That’s when Derek arrives.
He looks almost as nervous as I do, and it makes me think more of him than I have in some time. Even he seems to have no idea what he’s doing here.
Bob strides straight over to him and says, “Derek, come in,” in a confident, friendly voice. “Great you could swing by.”
The men by the wall look up from their coffee and doughnuts. Derek studies them as if he’s trying to remember whether he sold them something at some point.
It quickly transpires that they’ve read the article in the Gazette. They thump his back, shake his hand, and talk enthusiastically about his former triumphs and the current team’s prospects. It’s only when they move on to the Ducks’ future after Mariota that the atmosphere changes, but they quickly recover: back to high school football.
“I’m sure your record will stand,” says a stocky, ruddy man who thumps Derek so hard on the back that coffee sloshes out of his mug.
“I don’t know, Roy,” Derek says. “A few of the kids looked pretty dangerous during practice. One of these days, they’ll show what a has-been I am.”
Everyone laughs politely. No, more than politely. Fondly. The article has reminded them that they used to like him.
After a while, Bob places a hand on Derek’s arm and leads him over to a quiet corner. Probably about time: a calculating glimmer had just appeared in Derek’s eye. I’m sure he was trying to work out what he could palm off on them now that they seem to worship him again. Curious to hear what Bob has to say, I follow them over so I can eavesdrop more easily.
“It’s like I thought,” Bob says, sounding pleased. “Sales? You’ve been wasting your talents.”
“I’m good at selling stuff.” Derek seems to want to go back to the men to prove it, right here and now.
“Sure you are,” says Bob. “Just not as good at finding shirts that fit. But you look good in pictures, you shake hands like a pro, and you’re good at dealing with weird people. What I’m trying to say is you should be a politician.”
“I still have some pride!”
“Shame. You need to get rid of that. People don’t become politicians because they’re proud. Here, take a vanilla doughnut.”
Derek takes two. He has to balance one of them on top of his mug.
“So that’s why you wanted me to come by. Politician! You must be losing it, Bob. Dad says hi, by the way.” He finishes off his first doughnut. “I’m not even a member.”
“Oregon isn’t like other states. We do things our own way. The party? It’s always weak. It’s personal campaigns that matter here.”
I know more about Oregon’s political system than I’d like. The big difference here, compared to many of the other states, isn’t that we’re more person-centric. It’s that we have more popular votes. At every election, our poor citizens also have to make up their minds about dozens of other proposals.
But that isn’t something Bob is thinking about right now.
“Trust me,” he says. “You could win. Unless you’ve already sold too much crap to people around here. We just need to find you the right role.”
“What? You need an old quarterback at your meetings? I don’t know a thing about politics. I don’t even know what a politician does. You read stuff? Go to meetings?”
“A lot of talking and listening. Mostly listening. That’s what I need you for. You can do that, can’t you?”
“I’m not deaf yet, if that’s what you mean.”
“Plenty of folks are good at reading proposals and paragraphs and small print until they go cross-eyed, but we’ll never win if we can’t listen to people. Find out what they want. What they dream about. What makes them angry. What stops them from moving forward in their lives. Take that guy over there.” Bob nods to a man walking by outside. “You could spend half an hour talking to him and find out all that stuff, right?”
“And?”
“Solve a single problem for him, and he’ll vote for you the rest of his life. That’s what politics is all about. Wheeling and dealing and problem solving.”
Derek shrugs. He has already lost interest. “So what do I get out of it?”
Bob looks Derek straight in the eye. “You’d be respected again.”
Derek’s mug pauses halfway up to his mouth. That’s the only thing that gives him away. Then he takes a sip of his coffee with deliberate nonchalance. They’re just two men drinking coffee on a perfectly ordinary Monday.
“You’d be respected for who you are now, not who you used to be.”
“Why the hell would I want that?”
He doesn’t sound entirely convinced.
“Thanks for the doughnuts,” he says with a nod to Bob and the three men.
“No worries,” Bob says with no hint of disappointment in his voice.
He’ll be back, Bob thinks. I know it from the way he smiles as he watches the door slam behind Derek as he leaves.
* * *
The next day, I can’t say I’m entirely surprised to see Derek heading toward Bob Parker’s real office. I have all the time in the world, and I’m interested in seeing what Derek is going to make of Bob’s offer. I told myself I was just going to take a walk into town, but deep down, I knew I was hoping to run into Derek.
He isn’t on my list, but you can’t follow lists all the time, I tell myself. Plus, he’s linked to Michael. Maybe being a politician is the real job Michael wants Derek to get.
Though you’d have to be incredibly optimistic to see being a politician as a real job.
I follow Derek like a pro. For several blocks, I pretend to be looking in shop windows; I dodge down alleyways, hide behind other pedestrians, and then—with excessive nonchalance—follow him openly.
It’s incredibly satisfying to tail people as a ghost.
Derek hesitates outside the ugly salmon-colored building on the edge of town. Bob’s real office is inside. I pretend to be completely absorbed by the nearest shop window. Unfortunately, it belongs to a funeral parlor, so I’m staring straight at a tasteful yet depressing wreath.
