The Green Revolution (20 page)

“Of course. The library opens late on Sundays.”

Still, an early Sunday morning visit to the archives, like knowledge of Hittite, did not rule George Wintheiser out as Iggie Willis's assailant.

“What did he come here to see? Have you anything of interest to a man with his scholarly specialty?”

“Oh, he wanted to look at old issues of the
Scholastic
.”

“He did?” That the cultivated former football player should have arisen at dawn one Sunday morning in order to go to an early Mass and then come on to the archives to pore over old issues of what had once been the chief student publication was a disappointment. “You'll have a record of what he wanted to look at?”

“Of course.”

Greg consulted his records, and soon the relevant bound volumes of the
Scholastic
were on the table before them. Roger would not presume on their friendship and ask Greg to engage in the doubtless absurd effort of going through those volumes. Soon he was alone in the room, slowly turning the glossy pages of issues that dated back to George Wintheiser's student days.

Apart from articles devoted to sports, George did not appear in the issues that Roger went through, page by page, trying not to think of Sisyphus rolling a huge rock up a mountain. Ignatius Willis, by contrast, popped up again and again, an officer of his class from sophomore year on, chairman of dance committees, apparently stellar student as well. President of the French Club. Roger leaned over the page to study a photograph. Professor Guido Senzamacula smiled back at him from decades ago, flanked by his star students. The student on his right, Ignatius Willis, was only a head taller than the professor, but the boy on his left, runner-up for the medal Senzamacula was about to present, towered over him. George Wintheiser.

*   *   *

Guido Senzamacula was delighted to see Roger but surprised at the reason for his visit.

“Is the Chateaubriand Medal still awarded by your department?”

Guido threw up his hands. “The Chateubriand Medal! I had forgotten all about that. Will you have some wine?”

“No, no thanks.”

“Espresso, then?”

Espresso would be fine. When Guido returned with a tray on which were two diminutive cups and a large bowl of sugar, Roger was settled on the middle cushion of the couch. Guido was shaking his head. “The Chateaubriand Medal.”

“The medal once won by Ignatius Willis.”

Having seated himself and sipped his coffee, Guido sighed. “The last recipient.”

“The last!”

“It is a painful story.”

Wherever there are contests, there is the temptation to win by any means. Wherever there are rankings, there is the danger of misapplying criteria for base motives. Wherever there are prizes and medals, it is they rather than the performance they are meant to certify that is sought. Ignatius Willis had been awarded the Chateaubriand Medal on the basis of a plagiarized essay. That it was plagiarized was brought to the knowledge of the committee by an anonymous note. Guido alone of the committee members thought even an anonymous accusation should be disposed of. It was he who learned that the accusation was just.

“The medal was revoked?”

“Oh, no. I was outvoted. It would have been too great a scandal.”

It was an almost pleasant thought that once a plagiarized paper on Chateaubriand's visit to President Washington in Philadelphia could loom so large as a threat to the reputation of a school.

“Father Carmody was very persuasive. I very nearly changed my own vote after listening to him.”

“George Wintheiser should have won the medal?”

“The next boy, yes, the runner-up. He had been my choice.” Guido smiled. “I was outvoted so often in those days.”

“Do you remember Wintheiser's topic?”

Guido put back his head and closed his eyes, humming as if to give his memory the proper pitch. His head snapped down. “Peguy's long poem on Chartres.”

“By a football player!”

“Oh, he was a brilliant student, no doubt of that.”

“Did he know he had been cheated out of the medal?”

“Good heavens, no. Only the committee knew. The one thing we agreed on was that the medal had been tainted. We decided not to award it again.”

“But Ignatius Willis knew you knew.”

“I confronted him, Roger.”

“And?”

Guido waved his hand, dismissing the topic. “It was all a long time ago.”

*   *   *

Father Carmody was reluctant to discuss the matter of the Chateaubriand Medal.

“Anicent history, Roger. Ancient history.”

“I have spoken to Professor Senzamacula.”

