And then Gary and LeRoy pulled up in the cruiser.
Gary and LeRoy climbed out of the car, which took more effort than it should for law-enforcement officers—a hand on the roof of the car for lift and a big heave and a sincere grunt—and he wondered if he should’ve hired some skinny security men, who could give chase on foot should the need arise. Gary stood by the car and LeRoy approached. “Ma’am,” he nodded to Angelica, then stepped in close to Clint. “Somebody saw Art down by the lake, sleeping in that big culvert. We checked and he isn’t there, but somebody was. Also had reports of shouting in the woods beyond the motel.”
“Viola said she put him on a bus to Montana.”
“We spoke to Greyhound and according to their records he disembarked in Alexandria.”
“Problem is,” said LeRoy, “we can’t arrest him unless he’s made threats. Has he?”
“Art’s been making threats for years. Threat is the meaning of Art’s life, are you kidding?”
“I mean, has he made specific threats?”
“Who is Art?” said Angelica.
“He is a lunatic who’s been living here for so long we all got used to him,” said LeRoy. Un loco, thought Clint.
Today I shall die at the hands of a crazy man with a gun I shall die for una bella dama, you my beautiful someone Shots ring out and my chest hurts, I fall in great surprise O God before I leave this earth let me look once more into her green eyes.
19. IN THE CHATTERBOX
Flags flew all over town, bright new flags on housefronts, in the steel flag-holders the Sons of Knute had sold door-to-door (“Installation, free!!”), and red geraniums sat in pots on front steps or hung from porch ceilings. Yard after yard burgeoned with petunias, pansies, geraniums, delphiniums, phlox, and roses in full bloom. And firecrackers were going off, strings of them in the alleys, firecrackers in garbage cans, and on a sidewalk in front of a little stucco bungalow a little girl in blue tights waved a sparkler and danced in a circle. Clint walked past her, heading downtown, realizing he had put on the wrong socks, an old pair that were falling down. He was Spanish no longer. Or rather—he had decided this—he would decide his ancestry for himself. He would be Hispanic some days when he was up for it and otherwise be whatever he happened to be.
He saw black curly marks on the sidewalk where boys had lit snakes. Two boys were about to light a cherry bomb and drop it in a garbage can. He yelled at them and they did him the courtesy of waiting for him to pass before they set it off. A boy carried a brown paper bag full of torpedoes and every ten feet or so he threw one at the sidewalk and it banged. Two Knutes were straightening the Liberty Pole in front of the statue of the Unknown Norwegian. Hawks soared in the clear blue sky and a woman fussed at a little girl about sunscreen—“You’re going to turn red as a lobster.” The little girl didn’t know about lobsters. He stopped to talk to Chuck who was wheeling a freezer unit onto the sidewalk in front of Skoglund’s Five & Dime to sell ice cream cones, Chocolate Mint and Butter Pecan, the big seller, and Strawberry-Rhubarb, which nobody likes. And Lake Wobegon postcards for sale, including one of three men in a boat hauling in a fish the size of a two-bedroom rambler (Home of the “Big Ones”). “Remember Willie the Walleye?” said Chuck. “Largest talking fish replica in the country,” said Clint. “The lower jaw moved and two fins and the eyes. Quite an attraction at one time. Willie used to do it, work the levers, talk into the microphone, say hi to the kids, sing ‘Happy Birthday,’ and then after the war his son Dave took it over and he wasn’t so patient and sometimes the walleye would yell at kids, and tell them to quit poking around that little door in his tail or he’d shit on them, and that was the end of it. What happened to the fish, I wonder.” Chuck wondered the same thing. “I suppose somebody came and busted it up.” Clint shook his head. No idea.
A girl in a teeny teeny red bikini top and a translucent wrap around her legs and her teeny teeny bikini bottom crossed the street, trailed by three boys in green nylon jackets with CENTRAL written on the back. They were wearing dark glasses, so you couldn’t see their eyes bulging. “My cousin’s girl,” said Chuck. “Fourteen. They start early now.”
