The Arrival

by J W Brazier

  Gray started to say something, but Joshua raised a hand and continued.

  “One thing, Ms. Gray, is forgotten by this tragedy: the embryo is human, not a nonhuman as the Supreme Court declared. Abortion never was about the poor or about women’s rights. It’s an ideology with an agenda—and it’s a profitable business. So, Ms. Gray, I dare say few politicians will speak that truth for fear of political reprisals. I’m not afraid. Politicians and courts made legal what is a morally reprehensible act of brutality. I call it what it is: judicial tyranny.”

  Helen Gray packed up her purse and stormed out of the pressroom, throwing one last glare at Joshua.

  “Mr. Austin,” said a male reporter whose hand was waving. “Bob Hill, the Batesville Examiner. Mr. Austin, a quick two-part question, sir. You’ve said if elected, you’d enforce immigration laws as they pertain to White River. Does that include going after businesses that use illegal aliens. My second question: Are you in favor of annexing Batesville into White River?”

  “Mr. Hill, ‘Yes’ to both of your questions. I favor the two cities merging, including any bordering communities. Budgets, schools, emergency services, law enforcement, and city services are enhanced … It’s a win-win for everyone.

  “As for your other question, I support legal immigration. Immigrants enrich our nation. Employers who disregard the law, though … Yes, I will seek legal actions against them. White River will not become a sanctuary city under my watch.”

  Joshua pointed to another reporter.

  “Mr. Austin, John Bailey of White River Democrat. As mayor, sir, you would have veto power over the city council. The present members want to change this since you announced your intention to run for mayor. Any comments as to why the sudden urgency to change the city charter eliminating the mayor’s veto power?”

  Joshua nodded. He and Jason had figured on this question, just as they’d guessed at the others that had already been asked.

  “Mr. Bailey, here’s one example.” Joshua said. “Mayor Ben Archer and the council voted to erect a statue in our river park called ‘Gaia’—a mother earth goddess. Cost to the taxpayers: over a hundred and fifty thousand dollars. There were no published announcements and no public debates allowed at their meetings. May I ask, would you have voted for that project, sir?”

  “No, sir, I wouldn’t.”

  “Good answer. Mr. Archer and the city council denied White River citizens their say in the matter with a vote. In essence, they ruled by decree and stifled the public’s right to dissent. Further, their same progressive zeal has allowed pornography, bars, and strip joints to flourish unchecked in our community. Backdoor deals with unions over city employee pension plans will bankrupt our city to the tune of millions.”

  This caused some murmurs among the pool of reporters, as Joshua and Jason had known it would. The plan was to say enough, but not too much.

  Joshua continued. “An example, Mr. Bailey. A union employee of the city retired not long ago. His contribution to his retirement was less than two hundred thousand. He’ll receive over three million in paid benefits by the city. No business, city, state, or federal government can sustain financial irresponsibility of that nature. Our citizens pay those tabs with higher taxes. Disastrous social policies have consequences. Take away a mayor’s power to veto recklessness and you cripple his office.”

  Roger Pauley jumped to his feet again, not waiting for Joshua to acknowledge him. “Mr. Austin, Arkansas Senator Chesney said that the president and Congress are considering using the National Guard and United Nations military units to conduct terrorist training exercises in US cities. He indicated northern Arkansas was on their list. Mr. Austin, what are your thoughts on their proposed actions?”

  “Mr. Pauley, first I want to say thank you for your intense interest in my campaign.”

  The other reporters chuckled.

  Joshua smiled and said, “If elected, Mr. Pauley, I will follow city, county, state, and federal laws. Thank you, everyone. No further questions.”

  “You intend to disobey the United Nations, Mr. Austin?” Pauley shouted.

  Joshua ignored him. He’d had enough of the press for one day. “Thank you all for coming.” Joshua raised his hand, waving a good-bye, and walked off the stage toward his waiting campaign manager.

  “Well, how’d I do, Jason?”

  Jason Hodges was smiling. Joshua took that as a good sign.

  “I have to say, Joshua, not bad for a political newbie.”

