justified, but rather what are the causes for which it may legitimately be used. We have all drunk from the same cup of violence.”
At this point Tony stood up. “Lots to think about. I won’t reply because I want to think about what you have said. Also, we need to be getting home to bed. Come on, Angela. Saturday is a work day at Wabash.”
Helping them with their coats, Bothwell donned his own as well. “I need to go to the library to check one so-called fact in the book I’m reviewing so I can give the review to Mrs. Strong in the morning to type. Since she has a full-time job, weekends contain the only time she can spare for a middle-aged scholar who never learned to type.”
“As Pogo would say, Rod,” Angela said, presenting a cheek to be kissed goodnight, “‘mechanical spelling do have its hazards.’ Thank Katrina for us. It was a scrumptious dinner. And the conversation and company weren’t bad either.”
Walking down the close to the library, Roderick Bothwell was gratified to note the crispness of the air. They might get their first snow before morning. The lights along the sidewalks gave an idyllic appearance to the whole campus. In this tranquil setting, how far away all violence seemed. Bothwell was too experienced in the life of religious communities to imagine that living in one was to escape the conflicts of the world. No, a community such as a seminary, monastery, or convent was not a school for charity because all who lived in it were nice. Rather, it was precisely because people in such communities were anything but sweet and gentle that they had to find creative ways of living together. Here in a controlled environment one could encounter the abrasiveness of other personalities head on and hope that something good would come of it. But he knew too well such happy outcomes were by no means inevitable.
Climbing up the steps into the School and entering through its low, wide, rounded fortress door, he was surprised by—and surprised—a young man stealthily emerging from the library. Although he did not get a good look at the face, Bothwell experienced a vague sense of recognition. This was not a student, or he would have certainly known him. And no seminarian would have dressed in a nice conservative suit and topcoat, not even on a Friday night. Bothwell dismissed the identity of the man as none of his business. Turning into the library, he was not surprised to see the lights still burning brightly at midnight on the first Friday night of the term. Some of the older students, long removed from academic settings, found the going rough and had to set a steady pace for themselves at the beginning of the semester if they hoped to arrive successfully at the end.
Beyond the circulation desk on the right of the entrance and the card catalog on the left, the reading room was furnished with long oak tables, the bookracks down their centers serving the students on both sides. The tabletops sloped from these centers; their golden-varnished surfaces reflecting glare from the long, low-hanging light fixtures. A spiral iron staircase in the back right-hand corner led to stacks on the floor above and in the basement beneath.
The only one burning the midnight oil turned out to be Steve Wilson, who had managed the Singer sewing machine outlet in a county seat in downstate Illinois before deciding that God was calling him to the priesthood, and therefore—although he was not sure he saw the connection—to seminary. Wilson stood up when he saw his professor entering, which revealed he was wearing narrow-legged olive green slacks, a bright yellow dress shirt, and a vivid plaid tie that the Canon could only consider regrettable. How nice that Wilson would be in clericals in a couple of years, and that such sartorial excesses would be curbed. Yet he would probably want to wear those new clergy shirts being put out in a rainbow of loud colors.
“Good evening, Mr. Wilson. Your zeal is commendable, but I imagine it makes for a bleak weekend for Mrs. Wilson. Do you really need to study so late?”
“I do, Doc. Being a business major did not prepare me for this kind of work. To tell the truth, I never was much of a student. It is rough on Sherry, but I keep thinking how much rougher it would be on her if I didn’t do it. She is sacrificing so much for me to be here that I can’t let her down by flunking out. But for the last hour I might as well have not been here.”
“Oh, why is that?”
“It’s Seth Clarke. You may not know, but he’s been my best buddy here. We’re not like these young kids just out of college. The work comes harder for us, and we don’t see things the same way they do. I’ve been worried about Seth for some time. I hope I’m not telling tales out of school, but things haven’t been going well between him and Sheila.”
To ease Wilson’s discomfort, Bothwell said, “I gathered as much.”
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