Viola wanted to go home and take a long, hot bath. She was worried about Art who had called her this morning and seemed agitated about who might be using the Hospitality Suite—“No damn politicians and no media,” he said over and over. “He ought to move to Montana where he can shoot guns and not upset people,” she said. She looked around at the Hospitality Suite and laughed. “This was my idea,” she said, “and Clint said it was foolish and he was right. Nobody’s going to come up here. What was I thinking? It’s all for nothing.”
“You and I can come up here and have a good stiff drink,” said Irene. Cindy said to count her in too. “Hospitality begins at home,” said Viola. “Why do we put out the red carpet for people we don’t know and will never see again? We ought to treat each other better.” A profound thought that hung in the air for a moment and then evaporated. “Bye,” she said. “See you at the Flag.”
Cindy was arranging cans of soda pop in stainless steel trays and dumping bags of ice cubes around them. Irene spread patriotic paper tablecloths on the long table and taped them down tight and arranged folding chairs into little conversational circles. Cindy, for some reason, considered her a confidante and this morning she was anxious to unburden herself about a man she’d met online in a chatroom called Married But Looking. “I just do it for fun,” she said.
“Oh my God,” said Irene. “I don’t want to know.” But Cindy plowed on. “I could have died. He was a Lutheran pastor. He went to Concordia the same time I did. I think I danced with him once, back when they didn’t allow dancing. It was a party in an English teacher’s house. His name is Arnie and now he’s in Nebraska and he just told me how his life had gone bad—wrong job, wrong wife, wrong place—and he is just yearning for something else. You could hear it in his voice. Yearning. You know what I mean?”
“Of course. It’s as common as the sore throat. Tell him to go find a good romance novel. That’s what they’re for.”
But Cindy and the poor dope in Nebraska were kindred spirits and they had talked and talked for hours and she’d said things she had never told anybody before. “You’re the only one in this whole town I can trust,” she said.
“Go no further. I am not to be trusted,” said Irene. “My husband is involved with a young woman who is actually in town today—think of it—she has come here—and I am in a mood to shoot somebody, so don’t tell me about you and your problems. I have plenty of my own. Sorry to be unkind, but there it is.”
“Oh my gosh,” said Cindy. “You are so brave.” And she burst into tears. “What women go through. I can’t talk to Roger. He is in another world.”
“This is the only world we have,” said Irene.
It was two o’clock, time to go see about the Living Flag. She felt obligated. She wished the Fourth was all over. She hated the whole thing. Always had. It wasn’t about patriotism at all, just a bunch of men making noise, blowing off rockets. A day for the George Bushes of the world to wave the flag and parade around and pretend to be big shots. And the stupid Living Flag. Putting on the red, white, and blue caps and standing in formation to make the stripes and the blue field of stars. Did Clint realize how much people hated doing that? People all jammed in tight on a hot day and sweating like pigs and the caps smelling of mildew. Who was this for? How did this serve the cause of human intelligence?
And then there were the hormones in the air. The young women of Lake Wobegon, darling girls who once knelt around the campfire singing “Kumbaya” and “Dona Nobis Pacem” as sparks flew upward, and now they were practicing to be street-walkers and the Fourth of July was their Coming Out Party—she had had this fight with Kira. It wasn’t Clint’s problem, he was oblivious. It was she who had to confront the child standing braless in a little tanktop and shorts—I have nothing against showing off a nice pair of legs. A little décolletage? Fine. But look at yourself in the mirror. You are showing your belly button and so much below your belly button, you could sell advertising. She’d fought with both her girls about this—less with Tiffany, who was chunkier and self-conscious—but Kira had a beautiful body and a big exhibitionist streak and the skirmishing was intense one summer—Are you wearing a bra? You are? Let me see. Where did you get that, out of a porn shop? Did some boy give you that? And your underpants —doesn’t that feel weird to go around with a string up your butt? Clint saw nothing, heard nothing. Daddy’s girl could do no wrong. So Irene had to fight all the battles. No, you will not be getting a tattoo on your lower back. Not while you live in this house. I don’t care if it is small. No no no. No to a lip ring too. No to dyeing your hair, it’s perfectly nice just the way it is. She tried to keep her girls decent through their tender years until they smartened up. Nothing wrong with Bermuda shorts, girls, and a nice T-shirt with a brassiere under it. Be clean and pleasant and comfortable with yourself. Read good books, study, travel, be of service. And be yourself, not a character in a movie. But when the Fourth of July rolled around, out came the loose tank tops and teeny tiny shorts—a carnival of flesh. Yowsa yowsa yowsa. Take a look! Teen flesh! And butt cracks!!! We got em! Hey hey hey. Check it out! Hurry hurry hurry. GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS. The town was flooded with young men, dudes in muscle shirts and flocks of geeks, clouds of testosterone in the air, and the maidens went crazy from the smell of it. They emerged in twos and threes and headed downtown for the festivities, and people turned in amazement—Emily! Our valedictorian! What is she doing in that little red bra and low-rider jeans? Did she forget to put on a shirt? Oh my goodness. Where is her mother?
