by Ted Bernard
Katherine could think of no clever comeback. Instead, she reverted to a semi-prepared monologue. “Sir, let me say off the top that I personally am so sorry about your departure from Gilligan. I came to trust you and had hoped that together we might have avoided the worst and perhaps have found a way to forestall drilling at Blackwood. All of us on our steering committee are sorry you chose to resign. And we are fearful about what will happen in your absence.”
Redlaw had been listening without eye contact, his head bowed. He locked his weary eyes on Katherine’s. “Thank you, Katherine. As I’m sure you understand, given the political and economic pressures in this case, middle ground was a mountain to climb. What will happen next is, in fact, the reason we four are together this morning.”
“I assumed that would be the purpose of my kidnapping, as you put it.”
Mitchell Redlaw laughed. “Yes, it would be highly unethical to kidnap anybody without good reason. Wouldn’t you think, Burt?”
“Let me check the fine print in the Geneva Convention, Mitch.”
The ex-president’s expression faded from levity to gravity. In the morning light, the lines on his face crisscrossed toward his chin and his eye crinkles seemed to deepen right before Katherine’s eyes. He spoke in his usual basso. “Well, Katherine, one thing I want to do right away is to relay to you that Dr. Flintwinch will put forth an ultimatum today, probably as late as possible to avoid publicity. She will give you and your fellow activists less than three days to abandon your occupation of Centennial Quad. She wants you out of there by dawn Monday.”
Katherine digested the news calmly. “We’ve been expecting this.”
“You will be informed officially before the wider announcement, I’m sure, but Beth and I thought it wise to offer advance notice. Apparently, Dr. Flintwinch has no intention of meeting with you and your steering committee.”
“That’s regrettable. No meeting likely means, no negotiation. Or at least no face-to-face negotiation.”
“Not necessarily. It depends on how you play your hand.”
Katherine almost missed the poker analogy. She was not a card player but tried to stay with it. “Our hand could have four aces.”
“Can you give us some idea of what you’ve got? At least some parameters,” Beth asked.
Was Beth the tactician?
“Oh my, wouldn’t that be a really bad move in a game of poker?”
“It certainly would,” Beth replied. “But, to say it plainly, Katherine, we are no longer adversaries. If there’s any hope of accomplishing your goals, which are also our goals, then we need to be open and frank with one another.”
Though it was shifting under her feet, Katherine needed to hold her ground. “I am afraid I’m not able to divulge anything without approval from the others. We’ve been holding back most of what we know in case we reached an impasse.”
“Are we not there?” Beth asked.
“It would seem so,” Katherine said.
“Morse is likely to be in close touch with Governor Winthrop now, if not with the Gilligan administration, which is to say he will do anything he can to influence the disbanding of your movement.” Beth added.
Katherine’s mind spun out of control. What could be in this for the ex-president and Beth? Do they also have inside information on Morse? Has Morse been interacting with Winthrop from the Caribbean? Is he even in the Caribbean? If so, are Lara and Adrienne in danger? How can they possibly neutralize him? Are they about to ask me about the vandalism at the drill site? Will our occupying force and movement splinter when the ultimatum is proclaimed? How do we prevent that? Where is Stefan now that I really need him?
Almost to herself, she whispered hoarsely, “If ever there were a Late-K progression, this surely must be it.”
“Late-K?” Redlaw asked.
“Oh, yes, Late-K is a stage in the adaptive cycle — a progression according to the panarchy model.” The words spilled out formulaically. She blushed.
“Sounds like something you have been learning in Dr. Friemanis’ class,” Burt ventured.
“Yes. And what I fear is that we are about to be actors in a real-world test of this model. See, if the elements and events in the Late-K stage are too over-connected, too locked-up, the system loses its resilience and is highly vulnerable to sudden collapse into the next stage, which is omega. There are so many examples where this has happened. Think of the near crash of the global financial system four years ago.” Katherine was warming up and ready to roll on, but she realized that a lecture on panarchy was not what they needed. She then felt embarrassed at appearing to be such an all-knowing twerp in the company of these professionals.
