Chapter 3: Revelation

Friday, 1 November 1968

Wayne remembered the kiss.

But to his credit, he didn’t dwell on it when he saw Judith Friday morning, much as he wanted to simply crush her to him and passionately devour her. She came down at her usual time, though, and the two walked together to the cafeteria.

“Are you feeling better?” Wayne asked.

“Do you mean am I hung over?” Judith laughed. “Not too bad. Some American coffee should help. I’m not ready for steak and eggs.”

“I’m glad to hear that. I suppose we shouldn’t make a habit of going out to party on a school night.”

“I’m so sorry I spoiled our date. I haven’t done that in ages—not since my wild days in London.”

“I’m a sheltered Hoosier boy. These are my wild days in London. Um ... Indianapolis. You’ll have to tell me about yours someday so I’ll know what I’m missing.”

“Still, I’m sorry. Let me make it up to you. Please?”

“Not that it’s necessary, but what were you thinking of?” Wayne was thinking of the kiss. He could only hope she was, too.

“Katherine Hepburn.”

“You want to give me the incredible Kate as a make-up present? I guess I can’t really turn that down,” he laughed.

“The Lion in Winter just opened. I know it’s not usual for girls to ask boys out here, but if you are free tomorrow evening, I thought we might have a date that’s my treat. You can still provide the transportation, though. I rather like sitting on your bike.” Something about the way she said that sent shivers up Wayne’s spine.

“That really sounds wonderful.”

Saturday, 2 November 1968

Wonderful only began to cover it. From the moment Judith opened the door for Wayne, they held hands. She greeted him with a soft kiss on the cheek and they went to the motorcycle. It was too bad he didn’t have a car as he was sure if he did that she’d have worn a skirt instead of the brown wool slacks. The light blue angora sweater under her jacket, though, was a delight to touch as she kept hold of his hand placed carefully around her shoulders in the theater. Their seats in the balcony caused a little distortion in the Panavision image seen from slightly above. Wayne had a hard enough time focusing on the film, though, with Judith cuddled against him.

After the movie, they walked around Monument Circle at the heart of Indianapolis and even ventured north along the grassy plaza. Rather than simply holding hands, Judith pulled his arm around her waist and held his hand firmly against her side, just touching her stomach above her hipbone. For Wayne it was like walking through a dream. When they reached the steps of the World War Memorial, she turned in his arms and as naturally as long-time lovers pressed her lips against his. He bent his head to meet her and their kiss intensified. When it finally broke, they were both panting. Wayne’s arms were wrapped all the way around her small frame and his fingertips were pressed lightly against the sides of her breasts. What a glorious feeling. She pushed away from him.

“We’d better go back now,” she whispered.

“I’d rather stay with you,” he answered.

“Yes, well every family has their ups and downs,” she quoted. For Wayne, it was definitely up at the moment. They held hands as they walked back to the motorcycle and she gripped him tightly as they rode back to campus. She didn’t give him a chance to catch her in another clinch in the parking lot, but led him immediately up the steps to the dorm lobby. At the door to the women’s wing, where they were in full view of the monitor, she met his lips again.

“Judith,” he said as they caught their breath. “Do you have plans for the holiday?”

“Holiday?”

“Thanksgiving. We have Wednesday through Sunday off and I was thinking that if you’d like, you could come home with me and ... uh ... meet my parents and stuff.” Especially stuff.

“Oh, that holiday. I forgot. Actually, I already accepted Gail’s invitation to her home. I wish I’d known this first.”

“Well. That’s okay. I mean. Maybe it’s a little too early to meet the parents.”

“Maybe so. Let’s just take it slow. But you could kiss me again.”

Wednesday, 27 November 1968, early morning

“Just stopped to wish you a Happy Thanksgiving, Lissa,” Wayne said as he entered Donut World. It was nearly one in the morning on Wednesday. Wayne and Judith had been out with friends for a drink and then parted at the dorm. He simply didn’t feel like sleeping yet, even though he faced a 140-mile bike ride in the morning.

“Vy tank you, dahlink. You are so ... how you say? ... thoughtful.”

“Are you Russian tonight?”

“You are American ven you come in for coffee; Russian ven you leave. And ven you get home? European.” Wayne howled.

“You are so funny, Lissa. I guess I’ll have that coffee. And a doughnut. It will be my last one for a while. I’m headed up north in the morning.”

