The Candidate

by Paul Harris

  Zaragosa, who was taller than the General and less fat, was clearly drunk. His head hung down as he talked, almost half to himself, and then jerked up suddenly as he stumbled across some valid point. His words were slurred but he often broke into rapid fluency as his anger shone through the booze.

  “Why are you here?” Zaragosa asked, warming to his favorite topic: the General’s exile. He banged his fist on the table, prompting Carillo to hush him gently.

  “But truly,” the policeman continued. “It is not right. You fought for our country against the communists. Against the bastards who would have taken our beloved homeland and turned it into a charnel house. Yet you are here, stuck in exile, as if you did something shameful. When all you did was make the hard choices to keep us safe in our beds at night.”

  Carillo shrugged his heavy soldiers. Though he had heard the speech a hundred times, he never truly tired of it. It did him good to be praised like this, called a hero. Just like Zaragoza did during the war when he was a mere private and Carillo was a colonel.

  “You remember that time, in 1985, I think, near Chiquimula?” Zaragoza asked. “When the Reds thought they could just come into town at night and we waited for them. You remember their faces? The look of shock on those Indians. It was something you could never forget. They thought they were prisoners, huh?”

  The General smiled. Of course, he remembered. He closed his eyes and savored the thought. The strength he had felt. The divine will of serving his country. The power he once wielded to make the right decisions to defend the nation.

  “But we showed them, right?” Zaragosa said. “We don’t take prisoners we know are guilty. Judge, jury and executioner. That’s what you said. Take them out into the jungle where they came from. They were savages and we treated them like they deserved to be treated.”

  “Those were hard times and we had to be hard men,” said Carillo.

  The policeman thumped his fist loudly on the table again, sending their glasses into the air like jumping beans. He ignored the fierce look Carillo shot him.

  “Exactly, my friend! Exactly! You deserve better reward then this! Hidden here by a government who should be grateful, not ashamed.”

  The General looked at his companion and decided that was enough. He got up from the table and rested a hand on the policeman’s shoulder.

  “Your words are true, Antonio,” he said. “But perhaps the night is done now.”

  The policeman looked disappointed at his sudden downward turn of fortune. In truth, he had hoped for another bottle of wine. He himself could only afford beer or the moonshine that the Garifuna brewed, and that was no drink for a gentleman and a former officer of the armed forces of the Republic. But he recognized when he must cut his losses and the look on Carillo’s face certainly suggested this night was at a close. He got up, banged into the table, thanked his host profusely and was led to the door.

  When Zaragosa left, stumbling back down the road that led to town, the General walked back to the table. He picked up his own glass of wine and took a swig. Disgusting stuff, he thought. He walked into the kitchen and poured it down a sink, watching the bloody red liquid disappear down the plughole as the night’s conversation came back to him. Had that night in Chiquimula really been more than 20 years ago? He looked in the sink at the wine splashes staining the white porcelain red. Images swam in his mind. Images he did not want to think about. Then anger rose in him again. The drunk policeman was right, he thought. He should be rewarded for his sacrifices, not condemned.

  He washed his hands, which caused the last traces of wine to disappear, and then he stomped into the living room. He picked up the phone and dialed. It was a number he had not dared think about for a long time. At least not like this. The sound of the ringing sounded distant. Obscure. Calling across oceans of time as well as water. Then a male voice answered. Carillo introduced himself with a hello and his rank and name. The voice waited a second in silence, just breathing down the line. But the General already knew. The man remembered. Oh yes, he remembered.

  * * *

  MIKE DROVE down Huntsville Street in Altoona, just a few miles from Des Moines, and looked at the trailer park that Ernesto Benitez called home. It was typical of such places, just like many he had seen in Florida, trying to help the tens of thousands of immigrants who worked in the fruit plantations. It was half-hidden behind a junkyard, massed with towering skyscrapers of squashed cars, and consisted of a seemingly random scattering of trailer homes and shacks.

