a girl, can't you tell? And she's lovely."

I make the introductions and stand idly by as they chat for a few minutes.

"Who was that man I saw you meditating with the other day?" I finally ask.

"That was no man. That was the sheriff."

"What?"

"That was the sheriff."

"Why are you meditating with the sheriff?"

"Because we haven't gotten around to astral projection yet."

"Oh, I've done that," Ashley says. "It's amazing."

At this moment, Joan steps through the crowd, radiantly perfect with a plastic cup of Wild Irish Rose in her hand. She begins to speak, notices Ashley's arm around my waist, smiles, and vanishes back into the hubbub of the room.

"Come to bed," Ashley whispers in my ear a little while later.

We retreat once more to the bedroll in my room and listen to the party below. Music and voices. Voices, music and laughter. Music loud, voices loud. Music softer, voices lowered. Then suddenly a loud voice. No more music. Other voices – angry, alarmed. Footsteps ascending the stairs. Voices complaining.

I leap from the floor, switch on my lamp and have barely managed to clamber back into my jeans when the bedroom door flies open and Deputy Hacker storms in.

"Shut it! I've got a warrant," he shouts before I've managed to utter a squawk of protest.

"Allow the young lady to cover up," I say.

Hacker – to his credit – acts the gentleman and turns his back while I pass Ashley's t-shirt to her. When he faces us again, I detect an expression that I've never seen him wear before. The man's embarrassed. It's an angry embarrassment, but embarrassment nonetheless.

A second cop steps into the room behind him. They perform a visual of the room that lasts no more than 10 seconds.

"Nothing here," the cop says.

"I knew it'd be a goose chase," Hacker complains. "Let's move on."

They turn to leave. They haven't checked my pockets, looked into my empty shoes, opened the closet door, rummaged through my pile of dirty clothes, unscrewed the lid of my jar of Tasters Choice, nothing I'd expect from a drug sweep.

Hacker and his buddy are already out the door. I follow them to the steps. Below, a small army of lawmen are exiting the front door. This is good news, and I know I shouldn't jinx it by engaging Hacker in any further discussion. But I have to ask.

"What were you guys looking for?"

"Beer," Hacker barks back at me. "Just plain old goddamn beer!"

~ ~ ~

Sunday, October 31

Ashley has just pulled away in her '65 Mustang. I wave from the curb and return sadly to the house, where I find Garrett at the kitchen table with his morning bowl of Cap'n Crunch and a copy of the _Commercial Appeal_.

One of their reporters apparently had a tip about Sheriff Claprood's plans and managed to get a full report of the bust into this morning's edition.

The illegal substance: beer. The targets: three fraternity houses, the Oxford country club, and a hippie commune.

No arrests at the fraternities – those boys are seasoned escape artists who know exactly what to do when the cops arrive. The upper classes of Oxford, however, are less adept at concealing their transgressions.

The news story recounts a state of panic at the country club, with well-heeled patrons fleeing into the night, absconding in golf carts, rolling pell mell across the links, abandoning the carts at the sixth or ninth of twelfth hole and striking out into the woods – ladies in sun dresses and high heels, men in seersucker suits pursued by the law under the harsh illumination of a nearly full moon.

I've never met the new sheriff, but I'm in awe of his balls. Oxford's private clubs, no less so than the frat houses, have brazenly defied Lafayette County's beer ordinance for decades, through the terms of a half dozen of his predecessors. For Claprood to start enforcing it amounts to a declaration of war on the city's leaders.

"You weren't here for the election," Garrett explains when I express my admiration. "Claprood ran on a law-and-order platform. He's enforcing the laws on the books, just like he was elected to do. It's just that the godly citizens of Oxford didn't think he'd enforce any of the laws they're accustomed to breaking."

"Incredible."

"He's an honest man. Smart, too. All he has to do is take a hard line on the county's beer prohibition, and it will be repealed by next year."

"And then?"

"And then," Garrett says, cheerfully, "he'll probably come after us. But we'll worry about that when the time comes."

I rise from the table to leave, then notice another handbill, face-down beside Garrett's elbow.

"Today's verse?"

"No, something altogether different."

He hands it to me: " _Keep the Square American_."

"What does that mean?" I ask.

"No idea, but suppose we'll find out soon enough."
Part 3. Troop Movements

November 1 - 26, 1971

Monday, November 1

Dr. Goodleigh insists on examining my injuries again. "You've got to have that looked at," she declares. "Today."

"I think it's getting better. I'll give it a few more days."

"Listen to me," she says. "I don't keep you around here for your good looks."

"I never once thought you did."

"And I don't have any use for a one-armed typist. What are you afraid of?"

"Nothing good comes from doctors."

"So you'd rather be an amputee," she observes, "and be called Stumpy for the rest of your life."

So I head to Guyton Hall, where the infirmary nurse sticks a thermometer in my mouth, straps the cuff around my outstretched arm and checks my blood pressure. She watches the meter with routine boredom, then with a glimmer of curiosity.

The cuff deflates, and she pumps it back up to check a second time. Then a third. She takes the thermometer out of my mouth, reads it, and asks, "How long have you been unconscious?"

Dr. Michaels checks the infection, injects some antibiotic in my arm, and studies my chart.

"Do you suffer from dizziness?"

"Sometimes."

"Blackouts?"

"Frequently."

"I'm not surprised. Your blood pressure is only 60 over 40. From a medical perspective, you shouldn't even be able to carry on this conversation we're having right now."

"Well, I've always thought you were very easy to talk to."

"Have you... uh, have you considered psychotherapy?" he asks, delicately.

"The doctors in Charlottesville had me see one of the shrinks on the university staff."

"How did that work?"

"She and I started sleeping together."

Dr. Michaels lifts an eyebrow. "That's highly unprofessional. She should be disbarred."

"A very bad psychologist," I agree. "But a lovely person, all the same."

~ ~ ~

Tuesday, November 2

"Darvon?" Garrett asks.

"No, thanks. I'm going to make a sandwich instead."

The refrigerator is stuffed with leftover loaves of Sunbeam bread that Cindy's been bringing home from Grundy's.

"What's with all this damn bread?" I ask. "It looks like Jesus dropped in to fix lunch."

Garrett lifts the prescription bottle from the kitchen table and shakes it to make a sound like a castanet.

"I meant: you scored Darvon?"

"Oh, that. I told Dr. Michaels that I was in severe pain from the cat scratches. I thought my roomy might like them."

"Aww, you did that just for me?"

"I don't like Darvon. The buzz sucks. They just make me sleepy and constipated. My choice of drugs has never included the ones that make it so I can't wake up and I can't crap."

"Maybe, but watching television's a trip on these things. Here's a plan: I'll ask Rose over to watch _Hawaii Five-0_ tonight. All those big waves. She'll freak."

"Is that show really still on the air?" I slather peanut butter on a slice of the most recently rescued bread and take my seat at the table facing Garrett.

"We have bananas," Garrett mentions. "You could slice one up on that."

"Peanut butter and bananas? That sounds disgusting."

"It's Elvis' favorite sandwich."

"You've been reading fan magazines again?"

"No. He told me."

"Elvis told you he likes peanut butter and banana sandwiches?"

"Yeah, up at Skeeter's Bar in Holly Springs. He likes to hang out there, incognito."

"Elvis is in Las Vegas."

"Uh-uh. Elvis retired from show business last year – he's tired of all the fame and crap. Colonel Parker hired a bunch of impersonators to cover the Vegas shows. The real Elvis is back at Graceland, and he likes to hang around honky-tonks like Skeeter's. He always wears an old Quaker State cap and pretends to be a trucker named Virgil. Everybody knows who he really is, of course, but they're too polite to go up to him and say, 'Hey, you're Elvis!'"

"I find this very hard to believe."

"Suit yourself. You should still slice a banana on that sandwich."

"I might just do that."

~ ~ ~

Wednesday, November 3

Dr. Sutherland has sent me a thick campus mail envelope stuffed with newspaper clippings and stapled handwritten notes explaining the significance of each one.

I take it into the Museum and lay the papers out on my work table. It's an impressive bit of archiving, with stories that date all the way back to 1957 and that fall neatly into two distinct categories.

I arrange the happy stories to my right, and the tragedies to my left.

The right-hand pile includes stories of success: awards received, honors bestowed, grandchildren and great-grandchildren sired, academic dynasties founded and sustained, obituaries of octogenarians and nonagenarians whose lives abounded with joy and love. Sutherland's notes clarify that all these fortunate people had been classicists who had devoted themselves to the sanity of Latin.

On the left are tragic stories of suicides, prolonged stays in mental institutions, arrests and convictions, drug addictions, kleptomania, money laundering, gambling debts, fetishes, pyromania, obsessions, incest, exhibitionism, bestiality, treason, and necrophilia, all committed by classicists who had chosen the wrong path, the insanity of Greek.

Sutherland has included a personal note, hand-written on a sheet of departmental stationery:

Mr. Medway

It's still not too late to save your life.

W.S.

~ ~ ~

Thursday, November 4

Garrett is haggard but triumphant, mud-streaked, hair and beard sodden with rainwater. The fragrance of cow manure fills the kitchen from his dung-encrusted boots. He holds a hand-written list on a scrap of paper torn from a spiral notebook, and passes it to me.

"Shopping list," he says. "It's your turn to buy the groceries."

Martha White flour, dry yeast, olive oil, mozzarella cheese, tomato sauce, sausage, olives, onions, dried oregano and parsley.

"Saturday night pizza party," he explains.

"Where in the hell am I supposed to find olive oil? The Jitney doesn't stock it."

"Expand your possibilities. Take the car up to Krogers."

"Last time I was there, the manager ordered me out. He doesn't like freaks."

"Disguise yourself, then. Put your hair under a cap and borrow one of Andrew's dress shirts from his closet. This recipe needs olive oil. The party's ruined without it."

~ ~ ~

Friday, November 5

I run into Clamor, alone, eating a fish burger in the Grill. The place is all but empty. I have a roll of $5.00 bills bulging in my pocket from Mrs. Sutherland, my pay for the paint job.

"I'm on my way to Memphis for a winter coat and a bottle of olive oil," I announce. "Care to join me?"

I find a secondhand coat that fits me – a shearling – in reasonably good repair, for $7.80 at a thrift shop a few blocks south of Overton Square, and a big $2.00 jar of olive oil for sale at Forty Carrots.

Clamor orders another fish burger at The Looking Glass, and I splurge on two shots of Jim Beam, neat.

Our waitress recognizes me. "Nice to see you again," she says. "Where's your friend?"

"What friend is that?"

"The pretty girl you were with last time."

"I was with a girl? Really? Do you know who she was?"

The waitress gives me a look and leaves.

"When do you think James will be back?" Clamor asks.

"Don't know. We haven't heard a word from him. He hasn't even called on that telephone he had installed. The damn thing just sits there staring at us. I don't even like being in the same room with it."

A raw wind whips up on our walk back to the car, and I'm grateful to have a coat at last. It's dark brown suede reaching almost down to my knees, deep pockets, a high collar that flips up to shelter my ears.

"You look like a cowboy," Clamor remarks. "You look like the Marlboro man."

We take Highway 78 home, instead of the interstate, and finally arrive at the shop Clamor's been waiting to reach since August. It turns out to be a mom-and-pop gas station and grocery on the city limits of Olive Branch.

Inside, Clamor buys a half-pound slice of cheddar from a cheese wheel on display at the meat counter.

"That's it?" I ask. "You wanted to go all this way for cheese? You could've gotten that any place. You could have bought it at the Jitney."

"Maybe. But the other time, I bought it here, with Garret. Then I gave it to James, and he said he liked it. I wasn't sure the Jitney's would be the same."

"You know that James is a son of a bitch, don't you?"

"I know. But I can't help myself."

~ ~ ~

Saturday, November 6

"Don't scrape off the mushrooms," Garrett warns Dr. Hirsch, who's started to poke and prod at the three narrow slices of pizza on his plate.

"I don't really like mushrooms, though."

"Rest assured, you'll like these. The mushrooms are the whole point."

"But only three little slices, Garrett?" Dottie objects. "I've got a bigger appetite than that."

Garrett leans over to stage whisper in her ear, low enough not to alarm Dr. Hirsch. "Just enough to get you high without making you sick. They're magic mushrooms. Psilocybin."

"Garrett knows what he's doing," Nick agrees. "We've all learned from past mistakes. I'll never forget the first time we tried this, with the mushroom tea. I never threw up so much in my life." He grins at Tiger Woo, sitting on the other end of the couch with a plate balanced on his knees.

Tiger looks suspiciously at Nick. "You're not eating. Why not?"

"I'm going to be a father."

Tiger turns to Suzie. "You're not eating."

"I'm going to be a father's wife."

"Relax, brother. Eat!" Jimmy says, lifting a slice to his mouth with a grin that mirrors Nick's.

Cindy and Ho emerge from the kitchen. Ho is waving one of the mushrooms with the delicate cap and the long, slender stalk in the air like a private part, and cackling in delight.

"In China, these grow in underbrush, in the forest," Tiger says. "Where do they grow here?"

"In cow shit," Garret says. "Don't worry. I washed them."

Ho is dancing a little kind of jig now. Waving the mushroom in a circle over her head, she suddenly comes to a stop in the doorway where I'm leaning against the wall. She lifts her middle finger in the air at me and says something in Chinese.

Tiger turns ashen. Jimmy wears a momentary stunned expression and then laughs so hard that pizza flies from his mouth.

"What did she say?" Rose asks Tiger.

He shakes his head. "No translation."

Jimmy has collapsed on the floor in giggles.

"Why does she hate Daniel so much?"

"Yeah," Cindy agrees, "ask her that. We've all wondered."

Jimmy poses a question. Ho's look turns malevolent. She replaces the middle finger with the index finger and raises it to my face. Her voice is low, threatening, and the words come slow. When she stops, we turn to Jimmy for an explanation.

"She says you are Death. You look like Death. You talk and walk like Death."

"That's interesting," Cindy remarks, "because you really were dead once, weren't you?"

"Never mind, man," Garrett counsels. "People are so damn prejudiced. You die just one time, and they'll never let you forget it."

Being Death, oddly, doesn't bother me at all. I find it quite interesting.

"Ocarina," Dr. Hirsch calls out. " _Ocarina vermillion_."

Garrett and I glance at his eyes. All pupil, no iris. "Looks like somebody's on a trip," Garrett announces. "Let's move him over to the couch."

The man's expression is beatific, and he seems to float between us like a helium balloon as we lead him across the room by either arm.

"Happy trails, Dr. Hirsch," Cindy says, patting him on the head before she retires to stretch across the fireplace hearth which, being marble, is as smooth and cool as she is suddenly blotchy and flushed.

Dottie and Ho are dancing together. Jimmy is on his back, staring at the ceiling with a rapturous smile, while Tiger – ever vigilant, it seems – remains seated on the edge of a chair with the now-empty plate still balanced on his knees.

Nick moves from one body to the next, watching us and tending us with a motherly grace. I watch him move about the room leaving trails of color behind him as he passes.

Suzie's aura dazzles me, blinds me every time I try to look at her.

I'm having a conversation with the baby in her belly. It's a boy. They'll name him Samuel. At age 8 he'll break his collar bone falling out of a tree. At 16 he'll fall in love with a girl named Sally; they'll be separated after high school, but will find each other and marry – his third marriage, her second – when they're both in their 50s. It will be a happy life after that.

Samuel is aging before my eyes, kind of like Dave Bowman at the end of _2001_. He's now a withered old man in a pair of striped pajamas, smoking a cigar. He takes a drag and blows smoke into my face.

"Better try to look straight, my man," he warns. "The sheriff's here."

And suddenly, there he is, the sandy-haired man I met last month at Faulkner's grave: Paris Claprood.

I bolt up, adrenalin rush. I begin choking, and he pats my back.

"Hold on, son. Somebody's had a little too much wine, I think. Here, let me help you up."

The sheriff lifts me from what was apparently a prone position and sets me on my feet. Remarkably, my legs don't buckle under me.

"You kids are having quite a party. Oh, and Mrs. Carroll. Pleasure to see you, ma'am."

"Unexpected pleasure," Dottie replies. "Is this another bust? Your department needs to stop picking on these sweet children."

"No, ma'am. Just a friendly visit." He circles the room, starts shaking hands with everyone. "Perry Claprood. Good to see you. Perry Claprood. Hope you're doing well. Perry Claprood. Lovely evening."

Samuel, still in pajamas and still smoking his cigar, follows Claprood around the gathering, mocking him with exaggerated glad-handing pantomimes.

When Claprood spots Clamor, though, he folds his hands and bows. "Namaste."

Clamor rises, uncertainly but gravely, and returns the greeting.

"What can we do for you, sheriff?" I ask.

"Just wondering if I might have a word with Garrett."

I glance around, can't find him. Nick points a finger toward the second floor.

"Oh, I believe he's already retired, sheriff. Please have a seat. I'll be right back." I climb the steps carefully, glance once behind me to see Claprood watching my progress with a sympathetic grin.

Samuel has turned back into a baby again. He's dancing naked in the center of the room, but the sheriff can't see him. Just as well.

I discover Garrett and Rose stretched out on his bed, naked. They seem to believe they're making love, though they're obviously too messed up to do it correctly.

I poke Garrett's shoulder. "The sheriff's downstairs. He wants to talk to you."

I poke him again. And again. Garrett's oblivious to everything except what he thinks he's doing with Rose. I decide I can't watch any more of this without getting sick.

"Garret, I'm afraid, is indisposed," I say once I've managed to re-navigate the stairs.

"Could you and I step outside for a moment?" Claprood asks.

I follow him through the door. Samuel doesn't accompany us, but out on the porch I discover a choir of garden lizards performing a barbershop quartet version of "You Can't Always Get What You Want."

Claprood hands me a business card. "In the morning, as soon as you can, give this to Garrett. Tell him it's important. Tell him it's about Tamburlaine."

~ ~ ~

Sunday, November 7

Morning. Downstairs, Dr. Hirsch is still on the sofa, still wearing that smile. Still far far far away.

The others are gone, Cindy having made her way safely to bed. I hear her snoring softly as I cross to Garrett's room. He wakes when the door opens, and drapes a sheet over Rose before answering my summons to join me in the hall.

"One of our best parties ever," I report. "Even the sheriff dropped by."

"No shit?" Garrett dons a pair of jockey shorts and tousles the hair out of his eyes as I pass the card to him.

"He wants to talk about Tamburlaine. You need to call him."

Garrett gazes at the card, as if not comprehending its significance.

"Tamburlaine," I repeat. "What aren't you telling me?"

"I can't tell you anything you don't already know. Honest."

~ ~ ~

Monday, November 8

The library is under lock-down when I arrive. The Flasher has struck again, exposing his sad, withered genitals to a sophomore on the third floor of the stacks.

Campus cops stand at every exit while others inside have joined the library staff in a floor-by-floor, room-by-room, aisle-by-aisle sweep of the building. This time, he can't escape.

A group of us huddle on the front steps, in a chill rain, waiting to be admitted. I'm grateful for my coat. Eventually, the forlorn-looking circulation librarian unlocks the double glass doors, speaks a few words to the cops, and gestures for us to enter.

The Flasher has, indeed, somehow eluded them. I feel my spirits lift.

"The old pervert is certainly wily," Dr. Goodleigh marvels after I deliver the news in her office.

"Would you like to hear my theory?" I ask.

"I would love to hear your theory."

"He's a ghost."

"A ghost?"

"Think about it. He's been spotted almost a dozen times since the semester began, but in every case he seems to vanish moments afterwards. Poof. Gone. Everybody was sure they had him trapped in the library this morning. But he wasn't there. Who else but a ghost could keep escaping like that?"

Goodleigh cocks her head, giving the matter some thought, then calls out into the empty air.

"Dr. Linen? Are you listening? I have a message from the land of the living: if you're going around showing your old thing to the girls, knock it off! Nobody's impressed."

The mail arrives, and with it a letter from Valerie, postmarked Presque Isle, Maine. Wherever in the hell that is. Inside, a single sheet of her stationery, with a single message scrawled across it.

LSD – oh, my god!

~ ~ ~

Tuesday, November 9

"I know a secret about you," my new friend Little Becky says while we're alone at a table in the English office, reviewing piles of undergraduate doggerel.

This is my first meeting with the poetry staff of the still-to-be-named magazine. Three English majors have shown up. One is a would-be freak who insists on flashing peace signs and saying "far out" to every statement anyone makes. The second is a pimply freshman from Yazoo City.

And then there's Little Becky, who may truly be the tiniest grown woman I've ever seen. Shorter than Garrett, almost albino blonde, straight-haired, with a face that belongs to a 19th century porcelain doll.

"What secret is that?" I ask her.

"Well, I guess it isn't so much a secret since Dr. Evans told us about it in class today. You took first prize in the Southern Literary Festival a few years ago. James Dickey did the judging. I found a copy of that year's anthology in the library."

Here she produces the paper-bound program from the 1970 Southern Literary Conference, with all the winning pieces printed inside.

"I like 'Portrait of the War' best, I think. I like its caesura structure. You borrowed that from Hopkins, didn't you?"

I'm impressed. This girl is smart! I turn the pages of poetry I haven't seen since that stoned night in Columbia, South Carolina, years ago.

"Oh, lord," I groan. "Did I really write a poem called 'The Attack by Owls'? How about 'An Ear at 4:36.' That's terrible. It sounds like one of Amy Madigan's titles."

"Is it true that you got drunk with Dickey?"

"Yes. I belong to a select group of maybe 10,000 people who can say they've gotten drunk with James Dickey."

"What happened?"

"Didn't Dr. Evans tell you?"

"I'd like to hear it from you."

"Well, we were at some bar in Columbia. We were drunk, as I said. A bunch of us – Dickey, some of his students, people from the conference. We got into a conversation that turned into a debate and then into a shouting match between me and some grad student from Duke. Anyway, at one point Dickey chimed in by saying that real poets don't write to win awards. The grad student challenged me to tear mine up. It was a certificate, all embossed, with a dozen signatures on it from all sorts of writing teachers. Dr. Evans tried to stop me, but I did it: I tore it in half. Then I ripped the book into confetti and tossed it into the air all over the bar."

"You must have been really stoned."

"It was the first time I ever drank tequila. I always try to have a good reason for my stupidity."

"I was wondering," she asks, "if you'd be willing to look at my work."

"You write, but you haven't submitted anything? That's one of the perks of working on the staff – you're pretty sure to get something in the magazine."

"I wasn't sure my poems were good enough."

"Good enough? Have you read anything in this pile yet? It's awful."

She makes a face. "I don't care about how bad theirs may be. I care about how good mine can be."

~ ~ ~

Wednesday, November 10

Dr. Goodleigh examines my cat wounds and declares them healed. The swelling is gone, as is the redness. I'll likely have nothing more than a few small puckered scars to show my grandchildren.

"Do you have plans for Thanksgiving?" she asks.

I admit that I don't.

"I'm having a few people over for dinner. You should come."

"Will Linus and Melpomene be joining us?"

"I'm afraid you got off to a bad start with them. I'd still like for you to get to know each other better."

"Why?"

"I have my reasons."

I return home a few minutes after 6:00 to find Cindy staring at the television.

"What's on?"

" _Star Trek_. Remember that show? Channel 5 has started showing the re-runs."

I sit beside her to watch. It's the episode about the energy field that's holding the crew and a bunch of Klingons hostage on the ship, forcing them into battles so it can feed off their negative emotions.

"I almost forgot," Cindy says when the commercial comes on, "you had a phone call. Here, I wrote it down."

She hands me a note that reads, " _Daniel, you had a phone call_."

"Damn," I mutter. "Didn't the caller leave a name?"

"No. Just asked if this was where you live, and said he'd be in contact."

"The voice," I ask. "Did he sound a little like Boris Badenov from _Rocky and Bullwinkle_?"

Cindy giggles. "You know who it was, then."

I rise calmly, cross to the kitchen, open the utility drawer, and return with a screwdriver. I unscrew the plate covering the outlet. I twist off the wire connections, pull the cord from the wall, wrap it around the phone, open the front door, and hurl the machine into the darkness.

Cindy watches my actions without a word, at last patting the cushion on the couch beside her as I close the door.

"Hurry back. The show's started again."

~ ~ ~

Thursday, November 11

Veterans Day. No school, no classes, no Museum hours. Campus is closed. There's nothing I'm expected to do, all day.

I lie on my pallet until sometime after 11:00, dozing and listening to the sounds of rain on the roof, and the occasional cars and trucks passing on Tyler Avenue.

I consider and reconsider my options. Skoll knows where I am. Should I run, again, or stay put? Every time I reach a decision, I back away from it, retreat to the opposite corner and start over again from the beginning.

Enough of this. I crawl out from under the sheets, dig for a coin in my jeans pockets, find a nickel and toss it.

It comes up heads. Okay, decision reached. No running away this time. I'll stay to face the man.

The rain has tapered off, with a few hints of warm sunlight appearing. I take Herodotus, a cup of coffee and a joint onto the front porch, and that's where Garrett finds me when he arrives for his lunch break from the head shop.

He halts on the sidewalk and peers curiously at the hedge. "Can you explain why the phone is in the boxwood?"

"Because I missed. I'd meant to kick it all the way to hell."

He retrieves it, plops down on the wicker chair, takes a toke. "Better watch out, boy. This is the property of AT&T. Those people are ruthless, and they hate hippies. They've been known to kill. Besides, what did this phone ever do to you?"

"I got a call yesterday. From Skoll."

Garrett curls his upper lip in disgust. "Bummer. So I guess you'll be leaving."

I shrug. "Not much point to it. Skoll seems to find me wherever I go. I thought that hiding right here, in plain sight, might have thrown him off the scent. It was my last, best gambit. So I've decided to stay. Besides, I'll need to be here to testify in James' murder trial, after he kills you."

"I was wondering when we'd get around to discussing my little indiscretion," he replies, with a sideways glance. "In my defense, I simply have to say this: I'm the luckiest goddamn son of a bitch in America. Who'd have guessed that Rose would turn out to be a short freak?"

"Short freak?"

"Girls who get off on short guys. I've run into a couple of them in my extensive travels, but none like Rose. She's _sui generis_."

"James is going to come back eventually, you know."

"Well, maybe he won't catch on."

"He'll catch on. James is paranoid, but he's not stupid, or unobservant." Garrett sighs. "Yeah, if only he were stupid."

~ ~ ~

Friday, November 12

Indian Summer day. Sky cloudless, perfectly still. Sun warm. Leaves turning, starting to fall. Heart stirring. Mood lifting. Spirits rising.

Guess I'll be late to class, but the platform of the old train depot beckons me onto its dew-dappled planks to meditate as I walk to campus. I face east, assume the position, locate my hara, and breathe. Thought stops. Time stops. The illusions of space and matter vanish. Now is all there is.

Now . . . and another presence. Eyes watching me. A mind angry. Heart pumping, blood pressure building. The world returns in a rush of irritation.

I open my eyes to find an old man descending the hill from one of the nearby houses on Van Buren. He's dressed in khaki trousers, a flannel shirt, and a cap with the VFW insignia above the bill.

"See here!" he fusses at me. "Stop that. Stop that right now!"

I begin to disentangle my legs as he approaches the platform, which is about level with his chest where he's standing on the ground. He raises a walking stick, and for an instant I think he's going to use it on me. Then he strikes the boards.

"Go now. Get! Scat! You can't be here. Damn foreigner!"

"I'm not a foreigner," I say. "I'm from Pass Christian."

"No? Then double shame on you, acting like one, sitting around like some damn Chinese heathen. Get out of here now, or I'll give you the whipping you deserve."

I manage to back away just as the stick lands again, harder and closer than before.

"Okay, okay, just hold on a second, man! I'll leave. I don't want to upset anybody. But just as a matter of principle: you can't make me go. This is public property."

"Not anymore! The Baptists bought it last week." He brandishes the stick. "Now get, and take your foreign gods with you. Don't let me catch you round here again."

~ ~ ~

Saturday, November 13

"Nick," Suzie pleads, "just put it down. Please, sweetheart, don't do this."

"You're confused right now," Garrett reassures him, tone placating. "That's all it is. Just a little mixed up, what with the baby coming and all."

Nick shifts his eyes suspiciously between the two of them, then glances at Cindy and me, standing helpless behind them.

He lifts the razor between his thumb and forefinger, regarding the blade in the light, then looks back at us.

Cindy shakes her head at him, a silent "Stop!"

"Don't you people understand?" he finally says. "I'm doing this _because of_ the baby. It's the right thing."

"That's just crazy talk," Garrett counters. "C'mon, man. Put it back. We can go to Tyler and reason this out. I've got some great shit back at home. We'll get a good buzz on and talk."

A middle-aged woman shopping the deodorant section at the end of the aisle turns to glare at us, then storms off toward the cashier's station, likely to report the occurrence of naughty talk in Leslies drug store. We ignore her.

"The baby doesn't want you to do this," Suzie says. "I don't want you to do this. Nobody wants you to do this."

"Come on, Nick," Cindy urges. "Let's get wasted. You'll forget all about this silliness."

Nick gazes at the razor, somber, for a long moment before setting it back on the display rack. Suzie lets loose a sigh of relief. Garrett claps him on the shoulder. The drug store manager approaches.

"Is there a problem here?" he asks, a little flustered. The customer and the cashier are watching.

"No problem, sir," Garrett replies. "Our friend here was threatening buy a razor and shave his beard, but we've talked him down."

"I'm going to be a father," Nick explains.

"Listen," the manager says, "could you kids find someplace else to hang out? You're upsetting the other customers."

~ ~ ~

Sunday, November 14

Breakfast at Colemans. Dr. Hirsch, Cindy, Clamor and me. Hirsch is treating. During the night, somebody's posted more handbills about "keeping the Square American," with over a dozen just on the window of the old bridal shop. While most of the good citizens of Oxford are puzzling over the meaning of this message, its import is clear to those of us who know what's going to be occupying that space soon.

Somebody – or some group of Oxford citizens – doesn't like the idea of a Chinese restaurant in town. The Chinese are Communists.

Hirsch seems oddly unconcerned. "Everything's under control," he says. "All will work out okay. You know, ever since our little pizza party, I've been seeing life in an entirely new way. I'm not worried about anything at all anymore."

"Ocarina vermillion," Clamor says, mouth full of Hostess lemon fruit pie.

"Ocarina vermillion, exactly!" he agrees. "I may even be ready to start meditating."

"You should move right on to astral projection," Clamor says.

"Oh, that sounds interesting. What is it?"

Her answer to his question takes a while. Clamor puts the fruit pie down and begins talking about out of body experiences, somebody named Robert Munroe, Emanuel Swedenborg, etheric realms, silver cords, the Golden Dawn, and astral bodies.

"Where did you learn all of this?" Cindy asks.

"Some chick named Melissa."

I choke on my coffee, have a coughing fit, fight to get my breath back.

"Melissa Allen? Dark blue eyes, stands about 5'7", straight hair? Sounds like every word she utters is spoken with her last dying breath?"

"I didn't get her last name, but that sounds like her. I ran into her one afternoon on University Avenue. Said she was just passing through town. She'd gone to the old Earth commune to find some friends, but the place was full of Baptists."

"When was this?"

"I don't remember exactly. End of September. Just after the Harvest. I liked her. She took me to the Holiday Inn for dinner. We had oysters and she told me all about astral projection. She's really into it."

"You probably don't know where she was headed after she left town."

Clamor thinks for a minute. "She said something about California."

"Not Turkey?"

"No. Why would anyone go to Turkey?"

"To study Turks."

~ ~ ~

Monday, November 15

"A girl brought this by for you," Dr. Goodleigh says, and hands me a manila envelope. "At least I think it was a girl. A very, very tiny girl. When she first came in, I thought she was a hand puppet."

"That's Little Becky. She's a poet."

"She must write haikus."

I open the envelope over lunch break. Six neatly-typed poems, roughly 30 lines each. Lots of assonance, unexpected internal rhymes, cunning use of refrain and eclipsis. Subtle echoes of Dickinson, Williams, Stevens, Moore, Yeats – their intellect, their absence of sentiment.

"You're off your game, Mr. Medway," Dr. Goodleigh interrupts, returning the mimeograph master of next week's Greek drama exam I typed for her this morning. "The correct title of the play is _Oedipus the King_ , not _Oedipus the Kind_."

"That's actually the title of Sophocles' sequel, in which Oedipus surrenders his life to Jesus and sets about doing good works."

She glances at the pages of poetry on my table. "How is it?"

"Good. Really good. Really damn good. I think I'm in love."

~ ~ ~

Tuesday, November 16

On my way out of Bishop Hall, I encounter Mr. Duck leaning on the rail of the bridge with a cigarette.

"The University's decided to turn that open study lounge into offices. I'm here to give them an estimate on the dry walling."

"Too bad. I like that lounge. It's a great place to lounge in."

We make arrangements to meet for lunch and rendezvous at 12:30 in the cafeteria, where Dr. Giordano has just convened today's ad hoc symposium.

I am haled while exiting the food line, and while I'm reluctant to be subjected to another brow-beating from the great man, Mr. Duck is eager to meet the legend in person.

"Hey, Anglo-Saxon, what is that on your plate, eh?"

"A salad."

"Salad," he mocks. "Are you a homosexual? We are discussing Strauss. You know Strauss?"

"Richard Strauss?"

"Leo Strauss."

"Richard's brother?" I hazard.

"I've read Strauss," Mr. Duck says quietly. Giordano's gaggle of grad students turn surprised eyes on this blue-collared interloper. " _The City and Man_. 'Political Philosophy and the Crisis of our Time _.' Persecution and the Art of Writing. Thoughts on Machiavelli_. What would you like to know about him?"

Giordano pauses to answer, eyeing his unexpected intellectual equal. "It's gratifying to discover that the common man appreciates our greatest contemporary philosopher."

"I only said I've read him. Never said I appreciate him. I think his philosophy is asinine. I'm sure you're familiar with Noam Chomsky's critique of Strauss." Mr. Duck turns his attention to the students. "Chomsky's written that Strauss' social theories really come down to a new rendition of Leninism," he begins.

Giordano slams his hand on the table, in an explosion that echoes through the entire cafeteria. "No!" he shouts.

Mr. Duck replies with a smile. "Excuse me?"

All eyes in the room are on Giordano as he rises from his chair and glares at all of us. "No one is allowed to quote Chomsky at this table. Especially not a common working man."

Mr. Duck pretends to look abashed. "Well, I do apologize. I thought we were just having a nice little philosophical discussion here. Didn't mean to stir anyone up. Maybe I should just find another table."

I pick up my tray as well, and we relocate to the next room.

"That was fun," Mr. Duck says. "I'm going to enjoy working here."

~ ~ ~

Wednesday, November 17

I'm in the kitchen again, middle of the night again, confronting James' thugs.

"Ah, man! Not the food again!" I plead. "Listen, if we really had whatever you're looking for, do you really think we'd hide it in the Cap'n Crunch?"

The thug empties all our cereal onto the kitchen floor, with a sneer.

"You know where James is," he says.

"Believe me, if I knew, I'd surrender the bastard to you, so you'd stop harassing us. Do you have any idea how much food costs these days?"

He opens the sugar jar, scatters the contents around the room.

"Great. The roaches are going to love that, man. Do you suppose you could hurry this up? It's almost three, and I've got a long day ahead of me tomorrow. The Batesville high school Latin club is scheduled for a Museum tour."

The thug has brought two new henchmen with him, two kids, maybe still in their teens, both apparent amateurs at intimidation.

"Hey, I was in Latin club," the taller of the two replies. " _Veni, vidi, vici_."

" _Veni, vidi, vici_ right back at you, brother."

The thug finishes trashing the kitchen, then instructs my new Latin buddy to punch me. "In the gut."

The kid approaches uncertainly, draws close and aims a fist at my stomach. In the instant before the blow falls, though, he blocks the thug's view with his body and pulls the punch, barely grazing me.

I make a big show of doubling over in agony and collapse to the floor.

"Tell James that we called," the thug says on his way out.

~ ~ ~

Thursday, November 18

Amy Madigan falls in step with me as I'm crossing from the Union to Bondurant Hall. "I met with my fiction staff yesterday," she says. "We've gotten several surprisingly good stories. One of them will really shake people up when they read it, I can promise you. Jerome Baker wrote it."

"Where do I know that name from?"

"The Black Student Union. He's their president. Big guy, built like a Marine. To look at him, you wouldn't think he'd be a writer."

At that moment, Clamor dashes past us on the sidewalk, probably late for class.

"There's somebody else I can never figure out," I say. "What's your guess – a girl or a boy?"

"What?"

"Clamor. Girl or boy?"

"What are you going on about now? Claire Marie is a girl."

"And you're sure of that because . . . ."

"I'm sure of it because she's my cousin. She's slept in my room during family reunions. We've been swimming together. I know she's a girl."

"Your cousin? Really? I've never seen you two hanging together."

"Certainly not. She's a disgrace to the entire family. I mean, just look at her. Would you want to claim a relation to _that_?"

"Well . . . that's not a very Christian attitude, Amy. Doesn't your religion have something about 'Judge not, lest you be judged'?"

"That doesn't apply to family. You of all people should understand that."

We part company on the walk in front of Bondurant. "This has been pleasant," I say. "We must do it again."

"I'd appreciate your not telling anyone about Claire being related to me."

"Why would I tell anyone?"

~ ~ ~

Friday, November 19

The line outside the Lyric stretches all the way to the Gathright-Reed drug store. Garrett tells Rose and me that the crowd's been appearing for every weekend showing since the October 23 _Commercial Appeal_ story about the "avant garde film experiences being screened each Friday and Saturday night just off Oxford's sleepy square."

I vaguely recall meeting the reporter that night when we arrived expecting to see _Carnal Knowledge_ but were treated to three out-of-order reels of _Shaft_ interrupted by Porky Pig cartoons, World War II era newsreels, and a soft core porn short of a woman having sex with a watermelon.

"It's a sign of our times when a batty old woman getting stoned with the weekend projectionist becomes cutting-edge art," he remarks.

"What's supposed to be showing tonight?"

"Some Walter Matthau epic called _Kotch_."

We take our place at the end of the line and shuffle slowly forward with the crowd, which is noticeably upscale from the usual demographic of patrons at the Lyric. Trend-setters and trend-seekers from Memphis, for the most part – professionals, professors and artists slumming for a culture fix in an out-of-the-way hole. When the wind shifts from the east, the scent of weed drifts its way down the row.

"I've heard that the theater is absolutely filthy," a woman ahead of us is saying to her date. "You need to bring newspaper, because you don't want to make contact with the chair cushion."

"We call it the 'Two Stick,'" Garrett says.

"Two Stick?"

"As opposed to the 'One Stick' across the street. That's the Ritz. If you go to a movie there, you need to bring a stick with you to sit on. At the Lyric, you need two sticks – one to sit on, and another one to beat the rats away."

We're standing about five yards from the door when a "Sold Out" sign appears in the ticket window. Lamentations rise from the crowd. Old Jeff comes to the door in a necktie that looks like wallpaper from a Santiago brothel and flashes everyone a one-toothed smile.

"Sorry, folks, we can't let any more of you in. Fire code. But the manager has decided that tonight we'll offer a special midnight showing for anybody who wants to stick around for a few more hours."

Garrett and Rose turn for home, but it's a pleasant autumn night with a fingernail sliver of a new moon. I take a walk down to the end of Van Buren and strike out along the southwest curve of the railroad tracks where the now-dead kudzu vines hang like curtains in a haunted house. I'm almost in sight of the top bleachers of Hemingway stadium when a sound of rustling behind me reaches my ears.

I glance behind, see nothing, walk on.

I resume my pace, glance back once I've taken a dozen or so steps forward, and spot a movement among the vines.

I'm being watched. And followed.

It's an animal, keeping its distance. Not stalking, exactly, but interested in me. Or curious to see a person at this particular place at this time of night. I pause, crane my neck, and discern a shape perched on haunches behind drapes of dried kudzu. It's a dog. As I gaze, it stretches its front paws forward, lowers its chest onto the ground, and sinks its head onto its arms.

Light from a street lamp reflects in its eyes – two ancient, mournful green orbs that watch me, and blink. Familiar eyes. Eyes I've seen many a time before.

"Citizen?" I call. "Is that really you? Come over here, boy! Come on."

The eyes blink once more, and vanish, as I stand calling, open handed, to an empty space.

~ ~ ~

Saturday, November 20

Cindy has managed to score leftover meat plus three from Grundy's lunch menu for all of us. We're parked at the kitchen table with fried chicken, corn, mashed potatoes, green beans, and cornbread muffins. A feast.

The stereo is playing _Don't Crush That Dwarf, Hand Me the Pliers_. After side one ends, we all continue eating, nobody volunteering to get up, walk to the parlor and turn the record over.

"Do you remember Citizen?" I ask.

"No," Garrett replies. "I can't remember something that didn't exist. And neither can you."

"Who's Citizen?" Cindy wants to know.

"Daniel's imaginary dog. He drove us all crazy with it when we lived in the Earth."

"He wasn't imaginary. It's just that none of the rest of you ever saw him."

"What did he look like?" Cindy asks.

"He was invisible," Garrett answers. "He bore a remarkable resemblance to empty space."

"He was a retriever," I say.

"He was an hallucination."

"I like retrievers," Cindy says.

"Anyway, I think I saw him last night by the railroad tracks."

Garrett rises from the table to turn the record over. "Did it ever occur to you that your imaginary damn dog was one reason Melissa left you for Paul?"

I ponder this. He's right, of course, but the memory isn't a welcome one.

"You really know how to hurt a guy, Garrett."

~ ~ ~

Sunday, November 2)

My jeans pockets hold enough quarters for two washer loads and two dryer loads at the laundromat near the Beacon on Highway 7.

As I strip the sheets off my pallet, I discover an unexpected item: Ashley's Chairman Mao t-shirt, the one she wore (and then abruptly wore no longer) the night she arrived last October.

I lift it to my face. The cotton cloth still carries the slightest hint of her scent. For a moment I hesitate over adding it to the pile, consider keeping it unwashed as a memory, but then drop it into the laundry bag with a sigh of regret.

Here in the land of cotton, some old times are best forgotten.

~ ~ ~

Monday, November 22

I leave the Nickelodeon with my new copy of _E Pluribus Funk_ , having taken advantage of Dottie's latest discount offer that she's devised as a response to the "Keep the Square American" campaign.

Dottie's called her sale "Get Rid of the Square American." It's 10% off any record that's not by Pat Boone, which means her entire inventory.

I'm on foot, headed south on Van Buren, toward home. As I start across the intersection of South 9th Street, I notice a green Cadillac idling at the curb opposite St. Peter's Episcopal.

I'm a few steps into the street when the Caddy lurches into drive with a squeal of rubber on asphalt, barrels through the stop sign and whooshes past, barely missing my quickly retreating ass. It catches the light on University, hangs right, and has vanished in under seven seconds.

No witnesses. Gone too fast for me to get a license plate number, but I know the car from twice before, and I'm curious to know who wants to run me over.

~ ~ ~

Tuesday, November 23

"Stop telling me what's right about my poetry," Becky protests when I attempt to compliment her latest scribblings. "I want to know what's _wrong_ with it. How can I improve what I'm doing?"

We're at the corner booth in the Grill, Becky with a 15 ounce cup of Coke, me with a Styrofoam cup of coffee and a microwaved cheeseburger. Clamor slouches in the seat across from us with a chocolate shake. Rapt in a brain freeze, she dangles spoonfuls of the thick solution over the table as she swallows the shake with little grunts of satisfaction.

"Lighten up," I advise. "Writing's a game. Have fun with it."

Becky fixes me with a look of deadly seriousness. "It's not a game to me. Poetry's going to be my life's work. My poetry's going to change the world, make things happen."

" _Poetry makes nothing happen_ ," I quote.

"I don't take advice from Auden," she replies. "There's nothing worse than a sentimental cynic."

" _Poetry makes nothing happen_. That's from 'In Memory of W.B. Yeats,'" Clamor volunteers.

We both look at her. The surprise must show on our faces.

"What?" Clamor says. "I read poetry. I'm cultured. But what I've always wondered is why all the modernists have initials instead of real names. W.H Auden, W.B. Yeats, T.S. Eliot. I mean, what the fuck does T.S. stand for?"

"Tiny Scrotum," I say.

"Does not."

"Gospel truth. Most modernists were born to spiteful parents who resented their children and gave them embarrassing names that would weigh the kids down for the rest of their lives. W.B. Yeats is a perfect example."

"And his name was?"

"Withered Buttocks. You see how that could warp a child. At least old Tiny Scrotum Eliot was an American. Withered Buttocks was a Brit who was shipped off to some aristocratic boarding school the moment he was old enough to walk and wipe himself. The other boys tormented him cruelly."

"So, what about W.H. Auden?"

"His mother was a speed freak," I say. "Reason for W.H. having his amphetamine addiction. Loved dime novels, spent every spare penny the family had on 'em. She went on binges, stayed awake for weeks reading them. Ned Buntline was her favorite writer, especially his Buffalo Bill series. Odd for a proper lady of her breeding, but there you have it. Later got into Deadwood Dick, Jesse James, Kit Carson. No food, clothes, heat in the house, just mountains of dime novels. Tragic childhood."

"And his name?" Clamor prompts.

"Westward Ho. Westward Ho Auden. Very embarrassing for a proper British poet. You see why he uses his initials."

"That's probably what turned him into a cynical old fart who says that poetry makes nothing happen," Becky complains.

~ ~ ~

Wednesday, November 24

With campus closed for Thanksgiving break, I enjoy another sleepy morning on my pallet, pulled away from it only by the emptiness of my belly and of the kitchen larder.

I take a short walk through November drizzle to Colemans for lunch, where I find Jimmy and Tiger in brotherly conversation over barbecue and coleslaw in the booth nearest the door.

"Ocarina vermillion," Jimmy calls to me as I enter. "Get your food and join us!"

Tiger appears ill at ease to have me there. Jimmy inquires after the health of all his good friends on Tyler Avenue. I inquire after the health and well being of their sister, Ho.

"She's good," Jimmy answers, lifting an imaginary hookah pipe to pursed lips, audibly inhaling. "Keeping happy."

Tiger begins to fidget in his chair when the conversation turns to the restaurant, and he's distinctly unhappy when Jimmy invites me to view their progress in renovating the old bridal shop. Which turns out to be no progress at all.

Jimmy takes me in through the alley entrance to the old bridal shop. The place smells dusty, stale. While the merchandise has been removed, the racks and display stands remain in place. I can't detect a single modification that would suggest that this space is being prepped to house a working kitchen and a dining room for patrons.

"When are you scheduled to open?"

"January," Jimmy says. "Middle of January."

"You have a lot of work to do before then."

"Yes," Jimmy agrees. "We have much to do."

The he slaps my shoulder and laughs like we're sharing a joke.

~ ~ ~

Thursday, November 25

"Champagne, Mr. Medway?" Dr. Goodleigh greets me at the door with a tray of genuine crystal stems.

She relieves me of my shearling coat and escorts me into her living room, which this evening is packed with guests.

"My annual Thanksgiving dinner for all the faculty bachelors and old maids," she explains. "And other distinguished guests," she adds as Dottie Carroll emerges from the kitchen with a pan of Spanakopita.

"You're not having dinner with your sons?" I ask Dottie.

"Do you imagine I'd spoil a perfectly nice holiday spending it with them?"

Apart from a few new faces from Law, Economics, and Computer Science, I know almost everyone in the room. I spot Dr. Evans in the dining room. He's been a regular since his divorce three years ago. Dr. Sutherland, however, is a new member of the group, this being his first year of bachelorhood.

I join him on the couch. We dutifully clink our glasses in toast. "This brings back memories of Virginia," I tell him. "I lived for two months on champagne and saltines – they were the only food I could hold down."

"I subsisted entirely on vodka and malted milk balls during my dissertation," he replies. "Everyone in academe is mad. You should get out while you still can."

My mind is distracted from our conversation as I constantly scan the room for cats. I catch glimpses of moving shadows, a flick of a pink ear, a tail wrapped about the leg of a chair, fluid motions across the carpet, between the feet of the guests.

"It's a Soviet device," Dr. Sutherland is saying when I turn my attention back to him. "The CIA smuggled the designs into the United States. The Russians seem to have been working with brain wave patterns for decades, some pretty sophisticated research. The doctors can't guarantee what the effects might be, but I've volunteered to be a test subject."

I'm wondering what he's talking about when Dr. Goodleigh calls us to dinner. The cats have congregated under the dining room table. I sense noses at my feet and ankles, tails brushed against my calves, an occasional claw on my leg. It's all very distracting. I'm grateful that Dr. Goodleigh has seated me by Dottie, who manages to carry on a lively conversation without assistance from anyone else.

She's recounting the details of a recent meeting of the Oxford Merchants Association when a talking point finally occurs to me.

"I had a very strange encounter yesterday."

"Really?"

"With Jimmy and Tiger. Jimmy gave me a tour of the restaurant."

Is it my imagination? Does Dottie avoid eye contact? "Oh?"

"Have you seen it? Nothing's been done yet. You know what? I'm worried that there's not going to be any restaurant. I'm worried Dr. Hirsch is being _swindled_."

Dottie is about to say something when somebody across the table mentions the hijacker who jumped out of a jet over Oregon last night with $200,000 in cash. She instantly pivots to that conversation.

"I heard all about it on the _Today_ show this morning, just before the Macy's parade started."

Dr. Evans has heard nothing of yesterday's hijack. "Wait, are you saying this man took a ransom of $200,000 and jumped from the exit door of a 727 at 10,000 feet? In the middle of the night? During a storm? Damnation. He should be easy to find."

"How's that?" Dottie asks.

"The FBI should start looking for a guy with the biggest balls on Earth. No wonder he had four parachutes. He'd need three of them just for his balls!"

"What's the use," Dr. Goodleigh remarks, "trying to host a civilized Thanksgiving dinner if every time – year after year – somebody at the table has to start talking about balls?"

The doorbell rings. Dr. Goodleigh rises to answer it. A few moments later, a statuesque woman is standing by the foot of our table.

Dr. Evans rises from his chair and she rushes to him, hands at his shoulders and face pressed into his chest.

They kiss. They kiss in a way I've never seen old people do, outside of a movie. They kiss like Burt Lancaster and Deborah Kerr. Bogart and Bacall. Brando and Eva Marie Saint.

I don't think I should be watching this, out of politeness. Out of respect. Out of common decency. But I can't look away. A quick glance around the table assures me that I'm not alone. Everyone's gaping.

The woman finally says something in Italian. Dr. Evans answers, also speaking Italian. A dozen words. A few sentences. He leads her swiftly from the dining room and down the hallway. We hear a door close behind them.

Dr. Goodleigh eventually breaks the silence. "Well, our bachelor circle seems to have lost a member. Who wants coffee?"

~ ~ ~

Friday, November 26

It seems I've just crawled into my pallet and drifted to sleep when the damn phone starts ringing. I try to ignore is persistent, annoying alarm as it repeats over a dozen times. Finally, I hear footsteps padding down the stairs, followed by Garrett's voice answering the line.

Whoever it is, the conversation is brief. I listen to Garrett's feet plodding back up the stairs. He opens my door, sticks his head in the room. "Get dressed, man. Something interesting is going down."

Our breath fogs the air as I drive us down South Lamar with the radio off. I park at the Shell station, closed for the night, beside the sheriff's squad car, and walk to the overpass above Highway 6.

Claprood is standing at the railing, watching a procession of military vehicles, headlights and taillights moving east to west for as far as we can see. A convoy.

"I got a call from Sheriff Holland over in Tupelo that they were on the way," Claprood tells us.

"National Guard maneuvers?" Garrett asks.

"Regular Army. As a rule, we're supposed to be notified of troop movements through our jurisdictions. I've called, but couldn't pin anybody down on a confirmation. Officially, what we're looking at isn't happening."

We watch the convoy snaking its way through the chill Mississippi night in silence.

"Kind of makes you wonder," Claprood finally remarks. "Men jumping out of planes. Rumors of Tamburlaine everywhere. And I, for one, would like to know what the Army is up to, sneaking through my town under cover of darkness. My hands are tied, though. Too bad I don't know anyone who has contacts with the underground." He claps Garrett on the shoulder. "Cold out here. I'm heading in. You boys have a good morning."

"Why did the sheriff call you out to see this?" I ask on our way back to the car.

"I really couldn't say," Garrett replies.

"Sometimes I get the feeling that you know a lot more than you're telling."

We drive back to Tyler, with me looking forward to the comfort of my warm pallet. When we arrive, though, all the downstairs rooms are lit, and there's a 68 Firebird parked in the street.

James and Andrew have returned, and they're toting a short-wave radio the size of a steamer trunk up the front steps.
Part 4. Night Visitors

November 27, 1971 – January 8, 1972

Saturday, November 27

James has returned to Oxford flush with cash. Since he's paying for tonight's meal, he's decided to order for all of us, too.

"Four New York strips," he tells our waitress at the Holiday Inn restaurant. "Rare."

"What'll you have to drink?"

"A Michelob would be welcome," Andrew says.

"You boys know we can't serve beer. Coffee, iced tea, cocktails, wine, soft drinks."

"How long has it been since you had a steak?" James asks me after she's taken our orders – gin and tonic for Andrew, rum and Coke for Garrett, tequila for James, Jim Beam on the rocks for me.

"Close to four years, I reckon."

"Enjoy this one," James advises. "The revolution's about to begin, and meat's going to be hard to come by in a few months. Fresh food in general, for that matter. Best begin stockpiling canned goods."

The returning travelers recount their journey: From Oxford, they headed to Nashville first, then Lexington, Cleveland, Chicago, Detroit, Indianapolis, Wausau, St. Paul, Rapid City, Colorado Springs, Santa Fe, Clovis, Fort Worth, Fayetteville, and back to Oxford.

"We thought about extending the trip to Christmas, but after what Tamburlaine did, I decided we'd best return to headquarters, so he'd know where to reach us."

"What Tamburlaine did?" I ask.

"The hijacking in Oregon. Don't tell me you haven't heard."

"Tamburlaine did that? The newspapers said it was some middle-aged businessman."

"How cute – you actually believe what newspapers say. Of course it was Tamburlaine."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why would Tamburlaine hijack a plane?"

"For the money, of course. You can't launch a revolution without some kind of funding."

"You can't?"

"But I'd heard," Garrett interrupts, "that Tamburlaine is immensely wealthy, that he'd inherited the fortune of some guy named . . . ." He grasps for the name, can't produce it.

"Cygnus," James finally says. "The man who transformed him."

"Transformed him?" I ask. "Into what?"

"Into a human being," James replies.

"Really? What was he before?"

"A wolf," James says. "You didn't know? I can't believe you haven't heard the story."

"Not the story," Garrett pleads. "Please, not the story."

James ignores him. "Shortly after the war, the people of Paris set about repairing the city zoo and restocking animals that had been lost during the Nazi occupation. One of their acquisitions was an orphaned wolf cub that had been rescued in Switzerland, near St. Moritz. They named him Timberline, after the wooded area where he'd been found."

"They should have named him Bullshit," Garrett says.

"An American industrialist named Cygnus arrived in Paris with his daughter to help with the Marshall Plan. The girl made daily visits to the zoo, fell in love with the young wolf and begged her indulgent father to make him her pet. Cygnus arranged to have the wolf stolen and transported to his chateau, where they spent many happy years together."

"The girl and a pet wolf," I say, just to make certain I'm hearing this right.

"The father, the girl and the wolf," James says. "But when the time came for him to return to America, Cygnus realized that he couldn't take Timberline with them. The girl was heartbroken over the loss of her best friend. Lacking other recourse, Cygnus turned Timberline into a boy, adopted him and brought him to America. Because of an error in translation, though, his passport identified him as Tamburlaine instead of Timberline."

"Do NOT ask how Cygnus transformed him," Garrett warns me. "Please. For the love of all that is holy and good, don't ask."

James orders another round of drinks for us and leaves for the men's room. Andrew and Garrett break into a long-suppressed fit of giggles.

"My god, he's worse than when he left!" Garrett says.

"His delusional tendencies are growing stronger," Andrew agrees. "Have you wondered about the radio he's brought back? James is convinced that Tamburlaine is sending him messages over shortwave frequencies."

We've barely managed to rein in our mirth when James returns to the table, glancing suspiciously at their expressions.

"Did I miss something?"

"Only the last six years," Garrett says.

"Garrett was just telling about the beer bust at the country club," Andrew lies.

~ ~ ~

Sunday, November 28

Cindy returns from Thanksgiving break around 3:30 this afternoon, delighted to find that Andrew has returned. Ten minutes later, they're celebrating the reunion in their room. The noise from their bedroom makes it impossible for me to study, so I descend the steps to find James and Garrett sharing a joint, with a football game on the television.

"Who's playing?" I ask.

"Who cares?" Garrett answers.

"The Jets versus the 49ers," James says.

"Who cares?" Garrett repeats.

The feeble daylight of the overcast day begins to die. The room grows dark. The game ends. James rises from the couch, stretches, readjusts his belt over his hollow waist. He's lost weight during this journey.

"Think I'll drive over to the sorority house, and check on Rose. She should be back by now."

The _Wonderful World of Disney_ comes on. Garrett is too zoned out to change the station. It's a boring enough show not to distract me. James is back before it's ended, looking pissed.

"Did you find Rose?"

"She's started seeing somebody else. Bitch."

He pounds his feet on the way upstairs, passing Cindy and Andrew on the landing. They join us in front of the set, looking flushed and contented.

"Uh-oh," Andrew says. "Someone's displeased."

"I told you that Garrett's been a naughty boy," Cindy replies.

Garrett slowly places an index finger to his lips in a gesture of silence. He lights another joint and passes it along.

"It's half an hour till _Bonanza_ starts," he says. "Have you ever watched Dan Blocker stoned?"

~ ~ ~

Monday, November 29

"So we got out the bong and made a game of everybody taking a hit whenever Dan Blocker said 'Dagnabbit.'"

"It must be stimulating to live with such towering intellects," Amy replies. This isn't what she wants to hear, not what she dropped by the Museum to talk about. "Tell me what happened at the party."

"Not much to tell. Mrs. Giordano walked in. Then she and Dr. Evans left the room. I was scarcely paying attention. One of the cats was trying to rip a cornbread muffin out of my hand. Oh, somehow or other Dr. Sutherland has gotten mixed up with the CIA."

"Has Goodleigh said anything to you today? I heard that Mrs. Giordano is staying with her . . . to preserve appearances, you know."

"No. But I haven't asked. But she'll be back from class in about 15 minutes. You could wait here and pump her for information as soon as she comes in."

"Well, that would be rude."

"You're right. I'm tactless. It's much more polite to gossip about people behind their backs."

"I'm not gossiping. I'm concerned about Harold's reputation. Don't you realize what a scandal this is going to cause?"

"Why? Who cares?"

"Who cares?"

"Yeah, why should anybody care about who's screwing who?"

"Who's screwing _whom_. People care because in civilized societies we have an institution called marriage. Which is supposed to be sacred. I don't know Mrs. Giordano. I'm sure she's a lovely person in many ways. But she is an adulteress, and I hate to see Harold involved with a woman like that."

"She always speaks very highly of you, though."

Amy gathers her books and her purse. "I see now that coming here was a mistake. You never treat serious matters seriously. Maybe you should just go light another joint and destroy some more brain cells."

"Dagnabbit, Amy, I'm all out. Can I bum one from you?"

~ ~ ~

Tuesday, November 30

William Windom is the guest star on tonight's rerun of _Star Trek_ , playing a deranged Starfleet captain who lost his crew to a wandering doomsday machine and is now leading the Enterprise into a suicide mission against it.

Cindy's sitting cross-legged on the couch, eating grapes. I'm typing my research paper on the Aegean diaspora for my Greek history class, more listening to the television than watching it.

Somebody knocks on the door. I glance through the window onto the porch and sigh. It's a crew-cut narc looking ridiculous in a tie-dyed shirt and bell bottoms. I swing the door open in disgust.

"What do you want? Because we don't have any weed or diet pills. We don't have any Yellow Jackets, Abbots, Rainbows, Black Beauties, or Red Devils.

"We also don't have any Darvon, Nembutal, Tuinal, Phenobarbital, Valium, LSD, bennies, cocaine, speed, heroin, morphine, nitro, laughing gas, children's aspirin, Pepto-Bismol, Dr. Scholl's, Midol, or Scope.

"We're not a pharmacy, for Chrissake. So what exactly do you want?"

The narc smiles oddly at me, as if surprised by the greeting he's just received.

"I'd like to come in," he replies in a soft, polite voice.

This is a voice I seem to know. I look at this stranger more closely, trying to place him. Cindy comes to the door, yelps a startled cry and drops her bowl of grapes on the floor.

"Oh, shit! Nick, what have you done?"

It's Nick, all right. I can see the resemblance now in his eyes, though nothing else about his face is familiar. The beard is gone. The moustache is gone. His head is practically shaved.

"How do I look?" he asks, with a grin.

"Oh, shit!" Cindy repeats. "Has Suzie seen you yet?"

"No. Do you think she'll be surprised?"

"Oh, shit!"

~ ~ ~

Wednesday, December 1

"Where's the brown shirt?" Mr. Duck asks, meaning Dr. Giordano, as we trudge through the cafeteria line. Another Mexican Meat Stick special day.

"Lying low for a while, I'd imagine, licking his wounds. His wife left him for another professor. Big scandal. Everyone's agog."

"Aw, he shouldn't feel bad about that. I've had four wives leave me. That's not counting the two I walked out on. The last one decided she liked country music. The day she came home with a Ferlin Husky record, I knew the marriage was over. The other one married me under false pretenses. Turned out she was smoking dope during our entire courtship, then went swore off after the ceremony. Now, there was a woman who should have kept on tokin'."

"Wow, six marriages. May I ask why the other four left?"

"Oh, usual reasons. You know."

"Gambling, booze, other women?"

"Not so much that. Let's see, there was the one who walked out when I began to fancy myself a Kabbalist. She couldn't put up with that. Now, my first wife – we broke up over an argument about T.S. Eliot. The objective correlative, of course. I reckon a lot of couples fight over that. Then the one wife who left during my Fauvism period. I admit I got carried away over André Derain."

"And the fourth?"

A smile softens his face. "Ellie. My dear, sweet Ellie. She discovered one day that she was a Lesbian. Nearly broke my heart. I still love that woman."

~ ~ ~

Thursday, December 2

Dr. Hirsch lies spread-eagle on the head shop's water mattress, looking stunned, his face parchment pale. Garrett sits by the window, reading the latest handbill from the "Keep the Square American" group. Dottie, Tiger and Jimmy stand by the door in low conversation. I pick a copy from the cash register and read:

Citizens of Oxford,

You will soon be offered the opportunity to eat the food of a godless Communist regime.

A Chinese restaurant is scheduled to open its doors here on the Square as early as next month. Soon, as you carry on your daily business, your nostrils will be assailed by the odors of foreign cooking from an agent of the Red Menace at our very doorstep.

Chinese food is unhealthy, unsanitary and unfit for American bodies. Chinese thought is unfit for Christian minds, a threat to our children and to our way of life.

Keep the Square American! Boycott the Chinese restaurant!

Dr. Hirsch has lost his Ocarina Vermillion detachment. He moans. "Why are they so upset over a restaurant? They make it sound like I'm setting up an opium den." He sits up with a sudden thought. "We should call the sheriff. Garrett, you know him, don't you? Give him a call. See if you can get him over here."

"I don't think we need Claprood for this."

"Please."

Garrett places the call, and Sheriff Claprood saunters in ten minutes later.

"They really zinged you gentlemen, didn't they?" he says cheerfully to Hirsch, Tiger and Jimmy, who respond with grave nods of the head. "Well, it's a shame that honest citizens like yourselves can't set up a business without this kind of harassment. There's nothing the law can do about it, though."

"That's what I told them," Garrett adds.

"Don't let this upset you," Claprood advises Dr. Hirsch. "You have a contract, don't you? A lease?"

"Yes," Tiger says, "a lease for two years."

"Nobody can stop you, then." Claprood ambles to the cash register and reads a copy of the handbill on the counter. "Interesting piece of work," he remarks. "I didn't know we had any bigots in town who could write this well."

He claps Dr. Hirsch on the shoulder on his way out. "Don't worry about a thing, sir. I suspect the angels are watching over you."

~ ~ ~

Friday, December 3

I'm enjoying my morning coffee and re-reading the latest postcard from Valerie when Suzie finds me in the Grill. She looks worried.

"Nick bought a wrist watch. Do you understand what I'm telling you, Daniel? He bought a wrist watch."

"Why would he want a wrist watch?" I wonder aloud.

"To tell the time."

"Why would he want to tell the time?"

"That's my point! That's exactly what I'm trying to get everyone to see. Nick's changing, and it scares me. I don't mind so much about a shave and a haircut. Hair grows back. But when he starts caring about what time it is, I get worried. Do you know what he asked me to do two nights ago?"

"Not a kinky sex thing, I hope. He didn't want you to pretend to be Tricia Nixon?"

"He asked me to watch the evening news with him. The news!"

I'm appalled. "Oh, man, that's just . . . wrong."

~ ~ ~

Saturday, December 4

"I like this movie," Dr. Hirsch remarks during the commercial.

We're watching _The Thing_ , an alien invasion epic from 1951. (RKO Radio Pictures. Directed by Christian Nyby and Howard Hawks. Starring Kenneth Toby, Ann Sheridan, and a young James Arness as the monster.). It looks to have been made on a $1000 budget, most of the action occurring in a claustrophobic set of corridors and labs in an Arctic research station. Hawks must have splurged most of the budget on the script, which is surprisingly clever.

"Linguistically, I mean," Hirsch continues. "I like the way everybody talks at once in the group scenes. That's realistic speech behavior, but you don't see it in most films."

"Like going to the bathroom," Clamor adds. "People don't do that in the movies, either."

"Nobody wishes to see that, though," Andrew says. "I'm certainly not going to pay $2.00 to watch Michael Caine take a shit."

"Or making love," Cindy observes.

"They're showing sex all the time, though," Clamor counters. "Didn't you see _Carnal Knowledge_?"

"Movie sex is so fake. You know they're not really doing it. Nobody in real life has sex like you see in movies."

"I do."

"I don't."

"How do you have sex, then?"

"Cindy, please," Andrew interrupts. "A bit of discretion might be advised here."

James descends the stairs and scowls at us. He's been in an increasingly bad mood all week.

"Is that git on the shortwave still reciting numbers?" Andrew inquires.

"I don't know how you can listen to that hour after hour," Cindy complains. "All she does is repeat the same numbers: 4, 16, 7, 31, 19, 5. It's so boring."

"That's why it's called a number station," James says. "They broadcast numbers. The numbers are a code. They mean something."

"What?"

"Huh?"

"What do they mean?"

"I don't know yet."

"Do you think it's about Tamburlaine?" Clamor asks.

"Yes, I'm sure of that much. He's close. He's very close." James glances around the room, searching. "Where in the hell is Garrett?"

"He's on a date," Clamor reports.

"He found another midget? I didn't know the circus was in town."

"A bit harsh, James," Andrew remarks.

"Oh, sorry if I offended, old man. I suppose I'm too busy preparing for the revolution to worry about hurting people's feelings." James turns his back on us. "Please continue to enjoy your mindless entertainment," he says, on his way back up the stairs.

"May I listen to the numbers with you?" Clamor asks, in a shy voice.

James turns again to smile at her. "Good girl. Yes, you might learn something."

~ ~ ~

Sunday, December 5

I'm looking forward to a quiet breakfast, coffee and Cap'n Crunch, but am disappointed to find our kitchen filled with revolutionaries instead.

It's James' happy band of paranoids, most of whom I haven't seen since Attica State, back in September.

Just like in last night's movie, everybody's talking at once. Dr. Hirsch should be here. I pour my coffee, listen to the hubbub, and attempt to discover what the excitement is about.

It seems the Anonymous Christian, after weeks of silence, struck the Square again overnight. This time, however, he posted a number of separate verses instead of just one. James' crew is passing the handbills back and forth, in amazement. I count three different ones: Job 19:5, 1 Kings 7:31, and Galatians 4:16.

Garrett isn't around, so I ask if anyone knows what those verses are about.

"Don't be so goddamn stupid," James snaps. "The verses are irrelevant. It's the pattern, man. Haven't you grasped that yet?"

"What pattern?"

He slaps the handbills on the table and points to them in order. "Look: 4, 16, 7, 31, 19, 5. Those are the numbers, the ones that were repeated all last night over the radio. Do you get it now?"

"Ah. No. Afraid not."

"The numbers on the radio match the numbers that were posted last night. They're linked. This is definitely about Tamburlaine. And he's definitely headed our way."

~ ~ ~

Monday, December 6

It takes me a few moments to recognize where I am: the Episcopal parking lot, just behind Colemans. It's night, and it's cold. I seem to have gone out without my shearling, and I'm standing in the well of light under a street lamp, shivering.

Nobody else seems to be about, except for the three men standing about 20 yards away beside a blue Pontiac, the only car in the lot. They appear to be having a normal, if subdued, conversation – until, that is, the man on the left punches the man in the center square in the face.

The man in the center wobbles for a second, staggers, and falls to the pavement. The two other men bend over him, taking turns punching him again and again. I don't really want to be witnessing this, but I can't walk away. My feet and legs don't seem to be in contact with my brain.

They've finished, now. The man on the ground has stopped making noises when they hit him. They straighten, turn away, and start nonchalantly across the parking lot. Now, they finally notice me, standing here watching. I ought to run, but I can't.

The taller man approaches me slowly, without a word. He draws close, with his head cocked, an expression of curiosity. His face is a few inches from mine. I can feel his breath. Then he draws back.

"You're asleep, aren't you?" he asks.

"I think I am," I agree.

He smiles at me. A kind smile. "Where do you live, sport?"

"On Tyler."

"Just around the corner and down the block here, right?" He turns to his partner. "I'm going to walk this guy home. Meet me at the place in half an hour."

He takes me by my left elbow, guides me forward. "It's okay, you can walk now. Sleepwalking's a funny thing. You do this often?" he chats. "My little sister used to go out all the time like this. Always wound up at the Dairy Queen, for some reason. She grew out of it. Most kids do. But when you get to be an adult, sleepwalking's not natural."

We walk on.

"Doctors say that sleepwalking is a symptom of stress. Do you feel like you're under a lot of stress, sport? Huh? You ought to see a doctor. That's what I'd do. I'd go to the doctor and say, 'Doc, I've been sleepwalking. I think I'm under a lot of stress.' It wouldn't hurt to gain some weight, too. You're about the skinniest guy I've ever seen."

I stop when we reach the house.

"This your place? Okay, let's go on up the steps here. You have a key or something? No, look, the door's unlocked. You ought to lock that door, sport. Lots of bad people in the world, you know."

"Thank you," I say as he leads me to the couch and has me stretch out. "You've been very kind."

He smiles. "'Whatever you did for one of my brothers, you did for me.' Matthew 25:40."

~ ~ ~

Tuesday, December 7

The Nickelodeon is running a sale in honor of Pearl Harbor Day: 50% off on rock albums that have bombed.

I pass on _Village Green_ (The Kinks) and _Instant Replay_ (Monkees), but decide that _Velvet Underground_ is probably worth $1.75. Ho frowns at me and spits on the floor as I'm checking out.

"Any news from the Red Menace folks?" I ask Dottie.

"Not a peep."

"Listen," I say, dropping my voice so Ho can't hear – as if she could understand what I'm saying. "I'm worried about Tiger and Jimmy. As far as I can tell, they haven't lifted a finger in that storefront. It's almost as if they don't expect to open."

"You're spending too much time with James," she replies. "Getting paranoid like him. Next you're going to say that D.B. Cooper's behind those signs."

I repeat my suspicions to Garrett as he drops the album on the turntable and Lou Reed's voice blasts from the stereo in the head shop.

"You worry too much," he says. "Here's something that will cheer you up." Garrett hands me a candy bar in a wrapper labeled "Déesse" in psychedelic lettering. "I just got a shipment of these. Some heads out in Sonoma County are making them. About 80% pure cocoa."

"What does the name mean?"

"It's French, for 'goddess.' Take the wrapper off and you'll understand."

I do, and I do. The chocolate bar's been formed in a mold of a nude hippie chick, her pose reminiscent of Botticelli's "Birth of Venus." I stare at it, rapt, for a full minute.

"What's wrong?" Garrett finally asks. "Never seen a naked chocolate lady before?"

"I've seen that body before. Call me crazy, but I think I know this girl. Just can't place her."

"You're crazy," Garrett says.

~ ~ ~

Wednesday, December 8

Try as I might to keep them straight ahead, to the front of the room, my eyes keep wandering back to Becky.

We're attending yet another magazine staff meeting – and, yes, I'm smitten. Besides, Becky is so much more pleasant to look at than Amy or Dr. Evans, who keep dithering on about typeface, paper stock, and binding, details I suppose they have to decide upon before the magazine is delivered to the print shop next month.

We have most of the materials together: six short stories, two essays, a dozen or so poems, half a dozen photographs and woodcuts to represent the visual arts.

Everything needs to be edited and proofed, then sent off to the typesetter.

"What about the name?" one of the undergraduates asks. "We've never settled that."

" _Compass Point_ ," Amy says. "My staff agrees that it's the perfect title."

"Mr. Medway?" Dr. Evans asks.

"The poetry staff is sticking with _Road Kill Shinto_."

Dr. Evans shakes his head. "Come on, let's just have a simple name. It can't be this difficult."

"How about _Barefoot_?" Becky suggests. It's the first time she's actually spoken during one of these editorial meetings.

Dr. Evans turns to her, curious. "Barefoot?"

"W-well," Becky explains, "it's a very southern image, I think, and we're a southern magazine. And . . . and it's contemporary, too. It's like our generation, going barefoot, trying to get close to the earth. You know, nature."

Amy glares at her, but a slow smile crosses Dr. Evans' face. "I see what you mean. Southern and Whitmanesque at the same time. I think you've got something, young lady. What does everyone think?" he asks the group, but doesn't wait for an answer. " _Barefoot_ it is. So, unless we have any other business to discuss, I'm declaring this session adjourned. I have a dinner date with a charming woman to get to."

News of Mrs. Giordano's split from her husband and the romance with Dr. Evans is general knowledge around campus, and he's made no effort to dissemble over their affair.

"Well, your young protégé certainly scored a coup, didn't she?" Amy needles, on our way out of the Bishop Hall seminar room. "Tell me, how long did you two brainstorm on that name?"

"I had nothing to do with it. I actually think it's good. Maybe kind of cute, but Dr. Evans likes it."

" _Harold_ likes that girl's kewpie doll eyes," Amy says. "He's being swayed by pretty faces these days, and it's pathetic. And you're no different, Medway. All you males are pathetic. I'll be happy to have a real man coming to this campus for a change."

"A real man? Coming here? I'm intrigued. Who might this stallion be?"

"Edward Alcott, of course. Haven't you heard? He's accepted the writer-in-residence position for spring semester."

"Alcott? He's terrible."

"Really? Tell that to the National Book Awards committee – they short-listed him last year, you know. Tell it to _Time_ magazine. Tell it to the _National Review_."

"He writes novels that Hollywood turns into John Wayne movies, for Chrissake. I read that he's Bob Hope's favorite author."

The elevator finally opens. We step in, alone together. Amy focuses on the changing numbers on the panel, down to the first floor. The doors open, and she steps through, turning to block my exit long enough for a parting comment.

"Try not to be so jealous of other people's successes, Daniel. Your resentments are very unbecoming."

~ ~ ~

Thursday, December 9

It's a remarkable day for early December, with the temperature hovering in the upper 70s, cirrus clouds hanging totally still somewhere up in the crystal troposphere, students in t-shirts and shorts, the Grove filled once more with Frisbee players.

The flasher has already struck twice today, first surprising a coed leaving the infirmary in the Guyton Hall, and just a few minutes ago outside the Student Union.

Campus cops are bustling all about, in another futile attempt to find him, and in the middle of this outdoor bustle, I stumble upon Dr. Sutherland sitting on a bench in the little sunken courtyard at the front door of the bookstore.

His being here is disorients me. Nobody has seen Sutherland outside, in full daylight, for years. It would probably be less surprising to discover a great auk sitting on this bench, or a moose.

I approach cautiously, careful not to startle him, but he greets me with a calm smile.

"Mr. Medway. Join me. Beautiful weather, isn't it? Can't last, of course, but we have to enjoy blessings as they come. Puts me in mind of a Dickinson poem I memorized in high school:

" _These are the days when Birds come back –_

A very few — a Bird or two –

To take a backward look.

These are the days when skies resume

The old — old sophistries of June –

_A blue and gold mistake.'_ "

"Are you all right, sir?" I ask, taking the seat beside him.

He turns to face me with a pair of puzzled eyes. "I feel like I've just awakened," he answers, "as if I've been asleep for a very long time, longer than I can understand, and I'm wondering what's happened to everyone while I was away."

I have no idea how to respond, so I say nothing, which seems to suit his mood splendidly.

"Maybe it's just the day," he says, breaking a long silence between us. "Maybe it's the weather. Maybe this is a dream. If it is, don't wake me." After another long pause, he turns to face me again. "I'm going to take a walk to the Confederate cemetery. Would you care to join me?"

"I have a class."

"Too bad. Maybe another time, though." Here he touches my shoulder, in a fatherly way. "I'll pay your respects to the dead."

~ ~ ~

Friday, December 10

Vicky, the younger cashier from Leslie's Drugs, is at on our porch, knocking politely with a large wheeled suitcase behind her.

"Hi," she says as I open. "Cindy's expecting me."

She wheels the suitcase into the parlor and begins unpacking stacks of plastic containers.

"We're having a Tupperware party," Cindy explains. "Vicky's one of my regulars at Grundy's. Her husband's stationed in Germany. She's started selling Tupperware in her spare time to help support herself. I said she could practice her sales routine on us. You boys better be nice."

Andy, Garrett, Clamor, Dr. Hirsch and I are take our seats in the parlor and are awaiting the start of Vicky's demonstration when another guest arrives, hammering on the door instead of politely knocking.

I answer. It's James' thug.

"We meet again," he says.

"No need to hit me this time. James is upstairs."

Vicky is wearing tan slacks and a checkered gingham top that, I imagine, is supposed to look wholesome and all-American, but which I find to be oddly provocative, possibly because the outfit makes her look a lot like Marianne from _Gilligan's Island_ , and I've always had a thing for Marianne.

The presentation commences. Vicky is nervous, clumsy, not a gifted saleswoman. She's got a script that she repeatedly checks as she goes along, but it's been written for a gathering of housewives. She doesn't seem to know what to do with our motley assortment of freaks.

She brings out a rectangular set of Modular Mates and sets it beside the Sheer Gallon Pitcher. "Now this would make a perfect Christmas gift for your . . . ." Here she pauses. "Your mothers?"

"Yes, that's all right," Andrew encourages her. "We all have mothers. Except for Dr. Hirsch, of course."

"That's because he's a result of spontaneous generation," Garrett adds.

"Actually, she passed away last year," Dr. Hirsch interjects.

"Claire Marie, on the other hand, came into this world through parthenogenesis. Technically speaking, she is her own mother."

"We're very close," Clamor agrees.

"Most remarkable of all," Andrew adds, "Garrett here is the product of an hysterical pregnancy."

Vicky's getting flustered. Cindy stands, arms akimbo. "Everybody shut up! I apologize, Vicky. They've been smoking dope again."

The poor woman soldiers on about the wonders of Tupperware in preserving perishables in air-tight storage. When she shows us how to burp the containers, Clamor's trying so hard not to laugh I fear she'll wet herself. Unseen to the rest of us, another audience member has joined us, listening intently.

"Pardon me," the thug says, stepping forward to Vicky's display. He taps an index finger on the Season Serve Container. "How much does this cost?"

Vicky stammers a moment over the interruption by this sinister stranger, but manages to quote a price. The thug extracts a roll of bills from his pocket and begins thumbing through it.

"I'll take 82 of them," he says, scooting a stack of cash across the table toward her. He then raises an extra $20 bill in the air. "Can I get rush delivery?"

"Yes, certainly. Let me get you a receipt."

"No receipt. Just have the package sent here. I'll know when to pick it up."

As he's leaving, the thug feints a punch in my direction, and I duck.

"Just messing with you, kid. Good evening, everyone. Pleasure doing business with you."

~ ~ ~

Saturday, December 11

WREG is showing _Charlie Chan in Panama_ for its late movie. Twentieth Century Fox, 1940. Directed by Norman Foster. I should probably be studying for next week's final exam in my German class instead.

Andrew, Garrett and I are trying to solve the mystery along with old Charlie, but he manages to stay several steps ahead of us. Cindy is absorbed in her December issue of _Cosmo_ , which has included an excerpt from Daniel Reuben's new book, _Any Woman Can!*_

" _What_ can any woman do?" Andrew asks, during a commercial.

"Get a guy to ball her."

"Well, that's self-evident. I can't believe some clever sod managed to write an entire book on that topic."

"When I was a kid," Garrett says, "I envied my sisters because they could subscribe to magazines like _Seventeen_ that explained how to talk and dress and attract guys. What did I have? _Boys Life_. It told me how to tie knots."

"I bet you read _Playboy_ , too," Cindy counters.

"Yes, which I had to smuggle in and hide under my mattress, and which told me how to mix martinis and score with chicks in my Manhattan penthouse. Totally worthless. I really just needed a magazine that told me how to unhook Julie McNutt's bra strap." He turns to Andrew and me with an inspiration. "You know what we should do? We should start a magazine for teenage guys, with all sorts of sex advice. We'll call it _Hard On_."

The movie ends. Andrew and Cindy retire to their room, presumably so she can demonstrate what she learned tonight from _Cosmo_. Garrett leaves for an after-curfew meeting with Rose. I stay below for another hour. On my way up the stairs, I hear James' shortwave playing a music box version of "Blue Danube" followed by a woman's voice repeating the numbers "1, 28, 16, 19, 5, 12."

I linger outside his room for a minute, listening to the pattern repeat and repeat, and finally peek in through a crack he's left in the door. James is sitting in the dark room, smoking a joint by himself and staring at the lighted dials of the radio. A portrait of obsession.

~ ~ ~

Sunday, December 12

The day is cold and blustery, and the Square is strewn with handbills that have blown from the shop windows.

It's no surprise that the verses from the Anonymous Christian match the numbers on James' radio. I'm more alarmed at the broadside from the Keep the Square American folks, whose latest propaganda hints at dog meat, salmonella, and radioactively contaminated seafood.

"Isn't there anything you can do about this?" I appeal to Sheriff Claprood, who's walked uptown from his office on North Lamar to survey the scene. "It's slander."

He squints at me, quizzically. "That's an odd thing for _you_ to ask."

"I believe I've broken the code," Andrew is telling James as I step through the front door at Tyler. "I suspect it's a single repeated word of six letters. I knew it was an alpha-numeric sequence, but its meaning eluded me until this morning, when I thought of plugging in the Jakarta constant. I'll need a third set to guarantee that I'm correct. But I believe the word is 'Denver.'"

~ ~ ~

Monday, December 13

I've just finished typing the mimeograph of Dr. Goodleigh's final exam for her mythology class when she returns to the office.

"I don't suppose you can type a letter without reading it?"

"I'm not that gifted."

"I've got urgent AAUP business. The Administration is considering a sanction against one of our faculty. Someone we all know. The union needs to send a formal response."

She passes me a handwritten letter to the Chancellor. I roll a sheet of departmental stationery into the platen and begin to type. She watches my expression as I work, waiting for my reaction when I reach the essence of the message.

"Dr. Evans has been accused of moral turpitude?" I ask.

"Adultery. Aldo Giordano is playing the outraged husband. The role of public cuckold has been tough on his Mediterranean pride."

"Don't tell me tenured professors can be fired for falling in love."

"Not fired. Suspended. Technically, yes. Adultery would be grounds, though it's not been used here since sometime just after the Civil War. Aldo's filing a nuisance complaint. But the union has to treat it seriously."

I promise to keep the charges under my hat, but discover that they're already the topic of conversation at Amy Madigan's table in the Grill at lunchtime.

I'm delighted to find Becky alone in the back room. She's wearing a knitted newsboy cap that makes her look even cuter than usual.

"Everybody's talking about poor Dr. Evans," she says.

"Trumped-up charges," I grouse. "If he were a dentist, they'd accuse him of oral turpitude."

"If he were an Eskimo, it would be auroral turpitude," she replies. "Or, if he were an ichthyologist, it'd be dorsal turpitude."

"If he sold potato chips, they'd accuse him of morsel turpitude."

"If he'd slept with the instructor of an etiquette course, he'd be on the carpet for cordial turpitude."

"If there had been a death in the family, he might have committed mournful turpitude."

"I cheated on a psych exam once, got accused of abnormal turpitude."

"I know how you feel. I stole a red horse once, and the posse tried to hang me for sorrel turpitude."

"I've got nothing else," she says, after a long pause.

"Me neither. It's probably for the best."

We fall into a comfortable silence. She opens a World History text. I dig into my grilled cheese, watch little Becky sip a Coca Cola through the straw between her pretty little lips, and suddenly feel thirteen again, suffering my first crush.

~ ~ ~

Tuesday, December 14

I drop in on Mr. Duck in what used to be the Bishop Hall study lounge, now a maze of partitions for a soon-to-be warren of separate offices.

"I'll trade you lunch for a dry walling lesson," I offer.

"Looking to expand your skill set, are you?"

"I've only had the one painting job since getting back. Yeah, I could do with more work."

Mr. Duck demonstrates his technique with the mud and the tape, the speed and coordination of getting it on quick and smooth. I try to imitate his moves.

"Not bad, for a first-timer," he says. "You want to be my apprentice on this job?"

"What's happened to Rusty?"

"He's run off to become a Trappist monk, if you can believe that. Damn fool."

The cafeteria is relatively deserted, but I spot Andrew and Cindy at a table in the corner, and motion Mr. Duck in their direction. His eyes brighten as they take Cindy in. She does, in fact, look especially fetching in her scoop-neck, red sweater and a tiny denim skirt that would hardly seem to offer any protection against today's cold.

"So you and James are off to Denver," I say to Andrew. "Why there?"

"The numbers, of course. The pattern became clear, as I was telling James, once I plugged in the Jakarta constant."

"The what?" Mr. Duck asks.

"The Jakarta constant. It's a . . . ."

"I know what a constant is, son. I've dabbled in math off and on for the past 30 years. But I've never heard of the _Jakarta_ constant. Are you sure you didn't just pull that one out of your ass?"

Andrew is lifting a forkful of cherry pie to his mouth, but pauses, sets it back on his plate, and grins.

"You did?" I ask.

"I had to tell James something plausible."

"But what about the numbers?"

Andrew shrugs. "Completely random."

"So why did you tell him they spelled 'Denver'?"

"Because I've never been there. Neither has Garrett."

I consider their duplicity for a moment. "You know, I don't particularly like James. But I think I'm still a better friend to him than either of you guys."

~ ~ ~

Wednesday, December 15

"We're holding an all-night vigil Saturday, to find out who's posting the verses," Garrett reports. "Are you in?"

He's sitting cross-legged on the Ohm's waterbed, eating another nude candy bar from California. I haven't brought myself to the point of actually biting into one – a little too close to cannibalism. I've never even felt right about eating chocolate bunnies at Easter.

Besides, I'm sure I know that girl.

The Nitty Gritty Dirt Band's _Uncle Charlie_ album is playing on the stereo, and while Garrett hasn't made any effort to decorate the shop for Christmas, he is wearing a sweatshirt with Santa in bell bottoms, sunglasses and tie-dyed bandana, flashing a peace sign.

I agree to take the 12:30 to 2:00 a.m. watch.

"Denver was actually my second choice," he says when I ask him about the trip. "Originally, Rose invited me to spend the break with her and a bunch of her rich east coast friends. But they've decided on two weeks in Bermuda. Even if I could afford it, I seriously doubt that anyone's going to issue me a passport. Which reminds me," he adds, leaping from the bed to retrieve something in his coat pocket.

It's a letter.

"Apparently, this came for you back in October. General delivery. Miss Field, the postmistress, seems to have heard that we're housemates, so she gave it to me, to give to you, when I was fetching the shop mail this morning."

I glance at the post office stamp – Pass Christian, 39571 – then tear the envelope into eight parts and deposit the scraps in the shop's trash can.

"I figured you'd do that," Garrett grins. "Almost didn't give it to you."

"Wish you hadn't," I admit.

"But that would have involved tampering with the U.S. mail, and you know how law-abiding I am."

~ ~ ~

Thursday, December 16

"You're originally from Ohio? Really? Are you sure?" I ask.

Dr. Goodleigh is wearing her thigh-high leather boots, macramé shawl and granny glasses today. Her hair is loose, spilling over the back of her office chair in a black and graying riot. She looks stunning.

"Yes," she admits with a sad sigh, "it's true. I was born in Lancaster, Ohio. Home town of William Tecumseh Sherman, no less. My mother and my sisters still live there. I visit them every Christmas."

"Ohio," I wonder. "Wow."

"Why is that so strange?"

"Ohio," I repeat, turning the word around in my mouth. "It's so . . . I don't know . . . Midwestern. I never imagined somebody cool could be from there."

"We can't help where we're born, Mr. Medway. Thank you for the compliment, but I think you're trying to steer the conversation away from the favor I'm about to ask you for."

I give her a blank look.

"I think you know what it is, and that you're not going to like it: I need you to take care of the cats while I'm away."

This is what I'd expected. This is what I'd dreaded.

"It's an easy job," Dr. Goodleigh hastens to add. "Just give them fresh water and load the bowls with dry food once a day. No litter box. They've got the cat door, and if the weather's nice, they'll spend most of their time in the ravine, anyway. You may not even see them."

She pauses for a reply, then adds, "It would really mean a lot to me."

I know I'll agree, because I'm head over heels for this woman, and if she asked me to paint a tiger's toenails, I'd probably do it.

~ ~ ~

Friday, December 17

"Some people say he's going to be the next Dylan," Dottie says, handing me the jacket of a new album by some guy named John Prine. "It would make a perfect gift for some little girl friend of yours. Cindy, for example."

A cut from the record is playing on the speakers. "Your Flag Decal Won't Get You into Heaven Anymore." The Nickelodeon is decorated with miniature Christmas trees, foil snowflakes, tinsel, strings of flashing tree lights, and reindeer statuettes. She has all the marketing sense that Garrett lacks, even offering free gift wrapping with every purchase, and extended evening hours.

"Cindy is Andrew's girl," I remind her.

"You two make a much cuter couple, though. And besides, what kind of boy leaves his girl behind for months on end, sometimes, chasing after somebody who probably doesn't even exist?"

I help her close down the shop. It's almost 6:30 as we leave, well past dark, but a milder night than most we've had so far this month, temperatures somewhere in the low 50s, probably, perfect weather for the long line of movie-goers on the sidewalk outside, queued up for tonight's feature at the Lyric.

The marquee reads _Diamonds Are Forever_ , but it's certain the audience won't be seeing much of James Bond.

"Now there's a cultural phenomenon that's about to end," I remark. "Ho's weekend movie experiences. She'll be cooking nights, instead of getting high with the projectionist. When the restaurant opens, I mean."

I wait for a response that doesn't come.

"The restaurant _is_ going to open, isn't it?"

"Oh, you needn't worry about that," Dottie says. "I have a feeling that everything's going to work out just fine."

"And by 'just fine,' you mean . . . ?"

"I mean that everybody's going to win."

~ ~ ~

Saturday, December 18

"It's even worse than I'd imagined," Cindy sighs as we spy on Nick and Suzie around the corner of the breakfast cereal aisle in Jitney Jungle.

We've been sent to buy chicken and Wild Irish Rose for tonight's supper, our last before everyone scatters for the Christmas break.

Suzie is pushing her shopping cart several yards ahead of Nick, who's dawdling to study the label on a jar of Tasters Choice coffee. Suzie glances once over her shoulder, sees that she's losing him, and pushes the cart farther along, with a grim expression, trying to pretend she doesn't know him.

"Look at those shoes," Cindy remarks of Nick's wardrobe. "Wing tips. And they're polished. And what's going on with his shirt?"

"Buttons," I report. "It's a button-down collar. Oxford cloth. A dress shirt, for stock brokers."

We complete our own shopping in silence, and have loaded two bags into the back seat of my car in the parking lot before Cindy finally speaks again.

"I'm scared." Her voice sounds mournful, coming from the dark of the passenger's seat as I turn left onto North Lamar.

"Of what?"

"What's happening to Nick and Suzie," she says. "They're changing. I don't think she loves him anymore. That's a terrible thing, because they've been in love forever, you know?"

"I know."

"And if love can't last for them, what hope do the rest of us have?"

~ ~ ~

Sunday, December 19

Tonight's our vigil to capture the Anonymous Christian. I set my alarm and try to grab a few hours of sleep before I have to report to the Square and relieve Andrew's watch. I'm lucky that the temperate nights have continued through the weekend, so I'm able to sit on the bench beside the Confederate statue and suck slow on a Coke, counting on the caffeine to sustain me through this lonely vigil.

The time passes more quickly than I'd imagined it would. I spot Garrett shuffling up Van Buren, hands in his coat pockets, appearing and disappearing through the wells of the street lights, to take my place.

"Nothing going on," I report before returning to Tyler Avenue and to my pallet.

Sooner than expected, again, I wake to the noise of voices downstairs. I rise, descend the steps and find Garrett backing out of a confrontation with James.

"I was tired, man," Garrett is saying. "But I couldn't have been asleep more than a few minutes, I swear. The bastard must have moved like lightning."

A new handbill is on the table. I lift it and read: Mark 13:27.

" _And then he will send out the angels and gather his elect from the four winds, from the ends of the earth to the ends of heaven_ ," Garrett supplies, before turning back to James. "Which I think is a pretty clear, don't you? You were looking for a message."

"I was looking for the messenger," James complains. "You lost him."

~ ~ ~

Monday, December 20

I'm grading the objective questions of Dr. Goodleigh's final exam for her Classical Art class when someone raps hesitantly at the open door to the Museum. I look up from the tests to discover Little Becky standing there, with a wrapped package in hand.

"I'm glad you're here. I thought I was going to have to leave this with your boss." She practically skips across the room and presents the package to me. "For you."

I start to unwrap it. "I'm sorry – I don't have anything for you."

"Oh, that's not important. It's just a silly thing. I saw it in the bookstore and thought you'd enjoy."

It's selected poems of Li Po.

" _Joyeux Noël_ , Daniel," Becky says, and stands on tiptoes to kiss my cheek. "No mistletoe, but that's okay. Oops, now you have lipstick on you. Get a Kleenex before anybody notices. I'll miss you," she says, already on her way out the door. "See you next year!"

I stand by my table, touching the lipsticky spot on my cheek, awestruck. Little Becky just kissed me. So lost in astonishment am I that it takes me a minute to notice Dr. Goodleigh in the doorway, leaning against the frame with her arms folded.

"Mr. Medway," she says, "if you let that girl slip through your fingers, I'll never look at you the same."

~ ~ ~

Tuesday, December 21

I stop at the Jitney for a bottle of Mateus to celebrate my acing of the final exam in German and return to Tyler Avenue to discover Cindy alone, watching _Star Trek_. Spock is losing his mind because of the seven-year Vulcan mating urge, _pon farr_.

None of the guys are around. I ask about them.

"They left for Denver," she reports. "Sometime in the afternoon, while I was still at work. Andrew left me a note."

"Well, that means more wine for us, doesn't it?"

Cindy seems bummed, and the Mateus doesn't noticeably cheer her up.

Kirk disobeys Star Fleet orders and takes the Enterprise to the Vulcan home world. He gets tricked into challenging Spock – now completely insane – in a battle to the death over Spock's treacherous bride. Spock kills Kirk, regains his sanity, feels remorse and is prepared to surrender himself to Star Fleet for the murder of his captain. But Kirk's alive and well back on the ship, because Dr. McCoy's slipped him a drug that just made him look dead. Wisecracks are exchanged, the episode ends, and _Laugh In_ comes on.

"When are you leaving?" I ask Cindy. I know her family is in Little Rock.

"I'd planned on Friday. But with the boys gone, I guess it would be pointless to stick around."

She's brought home leftovers from Grundy's, enough meat plus three for everyone. We pick at our supper, not especially hungry. I put the remainders in the fridge, knowing they'll last me for at least a few more days. Cindy is halfway up the stairs when I return from the kitchen.

"Good night," she says, over her shoulder, voice sullen.

Much later, just shy of midnight, I'm on my pallet reading Herodotus, when I hear a tap on my door. Cindy comes in, barefoot, wearing a flannel nightgown.

"I miss Andrew," she says. "I don't want to sleep alone tonight."

A moment later, she's under the blanket with me.

"I thought girls don't like to sleep on the floor," I say and reach for the light switch.

"In case of emergency, we will. Shut up and cuddle."

~ ~ ~

Wednesday, December 22

I'm in the Oxford cemetery on winter solstice. Ahead looms the longest night of the year. Our warm spell has ended. A northwest wind has commenced. Scraps of snowflakes whisk their way up the hill to Faulkner's grave.

But some kind soul has left a pint of Johnny Walker, unopened, for Bill Faulkner.

He wouldn't begrudge me a sip – Bill, that is. I break the seal, drink. Well, maybe two sips. Maybe three.

I replace the cap, set the bottle back where I found it, and sit zazen, watching as solstice darkness settles in across the world.

~ ~ ~

Thursday, December 23

I lie in my pallet until early afternoon, listening to the wind. Downstairs, I light the space heater in the parlor, set the unfinished bottle of Mateus and a plate of meat plus three by the couch, and curl up under a comforter with Herodotus, sipping and reading and nibbling, occasionally dozing.

Just before dusk, I wake with a start to a noise that I believe, at first, must have been part of a dream I'm having about eating lunch with a group of carpenters around the wooden frame of a new house. I sit forward, strain my ears to listen, and am just about to sink back into the couch when it comes again – scratching, like a mouse in the wall or a squirrel in the attic. But coming from the kitchen.

I pick my way through the darkening house, turning on lamps as I pass from room to room. Just over the threshold to the kitchen, I hear it again, plainly – something scratching outside the back door.

It's a golden retriever. I open the screen door to let him in. He sits in the center of the room, giving me a look until I open the fridge and set another plate of meat plus three on the floor.

As he eats, I kneel beside him, passing a hand over the back of his head and down his smooth, long ears.

"Citizen," I say. "My old invisible friend. I'm so glad to see you, boy."

~ ~ ~

Friday, December 24

Citizen and I finish Cindy's meat plus three leftovers in front of the television. One of the Memphis stations is replaying _Amahl and the Night Visitors_. I fall asleep on the couch, wake to find Midnight Mass at St. Patrick's happening, turn off the set, and drag myself upstairs.

It's still dark when I wake again, to Citizen pawing at my pallet. I've never heard him bark, and he isn't barking now. But I think if he were any other dog, he'd be howling. Something's wrong. He's nudging me with his nose, trying to get my attention.

I rise and slip my jeans back on. Citizen is out the door as soon as I open it. I follow him down the steps. A lamp is on in the parlor, one I'd turned off before going to bed. I turn the corner, step into the open doorway, and find Skoll sitting on the couch, Citizen bristling a few feet away, ready to attack (I think) if I give the word.

I'm tempted.

"I deedn't think you'd velcome me," Skoll says, "so I took the liberty of letting myself in."

I put a hand on Citizen's neck to restrain him. He sits, with an electric tension humming in his bones.

"Handsome animal," Skoll remarks. "Vhat's its name?"

"Citizen. So you can see him?"

"I can see him. Sure. Can _you_ see him?"

"What do you want?"

"Is Chreestmas." Skoll reaches into his suit coat pocket and sets an envelope on the coffee table in front of him. "From your papa," he says.

"I don't want it."

"You don't even know vhat it is."

"Same old present, every year. I give him high marks for consistency."

Skoll sighs. "Vamily is vamily, especially at thees time of year. They vorry about you, about vhat you're doing vith your life."

"Take it back to him."

Skoll rises and begins to put on the overcoat he's draped over the back of the couch. Citizen tenses, ready to spring, but I hold him back.

"My instructions vere to deleever, not to return. Merry Chreestmas, Daniel. Oh, by the vay," he adds, pausing in the doorway. "I have news. Your mother is expecting."

"Step mother."

"Step mother. Another child in the vamily. I thought you'd be pleased."

~ ~ ~

Saturday, December 25

The air is cool, but the sun feels warmer for lack of any breeze to speak of. I have my shearling on, but leave it unbuttoned.

I take Citizen for a walk to Dr. Goodleigh's house. He waits for me at the curb as I enter to feed the cats – as she predicted, they're all outside someplace – and then we go for a stroll across the deserted campus, onto the Grove, the Loop, the Lyceum, the Library and the Union, down the sidewalk past Bondurant and onto Bishop Hall, where we find a lone figure, the first person we've seen all day, sitting on one of the concrete benches outside the ground floor.

It's Dr. Sutherland, staring upward at the bare branches of a copse of trees between the buildings, and the clear sky beyond.

"Mr. Medway," he says. "Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas, sir," I answer. "What are you doing out here?"

I take the seat beside him. Citizen stretches across the warm walkway before us. I have no sense whether or not Dr. Sutherland sees him.

"I've been reminiscing," Dr. Sutherland says. "Last year, I tried to spend the entire Christmas break camped in my office. Too depressed to face the holiday. Do you remember that? It was shortly after Eve filed for the divorce."

"Sorry. I was in Virginia this time last year, and not in such good shape myself."

"Of course you were. Virginia. That had slipped my mind." He gives me a smile with a sideways glance. "Actually, I don't have much conscious memory of the past year. That's probably a blessing. The past is past. The past is dead. Now is all that counts. You know," he adds, reluctantly, as if giving this admission some forethought before saying it aloud, "I woke up this morning almost feeling happy. Imagine that. Happy."

"We've all noticed the change in you. What's been going on?"

Dr. Sutherland turns to me with an eager expression, moves a few inches closer to me, and drops his voice to a near-whisper, as if we were in some kind of crowd.

"Experimental therapy. I told you a little about it at Thanksgiving," he says. "If you can believe it, Russian experiments in brain wave modification. Highly classified. A little box, about the size of an old-fashion radio, with a battery and four electrodes to attach to your head. Extraordinary experience. The CIA smuggled it through the Iron Curtain, and decided to test it at Ole Miss, for some reason."

"Probably the same reason we got the pot farm," I guess.

"And what about you, Medway? Are you enjoying the holidays? Was Santa Claus good to you?"

"A pretty girl gave me a book of poetry. And a kiss."

"Then you won this year's Christmas sweepstakes, didn't you?"

"And my father gave me $2,832. In cash."

"An impressive gift. But an odd sum."

"It's probably what he had in his pockets at the time. I'll keep the book. Naturally. But I have to find some way to get rid of the damn money."

~ ~ ~

Sunday, December 26

County Road 217, a wee bit over a mile past the intersection of Highways 7 and 30, also goes by the name Campground Road.

I follow Mr. Duck's directions, hang a right at the snow-cone stand (85 delicious flavors) and arrive at his trailer park just as the sun is setting over a ravine of dead kudzu.

The park itself is nothing much to speak of – a scattering of singles and double-wides perched on the side of a ravine that could have been drawn by Al Capps. I decide to park on the side of the road instead of driving into the gravel parking area below, uncertain of my little car's ability ever to make the steep climb back out.

"Glad you made it here before dark," Mr. Duck says, by way of greeting. "Dogs have been pestering us the past couple nights."

"Dogs?"

"Wild dogs. Packs of 'em. I take care to have this with me after sunset," he adds, indicating the Kolar shotgun in his hand. "Come in. The party's already started."

The trailer is crowded. I'm handed a cold Falstaff, introduced around and left to talk to a pretty, well-built woman known simply as the Widow. She's dressed in a denim shirt with the sleeves cut off to reveal an impressive set of biceps framing an equally impressive bosom. She's not a natural blonde, but her eyes are almost the same shade of blue as those of Dr. Goodleigh's cats.

A soulful-eyed man who bears a disquieting resemblance to Norman Bates lurches through the crowd holding a Mason jar above his head. He stumbles over his own feet, trips, and collapses onto a couch, without spilling any of the contents of the jar.

Mr. Duck shakes his head. "I told you not to bring that shit, Blake. This isn't a BYOB. We're just having a civilized, illegal beer bash. Did you test it before you started drinking it?"

"Never fear. Blue flame, man. Blue flame," he replies, lifting the jar in toast. He drinks to himself. "Never fear. Never fear. Never fear. Never fear. Never . . . ."

"Hey, Blake," the Widow asks, "where's the Witch tonight?"

Blake sits up and attempts to straighten his posture, as if sober. "The Witch and her cohorts are desecrating this most sacred season of the year with unspeakable acts of depraved black magic. I wouldn't be surprised," he adds, lifting a finger in the air, "to discover that they are responsible for these damn animal packs, which are not dogs at all but demons in the service of her dark lord."

"Who's the Witch?" I ask.

"His roommate. She was his girlfriend for a while, but they've been fighting. She seems nice enough to me. A little nutty, maybe, but all you hippies are nutty. No offense. Blake claims his trailer's haunted with spirits, because of spells she's been casting. They're in the middle trailer. I live in the one at the base of the hill."

Blake rises from the sofa, shouts a toast to the dark lord over Waylon Jennings singing "Silent Night" on Mr. Duck's stereo, and slouches away.

"He's completely different when he's sober," she assures me. "But that's almost never. Genius, you know – IQ of 153. I suspect he's trying to kill as many brain cells as he can, in self-defense. The Duck claims that mental illness is an inevitable side-effect of great intelligence."

"You call him the Duck?"

"Have to. He's never told us what his first name is."

"Lively group," I comment, watching the festivities.

"You should get to know us," the Widow says. "We're a hoot."

~ ~ ~

Monday, December 27

Citizen and I are watching another _Star Trek_ rerun – the episode where Kirk, Spock and McCoy are being tortured by aliens, only to have their wounds cured time after time by a mute empath – when the front door swings open, and Joan walks in with a paisley suitcase in her hand. The table lamp by the door catches the glimmer of raindrops in her hair.

"I know James is away," she announces. "I'm going to crash here for a few nights. Maybe a week. If you don't mind."

It takes me a minute to answer, because my heart is in my throat. "Is something the matter?"

"Suzie and Nick need some time alone, to work things out, if they can. You've probably heard that Nick got a job."

"Impossible."

"Teller at the First National. He says he'll still paint, in his spare time, but the baby needs a father with a steady income."

"Oh, lord."

"Suzie, you can imagine, is not happy. They're arguing a lot. But don't worry," she adds, turning to the stairs, "I'm a quiet guest. You won't even know I'm here."

I return to the show and to Citizen, who's resumed his nap by the couch. A commercial comes on.

"Joan is going to be sleeping under the same roof as us," I say to Citizen, "and we won't even know she's here? She can't be serious, can she, boy?"

~ ~ ~

Tuesday, December 28

I'm reading the sign on the window of Dr. Hirsch' empty storefront for the fifth time, hoping somehow it means something other than what it says.

_Opening Soon: Maranatha Christian Bookstore_.

A bookstore? What in the hell happened to the restaurant?

I proceed to the Nickelodeon, only to find another sign indicating that it's closed for the holidays. Makes sense – no students, no customers. In fact, the Square is deserted, and the first people I see this morning are two old women laughing in an aisle of the Jitney Jungle. They stop when they notice me.

"Did you hear what we were saying?" one of them asks.

"No, ma'am."

"That's a blessing, honey," the other says, "'cause she's just finished telling me the dirtiest joke you've ever heard."

They start laughing again, at the memory of it. I purchase two containers of apricot yogurt, a Slim Jim, and a rawhide bone for Citizen, and head back to Tyler Avenue, passing Colemans on the way. There, in the middle booth by the window, sit Jimmy, Tiger and Ho, eating barbecue.

Ho starts muttering when she sees me approach. Tiger stares at his plate. But Jimmy greets me with his usual, "Ocarina vermillion!"

"What happened to the restaurant?" I demand.

Jimmy shrugs. "The Baptists bought the building. They brought in a new tenant."

"Has Dr. Hirsch heard?"

"He's visiting friends in England. No way to reach him."

"You knew this was going to happen, didn't you?"

"Yes. We hoped. It's a good thing. Everybody wins."

"Except for Hirsch – he's lost his investment."

Jimmy's smile turns to a look of confusion. "No," he says. "Everybody wins. That's how we had it planned."

"We? Who's we?"

"Tiger. Me. Dottie. The Carroll brothers. Garrett."

"What's Garrett got to do with this?"

"It was mostly his idea," Jimmy says. "He's watching out for Dr. Hirsch. Didn't he tell you? His plan – everybody wins."

~ ~ ~

Wednesday, December 29

It's pouring outside. Citizen doesn't seem eager to go out in the rain, so I leave him napping by the space heater in the parlor and drive to Dr. Goodleigh's house.

I get soaked in the few seconds it takes me to get from the car to the back porch. I leave the keys hanging in the lock, enter Goodleigh's laundry room, and pass on to the kitchen, where I'm confronted by the cats.

They're all here, inside. Waiting. Watching. Above my head. They're on the refrigerator, on the range vent hood, in the cupboards, on the exposed rafters where Goodleigh hangs her pots, pans, colanders and whisks.

One of the younger cats is batting, lazily, at a string of garlic cloves with its paws, but the others are sitting still as I enter. At first, only their eyes move as I step to the sink and begin to open the cabinet door where their food is stored. A few heads pivot when I set the cat food bag on the counter.

Bending to collect the multitude of bowls from the floor, I hear the solid thump of a cat tail whack once against a rafter. They're all craning forward from their various perches now, as I set the bowls around the bag, preparing to pour.

I open the bag and am startled by a terrible sound. Melpomene is clicking her teeth together, right over my head. Her lips are spread in a wide, horrible smile, fangs bared, dripping saliva. She speaks.

"Mmmmrrrraaaaaaaaauuuwoooooooyooooyooooooooo!"

She springs. I duck. She misses my head, sails through empty space, and lands with a skid on Goodleigh's kitchen table, claws scratching furrows into the wood as she brakes.

" _I'm trying to feed you, stupid_!" I scream.

Melpomene pivots, hunches on her back quarters for another leap, and hisses at me. I can smell her breath, sardine-scented, from five feet away.

"Mmuummummummmrrrrrrrraaaaaaaaaooooooooo!"

One by one, her companions begin dropping from their perches, landing on the table beside her, on the counters, on the floor. They seethe about my legs, a roiling tide of flesh, fur, fangs, and claws.

I wheel about, searching for an escape. My elbow grazes against the bag of food, and it topples forward and over, spilling Cat Chow onto the tiled floor. They all spring, as one, onto the mound of food at my feet.

