 
### CAUGHT IN THE WINDS

by L. D. Wenzel

What others are saying

**-** DR. **ARTHUR F. HOLMES**

Philosophy professor, emeritus, Wheaton College

I have read Wenzel's novel "Caught in the Winds"...The characters come alive, and the overall plot hangs together and is neatly resolved. He takes on engaging philosophical issues... The author's many allusions to Sartre, Gabriel Marcel, and Kierkegaard are all appropriate. (1995)

-THE WRITER'S EDGE, Wheaton, Illinois

Mr. Wenzel, I have read your sample chapters from "Caught in the Winds" with a great deal of interest. I must say that it is not like anything else that I have read, which is a compliment, since I read many hours every day. . . the issues of philosophy, theology, mysticism and the quirks of evangelical subculture filter throughout its pages...

-5 STARS from the FOREWORD CLARION REVIEW

L. D. Wenzel weaves an intriguing story that meanders through a variety of thought-provoking topics... (he) does an admirable job of character development and creates believable plots that make "Caught in the Winds" an entertaining story.

-5 STARS from the MIDWEST BOOK REVIEW

Knowing where you are spiritually is a truly wonderful feeling. "Caught in the Winds" follows Morrie Schiller as he tries to come to terms with himself and his pursuits. ... A thoughtful read of Christianity and coming of age, "Caught in the Winds" is a fine read and solidly recommended.

The full text of these reviews, along with the proper links can be found on the author's web site at www.ldwenzel.com

_____________________

### Caught in the Winds

A new student at an evangelical college

comes of age by encountering

his deepest aspirations

by L. D. Wenzel

Copyright © 2010 by L. D. Wenzel

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved. This ebook may not be reproduced in whole or in part or transmitted in any form or by any means—mechanical or electronic—without written permission from the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review. It is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it then please return to Smashwords and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This book is also available in print at most online retailers

Cover: original painting by L. D. Wenzel

All the characters in this novel are fictitious and do not exist. Any similarities to any person,living or dead, were not intended.

Author's website: www.ldwenzel.com

________________

### Book One

Simon, Simon, behold, Satan has desired to

have you, that he may sift you as wheat.

But I have prayed for you, that your faith fail not.

And when you are converted, strengthen your brethren.

Luke 22: 31-32

### Chapter 1

________________

Crusader handed me my travel bag as I stepped onto the Greyhound bus. "Here, you might need this."

Without replying, I took the bag and began looking for an empty seat. The untimely events that had cut short my college career were still reeling in my mind.

"Morrie, come back here," he ordered. Had I offended him by not saying 'goodbye'? I jumped back down onto the pavement. Crusader, ten years my senior, placed a comforting hand on my shoulder. The wise expression on his face was always disarming.

"Don't be so glum. You've become a man these past few months, and I have the utmost confidence that you'll handle this next crisis as well."

"But you don't know my father," I said. We were talking about my going home to face my folks now that the president himself had expelled me from Bethlehem College. Two hours earlier, I had been sitting in his office as he ranted about my "scandalizing" this respected Christian institution.

Crusader continued, "Take courage, old buddy. In the days to come, the value of these experiences will prove their worth. Then you'll understand."

I sighed. "I'm not the same person who came here last fall, but please understand that, yesterday, the idea of me getting kicked out of college was the farthest thing from my parents' minds. I was in the room when the president called home. Dad refused to speak to me, which means he was furious."

For once even Crusader had nothing to say. His sad eyes confirmed that tough times awaited me. It was I who took up a more positive note. "By the way, thanks again for vouching for me down at the police station. I thought they were going to throw me in jail! What did you say that changed the captain's mind so quickly?"

"Let's leave that between the captain and me," he said, smiling. "As far as your parents are concerned, you've overcome thornier plights in recent days. Now climb on board and find a seat. I'll be right here in Milwaukee for most of the summer, so keep in touch." Crusader, who was taller than I, put his arms around me, and I rested the side of my head against his chest. "Your integrity has impressed me deeply, Morrie."

"Goodbye, Crusader, and God bless. My strength would have failed without you."

The bus was over half full as I climbed aboard. I wanted to sit alone, but all the window seats appeared to be taken. Then, toward the back, I spotted two vacant places and nimbly skirted past those passengers who were still standing. I threw my luggage onto the aisle seat, took the place beside the window, and slouched down. I was now totally unavailable.

Inside the depot, the bus motor revved and filled the garage with diesel fumes. Then our silver coach shifted into gear, rolled outside onto Michigan Avenue, and crossed Sixth Street. Within five hours, I would be in my hometown of St. Paul, Minnesota.

Through the tinted windows, I blankly watched the office buildings pass by as our bus chugged up the circular ramp leading to the freeway. On Interstate I-94, we drove by County Stadium and the familiar green exit sign that pointed to the fair grounds. Then, off to my right, came glimpses of a barely visible Bethlehem College as its ivy-covered buildings flashed through the elms. The bell tower peaked over the treetops. While I could not hear the chimes, a glimpse at my watch revealed that it was chapel time, and I knew that the endearing toll was calling young men and women to prayer. I was lost in an unfettered reverie and closed my eyes to relive the events of my last nine months at that school.

The year was 1994, just before the outbreak of e-mail. There was no Facebook or Twitter back then, and cell phones were unheard of. Computers, however, were now common, and I was the proud owner of a new laptop. Looking back, it seems that everything was less complicated then, like a kind of dusk, those fleeting moments between day and night. On time's horizon, lay the dawn of a new millennium. It was the twilight of the gods.

This particular day in September was my first day of school at Bethlehem College. I had just transferred there as a third-year student from Twin Cities Junior College. My father helped me carry boxes of books and things into my room. The midday sun was hot; the air was sticky, and the sweat spots on his shirt clung to his burly chest.

Mom did the unpacking. "Morrie, I've placed your socks and underwear in the top drawer." She flung back the long strands of graying hair that fell over her glasses. The humidity was unbearable. "Look over here. I put a cardboard box in the bottom of your wardrobe for dirty laundry."

She, like many mothers on this day, was ritually releasing her son into the adult world. After the car was unpacked, Dad changed his shirt and paced about my new world, restlessly looking down the hallways to check out the other parents. He had never been to college himself, and for him this was an important day. Together with my sixteen-year-old sister Mary, my parents had driven me all the way down from St. Paul.

Bethlehem College is located on Milwaukee's far West side and borders smack against the village of Wauwatosa. According to the student handbook, German immigrants led by Gregorius Richter founded the school in 1865. They were descendants of the legendary Wilhelm Lutz and the Pomeranian Brethren who were Anabaptists from the sixteenth century. Brethren history included brutal persecutions in Old Country by Lutheran magistrates who in the seventeenth century strapped Wilhelm and others, both men and women, into "dunking chairs" for their "third baptism,"—in other words, drowning them in the Oder River. As a group, they almost became extinct had not one pious Lutheran, Count von Mecklenburg, hid them on his estate on the Baltic Sea. Here a remnant survived for a few generations, and in the eighteenth century, the Pomeranian Brethren were among the first Germans to immigrate to America.

Bethlehem College is an Evangelical Christian college. One's first impression is usually favorable and for good reasons. On opening day, everyone from the students to the women who serve lunch at the cafeteria greeted us with friendly smiles. Even a gardener, an elderly man with snowy white hair, came up to me with a welcoming smile and asked me if I needed any help.

"Guess what!" exclaimed my sister Mary while basking in all the congeniality. "I walked right into this empty classroom only to find five students holding a Bible study." They had invited my sister, who was bright, ever cheerful, and easy to accept, to join them even after learning she was only a visitor. Mary, who still had two more years of high school, decided at that moment that she too would one day enroll at Bethlehem College.

Bethlehem's high academic standards separated this liberal arts college from many other Christian institutions. The school had been an obscure Baptist school for its first hundred years. In the last decade, however, especially under the leadership of Dr. Frederick Lentzner, its reputation for higher learning had swelled, and today students from around the world and from every denomination were attending.

Earlier that morning, President Lentzner had addressed the new students and our families at a special meeting: "Parents and students, out of the hundreds of young people who yearly apply for admission, only the smartest are accepted. Thank God for the great privilege of studying in a Christian environment with some of the most brilliant minds in the country today."

Dad listened attentively, believing that he was playing an important role in that greatness. His ambition was that I study theology at this reputable school. But I wasn't so sure. If their standards were so high, why had they accepted my application? Previous report cards could prove that my grades were only slightly better than average.

"Grades aren't everything," Dad had said with a grunt.

When a Bethlehem recruiter came to the Twin Cities to interview that year's applicants, my father also had a few words with him. Dad is a master salesman, and he even owns a third of a car dealership. Perhaps it was his skills that had helped get me enrolled. He had already made several donations to the school.

My dream had been to study journalism at the University of Minnesota. Ever since the sixth grade, school publications had been my passion, and I had just finished a stint as a summer youth reporter for the St. Paul Sentinel. However, Dad did not seem to care about my interests, nor would he hear of any other school. Because I was sure my merely average grades would disqualify me, I had agreed to attend Bethlehem if accepted.

Unfortunately, this strategy didn't work, and, upon reading my acceptance letter, I was devastated. Bethlehem College did not even have a journalism department.

"Congratulations, son." Dad was overjoyed but not surprised.

"I refuse to study theology," I said.

"But their theology faculty is among the best," he insisted. "At any rate, I hold you to your word about enrolling."

Finally, we compromised, and he accepted my decision to major in philosophy if I promised to consider a theology program after graduation. So here I was at Bethlehem College, partly against my will, but still looking forward to studying at an excellent school.

Things looked better when I looked at the magazine rack in my dorm's lobby. Look at all the student publications here, I thought. Of special interest were several back issues of The Forum, a very attractive tabloid published by the student council. Very soon, I would be contacting the journalism staff. With a degree in philosophy from Bethlehem College and with the experience that a college newspaper could give, a fine university with a master's program in journalism would surely enroll me.

After my family had left for home, the registration process continued, and I got in line to sign up for my classes. Out from the registrar's air-conditioned office, a threadlike file of new students wound its way down a wooden staircase and ended on the sidewalk outside the red-bricked administration building. It was here on the lawn, beside a hedge of rosebushes, that my story at Bethlehem College really began.

I and hundreds of other new students waited in a line that moved ever so slowly. Late summer humidity, hot and muggy, always makes my thick, curly hair very unmanageable. In vain, I slicked it back with my hand. Was everyone as uneasy as I was? No matter which way I turned, as a new student, I knew every move I made would make a first impression, perhaps a lasting one, on those who saw me.

I shifted from one heel to the other and wished that the line would move faster. Then I saw her. Over by the rose bushes, five or six students ahead, stood an attractive young woman. She wore a loose summer dress, and her long blonde hair, which flowed down the back of her bare shoulders, entranced me. Whenever she turned, I strained to catch glimpses of her face, which was as flawless as a polished statue of a Grecian goddess.

My casual awareness became a discreet stare as the line moved forward and moved us along into the administration building. I tried to look away, but my focus always drifted back to her. As we edged our way up the staircase, her milky complexion and high cheekbones created an image worthy of veneration. I, from below, watched her ascend, step-by-step, to an ever higher pedestal. The sublime symmetry of her curves enraptured me; it was as if all my aspirations had appeared in physical form to generate within me a knot-like longing that held me spellbound.

I dared not reveal my frenzied state to those around me. Behind a feigned wall of indifference, I inched my way forward so that, as we turned the corner in the hallway, I was standing right behind her. I now viewed her at close hand and could smell the fresh scent of shampoo in her hair.

What was special about this girl? Yes, she was pretty, but Bethlehem College had many beautiful women. Why her? Had the mere sight of her sparked off in me some new kind of consciousness, an inner dawning that allowed me—and only me—to appreciate this unpretentious, womanly being? With growing interest, I noted her every subtle move. Though she tried to project an air of sophistication, slight fidgets betrayed her unease. Never mind, I could look beyond it all, for my eyes saw something else, something wonderful.

We were just outside the registrar's office, and although I had been watching her for nearly an hour, she had yet to notice me. Who was I to her? Twice she had looked right at me. Surely, she had seen me, but to her I was part of the landscape, a one among many and nobody in particular. Nor did I do myself any favors since I only dared to look at her when she had turned the other way. Whenever she did look in my direction, I lowered my head and pretended to read my registration papers.

Once I was inside the registrar's office, a young man came over and looked at my papers. He then pointed to the booth where philosophy students signed up for classes. The girl, whose name I did not yet know, had taken off in another direction, and I almost lost sight of her as she reported to another table on the far side of the crowded room. In all haste, I signed up for this class and that, following her every move out of the corner of my eye, worried that our ways would part and I might never see her again.

Luckily, I had finished registering first and reestablished my position behind her as we stood in line to pay our registration fees. Would she acknowledge me now? While removing her checkbook from her purse, she turned her eyes upward and looked right at me, blankly, without a hint of recognition, and then turned toward the cashier to pay her fees. She had registered everything but me!

She was about to go, and I prodded myself to ask her where the bookstore was. Even a casual question could be an identifying moment the next time we passed in some crowded hallway between classes. She had already packed her papers away, and she was so out of reach. She was walking away, and all I could do was chide myself for a spineless performance.

Our impasse ended, dramatically, for just as she was about to make her exit, the girl stepped on my foot. Startled, she jerked backwards and spilled all her registration papers across the floor.

"Oh, no," she gasped and caught her balance by grabbing my—now blessed—arm. "My papers, I mean, your foot, I'm terribly sorry..."

With these ungraceful moves, her composure had evaporated. As if some unseen power had torn up the script, I entered her life's drama, pell-mell.

"Here, let me help you gather your things," I said. While others stood by and stared, I had become the protagonist in a plot turning in my favor. To my delight, the girl was just as concerned with me as with her papers.

"I'm so sorry," she said with horror at the mess of papers strewn about. "Are you all right?"

"I'm quite fine, thank you," I replied. To everyone's amusement, I squatted down and gathered up her things while she shuffled them around into a semblance of order.

"I feel so stupid," she sniffed with tear-filled eyes. "Everyone's looking at me."

I arose and offered comfort with my warmest smile. "Of course, they're watching, but who's paying any attention? Why should they care? Let me help you straighten everything up."

My comforting words had bypassed her, completely, as she wiped away the tear-washed mascara from beneath her lovely eyes. "Yes, they are paying attention. If only I could disappear."

"Here, let me put these papers back into your folder." I tidied up her things until everything looked presentable. "For heaven's sake you look great. Believe me, you do."

"Do you honestly mean that?"

"Verily, verily I say unto thee...you look fantastic."

At that nicely timed line, her clouds of despair dissipated, and she beamed a radiant smile. "C'mon, stop teasing, and thanks a lot for helping. It was sweet of you. What..." —her penetrating stare made me teeter— "is your name?"

"My name? Morrie. Morrie Schiller."

This girl became prettier with every passing moment, especially since she was now focusing on me, paying no mind to those who might be watching. Her sunshine eyes, still moist with tears, now glistened like a blue rainbow. In my momentary infatuation, I forgot to pay my registration fees.

"Morrie? What kind of name is that?"

I laughed. "You're not the first to ask me that. Actually, it's a long story. You see, my father named me after Morowitz Roth, who is a converted Jew. But everyone called him Morrie. He owns the car dealership where my dad works. Well, actually, they're partners since Dad owns a third. Anyway, although Dad was still an atheist about the time I was born, he liked Morowitz so much that he named me after him.

She smiled again. "That's funny. Is your real name Morowitz then?" "Thank God, no. Actually, my legal name is Morris, since Mom didn't think Morrie was a proper name. But nobody calls me that—except my mother when she's mad."

She smiled again. "That's funny. Is your father still an atheist?"

"Oh, no. When I was nine years old, Mr. Roth took our whole family to a Billy Graham Crusade at Metropolitan Stadium. Upon hearing Dr. Graham's message, my father repented and became a Christian that very night. You should have seen him. He wept so hard that two ushers had to hold him up at the receiving platform."

"Were you saved that night, too?"

"Well, my sister and I were only kids back then, and though we went forward, it was more in the flow of things. My mother, who was a devout Catholic, had already been taking Mary and me to church every Sunday and had told us all about God. You could say that she followed my father, mainly after seeing the way Dr. Graham's sermon affected him. Our whole family sort of became Christians that night, if you know what I mean."

By now, the girl and I had left the registrar's office and were walking alone down the hallway. "Say," I said, "you haven't told me your name yet."

"Oh, I'm Tracy Johnson. Morrie Schiller... I've heard that name before. Morrie, Morrie..."

"Does knowing that I'm from St. Paul, Minnesota help?"

"Morrie Schiller. St. Paul. I know about you. Have you ever heard of Eileen McFirmich?"

"Eileen? Why, yes, she goes to our church."

"Yes, your church. What's the name? Doesn't it start with a 'B'?"

"Bourgeous Road Baptist Church."

Her beautiful face lit up as I entered a step higher in her consciousness. "Yes, I remember now. That's incredible."

The pleasure of this delightful conversation stimulated my affections. "Mr. Roth brought us there, after Dad got saved. Everyone in my family is a member there now. How would you know about my church?"

Tracy suddenly stopped in silence. Her mouth opened in awe; her eyes widened like oval sapphires. She gasped and drew me deeper into her life. "You're the guy that Eileen wrote would be here at Bethlehem College. I'm supposed to look you up if I need a friend. I'd forgotten all about it. I've known about you for some time, and here you are in the flesh. That's incredible."

I blushed. "Eileen said that about me?"

"Yes, she said you're a very nice guy, and trustworthy too."

"Eileen said that I could be trusted? Are you sure she didn't mean my sister Mary? Where did you meet her anyway?"

"At a place called Camp Zion in northern Minnesota, two summers ago. We've been writing ever since. She told me about you, Morrie. How could I forget a name like that?"

"Well, since she wrote that about me,"— I smiled sheepishly— "how are your friendships going?"

"What do you mean?"

I shyly put my hands in my pockets. "Eileen said you should look me up if you needed a friend. Put it this way, now that you've made contact with me, does that mean you still need a friend?"

She turned her face to hide the fresh wash of tears. "Oh, Morrie," she said, "I'm so unhappy. Everyone belongs here, except me."

"Tracy, you're now a part of this school too." Suddenly, I was force to take action. "It says so right there on those papers you're holding. Look, you're a bona fide Bethlehemite."

"Yes, technically I am, but you don't understand. Deep inside I know I don't belong here. I hate this place and want to quit right now."

"You're a little homesick, that's all. In a couple of days, you'll adjust and become as happy as anyone else."

Tracy scoffed, "Homesick, what do you know about my home? It won't happen as you say. I have felt this way before, and it never gets any better. Yes, I am very lonely, but you can't know what it's like."

Tracy's honesty had caught me off guard. In truth, I knew exactly what she meant. Seeing her was like looking into a mirror: her wounds reflected mine. Had we been all this time living parallel lives, groping with the same sense of estrangement? Our first encounter in the registrar's office was beyond description. Like two streams, two lives had unexpectedly met and now flowed in the same direction.

We strolled around our new home and visited the oldest building on campus, die Kaffeemühle, which was still known by its German name because it looked like an old coffee grinder. According to a plaque, it was originally the library, but it was now known as the Visual Arts Center with studios for painters and photographers.

On the network of sidewalks that connected the manicured campus, we visited the present library, the science buildings, and the newly built multiplex Christian Communication Center. We were oblivious to the hundreds of people who passed us by. Nothing else mattered as we grew more intimate and spontaneously shared the secrets of our hearts. Our lives had been thrust together in all their natural but passionate dimensions, as in a prologue to an epic poem.

Tracy wanted to show me her dorm, so we retraced our way back across the campus. Though life had suddenly become wonderful, I could not help but feel the presence of something contentious. All these buildings with their classical design emanated an aura of prudence that clashed and tangled with the forces of spontaneity that had enlarged our lives. They spoke of order and restraint. Adorned with Grecian pillars, they loomed over us, distorted and threatening and seeming to say, Flee from passion and desire; be wary; heed your head and not your heart.

Maybe I should have listened to Common Sense and fled the arena to become a spectator. Observe but don't participate. Such had been my credo. However, this time I couldn't resist. My yearning to be hers was too great. Was falling in love for me? Yes. Whatever Tracy was thinking, I wanted her more than anything else, and I offered myself without a stitch of resistance. That my intentions were in harmony with hers, I could only pray.

In the middle of the campus, facing Tracy's dorm, was a round, European-style courtyard tiled with cobblestone. We entered and encountered a huge, three-tiered fountain in simple classical style. At midpoint, a marble-like sculpture spouted water upward with the overflow cascading from tier to tier down to the circular pool below. Uppermost stood a virtuous-looking, yet unreachable figure of a woman perched on a pedestal. She was Sophia, an imposing bronze statue donned with a Grecian gown. At the opening ceremony, President Lentzner had told us with pride that she was "a configuration of Wisdom from the Hebrew book of Proverbs"—even though the statue resembled a Grecian goddess— "and thus the official emblem of the school."

Designed by a forgotten Venetian architect in 1901, Sophia was the campus landmark and known architecturally throughout the city. At the base of the pool the inscription read, WISDOM HATH BUILT HER HOUSE, SHE HATH HEWN OUT HER SEVEN PILLARS. "Thus," said President Lentzner, "Bethlehem College has seven main faculties of study."

Beneath Wisdom, my first venture with Tracy ended. We both had dorm council meetings during which new students were to meet their RA's. Each floor would then have a grill party. Tracy looked at her watch and waited for my parting words. The spontaneity that had been ours had now dissipated and yet had left a lingering question: Where do we go from here?

What I wanted to say was locked up inside me. I looked up at Sophia in the fountain. Her astute gaze scanned beyond the courtyard and across the campus. Surely, Wisdom could give me a voice for my true feelings. However, what came out was pathetic.

"Well, so long," I said hoping that I didn't sound inept. "It was nice meeting you. Let's get together again soon."

We walked to the other side of the courtyard, which faced the front entrance to Centennial Hall, the dorm where Tracy lived. With a faint voice she replied, "I hope you're not like those guys who say they care and really don't."

"What makes you think that?" My heart was pounding. Fear tightened across my chest. I wanted those words to mean one thing: Morrie, please come into my life.

The hopeful look in my eyes caused Tracy to hurry up the steps. She turned the door latch with a worried look. "Morrie, I'm not sure, but I think I want to see you again."

She disappeared behind the vault-like doors and left me standing alone with the faint sound of splashing coming from the courtyard fountain.

The way back to my dorm passed the fountain with the Grecian figurine. This was my third encounter with Sophia, the first being in the back seat of the family car with my sister Mary, when we first arrived on campus. We had seen many pictures of her before, and, like many first time visitors, Mary wanted to see the famous emblem of the college.

"There's Sophia!" she cried as we drove past the courtyard. "Dad, stop the car. I want to take a picture."

But Dad's mind was elsewhere. "There'll be plenty of time for that later," he said. "Let's find Morrie's dorm first."

Mary knew enough not to argue with her father when he was under stress. At that moment, I heard a woman's voice whisper my name, "Morrie."

Abruptly, I swung my head around and peered out the back window of the car. I swear, Sophia was looking at me! Then our car swung around the corner, and she disappeared behind a building.

### Chapter 2

________________

Frank Blachford is my friend, and the most irritating one I have ever had. Born on a small farm in Kentucky, he has the genuineness of Huckleberry Finn, but the intrepid ethics of Aunt Polly. With a long, lanky body and sandy hair, his full tooth smile stretched from ear to ear. He was the only Bethlehem student I knew who wasn't afraid to color his speech with country jargon. But don't let his yokel ways fool you, for he was as smart as they come, and he earned straight A's in all his classes. Some snickered at his speech and called him a wacko, but it was Frank who was laughing at them. When it comes to speaking his mind with moral sureness, Frank is unyielding and fearless. Theologically he was ultra-conservative. We had met the first week on the way to morning chapel, and, since then, we had often walked together on our daily treks across the campus. Even though we were very different, there was a strange attraction between us.

As usual, Frank did most of the talking. "I've heard the tongue-waggin', but now I know the truth. Babylon the Great is eatin' away the very foundations of Bethlehem College."

"What are you talking about?" I asked. Frank's certainty often seemed more like stubbornness.

"Liberal theology, of course, that Whore of Iniquity."

"Must you be so colorful?" I said just as the bell tower chimes started to ring. From all corners of the campus, hundreds of students were streaming toward the chapel building. "Does being conservative forbid one from being open-minded? Besides, in my opinion, this school has more than its share of staunch conservatives."

"Hardly, though there are a few exceptions. My New Testament professor, Dr. Undheim, is awesome. He knows everything about the Bible."

"Need I say more?" I quickened my pace.

Frank quickened his. "But the rest of them, well, I question their stand on the Word of God. Just last hour, Dr. McGee—I call him Fibber McGee—said that Matthew, Mark, and Luke weren't inspired by God at all, but came from some lost manuscript called Q. Will you please slow down? I'm tryin' to say somethin' important."

I stopped and looked straight at him. "Frank, I heard the same lecture yesterday. That's not what he said."

"Well, of course the Fibber would deny it, but that's what he meant. Where in the Bible is Q mentioned? When my granddad went to this school, the Bible was still taught as infallible and inerrant."

"Things still look the same to me. Listen, if we don't get moving, we're going to be late for chapel," I said and started to walk swiftly. "Let's cut across Sophia's courtyard. It's shorter that way."

Frank kept up and rambled on as my thoughts drifted over to a meeting I had just had with The Forum, the weekly student newspaper. The editors were interviewing candidates to fill the vacant post on the editorial board. A leading journalist from the Milwaukee Journal was there. She spoke on the responsibilities of the Christian journalist to report the news unhindered by religious bias. Beside her sat The Forum's main editor, Tina Kaiser, an overweight senior with a bitter temperament. Already on the first day of school, I had heard other students muckraking her, calling her "Tiny Tina" behind her back and criticizing her for being an agitator. From the moment I saw her, I knew why. Just to look at her was provoking. My prospects as a Bethlehem journalist seemed dubious.

"Pay attention, Morrie," said Frank, interrupting my drifting thoughts. "I've been wantin' to talk to ya about your major."

"Yes?" was my answer, but my mind was elsewhere. Frank jabbered on about the school's backsliding, but I could not keep my mind off the editor's meeting. I had shown interest in the position, and the scene of my initial interview with Tina Kaiser was fresh before me. She had treated me like some bumpkin from a Minnesota barnyard.

"I was a summer youth reporter at the St. Paul Pioneer Press and have editing and layout experience from Twin City Jr. College," I said in my opening statement.

She asked, "Have you ever worked with a real college newspaper before?"

With the exception of the sport's editor, Bart Boyer, the other staff members seemed generally hostile. They kept asking leading questions such as, "How would you report on the narrow mindedness of President Lentzner's administration?"

"Morrie," persisted Frank. "Are you listenin'?"

"Yeah, sure, you asked me what my major was, but you know that. I've told you many times."

He sighed. "I know you're a philosophy major, Morrie. I'm tryin' to get across that there are certain studies Christians should avoid."

"C'mon, Frank," I said. He was beginning to irk me. "Don't start with that again. You know about my father and how I ended up studying philosophy at Bethlehem."

On campus, Frank was a pious gadfly. Almost everyone knew him at least by name since he publicly championed every conservative cause at school. Many students liked him, personally—his unvarnished friendliness was hard to resist—but few took him seriously.

"Frank, what are you doing here at Bethlehem? Wouldn't you feel more at home at a Bible college like Red Grange Bible Institute in Illinois?"

"That's an excellent school, but Granddad went to this school back when it was still faithful to the Word of God. Someone must stand against the lies of Satan. The Lord has a special mission for me that could affect the destiny of this college."

"What kind of mission?"

Frank flashed his famous full-face grin. "I don' know yet. He hasn't told me yet."

I huffed in derision. "Frank, I didn't want to come to Bethlehem College, but now that I'm here, I going to make the best of it. Besides, Dr. McMurray's classes are very interesting. He's lecturing on how Plato has influenced Christian theology. For example - "

"What hath Athens to do with Jerusalem?" Frank quipped with his eyes rolling up toward the sky. "Openin' one's mind to philosophical hogwash is dangerous. Look what happened to Nietzsche. He was even a pastor's son. First, he started speculatin' and then doubtin' and lickety-split, he declared God to be dead and..."

"Stop!" I plugged my ears. "Life's a bit more complex than that, Frank. Let's pretend you didn't say that."

"Nietzsche went insane, didn't' he? Men like him undermine the Word of God, moral absolutes, and the Christian faith. I fear that you'll start swallowin' that stuff too."

"So this is why God has sent you to Bethlehem College, to be my personal prophet of doom?"

Frank stopped in his tracks and paused to think. "That's not the reason. You're kind of a side case, while I wait for the big assignment." He was altogether serious.

I groaned as we crossed through the cobblestone courtyard and approached the fountain. "So I'm a prophetic warm-up before the big one. Frank, you are so naive. Not all philosophers are atheists. Some have been and are Christians."

"Yeah, liberals, but how can ya call that Christian?"

"Frank..." Not wanting him to peeve me any more, I changed the subject. The fountain was in full array with water spouting in all direction. I grabbed Frank by the arm and pointed to Sophia. "Do you know who Gregorius Richter is?"

"Of course I do. He was a Pomeranian and the founder of Bethlehem College." His arm flinched in fearful expectation.

"Then you must have heard those legends about the Pomeranian brethren being inspired by the German mystic Jakob Böhme and how Gregorius Richter, who had insisted on building this fountain, had in mind Sophia, the Gnostic goddess of Wisdom. Some say the school's official line about Wisdom in the Book of Proverbs is a bunch of crap because Richter didn't want to start a Baptist College at all but a theosophical academy where the Sophia unblocks creativity and inspires inner Wisdom of the soul."

Frank began to stutter. "Y-you know well that those legends are dubious," he said without a trace of his usual Southern twang. "Morrie, we got to move along or we'll be late for chapel."

My friend also knew that the school's most conservative factions, to which he belonged, believed these apocryphal tales to be true and had more than once campaigned to purify the school from this Gnostic stain.

"And besides what difference does it make?" he added as we crossed over to the main sidewalk leading to the chapel building. "The fact is Bethlehem College became the Baptist school it is today."

For once I had him in a corner. "Boy, that's inconsistent with what..."

But Frank slyly slipped from my grasp. He stopped abruptly and pointed to the crowd of students heading for chapel. "Morrie, isn't that Tracy?"

Suddenly I forgot my line. "Where? I don't see her."

"Up ahead in the middle of that group of students over there... But then it's probably somebody else?"

I followed Frank's pointing finger and spotted the back of a blonde head bobbing up and down. "By golly, you're right. It is her."

Now Frank had become the skeptic. "How can ya be sure?"

"Don't ask... I know. Let's catch up before she reaches the chapel doors."

He replied, "Perhaps we shouldn't, especially you, Morrie. She ain't exactly..."

"Then I'm going without you. So long, Frank."

Frank grabbed my arm. "Morrie, let me tell ya somethin' about that girl. Now listen to me. She's very pretty and all, but..."

Before Frank could speak his mind, I broke away and ran toward her with all my might. "Hey, Tracy!" I yelled and waved my arms. "Wait for me."

Tracy's head perked up, like that of a startled doe, and she looked about until our eyes met. Her face lit up. "Morrie, come quick!"

I hurried past the students who stood between us.

"Morrie, it's so good to see you."

"How are you?" I asked with delight. Tracy looked gorgeous in the morning sunshine.

Her smile vanished. "Uh, not so good...that is, until I saw you."

"Why, what's the matter?"

"My classes. I hate every one."

"My goodness, they can't all be bad." I faked a frown, hoping to make her smile.

"Oh yes they are," she said. My clown antics seemed to have no effect. "My Child Development class is a waste of time. I could learn more by babysitting. Then there's the Introduction to Clinical Psychology. That prof is so full of bull I can hardly stand it."

"But aren't those required subjects for your teaching degree?"

She nodded with dismay and then slipped her arm under mine. "I'm so unsettled." She sighed and leaned against my shoulder. "I thought coming to Bethlehem was what I wanted. Now the very idea depresses me."

Although I was listening, her arm, which was grasping mine, was now my focus of attention. Like a syringe, it was sapping my strength. We strolled up the stone stairs while the chapel tower chimed the familiar hymn 'Just a Closer Walk with Thee.'

"The service is about to begin," I said. We were now standing inside the chapel doors. I had to say my piece quickly. "Tracy, didn't we agree to get together soon? It's been almost a week now. Are you doing anything Friday night?"

Her fingers, sensing my pleasure, suddenly stiffened.

"Friday? Let's see." With a stiff jerk, she withdrew her arm. "I think I've already made plans."

"What sort of plans?" I asked possessively.

Tracy became very tense. "Well, I sort of have this date with this guy. His name is Ted. He's a football player. The team and their girlfriends are all getting together before the game on Saturday."

I winced. "A football player, a jock? He's got to be a jerk, believe me."

The chimes were now tolling, meaning that the opening hymn was about to begin. Late-coming students pushed to pass us by. Tracy edged away. "Morrie, it's late, and I have to find my seat. You've got to go."

"Tracy, what about us getting together? It was your idea."

From behind me came a tug on my arm. It was Frank. "Hurry, Morrie," he said with a grin. "You know the rules. Once chapel begins, no one gets into the auditorium. You'd better find your seat now. They keep track of absentees, y'know."

The girl had slipped away. I turned back to Frank. "Now look what you've done. You made me lose her."

"Morrie, there's somethin' you should know about Tracy. I'm a friend of her classmate, and she told me that Tracy's been very glum lately. Maybe ya should back off so that she can get settled into her studies. Besides, from what I know, she's not what you need, either."

I might have lost my temper, but I was too busy scanning the auditorium in desperate pursuit of Tracy. I had to find her, and I moved in the direction where she must have gone.

"Morrie, your seat is over there," Frank said. "Sit down because I want ya to hear today's message. Chaplain Ferapont is speakin' on how secular humanism is destroyin' the Christian faith. You're walkin' down a path of destruction by studyin' philosophy, and if ya won't listen to me, perhaps you'll hear a voice of authority."

Now my blood was about to boil, and I could have punched him right there except that the opening hymn had been delayed. A real break! Perhaps I could still find Tracy. In spite, I jerked my arm away from Frank, ran down the aisle in the area where Tracy sat, and looked beneath every blonde head of hair I could find. The organ was playing the prelude when I spotted her sitting in the tenth row, second from the aisle. I rushed toward her.

"Tracy," I said out of breath, "you didn't answer my question about us getting together."

The girl sat up as if jolted by a bolt of electricity. "What are you doing here?" she whispered as loud as she dared.

I knelt down in the aisle as if I were purposing. "You said that we should get together soon, and that was a week ago. Why do you keep putting it off?"

The two girls beside Tracy were greatly amused. "Will you please go somewhere else!" said Tracy. "Everybody's watching."

"If not Friday night, how about Saturday afternoon?" I asked. "We can go hiking along the river. I've found some really great trails."

By this time, everyone in the entire auditorium had taken his seat, except for me. Tracy's neighbors were clearly enjoying the drama.

"Okay, okay," she said in haste. "Please leave, you're embarrassing me." She slouched as far down in her seat as possible.

Two young men sitting behind Tracy were snickering. "Go for it, buddy," one of them said.

"I'll meet you in the library at one o'clock," I said.

"Yes, yes, now scat!" She curled her fingers at me like a hissing cat.

I got the message and suddenly realized that, if I stood up, I would be a spectacle in the midst of a sitting assembly. Now several people were pointing at me and laughing as I hunched over and crept back toward my seat. To my relief, everyone suddenly stood up and began singing the opening hymn, How Great Thou Art. With ease, I hastened back to my proper sitting place.

President Lentzner and Chaplain Ferapont were sitting side-by-side on the front stage. Lentzner with his thin stature and bushy snow-white hair looked like Robert Frost sitting next to a brawny sports announcer on the local TV news. When the singing was over and after everyone had sat down, Chaplain Ferapont arose from his chair and approached the podium. A hush swept over the assembly.

"Dear friends in Christ," he said with his raspy voice. "As we enter a new school year, President Lentzner and I extend to you our welcome. We would also point toward the spiritual storm clouds that are gathering on the horizon..."

A football player? Tracy? How could the same young woman I met in the registrar's office get wrapped up with that locker room crowd? This couldn't be possible.

"...Likewise the Apostle Paul admonishes us in Ephesians chapter four not to be tossed to and fro by every wind of doctrine or by crafty men who lie in wait to deceive. Beware, lest any men spoil you through philosophy and vain deceit..."

But there's a football game Saturday afternoon! Surely, she'll be going. Had she forgotten? Perhaps she had said "yes" to get rid of me and had no intention of meeting me on Saturday. What chance did I have now?

"...I'm sure that I speak for President Lentzner as well by saying that, while striving to make our school a center for higher education that is second to none, we will not subordinate the Holy Scripture's irrefutable standards to the seduction of secular ideology that is so prevalent in modern education..."

How could a dumb ol' walk in the woods ever compete with a football game, with the privilege of sitting with those Bethlehem celebrities she would meet at the party Friday night? The thought of competing for Tracy with that crowd was depressing. How could she do this when everything was so real about the way we met? A reality I could almost touch; almost, but not quite.

"...My friends," concluded the chaplain with a fiery tone, "let us not stand in the valley of indecision. The wolves are nigh upon us, yea even inside the gate. Today, if you hear His voice, do not harden your hearts, like the Children of Israel in the wilderness. Stand ready to fight in defense of the Word of God!"

An exploding applause interrupted my wandering thoughts. Throughout the assembly, small groups of students were even cheering. Toward the back, I could plainly see Frank standing.

However, not everybody was so enthusiastic; two young men behind me, for example, were quite angry. One said to the other, "Our chaplain likes to rant and rave. Maybe he's the new Grand Inquisitor."

After our nervously looking president dismissed us with the benediction, Frank came rushing toward me. "Did ya hear the chaplain? Boy, that sure was a great message."

I responded with an indifferent shrug.

"Morrie, surely you were moved with conviction."

Without hiding my lack of interest, I said, "Though I was thinking about something else, I did notice not everyone was as excited as you. Some were downright hostile."

"That's only a small minority, Morrie. You mean ya haven't heard about the battle between us and the Arties on campus?"

"The Arties?"

"Yeah, the artists, the liberal elitists, them fancy-pants intellectuals, and everyone who voted for Clinton."

"Oh, for Pete's sake, that doesn't interest me in the least," I said as I turned away to walk out the door.

"Wait, Morrie," he said tagging right behind. "I thought ya knew. Then listen to me; there's a conspiracy by the Arties here on campus. They've already seized the school paper."

"The Forum?"

"Yes, two years ago Tina Kaiser and her comrades took control. I'm tellin' you, Morrie, there's been nothin' but trouble ever since. But it's that Emily Wagner who's behind it all."

"Emily Wagner. Who's she?"

Frank stopped me and faced me directly. "You've never heard of her? I can tell you are new here. Last year she was the center of the big scandal on campus. Her father, you see, was this big shot art critic from New York. He even claimed to be a born-again Christian. In truth, he had nothin' but liberal ideas, which he tried to push through as evangelical. Thank goodness, a few godly men had the courage to stand up and stop it before any real damage was done."

"I was at a Forum staff meeting just now. Nobody said anything about Emily Wagner." I started walking away again.

"That don't surprise me at all," he said following right behind. "She's gone underground, and hangs out with them art freaks downtown. My sources tell me that girl's still in charge. Morrie, why are you associatin' with them? Please don't. They're dangerous. Promise me that you'll have nothin' more to do with that newspaper."

"I can't promise anything," was my reply. I did not tell him about applying for a position on the editorial board. "But don't worry; they're trying to brush me off."

"It's the grace of God if they do. Tina Kaiser's just a puppet editor who does what Emily Wagner tells her to do. Wagner's one of them elitist art students and is supposedly doing independent study at the art museum down by the lake. God only knows what really goes on with them creative kooks down there. It's an ungodly conspiracy, I tell ya."

"How come you know so much?" I asked.

"'Cause it's my bizness to know the Lord's bizness."

I smiled inwardly.

Frank continued, "Last year I formed this here prayer group to stand against this ungodly blight 'cause it's really Satan who uses them to undermine the Holy Book's authority. We asked President Lentzner to take a stand against them last spring. He agreed with us in principle, but only reluctantly supported our cause. 'We can't give any more fodder to them scandal scrounging busybodies down at the Milwaukee Journal,' he said, that coward. That's why I'm so excited about Chaplain Ferapont's sermon today. Finally, someone with influence got the guts to take a stand. Morrie, promise me you won't even go near that wicked bunch."

A few minutes ago, thoughts of Tracy had filled my mind. Now Frank was pressing me into his world of demons and hyper-politics. This had to stop. "Frank, I've got more important things on my mind."

"Is a date with Tracy more important than the future of the Christian Church?" His eyes were wet with tears. "Morrie, I fear I led you astray when I pointed her out before chapel."

My eyes rolled back with disgust. "Goodbye, Frank."

After classes, I walked through the woods along the Menomonee River parkway, the same area I hoped to take Tracy hiking. The day's frustrations were still with me: football jocks and right-wing fanatics, Ted and Frank. Why did such things pester me? All I wanted was to be with Tracy. Why all these complications?

The dining hall had almost stopped serving when I returned to the campus. After all that walking and deliberation, I was famished, in both body and soul. With my tray loaded with hamburgers and fries, I needed only a place to sit. My eyes scanned the hundreds of students who sat around the many tables. I hoped to spot somebody familiar and perhaps join him. Everyone seemed so occupied. As a new student, I did not want to eat alone, but the idea of intruding on another group was a lonely feeling in itself. "Hi, what's your name? Oh? Where are you from? And what's your major?" After those campus clichés, there was little more to say.

I was feeling a bit down, having been put off first by Tina Kaiser and then by Tracy, so I opted for another meal alone. Then I saw Crusader. He sat alone, surrounded by several empty tables. In his mid-thirties, he had a distinct, square jaw and wore an off-white linen shirt. He was sipping soup while jotting down thoughts in a notebook. Obviously, he enjoyed the pleasure of his own company. Perhaps that was his attraction.

"Hi," I said cautiously, "do you mind if I join you?"

The man looked up with an intense but friendly face. "Not at all." He first closed his notebook and then stretching forth his hand. "My name is Crusader."

"I'm Morrie. Are you a student here?" We shook hands.

"No, I just like getting to know them."

"Do you work here or something?"

Crusader smiled. "If I told you I was a missionary, you'd ask me which country; if I said I was a teacher, you'd wonder which school. How about a prophet? That could really mislead you."

"Are you any of these?" I hoped my questions weren't boring him.

"Maybe all of them, but not in the way you're thinking."

I would later find out that the students knew him as "Bethlehem's resident philosopher" though he had no official connection to the school. A timeless sort of person, Crusader often ate at the dining hall and engaged all who would in a philosophical discussion. Where he came from or his real name was unclear. He was "Crusader," just like Melchizedec: without father, without mother, without descent; having neither beginning of days nor end of life. He seemed to transcend all the trivialities of campus life.

"Oh," I said, pretending to understand. His eyes were clear, his voice mellow like a muted trumpet. I changed the subject with another classic cliché: "I'm new here...and a philosophy major."

"How interesting; you appear to be a thinker and your last thoughts were no doubt significant."

I blushed. "You've caught me off guard; I almost forgot them." He spoke to me as if I were transparent, as if he already knew me. "Do you want to know what I was thinking?"

"Speak on." Crusader finished his soup and prepared to eat his salad.

"Before I sat down with you, it occurred to me how frustrating it is to sit beside a stranger and hold a real conversation. Everyone is so phony, me included. I usually sit alone...like you're doing."

"Is that how you see it?" he asked while savoring a freshly cut tomato. "Often it is as you say, but by taking a chance to acquaint oneself with a stranger, one can also find a new friend. You took the risk of sitting next to me, didn't you?"

"Yes, but usually such attempts end in frustration, and, after a while, taking that risk becomes a real strain." I began poking at my French fries. They had turned cold and soggy.

Crusader sighed as if he knew exactly what I meant. "I can't deny your experience. You've obviously given this some thought."

I told him about hiking by the river, about meeting Tracy, and about my coming here to Bethlehem—everything that was on my heart. Crusader listened with empathy.

Finally, I asked directly, "Crusader, why can't I walk up to people here and simply get to know them? Why cover up that I'm lonely? Why beat around the bush and ask about one's major when that's not the issue? I wear a mask and talk to others wearing masks."

"You can use such conventions as ice breakers that may lead to something deeper, but I hear you clearly." Crusader calmly finished chewing the food already in his mouth, put down his fork, and folded his hands on the table before him. "Humanity has this hidden obsession, an all-out struggle to avoid falling into the abyss of an undefined identity."

I stared back, my face full of question marks.

"You said it yourself, my friend. Most conversations in this dining hall are conducted with people who are out of touch with themselves. At bottom, such camaraderie is a desperate attempt to project one's identity in terms of things, which can never reveal who one truly is. What we have or do is not the totality of who we are."

"Things?"

"Careers, majors, how much money you earn—the usual lot."

"Aren't careers and such things important then?" I asked.

"You said that such talk leaves you empty. Does knowing the facts touch your feelings of loneliness?" He picked up his fork and started eating again.

"No, but what should one say? I can't sit next to a complete stranger and blurt out that I'm lonely."

"Why not?"

I had no reply. Instead I took a big bite out of my hamburger.

"Then listen closely; there's something else that may startle you." He put down his fork again.

I stopped eating.

"The identities we do create through jobs, titles, and possessions amount to a bald-faced lie!" Crusader's words, like strong medicine, could only be taken in small doses. "Have you ever felt so comfortable with someone that you could tell him or her anything at any time?"

For the moment, I forgot about Tracy and said, "Sure, my sister Mary, but do sisters count?"

He laughed. "I'm beginning to understand you. Your sister, however, illustrates my point very well. Would you like to have that kind of freedom with a few Bethlehem students as well?"

"Yes, of course, but the idea sounds so strange, like a foreign language. Sometimes I wish I didn't know any better. Then one could talk about those things, in ignorant happiness."

"Such bliss is not possible for you, I'm afraid. The cry for genuine friendship is too deep, Morrie. Be thankful for that, and don't let anyone snuff out your integrity with busy talk. With a deeper perspective, you can be rightly related to reality. Wherever you are and whoever you're with, you can always be yourself without pretense."

Crusader buttered a hard roll while I looked around at the hundreds of students eating their suppers. "One wonders if people like that even exist."

"Indeed," said Crusader as he sat erect. "You see, within every heart lies an awareness that the human situation, by itself, is meaningless."

"Are you some kind of radical?"

"I speak about life as I see it. With great anxiety people strive to elude this ever yawning void by losing themselves in the hurry and scurry of life."

I sat straight back in my chair. "Whew, I've never heard anyone talk like this before."

Crusader finished the last of his salad by putting the final bite of blue cheese in his mouth. "Not surprising. A direct confrontation with this dreadful reality would be intolerable, except for the grace of God. To survive, humanity suppresses what it already knows. Most people would have no idea what I am talking about."

Suddenly, new thoughts burst forth as if I were reading them from a book: "Perhaps I do understand. In fear, we drive ourselves to create false identities with possessions, titles, and power. We seek out people like ourselves, creating social conventions to justify this fallacy. We embrace lofty ideals and even religion to comfort ourselves. Soon this self-delusion becomes so great that we believe a lie to be the truth."

"Exactly, and I dare say that it's as universal as Original Sin. Let's take an example from suburbia, from which most students here come: There is this man, we'll call him Max, who finds his identity in his career, a dentist..."

"Or maybe a journalist," I quickly added.

"Of course, but let me elaborate on my dentist example. Max's quest to be someone is like an unquenchable thirst. Therefore, he takes for himself a wife (preferably a pretty one) and a house in the suburbs. He might have faith, as if being a "Christian" were something else to possess. The list is unfortunately endless. This person goes through life saying: 'I am a dentist,' 'I am married,' 'I am a born-again Christian,' or faces the possible conclusion of being a no-thing. He says, 'I am,' but what he really means is, 'Look at me.'"

I added excitedly, "You mean like, 'I am a dentist, therefore I exist?' I can just imagine such a conversation down at the country club."

"Or here in the dining hall?" he pressed with lifted brows. He was finished eating and wiped his mouth with a paper napkin.

"Or in the dining hall," I said.

Crusader laughed and raised his hands as if he were blessing everyone in the vicinity. "How many people strive to create themselves as if they weren't already created. Moreover, this isn't just about petty suburbia. The rich and the poor are caught in the same mire. Ideals and humanitarian endeavors, many of which are in themselves laudable, can be the greatest of deceptions."

"And upon achieving our desires, a gnawing discontent leaves us empty."

"That's the idea," he said with a laugh. "A pagan poet once said, 'The gods punish us by answering our prayers.' But, seriously, by seeing oneself through what one has, one must consume even more to quench the unquenchable lust. I call it the to have and to hold syndrome. To have points to one's perceived need to make something of oneself. To hold is the desperate attempt to avoid facing its futility."

"So," I concluded, "that's why we ask each other about our majors. We're so successful in avoiding reality, that we actually believe our own delusion."

Crusader suddenly pulled out an antique pocket watch, and his reflective expression turned into one of concern. "Oh my goodness, I'm due at the airport in less than an hour. Excuse me, but my ride is waiting." He looked over at my plate. "Morrie, you have hardly eaten a thing. Aren't you hungry?"

"I can eat later. I've one more question, Crusader. We're talking about a world without God, where God is dead and is a mere fabrication. But God does exist and has revealed to us that meaning, which is beyond human understanding. Christians should have the answers to this dilemma. And yet..." I dared not finish the sentence.

"Listen, Morrie," he said while putting on his jacket, "when believers use dogmas to divert their fear of difficult questions, they do the truth little service. For many, confessing faith in Jesus or affirming biblical truths is just another to have and to hold. The fervor of their conviction often is a measure of their desperation. I dare say no Christian will ever build a trustworthy bridge over the abyss of nothingness without first facing doubt and despair. And I mean face to face!"

I gulped. Crusader had suddenly expanded my cozy little world, and I didn't know if I dared embrace it.

"I'm sorry to leave you hanging with that unpleasant thought, but I must be in St. Louis tonight. When I get back, we'll continue this talk. Goodbye, my friend. Enjoy your meal, and, uh, would you mind returning my tray for me?"

"Not at all, and have a good trip." His extreme sense of urgency was puzzling. Great burdens were on his mind. We shook hands, and as suddenly as he had come into my life, he disappeared out the door. I looked down at my hardly touched meal. It had turned cold.

### Chapter 3

________________

An autumn chill was in the air. Still, it was a beautiful day, and the skies over Bethlehem College and Milwaukee were bright and sunny. Saturday, the day for my hike with Tracy, had arrived. A crisp wind penetrated my summer clothes as I rubbed my shivering arms and hustled over to the library. All day Friday, I wondered if she would forget about me and go to the football game. Early Saturday, someone had taped a note to my mailbox.

- **Morrie** \- I'll be studying in the library Saturday morning after brunch. Meet me there in the basement at 1:00 PM. We can go on that hike, if you still want to. \-- **Tracy**

I entered the library at noon and hurried past rows of reference books and through the reading room, not stopping until I reached the stacks in the basement stacks. Before me were visions of Tracy in chapel telling me to get lost. Even her promising note could not dispel my fears. I stopped to survey the room. Between the rows and in every cranny were tiny study compartments with dozens of students bent over in academic fervor. My eyes stopped at every head with long, blond hair. One of them had to be Tracy's.

I found her sitting in a booth near a row of books designated Elementary Education. At first she appeared to be studying, but she was in fact fast asleep. I peeked over the cubicle. Her head lay sideways pressed against an open book. Her face was like a cameo carved on an ivory broach.

I paused, adored, and then whispered, "Tracy, are you awake?"

When no answer came, I shook her shoulder. "Tracy, wake up!"

Her eyes flicked open, and without moving her head, she rolled them back and forth in every direction as if she were looking for me. I moved about and followed the swift jerks of her eyes.

Then she could no longer restrain herself and giggled through her nose. "Oh, Morrie, You should have seen how silly you look dancing back and forth."

My face flushed. Playing a court jester in one of Tracy's crazy capers was embarrassing. But teasing was better than a cold shoulder.

"We had agreed to meet at one o'clock, remember?" I was still blushing. "How are your studies?"

Her prankish grin sank to a frown as she looked down at the text before her. "Terrible," she said. "I haven't read a single page. It's so hard to concentrate."

"We did agree to go for a hike this afternoon," I said. "But if you must study..."

"What's the use? Let's go for that walk. I'm too depressed to study." She slowly closed her book, took a deep breath, and then smiled. "But where can we go hiking in the middle of Milwaukee?"

"Just over a mile from campus across the Menomonee River, there's this woodland area called the county grounds. In some places, it's nearly wilderness!" I explained to her how the college was near the suburb of Wauwatosa and that we would no longer be in Milwaukee. Then I leaned over and whispered. "I know a secret way to get there along an abandoned railroad track."

She smiled, not at all offended by our closeness, and peered into my eyes. "I have this feeling that an afternoon with Morrie Schiller will be unlike any other. Come on, let's go."

Together we hurried through the academic corridors, brushing past rows of bookcases. We scuttled up the stairs, passing the microfilm machines, the card catalogue, and the checkout counter, and finally escaped out the door. Tracy threw her hands up and spun around like a ballerina. "Ah, fresh air," she cried. Her golden hair swished and sparkled in the sunshine. "It's so invigorating. What a glorious day!" She leaped out onto the lawn, like a flamingo dancer, and clapped her hands and danced circles around me. Those passing by stopped and stared as if she were crazy, but Tracy didn't care.

The afternoon air grew warmer as we crossed the Menomonee River on Swan Boulevard and then hiked on a river trail in Hoyt Park before crossing the railroad tracks. Though I'm a city boy, as a child in St. Paul I spent hours exploring the woods along the Mississippi River. While others played baseball, I would climb the bluffs, looking for arrowheads and revisiting all my favorite places that overlooked the valley and the dominating presence of St. Paul's Cathedral on the other side of the river. My way of treating someone special was to share this experience, and Tracy was the perfect choice.

We entered the so-called county grounds on a dirt road bordered by a thick hedge of bushes. Through a break in the shrubs, I helped Tracy climb over an old wire fence. Then we skidded down an embankment and almost stumbled over railroad tracks below. They were sidetracks, now abandoned, and overgrown with weeds. Within seconds, the city had disappeared.

"How do you like my hobo jungle?" I asked, tightrope walking on one of the rails. Between the tracks, an overgrowth of sapling poplar trees crisscrossed in all directions.

Tracy followed my example, and together we walked parallel on the rails through the thicket. We laughed and tried to make each other lose balance. She looked great in her blue, down-filled vest that covered her red-and-white Norwegian sweater. The tracks ended at one of my favorite places, patches of marsh grass and cattails that surrounded a huge pond where hundreds of ducks had found refuge on their way south.

"How incredible," she said. "Here in the middle of a big city there's a wild marsh. And look at the wildlife!" We took our place on an old log and watched the action. All city sounds had ceased; the quacking and the flapping of wings were deafening. "This is awesome. Where are we?"

"We're in an undeveloped enclave where the Milwaukee County owns the property, and the ducks come here because it's safe from the hunters. You can also find 'possums and raccoons and even white-tail deer. Someday this will all be paved with asphalt and Wal-Marts. But for now..."

"A refuge! Before we left the campus, I felt so depressed. But now I feel like Bethlehem College is hundreds of miles away."

We left the marsh area and walked along a wooded path that ran along a creek and bordered a golf course. Birds sang to the rustling rhythm of the cottonwoods. Though we were both silent, I could not ignore what she might be thinking, namely of our last time together, that painful parting at chapel several days earlier. Wounded pride still lingered.

The trail led into a denser wood with giant twisted oaks. Green and amber mosses carpeted the sylvan floor, while fiery patches of red dotted the maples. Ferns and shrubs, once green and proud, bowed humbly, their brown stems having surrendered to the coming of winter. Though the land we traversed was embedded on the outskirts of a city, we ignored the telltale scars of urban sprawl and imagined we were walking through a real forest. We had entered deep into Nature's womb and the need for covering disappeared. Then it happened. The bond of fellowship descended upon us. Like Adam and Eve, we walked together in the cool of the day, and beneath the garden's boughs, our hearts lay bare and unashamed.

"Thank you for rescuing me," she said.

"Have I rescued you?"

"Well, if I weren't here with you right now, my roommate would have pressured me into going to the football game. I would have been absolutely miserable." Tracy slipped her fingers through mine and clasped my hand.

"I must have really embarrassed you at chapel. And I called your football friends a bunch of jerks! Who could blame you for still being mad at me? I'm terribly sorry."

"Yes, you did make me angry, but I shouldn't have brushed you off, especially after we had agreed to be friends. You were right to feel hurt."

"Did it go well for you last night at the party?" I asked.

"Need I even tell you?" She sighed and looked at me from the corner of her eye. "Just guess."

"Perhaps you should tell me."

"Oh, Morrie, while waiting for you at the library, I had decided not to say a word. 'It's none of his business,' I thought. But now," —she paused as if about to cry— "the truth is my date with Ted was terrible."

"Ted was terrible?" I asked to lighten the mood.

Tracy chuckled. "Well, that's one way of saying it, but I meant the party. Never have I felt so out of place in my life. It was like a cocktail party, with phonies everywhere, like in a soap opera."

"I do know exactly how it went, but were there really cocktails?"

"Of course not. This was a Christian party: phoniness without the booze. The entire football team and their dates were standing around, drinking punch and trying to impress both the coaches and one another. It was sickening. I had to say all this phony gibberish stuff about how great Bethlehem College was, and Ted paraded me around like one of his phony football trophies. A couple of phony girls, who didn't have dates, kept giving me the evil eye. Which phony girl was he trying to make jealous, I thought?

"It was horrible, Morrie, like those preteen games from junior high. Then, before leaving, everybody piously held hands in a ring while the coach prayed and thanked Jesus for the privilege of coaching a Christian football team. I could have..."

"Really, what was the attraction? You could never be like them. Why would anyone want to? Why did you go there?"

"I wanted to...okay, in a way, I knew better, but I wanted them to accept me. I tried my hardest to be like them; obviously they weren't convinced."

"You just complimented yourself in my opinion."

She chuckled. "Your opinion is based on your experience. You know so little about me."

"That little bit is telling you what happens every time," I said.

She titled her head pensively, as if she was imagining herself as them. "You see, those people have a place here. I don't. They're so happy, and I want so much" —her voice cracked— "to belong as well. Okay, so I hate them all, but at least they have a life to show for themselves. I'm a nobody. My whole life has been that way. I want to be a somebody too."

"Tracy Johnson, that's the biggest bald-faced lie I have ever heard."

"But to be a real person, I must also be special," she said.

My heart overflowed. "Why, you are very special. You are the most beautiful person I've ever met. Shouldn't that mean something?" My fingers were trembling.

"Of course it does, Morrie. But you're different; you understand."

Translation: You think I'm special, but you don't count.

Despite the pain of not counting, I reached out again. "Tracy, you have more positive qualities than all those people combined. They are a bunch of jerks."

"Thanks. I appreciate your trying to build me up."

"But it's true." I squeezed her hand.

She withdrew her hand and hid it under her arm. "I'm sorry, but that's beyond me."

There was a reflective silence between us. I hung my head and wanted to cry... for Tracy, for myself... it didn't matter.

Tracy and I passed through an open grassy field overtaken by brush and saplings, which, if left alone, would one day be woodland.

"Look!" said Tracy as she grabbed both my shoulders and turned me about, "a deserted farm house." Beyond the meadow, behind some large oak trees, stood a small dilapidated building with faded white clapboard. An overgrowth of untrimmed hedges and tall grass had smothered what was once a lawn. She took me by the hand and tugged me toward the abandoned dwelling. "Come, there must be a vegetable garden nearby. Maybe we can find something to eat. I'm starving."

"But no one has lived here for years. How can there be a garden?" I asked.

"There's always something perennial growing in places like these. I've seen it before." Tracy led me to the southwest side of the house, which she explained would get the best sunlight and thus would be the most probable place for a garden. "Look, there are some apple trees. Watch out for the cockleburs."

"Eww," I said after we had looked at the fruit. "They're all full of worm holes."

"You're right. These aren't edible. Nobody takes care of them." Tracy let go of my hand and pushed away some tall weeds. "These are raspberry bushes, but they're out of season." She then pointed to a bush with small bright red berries, which were shriveled and not very appetizing. Tracy carefully picked out a few of the better ones and put them into her mouth. She then handed me the rest. "Here, try these. They're red currants."

"How do you know they're not poisonous?" Tracy had led me into an unfamiliar territory, and I had suddenly become very wary.

"Trust me. When I was little, I used to pick them when Grandmother made jelly. I know what I'm doing." Tracy laughed as she continued to offer me the berries. "C'mon. Don't be a scardy-cat. Try one."

I took one, eyed it suspiciously, put it on my front teeth, and bit down. "Yuck. They're sour. Are you sure we should be eating these?"

Tracy was greatly amused. "They need lots of sugar. Like I said, they make great jelly and are delicious when you mix a few in a raspberry sauce. Besides, someone should have picked these weeks ago; they're withering. You may love the out-of-doors, but you sure don't know much about country livin.'"

"I guess not." I said, acting as if I were hurt.

Tracy laughed and continued rustling through the overgrowth. She squatted down and rustled through the weeds. "Over here, Morrie. I found some ground cherries. You're going to love these."

"Oh no, not again," I said.

She stood up and showed me small pods with brownish paper-like husks.

I inspected them closely. "They look like small Japanese lanterns."

"Don't they?" She peeled back the husk of one and exposed the yellowish fruit that did look like a cheery. She ate one and gave me another. "Here, try this one. They're very tasty." She smiled and winked. "This time I promise."

I took off the husk and bit down on the fruit. "Hmm, very good. It tastes like a blending of tomatoes and pineapple."

"See, didn't I tell you? C'mon let's find some more."

Tracy and I scavenged through the grass, hoping to find more ground cherries. We found two handfuls, and we ate them delicately. Soon we were standing up against the old forsaken farmhouse. The fieldstone foundation was crumbling, and the roof on one side had begun to cave in. Someone must have razed all the other farm buildings. Everything else was gone except for a nearby shed that had totally collapsed.

"Do you want to take a look inside?" I asked.

Tracy lost her enthusiasm. "But all the doors are boarded up. Maybe we had better..."

"Let's walk around to the other side," I said. "There's often at least one door where someone has broke in." This time I led the search for a way in. "Look, the back door into the pantry appears to be pried open. Let's go see. Be careful, those steps are rotten."

"Morrie, I..."

"C'mon. If it's dangerous, we can turn around. I promise."

I took Tracy's hand, which I could feel was trembling, and pushed open the door. The first room we entered was the kitchen. Though the furniture was gone, the cupboards, counter, and sink were still in place. An old coffee percolator and several empty Mason jars spoke of the people who had once lived there. Newspapers and old receipts lay strewn on the floor. A State Farm Insurance calendar from 1979 hung on the wall. The tapestry was peeling and we could see several layers of wallpaper that had built over the years. The cupboard doors were open. Someone had pulled out all the drawers and thrown them onto the tattered, linoleum floor. A thick layer of dust covered everything.

"This place looks desolate," said Tracy.

"Look," I said, "there a small hand pump by the sink. There must be a well under the house."

"No, that leads to a cistern, a tank where rain water from the roof was collected. They used it for washing because it's so much softer than well water. That was before there were water softeners, of course. I know this because my grandmother had one just like it."

I tried pumping the handle but it was broken. "Come, let's look into the other rooms." I looked at Tracy. Pain filled her eyes. "Are you all right? Tell me what's wrong."

"Morrie, this reminds me of the house I grew up in. I want to leave now. Please."

Without any questions, I led Tracy back outside where she lightened up immediately.

"Whew," she said. "I feel better now. Come, let's go somewhere else."

We re-crossed the same field and found another path back into the woods. As if time did not exist, we walked and talked on and on. She told me about her family and growing up in Cedar Ferry, Iowa, a little river town north of Davenport. Her father had been a burly barge worker on the Mississippi River.

"When he left home, it was for months at a time."

"Gone? Where is your father now?" I asked.

"Don't get ahead of the story," replied Tracy. She told how her mother had to fend for the family alone in Cedar Ferry.

"Mom would drag my sisters and me to this dingy Pentecostal church on the outskirts of town. Every Sunday night she would wail with the others around the altar rail while we girls sat on the back pew and watched with disdain. Later, Mom had a nervous breakdown on account of my sister Adie getting pregnant when she was only fourteen. I'm telling you, our family is a mess. In my senior year in high school, I rejoined this little Swedish Baptist church, which only increased the strain between my mother and me. She was furious."

"What do you mean, 'rejoined'?" I asked.

"Well, for me it was the first time, but my great-grandmother had been a charter member of that church. You see, my family has been splitting up over religion for over one hundred years. Mom's family—that would be my great-grandfather—got saved during the great Baptist revivals that swept through the Swedish-speaking communities in the 1860's."

We came upon a large cable spool, lying on its side. Tracy wanted to rest so we sat down.

"Granddad was the only member from the Dubuque Lutheran settlement to convert, and his own kin forced him off his the homestead. Penniless, he took his family over to Springfield, Illinois where he worked his way through Bible school. From there he went about planting new Baptist congregations among the Swedes throughout eastern Iowa. At one of those churches, my grandmother settled down by marrying the deacon. That's why I'm from Cedar Ferry."

"But why must you rejoin a church that your grandfather had pioneered?" I asked.

"Like I said, my great-great-grandfather was the first in the family to split off, and the family's been splitting ever since. The Swedish Baptist Church at Cedar Ferry grew and prospered for almost two generations. Then the Free-will Baptists came down from Rockford, Illinois. With new doctrines, they split the congregation right down the middle and built a new Baptist church on the other side of town. Our family was among them. The two churches became bitter enemies, and the Baptist movement became a battleground."

"How tragic."

"But it didn't stop there. Grandma told how her uncle once crossed the river over to Illinois to buy some corn seed. He never came back. When his brother followed him across the Mississippi to look for him, people said that a Mormon party had passed through and took a quarter of the population with them out West. Presumably also my great-uncle, for they never heard from him again."

We got up from the spool and started walking again.

"But why would your mother become so furious about you going back to the Swedish Baptists?" I asked.

"Family pride, I guess. I had determined never to set foot in another Pentecostal church. Perhaps it was also to spite her. Much worse were my sisters who married local fellows and don't go to church anywhere. Adie was getting a divorce, the last time I heard."

"You say Pentecostal, but you also say your mother was a Free-will Baptist?"

"She was." Tracy paused to collect her emotions. "My side of the family was all members there. That's where my mother met my father. Once, when I was very young, something terrible happened between my father and the pastor. One night after a service Dad got steaming mad, stormed out of the church, and left town. That's when he left my mother and us girls and moved down the river to Memphis. Rumors are that the pastor was getting it on with one of the Sunday school teachers.

"Although the scandal never became public, the Free-will congregation collapsed with the pastor and his wife leaving town in opposite directions. The frame of that unpainted church still stands, deserted, as if some Old Testament prophet had walked by and cursed it. That's when Mom joined the Pentecostals."

"And you returned to the Swedish Baptists," I added.

"I went there but never joined officially. I was the only person under forty, and they hadn't baptized a new member in over ten years. With all the young people moving downriver to Davenport, Cedar Ferry today is practically a ghost town. My mother is spiritually ruined, and my sisters have rejected Christianity altogether. Those in the family who still believe are old and dying off. I'm the end of the spiritual line, Morrie, and if my ship sinks too..."

Tracy fell silent, and I let the conversation die. We had reentered a wooded area and strolled beneath the branches of huge twisted oaks. Acorns covered the footpath, and the gray squirrels scampered about collecting food for winter. We might have been walking in circles, but neither of us cared.

In the distance, we saw an abrupt end of the trail. Two trees arched together and framed a bright opening.

"Listen," said Tracy, "I hear heavy traffic, cars and trucks."

Curious about what lay beyond, we started running. Sunny rays caressed us as we left the woods and met the bustling traffic of the city. Across the busy boulevard stood a cluster of small shops with a quaint, old German design. The white stucco siding and dark brown beams were fake, but the effect was like Grimm brothers' magic. That was logical; we had just come out of an enchanted forest.

"Oh, Morrie," she said and pulled me into the street, "look at those cute shops!" She didn't even notice the traffic.

"Hey, watch out for the cars." I let go of her hand, something I instantly regretted. "You'll get us run over."

"But it's so exciting. Look, there's a gift shop, an expensive kind with silverware and crystal. Let's go in and pretend we're shopping for real. Have you ever done that before? It's loads of fun."

The idea didn't sound so keen. "It's getting late. Let's find out where we are and head toward the campus. Don't you think...?"

"No, let's go in the gift shop. Please, Morrie. Please?"

And so, like Hansel and Gretel, we headed for the gingerbread gift shop. That's when I spotted a cafe next door.

"How about a bite to eat instead?" I suggested, hoping to distract her. "I'm starving, and the campus dining hall closes in fifteen minutes. We'll never make it."

Tracy changed her mind, instantly. "Great idea, I'm starving."

We dashed into the cafe among the stucco shops and ordered corned beef sandwiches. While eating, we caused no small ruckus. First Tracy started cracking corny jokes, making me laugh and spill mustard onto a napkin holder. We giggled, especially whenever our waitress passed by, until the seams of our mouths almost split. People stared as if we were naughty children in church, and the manager was clearly annoyed.

We finished eating, quickly, and merrily skipped on our way back outside. Soon it would be dark, and the weather looked threatening.

"We must return to the campus before it rains," I said.

However, for Tracy, the day was far from over. She hadn't forgotten the expensive gift shop beside the cafe, and she pulled me by the hand inside. The shop specialized in things for newlyweds, and Tracy insisted that the sales lady take out different sizes and colors of fancy-looking bed sheets, the "bridal editions." Never had I been so embarrassed!

"Look, Morrie," she said. "Don't you just love the pink and turquoise flowers on this bedding? I mean, aren't they darling?"

I blushed in return. "Uh, let's look at these coffee mugs over here instead."

"Morrie, you're not paying attention. Your opinion is equally important. Now what do you think?"

I gulped. "This color over here is nice."

"Honestly, Morrie, yellow pinstripes don't match anything else we have. Look at this flower print again."

"Well, if you say so." I wondered if she had completely flipped. She was only kidding around, but what did it all mean? Was all this newlywed talk her way of mocking me? Or was playing the clown her way of showing her true feelings? My desire to be in her world, make-believe or not, was overwhelming; her allure was absolute. Soon I was arguing, passionately, over the color of the bed sheets.

What followed was sheer lunacy. First Tracy insisted on this color, and I would argue for a different fabric. After bickering back and forth, we finally agreed on a color and fabric we both liked: gold sheets with white lace.

The shop lady thought we were serious, and Tracy never even winced about leading her on. "Oh, we're only looking," Tracy would say, but the clerk insisted on bringing out different fabrics and colors. She enjoyed watching young couples discuss intimate things like bedding, for she had this silly grin.

Before long, I had had enough. "C'mon Tracy, we have to go." This time I grabbed her hand and tugged her skidding feet toward the door.

"Look over there, Morrie. Isn't that china absolutely gorgeous? Let's..."

"No more looking. We have to go."

"Please, Morrie, please?"

"Tracy, no!" I approached the clerk. "Thank you very much for all your help, ma'am."

"No trouble at all, children," she said. "I've thoroughly enjoyed it. Do come back."

"Oh we will, we will. Won't we, Morrie?"

"Yeah, sure. But right now we're going home."

I pulled the girl outside the shop. It was dark, and the pavement wet from a drizzling rain. The traffic on the boulevard was even heavier than before. Worst of all, I had no idea where we were.

"I think we're lost," I said, trying spot a street sign or something to give us a clue. "This isn't Milwaukee and maybe not even Wauwatosa."

"How could that be?"

"The county grounds are in Wauwatosa, and Mayfair Road must be beyond those houses over there."

"Morrie, who cares? Isn't this exciting? Here we are, lost on a rainy night on some strange street somewhere..."

Truly, the day had been an adventure. Tracy clutched my arm and drew very close as we strolled along the shiny-wet sidewalks. Beads of rainwater dripped from her hair onto her Norwegian sweater. Beneath the foggy streetlights, we were getting cold and had to do something.

"Look," we shouted simultaneously, "there's a taxi!"

We hailed the cab, just like in the movies. "Drop us off at Centennial Hall," I said as we sped off toward Bethlehem College, a perfect ending to a romantic day.

Shivering, we huddled together in the back seat. Tracy nuzzled against my chest while I held her tightly. We said nothing and listened to the tires splashing and hissing against a wet pavement.

As we approached the campus, the atmosphere changed. Our joy was dissipating, and, as we drove beneath the school's arches, a fog-like depression descended. Hovering over the buildings, as if waiting, a gloom pressed its way between us; the red brick buildings and the winding ivy were all so vexing. When the driver parked near her dorm, Tracy's face cringed with inner pain.

From the taxi, we hurried through the drenching rain. The lights in the lobby were dim, and we stumbled over sofas upon which lay the silhouettes of embracing Bethlehem couples. We could hear them kissing. To think that the RA's overlooked things that were clearly against the rules! I blushed and quickly ushered Tracy up the stairwell and to the hallway where she lived, where no male could enter.

The day's magic had vanished. "Good night," I said. "Tracy, this has been a wonderful day."

She paused and limply shook my hand. "Yeah, it was fun."

It was a farewell with mixed emotions. Her trembling fingers betrayed inner doubts. Her lips quivered as if she were about to speak again. We froze, stared at one another, and then she spun around and dashed away.

Alone I trudged back to my dorm through the rain, undressed, flung myself onto my bed, and cried. A streetlight glared through rain that streaked against my window. On my bed in the dark, thoughts of Tracy drifted through my mind.

Was she thinking about me now? I had called her a "special person," but to what end? The day's delights were also her doings as well. She and I fit together perfectly, didn't we? Deep in my heart, I hoped to find a faint trace of certainty, but despite past bliss, I found no comfort.

That night I dreamed I was a little boy. My mother was carrying my baby sister up a huge stone staircase while I tagged behind. We passed through the doors of the large Catholic church where she had attended Mass many years ago. Inside Mom genuflected and crossed herself before taking her place on the pew. The priest would chant and raise the host high into the air. After praying, he turned his head sharply and looked at me with scowling eyes, as if knowing our family would soon leave the fold. Why was he blaming me?

Startled, I awoke. My whole body was sweaty as I sat up and heard the rain tapping against the window. Back when my father was an atheist, Mom would take Mary and me to St. Irene's Catholic Church on High Street in St. Paul—that is, when Dad would let her.