The Chatterbox Cafe was packed, the regulars crowded into the back booths by a host of newcomers. Eleven a.m. and it was almost time for lunch. Or “dinner,” some people called it. Three old widows in one booth with two of their sisters and six burly farmers in another, eating sticky buns the size of softballs. They were the special that morning along with the three-egg omelets with sausage and green pepper and onion. A thin man in a suit and tie stood by the cash register, obviously a stranger. His hair was treated with some sort of pomade that made it stick up in little tufts. Why would anyone do that? thought Darlene the waitress, moving around with a carafe of coffee, filling up cups, swinging her big boobs under the white blouse. She had taken the time to put on lipstick, eye shadow, mascara, toning cream, and her uniform was nicely starched. She had hurt herself when a pot of coffee burned in the kitchen and she opened the back door to air the place out and Bruno the fishing dog walked in, smelling like death, and Darlene, chasing him out, slipped and sprained her ankle. She sat down and put her foot in a bucket of ice and lit a cigarette. “I thought there was no smoking in here,” said Leland. “There is now,” she said and she pretended to slap him.
“You gonna be on TV, Darlene? Guess you think so.”
“If our Darlene gets on TV, she’ll be out of here before you can say Jack Robinson,” said Mr. Hoppe. “Somebody in New Delhi will take one look and say, ‘That is the girl for me,’ and that’s the last we’ll see of her.”
“I don’t know anybody in New Delhi,” said Darlene.
Florian and Myrtle Krebsbach came traipsing in, Myrtle with a whoop and a cry and she struck a pose like a majorette, one knee up high, arms out. She was all dolled up in shiny green pants and a pink top and a headband that held a red-white-and-blue umbrella over her head. She sashayed up to Clint and put her old face down close to his and said, “I saw you slip your arm around that little doxy out there—what is going on with you as if I didn’t know? You old dog you. Hormones finally kicking in, huh?” She glanced back over her shoulder. “If you’re looking for action, buddy boy, why go for a novice? Why not find a woman who’s been around the block and knows what’s what?” She winked and pinched his shoulder. Hard. “That girl is barely old enough to ride a bike. I could show you a thing or two. You don’t think so, come around sometime.” She winked again as Florian said, “Hey Clint—” and she said, loudly, “I heard there was a chance of rain in the afternoon. That’s how come the umbrella. I just got my hair done yesterday.”
“You heard wrong,” said Clint. He was just tucking into his breakfast, two sunny-side up on hash browns, sausage on the side.
“Darlene here is hoping to get on TV this year,” said Hoppe. “I was telling her she oughta be taking singing lessons from that Albanian guy so when the offers start rolling in, she’s all ready to go.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said. “Though I will say those TV people last year were nice people. A lot nicer than what you meet as a waitress sometimes, I’d have to say. One of them gave me his business card and said to look him up if I was ever in Chicago.”
“Don’t forget where you got your start, Darlene. Don’t forget who your true friends are,” said Hoppe.
Myrtle sashayed toward the men at the counter like she was in a conga line. Her hair dyed jet-black and her old wrinkly face under the umbrella hat. “I hope those TV people aren’t counting on me to ride a float or anything. I’ve got delicate skin, I’ve gotta stay out of the sun.”
“I thought you were going to be the longevity queen,” said Hoppe.
She put her arm over his shoulders. “Don’t talk to me about sex unless you mean it, mister.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.
“I was afraid of that.” She gave Clint a big wink. “Anyway, I got my cap set for Mr. Bunsen t
here. He’s a man who knows how to please a lady. That’s what I hear. I saw Irene watering her plants this morning and whistling to herself and I said to myself, Now there is a woman who has been very well loved. Oh my yes. I can tell. She’s a woman whose toaster’s been busy.” And she cackled and moved off to join her sister Margaret in the corner. Margaret the quiet one. Myrtle was the wild card in the family.
