by W.H. Harrod
What started out as a quiet, normal (to the extent a struggling farm town populated with characters right out of a Dickens or Twain novel can be described using the adjective normal) Wednesday, soon turned into something else entirely, at least for the Mayor and myself. The Mayor received two phone calls at home earlier that morning. The first came from the Kansas Bureau of Investigation, and the second from Judge Lucius Brazzi, himself. They informed the Mayor that an investigation was imminent relating to the affairs of the Buford brothers. They instructed him to keep quiet about the pending investigation and to expect agents to arrive at the city offices by no later than the following Monday morning. The Mayor’s renewed self-assurance, a product of the little pep talk we’d had in the meat locker, got blown all to hell. My subsequent conversation with the Mayor centered on him wanting to leave town until the Buford brothers were securely in jail. I informed him this might not be for months, or years, since they could get out on bail. The Mayor then resorted to disclaiming any part in bringing certain evidence to the authorities in the first place. He suggested that maybe in exchange for a real good deal on a term life insurance policy paying out to any beneficiary I wanted to name, I’d admit I, alone, brought the matter to the authorities— as if I stumbled on the evidence in the street. Since the Buford brothers obviously didn’t like me, and probably intended to come after me anyway, what difference would it make? All I needed to do, the Mayor suggested, was pack up, get out of town, and never come back.
I thanked the Mayor for the heads up, along with his consideration, but I declined his kind offer regarding the insurance policy or running out of town like a rat jumping off a sinking ship. He told me to think about it and would keep the generous offer open. He also told me he might have a dying aunt whom he most likely would need to go and see immediately. I told him to have a safe trip and hoped he made it back by the following Monday otherwise, the investigators might get the wrong impression and assume a much wider conspiracy existed. I’m not sure, but I thought I heard sobbing or, at least, moaning coming over the phone before the line went dead.
Poor guy. He’ll probably take a shotgun, his two Labradors, a couple bags of Oreos, his cell phone to call potential new clients, and hide out in his barn until Monday morning, I told myself, replacing the phone receiver in its cradle. Such are the dangers and burdens placed upon those seeking to aspire to higher office. This likely held little chance of going down in the history books as another Watergate or creating suction like the incident when the White House ingénue rendered her services to the leader of our country while kneeling beneath the oval office desk or even come close to that little lie about all those evil weapons of mass destruction used as an excuse for the country to go to war in Iraq, but it damn sure was going to raise a stink like a dead opossum found under the front porch in July around Jonesboro.
After I’d hung up the phone, I made sure my composure stayed calm in front of my co-workers. They always looked in my direction when I finished talking on the phone, I expected, in fear of ascertaining if yet another crisis arose. All they got from me this time was a disinterested return to the chore of reviewing the supplies list I needed to have ready for the driver of the delivery truck stopping by the diner between 9 and 10 a.m. every Wednesday morning. I didn’t chance a peek in their direction until I perused the supply list that hadn’t changed for the last several weeks. We almost always needed the same basic items: coffee, flour, sugar, syrup, and so on. Our business was steady, meaning we sold food about as fast as we prepared it. Only occasionally did someone come up with an idea to try something different, like when a couple of the younger, more hip geezers requested we add quiche to the food bar staples, that I, in a not to be repeated moment of weakness, agreed to do. I seriously doubt any members of the group will ever again risk the unremitting hounding occurring when trying to introduce French cuisine to a bunch of unrepentant aging Anglophiles.
I kept up my nonchalant attitude until after the lunch crowd dispersed to resume their individual, and according to most of them, life sucking and unrewarding day jobs. That’s when Mary June, using the excuse of refilling all the sugar and creamer holders on the individual tables, blindsided me as I collected the last of the dirty dishes.
“You really think I’m pretty stupid, don’t you?” said Mary June as she moved from table to table in the vicinity of where I busied myself while secretly attempting to anticipate future events in light of the earlier notification of the commencement of the investigation.
“What? What do you mean?” I stammered while trying not to look guilty.
“What I mean is, something is going on, and you haven’t told me about it. But, all that can be fixed tonight after you have dinner with my mother and me at our house at six o’clock. You got that?”
I merely nodded my acquiescence and stood silently as my accuser returned her attention to the dining room tables.
How do they do that? I wondered for perhaps the millionth time. I had acted normal. I intentionally gave no indication that a conflagration, the likes of which was probably unknown to the citizens of this community loomed over the horizon. Just how do they do that?
For the rest of the afternoon, I basically wandered around in a fog. Multiple issues competed for attention in my mind’s now seriously challenged state of disequilibrium. My thoughts no longer passed from one subject to the next, they leapt unexpectedly. I tried to anticipate the direction of the formal investigation of the Buford brothers’ criminal activities only to find myself thinking about the upcoming debate, trying to sort out the completely erroneous and contradictory reasoning of my opponent whom I expected to do little else than repeat the most egregious party slogans designed specifically to appeal to the millions of right-wing voters not willing to be burdened with issues necessitating non-linear thinking.