“Wonderful man. A man of great integrity.”

“He was outvoted on the matter of revoking the medal.”

“That was my doing.” Father Carmody puffed thoughtfully on his cigarette. “Ah, the sins of one's past life.”

“You regret persuading the committee to keep the plagiarism quiet?”

“Yes and no.”

“You half regret it?”

“The idiot who won the medal by cheating was confronted by Senzamacula.”

“So he told me.”

“Did he tell you the rest?”

“What was the rest?”

Suddenly the gentle professor of French was the object of a campaign to make him look like a bumbling fool. Jokes in the
Scholastic,
things written on the board of his classroom, practical jokes.

“It was the water bomb that undid him.”

Apparently dropped from a third-floor window of O'Shaughnessy, the water bomb had exploded at Senzamacula's feet.

“He had lost his son, a poor retarded little fellow they loved as parents do love such a child, and his wife was already gone. Now this campaign to make him look foolish. He had a nervous breakdown.”

“Who was behind all this?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.” He stubbed out his cigarette. “Your guess is probably the same as mine.”

“But nothing was done?”

“Let sleeping dogs lie.”

*   *   *

Roger directed his golf cart back to his office in Brownson. What is more conducive to thought than a silent battery-run vehicle that seems to know where you want it to go? He parked in the lot next to the old building and looked up at the spire of Sacred Heart just visible over the hulk of the basilica. As he eased himself from behind the wheel, there was the sound of a car door closing. He turned to see a spry, familiar little fellow approaching.

“Professor Knight?”

Piero put out his hand, and Roger took it. “Yes.”

“Could we talk?”

“In my office.”

Roger led the way inside and down the corridor to his door, which he unlocked and entered, Piero following, As he eased himself into his commodious chair, he heard the sound of the door lock being turned. Piero took a chair across from Roger's desk.

“You've been talking with my father.”

The thoughts he had been trying to sort out on his way from Holy Cross House became suddenly clear, pieces of a puzzle fitting together.

“Yes.”

“He never really recovered from that harassment, you know. And when my brother died, he had a relapse. He would have retired if it hadn't been for Father Carmody's persuasion.”

“He is one of my dearest colleagues.”

“Father Carmody?”

“Your father.”

Roger was remembering how Piero had assaulted poor Horst. Had he been a surrogate for Ignatius Willis, a reminder of the campaign against Guido that had driven the gentle professor into a nervous breakdown?

“What size shoe do you wear, Piero?”

The young man sat back in his chair, his expression sad. He nodded. “So you have figured it out.”

PART FOUR

1

Phil and Jimmy Stewart were having a late lunch in Legends, the restaurant immediately south of the stadium.

“Cholis will get him off,” Jimmy said.

“Everything points to him.”

“Yes.”

That bothered Jimmy. It bothered Phil, too. Talking with Pearl Wintheiser hadn't helped. She reminded Jimmy of his flown wife; she reminded Phil of several women he was glad he hadn't married. Her clothes would have been appropriate for a younger woman; her eyes were made up in a glittering way, green eyelids, spiky lashes. It was clear that she wanted them to notice that she was a woman, as she clearly noticed that they were men. She laughed when Jimmy asked if she had spent last Saturday night in her husband's motel room.

“Why would you think that?”

“Someone mentioned it.”

“George?” Then, theatrically, she understood. “I'm his alibi?”

“Were you in the motel that night?”

She dipped her chin. “I don't have to answer that.”

“Of course not.”

She looked sultry. “I was in the Morris Inn.”

“So was Iggie Willis.”

“Not that night! He never showed up.”

“And now we know why.”

Jimmy said to Roger, “I don't think Cholis will put her on the stand.”

“No, but Jacuzzi will.”

If George Wintheiser had lied about his wife coming to his motel room that night, it could have been because he knew that she had gone to Iggie's room in the Morris Inn.

They were still there when Larry Douglas came in, wearing his uniform as a member of campus security. Laura was with him, her bulk putting a severe strain on her uniform.

