Saturday morning came awfully early after the party Friday evening. Bryce forced himself out of bed, and eventually to the gym on campus, along with Curtis and Roland. They had partied the night before as well, and so were sympathetic. The workouts were a little less intensive, and the time in the sauna somewhat longer, than usual.
But when he got back to the apartment in the Caldwell House, Bryce was faced with another obligation. Because of some screw-up, probably connected to fall break, the party had taken place on an evening before a scheduled SAT clean-up along the stretch of highway leading to the airport. Bob Balducci had appealed most movingly for a good turnout on Saturday morning, but that was wishful thinking. In October it was already dark at seven when they had started in August, but Bob asked for brothers to be at the Sigma Alpha Tau house by 8:30. When Bryce and Damon showed up, only a few minutes late, they were among the minority of brothers who were there. Satisfyingly, the pledges were there, although they did not look any more alert than Bryce himself. He and Roland had commiserated over this at the gym. But those who were available took off, and put in several hours cleaning up other people’s messes along the highway. It was not far from noon when they arrived back at the fraternity house. This responsible minority were definitely not feeling very fraternal toward those who had slept in.
As Bryce plopped into a chair like a balloon with the air escaping, another brother proclaimed, “Hey, have you guys seen this morning’s Herald? We got some good publicity.”
The Clifton newspaper, officially called The Herald’s Voice but known to everyone simply as The Herald, was a morning paper, coming out each day with news and features in time for most subscribers to read it over their breakfasts. Neither Bryce nor Damon had felt any urge to subscribe, but a copy was delivered to the fraternity house each day.
“No. What’s there?” Damon responded.
“Big story about the dust-up on the quad on Wednesday,” the guy answered, “and not from an angle the University Public Relations people are going to want to send out to the alumni.”
“That’ll be Annette’s piece,” Bryce said to Damon.
“Looks like the paper here is going to be in use for a while. How about we go over to the Union and get our own copy?” Damon suggested.
So, moaning at having to move, the two made their way to the Albert Benjamin Chandler University Center, known to generations of students as the Union, where news racks displayed papers from a variety of cities, including the local Herald. Purchasing a copy, the two settled at a table and spread it out so they could both read Annette’s article, which was prominently displayed on the front page of the “Home” or second section.
She did a bang-up job. Any reservations Bryce might have had when he first spoke with Annette quickly dissipated. She took the rough draft he saw the day before and polished it, re-arranging some sections, and improving the language in others. She also included the late breaking news about the Faculty Senate objecting to the actions of the Administration, and labeling the disciplinary actions taken on Wednesday as “discriminatory.” Annette had a last minute interview with Prof. John Harris, the biology teacher the guys had last year, who was the current President of the Faculty Senate, so she did not have to mention Bryce or ask about his sources. She also quoted Dr. Harris as saying the Administration seemed to be “foot-dragging” as far as the investigation into the attack on Peter Boyington is concerned.
Buoyed by this support, Bryce and Damon walked over to Dinklemore Hall, where there were supposed to be four students from the LGBT Club carrying placards from 8:00 a.m., when administrative offices opened, to 5:00 p.m., when they closed. Instead, they found over a dozen students with some kind of sign or symbol critical of the Administration. Felicity Gaines saw them, and came over to speak.
“This is wonderful!” she exuded. “Look! Just as we decided, there are four LGBT members here with placards. All these others are supporters, some from campus clubs, others just on their own. Okay, so it’s Saturday, and the offices are closed. We’re still making a statement about fair play.”
“Can I quote you on that?”
Bryce turned to see Annette Rimbault with a big grin on her face.
“Hey, great story, Annette,” Bryce congratulated her.
“Oh, are you the author of the article in the paper?” Felicity asked.
“She sure is. Felicity, this is Annette Rimbault, reporter extra ordinaire. You might have been too distracted to remember, but she did interview you on Thursday. And Annette, you are in the exalted presence of Felicity Gaines, President of the Lesbian, Gay, Bi-Sexual, and Transgendered Club of the University of Clifton,” Bryce made the introductions.