“Taking your little girlfriend with you?”

“She had other plans. I’m still not sure she’s my girlfriend. I want her to be. I’m not dating anyone else and I don’t see how she could be, but the idea of going steady is foreign to her.”

“So, you haven’t gone all the way?”

“Just barely touched second base. I’m trying not to rush, but damn she makes me hot. I tell you Lissa, even without petting, I could sit and kiss her all night long.”

“You need to think ahead.”

“What do you mean?”

“When do you get back from your break?”

“Oh. Monday.”

“And how long before your holiday? I mean Christmas vacation.”

“Just two weeks. We’ve got the Holiday Musicale the first week and finals the second week. Having Thanksgiving so late in the month this year really plays havoc with the schedule.”

“So, from right now you have two weeks to pick the perfect Christmas present, make arrangements for a special date, and charm the pants off her. You shouldn’t have too much trouble with that. No?”

“Yes. Oh man! I completely forgot how soon Christmas was and that I need to give her a present before she goes home. What am I going to do?”

“Something she loves and something that is a part of you—so inseparable that she can’t abandon your gift and she can’t face it without thinking of you.”

“What?”

“How vould I know? You haf never brought her to meet me. Are you ashamed of your leetle Russian doll?”

“No! I’ll bring her in as soon as I can.” He looked around and grabbed a napkin. His pen started sketching. Of course. There was only one thing that Judith loved enough to never give up. “I have to run, Lissa. Thanks for the coffee.” He laid three dollars on the counter—easily twice what his late-night snack cost—and headed for the door.

“You see?” Lissa called after him. “Now you’re a-rushin’.”

“Dad, do you mind if I use your shop for a while this weekend?” Wayne had only been home two hours. They’d just had lunch and his butt was still tingling from the two-and-a-half-hour ride from Indianapolis. Still, he wanted to get right to work on his project.

“Sure. Anything special you need?”

“Do you have any black walnut out there?”

“Black walnut? I’ll come with you.” His dad followed him to the workshop. For half of Wayne’s life, his father had been a cabinetmaker. He’d seen the demise of Studebaker looming on the horizon and knew he needed a skill. From 1959-1961, he’d commuted to Nappanee to study woodworking with an Amish cabinetmaker. Before Studebaker closed up shop in 1963, Dad had left and was established in his woodworking shop. They passed the ‘56 Golden Hawk under its canvas cover on the way to the shop.

“Is it still running?” Wayne asked.

“I’ve got the engine torn down. Needed the valves ground. Have it ready to drive this summer.”

He unlocked the woodshop and they went in. The shop always made Wayne smile. It smelled like fresh wood and tung oil.

“Now what’s your project?” Wayne pulled out the sketches he’d made the night before after talking with Lissa. It was perfect. “You love making boxes. Who is this one for?”

“My ... uh ... girlfriend.”

“It’s a little big for a jewelry box.”

“Yeah. You know what I worked on all last summer? I need to put a matching handle on it.”

Wayne and his dad worked side-by-side in the shop all afternoon. He’d taught Wayne everything he knew about woodworking and was happy to show him some new techniques as well. Wayne planned to use a mortise and tenon corner joint, but his dad had a new machine that would cut a blind secret mitered dovetail. When the pieces slid together, you couldn’t see the corner joint at all. Wayne cut the sides out of two matched four-foot black walnut boards. The reversed grain looked like the sides of the box grew together. When the lid hinged closed, it made it look like a solid block. His dad’s tips and an occasional extra pair of hands helped move the project along. But Joe, Wayne’s dad, was careful to let him manage his own project. He never tried to do something for him. Wayne loved working with him.

Once the box was assembled and drying, Wayne put a six-inch-long block of the dark wood on the lathe and his dad helped him align the pattern jig.

“Dad? How do I know if she’s the right girl?”

“Mmm. Well. Didn’t we talk about this once? Let me see.”

“Don’t strain yourself. How’d you know Mom was the right woman for you?”

“Well, I still don’t know for sure. Seems okay today, but Monday I was sure I’d made a mistake marrying her.” Wayne laughed. They’d been married twenty-five years last August. Popped Wayne’s sister out nine months later. He couldn’t figure out why it had taken four years to get the second kid on the ground. “I guess, it’s a lot like your box there,” he finally said. Wayne looked over at it. “All the parts have to fit together perfectly. Of course, you get a lot of marriages where the lid is warped a little or where there’s a gap in a joint or two. Most of them still hold together. Some of them are just so sloppily made, though, that there’s no chance for them to last. And some look well-made, but are used so roughly that they finally fall apart.”

