“It’s different for girls. But anyway, it’s not the real reason. I’ve only ever had one thing I was really good at. The only time I ever felt really truly confident was with a gun on my back and skis on my feet.”
“I remember that look you’d get,” said Vern. “It was there almost from the beginning. It’s why I was never great—I’d stand there, chest heaving, waiting to shoot, and I never really believed I was going to clean. But I can remember you coming into the range, looking fierce, never a doubt, like there was a wire between the gun and the target. When you did miss, you’d look surprised.”
“But you found something else to do,” said Trance. “I watched you last night in front of the microphone. There was no chance you were going to miss, and you knew it. You were even showing off a little. And with your job, you can do that your whole life. Athletes are done in their thirties if they’re lucky, and that leaves a long time. So I keep training because I don’t know what else I am. When I stop, I’ll have to come up with an alternative.”
“Maybe that’s why you came and joined us here,” said Vern.
“Maybe so,” she said with a quick grin. “You taught me biathlon, now you can teach me how to be a fugitive freedom fighter.”
“Maybe so,” he said. “Except the trouble is that I’m making it up as I go along.”
They sat at the table, looking at the coffee, looking at the rain, looking at each other. “As long as I’m asking prying questions,” said Vern, “let me ask one more. How come you never got married? Half the guys on the biathlon team were in love with you. In awe of you, but in love with you.”
“Oh,” she said, and paused briefly, staring down at her cup. “Because I like girls.”
“Oh,” he said, and paused briefly himself. “But still—this is Vermont. Girls have been getting married for years now. Half the babies in the state have two mommies.”
“You’re very open-minded for an old guy,” she said.
“Well, it took a while. I spent a decade on the radio arguing against gay marriage for a whole lot of reasons. I mean, that’s just how I grew up. But Fran, bless her, knew I just needed to know someone. And she knew her hairdresser. A stereotype, I know, but it was a small town. Anyway, we became friends, and then we became friends with his friend, and then with the kid they adopted, and pretty soon . . . Well, I guess I just thought about it and decided I had Fran, and everyone should be so lucky.”
“I miss Fran,” said Trance.
“I miss her too. But you’ve managed to avoid my question by getting me to talk about myself, which is a remarkably simple trick. So tell me, if you like girls, how come you’re not with a girl?”
“Oh,” said Trance. “Well, I guess because I’m not very good at it.”
She saw Vern color a little, and giggled. “No, not that part. I’m a highly skilled athlete. That’s what I’m good at. It’s the talking part, the getting-to-know-people part. I don’t have a very strong family background in that department, as you’ll recall. My parents were good at . . . that part, which is why there are seven of us. But the rest was pretty brutal.”
“I wish I had some good advice, but Fran pretty much handled the courting end of things in our relationship,” said Vern. “I just followed her lead. But maybe you should talk to Sylvia.”
“I hardly know her. Hard enough talking to you about this stuff, and I’ve known you all my life.”
“Well, she’s about the age to be your older sister. And . . . she likes girls too.”
“How do you know that?” Trance asked quickly. “I mean, I thought she used to be married. Wasn’t she just talking about her jerk of an ex-husband?”
“Maybe that’s why she likes girls,” he said. “Anyway, Perry and I were listening to her first class, and she told all the guys not to even try dating her, that she was a—that she liked girls.”
“Huh,” said Trance.
“Anyway, should I say something to Sylvia?”
“No,” said Trance. “Don’t even think about it. God, no.”
17
“I think we may need to do a little planning?” said Perry, emerging from his basement bedroom. “I’m getting the sense that they’re searching pretty hard for us, and getting a little closer—some of those mirror sites are going down, and they’re after the ISPs to give up all the data they’ve got.”
“ISPs?” said Vern.
“Internet service providers. Eventually someone is going to figure out we’re doing this over copper wire, and once that happens it’s going to take them about ten minutes to follow that wire down this driveway.”
