union building and, by the gentle light of the tall outdoor lamps, took a walk around the hub of the college.
It had changed. New, square, soulless buildings heaved their bulks above the crenelated , Victorian towers of the earliest structures, whose gingerbread delicacy cowered before the weighty presence of the newcomers. But the grove was still intact, several acres of oak trees intersected by cement paths that led from one building to another. He walked through it, passing several groups of students joking, laughing, or discussing issues with the earnestness of youth.
Coming out from the cover of trees, Woody walked past the library, whose windows were brilliant with light, past the dark bricks of the administration building, and onto a bank that overlooked the tri-dorms, three women's dormitories that had been new when Woody started college. Tracy had lived in Harre Hall, the one on the left.
Woody walked down a stairway toward the dorms, turned left, and went down the street to where the original ROTC building had stood. He hadn't been there for over twenty years, and, after the explosion, he had taken roundabout routes to avoid walking past it. But it was time now, he thought. Twenty-four years ago. A long time.
And time had changed it. There was a new building there now. The Richard K. Eberly Criminology Center , Woody read above the main doors. He wondered if Richard K. Eberly , whoever he was, could have solved the mystery of the ROTC building's bombing any faster than the FBI did. It had taken them two weeks to sort through the rubble, to find the pieces of the detonator, the remnants of the clock, the body parts . . .
He pressed his eyes closed against the thought.
"Tracy," he whispered, and felt the wind take the word, blow it away, sweep him up as well, carry him back, remembering.
~*~
"Oh, that is fucking stupid , man."
Tracy and Frank and Keith and Woody on a Tuesday night, sitting in the living room. Tracy has come over to study, and they have for a while, sitting on opposite ends of the couch, books and spiral notebooks balanced precariously on the arms, until Keith and Frank's argument spills out of the dining room.
"It isn't stupid," Keith says, punctuating the words with a jab of his cigarette. "They won't get the hell off campus when we ask , so we've got to push them off."
"Look, you can't justify violence," Frank says, calmly and reasonably, and Woody can see he's trying to calm Keith.
"Yes you can. Violence is acceptable when it brings attention to just grievances, and if this isn't just, I don't know what is."
Tracy nods her head. "Yeah, ROTC isn't an academic course, and the instructors don't have any academic credentials, so there's no reason it should be on campus."
"Let alone compulsory," Woody adds. "I mean, did you guys learn anything when we had to take it?"
"I learned how to clean an M-1," Frank says bitterly.
"I didn't," Keith says, smiling. "I paid a guy a buck to clean mine each week." His face gets serious. "It's worthless, man. I say take it down."
Frank hisses in contempt. "Sure. You and what army?”
“Doesn't take an army. Just somebody with some balls.”
“And some dynamite," Woody says with a smile, thinking it all a word game. "Where you gonna get that? Riley downstairs carry some old Nazi explosives?"
"I know some people, man. At Pitt. Weathermen."
"And suppose somebody gets killed?" Frank asks.
Keith shrugs. "Then somebody gets killed. The end justifies the means."
"Somebody innocent?" Frank presses. "Like a mother wheeling a little kid past the building when it goes up?"
"It's unfortunate," Keith says with a wolfish smile. "But if it happens, it happens."
And Woody shivers, thinking of that night several weeks ago when Keith came back late, his clothes dirty, a dark stain on the sleeve of his jacket. While he washed it in the sink, he told Woody he was in a fight with some frat rats. But the next day, when Woody dumped the trash, he found a pair of
It had changed. New, square, soulless buildings heaved their bulks above the crenelated , Victorian towers of the earliest structures, whose gingerbread delicacy cowered before the weighty presence of the newcomers. But the grove was still intact, several acres of oak trees intersected by cement paths that led from one building to another. He walked through it, passing several groups of students joking, laughing, or discussing issues with the earnestness of youth.
Coming out from the cover of trees, Woody walked past the library, whose windows were brilliant with light, past the dark bricks of the administration building, and onto a bank that overlooked the tri-dorms, three women's dormitories that had been new when Woody started college. Tracy had lived in Harre Hall, the one on the left.
Woody walked down a stairway toward the dorms, turned left, and went down the street to where the original ROTC building had stood. He hadn't been there for over twenty years, and, after the explosion, he had taken roundabout routes to avoid walking past it. But it was time now, he thought. Twenty-four years ago. A long time.
And time had changed it. There was a new building there now. The Richard K. Eberly Criminology Center , Woody read above the main doors. He wondered if Richard K. Eberly , whoever he was, could have solved the mystery of the ROTC building's bombing any faster than the FBI did. It had taken them two weeks to sort through the rubble, to find the pieces of the detonator, the remnants of the clock, the body parts . . .
He pressed his eyes closed against the thought.
"Tracy," he whispered, and felt the wind take the word, blow it away, sweep him up as well, carry him back, remembering.
~*~
"Oh, that is fucking stupid , man."
Tracy and Frank and Keith and Woody on a Tuesday night, sitting in the living room. Tracy has come over to study, and they have for a while, sitting on opposite ends of the couch, books and spiral notebooks balanced precariously on the arms, until Keith and Frank's argument spills out of the dining room.
"It isn't stupid," Keith says, punctuating the words with a jab of his cigarette. "They won't get the hell off campus when we ask , so we've got to push them off."
"Look, you can't justify violence," Frank says, calmly and reasonably, and Woody can see he's trying to calm Keith.
"Yes you can. Violence is acceptable when it brings attention to just grievances, and if this isn't just, I don't know what is."
Tracy nods her head. "Yeah, ROTC isn't an academic course, and the instructors don't have any academic credentials, so there's no reason it should be on campus."
"Let alone compulsory," Woody adds. "I mean, did you guys learn anything when we had to take it?"
"I learned how to clean an M-1," Frank says bitterly.
"I didn't," Keith says, smiling. "I paid a guy a buck to clean mine each week." His face gets serious. "It's worthless, man. I say take it down."
Frank hisses in contempt. "Sure. You and what army?”
“Doesn't take an army. Just somebody with some balls.”
“And some dynamite," Woody says with a smile, thinking it all a word game. "Where you gonna get that? Riley downstairs carry some old Nazi explosives?"
"I know some people, man. At Pitt. Weathermen."
"And suppose somebody gets killed?" Frank asks.
Keith shrugs. "Then somebody gets killed. The end justifies the means."
"Somebody innocent?" Frank presses. "Like a mother wheeling a little kid past the building when it goes up?"
"It's unfortunate," Keith says with a wolfish smile. "But if it happens, it happens."
And Woody shivers, thinking of that night several weeks ago when Keith came back late, his clothes dirty, a dark stain on the sleeve of his jacket. While he washed it in the sink, he told Woody he was in a fight with some frat rats. But the next day, when Woody dumped the trash, he found a pair of
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