What was it about the Fourth of July? Some windborne chemical urging mammals to couple up and breed. And alcohol, of course. Flying the flag of Our Nation excused all sorts of abuses. If you wore a flag pin in your lapel, you were free to be as disgusting as you liked. Raw youths from Millet came cruising the town on the Glorious Fourth and the girls of Lake Wobegon went out in tank tops and low-rider jeans and drove their mothers wild—to see their girls out with bare midriffs down to their you-know-what—Why? Because boys like it?? Boys’d like it if you stripped naked and jumped up and down but why do it? We want you to go to college and have a career, not earn your living dancing on a bar and men stuffing ten-dollar bills in your crack. Oh darling.
What was it about the male species that their brains slipped down into their pants? And yet—and yet. Last night had been lovely. He loved her. Deep in his heart he did, though Miss Pflame had turned his head and planted seeds of confusion—he did love his wife. He was not beyond hope. And she should fight for him just as she had fought for her daughters. You can’t stand by and say, “Oh well. What will be will be.” Sometimes you have to grab the ones you love and shake them—brbrbrbrbrbrbrbrbrbrb—and tell them to shape up or else.
But what is the “or else”? Give him an ultimatum and send him packing, the big cheater? A single lady of 60 whose résumé basically is “Raised three kids in Lake Wobegon, MN—ever hear of it?” does not command respect in the great world these days so her options would be limited. She could stay here in her beat-up house and be the Divorced Lady, volunteer for Grace at the library, whoop it up with the girls at Moonlite Bay on Friday nights, or she could sell the house (“Family Dreamhome: 3 BR stucco house w/ porch on handsome half-acre lot in peaceful small town in mid-America. Owner is brokenhearted and must move soon. Best offer.”) and maybe get enough to rent a condo in Tampa and wait for Social Security to kick in. There wouldn’t be a bucket of money coming from Bunsen Motors, that was clear. She’d worked hard all her life and divorce would put her in a hard place. That was the simple fact of the matter. Boo-hoo. Poor me. She ought to shake up the philanderer and wake him from his dream, and for that, she thought, she really ought to get a gun.
Irene had never held a gun in her hand except at a carnival booth, shooting water into a plastic clown’s mouth to make the little horse run in the derby and win a plush bear, but it couldn’t be so hard. Idiots shot other idiots all the time. A gun would be good. Talk only goes so far. When Johnny was doing Franki
e wrong, she didn’t ask him to go into counseling, she went to the pawnshop and got a big .44 and marched down to the hotel where he was shacked up with Nelly Bly. She shot through the hardwood door, rooty-toot-toot. Unfortunately she put Johnny in the graveyard. Irene didn’t intend to kill Clint, just bring him to his senses. It was time he learned: You can’t have everything. Take your choice. Make a life with me or get a bellyful of hot lead.
Art had guns at the motel. She just needed to bust into his cabin and find one and load it. Or not load it. She could decide that later.