“Of course. And I really would like to quote you. I’m writing a follow up piece for tomorrow’s edition.” She chuckled. “I have several anonymous sources, so it will be a real shocker if I can have someone I can actually quote.”
“Sure. Just make sure you get my name spelled right. I want my allotted fifteen minutes of fame,” Felicity said. “But why so many anonymous sources?”
“Well, I have a student worker in the VPSA’s office who told me about a meeting of the President’s cabinet where they talked about what to do about you guys and your placards. You’re being labeled picketers, did you know? Then I have another student who works in the Business Office, who got me some data on recent contributions to the University Development Fund from members of the Campbell, Lomax, and Cuttlesworth families. He also told me the Development Fund is always used for this kind of thing, as the Administration can spend it more or less any way they want. Then, I have another student worker in the Campus Security office, who got me a copy of a memo directly from the President’s office, telling the officers they were to talk to no one about the incidents on Wednesday, or about anyone connected with what they are calling the ‘loyal students’ who beat the shit out of the demonstrators. Well, the memo did not use the phrase ‘beat the shit’ but it was the same thing. If I used those students’ names, they could lose their jobs on campus,” Annette explained.
“I didn’t know there were any student workers in Campus Security,” Damon said.
“Not among the officers, but for things like office work, dispatch, things like that,” Annette filled him in. “It’s because of the campus cut-backs, which led to cuts in the Campus Security budget for this year.”
“Well, you can definitely identify me,” Felicity asserted.
“Good. But can I get a more in-depth story from you? I’d like some background on how these demonstrations began,” Annette asked. “And then I’d like a couple of pictures.”
“Sounds good. How about moving aside, where’s there’s less noise,” Felicity agreed, “and where my striking profile can be more readily appreciated.”
“While you’re doing that, we’re going over to visit Peter in the hospital,” Bryce informed the ladies.
He and Damon walked over to University Hospital. As they did, Damon remarked, “Peter’s father was supposed to arrive last night. I wonder how that went.”
“I guess we’ll find out,” Bryce replied.
As they approached Peter’s room on the fourth floor, they noticed a middle aged man pacing up and down the corridor. Passing him, they went into Peter’s room. There, they encountered Peter and his mother.
“How’s it going?” Bryce enquired.
“I’m okay,” Peter answered. “But if you’re asking about how my dad took my coming out, the answer is still out on that. He got here last night, actually. But there were visitors and the like, so I was not able to tell him about me being gay until this morning. It was a tense situation. He’s definitely not happy. But after a little yelling and a lot of talk, he took off. I’m left hanging at this point.”
“Keep an optimistic outlook,” Bryce urged. “Have you seen the local newspaper?”
“No. Should I?” Peter replied.
“Well, then, here’s something to raise your spirits. This is this morning’s edition of the Herald, the Clifton daily rag.” Bryce handed Peter the paper, folded so Annette’s story was uppermost.
“Oh, wow!” Peter breathed. “I’m named in the first paragraph.”
“Let me see, too,” Mrs. Boyington demanded, scooting in next to her son so she could read along with him.
For several minutes the only noise was the ticking and pinging of the machines to which Peter was hooked.
Peter completed his reading, and turned the paper over to his mother, who was not as far along. “There’s a lot in there that I didn’t know about. What’s this about money donated to the school by the parents of the suspects?”
“There’ll be more on that tomorrow,” Bryce informed him. “We were talking to Annette before coming over here. She got some information ... some hard figures ... from a source in the Business Office. And there will definitely be a follow up article in tomorrow’s paper.”
“I’ll make sure I get a copy,” Mrs. Boyington said. “I’ve noticed the paper racks in the cafeteria, but I had no reason to read the local paper before this. But for anything after that, we’ll have to rely on the nurses, I guess.”
“Why is that, Mrs. Boyington?” Damon asked.
