The Green Revolution

by Ralph McInerny

  A knock on his office door. It was eleven o’clock at night. Who could know he was here? He had not turned on the lights. He sat frozen in his chair.

  “Professor? Are you in there?”

  Not Lipschutz. Not Piero.

  He turned on the lights before he opened the door and looked, blinking, at the uniformed man.

  “You’re Professor Senzamacula.”

  Was this an arrest? Guido nodded.

  “Your son asked me to check to see if you were here.”

  “Yes, yes, I’m here.”

  The guard looked at Guido’s desk. “Your phone’s off the hook. He’s been trying to reach you.”

  Guido hurried to the desk and replaced the phone. What had he been thinking when he laid the receiver on the desk?

  “You all right, Professor?”

  “Of course, of course. What’s your name?”

  “Larry Douglas.”

  Guido tried to laugh. The name was on a patch sewn to the young man’s shirt. He pointed to it, as if he had been making a joke.

  “You going to stay here, Professor? It’s pretty late.”

  “A little longer, yes.”

  “I could take you home.”

  “Oh, I can walk.”

  Larry Douglas was looking at his feet. Slippers, but doubtless it was the robe and pajamas that surprised him more. Guido had not taken into account how he was dressed when he set out for campus.

  “Perhaps you should see me home.”

  On the way there, bumping along in the odd little vehicle the guard drove, Guido looked at the great disc of the moon. The mad were once called lunatics. Was he going mad?

  12

  Chita didn’t recognize Larry Douglas at first, and he wished he’d been wearing his uniform. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously as he reminded her of how they had met. Then, like two black olives, her eyes glistened. She dug him in the ribs.

  “Backseat Charlie.”

  “Larry.”

  “So how did you find me?”

  “Look, I’m a cop.”

  “Campus security makes you a cop?”

  Larry didn’t want to go into that, not with this sassy little dish. How shapely and compact Chita seemed compared to Laura, but who wouldn’t?

  Chita was the cashier at the first window that cars going through the McDonald’s drive-through stopped at. Finding her had just been lucky. At Personnel, they were surprised when he asked for the names of those on the postgame cleanup crew.

  “But they’re temporaries.”

  “There must be regulars.”

  “They’re not regular employees.”

  “Thanks for your help.”

  “Have a nice day.”

  Gaboriau, in charge of grounds, had a little office in the low building north of the Credit Union, and Larry found him in the huge shed filled wih mowers, pickups, all kinds of vehicles. He kept walking around while Larry talked.

  “Come around on Friday afternoon, kid. That’s when I hire.”

  “Geez, I’m not looking for a job. I’ve got a job.”

  Gaboriau turned and looked at the uniform. “I noticed. Everyone I hire for that crew has another job.”

  “Weekends are big in campus security.” Larry could have wept at being thought a candidate for the campus cleanup crew.

  “I’m trying to locate a member of that crew. The crew that found the body on the putting green. I interrogated some of them.” Well, one of them. “A woman named Chita.”

  “Oh, geez.”

  “You remember her?”

  “She’s a regular.”

  “How can I locate her?”

  Gaboriau leered. “It would be a waste of time. I’ll say no more.”

  This angered Larry more than the suggestion that he had come here seeking employment on the cleanup crew, probably because he knew he just wanted to see Chita again.

  “You interrogated her?” Gaboriau asked. “Didn’t you get her address then?”

  “You can’t help me?”

  The address Chita had given him was a McDonald’s. When he had looked it up, he could imagine her laughing at him. After talking with Gaboriau, the idiot in maintenance, he went back to the McDonald’s and went inside. He was hungry. It was while he was waiting in line that he spotted her at the cashier’s window of the drive-through. He ordered large fries and a Coke and sat where he could watch Chita. Sooner or later, she had to get a break. When she did, she came around the counter with a drink and collapsed in a plastic seat. Larry went and sat across from her. It took a minute before she said, “Backseat Charlie.”

  “I was up front.”

  “So what do you want?”

  “When do you get off?”

  “Someone’s picking me up.”

  “This is official. I want to talk to you.”

  “We’re talking now.”

  “You mentioned a woman, a fellow crew member, named Bridget.”

  “That’s who’s picking me up.”

  “What time?”

  “When I get off.”

  Larry waited.

  “At six.”

  * * *

  That gave him several hours. For no good reason that he could think of, he went home and put on his uniform. Who doesn’t look better in a uniform? He was back at the McDonald’s at five thirty, parked where he could keep an eye on both side entrances. It was ten after six when Chita came out, still wearing her work clothes. She looked around and then came right across the parking lot to Larry’s car. Only it was the car next to his she was headed for. There was an older woman behind the wheel. Larry hopped out. The woman behind the wheel dipped down to get a better look, and her mouth dropped open. Chita had opened the passenger door.

  “You told!” she cried.

  “This is Larry. You remember him, Bridget.”

  Larry said, “I want to have a few words with you, ma’am.”

  “Get in the backseat, Charlie.”