  Chapter 9

  5:30 a.m.—Joshua’s drive time for breakfast at Pearlette’s Restaurant was a peaceful and reflective opportunity—and a welcomed interlude. Even the subdued dual-muffler rumble of his restored 1968 red Ford pickup truck sounded sweet.

  He glanced to his right and saw the Southside Women’s Health Clinic—an unobtrusive building that didn’t yell to the public, but one that confined ugly truths behind its gray exterior. Death cycled through its doors on a routine basis. It latest unexplained abortion victims: an indigent mother and her twins.

  Doubt if those three deaths made Ms. Gray’s news column, Joshua mused.

  The aromas of cooked chicken soon dominated the air as he crossed the White River Bridge. Whitewater rapids cascaded below. The chicken processing plant’s night shift presented another reminder to Joshua of immigration and local jobs. With plant operations running at a hectic twenty-four-hour pace, minimum-wage shift labor stayed in demand, with only a few locals applying. Work environments at the plants, Joshua knew, were abysmal. Still, hard-working illegal migrant labor guaranteed high-production output and increasing company profits. Joshua didn’t fault the Hispanic laborers providing for their families; he would do the same.

  Six blocks away from his breakfast stop, he passed three new strip joints and four sleazy bars. Drunken patrons still partied after hours with open containers in the parking lots. Where were the police or sheriff officers? Joshua wondered. He shook his head. More reminders of the daunting task ahead, should he win.

  A couple blocks later, the new mini-mall came into view. Only a few cars dotted the parking areas—the early morning business owners and employees. From the road, Joshua could easily see big Mike Altman, owner of the White River Coffee Clutch, through the floor-length windows of his little café—all 350 pounds of his bulbous physique.

  Mike sat at a corner table across from Adrian Miller, a newcomer to White River from San Francisco and the owner of Ozark New Age Bookstore. Joshua saw Adrian flipping cards between them—reading tarot cards for Mike. Since the two of them had started dating, rumors about the card readings had flourished around town, and Joshua had seen them in the early morning at Mike’s café more than once.

  Both Mike and Adrian were widowers in their late sixties, and they kept the local gossip hounds busy with their antics and flirtatious affair. Mike had become an avid New Age believer not long after meeting Adrian. Joshua remembered an old-timer’s statement during one of his campaign stops at the local farm co-op: “I’ve known Mike from his youth,” he’d said, “and I don’t know what’s happened to him. Why the sudden change in perspective? Or is it just because of Adrian’s influence?”

  Mike had been a die-hard Southern Baptist from his mother’s womb, Joshua had learned. “Raised a regular stand-at-the-door-waiting-for-the-church-to-open guy,” the old-timer had said.

  Seeing Mike and Adrian sitting there, reading tarot cards, Joshua wondered if America had chosen the same general route as Mike. Joshua had read reports saying Americans were abandoning their long-held Christian or Jewish beliefs. It begged the question in his mind: Were they ever true to their faith to begin with … or just casual fans?

  Joshua turned off the main road and parked his truck in front of Pearlette’s Restaurant. Pearlette’s was the only café in the county that still served genuine redeye gravy at breakfast. Joshua and Brenda had known the owners, Gus and Pearlette Jones, for years and were good friends.

  Gus and Pearlette had been five-star chefs in At
lanta before moving to White River. They said they’d wanted to settle down in a quieter place to raise their three children.

  As he got out of this truck with briefcase in hand, Joshua smiled at the thought of Gus and Pearlette as chefs in some swanky city restaurant. Halfway to the front door, the aromas of Gus’s simmering hickory smoked barbecue wafted into Joshua’s nostrils. He took a deep breath. Intoxicating. He stepped through the door, and a small cowbell jingled overhead.

  “Good morning, Joshua. How are you this fine day?” Pearlette asked with a smile.

  “Morning, Ms. Pearlette. I’m doing better than I deserve, thank you, but I’m on a tight schedule.” Joshua laid his debit card down at the cash register. “Here, go ahead and ring me up please. Order my usual. I’ll sign it on my way out.”

  Joshua took a seat on one of the counter’s bright yellow vinyl-and-chrome stools lined up like tall, shiny mushroom sentinels. Joshua took a glance around. Octogenarians Tom and George Harmon waved from their booth. Besides the two old Harmon brothers, Joshua, Gus, and Pearlette were the only other early birds.