Dad hated that church and could not forget his days at Catholic grammar school. "Those wicked nuns would rap my knuckles with a ruler until they bled... for doing nothing."

To this day, he curses anything that even suggests Catholicism. It was he who took us out of the Catholic Church. Why then did I feel guilty?

I lay back again, closed my eyes, and listened to the rain pattering on the window. Thoughts of Tracy mingled with my dream. From that night on, a yearning for my religious past began to vex me. I was perfectly happy as an evangelical Christian. I was proud of my Protestant heritage. Whence this desire to reconvert to Catholicism?

### Chapter 4

________________

Tina Kaiser, editor of The Forum, rummaged through the piled papers flung haphazardly upon her desk. Beside her sat two female assistant editors, Joanne Keaton and Shelby Jacobs, and Bart Boyer, the sports editor. The four made up The Forum's editorial board. On that particular day, they had summoned me to an interview with the hope of filling the vacant fifth position.

"Morrie Schiller," said Tina, paging through my resume. "My friend, Emily Wagner, was the last to hold the post you seek to fill. Because of her, The Forum has the quality of greatness, and she is irreplaceable. Thus, the idea that we should take on a new student, unfamiliar with this school's situation, is unheard of..."

"Oh, cut out the crap, Tina," said an irate Bart Boyer. "The rules are that there must be five members on the editorial board. With all the talent at this school, we should be asking why only two bothered to apply. Unfortunately, I doubt if anyone here even knows the answer, so let's get on with it. Welcome to this interview, Morrie."

"It is perhaps unusual to take on a transfer student to such a position," I said. "However, the other applicant is a sophomore with little practice as a reporter, with layout, or anything else. My resume from Twin Cities Jr. College shows me to be as experienced as any of you in all these areas. Besides, Bethlehem College recognizes work done at other accredited colleges. According to the registrar, that includes my previous newspaper work. Finally, according to The Forum's own rules, 'upperclassmen receive priority over underclassmen when new members are appointing new board members.'"

"That settles it," said Bart. "Morrie is more qualified than Sue Daniels—plus he has seniority. Let's welcome him on board."

Tina laid her hands heavy on the table. "Not so fast, Boyer. I'm in charge here, and you're just a sports reporter. To qualify for this position, one has to have more than technical skills. One must have a vision that coheres with The Forum's editorial policies, which is my responsibility."

Bart replied, "You may be editor, Tina, but I don't buy this political correctness stuff, and as a member of this board, my vote counts as much as yours. I'm sure Schiller has his own journalistic vision, which is more than anyone can say for Sue Daniels. She's more of a copy-cat than a copy editor. Defend yourself, Morrie. Why should we choose you?"

The eyes of all eyes were on me. Tina's were not friendly. I shifted uncomfortably.

"Yes, I am new here, and have much to learn—old traditions and the latest trends—but I don't have any political agenda. This board represents the entire student body, not my personal views... or yours. The Forum must focus not only on the big events, but we must also bring to attention things of which the majority isn't even aware. Though all the students come from different backgrounds, we are still one body. A newspaper is like a mirror: it reflects all parts of this body, not just the head. Before you lies my portfolio, which speaks for itself."

Tina fumbled through the loose-leaf folder and pulled out an article that I had submitted earlier. "What's this, Schiller? Catholics on Campus? What has Catholicism to do with Bethlehem College? Hello, do you call this interesting? I think not."

I responded with excitement. "Yes, that's exactly what I'm trying to say. Did you read it?"

"No, tell us about it."

"Were you aware that a Catholic community of about thirty students exists right here at a Protestant enclave like Bethlehem College? While being very responsive to the traditional spirituality here on campus, they have their own devotional meetings with rosaries, an occasional priest, and much more. I find such things fascinating."

"That's very interesting, Morrie," said Bart, "if not refreshing. Joanne and Shelby, we haven't heard a word from you two."

Joanne said meekly, "Maybe we should call Emily and hear what she thinks."

Tina's face tightened. Joanne had clearly said something wrong. Tina then confronted me. "Mr. Schiller, we've heard rumors about you so I'll ask you straight out: what is your relationship to the Fundies around here?"

"The what?"

"You're not familiar with that word? Let me help you: the Christian fundamentalists."

I chuckled. "You mean the Fundies as opposed to the Arties?"

Tina's face reddened. "Schiller, what is it that I don't like about you?"

My newly launched career as a journalist at Bethlehem College was at risk. "Rest assured I am not a fundamentalist. My views of the political rivalry on campus don't matter. I intend, as a journalist, to stay neutral. You have nothing to fear."

Shelby, hesitant to speak, suddenly trembled. "I've seen that guy before. He hangs out with Frank Blachford, the Fundie, in the student union. They looked very buddy-buddy too."

"Tina," cried Joanne, "he must be a spy."

"Yes, a spy," said Shelby.

"I'm not a spy," I said in frustration. "I do know Frank, and maybe we're friends, but that's a private matter. He and I disagree more often than not. I am not a spy, nor am I a Fundie. Ask Frank."

"Ha!" bellowed Tina with her masculine voice. "We might as well ask the Devil himself."

Suddenly out in the hallway, a dismissal bell blared.

"Time's up." Bart shook his head. "This interview is disgusting. I'm leaving. I suggest we postpone the vote."

"Hold on, Boyer," ordered Tina. "If there's nothing more to discuss, let's put the vacancy to a vote now. Any objections?"

Besides Bart's comments, the whole meeting had been a farce.

"All in favor of electing Morrie Schiller as the fifth member of the editorial board raise your right hand."

Bart alone raised his hand.

"All those in favor of Sue Daniels raise their left hand."

Three hands went up.

"Then it's decided—three to one. Sue Daniels is the next member. This meeting is adjourned."

I froze, dumbfounded.

"Morrie," Bart said in front of the others, "this election was more like a kangaroo court. We broke every rule in the book. I suggest that you file a complaint to the fairness committee of the student council. There are ways to fight this, and you can use my name. The question is who would want to work with a bunch like us." He got up and was about to walk out the door. "Two years ago, The Forum was a first rate college newspaper and qualified student journalists would have fought to fill this seat. But now, with all this political razzle-dazzle no one dares or even wants to apply. Morrie, had you seen all the commotion that happened in this office last year, you wouldn't have applied either."

Bart had already left by the time Joanne and Shelby were walking out the door. I was right behind them.

"Wait a minute, Schiller," said Tina. "Take your portfolio with you."

Tina and I were now alone. She threw my papers on her desk and calmly started to read a newspaper. "You need not submit anything else to The Forum because you're through here, as a reporter, as anything." She then looked at me over the top of her reading glasses and added, "By the way, don't bother filing that complaint because I've got influence around here. Believe me; your case won't even get a hearing. As far as I'm concerned, this incident never even happened."

I was stunned and left without a reply, without telling her off as she deserved. Was this really happening? Frank's crazy world of conspiracies was starting to make sense. My future in journalism lay in ruins. Without experience, no graduate school would ever consider me seriously.

Within a month, the glory of autumn had come and gone. The ground crews had dug up the gardens, raked the leaves, and covered the rose bushes. Well into the semester, Bethlehem College was prepared for winter, and schoolwork was piling high. Losing the journalist position had been a setback. There were books to read, about Aquinas and Spinoza, and papers to write, on Hegel and Socrates.

My greatest distraction from studying, however, was my falling in and out of Tracy's favor. Round after round, first Tracy would warm up to me, then we'd spend more time together and our rapport would deepen. Soon after, a new guy—someone "special" or "unlike the others"— would appear, and she would vanish for a couple of weeks until he faded away. She would then resurface, and we would take off all over again.

One could say I had sacrificed my integrity, but there was a payoff: with each withdrawal and return, we became closer. With no loss for time, our friendship took off from the last goodbye. We did ordinary things together like hiking, going to church, or watching an occasional movie. Then, after two weeks or so, when intimacy reached a new peak and needed defining, Tracy could sense my hopes also rising. When a new boyfriend entered, I would have to back off.

Frank, as usual, had his own opinion when I met him one night just outside the library. "You're dangerously hangin' on. Tracy is a fine girl, and perhaps she means well. But be honest, she's using ya, and you're taking advantage of her difficult situation, so you're no better. Your clingin' keeps her from makin' important life-decisions. Give her some room, Morrie. She doesn't need a boyfriend right now."

I gritted my teeth and wanted to plug my ears. "So it seems, but deep inside there's more ... a reality. You call me mad? Yes, madly in love. Dare I stand by and not care? The more she hurts the more I hurt for her."

However, Frank was right. The more distant she became, the greater was my patience, because I knew her dependence would soon be all-embracing. Each time she fell in love with another, I could inwardly smile, for soon she would bounce back to my waiting shoulder.

It was a Sunday afternoon, a couple of weeks later; I was lazing in my room with a cup of instant coffee. No classes, but I had laundry to do and was folding laundry on my bed. Outside, a cold wind whipped through the naked elms, and the first snow flurries filled the gray skies. The day before, Tracy and I had taken the bus downtown to the Natural History Museum and had spent a great time together. Earlier that morning, we had attended services at West Suburban Baptist Church, and afterwards we had eaten a delicious chicken meal in the dining hall. No hopeful male had been on the horizon for three weeks, and never had we spent so much time together. Happy times were flowing along: she taught me how to knit, showed me family photos from Cedar Ferry, and, when parting after dinner this day, she had given me an intimate hug in the view of a host of onlookers.

With the water in my cooker boiling, I was ready for another cup of coffee. I had enough clean laundry for two weeks; my socks were rolled together—as Mom would want—and lined up neatly on the same shelf where she had laid them on opening day. I was about to read several more chapters of Nietzsche's Beyond Good and Evil, and that evening I had signed up for a discussion group with our philosophy club. Afterwards, we were all going out for pizza. Nothing could destroy this day.

The telephone rang. I smiled and answered, "Hello."

"Is that you, Morrie?" Tracy's voice was quivering, unlike at anytime before. Something was wrong. A new boyfriend was out of the question; we had just been together, and her embrace had lacked all inhibition. What could it be?

"Oh hi, Tracy." A foreboding lump swelled in my throat. "I was just thinking about you."

"Morrie, I've been wanting to call you since dinner and..." There was silence.

"And?" I sat down on my bed.

"Morrie, we need to talk."

"Sure, what about?" I asked, unsure if I wanted to know the answer.

"Not over the phone." Her voice trembled as if she were about to cry. "It's very important."

"Where then?" We both knew the rules: men and women were not allowed to meet alone together in the dorms, and, on a cold day, privacy was hard to find.

"How about the coffee bar at the student union?" she asked. "The place is empty on a Sunday afternoon because it doesn't open before six p.m."

"Okay, shall we meet in a half hour?"

"That's fine. See you then." She hung up.

Slowly, I stumbled out of the chair. There couldn't be a new boyfriend. Something else was wrong, dreadfully wrong. The tone of her voice had sounded so final. With fear and pain, I knelt before my bed and buried my face into the freshly folded laundry. "Dear Lord, I don't want to know. I don't want to know. Help me."

Depressed, I arose, grabbed my windbreaker, and plodded outside. It was almost dark, and not a person was in sight. A feather-light layer of snow, the first this year, stretched across the campus lawn as freezing gusts of wind whipped through my light jacket. I pulled the nylon hood over my head and, turning my cheek into the winter, plowed through the cold night air. The trees howled and beckoned me onward.

The student union was completely deserted; Tracy had yet to arrive. Normally, the many tables and brown leather booths were bustling with chattering students. One had to hurry to find a vacant seat. But at this hour, the concession counter was closed and the lights around the soda fountains were turned off. In a far corner, I sat down in the most isolated booth possible.

As soon as I had found a comfortable place, Tracy briskly entered. She wore an emerald-green coat with a red Scottish plaid scarf wrapped around her neck. She stopped in the middle of the empty room, pivoted on her right heel, and searched for me.

"Tracy, over here," I said and waved my hand.

She smiled discreetly, walked across the room, and slid into my booth. Face to face, for a few moments, we simply stared. Whatever was on her mind would not be easy to say.

Finally, she leaned forward on the table between us. "Morrie, I said we need to talk and..." She paused. Whenever a new boyfriend was the subject, her tone became cold and aloof. This time the vocal quiver came from deep within her being.

"Yes, go on," I said.

"Morrie, this isn't easy for me to say."

"I can see that, but go on, speak your mind."

"This is going to hurt you. Please try to understand. You're so kind, and the last person on earth that deserves..."

I replied slowly, "Before you speak, listen to how it goes with me. Perhaps you already know."

"What do you mean?"

"Tracy." I leaned over the table to look more closely in her eyes. "I haven't told you...about a passion. I want to and have often tried, but time is always fleeting."

"What is it, Morrie?"

"Tracy, I love you and have from the moment you entered my life. You are a vision. For me to behold you is to exist. When you look at me, I am. Your words express my unspoken self. You have eyes like windows, and I see myself, this very moment, as..." I gulped, "as God must see me..."

I had never told a girl I loved her before. I had imagined such a moment, but never like this, for the reaction in Tracy's eyes was stern. "Please, Morrie, don't talk that way. You think you know me, but you don't."

"But I do, at least all one needs to know."

She lowered her head and rested her forehead on her hand. "I don't want you to love me. Please don't."

"I'm sorry, no apologies. My feelings are my decision."

"Oh, I prayed this wouldn't happen," she said still looking down and shaking her head. Then she raised her head and looked straight into my eyes. "Now you must listen and understand how I feel about you."

I gulped.

"Morrie, you are a very special brother, and in many ways you have rescued me. When others didn't care, you did. Far from hurting you, I'd rather spend this afternoon thanking you. You're kind and considerate, but, Morrie, that's it. I have no romantic feelings for you."

"But, Tracy..."

She pressed her fist firmly on the table. "No buts. Do you understand? Must I repeat myself and hurt you even more?"

"Can't I ask why? Why can't you love me?" I asked.

Tracy rubbed her hands against her face and mumbled. "Don't ask why...I don't know. It's just so."

"Is there something wrong with me?"

"No, no, no. You're fine just as you are," she said,

"Then what's wrong?"

She paused as if wanting to prepare her next statement. "You're not the guy...the guy I have in mind. You have never occurred to me. Oh, what I am talking about? Who thinks through such things? The bottom line is I will never fall in love with you."

I felt my heart sinking; my head was filled with gloom. "Those other fellows, the ones that come and go, are they the inner image you see that can't be me?"

My nagging was getting to her. Tracy snapped in return. "Okay, so I thought they were, and so I was wrong. Listen, my feelings for others are not your concern. Your job is to adjust your fantasies."

"But what about our hikes in the woods? Or this very weekend, you hugged me in front of the whole damn school. All for nothing?"

"We're friends, Morrie. Get with reality." This time she firmly flattened her palm against the table. "And don't swear."

"Why can't friends fall in love?" I asked.

Her anger surfaced. "Morrie, enough! We're through. Do you understand?"

"You do have a new boyfriend."

"No! Your morbid hope of me falling in love with you will never happen. Your manipulating is disgusting."

"But..."

"No more 'buts,'" she said now with great irritation. "Don't call; don't write. Stop waiting for me. No more hiking, Morrie. You're out of my life." Tracy burst into tears, quickly slid out of the booth, checked to see if anyone was watching, and then took off and left me sitting alone.

Commercial Christmas was in the air. The first week after Thanksgiving found me walking the streets of Milwaukee. Busy shoppers filled the stores, and plastic strings of silver tinsel hung from the streetlights. The air was freezing cold, and passing cars sloshed about the dirty snow. Loud speakers blared Silver Bells as consumers streamed in and out of the shops like Keystone cops. Everywhere there were colorful packages of green, red, and blue tied with bright golden ribbons.

In a store window, stacked rows of television sets displayed the same channel. A newsreader's lips moved, simultaneously, on each screen. All were saying the same thing, but nobody was listening. I puffed a steamy blast of breath against the cold glass pane, my finger zigzagging lines across the frosty surface left by the vapors. Aimlessly, I crossed the street and headed back toward the campus.

In less than an hour, Chaplain Ivan Ferapont had agreed to meet me. He was about to hear me confess my strange—but frequent—dreams of becoming a Roman Catholic. They were always the same: I'm a little boy, and my mother and I are kneeling in the pale candlelight in the cathedral near Minnesota's capital building. Then I would awake, sweating and afraid, haunted by an eerie awareness, a Catholic numbness, which lingered throughout the day.

Two weeks before, when interviewing the Catholic students on campus, I had attended one of their meetings at a Catholic household near campus. Also invited was a young priest who led the devotions. He had brought rosaries, a crucifix, and glittery pictures of a lofty Virgin Mary, which he passed around and let the others touch. One by one, they handed the objects to me as if they were medieval relics. I held them and shivered as if they had magical powers. What had come over me? I had no desire to become a Catholic again. What did all this mean?

With the wind blowing colder, my hands went deeper into the pockets of my jacket. There I discovered a forgotten, crumpled piece of paper, a poem I had written to Tracy just before she had jilted me.

Caught in the winds of innocence.

"Can Tracy come out and play?"

We were like children,

When I found you in my heart.

It was a simple, silly poem. My intention had been to give it to her, but that could have been long ago. Memories of Tracy now appeared in my mind as if I were watching a silent film from the back row. Yet the poem was a painful read, for I still believed every word. "Tear it into paper bits and cast it in the rubbish," were my thoughts. I did neither and tucked the poem neatly back in my pocket as I hoped against hope that, on another day, it might reappear.

.

I needed to talk to someone, desperately, and I took a short cut back toward the campus, to my appointment with Chaplain Ferapont. Across a parking lot and through an alley, I passed the backside of a huge stone church—a Catholic church. A back door was slightly open, and from deep within came faint sounds of the Mass, organ melodies, memories from my childhood. They were pleasing, motherly, and they drew me like the Madonna preparing to nurse her child.

Flashback: my mother is getting my baby sister Mary and me ready for Mass. We would dress in our Sunday best while Dad sat unshaven at the kitchen table and read the morning paper. In his old, tattered bathrobe, he grunted curses as we walked out the door.

Three years later, the year I was confirmed at St. Irene's, Dad got converted at the Billy Graham crusade, and our world forever changed. Within a week, he had arranged for a family baptism by immersion at Bourgeous Road Baptist Church. Now he was the spiritual head of the family. "As God intended," he would say over and over again.

Mom turned ashen, like the time she first heard that Grandpa Madigan had suddenly died of a stroke. "Harvey, I won't, you wouldn't," she said to my father after they thought I was in bed asleep. "You, I, the kids, we're all baptized—Catholic. When we got married, you vowed that our children would be raised Catholic." She held up their marriage certificate. "Here it is in print. You signed it."

Dad hollered in righteous wrath, "Infant baptism was not the Pope's idea, but Satan's own!" My mother, though strong on the inside, easily bowed to his ire. In church the following Sunday, Dad, Mom, and I—Mary was too young—put on white robes, climbed into the baptistery, and the pastor baptized us by immersion—"as God intended." I can still hear my mother crying in the bathroom after church, but, to my knowledge, she never called herself Catholic again, and the members of her new church on Bourgeous Road would admire her faith and devotion. Mom's family, however, was not so generous. As devout Irish Catholics, the Madigans never forgave her.

I was still standing in the snow before the church's back door, which I had now swung open wider. The organ continued to play mystical airs. I could then see myself running, fanatically, inside the sanctuary to cast myself before the high altar, like some prodigal son. The power of the moment was tremendous, but I resisted, suddenly turned, and ran toward the chaplain's office with all my might.

Passing through the chapel door, out of breath and panting, I rushed down the hall and rang the bell outside the chaplain's office. His friendly receptionist welcomed me and led me to the chaplain's study. I knocked on the heavy door.

"Yes, come in," came a raspy voice.

I turned the latch, opened the door, and there, behind a huge executive desk, sat Ivan Ferapont, chaplain of Bethlehem College. He was about fifty years old; the lines of his face were rugged, his head slightly bald. His solid build suggested athletic prowess. He wore a camel-colored sport coat and greeted me with a friendly but professional smile.

"Are you Morrie Schiller?" he asked with his finger placed on his appointment book.

"Yes sir, I am."

"Please be seated. Have we met before?" He reached across the polished veneer of his desk and shook my hand.

"No, sir," I replied. Framed photographs of sailboats and navigational pennants covered the dark oak panels of his office. Sailing trophies lined two long bookshelves. He paused long enough for me to appreciate his honor.

Chaplain Ferapont pulled a page from a folder. "I requested this from the registrar's office after you made this appointment. It says you're from Bourgeous Road Baptist Church in St. Paul, Minnesota."

"Yes, sir, I am."

"Fine church, my boy," the chaplain said with a nod. "I know your pastor, personally, and your people are doing fine work for the Lord."

"Thank you, sir."

"Hmm, Schiller, the name is familiar. Have I met your father?" He looked closely at transcript. "Yes, Harvey Schiller. But where?"

"Dad once told me about a Bible conference in Minneapolis where you and he...."

He smiled as if he had come across a happy memory. "Ah, yes. I remember now. He owns a car dealership, doesn't he? A good man."

"Thank you, sir. He's only a part owner and the sales manager." I looked about his office at the sailing trophies on display. "Er, do you like to sail?"

He could not resist showing his pride. "I sure do. The wife and I have sailed around the world. Two years ago, we came in second place in the Chicago-Mackinaw yacht race." He pointed to the largest of his many trophies.

"I'm impressed," I said respectfully.

"Yes, ahem. Now tell me, what's on your mind?"

"Well, it's kind of hard to talk about ...I mean it's embarrassing ...Not many students have this problem."

"Now, Morrie, I've been a chaplain for fifteen years and have counseled young people on every kind of problem." With his hands folded before him, he leaned forward and smiled as if eager to hear my transgressions. "You can tell me."

"Well, sir, to say it outright, I want to...I want to become a Catholic."

The chaplain sat abruptly up in his chair. "What?"

I swallowed hard. "I want to become a Catholic?"

My words had startled him, but then he calmly leaned back to hide his distress. "What on earth would inspire you to do that?"

"I don't know. That's why I'm here. Nightmares, sudden flashbacks, they're stalking me. It all began soon after transferring here. I felt attacked a short time ago in the city on the way here. I passed this Catholic church and...Honestly, to become a Catholic is the last thing I want. Does this make any sense to you?"

"My boy, you do know what abominations this cult of a church propagates?" He paused. "Do you?"

"Yes, sir. I've heard them many times."

"Papists!" he said, sneering childishly. "Who, besides the devil, could embrace teachings like salvation by relics or an infallible pope? Their Mass desecrates the body and blood of our Lord. You want to become a Catholic. Could you believe these blasphemies as well?"

"No, sir." I looked at the floor and shook my head. "At least I don't think I do."

"You don't think so? Would you trade your Evangelical heritage for the pottage of papal pomp?"

"I'm not sure. I mean, no! Please help me." I looked at him with tear-flushed eyes. "That's why I've come to you. My right mind knows such thoughts are wrong, if not crazy, and tells me to believe as a proper Baptist. However, when these yearnings start coming from my other mind, I feel so lonely, like I don't belong here. What should I do?"

"I find this hard to understand," he replied musingly. "Several young people from the Bourgeous Road church, like yourself, have attended this school. Most of them are serving the Lord full-time right now, even out on the mission field. Your pastor and I, we went to Bethlehem together. He's a fine Christian man. With such a cloud of witnesses, how can you not belong here?"

"I can't explain it, sir. I walk these halls and attend classes, but I will never be a part of this. And these so-called Catholic feelings make me feel homesick, and..."

"Homesick? For St. Paul, Minnesota?"

"No, spiritually speaking, sir. That's when I want to become a..."

"Homesick? What is your family background? Are or were there Catholics in your family?"

I told him all about my mother's family, my father's anti-Catholic tirades, and how we joined Bourgeous Road after the Billy Graham meeting. He listened with interest, nodding mechanically whenever I spoke positively of Evangelicals. But the more family history I told, the greater my despair and the more I wanted to be Catholic, and I didn't believe he could understand.

Again, Chaplain Ferapont leaned back in his brown, leather chair and thoughtfully stroked his chin. "Homesick? After fifteen years, one thinks he's heard everything, but you have broken the mold." His contentiousness ceased with a show of genuine concern.

I shrugged my shoulders. "Most of my problems are unheard of. One gets used to it."

"Morrie, not many know this, but I too grew up in a strict Catholic home."

"No kidding," I said with astonishment. "You look like a tenth generation Baptist."

He chuckled. "Pretty convincing, am I not? In fact, my born-again Christian self goes back only twenty years. Before that, I was on my way to the priesthood, and had already finished my first year at Notre Dame. I became a student at Bethlehem only six months after being saved."

"What happened? Do you mind telling me?"

"All my life I've wanted to serve the Lord. For anyone growing up Ukrainian Catholic, that meant becoming a priest. One summer vacation, while still at Notre Dame, I was working at the steel mills with a born-again Christian. He had just graduated from Bethlehem College and was on his way to Africa as a missionary. With our mutual interest in Christianity, we became friends. He showed me where the Bible speaks of having a personal relationship with Jesus Christ, and how he had died to set us free from all bondage. His words pierced my heart and by the end of the summer, I was converted in a most dramatic way."

"I would never have guessed this in a hundred years."

"Yes, in one day I had renounced every Ukrainian tradition that had taken a millennium to establish. When my father came to America to escape the Russians, he brought his entire culture with him and did everything to pass the old ways on to us children. When I was saved, ten tons of weight was lifted from me."

"What happened then?" I asked, interested to hear more.

"What do most zealous, born-again Christians do? Of course, I went straight home to convert the whole family."

"Did they receive you?"

"Of course not. What should one expect? Eagerly, I preached my new spiritual insights, of repentance and the like. However, they could only see nineteen years of penned-up bitterness and rejected my newly found faith. Typically of a new convert, I saw myself as a martyr, and I became as hardheaded about my beliefs as they were about theirs."

"How did it finally end?"

"Well, they were of the old Ukrainian school. To them a Protestant was no different from a Moslem. They had no choice but to renounce me."

"You mean you never saw them again?"

"Oh no, times change, and in America, Old World traditions fade away. When Papa died, the memory of the Ukraine passed away also. My siblings have moved on, built range house in the suburbs, and are just like their American neighbors. Their kids wouldn't even know what we're talking about. For them religion is some nostalgic dream they had many years ago. Today I'm not a heretic, just a religious nut, and if I keep my mouth shut, they welcome me with open arms."

"Do you have any regrets?"

"Oh, I don't think so. But sometimes..." He paused and looked off into space. "Sometimes I think of Mamma and Papa and my eight brothers and sisters all huddled around that tiny kitchen table in Pittsburgh. The smell of cooked cabbage filled the entire apartment; mystic icons hung on all the walls. During a religious holiday, to be alone or going out was unimaginable. The awareness of family togetherness was stronger than my own identity. Yes, if I let them, memories can still rouse me, especially when my wife and I hurry through supper and cram the dishes into the washer before rushing off to our family enrichment seminars."

"Ah, so you are homesick too?"

At first the chaplain smiled and then became very serious as if he were reflecting on his life. "If I dwell on it...The trick is to busy oneself in the distractions of being chaplain. Had you not come here today, my Catholic past would be as far away as the Ukraine itself. My advice is for you to do the same."

"Are you saying that you've merely exchanged Catholic traditions for Evangelical ones?"

The Chaplain again smiled. "You might say I've learned to turn a liability into an asset."

"You're even aware of it. Don't you feel like a hypocrite?"

He looked at me with pity. "I don't feel like a hypocrite because my situation is reality. As a young Christian, I, too, was idealistic, but, with age, I traded ideals for realism. It's much easier to live with. Religion is a package: instead of Catholic dogma, I make sure a Bible verse fits everything I believe. When you leave this room, I'll walk over to a faculty meeting as if the subject had never come up."

The weight of his reply evoked a long silence between us. Finally, I said, "If you could only show me how you do it. I'm convinced that our beliefs are right and biblical, but deep inside there's this crazy, demon-like doubt. No matter which way I turn, these Catholic thoughts keep popping up. Must I be a Catholic or an Evangelical? Can't I just be a Christian?'"

The tense lines, already strained in the chaplain's face, increased. "Morrie, as long as we are alive, we're bound to sin. There is no escape from human frailty. To think of oneself as just Christian is to live in a fool's paradise."

His words rang painfully true.

He continued, "Like most Christians, if not all humanity, your spirit longs to be free from that imprisoned feeling, of being bound to flesh and blood." He paused and chuckled, "No matter how hard you try, something inside won't be fooled. Your Catholic heritage is a part of you and is demanding recognition."

"Would rejoining the Catholic Church bring peace of mind?" I asked.

The chaplain leaned forward on his desk as far as he could and spoke slowly. "Morrie, there's something you must understand and accept: you're an oddball. No system, try as it may, will ever satisfy you. No matter how normal you strive to be, your very presence carries an authenticity that others will desperately seek to hide from, and often they will succeed. We all talk about freedom, but very few really want it. Freedom entails the unseen, the eternal. To be free is to live by faith, and for the natural man that weight is too heavy. In the end we must reject it and let the cultural baggage define us."

"You make the dilemma beyond solution."

"Well, then, go back to the Catholic Church and see if I'm not right," he said.

"I've got too many evangelical ideas in me."

"Exactly. When any society or church thinks that it has the truth nailed down, people like you start pulling out the nails. By nature, we want our world to be black-and-white and can't tolerate the likes of you. To face life's obscurities means to trust in God alone. For most, it's far too painful. We would rather cling to absolute certainties. Don't be surprised if most reject you."

"What can I do then?"

The chaplain sighed. "As far as rejoining the Roman fold, there's no way to predict the future. Your very being may demand it, and when the time comes, you will know. For now, face the voice of your conscience with total honesty. Converting won't cure you of homesickness, because the soul of one person is greater than the Catholic Church."

I hung my head, very discouraged.

"Listen, in my fifteen years behind this desk, I've run into only a few like you. I call them great souls and tell them the same thing every time. There's little practical advice. I can admire your integrity, but I don't envy you. Yours is a lonely walk. Like Jesus, 'Foxes have their holes and the birds have their nests, but the Son of man...'"

"For sure," I said. "I know that verse, too."

The chaplain wrinkled his brow and slightly cocked his head. "Then you might as well accept it."

"Accept being an oddball?" I asked.

He then picked up the well-worn Bible laying before him on his desk. "Did not Christ come to set the captives free? Is not Christian freedom 'being delivered out of the hands of your enemies, that you might serve him without fear all the days of your life?' However, human nature craves security and will snub freedom to seek out an external authority for protection. Even the anarchist will subscribe to the laws of anarchy.

"A life in Christ is just that: rather than being molded by rigid Christian principles, we take his image alone as our guide and decide for ourselves what is right and wrong. Peace with God is to be in conflict with the world. There is no escape. Many, even your own, will feel threatened and reject you. Face it, Morrie; you're homesick because your home is in heaven. That is the only comfort that I can give you."

"But what about you? Don't these words apply to you also?"

Chaplain Ferapont's eyes were penetrating, "You'd give anything to be a secure Evangelical like me, wouldn't you?"

"But why me?" I asked. "It's not fair."

"Who are we to question God's wisdom? Morrie, if you drink from this cup freely, God will..." The chaplain's voice was trembling. He lifted his hands, like a minister delivering the benediction, and spoke in with a loud, deep voice: "For thou, child, shalt be called a servant of the most High. Thou shalt go before the face of the Lord to give light unto them that sit in darkness to guide their feet to the way of peace through the tender mercy of our God."

Absolute silence permeated the room. Chaplain Ferapont was sitting erect, his eyes squinting beneath his wrinkled brow. He appeared surprised, as if not intending to say what he had said. After several long moments, he sighed deeply.

"Perhaps I should be going now," I said, almost shaking.

The Chaplain said nothing.

I got up and put on my coat. "Well... goodbye."

Still he spoke not a word as I opened the door. His scowl revealed he was not happy.

"Mr. Schiller," he finally said just before I stepped through the doorway. His expression was now more like a scowl.

"Sir?"

"Close the door, please," he said almost in a whisper.

"Was there anything else, sir?" I asked.

"Yes. Please keep this conversation our little secret. After all, I am the chaplain of Bethlehem College and do have, ahem, a reputation." He smiled but this time with threatening eyes. "You do understand, don't you?"

"I think so, sir... I mean if you say so," I said with a nod, left the room, and delicately closed the door behind me.

### Chapter 5

________________

Christmas vacation was near and snowdrifts had buried the city. Crusader was out of town, and Tracy, according to Harold Eller, the fellow next door in my dorm, was going steady with Cary Wright who was a Bethlehem graduate and a medical student from Chicago. Along with the snow, my schoolwork was piling high. My term paper, William Ockham vs. Thomas Aquinas, was due by the end of the week.

On campus, old conflicts were finding new life. The conservatives (the Fundies) were raging against the liberals (the Arties). According to Frank, "As long as the Arties hold power, we Bible believers dare not rest. Atheists in high places are plotting to take over the college, destroy biblical Christianity and usher in the reign of the anti-Christ."

My life was a muddled mess. Ever since my meeting with Chaplain Ferapont, my Catholic flashbacks were on the increase. I felt even more isolated. No Tracy, no Forum, and my only friend was Frank, and he said mostly what I didn't want to hear. We would often meet for breakfast, and I usually wound up telling him about my latest episode with Tracy—or, as the situation was now, my lack of episodes.

On Wednesday, we had agreed to meet at the dining hall by the pay phone. The lobby was filled with rosy cheeks as students stepped in from the cold and stomped their snowy shoes on the floor.

"Hi, what could be so exciting this early in the morning?" I asked, having spotted Frank outside the cafeteria. "You're smiling like it's already the last day of school." We joined the line and waited for our breakfast.

"Early? I've been up for two hours. I'm starvin'. My prayer group and I have just had a meeting with Chaplain Ferapont."

"Oh?"

"Yes. We've been plannin' some strategies."

"And?"

"Christians at Bethlehem College are as guilty as anyone for lettin' the church and our country fall prey to the enemy. It's high time for the faithful to awake and rise to action. If only the believers could see how liberal atheists are coordinatin' our school's foundations. Like the ten foolish virgins, we're fast asleep."

Risking the temptation to start an unwanted argument, I asked, "And what does Chaplain Ferapont have to do with all this?"

"We're a student movement, and he's our advisor. The chaplain says he's one hundred percent behind us." Frank paused. "I hope so, anyway."

"Hope so? What's this all about?" I asked as I filled my tray with three slices of toast and a huge bowl of oatmeal.

"Never mind." Frank took his breakfast, two fried eggs garnished with four crispy strips of bacon and, his favorite, hominy grits. He quickly took off as if trying to avoid me.

"Tell me," I said, following him closely. "What did you say? What did he say?"

Finally, we sat down together in an empty booth. Frank prayed a short table prayer, and I pressed him again for more on his meeting with the chaplain.

"Right now, everything is in the prayer stage, so we've agreed to keep our idea private. You'll be hearing more after Christmas." Frank seemed uneasy about saying more, so he changed the subject. "Say, yesterday I saw Tracy Johnson hangin' on the arm of a new guy. What's goin' on with her?"

"A new boyfriend. Yes, she's in love again." I sighed. I had already told him about earlier episodes with Tracy. Whenever Frank wasn't trying to convert me to right-wing causes, he was counselling me on my relationship with Tracy—whether I asked for it or not.

"Another short timer?"

No reply. I focused on the wad of butter melting in the midst of my oatmeal.

Frank cut his bacon and eggs. "Morrie, I've been prayin' for you that the Lord would tell you that your so-called love for Tracy is impure."

I almost choked and had to cover my mouth with a napkin.

"I'm serious, you're still hangin' on, inwardly hopin' she'll come back. Don't let feelin's rule your life. She's become an idol, a false god; this calls for repentance."

"Oh please, Frank. Don't start this again. You're ticking me off."

"Listen," he said. "Didn't Paul advise Timothy in First Timothy five, verse two to treat the younger women as sisters with perfect purity?"

"Cut the Bible breath! Every time we sit together, it ends like this. Can't you ever be human with me?" I busily set in to eat my oatmeal as fast as I could.

Frank stopped eating and flinched. "Morrie, disrespect for the Word of God could cost you. His will for you is to be a brother, not a lover."

"Brother, smother! That's maybe your calling, but I've had enough of being just a brother."

"Satan hath deceived you, brother. To be pure one must subject his sexual desires to the Holy Spirit, and, unless marriage is your call, men should relate to women only as sisters—one spirit to another."

"I've heard that kind of talk all my life. Youth leaders, pastors, and camp speakers...it's the same thing every time. It makes me feel so nebulous, as if I were a conscious phantasm. The truth is that I'm flesh and blood and one more girl who sees me just as a brother, why I'll...I'll punch her in the mouth." Before Frank could respond, I stood up and picked up my tray. "We've both got classes, so let's go."

"Well, okay, but look whose avoidin' the discussion now."

Bundling up with coats and scarves, we criss-crossed the campus. Huge floating snowflakes filled the windless skies and drifted down, covering the ground like a quilt. We walked and listened to the Christmas carols chiming from the chapel tower. All was calm.

Then Frank broke the calm. "So being a spiritual brother to Tracy doesn't appeal to you."

"Cut it out already. Can't we ever talk about anything else?"

"Any suggestions?"

"It's Christmas, Frank. The snow is knee deep; the chimes are playing Joy to the World. The nativity scenes in front of the chapel, let's talk about that, Frank—your Christmas present to me."

Frank exposed his famous full-toothed smile. "I suppose we could, but why are you so stubborn about it, anyway?"

"Who wants to be only the 'spiritual brother'? I want to be known...carnally."

"Must some gorgeous girl be pawing your body before you can feel like a man? Boy, are you a sorry sight. Now we're getting to the bottom of your problems."

"Hey, wait a minute." I flushed with anger. "Watch your mouth or you'll push me too far."

Frank graciously changed the subject. "How long will Tracy last with this medical student?"

My mood swayed from angry to forlorn. "Hopefully not long. She's been seeing him a lot lately."

"Is he from Bethlehem?" he asked.

I sighed. "Yes, but he graduated last year. He goes to some medical school in Chicago."

"Do you know his name?"

"Cary Wright. We've met once, and he doesn't like me." I huffed in contempt.

"Mr. Wright, the perfect name, yes?"

"Right."

We looked at one another and burst out laughing.

"God bless ya, Morrie." He put his hand on my shoulder. "Ya worry me to death, but I think you're goin' to make it."

We were walking toward the library building and were about to cross the courtyard where the snow-clad Wisdom statue stood when Frank suddenly pulled on my jacket. "Morrie, look over by the fountain. What's goin' on?"

Standing at the base of the frozen fountain, a noisy crowd of about twenty students was creating a spectacle. Even from a distance, one could see they were agitated as they shouted and waved their hands. In their midst, I saw what looked like a back woods preacher in a black woolen trench coat.

"Keep moving, Frank. Some student crackpot is trying to get attention. Ignore them."

But Frank, with his love for an argument, had to investigate. He grabbed my arm and pulled. "C'mon Morrie, let's check it out. There's still five minutes before classes, and you're goin' in that direction anyway."

In the snowy air amidst an angry crowd came puffs of steamy vapor, and then a squeaky voice cried out, "The curse of God is upon Bethlehem College!"

I looked at Frank.

"Come, Morrie. Let's get closer."

"Repent you hypocrites!" the voice thundered. "Thus saith the Lord: Woe unto you, O Bethlehem, school of scholars. You who draw nigh with your mouths and honor me with lips, but your hearts are filled with stench and filth."

"Oh my God," cried a terrified Frank. "A prophet."

I laughed. "You can't be serious, Frank. The guy is a nut. Look at him."

Amid the gathering crowd emerged a man in his mid-fifties. With his scraggly beard and tattered coat, he looked like a mountain prospector.

"Who are you to judge, old man!" yelled back an angry student. "Bethlehem College may not be perfect, but by whose authority do you condemn us?"

"I speak in the name of the Most High God," cried the little man. "Judgment is nigh! Repent! For on that day it will be far better for an open blasphemer than for him who serves Satan in the name of the Lord."

The crowd scoffed and jeered. Some defended Bethlehem by quoting Bible verses of their own. A few, like me, smiled with amusement.

Frank tugged at my coat. "Did ya hear that? Those are serious charges, but nobody's listenin'. We have harden' our hearts—just like he said."

I struggled to free myself from his grasp. "Take it easy, Frank. That guy is an egomaniac. He wants attention, and we're giving it to him. He's a crack pot, and it's best to ignore such people."

"No, our Bible group has been reading from Isaiah, the very verses he's cryin' out. The religious leaders in ancient Israel were blind to the corruption in the temple. They thought they were pleasin' God, but the Lord said their offerings were a stench in his nostrils. When the Lord sent prophets to warn them, the people killed them. What a confirmation! The same is true here at Bethlehem College."

"Frank..." I grabbed his shoulder. Now I wanted to shake some sense into my friend.

"No, you listen to me. Since last year, our group has been prayin' about how this school winks at liberal teachers and their ideas. When we confronted President Lentzner, he just pacified us with blab about Christian love and having wisdom. He may not be one of them, but his chickenhearted appeasements help them nonetheless. Then Chaplain Ferapont became our advisor. At first, we were glad. 'Someone with weight is finally on our side,' we thought. Perhaps the chaplain's support is all babble. Maybe Lentzner's usin' him as a spy."

"You sure have a lively imagination," I said.

"Beware, you generation of vipers..." The cult-like prophet ranted on with variations of doom on Bethlehem College.

By now, many were mocking him. "What must we do to be saved?" they said while laughing.

"You," he said with bulging beady eyes, "along with your elders, you, who can hear my voice, will be judged for turning his temple into a den of iniquity. All those who..."

SPLAT! A flung snowball hit the old man square in the face. He swung his head in great pain. "Damn, damn, damn!" he cried while bending over and rubbing his eyes. When he straightened up, his right eye was red and swollen. Blood dripped from his nose and beard and reddened the snow at his feet. He was furious. The mocking hoard, now silent, backed off in fear of what might happen next.

Flashing red lights on a vehicle broke the standoff. "OK, students, you all should be somewhere else," one of the campus security guards said. "Sir," one politely said to the quasi-prophet so as not to alarm the students, "this is private property. If you want, the campus nurse could give you something for that eye. But if you don't have business with this school, you'll have to leave." The security officer firmly took him by the arm.

"Woe, you sinners!" he roared and shoved the officer aside. "Just as they who stoned the prophets of old were damned, so shall the wrath of God fall upon your heads."

"I know who that man is," said Frank.

"Frank, he's no prophet from God."

"No, I mean his name."

"Who is he?" I asked.

"That's Eilert Brigsby. Chaplain Ferapont told us to stay away from him."

"I've never heard of him."

"Not many have. The chaplain said that he's a backwoods preacher from Pensacola, Florida, and that he's a political radical... and that he's sworn to dominionist theology."

"Dominionists? Never heard of them either."

"You're not alone." Frank pushed his way nearer to the old man as the security guards seized him again by both arms.

I tried to pull him aside. "What is a dominionist?"

He refused to budge. "Enough of your stupid questions already! Can't ya see that the future of the school is at stake here?"

We watched as two security guards escorted the preacher into their flashing vehicle.

Frank then said softly so that only I could hear. "I've heard rumors that say Brigsby was hiding out on campus last year to help crush liberals like Emily Wager and their art movement. The chaplain told us that Brigsby tried to infiltrate the NOCC several years back and doesn't trust him."

"What's 'NOCC'?"

Frank shook his head and sighed. "The National Organization of Conservative Christians, don'tcha ya know anything?"

"I have heard of them," I said.

"Their headquarters is in Washington D.C., and Chaplain Ferapont leads the Wisconsin chapter. The chaplain told us that Brigsby was so power hungry that he wanted to control the whole organization and bring with him his version of dominionism. He insisted that NOCC go international and place him in charge of a new political front in Washington. He got so radical that they had to expel him from the organization entirely."

"So why do you think he's doing this?" I asked.

"After being expelled, he condemned even NOCC as agents of the liberal humanists and swore revenge. Then he disappeared, and nobody knows much more than that."

"See, I was right. He's a religious fanatic. The chaplain is right. Stay away from him. He's dangerous."

Just as the last security vehicle was about to pull away, the preacher managed to open the back window. He stuck out his head and pointed to the statue on the fountain. "Thou shalt not make unto you idols or graven images, neither rear you up a standing image or any image of stone in your land, to bow down unto it. Thus saith the Lord. Sophia theology is blasphemy and New Age feminism."

Before he could say another word, he was pulled back into the car, which then sped off into the night.

"It's not fair!" cried Frank to those still there. "He speaks the truth, and we cast him away."

"Frank, not so loud."

"Let's move along boys," said the one remaining security guard.

"What ya goin' to do with him?" demanded Frank. "He's done nothin' but speak the truth. He just quoted from Leviticus 26."

"Relax, buddy," the security guard said. "We'll drop him off at the edge of the campus. This is private property, after all."

"Frank, we're already late for our next class," I said.

The crowd had dispersed by now.

"Now I understand," Frank said. "The chaplain's afraid that Brigsby will rock his comfortable boat. That's why he became our advisor—to control us from within and keep us from comin' to the truth."

Chaplain Ferapont's office faced the courtyard, and I saw a slight shadow of a figure in the window.

"Goodbye, Frank," I said, trying to end on a positive note. "Let's have breakfast together again before Christmas vacation."

My friend hung his head in silence and sadly walked away. His reaction to the Brigsby character was very disturbing. By now, the crowd had dispersed, and as I stepped over the frozen patches of blood, a tall figure wearing a white, hooded parka approached me.

"Crusader!" I gasped.

My friend and teacher did not answer. He was deep in thought and stared at the spot where Brigsby had stood.

"Crusader, you're back!" I struggled to catch his attention.

"Hello, Morrie," he said as I received his warm embrace.

"Have you been standing here all along?" I asked.

"Yes, I have." He looked calm and collected; his concerns seemed grave.

"Do you know who that was?" I asked.

"Yes," he replied.

"Was it Eilert Brigsby?"

Crusader looked sharply into my eyes. "How did you know that?"

I told him everything Frank had said and then asked, "What's a Dominionist?"

"Who told you about that?" he snapped as if a bit angry.

"Frank did, but he didn't explain. I always thought they were an order of Catholic monks."

Despite the soberness of the moment, Crusader had to smile. "That's the Dominicans, Morrie. Dominion-ism is a fringe movement within Protestantism that believes America should be a theocracy and not a secular state. The danger of Dominionist ideas should not be underestimated."

"Sounds crazy to me. Who would pay any attention to that?"

"Their name comes from Genesis, chapter one, where God gave Adam and Eve dominion over the entire creation. Domionists believe that Christians should subdue every aspect and institution of American society and reconstruct it under biblical law."

"You mean like Christians should be 'taking back America for Christ'? I hear that in church all the time.," I said.

"You see what I mean? Theocratic ideology may be on the fringes but its rhetoric is contagious and is already mainstream Evangelical."

"Are these guys dangerous?"

"Most are peaceful, but there are fringes on the fringes. This Brigsby worries me. I understand very little myself and can't repeat what I do know. I'm sorry. You'll have to trust me this time."

I accepted his reply. "It has been good to see you anyway. It's been a long time." The image of Brigsby's fanatical face was still present in my mind.

"Yes, it has," he replied with a serious smile. "Unfortunately, I won't be here for more than a couple of days."

"Something is bothering you, isn't it?"

Crusader paused and turned his eyes toward space with a deadening silence. "Yes, I am carrying many burdens. These are not very happy times for me. I..."

"That's okay, Crusader. You don't have to say anything more. I understand."

Crusader looked at me as if he were about to cry. "Thanks for your support, Morrie. Believe me, it means more than you know. Please excuse me; I have to be somewhere else."

"Don't feel bad. I'm already twenty minutes late for class."

He smiled again and put his hand on my shoulder. "Merry Christmas."

Crusader walked across the courtyard. The midmorning sky was dark and a dense flurry of snow filled the winter air. One could hardly see a hundred feet, and, just like that, he had disappeared.

I turned to the statue of Sophia. Throughout the semester, she had become more than an image and like a felt presence. For the second time I heard her voice call my name, "Morrie."

### Chapter 6

________________

That night I went for a long walk. Snow was no longer falling. Clear skies displayed a full moon and a myriad of stars, all sparkling against the white blanket that had covered the city. My mind was a whirlwind of images, of a mad prophet snow spattered with blood and of Crusader's fret-filled eyes.

By the chapel, I passed the school's nativity scene. The plastic forms of Mary, Joseph, the baby Jesus, and all the others were individually lit up from within, in that they were hollow with light bulbs inside. Piles of baled hay made the setting look like a stable. I edged between the brightened shepherds and rested my hand on the motionless Joseph who was staring off into space while a glowing Mary and the others adored the illuminated Christ-child. The ground crew had placed the surrogate father on the wrong side of the manger, so that he looked away from instead of toward the baby Jesus. Why did Joseph so often look so strangely out of place in nativity scenes? Maybe he was bearing the reproach of posing beside someone else's child.

My winter-night stroll ended back at my dorm, and I had just stepped inside the door when a most despised person tried to stick what looked like a tract in my face. He was sitting on a lounge chair in the lobby and, as soon as he saw me, came running over.

"Hey, Morrie, want to buy two hot tickets for the Christmas banquet? There aren't many left, you know. Have you found something to call a date?"

It was Harold Eller, who lived down the hall, and who was a first class jerk. Eller was a busybody, and, after seeing Tracy and me together and having perceived my passions, he delighted in stalking me with his malicious banter.

I pushed his arm aside. "Bug off, Eller! For the thousandth time, I don't want any of your dumb tickets."

"Oh, don't be such a sour puss, Schiller. What's the matter? Is Tracy too busy with her new boyfriend?"

"None of your damn business!" I said and headed for the stairway.

"Now, now, Morrie. Christians shouldn't swear, especially at Christmas time."

"Maybe I've bought tickets from someone else," I said.

"Don't lie, Schiller, I know you haven't." As I headed up the steps, Eller followed close behind. "A friend of mine happens to be Cary Wright's best friend, and she said Tracy has invited both Cary and his mother to the banquet. His mother, Morrie. That sounds serious. Anyway, the beautiful Tracy Johnson won't be going with you—too bad."

"Who cares? Besides, no girl would want to go with you, so who are you to talk?"

"Are you blind? Do you know Lynn Brettin?" he asked.

I stopped on the stairs and turned to Eller. Lynn was in my philosophy discussion group. "What about her?"

"Lynn's going to the Christmas banquet with me. She's a knock out, wouldn't you agree?"

"She's okay, I suppose." I started walking again.

"You suppose? Lynn was on the homecoming court. You're a hopeless idiot, Schiller."

"Beat it, Eller." After reaching the top of the stairs, I made a beeline down the hallway to my door.

"Morrie, don't be bitter. You can still find a date. There are plenty of desperate, dateless girls who would love to go—even with you. A date's a date, and at this late hour, you can't be too choosy."

I stopped again, and my stare masked my anger. "Eller, get out of my life." I could have smacked him, but he wasn't worth the trouble.

Eller laughed his loudest and continued walking down the hallway to his own room. His vile mockery had confirmed Tracy and Cary Wright's plans for the night: the Christmas banquet, together with his mother, at Tracy's invitation! The worst of all possible worlds.

The Christmas banquet at Bethlehem College was an extravaganza and the social event of the year. The ultimate act for a typical guy was to invite his favorite girl and both sets of parents, first to the Christmas concert and, afterwards, to the formal dinner banquet. According to tradition, the ideal Bethlehem couple became engaged on that night. The next morning dazzling diamonds were sparkling all over campus. Christmas banquets: saints and wise men avoid them, but foolishly I wanted to be there.

Sunday night, the night of the banquet, I was alone in my room, dateless, working on my latest philosophy paper on William James' Varieties of Religious Experience, wondering if Tracy's swooning over her engagement ring had begun. My dorm was deserted. All over campus, the windows were dark. Most had gone to the banquet. The rest of us had ducked out of sight: either off-campus to a movie or, as in my case, in their rooms. Christmas vacation began on Wednesday, and I couldn't wait. Confinement fit my mood perfectly.

With the first draft of my paper finished, I leaned back to enjoy the chilled Coke from my windowsill. Suddenly my telephone rang. I answered with a dim, "Hello."

"Morrie?"

It was Tracy, and she was crying. I could hardly understand her.

"Tracy, what's wrong? Why aren't you at the banquet?"

"Morrie, oh Morrie, I've got to talk to you," she sobbed. "Where can we meet?"

"Tell me why you're crying." My mind was a maelstrom. Why was she calling me now? It would not be easy to hide my hurt feelings.

"Everything has gone wrong, Morrie. Cary and his mother...I can't talk now. I'm calling from a payphone near the gym, and I'm freezing. Please say that you'll meet me."

"All right. Let's meet at your dorm. Nobody is around. From there we'll find some place private."

"Thanks, Morrie. You don't know what this means to me. You're such a good friend."

"Sure, Tracy," I said half-bitterly, half in hope. "I'll see you in fifteen minutes."

I quickly found my coat and hustled out into the Christmas air. The stars were shining brightly and colorful lights had been strung around the snow-covered fountain beneath Sophia's watchful eye. Why did I say yes, after all? What would Wisdom's word be for me tonight?

My jaunt through the snow ended in that familiar lobby where Tracy and I had met so many times. Normally on a Sunday night, this room would be full of couples lounging all over the place, but tonight every chair and sofa was vacant. When Bethlehem College has its annual Christmas banquet, everybody either goes or clears out.

Tracy was waiting for me in a little sitting room off from the main lobby, slouched down and in dismay on an overstuffed love seat.

"Hello, Tracy," I said cautiously from the doorway.

She had to have heard me but did not answer.

"Tracy," I repeated and stepped a little closer.

"Hi, Morrie," she replied, still unable to look up.

What a pitiful sight! A beautiful woman with long, flowing hair sat alone and dejected in her silky-blue evening gown. Burgundy roses, with which she had graced the banquet hall, now lay scattered in disarray on the floor.

"Look at me," I said softly.

She said, "No, I'm too ashamed."

"Come now, Tracy," I replied gently laughing. "Of course you can. I'm Morrie. Remember that guy Eileen McFirmich said to call if you needed a friend?"

I was now sitting beside her on the love seat, my hand rested on the pillow above her shoulder. Slowly, she lifted her head. Never had I seen a more dejected look.

"Tracy," I gasped. "What happened? What did Cary do?"

"No, not him."

"If not Cary, then who? Pardon me, but you look devastated."

The smeared mascara under her blue eyes reminded me of that day we first had met. "Not Cary," she whimpered, fighting back the tears. "His mother."

"His mother? What on earth could she have done?"

"Morrie, you'll never understand. No one ever will."

"Let me try. Tell me."

"It's not so much what she did. Oh, I can't explain. Do you know how much I care about Cary? Of course not. We've never talked about him. I just wanted her to like me."

"Is she the deciding factor in regards to Cary?"

"So it seems. Cary talks about her a lot... 'Mother says this, and Mother says that.' That's all I hear, and that's why I invited her to the banquet."

"What a wimp!" I stood up to show my disgust.

"You don't understand. Cary is all she has left in this world. His father was a well-known heart surgeon, you know?"

"Wasn't he killed in a plane crash two years ago?" I asked, hoping I hadn't offended her.

"So then you do know." Tracy sighed and signaled me to sit down beside her again. "Though she was sitting safely at home, her whole life went down with her husband on that plane. Now she clings to what remains—her son's future."

"And you're on the brink of coming between Cary and his mother."

"I don't want that. She can still have her son, but she's already decided how his wife should be. All I wanted was for her to like me."

"What we want to see can hold more weight than what is," I said, remembering something Crusader had said. "Does Cary need his mother in the same way?"

Tracy's eyes showed a sudden burst of enthusiasm. "Yes, we both do. I've never had a real mother. But Cary needs me as well. She wants to keep him dependent on her, but I want to see him strong and mature, especially if he's to be a famous doctor."

I smiled. "A famous doctor? Didn't he just start medical school?"

"Yes, but he's got all the qualifications. He's one of the smartest, most promising medical students in the whole city of Chicago. The president of his medical school has said so much himself...and then with his father having been so famous and all."

"A sure winner, huh?"

"Exactly. But his mother...she's making all these demands on him and then on me. That binds up all his abilities."

"It sounds like he's the one with problems," I said. "Why doesn't he break free?"

"He can't hurt her. She has suffered so much and has only Cary to live for." Tracy's humor took another downturn.

"He's got to live his own life too."

Tracy brushed my hand with her fingers. "I know it won't be easy. He needs someone to help him, and I understand."

"So you'll be the woman behind the great man. Are you up to that sort of thing?" I asked.

"Yes...he needs someone to stand behind him and beside him. You know, to give him strength." Tracy's eyes brightened. "Oh, Morrie, I know I could...you should see him. He's so strong when he's with me. He's so wonderful."

"Even when Mamma is around?"

Tracy thought for a moment. "Cary's a little insecure, that's all. Once he becomes a doctor on his own, he'll be all right."

"Remember now, that's a famous doctor," I said with a wink.

Tracy's eyes lightened. "Must you always be so sarcastic?"

"Hey, I'm serious."

She giggled. "Morrie, you're so funny. By the way, thanks for coming. I knew you would."

"Okay, okay," I laughed. "Tell me what happened at the banquet that got you so upset."

Tracy folded her hands and rested them under her chin as she often did when intimate. The empathy we shared reappeared. She sighed deeply and continued, "What didn't happen? From the moment his mother laid eyes on me, there came nothing but icy stares. She hates me, and what did I ever do to her?"

"She doesn't hate you. She's just being a mother."

"Throughout the banquet, she asked all these personal questions about my mother and father and why they hadn't come to meet Cary. She pried into things about my mother's church. Upon hearing Mom was Pentecostal, she almost hyperventilated. Cary had to help her drink from her water glass."

"My goodness, did you react?"

"React? I felt worthless." She clenched her fists. "What does she expect? How does one fit her image of a perfect daughter-in-law?"

"Tracy, here's a woman who has just lost her husband and now must face losing her only boy-child."

"That I can understand, and though she's the problem, Cary's my big disappointment."

"Wait a minute. First, his mother upsets you, now Cary. I'm confused."

"Hurting mothers, I can handle, but his indifference...She sliced me up all evening, and he let her do it!"

"So that's it. Cary boy wouldn't stand up for his woman." It suddenly dawned on me that Cary had just fallen out with Tracy, which kindled hope against hope in my breast.

Tracy paused as if reliving a scene from the banquet. She could no longer hold back her grief. "Oh, it was horrible," she sobbed. "I had to listen to her pick apart and expose my past...And he just sat there. Am I not worth defending, even once? All night long, he played dams and canals with his mashed potatoes and gravy, like some little boy. Never a word!"

By this time, I was fidgeting back and forth on the love seat. What did she want from me? We sat in silence, the only sounds coming from Tracy's sniffles.

"Where are Cary and his mother now?" I finally asked. "The banquet isn't over yet."

"I don't care. They're still sitting at the table for all I know." Then she whispered to herself, "Why Cary? Why didn't you speak up for me?"

I gasped. "You didn't walk out on them, did you?"

"Of course I did. Could I sit there and politely listen to her babble on? The last thing she said was too much."

"What did she say, for goodness sake?" My heart beat rapidly.

"Well, upon hearing that my mother was Pentecostal, and upon reminding Cary that nothing like this had been in their family—as if I had genetic defects—it happened: 'You don't speak in tongues too, my dear?'"

"Oh boy. That did it, huh?" I did my best to hide what to me could only be good news.

However, Tracy cringed and gritted her teeth as if to snarl. "Morrie, I couldn't take it any longer! I blew my top and told her that if she didn't like my family, 'That's tough,' I said. 'And Cary, if watching your potatoes is more important than defending me, then look at this for a while.' I stood up and heaved a dinner roll right onto his plate, splattering globs of gravy all over his rented tuxedo."

"Oh, oh!"

"All the people at the banquet laughed. Oh Morrie, it's over. Life was going right for once; now I've ruined everything. Cary will never call me again. We were going to..." Her sentence stopped short. She struggled inwardly as to how to continue. "This may hurt you, Morrie," she said quivering. "But Cary and I were going to get engaged tonight. He had a diamond ring in his pocket."

The facts were no surprise, but hearing Tracy tell them still hurt me. I hid my real reaction and replied, "What can I say?"

She touched my hand. "You've done too much already. Who else would sit here and listen to me crying about some other guy, especially after I gave you the brush-off?"

"It's okay, Tracy. You're a very special person." I dried my sweaty palms on my pants.

"Morrie, I've met a lot of fellows; most of them, just like you, instantly fall in love with me. They have no idea how rotten I really am. If I hold them at a distance, they vanish and never speak to me again. But you're different, Morrie. No matter how many times I've backed off, you're always available. You are the first guy who likes me as I am. Little wonder I called you."

"Gee Tracy, I-I..."

"Forgive me for not being fair. You've always been there for me, and you should know that I appreciate it...And I'm very fond of you."

I couldn't believe my ears. "Why did you wait until now? All along you've known my feelings for you." My heart was now thumping.

"Morrie, whenever we were together, like when hiking in the forest preserve, I felt so comfortable, so like myself. By pretending we were like children, playing, I could let you come close. But we're not children. Life is for keeps, and that's why I back away."

"Don't you like being near me?" I asked.

"You've missed the point. That's the trouble; I want to be close to you. But..." Her voice cracked. "But I'm afraid."

"Afraid of what?" I asked, desperate for an answer.

After a deep sigh, she answered, "This is so very hard to say...I've never allowed myself to admit it until now...But I was afraid of falling in love with you." Tears were streaming down from her eyes.

My soul's foundation rumbled, and before I could ask why that was so horrible, she burst into tears. "Please hold me, Morrie. I feel so lonely inside."

My arms reached over, yearningly, as she slid her body in close to mine and gently laid her face against my chest. There we sat, Tracy Johnson and Morrie Schiller on an overstuffed love seat in Centennial Hall.

She whimpered as I caressed her shoulders and ran my fingers through the long strands of her hair. We did not speak, and I felt as though I were in a dream when she slipped both her arms around my waist and pulled me closer to herself.

Those words—afraid to fall in love—echoed in my mind and created a dozen questions. Was she, with her true confession, also embracing me, or were these merely tears of regret? Had she crossed a threshold never to return, or was the way back paved with escape hatches? The doubts persisted; my questions continued to burn within me.

"Tracy?"

"Yes?" She smiled dreamily as if I were an unfailing source of strength.

"How do you feel right now?" That wasn't the question, but I had to be cautious.

"Peaceful. Can't we stay here all night?" She clasped me even tighter. "I'm so at ease when you hold me."

My hand slipped down the curve of her back and sensed her soft skin pressing through a slippery satin gown. More minutes passed before I dared to speak again. "Tracy?"

"Morrie?"

"I must ask you something," I said nervously.

"What is it?" She lifted her head so that we were face to face.

"Tell me, why you are afraid to fall in love with me?"

She sighed and again rested her head against my chest. "Oh, Morrie, don't ask me to explain. I just am."

"You're not afraid to fall in love with Cary, are you?" I asked.

"It's different with him. Cary will soon be a doctor, a good one, and...Okay, there's the money, the prestige and all that, but what makes it possible with him is even deeper than what I can fathom."

"Tell me. I have to know. You must try."

"Cary's life is his medicine. You can't imagine the personal sacrifice he has made for his studies. It's his whole world—his only world. Even I don't fit in except as a doctor's wife."

"If you know that, how can you go through with it? Have you no integrity?"

"I don't look at it that way. You know how fragmented my life has been. I want to be whole even if that means being a part of someone else. With Cary I will at least know who I am."

"You mean what you are. But you'll never know who you are," I said. I felt unglued, and I did not know whether this was a moment of truth or just another bounce in Tracy's life.

"Technically, perhaps. However, in practice there's no difference. When you don't like who you are, sometimes it's best not to know. Really, Morrie, if you ever get to be a journalist, you'll have to become a part of some newspaper world just like I want to be a part of Cary's world."

"Do you love him?"

"Yes, but not as you understand. He's very special and meets my needs unlike you or anyone. Therefore, I love him. But when I'm with you..."

"Yes?"

She paused to clarify her thoughts. "When I'm with Cary and his medical friends and their girlfriends, we all know exactly what's expected of us. Most of all, they can't look inside me and see my ugly parts. I'm so fearful when people can see the real me."

"When you're open and vulnerable, I love you even more."

"That's why I'm afraid of you, Morrie. And..." She started to sniffle again. "And that's why I called you now. I made a big fool out of myself in front of everybody, but I knew, even after I had brushed you off, I could still come to you. Thanks for being a true friend."

"But I want to be more than just a friend. I want you to love me, too. You say you will but can't. Are you still afraid?"

"I guess so. Cary's medical world is predictable. Illusion or not, it's in the realm of my control. I'm safe there. But when I'm with you, the future is so uncertain. It's like standing at the edge of a high cliff, and if I let myself come any closer, I might fall into this great, unknown abyss and not get out. That's when I get scared and back off."

"I don't understand."

She whimpered. "I can't be just a self. I'm also flesh and bones."

"Of course, me too. But one has to face the world nakedly," I said.

She added, "Being with you is like looking into a big mirror. I see myself transparently and become afraid of what I might see."

This excited me. "I once told you the same thing. Remember? I said that to be with you was to be completely me. You're so right. You are that big mirror that reflects my real self. I want that more than anything else."

She raised her head and looked into my eyes. "And I should too. Perhaps deep inside everyone does. But I'm afraid. You know what my past has been like. Morrie, I'm sick of hurting. I want a different life, and Cary can give that to me..." She buried her head against my chest again and sobbed. "At least before tonight he could."

"What about now. I'm holding you in my arms. You're holding me, and you have confessed your true feelings. You can't unsay them now. Perhaps you really do love me and are only scared to admit it. They're your words. If it's over with Cary, will you be afraid to be near me in the future?"

"Morrie, you must be patient with me."

"I can be patient," I said.

"Can you?"

"Of course. The Bible says that 'love is patient and kind.' If I truly love you—and I do—patience is part of the package, right?"

Tracy rolled her eyes up at me and smiled. "Look who's quoting Bible verses. You hate it when people do that."

"True," I said with a grin. "But sometimes it's convenient."

The sound of laughter echoed down the hallway. "People are starting to come back from the banquet," I said. "Soon they'll be pouring into this room."

Reluctantly, I released my embrace and helped readjust her shawl. Hand-in-hand, we faced an oncoming stream of couples from the banquet. We made our way into a nearby activity room with a Ping-Pong table and split a Coke from the vending machine. On this night of formalities, no one would disturb us here. We sat on two folding chairs and chatted until two o'clock in the morning. Slowly, we then rambled up toward the entrance leading to the girls' rooms where we had said goodbye several times before.

"Good night, Tracy," I said after pulling her into a dark corner.

"And good night to you, my friend," she said and gave me a big hug.

Awkwardly I stroked her hair. She had called me friend. "Tracy, I'd do anything for you."

"Would you?" she asked.

"Yes, I'm sure."

"Even if I didn't fall in love with you in return?"

"I said I love you, didn't I? Am I the type to put conditions on something like that?" I looked straight into her eyes. My heart was torn. I did not know if I was trying to convince her or myself.

"I believe you, Morrie," she whispered.

With eyes transfixed, the words thank you rose softly from my throat as I leaned over and kissed her passive lips.

"We should go now," she said blushing.

"Yes, of course. Good night, Tracy."

She was free to go, and I expected her to turn about and disappear down the hallway. Instead, Tracy wrapped her arms around my neck, drew me close, and kissed me warmly on the lips. "Good night, Morrie." We kissed again.

Three days stood between the banquet and Christmas vacation, and everyone was preparing to go home. I had only to print out my philosophy paper on William James, and Tracy had a big psychology test. My spirits rode high on the wake of Sunday's upsurge, but after a kiss from Tracy, I needed reassurance.

The next days were so strange, and my stomach fluttered day and night. Every time I called on her, she was either out or too busy. Her voice would quiver the few times she answered the telephone. Still, I was afraid to confront her. Had it all been too good to be true? Finally, the day that my bus left for home, I pressed her hard, and she agreed to meet me in her room at noon.

As the chapel chimes struck twelve, I raced over to Centennial Hall. Christmas vacation had begun. Up the staircase and through the hallways, I passed by fathers and brothers carrying suitcases out to the waiting cars parked outside. I emerged on the third floor where Tracy lived; the door to her room stood open. I walked in, my first time there, only to find her side of the room stripped completely bare. Not even a book rested on her shelves. A ream of discarded papers overflowed from the wastebasket, which stood beside her vacant desk.

A hollow feeling gripped me. "Tracy?"

Not a sound.

I yelled down the hall. "Tracy? Tracy?"

The sounds of others scurrying back and forth was my only response.

"Are you still here?" I whispered and peeked into a room next door.

"She's already left," answered a voice from behind.

I turned back toward Tracy's room, and against the doorway leaned a thin girl with a baggy Bethlehem sweatshirt. She was chewing on a wad of bubble gum.

"What do you mean she's already left?" I asked. "We agreed to meet here, right now."

"I'm sorry. Tracy left an hour ago. Who are you?"

"Morrie Schiller. What is that to you? Where's Tracy, and where's all her stuff?"

"I'm a friend of Tracy's, and that was my room you were snooping in. Did you say that your name is Morrie? Well, Tracy has never mentioned you before."

"Answer me. Where is she?"

"It so happens that I'm sworn to secrecy."

"I am also a friend of Tracy!" I shouted. "Now I demand to know where she is."

"Who's that yelling in my room?" Another voice came from across the hall. "Kathy, are you alone?"

"Some guy named Morrie. He says he's looking for Tracy. Ever heard of him, Amy?"

"Morrie? Tell him to wait. I have a message for him."

The thin girl shrugged her shoulders and chomped on her gum. "Sorry, but we were supposed to keep our mouths shut."

"Where is he?" A chubby girl called Amy charged into the room and examined me from head to toe. "So you're Morrie." She paused to brush long strands of red hair from her eyes and then looked at me again, this time with a sympathetic smile. "Here's a note from Tracy. She asked me to give it to you." The room was silent as I opened the sealed envelope:

-Dear Morrie,

Forgive me for the terrible way this has come to you, but Cary and I are eloping today. I have quit school, and we are going to live in Chicago. I didn't know how else to tell you. Please understand. I will never forget you.

-Sincerely, Tracy

I crumpled up the letter.

"She made the decision in one day," said the girl with the chewing gum. "We tried to stop her."

"We all said she was making a mistake," said Amy. "But Cary insisted, and no one could reason with her. Honestly, we pleaded."

"Why didn't anyone tell me?" I asked. "Didn't you think of telling me? I know she would have listened to me."

"Your name is...Morrie?" asked the girl with the red hair.

"Yes, Morrie Schiller." I replied. "Surely you've heard my name often."

"How long have you known her?"

"We've been friends since the first day of school and have done hundreds of things together...What's going on around here? Why is everyone acting so strange?"

By now about five girls had gathered around me, and all looked bewildered.

"I'm sure," said the girl with the chewing gum. "We've been her friends all year, and she's never mentioned you before."

The others nodded in agreement.

"What about when Tracy gave you this note?" I asked the redheaded girl. "Didn't she say anything to you about me?"

"Listen," she said. "I was her roommate this semester, and she told me the details of every boy she has dated. Believe me, there was a string of them. But before she gave me this envelope an hour ago, she had never mentioned you, not once. I'm sorry."

"Oh," I said and let crumpled note slip from my hand onto the floor.

Back in my room, two packed suitcases were waiting for me. I picked them up and walked across the campus to the bus stop on my way downtown where a Minnesota-bound bus was waiting to take me home.

________________

## Book Two

Now the serpent was more subtle than any beast

of the field which the Lord God had made.

Genesis 3: 1

### Chapter 7

________________

Winter days are short, and the nights are long. Beneath the gray Minnesota skies, piercing winds howl. Naked trees, stripped of their leaves, now bow in winter desolation, whining wearily in their fight against the cold.

On the south side of the Mississippi River, a few blocks from our home in St. Paul, are the Cherokee Heights Bluffs. Here stretch miles and miles of woodland trails I have hiked since my childhood. During the Christmas holidays, after Tracy's elopement, these cliffs and hollows became my refuge. I revisited one of my favorite places, a particular cedar knotted on top of a huge, weathered rock. Unchanged in its loyalty, over the years it had comforted me as would a friend. Whatever the season, whatever my mood, the sights and sounds and smells of this ancient valley greet me with deep intimacy. Here I would sit and stare across the river at the imposing structure of St. Paul's Cathedral.

While plowing through the powdery snow, I passed a dilapidated Model A Ford abandoned near the riverbed. Here was another familiar sight and had been there for as long as I could remember, and I often visited the landmark. Weeds poked through the car's rotted floorboards. How had it gotten so far down into the hollow that was surrounded by a thicket of birch trees? Perhaps there had once been a road nearby. I imagined its owner must have worn pleated, wool pants held up by suspenders and a broad-rimmed hat as he took his family out for Sunday afternoon drives. Many years ago, the car was part of a living world with children jumping up and down on its felt-covered seats. But now, like a museum piece, the old vehicle stood frozen in time, year after year, never moving from its fixed position. Over the years, it too had become a faithful friend.

Reliving these familiar valley sights, things that did not change, reminded me of my parting with Tracy. I had been there before, too. As that faithful abandoned car, I found myself again alone.

All during Christmas vacation, I was a stranger in my own home. I sulked about, in silence, refusing to speak about that which plagued me, but still making everyone suffer because of it. Mom and Mary made great efforts to create a holiday atmosphere by decorating and baking Christmas cookies. As a family, we trimmed the tree in our usual manner, but nothing helped. The holiday rituals only added to my misery.

Dad acted as if nothing was wrong, which was his usual reaction when tensions around the house were high, and diverted his attention by complaining about church politics. "That Pastor Patterson is trying again to steamroll the church council into starting a Christian day school," he said repeatedly.

The issue had created a split among the voters, and Dad was the leader of the opposition. Memories of his days in Catholic schools were always alive for Dad, and he acted as if our pastor was about to bring in a bunch of old nuns to teach.

"That's all this church needs is another expensive project," he would say to both friend and foe. "Look what happened to our so-called bus ministry. We spent forty thousand dollars on the vehicles alone, not to mention the maintenance and PR. Now we can hardly find the volunteers to drive them. I dare not count the lost dollars and cents. Just a few families have joined our church because of those darn buses—and all because Patterson had to keep up with the Baptists over in Minneapolis."

And where did my mother fit into all this? With her son so unhappy, she looked torn between Dad's world and mine, and her eyes revealed an aching heart. Still, she belonged to Dad's world and sidestepped anything that would upset him. Whenever I dreamt of kneeling beside her by St. Irene's, Dad was never in the picture.