I jump, ass first, onto the counter, lift my legs to my chest in fetal position, away from the melee that erupts as all descend en masse onto the spill. From here, I can't see the floor, but my ears bear witness the din of snarls, hisses, screams, thumps, bangs and roars of this feline feeding frenzy.

When the sound dies down, I discover they've devoured four days of rations in as many minutes. Even the bag is gone, sliced to shreds. Now they're slouching away from the scene of carnage, tails drooped and bellies distended, too sated to pay me any more mind. I lower my feet slowly to the floor and start across the kitchen. Stray bits of Cat Chow crunch beneath the soles of my shoes. In six steps, I'm at the door, and out into the dripping rain in two more.

I sprint for the car, lock the doors behind me, and keep glancing in the rear view mirror the entire way back to Tyler Avenue. I quickly compose myself when I find Joan munching on a bowl of granola and apricot yogurt in the kitchen.

"I put some of your goat cheese on my salad last night. My god! It was so good, I nearly had an orgasm. Where did you get it?"

I struggle to keep the image of Joan having an orgasm from my mind. "A friend who's living in North Carolina. She raises goats, and sends cheese every year for the winter solstice."

"We need a goat. Let's see about buying one."

~ ~ ~

Thursday, December 30

Deputy Hacker is at the door. "You're coming with me," he announces as I open it.

"Do you have a warrant?" I want to know.

He opens the screen door and steps in, uninvited. "Are you gonna' to come peaceably?"

"Not without a warrant."

"Have it your way."

For such a little guy, Hacker is surprisingly strong. It takes him only a moment to pin me, face-first, into the wall, hands behind my back, and another moment to cuff me.

Joan picks this moment to descend the stairs, in a terrycloth bathrobe, hair loose about her shoulders. We both stop what we're doing – Hacker restraining, me struggling – to watch her, and then he's leading me outside.

"Let him go!" Joan demands, coming onto the front porch as I'm conducted to the squad car. "Daniel, do you want me to call someone?"

I try to shrug. Anyone I know who might be able to help me is out of town.

"Watch your head, boy," Hacker cautions, hoisting me into the back seat.

We're at the station house a few minutes later. Hacker leads me through the front door and past the on-duty officer, into the back. Lots of people gathered around a table loaded with cookies, pies, potato chips, Cokes. They seem to be having a party.

"Goddamn, Roy." The Sheriff's voice comes from behind us. "I told you to invite him, not arrest him."

"More fun, my way."

The cuffs come off, and I'm massaging my wrists.

"If you want to file a complaint . . . ," Claprood offers.

"No harm done," I say. "I can take a joke."

Hacker takes a big bite off a brownie with a laugh.

"I thought you might enjoy a little company, what with all your buddies off in Denver hunting Tamburlaine," Claprood says. "Who, by the way, is definitely not in Denver."

"I appreciate the kindness," I say.

"Well, peace on Earth, joy to men of goodwill. That includes hippies."

"He's got a girl living there," Hacker says. "You want to bust him for cohabitation?"

"Nobody's getting busted for anything," Claprood says with weary patience. "We're all friends today."

"Being friends with hippies is one more thing that's going to lose you the post of sheriff."

Claprood waves me toward his private office. "Let me freshen up your Coke, son." He closes the door and lifts a fifth of Jim Beam from a desk drawer, pours two fingers worth into my paper cup. "Happy New Year."

"What did your deputy mean about losing your office?"

Claprood takes his seat in a swivel chair behind the desk, grins, scratches his jaw. "Going after the beer ordinance seems to have proved a misstep. A number of prominent citizens have quietly made a lot of money keeping Lafayette County dry, and now they've quietly set a recall election in motion."

"Sorry to hear that. You know you'll have my vote."

"Thanks, but don't let that be generally known. Your endorsement isn't likely going to improve my chances."

~ ~ ~

Friday, December 31

I spot Joan sitting at James' shortwave radio. "2, 17, 9, 43, 16, 8, 2, 17, 9, 43, 16, 8, 2, 17, 9, 43, 16, 8," it repeats.

"He listens to this all night?" she asks.

"Sometimes all day, too."

Joan sighs. "What's happened to all of us? I feel like everything's turning out wrong. Remember how happy we used to be? James and I were together. Nick and Suzie. You and Melissa. Garrett and what's-her-name, his fiancée?"

"The bitch that dumped him for the frat boy. Ethel."

"Everybody falling in love, and waiting for the revolution. Look at us now." Joan switches the radio off, stilling the obnoxious voice.

"It's not 1969 anymore," I agree. "It's like once the Earth closed, everything went to hell."

"Even the shops at Overton Square aren't the same. I hardly recognized anything that night you and I went to the Looking Glass."

"Overton Square?" I ask. "You and I went to the Looking Glass? That was you?"

"Of course it was me. We went dancing. We went to a horrible movie called _Count Yorga, Vampire,_ and laughed our heads off. Don't you remember?"

"Actually, I don't. I only have a glimpse of that night – sitting in a restaurant. Next day, I found a Looking Glass matchbook in my pocket, so I knew I must have been there with someone. That was actually you?"

Joan studies me for a moment. "Okay, you're beginning to scare me now. You really don't remember?"

"Well," I admit, "I have been having blackouts. Memory losses. I'll find myself being somewhere, doing something, without any recollection of how I got there or what happened afterward. Last week I found myself having an argument with an attendant at the Gulf station on South University because he wouldn't sell me two bucks of gas. It turns out I didn't have my car. I'd walked in and stood by the pump."

"How long has this been going on?"

"Five months? Off and on, since I died up in Virginia."

"Man, you're messed up."

"Let's go back," I say. "Back to Memphis. Not tonight. It's late, and all the drunks are out on the road. But sometime next week, let's head back to Overton Square and have some fun. This time, I'll remember."

Downstairs, we share a joint and turn on Johnny Carson. Half an hour in, NBC switches to live coverage at Times Square. Midnight reaches the east coast an hour ahead of us. Joan goes upstairs and returns in her robe, with her glasses on.

"I didn't know you wore glasses," I lie.

At midnight, we hear the courthouse clock chiming on the Square, and somebody in the neighborhood setting off a string of firecrackers. We glance at each other, a little awkward, until Joan takes the initiative of leaning forward for a kiss. It's quick, chaste.

"To a better year than this last one," she wishes.

"A better year," I agree.

At that moment, someone knocks at the door. I take the precaution of peeking through a window before opening, because it might be Hacker again, or James' thug, or Skoll.

What I see lifts my heart. It's Ashley, her backpack and her bedroll strung over either shoulder. She's through the door and in my arms a moment later.

"Happy New Year, boyfriend." From her I get an unchaste kiss, and full body contact. "I drove like hell to get here in time," she begins, then spots Joan watching us from the parlor door.

I make the introductions.

"You're James' ex, aren't you?" Ashley asks. "I've heard a lot about you."

"That I'm the biggest bitch in Mississippi, no doubt."

"Actually, he mentioned every state in the old Confederacy. But hell, you can never trust what an ex says. I can't imagine being married to James was especially easy going. I ran into the boys in Wichita, and they told me Daniel was here alone. I don't mean to barge in if you two are . . . ."

"We're watching television, and I was just about to turn in."

"I brought some grass."

"I've smoked enough for tonight," Joan demurs. "You two enjoy yourselves."

~ ~ ~

Saturday, January 1, 1972

I wake sometime around 11:00 to the aroma of coffee brewing and bacon frying downstairs. I roll over and curl closer into Ashley, all soft and warm in the bedroll. I wake a second time to a knock on the door. Joan peeks in and, finding us covered, steps inside with a tray. Coffee, toast, eggs. A pile of bacon.

"Breakfast in bed. I hope you're not vegetarian," Joan announces, glancing at Ashley, who's sat up yawning and stretching with wanton immodesty. A fetching girl.

"Unrepentant carnivore," she admits.

"Good. We're supposed to eat pork today. And black-eyes, of course."

"Is that some kind of southern custom? I've never tasted black-eyes."

"I bought a can at the Jitney Jungle yesterday. We'll have them for dinner. If, of course, you two plan to leave the bedroom today and keep a poor, divorced girl company."

"Keep an eye out for Citizen," I advise Joan on her way out, "or he'll grab that bacon for sure."

She glances back, puzzled. "Who?"

"Citizen."

"Who's Citizen?"

"The dog."

"Oh, the _dog_ ," she says. "I was wondering if he has a name."

~ ~ ~

Sunday, January 2

It's a bright, warm start to the year, and Overton Square is packed. Bikers line Madison Avenue, while street musicians fill the sidewalk along Cooper Street. I'm standing at the Triangle with Ashley and Joan, our three bellies comfortably filled with red wine and po' boys from Pappy's. Harley fumes waft our way, mixed with the scent of a dozen joints burning as one from the throng surrounding us, and the cops not paying it any mind.

We're debating whether to drop into Abercrombie & Fitch or Little John's first, though the choice scarcely matters. We have the whole of the afternoon and evening to dawdle, me with Ashley on one arm and Joan on the other, thinking myself to be the luckiest, happiest boy in Memphis.

"Isn't that Amy Madigan?" Joan suddenly asks, lifting her right index finger toward the crowd strolling Cooper Street.

I look where she's pointing. Sure enough, it's Amy, looking distinctly out of her element in a tea party dress, as if she'd somehow stumbled out of an afternoon meeting of the Junior League and onto this side street of freaks.

But she's not alone. A tall man in a herring-bone suit, graying hair slicked back from his temples, walks alongside her. Every few moments, he points at something or someone in the crowd, turns to make a comment to Amy, and shakes his head, as if in grave disappointment.

"Who's the old guy with the broomstick up his ass?" Ashley wants to know.

"Never seen him before. Maybe it's her father."

"I don't know. He seems awful grabby to be her father."

Ashley's right. As we watch, I notice how often he's touching her shoulder or brushing a hand across her arm, as if casually accidental, but obviously intentional.

"Not her father," Joan agrees, "but certainly old enough to be. Look at that old lecher. You don't suppose that our Miss Madigan has found herself a sugar daddy, do you?"

~ ~ ~

Monday, January 3

Dr. Goodleigh's cats are outside, enjoying the day, so Ashley and I make quick work of filling their bowls with food and water.

"What do you want to do today?" she asks as we return to the car.

"Let's go to Paris."

"I don't think I'm dressed for that."

"You look great. And it's a come-as-you-are Paris."

We stop by Tyler Avenue for wine and a blanket, and the Jitney for oranges, cheese, buns and grapes, then head south on Highway 7, merging onto 9W and straight into Paris.

Apart from some cows in various fields, no one's about. We drive through still neighborhoods of old houses, a few with tendrils of wood smoke issuing from their chimneys.

"So this is Paris," Ashley says. "Somehow I'd always pictured it differently."

"Paris, Mississippi," I reply. "I hear tell there's this place in France that also claims the name, but this is the original."

I find the turn-off to the cemetery. Every grave has been decorated for the season, the place immaculately weeded and trimmed.

"What's with this southern fixation with dead people?" Ashley asks, as we spread the blanket.

"We envy them. Their ordeal of living down here is over. That's why we reject reincarnation. The most comforting thing you can say to a Mississippian is that we pass this way but once."

We've finished the joint, and are on a second glass of the wine when a dusky green Ford pickup truck comes rattling down the gravel drive and halts with a squeal of brakes. A big man in overalls and a crew cut steps from the driver's side, followed by a tiny hunched-over woman stepping slowly, hesitantly from the passenger door.

I greet him with a pleasant "Afternoon" as he approaches, but he's apparently not in the mood for courtesies.

"What the hell you think you're doing?"

I have to shade my eyes with the flat of my hand to block out the sun's glare over his shoulder. I probably look like I'm saluting him. "Oh, you know. Just having a picnic. Courting."

"Do you have family buried out here?"

"I don't. No, sir."

"Then show a little goddamn respect for those of us who do. Pick up your trash and git. Right now."

"My companion here is from the north," I reply, attempting for courtliness. "You are not giving her a good sense of southern hospitality."

The old woman has finally caught up, stooped so far that her head is titled a full 60 degrees forward. She's peering at us through rheumy eyes, but her voice, when it comes, is surprisingly young.

"Are you children hippies?" she asks. "Oh, my lord, they are," she continues, not waiting for a reply. "Henry, look – they're hippies, just like we've seen on Walter Cronkite's show."

"I know that, mama."

"What you children doing? Having a picnic?"

"Yes, ma'am. You're welcome to join us. We've got plenty."

"We have wine," Ashley adds.

"Oh, I'd like some wine!" She totters forward as Ashley finds another Dixie cup.

"Mama, these people have got to leave!" Henry admonishes. "This ain't no damn park. This is hallowed ground. What they're doing isn't proper."

"Fiddlesticks," she waves her Dixie cup at him, like shooing something in the air. "People used to picnic here all the time. Your daddy and I did it when we was kids. It's the Christian thing to do. Dead folks appreciate a little company." She turns back to us. "You children come back in a year or two to see me, okay? My name's Ettie Campbell. Can you remember that?"

"Ettie Campbell," Ashley repeats.

"I'll be buried right over there," she points, "beside my husband. Pay me a visit. Bring another picnic with you." She takes a sip of wine. "My, that's good. Henry! Drive me home, son, and stop ordering these children around. I'm missing my story."

Later, back in Oxford, as we lie together in the bedroll, Ashley tells me she has to leave tomorrow. People to meet in DC. I'm bummed that her visit is over so soon.

"I'll be back," she promises. "And anyway, we'll always have Paris."

~ ~ ~

Tuesday, January 4

I'm holed up inside the house today with Citizen and the book of Li Po poems that Becky gave me for Christmas. He's a charming old companion, Li Po. I make tea, and he tells me about mountain revels, jugs of wine, mist hanging at dawn in stands of bamboo by a stream, young brides, empty cabins that once sheltered his friends,melon patches outside city gates, and the rabbit in the moon.

But his conversation doesn't dull the ache of not having Ashley with me today, so I open another book, Nathan Poole's _Under the Yellow Arch_ , to page 32, and read about the time he and his love went to Paris:

I remember Paris

Mississippi

I remember hydrangeas

by the road

the black Baptist church

filling with locust hymns

all that hot afternoon

it was our Notre Dame.

We strolled the Champs-Elysees,

we lay on the left bank

of the Seine,

the old rail bed warm with the sun

and with us

love was

everywhere

we looked in each other's eyes

and the bells of Paris

rang like sleepy cattle.

I didn't tell Ashley, yesterday, that our excursion was in part my homage to Nathan Poole and his tragic romance with the unnamed lady who's present in every poem of this collection. The legend is that the bulk of them were composed in a sanitarium where he had been sent after an epic drunken binge brought on by a love that he'd lost.

Poole was a senior at Ole Miss when he published it, and at 21 became the youngest writer ever nominated for a National Book Award in poetry.

The man's a legend in his own time, teaching now at North Carolina, and he returns to Oxford most summers for a quick visit, rekindling rumors and gossip over who, exactly, inspired these pieces, what woman fired his passion and broke his heart. I've tried a dozen times or more to learn her identity from Dr. Evans, who surely knows. Dr. Evans was Poole's mentor at the time, and the one who finally had him hospitalized to save his life.

I suspect it was none other than Dr. Goodleigh herself, discovered in a scandalous romance with an undergraduate, and I'm not alone in this suspicion. Amy Madigan, for one, is utterly convinced. But Dr. Evans has refused even to hint at the truth with us, so the ldy remains an Ole Miss mystery.

I feel restless after reading a few more of Poole's poems. "How about a walk?" I ask Citizen, and he's instantly awake, on his feet.

We step out into an afternoon that's much colder than yesterday's, a light drizzle that threatens to turn icy overnight.

We turn east on University, toward the center of town, ambling along in rhythm with the slow pace of an afternoon's traffic until Citizen suddenly halts, somehow alerted to something of interest happening on the other side of the street. I spot activity around the old savings and loan building on the corner of 11th Street – delivery vans in the parking lot, workers milling about, and a sign in the window announcing the upcoming grand opening of the Rebel Buddha Chinese Restaurant.

Jimmy's inside, supervising the installation of a walk-in freezer unit.

" _Ocarina vermillion_ , man!" he calls, spotting me. "Welcome! Welcome!"

I gaze about at the work they've already accomplished. "So this is what you meant. Everybody wins."

Jimmy slaps me on the shoulder. "Everybody wins," he agrees.

~ ~ ~

Wednesday, January 5

Cold snap and a freeze overnight. After tending to the cats, I drive onto the empty campus to check the radiators in the Museum. I adjust the knobs – a little more heat at the south window, a little less on the north – lock the Museum, and reset the alarm.

I'm on my way to Bishop Hall, to check Mr. Duck's progress, maybe even offer a couple of hours apprenticing, when I run into Dr. Evans stepping out of the elevator on the ground floor.

He's carrying a box filled with papers and miscellaneous items that usually sit on his desk – a clock, ashtrays, whatnot. I inquire about his holiday.

"It was quiet until yesterday, when the Board and the Chancellor decided to fire me. Well, not fire," he amends. "I'm suspended for the semester, without pay. Moral turpitude, you know. The Board's decision was only two votes short of being unanimous. The union wants to contest it. But I think, hell, this means more time to finish my novel."

"What about your classes? Who's going to cover them?"

"Dr. French has decided to promote Amy to assistant professor status for one semester. Fortuitous, for her."

"Well, uh, listen," I say. This is embarrassing. "If they're not paying you, and if you, say, need money, let me know. You can borrow whatever you need and don't have to pay it back."

Dr. Evans falters for a moment. "Oh. Well, that's very generous of you."

"No, I mean it. Between one thing and another, I've got like over three thousand dollars. Here, look," I add, digging the wad of bills out of the left pocket of my jeans, the pile of hundreds Skoll left behind and the separate pile from James' thug – all crumpled and worn by this point.

"You actually carry this much money around with you?" Dr. Evans asks.

"Well, sure. I'd be crazy to leave it at my place. We don't even have locks on the doors."

~ ~ ~

Thursday, January 6

Lunch at Grundy's. Meat plus three, of course. My treat. Today's entrée is chopped steak. Joan orders greens, new potatoes and okra. I'm having the mashed potatoes, broccoli in cheese, and squash.

"Eating like this, you ought to have gained some weight," she remarks, as I finish my third cornbread muffin. "Doesn't look that way, though."

It's the tail end of downtown Oxford's lunch hour, and as patrons start to leave, I look down the long table and spot a recent acquaintance, dawdling at his ease over an empty plate and a near-empty glass of ice tea.

He glances about for a waitress, but Grundy's is short-handed today, so he rises to fetch a pitcher of tea, and sets about checking the other remaining patrons before serving himself.

"A lovely lady should not have to wait for service," he says, with a charming flash of dimples, as he fills Joan's glass.

"Hi, Blake," I say, but he returns a blank look to my greeting. "Daniel. We met at Mr. Duck's party last week."

The smile fades. The dimples vanish. "Then I must humbly apologize for my behavior. The Duck says I was out of control. I have no memory of the evening, but the entire trailer court has been chastising me about it all week. Is it true that I asked the Widow to sleep with me?"

"Right after you threw the jar of mayonnaise through the window, saying it was demon possessed. No sweat, man – we've all done crazy things stoned."

"That's true," Joan agrees. "He," she adds, pointing at me, "once proposed to a girl named Melissa in the middle of a drug bust. Went down on one knee, declared undying love, and asked her to marry him while he was being cuffed."

"I thought maybe one of the cops would turn out to be a romantic and set us loose."

"I'm Joan," she adds, extending her hand, "and I've never trusted mayonnaise jars either."

Instead of shaking Joan's hand, though, he takes it in his, and bows to kiss it. "Blake. You are very kind."

~ ~ ~

Friday, January 7

Suzie has left Nick and decided to move in with us on Tyler Avenue. Joan and I are consoling her in the kitchen.

"He said something unforgivable," she reports.

"What did he say?"

"I can't repeat it. Don't ask me to."

She and Joan agree to barrack together in James' room until his return, or until some other arrangement can be devised.

Cindy arrives home from Christmas break in the middle of the unpacking. "Other girls, at last – what fun!"

I drive to the Jitney for pork chops and fry them up in a skillet Suzie has brought with her. We eat in the parlor, watching _Star Trek_ , and decide to grab a show after dinner. The line outside the Lyric is too long, so we head for _The Last Picture Show_ at the Ritz instead, running into Clamor on the way. She elects to fall in with us for the evening.

"Will you look at this," Clamor says as we stroll together down Van Buren. "Medway has a harem."

Along the way, we're confronted by a man wearing a tweed overcoat. "Where can a man get a drink in this damn town?"

"The Holiday Inn has a bar," I tell him. "There's also a package store on University Avenue, or you can buy cheap wine at the Jitney."

"Where can I get a beer?"

"Holly Springs."

"Is that a bar?"

"It's a town about 30 miles north of here. Lafayette County's dry for beer."

"I can't get a beer?"

"No, sir."

"Hell of a place to live," he complains, walking on without a polite word.

"Him again," Joan remarks. "Interesting."

"What?"

"Didn't you recognize him? That's Amy's sugar daddy, the man she was with at Overton Square."

~ ~ ~

Saturday, January 8

I fall asleep on my pallet to the comforting sound of women's voices downstairs – Joan and Cindy commiserating with Suzie over Nick's abandoning the freak lifestyle.

When I wake later, the house is quiet. They've either gone to bed, or out. The only sound is a light tapping of drizzle against the window pane, and Citizen sighing every now and then in his sleep. I'm feeling alert, awake, but not restless, perfectly content to be still for the rest of the night, get some reading done. Maybe some writing, too.

But first, a little meditation. I haven't sat zazen since the night of solstice at Faulkner's grave. I'm out of practice, and it takes more focus than usual to locate my hara, regulate my breath, turn off my thoughts. Eventually, time and space begin dropping away, my body merges with the universe, every cell and atom joining in the frequency of all that is.

Yes. The chant rises from the chest, rumbles up through the throat, vibrates out between teeth and lips. The sound of creation passing through my substance. It goes on and on and on . . . .

And suddenly stops. In an instant I experience a wrenching sense of vertigo, falling, space ripping at me, consciousness tearing me back. I'm back on my pallet, in my room, in the house on Tyler, in Oxford, on earth, and my eyelids fly open to discover another being, also sitting zazen, immediately before me, close enough to touch.

It's _Melissa_!

Melissa, my first, truest, and most lamented love.

Melissa, her hair wrapped back in a tie-dyed scarf, wearing the amber necklace with the ankh I gave her three Christmases ago, tiny bare feet propped in lotus position, bell bottoms, a white cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, the granny glasses.

My heart tries to jump through my ribcage and into her arms, but fails, bouncing back with a thump at the moment I realize that Melissa – though undoubtedly sitting in meditation a mere yard away from me, distinct in every detail – isn't exactly here either, isn't exactly occupying what anyone would refer to as "space."

My hand that's reached out to touch her falters, and drops. Instead, I simply gape. Her eyes are closed, her face serene, the mouth set in the Attic smile that always made me smile back. I sit watching, barely daring to blink, for what seem like minutes.

Slowly, gradually, something changes in her expression: a sense of distraction, some interference in her meditation. It's me. I'm the distraction. I try to rein in my consciousness, but I'm too late. She's aware of me now, and her eyes flutter open.

For an instant we are gazing at each other, face to face, and she breaks into such a sweet smile of welcome that my fool heart makes another attempt to sail past my ribs, with the same result as before.

And then she's gone.

I sit on my pallet, watching that space, wishing to see her again. I sit here for over an hour, and I may sit here all night, except for the noise downstairs, the repeated hammering at the front door. Someone's arrived. Another visitor. Someone wants to enter.

I slowly rise, descend the steps, and open the door. The night is dripping, rivulets pouring down all sides of the porch roof, and here stands a man in a poncho, his head protected under a wide-brimmed hat, shivering in the damp air.

"I'm looking for James," he says.

"I'm afraid he's out of town."

"It's important. Do you know of any way I can get in touch with him?"

"Sorry, no. He's just someplace on the road." My instincts tell me to extend hospitality to this stranger. "Why don't you come in? I was just about to warm up some coffee."

Inside, with his poncho and hat off, he looks frail, gaunt, with a weariness around his eyes that testifies to hard times. Wherever this man has been, he's had one hell of a bad trip.

He slurps at the coffee eagerly, hunching himself over the steam from the cup as if trying to get warm from it. We drink without talking for a minute, until I break the silence.

"I'm Daniel," I offer.

"I'm . . . . Well, my real name doesn't matter. You wouldn't know it anyway. A lot of people call me Tamburlaine."

"Tamburlaine," I repeat.

"I need to get a message to James. Can I leave it with you? Will you remember to pass it on when you see him?"

I nod, one bow of the head. Yes.

"Tell James that I need him to stop searching for me. I need everybody to stop searching for me. They're ruining my life."
**Part 5.** **The Storm**

January 9 – February 5, 1972

Sunday, January 9

"You're just in time for _Bonanza_!" Garrett hails, as I step through the door on Tyler Avenue. "The bong's ready, and I brought some excellent shit back from Colorado."

We exchange a bear hug in the parlor.

"Whose VW bus is that parked out front?" I ask, heading to the kitchen to fix a peanut butter sandwich.

"Mine."

"You bought a bus?"

"I sort of won it."

"Card game?"

"Not exactly."

"Raffle?"

"It's a '66 with around 167,000 miles on it, and still runs great."

Garrett is being evasive.

"You didn't _steal_ it, did you?" I ask.

"I'd rather not get into the details. It would seem like I was bragging. So," he adds, deflecting further questions, "Joan's been staying here. Suzie, too. How's that been working out?"

"It's always a pleasure to have the lady folk about. Where are James and Andrew?"

Cindy calls from the parlor. "Hurry up! It's starting."

"Left them back in Denver. Once I got the bus, I headed home. Have to be back at work tomorrow, you know. So, how was your break? Anything interesting to report?"

I finish making the sandwich, grab a paper towel, and say, "Well, actually . . . . "

"Will you boys come on?" Cindy says, cross, poking her head into the room. "The show's already on. It's a Hoss episode tonight!"

"We'll catch up later."

~ ~ ~

Monday, January 10

"You slept with Cindy, didn't you?" Garrett says by way of ambush over a bowl of Cap'n Crunch as we're both preparing to leave the house, him for the head shop and me for spring semester registration and the Museum. "It's no good trying to dissemble. I'm a pretty sharp observer of body language. Something happened."

I shrug. "It was only one night, the one after ya'll took off. Cindy was bummed about Andrew not saying goodbye or even leaving a note. But we just slept. Mostly. I mean. Technically, nothing happened."

"A simple yes or no is sufficient," Garrett remarks. "I'm nobody's confessor."

"Don't tell Andrew."

"Trust me, I know a thing or two about keeping secrets. I've got a few of my own."

"So I'm gathering. Such as the Rebel Buddha?"

Garrett flushes. "Oh, hell. They've already started? I told them to wait."

"Signs in the window, kitchen equipment being hauled in by truck, and apparently you're the mastermind behind it all. What do you think Hirsch is going to say when he gets back?"

"I'll have to get to him first, to explain. He'll be upset, sure, but I think he'll calm down once he sees the deal I've cut for him. Everybody wins, especially Hirsch."

~ ~ ~

Tuesday, January 11

Bondurant and Bishop Halls have turned to cauldrons of rumors, speculation and gossip, all involving Dr. Evans, Mrs. Giordano, and the suspension.

"We miscalculated the Board of Trustees," Dr. Goodleigh admits, sinking back a few moments in her rocking chair before amending her thought. "Okay, I miscalculated, and I feel very foolish for overlooking what's obvious now."

"Which is?"

"The administration has been waiting to get revenge on Harold for the past ten years. This suspension isn't about adultery. It's about that book of his."

" _Men behind Closed Doors_ ," I say. "I've heard about it, never read it."

"Copies are rare, which certainly enhances its mystique. It was a pretty brutal satire of what happened here during the Meredith crisis. Of course, Harold took the precaution of changing the setting to a little college in the bayou, but everybody knew it was about Ole Miss."

"He says he's going to take this time off to finish another. I ran into him in Bishop during the break."

"Are you thinking about joining the strike?"

"What strike?"

"The English graduate students are going on strike to protest the Board's decision. Students in some other departments are joining them, in solidarity."

"The English grad students on strike? Well, that's certainly going to bring the college crashing to its knees."

"Their hearts are in the right place, and symbolic gestures are all we have at the point. You should consider it. I wouldn't mind if you went on strike. I'd be a little surprised if you didn't, actually. It seems like your sort of move."

~ ~ ~

Wednesday, January 12

"Where's Citizen?" Joan asks, as we navigate through the crowd in the Student Union during class change. "I haven't seen him around for a few days."

"He's wandered off someplace. It's his way. He'll come back eventually."

"What?" Garrett demands, only catching a bit of our conversation over the din of students milling about. "What are you talking about?"

"Citizen," Joan shouts. "Daniel's dog."

"Daniel doesn't have a dog," Garrett shouts back. "It's imaginary."

"I saw him," Joan replies. "I petted him. I cleaned up his shit."

"This is just wonderful," Garrett complains. "I leave town for two weeks and he infects you with his dog hallucinations."

"I'm not the one who talks to Elvis in Holly Springs," I point out.

"Lots of people have seen Elvis. Who besides the two of you have ever seen that dog?"

"Skoll."

"Skoll?"

"Skoll."

We've found a spot on the landing of the stairway to survey the room. A minute later we spot Dr. Hirsch, on schedule, waddling through the crowd, for his mid-morning coffee in the Grill.

"Sure you don't want to back me up?" Garrett asks, turning to follow him.

"You left me out of the loop on this one, so I have nothing to explain. For once."

"Look at that tiny girl," Joan says to me. "She's going to get crushed."

I follow the trajectory of her pointed finger and spot Little Becky being jostled in the crush of students. I need to rescue her, but it's impossible to reach her in this crowd. I frantically gape about for a handy rope or a vine growing from the ceiling that I can use to swing over the heads of everyone and snatch her up. I've seen too many movies.

Joan and I notice the boy beside her at the same moment. He seems to be running interference for her, his body shielding her from contact with everyone around her. He also has his left hand clamped to the back of her neck, which he uses to steer her through the room like a push toy.

This is a patented southern-fraternity-boy possessive boyfriend gesture: _This is my girl, and my girl is under my control._

"I hate it when guys do that," Joan says.

"I hate _him_!" I agree.

~ ~ ~

Thursday, January 13

Dr. Goodleigh has finished sorting through the mail that accumulated over the break. She hands me a Christmas card from Valerie.

Sent December 27, postmarked Boston.

" _Happy holiday, dear one," she writes. "Hope you are well. Hope you are thriving. I am happy and loved. Have started sleeping with other women, finally understand what you boys get so excited about."_

~ ~ ~

Friday, January 14

The pickets are out in the walkway between Bondurant and Bishop, undergrads and grad students milling about with signs reading "Reinstate!"

I recognize many of the faces, am greeted by a few, accept a sign and begin milling with the rest. A few minutes later, I stumble across a new friend – Blake, from Mr. Duck's trailer park.

"I didn't know you were a grad student," I say.

"Doctoral candidate in History. I'm finishing my dissertation on the Tennis Court Oath," Blake replies. "Actually, I've been finishing it for the last three years. You?"

"Classics. My boss is campus rep for the AAUP. I'd rather be inside working, but she wants me out here instead. How does your chair feel about your being on strike?"

"I suppose he'd disapprove, if I were actually working for him. But the department took away my assistantship last year. I'm just out here for the fresh air."

"What did you do to piss him off?"

"He says I'm a dipso."

"Dipso?"

"Dipsomaniac," Blake says. "Look it up in your Merriam-Webster. It's under D."

An irate man in a tweed overcoat is passing down the line, bellowing at the picketers. This time, I recognize him immediately: Amy's sugar daddy from Overton Square.

"Goddamn snot-nosed punks," he's shouting. "Clear the way! Dirty hippies, get back to work. Or quit. I dare any one of you to go out and find a REAL job. You wouldn't last ten minutes out in the REAL world."

For some reason, he pauses upon reaching the spot in the line where Blake and I are standing. Maybe because I'm grinning at him.

"What's so funny, faggot?" he demands.

"I know who you are," I reply. "Should have recognized you before. You're Edward Alcott. Welcome to Ole Miss."

"Up yours," Alcott replies.

~ ~ ~

Saturday, January 15

"I suppose she could have done that," Clamor assures me, wiping a smudge of barbecue sauce from her cheek. "Melissa seemed pretty advanced, that night I talked to her."

I've just told her about seeing Melissa that night in my room. Clamor is sitting across from me at the window-side booth at Colemans.

"It wasn't an hallucination," I say. "I've had enough of those to know the difference."

"Materialization during astral projection is possible only if there's a pretty strong emotional connection between the projector and the receptor, though. Are you two that close?"

"I can't speak for the lady, but I've been in love with Melissa for five years."

"Medway, you're such a hopeless romantic. How many different girls can you be in love with at the same time?"

"How many guys can you be in love with?"

"One at a time is all I can manage," she answers.

"James."

"Hopeless, I know. But I'd rather have one hopeless love than a half dozen competing fantasies. I can't imagine how you get through a single day without losing your mind."

"But you'll teach me astral projection," I prompt her.

"I've already promised to teach the sheriff. You might as well join us."

~ ~ ~

Sunday, January 16

I wake with an awful pounding in my head. I stagger up from my pallet, search the floor for my jeans, and then discover that I'm already dressed. Good. I need an aspirin.

I make a careful descent downstairs, step by step, holding onto the banister. Then a right turn into the kitchen, where I discover everyone around the table, at breakfast.

Garrett is the first to glance up from his bowl of Cap'n Crunch, with a "Holy shit!"

Joan follows with a "Jesus Christ," Cindy with a "Goddamn," and Suzie (uncharacteristically) with a "What the fuck?"

They're all out of the chairs, swarming around me, drawing me to back into the parlor and onto the couch. Cindy fetches ice cubes from the refrigerator and wraps them in a paper towel, placing it against my face.

"Who did this to you?" Garrett demands. "Goddammit, I'll kill him!"

"Who did what?" I ask.

Joan somehow produces a hand mirror out of thin air and holds it up to my eye – the good one, the one I can see out of. The other eye—the left one – is closed, puffed shut from a bruise that covers half of my face.

"Daniel," Cindy urges, touching my face tenderly with the ice cubes, "tell us what happened."

"I don't know," I admit.

~ ~ ~

Monday, January 17

"You don't know?" Dr. Goodleigh repeats. "How in the world can you not know who did this to you?"

Half of Bondurant has crowded into the Museum to witness the damage to my face. I spot Dr. Stevens in the assembly. During his semester away, the Sociology department moved his office up here to the second floor of Bondurant. I think to ask him about his trip to Turkey, but everyone else is too busy firing questions at me.

"Maybe he had a concussion," somebody suggests.

"No," I say. "Sheriff Claprood ran me over to the infirmary, and the doctor ruled that out. No sign of head trauma."

They blink down at me.

"The thing is, see, I've been having these memory lapses. And I've been sleepwalking a lot, too. This must have happened during one of those episodes."

"Symptoms of a psychosis," someone observes.

"Drug deal gone bad," another voice says.

"Likely been pimping himself out," a third spectator suggest. "Have you seen _Midnight Cowboy_?"

Goodleigh claps her hands, a slap that echoes through the museum. "Everybody out. This isn't a peep show."

She shoos them out, shuts the Museum door and turns back to me. "Could it have been a robbery?"

"I doubt it. If it was, they didn't get this," I say and fish the wad of bills from my pocket.

Goodleigh riffles through them, does a quick calculation. "There's over $3100 here. Mr. Medway – you can't walk around with so much money on you. Not even in Oxford."

~ ~ ~

Tuesday, January 18

I spot Nick as soon as I enter the bank lobby. He's at the last teller's station at the right, with no line in front of his window, and I almost make it all the way across the room when I'm intercepted by one of the bank managers, apparently alarmed over what the meaning of my presence here might be.

"Is there something I can do for you, son?" he inquires.

"Yes, please. I need to leave some money with you."

"Do you have an account?"

"An account of how I got the money?"

"A savings account, or a checking account with the bank."

"No, sir."

He gestures me toward a desk in the corner of the lobby. I catch Nick's eye as I'm led away, flash him a peace sign. He grins back, then looks down to avoid any more eye contact.

Everyone is watching. This really is a sideshow attraction – a hippie in a bank is sort of like a rabbi at a hog-calling contest.

"So, you wish to make a deposit," the manager says, sinking in his swivel leather chair while I take the straight-backed one across the desk.

"I have the money right here," I say, trying to reassure him of my honorable intentions, and pull the wad of bills from my pocket.

"Say, that's quite a bit of cash. I don't mean to be impolite, but may I ask what happened to your eye?"

"Could have been a jealous husband. Or maybe I won this money in a fist fight. Either way, everybody's telling me it's not safe for me to carry so much cash around, so I was wondering if I could just, you know, leave it in your vault. Maybe in an envelope with my name on it."

"No, that wouldn't be possible. You could rent a safe deposit box, for $6.00 a year. But that wouldn't be a wise decision."

"It wouldn't?"

"You want your money to work for you."

"I do?"

"Of course. If you established a savings account, you'd earn interest on your deposit. That way, instead of paying us for a safe deposit box, the bank would pay you for the use of your capital. Doesn't that sound better?"

"I suppose so."

"Excellent. And you're in luck, because this month we're offering a choice of gifts for every new account. For a deposit of this size, you could choose from a complete set of Melmac dinnerware, a barbecue set, or a matched pair of girl's and boy's Big Wheels."

"Gosh, thanks, but I don't really need anything like that."

"You have to choose. The gift comes with the account."

"Oh. What was the middle one?"

"The barbecue set. It comes with an hibachi grill and a 6-piece tool set that includes knives, forks, tongs, a basting brush, skewers, a four-in-one spatula, and a matching glove and apron with the words 'Come and Get It' written out in hot dogs."

"Isn't there an account I could open without having to accept a gift?"

"You could have a checking account, but your deposit wouldn't earn interest."

"Let's do that."

"All right. What color checks do you prefer? They come in blue, green, yellow, tan, or pink."

"Blue."

"And what decorative series would you like? We have checks with Colonel Rebel on them – very popular with the students. Or you could choose a magnolia, Robert E. Lee, a mocking bird, a live oak, the Siege of Vicksburg, a wood duck, a white-tailed deer, a largemouth bass, the state capitol building, a steamboat, Jesus praying in the garden, Moses parting the Red Sea, or the ruins of the Windsor plantation."

My head has started to hurt again.

"I think I'll just rent one of those boxes you mentioned."

~ ~ ~

Wednesday, January 19

"Everybody knows he doesn't have one lick of business sense," Dottie is saying.

"It's true," Dr. Hirsch agrees. "I don't."

We're having dinner at Colemans, with Tiger and Jimmy.

"When I heard that my boys had given him that lease to the bridal shop, my head near exploded. I told them that space was too small for a restaurant. With the kind of kitchen they'd need, the dining room wouldn't fit more than six people."

"Much more space on University," Jimmy adds. "Big dining room."

"Why didn't you just explain it to Dr. Hirsch, then? Were your sons not willing to cancel the deal?"

"Oh, sure, they would have. They had other tenants waiting in line."

"Then why not do that? Why all this subterfuge?"

"Garrett. He figured a way to make money from the problem."

"Everybody wins," Jimmy adds.

"How'd he figure to do that?"

"Garrett tricked the Baptists into buying that building for almost half again what it's worth. He manufactured such a panic over Communists moving onto the Square that the Baptist business league came to my boys begging for it. The boys made enough on the deal to offer Dr. Hirsch the other property rent-free for a full year."

"But why did you have to keep him in the dark about the plan?"

"Oh, I was better off in the dark," Hirsch says. "I'm terrible at keeping secrets."

"Wait a minute. Are you saying that Garrett was behind all the rumors, the letters to the _Oxford Eagle_ , and the racist crap on the handbills?"

"Like Sheriff Claprood said, none of the local bigots can write that well," Dottie replies. "Who'd you suppose was behind those posters?"

"I never supposed it was Garrett. He kept me in the dark, too. So what was his cut? How much does Garrett get to walk away with?"

"Oh pshaw, he doesn't make a penny. Garrett doesn't care about money. He did this for the fun of messing with people's heads – the same reason he always posting those Bible verses on the shop windows, to make folks feel paranoid."

~ ~ ~

Thursday, January 20

I'm in the grill with my morning coffee when a boy takes the chair across from me. I glance up from reading Harrison's _Prolegomena_ and eye a frat pin on his shirtfront: a pair of lions poised spread-eagle on either side of a shield, with their tails strategically placed to cover their assholes.

A member of my old fraternity. Oh, good.

"You're Medway," he announces. It's not a question, and it seems like more an accusation than a statement of fact. "You don't know me. Keith Thompson. I'm Rebecca's fiancé."

"Whose fiancé?"

"Rebecca. Some people call her Becky."

"Oh, Becky. Sure." I recognize him now – the boy who was steering her by the neck through the Union last week. "She never mentioned being engaged."

"We've known each other all our lives. There's an understanding between her family and my own." He pronounces "my" as "mah," very old South. "I can also inform you that both our houses were most upset, over Christmas, to witness the changes that have come upon Rebecca in a course of a single semester. Most upset."

He sits ramrod-style in the chair, gaze fixed, hands clenched into balls on the tabletop, knuckles bulging.

"She appears to have been deeply influenced by an unwholesome element up here, people who call themselves intellectuals. She's been reading books – poetry books and novels – that have put inappropriate thoughts in her head. I read some of this so-called poetry myself, and found it deeply troubling. Deeply troubling," he repeats, eyes drilling into me.

"Her family prevailed upon me to transfer from Mississippi Southern this semester, to keep a watchful eye on her," he continues. "Though I do consider Southern to be a superior institution, I am nonetheless willing to sacrifice for the good of the family."

"Well, that's very . . . ," searching for the right word, "noble," I decide.

"It is my understanding that your people are the Medways of Pass Christian. And you were once a member of my fraternity. Appearances to the contrary, you seem to possess the breeding of a gentleman. I'm sure you'll not interfere in my efforts to keep Rebecca in the company of the righteous."

~ ~ ~

Friday, January 21

The graduate student strike is falling apart. Only a few of us are out on the picket line this morning. Most teaching assistants have returned to their classes, under threat from their department chairmen. Dr. French has issued a clear ultimatum to the English strikers, to return to work by Monday or lose their assistantships.

I'm wishing that Dr. Sutherland would give me an ultimatum, too. It's cold out here. My shearling is warm enough, but I don't have gloves or a scarf.

"Still being Quixotic, Daniel?" Amy Madigan remarks to me on her way out of Bishop at 2:00, looking preternaturally professorial with a gaggle of undergraduates trailing behind her.

"Just following orders. Classics is still standing by Dr. Evans."

" _Harold_ is fine. He and his mistress are having a non-stop party at his house. I doubt they're giving any of us a second thought. If you're going to choose sides, then at least choose sides wisely."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Morality," she answers, "is the future. Professor Alcott says so."

The students nod in unison and make approving humming noises at this statement.

"Wow. The future sounds pretty boring, then. Hey, when does the magazine go to press?"

Amy is already walking off with her entourage, but turns to glance back at me. "There is no magazine anymore. That was Harold's project, and he's fallen into disgrace."

~ ~ ~

Saturday, January 22

We're at the Beacon – Garrett, Cindy, Nick and me.

"I haven't had chicken livers since the last time I was in here," I say.

"They're still as good as you remember," Garrett reassures me. "Yeah, I'll have the chicken livers, too."

Our waitress, Jaimie Lee, writes it down on her little pad. Cindy's already ordered: minute steak. All eyes turn to Nick.

"I'll have the fried chicken, if you please. And a Dr. Pepper."

The Beacon is less crowded than usual for a Saturday night, probably because of the weather. Snow flurries gust past the lights of the parking lot outside, but the dining room is snug and the best aromas in creation are coming from the kitchen.

I glance at the windy night and catch our reflection in the window, like figures in a mix-and-match game out of a kid's magazine. Three hippies and a banker. One of these is not like the others. One of these does not belong.

Nick flashes his old bashful smile, oddly disconcerting to discover on a face that's been so transformed. "It's really nice to see you guys again."

"You've been missed," Cindy says. "We'd all like to have our old Nick back."

"How's Suzie doing?"

"She's pregnant. She needs a husband."

Jaimie Lee returns to the table with our drinks on a tray – two Cokes, an iced tea, and the Dr. Pepper – and sets them on the table. Nick shifts uncomfortably, finally answering once she's left. "That's what I'm trying to do. Be a good husband, be a good provider."

"She married an artist, not a money-changer. You're turning yourself into the kind of man she never would have fallen in love with."

"Cindy's right, man," Garrett agrees. "Suzie could have had any guy she wanted. You know that. She wanted you, not some wage slave."

Nick flushes, a rare show of anger. "A shave and a haircut. A white shirt. A tie. Is that how you define a person, then? Those are surface things. I've never thought of you as shallow people, but that's a really shallow way to judge somebody."

"You're saying you're the same person that you were before? Just dressed up?" Cindy says.

"Yes."

"All right then. Tell Daniel and Garrett what you said to Suzie that night she decided to move out. I want them to hear it."

"The unforgivable remark?" Garrett asks.

"Yeah. Go ahead, Nick. Repeat it for them."

"Well, that was just . . . I mean, we were talking and I just happened to say . . . ."

"Speak up. We can't hear you."

Nick straightens and looks us in the eye. "I said I'll probably vote for Nixon in the next election. I think he's doing a good job."

The silence that descends on our table lasts until Jaimie Lee brings our food to the table, only to be replaced by the sounds of knives and forks against our plates. We eat without further conversation. There's nothing anyone can think to say.

~ ~ ~

Sunday, January 23

Blake – who's arrived at the Tyler Avenue commune for a date with Joan – sits alone on the couch in the parlor as the rest of us stand or sit around him. Suzie crosses her arms, giving him a stern look. "Where do you plan to take her?"

"The Holiday Inn," Blake answers. "For dinner."

"Do you have a car?"

"Yes."

"Is your car heated?" Garret asks. "It's below freezing out tonight. We don't want Joan to catch cold."

"Well, yes. It's heated."

"I'm not sure about this. It's a school night, you know," Cindy volunteers.

"That's an excellent point. You'll have to be back before her bedtime."

"Oh. Uh, what time is that?"

"Right after _Bonanza_ ," Garrett replies. "In fact, she should be home by the time the show starts. We always watch it as a family."

"And there better not be any alcohol involved," Cindy cautions.

"What are your prospects?" Garrett wants to know.

"My prospects?"

"Do you have a job?"

"I'm a grad student in History."

"Ah, so you're planning to become a pauper."

"What are you all doing?" Joan demands, looking ravishing in a starched, ruffled blouse and a pair of skin-tight black jeans as she joins us in the parlor. Blake appears relieved to see her.

"Just trying to get to know your young man," Garrett says.

"They do make a cute couple," Cindy says.

"They'd make lovely babies."

Joan draws Blake by the arm, leading him out of the parlor. "Pay no attention to my housemates. They suffer from defective social skills."

"Have her back in time for _Bonanza_ ," Garrett calls after them.

But she isn't back for _Bonanza_. In fact, she's out all night.

~ ~ ~

Monday, January 24

Fetching a Milky Way and a cup of coffee for lunch, I spot Clamor in the back room with a girl in a dashiki, ashen complexion and tangled black hair, wearing sunglasses even though it's dimmer here in the Grill than the overcast winter day outside.

"Daniel," Clamor says, "I'd like you to meet my friend Raven Bright."

"Miss Bright," I say.

"Just Raven."

"Raven and her coven are looking for a place to live."

"Preferably someplace remote," Raven adds. "Where we'd be entitled to some privacy."

"Let me think. Have you scouted north of town, outside the city limits? You might find an old farmhouse for rent off Highway 30. There are trailer parks out that way, too."

"No trailer parks," she snaps. "Trailer parks are for inbreeds and male chauvinists."

"Her boyfriend lives in a trailer park," Clamor explains.

"Ex-boyfriend – a drunk, a coward and a liar. Good in bed, but a narrow-minded philistine to the core."

"You wouldn't happen to be talking about Blake?" I suggest. "We met at Mr. Duck's Christmas party. He seems convinced that you're summoning actual demons to persecute him."

She sniffs. "A bit of white magic, and he shits himself out of fear."

"He's afraid to sleep in his bedroom because of spirits tapping out Morse code behind the closet door."

"When we first met, I thought Blake was simply a good-looking happy drunk. Imagine my disillusionment when I discovered his true nature. By then it was too late, though. I was already hooked on him. Already left Plaquemines Parish and moved here to be with him, goddess save me."

"Read Daniel's tarot," Clamor says. "Let's see what the future holds for him."

Raven reaches into the paisley cloth purse beside her and brings out a deck of cards. She shuffles, sets it on the table, and taps it once with an index finger. "Cut," she says. "Use your left hand."

The deck is old, stained, threadbare, shuffled and reshuffled so many times that much of the ink has been rubbed off every card, making the various scenes and symbols indistinct, hard to identify without careful scrutiny. But she seems to know each one by touch.

She lays out a simple three-card spread: 10 of swords (reversed), 4 of cups, 7 of wands.

"You're going to be deceived by a woman," she says. "There's a great battle ahead. Prepare yourself for it. I see a move in your future. Avoid Frenchmen."

"Anything else?" I ask.

She studies the cards for a few seconds. "Yes. Your father's not going to leave you alone until he gets what he wants."

~ ~ ~

Tuesday, January 25

"Ah, our illustrious classicists," Dr. Giordano calls from across the cafeteria, as Dr. Goodleigh and I exit the serving line.

"Oh, lord," Goodleigh mutters.

But our fears are quickly put to rest. No room in his group for us today.

"I'd ask you to join us, but as you can see, the table is already full."

I'm gratified to see that it is, but less pleased by some of the faces I spot there: Amy Madigan, for one, seated at the right hand of Edward Alcott.

"A defection to enemy ranks," Goodleigh comments about Amy, once we've found an empty table. "I thought she was Harold's protégé."

"It would appear that she's switched sides. She's gotten what she can from Dr. Evans, including his position and his office for an entire semester. His suspension has been a real boost for Amy's career."

"No one ever said she wasn't cunning. And the English department's taken a sharp turn to the right. From what I'm hearing, Alcott is shaking things up."

"Have you read any of his books?" I ask.

"Just the one everybody knows – _I Am Night, You Are Mourning_. I was staying at a friend's lake cabin in Michigan, with nothing to read except an assortment of old paperbacks people had left behind. It wasn't my happiest experience, but I understand there's a massive audience for machismo battlefield fiction."

A few minutes later, Clamor joins us, followed by Dr. Hirsch and Dr. Stevens, and we soon have our own little happy symposium going.

"How were the Turks?" I ask Dr. Stevens.

"Very Turkish. Amazingly Turkish. No one does Turkish better than the Turks. Did you ever find out who beat the crap out of you?"

"I'm figuring it was a secret admirer."

"I'll bet you have a lot of those," he says.

~ ~ ~

Wednesday, January 26

"This is probably the most comfortable chair I've ever sat in," I say.

A collection of African masks stare down at me from Dr. Valencia's office walls. Dr. Valencia is the campus shrink. He gazes at me with an impassive expression that he seems to have been copied from the masks.

"I like my clients to feel at ease. I've read your file, but I want you to tell me – in your own words – why you've come to see me today."

I rattle on for about ten minutes, explaining the blackouts at the Jitney Jungle, the gas station, the Looking Glass, the recent beating, and the occasional sleepwalking episodes.

"Lately I've started to play tricks on myself during the night. Yesterday, I woke up to find that I'd tied my jeans into four really tight knots. It took me half an hour to untie them, and I was late to class."

"I take it you sleep alone."

"When I must," I answer.

"Let's set intimacy issues aside, for now. The good-hearted hoodlum who escorted you home that night in November was correct: the onset of adult sleepwalking is usually caused by stress. But this more recent behavior of self-sabotage fits in with a larger pattern that helps us understand the memory loss. The diagnosis is really extremely simple."

"Great! Lay it on me."

"Your mind is a festering boil of unresolved inner conflicts."

"Oh. Not so great, then."

"You're suffering a classic case of dissociative amnesia. You play tricks on yourself at night in order to prevent yourself from leaving home in the morning. Why? Because the outside world is full of conflicts. When one of those outer conflicts triggers an inner conflict, the mind protects itself by dissociating from the stimulus, hence from reality itself. You 'black out,' as you put it."

"That can't be right. In at least one of those cases, I know I was having a good time."

"Exactly. You were happy. Do you feel that you deserve to be happy?"

"Yes."

"Another lie you tell yourself. You actually believe you ought to be punished. To put your dilemma in layman's terms, you're a train wreck."

"So, what can you do for me, doc?"

"With traditional methods, I'd say that your case would require at least three years of weekly sessions, to unearth the roots of your conflicts. However, if you were open to an unconventional approach, your treatment might advance much more rapidly."

"A medical experiment," I hazard.

He shrugs. "If you prefer."

"Tell me more."

~ ~ ~

Thursday, January 27

I spot Little Becky and her knight errant Keith a good minute before they see me among the noontime crowd in the Grill.

Little Becky makes the introductions, referring to Keith as "my friend from home." He and I shake hands and pretend that we haven't met before.

"Did you get any writing done over the break?" I ask Becky, just to annoy him.

"I did," she answers, "and I can't wait for you to see it. But you've got to give me your honest opinion."

"I wrote a little bit, too. I was inspired by the book you gave me."

"You gave him a book?" Keith asks.

"The Li Po collection. I showed you the copy I bought for myself."

Keith makes a sour face. "Oh, him. Look, I don't see the point of reading poetry in the first place. But if you have to, why not read _American_ poetry?"

"You'll have lots of American poetry to read once _Barefoot_ is published, including my own, and I'll expect you to read every page" Becky tells him, pertly. I detect a hint of annoyance in her voice.

"Well, about that," I say, "I've got some bad news. The department's decided to cancel the magazine, because of Dr. Evans' suspension. By order of the chair."

"Dr. French ordered that?" Becky asks.

"Dr. French?" Keith says. "The chairman of the English department is named French?"

"Which becomes even more ironic when you consider that he's Canadian," I add.

"After all the work we put in," Becky laments. "I'm so disappointed."

"Well, I think it's a good thing," Keith volunteers. "A college shouldn't be wasting precious resources on creative writing. Mississippi Southern would never have a magazine."

Becky's exasperation comes through. "I don't understand why you didn't just stay down at Southern, then. I mean, if you're so damn miserable here."

He lifts a cautionary finger. "Rebecca! Your language."

"My language? I'm speaking English, Keith." She turns back to me. "Isn't there anything we can do?"

Nothing occurs to me.

~ ~ ~

Friday, January 28

Cindy and I stop in the Nickelodeon to get the album by a new group called America. Ho's at the cash register as we enter and launches into a stream of Chinese curses as soon as she sees me. Once she settles down, she begins wadding receipt forms into hard, tiny balls that she throws at my head.

She has a wicked arm. I point this out to Dottie.

"I'm going to miss the old girl when she leaves," Dottie says.

"Dr. Hirsch tells me they've planned a Valentines Day opening for the restaurant. What's going to happen with the Lyric?" I asked.

"The manager pleaded with Tiger and Jimmy to let Ho stay on. But weekends are going to be their busiest night at the restaurant. And this is what the boys kidnapped her for, after all. Cindy, dear," Dottie adds, noticing her for the first time. "I can't tell you how pleased everyone is that you two are a couple now."

Cindy seems to freeze in place with an expression of dismay. "We're not a couple."

"No," I agree, "Just friends. Housemates. You know that."

Dottie answers with a sweet expression. "All right, then, if that's what you say. I'm just telling you what everybody's thinking, though."

~ ~ ~

Saturday, January 29

"Mr. Medway," Dr. Evans says, "you look like you're going to be sober again at any second. As your host, I can't allow that to happen."

He adds two ice cubes and another splash of Jim Beam to my glass. The room is crowded, smoky. Miles Davis is on the stereo, and I'm sitting beside Dr. Goodleigh, who looks fantastic, as usual, demurely sipping a glass of red wine.

I've spotted Dr. Sutherland in the room, an unexpected face in the crowd – kind of like Banquo's ghost, surprising everybody who encounters him. Half of the English faculty is in attendance, mostly the younger set, and a scattering of loyal grad students.

"And you all live together, both women and men, in that big house?" Mrs. Giordano is asking me. This is the first time I've seen her since the fateful Thanksgiving dinner. She's looking much healthier, rested, her face filled with light instead of strain. "All you young people living together?"

"Seven of us right now. Four guys and three girls, but two other guys have been away since before Christmas."

"How wonderful," she says. "Like a big family. And you use drugs?"

"Whenever we have them."

"Marijuana?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Could you get some for us? Harold," she calls across the room, "could we buy some marijuana from this young man? I want to smoke some pot!"

Dr. Evans approaches again with another offering of bourbon. "Wanton hedonist. What became of the innocent woman I used to know?"

"I'll score you a complimentary lid," I offer. "Call it an engagement present."

"You'll have to teach us how to roll it into cigarettes, too," she says.

"You can bake with it, if you'd rather not smoke. It's good in brownies. My friend Garrett has an apple pot pie recipe I'm sure he'd be glad to share. Amy Madigan ate two slices at a party last September, not knowing it was laced, and got thoroughly stoned. You should have seen her."

The words are out in the air before I realize I shouldn't have spoken them. Dr. Evans makes a face. Mrs. Giordano frowns.

"Someone we don't speak of often," Dr. Evans says. "I understand she's gotten in thick with French and Alcott. It was their decision to cut the magazine's funding. I don't suppose anyone's bothered to contact the print shop, though."

"What?" I ask.

"The finished typescript is at the print shop. They're just waiting to get paid so they can start production. I handled the arrangements with them personally. Probably nobody's thought to let them know about the change in plans."

~ ~ ~

Sunday, January 30

I'm startled from my afternoon nap on the couch, cuddled up with Harrison's _Prolegomena_ , by an unexpected noise. An unwelcome, unwholesome noise.

The goddamn telephone is ringing.

It's been silent so long, I've practically forgotten about its presence. It's a squat, black thing, a cockroach screeching at me. A fat, greasy little Soviet commissar besieging me with regulations. An SS interrogator, barking questions at me. It thinks it knows how to make me talk.

It's the most loathsome machine in civilization, the demon spawn of insane American technology. And I can't fathom why I've allowed it to stay in the house this long.

It's on its third ring now. Fourth. I give it a menacing look. I'm granting it one more chance to shut up.

With the fifth ring, I pop the cord out of the wall with a single hard tug. A few sparks sizzle, and the damn thing falls silent in the middle of ring number six.

I find my shoes, pull my shearing on, and carry the phone out into the chill afternoon air, down Tyler, and all the way to the dumpster behind Colemans, where I toss it in with the other rubbish.

I return home to my nap, with a light heart, pleased to have one fewer thing in this world to answer to.

~ ~ ~

Monday, January 31

The Jitney Jungle is having a sale on Swanson tv dinners, $1.00 each. Cindy bought a stack of them – turkey, Salisbury steak, fried chicken – before realizing that there's no space for them in our tiny freezer.

"Let's bake 'em all and have a party," Garrett suggests.

Rose joins us. Everyone's happy to see her again. Clamor drops by, checking again whether James has returned, and we offer a spare dinner to her as well.

I discover an unopened gallon of Wild Irish Rose, likely left over from some party last fall. Tonight's episode of _Star Trek_ is the one in which Abraham Lincoln comes aboard the Enterprise.

"Remember that night at the Lyric," I say to Garrett, "during the cartoon when Daffy Duck dressed up like Abraham Lincoln and the audience booed?"

"I love Daffy Duck," Clamor says.

"Typical Ole Miss audience. Half the cretins at the show must have left the theater thinking that Daffy Duck had burned down great-grandpa's plantation."

"I remember that night," Joan says. "We went to see _Easy Rider_ , and then to the Beacon for banana cream pie. Garrett and Daniel got into an argument about who has the funniest religion."

"Seventh Day Adventists," Garrett says.

"Manichees," I counter.

"Catholics."

"Anabaptists."

"Scientologists."

"Jains."

"Devotees of Mithras."

"Mormons."

"Christian Scientists."

"Ophites."

"Hoa Hao."

"Who?"

"Zoroastrians."

"Ah, yes. Agreed, Zoroastrians."

"Well, boys, I'm glad that's settled," Rose says.

"Somebody really worships Zorro?" Clamor asks.

"Mexican cult," Garrett tells her. "They believe Guy Williams is the reincarnation of Jesus. But there was a schism a few years ago when a group of heretics claimed he's a prophet rather than god incarnate, and started worshiping _Lost in Space_."

"I love _Lost in Space_ ," Clamor says. "And I wish James were here tonight."

No one has a supportive word to add to her last remark. I don't want either James or Andrew back. The only difference between the two is that I don't feel guilty about wishing James gone for good.

"The commercial's over," Cindy observes, and we all turn our eyes back to the screen.

~ ~ ~

Tuesday, February 1

The presses are making a hell of a racket printing the latest edition of _The Daily Mississippian_ when we enter the print shop.

I've brought Becky along for a reason. The manager, Mr. Patrick, is a tattooed ex-Marine who despises hippies, but can't resist a pretty coed. I see him almost every time I'm in the Grill, at his favorite table in the front with coffee and donuts, trying to make conversation with the girls who pass by.

Mrs. Enger, his wizened chief typesetter, summons him from his office by phone, and he emerges looking put-upon for the interruption during one of the two hours that he actually works during the day. He gives me a sneer, Becky a smile.

"We're here," Becky tells him, "to deliver payment for _Barefoot_. The student magazine. Do you remember?"

"Yeah, I remember. Been wondering how long I was going to have to sit on that job. Do you have the fund transfer form?"

"No," I say. "We're paying for in cash. Donation from a secret benefactor."

"Cash? That's kind of unusual."

"We can get a transfer form would just take time," Becky intervenes. "We have the money right here."

"Or you could call Dr. French's office, just to make sure we're authorized."

"No, no. I suppose it'll be all right," Mr. Patrick decides. "I'd like to get that job off my desk."

She hands him an envelope from her purse. Patrick counts the money and nods.

"Okay, then. Let's see, today's the 1st, right? Check back with me on the 15th. We'll be able to give you a release date by then." He starts to turn away.

"Could we have a receipt, please?" Becky asks.

"Oh, right. Sure thing, young lady. Say, you're a pretty little thing, aren't you?"

"How did you manage to come up with over $300 for the magazine?" she asks me, once we've left the shop. "I thought you were poor."

"I _am_ poor. I just happen to have some money tucked away that I vowed to use for a good cause."

~ ~ ~

Wednesday, February 2

On our way to Dottie's holiday sale at the Nickelodeon, Clamor, Joan and I spot five women drumming and chanting beside the Confederate statue on the Square. One of them is Raven Bright.

"They were in the Grove this morning," Joan says. "They're Wiccans."

"Wiccan?"

"Nature worshippers. Pagans. See the one in the middle?" Joan says. "She's Blake's old girlfriend, the one he's so scared of."

"We've met. What are they doing?" I ask.

"Celebrating Imbolc, the old Celtic feast of winter's end," Clamor says. "Also known as St. Brigid's feast. Also known as Groundhog Day. Looks like fun." Clamor crosses the street to join them.

Joan and I amble on to the store, where Dottie is offering 25% off any artist or group named after an animal.

"No Beatles?" I ask.

"Insects aren't animals."

But Dottie does have the Byrds, the Eagles, the Turtles, the Animals, the Monkees, the Yardbirds, T. Rex, Country Joe and the Fish, Buffalo Springfield, Steppenwolf, Three Dog Night, Howlin' Wolf, Budgie, Joe Cocker, Cat Stevens, and a new group called Blue Oyster Cult.

"Are mollusks animals?" Joan wonders.

"Lord, I don't know. I only know that insects aren't. No Beatles. No Bee Gees. No Iron Butterfly."

"You missed one artist," I point out.

"Who?"

"Buck Owens."

"No country, either, as you well know. You have to go to the five-and-dime if you want that kind of music."

The witches have attracted a small crowd by the time we leave the shop. They've found a spare drum for Clamor, who's now thumping and chanting along with the others. Joan and I reach them in front of the courthouse at the same moment Deputy Hacker arrives to halt the celebration.

"This is an unlawful assembly," he announces. "You ladies are going to have to disperse."

"Unconstitutional abuse of power," Raven Bright shouts. "This is a religious ceremony."

"This is a freak show," Hacker replies.

"If we were preaching the Gospel, or handing out Bibles, you wouldn't interfere. Christian preachers hang out here all the time."

"That's because this is a Christian town. If you want to act like pagans, you need to take it out to the woods. Don't be bringing this crap into town, upsetting civilized folks."

Raven resumes her drumming, and the others join in. I wave to Clamor, try to catch her attention. Time to back away.

Hacker stalks off to his squad car, contacts the station on his radio, and calls for back-up.

"Not to worry," I comment. "Claprood won't let him do anything."

But the sheriff must be out of the office, because within a few minutes, two more squad cars have arrived, officers have seized the women and the drums, and all are forced into the back seats of the cars.

Joan and I watch, helpless, as Clamor is hauled to jail with the witches.

~ ~ ~

Thursday, February 3

I'm at my desk in the Museum, reading Sheriff Claprood's statement to the _Oxford Eagle_ that yesterday's arrests were appropriate, though unfortunate, and that the matter would now be settled by the court. Suddenly, Amy Madigan is standing before me, glowering.

"I've come to remind you of your promise."

"Which promise is that?"

"Never to mention that Claire Marie is related to me."

"Oh, that. I'd almost forgotten."

"The family is mortified. Imagine the scandal of having a relative with a criminal record. Unlawful assembly is a felony in this state, punishable up to two years in prison."

"Relax. This will all blow over, just like the Mickey Mouse Brigade."

"The what?"

"Mickey Mouse Brigade. Don't you remember? That time when a bunch of us got busted for hassling the Thursday afternoon ROTC practice, back in '69?"

"Of course. One of your finest hours. As I recall, you were lucky enough to have the case dismissed on a technicality, because the campus cops didn't warn you to disperse before they arrested you. From what I've heard, Hacker gave them a chance to leave."

"Well, that's true. That's what he said. Still, this is the kind of case that makes the city look stupid. I can't believe the sheriff and the mayor won't find a way to dismiss the charges. Clamor's bail was only $25, and she's been given a lawyer by Rural Legal Services. Jenny Tyson. I know her. She's good."

"Just remember your promise," Amy reminds me on her way out.

The Museum's empty. Dr. Goodleigh is in class. I shut the doors after Amy leaves, sit zazen on my desk, locate my hara, and try to sense my etheric body, the way Clamor has been training me to do.

At some indeterminate moment later, I sense another presence, and slowly draw my consciousness back and allow my eyes to open, expecting – hoping – to find Melissa beside me. Instead, I find an old man, bald head with a fringe of white hair hanging down, a brown suit, pale eyes blinking at me behind a pair of horn-rimmed glasses.

"Dr. Linen, I presume," I manage to say, before he vanishes.

~ ~ ~

Friday, February 4

Shops along the Square have their radios tuned to Memphis stations, keeping track of the approaching winter storm. Reports say we could get as much as a half a foot of snow overnight.

I stop by Leslie's Drugs for toothpaste, shampoo and soap, and find Cindy's pretty friend Vicky at the register.

"How's the Tupperware business?" I ask.

"I can scarcely keep up with the orders. It was my lucky day, meeting that man at your place. He's put lots of his business associates in contact with me. They all place big orders, and they all pay cash. I just can't imagine what they need so many Tupperware containers for."

The woman behind me in line interrupts our conversation. "Would you please hurry up? This is an emergency."

I step away from the counter and let her take my place. Her shopping basket is filled with aspirin, bandages, compresses, rubbing alcohol, antiseptics, Band Aids, tweezers. First aid supplies. She fidgets with exasperation as Vicky rings up each item.

"Please hurry. I still have to get to the Jitney for canned food, candles and bottled water, and then to the gas station to fill up the car."

"Getting ready for the snowstorm, huh?" Vicky says. "Have you picked up your wolf repellent yet?"

"Wolf repellent?" the customer asks, voice breaking.

"Sure, hon. When it snows like this, those wolves come right down from the hills. Whole packs of 'em. Been known to break into houses and eat the children."

"Lord have mercy!" she wails.

"Christ have mercy," I respond. Old reflex.

"Where do I go for some?"

"Right across the street, at Sneed's Hardware. You tell the clerk you're needing wolf repellent, and be sure to say I sent you."

We watch as the woman rushes out the door with her emergency supplies.

"That'll give them a laugh," Vicky says. "I hate it when customers try to rush me."

"Winter madness," I say. "Happens in this town every year. Not a single snowflake has fallen yet, but four cars have already spun out of control on Jackson Avenue."

I pass the Nickelodeon on my way home and notice that Dottie is running a sale on Three Dog Night (again) and Edgar Winter.

~ ~ ~

Saturday, February 5

Just before the power goes out, we hear a radio report out of Memphis, where the airport has measured eight inches of snow. We seem to have gotten more than that here in Oxford. The ruler that we find among Andrew's things measures a little over 10 inches in the front yard.

Oxford is absolutely still. Every now and then, sounds of voices and chainsaws carry through the bright air from workers trying to clear downed tree limbs. But nobody is on the roads. The Square is deserted. Without electricity, nothing is open.

The town is at a complete standstill, one that might last for days. But the Tyler Avenue group is a hardy band of adventurers. We trudge up and down North Lamar, admiring the snow on stately mansions, then take University Avenue all the way to campus. The Grove is thronged with students building snowmen, forming armies of snowball fighters, sledding on cardboard panels and trashcan lids.

The boys on Fraternity Row are selling beer snow cones, vodka snow cones, whiskey snow cones, and gin snow cones. Bonfires are burning on the front lawns of every house. Artistically-inclined brothers have sculpted bare-breasted snow-women with magnificent, snowy thighs and buttocks.

But the wind rises and begins to cut through our coats. And even though the sun is bright, our toes and our fingers are throbbing from the cold. We turn back to town, home to Tyler Avenue, with its gas space heaters and gas range and so many scented candles and Zig Zags that we've never taken an inventory.

We heat cocoa on the stove, put a chicken in the oven, and as the sun goes down, we light candles and joints and settle, laughing, into an intimate darkness together, pillows and blankets brought down from upstairs rooms to fashion a warren for hippie hares. We talk, tell stories, get high, drink wine, eat our fill, and gradually drift off, one by one, each to his or her private dreams.
**Part 6.** **The Trial**

February 6 – 29, 1972

Sunday, February 6

"We found him out there a little after 4:00. He'd been working on it for hours. His fingers were nearly frostbitten."

Joan is whispering to me over coffee in the kitchen. Everyone else is still asleep, including our unexpected visitor – Nick, who's now curled asleep beside Suzie near the fireplace in the parlor.

From my vantage point at the kitchen table, I can see through the front windows into the yard, where Nick's snow sculpture of Suzie with a child in her arms seems to glow faintly bluish in the shadow of the house.

Nick had meant to build it and leave it as a surprise, but Cindy spotted him when she woke to use the bathroom. Suzie was awakened and went out to him. There in the yard they'd shared a hushed reunion and a sort of reconciliation, while the rest of us slept on.

"He still loves her," I say.

"She still loves him," Joan remarks. "But you have to wonder whether love's enough between two people."

We are about to enter a philosophical consideration of love's bitter mystery when we're distracted by the sound of an engine outside, on the street that's been hushed of all traffic for two days, the slamming of car doors, feet approaching on the walk.

The door flies open without the knock we'd anticipated. James, in parka and scarf, stands framed in brightness, peering inside, with Andrew at his shoulder.

The two step inside, dropping bundles of belongings and shaking off their winter wraps.

"What the hell is going on here?" James demands, scanning the room of sleeping forms.

Garrett sits up and stretches, shaking the sleep out of his hair. "We've set up a Salvation Army shelter. You can have a bowl of soup and a cot, but you have to listen to a sermon first."

Cindy wakes and leaps from the floor to hug Andrew. "How did you get here?" she asks, delight brimming in her voice. "All the roads are closed."

"Don't I know it!" Andrew says. "We've been almost 20 hours on the way from Little Rock. James drove like a madman. I was certain we were all going to die at least five times."

"An unexpected pleasure to find you here," James remarks to Joan.

"I've been sleeping in your room since Christmas. I knew you wouldn't mind."

"Who's your friend?" I ask, spotting a young man who's admiring Nick's snow sculpture in the yard.

"Bloke who helped us out of a jam in Wichita. We call him Alfalfa. He looks like the lad from the Little Rascals. He won't tell us his real name. Says that people are after him, and we're safer not knowing."

"People? Hell, he says the _devil_ is after him," James says.

"That might indeed have been the devil we crossed paths with last night." Andrew shrugs. "Who's to say?"

"Big rig jackknifed outside Senatobia," James explains. "The driver flagged us down. We guessed he needed help. Then the motherfucker pulled a rifle on us! Alfalfa started shouting, 'It's him! It's him!' Grabbed the wheel from me, hit the accelerator, threw the car into a wild spin. Bastard had to jump out of the way to keep from getting flattened. We almost collided with the rig. It all happened so fast, I'm still not exactly sure how we escaped."

Cindy leads Andrew by the hand toward the kitchen. "Let's find something for you to eat."

"I smell coffee," Garrett says, signaling a general exodus to the kitchen.

Joan squeezes my arm and flashes a look at me on her way out of the parlor. I stay behind, watching the newcomer in the front yard, who seems mesmerized by the sculpture of Suzie.

~ ~ ~

Monday, February 7

Power is being gradually restored to different sections of town and campus. The lights come up unexpectedly on Tyler late in the afternoon. I haven't much missed electric lights, but it's good to have music again.

Everyone's stereo is blaring, except for James'. He has the numbers station on the shortwave radio, with the weird Slavic-sounding woman repeating "6, 23, 17, 9, 11, 14" over and over again. Suzie has returned home with Nick, and Joan (alas) has joined them. No way for her to remain, with James back in town.

That leaves us with Alfalfa, who's bivouacked in the parlor for a visit of unspecified length. He's watching a rerun of _I Dream of Jeanie_ when I come downstairs after my shower. I attempt to engage him in conversation, out of politeness, but he's a hard guy to talk to. He responds to friendly questions with serendipitous monologues of non-sequiturs and frequent uses of the expressions "heavy," "far out," and "woah, man!"

The one thing that comes through clearly is that he's terrified of the devil, who seems to be after him because Alfalfa knows the whereabouts of a certain object the devil wants. When I ask Alfalfa what that might be, his anxiety turns to palpable panic.

I finally give up the effort, and turn my attention to today's episode of _Jeanie_. It's the one in which Jeanie gives her powers to Major Nelson but doesn't tell him, with the result that everything Major Nelson says becomes literally true. He's just turned Roger into a brick when James enters and casts his eyes around the room.

"Where's the goddamn phone?"

"It ran away," I tell him.

"What?"

"It was a warm day. Somebody accidentally left the door open, and when we came back, it was just gone. We called and called and called for it, and posted handbills all over the neighborhood. You know, lost phone, rotary dial, answers to the name of Blackie. Nobody could help. Really sad. Some nights I think I hear it ringing outside, but when I go to the door, the sound turns out to be all in my imagination."

"What have you done, Medway?"

"It was annoying me, so I threw it in a dumpster. We didn't need it around here. Nobody really needs a phone. I mean, why do you need a machine just to talk to people?"

"Yeah, man," Alfalfa agrees, not advancing my cause, "why _do_ you?"

"I need that phone for business reasons. There will be consequences for what you've done." James glowers at me. "I think you should start looking for a new place to crash," he says, before storming back up the stairs.

Alfalfa gives me a startled look. "Did he mean me?"

"No," I say. "me."

"Heavy!"

~ ~ ~

Tuesday, February 8

I've finally reached high ground, the east porch of the Lyceum, after a perilous crossing of the Loop, which like the Grove and various other spots around town and campus has been transformed into a shallow lake. I was able to manage only by taking my shoes and socks off, rolling my jeans up to my knees, and wading across barefoot. My teeth are chattering, my skin slightly bluish, by the time I arrive.

Sometime during the night, the wind shifted to a southwesterly flow, pulling a warm front into the region and melting our 10-inch snow cover in less than six hours. With no place for so much water to go, Oxford's been transformed to a post-glacial land of lakes.

There may be three or four dozen of us marooned here. The doors to the Lyceum are locked, because the college is still officially closed, but a campus cop arrives to open the building, enabling us to pass through the west exit onto the less flooded ground around the library. From there, I'm able to reach Bondurant, where I find Dr. Goodleigh in the Museum, checking the safety of the Robinson collection.

"Have you heard the news?" she asks as I come in. "The Flasher has already struck twice this morning."

"Neither snow nor sleet nor dark of night."

"You have to admire him," she agrees. "He's one intrepid little pervert. Speaking of intrepid, I hadn't expected to see you here today."

"Cabin fever. I had to get out of the house. The walls were starting to close in."

~ ~ ~

Wednesday, February 9

Ho inches the meat cleaver a centimeter closer to my jugular, threatening. Jimmy is appealing to her in impassioned Chinese, apparently striving to persuade her that even though I am just a worthless hippie, and my death would result in a general improvement to society at large, Sheriff Claprood would nevertheless feel obligated to pursue some kind of legal action if she were to murder me right here in the Rebel Buddha's dining room.

Besides which, news of the carnage would be bad for business.

It's probably the latter argument that sways her. Ho brandishes the meat cleaver, slicing the air with a cackle before lowering it and returning to the kitchen.

"Woah, man," Alfalfa says. "Heavy."

Preparations for the Buddha's grand opening are coming along nicely. Eight tables and three booths in the dining room, seating for up to 40 customers on comfortable chairs upholstered in deep red fabric on the seats and backs, dark wood and subdued lighting. Chinese ideograms for "hope" and "joy" and other pleasantries decorate the walls. And in the immaculate kitchen, dazzling with new enamel and stainless steel equipment, the restaurant's secret to a profitable future: the drive-through window, retained from the building's previous use as a savings and loan.

"The real reason we chose this spot," Jimmy affirms. "Students, cheap food, carryouts. Everybody wins."

A haze has been hanging over the town all day, brought on by the snow melt, the flooding, and a stalled warm front. We leave the restaurant a little after 9:00, discovering outside that the cooler night air has produced a fog with the consistency of watery grits. We stumble along the sidewalk down University Avenue, not able to see more than a yard or so in front of us.

Alfalfa is trying to talk about something that happened with James and Andrew on the road. It begins with an unattended van filled with Hostess Twinkies, moves on to a woman in a bar with a tattoo of the Liberty Bell on her left bicep, then jumps to a Thanksgiving dinner he remembers from when he was eight and living on a farm in Minnesota, the siege of Leningrad, the break up of the Beatles, the bouncing ball on the old _Sing Along with Mitch_ show, and a box of animal crackers he ate once while walking – "actually walking, man, can you believe it?" – down Duvall Street in Key West, from the coast of the Atlantic Ocean to the coast of the Gulf of Mexico. "That was so far out. I mean it, man."

Between trying to concentrate on Alfalfa's rambling narrative and navigate my footing through the fog, I don't notice the sound of an engine idling along S. 5th Street, nor do I spot the curb and the end of the sidewalk before I've stepped into the middle of the street itself.

I'm suddenly blinded by the headlights of a car that lunges forward with a squeal of rubber and spins me down onto the pavement as it grazes my legs on its way past, taking a right onto University and vanishing back into the fog.

Alfalfa is quick enough tug me by the collar of my jacket as I stumble out of the car's path, which likely prevents me from suffering a more painful fall, but not much else. But he's pleased by his heroics.

"Man, I like saved your life! Didn't I?"

"Did you get a good look at it?"

"Not too good. Big car. Maybe a Caddy."

"Yeah, I figured."

"It was a blonde chick behind the wheel, man. I could see her, because she had the inside light turned on. Almost like she wanted to be seen, you know, man?"

"A woman?"

"Yeah, but a really ugly one."

~ ~ ~

Thursday, February 10

Bishop Hall Auditorium is already packed by the time Dr. Goodleigh and I arrive for Edward Alcott's first public lecture as writer-in-residence. An undergrad, out of courtesy, offers his seat to Dr. Goodleigh, but I remain standing in the west aisle, and from this vantage I spot various acquaintances, including Amy Madigan in the front row. She's fidgeting in her chair as if this were another pep rally, and she eager for the cheering to commence.

I've just spotted Little Becky with her perpetual escort Keith when Blake enters and blinks in apparent confusion over the crowded room. He seems to be unsteady on his feet as he climbs the aisle steps and slouches against the wall alongside me, with a somewhat sickly grin of greeting. I catch a whiff of the alcohol cloud enveloping him just as Alcott steps onto the stage with Dr. French

French minces his way through a pedantic introduction and retires shyly offstage as Alcott takes the podium to wild applause. His lecture, titled "The Failure of Morality in Modern Literature," lasts a little over half an hour but manages, in that modest space of time, to convey his loathing of almost every other living writer -- including Vonnegut, Nabokov, Pynchon, Gass, Barth, Coover and Brautigan, among a half dozen others -- for their failure to depict characters and behavior worthy of emulation by the common reader.

After being whipped into an anti-intellectual frenzy, the audience erupts in a Philistine orgasm as he finishes. Amy is the first to leap to her feet in standing ovation.

Dr. French returns to the stage to dampen the spirits of the crowd, as only he can, and opens the floor to questions. Mr. Duck is the first to be recognized. He's dressed up for the occasion. Wearing a natty tweed suit coat and a bow tie, he could easily be mistaken for an old professor.

"You seem to be suggesting that all the moral authors are dead," Mr. Duck says. "Can you name a living writer you admire?"

"Alexander Solzhenitsyn," Alcott replies.

"Sure, I've read him. There's no doubt Solzhenitsyn's a terrific propagandist. But do you really call his books great literature?"

"He received last year's Nobel Prize."

"Which is a political award," Mr. Duck replies.

Alcott flushes. "Would you say your own William Faulkner received the Nobel simply because of his politics? Or because his novels ennoble the human spirit with their ideals of morality?"

"No, no," Mr. Duck demurs. "Faulkner was a true artist. Unlike Solzhenitsyn. But he certainly wrote better than he lived. Quite a few of us here in this room had personal dealings with the man. A paragon of morality he was not."

Dr. French seizes the microphone to silence this heresy, and manages to navigate the next ten minutes through a series of fawning questions from select graduate students, before committing the stunning blunder of recognizing Blake, who's been waving his arm frantically.

"Yes, the young man in the back, up in the aisle. Yes, you," French says, pointing in our direction.

The audience hushes as Blake steps forward. He stumbles momentarily, but I take his arm to steady him. "Sir, could you explain how your own novels – especially your works on World War II and Korea – 'ennoble the human spirit'?"

Alcott puffs up like a pair of sleeves on a debutante's ball gown at this question. It's an easy one. "My novels are written to extol the classic virtues of manliness, patriotism, sacrifice, loyalty to a cause greater than the self. In short, the true essence of American character in the past century, which has been betrayed by the shallow cynicism and relativism of the past two decades."

"Or," Blake interjects, raising a finger in the air in a gesture of erudition, "one might say that your books extol the virtues of imperialism, jingoism, blind obedience to corrupt authority, and the exploitation of human lives in the service of capitalism. That's the conspiracy of the American ruling class, which your novels glorify."

Blake is drowned out by howls of protest, booing and catcalls, with a few pockets of applause from the freaks in the room.

Alcott subdues the protests eventually by repeating "If I may respond.... If I may respond...," in the microphone. "You, sir," he intones, once he's called for quiet, "are an arrogant little twit."

Applause, applause, applause, applause.

Blake faces the derision calmly, refusing to slink away in the face of so much animosity. The crowd grows uneasily silent as he holds his position, still prepared to speak.

"You, sir," Blake replies, clearly and distinctly across the auditorium, "are an asshole."

With that, I grab Blake by the arm and lead him as quick as I can down the steps and out the side door. I steer him across the second-floor lobby and out the glass doors, into the cold and down the steps, back toward Bondurant.

Blake is laughing the whole way. He tugs on my sleeve. "Hey, man, let's go find something to drink!"

~ ~ ~

Friday, February 11

"What do you mean, you don't want to talk about it?" Dr. Valencia asks.

"I mean, I don't want to talk about it."

He taps the capped end of his fountain tip pen against his note pad. "You don't seem to grasp the purpose of therapy. You're here to talk. I ask questions, and you answer them. You can't refuse to answer."

"I can. I'm not going to talk about that."

"The fact that you refuse to discuss it means that we _must_ discuss it. It might be the key to your inner conflict."

"It isn't. Believe me."

"I don't believe you. How can the fact that you _died_ last year not be an issue?"

We stare at each other.

"I don't want to talk about it," I repeat.

We stare some more.

"Look," I finally say, "why don't you just go ahead and put me on your Commie brain-zapping machine, man? You know you want to."

"Let me remind you that I'm the doctor here. I'm in charge, and we're going to talk about it."

"We're not," I assure him.

~ ~ ~

Saturday, February 12

Crowded as Grundy's normally is on a Saturday market day, Clamor and I manage to find seats at the table with Joan and Blake. The Nickelodeon is commemorating Lincoln's birthday with a 25% off sale on all artists with beards. Clamor has a copy of Fleetwood Mac's latest. She's reading the liner notes while she eats her fried chicken.

"How are you holding up now that the boys have returned?" Joan asks.

"I knew they'd come back eventually," I answer.

"I know you and Cindy say you're just friends. But you must miss sleeping with her. I know I would, if I were a man."

Blake is fiddling with his plate, stabbing random pieces of Salisbury steak with a knife, seeming to be still a little drunk, though considerably more sober than when I last saw him Thursday, on the downward slope of a bender. But Clamor picks up her ears at Joan's remark.

"You did it with Cindy?"

I put a finger to my lips. "Please, no rumors. We don't want Andrew to know."

"Why not? It's his fault for leaving her, months at a time. A girl's got to get it when and where she can. I, for one, am angling to get laid a time or two before the court ships me off to prison."

"Nobody's going to prison," I say. "Jenny says you have an easy case."

"I'll thank you for not spreading _that_ information around. If everybody knows, you'll ruin my perfectly good pickup line. 'Honey, I'm going to prison tomorrow. This will be my last chance.' Guys have been using it for centuries."

"When is the trial?" Joan asks.

"The 29th. Leap Day."

"Get to the court early," I advise. "Jenny says it's going to be a circus."

" _Jenny says. Jenny says_. How is it that you know my lawyer so well?"

"We dated a little, back in '69."

~ ~ ~

Sunday, February 13

"I see you've gotten another phone," I say to James. He's in his room, alone, with the numbers station on in the background. Everyone else is downstairs watching _Bonanza_.

"You owe me $75," he replies. "I lied to the phone company, reported it as stolen. That's the charge for replacing equipment."

"Put it on my bill, right beside all the credits I've chalked up from getting hassled by your associates while you were away."

James gives me a cold stare in answer.

"I didn't come here to talk about that. Something happened while you were on the road, something you should know about."

"What?"

"Tamburlaine came by to see you."

"Very funny." James turns away, to adjust the tuning on his shortwave.

"It's not a joke. He was here. He wants you to stop looking for him. He's not what you think. He's not what any of you think. He's nobody special, just a guy that a lot of rumors got attached to. Now everybody's looking for him – the FBI and the CIA and the NSA, and the Weathermen, and the Black Panthers, and god knows who else. The Vatican, maybe. He's constantly having to run away from all of them. He just wants to be left alone. Do you know who he really is? Just a theater student up at Macalester who made a speech one night in '68 . . . ."

"Shut up!" James barks. Loud. I can smell his breath, faintly fishy from anchovies on tonight's pizza.

"What?"

James is on his feet, fists shaking. "Shut your goddamn mouth. Now! I'm warning you."

"I'm just trying . . . ."

"Shut up! Who the fuck do you think you are, telling _me_ about Tamburlaine?"

"I'm just trying to explain . . . ."

"No, I'm going to explain! You're going to shut your goddamn mouth and listen. Everybody's heard the Macalester story, and it's a goddamn lie. Everybody knows it's a lie. While I'm away, some FBI stooge shows up and repeats it, claiming to be Tamburlaine himself, and has you spreading the lie even further. You're so goddamn dense, so goddamn stupid, you don't deserve to live. Get out of my room! Get out of my house!"

I stumble into Alfalfa in the dark hall on my way out. What's he doing here?

"Couldn't help overhearing, man," he says. "Heavy!"

~ ~ ~

Monday, February 14

"What did you think was going to happen?" Garrett asks me.

I'm helping him close shop after Ohm's Valentine Day sale, mostly candy and flavored papers for that special someone in every hippie's life.

"Did you really think James was going to thank you for disabusing him of his most cherished belief? He _lives_ for Tamburlaine. It's what gives his life purpose."

"I thought he'd be glad to hear the truth."

"James is right: you truly are too dumb to live. Nobody wants to hear the truth. Not even you or me, though we fancy ourselves tough enough to handle it. Here," he adds, passing me a Déesse bar. "On the house. We have plenty."

"No thanks. I have trouble eating chocolate bunnies at Easter. I'm not going to take a bite into some girl I'm pretty sure I know. Are you on your way to see Rose?"

"Nothing says loving like a dime bag," Garrett answers, flashing the baggie from his coat pocket. "She wants to get the house high, give the girls a Valentines Day they'll never forget – or probably definitely will forget."

I hitch a ride with him back to campus. "Someday, you're going to have to tell me how you got this thing," I say, clambering into the VW bus.

"Someday, I definitely won't. Let's swing by the Buddha on the way. I'll bet Dr. Hirsch will be glad for some business tonight."

But as we approach the stop light at the intersection of Lamar and University, we discover lines of cars idling at all four corners. A genuine Oxford traffic jam, something that happens only on football Saturdays. Cops with flashlights are wandering through the exhaust fumes, trying to unsnarl the mess.

"Jump out, and see if you can tell what's happening," Garrett directs.

I find Deputy Hacker at the corner, exchange a few words with him, and return to the bus.

"It's the restaurant's opening," I report. "There's a line of 100 people waiting to get in. This is just the backup from the drive-through lane."

"Well, I'll be damned!" Garrett slaps the wheel, delighted. "Success! Hirsch's restaurant is a success! What's wrong, man? You don't look happy."

"Hacker told me something else," I report. "Something not so good."

"What?"

"He said we should enjoy it while we can, before Hirsch goes to jail."

"To jail? What for?"

"He wouldn't say, but claimed I should already know."

Garrett and I exchange a glance through the headlight beams shining through the VW's windows. We're confronting something neither of us wishes to admit.

"Hirsch is the Flasher," Garrett finally says.

"I know."

"Shit."

"Shit indeed."

~ ~ ~

Tuesday, February 15

"You can't have it," Mr. Patrick tells me.

We've arrived, on schedule, at the print shop to pick up _Barefoot_.

"You said it would be ready today," Becky says.

"Oh, it's ready, Miss. But you can't have it. That magazine's been impounded. Order of the administration. The college doesn't allow us to publish pornography."

"What?" I say. "There's no pornography in it."

"Tell that to Mrs. Enger. Poor thing nearly fainted while she was setting the type. I had to send her home for the afternoon."

"You're really not going to release it?"

"I can't. Nothing personal, boy. The Dean himself gave the order."

"All right, then. We'll take it off campus. Just give me back the typescripts and the money."

"Can't do that, either. All the materials have been impounded."

"But I paid you $322. You need to refund that money, or give me the magazine."

"You're not grasping the situation," Mr. Patrick says, annoyed. "The money's been spent printing the magazine. The magazine's been impounded. You get nothing. You need to complain to somebody else."

"Do you know what he's talking about?" I ask Becky as we leave the shop. (My heavens, she looks cute today, in a pink sweater, with her hair loose around her shoulders. It's grown since we first met.)

"It's probably that story by Jerome Baker."

"What story?"

"You know, the science fiction piece he wrote."

"I didn't review any of the stories. That was Amy's territory."

"You should have read that one."

"Is it really pornographic?"

"I'm not really familiar with pornography," she says, a hint of a blush on her cheek matching her sweater. "You'd need to read it for yourself."

I turn my steps to Bishop Hall and find Amy holding office hours at Dr. Evans' desk. "You need a pipe," I suggest, "to complete the effect."

Amy glares at me. "What have you done?" she accuses.

"I paid to have _Barefoot_ printed, with my own cash. I had no idea you'd included a pornographic short story. Weren't you worried about getting busted for moral turpitude?"

She shakes her head. "The story's not pornographic. I suppose some people would call it obscene, though it's not really that, either. But it isn't moral."

"What kind of crap is this, Amy? You're the editor. You chose that story. You even bragged to me about how much it was going to shock everybody."

"I regret my earlier decision," she says, a prim little frown of repentance tugging the corners of her mouth. "That was before I'd learned from Edward about the true moral purpose of literature."

"So this is really about Alcott, is it? We don't wish to offend the delicate sensibilities of a hack novelist."

Amy turns stony cold. "Forget about the magazine," she advises. "You and your friends can always get the money back by robbing a liquor store, or smuggling weapons, or white slavery, or whatever schemes you have going on. Just be happy as a failed writer, and leave literature to the talented, decent people of the world."

~ ~ ~

Wednesday, February 16

"I remember the first time I set eyes on you," Jenny reminisces. "Just a scared boy in a jail cell. I thought you were about the cutest thing I'd ever seen."

We're in her tiny law office at Rural Legal Services, above Sneed's Hardware.

"The Mickey Mouse Brigade," I agree. "Those were happy times."

"And now look at you – all grown up, with a lawsuit of your own. I couldn't feel more proud!"

"So you think you can help us with the magazine?"

"I'll file a complaint, but don't expect anything to come of it. Dealing with the college is tough. Ole Miss administrators are ruthless. Worse than criminals. Worse than career politicians, if you can imagine that."

Over the Square the sky looms, darkening. A few drops of rain strike the window.

"On the matter of Dr. Hirsch," Jenny continues, "I have no advice to give, except maybe you should talk to the sheriff, if you're friendly with him. I don't know why Deputy Hacker would tell you what he did. It seems like an odd secret to divulge. But he's not a terribly intelligent man."

"Garrett thinks the cops are over-confident because exhibitionism is a compulsion. They don't care if Dr. Hirsch knows that they're watching him, because he can't stop himself from flashing coeds."

"I hope that Garrett is wrong. I've always liked Dr. Hirsch. He's one of the few really decent people over there. And his restaurant serves the best fried wontons I've ever tasted. Have you eaten there yet?"

"Haven't been able to get in. The line's always too long."

~ ~ ~

Thursday, February 17

Dr. Giordano is insistent. There are two empty seats at his table. Andrew and I must join the discussion.

At least Amy and Alcott aren't here today. Blake is, though, and he appears to be drunk. Giordano and his students are debating Oswald Spengler's typology of civilizations.

Andrew seems amused by their passion. Blake yawns.

A bearded graduate student with the greasiest hair at the table is especially loud. "Spengler's concept of the Magian cultures is predicated on the Hellenistic misinterpretation of Zoroastrianism."

"Daniel, didn't you say that's the world's funniest religion?" Andrew interjects. "Imagine, worshipping Zorro."

The philosophers fall silent, regarding Andrew with shock. Giordano turns to him with a look of rage.

I suddenly realize that our sitting here is a terrible blunder.

"You're English," Giordano says.

"Yes. I'm from Bristol."

"The English are pigs."

Andrew blinks back in surprise. "We're actually not, you know."

"I say you are. Barbarians. You may not paint your bodies blue anymore, but you're still the tribe of savages my ancestors conquered twenty centuries ago."

"That's not very polite," Andrew objects. "Why would you say such a thing?"

"He was held in a British prison camp during the war," I mumble.

"Well, I'm sorry for your misfortune. War is a terrible thing."

"A backward island of cruel, ignorant animals," Giordano continues

"Now, really."

"We should leave," I suggest, shoving my chair back and rising from the table. "Before this gets ugly."

"I believe it's already ugly."

"A nation of whores, cowards, cutthroats, perverts, syphilitics, arsonists, village idiots, homosexuals, lunatics, cretins, fumblers, pederasts, heretics, hemophiliacs, harlots, henotheists . . . ."

"That doesn't even make any sense."

"Mother rapers!" Blake adds, emerging from his stupor. " _Father rapers! Father rapers sitting next to me on the Group W bench_!"

". . . buggers, pissants, pyromaniacs, embezzlers, addicts, bastards, morons, cock-suckers, drunkards, churls, oafs, farts, buffoons, imbeciles, micturaters, bigots, bisexuals, assholes, scumbags, microphallic twits, ninnies, pantytappers, pansies, wankers . . . ," Giordano pauses, running out of words. "And faggots!"

"I do sleep with a _woman_ , you know," Andrew replies after a few seconds of silence at the table.

"We should leave," I repeat.

Blake begins fumbling in the pocket of his overcoat and locates a flask, which he opens and lifts it in salute to Andrew. "Pay Dr. Giordano no mind, my man. That's exactly what you'd expect a _cuckold_ to say."

As the philosophers restrain Giordano, Andrew and I bundle Blake away from the table and through the cafeteria doors.

"Hey, guys," he objects. "I haven't finished my lunch!"

~ ~ ~

Friday, February 18

The rain has fallen nonstop since Wednesday, and I'm standing out in it, soaked again. I'm also blinded by the flashlight beam somebody's shining in my face.

"What are you doing here, son?" a voice asks. It seems to be a familiar one.

I block the glare with fingers over my eyes. The beam leaves my face, and a moment later I recognize Sheriff Claprood, in a slicker and hat. Rainwater pours from the brim, and his breath steams in the damp and the cold.

I glance around to get my bearings and spot Kincannon Hall across the road. I'm on Jackson Avenue, a little west of the entrance to Rebel Drive. Claprood's squad car is pulled onto the curb ten yards away, flashing its lights.

"Why are you out on a night like this?" he asks.

"I don't know. I must have been sleepwalking again."

"Get in the car."

I walk ahead of him and stop at the back door, waiting for him to open it. Instead, Claprood passes by and climbs into the driver's side. He glances back at me in confusion. "Front seat," he says.

"You're not arresting me?"

He shakes his head, sighs. "Being a nut case isn't against the law, thank god. If it were, I'd have to lock up half this town."

~ ~ ~

Saturday, February 19

James has fetched home a dozen or more cartons of food from the Rebel Buddha, by way of apology. His repentance seems heartfelt.

"Everybody, give me a list of what that bastard Alfalfa took," he says to us, "and I'll make it up to you."

Alfalfa, it seems, has run off, stealing whatever he could fit in his backpack on his way out the door: Andrew's watch, cash from Cindy, shirts and jeans from James, various bottles of pills from Garrett's private stash. He rifled through my things, but apparently couldn't find anything worth lifting.

Clamor's dropped by. Neither she nor I have been injured, but we're still invited to share the bounty of James' guilt over welcoming a thief into the house. Jenny was right – the Buddha's wontons are excellent. Everything is. Ho may be insane, but she can really cook.

James even remains downstairs to watch television, instead of his usual routine of listening to the numbers stations in his room. By 9:00, we're all full, high, and mellow.

"The Dr. Hunk show is on," Cindy announces, changing the channel to ABC.

"The what?"

" _The Sixth Sense_ ," Andrew explains. "About a psychic who solves crimes. Cindy is infatuated with the actor."

"Oh, my god," Clamor says when she sees the star. "He's gorgeous."

"That's Gary Collins," Garrett says. "He's married to Mary Ann Mobley."

"Lucky Mary Ann," Cindy purrs.

"I'd do him anywhere," Clamor agrees.

"Ladies, please – a bit of decorum," Andrew cautions.

The goddamn telephone rings. James answers it. The rest of us, especially the girls, are glued to the set, but I still overhear James' side of the conversation.

"Hello? Ah, yeah. Sure. Wait a second – who is this?" He listens to the answer and passes the receiver to Garrett. "For you," he says, and storms from the room. "Enjoy your mindless entertainment, everybody," he calls over his shoulder.

Garrett speaks a few sentences into the receiver. "Let me call back later," he concludes, and hangs up.

"What?" I ask.

"That was Rose. She's drunk, forgot that James is back."

"Oh, shit."

"Shit, indeed."

~ ~ ~

Sunday, February 20

"I misjudged you," Keith says.

"Happens all the time," I reassure him.

Outside, the rain continues. I've spent most of today in the library, but it's just closed, so I've stopped by the Grill for a microwaved cheeseburger from the vending machine, to fortify me for the wet trip home. This is where my path crosses with Becky's self-appointed protector.

"I believed you to be a man of honor. You have proven me wrong."

"This will come as a shock," I say, "but my membership in the Federation of Young Southern Gentlemen lapsed some time ago."

"You've persuaded Rebecca that immorality is good if it claims to be art. Now she plans to help circulate a petition for the release of your obscene magazine. The family is most distraught. I, of course, will not allow her to do anything of the sort."

I can't help laughing.

"Do not misjudge me," Keith answers. "I possess the means to stop you, if I must. You stand warned."

My cheeseburger has finally cooled sufficiently from the microwave that I can pick it up. "Okay, I stand warned. Now I mean to sit down."

~ ~ ~

Monday, February 21

One item awaits me in campus mail when I arrive at the museum. It's a one-sentence, handwritten note from Dr. French. " _Report to my office immediately_."

"I'm not going back out in that rain," I say to Dr. Goodleigh. "Maybe tomorrow."

"What do you suppose French wants to see you about?"

"He's probably annoyed about the legal complaint I filed."

"What complaint?"

"I haven't mentioned it because I didn't expect it to amount to anything."

"Tell me about it now."

So I fill her in about _Barefoot_ and the trick we pulled on Mr. Patrick and the impounding of the magazine and the complaint that Jenny filed against the Lyceum, and when I've finished, she advises me to brave the rain.

"Go see what Dr. French wants, and then come right back. In the meantime, I need to make a few calls."

When I arrive at the third floor of Bishop Hall, Mrs. Walcott, the English department secretary, gives me a baleful look and a nod of her head toward the chairman's open office door.

"Don't take a seat," Dr. French advises as I knock and enter. "You're not going to be here that long. I understand that you've filed a legal action for the release of your student magazine."

"Yes, sir."

"You will withdraw that action, and write letters of apology to the Chancellor and to the Dean."

"Ah . . . ."

"That's an order, Medway. Do it, or I'll cancel your assistantship."

"I'm sorry, sir. You can't do that."

"I can, and I shall. You, of course, may appeal to our graduate committee, but they will support my decision."

"That's not what I mean. I agree, you have the authority. You just don't have authority over _me_."

French cocks an eyebrow in reply.

"I'm not in your department," I explain.

"You're not?"

"No, sir."

"There must be some kind of mistake. I thought you were. What department are you in, then?"

"Classics."

"And your chair is . . . ?"

"Dr. Sutherland."

"Very well," French concludes, returning his attention to the paperwork on his desk. "I'll instruct Sutherland to fire you. That will be all."

Dr. Sutherland arrives at the Museum ten minutes after I've returned, in bad temper.

"Do you know what that pompous prick French said?" he erupts, as Dr. Goodleigh closes the doors against the curious heads poking from doorways along the hall. "He ordered me – ordered me – to fire Medway. Somebody better explain what in the hell is going on."

So I explain, for the second time today.

"The AAUP is interested, if Harold agrees to add his name as a plaintiff. And I've left a call with the ACLU office in Memphis," Dr. Goodleigh adds, once I'm done.

"I don't mean to cause trouble. It's not that big of a deal. If you want me to drop the suit, I will."

Sutherland wheels on me, flushed. "Drop it? Hell no, you're not going to drop it! Sue that bastard!"

~ ~ ~

Tuesday, February 22

"Depressed?" Dr. Valencia asks. "Why are you depressed?"

"Because it hasn't stopped raining for a week," I explain.

"So? Are you a farmer? Do you have crops you need to plant?"

"No."

"You must run a resort, then, and the rain is driving your customers away."

"No."

"You work outside, in construction?"

"No."

"So, your livelihood, your work, your income, is not dependent on fair weather at all, is it? You're a student. You read ancient Greek history and help run a museum. You don't really have any reason to go outside at all."

"I suppose not."

"Then your depression is illogical. You have no rational basis for allowing external atmospheric conditions to affect your emotions, do you?"

"But aren't emotions supposed to be illogical?"

"Tell me again about how you died."

"Again? Nice try. I never told you the first time."

We stare at each other. It's what we seem to spend most of these sessions doing.

"C'mon," I finally say. "Just put me on the damn machine."

~ ~ ~

Wednesday, February 23

Amy stumbles backward, disarranging a row of books with her elbow as she pulls away from me, while simultaneously pulling me back toward her with the other hand. I follow, and find her mouth again.

We're on the third floor of the library, in the modern British poetry section, two rows down from the ghost that always seems to be selecting a book from the Old English collection. We've encountered one another here by chance, Amy for once without her entourage. We've sparred, as always, over the magazine, over that idiot Alcott, over Clamor's hopes for acquittal at next week's trial.

And then, suddenly . . . this.

Amy's body is so much warmer, and softer, than I ever imagined she could be. The kiss sends a jolt from my shoulders down my spine, into the small of my back. She makes a small cry in her throat, and pushes me back again, this time without pulling me back in.

I slouch against the opposite bookshelf. Amy's hands dance in front of her face, as if she's planning to wipe her mouth but too stunned to actually reach a decision to act. Her eyes are wide, wild. A blush flushes across her cheeks. All the wind has gone out of me. I'm having to pant to get it back. She stares at me in horror.

"This never happened," she warns, and flees down the central aisle toward the narrow stairway that leads to the circulation desk.

The sky is pouring when I step outside, winds lashing the rain against the Lyceum. The storm sewers are overwhelmed. Half the campus is flooded again. I turn my steps back to Bondurant, weak-kneed, and try to navigate a dry course to the Museum.

~ ~ ~

Thursday, February 24

The "Acquit the Witches" rally, originally scheduled for noon in the Grove, has relocated – because of the rain – to the rotunda of Bryant Hall, at the invitation of the Art Department, whose faculty and chair have held firm in solidarity with Dr. Evans, and now with the witches.

"Isn't it interesting," Blake remarks, as he, Joan and I stand in the gallery watching his former lover and her coven chant to drum below us, "how the whole campus seems to be dividing up between Cavaliers and Roundheads. Your department, Art, Physics, Sociology, Math and some others on the side of the Cavaliers. My department, English, Journalism, Modern Languages acting like Roundheads. It's like the English Civil War, repeating itself."

"Ole Miss has always wanted to reenact the civil war. But I doubt that's the one they have in mind."

The rotunda is thronged, supporters with signs calling for the witches' acquittal, hecklers with posters of Bible verses (Exodus 22:18 being one of the favorites), and the usual batch of campus ministers trying to drown out the chanting and the drumming with their voices.

In the midst of the crowd I spot one sign out of place, being heroically carried forward by a tiny blonde girl. It reads "Release Barefoot!"

Becky. I watch her with a little stab of guilt over the memory of how sweet Amy tasted yesterday. That mustn't happen again. But another figure is now muscling his way forward. Keith again. In less than half a minute, he's standing directly behind her. He snatches the sign from her hands, rips it and dashes it to the floor.

She wheels to confront him. Keith tries to intimidate her, looming above her like a bear, but she refuses to cower. They shout at each other, the words unclear over the din of the crowd. She turns to move even further toward the center and shakes his hand from her shoulder as he tries to restrain her.

Joan has been watching, too. "Isn't that your friend?" she asks. "She adorable. So fierce, like a little fyce dog."

~ ~ ~

Friday, February 25

Even waiting until after 9:00 p.m. doesn't help. Garrett, Rose, Andrew, Cindy and I still discover a line stretching under the rain outside the Rebel Buddha. But Garrett spots an empty space in the parking lot and pulls in. We share a joint and play alphabet games. We've gone through lists of cities, dead movie stars, cigarette brands, and rockers (individual artists preferred).

"What's next?" Cindy asks, after naming Frank Zappa.

"Stars and constellations," I suggest.

"Characters from the Old Testament," Garrett urges.

"State representatives from Nebraska," Andrew offers.

"Renaissance cartographers."

"Fungi phyla."

"Demigods from Tahitian mythology."

"Diseases of the lower intestine."

"Siberian rivers."

"Phobias."

"That's fun," Rose pops in, seizing the moment. "Arachnophobia. Garrett?"

"Barophobia. Daniel?"

"Caligynephobia," I say. "Cindy?"

"One moment," Andrew interrupts. "Caligynephobia? What is it? How do we know you didn't just make that up?"

"Fear of beautiful women. _Kalli_ , beautiful, plus _gyne_ , woman. It helps to know Greek."

"It also helps actually to be afraid of beautiful women," Garrett says.

"Am not," I say.

"You've started out terrified of every pretty woman you ever met," he replies. "Melissa. Dr. Goodleigh. Joan. Phyllis. Susan. That girl who sat across the aisle from you in Fulton Chapel during Botany class."

"Look, the line is gone," Cindy says. "We came here to eat. Remember?"

Once inside, we still have to wait 15 minutes for a table. Good as the food is, the customers are complaining that service has slowed to a crawl. Ho's routine includes a hash break around 8:30, after which she's far too mellow to care whether or not people get their orders.

Tucked away in one corner, at a cozy table for two, sit Dr. Sutherland and Mrs. Sutherland, their dinners half eaten, holding hands, laughing like a young couple. Sutherland's returned from the land of the clinically depressed.

"I've definitely got to get on that machine," I vow to myself.

A gorgeous Chinese waitress in a silk mandarin dress beckons us forward with a crook of her finger and leads our group to a newly-unoccupied table.

"How are ya'll doing this rainy evening?" she asks, in the creamiest of southern accents. Her skin is like Belleek, lips a tiny rosebud, lashes long and curled.

"Not from the mainland, I assume," Andrew replies.

She laughs. "Hell, no. I'm from Greenville. What can I get ya'll to drink?"

Orders go round for tea, Cokes, water.

"What about you, sugar?" she asks me.

But I find myself unable to answer.

"He'll have tea," Garrett answers for me. "Caligynephobia strikes again," he adds after she leaves.

~ ~ ~

Saturday, February 26

Dr. Evans refreshes my drink. We're in his study, discussing the _Barefoot_ case. "So you still haven't read the story that started all of this?" he asks.

"I haven't really read much of anything in English since coming back. You've read it, I suppose."

"Of course. Amy showed it to me as soon as it was submitted. 'The Highlands.' Damn good work, though I warned her that it was going to upset some people."

"Because of the obscenity?"

"Because of its premise. A virus spreads across North America that leaves adult men impotent. But the black population is immune. So now the white women are seeking out black men for sex."

"So you're saying that _Barefoot_ was censored because of race."

"Of course. Are you new around these parts? Everything's still about race, though the Lyceum wants to claim otherwise. It's a cute story they invented about some elderly maiden typesetter swooning away over naughty words, but I guarantee that's not what happened."

