The Sirena Quest (22 page)

Chapter Forty-eight

Twenty-three miles southeast of Hawthorn Airport, the Barrett College sesquicentennial celebration is getting underway with all the pomp and circumstance befitting a distinguished New England college founded before the Civil War, ranked every year at or near the top of the
U.S. News and World Report
list of best liberal arts colleges, and whose alumni include one U.S. President, two Justices of the U.S. Supreme Court, and four Nobel Prize recipients.

It is a glorious day for a glorious birthday party. The sky is blue, the flowers are in bloom, and the birds are singing. The college band plays “Oh Gallant Barrett” at a stately pace as the Board of Trustees and honored guests walk in slow procession through the ornate cast-iron gates of Remington Field, down the cinder track alongside the football field, and onto the freshly mowed grass, where rows of chairs face the packed stands. Following the trustees and honored guests come the president and the deans and the members of the faculty, all clad in the special caps, tams, hoods, robes, and embellishments of their professional societies.

The murmuring in the stands rises as the crowd recognizes the men and women scheduled to receive honorary degrees today. There's John Updike over there—that gray-haired fellow readjusting his burgundy mortarboard as he takes his seat in the front row on the dais. And isn't that Henry Kissinger—the third one from the left? Who's the black woman he's talking to? My God, it's Toni Morrison. And that woman there, the one pausing to nod at the pack of photographers and cameramen—why, that's Justice Sandra Day O'Connor.

Proud sons of Barrett—and daughters, too—fill the stands. All ages, including many future sons and daughters of Barrett. Most are seated by class, and many of the classes hold up banners and signs. There's the Class of '64, looking prosperous, well-fed, and in their prime. And over there, the Class of '54—a gaggle of board directors and CEOs and senior partners of major law firms. And down near the front, squinting under their sun visors and leaning forward on their canes, are John Andrew Davis IV and Theodore Adams Worthington—the two surviving members of the Class of '16, both of whom had joined the American Expeditionary Force right after graduation and served together under General John Joseph Pershing. Each man wears on his lapel the medal of valor he received for his role in the Battle of Château-Thierry.

And then there are the members of the press. Lots and lots of members of the press. Far more and far more varied than one might ordinarily expect to attend the sesquicentennial of a fine old college, even with its lineup of distinguished honorees. There are plenty of other fine old academic institutions celebrating special anniversaries this June and conferring honorary degrees on notable jurists and artists and public servants. And while the presence of a Supreme Court justice and President Nixon's Secretary of State might be expected to lure the
New York Times
and the
Washington Post
up to New England on this sunny day, it is safe to assume that the film crews from
Entertainment Tonight
and several news networks and the journalists and photographers from
People
and
Vanity Fair
and
Newsweek
are not here today crowding onto the cinder track just to catch a glimpse of the author of
Rabbit, Run
.

The sesquicentennial speeches are a bracing mix of clichés. They allude to “bold plans of action” for the future and “blessed remembrances” of the past. Some of the speakers focus on the challenges facing Barrett College as it “stands on the threshold of a new millennium.” Others charm the crowd with anecdotes from the college's first century and a half. In due time, honorary degrees are awarded, and those honored accept their degrees to polite rounds of applause.

But through it all, through the speeches and the music and the good cheer, every pair of eyes in the stands—young and old alike—keeps straying from the speaker behind the podium to the fifty-yard marker on the far sideline. That's where the Shield armored truck is parked. Everyone knows why it is here, and everyone knows to the dollar what is waiting inside.

The truck had been parked in position when the early birds started filing into the stadium at 9:30 that morning. They had watched from the stands as one television crew after another set up in front of the Shield truck to tape a short stand-up. It makes a striking framing shot. Indeed, the live feed from the CNN film crew has the truck in the background with the dais in the foreground. And speaking of CNN, isn't that Wolf Blitzer—the guy with the white beard and microphone over on the sidelines?

