The Audacity of Goats

by J. F. Riordan

  “But he’s my vermin,” said Fiona complacently. “We understand one another. We read Martin Luther together.”

  Elisabeth rolled her eyes. “I don’t know how you function on your own, I really don’t.” Her tone became brisk. “Look at the time. If we want to have milk with our coffee in the morning, we’d better get to Mann’s before they close.”

  Obediently, Fiona put the car in gear, and they made their way back to Main Street.

  They were well into the second bottle of wine that night, talking about what to do the next day.

  “It’s hard to plan when we don’t know what the weather’s going to be like. Let’s see if we can find something on TV.” Fiona reached for the remote, turned on the television, and began flipping through the channels. A rapid secession of programs passed before their eyes before Elisabeth suddenly called out. “Wait! Stop! Go back!”

  With a quick sidelong look at her friend, Fiona obligingly reversed direction in her channel hopping.

  “There.” said Elisabeth. “Stop there.”

  They gazed at the screen.

  It was a yoga class. A group of at least twenty students, men and women in varying sizes and shapes, were following the instruction of a lithe, though no longer young, woman with a Southern accent.

  “The down dog,” she was saying, “is among the most fundamental poses of your practice, but so many of us take its form for granted. Today we will work on building our down dog, so that it takes us through our practice like a faithful friend. Choose partners, everyone!”

  She smiled wickedly. “And make sure it’s someone you don’t mind getting close to. This one’s pretty up close and personal.”

  Fiona tried to gauge Elisabeth’s reaction, and whether she should switch the channel, but Elisabeth was engrossed.

  “Everybody’s going to get a chance at this, so just decide which of you will be in the A group and which in the B.”

  The facility with which the group divided itself suggested to Fiona’s skeptical mind that this was not a random process.

  “A’s on the floor into down dog,” directed the teacher.

  “Now. I will demonstrate the next move for the B’s. It’s important to work carefully, here, so that you don’t drop your full weight onto your partner. Remember, this is an advanced move for advanced practitioners. The idea is to gently use your weight to help your partner move more deeply into the pose.”

  And here, she turned her back on her student partner, who was in downward dog. The student’s hands and feet were on the floor, her legs straight, the top of her head pointing toward the ground, her body forming the shape of an inverted V. Backing up to her until they were touching, the teacher bent back until the backs of her legs were leaning against the backs of her student’s legs, and then, gradually, she lowered herself backward so that their backs were against one another.

  Elisabeth was watching intently. Slowly she turned her face to Fiona, her face alight with revelation.

  “That’s it,” she said quietly. “That’s what I saw.”

  Her eyes were shining, and at first Fiona thought she was about to cry.

  “It wasn’t infidelity that day at Ground Zero,” said Elisabeth, her voice beginning to crack. “It was yoga.”

  For a split second, Fiona was afraid to look at Elisabeth, but their eyes met, and the absurdity of the situation struck them both in the same instant. They laughed until they were both breathless, and Rocco had to lick both their faces to ensure that all was well. He was kept busy going back and forth between them for quite some time.

  “Poor Roger,” said Fiona the next morning. “He probably doesn’t have any idea what’s been going on.”

  Elisabeth had regained her customary equanimity. “Poor Roger?” she enquired tartly. “Don’t forget, he’s still on that retreat with Shay.”

  Fiona shrugged and smiled. “After last night, I think you should give him the benefit of the doubt. You owe him at least that much.”

  Elisabeth almost smiled back. “I suppose you’re right,” she said reluctantly.

  “I’m going home. He’ll be back tomorrow.” She twisted a piece of her hair around one finger as she gazed out the window. “We have a few things to discuss.”

  That afternoon, Fiona watched Elisabeth drive away, with Rocco’s big head leaning out into the cold wind, his ears up, his face turned to the scents that were flying by. With their departure, Fiona felt as if she were losing her last connection to sanity. The debate and the election loomed ahead of her, with no compensating pleasures or distractions in view.

  Elisabeth and Rocco were waiting when Roger arrived home. They heard the car come up the drive, and while Rocco felt no need to contain his excitement, Elisabeth counseled herself to stay calm.

  When Roger walked in Rocco exploded with joy, jumping and singing, and spinning in circles. He nearly knocked Roger over with his exuberance.

  Elisabeth’s greeting was less effusive. She watched Roger’s reunion with Rocco like an outsider who didn’t belong. Feeling awkward and unsure of what to say, she scanned the little pile of things Roger had dropped on the counter by the door, and picked up the cardboard folder on the top.

  “What’s this?”

  “It’s the group photo. Of the class.”

  “But,” said Elisabeth confusedly, “A group photo—”

  She looked into Roger’s face. “I thought you were there alone. There. With—Shay,” she finished, lamely.

  Roger simply looked at her, puzzled. “No,” he said. “Why would you think that?”

  Elisabeth glanced at the smiling faces. There were no dazzling bodies in skimpy outfits, just a group of about twenty men and women in varying degrees of fitness, all clad in shapeless but comfortable clothing. They looked relaxed and calm, and behind them was the dramatic scenery of the Uinta Mountains.

  The enormity of her misjudgment flooded over Elisabeth. Her lack of faith in him, her doubts in his integrity... in his love for her. She saw in a flash how her initial misinterpretation of what she had seen at the shop had led her down a path of jealousy, distrust, and false narrative. She felt small and stupid. “It would have helped, though,” she told herself rebelliously, “if he had just told me what was going on.”

  She stared at him, uncertain of what to do or say next, but her roiling emotions began a rapid mutation from agitation to relief. It was okay. Everything was going to be okay. He was Roger. Just as he had always been: steady, constant, and, she realized, utterly dependable in all the ways that mattered. Elisabeth was enveloped in a cloud of joy.

  Roger put his bag down and took off his coat.

  Working to come to terms with this new state of things—with her old happiness—Elisabeth busied herself with getting a bottle of wine, opening it, and pouring them each a glass.

  “So, how was it? What did you learn?” she asked as she handed him his glass.

  Roger frowned, considering her question.

  “My down dog is better, I think. And I feel more confident in my sun salutations.” He sat down at the kitchen table, and unconsciously ran a hand through his hair. “And Joshua would say that it has been a success. At least,” he looked up at her as she stood leaning against the kitchen counter, “I think he would.”

  Elisabeth looked puzzled. “A success at sun salutations?”

  “No,” said Roger, equally puzzled that she did not follow his meaning. “At getting in touch with my feminine side.”

  And with that, he rose from the table, walked to where she was standing, and kissed her.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Spring was the Island’s annual time of frustration. Months of winter had led to general restlessness among the populace, and spring’s virtues, celebrated elsewhere, were less obvious on the island.

  The change in seasons did not begin with sunshine and balmy breezes. It began, instead, with temperatures that were warm enough to melt snow, but not warm enough to feel comfortable, and the moisture in the air from t
he melting snow seeped deep into the bones with a burrowing cold. If anything, the weather became less tolerable than the deep freezes and blizzards of winter.

  Months of living indoors, the relentless necessity of shoveling snow, of driving on it, of worrying about ice underfoot and snow on the roof, of having to protect against cold, sleet, rain, ice and mud simultaneously, without ever knowing in which form it would appear, made for a more or less universal winter fatigue.

  Even though everyone knew perfectly well that spring rarely appeared until late April or May, the general mood was, as someone once said of second marriages, the triumph of hope over experience. Daily expectations were disappointed. Tempers were short.

  Fiona huddled indoors, drinking coffee and tea, writing, reading, and doing bad translations of Martin Luther. She made periodic forays into Island society out of the campaign’s necessity, but otherwise kept to herself. She realized now how essential the obligations of caring for Robert had been to her state of mind last year. This year, being alone and thinking only of herself made her restless and anxious. Robert, she now knew, had been a key element of her survival through the island’s hard winter. The realization was not a welcome one.

  As the debate grew closer her anxiety grew with it, and Fiona found herself sleepless, restless, and spending more and more time in the company of the Midnight Chewer. She was beginning to feel that it was the best part of the day.

  As Fiona was tossing and turning, the midnight creature began its nightly activities. “Maybe,” she thought, just before she fell asleep, “the chewer is lonely, too.” Lulled by familiarity—if not completely consoled—she drifted off to sleep, the sound of crunching in the wall continuing well into the night.

  She woke to a dark and misty morning. A swirl of fog engulfed the island, and she could hear the drip of melting snow in the gutters. Deeply elated at this augury of spring, she lay back under the warmth of her comforter and listened.

  The debate between candidates for town chairman had been looked forward to eagerly by the entire population of the Island. This was a community that—of necessity—was accustomed to making its own entertainment, and the prospect of any debate would have been highly anticipated. This particular debate, however, would be the highlight of the year. Maybe of a lifetime.

  The date had been set for one week before election day. Fiona had done her best to prepare, with the help of Elisabeth, Pali, and, whether she liked it or not, Emily. Emily’s little piece of advice about holding the pen made Fiona somewhat more inclined to pay attention to her counsel, but only somewhat.

  She had earnestly studied the questions Elisabeth had prepared for her, practiced answering them in front of the bathroom mirror, tried to anticipate various manifestations of hostility that might throw her off her game, and planned to wear relatively sensible shoes—though still Italian—to reduce the prospect of tripping and falling on her walk to the lectern.

  The debate was to be held at Nelsen’s, the scene of many local events, and one which might induce more of the public to attend. Fiona felt as ready as she could reasonably expect to be.

  Fiona arrived at Nelsen’s exactly fifteen minutes before the debate was scheduled to begin. She had calculated what she believed was the least possible amount of time to be exposed to anyone’s casually devastating remark, while allowing sufficient time to prevent anxiety about missing the beginning.

  Elisabeth had expected to come, but at the last moment Fiona asked her not to.

  “You’ve been great. And I really appreciate the support, but you will actually make me more nervous. I think I’ll do better going by myself.”

  “Pali and the others will all be there.”

  Fiona noted guiltily that Elisabeth was a tiny bit hurt.

  “True. But I can’t ask them not to come. They live here. You are—speaking politically, of course—non-essential personnel.”

  Elisabeth laughed in spite of herself. “Fine. But I will remind you of this. Just you wait.”

  “You can come to my swearing-in ceremony.”

  “Try and keep me away. I have already purchased my outfit. And there’s a hat.”

  “That will make you inconspicuous.”

  “I should hope not.”

  Just before the debate was to begin, the town clerk approached Fiona and asked her to join her on the podium. “It’s time for the coin toss.”

  Dutifully, Fiona followed, and arrived at the same time as Stella.

  Automatically, Fiona put out her hand, and Stella shook it reluctantly, as if worried about contracting some disease.

  The coin was flipped, Stella called heads. “It’s heads,” announced the clerk. “Ms. DesRosiers wins the coin toss. Will you speak first or second?”

  “First,” said Stella smugly, betraying a lack of strategy that Fiona found surprising.

  “We will begin shortly.”

  Fiona and Stella seated themselves at narrow, rather rickety folding tables on either side of the lectern, in uncomfortable and rather rickety folding metal chairs. Stella glared at the audience with eyes narrowed, her normal look. Fiona maintained a wholly false air of steady calm, her Emily-prescribed pen in hand as she made meaningless scribbles on the notepad before her.

  Lars Olafsen, the outgoing chairman, climbed the platform and faced the audience.

  “Welcome, Ladies and Gentlemen, to a debate between our two candidates for Chairman of the Town of Washington Board.”

  In a last gesture of public service, Lars had agreed to moderate the debate. He was perfectly at ease in this role, having been in the public eye for most of his adult life, and having accepted several offers of brandy before the event started.

  “The rules,” continued Lars, “are simple. Each candidate will make a brief, three-minute opening statement.”

  “As opposed,” thought Fiona irreverently, “to a lengthy three-minute statement.” She drew a picture of Stella’s head exploding on her notepad, and quickly flipped the page before anyone might see it.

  “Afterward, the moderator will read written questions from this basket, which have been collected from the community in advance, courtesy of the newspaper, The Observer. Each candidate will answer the same question.

  “At the end of forty-five minutes, each candidate will have three minutes to make a final statement.”

  Lars paused looking around the room at his rapt audience, and then at the two candidates. “Ladies, are there any questions?”

  Fiona smiled slightly and shook her head. Stella said “No” rather too loudly.

  “Then let us begin. Ms. DesRosiers.”

  The audience applauded more out of enthusiasm for the event than for the candidate, but Stella chose to take it personally, nodding with her best impersonation of graciousness.

  The graciousness, however, did not last long. Stella, apparently, had never heard advice about the effects of negative campaigning. She lost no time in launching into a long list of invective against her opponent, including the now nearly forgotten goat incidents, accusations of wild parties, and of immoral behavior that was vaguely, but breathlessly implied.

  Fiona listened with increasing indignation, but she managed to keep an expression of calm indifference. She was fairly sure that this effort would have earned an Oscar had it been recorded on film.

  When her turn came, Fiona did not respond to Stella’s smears and sneers, choosing, instead, to focus on topics that were pertinent to the campaign. When her three minutes were up, she sat down, feeling emboldened.

  The questions posed by Lars Olafsen were neither difficult nor hard-hitting, and although Fiona was relieved, the crowd, having expected something more exciting, was disappointed and grew restive. It was fortunate, Fiona thought, that the bar was just in the next room.

  At last, it was time for the final three-minute speeches. Once more Stella allowed her bitterness toward Fiona to engulf her. She was just beginning to get into the meat of her subject—Fiona’s arrogance; self-importance; and immora
lity—when the timer bell went off, and she had to be reminded twice by Lars Olafsen that she should stop.

  Fiona now stood and, pen in hand, approached the lectern.

  She smiled a trifle nervously and began.

  “I suppose I am fortunate that Ms. DesRosiers isn’t in charge of my public relations.”

  The audience chuckled at this minor witticism, which served only to incite Stella’s indignation. She glowered from the stage as if she held a personal grudge against everyone in the room, which was quite possibly the case.

  Steering well clear of Stella’s personality and her accusations, Fiona made her case for honesty, clarity, and simplicity.

  “For the most part, as far as I can see, the Island has managed perfectly well without me for a long time, and I do not intend to impose myself on political life here. I expect to be—as I believe most of you would hope—as unobtrusive and as unnecessary as possible.”

  Fiona heard a sound that might have been a growl coming from Stella.

  “But when we do need leadership, it’s for the big things, like the harbor dredging. My research tells me that there are a number of organizations that make small harbor grants for precisely this kind of situation. There is no need to believe that we have to fight our way through this problem alone.”

  Fiona, now well launched, remembered Emily, and raised her pen for a carefully practiced gesture. She was feeling that things were going extraordinarily well, and thought she could sense the support of the room.

  Moving inexorably toward her final summation, she continued. “If I am elected, I will put my experience in research and writing to make every effort into applying for and securing such a grant.”

  Now flowing with confidence, Fiona made an extravagant motion of the hand to emphasize her last word, and at its apex of speed and movement, the pen slipped from her fingers. It flew like an arrow, at great speed and in a spectacular arch, straight into the teased—and rather dated—hairdo of the Baptist minister’s wife, about five rows back.