Coffees to meet the candidates were the mainstay of Aleford electioneering.
“I know what you mean," Faith agreed. "It's always nice to take a walk at night when people's lights are on and you can see in.”
She firmly believed there was nothing voyeuristic about this natural tendency to check seating arrangements and where people kept their books and objets d'art. If they didn't want onlookers, they should pull the drapes.
“Will you be at the debate on Monday?"
“Tom and I wouldn't miss it for the world.”
The League of Women Voters was sponsoring a candidates night at the junior high and supporters of all three candidates planned to turn out in full force.
Penny thanked Faith for the doughnut and, as she turned to go, walked straight into the arms of her half brother, Alden.
She backed away without expression. He grinned wickedly and, pointedly not addressing her, said to the person next to him, "Have you noticed some older women tend to be a little unsteady on their pins?”
Penny flushed and left without saying anything in return.
“Give me some more of that java," he ordered Faith. "Could be a little stronger.”
But you couldn't, she retorted silently. She wasn't surprised he was one of the extras. He always seemed to be playing a role of some sort. At times, he was the quintessential New Englander, walking his pure-bred Labrador in the early morning, scorning an overcoat or muffler. Then there was the hard-bitten businessman complaining about profit margins and the interference of the government. He could be hail fellow, well met—or more often, "I'll say what I want to whom I want." During a parish call, Faith had been amused to see him trot out the deep thinker, casually motioning to Stephen Hawkings's A Brief History of lime placed conspicuously on the coffee table next to the latest book by A. N. Wilson, a life of Jesus Christ. When Alden left to get them a thimbleful of the second-best sherry from the kitchen, Faith picked up both books and was not surprised by their pristine, obviously unread condition.
He was playing his curmudgeon role now, or perhaps this was the real persona. He'd put his campaign button on after the ShOOt-SPAULDLNG, THE ONLY CHOICE—and took the cup of coffee with a mumble that could possi- bly have been a thank you by a gymnastic stretch of the imagination. Buttons, bumper stickers, and posters were sprouting up all over town. Alden was putting quite a bit of money into his campaign, and Faith wondered why he wanted the seat at this particular time. He'd never run before and there had been plenty of opportunities.
He took several doughnuts and remembered he was running for office. "Shall we see you at the debate, Mrs. Fairchild? Although I don't flatter myself that you are one of my supporters, I would hope the Reverend has kept an open mind.”
Really, the man was so offensive, it was hard to think of an adequate rejoinder that would not wind up as headlines in the tabloids: REV'S WIFE TELLS ONE OF THE FLOCK TO F- Her thought was interrupted and, as it turned out, Faith didn't have to say anything at all.
The steaming-hot coffee urn went flying off the end of the table along with a tray of doughnuts, muffins, cream, and sugar—flying off to make a direct landing on Alden Spaulding's outstretched left arm. He screamed in pain and rage.
Faith ran around the table to his side; he'd collapsed onto the grass and people were running toward them to see what had happened.
“Quick," she called, "someone get the ambulance over here. I think he's been burned."
“You damn fool woman," the victim shouted, "I'm not burned. You've broken my goddamned arm, is all, and I'm going to sue you from hire to Sunday!”
Faith looked around. By some miracle, the urn hadn't opened. No coffee had spilled out, except from Alden's own cup. His thick dark tweed coat, jacket, and the long-johns no doubt below had protected his arm from the heat, but not from the weight, of the heavy metal urn. There go my insurance premiums, she thought dismally.
“It had nothing to do with Faith:' said a distinctly cool voice. "In fact, it was no one's fault but yours, Alden, for having the misfortune to be standing in the wrong place at the wrong time." Audrey Heuneman joined the group gathered about the prone figure of her husband's political opponent, but she did not crouch down to his level. "Someone bumped into me and I hit the table," she stated matter-of-factly.
