heard him. That creep! I would love to take him out and give him a little judo instruction.”
“Perhaps he was a little injudicious in his expression or at least in the occasion of it, but you seem to feel strongly about my honor. Is there perhaps some personal animus involved that contributes to the intensity of your response?”
“Yes, sir, there is. I hadn’t meant to say anything about this—to you or anyone else—but I guess I got caught off guard and showed what I really feel about him. He seems to think that he is more spiritual than anyone else, and some people believe him. A few of the wives treat him like a spiritual director, and he teaches them how to meditate. I don’t know too much about it, but it doesn’t seem to me to have much to do with Jesus. And it’s hard for somebody who has been in Vietnam to be dumped on by a prissy creep like him who pretends to be so superior. He wouldn’t last five minutes on a patrol.”
“I see. I didn’t mean to pry into your personal affairs. But if you ever want to talk about this anymore or about anything else, either I or any other member of the faculty would be available. Don’t hesitate to call on us.”
“Thank you, sir. I imagine it’ll all blow over, but I do appreciate the offer. Well, I better get going. I’ve got some theology to read before Evensong. Thanks again for the help.”
Bothwell sat Buddha-wise on one of the gym mats, managing to maintain his dignity unabated in these ungraceful circumstances. In spite of the aroma of ancient sweat, stale air, and liniment that proclaimed the normal function of the large basement room in the Green Building, the bachelor students had managed to create a festive air by the greenery they had draped around. Epiphany was a big day at the Clergy Training College. Since most students were home for the holidays when Christmas occurred, and strict adherence to the liturgical seasons kept the seminary from doing anything so Protestant as to have a Christmas party in Advent, January 6 was the great annual feast of the Incarnation. It was also when the single students went all out to repay the married ones for their hospitality throughout the year. First, there was a party for the children after school, with a tree and small presents. The Dean kept volunteering to don a cope and beard and appear as St. Nicholas a month overdue, but the bachelors always put him off; and Caspar, Melchior, and Balthazar would appear year after year, slightly Hoosier in their accents despite their journey from the Eastern mountains. Then some of the single students served turkey dinner to the married couples and faculty in the refectory, while others were in the Hutches sitting with the kids who had already broken their toys from the afternoon’s party.
After dinner they all trooped downstairs to see what new costumes the ingenuity of the bachelors had been able to devise, along with the new talent from this year’s Juniors. Once everyone had been served wassail and taken what seating was available, they sang carols, the selections limited to the more esoteric ones in the hymnal, the ones not rendered unbearable by constant repetition from radio and public speaker systems since Thanksgiving. Then the entertainment began. It started off slowly and did not build momentum until Pete Whiston began to play the fiddle. A music major from Bloomington who had almost “fried his brain” with acid when he was exploring what an electronic violin could contribute to rock, Whiston had been converted while listening to a Salvation Army band a few Christmases before. He then lived in a commune of charismatic Christians who were better at spouting Bible verses than helping the earth bring forth its increase. No one knew what had drawn him to an Episcopal seminary, but they all knew Whiston played the fiddle like someone possessed by spirits. Clean-shaven with large blue eyes that seemed focused on a distant object, Pete had a face surprisingly unlined by all he had been through. His hair was blonde and fine as corn silk, and he combed it back totally straight, only to have it flop across his face during his ecstatic translation of the music of the spheres into bluegrass abandon.
Pete was followed by John Strong, dressed as most of his classmates in jeans and carrying a Martin guitar aged to perfection. In his granny glasses and drooping moustache, Strong looked like what he was, one of the most committed anti-war activists on campus. What was not so obvious was that he had one of the best minds that had appeared on campus for years. Tonight he was there to imitate Woody’s boy by doing all nineteen minutes of “Alice’s Restaurant.” Bothwell had not heard the piece before and found it very amusing, but noticing Seth across the room, he realized that his amusement was not shared by everyone. Seth had a frown on his face, and although visibly attempting to exercise self-control, his feet tapped impatiently, while he constantly shifted positions.
The final entertainer of the evening was Sebastian Seymour. He had traded his poncho for a close-fitting embroidered gauze shirt that gave him more freedom of bodily movement. The need for this freedom became quickly apparent when he began his act, one of mime mimicry. Without saying a word and only by subtle alteration of posture and gait, he could conjure up the image of other members of the community. A few self-important strides informed everyone that he was doing the Dean. Next Dr. Jethro, the bearded Old Testament professor the students called Yahweh, was evoked with little effort. There was great wit in the caricatures, but Bothwell also recognized an element of malice. When he himself was next to be imitated, however, he was too charmed by seeing himself as others saw him to take any offence. For his last impersonation, Seymour seemed to grow taller. His delicate frame became robust, and he slung out newly long legs in a woodsman’s stride. The stride became close order drill and the drill a goosestep. Sheila Clarke’s gleeful laughter sounded shrill in the heavy air. Her amusement went unshared as the cavorting figure suddenly was carrying an insubstantial rifle. The figure stalked with stealth and attacked with energy. Bothwell felt he was seeing not only the bayonet, but also the bodies of unarmed civilians into which it was plunged.
3
The ten o’clock news had begun, recounting the latest statistics on American troops withdrawn from Vietnam, Biafrans starved, and PLO members who had come into Israel from Lebanon. The Chinese and the Russians were accusing one another of preparing for war. France had agreed to help stop the manufacture of heroin in Marseilles. There was still no real lead about who had murdered Yablonski and his wife and daughter.
All these alarms and excursions were enough to rouse Seth from his uneasy sleep in the armchair in front of the set. He had sat down after coming in from Evensong and discovering another note from Sheila. She would be late, it said. Even though a TV dinner had been left with instructions for its preparation, he decided to have a drink and look at the news, hoping she would return in time to eat with him. But after he had finished the second drink, and she still was gone, he was too agitated to eat. He thought he could study. He knew he wasn’t up to attempting Braudel’s French nor to following Tillich’s arguments, but he could make a stab at finding out what Raymond Brown had to say about John’s gospel. The print proved so tiny and the book so thick that he wondered if he could ever finish all of it, or why anyone might want to. Every car door’s slam, every footstep on the sidewalk, every creak of the old Army building was enough to get him off his feet and peering out the window into the empty darkness outside.
Unable to focus on the page, he finally turned on the tube. In Vietnam, especially while in prison, he believed there was no greater luxury on earth than sitting in a comfortable living room with one’s family after a hard day’s work and watching television. Arriving home only in time to enter seminary in the fall, his study needs crowded out this delayed gratification. Now, like other aspects of his life, the television experience was failing to measure up to anticipation. Finally, the warmth of the room, the effect of the bourbon, and the banality of what he was watching caused him to doze off into an agitated sleep.
Just as he was rousing himself, he heard the doorknob turn and saw Sheila coming in on tiptoe. Switching on the table light he had turned off when he had abandoned his study plans, he looked up at her. “Where have you been? I worried about you.”
“You look like you’ve been worried, boozing again and passed out in front of the TV,” she said, removing her tam and scarf and hanging her