I even worried about calling Carlton and telling him I’d be hard pressed to find the time to come over to Topeka for the promised golf outing anytime soon. I knew I had a better chance of getting away with stealing his prized 1979 Cadillac Eldorado convertible with the torn red interior or one of his many girlfriends then I would if I broke a pledge to come and play golf. Somehow I knew I had to keep that promise.
Okay, so what am I forgetting to worry about here? I stared out the diner front window watching all the normal people with normal worries go about their business. Surely more stuff hung around in the back of my brain that I could drag out and get all flummoxed over, possibly that little issue with the employees’ over in Justice City counting on me to guide them through their negotiations with the present plant owner. We might as well toss in the real threat of Preacher Roy going Rambo on the evangelical shyster, also over in Justice City. We could also give Junior Junior’s absence a mention. Plus, the real possibility of our country’s entire economic system collapsing completely any day now deserved a brief heads up.
That’s probably enough for now. I expected I could find more issues if I tried, but the ones I’d come up with sufficed to impress upon me the true nature and scope of the mess I’d gotten into. I reminded myself if things got too bad, I could hit the road. I did not owe a single person in this town a penny. Nor had I bound myself by contract to perform any function. I could walk out the door and never look back. Therein resided the cause for my puzzlement. Why did I not do that? Most of what I told myself I didn’t believe in or ridiculed, yet these people accepted it outright. Religion, check; partisan politics, check; perpetual military interventionism, check; community involvement, check; the traditional family unit, check; America’s phony moral rectitude, check; empty and often misguided patriotism, check; and God love it, bowling! I’m not sure why bowling made my lists so often as it’s not exactly a Sword of Damocles issue, but why someone would go bowling a second time is a complete mystery to me— my puzzlement being somewhat mitigated by my awareness that millions of seemingly sane people held the same legitimate opinion of golfers. So back to the original question: Why do I stay? Hell if I know.
T
he day passed without further distractions, or if there were any, I was so absorbed with the pending onset of the KBI investigation I paid little, if any, attention. Mary June did tell me, curtly, as she walked out the door at the end of her shift that supper was at 6 p.m. sharp and not to be late. Flo said not a word as she passed by offering nothing but her usual weak snarl. Realizing these two individuals who blew past me as if I were trying to sell them vacation time shares constituted the majority of my local support group, I started thinking maybe this might be a good time to talk with the Mayor about that insurance policy. I could direct the proceeds, payable upon my demise, to bribe many of the former friends and relatives I ignored so often during my life to no longer think of me as such a jerk. It’s a thought.
The day went forward without any additional major announcements or crises, and that was fine with me because my plate looked to be piled high. When the time came for me to depart for my dinner date with Mary June and her mother, I decided to walk instead of drive the several blocks to Mary June’s and her mother’s house. While expecting a nice walk might help clear my head probably had some merit, I did not take into account the late afternoon, Kansas high plains, heat factor. By the time I arrived at my destination, I needed a towel to dry the sweat pouring forth from every pore on my body. The back of my Polo shirt absorbed so much body juice that wet cotton threads stuck to my skin.
“Looks like I’m going to need a towel,” were the first words out of my mouth when my host opened the door to find her dinner guest dripping sweat on her front porch. I couldn’t help but take notice of the look of puzzlement on Mary June’s face. By now, I pretty much could tell what she thought by the various looks she displayed. This one, without a doubt, was her ‘what an idiot’ look. Not to be mistaken for the somewhat similar, but more sinister, ‘if I had a stick I would hit you’ look.
“Come in before you melt,” said my host as she grabbed my arm and pulled me into the air-conditioned living room. Once inside, she repeated the look one more time before turning to announce my presence to her mother. “Mom, Will’s here. Come and say hello.”
I caught sight of a slightly puzzled, yet spry looking, white-haired elderly lady approaching the two of us from the dining room. I could see a slightly puzzled look on her face as she closed the distance. Mary June’s mother observed me commending the entire air-conditioning industry for providing the citizens of the state of Kansas, as well as the nation and, especially, Jonesboro, Kansas, with all the wonderful cooling devices presently helping to lower my now elevated core temperature.
“Mom, this is Will. He’s the man I work with at the diner. Do you remember me telling you about him? He’s going to have dinner with us this evening.” Mary June’s demeanor indicated she believed there was a chance her mother might recall having been told about me.
“What did you say the name was?” her mother asked.
“It’s Will, Mom. I’ve mentioned him to you earlier. Do you remember?” asked Mary June hopeful her mother recalled the incident.