“So, I want to find a woman whose parts all match mine and then keep them well-oiled?”

“Don’t tell your mother I said anything like that!”

Friday, 13 December 1968

All Wayne did the next week was type his paper, work in the props shop, and run lights for the Holiday Musicale. Then it was finals week and he still had to type the bibliography and end-notes. He must have dumped about thirty dollars into those coin-operated typewriters in the library. Ten cents for ten minutes, then deposit another dime. But he got it done and handed to Dr. Allen on Wednesday. He was reasonably sure she’d be pleased. He’d even made it to about half her classes.

He was surprised to find a message waiting at the dorm monitor’s desk on Friday morning requesting his presence in Dr. Allen’s office at ten o’clock.

“While there is no concrete proof that Keats was the Vagabond Poet referred to in early 19th century mystical writings, Wilton’s conjecture explains in part Keats’s fascination with the Titans and his glorification of them. If what Wilton says is true, Keats participated in a pagan ritual in which four of the Titans were said to have appeared—Iäpetus drawing so much strength from the poet that Keats was sickly until his early death just two years later.”

Dr. Allen looked up from reading the paper aloud and stared at the student standing in front of her. She could feel the heat in her cheeks as her anger swept over her again. Control. He looked so smug—so pleased with himself.

“Who do you think you are?” she growled. “Did you honestly think you could pass off this rubbish as legitimate research?” Wayne’s mouth sagged open as her words sank in.

“What? It’s all there, just like I said,” he stammered. “Wilton said...”

“Wilton said no such thing, nor is there any such paper in his files,” Dr. Allen blazed.

“I have copies of them,” Wayne said. “Right here.” He produced a notebook from his pack and flipped over several pages then turned it around to face her. “Here. In Wilton’s own handwriting.”

“That is not Wilton’s handwriting,” Dr. Allen responded immediately. “Nor is this in the catalog of Wilton’s papers,” she continued producing a handwritten file from her own desk. Wayne looked at the writing on his papers and on the ones in Dr. Allen’s hands. They were undeniably different.

“Is this Wilton’s handwriting?” he asked pointing at the folder.

“No. This is my husband’s handwriting,” she answered. “He cataloged all Wilton’s writings in 1954. I have read all of them in this library and all his pseudonymous writings in the Edinburgh University Library as well. This is not Wilton’s writing. Now where did you get it?”

“I swear, Dr. Allen,” he said plaintively. “It was listed in the card catalog in the library and I got it out of his file in rare books. The librarian handed it to me herself and made the copies for me while I was there.” The professor was softening as things began to come into focus.

“Rare books,” she muttered. “Mr. Hamel, we have been had. If the paper is indeed in rare books, I will fulfill my end of the bargain and pass you for the course. However, as a teacher, it is my responsibility to instruct you. Your paper is based on a cleverly conceived fraud. It has no scholarly value. Unless you found reputable primary sources, like an eyewitness account or Keats’s diary, to back up your quotes, the entire academic value of the paper is zero. And I assure you that you will not find primary sources to back up your research. If any of what you quoted regarding the pagan rites that Keats supposedly participated in were true, it would be buried in secrecy and heavily protected against just such academic research.”

“Shi ... uh ... da ... uh ... darn it!” he swore.

“I understand your feelings,” she smiled. “They are very similar to my own. I must know who advised you in your research, subject selection, everything that led you to precisely this study. In the world of academic fraud, this could be very important.”

“How?”

“‘There are stranger things in heaven and earth than your philosophy has imagined, Horatio.’”

“Hamlet, act two, scene three,” Wayne responded automatically.

“Very good,” she answered. “Now who else knew about your research?”

“Well, gee. Everyone knows what I was doing the paper on. All my friends. And Mr. Cooper. I got clearance from him to use the same research for my Romantic Poets course. When you gave me this opportunity, I quoted the line from Hamlet about Hyperion and a satyr. I thought it was cool when that same week we read Keats’s ‘Hyperion’ in class. Miss Wilson in the library told me how to go about researching it. That’s it.”

“Miss Wilson is definitely out. Cooper? No, I don’t think so. Did you use any of the Wilton material in your paper for his class?”