“Well, along with all the other excitement, we have talked with Peter’s doctors. Dr. Gianelli says he is doing so well, he can leave the hospital next Saturday, although there will be a need for check-ups and rehabilitation with our doctors at home. But, to more directly answer your question, my husband and I have agree that Peter is safe here in the hospital, and is receiving excellent care. So, I will be leaving with my husband tomorrow. It’s terribly expensive for me to stay here, even with the discounts at the Clifton Inn. I hope this does not mean you boys will not be coming by to visit Peter, though.”
“No way!” Damon exclaimed. “I only spent a couple of days in the hospital, but I know how boring it can get. Being condemned to watch day-time television is a lot like the classic Chinese water torture. Drip, drip, drip, until you’re driven totally bonkers.”
“You got that right,” Peter agreed. “And there are only a few books available. I had my class readings brought to me. But that takes up only a small part of the day.”
“Hey, we could bring you something to read,” Damon offered. “What kinds of things do you like?”
“I’ve come to like detective stories,” Peter replied. “Not the blood and guts type, but the ones that involve solving a problem. You know, figuring out what’s going on, and outsmarting the bad guys.”
‘I think we can lay our hands on something like that,” Bryce said. “My mom is an avid mystery reader, and our friend David Simpson is, too. We can get suggestions from there.”
“Not science fiction?” Damon asked. “A lot of guys seem to go for that kind of story.”
“I read a lot of science fiction in high school, but I grew out of it. I decided it was just fairy tales for the technically oriented. There’s almost no connection between the world I read about and the world I live in,” Peter replied.
Bryce chuckled. “A lot of guys at the fraternity house are going to be upset if this gets out.”
“Well,” Peter smiled, “I haven’t been asked about that, either by the police or by that reporter, so it won’t be broadcast. What’s her name?”
“Annette Rimbault,” Bryce replied, “and you’d better remember it, as it looks like you’re going to owe her big time if these articles in the paper goose the Administration into actually doing something about the attacks on you.”
“Okay. Annette Rimbault. I’ll remember,” Peter promised.
At that point, the man they had seen pacing in the corridor entered the room.
“Oh, Dad. These are friends of mine who have been in to visit just about every day,” Peter said. “This is Bryce Winslow, and this is Damon Watson,” indicating the appropriate person. “Guys, this is my father, Donald Boyington.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Bryce said, extending his hand.
“Likewise,” Mr. Boyington replied, shaking hands with both Bryce and Damon. “I appreciate you visiting my son. I’ve been stranded in a hospital bed, so I know how dull that can be.”
“They promised to bring me some books. Not class books, but detective stories,” Peter told his father.
“Good. That should help.” Mr Boyington paused, then took a breath. “Look, I don’t mean to be rude or anything, but there are some things I need to talk about with only my son and my wife present.”
“No problem, Mr. Boyington. We’ll come back later this evening,” Damon said, as he and Bryce took their leave.
By this time, it was mid-afternoon. After staying up late with the party the night before, then getting up early for the highway clean-up (as well as Bryce’s usual workout), and with all the excitement of Annette’s article and visiting with Peter, they quickly reached agreement on what to do next. It was back to Caldwell House, and a mid-afternoon nap.
As it turned out, napping was not the only thing accomplished in the bedroom on that Saturday afternoon.
When they returned to the land of the living, both Bryce and Damon decided to check their e-mail. A lot of what appeared was pretty predictable and not very interesting, but Bryce received a most unexpected message from his father. Sterling Winslow informed his son that he had been following events at Clifton ever since Wednesday, when Bryce e-mailed news of the clash on campus to his mother. He was acquainted with Mark Castleman, who was uncle to Roland Lyle, and who was a respected member of the bar. They have exchanged information about their sons. “I just throw this in so you know you can’t get away with anything,” Sterling wrote. He added that on Friday, he had been contacted by J. Prentice Young, a distinguished member of the Ohio bar, and father of the injured student, Josh Young. The three of them were coordinating their efforts, and have offered their services pro bono to The Herald’s Voice should the University be so short-sighted as to sue over today’s story. They have also contacted the Governor’s office to that effect, and to demand a review of the fiscal practices of the University Development Fund.
