Cry Wilderness

by Frank Capra

  But for us who live in the home of the brave, the three words not only spell hope, but politics—that grand old game between the “ins” and the “outs.” What spearing fish is to Eskimos, politics is to Americans—a way of life. Our national pastime, enjoyed with gusto by every male and female between ten and a hundred, is not baseball or wine festivals; it is elections.

  We introduce the game early in grade schools, teaching children how to nominate and elect school and classroom leaders. In high school, the virus spreads from the scholastic confines to infect the extracurricular activities of sports, clubs, and social shindigs. In colleges and universities, the fever rises into all-out election campaigns, with bands, rallies, speeches, posters (some funny, some cruel). This is the boot camp for the “pro” league.

  Those of us who leave college for the work-a-day world carry the election bug with us. We join the “amateur league” and elect officers for service clubs, women’s clubs, kennel clubs; for unions, industry, professions; sports, churches, jails and prisons; even the Cosa Nostra elects sub-rosa leaders with super-rosa credentials. No one can escape being elected to something. We have become a nation of all Chiefs and no Indians. But that’s We, the People—amateurs or not, we love it.

  But it’s the battle of the “pros” that sends us into a frenzy every other November, when presidents (every four years); congressmen; state, county, and city officials—and the village dog catchers—all come back to We, the People for election or reelection; and to have their heads deflated by the rude reminder that they work for us; that our secret little “X’s” will mean thumbs-up or thumbs-down for half of them.

  And so we sit smugly glued to our TV sets, as (in between sexy gals brainwashing us into thinking we’d all be more potent in bed if we drink this, smoke that, or gargle both) all the candidates come into our living rooms, wearing makeup, oozing charm and integrity as they “point with pride” at themselves and “view with alarm” at their worthy opponents, who are always nameless. And we love it. But true to the contrariness of human nature, after we elect them—we dare them.

  And—we needle them, too. We, the People have contrived a gimmick to get the lead out of political behinds. We call it a petition. They call it a pitchfork. Anyway, petitions keep our political claws sharpened between elections. They are collections of signatures (sponsored by the sane or the nutty) calling for “special action” from foot-dragging public officials.

  We blithely sign petitions to “save the cats” or “kill the cats”; for or against taxes, freeways, Bingo, long hair, tight pants, beatniks, smoggy air, fluorinated water, topless waitresses—and—

  As happened in primitive Mono County—during a November week of misty, icy weather—petitions for and against the Board of Supervisors’ calling of a public hearing concerning Deputy Lefty Wakefield’s refusal to arrest and deport two “weirdies”—Bear Bait and Dry Rot.

  Hundreds of charged-up Monoites—on wheels, on nags, on foot—banged on doors for housewives, sloshed the streams for fishermen, beat the sagebrush for Indians, and puffed up mountains for hunters to corral their signatures.

  The “pro Beavers” (those for Lefty) were mostly waitresses, carpenters, farmers, and sheepherders—the working stiffs. The “con Brigade” were realtors, resort owners, businessmen, and club women—the hiring staffs. Roughly the two groups represented those with little who wanted a little more, and those with much who wanted much more.

  All the petitions had to be delivered personally to the chambers of Superior Court Judge Hollingsworth, in the county courthouse, for counting and checking by county recorders against eligibility and duplication. The deadline was midnight, Saturday.

  •••

  The four-faced clock in the cupola tolled twice—two hours past the midnight deadline. Across Highway 395, in the doorway of the Sportsman’s Lodge, I paced and smoked. It was cold. Through the now almost leafless row of silver maples, the lit-up courthouse seemed strangely unreal in the swirling mist of fog and snow flurries. Ghostly moon halos encircled each lighted courthouse window. The spectral glow of an occasional passing car’s headlights conjured up yellowish phantoms that raced madly to escape pursuing red demons that followed the taillights.