“Sorry for the digression,” she apologized as her blush returned to dazzle Burt and Redlaw, if not Beth.
“Seems Doctor — what was her or his name? — has got you thinking about how change happens in complex systems,” Redlaw offered.
“He has. It’s Dr. Stefan Friemanis in the School of Conservation and Natural Resource Development,” she said a bit too proudly. She looked at Burt for his reaction and found him staring unabashedly her way. A twinkle in his eye.
Finally, she said, “Alright, I will have an answer for you about our Morse findings before the weekend is out. That is, if my kidnappers release me.”
“Count on that,” replied Redlaw. “Before we do, let me explain how and why I am sitting on this porch rather than in Stiggins. In the past few weeks I have gradually come around to thinking about the world’s energy future in the same terms as you and your fellow activists see it. Part of the backstory is that Burt and I have been friends for several years. About three weeks ago, I asked if he would give me a short course on how fracking for oil and gas is likely to impact climate change. He convinced me that shale oil and gas are just pieces of a pattern of last gasps in the fossil fuel era. He said that the more these sources of energy — shale oil and gas, tar sands in Alberta, potential oil and gas reserves under the Arctic Ocean, oil off the coast of Angola, and so forth — are exploited and released to the atmosphere, the faster will be calamitous changes in climate. So, with Burt’s help, I flip-flopped.”
“What a miracle,” Katherine interjected.
“More of an evolution,” he rejoined. “I must also say that I was obliged to look at our dire situation with new eyes thanks to your movement. After meeting with Burt, I knew it was time to stake out a more authentic position. All along, I must admit, my heart had been trending in your direction.”
He took a single sheet of paper from the coffee table and passed it to Katherine.
“Now to get to my resignation. Here is what I proposed to the Executive Council yesterday. They rejected it overwhelmingly. I think you can see why they thought I’d gone off the rails. I resigned before they could fire me.”
Katherine scanned the document quickly. She could not suppress her glee. “Wow, President Redlaw, you really are one with us!”
He beamed a smile back at her. “Call me Mitch,” he said in an aw-shucks-it-was-nothing tone.
Beth closed her eyes, dropped her head, shook it in feigned disbelief, a tiny smile on her lips.
“Okay, Mitch,” Katherine replied summoning up mischievousness from a forgotten corner. “I’m fairly certain you did not kidnap me simply to give a heads-up on the ultimatum. What else can you tell us? Maybe you’ve got some advice?” She sneaked a glance at Burt, wondering if she’d overstepped her bounds. She could decipher nothing but kindness. Redlaw and Beth looked back and forth at each other, non-verbal communication that to Katherine’s eyes seemed that of a married couple. Were they a couple?
Beth spoke. “Mitch and I, thanks to Burt’s generosity, met here last night. The three of us brainstormed about what we could do to save Blackwood and avoid a bloodbath on Centennial Quad. I don’t want to speak for Mitch or Burt. However, based on the Executive Council meeting I just attended, Gilligan’s new administration is bent on crushing your movement. As I said in the car, the clock is tick
ing. Dawn Monday is only 60 hours from now. We want to work with you to sustain pressure on the interim president such that she calls off the dogs before people are hurt and jailed.”
“The dogs?” asked Katherine.
“Dr. Flintwinch has already informed the governor of her intent to clear the quad. She has asked for backup in case the local police cannot accomplish the task.”
Redlaw stood up to stretch. He took a few steps to the porch railing and turned his face up toward the tall pines and sapphire sky. “Such a lovely morning, such solitude here, Burt. Hard to believe a wintery storm is in the offing.”
“Yeah, you’d never know it from this balmy day. I suspect that this kind of weather will be the new normal for many Novembers to come. A few days of this could really lull the senses into an Indian summer stupor.”
“A stupor would not be helpful at this point,” Redlaw said.
“Amen to that,” Beth exclaimed.
