Windmills of the Gods
“I think so too. I’d like to have a full security check run on her.”
“I’ll see that It’s done.”
“I DISAGREE, Professor Ashley,” said Barry Dylan, one of the twelve graduate students in Mary Ashley’s political science seminar. “Alexandros lonescu is worse than CeauSSescu ever was.”
“Can you back up that statement?” Mary asked.
The waiting lists to get into Mary Ashley’s classes were longer than any other professor’s at Kansas State University. She was a superb teacher, with an easy sense of humor and a warmth that made being around her a pleasure. She had an oval face that changed from interesting to beautiful, depending on her mood. She had the high cheekbones of a model, and almond-shaped, hazel eyes. Her hair was dark and thick. She had a figure that made her female students envious and the males fantasize, yet she was unaware of how beautiful she was.
“Well,” said Barry, “Ionescu has cracked down hard on all the pro-Groza elements and reestablished a hard-line, pro-Soviet position. Even CeauSSescu wasn’t that bad.”
Another student spoke up. “Then why is President Ellison so anxious to establish diplomatic relations with him?”
“Because we want to woo him into the Western orbit. Also-” The bell sounded. The time was up.
Mary said, “Monday we’ll discuss the possible consequences of President Ellison’s plan to penetrate the Eastern bloc. Have a good weekend.”
Mary Ashley loved the give-and-take of her graduate seminar. Foreign names and places became real, and historical events took on flesh and blood. This was her fill year on the faculty at Kansas State, and teaching still excited her.
She especially enjoyed teaching about Remania. It had been her grandfather who had instilled in her a deep curiosity about his native land. He had told her romantic stories of Queen Marie
and baronesses and princesses; tales of Albert, the prince consort of England, and of Alexander II, Czar of Russia.
Somewhere in our background there is royal blood. If the revolution had not come, you would have been a princess.
She used to have dreams about it.
She taught five political science classes in addition to the graduate seminar, and each of them dealt with the Soviet Union and its satellite countries. At times she felt like a fraud. I’ve never been to any of the countries I teach about, she thought. I’ve never even been outside the United States.
Mary had planned a trip abroad when she received her master’s degree, but that summer she met Edward Ashley, and the European trip turned into a three-day honeymoon at Waterville, fifty-five miles from junction City, where Edward was taking care of a critical heart patient.
“We really must travel next year,” Mary said to Edward shortly after they were married. “I’m dying to see Rome and Paris and Remania.”
“So am I. It’s a date. Next summer.”
But that following summer Beth was born, and Edward was caught up in his work at the Geary Community Hospital. Two years later Tim was born. Mary had gotten her Ph.D. and gone back to teaching at Kansas State University, and somehow the years had melted away. Except for brief trips to Chicago, Atlanta, and Denver, Mary had never been out of the state of Kansas.
One day, she promised herself. One day …
Mary gathered her notes together, put on her coat and a scarf, and headed out to her car. As she passed Denison Hall a stranger with a Nikon camera aimed it at the building and pressed the shutter. Mary was in the foreground of the picture. One hour later the photograph was on its way to Washington, D.C.
EVERY town has its own distinctive rhythm, a life pulse that springs from the people and the land. Junction City, in Geary County, is a farm community one hundred and thirty miles west of Kansas City. It prides itself on being the geographical center of the continental United States. The downtown shopping area consists of scattered stores, fast-food chains, and gas stations-the types of establishments that are duplicated-n hundreds of small towns across America. But the residents of junction City love it for its bucolic peace and tranquillity. On weekdays, at least. Weekends, junction City becomes the rest-and-recreation center for the soldiers at nearby Fort Riley.
MARY Ashley stopped to shop for dinner at Dillon’s Market and then headed home. The Ashleys lived in an eight-room,stone house set in the middle of gently rolling hills. It had been bought by Dr. Edward Ashley and his bride thirteen years earlier.
“It’s awfully large for just two people,” Mary Ashley had protested when they’d first taken a look at it.
And Edward had taken her into his arms and held her close. “Who said It’s going to be for only two people?”
When she walked in the door this evening, Tim and Beth ran to greet her.
“Guess what?” Tim said. “We’re going to have our pictures in the paper!”
“Help me put away the groceries,” Mary said. “What paper?”
“The man didn’t say, but he said we’d hear from him.”
Mary stopped and turned to look at her son. “Did he say why?”
“No,” Tim said. “But he sure had a nitty Nikon.”
ON SUNDAY, Mary celebrated-although that was not the word that sprang to her mind-her thirty-five birthday. Edward had’ arranged a surprise party for her at the country club. Their neighbors, Florence and Douglas Schiller, and four other couples were waiting for her. Edward was as delighted as a small child at the look of amazement on Mary’s face when she walked into the club and saw the festive table and the happy birthday banner. After dinner, as Mary blew out the candles on her cake, she looked across at Edward and thought, How lucky can a lady be?