  The setting was MacBethian. The silence eerie. The actors awaited their cues. The government forces were bivouacked in Tony Caldwell’s DA office—waiting, pacing, smoking. My fellow conspirators, “Boatcourt” Steve Gorski, Hoppy Hopkins, and ex-deputy Lefty Wakefield, were huddled in a small back room of the Sportsman’s Lodge—waiting, pacing, smoking. Outside the hall door of Judge Hillary Hollingsworth’s chambers, waited two opposing emissaries: fidgeting Jake “Beatle” Ziffren, and the DA’s composed, dress-pulling, bouncy secretary. For the record, the dress-pulling was not entirely wasted on Jake. He admitted later that, in between nail-biting, he was about to ask for her phone number—when the door opened!

  Judge Hollingsworth, seventy-five, short (he wore high heels and sat on a phone book at the bench), stood in the doorway yawning. Behind him, disheveled clerks were putting on their coats and collecting election bets. With maddening deliberation the judge handed each emissary identical written verdicts of the petition count. One emissary screamed and raced up the rickety stairs. Moments later a victory roar exploded in the district attorney’s office. I heard the shout from across the highway, heard it rattle the old courthouse’s tall narrow windows.

  A half hour later, in the main room of the Sportsman’s Lodge, it was New Year’s Eve. The bureaucrats were howling tonight—howling, backslapping, and singing. The most popular song, joined in by all, and repeated every two minutes, was the old faithful:

  “For he’s a jolly good fellow,

  He’s a jolly good fellow—

  WHO? TONY CALDWELL!”

  …and then a burst of cheering and applause.

  One fractured wit made up and sang the theme song:

  “Oh, we tell you one and all,

  You can’t beat City Hall!”

  CHEERS! Soon everyone sang it, each to his own tune. And soon the men began acting out the ancient party ritual: sing a song and kiss a secretary and—if you’re stoned enough—try for her scalp—that is, her garter. Since there were five Johns for every Jane, happiness was being a secretary.

  In the closed-off back room of the coffee shop, there was another meeting—but no cheers, and no singing. Not even talk as Boatcourt, Hoppy, Lefty, and I sat around a small table looking far, far away into our coffee cups. Since Jake had brought the verdict to us, no one had said a word; the dressing room of the losers—ringing with the victory cheers of the winners.

  Steve Gorski, dressed in an expensive gray suit and black fedora (which on him still looked like his fishing duds), twirled and untwirled a gray forelock. Hoppy pinched his lower lip, pulling it this way and that; Lefty was his usual hulking “statue of a lump.” He still wore his deputy’s uniform (since what with six kids he couldn’t afford a “civvy” suit), but without pistol, star, or handcuffs he appeared oddly emasculated—like seeing a toothless lion yawn.

  One after the other we had read the verdict: 3,956 against a public hearing for Lefty—3,501 for! What a shock! We had all felt so certain… Crusaders for the downtrodden! And they turn us down! The first Crusaders had a holy cause and were certain, too—until they met the Saracens, I thought to myself. An ungodly cheer went up in the party room. The gloom in our room was shattered by a blast of noise as the door opened. And speaking of Saracens, there stood District Attorney Tony Caldwell, his elegant black topcoat and gray hat glistening with fine drops of mist. Behind him stood his cheering section, just finishing up:

  “…For he’s a jolly good fellow—

  WHO? TONY CALDWELL!…”

  The cheeky SOB, I thought to myself, he just couldn’t wait to look in and crow. He closed the door to shut out the noise.

  “Sorry if I’m interrupting,” he said
with a tired voice. “May I come in?”

  Only Steve Gorski recovered enough to answer.

  “Sure, sure. Pull up a chair.”

  We watched him closely as he dragged over a chair and slumped into it without removing coat or hat. If he’d come to crow, he wasn’t flapping his wings about it. Somehow he seemed ten years older as he sat there tapping his fingers without looking at anyone.

  “How’d you tear yourself away from the victory party?” asked Boatcourt.

  “Victory party? Oh, yes…”

  “I have to congratulate you, Tony,” said Boatcourt. “Those club women went all out for you.”

  “Yeah…” answered the DA vaguely. He seemed to be trying to ease into a conversation of some sort and finding it difficult. “Never underestimate the power of a woman, they say…”

  “Or of bigotry,” snapped back Hoppy Hopkins.