Redlaw sat down again, placed his hands in this-is-the-church, this-is-the-steeple pose. Katherine studied his hands, how their length and breadth formed a cathedral. To her he said, “Look, your protest has hundreds of followers. Right?”
“Thousands,” she said.
“Hmm,” he responded trailing momentarily into silence as if this were news to him. “I’ve been on line and read some of the tweets and posts on various sites and the dialogue on Reddit, a surprisingly passionate and thought-provoking debate, I might add. Browsing has been an education in itself.”
“I am impressed,” she said.
He quickened the pace. “I have a question, Katherine. Do you think you could get those followers onto the streets?”
Her brain raced. She imagined tens of thousands of screaming protestors cramming onto Federal and Claiborne like the throngs every night in Syntagma Square in Greece. Was this far-fetched? Her imagination plunged deeper into thoughts of revolution and rebirth, the adaptive cycle, alarming and exciting thoughts, frightening thoughts. “I can imagine doing that, yes. But of the thousands of followers, I’m not sure how many are on campus.”
“Let’s assume you test the waters with some kind of peaceful gathering, say Sunday. It’s a good weekend for a demonstration. There’s no football game or parents weekend or anything like that. Maybe Beth can help with media coverage.”
Katherine began to feel discomfort at the drift. They pull the strings; we take the hits. Or was this way too cynical or ludicrous a take? “We have talked about next steps, and yes, a rally has been part of our discussion. Let me take this to the steering committee.”
“One more idea you may want to consider,” Redlaw added, a prankish look about him. “What about calling a student strike, à la anti-Iraq invasion protests a decade ago? A boycott of classes, maybe, for one day. Monday, say.”
Was this man reliving his own university days — days when he was a jock rather than an activist? Katherine knew little of his hoops career, though his gamesmanship both impressed and troubled her. The prince, oozing charm, exuding power, entangles damsel in distress, herself agog in his chivalrous presence.
As if to confirm her fears, Redlaw placed his hand lightly on Katherine’s arm. “There’s urgency here, Katherine. But, of course, the source of these ideas must remain …” he hesitated.
“I understand, Mitch,” Katherine interrupted, looking up into his eyes, feeling sort of giddy and powerless, shivering imperceptibly. “You can trust me.” She rallied, summoned reason, found her mettle. “Pardon me for saying so, but you have not cornered the market on revolution. Both of your suggestions have come into our discussions and we have more ideas. But now I see our path for the next 48 hours more clearly.”
“Good,” he said.
Beth rose to join the ex-president. She indicated it was time for them to go. Katherine gathered her bag and followed. She bid Burt good-bye, shaking his hand and thanking him. As they descended the steps, Redlaw wanted to reassure Katherine of one more thing. “As long as none of you are wielding weapons or doing damage to property on campus or uptown, I think we can guarantee that the campus and local police will not be busting heads in the next couple of days.”
3
That Stefan’s recollection of one particular night, a night when the rest of us went about our business of speaking truth to power, is buried in the muddle of cascading events, does a serious disservice to its sweetness and significance. True, had we known, it would have been both a blockbuster and a pathetic heartbreak for the rest of us crushers. But we didn’t know. And thus, we continued to play our destined roles, and much to their credit, so did Katherine and Stefan.
Stefan’s Journal
Pieces of Heaven
Given our suffering, our tragedies, our loss of loved ones, the very act of recounting one special night feels indulgent. Nonetheless, the story of the most memorable night of my life must be part of the record.
In the black of night, drowsy but not asleep, a banana moon bright above our roof, its rays forcing themselves through billowing curtains, she rolls on her side to extend her arm across my chest, in search of a safe harbor. I respond, quietly drawing her to me, cradling her in the crook of my shoulder. We enfold, perhaps expecting passion to flare again. When it does not, I simply bask in a new sense of life, the serendipity of finding a woman I might love eternally.
“Stefan,” she whispers, “one day we shall make love in Blackwood Forest, under the tall trees in spring. Imagine! The songs of the returning birds will tell us we had been worthy stewards.”
