by Frank Capra
“Where did I get this information?” asked Hoppy. “Right from the horse’s mouth. A week ago, after the petition count had gone against us, Boatcourt, Lefty, the film man, and I got together in the backroom of the Sportsman’s Lodge to lick our wounds. When in walked Tony, to tell us he had persuaded the supervisors to give Lefty a public hearing even though the petition count had gone against our side. He said, “Lefty is such a square, honest guy that he deserves a public hearing to let us all know why he refused to carry out a direct order from his superior.
“Then, in a businesslike way, Tony told us of the time, and details of the hearing, and asked me to publish the details in my paper. I said I would.
“Tony was on his way out when Boatcourt said, ‘Lefty is no more honest today than he was yesterday. What’s the other reason, Tony?’
“Tony looked back and said, ‘Well, maybe I’m not the same guy today I was yesterday. This morning, Dr. Slingsby told me I have an inoperable cancer.’ Then he walked out, leaving us shocked and speechless.
“I tried to check the story with Dr. Slingsby and was rewarded with a sharp lecture about his Hippocratic oath.
“So now, having disposed of all other business, I, as a newsman, must confirm this story Hoppy held up the paper. Mr. Caldwell, have you, or have you not inoperable cancer?”
Boatcourt suddenly raised his head and leaned forward with keen interest. Would the love of his twisted life prove to be a pure diamond? Of course—
Tony came up to Hoppy, looked him right in the eye, and said, “Well I’ll be goddamed!” He turned to the audience. “Ladies and gentlemen, I’ve heard of slimy, putrid, sneaky, dishonest, inhuman election tricks, but this cancer bit…the devil himself couldn’t think of that one. INOPERABLE CANCER? ME?” He looked for Dr. Slingsby in the audience.
“Hey, Doc, where are you? Stand up, please. Ladies and gentlemen, that is my regular doctor, Doctor Slingsby. Doctor Slingsby, when did you last examine me?”
“I gave you a complete physical examination yesterday.”
“Did you find any cancer in me, inoperable or any other kind?”
“No, sir. As I told you after the examination, you are the healthiest guy I ever examined.”
“But,” insisted Hoppy, “if you haven’t got cancer, why did you tell us four that Dr. Slingsby had told you that morning that you had inoperable cancer?”
“Why? Yes, why? Why do I stand here and talk to you penny-ante liars who’d sell your grandmothers to win an election? Friends, let me say this for the record, and then we’re leaving. I have never uttered the word ‘cancer’ to this cabal of lying scum, or to anyone else in the world—for as long as I can remember!”
Face drained of blood, Boatcourt rose, trembling; his face contorted with pain and fury. Oh, how brutal was the raw truth! Tony lied! His pure diamond had lied!
Angrily dismissing it all, Tony dramatically threw up his hands and quit. “Oh, what in hell am I taking this beating from these cheap bums for? Go on. Send that scurvy Boatcourt to represent you in the assembly. And Grace and I will move to another county where politicians are not such lying shysters.”
Shouts of “NO! NO!,” were beginning to be heard.
“But if you want me to represent you, and fight for you in Sacramento, I’ll have to know that you want me, that you’re behind me. And I want to know it now! Not at election time. NOW! Or I take my name off the ticket, and leave the county.
“Okay, let’s find out. There are enough of you here. All those who want to be represented by that toad, that fat eunuch toad—say ‘Aye!’”
The courthouse exploded with No’s and Boo’s.
“Okay. Now all those who want to be represented by me, say ‘Aye!’”
“AYE!”
“Louder.”
“AYE!!!!!!!!”
The courthouse shook with stompings and whistles and cheers. Every person in the room rushed to shake Tony’s hand. The cry went up—“TONY…TONY…TONY…” Those outside stormed the doors to get inside. The ovation became hysterical. Tony stood on a chair and raised his arms in victory.
Waves of well-wishers jostled the benumbed Boatcourt. No one noticed him. Hoppy managed to come alongside him and say into his ear, “We weren’t smart enough to stop the son of a bitch here. Damn! Damn! Damn!”
The two old gladiators slumped together in the jostling—beaten, defeated, vanquished. Tears came into their already watery eyes.