24. THE FOUNDERS ASSEMBLE
Under a big maple in the park, next to the drinking fountain, the historical figures were waiting patiently, Lincoln and George and Martha and Uncle Sam and the American Gothic couple. It wasn’t easy to find people to fill the roles—not many Wobegonians had theatrical aspirations—and the ones Clint persuaded to do it were grumpy right before a parade, especially George Washington, whose wife Martha was actually his sister-in-law—his own wife refused to do it—and his pants were too tight, about to split in two. Martha rolled her eyes—her sister had offered twice to let the pants out in the inseam, but no, he wouldn’t have it.
“She must’ve washed ’em in hot water.”
She reached for his fly. “Just open up the snap.”
“Don’t stick your hand in my pants. People are looking.”
“I’m Martha, your wife, remember? I can grab your pants if I want to.” She got his waistband and tugged him toward her. “You’re the father of your country—I want to see what you’ve got down there.”
He pulled away. “There are children around here—”
When he wasn’t George Washington he was running the grain elevator, but he’d been Washington for eight years now, substituting for Earl who had to have hip-replacement surgery, and he’d read books about Washington and thank God he came along when he did, otherwise we’d still be hooked up to the English, a class-addled race addicted to warm beer and cricket, a game in which the pitcher throws the ball in the dirt and a guy swings a shovel at it and the games last six hours and everybody wears white and nobody knows what’s happening.
And he bumped into Abraham Lincoln, standing alone, in his black frock coat, white shirt, string tie, and stovepipe hat. His fake beard, which was coming unglued on one side. “Watch where you’re stepping,” he said.
“Sorry. Got a wardrobe problem. How you doing?”
“You see a toilet around here?”
“They got Port-A-Potties in the park,” said George Washington.
“You’d think they could provide something here—” He looked around. “I gotta go so bad I can taste it.”
“I can see that. Your eyes look yellow.”
“Very funny.”
“Go pee in the alley.”
“Oh sure. Right.”
“Go ahead. I’ll watch your back.”
Lincoln was looking at a mangy mutt across the street. The dog had bitten him a year ago and was looking at him hard as if trying to put a name to the face. He had been laying for Lincoln a long time.
“Oh shit,” said Lincoln. A troop of twelve Camp Fire Girls was advancing toward him smiling, with their group leader, a large woman with a grin you could cut down trees with. The girls wanted their picture taken with the Great Emancipator if he didn’t mind.
“I need to go see a man about a dog,” he said. “You want a picture, you better hurry.” He was starting to shift from foot to foot. “Smile. Look happy,” said the Leader.
Nearby, Paul Revere sat uneasily on a horse, two lanterns in one hand, reins in the other, and his mount dancing in a circle, tossing its head, though John Adams was holding the bridle. If horses can smell fear, then there was plenty to smell. Paul’s face was flushed, his heart was pounding under his ruffles. “Maybe I’ll climb off and see if he settles down,” said Paul. “Sit tight,” said Adams. “You climbing off is going to get him all riled up.”
“Why can’t I just walk like everybody else?” said Paul.
“People expect you to be on a horse. Stick with the plan,” said Adams.
25. THE LIVING FLAG
The Living Flag was forming on the football field just as—wonder of wonders—the CNN crew arrived in town. Word spread fast. They’re back. And crowds flowed toward the field. The Percherons stood tethered under the canvas tarps on the running track and the crowd filed into the bleachers, big families strung together, kids like ducklings tucked in close to their mothers, the dads pushing grandmas in wheelchairs—Oh my gosh, thought Clint. Handicapped facilities. He sent Carl to open up the high school. They could ship the cripples up there to take a leak, if necessary. On Main Street, the black CNN van with a satellite dish and a long steel arm, folded, on the roof, cruised past the Chatterbox driven by a grim-faced man with a shaved head and mirror shades. He pulled up in front of the Sidetrack Tap—Dorothy was watching from the window of the café—Wrong, wrong, wrong! Wrong parking spot! We don’t want Mr. Berge on national TV. Somebody’s got to get them to move that van. She called Clint.
By the time the four CNN men had put their boots on the ground, Clint and Viola Tors were heading to the scene. The shavehead had the cargo door open and was about to extract a box—“No, no, no,” said Clint. “Back here. By the reviewing stand. It’s all blocked off.”
“And there’s a Hospitality Suite,” said Viola, “with fresh shrimp. Better elevation. And it’s shadier.”