As the speakers drone on, the armored truck bears silent witness to two other anniversaries on this date. One hundred years ago to the day, Sirena arrived at the college. Indeed, she had been presented to the college president as part of the school's fiftieth anniversary celebration in 1894. So, too, this is the thirty-fifth year—to the day—of her final departure. Even for those with no interest in numerology, the numbers—150, 50, and 35—align this morning in near occult formation.

For those in the stands who have followed the recent buildup, who have read the articles in
People
and
Newsweek
or watched the half-hour feature on CNN last night, there are two others present today even more distracting than the armored truck on the fifty-yard line. They are Silicon Valley billionaire Robert Godwin ('59), and Susanna Harkness, great-granddaughter of the sculptor Augustus Cromwell, whose most famous work disappeared thirty-five years ago. Godwin, through his foundation, and Harkness, through her family's trust, represent the twenty-five million-dollar pledge—twenty-three million dollars of endowment funds for the college, two million for her rescuers. More precisely, twenty-three million in
potential
endowment money. The pledge is payable only if Sirena returns before today's ceremonies end.

Beginning two days ago, as the alumni started arriving for the big weekend, the air began to fill with news and rumors of the various Sirena quests. There has been more than enough speculation to keep that gray-and-black Shield Security Systems truck in everyone's field of vision throughout the morning's ceremonies.

Which means that the crowd is fully primed when the show finally begins.

Right on schedule.

Henry Kissinger has just finished thanking the Board of Trustees for his honorary doctorate. As he heads back to his chair under the cover of polite applause, the biplane comes into view in the sky above the hills to the west.

What initially catches the crowd's attention is its altitude. It seems to be flying unusually low. But what really gets them buzzing is the flight path. Although the plane is still at least a mile away, it is starting to look like the damn thing is going to fly directly over Remington Field. Then it banks to the west (to your left if you are sitting in the stands).

“There's a banner!” someone shouts.

And sure enough, there is a banner. When the biplane first appeared on the horizon, flying head-on toward the stands, the banner was hidden from view. But now you can see its red letters on a gold background. Too far away to read, though, and getting farther by the second. A wave of disappointment passes through the crowd. Probably some car dealer hired it to fly an advertisement around western Massachusetts, like the one last Sunday:

MACKLIND FORD—BEST DEAL AROUND!

Just as the crowd starts to lose interest, just as several generations of sons and daughters of Barrett begin to shift their attention to the next speaker at the podium, the biplane veers sharply around.

Whoa!

It's now heading due south, directly toward the field. All eyes in the stands—and all cameras and videocams on the cinder track—lift toward the left to follow the plane.

The banner becomes legible.

“Oh my God!” someone shouts.

Others join in. And then everyone—in the stands, on the field, on the dais—is standing. Down on the cinder track, the cameras are clicking away and the videocam crews are tracking the plane's flight.

The plane comes in low, passing over the goalposts and down the middle of the football field in front of the stands, barely a hundred feet above the grass, its engine whining. The bold red words on the bright gold banner are visible to all:

WELCOME HOME, SIRENA!

Good Lord!

Holy shit!

People cheer and clap and stomp and whistle and shout as the biplane zooms past. It banks east as it passes over the goalposts and climbs into the sky in a wide arc, heading back north for another flyby.

“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!” a voice booms over the loudspeakers—a new voice. “LOYAL SONS AND DAUGHTERS OF BARRETT!”

All eyes shift from the biplane to the dais.

The speaker stands at the podium. He is a tall man with brown hair. Next to him is a shorter, stockier fellow. Both are wearing bright-colored sports jackets—the speaker's is kelly green, his sidekick's a canary yellow.

The speaker removes the microphone from its holder and walks toward the front of the dais.

“My name is Frank Burke,” he says. “This is Reggie Pelham. We are loyal members of the Class of Seventy-four.”

A proud roar goes up from a section of the crowd behind the Class of '74 banner.

