Chapter 1: Opportunity Knocks

Friday, 18 October 1968

Wayne was cold, tired, and hungry, wandering through a desolate countryside. Firelight glowed at the top of the steep hill ... if only he could make it that far. Warmth and rest—maybe even food.

He crested the hill to see the looming shadows of a great stone circle with a fire at its center. “Toto,” he whispered to himself, “I’ve a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore.”

He crawled forward toward the fire, insinuating himself between dark shapes that seemed not to notice him. What a stupid thing to do. Finally feeling the warmth of the blaze penetrate his freezing hands, he raised his head. And stared straight into the eyes of Dr. Allen—auburn hair, falling loosely from her normally severe bun; dark brown eyes probing his soul; lips pursed. They knelt stark naked facing each other across the fire.

“My god!” he whispered and stood to run.

The dream abruptly ended with the class bell jolting Wayne awake to gather his books and join the exodus of students. He hadn’t meant to sleep. It was so hard to keep his eyes open through these 7:30 a.m. lectures—especially since he hadn’t had more than three hours sleep any night this week. He should have just cut class but the slide presentation on Druidism sounded interesting. As soon as the lights were out, so was Wayne.

As his eyes focused on his surroundings, he saw no student exodus taking place. In fact, the lecture hall was empty.

Empty, that is, except for Dr. Allen, standing behind the podium staring at him.

“I’m still dreaming,” he pled with himself struggling to wake up. “Please let me still be dreaming.”

Dr. Allen was still staring and Wayne could only assume that he was facing reality.

“Hamel, Wayne R. Correct?” asked Dr. Allen

“Yes, Dr. Allen. I’m sorry...”

“For being who you are?” the professor asked. “I’m beginning to worry about you, Mr. Hamel. Are you well?”

“I think so, Dr. Allen.”

“You have slept through every class this week. Is there a reason you come here at all?”

“I try to never cut classes,” he answered truthfully enough.

“I ask you again, Mr. Hamel: Are you ill?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Are you on drugs?”

“No, ma’am!” Wayne exclaimed. “Never!”

“Is it then that my lectures are simply so intensely boring that they put you to sleep? Please be honest, because I do make every effort to make these classes interesting and if I am failing, I would like to improve.”

“Why couldn’t I be dreaming?” Wayne muttered to himself.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Nothing, Dr. Allen. I just ... I’m sorry.”

“You mentioned that.” The professor moved around the podium and walked toward Wayne. She carried a sheaf of papers in one hand and her walking stick in the other. Exhausted and humiliated, Wayne was about ready to disgrace himself.

“I’ve taken the liberty of checking your records, Mr. Hamel. Many professors are quick to judge and all too slow to consider potential problems with promising students. You are a junior?”

“That’s right.”

“Excellent grades in English literature. Straight As in Theatre. Your major, I believe.”

“Both of them.”

“You are an intelligent student, Mr. Hamel. There is no reason for you to be failing my course.”

“I have to have this class, Dr. Allen,” Wayne pled. If he missed this he’d drop below the minimum number of credits for the term and that spelled draft. He had no intention of ending up in Viet Nam.

“If you were not a bright student, or had a reputation as a troublemaker, or if I had any reason to suspect you were on drugs, I would dismiss you from this class and simply submit an involuntary withdrawal for you,” Dr. Allen said. “But after thirteen years at this school, I am inclined to offer redemption rather than punishment. Do you like opportunities, Mr. Hamel?”

“Yes ma’am. Uh ... What kind of opportunity?”

“What—during your waking hours—has interested you most in this class?” Her biting sarcasm was not lost on Wayne. Somewhere along the line she’d dumped the sheaf of papers on her desk and approached with her ever-present walking stick. It made him nervous. She seemed to sense his discomfort and leaned the stick against the podium.

Wayne quickly called into focus a few things that he had heard in class before production got into full swing. The past two weeks he’d spent every night until early morning on stage.