“Can’t say that I recollect any Bill excepting that scallywag Bill Humpner or Humpter or whatever it was. I think he got run out of town and told not to come back for trying to get all the young men back in the 60’s to burn their draft cards and smoke funny cigarettes. Are you him?” she said looking straight in my direction.
Mary June cut me off before I could reply. “No, Mom this is Will Clayton. Will not Bill. Let’s just forget it. Come on everybody, it’s time to eat.”
Mary June took her mother by the arm and walked her to the well-provisioned dining room table and seated her before directing me to the place of honor at the end of the table. We all settled in for what looked to be meal sent down from heaven. I spotted the meatloaf first off, then in no particular order: the mashed potatoes, home-grown green beans, brown gravy, fresh garden salad, hot rolls in a covered basket, and what looked to be some kind of cream pie sitting way down at the end of the table intentionally placed out of reach of those who could not resist the temptation to sneak a slice onto the side of a plate not totally covered with gravy. Marveling at this veritable feast, I realized how much I missed home-cooked victuals.
Mary June noticed me admiring the impressive array of home cooked dishes. “Help yourself, Will. We don’t stand on ceremony around here.” And I did just that while my hostess tended to her mother’s dining needs before fixing a plate for herself. Only the pouring of the freshly made ice tea delayed me from commencing to satiate my taste, smell, and sight senses waiting impatiently for a chance to dig in.
Thankfully, the conversation was kept to a minimum during the greater part of the meal, which allowed me to savor each bite of gravy-soaked meatloaf. I thought as I sat there, if Mary June had served this kind of food at her restaurant instead of the vegetarian fare, Junior Junior’s would by now be just a bad memory. A minute later, I noticed Mary June looking in my direction.
“I know what you are thinking,” she said to me as I washed down another mouth full of meatloaf and potatoes with a big gulp of ice tea. “You’re wondering why I didn’t serve this kind of food at my own restaurant, aren’t you?”
My mouth was so full I couldn’t even begin to think about answering her rhetorical question. So I nodded and awaited her response.
“It’s because food like this will take ten years off your life, that’s why. I agree it’s good. I love it myself, but you can’t eat like this every day if you want to live, much less be able to get up from the table.”
“It’s my recipe, of course,” said Mary June’s mother as she nibbled at her small plate of food.
“I was going to tell him, Mom, and I told you, I’m not trying to steal your recipes. I just wanted to borrow them so Will could have a nice home-cooked meal for a change.”
By this time my mouth emptied sufficiently to join in the conversation. I decided I needed to be tactful. As an individual once well versed in the art, I knew how to be tactful. “I think this must have been a team effort,” I began. “It surely took both of you employing your considerable talents to create this delicious meal. I haven’t dined this well in many years. You are so correct. Junior Junior’s would now be just a very bad memory if you had ever decided to prepare meals this spectacular for the public. Just say the word, and I will gladly turn the entire diner over to the care of you ladies and your delicious recipes. Then I would hurriedly leave town, lest I run the risk of happily eating myself into a much larger wardrobe.”
Both ladies smiled their approval of my compliments, but Mary June surprised me with her response.
“But that’s what we want you not to do, Will. Don’t you see by now how much we want you to stay? You are making a difference here. If you go somewhere else you might get lost in the crowd again, and maybe that’s what you want, but here, you have a chance to make things better. Think about that, will you?” Mary June’s comment put me off my game. I hadn’t expected it.
While I sat there thinking about what Mary June said, she, in the meantime, got up to clear the dishes in preparation for serving pie and fresh coffee. Not until a large piece of coconut cream pie and a steaming hot cup of freshly brewed coffee sat before me did I shake off Mary June’s surprising comments.
“This may be the coup de grâce,” I said before I started on my slice of pie piled high with a lightly browned meringue topping. The light flakey crust holding the still warm coconut cream filling topped off with the meringue topping melted inside my mouth. I think I may have closed my eyes for a second as I savored the first bite. I can’t exactly recall if I actually chewed before I swallowed or simply allowed the dissolving confection to slide into my upper digestive tract on its own accord. Ultimately, it mattered not. The joyous result would, no doubt, have been the same either way.
Having finished perhaps the finest meal that had been served to me in many years, the tell-tell signs of extreme gastrointestinal discomfort visited upon my person. I had eaten way too much, way too fast, and now, I was going to pay.