The EMTs were loading Alden onto a stretcher after he declared himself unable to move in no uncertain terms. It was not an easy job. Alden was a large individual, one who might have been called a fine figure of a man in the nineteenth century, when twelve-course dinners did not signify excess. In the twentieth, he was constantly advised by his doctor to cut down and didn't.
“Then I'll sue you," he roared.
“Fine," she said. "Only you'll have to prove malice aforethought.”
Looking at the expression on Audrey's face, Faith had the feeling that might not be so difficult. It also explained at long last why James was running. Obviously Audrey Heuneman hated Alden Spaulding with every bone in her body.
Still swearing vengeance on somebody—he'd gotten around to the film company by this point—Alden was lugged off and the crowd on the green melted like snow in May to spread the news.
There were times, Faith told Tom over dinner that night, when her sojourn in the Big Apple seemed pretty dull compared to Aletord's day-to-day dramas.
Tom was less interested in what turned out to be Alden's minor injury than the filming of the scene on the green.
“It sounds like a brilliant effect—the letter in the sky at dawn."
“It was amazing," Faith recounted. "The letter drifted down perfectly every time. It was as if Max had some sort of remote control."
“I don't get the jogging outfit, though. What's that supposed to represent?"
“Well, Chillingworth is supposed to be some sort of medical researcher who's been away in the Middle East and Hester has moved to town while waiting for him to come back. Maybe the clothes are meant to suggest he's in good shape? Or maybe Max wanted him to look like Everyman, and around here, Everywoman." Jogging suits seemed to be the approved apparel for anything from dropping your kids off at school to a dinner party, Faith had noted disapprovingly when she'd arrived in the suburbs. She did own a sweatshirt—a gift from Tom's family the Christmas after they were mar- ried, with FAIRCHILD NUMBER EIGHT stenciled on it—but had yet to complete the outfit.
“Maybe he doesn't want the clothes to distract the viewer, although Evelyn's might."
“Definitely, and you should see her scarlet letter, Tom, it's slightly obscene. It looks almost alive, as if it's made out of flesh."
“There is a danger in updating the story. Hester Prynne wouldn't be an outcast in today's society. She'd be asked to join a support group,and neighbors would come round with booties and casseroles."
“And on what planet is that perfect little village?Come on, think what the response would be here if an attractive married lady moved into town, spurned all attempts to be drawn into the Newcomers Club, Friends of the Library, even shut the door on the Welcome Wagon. Then got pregnant! The first thing that would happen is that Millicent would circulate a list of every man she'd ever seen drive in that direction, then everybody would get nervous about whose husband it might be, and finally, and forever, they'd ignore the harlot—except for those hushed-voiced `I think you should knows' whenever someone who wasn't familiar with the story was around."
“Maybe you're right, honey. But I like to think the best of people. It goes with the trade. Now is there any more of this lasagna left, or did those movie people scarf it all down?”
The movie people had finished most of the three-cheese vegetarian lasagna Faith had offered as one of the lunch choices, but there was plenty of bread and salad, she told her husband, proffering as consolation another glass of the 1988 Caymus Napa Valley Cabernet Sauvignon they'd opened.
“There's lots of apple crisp (see recipe on page 328) for dessert, though. The crew seemed to be avoiding sugar shock today. They'd all been pretty
keyed up about getting the shot right and I think they were high enough on that afterward."
“Lucky me," said Tom. His lanky frame seemed immune to the vicissitudes of sugar, starch, and fats. His sole problem since he was a kid had been filling himself up. Faith put a large bowl of the fragrant hot apple crisp in front of him and added a generous scoop of vanilla ice cream, which promptly oozed over the apples in a warm, delicious sauce.
The children were both asleep. The house was blessedly silent. She kissed the top of her husband's reddish brown hair. He smelled good, not like sharfipoo, but a clean soapy Tom smell all his own.
“Don't take too long, darling," she said. "I'll be upstairs.”