  Mike parked the car and spied a group of Hispanic-looking men on the corner of the road. They stood huddled together against the cold like a group of Antarctic penguins, stamping their feet and blowing out plumes of steam with their breath. Day laborers, Mike thought. Desperate for work, hoping someone will have an odd job to give them in exchange for a handful of dollars. He walked over and greeted them in Spanish. No one even looked at him. He repeated his hello.

  “Guys, I am not la migra,” he said, using the nickname given to the immigration services. “I am with the campaign of Senator Jack Hodges. Have you heard of him?”

  Mike took out his campaign ID, emblazoned with a red, white and blue logo. “Have you heard of the Senator? He wants to help make conditions better for guys like you.”

  One man, nervously looked at his compatriots and broke from the group. He peered at the ID and took it in his hand. He examined it carefully and flipped it over to read the back. He handed it back to Mike.

  “I am not from the government,” Mike insisted.

  The man laughed. “But maybe you’ll be the government one day,” he said in Spanish thickly accented from some Mexican barrio.

  Mike laughed too. “Hopefully. But for now I just need some help. I’m looking for a guy called Ernesto Benitez, or at least that’s the name he used at work. He used to clean rooms over at the Havana Motel. You know him?”

  The man regarded Mike for a moment and then went back to the huddle. The group talked quietly for a while, casting nervous glances over in Mike’s direction. Then the man came back. “Why you want to know?” he asked.

  “Look, this guy could be in real trouble. The hotel he worked at was used by someone who tried to shoot Senator Hodges. He cleaned the room of the shooter. We need to speak to him.”

  There was silence between them. Mike tried again. “I’m not a cop. I’m ahead of the cops. I can help him. Senator Hodges can help him.”

  The man’s face was a mass of contradictions. Mike had seen the expression a thousand times in Florida. These were people who feared any sort of authority, whose entire existence was based on staying below the radar, being anonymous, helping and trusting only each other. But the man clearly knew something else was going on here. Something big that could hurt his friend.

  “He skipped town,” he said at last. “He went to Kansas. Garden City. To the meat packing plants there. They’re hiring at the moment. Tough work but the pay is okay. You can find him there, I think.”

  Mike offered his hand. The man took it, his grip firm. He looked Mike in the eyes. “I read about Jack Hodges,” he said. “If you work with him, you must be a good man. When you vote for him, think of us.”

  Then he released Mike’s grip and wandered back to the group, joining them again, looking up hopefully as a truck turned slowly into the street, offering briefly the prospect of work.

  * * *

  DEE SURVEYED the scene in the American Legion Building in Newton, a small town about twenty miles from Des Moines. It was only 10:00 a.m., but already the room was packed with an exuberant crowd. Judging by the broad mix of ages, she guessed a good number of the crowd had taken off time from work. That was a hell of a good sign. She leaned on the wall at the back of the room behind the massed ranks of the press. Every so often a reporter or blogger approached her, notebook or tape recorder in hand, looking for a quote.

  “Go on, git!” she said, waving them away like they were stray dogs, half-joking, half serious. “I’m not on the record. I�
��m on a break.”

  She inwardly relished the attention though and enjoyed sending the reporters away, tails between their hapless legs. It was incredible, she thought, what had happened. The campaign’s latest internal poll numbers, which she devoured in her hotel room that morning, were still rising upwards. Now every day brought four or five campaign stops and each one was packed full. This was what she had dreamed of ever since she got in the game. To be at the heart of something big, something that could change the whole country. She closed her eyes a moment and listened to the local high school band striking up a welcoming tune and the deafening roar of the crowd as Hodges and Christine walked on stage. She opened them again and saw Mike standing beside her.

  “Hey, buddy,” she said. “What are you doing here? I thought you were making sure logistics are all good for tomorrow’s run up to Sioux City?” Dee frowned. “And you’ve also got a little trip to the jail later, Mike. The warden is expecting you again. We’ve got to keep digging on our shooter. Keep interviewing her until we find something. It’s top priority.”