Fortunately, Mary June recognized the symptoms and directed me to a soft chair in the living room before all the great food I’d ingested actually reached my stomach. When it did I had to loosen my way too tight trouser belt. I expected the sigh of relief I emitted, as another badly needed two inches of stomach space came available, was noticeable to both hostesses as they went about the business of cleaning the table and transferring the leftovers to the kitchen where they washed and dried the dishes. Having been directed to sit and relax while they tidied up, I couldn’t help but notice the all too humorous and chatty newscasters dominating the television screen that glared at me from across the room. These people were banter professionals, regularly mixing in bits and pieces about humanity’s daily carnage creations with their snappy one-liners. They were masters of segue, moving adroitly between train wrecks, girl scout cookie drives, and slick politicians who swore on their mothers’ graves they had no foreknowledge that the bundles of cash crammed into briefcases of trusted bag men and women were for backroom support for the latest, small business destroying, big box store developments to be built on prime farm ground on the edge of town secured via imminent domain.
“I see you’re still alive,” the sound of Mary June’s voice stopped me before I had time to get a good rant going regarding the sad state of news casting. Just as well as I reminded myself I had plenty of other issues sitting on my plate. Speaking of plates, I decided it would be entirely appropriate for me to blame my present stomach pains on my hostess. Obviously, she over served me. Mary June had caused my pain. It was her fault. I knew both she and Flo only thought of me as another marginally useful male idiot. So what else could she expect of me? Of course I would eat piles of great food if you put it in front of me— I’m a man. That’s what men do!
“Here, drink this. I believe it will help. I suppose I should take part of the blame for how you feel. I should have remembered how men react to a home-cooked meal. Men are all the same, aren’t they?” My condescending hostess politely informed me as she sat down beside me offering up an unidentified olfactory pleasing libation.
All I could do at the moment was wonder if the woman could read my mind. Only seconds before I came to the conclusion the blame belonged to her, and here she was taking the blame, as she should.
“Thanks, but I cannot consume anything else, liquid or solid. I’m in pain, and I think I need to tell you now I may have to contact my lawyer. You’ve just admitted the average man cannot help but stuff himself when served such wonderful food. You are going to have to pay for this.”
Mary June laughed as she extended the frothy libation towards me. “Drink this. It will ease your pain.”
“What is it?” I asked, not trying to hide my suspicion.
“It’s a concoction called Lassi, and it will stimulate your Agni, or digestive fires. My Maharishi, back in San Francisco, gave the recipe to me during Ayurveda or science of life sessions that included instruction on ways to stimulate the digestive tract.”
“What’s in it?” I inquired not yet willing to buy into her Eastern cure-all.
“Well, let’s see. There’s homemade yogurt, room temperature sugar water, a pinch of ginger, coriander, cumin, and salt. I blended the ingredients for one minute to provide the sufferer with a healthy concoction guaranteed to provide all the necessary bacteria for lubrication of the intestines as well as helping to smooth digestion. It reduces bloating and gas, and finally, I think it tastes delicious.”
She was right. Within minutes my stomach pain began to subside. While this went on, Mary June finished getting her mother situated before the television so she could watch her gossip shows. Once accomplished, she silently directed me to follow her to the enclosed and air-conditioned back porch where more comfortable chairs awaited. After getting resettled, Mary June wasted no more time. “Okay, now bring me up-to-date, and leave nothing out. I can’t help if you don’t keep me informed, and I do want to help.”
I hesitated but only because I needed to organize my thoughts in relation to those matters Mary June was involved with. She wasn’t in on the proposed plant sale to the local employees. Nor would she be interested in the Preacher’s tendency to violence or my need to go to Topeka to play golf. She would be interested in Junior Junior’s status, along with the Mayor’s intention to go to the mattresses until things settled back down as well as tomorrow night’s debate. She would most certainly want to know about that. Most importantly of all, she would want to know about the investigation.
“Okay, the important news first. The KBI will be here Monday morning to begin their investigation. I learned this from the Mayor today. I expect by now the Mayor is hiding out at his farm until the authorities force him to come forward and do his job, especially, since the Mayor originally brought the problem to me and asked for help. Other than the Brazzi brothers, only you, the Mayor, and I know what is about to happen. This is as far as it can go, period. That’s all I have relating to that subject. Pertaining to Junior Junior, I know absolutely nothing more than the Chief reported after the Doctor’s last visit, which you already know about. Lastly, the debate is tomorrow night. I have done absolutely nothing to prepare and intend to do nothing more than show up and respond to questions and attempt to debunk just about every single utterance coming from my challenger as they arise. Saving the most important for last, thank you for the absolutely wonderful dinner. Any questions?”
“Just one more question. What about the Bufords? What happens when those apes find out they are on the hot seat? What do you propose to do if they decide to come after you?” asked a concerned Mary June.
I thought about her question for sometime before I answered. “I don’t really know what I will do. This is new territory for me. I haven’t gotten involved in someone else’s fight in a very long time. I guess the best I can do is to say I hope I continue to stand up for what I believe is right. I do recall that the last time I decided to make a stand in Vietnam, at my country’s request, my country abandoned the fight. I sure hope that doesn’t happen again.”
“So do I, Will,” answered a somber Mary June. “So do I.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight