“So,” said Pali, whose role had morphed into unofficial campaign manager. “I think we already have a pretty good plan of action that should take us right up to April. Fiona is going to focus on door-to-door campaign work, and will make herself as visible as possible at all public events.”
“Visible, but not conspicuous,” commented Elisabeth, unthinkingly. Fiona looked at her sideways.
“It seems to me that the next order of business should be to choose a slogan,” continued Pali. “Stella’s is “Time for a Change.”
“And we all know how irritated people are by that,” said Nika.
“Just a harbinger of things to come,” commented Elisabeth. “The irritation, I mean.”
“Well, yes,” agreed Nika.
There was a silence.
“I suppose ‘Anyone But Stella’ wouldn’t work?” asked Terry. They laughed.
“God knows it’s what everyone’s thinking.”
Everyone doodled on their notepads.
“I have an idea,” said Nika. “What if at the bottom of the signs we just put the letters “A. B. S.?”
“But people will ask what it means,” protested Fiona. “And then what will I say?”
“Everyone will know,” said Nancy.
“True,” said Mike. “But you should have something prepared, just in case. It’s never good to appear arrogant in politics.”
“Since when?” asked Terry, taking a drink of his coffee.
“Okay,” said Pali, “so what does A.B.S. stand for? In public, I mean.”
There was a silence as they contemplated the problem.
“Alien,” said Roger, and then in response to the turned heads he added, “Well, she is. She’s not from here.”
“Alluring,” suggested Jake. Charlotte kicked him under the table as the conversation moved on.
“Active?”
“Adequate.”
“Adequate is good. I like adequate.”
“Damning with faint praise,” murmured Fiona.
“Bawdy.” This was Jake.
“Befuddled?” suggested Roger. Fiona shot him a look that was lost on him.
“Beige,” said Nika.
Pali looked at his wife.
“I’m just brainstorming.”
“I’m so glad you all have such a high opinion of me,” interrupted Fiona.
“Believable,” said Elisabeth.
“Benign?” suggested Mike.
“Bighearted!”
“Bland.”
“Fiona is not bland.”
“No, but compared to Stella....”
“Sage.”
“Savior,” said Jake. “The Island’s salvation, God knows.”
“Swell. It has a double-meaning, see what I mean?” asked Charlotte earnestly. “‘Swell,’ as in, well, ‘She’s swell’, and ‘Swell’ as in ‘a big city swell.’”
“No one uses swell in that way anymore,” said Nancy bluntly. “Probably not since 1940.”
Charlotte looked chastened, and Fiona smiled encouragingly at her across the table.
“Adequate Bland Service,” said Roger suddenly, in the flat intonation that was his normal means of expression.
Everyone stopped talking and considered this.
“That about sums up small town requirements,” said Mike.
“It’s a bit... unimpressive,” ventured Fiona.
“That’s what we want,” Pali assured her. “It will put the electorate at ease.”
Fiona looked doubtful.
“Look,” said Terry. “I think he’s right. You say everyone’s worried about the upheaval that Stella would bring. This is exactly the opposite message. It’s perfect.” He leaned back in his chair looking satisfied. “Perfect,” he repeated.
Mike nodded slowly. “I think that’s probably true,” he said. “You don’t want people thinking you’re going to try to change things. As a newcomer—an outsider, people will say—you need to make it comfortable for them to vote for you.”
“Besides,” added Nika, “as someone already pointed out, everyone will know what it really means.”
“Does it have to be ‘bland?’” asked Fiona. “What about believable? That doesn’t sound so bad.” She turned to Elisabeth. “What do you think?”
Elisabeth nodded slowly and a bit apologetically. “Adequate Bland Service makes sense to me.”
Fiona could not help thinking that Elisabeth was reluctant to contradict her husband in his rare contribution to the public discourse.
“Everyone agree?” asked Pali, looking around the table. Everyone nodded except Fiona. “Then we have a slogan.”
“Both an official and an unofficial one,” added Elisabeth. “And I think the signs should be in soothing colors. Nothing garish. A contrast to Stella’s.”
“How about blue and white?” asked Nika.
“Perfect,” said Terry again. He had checked his watch and it was approaching time for the last ferry. Now that they had determined the main point he was not particularly interested in the color of the signs.
“Okay,” said Pali. “We have a plan. I’ll order the signs and a couple of posters. We’ll probably need about $700.”
Fiona was aghast. “Really? So much?”
Pali nodded ruefully. “These things are expensive.”
Nancy spoke up. “I’ll put in a couple hundred. It’s worth it to me to keep Stella out of office.”
“Here’s fifty,” said Jake, pulling money out of his pocket.
Fiona felt embarrassed. She didn’t think Jake and Charlotte had much to spare, and that seemed like a lot.
“I’ll handle the rest,” said Elisabeth quietly.
“Hold on, now,” said Pali. I need to write all this down. There are laws about campaign contributions, and we need to make sure we do everything by the book.”
It was in the exchange of checks and information, and the bustle of finding coats and saying good-byes that the meeting ended. Fiona went into the living room and poured herself a generous scotch. Even that, she knew, would not be sufficient to help her sleep tonight. Outside, the rain came down without any sign of stopping.
Fiona was walking along the beach near the sand dunes. The waves were high, and the harbor had white caps. The wind blew hard, and she knew that turning back and walking into it would be heavy going. She had a baseball cap that she was fighting to keep on her head. Suddenly she realized that Rocco was in the waves, romping and leaping, but getting too far out for safety. She called and whistled to him, but she could see quickly that he was struggling in the water. At that moment, an enormous white bird swept down on her and began pecking violently at her head. She fought against the attack, trying desperately to see Rocco, and knowing that she would have to go in to save him. Her anxiety rose to terror that Rocco would drown. The waves were rising, and threatening the beach. The bird called raucously, and Fiona, ignoring its dives and beating wings, flung herself into the water toward Rocco. No longer certain where he was, she swam desperately toward where she had last seen him, her mouth and nose filling with water.
Fiona awoke herself with the thrashing of her own arms. Outside the rain lashed against the windows, and the wind found the loose places of the old house and made them sing eerily. The clock said 2:07. She lay awake in the dark for a long time, waiting for her heart to slow. She knew that no more sleep would come that night. Switching on the lamp, she reached for Martin’s Little Green Book, and the dictionary.
The crunching animal, who appeared to have been stationed at her ear waiting for the sound of the light switch, began its nighttime mastications. Fiona was beginning to wonder whether there was anything much left of the house’s attic infrastructure. She made a mental note to have someone check, and returned to her book, vaguely reassured by the presence of another living thing.
“Lieber Ratten im Keller als Verwandte im Haus,” she read. With a little surge of pride, she realized that she didn’t require the dictionary for this one. “Better to have rats in
the cellar, than relatives in the house,” she translated aloud. She wondered briefly what Martin Luther would have thought about chewing creatures in the attic, then turned her attention back to her book. She had made deep inroads into her translation of Martin Luther before she fell back to sleep, with the sound of crunching deep within the wall continuing throughout the night.
Chapter Ten
Fiona was scheduled for her first public appearance as a candidate. Pali had brought her all the legally required documents to sign, everything had been submitted, and the campaign was official. She had felt grateful to him for navigating these bureaucratic exigencies, but at the moment she felt merely appalled by it all.
After her dream she had finally drifted off to sleep just before dawn. Her body clock woke her at the usual time nevertheless and she now dragged herself from bed, stiff and exhausted, and in no mood for the day’s events. But then, she reminded herself, when would she ever have been in the mood for this kind of thing? She was quite certain she had planned her entire life specifically in order to avoid them. She sighed, and took herself down to the kitchen for coffee. Then she would have to dress for a luncheon with the League of Women Voters.
The dream had left her in a state of anxiety for Rocco, which she knew was not entirely rational, but given the intensity and realism of the experience, it was hardly surprising. Her coffee in her hand, she called Elisabeth. Even though it was early, she knew her friend would already be up. It wouldn’t hurt just to check in, and she was in need of some consolation.
Terry pulled into the parking lot of Ground Zero that morning, and found Mike already there, sitting in his truck with the engine running. The lights of the shop were on, so he got out and walked over to Mike. “What’s up?” he asked, as Mike rolled down his window.
“Door’s locked. Roger must be in the back or something.”
“Huh,” said Terry. “Did you check the floor?”
Mike grinned. “Yup. Nobody there. Come on and wait in the truck. It’s nippy this morning.”
He unlocked the door as Terry walked around to the passenger side. They sat and talked for a few minutes, their eyes on the shop door.
“Look, there’s Roger,” said Terry suddenly. “He just stood up from behind the counter.”
Mike turned off the engine. “He’s a little late this morning. Must have forgotten to unlock the door.”
They got out and walked toward the shop. Roger, seeing them, came forward and let them in.
“We thought maybe you forgot to open up this morning,” said Mike.
“No,” said Roger.
“Seemed like you were rising from the depths there behind the counter,” said Terry. “What were you doing down there? Spill something?”
“I was practicing Anuvittasana, the ‘heart opener,’” replied Roger with dignity.
“What’s that consist of?” persisted Terry.
“Well,” began Roger, “you start in Tadasana, or ‘Mountain Pose.’ Your feet should be together, toes touching, and your weight evenly distributed. Then you inhale, moving your arms up, relax your shoulders away from your ears, engage by squeezing your thighs and buttocks. You push your hips forward and start to gently bend back from the torso until your hands reach the floor; you keep your gaze up, and then, after a few breaths, you slowly return to neutral position.”
Mike’s eyes twinkled, but he only pursed his lips. He was quite sure that this was the longest he had ever heard Roger speak at one time.
“Ah,” said Terry, looking interested. “That sounds hard.”
“It is, so far. But daily practice brings progress, I’m discovering,” said Roger seriously. “I will practice with the wall.”
“What does it do for you?”
“It stretches the shoulders and opens the body. It requires a certain amount of strength, too.”
“Show me what you mean by—what did you call it?” asked Terry.
“Anuvittasana.”
Obligingly, Roger put down the coffee pot and the spotless white cloth he always had nearby, and walked to the middle of the floor. While Terry and Mike watched, Roger assumed the beginning pose, and then, looking genuinely graceful, he reached his arms over his head and sank into a backbend arched powerfully to the floor.
Terry watched intently as Roger held the pose. “Do you think I could do that?” he asked.
“No doubt with practice,” said Roger from the floor. “Everyone has different physical capacities, but most people can develop flexibility over time.” He reversed the position, and rose to a standing pose.
“Hunh,” said Terry, whether in response to the pose or to Roger’s unusual garrulousness, was unclear.
“Usual?” asked Roger, returning to his place behind the counter.
“Yeah,” said Terry, distracted by his thoughts.
“Yes, please,” said Mike.
Fiona had managed to find a suit in the back of her closet and debated whether to put it on. No, she decided, it was too much formality. She wasn’t running for Congress, which was, come to think of it, a small mercy. No, a dark pencil skirt and sweater would do. She stood looking at herself in the mirror. “Pearls?” she asked herself. But no. It was bad enough she had put herself in this position in the first place. She was not going to wear a costume.
As she entered the main room of the community building Fiona felt, rather than heard, the censorious mood of the room. They had all heard the rumors, so cunningly spread by Stella, that Fiona’s source of livelihood was writing pornography rather than the dry public policy articles that actually paid her mortgage.
Some of the ladies were more inclined to believe the rumors than others, and even some of her friends, like Charlotte, felt secretly proud of her for living such a free and exciting life. If a show of hands had been taken, Fiona would have been horrified by how many of these respectable women believed her to be, in the words of the League’s secretary, “a trollop.”
The substance of the rumors had a life of their own, in part because those who believed them rarely spoke of them above a whisper, and then only to those who were likely to believe them, too. Non-believers—either by faith or by knowledge—tended to be Fiona’s friends, and were either indignant or amused if the story reached their ears, and this tended to spoil the fun of the believers. The exchange of information between the two groups was therefore virtually non-existent, and the rumors were able to continue along their own path, unchallenged, and gathering fresh details along the way.
Fortunately for Fiona—although she would have, perhaps, been unlikely to see it that way—Stella’s reputation was such that even Fiona’s alleged moral slips paled in comparison to Stella’s well-established malevolence. As any observer of politics will recognize, voters tend to see sexual escapades as less serious than wholesale meanness. Fiona’s support in running for office was therefore reasonably assured.
Perhaps a primary reason for the mood in the room was that Stella was there, having arrived well before, and had been busily promoting her misinformation. Fiona saw her in the center of a group of women—an unusual event in Stella’s life—dressed in an odd shade of green with an orange scarf around her neck, and making the grimace she used for a smile.
The outfit was a departure from her usual purple. “She looks like a pimento olive,” thought Fiona, wonderingly. Was this a look she intended? It seemed unlikely. Fiona had never had much success in trying to imagine the works of Stella’s mind, and today dismissed the effort instantly. She had enough to think about, and the combination of the circumstances and the thought of olives made her wish for a martini.
Fiona’s need for a drink would have been greater had she known the substance of many of the conversations around the room. Today, it was becoming clear that Fiona was the center of a ring, which, Stella hinted carefully, might involve the coordination and provision of services to highly placed executives. This was delivered each time with a knowing nod to a circle of horrified and delighted listeners.
&nb
sp; “You’ve seen that man who comes to visit her,” pointed out Stella. “You can tell that he’s one of them. Obviously rich.”
They all considered this. They had, indeed, seen him. And to Island eyes he certainly had the air of a rich man about him.
“But we don’t see anyone else,” pointed out one of the bravest. “It can’t be a ring if there’s only one.”
“It can’t be done on the Island. Use your brain,” said Stella, rudely. “He’s her partner, and they have services in big cities all over the world.”
This last was, even for Stella, stretching credulity just a bit. She waited to see if the crowd were with her.
“I heard he’s from London,” offered one woman, wonderingly.
There was a brief silence as they all considered what this might mean.
Unconsciously they all turned their heads slowly to observe Fiona across the room. She looked so... normal. Contemplating this new information, they each drifted off to carry this morsel to other parts of the room.
Fiona found her conversations that morning both difficult and puzzling.
“So you say you’re a writer,” ventured one lady with what Fiona thought was a peculiar emphasis.
“I am,” smiled Fiona.
The woman looked back at her coldly. “I suppose it’s one way to make a living.”
“I suppose so, but it’s only just barely a living, really. Hardly anyone gets rich doing what I do,” laughed Fiona.
“Then, perhaps, you’re not doing it right,” responded the woman tartly, and walked away.
Fiona watched her go with the feeling that something had just happened that she didn’t understand. She was about to go more deeply into this question when a voice interrupted her thoughts, urging everyone to take her seat.
The president bustled importantly up to Fiona, putting her hand on her arm. She was a handsome woman in her sixties with the aura of having been in authority. She had been the principal of the Island school for forty years.
“We will ask you to say a few words. Nothing much. Just a word or two about yourself and why you’re running.”
The Audacity of Goats Page 11