Dr. Evans takes the chair opposite me and fiddles with his pipe. His lighter is apparently broken, because he strikes a kitchen match, filling the room with a tinge of sulfur. The room is quiet, except for the sound of rain on the window.

"I spoke with your lawyer," he goes on. "She's a honey, isn't she? I've given the question a lot of thought. Frankly, I've been thoroughly enjoying my semester off, not having to deal with all the bullshit on campus, not having to deal with French. Not having to pretend to think highly of Alcott – not even having to meet him, in fact."

"Amy is more than willing to attend to him."

Dr. Evans blows a plume of smoke into the air. "Rumor is that she's sleeping with him. Not that you can trust campus rumors. Still, the man does have a reputation, despite his claptrap about morality."

I feel oddly uncomfortable over this revelation. "So you've decided?" I prompt.

"It's too tempting to pass up. I'll join you in the suit," he says. "I can bring the AAUP to the table. With the ACLU already on board, we have some pretty formidable allies. Who knows what other assistance might surface if I can persuade the author himself to join the case."

"Jerome Baker. Do you know him?" I ask.

"Only by name. Which is kind of odd, when you think about it. Every would-be writer in the county turns up at my office at some point, manuscript in hand. But here's a young man writing a little gem of a story, and I've never even met him."

~ ~ ~

Sunday, February 27

"Dagnabbit, pa," Dan Blocker says to Lorne Greene. Garrett whoops and passes the bong around, counterclockwise: Cindy, Andrew, Clamor, me, and Rose. We've finished another tv dinner party and are slouched on floor and furniture among empty tinfoil trays.

The show ends and the credits come up, accompanied by the _Bonanza_ theme song.

"That's great music to have sex to," Rose advises the rest of us. "If you haven't tried it, you've missed something. Listen to that rhythm."

"I like the _Lone Ranger_ theme, too," Cindy says.

"It's the William Tell Overture, actually," Andrew adds.

" _Route 66_ ," I suggest.

"That's a lot of fun, too," Rose agrees.

" _Peter Gunn_."

" _Rawhide_."

" _F Troop_!" Garrett cries. " _Gilligan's_ _Island! Green Acres! I Love Lucy_!"

"No," Andrew cautions. "Please don't!"

But he's too late. We've already launched into a five-part harmony of the _I Love Lucy_ theme, making enough racket that James descends the stairs to glower at us.

"Garrett," he says, when we're done, "have you told Rose yet how you won the VW bus?"

The mood of the room shifts, Garrett turns somber, the laughter hushes.

"We all agreed," Andrew cautions, "not to speak of that."

"I think she'd like to know," James says, with a shrug. "What went down that night. What kind of secrets her boyfriend is hiding."

Rose turns to Garrett with a smile. "Secrets?"

"It's nothing."

"You're being modest," James says. "It was certainly not nothing. No, you won fair and square."

"Let it go," Andrew cautions.

James shrugs again and turns to leave the room. In doing so, he spots Clamor. "Go upstairs and take your clothes off," he says.

Clamor rocks back. She gazes up at him, mute.

"Go take your clothes off, I said. It's what you've always wanted, isn't it?"

Andrew is on his feet now, trying to maneuver James out of the room. Cindy and Rose shout at him, but he's persistent.

"Why the hell are you always hanging around here? It can't be for the intellectual stimulation. You want me to fuck you."

Clamor covers her face with both hands, shamed.

"This is your big chance," James says. "Going once. Going twice. No? Okay, your loss, baby."

I've suddenly had enough of James.

My legs and my feet move under me. I spring, and a moment later have him pinned against the wall, my forearm crushing his windpipe.

"Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up."

James throws his weight against me and manages to knock me off my feet with a kick to my ankles. I fall, but carry him down with me. We're on the floor, grappling for the advantage.

Cindy screams.

James is quicker and stronger, but somehow I still manage to pin him to the floor. My fist is balled, raised in the air, aimed at his face.

"Apologize, bastard!"

Andrew seizes my arm, pulls me off, and swings me across the floor. James tries to leap after me, but Garrett and Andrew together hold him back.

"Stop this!"

Rose and Cindy converge on me, hands on my shoulders to keep me from lunging onto him again. A stunned calm settles over the room. I rise to my feet. James follows. We stare at each other.

"Apologize to her."

"I want you out of my house, Medway."

He turns and steps calmly back up the stairs. I glance about the room, from one concerned face to the next, and realize that Clamor is gone.

The front door is open, and she's vanished into the night and the rain.

~ ~ ~

Monday, February 28

I'm recounting the events of last evening to Dr. Valencia.

"A display of anger," he says. "We're making progress. I believe this may be the first honest emotion you've expressed in this office."

"What do you mean by that?"

"You're not being an insufferable smartass today. By the way, that's my clinical diagnosis of your condition: Insufferable Smartass. I'm writing a monograph on you."

"I'm flattered."

Rain lashes his office window, gale force.

"But now you're showing genuine anger, over a young woman. You have a weakness for them, but this one's not a potential sweetheart. Does she remind you of your sister?"

"I never said I have a sister."

"Your relations aren't exactly obscure people. I could look them up."

"Why don't you?"

"Whether or not you actually have a sister is less relevant than how you feel about her."

"How I feel about a sister I don't have?"

"Or how you feel about a sister you do have."

"What if I don't feel anything for a sister I don't have?"

"Let's review the possibilities. You have a sister. You don't have a sister. You feel for the sister you have. You don't feel for her. You don't feel for the sister you don't have. You do feel for her."

"Have you invented a new kind of quantum psychology? Do you have some girl shut in a box with a radioactive isotope?"

It's Valencia's turn to stare at me now, waiting.

"Last week, I made out with a girl I can't stand," I offer. This is a red herring, but he seems engaged.

"Of course you did. Tell me about it."

~ ~ ~

Tuesday, February 29

The Lafayette County courtroom is packed with wet spectators. Only the judge, the bailiff and the court reporter – the three people who didn't have to make their way through the torrent outside – are dry.

Clamor, Raven Bright and the other witches sit with Jenny at a long table facing the judge. The city attorney and an assistant are positioned at another table across the aisle. Since this isn't a jury trial, Judge Everett has dispensed with opening statements, which is a shame. I was looking forward to watching Jenny sashay in one of her tailored suits she usually wears for court appearances, the ones that show off her splendid hips.

A theatrical peal of thunder rattles the courthouse windows as the city attorney calls Deputy Hacker to the stand. I crane my head to watch, but from my vantage point at the back of the gallery, I can't seem to find Sheriff Claprood anywhere.

Hacker recites the oath and takes his seat with a smug confidence. "I'm Deputy Sheriff Roy Hacker," he says, prompted to state his name and occupation. "I suspect most people in this room know me pretty well, one way or another."

The city attorney asks him to recount, for the court, the events from the afternoon of February 2, 1972. He presents a short narrative of his patrol route that day, culminating with a call from this dispatcher about a disturbance on the Square.

"What did you discover upon your arrival?"

"A bunch of weirdoes with drums committing an unlawful assembly and disrupting the peace. They claimed it was a religious ceremony, but it wasn't like any kind of thing honest folks have ever seen."

"Do you see the group in question here in this courtroom?"

"Certainly. They're sitting right there, with their attorney."

"Let the record that the witness has indicated the defendants. Deputy, what did you do when you arrived at the scene?"

"I ordered them to disperse."

"You gave them the opportunity to disperse?"

"I did. They refused. That was when I placed them under arrest."

"Your witness, counselor," the city attorney says to Jenny.

Jenny rises and crosses the floor to the witness stand, striding like Justice herself to confront Hacker.

"Deputy, do you recall any other conversation you had with the defendants that day? Something of a philosophical nature?"

Hacker pulls a wry face and scratches at the stubble on his chin. "Philosophical? Not that I recall."

"Let me be more specific. Did you have a discussion about the nature of law enforcement in regard to religious practices?"

"I'm a simple man. I don't usually delve into such subjects. My papa taught me it was impolite to talk religion with other folks."

"But didn't you remark that if these young women had been, say, Christian missionaries, you would have allowed their assembly to continue?"

He scratches his chin again, gives her a sideways stare, his canny country boy face. "Well certainly. Oxford's a Christian town. Devil worshipers don't belong here."

Jenny turns to Judge Everett with a smile, and repeats the very words she used at the end of our Mickey Mouse trial: "Your Honor, I rest my case."

Everett's gavel strikes before the city attorney can rise to object. "Case dismissed. The defendants are released. Bailiff, clear the room. Attorneys, in my chamber."

A crush of citizenry exits the court and crowds the doorways, the stairs and the halls. Then outside. If anything, the rain seems to have grown stronger, forcing us all to assemble on the north and south porches, each porch dividing into two conflicting factions: those who are furious over the trial's outcome, and those who are celebrating it.

Jenny emerges, surrounded by reporters. She's cheered by one side, heckled by the other. Opponents are shouting at each other. A scuffle erupts in the center of the crowd.

We should all get out of here, but the rain is pouring down in curtains, so thick I can't even see the shops across the street anymore. Water pounds in sheets over the sides of the rain gutters that can no longer cope with the volume. The sidewalks around the building are already under several inches of flowing water, more dangerous with every minute that passes.

We're all stranded together, bitter enemies on a sinking island, ready to grapple and pull each other under the flood.

The witches emerge. A sudden quiet settles over the mob, which parts by an unconscious but unanimous decision to clear a path from the door to the porch steps. I find myself in a front row as the witches leave the building, process through the crowd and walk, ankle deep in water, onto the pavement.

Clamor is the last in line. Raven Bright and the others glare at us with triumph, but Clamor herself seems frightened, unsteady in her gait. I call to her, take her hand, and pull her out of the procession.

She's shivering.

The five remaining witches stand together in the rain and face the crowd. Raven Bright steps forward to issue a proclamation.

"We have decided to forgive you," she says, with a voice that rings and echoes under the portico. "This town has done penance enough."

They have no drums today, but they strike a rhythm by clapping their hands in unison, then their hips and thighs as they dance in a circle, counterclockwise. Some members of the audience pick up the beat, clapping with them, but most simply stare in bewilderment.

Raven tosses her head back like a maenad on one of the Museum's amphorae and shrieks a cry toward the clouds. The others follow with a chant in a language I've never imagined, Raven punctuating their litany with sporadic shrieks every fifteen seconds or so.

This weird scene continues for several minutes – I'm not checking my watch, so I don't know how many. It may be my imagination, but the rain seems to be letting up. All at once, the witches stop. The ceremony has ended.

"The curse is lifted," Raven announces. "Go home. There's nothing more to see here."

They turn away and vanish into the downpour. The crowd mills about, confused for a time until, one by one, individuals begin darting across the crosswalk and under the eaves of the shops, retreating from a rain that has definitely started to taper off.

As the crowd on the porch thins, Andrew and Cindy spot us. Clamor is still shivering.

"Take her home," I say. "Get her warm, give her something to calm down."

"No," Clamor objects. "I don't want to see James."

"Not to worry," Andrew says. "He's popped off again, left yesterday for the east coast. Won't be back for weeks."

"What about you?" Cindy asks me.

"I'm going to hang around, see if anything else happens."

I cross over to the Ohm and join Garrett at the porch window, where he's been watching this whole freak scene outside the courthouse. We share a joint and I keep an eye on the Square.

By two o'clock, a few glimmers of sunlight are breaking through the clouds, though a light drizzle continues. An hour later, even that has stopped. The usual retinue of old men gathers at the park benches with checkerboards and newspapers. Afternoon traffic circles about them, counterclockwise, as usual.

I leave the shop when I spot Hacker join the men for conversation and a smoke. He's in civvies now, dungarees and a plaid shirt under a blue windbreaker.

"Well, boy, I guess your side won today," he says when I join them. "And before you ask, I'm out of uniform because I'm no longer on the force. Resigned, effective immediately."

I express my condolences, and surprise myself by actually feeling an inkling of sympathy for the man.

"I appreciate the kindness, boy," he replies. "But don't weep no tears for me. I'm devoted all my life to the law, but if that means protecting the rights of Satan lovers, then I'm clearly in the wrong line of work."

"So what will you do now?"

"Start bringing Lafayette County back to the Lord," he says.
Part 7. Revelation

March 1 - April 2, 1972

Wednesday, March 1

Oxford's fourteen days of continuous rainfall have ended. I wake on the couch at Tyler, in the parlor turned squalid from last night's celebration. Clamor is free and asleep on my pallet upstairs. It was a great party. Everyone came, even Sheriff Claprood.

I stumble toward the kitchen to find Garrett stirring up a cup of Tasters Choice.

"Try not to be frightened," he warns.

"Frightened of what?"

"There's a great ball of fire, outside, hanging in the sky. Don't worry. I've spoken with the village elders, and they assure me that people used to see it all the time. They call it the 'Sun.'"

"The Sun," I repeat. "We live in an age of wonders."

~ ~ ~

Thursday, March 2

The sun is out, the scent of an early spring is in the air, and the Flasher has struck again, this time on Sorority Row outside the Kappa Kappa Gamma house.

I drop in at the Sociology office on my way to the Museum, hoping to establish an alibi for Hirsch.

"You again," Mrs. Arnett complains as I close the door behind me. "Still looking for that girl? What was her name? Melissa?"

"Not today."

"Good. Because I haven't seen her."

Hirsch's door is closed and the office is dark behind the clouded glass panel. "Has he been in?" I ask.

"Who wants to know?"

"Guess I do."

"First the sheriff comes looking for him, now you," she grumbles. "The man hasn't had so many callers in years. Most folks try to avoid him."

"What did Sheriff Claprood want Dr. Hirsch for?" As if I don't already know.

"The sheriff," Mrs. Arnett replies, "is starting an Oxford chapter of the Hare Krishna. He dropped by to ask if Dr. Hirsch wants to shave his head and shake a tambourine."

"He didn't say that."

"Likely not. I don't know what he said. I wasn't listening. And I'm not listening to you any longer, either."

"Your little friend dropped by, with more poetry," Dr. Goodleigh says when I return to the Museum. "I was worried that the torch she's carrying for you was going to set off the fire alarm."

I set my books beside the typewriter and open the folder that Becky's left. "She's a sweet kid."

"Not a kid at all. She's 19, a National Merit Scholar, and very mature for her age. She just happens to _look_ childlike."

"She's still younger than me."

"You're just 23. Four years isn't exactly robbing the cradle. She's got her first college crush. I know you can remember what that's like. Give her a thrill and ask her out."

~ ~ ~

Friday, March 3

"Dean Moriarty wants to see me in his office?" I ask after reading the phone message Dr. Goodleigh hands me. "How exciting. Will Sal Paradise be there, too?"

"Not _that_ Dean Moriarty."

It's been quite a while since I last had official business in the Lyceum, and I can't say that I've missed the place. But the Dean's carefully worded invitation to a 1:00 p.m. conversation in his office is too intriguing to ignore.

His receptionist passes a critical eye over me, but remains polite enough to offer me coffee (which I politely decline) before ushering me into the office, where I discover Dr. Evans already sitting at a conference table overlooking a panorama of University Circle.

Dr. Moriarty has risen in the world since the days during my freshman year when he took the stage at Fulton Chapel each Thursday morning to deliver three hours of Botany lectures to a class of 600 students.

"I've asked you gentlemen here today," Moriarty begins, "because I'm sure you're as eager as I am to avoid going to court over this misunderstanding."

"We are, indeed," Dr. Evans agrees. "Just release the magazine, and we'll be happy to drop the suit."

"I'm not authorized to do that. However, I've devised a compromise that I believe will satisfy everyone's concerns. I propose convening a committee of senior faculty, to determine whether or not the story in question is obscene, and whether or not the magazine may be released."

"A committee. Who's going to appoint it?"

"I will," Moriarty says. "I've already taken the liberty of enlisting faculty from Pharmacy, Mathematics, Biology, Physics and Civil Engineering."

"Sounds like an odd group to be judging literary merit," Dr. Evans says.

"That's the beauty of my selection. None of the committee will have any knowledge or interest in whether there's any redeeming literary merit to the publication. They can reach an impartial decision."

"In other words, we can trust them because they'll be too ill-informed to know what they're doing."

"Exactly. Of course, the evaluation will need to include aesthetic considerations, and that's why I've decided the committee will be chaired by an eminent literary figure."

My already sinking feeling sinks a little lower.

"If you mean Edward Alcott," Dr. Evans replies, "he's totally unacceptable. He'll steer your committee to a foregone conclusion."

Dean Moriarty frowns. "I'd advise against making prejudicial statements, Harold. Dr. French has already agreed, on behalf of your department, to abide by the committee's decision. We'll inform you as soon as we know what it is."

Moriarty rises from his chair. This meeting is over.

"I hope that you, as a gentleman, will cooperate," he says to Dr. Evans. "It would be best for everyone."

"I'm a gentleman, Don," Dr. Evans replies. "I'm not a fool. Don't suppose for a minute that this is the end of anything."

~ ~ ~

Saturday, March 4

I find Citizen sunning himself on the front porch of the Tyler house, and we stroll together toward the Square. Dottie has John Lee Hooker on the stereo, "Never Get out of These Blues Alive," when we reach the Nickelodeon.

"I miss Ho," she complains. "She would have loved this album."

"She's just around the corner."

"She might as well be back in China, for all I get to see her. Those boys keep her working in the kitchen from sunup to midnight, and they've moved her out of the Lyric, made a little room for her in a utility closet right there in the Buddha. I suppose she's happy enough, as long as she has some recreational hash, but it's not the same. Who's your friend?"

"You can see him, too? Listen, be sure to tell Garrett. He thinks this dog is all in my head."

"Why would he think that?"

"A little misunderstanding from the first night we saw him," I explain." Garrett and I were dropping acid down at the old depot one night a few years back, when this dog came wandering out of the kudzu. Garrett was so messed up, he thought it was a pig. He wanted to dig a pit by the tracks and roast him, have a big luau like Tahitians.

"Later, when we headed back to the Earth, the dog followed. Garrett started getting paranoid. 'That pig is following us, man. What does that pig want?' When we got to the front door, he made a big scene, started shouting loud as he could, 'Don't let that pig in the house! Keep that pig outta here!'

"Naturally, everybody inside thought there were cops at the door. A big commotion ensued, everybody in the Earth stumbling onto the porch to keep the cops out. The dog got spooked and ran off. Ever after that, people debated over whether it had been a dog, a pig, or a cop following us that night. For some reason, the consensus was that it must have been an actual pig, as if that made the most sense. Citizen came back to visit me lots of times afterward, but never when anyone else was around, so none of them ever saw him."

"Did any of that really happen?" Dottie asks me after I'm done.

"I'm not sure. But I seem to recollect that it did."

"Well, be that as it may. Speaking of the cops, don't let anybody talk you into signing any petition. Petition-takers are all over the Square today, gathering signatures. Two of 'em came in an hour ago, and I politely invited them to remove their asses from my store."

"What's the petition about?"

"Recall election," she says. "They're trying to replace Claprood."

~ ~ ~

Sunday, March 5

"Are you boys residents of Lafayette County?" the petition taker asks, squirming his way toward us through the crowd at Skeeter's.

It's only 2:30 in the afternoon, but Blake's favorite Holly Springs honky-tonk is already packed, mostly with frat boys and blue collars from Oxford.

"Don't sign that," I warn Blake.

"What is it?" he asks, slurring the question.

"Petition to get beer back in Oxford," the man answers.

"Petition to get Claprood recalled," I counter.

"Same thing."

"The hell it is. You're trying to railroad what may be the only honest sheriff in the entire state out of office. If you want beer legal in Oxford, why not organize another referendum? The last one nearly passed."

"You hippies just love this sheriff, don't you? He lets you smoke all the dope you want, while keeping honest citizens from having just a little sip of beer. He must be a deviant himself. I hear he even served cookies and Coca Colas to those witches when they were arrested, and refused to let 'em be locked in a cell."

"Witches!" Blake shouts. "Don't try telling me about witches! I've had to live with a witch!"

"I'm living with one right now," the man answers, "and she gets especially temperamental when she can't drink beer."

I signal the bartender, and inform him that the man is collecting signatures for the recall election. The bouncer ejects him. Clapwood's prohibition measures have been a windfall for the Holly Springs taverns. He's quite popular up here.

A table by the window opens up and I steer Blake toward it. He's not going to be able to stay on his feet for much longer. He lands with a plop in the chair, spilling froth on his jacket, still ranting about witches.

"Spells. Incense. Burning all sorts of weird plants. Mandrake roots. Incantations. Ouija boards – let me tell you about the Ouija boards." He reaches across the table, and seizes my wrist. "Ouija boards are scary shit. No kidding. One night, they decided to contact Jimi Hendrix on one of those things. Can you believe it – Jimi fucking Hendrix? What's even scarier, I think they actually reached him, and he was pissed off! Bunch of damn silly white girls disturbing him like that. Things started flying all around inside the trailer – cups, books, candles. Tell you what, I'm glad that bitch has moved out."

"Raven's gone? Since when?"

"Day after the trial. She and her coven found a house to rent someplace on Madison."

"So you're there alone."

"Until I find a roommate or the Duck kicks me out for not coming up with the rent."

~ ~ ~

Monday, March 6

"Told you so," I say to Becky. "You thought I was pulling your leg."

We've rendezvoused on the third floor stacks of the library, modern British literature, PR 614. Becky slips the book I've promised to show her from its place on the shelf, opens it, and runs a tiny index finger over the title page:

William Butler Yeats

The Wanderings of Oisin, and Other Poems

London: Kegan Paul, Trench & Co., 1889

"I wouldn't have believed it," she says. "A first edition of Yeats, just sitting here. It's like holding a piece of history."

"My freshman year, I used to sneak up here looking for rare books. The stacks weren't open to undergraduates then, and any student caught up here without permission faced academic censure. Breaking into the library was my first taste of civil disobedience, which whetted my appetite for other illegal activities."

"What did you find?" she asks.

"First editions of Faulkner, of course – almost all of his novels. But also rare copies of Frost, Pound, Rossetti, Wharton, H.G. Wells, Dos Passos, Hemingway, Conrad, Dreiser, Stevens, Steinbeck, Fitzgerald, Henry James, William Carlos Williams. Hell, they even had a first edition of _Moby Dick_ up here, which must have been worth a fortune. I wrote a dozen anonymous letters to the library staff, begging them to put those copies someplace safe, but nobody did anything. Over the years since then, most of them have disappeared. This Yeats is the last I know of."

"Come away, O human child!" Becky reads, from "The Lost Child."

" _To the waters and the wild_

With a faery, hand in hand.

_For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand_."

"You should check it out," I suggest. "Sleep with it under your pillow for inspiration. I used to do that with an 1881 edition of _Leaves of Grass_ that used to be up here, whenever I suffered writers block."

"Where the wave of moonlight glosses," she continues.

" _The dim gray sands with light,_

Far off by furthest Rosses

We foot it all the night,

Weaving olden dances

Mingling hands and mingling glances

_Till the moon has taken flight_."

She leans her head against the wall behind her, lips slightly parted, eyes closed, and presses Yeats to her chest, embracing him.

"Mingling hands and mingling glances," she breathes. "Till the moon has taken flight."

The air around us turns still. And charged. I can't tell which of us this rapture has descended upon, her or me. Maybe both. Mysterious duality here. To look at her, Becky could be Yeats' stolen child. She could be one of his faery. Or both.

I know only that if ever a girl needed to be kissed – right here, at this moment – it's her. I think she's waiting for me to make a move. I might be misreading whatever signal she's sending, but if I don't kiss Becky now, I probably never will.

"Mingling hands and mingling glances," she repeats, a low murmur. I take a step forward, bend my face toward her, feel the breath she speaks.

I move in for the kiss. And am interrupted.

" _Attention! Attention! Attention!_ " a voice on the library intercom blasts.

Her eyes fly open. I draw back.

What sounds like an explosion echoes down the narrow stairwell that wends through the center of the building.

WHAM!

I know that sound well enough – the fire door on the top floor automatically slamming shut, closing the stairwell.

WHAM! There goes the fifth floor door.

WHAM! The fourth floor.

WHAM! The third floor door, only a few yards from where we stand.

" _Attention_!" the intercom howls " _The library is in lockdown. I repeat: the library is in lockdown. Please remain where you are. Campus security and library personnel will arrive shortly to escort you from the building. Until then, remain where you are_!"

"What do you think it is?" Becky asks.

The question gets answered by the sound of feet on the steps, the fire door being thrown open, a welter of grunts and cries rising through the stairwell.

"Third floor! Third floor!" a voice cries, rounding the corner.

Becky and I dodge into a carrell just moments before a campus cop barrels down our aisle, screaming into a walkie-talkie. "Third floor!"

We glance out to watch the cop take a left turn into the central hallway. A moment later – silently, stealthily following behind him – appears an old man in a raincoat who's moving away from us at a tremendous speed.

The hem of the raincoat billows out behind him, revealing a pair of cut-off trouser legs tied around his knees. Above, we spy the ancient, withered buttocks of the Ole Miss Flasher, outwitting his captors once again.

~ ~ ~

Tuesday, March 7

The _Daily Mississippian_ 's headline story for today recounts the Flasher's miraculous escape yesterday from the library. While a crack team of campus cops conducted a search inside, pedestrians outside the building spotted a roly-poly man tripping down the north fire escape, falling down the last flight of steps, and limping away in the direction of Deupree Hall.

The paper's update on the _Barefoot_ case is buried on page four, two scant paragraphs quoting Dr. French and Dean Moriarty on the administration's plan to resolve the dispute swiftly and with proper balance between students' rights of free speech and the administration's duty to protect the community from evil-doers bent on shredding the fabric of campus decency, or something to that effect.

This is the third article the paper that's appeared on the case, but Dr. Evans and I have yet to be quoted in any of them, or even approached by a reporter.

I drop by the Ohm just as Garrett is closing shop, to ask whether he has any insight as to the paper's bias.

He glances at the byline. "I don't know the writer. A freshman, most likely. They've put Jimmy Olson on the story."

"Can you do anything?"

"I'm not the most popular person over at the _Mississippian_ , you know. A lot of people still hold a grudge about my stint as editor last year."

"I understand your editorials upset a few people."

"My modest proposals were intended as satire. The problem with this place is that nobody can take a fucking joke."

"You proposed that all candidates for homecoming queen undergo a pelvic exam to prove that they're virgins."

"You certainly don't want a girl of loose morals in that high office."

"And that 'The Lion Sleeps Tonight' become the new alma mater."

"The Chancellor and all the deans would have to harmonize on the ' _Ee-e-e-um-um-a-weh, Ee-e-e-um-um-a-weh_ ' parts at commencement."

"And to replace the Lyceum with a charterhouse of Carthusian monks."

"At least they could pray for the college. Maybe we wouldn't be so godforsaken anymore. You want to grab something at the Buddha for dinner?"

This being a weekday, and early enough in the evening, the line at Hirsch's restaurant isn't long. We're able to get a table in under 5 minutes. The gorgeous waitress is working again tonight, but, sadly, we're not at one of her tables.

"Girls get creeped out if you stare at them," Garrett advises me. "Just a tip from a guy who's had some recent success with the ladies."

Just as our food arrives, Dr. Hirsch emerges from the kitchen. Something's odd about his appearance. He seems unsteady on his feet. Then I spot the cane. His left ankle is bandaged.

"A minor sprain," he says, dropping into a chair by our table. "I tripped on my way to the car yesterday. Had to cancel all my classes."

"Well, at least the campus will be safe for a while," Garrett remarks.

"Excuse me?" Hirsch asks.

"He means that you won't be kicking anybody's ass with that foot for a while," I intervene. "We know how much you love to kick ass."

"Oh! Very good. No, no further ass kicking for me. May I join you?" He signals to Tiger at the cashier table. "Bring me a plate of sweet and sour pork, if you'd be so kind. And another order of egg rolls for my friends here. So, boys, what's been going on?"

"You want gossip?" Garrett asks. "Have you heard about Dr. Tappan?"

"Is he on the faculty?"

"Zoology. He's an ornithologist, best known for his work with _Dicaeum pygmaeum_. The Pygmy Flowerpecker. But his hobby is ophidiology."

"Snakes," I say.

"Right. He loves snakes, and used to have an entire lab full of live specimens. But he had to give them up because of his sciatica. Taking care of snakes requires lots of bending over, you know."

"I didn't. But it makes sense, them being so close to the ground and all."

"Exactly. So he finds a home for all his beloved snakes, except one, which turned out to be this old one-eyed python that nobody wanted. He considered putting the poor old thing down, but finally decided that the humane thing to do was to keep it, let it live out its natural life. However, old pythons, no matter how useless they are to anybody, can live for a long, long time."

"I didn't know that either."

"You're learning a lot today. Aren't you glad we're having this conversation?"

"I am. Please, continue."

"I intend to. Because they got to spend so much time together, Dr. Tappan formed a real emotional bond with his old, withered python. So much so, that he decided to take it out of the lab, on outings. You know, show it around a little."

"That doesn't sound like a good idea."

"No, it wasn't. It turns out that the fair sex of Oxford are actually frightened of old one-eyed pythons. It's also against city ordinance to show off your python in public, and the police are after him for it."

"Well, he should stop doing it then," I advise. "Do you think he will?"

"I _hope_ he will." Garrett turns to Dr. Hirsch. "What do you think?"

"I think," Hirsch answers "that Dr. Tappan sounds like a very strange man."

"I have my own news," I announce "I've decided to move out of the commune."

~ ~ ~

Wednesday, March 8

Suzie is enormous. It's been a month since I last saw her, and in that time she's turned into a hippie Venus of Willendorf. She can't rise from a chair without assistance, and can scarcely walk without help from Nick, who remains constantly, solicitously by her side.

He's still clean-shaven, but his hair is starting to grow out again.

"I understand you've left the bank," I say as we shake hands.

I hear Cindy, Garrett and Clamor in the kitchen, chatting as they cook supper together.

"You understand right, brother. The vice president called me into his office last week. I thought something weird was happening, because everybody was watching me as I went in. Maybe I was about to get canned. Turns out, the old guy congratulated me on the job I'd been doing, said he wanted me to attend some kind of management training seminar next month in Little Rock. He said I have a real gift for banking, and that some day I might even have _his_ job."

"Nick suddenly had a vision of himself at 40," Suzie adds, completing the story, "fat and bald, dressed in a seersucker suit, an Oxford banker for life."

"I quit then and there, and practically ran out of the office," Nick says.

"Narrow escape. Are you going to grow the beard back?"

"I like him better without it," Suzie comments. "He looks younger."

"Well, then, maybe I'll grow mine out again," I say.

"Don't," Suzie pleads. "I remember your beard. Ugliest thing I've ever seen. You looked like a Ukrainian beet farmer. Are we going to be invited to visit you at your new place?"

"Sure. Bring a rifle, though. It's out in the sticks, and overrun by packs of wild dogs."

"Sounds charming. Where is it?"

"Campground Road, about a mile off Highway 30. Mr. Duck owns a trailer park there."

"You know, if you're leaving because of Cindy . . . ," she starts to say.

"Because of James. He'll likely be back any time, and I don't want to run into him again. I've decided I don't like him."

"I've never liked him," she replies, which comes as a surprise. I've always thought Suzie got along with everybody. "James is sinister. There's something wrong with him. Did you know that a few days before our wedding, he took Nick to Memphis, tried to buy him a whore and talk him out of marrying me?"

"What did you ever do to him?"

"I turned him down once, before Nick and I started going out. James dislikes all women, I think. But he hates the ones who refuse to sleep with him."

"Oh, my god!" Cindy shrieks from the kitchen.

We hear a clatter, and an explosion of some kind, followed by the sound of something spattering through the room. I'm standing in the kitchen doorway a few moments later, while Nick is still helping Suzie to her feet in the parlor.

Garrett, Clamor and Cindy stand frozen in shock. They're dripping with an oozy brown substance that's in their hair, on the faces, spattered on their clothes. The same stuff, whatever it is, stains the walls and the cabinets, and has left a volcanic spatter over the stove.

"It exploded!" Cindy says. "The pudding! It just exploded!"

Garrett turns on her, teeth bared. "It exploded? How could it _explode_?"

Clamor is temporarily blinded by the stuff in her eyes, but she's managed to find a dish towel to douse under the faucet.

"I don't know. I mean, I was just stirring it, and it . . . exploded!"

"Chocolate pudding doesn't explode," he says. "Pudding cannot explode. It's milk, cornstarch, cocoa and vanilla. It contains no gunpowder, nitric acid, gasoline, phosphorous, propane, sulfur, natural gas, lighter fluid, nitroglycerine, kerosene, liquid hydrogen, cherry bombs or blasting caps. So, how in the hell could it explode?"

"I don't know, Garrett. It just did, okay?"

Garrett shapes his right hand like a telephone receiver. "Ring ring. Ring ring. Hello? Who? Yes, she's here. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. All right, I'll let her know. Bye now."

He hangs up.

"Who was that?" Clamor asks.

"The Nobel committee. Cindy's just won the 1972 award in Chemistry, for creating an explosive compound from inert substances."

Clamor has managed to get the pudding out of her eyes. She notices a splatter of pudding on her forearm and licks. "It tastes pretty good, Cindy. Too bad it exploded like that."

We arm ourselves with dish rags, sponges and paper towels to clean up the mess. Pudding is everywhere, even in the pantry, the half bath beside the kitchen, and the dining room. On walls, hardwood floors, electric sockets, wainscoting, linoleum, ceramic tiles, chairs, end tables, ceiling fan blades, soup cans, Cap'n Crunch boxes, the lava lamp, Cindy's poster of Janis Joplin, everywhere.

Dinner follows, spaghetti with tomato sauce, meatballs optional in deference to the vegetarians among us, Wild Irish Rose, garlic bread, salad. My last supper. Nick dashes out toward the end and returns with Eskimo Pies for dessert, to replace the chocolate pudding.

_McCloud_ has come on by the time we've finished. Suzie begs fatigue, so Nick drives her home. The others settle in to watch Dennis Weaver. I climb the steps to my room, to take inventory of what I'll need to pack tomorrow afternoon, and assess whether it will all fit in one trip to Campground Road.

The room is dark as I open the door, but I step back with a jolt at the sight of something hovering in the south corner – hovering, and faintly glowing. I battle the instinct to reach for the light switch. I step inside the room, close the door slowly behind me, and approach.

A wave of acceptance and gratitude passes through my body. It's Melissa again – or the projection of Melissa, in lotus position, eyes closed, face serene. She's translucent. Energy flickers in the aura surrounding her, and weaves through her in trails of colors.

I draw nearer, kneel, and assume lotus position a foot or less from the boundary of her aura. From here, I can gaze into a face I thought I might never see again.

"I love you," I whisper, and realize that she's heard me.

A half smile flickers across her face, the old Attic smile. She's trying not to laugh. The field of her aura collapses, and her image folds into a single point of light that lingers in the darkness for a few moments more, before gently extinguishing.

~ ~ ~

Thursday, March 9

The snow cone stand at the corner of Campground and Highway 30 has already re-opened for the season. I offer to treat Blake to one, as a sort of new-roommate offering, and return to the trailer with a cherry snow cone for me and a lemon-lime for him.

Blake takes a tentative lick, then a suck. "It needs vodka," he decides. "Check the cupboard over the fridge."

The cupboard is packed with gin, whiskey, rum, Scotch, tequila, and brandy, but I unearth a bottle of vodka with the brand name Stolichnaya tucked away in the corner. That's the one Blake wants. I've never heard of it before.

"Russian," Blake explains. He douses his snow cone and takes an appreciative lick. "You're holding one of the first bottles of Stolichnaya ever to be sold in this country. It's a new exchange treaty with the commies. The Russians get Pepsi-Cola, and America gets Stolichnaya. Sounds like a fair exchange. God bless Nixon – no, I really mean that. God bless Richard Nixon! He's going to end the cold war with booze. To Détente!"

Here he lifts his snow cone in toast, but my attention's already been distracted by the just-released April issue of _Playboy_ , which is on the floor beside the kitchen table, within reach of Blake's chair.

Vicki Peters, Miss April, is a doe-eyed lass who appears to spend an inordinate amount of time in the shower or lounging about topless in mossy forest settings where she's certain to get bitten by chiggers.

"I subscribe," Blake explains, "for the articles only. This month's issue contains four poems by Mao Tse-tung. As an historian, I bear a duty to stay current on international affairs."

I toss the magazine aside and attack my snow cone (which is very tasty, by the way). "That's a relief," I say between slurps. "Any young man who is dating the fair Joan is certainly not in need of additional glimpses of feminine pulchritude."

Blake frowns a little at this comment. "About Joan," he says. "As her friend, you really should warn her that I'm no good. Anyone who gets to know me can tell you that. Just ask Duck, or the Widow. Joan believes she sees something in me, and as flattering as that is, she must be a terrible judge of character."

~ ~ ~

Friday, March 10

Somebody underestimated today's turnout for the public _Barefoot_ committee meeting. The classroom in Bishop Hall is packed, standing room only, but Becky has managed to save a seat for me on the front row, a few yards from the table where the committee members are already gathering. I'm sandwiched between her and the pimply freshman from Yazoo City. I spot Amy on the other side of the room. We exchange an accidental glance; then we avoid looking at each other.

The committee consists of Doctors Martin, Callendar, Glass, Suminski, and Van Kirk from Civil Engineering, Biology, Physics, Math, and Pharmacy, respectively. The average age of the table seems to be around 72. Dr. Callendar is asleep in his chair, head tossed back.

Alcott strides into the room, adjusting his coat and his tie as if to give the impressions that he just stepped out of a bar fight. He shakes Dr. Callendar awake, and scowls at this crowd of students.

"We all know why we're here, so let's get down to business. The committee members have had a chance to read the material in question. So now we're going to vote on whether or not it's obscene."

"Excuse me," Dr. Van Kirk asks, "what were we supposed to do?"

"Read the story. You know, in the magazine, all that crap the students wrote," Dr. Suminski prompts.

"Oh. I'm sorry. I didn't understand. Listen, though, I don't know anything about literature. Shouldn't the English department be handling this?"

"Dean Moriarty wanted a committee of non-specialists," Suminski says. "To act as an impartial jury."

"How many of you read the piece?" Alcott asks.

"I read it," Martin answers. "Didn't understand a word of it. How am I supposed to tell you whether or not it's obscene?"

"You can take my word for it," Alcott replies. "It's obscene."

"Then why didn't _you_ just make the decision?" Martin complains. "Why is the Dean wasting our time this way?"

"Because he wanted an impartial committee," Suminski repeats, "to make sure the students have a fair hearing. However, if Mr. Alcott says it's obscene, I believe we should defer to his expertise."

"Fine," Dr. Martin says. "Then I vote that it's obscene. Let's get this over with. Who's in favor?"

Hands go up, save one.

"I believe logicians call this 'Begging the Question,'" Dr. Glass – the lone abstainer – purrs in his melodious Mississippi homeboy accent, his leonine jowls making tidal motions as he speaks. "How are you defining obscenity?"

"The author uses a vulgar word referring to sexual intercourse 21 times in the space of 10 pages," Alcott growls. "That's what I call obscene."

"I suppose you mean the word 'fuck,'" Glass replies. It sounds almost graceful in his mouth. "But the author hasn't actually depicted an act of sexual intercourse. Vulgarity is different from obscenity."

"Obscene, vulgar. What's the difference?" Van Kirk asks.

"Society has laws against obscenity, but not against vulgarity. In America, we're free to be as vulgar as we wish. If you don't believe me, take a stroll down Fraternity Row any Saturday night."

"If Mr. Alcott says it's obscene, then it's obscene" Martin counters.

"Martin, you numbskull," Glass answers. "Don't you understand what's happening here? This censorship isn't about dirty words. It's about black people and white people makin' love. The old-fashioned term, I believe, was 'miscegenation.' Dean Moriarty and the pathetic crew in the Lyceum believe we're still back in 1962, with James Meredith knocking at the door and federal troops camped in the Grove. Dirty words don't offend me, but racism does. I won't be a party to it."

"Watch yourself, doctor," Alcott warns.

Glass lifts his eyes to heaven.

The pimply freshman beside me decides to enter the argument: "Yeah! It would only be obscene if it showed gentiles!"

"Genitals," Glass corrects. "That would make it pornographic."

Dr. Callendar, who's appeared to be napping through the debate, suddenly opens his eyes and decides to speak: "Fuck!" he says.

A gasp sweeps across the room. The other men at the table wheel to look at him in astonishment.

Dr. Callendar chuckles, rises to face Alcott, and says it again. "Fuck. Mr. Chairman, that is my second use of the word. Am I obscene, or merely vulgar?"

He repeats it again. And again. And again.

He continues repeating it as he lifts his raincoat from the back of the chair and strolls toward the door. The mood in the room shifts to hilarity at the spectacle of the wizened professor emeritus cursing on his slow, unsteady way out of the room.

He pauses at the door and turns to us.

"Mr. Chairman, I believe that makes 20 times I've used that word, since you're so fond of counting. Fuck Dean Moriraty. There, that makes 21 times. The Biology department sides with the students. I move to release the magazine."

"Seconded," Glass says. "All in favor?" He raises his own hand.

Van Kirk follows, hesitantly, after a moment's pause. Three votes.

"Opposed!" Alcott demands: himself, Martin and Suminski. Three votes.

"The motion is defeated!" Alcott proclaims. "This meeting is adjourned."

"The vote was a tie!" Glass protests.

"As chair, I cast the tie-breaking vote."

"You don't get to vote twice."

"The motion is defeated."

"Objection! Objection!"

Alcott pushes away from the table and looms over Glass, fists balled. "You want to take this outside, old man?"

The assembly boos him. Alcott wheels, tears off his suit coat, tosses it to the floor, and crouches like a mountain gorilla, challenging us.

"You stinking little shits! You think you can take a piece of me? Come on! I'd like to see you try."

"Such vulgarity, sir!" Callendar taunts.

The rest of the committee beat a fast retreat to the door, ushering Callendar away with them.

"Asshole!" a student shouts

"You suck!"

"Fascist!"

"Pig!"

"Prick!"

"You better call John Wayne for backup, man! We're gonna whip your ass!"

"I've slaughtered North Koreans with my bare hands," Alcott shouts back. "I can sure as hell kill you where you stand."

At some point, this meeting seems to have spiraled out of control.

Dr. French, who's apparently been lurking in the hall, pokes his head through the door. His body is pushed the rest of the way in by Glass and Suminski. He flashes Alcott a sick smile. "What's going on here?"

The man is busy rolling up his sleeves, revealing massive, simian forearms. "I'm just about to teach these little bastards a lesson."

"No, no no no no no no. No need for that. Let's all just simmer down."

"Unless you want to get hurt, you'd better leave," Alcott warns.

Suddenly Amy's at Alcott's side, stepping in front of him, her back to us, her body between him and the students. Both hands on his forearms, firmly pressing them back by his sides. She's saying something, soothing him with words we can't hear. She gathers his coat and leads him from the room.

Dr. French is left facing us alone. He takes a moment to collect his composure before saying, "That's enough for today. Why don't we agree just to forget this unpleasantness?"

"Does that mean you'll release the magazine?" I ask.

"Medway!" he says, apparently not having noticed me before. "I should have known you were behind this. Look at all the trouble you've caused."

~ ~ ~

Saturday, March 11

I wake, disoriented, to the Eisley Brothers on the stereo.

" _But if you leave me a hundred times,_

A hundred times I'll take you back.

I'm yours whenever you want me.

I'm not too proud to shout it, tell the world about it, 'cause

I love you, yes I do...."

Sunlight pours through the little, un-curtained window in my room. The trailer has two bedrooms. The smaller one is closer to the kitchen-den, with one corner adjacent to the heating oil furnace that roars like a small jet engine all night. The larger room is at the end of the hall, the back end of the trailer, next to the bathroom. That's Blake's room. I'm in the smaller one. It's cozy and cheery enough, and for the first time in two years I am sleeping on an actual bed.

Actually, it's more accurate to say that the room _is_ a bed. Someone managed to maneuver a queen-size mattress and spring set in here. It fills the entire space, with maybe nine inches of clearance at the foot and on either side. This, Blake tells me, had become the witch's room after they'd stopped sleeping together. She's left behind a psychedelic patchwork comforter that looks like a detail in a Gustav Klimt print. I wake snuggled under it, quite comfortable.

My watch says the time is 10:47. Blake is either up ahead of me, or never went to bed, because he's sitting at the kitchen table, typing his dissertation, exactly where I left him last night. The 400 plus completed pages on the Tennis Court Oath are stacked neatly in a stationery box left of the typewriter. A ream of typing paper sits on the right, beside an empty coffee cup and his favorite Flintstones tumbler. The tumbler contains gin and tonic on the rocks, and is dripping condensation on the Formica tabletop.

"It's so nice to have music again," Blake says, as I put a sauce pan of water on the stove and reach for the jar of Taster's Choice. "The witch took her stereo with her when she left. There's been nothing to listen to except the rats."

"We have rats?"

"The Duck says they're just mice, but he's not fooling me. Hey, maybe we should try to find a cat someplace."

"We could steal one from Pharmacology. They experiment on cats over there."

"Let's do it. Right now. Teach those bastards a lesson about mistreating poor defenseless animals."

I throw a shirt and some loafers on. It's a bright day, temperatures somewhere in the low 50s, I'd guess. Once I've turned south on Highway 7 towards town, Blake decides we should swing by and pick up Joan on our way, maybe stop for some lunch before we steal the cat.

"For godssake, let me cover up," Suzie protests when Nick answers the door to let us in.

We've interrupted a portrait session. Suzie grabs a bathrobe and dashed for the kitchen.

"A pregnant mother is nature's most perfect form," Nick informs us.

"I said when we got married that I'd never pose nude for him," Suzie says, returning modestly covered. "But now . . . well, anything to get Nick behind a canvas again. What are you boys up to?"

"We're going to steal a cat to help us with our rat problem. Is Joan around?"

"In the shower."

"Steal a cat?" Joan says when she emerges from the bathroom. "I thought you were going to work on the dissertation all weekend."

"I can scarcely write about French history in the middle of a rat infestation. That's more like _living_ French history. We'll die of the plague by mid week. A cat is our only hope."

"Have you worked out a strategy?" Joan asks in the car. "You can't just walk into the Pharmacy building and grab a cat, you know."

"She's right," I say. "We need a plan."

"Let's get some lunch and brainstorm. You know what I'm in the mood for? An oyster po' boy."

"Where can you get one of those?"

"Overton Square."

It's the first sunny, warm weekend of the year in Memphis, and Overton Square is thronged. We wait almost an hour for a table at the seafood place. Blake whiles the time away with three beers, orders another when we're finally seated, and downs two more while we eat our po' boys.

Joan keeps trying to cut him off, but by the end of the meal he's deliriously drunk. I watch Joan watching him, lines of tension deepening around her eyes and mouth as the afternoon progresses. She catches him as he trips along the sidewalk, in search of another bar.

"We should get him home," I advise. "Can you manage him alone? I'll fetch the car and pick you up at the Triangle in five minutes."

I'm loping through the crowds along Cooper, wending my way back to where we parked, when I catch sight of a face I've seen before. I stop, double back, and discover Alfalfa loitering with a scruffy assortment of freaks gathered by a lamp post.

"Woah, man. Far out," he says, recognizing me. "Hey, listen, sorry about the way I bailed on you folks down there."

"You robbed us."

"Not 'cause I wanted to. I needed cash and something to hock. I had to get out of there quick. I was on the run, man."

"Why? Did the devil find you at last?"

"No, man. I mean, not the devil himself. But one of his helpers. It was some scary Russian cat, broke in while I was there alone. Found me and warned me not to let anyone know I'd seen him. He made threats – and I could tell they weren't just threats. He meant them. Rattled the shit out of me, so I high-tailed."

"A Russian? Stocky guy with white hair? What the hell did he say to you?"

Alfalfa just shakes his head, as if scared even now over his chance meeting with Skoll.

"Listen," I say, "I'm going to get my car so I can pick up some friends. I'll be back in two minutes. Three minutes, tops. Wait right here! We can find someplace quiet to talk. Will you stay?"

He nods okay. I run the rest of the way to the car, but when I drive past the spot where he was supposed to be waiting, Alfalfa has already disappeared.

~ ~ ~

Sunday, March 12

I wake sometime between midnight and dawn to the sound of Blake's typewriter. I'm impressed by his recuperative powers. Joan and I had to carry him to bed only a few hours ago, unconscious after half a liter of gin. But here he is, back at work on the dissertation in the middle of the night.

I doze off and wake again to sunlight through my little window. On my way to the bathroom, I observe that Blake's door is half open, exactly as we'd left it after dragging him to bed. Blake appears to be lying in the very position we placed him in, as well, still wearing the button-down shirt, khakis and socks he had on.

The trailer runs on propane – furnace, stove, water heater. The shower is instantly hot, the water pressure strong. I stay for a long time, soap up, shave, and shampoo twice before finally willing myself to leave this wet little paradise.

But as I shut off the water, reach for a towel and open the shower curtain, I spot a message written by fingertip in the fog of the bathroom mirror:

" _GET OUT_!"

I puzzle over the words until they vanish from the mirror surface, get dressed and slide the bathroom door open. Blake lies still unconscious where he was before, unmoved.

Once the saucepan of water is on the burner for my first cup of Tasters Choice, I amble over to Blake's typewriter to see what he was up to during the night.

"GET OUT," the page spooled around the paten reads. Then below those words, a carriage return and thirteen repeated lines looking like this:

GET OUT

GET OUT

GET OUT

GET OUT

GET OUT

GET OUT

GET OUT

GET OUT

GET OUT

GET OUT

GET OUT

GET OUT

GET OUT

GET OUT

I make my coffee, put _John Wesley Harding_ on the stereo, and am singing along with Dylan while reading Herodotus when Blake stumbles into the room.

"Did we steal a cat?" he asks.

"That was the plan. We never got that far."

"Thank god. I can't stand cats. What _did_ we do?"

While he douses his head under the kitchen faucet, I summarize the events of the day: the trip to Overton Square, his argument with the clerk at Stuckey's on the way back, getting booted from the Ritz in the middle of _Harold and Maude_ , crashing the party on Tyler Avenue, the drinking contest with Garrett.

"Any of this sound familiar?" I ask.

He shakes his wet head. "Complete blank."

"Do you remember getting up in the middle of the night to do some typing?"

I show him the page in the typewriter.

Another shake. "I didn't write that."

"Then who did?"

"The witch."

"The witch was in here?" I ask.

"She didn't have to be in here to do that. She just had to will it done and her demons typed it for her."

"Demons can type?"

"You'd be surprised what demons can do. What?" Blake turns defensive under my skeptical glare. "You don't believe me? I've warned you how powerful she is, and how she loves to fuck with people's heads. If I were you, I'd start trusting me."

~ ~ ~

Monday, March 13

"That isn't what happened at all," I complain to Bert Sheets, the _Daily Mississippian_ 's current editor-in-chief.

Today's edition carries a three-paragraph account of Friday's meeting under the headline "Student Magazine Release Blocked." Ace r

eporter Kimberly Jones wrote the story, recounting how the committee ruled _Barefoot_ inappropriate for publication by a majority vote. She added a quote from Alcott, expressing his concern over the immorality of our age, and one from French, thanking the committee members for their service in resolving this distasteful controversy.

"Your reporter wasn't even there," I grouse. "The committee was tied, three to three, until Alcott counted his own vote twice. Then he threatened to beat up Dr. Glass, and challenged the students to a fist fight. That man's a maniac."

Bert shrugs. "It's not an important story."

"This is a censorship case. What if the administration started trying to censor the newspaper?"

"That would be different. We're protected by freedom of the press."

"So are we."

Bert answers with a sneer. "First Amendment rights don't extend to so-called artistic expression." He makes little air quotes with his fingers. (I hate it when people do that.) "Don't try to compare yourself to legitimate journalism. A bunch of acid head English majors decide to put out a magazine, fill it with obscenities, and then scream freedom of the press when their own department puts a stop to it. You jokers are nothing like us. Really, the comparison is insulting."

"Gee, Bert, two years ago, you would have been salivating over a story like this. But that's when you were still a crusading journalist. Now you're a sycophant to the Lyceum."

"Trying to impugn my journalistic integrity isn't the way to win my cooperation, Medway. Nice try, though."

"I think I understand. Protecting your career, aren't you? You don't want to suffer Garrett's fate."

"Don't compare me to Garrett either."

"That _would_ be unfair," I agree. "Garrett had guts. He wasn't afraid to expose the Lyceum's dirty tricks, or make fun of them when they richly deserved some ridicule. And look what happened to him: all the promising internships vanished, all his contacts with the major papers turned sour. He was supposed to be writing for the _Atlanta Constitution_. Instead, he's a clerk for the Carroll brothers. Lesson taken, Bert?"

"You're wasting my time," Bert says. "You're wasting your own, too."

"Obviously. But at least now I understand what I need to do to get this story out. I need to go see Uncle Bedford."

~ ~ ~

Tuesday, March 14

I knock at Mr. Duck's trailer a little before 6:30 to report my morning discovery. It takes him more than a minute to open the door, squinting through sleep-heavy eyelids. He listens, nods, retreats into the dark of the trailer and returns a moment later in loafers and a terrycloth bathrobe. "Let's go see her," he says.

He lets me lead the way, though the corpse is only ten yards or so from where we stand, and completely visible from his own stoop.

"You're right," he says when we arrive. "It's a cow. A dead cow. Right here in our driveway. Kind of blocks the flow of traffic, don't you think?"

"Maybe the wild dogs killed it."

He prods a flank of the poor creature with the toe of his shoe, examining. "No, that would have made a commotion we would have heard, for sure. She didn't die here."

"Didn't?"

"Died someplace else, then some asshole dumped her here."

The Widow has spotted us and is crossing the gravel path to join us. "Another one, Duck?" This is the first time I've seen her in daylight. The Widow is sinewy, dishwater blonde, intense blue eyes, pale. Probably in her late 30s, but a handsome woman in her way.

"Another one. It's a mystery to me why folks around here think I'm responsible for the dead livestock of Lafayette County."

"What do we do with it?" I ask.

"Let's review our options," Duck answers. "We could put up a sign on Highway 30, 'roadside attraction.' Come see a dead cow for a quarter. Get your picture taken with it for an extra dime.

"Or we could just leave her, let the vultures take care of her. But that would bring us more wild dogs, and the stink would be pretty intense for a couple of weeks.

"I could put an ad in the paper, maybe some flyers on telephone poles saying 'Found: Dead Cow,' and see whether anybody shows up to claim her.

"We could try to flush her down the toilet, but she'd probably clog it.

"We could rustle up a giant shoebox and bury her under the willow tree. Cows like willows. She'd probably be happy there.

"We could wait for Jesus to wander by and raise her from the dead. Or I could call my friend Henry to bring his backhoe and offer him $25 to bury her in the ravine along with all the other ones. I reckon that's what I'll have to do."

"Poor old thing," the Widow says. She bends to stroke its brow. "Rest," she says. "All your trials are over now. You boys help me pray for her," the Widow commands.

By now we've been joined by the Septic System Man from the trailer closest to the ravine, the Herbicide Salesman from the trailer by the road, and Duck's assistant Rusty, who's returned from the Trappist monastery and appears to be the only person out here with a proper name.

"You really want to pray for it?" I ask.

"Think you're too good to pray for a cow? I've buried five husbands, which makes me really appreciate life. Every soul that passes draws a little bit of light from the world with it. You have to pray, so the dark doesn't take over."

"Cows don't have souls," Rusty says.

"For once, I have to agree with Stupid here," Duck adds. "The notion of an animal soul is romantic sentimentalism."

"Schopenhauer wrote that they do," the Widow counters.

"Schopenhauer," Duck mocks. "Next you're going to start quoting Nietzsche. Listen, all of western philosophy supports the exceptionalism of human souls as opposed to any concept of an animal soul. That's been the conclusion of everyone from Plato to Descartes."

"Yeah," the Septic System Man adds, "remember in the _Phaedo_ when Socrates tells Cebes . . . ?"

She cuts him short in mid-sentence. "Goddammit, don't you ever quote the _Phaedo_ to me again! I mean it. You know how much Plato pisses me off."

"Well, Thomas Aquinas wrote . . . ," Rusty starts to say.

The Widow spits on the ground. "No Church Fathers either, thank you very much. If I want to learn anything about the nature of the soul, I wouldn't ask a gang of monotheists."

"The Buddhists don't believe animals have souls," says Herbicide Salesman.

"Buddhists don't believe humans have souls, either," Duck says. "That's another illusion of the ego. There's no soul as such, only Buddha nature, which permeates all phenomena equally."

"But what about when the monk asked Zhaozhou if a dog could have Buddha nature?" Septic System Man posits. "Zhaozhou shouted 'Wu!' at him. 'No!'"

"Oh, give me a break," the Widow complains. "Of course he didn't mean 'no.' Do you think that Zhaozhou ever gave a straight answer to any question? He said 'Wu!' because the question itself exposed the monk's misunderstanding of Buddha nature."

"I respectfully have to disagree with you there," Septic System Man replies.

Duck grunts. "Well, we can stand here all day and argue about it, but this cow isn't getting any fresher. I've got a call to make."

He returns to his trailer. A minute later, only the Widow and I are left standing vigil. "I'll help you pray for it," I say.

She smiles. We hold hands. I bow my head, close my eyes, and – for the first time since 1967 – pray.

~ ~ ~

Wednesday, March 15

"So you believe this man – Skoll – broke in to gather information on you, to carry back to your father," Dr. Valencia says. "Is that right?"

"It sounds paranoid," I admit.

"You and your father haven't spoken or communicated directly in over four years. Why would he suddenly take an interest in your business now?"

"His current wife is expecting," I report.

"Your step-mother."

"Actually, she's only a few years older than me. A former Miss Hattiesburg. The old man's took a fancy to her. He came, he saw, he conquered. And now he's knocked her up."

"I don't see the relevance to Skoll breaking into your house."

"The old man wants something from me."

"What?"

"He wants my name. If the new child is a boy, he'll want to name the little bastard after himself, like he was foolish enough to do with me. He can't have his way unless I agree to change my name, legally."

"I don't understand. Why?"

"You're not from around here," I say to Dr. Valencia. "I'm not just Daniel Medway. I'm Jason Daniel Medway, the fifth. My real first name is 'Jason,' after my father, but I stopped using it the day I left Pass Christian. I'm victim of this idiotic southern tradition of passing names on from generation to generation, forced to be the fifth in a line of sons of bitches.

"My revenge has been to disgrace my forebears by becoming a hippie. My father wants to redeem the family honor by siring a worthier male heir. He's already offered me – through Skoll – $20,000 to change my name legally. I turned that down. So, if money won't work, Skoll is hoping to find something from my private life to use as leverage."

"But you're committed to holding onto your name."

"Hell, no. Who cares? It's a stupid name anyway. But if my father wants me to surrender it, I'll hold onto it for dear life."

Valencia thinks he has me pegged this time. Maybe he has.

"Has it occurred to you that all of your various conflicts stem from father issues? Rebellion against male authority figures may be the defining component of your personality. Without it, you'd be a very different person."

"How so?"

"You'd never become a hippie. You just said so yourself. I believe you'd be a Young Republican. I can see it clearly: you with a crew cut, narrow tie, polished wingtips, young debutante wife that you take to Baptist services every Sunday morning and Wednesday evening, Nixon bumper sticker on your Buick saying 'Four More Years.' At heart, you're really a very traditional, conservative young man."

"That's the most depressing thing I've ever heard," I say.

~ ~ ~

Thursday, March 16

It's almost 11:15, and Blake has decided to knock off for the night. He sloshes three more fingers of vodka into his favorite Flintstones glass and sets side 2 of _Disraeli Gears_ on the stereo as I type out the last pages of my research paper on Herodotus' treatment of the Scythians.

Cream is part way through "Outside Woman" by the time I'm done. Blake has the volume set all the way up. I'm fixing myself a night cap of Jim Beam as "Mother's Lament" begins, and think I hear somebody knocking at the door. Likely Duck or the Widow, come to complain about the noise.

But as the last cut of the album ends and the automatic arm lifts the needle from the disk, I realize in the sudden silence that the knocking is coming from the back of the trailer, in Blake's room, and not from the front door.

"Shit," Blake says. "Not again."

I follow him down the hallway to his bedroom and the source of the sound.

" _TAP. TAP. TAP TAP TAP. TAP. TAP TAP TAP TAP. TAP. TAP_."

It's coming from his closet, something rapping against the door from inside.

"What do you have in there?" I ask.

"Open it," Blake offers. "See for yourself."

I hesitate. Who knows what's going to jump out at me. A raccoon, maybe, accidentally trapped in there. When I don't move, Blake shrugs and slides the door open, quick. I jump back, a reflex.

But there's nothing inside. Just a couple of pairs of shoes on the floor, and a row of Blake's shirts and slacks draped on metal hangers.

"What the hell?" I say.

Blake lets me gape for a few seconds, then smoothly rolls the door shut again. "Wait," he says.

I do, for maybe a full minute or longer. The sound returns.

" _TAP TAP TAP. TAP. TAP_."

"The witch?" I ask.

"I've been telling everybody about her sending demons to harass me," Blake complains. "Now maybe you'll start to believe me. No point in trying to get any sleep tonight," he goes on as he leads me back to the kitchen. "She can keep this up for hours."

But another surprise awaits as we exit the hallway. There at the kitchen table, all of the work we've accomplished this evening — my Herodotus report, and Blake's latest chapter of his dissertation — have been picked up and scattered across the room by some unseen hand. It's a mess.

"Goddamn it," Blake says as we begin to pick them up and sort them back into order, "that's just mean. She's really pushing me now, messing with my work. I . . . ." He halts, mid-word, having spotted something else amiss. "My drink!" he cries. "Bitch stole my drink!"

I notice that mine's untouched, and that the bottle of Stolichnaya is still sitting on the counter.

I attempt to console him. "You can always pour another."

But Blake turns to me with a tragic expression. "You don't understand," he moans. "It's not about the vodka. It's the glass. My Flintstones glass. I love that glass, and she knows it. Now it's gone for good!"

~ ~ ~

Friday, March 17

"I couldn't think of a single good sales promotion for St. Patrick's Day," Dottie laments, accepting a refill on her Screwdriver from Mrs. Giordano. "I'm lost without Ho. She always had such clever ideas."

"Ho?" I politely shake my head when offered another shot of Jim Beam.

"A marketing genius. She ought to be working on Madison Avenue."

"It's a mystery to me how you ever managed to communicate with her."

"Sisters under the skin," Dottie says. "Language was never a barrier, though it surprised me to feel such an affinity for a poor heathen."

Dr. Evans' home is packed tonight. It's more than a St. Patrick's party. Dr. Giordano has reportedly agreed to a settlement. The divorce is underway, lifting the cloud of disgrace from the adulterous couple, who now will soon be returned to the ranks of polite society.

Not that Dr. Evans or his soon-to-be bride cares about any of that, but quite a few of the guests tonight seem to. I spot faces in the crowd who wouldn't have entered this household of sin even a month ago.

Including, I'm surprised to discover, Amy Madigan. She's leaning against a cupboard in the narrow pantry between Evans' kitchen and dining room, drinking alone, somehow detached from the crowd around her.

I manage to sidle beside her, through the crush of cigarette smoke and liquored breath. "Lieutenant!" I say. "You've managed to slip behind enemy lines. Is Dr. French waiting for a full report?"

She gives me her patented look of exasperated condescension. "I was invited. It would have been impolite to decline. Despite our current differences, Harold and I are fast friends. He's fundamentally a decent, principled man." Her eyes narrow to tiny dark points. "You, on the other hand, are an unruly child."

She cocks her head, and stumbles slightly against the cupboard. I realize she's drunk. Not a little drunk, either. Very drunk.

"A failed poet," she continues. "A drug addict. A beanpole pretending to be human. An urchin who ought to be shining shoes for pennies on the Square. An ectomorphic clown. You're no kind of man at all."

She glances at the glass in her hand, scowls to discover it empty, and turns away from me.

"And I'm ashamed of myself for ever having wanted you," she adds, in a mutter I just barely catch over the babble of conversation around us. She shambles off into the kitchen.

I start to follow, but halt upon feeling somebody's stern gaze burrowing into the back of my head. I turn about and find Dr. Goodleigh.

"You should ask that cute little hand puppet out," she advises. "Or not. It's your own business. But whatever you do, stay away from that one." She nods into the space that Amy just vacated. "She's nothing but trouble."

~ ~ ~

Saturday, March 18

Garrett's VW bus has almost no shocks left, and Highway 55 is even worse than I remember it. It's a bumpy ride down to Jackson, and rain pours the whole way, but we're snug and happy enough inside, despite the occasional teeth-grinding thud whenever Garrett can't avoid a pot hole.

Clamor's tagged along and packed a few joints for the road, one of which she's just lit and offered to Becky, who's sitting behind her in the back. I start to object – no use introducing her to our bad habits – but Becky's already accepted it and taken a toke like an expert before I can say anything.

She must notice my surprise. "What?" she says. "I've had grass before. I smoked all the time in high school. I'm not as innocent as I look, you know."

"Nobody could be as innocent as _you_ look!" Clamor says.

"Welcome to the most depressing city in the south," Garrett announces as we pass a road sign marking the Jackson city limits.

"Besides Montgomery," I say.

"Besides Birmingham," Clamor says.

"Besides Shreveport," Becky says.

Highway 55 dumps us off at State Street, just north of Millsaps College. Our rendezvous is in a run-down house on Pine, where the writers for _Uncle Bedford_ have set up their own commune.

Jim Ratliff, Don Pendergast and Jane Acton greet the four of us at the door and usher us into a shabby living room. Once inside, we suddenly turn shy, tongue-tied – even Garrett. After all, it's not every day you get to meet three living legends of the Revolution, the persecuted founders and editors of Mississippi's one and only underground newspaper.

Ratliff is the most outgoing of the group. Pendergast is notoriously aloof. And Jane Acton is the most unlikely southern belle Natchez has ever produced.

Ratliff focuses his entire attention on Garrett. "I've always wanted to meet you, man. I'm your biggest fan. I mean it. The shit you got away with at the _Daily Mississippian_ was inspirational."

"Too bad it couldn't last," Clamor says.

"We're all living on borrowed time, sister," Ratliff answers. "Every issue of _Uncle Bedford_ we manage to publish threatens to be the final one. After the arrest, and with all the hassles from the mayor, we've had to cut production to four times a year, and we're already two months behind on the last one."

"You were arrested?" Becky asks, apparently unaware of the back story here.

"The boys were," Acton says, "for selling the newspaper at Murrah, the high school just down the street. The charge was peddling obscene materials."

"We sued the mayor and the police chief for false arrest and violation of free speech. We lost, naturally, and had to pay the court costs, but the Fifth Circuit overturned the ruling last spring," Ratliff explains.

"Our case wasn't so different from yours," Acton says, "except that you haven't been arrested."

"Yet," Garrett adds.

"A bunch of us got arrested for witchcraft," Clamor volunteers. "But we were acquitted."

"Lucky you were in Oxford," Acton says. "It's got a higher IQ than Jackson. Our mayor would have staged an auto de fe on the steps of the Old Capitol."

Garrett has brought a gift bag of Rebel Red – some of the last of his stock – to share, and lays out our plan while we enjoy it together. "One option would be to reprint the magazine, circumvent the Lyceum altogether and release it on campus, along with copies to local media."

"I have a contact at the _Commercial Appeal_ ," Acton says.

"You'd need a press," Ratliff points out.

"We were hoping to use yours."

At this, Pendergast finally speaks up. "Not possible. Our contacts at Jackson State are the last group in a 300-mile radius still willing to stick their necks out for _Uncle Bedford_. Without them, we're out of business. They wouldn't be willing to go to war with your Chancellor, and we're not willing to put ourselves in jeopardy just to poke a stick in the eye of the Ole Miss administration."

"Much as we'd love to do that," Ratliff adds.

"Much as we'd love to," Pendergast agrees.

"What about just printing the actual story in your magazine?" Garrett asks.

"We already have a backlog of articles for the next three editions, if we even survive that long," Acton says.

"From a strategic point of view," Ratliff concludes, "your best option is to wait and let the court proceedings take their course. It's not as satisfying in the short term, but if you're willing to be patient. . . ."

"Bottom line is," Pendergast says, "that, much as we'd like to help you guys, we're struggling here ourselves."

"Is there anything we can do for you?" Garrett asks on our way out, after coffee and another joint.

"Yeah," Ratliff says, speaking directly to Garrett. "Write something of your own for us."

It's almost 9:00, and still drizzling, by the time we return to campus. My car is parked outside Bondurant, so I offer to see Becky back to her dorm on my way home.

The moment we step through the front door of her women's residence, Keith emerges from the dorm's sitting room for gentlemen callers, and looms above us, breathing heavy.

"Where have you been?" He grabs Becky's left arm just above the elbow and pushes her against a wall. She vanishes from view behind his body.

I take Keith by the shoulders and try to move him aside, to free her, but he's too strong for me and flips me aside.

"Where have you been?" he demands again.

"Nowhere. Jackson." Becky sounds frightened.

"Who said you could go to Jackson?"

I grab Keith's arm and manage, this time, to get the advantage. He twists away from Becky, now faces me, and raises a fist. I duck, and bend to tackle him around the waist.

By the time we've hit the floor, other gentlemen callers have emerged from the sitting room to join the fray, and pull us apart. Becky stands pressed against the wall, looking dazed. I manage to catch her eye and nod toward the doorway into the women's private quarters where Keith – or any other man – is forbidden to follow. "Go!"

The gentlemen callers lead Keith and me out the door, onto the front porch, where a small crowd of coeds and their boyfriends have already assembled to watch the fight. But Keith seems to be in no mood for one, at least now.

He draws himself up, shoulders back and chin high. "It is unseemly to brawl with an inferior in public," he announces. "However, let it be known to all that you and I, sir, are on a collision course. Mark my words. A collision course."

~ ~ ~

Sunday, March 19

I suppose Holly Springs is as good a place as any to pass a rainy Sunday afternoon. Blake woke around 3:00 from a 15-hour binge, and offered to let me drive him to his honky-tonk for his hangover treatment – two cheeseburgers with fries, four aspirin, and one Hair of the Dog, which turns out to be a mix of gin, lemon juice and Tabasco.

Even drunk, he's managed to finish another chapter of his dissertation, this one about the death of Louis Joseph. He's been telling me about it for the past fifteen minutes. I finally have to stop him to admit I don't know who Louis Joseph is.

"The Dauphin," Blake answers, taken aback by my ignorance. "Son of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette. It's part of my dissertation on the Tennis Coat Oath."

"The Tennis Court Oath is about French Revolution? Wow. I thought it was some kind of sporting event."

I order another Coke. Blake decides he's been sober long enough and orders a pitcher of Bud. The joint is getting crowded, neon lights have come up, and the windows are darkening with the arrival of night. A band has just started setting up on a small stage at the back when a sudden hush falls over the place. A tall, dark, heavily-built man in a Quaker State cap enters. The crowd parts to let him pass, and he sits at the bar.

Blake, still going on about Louis Joseph, halts in mid-sentence and holds up a warning hand to me. "Don't stare," he warns.

"Why?" I ask. "What's happening?"

He bends toward me over the table, nearly touching my forehead with his own. "Elvis is in the building," he whispers.

~ ~ ~

Monday, March 20

Garret has summoned me to Tyler Avenue to deliver some serious news, and to make an outrageous demand on me. He wants me to make a phone call.

"No. Absolutely not. I told you when you brought that goddamn phone into the house that I'd never use it," I protest.

The parlor is crowded, everyone drawn here by the news of James' arrest in North Carolina. Andrew, Dr. Hirsch, Rose, Clamor, a gaggle of Tamburlaine's true believers. Even Joan is present, standing against the wall, arms crossed, fingers picking nervously on the fabric of her shirt sleeves.

"Just call your friend," Garrett urges, forcing the handset into my hand. "Do it, man. This is an emergency."

It feels slithery against my fingers. I start to dial the number, but my hand shakes too hard to manage the little holes. I pass the matchbook with the number written inside it to Cindy.

Cindy dials the number, passes the handset back to me. I lift it to my ear. The phone at the other end rings five times. I'm hoping nobody's there, but on the sixth somebody answers.

"Hello?" It's Tatyana's voice, unmistakable.

"Hi," I say. My own voice is unsteady, the pitch all wrong, too high. I clear my throat. "It's Daniel."

"Daniel? Good lord! Why are _you_ using a phone? Are you okay?"

"I'm okay. I'm in Oxford. But a friend of mine . . . we've heard that he may have been busted for selling to an undercover cop in Chapel Hill last night. It might just be a rumor, but I was wondering if you could check it out."

"What's the name?" Tatyana asks.

"James. James McKenna. M-C-K-E-N-N-A."

"I'll drive into town," Tatyana says. "I need supplies, anyway. Where can I reach you?"

I give her the commune's number. "Ask for Garrett, or Andrew, or Cindy. Really, you can talk to anybody who answers. It's not my phone."

"Of course it's not! Hell, I knew that already. But it's nice to hear your voice again. I've missed you, a lot."

"I've missed you, too. How are the goat girls?"

"The girls miss you, too. Come back for a visit as soon as you can. Tell your friends I'll call as soon as I know anything."

"She'll call back," I announce, setting the receiver back in its cradle with profound relief. I never want to do that again.

"Idiot!" Joan says. "Fucking idiot. It's a good thing North Carolina doesn't have a death penalty, because I plan to murder James with my bare hands when he gets back here."

Garrett is zipping up his coat. It's chilly outside.

"Where are you going?" Andrew asks.

"I need to see Claprood. Maybe he can do something for James."

"Who the hell are the goat girls?'" Cindy inquires after he's left.

"Tatyana raises goats," I explain.

"Your goat cheese friend?" Joan asks.

"One and the same."

~ ~ ~

Tuesday, March 21

"Oh, Mr. Medway," Dr. Goodleigh laments. I'm at my table, with Herodotus. She's carrying the stencil for her Greek Sculpture exam I typed this morning by one corner, arm's length in front of her, as if it's somehow offensive. "Short Discussion Question #2," she says. "Please read it aloud."

"Typo?"

"I'm hoping so."

"' _How did Archaic-era trade with Egypt benetit the development of the kore figure on the Greek mainland_?'"

I glance up at her. "Egyptian artistic influence inspired the Greek sculptors to make the breasts perkier and more rounded?" I hazard. "Okay, I'll fix it."

"We can't let your Freudian slips bring disrepute upon the department. I need your head in the game. You need to find a girlfriend, or at least a night with a professional in Memphis."

"I'm scandalized."

"If you're short on funds," she continues, "I have a job for you."

"Painting?"

"No. Taking care of the cats over spring break. I'm going to Boston."

~ ~ ~

Wednesday, March 22

Dr. Giordano is leading his troupe of grad students to the cafeteria when he spots me outside Bondurant. "We never see you at lunch anymore," he says.

"I'm trying to save my money for alcohol, drugs and women – you know, the important things."

"Poor Anglo-Saxon," he laments. "Poor poet. You come with us. I'll buy your lunch."

"It's all right to spend your money on alcohol and drugs," he advises, once we've emerged from the cafeteria line and are settling in at his customary table. "But stay away from the women, eh? They bring a man nothing but sorrow."

"I always imagined that was their purpose in nature," I reply, thereby unwittingly sparking a debate among the grad students concerning the merits of teleology and Hegelianism.

Giordano interrupts to recount the story (how many times have I heard it?) of his chance encounter with Benedetto Croce, and is interrupted in turn by the arrival of Edward Alcott.

"The food at this so-called college ought to be condemned as a crime against humanity," he complains, setting down a tray that nonetheless seems to be crammed with every item available this noon.

"Would you say that it's immoral?" I hazard.

He notices me for the first time. "Ah, it's you – the punk. Not eating with your hands, I see. Nice job, pretending to be civilized. Just stay upwind of me, okay? I don't want the stench to spoil my appetite."

"The stench?" Giordano asks.

"Hippie stench. All these punk kids reek of it – combination of unwashed armpits, lice-ridden crotches, filth and cowardice."

"I showered just this morning."

"Maybe you did. But you can't wash away the stink of being a Commie-loving little piece of shit."

"I smell nothing," Dr. Giordano remarks. "For all his faults, this particular Anglo Saxon seems to observe higher standards of personal hygiene than others of his race."

"Really, doctor? With a nose as big as yours, you ought to be able to detect odors better."

"You have a remarkable gift for making friends, wherever you go," I say.

"I'm not here to make friends."

"You're doing a wonderful job of that."

Alcott points a fork with a hunk of pork chop dangling from the tines. "Not another word. If I want your opinion, I'll beat it out of you."

~ ~ ~

Thursday, March 23

A plea bargain has been reached for James. A bunch of us – Clamor, Joan, Andrew, Dottie, me – have gathered at the Ohm to learn the details.

James will serve two month's jail time at Chapel Hill on an aggravated misdemeanor charge. He'll be physically incarcerated 18 hours a day but released for six hour stretches to perform community service.

"It might have gone a lot worse for him, except for Claprood," Garrett explains. "He made the call for me – you know, one college-town sheriff to another, two good old boys joshing about having soft spots for their local hippies."

"What's Claprood getting in return?" I ask.

"He's getting _me_. I've agreed to serve as his chief strategist in the recall election. _Sub rosa_ , of course. He credits me with certain Machiavellian skills that might come in handy." Garrett opens a display case and distributes a half dozen Déesse chocolate bars to celebrate James' narrow escape from serving prison time.

Joan has never seen one. She peels the wrapper away and stares at the nude. "You boys and your fetishes," she declares.

I agree. "It's more than a little perverse."

"Daniel says he knows this girl from somewhere," Garrett mocks.

Joan doesn't answer at first. She stares at the bar, squints, then reaches into her purse for her eyeglasses. "I think you do," she says to me.

"Do what?"

"Know her. Look close. Don't you see?"

I look. Yes . . . I know this woman! But who is she?

"She was my roommate for two years," Joan prompts. "And she was your lover. Don't you see? It's Melissa. The model was Melissa!"

I'm momentarily struck dumb. She's right. Garrett has already bitten off the head, but spits the as-yet unchewed bit into his hand. Everyone except Dottie puts the candy bar down. She holds hers up to the light from the window, admiring.

"Oh, my. She's lovely, isn't she?" Dottie asks, and takes a nibble off Melissa's feet.

~ ~ ~

Friday, March 24

Dr. Goodleigh has already left for Boston, a few days ahead of spring break, and Herodotus is in need of a little sunlight. So I close the Museum early and take him with me to the Grove, where we sit back against my favorite oak and chat about Xerxes' design for a canal at Mount Athos.

Bathed in warmth and wind, we sit until our conversation ends and our eyelids close. We nap, we dream a bit, and then we wake to a field dotted with couples. They amble about, hand in hand. They lie together on sunlit blankets. They nuzzle on park benches. It's spring, it's Friday, love fills the air, and I am alone with an old Greek historian, both of us feeling ancient.

I close the book, rise to my feet and am dusting pine straw off my jeans when someone calls my name. My heart lifts in recognition of Becky's voice, but then is dashed when I turn to discover her approaching arm-in-arm with a boy.

"I was wondering where you might be," she says. "We dropped by the Museum, but it was closed."

"Too pretty a day to stay inside," I confess. "Don't tell Dr. Goodleigh."

Becky's young man steps forward, hand outstretched. "Mark Renfrew," he says. "Pleasure."

Firm grip, cool palm. He's a head taller than me, athletically built, smile full of perfect teeth. His self-important poise pegs him as an upperclassman, likely a senior majoring in Economics or pre-Law. He wears a Sigma Chi pin on his perfectly pressed Brook Brothers shirt. This I don't like. Where could Becky have found him? Or (maybe a better question) where did he find her?

"Daniel," I say.

"The poet, I know. Becky's been telling me all about you."

"Becky's the poet," I say, "not me. I'm just a humble Greek scholar."

"You're in the Classics department, right? Just one question: what will you do for a living after you finish?"

"Mostly hang out in soup lines and huddle around trash can fires under bridges with other Greek scholars, learnedly discussing Isocrates. My goal in life is not to leave the world a better place than the way I found it."

"Daniel is being cynical," Becky reassures Mark. "He's probably been reading W.H. Auden again."

Mark grins, as if in admission that he doesn't understand what we're talking about. Actually, he seems like a nice enough guy, appearances to the contrary. "Say something in ancient Greek," he prompts.

" _Ego phone boontos en te eremo_ ," I say.

"What does it mean?"

"It means ' _I don't take shit from nobody_.'"

Mark likes that. I teach him the words, and he repeats the phrase a few times to be sure he's got it right.

"Wait till the guys at the house hear this," he says.

"Go forth and spread the word, brother!"

Becky and Mark stroll away, young sweethearts on a late March afternoon. I watch their backs, a little wistful. A little jealous. A little . . . what? What is this other emotion?

A little relieved. Becky has a boyfriend. And fortunately, it's not Keith. And I'm now off the hook of having to make a play for her.

~ ~ ~

Saturday, March 25

"So, do you like what you do for a living?" I ask.

Septic System Man ponders the question a moment and nods. "It's good, steady work," he says. "One thing you can count on, people always gotta shit."

"I hear you, man," I agree.

We're in his truck with the waste water tank on it, what Duck call the Shit Chariot. It's just after sunup. As Septic System Man hangs a hard left by a battered wood fence with three mailboxes at the corner, I finally begin to get my bearings. We're back on Campground Road. It's another five minutes to the trailer park.

Mr. Duck is on his front porch enjoying the morning with a cigarette and a cup of coffee when we arrive. Septic System Man stops long enough to let me out and holler over the noise of the engine.

"I spotted this fool over on Happy Valley, sitting in a tree!"

The Duck eyes me critically. I'm wet, mud-spattered up to my knees, a cut over my left eye.

"Go pour yourself a cup of coffee. Looks like you could use one."

"I must have been sleepwalking," I say. "Woke up, not knowing where I was. It was dark. I could hear dogs around, so I decided just to climb up and wait things out until light."

"Not judging you, boy," Mr. Duck says. "No need to explain."

~ ~ ~

Sunday, March 26

Garrett said that the crew would be leaving for North Carolina at 10:00, but Andrew has the bus almost fully packed as I arrive at Tyler Avenue at 9:00, amidst a tintinnabulation of church bells summoning the good people of Oxford to prayer.

I've brought a copy of Wolfe's _Orlando_ to send along with them – a gift for Tatyana, who's invited them to crash at the farm while they visit James in jail.

They've asked me to join them in the journey, but I must stay behind to tend Dr. Goodleigh's cats while she's in Boston. Besides, as I've explained to Garrett and Andrew and Cindy, I wouldn't travel as far as Batesville to see James, even if he were facing execution in the morning.

"I don't understand why those candy bars so upset you," Andrew says, returning to the debate we had last night over what he interprets as my irrational reaction to the candy bar epiphany "Melissa posed for Nick any number of times," he argues. "There's even that bronze of her on permanent display in Bryant Hall. What's the difference?"

"I am not," I repeat, "in the least bothered by Melissa posing for artists. But I draw the line at candy bars. Sculptures are art. Candy bars are food. You don't see people walk into Bryant Hall and start sucking on Melissa's feet, or gnawing on her torso."

Garrett steps onto the porch dragging a plastic cooler behind him just in time to hear my rebuttal. "I believe the curators would discourage such behavior. We must, as civilized men and women, draw a clear distinction between an aesthetic experience and digestion."

"Right," I say as we carry the cooler to the bus and load it in the back. "Eating the image of a person, however lovely that image may be, is akin to cannibalism. The fact that it's someone I know only makes it personal. If I passed someone on the sidewalk eating you," I add, for Andrew's benefit, "I'd try to stop it. As a friend."

Andrew's hyper-logical brain has already parsed out a reply. "Your distinction between aesthetics and digestion is a false dilemma, old man. Simply consider the art of _haute cuisine_. An elegant meal can be both deeply pleasing aesthetically and provide nourishment to the body."

I'm getting irritated. I wish he'd just let the subject drop. "But you have to draw the line at the human form," I say. "Find me a respectable sous chef anywhere who's going to create a dish in the shape of a person. Or picture going to a christening festivity where a goose liver pate in the shape of a baby is being served."

"I suspect most of the guests would recoil in horror," Garrett observes.

"But don't you Roman Catholics believe that the Eucharist – the consumption of the Lord's flesh – is the highest of all sacramental acts?"

"First of all, I'm no more a Catholic than you. I attended church and took religious instruction only to please my sainted mother. And, second, I may not have been inside a church since the Johnson administration, but unless the liturgy has changed significantly, I don't think the priest hands out little cookies in the actual shape of Jesus for the congregation to munch on."

"At my brother-in-law's bachelor party last year, his friends had a cake shaped like a naked girl," Garrett adds. "Red velvet. Very tasty."

"No stripper?" I ask.

"No. A stripper would have been better, for sure."

"Real girls. Accept no substitutes." I hand _Orlando_ to Garrett. "Give my love to Tatyana. Tell her I'll try to drive out this summer. By the way," I add, to Andrew, "you're not going to be able to sleep with Cindy while you're Tatyana's guests. Men are housed in separate quarters, and under no circumstances are allowed to pass the night in the farmhouse."

"That's rather disappointing," he says.

"House rules. Ya'll have fun."

~ ~ ~

Monday, March 27

Blake's been at sitting at the kitchen table for almost 24 hours now. He types a sentence or two between long spells of staring, glaze-eyed at the wall opposite him. He periodically takes a sip of gin from a plastic drinking cup, but he seems to have lost his old joy for drinking since the demons stole his Flintstones glass

"I'm going to town," I say. "You want to come along? Do you good to get out."

He lifts his face, turns slowly toward the direction of my voice and squints. "Who's that?" His hand trembles as he lifts the cup for another sip. He's forgotten about me again by the time he sets it down. He turns his attention back to his work and begins to type a new sentence, index finger only, one letter at a time.

It's a beautiful day outside. Spring. The kudzu in the ravine has started to turn green, and I pause on the rise by the road to admire it.

Todd Rundgren comes on the radio, "Hello, It's Me," as I hang a left off Campground onto 30, followed by "Layla" as I'm proceeding down Highway 7.

Eric Clapton, Duane Allman and Jim Gordon jam on guitar and piano all my way into town, and I decide that this is the music I want played at my funeral.

As I head down Lamar toward the Square, Manfred Mann's Earth Band comes on with their version of "Living without You."

I park in the Episcopal lot and leave the windows rolled down. Nothing worth stealing inside. The air is even finer here in town, the sunlight sweeter, my heart brightening. All these songs about heartbreak have left me in a splendid mood. I dig my hands in my pockets and beam a smile at everyone I meet on my stroll up Van Buren.

It's been almost four months since I was last with a woman, and I'm doing just fine.

I can, I think, learn to do without them entirely, temper my nature, tame the beast within. How much better, really, to live like a monk itinerant. Robe, sandals, rice bowl, a chaste pallet for one strapped across my shoulders. Hell, I'm halfway there already. Just abstain henceforth from women. No more striving, no more worries.

As I turn left onto the Square, I catch sight of Jenny Tyson on the balcony of the Rural Legal Services office over Sneed's Hardware, her hands resting on the rail as her body stretches out into space like the figurehead of some whaling ship – all that bosom, tangled mass of hair, classic profile. My resolve crumples.

I can't do without them. Women. I'll spend my life falling in love with some woman or other – a lawyer on a balcony, a housewife wandering an aisle of the Jitney Jungle, a model in a magazine advertising Ivory Soap, a girl in a pickup at the Shell station, a dippy coed in the Grove on the arm of some frat boy, a waitress at the Rebel Buddha – every 10 minutes.

I'm love's fool. I'm Dante Alighieri, constantly hanging out around the Arno, spotting Beatrice in every female who passes by, singing,

" _Oh, baby, baby,_

You're such a sweet child.

Oh, baby, baby,

_Come dig my sweet new style_."

I catch Jenny's attention and improvise a little soft shoe by a parking meter, to impress her.

She laughs down at me. "You idiot. You look like you're dancing for pennies."

"You. Me. Grundy's." I call up to her. "Meat plus three. My treat."

She smiles at me with a flash of white teeth that break my heart. "Can't. New client coming by. I was hoping I'd see you, though. I've got news."

"News?"

"The district court issued a temporary restraining order against the college to release _Barefoot_."

"So it's all over?"

"No. The college filed an appeal. That kind of surprised me. The restraining order actually gave them what they wanted most, which was disavowal of the entire magazine. They were going to be allowed to stamp the front of every copy with a disclaimer that _Barefoot_ isn't an official publication. The college's case is pathetically flawed. Judge Pettry practically laughed at them."

"So why not just let the whole thing drop?"

"I suspect," Jenny replies, "that you've pissed them off just enough that they'll refuse to settle until the bitter end."

"Me?" I ask. "You must be mistaken. Everyone in the Lyceum adores me."

"Dean Moriarty claims you threatened him."

"I did? When? What does he think I said?"

"Something about watching out for himself when he's driving his car."

"Driving his car? Driving his car?" I try to recollect our recent encounters. "Oh! No, it wasn't about driving. I just said, 'You take care out there on the road, okay?' It was a joke."

"You shouldn't tease the semi-literate," Jenny advises. "Anyway, now we go to the Fifth Circuit Court of Appeals in Clarksdale. Judge Watters. I've been in his court before. He's going to want to hear testimony. Are you willing to be a witness?"

"I'll testify my little heart out."

"It's a date, then."

Jenny turns from the rail, back to her office. I start walking toward Blaylock's drugs, but have scarcely taken more than a few steps before a window display of pet products catches my attention.

I check my pockets for cash, find three dollars plus some change, and step inside to make a purchase that just may save my ass this week.

~ ~ ~

Tuesday, March 28

Rain is pelting across south Tennessee and north Mississippi from a warm front that's pulling an ocean load of Gulf moisture off the coast of Texas. This is explained to me by a sweet spoken news lady on the radio, who also warns me to prepare my ass to get soaked by up to an inch of precipitation before Wednesday arrives.

Dr. Goodleigh's morning copy of the _Commercial Appeal_ lies already sodden in the driveway when I pull my car up to her door. I toss it into the trash, retrieve her mail, and step cautiously inside.

Melpomene's lapis-eyed gaze is the first thing that greets me. She sits, waiting for breakfast, on the kitchen counter beside an oversized pepper grinder.

"Mmmmmrrrrrrrroouuuuuuughhhh!" she wails.

This cry is apparently Siamese for "The dumb hippie is back – let's scare the shit out of him," because the floor at my feet and the rafters overhead suddenly team with famished, impatient, discontented life.

"Mmmmmmmmmmouuuuuuuggggggghhhhhhhhrrrrr!" the others reply, like a chorus in a Sophoclean tragedy.

This is my cue to make a dash for the pantry, snatching bowls and the canister of dry food on my way so I can fill the bowls in relative safety, eject them through the accordion door and effect my getaway while all are distracted by the feeding frenzy.

If that's what they expect me to do, though, I have a surprise for them.

"Hello, kitties!" I call.

I then reach into my coat pocket, produce an aerosol can, and fill the room with clouds of fine mist that produce an instantaneous effect.

"Mrrrrrrrooouuuugghh!" Melpomene wails, arching her hind quarters for a leap that suddenly turns into a stunned slump. Her front legs scoot forward, weak, and she rolls over onto the counter, belly up. "Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmrrr," she coos.

The three cats who've somehow managed to perch on Goodleigh's newly-polished eaves tumble to the floor, not stoned enough yet to miss landing on their feet, though with a self-satisfied thump of a cat consciousness approaching nirvana.

The pride scatter prostate on the floor before me, rolling over and over, mewing like kittens, rapt by the blessing I've bestowed upon them.

"Say hello," I tell them, "to catnip in a spray can!"

~ ~ ~

Wednesday, March 29

The demons have kept me up all night. Blake, on the other hand, consumed enough vodka and gin to nod off for a few hours.

I drive into town with my body in need of sustenance, protein, so I drop by Grundy's for breakfast and am surprised to find Clamor at one of the tables.

"What's wrong with your eyes?" Clamor asks.

"Don't know. I can't see my eyes. I thought you'd have left town for break."

"Where would I go? No money to travel anyplace fun, and the family has decided against the traditional Easter reunion in Batesville this year. All because of the scandal that cousin Amy has brought down upon us."

"Amy has brought scandal upon the Madigan clan? Good for her. However did she accomplish that?"

"Sleeping with Alcott. The family always assumed she'd conducted herself in un-ladylike fashion at those New York literary parties when her novel was published, and they were willing to turn a blind eye on that period in her life. But now, to be having an affair with a married man right in their own back yard – that's too much for them to stomach."

"Good for cousin Amy," I say. "That makes me almost like her."

"Who said that the whole purpose of being a writer is to embarrass your entire family to death?"

"Sounds like J.P. Donleavy."

"And speaking of embarrassments, have you heard any news about James?" she asks, as the waitress fetches coffee for me.

"The gang drove to North Carolina to see him," I say.

"I know. They invited me along. But I'm not ready to forgive him yet."

"Yet."

"I suppose I will, eventually," Clamor says.

"I won't," I say.

"That's because you're not in love with him," she says. "We always forgive people we love, eventually, no matter what pieces of shit they are."

~ ~ ~

Thursday, March 30

I've woken up beside enough women to know that it's impossible for them – even the most beautiful of the species – not to reveal at least one imperfection first thing in the morning.

Joan, however, is that impossible exception. Even droopy and disheveled at our tiny kitchen table, wearing one of Blake's ink-stained shirts, staring vacantly into a half-full coffee cup, Joan is perfect.

We also have company this morning. Blake has been inviting guests for breakfast, each charged with the task of convincing Joan that he's no good for her. Duck and the Septic System Man have been by separately this week to testify to his bad behavior, absence of common sense, and lack of prospects. This morning's guest speaker is the Widow.

Instead of simply cataloging out Blake's manifold deficiencies in character, as the others have done, the Widow has decided to appeal to logic.

"You say your first husband was a bastard," the Widow says.

"He was," Joan agrees. "He is."

"I can attest to that," I add.

"That means you're attracted to Blake because he's a bastard, too."

"I am," Blake concurs.

"It's not your fault, honey," the Widow says to Joan. "We women can't help falling for the same man, over and over, repeating our original bad choices. Believe me. I know – I've had five husbands."

"And they were all bastards?" Joan inquires.

"I don't have a weakness for bastards. My men were good to me. They just shared one fatal flaw, which was a knack for getting themselves killed in unusual ways."

"Five dead husbands?"

"The last one passed away on our honeymoon."

"Oh, god. What happened?"

"He got crushed to death by a cactus," she says.

We pause, waiting for an explanation.

"My fault, I suppose," the Widow goes on. "I insisted on a honeymoon in the desert. I always fantasized about making love with a man under all the stars in creation. We got hitched in Tucson and drove the truck out to find a little hidden away camp site, where we smoked some dope and waited for the sun to set. It was a glorious consummation.

"When Henry woke up the next morning, I was still asleep. He'd brought his Thompson along for the trip, though I told him not to, and he must have decided to use one of those big old cactuses for target practice. Blew an arm off one, and the damn thing fell right on top of him. Must have weighed half a ton."

"Why did he do that?" Joan wonders.

"I didn't have an opportunity to ask. But I suppose he didn't see the point of being surrounded by so much natural beauty if he couldn't fire a couple of rounds of ammunition into it."

The Widow taps a cigarette from a pack of Virginia Slims, lights it, and takes a deep, meditative drag. I notice, when she removes it from between her lips, the filter is lipstick-smudged the same as the rim of her coffee cup.

"One other thing I seem to favor," she says, "is men who aren't overly intelligent."

~ ~ ~

Friday, March 31

"You really need me to protect you from the kitties?" Clamor taunts, when I invite her along for the daily feeding at Dr. Goodleigh's house.

"They're not 'kitties.' They're Pterodactyls with fur."

"Mmmmrrrrrrroooouuuggggghrrrrrrrrrmmmmmm!" Melpomene howls in greeting as we step through the kitchen door.

Clamor, who stepped through boldly enough, draws back. It's a nice day. The pride should be out sunning itself and hunting the ravine. Instead, they're all inside, waiting for me, Melpomene acting as sentry.

The others rouse, sluggish, from their nap at her signal. Heads swivel toward us. Muscled, sinewy haunches pivot in our direction and flex in preparation for leaping.

Clamor sidles up behind me, maneuvering me into the position of bodyguard as we inch our way across the room.

"Oh, my lord," she mutters.

"Now you see what I mean."

If she's thinking of an escape, Clamor's already been outwitted by a feline phalanx that's moved to block us from the back door. Another has swept in front of us, sealing off the path to the little pantry that I've designated as my foxhole.

Melpomene observes her troop movements from the counter, incarnating at this moment the departed souls of Cyrus the Great, Hannibal, Napoleon and Stonewall Jackson. She turns her icy stare upon me. I am humbled by an alien intelligence greater than my own.

I nod. Melpomene nods back.

"What can we do?" Clamor whispers. She's clutching my left arm.

I reach into my right-hand pocket and lift the nozzle of the aerosol can toward the center of the room. "Biological warfare," I say.

A cloud of mist fills the room. Melpomene and her army buckle, drop and fall before me, vanquished by sheer animal joy.

"What is that?"

"Catnip. In a spray can."

Clamor gives me a perplexed grin as I proceed to fill the bowls with cat food. "Does Dr. Goodleigh know that you're getting her cats high?"

"If she ever asks, I'll tell her. Otherwise, I don't intend to mention it."

~ ~ ~

Saturday, April 1

"There, now. Don't you look handsome?" Joan flatters, as Blake emerges from his bedroom newly-shaved, freshly-showered, hair washed and neatly combed, actually wearing a necktie – the mate, I assume, of the one he's loaned me for this special occasion – and a full 24 hours sober.

I have to admit that Blake cleans up well. With a razor and a little bit of soap, he can look as straight as they come, though there's still that disconcerting resemblance to Norman Bates that diminishes the overall effect.

As I close the trailer door behind us and search my pockets for the key, one of the demons inside hurls a book against the louvered glass window. From the size and the heft of it, I'm guessing it must be my copy of Harrison's _Prolegomena_.

"I'll be the luckiest girl at the Holiday Inn tonight, with two such handsome escorts," Joan says, linking our arms in hers as we ascend the hill toward my parked car on the berm of Campground Road.

Blake hasn't left the trailer in weeks, and he hasn't slept in his bed for at least that long. He's been at the kitchen table all this time, typing his dissertation in a race to finish by the May deadline his graduate committee has imposed on him.

This outing tonight – Easter dinner at the Holiday Inn, purportedly my invitation and my treat – is a plot. Joan's already reserved a room at the motel, to which she will lure him at dinner's end and where she plans to seduce him, thereby putting an end to what she's termed "as long as a dry spell any healthy young woman should be expected to endure."

We sit at the bar while waiting for our table to be ready. A sober Blake turns out to be an observant Blake. "Where's your date?" he asks me. "I thought this was supposed to be a double-date."

"I guess she's stood me up," I say, the cover story Joan concocted for me.

"That so?" Blake says, suspicious.

It turns out, though, that Joan has deceived me as well. "No, she just walked in." Joan points, directing our eyes toward a side door that Amy Madigan has just stepped through.

I shoot Joan a look that says, " _What the fuck is this_?"

"Amy Madigan?" Blake remarks. "I thought you two hated each other."

"Tonight," I improvise, "we are all friends in the mystery of the Resurrection. Show a little respect for this holiest of evenings, heathen."

Amy approaches the bar. She and Blake haven't met, so I make the introductions. Blake has somehow found time to read _Monastery of Horses_ , and can speak learnedly upon its themes and characters, which melts the cold crust of Amy's reserve.

We're eventually moved to our table. Glasses of wine are ordered, followed by salads, entrees (Oysters Rockefeller for the ladies, sirloins for the gentlemen), more wine, and lively conversation.

Joan deftly subverts Blake's every effort to order hard liquor. She wants him mellowed out, not drunk. By 10:00 he's pleasantly marinated into the docile, suggestible man she'd hoped to bed this evening.

Joan lures Blake from the table, "for a stroll around the pool," and they do not return. I thank Amy for her cooperation in making the evening a success.

"A favor for Joan," she says. "I've always liked her. She's cool. Besides, this gives me a chance to share my good news – unless Harold has already told you."

"Told me what?"

"I'm moving to New York at the end of the semester. Leaving Ole Miss behind for good . . . or at least until I can return in glory. Edward has a plan for my career, internship in his agent's office, introductions to publishers, getting my work seen by people who matter."

"Congratulations. I'm betting that you're going to be famous some day."

"That's very gracious, Daniel. Thank you. I'm trying to make peace before I leave. It's the Christian thing to do. So I'd like to apologize for all the mean things I've said to you."

Our waitress passes by at that moment, and I catch her eye.

"Apology accepted, and returned. We've been best of enemies. Would you like something stronger?" I ask.

"Black Russian," Amy orders.

"Jack Daniels," I say. "Neat."

~ ~ ~

Sunday, April 2

I wake under a pinstriped blue-and-white percale sheet with matching pillowcases in Amy Madigan's narrow bed, which is situated in a cramped alcove of a tiny attic apartment overlooking Madison Avenue.

Amy's already awake. "Was I your first?" she asks.

"My first?" I say.

"Your first virgin."

"Oh, that."

"Yes, that. Don't pretend you didn't notice."

"You were," I admit. "I was kind of a late bloomer as a teenager. All the available girls had already been taken."

"Well, I'm glad I was able to provide that experience." Amy pats me on the head, condescending. "Something you can use in a poem someday . . . if, that is, you ever intend to write another one, which I doubt." She pulls a blanket around her as she slips out of bed.

"One thing I'd like to know," I say.

"Yes?" Polite. "Do tell me."

"Why now? And why me?"

"Those are two things. But I'll answer. 'Now' because I've held Edward off for as long as I could without finally driving him away. I could scarcely let him know that I've been inexperienced all this time."

"Why not? I'd imagine that would be a point of honor for you."

"If I were going to my future husband, yes. But I'm going to a man who's supposed to advance my career. I can't appear to look vulnerable. Balance of power, you understand. I had to lose my virginity before going to bed with him."

"Makes sense," I acknowledge. "But why me?"

"Because I can depend on your discretion. Everybody knows we despise each other. If you ever tried to tell this story, nobody would believe you. Also," and here she pauses, "I don't think you _would_ tell anyone. I think that somewhere under that scrawny, drug-riddled frame of yours beats the heart of a gentleman."

"I wish people would stop saying that about me."

She heads toward the bathroom and closes the door behind her. "You can see yourself out?" she asks, still politely, through the wood.

"I think so. It's not that big a place."

A minute later, I'm descending the wooden fire escape that leads from the roofline to the ground floor. I begin to wend my way onto Jefferson, back toward the Holiday Inn, where the car is still parked.

I hear the courthouse clock on the square begin striking the ninth hour, but halfway through, it's drowned out by the bells of the Church of Christ on Lamar, calling the faithful to rejoice on this Easter morning.

The slow figure of a very old woman in a purple dress and a maroon cape appears before a dozen or more steps on the sidewalk ahead. I'm going west, she's walking east. As we draw abreast of one another, I smile and nod as all good southerners must, and assume that cordiality has been observed. She stops, however, to speak.

"Young man," she announces, "HE is risen!"

I stand flummoxed for a moment. This is an old formula to which I'm expected to make a proper reply. What do I say? It's been years. But the words come as they're bidden, and I speak them without thinking:

"He is risen, indeed."
**Part 8.** **The Pilgrimage**

April 3 - 30, 1972

Monday, April 3

"I've heard that jail time turns some men's lives around," Garrett philosophizes, using a puffed-up voice that he might have some day delivered from the pulpit of his own Baptist church, had he not become a freak. "James, I fear, will emerge a bigger asshole than he was when he went in."

"He's grown his beard back," Cindy reports, stretched provocatively across the water bed in the Ohm, weary and a little disheveled from the trip home from North Carolina. "Now he thinks he's some kind of revolutionary martyr. Che Guevara or somebody."

His friends seem to have turned sour on him.

"We got to visit his cell," Andrew says, "and I must say it wasn't half bad. I've lived in much worse. I've _paid_ to live in much worse."

"Your friend's commune was worth the trip, though," Garrett adds. "Good times, man. Good times. Everybody was assigned a job."

"Tatyana _will_ make you work," I say.

"I learned how to milk the goats," Cindy puts in.

"I was on shit collecting detail," Garrett says. "Goats shit tiny little pellets. There's an art to picking them up."

"A new skill. I'm glad you profited from your vocational therapy."

"A week of being a vegetarian was interesting as well," Andrew says. "I thought I'd miss meat, but when you're around malodorous livestock all day long, you're not so eager to eat animals, are you?"

"There was something that happened, though," Cindy adds, during a momentary lull in conversation. Andrew and Garrett lift a simultaneous sigh.

"We agreed not to speak of that," Andrew says.

"You agreed. You and Garrett agreed. I never did. I think Daniel needs to know."

"Know what?"

Andrew gestures an open hand toward her. "Go ahead. It's too late now."

"Tatyana," she begins, tentative, "told me how you died."

"Oh, lord."

"She thought I already knew, and started talking about it one morning when she and I were milking together."

"And you told the boys?"

"We could tell something was on her mind."

"Yeah," Garrett says, "Cindy's not exactly a sphinx."

"Well, how would you expect me to keep a secret like that?"

The group falls silent.

"Bloody awful," Andrew finally volunteers. Cindy hums her agreement.

"I thought it was kind of funny," Garrett says.

"I just thought you should know," Cindy says. "That we know. You know?"

"I know."

"So if you ever want to talk about it . . . ."

I cut her off. "I'll never want to talk about it."

~ ~ ~

Tuesday, April 4

Blake's choice of a midnight snack – a bowl of Fruity Pebbles from the box he thinks he's cleverly stashed away in the cupboard behind his booze – has turned out to be an unfortunate one.

Not only do I know the Fruity Pebbles are there (safe, because Cap'n Crunch remains my first love), but the mice have discovered them as well.

As Blake lifts the box down from its overhead hiding place, the bottom collapses outward, spilling Fruity Pebbles and a nest of tiny rodents onto his head. They scurry about, tangle in his hair for a moment, find footholds in his ears, and clamber down his neck to make death-defying leaps from his shoulder onto the floor below.

Drunk as he is tonight, Blake's reaction time is delayed, so they've already managed to land before he starts screaming, "Shit! Shit! Shit! They're on me! They're all over me!"

I count five, six, seven of them scurrying across the floor. Just mice, not rats. Blake rocks back against the refrigerator, steadying himself before he shrieks again, "You little bastards! Die!"

He lifts his right foot and brings it down to smash the closest one. It feints to the side, safe. Now the left foot, aiming for another. Another miss. Right food, left foot. Right foot, left foot. Escape, escape. Escape, escape.

I'm watching this all from my side of the kitchen table, and wonder why the mice don't just simply run for shelter under the couch. I think they're having a good time, playing with a clumsy drunken scholar of French history, making him dance an absurd, humiliating jig. Mice are smarter than people. I've often thought so.

This thought seems to occur to Blake at the same time it crosses my mind, because he stops dancing, utters one more curse at them, and storms out the trailer door, leaving it open to the dark.

He's either forgotten that the dog packs are out tonight, or doesn't care. The night fills with howling and baying from the ravine, and I fear for him momentarily, before remembering that the Lord protects dipsos, and settle back into Herodotus.

Blake returns a few minutes later, accompanied by the Widow, who's dressed only in jeans and a bra, and carries her rifle slung over her shoulder. She's magnificent, a pioneer woman, an avatar of Artemis.

I want her.

Blake is carrying something fat and furry in his arms. It appears to be a cat.

"I'm warning you," the Widow is saying as they enter, "she ain't a mouser, but you're welcome to borrow her for a few days if it will make you feel better."

Blake drops the cat onto the floor. She instantly slouches into a nap position.

"What's her name?" I ask.

"Flop," the Widow answers. "You'll see why. Listen, keep your roommate inside tonight, will you? He might have got torn to pieces out there by the dogs."

~ ~ ~

Wednesday, April 5

Ex-deputy Hacker has taken a perch at the base of the Confederate monument outside the courthouse to deliver his version of the Good News, which appears to be that the Lord is just itching to smite anybody who steps even the teeniest bit out of line.

He's only been preaching ten minutes (and attracted quite a crowd), but his list of the damned already includes idolaters, sodomites, blasphemers, actors, adulterers, Freudians, pagans, liberals, drug abusers, sex therapists, gamblers, public drunkards, gossips, murderers, fornicators, draft dodgers, Leninists, newscasters, exhibitionists, Jane Fonda, bigamists, rock musicians, pirates, terrorists, hijackers, speeders, Jungians, nudists, false witnesses, sorcerers, witches, gin runners, geologists, Sabbath breakers, thieves, pickpockets, opportunists, free-thinkers, libertines, counterfeiters, misers, liars, pederasts, Yankees, hippies, Peeping Toms, whores, college professors, illegal aliens, Communists, abortionists, moonshiners, lawyers, papists, astrologers, vegetarians, and the Beatles.

"Actually, I agree with him about the witches," I say to Garrett and Clamor.

We're watching from the window in the Ohm.

"What does he have against vegetarians?" Clamor wonders aloud.

"For that matter, what does he have against celibates?" Garrett says.

"Or pharmacologists?" I add.

"I expect he's started pulling in any nouns he doesn't know the meaning of at this point."

~ ~ ~

Thursday, April 6

I've been working late at the library tonight, and stop by the Grill for a frozen cheeseburger from the vending machine. It's warming in the microwave, and I've just deposited 15 cents in the coffee machine when a quintet of well-groomed young men surround me.

In matching fraternity pins. At first glance, I don't recognize any of them, but then one face jogs my memory. It's Stanley Boyle, all grown up. I haven't seen him since he was a freshman.

He offers his hand in the order's handshake.

"It's been a while since I used this," I remark, returning the shake. "A wonder that I still remember it."

"Once a brother, always a brother," Stanley answers. "We need to talk."

I retrieve my cheeseburger from the microwave and carry it and my coffee to a table in the back room where the boys have already assembled in grave council.

"You have an enemy," Stanley says.

"I have lots of enemies. It's one of the hardest parts about being me. You'll need to be more specific."

"Keith Thompson."

"Oh, him. He's a joke. Or the punch line of a joke. The punch line of a bad joke that kids in special elementary school classes for the hopelessly inbred think is hilarious."

"He claims you're trying to steal his fiancée."

"That poor girl doesn't even like him."

"Nobody likes him," Stanley agrees. "We all wish he'd go back to Mississippi Southern."

"Southern deserves him," one of the boys pipes in.

"Piss ant," another says.

"Ah'd 'sholey luv to punch his aristocratic lights out," a third adds, mocking Keith's old school accent.

"So why are you telling me this?"

"Nobody respects a man who'll snake another man's girl, either. Keith may not be the most popular guy in the house, but he has sympathizers. And he's out to stir up trouble against you."