  Mike looked past Dee’s shoulder and saw Hodges trying to quiet the crowd that was loudly cheering his name. It seemed an impossible task.

  “She hasn’t said a word, Dee. Not a single word,” Mike said.

  Dee smiled thinly, her lips disappearing into a pencil-drawn crease. “I’m sure you are quite the charmer when you want to be, Mike. It’d be a good idea to get that charm working.”

  Mike nodded. “It’s all in hand,” he said. “I’m going back to the jail this afternoon. I just wanted to come by a campaign stop again. Soak up a bit of the feeling. I’ve felt a little too inside the loop the last few days.”

  Dee knew what he was saying. She sometimes got that way too. It was good to remind yourself of why you worked 20 hour days. Of why scores of people did not see their families, spouses and loved ones for weeks or months. She put a hand on Mike’s shoulder.

  “Good idea,” she said.

  Together they stood in silence and watched Hodges work the rope line that kept the people at the front of the crowd from storming the stage. Then he stood back, gave a few thanks to local dignitaries and launched into his stump speech. It touched all the familiar points: the need for jobs to help ordinary folk live the lives their parents had, to give them better health care, to restore the country’s sense of dignity and possibility in the world. He seemed three feet taller than anyone else in the room as he spoke. His voice carried everywhere, full of dignity and purpose, warm, yet firm. It invaded the crowd, stilling them at first and then carrying them onwards and upwards, suddenly alive with possibilities. When it was over, there was a huge standing ovation. Hodges and Christine embraced, laughing and kissing like young lovers at a prom, beaming smiles and waving at the cheering throng.

  “Those two must hug and kiss like that four or five times a day, but each time it still looks genuine,” said Mike.

  “That’s because it is,” said Dee. “You never seen love before, Mike? Real, honest true love? There’s not much Jack Hodges does that isn’t the real thing. I’m pretty sure his marriage is part of it. Thank God for us. I’ve had more than my share of campaigns ruined because the candidate was a horn dog.”

  They watched Hodges and Christine leave the room and then finally Dee gave an exaggerated wave of her arms as she called out to a waiting throng of reporters.

  “Come on then, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, let’s hear what you have to say,” she said, and was immediately mobbed by a pack of reporters, clamoring with questions. Mike stepped back, eager to avoid the crush and attention. But one person followed him as he turned away. Lauren O’Keefe. She walked over and gently touched him on the arm. He looked into her open smile and stopped.

  “Hi, Mike,” she said. “How’s the campaign treating you?”

  Mike felt a flush of blood to his face. He could not help it and the sudden feeling caught him by surprise. “Good,” he said. “Tiring though. Non-stop work.”

  “Did you see my blog post about the shooter? I was just wondering what you thought about it. Did it get any reaction from Hodges?”

  Lauren’s face was still smiling, but Mike shook his head. “I didn’t see it, Lauren,” he lied. “And I can’t talk about stuff like that. On or off the record.”

  Lauren shrugged. She did not seem to mind. “No problem. You want to go for a coffee somewhere? I promise no campaign talk. I’m kind of sick of it for a moment. I haven’t met anyone in weeks who has any kind of a personal life. I thought that was kind of sad and then I realized I was one of them.” She smiled again.

  Mike looked at her for a moment. She really was pretty and the thought of spending an hour talking about anything but the campaign was alluring. Her smile broadened and she touched his arm.

  “Come on, Mike,” she said.

  * * *

  FIFTEEN MINUTES later they sat in a little diner just off Newton’s pretty town square. It was a quiet place, just a handful of tables, a paper menu encased in plastic and a threadbare carpet on the floor. A waitress poured them coffee and Lauren stretched her arms backwards reaching over her head in a manner that suggested, had she been at home, she would be kicking off her shoes.

  “So what’s the deal with you, Mike? Are you married to the campaign or do you have a wife and kids praying that Hodges loses and Daddy comes home.”