Despite the frightening prospect of a violent end to the occupation of Centennial, despite a potentially vengeful Flintwinch, despite the complexity and terror of Astrid’s revelations and Adrienne and Lara’s mission, despite her state of depletion and the challenges of herding the masses, here and now, Katherine tells me she is beginning to believe the future won’t be a world of barren despair and that she might get to live in it. I drink in the fragrance of her, tenderness I had never imagined, the wonder of giving ourselves to one another, holding back nothing, knowing there would yet be greater depths to plumb. These tense days shall pass, Katherine says. I agree. I believe that resolution will come soon, and afterwards we will find refuge in one another. She falls again onto a cushion of soft slumber. And so do I.
~
In the morning, I find her lounging in the nightshirt she never donned, on the couch, the luminance of dawn washing across her little flat. I ask what’s up with Katherine. She hums and teases. She orders me to sit. “Now listen to this poem, my gift to you this lovely morning after.” Across from her, in jeans, no socks, a t-shirt, I sit in a tattered wing chair, savoring her sleepy beauty. “After what?” I ask.
She reads in a husky voice:
Any Morning, by William Stafford
Just lying on the couch and being happy.
Only humming a little, the quiet sound in the head.
Trouble is busy elsewhere at the moment, it has
so much to do in the world.
People who might judge are mostly asleep; they can’t
monitor you all the time, and sometimes they forget.
When dawn flows over the hedge you can
get up and act busy.
Little corners like this, pieces of Heaven
left lying around, can be picked up and saved.
People won’t ever see that you have them,
they are so light and easy to hide.
Later in the day you can act like the others.
You can shake your head. You can frown.xv
She tells me that every day she tries to find the perfect poem. She then handwrites it in her journal, the one with sensitive ferns on its cover. “What do you think about this one? Have we not captured little pieces of heaven while trouble busied itself up there on campus? And are the people who might judge still asleep?”
“Let’s hope so. Judging people might have a field day with us. Later in the day, I doubt that you and I will be prone to head shaking and frowni
ng.”
She grins. “No way! This smile will be with me for weeks. My good spirits are back. I am that fourteen-year-old in the Maine woods.”
“I remember her.”
I could have fallen in love with today’s Katherine, again and again. Watching her wide-eyed face, her unsettling grace floating around the little apartment, her arms unfurling, ever endearing. Could it be that the breadth of her emotional intelligence and her mental acuity might exceed my own? Might we fashion a milieu, open and welcoming: a country kitchen? Birchwood table, farmhouse chairs, spring fragrance, a bay window. Love enveloping the space, like summer honeysuckle. And children to help heal the world?
~
Over dinner, she had emptied her heart and mind. I came to know everything: the survival of Adrienne; Adrienne and Lara’s mission; Astrid cracking into Morse’s accounts; Group of Thirteen conflicts; threats of insurrection in the movement; feminist monkeywrenching led by Boss; Macy’s mystical appearance; Samantha’s blood on the fence and her arrest; Redlaw’s defection; her meeting with Beth, Burt and Redlaw; Burt’s body language; what lies ahead; her longing; and, finally, painfully, the death of Fabiano, her fiancée.
When she told of Macy, she asked whether I remembered calling fate a child at play. I did remember.
“Was Macy that child?” she mused.
Does Burt know of us? He does. He won’t tell. A sweet man, she ventured.
About Fabiano: “No wonder dark clouds occasionally shroud your spirit.” With sadness, she admitted, “I have almost forgotten his face.”
On vandalism at the drill site, I mentioned Rosenstiel and Kovach’s civil disobedience test. Does the public good or value outweigh whatever transgressions are perceived to have been committed?xvi
“Who decides that?”
“It is for history to judge, I reckon.”
“Wherefore now?” she quotes Richard III.
“Forsooth, thou speaketh strangely.”
“I remember more,” she brags and dances around to kiss my cheek,