“The uh ... myth ... mythology parts. It’s uh ... a different perspective than we get in literature. I uh ... think the part about, uh...”

“Don’t overtax yourself,” Dr. Allen broke in. “You’ve proven that you heard something. Have you read much mythology?”

“A bit,” he answered. “They had mythology comics when I was in junior high. It was my favorite reading.”

“Comic books?” She actually laughed. She wasn’t bad looking when she smiled. “To what is the world coming? You learned more from comic books than from this class?”

“No ma’am,” he said. “It just got me started. Mythology plays a very important part in all literature. Take the show—er... Hamlet—that opens tonight. In one scene Hamlet confronts his mother because she has married her husband’s brother,” he rattled on, caught up in his narrative. “He pulls out the locket that he wears with a picture of his father and the locket that she wears with a picture of his uncle. Then he compares them, ‘Hyperion to a satyr,’ he says. Without studying mythology, who would know that he was referring to his father as the great and glorious sun-god and to his uncle as a goat-legged drunk?”

“Very insightful, Mr. Hamel. There is hope. Now about your opportunity.”

“Usually when my dad says he has an opportunity for me it means more chores to do.”

“Your father is wise. You have the opportunity to pass this course.”

“Thank you, Dr. Allen. What do I need to do?”

“Two things. I am not going to ask you to stay awake during my classes, only that you not sleep in them. That’s right. Stay in bed. I don’t want you in class if you can’t listen to what is being said. As it seems your schedule makes an early morning lecture impractical, I am changing you to independent study, though you may attend class whenever you can stay awake.”

“Yes ma’am!” This was too good to be true.

“Don’t be too relieved,” she continued. “There are two things.”

“What else?”

“This class normally requires a fifteen-page term paper at the end of the semester. Your ending term paper—write this down—will be to trace a mythological image, since that interests you most, through a phase of literature—one of your majors. Take the image you just described of Hyperion and a satyr, for example. You might analyze Shakespeare’s perspective as reflective of the Elizabethan era and compare and contrast his view and expression of the myths with the anthropological perspective. Are you taking this down? The paper should include both the analysis of the era which you choose and the cultural origin of the myths. Is that clear?”

“Yes ma’am.” Wayne scribbled the notes rapidly. “In fifteen pages?”

“No. It would be unfair of me to limit you to fifteen pages for a paper of this scope. To do the subject justice, your paper would be no less than, say, fifty pages, but you are not limited to that, either.”

“Fifty pages?” he breathed trying to think if he even had a notebook that big.

“Typed. Double-spaced. One-inch margins. Not including the bibliography and end notes. A wonderful opportunity, right?”

“Right,” he sighed. Dr. Allen stood to leave. “You’d love my dad,” he said.

“Mr. Hamel,” she said, “do you have any friends and neighbors back home you’d like to hear from?”

“Well...” he began then let his mouth hang open as he gathered in her reference. “No, ma’am.”

“Believe me; I don’t want you to hear from them either. This is...”

“ ... a wonderful opportunity, Dr. Allen,” he finished for her. She smiled at him and then turned to leave.

Not only was this a rotten way to start his morning, but when Wayne glanced up at the clock he realized he was late. And late was much worse than asleep. Dr. Allen might have had a great opportunity for him, but it couldn’t compare to the one he was missing right now. With a howl of distress, he grabbed up his books and ran out of the classroom, out of the Lily Science Hall, and across the parking lot with Dr. Rebecca Allen watching in amazement.

Wayne ran full tilt through the empty lower hall of the Academic Building, which also housed the theatre. Sitting quietly on a box outside the scene shop was Judith Harmon, perhaps the most exquisite woman Wayne had ever laid eyes on. She was going to give him fencing lessons and she had waited!

