At the moment of impact, the lady gasped and jumped, her hands clutching her hair, unclear about exactly what had landed there. Was it a fly? A wasp? Her alarm grew from her uncertainty. There was a flurry of activity as the other women nearby came to her aid, and attempted—with little cries of alarm and sympathy—to console her and to extricate the pen, which was rather a nice one, from the hairdo. Fiona looked on in petrified horror from the dais.
One elderly gentleman, seated a row ahead of the ladies, turned around to add his assistance, and in his gallantry, knocked over his chair, beginning his own little hubbub of apologies, stumblings, and related activities, and the chaos grew as he, too, was assisted by his nearest neighbors.
The minister’s wife’s hair was by now in extraordinary disarray, as innumerable women plucked at it like hens around an anthill. Others joined in, or stood to see what was happening. This led to shouted instructions to sit down from those in the back, while others began milling around in search of a drink or conversation. It was a matter of moments before the room was engulfed in what an outside observer might have guessed was a minor riot.
The havoc was beyond the capabilities of even Lars Olafsen to restrain. He attempted valiantly to make his voice heard above the noise. “Thank you, Ladies and Gentlemen, and candidates, for attending this important part of our civic life… .” He looked on, bemused, at the furor before him. “And, er… good night.”
Helplessly, he turned to Fiona and shrugged. She smiled wanly back. Feeling that it would be better to be in a less conspicuous location, she gathered her notes with the meaningless scribbles on them, and wandered off, penless, toward the bar. Stella, of course, was somewhere nearby, but Fiona was almost past caring. This election thing had been going on far too long for her taste, and she was heartily sick of it, and of Stella, too.
In the aftermath of the debate, the television in the bar was already playing again in the background, a feature of the establishment that Fiona never particularly enjoyed, although she had to admit that local news always afforded possibilities for entertainment. Endeavoring to forget what had just occurred, she was engaged in various conversations as people approached to discuss the election, when Pali suddenly called out.
“Hey, Eddie! Turn it up! It’s Hillard! He’s on TV!”
All eyes turned to the television set, the bar grew quiet, and the voice of the Green Bay anchorwoman filled the room.
“Local Assemblyman Dean Hillard was arrested in Madison today, on charges of prostitution and possession of illegal substances. Police say that the arrest was part of a sting operation that included a number of prominent public figures.”
Fiona heard a gasp and the sounds of commotion from the back of the room, as a campaign photograph of Hillard accompanied the anchorwoman’s story. But Fiona’s full attention was riveted to the television screen. This was being treated as a major story.
The video shifted to a reporter on the scene, and continued with an interview of the spokesman from the local branch of the FBI, who described the seriousness of the charges. Then came the images of Dean Hillard being helped into the back of an official car, his head carefully protected from hitting the roof by the officers who held him by the arms.
A stunned silence fell over the crowd at Nelsen’s. No one had ever known someone targeted in an FBI sting. It was as good as one of those big city crime shows. Eyes began to turn toward the back of the room where increasingly urgent whispers came from the small cluster of Stella’s followers as they tried, unsuccessfully, to escort her from the room.
“I never liked that guy,” said Jake in a carrying voice. “Always thought he was a scum bag.”
Jake’s sentiments were echoed—though more discreetly—throughout the room.
But the story was not yet over. There was a shift in the televised scene, and the camera cut to footage of a shiny, red, vintage car, shown abandoned in an official lot. Suddenly there was a shriek from the back of the room that momentarily stunned the crowd.
“MY CAR! THEY’VE GOT MY CAR!”
Stella had broken away from her assistants and began elbowing her way through the crowd toward the television set, as if somehow, being closer might enable her to reach into the screen.
“Look!” said someone. “It is! It’s Stella’s car!”
The news set the room into a furious buzz of excitement. There could be little doubt. The FBI agent was standing in front of a shiny, red, vintage convertible with a sneering grill. It certainly looked exactly like Stella’s car, and since it had been in Hillard’s possession, it must surely be hers. The agent was saying things like civil asset, and forfeiture, but the meaning was clear. The car, having been part of a crime, was now the property of law enforcement.