The next morning in church, Faith's mind was wandering as usual. She still hadn't convinced the Ladies—no one could remember to call it the more politically correct Women's—Alliance that cushions with an actual filling as opposed to the ancient slabs of thin cloth presently lining the pews would be a worthy fund-raising project. No, they kept insisting on eminently more worthwhile projects such as helping the homeless, AIDS sufferers, and battered women—and Faith concurred. The only good thing about the cushions was that they kept you alert. It was impossible to get too comfortable and doze off.
Well aware of how numb certain parts of her body were getting, Faith kept half an ear on the order of service so she'd know when to stand up, while she thought some more about the food poisoning and the fire. Further conversations with Charley had done nothing to help. He'd questioned everyone involved and the police were still stuck with both opportunity and motive. He was leaning toward Reed's "practical joke gone wrong" theory and bluntly suggested that Faith do the same. Faith had tried to cast her eye about while on the job the day before, but she had gotten too busy to give it much thought—which is why it Was inappropriately occupying her mind now.
Cornelia had said that "tricks" like this hadn't happened before, although she wasn't exactly objective.
There were no chinks in Maxwell Reed's armor, as far as his devoted page was concerned, and that included his set. Faith thought Alan's comment about people under pressure was more accurate. It just happened to be Faith's soup.
Faith had noticed on the calendar this morning that it was going to be a full moon and she hoped that wouldn't cause any more high jinks among the lotus eaters.
Her attention was caught by the lector reading the second lesson. It was Penny Bartlett and she was reading from St. Mark, chapter 10, the section on adultery. It was an apt passage for these red-letter days. Mark was pretty specific about the do's and don'ts of it, but Penny read swiftly on, her voice slowing only when she got to the part about "how hard is it for them that trust in riches to enter into the kingdom of God!" By the time she reached the camel going through the eye of a needle, it was apparent to the entire congregation she was addressing her half brother, fixing him with a steely eye and quoting the words by heart with unmistakable emphasis. He looked straight back at her and glowered.
It was a positive relief to stand up and start singing, although the first line of the hymn—"When the world around us throws all its proud deceiving shows"—was a bit too apt for comfort. A few voices faltered on the high notes and there were more throat clearings than usual. Faith knew the title of Tom's sermon, "Material Men and Women: How Much Is To Much?" and so the whole thing made sense to her, but what did Penny have in mind? Campaign spending, business ethics, a quarrel over their father's will?
Faith settled back into the pew and prepared to listen to her husband talk about what constituted riches. She was willing to bet Alden wouldn't agree.
“Get the cards, Marta."
“Oh, Max, not tonight. I'm tired. Besides, we just read them Wednesday."
“A lot has happened since then."
“That's true and the moon is full tonight, so the power will be strong.”
She got up, went to the bureau in the hotel room, and took a small intricately carved wooden box from the top drawer. Max sat down in one of the chairs by the window, in front of a low table. Marta placed the box carefully in front of him and drew open the drapes. Strong white moonlight streamed over the room and Marta turned off all the inside lights, except for one next to the table. She sat opposite Max and said, "Open the box." She preferred the querent to handle the cards as much as possible, transferring whatever vibrations he or she was carrying around to the pack. Max unwrapped several layers of bright silk and silently handed her the cards that were inside the package.
She looked through them and selected one. "1 still see you as the King of Swords. All right?" He nodded and she placed the card face up on the table.
“Do you have the question firmly fixed in your mind?" Marta asked.
“Yes," answered Max, closing his eyes.
“Then shuffle the cards and cut.”
Max shuffled several times with great deliberation, then hesitated before cutting the deck. With an almost defiant gesture, he quickly cut and leaned back in his seat.
Marta turned up the top ten cards, placing them in a pattern around the court card.
“What do you see?" he asked with a slight smile. "Anything different?"
“You're always too impatient. Don't rush me." Marta's face was anxious.