  Larry got in the backseat. Bridget sat now with her back rammed back into the seat, staring straight ahead.

  “Bridget, I haven’t told him a thing.”

  “Sure.”

  “What hasn’t she told me, Bridget?”

  “This solves your problem,” Chita said. “Just give them to good old Larry. He’s a cop.”

  Bridget popped the trunk open, got out, went back there, and a moment later pulled open the back door and tossed a plastic bag at Larry. Bridget was behind the wheel and Chita hanging over the front seat when Larry opened the plastic bag and saw a huge pair of shoes. Strombergs.

  “Where’d you get these?”

  Bridget had found the shoes in a trash barrel up the mall toward O’Shaughnessy. After they made a grand sweep of the mall, they gathered up the trash barrels and threw them onto the truck. The shoes were visible when Bridget began to pick up the barrel they were in. She fished them out, looked around, and then hid them behind some bushes in front of the dining hall. Later she came back for them.

  “Good work, Bridget.”

  She just looked at him in the rearview mirror. “Keep my name out of it.”

  He tossed the plastic bag into his trunk and drove away.

  13

  Father Neil Genoux, special advisor to the president, had long felt that the Main Building was morally under siege, but only the ineffable Lipschutz actually brought his campaign physically to the doors of the building. Maisie, Genoux’s secretary, had alerted him to the presence of a motley crew at the bottom of the stairs leading to the entrance of the Main Building.

  “They demand to see the president.”

  “Which group is it?”

  “Lipschutz.”

  It was a name that lent itself to disdainful pronunciation, no doubt of that, but did even Maisie know what lay behind Lipschutz’s demands? Genoux was not alone in thinking that, if the university agreed to open a new and vast research center with Lipschutz in charge, not another word would be heard from him about the abomination of Notre Dame foo
tball. It was blackmail, pure and simple.

  At any other time, the man might simply be ignored. Now, his appearance outside seemed to presage wave after wave of groups intent on making life miserable for the administration. The Web site founded by the unfortunate Ignatius Willis continued to heap criticism on the coach and on those who had hired him. The Weeping Willow Society, while more sedate and rational, continued to bombard the Main Building with embarrassing inquiries. And now there was the investigation into how many Catholics were on the football team! The suggestion seemed to be that it was having heretics in uniform that explained the string of losses suffered by the team. The danger was that, if Lipschutz was ignored, he would be back daily until he was noticed; and, if he was not ignored, the precedent might bring other angry hordes to their doorstep. At the same time, the formidable George Wintheiser, joined now by Rimini, the economist, was demanding the administration come vocally to the support of the coach and team. Genoux telephoned Father Carmody.

  “Send someone for me,” the old priest said, when Genoux had explained the situation. There was the promise of battle in Carmody’s voice. If only Genoux could turn the matter over to the older priest. He asked Maisie to pick up Father Carmody at Holy Cross House and bring him here.

  “Not by the main entrance.”

  Maisie just looked at him. Well, it had been a dumb remark.

  Half an hour later, Father Carmody sauntered into Genoux’s office with a cigarette smoldering in his hand. “Where can I put this out?”

  “Anywhere. Here, I’ll take it.” Smoking in the Main Building! Perhaps it had been a mistake to enlist Carmody. He took the cigarette and tossed it into the wastebasket.

  The older priest began to tell of the way Ted Hesburgh had handled protesters years ago. “He confronted them face-to-face, told them they had ten minutes to disperse or they were out on their ear. That was the end of that. Force can only be met by forcefulness.”

  “You want me to go out there and confront them?”

  “Of course not. You’re too young. This requires gravitas. I’ll go.”

  Too young? Gravitas? Genoux was older than the president. But it was Carmody’s offer to confront Lipschutz himself that balanced any pique Genoux might have felt.

  “I could go with you.”

  Carmody thought about it. “Only if you keep in the background.”

  Dismissing the suggestion of the elevator, Carmody marched down the wide ancient steps of the building, up and down which he had gone many times over the years. The present trouble seemed to put spring in his step. His shoulders were back, his arms moved in a military rhythm. Along the first floor corridor, then, lined with Gregori’s paintings that Genoux had never managed to like, to the closed double doors. Carmody stepped back and nodded, indicating that Genoux should open them. And then, through those opened doors, Charles Carmody strode out to meet the foe. Genoux sidled out and, following instructions, kept in the background.

  The scene at the foot of the stairs was not at first frightening. There seemed as many curious students as signers of Lipschutz’s petition, but the sparseness of the crowd seemed made up for by the idiot who kept banging on a drum. There were banners. SOCCER, NOT FOOTBALL; others wondering why there was not a women’s football team. And, dear God, a television crew.

  Carmody took up his stance at the top of the stairs, legs apart, hands behind him. He waited. Lipschutz made a gesture and the drum stopped beating. Something like silence fell.

  “Where is the president?” Lipschutz asked querulously.

  For answer, Carmody put out his hand and, with his index finger, motioned to Lipschutz to mount the stairs.

  Lipschutz looked undecided. Someone whispered in his ear. He looked up at Father Carmody and then began to come up the stairs.