“They can’t take it! It’s mine! They can’t take my car!”
Stella did not seem to care that she was being observed by her voting public. She was beside herself with rage, her face mangled by it. Fiona stole one look and turned away from the public display of such raw emotion. There was no reason she should feel even the smallest shred of sympathy for Stella, and yet, her anguish was painful to see. That Stella’s feelings should be expressed for the car rather than the nephew was, Fiona thought, an interesting detail.
The crowd fell silent as they struggled to hear the rest of the story with the sound of Stella’s howling in the background. A group of women—more out of consideration for others than compassion for Stella—escorted her outside to the relative privacy of the parking lot. Cries of “My car! My car! They have no right!” came floating into the building each time the door was opened. An unusual number of patrons found the need to go outside for a quick smoke or to retrieve some forgotten necessity from their cars, and only just happened to be able to witness the drama going on in the parking lot.
Inside, the volume in the room increased.
“They’ve impounded it!”
“What does that mean?”
“Will she get it back?”
Fiona sat still, slow to fully comprehend what had just happened. As the realization dawned, people began coming up to her, slapping her on the back, and offering to buy her drinks. The congratulations flowed as freely as if she had already won the election. Everyone, it seemed, had come to the same conclusion: Dean Hillard would no longer be a factor in Island politics.
Some hours later the crowd had diminished, but the excitement still seemed to hang in the air. Fiona had long since excused herself and gone home.
Pali leaned over the bar to talk with Eddie before heading out.
“Well,” he said quietly, “that didn’t play out in quite the way I’d imagined.”
Eddie nodded thoughtfully. He was marveling over the workings of Fate.
“No,” he said, his eyes sparkling. “It was way better.”
He became suddenly serious, and lowered his voice.
“But we’re not out of the woods yet. With Hillard out of the picture, Stella won’t have the guarantee of state funding to dredge the harbor. But can we get the word out? There’s only a week left.”
Pali shrugged. “Well, half the damn Island was here tonight. If that’s not getting the word out, I don’t know what is.” He paused, reflecting.
“Fiona made some good points, but the harbor problem isn’t really resolved.”
“No,” said Eddie. “It’s not.”
He stopped, thinking it all through. “So somehow—and damned if I know how—we got our demons, even though they were played by federal agents instead of elderly choristers.” He shook his head slowly as he contemplated the chain of events. “It’s almost as if we made it come true by imagining it. Hardly seems possible.”
Pali nodded, laughing. “Stella may not be the one who got dragged away to Hell, but it works just as well.” He took a last swallow of beer before heading out. “You’re right, though. It’s almost too good to be true.” As he was about to head out the door he turned back, his face serious. “Let’s just hope it’s enough to win the
election.”
Fiona woke to the sound of a Skype call coming in from her laptop. Only one person in the world used Skype to reach her, and she leaped from bed to her desk instantly awake.
The strange glunking sound—like an electronic frog—responded to her click, and there was Pete, his face slightly distorted by the camera.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi,” said Fiona, trying without success to tame her sleep hair with one hand.
“Sorry to call in the middle of the night, but it was now or never.”
“I like now.”
“Me too.”
“Where are you?”
“Tsingdao.”
“Have you been arrested yet?”
“Don’t even joke about it. Nothing in China is private, you know. Have you been elected yet?”
“Not yet. But there’s been a development.”
“You have my full attention.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
There were growing rumors about some strange goings-on at Ground Zero. At first the stories seemed so unlikely that they were brushed aside by local residents. But when the 7:00 am customers began arriving to a full parking lot, and when earlier arrivals happened to glance in the windows, all doubts were dispelled.
The growing yoga practice at Ground Zero had unforeseen consequences. The post-yoga coffee crowd had brought a significant increase in Ground Zero’s bottom line, so much so that finding a seat on most mornings was nearly impossible from six until nine o’clock. Out of necessity—and against his principles—Roger began to stock to-go cups, lids, and disposable stirrers, and had to set up a separate table for milk, sugar, and cardboard sleeves, just to keep the flow of people from clogging the space around the counter.