Only my sister Mary dared confront me and had no inhibitions when speaking her mind. At sixteen, she was full of life and always brought a fresh spirit into our home. A few years earlier, she had been a rugged tomboy who knew the rocky bluffs along the Mississippi as well as I. Then she had transformed from a kid into an attractive young woman with long auburn hair. She's now a fledging athlete, having just won a cross-country ski championship last year in Duluth.

She put up with my moping for two days and then couldn't hold back. "That's it, I've had enough. What's eating your insides?" she demanded. "You look like you've lost your best friend."

I was pining away in a cushioned easy chair in the front room with the television blaring. "Nothing's the matter with me," I replied like a crank. "Besides, it's none of your business. Now leave me alone. Can't you see I'm watching TV?"

"Morrie, you hate soap operas. Besides, how can nothing be anybody's business? Don't they teach logic in your philosophy classes at Bethlehem?"

"Nothing is something when I say it is. Now scat."

Mary's cheeks were always rosy from the reddish tint in her hair, but they were now flushed red in outrage. "Don't treat me like a child. You have no right to spoil this family's Christmas with your self-pity. Now speak! You'll feel a lot better, and so will we."

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Ah-ha," she said with a cunning smile. "First it was nothing, and now it is an it." She walked across the room and stood before the television with her arms crossed. "C'mon, Morrie, you might as well tell me about her. I won't breathe a word."

"Will you get out of the way?" I resorted to an old sibling rivalry tactic of turning the TV toward the wall and sitting on the floor in a corner so that only I could see.

"You don't want to watch Days of Our Lives," she giggled. She barged into my private space, knelt down, and tried to put her elbows on my knees. "What's her name? C'mon, you can tell me."

"Will you bug off?" I jumped up and pushed her over against the sofa, which caused her to knock over a floor lamp.

"What's going on in there?" A voice came from the kitchen.

"Oh, it is nothing, Mother," said Mary sarcastically. "We're having a little discussion."

"Will you two behave? You're acting like children."

"Yeah, Morrie," said Mary so that our mother could hear. "You're acting like a child."

"Watch it, Sis. You're making me angry."

"Morrie," said Mother coming into the room. "Did you hear me?"

"Yes, I heard."

"Why don't you go over to church and help the young people's group decorate for the Christmas Eve service? Maureen McFirmich and a few others are home from college. All your friends are there."

Tracy's pen pal was the last person I wanted to see. "I'm taking the bus downtown to do some Christmas shopping. I haven't bought Dad a present yet."

"Good idea," said Mother, standing in the kitchen doorway. "Why not take your sister with you?"

"Oh, yes please, Morrie. I can help you!" said Mary.

"After all the hassling? No way, I don't need your help."

"Please? Please?"

"Mary, I don't want to talk about it." I turned of the TV and headed to the hall closet to get my coat.

"You don't have to say anything if you don't want to," she said, fetching her jacket from a crook by the door. "And I can buy a present for Dad, too."

"Morrie," said Mother, "take your sister downtown with you. Do it for me."

"Oh, all right," I said. By the time I got my coat, Mary had bundled up in her ski jacket and was ready to go. We stepped out of our amber brick house not far from the bluffs overlooking the river. It was an old neighborhood just off Baker Street, the only part of St. Paul on the south side of the Mississippi.

At the bus stop, my sister reached out and took hold of my hand, something she had done as a little girl and had never outgrown. I marveled at the touch of her palm against mine, wondering if this was still proper. The boys next door used to tease me when Mom was at church, and I had to keep an eye on my handholding little sister. But here standing at the bus stop, five years later, everyone must have thought that Mary was my girlfriend. Mary didn't care. Being with her big brother had always been special. Aren't kid sisters supposed to outgrow such things?

An old city bus with hissing airbrakes came to a screeching halt. As the doors swung open, I thought about how Tracy hadn't even told her roommate about me. As if knowing my thoughts, Mary let go of my hand, and gave me a sisterly smile.

Our MTC bus roared three busy blocks toward the high Smith Avenue Bridge, which crossed the Mississippi and ended in the middle of St. Paul's business district. We and other last minute Christmas shoppers had packed the bus. Mary pressed her forehead against the window and stared out as the cars rushed by. She was lost in a reverie, which allowed me to study her profile. One could still see a few ruddy freckles, which had once dominated her face. Her thick, black eyebrows stood out in contrast to the fairness of her hair. Without a doubt, Mary had been a great little sister. But who was this grown up woman sitting beside me?

Inside Donaldson's department store, we shopped for an hour. I still hadn't found a single thing to buy—until Mary came rushing toward me. "Look, Morrie, wouldn't Dad like this?" She had found a red and yellow flannel shirt. One look and I knew it was perfect.

"You're so lucky. I can't find anything Dad would like. It must be dark out by now, and Mom wants us home for supper. Let's go. Are you going to buy that shirt for Dad or not?"

"Mom isn't waiting for us because I told her we'd be late. Here, you can take this shirt. Dad will love it."

"I can't do that. You found it, so it's your present."

"But my present for Dad is already wrapped and sitting under the Christmas tree. I knitted him a sweater."

I smiled as I realized that Mary had had me in mind all the while we were shopping.

"C'mon," she said and grabbed my hand. "Pay for this, and let's get some hot chocolate at the cafe in the mall. Mom is saving supper for us."

By now I had forgotten how she had been bugging me earlier. I had never talked with Mary as an adult before, or as a friend, but that time had come. For the next hour, amidst the Christmas rush, we sat in a cafe at Donaldson's and sipped on cups of cocoa. I told her the whole, bitter story of Tracy and of our time together, from our meeting in the registrar's office until she eloped with Cary Wright.

"Morrie," she said. "Do you know what I think?"

I didn't know quite how to answer. Our waitress came by and Mary ordered two more cups of hot cocoa because "we still had a lot to talk about."

"Bitter though it was, I thank the good Lord that what's-her-name walked out on you."

"Her name is Tracy."

She continued, "It was His mercy, and do you know why? Suppose Tracy had given in and became what you wanted—and she almost did. Why, you would have wasted your life trying to convince her that you loved her. You'd have been miserable."

"Easy for you to say, when there's a string of guys who'd be happy to spend five minutes with you. You'll never have to struggle as I did with Tracy."

"Oh you think so, huh?" Mary was about to take a sip of her drink, but stopped short and put down her cup.

"Of course. You're pretty and have charisma; you're a cross-country ski champion. You're a winner, Mary, and you know nothing about being down under." I underscored my point by taking a noisy swig from my own cup.

"Listen, big brother, I'm not blind. Every week at school and at church I see guys pass by my girlfriends as they line up to take me out. But Hollywood has brainwashed the whole lot of you. And Christians! Shouldn't they have a few higher values, a more spiritual perspective? Ha, most kids at church are just as sex-fixated as our non-Christian friends at school." She stirred the hot liquid with her spoon.

"Still, you can talk because you are among the elite who can stand back and choose. You struggle, but differently. You ask, which one? Not, will there be one? It's like the rich on the hill telling poor folks in the valley that being rich isn't easy. True, but believe me, people with empty stomachs would love to have the rich man's problems. Only a few ever wish they were poor, and even fewer try to be poor. No one blames you for being who you are, and maybe we're just envious. But admit it, you wouldn't trade places."

Mary breathed in deeply and sighed. She pondered, looking down into her empty cup. "You won't believe this, but sometimes I do want to trade places. When guys pass by girls—who may not be that good-looking but who are really great people—and then flock around me, I'm aware that they want to be seen with a pretty girl. They're just using me. What's so special about that? When you were stumbling all over Tracy, I bet you passed by some really great girls who wanted to meet you, but you were too blind to see them." Mary was as serious as I had ever seen her. "I hate it when guys stare at me. What part of my body are they focusing on? How do they fancy me? And then, when other girls get jealous and snub me, I really hurt..." Mary paused. "Yes, I too have used my looks to get what I want—it's almost expected of me—but just once I'd like to be looked at as an interesting person."

"Of all the fellows you know, you've never met one like that?" I asked.

"I'm sure they exist, but where are they hiding?"

"Not even someone from church?"

She wiped her mouth with a napkin. "In this respect, there's no difference between Christians and unbelievers. Oh sure, they appear more religious by inviting me to a Christian rock concert or something, but...Honestly, I know some non-Christian guys I would rather date if Dad would let me."

"But you're more than a pretty face, Mary. Everyone admires you. There's got to be a few guys around who would like you for who you are."

"Perhaps," she replied, "but until one comes along, I'm no better off than those who sit at home every Saturday night."

"Perhaps ordinary-looking people use each other as objects too," I said.

Mary sighed. "The point is that God has made me like this. I accept myself and am thankful. What irks me is when no one believes that I can be lonely, too."

"Do you really mean that?" I asked.

"Of course I do. Morrie, you're a great guy. You're my brother, and I love you. Ever since I've been a little girl..." Her voice cracked. "I've looked up to you—and not just as a big brother. I know you cared about Tracy because you've always cared about me. I'm sorry that she couldn't see you the way you wanted her to. I really am. But what hurts more is you brooding around the house like the most worthless guy alive." Her eyes flushed with tears. "It hurts me, I tell you. Do you think I've made all this up to make you feel good?"

"No, but you're my kid sister," I said and handed her another napkin.

Mary started to cry. "How can you say that? While you're pining away and licking your wounds, try remembering that you're pretty good at hurting others yourself."

Who was this stranger, hardly talking like a little sister should? The last time I had made her cry was when I hid her Barbie dolls. Then it was easy to make my sister cry, but this was different. Never again could she be my little sister.

"I'm sorry, Mary. No one has ever spoken to me like this. It will take time to sink in."

"Yes, and Mom feels the same way. She admires you for fighting for what you believe in and feels bad when you want to be someone besides yourself." She wiped her eyes and nose.

"Have you ever talked to her about it?" I asked.

"She never speaks her mind. You know how Dad controls the spirit of the house."

I looked at the clock on the wall. "Goodness, it's four-thirty. We better get going. Mom and Dad will be looking for us."

"There's no hurry, Morrie. Remember, they know we'll be late."

"Were you planning to have this talk all along?"

"I know when my big brother needs to confide in his little sister," she said with a sudden twinkle in her eye.

"Yea, tell me about it. Let's go." I slid out from our booth so that I could pay the bill. But Mary grabbed me by the arm.

"Morrie, let's pray first."

"It's getting late," I said as I grabbed my coat and was about to stand up.

Mary reached over and stopped me. "We've got plenty of time. Besides, I want to pray for you."

"Okay," I said and plopped my weight back onto the cushion. "But you do the talking."

"All right," she laughed while grabbing both of my hands. She bowed her head and said, "Dear God. Thank you for my big brother. I don't understand why all this with Tracy happened, but You do. Show Morrie how good You are. Amen."

We basked in the silence that followed Mary's prayer. Finally, she said, "Do you want to go now?"

"Yeah."

Mary followed me out with Dad's present under her arm. No sooner had we paid and stepped outside than a bus stopped, picked us up, and headed toward the college.

It was a bright sunny day in the middle of January. The Christmas break was over, and I was back at Bethlehem College. The splendor of glistening snow had offset the winter cold, and one could hear the squeaking of boots as students trampled across the snowbound campus.

I was walking from one philosophy class to another, brooding over the closing words of the last lecture, which was on Thomas Kuhn's The Structure of Scientific Revolutions. I looked behind me, and, oddly enough, a small poodle was following me. Its tiny feet pattered against the packed snow as it panted hard to keep up with my long strides. I turned off from the main sidewalk and took a student-made snow path across the lawn, but the pooch followed close at my heels. Whose dog was this? One seldom saw animals on campus. I tried to focus on Sartre's Being and Nothingness, the subject of our next lecture.

As I rejoined the main sidewalk, the dog was following even closer. I quickened my pace. If that mutt isn't careful, I thought, I'm going to step on it. Right in front of the classroom building, I stopped abruptly and turned toward the door.

BANG! From out of nowhere, someone crashed right into me. I slipped on the ice, and lying on the sidewalk, I looked up. Standing over me was a mysterious-looking man. I had no idea how he had gotten there or who he was.

"Excuse me," I said, picking myself up. "Are you all right?" I gathered my books out of the snow bank.

The stranger stood in stately silence. From that first moment, I knew him as extraordinary. Tall, dark, and brawny, he had a distinguished face with a closely trimmed beard—like a character from a Renoir painting.

"Are you all right?" I repeated and brushed the snow off my pants. How could someone have been so close behind me? What had happened to the dog? I fixed my sight on the stranger again. He was about thirty years old and had a peculiar expression on his face as if I should respect him as my superior.

"Again, I'm terribly sorry," I said with a tremble and then added-- "Sir."

The man bent over and picked up his English wool hat. He put it on and adjusted the lapels on his black, woolen overcoat. "I accept your apology, and I'm quite all right now." He had remarkable eyes, which scrutinized everything.

"Uh, I didn't see you coming and..." Why was I blaming myself? It was he who had run so clumsily into me.

"Then why be sorry?" he asked, as if reading my thoughts. There was an attractive tone in his voice. His words, though far from being gracious, flowed like a melody and charmed me. "Had I been you, I wouldn't have apologized."

Soothing and poetic, his speech gripped me as if it wanted control. Part of me resented him, yet I felt strangely drawn to him. "You wouldn't have?"

"Of course not, and neither should you. But caution, my dear friend. One's personal evolution includes doing much homework. And, I dare say, before proceeding, wait. One must first create the proper atmosphere in which to study."

"Huh? What are you talking about? Who are you anyway?"

"And furthermore, few ever come to higher levels of consciousness without help from one who has already been there." The man's voice spoke more forcefully. "Where is he who can set aside his own ignorance and then rise above it? Pity the soul in bondage, held down by the fetters of his own life." The stranger paused and looked at me intensely. "If I'm not mistaken, you are discontent and frustrated with the vagueness of your situation. My lad, you need a teacher to help open your eyes. Endowed with enlightenment, you will encompass your world with power."

The stranger continued his lecture as we stood outside in cold, frosty air. His presence had surrounded and overwhelmed me completely. My deepest instincts cried beware, but the beauty of his speech was so pacifying. I felt paralyzed.

Then came another distant voice. "Morrie, is that you?"

"Crusader!" I cried out, my attention redirected. "How good to see you."

The stranger gulped and with a squirm, inched his way back. "Who is that?"

"Oh, that's my friend, Crusader,"

Crusader was wearing his white parka with a long, fury hood. He focused his attention entirely on me. "Greetings, it's been a long time," he said. He did not seem to notice the stranger. "I just got back into town and have been looking all over for you."

"You have?"

"Yes, we need to get together. I have to leave town again tomorrow-- this time for several months, but I could hardly depart without us meeting for a few hours. What are you doing to...?"

The vapors from Crusader's words froze in the icy air. He fixed his gaze on the stranger. His warm smile vanished like the sun disappearing behind a storm cloud. The stranger stood his ground and stared back with frenzied eyes while the fur on Crusader's parka bristled, like that of a raging German shepherd. The two were so engrossed that I could have walked away, and neither would have noticed. Crusader's powerful eyes were full of contempt, and the stranger again squirmed.

Finally, as if he had lost the battle or accomplished his purpose, the stranger looked back at me. "I must be on my way. Little run-in of ours...What did you say your name was?"

"Morrie," was my reply.

"Yes, Morrie. What a dear name. And to you, sir," he smirked while tipping his hat to Crusader, "it has been my pleasure to meet you too. 'Tis a shame you are soon leaving—and for so long."

Crusader only scowled as the stranger, bowing a couple of times to properly excuse himself, backed off. My friend's eyes followed as the man darted around the corner of the nearest building.

"Who is that man?" Crusader asked.

"He didn't give his name," I replied.

"Well, I don't like his looks. There's trouble written all over his face."

"He can't be from the college and must be visiting from out of town, a stranger indeed. I've never seen him before," I said, wondering what all the fuss was about. "What's going on around here, Crusader? First, you've been gone on all these mysterious trips, and now you get upset about this guy. I'm confused."

With great effort, Crusader gathered his composure. "I'm sorry, I can't say more right now. What were you two doing together?" Crusader looked around suspiciously as though the stranger might still be lurking in some late afternoon shadow.

"The truth is that he ran right into me quite by accident. You see, I must've stopped suddenly, and he wasn't expecting...why are you getting mad at me?"

The lines on Crusader's face relaxed. "I'm sorry; I didn't mean to be harsh with you. I carry many burdens, and something is wrong, very wrong about that person." Crusader clenched his fists. "There's something diabolical about that guy, and I can't put my finger on what it is."

I said no more about the stranger and changed the subject. "Shall we meet before you leave town?"

His stern eyes stared in the direction the stranger had gone, and then he looked at me. "Yes. Why don't you come up to my room tomorrow afternoon? Are you busy then?"

"I'm finished with my classes by two," I said.

"Good. Shall we say three o'clock...oh no, please forgive me, but I must go. How rude of me for always taking off like this, but there's an important appointment that must I keep. Tomorrow we'll spend a good part of the afternoon together. I promise."

Without another word, Crusader took his leave and was gone

### Chapter 8

________________

.

I had mixed emotions about visiting Crusader. His negative reaction to the mysterious stranger was perplexing. Had he heard about Tracy's elopement with Cary? He too had been skeptical of my obsession with her, but unlike Frank, who always imposed his opinions, Crusader listened and advised from my point of view as if he had given the matter more thought.

This was my third visit to his place just off campus on Updike Street. He rented a room in a large old Victorian house, which was owned by an elderly widow, Mrs. Wigaard, whose husband had died many years before.

It was almost nightfall. I banged the huge brass knocker against a massive oaken door, and Mrs. Wigaard, always in a jovial spirit, answered.

"Oh, it's you, Morrie. Come right in. Crusader said you'd be stopping by. He's upstairs waiting for you."

The lighting in her house was always dim. Oriental furniture and trinkets cluttered the entire front room. Crusader had told me that Mr. Wigaard had been a sea captain and had brought home many souvenirs from all over the world.

The small, white-haired lady was elegantly dressed and wore strange-looking jewelry. Her cheeks were red with rouge. "I suppose you've come to bid Crusader farewell," she said with a crack in her voice. "My, my, such an unusual young man. He's just like my husband Kurt, God rest his soul --always running off somewhere and never says a word about his business."

The kind widow led me up the stairs to the attic room where Crusader stayed. She hobbled along on weary legs, one step at a time. Mrs. Wigaard then knocked twice on Crusader's door—no answer. "He's probably studying," she said, laughing. "When he's got his nose stuck in a book, nothing can distract him. Oh, just go right on in."

I waited until the old woman had descended the stairs and knocked once more before swinging open the door. Crusader, engrossed in his writing, was sitting at his desk. Other than an old, gooseneck lamp, which lit up the man's head and notebook, the room was dark.

I entered and for some time stood right behind him. Would he ever notice me? I coughed and cleared my throat, but nothing distracted him.

"Crusader," I whispered

He turned a page and continued writing.

I repeated with my normal voice, "Crusader?"

His hand and pen moved across the page one line at a time.

"CRUSADER!"

The man gulped and almost knocked over his cup of tea. "Morrie, did you have to yell? I'm not deaf, you know."

"You could have fooled me." I laughed. "I've been standing here for quite awhile."

Crusader smiled and then became very serious. "I will be gone for some time," he said, "and I want to make sure you're on the right path." He noticed my wincing. "Don't worry, Morrie. I'm not going to lecture to you about Tracy. I've heard that she's no longer on campus, and I'm sure you have a story to tell, but that's the past. Let's prepare for the future." He pointed to a nearby wooden chair and invited me to join him.

I sighed in relief. Crusader was in a calm, philosophical mood, and I soon forgot all about both Tracy and the stranger by the fountain.

"Morrie, remember that first time we met, when I shared with you my understanding of the human dilemma?"

I removed several academic journals from the seat and set the chair near Crusader's desk. "Yes. You spoke about how the human condition means striving to avoid oblivion by creating false identities through ideals, possessions, and careers?"

"Yes, and they all amount to a..."

"A bald-face lie!" we said simultaneously and laughed.

Crusader added, "You have got an excellent memory, but I regretted leaving you hanging on a negative note. We never did get back to that subject. By the way, I have just made a pot of hot water. Would you like some tea?"

I gratefully accepted. "Didn't you also point out that while we Christians claim to know the Truth, we can also use even biblical doctrines to escape our own futility?"

"Again, your memory serves you well. No man will build a trustworthy bridge over this abyss of nothingness without first facing doubt, despair, and shipwreck. I believe this is only possible by the grace of God." He poured hot water into a large, wide-brimmed teacup. "In that little basket on my desk, there are all sorts of teas. Take your pick. Over there is milk and honey. Just help yourself."

I opened a packaged bag of mint tea and dipped it in my cup. "To be honest, I feel I'm being tested on all sides, and this abyss you talk about yawns ever before me."

"Indeed, in the days to come, the hearts of many will be tested. Morrie, my hope is that these little discussions might give you perspective and help you grasp what God is doing in your life."

I, afraid to know what he meant, sipped on my tea and looked at Crusader. "Is there something special you want to say to me?"

"Let's continue from where we left off, and I will start off with one of my fundamental beliefs: Human awareness begins by discovering that one is bound to a body and inseparable from this world. No dualism, no ghost in a machine. Frenchman Gabriel Marcel once called this incarnate being. Self-awareness is thus reflecting on our embodied experience, a situation that we, incidentally, find quite intolerable."

"Incarnate being sounds obvious enough, but why is that so intolerable?" I asked.

"Our everyday experience bears witness to our earthly bound-ness...to our creaturely-ness, our created-ness, if you will. We are ill at ease with this bound-ness and shift about constantly for a more comfortable position. Like Eve, we long for knowledge and ideals that can free us from the flesh and enable us to be like God."

I set my cup on Crusader's desk and drew my chair closer to him. "Do you mean that by attempting to create ourselves anew...by giving ourselves other identities, we can hide in our own illusions?"

"Yes, and let me explain. Modern man has become such a clever race of problem solvers that appreciation for life's mysteries has been all but eroded. Many Christians, right here at Bethlehem College, read the Bible as if were some kind of Manufacturer's technique book to which they must capitulate. Even worse, if it works for them, they erect systems to impose on everyone else."

"I know what you mean." I sighed and thought of Frank.

"Problematic thinkers like to detach themselves from their situation in order to analyze it. They, hoping to be liberated from the stress caused by their problems, strive to find 1-2-3 solutions."

"Like taking aspirin, huh? But if there's no escape from our being mere creatures, why this inborn yearning to escape, to become free spirits like the angels? "

"First off, don't perceive the world as an object or as some cosmic puzzle to be solved. Man, as manipulator, is proud and believes that he need only depend upon himself. The humble shun such conceit. Contemplation must begin with wonder and humility, not arrogant curiosity. Being humble demands the recognition of our own weakness and limitations...and presupposes the sacred."

"Which proves the existence of Creator God?" I asked.

Crusader squinted as if I were straying from his point. "Such a task is for the problem solvers, and such knowledge leads to pride. Let me say that to be aware of bodily existence is to be in awe. Like a lover to his beloved, the humble person stands meekly in the presence of reality. Therefore, rather than proving God's existence, one can say humility makes believing in God easy."

"So how can one make the transition from being the arrogant, problematic thinker to what you are talking about?" I asked.

"With fear and trembling! Make yourself disposable and, most of all, hope! Anyone who has faced the realities of life knows of its dilemmas. At first, they do appear as problems—everyone wrestles with that temptation. But he who refuses to detach himself and becomes involved with the inexhaustible mysteries of his incarnate being must be open...vulnerable...disposable."

I added, "And in doing so, we must have hope!"

"Exactly, hope is the key. Hope is looking at reality, believing that it will ultimately triumph. Hope means not depending on oneself and is most possible where there is room for miracles and the eternal. It is the refuge to which we lay hold, the anchor of the soul—the hope of salvation. Yet, as a mystery, it can't be demonstrated, for hope which can be seen is not hope." He leaned back in his chair as if satisfied that I was getting the point.

"Boy, there's no room for hope in a fool's paradise," I said.

"Hardly, for at the root of all hope is the awareness of a reality which invites us to despair. Existence is so rich and full that both hope and despair are possible. For the problematic thinker, however, hope is the hope of having and is only possible after considering all possibilities and thus having a reason to hope."

"What more can be said," I finally responded. "It's so profound. Yet how does one make hope a part of his life?"

Crusader answered with a serious smile. "Though a theory seems remote from everyday life, my hunch is that you're on the verge of understanding these very things. As the trials of the next weeks unfold, they will work patience in you, resulting in a hope that will never disappoint you. If you remember these words, they will be your comfort."

Shortly after, Crusader spoke a short prayer. I thanked him for the tea, and we said goodbye. I did not see my friend again for quite a while.

The following Sunday, I attended St. Bernard's Catholic Church. My intention had been to attend Greenfield Baptist Temple, a popular place of worship among Bethlehem students. However, along the way, after two wrong turns, I knew my path was leading back to the old, red brick church where I had heard the organ playing before Christmas.

A flow of parishioners carried me up the stone steps of St. Bernard's. I sat on the back pew and didn't genuflect, mindful that I was still a Protestant. The familiar liturgical sounds and the smell of incense made me sense my mother's presence, just like in my dreams. Strange but familiar statues of saints seemed to stare as I viewed the different prayer stations. They looked displeased as one is with an offender returning to the crime scene.

The Mass began, and all crossed themselves and knelt as the priest lifted his voice in intercession. Prayers were said, invocations chanted. When the priest lifted the chalice, altar boys rang little bells. The bread and wine were now consecrated, and my knees shook as the parishioners went forth to receive. I dared not partake.

I left St. Bernard's that day with a troubled spirit. For the rest of that Sunday, the priest's words--"Let us proclaim the mystery of faith"--resounded in my head.

Monday afternoon after studying in the library, I was on my way back to the dorm. I passed the fountain, on which stood Wisdom. Her presence dimmed as I again beheld the stranger with his woolen hat lowered below his brows. He was leaning against the fountain's white marble ledge with his arms folded across his chest. As the students passed by, the man's head moved back and forth, as if he were dissecting each personality with his dark, penetrating eyes. Was he waiting for someone? Did he have something to do with Sophia?

Perhaps he wouldn't see me if I turned the other way. Too late. He had already locked me within the sphere of his awareness. I felt like a steel ball that had rolled too close to a magnet.

"Ah, there you are," he said, smiling. "I've been waiting for you. Wasn't it right over there that we so haphazardly met last week?" He paused and stroked his chin. "Yes, of course it was. I remember now. Have you been looking for me?"

"Why no. At least I don't think so," I replied nervously.

The stranger put his hand lightly around my shoulder and said with a sublime voice, "Come, let us go for a late afternoon stroll. The image of your weary countenance has not left me. Do you remember our last talk? It could have been very fruitful." He chuckled softly. "But unfortunately, we were so rudely interrupted. Do I not speak the truth?"

"But Crusader is my friend," I said. "I don't think..."

"Ha! So then, you agree. Forget that man. He's far away now, somewhere else—the Lord knows where. We need not mention him again, for my concern is with you. Your life is in a state of dormancy, but don't despair. It's nature's design, after all. You are 'in season,' for in the dead of winter, new life abides in every seed."

I squirmed to remove myself from under his arm. "Wait a minute," I said with resistance. "Who are you, and where do you come from?"

"Allow me to introduce myself," he said with a bow. "Jack Joplin is my name. Where am I from? You could say that I am a world-traveler--on patrol. I roam to and fro upon the earth, above and below. So to say that I am from such and such a place could hardly represent me."

What could this babbling mean? I thought. What could he want from me? His cryptic words had already evoked in me a desire for his perceptions. I wanted to consume everything he said and make it a part of me.

"Mr. Joplin, I uh..."

"Please call me Jack."

A smile stretched across my face. "Okay, Jack," I said, feeling more comfortable. My defenses no longer resisted his all-embracing presence. Jack put his arm back around me as we strolled along mounds of shoveled snow. The afternoon sun had nudged its way between the clouds and now caressed us with its soft, warm rays. For the first time since the New Year, the snow had begun to melt.

### Chapter 9

________________

Jack and I spent more and more time together. We "discussed things," as he put it, in the dining hall, in the library during a free period, or after dark in the student union. He was always available and seemed to know my comings and goings. Sometimes he would be waiting for me between classes, leaning against a doorway, wearing his woolen hat and standing with his arms folded across his chest. He was always going the same way as me.

However, time with Jack was cutting greatly into my studies. Always demanding, he would never let me finish my homework. Oddly enough, the grades on my philosophy papers, which until then had only been average, soared and even challenged those near the top of the class. My paper arguing how the Christian mystic, Jakob Böhme's Lebensphilosophie presaged Hegel's thesis-antithesis-synthesis became a hit with the entire class. I would ramble into the classroom and flop my textbooks on a desk, not even bothering to open them. Often I hadn't read that day's assignment, but just when the professor's lecture was holding the entire class captive, a Jack-inspired comment would emerge, and I'd expound like a medieval scholar. From the corner of my eye, I could see Lynn Brettin scavenging through her texts, hoping to find some lofty, mental morsel to ward off challengers to her throne at the top. Poor ol' Lynn; when I was finished, she'd have to settle for crumbs from the master's table. All this was because of Jack.

During our many meetings, Jack taught me a spurious way of doing philosophy with his own version of the phenomenological method.

"You'll never learn my method by studying at Bethlehem College," he told me during our very first lesson together. "Phenomenology, as taught by your egghead professors, is just an idea. They miss the whole point of what they teach. How can any method be an abstract theory? One must do something and that requires action. Without everyday practice, the very idea of a method is a scam.

"To put my method into motion requires a new way of seeing. Take a flower, for example; one should not ask, 'What kind is it?' or 'How does it function?' Such are today's mediocre methods of inquiry. The true phenomenologist asks, What does it mean? One does philosophy by reflecting on himself in the world, and then by grasping its significance.

"Take another example: modern day psychology. By viewing human behavior as a mechanism, psychologists eliminate consciousness itself. These so-called scientists err in that, while claiming to be describing human activity, they deny their activity of describing is part of the description."

"Doing psychology is also a human activity," I said.

"Yes, exactly. My phenomenological method overcomes the distance between the thinking self and so-called objects and does away with the distinctions between them."

Step-by-step, Jack taught me his methods of self-reflection. He showed me how the highest realm of philosophy, and therefore life, was the human individual analyzing its own self. The self was a microcosm of the universe, and within this self lay the essence of all existence.

"But," he added, "to see this essence—who you are and what is—you must set aside all beliefs and interpretations and free yourself from the ignorance of past generations. Every idea, secular and sacred, must be questioned."

According to Jack, the first step in preparing the mind to see the truth was in the art of doubting.

"To doubt need not mean to deny," he said repeatedly. "Nor does questioning conventional beliefs mean that they are false. The materialist errs by denying any reality beyond the physical senses. He rejects that which he does not understand."

Most surprising was when Jack insisted that religious prejudices were not the greatest hindrance to an objective analysis of the self. He once lamented on one of our many walks across the campus, "In these secular times, the rejection of all spiritual realms is the popular thing to do—especially among academics. They'll write you off as archaic if you evoke the Spirit, those chronological snobs. In truth, that bastardly discipline called the scientific method is, while spewing its material facts, what's leading the human race way from the Truth."

Jack was no friend of a religious point of view either. "Whether they admit it or not, most religious people give only lip service to spiritual realities, filling a need to be seen as orthodox. But in practice they are materialists and slaves to the scientific method." He often gave the example of those Christians who strive to "scientifically prove" the Creation story as recorded in Genesis, and he wondered how anyone could hope to make biblical records more credible by using the scientific method.

"Ha!" he would scoff, "with the mortar of scientific proofs, creationists would cover up their own inability to believe. St. Paul spoke wisely when he said: 'Ever learning, yet never coming to the knowledge of the Truth.'"

Only reluctantly did he admit that the laws of cause and effect were the greatest competitor to his own phenomenological method. He argued, "Dogmatic arrogance is the bedrock of the natural sciences. Modern science enshrines its beliefs by allowing nothing beyond the physical to be investigated."

According to Jack, the scientific method was the greatest of all lies. "Especially when they laud it as objective and unbiased. Only my method can rightfully claim that! Their doctrines, having entrenched the minds of several generations, pervert man's self-awareness. How naïve to think that the five senses can solve the mysteries of the universe. In their sterility, the secularists have to deny the reality of absolutes. Yet, for them this denial is absolute. Just try touching their sacred cows, and you'll find the most fanatical dogmatists on the face of this earth."

Our talks on this subject would always end with a passionate appeal from Jack: "The beauty of my phenomenological method is that, with a proper perspective, the need to prop up belief with dogmas disappears. The darkened glass that shrouds the Truth becomes a crystalline lens. The self penetrates reality and that which is absolute reveals itself. Then, and only then, will a person see the heights and depths of his own being."

Thus, Jack discipled me in his phenomenological method. For starters, he gave me philosophical drills. His instructions he laid out in a workbook with step-by-step exercises in doubting. The very first chapter bore the title: Doubting the tenets of the Christian faith.

"Jack," I said pointing to the pages in the workbook. "You can't ask me to do this. There are certain beliefs that Christians cannot and should not doubt. The very foundation our religion is the Bible and our Apostolic Confession. How can you ask me to do the opposite?"

Nevertheless, Jack insisted, "If your faith is built on the sinking sand of religious security, it isn't worth keeping. You'll go down fast with your feet embedded in a bucket of dried cement."

"I don't like it when you talk that way," was my reply. "You know, you're dangerous. You really are."

Jack laughed and I felt his scorn. "Am I now? What is the matter? Are you afraid that what you believe might not be true?"

"Of course not!"

"Well then, what's your problem?" he asked.

I said nothing and turned away to avoid his incisive eyes.

"Listen, I've told you a dozen times: 'Doubting is different from denying.' I'm only asking you to do the former, remember?" He placed his hand on my cheek and turned my head back toward him.

"Yeah, I guess so."

"If something's really certain, it can stand a round of objective doubting. If what you believe is true, your faith will become, like the house built on a rock, even stronger, having passed the test. Trust me."

"Trust you? You're asking me to entrust my faith in Christ to you?" I asked.

Jack chuckled. "Well, now that you put it that way, yes."

"I'll think about it," I said and turned away again.

"Good. That's all I ask of you. Here, take the workbook. I've written it myself."

Without replying, I stuffed Jack's workbook in my backpack and started walking.

"And Morrie..."

"Yes?" I stopped.

"I'm asking a lot of you so it's all right to be scared. Yes, there are many risks, but you won't regret it. Remember, anyone can be a biological organism, but to be truly human, you have to choose."

"I said I'd think about it."

That night I returned to my dorm in a whirlwind of confusion. Disconnected images flashed through my mind, of my father taking up the offering at our Baptist church, of my mother, kneeling inside a Catholic church, surrounded by ivory-colored statues of the saints. All the while, I could literally feel Jack walking around and within the different scenes. Cool and uncommitted, he touched the offering plates and statues that instantly turned into dust as gusts of wind blew them away.

I rushed into my room and flung myself upon the bed. Jack's workbook lay open before me, open to the page titled Drills in methodical doubting.

"NO!" I shouted and sent Jack's book crashing against the wall. "I won't do it. I can't."

Too late. The doubting process had already started. Without my asking, a reservoir of repressed doubts came gushing to the surface of my mind as I recalled all those Sunday school teachers, preachers, and youth workers who had forced me to suppress unanswered questions. All had been claiming to be defending my faith. Without having to try, I doubted every evangelical doctrine that Pastor Patterson had so confidently imparted to our family. I doubted the creation story, the account of Noah's ark, and even whether Russia was Magog. I was skeptical as to whether the born-again experience had any validity, not to mention doctrines like the virgin birth of Christ, the reality of angels, and finally the very existence of God. Doubting came without effort, as if these misgivings had been there all along, lurking in the shadows of my soul.

Throughout the night, I tossed and turned upon my bed as memory after memory of religious beliefs sprang to my consciousness, and just as my recollection were exhausted, a new deluge from my forgotten past resurfaced. I would groan, and the process started over again.

Finally, just before dawn, I fell into a deep sleep and slumbered through my morning classes. Nothing had changed; yet everything had changed, as if I believed and disbelieved simultaneously. What a strange sensation! I had never felt more myself.

This was only the beginning! Jack could predict the very areas in me most difficult to doubt. The drills, which challenged the scientific method, proved more difficult than doubting Christianity. Once, when a particular point on the law of cause and effect was especially difficult to doubt, I had to call up Jack in the middle of the night and ask for help.

"I knew you'd seek me out on this one," he said when answering the phone. "In fact I stayed up tonight waiting for you to call."

We would then meet secretly in the basement of my dorm, a little storage room next to the boilers. First, I would lay bare my soul, and he would follow by pressing his hands against my temples and speaking to me with a voice that sounded first like a screeching owl and then like a growling wolf.

He aroused forgotten memories of those grade school teachers who had molded my little mind into conditioned ways of thinking, of science classes where I, as a child, gathered autumn leaves and pressed them between the pages of a Sears catalogue. Meanwhile, these mentors would subtly twist my budding mind into believing the "reality" of class and genus. The praises of achievement I received whenever I scored well on a science test, or the feelings of guilt that arose if I answered a question incorrectly, held me with indescribable power. Jack snarled at the authority of such teachers. "Mental whoremongers!"

My usual reaction to Jack's insistence would be one of anger and fear. "I can't doubt that," I would cry out, sometimes in a falsetto voice that didn't sound like me at all. Stubbornly I would writhe in resistance as beads of sweat rolled down my contorted face. I would cough and gag and curl up in a fetal position, and Jack would grab me by the gruff of the neck and force me to look straight into his eyes. He ordered me to doubt and then redoubt every tenet of modern science. Round after round, Jack drove deeper into the roots of my cultural conditioning, and I withstood with all my might.

Having exhausted all possible resistance, Jack forced me to repeat a few short phrases that called into doubt my belief in the scientific method. "I doubt. I impugn. I balk and demur!" Only after repeatedly shouting these words at the top of my voice did my rigid endurance begin to wane. Finally, after ceasing all inner blocking, my body slumped over limp as if I had had a seizure. The master had extracted my presuppositions by the roots.

"Hang on, Morrie. We're almost finished!" said a triumphant Jack one night after a strenuous round of doubting. "Soon, the night of your blindness will be over. You are transforming into a new creation—behold old things are passing away. Your eyes shall no longer be slaves to the impressions of scientific data. Yes, they shall penetrate the world, yea, the universe, and you yourself shall behold its essence."

He paused and looked up, as if we were under starry skies, and said with a chant-like voice, "The night of the camel carrying its burden into the wilderness is over. The day of the lion, which destroys the beast, has begun. The dawning of the child lies nigh on the horizon."

Jack continued the excruciating, doubting drills to the end of February. Then the last time we met in my dorm basement he said, "We have ravaged the walls and have cleared the rubble. New foundations have been laid. Now is the time to build!" With that, Jack ended the first stage of the doubting drills and insisted that I pursue them no longer.

Early spring and the sun's warm rays had already won over the cold winter air. Here and there, pale brown patches appeared as the tide of snow drifts retreated and the dead grass laid flattened from its winter blanket.

On March 11, Jack and I were taking one of our many walks around campus. He rested his hand on my shoulder. "Rejoice in your liberation!" he said as we sidestepped the water puddles that dotted our path. "Now you have eyes that really see, and you are no longer the passive observer—bombarded by sense data. I have chosen wisely, and you have performed with skill. But don't relax. With all judgments suspended, having smashed every idol, you must now create the world anew."

Jack's face glowed with conviction. "Look forward to the future, my friend. Finding oneself does not entail woeful introspection. Doubting the past is merely a tool to help you focus on the future and the person you can be. In reality, you are your possibilities. I have prepared you for this moment of awareness. Forget bygone days. Get involved! Let your mind reach out to its horizons and seize your world's conception. Thanks to the doubting drills you can now make these choices unhindered by the blindness of prejudice."

Like a mythic hero calling upon the gods, Jack lifted his arms toward the heavens. He stopped and faced me. Ecstatic, he could no longer contain himself. Tears filled his eyes; he threw his arms around me and embraced me. "Let us arise and create our world. We shall ascend into the heavens and above the heights of the clouds. We shall set our thrones above the stars."

Our stroll went beyond the campus and into adjoining neighborhoods. Jack and I hardly spoke as he walked briskly by my side, breathing deeply as though he had been running.

What could it all mean? Did he really believe that one could create his own reality—ex nihilo? The mystery of the moment was intriguing. The bizarre events of the doubting drills still simmered within. With Jack, everything seemed too plausible.

We wandered late into the afternoon, and the sun's warm rays competed with the chilly breezes. How should one take in Jack's mystical propositions? With this "new level of consciousness," was he thinking of a new religion? He hadn't openly challenged my Christian faith or anyone else's, and he hadn't claimed any religious commitments for himself. The doubting drills had forced me to question many childhood beliefs, yet I had no impulse to reject the basic claims of Christ. What could it all mean? I waited. Jack was silent.

Suddenly, with the sound of a passing train, my mind whisked me back to the registrar's office on the first day of school. The memory of my meeting with Tracy was as tangible as the present. The precise feelings of hope and fear crept across my chest. My mouth turned dry, and my stomach tied in knots as the agony of her rejection encompassed me.

"What are you thinking about?" asked Jack.

The epiphany of Tracy's presence vanished. "Uh, nothing. Why do you ask?"

"Morrie," he said, "when emerging to a new level of awareness, to suppress even a single stream of thought can be lethal. I am your teacher; you must not hide anything from me. Speak your mind."

"I was thinking about someone, that's all. It's forgotten, okay?"

Jack stopped again and looked deep into my eyes. "During that moment your presence departed from me to join another. You have just made the strongest mental statement since the doubting drills. Speak forth. I'm overflowing with expectation."

There was no use hiding anything from Jack; the mere glance of his eye penetrated my thoughts. "I was thinking about a girl," I said with a short breath.

"A maiden. I knew it. No doubt, she's a real beauty. Am I not right?"

"Yes, she was. Jack please, I don't want to..."

"My boy, when thoughts of a young woman arise, a beacon shines. Das Ewig-Weibliche zieht uns hinan." He looked at me. "A quote from Goethe...meaning: The Eternal-feminine leads us on to perfection."

"My experience says anything but that," I said, shaking my head. "What do women have to do with transcendence and perfection?"

Jack raised both hands high above his head. "Everything! Oh, what a question. Within a young maid's heart lurks the essence of spontaneity uprooting all strongholds of indifference and snaring the most dispassionate observer. As men, Morrie, you and I belong to the rational but lower level of existence. Womanhood is the one true, universal witness that the human race is metaphysically above all other creatures."

"Can't we talk about philosophy and overcoming without bringing women into the picture? It's too painful."

"If you would see the essence of being, you must perceive the universe encapsulated by the feminine. Out of depths of the imagination spring forth the myths of beautiful women. Yes, Venus and Diana are but poetic reflections of the reality that I am revealing to you."

"What about women?" I asked. "Do they respond to men in the same way?"

"Ah," he replied with a sublime smile, "you have much to learn. To bring a boy into manhood, universal forces create a never-ending flow of conflict and resolution. It takes effort and attainment to make a man. But a woman is not made—she is born!" Jack looked straight at me. "Come now, my friend, tell me of this young woman. Be not ashamed of bygone sorrows, for pain is the best of teachers. Speak freely in the past tense for our concern is the future. What was her name?"

"Tracy Johnson," I said while suppressing my bitterness.

"Tracy? Johnson? How ordinary. Sounds like a name from a sitcom rather than an epic. Still, one must start some place. Tell me your story, so at least I will know how much work lies ahead."

I told Jack everything about Tracy: how we met, the afternoon spent in the forest preserve, and the way she eloped with Cary without even mentioning me to her friends.

"Alas," said Jack with a wiry smile, "she ran off with the young, blue-eyed doctor. Ha! Stereotypical. I should have guessed as much. The banality of it all—and yet so dynamic." He then added with a longing voice, "Your suffering has touched me, deeply—and with such childlike purity." He stared at me as if finding pleasure in my grief, as if I possessed a priceless jewel.

I sighed. "I was powerless to do anything about it."

"You fool!"

"What do you mean?" I asked. His sudden harshness crushed me. "I can't make decisions for her. I did everything possible to win her love. She has a free will of her own, you know."

"Free will—nonsense. All the choices were yours, but you were too ignorant to see them. The power to be master was within your reach, but your faltering allowed her to walk all over you."

"What are you talking about, Jack?"

"From what I heard, the door to her heart was wide open. It was begging your assertion. If you could only see what a dullard you were. Her only choice was to get rid of you."

"Why? I was kind and considerate—all that I was supposed to be."

Jack groaned and rolled back his eyes. "Must we begin all over with the doubting drills?"

"And I never tried to dominate or physically take advantage. As a Christian, I was a good example. I respected her and tried to do as the Bible teaches. You can imagine how cheated I felt when God didn't turn her heart toward me."

"My goodness, are all Christian men programmed the same? You people never cease to amaze me. I weep for the sisters of your generation."

My face flushed with anger. "Wait a minute. Are you suggesting that I'm some kind of pious wimp?"

"Morrie, I never imply anything and am simply stating the facts." He placed both hands on my shoulders. "My friend, have you been with me so long and still have not eyes to see?"

"But, Jack..."

"Have I not taught you to question everything?" His face flushed with anger, and he shook me violently. "When are you going to wake up and start thinking for yourself? You're nothing but a spiritual cretin!"

I was undone, speechless, and quivering with shame. Jack sensed my distress and returned to his normal composure. "Forgive me, Morrie," he said. "My intention was not to make you the object of my wrath. Someday you too will share my rage about how today's Christians reduce spirituality to a trivial pseudo-morality. Without thinking, you have submitted to the first authority that came along. Have you no integrity?"

"Well, if that's what you mean, perhaps I understand, a little anyway."

"Excellent, I believe you fully understand. When I first laid eyes on you, your potential was obvious. You have grown a lot, and that has encouraged me." He sighed. "There's just so much work ahead of us."

"And I want to learn more, Jack."

"Good—and you won't be sorry. Morrie, we'll put my phenomenological method into practice. From the springboard of intentional creativity, you'll leap from these miserable experiences with Tracy Johnson and glide into your future."

"I don't get it."

Jack groaned and clenched his fists. "I'm trying to tell you that, to put in the vernacular, you're going to make it with girls by using my phenomenological method."

I blushed. "Really?"

"Yes, my gift to you. Come with me, and we'll soar above exceedingly high mountains. I'll show you the kingdoms that are yours to create. The world is mine to give to whom I wish, and I have chosen you."

"Wow, when do we begin?"

"Heh, heh, not so fast. You're still living in sin, so to speak. If I merely transform you into the likes of your macho Christian brothers, you'll never transcend the vegetable kingdom. Morrie, we are not biological globs made excited by sensory impulses. We are artists, intenders. Your so-called relationships with young women will be acts of creation, fully conscious, and touching divinity."

"What must I do?"

"First, get alone, by yourself, and analyze the essence of this Tracy-relationship via my phenomenological method. Everything you need to know is in my workbook."

"What if nothing happens?" I asked.

"If you believe and do as I say and that which I have written, I can guarantee something will happen. No more questions. The gift is within you. Go and observe!"

By now we had wandered through all the outlying neighborhoods and ended our walk right outside my dorm.

I took leave of Jack, and, once inside, ran to my room.

Would Jack's method lift me from the rut that marginalized me from every girl I met? Was this the light at the end of the tunnel? I ran even faster and was nearly out of breath by the time I reached the staircase. Half way up, a voice called out from below.

"Hey, Morrie, wait a minute! Where're ya goin'?"

It was Frank. He had been waiting for me in the hallway.

He rushed toward me. "Morrie, what's your hurry? I'd like a word with you."

"Not now, Frank. Please. I'm terribly busy." I rushed passed him and hastened to the door of my room.

"You've been actin' strangely lately. What's going on?"

"Nothing," I snapped back. "I've got homework to do and have to begin right now. Goodbye, Frank. See you later." I quickly fumbled through my coat pocket in order to find my keys.

"Now hold on one second," he persisted. "You can't be studyin' that much. Lynn Brettin is in one of my prayer groups, and she says that you've been actin' cocky in Dr. MacMurray's classes. According to her, you've been spoutin' off a lot of weird ideas in the classroom, about some new fangled Transcendentalism. Come now, Morrie, what kind of trouble are ya in? Why all this secrecy?"

"There's no time to explain. I'm already late." My hand was shaking as I tried to insert the key into the lock.

"Late for what?" he asked.

"Uh, let's talk about it over supper sometime, okay?" The lock on my door seemed to be stuck.

"Supper? We haven't sat together for ages. You always have that flimsy 'I'm too busy' excuse. You've been avoidin' me for two weeks now. Why did you duck behind the library building yesterday as I came out the door? I know you saw me."

"I was late for a meeting. Please, will you give me a break?"

Nevertheless, Frank tried to stop me from opening my door. "Who is that mysterious looking man that I've seen you with? He's not from the college. I can tell that much. I don't like him."

I pushed his hand away. "He's just an acquaintance, someone from town, and none of your business." Frank babbled on, and I was getting angry.

Frank grabbed my arm. "There's somethin' evil about that man. You've changed a lot lately, and it's not been for the better. Morrie, listen to me!"

"Enough!" I grabbed Frank's jacket and pressed my tightened fist against his jaw. "Frank, shut up and get the hell out of here before I knock your block off."

Completely shocked, Frank cocked his head back and looked cross-eyed at my clenched fingers, this time without his usual grin. I was physically stronger, and Frank had to give in. "Okay, Morrie, just as you say."

My flexing muscles relaxed and released him. Tears were streaming down his face. I had hurt him deeply, yet his eyes continued to warn, Turn back, Morrie, turn back.

The sincerity of his tear-washed eyes was compelling and might have touched me. However, to what was he calling me back? My impotence? My stupidity? Those were the only things waiting for me if I turned back now.

### Chapter 10

________________

With no reply, I finally managed to release the lock, went into my room, and slammed the door in his face. I would not see Frank Blachford for quite a while after that.

By now, I knew all the doubting drills by heart and had put Jack's workbook aside. But that night the tattered guide came down from its shelf, for his orders were to read the chapter Meditations or The Study and Description of All Phenomena, which he had dedicated to the French philosopher Rene Descartes "with loving memory"—as if the philosopher had been a personal friend.

Since Jack wrote so cryptically, I hadn't bothered with this chapter until now.

"Only masters of the initial doubting drills can understand it," he had said. I read for the next three hours, and slowly Jack's intent became clearer:

The reader must realize that, from his youth, he has accepted false ideals as truth, mere opinions imparted by the manipulating teachers and preachers and politicians (to name but a few). Thus, one can doubt virtually every thought that runs through one's head...

On the other hand, truly skeptical thinkers could afford to be selective:

The doubter, having arrived in a true state of suspended judgment, need not doubt everything. Doubt only that which feels naturally doubtful. Ignore those who would impose their personal doubts. True doubting need mean only a willingness to doubt....

Absolutists insist that the act of doubting ends in despair, and thus is a danger to avoid. Rubbish! This most creative force is the greatest gift to humanity. Doubting is the pathway for the mind to free itself from the tyranny of the senses...

Jack argued his own phenomenological method:

My goal is not proving metaphysical dogmas such as God's existence or the reality of material objects. Leave such endeavors to the professional academics. Meditations are for thinkers who grapple with everyday situations and thus have concrete concerns. Hence, all my prescriptions are personal in nature and common to all humanity...

If one calls this philosophy, let it be said that this is a philosophy for the concrete man...

After thoroughly studying the assigned chapter, I prepared for the exercises that followed. Systematically, Jack prescribed all the procedures in his workbook. The theme for meditation was my short-lived relationship with Tracy Johnson.

As instructed, I found a quiet place without distractions, my favorite being a stuffed chair from a garage sale. By now, I was free from all disruptions and felt relaxed. My mind then focused on various experiences, joys, fears, and uncertainties embodied in my times with Tracy.

Thanks to Jack's intensive training, my mind reflexively doubted every hope and desire concerning her. Doubting the success of my relationship with Tracy could not have been easier. Had she cared about me, or was she merely using me? Who could say whether I had acted rightly or not? Thanks to Jack's structured technique, one could sidestep the issue; I doubted everything that I could doubt.

Upon finishing Jack's doubting prelude, I quickly jotted down things from my personal life that were dubious. Time spent on previous doubting drills was invaluable, for I had become inwardly secure and willing to question, radically, all my beliefs. All need to repress the dread of being wrong was gone, for I could fearlessly face the truth of myself.

Still, doubting was never an end in itself. Ironically, Jack's final goal was skepticism's opposite for "only from Moral Certainty can one do true phenomenological inquiry."

I began with my usual "doubting drills mental warm-up exercises," which were now routine. My instructions were then to reflect on that which "could be doubted, but was not necessary to doubt." I spoke thusly:

"I exist and am in this room, seated by the radiator, and clothed in my winter pajamas. I'm holding a real workbook made of real paper. Of course, I could doubt whether my surroundings exist, but why should I? There's no obvious reason to do so, so why not proceed..."

With my entire being at rest, the exercise sped up to the reflective pace. Thoughts and impressions accelerated faster and faster, and a fledging confidence prompted my consciousness ever higher. Workbook instructions ceased as I soared to a stage of automatic pilot that Jack called "the mind-stream."

"I need not doubt the existence of a certain girl named Tracy Johnson and that we had become very close. For certain, I was very much in love with her, and..."

SWOOSH!

My thoughts more than sputtered as my mind felt cast into what I can only describe as a surrealistic abyss surrounded by a stony ridge. I clung to the rocky crags of my very consciousness, but my grip was slipping. Darkness encompassed me, and below an endless cavern waited to swallow me up.

"Where am I?" came my innermost cry.

A reply came like a ringing bell. My inward self had fallen face-to-face against the reality of my relationship with Tracy. All capacity to doubt had broken down, and I became tangled in a reflective snag, for deep in my heart lingered a denial, the claim that Tracy wanted me and not Cary. In reality, my love for her had been a farce.

I probed about, twisting and struggling to comfort my folly, but there was none, not a speck. I tried to turn away but failed.

"No! No!" I screamed as my delusional vacuum sucked me downward. After one last try, all strength broke down. I stopped striving, let go, and plunged into the yawning gulf below.

Down and down I went, tumbling and convinced that life had ended. Chaotic thoughts whirled inside my head as distorted images of Tracy strangled me. She shimmered radiantly. Desperately, I reached out, but just as our outstretched fingers touched, her arm jerked back while she laughed hysterically. The futility of Tracy in my life was so great that I was truly losing my mind.

As in most nightmares, however, this fall was not my finish, but a violent awakening. Jack had peeled off layers of tradition that had formed my world. The doubting drills had crushed the force that had stifled my creative powers. Oh, to break through this last stronghold of passivity!

At the end of my plunge, in that darkest of moments, a light dawned. Rather than a bruising rocky bottom, my fall ended in a tranquil garden scented by a freshly fallen rain. As on a warm spring day, my feet had lighted on freshly turned soil drenched with dew.

"Where am I now?"

Before me was a bed of tropical flowers with bright red and blue orchids. Dark green vines and ferns crept around embossed emblems, some carved out of white marble, others made of softer materials. All were symbols, fragments of who I was. In a glance, I saw my every aspiration, and like the hovering mist my consciousness hung over the self I was, had been, and ever hoped to be.

I stood face-to-face with the raw phenomena of my life. I remembered Jack's teaching and realized that I had entered the state of suspended judgment and stood within an existential parenthesis! Incredible. I could now dissect and isolate my every desire!

Within this cerebral paradise was a long cavern, a grotto-like hollow, lined with patios and many gardens. Each of them lead to an opening in the side of the wall. The portals on the right were of classical design, constructed with Roman arches and Greek columns. Their entrances were closed and barred with hand-hewed timber and cast-iron locks. Those on the left were of a flexible pre-matter in circular shapes and were architecturally inconceivable in our dimension. Hundreds of indescribable light beams shielded every entry.

Both sides looked equally foreboding and inviting. Curiously, I approached a Roman arch with Catholic familiarity. Above its crest a statue loomed, The Sacred Heart of Jesus, crowned with bloodstained thorns. Its fingers pointed to a protruding, porcelain heart, which bled profusely.

Still mindful of my quest for Tracy, I could not resist a detour into the Catholic side of myself. I unlatched the medieval bolt and peered inside, and there, guarded by distorted statues in a row of clerical hierarchy, was a single row of tombstones filing infinitely back inside a Gothic cathedral.

The dominant gravestone bore the inscription of my mother's father, John Madigan (1914-1988). Beside him was the grave of his wife, Mary. Grandfather was a staunch Irish Catholic who had fled the troubles of his homeland. As a boy, he had come to America, but he never forgot his roots and made sure two of his sons became priests. After Mother followed Father into the Evangelical movement, my grandfather all but disowned his only daughter, and even on his deathbed he could not forgive her.

The other graves, a long row of ancestral remains, went back farther than I could see, perhaps to St. Patrick himself. Foremost stood three open graves that were empty and freshly dug. They had headstones bearing the names of my mother, my sister Mary, and me. Dad's was conspicuously missing.

Slowly, I approached my own grave, and, at once, the urge to re-convert overwhelmed me. A force threw me to the ground. Half rebelling, half yearning, I belly-crawled to the crypt and looked down. There was a carcass of myself, lying in the bosom of the Roman Catholic Church!

The prodigal's yearning, this sense of waywardness and loss, grew greater and pulled me down into the grave. "Help," I cried. What wanted to unite me with the bottom of this pit?

I struggled, and all seemed hopeless, but then, on the brink of surrender, another surge provided a moment for escape. I sprang to my feet and darted for the door, which I fortunately had left open, and I ran back into the huge cavern.

I sprinted through memory-gardens covered with dusty cobwebs. Embryonic thoughts, yet unborn, pulsated through veined water sacs. I quickly bypassed all their meanings. Certainty of my love for Tracy had brought me here, and my aim was to behold its essence.

My quest continued on a narrow path of right angles. Walls of sculptured foliage towered over my head. The maze's path led this way and that; my search was going nowhere. The overhanging shrubs now pressed closer and walking became difficult. I had to plummet through the branches until I finally broke through to a huge, open courtyard covered with red tiles. In the center, a large fountain gushed water in all directions.

Sounds of splashing spume filled my mind. Was this the same fountain, the emblem of Bethlehem College? Where was Sophia? Above the spray and rainbows, as if hovering, stood the lavish figure in Botticelli's painting The Birth of Venus. Breathless, I approached the naked form, which, having emerged from the primeval foam below, stood alight on an open seashell. Her would-be flesh shimmered in ivory smoothness as the goddess' fingers gently rested against her breast. Long, golden hair flowed down from her tilted head and modestly covered her lower waist.

I stared, I longed for, I desired. Whether this was reality or illusion did not matter, for my repressed aspirations now appeared in photographic stillness. Oh, to embalm the moment and linger in its pleasure! But Venus' face blurred. I rubbed my eyes as the goddess's features began to change. I leaned into the spray and spume and watched her face transforming into Tracy's.

I leaned against the fountain's edge and longed to grasp the lovely figure with my entire being. Finally, I plunged into the spray and foam. My goal receded as I swam and gasped. As my fingers touched the pedestal, Tracy's fixation and my vision of her perfection faded and disappeared...

SWISH

I was back, sitting in my room, gripping Jack's workbook. Normality had returned; the clock showed that two hours had passed. Had I merely fallen asleep? Or had this been a psychedelic vision induced either by chemicals or some sinister, mystical power? Whatever the cause, I overflowed with vigor and knowledge and felt like Adam must have felt after he had eaten the forbidden fruit.

Every detail of my vision glowed vividly. Tracy had emerged as the goddess Venus, sparkling aloft a fountain. What did all this mean? Jack's workbook lay open to a page titled, "Image-Idealism":

Seeing the self through mythical symbols surpasses poetic fantasy....Within every heart is a reality, about which arrogant rationalists know nothing. Beware: Reality, and what one wishes a vision to be, need not be the same. Our task is to discover truth. Follow the workbook closely, and you will not miss the mark.

Using the charts and graphs found in the back of the workbook, I wrote down and compared the various images from my vision of Tracy. For what purpose had she entered my life? Did I love her or the Venus-image that I saw in her?

My next instructions were to formulate the Tracy/Venus symbol into a propositional syllogism. I mused over her image embedded within me. Was the idea of Tracy/Venus preconceived? Innate? Genetic? Why Tracy's beauty and not another's? I patiently sorted the many thoughts that randomly ran through my mind. Eventually, one emerged, like a ticker tape:

My ideal girl is one who is looking for her ideal guy.

However scornful I was, the words would not go away and kept flashing within me. I checked Jack's workbook for the next step:

When interpreting image-ideals, one frequently reaches wits' end. Despair not. Rejoice, for the mind is probing beyond the ordinary, and from its depths, penetrating insights will flow.

"That's exactly what happened!" I exclaimed aloud. Amazingly, Jack's workbook had anticipated my very experience.

Mythical symbols translated into propositions are used here as philosophical revelations. Write down the insight on the space provided and mark it with the letter "A." This will be the core premise, from which the disciple can deduce other truths.

I wrote:

(A) My idea of the ideal girl is one who is looking for the ideal guy.

Was this premise valid? "My ideal girl..." Could any ideal really exist? One of my philosophy professors insisted that ideals were mere imaginary figments and did not exist in reality. If true, then (A) was an illusion too.

This "ideal girl" was very much like me. She too was looking for her ideal. And, since I existed, logically, such a girl could also exist. Perhaps my ideal wasn't an illusion after all. I hastily entered propositions (B), (C), and (D) into my workbook:

(B) I am looking for my ideal girl, and I exist.

(C) Therefore my ideal girl, who is looking for her ideal guy, could also exist.

(D) My ideal girl could possibly exist.

From (D) I found it easy to deduce (E) and (F):

(E) Tracy Johnson was looking for her ideal guy, and she exists.

(F) Therefore, my Ideal really exists!

Eureka. I was right all along. For the first time I understood my attraction to this girl rather than another. Still, I could not ignore my own bitter experience: she did not see me with equal passion. Who was her ideal guy? Cary Wright?

Half-jokingly, I rewrote my original premise (A):

(Aa) My ideal of the ideal girl is one who is looking for Mr. Wright.

That can't be right. Tracy also thought a football player and a string of others were "ideal guys." All these turned out to be false ideals, crumbling illusions. I crossed out (Aa) with my pen. Why did she finally end up with Cary Wright? Was he for real?

The question remained: did Tracy's ideal ever exist? Obviously, the human being, Cary Wright, existed, but was he really her ideal? Concerning her personal needs, Cary could rescue her from insecurity. Soberly, I wrote down the following deductions:

(G) My ideal's ideal did not exist, yet I exist.

(H) Thus, my ideal could never see me as her ideal.

I could never be Tracy's ideal, yet the more she strove for her ideal, the more she became my ideal. I was caught on the horns of a dilemma. Jack's workbook instructed me to construct as many options, called "query consequence," as possible:

Option 1: To give up my ideal and settle for an "ordinary" girl. (Relinquishment)

This was the "pastoral option": What was wrong with the nice Christian girl whose only "ideal"--though hardly the proper word--was a nice Christian husband, a requirement even I could have met? Unfortunately, option (1) seemed more boring than the girls themselves.

Option 2 (Resignation): To remain the suffering fool, in an infinite

no-win situation.

Option (2) was more of a sentence of doom than an option. But if it was true, I should let it be. Better to pursue the impossible than to surrender my integrity. I would even sacrifice my one chance to win Tracy.

Imagine Tracy's dorm mates counseling her: "Give up your ideal; it's an illusion. Find yourself a nice Christian boy."

Imagine me, on my knees before her, begging: "Tracy, fairest of ten thousand, don't listen to her."

Perhaps Option 2 could be modified. Rather than the "suffering fool," try "a heroic knight of gallantry." Was this what Kierkegaard meant by his "knight of infinite resignation"? I entered the following as a modified option.

Option 2 (modified): Become the heroic knight of a no-win situation.

Yes, chivalry ad infinitum was my calling. Let them be carried off by their illusions! I would preserve the high standards of my Venus and embrace the suffering.

The hour was late and I finally climbed into my bed. Before turning out the light, I reviewed the logical order of my present exercises.

Deductions from a philosophical revelation:

Stage 1

(A) My ideal girl is one who is looking for her ideal guy.

(B) I am looking for my ideal girl, and I exist.

(C) Therefore a girl, who is looking for her ideal guy, could also exist.

(E) Tracy Johnson was looking for her ideal guy, and she exists.

(F) Therefore, my Ideal in reality exists!!

Stage 2

(G) My ideal's ideal did not exist; yet I exist.

(H) Thus, my ideal could never see me as her ideal.

Dilemma Options:

(1) Give up my ideal and settle for an "ordinary" girl.

(2) Become the heroic Knight of an infinite no-win situation.

Query consequence:

Option nr. 2 - Become the heroic Knight of an infinite

no-win situation.

My meditation was complete. My course of action was set. I couldn't wait to show Jack my work and create my future.

### Chapter 11

________________

The next day I sought out Jack with recent visions still fresh in my mind's eye. A sleet storm had swept through the city and left broken branches and debris strewn all over the campus. Huge trees hung limp with their limbs caked with glistening ice. Where was Jack? Fearful of losing a single detail, I had to find him.

My first impulse was to rush into the student union and find Jack enjoying his favorite breakfast of black coffee and sweet rolls. However, neither was he there nor in any other place. One could feel his absence. During classes, I stared out the window hoping he would pass by. Before, I only had to think of him, and he appeared out of nowhere. I surveyed the crowds on the way to chapel and thoroughly searched the dining hall during lunch. Where was the man who had unlocked my world?

Three days went by and still no Jack. Outside temperatures had dipped to below zero as a veritable cold front had descended on the city. Branches, weary and heavy laden with ice, continued to snap and crash to the ground. The euphoria from my night of meditation was waning. Bethlehem College, my classes, and everything else lacked meaning. Where was Jack?

Like a foot soldier waiting for the bugle sound, I spent much time and every evening in the student union. If Jack didn't pass through here, I thought, he wasn't on campus. To keep my list of propositions alive, I had memorized them, reciting them softly to myself, hoping to keep every insight fresh and alive for Jack to verify. Other students walked in, ambled together, and then drifted. Everyone around me appeared indifferent. I felt exalted above them, as if their little worlds revolved around mine. Finally, even after the canteen had closed, I would sit alone, tarrying until the night guard turned off the lights and sent me home.

On the fifth night, I sat at my usual outpost, but still there was no Jack. It was early evening, and students had packed the coffee bar. I blew softly on my hot cup of coffee. Through the steamy vapors, I focused on a cozy clique sitting nearby. Amidst a group of four guys was the most sophisticated girl I had ever seen.

Her straight, jet-black hair was imposingly long and hung straight down, far below her shoulders. It lay lavishly on the tabletop before her. She talked with confidence as the others competed for a portion of her interest. When she turned my way, I saw deep brown eyes, darkened even more by raven bangs cut straight above her brow.

Grateful to be in her presence, the other four eagerly listened to her every remark. Her dark green turtleneck sweater and knitted full-length dress was plush. She laughed and punctuated certain words with gentle touches on their arms. She was clearly an uptown girl.

Safe behind the brim of my cup, I watched. Her poise was enchanting. Clearly, she enjoyed the world, which lay at her feet. Who was she? Where was she from? Milwaukee, the city of motorcycle builders, could not have been her home. Perhaps she was visiting from some swank school out East or even aristocratic Europe.

"She's way out of my class," I thought to myself. "What help would philosophical revelations be with a girl like that? Ten years of Jack's training couldn't bring me into her league."

Behind a similar wall of fake indifference, I had once watched Tracy. However, the girl from Cedar Ferry, though beautiful, was without pretension. One might dare fall in love with her. But this sleek, feminine creature was so aloof, so chic. It was inconceivable that she would just stumble into my life. She belonged on the cover of Vogue magazine. More than an ideal of beauty, she was an icon.

Again, the posh beauty turned her head in my direction. She was looking right at me! Had she noticed my staring? I blushed and quickly looked away as a tight fearful feeling crept across my chest.

"Nothing has changed," I muttered, disgruntled, and pressed my forehead against my palms. Doubting drills or not, I was still the same bumbling coward who had come to the Bethlehem campus last September. Oh, how I wanted simply to vanish! The beautiful young woman had looked right at me, and I had shriveled up like a scared rabbit.

Utterly dismayed, I put on my purple Minnesota Vikings cap, grabbed my backpack full of schoolbooks, and...

"Jack! Where did you come from?" I couldn't believe it. There he sat right beside me—straddling a chair turned backwards, smiling awkwardly, his brows raised and wrinkled.

"Well, aren't you going to say hello?" he asked.

"I've been hunting for you for five days, and suddenly you appear. When did you come in? Where have you been hiding? How did you get here?"

He chuckled. "One question at a time."

"Where did you come from? I didn't see you..."

"How could you notice anything with both hands covering your eyes?"

I didn't reply. Jack discerned my inability before the girl with the long black hair. I glanced her way, but she had left, as had her entourage, leaving behind crumpled paper napkins and half-eaten dishes of ice cream. I sighed with relief and turned to Jack again. "Please tell me! Where have you been?"

"Oh, I cover a large territory," he replied evasively. "You know well that my business covers the world. What have you been up to, my friend?"

I gasped. "Don't you remember? I mean my meditations and all?"

"Meditations?"

"Jack, how could you forget? Yes, my meditations. Remember the workbook you gave me, the phenomenological method?"

"Oh, those meditations. Why of course, I nearly forgot. I've been so busy, with things and personalities beyond comprehension."

"But don't you want to hear about what happened to me during my meditations?" I asked.

Jack fanned his face with his hands. "My, my, why the urgency? Anyway, I know what went on." He picked up my cup of coffee and sipped. "Yuck, I must get used to the coffee around here again. Have you ever tasted Turkish coffee? Why when traveling to..."

"Jack?"

"What is it, Morrie?"

"How could you know what happened to me?"

"Did you follow my instructions?" he asked.

"Yes," I said.

"Well then, need I hear more? These things are quite predictable, you know."

"But aren't you even going to hear me out?"

"Oh, I can endure the particulars. Speak forth. I'm listening. But first let me get a fresh cup of coffee."

My eyes followed as Jack walked across to the coffee bar. He was a strange one. I had only glanced down a few moments. How had he snuck up on me so quickly? I watched him place his order. His very presence was distinct, so avant-garde. Like the girl with the long, black hair, he did not belong at Bethlehem College.

Jack returned, winding his way between the tables, with two steaming cups of coffee. He climbed back onto his turned-about chair as if mounting a horse.

"I think that this one with the sugar is yours." He took a sip. "Nope, the other way around. How can anyone..."

"Jack, you're not listening," I said. "If you were out of town, why didn't you leave a message?"

"Listen," he said, "I came back exactly at the right time. Now let's hear about your adventures... pardon me, your philosophical revelations."

He listened to the entire story but didn't react to anything important to me, and he even yawned when hearing how the goddess Venus had turned into Tracy. Still, his eyes were penetrating as if reveling, not in what had happened, but in my awakening.

"You're not interested in anything I say."

He patted me on the back. "Morrie, you're too sensitive. Don't take such paranormal experiences so seriously. Dreams, visions... I'm not training you to be a witch doctor. Besides, I am listening more than you think. I can hear that much work lies ahead."

Then Jack's interest perked up. With an arm's sweep, he brushed aside the empty coffee cups, turned his chair around, and sat properly at the table. He pulled out a spiral ring notebook from his tattered briefcase on the floor. He opened it up on the table and said, "Now where did we leave off? And take off that silly purple cap!"

"Is this my next assignment?" I asked.

"Listen, your great revelation was your search for the ideal girl who is out after the ideal guy, right? Well, someday you'll assess this tidbit of knowledge and wonder why you burned so much energy on the obvious. The question is, do you want to go on?"

"But what about my query consequences, 'to become the heroic Knight of an infinite no-win situation'. I must admit, I'm quite proud of that one. It's very Kierkegaardian, isn't it?"

Jack checked my deductions recorded in the workbook. "This will never do. It's full of logical fallacies. Anyone can see that."

"Logical fallacies? Which? Where?"

He turned the workbook toward me and pointed with his finger "Your so-called dilemmas. Have you ever heard of the 'false dilemma fallacy'?"

"Of course. That's elementary," I said defensively.

"OK then. Give me the definition."

Like an eager disciple, I recited, "A false dilemma is when only two options are given, while in reality there might be more options. For example: 'this plan is either wholly workable or a complete failure' is a false dilemma."

"Very good, school boy. Now review these so-called query consequences and tell me what you see."

Nervously, I looked down at my notes. I could feel Jack's breath on my neck.

"Well?" he asked.

"Well... I think you might mean..." I was struggling to speak.

"Look here. You give two options—either to give up your ideal or to resign to a no-win situation--and call that a 'dilemma.'"

"Yes, but..."

"A false dilemma."

"Okay... if you say so."

Jack continued, "In your meditations, did you consider any transcendental options?"

"I guess not. What would that be?"

Jack pushed the spiral notebook across the table in my direction. Here's your transcendental option. In short, here's your new workbook. I have written it especially for you."

Stenciled on the cover in bold letters was THE AMORE ASCENDES, a Phenomenological Study of Human Sexuality. Turning the pages, there were photocopied essays, hand drawn charts, and blank spaces for assignments and more philosophical equations.

"Look interesting?" asked Jack with pride.

My finger ran down the chapters in the table of contents: "Sex and Being," "The Artist and the Technician," and "Authentic and Inauthentic Seduction." There was even an appendix entry titled "Contra the Behavioralist Infidels".

"Why, yes," I replied, only to recall the ordeal of his last workbook. "But don't I have enough problems? Isn't this a bit dangerous?" My heart trembled. "If one could fulfill all his desires...I mean, I don't want to become a..." I dared not say the words.

Jack was astonished. "Morrie, after all we've been through together. Have I even hinted that you stoop to perversion?"

"No, in fact you've always said the opposite."

Jack puffed out his chest. "Why, of course! I uphold only the highest of ethical standards. You have a lot to learn. Merely mention the word sex, and your reaction spells out the nature of your problems. By my honor, these new exercises confer with contemporary Christian ethics. The sooner you are liberated from the notion that marriage legalizes sex, the sooner you'll enter the spirit of your own faith."

"I am a Christian! What are you? It's frustrating not knowing where you stand. Are you a Christian? Do you know what it means to be saved?"

Jack folded his arms across his chest.

"Jack, I want to trust you, but there are red lights flashing everywhere."