  As he grew closer, he noticed Genoux. “We can discuss this,” he said pleadingly.

  Father Carmody held out his hand for the document Lipschutz ws carrying.

  “There are many points of view on this proposal,” Lipschutz said, addressing Genoux, who moved farther into the background.

  Carmody’s imperious hand was still thrust out to Lipschutz. The television crew was creeping up the steps, recording it all. Finally, Lipschutz held out the document. Carmody took it with a sweep of his hand.

  “You must take it to the president. To the board.”

  For answer, Father Carmody tore the document, first in two, then again, almost a third time. Unsuccessfully. Then he flung the pieces in Lipschutz’s face. Unaccountably, a cheer went up from below.

  “Come, Father,” Father Carmody said, and in a moment they were inside the closed doors.

  “That ought to do it. Thanks for your help.”

  When they got back to Genoux’s office, the fire in his wastebasket had been put out.

  Who would have thought that in the present university climate such a gesture as Carmody’s would be cheered? Later, on the evening news, Genoux watched the old fellow as he stood statuesque at the top of the stairs, the grand gesture commanding Lipschutz to come to him, the even grander gesture of tearing up the document and tossing the pieces in Lipschutz’s face. The camera had then turned to show the cheering throng at the foot of the stairs. The drum had started up again. In the distance, a band of elderly men approached. Force of a kind had been met with forcefulness of a rare kind.

  14

  A wide-awake Notre Dame alumnus in the sales department arranged to have several hundred miniature Goodyear Blimps, inflatable balloons, sent to Roger Knight, who distributed them to his class and to anyone else he ran into. Bartholomew Hanlon blew up the one he had been given and looked at it sadly.

  “Did you actually sign that statement, Professor?”

  “No.”

  “And Otto Bird?”

  “No more than I did.”

  “But Lipschutz insists that you did.”

  “Quidquid recipitur, Bartholomew. Quidquid recipitur. We hear what we want to hear.”

  “You have to ask for a retraction.”

  “Do I? Whatever for? It is not the first time that what I have said has been misunderstood.”

  Phil was not as philosophical as Roger about the teasing his brother was getting, particularly because it was based on the false premise that he subscribed to Lipschutz’s quixotic campaign to rid Notre Dame of football.

  Otto Bird regarded it with the same amusement as Roger. “Of course, no one is likening me to a blimp.”

  “You lack the qualifications,” Roger said with a smile.

  “It will die down,” Otto said. “Everything eventually does.”

  It might have been a melancholy remark, but that was not Otto’s style. At ninety-three he still got up every day with the optimism that had been with him all his life. Another day, things to do, so do them, don’t worry that nightfall is inevitable.

  So, despite Phil’s protests and those of Bartholomew Hanlon and other students, Roger floated above the controversy as a metaphorical blimp. That became more difficult when Phil brought him Piero Macklin, a member of the television crew that had brought the Boston College game to a startled nation. Peter had stayed on.

  “My father lives here.”

  “’Here meaning Notre Dame?”

  “Guido Senzamacula.”

  “My dear friend. But your name?”

  “A professional elision. How would Piero Senzamacula look among the credits?”

  “Refreshing.”

  “My father is all broken up about being linked with this campaign to eliminate football. He thinks I think he really is involved.”

  “Names got on the list of sponsors in strange ways, Piero.”

  “Including yours?”

  “Including mine.”

  “What are you going to do about it?”

  “Pretty much what I have been doing.”

  “Which is?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I wish my father could take it so lightly. He talks about nothing else. Would
you come with me to talk with Lipschutz?”

  “I don’t think it would do any good.”

  “It would do me a lot of good. He has to understand how my father is taking this. He reacts to things in an exaggerated way. He is a rock-bottom loyalist so far as Notre Dame goes. The idea that he would campaign in a public way against something so connected with the university as football is unthinkable.”

  “He is too upset to talk to Lipschutz himself?”

  “I couldn’t put him through that. He can’t bear the sound of the man’s name.”

  * * *

  Roger knew the location of Lipschutz’s office because it was located near his own in Brownson Hall. For Roger, apart from isolation from other faculty offices, the attraction had been the adjacent parking lot where he could leave his golf cart and get to his office without running the gamut of stairs. They were in the little hallway off which his own office and Lipschutz’s hideaway opened when there was a commotion behind them. Soon a distraught Lipschutz appeared. He looked wildly at Roger.

  “We have been insulted! Publicly insulted.”

  “The Goodyear Blimp business? I consider that almost praise.”

  Lipschutz angrily dismissed this. He began to pick pieces of paper from his clothing. He had yet to take any notice of Piero.

  Lipschutz had trouble with the key to his office, but finally he got it open and went raging inside, giving an incoherent tale of a confrontation on the steps of the main building. At his desk, he turned to Roger and there were actual tears in his eyes. “He tore it up!”

  “Your petition?”

  “And they cheered. It was like Patton, only all wrong.” His expression was desolate.

  “Then it’s over,” Roger said.