“I think Perry’s right,” said Sylvia, who had the day’s papers spread out before her. “For one thing, our neighbors know you’re here.”
“What?” said Vern.
“Remember the other day when you and Trance were out in the woods while we were doing firefighting practice?”
“I stayed way back—no one saw me.”
“No one except Bucky and Jorene down the road. They’re hunters. They have camera traps all through the woods—they sit there and watch critters, live on their computer. It’s like the local version of the Discovery Channel. Anyway, you two had a nice long talk about seven feet from one. Jorene flagged me down on the way home today. She looked worried sick. She said she knew it was none of her business, and she liked you guys, but she was terrified I’d get in some kind of trouble.”
“Are they going to turn us in?” Perry asked.
“No, of course not,” said Sylvia. “They’re neighbors. I mean, I cut a Christmas tree off their land every year. I helped their boy find a job. It’s just that you’re right. We’re not going to stay invisible here forever.
“Anyway,” she continued, “that’s not the real trouble. You remember you said there’d be a reaction? I’d say it’s starting.”
She handed over the Free Press, with its lead headline: “Feds Join Barclay Hunt; Terror Ties Probed.”
Montpelier—Gov. Leslie Bruce said today that more federal agents had joined Vermont State Police in the effort to track down radio host Vern Barclay, Olympic medalist Trance Harper, and other members of what he called “an anti-American conspiracy.”
“At first we thought all this was kid stuff—an anti-Walmart publicity stunt,” said Bruce. “But new evidence indicates that they are linked to Internet sites around the world, including some that also support terrorism. I’ve asked the FBI and the Federal Communications Commission to help track down these fugitives before any of their stunts harm Vermonters.”
Sources in the Boston FBI office said several agents from a private firm, Whitestream Security, had been dispatched to Vermont under government contract, along with sophisticated electronic equipment. “I want to assure the citizens of Vermont that they will be brought to justice quickly,” said Bruce.
He added that residents circulating petitions in many communities to include Vermont secession on next month’s town meeting warrants were “probably not criminals themselves, but just unwitting dupes.”
“That’s about what I’d expect,” said Vern. “They’re trying to scare people away, which will work pretty well. But frankly, this worries me more.”
He was pointing to a full-page ad on page two of the paper, taken out by the state chapter of the AARP:
“DON’T RISK YOUR SOCIAL SECURITY,” the headline read in 72-point type, and beneath it:
Many town meetings will next month consider a resolution for Vermont to secede from the United States. Remember that your monthly check comes from the FEDERAL government. Ask yourself how you’ll survive without it!
A picture of Hap Hapson, president of the state’s Farm Bureau, beamed from the facing page, above an article headlined: “Federal Payments Key to State’s Agricultural Economy.”
“Today’s family farmer depends on the federal government for the assist to
stay in business,” Farm Bureau president Hap Hapson said in a statement today. “If Vermont ever left the Union, there’d be no way for most of our members to keep farming.”
“You have to hand it to them,” said Vern. “It took them a few days to get their act together, but I’d say they’ve started to do a decent job. Right now we’re maybe terrorists, and definitely a threat to old folks and farmers. We know that’s nonsense, but our real problem is we’ve got no way of answering back.”
“We could do another podcast,” said Perry.
“We could, and we will—but that’s not going to do the trick here,” said Vern. “The people who listen to those are the people who already support us, or at least lean in that direction. It’s important to preach to the choir, but it’s not enough. We need to reach lots of people, show them we’re not scary. And we’ve got to do it before our story fades away—that’s the real hope here. Time is always on the side of the status quo; we got people excited, but they know that excitement will fade away and people will just start thinking of the risk. If our momentum goes, we go with it.”
“We kind of need television, don’t we?” said Trance. “I mean, most of the people I grew up with watch television, not the Internet. They might read the newspaper, though not so much—what’s on television is what’s real.”