  Mike laughed. “Single as they come,” he said, but he noticed his hand was absent-mindedly tugging at his ring finger as he said the words, feeling for a band of gold that had not sat there for years. She noticed too and raised an eyebrow.

  “Divorced,” he said. “Married too young and she’s got a lot of… problems. Not her fault. She just didn’t know to cope with the hand she got dealt.”

  Lauren looked sympathetic and instead of shying away from the issue she asked to hear more. To his surprise Mike found himself opening up about Jaynie, abandoning any pretence that this was some sort of date. He talked of the recent phone calls and his desire to help her. But he explained that he could not leave this campaign. Not now. It felt good to unburden himself, like letting the steam out of a kettle that was threatening to boil. Lauren listened and long before the coffee was cold in his cup, her hand was resting on his, telling him not to worry.

  “It’s okay, Mike,” she said. “You think you’re alone in this circus. But you’re not. Everyone here is carrying their past behind them somehow, ignoring it while the campaign unfolds. Sometimes I think most of the people involved in this game are only doing it to run away from things in life. To throw themselves into causes bigger than themselves.”

  Mike had never thought of it that way. He always saw his intense attitude towards work as a savior, not an excuse. Life was a mess back in Corinth Falls. Jaynie hurtled down a path of abuse and crime and he failed to stop her. Now he thought his work filled the gap she left behind. But maybe Lauren had a point. Maybe it all just bandaged over a still bleeding wound, not actually healing it. He smiled at her and then caught a glimpse of the clock on the wall. An hour had already passed. He stood up suddenly, remembering that he needed to make his appointment at the jail. He felt his chest constrict at the thought.

  “I gotta go. Important meeting and I’m a bit late,” he said. He threw a few dollars down on the table and headed for the door. But then he stopped and turned around.

  “Thank you, Lauren,” he said. “I mean that.”

  * * *

  THE WOMAN remained as blank as the first time he saw her. Her coal eyes did not even settle on him as she was led into the interrogation room. She sat just three feet away from him across a gray expanse of desk that might as well have been a vast desert, stretching out to some unseen horizon. She seemed unreachable. The prison guard from Mike’s first visit remained in the room this time. Mike noticed the smack of the man’s lips as he chewed on gum.

  “She’s a crazy bitch, son” the guard said, as if the woman was not in the room with them, but instead still locked in her cell
. “She might as well be dead.”

  Mike felt a flare of anger at the words. It was disrespectful to talk about her as if she were not sitting in front of him. “Perhaps it would help if you weren’t here,” Mike said, turning around to look at the guard. The man weighed his options, wondering whether to take offense.

  “Suit yourself. You got 15 minutes again,” he said. Mike waited until the door clanged shut and then turned to the woman.

  There was nothing for him to do but to fill the emptiness with his own speech. “Where did you meet Senator Hodges? If you wanted to kill him, you must have had a reason. Did he do something to you? Or was it something he did to someone else?”

  The woman stopped looking around the room and hung her head. For a moment Mike thought she might have drifted off to sleep.

  “Was it Iraq? Or Afghanistan? Did you dislike him fighting in those wars?”

  Still nothing. A blank wall of silence. Or was it sadness? There seemed a deep melancholia behind those eyes. Or perhaps Mike was reading too much of his own emotions about Jaynie into the situation. Seeing the prisoner as another lost soul in the world. Yet that puzzled him. He should be angry at this woman. She tried to kill a man he believed in. The one politician he thought might actually change this country for the better. But for some reason, he could muster no fury towards her. So he just talked. He talked of the campaign and how well it was going. Of how Hodges was being greeted by crowds of well-wishers. Of how the candidate won the debate and was climbing in the polls. For just a moment, Mike sensed a change in the room. Was it a quiver at the corner of her mouth? Or was it her lank, black hair, hanging over her face, suddenly twitching as she breathed out more heavily?

  Mike pressed on.

  Hodges, he told her, was a great man who would make a great president. America was waking up to his message. America was finally getting it and it all started here. In a campaign transformed by an act of violence that seemed like madness but that could change the world.