  The remark stung Tony out of his vagueness.

  “I’m not proud of it,” he retorted quickly, leaving unsaid the obvious inference that he hadn’t been left any other choice. Then he leaned over the table toward Hoppy and began talking, as evenly and impersonally as a man dictating a letter. “Hoppy…I really came over here to see you…to tell you that I’ve convinced the Board of Supervisors to hold a public hearing, regardless of the petition count. In fact, in spite of it.”

  He paused to light up an elegant little cigar with an even more elegant gold gas lighter, then continued:

  “Many of the Board, and particularly the sheriff, are quite sure I’m out of my mind…and maybe I am. But anyhow, they agreed to it. Now, what I’d like to know from you is this: Will you publish this announcement in your next week’s edition of your papers, or will I have to take out another ad in the Minden, Nevada, paper to let the people of Mono know about it?”

  Outwardly, not one of us batted an eye. But inside our heads the little computer wheels spun furiously. Was there a joker in this sudden reversal? A booby trap? Why didn’t the supervisors give Lefty a public hearing when he first asked for it? Or was this a sawdust trail conversion? The wheels spun, but the computers were as confused as the questions.

  “I’m a newspaper man, Tony,” answered Hoppy, offhandedly. “What are the facts?”

  “Tonight, at two thirty a.m., after the signatures were counted, the full Board met to consider…on its merits only…Deputy Sheriff Lefty Wakefield’s appeal for a public hearing on the reasons he disobeyed a direct order from his superior, Sheriff McMahon. The supervisors voted unanimously to grant the request, even though the petition count was clearly against a public hearing.

  “The time of the hearing is set for ten a.m. Thursday next. It will be held in the Supervisor’s Office at the county courthouse in Bridgeport. Adjacent offices will be opened and seats provided. If there is an overflow, standing room in the halls will be available within the limits of safety.

  “The hearing will be open to the public and the press. Court reporters will keep a verbatim record of the proceedings. This record will be available to the press. Interested parties may be represented by counsel, and if any subpoenas are necessary, the Board will issue them on request.

  “The hearing will be informal. The Chairman of the Board, Mr. Guy Hanford, will honor questions and answers from anyone in the room, including the public. A formal witness chair will be provided for anyone wishing to testify under oath. No one will be required to answer any question he doesn’t wish to answer. The hearing will be purely informational, for the enlightenment of the Board and the public. The Board will not be required to make a formal judgment, or take any formal action unless it wishes to do so. I think that takes care of it. Any questions?”

  There were many questions we would have liked to ask, but didn’t. So I asked a perfunctory one just to keep the conversation alive.

  “Any photographers allowed?”

  He looked straight at me for the first time. There was no love in his eyes. I just rubbed this man the wrong way, and that was it.

  “You mean movie cameras, I take it?” he asked after taking a deep breath to calm his irritation.

  “Skip it,” I answered, annoyed with myself.

  “Hoppy…we didn’t discuss photographers. But if you want two of your men there, I’ll arrange it for them. Any other questions?”

  “Tony…” spoke up Boatcourt after a pause, “why?”

  Tony twirled the little cigar in his fingers, then managed a fleeting wry smile as he looked up at Boatcourt. These two men seemed to understand each other.

  “Good question, Steve,” he answered slowly as he groped for words. “Well, for one reason…Lefty, here…probably the only honest man at this table. What he did, he did from the heart…and his appeal for understanding has been snowed under by…other matters. Lefty deserves a break.” Then, as he rose to leave, “Hoppy… All the details, please…and I hope without editorial comment. There’ll be none from my side. See you at the hearing.”

  “Tony!” called out Boatcourt, stopping him at the door. “Lefty’s no more honest today than he was yesterday. What’s the other reason?”

  Handsome Tony seemed to slump at the question. Then he straightened up and faced Boatcourt, smiling pleasantly:

  “Well, Steve, you’ll know sooner or later. It’s me that’s different today than I was yesterday. Doc Slingsby told me this morning I have an inoperable cancer.”

