Donna [3/7] {Jameson} (MFF Rom Oral) Part Three -- Passionate Persistence The next morning was a lecture hall day for Foundations of Western Civilization, so Donna and I sat in the cavernous auditorium and scribbled notes as we tried to keep up with the rambling lecture from the professor who "taught" the course. Though neither of us had yet spoken to him face-to-face, it was unlikely we ever would. Full professors didn't deal with freshman in survey courses--that's what teaching assistants were for. We both had an open period after the lecture, so we decided to walk the two blocks over to The Shack and examine the names and initials carved into the booths by prior generations of Mizzou students, while we munched their famous burgers. "Holy shit!" I exclaimed, when she commented that one of the names was the same as mine, except it was followed by the date 10/10/47. "That's my dad's inscription; he was a student here in '47 after he got out of the Navy!" Donna laughed delightedly and kept examining the records left by the penknives of countless students over the decades. The Shack had been the University's landmark eatery in its location just across from Jesse Hall and the Columns. "Why does the name Mort Walker ring a bell?" she mused quietly at one point. She showed me the inscription, and I laughed. "Did you ever read `Beetle Bailey' or `Hi and Lois' in the newspaper comics?" "The local paper carries `Beetle Bailey' . . . Oh, God; this is the Mort Walker who writes that?" "Yeah," I explained, "he was a student here, too. In fact, Beetle was a freshman at Mizzou before he joined the Army." We took our time over lunch as neither of us had a class until two that afternoon. While we sipped thick, rich malts for dessert, we looked at other old inscriptions carved into the table top, benches, and back wall of our booth, making up little stories to go with some of them and laughing happily. When we reluctantly parted, it was with the agreement we'd meet as usual on the third floor of the Library after dinner. When I got to our accustomed study table, Donna was waiting there for me with a frown darkening her normally happy face. "What is it, baby?" I whispered, stepping around behind her to massage her shoulders. She leaned back until her blue eyes met mine. "Delay of game," she answered sadly. "I could tell at dinner tonight I'm gonna be starting my period before tomorrow." "Oh, fuck!" I growled quietly as I dropped into my chair opposite her. "And here I thought I had good news for you: Alfred's going home for the weekend." I held her hand gently in both of mine while she tried to decide whether to laugh or cry at the irony. "Doesn't it just figure?" she giggled, obviously opting for the humorous interpretation rather than the tragic. I still wasn't so sure it was funny, but I smiled back anyway. What the hell, I thought, she's gonna feel bad enough the next few days without me pouting about something we can't control. "I don't suppose he normally goes back to Independence two weekends in a row, huh?" "Nope, every other weekend, like clockwork." "Shit, and my folks are coming up for Parents' Weekend the week after next," she sighed. We went to work and got our homework out of the way, then strolled quietly from the Library to Donna's dorm. There was no groping in the bushes this night, just our usual kiss good night at the door. The next several days it seemed as though even the weather was laughing at our frustration, with a brief resurgence of Indian summer bringing daytime temperatures in the 70s, falling into the low 60s in the evenings. That next Tuesday morning when we met at the door outside the seminar room where our class section met with the TA twice a week, Donna asked me what I was grinning about. Rather than answering directly, I asked how she was feeling now that her period was over. "Wonderful, thanks; now what's so fucking funny?" she whispered. "I'll tell you after class." All through the discussion of the assigned readings from Plutarch, I kept grinning, Donna kept kicking my ankle under the table, and the TA kept giving us dirty looks. As soon as the class ended, she grabbed me by the arm and dragged me out onto the sidewalk. "Okay, Mr. Smartass," she demanded as she melted into my embrace, "what's so damned funny?" "What plans do you have for Saturday?" I asked, hugging her tightly. "I thought maybe we could go see `Catch-22' over at the theater on Broadway," she mused, "unless . . ." I saw comprehension dawn on her face just before she dug her fingers into my ribs. "You sneaky bastard!" she giggled. "You've found something, haven't you?" "Some of the folks from the counseling center have gone in together to rent a huge, old pre-Civil War farmhouse outside of town," I told her. "If you're interested, we've got the use of one of the bedrooms Saturday night if we're willing to help with cleanup and painting during the day. We can stay through Sunday, and someone will give us a ride back into town before Sunday night curfew at the dorms." We caught a few amused looks from passers-by as Donna leaped from the ground and wrapped her legs around my hips, kissing me passionately enough to raise the surrounding air temperature by a good ten degrees. "Let's go get lunch," she whispered as she nibbled my earlobe. "You're gonna need your strength." The rest of the week dragged on, with classes and our evening study dates in the Library and the usual demands of a full course load never enough to keep our minds off the weekend ahead for very long. Somehow, though, we survived. When I left her at the entrance of her dorm on Friday night, we agreed I'd meet her in the same spot at seven the next morning and we'd walk together to where my friend Donny would pick us up in his VW microbus to drive out to the farmhouse.