When he read this, Bryce gave a great whoop, sounding like a Cheyenne war cry. He had studied the Cheyenne while in high school, and had a friend who was a member of that nation, so he got it right. Damon was at a near-by desk checking his own messages.
“What’s that all about?” he enquired.
“My old man is pretty stodgy at times, but he comes through when it counts,” Bryce declared. “Read this.” He moved aside so Damon could more easily read his screen.
Damon read. Three times before he completed the message, he simply breathed, “Wow.” When he was finished, he said, “Now that’s the kind of lawyer I want to be.”
The two joined to send a message to Sterling, thanking him for the support, referring him to the article in the Herald which would appear tomorrow, with additional information about finances, and with Bryce adding as a postscript Damon’s reaction to reading the message.
Damon reported that he was replying to another message from the Ngolo family of Mali. This was the family they had met at Lourdes last summer. More specifically, there was a teenaged son of the family, who was much more comfortable with computers than his elders, and who did most of the e-mailing. He had just e-mailed Damon some information, including pictures, about some local customs among the pre-Islamic peoples of the area. He and his family were Catholic, but they had connections among the animist population. Most of the successes of the French missionaries during the late 19th and early 20th century in Mali had been among the practitioners of the traditional religions, with very few coming from the Moslem population. Mali was legally a secular country, but the majority of the population was Moslem. Thus far, things were fairly safe for both the Christian and the animist minorities, but there were ominous indications, especially in the northern provinces stretching into the Sahara, among the Taureg people. If they ever gain control, good-bye to toleration and getting along with others.
“I really appreciate the Ngolos taking me in as a kind of cousin, and I’m learning lots from these contacts,” Damon said. “But I’m glad I live in the good ole U S of A.”
“A few centuries do make a difference,” Bryce agreed. “I doubt that I could live very comfortably anywhere else, either.”
As the guys started to leave for their evening meal, Bryce’s phone rang. It was Jason Todd, asking about having dinner together. “Only on one condition,” Bryce told him. “No really serious talk. It upsets Damon too much.” Damon punched him, but they agreed on a purely social gathering at a local steak house.
The four students met and got seated. After they had ordered, Jason said, “Does this mean no more chapters in the philosophy of Bryce Winslow?”
“Not necessarily,” Bryce replied. “I know, with the attack on Peter and the events on campus, we haven’t had an opportunity to continue those talks. But my partner has been inserting not-too-subtle comments all along the way, not even respecting out personal times in bed, so I have come to the realization that I may have over-stated or poorly stated my case.” At this Damon blushed most becomingly, but looked very satisfied with this admission. “In any case,” Bryce pushed on, “if we do continue our philosophical discussions, I insist that the next session be devoted to you telling us in more detail just how this enlightened and tolerant society you envision is to be achieved.”
“Oh, throwing the onus on me, are you?” Jason replied.
“Only to save my partner more anguish, as he gets so concerned about my emotional state,” Bryce kidded. “But this evening we can talk about other things, like cabbages and kings.”
No one chose to pick up on the reference to Lewis Carroll.
They did discourse of many things, but one of the major topics was Peter Boyington, both his physical condition, and his relations with his parents. As a related topic, they discussed the probability that Peter’s attackers were the same as those who attacked Damon last year, and also Bryce’s theory that Peter was not the intended object of that attack. After dinner, all four went back to the area where Peter had been attacked, and visited the darkened stretch just before arriving on campus, where overhanging trees obscured even the street lights. If the attackers were following the guy Peter saw ahead of him, they could easily get confused in the shadows, and pick up Peter instead. It was worth considering.
Leaving Jason and Nate, Bryce and Damon returned to the hospital. Josh had checked out, so they would have to contact him elsewhere, but they were primarily concerned at this point to find out how things were between Peter and his father. When they arrived, they found Donald Boyington in the room with his son.
“Come in,” Mr. Boyington invited. “We’re no longer engaged in private family discussions.”
“I should hope not,” Peter commented. “That began when Bryce and Damon left, and that was about 2:30, nearly seven hours ago.”
“Thank you,” Bryce said, in response to the invitation to enter. “How are you, Peter?”