He sat and ate his breakfast and listened to the chatter in the room, like water going over rocks, and his ear tuned to the grumblers in the far corner booth under the Great Northern Railway poster, a mountain goat on a rocky crag against a blue sky. All the old goats sat piled into that booth, the ones who had succeeded in defeating almost every intelligent and hopeful initiative to move Lake Wobegon forward in the past forty years. Their motto: What Do We Need That For? We’ve Gotten Along Without It So Far, Why Change Now? These guys could’ve stopped Pythagoras dead in his tracks and shot Galileo and prevented Mr. Jenner from inoculating that boy for smallpox. They had resented and resisted the celebration of the Fourth of July, preferring the old parade of pickups and tractors, the Sextette warbling like crazed geese, Mr. Detmer mumbling the Declaration of Independence, the firemen on the pontoon boat setting off a few Roman candles. They were in a jovial mood this morning. They knew Clint was leaving office and soon would come the Restoration of Cowpie Bingo and all the rest.
“I see they’re setting up fireworks at the ballpark,” said Mr. Diener. “I hope to God they don’t burn the place down. The money we’re spending on rockets—we could replace the warming house with that. Instead we’re just blowing it up into the sky. I don’t get it.”
Clint wanted to get up and march over and tell them: Next year at this time I will be in the Congress of the United States and you dopes will be reading about me in the newspaper. I will be participating in decisions that will affect the history of the world for years to come and I will be working for peace and justice and prosperity but now and then I might pick up a phone and have somebody at the IRS check your tax returns with a fine-tooth comb just to make sure your deductions are all in order.
And now Mr. Detmer had joined them.
“I’m going to miss you reading the Declaration this year,” said Val loudly. “That always was one of the high points for me.” Others murmured in agreement. “I don’t know how one man can decide for everybody else how we get to observe the Fourth of July.” He was talking loud for Clint’s benefit and Clint thought of turning around and throwing a cinnamon roll at him.
Or walking over and upturning the table and all the coffee and saying something good and sharp. I am the best goddamn mechanic you’ve got in this little tank town and when I clear out and leave you drunks and losers behind, you’ll have to drive to Little Falls to get your work done, except you know what? Your cars won’t make it that far. So Little Falls will have to send a wrecker. That’s gonna cost you. You won’t be heading to Florida next March because Little Falls is going to charge a lot more. And you know what? I’m going to be in Congress. Or in California where people love cars and appreciate a man who can keep them running. I might open me up a little place north of San Francisco and I’ll work in the mornings, and in the afternoons I’ll go out fishing for sea bass. Fifty-pounders. Sit out there in the sunny salt air and think about you stuck in a snowbank and waiting for the tow truck from Little Falls. Good luck, losers.
“It was so good last year,” said Mr. Bruner. “Everybody said so. It’s just so meaningful, I think.”
“I didn’t read the Declaration last year,” said Mr. Detmer. “Had a bad cold last year.”
“Is that right? I could’ve sworn it was last year—”
“Nope. Had a cold. I guess that’s what gave them the idea they could do without it. They asked me to shorten it. I said, no.”
“Good for you.”
“I mean, it is what it is. The Declaration of Independence. It’s the birth certificate of our nation. They said it’s too long for kids to listen to. I don’t think so. I was brought up to sit and listen, but kids nowadays have the attention span of a katydid. Everybody wants things shorter now.”
Mr. Detmer stood up. “Gotta run. The missus wants to get a seat early so we can shake hands with the governor.”
And then he looked out the window. “Lord have mercy. What have we here?”
Clint looked back over his shoulder. It was Angelica, crossing the street. She was carrying her torch, wearing her seven-pointed crown. Kevin was with her now. His T-shirt said BLOOM.
“Looks like Clint’s girlfriend traded him in for a newer model,” said Mr. Diener. The grumblers all chuckled. They were staring at Clint’s back, expecting him to react, turn red, weep for jealousy, something, but he sat and drank his coffee and took another forkful of eggs.
I am a peaceful man, but tonight I will do my work And slip into your house and cut your throat, you jerk. You will hear my footsteps and think it’s a joke And then the razor makes a clean stroke And you will find yourself in a land of smoke and ruin And Satan smiling at you—“Hey, good to see you. How you doin?”