"You can tell my former brothers that I wouldn't know how to snake a clogged kitchen drain, much less a girl."

"Why don't you come by and tell them yourself? You're welcome any time. You may have left the order, but the order didn't leave you."

~ ~ ~

Friday, April 7

The auditorium in Bishop Hall is about three-quarters full by the time we arrive, a scant five minutes before the movie is scheduled to start. I catch sight of Amy sitting beside Alcott in the front row as we come in. She sees me, and looks away.

Plenty of room in the back. Garrett, Rose, Clamor and I take the empty aisle against the wall. Garrett clanks all the way up the steps, attracting curious glances because of the noise from the two Jitney Jungle bags he's brought in with us.

He's smuggling in Wild Irish Rose. I made it abundantly clear to the gang that I'm not going to sit through the film version of Alcott's novel _Battle Tides_ (Paramount, 1965), followed by a scholarly discussion with the author, without copious amounts of wine.

"I feel so excited," Rose deadpans as we take our seats. "It's like attending a Hollywood premiere."

"It's even better than that," Garrett corrects her. "This here is _belles lettres_ , Ole Miss style!"

The house lights go down, the theme music and credits come up, and the wine comes out. A cheer and a round of applause erupt as one of the last credits flickers across the screen:

Screenplay by Edward Alcott

Based on the novel, Battle Tides, by Edward Alcott

Opening scene: London, 1943, Ministry of Defense. Our hero, Dixon, is serving as an American adjutant in Field Marshall Montgomery's staff, as Patton's go-to-guy in the invasion of Sicily. At the end of a hard day of pushing toy tanks and airplanes around a gigantic map of the island in what looks like a warehouse, Dixon spends a romantic evening with his English girlfriend Clarisse, a dewy but tough shop clerk whose middle-class parents live, inexplicably, in a mansion on Upper Belgrave Street.

"John Wayne was supposed to star in this," Garrett informs us. "But he backed out."

"Good career move."

"Who's playing Dixon?" Clamor wants to know. "Is that Bridey Murphy?"

"Audey Murphy."

"That's not Audey Murphy," Rose says.

"I think it's Dan Blocker," Garrett says.

"Dagnabbit, who is it, really? Didn't anybody watch the credits?"

We are, at this point, shushed by a host of our fellow movie fans. It's time for the love scene, which involves a great deal of stumbling around in a park filled with clouds of dry ice that are supposed to make us believe that Dixon's sporting his honey through a foggy London evening.

Dixon makes sweet talk and googly eyes to the girl, who turns out to be even more dewy in all that moisture. This is their last night together. It's off to Sicily tomorrow, to do battle against the Huns and face certain death. The girl's practically dripping off the screen at this point. She promises to wait for him. They embrace. They kiss. Fade to black.

"Corporal Dixon just penetrated his first foreign line," Garrett says.

The bottle comes my way again, and I take a few gulps before passing it along. In the meantime, Dixon has boarded an aircraft to parachute into Sicily. He delivers an heroic speech about history and sacrifice to the men on board the plane, who must wonder why this drippy American is leading them into battle.

Dixon then leaps from the plane without first fastening his jump line. At this point, he should plummet to his death and bring about the humane termination of this movie. But wait, here he is safe and sound on the beaches of Palermo, remarkably in tact for a man whose chute could not have opened.

The paratroopers seem to be landing in the middle of an ongoing, massive tank battle. As cinematically exciting as this scene is, I can't help but puzzle over the military strategy involved in this plan. But, then, I did sleep through most of the mandatory ROTC classes during my freshman year, so I'm probably not one to niggle over details. Garrett, though, takes deep offense when Dixon manages to commandeer a German tank by leaping through its open hatch and systematically overpowering the entire crew with a few flicks of his iron fists.

"Button the damn hatch, you stupid krauts! Jeez, no wonder you guys lost the war!"

Dixon has now ditched the tank, stolen an officer's uniform from one of the tank's crew, and infiltrated the German command center in Salerno. He wanders about offices, using a clipboard to make him look like he's on official business, and manages to glean secret intel on Nazi strategy.

He makes time to romance a sultry Italian girl – an actress as different from the dewy Clarisse as the director could possibly find – who discerns his true American identity from the purity of heart, his human decency and his strong jaw line. Naturally, she offers to assist him in espionage.

Alas, she is discovered and executed by an evil SS Agent. Dixon himself makes a narrow escape via the Germans' secret fleet of shiny, bubble-domed Bell helicopters, vintage 1960.

"The Geneva Convention," Garrett grumbles, "clearly states that armies are not allowed to use weapons that haven't been invented yet."

On his way out, Dixon strafes the air field and conducts a one-man Pearl Harbor, single-handedly destroying a large segment of the Italian air force.

Only upon landing safely behind British lines does Dixon discover that he's suffered a life-threatening wound, one that will require a long recuperation in some hospital in the Alps. Another romantic interlude follows, as he melts the heart of a cheerful British nurse who alone senses his more-than-physical suffering.

Dixon reveals his guilt to her over the death of his Italian collaborator during a halcyon moment in a garden on the banks of a Swiss lake, surrounded by the reverberating, dulcet calls of loons.

"Loons?" Garrett asks. "No fucking loons in Switzerland!"

Dixon scores with the nurse after she heals his emotional wounds, and it's back to the front lines for the stirring dénouement of our film. The Field Marshall himself hails the American's intrepid courage – so typical of these Yanks, he adds – and rewards Dixon with command of an infantry battalion to sweep up the east coast of the island, there to meet Patton's forces at Messina.

The Allies finally take Sicily. This is Dixon's finest moment. But it is short-lived. As he stands on a beach at the conclusion of the battle, delivering another speech about courage and sacrifice, a stray bullet fells him, and he dies handsomely in the arms of his companions.

The sun sets – in the east, oddly – on his dying words, a message of love to the bereft Clarisse, the girl he left behind.

The music swells. The tears flow. The heart soars. The word "Finis" appears on the screen, and the house lights come back up.

And there stands Alcott on the stage, bowing humbly to the cheers of the audience, gesturing to them in that "Oh you're much too kind!" way that full-of-themselves stage actors use at the end of some awful romantic comedy.

"That was the worst piece of shit I've ever seen," Garrett opines. "Worse than the _Omega Man_."

But the audience loved it. Now it's a standing ovation, punctuated with cheers, whistles, and the sound of feet stomping the floor. They're treating Alcott like he just finished writing _King Lear_.

Dr. French steps to the podium, once the din has died down. "We're going to take a short intermission, and reconvene at 9:00 p.m. for our question-and-answer session with the author," he announces, and leads the audience in yet another round of applause.

Garrett persuades Rose and Clamor to stick around. I, myself, have had enough. I take the remaining half-full bottle of wine, and walk to the Grove to finish it.

There are couples out tonight, under the stars and newly sprouted leaves. I find a spot under the giant magnolia and listen to someone playing a guitar in the dark. The wine is warming and goes down smooth. I've finished the bottle and am about to turn my steps toward home when I notice a tall figure herding a trip of wild rabbits – a dozen of them, at minimum – across the lawn.

~ ~ ~

Saturday, April 8

"We might as well face it," Blake manages to slur, head bobbing over the keys of his typewriter. "You and I are both losers. Okay? Failures. A waste of two placentas. Embarrassments to our respective mothers' wombs."

"God bless them," I add.

"God bless them," he agrees, lifting his glass of gin and tonic in toast. "God bless mothers everywhere. Be they yellow, red, black, brown or white. Be they shriven or not. Be they above ground or below. What was I saying?"

"Something about mothers. No, losers."

"Yes! Hopeless losers, both of us. But – and this is a big 'but' – you cannot help but feel yourself to be one of nature's most nearly perfect creations, if you simply compare yourself to _that_ fulsome pile of uselessness."

Here he points at Flop, the fat fur ball sprawled in the middle of the floor. As far as I can tell, she's been in that spot all day, and it's now past eight in the evening. Not even to go outside to whizz. The cat's too lazy to pee.

Every so often, the mice scuttle out in pairs from their new lair behind the couch to taunt her, running laps around her ponderous girth, kamikaze raids across her paws, at times even hopping atop her head and diving onto the floor from the tip of her nose. Flop manages a feeble swat in their general direction, heaves a sigh, and goes back to sleep.

I've spent the day watching, and reading Book 5 of the _Odyssey_ , fantasizing my own personal Ogygia, my own personal Calypso. "She doesn't do anything except lick her private parts," I say.

"I don't think that cat has quite grasped the concept of private parts."

"The Widow warned you she wasn't a mouser," I say. "Why not just take her back?"

"I tried to. The Widow doesn't want her back. Says her trailer actually smells good for the first time in years."

"Flop does have a distinctive body odor," I remark. "Maybe it's what the Widow's been feeding her – green beans, bacon fat, cornbread, leftover chitlins. Little wonder she stinks. Dr. Goodleigh feeds her monsters some kind of special dry food, and they all smell like fresh-washed babies."

"Are you saying you plan to keep her?"

"We can't very well throw her out for the dogs to eat."

"They wouldn't touch her. She smells too bad."

"Go ahead," I dare.

Blake gives her a long look, then returns to his drink and his pages. "Goddamnit. Another goddamn female in my life."

~ ~ ~

Sunday, April 9

I'm on Highway 7 on the way back to the trailer park. Jackson Browne is on the radio singing "Doctor My Eyes," the windows are down, a bank of clouds on the edge of the horizon has started turning a bluish shade of pink from at sunset, and a green Caddy is following maybe 50 yards behind me.

I've just now noticed it. I'd spotted it, without thinking one way or another about it, at the Shell station where I'd stopped for a refill. As I near the exit to 30, the radio starts playing "American Pie." Again. Probably the third time I've heard it today. I flick the radio off, take the exit and drive east on 30 slow, watching in the rearview mirror. Maybe 20 seconds after I make the turn, the Caddy appears on the road behind me.

I pull into the parking lot of the snow cone stand at the corner of Campground Road, kill the engine, and get out. The Caddy approaches, slows, and stops at the opposite end, motor running. It's been spotted. It knows, not even trying for deception now.

I order two raspberry snow cones from the attendant, carry them over to the Caddy, and tap against the smoked glass window on the driver's side. The window rolls down slowly to reveal Skoll's face, his gaze ironic.

"My treat," I say and hand him the second cone.

"Werry kind of you," he replies, accepting it. "Please to get in. Ve talk, okay?"

"So you're the one who keeps trying to run me over."

"I meant only to get your attention," Skoll reassures. "No danger. I am excellent driver, provessionally trained in wehicle dynamics, high speed chase, maneuvering. Vas meant to make you nerwous."

"I don't think I was ever truly nervous. Just puzzled as hell. Why did you keep dressing like an ugly woman?"

"Because I couldn't dress up like a _preety_ one!" Skoll chuckles to himself and sucks on his cone for a moment. With the windows closed and the heater set on high, the inside of the car has a stale, lived-in smell.

"This is your meeting," I prompt.

Skoll wipes purple flavoring from his lips with a paper napkin. "Thees conversation never happened, okay? I vant to geeve you little advice. Take your papa's money, do what he asks you to do."

"Why would I do that?"

"Your mama," he begins.

"Step mother," I remind him.

"Step mama. She deleevers in summer. Maybe she has girl baby. Your papa has no more need of you, and you get nothing. But maybe she has boy baby. Papa still wants you to do thees thing for him, only thees time he offers no money. He has judge in pocket, files papers, takes name instead."

"How does he do that?" I ask.

"He proves you are not his real son. Bastard. Illegitimate. Your mama vas beautiful voman, many admirers. Ve don't know who your true vather is."

I take another bite of my own cone, and mull this over. "You know, of course, that if he could prove that I'm not a Medway, that might be the best thing that ever happened to me."

Skoll gives me a look of compassion. It's disconcerting to see an actual human emotion cross his face. "No. Your mama was faithful vife. You'll alvays be Medway. All that happens is your mama's memory gets disgraced, and you get no money. Is good advice I give you. Do what papa vants. Do it now."

I attempt to placate Skoll by muttering a vague assurance that I'll consider his words, exit his car, begin walking back toward mine, but then turn back. I tap on his window again.

"That beating I took back in January," I begin.

He shakes his head. "No, that vasn't me."

We nod to each other. I start walking again, but return for one last question. Skoll hasn't rolled the window up, expecting this.

"That kid you hassled on Tyler," I prompt.

"Hippie vith big ears poking out?"

"That's the guy. What did you say that scared him so much?"

Skoll looks pleased with himself. "That boy has devil chasing him. I know. I offered to let devil know vhere to find him."

"That wasn't very nice."

"I'm not werry nice man," Skoll shrugs.

~ ~ ~

Monday, April 10

"Dean Moriarty is telling people that you're the most dangerous man on campus," Dr. Goodleigh reports upon her return from her 10:00 Classical Art class.

Little Becky has paid a visit to the Museum, almost unbearably pretty in a wispy little tri-pastel, tailored, long-hemmed and long-sleeved dress that makes her look like she just stepped off a page of _The Faerie Queene_.

"It's an honor just to be nominated," I reply.

She drops her pile of books with a thump onto my desk, appraises the loveliness of Becky in her spring attire, and returns her attention to me. "I've heard reports of a disturbance Friday night in Bishop auditorium. Hippies heckling Alcott."

"I had nothing to do with that. I wasn't even there. I decided to leave so I could be sick in private once the movie ended. I was in the Grove, watching some old guy herd rabbits."

"The Ranger is back?" Goodleigh asks. "I haven't seen him in a good four or five years. He was charming blue jays and squirrels in the Grove back then. A very unusual man. But back to the question: you truly weren't there?"

"I'm innocent."

"That's good. Bill Sutherland will be relieved," she says. "He's taking heat from the Lyceum to rescind your graduate assistanceship. Moriarty is threatening to do it himself, if Bill doesn't act."

"Can Moriarty do that?"

"Technically. Nine months ago I would have guessed nobody would take such a drastic step. But in light of what's already happened this year . . . well, it might not be a bad idea for you to begin looking for other work."

~ ~ ~

Tuesday, April 11

" _So what_ if you lose your job?" Nick inquires. "You have like $3,000 in the bank. You could live years on that much."

"That's tainted money. It came from my father," I explain. "My stipend from the Museum is $95 a month. Without that, I'd have to curtail my bon vivant lifestyle pretty severely. Give up weed. Give up alcohol. Give up food. Clothing. Shelter."

The lobby to the _Oxford Eagle_ is empty as we step through the heavy glass door. I ding the little hand bell, and we wait for a minute before an employee takes notice. She's Mrs. Pearson, the heavyset, 60-ish blonde I've seen dozens of times in Blaylock's over the past year.

"Can I help you?" she asks.

Nick is the first to speak. "We need to take out an ad in the paper."

The clerk glances at Nick, then at me, then back to Nick. "I'm guessing you found this wandering the street, and you're trying to locate its owner," she says, pointing to me. "Save yourself the trouble, and just drop it off at the animal shelter."

"I'm the one taking out the ad," I tell her.

She draws back in feigned surprise. "It can talk?"

"I want to offer myself for hire," I say.

"As what? We already have a village idiot and a town drunk." This woman seems to be taking offense to my presence in her office. Or maybe it's my appearance.

"As painter and interior designer to Oxford's elite," Nick interjects, protectively. "Have you ever visited the Russell mansion on North Lamar? He painted the ballroom. The man's a genius, an artist. I'm a painter myself. I can testify to his credentials."

"I also painted both the men's and the ladies' rest rooms at the Greyhound station," I brag. "I think I need a really classy ad to let the goodly folk of Oxford know I've returned from a two years of travel, painting for the crowned heads of Europe."

She scoots a pencil and a pad of paper across the counter to me, explains about rates (number of words, spaces, and letters, number of issues the ad will appear in – a complex equation of many variables that I decide to ignore) and invites me to compose my ad.

I think, write, think some more, scratch a few words out, add a few new ones, tighten up the syntax, transpose information points to catch the reader's attention from the very first word, polish, edit, polish some more, and put the pencil down.

Mrs. Pearson takes the pad, and reads my thoughtfully-composed 15 words of copy. "Not bad," she admits. "But you forgot to include your phone number."

"I don't have a phone."

"No phone?"

"No ma'am."

"How do you expect people to contact you?"

"You should get a phone, man," Nick suggests.

"Never. You know why."

"How about an address?" Mrs. Pearson asks.

"I suspect the place where I'm living doesn't officially exist."

"P.O. box?"

"The post office is staffed by narcs."

Mrs. Pearson is losing patience.

"You can use our phone number," Nick offers.

"Suzie wouldn't mind?"

"Course not. Suzie loves you. Suzie's my wife," he says, turning to Mrs. Pearson. "She's almost eight months pregnant. I'm going to be a father."

"Lord preserve us," Mrs. Pearson says.

~ ~ ~

Wednesday, April 12

"Wake up," I say, shaking Blake's shoulder. "C'mon, man, wake up. I've gotta know if you're hearing this."

Flop, slumbering on the floor, rolls over to expose her full moon of a bloated, furry belly, and blinks at me before going back to sleep. She doesn't seem alarmed. That's a good sign.

"Blake! Wake up. It's time to wake up!"

He belches a cloud of gin fumes, but keeps his eyes closed. "What time is it?"

I glance over at the clock. "3:17."

"Hell. That's no time to wake up." His eyelids are forming little slits now, crescents of bloodshot white showing behind. "I'm drunk," he slurs. "Help me up."

"No, man. Listen. You can't go down there. You can't go into your room."

"Why not? Who says I can't?"

"Just listen. Be quiet for a second, and listen."

I put my finger to my lips, the universal sign for "shut the fuck up." Blake arches his brows in curious compliance, and tilts his head at an angle supposedly suggestive of rapt attention.

The racket of voices, squeals, laughter and occasional whistles rolls down the darkened hallway from the back of our trailer, from his room. Somebody's having a swell time down there – except that I've already checked, and the room is empty.

Blake listens, hears, and lifts a derisive eyebrow at me. "You woke me up for the voices?" I sense an accusation there. "Goddammit, I was having a sex dream. Jane Fonda was in it."

"What _is_ that?" I demand to know.

"The voices. I already told you. The witch left them behind. They're harmless. Go back to sleep," Blake mutters, and instantly follows his own advice.

Flop sighs and farts in her sleep.

I'm left sitting alone at the table, listening to the party at the dark end of the hallway.

~ ~ ~

Thursday, April 13

"I should warn you," Dr. Valencia says in reply to my repeated request to be strapped to the Russian brain machine, "that some patients have reported certain side-effects."

"Such as?" I ask.

"Headaches, insomnia, vertigo, somnambulism."

"Sleep walking?" I say. "No worry there. I already sleepwalk. Hell, I have blackouts in the middle of the day. Yesterday, I came to and found myself driving a delivery car for Kiame's. The manager says I stopped in, applied for the job, and was hired on the spot."

"There's no future in delivering pizzas," Dr. Valencia advises. "You should stick to house painting."

"You're telling me. I didn't even get a damn tip."

~ ~ ~

Friday, April 14

The reporter from the _Commercial Appeal_ appraises Jenny Tyson's law office, from the shelves of legal reference books, to the scarred oak desk where an avuncular Dr. Evans sits smoking his pipe in a seersucker suit, to the glass door that leads onto the porch above Sneed's hardware and a panorama of the Square at mid-day.

"Wow. This is like something right out of Faulkner."

The reporter herself is decidedly not Faulknerian. Nina Fairchild is an emaciated woman dressed all in black. With a set of cheekbones so sharp you could whet a hunting knife on them, and her tangle of Medusa-like black hair, she looks like a figure in a playbill drawn by Aubrey Beardsley.

Despite appearances, Miss Fairchild has a delicate air about her, a rather touching shy awkwardness that she manages to keep hidden until the moment Garrett enters the office, here at Jenny's invitation as our journalistic go-between, the one person in town who finally managed to persuade the Memphis staff to pay some attention to the _Barefoot_ case.

Jenny, Dr. Evans and I fill her in on the background of the suit. Miss Fairchild has requested an interview with someone in the Lyceum, only to be refused.

She asks questions, scribbles notes. We answer, attempting to be quote-worthy. The hearing has been scheduled May 18 in Judge Watters' court. No, the author of the contested story hasn't agreed to testify yet. No, we don't know whether the University will invite Edward Alcott to serve as an expert witness.

Miss Fairchild jots down every detail, but I notice that her eyes keep returning to Garrett. Tatyana persuaded him to shave his beard during his visit to North Carolina, and she trimmed his hair to pull back into a long blonde ponytail that falls to his shoulder blades. I glance at her, glancing at him, and Garrett glancing back at her.

Love is in the air.

As the interview concludes, Garrett suggests coffee at Grundy's before Miss Fairchild begins her return trip to Memphis. The others of us politely decline, leaving Miss Fairchild and Garrett free to talk shop over coffee.

I drop by the Ohm at 6:00 to invite Garrett to the Buddha for dinner, but stop halfway up the stairway when I catch sight of the two of them sitting on the waterbed, sharing a joint.

I note that Miss Fairchild's hair seems even more riotously tangled than it was earlier in the day. They don't spot me. I turn and descend the steps on tiptoe.

~ ~ ~

Saturday, April 15

"Are you boys from the college?" the Man in the Quaker State Cap asks us, sliding into the empty chair at our little table. He's been keeping an eye on us from under the brim of his cap for the past 10 minutes or more, sizing us up, apparently trying to decide whether to approach.

The band keeps rocking loud, but the bar patrons fall silent as he steps away from the bar and crosses the room to our table.

"Are you boys from the college?"

"Yes," Blake says.

"What are you studying?"

"I'm in History. The French Revolution." Blake gestures toward me. "He's in ancient Greek literature, for reasons known only to him."

He nods. "Growing up, I wanted to go to Ole Miss. But I never had the chance. Too late now, I guess."

"Lot of guys your age are there now on the GI Bill," Blake says.

Another nod. "I served in the Army. Guess I'd qualify."

"What would you like to study?"

"Physics," he says, without a pause for thought. "Subatomic particles. The space-time continuum. Unified field theory. Einstein, Neils Bohr, Heisenberg. Those cats are my heroes. Do you think I could enroll in some classes on them? Could you boys talk to someone in the college, to let me in?"

"Dr. Glass is the chairman of the department," I offer. "I can contact him, see if we can set up an interview."

The Man offers one final nod as he rises from the table to return to the bar. "Appreciate it. Just let me know."

~ ~ ~

Sunday, April 16

This reception for the Art Department's Spring Gallery Display seemed like a brilliant idea last Tuesday when Dr. Goodleigh egged me into inviting Little Becky to join me for an afternoon of art appreciation.

It's turning out to be a far less subdued event than I'd remembered from my undergraduate days. Instead of a Junior League style soiree featuring still lives of fruit bowls, oil paintings of magnolias in blossom, and watercolor portraits of grandmothers, this year's installation consists of mainly of nudes in every imaginable medium – acrylics, pastels, charcoal, bronzes, woodcuts, mobiles, photographs – along with enormous canvases of angry abstract paintings in passionate colors and violent brushstrokes. The timid, mousy artists of my memory, too, have been replaced by a troupe of savage Bohemians who argue, smoke, swear and spill their drinks on the floor.

Someone's spiked the fruit punch with vodka. I take one sip and leave my cup on a nearby table. Becky nurses hers as we go from one display to the next, politely observing the decorum of cultured art lovers, despite the hubbub around us. This involves stopping before each piece, gazing in appreciation, and exchanging learned remarks on its aesthetic properties.

Being confronted with a long succession of breasts, bottoms, backs and elegant, sensuous limbs, we're quickly running short of new remarks. We're standing at what should be an appropriate distance from each other for this kind of event, but when I feel Becky's breath on my face as she's speaking, and note how many times we touch, I realize our innocent little date is taking on the appearance of a seduction – a seduction which Becky, already a little tipsy from the vodka, seems willing to cooperate with.

A savior, of sorts, appears at my elbow as we approach an odalisque in ceramic tiles. Clamor separates herself from one of the knots of loud Bohemians and joins us, wearing a drunken grin and her camouflage jacket. I'm relieved to see her.

"Are any of these pieces yours?" Becky asks.

She shrugs. "No. I didn't make the cut this semester. The judges were assholes. I posed for some of them, though."

"Posed?"

"I was the model."

"Which ones?" Becky wishes to know.

"Oh, Daniel here should be able to point them out," she says, giving my ass a playful slap as she departs to rejoin her comrades.

Becky blinks upward at me, her look teasing. "What does she mean by that?"

"Nothing. She's just yanking my chain."

Becky links her arm in mine, and draws me on to the odalisque. "Okay. If you say so."

~ ~ ~

Monday, April 17

"Front page of the Mid-South section, Mr. Medway," Dr. Goodleigh informs me when I arrive in her office. She shows me the _Commercial Appeal_ headline: "Student Writers Sue Ole Miss in Censorship Dispute." Byline: Nina Fairchild.

I open the Museum and read the story at my little table.

It's a tightly-written 300-word piece, solid on all the facts and chronology of the case, with two quotes from Dr. Evans and one from Jenny Tyson. "Our request for an interview with a University official were declined," she says in the closing line.

Just as I finish reading, I find the strange little sepulchral old man once more staring at me from behind the bust of Vitellius.

I retire to Goodleigh's office. "Dr. Linen is pestering me again," I complain.

"You can work in here," she offers. "I have typing for you anyway."

It's the third draft of the article she's writing for _Archeology_ , on the depictions of Hades' abduction of Persephone in Attic red-figure ware.

"How was your date with the lovely Miss Becky?" she asks, as I roll a fresh sheet of paper around the paten.

"Uncomfortable. An entire show of nudes. Sort of like that day when you gave that slide show lecture about sex in Greek art. Remember that? Remember how none of the guys in the class dared leave the room until about five minutes after the bell rang?"

She barks another of her patented laughs that echoes down the hall of Bondurant and likely causes heads to appear in office doorways, wondering what the ruckus is about.

"Ha! I give that lecture every year, always the session before Thanksgiving break. A little holiday treat for the boys. I'm a wicked old maid!"

~ ~ ~

Tuesday, April 18

Clamor starts singing:

Sweet talkin' guy

Talkin' sweet kind of lies

Don't you believe in him

If you do, he'll make you cry

Her voice is a tart soprano, like a ripened berry, all the vowels deeper and more southern when she's singing than when she talks.

We're walking together across the Loop during the noon class change. The song seems to sparkle in the cool air, to drift upward into the boughs of newly-green trees, to shimmer among the branches.

She puts me in mind of Wallace Stevens' seaward singer on the beach at Key West. Then I think of the night Melissa and I dropped acid on her back porch, another April sometime back, her singing "Deep Purple," with me on harmonica. Then I think of Valerie, and Ashley, and Cindy. Somehow, even Amy comes jostling into my reverie, unbidden, as Clamor sings on:

He'll bring you flowers

And paint the town with another girl

He's a sweet-talkin', sweet-talkin', sweet-talkin' guy!

All the foot traffic on the Loop seems to slow and then to halt, as students and professors pause to listen to the unusual girl with the honeyed voice warbling a sweet old song from a decade of past innocence. For a moment, the Ole Miss campus is all smiles and harmony, and I feel like we're in a scene from a movie, a musical, and in any second we'll all break into song. Or into blossom.

Instead, there's the roar of a crowd, someplace nearby. A siren wails, three campus squad cars squeal around the Loop, and cops start running toward the library, shouting into walkie-talkies.

"Flasher again?" Clamor wonders aloud.

"Let's go see."

The cops are already dispersing the crowd by the time we reach the east lawn of the Library. The show is over, apparently, having lasted no more than 15 seconds. But in that brief time, the Flasher has managed to expose himself to dozens, maybe even hundreds, of pedestrians below from the roof of the Library building itself. His most audacious feat so far.

Among the bystanders, I spot Little Becky, being led from the scene on the arm of her faithful squire Keith. He's flushed, wearing an expression of outrage. Becky, however, appears to be convulsed with mirth.

It's Becky's opinion that the Flasher is the funniest thing she's ever seen. Keith is not inclined to agree.

"I find nothing humorous in perversion," he objects. "That man is sick at heart and a menace to society. He should be locked away for the good of the ladies and the children of this town."

"Leave the guy alone," Clamor replies. "He's not doing anybody harm."

Keith fixes her with a glare. "I have not had the honor of making your acquaintance, sir," he says, "but I most vehemently object to your permissive attitude toward indecent conduct."

He stops speaking and glances from Clamor to Becky to me, then back to Becky, sensing that he's made some kind of blunder.

"Keith," Becky says, "I'd like you to meet my friend Claire Marie."

Dumbstruck for no more than half a second, Keith manages to recover. "My honor, miss. I apologize for my confusion. It was, I believe, simply the jacket and the haircut that momentarily confused me."

Clamor extends her hand for a shake. "And the fact that I'm an Amazon, right?"

"Why no . . . not at all."

As Keith offers his own hand to shake, Clamor seizes it fast and pulls him off balance, so that he trips forward and into her. "Girl – feel?" she asks.

Keith rights himself, straightens, takes two steps back. "I do beg your pardon," he says. "Rebecca," he says, "allow me to escort you to your Sociology class. I believe you're already late."

He strides away with a backward glance at me. "Mr. Medway, we will meet again, I'm certain."

~ ~ ~

Wednesday, April 19

The Widow motions us into her trailer like a pair of foolhardy adventurers. It's true that the dog packs don't generally go roaming in a downpour like the one that's going on tonight, but they've been known to venture out in bad weather from time to time.

The only weapon Joan and I managed to find by way of self-protection is an old tennis racquet in Blake's closet. I was the one who volunteered to enter his bedroom to retrieve it, while all the demon voices gibbered at me in some unknown tongue. Somehow the dogs don't feel quite as threatening after that experience.

"Blake's missing?" she asks, as we explain the cause of our visit. "Since yesterday morning?"

"He was typing at the kitchen table when I left for work," I explain. "Gone when I came back last evening."

"He took one of his neckties with him," Joan adds, "and his good shoes."

"I didn't know he owns a good pair of shoes," the Widow says.

"You were around yesterday," Joan prompts. "We're wondering if you saw him leave."

She ponders for a moment, trying to remember. "I didn't," she decides, with a shake of the head.

"We should ask Mr. Duck, and the others," Joan says.

"Hold on, you two," the Widow says as we start to leave. "I'm not going to let you leave here without protection."

She turns and vanishes down the hall. I suppose she's going to find a more substantial weapon for us, maybe a cane or a baseball bat. Instead she returns with a poncho and a shotgun. She dons the poncho, loads both chambers of the shotgun, and says, "All right. Let's go. We're none of us getting any younger."

As we turn back to the door, the Widow adds, sotto voce, "Damn fool kids. I wouldn't be going out on a night like this if it weren't the Christian thing to do."

I open the door, and the three of us step out into the rain, looking for Blake.

~ ~ ~

Thursday, April 20

Midnight in Oxford, but everybody in town – not just me, for a change – seems to be awake.

Pedestrians fill the sidewalks of the Square. The usual troupes of old-timers play checkers under the lamp posts around the Courthouse. The Rebel Buddha has kept its doors and its kitchen open, and the dining room is three-quarters full with customers eating plates of Moo Goo Gai Pan, sweet and sour pork, pepper steak, and egg rolls.

My feet take me west on University Avenue, past the old Earth, past St. Marys church, past the Education Building, over the bridge, and into the Grove, a fair but dark field of folk. This collective insomnia has seized the campus as well.

I stroll past couples lying together in the grass, solitary musicians with guitars, circles of students sharing joints and laughter, and poets finding halos of lamplight to scribble in notebooks. In the center of the Grove I find the Ranger entertaining a dozen or more sleepless boys and coeds with rabbit tricks.

He has ten rabbits following him tonight. He whistles to them, points a finger and traces an imaginary circle, counter-clockwise. The rabbits dance a little jig, leaping in choreographed precision as he points to one after another. He whistles again, makes a rolling motion with his hand, and the rabbits fall to the ground and roll over and over, back and forth across the ground. He whistles again, makes an upward slicing movement in the air. The rabbits form a straight line and begin playing leap frog, the second in line leaping over the first, the fourth over the third, the sixth over the fifth, and so on.

Everyone applauds. The Ranger doffs his old, weathered Pittsburgh Pirates baseball cap to the crowd, and then passes it among us for donations.

This is my first up-close look at him. He's a wild man. A hermit. Barefooted, frayed jeans that are too short for his inhumanly long legs, a pair of suspenders looped over his gaunt shoulders, an open-necked dun-colored cotton shirt exposing an emaciated chest. Impossible to tell his age. He might be as young as me, or as old as the hills. Skinny, long-faced, leather-skinned, arachnodactyliac. Kind eyes. Soft, deep voice.

I dig two dollars bills from my pocket when the cap comes around to me, the last in the circle, and hand it back to the Ranger. He catches my eye then, just as I catch sight of an old friend waiting nearby, in the shadows.

It's Citizen. I go down on one knee and click my tongue to call him. Citizen steps out and approaches, tail wagging.

"So, you can see that dog, can you? Not everybody can." The Ranger bends down beside me, both of us now patting Citizen, ruffling his fur, stroking his head. He's enjoying the attention.

"Sounds like you're old friends," I say.

"Been seeing this dog every time I've passed through Oxford," the Ranger says. "That's been 25, maybe 30, years back."

"Can't have been the same dog," I say. "He's not that old."

The Ranger straightens, stands, continuing to pat Citizen's head. The rabbits have scattered into a wide circle, nibbling grass in the moonlight, but they hop to attention and line up when the Ranger whistles again.

"Same dog all right," he says. "Some things in nature aren't subject to time, that's all." Suddenly there's a cane in his hand. "Work to do. Come on, rabbits."

He turns and walks off into the night. The rabbits follow. Citizen follows, too.

~ ~ ~

Friday, April 21

I don't see the point to this office call, but Joan is insistent that I accompany her. Somehow she's gotten the idea in her head that Claprood and I are bosom buddies, and that he'll launch an investigation into Blake's disappearance because of our friendship.

My presence in the office does, at least, gain us an interview with the sheriff himself, though I suspect Joan's looks alone would have probably accomplished the same end. Every cop in the place drops what he's doing as we enter, stopping to crane and gawk at the goddess on their doorstep.

Sheriff Claprood is polite, empathetic, professional. He asks questions, jots notes, and tries to reassure Joan that the likelihood of Blake's being the victim of foul play is small.

"Still," he says, "we have a description of your friend, along with the make and model and license plate number of the car. My men will keep an eye out, and I'll alert some other jurisdictions. If he shows up in the meantime – which I'm sure he will – just give me a call, okay?"

We assume the interview has ended and start to rise. Claprood remains at his desk, and gestures for us to resume sitting.

"I have news that might interest you. I've been on the phone with the sheriff's office over in Chapel Hill, and have persuaded them to shorten your friend's sentence. He may be back in town as early as next week."

"You mean my ex-husband," Joan says.

"You were married to James McKenna?" Claprood asks. "My lord. That must have been awful."

"You have no idea."

"Nobody's really missed James around here," I say. "Still, it was kind of you to intervene on his behalf."

"I'm not motivated by kindness," Claprood corrects. "The truth is that I need him back here. I'm inclined to believe that he represents our best chance to finally locate Tamburlaine. Some of the FBI boys down in Jackson are of the same opinion."

"Tamburlaine doesn't exist," Joan says.

"That's just what they want you to think," Claprood says. "He exists. And he's someplace close. Do you remember that convoy around Thanksgiving time?" he asks me. "There have been three others since then, all U.S. Army deployments triggered by reliable sightings of Tamburlaine. Those boys don't go chasing after imaginary targets."

~ ~ ~

Saturday, April 22

The campus is mobbed for Earth Day. I eventually find a parking space back around my old undergraduate haunting grounds at Garland Hall, and walk from there to the Grove.

A girl is singing "Sad Eyed Lady of the Lowlands" on the outdoor stage by Ventress Hall when I arrive. She's followed by some professor talking about the relationship of climate to political upheaval in Bangladesh. He's interrupted by a disturbance on the edge of the crowd, a rumor that the Flasher has made another appearance.

I wade my way closer to the stage, and discover Raven Bright and her coven prepping for a drum and chant number in celebration of Gaia. She recognizes me, and inquires about "that bastard you're rooming with."

I report that Blake's gone missing. She hopes he's dead in a ditch somewhere.

I begin to thread my way out of the thicket of students. A lovely young woman in a halter top is riding a horse bareback along the Loop. I spot Citizen and the Ranger near the steps of the Law Building, and decide to join them. Just as the witches take the stage, I'm intercepted by Garrett.

He has three scrawny undergraduate guys in tow. We're introduced – Mike, Harley and somebody else. They're all sharing my old room on Tyler Avenue.

"We're on a commando raid," Garrett tells me. "Want to be our lookout?"

It seems like an odd time for a raid, but I trust Garrett's wisdom in these matters. He leads us to the rear stage entrance to Fulton Chapel. He's parked the bus at the foot of the hill, beside a dumpster. I take my position, standing watch from a vantage point that gives me a view of both the bus and the stage door. Garrett leads his cohort into Fulton. No one's around. Everybody's in the Grove. The raiding party reappears a few minutes later, each carrying several plastic garment bags, the kind you might see at a dry cleaning shop. Or in the backstage of a theater, for storing costumes.

"Not stealing," Garrett assures me, as we pull away in the bus. "Borrowing. We'll sneak them back as soon as we're done with them."

"What's in the bags?" I ask.

"Show him."

The boys unzip a few of the bags for my inspection. Inside are women's ball gowns, antebellum style, with hoop skirts, brocade, lace, frills. Scarlet O'Hara shit.

"I'm not even going to ask what you want these for," I say.

"Best not to," Garrett says from the driver's seat. "It would spoil the surprise."

~ ~ ~

Sunday, April 23

It's night in the trailer at the edge of the woods in Lafayette County, Mississippi. All is blessed silence, except for the occasional noise of Flop farting, the scuttle of mice in the cupboards, and the pop-pop-pop of gunfire from the ravine, where Duck and the Widow are firing at the wild dogs.

But no more voices. Joe Cocker's on my stereo, I've poured three fingers of Jim Beam into my cup, and Herodotus is telling me the story of how Amasis tricked the Egyptians into worshipping a statue made from a chamber-pot.

Just as I'm relishing the full sweetness of my solitude most, it is broken by the sound of voices coming from outside the trailer, followed by the tromping of a dozen or more feet on the gravel outside. The door flies open, and Blake enters with a party behind him. Joan, clinging tipsy to Blake's arm, is the only guest I know personally, but I recognize many of the others – grad students from the History department, and a few younger professors, including Blake's dissertation director, Dr. Schreyer.

"The prodigal returns," I say, by way of welcome.

Blake appears not to hear, or see, me. The guests scatter about our tiny living room and kitchenette. Flop holds her position in the middle of the floor as a herd of clumsy feet stomp around her. Joan trips into the empty chair beside me at the table.

"You won't believe what's happened," she says. "Blake's been offered a teaching position at Tulane. Assistant Professor, tenure track."

"That is friggin' unbelievable," I admit.

"That's where he's been all this time, being interviewed. He didn't tell anybody, so as not to jinx his chances. He starts at the end of August, and he wants me to come with him. We're moving to New Orleans!"

"Mississippi will grieve your departure," I say, "but you'll take the town by storm."

"All he needs to do," Joan says – and at these words, I feel an undertow of dread grab my legs, "is finish his dissertation by the deadline."

We both turn our eyes toward Blake, who's now attempting to chug down half a bottle of Stolichnaya as his crowd of friends clap in rhythm to egg him on.

"Okay, a party tonight," Joan says. "He's earned one. But starting tomorrow, it's the straight and narrow for him until he's finished. You'll help me watch him, won't you? Keep him away from alcohol?"

Naturally, I say "yes."

~ ~ ~

Monday, April 24

"Elvis wants to study Physics at Ole Miss?" Dr. Glass repeats after me, once I've explained the reason for my visit to his office.

"Yes, sir."

"Elvis Presley?"

"Yes, sir."

"And he told you this himself?"

"Yes, sir. A week ago Saturday, at Skeeter's in Holly Springs."

Dr. Glass switches the intercom button on his phone to reach the department's secretary. "Miss Lief, please hold my calls." He leans back in his chair, folds his hands over his big paunch of a stomach, and regards me. His jowls and mismatched eyes make him look like a superannuated bulldog, but his voice is like molasses. "Elvis Presley," he muses. "My, my, my. He would be quite a feather in our caps."

"Yes, sir," I agree.

"We'd truly outshine the University of Kentucky," he says. "Do you know that their Physics Department was only able to recruit Pat Boone?"

"Sir?"

"Texas A&M has the Everly Brothers in their department, which I find a little embarrassing, to be honest with you. Tony Bennett is at Penn State, and I believe Bobby Darin's up in Michigan. Word is that Stanford's department is courting Wayne Newton pretty seriously. That would be a coup for them, but it's nothing in comparison to Elvis, is it? And just imagine having him as an alumnus. Big movie star like Elvis could provide very lucrative bequests. What do you think – maybe a particle accelerator for the college?"

He pronounces it "pah-ti-cul."

Glass wears his most ironic expression. He doesn't believe me about Elvis. Upon reflection, I lost faith in this tale myself. The whole thing is ridiculous.

"I wouldn't know," I say, rising to leave.

"Oh, I think it's a fine idea," Dr. Glass continues. "The University of Mississippi Elvis Presley Particle Accelerator. Yes, sir, that sounds nice."

"Shall I see myself out?" I ask.

"Yes," he answers. "If you'd be so kind."

~ ~ ~

Tuesday, April 25

The crowd at the Rebel Buddha appears to be thinning out as I drive past on my way back to the trailer, so I decide to stop for supper instead of trying for a tv dinner at Kroger's, where the manager – if he's on duty tonight – will be sure to hassle me again.

The beautiful waitress (whose name, Garrett tells me, is Bella) greets me at the door. "The chef is taking a breather," she tells me, with a glance that assures me that we both understand what that means. "The kitchen is closed for right now, but I can get you soup or an egg roll."

I ask for a bowl of wonton soup and a Coke. She invites me to take any empty table I fancy. It's then that I notice Keith with three fraternity brothers in the booth by the wall. I choose a seat at the far end of the dining room, with my back to them.

I may not have to look at them, but their conversation is loud enough for the entire room to hear.

"Goddamn, what is that shit on your plate?" one asks another.

"It's called Moo Goo Gai Pan."

"It looks like baby vomit."

Keith's voice follows. "As educated gentlemen, we should endeavor to be open to different cultures. No matter how ignorant or corrupt other nations may be, in comparison to the United States of America, the Lord created them as part of His unfathomable plan."

"Egg rolls look like a fried dicks," says the voice of the baby vomit metaphorist. Clearly a deep thinker. I'm starting to wish I'd gone to Kroger's instead.

"I agree with Keith," another says. "We need to try new things. For example – did I ever tell you boys about the time I had sex with the Chinese girl?"

"No," says the deep thinker. "How was it?"

"An hour later, I was horny again."

The kitchen door swings open, and Bella enters the room with a tray bearing my soup and the Coke I ordered, just in time to overhear this last exchange of information. She sets the food at my table without a word, and then turns to them.

"You guys can either clean your mouths, or leave," she commands.

I expect a retort from the booth, but none comes. She's got them cowed.

Keith waits a few moments before answering on his table's behalf. "I apologize for my friends, Miss. They are unaccustomed to being in polite society. However, it isn't seemly for a woman to address men in that tone of voice."

"I'm not kidding around," Bella warns them. "I'll kick your asses right out of here."

Bella returns to the kitchen. I turn to my wonton soup, and do my best to pay no attention to the conversation from the booth. The voices have lowered, and sometimes cease altogether, replaced by the noise of eager mastication. Then more talk, followed by an explosion of snorting that I believe suggest outbursts of laughter. Forest sounds, animal noises.

The kitchen door opens a sliver. Dr. Hirsch's face peeps out through the crack, and grins at me. He enters the dining room with a tray of his own, bearing a teapot and a cup, and invites himself to join me.

"I never see you anymore, now that you've moved out of the house. Garrett's new friends are fun, but it hasn't been the same since you left."

"I hear that James will be home soon," I say.

"Yes, we're all very excited. We're hoping, of course, that he'll be here for the pilgrimage."

"What pilgrimage?"

"Next Sunday's pilgrimage. You're invited, too, of course."

"There's a pilgrimage on Sunday? Where to?"

Dr. Hirsch doesn't get the chance to answer. As he opens his mouth, Keith and his friends rise from their booth and begin a noisy trek through the dining room to the cash register, where Bella waits, casting baleful looks at them.

One clutches his stomach. "Oh, man, think I'm gonna' be sick."

"What do you expect?" another replies. "You're not supposed to eat baby vomit. You're an _American_ , boy."

A bit of stagecraft follows, as the third member of the party pretends to spot me for the first time. "Keith!" he shouts, "Isn't that the son of a bitch that's trying to snake your girl?"

Keith's voice is cold, the expression on his face colder. "That is the one," he says, and turns to pay their bill.

"Hell," the friend says, "he's no competition. You got nothing to worry about. Look at him. He's just a queer boy, having himself some dinner with a queer old man."

The one claiming a stomachache pretends to reel about, clutching his gut. "I've been poisoned!"

Keith seems eager to get out. "Let's not have a scene," he advises his brothers. "Remember that we represent our House." He hands the check and several bills to Bella. "Just keep the change."

"You boys aren't welcome here," Bella says, slamming the cash register closed. "Don't come back. We've got a madwoman with a meat cleaver back in the kitchen who'd just love to chop the four of you into tiny little pieces."

"There is no need to threaten," Keith says. "We will not patronize this establishment in the future."

The room breaks into spontaneous applause at this announcement. There may be 20 or so customers left – students, professors, townies, middle-aged couples, elderly women – all of us aligned against Keith and his brothers.

Keith blanches, then blushes, scowls once at me, and departs.

~ ~ ~

Wednesday, April 26

I arrive ten minutes earlier than usual for today's shift in the Museum, and discover Dr. Goodleigh in what appears to be a serious conversation with Little Becky. I consider knocking to enter, but the dark glance Dr. Goodleigh shoots toward me at the doorway tells me to stay out of it.

She finds me at my little desk a short time later, and makes a demand. "Mr. Medway, I need your car keys."

"Why?" I ask.

"I need to drive to town. Right now."

"I thought you didn't know how to drive."

"Of course I know how to drive. I just happen to be a very bad driver, and elected to take myself off the road out of concern for public safety and welfare."

"How bad?"

"Twelve accidents in five years."

I reach, reluctantly, into my pocket, but can't bring myself to hand the key over to her. She taps an impatient toe of one thigh-high leather boot at my indecision. I return the keys to my pocket with a feeble, "I'm sorry. No."

"All right," she snaps. "You drive us, then. But you're to stay in the car, and not ask any questions."

Becky and Dr. Goodleigh are waiting on the porch of Bondurant as I pull into the parking lot. Becky climbs into the back seat, without a word, without even a glance in my direction. Dr. Goodleigh takes the passenger seat, and directs me to the Square.

It's just turned after noon when we arrive, the busiest weekday time for the Square, and no parking spaces to be found. I drop them off at the corner of South Lamar.

"This will only take a few minutes," Goodleigh tells me. "Just drive. Keep circling. We'll rendezvous back here."

"Where are you going?"

"No questions." She slams the door behind her.

I'm on my sixth circle round the courthouse, and am starting to worry over having been tricked into driving the getaway car for the ladies' heist of the First National Bank, when I finally see them and ease over to the corner to pick them up.

Becky's mood seems to have lightened. It almost looks like she's been laughing. Dr. Goodleigh, by contrast, is clearly angrier after their errand – whatever it was – than before it.

I remember her injunction against questions, and figure that my safest course is to say nothing at all.

~ ~ ~

Thursday, April 27

Some freak has commandeered the Lyceum's fake carillon again. For this particular class change hour, it normally plays a tinkley version of "The Old Rugged Cross," cut six on the _All Hail to the Red, White and Blue: Carillons for Patriots_ album the college has been playing since my junior year.

Today, however, it's playing Country Joe McDonald's "Feel Like I'm Fixing to Die Rag." A classic Garrison Mason trick, I think to myself, and suddenly feel a little vertigo of disorientation, as if I've stepped through a time portal into the past, and I'm back in one of those heady spring afternoons before the Mickey Mouse Brigade bust.

A chance glimpse of my reflection in the side mirror of a panel truck returns me to the present. Yes, that's me now – several degrees shabbier, and a good 30 pounds skinnier than I was back in those happy days.

I think of Jenny and the _Barefoot_ trial. She advised me, the day of the _Commercial Appeal_ interview, that I mustn't appear in Judge Watters' looking like a vagrant. She said I needed to get a haircut, and she was right.

I decide to ditch my afternoon class. I dig around in my pockets and find $4.86 in bills and change – enough, I guess, to afford a barber – and turn back toward town, crossing the Grove, down the steps to the railroad tracks, past the depot (now designated off-limits with a sign announcing "Private Property of the First Baptist Church"), and onto Jackson Avenue.

The two-chair barbershop that I used to visit every other week as a freshman, then less and less often in my succeeding undergraduate days, is still in business. As usual for a weekday, only one barber is on duty, giving a shave to a white-haired gentleman who's most likely a lawyer from the firm three doors up the street. Five straightback chairs in the waiting room are occupied, but I find an empty sixth, sit, open a September 1969 copy of _Field and Stream_ , and wait my turn.

The shave ends. The lawyer pays the barber and leaves. The barber slaps his towel on the newly-vacated chair and calls, "Next!"

The shop is silent. I'm reading an article about smallmouth bass fishing in Ohio.

"Next!" the barber calls again.

I sense eyes on me. I look up from the magazine, to find every head in the place turned in my direction.

"Next!" the barber repeats. "That's you, kid."

"What about them?" I ask, glancing at the other customers.

"They're just loitering, like they do every day, exemplifying the fundament Cartesian attribute of mass as occupying space. My space," he answers. "What do you want?" he asks, draping the sheet around me. "Crew cut?"

"Just a trim," I say. "Maybe two, three inches off all the way around. Kind of tidy it up. I'm going to have to testify in court."

"I know," the barber replies. "Next month, on the 18th. You're the kid that's suing the college." The scissors and the comb come out. I feel a tug on the back of my head, hear a snipping sound. "You're probably wondering how I know that," he says.

"Yes, sir," I admit.

"You're one of Duck's tenants. He's pointed you out to us a couple of times. Duck's one of my regulars. When he's not out on a job, you can usually find him here. We've had many a lively conversation about your case, him and the boys and me. Hoyt over there," he points to the old-timer closest to the door, dozing in the sunlight coming through the plate glass window, "is a firm advocate of the state's right to regulate artistic expression, as distinct from political expression, which he says should never be abridged in any way."

Hoyt rouses at the mention of his name. "Read your Milton," he says. " _Areopagitica_."

"' _Give me the liberty to know, to utter, and to argue freely according to conscience, above all liberties_ ,'" the man seated next to Hoyt quotes. "But Milton actually draws no distinction between political and artistic speech."

"Vergil Posey, you imbecile," Hoyt complains. "You don't grasp Milton's argument at all. He never claimed the state can't prosecute in the case of libel and blasphemy, only that authorities can't exercise prior constraint. You've got to let something be published before you can censor it!"

"If the Duck were here," the barber says, "he'd point out that that's exactly what the college is doing – it shut down the magazine for obscenity before it was even published. Took it and locked it away in a safe. Where's your Milton now?"

"They're protecting community standards," Hoyt answers.

"Which community?" Vergil Posey wants to know. "Whose community? If you're talking about the young people's community, there's not a problem. You've seen that _Woodstock_ movie. Remember? We all caught it at that Saturday afternoon showing at the Ritz. Young kids running around naked, rolling around in the mud, cussing on stage. God love 'em! I wish I were that age."

" _Our_ community! _Oxford's_ community! We got to protect our wives and our children from filth coming outta' the college."

"Bull . . . shit!" Virgil Posey replies. "Your wife ran off with the county agent after she caught you cheating with that motel maid over in Batesville, and your children are too ignorant to read, anyway. All those boys of yours can do is drink and whore around. You seriously think they're gonna' be corrupted by a short story?"

"Only if it was in comic book form," one of the other patrons volunteers. "And even then they'd only look at the pictures."

"Be fair," the barber, says. "Hoyt is a sensitive soul. He doesn't want anything published in this town that might bring a blush to the cheek of Mrs. Watson, the night clerk over at the Ole Miss Motel."

"Chief Justice Holmes said the limit to free speech is that you can't yell 'fire' in a crowded theater."

"That has nothing to do with anything," Vergil Posey counters. "Nobody's yelling 'fire' nowhere. What about yelling 'fuck' in a crowded theater?"

The haircut continues. I watch my reflection across the room, rapt, as my shoulders and the base of my neck appear from beneath their veil of hair. Then my eyes and eyebrows. Finally the tips of my ears as the barber finishes his work.

Toward the end, a silent man in the middle seat catches my eyes. "Hey, kid," he says. "I just finished reading Baudelaire. Is your story as depraved as that?"

"It's not my story," I say. "Another guy wrote it. I haven't even read it, but my friends tell me it's not dirty at all."

He aims a wad of tobacco at the spittoon before answering. "Reckon I'll skip it, then," he says, "and move on to _Ulysses_."

~ ~ ~

Friday, April 28

A row of parked yellow school buses line the north berm of University Avenue, all the way from the Alumni House to Ventress Hall.

The Grove is a sea of junior high and high school students from all over Lafayette, Pontotoc, Yalabusha, Panola, Union, and Marshall Counties, teens from as far away as Tupelo and Batesville, all converging on our hapless campus for the annual Arbor Day celebration.

There must be 500 or more kids here. Booths have been set up along the Loop to distribute arboreal information for eager young minds. I sample a few of them, and come away with pamphlets and fliers about careers in forestry, forest fire prevention (with some poor oaf dressed in a Smokey the Bear costume), invasive plant species, courses offered by the Botany Department, and preservation efforts in the Brazilian rain forest.

A few tubas and drums from the Ole Miss Marching Band are meandering through the crowd, playing (for some reason or other) "Camp Town Races," pine saplings are being given away from the back of a panel truck parked by the Law School, and a speaker is on stage delivering a lecture about Mississippi hardwoods, while being soundly ignored by every living soul in the Grove here today.

The figure attracting the greatest attention, by far, turns out to be the Ranger, who's choreographing a pack of maybe two dozen squirrels to climb the trunks of oaks, single-file, in spiral formations, all the way to the uppermost branches, where they then proceed to leap, one by one, through clear air to the tip of another tree, a dizzying gap of maybe 15 feet. Miraculously, all of them make it to the other side and descend, in a mirror single-file spiral back to the ground, where they gather around the Ranger, awaiting his next command.

The man's battered cap sits brim-down on the ground beside him, but the kids don't seem to be aware of its purpose. I dig in my pocket and find a wadded dollar bill, two nickels and a dime, which I drop in.

A few of the students follow my lead with spare change, but most begin to slink away from the scene, realizing that not all forms of entertainment today are free. And in any case, a new attraction has begun: The witches have arrived with drums and tambourines, and they've formed a circle beside my favorite zazen oak.

Raven Bright is already addressing the crowd by the time I reach the spot, talking about mother worship, Gaia, earth consciousness, and next Monday's Beltane celebration in a farm field a few miles outside of town they've been invited to use.

It's going to be an all-night festivity, starting with a bonfire lighting at sunset on Sunday and ending with the marriage of the May Queen to the King of the Forest at dusk Monday.

Everybody should come, she says. Run away from home, skip school, lie to your teachers and your parents.

By the time she's stopped talking and begun leading her coven in the ceremonial dance, the teachers and the parents themselves have converged upon the scene, commanding their charges to back away, ordering them not to watch.

The kids aren't listening to their elders, most standing around in stupefied adolescent wonder, but a few of the cooler ones rocking to the rhythm of the drums, sharing conspiratorial grins with the coven and with one another. They seem to think this is college. This is cool. This is life.

I spot Drs. Goodleigh and Stevens on the edge of the circle, and make my way over to sidle by them.

"Gives you some hope for the future," Stevens says. "They're certainly more open than most of our own students."

I have to disagree. "They've just been caught off-balance. For all they know, this sort of thing happens here every day."

"Doesn't it?" Goodleigh replies. "I'm starting to wonder."

~ ~ ~

Saturday, April 29

Morning. Sounds of heavy equipment in the ravine. I wake, sit up, crawl across the bed to my little window, and look out to find a backhoe digging a pit in a clearing it's made through the brush.

Blake and Joan sleep on in the back bedroom, apparently undisturbed by the ruckus outside. Blake's been without alcohol since the night after his return from New Orleans, and is following a regular schedule Joan designed for him that includes ten hours a day writing the dissertation, in two-hour increments interrupted for meals, walks, errands in town, music, and, if he's been good, sex. Lights out by midnight, eight hours sleep in his actual bed, and then back to work in the morning.

I put a saucepan of water on the stove for my cup of Tasters Choice, pull on a shirt and a pair of shoes, and step out into an early morning with a dew point so high that my breath fogs as I climb the hill to join Mr. Duck and Septic System Man around the corpse of yet another dead cow.

"For those of you keeping score at home," Duck says to me, "this makes five since the end of summer."

"I'd say this dead cow business has officially become redundant," Septic System Man adds.

"Any time I choose, I could be somewhere else entirely," Duck comments. "Leave all the dead creatures here you want – wouldn't be my problem anymore."

"You're thinking to leave Oxford?" I ask.

"Damn fool is planning to set out after the Guru Maharaj," Septic System Man answers.

"Who's that?"

"Just some fat boy from India."

"Satguru of the Divya Sandesh Parishad, if you don't mind," Duck replies. "Lots of folks are saying he's an incarnation of the divine. Don't bother to comment on spiritual matters you lack the capacity for understanding."

"That true? You're thinking about moving to India?"

Duck shoots me a scowl. "Hell no. Why would I do that? I'm moving to Colorado. New mission outside of Denver."

"What about the trailer park?" I ask. "What happens to us?"

"An investor has expressed an interest ns purchasing it. Made a very generous offer."

"Investor," Septic System Man scoffs. "What's here to invest in? Seven rusted trailers on a 30-degree grade of fallow ground on the edge of the world."

"I didn't claim it made any sense," Duck says. "Only that somebody's really eager to acquire this property. And before you ask, I don't know who it is. Wishes to remain anonymous. I've only spoken with his agent." Duck takes a final draw of his Marlboro, tosses the butt on the ground and stomps it out. "Now, if you boys are done chatting, why don't you grab a hoof each? This cow ain't gonna bury itself, and if we wait much longer the Widow's gonna wake up and want to pray over it."

~ ~ ~

Sunday, April 30

Vicky the Tupperware saleswoman is behind the register at Leslie's Drugs when I stop in to inquire about the crowd of well-dressed old people boarding tour buses on the Square this afternoon.

"Today's the Pilgrimage," she informs me.

"I keep hearing that word," I say, "but what in the hell's the Pilgrimage?"

She blinks at me. "You're talking like some kind of stranger to this town. The Pilgrimage of Homes, honey. You know, the day when all those old houses are opened for tours – the L.Q.C. Lamar House, Rowan Oak, Cedar Oaks, all those big homes along North Lamar."

"Good lord. Where's the attraction in that?"

"I don't understand it myself," Vicky admits. "But people come all the way up from Jackson and down from as far away as Nashville to see it. I reckon folks just get bored on Sundays, likely because of all the blue laws."

I follow the buses and the foot traffic up North Lamar. Every third house seems to have a queue of tourists in its front yard, along with signs on the walks announcing picturesque names of each place – Widow's Lookout, Primrose Park, Lafayette Abbey, Charterhouse.

Pairs of Southern belles dressed in antebellum gowns and holding baskets of flowers flank each gate, welcoming guests and checking tickets. Sorority chicks, all, offering a feast of décolletage in satin, brocade and lace. I pass along the sidewalk, smiling at everyone, and am met with glances askance – clearly, the odd hippie out in this highbrow company – until, unexpectedly, someone calls me by name.

I wheel about to discover Rose stationed at the gate of Lafayette Abbey, dressed in a scarlet ball gown with a plunging neckline. She curtsies to me. I respond with my most humble and gentlemanly bow, regretting that I have no hat to doff in courtesy.

"Pahdon me, young lady," I say, "but ah I could not help observin' that your epidermis is showin'."

"I feel like a clown in this outfit," she says under her breath as I step beside her. "But I couldn't say no to $50 for an afternoon's work."

She gives me a map of the open houses all around town – two of them on Tyler Avenue – and then advises me to be off, because I'm starting to attract attention.

She thwacks the back of my head with her fan as I turn to leave. "Skeedaddle, ragamuffin!" she shouts, to the delight of the crowd.

The Square seems to be even more congested on my return trip. Van Buren, though, is strangely empty, except for Old Jeff, who's out front of the Lyric pasting up a movie poster to the billboard for a new Clint Eastwood flick that looks interesting. " _Play Misty For Me_. – The Scream You Hear May Be Your Own." More buses on Taylor Avenue, though, idling by the curb, scenting the air with diesel exhaust.

I pass one crowd at a house called, for the day, Parson's Walk, and another naming itself The Manse. And then I arrive at a third, not on the map but clearly drawing quite an audience.

The sign out front announces that this is Buzzard's Roost. I know it better as our old commune, and I recognize the southern belles on the sidewalk as two of Garrett's partners during our Earth Day heist, now wearing the gowns I helped them steal.

In their wigs, makeup and padding, they make fairly passable young women, so much so that the tourists seem not to be able to identify what, exactly, is wrong with these strange belles, though they strongly sense that something's amiss.

I join the queue that's waiting on the sidewalk. Inside, we're greeted by an actual southern belle – Cindy, looking radiant – who ushers us into the parlor. A full-sized Confederate flag has been draped from the head of the stairway, for one authentic touch, but Jimi Hendrix is blasting from stereo speakers, and the place is decorated in beanbag chairs, lava lamps, beaded curtains and day-glow posters.

The batch of new guests I've entered with have just begun to take it all in, with little mutters of "Oh, my" and "How odd" and "Have you ever" when Garrett strides into the room. He's dressed as a Confederate officer – a colonel, I'd imagine – and is carrying a stirrup cup with a handful of mint peeking over the brim. And a bullwhip.

"Welcome to Buzzard's Nest," he begins. "Mah ancestral home. Constructed in 1831 by my great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather, the honorable Augustus T. Wanker the Fourth, who arrived when this land was still wilderness to establish an outpost of civilization.

"Now, ya'll," he continues, "are welcome to look about the house and the grounds, but bear in mind as you do that although this is my ancestral home, not a single Wanker has passed a single night under this roof since 1862, following its desecration at the hands of Yankee soldiers."

This news is met with a little gasp and murmurs of condolence from the group.

"General Grant – may he rot in Hell – bivouacked some junior officers here followin' the glorious Battle of Oxford. Reports at the time claimed – and I apologize in advance if any of this language offends the ladies present – reports claimed that those Yankees ambulated all about the house, dormiated in the upstairs bedrooms, and masticated in the dining room. Yes, I know, it's shockin' to contemplate the level of depravity of northern savages."

Cindy interrupts him with a request. "Colonel, our guests might like to know something about the furnishins' in this here room."

"Well, General Grant _stole_ all the original furnishins' – nothin' but a craven, drunken thief. For the past century, mah family's rented our home to various tenants, who generally provide their own furnishins'. As you've probably ascertained by now, the current residents are a bunch of no-count hippies. Let me tell you, if there's anything in this world as noxious as a Yankee, it's a hippie. Why look, here's one now."

This must be Andrew's cue to enter the room, and he does, wearing a Beatles wig, a pair of frayed bellbottoms and a tie-dyed t-shirt. Garrett releases the bullwhip, letting the thong, fall and popper drop to the floor, while he tightens his grip on the handle.

"You there!" he shouts as Andrew halts mid-step, directing a look of terror at us. "Ah told you hippies to stay away from the house during the Pilgrimage! Damnation! If you can't obey mah rules, you must face mah wrath!"

Garrett lifts the whip above his head, preparing to strike. Andrew falls to his knees, hands lifted in supplication. "Don't beat me, Colonel! Have mercy!"

Garrett is swinging the whip now, in faster and faster circles. The visitors have started making a retreat for the kitchen door.

Cindy leaps forward and seizes Garrett's arm. "Colonel, no! Don't you remember what happened the last time?"

" _What in the fuck is going on here_?" a new arrival – someone we hadn't notice entering the house in the middle of this tragic scene – demands of us.

Cindy gasps upon seeing him. Garrett drops the whip in surprise. Andrew rises from his knees with a silly grin and an outstretched hand to greet an old friend.

Here before us stands our own prodigal son – James – out of jail and home at last.
Part 9. The Bridge

May 1- June 1, 1972

Monday, May 1

I've just stepped out of Bondurant Hall after closing the Museum for the night when I spot Garrett's bus coming toward me along Magnolia Avenue.

Garrett's not in it, but Andrew's at the wheel, with Cindy in the passengers seat, and Nick, Suzie and Clamor in the back.

"Get in. We're headed to the Beltane ceremony," Cindy calls.

"You know where it's being held?" I ask as I climb aboard.

"Not exactly. But we've got directions."

The directions are written out in pencil across a sheet of loose leaf note paper balled up in the left pocket of Cindy's amazingly tight jeans. Halter top season has apparently returned. I'm sorely tempted to lean over the front seat and lick one of her bare shoulders.

Suzie and Nick give me news of the pregnancy. They've moved to a bigger place, two bedrooms this time, one for the nursery that Suzie's already furnished in her head, expecting to have some actual furniture to put in it after the baby shower.

"Next weekend," Clamor adds. "You're invited. All you boys are invited. No sexual discrimination here, so long as ya'll bring shit for the baby."

Andrew and Cindy are haggling over the directions – Cindy leading him down blind corners to incorrect intersections, Andrew snatching the directions from her in an attempt to correct her navigation errors, Cindy complaining that he's driving on the wrong side of the road ("Get on the right! This isn't England!"), Andrew flinging us all about with sudden stops and hairpin turns around roads that seem to get narrower and more rustic with every passing quarter mile.

I'm not paying much attention, until we pass my trailer on the right. "The place we're looking for," I call to the front seat, "What's it called?"

"Happy Valley," Cindy calls back.

"Tenth of a mile," I tell Andrew, "a left at the mailboxes."

A few minutes later, we're there. But we've missed the ceremonies. Maybe a dozen people are left, milling about the ashes of what must have been a once-considerable bonfire, but enough litter lies spread about the field to suggest a much larger crowd, now departed.

"You're too late," Dottie Carroll says, pulling a ten-gallon cooler on wheels behind her up the slope toward the road. "Wedding's over."

"Wedding?"

"May Queen to the Green Man. It was beautiful."

Suddenly, the Widow is standing beside me. "Weddings always make me cry," she says, shotgun slung over her shoulder. "Ya'll best leave before dark and the dogs. I've got beer at my trailer."

I decide to do one better. "I've got Jack Daniels at mine."

"Your trailer it is, then."

The trailer park is dark when we arrive. We straggle down the hill single-file, with the Widow at the rear, performing guard duty. The wood of the old milk crate Blake and I use as a doorstep creaks and threatens to collapse under each guest as they make their entrance. When I flip the light switch, half a dozen mice scuttle across the floor for cover, darting between the feet of the assembled – and somewhat startled – visitors.

Flop, lying in her customary spot in the center of the room, wakes, casts one slitted eye in our direction, grunts, and farts.

Cindy is the first to express her concern. "Oh, god, people actually live like this?"

"Mr. Duck's trailer park," the Widow Woman allows, "is not, in general, well regarded for its accomplishments in interior design or hygiene. But even by our admittedly low standards, these boys are a disgrace."

Nick has already begun to draw Suzie back through the open doorway, no doubt fearful that the sheer squalor of the place might trigger premature labor.

"None of you have been to visit me here," I suddenly realize.

"You never invited us," Andrew says. "Now we know why."

"Grab the bottle and we'll drink at my place," the Widow suggests.

Everyone seems happy to leave.

~ ~ ~

Tuesday, May 2

Becky pokes her head in to say hello on her way out of Dr. Goodleigh's office. I've been at my little table in the Museum for upwards of half an hour, trying to subdue my curiosity over her repeated visits.

"Sixteen days till the hearing," she reminds me. "Can't wait."

"Be there, or be a toady to the Lyceum," I add.

Goodleigh has typing that needs to be finished this morning, so I have an excuse for entering the office a few minutes later.

"A gift?" I ask, spotting a pink candle in a new porcelain holder with Japanese-style design of cherry blossoms on graceful brown branches.

"A little girlie for my tastes," Dr. Goodleigh admits, lifting it for a closer examination. "But she thought I'd like it."

"You two are getting pretty thick," I remark.

Goodleigh leans back in her rocker to regard me. She's wearing her leather vest with the fringe today, her IUD earrings, and a lemon-yellow scarf tying her hair back into a ponytail. "If this is your way of pumping me for information about that girl, you should already have faced the fact that you're not getting any. If you want to get close to her, don't bother trying to go through me. Just ask her out."

"Is this the typing?" I ask, indicating the stack of papers by the machine.

"That's it. But before we drop the subject, let me just say two things. First, I was wrong about that girl. Second, you're an idiot who persists in being even more wrong about her than I was."

She returns to today's copy of the _Commercial Appeal_ , lifting the pages so the paper acts as a shield between us. "And that's all I have to say on the matter."

~ ~ ~

Wednesday, May 3

I tell the undergraduate who's lackadaisically guarding the entrance to Fulton Chapel that I'm on the set design team, and he lets me pass through the door.

Rehearsals are supposed to be closed to the general public, but there are enough students charged with various tasks milling about the auditorium that I easily blend in with the rest by simply pretending to look busy.

Eventually, I run into Clamor, who really is on the set design team. "I didn't actually think you'd show up," she says, clapping an arm around my shoulders.

"You invited me, didn't you? Here I am."

She directs me to a row of seats toward the back and promises to join me in a few minutes. The rehearsal begins and is three scenes into the first act before Clamor arrives. The play seems to be about Buffalo Bill and Sitting Bull and the Wild West Show. I'm not sure whether it's supposed to be historical, or comical. Or both. Or neither. What I've seen so far doesn't make much sense.

One thing I am sure of is a face on stage that I'd never thought to see again, at least in the flesh, playing one of the lead parts.

"What's Paul Walker doing back here?" I whisper. "He and I graduated together."

"Working on an MFA," she whispers back.

"Why? He went to New York, got to star in some off Broadway thing and then made it big, landed a role on _Love Is a Many Splendored Thing_."

"I know. Girls used to watch that in the dorm. We called it Love Is a Long and Slender Thing. You and Paul were friends?"

"Not really. More like rivals. He was the guy that Melissa left me for."

"Lord, not Melissa again," Clamor grouses. "If you're about to tell me your heartbreak tale, please don't. I can't imagine the power that girl has over you. The one time I met her, she seemed pretty ordinary."

"You evidently didn't sleep with her," I say.

"No, it was only our first date. That wouldn't have stopped you, but I have higher standards."

~ ~ ~

Thursday, May 4

"How would I know what babies like?" Nina Fairchild replies. "Do I strike you as the mothering type?"

Garrett phoned ahead before we left Oxford for our impromptu shopping trip to Memphis, and Miss Fairchild agreed to sneak away from her desk at the _Commercial Appeal_ for a rendezvous with the two of us in Overton Square.

It's a little past 1:00, almost 85 degrees outside, and I'm already on my second beer in the air conditioned Looking Glass. Garrett has explained the nature of our quest, to find something for Suzie's baby shower on behalf of the male residents (or in my case, former resident) of the house on Tyler Avenue.

Miss Fairchild isn't truly crucial to this quest, but I sense that Garrett's planned this trip partly as an excuse to see her.

"What do babies like, indeed? That's exactly the problem," Garrett says. "We put our heads together over the question, but none of us can actually remember that far back, to being a baby. We're pretty sure what we liked then would have to be different from what we like now. So we're ruling out sex and pot and alcohol."

"That just leaves sleeping," I say.

"Right. Babies love to sleep. Who doesn't? But the kid's already got a crib and blankets and shit. So what does that leave?"

"You say you have $60 to spend?" Miss Fairchild asks. "Why not do something practical, like buy the kid a big savings bond? You know, an investment in its future."

"Actually, we thought about that," Garrett confirms, "but Nick told us that Suzie would get pissed. He said that savings bonds fund an imperialist war machine, and that giving money to the Pentagon in the kid's name would wreak havoc on its karma."

"There's a shop around the corner selling really cool tie-dyed bibs," I say. "But they're only like $2.00 apiece. I don't think any kid can spit up enough to need 30 of them."

"Maybe we could get a bunch of posters to help decorate the nursery," Garrett says.

"What kind of posters?" Miss Fairchild wants to know.

"Oh, I don't know. Hendrix. Janis Joplin. Grateful Dead. Rolling Stones."

"Things that babies like," Miss Fairchild observes.

"So the kid doesn't know anything about music. We can buy it a stereo."

She sighs. "Yes, I'm sure the mother would love to have a stereo system in the nursery so she can blast the kid with _Sticky Fingers_ during nap time."

"I think _Beggars Banquet_ would make a better nap time selection," I say.

" _Let It Bleed_ ," Garrett counters.

" _Their Satanic Majesties_ ," I say.

"You boys should both get vasectomies right away. Do you know why? Because you'd make terrible fathers. Listen, the shower isn't about what the baby likes. It's about what the mother needs. You have a nice store down there on the Square. What's it called – Nielsens? Hasn't Suzie registered there?"

"Registered the kid?" Garrett asks. "I wouldn't think so. She and Nick don't even want it to have a birth certificate. They're planning to keep it completely off the grid and safe from Nixon."

"A gift registry," Miss Fairchild explains. "For the birth. Friends and family go to the store and look at the registry to find out what she needs. You know, like at weddings."

"People do that for weddings?" I ask.

"Your friend doesn't get out much, does he?" she says to Garrett. "What I'm saying is that you've got to think in practical terms about the mother, not about the baby. At this point, you don't even know if it's a girl or a boy."

"It's a boy," I say.

"How can you be so sure?" she asks.

"I met him."

"You met him? When?"

"During a psilocybin trip, last fall."

Miss Fairchild gives me a look.

"I don't intend to have children," I say. This is meant to be reassuring.

"See that you don't."

~ ~ ~

Friday, May 5

"You just missed James," Dottie informs me when I drop by to see what's new on the shelves of the Nickelodeon. T Rex, Arlo Guthrie, Mountain, Fleetwood Mac, CCR.

"Then it's my lucky day," I say. "I've already heard enough tales of his martyrdom in the Chapel Hill calaboose. My friend Tatyana kept pretty close tabs, and she says the worst thing that happened during his sentence is that one afternoon they ran out of strawberry ice cream for the prisoners' snack."

"His version sound more like the Count of Monte Cristo," Dottie says.

"He believes he's that and more – the Count of Monte Cristo, Angela Davis, Richard Kimble, the Man in the Iron Mask, Jean Valjean, Julius _and_ Ethel Rosenberg, Sacco, Vanzetti, Nelson Mandela, Alfred Dreyfus, Joan of Arc, Sam Sheppard and Saint Paul, all rolled into one."

"He's been through an ordeal," Dottie says. "You have to allow him that much."

"I don't have to allow him anything. Not a single damn thing, not after the way that bastard shamed Clamor."

"Claire Marie was with him today," Dottie tells me, and I throw my hands up in disgust.

"Why? Why would she forgive some man who treated her that way? Really, I'd like to know. Would you care to explain women to me?"

"Maybe if you had one of your own, no further explanations would be necessary," Dottie says. "For the life of me, I'll never understand how you let Cindy slip through your fingers."

"Cindy is Andrew's girl."

"Right. Everybody's got a girl except you. Garrett even has two, one in town and one up in Memphis.

"Maybe I should ask Garrett what his secret with the ladies is."

"Hell, everybody knows what Garrett's secret is. He's got that bus to prove it."

"What?" I say.

"You mean you haven't heard that story?" she asks.

"What story? What are you talking about?"

"About Garrett and the bus."

"No. Tell me."

Dottie sets another pile of albums on the counter. "Don't try to change the topic of conversation. This is about you wasting your youth living like a medieval celibate, pining away over some candy bar queen you had an undergraduate crush on, while some of the most beautiful girls in the world walk right past you on the streets of Oxford. Don't try telling me you aren't messed up."

"Melissa is. . ." I begin to say, but Dottie cuts me short.

"Gone. Forget about her. Have you learned nothing from Stephen Stills? If you can't be with the one you love, love the one you're with."

"That's good advice," I admit.

"You're damn right it is."

~ ~ ~

Saturday, May 6

"I was beginning to think you'd forgotten your promise," the Man in the Quaker State cap says to me.

We're sitting at the bar in Skeeter's. It's still early evening, the band hasn't set up yet, Freddie Hart's on the jukebox ("My Hang-Up Is You"), and the place is quiet for a Saturday, though it's bound to get livelier later.

"I haven't been able to make it up here," I explain. "I usually come with my roommate, but he's sworn off booze until he finishes writing his dissertation."

The Man in the Quaker State cap takes a sip of his Pepsi Cola. "Yeah, he's talked to me about that thing. History. Never one of my favorite subjects in school. Didn't see the point in it. Too much speculation, and it lacks the intellectual discipline of the hard sciences."

This is my cue to deliver the bad news about my interview with Dr. Glass. The man finishes his Pepsi and nibbles down a pretzel before shooting me a nod and a sideways smile by way of acknowledgement. "I know you did the best you could," he says. "And I appreciate your making the attempt. If you ever need a favor, just let me know."

"Actually, I could use some advice. About women."

"A subject upon which I have some passing knowledge," he grants. "What do you want to know?"

"I'm 23 years old," I tell him. "Is that too old to be dating a girl who's only 19?"

The Man in the Quaker State Cap replies with a laugh and a look of astonishment, and I just now realize the stupidity of my question.

"Do you think she likes you?" he asks.

"Yeah, I do."

"Then go for it, man. It'd be creepy if you were forcing your attentions on her. But it's not creepy if she wants you to."

~ ~ ~

Sunday, May 7

I don't understand why I've been summoned to Suzie's baby shower, about which the hosts have changed their minds at the last minute and made it a ladies-only affair.

No guys allowed, not even Nick, who's so wrapped up in this pregnancy that he's scarcely even a guy anymore. We expect him to begin lactating any day now.

But as I enter the house, I get a sense that the shower is long over – gifts of baby clothes, basinets, pacifiers and whatnot are scattered amid piles of torn wrapping paper – and a new event has begun.

Joan is sitting in a center chair, looking pissed off, surrounded by a circle of females – Suzie is there, of course, with Cindy, Vicky the Tupperware lady, and a half dozen others I know by sight but not by name.

"What is this?" I ask as Suzie motions me to take the one unoccupied chair in the circle.

"It's called an intervention," Suzie answers.

"It's called meddling in my private business," Joan snaps.

"Your friends care about you," Vicky soothes. "We just want you to think about your own well-being."

"You made one terrible mistake already, marrying James, and it nearly wrecked your life."

"I'm not marrying Blake," Joan says.

"You will," Suzie says. "You're the marrying kind, and you have terrible judgment where men are concerned. Daniel, tell her that Blake's no good."

"No good?" I ask. "I wouldn't say that. I mean, he's a dipsomaniac and a hypochondriac and a physical coward. He cheats at cards. And at Scrabble and Dominos. He drinks milk straight from the carton. He's kind of a bigot – he can't stand Hindus or anyone who was born in a state that begins with the letter 'I,' like Iowa. He secretly likes the Carpenters. He's got all of their albums hidden under his mattress, and I'm pretty sure he plays them on the stereo when nobody else is around. He's terrified of rabbits. He's addicted to malted milk balls. I once watched him eat 200 of them in a single evening. He won't leave the moonshine alone, and one day he'll probably do himself some brain damage from drinking it. He thinks the movie version of _The Magus_ was better than the book. He's about to get a doctorate in French history, but he can't read a word of French, and he can't add, subtract, multiply or divide simple numbers. He's an awful driver – you never want to get in the car when he's at the wheel. He says he buys _Playboy_ just for the articles, but he only looks at the pictures. He'll probably die young, most likely by his own hand, and take a number of innocent bystanders with him when he goes. But all in all, I wouldn't say he's a bad guy."

"This is your fault," Joan says to me.

I'm taken aback. " _My_ fault?"

"Why on earth did you take all our friends to the trailer? It gave them the wrong impression, got them all stirred up."

"I wasn't thinking," I admit.

"How can you live like that?" Cindy asks.

"Two minutes in that sty, and I felt like we needed to get penicillin shots," Suzie agrees.

"You can't really judge a guy by his trailer," I say. "Look, Blake is just one chapter shy of finishing his dissertation. Next fall, he'll be on the faculty at Tulane, tenure track. Give him a break."

"So you're saying that he's good enough for Joan," Cindy says.

"Hell no," I say.

"What?" Cindy asks.

"What?" Joan echoes.

"Of course he's not good enough for Joan. No man's good enough for Joan. No man's good enough for you either," I say to Cindy. "Or you," I add, turning to Suzie, "though Nick does his best. There's not a single man in this world that's good enough for any of you ladies here in this room today. You know why? Because men are shit. Women are superior beings, and men are shit. I don't, for the life of me, understand what any woman sees in any man. If I were a woman, I'd have nothing to do with us. But there you have it. You all keep falling in love with us. Idiots! As long as Joan's going to fall in love with a piece of shit, she could do a lot worse for a piece of shit than Blake. Anyway, it's her mistake to make. If she wants to throw her life away on him, everybody should just get off her back about it."

~ ~ ~

Monday, May 8

Campus cops are swarming the Library again, in search of the Flasher, as I leave for my appointment with Dr. Valencia.

"They'll catch him eventually," Valencia says as I take a seat in his comfy chair, "but I hope not anytime soon. I'm working on a paper. This man may be one of the most persistent cases of apodysophilia in psychiatric history. Most exhibitionists are identified or captured after half a dozen acts. This son of a bitch has exposed himself almost 40 times over the course of nine months."

"Do you need a fun fact to liven up your paper?" I ask. "My man Herodotus has the earliest account of public indecent exposure in western history. It's in Book II of the _Histories_. Whole boatloads of Egyptian pilgrims floating down the Nile on their way to the festival of Bubastis would shout insults at the people of all the villages they passed, and expose themselves in ridicule. Actually, it's also one of the earliest accounts of a bunch of tourists acting like real dickheads."

"I thought you were done with Herodotus," Valencia says. "Didn't you say that Dean Moriarty cancelled your involvement in the program?"

"No, he just cancelled my assistantship. No more work at the Museum after the end of spring semester. No more funding. I'll have to find a real job to support myself. But I'm still enrolled in the program. He'll have to pry Herodotus from my cold, dead hands."

"I'm sure the dean would welcome _that_ opportunity. Maybe this is the time to reconsider your father's offer. It would make you financially independent. You'd be free to continue your studies while making all the enemies in high places you could ever wish for."

"It's a tempting prospect," I admit. "But then my old man would be done with me forever, and he's the most fun person to piss off that I know."

Valencia gives me his smug psychiatrist look. "Do you understand what you just said?" he asks.

"I think so. It was in English, which I speak almost fluently. Do _you_ understand what I said?"

The look intensifies. "I understand it perfectly. You love your father, and you're terrified of losing him. Your only means of holding onto him is to make him despise you and need to destroy you."

I pause for a few moments, trying to let this soak in, while Valencia scribbles notes on his little pad.

"Jeeze, doc," I finally manage to say. "Not even _my_ family is that messed up. Honestly, my father and I just hate each other. Good honest mutual detestation. It's a pure, decent struggle to the death. You make it sound sick."

~ ~ ~

Tuesday, May 9

I don't want to go to the lecture, but Dr. Goodleigh insists. "It'll be fun," she says.

So we lock the Museum, descend the central stairway of Bondurant Hall, and cross the walk to Bishop Hall, where the auditorium is already three-quarters full with grad students, English majors, assorted faculty and the literary subculture of the town, gathered for Edward Alcott's third and final public presentation as writer in residence.

Honored as I always am to be seen in public escorting the campus' own Athena in residence, I still suffer an unexpected tug of jealousy upon spotting Becky in the second row, sitting with Clamor and the new boys of the Tyler Avenue commune, so wrapped up in a conversation with them that she doesn't even notice our arrival.

And now a second surprise. Instead of Dr. French delivering the preliminaries, Amy Madigan crosses the stage and steps to the podium to eulogize and welcome "my dear friend, Edward Alcott."

Amy either doesn't hear or pretends not to notice the titter of laughter that's mixed with the applause as Alcott enters and she takes her seat in the left corner of the stage.

"My, she has gotten bold, hasn't she?" Dr. Goodleigh asks under her breath.

"She's got nothing to lose at this point."

Alcott's let his hair grow out over the course of his stay here, and somehow he's managed to poof it out on top into sort of a graying crest that makes him look like an aging, overstuffed bantam.

In lieu of the lecture he had planned for today on "The Future of Literature," Alcott announces that he's decided to treat us to a chapter from his novel-in-progress, which (he adds) marks a radical departure from his previous work in that instead of historical fiction about past wars, this one is set in contemporary times, the war in Vietnam.

"I knew I shouldn't have come," I grouse.

The prose is various shades of Tyrian purple, and the storyline a goulash of patriotic clichés involving a young volunteer name Skipper on his first day of jungle patrols with his platoon. Skipper's plagued with doubts about whether he will prove heroic or turn coward when he first meets the enemy, and he's quickly put to the test during a pitched battle with the Vietcong. The chapter ends with Skipper cut off from his platoon and running for his life into the brush.

I think I've read this story before.

"Did Alcott just plagiarize Stephen Crane?" I ask Goodleigh over the thunderous applause that follows the closing line of the chapter.

Alcott delivers his finest maestro bow as Amy leaps to his side to lead us in a standing ovation of his singular genius. Then, once the applause has begun to subside, she invites questions from the audience, taking care in who she recognizes among us, avoiding a repeat of whatever unpleasantness occurred after last month's movie.

The questions, mostly from grad students and faculty, are uniformly safe and fawning, drawing out Alcott's most noble sentiments about morality, patriotism, self-sacrifice, God-fearing devotion to home and country, and the glories of spreading democracy to the savage nations of this world. He's feeling in control of the audience by this point, in charge, cocky, and he begins selecting the audience members himself, stepping out from behind the shield the department has cleverly erected for him. Ten minutes or so into the session, he welcomes a question from the hippie gallery in the second row, as one of the boys from Taylor Avenue rises.

"You've been speaking about democracy," the kid says. "Now I'm just a simple country boy, but I'd like to know – who was it that set up this system, this supposedly democratic system, where we're always voting for the lesser of two evils? Was George Washington the lesser of two evils? Sometimes I wonder. Some politicians say we've got to stop violence in this country, while they're spending $15,000 a second snuffing gooks."

The hippie contingent around him has risen – Becky and Clamor among them – and linked arms, and are now swaying and humming a melody I recognize as the Fugs' "Wide, Wide River."

Amy apparently recognizes it, too, because she's immediately by Alcott's side to take control of the microphone. "All right, sit down. Sit down! Stop this right now. There will be no disruptions. I mean it."

The humming turns to singing, the lyrics about the wide, wide river of shit clear and inspiring.

I've been traveling on this river of shit

More than 20 years, and I'm getting tired of it.

Don't like swimming, hope it will run dry.

_Got to keep on swimming, 'cause I don't want to die_.

More rabble-rousers apparently planted throughout the auditorium rise to join the chorus. Dr. French and Dean Moriarty hustle Alcott off stage. Amy continues her effort to silence the crowd. Moriarty returns and glares at the spectacle.

"I guess I have nothing left to lose either," I remark to Dr. Goodleigh.

I rise, place my hand over my heart, and join the song.

" _Roll on, you mighty river! Roll on_."

~ ~ ~

Wednesday, May 10

"Are you sure that cat's not dead?" Blake asks. "Because it really smells like it's dead."

He's at the kitchen table, behind his typewriter. Joan and I are playing a game of checkers on the couch. The windows are open to welcome in a little cool air after the sun's been hammering on the trailer roof all day.

"It always smells dead," I say.

"No harm in checking. We may get lucky." Blake rises, steps over to Flop's spot on the floor, and nudges the cat with his toe. "Hey, cat," he says. No response. Blake gets down on one knee and prods her side with an index finger.

At this, Flop wakes, rolls over and hisses at him – her latest endearing habit. The smell is awful, reaching Joan and me all the way across the room.

Blake is enraged. This long stretch of sobriety has rendered him short-tempered. "That's it!" he proclaims. He snatches Flop into the air by the scruff of her neck and thrusts his face into hers. "Sinner in the hands of an angry god!"

Flop hisses again.

"What are you going to do?" Joan asks.

"I'm going to defenestrate this little bugger!" he decides, and starts for the window.

"Blake, honey, stop," Joan pleads. "It's just a poor dumb animal."

She's in the middle of her intercession on Flop's behalf when a bullet shatters the kitchen window. Joan dives for the floor, pulling me down beside her, but Blake remains standing in the middle of the room, Flop still dangling from his hand. A second and a third bullet whiz past him and strike the wall on the other side of the trailer.

Blake sets the cat carefully down. Flop hisses at him, rolls over and seems to fall instantly asleep. "Goddamn stupid bastards!" he shouts. "Not again!"

Faster than I've ever seen him move before, Blake has lunged through the door and into the night. Joan calls after him to stop. A moment later we hear his voice outside.

" _Stop shooting at my trailer, idiots! It's not a dog!_ "

By the time Joan and I have persuaded ourselves that it's safe to get off the floor, Mr. Duck has arrived on the scene, followed shortly by the Widow Woman and Septic System Man. Blake is raving about the homicidal maniacs and incompetent marksmen of Lafayette County as they try to calm him down.

"Everybody okay in here?" the Widow asks, entering to check on us.

We assure her that we're unwounded. The Widow quickly surveys the scene. "Joan honey, you got a pair of tweezers I can use?"

After a few moments of surgical extraction, the Widow digs one of the bullets from the wall and holds it under the lamp for a closer look. By this point, Mr. Duck has coaxed Blake back inside. She passes the bullet to Duck, and the two consult over it in a specialized jargon of ballistics experts.

"Hmmmm?" she inquires.

"Ummm," he agrees.

"Ummm-hmmm."

"Well, boys," Duck says. "I don't know who's opened fire on you here tonight, but it wasn't none of us."

"Wasn't?" I ask.

"Wrong caliber," he says, handing me a chunk of metal, as if I were able to divine some sort of intelligence from it. "Nobody in the court could've done it. Probably just some locals out drunk and cavorting. Dark of the moon tonight, you know. Drives us backwoods folk crazy."

"You're lying," Blake says.

An instantaneous, chilly silence falls over us.

"Beg your pardon?" Mr. Duck replies.

"You're lying. You're just saying that so you can charge us for the damages."

"Nobody's charging anybody anything. I'll make the repairs. You boys aren't liable for this."

"The last time this happened, it was that high school janitor who lived in trailer four," Blake says.

"Yes, but he's gone now. Don't you recall?" Duck asks. "I kicked his sorry ass out for that shenanigan."

"Blake, honey, calm down" Joan tries to intervene, but Blake is flushed and shaking.

"I demand a refund of this month's rent," he says.

"What?"

"If you can't keep your tenants safe from being fired upon, possibly maimed or even killed. . . ."

"That bullet couldn't have killed you."

". . . then you have no business charging rent. I demand a refund, unless you'd care for me to contact the sheriff's office."

"Blake, stop," Joan urges.

Duck scratches his jaw, then glances at me. "That how you feel?" I shake my head, no. "Very well," he says to Blake. "Drop by in the morning. I'll give you cash."

Blake returns to his chair at the kitchen table and recommences his typing, striking the keys with intense concentration. Our guests depart. Joan and I look at each other. She retreats to the back bedroom. I pick up my wallet and my car keys and leave the trailer.

The Widow Woman's door is open. She's sitting on a lawn chair in the yard, smoking a Virginia Slim. I start to apologize for Blake's behavior, but she waves me off.

"I'm afraid that boy's showing his _true_ nature. I've known enough former drunks to understand what's happening to him. Try to reform a good-natured dipso, and more times than not you reveal the bastard beneath. Where are you off to?"

"Guess I'll see what's happening on campus."

"Probably a lot. Something's stirring tonight. Something psychic." She pauses, deliberating. "If you don't mind my saying so, you don't seem especially rattled over what happened tonight."

I decide not to reply to this observation directly. "Do me a favor?"

"Sure."

"Just quietly ask around the court, see if anybody noticed a green Cadillac out here tonight."

~ ~ ~

Thursday, May 11

The Widow is right. The clock on the courthouse reads 1:20 in the morning, but the Square is full of people walking the sidewalks, staring into display windows. Groups of old men are busy over checker boards at the benches. I spot Sheriff Claprood circling round and round in his squad car.

The Rebel Buddha's still open, and a few cars wait their turn for service in the drive-through lane, though the dining room is empty except for Dr. Hirsch, the beauteous Bella, and Ho, who flips me off when she notices my face peering in through the plate glass window.

I pass silent families sitting on their front porches during my stroll down University Avenue. Students are out in every corner of the Grove, half of them coeds out long past their curfew, but I find my favorite oak unoccupied. I sit zazen, position my mind in hara, then open myself to the moment, struggling for emptiness but betraying my efforts with a secret wish for another vision of Melissa.

What I find instead, eventually, is sleep, a dream of walking on a pier into what seems to be the Gulf of Mexico, and discovering a fork along the path, a choice between two crossings over an infinite stretch of sea.

I wake to an old familiar kiss. A wet, sloppy kiss, hot breath tinged with a raw, wild scent in my face. It's Citizen. I'd know him anywhere, even in almost pitch dark. I throw my arms around his neck, wrestle him down to the ground, and we roll over the bumpy root structure of the oak, tussling and playing like kids.

"Figure I ought to wake you," a voice says. "It's about to happen."

I release Citizen, rise to crouch on my knees, and discover the silhouette of the Ranger looming over me against a sky that seems to be brightening. It must be a little before dawn. I've been asleep for hours.

"What's about to happen?" I ask.

But the Ranger makes an impatient gesture for silence, and lifts his face to the sky. Citizen sits, expectantly, and throws his big head back, ears and nose at the ready.

Then I smell it – an invisible, intangible cloud of something sharp, pungent, a heady sweetness, like peppermint or wintergreen filling both outer and inner space.

Then I hear it – the sound of a child crying, loud, everywhere and nowhere at once, but filling the Grove, filling the town, filling the entire county. I have no doubt that everyone in Oxford, no matter where they are, if they're awake, are hearing what Citizen, the Ranger and I are hearing at this moment.

And it goes on and on. The sobbing, inconsolable, of a child with a broken heart, mourning, grieving, lamenting some loss, some betrayal, some disappointed wish. I want to do something. I want to find that child, take it in my arms, soothe it, console it, try to help it find what it's lost. My heart is breaking along with it.

As suddenly as the phenomenon started, it ends. The crying stops. The smell is gone. The Ranger whistles to Citizen, who leaps to follow as he strides off across the Grove, on to whatever mysterious business he's about here.

"What was that?" I call after him.

"A puzzle," he answers over his shoulder, without breaking stride. "I've been hearing it near every spring around these parts for the last 30 years. You figure it out, let me know."

~ ~ ~

Friday, May 12

"They did it all by themselves," Garrett tells me, referring to the new Tyler Avenue boys organizing the protest at the end of Alcott's reading on Tuesday. "Wasn't that cute? I'm so proud of them!"

"A feat worthy of the Earth gang back in '69," I agree.

"A grand year," Garrett says, passing the joint to me.

"'69 was the golden age."

Rose shoots me a sour look. She's sitting cross-legged with us on the waterbed in the Ohm, her checkered miniskirt exposing a glorious amount of skin, and at first I fear this glance means that she's caught me peeking again.

But instead she simply exhales and complains. "Oh, please, just listen to you two. You sound like a couple of old geezers sentimentalizing about your glory days."

"It's hard not to think, sometimes, that our best years have passed," Garrett laments.

This remark exasperates her. "You need to get the hell out of Oxford. Too many memories here, and they're starting to make you feel like a failure . . . at 22 years old. You need a fresh start. Go to Memphis, accept Miss Fairchild's offer to launch a free press. Yes, Daniel," she adds, in response to my failed attempt to conceal my surprise, "I know all about Miss Fairchild. I'm not stupid, in case you were thinking so."

This conversation is growing uncomfortable, and the joint is gone. I hop off the bed. "Who's coming with me?" I ask. "I've got to look good for my court date."

"You're on your own with this one," Garrett says.

"I'm confident that a grown man can manage to buy a pair of shoes for himself," Rose adds.

"Don't be too sure of it," I say. "A couple of years ago, I was so stoned I came out of Nielsen's wearing a pair of Hush Puppies. And I think I might have shoplifted them."

My kind doesn't usually shop at Nielsen's, so I'm greeted with suspicious glances as I enter the store. The management seems to have rearranged the floor since my last visit. The shoe department isn't where it used to be – I find myself in lingerie instead and quickly slink out, doing my very best not to look like a deviant. I wind up in the men's suits department, where I look even more out of place, but I have a sense that I'm on the right path, and suddenly I come upon men's shoes.

I'm looking for a pair of loafers – brown or black, it doesn't matter – something straight enough to allow me entrance into a public building full of reputable citizens, but comfortable and serviceable enough to look blue-collar as well.

What I'm looking for, though, I cannot seem to find. Nielsen's shoe collection instead features lines of footwear I've never actually seen on anyone's feet, outside Sly and the Family Stone album covers.

Platform shoes with six-inch soles. Ankle boots. Brogues. Brothel creepers. Mod riding boots. Patent leather. Saddle leather. Suede. Two-tone combinations (black and white, black and tan, tan and Oxblood, white and Oxblood). Zippers, psychedelic shoelaces, brass buckles.

I poke around for a few minutes, decide that the purchasing manager has clearly suffered some kind of psychotic personality disorder, and consider other my shoe purchasing options (which come down to either the even more upscale Duvall's men shop or working-class Fred's Discount) when a young couple arrives.

The girl can't be more than 18 or 19, clearly a local rather than an Ole Miss coed, clean-scrubbed and pretty as a slice of chess pie, without a jot of makeup. Ash blonde, perfect teeth, pony tail. Pink blouse, matching skirt.

The boy seems to be a few years older, dressed in a white t-shirt and jeans. Sinewy, tanned, tough-looking, and apparently as abashed as I am to be in this fine emporium of the latest fashions. Everything about him screams "vet," probably no more than a few months out of the service, with at least one tour in Vietnam.

And everything about the two of them screams "engaged." She's likely trying to dress him up to meet the family, extend his wardrobe to make him look like a young man with a promising future. He's cooperating because he's a big-hearted lunk who's head-over-heels in love with her. And who wouldn't be?

I eavesdrop as she cajoles him into trying on a pair of tan platform shoes, followed by tri-tone brogues, then suede ankle boots (red, with embroidered orange hearts around the upper). His expression turns to one of deeper despair with each new fashion crime she finds among Nielsen's inventory of shoes.

He's struggling. He loves her in the way that only romantic guys can love, willing in theory to do anything for a girl, but pressured to the point at which he must acknowledge the limitations of his love.

He finally snaps when presented with a pair of leopard-skin print brothel creepers with pink shoelaces.

"Awww, honey," he moans. "Please don't make me do this anymore. Everything in this store is either for cripples or queers."

I hadn't thought either of them had noticed me, but he suddenly turns in my direction for support. "Am I right?" he asks.

"You're right. I wouldn't wear 'em."

"See?" he says. "They're too ugly even for a damn hippie. Can we leave now?"

~ ~ ~

Saturday, May 13

Ever since his return from New Orleans, I've been careful not to drink in front of Blake, not wishing to tempt him to break his pledge, procrastinate on the dissertation, and lose this opportunity to teach at Tulane.

But I'm weary of the typewriter clicking 20 hours a day, weary of being on good behavior, and weary of Blake. The Widow has turned out to be right about him: sobriety has brought out his inner asshole.

He's on his way to becoming my worst roommate since freshman year, when the Housing Office randomly put me in Kincannon Hall with the kid from Eupora who used to brag about sex with his daddy's livestock.

But tonight Joan is treating him, and herself, to another sex break at the Holiday Inn, and I'm throwing a party for the trailer folk that he's managed to alienate — Duck, the Widow, Septic System Man and the Herbicide Salesman. Hell, even Garrett's coming by to sample my world-famous chili.

I drop by the Jitney for two pounds of hamburger, yellow onions, tomato sauce, kidney beans, 3 Alarm chili mix and two jugs of Wild Irish Rose. Then it's on to the liquor store on East University for a fifth of Jim Beam.

Half an hour later, I'm lighting the range at the trailer, browning the hamburger and onions, and savoring my first mouthful of the bourbon, when Garrett appears at the door. He's just back from Overton Square, and he's arrived with treasure.

"Rolling Stones," he announces, pulling the album from a shop bag. " _Exile on Main Street_. Released just yesterday. I'll bet this is the first and only copy in the entire state of Mississippi."

And a lid of Acapulco Gold.

The album goes on the stereo, a joint gets rolled, the chili simmers hot and savory, its aroma mixing with the music and the smoke. The trailer park crew arrives. I alternate between hits of the joint and sips of the bourbon, and for the first time in recent memory, we're actually enjoying a mellow night at the trailer.

The chili is ready. We're serving ourselves in oversized soup bowls supplied by the Widow, and taking our seats on chairs, the sofa, the floor when an unearthly howl fills the room. I'm thinking the demons are active again, but Duck corrects me.

"That came from outside," he says. "Go to the door, see what it is."

"What if it's a dog?" I ask.

"Still light out. They never show up until after dark."

So I open the door. It's not a dog. It's a cat.

A big cat, maybe 20 to 25 pounds of what appears to be solid muscle rippling below a sleek coat of shimmering fur. All black, except for the eyes, which are the color of new spring grass.

But, clearly, this is no ordinary cat. I step back, wordlessly, to let it in. Duck and the Widow rise to their feet as if in the presence of an unexpected dignitary who has deigned to visit us.

The cat steps across the threshold and conducts an inspection of the room, weaving a path between our legs, surveying the furniture, lifting its nose a little in apparent disgust as it passes the spot where Flop sleeps on, oblivious. It enters the kitchen area and sits on the floor beside the range, gazing upward.

"It must be hungry," the Widow says. "Give it some chili."

I dish a few spoonfuls onto a plate and set the plate on the floor. The cat's eyes meet mine. I feel foolish. Chili is not what it's come for. The cat returns its gaze to the range, and that's when I realize that his (I think it's a he) head is tilted higher than the stovetop. He's staring at the cupboard above the range. He's commanding me to open it.

I obey. The instant the door opens, the cat springs into the air, clearing the six-foot space between floor and cupboard, and lands with a snarl amid the cereal boxes, canned food and bottles of booze contained within, not toppling a single item.

We gather close to see what's happening, but quickly back away as the cat leaps out of the cupboard with something in his mouth. Something brown, and twitching.

"It's caught a mouse!" Garrett marvels.

The cat returns to the trailer door, with the little creature clamped between his jaws. He looks at me, then at the door, then at me again. I let him out, to devour the mouse alfresco.

"What the hell was that about?" Garrett asks.

We've no sooner returned to our meal and conversation when the cat howls outside again. We let him in. He returns to the stove and silently commands me to reopen the cupboard door. He springs, snags another mouse, and carries it outside.

By 10:00, he's completed nine forays into mouse territory. The mice have long since abandoned the cupboards, seeking shelter behind the refrigerator or under the couch, or trying desperately to outmaneuver their predator by running intricate patterns across the open space of kitchenette, living room and hallway.

But this cat is a mouse-killing machine. This is the Achilles of mousers, and my trailer is his plain of Ilium, a mousey massacre awash with blood, scattered with corpses, a panorama of savage tableaus, fear and suffering and tragic mortality, death closing the eyes of so many mice as they supplicate before their killer and plead for mercy.

Useless. His savagery knows no bounds. Pity cannot touch his heart nor sympathy sway his single-minded prosecution of terrible Fate, whose instrument he has become.

My guests, full of chili and wine and good cheer, eventually depart, leaving me alone, the last to bear witness as the cat makes his final departure at 2:30 in the morning. He casts one glance over his shoulder before vanishing, black into the black night, and seems to give me a nod – but a nod of what?

I'm left with death and a riddle, and sit staring through the dark emptiness of the open door until dawn.

~ ~ ~

Sunday, May 14

I haven't slept, too stirred up by our mysterious cat to even think of rest. At dawn, I decide to drive into campus for breakfast. The Ole Miss cafeteria's glazed donuts, metallic coffee and carbonated orange juice would make a perfect start to a new week after a sleepless night.

Seven o'clock is a safe hour to be here on a Sunday. The fraternity boys and sorority chicks are still collapsed unconscious on floors, stairways, back porches, car seats and sidewalks all across campus. The faculty are either still sleeping or dressing for church. Around noon, they'll begin arriving with their wives and children for the weekly family outing to campus, a parade of Sunday dresses and seersucker suits.

But for the next few hours, the cafeteria is safe ground for fringe dwellers and outcasts of the college, and the dining hall is already full of them by the time I arrive: scruffy independent boys from the nearby run-down dorms (Garland, Mayes, Gerard, Lester), foreign exchange students, computer science majors, members of the Black Student Union, potters and painters and sculptors who've spent all night in the studios of Bryant Hall, assorted hippies at loose ends. This is our time to emerge and share a bit of fellowship before retiring to the underbrush when the dominant life forms of Ole Miss re-emerge.

I'm not surprised to find Clamor here amid a beggar's banquet of miscellaneous ragged folk incongruously assembled around the table usually occupied by Dr. Giordano's crew. She waves for me to join them. She has news.

"Suzie went into labor last night. Nick and the sheriff rushed her to the hospital in the squad car. No word yet."

"I didn't know she was due so soon," I say.

"A week overdue, actually," Clamor tells me.

"Is giving birth like a library? Does she start in incur fines for being overdue?"

A guy wearing a pinstriped shirt with an open collar across the table seems to be taking an interest in our conversation. He gives me a look like he thinks he should know me. I have a sense that I should know him, too.

"Are you Medway?" he asks.

I nod. He reaches a hand across the table in a power shake.

"Jerome Baker," he says. "I understand you've been trying to get in touch with me."

"Our notorious author," I say. "The man of the hour. Are you coming with us to Clarksdale? We could sure use your testimony."

He's a big guy whose horn-rimmed glasses somehow make him look even bigger, a considerable intelligence matched to his considerable physical strength, but he answers my remark with the look of a shy teenager and glances away.

"We all need to talk," Clamor says to us. "Come on, Jerome. Time for the truth. You can trust Daniel with your secret."

Clamor separates us from the herd, leading Jerome and me toward a far table in the back corner of the room, out of earshot. I pick up my tray and follow.

"Prepare to be amazed," Clamor says.

"I apologize, man. I didn't mean to put you on the spot back there," I say to Jerome. "But you know, we've all been trying to reach you – Dr. Evans, the attorney, me."

"Don't I know it? And don't you suppose there was a reason I keep dodging you people? A good reason?"

Jerome gives me a moment to reply, but I can't think of anything to say.

"I know you all believe you're waging some kind of war for free speech and racial tolerance, and all your hippie shit, and that I ought to help," he says. "And it's not that I don't want to. But the truth is that I cannot go into court and testify."

"Why not?"

"What do you suppose the first thing the lawyer's going to ask if I take the stand? The very first question?"

"I don't know."

"The lawyer's going to say, 'Well, Mr. Baker, are you the author of the story in question?' Then I'm either going to have to perjure myself, or admit that somebody else wrote it."

"Somebody else?"

"I am _not_ the author of that story."

This takes a moment to sink in. "Do you mean you plagiarized it?" I finally ask.

"Hell, no. What do you take me for? No, man. Listen. Late last fall, Amy Madigan came to me, and told me she was trying to put together a student magazine. She told me all the stories that had been submitted were pure crap, and that she hadn't gotten anything from any black students. She said she had a little science fiction piece she'd written and asked if I'd be willing to let it be published under my name. I read the story, thought it was cool, and said okay."

Clamor was right in her warning. I'm amazed. "So you're Amy's front? Why would you agree to do that?"

"Amy's a friend. I've known her most of my life. We both grew up in Crowder. Also, because she's cool."

"Good lord," I say.

"So you grasp my dilemma," he says. "I refuse to swear a false oath, and I'll never betray a friend's confidence, especially not one who's on the verge of a once-in-a-lifetime career opportunity."

I do see it. If Mr. Morality in Literature knew the true authorship of that story, he'd cut Amy loose.

But there's still one thing I don't understand. "Why would she write a story told from the point of view of a foul-mouthed post-apocalyptic black guy?"

"It's called a persona," Clamor says. "You majored in English. You should know what that is. Anyway, it's what cousin Amy does all the time, invents narrators who are totally unlike her. She doesn't much like herself, in case you've never noticed. I think pretending to be somebody else is therapy for her."

"Haven't you read _Monastery of Horses_?" Jerome asks. "Most of it's told from the perspective of a hemophiliac deaf-mute."

"How very southern," I say.

"She understands her market," Jerome points out. "If you're from Mississippi, readers expect you to be grotesque."

"Although that's never much of a stretch for any of us," Clamor observes.

~ ~ ~

Monday, May 15

I have to take wide path around another dead cow and try to keep upwind of it on my walk down to the trailer.

The Widow Woman is resting on a lawn chair in her front door, watching me. "The Duck is gone," she tells me. "Took one look at that carcass, and decided he'd had about enough. Put the cap on his pickup, loaded the bed with some of his things and told me that we're welcome to whatever's left behind. He's gone to join the Guru Maharaj."

"Who's our landlord now?" I ask.

"Don't know. Duck was talking about selling the place, but there's no telling whether the deal went through. Maybe nobody. Maybe we're like some kind of independent state now. You want a beer?"

She fishes around in the ice chest and finds a Falstaff for me, very cold.

"Well," I observe, "the newly formed Independent Republic of Campground Road has its first crisis to attend to. How do we get rid of the cow?"

"I phoned Duck's friend with the backhoe. He wants $50 for the job."

"You have $50?" I ask.

"Hell, where would I get $50? You?"

"No."

"I suppose we could take up a collection," the Widow suggests.

"Let's get it from Blake instead."

Joan is out, but Blake is working at the typewriter, his eyes rimmed red from sleeplessness and eyestrain. I decide to skip the preambles.

"We need that cash the Duck gave you, the refund on the rent," I tell him.

"Why should I give it to you two?" he mutters, sullen, not looking up.

"Because you didn't come by it fairly," I say. "You know as well as I do that nobody from the camp fired on us. It was either my man Skoll or some wandering maniac. Duck didn't owe you a refund for anything."

