William Forstchen - One Second After

“Are we feeling better today, Colonel, sir?”

“Yes, Mr….” He fumbled for a second. “Yes, Sergeant Parker, I am, thank you.”

Embarrassed, John turned to look at his students, kids of but three weeks back. He had spoken to them more than once about the privileges they had. That kids their age were defending them on distant fronts even as they sat half-dozing in class. Several graduates of the college had been in Iraq, another in Afghanistan, and whenever an e-mail came in from overseas John usually read it to these same students. And now they stood lined up with guns, in front of the main campus building that housed the admissions office, the registrar, the music department, and one of the two chapels on campus.

He knew they were expecting him to now say something, but words failed him. He saw his two favorites, Jeremiah and Phil, to the right of the line, sergeant’s chevrons stenciled on the dark blue college T-shirts all of them were wearing like uniforms.

Jeremiah and Phil made eye contact and he nodded.

He wondered if these kids knew what he had done in the park. Of course they did, the whole town knew, and as he gazed at them he could see it in their eyes. They were looking at him differently. He had been the executioner. He was no longer the history professor who, though a former military man, was seen as having a soft heart.

“They look good,” was all he could say as he turned to face Washington, who saluted him. John returned the salute and headed into Gaither Hall.

“Rather paramilitary, isn’t it?” Makala asked, returning to his side.

John did not reply.

He walked into the building and for a moment wasn’t sure what to actually expect. Of course the corridors were darkened, the air heavy and humid. Fortunately, the building was old, having been designed long before central AC, so at least there was some circulation. The door to the admissions office and registrar were closed, but he could hear a piano in the chapel. He motioned for Makala to follow and he opened the door.

The chapel had been built in the 1930s, just as the chestnut blight had ripped through the Carolina mountains, so the trees had been harvested off and now were the beams, paneling, and ceiling, a beautiful warm, dark golden wood. Austere to a certain degree, for this was, after all, a Presbyterian school, but still a wonderful chapel in John’s eyes.

Up on the stage several kids were standing around the piano, Jessie, one of the music majors, just fooling around a bit.

A student whose name John did remember, Laura, said something, Jessie played a few chords, and she began to sing. Instantly John felt his throat tighten. Laura had sung this song in the spring musical review, and though it was from a play that he thought was way too sentimental, The Fantasticks, the song was haunting and, to him, such a metaphor for all that was happening.

He felt Makala’s hand slip into his and they were silent. He could feel a shudder run through Makala; she was crying. Laura’s voice echoed:

John could hear Parker shouting orders outside, the students now going through the manual of arms. It was almost to much for him to bear. It wasn’t supposed to happen here, but it had happened here.

Laura finished the second stanza and drifted into the third:

“I can’t bear this,” Makala whispered.

They slipped out of the chapel, Laura, the others, not even knowing he had been there.

Makala leaned against him for a moment, sobbing, and his arms were around her and then she stepped back, breaking away from his embrace, looking up at him. Sorry.

“No, it was rather nice actually,” he said.

The song finished in the chapel and he started out of the building, then noticed that the door to President Hunt’s office was ajar. He tapped on it and walked in. The administrative assistant, Kim McMurty, was not behind her desk. That was a disappointment. She always reminded him a bit of the actress Nicole Kidman, perhaps better looking actually, and he had to admit he was smitten with Kim in a friendly sort of way, friendly, of course, because her husband, the director of computer services, was a darn good friend… and besides, Mary was still a haunting presence. What had just happened with Makala? He wasn’t sure how to react to her now.

“President Hunt?”

“In here.”

John walked into the back office and was startled.

Hunt seemed to have aged a dozen years in as many days, eyes sunken, hair disheveled, and then John wondered how he looked as well, still wobbly, unshaved, filthy, exhausted.

“John, you look like hell.”

“Well, sir, if you don’t mind me saying so, you look like hell, too.”

Dan pointed to a chair and John sat down. He had always liked this office. John looked back and saw Makala out in Kim’s office. Makala nodded and left, motioning that she’d wait outside.

The first time he had come to this office to be interviewed for the job that Bob Scales had engineered for him, what caught his eye was three paintings on the far wall. The first was what was to be expected of a president of a Christ-centered college, a nicely framed section from Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel, the hand of God reaching out to touch Adam.

The other two, though. The second was sort of a transition between religion and the military, a painting of Washington, kneeling in the snow at Valley Forge, praying. The third was Howard Pyle’s The Nation Makers, a stunning portrait of a line of Revolutionary War infantry going into battle, men tattered but defiant, the American flag little more than a rag but going forward relentlessly to what could only be ultimate victory.

The paintings were still there, as always, but as John turned to look back out the window at the students drilling, Pyle’s work took on new meaning.

Dan was silent and then, to John’s surprise, reached into the bottom drawer of his desk and pulled out a bottle of scotch and a couple of coffee cups.

“If the board of trustees ever knew about this, they’d hang me,” Dan said, and John wondered it he was being serious or just joking. It was, after all, a dry campus.

John took the offered cup and waited for Dan to pour an ounce. He held it up.

“For the Republic, may God preserve her,” Dan said. The two drained the cups down in a single gulp, Dan exhaling noisily as he put his down.

“What’s up, John?” Dan asked.

“Well, sir, I guess you knew I was out of the loop for a week or so.”

“You had us scared there, John. At chapel every day for the last week Reverend Abel and the kids offered prayers for you.”

“Well, it most certainly worked,” John said, looking down at his hand. “What about classes. Are they still meeting?”

Dan shook his head.

“Remember, most of our faculty live miles from here; no, classes are canceled.”

“But you still hold daily chapel.”

“Now more than ever,” Dan said quietly.

That was reassuring, darn reassuring, a link to the past somehow. And yes, as well, in any time of crisis churches would fill up again. The Sunday after 9/11 John remembered the small chapel he and Mary used to go to over in Swannanoa was packed to overflowing.

“I felt I should check in, see what was happening on campus. After all, this place is my job.” He hesitated. “No, actually my life in so many ways. I was wondering if there was anything I should be doing here now.”