“God save America,” whispered Boatcourt. Then he advanced toward Tony. The sheriff and several deputies and marines tried to keep the crowd from overwhelming the winner.
Tony caught sight of Boatcourt. Arrogantly, he pointed him out. “There he is, folks. My opponent! The Great Eunuch of the Sierra….”
The crowd around hissed and sneered their contempt.
Tony couldn’t hold back his hate. “Told you, Boatcourt, that I was going to destroy you in public. Show him what you think of him. Everybody!”
The room shook with taunts and despicable words.
The sheriff came to Boatcourt’s aid. With one quick movement, Boatcourt snatched the sheriff’s gun from its holster, and fired three quick shots into Tony, then fired one quick shot into his own head.
Pandemonium broke loose. Marines and deputies charged here and there, keeping crowds, those who pushed to see the bodies and those who pushed to get away from the bodies, from crushing each other. Men panicked and jumped out of windows. Women fainted and were trampled. Stair banisters gave way under the human pressure. Men leaped and caught women who leaped after them.
Coolest of all was Tony’s wife, Grace. When the shooting started she slithered silently behind and under the seats of the hysterical supervisors. A blob of Boatcourt’s brains had splattered her dress. She was desperately trying to wipe off the filthy stuff when she saw Tony’s secretary, the dress puller-downer, pushing herself away from Tony’s bloody body, her face awash with tears. Grace pulled her into her hiding place. “Here, quick,” she said. “Let me wear your coat and shawl. Nobody must see me leave. Understand? And, oh, a hundred dollars if you drive me to the Reno airport without anybody noticing me.”
“There’s a back way,” said the tear-stained secretary. They scuttled to the secretary’s little Volkswagen unnoticed. Grace slumped in the back seat while the secretary maneuvered her VW to Highway 395 through a jammed-up mass of honking cars. Distant siren wails added confusion to the bedlam.
Grace had made her escape unnoticed, a perfumed rat leaving the ship. From her back seat she harshly ranted, “Father warned me. ‘Watch it, baby,’ he’d say. ‘Those who root with pigs grow a snout.’ Can’t you go any faster? Oh, hold it, hold it! I see a payphone.” She leaped out of the car before it stopped and ran for the phone. Alone, the secretary gave way to sobbing—deeply, audibly.
“Wait a minute, Dad,” she said hurriedly on the phone. “Let me repeat it back to you. One—I buy the car from her. Right? Two—I drive it full speed, not to Reno, but to the ammunition depot at Hawthorne, Nevada. Three—they will know to let me in. Four—the Lear Jet will be waiting for me. Five—give a soldier a couple of G’s to burn the car. Okay. Got it. See you, Dad.”
Chapter Ten
The morning had grown wackier and wackier; first sun, then snow, then a brutal blizzard. An extraordinarily large crowd of Monoites had gathered at first light at the small primitive county graveyard on the north shore of Mono Lake. But when the blizzard hit before the services started (the blinding winds burst on them from all sides like charging, screaming, mounted Indians), the deputy sheriffs quickly ordered all spectators to get into their cars and follow the snowplow single file because visibility was approaching zero, and the narrow road to the highway would quickly be obliterated.
These mountain people will turn tail for nothing on earth—except a blizzard. And the winds know it. In half an hour, the long procession o
f cars had disappeared in the blinding blasts.
Having disposed of the cars, the tormenting winds turned their fury on stuffy, haughty Mono Lake, provoking that caliginous loch into lashing back with angry waves that pounded and sprayed great blobs of salty foam on the white-encrusted towers and miniature castles that line its shores; and to snobbishly brag that unlike other dead sea waters, Mono Lake was teeming with life, because it had the secret of creating life. With the proper mixture of saltwater and fresh (from freshwater springs) and solar power, it created a profusion of microscopic life, which fed billions of shrimp and flies, which fed millions of birds, including, if you please, 95 percent of California’s seagulls which fly over the Sierra to lay their eggs on Negit, Mono’s little black island.
Yes, indeed! And the three-million-year-old lake has many more dark secrets yet untold to man, or even to witless winds.