Blake rolls a fresh sheet of paper into the machine and resumes typing, without an answer.

"And because we've got to get that cow in the ground by sundown," I add. "If we don't, its guts are going to explode in this heat, the stench is going to be unbearable, every wild dog in Lafayette County is going to descend on this spot, and you won't be able to finish your dissertation for all the noise and the stink."

Blake thinks this over. "I'm not just going to give you that money."

"Lend it to us, then."

He shakes his head. "I'll buy your stereo. Fifty's a fair price, and I'll need a good system down in New Orleans."

"All right," I agree, struggling not to reflect on what I'm agreeing to. "It's yours."

Blake reaches into the pocket of his jeans – jeans he hasn't changed out of in a week or more – and fishes out a wad of sweated-up bills that are as shapeless and damp as canned spinach.

"You were a lot nicer when you were a drunk," the Widow observes on our way out.

"I was a fool when I was a drunk," he answers.

"Heaven has a soft spot for genuine fools," she says. "Like all my late husbands. But it doesn't have much use for assholes."

~ ~ ~

Tuesday, May 16

I'm in no special hurry, after work, to get back to the trailer, so I decide to drop by Tyler Avenue and inquire after Suzie's Saturday night delivery.

The place turns out to be packed, but not with celebrants of any nativity. The people milling about the front porch, crowding the parlor and thronging the kitchen constitute James' latest entourage, a contingent that seems to have grown significantly since his triumphant return as political martyr from Chapel Hill.

Having somehow lost more weight – I checked myself on the penny scale at Gathright-Reed last week, 105 pounds – I'm able to slip between bodies in the crowd, and discover James displaying a page from a spiral notebook to the throng as if it were the Shroud of Turin, a page scrawled over and over in pencil with a repeating set of numbers:

"39, 5, 57, 76, 50, 55." And a date on the top of the page: "May 14, 1972."

"And as you can yourself witness," James is saying, "these are the numbers I recorded Sunday evening on the short-wave set, in a three-minute burst over a previously unused frequency that fell completely silent after the 15th repetition."

"What in the hell are they?" I ask.

James seems less than pleased to discover me in the audience. "Those are the latitude and longitude of Laurel, Maryland. Certainly, even you must grasp the significance of that broadcast."

I have to admit I don't. "Sorry," I say.

Garrett materializes by my side from someplace out of the crowd. "Sunday night," he prompts. "A message about something going down in Laurel, Maryland."

"You haven't heard about the shooting," James says – an accusation, not a question.

"What shooting?"

"George Wallace."

"My lord! Wallace shot somebody?"

"No, idiot. Somebody shot Wallace. In Laurel, Maryland."

"Poor son of a bitch," I say. "Is he dead?"

"That's irrelevant."

"It's not irrelevant to Wallace!"

"What matters," James says, impatient, "is that the station broadcast the latitude and longitude of the shooting over 12 hours before it happened."

"James thinks it's Tamburlaine again," Garrett says.

"I _know_ it was Tamburlaine. We've got all the wire service pictures. The man in the hat was there."

"It was a campaign rally. Half the people there were wearing silly hats."

"Why would Tamburlaine shoot George Wallace?" I ask.

This question really ticks James off. " _Tamburlaine_ didn't shoot Wallace! Nobody's saying that. They caught the guy who shot him. But Tamburlaine knew it was going to happen, and he sent those numbers out over the radio to warn us."

"Lot of good that did for Wallace," I observe. "Tamburlaine moves in mysterious ways. Why didn't he just get on the radio and say, 'Hey, listen up – some asshole's going to gun down George Wallace in Maryland tomorrow'? Or even better, why didn't he put a phone call into the cops or to Wallace's campaign warning them?"

James answers with a glare.

"I'm just saying, the approach seems kind of indirect and inefficient. And anyway, how could Tamburlaine know that Wallace was about to be shot if he wasn't part of a plot to shoot him?"

"Get out," James says. "Nobody wants to listen to your ravings."

Garrett tugs at my sleeve, drawing me back from the front row, back out of the kitchen and into the parlor.

"Watch yourself, Medway," James calls out. "When the revolution comes, it's going to roll right over you!"

~ ~ ~

Wednesday, May 17

A new band called "America" is on the radio singing about a horse with no name as I swing into campus. No parking spaces left on Magnolia Drive, so I move on to the coliseum parking lot and walk the gauntlet between the boys loitering on the front porches of their frat houses along Coliseum Drive, provoking ridicule, threats and accusations of treason from everyone who spots me on my way to Bondurant.

I should have thought to put on a jacket or something over my t-shirt.

Little Becky is, once again, engaged in profound discussion about women's liberation with Dr. Goodleigh when I arrive at the Museum. Both stop to gape at my attire.

"I hope you're not thinking of wearing that to the hearing," Dr. Goodleigh says, referring to my red Chairman Mao t-shirt, the one Ashley left behind last autumn.

"It's the only clean thing I could find," I explain. "My dirty stuff is in the car. Thought I'd stop by the laundromat on my way home tonight."

"Where did you get that shirt?" Becky asks.

"Don't know," I lie, and then, to change the subject, add, "Hey, did you read in yesterday's _Mississippian_ about movie night in the Grove next week? Open-air showing of _2001_ , under the stars. A good time will be had by all."

" _Space Odyssey_? I've never seen it," Becky says.

"Greatest movie ever made," I assure her.

"The slowest movie ever made," Dr. Goodleigh comments. "The night I saw it, half the audience at the Ritz was convinced that the projector had stalled."

"But highly entertaining if you're stoned out of your mind, as I intend to be," I say.

This is the moment, I realize. My big chance. I've stumbled into it.

"Would you like to see it with me?" I ask Becky. "We could make an evening of it – dinner at the Buddha, _2001_ , banana cream pie and coffee at the Beacon afterward. A night of golden memories."

I catch a glance from Dr. Goodleigh, a look I don't understand.

"What night?" Becky asks.

"A week from this coming Friday."

"I think I'm free."

"It's a date, then."

"Yes, it's a date."

Later, after Becky leaves, Dr. Goodleigh positions herself in the door to the Museum, leaning against the frame, arms crossed, regarding me. I glance up from Herodotus and discover her there.

"You finally did it," she says.

"Finally did it," I agree. "Are you proud of me?"

"Chinese food, a free movie, and pie at the Beacon? How romantic. Come, come. The girl's worth more than that."

"I'm a just a poor graduate student. And about to get even poorer. My only solace is that Mr. Duck's skipped town, so I probably won't have to pay rent for a while."

"At least promise you won't wear that shirt again, on your date or any other time. In fact, you're making me nervous having it on in the Museum. I'm afraid a lynch mob's going to converge on us. Take the afternoon off – go do your laundry."

~ ~ ~

Thursday, May 18

The Clarksdale courtroom for the Fifth Circuit Court of Appeals feels like a place that only ever existed in the imagination of Harper Lee. But instead of old Atticus Finch up front, arguing his case before the judge, we have something entirely more toothsome to behold today: Jenny Tyson looking like Artemis in a pinstripe suit.

Judge Watters has been as old-fashioned courtly toward her as he's been short with Bill Cook, the University's lanky, watery-eyed attorney who so far isn't having a very good day.

First comes the fiasco of Mr. Patrick's testimony, the now well-told tale of how poor old Mrs. Enger had a fainting spell over the language she was expected to typeset, and how he himself – Patrick – had stopped the presses then and there, alarmed over the danger that rampant obscenity posed to the spiritual well being of the Ole Miss community.

Jenny cross-examines, asking Mr. Patrick if he recalls her visit to his office last February. He seems to recollect it. Does he recall showing her a certain item that he retrieved from the office safe?

"An item?" he asks.

"An item."

He scratches his jaw, now recollecting that he had in fact displayed a finished copy of _Barefoot_ for her to inspect.

"So you _do_ have finished copies?"

"Sure, 250 of them. The full run, crowding up our safe."

"So you didn't actually stop the presses over Mrs. Enger's complaints?"

"Beg your pardon?"

"You just testified that you'd stopped the presses. Yet somehow the entire run found its way into your safe."

"I must have misspoke."

Dean Moriarty takes the stand to present the administration's tired old _in loco parentis_ argument, which essentially boils down to the University's sacred duty to protect students from the inherent dangers of receiving an education.

He's decided to play the role of a good-humored folk philosopher decrying the strange ways of today's "young-uns" – as he keep calling us. The longer he's on the stand, the more exaggerated his vowels become, until they're almost as long as this morning's car ride from Oxford.

"The role of the administration is to keep peace on campus so the children can learn, like their mommas and daddies sent 'em to," he explains, pleased with himself. "Times like these, when we've got so many outside agitators to deal with, our job of protectin' is especially important. We don't let elephants go dancing in the hen yard."

In her cross examination, Jenny plays to the Dean's vanity, flirts with him a little, and lures him into over-extending his metaphor. After a few questions he's managed to compare Ole Miss students to poultry whose eggs may be gathered or heads may be chopped off and their carcasses dipped into scalding water at the discretion of the administration.

"But what about the civil liberties of the chickens?" she asks.

"Well, . . . I don't believe chickens have civil liberties," he answers. "I'm sorry – how did we get to talking about chickens?"

Bill Cook appears battered but hopeful as he calls Edward Alcott, the University's star witness, to the stand. The man doesn't disappoint. Even Judge Watters seems impressed as Alcott establishes his credentials to serve as an expert in American letters, sage of contemporary literature, and judge over the quicksilver quality of a work's socially redeeming value. His own judgment in the case: that the story in question is the obscene rambling of a disordered, sociopathic revolutionary and must be censored for the safety of the community and the reputation of the University.

"Mr. Alcott," Jenny purrs as she approaches the stand, "you are widely acclaimed as one of the century's greatest war novelists. I understand you have also seen combat."

"I was with McArthur at the Battle Inchon," he answers, "and subsequently during the liberation of Seoul."

"Never having served in the military, personally, I've always wondered about what happens on the ground during the heat of battle. Do soldiers ever curse?"

"Curse?"

"Curse. Speak the kind of words that you've read in the magazine."

He answers with a patronizing gaze. "Yes, miss, you hang around a platoon of Marines long enough and you're likely to hear some language that would bring a blush to your cheek."

"They use terminology referring to fornication?"

"Yes."

"And defecation as well, I presume?"

"Yes."

"And yet," Jenny pursues, "for all their realism – critics have applauded you for the realism of your work – none of your novels use that kind of language."

"Certainly not."

"Is that because you don't want your readers to know that American soldiers are, by and large, obscene sociopaths?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"I mean, here they are going into battle, carrying the American flag before them, and all they can think about is fornication and defecation? That sounds unhinged, if you ask me."

"Of course they're not thinking of those things," Alcott spits. "Are you a simpleton? They're thinking about the battle. They're thinking about staying alive and protecting their comrades."

"Really? But how can that be? You've testified that anyone who repeatedly uses that kind of language can only be a sociopath who can think of nothing but sex and . . . ."

"I was talking about writers, not soldiers," he interrupts. "Soldiers can curse as much as they want. I guess they've earned that right. Not writers, though – especially not hippies and beatniks who think they're entitled to the same privileges as decent people. Not your scum like Kerouac and Ferlinghetti and that faggot Ginsberg and that wife-killer Burroughs. Burroughs! Son of a bitch. I punched him once, you know. Gave him a bloody nose. He had it coming. No, by god, not writers. Especially not student writers. Especially not punk Ole Miss hippie scum who aren't even bright enough to get into a _real_ college."

Jenny has no further questions. Bill Cook, flustered over having their star witness insult the University from the stand, seems relieved to announce that his case rests.

Jenny calls Dr. Evans to the stand. He casually overturns every one of Alcott's propositions on morality in literature. I catch a glimpse of the novelist out of the corner of my eye. He's fidgeting, probably in an effort not to leap to the front of the court and give Dr. Evans a manly thrashing.

Bill Cook declines to cross-examine, seeming eager to get the trial over with.

I'm next. Jenny pauses to shuffle some papers at her table after I've taken the stand. The delay gives me a minute to search through the crowd of faces in the courtroom, looking for Becky. I see Alcott, Moriarty, and Dr. Evans, of course. Dr. French has tucked himself away in a back corner. I spot Miss Fairchild jotting notes in a pad, Garrett seated beside her. My eyes momentarily meet the eyes of Amy Madigan, but we quickly break contact. Lots of people I don't know. But I don't find Becky, and for a moment the day feels like a loss.

My job on the witness stand is easy. As _Barefoot_ 's poetry editor, I testify that the administration's censorship affects not just one single author but every student whose work appeared in the magazine, students who have had no complaints brought against them.

My time on the stand is likely to be brief. Jenny feeds me her questions and hands me over to Bill Cook. I fully expect to be passed over, like Dr. Evans was, and am surprised to find Mr. Cook approaching me. With something that looks like a grin.

I don't like this.

"So you served as poetry editor for the magazine."

"Yes, sir."

"And I understand you've published some poetry yourself – not in amateur student magazines, but in national publications. And won some awards? Is that correct?"

"That was a few years back," I answer.

"But despite your youth, you would qualify as what people would call a 'real' poet. Even members of the administration who don't think very highly of you personally concede that you're talented."

"That's very forbearing of them."

"So as a _real_ poet, tell me this: do you think any of the poetry in your magazine is any good?"

"Excuse me?"

"Do you think it has any socially redeeming value? That's the question. Does it deserve to be published? Here, let me give you a specific example." Cook produces a copy of the magazine and reads one of Becky's poems:

Winter remembered

walking under a willow

that weeps crystal tears.

"Ten words," he says. "Ten words occupying a single sheet of expensive card stock. I don't see anything socially redeeming in that. I see a waste of paper."

"It's a haiku," I answer. "They're supposed to be short, 17 syllables. The empty margins surrounding it are part of the poem – the Zen of it, you might say. A reminder of the emptiness that frames every utterance."

"It's nonsense," Cook replies. "Utter nonsense. Walking under a weeping willow?" he asks, voice brimming with wonderment. "How is that even possible? How can that be considered good poetry?"

"Actually," I explain, "the young lady who wrote that is very short. I imagine she might be able to walk under a weeping willow if she wanted to. The funny thing is, though, that you've picked out the only poet in the magazine with any talent at all."

"The others are worse?"

"She's got talent. The others are terrible."

"Their poetry is terrible," Cook repeats.

"Lord, yes. Just awful. But it was the best we had to choose from. You should have read some of the stuff we rejected. It would have tempted you to gouge your own eyeballs out, so you'd never have to read another line."

"Would you say these poems have socially redeeming value?"

"A few maybe, but most of them are crap. Fortunately, the future of civilization doesn't rest on student literary magazines."

"Then why," Cook suddenly thunders, "should the University be expected to fund this magazine, to pay for a publication that by your own admission has little to no socially redeeming value and that – as we've heard from witness after witness – falls outside the college community's standard of decency?"

Jenny has risen. "Your Honor, I object. The witness isn't qualified to address the legal issues of that question."

Judge Watters turns to me, and our eyes meet directly for the first time in the trial. He holds my gaze for a long moment, as a wry expression crosses his face.

"Objection noted, counselor," the Judge replies. "But I'd like to hear what he has to say. You may answer the question."

"Let me repeat," Cook says. "Can you provide any justification of why the University should fund a magazine that it considers to be obscene and that you, as editor and as plaintiff in this case, acknowledge has no socially redeeming merit?"

"I can't," I admit. "And if the University had actually paid the printing costs, you'd likely have a pretty good argument."

"What?" Judge Watters interrupts, before Cook has had a chance to ask. "What did you just say?"

"I said that if the college had paid for the magazine, they'd probably have the right to impound it. But they didn't pay for it. I did."

" _You_ did?"

"Yes, your Honor. Dr. French, the chair of the English department, had already decided to cancel the print job, but somehow word hadn't reached the Print Shop. So I went down and paid with my own money. I paid cash, directly to Mr. Patrick. I'm sure he remembers."

Suddenly, in the moment of stunned silence that's fallen over the courtroom, Mr. Patrick has risen to his feet. "You told me you were sent by the English department!"

Bill Cook and Jenny both begin to object. Judge Watters silences them with a forefinger slashed throat-wise in the air.

"Is this true?" he demands of Mr. Patrick. "Did he personally pay cash for the printing job?"

"He said he was sent by the English department. It was a deception."

Judge Watters turns to me.

"No, sir, I never claimed that. I simply said I had come to pay the expenses. Mr. Patrick was suspicious, so I suggested that he should make a call to Dr. French to see whether or not I was authorized to do so. Dr. French certainly would have told him that I wasn't. But Mr. Patrick decided to trust me."

"You little bastard!" Mr. Patrick shouts.

Jenny rises again. "I object to my witness being called a little bastard."

Judge Watters smiles. "Over-ruled. He is sort of a little bastard, isn't he? Tell me, young man, why haven't you mentioned this transaction before today?"

"Well, Your Honor, the truth of the matter is that I'd totally forgotten about it until Mr. Cook here raised the question about why the school should pay. That's when I recollected that they _hadn't_ paid."

"You'd forgotten."

"It slipped my mind. I've had a lot to think about since then."

"Did you happen to get a receipt for this transaction?"

"Yes, sir. I didn't bring it with me, but it's in my trailer, back in Oxford. I have a witness, too, a young lady who was with me that day."

Judge Watters slams the gavel before anyone can utter another syllable. "This court is adjourned until such time as an authenticated receipt is produced and an affidavit from the witness is sworn.

"Whereupon, I will likely direct the University to release the impounded publication to its lawful owner who . . ." he casts a stern look my way, ". . . I hope never to see in my courtroom again. Young man, you may step down!"

"All rise!" the bailiff calls out as Judge Watters departs.

We all rise.

~ ~ ~

Friday, May 19

I haven't been this drunk since the night of bar-hopping with James Dickey. It's Dr. Evans' victory party for everyone involved in the magazine. We won a stunning victory in Judge Watters' court. He hasn't issued a ruling yet, but Jenny assures us that we've prevailed. The suit is all but over.

Everyone's here, even Miss Fairchild, come down from Memphis. Her coverage of yesterday's hearing in this morning's _Commercial Appeal_ has already created a stir, with the University demanding apologies, corrections and retractions over reporting that made them look like buffoons, liars and bullies, and her own bosses divided equally over whether to fire her or promote her to the city desk.

Garrett, meanwhile, has ended his long journalistic silence with his own piece of court reporting that sounds like H.L. Mencken on an acid trip. He reads it to us, to the delighted shrieks of the partiers.

"I'm really beginning to think," Miss Fairchild confides drunkenly to me over the noise, "that Garrett's future may lie in Gonzo journalism."

"Gonzo?" I ask.

"Gonzo," she slurs. "There's this book, _Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas_. Guy named Hunter Thompson." She spills a dollop of 7-layer drip from a Frito onto my shirt sleeve, tries to daub it away with a paper napkin, and then gets distracted by her daiquiri.

"You really ought to read it," she adds, returning to the subject after a full minute of silence. "Garrett and I could do it, you know. Together. Build an underground newspaper. We could be the king and queen of Memphis Gonzo."

Garrett leaves the party with Miss Fairchild on his arm a little after 11:00. Dr. Evans and Mrs. Giordano circulate through the crowd, making certain that nobody's glass runs dry. Things are getting louder and louder. The cigarette smoke is dense as fog. I find myself in the kitchen with Dr. Goodleigh. She's trying to tell me something that I'm not quite able to fathom or to follow.

Something about Turkey.

Suddenly, Garrett is by my side, drinking a Bud.

"I thought you'd left," I shout over the din of revelry.

"Did I?" he asks. "Yes, you're right. I believe I did. But I came back."

"Why?"

"Why indeed? An astute question. Why did I come back? I seem to have had a good reason. Something important. News. What was it?"

Garrett cocks his head, closes an eye and peers deep into the lip of his Bud with the other, apparently attempting to commune with a spirit in the beer who knows the reason for his return.

" _That's_ it," he says. "Big news over on Tyler. I came back to tell you. I thought you should know. Suzie's had her baby. Delivered at 7:15 this evening. Seven pounds, three ounces. Mother and child doing fine."

"Boy or a girl?"

"Boy. They're going to name him Samuel."

~ ~ ~

Saturday, May 20

"I still can't get my head around it," I admit to Joan.

We're standing together at the big window of the nursery at Baptist Hospital. A dozen cribs in the room, four of them occupied. The one in the second row, left, contains the sleeping form of Suzie and Nick's offspring.

"A baby. A brand-new human being. And they made him – the two of them. That truly blows my mind."

"You better get used to it," Joan says. "Once the first couple in a group has a baby, they suddenly start popping out everywhere. I've seen it with my older sisters and their friends. I wouldn't be surprised if Cindy got pregnant next. Then, who knows? Maybe you'll knock some lucky girl up."

"Not if I can help it," I say. "I plan to be the last of my kind, the end of the Medway line, prevent the name and the genes from passing along to another generation. That'll be my contribution to the future."

"We've scarcely seen you all week," Joan remarks, changing the subject. "Where have you been staying?"

"Here and there. A couple of nights in the car, once in the Grove. Once passed out on Faulkner's grave. Sheriff Claprood found me there and gave me a cell to sleep in. Last night, a bunch of us crashed in Dr. Evans' living room."

"Trying to avoid Blake?"

"He's mean when he's sober," I complain.

"Try to be understanding. He's under a lot of pressure to finish the dissertation. He's promised me that once it's done he'll start drinking, and everything will be like it used to. We'll be happy again."

"That's what he says now. It's easy to make promises, harder to keep them."

"I believe him, though."

"Listen," I say, "I've known a lot of sober people. You can never trust what they say. My father was sober all the time. A thirty-room mansion, with not a drop of alcohol anywhere. Growing up, I got scarred for life."

"Blake really means it, though, I can tell."

"I hope you're right. Just remember – sobriety's a disease. He can't control himself."

~ ~ ~

Sunday, May 21

"Thank you for arranging this meeting," Dean Moriarty says.

Dr. Sutherland nods a "You're welcome."

We're in Sutherland's office, third floor of Bishop, overlooking the ruins of Fraternity Row after what appears to have been an epic Saturday night of partying. It's 10:00 a.m., and I'm wondering why Bill Cook and the Dean aren't in church at this hour. Everyone who has an office in the Lyceum goes to church. It's a job requirement.

But I guess this may be the perfect time for a meeting that nobody else is supposed to know about.

Bill Cook opens his briefcase, lifts out a manila envelope, and produces a typewritten document with two signature lines at the bottom, which he pushes toward me across the table. Dr. Sutherland cranes his neck to glimpse it over my shoulder as I retrieve it.

"The University wants to purchase _Barefoot_ ," Cook says. "For $312, the amount you paid the print shop for the job."

Dr. Sutherland and I exchange a glance. "And then what happens to it?" I ask.

"We release it," Cook says. "With a stamped disclaimer on the front page of each issue stating that _Barefoot_ is not an official publication of the University."

"That's what Judge Pettry told you to do after the first hearing, way back in March," I point out. "The solution wasn't good enough for you then."

"The situation's changed. It is now acceptable to the administration."

I read the agreement they've drafted. It's essentially just a bill of sale. "This doesn't say anything about your promise to release it. Shouldn't that be in writing as well?"

Moriarty shifts uneasily in his chair. So far he hasn't uttered a single word.

"No," Cook says. "You'll have to accept that stipulation on faith. You have my assurance that the administration will observe both the letter and the spirit of our agreement."

I glance at Dr. Sutherland again. He answers with a barely perceptible shake of the head.

"Why would I agree to sign this?" I ask.

At this point, Moriarty finally decides to speak. "Because, it's in the best interests of everyone concerned, the students and the University as well. And because it's what a gentleman would do."

"Why do you people insist on confusing me with a gentleman?"

"Look at it this way," Cook says. "Sign, and the suit ends here, today."

"In case you missed it," I say, "the suit is already over, and we won. Judge Watters ordered you to release the magazine to me."

"We're not prepared to recognize you as the rightful owner."

"You're not? But here you've written a contract for me to sign my rights over to you. Doesn't that mean I'm the owner?"

"Sign the contract, and we'll recognize you as the rightful owner."

"But then I won't be . . . not once I relinquish ownership."

"That's correct."

"So the only way you'll recognize my ownership is if I relinquish it."

"Right."

"Wow. A Zen lawyer. Do you recite koans in your closing arguments?"

"If you fail to cooperate, we're prepared to file a new suit," he says. "Against you, personally."

"You committed fraud," Moriarty says. "We can prove it."

"Fraud?"

Cook waves a warning gesture toward Moriarty, and intervenes. "We will allege that you misrepresented yourself to Mr. Patrick as a messenger from the English department, in a fraudulent manner."

"I didn't."

" _Shut up and listen to me, boy_ ," Moriarty explodes. "You've had yourself a fun little time here embarrassing the Lyceum, leading your degenerate crusade for free speech. Now it's our turn. If we go back to court, you're the defendant, you're the one in the crosshairs. No class action to make you seem important, no free Commie lawyers to hide behind. We'll humiliate you, expose you for the fraud you really are."

Cook speaks more quietly. "Your accomplice in the transaction would be a party in the suit as well. The young lady. I'm sure you're not anxious to see her reputation besmirched."

The Lyceum has, I realize, has outfoxed me. Well played.

"It would be best," Cook adds, "to avoid further unpleasantness."

He takes a pen from the pocket of his dress shirt, hands it to me. I sign. He signs and produces a business-size envelope from an interior pocket of his suit coat.

Inside is a check for $312.45. I begin to tear it in half, but Dr. Sutherland snatches the check from my fingers.

"Think," he counsels. "No pointless symbolic gestures, okay? No one ever needs to know what happened here this morning. At least make the bastards pay."

Cook is closing his briefcase. Moriarty is halfway out the door. Sutherland halts him with a question: "And our agreement?"

"Will be honored," Moriarty answers, with a pause, but without looking back.

"Your agreement?" I ask after they've left. "What have you done?"

"I negotiated to have your position reinstated. You'll continue to assist Dr. Goodleigh in the Museum."

"That wasn't necessary," I say. "I appreciate the gesture, but I can support myself without the job."

"Why don't you climb down off your high horse and give him some water, Medway? He looks tired. Jesus! I didn't do this for _you_. I'm doing it for the department. I _am_ the chairman, you know. The department needs your position. Without it, the Museum would be left unstaffed all summer."

"Unstaffed? What about Dr. Goodleigh?"

"Jane's grant to study in Turkey was approved. She received confirmation late Friday. Didn't she tell you at Harold's party?"

"Turkey? She's going to Turkey? So that's what she was trying to tell me!"

~ ~ ~

Monday, May 22

"No," Dr. Goodleigh answers, "I'm not going to Turkey to study Turks."

She's wearing her hair down around her shoulders today, hoop earrings, blue work shirt, and a buckskin skirt I haven't seen before, over the old thigh-high leather boots. She appears to be prepared to track the buffalo migration across the prairie after a day in the Museum.

"Why, then?" I ask

"Field studies around the tell of Hissarlik. Ilium," she adds, in response to my blank look. "Troy. The UNESCO grant. You typed the application. Don't you remember?"

It takes a moment, but I finally do. "That 30-page monster from back in January. UNESCO's considering how to create a list of historical sites that will come under its protection. So you're going to Troy!"

"Hissarlik. Only amateurs call it Troy. And you're staying here to watch after the shop."

"I'll make sure everything's still standing when you get back."

"And . . ." she says, with the half smile as she reaches for this morning's edition of the _Commercial Appeal_.

"And?"

"And the cats, of course."

~ ~ ~

Tuesday, May 23

"Ah warned you that this day would come."

Keith Thompson, accompanied by a cohort of his fraternity brothers, has intercepted me on my way to the car, on Magnolia Drive, for our long-anticipated showdown. The grassy quad out front of Garland, Mayes and Hedleston has been designated as our arena. Odd to think that this is also the spot where I first kissed Melissa Allen.

It seems a good portion of the campus has been informed of our showdown beforehand.

The place is already crowded with guys from the surrounding dorms and from Fraternity Row. The two rival camps – the Greeks versus the Independents – are flanked on the south and the north sides of the yard, respectively, to witness a battle between their champions.

Sadly, there's no doubt in anyone's mind regarding the outcome of this contest. Keith, stripped down to a pair of gym shorts and a white t-shirt, is a wall of muscle. His parents probably have a shelf of his high school boxing trophies proudly displayed in their rumpus room down in Gulfport.

I'm about to get my ass handed to me. All I can hope to do is minimize the damage by going down quick, on the second or third punch.

Keith displays some fancy footwork and jabs the air with his bare knuckles. "You cannot claim that you haven't been warned!"

I strike a pose that must resemble a fisticuff scene from an old silent movie, arms raised high, fists clenched.

"Thumbs outside, you idiot!" somebody shouts.

Right. I unclench and clench again, thumbs now in the correct position so that if a miracle occurs and I manage to land a punch, I won't come away with broken digits.

Keith has started dancing, circling me. "A proper thrashing at the hands of a gentleman is no less than you deserve."

He's probably right. It would be a dangerous distraction for me to argue the point with him at this moment.

"Nothing to say for yourself? Eh?"

A fist darts toward me. I duck, feint, lean back, manage to evade the blow. Keith looks a bit surprised that my reflexes haven't been more dramatically slowed by years of depraved living. I'm surprised, too. We've been in our imaginary ring for almost a minute and I haven't yet been rendered to a bloody pulp.

"Nothing to say? All right. Save your breath to beg for mercy. Not that you'll get any. Not from me. No mercy from me, you bastard. Defiler of women. Rapist."

"Rapist? What – ?"

Keith's follow-up punch lands straight into my solar plexus. The air goes out of me, ripping away the question I was about to ask along with it. My knees buckle. I fall forward, gasping, face into the dirt.

A wild cheer rises, seemingly from both camps. It doesn't really matter who wins today as long as somebody – and that would be me – get the shit stomped out of him. It's the last week of classes, finals coming up. The boys of Ole Miss need blood sports to blow off some steam.

I roll over onto my side, then onto my back, body collapsed into a fetal crouch. Keith looms over me.

"Get up!" he commands. "You're not hurt. I barely touched you, asshole. Get up. Take your beating like a man. I'm gonna' show you. You're gonna' pay for what you did to her. You hear me? You're gonna' pay."

I try to sit up, but land on hands and knees instead, struggling forward on all fours, with Keith still looming, but backing away with every inch of forward progress I manage to make.

Through the pain and humiliation, though, I suddenly detect a change of atmosphere, a shift in the mood of the crowd. The din subsides, the calls for my death cease, an uneasy silence settles over the quad. Somebody boos – softly at first, then louder. Other voices join in, boos from several directions in the crowd.

"Get up!" Keith yells. " _Get up_!!!"

This is when I hear it – a tremor in his voice. He's not commanding. He's pleading. I look up at him for the first time since my fall and discover a face flushed and convulsed in sorrow.

Keith is about to cry.

" _Get uuuuupppp_!!"

When I can't, he kicks me in the ass. I fall back onto my side. He's kicking my back, shoulders, arms, but each blow lands a little further off target, a little less controlled, a little less force. "Son of a bitch!" he yells. "Son of a bitch, get up!"

Then the blows cease. I hear Keith wheezing over me. I hear the crowd breaking up. I hear voices telling Keith that it's over, everything's over, he's won.

"Let's go back to the House," a final voice suggests, authoritatively.

His brothers lead him away. I eventually roll over to discover myself alone with Stanley Boyle, my former pledge. I rise, wobbly on my feet. Stanley offers no assistance.

"What was _that_ all about?" I ask.

Stanley glances over his shoulder at his departing contingent, then back at me. "You've never seen a man with a broken heart before?"

"Broken heart?"

"What you did was disgusting," Stanley said. "I know guys – some guys – joke about snaking young girls, and lie to each other about it. But there's a big difference between joking and lying about it and actually doing it, especially to some sweet kid like Becky."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"You took that girl's virginity."

"What in the hell makes you say that? I did no such thing!"

"Stop pretending," Stanley says, turning away. "We all know you did it. Stay away from the House. You don't have any friends left there."

~ ~ ~

Wednesday, May 24

I lay three $20 bills on the kitchen table where he can see them. Blake stops typing, takes a sip from his Pepsi Cola, looks interested.

"Where'd you get that?" he asks.

"I cashed a check. I want my stereo back."

"It's not for sale."

"Stop acting like a jerk. Look, you paid me fifty. Here's sixty. That's a $10 profit."

"It's worth more than that."

"Okay. How much? Name your price, I'll pay."

"Why not just buy yourself a new one?"

"I want that one. It was a gift. It has sentimental value."

"Gift from who?"

"A girl. You don't know her. She's not around anymore. How much?"

"I already told you: it's not for sale. Going out?" Blake asks as I gather my things together.

"I'm sure as hell not staying here."

"If you happen by the Jitney, we're low on Tasters Choice. And peanut butter. Smooth, not crunchy."

"Eat me."

I slam the trailer door behind me and begin stalking up the hill to my car when a rusted two-tone '63 Oldsmobile F85 turns into the gravel drive and forces me to step aside into a clump of weeds.

I don't recognize the car, but the driver – once he's put on the emergency brake, killed the engine and stepped out to have a look about – seems vaguely familiar.

"Lost?" I ask. No other reason occurs to me for him being so far out on Campground Road.

He answers with a grin. He's no more than a kid. "Thank you, no. I know where I am." He squints through the glare of sunlight reflected from the windshield. "Say, you look familiar. Do I know you from somewhere?"

"I was thinking the same thing," I say.

His grin vanishes, uncertain. We stare at each other. Then it returns.

" _Veni, vidi, vici_ , man!" he hails.

Now I place him: It's my Latin club buddy, the thug's young assistant who pulled his punch on me that long-ago night in the kitchen on Tyler Avenue. We shake. He seems inordinately pleased to see me.

" _Veni, vidi, vici_ ," I say. "What brings you way out here?"

"Boss' orders. He told me to drive out here, take a look around, report back on the state of the place. He's your new landlord, planning to move into that trailer of the old guy. What was his name – Duck?"

"Working for someone new?" I ask. Somehow, though, I already know what he's going to say.

"No, same guy."

"Shit," I say. "Crap. Goddamn. Fuck me. Duck sold this place to the thug? Our new landlord is a mother fucking drug dealer?"

"Hey! Chill, man. He's not such a bad guy, so long as you don't cross him."

"Cocksucker. Piss. Asshole. Hell. Damn. Fff-fff-fudge! Dung! Titty! Doo-doo!"

The kid listens to me sputter out in impotent rage. "You need lessons in cussing, man."

"I lose my vocabulary when I get really angry."

"Listen," he reassures, "it's all gonna' be good, I promise. You'll see. Like today, he's sent me out with news about the rent."

"He's raising the rent?"

"No, that's the news – no more rent. Everybody's welcome to stay here for free. Just chip in on the power and water and such."

"Water's from a well."

"Woah! Free water, too? See how cheap it's gonna' be? Man, you all ought to change the name of this road, call it Easy Street 'cause that's what you're gonna' be living on."

"And what does he expect in return?"

"Not much," the kid says. "I guess, just to look the other way every now and then."

~ ~ ~

Thursday, May 25

This is one of those perfect late spring mornings in Oxford, weather that arrives like one of Odysseus' sirens sent to mock and tempt students out of the classrooms and dorm rooms and library carrels where they ought to be holed up, cramming for exams and catching up on coursework they've put off all semester.

An air of festival pervades the Grove, hundreds of students cutting classes. The first thing I spot when I arrive is Citizen playing Frisbee with a bunch of heads. They throw it, Citizen runs long and leaps to catch it midair.

A ballet class has spilled out of the art building. A dozen or more shapely girls in leotards and tights make movements that are almost as graceful as Citizen's airy pirouettes.

A work crew is setting up a big screen by the stage behind Ventress Hall, for tomorrow night's showing of _2001_.

Off under my favorite oak, the Ranger preaches to a crowd of followers who have taken to gathering round him whenever he's on campus. He's telling them about Emanuel Swedenborg.

The Ranger's a Swedenborgian, like William Blake, Helen Keller, Carl Jung, Walt Whitman and Robert Frost. And somebody else whose name I can't remember. Clamor's told me all about it. She's thinking about converting.

I set about scoping out a different spot for sitting zazen, but haven't strolled more than ten yards when I suddenly encounter Paul Walker, the boy Melissa threw me over for and subsequently abandoned in New York.

Offstage, out of costume, he's still every inch the actor, possibly even more handsome now than he was when we were undergrads together.

We simultaneously recoil in shock at this accidental meeting, sort of like Richard Kimble and the one-armed man used to do when they accidentally spotted each other in _The Fugitive_. And we both begin with the same question to each other:

"Have you heard from her?"

I report on Clamor's chance meeting with Melissa way back in September and the rumor about her being in California, but decide to keep mum about the candy bars and the several times Melissa has astral-projected into my room.

I'm touched to discover that Paul actually feels remorse – the old _agenbite of inwit_ – over taking her away from me. "It was a lousy thing to do to a friend," he says.

"You couldn't help yourself," I say. "If the situation had been reversed, I would have done the same thing and stolen her from you."

"You can take satisfaction in the knowledge that I probably suffered as much as you did, maybe more, when she walked out on me in New York."

"What happened to you two up there?"

"Melissa hated the city." Paul explains. "I thought it was exciting, but to her it was just crowded, dirty, dangerous, loud and rude. We'd agreed that I had six full months to find work, and if I hadn't by then, we'd head to the west coast to try again. That's where she really wanted to be. Five months in, late in October, I got the break with the soap. I was on top of the world. Melissa tried to be a good sport, but the city was really weighing her down, especially with winter coming on. And I wasn't around much, always at the studio. And then . . . ," Paul stops.

"And then?" I prompt.

"I sort of had an affair with one of my co-stars."

"Idiot," I say.

"The girl who played Sandy on the show."

"I never watched the show. How could you be so stupid as to cheat on the perfect woman?"

Paul registers a grimace. "Turns out, Melissa's not really all that perfect. In fact, she was kind of a pain to live with. There were times when I considered that you'd been the lucky one after all. But after she left, I fell apart. My work went to hell, the writers killed the character, and I came back here with my tail between my legs, thinking we'd get a second chance. But Melissa was already gone. Somebody in her old department thought she'd headed to Turkey. I almost booked a flight to follow her, but then I chickened out."

"Afraid she'd turn you down again?"

"Hell no – afraid of the Turks. Haven't you heard about that guy named Billy Hayes who got sentenced to life in prison for carrying a couple of ounces of hash? They've got some bad prisons over there, stuffed with American guys."

"You chickened out for fear of getting busted in Turkey?"

"No woman's worth getting locked up for," Paul judges.

I stop and think about that. Probably, he's right. But for Melissa, I might take the chance anyhow, and I'm just about to express this opinion to Paul when a roar from the crowd at the other end of the Grove interrupts this maudlin conversation.

The Flasher, we soon learn, has made his most daring appearance to date, before hundreds of coeds, frat boys, Frisbee players, amateur guitarists, ballerinas, Swedenborgians, a mysterious ancient dog, English majors, visiting writers, jocks, ROTC guys in uniform on their way to drill practice, unpublished poets, mathematicians, ground crew workers, witches in a drum circle, Law students, kids from Oxford High School playing hooky for an afternoon's fun on campus, drug dealers, museum curators, department secretaries, sculptors, Sociology instructors, librarians, teaching assistants, campus cops, foreign exchange students from Kuwait and South Africa and the Philippines, and emeriti professors.

His greatest audience is also witness to his most miraculous escape.

~ ~ ~

Friday, May 26

I enter Hefley Hall at 7:18 and wait in the parlor while Becky gets an intercom call from the front desk to meet her date. She's surprised by the hamper I've brought – pleasantly, I think – when she arrives.

"I thought a picnic would be nicer than the Buddha," I say, without mentioning that this change in plans had come about through Dr. Goodleigh's insistence and that the hamper's contents – the Greek olives, devilled eggs, cheese straws, strawberries, honeydew slices, cheese, crackers, chicken salad, chocolates and a cleverly camouflaged bottle of white wine that would probably escape the notice of any campus cops who might be about – were all of Dr. Goodleigh's selection.

The movie starts at 8:00. We're among the early arrivals and find a good spot to spread our blanket before the screen that the crew of workers managed to complete yesterday, once all the excitement of the Flasher had died down. Becky had been in the crowd.

"I've seen him three times this year," Becky says.

"I've never seen his face. What does he look like?"

"I've never noticed his face – been too busy laughing at his fat old shapeless body."

"Well," I say, "three sightings of the Flasher still quite an accomplishment for your freshman year. I trust you're not going to mention it to your parents when you go home."

She takes her first sip of the wine and leans toward me, conspiratorially. "If they knew half of what I've seen this year, they'd pack me off to the all-girls school in Colorado they wanted me to attend."

"Colorado sounds nice," I admit.

"Fuck Colorado," she says. "I'm happy right here."

I've never heard Becky curse before. I'm momentarily stunned, but she seems not to notice.

"What about Keith? Aren't you concerned about what he'll tell everybody when you get home?"

Becky gnaws the tip end off a strawberry, pretty lips all puckered around it. More and more movie-goers are arriving. There's going to be a good crowd tonight.

"Keith is no longer speaking to me. If he won't speak _to_ me, he won't speak _about_ me. It's part of his code. He's very proud, you know. He's shut me out of his life forever."

"Wow, you must have really pissed him off."

Becky finishes the strawberry, places the uneaten stem cap on a plate, selects an olive, bites down carefully around the pit, gazes off for a moment toward the traffic on University Avenue, then finally says, "I broke his heart." She turns to face me. "Ever had your heart broken?"

"My heart's a '62 Chevrolet Impala of breakdowns," I say. "Broken hearts build character. He'll recover."

"Have you ever broken someone else's heart?"

"Not to my knowledge."

"I a bit ashamed to admit it," Becky says, "but it feels kind of affirming. In charge, you know? Dr. Goodleigh says it's one of the few powers we women have over men, to counteract all the power men have over us."

"I imagine Dr. Goodleigh has broken one or two hearts in her day," I admit, recalling the rumors that she was the mysterious lady of Nathan Poole's _Under the Yellow Arch_

"She's my role model, you know. I'm going to grow up to be just like her."

"Funny," I say, "I didn't think you two liked each other at first. But then something changed."

"Well," Becky answers, "she was a big help to me during the pregnancy scare. I didn't know who else I could turn to."

"During the _what_?" I ask.

"When I thought I was pregnant," Becky says.

"Why would you think you were _pregnant_?"

Becky, who's moved on to nibbling a slice of Swiss cheese on a Ritz cracker, gives me a puzzled look. "Because I was two weeks late, and we hadn't used any protection."

It's getting dark enough that I can scarcely make out her face. I hope she can't clearly behold my expression as what she's just revealed sinks in.

"You mean you and Keith . . . did it?"

"Good lord, no. Not Keith. Mark."

I'm stunned. Mark, the boy she introduced me to out here in the Grove. "You fell in love with a frat boy?"

"Love? I didn't say anything about love. Mark's a special guy. He came highly recommended. Some of the girls at Hefley told me about him, said he was very experienced. They all learned a lot from him."

"He's a . . . ," I begin.

"A teacher," Becky says. "I came to college to learn things. Important things, like poetry and sex. Do you remember when I was having all that trouble with my calculus class?"

"You had a B average."

"Right. And a B isn't good enough for me. So I got a tutor, and aced the class. Don't you think sex is at least as important as calculus?"

"But your first time – at least your first time," I protest, "– ought to be for love."

"Was your first time for love?" she asks.

"No," I admit. "My first time was a trip to a New Orleans whorehouse, a gift from father on my 16th birthday, in the company of an insane former KGB officer."

"Did the experience leave you scarred for life, traumatized over sex, cheapened and coarsened in your heart?"

"Actually, it was the one nice thing my father ever did for me."

"Listen," she says, "most my friends in high school fell in love with horrible, selfish, inexperienced boys, suffered horrible experiences and came away emotionally scarred. I vowed not to repeat their mistakes. My first lover was going to be someone I chose carefully – an intelligent, experienced man who could teach me some of life's wisdom, not subject me to the worst of its stupidity."

I chew on this for a minute. A dozen counter-arguments to what Becky is saying occur to me, none of them sophisticated or especially persuasive.

"You're not the girl I thought you were," I finally admit.

"I'm not a girl at all. I'm a woman. Dr. Goodleigh helped me realize that. Do you have any idea how hard it is looking the way I do? Everybody thinks I'm so goddamn innocent, because of this child's body. But listen."

At this, she leans across the blanket, close enough to whisper in my ear. I feel her breath, smell strawberries and wine.

"I've got dreams. Big dreams that I'm going to make come true. Soon as I graduate, I'm moving to Paris. I'm going to get a loft, write volumes of poetry that will shock the world to its core, and have lots of lovers. Interesting men – artists, writers, philosophers, financiers, spies. Maybe women, too. Who knows? I just know I'm going to be a legend. That's the life I've chosen for myself."

"Sounds great," I have to admit. "Give me a call when you get there?"

Becky just sighs. "I would, but you don't have a phone."

The Grove is dark. The movie projector has started. I lift my little plastic cup of wine in toast. "To a great life." We touch glasses, swallow the last of the wine, lie back on the blanket.

"Did you bring that joint you promised?" Becky asks.

"Got it right here."

"Then let's light up and watch the show."

Saturday, May 27

"Do your friends have parties like this often?" Jane Acton asks me.

We're in the parlor on Tyler Avenue, pondering the buffet before us.

"Garrett likes to do themes," I say. "I don't know how he comes up with them."

Tonight's festivity was billed – and widely promoted around town and campus – as the first annual Great Gourmet Grits Gala. The Tyler Avenue crew is supplying the grits, ladled from a cauldron-like pot on the kitchen stove, and guests have brought quantities of whatever they best like in or on or with their grits.

The table is cluttered with bowls, cups, shakers, tins, plates and jars of strawberry jam, grape jelly, peach preserves, jalapenos, minced garlic, parmesan, Monterey jack, crumbled sausage, bacon bits, shredded cheddar, cognac, prosciutto, cinnamon, Tabasco, alfalfa sprouts, strawberries, raspberries, blueberries, blackberries, boysenberry jam, chives, capers, barbecue sauce, anchovies, ricotta, wheat germ, teriyaki, lemon curd, sun dried tomatoes, red eye gravy, caramel sauce, maple syrup, molasses, chopped onions, shallots, saffron, pineapple chunks, shredded coconut, salsa, chili peppers, bleu cheese, sardines, soy sauce, Worchester sauce, shaved ginger, peanut butter, bourbon, pine nuts, peanuts, cashews, chocolate sauce, butterscotch, horseradish, half and half, brown sugar, goat cheese, ham, mustard greens, Wild Irish Rose, mozzarella, black olives, black pepper, nutmeg, and honey.

Jim Ratliff surveys the selection with a disappointed look. "Somebody forgot to bring walnuts," he says.

The house is more crowded than I've ever seen it, and the two visiting editors from _Uncle Bedford_ – up from Jackson for the day to confer with Garrett and Miss Fairchild over plans to establish a free press in Memphis – seem a bit wallflower-ish in this roomful of strangers, only half of whom I even recognize myself.

Don Pendergast, the other member of the _Uncle Bedford_ brain trust, refused to join the trip to Oxford, over some past grievance against the place. He did, however, send his heartfelt wishes that "Ole Miss would eat shit and die."

"He's no fun at a party anyway," Jim Ratliff reassures us. "A grump by nature, but now he's really unhappy that the newspaper is shutting down."

Dottie Carroll overhears this remark. She's has a plate of grits with bacon, blackberries and goat cheese. It actually looks pretty good. "That's so sad," she declares. "I move more copies of _Uncle Bedford_ off the shelves than I do albums every shipment we get at the Nickelodeon. The last issue sold out in under six hours."

"Every penny we bring in goes toward legal fees," Jane Acton says. "Just as bad, we've run out of presses willing to work with us. Whenever we make a new deal with some printer, the _Clarion Ledger_ acquires the company. There are scarcely more than a dozen independents left in the entire region. We've inadvertently helped those boys consolidate an empire."

"I'm quitting the newspaper business, gonna' pursue a new career path of knocking over liquor stores, which apparently isn't against the law in Jackson. Publishing's got too many headaches." Ratliff turns to me. "Guess you found that out, the reason why you made a deal to sell your magazine back to the college."

"They've promised to release it," I say.

"And they will. They'll release it some Sunday morning at three o'clock during a break between semesters. By dawn, every copy will have been bought by stooges of the administration. Nobody'll ever get to read it."

"Posterity," I say, "will be none the worse for it. Somehow the human race will trundle on without _Barefoot_."

Jane Acton passes the joint to me. " _Uncle Bedford_ , too. But I'm going to miss it."

I fix a plate of grits with peanut butter and Tabasco, and wend my way out to the back porch for air, where I come upon Suzie nursing little Samuel while a group of women – Joan, Cindy and Clamor included – hover about them like seraphim at a nativity scene.

And off in a corner, in a spot usually reserved for the asses, stands Blake. Or rather slouches Blake. Not just slouches, though – he's weaving back and forth as if torn by the wind shears of his solipsistic vortex.

He's drunk. Blake is drunk again.

He gives me a big grin, draws me in with an arm around my shoulder, looks for a moment like he's going to kiss me.

"Over, man," he burbles. "Dissertation. Finished. Finished, finished, finished, finished. Done."

Blake offers me a drink from his bottle of Stolichnaya, and takes two himself when I decline.

"I'm done," he says. "I'm a free man at last. Now I can be drunk forever."

Sunday, May 28

"He dances like a monkey!" Septic System Man marvels as we watch Blake cavort about in the clearing between his trailer and the Widow's.

The Herbicide Salesman plays "Turkey in the Straw" on his harmonica while the Widow claps out a rhythm. Blake swirls a clumsy circle and stares at the sun with a radiant expression of pure goofy joy, my half-emptied fifth of Jim Beam in his hand – the only thing left to drink in the trailer. He's welcome to it.

We pitch coins at him, which he stops to collect between steps, and feel happy to have our old besotted Blake back. Everybody's smiling – except for Joan, who menaces us with a disapproving stare as she descends the hill toward the scene. The Salesman stops playing and the Widow stops clapping, but Blake keeps dancing anyway, reeling and spinning with arms outstretched, the happiest boy in Lafayette County. Eventually even he notices silence, catches a glimpse of Joan, stops dancing.

"Just having a little fun," he says with a sloppy grin.

She's not angry about the dancing, though. "What was _this_ doing in the bathroom?" she asks, producing what I believe is the third chapter of his dissertation.

"Thought I'd partake in a little light reading in the tub."

"That's just stupid," the Widow says. "You might of dropped it in the water."

"And then where would you be?" Joan asks.

"Monkeys ain't got no sense," the Septic System Man observes.

"I'm hiding all your work in a safe place, until you can submit it to the department tomorrow."

"Tomorrow's Memorial Day," I say. "Except for the Monday exams, all the offices will be closed."

"Tuesday, then. First thing," Joan says. "Promise me."

"I promise, baby," Blake says, in a placating, hangdog tone.

Joan turns to leave. We watch her march back up the hill to our trailer, stopping short as an unfamiliar pickup pulls to a slow stop alongside the porch to Duck's place. The driver kills the engine and steps out onto the gravel drive. It's my Latin club buddy again. He spots our little gathering and ambles down the hill to join us with a friendly "Morning!"

"You're just in time for the weekly prayer meeting," I a few minutes, Blake's going to deliver a sermon on the eight beatitudes. Then on to communion."

"Thank you kindly, but I can't stay. I've been sent to deliver a message and unload some boxes from the truck. The new landlord is asking that everybody be gone tomorrow evening, between seven and nine."

"Gone?" the Widow asks. "Why gone?"

"Or you can be here if you want, but you'll need to stay indoors. And no looking out the windows."

"Why?"

"Best get to work," he says, dodging the question with a shrug. "Those boxes aren't gonna' unload themselves."

"Need a hand?" I offer.

"Kind of you," he says, "but I'm under instructions to do the job alone."

We watch him set about the task. The boxes are large, but apparently not heavy. He hoists them onto his shoulder easily, making a dozen or so trips from the truck to the trailer. The boxes come in many sizes, but all bear the same logo on them.

"What's he got in there?" the Salesman wonders aloud.

The Widow and I both speak up at the same time: "Tupperware."

~ ~ ~

Monday, May 29

"Where's Dr. Goodleigh?" asks the sullen coed who arrived late for today's final exam and who is now the last student to turn in her paper.

We're in Bishop Auditorium, where the Classical Mythology class has been meeting all semester. Fifty-eight students enrolled. When I took the course my junior year, there were only six students, meeting in a seminar room on the library mezzanine. Now look at it.

"At a picnic with friends," I say.

"Must be nice for some people to get Memorial Day off," the girl sniffs.

"But think of how those brave soldiers died, just so we could have a holiday. I, personally, lost my entire family in the Franco-Prussian War.

I toss all the blue books in a cardboard box and cross over to Bondurant, unlocking the office and leaving them on Dr. Goodleigh's desk, per her instructions.

It's 11:15, and my work for the day is done. I strike out across campus – mostly deserted apart from students unlucky enough to have an exam today, and junior faculty without graduate assistants like me to proctor for them. The Union is open, so I stop in for a Coke and a frozen cheeseburger from the vending machines.

I'm at the microwave, heating up the burger, when I overhear two jocks passing by, talking about something that just happened in the Grove. Something about a dog. Something about the Flasher.

The Grove is a scene of subsiding chaos by the time I arrive. Two of Claprood's squad cars are idling nearby the Alumni House, with their lights flashing, but the cops don't seem to be doing anything besides gaping at the crowd around them, half of which seems to be already returning to what they were doing before the commotion arose – tossing Frisbees, cramming for exams, sunbathing.

I spot the gnarly lank form of the Ranger in the direction of the Law School and, nearby, Clamor and Andrew and Cindy. Andrew is noticeably agitated. Cindy and Clamor are trying to calm him down.

"Dr. Hirsch has been arrested," Andrew announces, voice pitched in a note of panic. "They caught him. The finally caught him!"

"Idiot," I say. "How did it happen?"

"We didn't see it ourselves," Cindy says. "We were over near the stage, and we heard shouting from this direction. It was all over by the time we got here.

"He was flashing on the Law School steps, everybody nearby saw him. He'd just closed his coat back and was turning to run when some dog came out of nowhere, clamped onto his ankle and pulled him down. Then the Ranger was on him. Once the crowd closed in, he was trapped. Campus cops handcuffed him, and then the city cops arrived and carted his ass off to jail."

"I'll be damned," I say. "So it finally took Citizen to capture him."

"Your imaginary dog?" Clamor asks.

"Not so imaginary after all, and obviously a good deal smarter than the local constabulary."

"What becomes of us, now our landlord's in jail?" Andrew laments.

"Come live on Campground Road," I advise. "Our landlord's a drug dealer, so he'll never he'll never see the inside of a Lafayette County jail."

"The Buddha," Clamor reminds us. "Jimmy and Tiger need to know."

But when we reach the restaurant, the parking lot's empty and the place is locked. The Buddha is closed.

"I didn't know the Chinese celebrate Memorial Day," Cindy says.

"They're a very advanced culture. They probably invented it."

Andrew commences banging on the door, but the place certainly seems empty enough and the rest of us have just persuaded him to stop when the kitchen door swings open, revealing Ho in a pair of "Brady Bunch" pajamas, trusty meat cleaver in hand. She approaches, waving it before her in menacing swoops.

"Tiger?" Andrew shouts through the glass. "Jimmy?"

"No Jimmy. No Tiger. Go way!"

Then she notices me and likely decides this is her golden opportunity to use her cleaver on me, no native speakers about to persuade her not to murder me. She starts to unlock the door. My friends think she's letting them in. I, however, am not fooled. I turn in a sprint down University Avenue with Ho's voice following, shouting threats.

I don't stop running until I reach Tyler Avenue, where I come upon Garrett and Miss Fairchild sharing a joint on the porch.

Garrett turns ashen at the news I deliver. "Son of a bitch! We did try to warn him, though."

"I'm thinking now we should have been more direct."

"Best pay a visit to the sheriff's office, ask about his bail."

We take the VW bus and head for the Lafayette County jail, but on the way up Van Buren we discover that at least one shop on the Square is open for business this Memorial Day Monday.

The Nickelodeon's having a sale – 50% off albums "Most of You Assholes Have Forgotten About," according to the sign. Dottie's hooked her sound system to a loudspeaker by the front door, and the street echoes to the guitar riffs of "Orange County Lumber Truck."

Quite a little crowd has assembled, spilling out onto the street. Just as Garrett slows to avoid the pedestrians, two faces in the throng jump out at me. "Stop!" I yell. "Pull over."

Garrett's spotted them, too, and is out of the bus ahead of me, burrowing his way into the crowd, gaining the sidewalk, and corralling Tiger and Jimmy under the Nickelodeon's canopy.

Miss Fairchild and I watch from the street. It's impossible to hear anything over the music, and it's apparently hard enough for them to hear each other. Garrett's having to shout his sad tidings to them: their boss has been arrested, sex crime, the Buddha's bound to shut down over the scandal, and they're ruined.

The boys seem momentarily stunned. Jimmy looks at Tiger. Tiger looks back at Jimmy. They both look at Garrett. Jimmy collapses to his knees, vanishing momentarily from our view.

"This looks pretty bad," Miss Fairchild shouts into my ear.

I'm about to reply with a shout of my own. Jimmy's on his feet again. He's got Garrett in a hug, pounding him on the back, and laughing. Tiger's actually smiling. I can see the white of his teeth. I didn't think he knew how.

Garrett pulls free. The three of them shout at each other some more, then Jimmy slips back through the throng into the shop and returns a moment later leading Dr. Hirsch out by the hand.

"Who is that?" Miss Fairchild shouts.

"It's him," I yell back, hardly able to believe what I'm saying. "It's Hirsch. He's not the Flasher. He _can't be_ the Flasher. The Flasher's in jail, and Hirsch is . . . here!"

"Okay," she calls. "If he's not the Flasher, then who is?"

A good question. A very good question indeed.

~ ~ ~

Tuesday, May 30

I'm alone in the Museum, sitting zazen, when Joan arrives, looking for me. Actually, she's looking for Blake.

"Haven't seen him since this morning," I report. I left him sitting in one of the Widow's lawn chairs, drinking Irish coffee.

"He was supposed to report to the History office at 1:00 to submit the dissertation. His entire committee was in today. They'd agreed to hold his oral defense then and there." She glances at her watch, I at mine. "He'd be done by now."

"You know how unreliable he is."

I've no sooner found my hara again, after Joan leaves, than Dr. Goodleigh arrives from her afternoon Greek Architecture exam.

"I can't believe you boys honestly thought Fred Hirsch was the Flasher," she announces. "Honestly, that man's so shy I bet he's never been naked in front of anybody, not even his doctor. Not even his mother. He was probably born in a little seersucker suit."

I demur, an honest mistake based on a generous helping of circumstantial evidence. The sheriff's department has turned secretive, releasing the suspect on bond without divulging his identity. Rumors are swirling as to who it might be. We know only that it's not Dr. Hirsch.

"Sam Wheatley in Psychology," Dr. Goodleigh guesses. "It's always the psychologists who turn deviant."

"Dr. French," I hazard.

"Too much to hope for. But now you bring him up, will you be attending his reception tomorrow night?"

"For Alcott?" I ask. "I don't think I'm invited."

"It's an open event. I myself wouldn't miss it. You should really make an appearance. Take Becky with you."

There's a significant pause in our conversation at the mention of that name. A pregnant pause.

"You haven't asked about the date," I say.

"I had Becky over for brunch on Sunday. She told me all about it. Not to be nosey, but you really should have kissed her when you two said goodnight. She was expecting it, you know."

"I'd had a lot to think about," I say, defensive. "I wasn't even sure who she was anymore that night."

"I tried to warn you, how wrong you were about that girl."

"If only I'd picked up on that."

"Poor Mr. Medway. Tell me, how do you plan to survive this summer without me around looking out for you?"

~ ~ ~

Wednesday, May 31

Joan stops berating Blake's failure to meet his committee, once more today, long enough to gaze upon me in wonder as I emerge from my bedroom. Haircut on Jackson Avenue this afternoon, pressed slacks, a borrowed tie and blazer from Blake.

"Wow, how straight."

"Resplendent!" Blake salutes me with a newly-opened bottle of Stolichnaya. "Tell Alcott for me that as miserable as he may be as a human being, he's an even worse writer."

Jackson Browne's "Doctor, My Eyes" is on the radio as I pull into Dr. Goodleigh driveway. Becky dances out onto the porch and gives me an unexpected peck on the cheek. I smell wine on her breath. She hops into the back seat, feet barely touching the floor, as Dr. Goodleigh emerges from the house with a tangle of Siamese seething about her ankles. There seem to be more of them than I remember.

"Yes, two new ones," she confirms. "Ariadne and Eurydice."

I've visited Dr. French's home out on College Hill Road twice before, back in my undergraduate years when I was still the department's fair-haired boy. Tonight the long circular drive is packed with cars, so I drop the ladies off and find a parking place fifty yards uproad, off on the berm.

"Hey, Anglo-Saxon," a voice hails as I walk back toward the house. It's Dr. Giordano, sitting in the passenger's seat of a car I don't think is his, with the window rolled down. He seems to be drunk. "I never see you at lunch anymore," he slurs. "I've missed our conversations."

"Me, too," I admit. "Maybe over the summer."

"You going in there?" he asks, nodding in the direction of the house. "Don't," he says, without giving me a chance to reply. "Nothing in there but sons of bitches. Nothing in this town but sons of bitches. You're not a son of a bitch, though. You're a little bastard . . . but you're not a son of a bitch. Go find another party, a party for little bastards. You'll fit in better."

I enter anyway and wade through a sea of drunken grad students on the porch into the inner sanctum of the house. A denizen of deans and senior faculty glance at me askance as I wend my way among them, finally stumbling into a room full of cigarette smoke, pipe smoke, elbows, Bourbon vapor, ice cubes clicking in tumblers beaded with droplets of condensation, back vowels that seem to be growing longer with each step that I take into the crowd, white shirts and black neckties pierced with silver-studded tie tacks, the aging décolletage of faculty wives, every now and then the fresh firm flesh of a superannuated emeritus' trophy wife, polished shoes, pressed dress pants with cuffs, bifocals, bad teeth and worse breath, a miasma of quiet academic desperation, surgical scars (some only recently healed) pulsing pinkly beneath layers of broadcloth and pastels, souls in thrall to long-abandoned dreams of fame. And at the end of this room, the master of these damned ceremonies himself: Edward Alcott.

Dr. French's eyes widen with alarm as I shamble, Caliban-like, into his inner circle, which already includes the Chancellor, Moriarty, and Dean Hopkins from Law, among other lesser beings who have been admitted into the great man's presence. Amy, of course, pretending not to notice me.

And – Dr. Goodleigh and Becky, who I now realize have been telepathically drawing me to this spot since I first entered the house, witting and willing agents of a predestined plan that Alcott and I should have one final encounter.

The conversation, as I join the group, is naturally about him. His agent has distributed review copies of the new novel to the critics, and undiluted praise has already started trickling in from _National Review_ and _The Washington Post_. The movie rights are already being negotiated, with talk of Dack Rambo or Ben Murphy to play the title role.

Basking in a crescendo of praise from his chorus of admirers, Alcott pretends to have suddenly noticed me for the first time. "My young antagonist," he booms, magnanimously raising his glass in salute. "Of everyone I've met in Mississippi, I think I shall remember you best."

"You're much too kind."

"In fact," he continues, "for my next novel, I've created a character modeled after you."

"You've already started on your next work?" an admirer asks, admiringly.

"Yes, another Vietnam story. And one of the characters . . . pardon my memory, but what's your name again, boy?"

"Medway."

"A character named Medway," he resumes. "A little shit-stinking, gook-loving hippie coward who panics under fire and gets his platoon massacred. Comes to a sorry end, tortured to death in a POW camp."

"Be sure to send me a copy," I say.

Dr. French has begun making soothing vocalizations. "Now, now. Let's not."

"I just hope it will be as good the novel you've just finished writing. Speaking of which – ' _Ring! Ring! Ring ring!_ '"

Everyone gapes as I curl my hand into the shape of a telephone receiver.

"Excuse me," I say, thumb to ear and pinkie finger to my lips. "I need to take this call. Hello? Who? Yes, he's here. Okay. Yes. Okay. Sure, I'll tell him. Goodbye," I say and hang up.

The Chancellor turns his benevolent gaze upon me in curiosity. "Who was it?" he asks.

"It's a message for you, Mr. Alcott. That was Stephen Crane on the line. He says you've ripped him off and he wants his _Red Badge of Courage_ back."

Alcott's punch, when it falls, is instantaneous and painful, delivered by a fist with an oversized USMC ring on one finger. I see stars, and then the ankles and shoes of French's guests. Then darkness closes in.

~ ~ ~

Thursday, June 1

"It doesn't look so bad," the Man in the Quaker State Cap says to me, surveying the damage Alcott has wrought, the imprint of his fist all up the left side of my face. Over near the eye, you can even count individual knuckle marks. "My experience has been that the ladies find a few bruises kind of appealing."

I suspect he's being kind. It seems like everybody at Skeeter's is being kind tonight. Blake and I have been welcomed back, after long absence, like prodigals in a parable. My companion at the bar buys me another Michelob and himself a Pepsi.

Tonight's band – two guitarists and a chanteuse from Yazoo City – are on break, yielding the microphone to Blake, who is entertaining the audience with excerpts from his dissertation. At the moment, he's reading a chapter about the tragic death of the Dauphin. The crowd seems noticeably moved.

"Poor little Dauphin kid," the Man in the Quaker State Cap says. "I pity his bereaved momma and daddy. Just goes to show, even royalty's no stranger to heartbreak. It finds us all in the end."

The band returns, performing their version of "Empty Arms." Blake buys the house another round. With him about to earn an assistant professor's salary down in New Orleans, I guess he can afford to be generous.

I glance at my watch: 11:27. Blake has a meeting with his committee at 10:00 a.m. tomorrow I've promised Joan to deliver him personally. When I agreed, reluctantly, to drive him to Holly Springs this evening, it was on the condition that we'd be back home in the trailer by midnight. But Blake's showing no inclination toward leaving. He's probably going to make us stay here at Skeeter's until closing-time.

I grit my teeth with anxiety each time Blake stumbles around the room from table to table with his precious box of 726 neatly-typed sheets of bond paper. His work of three years. His passport to the life of a college professor in New Orleans. His only copy, surviving moment by moment the perils of spilled beer pitchers and drunk patrons who've been known to throw up spontaneously.

So it comes as a relief when Blake tips over in a chair, falls to the floor, and doesn't move again. Passed out. Skeeter himself helps me move his body to the parking lot, with the Man in the Quaker State Cap following behind with the dissertation held reverently before him.

I deposit Blake and the box in the back seat of my car and shake hands with Skeeter. "You boys come back real soon now, y'hear? Always welcome."

The Man simply tugs at the bill of his Quaker State cap, kind of shy. "Peace, man."

I drive away with my sleeping cargo through the sleeping neighborhoods of Holly Springs, out past the city limits, then to the Highway 4 / Highway 7 split, and past the signs to the Wall Doxey State Park. Blake starts muttering to himself, some kind of dream argument that he appears to be losing. Then he wakes up, with a snort.

"Where are we?"

"Heading home."

"What time is it?"

"A little after 1:00 I reckon. We'll be home in half an hour. Go on back to sleep. Big day tomorrow. You need your rest."

Silence after that. I figure Blake has heeded my advice, passed out again. I drive on through the cool dark of Mississippi woodland and farmland, onto the Highway 7 bridge over the Tallahatchie River, through its boxy corridor of metal spans running parallel to the rusted trestles of the old Central Railroad bridge, over the river and onto solid ground again. I've just left the bridge behind when a commotion erupts in the back seat.

"Stop the car!" Blake screams at me. "Stop!"

"You gonna' be sick?" I yell back. "Don't puke in the car, man. Just hold on."

I brake and bring the car to a squealing halt by the side of the road. Blake throws the door open and bails onto the pavement. In a second, he's on his feet and running off into the darkness. I kill the engine and listen through the chant of the cicadas for the familiar sound of Blake being sick.

I continue sitting, waiting and listening for over a full minute. Nothing. Not a sound except for the insects. Something makes me turn to peer into the back seat: the dissertation is gone.

I leave the car in a hurry and run back toward the bridge, calling Blake's name.

By the time I reach him, by a guard rail directly over the center of the river, Blake is tossing the last remaining pages of his dissertation into the air, where they flutter and drift downward into the water below. As I approach, panting from my feckless attempt to stop him from destroying his future, Blake tosses the empty box into the river and turns to me with a grin.

"Better out than in, they say. I'm feeling fine now."

" _What have you done_?" I scream.

"I've decided I don't want to be a professor after all," Blake says, stumbling about. "That was a terrible idea. I want to be a dentist."

Maybe something can be salvaged. I leave Blake at the railing and dash to the end of the bridge, down an embankment of concrete pilings, and wade knee-deep into the cold, strong water of the Tallahatchie.

It's no use. I can retrieve a few handfuls of paper, but they're already ruined, while the rest of the dissertation is being swept downstream, away toward the Yazoo River.

I clamber out of the water and up the pilings, back to the bridge. Blake is gone. I shout his name time after time, straining after each call for an answer. Nothing, only the drone of locusts and a chorus of frogs somewhere off in the marsh.

I begin walking back to the car, and receive another nasty surprise. It's gone as well. My car is gone. Blake and my car are both gone. Together, obviously.

The drunk bastard drove off in my car, and it's a 15-mile trek back to the trailer. Nothing to do except begin walking. Maybe I'll get lucky and find a ride to hitch.

There's a half-moon out, enough to illuminate the road. Enough to illuminate the hills and the fields and the trees on either side. Enough to illuminate the lone figure twenty yards away, the one who's standing there without moving, the one who (I now realize) has been here the whole time, watching this event play out.

Raven Bright. I'm not startled to see her. Not even surprised. It's as if I almost expected to find her there.

"You caused this, didn't you?" I shout to her, without approaching. "Well, I hope you're happy at last. Now maybe you'll leave that poor son of a bitch alone. Maybe you'll leave all of us alone."

She doesn't answer. Doesn't even move. I begin walking. When I glance back over my shoulder, fifty or so paces down the road, she's gone.
**Part** **10. The Machine**

June 2 - July 14, 1972

Friday, June 2

"No need to be nervous," Dr. Costello says kindly, noticing my emotional state. "This isn't _your_ oral defense."

I'm sitting at the head of a long conference table in the History department office, facing four professors. They've given me coffee, which I sorely need, but my hand shakes as I try to raise it to my lips.

"Just having a bad flashback to the time I defended my masters thesis, last year up at Virginia."

Dr. Lombardo, Blake's department chair, finally bustles in, 20 minutes late.

"Sorry," he says. "This meeting has been rescheduled so many times, I got confused." He drops a ballpoint pen and a yellow legal pad onto the table, takes the empty chair and turns to me with robust professionalism. "Let's get started. I'd like to know why you chose the Tennis Court Oath as the topic of your dissertation."

"Dave," Dr. Costello advises, "this isn't Blake."

Dr. Lombardo turns to him. "It isn't?"

"No. Just take a look at him."

Lombardo looks at me. "You're not Blake?"

"No, sir."

"Who are you, then?"

"This is Mr. Medway," Costello says.

"Medway? I've never heard of him."

"I'm Blake's roommate," I explain.

Lombardo turns with an appeal to his colleagues. "Where is Blake? I was under the impression that we're meeting this morning for his oral defense."

"He's gone," I say.

"Gone where?"

"I don't know," I say. "He took my car last night, left me stranded on Highway 7. By the time I was able to thumb a ride back to town, he'd packed all his things in his own car and left town."

"Without defending his dissertation?"

"There is no dissertation," Costello says. "Blake destroyed it."

"Destroyed it?"

"He tossed it off the bridge up at the county line," I report, "threw everything into the Tallahatchie."

"Just like Billy Joe McAllister," Costello adds.

"Who?" Lombardo asks. "Is that another one of our students?"

"I was too late to stop him. Now he wants to be a dentist."

"Was he drunk?" Lombardo asks.

"Of course he was!" Costello says. "We're talking about Blake, after all."

"But," Lombardo says, looking genuinely bewildered, "that means he's ruined his professional future. I don't understand. Why could he choose self-destruction?"

"Again," Costello repeats, "we're talking about Blake."

Dr. Davies speaks up. "Good riddance, I say. A waste of all our time and effort, if he's just going to throw away a tenure-track position at Tulane like that."

"Damn fool," Dr. Schreyer agrees, turning on Costello. "You should have drummed him out of the program after the first year, Dave. It would have been best for everyone. You were always too tolerant of his antics."

Costello flinches at the accusation.

"I wouldn't be too hard on Blake," I say. "I don't think he was in control of his actions."

"Because he was drunk," Schreyer says.

"No. Because I think he was under somebody else's control."

~ ~ ~

Saturday, June 3

Becky will leave for summer break and home tomorrow morning. Her father's scheduled to arrive this evening, probably late because he has a golf tournament down on the coast today. He'll spend the night at the Holiday Inn, and then tomorrow, right after church, he and Becky will load her things into his BMW 3.0 CS, and return to the ancestral manse outside Gulfport, where her extended family of near and distant relatives will coddle her through the summer in an effort to re-inculcate her in Junior League values.

Becky promises me, over a last supper of meat plus three at Grundy's, that she intends to spend the time reading Simone de Beauvoir and Betty Friedan, staying up late in the night to compose scandalous poems, and writing letters to the editor of the Gulfport newspaper that they'd never dare publish.

We set off for one last stroll around the Square. Oxford is full of cars with out-of-county and out-of-state license tags belonging to parents who've come either to take their children home or to attend tomorrow's commencement ceremony in the coliseum.

Garrett spots us as we pass under the window of the Ohm and calls us up to join a party. Clamor, Miss Fairchild, Cindy and Andrew are already here. The shop is crowded. Clamor latches onto Becky and passes her a scrap of loose leaf paper with a phone number scrawled on it.

"Glad I found you before you left. Here's the name of my friend on the coast. He'll get you set up, already expecting your call."

"What's that?" I ask.

"Claire Marie's dealer friend," Becky says. "You certainly can't expect a girl to spend two and half months in Gulfport without getting stoned."

She finds a spot on the waterbed, stretches out on her back, and takes a toke the next time the joint passes her way. Her blouse comes untucked from her pinstriped bellbottoms that she probably had to buy from the girls department of Nielsens, baring a skinny hollow of tummy and ribcage, and a sweet little bellybutton.

More footsteps on the stairs, preceded by voices that we identify as belonging to Nick and Suzie. They've brought young Samuel with them, strapped to Nick's back in an old army surplus backpack with holes cut out for its head, arms and legs. We all commence to oooh and aaah in a stoned orgy of admiration as the proud parents bask in the reflected glow of their genetic masterpiece.

"Damn, I want one of those," Clamor says. "Which one of you boys wants to knock me up? Step forward. Don't be shy."

"May I borrow him?" Becky asks.

"I'm not sure what you mean," Suzie says.

"Just for a few minutes."

"What do you want him for?"

Becky whispers the answer in her ear. Suzie listens, smiles, and passes the baby to her, wrapped in a tie-dyed comforter.

Becky gestures for me to follow. We descend the steps together, and turn left onto Van Buren. I suppose that she's leading me to the Nickelodeon on some errand or other, but Becky stops short of Dottie's storefront and enters the Gathright-Reed drugstore. I follow her to the drug counter in the back of the store where old Mr. Reinhart, Oxford's dyspeptic pharmacist, watches our approach.

Becky sidles up to the counter at an oblique angle, managing to keep Samuel out of sight. "Do you remember me?" she asks Mr. Reinhart.

"Yes, miss. You were in a few months ago. We had a conversation about morality, as I recall."

"That's right. You wouldn't fill my prescription for birth control pills."

"I don't believe young girls should be given permission for licentiousness. You're too little to be dating, much less sleeping with boys. I said the same thing to the lady professor you brought in to scold me that afternoon. There's more to life than sex. You both should be ashamed of yourselves."

Ah-ha! So that's the mysterious errand that I drove Becky and Dr. Goodleigh to back in March. Either before or after the pregnancy scare, Becky tried to get the pill. When Reinhart wouldn't dispense it, she persuaded Dr. Goodleigh to sic him.

"Yes, you made your views quite clear," Becky says. "But I wanted you to see the results of your actions." She sets Samuel on the counter. "Let's go, honey," she says to me.

She takes my arm and we turn to leave.

Mr. Reinhart starts sputtering behind us. "Wait! Wait! Miss! Young lady! You can't leave your baby here!"

Curious customers gather around as Becky and the Mr. Reinhart begin to spar – Becky arguing that a pharmacist who refuses to dispense drugs prescribed by a physician must accept legal and moral responsibility for the ill effects on the patient; and Mr. Reinhart arguing that, no, she cannot leave her baby with him. Uh-uh. No way. Not my – Mr. Reinhart's – responsibility. Take your little bastard and leave. Goddamn hippies. Immoral heathens. Sex-craved social deviants.

In the grip of righteous indignation, he fails to consider that Becky couldn't possibly be the mother of this child, unless her gestation period has been somewhere under three months.

Shortly thereafter, we're walking arm-in-arm back up Van Buren, reeling hilariously back to the Ohm. Even the baby's laughing. We stumble together up the stairwell.

"You're so damn funny," I say, without thinking, "I could kiss you."

She gives me a sideways glance and a smile. "It's a mystery to us all why you haven't already done so," she replies.

So I do.

~ ~ ~

286. More Guns than the Armory (Sunday, June 4)

I thought that beer batter pancakes, cooked on a skillet I've borrowed from the Widow, might cheer Joan up. But they don't seem to be having the intended effect, sitting there on her plate with a dollop of tepid margarine and a puddle of Mrs. Butterworth syrup congealing around the stack.

She nibbles absent-mindedly on an orange slice and sighs. "Why do I always make such poor choices with men?" she asks, not for the first time this morning.

"All men are bad choices," I say. "I tried to warn you at the baby shower. No man ever constitutes a 'good' choice. If I were a girl, I'd certainly opt to be a lesbian. How about I fry an egg for you? Really, you need to get something in your stomach."

I wait for a reply that never arrives. My new copy of _Honky Château_ is playing on the stereo – the stereo Melissa gave me and that Blake thoughtfully left behind when he fled town. The music doesn't seem to have any cheering effect on Joan.

"Come with us," I urge her again. "North Carolina's beautiful this time of year. It's only Clamor and me – plenty of room in the bus. You'll love Tatyana's goat farm. No men there, either – except for me of course. Being around other women will do you good."

"I need to stay, in case Blake comes back."

"You can't stay here alone. Between the dog packs, the demons, and the dealers every night in Duck's old trailer, this place isn't safe."

"The Widow's alone."

"But she's got more rifles than the National Guard armory. Nobody messes with her. Come on. If Blake comes back, the Widow can call us up there. I'll leave her Tatyana's number."

Joan peels another slice from the orange and raises it to her lips, where it hovers unbitten, as if Joan's already forgotten about it.

"If I can't stay here and I don't come with you," she asks, "then where can I go?" She places the orange slice on the plate and looks at me full in the face. "Not to the commune. James is there now. Not back to Suzie and Nick's place. There's no room for me anymore. I have no place to go, Daniel!"

~ ~ ~

Monday, June 5

Dr. Goodleigh is leaving for Turkey on the 15th, so I promise to return a day or so before her departure.

"Truth is," she says as she gives me the key, "I wish you'd just move in for the summer. I'd feel better having someone actually living here, to look after the place."

"Stay with Melpomene and the gang for two months? I'd never make it out alive."

"From what you've been telling me about that lovely trailer camp, I wouldn't expect you to make it out of there alive, either, if you stick around too long."

I've arranged to swap my car for Garrett's bus to drive to North Carolina, which provides enough room for the painting supplies I'll need at Tatyana's place.

"Do you have five bucks?" Garrett asks when I stop by the commune. "We're taking up a collection."

"A collection for what?" I ask.

"We're going to buy Cindy a monkey."

"I don't want a monkey!" Cindy yells from the kitchen.

Andrew emerges from the room, shaking his head. "We're quite concerned over her, you know. She's been mooning over little Samuel so, we're afraid she's going to start wanting one of her own."

"Wanting one?"

"A baby."

"So you thought you'd get her a monkey instead."

"Next best thing," Garrett says.

"I don't want a monkey," Cindy shouts again. "I don't want a _baby_ , either."

"That's just what she says now," Andrew confides, under his breath.

"The signs are all there," Garrett agrees. "You can tell when a girl is ready to domino."

"If you boys buy a monkey," Cindy shouts, "somebody is going to have to brush its teeth? Who's going to do that? _I'm_ not!"

I start to leave, but I'm not fast enough out the door. James is descending the stairs. His beard has grown back, and he's noticeably thinner than the last time I saw him. I've heard he spends all his time upstairs, listening to his shortwave, obsessing over Tamburlaine. His eyes look sunken, hollow.

"I heard Joan's boyfriend ran off," he says to me. "That true?"

"Freaked out, flipped out and dropped out of sight," I confirm.

"How is she holding up?"

"Not well."

"Tell her for me she always did make bad choices in men."

"I think she already know that."

"Just tell her."

"Just kiss my ass," I say, on my way out the door.

~ ~ ~

Tuesday, June 6

"Wait! Stop! Right there! There!"

I slap Clamor's fingers away from the radio dial. She's been fiddling with it for the past five miles, trying to find a station, finally summoning up a signal out of Chattanooga, and I've just heard what sounds like a familiar voice, dim, under a layer of static . . . saying something about Tamburlaine.

Clamor starts to object, but I cut her off. "Listen!"

More static, then the opening bars of "Stairway to Heaven." The signal's grown stronger by song's end. Next comes "Family Affair," followed by "Oye Como Va," "Long Cool Woman in a Black Dress," "Instant Karma," "Smiling Faces," "Locomotive Breath," "Love Her Madly," "Uncle John's Band," "Jealous Guy," "Draggin' the Line," "Woodstock," "Just My Imagination," "Big Yellow Taxi," "Respect Yourself," "Treat Her Like a Lady," "Morning Has Broken," "Your Song," "Black Magic Woman," and "Southern Man."

Finally, the deejay returns and delivers a lengthy, confusing diatribe about wheat shipments to Russia, Nixon, pesticides in the city water supply, the King assassination, nighttime troop movements across the Tennessee border, cryptic messages in the lyrics of "Louie Louie," experiments in animal cloning, Trotsky and D.B. Cooper, cocaine shipments, contrail sightings from experimental supersonic aircraft fleets, blacklists, cyanide, tectonic plates, laughing gas, Carl Jung, limericks, photosynthesis, the Mormons, constipation, penicillin, ginseng tea, and the movie roles of Brian Keith.

"This next set goes out – as always – to Tamburlaine," he says, in abrupt conclusion, and queues up "Mandolin Wind."

"That man is seriously messed up," Joan comments from the back seat of the bus. I didn't know she was awake.

We stay tuned in, counting 22 songs in a row, until the signal dies.

~ ~ ~

Wednesday, June 7

It's breakfast at Tatyana's goat farm. The ladies are discussing last night's baseball scores, with digressions on Johnny Bench, Steve Carlton and Billy Williams. Alice, sitting to my left, asks my opinion of whether Pittsburgh has a chance of winning the east division title.

Tatyana intervenes. "Daniel," she announces, "is the only straight man alive who knows absolutely nothing about sports. He's been that way all his life. We suspect some kind of genetic disorder. But in all other respects, he's a completely functional male."

She means this kindly, I know, but somehow my masculinity – already under threat – feels more bruised than before. The other ladies at the table (in order, clockwise: Patricia, Deb, Alice, Sophia and Grace) stare at me with scarcely concealed wonder, as if questioning what possible use I might be to the world.

Tatyana – dubbed by Garrett as "America's most unlikely lesbian" after his visit last spring – presides over us at the head of the table. Joan and Clamor, as guests, have been given permission to sleep in late their first morning on the farm. I, on the other hand, implicitly understand the house rules about rising for breakfast at 5:30 and being at work by 6:00.

It's barely light outside, but the goats are up, and hungry. The one called Melanie clatters into the kitchen looking for something to nibble, but Patricia shoos her through the back porch and out into the yard.

Time to paint the living room. I haul the last of my equipment from the bus, arrange drop cloths and ladders, and get to work. The last person who redecorated this room, whoever it was, painted over wallpaper, leaving visible seams. I've just finished sanding those flat when Tatyana takes a break from the field and plops down on a couch to watch me work.

"Your friend is very beautiful," she says.

"Especially when she's sad," I reply. "Sometimes we say depressing things to Joan just so we can watch her become even better looking."

"I don't mean Joan. Claire Marie."

"Clamor is beautiful?"

"Of course. All the girls are smitten. Have you slept with her?"

"She's in love with James."

"Our jailbird," Tatyana recalls. "What a pain in the ass he was the night he stayed here."

"He mistreats her."

"Not surprised. You should try to steal her from him. So, who have you been sleeping with?"

"Nobody much. A girl named Ashley, one of the Tamburlaine seekers, whenever she passes through town. The night before Easter, I accidentally wound up in Amy Madigan's bed."

"A more implausible miracle than the Resurrection itself," Tatyana remarks. "But then you always did have a soft spot for girls who mistreat you. I remember how your bitch of a next-door neighbor Peggy bullied you all through the second and third grades. But you still had such a crush on her. Just like the one you nurse for Melissa."

"Let's not argue about Melissa. The visit is going so well."

"Just saying, how you can invest so much emotion into such an ordinary person amazes me. Makes me a little sad, too."

"Grace looks well," I say.

"If that's your way of pointing out that I've proven myself equally fallible in matters of the heart," Tatyana replies, "point taken. She's come to forgive me for my infidelity, though I know she'll never trust me the way she did before. Apparently, my karma involves eventually doing penance to everyone I've ever gone to bed with."

"It's not your fault. People can't help falling in love with you."

" _The nightingales are weeping in the orchards of our mothers_ ," she recites, " _And hearts that we broke long ago have long been breaking others_."

Good memory. I taught her those lines, a night almost exactly two years ago in this very room, after one of her many breakups.

I finish the stanza. " _Tears are round, the sea is deep. Roll them overboard, and sleep_."

She rises, languid, from the couch, lifts her sun hat from the coffee table, and turns to leave. "Having all these goats around tricks me into thinking we're in Arcadia, instead of Cary, North Carolina. I think I could spend the entire day talking about love. But there's work to be done. You should sleep with Claire Marie," she adds on the way out. "She'd be good for you."

~ ~ ~

Thursday, June 8

Tatyana's farm has 85 goats that produce over 50 gallons of milk each day. The ladies sell some of it — raw, probably in violation of state health laws — to locals, or barter for exchange of services. The rest they turn into cheese and sell under the brand name "Inanna." The package logo feature a star with eight points.

At 3:00 I take a break from painting and amble about the farm. Patricia has rigged a series of loudspeakers outside since my last visit, so that whatever's playing on the stereo or the radio is broadcast to most of the farm. Usually it's classical music, which Tatyana believes mellows goatish temperaments and yields sweeter milk.

Today, however, a play-by-play of a game between the Astros and the Phillies is on. The announcer's patter, the flat Midwest accent all these sportscasters seem to have, the cracking of bats with each hit and the noise of the crowd remind me of summer afternoons on the way to the movie theater in Pass Christian, when the childhood versions of Tatyana and myself walked past the firehouse that seemed to have a perpetual baseball game playing inside the station, while the firemen sat on wooden folding chairs in the shade of the engine and played cards.

I stop to peek into the door of the kitchen, where Alice is teaching Joan the finer points of making the cheese. But I know better than to enter — the kitchen is kept immaculate, and I'm dirty from a day's painting. I pass the barn and the pens, on out to the fields where, after a short search, I find Clamor amid a pack of border collies overlooking the hillside where the goats have been herded to graze.

She sits cross-legged in tall grass, so focused on the charcoal and the sketch pad in her hands that she doesn't hear my approach. As my shadow passes over the grass and she finally senses my presence, Clamor glances up at me with a guilty expression of having been caught red-handed — not over the sketch pad, since there's nothing at all amiss with a shepherdess engaging in art. No, it's over the grease-stained bag beside her and the remnants of a discarded pickle and a gnawed hamburger bun in the grass.

"So," I say, "this is why you took the bus into town earlier."

"Durham has one of those McDonalds hamburger places," she says.

"There was one in Charlottesville, too," I say. "But I never tried it. Any good?"

"Tastes like ground shit. But at least it's meat."

"I don't suppose there's anything left? Well, be sure to burn that bag. It's evidence. Tatyana would send you packing if she knew you'd been violating her dietary restrictions. May I see?" I ask, gesturing at the sketchbook.

It's a landscape of the hill, the goats and the collies, uncharacteristic of Clamor's work I've seen before. Her drawings tend toward abstract shapes and jarring lines.

"Country life is mellowing you," I observe. "Maybe you should ask to stay on, to see how it might influence you as an artist."

"I've already been invited," Clamor says. "But I'd miss meat."

"And by 'meat' you mean . . . ."

"You know very well what I mean. Not that I have anything against women, mind you. Like most girls, I've experimented. Lots of fun, but that's not where my heart wishes to lead."

"Still pining after James," I say, "even though he's treated you like shit."

"You know," Clamor says, appearing at first to change the subject, "when I was out here yesterday with Deb and Sophia, and they were showing me around the different fields, they kept talking about a place called Ache Ridge. 'Ache Ridge, Ache Ridge,' they kept repeating the name. I was looking all over for this spot on the farm with this haunting, romantic name of Ache Ridge. Then I finally realized they were actually saying 'acreage,' and that there really no single place with that name."

The collies take a sudden start at something only they can sense, and begin circling the goats, nipping at their heels and forcing them into a tighter grouping. Clamor takes up the sketchbook and begins adding details to the scene she's created.

"We all live on Ache Ridge, except it's in the heart. For me, it's the place where James is. For you, it's wherever Melissa may be . . . or Becky or Cindy or that chick Ashley, or whoever you're secretly pining for."

"Most of the time," I admit, "I don't even know, myself."

"Of course, you don't know yourself. That's because you're not as advanced as I am."

~ ~ ~

Friday, June 9

I duck into the men's yurt before supper, rinse my face in clean water, dust some baby powder under my pits, change my t-shirt and slip into a pair of unstained jeans. I've spent the day painting the dining room. It's unusable for tonight's meal, so the ladies have arranged a picnic, with a bonfire.

Deb and Sophia are grilling salmon with teriyaki and asparagus, Patricia's baked a loaf of seven-grain bread, Grace is slicing watermelon. Joan and Tatyana have returned from Durham with several jugs of Chianti in fiasci, and Clamor is shaking the hell out of a tambourine she discovered somewhere, already drunk.

We delay setting the bonfire until nightfall starts. I have no idea what the hour is. I'm lying back in a bed of dried pine needles, watching flames embrace in the space between a clearing of tree branches, my belly full with food and wine, perfectly happy, perfectly content to be here in this moment with these ladies.

And wishing, a little, that I'd been born a girl. If I had, I could stay here forever at the goat farm. The way I feel about women, I could be the best damn lesbian ever.

I'm pondering this thought and watching embers hurl themselves from the flames into the blackness, when the play-by-play of tonight's game (Dodgers vs. the Pirates) is abruptly shut off, and the opening chords of "Monday, Monday" reach us from a nearby outdoor speaker. Tatyana's put the first Mamas and Papas album on the turntable. I haven't heard it, or even thought about it, in years.

"We've been listening to sports all day," Tatyana proclaims, in response to objections from the others when she returns to the fire. "We're going to have some music now."

The first cut ends, followed by "Straight Shooter," "Got a Feelin'," and "I Call Your Name." By the time their rendition of "Do You Wanna Dance" starts, I'm on my feet and find Tatyana facing me a few yards away, on the edge of the fire.

It's our song, from way back in 1966. All those years ago. I bow. Tatyana curtsies. We dance slow and dreamy and close.

Tatyana smells wonderful, a heady combination of Prell shampoo, watermelon, Chianti and goat cheese.

I'm aware, too, of eyes watching us. The eyes of my friends. The eyes of Tatyana's partners. The eyes of the goats watching from behind the wire fences of their pens.

The song ends, and the final cut of side one, "Go Where You Wanna Go," begins. There's a hesitant silence from our audience, finally broken by Clamor.

"You two have danced before!"

"Sophomore prom, junior prom, and senior prom," Tatyana says. "The Pass Christian school board was very big on dancing. Balls were supposed to prepare us for our roles in polite southern society."

"And you see how well that plan worked," I add.

"To be fair," Tatyana says, "we were already lost causes by then — you with your anarchistic sympathies, me with my unwholesome affections. If the both of us hadn't fled that town as soon as we were able, we would have been driven out anyway."

"Lucky for us the world is a big place."

"Bigger than some have the opportunity to experience," Tatyana says. "Did you realize that your friends have never seen the ocean?"

I turn to Joan and Clamor, sitting side by side at the picnic table. Two shakes of the head. Somehow, this doesn't surprise me about Clamor. But Joan — I always imagined her to be worldly and well-traveled.

"This is a gap in their experience I'm determined to rectify. Tomorrow, when we go into town for the market, we'll buy bathing suits for both of them. Sunday, we're driving to Topsail. I've already rented a cabin."

"Topsail?" I ask. "I'm not sure I can ever go back to Topsail."

"Of course you can. Don't be a sissy."

~ ~ ~

Saturday, June 10

I'm constantly amazed at how early farmers get up. My alarm woke me at 4:00 this morning to a breakfast of coffee and oatmeal, followed by a half hour loading of the farm's two pickups, and the drive into town.

It's just after 6:00 when we reach the farmers market in Durham, but we're among the last to arrive. The fairground is already teeming with vendors selling blueberries, leeks, eggs, early corn, flowers, cabbage, beeswax, zucchini, jams, cherries, biscuits, spinach, red velvet cakes, onions, kale, sweet peppers, fruit pies of every imaginable variety, eggplant, raw milk, asparagus, fudge, butter, preserves, nectarines, cheese, scallions, honey, basil, lettuce, chard, summer squash, candles, pigs feet, honey dew, peaches, carrots, radishes, collards, green beans, herb tinctures, snap peas, cucumbers, live chickens, and green onions.

It doesn't matter so much if we're latecomers, though, since Tatyana's farm is the only local supplier of goat cheese and goat milk. She has the market cornered. We need five trips to carry the products from the parking lot to their usual booth. Tatyana has brought Sophia and Deb with her for this morning's sale, leaving the others behind to mind the chores. I've driven the bus in, with Joan and Clamor asleep in the back. When I check on them at 8:30, they're still curled up in the sleeping bags we packed for the trip.

Business is brisk for the first few hours, but begins to taper off around 10:00. By this point, though, all the milk is gone and the cheese has been pretty thoroughly picked through. Tatyana, Deb and Sophia take a break to do some marketing for the farm, leaving me in charge of the booth. It seems not too daunting a task.

I'm reading Herodotus when two men in jeans and work shirts approach. Not customers, it would seem.

"You don't look much like a Sophist to me," the taller one says.

"Excuse me?"

"You can't be a Sophist, now can you?"

"No, I've always considered myself more of an Aristotelian."

"Fred, I keep telling you," his companion says, "the word is Sapphic. Not Sophist."

"Oh, pardon my pronunciation, then," Fred says. "Sapphic. I guess the question is whether he also likes women better than he likes men."

"I must confess to being a big fan of the ladies," I admit.

"Me, too," Fred agrees. "Guess that kind of makes all three of us Sapphics, don't it? Not that I claim to understand women being with women, but it takes all kinds."

"Live and let live," the friend choruses in. "What grown people do in their beds is nobody's business. Like my wife keeps telling our neighbors, 'Just pay that no mind. They're just sweet Sapphic girls, and they make lovely cheese.'"

"Sure do," Fred agrees. "Are you from the college?"

"I go to Ole Miss. I'm here on a visit."

"Didn't know you hippies had made it that far south. They can't think much of your kind down there."

"It's a lesson in mutual forbearance," I say.

"Christian attitude," Fred says. "Good day to you."

"Good day."

~ ~ ~

Sunday, June 11

We've arrived at Topsail after sundown. We've check into the cabin, and are now sitting in the sand on a blanket outside. Joan and Clamor still haven't officially seen the ocean yet – new moon tonight, so only a white sliver of surf is visible – but we all can hear it, shouting out there in the dark, in its thousand mad tongues.

Not needing to compete with the light of the moon, the stars are out more brilliantly than I've seen them since my last time at Topsail. That was also the last trip Melissa and I took together. So dazzled was I by her that weekend, I don't recall paying much heed to the stars.

Joan, we learn, minored in astronomy, and is displaying her familiarity with the sky by pointing out the constellations: Ursa Minor, Libra, Cassiopeia, Leo and Bootes, a scattering of individual stars – Arcturus, Regulus — and the steady glow of two planets, Saturn and Venus.

I can't make out any of the patterns she tries to help us see. It's not just that I'm seriously stoned tonight. Even straight, all I can ever discern is a fathomless puzzle of lights up there. Clamor apparently shares my failure to comprehend Joan's observations.

"You know what I think?" she asks. "I think those goddamn Greeks or whoever in the hell filled the sky with imaginary animals and fairy tales really fucked things up for the rest of us. Because of all their nonsense, we're not free anymore just to be wonder-struck by the stars. No. Now we've got to intellectualize them with a stupid bunch of myths."

"The myths helped our ancestors make sense of the balancing forces of nature, Claire," Tatyana says. "They watched the skies, and when familiar patterns appeared, they knew it was time to plant certain crops or return the animals to pasture or begin the harvest."

"Libra, the scales," Joan adds, "to them signified the balance of daytime and nighttime. The sun entered the constellation at the fall equinox, and the moon entered it at the spring equinox. Each constellation had a symbolic significance."

"That was fine for them," Clamor concedes. "But we've got calendars and almanacs and weather reports and satellites to tell us when to do those things. Why not, just for tonight, forget about what they saw a thousand, two thousand years ago? Let's use our own imaginations. What do we see, just the four of us – right here and now?"

We fall silent and ponder the skies. Tatyana is the first to speak. She's found a six-banded rainbow stretching from the southern horizon to the northern. Joan spots a mandala framing a pentagram, and Clamor the outline of a medieval castle complete with turrets. More discoveries follow: charging horses, the Arc de Triomphe, a giant tortoise carrying a fox on its back.

I – who have never been able to see a bull in the sky, or a snake, or a lion – can suddenly see all manner of things. But they're all mundane: a ping pong paddle, a Coke bottle, a turkey drumstick, a pencil, an ashtray, a bra, an oven mitt. Whatever happened to my imagination? This is the most depressing game ever.

I decide to turn in. The cabin contains beds enough for the ladies, so I crash on the couch. They wake me, momentarily, when they return to the cabin, flushed with wonder from tonight's communion with the heavens. I fall back to sleep to the sound of their voices, still chatting after the lights have gone out . . . .

. . . And wake to the sensation of wet sand oozing between my toes, and waves beating against my legs.

I've been sleepwalking again. I'm thigh-deep into low tide, though somehow all of me is wet. I must have been swimming before I woke.

"Oh, shit," I complain

But this moment of annoyance metamorphoses to one of joy as I lift my eyes to a vision I was, no doubt, lured out here to see. There, growing (impossible) from the ocean floor, far out from shore, is the grandest oak tree the world has ever seen.

It must stand two miles tall, and it bears an infinite number of branches sprouting an even more infinite number of leaves, each one catching starlight and glinting, shimmering that reflected light into a nimbus that spreads outward from its central trunk.

Its limbs rise like a chandelier of angels, ramification upon ramification upon ramification of angels, archangels, dominions, thrones and seraphim.

The great tree of creation reveals itself to my mortal eyes.

And in a blink, is gone.

My legs collapse. I fall backward into the surf, salt water in my nose and eyes. I struggle back into the air, gasping. I gather my feet, rise and stare toward the horizon, wishing for a return of the vision many long minutes, before turning back to shore and to bed.

~ ~ ~

Monday June 12

"You might have at least brought a pair of shorts," Tatyana complains. We're walking the beach of Topsail together. Joan and Clamor run ahead of us like schoolgirls, experiencing ocean surf for the first time in their lives.

My three companions are dressed for swimming — Joan and Clamor in modest one-piece outfits they purchased Saturday in Durham. Tatyana wears a madras-print bikini. Her Bardot body turns the head of every male on the beach this morning, just as it did when she broke the hearts of so many adolescent boys back in Pass Christian High when they realized that she wasn't the least bit interested in them, that no man would ever possess her.

I am in jeans and a t-shirt.

"Shorts?" I say. "You expect me to wear _shorts_? That would be a bit much for anyone to bear. I'm too bow-legged. Besides, my legs haven't been exposed to sunlight since 1964."

"You look like a panhandler out here. At least take off your shirt."

"People will laugh at me."

"Nobody will laugh. If they do, just let me know and I'll beat them up."

So I remove my t-shirt and sit, cross-legged and self-conscious, in the sand as Tatyana wades into the water to join Clamor and Joan. I see them share a few words, then glance back at me, and I can tell that they _are_ laughing at me.

But the sun does feel marvelous on my shoulders and arms. Within seconds, I've closed my eyes, found my hara, and relaxed my breath. I enter the moment, become one with the cosmos, and experience a state that's profoundly, sensually rich, like drowning in smells and sounds and sensations of flesh, like being taken by a lover.

I haven't said a word about last night's vision. Aside from the water-soaked and sand-sodden pile of clothes I discovered beside the couch this morning, I have no assurance that it really occurred. But I feel spiritually high-strung this morning, half expecting the universe to pounce upon me with some new vision I'm ill-prepared to absorb.

I woke seeing Tatyana's aura when she poked my shoulder and asked if I'd been out swimming in my clothes. And now I see Clamor's aura when she interrupts my trance here on the beach.

"You're going to get burned if you don't put some lotion on," she warns me.

I open my eyes to find her surrounded in a blue flame that radiates outward into scarlet arrows flying toward the sky.

"You're fair-skinned, like me," she goes on. "We burn easy."

I see water dripping from her hair, her shoulders, her arms. It eddies and flows into the flame. The arrows catch it there and carry it away into the air, like messages speeding to another dimension.

And it suddenly strikes me: Clamor is a woman. A woman every bit as beautiful, in her way, as Melissa or Joan or Tatyana, as Ashley, Cindy, Jenny, Dr. Goodleigh, Valerie, Amy. Ah, women — bless them all for their charm.

Then another shock: Clamor will never be Clamor to me again. She's Claire.

"What's the matter?" Claire asks as I gape.

"Nothing," I say. "I just never realized how pretty you are."

She laughs, frowns. "Shut up, Medway. You're still stoned from last night."

~ ~ ~

Tuesday, June 13

It's our last night in North Carolina, our last supper at the farm. The ladies have prepared fire grilled tempeh steaks, skewers of caramelized vegetables, an artichoke salad, sourdough bread with pumpkin and sunflower seeds, and a chocolate mousse for dessert, all washed down with a jug of good red wine.

The Phillies are defeating the Reds on the radio. Tatyana is catching up on news from the farm, following our short trip to Topsail. She was already tanned before we left and thus shows no change from her time in the sun. Joan and Claire exhibit a healthy golden glow. I, as was warned, simply burned.

After supper, Tatyana sets about on her evening chores, and joins me in the men's yurt once she's done. "White Room" is playing on this radio, the only one on the property not tuned into the game.

"I've always wondered why those starlings are so tired," I say.

"That's a mystery we'll perhaps never solve. I wish you didn't have to leave so soon."

"I have responsibilities," I say. "The Museum. Dr. Goodleigh's cats. Promises to keep, you know."

"Along with a trailer filled with demons, packs of wild dogs, dead cows in the road, and drug dealers lurking about all hours of the night. And a witch who might still be out for revenge."

"Right. I'd be crazy not to go back and find out what happens next."

"Listen, if what you saw at the bridge that night was real, and not just another of your hallucinations . . . ."

"About which, not even I am sure," I interject.

". . . then that woman has some truly frightening powers. Who's to say she won't come after you? At least find a place to stay back in town. Don't spend another night in that cursed trailer."

"It has its rustic charms," I protest. "Bucolic, even. Why, some mornings when I cart the previous night's whiskey bottles to pitch into the ravine, I almost feel like one of Thomas Hardy's milk maids."

"You make a very unconvincing milk maid. And what about Joan? You can't guarantee her safety, either. The more I think about it, the more convinced I am that she should stay right here, out of that woman's reach."

"I don't think Joan can be persuaded, but you're certainly welcome to try."

"I will. I've got all of tonight to convince her."

"Just don't tell her what really happened at the bridge. She oughtn't have to hear about that."

"As you well know, I am the soul of discretion. But I didn't come by to talk about Joan."

"No?"

"I wanted to say how proud I was of you, going back to Topsail without moping about the entire time on account of Melissa. I know the trip wasn't easy for you."

"Nothing to it," I say. "I had wine, grass, and wonderful companions to see me through."

"Three of the goddess' greatest gifts," Tatyana agrees. "Still, revisiting a place where your heart got broken so thoroughly and so suddenly . . . ."

"I seem to have devoted a lot of effort all weekend not thinking about that episode," I complain, "only to have you bring it up again."

"It's just that you've never talked about how it felt, when Melissa told you she was leaving you for Paul Walker, and that it was the last time you'd be with her."

I don't answer at first, considering my most appropriate response.

"You and I have known each other," I point out, "since we were kids, longer than either of us has known anybody else. Why is it that you've never noticed that talking about the past has never made me feel better about it? Never. Not even once. Believe me, if talking about the past actually helped anything, I'd never shut the fuck up about it."

"You don't want to talk about the past," Tatyana counters. "You just want to _live_ in it. I understand Virginia was shit, Daniel. Really, I do. You died there, after all."

"Which was actually one of my more pleasant experiences in Charlottesville," I add.

"But what bizarre logic led to you return to Mississippi? Why go back? You'd escaped! After 20 miserable years of captivity, you'd gotten away. Then you went _back_ , like a prisoner who decides to slink back to his cell after getting over the wall. Do you know why?"

Tatyana lets the question hang in the air, refuses to say another thing until I answer. "I don't know," I finally admit. "Maybe the same the reason that the starlings are tired."

~ ~ ~

Wednesday, June 14

"Whatever else you do while you're in Turkey," I warn Dr. Goodleigh, "don't try to smuggle hashish out of the country. There's an American kid named Billy Hayes serving a life sentence over there for that."

"Smuggling hashish actually isn't part of my travel plans."

"That's a relief to hear, because I don't think I could take care of the cats for more than a few months."

It's a little after 7:00 p.m. We drove into Oxford about half an hour ago, and dropped Claire at her dorm. Joan and I have traded Garrett's bus for my car at the commune, and have headed over to Dr. Goodleigh's for keys and parting instructions before she leaves for Hisarlik tomorrow morning.

"Have you eaten yet?" she asks.

"Joan and I thought we'd hit the Beacon before heading back to the trailer. She's in the car."

"No need for that. Invite the girl in. I'm cleaning out the refrigerator, and have some nice lettuce and bread and chicken salad that's just going to go to waste."

Dr. Goodleigh opens a bottle of wine, and sets Joan and me to fetch plates and silverware for the dining room table as she prepares a cold supper for us all. The cats, who've been milling about in the yard, notice us sitting down to the table and come in to investigate.

Melpomene, at the head of the pride, fixes me with her evil eye and let's out a cry – Mmmmmmggggggggrrrrrrraaaapppphhhh – that must signal her order for the others to eviscerate me.

They surge together and coil around my chair, fangs bared and dripping, claws shimmering in the twilit room, tails lashing my legs as they circle. And here I am without my spray can of catnip – which, even if I had it, I wouldn't be able to use, lest Dr. Goodleigh object to my depraved tactic for subduing her darlings.

Fortunately, I've unwittingly brought a different secret weapon with me: Joan.

"Are these all yours?" Joan asks Goodleigh. "What beautiful animals!"

The sound of her voice staves off Melpomenes' assault on me. Every furry head whips around to focus on Joan. Within a few moments, the cats have surrounded her. They're rubbing against Joan's legs and ankles, purring for her, crowding around and begging to be stroked, to be paid attention to.

They love her. Dr. Goodleigh's cats love Joan with the same instant, united sympathy that they discovered that night back in October when they decided to hate me. I'm astonished, and Dr. Goodleigh clearly impressed:

"They don't usually take to strangers this way."

"I've always been good with cats," Joan admits.

Melpomene rolls over and over on the floor at Joan's feet, mewling for a belly rub – a kitten again, a docile sweetheart who's never entertained the slightest ill will toward any member of the human species. But this might be a trick.

"Watch your fingers!" I warn as Joan reaches down to pet her.

"Don't be silly. Hey, pretty kitty."

"That's Melpomene," Dr. Goodleigh says by way of introduction.

Melpomene leaps into Joan's lap and rubs her muzzle against Joan's chin, purring like a diesel engine.

Dr. Goodleigh and I glance at each other, an idea occurring to both of us simultaneously.

"Joan," Dr. Goodleigh asks, "how would you like to live here this summer?"

~ ~ ~

Thursday, June 15

As I step out of the elevator on the third floor of Bishop Hall, turn left and take the south hallway to Dr. Sutherland's office, I'm caught short by an old familiar face in an old familiar place.

Dr. Evans is back in his office once more, riveted to a typescript that he's editing, his pipe jutted jauntily like one of Franklin Roosevelt's cigarettes. The pipe is even lit this morning. I glance in, tentative. Not a trace of Amy remains, no sign that she had occupied this space for the past five months. I'm relieved.

I'm about to slip away without disturbing his concentration when Dr. Evans senses my presence in the open door and glances up.

"Welcome home," I say.

He swivels back in his chair, sets the pipe in his ashtray and gestures for me to take a seat. "It feels good to be back. It also felt good to be away, though."

"Your manuscript?" I ask, indicating the pages set before him.

"Finished last week," he confirms. "Just making a few edits before sending it along to my agent."

"Might one inquire as to the book's subject matter?"

"A dark comedy about an American platoon in occupied Sicily. Anti-military. Big market for that right now."

"Can't wait to read it. I'm sure it's better than that god-awful movie Alcott wrote."

"Actually," Dr. Evans says, "Alcott's my model for the major character – an imbecilic GI who fancies himself to be the Hemingway of World War II. By the way, I'm sorry for missing your boxing match at Dr. French's reception."

"I never had a chance to land a single blow."

"Being assaulted by an older, established writer is a rite of passage, you know. We all go through it. Did I ever tell you about the time James Baldwin tried to spit on me?"

I rise to leave. "Dr. Sutherland's expecting me. Sorry to have interrupted, just wanted to say how good it is to have you back."

"Thank you. By the way," Dr. Evans says on my way out, "have you heard that the Lyceum finally released _Barefoot_?"