It was not often that Wayne attracted the attention of a woman. Certainly, he had his share of girlfriends, but Judith was electric. Her short blonde hair framed a lightly freckled face with slightly upturned nose. Very British. She exuded energy and sparkle that was way more than her diminutive frame. Someone had packed a bigger than life woman in the body of a pixie. Of course, there was nothing serious between them. Not yet. But she had waited for him, even though he was very late.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” he began sputtering before he had come to a stop. “You wouldn’t believe what a rotten morning I’ve had. I’m really sorry I’m late and I’m glad you waited.”

“Hi,” she said. “Are you all right?”

“You’re the second person who has asked me that this morning. I guess I’m better than I deserve. I just got out of my 7:30 class.”

“Your professor must have been long-winded,” she responded. “It’s after nine.”

“No, I mean ... yes. She sort of kept me after class,” he said. “But I got out of it. Not that I’m sure I’m better off than if I was in it. But I’m out of it and I don’t have to go back, but I can if I want to and I probably will just to show that I’m not taking unfair advantage of her or anything. I just have to stay awake when I go back.”

“You Americans are very confusing sometimes,” she said.

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” he said. “I’m just glad you waited. How are you today?”

“A little peckish. I’m afraid I skipped breakfast to meet you,” she said smiling.

“Oh geez! I’m sorry. Look. We don’t have to do the fencing lesson,” he kept apologizing. He was always apologizing to someone. “I owe you—just for waiting. Let me buy you breakfast.”

“You don’t have to do that, Wayne,” she smiled. “But I’ll join you if you’re interested.”

“I’m interested,” he said, regretting that he had sounded so interested. “I know a little doughnut shop, unless you like bacon and eggs and stuff.”

“Continental breakfast would be fine.”

“What’s that?”

“Just tea and rolls.”

“Great! That’s just what a doughnut shop is,” he bubbled. “At least, I think they serve tea. I always drink coffee. If not, I’ll buy a teabag and make you a cup.” They left their books in the scene shop and Wayne picked up motorcycle helmets from the workbench. “You don’t mind a motorcycle, do you?” he asked.

“Sounds like fun!” she answered.

As they rode to Donut World, Wayne luxuriated in the feel of her arms around his waist. Life was just too much!

Judith liked Wayne. In fact, as a new student at the college she found him one of the few people who were approachable. She’d had to scramble when she enrolled late this fall. It was all she could do to get a study visa and get to America before it was too late to enroll at all. Then she had to catch up.

She would never have become involved in the theatre this term if it had not been for Wayne. He approached her after hearing her voice in the one class they shared. She was English, right? Would she help with accents in their production of Hamlet? When the director found out that she was also a fencing master, she was sucked into the fathomless commitment of the Theatre Department.

Well, she was more at home on stage than faking her way through her academic classes. Even her professors were a little curious about why an English girl would come to Indiana to study English poets. She just couldn’t risk getting into courses she hadn’t already studied. She had to be just another ordinary student, even though foreign.

Over doughnuts, Wayne explained what had happened to him in his early class. Judith laughed with him over his apparent good fortune; but when Wayne mentioned his professor’s name, she became much more interested in his project.

“Dr. Allen?”

“Yes,” Wayne said. “Do you have any classes with her?”

“No. I’ve heard she’s very tough, though,” Judith probed.

“Hard as nails,” Wayne said. “I have to say, she’s more than fair, though. She could have just flunked me on the spot.”

Judith calculated the possibilities in her mind and decided to push ahead. She’d come to America to protect Dr. Rebecca Allen. It suddenly seemed possible to get a message to her without risking exposure. She was not happy to use her new friend as an unwitting conduit, but if she helped him pass his class, then Wayne would be the beneficiary, she reasoned.

“Did you think about the possibility of combining the project with one for another class?” she asked. “Perhaps you could select a poet for the English Romantic Literature paper that used a mythological image.”

“Great idea,” he answered. “I couldn’t hand in the same paper, but that doesn’t mean I couldn’t use the same research to write both. All I really need is a good angle on a poet. Got any tips?”