But the wild winds couldn’t care less. They had spied another sport. They whistled and swirled around something new: three plain pine coffins, lined up on staked-down green-carpeted sawhorses, alongside three graves carved out of frozen ground. Mounds of mixed snow and earth (dug-out material for filling the graves) were covered with heavy tarps weighted down with concrete blocks.
First, the zany winds zeroed in on the mounds of flowers, around and atop the two end coffins—the middle coffin (Tony Caldwell’s) was bare. Off go the flowers flying in the wind—hothouse roses, gardenias, plastic wreaths, all took off like spooked birds; followed by the little stands and vases that went bouncing and toppling like men on crutches fleeing a fire.
Leaving only the bare coffins (with temporary three-foot black-lettered white signs staked into the ground in front of each coffin), the rampaging winds spied something new; the left coffin was covered with an unfamiliar flag—a Canadian flag was tied on the coffin. Well, they huffed and they puffed. But the strange flag held fast. Four Canadian military men—an honor guard standing stiffly at attention—knew their tie-downs. Foiled, the clownish winds went looking for easier prey.
In front of the Canadian coffin, the temporary sign read:
“**(two stars on top) SURGEON GENERAL ANDREW “BEAR BAIT” PARKS…CANADIAN INFANTRY…WORLD WAR II…BORN JUNE 7, 1897…DIED NOVEMBER 26, 1965.”
The middle coffin was unadorned. The white sign read:
“TONY CALDWELL…WORLD CHAMPION “GO” PLAYER…BORN APRIL 10, 1939…DIED NOVEMBER 26, 1965.”
At the third coffin, Anitchka and Hoppy Hopkins were unwrapping a beautiful, gold-rimmed Romanov coat of arms of inlaid wood. Her head trembling up and down and unable to speak, Anitchka laid the coat of arms gently on top of the coffin.
Then she kneeled, kissed the coffin, said a little prayer, rose, and asked to be taken away, her head continuing to shake up and down. She smiled at those about her and allowed herself to be taken to a car and driven away; remembering nothing of the past or of the immediate present, but living happily in her own small cocoon.
In front of the third coffin was the lettered sign:
“STEPHEN ‘BOATCOURT’ PIETAGORSRI…BORN, JANUARY 8, 1909…DIED NOVEMBER 26, 1965.”
Among the spectators who had not left was the sheriff, standing stiff and hatless, about twenty feet in front of the coffins. Next to him stood Deputy Sheriff “Lefty” Wakefield, once again in possession of his badge and gun. Also hatless. Behind Lefty was a small bouquet of people, his wife and six girls all snuggled together, shielded by Lefty’s wide bulk.
Another small group, huddled together against the icy blasts, comprised the five supervisors who shook and shivered and wished they were home. Right close to them were me and Lu and four of their neighbors. In front of them, of course, were the three coffins, the left one with its Canadian Honor Guard, and behind the coffins was the streaky, angry, convulsed surface of Mono Lake—its wild breaking waves yielding their spume and foam to the wings of the assaulting winds. We faced those spume-laden assaulting winds.
Hoppy Hopkins tried to adjust the height of the microphone he would have needed had the spectators not left. It was while Hoppy was testing the mike that Lu called my attention to a person at the rear end of Tony Caldwell’s unadorned coffin. She looked like a woman all bundled up.
Yes. It was a woman—I recognized her as Tony Caldwell’s secretary, the one who helped Tony’s wife escape unseen. It was difficult to see her through the flying mist, but it looked as though she had put a heavy rock on Tony’s coffin. Then she reached into her clothes and came up with a long pair of scissors, with which she cut off a large clump of her blonde hair that had been tied with a ribbon. Then she put the long braid under the heavy rock. The hair held and fluttered in the wind. Then she kissed the coffin and embraced it, her body racking with sobs. Oh, the power of true love. Lu began to weep. Tears rolled down my cheeks, and surely down many other cheeks.
Hoppy gave a signal to the Canadians. A trumpet appeared and blew Canadian taps under horrible handicaps of cold and wind.
At the end of taps, Hoppy went to the microphone. It worked fairly well. I had never seen tough Hoppy so moved. He began his eulogy.