"No, sir."

"At 7:00 last Saturday night. It must have been quite an event, because all 150 copies were gone by 9:00. All anonymous purchasers, of course."

"A true publishing phenomenon," I say. "The college should consider a second printing."

"I'll suggest that to Dean Moriarty, next time we meet."

~ ~ ~

Friday, June 16

Today is Bloomsday. I didn't celebrate it last year in Charlottesville, because the town and the campus depressed me so profoundly that I lacked the energy to walk more than twenty steps at a time.

But I'm back in Oxford, where I've reenacted Leopold's and Stephen' day four times now since my freshman year.

I begin the day with a shave, followed by a breakfast of bread, butter and honey. I lock the trailer behind me and set off for town. First stop: the Education building where I lurk about in hallways listening to student teachers with their summer school students.

The Grove, as always, is my Sandymount strand. I wander about, engaged in interior monologue. My next stop is Jitney Jungle's meat counter, followed by a visit to the post office and St. Mary's church. Then a stroll to and through the cemetery, my Hades episode, and on to the Journalism school for Aeolus.

Noon finds me in the cafeteria with the Lestrygonians. I've given myself the day off, but I unlock the Museum to glimpse the nude bottoms of a few Greek goddesses. After an hour reading Shakespeare criticism on the third floor of the Library, I walk to the Square and watch the foot traffic for the rest of the afternoon from a vantage point of a courthouse park bench.

From this point, I need to proceed by car, since it's too long a walk to the Beacon for supper with the Cyclops. After another stroll through the Grove as dusk settles over Oxford, I'm off to the Baptist Hospital maternity floor to look in on the babies.

Through the entire day's peregrinations, I haven't met or even seen a single person I know, but my solitude ends as I arrive in Holly Springs, for my version of Stephen's Nighttown. I find the Man in the Quaker State cap sitting alone at a table in Skeeter's, sipping Pepsi cola from a bottle. As I order a beer from the bar, he catches my eye and signals for me to join him.

"Haven't seen you in a while, man," he says. "What you been up to? Where's your friend?"

"Vanished, without a trace," I say, and recount the events of that night on the Tallahassee bridge.

"That's a shame, man. But in my experience, cats who do crazy things like that eventually come to their senses. I bet you and his girlfriend will be seeing him again. You know, I was sort of looking forward to talking to him. That story he read about that poor little Dauphin — I just can't get it out of my mind."

"How so?"

"Well, I've been doing a litte background research. Did you know that the boy who died had a younger brother? Yeah, and the brother became the new Dauphin. When the revolution broke out, some of the King's supporters smuggled the kid out of France, to keep him from being executed with his parents. Guess where they sent him?"

"Where?"

"Here, to America. Some of the French nobility were tight with the American Indians, so the kid was raised by the Iroquois. He was so young when he arrived that he forgot about being French, and grew up as a fur trader, never knowing his was the rightful king of France until somebody told him when he turned adult. He was called the Lost Dauphin."

"Cool story," I say. "Did that really happen?"

"Does it matter if it really happened?" the Man in the Quaker State cap asks. "Like you said, it's a cool story."

"It would make a good movie," I suggest.

"Yeah," he says. "I've been thinking about that, too. Lots of action, wilderness scenes, deerskin coats, throw in a couple of ballads, maybe get Ann Margaret to co-star."

"An historical romance, sort of a return to your roots," I say. "Like _Love Me Tender_."

The words are out before I can stop them, and I know instantly that speaking them was a terrible mistake. The cardinal rule here at Skeeter's is never to allude to the Mans true identity. The Man in the Quaker State cap draws back, narrows his eyes, and pulls the bill of his cap lower across his forehead.

"Excuse me, man. I don't know what you're talking about."

He's out of his chair and out of the building before I have another chance to speak.

~ ~ ~

Saturday June 17

"I don't know how you can stand this," the Widow says.

I take it she's referring to the knocking on the trailer walls, the shrieks and whistles and moans the periodically rip through the air, my coffee cup zipping across the kitchen table every time I reach for it.

My expectation was that the demons would depart when Blake left. If anything, there are now more of them than before.

"You get used to it," I say. "Living with malicious spirits is a lot like living in a men's dormitory. Reminds me fondly of my days in Garland Hall."

~ ~ ~

Sunday June 18

"I didn't realize you can sell albums on Sunday," I say to Dottie.The Nickelodeon is open for her Fathers Day sale — 20% off all male artists of age to father children.

"I probably can't," she acknowledges, "but nobody's come by to stop me yet. I reckon Perry Claprood has better things to do than enforcing the state's blue laws. Like most of us, he probably can't even figure them out. They make no sense. I was in Blaylock's some Sunday last March. One of the customers had found a stray dog. The clerk would sell him a can of dog food, but the blue laws wouldn't let him buy a bowl for the critter to eat from."

"Dog bowls are anathema in the sight of the Lord. The state of Mississippi recognizes that He has to draw a line somewhere." I'm rummaging through the shelves and find the new release of _Honky Chateau_. "What about Elton John?" I ask.

"He won't ever have any kids," Dottie says, "but that's not to say he couldn't if he were so inclined. I don't discriminate based on a man's proclivities, so long as he doesn't sing country or pop."

There's a disturbance on the Square. Dottie and I step outside to see what's the matter. It's a convertible crowded with five frat boys, top down, circling the courthouse.

Most likely drunk, either having started early today or continuing from one of last night's parties on Fraternity Row. Sunday services have ended, and the sidewalks are filling with church-goers on their way home. Dottie and I join them to witness this disturbance of the sacred hush of Sabbath morning.

As they drive round and round the courthouse, the boys shout a repeated phrase. At first, it sounds like gibberish to me, but just as the car passes directly in front of us, I hear it plain: " _Ego phone boontos en te eremo_!"

Their pronunciation is all wrong. The "phone" sounds like "pony," and "en te eremo" comes out as "entry emu."

"What are they saying?" Dottie asks.

"New Testament Greek," I say. " _I am a voice crying in the wilderness_."

"That's from the Gospel of John," she says. "Now, why would a bunch of drunk frat boys be shouting that?"

"I suspect they think it means something else," I answer.

~ ~ ~

Monday June 19

" _Dear Daniel_ ," Becky writes.

Her letter arrived in this morning's mail packet to the Museum. The envelope and stationery have been sprayed with perfume. I don't recognize the scent. Dr. Goodleigh would have been able to identify it for me, but she's on the plain of Ilium by now.

" _I do wish you owned a telephone. The sound of a friendly voice would do me a world of good. I've never understood why you hate them so. They're just machines. Maybe someday you'll tell me another of your stories and make sense of it all for me._

" _Being home is worse than I even imagined it could be. I remember mentioning to you that my older sister (four years and an unbridgeable chasm of outlook separate us) is getting married at the end of August. No reason you should remember that. I mention it only because the life of the entire household revolves around wedding preparations. Endless shopping expeditions for dresses, fabric, place settings. Day before yesterday, a florist was here for six hours – six hours! – discussing flower arrangements for the rehearsal dinner. Not for the wedding itself, mind you, but for the dinner the night before. I shudder to think how long it will take to select the flowers for the altar and for the reception._

" _Also, my parents expect me to make an appearance at the country club every afternoon for a couple of rounds of tennis and a swim. I must maintain my social contacts, you know. My father somehow got the idea in his head that this is the summer for me to learn to play golf. Golf! He even went so far as to schedule private lessons for me with the club's pro, who's this old lecherous man with hair growing out of his ears. I put a halt to those plans first thing, though. I told my parents that I just didn't feel 'safe' alone with a man who might touch me inappropriately while pretending to correct my swing or explaining how to address the ball . . . or whatever people are supposed to do while playing golf._

" _My mother has let me have her Jag for the summer. I have to admit that it's a lot of fun to drive. It would be even more fun if there were someplace interesting to go. Just driving up and down neighborhood streets lined with Nixon signs loses its charm pretty fast._

" _By the way, I think I saw your father on the local news earlier this week. He was speaking at a fund-raising event for Senator Eastland's campaign (as if that man even needs to campaign, since he's been in the Senate since before the Civil War and is virtually running unopposed). Are you certain you two are actually related? Seriously, there must have been some mix-up in the maternity ward, because no man as fat as him couldn't possibly have a son as skinny as you._

" _The worst part of the summer is not having anything to read. The public library is a joke, and the bookstores have nothing on their shelves besides Herman Wouk and Judy Blume. Don't be surprised to find me at your door someday soon in the Jag so we can drive to that underground bookseller in Overton Square — what was its name? — and get drunk together at the Looking Glass._

" _Hope you are well. I miss you. Write to me!"_

~ ~ ~

Tuesday, June 20

I return to consciousness from another one of my blackouts, only to find myself driving through town with another pizza from Kiame's beside me in the passenger's seat. The receipt taped to the box says it's going to an address on Madison Avenue, but I decide to run it by the commune instead.

"Dereliction of duty," Garrett says when I explain the situation to the gang there, who appear glad for a free pie. "Aren't you afraid of getting fired?"

"I'm afraid of finding myself doing this again," I say. "Really, the manager ought to recognize that I'm insane and stop re-hiring me."

Cindy turns the television on and finds a rerun of an old _Andy Griffith Show_ on. We settle in to watch.

"I've always been puzzled by this program," Andrew says. "It's supposed to take place in the south, correct? But you never see a single black person in Mayberry. How can that be?"

"That's because there are no blacks in Mayberry," Garrett says. "It was explained in one of the early episodes when Andy deputized a white mob to drive them all out of the county. Pretty gory. That episode didn't make it into syndication, reason that you don't see it anymore."

"That's not true," Cindy objects.

"Of course it is," Garrett replies. "The amazing truth about this show is that it was never meant to be a comedy at all. It's really a psychological thriller about a town that's being terrorized by its sheriff. They originally were going to call it _Mayberry, Town of Terror_."

"No."

"Yes! Then, before the first broadcast, a sound technician accidentally put a laugh track on it. Because people were laughing in the background, the stupid American audience thought it had to be a comedy, and they ate it up. But if you just get past the supposed comedy, you see that the show's really about some heavy, twisted shit."

"Like what?" she asks.

"Aunt Bea, for one. Do you know who she really is?"

"Andy's aunt," Andrew replies, "named Bea."

"No, she isn't. Everybody call her Aunt Bea. Barney does. Otis does. Hell, even Floyd calls her Aunt Bea. And by the way, what town would ever trust a man like Floyd with a razor?"

"Then who is she?"

"Andy's concubine. 'Aunt' is an honorific."

"His concubine?"

"I don't mean to say that he sleeps with her. Probably not more than a few times a month, when he comes home drunk. She's like an Old Testament household servant. 'Sex slave' would probably be a more accurate term. Andy got her, as one of the perks of the office, after he gunned down the old sheriff. That's another episode that didn't make it into reruns."

"I don't believe a word of this."

"Facts are facts, I'm afraid," Garrett says. "Mayberry has only one church – the one that Andy attends. It has only one telephone operator, Sarah, who's forced to work 24 hours a day, seven days a week, monitoring every call the townspeople place and reporting them all to Andy. People are terrified of him. And with good reason – his hands are dyed red with blood. In fact, when the show switched from black-and-white to color, the producers had to be careful not ever to show Andy's hands. Just look at Otis."

"What about Otis?"

"The man's a symbol for the traumatized psychology of the entire town, a generalized guilt complex for cooperating with the monster they created. Otis drinks himself into a stupor to numb the pain, and then submits himself to Andy for ritual punishment every night. Barney, on the other hand, represents the emasculation of the body politic under Andy's reign of terror. That's the point behind Andy forcing him to carry an unloaded weapon and keep a single bullet in his shirt pocket. Of course, every time Barney works up the courage to load the gun, he shoots himself in the foot instead of aiming for his true enemy. Which is just as well, since Opie is the one who's destined to eventually gun Andy down, to avenge his mother's death."

"That actually makes a bit of sense," Andrew admits. "Nothing is ever said about what became of Opie's mother."

"Andy murdered her," Garrett says. "Opie knows, but he's too young and powerless to do anything about it. Just watch any scene between the two of them. You can tell that Opie's seething with hatred just below the surface while trying to keep Andy off-guard by his false display of childhood innocence. That kid's just twitching with revenge. He's like Hamlet."

As it happens, at this very moment Andy and Opie are on screen, chatting over the dinner table. We watch, silent and aghast. Garrett's right – _Andy Griffith_ is like a John Webster tragedy.

"I don't think I can ever watch this show again," Cindy laments.

"Then my work here is done," Garrett says.

~ ~ ~

Wednesday, June 21

"Longest day of the year," Pam (my waitress tonight at the Beacon) says as she delivers my order: cheeseburger, fries, cole slaw.

The Beacon makes the best burgers in all of creation. I make a vow to eat here more often, even if I'm alone, like tonight. It's almost 9:00, but still partially daylight outside. I'm the only customer in the place, even though the parking lot is full. The Beacon parking lot is always full, even when the restaurant is closed. One of the mysteries of Oxford.

"You're right," I say. "Now we start slipping back into darkness. Winter will be here before you know it."

"I wouldn't fret," Pam says. "We still have a long summer ahead of us. Farmers have been saying it's going to be a hot one, too."

I dig into my burger and return to Herodotus, so absorbed in my two favorite things that I scarcely notice when another customer enters and seats himself in a window-side booth at the back of the dining room. It's only minutes later, after enduring an eerie sensation of being watched intently, that I glance over my shoulder to see who's there.

A man in his early 40s, pinched face, wearing a black shirt. Familiar, but I can't quite place him. From his expression, I can tell he's thinking the same of me. He's clean-shaven, that's what's different about him now. Last time I saw him, he sported a tidy black beard that helped fill out his face.

It's Brother Leopold, Joan's ex-lover, exiled from St. Mary's parish before my return from Virginia.

"Medway?" he says. "Is that you?" He rises from the booth and takes the seat opposite me. Uninvited, but that's all right. "Somebody told me you'd died," he says.

"Has the diocese sent you back?" I ask. "Don't tell me St. Mary's is going to have a priest again."

Leo shakes his head. "The bishop may be crazy, but he's not insane. No, my order has sent me out for a stint of soul-searching, to decide whether I really want to stay in the priesthood. I thought I'd start in Oxford, since this is the spot where everything started to go wrong."

"How long have you been in town?"

"Since yesterday. A lot has changed in a year. The Earth is gone, almost nobody I recognize on campus."

"Have you been to the new commune on Taylor Avenue?"

"Earlier today," he says. "I didn't receive a warm welcome. At least not from James."

"You can scarcely blame him for not being delighted to have you back."

"I was afraid to ask him about Joan."

"She's staying at Dr. Goodleigh's house for the summer, taking care of the cats while Goodleigh's away."

"I don't suppose she'd wish to see me, either."

"I don't suppose," I agree.

He answers with silence and a forlorn look. I intuit what he's asking without him having to say anything. It seems like little enough.

"Where are you staying?"

"I have a room at the Holiday Inn. Of course, that's only short-term. My funds are limited."

"I have an empty bedroom in my trailer. You're welcome to crash there for a few nights. But you've got to promise me not to do anything priest-like."

"Priest-like? What do you mean by that?"

"No consecrating my Wild Irish Rose, slipping communion wafers into my box of Ritz crackers. No Stations of the Cross in the hallway."

"I'd forgotten how bitter you are about the Church."

"Hey, I sent a letter the Pope himself, and he wrote back. Even _he_ agreed I have good cause."

I give Leo directions to Campground Road.

"My trailer's in the middle, on the hill. It's the one that has a milk crate for a doorstep."

"How will I recognize the camp?" Leo asks.

"You've seen Breughel's painting of hell?"

"Of course."

"Just look for that," I say. "You can't miss it."

~ ~ ~

Thursday, June 22

I've once again run out of clean clothes, so I bag all my dirty things for a trip to the laundromat – all except, of course, the clothes I'm wearing, which consists of an only slightly filthy pair of jeans, once-worn socks, and Ashley's Chairman Mao t-shirt.

Remembering the abuse I suffered the time I wore this t-shirt to campus, I pull a rumpled shirt from the laundry bag to wear over it.

Not a single visitor stops by the Museum all day, so I close at 3:00 and drive to the laundromat on East University, manage to stuff everything into two machines, throw in some Tide and punch quarters into the slots. I have 40 minutes to kill while the load is washing, so I decide to drive to the Buddha and buy some carryout fried rice for supper.

Jimmy is reading a Chinese newspaper, feet up on the cash register table, when I enter the dining room. He shouts my order into the kitchen. As he starts to ring me up, we notice a young boy lingering outside the door to the parking lot.

He's a white kid, blonde, wearing a blue ball cap with the bill twisted to one side. If he had an eye patch, he could be Bazooka Joe's doppelgänger. He's peering inside, but it's such a bright afternoon that he's likely not able to see anything except the glare of his own reflection.

As we watch, he scowls, takes a step backward, unzips his fly, pulls his little wizzer out, pees against the glass, and runs off while zipping himself back up.

Jimmy thinks this is the funniest thing he's ever seen. He's still laughing when Ho steps through the swinging door to the kitchen with my order in a little cardboard box, saying something harsh to Jimmy as she does so but instantly falling silent as she sees me.

The scorn that I'm accustomed to from her surfaces only for a moment, replaced by an expression that I can only interpret as bewilderment.

Her eyes widen. Her mouth falls open. She looks at Jimmy and says something that sounds like "Mao?"

And now I grasp the source of her surprise. Without thinking, I'd thrown my dirty shirt into the wash. She can see Ashley's t-shirt.

Ho turns back to me. "Mao!" she says.

She takes a step toward me. I take a step back. She advances again, and again I retreat. In two more steps, she has me backed into a corner. Another step, and she lays her hands on me.

This, once more, is the hour of my death.

To my shock, though, her touch is gentle. She's patting my arms, saying "Mao, Mao." She spreads one wizened hand and places it directly on my chest, over the leader's portrait. "Mao good man," she says. "Good man."

This seems like a good moment to leave. I begin to reach for the container of fried rice, but Ho snatches it away as she barks some kind of command to Jimmy.

"She wants you to eat more," Jimmy translates. "She'll add anything you want to the rice – beef, chicken, pork, shrimp. Anything you like. No charge."

I'm confused. "Why is she doing this?"

"She really likes Mao. She thinks you must, too."

Ho utters another sentences.

"She says you're too thin. From now on, you come here whenever you want and she'll feed you."

Ho takes my arm, leads me to a booth, nodding and smiling the whole way across the dining room. "Chicken," she says. "Pok. Shlimp. Beef."

"Pork," I say.

She eases me into a chair, pats my head, smiles. "Pok," she says. "Mao good man. Good man."

~ ~ ~

Friday, June 23

Dr. Stevens is annoyed, and I can guess why. "Aren't you going to answer that goddamn phone?" he demands.

I'm in the Museum watching Dr. Linen's spirit hovering behind the display case with the red figure pelike of the satyr. The phone has been ringing off and on for over two hours now.

"I'm sorry," I say. "People keep calling. There's nothing I can do."

As I'm saying this, the ringing stops.

"Nothing you can _do_? You can answer it, for godssake. It's part of your job."

"Actually," I correct him, "it isn't. I've studied the job description for Ole Miss office workers carefully. Nobody's revised it since like 1872, so it doesn't mention telephones at all. It does say something about signing for telegraph messages when they arrive by horseback courier – which I'll be more than happy to do if one ever arrives."

The ringing resumes. Dr. Stevens storms into Goodleigh's office and thunders an "Hello?!" into the receiver. He's back a minute later with a note handwritten on a slip of paper.

"That was somebody named Mrs. Foster, reminding you that her Cub Scout troop is scheduled for a Museum tour next week."

"I already know that. It's marked on the calendar. Why would she call just for that?" I wonder aloud.

"She's confirming the appointment. It's something adults do," Stevens answers. "You wouldn't understand."

"When you were in Turkey," I ask, before he has a chance to leave, "did you visit any of the prisons where they hold American drug runners? I've been hearing a lot about them. They sound like pretty bad places to end up."

"I don't suspect you need to worry about landing in a Turkish prison," Stevens says. "A Turkish mental ward, though . . . that's a distinct possibility. Really, Medway, you're a mess. Have you considered seeking professional help?"

"I've been seeing Dr. Valencia for almost ten months."

"Valencia? Everybody knows he's useless. You might as well talk to your feet."

"I know. But he has some machine that he keeps dangling in front of me."

"Valencia's machine?" Stevens asks. "You don't mean that Russian box?"

"Yes, that's the one."

He shakes his head. "Take my advice: steer clear of that Russian box. I've heard some bad things about it."

~ ~ ~

Saturday, June 24

Brother Leopold has settled into the trailer, and shows no signs of leaving. But he's making himself agreeable by introducing me to some really great liquor that he "borrowed" from the order before driving off to find himself.

Tonight it's a twenty-one-year-old bottle of single-malt Scotch with an unpronounceable Gaelic name. I'd forgotten how well priests drink. Not that I begrudge them that. Alcohol is easier to procure than women are. Every priest out there who takes a vow of celibacy, preferring drink to sex, lessens the competition for me.

Of course, I have to keep reminding myself that this particular lucky celibate slept with Joan, which is much more than I'll ever be able to claim.

Our conversation has – inevitably, I suppose – turned to the subject of Tamburlaine. Tucked away in enforced contemplation for the past year, Leo's ill-informed about the latest developments in the legend. So, out of courtesy, I fill in the gaps: Tamburlaine's rumored role at Attica State and the attempted Wallace assassination; James' shortwave radio and the number stations; Sheriff Claprood and the late night troop movements.

"Our sheriff is a true believer," I say. "Of course, Garrett thinks the whole thing is bullshit."

"What do you think?" Leo asks.

"He's real. I've met him. He's just not what everybody thinks he is."

"You met Tamburlaine?" Leo sounds skeptical.

"Back in January," I explain. "One night during Christmas break, he showed up at the Tyler Avenue commune during a rainstorm. I invited him in for coffee, then served him a tv dinner, and then we sat up most of the night drinking wine and smoking some pot. He told me his whole story."

Flop, sprawled on her back on the floor, farts.

"Do you think we could continue this outside?" Leo suggests. "Away from the stench?"

I haven't heard any dogs since returning from North Carolina. It seems like a safe enough suggestion. We sit on two plastic lawn chairs the Duck left behind.

"Tamburlaine's just a guy," I continue. "His real name is Aaron Eccles. He was a theater major up at Macalester College in Minnesota when the whole thing started. The college was staging a performance of Marlowe's _Tamburlaine the Great_ one night back in April of 1968. In the middle of the play, news reached the theater that Martin Luther King had been assassinated.

"They decided to stop the production, out of respect. Eccles was playing the lead role, and he stepped forward – still in costume, of course – and delivered a speech, totally impromptu, about how tired he was of his heroes being murdered in the streets, how it was time for us to arm ourselves and begin a great revolution to liberate America from a corrupt imperialist, capitalist system.

"Well, he was an actor, the audience was primed from having spent the past hour watching one of the most violent plays ever written, and Eccles' speech was so impassioned that it set off a small riot. Students poured out of the theater and spread the word to the dorms and study halls about what was going on. The quad erupted in protests. Cops had to be called in, a couple of dozen arrests were made, and there was some vandalism. The sort of thing that happened a lot in '68."

"Apparently, that wasn't the end of it," Leo observes.

"Not by a long shot. The accounts of the riot in the local press and the college newspaper got several key facts wrong. They reported that somebody _named_ Tamburlaine had incited the mob, as if he were some kind of mystery figure, an outside agitator. Meanwhile, a bunch of students who'd been in the theater and were stoned out of their minds at the time began spreading rumors of all sort of strange things that happened during the riot, that Tamburlaine had summoned walls of flame to shield kids from the cops and whatnot.

"But the kicker was a graphic art student who'd been there was inspired to create a comic book hero called 'Tamburlaine the Revolutionary' or some such nonsense, investing him with all manner of super powers and giving him a magical talisman that was the source of his strength. It got serialized in at least a dozen underground newspapers across the country.

"The poor bastard Eccles didn't want any of this attention. Pretty soon the cops were sniffing around into his personal business, and then the FBI got involved and discovered that Eccles hadn't shown up for a draft physical the summer before. Now _they_ were after him, too. Eccles tried to escape to Canada, but for some reason he couldn't cross the border, so he's had to live as a fugitive ever since. Meanwhile, the legend just grows and grows. All he wants to do is get lost, but every other hippie in America is out on the road trying to find him."

It's dark in the camp yard. Leo's silent. For a few moments I suspect he's finally passed out. But I'm wrong.

"A stranger shows up at your door and tells you a story. You believe it?"

"I'm always inclined to believe a good story. Well told, of course. I'm going back in. The mosquitoes out here are worse than the smell inside."

Leo rises when I do. We thread our way through the dark, back to the trailer. A surprise awaits as I open the door. The living room has been cleared of everything except Flop. The couch has been pulled into the narrow hall, my stereo moved to the kitchen table, the little coffee table set atop the range.

Leo is understandably alarmed. I attempt to set his mind at ease.

"This is perfectly normal. The demons are back. They've been on their best behavior the past couple of nights. I thought having a man of the cloth staying here might have settled them down."

"Demons? What do you mean demons?"

"One of the former tenants was a witch," I begin to explain. "But that's a story for another night. Help me drag the couch clear so we can get to our rooms."

~ ~ ~

Sunday, June 25

Bella the Beautiful enters the dining room of the Rebel Buddha carrying a tray with yet another platter of free food for our table.

"Char sui pork," she informs us. "Ho made this special for you – it's not even on the menu."

Even through the closed door, we can hear raised voices in the kitchen, Tiger and Ho arguing (no doubt) about her giving food away.

"Spareribs," Claire says, digging in. "I love spareribs!"

We're a foursome this evening – Claire, me, Garrett and Miss Fairchild – but there's enough on the table for three times our number, and we're being eyed resentfully by the other patrons who've been waiting for their dishes to be served while Ho doggedly prepares more and more for us.

"This is embarrassing," I say to Bella. "Can't anyone get her to stop?"

"She's determined to feed you, fatten you up," Bella answers. "She doesn't want you to look like death anymore."

I decide to placate the other customers by circulating the platters of Jiaozi dumplings, spring rolls, lettuce wraps and spareribs to their tables, at one of which I discover Mrs. Sutherland dining with lady friends.

"This is very generous of you, Daniel," she says.

"It's what Jesus would do," I reply. "Or would have done, if he been in a restaurant with crab shu mai instead of that hillside with loaves and fishes."

When I return to our table, I find that Joan has joined our group. "I just dropped by to get some carryout chicken broccoli for dinner," she says. "Nobody'd told me you had a banquet planned."

"It was just a whim," I say. "Has anyone told you that Brother Leopold's back?"

"I'd heard," Joan replies.

"Has anyone mentioned that he' staying at the trailer?"

"No, that's news to me. Sleeping in my old room? That's kind of creepy, actually."

"I expected him to just stay for a day or so, a week at the most. Then I expected him to pull up stakes after his first encounter with the demons. But instead of freaking him out, they've turned into some twisted test of his faith. He'd started to doubt the existence of good and evil. Now he's uncovered evidence that evil, at least, may be real."

"And if evil exists," Garrett surmises, "it would persuade him that good must as well. Typical delusion of the inveterate dualist. The man might as well be a Zoroastrian."

"Still the funniest religion," I say.

"I'm not sure anymore," Garrett answers. "Have you heard anything about this group called the Scientologists?"

At this moment, Ho herself enters the dining room with a platter heaped with shrimp, rice and vegetables. She sets it on our table, talking with real enthusiasm about something or another which we cannot, of course, understand, hugs my neck, kisses the top of my head, and turns to leave. Halfway through the swinging door, she changes her plan. She darts to the cash register and, before Bella can stop her, scoops two handfuls of bills from the cash drawer, which she shoves into my hands before rushing back to the kitchen with a howl of delight. I give the money back to Bella.

"Thank you," she says.

"Don't mention it. It's what Jesus would do."

~ ~ ~

Monday, June 26

Roy Hacker is ministering to a small audience of gawkers outside the courthouse. It's a little after 3:00 on a perfect early summer afternoon.

"I notice he never comes out when it's raining," Garrett observes. It's too nice a day to stay cooped up inside the Ohm, so he, Claire and I have found a good seat on the park bench closest to the base of the Confederate memorial. "Or too cold. Or too hot."

"The sunshine Christian," I suggest.

"The summer preacher and the sunshine Christian. These are times when men's souls will be tried."

"Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men?"

"Roy Hacker knows."

And indeed, ex-deputy Hacker does know. His theme today is the total depravity of the human race, an assortment of variations on the theme that we're all rotten to the core, a proposition that – peering into my own soul, at least – I find difficult to refute.

"For abundant examples of this self-evident truth," Hacker shouts, "you need look no further than the anals of human history."

"The _what_?" a loud voice in the crowd asks. I glance in its direction and discover my old acquaintance Virgil Posey from the Jackson Avenue barber shop.

"The anals of history, my friend," Hacker repeats. "Perhaps you're not familiar with the expression."

"Must admit that I'm not," Virgil admits. "Are you saying that history has an anus? That would explain a lot."

It's Hacker's turn to be confused. "A what? What are you talking about?"

"Anus, I said. You know, asshole."

"Virgil Posey, did you just call me an asshole?"

"I didn't call you anything! You said that history has an asshole. I'm just following the logic of your scatological vision of history, saying that would explain the deep shit we're in. Here we are in the tail end – if you'll forgive the pun – of history's digestive track."

"He's not saying that we're _in_ shit," Hoyt (also from the barber shop) counters. "He's saying that we _are_ shit. A major theological distinction there."

"It would explain the existence of Alabama!" Garrett shouts, receiving a murmur of agreement from the crowd. "And the Supreme Court!" he adds, for fun, and draws a round of applause.

"Ladies present!" Claire yells. And indeed there are ladies scattered among the audience, though it's not certain that more than a few people out here would recognize Claire as one of them.

One of these ladies is already in high dudgeon. "Roy Hacker," she complains, "you ought to be ashamed, encouraging all this obscene language right here on the Square!"

"It's public indecency, pure and simple," Hoyt charges, "And under the guise of spreading the Gospel!"

"Shame!"

" _I'm_ not encouraging obscene language," Hacker answers, with a hint of desperation in his tone. "You started this, Virgil Posey. And I don't even know what you're talking about. How'd we get from total depravity to shit?"

The lady in high dudgeon clasps her hands over her ears. " _Again_!" she cries. "Have you no pity for the delicacy of a woman's sense? Is there no man here who will call an end to this profanity?"

Her challenge to the manhood of the audience casts a sudden silence on the group. It doesn't last long.

"Roy Hacker, stand down!" a voice rings out.

"Stand down? Me?" Hacker pleads. "Who said that?"

"In the name of righteousness, morality and the laws of this city, I order you to stand down!" The owner of the voice steps forward. He's a big man, well over 200 pounds, a muscular build that's on the verge of transmogrifying into fat. Shaved head. One armed.

I recognize him, of course. Clemson Lott. Officer Clemson Lott, Chief of Ole Miss campus security. The very man who busted me for carrying a harpoon across campus my sophomore year.

"Clemson," Hacker objects, "you have no jurisdiction here in town. Don't be ordering me to stand down."

"I don't need a jurisdiction to call for what's moral. Seems to me, that's been the problem in this town for the past year: the law's been so busy doing what's legal, it's lost sight of what's _right_. Look here, we've been treating good people like hardened criminals for minor violations. Meanwhile, we've got a shop at one end of the street selling heathen music and another at the other end selling drug paraphernalia."

A muttering of agreement rises from the crowd.

"Something's wrong in Oxford!" Lott continues. "Something's very wrong! I'm not blaming you, Roy. You tried to enforce Christian values when you was deputy, and look at the thanks you got for it. No, I blame our mayor. I blame the city attorney. Most of all, though, I blame the sheriff for the sorry state we're in."

"Why don't you stand up against him in the run-off election, then?" Hoyt shouts. "Make the town safe for decent people?"

The suggestion is greeted with a round of cheers, and cries of encouragement. The big man gazes about, silent, as his support grows around him, transforming from a sudden idea into an almost tangible inevitability.

Hacker is clever enough to spot an opportunity. "I nominate Clemson Lott for sheriff! Who else is with me?"

The crowd roars its approval. Hacker extends a hand. "Clemson, the people have spoken! It's your duty to lead us out of this age of immorality. And when you're elected sheriff, I'd be honored to serve this noble cause with you."

~ ~ ~

Tuesday, June 27

"From pizza delivery boy to goatherd," Dr. Valencia remarks. "You make the most interesting career choices."

I've been telling him about the trip to North Carolina, and how relaxing it was to spend days with lesbians and domestic animals.

"I'm not saying I want to be a goatherd," I answer. "Though the idea is appealing – spend every day outside, in nature, lots of time to read and meditate. The simple life, you know?"

"Yes, the simple life would tempt you, wouldn't it? Because your existence is so incredibly demanding. You spend all day in a museum nobody ever visits, and then get drunk or stoned every evening. I don't know how you manage the stress."

"It's not as easy as it looks," I protest. "I live in a trailer filled with demons. Ten steps outside my door I'm liable to run into armed drug dealers or packs of feral dogs or nests of flesh-eating spiders. Plus, I haven't had a girl since Easter."

"For a resourceful young man with money in the bank living 90 miles south of Memphis," Dr. Valencia says, "female companionship shouldn't be a problem. And you're not exactly being held captive at the trailer park. You could, for example, move out. But you have a tendency to find bad situations and then to stay in them."

"Did I ever tell you about the Great Harpoon Incident?" I ask.

"Is this another of your long, tedious stories?" Dr. Valencia checks his watch. "We have time. Go ahead."

"My sophomore year, when I was still a member of the fraternity, I had a girlfriend named Julia. Early spring semester, one of my frat brothers snaked her from me. She dumped me for him, and I vowed revenge. I broke into his room one Thursday afternoon while he was out. His name was Brad. Brad's two hobbies were scuba diving and being a racist."

"Diverse interests," Dr. Valencia says.

"Yeah, he was a real Renaissance man. So I broke into his room, stole his scuba gear and ripped down the Mississippi state flag he used for a window shade. Then I stripped down to my underwear – did I mention I was drunk when I did this?"

"I'm not surprised."

"I stripped down to my underwear, put on a pair of flippers and a snorkeling mask, threw the flag around me and walked out onto campus with one of those little harpoons divers use, proclaiming myself to be Captain Mississippi."

"How was this supposed to get revenge on Brad?"

"That part wasn't so clear to me, either. I was pretty drunk. But I'd been staggering around campus for a while and had made it all the way to the Student Union before the campus cops finally busted me. I got charged with public intoxication, disorderly conduct and threatening with a lethal weapon. Guilty as charged, on all counts. But the Lyceum decided to drop the charges because they were hesitant to punish a member of the Medway dynasty. That was long before they realized what a bad apple I really was."

"So you got off."

"Not entirely. I had a nice room all to myself that year on the top floor of Kincannon, after my roommate flunked out and got drafted. Because of my transgressions, the administration determined that I could no longer be trusted to live in the company of other decent young men. So they forced me to move to Garland Hall, which was the dropping-off place for every drunken delinquent loser on campus. All the bad seeds who weren't already living on Fraternity Row – the boozers, the slackers, the gamblers, the thieves, the whoremongers, the cheaters, the insane. It turned out to be a great experience. I _loved_ Garland Hall.

"I lived there all spring and decided to stay for summer semester. Somehow, I managed to keep out of trouble all that time. At the start of fall, I received a letter from the college commending me for having rehabilitated myself to the point where I could now be trusted to rejoin the polite society of my peers and return to Kincannon Hall."

"And your reply was . . . ?" Valencia prompts.

"Hell no! I'm staying right here. This is the most fun I've had my entire life."

I stop. Valencia waits for more, then asks into my silence: "Is there a point to this?"

"You said I find bad situations and decide to stay in them. Your assessment's only half right. Some of the bad situations I've found – like University of Virginia, like the fraternity, like my goddamn family – were boring. Those were the ones I walked out on. But the ones that were interesting – that's a different matter. How can I even think about leaving the trailer when what's going on is so interesting? When I can't predict what's going to happen next?"

~ ~ ~

Wednesday, June 28

The tennis balls go "Plop!... Plop!... Plop!" striking the racquets and the pavement. Two girls are playing a set of singles on the courts along Magnolia Drive. Both in tennis whites, those tiny skirts. One is tall, blonde, willowy. The other is dark, sinewy, intense, easily the better player.

I'm in the bleachers, watching, with the copy of Li Po's poems that Becky gave me last Christmas. Reading Li Po is like sitting beside him, having a private conversation. We've been here for over an hour now, long enough for dusk to segue almost completely into night.

I like the blonde. Li Po likes the dark girl. We discuss the relative merits of both, and agree that they're equally fine girls, and far too good for the likes of two rootless drunks like us.

The moon is out, full tonight. I try, once more, to find the rabbit on its surface that old Li writes about so often. But once more, I fail to discern it, only the grinning imbecilic face imposed upon my perception during childhood by my European heritage.

Fraternity row is celebrating something tonight. Maybe just Wednesday. Somebody's lit a bonfire on the lawn of the DKE house, and boys are out feeding it, throwing something into it. I can't quite make it out from this distance.

" _Ego phone boontos en te eremo_!" somebody shouts. The others take it up as a chorus: " _Ego phone boontos en te eremo! Ego phone boontos en te eremo!_ "

The tennis game has ended, the dark girl victorious. The court is empty, nothing left to watch. I invite Li Po for an evening stroll through the Grove, where we encounter the Ranger hanging with Citizen and a brace of bunnies.

"They're not called a 'brace,'" the Ranger corrects me. "Warren. Or bevy. Or hop, den, nest, bury, drove, colony, trace, leash, husk or trip."

"I was never any good at zoology," I confess. "Or criminology, geology, sociology, biology, or anthropology. None of the ologies, for that matter."

"The naming of animals seems to me to be more a matter of semantics than zoology, boy. Denotation, extension, naming and truth. Haven't you read the _Course in General Linguistics_?"

"Ferdinand de Saussure . . . ," I manage to say before Citizen cuts me off. In fact, he cuts both of us off by doing something I've never heard Citizen do in all the time I've known him:

He howls.

It starts as a low growling in his chest that apparently startles even the Ranger, no amateur at animal behavior. The growl rises in pitch and lifts into his throat. Citizen throws his head back, lifts his muzzle to the sky, opens his jaws wide, and whoops a chilling howl that swells to fill every shadowed corner and nook of the Grove.

The full moon is right above us, and I think at first that Citizen must be howling at that, though I can't imagine why. Maybe he's just seen the rabbit.

The Ranger divines the true cause of Citizen's alarm, a full five seconds before me. Then I hear a distant roar, the low thud-thud-thud-thud of rotors slicing through heavy early summer air, approaching from the west.

Helicopters. A fleet of helicopters all at once filling the sky above us and passing in loose formation over the campus. Big ones, military-looking, dozens of them, maybe 30 total. Maybe more.

They thunder low over the Grove, headed toward town. We feel the concussions through the air of the wide sweeping rotors, the drumming of engines. Citizen's howling goes on and on, doesn't end until the last craft has passed overhead and the turbulence ends.

"What in the hell?" I ask.

The Ranger looks stunned. "Troops," he says. "Looks like a mobilization."

"Mobilization for what?"

"What do you think?"

"Tamburlaine?"

"They sure as hell aren't looking for me," the Ranger says. "At least, not _thi_ s time."

~ ~ ~

Thursday, June 29

Roy Hacker's at the Courthouse again this morning, screaming something about troops from the UN that are marshaling at Slaughter Site out by the Yocona, just a few miles from town. Then something about locusts and the book of _Revelation_ and _The Late, Great Planet Earth._ Then something about an invasion.

I stop to listen for a minute. Nobody's paying him much attention, not even to heckle. It's 11:20, so I decide to grab an early lunch at Grundy's, maybe beat the crowd.

The dining room is only half full when I arrive. Back in one corner I spot Cindy in her waitress uniform talking to Claire and Andrew at a table.

"Thank goodness, another male," Andrew says as I pull up a chair to join them. "Please, let us leaven this ridiculous female conversation with some manly intelligence."

"Running low on intelligence, I'm afraid. The demons kept me up most of last night. Brother Leopold is trying to exorcise the trailer by praying at them, but so far he's only managed to piss them off."

"Never mind about your demons," Claire says. "We have just finished beholding quite possibly the most beautiful man who's ever set foot in this town."

"In this state," Cindy agrees. "Sitting right over there," she nods toward an adjacent table, "with an order of minute steak. Did you notice his teeth?" Cindy nearly squeals. "Oh, my god, I couldn't look away. Every bite he took, I kept wishing he was biting me instead."

"Biting you where?" Claire asks.

"Anywhere he wanted."

"Ladies," Andrew says, "please. A bit of decorum would be advisable. Besides, I don't see what all the fuss is about. I'll grant that he was moderately good looking, in a rakish kind of way."

"Good looking?!" Cindy says. "Burt Reynolds is 'good looking.' David Cassidy is 'good looking.' Little Joe Cartwright is 'good looking.' But this man was beautiful!"

"Dagnabbit, Cindy," I say, "Why is it all the girls fall for Little Joe?"

"We should probably retire that joke," Andrew says. "Now that Dan Blocker has passed away, it's not funny anymore."

"What?" I ask. "Dan Blocker died?"

"Of course he did. Heart attack. It was all over the news for days."

"Among the many blessings that grace my humble existence, I am in a position of never having to listen to the news. I suppose there's a lot I don't know. Tell me, are we still in Vietnam?"

"Yes," Cindy says. "How can you not know that?"

"So I better continue to keep a low profile," I say. "I imagine the draft board might still be searching for me. If they ever find out I'm not really dead, I could be up shit creek."

"Off the point," Cindy objects. "We ladies were discussing a beautiful man. Lord knows, there's few enough of them around."

"You just liked his patch," Andrew says. "Typical pirate fantasy, like one of the heroes of those dreadful Harlequin romances you insist upon purchasing."

"A patch?" I say. "What patch?"

"Over his right eye," Cindy says. "So dreamy."

"Well, bless my soul," I say. "I know exactly who you're talking about. The Handsome Poet is back in town!"

"And who might the Handsome Poet be?" he asks.

"Nathan Poole," I say. "He returns to town every summer, searching for his lost love."

~ ~ ~

Friday, June 30

I'm washed, shaven and dressed for another day at the Museum. I grab my wallet and my keys and step into the living room of the trailer just in time to catch Brother Leopold making a Sign of the Cross in the air. His breviary lies open before him on the kitchen table.

"What in the hell are you doing?" I say. "We had an agreement. No priest shit in the trailer. The demons were actually quiet last night, didn't bother us at all. Why risk stirring them up again?"

"We are in the presence of a profound mystery," Leo answers. "Don't you want to wrestle with it, test your faith?"

"I want to continue getting some sleep. No kidding. Cut that mumbo-jumbo out, or I'll have to ask you to leave. I'm serious."

Well, a row first thing in the morning has put me in a foul mood. I drive to campus muttering malefactions upon priestcraft and priests everywhere, of all denominations. Worse, the Carpenters come on the radio singing "Goodbye to Love." I nearly wreck the car in my urgency to change the station.

The Cub Scout packs arrive promptly at 10:00, six boys around seven- or eight-years-old, shepherded into the museum by their den mother, Mrs. Foster — who, I'm delighted to find, is a surprisingly hot woman, in a clean-scrubbed, genteel southern way. She looks a lot like Dinah Shore, actually. A little gold cross dangles from a chain around her neck, dipping its end into the top of her bosom. I'm in love.

"Now, boys," she says, addressing the pack as a kind of preamble to the tour, "many of the pots and statues here were made hundreds of years before Jesus was born. The artists didn't know about our Lord and Savior, but that was no fault of theirs. They hadn't heard the Word, and so they didn't really understand about God."

"They were stupid," one of the boys pipes up. "They prayed to rocks."

Mrs. Foster now defers to me, to confirm or deny the historical accuracy of the lad's remark.

"I don't think they actually _prayed_ to rocks," I say, but wish to avoid another theological discussion. So I shrug. "But I couldn't tell you for sure. I wasn't there."

Dr. Goodleigh has a standard tour for kids, which is to focus on the vases depicting the 12 Labors of Herakles and to tell the stories about the various monsters our hero defeated. I've heard her speech often enough to do a passable job of keeping the kids entertained, and am half-way through the story of the Eurymanthean Boar when I sense a disruption in the ranks. Two of the boys have broken away from the group and are standing at rapt attention by the display case that houses our satyr kylix, where I always spot the ghost of Professor Linen.

Mrs. Foster senses a problem, too. "Boys," she asks, "what are you looking at?"

I suddenly realize that I've made a terrible blunder. Whenever we expect kids to come through, Dr. Goodleigh always covers the pieces they're not supposed to see — taking special care with the kylix depicting the satyr with the enormous erection. I, of course, have forgotten to take this precaution.

"Look at the _dick_ on this guy!" the bigger of the two boys says.

The others immediately gather around the display case, followed by Mrs. Foster, who turns ashen when she spots the offending member. I intervene.

"I know what you're thinking, son," I say in my most avuncular tone. "But that's not one of those. No sir. He's just holding a sharp knife and a bunch of grapes he just snipped from a vine somewhere."

"Yes," Mrs. Foster agrees. "That's what it is."

The kid gives me a skeptical look. "Mister, I don't know what you're seeing. But I see a _dick_."

I somehow manage to corral them at the opposite side of the room to continue the tales of Herakles.

"They weren't supposed to see that," I mutter to Mrs. Foster once the tour has ended and she's leading them through the doors.

"I would imagine not," she says. "But they did, didn't they? Oh, dear. I suppose this will get back to the parents. Children do love to talk. Today was my first day leading the pack by myself. I'd hoped to make a good impression."

"The blame is all mine. Really, you should report me to Dean Moriarty. It would make his day."

"I'll do nothing of the kind," she replies, sweetly, and touches my arm. "Wouldn't want to get you in trouble. You have a blessed day," she adds, as she joins the boys to lead them down the central stairway of Bondurant.

I watch them descend, hear her voice as she leads them out of the building through the heavy front door, listen to it closing behind them, and linger in the hallway for a bit, feeling like a turd. I've not only failed to measure up to Dr. Goodleigh's trust, but I've created a problem for a sweet Christian lady. That Cub Scout pack will never forget the day she took them to a museum to see a great big dick.

I'm staring through the iron grate on the window above the stairs, out toward Bishop Hall and Fraternity Row when I hear the front doors open again, followed by footsteps entering, hesitating as if uncertain which direction to take, and then climbing the stairs, toward me.

I catch a glimpse of the top of her head first, then the sleeves of her cambric shirt, the cuff of her bellbottoms and the sandals on her feet. Then her face, smiling up at me: Ashley on the landing, Ashley taking the remaining steps two at a time in her haste, Ashley filling my arms and filling my senses.

A bad day has suddenly taken a good turn.

"I went to the commune," she says when we finally catch a breath to speak. "And found out you'd moved away. Cindy said I could probably find you here."

We turn down the hall to the Museum, bumping hips together as we try to walk with our arms still linked. "What are you doing in Oxford?"

"I've come into a little money on the road, and it's burning a hole in my pocket. I've come looking for a boyfriend to help me spend it."

"What do have in mind?"

"What's the best hotel in Memphis?" Ashley asks.

I don't even need to think. "The Peabody. They have ducks."

"Ducks?"

"In the lobby," I say. "You'll love it."

"The Peabody it is, then. My van's right outside."

"I should stop by the trailer to pack first," I say.

"Why? What do you need?"

"My toothbrush, I guess. Some clothes."

"We can buy anything we need once we reach Memphis," Ashley replies. "And neither of us is probably going to be wearing a lot of clothes."

~ ~ ~

Saturday, July 1

"What time is it?" I ask, waking in a sunlight hotel room of the Peabody, under clean sheets in an air-conditioned suite.

Ashley, just stepped out of the shower, is flushed and dewy all over. "11:25."

"11:25? I haven't been in bed this late since I was eight months old."

She props herself beside me against the headboard and reaches for the phone. "Coffee, please," she says when Room Service answers. "A big pot of it. Half a dozen slices of bacon and two slices of buttered toast with some strawberry jam." She holds her hand over the speaker to ask me what I want.

"Order some grits."

"Grits? How many do you want?"

"Just say 'grits.'"

"The master will have grits . . . whatever those are. That's right, room 902. Thank you."

I gaze about the hotel room at the debris from last night — the dirty dishes, the covered trays that held the Caesar salad, oysters Rockefeller, steak and crepes, the three empty bottles of Pouilly Fuisse.

"Wild nights! Wild nights!" I say and reach across the pillows to pull her down beside me.

" _Were I with thee_

" _Wild nights should be_

" _Our luxury!"_

Ashley laughs, yields to my tugging.

" _Rowing in Eden -_

" _Ah – the Sea!_

" _Might I but moor – tonight -_

" _In thee!"_

"None of that, young man. Any additional mooring in this morning is likely to provoke the curiosity of the hotel detective, followed by the vice squad. Besides, one of us needs to get dressed for when room service arrives. And I don't intend for that person to be me."

She flips on the television across the room using a remote control as I slip into my clothes. A cartoon called _Sabrina the Teenage Witch_ is on. Coffee and breakfast arrive. Ashley chews happily, and noisily, on her toast, curls a lip in my direction when I offer to share my grits with her. Crumbs land on her flat little belly and hang there.

Next up is _Josie and the Pussycats_ , followed by a rerun of the _Monkees_. Ashley quickly changes the channel, and we find ourselves watching _Mr. Wizard_. We're ten minutes into it when a thought comes into my head.

"You know, I never imagined I'd someday be watching this show with a naked girl in my bed."

"Probably not what the producers of children's television had in mind."

Today's episode includes a girl named Toni. ("Toni?" Don Herbert says. "That's a boy's name.") who's already flubbed the simple task of slicing a banana. "You're worthless," he says to her. He has her sit on a chair, places an index finger to her forehead and repeatedly yells at her to stand up. Now he's blasting some kind of burglar alarm in her face, so loud that it's blowing her hair back.

"Mr. Wizard's kind of a dickhead, isn't he?" Ashley finally remarks.

"He's always had a mean streak. One day, all the kids he's tormented over the years are going to grow up into revolutionaries who'll come firebomb his goddamn lab to the ground."

The _Jetsons_ comes on next, followed on another channel by _American Bandstand_. Little Michael Jackson is Dick Clark's very special guest. I'm able to sit through his performance of "Ben," but my gorge rises when he lurches into "Rockin' Robin." I reach for the phone, pretending that I'm actually about to use it.

"Who are you calling?" Ashley asks.

"The Audubon Society, to file a formal complaint over the mistreatment of robins."

"Call room service instead. Let's see if we can order a couple of cheeseburgers with fries."

I pass the phone to her instead.

"Sorry," Ashley says, "I forgot."

"Naked lunch?" I ask.

"The real thing's much better than the book."

"Don't you want to get out? Maybe see the ducks in the lobby?"

"I'm much too comfortable here. I don't want to leave this room or put on a stitch of clothes. Ever again. Or at least until our money runs out."

"Works for me," I say.

~ ~ ~

Sunday, July 2

"There _really are_ ducks in the lobby," Ashley marvels when I'm finally able to cajole her out of our room.

"Of course there are. Did you think I was making them up?"

"I thought it was a line you Ole Miss boys use to lure innocent damsels like myself into the Peabody for a weekend of sin."

Ashley drives us across the river on the Memphis-Arkansas Bridge with the windows rolled down and the radio turned all the way up. The Eagles are singing "Take It Easy."

"I've never actually seen the Mississippi before," she shouts over the din of guitars and air rushing through the van. "I must have crossed it a dozen times, but always at night."

We make the crossing four times, back and forth. Ashley sings some lyrics from a Dylan song I've never heard, "Watching the River Flow," and we decide to make our way to Overton Square for a late lunch.

It's hot on TGIF's patio dining area, but the inside is full of what must be Ole Miss frat boys shouting, " _phone boontos en te eremo_." So we agree to eat outside anyway and order two Michelobs, which our waitress delivers as we begin studying our menus.

A poster hanging on the exterior wall is advertising a production of _The Flies_ tonight at a little theater only two blocks away. I ask Ashley if she'd like to see it.

"Why would I wish to spoil a perfectly lovely day with Sartre?" she asks.

"Don't like him?"

"Can't stand him. I had the misfortune of taking a course in 20th century drama back at San Diego State. The professor not only forced us to read _No Exit_ , but even worse to attend a local production, as if doing one or the other weren't punishment enough. My least favorite line of modern literature? 'Hell is other people.' That's bullshit. Hell isn't other people. Hell is watching _No Exit_."

I'm about to ask whether she'd like to stay in and watch television again, or do some bar hopping instead. But I'm distracted by a kid who's panhandling on the sidewalk across the iron railing from us. He looks oddly familiar, but I can't quite place him.

He must sense my stare because he suddenly turns our way to look. Mutual recognition occurs simultaneously. It's Alfalfa, the kid James picked up on the road during last January's blizzard. The kid Skoll scared into running from Oxford. The kid who stole from everybody in the Tyler Avenue commune. That kid.

I expect him to run, like he did during our last encounter here at Overton Square, but instead he just stands there gawking. I rise from our table, and meet him at the railing.

"Hello again. Didn't expect to find you still here. Hungry?" I ask.

He nods.

"Come in and join us. My treat."

Alfalfa wolfs down a double cheeseburger and a side order of onion rings as I question why he's remained in Memphis.

"So, you've been here the entire time, living on the streets?"

"Yeah, man. The longest I've stayed in any one spot in years and years. I seem to be safe, like the devil's never thought to search for me here. It's weird."

"He's convinced the devil's after him," I explain to Ashley.

"Why would you think that?" she asks him.

"It's not what I _would_ think. It's what I _do_ think, what I _know_. Yeah, and he's not going to rest until he's tracked me down. See, I have something that belongs to him, something he wants back real bad." He pauses. "Well, it's not so much that I have it, but I know where to find it."

"What would you have that the devil would want?" Ashley asks.

The answer surprises me, but apparently intrigues her.

"His fingernail."

"Really? How did you come by that?"

"How do you think? From Tambulaine, of course. I was outside of Butte, Montana, late last summer, and I ran into him by accident in a little diner. The feds were closing in, he was pretty sure he was about to get captured any day. That's when he gave the relic to me, asked me to hide it away someplace safe."

"And you agreed to that?" Ashley seems astonished.

"I didn't want to, no. I mean, nobody _wants_ to be carting around the devil's fingernail. But hey, this was Tamburlaine himself asking a kindness of me. I couldn't really say no."

"What are you two talking about?" I ask.

"The reliquary of Saint Agustollus," Ashley explains. "It's a hunk of iron, weighing around five pounds. Saint Agustollus was a blacksmith in the 14th century. He died after jumping into a forge where a vat of molten metal was being fired."

"So," I say, "he must be the patron saint of idiots."

"No, man!" Alfalfa objects. "That's not the whole story. Listen. Agustollus was a smith, right? Worked this smithy of his for a big monastery outside some little podunk town in Italy. A good, pious, god-fearing man. Okay? And some said he was the strongest man who ever lived. He was like a legend in his own time."

"And then came the wrestling match," Ashley prompts.

"Yeah, I was just about to get to that. One day Agustollus was working in his smithy and the devil emerged out of the fire in his forge, for a chat. The devil said he'd been listening to all these conversations among mortals about how strong Agustollus was, and he'd decided to come to the surface to check the man out. So, the devil proposes, how about a wrestling match, just the two of them?"

"I'm assuming Agustollus agreed?"

"He did, and they commenced right away. According to the story, they fought together for three full days and three nights. Two titans. People as far away as Rome could feel the earth shaking under their feet. By the end of the third night, the devil knew that he'd been licked. Even though Agustollus was pretty badly torn up by this point, he wasn't a bit tired, and seemed to be growing stronger the longer the match lasted. But instead of admitting he was beaten, the devil tried to run away by jumping back into the forge."

"Augustollus jumped in after him," Ashley adds, "and was incinerated. The legend says that the devil, in his panic to get away, accidentally tore off one of his own barbed fingernails. When the monks retrieved Augustollus' remains, all scrambled up in this hunk of iron, the fingernail was in there with him. The reliquary was on display in Perugia until the late 18th century, then went missing for a couple of decades, before reappearing in the collection of a museum in Paris. But it disappeared again after World War II, after the occupation. Everyone assumed it had been stolen by the Nazis."

"So," I ask, "how did Tamburlaine wind up with it? And why in the hell would he even want it?"

"The reliquary is supposed to confer great power to people of either exceptionally good or exceptionally evil character. Its possessor can mess with people's minds, make them hallucinate and make stupid decisions."

"That's not great power. A tab of LSD will do the same thing."

"It's that power that's enabled Tamburlaine to escape capture for so long. But if he's without it now, he's vulnerable. As to how it came into his hands in the first place, nobody knows for sure. There are theories."

"If I say that I don't want to hear them," I ask, "will you still sleep with me tonight?"

"I'll be miffed, but it won't keep me away."

"Let's make a bargain. For the rest of the visit, no more Sartre and no more Tamburlaine. Deal?"

"Deal," she agrees.

"So, you guys are staying at the Peabody, huh?" Alfalfa breaks in. "I've heard that's a pretty sweet berth. How about if I crash with you, just for tonight?"

"No," Ashley says.

"No," I agree, but feel a bit uncharitable saying it.

~ ~ ~

Monday, July 3

After a weekend of ornate comfort at the Peabody, I'm struck by the comparative squalor of the trailer park on Campground Road, and duly apologize to Ashley for the sorry state of my habitation.

"You should see some of the places I've stayed on the road," she reassures me. "You have a toilet. And a roof. This place is a palace."

She ducks down the hall to use the facilities as I uncork the wine we bought on the way out of the city and put a pot of water on to boil for the pasta.

"You even have an altar!" Ashley says, returning from the bathroom. "How fancy."

"A what?"

"An altar Bedroom at the end of the hall."

Sure enough, Leo has set up a makeshift tabernacle out of a Tupperware container, complete with a crucifix and a pair of candles. I have a sense amounting almost to a conviction that the Communion wafer inside it has probably been consecrated, and back away slowly. That host is loaded.

"I'm going to murder him," I promise Ashley. "I'm going to kill him with my bare hands, and then throw his ass out."

"Goodness, I've never seen you angry before. You're kind of sexy when you're mad."

"I specifically told him not to pull any priest shit here. Specifically. Emphatically. He's out, tonight!"

"It's just a little piece of bread," she attempts to reason with me.

"Easy enough for a Protestant to say."

"Simmer down, honey. Have some wine and help me chop the onion."

Flop wakes to the sound of my raised voice, hisses at us, rolls over, farts and is instantly back to sleep. I pour the wine, put _Teaser and the Firecat_ on the stereo, and open the cans of tomato paste we'll use for the sauce.

The smell of sautéed onion, the sound of Cat Stevens' lyrics and the taste of Chianti settle my spirits. As the ground beef browns and the water comes to a boil, Ashley and I slow dance to "The Wind."

She'll be leaving in a few days, off as she always is without notice, and I already miss her. A wild idea enters my head, and I pull her closer to me.

"I should go with you," I say.

"Go with me? Go where with me?"

"Wherever you're going. Out on the road. I've been in Oxford too long. Nothing's going right here."

Ashley reacts to the proposal, and not in a good way. Her muscles tense, her body becomes slightly rigid.

"That's sweet," she says, "but you wouldn't like it out there. It's not the life for you. Besides, you have a job to do, taking care of the Museum. You can't let Dr. Goodleigh down."

She pulls away, returns to the range to stir the ground beef. I'm left standing alone.

"I suppose you're right," I say. "It was just a whim."

I refill our glasses as she lowers the spaghetti in the pot. We stumble through the rest of dinner preparations with awkward comments and asides, but settle down more comfortably together once the food begins to warm our bellies and the wine makes us pleasantly tipsy. By dessert — strawberry shortcake with Cool Whip — we're simply carefree hippie buddies with benefits again.

We're retired to the couch to light a joint when I catch a glimpse through the window of someone padding down the hill in the dark. It's Leo. We hear the sound of feet stepping onto the milk crate by the door. It must be Leo. But the door doesn't open all at once like I expect it to. There's a pause, followed by a muttered "Shit!" and the creak of the milk crate as whoever's out there steps back off it.

"Hmmmm," I manage to say, exchanging a puzzled glance with Ashley.

Suddenly, screams rip the night:

" _Oh-oh-oh, aaaaaaahhhhhh! Aaaaaaaggghhh! Aaaaaaaaggghhh!_ "

I feel goose bumps on my arms, and the hair at the back of my neck stands straight. Ashley turns to me with enormous wide eyes as the screaming goes on and on. Flop skitters across the floor to hide behind the couch, away from this terrible cry of pain, fear, suffering, horror.

We spring to the door, throw it open. The rectangle of light from the doorway illuminates the scene: Leo lies rolling and thrashing in the grass, lifting his left arm to the sky as he screams and screams and screams.

" _Get them off! Oh, god, get them off!_ "

I run to help him, but take an involuntary step back when I see his arm in the light. It's covered by a dozen or so glowing red eyes.

Spiders. Leo is covered in spiders. Big, hairy spiders, piercing his flesh.

"Goddamn! Help him!" the Widow commands.

She's appeared out of nowhere, rushing to the scene. In an instant she's pulled Leo to his feet, grasped his left arm straight from his body, and begun thrashing at the monsters, forcing them to fall back into the grass.

We bring him into the light, inside the trailer, and slam the door behind us. Leo's bleeding from punctures all along his forearm, top and bottom. His face has turned ashen. He's going into shock.

"What were those things?" I ask.

"Wolf spiders," the Widow barks. "He must have been pawing around in the grass and put his hand into a nest of wolf spiders. What in the hell was he doing out there in the dark?"

"Looking for his keys," Ashley says, holding a key ring for us to see. "I found them by the door. He must have dropped them while trying to get in."

"Why didn't he just come in? Open the door and come in?"

"He didn't know we were inside. Poor bastard."

Leo's arm has taken on a greenish hue. He looks dazed, incoherent.

"Baptist Hospital!" the Widow commands. "He needs a doctor. Now!"

The three of us lift him through the door, along the trail and up the hill towards Ashley's van.

~ ~ ~

Tuesday, July 4

Leo is sleeping when we arrive for the hospital's visiting hours, but the nurse assures us he'll recover with a regimen of antihistamines and bed rest. They'll release him after one more night of observation.

The Rebel Buddha, as the only restaurant in town that's open for Independence Day, is doing a brisk business when we stop for a late lunch. The dining room is crowded, but I spot Garrett with Miss Fairchild at a table with two empty places, so we're soon seated.

Garrett and Ashley remember each other from the Halloween party and Deputy Hacker's embarrassing Halloween beer bust.

"I actually felt sorry for the poor man," Ashley recalls. "He seemed so crestfallen."

"There he was with an entire house full of hippie skulls to bash," Garrett agrees, "and all he'd been authorized to do was to check our closets for a keg. But he bounced back, got a new job saving souls and protecting Lafayette County from an invasion by the United Nations."

"I heard him ranting about that on the Square, right after the helicopter flyover," I say. "Didn't seem like anyone was paying him much heed."

"That was several flyovers ago. He's gained believers since then."

"There've been more helicopters?"

"Every other night. The town is getting spooked."

"That's why I'm in town," Miss Fairchild says, "covering the story."

"Claprood can't get any answers from the military. As far as state officials are concerned, Oxford is suffering from a mass hallucination: Nothing happening in our airspace. But people know what they're seeing, and it's making the sheriff look incompetent. It's already a campaign issue. Meanwhile, all sorts of elaborate rumors have started circulating about UN fleets bivouacking by the Yocona."

Garrett's story is interrupted by the sound of raised voices in the kitchen, the clatter of a tray dropping. Tiger ducks through the swinging door and tries to block it shut with his body, but his timing is off. Ho manages to slip through and past him, into the dining room, and darts between tables to elude his grasp.

"Oh, good, the entertainment's arrived," Miss Fairchild remarks.

Ho, now at our table, throws her tiny arms around my neck and hugs me, talking somehow without taking a breath. Thwarted, Tiger returns to the kitchen with a baleful look back at the scene in here.

Ho is talking and talking and talking to me, meanwhile patting my head and pinching my cheeks.

"Is this the woman who's been trying to murder you?" Ashley asks, confused by this display of affection.

"I haven't told you," I say. "I'm now her favorite person. I think she's included me in her will."

Ho is tugging at my arms to draw me out of the chair, takes my hand and begins leading me back to the kitchen. I have no choice but to follow. As we approach the swinging door, she looks back to the table and summons my companions to come along.

We enter the kitchen as a group. It's a blistering hot room filled with stainless steel vats of oil, burners licking blue-green flames, shelves of dishware, bags of rice and other foodstuffs stacked against the wall. Tiger is working at one of the stations, taking over Ho's duties as chef. He screams something at her as we pass through. She screams something back and shakes a fist at him.

We're soon passing through a narrow door in the back to a walled-off patio behind the restaurant, something I'd never guessed was here, decorated with wind chimes and bird feeders. Four battered folding patio chairs surround a small glass-top table in the center.

And sitting upon that table is Ho's famous bong.

"For what we are about to receive," Garrett intones, "may the Lord make us truly grateful."

She gathers us around the table, has us sit, hands me a quarter-sized packet of tin foil containing a nugget of precious hash, fishes a lighter out of her apron, pats my arm, and waves to us, laughing, as she backs into the kitchen to resume her work. Whatever she's saying must roughly translate to "You young folks have a good time now, y'hear?"

Five minutes later, I'm floating fifty feet over the Buddha. This is truly the best shit I've ever smoked. My friends are laughing over something about Garrett's saying about his mysterious bus. Ashley is cracking up. Tears of hilarity are streaming down Miss Fairchild's cheeks. I pick up on the tail end of their conversation.

"You!" Ashley is saying. "That was _you_? Oh, my god, I never made that connection. You! The bus! The contest in St. Louis! You're a _legend_!"

"I don't like to brag," Garrett answers, "but yes . . . yes I am."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Ashley demands of me.

I'm at a loss to know what to answer, since I have not the slightest idea what they're talking about.

"He didn't know," Garrett tells her. "Nobody around here knows, just James and Andrew because they were there the night of the contest."

Ashley erupts into another spasm of uncontrollable laughter, leaving me to gape and wonder what in the hell is so funny.

"Have you seen it?" Ashley finally manages to ask Miss Fairchild, the words coming out as individual gasps of air between giggles.

Miss Fairchild covers her face with her hands, curls into a fetal position in her chair, rocks back and forth in hilarity.

"What," I demand of Garrett, "are you all talking about?"

"I suppose you'd find out eventually anyway," he says. "It's about the bus, how I won it when we were on the road over Christmas break."

"He . . . ," Ashley tries to interject. "He . . . . He won . . . ." But she can't go on.

"It was what you might call," Garrett finally says, "a sexual competition. A $50 entrance fee, and a panel of five lady judges to award the prize for the best one."

"The best what?" I wonder.

Ashley and Miss Fairchild shriek with laughter over my question.

"Member," Garrett says. "It was a beauty contest."

I still don't comprehend, so Garrett has to spell it out for me: "For dicks, stupid."

~ ~ ~

Wednesday, July 5

"Well, of course I knew about Garrett and the bus," Dottie says. "Andrew eventually had to tell Cindy, and Cindy told me about that contest."

Ashley and I are at the Nickelodeon. Alice Cooper's new album is on the shop stereo, playing "Public Animal #9."

"Why didn't anyone tell me?"

"I suppose we thought you might have been judgmental."

"Well, you have to admit that a cock contest for prize winnings is a wee bit vulgar."

"Nonsense. Andrew says the girls who put that contest together earned $600 on a bus they probably couldn't have sold for more than $150. Everybody had a good time, nobody was hurt. So how's that one bit more vulgar than titty contests like Miss America? Men always treat us like objects, so turnaround's fair play, I say. You obviously don't follow the news very close. There's a thing called Women's Liberation going on. And I'll bet that girl's on the front lines," Dottie adds, nodding toward Ashley, who's flipping through a rack of old Dylan albums.

I start walking down the narrow aisle to ask whether she's found anything she wants, just as the one-eyed Handsome Poet strolls into the shop. I see Ashley's face blossom as she spots him.

The Handsome Poet flashes his handsomely poetic smile as he passes her, tilting his head slightly to the side as if to conceal the patch over his eye. As he nods to me and begins to pass, I greet him with "Good morning, Professor Poole."

He stops, surprised, and takes a closer look at me. "I know you, don't I?"

"Daniel Medway. We met at the Southern Literary Festival in 1970."

He snaps his fingers in recollection. "Yes. You were the kid who tore your award into pieces during an argument at some bar. Harold Evans and I tried to stop you."

Ashley approaches, magnetically drawn into the vortex of the Handsome Poet's charm. I make the introductions. "Professor Poole, may I introduce my friend Ashley. Ashley, this is Nathan Poole, the literary prodigy of Pontotoc, Mississippi, now writer in residence at Duke."

"On break, actually," he says. "Here to visit my alma mater

"Oh ho!" Dottie says, after Poole has left the shop. "So he's back."

"The Handsome Poet," I agree. "The stuff of legends."

"A heartbreaker, for sure. Rumor had it that Jane Goodleigh, for one, was wild about him."

"And he about her, if reports are true. A tragic tale," I add to Ashley, in reply to her curious look, "about star-crossed lovers, madness, and loss."

~ ~ ~

Thursday, July 6

Ashley and I share a parting kiss by the trailer door. She promises to return in fall, slips out and climbs the hill to her car without a backward glance.

The Widow is smoking a cigarette and balancing a cup of coffee on the arm of her lawn chair as I emerge a half hour later, showered and ready for work. "Fresh brewed," she offers. "None of that Tasters Choice shit you boys seem to like."

I accept the invitation. We drink in silence for a bit, watching the morning fog burn off the rutted cliffs of kudzu in the ravine.

"That priest still living with you?" she asks at last.

"Still there."

"I thought you were going to kick his ordained ass out."

"I seriously considered that option, but decided against it."

"Why?"

"Two reasons. No, three. First, it's not really my trailer anymore, is it? Nobody's paid rent since the Duck left. I lack the moral authority to order him to leave. Second, he's stolen some really fine liquor from his monastery. You should drop in some night for a glass of single malt Scotch."

"I'll do that."

"Third, his crusade to exorcise Raven Bright's demons has not only diverted their attention from persecuting me, but has also turned into an endless source of diversion. Last night, for example, they took the form of a cloud of stinging flies that chased him all around the trailer. He finally took shelter under the kitchen table, praying at them from his breviary."

"A man with any sense would just leave them be," the Widow grouses. "Hell, a man with any sense would know better than to go pawing around bare-handed, at night, in tall grass during high summer in Mississippi. He was lucky not to run into something worse than wolf spiders that night. He might have wound up tangling with a raccoon or a copperhead, some critter that would do him serious harm."

"He's convinced they were Satan's attempt to scare him away."

"It's worse than I thought," she said. "He doesn't just lack common sense. He's downright self-destructive." She puffs a final plume of smoke out through her nose and crushes the butt of her cigarette decisively into the dirt. "Good thing he's a priest. Otherwise I'd have to fall in love and marry him, just so he can find some stupid way to die."

~ ~ ~

Friday, July 7

"Medway!" Dr. Stevens hails from his office as I start to unlock the Museum. He has a note for me. "From a very pretty woman," he adds. "I can't imagine what business she might have with a filthy reprobate like you."

It's from Mrs. Foster, the den mother. She wishes me to drop by for a visit at my convenience. Her house is on North Lamar, one of the fancy ones. She's usually at home, the note adds, and receiving between 4 and 6 every afternoon.

"She probably wants to have me arrested for contributing to the delinquency of six minors."

Dr. Stevens makes the connection. "The Cub Scout lady? Good. I hope you serve jail time."

I'm at my little table reading Herodotus when the day's first and only visitor to the Museum stops by. It's Nathan Poole, looking handsome as ever. "You again," he exclaims, surprised by our second encounter.

"I'm Dr. Goodleigh's graduate assistant now," I say.

"Well, I spoke to a lovely young woman at Jane's house who told me you'd know when to expect her back in town."

"Joan. She's baby-sitting the cats."

I share the itinerary Dr. Goodleigh left for me, which shows a return date of August 20 or 21.

"Damn, I'll be gone by then," he says and wanders about the room to survey the display cases, stopping at the bust of Alexander, Dr. Goodleigh's favorite piece. "Tell me, does Jane still pretend to run her fingers through his hair during her tours?"

"She does," I say. "Still drives the undergraduate boys crazy. Still gets to me, too, for that matter."

He smiles at that. "I envy you, getting to see her on a daily basis. These are days you'll look back on, once you're older and far away from Ole Miss. Enjoy them while you can."

"I envy your success," I reply. "I think your latest volume is your best work in years."

"The reviewers don't think so," he says. "In their eyes, I've never lived up to my early promise of _Under the Yellow Arch_. One of the drawbacks of early success is that you spend the rest of your career competing with a younger version of yourself."

"You were only 21 when it came out?"

"I was 20," he says. "One month shy of my 21st birthday, and only a few weeks after being released from the sanatorium. I'd suffered a breakdown, you know."

Our conversation turns to poetry. When he asks (as I feared he would) about my own writing, I report my now two-year-long dry spell.

"A shock to the system is what you need," he advises. "An emotional crisis. Nothing else like it to jump-start the muse. I think that's why I keep returning here summer after summer, searching for a repetition of events that produced all those early poems." His mind seems to wander off for a moment. "Are you coming to Harold's cocktail party tomorrow evening?" he asks, interrupting his own reverie.

"I haven't seen Dr. Evans in weeks."

"I'm sure he'd want you to be there. A lot of students are invited. Come as my guest. We can talk some more."

I pass the rest of the day in isolation, and close the Museum at 4:00. It occurs to me, on my way to North Lamar, that Mrs. Foster deserves some token of apology for last week's misunderstanding, so I stop at the florist on Jackson Avenue, and ask what kind of flower is good for an expression of sincere repentance. The clerk sells me the biggest calla lily I've ever seen — honestly, the stem must be a yard long — wrapped in pink tissue paper.

As I cross Mrs. Foster's lawn to approach her door, pedestrians on the sidewalk stop to watch me. Several cars even slow down to take in the sight of me, this scarecrow hippie carrying a giant flower to the front porch of a mansion whose owners, if they have any sense of self-preservation, should probably be calling the sheriff's office at this very moment.

Mrs. Foster herself answers the bell (I was expecting a maid) and seems surprised by the horticultural monstrosity I've brought. It looks like a broom that's undergone some kind of unnatural, hideous metamorphosis. For a moment, I'm uncertain whether I should present it to her or cast it off the porch.

"My goodness," she says, "that's the largest lily I've ever seen."

"Well, I am really sorry about what the boys saw. I hope you didn't get in any trouble."

"Oh, that's all forgiven and forgotten," she says. "You look thirsty. Would you like to have a glass of ice tea with me in the garden?"

So it is I find myself sipping ice tea in the formal back garden belonging to a fine Christian lady in one of the biggest and oldest houses in Oxford.

"I'm the one who should be saying how sorry I am," she counters when I attempt another apology. "It was a perfectly honest mistake, and I had no cause to get upset. The matter was that this was my first time to take the boys on an outing on my own. I have so little to occupy myself with, you know, so I thought volunteering would help me feel more useful. I did so want to impress the other ladies."

"And an aroused satyr didn't really fit into the plan," I say.

Mrs. Foster blushes a bit. "Luckily, Eve Sutherland smoothed everything over by telling them all manner of stories about _your_ past exploits. You've earned quite a reputation, haven't you, getting arrested for carrying harpoons, wearing Mickey Mouse ears to the ROTC parade, suing the Lyceum. You _are_ a caution."

"That's one of the more polite things I've been called."

"That's not why I asked you to stop by, though," she says.

"It isn't?"

"No, indeed. No, Eve told me something else about you: that you're the best interior painter in town."

"Mrs. Sutherland's very kind."

"Be that as it may," Mrs. Foster says, "I have a job for you, if you're available. I'm redecorating the music room and would like for you to do my walls and woodwork. Would you like to see the room?"

Mrs. Foster's music room is grand, elegant, a professional challenge on every level. I accept the job.

~ ~ ~

Saturday, July 8

Dr. Evans' house is mobbed with guests. I haven't seen him, or Mrs. Giordano, or the Handsome Poet, but I do spot Dr. Sutherland and Mrs. Sutherland in the kitchen. I don't know whether they arrived together, but they're together now.

I begin to wade my way toward them through eddies and cross-currents of snatched fragments of conversations.

". . . It's so hard to get in, though . . . ."

". . . fifty years old and still have all my own teeth . . . ."

"So, I told him right away to stop teaching German to my dog."

". . . helicopters. Fleets of helicopter landing down at the Slaughter site . . . ."

"... But then, when I opened her freezer door, I found a dead cat in there, all wrapped in tin foil."

"The correct way to pick up chicks is under their armpits. And remember to bend with your knees, not with your back."

"Three things I've never understood: gasoline, water tables, and arithmetic."

". . . if it hadn't been for that Barbie Dream House, I might never have been awarded the research grant."

"Leanna Foster is such a dear woman," Mrs. Sutherland says when I finally reach her side to express thanks for her recommendation of my painting talents. "Only 32 years old, already widowed a full year. Bill, you remember Leanna, don't you? Roger Foster's wife, the businessman who died during that golf tournament in Memphis."

"Roger Foster died in a whorehouse," Dr. Sutherland says.

"I heard it was a golf tournament."

"I haven't played golf in a few years, but I don't recall any courses that have a 15th hole in a Memphis cathouse. Still, I'm glad Medway has decided to become a painter instead of a Greek scholar."

"I believe I can do both," I say.

"Then you'll need lots more of that," Dr. Sutherland says, indicating the dwindling and diluted level of Jim Beam in the glass I'm holding.

I see the wisdom of his advice and begin making my way through the crowd back to the bar, stumbling into Claire in the doorway to Dr. Evans' study. Literally stumbling. She takes my arm and helps me stand again. I find myself trapped in a corner with a crowd of Art majors and Theatre majors. Everyone seems out of focus and surrounded in a weird haze. They're debating set designs for this summer's production.

"They're doing Giraudoux," Claire tells me.

"Which one?" I ask.

" _Ondine_. Your friend Paul Walker is playing Hans. Have you talked to Joan lately? I saw her a few days ago on the Square, she said she's looking for you — some kind of news you'd be interested in hearing."

"I should probably drop by Goodleigh's to see how she's faring with the cats."

I press on toward the bar, but find myself on Dr. Evans' front porch instead.

I'm alone out here. The neighborhood is dark. Past the silhouettes of oaks surrounding the place, a spattering of stars hang suspended above a gable of the house across the street, in the awe-full solemnity of the night. I don't know the name of a single one of them. That's okay. They don't know mine, either. I discover an ineffable joy in being anonymous.

I take the steps to the front walk, follow the walkway to the sidewalk and the sidewalk to dark tunnels of oak branches groaning with cicada song, to stretches of shadow interrupted by the feeble glow of arc lamps high above the level of the street, circled by clouds of insects and the blink-fast transit of a solitary bat eating its fill for the night.

My feet find their way to University Avenue, past the church and the Education Building, over the bridge, past Ventress and on to the Grove, where I find the Ranger sitting cross-legged in a pool of light spilling out from the Alumni House hotel.

He's surrounded by a bunch of sleeping rabbits. The Ranger is writing in a thick leather-bound book. Citizen lies at his feet, and welcomes me with three beats of his tail across the ground.

I study the man in the light. He returns my gaze, frankly, and studies me in turn. I've always known that I've seen him before, seen that face – not in the flesh, not before this past spring, but in a picture from a book someone gave me when I was just a boy. A portrait. Not even a photograph, but a crude woodprint from some 19th-century magazine like _The Atlantic_.

My mouth opens, my tongue curls around his name. I'm about to speak it, to pronounce it, but when I try to, all that comes out is a puff of silent air.

The Ranger is finally the one who breaks this silence, with a voice low, almost in a whisper, and eyes filled with shrewd knowledge.

"You're asleep, boy," he says.

I realize that he's correct. I _am_ asleep. I can't even tell how long I've been asleep, when or where it happened. Maybe when I collapsed beside Claire at the party. Maybe I'd passed out.

"Go find a tree to lie under," the Ranger advises, kindly. "It's a beautiful night. No harm can come to you here."

~ ~ ~

Sunday, July 9

I wake in a strange room, on a cot, an old-fashioned buttoned mattress against my back, no sheet, no pillow. Aching head.

I rise, slowly, to a sitting position. I blink to clear the blur of my eyes, peering at my surroundings through a miasma of bleared eyesight. I have no idea where I am. My confusion reminds me of the opening title sequence of _The Prisoner_ television series, poor old Number 6 waking on his first morning in the Village, peeping out the window shade onto a strange new world.

I don't have a window, much less a shade. I have bars instead. A narrow cell, maybe 7' long and no more than 4' wide, room enough for a cot. Beyond the cell, an office: a desk, a couple of wooden chairs and filing cabinets, framed photos, a telephone. Sheriff Claprood's office.

The holding cell. I'm in the Lafayette County jail, the sheriff's holding cell.

Not locked in, though. The door to the cell is slightly ajar, and swings welcomingly to free me when I give it a tentative push. The outer office is empty, except for the dispatcher at her station. She signals me to take a seat in one of the chairs, jimmies a cable into an outlet and speaks into her headset.

"Sheriff? It's awake. You asked me to call you."

I can hear church bells tolling the end of their morning services as Sheriff Claprood enters through the side doorway a little later. He's carrying three paper cups of coffee in a little cardboard tray. He offers one to the dispatcher, keeps one for himself, and proffers the third to me, with a nod toward his office. Time for a private conversation.

"Remember anything about last night?" he asks.

I shake my head, no.

"You were 50' up on the ladder to the water tower. Had a hell of a time talking you back down."

"Not possible. I have a paralyzing fear of heights," I say.

"I can't keep rescuing your scrawny ass. I thought you were getting some psychiatric help."

"Dr. Valencia just wants to keep addressing my Oedipal issues."

"Fuck that," Claprood says. "The man needs to step up your treatment, as a matter of public safety. Between the helicopters and the special election, I've got more than enough on my plate."

"Garrett tells me the campaign isn't going well," I hazard.

"I'm behind," he admits. "My efforts to get beer legalized have run afoul of the influential citizen groups that are profiteering while keeping the county dry. The smart contributors are backing Lott. Without some kind of August surprise to turn the tide, I'll be voted out of office. Then you hippies will be on your own."

"Maybe the United Nations really _will_ invade," I offer. "You could declare martial law, suspend all elections, collaborate with your socialist overlords, and rule Oxford with an iron fist."

"Long as we're indulging in fantasies, maybe I could find Tamburlaine. That would be a game-changer. Only difficulty with that is, Tamburlaine's not the real enemy here. His getting caught is one of the worst things that could happen." Claprood takes a final gulp of coffee, crushes the cup and tosses it into a trash can. "You're free to go, by the way. Where's your car?"

"Eighth Avenue," I say, "a block from Dr. Evans' house."

"I'll give you a lift."

We're almost out the door together when an idea hits me. The churches are letting out. The sidewalk is crowded with ranks of the faithful. taking a summer morning stroll home for fried chicken and coleslaw.

"Cuff me," I say.

Claprood takes my meaning. "You wouldn't mind?"

"I insist."

"Hurry up now! Move, boy!" Claprood shouts at me a minute later as he leads me down the sidewalk to his squad car, me dancing ahead of him, head bowed in fear and disgrace as I'm paraded before the godly citizens doing my perp walk.

"Stop! Right there! Back door, back door! Damn hippie," he barks as we draw parallel to the vehicle. He shoves me aside, then nearly knocks me over with the door, grabs my hair and forces me face-first into the rear of the car.

I raise a wail of protest, as if he's really hurting me.

"Watch your head, idiot!" he yells in reply. He kicks at my feet until I've pulled them inside after me. He slams the door, turns to a crowd of gawkers in their Sunday best, and touches the bill of his hat in salute. "Beautiful day," he says to the crowd, "or at least it will be, once I clear the trash from the street."

They respond with a volley of applause that follows us as the car pulls away. A filthy hippie's been busted. The town is safe.

"That ought to be good for a few dozen votes," I say as we proceed down South Lamar.

"That," Claprood says, "was a tactic worthy of Garrett himself. My compliments, boy."

~ ~ ~

Monday, July 10

"They're back!" Dr. Stevens announces. He's standing in the open door of the Museum, sporting a goofy grin.

"Who's back?" I ask.

"Take a look," he answers, gesturing toward the window.

I do, and count eight school buses parked outside on the quad in front of Bondurant, with at least a dozen teenage girls filing out of each one. My heart sinks. This is the start of Cheerleader Camp, commencing as in summers past on the Monday following Independence Day. I'd forgotten this annual exercise in Ole Miss madness.

"The IQ of the entire campus just dropped 50 points," Dr. Stevens remarks before returning to his own office "But they _are_ pretty to look at."

I hear him lock his door and descend the stairs a little later, probably to get out and mingle with the pretty young things.

The mail arrives at 11:30, a bundle strapped together with a thick rubber band, containing a new letter from Becky.

" _Dear One_ ,

" _Spiders and pirates and UN helicopters! Oh, my! It's gratifying to learn that Oxford remains weird as ever. I can't wait to get back in the fall._

" _The only news down here is an invasion of gigantic, disgusting birds that have descended on the town. And I do mean disgusting. They appear to be a cross between a turkey vulture and an actual turkey, about the size of one, but with tremendous wingspans and odious habits of perching in the trees around the manicured lawns of our most illustrious citizens, where they spend the day not only crapping amazing quantities of shit, but also puking great chunks of semi-digested food, including corpses of mice and shrews and even baby rabbits._

" _No one knows what they are or where they've come from. The state ornithologist (did you know Mississippi has its own official ornithologist?) came down all the way from Jackson, and admitted to not having the vaguest idea what they are._

" _Another sign of End Times, I suppose – and, honestly, end times cannot arrive soon enough to suit me! If I have to spend another week down here, I fear for my sanity. All that keeps me going are letters from friends. I heard from Claire, by the way, and she's given me a full report on the trip to North Carolina to visit your friend (an episode that, for your own unfathomable reasons, you neglected even to mention in your letter)._

" _Anyway, I mention it only because Claire reports that your friend kept pestering you during the entire visit to put some tragic lost love behind you. I didn't know you had a tragic lost love! How fascinating. Next time we're together, I'll insist on hearing all the sordid details. One point I have been able to deduce from Claire's sketchy report, though, is that the foolish girl's decision to throw you over apparently coincided with the start of your writers block. Coincidence? Hardly. Which makes your recovery from this broken heart all the more necessary. Once you're over her, you'll start writing poetry again._

" _Speaking of which: Nathan Poole. He's wonderful! As soon as you mentioned him in your letter, I immediately drove mommy's Jag to the public library and was amazed to discover a copy of_ Under the Yellow Arch _, in the shelves. I love the raggedy line structure and the irregular stanzas that, at first reading, completely disguise the strict, regular metrics. Honestly, I'd gone through "The Changeling" (my favorite of the book) three times before realizing it was a sonnet! Sure doesn't look like a sonnet . . . but it is._

" _I've placed an order for_ Amphibians and Tribulations _at the local bookstore. The clerk assures me that my copy should arrive sometime close to the crack of doom. So I suppose I'll have to wait till my return in fall for that, too. Could you possibly buy a copy for me from the campus bookstore (I'll pay you back), and have him autograph it for me? Wish I could meet him. I feel like I'm missing out on so much, stuck down here – handsome poets, elections, demonic trailer possessions. I especially miss Claire. We've exchanged quite a few letters already. Has she told you about her modeling? It seems that one of the new faculty has discovered her, insists on using her as the live model for all his classes, and is paying her well to pose for a series he's been commissioned to complete._

" _As for myself, I fear my own unique blend of charm is being wasted on the desert air down here. Mother keeps introducing me to vacuous local boys who spend their days playing golf and investing in the stock market. I had an especially repellent date with a boy named Don (and why are the most boring boys always named "Don"?) for the Daughters of the Confederacy Independence Day Soiree, which turned out to be nothing more than another campaign fundraiser for Senator Eastland, a room filled with fat cats and their fat wives pumped to offer bribes and ask for favors when he gets re-elected. The entire evening turned my stomach._

" _But then there was a surprise. Your FATHER was there! I thought I'd spotted him when Don and I first entered the ballroom, but I didn't see him afterward. Just when I'd convinced myself it had all been in my imagination, we were standing face-to-face on the mezzanine, and Donald was introducing me to him._

" _Imagine my surprise. Honestly, you two don't bear even a passing resemblance to each other! Well, naturally I mentioned – by way of small talk – that you and I are friends. I think I said something like, "I know your son up at Ole Miss." Something really innocent. But he drew back like I was a snake that had just bit him! And for just a second – just a fleeting second – there was a look of such pure malice on his face that I was sure he was going to strike me. Nobody else noticed, though, and a second later it was gone._

" _Then the oddest thing: he gave me a blank look like he didn't understand what I was saying, like he'd never heard of you, didn't even know he was supposed to have a son. Then he said, 'I beg your pardon, miss, but you must be mistaken.' And with that, he turned and melted into the crowd (which must have been a very difficult thing for a man that fat to do)._

" _Somehow, I feel I did something wrong. But I can't imagine what it might be. If you have any insights that might help me understand the exchange, please share them next time you write. Take care, and don't forget about Mr. Poole's book and autograph!"_

~ ~ ~

Tuesday, July 11

Dr. Valencia begins our session with an impatient aside: "I hope you realize that my making an appointment for you today was a major favor. The Cheerleading Camp is my busiest week of the year, even worse than Christmas. All the neurotics on campus are clamoring to see me."

This bit of information gives me pause. I, like most everyone else on campus, have spent the past 24 hours dodging teenage girls performing somersaults in the middle of sidewalks, avoiding perilous towers of girls stacked one-upon-another's shoulders (sometimes three-, four-, or five-girls tall), being struck in the head by wayward batons twirling out of inexperienced hands at 60 revolutions per second, being goosed by the tips of errant flagpoles and toy wooden rifles, or taking pompons to the chin, chest or gut while trying to maneuver around a group of hormonally supercharged girls brimming with team spirit.

But I wonder why the perils of being on the Ole Miss campus this particular week would trigger emotional problems. So I ask, "Why's that? Do you mean students?"

"Hell, no," Valencia snaps. "Not students. Faculty. Lots of administrative staff as well. Just since noon yesterday I've had five full professors, one dean, three chairs and a vice president of academic affairs sitting right where you are this very moment, moaning and blubbering and begging me to prescribe them medication. Damn cheerleading camp!"

"I don't understand. Cheerleaders trigger some negative emotional response, some traumatic reaction?"

"Of course they do. Are you dense?"

"Do you mean," I hazard, "like the reaction some people have to circus clowns, a phobia to cheerleaders?"

Valencia gives me a look. I'm really pissing him off today.

"Well that's just the stupidest thing I've ever heard. Why would anyone experience a phobic reaction to cheerleaders?"

"But you said . . . ."

"Do I really have to spell it out for you, Medway? Are we really going to waste your session going over this? All right. Have it your way. Let me ask a simple question: did you enjoy your high school years?"

"It's true that I did not."

"Very well. Did you enjoy your college years?"

"More than anything. That's why I'm back, so I can remain a college student forever."

"Did you know anyone in your miserable hometown who enjoyed being in high school?"

"Quite a few, yes."

"How did they fare in college?"

"They all flunked out," I answer, starting to discern a pattern.

"American society is divided," he says, "fundamentally, into two stark divisions: those who enjoyed high school, and those who enjoyed college. The latter group, of which you are a member, tend to seek academic settings where they become teachers, scholars, administrators and alcoholics. The former group is more than delighted to return to their hopeless little towns of origin – Dog Ass, Alabama, or wherever they hail from – to settle into meaningless jobs, attend Friday night football games and class reunions, breed, and produce a new generation of football players and cheerleaders. These two segments of the population self-segregate, you see, and thus remain blissfully ignorant of the other's existence except for the occasional rip in the social fabric when they are unexpectedly brought face-to-face."

"The cheerleading camp," I say, finally grasping the thread of his argument.

"A full 85% of any American university's faculty and staff is composed of people who were adolescent pariahs. Your intellectuals, your physical cowards, your clinical introverts, your pantywaists, the high school students who didn't know how to talk to girls or dance or hold a cigarette correctly. At Ole Miss, I suspect the concentration is even higher, as much as 93%. They're all huddled together here, all the teenage rejects who imagined they've forged a new life and a new identity for themselves on the college campus. But then, the second week of each July, they're confronted with nubile, double-jointed avatars of their traumatic adolescence, and they all wind up here in my office." He huffs at me, cross. "Which is why I don't have time to explain this to you. So let's find out what you need so I can get rid of you."

"I've been walking in my sleep again, and apparently put my life in jeopardy Saturday."

Valencia snaps his finger. "Right! So that explains this odd message I received from the sheriff's office regarding you." He lifts a phone memo written by his receptionist, reads it, gives me another look. "The sheriff seems to be quite concerned for you. That's an odd alliance, I must say. Seems like you two ought to be bitter enemies. Well, what of it? What do you expect me to do? And please don't make another feeble plea to be put on the Russian machine. You're not ready for it yet."

"I wasn't going to ask for that."

"You weren't?" Valencia asks. I seem to have surprised him with my response.

"No, sir. I don't think the machine would do me any good. In fact, I've been hearing about the side-effects some of its patients have experienced. No, I don't want it."

He leans back in his swivel chair, regards me thoughtfully, places the fingertips of his two hands together into a steeple, stares out into space, seems to communicate with some invisible advisor, then turns back to me with a smile. "Excellent! I'll schedule your first session for the end of the week. Check with my receptionist tomorrow for the details." He rises to signal that our session is over. "I feel we've made real progress today."

"You're putting me on the machine? I told you I don't want it now."

"Which is what I've been waiting four months to hear! As long as you wanted it, you weren't ready for it. Don't you see?"

"No, sir."

"Splendid! Splendid! Good day to you, Medway."

~ ~ ~

Wednesday, July 12

The weather reports out of Memphis have posted tornado warnings for this afternoon, and the storm front lowering over Oxford has turned a shade of rusty tin that should scare the shit out of anyone who hasn't grown up in tornado alley.

But the sky, ugly and boiling though it may be, is not quite the right shade for an imminent catastrophe, so late afternoon life in the Grove proceeds, heedless of the weird tangerine-tinged half light that shimmers about the trees. The cheerleaders are out practicing — several regiments of them marching about like troops on parade. Each formation follows a banner with some kind of symbolic emblem. From time to time they halt and perform a manual of arms with toy wooden rifles.

A half dozen or so Asian foreign-exchange students, probably on their way to a lab in Hume Hall, pause to watch.

"Warn your families back home," Garrett calls to them from the steps of the wooden stage, "that Americans are insane! They're planning to invade your country using gunboats filled with teenage girls!"

The exchange students turn to look at us. One shoots us the bird before they move on. Garrett cackles with delight, and returns his attention to the cheerleaders. "Endless entertainment. Oxford is one endless entertainment. Who knows what will happen next?"

Garrett is hanging out with four undergraduate guys, all I'm given to understand now residing in the Tyler Avenue commune. When I ask what they're doing out here in the Grove, Garrett just says, "Waiting." So I decide to wait as well, and find out what the wait is all about.

The sky is turning darker, no longer a fruity shade of orange but more like a misshapen bruised gourd. Wind gusts of maybe 35 or 40 miles per hour roil through, catching at the tops of the oak trees and tugging them eastward until they're twisted at dangerous angles. A few cheerleaders are blown over by the force of the winds, but rise bravely and continue to march with their comrades.

It's a stirring sight, in its ways: the wind, the girls, the banners, the sky, the clouds ugly and angry with summer turbulence. In any other part of the country, people would wisely be racing for shelter by this point — a cellar if one's available, or a bathtub with a mattress over your body if that's all you have. But seasoned southerners know that weather like this is meaningless. Tornadoes don't give warnings down here. They spring on you instead, catch you unaware. Nothing's going to happen, we tell ourselves. And sure enough, within a few minutes the wind has abated, the clouds have parted and the sunlight has returned.

All at once, the Tyler Avenue boys begin to stir. Whatever they've been waiting for is now imminent. "Here she comes," one of them whispers, urgent.

"You're waiting for a girl?" I ask Garrett.

"Not just _any_ girl," he says.

It's Claire. They're waiting for Claire.

And as soon as they spot her approaching on the sidewalk with a heavy canvas bag stuffed with art supplies over her shoulder, Garrett's three companions focus on one of their members. "Okay, Harley, time to make your move."

"Go on, man — sweep her off her feet."

"Do it, man, do it. Go, go, go!"

Harley is a lanky redheaded boy with a long face, a splay of freckles and a goofy grin. He's wearing the rattiest pair of jeans I think I've ever seen — it's a wonder that they hold together as he crosses the lawn to intercept Claire — and a t-shirt with the cover from the Grateful Dead's _Aoxomoxoa_ album on the back.

By the time he reaches her, they're too far away for us to hear their conversation, but the boys supply the dialogue as Harley reaches her. Harley is voiced in an aww-shucks hillbilly twang, while Claire's is a high, wavering falsetto.

"Evening, Miss Claire," Harley says. "Gosh, you're looking awful pretty!"

"You're looking pretty awful yourself, big boy, all dressed up in your formal t-shirt. Does your mother know you've left the house without your helmet on?"

"I'm just setting snares, to catch me a squirrel for supper. If I get one, would you like to share it with me?"

"Lawd, no thank you, I've just et an entire bag of Vick's cough drops. But I wouldn't say no to some dandelion greens, if you had any."

"We could mosey down to the crick to look. Maybe even find some water cress. We could make sammuches."

From their gestures, I can interpret that Harley is offering to relieve Claire of her heavy canvas bag. Eventually, she hands it over to him, though she seems reluctant. They begin walking together toward Fulton Chapel, where Claire must be working this evening on the set design for the play.

"Gentlemen," Garrett announces, "I believe he's made an inroad to Clamor's heart. Our little boy is growing up. I expect to see him pedaling his two-wheeler down Jackson Avenue any day now."

"What's going on?" I ask.

"Cupid's arrow is squarely stuck up Harley's butt. He's smitten with Clamor, but he's scared that she's much too sophisticated for him." Garrett cackles again. "What fools these mortals be. Freshly cured lid of Rebel Red back at the house," he offers. "First crop of the season."

"Another night."

"You haven't been to Dr. Goodleigh's house lately, have you?" he asks.

"No."

"You should drop by."

"Why?"

"You just should." Garrett pauses, seeming to be undecided whether to say anything more. But just as he opens his mouth, a fleet of helicopters swoops overhead, no more than twenty feet above the tree tops. Whatever it is he might have said is drowned out by the thunder of their rotors.

~ ~ ~

Thursday, July 13

I've just returned from town, parked my car by the side of Campground Road, and started down the hill when I'm intercepted by the thug's assistant, my old Latin Club buddy. He looks nervous.

"The boss asked me to talk to you, wants to know what the hell is going on in your trailer."

"Demons," I say. "Our trailer is infested with demons. It should come as no surprise to anyone that rural Lafayette County contains one of the seven terrestrial portals to the infernal regions. I expect to see Dante Alighieri wandering through any day now."

"Who's that?"

"An Italian poet."

"I don't think the boss wants any Italians hanging around."

Inside, Brother Leopold has the windows open to a black churning sky that's casting a grayish pall onto the ravine, where the kudzu itself seems to be alive with insidious motion. There must be a tornado striking someplace, but it isn't striking here.

Leo sits at the kitchen table, absorbed in another demonology text. I don't know where he's finding them, or when he leaves the trailer to fetch them, but a new one seems to appear every couple of days. I'm relieved to see that the bottle of Macallan Scotch is still mostly full, seemingly untouched from last evening. So I grab a glass from the cupboard and pour two fingers for myself.

"So, who's tonight's candidate for our chief demon of Campground Road?" I ask.

"Nergal, I think. He's a henchman of Beelzebub," Leo replies. "But I'm not positive."

"Well, whoever it is, I hope he's hungry," I say, reaching into the back of the cupboard for the can of Libby's corn beef hash that Blake left behind.

I hold the can up for Leo to see and make it do a little dance in the air. "What do you say, Nergal?" I ask the empty air.

" _When it says Libby's Libby's Libby's_

On the label label label

You will like it like it like it

On your table table table."

"Don't make fun of him," Leo warns. "You'll only make matters worse."

I'm fishing a sauce pan out from a lower cabinet. "Oh, come now. You really expect me to be afraid of a demon named Nergal? _Nergal_? That's a wimp demon's name. I'll bet all the other demons give Nergal weggies and wet-willies, and make him cry."

The can opener's in the silverware drawer. As I puncture the seal on the can, the kitchen fills with the aroma of canned meat and seasonings. Flop wakes up, makes an effort to stand and waddle across the room to beg for a taste, but she stops after moving less than a yard, too lazy to continue.

"If you want to be a scary demon," I say, "you need a scary name. Astromalodorous. Cacaprefectus. Labiodentalfricative." I'm spooning the cold hash into the pan. "Those are names that strike fear in the heart. Poor Nergal's parents – do demons have parents? – should have consulted me before giving their kid such a pissy little name."

The pan is on the stove. I light the burner with a wooden match. I'm hungry tonight, hungrier than I can remember being in a long time. I want to do something special with my hash, turn it into a belly-busting feast. Inspiration strikes. I fetch an egg from the fridge and Blake's old Teflon frying pan from the cupboard, set them both on the table.

"You really ought to leave such matters to learned men," Leo advises.

"I know how to fry an egg," I say.

"I meant coping with demons. In fact, I've called in an expert."

"Well I can only hope," I say, returning my attention to stirring the sauce pan, "that your expert isn't going to try telling me there's a demon named Nergal lurking around Campground Road. No, sir. No Nergals here. This is good old boy country, and our demons have good old boy names. Our demons are named Otis and Hoyt and Jed. They're named Luster and Opie. They're named Euel and Zeke and Purvis and Royal."

The egg that I left on the table is suddenly airborne. It sails past my head and shatters against the wall over the range, liquid egg white and yoke splattering everywhere. I wheel about to confront Leo, who is still sitting behind his books. If he had moved, he must have done so fast as lightning.

I decide to accuse him anyway. "You threw that," I say.

He gives me a look of saintly patience and condescension. "Nergal threw it. I keep telling you: I'm the only barrier between everyone at this camp and an unspeakable evil."

"Unspeakable evil? Nergal just threw an egg at me. An egg! Do you grasp the significance of that? Unspeakable evil just threw a goddamn egg at me. I've been living with old Nergal for months, and the worst he's ever done has been to annoy me. Not as much as you annoy me, though . . . _Father_."

"I'm not a father. I'm a brother. There's a difference."

"Not in my book."

~ ~ ~

Friday, July 14

I hate Guyton Hall. I hate its exterior. I hate its interior. I hate its hallways and offices and classrooms and elevators and restrooms. Everything about the place reminds me of the two years of ROTC the university forced me to take when I was a freshman and a sophomore. The ROTC department was housed here. Every Tuesday, I had to report to this place for rifle-cleaning, and every Thursday for drills.

Guyton Hall's only redeeming feature is the Ole Miss infirmary on its top floor, where a lackadaisical medical staff freely dispenses some of the sweetest drugs in the wonderful world of pharmaceuticals.

So here I am in the infirmary waiting room, waiting. Nurse Breyman, who doesn't seem to recognize me despite the countless times she's taken my temperature and blood pressure over the past six or so years, steps through the door and calls my name.

"This is your first treatment," she notes after reading my chart. "As I'm sure Dr. Valencia warned you, the initial side-effects can be unpredictable, so we recommend that you remain in the room for at least half an hour after we're done."

The fabled Russian machine itself is unremarkable: a box with various knobs and dials, kind of like a smaller version of James' shortwave radio set, with one notable difference: instead of cables for a headset, it sports four wires that terminate in electrode pads.

Nurse Breyman has me lie on the examination table. She wipes a cotton ball soaked in alcohol across my forehead and at the base of my neck, sets the pads in place with adhesive tape, and rotates the largest knob on the machine clockwise. An electrical current courses through my skull.

"Tell me when it's painful," she says, still turning the knob.

"Now!" I say. It really does hurt.

She dials the current back a notch, places a buzzer in my palm, and pats my shoulder. "I'll be back in 15 minutes. If you have any trouble, just ring for me."

She shuts the door to the examination room behind her, and leaves me alone with an experimental Soviet brain device delivering an electrical current to my cranium. And it hurts.

A little surge of panic here. It's all right, I tell myself. Everything's okay. I can manage this. I focus attention on my breath. In. Out. In. Out. Slower. All consciousness invested in this moment, this present. I find my hara, center, relax, let the meditative state find me.

But it isn't a tranquil state. It's full of vivid sensory images. I'm in the Grove, sitting zazen under my favorite oak, but my eyes are open and turned upon Melissa — lovely Melissa of the Attic smile — who also sits zazen opposite me and who also has her eyes open, looking back at me.

She's wearing a white cotton shirt over a long tie-dyed skirt. Her hair is loose and her feet are bare, sandals kicked to one side, sweet little piggy toes dancing to some tune only they can hear in a breeze that seems to be sweeping through. Melissa sits in a pool of weirdly refracted light against another orange sky. More tornado weather.

"You're taking this very well," Melissa says to me. "Much better than I thought you would."

I assume she means the treatment. "Master Dingshan taught us both how to breathe into whatever experience we encounter."

She smiles. "Master Dingshan. I haven't thought of him in years! ' _Move into stillness, Daniel_ ,'" she says, imitating his high-pitched, cracked voice from the lessons we took over that terrible summer of 1969. "We've been through so much together. And we have so much more to do. You know I'll always love you."

This last seems like an odd remark to make, and I say so.

....................................................................

"Let me buy you a Pepsi," the Man in the Quaker State cap says, "it's better than beer, and it won't give you a headache."

He's not addressing me, though. He's talking to Harley, the boy who was waiting for Claire in the Grove. We're not in the Grove now, though. We're at Skeeters. A waiter has just refused to serve Harley a beer, because he's forgotten his ID and looks underage.

"Bring him a Pepsi," the Man in the Quaker State Cap says to the waiter. "On me."

The little stage is crowded with musicians. The opening band is tearing down, the next milling about ready to set up for their performance.

"The most important thing with a woman," the Handsome Poet — who sits across from me at our table — says to Harley, "is not to seem diffident."

"Diffident. Right man," Quaker State agrees. "Chicks hate that. You have to be decisive. Proud. Bold. You know, man? You got to make her want you. You do that by making her look up to you."

This meditation has taken a weird side trip, one in which Harley is being treated to dating advice from two of the great lovers of the 20th century, who also appear to have tentatively agreed to collaborate on a new song, the Poet writing the words and the Quaker State Cap writing the music. Something along the lines of "Kentucky Rain."

"That was your best single in a decade," Harley declares.

"Sorry, man, I don't know what in the hell you're talking about," Quaker State Cap man replies.

The Handsome Poet looks over at me, solicitous in expression. "You okay? Is there anything you need?"

"I'm fine," I say.

"You're really dealing with this very well," he says.

"Well, thank you. That's what I keep hearing. And I know I'm supposed to be breathing into the experience and moving into stillness and all that happy shit. But to be honest, I wish the 15 minutes were up. I wish the Nurse Breyman would come in and turn the machine off. Matter of fact, I think I'm going to end this meditation and buzz her."

"Nurse Breyman? I'm sorry, I don't know who that is."

...........................................................................................

"Oh, wait. I think I've got it. You're having a Billy Pilgrim-type trip."

This is Garrett talking to me now. I recognize his voice, but I can't see his face. We're sitting someplace dark.

"Who?" Miss Fairchild's voice.

"Billy Pilgrim. You know, _Slaughterhouse Five_. Vonnegut."

"I haven't read that one yet."

"Where am I?" I ask. "What time is it?"

"You're at the commune, man. Don't worry. It's cool. Wow, Billy Pilgrim for sure. That machine must have really messed you up."

"Why is everything dark?"

"Power failure. You don't remember, do you? Massive squadron of helicopters passed over maybe half an hour / 45 minutes ago, and the whole town went black."

"Okay, I'm ready to end the treatment now."

"I should say so," Garrett agrees. "If you want, I'll call Valencia's office in the morning."

"No, I mean right now. Somebody unhook this goddamn machine from my head."

"I hate to break it to you," Garrett says, "but you're not attached to the machine anymore. That was this afternoon. It's night now. It's late. Very late. And you need to rest, because you're going to be in a world of hurt tomorrow. Here, take this."

I feel him squeeze a capsule of some kind into my fist.

"What is it?"

"It will help you sleep."

"Garrett's right," Miss Fairchild chips in. "You should take it."

I'm passed a bottle of something, which upon tasting I recognize as warm Wild Irish Rose. Just like old times. I drink. I swallow.
**Part** **11. The Crack Up**

July 15 - August 4, 1972

Saturday, July 15

I wake, once more, in an unfamiliar bed. At least it's a bed this time, though, and not a cot. I sit up too quickly, causing my brain to rattle about like a live grenade in my skull. My eyes cross for a second from the pain. I try to get my bearings, identify my surroundings. I'm poor old Number 6 again, first morning in the Village.

Slowly, through sheer plod of inductive processing that only increases the pain behind my eyes, I identify my current location. It's Garrett's room. I'm in the house on Tyler Avenue, my old haunt, but I have no recollection of how I got here.

At least I'm already dressed, even down to my sandals, so I don't have to expend any effort on making myself presentable before stumbling downstairs. Andrew is the only one around, at the kitchen table with a bowl of Cap'n Crunch and one of his spiral notebooks filled with penciled mathematical equations.

"Everyone's gone to the Square," he tells me. "I suspect the entire town is there this morning, in an uproar about last night's flyover and the power outage."

"Power outage?"

"It came back early this morning. But the citizenry, as you might imagine, are up in arms."

"So why are you here, and not there?"

"I've experienced enough American mass hysteria and paranoia to satisfy me for quite some time."

I guess I haven't. I grab two aspirins from the cupboard, wash them down with a few swallows of black coffee, and sally out to catch the fun. Andrew's prediction was correct. The Square is thronged with people, even more than on the day of the Witch Trial. A mob has surrounded the courthouse. All motor traffic has stopped.

The closest I can get is the doorstep of the Nickelodeon. The shop is closed. Dottie's likely somewhere in the front ranks of people crowded about the Confederate monument listening to the Mayor, who's addressing them through a bullhorn from the balcony of the courthouse. Sheriff Claprood stands at his side, in full uniform, hands tucked authoritatively into the belt supporting his holster. It strikes me that this is the first time I've seen him armed.