“Can we join you?” Larry asked.

“Take a pew.”

Laura splayed her left hand on the table; she waved it in front of her face; she laid it again on the table. Ah, the ring. All eyes dropped to it. Larry looked at Jimmy and Phil like a condemned man.

“Congratulations,” Jimmy said.

“It is the man you congratulate,” Laura said coyly.

The way you give a condemned man a hearty last meal. Poor Larry.

“You've been a lot of help, Larry,” Jimmy told him.

“I've got to get on the South Bend police force.”

“You do not!” Laura said. “That's too dangerous.”

Phil got out his cell phone and called the apartment. No answer. He called Roger's office. No answer there either.

“Oh, he's in his office,” Larry said. “At least he was a few minutes ago.”

“How do you know?”

“His golf cart was in the lot.”

Phil rose and bade the others good-bye. In his car, he started for the apartment. Roger must be in transit. But Roger was not at home. Phil did not get out of the car but headed toward Brownson. The golf cart was in the parking lot.

The outer door was unlocked, but when he got to Roger's office his knock was unanswered. For years he had been looking out for his precocious younger brother, protecting him, a surrogate parent. He lowered his shoulder and crashed into the door, splintering it. He stumbled into the office.

“Phil,” Roger said.

A man had leaped up from the chair and absurdly assumed a karate stance.

“This is Professor Senzamacula's son. He wears a size seven and a half shoe.”

Piero sprang at Phil, uttering a great cry. Phil grabbed his arm, turned, and decided not to flip him over his shoulder. Instead, he drove a fist into his midsection. Piero went down with a groan.

EPILOGUE

Winter came with spring not far behind, and on the practice field players and coaches began to prepare for the coming football season. Hope springs eternal. Philip Knight and Jimmy Stewart were on the sidelines, in Roger's golf cart, looking on.

“They can't possibly be as bad as last year,” Jimmy said.

“That is our prayer.”

Prayer was not forgotten. Provisions were made for pauses in practice so that John Foster Natashi and his coreligionists could spread their little rugs and pray to Allah. John Wesley was agitating for a Methodist minister to attend to the spiritual needs of himself and others of like persuasion. Campus ministry was enthusiastic.

A large man in a tweed jacket and turtleneck, a Notre Dame cap on his head, came toward them.

“How are you, George?”

Wintheiser opened his hands. “The question is, how are they?”

The team. Wintheiser had come through the ordeal of last fall well. According to Father Carmody, he was reunited with Pearl. No comment, just a statement. Till death do us part. The old priest was urging that George be awarded the Chateaubriand Medal, however belatedly. Neil Genoux was interested. It seemed a small step toward reconciling disenchanted alumni with their alma mater. Answers to the inquiries of the Weeping Willow Society had gone out that, while their obliquity would have been the envy of any diplomat, nonetheless acknowledged the society's existence. It was hard for Phil not to notice George's shoes as he walked away.

*   *   *

The dismissal of charges against George Wintheiser had of course been inevitable when a suddenly repentant Piero Macklin told all. His confession was so heartfelt that Alex Cholis was happy to take his case.

“Filial love,” he purred, doubtless thinking of what he could do with that in court.

The phrase seemed an accurate enough description of what had triggered such wrath in the television director. His father's reaction to having his name appear on Lipschutz's list, the mocking of the signatories, had brought back the long-ago attacks on his father that had led to a nervous breakdown, and now here was the culprit, Ignatius Willis, rallying alumni in his attack on the football team. Something snapped in that noble breast, as Cholis would doubtless put it. But why had he stolen a pair of Wintheiser's size fourteen Strombergs and worn them over his own shoes when he stalked Iggie and laid him low on the putting green next to Rockne Memorial? It seemed that he had thought Wintheiser's defense of the Fighting Irish during their 2007 collapse could have been more forceful, although surely nobody else had thought so. Cholis dismissed the problem.

“You mustn't seek a rational motive in a man so intent on avenging his father against the man who had mocked him.”