"You're scared," he said.

"Perhaps, but what about the blinking stoplights?"

"Confess, it's fear."

"Okay, I'm scared." I wiped the sweat off my brow and looked about in the canteen, hoping he would change the subject. The room was nearly empty except for a few stragglers. A worker was placing the empty chairs upside-down on the tables he had just washed.

Jack tapped me on the shoulder and looked at me in the most befriending way. "Remember how frightening the doubting drills were, when your world rested on a rigid set of absolutes?"

I nodded. "And when doubted, my life did not fall apart."

"Aren't you glad you trusted me then?" he asked.

"Yes, but what will stop me from abusing the knowledge in this workbook? Can I trust myself?" I started to relax again and ceased from pulling on my shirt to improve the ventilation.

"I can give you virility, but you must provide the values."

"Doesn't that leave a lot of responsibility to the individual?"

Jack leaned across the table as far as he could and whispered, "Ultimately, that's what it is all about."

"Well, it still seems that..." I paused. "All right, I'll trust you."

"Good," he said with a smile and leaned back in his chair. "You won't be disappointed."

Jack had moved in to take over another part of my life. "Where do I start?" I asked with a sigh.

"With you... from the beginning."

"I'm that bad, huh?"

Again, he moved closer toward me. "Ah, you may lack basic skills, but you also have fewer bad habits to unlearn. Your glory is in your inexperience."

Jack's logic puzzled me. "But I don't know many girls."

"That's just as well," he said. "You're like an oyster hidden away at the seafloor, silently secreting the substance that creates the priceless pearl. And here you are, waiting for someone to discover your inner beauty."

"Must you speak so cryptically?"

"When I speak only enlightened ears can hear."

"Then speak plainly; apparently I'm a bit deaf."

Jack took my notebook and dramatically closed it. "Morrie, it's time to put flesh on my teachings. During the next exercises, you'll be meeting several real live women. Such encounters must be willful acts. After all, how many times will a Tracy trip over your feet?"

"Once in a life-time?"

"Exactly. Don't wait for opportunities to happen. Intend them. Does a painter become an artist by slopping paint onto his canvas? No, art demands discipline. By studying the masters who have painted before him, the novice baptizes himself into the community of artists both living and dead. He sketches, mixes colors, and fills his senses with sights, sounds, and textures. At last, he approaches the easel, and his craft flows from the depths of his being."

I stared at Jack with awe.

"My friend, so will it be with you," he continued. "Before presenting yourself to this ideal of yours, this girl-goddess, you must prepare. Conceive, plan, and execute, transcendentally. You will rise to such heights that all things will be at your command."

"Wow, are you talking about me?"

"Potentially, yes. However, before any presentation, you must acquire a kind of omniscience and then place yourself inside the desires of her imagination. By means of subtle exposé, she will be unconsciously yearning for your introduction. Yes, you will experience the AMORE ASCENDES.

"The title of your book."

"Exactly," he said with a gleam in his eyes.

I began to feel nervous again. "Isn't this just a sophisticated way of tricking girls into liking you? What is the AMORE ASCENDES?"

"In the eyes of the ignorant, the AMORE ASCENDES may be just another slick seduction scam. But to the enlightened, it is living through conscious reflection, a higher life-form where spiritual momentum nourishes intended actions. It is Phaedrus soaring with Spirit and Reason...

"The AMORE ASCENDES is no abstract idea. How often have inspired thoughts gone stale when stuck in the mind? Yea, if the AMORE ASCENDES is an ideal, it is idealism incarnate. Myth made flesh. Beyond mere conceptions of the mind, the AMORE ASCENDES has an earthly dimension, substance, the very dust that makes up your flesh and bones."

"How will I do this?" I asked. "You still speak in mysteries."

Jack lifted his new workbook up with his hand as if he were a great preacher. "It is written," he said with an authoritative finger pointed at an open page. "This book includes everything that you will need. It assumes lack of experience--which makes you, I might add, a perfect candidate. The first part of your training, the mental preparations, is finished. You've had enough book learning and mind experience. As of today, I am sending you out of the monastery and into the world of women." He opened the workbook to the first chapter. "Look here. It's all laid out in my usual progressive fashion."

I examined the "plan of action" exercises, which included going out in public and randomly introducing oneself to beautiful girls. Anxiety crept in, starting in my forehead and crossing my chest.

"Jack, I can't do that."

"The point isn't doing, it's being."

"Yeah, but it's one thing to be," I protested. "But doing..."

"Nonsense. I've had it with your dualistic world. Face it, Morrie, real being is in this world. In times past, you've heard me say, 'do what you are.' But now I say unto you, if you are, you must do. Faith without works is dead."

"But I can't walk up to any girl and..." I waved my hand as if to say, "Presto."

Jack took my gesture as defiance. "Enough of this fool's paradise, of waiting for women to walk into your life when in reality you're afraid to say 'hi' to someone you'll never see again."

"But..."

Jack ignored my protest. "Do you remember your impotent performance with Tracy? Wouldn't you rather have a few options?"

I hung my head in concession. All my "buts" were gone.

Jack arose and towered over me like an Old Testament prophet. "Here, take the workbook. Pour over chapter one by tomorrow, and we'll go directly out onto the battle front."

"We?"

"Of course, I shall go with you to supervise and, uh, to give moral support." He wryly looked about as if someone might be listening and then added with a chuckle, "Besides, I like to watch."

By the next morning, I had devoured the first chapter of the AMORE ASCENDES. Jack's emphasis was on the relationship between phenomenology and, as he put it, "the annexation of feminine affection." He confessed openly that critics might see this teaching as a mere clever ploy. Thus, with great pains he distinguished himself from the vulgar practices of the masses:

The phenomenological use of techniques assumes the spirit of the AMORE ASCENDES. Doing, as opposed to not doing, is mere restless commotion and is the postponement of one's spiritual bankruptcy. However, when the phenomenologist does what others call "wooing," he participates in the "divine madness." Thus for the true philosopher, all sensual activity is by definition transcendental.

Jack was waiting for me at the top of the stairway overlooking the noisy students who passed through the ground floor of the student union. This area served as the college post office with hundreds of mailboxes lining the walls from ceiling to floor.

He started the next event abruptly. "Imagine," he said and swept his hand over the large, crowded room. "Every Bethlehem woman passes through here each day, and from this spot you can see them all. Oh, look down over there to the right. Isn't she beautiful? Morrie, you're not paying attention. You're missing some excellent prospects."

I was shaking with fear as I stood by his side. With enthusiasm, he clasped his arm about my shoulder and shook me like a dead man. "C'mon, my friend, this is the dawning of your own epic. My arms should be holding you back, not up."

I felt as though I was standing at the edge of a high cliff. "What you said in your book, I can't do that. It's not like me."

"Morrie, this isn't a marriage proposal! Get rid of this all or nothing attitude. That's what this exercise is all about: to rid you of timidity. Now take off that silly backpack, pick out one of these girls, and go introduce yourself! Remember, arbitrary selection is paramount."

I stiffened like a lifeless zombie while Jack assessed everything that had two legs. "We must develop your sense of detachment," he said with zeal. "Don't let your emotions steer you. Get some discipline. Now pick out one of those young women, anyone. I see several possibilities right now. Like that one over there. She's perfect."

I strained my eyes. "Which one? Where?"

"The one who looks like she's waiting for someone. Tell her she's waiting for you. Walk into her life."

"Jack, I can't... I'm scared."

"Of course you can. Drat, she's leaving, and it's too late. She's gone. A tragically wasted opportunity. Now it's your turn. Which girl will it be?"

I scanned the bustling crowd below and said with a stammer, "They're all so...unavailable. I can't walk up to a complete stranger and..."

"All right, I'll pick one out for you, and you do as I say." Jack was getting impatient. "Now watch carefully and take note. Do you see that young woman over there with the Scottish plaid skirt?"

I peeked from behind his shoulder. "You mean the one reading a letter?"

"You mean absorbed in a letter. Her thoughts are far away. That means she's unaware of what is happening in her presence. A girl, reading a letter, creates what I call the moment of vulnerability. You read about that last night in the AMORE ASCENDES, Chapter 1, page 23, under the heading: The Eternal Essence of Femininity. Remember?"

"Yes, but is what you say really true?"

"Yes, I only speak the truth. Now note this. On the floor near her feet, you'll see another letter. It slipped from under her arm and created a perfect opportunity to intrude into her privacy." He gave me a nudge with his hip. "Now go and retrieve it for her."

"But..."

"No buts. Do as I say. And that's an order!"

Obediently, I descended the stairs and crossed the crowded room toward the girl. She was intensely reading, her heart perhaps on the far side of the globe, no doubt with a young man. Her eyes flitted up and down each page; her nostrils dilated with breath. I stopped before her—she had yet to notice me—and waited for something to happen.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Jack waving at me. "Get going!" he said with the movement of his lips. "Now!"

I prepared my approach. The time was now. My failure would be Jack's fury.

Suddenly, the girl stuffed the letter into her coat pocket and turned toward the door. She was slipping away. My mentor's ire drew nigh, and my eyes rolled, shamefully, toward the floor—only to see her dropped letter!

Quickly I picked it up, ran after her, and yelled, "Hey, wait a minute!"

Upon hearing me call, she stopped and turned about until our eyes had met. I had entered her private sphere.

"Yes?" she asked with a warm, inquisitive smile.

"Uh, yes," I said, holding out the letter before me. "Did you drop this?"

"Oh," she said shyly and secured a hold on the letter. "Why, thank you." Carefully, she nudged the envelope from between my rigid fingers and pressed it against her breast—and then she blushed.

Incredible. Her life stood open before me as described in the AMORE ASCENDES. She sensed an allurement unlike anything anyone had previously beheld in me. I smiled inwardly when thinking of Jack, and then I penetrated her eyes.

"Is there something else?" she asked and edged closer while I breathed in her body's bouquet and warmth. Opportunity was in my hands, but could I rise to the occasion?

Alas, my makeover was short lived. My next words were my ruin. "Uh, I was just wondering if you, uh... Say, aren't you an English major?"

Slash! My stupid question crimped the mutual appeal.

"Why no," the girl answered and tucked the letter deep into her pocket. With a defensive stride backwards she added, "I'm studying biology."

"Yes, of course." I laughed and tried to backpedal. "Perhaps I was thinking of someone else. Oh, now I'm sure I was. Excuse me." I shrugged my shoulders and smiled. "Sorry."

"That's okay," she said with indifference. "Anyone can make a mistake. Uh, listen I've got to go." Embarrassed by her own imprudence, she spun around and made a dash for the door.

Life was back to normal, and I stood alone. I drooped my head in defeat. Yet Jack rushed in with an all-embracing hug. "You were great!" he cried. "I loved it. Oh, the immediacy, such purity and grace. Morrie, you were beautiful."

"Grace? Beautiful? I was a dolt, a complete klutz. She was warming up, and I botched a simple conversation."

"Au contraire. To see you both blush, in harmony. Aesthetic innocence! Pure art!" He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, his nose high in the air, as if he were savoring a glass of vintage wine.

"What are you talking about! I asked her what her major was. Oh, for a dimwit question! I'm just like all the other idiots on this campus."

Jack put his arm around me as we walked out into the chilly, spring air. "Morrie, my friend, never you mind. In truth, you weren't all that bad, and this was only your first try. A big step forward, if you ask me. Opportunities for great success await you."

From under his arm, I squinted upward and wistfully looked him in the eyes. "Do you really mean that, Jack?"

"Yes. Experience bears testimony. That young letter-reader was really wavering there for a moment. Face it, Bethlehem women are already sensing something transcendental in you. Now what's left of those eternal no-win situations you dreamed up in Option Two?"

I didn't answer.

"Introduce Option Three: the AMORE ASCENDES!"

"Yes."

"It's already at work within you. Sense the difference! Ha, had you a bit more experience, she would have buckled."

A compliment from Jack was hard to come by.

"Yes," I said with an amorous grin. "Perhaps she would have."

### Chapter 12

________________

The next phase of the AMORE ASCENDES echoed the former. Every morning between my second and third class, there was a half-hour recess, and many students would rush to the student union post office to check their mail. There, Jack and I would meet twice a week on top of the staircase overlooking the postal boxes on the floor below. Jack would select a girl, at random, and I would hoof it down the stairs, and, without hesitation, approach her. He called these acts "dialectical intrusions."

Oddly enough, my first awkward attempt had been my best. From then on, most girls saw right through my antics and rebuffed me with a fervor that once even included a slap in the face.

Jack always responded with delight. "Oh, the bliss of unrequited love!" He then went on to explain. "Frontal assaults affect an inner cleansing. Let them reject you. So what? Embrace the agony! Does the world come to an end? Of course not. Repeat this simple exercise until female rejection has no more sting than the punch line to a boring joke. As soon as you are purified, women will sense all lack of timidity and come a' swarming. Now where did we leave off?"

My fourth attempt occurred on Valentine's Day, which would, I hoped, be a lucky day for me. From above we watched while below a young woman, with long and wavy red hair, struggled to remove a thick fashion magazine from her mailbox while balancing several loose-leaf folders on her knee. Jack pointed her out and sent me on my way.

"Let me help you with those," I said boldly, grabbing her folders with my hand. She, sensing my intrusion, jerked even harder on the magazine, which then popped out of the mailbox. Her sudden shift of weight sent a stream of papers dribbling across a wet and mucky floor.

"Oh no! You jerk! Look what you've done! My lab reports are ruined!"

I stepped back, sheepishly, and looked over my shoulder. Jack was laughing as if fully enjoying himself. I turned back to the girl. Her hair became redder as her face flushed with rage. "Really, I'm sorry," I said. "Here, let me pick everything up."

But the girl stomped her foot on the floor. "Stop! Who do you think you are? Go away!" For her the snickering onlookers must have only made things worse. She looked at them and pointed at me. "This jerk must have grown up on the mission field, among barbarians!" Everybody was laughing.

"But I only want to..."

"Get lost. I've had enough of you're kind. This school has nothing but losers—like you!" She threw the magazine at me. It missed and slid across the floor.

I withdrew to let her try to salvage her notes from the mess that I had created. The amused crowd dispersed as the poor girl stomped off. A familiar laugh roared from across the room.

"Oh, Morrie!" cried Jack as he rushed toward me and handed me my backpack. "The baffled look on your face--so dauntless, so childlike." He sighed deeply, rolled his eyes upward, and exclaimed, "If only such fleeting moments could be captured!"

This attempt had shattered any confidence I had gained, and my future attempts only got worse. Jack, however, continued to coax me onwards.

"You're making great progress," he said. "These episodes may feel like failures, but rejoice, my friend. Old stifling habit patterns are falling aside along with fears that thwart personal growth. Resistance in a woman's heart has supreme aesthetic qualities when seen through the AMORE ASCENDES. Her rebuffs should fill you with exhilaration and prod you on. Stay with me, and soon you too will be savoring moments of feminine defiance. Poets would capture this age-old essence, and here we are experiencing it firsthand. Feeling, fervor...immediacy, such words entail the universe, my friend, and phenomenology leads way. Learn to partake and enjoy."

We pressed on for two more weeks. Women laughed, slapped, and cursed, and one even reported me to campus security. With rejection after rejection, my role as intruder became routine, and I grew callous to their snubs. Jack was getting bored.

It was midweek and the last day of February. We were in our usual stalking position on top of the stairs. He had just picked out a girl, and I was woefully about to descend when he stopped me by grabbing my arm. "Enough of this! We're moving on to higher ground. The next phase of the AMORE ASCENDES will demand more sophistication, and we must prepare. Read Essay Eighteen in your workbook and meet me here at this time on Friday."

March weather, with cold and windy rainy days, lasted into April. Winter ice and snow had vanished, and without my noticing, carpets of brown, soggy grass rose to the surface. Lifeless lawns and flowerbeds waited in hope and longed for the sun's warm rays of rebirth.

Essay Eighteen was titled, "Elevating from the many to the One." I found Section Three, The Methodology of the AMORE ASCENDES. Two days later, as instructed, I approached the head of the stairs. Jack was already there and waiting for me. I had no idea what to expect.

"This next level requires skill and discipline, but the pay-off will be greater," he instructed. "In past weeks, brutal frontal attacks have scrambled old mental patterns, clearing and making room for creative ways of thinking. By facing rejection from many different women, your mind has drawn a composite portrait of female resistance. Now, no line of resistance can threaten you. Did you read the assigned pages in the AMORE ASCENDES workbook?"

"Yes." I made ready to zip open my backpack.

"Do you have the workbook with you right now?"

"I always have it with me, Jack."

"Good. Go to the 'From the many to the One' essay on page forty-five and read aloud paragraph six."

"Now? With all these people around?"

"Yes."

I laid down my backpack on the steps, opened the workbook, and began to read aloud.

Dialectic intrusion, though a necessary pre-stage, is not a component of the AMORE ASCENDES. Imagine yourself drifting, subliminally—or better yet, phenomenologically—into a girl's psyche. Visualize becoming the ideal image so fixed in her mind. Yes, the AMORE ASCENDES is the amore substantes, the flesh and blood reality of feminine fantasy. All women, regardless of rational achievement, instinctively respond to their heart's desire. If the cliché is true that 'fools rush in,' then the AMORE ASCENDES treads slowly and strategically, requiring mastery in knowledge and patience.

"Well read, well said," Jack replied. "Now on toward the goal! Unlike past frivolous showdowns, your next assignment will focus on a single, concentrated effort."

"You mean, I'll be dealing with one girl for a longer time-period."

"Exactly. As you have painfully discovered, women respond to dialectic intrusions with defiance. To them you were repulsive. They saw you through unconscious fantasies and instinctively rejected you, some hysterically. Had you, for example, walked in like some sandy blond tennis pro, they might have swooned."

I shook my head in disbelief. "A tennis pro? Do you want me to put on a designer shirt and shorts and come prancing down these very stairs on the balls of my feet? Not likely, Jack."

"Don't be ridiculous. That was just sarcasm. Forget that locker room crowd. Forget the hoi polloi and the mentality of Pepsi commercials. Let the personal trainers cater to their needs. For us they are useful right now as, uh, target practice, you could say. In the fullness of time, when the AMORE ASCENDES blooms fully, we'll bypass the ones with only clichés in their heads. We shall divine that ideal of yours, with aesthetic imaginations, like artists."

Like Plato and Aristotle in Rafael's School of Athens, we descended the stairs. We marched passed the throng by mailboxes and advance out of doors into the fresh spring air.

"But do I have to play the fool before so many girls to learn that?" I asked while trying to keep pace. "Why not simply tell me?"

"Morrie, information can be dispatched like news bulletins, but the phenomenologist learns by reflecting on his experience. By encountering the many, you learn that which is common in all young women. By dealing with the one, we'll form your image according to her fantasy. Let her see you in her dreams." Jack walked proudly as if he owned the whole world.

"Wow, can I really do that?"

"It's no easy task. Women are very sensitive—especially artists. With predetermined ideals, they have been reflexively excluding you. When passing you in the hall, they see you not as a prospect but as sense data. They delete you, a priori. You're the guy across the aisle in English 101. No wonder your frontal assaults traumatized them so."

"Okay, so it is in high school, but college girls are too mature for such foolishness. Don't you think?"

"Nonsense. It's the same game, only more subtle. Indeed, rarely does anyone ever rise above the biological realm. The few who do...."

"You really believe that, don't you?" I asked.

"Of course, and soon so will you." Again, he put his arm around me. "Because of my training, you are already radiating an air of mystery-presence right here on campus. Even now, women are sensing an attraction to you."

"You'll never convince me of that. Look what happened down by the mailboxes. I was rejected every time."

"Oh, they're just not ready to admit it. Soon the fascination will be so intense that your main concern will be loss of control. And that, my friend, is when you've arrived at the..."

"AMORE ASCENDES!" I abruptly stopped walking and pointed my finger toward the sky.

"Bravissimo!" he cheered. He grabbed both my shoulders and slowly swayed me back and forth. "That's the spirit. Now be on your way. Read and study the Plan of Action in the AMORE ASCENDES. I'll check on you in a few days."

"By the way, Jack, what did you mean by 'Women are very sensitive—especially artists?'"

"Don't get ahead of me. That answer will come in due time."

All during my next two classes, my eyes wandered over to Jack's workbook, which lay propped open beneath my philosophy texts. After school, I read nonstop, skipping supper, and before the night was over, I had read the entire assignment three times:

Acquaint yourself with how she expresses herself, the places and events of her life. Whenever possible, take notes, and then act. Become her dream come true! The inner mind is always watching and realizes fantasies buried deep within. Upon seeing you, she will awaken, slowly, as if in a familiar room with you already there.

This method, which Jack called "reflective observation," was in three stages:

1. Select randomly. Inconspicuously, pick out a girl, and follow her--ready to take notes. On the dotted lines provided below, write down times and places for her entire day, noting details of her class schedule, room numbers, and everything she does regularly.

2. Later, when alone, do the reflective observation exercises on page 87. From your own imagination, there will arise alter-images, portraits of her personality, which will bind you, unawares, to her very own aspirations. (For instructions on diagramming an alter-image, see page 96.)

3. Slowly, unveil yourself to her, strategically and indirectly. Let her see you as her ideal! The table below gives the four steps that illustrate....

Early the next morning, I sat in the same reception lounge of Centennial Hall, which was once Tracy's dorm. The lobby was deserted and dimly lighted, but soon the early risers would be passing through on their way to breakfast. I opened Jack's workbook, held it just below my eye level, and stared at the very spot where my lips had once kissed Tracy.

Suddenly, several freshly made up girls passed me by. I gasped, but they were gone before I could possibly make a selection. As I rechecked Jack's Plan of Action, another young woman, this time a beauty, hurried through the lounge and disappeared out the main entrance. Again, a prospect had caught me off guard, and my heart was thumping. Which one was she? I skimmed the arbitrary selection page. More and more girls were now passing by. Breakfast had begun and soon the lounge would be so crowded that selecting would be difficult. I would cast my lot. The fifth girl to walk by next would be my subject.

A group of four passed by, their sleepy faces huffing gloom. Thank goodness there were not five. The next girl would be the one. Thirty seconds went by, and no one came. Abruptly, number five, full of life and spirit, burst into the room. She passed by, unaware she had just entered my life. I recorded my first entry: "7:37 AM, 'Focus 5' selected."

I smiled, slipped out of my chair, and marked a fifty-foot pace behind my unwitting object in the AMORE ASCENDES.

7:46 AM, a cold, rainy April morning. Focus 5 moseyed off to breakfast while I ran around the dining hall, entered the lobby through another door, and waited by the coat racks. She entered and stepped in line, and so did I, with three students between us--perfect for initial observations.

Her chestnut brown hair was straight and tied neatly back, as if prepared for a full day of classes and study. She was of medium build, with a clear and smooth complexion. Gray-rimmed glasses betrayed that she was near-sighted, which gave her a just-average look, hardly beautiful in the stunning way that Tracy was. Had it not been for Jack's workbook, she might have passed me by unnoticed. As I watched, she suddenly, for no apparent reason, broke out in a full smile, as if she had just thought of some private joke. I was awestruck. Her mouth, with full lips and radiant teeth, was sensuously lustrous. Her brown eyes now shown even brighter. They impressed me as both intelligent and passionate.

8:00. By now, both she and I were eating breakfast. Though sitting two tables away, I could see her clearly. She ate alone, unconcerned about those around her, which was unusual for an attractive Bethlehem girl. Her mind was somewhere else, perhaps on a term paper or a class presentation. Again, for no particular reason, I sensed in her deep, passionate feelings. When she was finished eating, she bowed her head to pray. She was leaving, but already I had learned much.

8:31. From the dinning hall, she set off for her morning classes, and I tailed close behind. What were her life's ambitions? Why didn't she carry any textbooks like other students? Within minutes, she answered these questions by walking into the music conservatory. Perhaps she was a musician, an artist, just as Jack had indicated. How could he have known my random choice?

8:40. For the rest of the morning, I attended my own classes but could not take my mind off the girl whose name remained unknown. Between classes and during a break, I jotted down the times and events in my workbook. Words flowed from my pen, as if I knew her intimately.

11:30. At lunchtime, I waited as dozens of students poured out of the music conservatory, but not Focus 5. High and low, I searched the dining hall, the library, and then the conservatory again. Finally, I gave up, attended classes, and returned to my room to study.

Next day, 8:30 AM. I was standing outside the music conservatory. From a distance, I saw Focus 5 walking straight toward me. If I waited right by the main entrance, she would have to pass me. My heart was thumping. The girl, however, turned at the next corner and paced down a sidewalk in another direction.

Darn, where was she going? What? The chapel building.

Sure enough, she walked up the broad steps, unlocked one of the huge white double doors, slipped into the chapel, and securely sealed the entry, like a vault, behind her.

Wow, she had her own set of keys to the chapel building!

Dare I follow her? Was she alone or meeting someone? I jogged across the lawn, sprang up the chapel staircase, and grasped the door handle. She had locked it. Peeping through the door cracks, I hoped to catch a glimpse. I saw nothing but the door's black rubber lining.

Another event cut short. I imagined Focus 5 inside. What was her business in there? I tried implementing one of Jack's mind-figment creation exercises, but nothing happened. Just as I turned to leave, however, there came a faint distant noise from deep inside the chapel. It sounded like the pipe organ. I pressed my ear against the door and listened. Without a doubt, music was flowing from the chapel's main organ, and my mind's eye could see only one person pressing its keys.

Frustrated, I rattled the huge brass door handles. How could anyone get in?

Around on the backside of the same building, the first door I tried was unlocked. My heartbeat picked up its pace. I snuck in and lurked about, up a staircase, creeping toward the ever-louder organ music that filled the auditorium, and then I hid in a balcony overlooking the huge chapel organ, which stood to the left of center stage. The sound of her music filled the air I breathed as I peeked over the balcony rail to watch Focus 5 play. I could see everything.

The main room was dimly lit. A sheet music lamp engulfed her with an aurora-like glow. She was beautiful. Her hair, now untied, flowed lusciously along her shoulders. With glasses placed aside on the bench, her face was a lucent oval. She played. Her nimble fingers moved up and down from swells to stops, caressing, as her shapely feet, clad only with black nylon stockings, slid along, as her toes stretched out and delicately touched the bass pedals. I closed both my eyes as she let her body sway with the flowing movement of her hands. I listened in awe. Her music-soul was so enticing. It seized me and overtook my quest.

Someone whispered from behind me. "Hear how her soul suffers."

Startled, I spun around. "Jack! How did you get here?"

"Hush, not so loud. She might hear you." He paused to smile. "By chance I saw you peeking through the cracks of the chapel doors. You must have been up to something, so I followed."

His presence forced me back into his line of thought. "Look, Jack. There she is. I've been following her and taking notes, just as you instructed. What do you think?"

He examined the girl closely. "Hmm, I'm impressed. How did you come across her?"

"Not now, it's a long story. But I followed your instructions to the letter."

Jack watched as she played and again smiled at me. "Yes, she's an artist. You have good instincts."

For several minutes, we listened to the girl's music without talking. Her travail, the outpouring of her soul in rhythms and tones, deeply moved me and filled my eyes with tears.

"What are you doing, Jack?" I almost scolded. In the midst of this moving event, I had caught him staring at me! Why the nostalgic look in his eyes? Why did that make me feel so eerie?

Jack did not reply and returned to watch the organist.

She had now finished playing, and we watched her tie back her hair and listened as her footsteps echoed across the empty assembly hall and then faded away. Finally, she was gone, and the outside door slammed shut.

"Isn't she something?" I asked.

Jack shrugged. "Before rapture carries you away, please remember that she's still beyond your reach. Much work remains undone. I see by your notebook that you'll need at least two more days of reflective observation, not to mention preparing your Plan of Action." He paused and then added callously, "All right, you've made an interesting selection. Her heart is pure and expresses itself through music, an artist. You obviously find her attractive."

"But why? I don't even like organ music, yet somehow she was communicating to me."

Jack raised suspicious eyebrows. "Really? Morrie, are you so sentimental? Do not be the fool and fall in love. Remember, this is only an exercise, a prelude. To arrive at the AMORE ASCENDES, great challenges await you. Don't let this one divert you from the ultimate goal."

I gave him no thought and wistfully stared at the silent organ where the girl had sat.

"Morrie." He took hold of my head and turned it toward himself. "Hear me out. This girl lacks the necessary finesse for our purposes. She's not a good subject. Okay, stay the course for a couple of days. It will be good practice. But Morrie...she'll never do."

I looked at him sadly.

"Oh come on, old chap," he said and mussed up my hair with his hand. "Don't be so glum. Philosophers don't stumble on the particulars. We perceive essences."

I nodded as if agreeing, but I remained unconvinced.

"That's better," he said as if to perk me up. "Now, get ready for the next fact-finding mission. Follow her to supper, and monitor whom she's with. Then, this evening, check out the music booths at the library, the ones with the headphones—booth thirteen to be precise. She'll be there. Later this evening, apply my reflective observations exercises."

His words both scared and puzzled me. "Where did you get all these personal details about this girl?"

Jack nonchalantly stood up. "You are my disciple. It's my business to know. Now let's get out of here."

"But..."

"No more questions!" he said sternly and handed me a sheet of paper. "Insert this reading list into my workbook. This will acquaint you with the nature of pipe organs and choral music. When unveiling your identity, you first need to reflect the medium of her passions. Am I not right?"

The library's music section was on the second floor. When I arrived, booth number thirteen was vacant but the writing area was covered with open books, sheet music, and all sorts of personal things like Kleenex and pencils. Was this her personal study area? I recognized the girl's book bag hanging over the back of the chair. How did Jack know the very number? Had he been spying ahead of me?

I inconspicuously took an organ recording, J. S. Bach, from a nearby shelf. I pretended to read the jacket, while ambling behind her vacant chair and leaning slightly over. There, scribbled on a sheet of music, I saw her name for the first time. Focus 5 was now Marguerite Jaeger.

I waited and waited, listening to Bach's organ fugues. Suddenly, all the lights in the room flashed off and on, a signal that the library was soon closing. No Marguerite. The lights flickered again. It was closing time and there was only enough time to check out a book from Jack's reading list: Organ Music, Artistic Listening.

The next day at suppertime, Jack assigned me to the lobby of Marguerite's dorm. His instructions: wait for her to pass. Beside me stood two fellows, both expecting dinner dates. Time went by, first thirty minutes, then an hour. The other two had long since met their dates and left. Had the organ-girl already gone to dinner directly from the conservatory? Why had Jack sent me here? He always seemed to know.

Daunted, I staggered toward the door only to meet the one I most despised. Karl Eller, the ticket seller from the Christmas banquet.

"Hi, Morris," he said, clapping me on the back. "How's it going? Say, we haven't talked in ages. You wouldn't be avoiding me." Eller was the only person on the entire campus that called me by my proper name. His sarcastic tone suggested that he knew I didn't like it.

"Believe me, I make every possible effort. Lucky for me, I'm leaving right now." I was about to walk out the door when Eller grabbed my arm.

"'Waiting for someone? What's the matter? Did your date stand you up...again?"

"None of your business." I whipped my hand free and swung it by his face like a shot across the bow.

"Hmm, looks like she did. Too bad, Morris. Hey, did you hear the latest about Tracy and Cary Wright?!"

"No," I said, "and I don't want to either." The truth was that I did.

"Oh, c'mon. You'll enjoy this. They say things aren't going so well—you know, in their marriage." He then whispered in my ear. "One wonders what's really happening, hey."

"Eller, shut your friggin mouth!" A couple of passing girls piously shuddered.

"Morris, don't be vulgar in the presence of ladies. Have you no respect? Shame on you. You know, you are...oh, excuse me, here comes my woman. I've got to go."

My stomach could take no more, and I rushed toward the nearest exit. But on my way out, one more glimpse of Eller left me with a feeling of catastrophe. His dinner date...was Marguerite Jaeger!

Into the cold night air, another wonderful girl, my Focus 5, was wasting her life on a royal creep. AMORE ASCENDES or not, this was the story of my life. Enough of Jack and his amorous methods! From the nearest pay phone, I would call Jack and tell him to cancel the project. His phone rang and rang, but there was no answer. The endless ringing gave me time for second thoughts: Jack would have me fight back. By hurrying, I saw them in the dining hall.

Hundreds of hungry students occupied almost every table. Still, I found them and sat as near as possible without Eller being able to see me. His brazen effort to impress her was hideous. Marguerite, in all your artistry, how could you? How could Eller end up with anyone? To my delight, she appeared to be utterly bored. He tried everything, all his tricks, but Marguerite never smiled and often covered her mouth with a napkin as if removing something.

In the middle of the meal, my organ-girl excused herself, and with her plate walked toward the salad bar. The unwitting Harold Eller continued eating his chicken, but Marguerite passed the salad bar, put her plate in a tray holder, and walked out the door. My heart leapt for joy.

For several hours on Mondays and Thursdays, Marguerite would listen to recorded music through headphones. I had been secretly observing her at the library for almost a week. She would simulate chords with her hands. Whenever she returned a record, I'd take it and listen for myself. One evening, after she had unexpectedly left the area for a moment, I snuck by her booth to peek at her study materials.

Scattered about were sheets of music with Latin texts beneath the notes. These were truly choir music. Nearby was a book titled Hildegard of Bingen, her life and times. On the book jacket was a photo of a medieval tapestry, depicting a woman sitting next to a cat! Who was Hildegard of Bingen? A notebook lay open showing that Marguerite had written the woman's name several times. Marguerite must be doing a research paper on this woman.

A music encyclopedia portrayed Saint Hildegard (1098-1179) as not only a composer of music, but also a mystic, monastic leader, author, and diplomat. From an early age, she had received many visions, or illuminations, which she later recorded in volumes such as the Scivias or Know the Way. Recent interest in medieval women had led to a popularization of Hildegard— especially among New Agers. Her best-known musical work Ordo Virtutum, or Order of the Virtues, was an oratorio for women's voices, with one male part—that of the devil!

The library only had three recordings of Hildegard's work. The music was very strange to hear. All the while, I did my reflective observations: Hildegard of Bingen, her visions and compositions...Marguerite's fingers touching the organ keys...A soul I had yet to meet, a name stolen from a piece of paper.

That same week, Jack declared, "The time has come for your physical presentation to Marguerite. Read pages sixty seven to two hundred in the AMORE ASCENDES, the section entitled Indirect Wooing:

Through reflective observations, the phenomenologist steeps himself in her personality, her joys, her hopes and fears—her fantasies. The goal now is to reveal oneself concretely, through ordinary situations, common everyday experiences. Outwardly, she will perceive you as insignificant, but inwardly, because of your intimate knowledge of her, and through the power of the AMORE ASCENDES, she will feel a compulsion to know who you are. (See the graphic simulations below.)

My indirect wooing began in the most ordinary way. Marguerite would be sitting at her study cubicle. Nearby, I'd be waiting, totally focused. Whenever she got up to sharpen a pencil or return a recording, I did the same. Each time, appearing coincidental, I did some gimmick to be noticeable. Since Jack had taught me all the moves and gestures, her becoming suspicious was not possible.

Once, while checking in our headphones, I caused our eyes to meet, as Jack had taught me. I smiled, ironically. Her intention might have been to return the courtesy, but my Jack-instructed look startled her. She blushed and looked away.

From then on, I would materialize in her daily schedule, as charted in my AMORE ASCENDES workbook. Jack's unique way of appearing mildly surprised whenever we met "by chance" worked so well that I even dared to look suspicious of her following me. It was all part of the plan.

At last, Jack chose the time and place where Marguerite and I could formally meet. It would be after an organ recital by a teacher, Miss Pauline Oldman. Marguerite was sure to be there.

Jack instructed, "Your mystery presence will be provokingly clear by your showing up only during the intermission and then at the reception afterwards."

The evening of the concert duly arrived, and everything was on schedule. About fifty people were drinking punch and chatting noisily as I entered the chapel foyer during the intermission. Two musicians from my dorm knew me and waved a greeting. Fortunately, they were standing near Marguerite. Her hair hung down along her shoulders as when she had played the organ.

While sharing some dorm gossip with the two boys, my artful gestures forced Marguerite's attention. My mind was only on Marguerite. Soon we'd be together, and this gimmickry could cease. Soon we could share freely, and she'd play the organ with me sitting in the front row. I turned her way and inwardly smiled. Her attention was entirely on me. Our eyes met; she blushed and turned away.

Immediately after the recital, the assembly crossed the drive and met again at the conservatory for refreshments. The fragrance of freshly brewed coffee permeated the hallway. Marguerite stood alone and appeared to be looking for someone. That someone was I, for upon entering the room, she quickly spun about and started jabbering with the nearest bystanders. Indeed, she was waiting for me.

Chocolate brownies crumbled in my mouth as I waited near the refreshments table. Like a seasoned warrior, I was about to approach and present myself with an advanced dialectic intrusion.

"To the untrained eye, it will look like a common introduction," Jack said during my last minute instructions. "However, through the power of reflective observations and the alter-images created within her, this will be nothing less than a transcendental event."

Suddenly, the crowd surrounding Marguerite split in two and reassembled so that Marguerite was standing alone. The time was now. My organ-girl saw me coming and froze. Would my cool detachment withstand?

My mind felt dizzy. I stopped, haphazardly, right before her, having forgotten Jack's dictation. "Hello," was the entirety of my grand debut.

"Good evening," she replied as we shook hands. "Did you enjoy the recital? You were there. How odd, I don't remember seeing you. We were only a handful."

She would have to ask me that, I who hadn't even been there. Who's in charge of this conversation? Fortunately, I had looked at the program. "I was impressed with Miss Oldman's Kyrie Eliason, with echoes of Hildegard of Bingen everywhere. Am I mistaken?"

Her face lit up. "You know about Hildegard?"

"You mean the medieval nun who wrote all those oratorios—not to mention many letters to kings and popes?" My library research was paying off.

"Yes, but how did you know about her?" she asked excitedly and then blushed. "Oh, I'm sorry. How could you have known? You see, I'm doing a term paper on Hildegard's life and work. It's fascinating. However, even with all the musicians around here, nobody knows anything about her. Here you come along and..." She burst out laughing. "I'm very sorry. I won't say another word about it."

"Maybe I would like to hear about it," I said. Confidence, unlike any feeling previously known to me, surged from within,.

"You would?" She paused and wrinkled her brow. "Say, do I know you? It's like I almost do." She laughed. "I don't even know your name."

"Morrie Schiller."

"Schiller. That sounds German. I'm part German, too. Jaeger, the Hunter. Oh, my first name is Marguerite, Marguerite Jaeger."

"That's a nice name. Weren't you telling me about your friend Hildegard of Bingen?"

"Yes, her work is enchanting. When reading about visions and listening to her music, I see the world differently."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Well, you'd have to hear my whole life's story. You see, when I was a child...Do you have time for all this?"

A smile emerged from deep within me and stretched across my face. "Let's walk back to your dorm. You can tell me on the way."

Marguerite looked at me and reciprocated with her enticing full smile, which left me dazzled. "Thanks, I'd like that," she said.

It was a short walk across the campus, but in that time I learned that her father was an Episcopalian priest.

"This is where my interest in sacred music comes from. However, it's my mother's fascination with theosophy that has given this a mystical twist."

I had never heard of such things before. I was thoroughly enjoying myself as Marguerite told me about her musical vision. As we approached her doorstep, both of us were laughing. I was in no mood to say goodnight, but Marguerite was mindful of the time.

"Oh my," she said, straightening her glasses, "it's almost eleven. This school is so strict. There's so much more I could say, but you know the rules." She opened the door and smiled at me again. "You know what? I like talking to you. Let's get together soon. However, I've got to go."

"How about meeting me for supper? Then we can talk all you wish. Are you free tomorrow?"

"I believe so..." She paused to wrinkle her brow. "Honestly, I can't remember, but I'll be free. When can you meet me?"

"They stop serving at six. How about a quarter to the hour?"

"Five-forty-five it is."

"By the payphone across from the coat racks?" I asked.

"Yes, perfect." She tilted her head and smiled. "I need to hurry. Good night, Morrie."

Marguerite vanished into her dorm, leaving me with the residue of her presence. I recalled my first day of school, when Tracy had made an exact exit from this very spot. How things had changed since then! I must find Jack.

"No! What a fiasco, an ignominious botch!" Jack was furious when hearing of the latest episode. "You idiot! Don't you listen?" He yelled and hollered in a tirade and paid no attention to the passing students who were clearly shocked by the public spectacle. "I never should have let you go alone!" His piercing screams were deafening and made me cower. The presence of others was humiliating. But Jack bellowed in a fit of rage as if no one else was there. "You have ignored my dialectic completely! Tarnation!"

"But Jack," I protested, "the plan worked beautifully. I think she likes me—and no gushy emotions as with Tracy." I tried desperately to pull him aside.

Jack pushed me away and screeched even louder. "Phooey on liking anybody! We're doing phenomenology! This is the AMORE ASCENDES! --not the dating game. You have missed the point entirely. You're not supposed to like anyone. All my work has been in vain!"

He was ranting like a mad dog, and I feared that the campus police might get involved. Finally, I managed to maneuver the argument so that we were alone. "But I thought you'd be pleased," I said almost in a whisper.

"You thought! I swear, you're still lost in your sins." The tone in his voice now had dampened. "I offer spiritual freedom and avail myself to your disposal, and you choose the yoke of bondage. For an asinine, I-want-a-girlfriend mentality! No question, I must intrude to stop this affair. Things are completely out of control."

I was shocked and shamed if not completely confused. "Stop? Why? Life is beautiful."

"Phooey! Indeed, the spirit is willing, but the flesh weak. I should have known that success would spoil you. But so soon? Continue on this route by harboring romantic feelings, and you'll revert to your old miserable self. All my work will be for naught. Is that what you want? Shall I leave you wallow in the mire?"

"No, this time it's different. Thanks to you, I'm different. Until now, I have made the same dumb mistakes in every relationship. You have made it possible."

He sighed in despair. "You receive my words with joy, my vulnerable apprentice, but worldly cares spring forth and choke the unripe yield of my labor." His voice grew stern. "Morrie, convince me that liking has any integrity, and I'll be silent. Sartre spoke the truth, 'to be is to be perceived.' You're desperate for success and would swap the Eternal for the pottage of self-adequacy. Totally mainstream. Shame on you."

I felt crushed. "Well yes, but..."

He said mockingly, "You want to be like everyone else. How nice, how safe." Then his voice turned stringent. "You embrace pittance when your dreams are waiting to incarnate? This girl is much too humble and so unpretentious. She'd make a good pastor's wife." Jack spoke coldly in my ear. "Stop here, and you'll go farther, and even your gains shall wither. You'll die in your sins. Be certain of that."

Jack's words burned. But were they true? Was all this just to be seen with a girl? Oh, to parade Marguerite in front of Harold Eller. I'd love to show him, especially after she had shunned his advances. Nevertheless, when we were walking together, Eller was far from my mind. Why was Jack so afraid?

"Morrie? Morrie, are you still with me?" I returned attention. Jack's tone had suddenly changed and was now mellow and upbeat. "Things are not entirely out-of-hand. I have the perfect plan to dispose of this girl, and we can get some phenomenological mileage out of it too, a booster to your next level of consciousness. Listen. You've already set the time and place for your dinner-date. Why not stand her up? Perhaps we could secretly watch her reaction and, you know, do some reflective observing?"

"Jack, wouldn't that be unethical?"

"Ethics? My friend, what matters is the AMORE ASCENDES. Your education would be incomplete without executing one rejection, especially the desires of a young woman that you have awakened. Check it for yourself, page 34 in the workbook."

Marguerite's tantalizing smile rippled through my mind. "This isn't rejecting mere desires. We're talking about a real person!"

"Admittedly, on the surface one might question my ethics, but that's just the Puritan in you. When seen through the prism of the AMORE ASCENDES, in reality, we're viewing an act of emancipation--for both of you--and thus we're justified. See for yourself. If left to chance, women will be rejecting you for the rest of your life. With no respect, you bring it on yourself."

"But..."

"You can't even imagine yourself rejecting a girl. Tell me I'm wrong."

I gritted my teeth. Yes, he was right. The very thought was very alien and made me queasy.

"Ha, you admit I'm right! Now here's your chance to change all that. Once you activate that inner muscle to reject a woman, all future affection issues from strength and not fear. The difference is infinite, and you need do it only once. An aura of confidence will mark you; women will recognize and esteem you. To purge the fear of rejection, one must first reject. Believe me, this one act will benefit the entire female race."

"What about Marguerite? She's a real person, not a practice target. Must the relationship end? I'll tell her face-to-face..." Fear gripped me. "Or let me leave a 'Dear John' note."

"Oh please, don't be so wimpy. She's not fully awake to you, so you're not really hurting her. You may stir her heart, but only in a preconscious way. Any hope will quickly submerge with minimal pain."

"But to offer her, like some vestal virgin, to appease my inner volcano..."

"The Holy Book says: 'It is necessary for one to die that the whole nation perish not.' If not for yourself, do it for womankind."

"So you say, but it's still not me. I'll drop an explanatory note in her postbox." I paused. "And what's wrong with our dining together tonight? Isn't the AMORE ASCENDES about choosing and taking responsibility?"

"No!" he shouted angrily at the top of his voice. "I've appealed to reason, hoping you would see that my interests are yours too. Now do as I say."

Jack was angry as never before; his fiery snarls shot through my being. I was stunned. "All right," I said. "We'll do it your way."

I could feel Jack smiling again. "Good, and you won't regret it. We've passed this crossroad before, and when you choose wisely, there's no regret. Your star shall rise, I promise. Meet me by the dining hall coat racks at five-thirty precisely"

"Okay," I replied sluggishly.

"Morrie?"

"Yes, sir!" I said in a snappy tone.

"That's better."

I met Jack later as planned in the dining hall lobby, where he had already found a hiding place: behind a freestanding coat rack near the payphone where Marguerite had agreed to meet me. There was just enough room to squeeze in behind the rack, so we tucked ourselves beneath several hanging coats, without being detected, and waited.

"Now when you see her," he whispered, "be objective and focus on the goal. Shortly, you will be facing that old demon, the fear of rejection, which still wields so much power. That's why we're here. The victory is ours..."

"Look," I interrupted, "here she comes."

Marguerite stopped in the middle of the lobby while we crouched down and peered between the coats. She looked around for me and then took off her lavender spring coat. We cringed as she walked straight for the spot where we were hiding.

"Jack," I whispered, loudly. "She's coming to hang up her coat. She'll see us for sure."

"Hush," he scolded, "or she'll hear us."

Within inches of our hiding place, Marguerite pushed aside the other wraps while Jack and I crouched and crept along the base of the coat rack. Dozens of students were passing by, who surely saw us, but nobody seemed to bother as we pawed the floor as if looking for a contact lens.

Marguerite had now hung up her coat and stood watch by the payphone.

"Quick, to the other side," said Jack and led the crawl back to our original spot, where we could better spy on my unsuspecting dinner date. "She didn't see us!" he said, laughing, his hand muffling the sound.

"Haven't we taken this a little too far?" I asked, trembling. For me this wasn't one bit funny.

"Heavens no. I've never enjoyed myself more. And now for the climax. Observe!"

Marguerite continued to wait by the pay phone. With the serving line about to close, she became very anxious and minded the minutes ticking by on her wristwatch.

I stared—more in wonder than regret. My betrayal was her distress. With only seconds to spare, Marguerite shifted her weight with short, worrisome steps. Further delay meant missing dinner. Muscles tightened across her disappointed face as Jack and I consumed her pain. I could bear no more; I covered my eyes with a nearby coat sleeve and wept.

When I looked up, Marguerite was gone. Jack was staring at me, forlornly, as if he were lost. He was lost in nostalgia.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"Nothing." His attention quickly returned to the payphone. "Where's Marguerite?"

"I don't know, perhaps to dinner. Didn't you see her? Why were you staring at me?"

Jack winced, sheepishly. "Now Morrie, don't get huffy. Relax, it's over now." Unlike usual, he dared not look at me. "Let's get out of this ridiculous hiding place."

Sadly, I paced the spot where Marguerite had been disposed. My rejection-act seemed surreal. I recalled her expectant eyes. Only the night before she had burst out laughing when I told her how an Irish family could give their son a Jewish name. If only...

"Morrie, you scored a great victory tonight and will never be the same. How liberating, yes?" He had recovered his upbeat poise.

"Yeah, if you say so. I'm hungry and they've stopped serving." I gazed, woefully, at the closed and locked doors leading into the dining hall.

"Soon the meaning of this event will be clear," said Jack with a wily smile as he buttoned up his woolen trench coat.

"Jack," I said as my voice cracked. "Let's get out of here."

### Chapter 13

________________

Perhaps because the loss of Marguerite had hit me so hard, Jack was quick to start the next phase of the AMORE ASCENDES. The next day he was waiting for me in the hallway as my sleepy body lumbered out of an early morning class.

"Morrie, have I got the girl for you!"

"Oh, no," I groaned, "not again." The events of the night before still smarted.

"I've decided not to wait and will commence with the last phase of the AMORE ASCENDES immediately. This will be the zenith of your intense apprenticeship."

"But I still have three chapters in your workbook before my initiation. Shouldn't we wait? Besides, I'm still recovering from the last episode. Give me time."

"Phooey on the workbook. It's a mere tool and is thus dispensable. In regards to time...we have no time. A situation has come our way, now, and if we delay, it will pass us by. My decision has been to accelerate the pace, and you must take a leap of faith."

"You've already picked her out?" I asked. "We've never done that before. If I am to be a master, shouldn't I choose?"

"Every girl you have selected so far has been chosen by chance, so what difference does it make if I choose? Does the teacher ask the student what final exam to give? I have total confidence in my training techniques. You must trust me."

"Who is she?"

"She's the most sophisticated person on campus, and she's very beautiful. If you succeed with this one, my work, the AMORE ASCENDES, will have become perfected in you."

The news had overwhelmed me and left me almost speechless. "But, but how will I meet her?" I said.

"Must you ask so many questions? Never fear, my friend. I have slipped a note in her mail box, which says that a certain young man wishes to meet her."

I gulped. "You mean me?"

"Of course, who else? I told her to be sitting in the student union at three o'clock this very afternoon. By now she's read the note and is teaming with curiosity."

"How could you? Does she know you? Did you say who I was?"

"Relax; I didn't say anyone would show up. She has no idea who you are—that would have been presumptuous. My purpose is to arouse and entice. I have signed it Johannes, your codename for this project."

"If she's so sophisticated, why would she fall for a cheap shot like that?"

"Morrie, this is the AMORE ASCENDES. How could you underestimate its power? She might be the most sophisticated person attending this school, but I'm not intimidated." He then added with pride, "Believe me, the way I worded it—she'll be there."

Jack once said his favorite place on campus was the student union, with its coffee bar and dark hard wood tables and booths along the walls.

"It's a human arena," he once said, "a gallery to watch the games of life." The plan was to lure her into the student union to meet Johannes. Jack and I would huddle in a corner booth and watch her reactions when he didn't show up.

"How is this different from my episode with Marguerite?" I asked as Jack pondered which booth would give the best view.

"The big difference is that this 'stand up' won't be the end of a relationship, but the beginning," he explained. "This woman has dozens of men constantly waiting on her and for her. Therefore we'll put her on the defensive to single you out."

From me came the usual chorus of protests, but, as always, I finally gave in. Within fifteen minutes, Jack whispered out of the corner of his mouth, "Morrie, look. Here she comes. The letter has intrigued her, just as I predicted."

Into the coffee shop came four attractive girls dressed in expensive looking clothing; they were truly "Bethlehem blue-blood" daughters of wealthy Baptist families whose forefathers had founded the college. Their money had now made it prominent. Ordinary students, like me, rarely penetrated their inner circles. Was this the "sophistication" Jack had spoken about?

"She's exactly on time," Jack said with satisfaction. "Excellent. We've captured her imagination."

"Which one, Jack? Which one?" I leaned forward, nervously, and grabbed his arm.

"Sit up," he said and, with a cuffed finger, pointed away from the four "blue-blood" girls. "There, the one standing alone by the door, with the long, black hair."

"The what? Where?" I squinted across the crowded room. "Oh, no!" I said and slid back in my seat. It was the posh girl that I had seen while searching for Jack! "Not her, please. She's beyond my dreams. Totally out-of-reach."

"Let go of my arm! Be less conspicuous. Who cares about your petty fears? She's in my class, and that's all that matters. Through the AMORE ASCENDES, one can surmount any pinnacle. You've heard the cliché, 'Shoot for the stars.' Well, we'll be doing exactly that."

Adorned with a dark beret and Casmir sweater, my Bohemian icon, no doubt aware that her eminence would attract attention, was looking for someone. How could she not be obvious? I had never seen her standing before. Her sleek hair hung down to her narrow hips.

"Such poise," said Jack with a sigh. He mimicked the way she stroked the ebony strands of her hair. "If she only knew what awaits her."

She walked gracefully across the café and discreetly paused by an empty table before she sat down. I was speechless and could only stare. Her black, silky strands slithered between her elegant fingers as she neatly placed the loosened strands along her shoulder.

Two young men tried to join her, but a flick of her wrist denied them access, and she then pulled out a loose-leaf folder from her carpetbag. She pretended to read, but we saw her eyes peer over her papers to scan the room. Jack looked at me and sighed with deep satisfaction.

"Everything is working flawlessly."

After fifteen minutes, the girl began to fidget, and her beautiful features turned from distress to anger.

"It won't be long now," said Jack. "She's discerning that nobody's coming."

No sooner had Jack spoken when the beauty slammed her folder on the table, packed it away in her bag, and stormed out of the room.

Jack was ecstatic. "Classical! We have just written the prologue to a great drama. The stage is set; tomorrow is opening night."

I stared at the place where she once sat. "Do you really expect that she will have anything more to do with us—after learning who tricked her?"

"Of course, after reading what I write next, she'll be more than willing. Did you notice her eagerness to meet you?"

"I saw...I saw..." I began to tremble.

"You saw vulnerability, an open door into her life, her very soul."

"That door was not meant for me." I shook my head wistfully.

Jack leaned toward me to underscore his point. "Well, not as you are. Just wait as AMORE ASCENDES takes effect. In no time at all, she'll be doing just that. I guarantee."

"Doing what?" I asked.

"She'll bow in submission." In mock humility, he bowed his head.

"What will you say in that letter?"

Jack smiled. "Not one but several letters. To you their contents would be meaningless. My workbook deals with esoteric perception, something you now lack. Thus, I do not disclose my letters to the uninitiated. However, upon entering the AMORE ASCENDES, you need not ask, you will know.

"I can say this: Writing a letter to a resistant is an intrusion into the spirit, more potent when sent pseudonymously. An adept understands this, instinctively, and with brutal directness, sends letters as acts of spiritual mastery.

"In the AMORE ASCENDES, writing a letter is the ultimate act of subtlety and when sent to a beautiful woman, a high art form. Picture this: She holds the envelope and sees her name written by someone unknown. Mystery has enshrouded you, and she's already on edge. Her fingers tremble as she unfolds the pages. She has never met you, but your presence has already encompassed her. Through the written word, your thought-flow enters her mind unobstructed. Letter writing is the perfect medium for the AMORE ASCENDES. One chooses each word, deliberately, through reflective observation. Yes, she reads what you have already discerned in her imagination.

"Little matter what the words mean. One conveys not a message but evokes the intended response, the sway of moods with words. You express, and she responds, unable to resist her own aspirations."

"That's incredible," I said. "When do we begin?"

"That's more difficult," he replied defensively. "You see, we're skipping the workbook exercise that would develop your letter writing skills. To overawe by constructing complex sentences entails more training than time allots.

"In my first letter, I touched on her unconscious desires. Did you see her response? Let me write the letters. You shall be Johannes, but I will write as Johannes—for you. When I am... ahem, when we are finished, you shall be the corpus, the flesh and blood substance of her passions. I'm merely the medium that channels inspiration. When Adam's dust received the breath of life, he became a living soul."

Jack directly involved himself with this round of reflective observations. Unlike with Marguerite, he provided the new girl's profile. Her name was Emily Wagner. She was a senior and thus a year older than I. Although she was a Bethlehem art major, she did independent study at the University of Wisconsin in Milwaukee. She was seldom on campus and even lived off campus, in an old house with five other girls.

"Where did you get this information?" I asked.

Jack showed me his copy of an ordinary student handbook. "Most of it right here. Otherwise, my sources are confidential. Believe me, as the dynamics of the AMORE ASCENDES unfold, there will be more than enough work for both of us."

"Will I follow her around like with Marguerite?"

Jack replied, "As in any process, one builds on past experience. However, in this new level of the AMORE ASCENDES, old methods won't do. The step from Marguerite to Emily will be a step from a social to a spiritual reality. Marguerite was less sure of herself, let us say more honest. Emily is an artist, a painter of canvas. Her sense of self worth is overwhelming, but only potentially. She's young and stands on the brink of being conscious of her destiny, which is greatness. Our task, as phenomenologists, is to fill in her reflective blank spaces."

"Is she that good?"

"Yes, I could see that right away. But she's wasting her time down there at the Threshing Floor. How ironic. The more artists strive for nonconformity, the more they look alike. Morrie, we must liberate her."

"Is the Threshing Floor one of your philosophical purification phases, like 'the dark night of the soul?'"

Jack chuckled. "I wish it were. No, the Threshing Floor is a joint downtown, a café. It is about as close to a Bohemian hangout as Milwaukee will ever have."

"But I know nothing about art, and the artists around here are so snobbish. Why, she wouldn't even look at me."

Since we were near the student union, Jack wanted to go in and order some coffee. "Listen," he said after we had settled in our favorite booth. "Let me tell you the essence of your next reading assignment." He opened my AMORE ASCENDES workbook and pointed to the heading, On Art and Boredom. "Grasp this concept and you will intellectually tower over them all, and Emily, genius though she is, will surrender without hesitation. An important principle esoteric perception discloses how similar art is to boredom. Indeed, they are two sides of the same coin. Art is the highest expression of man's boredom, as any true artist knows. The great irony is that which want-to-be artists frantically would escape is that..."

"Artists are the most boring of all people?" I interrupted.

"Rightly spoken, but that's too crude and threatening. One might more indirectly say aesthetic monotony. For the true artist this is not at all degrading; rather, it is the key to their greatness. Yes, from the Threshing Floor, that abyss of imitators and media technicians, we must rescue Emily. Individuals are not my primary concern, but rather their profession as the social elite. Like the priests of ancient Babylon, artists are the most bored because society had nothing left for them to do."

"You mean people with ordinary jobs are exempt from boredom because their lives have a function?" I asked. "That doesn't sound right."

"Remember, sweat and toil are mere forms of restless activity. Technicians are the most obvious symbols of the boring man. These chaps go to work, return home, open a can of beer, watch television, or tinker with an old car to improve its gas mileage. For those who have a little money, it's the summer home on the lakefront. Milwaukee has more than its share of these types. You see, their simplistic honesty can't hide the pointlessness of their lives.

"Artists are more analytical. They see reality in ways the commoner happily ignores and transcend the mundane through color and form. They strive and expend massive energy to be spiritual. Beauty is virtue and thus perfection, they say, but artists must take out the garbage and stand in line at the supermarket just like a bricklayer. The rich and famous pay others for such services and thus extend their futile fantasies. However, elite or not, they too must face their finitude. Though tormented, they refuse to face how useless they are."

"You mean artist activity is no more meaningful than tightening bolts on the assembly line?"

"Right, but pride hinders any admission. That's why I embrace the AMORE ASCENDES, which dares face reality and then scoffs. Herein lies transcendence."

"What about Marguerite?" I asked. "She's an artist and wasn't boring at all."

Jack's eyes brightened as he lifted his brow. "Ah, you are most perceptive, my friend. Your organist friend was a pre-artist and did not self-reflect. More like a prehistoric shaman, who imparts primordial passions on cave-walls, she plays the organ alone before her God with no concept of performance."

"And Emily?"

"Her identity with art is a fantasy about herself. She paints out of need, so that others perceive her to be unblemished by common society." Jack spoke with intensity as if the issue was very important. He looked at me with excruciating eyes.

"But what does this have to do with me and the AMORE ASCENDES?" I asked.

"Asleep within her heart, I perceive the essence of true artistic beauty. We shall awaken her. You are the flipside of the art-boredom coin. If Emily is the young artist on the threshold of greatness, you're the logical conclusion. Empowered by the AMORE ASCENDES, you shall incarnate the ideal deep within her psyche. You shall project yourself as Johannes, he who has fulfilled but finds her every aspiration boring. This bipolar structure of the AMORE ASCENDES makes you an irresistible attraction. I have already suggested this in my letters and...well, you saw her reaction."

"But I don't even know how to draw or write poetry. How will I ever convince her of any artistic sophistication?"

"What she gropes to discover through painting, you will approach directly through phenomenological analysis. Read my essay on 'The Aesthetic's Relationship to Sexual Affinities.' That spells it all out for you. A topical reading list is included with every relevant thinker from Socrates to the Marquis de Sade."

The next week found me in the basement of the library, buried under a pile of books. I did very little schoolwork, but following Jack's agenda more than compensated. In class, my peers had difficulty keeping up with me. We were studying Edmund Husserl's phenomenological method of bracketing, the suspension of judgment on what the senses experience. This was for the purpose of philosophical description. This is exactly what Jack had been teaching me, and for me this was no academic exercise, but an expression of my own personal experience. Whenever I spoke, enlightened words flowed out of my mouth, and everyone, even my professors, took notice.

Spring brought bright warm sunshine, and most students, having survived the winter, could not stay indoors. I ignored the temptations of early flowers and basking in the sun and devoured every subject that Jack had set before me. Often he would join me to extract the essence of every page--as if he had written them himself.

"These readings are mostly a waste of time," he said. "But social conventions demand it. Artists see themselves as a noble race and manipulate this intellectual stuff to check their creative status. As you can see, my workbook is full of short cuts. Once you mingle with Emily and her friends from the even higher sphere of the AMORE ASCENDES, they'll be anxious not to bore you with small talk."

Upon finishing the readings, Jack announced, "You're now equipped to enter Emily's world. Artists at small-time colleges like Bethlehem are very snobbish, but fear them not. They're suspicious and condescending toward anyone unlike themselves, but, once they perceive you to be superior to themselves, they will eagerly accept you into the fold."

Bethlehem's art majors had their studios in the "loft" at die Kaffeemühle, the oldest building on campus. Emily was hardly ever there, since she studied independently at the University of Wisconsin in Milwaukee. She never ate at the dining hall and received all her mail at her house. Thus, observing her in various campus activities was next to impossible.

Before my Bethlehem enrollment, Emily had been an ordinary Bethlehem student and had left her mark. By probing, one could learn much, especially when reading the back issues of The Forum. She had been a prolific staff writer, and her articles on campus art activities exposed her preferences. Indeed, she was a celebrity and had been featured in several articles as a gifted painter of abstract art. With skills going beyond Bethlehem's program, the school had arranged advanced studies for her at the University of Wisconsin in Milwaukee (UWM). The Milwaukee Journal even interviewed her after the UWM had displayed several of her paintings in a special student exhibit.

Emily, as I had suspected, was a Manhattan girl. Her father, Harry Wagner, had been Professor of Art at Columbia University, a celebrity art critic, and, one essay claimed, a friend of famous New York artists. He was also the author of All Art Is Sacred, one of the books on Jack's reading list. Thus, she grew up amidst the glamour of her father's New York life, which explained her "beyond Bethlehem" mystique.

Why had she enrolled at a provincial school like Bethlehem? Her Forum articles spoke of art's rightful place in the Evangelical community. At first, she wrote optimistically, but by her junior year, a bitter tone emerged. Then, without explanation, she had stopped writing all together.

I recalled Frank Blachford speaking of Emily Wagner as a "Satanic presence." Back then, I had ignored such things, but by reading The Forum's back issues, last year's campus spats between the liberals and fundamentalists became clear.

"They're all puppets with Emily pullin' the strings," Frank had said.

Although a tiny minority, Tina Kaiser and a few staff members controlled The Forum, the official student newspaper. Their editorials blasted the "narrow-mindedness of the college administration." They spoofed the student's social inhibitions and ridiculed the conservative groups that Frank embraced.

"Why doesn't the administration put a stop to this?" cried Frank. "Our war is not against flesh and blood but against secular humanism. True Christians must cleanse Bethlehem of this infestation."

Given that I was perceived to be Frank's friend, no wonder The Forum had rejected me!

"Emily's next letter has to be evasive," said Jack the next day. "We'll send her an open letter from Johannes through The Forum, with the title, 'The boring nature of the Arties and the Fundies.' This will turn both sides against us, especially the Arties who think they are so avant-garde. But our primary goal is to capture Emily's heart. I'll write so she'll recognize the same Johannes. Through my choice words, she'll interpret it as another adoration of herself."

"But Johannes has just stood her up. Won't she be furious?" I asked.

"Wait till you see the letter. Then you too shall believe."

"Tina will never print it!" I said.

As usual, Jack wrote an eloquent piece. Two days later, it appeared in The Forum with reactions exactly as predicted. Both the Arties and Fundies were seething. Finally, they had agreed on something: Jack's analysis was intolerable.

The next day we met over coffee at our favorite booth in the student union. He gloated as he read aloud the angry responses to the Johannes letter. "Emily has seen your power, and your identity intrigues her even more."

"My power?" I asked. "She's infatuated with you if anything. All I've done so far is read your workbook."

"Ah, perhaps," he said wrapping his familiar arm around my shoulders. "But I willingly transfer all the glory to you, my noble beneficiary. From the sidelines, your servant is merely lighting the torch. The object of her affections will be you, I promise."

"But why all for me? What's in it for you? Surely, there must something for your efforts."

Jack only smiled. "Oh, please. Put such thoughts away. After all, what are friends for?"

One week later, Jack was full of urgency. "We have to move quickly, Morrie. The effect of my letters is waning. It has been awhile since we've made any direct advances."

"I've been looking for her for three weeks," I said. "She's never around. I saw her once go into die Kaffeemühle, but that's it. She doesn't attend any classes on campus, and she does all her work downtown. Where do I start?"

"The path is thorny, but opportunities do exist. I was hoping to avoid it, but downtown lays that sleazy hippie hangout on the river's east side. Just off East Brady Street and not far from the Up & Under Pub there's a narrow alleyway between two taverns. In the musty basement below the Frothy Brew, you'll find that offbeat coffeehouse called the Threshing Floor where the so-called avant-garde hangs out. I snooped around last week while a curious jazz combo was playing. Everyone knows each other. Emily was there, wasting away. This will be your beachhead to her kingdom."

"I can't go there," I said. "To Emily and the others I'll stick out like a farm-boy alien freak!"

"I have already considered that." I didn't take that as a compliment. "Thus, I befriended the proprietor after Emily left and identified you with the same Johannes mystique delivered to Emily. He's a pushover and will gladly receive you. The others will respect his judgment."

"But whatever will I do there? How does one act among artists? They're so snobbish."

"Yeah, snobs and bores! Project the AMORE ASCENDES and intimidate them. All is to your advantage. If you impress them as superior, your kinkiness distinguishes you, and it will disarm them. Isolate yourself, 'listen to the band without really paying attention,' page 90 in your workbook. Drink coffee, and most of all, look bored. Remember your meditations. I repeat, don't blunder your way into her world. She must perceive you as she wants to see you. Express her ideal and she'll open the floodgates to her heart. AMORE ASCENDES techniques are sophisticated and demand your best."

"Not with Marguerite," I countered. "Despite all my gimmicks, she liked me best when I was freely my true self."

"Nonsense," Jack snapped. "Free to act? How presumptuous. Be your true self? Dream on. Until now, you've been a mere twentieth century phlegm of behaviorism, overlaid with Christian clichés. Without me, you'd be nothing. Be assured Emily Wagner is no neophyte. Her fantasy world is of the highest order. Without meeting her idealistic conditions, you wouldn't pass as her doormat. Now I have everything planned. Here, add these supplement pages to my workbook. I've included the address to that beatnik hideaway, along with the best bus connections from Bethlehem College. See, I have done everything for you."

All the details coming at once made any of my protests impossible. "Okay, I'll head downtown, sit around in that coffee bar, and look bored. How will she connect me with the letters from Johannes?"

"Good question, but I've thought of that too. As I said, the proprietor already knows about Johannes, without really knowing it. When the others ask questions about you, I'll be inconspicuously nearby to pass on the information. This will raise Emily's suspicions."

"How will you do that?"

"Trust me...For your part you must start imparting tidbits of the AMORE ASCENDES to Emily's female subordinates here on campus. Several live with her, as you know. By comparing notes, as women always do, they will intertwine you with their Johannes fantasy.

"Finally, I'll throw in more mystery letters from Johannes. Let her piece everything together. By thinking she has figured it out, you'll be primus modem."

"Are you sure this will work?"

"Certainly! One big mistake you made with Tracy was failing to dazzle her friends. Who is this guy? Had you wowed that redheaded roommate of hers, for example, she could have helped you form a favorable image. A guy who lacks a reputation among women is most miserable."

"There's one thing you've forgotten," I said.

Jack responded with a huff. "Impossible, what could that be?"

"Easter vacation starts the day after tomorrow, and I'll be going home. We'll have to put it off until I get back."

"Wrong again. I only forgot to tell you. You'll be staying here during vacation. The AMORE ASCENDES is at a critical stage and demands your full attention. I happen to know that Emily will be in town as well. Free from classes, you can channel all your energy transcendentally."

"Impossible. I have to go home. The dorms close down; everyone must be out."

"The infirmary takes in a few students in emergencies. I've already booked you a room, no extra charge. All is arranged, Morrie."

I didn't answer. My parents were expecting me in St. Paul on Friday. They had sent me money for bus tickets. I'd tell Jack, firmly, later by phone.

The next day, a letter arrived from my mother.

Dear Morrie,

Remember that water leak we had above the living room and how we had to put water buckets on the floor by the Christmas tree? Well, a contractor finally came and last week they started ripping into the wall by the kitchen. The whole house will be a mess for a month and that means no Easter egg hunt this year. Mary has decided to spend Easter with your cousins in Duluth. You are of course welcome to come home, but everything is in disarray, and Dad is really on edge. You once spoke about your friend, Frank. Does he live near Milwaukee? Maybe you could spend some time with him? If so, feel free to use the bus money I sent you to buy something special for yourself.

Love, Mom

On Friday, Good Friday, after a boring week on an empty campus, while Christians the world over commemorated Christ's death, I boarded a dirty bus bound for downtown Milwaukee. It was dark and raining, and the misty drops dripped down the bus window like tears.

On board were three middle-aged black men homeward bound, five elderly whites too old to move to the suburbs, and a few Arabs in traditional dress. We stared at one another in sobering silence as the rickety coach lumbered into the city.

One transfer later, my bus stopped somewhere downtown just off Wisconsin Avenue. "Sir, do you know where East Brady Street is?" I asked the bus driver.

"Just follow Water Street along the river until it turns left," he said with a friendly voice.

My foot touched the sooty pavement as if I was taking my first step on an unknown planet. My eyes tingled from the polluted, dense fog as the bus sped off into the night. I, passing bridges that spanned the dark Milwaukee River, made my way up Water Street. The smell of malted barely and hops from a nearby brewery filled the muggy air; off in the distance a foghorn bellowed. A few blocks later, I reached East Brady Street and turned eastward toward the Lake Michigan. Beneath a canopy of darkness, I walked through artificial light past the closed neighborhood shops. The night traffic was light, and cars were tightly parked on the side streets. I passed St. Hedwig's Church and school. Blocking out converging thoughts of my Catholic past, I quickly crossed North Franklin Place and passed the Frothy Brew Tavern. I turned left at the dimly lit alley described by Jack. Trashcan lids, discarded booze bottles, and a scrawny stray cat littered my path as I approached a metal guardrail that stood over the cement stairwell that led down to a green, weather-beaten door. A bare light bulb on the dirty brick wall made it possible for me to see a faded sign with an arrow pointing downward that read: ENTER THE THRESHING FLOOR.

A harbor foghorn faintly bellowed. Below a blurry basement window cast light and moving shadows. This subterranean den was open for business. I swallowed hard, walked down the dark narrow staircase, opened the green door, and entered a dim room that was billowing with smoke and African sounds.

My eyes met a bald man behind the bar who I knew to be the owner. He nicked his chin, a signal to the patrons that I was welcome.

On the main floor, nonconformists with weird-looking clothes crowded around ten tiny tables and drank coffee and beer. The entire room reeked of tobacco and booze, a smell quite foreign to a Bethlehem student. Four men stood on a small round platform in the center of the room. Three were thin muscular blacks, wearing sleeveless T-shirts. They were playing African drums and shakers while the fourth, a brawny man with long blond hair—he looked like an Icelandic fisherman—made eerie noises on a synthesizer. At one table sat two old men playing chess, their faces flickering in the candlelight. They looked up at me and then returned to their game.

In a far corner sat Emily together with four men sporting straggly beards and army jackets. They were in their early thirties and oozed with worldliness.

"Two types frequent the Threshing Floor," Jack had told me. "First there are the true artists, the avant-garde. Manhattan Emily, a scarcity in blue-collar Milwaukee, is one of these few. Then there are the wannabes, the imitators and strivers who tag along. Once a place like the Threshing Floor becomes too popular, the elite stop coming."

I took an empty table across the room from Emily. Jack's instructions were to look bored. But how could a romping prairie boy from the river bluffs look indifferent at the Threshing Floor? Everyone must know I was a phony. Within an hour, I stood up to leave.

Jack! How did he get in? Blocking my exit, he sat on a barstool near the door and chatted with the proprietor. He discretely rolled his eye toward me and smiled. I knew what he wanted me to do.

Recent lessons in the AMORE ASCENDES had taught me how to combine certain body gestures with a distinct way of concentrating.

"This is called artistic indifference," he had said while stretching his arm behind his head. "To you this exercise may seem meaningless if not silly." He had showed me his special way of yawning. "Artists see these subtleties as aesthetic."

Another exercise had required me to look in a mirror while standing on my head and making apathetic gestures. Jack had also showed the proper way to slouch down in a chair. "This is the way true artists do it," he said with a mocking gesture.

That night, under Jack's watchful eye, I gestured with artistic indifference, exactly as we had trained. Surprisingly, my evening at the Threshing Floor went extremely well. I hemmed and hawed according to plan. A serene confidence had descended, and the AMORE ASCENDES' every claim came with ease. Morrie Schiller, the unrefined prairie-boy, now appeared altogether different. Awed, Emily and the others could not help but notice.

With artistic indifference, I ignored the combo. Jack was still speaking with the proprietor when both suddenly turned and smiled, approving my performance.

"Are these stools taken?" Two militant looking young women weren't just interested in the chairs; they smiled weirdly and wanted to join me.