“I hate to say it but you’re right,” said Vern. “I spent my life in radio, and over the long haul radio is more powerful—it’s intimate, in your mind. But when something happens, people switch on the tube. Our problem is we don’t have a TV station, and I don’t think even Perry can give us one.”
“Like I said, video is not really a possibility over copper,” said Perry.
Vern sat back in his chair, holding his coffee cup in both hands, gazing at the drawn blinds. “I have a kind of idea,” he said after a few minutes. “But it’s going to mean us leaving here, and it’s going to mean Sylvia going to jail.”
“Then think of another idea,” said Trance. “Because Sylvia is not going to jail.”
“Oh, hon,” said Sylvia with a smile. “I’ve known I was going to jail since the day Vern arrived. Let’s at least hear it out.”
“Also, we may have to burn down your house.”
“In for a dime . . . anyway, my ex-husband built it, and it’s about as dark as he was.”
“Well,” he said. “As you can tell, it’s probably not a great plan. But you know Horace LaRossette, right?”
“Of course. He’s been doing the nightly newscast for my whole life,” said Sylvia.
“Longer than that,” said Vern. “Sometimes I think he was there when Philo Farnsworth turned the first TV dial. I’ve known him most of my life, and I’m counting on two things. He literally can’t resist a scoop, and he’s in the back pocket of the governor.”
18
A shiny new black Jeep Cherokee with temporary dealer’s tags cruised to a stop outside the WVTV studios, and a man in dark glasses and a heavy beard reached across to open the passenger door. “Climb in, Mr. LaRossette,” he said. “You can put that camera equipment on the backseat.”
“Where are we going?” said the anchor, who was wearing a navy suit with a yellow tie.
“Well, I’m going back to Racine Jeep Eagle around the corner, so I can finish my test drive,” said the man. “And after that I don’t know where you’re going, but I do know that you’re supposed to wear these,” he added, handing him a pair of wraparound dark glasses like the ones that old folks wear after cataract surgery. When he put them on, LaRossette found they’d been duct-taped from the inside to shut out all light. He started to protest, but even as he began, the car slowed to a halt, and his door opened. A woman’s hand slipped inside his and led him to the front seat of another car; he could hear his camera bag being switched from one backseat to the other.
“Hello,” said the woman, once she’d strapped him into his seat belt. “This won’t take long—less than an hour.”
“These glasses are ridiculous! I’ve never been treated like this in forty-two years of journalism!” said LaRossette.
“I’m so sorry,” she said soothingly. “And what a nice suit you’re wearing!”
“Do you think so? It’s cashmere,” he said.
“Really!” she said. “And where did you get it?”
“It’s provided courtesy of Men’s Wearhouse, at the University Mall,” he said. “I go out every three months and pick out five new ones.”
“That sounds like fun.”
“Oh, you have no idea. It’s the best part of the job. The news is the same every day, but the suits change constantly. And people pay attention! Sometimes I get e-mail when I wear a new suit. People send ties!”
The drive proceeded smoothly, as Horace discussed the number of regional Emmy awards he had won (twenty-two), the number of national Edward R. Murrow awards (six), the number of minor celebrities he knew on a first-name basis (almost infinite), how it was he was able to look so young after so many years of working so hard (“good genes,” though Sylvia thought she saw the small line from a tuck job under his left ear), why younger people were ruining the TV business (had not worked their way up, no sense of history), and some funny things that Walter Cronkite (Walt) had told him once at a convention. “He gave me the best advice of my career, too. He said, ‘Horace, if you’re going to make people like you, you have to pretend to like them.’ So that’s exactly what I do, with everyone I meet. And I find he was absolutely right.”
“I guess he was, because I sure do like you, Mr. LaRossette,” said Sylvia. “And so I’m very sad to say that we’re at the end of our ride. You’ll be inside in just a few minutes, and then you’ll be able to take off those silly glasses.” She glided to a halt, and Perry opened the door, reached in, and took the newsman’s elbow.