“This the parade route?”
A smiley man touched Clint on the shoulder. “I’m Ricky,” he said. “I’m the producer.”
Ricky wore black jeans and a black T-shirt that said NEWS across the chest. His smile included all of his front teeth, top and bottom, and a good deal of pink gum as well. His hair was trimmed to a soft grayish buzz and he had a silver ring in his left ear. Clint thought, Fine. This isn’t the first man you’ve ever seen with an earring. No big deal. Don’t focus on it. But Ricky was a piece of work. He grabbed Clint’s forearm and said, “I think we’re going to do something utterly marvelous today.” He took a deep breath and said, “I love this town. I’ve been here ten minutes and already I feel love. I always wanted to live in a town like this. Friendly people. I’m from Philadelphia and I love Philly but when it comes to good people you just can’t beat the small town. And that’s what we’re going to do today. The news is full of violence and rage and sex scandals and today America is going to get a look at its true self, its goodness. We are going to do goodness today!”—he addressed the last part to his crew who stood waiting for instructions, a short squat man with a coil of power cord around his neck and a skinny kid supremely bored with an iPod plugged into his ears.
“Goodness. The human heart. A sense of community. The American family. That’s what we’re going to show today,” said Ricky.
“We scheduled the parade for four o’clock,” said Clint. “But we’re flexible.”
“Perfecto!” said Ricky, grinning. “Couldn’t be better. We’re doing a live remote. Live. Not taped.”
Live. You mean—live? “Live as you and me,” said Ricky. “It’ll be beautiful. But we don’t know when they’ll switch to us, so we need to stay in position. High alert.” He motioned to his crew, and the shavehead and the skinny kid started hauling blue road cases out of the van and the squat man opened a switchbox on the side of the van and the satellite dish rose into the air at the end of the steel arm.
Clint could feel the day coming together at last. His swan song as Chairman, on national television, live. Somebody find Berge and lock him up, he thought. You don’t want 57 million people to see some whiskey-laden bum walking sideways toward the camera and telling the president to go stick it up his ass. Stay calm, Clint told himself. Take charge. He told Viola to tell Miss Falconer to get the choir ready. He told Carl to find Lyle and tell him the parade might have to loop around a few times.
“Loop around?”
Yes. Exactly. A loop. Just in case CNN’s coverage was late. Clint wan
ted the parade to get on TV, especially the Percherons and the big circus wagons.
Mr. Sport Coat was observing from behind Clint’s shoulder. “I’ll have a T-shirt made. ‘Bunsen for Congress.’ Take me two minutes. Have ten T-shirts. You and nine of your closest friends.
Slip into the parade and march past the camera. If they’re live, there’s nothing they can do about it. Nothing.”
Clint shook his head. Not a good idea.
The Living Flag organizers walked through town and hollered to people in their backyards, “CNN is here. Let’s make the Living Flag look good on TV. We need people! Can’t do it without you! Come on down!”
They moved along, coaxing and urging, moving the sheep toward the football field. Clint was on the horn, ordering ice from Little Falls. An old lady had fainted by the lake. CNN was busy. The squat man was assembling a control console beside the truck and the skinny kid had hung an awning over it and Ricky was sitting looking at the CNN broadcast feed on a screen and talking over headphones to somebody named Sam.
At Leonards Field, the red caps and white hats were distributed, broad-brim straw hats, and then the blue hats, and everyone wanted blue because they were the last to line up, and then the stripes started assembling, three abreast, and then the blue rectangle.
Father Wilmer poked his head into the Sidetrack and announced that the Flag was forming, and Wally said, “Yeah, I’ll be down if I can. I don’t know. It all depends.”
“We need everybody,” said Father Wilmer. “CNN is on the scene and we don’t want it to be puny.”
“Okay, but I’ve got a business to run, Father.”
Father looked around the dim barroom, newly mopped and disinfected, the lights bubbling on the jukebox. “Close it up. It’s a holiday,” he said.
“No holidays in the bar business. Just the occasional lull.”
“Somebody said they saw Art walking around downtown,” said Father.
Liberty Page 14