  “Hey, good buddy!” Gus said, waving from the kitchen.

  He had to stoop low at the kitchen’s serving window because of his massive size. Joshua smiled. The man looked every bit an ex-pro football player.

  “Hey, Gus,” Joshua said.

  Joshua watched as Gus lifted a steaming tray of homemade buttered biscuits up to the serving window. Pearlette’s small restaurant promoted the style of an old-fashioned ’50s-’60s era café. The evoking atmosphere pleased a healthy flow of loyal customers. Gus and Pearlette had kept the décor simple yet practical. The locals loved it, believing it one of the last vestiges of clean, quality down-home cooking left in the area—a stark contrast to the crowded barrage of fast-food burger joints, Mexican tacos, and fried chicken chokes along the main roads into town.

  Their sixty-year-old furnishings had been part of an original soda shop that Gus rescued from demolition before the mini-mall’s construction. Joshua had kept the restored pieces in his barn until Gus and Pearlette could afford to open for business. Now, white and black checkerboard tiles covered the floor, with cherry-red vinyl booths back to back along smoke-tinted windows. Two original swirled black-marble slabs showcased the diner’s two counters. A four-foot gap separated the two for faster food delivery.

  Pearlette strolled toward Joshua with his breakfast in one hand and a fresh pot of coffee in the other.

  “Lord have mercy, y’all!” Pearlette said. “Look who’s sitting in my restaurant: our new mayor, Mr. Joshua Austin himself!” She set his breakfast down, then leaned over the counter and pointed her finger at him. “Brenda told me to make sure you eat, so get to it.”

  Joshua smiled, feeling his face flush red. He knew Pearlette meant well, but was also serious about him eating.

  “Pearlette, it’s premature to call me ‘mayor,’ don’t you think? There’s a little thing standing in the way—called ‘elections.’” He smiled at her, then sipped the coffee and started eating his breakfast.

  “Joshua Austin, you listen here, it takes a strong fighter, and you’re that man. The community needs people like you.” She shook her head. “What you’re saying makes perfect sense, so don’t go sounding all defeated already. Take this election serious. You can bet old Ben Archer does. Character and common-sense solutions matter. You got that down in spades. The community’s goanna help, trust me.”

  Joshua smiled again, listening with interest and grateful for her encouragements. Done with giving her two cents, Pearlette refilled his coffee and left, humming a tune.

  “Joshua!” Gus bellowed from the kitchen. “We’re praying for you, my friend. You can believe that!”

  “Thanks, buddy,” Joshua said. “I sure appreciate you guys—and the support.”

  “Gus is right, hon. Prayer is the key.” Pearlette was back, wagging a finger to solidify another point while still holding her pot of coffee.

  “We’ve been passing the word around the sale barn, Joshua,” a familiar voice said from behind.

  Joshua turned around to listen to George Harmon, keeping himself from smiling, as occasional breakfast grits spit their way past what few prominent teeth old George had left.

  “We’ve told ’em to get off their old skinny butts and go vote,” George said. “We told ’em flat out, either vote or stop complaining.”

  Tom, George’s older brother by two years, nodded. “Same goes for me, Joshua. I’ve passed the word at the nursing home.” Tom’s smile, another likewise nearly toothless grin, emphasized his remark, along with a wave of his half-eaten buttered toast.

  Joshua gave a nod and a smile. “Thank you, Tom, George. I hope I can live up to your confidence in me.”

  “Just be honest and walk your talk, Joshua,” George said.

  “Same here, Joshua,” Tom said. “Stay truthful and do your best. We’re all behind ya.”

  Joshua pursed his lips, nodded, then began thinking. The old men used few words, but their simplistic wisdom cried out, “Walk your talk.” Joshua turned around to sip at his coffee and found Pearlette standing right in front of him, apparently ready to unload her thoughts as well.

  “You see, Joshua,” she said, “people are talking about the election. White River used to be a friendly town, but now it’s changed into something awful. Folks that care aren’t blind. People have gotten downright rude and mean. Crime’s up, taxes are going up and … and …”

  Joshua put his coffee down as Pearlette trailed off. She looked flustered. Joshua’s eyes drifted from her face to Gus, who had eased up behind her to rest his big hands on her shoulders.