The mayor is trying to calm the gathering horde. No, he assures us through the bullhorn, Oxford is not under attack. There's been no invasion. Not by the Russians. Not by the United Nations. Not by the Army. All is well. Nothing to see here. Everyone should go about their business.

Every sentence he utters seems only to inflame the crowd. Frustrated, he passes the bullhorn to Sheriff Claprood, who steps forward with a bearing of calm authority.

"Listen up, everybody: Wild rumors have been flying ever since the power cut off last night, and all of 'em are false. I've been in touch with the city engineer. He's found the corpse of a squirrel fried to a crisp down at the generator plant. That was the cause of the power failure. Had nothing to do with the helicopters, just a coincidence that the critter decided to end its miserable life during the flyover. Maybe it got spooked by the noise and decided a transformer would be a good place to hide. I can't think like a squirrel, so I don't know."

This reassurance is greeted by a volley of protests and catcalls. Claprood lowers the bullhorn, waits for the unrest to subside, then raises it to his lips again.

"I _do_ know that Highway 6 has NOT been cut off by a barricade of tanks along the road to Sardis. That's a lie. I _do_ know that telephone lines have NOT been cut off. If you don't believe me, go home and try to make a call to Tupelo or Memphis or Jackson. See for yourselves that the phones are working just fine. I also know that the United Nations has NOT built a secret base on the banks of the Yocona. My deputies and I have patrolled every inch of that river this week. Whoever says there's a camp down there is mistaken."

The crowd really doesn't like this last statement. Why, everyone knows the UN is bivouacked at the Yocona and the invasion is imminent.

Now someone in the Square is flourishing a rival bullhorn to the one belonging to Claprood and the mayor.

"The people of Oxford aren't safe under your leadership, Sheriff!" A man bellows. It takes me less than a quarter second to recognize that voice. It's Clemson Lott. "Our town is beset by dangers on all sides, but all your office has managed to do is crack down on people bringing beer in from Holly Springs."

Claprood peers down into the crowd, spotting his opponent. "Election's not for another month, Chief."

"One month to the day!" he shouts back.

"I don't believe this is the right moment for a candidates' debate. If you want one, I'm sure the Women's League would be happy to arrange it."

"You've lost control of this county. The streets are lined with hippies selling pipes and papers, and the woods are full of dealers selling stuff to smoke, but your jail is empty."

Claprood scratches his jaw, laconically, before answering. "Running a county's a lot more complicated than policing a campus, Clemson. But if you're looking to compare arrest statistics, it took your force nine months just to apprehend a 72-year-old naked man — and they wouldn't even have captured him then, either, if it hadn't been for a stray dog that joined the pursuit. That doesn't exactly inspire confidence."

I'm not in the mood for this. My head is still throbbing. I want to go back to the trailer, lie down, have something to eat. But where's my car? It wasn't parked on Tyler, which means it's probably still at Guyton Hall.

Good. When I get there, I'll take the elevator to the Infirmary, find out if Nurse Breyman is on duty today, and — if she is — to give her a piece of my mind about leaving me hooked to Valencia's damn Russian machine for most of the afternoon and half the night.

But on my walk back through campus, I spot my car parked on the Loop with a parking ticket stuck under the wiper blade. The keys are still in the ignition. For a fragment of an instant, a memory pops up of being in the Grove last night, having a chat with someone.

So Nurse Breyman isn't to blame. I must have finished my treatment and left the Infirmary after all. So what did I do then? Where did I go? The Grove, for one. But where else?

As I loiter, pondering the mystery of my whereabouts last night, a car approaches and slows to a stop alongside me. I don't recognize it, or the driver, but Claire leans her head out the passenger side window.

"Have you stopped by the house to see Joan? She really needs to talk to you."

"About what?"

"Not for me to say. Go see her."

Well, there's an omen for me. Might as well follow it. I climb into my car, turn the key and set off for 9th Avenue. The Doobie Brothers are half way through "Listen to the Music" on the Memphis station, followed by "Tumbling Dice." I idle in Dr. Goodleigh's driveway to hear the song to the end, kill the engine and step out of the car, whereupon a cat hurls itself at me from the upper branch of a mimosa. Melpomene. I recognize her as she flies past, barely missing me, with a shriek of feline hatred.

She makes a four-point landing on the pavement, turns to face me, and crouches for another leap at my face, but I'm already dashing for Goodleigh's back door, which I slam closed and lock behind me.

Joan rushes in from the living room, alarmed by the commotion I'm making.

"The cat's trying to kill me again," I explain.

Now Joan just looks confused. "Daniel? I didn't expect to see you again so soon."

"So soon?" I ask.

"Melissa's already left. For New Orleans, like she told us last night."

Now it's my turn to look confused. Actually, my mouth drops open. The room seems to make a quarter rotation around me. "Melissa?" I say.

"Is visiting her friends in New Orleans. She told us last night. She'll be back in a week or so."

"She was here," I say. "Wasn't she?" It's coming back to me: I had a long chat with Melissa. Yesterday, in the Grove. After my treatment.

"Daniel? What's wrong? Are you okay? You're scaring me."

"Melissa is back," I say. Memories of the last 18 hours start to resurface. "She's been back for days, but I didn't know. Nobody told me. Nobody wanted to tell me. Because . . . ."

Because what? I press the palm of my left hand to my forehead, struggling to complete the thought. Because what? Why? Why didn't anyone tell me?

Joan takes a step toward me, touches my arm. "You look like hell," she says. "Come to the kitchen. I've made coffee."

"Because . . . ," I try again. "Nobody told me, because she had to tell me herself. Nobody told me because . . . ." The end of this thought seems to creep up my spine and crawl, unwelcome, into my brain.

I lift my eyes and turn to Joan, her face an almost comical portrait of compassion. "You've had another memory blackout, haven't you?"

"Because . . . ."

"I'm so sorry. Really. So sorry."

"Because," I say, " _Melissa is married_."

Melissa is married. Married almost a month now, to a man none of us knows. And that's the truth. The whole sorry truth.

~ ~ ~

Sunday, July 16

"When my late husband drank," Mrs. Foster tells me, "it was always about business. When my father drank, it was about money. I didn't know men drank over love."

I'm abashed to have shown up for my first day of work to paint the music room still hung over from the binge I wallowed in all of yesterday and last night. I'm even more abashed to discover Mrs. Sutherland has been invited over to an after-church Sunday brunch and is sitting on Mrs. Foster's patio, bearing witness to my condition.

"Men will drink over anything," Mrs. Sutherland says. "Business, money, women, football, dogs, horses, cars, guitars, old friends, songs on the radio, lawn mowers, fireworks, John Wayne movies, cigars, gardening tools, poker, fly fishing, barbecues, car washes, _Sports Illustrated_ swimsuit editions, tenpenny nails, squirrel hunting, bucket seats, bacon, batting statistics, class reunions, prostate exams, nine irons, electric razors, tickets to the Sugar Bowl, and fuse boxes. Bill went on a tear four times every year, when a new issue of the American Philological Association journal came out."

"It's true," I acknowledge. "Most anything can be made into an excuse."

"Do you need to talk about the girl?" Mrs. Foster asks, kindly. "What's her name again? Melissa?"

Why not? I have no shame. So I report the whole painful story. Melissa — the love of my life, the girl I proposed to during our first drug bust, the girl who left me for an actor and moved to New York City, then dumped him to go to California, the girl I've always secretly believed would return for me one day — _that_ Melissa, is married.

Married to a first lieutenant, US Army, a soldier she met in San Diego, where he was on leave before shipping out for a year's tour in Germany. Whirlwind romance, unexpected soul mates. Melissa, the pacifist on the front line of every anti-war rally ever held at Ole Miss, has married a career Army man and returned to Oxford to stay until she can join him in Düsseldorf or whatever godforsaken city in West Germany he's been stationed.

Mrs. Sutherland, of course, already knows the story, having heard it from Melissa's own mouth. The Sutherland household was apparently one of her first stops upon her return to Oxford.

"Most love stories end unhappily," Mrs. Sutherland counsels. "And – you'll be sorry to hear – not just when you're young, either."

"The love of our Savior is the only one we can truly rely upon," Mrs. Foster adds, turning to address me directly. "You take comfort in that."

"I'm feeling better already. Actually, I'm getting more convinced than ever that the truest path to happiness is a life without entanglements. No expectations, no desires. No desires, no suffering. I think I'd make a good Buddhist monk."

"Bill thinks you should move to Mexico and work an avocado farm," Mrs. Sutherland reminds me.

"I remember. But it sounds like too much responsibility."

Mrs. Foster wears a concerned expression, still chewing over my earlier remark. "A monk. Yes, that would be possible for you, I suppose. But why a Buddhist? Certainly you could become a Christian monk instead."

"I'd never make it as a Christian monk. I'm rooming with one right now out at the trailer park."

"You are?"

"Yes, ma'am. He calls himself a 'brother,' but he may be a priest. Whatever else he might be, he's also a liquor thief and a confessed fornicator. And those are just two of his more winsome qualities."

"Oh, my. And a Catholic?" she asks. This point seems to bother her even more than the other strikes against his character. "You should move out."

"That's what everybody says," I assure her. "I probably will, eventually. The place is overrun by packs of feral dogs, and our landlord's a drug dealer who's recently started peddling smack out of the trailer adjacent to mine."

"Smack?" Mrs. Foster's eyes, wide, are riveted on me, so she can't see Mrs. Sutherland slicing a finger across her own throat in the universal gesture to shut the fuck up.

I suddenly realize my blunder. Mrs. Foster is much too good, much too innocent and pure, to hear about what actually goes on in this town.

"It's nothing. Just a drug," I say. "Sort of like marijuana."

~ ~ ~

Monday, July 17

I haven't seen Dr. Hirsch in over a month, which is why – even though I shouldn't be playing hooky from the Museum – I gladly accept his invitation to lunch at the Rebel Buddha when he drops by around noon.

The dining room is already full when we step through the door, but Tiger naturally finds a table for the owner. The lovely Bella isn't scheduled today, so Jimmy takes our order.

"Watch yourselves," he advises out of a corner of his grinning mouth, "the next sheriff's in the house."

A quick glance about the room reveals Chief Lott at a window table, having lunch with Jeb Carroll and two other gentlemen of the business executive class.

"Is he here often?" Dr. Hirsch asks.

"First visit," Jimmy says.

From the way he casts a suspicious eye on every dish that's being served them, it's easy to tell that Lott is a novice with Chinese cuisine. There seems to be a momentary embarrassment at the table when it comes to the process of getting the food to his mouth. The egg roll is easy – skewer it on a fork and lift it like a greasy old stogie. But how does a one-armed man deal with shrimp lo mein?

"Oh, look who's standing in line," Dr. Hirsch says. "Shall we invite her to join us?"

He must mean Claire, who is indeed in the queue from the door. Dr. Hirsch waves, catches her eye, points to the two empty chairs at our table. She seems hesitant. He waves again, insistent, so Claire leaves the line and crosses the room to our table.

She's with a companion. It's Paul Walker, clearly the reason for her reluctance to join us. Claire introduces him to Dr. Hirsch. Paul and I nod glumly at each other, don't shake hands. Dr. Hirsch steals several sideways glances at Paul while Jimmy takes their order, and wears a puzzled expression as we exchange late-breaking rumors about helicopters and the UN invasion.

Claire has just started to describe the set she and her artist friends are designing for the theater's production of _Ondine_ (starring Paul as the Prince) when the revelation that Dr. Hirsch has been grasping after suddenly arrives.

"Reggie!" he proclaims. "You played Reggie on _Love Is a Many Splendored Thing_!"

He announces this loudly enough to be heard at every adjacent table. Paul blanches.

"Don't tell me you watched that show," Claire teases. "I didn't think college professors had such lowbrow tastes."

"I _still_ watch it," Dr. Hirsch says. "It's still on, you know – though nowhere as good after the writers killed your character, young man."

"How exactly did you die?" I ask Paul.

"How did you?" he replies.

Dr. Hirsch, though, is eager to answer my question and begins to unspool an elaborate summary of plot points and major characters leading up to Reggie's pivotal murder last year, as well as the false arrests and sensational trials and near-miscarriages of justice resulting in its aftermath. He finishes with a recap of what all the surviving characters were doing as of last Friday afternoon's thrilling episode.

In the midst of this recitation, the Chief and his business friends finish their lunch and are rising from the table. The Chief is now moving through the room shaking hands with other patrons, stopping for quick chats with various groups of diners, laughing, slapping shoulders, commiserating with citizens' complaints over what a dangerous place Oxford has become under Sheriff Claprood, promising (once elected) to return the town to its former covert-beer-swilling glory.

His progress through the room eventually brings him in the vicinity of our happy little group. He hesitates, debating whether or not to approach us. On the one hand, hippies aren't part of his targeted demographic. On the other, Dr. Hirsch is now one of the wealthiest men in town, influential through his inheritance. That point apparently sways the Chief.

"Professor," he says, extending a hand. "Nice little establishment you have. I look forward to dining here frequently."

Jimmy, who's now bussing the Chief's recently-vacated table, raises a laugh over something.

"I hope I can count on your support in the upcoming election," the Chief continues.

Hirsch's reply surprises all of us: "I wouldn't dream of voting for an incompetent like yourself," he answers, in an incongruously pleasant tone. "Unlike you, Sheriff Claprood knows how to enforce the law."

The Chief draws back, realizing he's just been insulted but (due to an insufficient vocabulary) not exactly how. "Why, Professor, I seem to have somehow gotten on your bad side. But I don't know how."

"One year ago last April," Hirsch says, still pleasant. "The theatre students were staging their production of _Hair_ in Fulton Chapel. It was a Saturday night. Remember?"

The Chief nods. "I seem to recall."

"You and your entire security force lined the side aisles, ready to arrest all the actors because of a rumor they were going to enact the nude scene."

The Chief nods again. "Doing my duty."

"And, of course, nothing happened in Fulton Chapel that night."

"Doesn't mean it wouldn't have, if we hadn't been there."

"Meanwhile," Dr. Hirsch continues, "a riot broke out on Fraternity Row. You were so focused on arresting nude students that you let a mob of drunks torch four cars in the Bondurant parking lot."

"The boys did get out of hand that evening," Chief Lott admits.

"One of those cars was mine. My 1953 Chevrolet convertible. Classic car. Irreplaceable. Burnt to a cinder while your officers were busy protecting the campus from nipples."

The entire dining room is listening. This isn't going well for the Chief, getting berated by an effeminate old professor of Linguistics over shoddy law enforcement. Lott raises himself to his full height, juts out his chest, adjusts one side of his belt and holster with his one arm.

"I was preventing the commission of a crime, Professor. You may not be familiar with the Mississippi civil code, but indecent exposure is a class C felony in this state. I don't allow it on campus, and as sheriff I won't permit it in the town, either."

"Not even for artistic purposes?"

"No, sir. Nowhere on campus. Not for any reason."

Dr. Hirsch snorts. Actually snorts. I've never heard him make that noise before. It's the snort heard round the restaurant. "More incompetence. You obviously have no idea what goes on around your campus."

"Meaning what?"

"Meaning the city is better off with the current sheriff," Hirsch replies.

The Chief huffs away, and the three of us to gaze at Hirsch in awe.

Hirsch excuses himself to check something in the kitchen, and Claire departs for the restroom, leaving me alone with Paul. We glower a little more at each other.

"You've seen Melissa," he says.

"Night before last."

"How did _you_ take the news?"

"Apparently, pretty well. At least that's what I've been told. You?"

"It wasn't a pretty scene, I'm afraid. Came as quite a shock. Melissa always said she'd never marry anyone, then she turns around and marries some jackbooted career army fascist. Then she gets mad at me for calling him a jackbooted fascist."

"Women," I say. "Can't live with 'em, can't live without 'em."

"In my case," Paul says, "that's literally true. I mean, literally. Melissa was impossible to live with – petulant, demanding, constantly picking fights, constantly criticizing. I feel sorry for that poor jackbooted bastard. I really do. But as soon as she left, I cracked up, totally went to pieces. Couldn't eat, couldn't sleep, started missing rehearsals, then didn't show up for tapings. And when I did find my way to the studio, I was drunk. And crying all the time. Crying like a little girl. Made everybody sick. Half the reason the writers killed Reggie was to get rid of me."

Paul stops speaking, gazes off into space over my left shoulder. I glance back to see what's snagged his attention, but nothing's there. Claire returns from the restroom, notices his fugue, shrugs at me, and snaps her fingers in front of his eyes. "Paul! We have to get back to Fulton," she says, and he rises, docile, letting her lead him out of the restaurant.

Jimmy is moving from table to table through the room with a bin of dirty dishes, and he stops occasionally to say something to a group of customers. They laugh, and he moves on.

"What's so funny?" I ask when he reaches me.

"Chief Lott," he says. "When I brought them the check and the fortune cookies, he swallowed his cookie whole, chewed it up with the fortune still inside."

~ ~ ~

Tuesday, July 18

The Square has been turned into a carnival of cheerleaders this afternoon. They've been shipped in from campus by busloads, battalions of teenager who've scattered through downtown and staked out territories like rival gangs of dancers, sort of a reenactment of _West Side Story_ starring adolescent girls in halter tops and short shorts.

They've supposedly been brought in for a shopping expedition. Apart from Nielsen's, though, there's no shop on the Square that sells goods that would be of any interest to a cheerleader. They've swarmed from Sneed's Hardware to Blaylock's Drugs, to the Christian bookstore and the pool hall and the insurance agent's office and the two banks, finding cold comfort in each port of call.

So now they're unleashing their energies by trying to coerce townspeople into joining their impromptu pep rallies. Garrett and I are enjoying the spectacle with a little Rebel Red from the window in the Ohm when we hear voices in the stairwell. Garrett stubs out the joint. I start waving the smoke from the shop with the latest issue of _National Lampoon_.

"I don't see what's so important that I had to close the store." The voice is Dottie's. "Especially with the streets full of kids with spending cash."

Jeb Carroll's voice answers. "Be patient, Mother, please. We have very important business to discuss."

We've hidden as much evidence as we can by the time they enter, but from the look on his face I can tell that Jeb isn't fooled. He knows Garrett's been toking again. I offer to leave so they can have a private meeting. Jeb ignores me, though, so I stay.

"I want both of you to prepare for a closeout sale," he announces, without preamble. "I'm closing both shops."

Dottie and Garrett gape at him, turn to gape at each other, then resume gaping at Jeb. I'm gaping, too.

"What kind of crap is this?" Dottie demands, finding her voice after a few moments. "The Nickelodeon made more in June than ever, and we're on track for another record-breaking month. That is, if you'd let me get back and sell some records to those cheerleaders."

"I know sales have dipped a bit here," Garrett hastens to say, "but we expected that with so many students gone for the summer."

Jeb raises a hand to silence further discussion. "This isn't about profits or losses. It's about public relations and our main business — the appliance store — continuing to operate. A record shop and a head shop have no place on the Square. Both are attracting undesirable elements."

"Bullshit," Dottie says. "You can close the Ohm if you want to, I guess. But the record store is mine. You're not the owner, just the landlord."

"And I'll cancel your lease, Mother. If I have to."

"This is about the election," Garrett deduces. "You're letting that idiot Lott dictate the terms of what constitutes legitimate businesses in Oxford, and he hasn't even been elected sheriff yet."

"He will be, though," Jeb replies, turning to Garrett. "You're the political wiz kid, aren't you? Do you honestly think that Claprood can hold onto his office? Lott's going to be in charge soon, and Oxford's going to lurch to the right. Conservatives will be back in control of this town. The Carroll Brothers Company can't afford to be associated with hippie elements. Not good business."

"Is it true?" Dottie asks after Jeb departs.

Garrett nods, grim. As covert advisor to Claprood's political campaign, he has insider knowledge. "We're being outspent three to one," he admits. "Lott's been endorsed by the Chamber of Commerce, the _Eagle_ and the VFW. And whatever the Citizens Council is calling itself this year. The Baptists are behind him. Claprood still has a lot of support out in the sticks and on campus, but not enough to tip the balance against Lott's popularity here in town."

"Clemson Lott is a buffoon," Dottie points out.

"True, and Mississippians love our buffoons. We can't resist electing them to office."

"Any chance of a game-changer?" I ask. "August surprise?"

"Like what?" Garrett says.

I confess that I can't think of anything.

"Any ideas," Garrett says, "feel free to share. We're desperate at this point."

~ ~ ~

Wednesday, July 19

The days are already noticeably shorter, and it makes me feel a little melancholic to arrive home in the gloaming over the trailer park, it being not even 8:15 yet.

I park on the top of the hill and begin descending the gravel driveway on foot, surprised to find a shiny black '71 Fleetwood Brougham occupying most of the space beside my trailer. Hinds County tags. As I pause to peer into the drivers side window, the thug's assistant steps out onto Mr. Duck's old porch.

" _Veni, vidi, volui_ ," he says. Clever. _I came, I saw, I wanted_. It's a nice car, to be sure.

The Widow strolls over to join us. She's been sitting outside, smoking. "You have company," she says to me.

"Anyone I should worry about?"

"I don't know. Some old guy. Seems to be visiting the priest."

"Speaking of which," the thug's assistant says, "the boss isn't happy about residents having unannounced guests come by. We've got security issues. Didn't you get my memo?"

"Did _you_ send out that memo?" the Widow asks. "It was very well written."

"Thanks. I'm taking a correspondence course in business communication."

"Not planning to be a henchman forever, huh?" I ask.

Inside, I find Leopold dressed in his clerics pouring a hefty measure of Balvenie into the glass of an ashen-colored old man with pale blue eyes and unnaturally white, sharp teeth. His clerics — the black pants, black shirt — are wrinkled and food-stained (ketchup, most likely, or pasta sauce). The white tab at his collar looks dingy, worn too many times without laundering. It's unhooked on one end and droops sadly toward the floor, as if embarrassed.

Leo makes the introductions. Our guest is one Monsignor Fisk, up all the way from Jackson. The handsome young man who is chauffeuring him is a seminarian from the diocese, on summer break from theology school. He doesn't get a name, or a drink.

"Pleasah to be invited to yah lovely home," Fisk slurs as we shake hands. "Ah haven'd seen so much squalor since mah last trip to Haiti. Hit's amazing you can live like this."

An old drunk priest. How could I have not seen that stereotype coming?

"Leo and I strive to maintain an environment of Christ-like simplicity and humility," I answer.

"Hoooooo! 'Chrisss-like simplisssity.' I like that," he laughs. "You little bastard."

I pour myself a drink and take a seat beside the seminarian, who politely shifts a few inches to give me more room. He smells like talcum powder.

I notice a missing member of our usual party. "Where's Flop?"

"I put her outside."

"You can't do that. The dogs will eat her."

"Tell me about the dogs," Monsignor Fisk demands.

"The monsignor is the diocesan exorcist," the seminarian informs me. "We've been sent to investigate your case."

Leo starts to answer. I interrupt. "They're dogs. Packs of wild dogs, wandering the woods since autumn. You get a lot of them in the country."

Leo starts to protest, but is interrupted by Fisk. "Good! Nuttin' to see there. What else you got?" He seems in a hurry to finish this business.

"Spirits!" Leo announces. "Demons, to be precise. Summoned here by a woman — a practitioner of dark arts — to exact revenge against a man who spurned her love."

"It's more complicated than that," I say to Fisk. "The witch had her reasons. The boyfriend really was kind of a jerk toward her."

"The demons persecute me in prayer," Leo says. "They move objects. Sometimes, at night, they're so loud that it's impossible to sleep. They've frequently stolen my breviary and hidden it away from me."

"It was me who did that," I confide under my breath to the seminarian, who's absorbing Leo's reports with nervous excitement, a bead of sweat on his upper lip.

"They seem pretty quiet right now," Fisk notes.

"They ordinarily aren't active until well after dark," Leo says. "Unless provoked, of course."

"Well then, provoke 'em. Provoke the sons uv bitches. Haven't got all day, have I?"

Leo rises from his chair, tilts his head back, closes his eyes, and folds his hands in prayer.

"Here comes the fun part," I say, _sotto voce_ , to the seminarian.

We watch. We wait. Minutes pass. Fisk finishes his drink and waggles his glass at me, indicating he expects another. I'm pouring one for him when Leo's loaf of Sunbeam bread rises from the top of the refrigerator and flies across the room, missing the old man's head by less than a foot. It's followed by: my copy of Li Po's selected poetry; an empty container of apricot yogurt; a packet of 3 Alarm chili mix; a spool of used typewriter ribbon; a box of Kleenex; the empty sleeve of my _Mountain_ album; a church key; a red-and-blue checkered throw pillow that the Widow lent us to brighten the place up; a Write Brothers ballpoint pen; a copy of last April's _Playboy_ (featuring a pictorial of the fetching Miss Vicki Peters in the altogether) that Blake left behind; a sealed baggie of Rebel Red and a pack of Zig Zag papers; and a desiccated banana peel.

This occurs over a space of maybe 15 seconds. Or less. The seminarian has made the Sign of the Cross at least a half dozen times while muttering a Hail Mary, clearly terrified by the spectacle. Even I am impressed. Old Nergal is going all out tonight, trying to awe the exorcist.

As the banana peel splats against the wall and the room stills, we all turn to gauge Fisk's reaction to this unworldly outburst of demonic spite. Fisk blinks, accepts the refill of Scotch I've poured for him, downs it in two gulps, and begins struggling to rise from his chair, waving the seminarian over to help him stand.

"Hell, thass no demon," Fisk says as he sways a bit, counterclockwise. The seminarian is touching Fisk's shoulders, attempting to balance him in an upright position. "Waste of my time, driving all the way up here."

"A demon," Leo protests. "You saw what it did. I believe it's Nergal."

"Nergal? Who in the hell is _Nergal_?"

Leo starts to explain, but Fisk has heard enough.

"Wasting my time. You got no demon here. You got a telekinetic. Somebody moving objects with the mind. Adolescent girl. You got any adolescent girls around here?"

The seminarian seems confused. "I'm sorry, Monsignor, why do you want an adolescent girl?"

Fisk wheels on the seminarian. "What are you talking about? What would I do with an adolescent girl?" he shouts. "I'm an 85-year-old celibate, you twit!"

"But you asked . . . ."

Fisk starts shuffling for the door. "Wasting my time. Drive all the way from Jackson for a goddamn miserable telekinetic. Drive me to the motel," he commands the seminarian. "I need another drink." Unexpectedly, he now wheels on me. "They got a bar in this goddamn town?"

"At the Holiday Inn," I answer.

"That's where we're staying," the seminarian says.

"Good restaurant?"

"Yes, sir."

"Call me _Monsignor_ ," he corrects me. "Serve oysters?"

"Yes, sir. They serve anyone."

" _Monsignor_."

I refuse to call him that. "Yes, sir."

The seminarian steadies him as Fisk lurches for the door. Flop scuttles inside the moment it opens, moving faster than I'd ever guess her capable of, and almost trips the old man as she maneuvers between his legs. Leo follows them out, pleading him to reconsider the manifestations Fisk just witnessed, but Fisk wants the release of a motel bar and a comfortable bed awaiting him when he inevitably passes out from drink.

I listen to their voices through the open door, Leo arguing that we couldn't possibly have a telekinetic, that there's no teenage girl within miles of the place, Fisk shouting back about a fool's errand, the seminarian repeatedly urging the old man to "Watch your step, Monsignor. Watch it. Watch out."

More voices join them out there, angry shouting from the porch of Duck's old trailer where a queue of tonight's customers and distributors has already formed, complaints about what a shame it is when old drunks disrupt the peaceful, orderly pursuits of commerce. I peek out and discover the thug himself joining the chorus of complaints. Our eyes meet briefly, and I pull my head back inside the trailer.

I'm straightening up the mess old Nergal made when Leo returns, shuts the door behind him, and casts a sour look around the place. "You weren't very supportive," he complains.

"Honey," I say, "I've had a long hard day at work. I don't want to have an argument with you tonight."

He takes Fisk's dirty glass to the kitchen, drops it into the sink, starts running water, washing up. I take my drink to the table and open Herodotus. We settle into a pact of mutual and hostile silence, as on so many other evenings. But this one is broken soon enough because of a new phenomenon we can't ignore.

It begins as a mix of a whistle and a rustle that starts at the door to the hallway and then is repeated and answered near our window overlooking the ravine. Now a third sound begins, right here in the kitchen, and another by the door. Four centers of disembodied sounds start to modulate, shift, agree upon a common tone, a sustained thread passing from one area of the trailer to the next.

Leo's turned the water off and stands at the sink, tensed. "Do you hear that?" he asks.

I do indeed. It's whispering. Pockets of voices whispering back and forth. Sharp whispers. Children's voices. Their words almost intelligible, but weirdly indistinct. Now they laugh together, all at once. We both jump at that. The whispers resume.

Leo's eyes are wide as he turns to me and simply says, "Damn!"

"Congratulations," I say. "You brought in an exorcist, and the demons have learned a new trick."

~ ~ ~

Thursday, July 20

The face in the doorway to Dr. Goodleigh's office is one I never expected to see again. The seminarian. He knocks, enters with a diffident bow of his head. I notice that his clerics aren't as sharply starched and pressed as last night, and his eyes are red-rimmed from lack of sleep.

"The sheriff sent me. Monsignor Fisk has been arrested," he says. "There was an incident last night at the bar. Drunk and disorderly conduct, disturbing the peace, resisting arrest. I explained who the Monsignor is and why we're in town. But I begged the sheriff not to call the Bishop's office for confirmation. The monsignor is already in enough hot water."

"He's gotten in trouble before?"

"Frequently, I'm afraid. Anyway, your sheriff has offered to release him if you'll come to the station and identify him."

"You driving that big Fleetwood?" I ask. "Hell, I'll come with you just to sit on a leather seat in the air conditioning."

The car is parked on Magnolia Avenue. We encounter roving packs of cheerleaders along the way, including the entire pep squad from the Itawamba Consolidated High School defying the laws of both physics and human anatomy, pretzeled into a spiral-shaped tower five girls high, with levels two through five revealing lofty expanses of mini-skirted legs and colorful panties. The seminarian averts his eyes, crosses himself and trudges on.

"I couldn't help but notice that your priest was pretty eager to leave the trailer last night," I observe as we pull away from campus. "Hope it wasn't anything I said."

"Monsignor Fisk," the seminarian replies ruefully, "is a great man. A legend. He's been the diocesan exorcist for over 40 years. Believe it or not, there are quite a few demonic possessions that happen in Mississippi."

"I'd never doubt that for a second. Anyone who chooses to live in this state must be possessed by some form of evil."

"But the Monsignor is old, and tired, and I think he's lost his nerve. I've been his driver for the past three summer vacations from the seminary, and I've watched his decline. Earlier, he never drank before a consultation, and only occasionally after one. Now he has to be pretty thoroughly inebriated to even enter a home of a possible possession, and he always follows up with a trip to some bar or other."

"Why doesn't the Bishop let him retire?"

"There's nobody to take his place. It's not a popular job, as you might guess. When Monsignor Fisk is gone, Satan will be loose in Mississippi."

I suspect he already is, but decide to hold my tongue. When we reach the station, I confirm the old priest's identity to Sheriff Claprood, who instructs one of the deputies to release him to the seminarian's recognizance.

"I've been meaning to talk to you," Claprood says, once the kid has left. "Do you know anything about the smack that's coming into the county?"

"I've heard it's bad shit."

"Seven overdoses in the Baptist Hospital emergency room just last week."

"I know who's dealing it, and where."

"So do I," Claprood says. "Your landlord, right out of the trailer park."

"So why not bust him? It would be a surefire boost to your campaign, counter the whole 'soft on hippies' line that Lott is using against you."

"Because Oral Begley is one extremely clever dealer. Busting him with a customer or even an army of customers wouldn't do me any good. I need to connect him to his supplier, and take them both down at once."

"Oral Begley? The thug's name is Oral Begley? That's an awful name. It almost makes me feel sorry for him."

"What I need is someone on the inside of his operation to supply me with info."

"Hope you're not suggesting that I . . . ."

He waves a hand. "Nice of you to offer. But you'd only manage to screw things up."

~ ~ ~

Friday, July 21

Nurse Breyman conducts me back to the examination room and begins connecting me to the machine. I lie back on the little bed as she adjusts the strength of the current.

"I'm surprised to see you back," she says. "I was under the impression that last week's treatment didn't go very well."

"It didn't," I say. "Weirdest side effects since I dropped acid last summer solstice in the Cumberland Gap. But Dr. Valencia promises me they won't happen again."

............................................................

"Can I get you another Coke?" Mrs. Foster asks.

She's staring up at me from the doorway of her music room, which has been cleared of everything except the antique Steinway. It's an heirloom from her late husband's family. Her late husband's grandfather was a small-time Wall Street investor who somehow made a fortune off the 1911 breakup of Standard Oil, and moved the family south with the aim of becoming landed gentry. The piano was the first thing he purchased for the house.

I don't know how I came to possess so much information about it.

I'm standing on a ladder, which is the reason Mrs. Foster is having to look up at me. I have a paint roller in hand. Almost half the room is already painted.

"My," she marvels, "you certainly have been working like a Trojan!"

Nathan Poole enters the room. "It's six o'clock," he says. "You've been at this for hours."

I don't understand what Poole is doing here in Mrs. Foster's stately mansion, or who else may be wandering about.

"I offered Daniel a Coke."

"Nothing stronger? After all the work he's done?" Poole says.

"Wine?"

"If I recall," he says, "Mr. Medway is a bourbon man, like myself." He reaches into a pocket of his linen sports coat and brings out a flask.

Mrs. Foster pretends to look peeved. "Men!" she drawls. "We ladies must indulge your vices, I suppose; but I question whether I should be serving liquor to the hired help." Meaning me.

"We must extend Christian charity, for the suffering and the afflicted," he replies. "This young man has a broken heart."

Melissa. I wish Poole hadn't mentioned her, inserted her once more into my consciousness, where I've been doing a good job of blocking her out. Now I want to see her. Need to see her. I wonder if she's back from New Orleans yet.

"No, thanks. I should probably take off," I say.

.......................................................

"Already? I thought you were going to help me get Monsignor Fisk back to his room."

This is said by the seminarian, who (it seems) is sitting across a table from me in the Holiday Inn bar. The old priest is in a booth, drinking alone. Ever since getting sprung from jail yesterday, he's refused to leave town, forcing the seminarian to place a series of calls to the Bishop's office with increasingly implausible excuses for their remaining in Oxford.

"The Bishop thinks he's still investigating your case at the trailer."

"Maybe he ought to be," I say. "After his visit, the place turned into a whispering gallery. Eerie children's voices moving from room to room. Sometimes they'll sneak up on me and say something right in my ear."

"What do they say?"

"We can't understand the words. Sounds like English, but garbled. It happened to me while I was showering this morning. Kind of freaked me out."

Fisk appears to have passed out in his booth. The seminarian manages to drag him to the edge of the seat, then we each take an arm and a shoulder to lift him. The man is surprisingly light, and he smells surprisingly bad. The bartender gives us a thumbs-up, obviously relieved to be rid of him.

As we maneuver him through the door and onto the walkway back to his room, Fisk momentarily revives in the night air. His head pivots slowly toward the seminarian, and then back toward me. A flicker of recognition in his rolling eye.

"You," he slurs. "Get out. Got to get out."

"Yes, Monsignor," the seminarian answers. "We're leaving. We're taking you to your room so you can sleep."

But Fisk isn't talking to the kid. He's talking to me. "I lied. Get out. Leave. Not safe."

..................................................................

I'm about to ask him what he means, but Cindy interrupts with a question of her own. She's sitting across the kitchen table from me at the Tyler Avenue commune. We're alone.

"Well, Daniel, how long has it been?" she asks.

It strikes me as a question with a variety of possible answers. "On a really good night, I'd say it's been up to six and a half inches."

She scowls. "Not what I meant. How long since I've seen you around?"

"Around what?"

"Just around. Around anywhere."

"I don't know. A month maybe?"

Garrett bops in. "Have you told Daniel your big news?" he asks.

"I was just building up to it."

"What news?"

"I'm pregnant," Cindy says.

Garrett finally breaks my long moment of stunned silence that follows this announcement: "I knew we should have bought her a monkey."

"What are you going to do?" I ask.

"I'm going to have it, of course."

"So you and Andrew are getting married?"

Cindy flares at this question. She literally turns redder than she normally is. "Don't _you_ start on this marriage crap! Everybody expects us to get married. Andrew, Garrett, Nick and Suzie, Joan, Claire. Even James expects us to get married. I don't want to get married."

"Why not?" Garrett says. "It was good enough for Melissa."

"Do not compare me to Melissa," she warns. "Unless, that is, you think I should find some army man of my very own to love and to cherish till death do us part."

Garrett shrugs. "From what Melissa says, he sounds okay. Not everybody in the army is evil."

"Is she back from New Orleans?" I ask. "I need to get over to Dr. Goodleigh's place and see her."

Garrett cocks his head. "You just _came_ from there."

"I did?"

He grins. "Have you been juicing your brain on that Russian machine again? 'Well here we are, Mr. Pilgrim, trapped in the amber of this moment.'"

......................................................................

I want to ask what he means by that, but I'm drowned out by the noise of the helicopters swarming by over the Grove.

"It's only a matter of time now," a voice says to me out of the dark.

I squint toward it to find the Ranger leaning against my favorite oak. Citizen sits beside him.

"Do you ever sleep?" I ask.

A one-word answer. "No."

"That must be great," I say.

"It gives you extra time to figure out who you really are, which in turn liberates you from a lot of illusions."

"Like what?"

"Reality."

"Far out. I feel pretty awake myself. Not sure I'll ever sleep again."

"Then prepare yourself for an adventure," the Ranger advises.

~ ~ ~

Saturday, July 22

The Man in the Quaker State cap, the bartender, and two members of tonight's rockabilly band pull me aside for a private conversation when I go to order our table another pitcher at Skeeter's.

"Is that really Reggie from _Love Is a Many Splendored Thing_?" they ask, pointing to Paul Walker sitting morose with Garrett and Claire.

"You guys watch that show?"

"Never miss it," the bartender says. "We have a dozen regulars here at the bar every weekday afternoon for it."

"A friend of mine says the girls in the dormitories call it _Love Is a Long and Slender Thing_."

The Man in the Quaker State cap takes offense. "Well, that's just nasty, isn't it? Why do young people have to make everything dirty?"

The others agree.

I confirm Paul's identity, explain his presence. "He's an Ole Miss alum, and he's back as a graduate student in the theater department. He's starring in a production of _Ondine_ in August."

"One of my favorite Giraudoux plays," Quaker State says. "I'd like to see that. Do you suppose there are any tickets left?"

"Do you think we could meet him?" the bartender asks.

"This might not be the best night. He's not himself."

"Problems?" Quaker State asks, with concern.

"Of the female variety. His ex up and got married. Actually, she's my ex, too. She dumped me for him two years ago. Now she's dumped him to marry a guy in the service, and I'm here trying to comfort him."

My listeners voice their opinion that this is not only a manly ethic to observe, but also highly Christian of me. "Don't you worry," Quaker State assures me, "we'll make sure nobody disturbs him in his hour of troubles. Just let him know he has a lot of fans in this room tonight."

"What are we talking about?" I ask when I return to the table with the pitcher.

"Melissa's eyes," Garrett says.

I begin pouring for everyone. "In sunlight, her eyes are indigo, with flecks of gray showing through."

"It has to be the right sunlight, though," Paul adds, reaching for his glass, missing it, trying again. "It has to be summer sunlight. High summer, when her skin smells like cucumbers all day long."

"In fall, she smells like almonds," I say. "In the winter, it's . . . ."

"Coriander," Paul interjects.

"Coriander," I affirm.

"You know you two are making me feel a little sick over here," Claire complains. "One more word about that girl, I'm going to spit up."

"I agree," Garrett says. "So far tonight, you've discussed her eyes, her lips, her skin, her toes, her hair, her ears and throat, her wrists, her ankles, and her knees."

"You boys are running out of body parts," Claire says.

"That's what _you_ think," I respond. "Not even close."

"My point is — Daniel, I'm talking to you now — my point is that your stated goal for this excursion was to get Paul's mind off Melissa. But you're doing a miserable job because you can't stop talking about her either. You're like a reformed addict talking to a current junkie and getting a contact high from the conversation. And you," Claire adds, addressing Paul, "have fallen to pieces since that girl's come back into town. Your rehearsals have been awful. The other actors are pissed, and Dr. Pace might drop you from the cast."

"I can't seem to remember my lines," he mopes. "I'll be in the middle scene and forget where I am, or what I'm supposed to be doing." He takes another pull on his beer. "I just can't believe that she's gone."

"But she _isn't_ gone," Claire says, exasperated. "She's living in Dr. Goodleigh's house with Joan and all those insane cats."

Paul shakes his head. "I feel more like she's gone, now that she's back, than when she wasn't here at all."

"You know that makes no sense."

"I missed her bad," he laments, "when I thought she was in Turkey or California. I really did. But I miss her even worse, now I know she's out there at the end of 8th Avenue."

Garrett has had enough of Paul. And of me, too, I suspect. "Women troubles," he scoffs, "are for the weak. They're not even real. Hell, women troubles are the only kind of troubles I _don't_ have."

"Yeah," Claire answers, "and because of that bus, we all know why."

"Middle of next month, I'll be out of a job at the Ohm. My career has flat-lined. _Uncle Bedford_ has closed. Most of the alternative newspapers that might be interested in my work are being forced out of business. Nina hasn't been able to drum up interest in a Memphis free press. I can't stay in Oxford, because the town's about to be taken back over by right-wing lunatics. I feel like this whole year has been wasted."

Our table falls into disgruntled silence.

"I'll get us another pitcher," Claire finally says.

~ ~ ~

Sunday, July 23

Dr. Valencia's goddamn Russian machine has apparently robbed me of my three favorite pastimes: getting high, getting drunk, and getting to sleep. To the best of my reckoning, I've been awake a consecutive 61 hours, despite four pitchers of beer at Skeeter's, two joints at the Tyler commune with Garrett and Andrew, and the remaining dregs from Leo's last bottle of Balvenie.

I dragged Leo back to his bedroom after he passed out from our last drinking game, and have been sitting alone trying to read Herodotus, but mostly being pestered by the voices.

" _Wisshekotmenke_ ," one now enunciates, directly into my ear canal.

I swat at it, as if it were a bug that could be shooed away. " _Jouroan acht stemple_!" proclaim all the voices in harmony, from every room and corner of the trailer.

"Shut up!" I snap at them.

" _Allistroph eeechh risquedon et neten_ ," they reply.

I suspect they'd be less annoying if I could only understand what they're saying. Their disembodied witticisms frequently sound tantalizingly close to English, leaving me to grasp after meanings that consistently turn elusive.

At dawn, they seem to die down, probably to get some sleep. Lucky bastards. I put a saucepan of water on the range to boil, open the cupboard and discover that Leo has already consumed the last of my Tasters Choice. So I turn off the stove, grab my wallet and keys, and drive to campus for breakfast.

It's Outcasts Hour again in the Cafeteria, the Sunday breakfast shift before the onslaught of the campus' Christian contingent stopping for a bite of lunch after church. I pick up a tray and go down the line, finally arriving at the cashier's stand with seven slices of bacon, three donuts, a large bowl of grits, an extra large glass of orange juice, and coffee.

Claire, sitting at her usual table with Jerome Baker, waves me over to join them. "I wouldn't have expected to see you up so early, after the night you had at Skeeters," she says.

I recount my sad tale of how the Russian machine has deprived me of life's simpler pleasures.

"Can you still make love?" Claire wants to know.

"Haven't tried. I'll let you know."

"At least it hasn't affected your appetite," she observes. "I know something that will cheer you up. Jerome, tell Daniel the news."

"Grove Press," Jerome informs me, "is putting together an anthology of emerging black authors. I received a letter from an editor who wants to include the story from _Barefoot_ , complete with my biographical sketch."

Impressive. "Wow," I say. "I wonder how anyone at Grove Press even found out about the story. Where would anyone have read it?"

"I declined, of course," Jerome says. "I didn't write that story, and if it's all the same to you, I'd prefer not to be any more deeply connected to it than I already am. I've found that a person is safest when people who shouldn't know his name actually don't know his name."

"You should send a copy of that letter to cousin Amy in New York," Claire says. "She loves publicity. She'll be tickled to be singled out as one of America's foremost young black writers."

"How is cousin Amy doing?" I ask.

"Still causing scandal. She was mentioned in a profile of Alcott last week in the _New York Review of Books_ , intimations that she's living as his mistress. The family is terrified that it might become common knowledge."

"Yes," Jerome says, "because the good people of Crowder, Mississippi, are avid followers of the _New York Review of Books_."

The donuts are still warm from the fryer, sweet and yeasty. They may be the best thing I've tasted since . . . since . . . I think (naturally) of Melissa, and am then reminded to inquire after Paul's doings after we all parted last night in Holly Springs.

"I got a call from Joan around 2:00 this morning," she says,, "hours after I'd dropped him off at his apartment, dead drunk. She'd spotted him standing in the dead-end of 8th Avenue, staring at the house. Just wandering around, staring, like some lost puppy."

"Poor son of a bitch," I say.

~ ~ ~

Monday, July 24

The sidewalk outside the Nickelodeon is crowded, and the music is loud. Dottie Carroll has posted a sign advertising her "Hell No, I Won't Go!" sale, her revolt against Jeb's ultimatum for her to leave. She's reattached the outdoor speakers the city made her take down after her Labor Day street party, and they're blasting Thunderclap Newman's "Something in the Air" at a good 85 decibels.

I manage to squeeze my raggedy-assed body all the way to the door of the shop, where I find Dottie standing on a chair and holding a handwritten poster board sign proclaiming "Freedom of Speech in Oxford!"

"Volunteers of America" begins playing just as I draw close enough to hear what she's saying. A knot of businessmen from neighboring shops have surrounded her chair and are arguing with her. I recognize the bank manager who tried to sell me a checking account last winter, one of the clerks from the Gathright, and the ophthalmologist from the eyeglasses shop across the street, among others.

"Mrs. Carroll," the bank manager thunders, "I'm calling the sheriff. You just see if I won't. What you're doing here is disturbing the peace."

"What I'm doing," she yells back, "is exercising my first amendment rights for freedom of speech, freedom of assembly, and freedom to petition for redress of grievances!"

This elicits a scattering of applause. Dottie seems to have supporters in the crowd.

"I have a grievance against the city of Oxford that I expect to have redressed. I have a grievance against the capricious abuse of power by a man who hasn't even been elected to public office yet, thinking he can dictate who's allowed to do business in this city."

This triggers more applause. "What you're doing is interfering with my ability to do _my_ business!" the ophthalmologist yells.

"Oh hell, your four-eyed customers aren't going to be scared away by a little loud music," Dottie counters. "Most of 'em are deaf anyway, in addition to being blind."

Jeb Carroll pushes his way through the onlookers. "Mother! Get down and turn that music off!"

"Oh-ho!" Dottie answers. "Here comes my big, brave boy who won't defend his mother's constitutional rights! Who would have his very own mother surrender her livelihood to the almighty power of the state! Who would see his mother starving on the street on the order of an illegitimate county sheriff who'd ban anything he doesn't agree with!"

Garrett suddenly materializes at my side, leading the crowd in a chorus booing Jeb. "Injustice! Repression! Are we men or sheep?" he demands. "Who's the sheriff to tell us what kind of music we can listen to? This isn't _Alabama_ , for godssake!"

"I hate your music!" the bank manager yells.

"I hate your necktie," Dottie shoots back. "Do you think Clemson Lott should be allowed to ban it?"

Jefferson Airplane ends, followed instantly by "Power to the People." I wonder who's controlling the stereo in Dottie's back room. Several aggrieved business owners are trying to get through the door to turn the sound off, but the shop is locked.

"John Lennon sucks!" an anonymous voice in the crowd cries out.

"Who said that?" Dottie demands. Jeb seizes her arm and tries to force her down from the chair. "Get your hands off me, you little twit!" she commands. "Who said that? Show yourself! Come say that to my face! Repeat that heresy to my face! Who said that?"

Jeb hands a key from his pocket to the businessmen at the door. A moment later, they unlock the shop and enter. A moment after that, they back out of the store.

"There's a little woman with a meat cleaver in there!" they shout. "She's going to murder us all!"

Ho emerges, cleaver in the air. The crowd scatters in panic. The music plays on. I spot Melissa standing alone by the Confederate statue, watching from a distance.

I try to close the space between us. But the undertow of fleeing citizens pull me in the other direction, down the street toward the Lyric, and I lose sight of her.

~ ~ ~

Tuesday, July 25

"Where were you yesterday?" Dr. Stevens asks, poking his head out from his office doorway as I unlock the Museum.

"I was on my way in," I say, "but got caught up by the riot in the Square."

"I heard about that," Stevens says. "Should have known you'd be involved. You were probably one of the instigators. Did you get arrested?"

"There weren't any arrests. That's just a nasty rumor being spread by the Lott campaign and the _Eagle_ to embarrass Claprood, making it sound like the entire city was held in the grip of terror by two little old ladies for most of yesterday. Lott's promising to make Oxford safe for the god-fearing, law-abiding white Christians of the county. Did I miss anything here?"

"As a matter of fact," Stevens begins. He crooks a finger and nods his head into his office. Private matter.

I step inside. Stevens closes the door behind me. We're alone, but he drops his voice to a whisper nonetheless.

"Two men," he says, "kept showing up in the hallway and hanging around, most of the day. I noticed them first on the way to my nine o'clock class. Then they were back at lunchtime. Looked at the schedule on the Museum door, knocked at Jane's office, went away. Came back again around two. Seemed strange to me, so I finally asked what they were looking for."

"What did they say?"

"They said they were looking for Jane. I said she was away for the summer. I don't know – there was something about these guys that gave off a bad vibration. So when they asked me if I knew somebody named Jason Medway, I decided to play dumb. I said I'd never heard that name before. Which was technically true, and I didn't volunteer any information about a certain _Daniel_ Medway of my acquaintance."

"Jason is my real first name," I tell him. "Who do you think these guys were?"

"If I had to guess, I'd say FBI. Is there any reason they'd be looking for you? No, wait, don't answer that. I don't want to know. Anyway, I told them that if they needed information from Jane, she'd be back in August. With that, they left."

"Did either of them have a Russian accent?" I ask.

Stevens frowns. "I said they were probably FBI. Use your head. How many FBI agents do you think walk around spouting Russian accents?"

"Just wondering."

"If you're in some kind of deep shit, I'd rather not get drawn into it." He opens the door. "Out. And by the way, we never had this conversation."

~ ~ ~

Wednesday, July 26

"I don't recommend it," Dr. Valencia says. "The side-effects of a sudden discontinuation of treatment aren't known, and they could be unpredictable."

This is in response to my declaration that I'm quitting my sessions with the Russian machine. "The times I've already been zapped have produced some pretty interesting side-effects of their own, and I'd rather not repeat them. In addition to memory loss, I'm unable to sleep, get high or get drunk."

He arches an eyebrow. "You're not supposed to be using alcohol or drugs while you're under treatment."

"You never told me that."

"Those conditions were specified in the medical release form you signed."

"I didn't read it."

"More fool you, then. In any case, if you had read the form, you'd also know that you don't have the option to halt your treatment. You agreed to a minimum of six sessions with the machine. Any attempt to violate that contract would have severe repercussions."

I laugh. "Yeah? Really?"

His answer takes me aback. "Yes."

We stare at each other. Long silence.

"What kind of repercussions?" I ask.

"You could be apprehended, institutionalized, restrained, and confined until your terms of the agreement are fulfilled."

"You can't be serious."

"Mr. Medway, you obviously don't understand the gravity of the experiments we're conducting. This is a Soviet device, smuggled across the Iron Curtain by the Central Intelligence Agency and handed over to the U.S. military for testing. When you signed the release form, you surrendered your right to medical self-determination. Legally, your brain currently belongs to the Pentagon."

We stare at each other again. Another long silence.

"Your next treatment is scheduled for the day after tomorrow. I strongly advise you to be on time. That's all for today, I think."

~ ~ ~

Thursday, July 27

A letter from Valerie, my erstwhile psychologist and lover from Charlottesville, arrives with today's mailroom delivery to the Museum.

" _Dear Daniel_ ," she writes.

" _It's been quite awhile, and you probably never expected to hear from me again. I hope this letter finds you well. Hell, I hope this letter finds you at all — I have no way of knowing where you are now, whether you're still even in Mississippi. With any other friend, I could start making calls and eventually track you down. In your case, I don't have that option. Your fear of telephones was something I'd hoped to address in therapy. But, then, our counselor-client relationship ended so suddenly that the opportunity never arose._

" _The review board in Charlottesville finally delivered a ruling on my case, which resulted in a disciplinary letter and a loss of University hospital privileges – which I'd already surrendered anyway, upon leaving Charlottesville. They delivered a slap on the wrist, nothing worse. My lapse in judgment in your treatment didn't turn out to be the professional death sentence I'd feared. And expected. And probably deserved._

" _You're fortunate, I suppose, to be almost sociopathically free from any form of guilt. You regret many things, it seems, but never your own actions. I am not so lucky. I wandered up and down the east coast after leaving Virginia, as far south as Savannah and north all the way to Nova Scotia looking for a way to unburden myself of what we did._

" _It was in Provincetown that I found a wonderful counselor who helped me put myself back together and find forgiveness. She has a little office on the second floor of a wonderful old building on Commercial Street. When she learned that the board review would let me continue to practice, she invited me to join her as a partner in the clinic._

" _So that's where I'm living now. Cape Cod is the most beautiful place I've ever seen, so much raw nature. And Provincetown is paradise for hippies. If you ever grow weary of the south, you should come up for a visit. Last month, I moved in with a man named Josh. He runs a commercial fishing company by day and plays bass in a band by night. He's the kindest, funniest person I've ever known. He can always make me laugh. I think you'd like him._

" _If this letter actually reaches you, write to me and let me know how you are."_

It's 11:42 by the clock over Dr. Goodleigh's desk when Nathan Poole unexpectedly appears at the door. "How about lunch?" he suggests. "It's Thursday. The cafeteria will be serving Mexican Meat Sticks."

"Yum," I say. "My favorite."

"It's a marvel how nothing ever seems to change around here," he remarks as we pass through the cafeteria line and approach the cashier. "It will be 20 years ago next month when I first set foot on this campus, my freshman year. Twenty years, and the cafeteria still has the same menu rotations, the same dishware, the same silverware, most of the same employees."

"Probably the same grease in the deep fryers," I add.

"Can you imagine," he goes on after we've found an empty table in the dining room, "working in the Ole Miss kitchens for 20 years? Longer, probably. The shattered lives most people endure. You and I should be grateful – eternally grateful – for the choices we've been given."

The eyes of every woman in the room have turned to watch him. The man exerts some kind of sexual heliotropism.

"And yet you keep coming back," I point out. "Why is that?"

"Easy question. Love, of course."

We both fall into a momentary trance at the mention of that word. I feel like we're in the middle of some poem by old Withered Buttocks Yeats.

"Coming back, summer after summer, sixteen summers and counting," he continues, "all for love."

The honest thing to do at this moment is to confess that I too love Dr. Goodleigh. This probably wouldn't surprise him. It might even forge a bond between us, to be friendly rivals for the love of a woman who'll always be unattainable, always above us and beyond us. And I'm just about to tell him, when the Poet continues:

"Of course, now that she's free, everything has changed. The stakes are higher. For me, personally. Losing her the first time turned me into a writer. I have no idea what losing her a second time might do to me."

What is he talking about? Dr. Goodleigh has always been free. That's part of what makes her so desirable. Who is he talking about?

"Leanna Foster," he replies, looking a bit surprised when I ask. "Although she was Leanna Hunnicut when I knew her. The first time I saw her was September 10, the opening day of my senior year at Pontotoc High, during class change between third and fourth periods. I was on my way to Algebra II when she passed me in the hallway, this freshman girl I'd never seen before. For me, it was Beatrice and Dante all over again."

Leanna Foster? Mrs. Foster – the den mother, the tea-serving Christian matron of North Lamar? Mrs. Foster is the unidentified subject of all Poole's poems about his lost, unrequited love in _Under the Yellow Arch_? Leanna Foster is Poole's Beatrice? Incredible.

"She was four years younger than me," he's saying, "and it was considered bad form for seniors to date freshmen. Not gentlemanly, you understand. But I did whatever I could that year to get close to her, ingratiate myself for a future time when I could properly make overtures. It wasn't easy. Her parents were very protective of Leanna. Her father especially – wouldn't permit a boy within 50 feet of her outside school. I thought he was just being a proud father. I didn't discover his true motive until it was too late to stop what happened."

"Which was?"

"To her father, Leanna was an investment. Or, more accurately, a commodity. His business – some kind of land development company – was failing. He needed a major investor to prop him up. He pulled Leanna out of school at the end of her junior year and married her to Roger Foster, right here in Oxford."

"An arranged marriage? I didn't think those were even legal anymore."

"The rumor was that his asking price was a $150,000 investment in his company. Roger Foster paid it, and gladly. At a mere 17, Leanna became the wife of one of north Mississippi's most successful businessman, mistress of that mansion on North Lamar, living right here in town but now totally beyond my reach. I lost my mind. I mean that literally. I lost my mind, went on a five-week drinking binge, got arrested four times, attempted suicide twice, and finally woke up one afternoon in Wright's Sanitarium up in Byhalia."

"Where Faulkner used to go."

"Back in those days, Wright's had a special ward just for Oxford patients. Well-used, too. Anyway, I woke up and learned that I'd lost a full month of my life, with nothing to show for it but an extensive rap sheet and several dozen delirium-fueled poems that I'd somehow managed to write."

"Your first collection," I say.

"Harold Evans had them typed and sent the manuscript to Ohio University Press, which snapped it up immediately." He pauses. "Losing Leanna made me who I am today. I've returned every summer ever since, just to catch glimpses of her on the Square or coming out of Sunday services. Now she's widowed, free. I have to tell you, it scares me to death."

"Does Mrs. Foster know all of this about you? Does she know about the book?"

He shakes his head. "No. To her, I'm just an old friend from high school renewing an acquaintanceship from long ago. But I am hoping to win her heart."

I take a detour to the Library before returning to the Museum, and check out its single copy of _Under the Yellow Arch_. I'm interested to go through the poems again, now with the inside knowledge that the girl in all of them is Mrs. Foster.

Upon opening the door to Dr. Goodleigh's office, though, I find a square envelope with my name on it that's been slipped underneath it during my absence. Inside is a card, with a handwritten note:

Happy Birthday, Precious One! – Melissa

That's right. I remember now. Today is my birthday. I'm 24 years old. Everyone's forgotten it, even me. Only Melissa's remembered.

I sit in Dr. Goodleigh's rocking chair for a long time, feeling . . . feeling I don't know what.

~ ~ ~

Friday, July 28

Nurse Breyman pats my shoulder for reassurance as I lie back on the examination table. "Nothing to worry about," she says. "I've been working with this machine for over a year now. Not a single patient has suffered any injury from it."

She attaches the four electrodes to my forehead and the base of my neck, tapes them in place, pats my shoulder again.

"I'm going to start the current now. Just relax. Close your eyes, focus on your breathing. Can you do that for me, hon? Okay, let me know when you feel the . . . ."

~ ~ ~

Saturday, July 29

I'm suddenly aware of the face of Ward Bond on the television. Must be a _Wagon Train_ rerun:.

"Well, the prodigal brother," he says. "When did you get back? Ain't seen you since the surrender. Come to think of it, I didn't see you at the surrender."

The camera switches perspective. John Wayne comes on: "I don't believe in surrenders. Nope, I've still got my saber, Reverend. Didn't beat it into no plowshare, neither."

Ah-ha, it's _The Searchers_. John Ford, 1956, Warner Brothers. Tatyana and I saw it together in the Pass Christian movie theatre, a Saturday matinee. I remember us talking over Cokes after the show about how lucky Natalie Wood had been to get kidnapped by Indians, how much both of us wished that could happen to us someday.

I appear to be in a bar. A very nice bar, from the looks of it, one where the most expensive bottles in the house sit on artistically-arranged pedestals against an enormous smoked mirror facing the patrons.

I stare into the mirror and discover a stranger looking back at me. Some short-haired dude in an expensive-looking white suit, pinstripe shirt, and silk tie. His shot glass is empty. The bartender pours another shot for him.

Oh, it's me.

"That's very good," I say after tasting the shot.

"Parker's Heritage," the bartender answers. "The finest."

There's something in my shirt pocket. I reach in, pull it out, and find a stub for valet parking with a serial number and the words "Chase Park Plaza."

I take another sip and watch a few more minutes of the movie, pondering all the while. Finally, I raise a finger (which I now notice has been professionally manicured) to draw the bartender's attention.

"Sorry to bother you."

"No bother."

"It's just that I'm wondering — where am I?"

"The Chase Park Plaza," he says.

"That's not what I mean. I mean, what city?"

"St. Louis."

"St. Louis, Missouri?"

"Unless you know of another St. Louis."

"Christ! How did I get here?"

The bartender mulls over my query for a few seconds. "The search for knowledge," he finally says, "comes in response to a question. If there were no question, there would be no knowledge. Nothing proceeds from itself. Nothing is given. All is constructed."

This seems eminently reasonable, and I tell him so. He nods. I finish my drink. Fine sipping bourbon. Must cost a fortune.

Inside the breast pocket of my fancy suit coat, I discover a brand new leather wallet stuffed with cash, mostly tens and twenties. I must have several hundred dollars on me.

"What do I owe you?" I ask the bartender as I rise to depart.

He makes a horizontal cutting gesture with his hand, palm down, the universal signal to put the money away. "Your friend already handled the bill."

"My friend?" I ask.

"Yeah," he says, "the Russian."

~ ~ ~

Sunday, July 30

The return trip from St. Louis to Oxford takes me straight through Memphis anyway, so I decide to make a stop at Overton Square.

"Wow, look at Mister Straight!" Alfalfa says when I find him, as expected, panhandling on S. Cooper. "What's with the $30 haircut and the linen suit, man? Wingtips! Far out!"

"I don't know. I appear to have come into some money. Hungry?"

We get a table at TGIF. I ask for a chicken sandwich and ice tea. Alfalfa orders two cheeseburgers, onion rings, and a Michelob.

"Where's your girl, man? She was pretty."

"On the road somewhere, I imagine. Kinda the reason I wanted to talk to you. What can you tell me about Tamburlaine's whereabouts?"

He answers with a stricken look. "Voice _down_ , man! Not cool!" He sidles his chair closer to mine, conspiratorial. "Why do you need to know?"

"I have a friend who could use his help. Our sheriff's in a close election."

Alfalfa nods. "Close is the word for it. I've been reading all about it."

"Reading?"

" _Commercial Appeal_."

"You read the newspaper?"

"I can read, man. People leave copies in the park after they're done with 'em. I always check the regional section for news about Oxford, in case I spot a name I recognize. Elections, helicopters, UN invasions, little old ladies fomenting riots and such."

Alfalfa doesn't know anything about Tamburlaine, though, or isn't willing to divulge anything he might know. It was a long shot anyway. I pay the tab and pass him two twenties on my way out.

"Peace, brother," he wishes me.

Dusk is settling over Oxford as I reach the Square, slowing to take in the sign advertising the Ohm's "Closeout Sale!" that starts tomorrow. Not only are the days themselves growing shorter, but so is the transition period from gloaming to full night. I'm scarcely past Mrs. Foster's house on North Lamar when I have to turn on my headlights, and just shy of the Beacon's parking lot when I observe that the roadside is completely in shadows.

And speaking of shadows, the thug's evening clientele start emerging from them about the time I reach the trailer park. I pass among them like a phantom in my white suit, like the ghost of some ante-bellum planter who may once have owned this land.

I breeze past, leap onto the milk crate, throw open the door with a Donald O'Connor flourish and step inside like the returning king of Campground Road. Flop hisses at me from the floor. Leo emerges from the back bedroom. He's dressed in his clerics and looks like shit, with a good week's worth of stubble on his face and more red-rimmed eyes. It seems to be a trend among men of the cloth.

"Where in the hell have you been?" he demands. He's drunk, reeling from the hallway into the living room.

I glance about. The place is a mess, and everything that Leo brought or has added during his stay is gone. His suitcase sits beside the door, with a few shirts and slacks on hangers draped over it. This looks hopeful.

"Leaving?" I ask.

"Damn right, I'm leaving," he says between gritted teeth. "Not spending one more hour in this hellhole."

"My goodness, whatever could be the matter?"

"It knows my name!" he wails. "It . . . they know my _name_!"

"You've got it written on every book, magazine, cereal box and bottle of booze you own," I point out. "Your name's no big secret. Shit, you probably have it written on your underwear."

Leo ignores my eminently reasonable point about his not exactly being incognito around the place. "It knows my name," he repeats, stuffing his breviary and a few other books into a cardboard box. "Keeps taunting me. 'Leo, Leo, Leo, Leo.'"

" _Leo, Leo, Leo, Leo_!" the voices respond. Very distinct. No question as to what they're saying this time.

He grabs the box, heads for the door. I decide to help him with the suitcase. "So Nergal knows your name. Big deal. You know his. Makes you even."

"You understand nothing," he growls back. "Knowing a person's name means having power to use that person, to manipulate him, possess him."

"Nobody's been possessed yet," I point out. "I think it highly unlikely anybody's _going_ to get possessed. Even that old priest with the DTs said so."

Leo strides right through the line of clients gathered at the thug's porch. A ruckus of protest follows him, and the thug himself appears at the screen door. "What's going on out there?"

Following with his suitcase behind the path Leo's created through the crowd, I almost collide with him as he wheels about, whips the oversized cross that he's taken lately to wearing from around his neck, and holds it aloft.

" _I abjure you by the Living God, Who has shown forth the Tree of Life, and posted the Cherubim, and the flaming sword that turns about to guard this: be rebuked, and depart, for I forbid you, through Him that walks on the waves of the sea as upon the dry land, Who forbade the storm of the winds, Whose glance dries up the deep, and Whose threatenings melt the mountains; for it is He Himself that now forbids you through us. Be afraid, and depart, and absent yourself from this place, and come not back, neither hide yourself in it, nor encounter any soul here, nor influence it either by night or by day, nor in the morning or at noon; but get you hence to your own Tartarus, until the appointed day of Judgment._ "

"What the hell?" the thug says, but Leo's already loading the box and his suitcase into the open trunk of his car.

One thing to know about potheads, acid heads and junkies of all kinds is that they tend toward paranoia and are highly susceptible to the power of suggestion. It's doubtful that more than a few of them out here tonight understood more than a sentence of what Leo just said, but that's enough to incite a general panic.

First, a few try to ease into the shadows, find an inconspicuous way to duck out. Then more, and then the entire assembly are pelting down the road, back to their cars.

"What the _fuck_?" the thug screams. "Come back here!"

Sounds reach us of car doors slamming in the darkness and engines turning over.

"God save you," Leo says to me by way of farewell, and peals away toward Highway 30.

"What in the _fuck_?" the thug screams again. I notice my Latin club buddy at his side. "What the fuck has he done?"

"A misunderstanding," I explain. "Leo wasn't talking to them. He was exorcising the trailer."

"He was what?"

"Exorcising," Latin boy says. "Casting out the devil." The kid really has a pretty good vocabulary for a common criminal.

"What the _fuck_?" the thug demands yet again. "What are you talking about?"

"Nothing to fret over, Oral," I reply. "It's not a real devil, just some homespun demons."

My answer takes him aback. "What did you just call me?"

I smile, turn, continue walking.

"How do you know my name?" he calls. "Hey, punk, I'm talking to you! How do you know my name?"

~ ~ ~

Monday, July 31

After my trip to St. Louis, I don't recognize my own reflection. Every time I glance toward a window or look at a mirror, some utter stranger is staring back at me, looking just as surprised as I myself feel.

It happens again as I approach the door of the Ohm: this idiotic skinny kid with a Pat Boone haircut is gaping back at me. I'm hoping that Garrett hasn't sold out of hats already.

Climbing to the top of the stairs, I find the shop crowded and step inside unnoticed, unremarked upon, standing on tiptoes to spot Garrett over the heads of the customers. A girl screams. We all turn toward the sound. To my shock, the source of the scream is Little Becky, standing by the cash register with Joan and pointing across the room. I instinctively follow the direction of her finger and swivel to see what's alarmed her so, only to realize that I myself am the source of her distress.

That finger is pointed at me. I'm a freak.

Garrett somehow materializes out of the crowd. "My god! What fiend did this to you?"

"Skoll," I say. "At least I think it must have been him. I don't know. The past couple of days are kind of hazy."

Becky and Joan are able to wade through the shoppers in time to hear the explanation of my latest lost weekend, Skoll and the trip to St. Louis, finding myself in the bar with a haircut and a Colonel Sanders suit. Becky looks stricken, keeps touching my head.

"It's okay," she attempts to reassure me, without much conviction. "It'll grow back. Hair always grows back."

"I'm thinking about getting a hat."

"You'd look good in a hat."

"What are you doing here?" I finally think to ask her.

"I'm not here," Becky replies. "I'm in Mobile."

"With the Memphis blues again," Garrett adds before stepping away to assist a customer.

"Mommy and daddy think I'm with a friend in Mobile, on the way to Gulf Shores."

"The redneck Riviera."

"I had to get out of the house, and escape all the wedding plans. Drove mommy's Jag in on Saturday, looked all over town for you. I wanted to check for you at the trailer park, but nobody would give me directions. Garrett and Cindy said the place was too dangerous for me."

"Good for them. You're staying at the commune?"

"Joan invited me to crash with her and her friend Melissa. They used to be roommates. Do you know her?"

Becky wields an innocent question like a tennis racquet to the nuts, but I manage to fake a casual, non-committal reply. "Dr. Goodleigh would be tickled to know that her place has turned into a sorority house. How are you getting on with the cats?"

Becky helps me browse the Ohm's hat selection while she fills me in on the cats, her sister's wedding preparations, a few recent hideous dates her parents arranged, and news about Keith.

"He's engaged," she tells me. "This time, he actually _asked_ the girl before assuming the engagement was a foregone conclusion. Her name is Marian. I knew her slightly in high school. Old money, very proper family. Mommy's been wandering the house heaving lugubrious sighs since she read the announcement in the newspaper, keeps asking what happened between us, how I let Keith 'slip through my fingers.'"

"Naturally, you didn't tell her."

"Naturally not. Mommy says that we have to give them a wedding gift, even though we're not on the guest list. It's one more burden for her to carry."

I settle on a wide-brimmed suede hat, the same shade as a burnt umber Crayola, to conceal my shameful short hair. Becky adds a pair of sunglasses with lenses the color of the hat. I find a mirror to inspect the results. Not a bad disguise.

"How much?" I ask Garrett, who's at the cash register reading a copy of the _Freak Brothers_.

"It's free," he says, without looking from the comic book. "Everything in the shop is free."

"Does Jeb know you're giving stuff away?"

"He only said he wants me to eliminate the inventory by the first week of August. He didn't specifically say I had to sell it."

"You realize this will doom your future in retail."

Garrett cackles. "I should never have agreed to this shopkeeper gig in the first place. It's a waste of my talent for stirring up trouble."

"What's going on with the free press? Any backers yet?"

He sighs. "Nina and I have managed to wrangle promises of a few hundred bucks."

"How much do you need?"

"A few thousand."

"I've got that."

He puts down the comic book, lifts his face slowly as if expecting some kind of cruel joke. "You mean it?"

"Consult with Miss Fairchild, come up with a specific figure," I say. "You and I will step over to the bank, draw it out."

"I don't know what to say. That's pretty damn generous."

"You just gave me a hat," I point out. "One good turn deserves another."

"That's true," he agrees. "I did do that. And I threw in a nice pair of sunglasses. So I guess you still owe me."

We hear footsteps on the stairs. Somebody climbing fast. Now Claire stands in the entrance, scanning the shop until she spots Garrett. She strides across the shop in three steps and looms over him at the cash register. I half expect her to pick him up by the nape of the neck and shake him.

"What did you say to Harley?" she demands.

Garrett raises his hands self-protectively. "I told him that someday you'll learn to love him, and that he should continue his siege of your heart and your virtue."

"Damnation! Stop doing that. I don't _want_ Harley to be my boyfriend."

"He's a nice guy," Garrett says. "You should give him a try."

Becky wanders over to listen to the argument, holding something in her left hand.

"What have you got there?" I ask.

She holds it up for me to see. "Some kind of candy bar." It's a Desee. "Have you ever had one of these?"

The question, overheard, puts a momentary pause to Claire and Garrett's argument.

"Oh, he's certainly had one," Claire answers.

"Indeed he has," Garrett affirms. "But he'll never have another."

~ ~ ~

Tuesday, August 1

"Take off your hat and let us see," Mrs. Foster encourages me.

We're standing outside the Nickelodeon, which is somehow still in business — Mrs. Foster, Nathan Poole, Becky and I. A noontime stroll, a chance meeting. Becky hasn't said a word since the Handsome Poet first smiled at her a full minute ago. I believe she's been rendered speechless by the man's charm.

I remove my hat. "Why, look how nice!" Mrs. Foster exclaims, admiring my new haircut. "You look a proper gentleman, doesn't he Nathan?"

"A proper gentleman," Poole agrees.

I detect his note of sarcasm. I also detect that Becky seems to have stopped breathing. I need to get her away from his presence before she suffers some kind of injury.

"My land, I think the girl needs smelling salts," Dottie observes once I've gotten Becky into the shop. "I've known Nathan Poole since he came here as a freshman. I misremember whether it was '52 or '53. He was a good-looking enough boy then, but he just gets better and better with age."

Becky still hasn't roused herself to speak, and I'm feeling irritated. A little jealous. It would be nice, once in my life, to have a girl look at me the way she looked at Poole.

"They were high school classmates, he and Leanna Foster," Dottie continues, confiding information I already possess. "Some say sweethearts. They were spotted going into the Ritz a few nights ago to see that new George C. Scott movie. Their being out in public, keeping each other company, has caused tongues to wag, especially down at the church."

"Why?" Becky finally musters herself to inquire.

"Leanna's a saint. Ask anyone in town. Everybody knows. But Nathan . . . well, with his scandalous reputation, some people hardly think he's appropriate escort."

"Scandalous?" Becky asks. Now she's really interested.

And now I'm really jealous.

I leave them to gossip, and skulk off to examine Dottie's dwindling inventory. (Jeb has failed to close the shop, but he's somehow finagled to halt the shipment of any new records.) I'm studying the liner notes on T. Rex's _Slider_ album and have barely managed to reason myself out of my funk when Becky sidles back next to me.

"How about some lunch?" I ask as we leave the Nickelodeon. "I was thinking Grundy's. Or maybe the Beacon. Your choice."

But she doesn't hear my invitation. She's distracted by a figure across the street, sitting alone on a bench by the courthouse. "Look," she says, "there he is again."

It's Paul Walker. He's just sitting there. If someone were to take his picture at this moment, the photograph could be hung in a portrait gallery with the title "Abjection."

"He ought to be in rehearsals," I say. "His play starts Friday night."

"That's the boy who's stalking Melissa. He came by Dr. Goodleigh's place late a few nights ago," Becky reports. "Didn't come in. Just parked in the street with his tape deck playing loud. Do you know that Brooklyn Bridge song, 'Worst That Could Happen'?"

"Hate it. The worst song that could happen."

"He stood there in the street, playing that song on his tape deck for Melissa. They used to be lovers, you know."

"I know. How did Melissa react?"

"She was mortified, of course. It was after 1:00 in the morning. He was waking the entire neighborhood. She had to go out there, beg him to turn it off and leave her alone. They had an argument. I couldn't tell for sure, but I think he might have been crying, too."

"Poor son of a bitch," I say. And mean it.

"Sorry I interrupted," Becky says. "You were talking about lunch."

"Grundy's? The Beacon?"

"I've got a better idea. How long has it been since you've had a Reuben? A real one, with the sauerkraut and the Swiss and the Russian dressing?"

"You can't get a Reuben in Oxpatch."

"You can when _I_ make it. I fixed them for the girls last night, and still have plenty of everything."

She means for me to come to Dr. Goodleigh's house.

"I . . . uh," I start. "I'm . . . not . . . ."

She tugs my arm, playful. "C'mon, it'll be fun. Joan says you're afraid of the kitties. But don't worry — I'll protect you!" She tugs again. "C'mon, Daniel. We'll have fun."

"I . . . uh," I try again.

"What's wrong?" Becky asks.

Fate decides to intervene. Just as I'm poised to admit the truth to Becky, that I've loved Melissa with all my heart for years, that she may be the only woman I'll truly love. That I'm afraid of meeting Melissa when I'm not brain-fried from the machine, afraid of what I might do or say if I see her when I'm not high, afraid of making an even bigger fool of myself than Paul Walker has been doing . . . just as I'm about to confess my hopeless love for Melissa, a squad car from the campus police comes barreling down Van Buren, lights flashing and siren wailing.

It speeds past us, followed by a motorcade of more squad cars and a phalanx of motorcycle cops. It screeches without pause into the oncoming traffic in the roundabout of the Square, forces every other vehicle to the curb, and circles the courthouse in two victory laps before proceeding up North Lamar, toward the jail.

Every shopper, shopkeeper, clerk, receptionist, businessman, pedestrian, loiterer, checkers player, adult, child and dog in the downtown area has turned out to watch this unexpected display of police prowess. Becky and I join the crowd of gaping spectators, who now with the disappearance of the convoy up North Lamar are already speculating on what this could possibly signify.

At first, I don't notice when Dottie emerges from the shop a minute later. She looks shaken. Ashen. Her mouth is set in a tight little frown. She gestures for us to follow her, back to the Nickelodeon. She closes the door behind us, locks it, and places a "Closed" sign in the window.

"This is awful," she says. "Awful. I just got a call from one of the dispatchers in Lott's office, an old friend of mine. We worked at the laundry together. She thought I'd want to know what's happened on campus."

"What?"

She swallows, shakes her head. "It's about Claire Marie," Dottie says. "She's been arrested. Again. That was Lott's squad car, delivering her and some professor to the sheriff's office."

~ ~ ~

Wednesday, August 2

Dr. Valencia favors me with another of his shrewd glances. "If my notes are correct," he says, "this Claire Marie is the same girl whose virtue you defended against your chauvinistic friend last winter."

"James," I offer.

"Yes, James. You engaged in a fist fight after he attempted to humiliate her. I suggested at the time that you have brotherly feelings toward her which — as admirable as those may be in the abstract — point to unresolved family conflicts regarding an actual (or perhaps hypothetical) sister." He glances at his notes again. "As I recall, that suggestion led us into a lengthy and totally unproductive argument over the nature of reality."

"I hope we're not planning to rehash it."

"She was also the girl who was arrested for the Groundhog Day demonstration at the courthouse. Now she's under arrest a second time. She appears to be having a difficult year. So, what has she been charged with this time?"

"You haven't already heard?"

"I don't follow campus gossip."

"Public indecency," I tell him. "She was modeling in Professor Staples' Tuesday-Thursday 11:00 a.m. figure drawing class when the entire campus police squad goose stepped into Bryant Hall, sealed off the drawing studio, arrested Claire and Staples, and confiscated every student's sketch pad and canvas as evidence."

Valencia looks puzzled. "She was nude?"

"Yes. Hence, the public indecency."

"I wasn't aware that nude modeling could be considered a crime."

"It is in Mississippi, thanks to a legal code which happens to be based on the by-laws of the Southern Baptist church. A class C felony, and Lott is determined to have both Claire and Staples prosecuted to the full extent of the law. It's part of his campaign strategy against Claprood. Lott's claiming that you can't have law and order in a town when the sheriff's office countenances immorality. Condoms in the drug store, rolling papers in the Ohm, godless music in Dottie Carroll's shop, _Playboy_ and _Penthouse_ being sold in the bookstore, cohabitation by students in off-campus housing. He's promised to shut down every apartment house and commune where boys and girls are living together."

"There's a marked element of provincialism in any small Southern town," Valencia says. "I've written a monograph on the subject, in fact. But I can't believe that it would be strong enough in Oxford to sway an election."

"We'll find out in two weeks, won't we? Half the town turned out to see poor Claire being escorted to the sheriff's office for booking. Claprood was waiting on the front steps of the jail and refused to let Lott enter with his prisoners. Seems there's a legal issue about whether campus cops can make a felony arrest without consultation with the local jurisdiction.

"Claprood claimed that the arrest was groundless and refused to process either Claire or Staples. At which point Lott tried to return them to his squad car and have them brought back to campus for holding. At which point Claprood ordered Lott to release both of them, since university cops have no authority to do so much as warn a jaywalker outside the confines of campus. At which point the city attorney showed up and ordered everybody to calm down, said that he'd have to make a determination about matters of jurisdiction and grounds for arrest with the state attorney general down in Jackson."

"So where is your friend now?" Valencia asks.

"Not in jail, at least. But technically still under arrest. Kind of in limbo."

"Just like your sister," he says.

"Please, let's not go down that path again," I say. We're both silent for a minute. He expects me to talk. "My session on Friday," I begin.

"What of it?"

"What happens if I don't show up?"

"You still wish to discontinue treatment?"

"That machine is killing me. Last weekend I found myself in a Kansas City bar with no memory of the previous 24 hours. And I haven't slept in a week. So, what happens?"

"If you break your appointment, the Infirmary will contact the Department of Defense, which will send agents to track you down and compel you to honor your agreement with it."

"DoD agents? Or FBI agents?"

"I have no idea," Valencia says. "Why do you ask?"

"Because a pair of FBI agents came poking around the Museum last week, looking for me. I thought maybe they'd been sent because you told somebody I was getting cold feet or something."

Valencia frowns, picks up his notepad, and composes a long entry for his records.

"What's that?" I inquire. "What are you writing?"

"More symptoms of paranoid thinking," he answers. "Persecution complex. Narcissistic over-inflation of ego."

"You're not a real doctor, are you?" I ask. "You're just making shit up as you go along."

"We can discuss my qualifications during our next session. We're out of time today. Show yourself out, Medway."

~ ~ ~

Thursday, August 3

"Well, that _is_ disappointing, I must say," Dr. Hirsch laments when I pass along the gossip I heard before leaving campus – that Paul Walker has been dropped from the cast of _Ondine_ due to what the director is calling exhaustion but what everyone involved with the production knows is a breakdown over Melissa's marriage.

We're sitting at Hirsch's favorite table in the Rebel Buddha.

"I was really looking forward to seeing Reggie in a different role."

"I imagine a number of his fans will be forlorn over the news," I agree.

"I'm not even sure I wish to attend now. Although I've already paid for my ticket."

"You should come anyway. You'll enjoy it. _Ondine_ 's one of my personal favorites."

"What's it about?" Hirsch wants to know.

"Ondine is a mermaid, a daughter of the King of the Sea. Ondine takes human form against her father's wishes, and falls in love with a young prince named Hans. He's already engaged, but he's enthralled and marries Ondine instead, despite numerous prophecies that the marriage will end disastrously for him. Which turns out to be true.

Years pass, they separate, Hans returns to his first sweetheart, but remains under Ondine's spell. She's captured by the Inquisition, tried as a witch and sentenced to execution, but her father, the King of the Sea, rescues her and grants her one last word with Hans before wiping her memory clear of him and returning her to the sea. Hans is so undone by love he decides he'd rather die than live without her. Which he does, right there on the spot." I pause. Dr. Hirsch is listening intently to my summary, confused over what to make of this odd play. "It's a comedy," I add.

"It doesn't sound like one. It sounds sad."

"Did I ever tell you," I say, "about my freshman year roommate at Kincannon who had to complete an English course where the students were required to read _Tess of the d'Urbervilles_?"

"It doesn't sound familiar."

"I went to the bookstore with him the day he went to buy his copy. It's a pretty thick book. Victorian novel, you know. One look and my roommate knew he'd never complete it, so he bought a Cliff Notes study guide to _Tess_ instead. A few nights later, I came into our room after a night lab in Botany and found him sitting at the desk with the Cliff Notes sitting in front of him. As soon as I came in, he hid his face, got really quiet, wouldn't talk or look at me. I suddenly realized he'd been crying. Sitting at the desk and crying. He was a big, tough guy, not somebody likely to weep easily. So I asked him what the matter was. I thought his mother or his brother or somebody must have died. Whereupon he picks up the Cliff Notes, waves it in the air at me and says, 'This is the saddest story I've ever read!'"

"Oh dear."

"I told him it was a good thing he didn't read the actual book. He might have drowned himself from grief. I was never able to look at him the same after that night – not because my roommate cried, but that he cried over the goddamn plot summary of a sentimental novel. I thought he was tough, but he was actually too sensitive for this world."

I get a sense from the expression on his face that I've lost Dr. Hirsch as an audience to my undergraduate tale, and that his "Oh dear" wasn't a response to the plight of my illiterate but tenderhearted former roommate at all. Instead, he's staring at the entrance to the restaurant.

I hear a loud chorus of voices of patrons behind me, and turn my head to spot my old nemesis James with an entourage of his revolutionaries-in-waiting. That in itself is not unusual. I'm told that James eats here several times a week, though I've been fortunate not to cross paths with him at the Buddha before this evening.

But what's unexpected is to find Claire among them, the lone female in the group. All the more unexpected to discover her hand-in-hand with James, being led by him to the central long table and seated at his right hand (James at the head of the table, of course) like a princess. As he guides her across the room, he places a hand on the nape of her neck to steer her through the maze of chairs and tables. The Ole Miss boy's body language of claiming ownership of this girl.

Somehow, they've become a couple.

"James has taken quite an interest in Claire since the arrest, I hear," Dr. Hirsch volunteers, voice quiet, in answer to my apparent expression of consternation. "She's become his new cause."

This bit of news, and the sight of James in full display of his overweening male charms, sickens me slightly. Fortunately, Hirsch and I have finished our meal, providing me a reason to excuse myself on the pretext of having an errand to run.

I'm crossing the Rebel Buddha's parking lot to my car when a voice calls my name from out of the darkness. I halt, looking about for it source. Harley steps from the shadow of a lilac on the edge of the lot.

"What are you doing out here, man?" I ask.

"Watching," he says. "Following. Claire Marie is in there with James."

"I know. I saw them. Want a piece of advice? I understand feeling jealous, but stalking girls when they're out on dates with other guys is unhinged."

"I'm not following her. I'm following _him_. James. Up until a few days ago, he couldn't even be bothered to spit on Claire Marie. Then, as soon as she gets arrested, James starts acting like she's the only girl in the world. I don't like it."

"You think he's up to something?"

"I think he's planning to use her. I just don't know how yet."

I ponder Harley's suspicions for a moment. "That sounds like James, all right."

"Well . . . ," Harley's voice rises, angry, as if he's about to register a threat. But then he falters, seems to lose confidence. "Well, I've got my eye on him. That's all."

"Good man," I say. And mean it.

~ ~ ~

Friday, August 4

I may be repeating myself, but permit me to say how much I hate Guyton Hall. Hate it more than ever. The infirmary, once the building's sole redeeming feature, has become a source of pain and threat. I've arrived for my mandated session with the Russian brain machine, but it takes me a few minute working up courage to actually enter the building.

The waiting room is empty and Nurse Breyman is expecting me. She leads me into the examination room, positions me on the table, connects the electrodes, cranks up the Russian machine, and leaves me alone to my fate.

I focus on my breath, close my eyes, try to center on the sensations of the moment without analyzing or judging them. I try to welcome the present and enter into the eternal now. But none of this is working. My breathing is shallow and ragged. I can feel my heart hammering at twice its normal rate. My palms are wet. I am afraid.

I feel air beating against my face and breathe in an acrid smell. Something's wrong. Something's _very_ wrong. And now I'm _very_ afraid.

I'm not alone in this room. Something's in here with me. I know that if I open my eyes, I'll regret what I'm going to see. But I can't stop myself.

My eyelids flutter open.

Suspended above me, halfway between the table and the ceiling, hangs a black bat, wings open, its hideous face twisted in a snarl. It swoops.

I scream. The electrodes rip from my head and neck as I dive from the table, but the wires tangle in my clothes. The Russian machine rattles after me on its wheeled cart as I crawl across the floor of the exam room, face down and arms over my head, screaming.

I've almost reached the door when it flies open. Nurse Breyman enters. I can see her ankles. I grab one with my left hand and start pulling myself under the protection of her starched white skirt.

" _Get it off me! Get it off me!_ " I'm begging.

"What?" she yells back. "Young man! Control yourself! What is the meaning of this?"

"Get it off me! The bat! The bat! Get it off me!"

Nurse Breyman stoops, seizes my wrists, and pulls me up into a standing position. She's surprisingly strong.

"Get a hold of yourself! I mean it. Right now. There is no bat in this room."

It takes a moment for her words to sink in. "No bat?" I snivel. "Are you sure?"

"Of course not. This is a hospital! Oh, my — look at the mess you've made. Whatever possessed you?"

"Whatever possessed me? Whatever _possessed_ me?" I repeat and point to the machine. " _That_ possessed me! That _thing_ possessed me! That _goddamn machine_ possessed me!"

"Please, lower your voice. There's no need to shout."

The electrode wires are tangled in the loops of my belt, my shirt sleeves, the cuffs and pockets of my pants. I snatch at them and flip them away one by one, in loathing.

"I'm done," I say. "I'm finished. I'm not doing this anymore, and you can't make me."

"I have no intention of making you," Nurse Breyman answers. "You're here voluntarily."

"I mean it. Go ahead and call the Pentagon or the FBI or whoever it is you've got to call. Report me."

"I have no idea what you mean."

"You're going to report that I've refused treatment, right? Call the feds? That's what Valencia told me."

"I think Dr. Valencia was pulling your leg," she says. "I'm not going to report you to anyone."

"I'm free to go?"

She steps aside, clearing my way to the door. "Please. Go."

I dash through the door and out through the waiting room. The elevator opens as soon as I push the call button. I heave a sigh as the doors close behind me and the descent begins. It's over. The treatment is over, and I'm safe. The elevator comes to a stop. The doors slide open and I step out into . . .

. . . a side entrance to Fulton Chapel. I'm with Becky. A theatre student at the door takes our tickets, another hands us two programs, and we start down the aisle looking for a pair of good seats somewhere near the front.

The big clock in front of the balcony reads 7:52. I've lost six hours, more or less. I don't know where I've been or what I've done, but at least my unconscious self appears to be punctual. _Ondine_ begins at 8:00.

"Take off your hat," Becky whispers to me after we sit. I wasn't aware of having it on.

I open my program and glance through the names of the cast members, to see if there's anyone I recognize. Paul Walker, of course. This was printed before he was replaced. The others are unfamiliar – Wallace, Holland, Chapman, Bayh, Richards.

"I'm sorry Melissa decided not to come with us," Becky remarks, "since we had that extra ticket. But I understand how she might worry about running into that boy again. That's good news about her husband, isn't it? Now she'll be able to join him in Germany. Newlyweds shouldn't be kept apart."

Melissa is leaving? So soon? This is news to me, but apparently not to my other self. I'm trying to think of a reply that will coax more information out of Becky when I detect a gathering hush of excitement in the rows behind us. I crane my neck to look back. It's the Handsome Poet, proceeding down the center aisle with Mrs. Foster on his arm. My god, they're a pretty couple. At least someone's love life is working out.

Poole stops to greet someone occupying an aisle seat. I can't see who it is until the person rises. Poole is making introductions. Mrs. Foster extends her hand, Poole shifts his position, and now the Man in the Quaker State Cap stands revealed. He's indicating two empty seats beside his own, inviting them to join him. Poole and Mrs. Foster accept the offer. Everyone sits. The auditorium lights dim.

A voice comes over the sound system to announce that the role of Prince Hans will be played tonight by Desmond Getty instead of Paul Walker. A groan of disappointment greets this news. Apparently, a large portion of the audience came specifically to see old Reggie from _Love Is a Many Splendored Thing_.

I read almost all of Giraudoux in Dr. Kimble's modern European theater class last year at Charlottesville, including _Ondine_. In act 1, a questing knight named Prince Hans seeks shelter from a storm in the humble cabin of an old couple, where he meets and instantly falls in love with their adopted daughter Ondine. The girl is strange, otherworldly, and is being watched from outside the cabin by naiads and the King of the Sea, who is her father.

There's something troublingly familiar about the actor playing the King of the Sea, but we're well into the second act — in which Hans announces his engagement to Ondine at court, much to the displeasure of his royal parents — before I recognize him. It's the Ranger. The King of the Sea is being played by the Ranger! How in the hell did that happen?

The girl in the title role plays her character less as a supernatural temptation than as a coquettish theater major from Tupelo. The kid who's tried to step into Paul's shoes is stiffer than the suit of armor he wears. But the Ranger walks away with every scene. The audience can almost believe he _is_ the King of the Sea.

By the start of act 3, I find myself holding Becky's hand. I'm not even aware when that happened. She glances at me, smiles, gives me a squeeze, and I'm flooded with affection and gratitude for this charming little poet with her oversized dreams for life. The curtain opens on Prince Hans five years after his disastrous marriage to Ondine. She has vanished, rumored to have run away with Bertram, the court poet. Hans is to marry his original fiancée Bertha, but he's a shattered man, a shadow of his former self, an object of pity in the court because of Ondine's betrayal. And her absence.

At this moment the King of the Sea, disguised as a fisherman, arrives with Ondine as his captive and demands she be tried for witchcraft against the prince. The trial, as I recall, is the critical moment of Giraudoux's play.

Prince Hans, his parents, and his betrothed all arrive in the court. But now there's another player on the stage, a character who's not part of the script and who's not in costume. He wears jeans and a rumpled long-sleeve cotton shirt. He's barefoot and seemingly disoriented.

It's Paul Walker. His surprise appearance on stage is greeted with a smattering of confused applause from the audience that gradually grows into an ovation. The other actors freeze in mid-scene and wait for the applause to subside, meanwhile exchanging nervous glances among themselves. Quiet returns to the auditorium. The play continues. The next line of dialogue belongs to Hans. Paul and his understudy both deliver it, in ragged unison.

Ondine is supposed to deliver the next line. The actress pauses, glances about. Hoarse whispers from offstage can be heard, giving some kind of instructions that seem only to confuse her more. She finally speaks, the exchange of dialogue continues with awkward halts and starts, and only the Ranger appears to be in command of himself.

The understudy tries to speak over Paul when their next line comes around. More off-stage whispers. The other actors struggle to maintain the scene. They're flustered, and the confusion on stage begins creeping into the audience. Just as the dialogue returns to Hans, the Ranger strides across the stage, seizes the understudy by his shoulders, and shoves him into the wings, leaving Paul the one and only Hans of the piece.

We've reached the moment when Ondine is convicted of witchcraft and is sentenced to death. But the King of the Sea tricks the jailers into releasing her. He has a plan, to take his daughter with him back to the sea where he'll wipe her memory clean of everything that's happened in the course of the play. But the couple is so magically intertwined that the mortal Hans will die the moment the immortal Ondine forgets him.

The King of the Sea permits a moment of parting between Hans and Ondine. Hans understands what will happen to him. He realizes he couldn't continue living without her anyway. The doomed couple share an unbearably tender scene, watched on by the King of the Sea.

Becky is grasping my hand in suspense. I glance in her direction, discover tears on her cheek. I'm sure that when this night is over, people will remember this as one of the greatest performances ever witnessed in Fulton Chapel, or on the Ole Miss campus, or possibly in the entire state. Paul is absolutely convincing as the heartbroken romantic choosing love over life, annihilation over the loss of his dreams. He is every earth-dweller who has ever loved and lost, lost utterly, without hope of redemption.

What only I, and perhaps a few other members of the audience, realize is that Paul isn't acting. I know this for certain when he addresses the actress as "Melissa," instead of "Ondine." To Paul, the play is real. Maybe it's been real for days. At some point, the fiction of Hans' loss merged with the reality of his own. We're watching the dissolution of a real man driven mad by love.

They speak their closing lines as Ondine's sisters call to her three times from stage left. On the sisters' third call, Hans and Ondine kiss. She forgets who he is, and he falls dead.

Ondine glances about her, discovering her father standing nearby and the body of a young mortal at her feet.

"Who is this handsome young man lying here? Can you bring him back to life, Old One?" she asks.

"Impossible," the King of the Sea replies.

"What a pity! How I should have loved him!" Closing line.

They exit, stage right. The curtain closes on Hans/Paul lying dead, forgotten and alone.

We rise to our feet in a thunder of applause. Becky's wrapped an arm around my waist for support. I feel her tiny body convulsing with sobs and pull her closer for comfort. Men and women in the seats and rows around us are weeping openly. Such tragedy! Such sacrifice! Such acting!

The curtain rises again on a stage empty except for Hans' body. The cast enters quickly from the wings for their curtain call. The applause grows louder and louder. They form a line with Paul at its center. Whistling, cries, stamping of feet, rebel yells greet them. The actors bask in our adulation, all smiles, waiting for Paul to rise so they can take their bow together.

But Paul does not rise. The applause falters. The Ranger kneels by Paul's side, lifts his body from the floor and sweeps him away from view, vanishing behind the curtain.

The applause ends. A few of the actors take a hesitant bow, but most begin milling about. The house lights come up, on an audience confused over the meaning of what we've just witnessed.

I'm holding Becky even tighter than before. Her face is pressed into my chest. "That poor boy," she grieves. "That poor, poor boy." I don't know whether she means Hans or Paul. Probably both, since they're one and the same.

The auditorium begins to empty, and I spot three figures fighting against the flow of traffic. The Handsome Poet, Mrs. Foster and the Man in the Quaker State Cap are working their way forward toward the stage instead of backward to the exits.
**Part** **12. The End**

August 5 - 23, 1972

Saturday, August 5

"You know," I say to the voices, "maybe I should get a television set. A little black-and-white portable. Then we could watch reruns of _I Dream of Jeanie_. Would you like that?"

" _Yoooo purrrbelly quaaint_ ," they answer.

"That's what I think, too," I agree, and pour myself a little more Jim Beam. I've splurged on a fifth from the liquor store on University Avenue. It's not as good as the scotch Leo took with him when he left, but the fact that he's not around any longer more than compensates for any decline in quality.

And tonight, for the first time since I went on the machine, the alcohol is actually starting to affect me. I'm not drunk but any means, or even tight. But I'm happier now than I was before I opened the bottle, and that's a positive sign.

I'm in book 9 of Herodotus tonight, the death of Mardonius. The voices move from room to room, engaged in their typical idle chatter. I'm scarcely paying any attention to them when one of them whispers the word " _Jason_!" directly in my right ear.

I start, but try not to show my alarm. How have they learned that name? It's never been used around here. I consider making some kind of response, maybe a threat, but decide that anything I might say would be wasted effort. They're just trying to get a rise out of me. I shouldn't give them the satisfaction. So I return to my reading.

Several minutes pass without another sound in the trailer apart from the ice cubes clinking in my glass and the pages of my book turning. They voices have fallen silent, a silence that somehow seems more ominous than any noises they've been making tonight.

I rise from my chair and begin walking toward the hallway. I was wrong. The trailer's not completely silent. I can detect quiet sounds of movement in my bedroom. Not an animal's movement. Not a spirit's, either. Human movement. Someone – some person – is in my room.

I approach silently as I can, feel for the wall switch, and turn on the light.

A man is sitting on my bed. He's wearing a long-sleeved red flannel shirt under a red-and-black wool coat, and a red baseball cap. A hunting rifle with a sling is propped beside the wall. He looks up from a paperback book he's reading, startled, when I enter. Despite being armed, he doesn't seem threatening. We stare at each other in what appears to be mutual astonishment.

"What are _you_ doing here?" I ask.

"I might ask you the exact same question," he says.

"This is my bedroom," I say.

He glances about the space. "No, this is my deer blind."

"You're hunting deer?" I ask.

"I am," he says. "What are you doing?"

"I'm translating ancient Greek . . . and drinking bourbon." I stop to consider the etiquette of finding a deer hunter in my bedroom. "Would you like some?" I offer.

"That would be most welcome," he replies. "Thank you kindly."

I fetch the bottle, my drink and a clean glass from the kitchen. I sit beside him and pour. We raise our glasses and he downs his in a single swallow.

"Warms me up," he says.

"You seem to be pretty heavily wrapped up for August," I remark.

"It's August where you are?"

"Yep. How about you?"

"December 3rd. I'm in West Virginia," he adds.

"I'm in north Mississippi."

"Well, don't that beat all?" he observes.

"Nice-looking rifle," I say, to be polite.

He lifts it by the stock, passes it to me. It's heavy, well oiled, smooth and cold to the touch.

"You know much about rifles?" he asks.

"No, sir. Not a thing. Never fired one in my life."

"Not a hunting man."

"No , sir."

He nods. I pour another shot into his glass. He downs it. We stare at each other. We've run out of conversation starters.

"Well," he says. "I imagine you have better things to do than sit here waiting out the deer with me. And since _one_ of us is clearly in the wrong place . . . and the wrong time. . . ."

"You're right. I'll leave. Would you like one more?"

He hands me the glass instead. "Thank you, boy. I've had enough. Need to keep a sharp eye, you know."

"Best of luck," I say. "Pleasure meeting you."

"Likewise," he replies.

I return to the kitchen, place his glass in the sink for later washing, pour a little more for myself and stand at the table, listening. The sound of movement in my room continues. He's still in there.

I don't feel like being inside anymore. It's a mild, clear summer night, the sky festooned with stars. I take my bottle and my glass outside and sit on the milk crate to admire them. There's not much business happening at Duck's old trailer – odd for a Saturday – but a small contingent of what are probably regular customers are hanging out on the porch. I feel eyes upon me, and raise my drink in salutation.

One of the figures detaches from the group and descends the hill. I can tell by his gait that it's my old friend the thug.

"Evening, Oral," I say as he approaches. "How are things to home?"

He halts before me, hands planted on his waist, confrontational. "We have a curfew, you know. Residents aren't allowed outside after ten o'clock."

"I heard. You're bringing me down with all your rules, man. Worse than my father."

The thug doesn't move.

"There's some guy hunting deer in my trailer," I explain.

"What?"

"Go see for yourself. He says he's in West Virginia and this is December. But he's sitting on my bed with a loaded rifle. I suspect some kind of space-time distortion. Did you ever see that episode from the _Twilight Zone_ where the little girl disappears into another dimension in her bedroom wall?"

The thug gestures toward his compatriots on the porch. Two more figures separate from the group and start to descend. Wonderful. I'm about to get another beating if I don't relent.

"All right, all right, all right," I say as they loom closer. "No need for violence. I'm going back inside. But before I leave," here I lift the bottle, "can I offer anyone a drink?"

The two henchmen step into the light. Now I can see their faces. I expect to find my old Latin club buddy, but he's not among them. He must not be on duty tonight.

That doesn't mean I don't recognize either of them, though. I do. And seeing him here comes as the biggest surprise of the evening.

It's the face of Aaron Eccles. Alias, Tamburlaine. The wanderer who showed up at the Tyler Street commune that rainy night back in January. Here. Still in Lafayette County, now working for the thug.

He may be shocked to see me as well, but we both do a good job of not registering even a glimmer of mutual recognition. The light may be poor out here, but the thug is pretty observant. Any inkling that Eccles and I are previously acquainted might lead on to questions, and questions inevitably lead to problems.

I lower the bottle. "No? More for me, then," I say and open the door to retreat. "You gentlemen have a lovely evening. Don't forget about church in the morning."

When I peek into my bedroom, I find the hunter gone. His departure kind of disappoints me. It's just me and the voices again. And Flop. Not a good conversationalist in the bunch, and I could really use someone to talk to.

~ ~ ~

Sunday, August 6

"I haven't seen Claire Marie all week," Jerome Baker informs me when I inquire after her.

It's Outcast Hour again in the cafeteria. I actually slept a little last night, at the kitchen table slumped over Herodotus, three-quarters of my brand new bottle of Jim Beam gone. Maybe no more than a few hours, but actual blessed sleep nonetheless. Woke up famished and drove to campus hoping to find Claire here.

"I kind of doubt she's been on campus at all since the arrest," Jerome goes on. "Claprood and the city attorney made it pretty plain that Lott can't bust students inside of town. Outside his jurisdiction." He gestures to the empty seat across the table, an invitation for me to join him.

I set my tray down, start shredding several strips of bacon into my bowl of grits. "I appreciate the sheriff standing up for her," I say, "but it's just going to do him more harm in the election."

"He's already lost," the guy sitting to the right of Jerome says. It's all guys at the table this morning. Nobody's been introduced – etiquette isn't a guy thing. "Claprood knows it. The whole town knows it. Lott will likely lose interest in Claire's case once he has a whole town full of black kids and hippies to harass. Then, God save us all."

"If you happen to see Claire Marie," Jerome says to me, "persuade her to stay away until the middle of next week, at least. Until after the election. Don't let James pressure her into taking part in his idiotic demonstration."

"What demonstration is that?" I ask.

"It all started with that professor Lott rounded up with her," Jerome says.

"Staples," I say.

"Staples, right. He's new around here, just joined the faculty, transferred from some liberal arts college in New Hampshire or Vermont. He actually wasn't aware of the state law against nude models in schools, and he's having a major snit over having his ass hauled off to jail by campus cops. He's petitioning the ACLU and the AAUP to take up the case on the grounds of academic freedom, repression of artistic liberty, defamation of character, and I don't know what else. Says he can't believe he's working in a state ruled by Philistines, prudes and hypocrites."

"How could anyone move to Mississippi without already _knowing_ that?" I ask.

"He must not have read the brochure," Jerome answers. "What this has to do with Claire Marie, in case you were wondering, is that James has arranged a public demonstration where Staples will have a chance to defy the law and dare Lott to bust him again. Big public lecture later in the week, maybe in Fulton Chapel, on the history of the nude in Western art, followed by a demonstration of an artist creating a water color of a model, right there on stage."

"Oh, lord, James expects Claire to model? In Fulton Chapel, with what will likely turn out to be an audience of a hundred frat boys and another hundred dirty old men from town?"

"She doesn't want to. But James says it's her duty to the revolution."

"Fuck the revolution," I say. "She can't do it – it's degrading! And she'll get arrested again! Lott won't let her get away a second time."

"James is counting on that. He expects her to martyr herself. All for the revolution. And for love, of course."

"No, no, no, no, no. James has done some bad shit in his time, but that's just fucking unforgivable." I put my spoon down, stare at my untouched grits, not hungry anymore. "I've got to find her. Talk her out of it."

"Good luck," Jerome says. "Let me know if I can help."

My car is in the Garland parking lot. A morning thunder squall is in progress, so I'm pretty well soaked by the time I reach it. The rain ends the moment I close the door behind me, like the weather gods turning off a tap. Steam billows from the blacktop as I drive through campus. I'm punching the buttons of my radio in search of music.

A glance in the rearview mirror just before I pull into the Lyceum circle reveals that the black Lincoln Continental that was idling in the Bondurant parking lot as I passed by is now behind me. We both proceed east on University Avenue, over the railroad bridge, past the Education Building, to the traffic light on 5th Street. When I hang a right on 11th, it does the same. When I slow to a stop at the corner of Fillmore, it pulls up behind me at the curb and waits.

I kill the engine, get out. Skoll rolls the driver's side window as I approach the car.

"Is this new?" I ask about the Lincoln. "Very fancy."

"I get big promotion," Skoll replies. "Vith raise. You climb in. Ve talk."

I enter, bask for a moment in the divine smell of a new car. "Don't tell me," I say. "Let me guess: stepmom has had her baby."

"Eees baby boy. Mother and child doing vell. Papa werry pleased. You vish maybe for seegar?" Skoll offers me one from the inner pocket of his suitcoat. I accept. What the hell. "Named Jason Daniel Medway, after papa."

I nod. "So that's that."

"I said you should have accepted money," Skoll commiserates. "Papa alvays gets vhat he vants."

"What happens now?"

"Now? Nothing happens _now_. Eees already happened."

"What's happened? What have you done?"

Skoll smiles. "You must vait to find out. Be surprised." He shrugs, pulls a coy expression. "Who knows, maybe you like it? Or at least admire cleverness of it."

"Okay, I'll play along," I say and open the door. "Thanks for the cigar."

"Boy," he says before I close it behind me, "listen. If you need me – and I think you might – I am around, at least for a little vile longer."

~ ~ ~

Monday, August 7

" _Dear Valerie_ ," I write. _"I was both surprised and pleased to receive your letter last week — yes, it did reach me — and to learn that you're happy, settled in a better place than Charlottesville, still practicing (despite the odd turn our therapeutic relationship took, you still helped me more than any other psychologist did — more on that later), and apparently in love._

" _What do I have to report? My long lost love Melissa has returned to town after a year's absence, but returned married to some soldier boy stationed in Germany. Many a heart was broken by the news, mine actually less than my old rival's, that boy she ran off with to New York. He's suffered a total breakdown, and has been shipped off to a sanitarium for recovery. I hear it's a nice place. Faulkner spent a lot of time there. But I'm grateful not to be the one (for once) who's had to be institutionalized."_

"Yalooop _!_ " the voices cry. "Perandithalus medicapirilis."

"Shut up," I command, "I'm trying to write a letter."

" _Mutual friends tell me that I've had a number of pleasant, non-remorseful conversations with Melissa since her return. I myself have no conscious memories of these encounters because of blackouts brought on by experimental therapy my current psychologist (our campus shrink, Dr. Valencia) has tricked me into. I seem to have accidentally signed away all rights to my own brain . . . ._ "

"Wisshekotmenke," one of the voices says over my left shoulder.

"If you can't be quiet, I'll make you shut up," I threaten. It's an empty threat, I know.

"Allistroph eeechh risquedon et neten," they reply, in unison.

I resume my writing. " _I seem to have accidentally signed away all rights to my own brain_ . . . ."

"Jason!" one of them says, and I start, toppling the chair over, to hear my real name being spoken.

"Jason!" another voice calls.

"Jaaaa-son!" a third refrains, and they all laugh.

"Not funny!" I shout.

The voices don't agree. They think it's hilarious. They're repeating the detested name, over and over, and laughing out loud.

I can't take any more of this shit. I leave the letter where it is, pocket my wallet and my car keys, step over Flop on my way to the door. "All right," I tell them, "you win. The place is yours. I'm leaving!"

They go, " _Awwwwwwwwwww_!" Mockery.

The thug is on Duck's porch with several customers as I begin climbing the hill to my car. "Hey, punk!" he calls. "Get back inside! You're breaking the curfew!"

I am in no mood for this. "Hey, Oral — why don't you just shove your curfew up your ass?"

Just as I reach for the handle to my car door, a voice directly behind me says, " _Jason_!" and I jump again, whirl about. Nobody's there.

" _Ohhhh, Jason_!" another voice teases.

Good lord, they've followed me outside. I had no idea they were capable of this. I hop in the car, slam the door behind me, and tear away up Campground Road. As I'm taking a left onto Highway 30, a voice in the back seat says, " _Halicapator ambrosylial_."