“Reggie!” someone shouts.

“Yo, Frank!”

On the cinder track in front of the dais, the photographers snap away and the videocam operators jostle for position.

Frank gestures toward the approaching biplane.

“On behalf of the distinguished members of the great Class of Nineteen Seventy-four, please join us in a special salute to…THE LONG LOST GODDESS OF BARRETT!”

The crowd shouts and cheers as the plane does another flyby, this time just fifty feet above the football field, its engine roaring.

Microphone in hand, Frank strolls across the dais, the cameras and videocams tracking his movements.

“Thirty-five years ago she vanished,” he says, clearly relishing this moment in the spotlight. “For thirty-five years we've wondered if she'd left us for good. For thirty-five years we've wondered if we'd ever see her again. But during all those lonely years, during those decades of separation, we knew in our hearts that she was still our goddess. Ours and no one else's. Well, my friends”—he pauses with a big grin, allowing the shouts and whistles and cheers to build again—“Reggie and I are pleased to announce that thirty-five years of separation IS ABOUT TO COME TO AN END!”

The crowd roars.

“Yes, ladies and gentlemen, loyal sons and daughters of Barrett”—he turns toward the field as the biplane approaches—“Today marks a special birthday. Our beautiful Sirena turns one hundred today. And guess what? SHE'S COME HOME TO PARTY!”

The crowd explodes with cheers and whistles.

Frank replaces the microphone in its holder and jumps down from the dais to join Reggie on the grass. He gestures toward three men in overalls who had stepped out on the cinder track while he was addressing the crowd. One of the men is rolling a dolly.

Frank and Reggie stride onto the football field, followed by the photographers and videocam operators and reporters.

What happens next will play as one long tracking shot that night on CNN, Fox News, and NBC Nightly News:

The plane comes in low over the north goalposts. It touches down at the fifteen-yard line and taxies to a stop at mid-field, the engine still running, the propeller a blur.

Frank steps forward and, with a flourish, yanks open the cargo door. He moves aside to give everyone in the stands—and every photographer and cameraman on the field—an unobstructed view of the tall metal container inside.

The three men in overalls move through the crowd of journalists to the plane, slide the container out of the cargo hold, and lower it onto the dolly. Frank and Reggie lead the way back to the dais as the workers roll the dolly across the field, the press trailing behind. The cheering of the crowd grows louder as they approach.

Meanwhile, the biplane turns and taxies back to the north end zone. Then it turns around to face the field, its engine revving high, and starts rolling forward, bouncing along the grass as it picks up speed. Just as the three men in overalls lift the container onto the dais, the biplane takes off and banks west, ignored by the crowd.

All eyes are now on the dais. No one notices the beige cargo van that has pulled to the edge of the end zone on the north side of the football field.

Frank and Reggie climb onto the dais. They stand on either side of the strongbox, waving at the cheering spectators, posing for pictures. As the applause continues, Reggie removes the key from his pocket and opens the lock on the large container. Then he slips the lock off and, with a dramatic flair, tosses it to the ground. The crowd roars.

Frank has the microphone again.

“It's Sirena's 100th birthday, people. Join us in a stirring round of Happy Birthday.”

Frank pauses, raises his hand like a conductor, and starts them off:

“Happy birthday to you—”

Reggie opens the latch as the crowd joins in the song—

“—HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU—”

Reggie looks up at Frank, who winks and gives him the thumbs-up sign.

“—HAPPY BIRTHDAY DEAR SIRENA—”

Reggie yanks open the door with a flamboyant pirouette that ends with him stepping back to allow the workmen to slide her out—

“—HAPPY birth—”

The chorus dwindles into silence, except for a few children's voices that continue on for another measure or so before stopping.

It is a stunned silence.

An eerie, incredulous silence, the hush broken only by the whirs and snaps of the cameras.

From somewhere in the crowd comes the cry, “You sick bastards!”

Frank turns toward the open container.