"You and your friends are welcome to sit here. I was just leaving." I ignored their disappointed faces and stood up. My stay had been long enough. Rain was drizzling as I rolled out the nylon hood of my spring jacket. It was cold. Jack hurried out the door and caught up with me.

"Why didn't you tell me you'd be there?" I asked as he wrapped an arm around my shoulder. "I get an eerie feeling when you watch me."

"How could I miss your debut on the Threshing Floor, after all my work and training? Had it not been a surprise, I would have destroyed your spontaneity, which was superb, by the way. From my stool, I could watch Emily closely. Nobody else noticed, but you enthralled her."

We walked back to Water Street and waited for the bus.

Jack paid both fares, and we sat in the last of a dozen empty seats.

"And besides," he added, "how else can we measure Emily's progress without me taking notes?" He showed me his notepad and pencil scratching.

"You still could have told me," I mumbled.

"She definitely noticed you. Your artistic indifferences were quite good, honestly. There's room for refinement, of course, but the next exercise in the AMORE ASCENDES discusses that very thing. Wait and see. You made things look so boring that I almost fell asleep." Jack laughed. "One of her clowns pointed you out. They were talking about you, and this disturbed Emily." Jack raised his eyebrows with his characteristic quirk. "I wonder if she's made the Johannes connection. Thank heavens she didn't recognize you from school."

The bus lumbered through the darkened city. We were still the only passengers. Impressions from the Threshing Floor rolled through my mind. Scared though I was, everything Jack had told me to do had gone well.

Jack smiled confidently. "The real impact of this, your first evening, will be clearer after several visits."

"Do you really think so?" I asked.

"Wait and see," he said and then fell silent. Having regained my trust, he slouched and closed his eyes; his wool hat lay low on his brow. Soon he was sound asleep.

I looked first at the young black bus driver and then the window. Neon lights from taverns flashed by, and the Allen Bradley Clock had yet to read midnight.

It was still Good Friday. Long ago, Jesus by now had fulfilled his Father's will. His work was finished. His corpse lay dead in a tomb, and Christians confess, "He descended into hell." My descent had been to a pit called the Threshing Floor, but to say I had been following his Passion would have been to slander. What had the AMORE ASCENDES to do with the AGNUS DEI?

Our bus stopped, the door opened, and a little old lady climbed aboard. She sat five seats ahead of me. Jack was almost snoring. The woman turned around and looked at me. Her eyes were piercing: I know thee. Thou also were with Jesus of Nazareth.

My denial: I know not the man, neither do I understand what thou sayest.

Our driver, through the rearview mirror, locked his sight on me: Surely, thou art one of his disciples, for thou art a Galilean, and thy speech betrayeth thee.

My rebuff: I know not the man of whom ye speak.

Jack smirked as if reading my thoughts, confident that I would fulfill his next demand.

Forty-five minutes later, we were home.

"Wake up, Jack. This is where we get off."

From the bus stop, Jack rambled off alone without saying a word. It had started to rain again, and wet clothes clung to my shivering body.

### Chapter 14

________________

Easter Sunday. My room at the infirmary faced eastwards, toward Jerusalem, and the morning sun bathed my bed with its rays. The night before, I had again been at the Threshing Floor. This time Jack was not there. My eyes were still heavy with sleep, and I rolled over and covered them with my pillow.

Easter Sunday. I was supposed to be home with my family in St. Paul. But with Mary staying with our cousins in Duluth and the living room all in shambles, I was in Milwaukee. By now, the sunrise breakfast at my home church, with those yummy fresh baked rolls, would be over. Even though Mary and I had long outgrown Easter egg hunts, Mom still hid the chocolate eggs around the house. But not this year. I was homesick and wished Easter was over.

Easter Sunday, the day Christ arose from the dead. Should I go to church, alone, here in Milwaukee? It was not an exciting prospect. Twice-a-year Christians all over the world must have been asking the same question. But I wasn't one of them. I groaned and covered my head with my blankets.

There was a knock on my door.

"Hi, Morrie, Happy Easter. We're going to church. Want to join us?" Two fellow-layovers, missionary kids whose parents lived in some far off land, were on their way to church services.

"Sure, I'll be ready in twenty minutes. Can you wait?" I asked.

"Okay, but hurry. There's sweet rolls and orange juice in the nurse's pantry. We'll meet you there."

West Suburban Baptist Temple was packed with worshipers. With six hundred cushioned seats, the bright sanctuary was really an amphitheater with white oak paneling. Fake Grecian pillars lined the walls. On the huge front stage stood a bounty of potted-ferns and palm trees, and sunlight from the sky deck sparkled against a thin waterfall that ran along the wall behind the pulpit and emptied, presumably, into the baptistery beneath the moveable floor.

Pastor Hager walked briskly across the platform and waved to us all. "Greetings and Happy Easter in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ." He was a tall man with a square jaw, wavy sandy-brown hair, and a charismatic smile.

The huge electric organ suddenly blasted, and the church choir--arrayed in flowing scarlet robes, each carrying a long stemmed white lily--marched down the center-aisle. The congregation spontaneously rose as this Baptist choir sang, ironically, an ancient Latin canticle, Surrexit Christus Hodie, Christ has risen today.

While feeling the swell of the moment, a part of me resisted. I was worshipping through the filter of Easters past, of my mother getting Mary and me ready for Mass when we were little. Like in a scene from Norman Rockwell, two children--my sister with her tiny white gloves and Easter bonnet and I in a smart white suit--would parade past Dad on our way out the door. He, in his tattered bathrobe, would slouch down in his favorite chair and read the Sunday paper. It all seemed so long ago.

The choir and a procession of white-caped children, all carrying Easter lilies, assembled behind Pastor Hager. The congregation applauded wildly as the tones of the Latin hymn died away and the choir director turned to the congregation and led them in a resounding chorus:

Christ the Lord is Risen today! Halleluja!

I watched this Baptist pageantry with Catholic fantasy. Pastor Hager's podium became the high altar; his team of deacons and elders were the altar boys.

The pastor, when he raised his hands in praise, was a priest consecrating the host.

"Behold the Corpus Christi," he seemed to say.

After the service, my companions from the infirmary enticed me with a meal. "Morrie, go with us to Easter brunch. This church serves scrambled eggs, bacon, and freshly baked cinnamon rolls."

"We know because we were here last year," said the other. "And it's free."

"Don't forget, the dining hall is closed today."

I dined with my comrades, returned to the infirmary, and, exhausted, slept five hours.

Easter Monday was the last day of vacation. I had planned to sleep in late and then move back into my dorm. However, all too early came another knock on my door.

"Morrie, wake up," came a voice from beyond. "Telephone for you out in the hallway. He said it was urgent."

I got up to answer it. It was Jack. "Morrie, are you up? We have work to do. Today we march to another battlefront."

"What are you talking about?" I asked, still half asleep.

He replied, "Now that you have established a beachhead at her favorite hangout, you must surround her with your presence and close in."

I said nothing.

"Think, Morrie, think. How does one invade a young woman's private world?"

I groaned to think.

Jack sighed. "We discussed this last week. Through her friends—her devotees. Not a few venerated Emily's footprints and strive to be near her, such as the girls who live with her in that house. Whenever Emily returns from her hangout at the Threshing Floor, you can bet their ears are itching to hear every detail of her latest adventures."

He scoffed, "Some talk of a woman's freedom to choose. Ha, pay that progressive talk no mind. A woman's destiny finds its being in man, and no amount of social manipulation can change what is metaphysically fixed. Morrie, a man creates the world through choice. Expect resistance. The kingdom suffers violence, and the violent take it by force."

Jack became silent and then changed the subject. "You must find that inner circle, Morrie, and penetrate it. Use past techniques. Do whatever it takes. To see the dayspring of your manhood will be my crown."

"Tell me what I must do," I said and waited for the usual onslaught of details.

"This time you're on your own, but I expect a report in three days. The work will be yours, but your skills originate with me, so my reputation is at stake, too. Don't disappoint me."

My phone clicked, and all was silent. Counter questions rebounded, but the weight of Jack's decrees held sway. So far, all focus had been on Emily Wagner, the off-campus artist, the Bohemian with the long, black hair at the Threshing Floor. That she had once been a normal Bethlehem student was hard to imagine. Who was the real Emily? Her contemporaries either loved or hated her. Was this New York outsider really an infiltrator? Frank thought so.

The Arties worshiped her. She was their ideal, their icon of hope and freedom from the family ghosts that had driven them to this school. For this, the Fundies despised her, and my quest was leading into a Dante-like inferno of loathing. They had driven her from the Bethlehem campus, but they could still feel her power from exile. Was Emily working undercover through her friends?

The answer came as a shock. The student handbook confirmed that the five girls, sharing a house with Emily, were all Bethlehem students, and all were art majors—except one: Tina Kaiser, The Forum's editor, the beast who had crushed my journalistic career.

I was not alone in my aversion for Tina. The Fundies called her "Jezzie," after Jezebel, the "first feminist" and evil wife of King Ahab in the First Book of Kings, chapter twenty-one. Even many, who supported Tina's causes, disliked her personally. What did the lofty Emily Wagner have in common with the impudent Tina Kaiser?

"Tina gets all her orders from Emily Wagner and thus her authority," said Bart Boyer, sports editor of The Forum. Actually, he and I had little in common, but after my disastrous interview last fall, Bart had been friendly to me. I met him one day on his way to watch a wrestling match, and he invited me to sit with him.

"Tina's father is none other than the legendary Horace Kaiser III, owner of the Kaiser Chemical Corporation in Hammond, Indiana—and Bethlehem's richest alumnus," Bart said while writing down the starting wrestlers on his notepad. "1953 was the year, the only year, that Bethlehem's football team ever won the Great Lakes College Championship, and Horace 'The Horse' Kaiser was their star fullback. Life magazine even featured him as the small college player of the year.

"In 1954 Horace turned down a hefty contract from the Cleveland Browns and went to work in his father's chemical factory, which he eventually took over and built up. Today, the Kaiser Chemical Corporation is among the largest in northern Indiana. He's a boisterous personality and is the focal point of Bethlehem homecomings. He's also been an embarrassment to Bethlehem's board of elders."

"But they have to put up with him because of his money, right?" I asked. Out on the mat, a Bethlehem wrestler had just pinned his opponent, and the fans broke out in a cheer. Bart was ecstatic and didn't even hear my question. After we all sat down, I repeated the question.

"Let's say they have to consider that," said Bart as he jotted down his thought from the last match. Bart of course was referring to the new building complex beyond the tennis courts. "There's an example of Horace Kaiser III's money at work, that multi-million-dollar field house, with the Olympic-size swimming pool. However, Horace has one problem that money can't buy."

"The school won't name the field house after him?"

"Worse. His daughter Tina has brought a plague of scandals on his name. You weren't here last year, but you've surely heard the rumors of Tina having had an abortion? There was an uproar."

"Yes, a friend once told me, but for him this was no rumor."

Bart looked at the students sitting near us. He suggested that we sit on the last bleacher bench where no one could overhear us. "Your friend must be a Fundie," he continued after we had taken our seat. "They still insist that Horace Kaiser covered up the truth with his money, and the Fundies even circulated a petition demanding Tina Kaiser's expulsion. President Lentzner, who needed funds to pay for the field house, tried to remain neutral."

"And for that, the Fundies have never forgiven him," I added.

Bart snapped both his fingers. "Right, when the crisis climaxed, Tina's father flew up from Hammond to meet with the administration. Several hours later, Terry Hall, the president of the Student Missionary Society, emerged from behind closed doors. He confessed that he had made up the entire story after God had told him 'to break the spirit of Jezebel.'

"President Lentzner then assembled the entire student body, and Terry pleaded guilty before us all. Horace Kaiser sat right behind him. The poor soul wept in front of everybody, and Horace Kaiser publicly forgave him--but it was all so phony. Terry suffered from bouts of depression after that, and he soon dropped out. By homecoming last fall, The Horace Kaiser Field House was finished and paid for."

"My guess is that she made the whole thing up," I said.

"Nobody knows." Bart laid aside his pen and pad. He had forgotten all about the wrestling match.

"Does Emily know?" I asked.

He hesitated to answer. "I wouldn't doubt, but she'd never tell. The truth isn't important. That the Fundies believe President Lentzner forced Terry Hall to lie is all that matters. Tina Kaiser won't confirm or deny anything. Why should she? She came out triumphant and with more power then ever. President Lentzner ignores her rantings and must believe that he'll outlast her since she will soon be graduating."

"I hope you don't mind me asking, Bart, but does Emily infiltrate through her surrogates like the Fundies say?"

He paused and nervously rubbed his hands together. "I don't know. In the early days, Emily and I were assistant reporters on The Forum and became friends. We even dated a couple times, and for that, Tina hates me more than she hates you." Bart smiled and winked. "She feels very threatened whenever someone gets near to Emily."

The campus clutter made more sense, but where was Emily in all this? If Tina really received her orders from Emily, the evidence was not forthcoming. Back issues of The Forum featured Emily's articles. At first, they were idealistic, very Christian sounding, and always in defense of art. For some reason, the next year came a deluge of reactions, letters to the editor opposing Emily's views and claiming that modern art was "liberal theology coming in the back door." The letters mentioned Emily's father several times.

"That's when the tone in Emily's writings became defensive, critical, and finally bitter." Bart rolled a pencil between the palms of his hands. There was sadness in his eyes. It was clear that he was fond of the girl. "Half way through her junior year, her articles stopped altogether without explanation. The Forum has hardly mentioned her name after that..." Bart suddenly stopped talking and picked up his notepad. "Sorry, Morrie, but the 'Bethlehem Bomber' is up next. This is the reason I came, so you'll have to excuse me." The Bethlehem Bomber was Geoff Buchmann, the college's star heavy weight wrestler. He was a humongous brute and practically had a cult following. As soon as the Bomber walked out on the mat, the entire assembly spontaneously stood up and started stamping their feet on the bleachers. Bart Boyer turned to me and shrugged his shoulders. "Don't look at me. I'm just the messenger." Alone he walked down the bleachers and joined the ranting crowd while I watched the Bomber delight the audience by pinning his opponent in less than a minute.

Bart had proved to be a useful contact, and two days later a new opportunity to speak with him arose. This time Bart was in the student union, sitting with Tina Kaiser and going through the major sport stories for The Forum\--strictly business. To face Tina Kaiser again, the first time after that disastrous interview last fall, was nerve-racking, but she had a new role as an important campus contact for Emily. By talking to Bart, I could pass important information to Emily through Tina.

"Hey, Bart," I said as if Tina wasn't there. "Do you want a scoop for the paper? The Fundies in our dorm are starting a new action."

Tina stiffened. She hadn't forgotten who I was.

Bart smiled. "Sorry, that's not my department, Morrie. Pull up a chair. We're laying out the sports section for the next Forum. Maybe you could give us some man-on-the street opinions on the Bethlehem Bomber. Did you know that Channel 5 news is going to be at our next match against Whitewater? We're also featuring the starting line up for the golf time. Perhaps you have an opinion on that." Bart looked at a disgruntled Tina and then at me with a wink.

"Don't lose your focus, Boyer," said Tina, shifting in her chair. "I'm a very busy woman."

"Golf, ha, just a bunch of pre-med students training for country club life," I said. "But those fundamentalists play a hot game. Have you heard the dormitory gossip about who this Johannes-character is? They say he lives right in our dorm and..."

"Johannes!" cried Tina, almost spilling her Coke. "Do you know who he is?" I pierced her eyes with mine. She cleared her throat. "Yeah, Johannes, the one who wrote a letter to The Forum. Everyone wants to know: 'Who is Johannes?'"

"Not everybody," replied Bart, "just the Arties and the Fundies. On the wrestling mat, Johannes is of no consequence. Yesterday, when Emily Wagner made a rare appearance in the layout room, she was all upset about that letter."

"Emily was not upset," said Tina. "Besides, is there a real Johannes at all? Maybe he's just some poetic prankster." She turned to me. "You wouldn't know who Johannes is. What's your name, again?"

"Morrie."

"I mean your last name."

"Schiller, Morrie Schiller."

"You don't know Johannes, do you Morrie?" asked Bart.

"Who could really know Johannes?" I replied cryptically.

"Yes, of course," said Tina and returned to business with Bart. I sat back in my chair, knowing that Tina was not thinking about wrestling statistics. A link between Johannes and me would surely reach Emily's ears.

I left the student union and had to step over several skimpily-clad coeds sunbathing on the huge stone stairway. It was the first summer-like day of the year. My thoughts were of Emily, and the AMORE ASCENDES, which grew stronger within me. Like rapid growth with the coming of summer, a new consciousness was emerging. Tina was bound to connect me and the stranger she had heard about from Emily. I clenched my fists in triumph.

The next week kept me very busy, with two more jaunts to the Threshing Floor. Emily was there both times. I came, sat there about an hour, made sure that she noticed, and left without saying a word.

New opportunities to make an impact on her Bethlehem friends came as well. In the dining hall, sitting near me were several girls, all art majors. After I had attracted their attention with one of Jack's clever techniques, they invite me to join them. In no time at all, I was eloquently talking about a theory of art straight from Jack's notebook. They were intrigued and asked a host of questions about "the nature of art and boredom." To Emily, Jack had written the same things in his letters and had signed them Johannes. Soon Emily would hear of me through them as well.

That evening in the library, the conversation from the dining hall deepened when I spotted Mary Kay, who had asked most of the questions. She also lived at Emily's house. She looked up from her textbook and saw me walking toward her.

"Hello, Morrie," she said smiling. "Come, sit beside me."

I joined her and could feel the impact our lunchtime chat had made on her.

She smiled playfully, "Before this week, I had never seen you before. But now you're turning up everywhere."

"Perhaps you weren't looking for me until now," I replied, amazing even myself. Two months ago, I wouldn't have even dared talk to a girl like this.

"Your ideas are very interesting," she continued and moved her chair closer to mine. "Are you an artist or a philosopher? Perhaps both?"

I fed her more nuggets from the AMORE ASCENDES, and she gulped them eagerly down. What I said didn't matter; the effect was magical.

"Among artists," Jack once said, "intellectual talk is sexual language in code." This was transparent in Mary Kay. The power of the AMORE ASCENDES was greater than I could imagine.

"A collective consciousness is important," Jack said when I gave him my progress report. "We are not dealing with mere individuals. With more advanced AMORE ASCENDES disciples, I speak about bodies of people, yea, entire nations.

"Regarding Emily the principle is the same. Everything you say to her friends must be filtered through conscious reflection. An important part of Emily's perception of you will be through the eyes of her friends. By speaking to one another, the momentum in their fantasies grows. They fuse who you are and what they want you to be into one entity." Jack paused as his reflective mind drifted into a deeper mode. "For Emily, you are the imagination made flesh. You are a new creation; your old self has passed away; behold, all things are new." He then became zealous. "Morrie, you are but tasting the desire of the nations, the eternal longing of the spirit. I tell you with conviction: would the human race transcend, individuals must begin."

Under Jack's guidance, I allowed Mary Kay to come closer. He assured me that these "underlings" would back off when Emily wished to stake her claim.

"Excellent!" cried Jack upon hearing my next report. He had made a rare visit to my room. "We're ready."

"Ready? For what?" I asked.

"To bring you and Emily together. What else? Soon the Johannes fantasy and Morrie Schiller, the boy-next-door, will be one and the same." Jack paused and turned his eyes aside. "Emily is a beautiful name, an aesthetic name, like Emily Webb in the play Our Town. You can play George Gibbs, and I shall be the stage manager, my favorite role. Oh, to hover about the world, to lurk in and out of human lives, making subtle adjustments that shape destiny." Jack abruptly became silent. He bowed his head in meditation. He seemed so distant, as if aware of realities beyond my comprehension, gone off into a parallel universe.

"We must write another letter," he said with a flash of brilliance. "Emily's at the brink of your world, ready to be enveloped by it. You have implanted yourself into her deepest fantasies, so we must not disappoint her."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. "Here, I have carefully selected this. Read it."

"Selected? You mean you didn't write it yourself?"

"Normally, I do. This quotation, however, expresses Johannes perfectly. My improvement was only to include Emily's name. Read it yourself and tell me what you think."

Jack seldom let me read his letters to Emily. I accepted the note with trembling hands.

-My Emily!

What am I? The modest herald who attends your triumph; the dancer who sustains you when gracefully leaping into the air; the hedge on which you rest when tired of flying; the bass voice which raises the soprano's ecstasy even higher. What am I? I am the force of gravity holding you to the earth. I am body, earth, and ashes. You, my Emily, are soul and spirit.

-Thy Johannes

"Wow! That will move the earth beneath her. Sounds like..."

"Kierkegaard."

I read it again.

"By now, Tina and Mary Kay have told Emily their stories," said Jack mildly as I studied the note. "She'll tie the loose ends together. This letter will convert any lingering doubts into longing anticipation."

Only in dreams could I hear such words. My life had been one of standing back and observing, unable to dare, retreating into fantasies where I also could be assertive and strong. Could the imagination really take on the substance of flesh and blood?

Jack looked at me with affection. "Friend, I have been your master and teacher, with ways that are incomprehensible to minds that, like yours, are conditioned by popular Christian culture. However, my phenomenological method, the AMORE ASCENDES, reveals the truth of my perceptions. In a few days, you shall become your own myth, with all your senses born-anew and perceiving to their fullest. You shall be as me."

He left me awe-struck as his voice rumbled like thunder. "Be cautioned, the hour comes like the shout of the herald, when most are asleep. If caught even drowsy, you'll miss it and be condemned. My business is to make sure this does not happen. Soon you will be standing before Emily at the Threshing Floor. She waits, unpretentiously. The scientific spirit of the age has not tainted Emily. Her awakening will not be some evolutionary development, but as that of the mythical goddess Venus who rose from the sea's depths at the climax of her womanhood.

"Meanwhile, she dreams of the Johannes who will awaken her. We have implanted the seed in her soul. Though still asleep, she stirs, preconsciously, sensing the dawning of the day. Yes, Morrie, you shall also implant the kiss of life."

My lips trembled. Jack continued before I could speak. "You have not rudely imposed yourself on her as the manner of many. Through many letters, we have cultivated her affections; therefore, use beauty and grace. Capture her like a painter who tints with the warmest of colors. Don't bulldoze, for what she desires must spring forth without inhibition. The AMORE ASCENDES has equipped you so that she will respond, primordially, blushing like the predawn skies."

I blinked in awe.

"Aesthetically, a woman loves only once. Pure, immediate femininity is for her a priceless moment, fleeting in time like the twinkling of the eye. Oh, that it could endure and we could savor! You must be ready, Morrie. As Johannes would say, 'The moment is everything, and in that moment, woman is everything.'"

"How will I know when the time has come?" I asked, ready to caress the impossible.

"You'll know; I'll see to it," he replied. "Conscious reflection has been your schoolmaster, Morrie, but the mind does not understand everything within the grasp of being. Trust me; you will have years to ponder, to write poetry, on what you're about to experience...Behold, in the streets of Jerusalem, Emily, the Shulamite, has searched for her lover-king and waits in her chamber. Arise. You must run out and meet her. Everything has led to this moment: the doubting drills, the meditations, the AMORE ASCENDES...this letter. Your perceived boredom has punctured the pride of her artistic sentiments. You have aroused passion, that delicate blend of fantasy and womanhood, the essence of true being."

My heart was thumping. "Where is Emily now?"

"Down at the Threshing Floor, waiting for you as Ruth awaited Boaz. If I am right, she knows who you really are, and her fingers are trembling."

I ran toward the door and stopped. "Wait. What should I wear?"

Jack smiled wirily and shook his head. "What difference does it make? This isn't a television commercial."

I laughed and walked into the hall only to stop again. "The letter. I still have the letter. Here take it. But will she get it so soon?"

He pulled the letter from between my fingers and suavely put it into the inside pocket of his jacket. "Move along. The post is as good as delivered."

Three hours later, I walked through the entrance of the Threshing Floor and descended the stairs to the cellar bar. The room was crowded with patrons, and clouds of cigarette smoke engulfed me. Emily was sitting with two young men in the far corner. Our eyes met as I entered the room, and she immediately turned her head the other way. Indeed, Jack's latest letter had somehow reached her in record time . I felt the AMORE ASCENDES surging within me. Emily was within my grasp.

The cryptic motions that Jack had taught me and that I had developed during my visits to the Threshing Floor now came naturally. I sat the bar and acknowledged her by nodding my head. She moved her chair so that no one could block my view of her. Emily looked so different, even transformed. Her cheeks were flushed with a deep red color. Could one letter have so amazingly changed her? Had Jack written things that he hadn't shown me?

My routine was to order espresso coffee and look artistically bored. Aloofly, I watched the combo play, this time a trio of women performing with cymbals and brushes. Emily talked calmly to her male friends while sneaking glimpses in my direction. They sensed her distraction, and like vying young bucks, strove to gain her attention.

Never had my previous visits to the Threshing Floor lasted past midnight. Emily knew this, and she became skittish as the hour approached. She also knew that I was watching her, intensely. While pretending to be in contact with the others, she slipped Jack's latest letter from her side pocket. She waved it subtly in my direction, half-hidden beneath the strands of her long, black hair. My hour had arrived.

At midnight, and with one more sip of coffee, I donned my jacket and walked toward the door, but not before stopping at Emily's table.

"Thy Johannes cries out, I hope for the last time," I said. An illusive smile crept across my face.

"As you wish," she replied. "Do you go by the name Morrie or Johannes?"

Jack was right again; Tina had spoken to her. "My name is Morrie. Johannes is merely the spirit of my intentions; both are no longer disguised."

I joined them in typical Jack style, straddling a turned-about chair. The two males resisted my invasion and were frustrated by Emily's delight. To them I still look like a Minnesota farm boy. They must have thought that Emily had lost her mind. I smiled and egged them on by chewing on a sizzle stick, like a stalk from a hay field.

"I've seen you here before," she said, "but I never would have guessed you to be..." Emily stopped and gave her two companions an unwelcome look. "Why do you come here, Morrie?"

My eyes rolled upwards and then focused on each of their faces. They waited for my reply.

"I am bored, aesthetically, and remain unfulfilled." And then to Emily, "Do you understand me?"

Emily looked first at her companions and then scanned the room. The first combo had finished playing, and a new group was setting up. The crowd was getting larger, and the proprietor was helping the waitresses serve. She sat back in her chair, sighing deeply. "I understand Johannes perfectly."

Her two male friends looked completely bewildered. "Johannes? What are you talking about, Emily?"

"Hush up, Warren," said Emily. "This whole scene is boring. Don't you agree, Morrie?"

I shrugged one of my shoulders.

"But why do you come then?" she asked.

My eyes fell on the piece of paper in her hand. "Have you read it?"

Emily blushed and hid Jack's letter under the table. "Oh yes, I forgot."

"You'll have to excuse me," I said. "The air in here is getting stale."

Emily stopped me. "I was going to sleep at my studio tonight, but now I want to go back to the college. Do you mind if I join you, Morrie?"

Her one companion groaned and the other cackled with scorn. "Did you hear that? He lives in a dormitory."

The other joined the jeering, "If he comes home late, he might get a demerit."

"Or get grounded for a month."

Emily ignored them. "I'm sick of this place. Morrie, can we go?"

The one she called Warren carried on, "Oh, so you go to her college. I've always wanted to meet a typical Bethlehemite. Are you studying to be a Sunday school teacher?" The others burst out laughing.

"Morrie's a philosophy major," she said in my defense and coyly touched my arm.

"The distinction could be made," I said and then yawned, "but between the two, frankly, there's hardly a difference."

"Morrie, I want to leave," she said and then stood up. "Are you driving?"

"You're welcome to join me," was my reply, "but I don't have a car."

"Oh, I'm sorry, someone's picking you up. Would they mind if I tagged along?"

"I was planning to take the bus," I said, hoping to provoke a reaction, and then I stood up to help her put on her spring jacket.

Emily turned her back shoulder toward me and smiled. "This could be a real adventure. Warren, my handbag is hanging behind your chair. Give it to me, please."

The boys were in turmoil as we walked across the room and made our way out of the Threshing Floor.

From Bohemia back to Bethlehem. Emily and I, encapsulated, sat in the back seat of a bus that would take us home. Here there was no Johannes, no religious scandal, not even Jack—just us two. The artist from New York became very ordinary, our conversation intimate.

"Daddy was a professor of art history at Columbia University. He was an art critic of celebrity status and had a lot of rich and famous friends."

"Any name droppers?" I asked.

"Try Andy Warhol."

I gasped. "You knew Andy Warhol?"

Emily laughed. "Nobody knew Andy Warhol, but he was in fact a guest several times in our house. As a child, I even sat on his lap!"

"Andy Warhol, that's pretty famous. Wasn't he a bit of a wacko?"

"That was his public persona. In his private life he was a Catholic who took his mother to church every week. Few people know that he would go to help feed the homeless at a mission church on 90th Street."

"I've heard he lived a completely hedonistic lifestyle."

"As a little girl, I couldn't be at any of those wild parties. No doubt what one hears is true, but to me it was hearsay because I was there when he spoke of his spiritual side with my father. You decide for yourself. The point is this; Daddy gave up the limelight about twelve years ago when he became an evangelical Christian."

"He gave up art because he was a Christian?"

"Not art, his celebrity status. The 'high brows' were outraged and ostracized him. Only a few close friends remained loyal. They pleaded with him to come back to his 'senses.' Some of them are like my cultural godparents. They still send me money...and after I enrolled at Bethlehem, they never stopped begging me to come back to New York."

"What about Andy Warhol?"

Emily smiled nostalgically. "He was dead by then, but I'm sure he would have understood. The difference between Daddy's public and private interest in art was huge."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Publicly, he was a celebrity art critic, but his private collection was mostly religious art, especially Greek icons. And his lectures on religious art history at Columbia University are renowned."

"Icons?" --pictures from my Catholic past flashed through my mind-- "That sounds pretty stuffy for the New York avant-garde. How could anyone become a celebrity with lectures on religious art?"

Emily glowed with pride. "Religious art, especially iconography, was the private side of my father. That's why he and Andy Warhol were friends, by the way. Modern art was his public life. He had an uncanny intuition for future trends. His critiques proved right so often that everyone had to take them seriously. Artists, even the big-shot iconoclasts, followed his column in the Manhattan Weekly, and dutifully invited him to all their latest showings. Daddy was handsome, charismatic, and generous. He carried on like Leonard Bernstein did among younger musicians. By the way, my father knew him too." Her talking about her father made her all the more beautiful.

"But this all ended when he became a Christian."

"Right, his research on Greek icons continued, of course, but there was no celebrity prestige in that field."

"You must really miss him."

"I and many others, especially those who study religious art. However, for the trendsetters in modern art, Daddy passed away when he became born-again. This happened when I was quite young. Only the older artists and critics remember those days."

Our bus had just turned on Blue Mound Road, the final stretch on our way back to the college. Across the aisle sat some rowdy teenagers who had just been to a rock concert. Emily and I paid them no mind. "Would you mind telling me about your father as a Christian?" I asked.

"As an iconologist, my father had always been intrigued by the obscurities of the Christian faith. From when he was little, the life of Christ fascinated him. He and my mother even spent their honeymoon on Crete visiting old monasteries."

"You never talk about your mother. I guess she's not on the scene," I said and watched in dismay as Emily's face saddened.

"She's been dead longer than I can remember."

I grasped her hand. "I'm sorry. Did she like in religious art too?"

"Oh yes, after all the cocktail parties and notoriety, the world of icons and religious symbols was something they privately shared. They occasionally went to church together. This was all before I was born, of course. While Daddy was the critic, my mother was the studio artist. My father adored her."

"Did she paint icons then?" I asked.

Her expression lightened. "Oh, not at all. She was completely a modernist and many compared her work to that of Picasso. Some say she would have become famous had she lived. A few paintings that survived her are quite valuable."

"Do you mind telling me what happened?"

She sighed and gently rested her head on my upper arm. "My father was away lecturing in Boston. My mother was home pregnant with me. She had been quite sick, and one day, all alone, she went into premature labor. A neighbor lady happened to come by and called for an ambulance. I was born on the way to the hospital, but my mother died soon after." A single tear rolled down her cheek.

"I'm sorry," I said and caressed her hand. "How did it go for your father?"

She snuggled closer. "He was devastated, of course. After this, his career as art critic began a slow decline. After my mother died, he devoted himself to me and his new role as a single parent. To express his grief, he mused over his collection of religious art, becoming ever more reclusive. His artist-friends knew how much he loved my mother and tried to be patient. They hoped, in vain, that his reputation would pull him through." She sat up to get a handkerchief out her handbag and wiped her eyes. "Ironically, his devotion to religious art opened an unexpected door. During a lecture series at Union Theological Seminary, he became popular among theology students, something which attracted and perplexed him."

"What do you mean by 'perplexed'?" I placed my arm on the back of the seat behind her. Emily responded by placing her head back under my arm close to my neck. My arm slid down around her shoulder.

"Until then, religious art had been entirely a private discipline. The theology students, however, were more interested in his mystical insights than his formal lectures. This was new, and as complete strangers sought him out, he became more conscious of his own religious life.

"Did he consider himself a Christian?"

"That a reality might lay behind the myths had never occurred to him. The turning point came five years after my mother's death, on his way home one night from a lecture on Manhattan's lower east side. He stumbled upon a Salvation Army mission and heard preaching from the open windows inside. He remembered Andy Warhol talking about that mission church and, out of curiosity, he took a seat in the back row. Before the service was over, my father was up front, kneeling beside two derelicts. That night he accepted Christ as his personal savior and found the reality behind twenty centuries of Christian art." Emily raised her free arm and placed the palm of her hand against my chest.

"Do you have a personal memory of all this?" I placed her hand inside my jacket and directly over my heart, hoping she'd notice its accelerating tempo.

"Yes, from a five-year-old's perspective. It changed his whole life. Daddy received a new reason for living. My mother's death, his job, everything fell into place. For him God had planned his fame as an art historian and critic so that he could spread the gospel in a unique way."

"Wow," I said, unable to utter anything more meaningful.

"That's only part of it," she said. A tinge of bitterness had crept into her voice. She sat up again and lost her nostalgic mood. "We joined a local evangelical church outside Huntington, on Long Island. Soon Dad became an elder in that fellowship. It troubled him greatly that artistic appreciation was so lacking in popular Christianity. When the board decided to paint the walls of our church a 'dingy-peach' color and cover them with church-growth charts, he really got upset.

"'Does spirituality have to be in bad taste?' he would ask. He had a vision: To him art was a form of worship. He firmly believed that a potentially unique artistic expression lay hidden within the Evangelical culture. That's why he wrote All Art Is Sacred. Have you read it?"

"Eh, yes I have. Very good," I replied and coughed. "Wasn't it a best seller?"

"'It's within our midst,' he would say. 'Evangelical Christians need only eyes to see.' He saw his calling to be among those who imparted this vision."

"Did he meet much resistance?" I asked and removed my arm from her shoulder.

"Yes and no. There were those who had been waiting, desperately, for someone to give a voice to this concern. Dr. Dahl and the art department here at Bethlehem College were very supportive. Daddy was like a hero. Many more were skeptical, however, and alleged he was undermining God's Word by blurring the line between the spiritual and the worldly. Art was of the world. However, Daddy was a patient man. Attitudes would not change overnight. He traveled across the country with much success, speaking at Christian colleges, to church groups, and to any believer who would listen."

"How did you feel about all this?"

Emily's body stiffened; she was clearly agitated. "Daddy was more than a father to me. He was my mother, my mentor, and my pastor all rolled into one. My goal was to dedicate my life to the glory of God, as did my father."

"How many at Bethlehem would believe that?" I asked.

"It doesn't matter. They don't know me. Nobody does. Besides, the caricature Emily Wagner you see today is a recent development. Three years ago, I was a typical Bethlehem girl. I went to church and prayer meetings; you name it. Studio art was a side interest back then. Art journalism, contributing to The Forum, and supporting my father's work were more important."

"So then, your art has its roots in your father's vision?"

"The art critic in me is from my father, but any talent as an artist comes from my mother, of whom I have no memory. Still, many say that I look and act just like her. Several of my mother's friends from high school looked me up last fall. It staggered them to see how much I looked like my mother, with long, black hair and everything. Drawing has come naturally ever since I could hold a pencil. People say that my painting style resembles hers.

"My father sent me to the best art schools in New York. All my teachers were encouraging me to study in Europe. However, as a Christian, my dream was to further my father's great devotion, and he encouraged me. That's why I came to Bethlehem College."

Emily paused and bit her lower lip.

"Well, what happened?" I asked.

"Everything's been a bitter disappointment." She was inching away from me on our seat and sat nervously on her hands. She was clearly agitated.

"Did you expect the art department to be better?" Slowly, I slid closer to her, hoping this would put her at ease.

"Bethlehem's art department could never have competed with my background. Even the university downtown was insufficient. The reason I came here was to grow in a Christian environment. Sadly, being the daughter of Harry Wagner pitted me with the 'Arties' and against the 'Fundies.' Daddy's artistic awareness among Evangelicals was springing up everywhere, like a renaissance. Those who considered him an enemy included me automatically."

"People say you are the leader of the Arties in exile."

"I'm aware of that, but nothing's further from the truth. Most of the so-called 'Arties' are just rebelling against their parent's conservative values. Day and night, they connive to discredit the establishment. When I, Harry Wagner's daughter, came to Bethlehem, certain Arties saw me as the champion of their cause. The Fundies saw me in the same way, only, to them, I was the enemy. Both sides were so wrong. What my father stood for, which I tried to represent, had nothing to do with their petty conflicts."

"So you are not the behind-the-scenes leader secretly pulling all the strings."

"A thousand times no." She raised her hands and clenched her fists. "But I'm doomed to that perception. My presence on this campus has spurned competing groups into a vicious conflict. In my opinion, if there are secret plots, try a man called Eilert Brigsby."

"Eilert Brigsby!" I covered my face to hide my shock.

"Yes, do you know him?"

"No, but I saw him one day last winter. He was standing out by the fountain, prophesying against Bethlehem College. Someone smashed him in the face with a snowball."

"I heard about that incident. So that was him." Emily became distressed. "How did you know?"

"I didn't. The person standing beside me told me."

"Did he say anything else?" Emily slid back toward me.

"Just that he's a backwoods preacher with some crazy ideas."

"Don't let his lack of refinement fool you. He's crafty, with a loyal band of followers. It was he who destroyed my father."

The angry eyes of the prophet passed before me. Emily's words were troubling. "What happened?"

"One rarely hears of Brigsby by name. Even fewer would recognize his face. But he's been an enemy of people like my father for many years. Several years ago, he even approached my father at our house on Long Island. Daddy thought I was asleep, but I could hear a hot tempered man making threats to my father."

"What did he say?" I asked.

Emily for a few moments was silent. She bowed her head and folded her hands on the back of her neck. "It was hard to make sense out of most of it, but it had something to do with Dad's art campaign. Brigsby said that if he didn't stop spreading his liberal, anti-Christian ideas, there would be big trouble."

"Are you sure it was Brigsby?"

She raised her head and looked me straight in the eyes. "Yes. Daddy called him by name and tried to calm him down. I saw him too. From the top of the stairs, you can look right into the kitchen. I'll never forget that face."

"What did your father say in reply?"

"Not much. He always said, 'How can a few reactionaries destroy that which is right and good?'"

"It didn't work out as he expected, did it?"

Emily's faced flushed. My pressing questions were surely provoking. "No, I'm sure Brigsby has influenced people in conservative circles to start writing books and tracts openly accusing my father of being a humanist, an existentialist, not to mention a homosexual."

"What?"

"Oh, Morrie, you're so naïve. They'll stop at nothing."

"What happened next?"

Her tone grew poignant. "Somewhere down near Pensacola, Florida, some Baptist churches organized a public burning of his books. It was on TV and everything. To them, my father and his confession were a wolf in sheep's clothing, demonically inspired to delude the minds of the youth and other weak Christians. Daddy knew Brigsby had organized it all. Then some in the art movement turned coward, which resulted in a bitter division among them. Everything that my father had fought for was crumbling. Here at Bethlehem the cruel attacks against my father by many students were often directed at me."

"Yes, I've read some of them in The Forum. Are you sure Brigsby's behind it all?"

"There's no proof. However, I did see him on campus once two years ago. He was clean-shaven and wore a business suit, but those beady eyes were the same. He was surrounded by a group of male students, leaders of the conservative campus groups, the Fundies. Terry Hall was among them."

"And so came the great campus feud," I said.

"The very next week."

"Is that why you eventually stopped writing for The Forum?"

"No. In my weekly editorials, I defended my father to the end. Perhaps you've read some of them, too. It's a complicated story, but after a while, Daddy's reputation was ruined. Things about my father's former life as liberal art critic became public, but they twisted everything into lies. Daddy quit his teaching position at Columbia, turned down all lecturing invitations, and withdrew from public life. He retreated to our summer cottage in Vermont and spent his time musing over his lifelong collection of Greek icons. A year-and-a-half ago, on a cold and rainy day in November, he died of pneumonia, alone. The mailman found him." Emily covered her face and sadly sobbed. I stroked her spine as a token of comfort. After a while, she sat up and with a slight smile took my hand. "It felt good to tell you that."

"Is that when you dropped out?" I asked.

Again, Emily laid her head on my shoulder. "That's when I stopped believing in anything, Morrie. I hated every thing about Bethlehem College and wanted to quit. Daddy's friends begged me return to New York, but their expectations were impossible to cope with. Fortunately, my degree was very much connected to the University in town so I decided to stay. With my father gone and his work in ruins, my mother's side of me has taken off. I never knew her, but I feel her presence when I am painting. Discovering who she was, and thus who I am, is what I now live for. I have no home, and this university is my refuge."

Before I could reply, our bus crossed Wauwatosa Avenue and stopped. Our one hour together, when no on could touch us, had ended. "Here's where we get off, Emily. No bus goes closer to the college at this late hour. We have to walk the rest of the way."

Emily's sad story came to an abrupt end.

"Morrie," she said with a bit of cheer returning to her voice. "My place is right along the way to the college. Why don't you come over? There's always some ice cream around, and I could make some coffee. Would you like that?"

I accepted.

Emily had a room in a stately Victorian house near the campus. She held my arm as we strolled up the sidewalk, passed through a fully screened-in porch, and stood alone in a huge dark room.

"Where are we?" I asked.

"Hush." Emily switched on a small reading lamp and whispered, "All the lights are off so everyone must be asleep. We'll have to be quiet." She took my hand, "Come, the kitchen's over here. Don't turn on the light."

A streak of light came from the crack beneath a door. Emily pushed it open, and at the kitchen table sat Tina with a serving spoon. She was eating ice cream right out of a two-gallon carton.

"Yummy," slurped Emily and slipped her arm around my waist. "Chocolate ice cream. That's my favorite."

With chocolate smeared all over her mouth, Tina gulped in shock and choked on her mouthful. Truly, I was the last person she expected to see.

"Tina, this is Morrie Schiller. You two know one another?"

"Not really...we have met," Tina wiped her mouth with her hand. "How are you, Morrie?"

Tina, dressed in her pajamas, was crushed by this exposure. She was about to cry and began to clean up her mess.

"I'll take care of it, Tina," said Emily kindly. "And don't worry. Trust Morrie not to tell a soul about this incident. Now go back to bed and good night. We can talk tomorrow."

Without a word, the disgraced editor of The Forum modestly covered the opening in her nightshirt and quickly left the room.

Emily looked at me and smiled, apologetically, and then opened the cupboards. "I've lost my appetite for ice cream. How about a bowl of soup? Say, here's some already made coffee, the kind real artists in Greenwich Village drink."

"It looks like Tina wasn't expecting me," I said, peevishly, and wiped the melted ice cream off from the table.

Emily opened a can of chicken noodle soup and poured it into a kettle on the stove. "Tina can get jealous whenever I make new friends. Seeing you was a shock. She's told me about your meeting last week. That's how I knew you were a philosophy major. She showed me your picture from The Forum's archive. No one on the staff knows how it got there. That's the moment I put you and Johannes together. Tina, however, knows nothing about your being at the Threshing Floor."

"You two sound pretty close, but the contrast is so striking. Where is the connection?" I asked as I found two soup bowls and set them on the table.

"That's another myth. Tina likes to think we're close friends and tells others that, but the relationship has more to do with a common activity. Two years ago, she was an assistant editor, and I had my own column; we worked together quite a bit. Don't call me a braggart, but Tina worships me. If I snap my fingers, she comes running. Hardly a friendship! The main reason she lives here is that her father owns the house.

"Tina doesn't have much of a social life, so I try to support her. We're the same age, but I've been like a big sister. Her family is completely dysfunctional, so I'm kind of all she has. You've probably heard about her father, Horace Kaiser. He's a jerk. Have you heard about 'Bethlehem blue blood?' Her mother is of that stock and tried to force Tina into her image, especially when we were freshmen. That's why she's so rebellious." She set some bread and cheese on the table and we both sat down.

"So she thrives as the abortion rumors abound. Is it possible there was a willing father?" I asked.

Emily grinned. "Maybe. Only I know the truth, and I'm sworn to secrecy. Her parents at first believed it was true, until Terry Hall confessed. They still have their doubts as Tina refuses to confirm or deny it. That whole affair is a farce. Tina told me that her father, believing the rumor, first tried to buy off the school. He then threatened to withdraw all his money if President Lentzner didn't officially declare Tina innocent.

"Can you believe it? The Board of Regents discussed the possibility for over two hours. They refused his offer, out of fear the truth would eventually leak out. Horace then vowed to destroy the school if his reputation was even tarnished. That's when Terry Hall came forward and confessed he had made up the whole story."

"But the rumor persists that Tina really did have an abortion and that Terry Hall was set up as a scapegoat."

Emily bit into a piece of bread and cheese. "Like I said, even her parents have their doubts, but I know the truth."

"Which is: Tina acts like a tough liberal radical, but inside she's got real problems. No doubt she's never held a boy's hand."

"You said that, not me," said Emily with a wink.

"Poor Terry Hall, humiliated in front of the entire student body," I said.

"That was Horace Kaiser's idea too. When Terry confessed, Ol' Horace acted like he believed Tina all along and insisted on the public confession. Now I'm no fan of Terry Hall. He did as much as anyone to destroy my father's reputation here on campus. Nevertheless, I felt sorry for him. He and I were somewhat friendly before my father's reputation was at stake. Never was there a person with a more genuine faith. You'd think they would have given the kid a break. But no, old man Kaiser wanted his pound of flesh. Where is justice? I'm telling you, Morrie, they're all a bunch of bastards."

I looked at the embittered beauty before me not quite knowing how to respond. Then I picked up my spoon and quietly sipped my soup.

She stood up, walked over to me, and took my hand. She led me over to the sofa in the living room. "Morrie, I feel so alone." She threw arms around my neck and pulled me down onto the sofa. "Please hold me."

Suddenly, a light flashed on the upstairs hallway. We heard footsteps and the bathroom door open and close.

"That must be Mary Kay," whispered Emily as I felt the weight of my body fall against her. "She works part time as a nurse's aid and must have an early watch. She'll be coming down any moment. You have to go now." She sighed, released her embrace and caressed my face with her hand. We stared into one another's eyes and our bodies snuggled together once again. The door in the upstairs hallway opened again. "Mary Kay's about to come down. Please hurry." I sprang from the sofa and found my spring jacket. Emily walked me toward the door. I kissed her once and disappeared into the darkness.

The air was still dark and cold. I was now on campus and passed the dining hall on my way back to my dorm. For a few hours, I had forgotten about Jack, Bethlehem, and my studies and had been transported into another world. The bright lights from the kitchen told me that the cooks were already up and preparing breakfast.

### Chapter 15

________________

"Drat! Morrie, can't you do anything right?" Jack went into a frenzy when he heard what had happened in the bus with Emily. "Stop trying to save the world! Must I watch you day and night? Alone for one evening, and you become father confessor. Will you ever learn?" His rage was paralyzing. He shouted at the top of his voice and ranted as if he were about to strangle me. Fortunately, we were outside and off campus. Bewildered passersby did not know us. "Here is the most beautiful woman on campus, in a romantic trance. She opens her heart to you, and you backslide into your boy-next-door routine. Don't you see?"

I hung my head in disgrace, and, fearing an even greater tirade, I dared not say a word.

He stamped his feet and shouted at the top of his voice. "She wants to escape, and if you keep holding her in reality, she'll drop you. Why don't you do as I say! You think she's attracted to that open-and-honest stuff, and she may even give you emotional evidence that she likes you. Hog slop! In the end, you and your world will be rejected. Lose your detachment, and you've lost the advantage. Can't you see! At this very moment, a new whim could drift into her head, and she'll shed you like a winter coat. Have you forgotten Tracy?" His face was seething red.

"No." I felt crippled and was hardly able to respond.

"Do you see how you've fallen back into your old passivity?"

My head drooped in shame. "Yes."

Jack calmed down a little. "I hope so. Had you botched up this affair any further, all my efforts would have been for naught. I have little patience for backsliders, and at this point, I should drop you as I have others. Fortunately, the situation is salvageable, and to your credit, you did quite well at the Threshing Floor before relapsing on the bus. Yes, it will take some risky maneuvers, but the damage is repairable. Your actions must be perfect from now on. Emily knows what she wants and is determined to get it, and believe me, we can still give it to her."

After that, Jack held Emily and me under scrutiny; no more heart-to-heart talks as on the bus. We never talked about her father again, and Jack made sure that I stayed the course. Through me, Jack implanted one idea after another into Emily's mind. He had acute sensitivity for combining my personality and Emily's wants and aspirations, and soon the principles of the AMORE ASCENDES had taken full command of us both.

He had us do the craziest things. "Around the corner, there's an A & P Supermarket," he said. "Next door lies a storefront café, El Amigos, which serves Mexican food. Give Emily the aesthetic time of her life!"

The goal of each outing was reductio ad adsurdum. Jack's presence was always with us, mesmerizing Emily with my Johannes persona, which I had fully developed. Emily interpreted the mundane as an artistic event, confirming Jack's art theory of aesthetic boredom. One night we even played bingo at a firemen's hall.

Emily became very involved with the "spirit of each happening," as she would say. "Just feel the aesthetic elements of American culture struggling to escape social boredom."

Soon I was inseparable from who she thought I was. The more she perceived that her love of art bored me, the more she found me attractive. Often I would join her up in the "loft" of die Kaffeemühle to watch her work. She would paint while I mulled around, checking my wristwatch, yawning—and a host of other techniques that Jack had taught me. Emily would stand back from her easel, and look first at her work and then at me, wistfully. She would sigh and then recite verbatim the latest literary adulation from Johannes and continue with her artwork, this time more sensuously. Behind my feigned indifference, I would revel in her dazzling beauty as her artistic aura filled the room. I would watch as she slowly mixed and smeared together red and blue colors on her palette and then brushed the purple tones liberally onto the canvas with soft amorous strokes. This impassioned pattern would repeat itself until I was mesmerized and consumed. After a while, before this hyped enchantment between us could rupture, I would fake a bored exit, stagger down the stairs of die Kaffeemühle, and stumble fully charged out the door.

Jack would be waiting for me out on the pavement, practically catching me. He had to hear every precise detail and would savor my every tingling emotion. He heightened this intensity by sending Emily more letters from Johannes, always reading them first to me and predicting the desired effect of each line. Although Emily and I never discussed them, we experienced them together. The transforming sway of the AMORE ASCENDES was unmistakable, as her art had become a non-stop flood of creative energy. In the studio, her works of art reached new heights of expression. In my presence she would paint, capturing and extrapolating her Johannes fixation on canvas, working until daybreak, long after I had left. Her creativity peaked with a crowning endeavor.

"Morrie," she cried and threw her arms around me. "It is finished! I have distilled the essence of Johannes and given it substance. And I owe it all to you. You have opened the universe to me."

Emily had been so engrossed with her painting, she hadn't been at the Threshing Floor since that night we had come home on the bus. Nevertheless, news of Thy Johannes—the name Emily gave her painting—quickly reached her artist friends in downtown Milwaukee.

Professor Marcus Dahl, head of Bethlehem College's art department, was rightly proud of his best student. He entered Thy Johannes in a nationwide art competition for students, sponsored by the Spring Green Foundation. In early May, the jury announced that Thy Johannes had won, unanimously, and issued the following statement:

The foundation has never before received an entry from a fundamentalist college, much less considered awarding first prize to one of its students. Give all credit to Emily Wagner. Thy Johannes is elegant. Congratulations both to her and Bethlehem College.

The entire school was buzzing. While photographs of the painting were available, the original painting, which only a few had seen, remained with the foundation. An elated Marcus Dahl arranged an official unveiling and award ceremony on the Bethlehem campus. He invited city officials, prominent regional artists, and other VIPS to attend.

The Milwaukee Journal duly reported with pride that a Milwaukee artist had won, expressing surprise and shock that such a "conservative religious school" could receive such an honor. Except for Emily's personal friends, most of Milwaukee's artistic community didn't even know that the school existed.

The Spring Green Foundation, based in Frank Lloyd Wright's hometown of Spring Green, Wisconsin, sponsored the prestigious award, and since 1946 the foundation had been giving scholarships to promising art students. However, although the foundation had helped several artists on to national prominence, the highbrow Eastern establishment often snubbed Spring Green artists. For them, an artistic foundation, funded by "cheese-heads," was a joke. Thus, only after learning the award had been given to the daughter of the sorely missed art critic, Harry Wagner, did they lavish praise on the foundation's choice and its winner.

One could read the following review in the Manhattan Weekly:

Pack your bags. We're off to Wisconsin's cornfields. Emily Wagner, winner of this year's Spring Green Award, has honored the memory of her father, the late Harry Wagner. I crown Thy Johannes the new "Ultra Violet," rekindling a yearning for the funky days down at Andy Warhol's Factory. To top it off, the official unveiling will take place on a college campus run by Christian fundamentalists. The banality, in itself, has aesthetic beauty, and I want to be there!

Emily had become an overnight celebrity, and in her wake, the art world applauded Bethlehem College for its rising star. Professor Dahl and the much ignored art department were elated. No longer could the liberal elite scorn Bethlehem College as "that fundamentalist Bible college." Thanks to Emily, the focus also cast positive light on Bethlehem's departments of science and humanities. Such recognition had been President Lentzner's dream for many years, and he easily overlooked past conflicts between the Arties and the Fundies and saw the unveiling ceremony as a culmination of many years of effort.

However, for most Bethlehemites an encounter with Thy Johannes was bewildering. For most, "artwork" was the illustrations in children's Bibles.

"This is art?" asked a skeptical student when an art student tacked up a huge color photo of Emily's painting on the message board in the student union. There was an eerie quality about Thy Johannes with its wide swirling sweeps of purple curls. It was like an exaggerated version of Van Gogh's Starry Night, though one could also see it as the human form. Emily's work was a study of red and blue and all its various tones of plum, magenta, and lavender. While totally abstract and non-figurative, the mesmerizing curls and swirls taunted the imagination into seeing its own inner images.

Between classes, I passed a group of students who gathered around the poster. "That pair of violet loops look like breasts!" said a boy pointing to the picture.

Two art students were standing in the background. "Fundamentalist hype is ruining our hour of glory," said the one to the other. They tried to enlighten their Biblicists schoolmates on the concept of non-objective art.

But their appeal to "reason" failed as another student directed her finger toward Thy Johannes. "That there center curve embodies a female hip."

"This is all about sex," said another. "A nude painting at a Christian college! How could the administration permit such things?"

"No," cried the Arties, "non-representational art doesn't depict anything."

"But that paint stroke is clearly an exposed thigh," insisted a young man with a Bible in his hand. From there rumors circulated about a Bethlehem girl posing nude for Emily right on campus!

The exasperated Arties finally gave up and bitterly chastised their puritanical brethren. "Sexual repression produces dirty minds," they said as they shook their heads with disgust and walked away.

Spontaneous discussion groups like this rapidly spread across the campus. For the Fundies, Thy Johannes was an outrage, and President Lentzner was a traitor. For some, like the pre-meds and business majors, the entire controversy was a joke. Sarcastic comments appeared on the campus bulletin boards, and new names for Emily's painting came forth, titles that covered the entire moral spectrum from The Nude Prude to The Lewd Nude.

"And what about those purple round things?" asked an anonymously written letter. "I suggest the title, The Naked Grape."

It was the day before Emily's exhibition. President Lentzner, whose former silence had once fueled the Fundies' onslaught of Emily's father, now posed with the daughter in the art section of the Milwaukee Journal. He beamed with paternal pride. After a chapel service, he even presented Emily with a special award in front of the entire student body.

However, just as Dr. Lentzner started speaking, about fifty Fundies stomped out of the chapel in protest. Our leader's face turned ash gray; his voice literally quaked as if he had discerned the signs of a new religious war on campus. He quickly presented Emily a dozen red roses and dismissed the assembly. Emily smiled with sweet revenge.

Later that day, posters appeared all over campus, condemning the school's endorsement of Emily's art. The Fundies extended their campaign by giving the TV camera crews plenty of reactionary rhetoric.

Even my one-time friend Frank Blachford managed to get himself on TV. "Emily Wagner and her gang of Arties would pollute our minds with this promiscuous painting, which also promotes premarital sex," he said to a Nightly Witness reporter. Journalists who had come to report on the unveiling of Emily's painting found this religious scandal much more entertaining.

Jack found the entire affair amusing. "Stay tuned," he sneered as we stood before the protest posters. "By tomorrow they'll be scratching each other's eyes out." He pulled out the art section from the Chicago Tribune. "Look at this interview with Emily. She's quoting you word-for-word. This could be a page from the AMORE ASCENDES. You've done a good job, Morrie."

I added, "And everyone is asking: 'Who or what is Johannes?'"

"And notice how she evades that very question, making them even more curious." Jack showed a rare moment of self-satisfaction. "Why, it's as if I had taught her myself."

Around campus, posters had announced the unveiling of Emily's work of art, but the Fundies had torn most of them down. I had managed to salvage one and unrolled it to show Jack.

"It's you," said Jack after studying the picture thoroughly. "Emily's thinking of you. How does it feel to be immortal?"

"But Johannes isn't me," I said.

"How can you say that? Emily is in love with the image you have created. She is the artist; you're her inspiration. To her, you and it are one reality. You're the picture, and every woman who looks at it will also want to know who you are."

"Come to think of it, whenever Emily and I are together publicly, a lot of the girls look at me kind of funny, as if they're lusting after me."

He shrugged his shoulders and raised his hands. "Need I say more? Where is Emily now?"

"She must be nearby. She wants me to be her escort tomorrow for the unveiling ceremony."

"Marvelous, but what did you expect? I'll be there with other onlookers rooting for you."

"Yeah, maybe Karl Eller will be there or Frank Blachford! Maybe not. The Fundies are boycotting, or so they say." I had forgotten about Frank. "He no doubt thinks I'm a reprobate and have become an Artie."

"A thousand curses on both their camps! You haven't joined anyone. Through the AMORE ASCENDES, you've transcended them. You're above it all. Quick now, be off. Emily is waiting for you. Go and join her."

The Oxford Room, a large oak-paneled reception hall adjoining the library, was where Bethlehem College celebrated its prestigious social events. On this day, the room was bustling with activity. Like a film director, Tina Watters whistled and yelled, as she directed the construction of the platform to display Emily's celebrated painting. Professor Dahl's art department had worked all week to get things ready, and, with national exposure, no expense was too great. Theirs had been the most neglected discipline on campus, so this was also their moment of glory.

Emily stood alone toward the back of the room; she watched the proceedings with an icy stare. Was she recalling her father's anguish as the swine trampled on his pearls? Had he only lived to see this day! One could almost see father and daughter standing side-by-side, proudly greeting friends and well-wishers.

Now, it was me by her side; I would be taking her father's place. I, the impostor, milled my way around the carpenters and approached Emily. A spiteful smile lingered from her triumph at chapel. Vengeance, however ugly, could not destroy her beauty. She slid her hand tightly around my waist and greeted me with a kiss.

"Look what they're doing for me, Morrie," she said, brushing her cheek against my shoulder. "And you have made it all possible. Your inspiration expressed in me what only sages can see."

My hand brushed her sleek ebony locks behind her shoulders.

Tina intruded, "Emily, did you hear the latest?" She cast a jealous scowl at me.

"No, we haven't," I answered in Tina's direction.

Tina bit her lip and tried to ignore me. "New rumors are about that the Fundies plan to assault the Oxford Room tonight."

"Tina," laughed Emily, "don't worry about things that don't matter. Let them. Nothing can stop me."

"Well, you can bet they're trying," she continued. "They're spouting off on the local TV stations. I saw one Frank Blachford on the Channel 3 News." Her eyes fired darts of hatred at me. "He was babbling about how your artwork is unscriptural and even un-American. He quoted Bible verses to prove that your work gives legitimacy to premarital sex. Want to hear what the latest slander on your painting are? Look here." Tina held up the picture poster of Thy Johannes. "See these swirls over here. Now they're saying that there are two pairs of breasts. They've gone from a lone nude to a lesbian liaison. If this catches on, there'll be pandemonium!" Tina pondered aloud, "How can we exploit this? They're digging their own graves."

"I hope so," Emily snapped and pulled me away from Tina. "They can dig right next to the grave made for my father." More workmen entered the room. "Look over there, Morrie, my painting has arrived from Spring Green."

Like an honor guard, Emily's friends carried the canvas draped with blue velvet and set it on a pedestal. They backed away, reverently, when they saw its creator and me approaching. Emily and I stood before the draped painting. She squeezed my arm with both hands and laid her head against my shoulder.

"Professor Dahl told me this morning that The Chicago Art Institute has offered to buy Thy Johannes," she said. "He'd like it to stay right here at Bethlehem, but he fears someone would vandalize it. Lentzner will be glad when it's gone and all this is over. I could feel sorry for him. No matter whose side he's on, he loses." Emily let go of my arm. "But where was he when Daddy needed him? Piously, Lentzner stood aside while those wolves devoured. Humph, let him suffer now."

With only a few hours before the unveiling, Emily needed to get ready. She snuggled up to me, warmly, and said, "Morrie, Tina and the others who live at the house will be gone tonight. This means we can have it all to ourselves...if you want it." Her hand caressed the curve of my back.

"Why sure," I said. My spine tingled. "That would be great." Inwardly I was overwhelmed.

Emily clasped the back of my neck and looked deep into my eyes. "Why, Morrie, you're blushing. You're trembling."

"Why yes, I always get this way. It's because you're so beautiful." Did that comment sound as trite to her as it did to me?

Emily threw her arms around me and pressed her body against mine. "Sometimes you're like an innocent child. You must wake up each day newly born. Goodbye for now." She kissed me and slipped out the door.

New rushes of fear suddenly seized me. With all the focus on succeeding, I hadn't considered the consequences of reaching my goal. Two months ago, I was a nice Christian guy who dared only to dream about girls, and now the most sophisticated woman on campus wanted me to go to bed with her. This was too much, too fast. Evangelical morality didn't allow such things. Loyalty to my upbringing was as strong as my zeal to break free. Truly, Jack would help me draw up an exit plan.

He was right outside the door, leaning against the threshold, smiling and waiting for me. "So the day of reckoning has arrived."

"What do you mean? How do you know what I'm thinking? Were you spying on me?" His stare again made me wary.

"One need not spy on two people openly embracing in the middle of a public room. Besides, one need only look at you. One does not begin the AMORE ASCENDES without a successful conclusion."

"But I... I..."

"You never thought about scoring, did you?" he asked.

"Well, there was some foggy notion, but not in those words..."

"That just shows how much you've underestimated my training. I always win. So are you making plans for your debut?"

I became defensive. "I can't go through with it, Jack. I'm a fake, and there are some things that just can't be fabricated."

"Nonsense. There are no tricks to the AMORE ASCENDES. I have imparted more abilities than you'll ever know. Believe me; you are up for the task."

"You said that I wouldn't have to transgress my principles."

"And I intend to keep my word," said Jack. "If you ever had any moral scruples about all this, you wouldn't have had anything to do with me. I'm just giving you what you wanted with Tracy, but you were too religious to admit it. I knew where your mind was from the moment I laid eyes on you."

My face flushed. "That isn't true."

"Reality is the truth, my friend," he said sternly.

"But Jack, I'm a Christian, and such things aren't allowed. It isn't pure."

He scoffed. "You're entitled to your theories. But as Christians strive to see themselves as one should be, I'm merely exposing how they really are."

I gulped and swallowed hard.

"I've roamed this campus for several months and all the spiritual rationalizations amaze me."

"What do you mean?" I asked harshly.

"Instead of going to singles' bars, Christian young people go to church." He drew his face close to mine and pierced my eyes. "But it all adds up to the same thing: SEX, only you're too religious to admit it."

I took one step backward. "Not true. How can you say that?"

"Okay, call it getting married then. What's the difference?"

I was really irked. "How can you generalize like that? That's not true about everybody."

"There are always exceptions. I'm talking about the Christian masses, the flock of sheep, oh, what an appropriate metaphor! Christians babble on about being 'saved' from the world, but they play the same game with different words. Anybody for denial?"

"It isn't so," I snapped.

"Take the typical Bethlehem brother, someone like yourself. From his first step on campus, he's checking out the girls under the guise of religious activities. Before long, he spots a girl, and he hears God's call to marry her. And why?"

I paused to think. "I don't know, why?"

"It's sex, I tell you." He was sneering. "How else can an obedient Christian justify getting a woman into bed? Even St. Paul was honest enough to admit that: ''Tis better to marry than to burn.'"

I had no reply.

"And what about you?" he continued. "Tell me, at what point did you think that Tracy was the woman you wanted to marry?"

I wanted to plug my ears. I had always seen myself as above evangelical conventionality, but here it was staring back at me as through a mirror.

Jack persisted, "Well?"

Though my mouth was mute, I felt that would soon explode. I wanted to hit him.

Jack raised his voice. "I bet it was the first day you saw her."

"Okay," I shouted unable to contain myself. "So it was. Are you satisfied?" I rushed at him to push him away.

Jack grabbed my arms and stopped me. "And it motivated every act of brotherly kindness and inspired every prayer you said for her." His hand quickly twisted me around until I couldn't move.

"What do you want, a pound of flesh?"

"Morrie, I'm trying to help you." He squeezed hard before he suddenly released me and looked at his watch. "The art show starts within three hours. Emily is waiting." He returned to his friendly smile. "Go and enjoy yourself."

Jack had completely overwhelmed me. I felt hurt and hung my head in despair. "But I'm a virgin. And Emily...Who knows how many men she has had? She thinks I'm experienced. There you have my full confession. Go ahead and gloat."

"Morrie," he said in a friendly voice. "If I sounded harsh, it was for your edification. You are finally facing the world without religious wrapping paper." He kindly put his hand on my shoulder. "You shall not surely die. I'm your teacher and have given you virility. The AMORE ASCENDES is within you. Be like me and be perfect."

I went home to shower and prepare for the unveiling ceremony. So far, whenever we had disagreed, Jack had been right. With great hesitancy, I donned my rented tuxedo and walked toward Emily's house. Lilac blossoms perfumed the air with the magic of spring. Between the silhouettes of buildings and trees, a warm breeze whisked against my face.

Emily's front door was unlocked. I stepped in just as she graced the open staircase. Swishing sounds from her black satin gown filled the room. She emerged, immaculate, with coal black hair and evening gown. The natural rouge color tinted the fairness of her face and lips. Her greeting was a kiss.

"Good evening, Morrie," she said and then spun around. "How do I look?"

She was stunning. The stamina of the AMORE ASCENDES pulsated through me. My senses were at zenith. "You are as music is to the nightingale," I replied.

Emily had adorned herself for me. I held her warmly and yet maintained the certain detachment that Jack had taught me. She looked at me with wonder and then laid her head against my chest.

"Oh, Morrie," she whispered. "This is the most wonderful day of my life."

Emily took my hand and together we started to walk toward the campus. No sooner had we stepped down from the front porch than a black limousine pulled up to the curb. The driver presented Emily a note.

"Congratulations. We are New York friends of your father. The accomplished daughter of Harry Wagner must arrive in style."

Without emotion, we climbed inside, as snobbish as we could be. The night belonged to Emily, but the spotlight was also shining on me. Our limousine stopped in front of the Oxford Room. The driver opened the car door, and as we climbed out, the flashes from cameras lit up our faces.

A reporter stuck a microphone in Emily's face and asked, "What's your reaction to criticisms of your painting?"

But she, in shiny black satin, and I, in my tux, ignored the throng as our chauffeur helped us pass through the crowd.

President Lentzner greeted us with a gracious but nervous smile. "Good evening, Emily, and welcome." He was a tall man with broad shoulders and his rugged features gave him the simplicity of a country preacher. Afterwards, a representative from the Spring Green Foundation, Congresswomen Renate Bloomdale, and the other guests welcomed us warmly.

The media had blown up the entire affair to a holy war between the Arties and the Fundies. Rumors of sabotage had been abounding all day and the atmosphere was tense. President Lentzner did not want any trouble. After the chapel-walkout, he issued a warning. He would discipline anyone causing trouble and ordered the staff to take down all posters that criticized Emily's painting. The campus security eyed with suspicion anyone who came near the Oxford Room without a written invitation.

The award ceremony began, and Marcus Dahl first presented Emily with a dozen roses on behalf of the art department.

Dr. Lentzner stepped forward. "Speaking for the school board and the faculty, we congratulate you on your artistic achievement."

Hands clapped and cameras flashed as Dr. Lentzner presented her a gold plaque mounted on maple woodwork.

Next Chaplain Ferapont stepped forward with a gold medallion that lay on a red velvet pillow. "Emily Wagner, the Alumni Society would bestow on you this token of appreciation. We thank you for the honor you have bestowed on our beloved Alma Mater."

Another ovation erupted as the chaplain respectfully bowed. From the corner of his eye, he shot a nasty glance in my direction. I smiled back, haughtily, and slipped my arm around Emily's waist.

Several of Emily's other paintings were on display throughout the room. In the center of the room stood Thy Johannes, beneath a blue velvet drape, awaiting its unveiling.

Now it was Emily's turn to speak. "I thank everyone who has made this beautiful ceremony possible, especially Professor Dahl and the art department."

The professor beamed with pride. Beside him stood Tina, who twitched nervously.

"And most of all," she said as her voice cracked, "I dedicate this night to my father, Dr. Harry Wagner, who lived and died so that institutions like Bethlehem would give art the honor it deserves."

CRASH! The sound of crashing crystal vanquished Emily's speech and forced her to stop. Mouths gasped, and President Lentzner's face turned white. False alarm. A waiter had spilled a tray of punch glasses. Nervous laughter came from all corners of the Oxford Room.

"Speaking of punch glasses," chuckled Professor Dahl, "everyone is welcome to refreshments. There are coffee, cakes, and punch on the table. Shortly, we shall unveil the already famous Thy Johannes."

A string quartet from the music conservatory played Mozart's Serenade in G-major as the guests strolled over to the buffet to eat and socialize.

I smiled as Emily squeezed my hand. "What's it like to have them in the palm of your hand?"

"It feels good," she said and then drew my ear to her mouth and whispered, "I love you, Morrie."

Jack entered the room. He stood alone in a corner, sipping a glass of punch, watching like a playwright at the opening night of his latest drama. He had written the entire script of the Johannes illusion and had framed the event of my presence here with Emily that night. Our eyes met, and he nodded with approval.

Finally, the highlight of the evening had arrived. Professor Dahl stood by the veiled painting and clanged his fork against a punch glass. "Honored guests, attention please. Gather round, for we shall now unveil Emily's masterpiece, Thy Johannes." Congresswoman Bloomdale from the Spring Green Foundation has already taken her place. "Please, will Emily and President Lentzner come forward?"

Emily clutched my arm and pulled me toward the pedestal. Cameras flashed as she and the president lifted the velvet cloth and unveiled the controversial painting. All fell silent as the guests fixed their first glimpses on the swirling forms of Thy Johannes. In unison they gasped in awe as a halo of blue and purple pigments permeated the room.

The crowd erupted in simultaneous ovation as flash cameras flickered against the canvas. President Lentzner was clearly moved and embraced Emily warmly. "Congratulations, my dear."

Then from beyond came a rumbling noise and the sound of running. Four young men burst through a side door from the kitchen. They wore guerrilla fatigues, with black ski masks pulled down over their faces.

"Down with Arties!" they cried and threw water balloons into the crowd.

Shrieks and screams exploded from the drenched unfortunates; confusion reigned. Two more masked men burst into the room, each ready to heave a balloon filled with red paint.

"Down with pornography!" they cried.

The first landed smack in the middle on Emily's Thy Johannes and drenched the painting with a reddish goop, which tipped Thy Johannes onto the floor. A second paint balloon wobbled through the air directly at Emily.

"Look out!" I forced her to the floor with the weight of my body. SPLAT! The balloon had missed the artist and landed squarely on the neck of President Lentzner.

"Dear Lord," he cried in anguish, his clothes, face, and hands soaked and drooling with sticky red paint.

"Let's get out of here!" shouted one of the raiders. Within seconds, they had pushed aside the flabbergasted security guards and disappeared. The ordeal was over.

Professor Dahl grabbed a tablecloth and on hands and knees started mopping the prize-winning painting. "Don't worry, Emily," he said in tears. "We'll have it cleaned up in no time. Quick, Tina! Get some paint thinner...I promise you, Emily, I'll make sure it's completely restored...Tina, you heard me. Now go."

"But Professor!" cried Tina, "Look, dark smudges right in the canvas coming from nowhere, and they're getting bigger. And there's another one."

"Good Lord," the professor wailed, "they've mixed something in with the paint, some kind of...acid. It's eating right through the canvas! They destroyed the entire painting."

Emily stood up, not quite sure what to make of it all. Both she and I had miraculously escaped the spattering paint, save a few drops, and had quickly gotten out of the way. People were running in every direction. Our president stood, frozen in a state of shock, staring at the gooey red substance that drenched his clothes and hands.

I scanned the room for Jack's reaction, but he had gone. Where?

Professor Dahl and Tina were still frantically trying to salvage the now destroyed painting. Emily was without emotion, save for her eyes, which brimmed with jubilant indignation. She had lost her masterpiece, but had gained something more: a disgraced Bethlehem College.

Slipping through the scandal-hungry media, we found our chauffeur and snuck out the back door to a waiting limousine.

"Take us to my place," she ordered, but our driver ignored her and drove instead to a small banquet room near the Papst Theater, to a private reception where her father's friends from New York received us warmly. They had provided the limo and were furious that this school, which they already had blamed for Harry Wagner's premature death, had now destroyed Thy Johannes.

"Emily," said an elderly woman who gave Emily a huge hug, "you don't know me, but I was a friend of your mother. I knew her work well, and your painting, which they have ruined, was a continuation of her work. What a great tragedy."