“Friends, we are met this cold blizzardy morning, in this primitive cemetery which is proud to be the last resting place for some hardy pioneers; men and women with courage and vision who met the unknown at every level of hardship and danger. This morning we are here to perform a lamentable duty for three more extraordinary men; to return them to the dust whence they came. For ‘dust to dust’ is one of the very few biblical phrases that I can understand.
“I am not a priest, a minister, or anyone versed in God. So I speak to you as a fool.
“I did seek professional help from the various churches we are blessed with, but each denomination was loath to say ‘yes’ until I answered questions about the deceased: ‘Were they Catholics, Protestants, Baptists, Mormons, Buddhists, or what?’ For it seems that each sect has its own private arcane pipeline to God, which is geared to reach the very ear of God with prayers from their own kind only.
“However, they gave me to understand that ‘any one of us could give you the short general service that offends nobody.’
“‘It would offend me,’ I said, ‘and I think it would offend God, if there is one. Thank you.’
“As I said, I am not a priest, or a minister. I am only a newsman who seeks to report what he sees and hears, and tries to separate fact from fiction. Yes, I speak to you as a fool, for I know nothing about a soul, or why we should pray to God for special privileges for a soul. If God is who they say He is, He knows what’s going on. And no amount of special prayers and jive is going to make Him believe that the souls of all who die will suddenly turn into souls of Good Samaritans.
“If death cleanses all sins, then the hangman is God.
“I speak to you as a fool, as a brother human being. For all humans are fools. Else why concoct wars to kill our young? Or send old pompous seniles to meet with other…pompous seniles to argue about boundaries, or races, or who should play with the biggest agate in a marble game?
“And so, speaking again as a fool with no hotline to God, I ask Him to accept the souls of our three friends—if they have any—just as they are. And if there is another life, I ask you, God, to give these three men a little better break than You gave them in this life. Thank you.”
The winds suddenly quieted down. In the lull, Lu and I, conscious of heartbreaking sobs. They came from Tony’s secretary, who still embraced Tony’s coffin. With her face just behind the rock that held down the sacrificial offering of her hair, she covered the coffin with tears, and kisses, and prayers: “Oh, God, please be good to my Tony, I loved him, God…I loved him so much…so much…”
The harsh voice of the sheriff rent the air like a clap of thunder. “All right, everybody. Let’s go. Let’s go! The snowplow’s back. Into your cars, everybody. Leave everything as it is. We’ll finish the job when this goddam wind stops. Let’s g
o! Let’s go! You Canadian guards have to stay with your general? Okay, we’ll send down some tents and some food. Okay, the rest of you. Let’s go!”
I took Lu’s arm and turned to leave. But she suddenly tore herself away and ran back toward the coffins. I made no attempt to stop her. I knew her. She almost fell into one of the graves, but she scrambled to safety on hands and knees. I watched as she reached the sobbing secretary—still embracing Tony’s coffin. Lu put an arm around her and urged her to come with us. The weeping girl would not budge.
I saw a Canadian soldier approach, salute, and speak to Lu. He must have said, “It’s okay, ma’am. We’ll take good care of her.” Lu hesitated. Then, taking off her favorite warm coat, she covered the freezing girl, kissed her, and came running back to snuggle under my overcoat. “I’m proud of you, honey.” I kissed her head and hurried her toward the frantic sheriff. I unceremoniously squeezed us in with Lefty’s family—in the paddy wagon Lefty was driving. “Hello?” said Lefty. “What’s this?” He had found a folded note on his steering wheel. He read it out loud to us.
“‘Dear Mr. Lefty, you good and great friend. With this note, I thank you for the kindness of your great big heart, and will say goodbye to you, perhaps forever if that be God’s will.
“‘For the past two days I have been in my little chapel asking our Merciful God to accept the souls of Bear Bait, Tony, and Boatcourt, to forgive them for their earthly sins, and to welcome them into the glories of His heaven. As for me, I am not needed here anymore, and though God has decided not to forgive my awful sin, I love Him with all my heart and soul, and the hell He will condemn me to cannot be much worse than to live unforgiven and unneeded on this earth.
“‘But God’s will be done, not mine. But I did ask Him for one last request: What a blessing it would be if He arranged for someone in hell to need me just a little bit.