Eventually, he mutters “What the hell” and walks up to reception, where an indifferent secretary is killing time by reading the Gazette.
“Derek Callahan,” he says, flashing her a blinding smile. The secretary is at least thirty years older than him, and wearing an ugly knit sweater, but charm is something that comes naturally to Derek. “Is Bob in? No, I don’t have an appointment.”
The secretary wearily reaches for the phone, presses a button, and says that Derek Callahan is here. She waits for an answer. Derek almost has time to change his mind before she blankly conveys the wonderful news that yes, Bob Parker has time to see him. Through the door and to the left.
The corridor is dark and narrow, and leads to a nondescript door with one of those nameplates that can easily be changed.
“Come in, come in,” Bob says.
The cheap carpet in the corridor continues into his office. Inside, he has a number of dull-gray metal archival cupboards, a cheap bookcase full of reference books, and several volumes of state and local law. Framed, signed documents and a personal letter of thanks from the former governor. There is a sofa against one wall, or at least it looks like a sofa beneath the piles of papers and brown folders.
“I guess people don’t become politicians for the money,” Derek says.
Bob bends down and moves a pile of newspapers from the visitor’s chair. “Very true,” he says. “But some things are better than money. Power. Recognition. Getting things done your own way.”
“Sounds a damn sight like work if you ask me,” Derek replies.
Bob looks around the room. Eventually, he dumps the newspapers on the sofa. The piles collapse as they land. About half of them fall to the floor. “Sit yourself down,” he says, gesturing to the now-clear chair.
Derek stays
on his feet in front of a framed portrait of Ronald Reagan.
Bob shrugs and sits down behind the desk. Pushes a stack of paper to one side. Contentedly leans back.
“Ronald Reagan,” he says. “The fortieth president of the United States of America. Did you know people often called him a lazy president? But so what? He got other people to do stuff for him. Do you know what Reagan’s secret was? He understood that politics is an idea, and that the idea was more important than facts. He sold a story. Probably because he was an actor before he became a politician. The United States was a country of heroes. People hated us for our freedom. We were prepared to work hard, sacrifice ourselves for our country, and achieve success the hard way, without the help of any intrusive, incompetent state. Americans were different from everyone else. Back then, you were allowed to say that kind of thing.”
Derek nods. Why not? It isn’t particularly hard for him to believe that Americans are the best people on earth.
“But do you know what the funny part is? These days, we’re all nostalgic for Reagan. But his idea built on nostalgia for the past.”
Bob gets up. “We could really do with a new Reagan.” He pats Derek on the shoulder. “Who knows? Maybe that could be you. A football player instead of an actor. Both sell dreams, which is what you have to do if you want to succeed as a politician.”
“I haven’t said yes yet,” Derek tells him, though his protest is pretty half-hearted.
“The politics itself is easy. You’re against taxes and the federal government, and you’re for business, the nation, and God. In that order. It’s really all about personality. Go to church, dress well, and stop sleeping around.”
“How do you know I’m sleeping around?”
Bob doesn’t bother to answer.
“I’m damned if I know whether politics is worth that.”
Bob seems to realize that it’s an unreasonable demand. “Okay, but be discreet about it. Stay away from other men’s wives.” He frowns. “You know, you’re going to run into problems there. The wives will expect you to flirt with them, but the men will be offended if you ignore their wives, and they’ll be offended if you flirt with them, too.”
Derek laughs. “Bob, I’ve managed that balancing act since I was sixteen. Wives have always flirted with me.”
“Speaking of wives… What does Stacey make of all this?”
“I haven’t even made up my mind yet. I definitely haven’t mentioned it to her.”
Bob ignores him. “God, the two of you are going to work so well together.”
“I haven’t said yes.”
“No, no. But later, when you do, you’ll be the king and queen of politics. You could go all the way if you wanted to, I’m sure of it. Jesus, I remember when you were just kids! She came to every game, didn’t she?”
“So what? The whole town did.”
“Yeah, yeah, but still. You married your childhood sweetheart. A happy ending for the whole town. Always by your side! Always proud and supportive!”
“Uh, yeah…”
Bob also seems to be thinking about the current version of Stacey Callahan. “Maybe you could buy her some new clothes,” he says. “You’re a team now. The voters will want to see her standing by your side.”
“The voters don’t know my wife.”
“No, but they’re going to want to see her. Talk to her. All women like new clothes, don’t they? Buy yourself a new suit. A couple of nice jackets, too. Oregon’s a pretty informal state, so people don’t expect you to go around in a suit the whole time, but remember that Pine Creek’s a conservative town. A jacket never hurt anyone. Don’t forget you’re a Republican.”
“That’s one thing I can remember,” Derek mutters.
“You’re a natural. Trust me. If you just listen to what I say, you’ll be a better politician than you ever were a football player, and that’s saying a damn lot. You’ll definitely have a longer career.”
“For God’s sake, Bob. It was my knee that was the problem.”