"Don't mourn its loss," Emily assured her and the others. "It was a pale shadow of an artistic vision. Thy Johannes is a part of me and lives. After this evening, I see it even more clearly. My next rendition will surpass all understanding."

I heard two people whisper comments on the striking resemblance between Emily and her mother.

"Please, Emily," a white haired man stepped forward, apparently on behalf of the others, "come back with us to New York. Continue your studies and work among your own. We'll never understand why your father bothered with these Milwaukee barbarians. It even cost him his life. Please, don't make the same mistake."

To persuade her, he offered her five thousand dollars, money he said Dr. Wagner's former students and colleagues had donated.

"We have a studio-apartment for you near Columbia University. It was once your mother's before she met your father, and it's all yours, Emily. Bring your friend here with you, but please, come home."

My presence had intrigued them. Never had I felt the vigor of the AMORE ASCENDES more powerfully than in the company of these New Yorkers.

Long past midnight, Emily and I reached the front porch of her house. She unlocked the front door.

"Just think, Morrie, my own apartment in New York. But first, there's now. This night is ours, Morrie, our triumph! And now the consummation." She stepped inside. Jack's confident smile hovered over me. Emily sensed my hesitancy and took my hand. "Come in, my beloved."

With the oak front door closed, she embraced me and buried her face against my neck. "Oh, Morrie, I'm so glad you're going to stay here with me tonight. You are My Johannes, and no one can take you away."

"Let's sit over here on the couch," I said. Who I was must now come forth. Was I Morrie or Johannes? Up until now, what Emily saw was all that mattered. The decisive moment had arrived. Could I delay a second more?

"Morrie, come this way." She took me by the hand down a short hallway and pushed open a door, as if to a hide-a-way. Emily's bedroom was elegantly decorated with Persian tapestries on all four walls. She walked in, lit several candles, and rolled back the covers to an antique brass-rail bed. I stood in the doorway.

"Do you like it?" she asked with a stroke of her hand across the sheets. Emily walked back over to the doorway to receive me. Again sensing my hesitancy, she took my hand and placed it against her cheek. "Why Morrie, you're trembling."

"You make me so," I said. Was the old Morrie breaking through?

"How can you, so experienced, be also immediate and freshly untouched? I am an inspired prodigy, but you, Morrie, are the true artist. I want to know you..." Emily breathed in deeply and whispered close to my ear, "I am a virgin. But such things you perceive." She then knelt on the floor before me. "I submit myself to you...let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth, for thy love is better than wine."

Those lips she desired were quivering. Flashing in my mind were preachers, from my youth, preaching laws that punished with fire. Frank begged me to flee from temptation. Jack, however, towered over them all, with his all-encompassing smile, imparting power and confidence to do that which I dared not dream. Earlier I had drawn the line, but he was right again.

With my hand I helped her to her feet. She turned her back toward me and pointed to the fasteners on her gown that ran down her spine. I loosened them one by one until her dress slid from her shoulders and slipped to the floor. Except for her panties, she was naked. She turned and stood before me, yielding. The room was dark, but in the flickering candle light, I beheld her breasts. She closed her dark brown eyes and tilted her head slightly back. The smell of her delicate neck and hair filled my mind. Never had I seen a more beautiful sight. I kissed her as she slumped into my arms. I had made my choice: AMORE ASCENDES, be thou my good! I then lifted her and carried her from the threshold to our berth.

Sunlight broke through the trees and window blinds as I sat up in Emily's bed. It was the morning after. Sounds from the past few hours echoed in my mind: Emily breathing heavily against my chest, a dog barking in the predawn darkness. The floor planks creaked beneath my feet and felt like wood from another planet.

I was no ordinary Bethlehemite who, in a wink of weakness, had lost his virginity. The world was different. I possessed a new knowledge, of good and evil, and felt like Adam must have felt the first moment after the Fall. Through Jack, I had reached the summit of consciousness, the rush of all sensations. I had given everything. Like the spreading petals on a flower that peaks and then withers, I had experienced the heights of the AMORE ASCENDES and must now descend.

Emily was still asleep. With shoes on my feet, I planned my exit out the back door, but first I stole one more look. I beheld the curves of her bared shoulder and neck and the outline of her breasts beneath the white satin sheet. Her lavish black hair lay sprawled in folds about her pillow. She was beautiful and lay in peaceful repose. Twelve hours earlier I would have been trembling. But through the eyes of the AMORE ASCENDES, I had reduced Emily to the object of a quest. Without any further risk, the attraction was gone. Why pursue that which I had obtained?

Bitterness swelled. I had given my inexperience, my virginity. Jack had formed me in his own image. I felt usurped. I had tasted the fruit and now felt expelled from the garden of innocence. I felt lost in the world into which I had been born, east of Eden, and I yearned to return. Too late now.

I walked from Emily's bedroom, through the living room, and entered the kitchen.

I gasped. "What are you doing here?"

At the table, drawing deeply from a cigarette, sat Jack Joplin! He was unshaven, his eyes red and baggy. He hadn't slept all night and looked like a derelict.

"The door was unlocked so I walked in," he said with a blank expression.

"I saw Emily lock it when we came in."

"Yes, the front door." Jack pointed to the back door in the pantry. "Go and see for yourself."

I gasped. It didn't seem possible. "But why?"

He sucked deeply on his cigarette and then exhaled. "As I said, I like to watch."

I cringed. "What do you mean? Watching? That's not possible!"

"You left the chamber door wide open, so I looked in."

"The bedroom door was closed!"

"The wardrobe door?"

"Okay, so that door was open, but you couldn't have possibly been in there. I hung up Emily's satin dress there myself. And you weren't there."

"You forgot the other entrance."

"The other what?" A wanton feeling descended on me as I envisioned Jack's presence. I turned away from him and stared at the door leading to Emily's bedroom.

"Good grief, Morrie, how boring. That closet has two doors: one to Emily's bedroom and one to the adjacent bedroom. What's the big deal?"

Before me passed images of the wardrobe's nearness to Emily's bed and the whites of Jack's eyes peering at us from within. "Then it's true; you were watching us. You... you..."

"Come now, Morrie, philosophers don't moralize..."

"You seduced me, you..."

"Watch the vocabulary," he interrupted. "Recall how miserable you were when I found you. You have power now and should be thankful."

"It's never been for my well-being. You planned this all along. You wanted Emily for yourself. Why didn't you just take her? Why use me?"

"For sure, I could have seduced the young woman with ease. But why enter the physical realm? I've experienced it all and find it boring. For me it's too late. The very idea of the sexual act makes me nauseous. You ask me what I really want? The answer is quite simple: spirituality. I want to blush."

"What are you talking about?" I asked.

"Ah," he sighed yearningly, "the blush of a youth is the dawning of the spirit. Childlike and yet mature, a virgin youth is as a newborn still wet with its mother's moisture. Surprised by primitive emotions, he tries to cover his nakedness." Jack paused and gritted his teeth. "But, as consciousness grows, spontaneity declines. Like a common sensualist who dreams up new, more twisted variations of love, I, the curator of conscious reflection, yearn to imbibe adolescence fervor. I want to reach the pinnacles of feeling that I now can only describe."

"So that's where I come in."

Before stumping his cigarette, Jack took out another and lit it. "Yes, the lovely Emily is a woman full of artistic power and sophistication, but no match for me. She could never have offered herself to me, not freely. I could only have overwhelmed her, and thus I would have destroyed the very immediacy for which I yearn. Your soul had a newness that even I cannot create. You, unblemished by experience, had that which I desire but cannot attain. And you, lusting beyond your means, offered yourself as my habitation. Yes, by making you become like me, I became like you and tapped your chastity."

Listening to Jack made me squeamish. "And what about Emily, what will come of her?"

He inhaled again from his cigarette. "What difference does it make to the likes of us?" he asked and blew smoke across the table. "She, our feminine antithesis, has also partaken of the AMORE ASCENDES. If she can pull herself together, she'll recreate Thy Johannes into a thousand new masterpieces, perhaps even become famous...or commit suicide. Who knows? Who cares? Not you or I, anyway."

I sat on a kitchen chair and hung my head in sadness. Jack looked on me with a twisted smile, still consuming my emotions. He was beyond offence, beyond vulnerability. As the parasite, he continued to gratify himself on the nectar of my youth. I, who had wanted his powers, had sold him my soul. I hated him.

"That's sick. Are you finished now? You still want more? Haven't I given you my all?"

Jack laughed. "Yes, and you will never get it back. You've expended everything. Now that you have experienced the fullness of the AMORE ASCENDES, you will find there is a backside: a consciousness of used up possibilities. You can, of course, repeat the act, but why, having reduced being to the nothing it really is? Everything has its price, after all, especially power. The disciple has become like his master. Go now. I have no more use for you. I've taught you a few tricks. They'll be your survival."

"But to love then has no meaning?"

"Ha. What else is new? I said there was a flipside, and you are already adding up two and two. I hope you survive, for there are more such conclusions to be learned from AMORE ASCENDES."

"Why do you go on living? Why not end it all?" I asked.

"I may be honest, but I am not a coward. Besides, as long as there are people like you around, I can play the game of life." Jack's cigarette sizzled as he flicked it into a stale cup of coffee. He was getting ready to leave. "So long kid. And good luck."

The events of the lasts few days flashed through my mind. "This whole thing is disgusting. You were watching us. Don't ever come near me again...you pervert."

That comment amused Jack. "Have you forgotten? The AMORE ASCENDES has no moral categories."

I raised my head. "The AMORE ASCENDES, I don't accept it."

"You what?" he asked with a rush of anger.

"You haven't taken everything. I still have hope. There's God, and there's Christ. Somehow there must also be meaning."

Jack laughed, "Oh come on, Morrie. You've gone too far to revert to such ignorance. Grow up!"

"I dare to believe, Jack. You don't. That's the difference between you and me. Who's the coward, really?"

Jack's face fumed, his eyes flaming with demonic rage. "You are pathetic," he said and then stomped out the back door.

I remained at the kitchen table alone. Jack, Emily, the AMORE ASCENDES. I wanted to leave this house forever. I stood up and walked back to the campus.

_______________

### Book Three

The wind blows where it wills. You hear the sound thereof,

but cannot tell whence it comes, and whither it goes.

So is everyone that is born of the Spirit.

John 3:8

### Chapter 16

_______________

.

And so it was. By the close of that disastrous week, the Milwaukee Journal had printed the entire event in their Saturday edition. A huge color photo depicted our leader, Dr. Frederick Lentzner, scandalized, drenched with red paint, on the first page of the Arts section in every home. His bushy white hair seemed to be standing straight on end. Beside the bewildered president stood Emily, startled but defiant, clutching my arm with both hands--ever beautiful. My face had luckily just turned from the camera, and only the back of my head was visible. The empty easel, which had proudly displayed Thy Johannes, lay on its back, the legs sticking up in the air.

Monday afternoon, classes had resumed, but without any normalcy. All of Bethlehem was in shock; its very foundations were teetering. President Lentzner had not appeared in public since Friday night's assault on the Oxford Room. Our leader, who had skillfully molded this school to its present greatness, had been smitten. Now all were wounded; the weak were vanquished, the strong vulnerable. Even the Arties, so bold to rebel under the secure wings of orthodoxy, were staggering and huddled together like tattered children in the ruins of a bombed city.

I had become a refugee and spent many hours on Milwaukee's streets where nobody knew me. I had skipped all of Monday's classes. On campus, rumors had connected me to the paint balloon raid. Everywhere, suspicious eyes were watching.

The AMORE ASCENDES, whose heights I had scaled, had become the yoke under which I wallowed.

Woe is me for I am undone.

Along the Milwaukee River near Water Street, congested vehicles belched the exhaust that had become my bread. Soot mingled with my tears. My deeds lay always before me.

I am a hunted beast to be devoured.

Emily's voice, like Abel's blood, cried out for vengeance. True, Jack had used me to usurp my virginity, but I had let him. I had collaborated to deceive Emily, plundering her vulnerability, only to ditch her. Was she hurt? Angry? Glad to be rid of me?

This lingering image of Jack was haunting. I could still feel his affixing eyes, gratifying himself, visually sucking the nectar of my youth. The knowledge he had imparted had changed me, and the consequences were clear. No longer was I the cowering boy from the midland prairies. I was conscious of an air about me, and many identified me with the icon, Emily. Jack had enabled this Johannes effect, where "young women tune in and see their heart's desire."

However, they were still Jack's powers, and I detested them. To carry on under his sway would be wanton. I had become AMORE ASCENDES run amok. Still, one could not turn back the clock. Who then would I be?

My soul is full of trouble. I am a man with no strength in the darkness of the deep.

On Tuesday, I passed by the Threshing Floor on East Brady Street. The warm sun had just disappeared behind a building. Was I secretly hoping to run into Emily? From its threshold, my old haunt bade me enter, and I descended only to find it vacant, except for the proprietor who was washing glasses behind the bar.

"Mr. Schiller, you've been away. I just made some fresh coffee. Pull up a stool." He set two clean cups on the counter. "By the way, my name is Jake...In case you didn't already know."

The Milwaukee Journal lay open before him with the infamous photo in full view. He grinned and poured steaming coffee for us both. Jake had obviously been privy to the slurs about me, and I could almost feel his ears tingling in hope for new inside gossip. However, I had no time for his curiosity. His slanderous desires repulsed me. I thanked him for the coffee and returned to the street.

The next day it was Tina Kaiser's turn to cross my disordered path. Near the War Memorial on the lakefront, our eyes met, and she hurried toward me in distress. She seemed to be seeking my help.

"Morrie, have you seen Emily?"

"No!" I said and turned in the opposite direction. I did not want to hear another word.

She ran up to me from behind and forced me to stop. "Emily's gone, and God knows where. I'm looking for her."

"Relax, she's somewhere nearby. It's a big city. She'll be all right. And why should you care?"

"Saturday afternoon I found her room in disarray with drawers pulled out; her bed was stripped bare. Emily's suitcase is gone, along with some of her clothes and jewelry. She's run off, I tell you."

Tina's persistence forced me to take note. "Did she write a note or anything?"

"No. But you must know. So tell me, please, where is she?"

"Honestly, I don't know. Have you checked the university?" I dramatically looked at my watch to assert my desire to leave.

Tina started to cry. "I just came from there. No one has seen her, and she's missed all her appointments. Her teachers have read about her. It's all over the news. They're shocked and very concerned. I've been looking all over--for both of you. I thought you two had run off."

"No way. I haven't seen her since the unveiling."

"Why didn't she leave me a message? I'm her best friend."

"Tina, you must tell me everything you know. And stop crying. Here, take this paper napkin. Have you seen her at all since Friday?" Much to my regret, Tina had sucked me into this conversation.

Tina took a Kleenex and wiped her eyes and nose. "Once, on a Saturday morning, at our house, I had never seen anyone so depressed and dejected. Those Fundies must have got to her. Before, they made her only more defiant. I wanted her to talk, but Emily wouldn't come clean. She was very incoherent, and she held her stomach as if there were menstrual cramps..." Tina cried again.

"Tina, pull yourself together. Didn't she leave any clues as to her whereabouts? Did she say anything?"

"Several weeks ago, the very day that plans were made for an award ceremony, Emily asked us girls if she could have the entire house that night for herself. She said she might need room to provide rooms for a few guests from New York. Thus, I arranged to sleep in the dorm. But with the balloon raid and all, I was worried about Emily. So the next morning, I crept in the house through the back door, which was unlocked by the way. I was hoping that she and any of her guests would still be asleep. That's when I overheard her talking on the telephone in the front hallway."

"The morning after the award ceremony?" I felt squeamish. "What time?"

"About 9:30."

I sighed in relief. Jack and I had already been gone a couple hours.

"Tina, you said she didn't say anything!"

"To me she said nothing. This I overheard, and I wasn't planning to tell anyone, especially not you."

"What did she say? Were you in the house with her alone?"

"On the kitchen table there were cigarette stumps snuffed out in a coffee cup. Someone had been there." She looked me with jealous eyes. "I'm sure it was a man, but no Bethlehemite. Someone older, the mysterious Johannes, who knows? Something was wrong because Emily never allowed smoking in the house. That's when Emily's voice came from the next room. She sounded distressed and afraid."

"Was she alone?"

"I said she was on the telephone."

"With who?"

"It wasn't you, that's all I know."

"How do you know that?"

"Because she was speaking French."

I trembled at the thought of who he was. "Emily can speak French?"

"Not fluently, but well enough, and I can understand a little. She asked someone...by the name of Jacques...if he was leaving for New York."

"JACK!"

"No not Jack...J-Jacque, in French. Do you know who he is?" inquired Tina.

My heart sank. "I'm not really sure." I said with all honesty.

"Do you think Emily took off for New York?" She looked at me as if I knew.

"This is the first I've heard of this."

"Wait a minute," said Tina. "Some time ago, after her father died, Emily talked about meeting a Frenchman in New York. Maybe it's the same person."

I shrugged my shoulders.

"And in April, I found a crumpled up note by the telephone. On it was a number, a telephone number, and it was signed 'Thy Johannes'--written with a fountain pen in old fashioned script. I had forgotten that until now..." Tina flashed her angry eyes. "You! Somehow you're behind all this! First there's Johannes, and now Jacques...and you say JACK. Ever since you've been coming around, she's been changing... All this Johannes junk has obsessed and destroyed her. Now you talk, Morrie. You know something. Tell me, what have you been up to?"

Tina was pressing hard, and I could take no more. Without a word, I turned away.

"Not so fast, Schiller. Something creepy is going on here. She might have also been with you. Have I been in denial? When interviewing you last fall, I saw nothing in you but a small town hick! You could only be nothing to her. How could she? I'll never understand how you hoodwinked Emily."

I saw hatred in her eyes. Poor Tina. Though I had stolen Emily, arrogance had made her blind.

"Anyway, upon seeing the cigarette butts in the kitchen, I knew someone else had been there, someone older, more sophisticated, maybe Jacque...or Johannes, whoever he is. But not you. Then there was that telephone call..."

Whatever my folly, I owed Tina nothing. Before she could finish babbling, I walked away.

"Morrie, where are you going? Come back here." She loathed me and needed me.

The AMORE ASCENDES provided no moral courage this time. I left her in despair at the War Memorial and jogged toward the lake shoreline where no one could find me.

The thought of Jack's physical presence with Emily made me nauseous. Had he invested his time and effort for an even greater moment of future abuse?

It was dark upon my arrival on campus, and crickets chirped in the warm night air. Out on the lawn near my dorm, I saw my first firefly of the year.

Mine eyes mourneth by reason of my affliction.

Lover and friend hast thou put far from me

and mine acquaintances have left me in darkness.

On Friday, President Lentzner cancelled the first hour of classes and assembled the entire student body in the chapel. He stood before the podium, his snowy hair ruffled and his face ashen gray. He pulled a prepared statement from his breast pocket. Beside him sat brawny Chaplain Ferapont on a folding chair, like a boxer at ringside. Silence fell as President Lentzner read his prepared speech:

My fellow workers together with Christ. This has been a tragic month in the history of Bethlehem College. While we labor to prepare young men and women to spread the gospel throughout the world, Satan has purposed to destroy this ministry. By using a band of hooligans, without scruples, and the onslaught of malignant gossip, the Evil One has humiliated Bethlehem College in the face of friend and foe.

As the leader of this great institution, I have labored, day and night, to bring Bethlehem to its present place of preeminence. In all humility, I have become the symbol of its success. To God be the glory...However, now I have become its laughing stock, and our beloved school has become a house of fools...

The president's voice began to crack. Sobbing vented from the student body.

... _Nevertheless, the work of Christ's Kingdom must go on. To heal these wounds and avert more, I have decided to step down as president and let another repair the damage. My resignation is effective immediately. Before semester's end, the Board of Regents will select a new president with the official installation scheduled for opening day this fall._

In the mean time, Chaplain Ferapont will function temporarily as president in my place. Not only has he served faithfully as your chaplain, Ivan has been a friend and among my closest advisors. I have complete confidence in his abilities. And now, Chaplain Ferapont will dismiss us by officiating the blessing.

An emotionally drained President Lentzner sat down behind the podium. Chaplain Ferapont briskly approached the microphone.

"It is with the greatest humility that I fill the vacancy left by President Lentzner. Our prayers are with those who will be searching for our leader's replacement." He then recited a short prayer. "In closing, I have this sad announcement to make. Three days ago, I reported to the police that Emily Wagner is missing. We have made every effort to find her, but to no avail. We don't suspect anything criminal, and her absence appears to be voluntary. If anyone knows her whereabouts, please contact my office. Let's keep her in our prayers." The chaplain then lifted his hands toward the assembly. "And may the peace of God which surpasses all understanding, keep your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus. Amen. You are dismissed. Have a good day in your classes."

The students and faculty filed out of the auditorium in silence, many grieving the loss of their leader. How could a mere balloon destroy the career of so great a man?

I tried attending classes again. My presence evoked an unusual hush in Dr. MacMurray's philosophy class. His lecture was on The Religious Philosophy of St. Augustine. The shuffling of feet were the only noises as we prepared for the upcoming lecture. Half the class was staring at me, as if I had inside information about our fallen leader. I was disgusted and left to catch the next bus downtown.

While I was passing the student union, a familiar voice cried out, "Morrie, wait a minute." It was Mary Kay, one of Emily's roomies. "Any word from Emily?" she asked playfully.

"Not since Friday night." A leading question; luckily Emily's devotees knew little about me. "Listen, there's no time to talk. I've got to go."

A flirtatious Mary Kay pressed on. "What's your hurry, Morrie? Tell me, what happened between you and Emily? She really liked you, and that's unusual for her. Tina says nobody knows where Emily is, but I bet you do."

The very attractive Mary Kay wanted more than information from me. The Johannes effect was still mine to use if I wished. Not long ago, feminine enticement like this would have been flattering. Today it was repulsive. I walked away.

The streets of Milwaukee provided no relief. My room was suffocating. There was no comfort. The AMORE ASCENDES had become my albatross. I was alone, like a tumbleweed blown across the dusty plains. My bed became a crater of tears.

The night passed slowly; my eyes found no rest. I rolled about on my miserable bed. Then a timid knocking sounded on my door. My digital clock glowed at 1:09 AM. I buried my head under a blanket. The knocking continued until I fumbled across the room and opened the door. It was Frank!

"Morrie, can I come in?" He stood on the very spot where we had last parted, trembling, as if reliving the moment of my abuse. His warmth embraced me.

"Yes! Boy, am I glad to see you." I reached out and tried to pull him into my room.

But Frank looked down the hall both ways, as if someone might be following him, and then ducked in across my threshold.

"Mind if I sit here?" he asked and gingerly sat on my study chair. His hands were trembling.

"Of course not." I sat at the foot of my bed.

Frank could hardly speak and could only look at the floor. "I have a confession." He was too ashamed to look at me. "I have sinned against you and seek your forgiveness."

Several months earlier, I had grabbed him by the neck and had thrown him out of my life.

"Frank, if anyone has sinned..."

"Morrie, please let me say this. I have not been your friend. I have been brazen and rude and have slandered your faith as inferior to mine. My proud heart drove you away. Now I'm alone and vanquished and need you as my friend. Morrie, forgive my arrogance?"

Frank looked like a pile of broken bones. He spoke differently; the twang of his Southern accent had disappeared.

"If you knew my folly, you would be vindicated. You wouldn't even be talking to me."

"I was too high minded to talk and could only preach."

I fell on my pillow. My eyes swelled with tears. I tried to speak but could only sob. Frank sat beside me and put his hand on my shoulder.

"Morrie," he helped me sit up. "What's wrong? I can't understand a word you say."

I buried my face against his chest and moaned. For once, Frank had nothing to say. He held me tightly and stroked my back with his comforting hand.

Be gracious to me, O God. According to your mercy blot out my iniquities, for my sin is ever before me. Against Thee and Thee only have I done what is evil in Thy sight. Thou art blameless in Thy judgment against me.

I sat up and told my tale of Jack and of the travesties we had woven with his techniques. I told him about the doubting drills, the AMORE ASCENDES, and how we had conned Marguerite and Emily. Frank would be among the few to hear how I, and my Johannes persona, ended up in the lovely Emily's bed, only to topple into the face of Jack's indulgence.

Frank was empathetic. Gone were his endless religious clichés. "You're the talk of the campus, the mystery man. Morrie, Emily's suave escort, but to hear all this..."

"The rumors of my plotting the balloon raid are lies. If I'm a suspect, why don't the officials question me? You must believe me. I'm telling the truth."

"I've never believed those rumors. Besides, your version is much more scandalous."

"Well, thank goodness for that." I smiled. "They say truth is stranger than fiction."

Frank failed to see the humor. "I haven't told you everything."

"What do you mean?"

He trembled. "Morrie, I know who's behind the balloon raid."

"What are you talking about?" I asked as Frank drew me into the events from his perspective.

"The raiders...I know who they are. It's a conspiracy."

"You mean by name? And what's all this 'conspiracy' stuff?"

"Last night I was down in the dorm basement to store some extra luggage. Suddenly, there came hushed, angry voices from nowhere. Curious, I followed the noise to just outside an adjacent room where the janitors take their coffee breaks. Do you know where I mean?"

"Not really, but go on."

"There's an air vent along the wall, and I couldn't help but overhear their conversation."

"Who? What did they say?" I asked.

Frank was hesitant but could no longer hide his secret. "The main speaker was Eilert Brigsby. He orchestrated the paint balloon raid."

"You're kidding. Who were the others? Anyone from Bethlehem?"

"Most I couldn't recognize. But there were some students, not to mention Georgie Warner."

"The student leader of the school's anti-abortion group? He's such a friendly fellow."

"We're supposed to be close friends. Georgie was one of the raiders. He was the one who smacked President Lentzner with a paint balloon. He's scared witless."

"Wasn't that balloon meant for Emily?"

"So they want you to believe. They made the attack to look like a student prank. The nude depictions on the painting, Emily's lesbian link...Brigsby connived and orchestrated all those rumors in order to provoke conservative Christians like me. We thought we were fighting against the Arties but were Brigsby's pawns to disgrace President Lentzner and then badger him into resigning. They have a hit list of those who obstruct their campaign against liberalism at Christian colleges. In God's call to purity, they had to dispose of President Lentzner."

"That's awful."

"They were even talking about you."

"Me?" I shuddered, having hoped the focus was no longer on me.

"Yes, they had been following you and Emily down at some coffeehouse downtown. Where was it now?"

"The Threshing Floor?"

Frank stood up and began to pace the floor. "Right, on East Brady Street. They were discussing different ways to frame you. No one could figure out who your connections were. They wondered whether another secret organization had planted you here."

I smiled. "Those idiots are no match for Jack. He's light years ahead of them all. Did they say anything else about me?"

"They work on several fronts. Pinning the balloon raid on you, Emily's mysterious escort, is but one of many attempts. Whichever rumor sticks is the one they use. "

"So that's where the gossip comes from."

"They agreed to leak more nasty information about you--especially to Chaplain Ferapont..."

I flung myself backward on my bed and covered my face with my hands. "That's all I need."

"Relax; I don't think it's working. I hear less and less about you in the hallways. With Emily gone, the focus is shifting to Lentzner's successor."

"What about you?" I asked. "Were you ever part of the plot?"

"No, thank God. They did mention me, but only as one of their stooges, to use Georgie's exact words. I was their designated rabble-rouser. To so-called wackos like me, they fed their tittle-tattle and egged us into passing it on to the media. Instead of serving the Lord, I was their patsy."

Frank sat again on my chair and slouched down in shame."Morrie, there are hundreds of Christians who unwittingly support these guys. I've read some of Brigsby's pamphlets against the rising tide of secular humanism in Christian education and have raised funds for his work. But this is only a front. Brigsby's real work is underground--a network here and who knows where else. They're like paramilitaries and call themselves the Right Hand of God."

"A Christian militia? Are you serious?" I was shocked.

"Exactly, but without the guns and stuff. By the way, Emily's father was another victim of their plots."

I quickly sat up on my bed. "What? Did they talk about him as well?" I told Frank Emily's version of her father's death.

"I heard lots of bickering, especially about past failed strategies. Some had wanted to smear Harry Wagner as a homosexual. Others had warned not to overplay the gay-bashing lest it lose its power to strike fear among ordinary Christians. I'm telling you, these guys are united by their hate."

"That's scary. Emily's intuitions were right on. Who won the argument?"

"It doesn't matter. When Dr. Wagner died, he was no threat, so they diverted their energies elsewhere, I guess."

"What else did you hear?" I asked, eager to know more.

"They closed in this awful prayer, damning their enemies, and repeated this spooky oath to fight for an American theocracy. They swore secrecy and pledged allegiance to Brigsby and the Right Hand of God." Frank hung his head. "Morrie, do you remember when he 'prophesied' over Bethlehem College on the square last winter?"

"How could I forget? You really freaked out."

"That's when I became their stooge, I guess." Frank sighed deeply. For him the pain of betrayal went deep.

"Cheer up, old buddy. Thank God that Brigsby didn't try to recruit you into the Right Hand of God like he did Georgie Warner. Maybe you would have fallen for him. Look what happen to me and Jack! Be grateful it's over." I leaned over and slapped my hand on his knee. "By the way, Frank, what happened to all that Johnny-Rebel-talk? You've really changed."

Frank smiled, peevishly. "Oh, that was just a show. Lots of folks talk like that back home in Kentucky but never in my house. Both my parents are teachers from Buffalo, New York. I thought it sounded more conservative, but now I just want to be myself." We both laughed, and then Frank became serious again. "Morrie, we can't just be bystanders and let this go on. We have to do something."

"We? I've got enough problems. Best I mind my own business. Speak for yourself only, please."

Frank persisted. "But this is spiritual warfare. They've maliciously forced President Lentzner to resign. I was naïve enough to participate, and thus I share the blame. We can't be passive."

I stood up, went to the window, and gazed into the dark night. "President Lentzner's disgrace is history. There's nothing to do. Soon they'll find a suitable replacement, and, before long, things will be back to normal."

"Perhaps, but I also know coming events, and so do you."

I turned around and faced Frank. "I know nothing. What are you talking about?"

Frank leaned forward in his chair. "The future. Getting rid of Lentzner was only the first step. They have yet to seize control. Whatever happens next, we'll know the truth and will have to act."

"Hey, don't drag me into this." I turned back and looked out the window.

"We'll see," said Frank as he stood up. "I've heard your friend Crusader is back on campus. Maybe we should discuss this with him."

I rushed over and grabbed Frank's shoulders. "Crusader? Have you seen him?"

"No, but someone did, in the student union last night. He was asking about the balloon raid. How well do you know him, Morrie? He's a mysterious person. Suppose he's involved in all this?"

"Only to fight against it, Frank. The differences between him and Brigsby are without end. We should tell him what we know."

"I'm not so sure. Can we trust him?"

"I trust him. We can go together. I know where he lives."

Frank hesitated. "Let's wait awhile, Morrie. Don't tell anyone about this. Promise me."

"Well...okay, p'rtner," I said with a fake accent. "But don'cha go causin' me anymore trouble, y'hear?" We both laughed. "Frank, it's nearly three o'clock. I want to get some sleep."

"Okay, good night, Morrie--or rather good morning. And thanks a bunch. You're a real friend."

"You don't know what you mean to me."

With nervous relief, Frank laughed and closed the door behind him. Within minutes, I was in bed and asleep.

Create in me a clean heart, O God. And renew a right spirit within me. Cast me not away from thy presence and take not thy Holy Spirit from me. Restore unto me the joy of thy salvation. And uphold a right spirit within me.

### Chapter 17

### ________________

The warm May sun bathed the entire city of Milwaukee. Bringing new hope to all creation, young green foliage now covered the trees, lawns, and hedges. I was attending classes regularly and no longer feared the qualms of others. Indeed, the intrigue that surrounded me had subsided. My reunion with Frank had forged new bonds of friendship. My life was a paradox of strength and weakness. I was not my own creator in a Jack-fabricated world. Nor was I the home-schooled tenderfoot of my pre-Jack existence. With the wisdom of a serpent, I could never see the world the same.

Frank was right about Crusader; he was back in town, and our reunion was a celebration.

"Crusader, I've been looking all over for you." We met accidentally in Wauwatosa at a bus stop on Mayfair Road, just south of the shopping center. I had just delivered some film for Frank at the Walgreen Drugstore.

"You're not so easy to find yourself," he said. We embraced. "I flew in from St. Louis yesterday and have been calling your room ever since."

"Boy, it's good to see you again," I said.

"Wow, what a reception," he chuckled. "It's good to be back in Milwaukee. What have you been up to for the last couple months?" He looked at me as if he already knew.

"Oh-oh." I gritted my teeth. In all the excitement, I had forgotten about Jack. "Uh, Crusader, how can I tell you..."

My friend kindly changed the subject. "We'll talk about it later. Have you had lunch?"

I nodded as we walked together up to West North Avenue where we turned left. There was traffic coming and going in all directions, and we were the only pedestrians.

"Well, I haven't. Sit with me while I grab a bite. Mrs. Wigaard isn't home today, and there's nothing in the house to eat."

"Crusader, we need to talk about my recent past." My disclosure to Frank had given me courage. "I've been in lots of trouble lately."

"Can't this wait until after a couple of hamburgers?" He seemed unconcerned and focused on the roadside establishments down the street. "Look, my favorite diner." It was a Denny's Restaurant.

We checked in. Crusader ordered a full meal, while I only wanted some ice cream since I would soon be eating at the college dining hall. While Crusader carefully seasoned his food with all his favorite sauces, I told him the story—this time backwards—from my confession to Frank, how I met Jack, about my night with Emily, Marguerite, and the doubting drills.

My confession left him unruffled. "I sensed your mutual attraction when I met you two before Christmas. It was a terrible risk, and I left Milwaukee not knowing if we'd ever meet again. Nevertheless, I had to release you. That your integrity would prevail in the end was my only hope."

"You take everything so nonchalantly. Don't you realize what I've done?"

Crusader turned serious. "I won't diminish the folly of your deeds, not to mention the harm brought upon Emily and others. However, your attitude is contrite. Pray that one day you can make restitution. You strayed on dangerous ground, but what Jack meant for evil may result in a greater good. I'm optimistic."

"Are you saying all my problems are over?" I asked.

"Goodness no," he laughed. "They may be just beginning. The good news is that your misdeeds have ended in a greater maturity. Remember the last time you visited me on Updike Street?"

"Of course."

"And the subject of our last dialogue?" He took a sip from his glass of Coke. "Do you mind if I eat while we talk?"

"Go right ahead," I replied. "Didn't we discuss the subject of hope?"

"Right again," he said and took a big bite out of his hamburger. "And what did I say about being disposable?"

"Hmm, a disposable person does not stand back and merely observe but is involved and is vulnerable to the realities of his or her situation."

"And what about hope then?"

"Um, to verbalize would be difficult." I poked about my ice cream with a spoon before taking a bite.

"Here's a hint. St. Paul says in Romans chapter 8: 'For I reckon that the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory that shall be revealed in us.'" He took another bite from his hamburger as he waited for me to answer.

"Yes," I said at last, "hope goes beyond vulnerability. It anticipates the future even in the face of despair. Hope encounters the present in view of eternal purposes."

"Exactly, and in spite of the futility that Jack forced you to face, you opted, in the end, for a genuine sense of hope?"

"Yes, and I'm still smarting." I focused again on my ice cream.

"Be glad. Most people are blind to what you see. For many hope is little more that a wishy-washy optimism of artificial sweeteners." He pointed to the little bottle of saccharin next to the napkin holder.

"What's the point?" I asked, frustrated.

Crusader next prepared his salad by pouring on some French dressing. "Thanks to Jack," he said, "you can see the darker side of reality. Not all could have resisted his pseudo-exalted-self as did you. You lost your innocence, and your naiveté, yet you chose to remain vulnerable. In hope, you stood up to Jack's cynicism and crushed him. There's real beauty in that."

"Beauty?"

"Yes, without fully understanding, you intuitively chose the right. Perhaps someday you'll understand as well."

"Gosh, you make me sound so heroic."

"A good tree bears good fruit," he added and showed me the cherry tomato on his fork. "Morrie, you're ready to go beyond hope, beyond being merely open to reality. The challenge is to enter in. Truth must be practiced in everyday life."

"You mean, 'Walk the talk.'"

"Well, if hope is allowing our expectations to rest on things not seen, then faith is the substance, the guarantee, of things hoped for. Faith is the realization, the entering in, as it were."

"FAITH." I laughed. "Crusader, I should have known you'd be leading to this."

"Think rather in terms of faithfulness."

I sighed. "Can you be more concrete?"

Crusader wrinkled his brow. "Okay, here's an example: Let's say that I have this acquaintance, Steve, who became an invalid after a car accident. I visit him, out of compassion, and make a heartfelt promise to call on him once a week. As time goes by, however, my feet start dragging to Steve's apartment. My initial enthusiasm is gone, and before long, these visits become pure drudgery. I feel guilty because poor Steve sits in his wheelchair and looks forward to my coming. Either I have to admit that my compassion is no longer there and look for a way to break my commitment, or I have to give reign to my guilty feelings and continue visiting Steve under false pretensions. Are you following me?"

"Yes," I said. My ice cream was beginning to melt so I placed a big spoonful in my mouth. "Something similar happened to me at a youth conference, where the entire assembly pledged to read the Bible daily for the rest of their lives. I was only twelve years old. The first two weeks went great, but after that, the weight of this oath became so great that I broke my promise to God. I felt so guilty that I had to confess my unfaithfulness to our pastor."

"Exactly. To give one's word today is often a frivolous gesture of sentimentality. Rarely do we regard commitment to hold real weight in the very nature of being. The breakdown of marriages, distrust at the work place—you name it—faithfulness means little more than how one feels at the moment. Even 'committing one's life to Christ' has become a buzz slogan, like joining the Pepsi generation, a code to a prescribed package of social behavior."

"How strange," I said. "Sometimes you talk just like Jack, yet so differently."

"Yes, both of us are critical of the materialism that underlies much of modernity. However, for Jack a spiritual reality is a gateway to become like God. Like John Milton's Satan in Paradise Lost, he'd rather 'reign in Hell than serve in Heaven.'" Crusader's face burned with anger. He coughed and took a deep drink from his water glass. "I'm sorry; I didn't intend to display my disdain for that man. What were we talking about?"

"What do you mean by calling religious language a buzz slogan?" I asked, somewhat defensive.

"Buzz slogans are words that originally might have had real meaning but, because of overuse and trivializing, they have lost their weight. Some call it 'word inflation.' A billboard displays the cliché, 'Come to Jesus' to trigger the proper response in our heads. Those properly predisposed hear the buzzer and respond."

"Like rats in a cage!"

"That wasn't the Creator's intention, but I'm afraid the metaphor is valid."

"What about the Holy Spirit?" I asked.

"Who needs Him when my advertising agent gets better results? Much of modern Christianity has reduced the sacred to the problematic. By deducing solutions, even from the truth, we become religious behaviorists."

"So you say that the real solution begins by understanding the nature of being. That sounds so mystical."

"The sacred is a mystery," replied Crusader as he finished the last bits of lettuce in his bowl. "But you'll also find it very much in tune with ordinary experience. Faithfulness is not a mere act of the mind. Last time I defined a human being as incarnate being, that is, being with flesh and blood, in action in this world. Let's return to Steve, my invalid friend. My commitment was not really to him but to myself. Steve, this other, became my testing ground to see how well I do. Imagine how Steve would feel knowing my visits were so taxing?"

"All my life I have been taught disciplines in prayer, Bible memorization, and the like. I know my motives shouldn't be legalistic, but we believe Truth as revealed in the Bible. Doesn't Christ command us to do the will of God?"

Crusader replied, "I agree with Kierkegaard: The highest thing an ethical man can do is to repent." He signaled the waitress and ordered a piece of raisin cream pie and coffee.

She looked at me, and I shook my head. "What then is faithfulness --in practice?" I asked.

"First off it's not acting upon but participating with. Consider a similar word, engagement. In today's on-and-off again relationships, this word loses its intended meaning. Engagement speaks of commitment and involvement and assumes the equal participation of the other. It is not some thing we do but a presentation of my whole self to the whole self of the other. It is being.

"Secondly, those engaged do not act upon one another. Engagement is a bond, a fellowship, a new entity that did not exist before. Engagement includes a mutual 'I-hold-you-to-your-word.'

"Engagement has real existence. In religious terms, all engagement is done before God. Today's generation finds it easy to 'break' engagements because they are only mouthing buzz slogans. Words that have lost their ontological weight also lose their sense of being or reality. We Evangelicals, despite our successes, have contributed little in this area and are often the religious flipside to a glib secular modernity."

"Whew." I symbolically wiped my brow. "Like the camel passing through the eye of the needle, who can be saved?"

The waitress returned with the pie and coffee. Crusader's face lit up with the anticipation of tasting the cool, creamy desert and coffee.

"The answer echoes Jesus' reply, 'With God all things are possible.' As hope leads to disposability, so engagement finds expression in faithfulness and bridges the material and spiritual dimensions of being. By being faithful, we commit not only our selves here and now but also the selves that we create. In other words, we do not merely give our selves as we are, but out potential selves, which we become by their union."

"That's beyond me. Interpret please."

My friend picked up his fork and delved into his smooth pastry. "Let's see, faithfulness is not some pious emotion or a striving to preserve one's self-esteem. It is a spontaneous presentation of an I to a YOU, as philosopher Martin Buber said. We say to each other in effect, 'Here I am' or even better, 'Here we are.'"

"Do you mean the individual, detached from all relationships, doesn't have any real being? That can hardly be right."

"No one is ever completely self-detached, but I understand your objection. Therefore, some philosophers have invented the term 'inauthentic being,' or 'bad faith,' for the self lost in egocentric behavior... Speaking of bad faith, true engagement includes the possibility of betrayal. No relationships can ever be absolutely secure, especially authentic ones. But security is not the goal. We are always vulnerable. I--or the other party--can always betray that trust. It's all part of being human or incarnate being. But this touches on the problem of evil, which is another philosophical topic for another time."

"Crusader," I said with a sigh. "It's still over my head." I scraped the bottom of my empty ice cream dish. I regretted not having ordered a second cup of coffee.

"Okay, let's return to our friend Steve. Authentic faith would have me empathize with Steve's situation to the extent that I 'become him.' The process is mutual. Steve has truly as much to give me as I him. We pass from being two people among others to the higher level of friendship."

"Is that what Jack called 'deliverance from the masses?'"

"Excuse me?" This time Crusader controlled his temper.

"Both of you criticize the common mindset of being organic recipients. To be a person is to reach out beyond oneself," I said.

"True, but Jack and his like see themselves at the center of the universe and would manipulate their destinies. Their motive is the desire to have, in my opinion."

"He was treacherous."

"True communion is motivated by love. I emphasize that we're speaking on a human level. Ultimately, friendship is not a human endeavor and has its foundation in the faithfulness of God."

I added, "Like Abraham, we don't know the way for certain, but we trust in God and walk by faith."

"Yes." He laughed and drank up his coffee. He was now finished with his meal. "As tent-dwellers in a strange country, we look for a city with a foundation beyond ourselves. I believe the nature of existence excludes despair as an option."

Beyond the diner window, was darkness. "Crusader, it's late."

He checked his watch. "The hour has slipped away. Please excuse me, but I've many things to attend to this night. No time to explain."

"But I wanted your opinion about President Lentzner's resignation."

"Please don't ask about that. There are things that I can't talk about, Morrie."

"If you say so."

"One more thing about faith," he added. "Don't get bogged down by my theories. My guess is that you'll soon experience these very things. Then it will be clear."

Crusader reached into his pocket and gave me ten dollars.

"Do you mind staying behind to pay the bill?" He stood up to leave. "Tip the waitress with the change."

"What's the rush, Crusader? Where..."

"Sorry, Morrie. I can't talk now. Goodbye for now."

I stopped by my postbox on my way back to my dorm. There was a letter from my father. Its contents would once again reframe my Bethlehem career.

-Dear Son,

Last week after church, Pastor Patterson found a large manila envelope in his office with my name on it. No one knows how it got there. Inside was a photo clip from the Milwaukee Journal of the paint-drenched President Lentzner. No doubt you've seen it. News of the Bethlehem scandal had also reached our church in St. Paul. However, your mother and I were unaware that you were in the midst of all this. The sender had encircled your picture, and although you turned your head from the camera, we knew it was you. Included were several regular photos of you and the Wagner girl together. We are shocked!

As if that was not enough, there were also several snap shots of you receiving communion in a Catholic church, presumably in Milwaukee. Morrie, how could you? After God so graciously delivered our family from the chains of Catholicism, how could you even think of returning to such bondage? It's hard to believe.

We are very distressed, Morrie. On Friday, your mother and I are driving to Milwaukee to assess your behavior. We will call on you at your dorm after classes—so be there. By the way, we've tried calling your room several times, but no answer. Aren't you ever home? Don't you have homework? Hope this letter finds you soon.

-Dad

Friday was the next day. Had Brigsby's gang planted those pictures at our church? Could they expose everything about Emily and me? Why bring in the Catholic stuff?

Around noon, Dad called from their motel. This time I was in my room to take the phone. He explained how he was too upset to talk on the phone and how he was praying that they could find the underlying cause of this problem. "Your mother and I will pick you up," he said and hung up without saying goodbye.

An executive-style Oldsmobile pulled into a crowded parking space beside my dorm and stopped near the curb. I stepped into the car and into an air of estrangement. We drove off campus, and my father turned east on Capital Drive.

Mom broke the silence. "Mary's staying with the Freiberg's. She's joined the drama club at Humbolt Heights School this spring, and they placed third at the Twin Cities' one-act-play competition..."

One quick glance from Dad silenced her. Like a volcano about-to-erupt, he concentrated on the busy traffic round about, and Mom, taking the blame and expecting the worse, withdrew into a sorrowful silence. Dad made a sharp right turn and came to an abrupt stop in front of The Red Inn near 92nd Street. Within minutes, an eager waiter seated us beside a window and took our order. The tables round about were empty. We sat at one of them with my parents seated on one side and me on the other. I wasn't hungry; neither was Mom, but this was Dad's way of addressing family rows, to posture with importance and assure that he got his way.

The unwitting waiter set three cuts of prime rib before us: a huge one for Dad, a medium one for me, and a small piece for my mother. The charcoaled flesh and pools of red juices on my plate could not whet my appetite. Dad busily buttered three dinner rolls. Several photographs, waiting to convict me, rested facedown on the table. He was gathering his thoughts while I formulated possible believable replies.

Would Dad first grill me about the balloon raid? He would be concerned about his public image. My response: Emily and I had been friends, and she was gone--the end. With interest shifting to our president's successor, the balloon raid affair was fading fast. I was attending classes and, for most, the affair surrounding his downfall was unrelated to me. With luck, no new twists in the story would crop up.

Dad put a huge chunk of red meat in his mouth and chewed. Now he was ready to talk.

"Son," he said and turned over the first photo, a snapshot of Emily planting a kiss on my cheek at the award ceremony. "You have been getting a lot of attention from a very beautiful girl. Looks like you're enjoying yourself."

I said nothing. He bit into another chunk of beef and spread out six more photos of Emily and me. I, in my suave tuxedo, and she, in her black satin formal: we looked like Hollywood celebrities.

"Are these from the night President Lentzner was hit with the paint balloon?"

"Yes, sir," I said, "It was the Spring Green Foundation's award ceremony."

"Is that Harry Wagner's daughter?"

"Her name is Emily."

"Ahem, yes. Have you forgotten the sacrifice your mother and I have made to send you to this college? These pictures have been passed around to half our congregation. Is this showing your appreciation?"

"No, sir."

Dad swallowed another mouthful of beef; his face reddened.

"What is the meaning of this?" He banged his fork against the table. Bloody red spots spattered onto the white tablecloth.

Mom looked straight ahead but said nothing. Her face tightened as her fingers gripped the table's edge.

"Dad," I said, "I was her escort. That's all these pictures say. I haven't seen her since that night. No matter what you think of Emily Wagner or of her father, no matter what that photographer intended, nothing here connects me to that raid. In another setting you and Mom would be proudly showing these lime-light photos to the neighbors."

Dad examined the pictures. "Just an escort...Why then all the secrecy? Your mother and I knew nothing of this relationship."

I looked at my parents. "A couple of months ago I didn't know Emily Wagner. I'm no longer a teenager and live far from home. Since last fall, I have come to know several girls that you don't know about. I wasn't trying to hide anything from you. Now she's somewhere far away; we'll probably never meet again. It's over. What's there to tell you? Whoever took those pictures is trying to frame me. You must believe me."

Mother finally spoke up, "I believe you, son. You weren't involved."

With another demeaning glance, my father charged his wife to seek permission before speaking. What Mom had said, however, was also his hope.

Dad sawed on his steak again. "Perhaps your mother is right. The pictures don't implicate you directly. But who would have sent them and why?"

"Those behind the raid, obviously. People have seen us together, but that's no connection. Before the raid, Emily was a celebrity, and when I came from out of nowhere, campus gossip was buzzing. Someone is covering his tail by placing the blame on me. Were it true, they would have shown real evidence."

The tense lines on Dad's face relaxed, and a shaky peace descended. Mother and I began to poke at our cold, untouched steaks. A successful businessman, Dad had climbed his way up the Evangelical ladder, rung for rung, and was now treasurer for the Association of Evangelical Businessmen in the Twin Cities. However, as an adult convert, he was a blue-collar Christian without an eminent family background. No one ever asked him to pray or give the blessing at an important event. He had never attended a prestigious Evangelical school like Bethlehem College and would always be a functionary. His only chance to reach the realm of the city elders was through me.

"Dad, since that fateful night, I've kept the lowest of profiles. No one pays me attention. With only a few weeks of school, all are busy with exams. Come summer vacation, we'll go home. Next fall there'll be a new president, and everyone will forget this. What more can I say?"

Dad collected his thoughts. Truly he was calculating how my version of events might be received back home. To support me would be wise if I were right. The decision to end this dispute was his. Mom and I waited in hope. His relaxed composure was a good sign.

Suddenly, he turned over the remaining three pictures and held up the one with me kneeling before the altar rail in a Catholic church. Like some hungry hatchling, I had stretched my neck forward, and my mouth gaped open as a hand placed a thin white wafer on my tongue.

"In the name of God, why abominate yourself with such sacrilege?"

I forced down my last mouthful of food. Mother, about to put a potato bite into her mouth, could not complete the act. We were stunned, as if blunted by a poisoned dart. How was I going to explain this?

### Chapter 18

________________

To know my father is to know his contempt for the Roman Catholic Church, which to him was not even Christian.

"Our family belonged to a religious cult B.C. --Before Christ," he would say. His sudden anti-Catholic blurbs were embarrassing and, no doubt, the main reason Evangelical leaders never gave him assignments that required discretion.

Mary, Mom, and I had learned to avoid the subject for the sake of domestic peace. Thus, when all these irrational Catholic feelings began to fume, I knew my father would one day confront me. This was that day.

"Son, we've done everything to bring you and Mary up in the Christian faith. Your mother, look what suffering she endures for the gospel's sake. She's not even welcome in her own father's house. We've surrounded you with the Word of God. Together, our family has followed the Lord in believer's baptism. Would that I could uproot every papal tare from our family so that the pure seed of New Testament Christianity can take root. Are you so foolish, having entered the Spirit, to return to the flesh?"

Mother sat stiffly in her chair. The stress-lines across her face deepened. We had heard variations of this lecture before.

My father wiped his mouth with a napkin and picked up the photos. "Son, can we believe our eyes? Are you flirting with the papists from whom the Lord Jesus has delivered us? Answer me: is what I see true?"

The print depicted me attending Our Lady's Catholic Church the Sunday after visiting the chaplain's office. A regional bishop was officiating Mass so the sanctuary was packed. Present also were dozens of children about to receive First Communion from the bishop's hand. Pressed about the rail were proud parents, squatting with flash cameras and hoping to capture that sacred moment when the Host first touches the lips of their offspring. I was one of the first communicants after the children, so an unnoticed photographer could have easily crept close and taken my picture.

"Yes, sir," I replied.

Chaplain Ferapont! I had mentioned in his office that I was going to Mass that Sunday. A dark cloud descended upon me. He or some surrogate had secretly taken pictures of me. It had to be. No one else knew. Why?

"How often?" demanded Dad.

And why were those pictures included together with balloon raid photos? Could it be...

"Morrie, pay attention! How often are you attending Mass?"

"Not often, sir. Twice before Christmas, and not once this semester."

"Do you see the error of your ways?" He was hopeful.

My Jack-adventures had tapered my Catholic yearnings. Had Dad not forced me to refocus, they might have faded away forever. Longings are only feelings, but they threatened Dad who needed to catalogue them with Bible verses as sinful. I needed to end this conversation by saying something credible.

"Morrie, do you see the error of your ways?"

My mouth was about to speak but an exchange of glances with Mom evoked a new rush of Catholic desires.

"Dad, deep within there is this feeling...an awareness that's hard to describe—especially when you get so upset. Hopefully, you'll understand now."

The hope in my father's eyes dissipated.

"Our home church on Burgeous Road means a lot to me," I continued. "My mind says everything I've learned there is right. However, upon coming to Bethlehem College, this feeling of spiritual homelessness befell me. This may sounds like gibberish, but how else can I say it?" I placed my palm on my breastbone and moved it down over my stomach. "It starts here and descends..."

Like a child, my father covered his eyes with his hands. "Stop! Enough! Just tell me. What starts where?"

"That feeling."

"What are you talking about?" he asked.

"It's beyond description, like a hunger. Something deep inside is telling me to..." I choked and cringed. "That is... I want to..."

"What do you want? Speak up, boy."

"To become a Catholic."

Mother burst into tears.

My father was taken by surprise. This was beyond his worst fears. "Have you lost your mind?" Dad shouted. His face appeared shocked. "Helen, cut the blubbering! Morrie, what has possessed you to wish such an abomination?"

I was holding back my own tears. "I've already told you. I don't know why. It's there and keeps coming back."

"Don't be ridiculous. What would others say if they heard such hideousness? That feeling is the voice of the devil. Helen, stop bawling! Our son has gone over the brink of deception."

Dad's word, having dominated so far, now had to compete with the wailing of his wife.

"Woman, shut up and listen!" he shouted as Mom pulled herself together. "We're in a public place, for heaven's sake. I'm trying to reason with our son, and your emotional outbursts only confuse."

"Now where were we?" he grumbled. "So you want to become a Catholic...Why?"

"I don't have a reason. I said it's a feeling..." I looked over at Mom sitting beside my father across from me. By now she had dried her tears and was listening with quiet intensity.

"You feel that you want to become a Catholic. Enlighten me. Tell me how this feeling feels."

"Well, like something gnawing at the pit of my stomach or through a dream."

Dad dramatically slapped his forehead and looked up toward heaven as Tevye would in Fiddler on the Roof. "My son the dreamer!" He turned again toward me. "That's asinine."

"Dad, hear me out. And please don't make fun of me."

"Why? The mere mention brings shame upon our entire family." He sarcastically sighed in disgust and then became serious. "Have you sought counseling for this?"

"Why yes..." Oh, oh, big mistake. "I mean, sort of..."

"Sort of? Either you did or you didn't. Who?"

"It happened last fall, really insignificant."

"With whom?" he asked

I didn't answer.

"Harvey, don't badger the boy," said Mom who until now had hardly said a word.

Dad waved his hand at her, signaling that she should shut up and leaned forward across table. "Morrie, what was his name..." The worried look on his face had prepared him for the worse, as if I had personally spoken to the Pope.

"Chaplain Ferapont."

Dad leaned back on his chair and sighed in relief. "Ah, a good man. That's the first good news I've heard all day. He spoke once, at men's conference in Minneapolis, on how God had saved him out of Catholicism while he was studying to be a priest. An inspiring testimony. Did he tell you about that?"

"Yes."

"Did he set you straight?"

"Actually, he was very busy and just said that he understood."

"Understood what?"

"That feeling. Why don't you listen? Chaplain Ferapont might agree with you theologically, but he understands how I feel."

"Then he didn't straighten you out."

"He advised me on how to cope, but that's not what you want to hear. Our session was a waste of time."

"That's incredible. He's the chaplain of Bethlehem College. I've met the man myself, and we've talked about this very thing. We agreed completely."

"Dad, you're not listening."

Dad shouted, "What did he say?"

"I can't explain it any better. Go ask him yourself."

"Great idea," said Dad. "We'll talk to Chaplain Ferapont directly. I have his business card and will call him now. I've complete confidence in his judgment."

I gulped. "Dad, please...this is a family affair. Let's keep it that way."

"Quite frankly, I want to know just what he said since you are unable to represent him. I have decided. We're going."

"Maybe the chaplain can help explain to Dad why you feel this way," added Mom.

Dad called the waiter and paid the bill. For Dad, a Bethlehem chaplain was as reliable as the King James Version. I didn't want to go; Mother, full of hope, linked her arm in mine in the back seat as we drove west back toward the college.

When Dad tried calling the chaplain from a pay phone in the student union, the signal was busy. We walked across the campus and, unannounced, rang the buzzer outside the chaplain's office. I prayed that he was out, but Chaplain Ferapont opened the door himself.

"Morrie," he said cautiously. "What are you doing here?" He then saw my parents and smiled. "Uh, Mr. and Mrs. Schiller, I presume? Please, won't you all come in?"

"I hope we're not intruding," said Mom.

"Not at all, Mrs... Schiller?"

"Yes, Chaplain," I said. "Meet my mother and father. Dad said he talked to you once at a conference."

"Why of course." He brushed his bald head to scan his memory. Suddenly, his eyes flashed. "Minneapolis...at the convention center. I remember now." He shook my father's hand again, this time fraternally. "Mr. Schiller, do please have a chair. You too, Mrs. Schiller."

"Thank you," said my father, pleased that the chaplain had remembered him. "And you can call me Harvey."

"Harvey, Mrs. Schiller, I'm honored to have you visit my office."

Mom smiled but held him at bay.

The chaplain cleared his raspy throat and stared at me with his icy eyes. Did he know about the mysterious envelope with the photographs? Dad took no notice and instead admired the sailing trophies and pennants as I had a few months earlier.

Chaplain Ferapont took his place behind his big executive desk. "Well, my good friends, how nice of you to stop by." He turned back to my parents and broadened his smile. His phony cordiality was like a Nazi officer's in a TV comedy. "How can I be of help?"

Dad replied, "We were hoping you had time..."

"Busy, busy, busy," he said to my father. "You've heard that I'm sitting temporarily as president while the Board of Regents selects a replacement."

"Yes," Dad said. "The Lord's will be done."

Chaplain Ferapont watched me squirm in my chair. "Morrie, you could help do His will by clearing the air..."

It was clear that the chaplain had heard the rumors linking me to the paint balloon raid.

Dad turned to the chaplain. "What's going on around here?"

"Excuse me?"

"The truth is that my son has nothing to do with the balloon raid, and you know it," he said.

A disappointed chaplain leaned back in his leather-bound chair. "Well... nobody has accused your son. Have they, Morrie?"

"No, sir, not yet," I replied. Suddenly Dad had become my advocate!

Dad retold how our pastor had found the pictures at church. "Who is trying to frame my son?" He pulled out the photos of Emily and me.

Chaplain Ferapont leafed through the pictures with embarrassment. "Obviously, someone has cropped these to implicate your son. Be assured, I know nothing of this, Mr. Schiller... Harvey."

My eyes connected with the chaplain's. He was lying.

"All evidence points to a conspiracy," he continued. "We want to find the perpetrators. Our school and former president have been disgraced."

I coughed and tried to get my confused father back into the conversation. He had come to enlist the chaplain's support and found himself defending me.

Dad shifted in his chair. "Ahem, we're not here to talk about the Bethlehem scandal. There's something else."

The chaplain raised his brows. "Oh?"

"In the same envelope there were snapshots of my son attending a nearby Catholic church. Morrie has admitted this. Thus, our being here has nothing to do with the school. It's personal." Mom's face stiffened as Dad's emotions began to stir. "Chaplain Ferapont, when we met at the convention center in Minneapolis, the subject of the Church of Rome came up."

"Yes," he replied, "I remember very clearly."

Dad's temper was rising. "The Catholic Church. At Bethlehem College of all places..."

"Calm down, Harvey," the chaplain said. "We are two reasonable men and must not become subject to our emotions."

"Morrie has even talked with you and claims you agree!" Dad handed him the church photos. The chaplain did all he could to hide his guilt as he thumbed through them.

He returned them and looked up at the ceiling. "Mr. Schiller, I've never seen these before. Yes, we did have one talk, but I did not encourage him in any way."

I stared at the chaplain who dared not look at me. I wanted to shout LIAR, but I stayed the course. "Dad, I didn't say that he agreed with me. He just understood the way I felt. That's all I want. Tell him what you said, Chaplain."

"Yes, what's all this feeling junk about?" asked Dad.

All eyes were fixed on the chaplain as he folded his hands and rested them on his desk with professional calmness. We stared in impatient silence.

"Well, Morrie did convey his feelings, and it's my job to listen. He also heard how I, as a Ukrainian Catholic, had been saved and how I left preparing for the priesthood to study for the ministry right here at Bethlehem College. Cultural ties are difficult to break, and even today I can feel sentimental about my youth."

Dad was getting edgy. Talking about sentimental feelings was beyond his grasp.

"But alas," the chaplain continued, "sensitivities, even sincere ones, are bound to mislead. Our focus should be solely on God's word, and the Scriptures condemn the tenets on which the Church of Rome is built."

"Amen!"

"Chaplain," I said, "these aren't trite emotions. What about the cry from deep within the spirit --like we talked about?"

"Nerves, my lad, body chemistry."

Shocked and betrayed, I slouched down in my chair. The chaplain was in full control.

"Morrie," said Dad. "Chaplain Ferapont has spoken. We're in complete agreement. Hearing the truth from one's own father isn't easy, so listen to a voice of authority, the chaplain of Bethlehem College. The Catholics have perverted every doctrine in the Bible and have invented thousands of others. Do you want us to go through them? First, there's the worship of Mary and the exalting of all..."

"Stop!" I shouted and plugged my ears. "I know what the Catholics teach. Even if you were right on every point, it doesn't matter. I could memorize the entire Bible and still would feel the same way."

"Rubbish," replied Dad. "Satan has deceived you. Now get that foolishness out of your head...with such things I have no patience."

"Chaplain," I said, "you heard me out so well last fall. Remember telling me about following one's conscience? Please tell my father."

Coolly and calmly, the chaplain looked at me as if I were talking nonsense. He picked up a Bible from his desk. "Morrie, there's only one source of sacred knowledge, one revelation, the standard to measure the whims of feeling--no matter how authentic they seem. I've nothing more to say on the subject."

Dad's chest swelled. "I couldn't have said it better. No further arguments need be made. Morrie, are you ready to give up these bonehead ideas?"

My hands covered my face. What could I say? Disagreeing with them was disagreeing with God. Dad could be forgiven for his pettiness, but the chaplain was a double-crosser. His wounds smarted.

I wanted to cry. "But what about truthfulness and integrity, Chaplain Ferapont?"

The chaplain's eyes were like shutters on a stone wall.

"All this college talk is beyond me," my father said. "The Bible says it; I believe it, and that settles it. Now will you or will you not repent of this foolishness?"

"Dad, I must follow my conscience."

Dad moved his lips but could not speak. He had won the battle but was losing the war for my mind. He looked at Mom, then at me, and finally at Chaplain Ferapont. Too late, the cost of compromise was too high.

"Morrie," he said, "if that's your final word, say goodbye to your mother. Helen, we're going home. Chaplain, could I have a word alone with you, privately?"

The two men left the room, leaving Mother and me alone. Her eyes were red and swollen with tears. She had always seemed so young to me, but the wrinkles around her eyes made her look old. She ran her finger lightly along the bottom of my chin as she used to do when I was a kid.

"My little boy," she whispered. She placed her palm against my cheek.

"Forgive me," I whispered, "for bringing you so much grief."

She replied. "No, no, this day has brought me peace. What you feel, I do also. My fear has not been for myself, but that my family's heritage would never reach you and Mary. But now my soul is at rest."

"Mom, don't talk like that. I never said anything about becoming a Catholic. If this is so important, why have you kept quiet all these years? Why haven't you told me this before?"

"Back when your father claimed to be an atheist, taking you and Mary to Mass was my testimony of faith. Words weren't necessary. In prayer I implored that your father would come to the knowledge of God.

"The night your father announced our going to the Billy Graham meeting with Mr. Schwartz, I was overjoyed. God had heard my prayers. Even the first Sunday after he accepted Christ, when he took us to the Baptist church on Burgeous Road, I willingly followed. At least we were going to church as a family, I thought. Surely, in time, he would seek again St. Irene's, the church where he was baptized and confirmed, where we were married."

"But that never happened."

"No, his conversion only hardened his heart against my ways. Before, when I took you and Mary to Mass, he saw my faith as silly superstition. Today, as you know, he goes berserk if anyone merely mentions the 'C' word."

"I remember Grandpa being upset."

"My family thought I had joined a cult."

"No kidding."

"Yes, to conservative Irish Catholics like my father, there aren't other types of churches. Jehovah's Witnesses, Moonies, Baptists...what's not Roman Catholic is of the devil. Once, when I was trying to reason with my father, Harvey butted in to declare that we all had been baptized by immersion. Father told me to leave the house and never come back."

"Why don't you stand up and defend yourself?" I asked.

Mother sighed. "I get confused. Back when he was against all religions, my mere presence was a testimony for the Christian faith. But now, as a believer and with a Bible in his hand, he attacks papal infallibility and purgatory--things I had never thought of. I become so unsure and can't withstand Harvey's pressure. It's easier just to say nothing."

"But at the Burgeous Road church, you're so involved. Everyone admires you. You're a full-fledged Baptist!"

"I really do try. Teaching Sunday school and attending Bible studies, I give it my best..." Mother's voice cracked as she started to cry. "But I've never felt at home there. I want so much to go back to St. Irene's. During Advent or Lent, I sit in church and the pastor never even mentions the things that are important to me."

"Does Dad know about this?"

"How could he? As long as I act like a Baptist and say the right things, he couldn't tell the difference."

"Haven't you said one word in your own defense?"

Mother shook her head. "I'm so afraid of your father. You know how he gets...look what he said today. As time passes, that feeling--the one you were talking about—grows stronger." She embraced me and pressed her wet eyes against my brow. "No, Morrie, I shall remain here. You and Mary must carry on the spiritual heritage of your grandfather. Then you must pass it on to your children. I can endure and live my beliefs inside myself. God has answered my prayers; my faith lives within my children. Now I can grow old with peace."

"Mother..."

"Your father will soon come. I'll say goodbye to you now, my way."

When Dad came back in, Mother and I were still embracing. He had intended to decree something, but stopped.

Then the two men returned. Dad found new strength. "Helen, gather your things and get into the car. We're going home."

Mother released me, yet Dad sensed something was amiss. Dare his wife separate herself from his authority? "What's been going on in here? Has this boy been trying to sway you with heretical thoughts? Helen?"

Mother backed away with dread on her face.

Now Dad was really suspicious. "Morrie, what have you been telling her?"

Mom clearly wanted me to back off. "I didn't say anything," I said.

Dad gave his stern eye. "What did the boy say, Helen?"

Mother was trembling. Could she still pretend that her own beliefs did not matter? She tried to speak. Dad could not hide his fear. Chaplain Ferapont watched from the sidelines, with intense interest, but said nothing.

"Mother," I cried, "tell Dad what you told me."

"The boy didn't say anything to me," she said.

"If Morrie didn't say anything, what's all this commotion then?" Dad asked.

"It was I who spoke to him," she said.

Dad completely ignored her. "Well, if the boy said nothing," he said, "let's go home. We have a long drive ahead of us."

"No, let her speak," I said. "Mom has a right to say something about all this, too."

All eyes were on Mom.

"Helen, we settled this Catholic thing many years ago. What more can be said?"

My mother looked at me and then turned her face toward the wall. "I have nothing to say," she said. "Let's go home."

Dad was all too happy to be back in command. He turned to me and said, "Chaplain Ferapont and I agree that you need pastoral guidance. I've arranged for him to meet with you at least twice before you come home in June. Do I make myself clear?"

I didn't reply.

Dad looked at the chaplain and then at me. "Well?"

"Yes, sir, I understand. But what good will it do?"

"You do as you're told."

I looked at the chaplain who smiled sardonically. Dad was pleased. Apparently he was unable to read between the lines.

"Yes, Morrie," said the chaplain with a friendly voice. "Believe that God can show you the right way. Come and visit me soon. See if I am not correct." The chaplain clearly had something else in mind. "I'm sure you have many secrets to share with me," he said. "Perhaps they're not as secret as you think."

Ivan Ferapont shook my father's hand, bowed his head to my mother, and then left. I backed against the door leading to his office and looked at my parents.

Dad smiled. "Come, we'll walk to the car together."

Daylight was ebbing as their car drove out of the parking lot and turned right onto the street. Mom stared at me through the window, her back turned to her husband. She smiled faintly.

### Chapter 19

________________

The Dad and Chaplain Ferapont episode drew Frank and me closer together. Though we were not a perfect match and Frank could be irritating at times, he became my closest friend. No sooner had my parents left than Frank came knocking at my door. He was both curious and a comfort. I began telling him the whole story.

"How do you suppose those photos come to your father?"

I explained what I knew.

"And nobody knows who put them there?" he asked.

"Do the math, Frank."

"Eilert Brigsby is trying to frame you!" he exclaimed. "Just like I heard!"

"Yes, but my father already had the photos before you overheard Brigsby that night in the cellar."

"Still, it has to be him."

"Only partly true, Frank. There's more to the story, an eerie twist that you don't know about."

"What?"

"If your Brigsby conspiracy theory is true, then the chaplain is a part of it because it was he who sent the pictures."

Frank was clearly shocked by my words. "Chaplain Ferapont!" he said. "No way. He's a tremendous Christian. He loves the Lord and has dedicated his life to this school."

"He loves power even more," I said.

Frank stood up and nervously paced about my room. "Even if he took the pictures, Brigsby could have stolen them. Perhaps the chaplain was just as surprised to see them as you. The point is, you don't know."

"What kind of a weirdo would photograph me taking communion in church?" I asked.

"Morrie, enough!" snapped Frank. "This is Bethlehem College, and he is our chaplain, a man of God. He and Lentzner are close friends. If he's conspiring, who can be trusted?"

"It's your question, Frank," I said. "Deal with it."

With three more weeks of school, summer had arrived. Giant campus trees flaunted thick, broad leaves. The mood on campus was quiet. After President Lentzner's resignation, all quarrelling between the Arties and Fundies had stopped, as did all gossip about Emily and the balloon raid. Again, I was just a typical student, which made me very happy. Frank was my constant companion. He was coming to my room every night with books and notes for several days. We enjoyed studying together. Was all right with the world? Wrong. One evening Frank came with no books. He was greatly distressed.

"Morrie, you have to help me."

"What is it? Has someone died?"

Frank sat on my bed. "She almost did."

"Who?"

"A girl named Margie; you don't know her. My Bible group has been praying for her. She has been very depressed and...I tried to help, but..."

"What happened? Where is she?" I asked.

"In the school's infirmary. She tried to commit suicide yesterday."

I gasped. "That's terrible; is she all right?"

"Physically yes. The police said that some workers spotted her along the railroad tracks. She was running straight into an oncoming train. One of them managed to pull her away at the last moment. Both almost got hit."

"What happened then?"

"They called an ambulance and had to restrain her in a straight jacket. She was screaming hysterically."

"What will happen to her now?" I asked.

"I don't know." Frank was visibly shaken. "Why can't people just trust in God?" He was almost crying. "What did I do wrong? Her roommate came to us for help. I prayed for her, but nothing worked." Frank sat on the edge of my bed and bowed his head in dismay.

"Be easy on yourself," I said as I sat beside him and patted his back.

"She has rejected all my counseling. What a jerk. I could never help anyone."

"That's not true, and cut the self-pity. Your help has meant a lot to me—even before I could listen."

Frank refused to be comforted and shook his head. "I don't understand. How can anyone be a devout Christian for years and then suddenly doubt the existence of God--right at a Christian college? I mean, what is there to doubt? The Bible is so clear."

I stood up and for a moment and watched him wallow. "Not everyone can think like you."

"What does one say to one who has received the Truth and then rejects it?" he asked. "There has to be an answer."

Frank was stuck in his self-pity, which I found frustrating. "Sometimes answers aren't enough. Did you listen to her questions?"

"Okay, Mr. Philosopher, maybe she'd listen to you." Frank suddenly sat up and began to smile. "Hey, that's a great idea."

"What?"

He stood up and faced me. "You can talk with her."

"I've messed up enough lives for one semester."

"Of course, you both speak the same language."

I turned away from him and laughed. "She'll be under close watch at the infirmary, and with my reputation, they wouldn't let me near her."

"True, but I can get you in," he said.

"Oh, you can?"

Frank had gone from being despondent to being his usual excited self. "Yes, I know the head nurse. Our prayer group holds devotions every Sunday afternoon in the infirmary for those who can't go to church. They often ask me to pray with the bedridden. They let me visit Margie just his morning, but she told me to leave. I'll arrange everything. Don't worry, they trust me."

"What would I say to her?" I asked.

"Listen to her questions, like you said. Believe me, she has a lot of them. You'll think of something."

"Frank, really..." I walked over to my door as if I were about to go out into the hall.

My friend grabbed me by both shoulders. "Morrie, your ideas are pretty crazy, but you just might reach her. Besides, the infirmary is only a holding place. They might be sending her to a hospital soon; then it might be too late. Please, at least try."

"Okay, but it's past visiting hours."

"You're right. It's pretty late, but they've let me in before. Give me a half hour to make the arrangements. And keep your mouth shout." He quickly walked out the door and slammed it behind himself.

After dark, Frank and I walked over to the infirmary. The moon was full and shone brightly against the dark backdrop of the sky. Frank walked briskly, with resolve.

Inside the infirmary, the night nurse greeted Frank nervously, as if she knew our visit was against the rules. She was a kind lady with snow-white hair, and she had been a school nurse here for as long as anyone could remember. Frank introduced me; his imposing smile was disarming and charmed the sister of mercy.

"Are you sure we should do this?" she asked. She held a huge ring with many keys. "I have let you in because I know you, but now you bring a stranger."

"Mrs. Coppenger, we've talked this through and have agreed this is for Margie's best," Frank said.

"But if my superiors find out..." The kind nurse's fingers were shaking.

"No one will, not if we follow my plan."