  “Mama,” Gus said, “mind that blood pressure. Don’t get on your soapbox. We’ve work to do and customers.”

  Joshua stifled a smile as Pearlette looked past him at the booth with the two Harmon brothers.

  “What customers, Gus?” Pearlette said, then sidestepped away from Gus. Her eyes glared and she began fanning her face with a menu. Finally, she threw her head back with a “Hmph,” and grabbed a fresh coffeepot. After topping off Joshua’s cup, she stomped out from behind the counter toward Tom and George’s booth—but not without a parting last word.

  “I’m right, Mr. Gus Jones!” she said. “And that goes for you, too, Joshua Austin. Dirty politics have to change. People have to change.” She kept muttering as she walked away.

  Gus just smiled. “Fiery little woman, isn’t she, Joshua?” Gus relaxed and leaned on the counter with a towel draped over his shoulder, beaming as Pearlette walked away.

  “Well, my friend,” Joshua said, “a quiet woman your wife isn’t, but one thing’s for certain: we can always count on her to speak her mind.”

  Gus, still beaming, nodded.“That’s the truth, Joshua, it sure is. Even after twenty years of marriage, it’s never a dull moment. She’s given us three beautiful children. I’m a blessed man, but some days,” he said, lowering his voice to a whisper, “I don’t like her much.”

  Both men smiled and laughed aloud. Joshua checked his wristwatch.

  “Wow, Gus, I’ve got to run, buddy. I have a speaking engagement at West Side Baptist in twenty minutes.” Joshua gulped down the last of his coffee.

  “Joshua, I feel for you, man. Good luck getting any donations,” Gus said.

  Joshua hurried to the cash register to sign and pay his bill. He gestured good-bye to everyone on his way out the door.

  In his haste to leave and check his cell phone messages, Joshua didn’t see the white van parked behind Gus’s oak and hickory woodpile beside the restaurant.

  *

  As Joshua listened to his messages while walking toward his truck, the glare of camera lights erupted, and then a microphone appeared from nowhere.

  “Mr. Austin, Roger Pauley of Channel 13 Eyewitness News. There are reports that right-wing extremists are major contributors of your campaign against Mayor Archer. Is this correct, sir?”

  Joshua tossed his briefcase onto the fro
nt seat of his truck and faced the reporter. He wanted to let his hot temper have its way, but managed to subdue his anger.

  “Well, well, Mr. Pauley. I can see that my press conference didn’t satisfy your biased thirst. A person might construe this as harassment, Mr. Pauley.” Joshua folded his arms across his chest, feeling how much he’d like to punch the man, but knowing it wouldn’t be a good decision.

  “Mr. Austin, are you refusing to answer, sir?”

  Pauley shoved the microphone into Joshua’s face again and almost smacked him in the mouth. He dodged in time.

  “No, not at all, but I’ve a question for you. Is this behavior your station’s accepted practice with interviews? Because this fiasco isn’t acceptable. I’d suggest you apply a more courteous and ethical approach practiced by most journalists. Try the polite approach for an interview and ask instead of sneaking up on me, Mr. Pauley. Excuse me, I’m running behind schedule.”

  Joshua climbed into his truck. The frustrated Pauley kept shouting at his closed window. Joshua smiled, backed out, and drove away.

  Pauley and his camera operator ran beside his truck, but soon gave up the chase. Pauley stared at the departing tailgate of Joshua’s truck.

  “I’m not finished with you, Mr. Austin,” Pauley whispered, then turned and started admonishing his camera operator.

  Chapter 10

  Angela Newberry picked up the phone ringing on her desk. “Mayor Archer’s office. How may I help you?”

  “Angie, get me through to Ben right away. It’s urgent!” shouted Stanley Jones, Ben’s campaign manager.

  “Oh, praise the Lord. Mr. Jones, Mr. Archer is frantic. Where have you been? I’ve tried to reach you all morning.”

  “I’m on my cell phone, Angie. I might lose this signal in these hills, so put Ben on the line right away!”