“Football players are natural winners. That self-confidence you have, it’ll take you far in politics. It’s a game, a show, like everything else in life. Do you remember the feeling of having an innate talent? Instinctively being able to do things that others have to fight for?”
“Vaguely.”
“You’re going to feel it again. You’ll have to work hard—I won’t lie about that—but it’ll be like your football training. The more you work, the more you’ll feel like everything is just ticking along nicely. Everything will fall into place. People will praise you for doing things that come naturally to you. You’ll be invincible. I’ll book a few lunch meetings for you right away. With all the most important people in town. Before long, you’ll be one of them yourself.”
Derek relaxes. When Bob brings up Stacey’s clothes for a second time, he doesn’t even protest.
* * *
Back at the motel, the biggest change—new sign not included—is that some of the town’s wilder teenagers have started hanging out on the hill beyond the parking lot. I guess they feel like the sign says something about their lives.
They aren’t exactly doing any harm, but their presence, combined with their idleness, teenage drama, and hormones, gives off a slightly downbeat impression. The third time they show up after school, MacKenzie calls the sheriff to ask whether there is anything he can do.
“It isn’t motel property, so I can’t ask them to leave,” he says. “If they start drinking or getting too rowdy, I guess I can send a car over to have a word, but I doubt it’ll do much good. They’ll find someplace new soon.”
As a result, the teenagers are still there when Cheryl arrives at the motel that evening.
The sun is setting, and it should be beautiful, but suddenly I see everything through her eyes. The idle teenagers and their shrill, loud voices become ominous. The new sign shines fatefully over the tired concrete and asphalt, and through the restaurant window, Dad’s lonely figure looks even more tragic than usual.
Cheryl shudders.
Even Clarence’s friendly smile seems intrusive and potentially dangerous. She clutches her handbag tightly.
“It’s just Clarence,” I say.
Unfortunately, he cheerily asks if she wants a swig from his hip flask as she passes. With that, all of her suspicions are confirmed and any lingering doubt about what Dad is doing here is gone.
As are any thoughts she might have had about being calm and reasonable. The minute she reaches Dad’s table, she says, “Oh, Robert! How could you?”
Cheryl throws her arms around him in an attempt to provide some comfort, but he stiffens in horror.
The other guests in the restaurant—two old men and MacKenzie, who was chatting to them when Cheryl came in—turn to watch. It would have been funny if Dad didn’t look so tortured. Mackenzie and the two old men don’t have any such scruples. They find the whole thing incredibly amusing.
Cheryl doesn’t care. “How could you leave your friends and neighbors—your own home?”
“For pity’s sake, woman, pull yourself together,” Dad mutters.
“Everyone knows you shouldn’t surround yourself with people who’ll lead you to temptation when you’re trying to stop drinking. You’re supposed to stop spending time with them. You don’t move in with them!”
“I’m not trying to stop drinking!”
Cheryl gasps. “But you have to! You can’t go on like this. Who knows how far the drink can drag you down.”
“A man can have a bit of fun, can’t he?” one of the old men says, and the other laughs in agreement.
Dad looks around in panic. “Cheryl, I can’t talk about this right now.”
“Don’t you miss your home? How long are you planning to stay here? Why don’t you come back with me now, and I can make us all a nice dinner. Everyone on the street is w
ondering how you’re doing.”
I don’t know whether Dad was considering going home, but her last sentence definitely makes him stubbornly clench his jaws. “So they can keep gossiping, no doubt. Going through my trash and talking about me? No thank you. I won’t be coming back. At least I get left in peace here.”
* * *
MacKenzie follows Cheryl out into the parking lot. “Cheryl!” she says, trying to flash her a disarming smile. It falters as Cheryl spins around.
“You!” she spits at MacKenzie. Cheryl’s voice is unsteady with righteous anger.
“I just wanted you to know that it wasn’t my idea for him to move in here. If it was up to me, he would have stayed at home.”
“It’s all your fault!” Cheryl snaps. “And you don’t even care!”
MacKenzie folds her arms. “You can think what you like,” she says.
All that gives away her real feelings are her trembling fingers. She digs them deeper into her arm and smiles, purely because she knows it will irritate Cheryl more.
“That’s the problem with you, MacKenzie Jones. You never take anything seriously. Everything’s a joke to you, isn’t it? Like your new sign. Not to mention the old one! You accused the whole town of being homophobes!”
“Not the whole town. But if you feel accused…”
“I’m proud of my work with the church. At least I have something that means something to me. And it’s the Bible that says it’s a sin. Not me.”
“The Bible says all kinds of crap, unless my memory is wrong.”
“I doubt the Bible says anything to you. You’ve always had a bad influence on people. You always did while you were at school, and you still have it over the town’s kids.”
MacKenzie instinctively glances over to the hill. There are even more teenagers there now. “They’re only hanging out here because they have nowhere else to go,” she says. Then she smiles, looking exaggeratedly friendly. “But you’re right, of course. I’ve tried to get rid of them, but maybe I should be helping them instead. They’re stuck in boring classrooms all day. Not just boring, but dirty, too. I should try to perk them up a little.”
Check in at the Pine Away Motel (ARC) Page 23