The nurse nervously opened a door, which revealed another hidden metal door, which had several locks. The entrance to this spooky place had passed my notice when I had stayed here during Easter vacation. We entered a small, dimly lighted corridor lined with cabinets for medical supplies and then passed through three more doors.

"Where are we?" I asked.

"Very few people know about these rooms," whispered Frank. "This is where they put difficult cases, if you know what I mean." Frank pointed to the third door with the peephole. "She's in there."

The nurse unlocked it and motioned us to enter.

"Wait here. I'll go in and tell her you're a friend and then introduce you," said Frank.

My stomach coiled as Frank knocked and slowly turned the door handle. He peeked in and knocked again. Silence.

Frank closed the door and whispered, "She's not sleeping, and she knows it's me. She's pretending to ignore us. I'm not too popular, you see. Let me step in and investigate."

"Frank, we should leave."

"Why? She needs fellowship, and we can't let her down. 'When you're right, don't take no for an answer.'"

Frank reopened the door, and this time stuck his head in the room. "Margie," he reached back and grabbed me. "I have a friend with me who would like to speak with you." He pulled my shirtsleeve. "C'mon, let's go in."

"Frank..."

Too late, I was now inside. Unlike the cheerful infirmary rooms I had used, this was a padded cell with a simple bed. On the bed lay a girl in jeans, wrapped in a purple Afghan, and turned toward the wall. Although I could not see her face, her name was not 'Margie.' This was Marguerite Jaeger!

Survival instincts told me to leave at once. Marguerite turned toward us, and our eyes locked and widened like saucers. She sat straight up, covered her face, and screamed.

A panicky nurse rushed in, "What's going on here? Frank, you promised!" Mrs. Coppenger eyed me, knowing that she had broken the rules. She could lose her job if someone found out.

"Listen, I'm leaving right now," I said. "I didn't want to come here in the first place. Honest."

"Keep him away from me!" Marguerite screamed.

"Calm down, Mrs. Coppenger," said Frank. "My friend startled Margie. To my surprise, they know each other. No need to call for help. It's under control."

Marguerite had calmed down a little. "I don't want to see him."

It was again too late. The nurse was gone.

Frank tried to be diplomatic. "Margie..."

"Her name is Marguerite," I interjected.

Frank stuttered, "Excuse me? Margie?"

Marguerite was still as mad as ever but through her disgust, she revealed an impish smile. "I've told you my name several times, but you don't listen." She looked at me and banged on the padded wall. "Nice wallpaper, huh. The high and mighty Morrie Schiller. Campus celebrity. See what you've done!"

Frank interrupted. "Ahem, Marguerite, Morrie is a fine person of high intellectual caliber. His specialty is solving philosophical dilemmas..."

"Did you solve your problems with Emily Wagner?" asked Marguerite. "Was she as disposable as I?"

In a flash, I relived the hour behind the coat rack with Jack when I had callously discarded her. Had Marguerite and I had dinner together that night, I might have escaped Jack's clutches. Not knowing whether I should explain or apologize, I said nothing.

Marguerite moved sluggishly about on her bed. She slumped back on her pillow. "They pump me up with sedatives, and I don't even have the strength to have a temper tantrum. After hearing all the gossip about you and Emily, I know why you stood me up. You were out of my life, and I should have been glad. What a fool I was. I should hate you, you know."

Frank had also slipped out of the room. We were now alone.

"But you don't?"

"What's the difference? 'They're coming to take me away, ha, ha' --to God knows where." Marguerite reached for the plastic cup of water on the nightstand. I helped her. "You were so different," she continued, "as if you knew...I believed that you cared. What am I talking about? Maybe I am cracking up."

She could not look at me and turned away. "Why am I talking to you? It's either you or Frank's clichés or the nurses' injections. What a choice!" She whimpered. "Morrie, you hurt me."

Words could not atone for my deception, nor could I lessen her despair. Still, she was reaching out. "Marguerite, my not meeting you that night had nothing to do with Emily. I didn't even know who she was then. The truth is even more unbelievable...and devious."

I told the story of my misadventures with Jack, the AMORE ASCENDES, my encounter with girls at the stairway, and my stalking of her while she played the chapel organ. Marguerite listened with wide-eyed interest, as if envious of my rebellious candor, even laughing at the ridiculous things Jack made me do.

"You don't seem angry with me," I said after finishing.

"I should be. You were a jerk, but your excuse is so unbelievable that it has to be true."

"What happened down by the train tracks?" I asked.

"I flipped out."

"Seriously, was it because of what Jack and I did to you? You said how much it hurt you. Frank told me about the..." I couldn't say the words.

"The suicide attempt?" She then laughed. "Don't be so vain. I wasn't even thinking about you!"

I blushed. Marguerite lost her momentary lightness and sank into despair. She lay back on her bed and buried her face in the pillow. "Please go away. I don't want to talk about it."

I did the opposite and sat beside her on the bed. "Tell me how it is to be, Marguerite."

"I would have, but you didn't come to dinner." She choked and tried to wrap the pillow around her head. "It's too late; I'm going crazy, can't you see?"

Again, words were beyond expression. Slowly, Marguerite sat up again. For about a minute we stared at one another in silence.

I mustered the nerve to ask, "When they found you down by the railroad tracks... were you going to do it?"

"Of course, or so I had determined. No one can know before that last fateful step." She finished drinking the water; I refilled the cup from a nearby plastic bottle of water. "I'd been very depressed for several days. Two days ago in the foyer of the chapel building, several guys were clowning around and started pushing to get through the door first. I lost a book and tried to stop, but couldn't. Everything around me began to turn slowly inside my head, like a slow motion film. I panicked and tried to force myself free."

"Didn't anyone try to help you?" I asked.

"The opposite. The tower bell rang, and the pace into the auditorium quickened. A huge guy knocked me down. He pulled me up only to say, 'I'm sorry' and ran off. As I staggered around, people kept bumping into me so as not to be late. Finally, I made it outside. My head was swirling. In my head, I saw this huge train racing toward me. The sound of its engines thundered within. I had dreamed this very same scene the night before...Is this making any sense?"

"Not really, but continue."

"I was hallucinating. I dropped all my books and clamped both hands around my head, as if it were about to fall off. Everybody took steps to avoid me, and then they disappeared into the chapel building. Now I was alone and could still see the train coming at me, and, like one who had lost all wits, I started running for the railroad tracks on the west side of the campus. I headed up the tracks by the old yellow-brick factory. Suddenly, around the bend, came a real train, and a voice said, 'Go cast yourself right in front of those wheels,' and it wasn't my voice."

"That's horrific," I said with a gasp.

"Suicide thoughts had plagued me before, but this time it was for real. I sprinted toward the oncoming train and saw the horrified conductor's face...They say a nearby worker spotted me and pulled me away just in time. I screamed and clawed until the ambulance came. That's when they must have tranquilized me, for my next memory was waking up here."

My eyes were full of more questions.

"I suppose you want to know why?" she asked.

I nodded.

Marguerite sighed, deeply. "I'm trying to tell you, Morrie, but I'm so tired of talking. The medicines the nurses give me keep me from thinking straight. When I said everything, I meant it. There's my family, my church, my friends back home, Bethlehem College...there's God...like I said, everything."

"Take your pick."

"God, Jesus...that's not the beginning; that's where it ends."

"Marguerite..."

"Cut the Bible verses. Is Frank behind this? You want me to talk? Blah, blah, my father was too busy to give me any attention and blah, blah, blah..."

The door opened an in came Frank and Mrs. Coppenger. Both were smiling.

Marguerite sank back into her stupor.

Mrs. Coppenger said, "Marguerite needs her sleep."

Frank grabbed her arm and pleaded, "But this is important."

The nurse was firm. "Not tonight."

Marguerite held her bare arm out toward the nurse. "Here. Just shoot me up and get it over with. No need to tie me down like before."

I walked over to the door. "I'll come back tomorrow, if you want me to."

She lay down on her bed as if to ignore us. "Doesn't matter, I won't be here."

"What?"

"They're taking me to the Children's Clinic early tomorrow. There the shrinks will examine me. Who knows where they'll dump me after that." She closed her eyes and folded her hands on her chest as if she were sleeping.

"The Children's Clinic? Aren't you a little old?"

"Ask Simon Klute. He makes all the decisions around here."

Dr. Simon Klute was a member of the Bethlehem Board of Regents and a leading doctor at Milwaukee County Children's Clinic.

Marguerite sat up and said, as if she were joking around, "There's something I didn't tell you, Morrie. The ambulance first took me to a real mental hospital. The way I was screaming and kicking, they could have given me a lobotomy."

"Really, Marguerite, must you talk so?" asked Mrs. Coppenger.

"We'll never know, will we? Dr. Klute came and rescued me. That man sure has a lot of clout: in no time at all, he got full custody and drove me back to the college in his own car."

"You can be thankful," added Frank. "There are worse places."

"Yea, like this place. Dr. Klute and the campus security dragged me, literally, from the car into this padded cell. Morrie, did you notice other doors out in the hallway? One leads out to the garage. They haul students in and out of here completely unnoticed. Imagine, this school has its own secret loony bin."

Mrs. Coppenger was clearly irritated. "Marguerite, that's quite enough."

The girl continued, "They're taking me to Children's Clinic so that Simon Klute can personally supervise the shrinks who will examine me so that there's no embarrassment to the college."

"Can I come and see you?" I asked.

"Fine with me, but will they let you in—you of all people? Morrie Schiller, the great impostor!"

Mrs. Coppenger ignored Marguerite's cynicism. "I'll talk to Dr. Klute and see what I can do."

Frank looked at me with assurance.

"Don't worry," I said. "I'll be there."

### Chapter 20

________________

Within the chaplain's first weeks as interim president, calm returned to the campus of Bethlehem College. With his personal skills, he had secured a truce between the Arties and the Fundies. Faculty and students alike breathed more easily with the advent of an uneasy peace. In a Forum editorial, even Tina Kaiser applauded Chaplain Ferapont for "listening to those unhappy with the past administration." A young student during morning chapel stood up and prayed, "Thank you, Lord, for our brother, Ivan Ferapont, and this new era of brotherly love, a likeness to the coming of the Kingdom of God!"

As campus pastor and peacemaker, Chaplain Ferapont was the man of the hour and a popular stand-in for Fredrick Lentzner. Within weeks after the balloon raid, the first of many slogans began to appear on the student bulletin boards: FERAPONT FOR PERMANENT PRESIDENT.

Could this popular preacher administrate the weighty academic facets of a liberal arts college? His academic career was anything but impressive. With only a bachelor's degree from Bethlehem, he had attended an unrecognized Baptist seminary, where, after only one semester, he took an emergency pastorate in Norfolk, Nebraska. He never returned to his studies. Personal charisma was his stature. Within a decade, he had built up a Eureka, California congregation into a regional mega church. A severe heart attack had forced him to gear down to a less stressful career, and Bethlehem College was only happy to receive him as their chaplain.

Ivan Ferapont was no academic. He liked to hang around with the football players rather than the school's distinguished scholars. He had never taught and hardly ever attended board meetings. It was his contact with the students that made him a wise choice as interim president. Still, the Board of Regents would uphold the academic standards that Lentzner had established. Ferapont could never be a college president.

Two days after my reunion with Marguerite, Board of Regent's spokesman Dr. Simon Klute said at morning chapel, "We are pleased to announce that a candidate has accepted our offer to become the next president of Bethlehem College. A man familiar to the Bethlehem family, a populist and a scholar. I'm speaking of none other than Myron Gaul."

Gasps of surprise came from the entire assembly.

Indeed, Dr. Myron Gaul was a man for all seasons. Former president of Northern Baptist University in Warrenville, Ohio, his work there had given the school prominence, and his doctoral thesis from Yale, A Christian View of College, had become a classic among educators. In recent years, he had left education to pursue his second passion, evangelism. Many compared his dynamic preaching and decorum to that of Billy Graham. As a popular evangelist, he preached the gospel at large coliseums and led prayer breakfasts for national politicians. Now he could combine the two. He was a Ferapont and a Lentzner rolled into one.

Chaplain Ferapont was present and received the news gracefully. "If the Lord has used me to bring peace on campus, to Him be the glory. I pledge my support to Dr. Gaul."

The assembly received this nomination news with applause. The idea of a man with national prominence leading Bethlehem College was exhilarating. However, not everyone loved Myron Gaul. The "peace of Ferapont" was fragile.

"I'm scared," Frank told me later that day as we met in the hallway between classes. "Many had hoped Chaplain Ferapont would get the job. Trouble's on its way."

"Myron Gaul is an excellent choice," I replied. "He'll continue the chaplain's unifying efforts. In addition, he has the academic credentials to uphold the school's standards. I'm glad the chaplain was passed by."

"To me, Dr. Gaul is a great man," said Frank, "but he's too moderate, and, for some of my former friends that spells l-i-b-e-r-a-l. A month ago, I would have been screaming dissent. Expect the Right Hand of God to have their say."

"They wouldn't dare smear Myron Gaul. He's admired throughout the nation," I said as we descended the stairs to the main floor.

"After I heard what they did to President Lentzner, nothing's beyond them."

"Frank, is this you talking?" I asked, concerned.

"Just last month The Christian Republic criticized Myron Gaul for addressing the American Church Council, for receiving them as 'fellow Christians and thus weakening the biblical teaching on abortion and gay rights.' The same issue profiled Eilert Brigsby as a modern day prophet. My heart tells me that Dr. Gaul is on their blacklist."

"To think about it," I added, "both Lentzner and Gaul are religious moderates and a few will find this intolerable. Still, the majority will carry the day. Unlike Dr. Lentzner, they say Dr. Gaul can be tough and is no pushover before a few zealots."

"These zealots have no scruples, Morrie."

"Frank, you're speculating. Where's the evidence?"

"Out there!" Frank scanned the air with his finger. "The nomination announcement is new, and Brigsby is still mulling over his options. Soon he will muster the Right Hand of God for a plan of action, maybe in the cellar where I heard them last." He wrinkled his brow. "Maybe we could sneak down there and listen in."

"Mind your own business. Besides, even if they meet, we don't know when. What are you going to do, sit down there day and night? Suppose we did overhear some big plot. Would you turn them in?"

"If that happens, we'll pray for guidance," he said and stopped by a classroom door. "Listen, my next New Testament lecture is here. Where are you headin'?"

I sighed. "To the Library Building. You always get me involved, first with Marguerite and now this. By the way, where is she now? I want to visit her."

"She's at Milwaukee County Children's Clinic, but no visitors. Mrs. Coppenger has promised not to give up. Don't worry, we'll get you there."

"You're always one step ahead of me."

Frank smiled. "Then you'll join me in the cellar?"

"No."

"Okay, I'll go myself. You'll get dragged in anyway because you'll want to hear what happened, and I'll be only too glad to tell you. Besides, our chances of connecting are one in a million. Meet me in the laundry room and bring some dirty clothes as a cover."

"Do I have a choice?" I asked.

"No," he said. "By the way, if you're going to make your next class, you had better hustle."

"When?" I looked at my watch.

"Let me snoop around, and then I'll call you."

"All right." I sighed. "Oh, to be an ordinary student. They get up, pray, read their Bibles, attend classes, and go to bed by 9 PM."

Frank displayed his full-tooth grin. "In your dreams, Morrie."

Who was the real Ivan Ferapont? Last fall I had felt that I was in the presence of a Russian mystic. In my parents' presence, he was a Judas. Today, all hailed him as a prince of peace. I dreaded meeting him again. Which persona would he don this time? He had promised my father to meet me. I prayed that he was lying.

That hope was shattered as I was cutting through the parking lot beside the Chapel Building and a silver-blue Mercedes Benz approached me. The darkly tinted window on the driver's side slithered down.

"Well, if it isn't my young friend, Morrie Schiller." The chaplain smiled, mockingly. "Weren't we supposed to have a little chat? I did promise your father, after all."

I turned my head in disgust.

"Come now, Morrie. Can a mere college chaplain intimidate one as renowned as you?"

I bit my lip, but his new, phony persona forced me to speak. "You betrayed me!"

"Really? Could I, your chaplain and the interim president of Bethlehem College, have endorsed your flirting with Catholicism in front of tuition paying parents? I warned you to keep that conversation between us!"

"I kept your little secret. It was you who first spied and then tried to frame me. Now I have to pay for your double-crossing."

The scorn in his smiled disappeared and he suddenly looked sincere. "I didn't send those pictures and was as surprised as you were to see them. I know what you're thinking, but I'm telling the truth."

What respect I still had for the chaplain was dwindling. "I told you I was attending that church. Only you knew. Who else could have taken them or could have ordered them taken?"

He diverted his eyes and did not answer. "Schiller, I've been following your exploits since Christmas...and so have others, as those pictures confirm."

"Don't lie to me."

"Now I'm talking about the balloon raid photos," he said.

"Rumors, that's all they are. Even Dad could see that. By snooping in my private life, you should know the truth."

"'What is truth?' A rumor believed has equal power," he said.

I turned my head in disgust. "Someone should expose you for the phony that you are." I was about to shake my fist at him.

He laughed. "Who would believe you?"

I leaned on his car with both hands and looked deeper into his eyes.

"Schiller, start packing; by the year's end, you'll be expelled. Do you think that by hanging around that Holy Roller, Frank Blachford, you can improve your image? Just wait, I'll find something to pin on you. Reports say you were stalking Emily Wagner at some filthy pigpen downtown in Milwaukee. Something odious must lie at the bottom of that story. How that sophisticated girl could fall for a nobody like you is beyond me."

I turned aside to hide my wrath.

"Are you hiding something from me, Schiller? I have my sources." He revved the motor in his Mercedes.

"I hope you can trust them. People like you are treacherous," I said and started to walk away.

"You'll be soon hearing again from your father—on the day I kick your ass out of here."

The chaplain's window whirled as it glided past his mouth, nose, and forehead. The silver-blue car then sped off.

Frank called and told me to meet exactly at 6 PM in the laundry room. He was waiting for me, sitting on a washing machine. The sound of a whizzing dryer filled the room. He was alone, his expression serious.

"This morning I learned that there will be a meeting at seven tonight."

"How were you privy to that?" I asked and closed the door.

"I've been following Georgie Warner around lately. Oddly enough, he's been going into the library washroom at the same time for the last three days. Soon after, two or three of his friends went in as well. Then they come out in reverse order. I suspected they were passing messages. Of course, I didn't dare join them, so today I went in and hid in one of the stalls and stood on a toilet so they couldn't see my feet."

"Unbelievable. I thought these things only happened in the movies." I chuckled and shook my head.

"I don't go to movies. But it worked. This morning they came in. 'Meet in the foxhole tonight at 7,' said Georgie. They grunted, made some slapping noises, and left."

"The foxhole. That must be the cellar room," I said.

"Let's roll!" he said as he hopped down from the washing machine and headed out the door with me following right behind.

Frank and I scrambled out of the laundry room. The narrow stairway leading to the cellar of our dorm was dark and dusty. Our dorm was old and had been remodeled several times—except the basement. The original foundation made of fieldstone and the hand-hewn beams revealed the structure's age. Frank turned off the lights and beamed a path with his flashlight. The place was a mess with dusty old storm windows and radiators slung everywhere. Over by the far wall, Frank bade me sit on a wooden crate.

"I was over there looking for a cardboard box that night." He beamed his light against a nearby wall. "Voices came from the other side. Look, there's that old air vent; through that you can hear everything. They'll enter through that door." He reduced his voice to a whisper. "We have to be dead still. It's a miracle that they didn't catch me last time."

Frank turned off his flashlight and the room blackened. "Let's hope they come sooner rather than later. When they start arriving, we'll duck behind the cabinet."

Twenty minutes dragged by.

"Frank," I whispered. "No one is coming. Let's leave."

"Shh-shh."

Suddenly a light beam filled the stairwell. Footsteps descended. We ducked low as several spotlights crisscrossed above our heads. There were whisperings as we heard the door to the janitor's room open and close. Frank and I relaxed as the voices came through the vent of their hideaway.

Behind us, a previously unnoticed door creaked opened. We were exposed and huddled low; the sides of our faces touched the cold cement floor. More flashlights beamed across the room as two sets of legs, older men, passed us by and entered the janitor's lounge.

"What's been going on in my absence?" cried one voice to the other. "Can't I trust anybody?"

All were silent.

"I've heard that voice before," I whispered.

Frank covered my mouth with his hand.

The voice continued, "When I left town, you were to call me if there was trouble. Why didn't anyone call me?"

"We're sorry, Mr. Brigsby," said a younger voice. "Myron Gaul's selection as college president was just as much a surprise to us as to anybody else. None of us knew anything before the announcement was made in chapel."

"I've made it your business to know!" shouted Brigsby. We heard a fist bang on what sounded like a table.

From their midst we heard an unmistakable voice. "Isn't this supposed to be a secret meeting? With all this racket, someone's bound to hear us."

"Chaplain Ferapont!" cried Frank almost audibly.

It was my turn to muzzle Frank.

"Quiet, I heard a noise," someone said.

All were silent.

"Why did you call me to this God-forsaken room?" whispered the chaplain.

"We've been using the foxhole all year. It's perfect," said Georgie Warner. "Mr. Brigsby can come and go into this cellar without being seen."

Brigsby said, "Georgie, check and see if anyone is out there. And then stand by the door and watch."

Frank grabbed me and froze. A door opened and we could hear footsteps; a powerful light beam scanned about. From my position on the dusty floor, I could see Georgie Warner's dark shadow walking about and coming within a few feet of our hiding place.

"No one's out there," he said as he walked away back toward the staircase.

Frank and I took our first breaths.

"Come back in, Georgie, and close the door. Now, dear Chaplain..."

"Why do you mock me, Brigsby?"

Brigsby laughed. "Despicable as you are, we have mutual interests. Yes, we've been spying on you, Chaplain Ferapont. You lust after high positions. Our business is placement, to fill the vacuums...or remove them."

"What are you talking about?"

"Oh please, Chaplain. Don't play dumb. We can make your dreams come true. Right, Georgie?"

"You bet, Mr. Brigsby."

Brigsby continued, "Your public stands on conservative issues impress us."

"Yea, like the chapel message you gave last fall."

"Don't interrupt, Georgie...Now, Chaplain, I'm very familiar with your political activities with the Conservative Christian Coalition. We were once co-workers, remember? Before I got kicked out."

"Am I to sit here and...?"

Brigsby spoke snidely. "Ivan, I'm willing to forgive your part in my expulsion."

"You were totally out of line," said the chaplain. "Should we, as your kind advocate, start breaking the arms of abortionists and killing off homosexual leaders? The CCC is a serious Evangelical organization and works within the law. You're a bunch of paramilitary, theocratic dominionists."

"How nice to hear you know the names they call us in that ungodly liberal media. You're no better than those tree-hugging, humanistic pussyfooters. And the same goes for the CCC. It is we who are serious! Radical problems demand radical solutions, and my men and I are radically committed to the Scriptures and the rule of Biblical law."

"Did you set fire to that abortion clinic in Topeka, Kansas last month?"

"I? I was right here in Milwaukee."

"Your surrogate henchmen did it then."

Brigsby laughed graciously. "While the CCC hold hands and sing hymns on the steps of the Capital building, the Right Hand of God is getting the job done—and much more efficiently."

"By throwing paint balloons at a college president?"

"Brilliant deduction, Ivan. My men do good work and keep their mouths shut."

"And those pictures of the Schiller boy and Emily Wagner, I assume that's your work too."

Upon hearing my name, my heart froze. Was he talking about the pictures sent to my father?

"No comment," said Brigsby.

Ferapont continued. "Morrie Schiller thinks I did it and the circumstantial evidence does point to me. But I had nothing to do with it! Fortunately the boy has decided not make it an issue."

I was amazed. The chaplain was still denying responsibility for those photos. Why need he do that?

"The Right Hand of God operates covertly on many fronts. Some efforts bear fruit, others die out; occasionally they backfire. We try."

"Those pictures of Schiller at a Catholic church; they must have been your work as well."

"As before, no comment."

"How could you know what Schiller said in confidence to me...?"

For once, the chaplain and I were asking the same question.

"You've heard it said, 'The night has a thousand eyes.' Well, something must be said for all those ears that listen too."

"Have you bugged my office to blackmail me?"

"Ask me no questions, and I'll tell you no lies," said Brigsby.

"Fool. Had Morrie Schiller started blabber mouthing, his father could have caused a lot of trouble," said the chaplain.

Through the dimmest of light, I could see Frank's eyes riveted on mine. The chaplain had been telling me the truth about those pictures all along, and I had called him a liar.

Brigsby spoke again. "But he didn't, so I'd say it's best for our cause that the boy thinks that you took them."

"But now I know the truth," I said to myself.

"What else do you know about me?" the chaplain asked.

Brigsby sneered. "Would you like to see the pictorial results after that football captain got his girlfriend pregnant and came to you for advice?"

"No, thanks. I want no part in private militias or your criminal activities. Have you considered the risk I've taken by coming here? Just what do you want from me?"

Brigsby scoffed. "Your sense of shock, combined with your hungry curiosity, touches me deeply. Chaplain, we must stop Myron Gaul from becoming the president of Bethlehem College!"

"That won't be easy. The nomination is official. Gaul has accepted. It was a very popular choice. You only have yourself to blame. Why did you get rid of Lentzner in the first place? I had him eating out of my hand and was influencing all his decisions. Gaul will be different. He's his own man. You made a mistake."

"Perhaps we did, perhaps not," replied Brigsby. "Lentzner received several warnings to cancel the Wagner girl's art show. He said he was personally against her work, but that he couldn't stop an exhibition that was 'well underway.' When we threatened him concretely, he defied us. We had no choice but to get rid of him. After the raid, I threatened to destroy the whole school if he didn't resign. A man without backbone is a miserable creature."

"You blackmailed him!" cried the chaplain. "Now I understand why he said his resignation was a private matter. What on earth did you tell him?"

"We don't reveal such information. We might need to repeat that scheme in the future."

"Eilert, had you contacted me earlier, I could have persuaded him easily."

"Well, it's too late. The problem now is Myron Gaul. My boys, you see, got it all wrong. They thought another person was a sure winner."

"Not a few wanted me to take his place, you know." One could hear Ferapont beaming with pride.

"Yes, thanks to us," said Brigsby.

"What?"

"Tell him, Georgie."

"It was I who started the rumors about the Board of Regents making you the full-time president."

"Well, I..." The chaplain's breath was audible as he stumbled on his words.

Brigsby continued, "Before anyone gets his hopes up, let us remember that our plan was foiled. We had no idea that the school board would make their final selection so soon." There was another pause. "How badly do you want to become the president of Bethlehem College, Chaplain Ferapont?"

"Why must you make everything sound so devious?"

"Oh, please," said Brigsby. "We're a covert organization. The Right Hand of God has no public image to worry about and can dispense with formalities. Now let's get down to basics. We believe you would take firm stands against liberalism, humanism, and all those other ungodly "isms" by getting rid of those liberals in your theology department. Incidentally, I have some replacements in mind."

"So that's why I'm here. How do I know that you can be trusted?" asked the chaplain.

"You can't. But since we're letting you in on our plans, I'm not offering any alternatives."

The chaplain cleared his throat. "From the time Lentzner resigned until today's news about Myron Gaul, the Board of Regents has never consulted me. His nomination came as much as a surprise to me. The facts remain. I have just an undergraduate degree and only one year of seminary. My credentials aren't lofty enough for the Board of Regents. You could never convince them."

"Don't underestimate the Right Hand of God. We have our own paid journalists on The Christian Republican. My boys have uncovered indiscretions in the private lives of many at Bethlehem, especially Richard Klute. I'm sure they'll be very anxious to listen to reason."

"Brigsby, you dirty operator. And you can't be alone. Who do you take your orders from?"

"No one. There are of course like minded men with whom I can cooperate, but I answer to no one."

"Who finances these devious plots? You don't have that kind of money."

"Let's just say that I have my benefactors in the corporate world. They sympathize with my causes."

"Who? John Wesley Wolff, the Red Grange Publisher? Or Joseph Reiberg, the 'Christian Dr. Spock'? They're loaded with money."

"Those small timers? You'll find my patrons in the Fortune 500."

Ferapont continued, "I'd never stoop to such meanness. I suspect you're just one of their stooges."

"Too bad you're unable to hide your envy, Ivan. Truly, you'd love to be president of Bethlehem College. Are you up to the job?"

"Absolutely! In some ways, I've been running this place for years. I've had my hand in every policy here for the last five years, behind the scenes. Lentzner was a pantywaist. Since Myron Gaul's nomination, I know my influence has ended, and I've considered resigning."

Brigsby scoffed. "I mean, are you capable of running this place according to my policies?"

The room was silent.

"Suppose," Brigsby continued, "The Right Hand of God were to align your destiny with our desires."

"You're not going to hurt anybody, are you?"

"Chaplain, I am deeply offended. We are Christians after all. We use violence only against those who do violence."

"Like the abortionists," piped in Georgie.

Brigsby added, "Jesus himself says, 'The kingdom of God suffers violence and the violent take it by force.' But in this case, rudimentary violence won't be necessary, and too much attention could have drawbacks. We all know that life has its embarrassing moments, if you know what I mean. Perhaps we can arrange an incident in which a man of God appears to be compromising his morals...We'll give him an offer he cannot refuse, as they say, and maybe he'll be reasonable and change his mind. What do you say, Chaplain?"

"Hmm, like a paint balloon in the face."

"Try a beautiful young Bethlehem coed discreetly planted in Gaul's hotel. My disciples are very creative and obedient."

"You're pure scum."

Brigsby only laughed.

There was a discernible silence before the chaplain spoke again. "So I'd be your puppet president. I'd like to give it some thought." The chaplain seemed wary.

"If you'd like, but you are now still just a chaplain. You can't manipulate Gaul like you've been doing with Lentzner all these years. Our proposition is most agreeable, if not irresistible. Chaplain, you sound so hesitant, but your face betrays you. You have no ethical scruples about this at all. You're just wondering if you can get away with it."

The chaplain said nothing.

"We have risked much in letting you in on our plans and would rather have you willingly on our side. At this point, you don't have any choice in the matter. He who's not for us is against us. Refuse us now and the story of the football player and that pregnant cheerleader—and the godly advice you gave them—will rise to the surface like a bloated corpse in a soupy swamp. Georgie will see to it that all will hear."

"Who's the football player, Mr. Brigsby? What story are you talking about?" asked Georgie.

"Never mind, my boy. Do as I say. You'll find out when and if it is necessary. So then, you will join us, Ivan?"

There was silence.

"Good."

The chaplain said, "I must go. Don't ever ask me to meet down here again. Someone is bound to get suspicious."

"You're right," responded Brigsby. "One of my men, er, I mean one of your students will contact you soon about our next meeting. I'm beginning to like you better already, Ivan. You and I think alike. Now, let's get out of here. We'll keep in touch, President Ferapont."

A light cracked through the furnace room door as the chaplain quietly stepped out. Frank and I watched his silhouette ascend the staircase and disappear.

"Is he gone, Georgie?"

"He sure is, Mr. Brigsby."

"Come back in here. I want to talk to all of you."

Several bodies shuffled.

"I don't like ambitious people," he continued. "Ferapont wants to become president so badly he can taste it. For the time being, the man can serve our purposes. In time, we'll make it clear who his patrons are."

There was nervous laughter. "What's next Mr. Brigsby?" asked a young female whom I didn't recognize.

"I will let you know soon, my dear. Has Georgie oriented you about the where and when for the service you must provide? You won't let me down now, child."

"I'm both able and willing, Mr. Brigsby," said the girl. "You've taught me everything I know. Myron Gaul's fall from grace is a moral certainty."

"God has indeed endowed you with beauty, but this man will not be easily fooled. Remember, the appearance of evil is just as effective as the done deed. The Lord always sides with those who do battle for His Moral Government."

"And that's our side, right, sir?"

"Exactly, my sweet. We are the Right Hand of God. Now let's get out of this hole."

We heard the rustling of bodies and clasping of hands. Was this some ghoulish ritual of solidarity? We held our breaths as Brigsby's "troops" then marched by and headed up the stairs. Apparently, Brigsby and a few others went out another door. Frank and I dared not move a muscle until they had long gone.

"Did you hear that?" asked Frank, unable to hold himself back.

"Of course. I'm not deaf," I replied. "It's frightening."

"Morrie, do you realize what this means?"

"Yes, the chaplain didn't have anything to do with those pictures after all. I got it wrong. Luckily I said nothing to Dad last time." I stood up and started brushing the dust off my pants.

"No," said Frank as he stood up and turned on his flashlight. "I mean the other stuff...Myron Gaul is in grave danger."

"Oh, I wish I had never heard that stuff. Who was the girl?"

"Shirley Wilson. I've never had much to do with her. She's in Georgie's prayer group." Frank then grabbed me by the shoulders. "Imagine, they could destroy Dr. Gaul's entire ministry with lies and wicked deeds. They're planning a sex scandal!"

"It sure sounds like it, but we don't know for sure. I can't imagine Dr. Gaul ever compromising himself. It will never happen. Does she really think she can seduce him?"

"The way I understand, it's all a set up. Shirley only has to create the illusion; Brigsby's rumor machine will do the rest. Don't you see? We have to do something."

"What?" I asked.

"I don't know, but something! If we could show up when Shirley encounters Dr. Gaul, we'd foil the whole plot."

"Don't start getting crazy, Frank. First, we don't know what they're up to. Who knows where Myron Gaul is? This is so unbelievable. Who would believe us? What if Brigsby discovers us? We could end up floating face down in the Milwaukee River." I started walking toward the stairway. "Let's get out of here."

"But didn't Dr. Klute mention that Dr. Gaul had accepted the offer while preaching in Missouri?" asked Frank as he followed me close behind. "Morrie, be careful when you go up the stairs. Don't let anyone see you. I'll wait here a couple of minutes so we're not seen together."

Half way up the stairs, I stopped and looked at Frank one last time. "Look, about helping Dr. Gaul, what can we do? Nothing."

"Morrie, promise me that you'll pray and ask for the Lord's guidance."

I didn't answer and was up the stairs before he could finish the sentence.

"Good night, Morrie."

I hurried to my room. An envelope hung taped to the door. I opened it and read:

May 16, 1995

-Morrie,

Please visit me tomorrow at Children's Clinic. I've been thinking about what you said last time and want to talk. The doctors here are so phony, if not dangerous. To Klute, I'm a potential tarnish to the school's image, and he wants to dispose of me...I'm confused. Mrs. Coppenger must have kept her word because you have permission to visit me. She promised that you'd get this letter.

Every day after dinner, I sit outside in the terrace garden on the roof of the tenth floor. I'll meet you there. It has a beautiful view! The nurse at the desk knows you're coming and will show you where to go.

-As ever, Marguerite

### Chapter 21

________________

The Children's Clinic of Milwaukee County was only a couple of miles from the college. It had two wings, the lower with four stories and the higher with eight, which faced north on Watertown Plank Road. Nearby were the Medical College of Wisconsin and the Milwaukee Regional Medical Center. Normally, they don't treat patients over fifteen at the Children's Clinic. However, Dr. Klute, who was the head administrator, supposedly arranged for Bethlehem students with "special medical problems" to come to his ward. There he could monitor incidents that could potentially tarnish the school's good name—so I had heard.

Under warm sunny skies, I peddled my bike through the wooded areas along the Menomonee River. A couple of blocks after turning on the Watertown Plank Road, the Children's Clinic came into view. The sun had set behind the huge structure and framed it with an aura of light. Somewhere between the concrete, steel, and glass, Marguerite Jaeger was waiting for me.

The clinic's lobby was a busy intersection of visitors, and the staff was clad in white. I registered at the desk and received an ID-badge, and an orderly directed me to the outdoor terrace on the roof of the lower wing.

Upon arriving at the fifth floor, the elevator door opened and I encountered an imposing, curved picture window. Beyond the glass lay a huge, colorful rock garden on the roof of the lower wing. Children and adults--presumably patients and their parents--sat on the benches, enjoying the afternoon air and sunshine and playing together on swings and slides. There were flowerbeds everywhere. Even small trees dotted the sculpted landscape. Off to the side a gardener was trimming a hedge.

In the middle of the garden sat Marguerite on a wooden reclining chair. A bed of red and yellow tulips surrounded her. She sat curled up beneath a thick woolen Afghan. She faced the sun and had closed her eyes to absorb its healing rays.

I approached and touched her hand.

"Is that you, Morrie?" she asked. Her eyes were still closed. "What time is it?"

"It's four-fifteen."

"I've been here since two. It's so peaceful." She looked up and noticed me staring at the nametag fastened to her wrist. "It's the rules. I'm supposed to be sick, you know. At least they didn't tattoo a number on me."

I ignored her last comment. "How are you today? You look okay to me."

"Get this; I'm the only adult patient in the whole hospital, as far as I know, anyway."

"How are you really, Marguerite?" I asked.

"Groggy. It's the sedatives. I keep telling them that all I need is some rest, but they won't listen. I haven't seen Dr. Klute yet, but I know that his doctors are treating me. So I don't trust them...Don't talk about that...Let's walk over to the railing; the view is great. You can even see the college from here."

We pressed our faces against the clear plastic windbreakers at the edge of the terrace. Far off to the right, on the other side of the Menomonee River, one could see Bethlehem's bell tower poking through the trees. However, that which lay straight ahead really caught my eye. Across Watertown Plank Road and beyond lay the county grounds, that huge tract of woods and meadows that I had hiked many times. From this height, I could see the surrounding subdivisions, construction sites, and a golf course. In the middle, I saw the marsh and even the abandoned farmhouse that Tracy and I had visited last fall. I strained my eyes, hoping to see that cluster of shops and the little boutique where she had tricked the clerk into believing we were newlyweds.

I was lost in reverie when Marguerite gave me a nudge. "Morrie, I'm cold. Let's go back, away from the wind."

Marguerite went back to her chair, and I wrapped the Afghan tightly back around her shoulders. I then set up a lawn chair and sat beside her.

She pointed across the garden. "Do you see that serving table over by the swings? The nurses have just brought out some coffee and sweet rolls. Would you be a sweetheart and get me both? There are trays and everything you need. And don't forget to bring something for yourself."

I bowed and quickly returned with some refreshments. We ate and chatted about daily routines and how the children were always trying to climb on her bed and play with her. Soon the conversation turned serious again.

"Will you be here long?" I asked.

Her lips curled into a wiry smile. "They say they're testing to see how wacky I am, but they're really just pressing for time until the school year is over and then can finally get rid of me. My parents have agreed to take me home, and they'll no longer be responsible. My days at Bethlehem College are over."

"Then you are better."

She sighed and sipped on her coffee. "Just because I don't want to jump right now before a passing train doesn't mean that Paradise is Restored. My father is a minister and a pedigreed Episcopalian priest," she covered her face in amusement.

I responded with bewilderment. Marguerite burst out laughing.

"What's so funny?" I asked.

"Your reaction to my father. Okay, let me describe my family, seriously. Agnostics. Pantheists. Existentialists. Believe me, Daddy's sermons could be screenplays for an Ingmar Bergman film. And my mother, between her cocktail parties and Theosophy meetings in the church basement...well, there's nothing more to say. She's a genuine suburban New Ager. Then there's Teri, my older sister, and my brother Alby. They're extensions of my father's ministry—both are sociologists."

I tried raising a question.

"And what about me, you ask? Compared to me, the others in my family are church mice. I'm the only true Christian in the family...the born-againer."

"Must you be so sarcastic?" I asked and munched on a chocolate brownie.

"Things are less painful that way. While in junior high, I attended Christian Youth meetings in our neighborhood and then...well the rest is history."

"You got saved?" I asked.

"More than that. I instantly received a prophet's anointing. My poor father, for years he had been despairing over the 'silence of God.' But after I got religion, he wished that the Almighty would keep his mouth shut. My sister Teri was in graduate school at the time and almost switched her field to abnormal psychology so that she could write her doctoral dissertation on me."

"So your family took it pretty hard," I said and sipped on my coffee.

"I made sure of that. Daddy's is a large Episcopal church in Bound Brook, New Jersey. As the born-again daughter of the most liberal clergyman in town, I was the talk of the town. Daddy's a big shot in the area and even once traveled to Angola to support Cuban-backed freedom fighters. Had I run off to Tibet and become a Buddhist nun or something, he would have been very open-minded. But my becoming a Bible-toting Christian fundamentalist was more than he could handle."

"So it was our father who opposed your Christian commitment?"

"Yes and no. My father's pride was his image in the community, 'the very perfect model of a very modern Christian.' For him my beliefs were an embarrassment, a step backwards in human evolution. My mother opposed me by out-opposing me with her theosophy." She began to munch on her sweet roll.

"You look pretty normal to me."

"That's because you're a born-againer yourself, silly. You see, my boyfriend and I..."

"You have a boyfriend?" I asked, feeling a bit threatened.

"Eh, yeah...sort of. Well, no! I mean..." Marguerite paused to reframe her thoughts. "I forgot to tell you. His name is Richard, and he's the only boyfriend I've ever had. We've been going together for about five years."

"Going...still?"

An awkward moment. Marguerite went on to tell how she and Richard attended Wellspring Fellowship, a small nondenominational church on the edge of Bound Brook. She had stopped going to her father's church altogether.

"Those were the best years of my life. Wellspring had a very active youth group, and we did everything together: paper drives, hay rides—you name it. Nothing could separate us. Every Friday night, I would play the piano while we sang gospel songs until one o'clock in the morning. They were my family."

"Is that how you met Richard?" I asked.

"Yes, he was the most inwardly strong yet genteel person I have ever known. Pastor Mark regarded him almost as the youth pastor, even when he was only sixteen years old. We were only fifteen when we met, and, together with our other friends, we were constant companions. My very identity as a Christian was almost inseparable from his."

"Was? You speak now like the relationship has ended."

Marguerite bit her lower lip. "Yes, perhaps it has. Or has it? Whenever I think about it, the world around me crumbles, just as it did the other day. It's so painful."

"Was your 'breakdown' because of Richard?"

"Among other things, but, yes, I got a very distressing letter from him that very day."

"What happened between you two?"

Marguerite paused as if reluctant to speak of such personal things. But then she drank a little coffee and breathed in deeply. "We went to two different colleges and developed in different directions. Richard wants to be a pastor and went to King's Bible College in Pennsylvania, and I came to Bethlehem as a music major. Bethlehem has broadened my horizons; so much has changed. Things are breaking down, and I can't think anymore like I did in our youth group. So naive we were. Still, my faith only makes sense in the context of that little congregation. We weren't aware of who or what we were...we just were. We believed and didn't analyze. Here at Bethlehem, knowledge is all-important--and I have learned a lot--but faith has become an object. Relationships seem now so synthetic.

"Last year, for example, some girls in my dorm started a weekly fellowship on our floor. We began by reading this book on how to conduct a Bible study. By the middle of the year, we had the system down pat, and everyone was excited, except for me. I kept thinking about my church back home and our spontaneity, which doesn't exist anymore. Maybe I'm unfair, but this new group was a facade."

"How did these changes go over with your friends back home?"

"That's even a sadder story. When Richard and I were seniors in high school, five others in our group were also graduating. After we left, the enthusiasm in the group petered out. When I came back the next summer, it had dried up completely. I went to Sunday services, but everything had changed. I had changed."

I interrupted, "Don't let your world fall apart just because your high school nest breaks up. That happens to everyone. It's called growing up."

Instead of responding Marguerite stood up because she had to go to the bathroom. We had long since finished our coffee, so I agree to get some refills while she was away. On my way to the refreshment table, I went to the edge of the garden with the view over to the county grounds. I had never seen it from so high up before. Off to the left of the marsh I saw another wooded area with a deep ravine and perhaps a creek. I had never explored that area before and began to make plans for my next hike.

"Whatcha lookin' at?" asked Marguerite. I had been so engrossed with the panorama that I hadn't heard her come from behind. I pointed out my favorite hiking places.

"Where's my new coffee?" she asked while pointing to the empty cups in my hand. "Give them to me and I'll get the refills and meet you back over by the lawn chairs.

Once settled, Marguerite continued her story about her falling out with Richard. "Everything climaxed when I went home last Christmas. Someone had organized this little reunion party in the church basement. Madge, the most active member and the nicest person you'd want to meet, had taken our group's demise very hard. She hadn't gone off to college like the rest of us and felt left behind. She started going to the local bars, drinking, and becoming wild.

"She had got herself pregnant and was scared to come to the party. Well, I insisted that she come with Richard and me. When we got there, everyone was sweet, but inside they were backing away from her--as if her presence was defiling. Everyone was very uncomfortable. Poor Madge felt crushed. I got mad and told them off: 'Madge is our friend; she needs us now like never before.' I haven't stepped foot in that church since that night."

Marguerite's body stiffened; the tone of her voice grew cold. "And then there was Richard, dear Richard, the person I most loved and wanted to marry. After taking up theology in Pennsylvania, he got involved with right wing Christian politics. Already by the first Christmas vacation, he was a different person, as if he's been brainwashed. All he talked about was how America was a Christian nation and needed a cleanup so that God could uphold this land as the greatest power in the world. The words weren't even his."

"Did he ever mention the name Eilert Brigsby?"

Her face showed surprise. "Yes, several times. He kept pushing his pamphlets on me, but I refused to read them. Why do you ask?"

I looked away hoping I hadn't changed the subject. "It's no big deal, but I too keep hearing his name a lot lately." I looked directly at her again. "Tell me more about Richard."

"The tension between us got even worse. After lecturing about his moral dogmas, he wanted to put his arms around me and kiss me, like before. I was nauseated and kept pushing him away. Then he got angry and almost hit me. My Christmas was miserable, and I cried all through the holidays."

"What happened then?" I asked while sipping on my coffee.

"I returned to Bethlehem very depressed. How ironic! It was I who had insisted that my parents let me come here to study music. This school was for them at best a joke, as if graduating from an Evangelical college would qualify me only as a piano player for a traveling gospel show. To bury my sorrow, I played the organ almost day and night. It was my only comfort. You'd know about that, since you were spying on me."

"Yes, I was a real jerk. But tell me, how is it with Richard today?"

"You would have to ask. He wrote me all these heavy letters, warning me about the liberals on campus, always asking me to find out personal information about different faculty members—as if I were his private eye. He even inquired about that heartthrob of yours, Emily Wagner. But after the art show raid, I wondered why Richard was being so snoopy."

"Any conclusions?"

"No, but something is spooky. Nevertheless, Richard's prophecy that liberalism would destroy my faith has come true."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"With all these things upon me, I became confused. Doubts came and my faith began to waver. Those things I had once loved to do--Bible studies, hymn sings, prayer meetings—suddenly were so weird, as though another person had done them and not me."

"I'm beginning to understand."

"This last Easter vacation, we agreed to meet again, but Richard had a sudden change of plans and went to Pensacola, Florida for a meeting. He told me over the telephone, and I was greatly upset. That same night, I visited Madge, who had recently given birth to a baby girl. She hired a sitter so that we could go out and have some fun. At this disco joint, two guys picked us up and tried to teach me how to dance. We had a blast. They bought us a few drinks, and I got tipsy. But they were so sweet and behaved like perfect gentlemen. That was the most fun I have had since...the Lord knows when." Marguerite sighed deeply and drank her coffee.

"I came home very high. My parents immediately sensed what had happened and were delighted. Perhaps their daughter still might be normal! However, Richard found out as well, that snoop. He arrived in town the day before I went back to Milwaukee and rushed over to see me. There he sat in my own home on Sunday afternoon, criticizing me for attending my father's church--so that Daddy could hear. Then he exploded about me going out 'drinking with a whore,' as he put it. 'Repent or I'll cut you off.' To which I replied, 'If you don't want to see me again, be responsible and come right out and say it.' He stormed out of the house, and I haven't seen him since."

"He did you a favor," I said, hoping to be of comfort.

"I don't know. Upon returning to Bethlehem, I cried myself to sleep every night for a week. I wrote him several times, but he never wrote back once."

"Why not just forget him?"

Marguerite turned her head to wipe away a tear with her hand. "Understand; he's the most important person in my life. I love him. We had exchanged pledges to marry, even when we were too young to get engaged. He's part of my life; I gave myself to him. We..." She placed a nearby tissue on her eyes and wept softly.

"We what..."

"I can't say," she sobbed.

I found an unused napkin on the table and gave it to Marguerite. "Okay, but it looks to me that you might want to."

"Yes, after all you did tell me about your night with Emily."

"You mean..."

"Yes. I've never told anyone this, but Richard and I, just before leaving for college, had sex several times. Richard put a lot of pressure on me and said it was all right because we would one day get married. My love for him let me believe that nothing could ever separate us. Richard is a part of me, and now he's gone."

A glimpse of Emily flashed within, of her nearly asleep, her eyes slightly open, her naked body resting against mine. "We will always be together," the artist whispered before dozing off. Those were the last words she spoke to me. I knew even then that her words had been built on a lie that I had fabricated. Lying beside Emily on her bed, I wallowed through the night, sleeplessly, knowing I could never look in those dark, beautiful eyes again. Behind the wardrobe door, Jack was no doubt watching, his spinal nerve endings tingling with ecstasy.

Marguerite continued, "With such intimacy, I grew to love him even more. There was a bond but also a bondage."

"Such things tend to linger, I know."

"My parents are always gone on Wednesday afternoons. That's when Richard and I would have sex. On Wednesday evening, our church also had prayer and Bible meetings. As leader of the young people's group, Richard had responsibilities. Sometimes we had to scramble from my bed, flush the condom down the toilet, and quickly dress so as not to be late. The elders really liked Richard, and they often praised us as a couple, as an example for other teenagers of how rewarding abstinence can be. Such flattery made me feel like a phony, but Richard loved it, and he was more than willing to let people think what they wanted."

"Did you tell Richard this?" I asked.

"Yes, many times. I begged him to tell our pastor the truth. 'Oh no, we mustn't do that,' he would say. 'People wouldn't understand. It would just hurt them.' The day before leaving for Bethlehem, I announced that I was going to Pastor Clark alone. Richard lost his temper and almost hit me."

Any patience I might have had with Richard was now gone. I could feel my temper rumbling beneath the surface. Still, I dare not show this to Marguerite. I knew that, this time, my job was to listen. "If I'm the first to hear about this, there must not have been any visit to the pastor."

"Correct. But for Richard and me it was the beginning of the end, you might say. One more thing." She paused, wondering perhaps if she should say more. "Richard was my first boyfriend, so I don't have a lot of experience. Maybe I'm naive, but I always had this ideal notion that sex should be a way of communicating...it's called making love, after all. But sex with Richard...what should I say? It felt so overpowering, as if he needed to enter me to possess my soul. My heart feels ripped out."

She paused. "Okay, the relationship is doomed, but at least he could talk to me, if only for me to wish him happiness and say goodbye!" She wiped her eyes. "I'm sorry. This must be an insult to you, crying on your shoulder over another fellow?"

"At least you're decent enough to apologize." I smiled, uneasily, my mind grappling with this girl's struggle to live. "It's important for you to talk. You don't trust your doctor with these things, correct?"

"He isn't even interested. As a Bethlehem alumnus, his treatment for me is more of a service to the college. According to him, my father rejected me as a child and thus I have no concept of a loving, heavenly Father. He wants me to imagine myself as a little girl, sitting on a loving father's lap. Then he prays for inner healing, as he calls it. How a reputable hospital can allow such cliché casting is beyond me. Who is this man? To him I say as little as possible."

"I'm afraid to ask about that last letter from Richard."

"Nothing to fear. Now that you know the truth, some of the pain is gone. He wrote that the devil had inspired our relationship and how he had repented. He blamed me for 'seducing' him, and promised to pray for my salvation. That day, I felt rejected by both Richard and God—the two who were the closest—and my will to live broke down. As you know, I didn't make it to chapel that day."

"Tell me more about your treatment here. Are matters only getting worse?"

Marguerite drank the last drops of coffee, now turned cold, and placed her cup on the table beside her. "This is a children's clinic. I'm not even supposed to be here. I suspect that my doctor, if he is one at all, is from somewhere else, maybe even the college. He truly works directly for Dr. Klute. This everyone denies, but why then do the other doctors on my floor ignore me? Something's not right. No one will listen to me."

"Who said, 'We are buffeted and have no certain dwelling place?'"

"St. Paul, of course, in his first letter to the Corinthians." Marguerite sighed and then grinned. "Do you think I'm crazy?"

"No, just honest. Listen, everything you've been going through with Richard and that group has been tough. I don't want to sound simplistic, but the worst is over. You're going to make it. You've learned a lot about real life. Be honest but not a coward. Thank God those railroad workers stopped you! Whether or not anybody's listening, you must choose life. The question is what are you going to do about it?"

Sorrow filled in her eyes. "Thank God? Maybe he should have made them work somewhere else that day. You're very kind, but you don't understand. Part of me might still want to be a Christian, but most of me says that faith is a sham. I've been a believer for over seven years, the only real life I've known. All belief is now rapidly running out, like the last grains in an hourglass. To what else can I commit my life? Music? Education? They are not things I want to live for. Should I walk around, pretending to believe, with a fake Bethlehem smile?"

"What about Madge and that fellowship back home? You say Christianity is no longer relevant, and yet you reached out to them. If it's all for naught, why continue?"

A single tear dripped from her eye. "It's because... I can't stop caring."

"Never have I heard a greater confession. Behold, you are the true Christian!" I said.

"Before, faith was as real as the chair I'm sitting on. Everyone at Bethlehem seems to have that certainty."

"Yeah, 'seems.' How real is that?"

"Watch how they stand up in chapel, one after the other, and boldly confess their faith."

"Perhaps they're trying to convince each other and themselves. Does it really matter? What are you going to do with your life, Marguerite? What do you want?"

"To be certain, Morrie, like before."

"Do you mean some black-and-white, doubt-proof verification system that protects you from mental struggle, a certification of being correct that constantly blinks on and off inside your head? Would you be insulated from every contrary proposition? Is faith for you a cosmic tortoise, the foundation on which the world sits tight? Is that what you're groping for?"

"No, at least I don't think so. But faith needs some point of reference, so I can know if I am coming or going. Doubt can't be the starting point."

"Your past faith wasn't as 'certain' as you thought. Had it been, it would have withstood the challenge. What you had hoped was Christianity was really a propped-up belief system, and now it's shattered."

"Don't be so cruel," she said.

I added, "Madge was a threat to that moral absolute crowd, and by befriending her, you provoked them also. Why must anyone be 'certain' of anything at all? Live by faith!"

"If the Bible isn't the absolute standard, what should I do? Rejoin my father's liturgical bureaucracy?"

"My logic teacher would call that a false dilemma."

"If faith can't be certain, who could take the Gospel seriously? If we make ourselves so vulnerable, the secular humanists and their truth-claims will have the upper hand, politically speaking."

"So political power is what it's all about."

Marguerite didn't reply and started drinking from her coffee cup even though it was empty.

"We think of agnostics as those who don't believe because of doubt, as if unbelief were uncertainty's logical conclusion. I say Christians and agnostics share the same ground of uncertainty, epistemologically."

"What?" Marguerite began to fidget in her chair.

"A Christian chooses to believe in the face of uncertainty exactly in the same way the agnostic chooses not to believe. It has nothing to do with logic, but rather choice. Thus, if a person chooses not to believe for lack of proof, that's his problem, because I choose to believe."

She spoke defensively. "But if the Bible is not the absolute standard upon which we can stand, then everything is relative. Why read the Bible at all?" She looked confused, as if she were saying, Why am I defending Bible reading?

"From the viewer's perspective everything is relative. This is why the Bible is helpful, not as some how-to-do-manual for technicians, but as an 'interpreting filter.'"

She sat up in her chair. "An interpreting what?"

"A world view, if you will. Everyone has one. Reading the Bible puts the biblical story in our head, as it were. This narrative interprets and makes sense of the so-called raw stuff that we see, hear, taste, and feel. Most Westerners still use Bible stories as their interpreting filter, and no agnostic can escape it entirely. If not the biblical story, you must have another story, and truly there are many competitors. Objective certainty, however, is an illusion."

"I thought I was an agnostic because I doubted. Maybe I'm not one after all. Let me think it over."

Marguerite reached out and brushed my hand. With care, I held her fingers, and for several minutes we basked in friendship. My thumb caressed her knuckles. She looked at me and smiled. I blushed, and Marguerite pulled back and hid her hand beneath the Afghan.

"Morrie, please don't fall in love with me. I can't handle that now."

Like an unexpected dip in the road, the bond between us snapped.

I had blushed, I who had gone the AMORE ASCENDES full course. Was all of Jack's quirky self-elevation a bluff? He had tried to steal the one attribute he lacked. He had condemned me in Emily's kitchen. "You'll never get back your innocence."

Indeed, he had lied. No wonder he raged when I turned my back on him. To think that a blush could break Jack's curse. I hadn't squandered my innocence.

I peddled my bike back to the campus, while reels of memories whirled before me: of Tracy and the crushing weight of her rejection; of Emily as I rampaged into her life with Jack-inspired blitzes; of Marguerite—round two—and our uncertain future. As both loser and victor, I now lived in the tension between them and welcomed this paradox of confidence and dread. That night I dreamt of Tracy, Jack, and Emily in the future.

### Chapter 22

________________

When The Forum announced that Myron Gaul was to pay Bethlehem a short visit, there was a surge of anticipation. His itinerary included meeting the Board of Regents to prepare for his coming takeover and then addressing the students during evening chapel. Support for Dr. Gaul was widespread, but opposition was growing. Early one morning, large question marks, painted on a blank poster, appeared on classroom doors and in the hallways. The next day, someone had followed up by scrawling "Stop Myron Gaul" at the bottom of each placard.

The media had closely followed Dr. Gaul's selection. Tensions swelled upon his arrival when the Milwaukee Journal published a flyer that someone had distributed on campus:

\--TO THE POWERS THAT BE--

A voice cries out in the wilderness, but who can hear? The authorities at Bethlehem College have exalted a carnal man as their leader, a so-called 'Prince of Peace' who would only appease the enemies of the Lord. The proud puff themselves up. They flaunt their doctor degrees and put brass nameplates on their doors. Fools applaud them heartily. They heed not the Herald who proclaims God's Unchanging Word. The carnal rule with the arm of flesh, but the spiritual have dominion through the Spirit. Men's ears are numb, yet the Voice of Truth cries out and laments the assent of MYRON GAUL!

You who have ears to hear, hear! Prepare to do battle for the Lord. Lo, the rallying-cry of the Spirit: The weapons of his warfare are mighty to the pulling down of strongholds and every high thing that exalts itself against the Right Hand of God.

Frank found me in the student union and shoved the article in my face. "Morrie, have you seen this? Dr. Gaul is coming today. Brigsby's thugs are mobilizing. We must do something!"

"Shh-shh." I looked about to see if anyone else had heard. "Does the entire student body have to hear? Yes, I've heard. It's the talk of the campus. Brigsby's destructive forces are on the loose. However, who else besides us knows this and how could you stop any plot against Dr. Gaul now? You don't know where he is or when and how they plan to attack."

"You mean we don't know?"

"Go ahead, Frank, but not with me. Besides, the dirty deed might already be done. We can only pray for the best and watch things unfold."

"I hope you're wrong. Lord help us! Let's get going?" Frank said.

"Did you say 'we' again?"

"Quit copping out. Like it or not, you're a part of this, partner." Frank then scratched his head and smiled. "Ah, I have an idea."

"Now what?" I asked.

"I can't tell you. Just be in your room this evening. I'll meet you there. We'll have lots of work to do. Sorry, but I've got to go."

"But Frank, I want to tell you about the dream I had last night."

"Not now, Morrie, I've got to go."

Around six-thirty, I telephoned Marguerite from my room. She had said her parents would be in town that day to arrange for her return home. By now, they would have left for home.

"I've never seen a man so humbled," she said after I had arrived. The visit had proved to be a moving reunion, especially with her father. "He read the police report and broke down weeping. Daddy, having almost lost me, held me. 'My God, what have I done?' he said over and over."

"I thought he didn't believe in God!"

"Who knows, but I really think he meant it."

"Hallelujah! But what do you think?" I asked.

"It's hard to say. My father cried a lot, and he never cries. It felt good, but also strange."

"And how about your mother?"

"Mom's a strange one. Dad's crying made her uncomfortable, and all the God talk embarrassed her deeply. Her trust is in the Great White Brotherhood."

"The great white what?"

Marguerite laughed. "Sorry, that's a joke between my sister Teri and me. You wouldn't get it. Didn't I tell you about my theosophical mother?"

"You mentioned it, but..."

"Have you ever heard of Edgar Cayce?"

"Yes, I see his name on the gossip tabloids at the A&P. Didn't he claim to have contact with Elvis Presley?"

She laughed again. "Boy, are you ever ignorant. This is serious business. Mom's been studying the occult for years and even has group meetings in Daddy's church basement. Teri thinks she's just rebelling against Daddy's Episcopal authority. Her fellow New Agers thinks she's an enlightened psychic. To others she's a flake in a continuous identity crisis. To sum it up, Mom's the person I know least in my family."

"They're sure a strange bunch."

"Try dysfunctional." Marguerite sadly rolled her eyes upward. "One good thing did happen. We talked about Richard without our usual arguments about God and religion. That was somewhat refreshing. Richard had been a taboo subject."

"You told them everything?"

"Not about the sex. However, the next time I'm alone with my father, we're going to have a long talk. Then I might tell him."

"And not your mother?"

"I can't yet imagine such a conversation with her. Besides, she already knows."

"Because she's psychic?"

"No, silly, because she's my mother. One Wednesday night, after coming home from a prayer meeting, after Richard and I had earlier been shacking up on my bed, I found my bed remade. My mother had even changed the sheets, something she'd never do otherwise. We never exchanged a word, but I knew she knew. That's when I wanted to tell our pastor the truth. That's when Richard almost hit me and ever since then..." I could hear her tears in her voice. "Morrie, can't we talk about something else?"

"Of course. Your father, let's hope there's been a spiritual healing between you two and..."

"Humph." Marguerite's voice turned bitter as it had when we were last together. "Don't start talking like my shrink. And don't presume anything! I've quit looking for spiritual signs. They're just a prelude for more disappointment. Every time things turn bad, some Holy Joe tries to spin the facts into a hopeful Paradise. If you knew my parents, you wouldn't be so naive. You can't conclude that therefore God exists just because my stuffy old father cried."

"Perhaps, but why not? For some, family reconciliations are just the kind of proof they need. Besides, if one can so easily conclude that God doesn't exist, why not the other way around? Just asking..."

"Er, right. One can't know for sure. That's why I'm an agnostic."

"And that's why I believe. Sure is good to know that we can choose, isn't it? Actually, we have a lot in common."

Marguerite paused. "I appreciate your concern, and I said last time that I would think about it. Now that you mention it, here's something that really complicates matters. I dare not tell my father about my loss of faith. No one in our family, perhaps not even he, has ever believed his churchy God speak. It was more like therapeutic talk. I was the family's only true believer, the one with a historical Christian faith. The family kind of looked up to me as evidence of what Dad said every Sunday. Perhaps that's why he fell apart this afternoon. He depends on me believing. If he knew the truth, it would shatter him."

"Wow, what can I say?" I asked, feeling lost for words. I had never imagined a Christian family quite like this.

"Say nothing. Besides, there are people waiting to use this phone. But before you go..." She was groping for words. "We need to talk about something else, face-to-face. Morrie, it bothers me...how it is between us."

"How what is? Do you mean about our relationship?" Dé jà vu. An old 'I've-been-here-before feeling' suddenly descended.

"Yes, but not now, not on the phone. Can you come over to Children's Clinic tomorrow? How about..."

"Wait a minute," I interrupted her as the door behind me opened. It was Frank. His face was laden with woe.

"Morrie, we must talk."

"Not now," I said. "I'm talking to Marguerite; it's important."

"What's going on over there?" asked Marguerite.

"Uh, nothing. Frank wants to talk to me, that's all. He says it's urgent...Frank, can't you wait a few seconds?"

"No," he replied and pulled the receiver away from my ear. "I have to talk to you now!"

"Give me that back," I demanded.

"Will someone tell me what's happening?" asked the girl's voice on the other end of the line.

"Listen, Marguerite. Frank is somewhat frantic. I have to hang up. We'll meet tomorrow evening, like you said."

"Well, okay but..."

Frank began pulling on the receiver and then I heard the dial tone. He had broken the connection. I was furious, but the dire expression on his face told me this was important.

"Morrie," he said, "I've got bad news. That is, it will be bad news if we don't act now."

"What are you talking about?" I asked.

"I've just come from Chaplain Ferapont's office, and guess what he told me."

"What were you doing there?" I asked. Frank's entire body was shaking. He paced back and forth in my little room. I told him to sit down, opened a can of Coke, and split it between us with two paper cups.

Frank thanked me for the beverage and drank two full glasses before speaking again. "Since we're so desperate for news about Dr. Gaul," he said. "I took a chance, hoping he might unwittingly give me a lead or two."

"Why would he tell you anything? You're not part of the Right Hand of God."

"He doesn't know that."

"Did you lie to him?"

"This is a covert operation, Morrie. Besides, I didn't walk in there with any intention of deceiving him. His own fears exaggerated the situation, and" —he smiled sheepishly— "I let him believe what he wanted."

"This James Bond stuff is going to your head. Are you making this all up?"

"Cut the questions, and I'll tell you the whole story."

I opened a large bag of Fritos, and even though Frank had insisted that he wasn't hungry, he took a huge handful of corn chips and began to chomp on them. I sat attentively on my bed and waited for him to continue with his intrigue.

"I've known and worked with Chaplain Ferapont for three years," said Frank, as he munched on the Fritos. "I thought we were pretty much alike. I mean, we believed the same things and even co-chaired the Student Missionary Relief Fund drive before Christmas. Many have said that he speaks highly of me.

"This afternoon, after leaving you, I went straight over to his office, walked in, and sat down. 'Good afternoon, my young friend,' he said. 'What can I do for you today?'" Frank paused to smile. "You must be influencing me, Morrie, because his greeting was so phoney."

"Get to the point," I replied.

"I played along with him, talking in a roundabout way, until I could mention the flyer threatening Dr. Gaul."

"Didn't he suspect anything?" I asked. "We've been seen together a lot, and I'm marked as an obstruction to be removed. You're a suspect by association."

Frank laughed, "You'd think so, but the chaplain must have taken me for the boob that I have been. I'd always idolized him. He would speak flatteringly of me only to hoodwink me into believing anything."

"Don't put yourself down. He was taking advantage of your good heart," I said.

"Whatever, my days of living in a fool's paradise are over. 'Chaplain,' I continued, 'I'm very disturbed by that article in the Milwaukee Journal attacking Dr. Gaul. Who would do such a thing?'

"'Now, Frank,' he replied and placated me with his usual Bible-talk, 'the Lord sits on heaven's throne, and if diligent in prayer, we can feel assured that He's in control. The earth is His footstool. So take this as comfort in these troubled times. Whoever it is, the Lord will truly replace Dr. Lentzner with a man of His own choosing.'

"'But what about Myron Gaul?' I asked. 'He is that man, isn't he? The Board of Regents has decided. Dr. Gaul has accepted. This letter in the Milwaukee Journal confuses me. How can we sit back and let them slander a man of God? As interim president, shouldn't you be advancing the Board of Regents' decision?'

"The chaplain reassured me with a patronizing smile, 'we must remember, brother, that a council of men, as devoted to our Lord as they may be, do not always have the mind of Christ. Now don't get me wrong. No one's questioning the judgment of the Board of Regents. But they're human and could have made a mistake. Some say that Myron Gaul is reconsidering his decision. Maybe he no longer feels it's the Lord's will. No doubt that's just gossip, but given my office, it's best that I not comment publicly. Let's wait and see what happens.'

"'Would he change his mind because of the letter in the paper?' I asked.

"'No, I've heard there are personal reasons.'

"'Did you talk to him yourself?'

"The chaplain became uneasy with my persistence. 'Ahem,' he said, 'I am not sure where that came from. People talk, I'm obliged to listen. It's part of my job.'

"My feet were shaking," Frank admitted, "but I took one more step. 'Chaplain, what's your opinion on the things people are saying around campus?'

"'Uh, what kind of talk?' he asked and slid back in his chair. He had never seen me behave this way before. Why he didn't see through me and call my bluff, I'll never know. 'Talking to you, a student, like this is really inappropriate.' he said.

"'Remember the rumors about you becoming president before Myron Gaul came on the scene? Some are saying that's still the case...'

"'Where did you hear that?' he snapped. He looked at me suspiciously.

"I replied, 'What's so unusual about that? All I would say is that you'd make a good president. You did much to bring stability to the college after Dr. Lentzner resigned.'

"The chaplain burst out laughing. 'Is that all you wanted to say, Blachford?'

"'Well, that too. Are you laughing at me, sir?'

"'I am sorry, my boy,' he replied, and he was unable to hide his relief. He looked at his watch as if I bored him. 'My mind was somewhere else. Your statement hit me strangely, that's all.'

"Then he started talking a little carelessly. I couldn't believe my ears. 'Blachford,' he said, 'I've always liked you. Yes, there was much hearsay, but when they selected Myron Gaul, I forgot all about them. But now there's again talk of Dr. Gaul having changed his mind and that my name has come up before the board.'

"I quickly replied, 'I haven't heard anything like that except from you now, sir.'

"'You mean these stories aren't circulating in the dorms?' he asked.

"I shook my head. 'Why would Myron Gaul back out, if that is his intension?'

"'I said there were personal reasons,' he said and cleared his throat. He was wary again and strained his mind, as if he might have said other things he shouldn't have.

"'Tell me what happened,' I persisted.

"'Mr. Blachford, such matters are administrative and don't concern you.'"

I looked at Frank. "Did you get any information out about Dr. Gaul or not?"

Frank replied, "I had hoped at least to learn whether the evil deed had been done. Or whether there was still time to help."

"Well?"

"I didn't think he would give out any more information, so I excused myself and started to walk out the door. That's when he stopped me.

"'Blachford,' he barked, 'what is it you want? Why are you here?'

"'Excuse me, sir?'

"'Who sent you here?'

"I simply smiled, neither confirming nor denying.

"'That snoop! How do I know that you're not one of his men?'

"'Perhaps we should bring in Dr. Lentzner. I bet he'd like to know who was behind those ski masks.'

"'You are one of them!'

"'And about that little meeting down in the furnace room... I suppose you wish to plead ignorance about that too?'

"'Is someone trying to blackmail me?' he asked.

"'Let us just say there are a few questions.' I said. Morrie, you should have seen the fear in his face.

"The chaplain replied, 'Why doesn't Brigsby contact me himself, that coward? Okay, what does he want to know?'

"My mind was in disarray. I had one chance to get this right. 'Our plan, which is Brigsby's plan, to involve Myron Gaul in a scandal is not working out as planned,' I said. 'We are going to need your personal assistance.'

"'No way, I can't be involved. Suppose the plan backfires, and someone catches me. I'd be ruined.'

"'If things don't work out,' I said, 'You won't be president anyway. Your reputation, and your ruin, is at our mercy. We ask only that you be reasonable.'

"The chaplain scowled after weighing his options, and then he growled, 'What does he want from me, in concrete terms?'"

By now, I was sitting on the edge of my bed, completely taken aback. "Wow, Frank, you've got guts. I can't believe Ferapont could be fooled like that!"

"Neither could I."

"Where did you get the courage?" I asked.

"Let me tell you, prayers were ascending. Then I remembered what Brigsby had told Shirley Wilson right after Ferapont had left. Suddenly I blurted, 'A person has backed out of our scheme. We need your help, right away.'

"'Is it the Wilson girl?' he asked. I knew then that they had informed him of the scheme.

"'Yes,' I gulped in reply, 'you'll have to find another one, a replacement and quickly.'

"The chaplain was visibly shaken. 'Is Brigsby asking me to recruit one of Bethlehem's young women to seduce a world-renowned evangelist?'

"'Dear Chaplain,' I said, trying to mimic the way Brigsby had sounded in the furnace room, 'My boss always says that a scandal perceived can be just as effective as the deed itself. You counsel students with these types of problems every day. Surely, you would know those with character of...should we say, ill repute.'

"'Here, here. Have you no morals at all, Frank Blachford? You of all people...doing Brigsby's dirty work.'

"'Sir,' I replied coldly, 'you see things entirely incorrectly. The plot need not go that far. If followed as planned, we won't actually need the girl's services. The entire ploy can be a media illusion. That's perfectly moral. Don't you want to be president and further the Kingdom of God?'

"'Blachford, how could you involve yourself with a bunch like this?'

"I only smiled in return. My only worry was how much my version had reflected the real plot."

Frank's story left me stunned. He then told me how Myron Gaul's plane, according to Chaplain Ferapont, was soon landing in Milwaukee.

I said to Frank, "Myron Gaul is in immediate danger. Where is this ambush to take place?"

"In some hotel. Where exactly I don't know, and I didn't dare press him any farther."

"That's not enough, Frank. How can we warn Dr. Gaul when he could be anywhere in Milwaukee?"

"Morrie, I'm sorry, but..."

"What time does his plane arrive? Did the chaplain tell you that? Maybe we could catch him at the airport."

"We're too late. My impression was at any moment, and that was a half hour ago."

"Boy, oh boy, he's now approaching his hotel room like a lamb to the slaughter."

"We have to do something, Morrie." Frank was almost in tears. "At least we have to try."

"Do what? I'm going to call Crusader. Maybe he's at his rooming house."

"But why?"

"I don't know."

"Didn't we agree to keep this between ourselves?"

"Correct, but this is an emergency. Besides, we can trust him absolutely. You said we've got to do something, and this is something." I turned my back to Frank and picked up the phone and dialled.

"Hello?" said a sleepy voice on the other end.

"Crusader? This is Morrie. We have to talk. Are you alone?"

"Oh hi, Morrie. Listen, I can't speak with you now. I just flew in from Kansas City and haven't slept for two days. Besides, I've got an important meeting."

"Wait. Don't hang up. This is urgent!" Without waiting for his reply, I gave him a quick summary of the entire affair.

"What?" he, now fully awake, shouted. "How long have you known about this?"

I told him what I knew about Brigsby and the balloon raid.

"Why didn't you tell me this before?" he asked.

Frank interrupted, "Morrie, what's going on?"

"Hush, Frank. Crusader, I..."

"Never mind now," my old friend said. "I want you to do something right away. Have Frank call Chaplain Ferapont and, if he hasn't started searching for another young woman, tell him that everything is working out all right and that Brigsby won't need the replacement. Do you understand?"

"What good will that do? Do you know something that we don't know? Are you involved?"

"Never mind. If you want to save Dr. Gaul, do as I say. Perhaps there's still time."

"Time for what?"

Frank butted in, "What are you two talking about, Morrie?"

