The Grotto. It’s been there since 1896, 146 years ago, flickering fingers of fire beckoning to a nearby ancient sycamore that has its own stories to tell. A glade of serenity whose tranquility not even repeated acts of arson and destruction can unsettle. It’s obvious that the charred granite, gate railing, and rocks have not been cleaned in some time. Nor has the statue of Our Lady, wellspring of consolation and grantor of gifts.
The two relics brought long ago from Lourdes, France—and cemented in stone—are no longer visible. A metal horseshoe barrier has been erected to prevent visitors from getting too close. It matters not, since now there are only two candles, both electric, unreachable beyond the gates. Their yellow glow is barely perceptible in the November dusk. A plaque from the class of 1955 has been rendered unreadable by a chisel, it would appear. (Prologue, Nov. 3, 2042)
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I tried to be a walk-on at ND, but came to my senses quickly. I was a flea in a nest of killer bees. Now, some 12 years later, I’d paid off my loans and I was a proud member of ND’s first graduating class of the new century. Along the way, I’d lost my father to cancer, and my mother to an enterprising, but boring VP at Naptown’s Eli Lilly headquarters.
I’d also lost whatever respect I might once have had for Mubaraq El Baba, the narcissistic “Progressive” dictator in the White House who’d suddenly intruded into our lives, divided friends and families, and publicly derided America before its enemies. His National Civilian Security Force (NCSF), made up of mostly high school dropouts and former welfare recipients, had bullied our country into a federal police state. Piece by piece, this Messiah-turned-Pariah had dismantled the foundations of America, and ravaged the Treasury and the souls of its citizens. Sam Adams and George Washington would have wept with anger. And retaliated.
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Said AP: “Who, What to Challenge the Irish?” The “ND Nation” Blog was having a cow: “Stonehill Skyhawks: Stand by to Get Your Wings Clipped!” E-mail cartoons already blossomed, one showing a leprechaun blasting a bird of dubious parentage from the sky with a double-barreled shotgun. Meanwhile, NCAA’s site questioned, “Is This Legal?” I just shook my head. They don’t know? They approved it!
Shelby came over and put her head down next to mine . “You do the whipping up,” she stage-whispered to me from under her cascading peek-a-boo hairstyle. “Concoct it. I’m not much at cooking.”
Accidentally on purpose, we brushed elbows at precisely the same time. A magic moment. I felt warm all over. I do love this job. I’d do it for nothing. I felt like singing.
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“Who is this, Allen? And what’s he doing with that recorder?” the Reverend Pankey fired at me when we entered his spacious office Monday afternoon.
“This is Paul Doucette. He’s acting as my lawyer. Pankey.”
“It’s Father Pankey to you. And Doucette is no lawyer. He’s one of our well-known drop-outs.”
“Yes, and it’s Mister Allen to you.”
Father Pankey’s face turned the color of ashes. No doubt he hadn’t encountered such disrespect in all of his fifty-seven years.
A tall, thin woman with a pinched mouth, towering teeth and a horsy countenance stood and extended a hand to Paul and me. “I’m Louise Van der Horst. I’m chairperson of the university relations and PR committee. Thank you for coming, Mr. Allen and Mr. Doucette.”
She pointed to a rotund, unsmiling man sitting next to her. He did not rise. “And this is Mr. Trevor Boatwright, recently of Yale University and an accomplished scholar. Mr. Boatwright now chairs our committee on social values and responsibilities. We three are Fellows of the university, as you no doubt are aware.”
He grunted and I just nodded.
“Now we don’t want you gentlemen to feel intimidated this afternoon,” she continued, “and we hope we can maintain a proper decorum in our conversation. We seem to have gotten off to a poor start there.”