“Does it have to be this Sunday?” Koesler asked.
“What’s the matter with this Sunday?” Mitchell countered.
“I don’t know. It’s so soon.”
“What do you mean ‘soon’? We’ve been talking about it for almost three weeks. This is the final Visiting Sunday of the year. The place will be lousy with guests. That’s what I’m counting on.”
“He’s right, Bob,” Groendal said. “There’s always plenty of confusion on Visiting Sunday. Parents, grandparents, sometimes brothers, sisters, cousins, friends . . . all ages. The perfect time to smuggle somebody in, particularly a girl. It’s just about the only time there are girls in the building.”
“But there aren’t any girls in St. Thomas Hall,” Koesler insisted.
“There aren’t
Mitchell sighed. “We’ve been over this before, Bob. The idea is to get her into the building without raising any suspicions. When we get to St. Thomas Hall, that’s where you guys come in.”
“I don’t know . . .”
“Bob,” Mitchell said, “if you want out, say so. Nobody’s making you do this. I just asked you because first, you can keep a secret. And second, I thought you’d be willing to help me.”
“I’m not begging off,” Koesler said. “It’s just that since I agreed to get involved, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. Too much, in fact. It’s getting in the way of just about everything—studies, exams. The more I think about it, the more I ask myself. Why? So, why?”
“I told you: I promised her.”
“But it’s so silly. You, maybe we, are toying with expulsion. And for what?”
“I promised. But, if you want out . . .”
“I can’t handle it alone,” Groendal protested.
“We can always get somebody else.” Even as he said it, Mitchell was not at all sure he could come up with a replacement for Koesler, particularly on such short notice.
“No, no; I’ll do it. You promised her. I promised you. I just think we should have been more prudent before any of us did all this promising.”
“Relax, will you. Both of you! Nothing’s going to go wrong. It’s all very simple. What is it? An afternoon. One afternoon out of your whole life?”
Neither Groendal nor Koesler cared to comment on that. For a few moments, they were silent as they broke off their circling pattern and headed for the building.
Perhaps, thought Koesler, Mitchell was right. It was just an afternoon. And Mitch had planned things carefully, as he always did. Nothing could go wrong. It was futile and foolish to worry.
As they entered the building and headed for their rooms in St. Thomas Hall, Mitch began to recapitulate. “Now, Beth will get here right at two o’clock, one hour after visiting time begins. There will be a big crowd here by then. It’s always that way. The main bunch gets here right off the bat. By two, more will be coming. But nobody will be leaving yet. Bob meets her at the front door. You got that, Bob?”
“Yeah, okay. But . . . what if she’s not the only one wearing a green dress?”
“You forget: She’s looking for you, too. How many girls in green dresses will be looking for you?”
“Okay.”
“All right,” Mitchell continued. “Then what?”
“Then I escort her down the first-floor corridor. We go all the way around the first floor and end up at St. Thomas Hall. Then I check things with Rid.”
“And what do you do, Rid?”
“I’ve already checked out the first floor and made sure there’s nobody around. When Bob gets there with Beth, I go through the Hall and make doubly sure there’s nobody around. Then I stay at the far end, while Bob lets her in the Hall.”
“And Bob?”
“I let her in the Hall. She already knows the number of your room. When she goes in, I stay at my end and make sure nobody enters until she gets to your room and goes in. And . . .. that’s pretty much it.”
“Right. Neither of you will be needed again until four, when she leaves. And the process will be just reversed, with the two of you at either end of the Hall making sure the coast is clear. Then she’ll come out and mingle with the crowd that’s leaving at the end of visiting hours. And that’s it.”
They arrived at Mitchell’s room. Neither Koesler nor Groendal made any move to enter. After all, it was against the rules for any student to be in any other student’s room.
Oddly, it did not seem strange to either of them that they were observing a rule that they would help smash to smithereens in just a few days.
“By the way,” Groendal said, “now that all the plans are made, what are you going to do in here for two whole hours on Sunday?”
Mitchell looked at Groendal in amazement. “You mean you actually don’t know?”
The superior tone did it. Groendal dissolved in embarrassment.
Mitchell looked knowingly at Koesler, who had a blank expression.
Mitchell shook his head. Neither of his confederates had any real idea why they were putting their careers at risk. If truth be known, even Mitchell had no practical knowledge of what might follow necking and petting. But he was more than willing to find out.
In any case, there was nothing more to say. All plans had been made and checked. Everything was prepared. Each was ready to go to his own room.
“By the way. Rid, how did your play go?”
The question took Groendal by surprise.
“My play? Oh, you mean for the arts contest. Okay, I guess.”
“I would have helped you with it,” Mitchell said, “but I was entered in the same contest. Somehow it just didn’t seem kosher.”
Groendal recoiled. “I don’t need any help from you or anybody.”
“Sorry.” Mitchell knew he was the better playwright. He also knew he had touched a nerve. “Anyway, it’s all over except for the judging. You make a copy of yours?”
“Sure.”
“So did I. Let’s trade off. We can read each other’s play.”
“Why?”
“No reason. I’d just like to read your work and I’d like you to read mine. I mean we both really like the stage. It’d be fun to read each other’s work. Unless a miracle happens, one of our plays is going to win. Then the school year’ll be over and we’ll never get to read each other’s stuff.”
“I don’t know . . .” Groendal seemed most reluctant.
“Hey, it’s okay, Rid. Just a thought. Forget it.”
Groendal’s expression changed. “Okay. It might be fun. I’ll go get it now and we’ll trade.”
In the ensuing couple of days, Mitchell found little time for anything other than cramming for final exams. He was able even to keep from thinking about “Cherchez la Femme.” On Saturday afternoon, he found a little spare time. He also found Groendal’s manuscript and decided, since the exchange had been his idea, he’d better read it.
Mitchell studied the title. “The Biggest Miracle.” He smiled. How like Rid to write a religious play. Appropriate too, since the judges would all be priests of the seminary faculty.
Mitchell began to read. As he turned the pages, a frown appeared. The more he read, the deeper the furrows. Several times he put the manuscript aside and sat lost in thought. When he finally finished reading, he went immediately to the library, where he spent nearly an hour in the reserve stacks until he found what he was seeking. He checked out a small black book. Then he went to the recreation rooms in the basement of St. Thomas Hall where, as he had expected, he found Ridley Groendal listening to classical records and smoking a cigarette. There was no one else in the room, so Mitchell took a chair next to Ridley.
Mitchell gazed intently but wordlessly at his classmate.
Groendal finally broke the ice. “Good play. I finished it last night. Sort of a downer, though . . . I didn’t think you tied up all the loose ends at the conclusion.”