Whatever that may mean, it must be hilarious. They all laugh long and hard. They're all in the car with me, crammed into the back seat. I cross the highway bridge, take another left onto 7 heading south, toward town. Everybody's talking and laughing at once. Their noise is deafening. I press the accelerator down and watch the speedometer climb to 40, 45, 50.

" _La-lah, lah-lah-lah-lah-lah_." They're singing, hitting the notes to the _I Dream of Jeanie_ theme song. Where did they even learn that?

The speedometer continues to climb — 55, 60, 62, 64, 67, 69.

" _Do-dee-do-do, la- lah, lah-lah-lah-lah-lah_. . . ."

What, I ask myself, have I done to deserve this torture? 72, 74, 75. Years of diligent practice from my Catholic boyhood has enabled me to perform a thorough examination of conscience in something under five seconds. I perform one now, and find myself to be blameless for whatever sin brought this pestilence upon the trailer. It was Blake's fault, damn him. 77, 78. Blake and the Witch, their lovers' spat. And then Leo moving in, stirring them up, inflicting the old drunk priest on us. 81, 83.

I am not to blame.

" _Jason_!"

The time has come for a confrontation. A reckoning. I lift my foot from the accelerator and tap the brake, and the Volkswagen shudders. My car was never designed for speeds like this, doesn't know how to handle them. Instead of slowing, it swerves to the right, begins to describe an arc that turns us to a 30 degree angle to the road. The engine dies. I pull the steering wheel to the left, to compensate, but I've got a dead ton of metal under me now. The wheels seize the blacktop, we swerve, swing a complete counter-clockwise turn, and come to a stop in the median.

I sit paralyzed, clinging to the wheel, amazed. Safe. We might have all died here. Or at least I might have.

" _Wuuzuudwawanging_ ," a voice finally says. Others begin to speak up, a real conversation happening in the back. From the tone of it, they're not happy with my driving skills.

I open the door, step out into the tall grass of the median strip, cross to the passenger side and open that one as well. "C'mon out, fuckers."

The babble of their conversation abruptly ceases, stilled into a shocked silence that, unfortunately, lasts no more than a few seconds. They begin to protest.

I raise my own voice over theirs. "No arguments! I said 'get out.' Right now. End of the line. You're going to have to find some other unlucky shit to pester. Out! Out! Out!"

Another silence, followed by muttering. But I feel them and hear them pass through the door and out into the night, one by one. I count 18 of them, total. They mill about the car, still complaining. I climb in, shut both doors from the inside. The engine is flooded and requires a bit of coaxing to start back up, but I'm soon making a u-turn on the median, back to the north lane of Highway 7.

Led Zeppelin is on the radio, third verse of "Stairway to Heaven." I sing along, driving through the Mississippi night.

There's a feeling I get when I look to the west,

And my spirit is crying for leaving.

In my thoughts I have seen rings of smoke through the trees,

And the voices of those who stand looking.

Ooh, it makes me wonder,

Ooh, it really makes me wonder.

The band and I reach the final line, " _And she's buying a stairway to heaven_ ," just as I pull to a stop on Campground Road, kill the engine, set the hand brake, and get out.

The thug and his crew are still on the porch. "Look who decided to come back," he calls out.

I've just defeated demons, and am in too good a mood to be bothered any further. I want a joint. "Just bite me, Oral," I call back.

I don't know where they've come from, but suddenly two other thugs seize me by both arms. "Bring him over here," Oral commands them.

I try to resist, pointlessly. Even individually, they're stronger than I am, and there are two of them. Oral is seated on a metal folding chair, but rises as they haul me onto the old porch.

"I've had just about enough of your lip," he says. "Matter of fact, I've had enough of any part of you." Latin Club boy is at his side. "Hit him," Oral tells him, "in the gut."

But the kid freezes, takes a step backward. "Sir, I . . . ."

"Hit him, damnit! What's wrong with you?"

"I'm sorry. I just . . . I just . . . ."

"Hit him!"

"I'll do it," another member of the gang offers. It's Aaron Eccles. He steps out of the shadows into the rectangle of light spilling from the open trailer door. "Bobby's been under the weather, Oral. Let me do it."

A nod of assent. Eccles steps to confront me. The others still hold my arms. He catches my eye, some kind of signal. Then the blow lands. A real one, straight to the gut. Too many witnesses out here, close up, no hope to fake it. I double over, cough, retch, try sinking to my knees, but am being held upright.

"Again."

The next blow knocks the wind out of me. I writhe in their grip, choke, try to raise my legs into the air since they won't let me crumple. Black splotches crowd my vision. Still, I'm forced to stand.

"Again."

The third blow never lands. Instead, a deafening concussion fills the air.

Dhhhaaaaaam!

The air fills with smoke. The hands release me and I drop face down to the boards. Feet scuttle above me, everyone ducking for cover. In the melee, I catch a glimpse of the Widow standing before me, shotgun in hand.

"That's enough for tonight, boys!" the Widow announces. "Everybody git!"

I hear a general, hasty exodus from the porch, the sound of footsteps through gravel and dirt and grass, engines revving, tires on asphalt. By the time I'm able to roll over, the Widow and I are alone.

"You all right?" she asks. "I don't generally like to get involved, but those boys were set to do you some serious damage if somebody didn't put a stop to it."

"Much obliged," I gasp.

"Let's get you inside and cleaned up," she says. "Can you stand? Here, let me help. I've got you." She's leaned her shotgun against the railing and has stooped to lift me. A lone figure steps out from a dark place behind the trailer. She drops me, grabs the shotgun and takes aim. "Step out! Show yourself!"

The figure raises his hands, steps into the light. It's Eccles. He's somehow managed to stay behind, unobserved, during the retreat. "Let me help," he offers.

"He's okay," I tell the Widow.

Eccles and the Widow take my arms, lift me slowly into a crouch. We start down the hill to my trailer.

Something falls from the sky. Something white. Drifting, fluttering, sailing. Followed by another and another. We stop, staring up through the pines into a blackness filling with white . . . white . . . somethings. Hundreds of them.

"What in the hell?" the Widow wonders aloud.

"It looks like . . . paper," Eccles says.

I straighten up a little further. "They're pages from a manuscript."

A dozen or so have reached the ground. Eccles steps away to gather a few sheets nearby. He fetches them back for examination. Typescript, on 24-pound Crane's Crest paper, the kind the bookstore stocks for sale to graduate students.

"What is it?" the Widow wonders again.

"Blake's dissertation," I say. "The one he threw into the Tallahatchie."

The pages drift through the air above us, like an enormous flock of birds coming home to roost.

~ ~ ~

Tuesday, August 8

I don't recognize the car as it pulls to a stop on the dirt drive to the fire ranger's observation tower, but the driver is familiar. Sheriff Claprood is dressed in civvies — a short-sleeve shirt and chinos, tennis shoes and white socks. This is the first time I've seen him without his khakis. I imagine he'll look like this a lot if he loses next week's election.

The car is a '63 Pontiac, either his personal vehicle or something he borrowed for this meeting. In the call that the Widow placed on my behalf, she stressed the importance of a low-profile rendezvous. Claprood doesn't know who he's about to meet, only that it's someone of interest.

The fire ranger's tower in the woods off Taylor Road is the most out-of-the-way spot in the county I can think of. It also holds fond memories. During my undergraduate Garland Hall days, this was one of my favorite places to get stoned, high up in the tower, looking out over Faulkner country.

"Morning, boy," Claprood greets me. He's facing the morning sun, and so has to shade his eyes with his right hand.

"You look tired," I say. He does.

"I've been up two nights running to deal with a drunk and disorderly professor. They're the worst kind. The man has gone off on an epic binge. I had to haul him in Sunday at 3:00 a.m. Released him in the afternoon, but the fool just went off and got drunk again, so I had to haul his ass back to jail again at 2:30 this morning. You might know him, as a matter of fact. That one-eyed poet."

"Nathan Poole?" I wonder aloud. "What can be the matter with him?"

"Sure I don't know," Claprood says. "Look, I'm here, like the lady on the phone asked me to be. Now what's this all about?"

"Sheriff," I answer. "I'd like for you to meet Aaron Eccles."

Claprood recognizes the name instantly. I suspected he would. Eccles steps forward from behind a tree where he's been hiding. Claprood approaches with a broad grin, hand extended. "Well, I'll be damned," he says, and pumps Eccles' arm in manly greeting. "This is an honor. A real honor."

"The honor's mine, sir." Polite. Good manners. I always suspected that Tamburlaine, if he existed at all, would have good manners.

Claprood steps back, beams, the sun full in his face. "So, what are we here for?"

"I want to help you bust Oral Begley," Eccles says. "I've been working for him since March, and I know everything about his operation."

It takes only a minute for Eccles to fill the sheriff in on events of the past seven months or so. After passing through Oxford in January, he'd made his way to Memphis but found the city teeming with agents on his trail. Chaos that hit the city during the blizzard enabled him to slip through their net, back into Desoto County, and from there onto Tate and Panola. By late February he was in Lafayette County again and running desperately short of options, until a chance encounter with Oral Begley led to Eccles' decision to join his organization.

"I calculated that the best way to evade capture was to hang out with criminals who knew every hiding place in the territory."

"Good calculating," Claprood agrees. "It's certainly worked well for you. Does Begley have any idea who you really are?"

"No, sir. Only the two of you. I'd prefer to keep it that way."

"What do you want from me?" Claprood asks.

"Safe passage out of the state once Begley is in custody."

"Done," Claprood agrees, without a second of hesitation.

"Don't forget about the Latin club kid," I remind Eccles.

"Right. Immunity for a kid named Bobby Steele. He's an innocent. Nice boy, bright future."

Claprood nods, turns to me. "Time for you to step away," he says, "leave us to a private confab. The less you know, the better."

"I have an errand in town anyway," I agree.

It's a beautiful drive back. The air is cool, the humidity low, the sunlight pure through a morning of pines and locusts. The Temptations come on the radio singing "Just My Imagination" as I pull back into Oxford feeling high on life. The thug is going to get busted, Tamburlaine will escape, Claprood will have a chance at reelection, the reign of terror will end on Campground Road, and I'm delivering a very special package to a friend.

I arrive at Dr. Goodleigh's house. Joan answers to my knock, hair down, dressed in a bathrobe. I'd forgotten how early it is, not even 7:00 yet. She greets me with a confused squint in the eyes. Her contacts aren't in.

"Becky's still sleeping," she says. "Melissa, too, if you're looking for her."

"I came to see you. I have something to show you. You're going to need your glasses."

Joan stumbles to her bedroom for them and returns a minute later, yawning. I have her sit at the kitchen table and set the cardboard box in front of her. I take the chair opposite her, barely able to contain my delight. "Open it!"

She lifts the top off, gazes at the front page, lifts the sheaf of paper from its container. I watch her eyes widen with dumbfounded realization.

"Don't ask me how," I say, "but it's all there. Blake's dissertation.Every single page. Fell out of the sky last night at the trailer park. Everybody helped collect it — the Widow, the Fertilizer Salesman, the Septic System Man, me, everybody."

Her wonderment turns to sadness. "Okay, I won't ask how. It's a miracle of some sort. But it's meaningless without Blake here to claim it, present it to his committee."

"I know. But listen, something broke last night. I think the string of bad luck we've all been suffering is about to change. Maybe Blake will come back now. We've got to keep hoping."

"But the manuscript is ruined," she points out.

"Well, it's been in the river. And in the sky. And the woods. And who knows where else. That doesn't matter. I know a typist in the Modern Language department who freelances. She's even faster than me. She could knock this out in under a week. I'll pay for it."

Joan hugs me hard and long by the door as I'm leaving. "Is there anything I can do for you?" she asks.

"Can you reach Claire?"

She shakes her head with a frown. "Garrett tells me James has left town with her. They're shacking up someplace until the big protest demonstration."

"Of all the low things your ex-husband has ever done," I say, "this is quite possibly the worst."

~ ~ ~

Wednesday, August 9

The walls of the Ohm echo as I step into the room. Everything's been removed, except for the waterbed. The place looks forlorn, but every face in the former shop wears a smile.

Garrett is here, of course, and Miss Fairchild. We've agreed to this rendezvous before proceeding to the bank to withdraw the money they'll need to launch their new free press. Dottie's been invited, along with Dr. Hirsch, Andrew and Cindy (now beginning to show), and a few of the boys from the commune, including Harley.

But I hadn't expected Jane Acton and Jim Ratliff from the sadly departed _Uncle Bedford_. I also hadn't expected champagne.

"We're serving as a kind of advisory board," Jane Acton tells me, as Garrett pops the cork and fills the little plastic imitation fluted glasses he's gotten at the Jitney Jungle. "Getting a publication like this up and running is harder than it may look from the outside."

Garrett distributes the champagne and raises his glass in toast. "I'm tempted to do a whole Charles Foster Kane thing, and deliver some grand speech about this being a momentous day in journalism and southern history, the launch of a newspaper that will give voice to the people: the young, the poor, the minorities, the freaks, the nonconformists, the misfits, the pacifists, the socialists, the vegetarians, the agnostics and atheists, the unregenerate . . . ." He takes a swallow, smacks his lips in delight. "But fuck speeches. Let's start changing the world! Mr. Medway? Please step forward. Do you have your deposit box key, young man? Yes? Excellent. Let us away, then, to the lair of our sworn enemy — by which I mean the lobby of the First National Bank — where we shall liberate the funds necessary to our grand endeavor."

We descend the stairway single file, then form a column two abreast on the sidewalk, Garrett and myself in the lead. We stop at the crosswalk on Lamar. Garrett begins to sing, in his full bass:

" _Arise, the workers of all nations!_

_Arise, oppressed of the earth!_ "

The Square is crowded this afternoon. Townspeople milling about stop to stare at the deep-voiced leprechaun belting out a socialist anthem on the street corner. The rest of us join him:

" _For justice thunders condemnation:_

_A better world's in birth!_ "

At a break in the traffic, we cross to the other side of Van Buren and regroup, headed for the doors of the bank and still singing:

" _It is time to win emancipation,_

Arise, you slaves, no more in thrall!

The earth will rise on new foundations:

We, who were nothing, shall be all!

Forward, brothers and sisters,

And the last fight let us face;

The Internationale

_Unites the human race!_ "

By the finale, we're assembled as a chorus inside. Bank patrons and staff stop whatever they're doing to regard us with various expressions of shock and dismay. I notice the manager lift his phone, likely to call for help, but he puts the receiver down when we stop singing.

We approach one available teller. The poor girl looks nervous, so I attempt to appear as normal and sane as possible. I think my new haircut helps.

"Good afternoon, miss," I say. "I need to get into my safe deposit box." I pass her my key with the box number on it. She presses a buzzer that opens a swinging door that lets me into the vault area.

The others show the good sense not to follow. The door shuts behind me with another buzz. The teller stops at a small file cabinet outside the vault, checks the number of my key, and searches for the bank's key to that box.

And searches. And searches. She looks flustered and flashes me a weak smile before calling across the lobby: "Mr. Mitchell? Could you help me please?"

The manager joins us, and a silent dialogue of gestures and facial expressions ensues. She shows him my key, arches an eyebrow. He looks through the file, arches an eyebrow back at her. He nods. She departs. He finally speaks.

"I'm sorry, young man. This box has been closed. I don't know how you got the key to it, but . . . ."

"It's my key," I interrupt. "It's my box."

"I'm afraid that's impossible. The depositor who rented this box is deceased."

"No, wait. I'm the depositor. Check the name: Daniel Medway."

The manager reads the card from his file. "That's correct. Daniel Medway. Deceased."

"No, you don't understand. I'm Daniel Medway. _Not_ deceased."

The group has drawn close enough to overhear our conversation, and now Dottie interrupts: "Steven Mitchell," she barks, "what game are you playing here? Let this young man into his deposit box."

"Afternoon, Miz Carroll. Sorry, but I can't do that. The owner of that box is deceased. I'm trying to explain to this young man that Mr. Medway has passed on."

" _He's_ Mr. Medway, you dolt! Standing right there in front of you."

"Well, that just can't be, Miz Carroll. It just can't be."

"Why not?"

"Because this young man is clearly alive, while Mr. Daniel Medway is deceased. It says so right on this card. His executor took possession of the contents of the box last week."

"My executor? I don't have an executor."

"Well, of course _you_ don't," the manager replies. "But Mr. Medway did."

"I'm Mr. Medway."

"As I just finished explaining to Miz Carroll, that simply cannot be. Mr. Medway is deceased. His executor produced a death certificate. The documentation was legal and complete."

A light breaks upon me, in my head. "This executor," I say. "White haired? Heavy eastern European accent?"

The manager thinks for a moment, blinks, nods. "Yes, that would be the gentleman."

I turn without further remark, pass through the little swinging door, join my friends in the lobby. They gather round, silent and curious.

"Garrett," I say, locking eyes with him. "Miss Fairchild. I'm sorry. There's no money. The box is empty. My father's taken it back, and he's had me declared dead."

~ ~ ~

Thursday, August 10

Jenny Tyson, as always, looks marvelous today. So marvelous, in fact, that I'm having a hard time trying to focus on what she's telling me: that I am, in fact, legally dead . . . and apparently have been for some time now.

A friend of hers in the Oxford city clerk's office happens to have a friend who's got a sister-in-law in the Charlottesville city clerk's office who's dug up the official record of my demise back in April of '71.

Jenny and I are sitting on the balcony of her law office, watching traffic on the Square, as she reports her discoveries to me.

"When you suddenly showed up in Oxford last summer, it really came as a shock to most of us. I mean, your death was widely reported. It was even in the _Eagle_. According to eyewitness accounts, cheers erupted in several offices of the Lyceum over the news, and employees were given the remainder of that day off to celebrate with their families."

"As I kept having to explain last year, I didn't die for very long. But apparently it was long enough to get recorded in some city ledger. I probably should have corrected the mistake."

"Why didn't you?" Jenny wants to know.

"Being dead had its advantages. I'd amassed quite a few parking tickets in Charlottesville, with no way to pay them. Once I was dead, nobody tried to collect on them. And the draft board lost all interest in me, even though I reported for induction. They said they couldn't use me if I was already dead."

"And by failing to correct the record, you provided your father with the perfect tool to use against you."

I glance again at the newspaper clipping Jenny has found for me, the announcement of my new half-brother's birth from the _Times Picayune_ , dated August 1. The boy, it says, has been christened "Jason Daniel Medway the 6th, in memory of his elder brother Jason Medway the 5th, who passed away last year while at school in Virginia."

"What do I do now?" I ask.

"I advise you go about your life as normal while I try to sort matters out. It may take a while, but we can certainly prove that you're who you say you are, and that you're not deceased, through fingerprints, dental records, testimony, that sort of thing." Jenny rises from her chair, dabs her forehead with a tissue. "Too hot to stay out here any longer," she says.

Jenny's right, it is hot, probably inching toward 100, but the heat hasn't deterred Roy Hacker's ministering to the godly of Oxford, nor the godly from gathering about to listen to his ravings by the Confederate statue.

I pause at the edge of the assembly to listen, the brim of my hat cocked to keep the sun out of my eyes. As I stand here with my hands in my pockets, someone approaches from behind. I feel a friendly touch on my shoulder, someone else's arm closing around one of my own. I sniff a haunting, familiar fragrance, and turn my head to glimpse a beloved face.

"Howdy, stranger," Melissa says. Gruff voiced, like a cowboy. Poking fun of my hat.

My heart brims. But it doesn't break, not like I'd expected it to.

Melissa offers her cheek for a kiss, affecting the pose of a coy maiden, her old gambit. I doff my hat and plant a single chaste, dry kiss to the proffered flesh. My heart brims a little fuller, still doesn't break.

"Why are you listening to this dreadful man?" she asks. "When you could be taking me to lunch instead?"

We turn as a couple, walk arm in arm down the sidewalk of South Lamar to Grundy's. Except I'm not so much walking as kind of floating. Melissa's telling me something about goings-on at Dr. Goodleigh's house, the cats or whatever, but I'm caught up by the sight of her lips moving, her teeth, nose, ears, lashes, eyes. I was correct in my recollection up at Skeeter's with Paul. In summer sun, her eyes are indigo, with flecks of gray showing through, and her skins smells of cucumbers.

The lunch crowd hasn't assembled yet at Grundy's, so we find an empty table. Melissa is telling me about a letter she received yesterday from her husband, who's found housing for them and sent photos of a place in Düsseldorf.

"Joan says I'll need to learn German," she adds. "But that's a lost cause. You know how bad I am at languages. How many times did I take Spanish 1? Three? Four?"

"Berlitz offers courses on tape," I say. "The company claims you can learn a foreign language in your own home."

She frowns. "Learning to speak German is something I'd prefer to do in _someone else's_ home, thank you very much."

Cindy emerges from the kitchen to take our order. She seems to be showing a bit more each time I run into her. Melissa orders the chicken plus three, and I choose the minute steak.

"You just missed two of your friends," Cindy tells me. "Dr. Evans and the Handsome Poet were by about half an hour ago. He seemed really messed up — the poet, I mean. Drunk. Dr. Evans was trying to get him to drink some coffee and eat something."

"Hmmm. Claprood told me something about him, too, just the other day. Suppose I should try to find out what's going on."

"Are you going to the art demonstration tomorrow?" Cindy asks, changing the subject.

"Certainly not," I say.

"Why not? I think Claire would appreciate having her friends in the audience. For support."

"Because it isn't a legitimate demonstration. It's a spectacle. A sideshow. James wants to exhibit poor Claire like some kind of naked freak, and then get her busted again. I, for one, wash my hands of the whole sordid mess."

Melissa has grown quiet, watchful, during our exchange.

"You slept with her," Melissa says after Cindy leaves. "With Cindy."

Not a question. A simple declaration of fact. I certainly haven't forgotten how intuitive Melissa can be when it comes to reading other people's emotions and relationships.

"Just once," I admit. "It was Christmas time, Andrew had gone off with James to hunt Tamburlaine. We were both lonely."

"No need to justify yourself. I'm sure it was very good for both of you. There's no shame in needing another person beside you for the night."

"So. But being married . . . ." I can't stop myself. I have to ask. "Only the one person from now on. How does that feel?"

"Oh, darling, it's a relief! To know who I'm going to be sleeping with for the rest of my life, and for him to be a good man. When I think about all the pathetic little boys I've woken up beside before meeting him. . . ." She hesitates, apparently decides to amend her last remark. "I don't mean you, of course." She pauses again, then adds, "Or Paul."

"Word is," I say of Paul, "that he's been committed to the sanitarium in Byhalia."

"Very strange, that," Melissa answers. "The cost for that place is exorbitant. Paul could never afford it, but they say that some truck driver from Holly Springs is paying his tab."

"A fan of that soap opera," I tell her. "Apparently fairly well off."

"I hope they can help him. That night he collapsed on stage, he was convinced that he was actually Prince Hans and was married to a woman named Ondine who'd abandoned him. Claire tells me he still thinks that."

"Poor bastard can't break character. I thought that only happened in the movies."

"Didn't we see one of those on the late show once?" Melissa asks. "About an actor who thought he was Othello and tried to kill his wife?"

The question brings back memories of the weeks when Melissa and I lived together, watching old movies in bed in the little apartment she and Joan shared at the west end of Van Buren. But my heart still doesn't break.

" _A Double Life_ ," I say. "Republic Pictures, 1948. George Cukor directed. Starred Ronald Colman, Edmond O'Brien, and Shelley Winters when she was still a hot young thing."

"Fortunately, Paul's not trying to kill anyone. He's just pining away for a woman who never existed."

"I'm not so sure she doesn't still," I say.

Melissa fixes me with one of her stern looks. "She _never_ existed, darling. She was a figment of his imagination, a projection of all his own best qualities onto somebody else. Me. I'm happy to find that you, at least, do not suffer from that particular delusion."

She's right. Maybe the Russian machine has actually had some positive effect on me. Our food arrives, carried to us on a tray by one of the kitchen workers. We thank him.

"Well, I don't want to discuss Paul any further," Melissa says and takes up her fork. "Tell me what's going on in your life."

I tell her about events in the First National Bank yesterday and my interview this morning with Jenny Tyson.

Melissa has a firm opinion on the matter. "Why bother getting your name back? Darling, you've always hated being yourself. However despicable his motives, your father has handed you an opportunity that few of us will ever have. As Dylan would say, you're nobody's child, the law can't touch you at all. Why not reinvent yourself, start over from scratch? Become anyone you want to be?"

~ ~ ~

Friday, August 11

Handbills announcing this afternoon's demonstration have been taped to every door, column and street lamp on campus. I tear one off the vending machine that dispenses my Three Musketeers bar in the Union, ball it up and toss it in the trash.

Dr. Stevens joins me in the hallway as I unlock the Museum. "Those agents came back looking for Jane again yesterday. You have to admire their persistence. Definitely FBI. They showed me their badges, but they wouldn't say _why_ they're hunting for a certain Jason Medway. Any ideas?"

"A few," I say.

"I bet it has something to do with forgery."

"Why would you say that?"

"You look like a forger."

"What does one look like?"

"Like you." He produces one of the detestable handbills. "You going?"

"No. You shouldn't either."

"Why not?"

"I happen to know the young lady in question. She's a nice kid, and doesn't deserve to be put on display for the entertainment of prurient Ole Miss frat boys and dirty old men."

"Is she pretty?" he asks.

I open the door and start turning lights on in the Museum, without answering. I spend the morning typing syllabi for Dr. Goodleigh's upcoming fall classes, and take a break around noon to eat the cheese sandwich I've brought in and the candy bar. Becky arrives just as I finish.

"I thought we could go to Fulton Chapel together," she says.

"I'm not going. Good lord, I don't want to see Claire get busted again. And as a friend, I don't feel right about seeing her undressed, either. It doesn't seem decent."

"That's very gallant of you, I'm sure. Now get your ass out of that chair and come along. I just saw her at the Buddha, with James and his crew. They were having lunch. She looked miserable. I followed her into the ladies' room, the only way to get have a word without James overhearing."

"What did she say?"

"James has had her hidden away at some cabin near Moon Lake for several days, working on her, browbeating her into doing this stupid thing for the sake of the revolution. But she doesn't want to. And she's really scared, because Lott won't be playing around. I just drove past Fulton. Every squad car from campus is parked outside. There could be trouble. I mean it, you have to come along."

Becky is right about the campus cops. The cruisers are out front, and it looks like every single officer on the force is in the auditorium when we arrive, lining the aisles, billy clubs and handcuffs at the ready. I spot Roy Hacker, Jeb Carroll and other distinguished Oxford gentlemen assembled in the front rows, feigning righteous indignation but really here to gander at undergraduate coed flesh. Bastards.

A few moments before the curtains open, James enters from the side door to the backstage area and takes his own front row seat. Biggest bastard in the room. Professor Staples steps out to a smattering of applause and takes his place behind a small lectern. He's set up a slide projector and a screen for his lecture. The only other items on stage are an easel with a blank canvas, a pallet, brush and an empty stool where, I conclude, Claire will take her place once the talk is through.

The topic of Staples' lecture is the history of the nude in western art – not that anyone in this audience is the least bit interested, except possibly for me. I'd like his insights into Greek and Roman statuary and pottery, but Staples decides to skip antiquity altogether. He begins instead with Nicola Pisano, moving on to Leonardo, Michelangelo, Titian, and Franz Floris, with slides depicting various works of each artist.

There's a single moment of levity when Staples brings up a slide of Tintoretto's "Susanna and the Elders," the oil of lecherous old men spying on the nubile young woman at her bath, and directs it principally to the attention of "the gentlemen in the front rows." But by the twenty-minute mark into the presentation, the audience has grown restive.

Art education is not what they've come for. They want living flesh.

Staples has made his way through Gentileschi, Caravaggio and Delacroix against a rising tide of boos and insults from the audience, and has just reached the slide of Manet's "Olympia" when Roy Hacker rises to stop the show.

"Pardon me, professor," he calls with a jeer, "but I think everyone has seen just about enough of your dirty pictures for one day."

Thunders of applause and a chorus of cheers greet his interruption. This audience has grown ugly with pent-up testosterone, and I'm suddenly in fear not just for Claire's safety but for Becky's as well. There are very few females in attendance. If called upon to defend her from a mob, I'd be resoundingly outnumbered. I'm about to advise her to leave with me, _right now_ , but Staples manages to raise his voice above the noise of the crowd.

"Very well! Very well! I will dispense with the remainder of my lecture and move on immediately to our live demonstration." He leaves the lectern, approaches the easel, lifts the palette and turns to gesture to someone in the wings, out of our view. But just as he lifts his hand, the expression on his face shifts noticeably. He's seeing something he didn't expect to see. Something unanticipated has happened backstage.

But his apparent confusion passes so quickly that I doubt most of the audience has even noticed. Staples regains his composure and call out, "Will my model please join me on stage?"

There's a pause, a hesitation backstage. A hush descends on the auditorium. Staples gestures again. "Come," he says.

His model enters. But it isn't Claire.

Harley, Garrett's protégé, bounds onto stage with a single, acrobatic leap. His bathrobe swirls about his skinny frame as he lands and bows to the audience. He drops the robe, revealing all, and takes his place on the stool, posing as Rodin's "The Thinker."

The auditorium erupts in a unanimous howl of shocked protest. The frat boys cover their eyes and moan. The Oxford gentlemen scurry from their seats and up the aisle to escape the sight of the naked hippie kid.

Clemson Lott barks out an order to his men: "All right, boys, let's round 'em up."

The cops rush the stage. Harley and Staples disappear from view as they're taken into custody. James brings up the rear of the assault, raging – not over the arrests, but over the trick that's been pulled on him.

" _Where in the hell is Claire Marie_?"

The lamentations of frustrated men and boys spills out of the building along with the crowd and onto the porch and steps of Fulton Chapel. It's there I spot Garrett looking very pleased with himself. Becky's still laughing so hard that I have to support her on our way to join him.

" _You're_ behind this!" I say to Garrett.

But he demurs. "I merely assisted in the execution of it. The plan was all Harley's, and I couldn't be more proud of him."

"But where's Claire?"

"Safe. We spirited her away while the lecture is in progress. She's at Dr. Goodleigh's house, where the ladies have invited her to join their merry band."

~ ~ ~

Saturday, August 12

The dogs scamper ahead of me over the final rise before the river. We've been on the trail of a stag for a full morning, but he's managed to elude us. I pause to rest, set my bow beside a hornbeam, and am taking a last draft from my waterskin when the pack begins to bay on the other side of the rise. I lift my bow and follow.

As I step into the clearing, light reflecting from the river blinds me momentarily, but I blink into it and spot the cause of the pack's excitement.

No stag here. Instead, five women stand waist-deep several yards out in the water, bathing in a pool formed by a natural depression in the riverbed. The water turns counterclockwise about them. The dogs chase up and down the bank, barking. I raise a sharp cry and a whistle to call them off, but they continue their foolish pelting about.

"Ladies!" I call to the bathers, making a point to shield my eyes as I speak, for they are all naked. "Please forgive this intrusion on your privacy. My dogs and I have been on the hunt through this entire morning, and they are overly eager for sport. If you will suffer me to descend, eyes averted, I will call them off."

The women don't answer. I interpret their silence to be an assent and descend, still shielding my eyes and with my face turned resolutely toward the ground ahead of me, in deference to their modesty.

Well, not completely. The shoreline is rocky, the ground uneven, and in the act of traipsing across this landscape my hand moves in such a way that I catch several generous glimpses of them. All are young and beautiful, but something in the bearing of the woman who stands at the center of their fair group informs me that she is a lady and the others her servants, there to attend to her.

I bring the dogs to heel with a few harsh commands and oaths, and order them to wait for me at the top of the rise. Then, still with the pretense of averting my gaze, I bow and begin my departure from the scene.

But the lady is not deceived. Through a miscalculation on my part, her eye manages to catch mine in the act of a final furtive glance. Catches, and holds. I find suddenly that I can neither look away from her nor move from the spot where I stand.

One of the servants begins an eerie, high-pitched keening in her throat. She's joined by the others, one by one. The lady, however, makes no sound, simply holds me spellbound with an expression that strikes me as unearthly in its calm.

A sudden cruel smile now lifts corners of her mouth, and I feel the change begin. My body grows massive. I am covered in dense brown fur. My arms turn into front legs, my former legs become muscular hindquarters. My nose and mouth transmogrify into a fleshy, protruding muzzle. I feel a tingling at my skull as a rack of stately antlers completes my metamorphosis.

I have become a stag. The lady releases me from my paralysis. The keening stops. I reel a bit, dizzy in this unfamiliar new body. Unfamiliar, but not unwelcome. I am an animal with sharpened senses of sight, smell, hearing, touch. Muscles heave under my hide with every movement I make. I am taller than any man ever born. I am faster and stronger as well.

What was it about being human that I took such pride in? A man is a poor, paltry thing compared to a beast of the woods.

I find my footing and step away from the women, lordly in my stride and bearing, to return to the woods. My woods. My domain. I have become lord of the forest.

The dogs stand amazed at the sight of me. I call to them, but no words come from my mouth, only a low animal bellowing. They no longer know me as their master.

They bay and charge.

I flee.

My hooves clatter across stony ground. I'm fast, four sinewy legs moving in perfect harmony. But the dogs are just as fast.

The sound of their snarls, barks, howls and cries draw closer. And closer. I feel a nip at the heel of my left back leg. I leap to distance myself from my assailant. But he's drawn blood. I can smell it, as can they, and the scent drives the pack wild.

A second bite. This time, the jaws close, the teeth hold, and I'm trying to run with the weight of an adult hound on my leg.

I struggle. I stumble. I fall. The pack engulfs me.

And I bolt up, fully awake. I'm in the trailer. My bedroom is dark. A dream. A nightmare. My heart pounds in my ears. I fumble for the bedside lamp, but as the light comes on I realize that part of the dream continues.

Dogs. Outside. The wild dogs have returned, and they're overrunning the trailer park, howling. No way to tell how many, but they sound like dozens. But even above the din they're making, the Widow's voice sounds loud and clear:

"Git, you filthy cocksuckers!"

She fires a shot at them. The reverberation shakes my little bedroom window. The howling of the dogs grows as the blast echoes, followed by a second shot. An anguished howl from one of them reaches my ears. She's scored a hit.

I hunker beside the bed, taking shelter, and wait for more shots. What I hear instead – subtle at first, insinuating itself with the cries of wild dogs, but gradually growing more distinct, and unmistakable – is the far-away sound of a siren, a police siren growing louder as it approaches.

To my knowledge, police have never driven down Campground Road. This is a sound never heard before in these woods. Maybe it's what set the dogs off. Who knows? I can only pray that the police are on the way to rescue us.

It's only one siren, but not just a single cruiser. From the living room window I can spot a fleet of half a dozen cars pull to a stop in the center of the road. Figures emerge firing shots from their sidearms into the air. The dogs scatter and vanish into the dark woods.

I'm slipping on jeans and a t-shirt to go outside and investigate when a familiar voice comes over a bullhorn.

"Residents!" Sheriff Claprood announces. "This is an official police investigation. Step out of your front doors with your hands clasped on top of your head. Step clear of the doorway, but remain standing in this position until you're told otherwise. I have warrants for your properties, and my officers are going to conduct a routine search of each trailer. Just follow instructions, and there will be no further trouble here tonight."

I know the drill. I do as the man says. I spot the Widow, Septic System Man, the Herbicide Salesman and others already standing at attention by the time I've gotten my shoes on and step outside.

Each search lasts no longer than a minute. One by one, our residences are okayed and we're cleared to go back inside. Mine is the second-to-the-last to be inspected. Sheriff Claprood conducts the search himself, gives me a grim nod on his way in and another on his way out. I'm apparently clean, as is everyone else.

The final inspection is of the Duck's old trailer, which has been silent and empty since the confrontation there a few nights back. A few of us, the Widow included, linger outside to watch.

Five minutes or so pass before officers begin to emerge, each carrying cardboard boxes of Tupperware. That trailer is clean, too. I could have told Claprood he wouldn't find any drugs. The thug never leaves merchandise in there when he's not around.

Claprood steps out, closes the door behind him, spots our little group of gawkers, and joins us.

"Hell of a night," he comments. "You get packs like that often?"

"A few wander through most every night," the Widow says. "Never so many at once before."

He nods. "Seeing conditions around here makes a body wonder why you'd choose to live in such a hellhole."

"Our landlord isn't much interested in keeping the place up," the Widow answers.

"Well, ma'am, I wouldn't count on him doing much work around the place from now on. Your landlord's in jail for dealing drugs."

"Can't say that anyone here is going to be stunned by that news."

"No, ma'am, I don't suppose you would be. Still, you all might start casting about for a new place to live. If the charges I've brought against him stick, the state will be confiscating this property."

Wait a second. What did he just say? I've been playing dumb up to now, but the sheriff's last remark forces me to speak. " _If_ the charges stick? _If_?"

" _If_ the charges stick," Claprood repeats, "we hope to put him away for a very long time. You folks have a good evening now."

He strides off toward the officers waiting in the road.

"If?" I repeat to myself, silently. "Hope?"

I follow. Claprood hears my footsteps and turns. "I really can't tell you anything, boy," he says.

"Why not?"

"Just can't."

"Well, at least tell me what happened to my friend Harley yesterday, after the bust at Fulton Chapel."

"Lott brought him and the professor to the jail. I refused to process the professor, since delivering an art history lecture isn't a crime. With the boy . . . well, I had to charge him with something, so I've put him away on a misdemeanor charge of public indecency, much less than what Lott wanted. Five days in jail and a $250 fine, which has already been paid by an anonymous benefactor. Not to worry," Claprood adds, "we're making him comfortable as possible. That girl Lott rounded up first time around is even bringing him three meals a day, home cooked."

"Claire Marie?"

"There for all the visitor hours, too. Mooning about, all love-struck. He's her hero."

~ ~ ~

Sunday, August 13

"He going to sell the house to the Baptists?" I wonder aloud, upon hearing Garrett's news that Dr. Hirsch has directed the commune – or, more specifically, James – to leave Tyler Avenue by the start of September.

Apparently, however, most of the boys have either already left or are in the process of moving out this weekend after the historic temper tantrum that James threw Friday evening, following the debacle of his nude model protest demonstration.

Rumors of what happened that night on Tyler Avenue – which Garrett refuses either to confirm or to deny – include James' attempts to destroy his housemates' personal property (bongs, stereos, books, clothing), threats of physical violence (e.g., broken limbs, kicked asses) , actual physical violence (at least one bloody nose reported), high decibel levels of drunken shouting, random defenestrations of housemates' belongings (including Garrett's collection of albums by the Fugs being tossed from his bedroom window), repeated directives for turncoats like Garrett to proceed immediately to infernal realms, a prodigious intake of alcohol in the form of Pabst Blue Ribbon, the breaking of empty Pabst Blue Ribbon bottles against walls, quantities of spittle carelessly discharged during James' enraged rants against enemies of the revolution, and (it is also said) buckets of manly tears shed over the perfidy of his former comrades who spirited Claire away from Fulton Chapel.

"Sorry you missed it," Garrett says. "It was like something out of Sophocles. First he ordered me to move out and take Harley's shit with me. Then he told all the new kids to go, too. Then he even turned on Andrew and Cindy. Imagine, sending a pregnant woman out into the night like that."

"Not the action of a gentleman."

"Indeed, not. Dr. Hirsch didn't think so, either. That's when he decided to accept the latest offer the Baptists have made for the place, and wash his hands of the entire lot of us."

Becky and I are here at the Ohm, watching Garrett pack a few final personal items into a box. The shop is stripped bare, except for the waterbed. Jeb has reportedly sold it to some frat boy who will drain and move it to the Sigma Nu house when fall semester begins.

"What happens to all the boys now?" I want to know.

"They're clever lads," Garrett assures me. "They'll find another place to crash soon enough. Maybe your trailer park, now the crack dealers are locked up. Andrew and Cindy have been thinking about getting an apartment of their own, with the baby coming and all. He's gotten a promotion from the Math department, so they can afford something nice."

"And you?"

"Bound for Memphis. Oxford and I have come to a parting of the ways. I'll stay in town for the election, and maybe a few days beyond, depending on the outcome."

"In case Claprood wins? Do you think there's any chance?"

"A better chance than we had last week," Garrett reckons. "That bust leveled the field. Lott can't play the 'soft on hippies' card anymore. Just don't forget to vote."

"I can't," I remind him. "I'm dead."

"Mind if Daniel and I stay for a bit longer?" Becky asks as Garrett finishes packing.

"For as long as you wish. It's not my place any longer."

"Sit," Becky directs me after he's left.

I take a seat on the waterbed. Becky hops up beside me. "Sad news: I have to leave tomorrow. My sister's wedding is next Saturday, and I can't stay away from home forever."

"Too bad. We'll miss you."

She waves that aside. "Before I go, I want to say that I know your dark secret. About Melissa. Joan and Claire Marie have given me the entire history. I'm just so sorry. I know now how brave you've been about losing her. Poor Daniel, your heart must be breaking."

This is making me uncomfortable. "Listen, I really don't want to talk about Melissa."

"Of course not. It's too painful. Forgive me."

"No, not because it's painful . . . ."

"But there are ways to cure a broken heart," she interrupts. "Or at least help it mend itself." She pauses. "It's like the song says, 'If you can't be with the one you love . . . .'"

She let's the line trail off, leaving us to stare at each other. Her eyes are much too wide. I suspect mine are, too. Good lord, she means it.

She takes my hand, lies back on the mattress, and pulls me down with her. My arms fill with this soft, perfect girl, her face inches from my own, her lips slightly parted for a kiss.

This is no moment for talk. But I talk anyway. "Becky, I really do love you."

"Then do," she whispers back.

I draw away, sit up. "I can't."

She sits up as well, flashes a glum look at me. "Goddamn it. Why not?"

"It's just that . . . ."

"It's just that you see me as a child. But I'm _not_ a child. Why haven't you grasped that fact yet?"

"I know I'm going to regret this tomorrow."

"Yes, you will," Becky says. "And the day after that, and the day after that as well. Every time when you see me on the Square or around campus, you'll kick yourself and say 'Damn, I could have made love to her, right there in the Ohm.'"

"I'm sure you're right."

"But don't fret," she continues, and places a hand on my shoulder. "I'm going to give you a second chance."

"Second chance?"

"Yes. But not now. I'm going to give you exactly four years to regret your decision. By that time, I will have graduated and left Mississippi behind forever. I want to make an appointment for us to meet in Paris."

"An appointment? In Paris? France?"

"Or call it an assignation, if you will. Four years from today — August 13, 1976 — you're going to join me for a cognac at Les Deux Magots. It's the little restaurant where Simone de Beauvoir used to go to write. And James Baldwin and Albert Camus. And Hemingway and Joyce and Sartre."

"I've heard of it."

"It will become my watering hole, as well. You'll find it at 6 Place St Germain des Prés," Becky says. "But anyone in Paris can tell you where it is. I'll be there at 7:00 p.m., waiting. And I won't be a child anymore. Will you be there?"

"I will," I promise.

She rises, but pushes me back onto the bed when I try to do the same. "We should say goodbye here."

A quick peck on the cheek, Becky turns, descends the stairs, and is gone.

~ ~ ~

Monday, August 14

I'm reading Miss Fairchild's report of the Lafayette County smack bust – she seems to be working exclusively for the _Commercial Appeal_ 's regional desk now – when I hear a single set of footsteps approaching the door to Dr. Goodleigh's office.

Since Dr. Stevens has reported that the FBI agents searching for me always travel in pairs, I decide there's no point in taking the precaution to hide from this morning's visitor. It turns out to be Dr. Evans, whom I haven't seen in weeks.

"Ah, Medway," he says upon discovering me in the rocking chair with the newspaper. "I was hoping I'd find you here. Do you suppose the Museum could spare you for a few hours? I have a rather delicate task to perform, and I need assistance from someone whose discretion I can trust."

He doesn't state the exact nature of the task, but it becomes obvious the moment we arrive at his car in the Bondurant parking lot. The windows are rolled down and a heady fragrance of soured alcohol hovers about the vehicle.

Inside, unconscious, Nathan Poole lies sprawled on the back seat, filthy unkempt and softly snoring.

"Poor devil's had quite a week," Dr. Evans laments. "The sanitarium's expecting him. I phoned ahead. He'll even have his old room. I expect he'll sleep the entire way to Byhalia. But in case he wakes and attempts to struggle free, I'll need your help restraining him."

If Dr. Evans has recruited me for my muscles, he'll be sorely disappointed when I'm actually called upon to use them. "Let's hope he doesn't wake, then. Do I need to ask the cause of this relapse?"

"Probably not," Dr. Evans says. "Leanna Foster. He proposed to her, you know."

"No, I didn't know."

"It seems that something happened, Friday night before last, that persuaded him that life was too short not to declare your love when you have a chance. Some play from the Theatre department."

"I know. I was there."

"We all tried to dissuade him," Dr. Evans says. "It was much too soon for him to confess how long he's loved her. She needed to be courted first, not ambushed."

We get in, and shut the car doors as quietly as possible, to avoid waking Poole.

"The problem is," Dr. Evans continues, as we pull out of the parking lot, "that he's been obsessing about Leanna for 12 years, while in all that time she's probably scarcely paid him a second thought. One can scarcely blame her. He expected too much of her. After being in an arranged marriage to a man twice her age – and an ignorant bastard, by the way – Leanna Foster suddenly find herself free, a widow with a mansion on North Lamar, her church, social prestige . . . . Why should she give everything up for a wild poet with two ex-wives already behind him, a man she only knew casually as a friend from high school? Yes, he expected too much of her, that's all."

We drive through town in silence. But I can tell that Dr. Evans isn't done, just thinking of what he's got to say next.

"I suspect we all do that, all of us men. We expect too much of women. While they, on the other hand, wisely don't expect much of us. So they're never disappointed, you see. Because we seldom measure up even to their meager expectations."

We're driving up North Lamar, coincidentally passing by Mrs. Foster's house, as he says this.

"Meager expectations, that's the key," he says. "Walking upright. Bipedalism – a woman likes that in a man, has every right to expect it. Zipping up is important, too. A woman likes a man whose fly isn't open all the time. Not eating with our hands – using, you know, a knife and spoon. Are you taking notes, Medway? You should. This is good advice I'm passing along. Older man to younger man."

We pass the Beacon, and I spot Garrett's bus in the parking lot. Dr. Evans continues to enumerate the gentlemanly virtues that ladies have a right to include among their meager expectations of us. Not soiling ourselves. Putting the toilet seat down after a piss. Routine bathing. Properly disposing of toenail clippings.

"Okay, I get it," I finally say. "Women's expectations are low. Ours are high. So, what is it that all men expect from women?"

"We expect them to save us from ourselves. That's the great theme of western literature. Every poem, every novel, every play, every song that's ever been written by a man in this culture boils down to one of four themes, which are: #1) baby, will you save me?, #2) baby, won't you save me?, #3) baby, will you save me again?, or #4) baby, why didn't you save me?"

I attempt, as we proceed north on Highway 7 to Byhalia, to refute what I contend is a gross exaggeration, but find myself thwarted as Dr. Evans proves that each work of literature that comes readily to mind – _The Odyssey, Hamlet, Great Expectation, The Sound and the Fury_ , a few Icelandic family sagas, _The Ambassadors, Slaughterhouse Five, Middlemarch, The Great Gatsby, Jude the Obscure, Crime and Punishment_ – neatly fits into one of his four categories.

"I suppose you're right, after all," I finally admit.

"I hold a doctorate in Literature," he reminds me. "That means I'm always right."

Nathan Poole remains unconscious the entire journey, despite our learned conversation and the smoke from Dr. Evans' pipe. Once we arrive in Byhalia, two orderlies manhandle his limp body out of the back seat, deposit it in a wheelchair, and roll it toward the waiting doors of the sanitarium.

I elect to wait outside for the check-in process. The grounds are pretty, well kept, like a photo of some great old English estate: manicured lawns, trimmed hedgerows, little gardens with benches for sitting and reading, fountains. The only details out of keeping are the patients in cotton bathrobes and slippers, and the staff in hospital whites.

It must be a recreation hour. I see dozens of patients out and about, enjoying the afternoon while being carefully observed by their attendants. A few visitors, like myself, in street clothes. We appear to have full run of the grounds, so I poke about for 15 minutes or so, leisurely acquainting myself with what the place has to offer, in case I myself should ever need to return as a patient.

I've almost completed a full circuit around the main building when I'm halted by the sight of a solitary patient striding purposefully back and forth across a wide portico to a side entrance. In addition to his bathrobe and slippers, he wears a towel tied at the neck and draped over one shoulder, like a cape, and he seems to be waving an imaginary sword as he struts about.

Poor driveling madman, I think to myself. The most pathetic thing about him, I think, is the paper crown he wears on his head. Handmade, probably with rounded kindergarten scissors, crayons and Scotch tape. A child's pretend crown on the head of a delusional grown man.

It's Paul Walker, still believing himself to be a prince who's married to a faithless mermaid. Poor bastard. _Baby, why didn't you save me_?

I return to the car in time to overhear Dr. Evans in final consultation with one of the physicians. He's handing the man a typewriter case, and a ream of paper.

"Let him write as much as he wants," Dr. Evans is saying. "It's absolutely the most effective therapy he can get."

"Do you think Dr. Poole will get another book out of this experience?" I ask as we drive away.

"Absolutely. He's already completed half a dozen new pieces. All of them brilliant. His best work since _Under the Yellow Arch_. I think he'll have another lock on a National Book Awards nomination."

Dr. Evans stops for gas at a Gulf station in Holly Springs, where I buy two Cokes for us from a vending machine. We're idling at a stoplight, waiting for a green light, when something catches my eye in the parking lot of Skeeter's bar and grill, cattycorner from our current position: a 1968 green Fairlane with Louisiana plates. I ask Dr. Evans to pull to the curb, and jump out of the passenger-side door.

"What's the matter?" he asks.

"I'll be right back. Just wait for me." I sprint across the street, against traffic. Skeeter's isn't busy. Three men play pool in the back, and a half dozen more at the bar stare at a black-and-white set playing today's episode of _Love Is a Many Splendored Thing_. And another customer sits alone at a side table with a pitcher of beer in front of him.

I approach slowly. "Blake?"

He glances up. "Hi, Daniel!" His words slur, his eyes roll. "Fancy meeting you here!"

"My lord! Blake! It's really you. What are you doing here? Where have you been?"

He attempts to stand and shake my hand, but falls back into his seat. He squints one eye closed, raises an index finger. "As to your first question, my boy, the answer is: I don't know. As to your second question . . . . Wait, what was your second question?"

He leans back in his chair, takes a deep breath, and closes his eyes. He appears to be asleep. A moment later his eyes fly open.

"Daniel!" he calls out. "Oh, thank god you're still here. I have a question. Very important question. I've been meaning to ask. Sit down, for the love of Christ! I can't talk to somebody who's standing over me like a . . . like a . . . ."

I sit. "Okay, I'm here. Lower your voice, please."

He drops his voice a full octave. "I have a question to ask," he rumbles. "Please answer truthfully. And honestly. Without intent to deceive or misdirect me. Forthrightly, you understand. Give it to me straight. No dissembling."

"I get it. What's the question?"

"Did I . . . ? Did I really throw my dissertation into the Tallahassee?"

~ ~ ~

Tuesday, August 15

I'm crossing the Grove when an old friend bounds across the lawn to say hello. He's holding a Frisbee in his mouth, one that's been tossed to him by none other than Aaron Eccles.

I give Citizen's ears a good scratching (he's always loved that), take the Frisbee from him and send it on a long toss toward the Alumni House. Eccles is beaming as I join him by my favorite oak.

"Do you have any idea," Eccles asks, "how long it's been since I've thrown a Frisbee? Or played with a dog?"

"I'm surprised to find you still here. Why hasn't Claprood spirited you out of town like he promised to do?"

"My escort isn't quite ready to leave yet, is why. But he's the only man the sheriff trusts to do the job right."

"Who is this miracle man?"

"The Ranger. The sheriff says nobody can perform a vanishing act like him. The man's a legend among cops in 18 states. Nobody can track him, not even the feds. Not that they're trying to anymore."

"So in the meantime, you're enjoying the life of a typical college student."

"An experience that was stolen from me too abruptly It can't last," Eccles admits. "I know that. But I'm determined to enjoy these days while I have them. Next week, I'll be on the road again, a hunted man."

"Well, even if no one but me knows what you've done here, we're all in your debt for helping to put Oral Begley away for good."

It's dusk, the light is dying, and at first I'm not sure about the pained expression I think I spot on his face. Could just be a trick of the light. But it isn't. "The challenge is going to be _keeping_ him locked away," Eccles tells me. "Before the bust, the sheriff didn't realize how complicated Begley's network was. Hell, even I didn't grasp the full extent of it."

"This doesn't sound good," I say.

"It isn't. You see, Begley has backers. Investors. Businessmen, elected officials, people in authority who supplied information and support to the operation, in exchange for a cut in the profits. The sheriff's identified them as the same people who make out pretty well by keeping the county dry and then smuggling beer in."

"This _really_ isn't sounding good."

"Everything depends on tonight's election results. The sheriff's determined to prosecute. He's got the balls to do it. But if that campus cop wins and takes over the office, Begley's likely to walk. Even if he wanted to, the new man on the job wouldn't have the political capital to battle the fat cats who'd stand to lose from his pursuing the case."

"Shit."

"Yeah. It's not gonna' be my problem, since I'll be gone for good by then. But if I were you, I'd watch my ass pretty carefully. And continuously."

Citizen is back, waiting patiently for Eccles to stop talking and resume playing. I give his ears another good scratch and continue my walk to town. If I know Oxford, there won't be an available parking space anywhere within six blocks of the Square. It's always that way during local elections, with crowds gathered around the courthouse to get the first results from the precincts.

I discover a hubbub akin to an early county fair when I arrive. The Square is filled with people, entire families from all corners of Lafayette County drawn to town for the excitement. All the stores are open. Vendors line the sidewalk selling cotton candy, hot dogs, ice cream cones, popcorn, Cokes, rock candy, popsicles, corn dogs.

Dottie's got the record store open, but as soon as I step in I have to wonder why she'd go to the trouble. Her inventory's shrunk to practically nothing. The shelves are mostly bare.

Ho rushes forward to greet me. We exchange a big hug and she seizes my hand to lead me back to Dottie's office, from where I smell a familiar fragrance and hear familiar voices.

"Uncle Daniel!" Garrett calls as I enter. He's in a swivel chair with his feet propped up on the desk, a spectacularly fat joint of Rebel Red in hand. Miss Fairchild sits to his right, Dottie to the left. They're stoned out of their gourds.

"You disappointed me Sunday, as I'm sure you're aware by now," Garrett says and passes the joint to me. "All that sweet little girl wanted was some tender loving, but you had to go and act noble on her. For shame."

Dottie makes a "mmm-mmm-mmmh" sound of agreement. Miss Fairchild wears a glazed expression and is probably not attending to the conversation.

I take a drag and pass the joint on to Ho. "So, I'm assuming there was a plan and you were in on it."

"Your attempted seduction," Garrett informs me, "was a combined strategic masterpiece of all the ladies at Dr. Goodleigh's house. I was merely brought in to facilitate. I hear there was much wailing, gnashing of teeth and rending of garments when Becky returned with the unhappy news. Everybody was rooting for you to act like a cad for once."

"Surprised to find you in here," I reply. "Shouldn't you be out there canvassing the neighborhoods, driving in little old ladies from the sticks to vote for Claprood?"

"Goes to show how much you know. Polls closed almost an hour and a half ago, fool. The little ballot boxes have been delivered to the courthouse, where even as we speak a crack team of county officials with rudimentary mathematical skills are tabulating the final count."

"Is she going to be able to write her story when the results are in?" I ask of Miss Fairchild.

"If need be, I can write it for her."

"Might as well close up," Dottie concludes once we've finished the joint. "No customers. Nothing much left to buy anyhow. Imagine being forced out of business by my own boys. Well, they always were a pair of little shits."

Night has arrived in its fullness. The sidewalks are busy. Ho takes Dottie's hand and then my own, positioned between us as we wade into the crowd gathered at the south balcony of the courthouse where the clerk of court will soon announce the election results. But before that can happen, there's a disturbance – a great deal of shouting and people dashing about behind us. Then word passes through the assembly of a mishap that's just taken place in one of the shops.

Something about water. Something about a flood. Something about the Carroll Brothers' appliance store. Dottie, who's just finished bad-mouthing her sons, charges through the crowd to the scene of the accident. We slosh through streams of water running from the open door into the street. Inside, the ceiling of the Carroll brothers' shop has collapsed onto a display of Kenmore ranges.

Something that looks like a big gray tarp hangs atop the water-soaked appliances. It takes me a moment to see it for what it actually is – the deflated waterbed from the Ohm.

Jeb is milling about, surveying the damaged, drenched. Nobody was injured, fortunately, but he seems dazed. The fire marshal, who's out on the Square tonight with the other citizens, wades into the store, performs a quick inspection, and delivers an official announcement of what everybody already has surmised: that the weight of the waterbed finally had finally weakened the joists enough to cause them to give way.

"I warned you that contraption was too heavy for that upstairs floor," he says to Jeb, who seems to be in a mood to argue.

"Bullshit! The architect said it was fine. Besides, the bed's been up there over a year without the first sign of trouble. Why would it up and collapse now?"

"I don't know, Jeb. Maybe it was leaking. If water soaked into the joists, that might have weakened them."

"But there hasn't been any water," Jeb protests. "We would have seen water dripping down here."

"Not necessarily. The way these tin ceilings are laid out, they can create channels. Water might have run off into the walls without your knowing."

Jeb turns to Garrett. "You noticed any leaking?" he demands.

"No, sir, I haven't."

"Wouldn't have needed to be a _big_ leak," the fire marshal counsels. "Even a pinprick might do sufficient damage, given enough time."

"Well . . . a pinprick," Garrett says. "You're right – I might not have noticed that. Come to think about it, though, the mattress seemed a mite bit softer than usual the past week or so. I suppose it must have been leaking. Gosh, I'm so sorry! Just look at this mess."

Of course, Garrett isn't sorry. Not one bit. He planned for this to happen. I know it from his tone of voice, from his body language. Dottie knows it. Jeb is too stupid and too upset to suspect it yet, but I decide to remove Garrett, Miss Fairchild and Ho from the wreckage before the thought has a chance to occur to him.

We exit just as a cheer, mixed with pockets of booing, rises from the crowd. A spotlight aimed at the balcony gives a clear view of the clerk's back as she slips into the courthouse.

Garrett grabs the attention of a group of men standing nearby. "Excuse me – we missed the announcement. What did she say?"

"She said it was a close one. Only 97 votes separating 'em."

"But who won?"

"Who won? Chief Lott. No surprise, except that the margin was so thin."

~ ~ ~

Wednesday, August 16

"I'll have an ice cream sandwich and an orange push-up," I say to Blake when he arrives at the Museum.

Joan is right beside him. "Don't let Daniel tease you," she counsels, stopping him to adjust his necktie. "You look very distinguished."

Blake's wearing my white suit, the one I somehow acquired during my time in St. Louis, and it makes him look like a Good Humor Man. Most of his own clothes have mysteriously vanished during his summer wanderings, so I've offered to let him keep it. That would be appropriate because I've also spent the last of the cash I received on my trip to pay for getting Blake's dissertation re-typed.

"I feel like I should be leading a racehorse and holding a mint julep," Blake complains. "Well, at least it will give the committee something to laugh about."

Joan tugs at the knot in his tie, steps back to examine him and gives it another tug, not satisfied. "Well, that would be nice, wouldn't it? Some of these professors cut their vacations short just to come in today for your oral defense. As a favor to you." A thought seems to occur to her. Joan turns to me with an anxious expression. "Please tell me that you got it."

I gesture to the box containing the dissertation. "Everything's accounted for. I double-checked."

"Blake," she prompts, "what do you say to Daniel?"

It isn't necessary for him to say anything at all, and I try to wave Joan off from making him. The poor guy is embarrassed over all the fuss everyone's been making since his return, all the effort to arrange his defense, award the doctorate (retroactively, to June), and get him to Tulane in good standing. No one informed his new chairman down there that anything had gone awry with Blake's defense, so the Tulane faculty has all along been expecting him to take his post in September.

"I'll pay you back, man," is all Blake can manage to get out.

"No way. I'm officially a poor man again. Don't even think about depriving me of that satisfaction."

Joan glances at the Museum clock. "Time to go," she says. It's almost 4:00. "Remember, you're joining us for drinks and dinner at the Holiday Inn when Blake finishes."

"I'll wait right here," I say. "Good luck."

As they depart, I notice that she's the one who carries the dissertation, not trusting it to Blake. But the History offices are only one floor down from us. Nothing can happen to it in that short a walk. Right? After maybe 15 seconds of indecision, I decide to follow them, just to be certain they reach their destination without any quirky interventions of fate.

But as I reach the stairway and begin to descend the steps, I meet two men on their way up. Both lean. Both mid-40s in appearance. Both with crew cuts and sunglasses. The only noticeable difference between them is that the one on my right wears a dark blue suit, almost black, while the other's suit is charcoal gray.

We all pause, momentarily. I try to pretend not to notice them and continue my descent. They stay where they are and wait to speak until I've drawn abreast of them.

"Jason Medway?" the one in the gray suit says. "Jason Daniel Medway? Federal officers. We have a few questions for you."

~ ~ ~

Thursday, August 17

"Save your breakfast roll for a snack later," Harley advises me. "Wrap it in the paper napkin and put it in your pocket."

Claprood thoughtfully assigned me to Harley's cell yesterday after agents Martinez and Royce brought me in for holding. Harley's been here in the Lafayette County jail since Friday, serving his sentence for public indecency, which concludes at the end of the business day today. He considers himself a salty old dog of incarceration, but he's really more of a pest.

Still, I'm grateful not to be sharing space with some of the other inmates I've spotted, all of whom look like they could snap me in two if they wished to, and would probably in fact wish to.

No sign of Begley and his crew. Possibly they're being held in another part of the jail, for the serious prisoners. Like Harley, I am not a serious prisoner – not yet. At the moment, I'm being held on suspicion of being a draft dodger, but I can tell from the agents' questioning that it's a suspicion amounting almost to a conviction.

Though I refused to acknowledge my identity as Jason Medway – refused, in fact, to answer any questions that they posed to me at all – my fingerprints will confirm what they already suspect. Because of field protocol, though, my prints had to be sent to the Jackson office for identification instead of to Memphis, a delay that will buy me a little more time before being handed over to the feds.

Claprood tells me that Joan and Blake were the first to hear of my plight. Dr. Stevens had seen me being led away, and informed them when they arrived at the Museum to fetch me for dinner. But Jenny Tyson, as my attorney, is the only person I'm allowed to see.

"You're potentially looking at a five-year prison term, and a $75,000 fine," she reports.

"I don't have $75,000," I say. "But I guess I have five years. Do you think you can get the court to settle for that?"

"I can't agree to take your case," Jenny says. "You need a much more experienced attorney for a crime of this magnitude. Maybe your father would . . . ?"

I shake my head, an emphatic no. "You might say I'm dead to him."

"Well, I'll check around. But on the realistic side, your situation might not be as bad as it seems to you right now. The war is winding down. The public doesn't care about it anymore. It's almost never on the evening news. I personally doubt anyone cares to go to the trouble or the expense of prosecuting you."

"What, then?"

"The judge will offer you the chance to voluntarily enlist, for a four-year hitch. Take that offer. The military brass will single you out, of course. You'll be treated like shit, given the worst tours they can devise, probably jungle patrols until the conflict finally ends. But you can survive that. You might even make a good soldier. Who knows? You don't really seem to have any other career prospects at the moment."

"You're a terrible lawyer," I say as she gathers her papers to depart. "Do you know that?"

"You're a terrible client," she replies and leans down to kiss me on the cheek. "So we're evenly matched."

As the interview room door closes behind her, I realize she may be the last woman to kiss me, without being paid to do so, for the next four years. That prospect depresses me even more than a four consecutive tours of duty patrolling the jungle.

I'm left alone in the room for a good 15 minutes. Claprood enters, closes the door behind him, takes a seat across the table from me.

"Hell of a mess you've gotten yourself into. As a patriot and a veteran myself, I have no sympathy with anyone who's evaded the draft. As a friend . . . well, that's a different matter."

"I _did_ report for induction," I tell him. Not that I feel any need to defend myself, only that I don't want our final conversation to be over a misunderstanding. "But notification of my death reached them beforehand. The staff sergeant in charge didn't want the hassle or the paperwork he would have needed to correct the mistake, so he ordered me to leave. I suppose I could have argued with him, but I chose to interpret his attitude as a divine intervention."

Claprood nods. "I suppose you had cause, then. It's a stupid war anyway."

"I was sorry to hear about the election," I tell him. "But you've got to know this town doesn't deserve you. You're too good for them."

"Kind words, and I thank you for them," he says. "I just came in to let you know that I've received orders to prepare you for transport at 1:00 p.m. It's a little past 11:00 now. A deputy will return you to the cell to wait." He rises. "Oh, I've been ordered not to admit visitors. But you've got a lot of friends hanging out in the lobby. They started arriving late last night, and refuse to leave. I imagine you feel pretty alone right now. But you're really not."

The cell is empty upon my return, Harley having been taken out to perform some kind of community service as part of his sentence. In fact, I appear to be the only prisoner in the entire cell block. I sit on my bunk and wallow in self-pity. This is the most miserable day of my life, certain to be followed by another even more miserable than this, and one beyond that, and beyond that, and beyond that, and beyond that.

I'm not very good at doing math in my head, but I try multiplying 365 times 4 and come up with a number: 1400 plus straight days of loneliness, misery. And no chance even to say goodbye to anyone.

A tear wells in my left eye. I blink it away. Another follows on the right. I blink again, but my vision doesn't clear this time. The space before me, between where I sit and the wall, looks distorted. It seems to be brightening, shifting, bending.

All at once, Melissa takes shape beside me. Her lovely face brims with compassion. Iron bars may keep the others out, but she's made it through, astral projecting herself into my cell to be with me.

I reach out to her, but my hand passes through empty space. She extends a hand toward mine, her brave smile encouraging me to be brave as well.

We sit that way, staring into one another's eyes, until eventually Melissa fades out. The psychic energy for this kind of projection is impossible to sustain for long.

And I'm exhausted. I stretch out full on the cot, position my left arm over my tear-streaked eyes to block out the light, and escape into sleep.

Deep. Dreamless. But not long enough. Nowhere near long enough.

The cell door swings open and I start awake. My head aches, my vision is cloudy, and I feel myself to be moving in a sort of unreal slow motion.

Claprood enters the cell, stands above me, and hands me a sealed brown envelope.

"Your personal effects," he says. "Wallet, car key, watch, Bic pen, $2.37 in cash. Thought I'd spare you the trouble of waiting at the front desk for them. Awful crowded out there." He grins at me. "You're free to go."

I stare up at him blankly, turn my attention to the envelope, turn it over in my hands, open the little metal clasp on the flap, dump its contents on the mattress, and stare up at him blankly again.

"You're free to go," he repeats. "I'll give you a minute to pull yourself together." He exits, leaving the cell door open behind him.

Mrs. Foster is the first familiar face I see as I step into the lobby. Mrs. Sutherland is with her, and Dr. Sutherland, who smiles and pats my shoulder as I pass. Jenny appears and takes her place at my side. "As your attorney," she says in a low voice, "I advise you not to say a word, not until you fully understand your situation."

Garrett is here. Miss Fairchild. Nick and Suzie, with little Samuel. Cindy. Andrew. Dr. Evans and Mrs. Giordano. The Widow. Claire. Ho. Tiger and Jimmy. Dottie. Blake. Joan. Dr. Hirsch. The Ranger. Hell, even Dr. Stevens has shown up. Almost everyone, it seems, that I know in Oxford is here. I pass among them like walking through a gallery of portraits. Now I'm facing the door to the outside. It's bright out there, dazzling with early afternoon sun. It opens, Jenny and I pass through, and step onto a long straight sidewalk leading to the street traffic on North Lamar.

A car waits for me, pulled up and idling beside the curb. It's a black Lincoln Continental. The passenger side door swings open. I glance at Jenny. She nods. "It's okay," she says. "Get in."

I slip into the seat, close the door. "Where are we going?" I ask Skoll.

He pulls into the flow of traffic. "I take you home. You've had hard couple of days, look like _sheet_. Could use rest. But I think we stop at snow cone stand on vay, get two raspberries. My treat. You bought last time."

"I assume you're the one responsible for my rescue?"

"I produced death certificate for the authorities, document that Jason Medway the fifth passed away in Virginia, over year ago. You are merely unbalanced boy who assumed his identity, playing cruel deception on grieving family, extortion possible motive." He gives me a shrewd glance. "Extortion wery ugly crime. You should be ashamed."

"Thank you."

"Doing my job, only. No sentiment inwolved. Papa vants you to stay dead. Can't be dead if being prosecuted for crime."

"Thank you anyway."

"Velcome, I am sure. Also, have this for you." He reaches into his suitcoat pocket for a thick envelope, which he hands me. A wad of bills inside.

"What is this?"

"Your money. From bank box. Vhat does it look like?"

"Like I told you last Christmas, I don't want this."

"Like I told you last Chreestmas, I don't care. Ees yours. You find something good to do vith it, eh?"

~ ~ ~

Friday, August 18

Blake takes a long look at Aaron Eccles, asleep on the couch.

Eccles arrived at the trailer sometime after midnight, woke me up. We didn't talk for more than a few minutes, but I gathered that Claprood and the Ranger had advised him to crash here after another troop movement swept along Highway 6 during the early hours of Thursday morning, while I was still in jail. Their thought was the trailer park would be the last place anyone would look for him, following last weekend's bust of the place, as well as being an ideal point of departure when the time comes for his escape.

"He looks haggard," Blake remarks now.

"He's had a rough couple of years," I say.

"Who is he?"

"Tamburlaine."

"No, really."

"Really," I reply.

"If you say so. I'm off." Blake steps over Flop and hefts a Glad trash bag packed with belonging over his shoulder. He's headed to New Orleans to search for an apartment. "Wish me luck finding a place."

"Make sure there are no demons in it," I advise. "Is Joan going with you?"

"I asked her to. I'd feel better not having to pick a place using my own judgment, but she wants to have a few more days with Melissa, who I'm told is flying out to join her husband on Sunday."

This comes as news to me. I shower, get dressed, and leave a note for Eccles telling him he's welcome to anything in the fridge or the cupboards, adding that I'll be back around 6:00 with more supplies.

The Widow is sitting on a lawn chair outside her trailer. She raises a percolator that she's warming on a little Coleman stove beside her by way of invitation, so I join her for a cup of coffee.

"How does it feel to be a free man?" she asks.

"I've been pondering that," I say. "Which state has the motto 'Live Free or Die'?"

"New Hampshire," the Widow answers. "The Granite State. Capital is Concord, but Manchester is its largest city. It contains 9,351 square miles. The purple finch is the state bird, and its major products are textiles and lumber. Geography was my favorite subject back in school," she adds as I gaze in wonder at her erudition.

"Right, New Hampshire. Live free or die. Well, it occurred to me sometime last night as Blake and I were finishing his 108.4 proof bottle of Wild Turkey that I may be the only man alive who doesn't have to make that choice. Live free or die is a false dilemma to me. I can die and still live free."

"I suppose you're right," the Widow says. "Which would also make you an ideal husband for me. Since you're already dead, marrying me wouldn't be able to kill you."

"Is that an offer?"

She salutes me with her coffee cup. "You could do a hell of a lot worse."

"And you could do a hell of a lot better," I add.

"Think it over, boy. If you want to come courting, you ought to know that I'm partial to carnations and never met a Whitman's Sampler I didn't like."

We fall into a reverie with this exchange, but it doesn't last long. My ears pick up a distant thudding noise from off to the north of us. It quickly grows louder. It just as quickly becomes almost deafening. We both set down our coffee cups and turn our faces to the sky just before a fleet of helicopters passes overhead, no more than a hundred feet above us. I feel a shock wave from their rotors and lose count of them at 15.

"Goddamn army," she says after they've passed by. "Why do they have to choose the worst heat spell of the year to invade us again?"

"They're all Yankees, and therefore don't have the good sense that God gave 'em to stay in the shade during weather like this."

On my drive into campus, the weather report on the radio announces a current temperature of 89 with a high of 102 expected. I reach Dr. Goodleigh's office, but decide against opening the Museum. The space will stay cooler, and the air conditioners won't need as much juice, if the doors stay closed.

I roll a fresh stencil into Dr. Goodleigh's office typewriter and am almost done with the first page of her Greek Mythology syllabus. I'm so focused on the task that I apparently do not hear the sound of several footsteps approaching, and become aware of my visitors only when one taps on the door jamb and clears his throat.

I glance up. Dean Moriarty gazes down at me with a stern expression. I catch sight of Dr. French trailing behind him, and a campus cop bringing up the rear.

"Good morning, sir," I say pleasantly, hopeful for the best. "You're here to see Dr. Goodleigh? She's scheduled to return to town tomorrow, and will likely be back in the office Monday."

"I don't understand you," he replies.

"I said she'll be back Monday," I repeat.

"I really don't understand you at all."

"You _don't_?"

"I do not."

"Wow."

"I don't understand how anyone could be so wantonly cruel. So transparently self aggrandizing. So criminally disrespectful."

It occurs to me that Moriarty appears to be accusing me of something. I decide not to answer, in hopes that what he says next will clarify his intentions. It does.

"I didn't know Jason Medway as a student . . . ," he continues.

"I was in your Botany 150 class," I say.

". . . but I understand he was a fine young man, as well as being a scholar and a writer of some promise. For you to come to this campus impersonating him, bringing disgrace on his name and grief to his family . . . well, I just don't understand it."

Aha, I see the nature of the misunderstanding. "Excuse me, sir, but I'm only technically dead. I can still do my job. I'm Jason Medway, though I go by my middle name, Daniel. Dr. French can identify me."

"I cannot, sir," French says.

"What do you mean? I majored in your department. I had you for Advanced Composition, British Survey 1, Shakespeare and Victorian Novels."

"I can't be expected to remember every damn student who's ever claimed to take one of my classes. In any case, I don't know you."

" _Neither_ of us knows you," Moriarty adds. He's not a very effective at telling lies. His eyes get all piggy and his neck turns red when he tries. "You are an impostor and a trespasser. This officer will conduct you off campus. You are forbidden to return, under penalty of law."

"Not so fast. I can prove who I am. Here's my drivers license."

"Forged document. You've managed to weave quite the intricate web of lies."

"Eyewitness, then. Call Dr. Evans in. Call Dr. Sutherland. They'll identify me."

"I will do no such thing. Officer," Moriarty directs, "escort this impostor off campus."

I rise, lift my hands palms out, and yield to superior force. "I'm going," I say. "But I will be back."

"I don't think so," Moriarty replies.

~ ~ ~

Saturday, August 19

"I obviously," Dr. Goodleigh observes, "cannot leave town for extended stays."

She's back from Turkey, and she looks wonderful, all tan from a summer in the sun among the ruins of Hisarlik. Her hair has been cropped, and no longer falls between her shoulder blades to the small of her back. The cut makes her look five years younger.

"I find my home turned into a sorority house – how many girls were bunking here? four? five? – and my back yard the site of a hippie jamboree."

Garrett and the other boys who were turned out of Tyler Avenue, it seems, borrowed a big tent from someone, pitched it out back, and have been camped out since the start of the week. Their refugee camp, they assure Dr. Goodleigh, is temporary. They'll be out by Wednesday, when a new place they're renting on Madison Avenue will come available, though Garrett won't be moving with them, departing instead for Memphis.

"Perry Claprood's been voted out of office. Nathan Poole is back in the sanitarium. The Ohm has collapsed. Dottie's shop has nothing left to sell. And now you announce that you've been declared dead. Dead! So how is that supposed to work? Are you still enrolled in the program? Are you still working at the Museum?"

"Moriarty seems to believe he's licked me this time," I admit. "Maybe he has. If I insist that I'm who I claim to be and that I'm still alive, it might trigger new inquiries from the FBI. I'm sure the Lyceum would be glad to call them back in. And then where would I be?"

We're sitting together at her kitchen table. Everyone else is out back, although I can't understand how they can bear the heat. The thermometer on the porch reads 101. Still, the boys are throwing a barbecue – hot dogs, hamburgers, store-bought potato salad, chips – as a welcome home party, to thank Dr. Goodleigh for her hospitality.

She leans back in her chair, crosses her arms and gives me one of her steady, critical looks. "Where will you be?" she asks. "Where are you _now_? Not in a good place. It may feel like a relief to be nobody for a while, but you can't live for very long without an identity."

"I'm thinking maybe identities are overrated. I could manage without one, just hang around town, pick up painting and typing jobs, maybe deliver some pizzas, always ask for payment in cash. My needs are simple. I could make enough to get by, and use my spare hours on Herodotus, maybe even get some writing done. Oxford already has a town drunk and a village idiot. I'd be the town monk."

"That's the most depressing plan I've ever heard."

"Not depressing," I counter. "Challenging. I'd just have to live by my wits. How many years did old Odysseus manage it?"

"Old Odysseus had old Athena to help him out. You happen to know any goddesses?"

"A few. Sometimes I think too many."

"In any case, that was a story. This isn't. Your life is real."

"Why doesn't if feel that way?"

She sighs, frustrated. "You need a man to talk some sense into you. Bill and Eve Sutherland are on their way over. Ask _him_ what you ought to do."

The boys have filled a galvanized steel tub with ice and beer out back, inside their tent. Harley hales me as his old cellmate when I come outside to check the progress of the barbecue, and offers me a can of Budweiser.

"Aren't you guys worried about a bust?"

"No more beer busts, brother," he assures me. "Claprood's out."

"Still sheriff for a few more days," I say, "before Lott's sworn in."

I accept the beer, nevertheless. It helps with the heat, and goes down smoothly. I'm fishing in the frigid tub for a second one when Joan passes by with a bag of Fritos she snagged from the picnic supplies.

"Put that away," she says. "What are you doing up here anyway? The grownup party is in the ravine."

I follow her past the hedge that borders Goodleigh's yard and along a narrow path that snakes down the steep hillside to the bottom of the ravine. The air is surprisingly cool here in the dense shade. Joan leads me to a clearing where I discover Melissa and Garrett lighting a fresh joint of Rebel Red on a plaid picnic blanket.

"Munchies!" Garrett exclaims upon catching sight of the Fritos. "You are indeed an angel."

I take a seat opposite them, with Joan beside me. Melissa graces me with her trademark Attic smile. "Nice to see you at liberty," she says.

"Thank you for the visit. Melissa's astral body joined me in the cell, while the rest of you were kept out in the waiting room," I tell Joan and Garrett.

"It was one of the cardinal acts of mercy, darling. Visit the imprisoned. Clothe the naked. Feed the hungry. I forget what the others are, but I'm determined to practice them all as a way to atone for past sins."

Another fleet of helicopters passes overhead. We can't see them through the trees, but they make enough noise to make further conversation impossible for a minute. Garrett lights the joint, takes a hit and passes it to Melissa. She continues to smile at me as she inhales. We seem to be sharing some private joke, but I can't imagine what it might be.

I reach into my back pocket for Skoll's envelope as the noise of the rotors finally dies away in the distance. I hand it to Garrett. "This is for you and Miss Fairchild."

His eyes widen when he discovers what's inside. "Aren't you going to need it?"

"Probably. But I don't want it."

"I don't know how to repay you."

"Come to the trailer for breakfast tomorrow morning," I say. "There's someone I want you to meet. Maybe you'll publish his story in your first issue."

Joan's been holding her breath after the last toke. She exhales. "All right, we're all thinking the same thing. If none of you is willing to say it, I will."

"Don't say it," Melissa urges her.

"I have to. How many times have the four of us sat around like this, sharing a joint or a bottle of wine?"

"Or both at the same time," Garrett adds.

"But now's probably the last time we'll do this. Everyone's headed off in a different direction. To different places. Memphis, Germany, New Orleans."

"And I," Melissa says, "refuse to indulge in the sentimentality of goodbyes. I plan to pay visits to each one of you whenever the mood strikes me, no matter where you are."

"She means it," I affirm. "She knows some kind of trick."

"The 'trick,' darling, is realizing that space — and time, incidentally — is an illusion. Nothing can keep us apart, separate from one another. You're always one thought away from me. I'm forever one thought away from you."

Garrett giggles. Melissa shoots him a look of disapproval.

"We're all thoughts in the mind of God," she adds. Then she tilts her head, considering what she just said, and giggles too.

Garrett falls backward to the ground with one of his cackles of laughter. "You're stoned! Two hits off that joint and you're already stoned!"

Actually, I believe I'm stoned, too. This is some powerful product. If it's any indication of this season's crop, Rebel Red is going to have a banner year.

"I'm a million years old and I can remember dinosaurs," Garrett claims.

"I believe you," Melissa says.

"May you be stoned ceaselessly."

The two of them giggle in harmony. Joan begins to giggle. I join them. We all lie down on the blanket in the clearing of Dr. Goodleigh's ravine, head to head in a human + sign. The joint passes from hand to hand. The trees rise above us all the way to the sky, and capture it in an embrace with their canopy. Our laughter fills the woods.

~ ~ ~

Sunday, August 20

"What about the reliquary of Saint Agustollus?" Garrett asks Eccles.

Their interview has gone on for almost two hours now. I've served them fried eggs, orange juice, a package of cinnamon rolls from the Jitney, and coffee. Eccles has eaten everything placed before him, but Garrett's scarcely touched his breakfast. Too preoccupied taking notes. The true history of Tamburlaine will be the lead story of his first issue.

"Another invention by the guys who created the comic book," Eccles says. "Those boys were on some righteous acid."

"We both happen to know a head who thinks he's in possession of it," I say.

"Really?" Garrett asks. "Who's that?"

"Alfalfa. That's why he thinks the devil is chasing him."

"I don't know anyone named Alfalfa," Eccles says, "but if you're talking about a goofy kid with big ears and a cowlick, then yeah . . . he was pestering me in a diner one night in Montana, wanted to be my sidekick. I handed him an old rusted heat box from a Volkswagen I found behind the building when I went out to take a leak. I told him it was the reliquary, said I needed him to keep it safe for me."

"Poor bastard's been guarding it with his life, man. And he thinks the devil has been chasing him across the country."

"The devil might be," Eccles says. "He's not terribly smart. He follows all of his press, and probably believes most of what he reads."

"You're saying you've met the devil?"

"Who hasn't?"

One final question from Garrett, not to be included in the story: "When are you hitting the road again?"

"Soon as Chapman says it's safe."

"Who's Chapman?"

"I think some people call him the Ranger."

I step out with Garrett when he's finished the interview. Standing on the doorstep is like standing in the mouth of a blast furnace. It's as hot a day as I can ever remember, the sun merciless in a sky clear of even a hint of cloud, and the locusts drumming loud in that way they do only on days when the temperature's topped 100. It's not even noon yet.

This is Eccles' third day of confinement, and the stress of having nothing to do except hide and wait is starting to tell on him. He alternates between spells of jittery excitement and depressed lassitude, with intervals of jittery lassitude and depressed excitement.

I sort of regret never having gotten that television set I'd promised the demons. It's Sunday, so there's got to be a game on that might provide some diversion for him. There's always a game on Sunday . . . but don't expect me to know what. Baseball or football or stickball or bowling or golf or fishing or pole climbing. Curling. Ping-pong. Hog wrestling. Something that normal American males find captivating.

All I have are books and records, neither of which seem to interest him. If he were only permitted to leave the trailer, I'd suggest a movie or a trip to Skeeter's. Instead, we sit inside and listen to the air conditioner groan under the demands of trying to keep the space cool.

Flop occasionally rolls over and farts.

"I haven't seen that cat budge from that spot the whole time I've been here," Eccles remarks. "What do you have her for?"

"At first, we got her because of mice."

"Oh. Well, I guess I haven't seen any mice, have I? Well done, cat."

"She doesn't catch them, though. We have visiting cat who pops in every few weeks to exterminate them. Flop's just decorative. She sort of pulls the room together."

When 4:00 rolls around, I offer to drive up to the corner shop and bring us each back . a snow cone. "What flavor would you like?"

"What do they have?"

"They have everything. And more. Eighty-something varieties. It may be the greatest snow cone shop in America. I mean that. It's the culinary highlight of the entire state of Mississippi. Name a flavor, any flavor."

Eccles begins guessing the standards — cherry, apple, lemon, lime, lemon-lime, orange, pineapple. Yes, yes, yes, they have all those. Strawberry? Blueberry? Blackberry? Boysenberry?

"You can just skip the berries," I tell him. "In fact, skip all the fruits. And the blends, too. You already know they have cherry and banana, so of course they offer cherry-banana. Be more creative."

Still he persists naming a few out-of-the-way fruits (pomegranate, mango, guava, kiwi), before he gets down to business. Coffee, butterscotch and spearmint. Yes, yes, yes. As well as mai tai, cotton candy, chocolate, daiquiri, and root beer. Bubble gum, cinnamon, and pina colada.

He's running out of choices. "Red wine!" he says. "Cucumber! Avocado! Peanut butter! Red Hots! Tapioca!" He produces each triumphantly, certain he's hit upon a flavor not on the menu. Each time, he's disappointed. His eyes shift, take on a cunning cast. He thinks he has me: "Dill pickle."

"Specialty of the house," I tell him. "We southerners do love our pickles."

"Then bring me back one of those. It'll be something to remember this place by."

The car's interior is blistering hot. I curse myself for lacking the foresight to lower the windows earlier. I have to remove my t-shirt and use it like an oven mitt even to touch the steering wheel, and drive to the snow cone shop shirtless, like a genuine redneck.

I cover back up when I arrive at the shop, which has a long line of waiting customers, more than I've ever seen gathered here before. Something's odd about the group. They're all men. All in their 20s and 30s. All with extremely good posture and clean, new clothing. All with military-style crew cuts.

Troops, I realize, probably off those helicopters, attempting without much success to pass themselves off as locals and infiltrate the countryside in their search for Tamburlaine.

I stand out among them like a macaw in a murder of crows. My instincts tell me to bolt and run, but my better judgment advises me to take my place in line and brazen my way through.

When my turn at the window arrives, I order one black cherry and one dill pickle cone, pay the man and hurry back to my car. The soldiers, who are loitering about to eat their cones in the parking lot, regard me with mild curiosity: one boy with two cones, and no passenger to share with.

The 90-second drive back home deals a major blow to the structural integrity of the snow cones, which have largely melted by the time I close the trailer door behind me. I hand Eccles his cone, and decide against mentioning the scene at the shop.

"What in the hell is this?" he asks of the off-green mound of ice before him.

"Dill pickle."

"What? You really got dill pickle for me? I thought you were lying about a pickle cone. I thought I was calling your bluff."

I extend my black cherry to him in an offer of exchange. "Trade. I like the pickle. And I don't know how to bluff."

~ ~ ~

Monday, August 21

"Take any of 'em you want," Dottie tells me. "Take them all."

The Nickelodeon's inventory has been winnowed to a stack of nine albums – _L.A.Woman, Who's Next, Led Zeppelin IV, Eat a Peach, School's Out, Ziggy Stardust, Exile on Main Street_ and _Aqualung_ – most of which I already own. The others don't appeal to me.

She sets the stack just outside the front door of the shop and pauses momentarily on the threshold to take a last look at the empty, darkened Nickelodeon.

"Well, it's been fun. All good things must come to an end."

"I feel the lights are going out all across Oxford," I say. Odd that I'm the only one here to witness this historic closing. "A dark age comes creeping upon us."

"A good time to get the hell out of town," she agrees. "I'm lucky to have a place to get away to, far from the grasp of Sheriff Lott and the Baptist mafia that's running things now."

"Have you thought about where you plan to live in Memphis?" I ask

Garrett has recruited her to come aboard as business manager for the free press and to manage the rock reviews, concert coverage, and interviews that will comprise a large part of every issue. He's decided that nobody knows rock better than a 72-year-old grandmother.

"Time enough for that later," she answers. "I've got to come up with a good name for my monthly column first."

"Ask Garrett for help on that. He created some interesting names for the student magazine, none of which we got to use. 'Interstate Orgasm' was my favorite."

"Hmmm. It doesn't really have a rock feel to it, does it?"

"Just a suggestion."

I've walked her to her car in the Episcopal parking lot. She gives me a hug. "Keep an eye on the town for me. Come visit and bring me news as often as you like."

The sun is brutal out in the open. I keep in shade as much as I can on my way back to the Square. The quick glance of the weather map I caught earlier in today's _Commercial Appeal_ showed a high pressure dome sitting right atop Memphis and north Mississippi, with a cold front trying to descend from the northwest, the two opposing fronts wreaking havoc with afternoon and evening storms across much of Arkansas and southern Missouri.

Having forgotten my hat back in the trailer, I'm bareheaded today, and I can feel the sun putting its full weight on the top of my scalp. Only a few people are out and about at this hour. The few ladies I've seen have had the good sense to carry a parasol, including the one who's approaching me from the other end of the sidewalk.

Her parasol is dark red, decorated with black polka dots, a little like a ladybug. She's holding it titled to block the oncoming sunlight as she walks, at an angle that prevents me from seeing her face until we start to cross paths. Lo and behold, it's Mrs. Foster.

I tell her that I'm now available full-time for painting jobs, and ask her to recommend me to all her friends.

"My goodness, that comes as a shock. You're no longer with the Museum?" She immediately corrects herself. "I'm sorry. That's really none of my business."

"It's okay. I didn't get fired or anything. Just some glitch in my personnel file that's listed me as dead."

"I'll bet a computer is to blame. I hate those machines. They're forever making mistakes, but they're turning up in everything these days. But may I ask you . . . ?" She trails off, uncertain about something.

"You may ask me anything at all."

"Have you . . . have you seen Nathan since he's been hospitalized? Do you have any news of him? Eve Sutherland told me that you helped Harold Evans with the transportation."

"No, ma'am. I'm sorry."

She gives a rueful shake of her charming head. "I've been praying for him, poor man. It's the most I'm permitted to do, under the circumstances. I'd call on him in the hospital, but I've been advised against paying a visit." She pauses. "Because apparently I'm the cause of his problem."

"No, ma'am," I contradict her, taken aback by my own sudden vehemence. "Professor Poole is the cause of his own problem. Don't you take any blame. None at all. This is on him. He's a man, and men are idiots."

Mrs. Foster tries to protest. "Oh, now . . . ."

"Idiots. I mean it. Cowards, too. We're flawed and helpless creatures who can't stand being flawed and helpless, so we have to invent something that's bigger than we could ever possibly be and then claim ownership of it so we can climb on top of its shoulders and finally stand proud. That's what we men do. For some, that ideal thing is God. For others, it's a hero, like a football star or a Confederate general or a warrior or an itinerant revolutionary. For most of us – Professor Poole and me included – it's a woman. Whatever he's standing on the shoulders of, though, a man is bound eventually to fall back to his true level, and when he does, he puts the blame on the thing he idealized. But don't take that blame. Truly. Push it away from you right now."

Her eyes have grown wide during my tirade about the follies of men. If so few people didn't happen to be out in the Square at this juncture, because of the heat, I probably would have drawn a crowd of curious spectators.

"I'm sorry," I say. "I don't know what possessed me. Must be the sun making me loony. You have a good rest of the day, ma'am." I start to walk past.

"I read Nathan's book," she says, stopping me. "The one he tells me he wrote in the hospital, after I married."

" _Under the Yellow Arch_."

"I read those poems and I had to ask myself, 'Who _is_ this woman Nathan keeps going on and on about?' Because I couldn't see how she bore even the slightest resemblance to me. It wasn't really me he was writing about, was it?"

"No, ma'am. It was his idea of you."

She nods. "Thank you, Daniel. You have a blessed day."

"You do the same, ma'am."

I proceed to my car, parked at the base of the hill by Nielsen's and drive over to campus. The Ranger, as I expected, is under an oak in the Grove.

I deliver the news I've learned in town, that Oral Begley has been released on bond and is now at liberty to hire a team of influential lawyers who'll beat the charges against him. The Ranger displays no visible reaction.

"This means that it's more urgent now to get Eccles away from here. Begley's got to have deduced who exposed his operation. He'll be looking, and Eccles is sitting right there on his property."

"Eccles will be all right. The time hasn't come yet."

"Well listen, I didn't want to mention this because it sounds paranoid. But I think the Feds may already be closing in on the trailer. There are troops in civilian clothes hanging out at the end of the road. This morning, as I was climbing into my car, I thought I saw some figures in the woods along the roadside. You really have to get him out. Now."

The Ranger shrugs. "The time hasn't come yet. There's nothing to do now, except to have faith."

~ ~ ~

Tuesday, August 22

I have to take another look at the clock when Blake saunters in from the oven outside, Glad bag over his shoulder, returned from New Orleans. It's not even 7:30 in the morning yet.

"I left Tulane at midnight to avoid driving in the heat of the day," he explains.

"I used to do that, too," I say.

"Drove straight through, except for a stop at a little all-night place outside Jackson for coffee. I'm beat. Thought I'd get some sleep, shower and head over to see Joan. Is your friend still here?"

"In your old room, I'm afraid."

"Doesn't matter. I'll crash in yours."

I have the place to myself for the entire morning. Eccles emerges around 1:00, looking not a jot less haggard for the many hours of sleep he's managed to get. I fetch him coffee and we resume our wonted diversion of the past few days: staring at each other.

"I wish I could do something, find something for you to read or whatnot, to help you pass the time," I say.

"I'm okay, man. One thing I've learned to do all this time on the road is to wait, be patient, stay alert. He did say 'soon,' right?"

Eccles refers to my reported conversation with the Ranger. Actually, he didn't say "soon." I added that detail to bolster Eccles' spirits. "Yeah. Soon."

I put _John Wesley Harding_ on the stereo, low so as not to disturb Blake, and re-immerse myself in Herodotus. Eccles finds a deck of cards that I didn't even know we had. He lays out a hand of solitaire. A little later, I change the record to the _Eagles_ album. Blake proposes a game of gin, playing for 100 points. He's beating me 62 to 48 when the power suddenly dies. The lights flicker. The air conditioner dies with a shudder. "Take the Devil" on the stereo moans to a stop on a long, slow vowel.

Power outage. "Hot day like this, so much demand on the lines, blackouts are bound to happen," I assure Eccles before going outside to investigate.

The window units in all the trailers are silent, and each trailer appears dark inside. Septic System Man is the first to join me in the yard. "Your electric out, too?" he asks.

The Widow emerges from her trailer, looking pissed. And glum. "Wonder how widespread this is."

I offer to drive up to the snow cone shop to check, and return with news that the power is still on up the road, and there's evidence of lights among the few houses on Campground Road between us and Highway 30. These tidings make the Widow look even grimmer.

"Boys, I don't think this is an outage," she says. "I suspect our electric is out for good. The county has cut it off as an incentive for us to leave."

Without electricity, the park's pump isn't providing water. Blake, when he wakes, is annoyed over not getting to shower.

"The boys from the commune have set up a hobo's camp in Dr. Goodleigh's back yard," I tell him. "They've probably devised some kind of bathing facility. You're on your way there anyhow."

But water is the least concern for me. My trailer, like most of the others, sits in full sun. Without air conditioning, the interior will grow pretty uncomfortable in a short time. Then it will become uninhabitable.

Eccles can't stay here. He knows it, too. The Ranger has got to make a move soon.

"I'll drive into town to find him," I tell Eccles. "We've got Coke and beer in the fridge. Stay hydrated until I get back."

It's a frantic trip. I'm so focused on the crisis of this hour that I don't even turn the radio on, just drive. I spot an accident ahead just as I approach the intersection of Highways 7 and 6: a 16-wheeler collided with a rusty pickup truck and blocking the southbound lanes. A dozen other cars are already stopped in front of me. I swerve into the left lane, hit the brakes and bounce off the pavement and onto the median.

Weeds and brush make a jarring, scraping, scratching noise on the undercarriage of the car, but it makes a way down the slope to the low-point of the median and climbs the opposite slope without complaint. It takes another big bounce onto the northbound lane. I'll have to reach campus by the longer route, across 30 and down Lamar.

As I'm stopped at the traffic light at Lamar and Douglas, waiting for it to turn, I glance at the sky over the shopping center and spot a cloud wall to the west. We haven't seen clouds for almost a week. These are the big ones, the cumulonimbus variety that stack all the way up into the stratosphere. Moving fast. By the time I've reached the Square, a giant shadow is falling across Oxford as thee wall crosses the line of the sun.

The Grove, when I finally reach it, is deserted. I drive around the Loop keeping an eye out for the Ranger. I park and sprint through the various levels of the Law building, Bryant Hall and Fulton Chapel, supposing he might have taken refuge from the heat in one of them. No sign of him. Shit. The clock at the rear of Fulton reads 4:46.

The Ranger isn't in the Lyceum, the Library or the Student Union. He's not at the old train depot. I run fifty yards of tracks in both directions, shouting into thick curtains of kudzu to hail him. My lungs ache. My legs are weak. Sweat soaks my t-shirt. I crumple, exhausted, onto the platform of the depot, lying with my face turned to the sky – which, I now see, has taken on a distinctly nasty cast. A scattering of rain cools me for a moment, but ceases as I trudge back to the car. A breeze rises.

I've never seen the Ranger in town, only here on the east end of the campus. I'm sitting in the car, debating whether to head toward the Square or expand my search in this vicinity. A squad car pulls alongside.

"I've been sent to escort you off college property," the campus cop calls to me through his open window.

"I'm a student."

"No, you're not. We know who you are, and you're trespassing. Follow me."

"I'm looking for somebody. It's very important."

"I don't give a shit. Dean Moriarty's given your photograph to every officer on the force. We're ordered to bar you from campus and to arrest you if you resist."

Well, then, town it is. But a curtain of rain descends on University Avenue moments after my police escort and I cross the railroad bridge and he doubles back toward campus.

Thick, dark, drenching, pounding rain, too much for my wipers to handle. Visibility suddenly contracts to a few yards ahead of me. A heavy wind picks up. I can feel and hear – but not see – trees along the side of the row thrashing about in the gale.

A far-off siren wails. Tornado warning. A limb from a massive tree falls across the road, just ahead of me. The car slides sideways into a stop. The rear end crashes into it. I'm jolted forward. My face strikes the steering wheel. Searing pain across the bridge of my nose. My hand comes away bloody when I try to assess the damage by touch.

A second siren joins the first, this one much closer. I try to pull away from the collision, but the car doesn't respond. I press the accelerator, give it some more gas, and it sort of lunges forward with a wail and a crunch of metal.

I clamber out, into the torrent on University Avenue, to see what's the matter. The back bumper is tangled in branches of the fallen tree and is covered in thick leaves. The rain is so hard that I can't even tell what kind of tree this is, only that it's holding my car captive. I'm going to need a tool to cut it free with — an axe, a saw, something. Nothing that I happen to have.

The sirens continue to shriek their warnings. _Take cover! Take cover!_ But I have nowhere to go, no place to hide.

I climb back inside the car, shut the door behind me, and wait. Wind rocks the car and blood is everywhere.

The sound of a locomotive passes overhead.

~ ~ ~

Wednesday, August 23

The moon will be full tomorrow evening. Tonight, it's casting enough light to help me see my way up the path from the bottom of the ravine to the hedge at the boundary of Dr. Goodleigh's property.

Dr. Goodleigh's house is dark, of course. All the houses are dark. As far as I've been able to tell, most of the city is without power and will likely stay that way at least for a few days. The storm brought lots of trees down, and the electric lines with them.

I pause at the edge of the yard to listen for any sound of conversation or music from a portable radio, but the hippie camp is totally still. I pass quietly through a little maze of kids in sleeping bags outside the big tent. My goal is to find Garrett without disturbing anyone else.

"Who's there?" a girl's voice asks as I approach the open flap of the tent. "Daniel? What are you doing?" It's Claire. I can make out her features in the moonlight, and the face of Harley beside her in the sleeping bag.

"I'm looking for Garrett. Don't wake anyone."

I step into the tent, careful not to bump into any of the army surplus cots that a few of the kids have set up. Garrett's is closest to the flap. I touch his shoulder to wake him.

"Take your stinking paws off me, you damn dirty ape," he mutters in his sleep. "What?" He sits up. "What? Daniel?"

"Shhhh. Come with me. We need to talk."

"What time is it?"

"I don't know. Around 2:00, I'd guess. Get up."

I lead him back down the path, to the clearing in the ravine where we shared the joint with Melissa and Joan a few days ago. Claire follows us.

"Tamburlaine is gone," I announce. "Maybe dead."

I give them a moment to let the news sink in before narrating the events of yesterday afternoon and evening, how I heard the tornado pass over University Avenue, how I borrowed a handsaw from one of the neighbors to free my car after the all-clear, and then how I started back to the trailer, having failed to find the Ranger.

That in itself was quite a journey, through fallen trees, fallen lines, debris and wreckage on every stretch of road.

"The whole town's a mess," Garrett confirms. "We did some recon after the storm passed."

Campground Road, when I finally reached it, was impassable, pines strewn everywhere. So I stopped in the parking lot of the snow cone shop – which is gone now, nothing left but the foundations – and went the rest of the way on foot, only to discover that most of the trailer park had been wiped out. Only the Widow's trailer and the Duck's old place remained standing.

"At the spot where mine had stood, there was . . . well, there was nothing. Cleared space. From the looks of the place, that trailer might never even have existed. Everything I owned – which, I admit, wasn't much – is gone."

Except for one thing. As I was poking around the nearby debris, I detected a particular odor, one I've grown accustomed to. I lifted up a chunk of drywall that was leaning against a toppled refrigerator, and found Flop lying underneath it. She hissed at me. I carried her to the Widow's trailer and closed her in for safety.

A short while passed with me exploring the wreckage, and then I heard voices in the woods. Orders being shouted, and responses repeatedly using the word "sir!" Troops. I ducked under cover, somehow managed to evade them, and headed back through the thickets to my car, leaving their shouts behind as they converged on the empty spot of Tamburlaine's last suspected hideout.

"But there being no sign of him doesn't mean he's dead," Garrett says. "Maybe he wasn't inside when the storm hit. Maybe he'd already left. Maybe the Ranger had come for him while you were away."

"Wait," I say. "There's more. I was headed back into town when I saw him. The Ranger. Standing by the side of the road just shy of the overpass to Highway 7, like he was waiting for me, like he somehow knew I'd be passing by."

"Did you talk to him?" Claire asks.

"Indeed. I reported what I'd found – which was nothing – at the trailer. The Ranger seemed not the least bit perturbed by the news, as if he already knew where things stood . . . though I got the distinct impression that he hadn't seen it with his own eyes, that he hadn't been there ahead of me."

He then informed me that he was on his way out of town, but that he guessed he'd be back in spring. I wished him a safe journey and said I'd see him then. That's when he gave me a look and said, " _No, you won't. It's time for you to leave, too_."

"That's all he said," I tell Garrett and Claire. "He turned and started walking away, but at that instant I knew he was right. I have to leave. There's something waiting for me out on the road . . . some experience I'm supposed to have. I don't know what it is, but I know it's big. And for that moment when I was looking into those eyes, I kept thinking the word 'ancient, ancient, ancient.' And I remembered something that he said to me once in the Grove."

"What?"

"We were talking about Citizen."

"Your imaginary dog."

"The Ranger could see him, even said that he'd been seeing Citizen for as long as he'd been paying visits to Oxford, upwards of 25 years. I said it couldn't be the same dog, but he told me that some things in nature aren't subject to the laws of time, and that Citizen was one of them."

"And you think the Ranger is one, too," Claire says. "You know, I've always had that feeling about him, too, that he's impossibly old. And that I've seen him somewhere before, in a book I read when I was a kid."

"Same here," I agree. "I have exactly the same feeling. There are mysteries out there, big mysteries that a body isn't going to encounter by staying in one place. That's why I have to leave. Hell, I'm dead. I have no identity. What's keeping me here? Nothing. And besides, I think my leaving now might help somebody."

"Who's that?"

"Tamburlaine."

"Thought you said Tamburlaine was dead."

"He might be. Or he might have escaped during the chaos of the storm. Maybe that had been the Ranger's plan all along. Maybe he even created the storm. Sounds far-fetched, I know."

"Sounds crazy," Garrett says. "Are you sure something didn't knock you upside the head when the tornado came?"

"But Tamburlaine's gone. No body. The feds aren't going to assume he died. They'll keep looking for him. Everybody will. And if he's alive, don't you think he's suffered enough from being turned into a legend? Don't you think he could use some help?"

"What kind of help are you suggesting?"

"A decoy. Me. Someone who should have been in that trailer when the tornado took it away. Somebody who left town in the dark hours of the following morning. Somebody who's out there moving from place to place. Me."

"A decoy," Garrett repeats. "Intriguing . . . Tommy."

"That's the end of your story for the first issue of the free press. Your final interview with Tamburlaine after he eluded capture once again under cover of a storm, spoke to you, and was last seen headed east. I'll be Tamburlaine for a while. I have nothing better to do. And maybe some day in the future, when I get tired of it, I'll find someone else willing to take the identity on."

"But where will you go, Tommy?" Garrett asks.

Why is he calling me "Tommy"?

"I'm thinking Tatyana's farm. She'd let me stay as long as I need. I'd have a chance to rest up, and plot my next move. My old psychologist from Charlottesville is living in Cape Cod now. I could hide there for a time, if she'd let me."

Garrett's voice has taken on the wavering tone of a querulous old woman. " _But how am I gonna' know about you, Tommy? Why, they could kill you and I'd never know. They could hurt you. How am I gonna' know_?"

I recognize it. That's a line delivered by Ma Joad at the end of _The Grapes of Wrath_.

Garrett and I watched it with bunch of guys one night in Garland Hall, a late movie on one of the Memphis channels. John Ford directed. 1940. 20th Century Fox. Henry Fonda, Jane Darwell, John Carradine.

I answer in the closest impersonation of Henry Fonda I can muster: " _I'll be all around in the dark. I'll be everywhere. Wherever you can look. Wherever there's a fight, so hungry people can eat, I'll be there. Wherever there's a cop beating up a guy, I'll be there. I'll be in the way guys yell when they're mad. I'll be in the way kids laugh when they're hungry and they know supper's ready. And when the people are eating the stuff they raise and living in the houses they build, I'll be there, too._ "

"I have no idea what you boys are talking about." Claire steps forward and gives me a rough hug. "Come back and see us sometimes. Come back safe. Do you want us to tell anyone where you've gone?"

"Keep it among friends. Dr. Goodleigh. Joan and Blake. Cindy, Andrew, Nick, Suzie. Melissa, if anyone happens to write. Becky when she gets back. The people who need to know. But no bastards. Don't tell James. You _can_ tell your new boyfriend, though."

She pushes me away with a grunt and a laugh. Garrett and I shake hands. There's nothing more needs to be said. I walk away, on a path that leads back to where I left my car parked on Old Taylor Road. But a sudden impulse makes me turn around. They're still in the clearing, watching me.

"Just once more," I say to Garrett. "For old time's sake."

Garrett obliges. He falls to his knees, pounds the ground and shouts, "You Maniacs! You blew it up! Ah, damn you! God damn you all to hell!"

..................................................................................

I remember the frequency from my last trip through this part of the country. I set the radio dial while crossing the Georgia border, relieved to put Alabama behind me. I'll be snipping through a little mountainous northwest corner of the state. Chattanooga lies ahead.

The signal is weak at first, a few lyrics from "Heart of Gold" and "It's Your Thing" sandwiched between layers of static. Then a voice I recognize even through the disruption: the Mad Deejay coming through stronger now, talking about dinosaur tracks being found in the Amazon rainforests, the kidnapping of Aimee Semple McPherson, toxic tomatoes being shipped to American markets from Canada, the Freemasons' involvement in the deliberate sinking of the Titanic, green M&Ms, the Rapture, using Coca Cola as a spermicide, and a Nazi-era moon base discovered by the Apollo 14 astronauts.

"Enough talk! More music!" he declares.

"Whole Lotta Love," begins, followed by "Heard It Through the Grapevine," "Can't Get Next to You," "Spirit in the Sky," "So Far Away," "Sylvia's Mother," "Lola," "War," "Hey, Jude," "Bang a Gong," "Mama Told Me Not to Come," "All Along the Watchtower," "Dock of the Bay," "Horse with No Name," "Levon," "Space Oddity," "Suite: Judy Blue Eyes," "Fire and Rain," "Touch Me," "Time of the Season," "Everyday People," "Piece of My Heart," "The Weight," "Hot Fun in the Summertime," "Ohio," and "Won't Get Fooled Again."

"This is day 367 of my takeover of these airwaves, loyal listeners," the Mad DeeJay says. "Listen up, all you freaks and revolutionaries! All you hippies, heads, pot heads, acid heads, and coke heads. All you peaceniks, beatniks, flower children, artful dodgers, radicals, dropouts, kooks, loners, and weirdoes. All you heretics, infidels, dissenters, agitators, instigators, provocateurs, rabble rousers, hotheads, fanatics, firebrands, propagandists, pushers, anarchists, troublemakers, malcontents, zealots, demonstrators, guerillas, queers, and rebels. The day is not lost. The struggle continues. And as always, that last block of songs goes out to Tamburlaine. Where are you, man? We need you!"

"Right here," I answer. "Just keep the faith, man, and keep on rocking."

The End

######################################################
**Author's Note** : Wasted Year originally appeared in daily installments as a blog narrative at http://www.wastedyear.com

**About the Narrator** : Daniel Medway is the worthless scion of a proud old Mississippi family that sorely wishes he'd stop mentioning the relationship.

Declared "a waste of a placenta" by his daddy on the day of his birth — a prediction that proved eerily accurate as the years unfolded — Daniel will probably best be remembered for writing some poems that James Dickey (briefly) liked one night on a drunken tear, the Great Harpoon Incident, and the miles of microfilmed evidence the FBI once gathered on him.

After squandering all of his early promise in the pursuit of Jim Beam, pretty women, and the perfect stereo system for his complete collection of the Fugs, Daniel recently unearthed a dog-eared copy of his daily chronicle from August 1971 to August 1972 — what he's since come to regard, affectionately, as his most wasted year.

He hopes this release of these chronicles will serve as an expression of remorse for all the damage he's managed to do in this world. Former acquaintances might prefer a more personal expression of regret, but if he started making individual apologies at this point, there would be no end to it.

He also hopes you'll enjoy _Wasted Year: The Last Hippies of Ole Miss_.

**About the Author:** Douglas Gray earned a Bachelors degree in English and a Masters in Classical Languages from the University of Mississippi before receiving a doctorate in English Literature in Texas and moving to Ohio to pursue a teaching career. He currently serves as Chair of the Communication Department at Columbus State Community College. His collection of poems, _Words on the Moon_ is available from Mid-List Press.