  •••

  “Next bungalow on the right, Frank,” said Boatcourt to me as I was driving him up a piney road in the hills back of the post office at Mammoth Lakes.

  “Elegant house,” I remarked as I pulled up to the curb in front of a very attractive rambling bungalow, all shingles and rockwork. Even in the soft glow from the lighted windows I noticed the well-kept lawn, the rosebushes, and the tall surrounding pines.

  “He’s strictly first class all the way,” said Steve while getting out of the car. “You should see his wife.”

  Boatcourt had called and asked me to drive him over to Tony Caldwell’s house. The shocking news Tony told us the night before at the coffeehouse had taken the fight out of us.

  As we sat limply, Boatcourt expressed the feelings of all when he mumbled, “I can’t stomach the idea of crossing swords with a condemned man.” I had no solution. Neither did Hoppy. And when Lefty burst out with a loud “Damn!”—the only word that crossed his lips all night—we all got up and went home.

  “Better if you stay in the car and wait for me, don’t you think, Frank?” said Boatcourt through the open car window. “You’re fingernails on a blackboard to him, you know.”

  “I know. Okay, I’ll wait.”

  Good man, that Steve Gorski, I thought to myself, as I watched him trudge up the neat brick walk. Strange man, but a good man. And smart. And gracious. Yes, that was it. He must have done something pleasing to God sometime, for Steve Gorski had been blessed with more than his share of the Almighty’s grace, with all its attending humilities and amenities. Yes, sir. Circumstances seemed to relax around old Boatcourt. Old? How old was he? Hard to say—thirty-five? Forty-five? Sixty-five? It was his eyes that one first noticed about him; bright eyes that mischievously danced out of a baby face that was paradoxically furrowed and seamed with premature wrinkles; crinkly wrinkles that curved upward from the corners of his mouth into man’s most appealing accomplishment—a warm, friendly smile; a smile that said disarmingly, “Relax, friend. I’m a much bigger fool than you are.”

  Puck, that’s who he was. A wrinkled, overage, benevolent Puck. What envious little devils had started those juicy, sub-rosa tittle-tattles about all those bizarre parties he threw for college students in his mysterious mountain mansion? And why did wives snicker when they unfunnily whispered that “that man Gorski is an old smoothie” and husbands guffaw when they leeringly added, “You mean a ‘queer’ old smoothie”? Could Boatcourt possibly be a homosexual?

 
On the porch, Steve Gorski pushed the doorbell button. Three-toned chimes reverberated from inside the house—much like

  A Mercedes 300 turned off the road in front of my parked car, slowing to a stop in the graveled driveway.

  “Tony! Look who’s here,” she cried out. “My pet man…”

  Interesting voice, too: made of laugh stuff; low; occasionally breaking into rippling highs—like Jean Arthur’s.

  Steve pulled Grace toward him. Lowering his voice, he whispered something seriously. She looked up at him, puzzled by his words.

  As Tony walked across the lawn toward the door, his head turned to keep me fixed in a challenging stare as he wondered who was sitting in the parked car. He was interrupted by the lovely arms of his wife slipping around his neck.

  “Hi, darling.” Then, with the faintest trace of anxiety in her laughing voice, “Mister Gorski just asked me how you were feeling… Is there something I should…”

  “Feeling?… Oh… He means about the hearing…Steve?” he shouted to Boatcourt kiddingly. “I’ll show you how I feel about it. Watch and drop dead.”

  With that he embraced his wife fiercely, kissed her, and held her so tight her toes were off the lawn as he swung her back and forth. Then, as the kiss took effect on both, he gently lowered her down on her feet and, standing there molded in each other’s arms, they passionately glued their lips together, unmindful of the world around them. It was a love affair all right, I admitted to myself.

  “Oh, Tony…” she chided, as she broke away flushed and flustered, her dishevelment making her cool beauty even more desirable. “Out here in the open? In front of…”

  “In front of God and everybody. Now you run in and straighten up that pretty little face, while Steve and I straighten out a few points about the hearing. Go, beautiful.”