And then a hand landed on his shoulder and he looked up to see a piggish man in a blue suit and tie. “Hi, we talked on the phone. I’m Todd from the governor’s office,” he said. He had a broad snout and dim little eyes and big pink jowls with some bristles on them. He was all ready to go to market. Thump him and hang him by a hook, skin him, drop his guts in a pail, you would have you some darn good breakfast sausage.
20. MR. DIENER’S INVESTIGATION
Miss Liberty had been part of the Fourth since 1913, usually played by a stern, top-heavy matron who marched down the street, torch in hand, as if she were on her way to burn down the homes of unbelievers. Miss Fleisher was Miss Liberty for decades until her knees gave out, a veteran schoolteacher who knew how to instill fear using only her steel blue eyes. It was Clint’s idea to cast a succession of Lake Wobegon beauties in the role, starting with his daughter Kira, who walked with a joyful élan, grinned, waved, alongside a float of paper daisies on which rode an old man (representing Life) and a boy (The Pursuit of Happiness) who one year was susceptible to motion sickness and couldn’t finish the parade. Angelica was the latest Miss Liberty. When she subbed for a friend last year several women onlookers reported to Clint that she clearly was not wearing a brassiere. And Mrs. Diener said that, in observing Angelica lift her robes to step down from the float, it was clear that Miss Liberty was not wearing undergarments.
“I had sat down to the curb to tie my shoe and she hoisted up her robe to step down and I looked up and there was no London, no France. And for your information, she waxes. Very weird.”
This was seconded by Mr. Berge, who was reasonably sober at the time.
“You could see her coosie,” he said.
“Her what?”
“You know what I’m talking about.”
“What did you say?”
“You heard me.”
“Where in the world does that come from? ‘Coosie’?”
“All girls have one, that’s all I know.”
Clint suggested that many young women wear flesh-colored underpants and in any case he was not going to call up a fine young woman and ask her a personal question like that.
Mrs. Diener was not satisfied. “Suit yourself,” she said. She gave her husband an earful and he looked up Miss Pflame on the Internet and found out that she lived above the Condor Club on Geranium Street in a rough section of St. Cloud and his brother-in-law Virgil, who knew people who knew other people, made inquiries and found out that Miss Pflame had frequented a clothing-optional dude ranch in Wyoming and had written about it! Bragged about it. On the Internet. Naked people on horseback. Think about it.
“A nudist?” said Mr. Diener. “In our parade? As the Statue of Liberty?”
“Plenty of perfectly decent people are nudists,” said Clint.
“Would you? Would your daughters?” Mr. Diener’s watery green eyes looked almost snakelike, a tiny f
orked tongue flickered from those pursed lips. “We’ve put too much into this to take the risk of some public scandal blowing up in our faces ruining everything.”
“A public scandal?”
“Virgil found out that Miss Pflame had participated in demonstrations in St. Cloud. One was to protest the arrest of a man who distributed free condoms at a condominium complex and another was to protest the expulsion of a high school home-coming queen who turned out to be a boy named Taylor. “Miss Pflame has a one-track mind,” said Diener. “You want Miss Liberty marching in the parade and waving a sign in favor of Premarital Sex?”
“It isn’t premarital sex if you don’t plan to get married,” said Clint.
“Not a joking matter, Clint. This town has some standards and we’re not going to sit by and let it go the way of everything else nowadays. You don’t see our young people lounging in the streets smoking marijuana and our young women having sex and then going off and getting abortions. Do you? No, you don’t.”
And then Mr. Diener bore in on him. “And you don’t see married men running around with young women and dumping their wives like they were used cars, do you? No.”
The old rattler had him in a corner there. Clint wanted to push back but he wilted, he turned away—“I’ll talk to her about it, I’m sure everything will be fine,” he said, waving his hand weakly.
So Mr. Diener knew about him and Angelica. And if he knew, then everybody in town knew. Everybody. So why not go to California? Angelica was going with Kevin but Kevin wasn’t written in stone and if she knew Clint was nearby and available, she would drop Kevin like a bad dream—why not go? He was disgraced already. Irene was steamed. Bunsen Motors was sliding toward bankruptcy. What did he have left to lose?
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