The camera focused on a man in a turtle-neck sweater. “We felt we had no choice but to relieve Professor Wainwright of his influence at the university. Here, our goal is to foster an environment of inclusiveness where none of our students feel threatened by attitudes that, frankly, are inconsistent with those of a progressive society.”
The reporter said, “But I understand Professor Wainwright has tenure. How is it possible to dismiss him?”
“We haven’t dismissed him. We have relieved him of his teaching duties, and we have reassigned his research staff to instructors who are more sensitive to the standards we try to maintain. We would not fire him. We’re not vindictive, although Professor Wainwright’s actions certainly are not in keeping with our goals of civility.”
“So there you have it, Joanne. Professor Wainwright has not been fired, but he no longer teaches or has responsibility for graduate students here.”
Candale slammed his fist against a table. “Those bastards. I hate it when bureaucrats cave in to a few idiots.”
Baxter said, “I’m with you, Ross. But nowadays it seems that any time anyone complains, the apologies can’t come fast enough.”
Tallman said, “Yeah, like that car commercial that showed a woman slapping her date.”
“I missed that one. What happened?”
“The woman thought he was ogling another woman when what he was ogling was the car parked at the curb. She slapped him. The confused look on his face was priceless.”
“Somebody complained?”
“Of course. And instead of saying suck it up, the car company changed the commercial.”
“Well,” Candale said, “I’m not sure I’d be happy with a commercial that approved of violence.”
“Violence? Give me a break. Besides, my point is that the company was so quick to pull the ad when they received only a handful of complaints.”
Baxter looked at Sangster. “Ellen, you haven’t said much. What’s your take on this Wainwright thing?”
She sighed. “I studied under Professor Wainwright. He was one of the most enjoyable instructors I had. He loved his subject matter, teaching, interacting with his students. To strip him of that would be torture for him. Damn, somebody ought to do something.”
The room went silent. Baxter said, “Well, we’re somebody.”
Sangster contacted people who had been in Wainwright’s courses. The overwhelming theme was anger at the university and an eagerness to support the professor with a protest of their own. They formed into committees—recruitment, permits, publicity, crowd control—and they organized a march from the Student Union Building to Wainwright’s office. Part way through their planning, someone said, “We’ll need a spokesperson. Any suggestions?”
When all heads turned his way, Baxter said, “Oh, no. I’m not the right person to become a talking head.”
“Why not?” Tallman asked. “It hasn’t stopped you before.”
“Besides,” Candale said, “you know how to use PowerPoint.”
“What the hell does that have to do with anything?”
Candale shrugged. “I admire PowerPoint people.”
Sangster said, “Todd, I think you are the right person. You come across well. Unlike shorty here.”
Tallman said, “Hey, I have feelings too.”
“Yeah, but they don’t last long.”
Sangster said, “Come on, Todd. After all, you’re the one who pointed out that we’re somebody. You got us started.” She called out, “All hail to the chief.”
The chorus filled the room until Baxter held up his hands. “Okay, okay. I’ll do it. But maybe you could use a more culturally sensitive chant? Chief?”
The protest in support of Professor Wainwright also made the news, although the focus seemed to be on the counter-protestors. Campus security was able to keep the two groups apart, their conflict confined to shouted insults. Of course, the protest accomplished nothing. The dean came on television to say, “The university does not give in to demands from random protestors.” When a reporter pointed out that’s just what they had already done, he replied, “The actions taken against Professor Wainwright had nothing to do with the protests. He was relieved of his responsibilities because of his counter-productive attitude toward the university.”
That ended Todd Baxter’s foray into protest until a week later when he got a call. “Mr. Baxter, my name is Warren Fraleigh. I’ve noted your actions on behalf of William Wainwright. I think we have common ground. I’d like to meet with your organization to explore mutual interests. When would be convenient to you?”
Baxter protested that they weren’t an organization, just a few outraged friends, but Warren Fraleigh persisted. So on one of their Fridays, he arrived at Todd Baxter’s home. His angry departure was a relief. And an omen.
3
ORIGINS
The moonlight was welcome now. Darius could see the outline of the path through the tall grass, the occasional finger of a slough with stagnant water, and three streams that marked his progress.
Without the moon, he would have had to move carefully, most steps landing on solid, packed earth, but some onto the loose soil of a slope that would slide him into the water. That wouldn’t be a problem. He’d be dry by the time he got back to the village. But it would be a distraction forcing him to focus on each step, which meant he wouldn’t get back until late morning. But now, moonlight enabling him to lope at a steady pace, he’d arrive just after dawn. Being able to see the path also gave him the freedom to allow his mind to wander, to think of things that concerned him, to prepare plans for future attacks, and to recall memories that anchored him to a past that seemed elusive.
His earliest memory was of a time when he was five. No, that wasn’t quite right. He had spent a previous warm summer with Uncle Rolf and Aunt Helena on the farm, but that wasn’t a memory so much as it was an impression. There were no events, no occasions. Just a universe of space and heat and play. This memory, from his five-year-old self, was real.
Or was it? He had sat through many arguments between Uncle Rolf and Aunt Helena, arguments that seemed carved from a template. One of them, usually Uncle Rolf, would refer to someone from their past or something they had done, to which Aunt Helena would retort, “That’s not what happened. That was Fay and Gene when we went to the lake.”
“Fay and Gene? We’ve never been to the lake with them. It was Gregor and Maureen.”
“You’re getting senile. I remember clearly. It was Fay and Gene.”
“You need to up your gingko biloba.” Darius never figured out what that was, but it seemed to have something to do with recall. “I remember it was Gregor and Maureen.”
And the banter would continue. There was no animosity between his aunt and uncle. Their arguments were more affectionate than acrimonious, but they did have one effect on Darius. He began to question the concept of memory. Uncle Rolf and Aunt Helena were talking about the same event. How could one of them remember one thing while the other remembered something so different? One of them, or perhaps both, misremembered, which led Darius to wonder how, if memories could be so wrong, they could be trusted.
So he didn’t know if his first memory was real or whether it had been stuck in his mind by comments from his aunt and uncle or if he had just made the whole thing up. All he did know was that it was part of his history, a seminal event in his life.
“But you like the farm. You had fun there last summer.”
“Don’t wanna go.”
“Darius, your Uncle Rolf and Aunt Helena would love to have you stay with them.”