“Dr. Gianelli was in earlier. He and Mom have sort of reached a compromise. This coming week, I will be doing a lot of rehabilitation exercises, so I can get around with a walker or crutch. My leg is the touchy issue, because it was shattered in several places. I may end up with a permanent limp. But Dr. Gianelli has been in touch with people in my home town, and I think they’ve worked out exactly how they’re going to torture me. In any case, I leave a week from today. I’ve dropped out of the University, but I’ll be back as soon as I’m able. I’m hoping for spring semester. Everything else is coming along fine.”
“That sound very promising, Peter,” Bryce commented. “I hope you’ll keep in touch and let us know when you’re ready to come back.”
“Definitely. You guys have been a real support when I needed it. I won’t forget you. And, by the way, your fraternity president, Curtis, came to see me. He shared the resolution you guys passed calling for a more active investigation into the attack on me, and some of the comments at that meeting of yours. And so did Dr. Harris, from the Faculty Senate. I have his class in biology. That was a real upper,” Peter reported, almost with tears.
“There are real scumbags, like the guys who attacked you, and real good guys, like Curtis and Dr. Harris,” Damon said.
“What I like to think is that Curtis represented not just himself but a whole fraternity, and Dr. Harris represented not just himself, but the Faculty Senate. I’d like to think there are more good guys than scumbags,” Peter declared.
“There’s something else,” Mr. Boyington said, making his first contribution since his invitation to enter. “Earlier this evening, Mr. Mark Castleman came to visit. He told us about a group of three lawyers, including himself, but also Mr. Prentice Young and Mr. Sterling Winslow, who promised all they could do to support us and find those responsible for the attack on Peter. I understand you are connected to these gentlemen.”
“Only to one of them,” Bryce replied. “Sterling Winslow is my father.”
“But there was something else. Mr. Castleman said they all had sons who were homosexual, and this was a consideration in their offer of support,” Mr. Boyington continued.
“I know that Mr. Young is the father of Josh Young, who is the student hurt worst in the demonstrations on Wednesday. I don’t know Mr. Castleman or his immediate family. He’s local. But I do know his nephew, Roland Lyle, who is my pledge at Sigma Alpha Tau fraternity, and, yes, Roland is gay,” Bryce stated.
“Perhaps I misunderstood the relationship,” Mr. Boyington said, “but this has influenced my thinking. I cannot deny that I’m disappointed to find that Peter is ... gay.” Peter grinned at that. Evidently, it had been a matter of discussion between father and son. Don Boyington continued. “Peter and I have reached a kind of truce. Not a final peace settlement, but a cessation of hostilities, so such a final settlement can be achieved. I accept that he is gay, and that this is not a choice, but a matter of biological fact. In return, he agrees to observe certain social amenities ....”
“Which I would most likely observe anyway,” Peter inserted.
“... and we will continue to discuss this matter calmly while he recuperates during the next few months,” Mr. Boyington continued. “We also agreed that, if his doctors agree, he will return to Clifton in the spring semester, and he will join that fraternity of yours.”
Bryce replied, “That all sounds positive. I should caution you, however, about the fraternity. First of all, Sigma Alpha Tau only accepts new members once a year, in the fall. It’s not like a club where you can sign up at any time. Second, not everyone who wants is accepted. There is an initial screening process, then a semester long pledging process before anyone is admitted to membership. That’s the status of Roland Lyle at present. But Damon and I are members, and I think Peter can count on support from others as well.”
“That’s more complicated than I expected, but we were impressed with the resolution of support your president delivered,” Mr. Boyington said.
“I’ll give it a try next fall. By then, there’s no doubt I’ll be back on campus,” Peter declared.
“Please thank your father for his offer of support. That is definitely more than I ever expected,” Mr. Boyington said. “We ... my wife and I ... have had no previous contacts with lawyers, but we understand that can get very expensive, and, frankly, we can’t afford much more, what with the costs associated with the hospital here and all.”
“If we can prove who attacked Peter, those persons can be made to pay,” Bryce noted. “And in any case, I will definitely pass on to my father your expressions of appreciation.”