“This way, sir, right this way,” he said. “My friends will get your gear.”
A moment later he was sitting in the kitchen of Sylvia’s house, where the shades had been drawn and the cupboards stripped—it looked like a kitchen in a showroom. “Sorry about those glasses, Horace—you can take them off now,” said Vern, and when the anchor did, blinking in the light, he saw three people sitting in front of him on kitchen chairs, with only a Free Vermont flag as a backdrop.
“I think you know Trance Harper,” said Vern.
“Of course I do—I have the picture of the two of us with the Olympic medal hanging on my wall,” said LaRossette.
“And this is our friend Perry Alterson,” said Vern. “He’s another of you big-city Burlington boys.”
“Vern—I hope you don’t think I’m going to ask you puffball questions just because we’ve known each other forever,” said LaRossette. “I’ve got a list right here in my pocket, and just as soon as I get this camera working . . .” He was fussing with the tripod and the microphone connection. “They showed me how to do this at the station today. I wish you’d let me bring along a cameraman.”
“Maybe I could help you with that,” said Perry after watching for a few minutes. He quickly connected the cords, set up the battery pack, even took the lens cap off the front. “I think you just need to press this button when you want to talk, sir,” he said.
“Yes, that’s exactly right,” said LaRossette. “You’d think you’d been in the business as long as I have, you know the equipment almost as well as I do. Well, let’s get started.
“First question—and I warned you, these aren’t going to be easy. The Farm Bureau says that you’d put Vermont farmers out of business. How do you respond?”
Vern looked at Perry. “Horace, I’m an old farmboy, so I could give you my opinion. But let’s hear some facts and figures first—and Perry is our data specialist.”
“Well,” said Perry, nervously, “in 1947, there were 11,206 dairy farms in Vermont; 1957, 9,512; 1967, 4,729. In 1977, there were 3,531; in 1987, 2,771; in 1997, 1,908; 2008, 1,273;
and in 2012, there were 1,075. Last year the number was down to 862.”
“What that means, if you ask me, is simple,” said Vern. “The Farm Bureau and the federal government have already done a fine job of putting Vermont farmers out of business. And it’s pretty obvious why they’ve been so successful, isn’t it? The USDA has spent the last six decades trying to make farms bigger and bigger. The subsidies go to the big guys, the ag schools spend their time working on how to make farms bigger. They’ve taken the most fertile continent on the earth and turned it into a corn-syrup factory. The dairies we still have left in Vermont seem enormous to me—a thousand cows! But even they are tiny compared to the ones in California or Minnesota or Arizona. Those guys have ten thousand cows, and so they set the price of milk. Which is so low that even our big dairies can’t make any money. They have to hire undocumented migrants because they’re the only ones who will work for wages that low—without them, no milk. You’ve seen them living half hidden all over the Champlain Valley, Horace. Anyway, the get-big-or-get-out farm stuff from the feds was just the usual foolishness that mostly hurt small farmers—except that now, as the climate goes kaflooey, it’s going to come back and bite all of us. Because we don’t grow much actual food here in Vermont anymore—about five percent of what we eat. Twenty times as much milk as we drink, but only a twentieth of the food we eat. We want farmers growing food that people want to eat—we want slaughterhouses in Vermont again, and canneries, and grain mills. Not big food so we can get salmonella from some feedlot in Indiana, but small food, so we can get dinner from our neighbors. So we have some security.”
“Let’s talk about security, then,” said Horace. “A lot of us are depending on Social Security to ease us through our Golden Years. But if we left the country, those checks would stop coming. Aren’t you set on starving out Grandma and Grandpa?”
“Well, the first thing to say is, if you’re depending on Social Security, you may want to think again,” said Vern. “At the moment its promised benefits exceed its projected income by trillions . . .”
Radio Free Vermont Page 9