He leaned forward and scrutinized the cards. By now, he knew their characteristics as well as she did, but he couldn't interpret them.
“The Knight of Swords again—and the Chariot.”
“Hush, Max, the cards often repeat.”
Marta looked intently for several more minutes, then pointed to the first card and intoned, "The Five of Wands covers him. He is involved in competition and struggle.”
The film, Max thought. The card pictured five young men fighting. He'd be happy to have so few adversaries.
“The Four of Cups crosses him. He is weary and discontent. It is a time to rest in life's race.
“The Wheel of Fortune is beneath him. He has had much good fortune in his past. There have been times of plenty and times that were lean.”
1 know this. Max knew not to interrupt the reading. Get to the future, Marta.
“The Six of Cups is behind him, happy memories and possibly a friendship are moving out of his sphere, leaving a space for new ones.”
Or not, Max reflected pessimistically.
“The Nine of Pentacles crowns him. There will be wealth for him far ahead."
“Solitary wealth!" Max blurted out. "I know that card!"
“Shhhh." Marta reached over and stroked his hand. He slunk back against the chair cushions.
“The Queen of Wands is before him.”
Max's face brightened. It must be Evelyn. The Queen of Wands was a blonde. What other blondes were there? Or rather, other blondes who counted.
“The querent fears the Knight of Swords, the brown-haired youth who brings or takes away misfortune.
“The Two of Pentacles represents those around him. He is balancing many factors.”
A balancing act. His whole life was one long balancing act. The cards never lied, he thought.
“The Chariot carries his hopes. He would like to achieve greatness.”
Marta stopped speaking and looked at the last card, the outcome, with the director.
“The moon is strong tonight, Max. It was inevitable."
“And the other night, the same damn Moon card?" Marta reassembled the deck.
“I know what it means, remember. Perils, deception, and secret enemies.”
She sighed. "It depends on your question. The Moon can also illuminate your path and lead you away from danger."
“Do you want to know my question?" he asked. "I think I know, Max dear"
“I wonder if you do."
Four
It is a curious subject of observation and inquiry, whether hatred and love be not the same thing at bottom.
The auditorium at Pritchard Junior High was packed and the highly partisan audience a bit more rowdy than was usual at Aleford public gatherings. At the m
oment, the stage was empty except for four gray metal folding chairs and a long table on which four glasses of water, a full pitcher, and a microphone had been placed.
Supporters of the three candidates waiting in the wings had had to choose between front-row seats and sitting en masse. The Alden Spaulding contingent opted for proximity and tried to snare as many as possible in the choice location close to the stage, elbowing their neighbors in a determined way. Penny Bartlett's fans went for unity and were occupying a block of rows under the balcony in the center of the room. The Heuneman forces had rallied undecidedly to the left-rear and front rows. Very few in attendance were uncommitted, and Faith wondered aloud to Tom why they had all bothered to come when everyone's minds were already made up.
“You shouldn't assume everyone is so firmly decided. I, for one, intend to listen with an open mind to all three candidates"—Tom paused and then just before his wife could jump on him, he continued—"then vote for Penny."
“You see, everyone is decided. We're only here because we're all afraid the opposition might outnumber us."
“Usually true, sweetheart, but I think in this election there are really quite a few people who have not made up their minds. If it was simply Penny against Alden, the choices would be clear, yet James is a dark horse. I don't know where he stands on a lot of things myself, and I've known him since I arrived in Aleford. Then, last but not least, let's not forget the entertainment value an event like this affords the town. Who could stay home, even to watch `Murphy Brown' when you have the opportunity to see your fellow citizens going at it hammer and tongs live?”
The candidates were taking their places. Peg Howard, the reference librarian at Aleford's Turner Memorial Library and president of the League, was calling the crowd to order. Whether it was because the audience was eager to hear the speakers or because of Peg's intrinsic association with silence, everyone immediately shut up.
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