"I don't know. Crusader just hung up the phone." After telling Frank what Crusader had said, I finally convinced him to call Chaplain Ferapont.

"How did it go?" I asked Frank after he had finished the call.

"It wasn't too late, and he agreed to stop looking. I told him 'our' girl had changed her mind."

"So I heard. But what did he say?"

"Nothing much. He was only a bit relieved. I don't think he had it in him to approach a possible replacement. Boy, when he finds out that I've conned him, he'll be out to get me for sure."

"That could happen indeed to you and me both. What do you do then? Oh, I wish Crusader were here."

Frank had been pacing in circles but now suddenly stopped. "I know what we can do!"

"Now what?"

"The operator at the college switchboard might know the hotel where Dr. Gaul is staying. I know her; we're in the same missionary support group. Let's go, Morrie."

"Gee, Frank, who don't you know?"

"Never mind." Frank grabbed my shirtsleeve and pulled me along.

From the receptionist we learned that Dr. Gaul was staying at the Schuster Hotel in downtown Milwaukee. Frank ran out the door.

"Let's hire that taxi parked over there," I said. "How much money do you have?"

"Ten dollars."

"I've got twenty. That's more than enough."

Burdened by concern for the fate of a great man's reputation, we implored the taxi driver to make all haste, and in no time at all, we were in downtown Milwaukee on Wisconsin Avenue right in front of the Schuster Hotel.

"This way, Frank." We hurried through a revolving door into a giant lobby with a burgundy flowered carpet. Victorian relief sculptures covered the ceiling and walls. From above hung a huge crystal chandelier.

"We wish to know where Dr. Myron Gaul's room is," I said to a thin man behind the oak reception desk.

"Myron Gaul? Do you mean the evangelist?" asked the clerk.

"Yes, that's him. His room number please."

"I'm sorry, young man, but the Reverend Gaul has not checked in."

"What?" gasped Frank. "He must be here. He's been in town for over an hour."

"I'm sorry, but Myron Gaul is not here. If you must know, we've received word that there has been a delay. If you will excuse me..."

I was about to demand more information when the stuffy clerk pivoted and waited on another customer.

"Well, Frank? I guess we struck out this time." We walked despondently back on to the street with barely enough bus money to get back to the campus.

### Chapter 23

________________

Early the next morning, we all went to our classes, and everything appeared normal. Student life went on, and, during morning chapel, the service was very ordinary and no one said a word about Myron Gaul being the next day's chapel speaker. Around noon, however, rumors were spreading that Dr. Gaul was no longer the new president of Bethlehem College. By three o'clock, it was the main topic of discussion. Some were fully convinced that the rumors were true; others demanded an official explanation, and the administration refused to comment. Uncertainty abounded. The fragile security that had been restored after President Lentzner's resignation had vanished. All this confused Frank and me even more.

"This too is Brigsby's doing," I said later that day, after school, as we walked on a bike path along the Menomonee River. "By spreading rumors, he can easily manipulate events."

"Surely the dirty deed has already been accomplished," lamented Frank. "What else can we do but pray?"

"If only Crusader were here. Last night. I tried calling him after we returned from downtown. Where could he be?" We stopped to skip small flat stones across a wide bend in the river where the current was rather slow. The idea was to throw a smooth, rounded pebble sideways and count how many times it would skip across the water.

"I have Greek exams on Monday, but who can study without knowing what happened to Dr. Gaul? Ferapont no doubt knows that I bamboozled him. My future here is truly in ruins. How's it going for you, Morrie?"

Before I answered, I threw a rock that skipped across the water seven times. "Luckily, I have no regular exams. But there are final papers to write for all my philosophy classes. With all my experiences with Jack, there's plenty to write about. My grades may not be on top, but my professors make encouraging comments."

Not to be outdone, Frank cast the smoothest stone he could find. "Then you'll be working late tonight." He counted aloud eight skips and poked his elbow into my ribs. "Beat that, Morrie."

"Yes, but Marguerite wants me to visit her this evening," I said.

Frank's voice turned critical. "Morrie, you've been going over there quite a bit lately."

"Any objections?"

"And you've been acting a little strange, like before Christmas. Don't go falling in love with her now. Remember who almost committed suicide. I introduced you to help Marguerite, not to entangle you. Didn't you learn anything from those fiascos with Tracy and Emily?"

"The situation may look the same to you, but this time I'm different." I cast a stone with only four skips.

"Yeah, you said that last time. If you get hurt again, don't come crying to me."

I looked at Frank and politely smiled. "Thanks for being concerned."

We changed the subject and continued our hike. Back on campus, we headed for our respective dorms.

"Remember," Frank said just before departing. "Eight skips is the new record. I bet you can't beat that."

Dark thunderclouds still hung low after a lot of rain. The next day, the trails along the Menomonee River Parkway were muddy, and my bike splashed through the puddles as I peddled hard toward the hospital. I was smoldering within and could almost feel what Marguerite was about to say. Was this about to be a repeat of Tracy after the Christmas banquet? I swung onto Watertown Plank Road as the tallest wing of the Children's Clinic came into sight. The skies thundered and crashed, and then came a pouring rain.

Marguerite was sitting right where she had told me she would be, in a canteen where the hospital staff took coffee breaks. The room was small, sterile, and ugly; the smell of disinfectant was everywhere. Small groups of nurses and technicians sat around smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee. Among them, a huge black woman laughed, boisterously, but the others ignored her, their faces expressionless.

Upon seeing me, Marguerite burst out laughing. "Look who's soaking wet." She looked about the room. "This place is more like the waiting room at the morgue, but it's the only place where there aren't children." She sighed. "I need to get away from those brats once in a while. This place is getting to me." She lifted up her Styrofoam cup from the table. "The coffee here is terrible." Her eyes directed me across the room. "If you want some, help yourself. There's no service here; put a quarter in the machine over there."

"Do you want a refill?" I asked.

"No thanks. Besides, too much caffeine makes me jittery. It's those pills they force down me."

I returned with a lukewarm coffee and sat down.

As a distraction, Marguerite began to gather the paper wrappers and cups on the table. "Uh, Morrie, this is hard for me to say. Where does one start...?"

The remark echoed Tracy's voice. "Relax, this speech I've heard many times before." My sarcastic reaction was not planned; sentiments, deeper than Jack's teachings, were surfacing. "Here, let me take the words out of your mouth. I like you more than you like me, right? And, because I'm such a good brother, you're afraid to hurt me and..."

"Morrie, stop talking that way. I'm serious."

"Be careful with that word; I might get the wrong idea."

"That's not funny."

"Oh, so only you are allowed to hide behind a cynical mask?" I asked.

Marguerite turned away. I did the same and watched a nearby nurse puff on her cigarette.

"Morrie," she finally said, "this has nothing to do with who you are. I'm not ready for another serious relationship. Look where I am. This is my own personal psycho-ward. You know why I'm here."

"There's nothing wrong with you," I said.

"Besides, I'm still not through with Richard. How can I begin a new relationship?"

"I'm not convinced."

She crossed her arms. "Quit imposing your opinions on my motives. What's eating you up?"

"Do you really want to know? Then listen to how it feels to be 'just another good brother.' Don't get me wrong. Truly the spiritual implications are quite profound, but, essentially, the line you've drawn around yourself says, 'You're a fine person as long as you stay on that side of the line.'"

"Morrie, I'm not saying that you're not good enough for me."

"Why then am I such a risk? Would it be so terrible to take a chance with me?"

Marguerite did not reply.

"No matter what happened in your past, the present fact is we have met, and no one can undo that."

"Stop coming on so strong. Give me some room."

Marguerite was right. My advance had been threatening--and unnecessary. "I'm not asking you to marry me. Just be more available."

"For what?" she asked.

"For possibilities. You want to be 'just friends?' Then take friendship seriously. It doesn't assume romance, but it might."

"You're asking me to trust you after Richard's betrayal, not to mention after the way you stood me up. If everything is possible, then count me out."

I thought for a moment. "What you got from Richard was the security of marriage as a kind of promissory note. But real friends have no expectations; there are no strings attached. And I've already explained to you about all that stuff with Jack. I've put it behind me and so should you."

"Easy for guys to say. Society expects them to take the initiative. But when women take down their defenses, men take advantage of us."

By now, I was very much at ease. "That possibility exists. However, if you put me into some compartment--the safe route--you'll never know who I really am. Nor will I know you."

Marguerite replied, guardedly, "I've liked you from the start, Morrie; that's what makes me back off."

"Because of Richard?"

"Partly, but it's you who frightens me. Rightly or wrongly, Richard at least knew what he wanted. But who are you, and in what direction are you going? You have no boundaries."

"External security can be a counterfeit," I said. "Richard gave you that and look where it led. If you want me to play a defined role--be it your brother or whatever--that's fine. But we won't be friends, not really. Friendship has no strings attached."

"You said that before. What do you mean?" Marguerite, trying to ward off the effects of the pills she had been taking, rubbed her eyes.

I tried to hold back my enthusiasm. "Friendship has no rules and springs from mutual trust. Real security comes from the inside."

Though still groggy, she sat up straight in her chair. "But if there are no rules or at least some external guidelines, then everything is legal. Morality become one's immediate impulse—right or wrong."

"It's true that whenever someone crosses over that 'line,' the abuse is clear and there for all to see. However, there's a problem with outward controls. From behind the correct side of the 'line,' one can still abuse, self-righteously, as much as he pleases."

She added, "Or he can redefine the boundaries so that he keeps on obeying the rules, technically, as did Richard."

"Right. But without those guidelines, I must trust you completely with nothing to fall back on. The slightest manipulation, for example, is the moral equivalent of battery."

Despite her drowsiness, Marguerite seemed shocked. "That's denying the moral laws of God. Aren't you supposed to be advocating Christianity?"

"And I thought you were defending atheism." I smiled and then we both laughed. "My intention is not to question the reality of moral truths but to protest applying them mechanically. I have more questions than answers. Why do we Evangelicals always let others program us like robots? Is the law for our sake, or the other way around?"

"Yes, but without those laws, civilization as we know it would be impossible. Our lives would be chaotic," she said.

"Regulations are important. As creatures and as social beings, you and I are also subject to them. However, here's the paradox: an individual is always higher than both the group and its rules. Is human society like an ant colony? Our coming together, was it a social contract, a corporation? For two to be friends, they must meet in the tension of that paradox."

"Is that why they call marriage an institution?" she laughed with a tinge of bitterness.

"An economic one if the sociologists are right. Husbands and wives, if they are preserving their individualities, can hopefully dispense with the rules and become friends. If not the marriage is doomed to failure, whether they stay together or not."

"But if they can't, there are laws that protect them."

"Or create a facade that also protects them," I added.

Marguerite changed the subject. "How can we become friends, I mean practically?"

"Be as real a person as you can be."

"Real?" she asked.

"An example: Suppose we have just met a woman in her thirties. Everyone senses wholeness about her. She need not be wise in the academic sense or particularly attractive physically. Yet there's something about her, a lack of pretension. She is transparent, a bright flame. No one asks what she does because it's hardly fitting to think of her as someone who fits into the ordinary scheme of things. We feel no compulsion to label her as we might others unless we feel threatened by her autonomy. Here is a person who expresses feelings and thoughts that are uniquely hers. In her presence, we also feel very comfortable; we dare be ourselves as well. The need to hide behind polite expressions vanishes. With a sense of purpose, this person relates to the real world in terms of its realities. Do you know what I am talking about?"

Marguerite paused. "Yes, exactly." My words had energized her. "There's no need to pretend or impress. What others think matters to them matters even less. I can simply be..."

"Yourself?"

"Yes, myself."

"Have you met such a person?"

Marguerite smiled. "A few."

"Do you see what I'm getting at? Oh, that there were dozens of such people. Personal freedom is merely the ability to be free in the presence of another."

"Often my favorite times are when I'm all by myself," she said.

"Yes, being alone is an essential and beautiful part of being real. Standing alone—to think and feel differently from the others--is a necessary ingredient of freedom. However, solitude's primary purpose is not aesthetic but to prepare us for the return to human interaction."

"Morrie, you're a real person. That's why I enjoy being near you."

"Perhaps, but if so, you're also complimenting yourself because even a real person, though free in herself, cannot express her freedom freely before un-real people, before those who build their identities on what they do or wear or whatever. Hence, even free persons must constrain themselves. In effect, their existence is incomplete, too. You can not be free alone, but only before another."

"What happens when a real person encounters another real person?" asked Marguerite.

"Now we've circled back to friendship. Between friends, 'being real' is a spontaneously shared gift, a mutual giving and returning of one's self to the other's disposal. Like reciprocal midwives, friends co-invoke the real other without fear. Like mirrors, they reflect each other's identities."

"I see, like learning to love without the romantic baggage," said Marguerite.

"An interesting way of putting it," I replied.

"Where did you learn all this, Morrie?"

I told her about Crusader and our many talks together.

"Morrie, have you ever been free?"

"I've never felt free." Knowing that the pain in my eyes was showing, I turned my head.

"Is it even possible?" she asked in a comforting way.

"I don't know that either. Would you like to help me find the answer?"

Marguerite laughed. "Are you proposing to me?"

My face blushed. "No."

"Long live friendship," she said and made a sudden gesture of merriment with her hand. "With only two days before my parents take me home, how can I go wrong?"

"Marguerite, I'm serious."

"I'm sorry—really." Suddenly her playful smile disappeared. "Yes, I would like very much to be your friend."

"With no strings attached?" I asked.

"This isn't exactly how my mother said it would happen." I spotted a slight twinkle in her eye.

### Chapter 24

________________

The sun had long set by the time I departed the hospital. Nighttime had blackened the rain clouds, but they could not dishearten me. My face smiled as never before. To quicken my pace, I bypassed the usual routes through the woodlands and biked up 68th Street back toward the college. When I was halfway home and surrounded by traffic, the rain poured again.

Our dorm was unusually quiet. Dripping water in my wake, I hurried through the halls back to my room to change into dry clothes. Papers and notes lay strewn across my desk and bed. Somewhere in this mess was my latest philosophy paper, "Thinking Religiously." With a wet shirt still clinging to my back, I read a few excerpts.

By the eighteenth century, scientists, no longer bound by Greek cosmologies, began to explore the universe in order to solve all its mysteries. This revolution made it possible for people to relate to their world by observing the 'facts' and interpreting them solely as cause and effect. Few would deny the usefulness of scientific observation. When the scientist focuses on the mechanical dimensions of the universe, his perspective should be materialistic, not because only the material is real, but because the observer is limiting his understanding to efficient causes...

However, these methodologies became more than utensils for improving our standard of living. Today these tools have become dogmas often more entrenched than those of their medieval forerunners...

' _You can dissect a frog, but it dies in the process' (E.B. White). With values described and measured, contemporary man has grown to be a spiritual stranger to God, the world, and himself..._

When looking at that world from a religious point of view, the observer differs from the above in the following manner: While the scientist strives to stand outside of himself for a sole 'objective' outlook, the religious thinker allows for the other (or the Other) observing him as part of the observation. The 'religious' express in communion or fellowship...

Unfortunately, many 'religious' wannabes act more like 'frog-dissecting' scientists reducing their beliefs into categories of rational, scientific proofs...

The next morning was Tuesday, the last day of classes; exams began on Wednesday. By Sunday, I'd be heading home by bus. Normally, my parents would have driven down and picked me up on Saturday, but when I suggested the bus alternative, my father readily accepted as there was still a lot of tension between us. Crusader had arranged for me to store my books and things in Mrs. Wigaard's attic.

Sunday was also the day Marguerite's parents were coming to take her home to New Jersey. That meant Saturday was our last chance to be together, and we had hoped to take a little trip down to the lakefront. Dr. Klute dashed these plans by refusing to let Marguerite stray beyond his ward before her parents came for her.

"It's not fair," Marguerite told me by phone. "They don't own me. Don't worry, Morrie. If necessary, I'll sneak out."

Tuesday's big news was a simple statement read aloud at the beginning of every class across the campus:

Students, faculty members, and staff of Bethlehem College! Make every effort to attend chapel tomorrow morning. The administration will make a very important announcement.

Rumors that the Board of Regents had retracted its offer to Myron Gaul were now rampant. Thus far, the administration refused to confirm or deny all reports that Myron Gaul had retracted his acceptance of Bethlehem's presidency. Finally, an official statement was forthcoming.

It had rained all night, and the whole world was wet and dreary. Frank found me eating breakfast in the dining hall.

"Where were you last night?" I asked. "I called you several times."

"That depends. You weren't so easy to find yourself." He set his tray beside me and sat down.

"You knew I was visiting Marguerite. At any rate, I was back by eight o'clock and came looking for you without success."

As was he custom, Frank bowed his head and silently beseeched God's blessings on the food he was about to eat. He then looked me in the eye and spoke. "I was combing the entire campus hoping to find some clues about Dr. Gaul. I kept worrying about him and couldn't study. There was only more gossip, and no one in the administration building would talk. Finally, I went back downtown to the Schuster Hotel. The same man was there, but he was no more help than before. 'Myron Gaul,' he said, 'booked a room here but never arrived.' Then he laughed and shook his head, 'What's going on over there? Another scandal for Bethlehem College?' With that I gave up and wandered about and then walked all the way back to the college—over one hundred blocks!"

"But it was raining."

"You need not tell me," he said.

"If they've blackmailed Dr. Gaul into 'officially changing his mind,' anything they tell us today at chapel will be lies."

We ate breakfast slowly and talked about what might happen next. If Chaplain Ferapont were to become the next president, how would Bethlehem fare under Eilert Brigsby's evil control? The auditorium was packed, the crowd deathly silent. All awaited to hear the fate of Dr. Gaul. The huge pipe organ, usually sounding tones for worship and praise, was silent. The chimes in the bell tower tolled. As soon as Frank and I found two empty seats, the entire Board of Regents, collectively, walked slowly onto the stage and sat on the folding chairs placed in a half-circle behind the speaker's podium. Chaplain Ferapont, who took his place off to the side, followed them.

"I don't like the looks of this," whispered Frank.

"Shh-shh. Someone's about to speak."

A tall, overweight man stood up and approached the podium. I had twice seen him in the hallways at the Children's Clinic. Truly, it was Dr. Klute. An air of solemnity hovered over the entire assembly, which became even more silent.

"In these last days," the heavy man spoke, "many rumors have assaulted the Bethlehem community. It isn't necessary for me to tell you why I stand before you. My name is Dr. Richard Klute. I have led this group of men through the painful process of replacing our beloved, former president, Dr. Frederick Lentzner. Great tribulations have fallen upon our school these past months. Satan would hinder this great work for the Kingdom of God. Again, he has caused shame to come upon our institution. Still we boldly proclaim: beneath the shadow of the Almighty's wings, the gates of hell cannot prevail."

The assembly cautiously applauded and braced themselves for the worst. Dr. Klute shifted his weight from one foot to another and then raised his hands as if to bestow a blessing.

"Brothers and sisters in Christ. Now is the time to stand and be proud that you are from Bethlehem College."

The gesture was empty, and the crowd became more anxious. Beads of sweat surfaced on Dr. Klute's brow as he hunched over to review his notes. With one last effort, he summoned up his strength.

"No doubt all have read The Milwaukee Journal and know of the scandalous attack against evangelist Myron Gaul. For the record, I repeat: No one from the Bethlehem family—neither student nor staff—is responsible for this onslaught. Dr. Gaul has been a friend of this school for many years. He is one of our generation's most influential Christian leaders. We all love him dearly and have called him to the take the helm of this great school.

"Thus, with great sadness I announce that Dr. Gaul has withdrawn his name and is no longer available to be our president. I have spoken with him and he sends his personal regrets, especially to the students who had looked forward to his coming. He emphasized that, despite the rumors, his reasons are strictly personal and private. Come what may, no further details will be coming forth."

Murmuring noises came from all corners of the auditorium and forced Dr. Klute to pause.

Frank grabbed my shirtsleeve. "It's a conspiracy," he whispered aloud. "Brigsby has carried out his evil plan. Personal reasons, ha! The lies from Klute's mouth are detestable."

"Not so loud," I replied. "We don't know that. If the plot was so successful, why is there no public scandal? It can't be as simple as that."

"They've blackmailed him."

"That doesn't sound like Brigsby. Why stop there, Frank? Why not destroy Myron Gaul completely?"

"A full-blown scandal could limit his influence and might even backfire in Dr. Gaul's favor. Blackmail! Why else would Dr. Gaul step down of his own accord?"

"That the Board of Regents is dishing out lies wouldn't surprise me at all," I said. "But don't you think..."

"Students, students," interrupted Dr. Klute, "your attention please. Classes are over and exams begin today. I shouldn't be burdening you now with such sad news. Within a few days, you'll be homeward-bound. If we leave you in this vacuum, how could you ever enjoy your summer vacation?" He smiled for the first time. "One more announcement remains. On my right sits a man who has served the Bethlehem community with unwavering dedication. You know him as friend and counselor, not to mention as interim president, he who restored peace during the chaotic events of Dr. Lentzner's resignation."

The eyes of all now focused on Ivan Ferapont.

"Through the years, many have been in this man's office with personal problems. Everyone has heard his inspiring chapel talks. Very few, however, realize the major role this man has had in the school's development. Were he here today, Dr. Lentzner could testify how this man's insight and advice has contributed to the greatness of your education."

Frank and I exchanged suspicious glances.

Dr. Klute continued. "After all-night consultations, and of course, much prayer, the Board of Regents has voted, unanimously, that we call Ivan Ferapont to assume full responsibilities as permanent president of Bethlehem College, starting immediately--in Jesus name."

Although anticipated, Dr. Klute's words fell on stunned ears. Except for the vigorous clapping from a few ardent students, the majority, weary of traumatic changes, were dazed.

Frank eyed the applauding zealots. "Brigsby should be standing at the podium to direct the entire affair."

"Not so loud."

Dr. Klute now smiled with a broad, confident smile. "And so, without further ado, may I present Ivan Ferapont, the next president of Bethlehem College."

The chairman of the board turned to the man of the hour and applauded. It was an awkward moment. Many were still unsure. Ivan Ferapont briskly walked to the podium while Dr. Klute beamingly turned to the audience. "Don't be shy; give our new president a warm welcome."

The crowd clapped at first politely and then with feeling as the popular chaplain stood before the podium and linked arms with Dr. Klute.

Frank whispered near my ear, "Something terrible has happened."

"You're right, Frank, and nobody knows what happened to Dr. Gaul after he left the airport."

Chaplain Ferapont, now President Ferapont, signaled with his forefinger a desire to speak. As if he had pressed a button, we all fell silent when our new leader opened his mouth.

"Members of the board, faculty, and beloved students of Bethlehem College. The last time I stood here, I was your counselor, your preacher, your chaplain. Yesterday, had one of you entered my office, I would have encouraged, cautioned, or admonished you, as the Lord would lead me. Today I'm your leader, your president. The mere stroke of my pen will now affect you and the entire school. Pray for me, that the Almighty would pour out his Spirit and Wisdom in greater measure."

The response this time was more enthusiastic, with even an occasional cheer. Frank and I turned to one another, flabbergasted.

"I need not say," our new president continued, "that this is a critical hour in this school's history. As far as being an effective instrument for the Kingdom of God, Bethlehem stands at the crossroads. Many times Dr. Lentzner and I have agonized over the fiery darts hurled at our school from Satan's strongholds. Friends, we must hold back the tide of liberalism that is now threatening the Church of Jesus Christ."

A militant hurrah thundered from several enclaves of the sanctuary.

"And the victory belongs to the people of God!"

Large numbers arose to give the chaplain a standing ovation, their cry having gained majority strength. Where was the opposition? Had the Arties been swept into the flow, or had they left in disgust?

"Morrie," cried Frank, "let's get out of here. I feel nauseous."

"Not now," I said, "you'll draw attention. Besides, they're almost finished."

Dr. Klute returned the microphone and stood beside his newly chosen. "Students, we must move on to our classes. Let me summarize. The commitment of this man and your enthusiastic response has given me new hope. Surely I speak for everybody, both those here today and the thousands of alumni who serve the Lord all over the world." He embraced the new president. "We say congratulations to our new president and God's blessings upon you." He then turned the students. "Good luck with your final exams. You are dismissed."

Some remained standing and applauded. Most poured into the aisles and out the door. Still in shock, Frank and I remained seated. My friend wore the most deathly expression.

"What's the matter?" I asked, knowing this had hit my friend hard.

"It's just occurred to me. Had not my own ears overheard what's really happening in secret, I would be singing Ferapont's praises this very moment. I'd be out there, leading the entire pack."

I stared at Frank blankly. He was right.

"Had I only acted quicker," he mused. "We knew danger was lurking for several weeks. Too little, too late. Why?"

"Frank, you're not to blame. We did our best. Let's get out of here."

We were among the last to leave the auditorium.

"Morrie, Brigsby and his pawn are now running this school. What will happen next? This tragedy is far from over. With what we know, can we stand by?"

"Number one, they don't know what we know. Secondly, we're both on Ferapont's list of undesirables. You can guarantee that. Start looking for another school to attend."

"Even so, we'll take our secret with us. Consequences will follow," he said.

"Keep your mouth shut and live. Excuse me, Frank." We were passing near the postal room. "Wait here while I check for any mail."

There was a mysterious looking letter addressed to me.

"Frank! Come here, quick."

"What is it?"

"An urgent message from Crusader: 'Meet me at my place immediately. Help Myron Gaul.'"

"What are we waiting for?" cried Frank and pulled my arm toward the door.

I struggled to resist, but Frank's grip was binding. "But I've an important class. Dr. McMurray is going to review for our final exams. I've got to be there."

"Forget classes," he said, pulling me out onto the lawn. "This is more important. Where's Updike Street?"

A long row of Victorian houses stood on both sides of the road where Crusader lived. Elms, planted in neat long rows by the city founders, towered over everything and brushed against one another from each side of the street.

"Crusader lives up there." I pointed to a castle-like turret on a large white house. We walked up to an old oak door and knocked. Mrs. Wigaard answered and broke out with joy, "Oh! Oh, Morrie, it's you. Come in, come in. Crusader is expecting you." The little, grey-haired woman hastily walked toward the stairway.

"That lady sure likes you," whispered Frank.

"That's because she hardly knows me," I said with a wink. "Ahem, Mrs. Wigaard, it's good to see you so happy."

"If you knew who slept in my house last night, you'd be thrilled too."

"Who?" we asked together.

"See for yourself. He's in Crusader's room. You know the way. I have to check my roast in the oven. Tell Crusader that dinner will be ready in twenty minutes."

Frank and I shrugged our shoulders and watched her disappear into the kitchen.

"Let's go see," I said.

Quickly, we raced up two flights of stairs and stopped at the attic door. I knocked.

"Morrie, is that you?" came Crusader's voice from the other side.

"Yes, and Frank is with me."

"Good, come on in."

I slowly opened the door, and there, sitting on a chair, with a broad smile was a familiar face.

"Dr. Gaul!" we cried out together.

"Crusader, what are you two doing here?" I asked.

Crusader replied, "For one thing, I live here." Both started to laugh.

"No," added Frank, "we mean Dr. Gaul. And how can you be so happy? Don't you know what happened on campus today?"

The evangelist answered, "Of course. Thanks to your help, gentlemen, we have good reason to rejoice."

"Myron, this is my good friend Morrie Schiller and his friend Frank Blachford."

The evangelist shook our hands. "Since last night, when Crusader told me how you uncovered the plot against me, I've been very anxious to meet both of you. I owe you my entire ministry."

This confused us only more. "But we thought..."

Crusader interrupted, "Had you been around, I would have told you all about it. Where were you two last night?"

We looked at each other, baffled. "Told us what?" I asked.

"That Dr. Gaul was safely at my place."

"Here?" I asked.

"Well, actually I slept in Mrs. Wigaard's guest room downstairs," said Dr. Gaul, laughing.

"You mean Brigsby didn't find you? How could..."

"Myron," laughed Crusader, "stop teasing. Let's tell them the whole story. Sit down on my bed, boys."

Dr. Gaul leaned back in his chair. "You see, as my plane was coming into General Mitchell Field, I saw the very letter written against me in the Milwaukee Journal, so I was already tipped off. I won't go into it all now, but this wasn't the first threat or innuendo that I have received. Crusader and I have been very concerned for some time."

"Crusader?" I asked. "Do you two know each other?"

"Well, not many pay much attention, but we've been friends for a couple of years. Now let Myron finish his story."

"Anyway," the evangelist continued, "I quickly grabbed a cab and headed right for my hotel with plans to call Crusader as soon as possible. Was my life in danger or what? Intuition told me that something very evil was about to happen. When I arrived at the hotel, Crusader was already waiting in a car right by the main entrance. He whisked me away, and I've been here ever since. And I have you two to thank. Two minutes later, I would have been framed in a sex scandal."

The picture was clearer, but questions still abounded.

"So Brigsby didn't find you?" asked Frank.

"No," replied Crusader. "Truly, his people were in the hotel waiting..."

"And the girl?" interrupted Frank.

"She was ready to move in, the details, thankfully, may never be known. Outside the hotel, while waiting for Myron, I spoke with the doorman. A bellboy had told him that some rather nervous-looking people, a man with a camera and a sexy looking girl, were acting suspiciously. Apparently, they had a room down the hall. Had I not been there to intercept, anything could have happened."

"Who even wants to know?" added Dr. Gaul. "Let's hear your stories. Crusader has told me what happened, but just how did you stumble on this information?"

For the next half hour, Frank and I took turns narrating the entire story of the secret meetings down in the boiler room.

"Amazing," concluded Dr. Gaul after he and Crusader had asked many questions. "Had you boys not acted when you did, my reputation would have gone to ruin, even if I could have proven my innocence. I owe you everything and express my heartfelt gratitude."

Myron Gaul stood up gave us a hug and shook our hands. Frank and I blushed and stood at attention as if a great general had conferred on us medals for valor in the face of the enemy. I had never seen a famous evangelist close up before, much less touched one.

"Frank," he added, "you endangered yourself by walking into Ferapont's office on my behalf. That touches me deeply."

Frank staggered, kept shaking the evangelist's hand, and did all he could to keep his balance. In five minutes, he had gone from ruins to the hero of the day.

Crusader smiled. "Let me say that I am very proud of both of you. And all this, what we speak of now, must never be repeated to others, neither friend nor foe, for your own protection." Crusader took notice of Frank. "Is there something wrong, my friend?"

"Uh, yes." Frank turned to Dr. Gaul. "If Brigsby's plot failed, why did you turn down Bethlehem's offer to be president? Is it true?"

"Yes, Crusader and I decided that together last night. Brigsby must think my hotel no-show a coincidence. We figured he would only try something else if I went on and accepted the position. I rang to Dr. Klute last night. I let him believe the rumors about campus were true."

"You boys don't know how important your discovery was," said Crusader. "Recently, several good men and women have been attacked in bizarre ways. The result has been damage or even ruin to their ministries. I couldn't ignore the similarities and have been traveling to find out why. Now I know. Now we can hopefully circumvent new scandals again thanks to your covert actions."

"Did you suspect Eilert Brigsby all this time?" I asked.

"He was on my list. Remember his prophecy against Bethlehem College last winter by the fountain?"

"Do I ever," said Frank and confessed his gullibility again.

"So that's why you were there," I said to Crusader.

"Exactly. Brigsby's tongue had been wagging a lot before Harry Wagner's death, and he all but destroyed his work among Evangelical artists. I became..."

I grabbed Crusader by the arm. "You knew Emily's father?"

He backed off defensively. "Not very well. We met once and have talked by phone. He served God with great integrity. In fact, he called me a few days before his death. He had 'some important issues' to discuss with me, and we had set a date. Whatever he had to say lies with him in his grave."

"Gee, I had no idea that this was such a big deal."

"Your discovery has opened up a window to a movement that goes far beyond Brigsby. The scandalizing might next go up to national politics."

"Really?"

"Let's go back to your question, Frank," said Dr. Gaul. "Crusader and I hope my resignation will deflect Brigsby's interest from me. Now that we know a few of their secrets, we hope to be a positive influence right here at Bethlehem College. There's a chance that Brigsby might use the college as a base. We can, for example, keep an eye on personalities that come and go."

"What about Chaplain Ferapont becoming president? Do you believe that Brigsby is behind that too?"

"There's no other way to see it," said Crusader. "I talked to Dr. Klute two days ago on the telephone, and he still maintained that the board would never choose Ivan Ferapont as president. I honestly think he's in the dark as to what's going on."

"You should have heard him in chapel this morning," I added.

"I can only imagine."

"But how can one stand back and let Brigsby be president by proxy?" asked Frank.

"Believe me, we won't be passive," answered Crusader. "There is a time to fight fire with fire."

"You mean go underground?" I asked.

"If necessary. Now that Brigsby has established a power base, there's reason to believe that his activities will go out from Bethlehem. We must break his base, and if we can do it without publicity, so much the better. Ferapont is a proud man. How long he can bow down to Brigsby's iron hand is anybody's guess. They're bound to overplay, and then I want to be there."

"Yes," added Dr. Gaul. "Everything said here must not leave this room. Of course, we can depend on you."

"Don't worry about me," I said quickly. "I know too much already. If anybody asks, I haven't heard a word."

"Good. And you, Frank?"

"That I will keep silent goes without saying. Beyond that, however, my greatest wish is to be in your service."

"That's very noble of you," said the evangelist. "Do you have any plans for the summer?"

"I do need to earn some money for school next year, wherever that'll be. There's a chance for a job in a canning factory north of Milwaukee, but nothing is for sure."

"What's your major, son?"

"Theology, sir."

"And what about after college?" he asked.

Frank blushed and looked at the floor.

"Speak up, son. Don't be ashamed."

Frank slowly lifted his head. "I want to be an evangelist, sir."

Dr. Gaul rubbed his chin. "Hmm. Our assistant youth director had an accident last week. He broke his leg and is on sick leave for the summer. That means a summer position opens in our youth ministry. We're always looking for good young men and women. How would you like to work with me this summer?"

"W-why sure," Frank said, almost trembling, "but what could I do?"

"You could help coordinate our youth program for our West Coast outreach."

"Me?"

"Frank!" I slapped him on the back. "This is your big chance. Say yes! You're not dreaming, honest."

Frank broke out into a big smile. "Yes! Thank you for the offer, Dr. Gaul."

The two shook hands vigorously.

"We can make arrangements this weekend. I'll be staying here with Crusader and Mrs. Wigaard."

Frank had one more question. "What about school next year? Do you think it is safe for me here at Bethlehem—with all that I said to the chaplain?"

"I'd say he's in grave danger," I added.

"With all the euphoria, he's not thinking of you right now," said Crusader. "But it won't take long before he figures out that you tricked him. You had better find another college. Given the terms of his resignation, Richard Klute owes Myron a few favors. We'll make sure he does all in his power to protect you and let you transfer without any negative consequences."

"There's a fine school right near our headquarters in St. Louis," added Dr. Gaul. "Many of our summer workers go there so that they can be near us."

Frank smiled with deep satisfaction. "I can't believe this is happening."

Dr. Gaul then looked straight at me. "Morrie, we've been ignoring you. What plans have you for the future?"

"Oh, I suppose I'll finish this day, and then there's, uh, my philosophy paper. That's due on Monday, and, uh, then tomorrow, well... I..."

"I can vouch for Morrie," laughed Crusader. "He is a special case and full of surprises. He had better find another school too, but to get that past his father won't be easy."

A shriek came out of nowhere. "Yoo-hoo!"

"What's that?" asked Frank.

"You mean who," said Crusader, laughing. "That's just Mrs. Wigaard."

The lady stood and the bottom of the stairwell and cried, "Hurry boys, dinner is on the table. Come. Morrie, you and your friend are welcome to join us."

"We're coming!" shouted Crusader. "It's not every day that my landlady gets to entertain a famous evangelist."

"You see?" I elbowed Frank. "Your reputation is spreading far and near. You had better get used to this celebrity stuff."

As the four of us walked down the staircase, Frank whispered to me, "Crusader wasn't referring to me. I think he meant Dr. Gaul."

### Chapter 25

________________

Saturday night. A bright full moon rose over Milwaukee's twilight skies. Light beams from cars and trucks and yellow-glazed street lamps lit up the broad four-lanes on Blue Mound Road. Backed up vehicles on Highway 45, spewing their exhaust, were trying to drive in all directions. Above, the darkened sky glowed with a soft-white haze that hovered above the skyline. I set foot to meet Marguerite for our last night together. The day before, I had turned in my final philosophy paper, "Nicolas Berdyaev's Philosophy of Freedom." Back in the dorm, my suitcases stood packed and ready for Sunday's trip home to St. Paul.

On this the last day in May, Wisconsin had welcomed her first heat wave. Inside the city's many homes, blue-collar brewers and motorcycle builders, hard working men and women, were showering off the sweat and grime from the day's heat. Soon packed taverns, including Jan and Vern's on West State Street, would bustle with patrons feasting on fried fish and beer.

Elsewhere, in apartment buildings and bungalows, teenage girls leaned close to mirrors to darken their eye shadows and brows. They and other shoppers would soon be swarming across the sprawling asphalt lots of Mayfair Mall. Some were already passing through glowing archways with thrall and wonder.

Inside the walls of Children's Clinic, my present destination, Marguerite was waiting for me to pick her up. Time was short, so I bypassed my usual bike trails along the Menomonee River, walked South on Wauwatosa Avenue from the college, and crossed the river on Harwood Avenue. I seemed to be the only person on foot.

Close to the curb, a car full of teenagers came screeching by. A boy rolled down his window and hollered vulgarities at me. His hooting brought back memories of my youth, of me sitting in the back seats of cars, of getting carsick while we cruised the streets back home. My classmates had learned to exclude me from such excursions. Since then I have walked many roads alone.

On Watertown Plank Road, the upper stories of Children's Clinic again came into sight. My concerns focused in on the mission at hand. During my last visit with Marguerite, we had outlined the plan of escape. With detail, she had sketched the hospital's floor plan on a paper napkin and had listed the exits and security stations. The strategy called for me to create enough distraction for her to slip down the fire escape before anyone noticed.

Marguerite had to wear special clothes so that nurses and staff knew she was a patient. Thus, the day before I had bought a pair of frayed jeans, a blouse, and a blue denim jacket from the Salvation Army. At a flower shop on the corner of 86th Street, an unsuspecting clerk agreed to roll and wrap ten long stem roses together with the clothes and have her delivery boy transport the whole bundle to Marguerite, who then hid the outfit under her bed until I came.

Would Marguerite be ready? Beneath the huge West wing of the hospital, I waited for my cue. It was dark, and at exactly 8:30 p.m., the light from her room on the top floor flashed off and on three times as planned. That was the signal, my go-ahead to set into action our evening's elopement from Children's Clinic.

I jogged up the driveway and strolled swiftly through the main entrance, mimicking some ordinary guest who had happened to breeze through. Everything appeared normal as the elevator door closed and I soared briskly upward. My heart throbbed at the thought of someone blowing my cover.

The elevator stopped at the fourth floor and took on another passenger. It was Dr. Klute! I trembled as he scrutinized me, probing his mind as if he knew he had seen me somewhere. As a member of Bethlehem's Board of Regents, he had been at the award ceremony and had surely heard of the infamous Morrie Schiller, escort to Emily Wagner the night of the paint balloon raid. Was my image etched somewhere on one of his memory tissues—waiting to be recollected? Dr. Klute knew of my visits, and, according to Marguerite, he had expressed his disfavor. But so far, he had not seen us together. He normally wore glasses and now had to squint to see me better. When our eyes met, he smiled awkwardly and pretended to look at his clipboard.

The doctor hadn't designated to which floor he was going. Only the eighth floor light on the switch panel was blinking. Was he heading for the same floor as I? Sweat was beading on my brow. If I looked as suspicious as I felt, the whole plan could break down, and Marguerite and I might be spending our last evening together in a stuffy visiting room along with other patients.

The elevator stopped at the sixth floor. The door opened, but no one was there to board. Why had it stopped here? Dr. Klute looked impatiently at his watch, and then, without warning, he rushed out the door just before it closed. I breathed a sigh of relief.

At the top floor, the elevator door opened as Marguerite pretended to be casually walking by. Our eyes met; her face lit up as she dashed out of sight. It was now up to me to create the necessary scene.

"Good evening, Mr. Schiller," said the head nurse from behind the desk as I entered the ward. Because of my many visits, the nurses knew me. "Marguerite has been anxiously waiting for you. You've been such a good influence on her, Morrie. Her doctor has commented how much she improves after each of your visits. It's too bad your relationship has had to grow under these circumstances. And tomorrow she's going home to New Jersey." The nurse smiled and whispered, "I can't help but notice that you make such a nice couple."

I smiled. "Well, thank you, Mrs. Townsend. That was kind of you to say."

"Marguerite was so disappointed when she heard she couldn't go out with you this evening. I don't understand it, especially after the staff doctor had already given his permission. I was very surprised, especially on such a minor matter. But Dr. Klute said no, and those are my orders. I'm sorry, Morrie."

"You all did your best, Mrs. Townsend. Thanks for trying. But those are the rules."

Mrs. Townsend sighed again. "You're so understanding."

"Anyway," I added. "I can't stay long. Marguerite has a long trip ahead of her tomorrow and needs to get plenty of rest."

Without anyone else noticing, Marguerite casually stood in the doorway of the visiting room. She lifted the hem of her bathrobe to show me that she was wearing sneakers and the jeans I had bought her, and then she disappeared. That was my signal that she was ready to go.

"You're such a good boy, Morrie," added the kind nurse. "I've been here for nine years, and I tell you, I've been so impressed with everyone from Bethlehem College. They're all such fine people."

"Well, thank you for saying so," I replied politely. My eyes fell on the porcelain vase, full of flowers, which stood on the edge of the counter. "Ahem, Mrs. Townsend, these flowers are beautiful. Where did they come from?"

"Funny you should ask," she said, smiling with pride. "Dr. Klute arranged for us to get those. They were left over from President Ferapont's nomination reception last night. But then you know all about that. Were you there?"

"No, ma'am. That reception was only for very important people. You can bet that I wasn't invited."

"Why of course. Anyway, aren't they lovely? We were so lucky to get to get them on our floor."

"They sure are pretty." I started to make a reckless inspection. "Why, they look so freshly cut. What does it say on this little card?"

"Morrie, be careful," said Mrs. Townsend. "You're going to knock the vase over!"

"Huh? Oh! Oops." I tipped the vase over with my elbow and took a dramatic step backward.

Crash. Orchids, glass, and water splashed all over the floor; the container shattered into a thousand pieces.

"Oh my goodness!" I stooped over. "Look what I've done!"

"Morrie!" screamed the nurse. Her friendly voice suddenly flushed with anger. "You clumsy boy. Get away from there."

The entire ward was in commotion.

"Quick, Jimbo," ordered the nurse to a passing orderly. "Get a mop!"

"I'm terribly sorry," I tried to look as useless as possible and fumbled about to pick up some broken pieces.

"Stay out of the way, Morrie. The orderlies will clean up the mess. Please, you're only making things worse."

Within seconds, three nurses joined in on the clean up. Patients, strolling by, gathered about to watch.

Our plan was working perfectly. On bended knee, I looked between the legs of the bystanders at the blur of Marguerite's figure rushing by. Soon I would be joining her on the staircase. I stood up and slowly backed away while everyone was still preoccupied with the spill.

My careful retreat led me past the elevator door and across the hall to the staircase. I opened the door and, within seconds, my feet were sailing down the stairway. I spun around each new flight of stairs. Marguerite met me half way down at the sixth floor.

"Hurry!" she cried. "Let's get out of here. Let's hope we don't meet anyone."

"Everyone uses the elevator. Pray that security didn't spot us on video. Just go through the main lobby as planned."

"Oh, Morrie, this is so exciting. And these clothes fit me perfectly!"

We continued running down more flights of stairs until we reached the main floor.

I handed Marguerite the jacket I had taken. "What did you do with your bathrobe?"

"Under the staircase on the second floor," she replied.

"Did the nurse make you take those sleeping pills?"

"I promised to take them later. She believed me and left them on my tray. Afterwards I flushed them down the toilet. Do I still look like a patient?"

"In no way; your eyes are as clear as ever. In fact, you look great! One more time: as we walk across the lobby, you'll act like your best friend has just died. I'll make a big fuss about comforting you. Then we'll walk right out the front door."

"Are you sure it will work?" she asked.

"Absolutely." I secretly crossed my fingers.

"But suppose someone recognizes me."

I took her by the shoulders and pushed her to the closed door leading to the lobby. "Don't worry. Put your hands over your face, make as if you're crying, and slowly walk toward the main door. And don't look up. I'll be right beside you, guiding you with my arm around your shoulder. Bystanders never intrude upon a person in grief. We'll fool them all."

"Morrie, where do you get all these ideas?"

I smiled. "Either you got it or you don't."

"Give me a hug...for good luck."

We embraced as I opened the door and pushed Marguerite out onto the center stage, saying, "Go, before a security guard spots us."

She had little choice and buried her face in her hands, whimpered, and shuffled her feet across the reception lobby while I shielded her from sight with my body. Like a funeral procession, we strolled right past the main desk. People passing though the lobby sympathetically stopped to stare and then cleared a path toward the main entrance. A security guard even ushered us out through the revolving glass doors.

At last, we were free from the watchful eyes of doctors and nurses but were still far from being alone. The receiving area just outside was busy with taxis driving in and out. People were coming and going, and parked cars were everywhere. Beneath the night skies, streetlights flooded the driveway leading out to the main road through the medical complex.

Where could two runaways find some peace and quiet? A grassy knoll lay along the East wing of the hospital where darkness shrouded the bushes and trees. I grabbed Marguerite's hand, and we ran into the shadows beneath two huge maple trees and found a secluded park bench. Alone at last.

"Where should we go now, Marguerite? I haven't made any plans beyond sneaking you out of the hospital. Around here there's only expressways, parking lots, and people standing in line at hamburger joints. Maybe we could take the bus down to the lakefront and walk by the lagoon in Veteran's park. I know where some neat cafes are down there."

"We can't go that far," she said. "I have to be back in a couple of hours, and that would take too much time. But you're right about finding our own space. Say, I have an idea. Juneau Academy isn't too far from here."

"What?"

"It's a private high school for rich kids. When I was a freshman, my father took our family over to the campus to visit an old friend who works there. The area is kind of run down, but I remember this street with gift shops and an outdoor cafe. You'll like it there, Morrie. It's real quaint."

We crept back between the neighboring medical buildings and dashed several more blocks toward Wisconsin Avenue where we boarded the first eastbound bus. The bus driver knew about the school and suggested that we stay with him.

"This bus turns North on 35th Street," he said. "You can get off at Kilbourn, and from there you can walk."

Within twenty minutes, we were standing on a corner with taverns and storefronts and paper litter blowing around like tumbleweeds. Hundreds of people, black, white, and brown, were coming and going from all directions.

"I can't see anything but urban decay, Marguerite. Nothing seems quaint to me. Where's the academy?"

"I remember my father driving past a huge church," she insisted. "Juneau is just beyond this corner. Let's walk up this street a couple of blocks." She took me by the hand and led me down a side street.

Beyond the safekeeping of the hospital and of Bethlehem College, we were now on our own, strangers in a strange land. The thrill of escape had disappeared; the lightness of our feet turned sluggish. Like two lost children, block after block, we were going nowhere.

Milwaukee's inner city had once been the home to a prosperous middle class. However, that night ghetto children sat on front porch steps and stared at us, silently. We were trespassing into their domain. Huddled groups of teenagers peered over their shoulders, whispered together, and then broke out in hysterical laughter. We quickened our pace, backtracking, and we soon stood again at the corner of another busy intersection. We had returned to the relative safety of bright lights and hectic traffic.

"Marguerite, this is North Avenue. We're way off the mark. I think we stayed on the bus too long. We'll never find that academy now. Let's find our way back to 35th Street and take then the same bus back toward the clinic. "

Marguerite was distressed. "I'm sorry, Morrie. The school felt so nearby when we got off the bus, but we went astray somewhere. What should we do now?"

I tried to comfort her and changed the subject. "We can still make a nice night of it. Let's first find a decent place to eat. I'm hungry."

We passed an old movie theater. The title WOLF and the names Jack Nicholson and Michelle Pfeiffer were shining brightly as hundreds of light bulbs covered the old-fashioned marquee. The smell of popcorn filled the air.

"Had we come earlier," I jested, "we could have taken in a film."

"Too late now. The ticket window is closed." Marguerite was aloof, as if still off-course from all those wrong turns.

Suddenly, as we read posters of coming events, the exit doors swung open and out rushed a drove of moviegoers. They surrounded us and huddled about, waiting for some stimulus to move them onward. In the glow of the artificial lights, the lonely crowd cast no shadows.

More and more, people kept bumping into us from all sides. Expressionless, Marguerite froze, benumbed like Lot's wife who had turned into a pillar of salt. A cloud of gloom descended upon her. She looked panicky.

"Marguerite?"

"I don't feel so well," she whimpered as if calling from a void. "The trains. I hear the trains. Take me back to the hospital, Morrie."

Her face had lost its color; the glance of her eyes turned glassy. With me was a stranger. I put my arm around her and pulled her toward me.

"Marguerite, are you all right?" I asked.

"No!" she shouted and jammed her elbow into my ribs.

"Ouch!" I screeched in pain and buckled over. Marguerite panicked and hastily wedged her way through the bewildered crowd.

"Wait!" I called out. The girl sprinted across a parking lot and disappeared down a dark alley. I followed after, running with all my might, desperately, my ribs still aching. We had entered into moral no man's land. Within me arose a familiar desire and Jack's presence, the AMORE ASCENDES! I wanted to grasp—to have and to hold.

"Marguerite, stop!"

The girl was a good runner, but I was catching up. As the hunter advancing on its prey, my fingers grasped her flagging jacket, but Marguerite tore herself free and dashed down another street. In dire pursuit, I finally gripped her arm with my firm hand and broke her stride, which flung her about at the base of a huge stone stairway. My body weight had now overpowered her as my hands clenched the softness of her belly and muzzled any attempt of escape. We struggled up the stairs and halted on the third step.

Our bodies heaved with panting as I pulled her nearer to myself. Marguerite acquiesced. Her arms fell limp as I sat down on the stone staircase and held her against my lap. She had surrendered to me, and I might do with her as I wished. I had subdued her, and the renewed presence of Jack smiled within me.

"I've taught you a few tricks; they'll be your survival," he had told me in Emily's kitchen.

At the top of the stone stairway were two huge oak doors. Unbeknownst to me, they swung open, mysteriously, and the light from within beamed out and engulfed us. Music came from within: the sound of an organ and a choir singing. Jack's presence vanished. Marguerite's chin was wedged against my shoulder so that she could see the entry, a sight that filled her with a new vitality.

She sat up in my lap and pointed to the doorway, "Morrie, look! We're sitting in front of a huge church!" Her normal self had returned. While I was still holding her tight, my power had nonetheless vanished.

"Are you sure it's a church?" I asked. I had no idea where we were. Until now, my entire focus had been on Marguerite. I had been beside myself, and I now released her.

Marguerite slid off my lap and sat beside me.

"Of course!" She laughed and put her hand on my shoulder. "Look! Just now the doors swung open... for us!" Marguerite spoke as if the event had been preordained. "And there's a service going on. Come, let's go inside."

"But you said you were an atheist."

"That's an agnostic, remember, and a very unconvinced one as you well know." Marguerite wanted a response. "I won't go in unless you come with."

My options passed before me. "Okay, let's do it."

We ascended the stairs to the call of intense liturgical music. "This must be a Catholic church," I whispered as we entered the vestibule. "Where are we?"

"No, I think it's an Episcopalian church."

"What difference does it make?" I asked

"None but..."

"Hush," scolded two approaching ushers.

"Do you wish to be seated?" asked one.

We peered out onto the street and the deadening darkness, and then surveyed a room filled with burning candles. The lights were dim, and stained glass windows, blackened by the outside darkness, lined the stone walls. Echoes of chanting greeted us. Our eyes met for one last consultation.

"Yes, we do," was our simultaneous response.

Marguerite took my hand and led me into the midst of a singing congregation. Familiar with liturgical ways from her youth, she faced the altar, made the sign of the cross, and then found two empty places in a pew toward the front. I resisted the urge to genuflect and sat beside her. The priest was chanting, and the woman next to Marguerite had a little black missal already opened to a page that read: The Order of Holy Communion.

"Are you sure you know what is going on?" I whispered as the minister prepared for the Eucharist by removing the white cloth, which had covered a silver tray and chalice.

"Listen, I grew up in an Episcopalian church, and my name still stands in the books."

We shared a tender glance and smiled as the liturgist continued chanting.

LITURGIST: Before the Lord Jesus was given up into death, he took bread and gave thanks. He broke it, gave it to his disciples, and said, "Take this all of you, and eat it: This is my body, which is given for you."

When the supper was over, he took the cup. Again, he gave thanks and gave it to his disciples. "Take this, all of you, and drink. This is the cup of the new and everlasting covenant, shed for you so that sins may be forgiven. Do this in memory of me." Let us proclaim the mystery of faith:

ALL: Christ has died; Christ has risen; Christ will come again.

Christ's death. I recalled my Good Friday reflection on the bus returning from the Threshing Floor. Rather than bearing his cross, I had taken up the AMORE ASCENDES. Like equivocal Peter, I had denied him thrice.

LITURGIST: Let us ask the Lord to forgive our sins and to bring us to forgive those who have sinned against us.

ALL: Our father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done on earth...

While the assembly prayed the Lord's Prayer, I peeked at Marguerite beside me. She was not praying aloud but had bowed her head low. Her hands were covering her face. She was deep inside herself, alone before her God.

LITURGIST: The peace of the Lord be with you always!

ALL: Lamb of God, you take away the sin of the world. Have mercy on us.

Lamb of God, you take away the sin of the world. Have mercy upon us.

Lamb of God, you take away the sin of the world:

Grant us your peace.

The Agnus Dei. My lips uttered the words, but my heart responded with wonder: How often had I approached this Table numb to its mystery? Christ had come, but the world comprehended him not. How dull is the power of sense when focused on divine love. Faith alone discerns its worth.

The congregation arose and some straggled up and knelt around the altar rail. I had assumed that Marguerite too would partake, but upon looking back, I saw that she was still sitting in the same humbled position, so I sat back down beside her. Should I go forward or wait until she too was ready? Perhaps she did not want to go at all. I then recalled her denial of faith and those who had pierced and shattered her youthful trust. To go forward now she must do so in the face of those who had cut her off. Marguerite was alone with her decision, and there was nothing for me to say. I rejoined those already kneeling before the altar.

LITURGIST: The body of Christ broken for you.

On the high altar above, statues of the twelve apostles watched as the minister distributed the small, white wafers. Some opened their mouths, gaping like baby birds. Others held out both hands to receive the bread of life. The minister passed by and placed a wafer on my extended palm. Inside my mouth, it broke against my palate and dissolved in the saliva. With my thoughts on the broken body of Christ, I closed my eyes and swallowed.

LITURGIST: The blood of Christ shed for you.

The wine flowed from the chalice and spread quickly throughout my mouth. Its fermented fumes permeated my nasal passages. With reverence I swallowed, said "Amen," and crossed myself, awkwardly as one unlearned. The organ played softly as we waited for the minister to return to the altar and dismiss us. We waited and waited. A woman was sobbing. I leaned forward and saw Marguerite at the far end of the altar rail. She was kneeling and crying. The minister had set the chalice aside and had knelt before her. He placed his hand on her shoulder and gave what comfort he could.

The congregation patiently waited while the organ played a familiar hymn. The old man beside me prayed softly. Finally, Marguerite stopped crying, and the minister stood up and gave wine to her and those few who remained.

LITURGIST: May this strengthen and preserve you in the true faith unto life everlasting. Depart in peace.

The communicants returned to their places, and the Holy Meal was over. Marguerite, her eyes still red from crying, managed to smile and brushed the back of my hand with her fingers. She had made her peace with God.

After a hymn and a few prayers, the service was over. The taste of bread and wine lingered as we made our way toward the door. The night shadows and the city's busy traffic all appeared differently. The carousing was as before, but that restlessness no longer had any power.

Marguerite was deep in thought. We held hands and returned by bus back to the hospital in silence. Tomorrow Marguerite would be leaving, but tonight we had fulfilled our heart's desire. Faith was the substance of things unseen.

We arrived back at the hospital just before midnight, much later than planned. As a suicide patient, Marguerite expected a lot of flack and so had left a note on her bed.

-Dear Mrs. Townsend.

Morrie and I have gone to town to be together, alone, before my parents come for me tomorrow. Please don't worry. We will be back in a couple of hours. I promise.

-Regards, Marguerite

"Mrs. Townsend and my doctor will surely understand," Marguerite had told me earlier. "They'll be worried. We'll get a scolding, but nothing more. Leave it to me, Morrie."

Nothing could have been further from the truth. As we approached the main entrance, police cars were driving in and out, their blue lights flashing brightly and reflecting off the hospital's white walls and many windows.

"Hold up a minute," I said. "Those are squad cars. Do you think the police are looking for us?"

"Don't be silly," she said. "They have more important things to do than to fuss over me. They're dealing with some emergency, a car accident or something. Come, Morrie, let's walk right in the front door as if nothing has happened."

"Not so fast, Marguerite. We had better make sure. Let's hide behind that parked car and check things out."

We crept across the front lawn and hid behind an empty taxicab. Police cars, some marked Milwaukee, while the officers were from Wauwatosa, were parked in front of the main door. Officers rushed about, talking with staff members in white jackets and barking into their two-way radios. When one squad car sped away, another would take its place. In the flashing light, I saw Marguerite's feisty smile turn grim.

"There's Mrs. Townsend," cried Marguerite. "What's she all upset about?"

"What did I tell you?"

"Look, she's acting like the sky is falling. She knows what we're up to. I told her."

"You're still an escapee, and it happened on her watch. She's responsible. If you knew how much paperwork this creates, you would never have run away."

"Stop joking, Morrie. I'm really upset. Am I a beast escapee from a zoo?"

Police radios were blaring reports of combing the far West side of Milwaukee and Wauwatosa in search of a "suicidal patient."

Marguerite grabbed my arm tightly. "Morrie, I'm scared. Whatever you do, don't leave me now. Don't let them touch me until my parents come. Promise me. Please take me somewhere else."

"Think it over. Leaving now would only make things worse. What about your parents? They could plug into all this hysteria." I placed my arm around her waist.

"My folks are in some motel between here and New Jersey. No one knows where they are. I'll telephone my sister Teri, and she can tell our folks when they call home. As far as these people are concerned, let them suffer. My father need only look at Dr. Klute to understand why I took off."

I was about to try another round of persuasion when a silver-blue Mercedes Benz, a very familiar car on campus, pulled up to the main door.

"Look, Chaplain Ferapont!" she exclaimed.

"You mean, President Ferapont. Oh-oh, they've dragged the school into this. This doesn't look good. This panic is about more than your escape. We've created a new school scandal."

Police officers immediately surrounded our leader. Soon Dr. Klute was also on the scene. They huddled close together to talk. A deputy reached into his squad car window and pulled out a microphone. President Ferapont dictated as a patrol car radio blared out a call for all squad cars to watch for a person that fit my description. Then they broadcasted my name for all to hear.

"Oh no, they're dragging you into this," she said.

"Yes, thanks to Ivan Ferapont."

"I'm so sorry," she said. "I didn't realize how this would affect you. I was so afraid they'd tranquilize me. Once Daddy gets here, I'll be safe. Morrie, let's get out of here. Maybe your friend Crusader could put us up for the night."

"We had better not try. His landlady won't allow it. Besides, Myron Gaul might still be there. Don't involve them. Otherwise, I don't know anyone else off campus."

Marguerite sighed, "Neither do I, and we dare not go back to the campus. Wait a minute. I have an idea. We can camp out in the woods."

"But we don't have any camping gear."

"Details, don't be such a lily-liver," she said.

"Still, it's May, and the ground is cold. Come three o'clock, we'll be freezing. Tomorrow we'll have twice the trouble."

"You're right." She sighed. "If only we had a few options."

Near the hospital entrance, four more cars had pulled up with flashing lights.

"Here comes the entire campus security force."

President Ferapont immediately rushed over and hollered, "I want Morrie Schiller captured and sitting in my office before day break!"

The search party had become a dragnet. President Ferapont stuck his head into the sheriff's car. A deputy took his microphone.

"All cars be advised. The victim's kidnapper may be dangerous, and if necessary take him by force!"

I grabbed her hand. "Okay, Marguerite, the best way to the woods is this way."

We crept along the shadows of the nearby buildings. One of them had a payphone in the entryway. From there Marguerite called her sister in New Jersey. We then snuck across Watertown Plank Road unnoticed, ran behind a huge white water tower, down a gravel driveway, and disappeared into the dark night. No one could see us now. On the horizon, below the city's lighted skyline, lay not more city but the black outline of several groves of trees. The heavens were clear, and millions of brightly shining stars encircled a huge full moon. Coupled with the fireflies, the moon offered enough light to enable us to flee deeper into the woods.

We stopped to rest on a great fallen tree. "What did your sister say?" I asked.

"My parents had just called her from a motel near Gary, Indiana." Marguerite was still panting from all the running. "Teri has their number, and no one else knows where they are. She'll call them and warn them. She'll convince them to go right to the police and not the hospital or college. Daddy always wears his clerical collar, and he's an expert at charming the police. If the hospital calls, she'll take the message and brush them off. Don't worry, Morrie, my sister will take care of everything."

Deep into Milwaukee's hinterland, between the trees and bushes, we passed beyond the possibility of anyone finding us that night. Earlier, our wilderness had been stifling crowds and congestion, but now it was the unknown world of nocturnal meadows and woodlands. Dark shadows from huge oak trees created an eerie world to explore, and crickets and frogs replaced the noise of rushing traffic. Sounds seemed larger than during the day--all of this, unlike our trip to the city, gave our last hours together the value we longed for. Something wonderful had happened to Marguerite at church, although she had said not a word. She had placed herself at my disposal; deliverance came, and now our common experience was trust. Her life, like truth itself, had pierced me and made our friendship real.

Soon we reached the edge of a ravine. "This must be the one I saw from the roof of the clinic," I said.

Marguerite peered down the dark embankment. "It's probably muddy down there."

"Let's go down and check it out," I said, hoping my enthusiasm would convince her to join me. I took her hand as we skid down the hollow to a four-foot wide stream. On one side of the muddy banks stood a huge rock about five feet high.

Marguerite leaned on my shoulder and stepped gingerly. "I was right about the mucky part. Watch your step."

"This creek must run into the Menomonee River. I wonder if it has a name."

Although the deep shadows in the darkened ravine hampered our vision, the bright full moon above still provided just enough light for us to see.

We carefully made our way upstream. "Hey, look over here," I said. "Some kids have tried to build a dam."

Strewn across the creek were huge stones and cement blocks. Although the attempt at damming the creek had not been very successful, the stones created rapids that made a rushing sound.

"Look, Morrie," said Marguerite, her legs straddled between two stones midstream. "How beautiful! The moonlight is reflecting off the ripples as if they're dancing."

"Hush. I hear something." I took her by the hand and quickly led her over to the other side.

"Oh come now," laughed Marguerite. "Who could hear us we out here now?"

"Shh-shh. Not people, over there. Quick, behind those cattails."

We crouched down as a family of raccoons rambled out of the shadows into the moonlight on their way to the water's edge. A mother and four cubs had come to find a late night snack. The newborns rustled about while their mother, aware of our alien presence, paused to scrutinize the scene,. She looked me right in the eyes, gathered her family, and one by one they slowly disappeared back into the darkness.

We stared at the vacant spot with hopes they might return.

"I wonder what time it is," I said. The night air was chilly, and we had no accommodations.

"Who cares about clocks?" Marguerite went back over to the huge rock, climbed up, and stood up, straight as an arrow. She raised her hands high over the waters. "Let's pretend that this is an enchanted forest. We are lost children, and all the fireflies are really fairies that have come to help us."

I watched her from below. Her dark gray silhouette was poised against the moon. Amidst the tree branches and the sparkling waters, I saw an Indian princess. I climbed up the rock to join her. It was a tight squeeze, so I stood close behind her and clasped my hands around her waist. We stood in silence on top of the rock and listened to the sounds of the night woods: the river, crickets and frogs, and the hooting of an owl.

"I'm tired," she said and leaned back to rest her head on my shoulder. "Where should we go now, Morrie? I'm falling asleep."

"In a truly enchanted forest, such requests do not go unheard. Provisions will be made," I said.

Marguerite turned about and wrapped her arms around my neck. "I'm so glad I am with you right now," she said, softly. We kissed.

Slowly we climbed down the rock and back out of the ravine. In the blackness of the night, we could not find any trails and had to prod through the brush. The air's chill made us shiver as we approached the edge of the woods. We were far from the river by now, and ahead lay several acres of open field. We stopped at the thicket's edge to survey the grassy pasture like deer pausing before going out to graze. The hour was very late, and we still lacked lodging. All seemed hopeless. Yard lights flickered on the other side of the field, and the shadows revealed that the houses were newer constructions. We were nearing suburbia. We were cold and wet. Returning to the woods was not the solution.

Perhaps we should turn ourselves in to the police here where no one knows us, I thought. Perhaps they would be willing to protect us from the ranting raves of President Ferapont. Maybe they'd even put us up for the night. We could put this whole controversy on hold until morning after tempers had cooled down.

We set course across the grassy lot. The weeds were wet with dew; the ground was damp, and we were shivering in the long night's cold. Midfield lay several huge round concrete culverts, each about four feet in diameter and ten feet long.

"This must be a construction site, Marguerite, and these are drain pipes." I tried to lift myself up onto a culvert to get a better view.

Marguerite walked up to one and peeked inside. "Morrie, come quick!" She climbed inside a culvert and stuck her head back out. "Hurry, I found a hideaway."

I ran over to join her. I knelt down on the grass. My groping hands could feel the planks that someone had made into a floor. "It's so dark I can't see."

"You have to come in and feel around a bit."

I crawled inside. "You're right. There are blankets, and the wooden floor is carpeted."

"Some kids must have built a hut in here," she said. I could hear her fumbling around but could see nothing. "Blankets, Morrie! I found some blankets. Now we can get warm."

The cranny was set up so that one could even lie down comfortably. My hands searched about along the floorboards and hit upon a wooden create. I quickly opened it and fumbled around.

"Marguerite, over here! I feel candles...and matches. There are several cans, maybe soda pop, and maybe a package with some food. Feels like a box of Ritz crackers."

"Candles? Where? I'm freezing. Give me the candles."

With a strike and a flash, we held burning candles that glowed with light and warmth. Now we could see. There were huge sheets of cardboard, which we used to seal the entrance. Marguerite propped up several lighted candles and carefully wrapped blankets first around me and then another about her.

Now warm and cozy, the next order of discomfort to attend to was our stomachs. We were hungry and couldn't ignore the bacon flavored crackers and Cokes in the supply box.

"Is it moral to break in and take other people's food?" she asked.

I offered this as a possible justification: "Suppose we were lost in some huge forest in northern Wisconsin? It's winter, and we're freezing and starving. And so we stumble upon a locked cabin. Would it be wrong to break in to survive? Surely not."

"However, we're neither starving nor lost. These things belong to children. Besides, we're fugitives from the law."

"True, but we're not running from justice, which is a higher level of morality. Besides, this culvert does not belong to the children. Have you ever heard the 'borrowing' theory from Huckleberry Finn?"

"Yes, but Huck had learned that line of reasoning from his decadent father."

We decided that by leaving a ten-dollar bill in the supply box—several times the value of the stolen goods—we were being ethically sensitive to the children that had supplied the food and candles.

We nibbled on crackers, sipped the Cokes, and huddled together beneath the blankets. Flickering candlelight cast our shadows against the rounded walls inside the culvert. The glow reflecting from Marguerite's face was radiant.

We relished our last waking moments, but the lateness of the hour had taken its toll. Marguerite slid down against me and laid her head upon my lap.

"Goodnight." She closed her eyes and snuggled beneath her blanket. Her heart overflowed with trust.

I stroked her long brown hair and, like a night watchman before the campfire, stared at the burning candles. My eyes began to feel heavier and heavier as my awareness waned... Suddenly my head jerked up. All the candles except one had burned out; one desperate flame still licked the last drops of wax. I must have dozed off. Marguerite was sound asleep.

Gently, I lifted her head to free my stiffened legs and then placed her hands in a praying position beneath her cheek. The last light flickered out, and though I could not see, I felt her contentment. I curled up beneath my blanket beside her and fell asleep.

I dreamed I was at the splashing fountain. Again the pedestal was not Sophia but the lovely Birth of Venus. This Ideal, this Oracle had defined my yearnings. Again, I approached the goddess, delicately. Her soft curves and milky-white skin, her image seemed more real than life itself. Her flawlessness, which had been even more real than real, was now clearly a LIE! Her picture-perfection, once my comfort, began to contort. The now ghastly effigy gasped, writhed, and withered. She sizzled and melted down into a gooey ash and then disappeared, like the Wicked Witch of the West. Emotionless, I turned my back to the smoldering pedestal and walked away.

Hundreds of birds were singing as the world beyond our culvert awoke to a stunning sunrise. My mind was drifting in and out of sleep. Nearby, Marguerite's body glowed warmly. She had snuggled tightly against me with her arm draped around my waist. To remain with her here forever was my foremost desire, but the call of daylight held its sway. I sat up; the damp morning air chilled me to the quick.

I paused to adore Marguerite. Her breathing chest gently rose and fell while her flowing brown hair lay still along her shoulders. Her face was tranquil, not quite smiling, as if she knew I was watching. She was nearer than anyone had ever been.

Crusader once told me, "Personhood without other persons is only a possibility." I now understood.

The girl's eyes opened, blinked twice, and closed again tightly. She smiled.

"Good morning," I said and placed my hand against her cheek. It flushed with warmth.

She buried her head under the blanket and shivered. "Br-r-r. It's cold and damp, like in a tomb."

I tried to sound poetic. "Our catacomb has captured the night's chill, but yonder sunshine resurrects the whole of creation. Let us join the celebration."

We stretched, yawned, and stepped outside to meet the warm Sunday morning sunshine, which revived us with its glorious beams. The sound of Sunday morning church bells rang off in the distance.

Marguerite remarked, "It's all like an organ prelude on Easter morning."

Was she thinking as I? Could sleeping one night in a cement culvert alter one's perceptions? Can one experience Easter physically?

We held hands and strolled about. Senses once dull had come alive. The earth was a paradise unveiled with all creation—flowers and grass and soil--amplified in color, form, and meaning. Dandelions, even the fieldstone were more than mere objects. We reached beyond ourselves to meet and embrace the "things" of creation. Nothing was profane; everything was alive and sacred. Decaying plants from seasons past were equally beautiful as the newest sprouts. Man, plant, and mineral were all caught up in praise of God.

"Our pants legs are drenched with dew," said Marguerite. "Let's climb up on a culvert and dry off."

Our concrete shelter had been baking in the sun and was quite warm. We helped each other up and stretched out.

"I feel like a turtle basking on a log," she said.

One could now see the various construction sites in a meadow that to developers was a vacant lot. Milwaukee, that synthetic organism, would soon absorb this prairie sod and turn a lovely grassy plain into another sprawling suburb.

Nearby, some workers had parked a backhoe for the weekend after having plunged the shovel into a patch of untouched grass and blooming buttercups. Between steel prongs, the flowers defiantly puffed out their yellow chests. Early Monday morning, when the workers returned to their digging, these spring flowers would be the first to die. How could buttercups glory in such weakness? Either they were very naive or eternally hopeful.

The sun was high overhead. Midmorning meant Marguerite's parents would soon be taking her home.

Marguerite finally spoke. "Are your clothes dry yet?"

"Almost. Are you thinking the same thing as I?"

She did not reply. No need; we both knew. How would the hospital react, not to mention Bethlehem College? Campus jokes of us sleeping together would abound. Who would believe us? The college would again become Milwaukee media's favorite object of ridicule. Were photographers waiting for us with cameras poised? President Ferapont had now secured his scapegoat. Would the police arrest me?

"Morrie, I feel awful. Here I've run away from the hospital, and you'll get all the blame. Look, over the treetops, I see a bell tower. Let's go to church before turning ourselves in."

"No, your parents are right now very worried. We had better go straight to the police."

"Soon I'll be heading home in my parent's car. Who knows where you'll be."

I smiled at her peevishly. "Maybe in jail!"

She leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. "What can I do or say to express my thanks for a most wonderful night?"

I touched the spot where she had kissed me. "That was a nice try." I smiled and then took her hand. "Maybe after ten years I can get out for good behavior."

"Can you stay out of trouble that long?"

"This is no joke. How serious will the police take this kidnapping business? Needless to say, I'm as good as kicked out of Bethlehem College."

"You won't be missing me. I'll never set foot on that campus again."

"At least you have your family's support. My father will be furious. He'll be disgraced at church and..."

"You didn't do anything. I took off of my own free will. Ferapont won't want to make a federal case out of this. For sure, you'll get kicked out of school, but tonight you'll be sitting on a bus and heading home for St. Paul. Trust me."

"Are you kidding? They're going to throw the book at me. You are a committed hospital patient. I'm the accomplice!"

Marguerite smiled impishly. "Maybe if you become a priest, they'll drop the charges."

"Very funny. But there is one thing I would like to do."

"What's that?"

I blushed. "Well, if I do get home tonight, can I visit you in New Jersey later this summer."

She paused to think and playfully faked a grimace. "That's a possibility, and my parents shouldn't mind. They might even like you. It's too bad you're not a pre-med student."

"Cut it out. I'm serious. Do you think I could?"

Marguerite wistfully pushed me back and quipped with her impish grin. "Well, okay, but only if you promise not to fall in love with me."

### ########

### A message from the author, L.D.Wenzel

Dear Reader,

Thank you so much for buying my novel and I hope you enjoyed it. Several readers have asked me what might have happened to characters like Tracy Johnson, Emily Wagner, or even Jack Joplin after they suddenly disappeared from the scene.

Say no more. I have written an additional 30 page sequence, entitled "A Nocturnal Sequel" ,where in a dream the statue, Goddess Sophia, comes to life and transports Morrie to meet Tracy and Emily in the future. Not surprising, Jack has also found his way back to thicken the plot. Originally, I meant it to be part of this novel, but it was way too long, and the drama detracted from the main storyline. Thus I have published it as an ebook, separately, as a supplement. Go to my website www.ldwenzel.com/sequel for more information. Coming soon on Smashwords. Drop me a line. I would love to hear from you.

### About the Author

L. D. Wenzel grew up in the Midwest and presently lives in Norway. He's a graduate from Wheaton College (IL) with a bachelor's degree in philosophy.