Along with the general astonishment that Roger—of all people—might countenance this sort of group activity in his establishment, came the news that some of the area’s most solid citizens were participating. Gerald Barker of the County Board, Larry Sommer, head of the Chamber of Commerce, and the entire men’s prayer group of St. Johann’s Lutheran Church had all been seen doing yoga at Ground Zero.
Doctor Sam Abramson was asked his views on the subject, and he further astonished all within earshot by declaring it a damn good thing that might lower the mean blood pressure readings of the entire county. Not to mention making a few people less cranky. Not mentioning any names.
As the participants in Ground Zero’s yoga practice increased, there began to arise a growing list of complaints from the community. There were too many cars; sweaty men in a restaurant were a health hazard; no license had been granted—or, for that matter, even existed—for such activity.
These complaints inspired visits from multiple government entities, but the results were not all that opponents might wish.
The City Inspector declared that the capacity of the building had not been exceeded. The practice of yoga, after all, required that each participant have a certain amount of space around him, so the size of the meetings was self-regulated. Those who didn’t fit simply left, or lingered outside until someone else did.
The Health Department determined that there was no code violation, and unfortunately, in the inspector’s opinion, sweat was not something that could be regulated. That the gentlemen had bare feet may have been undesirable in a place where food was served, but it was neither illegal, nor against code. Just a bit… icky. Caveat Emptor.
Meanwhile, news of the men’s yoga group had been spreading beyond the peninsula. Men in search of yoga camaraderie were beginning to travel from Green Bay, and even Madison and Chicago. The resulting traffic and commerce—not to mention the increasing difficulty in getting a place to park at Ground Zero—were becoming a bit of a local headache.
Supporters of Ground Zero were quick to point out the boon to the local economy that came from the growing celebrity of Ephraim’s coffee shop and yoga gathering spot. For local restaurants and inns, business at this time of year had never been better. Some of them had opened early—long before the usual May beginning of the season—in order to accommodate demand.
A certain yogic theme began to emerge in local marketing, with emphasis on relaxation, organic foods, and a surfeit of lavender-scented everything. The impact of these extra weeks on the bottom line of Ephraim’s businesses—and, as the popularity grew, on the entire area—could not be overstated.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Ben lay in his bed, waiting for his mother to call him to get up. From the moment he had awakened and seen the strange reflected light on his bedroom wall, he had been wreathed in the joy of a new snowfall. The world would be transformed for as long as the snow lasted. Ben could not have explained exactly why he loved this transformation, except to say that it was beautiful. The adults around him would grumble and complain about the long winter and the slow spring, but Ben loved the snow, no matter what time of year it was. He loved, too, that the snow gave him more obvious clues to the locations of his animals, and he was excited to see what they had been up to.
All of Ben’s school day was colored by the presence of the snow outside the classroom windows. When at last the bell rang, he was like a homing device, purely focused on the preparations to mount his expedition. He gathered his things, made perfunctory farewells, and headed out.
An April snowstorm. Pali, who ordinarily loved winter weather, was finding he didn’t have the heart for it lately. He was tired of the struggle: the shoveling, the ice, the heavy clothes, the boots, the hats, the gloves and the heating bills. This unusually late spring had left nearly intact the ice fields on the lake, and it made the crossings longer and more tedious, and for Pali now, all pleasure had gone out of his daily routine. Everything was dull, gray, and joyless. He knew what was bothering him wasn’t the weather, but he tried not to think about it.
The snow had stopped, but there was a biting wind, and the clouds were heavy and blue, with the look of more to come. There had been quite a bit of chop on the lake today, too, and combined with the jolts from the ice, it would be easier for things to shift on the way over. The cold felt as if it went straight into a man’s bones. Pali looked at his watch. Ten minutes to departure. He needed to double-check some fastenings before they headed out.
At precisely five p.m. the ferry began its slow turn away from Northport, toward the open water and home.
The strait between the tip of Door County and Washington Island is the notorious Death’s Door Passage, so named for the long history of shipwrecks and maritime disasters dating at least as far back as to when Wisconsin was Indian country. The strait connects Green Bay to the southern part of Lake Michigan, and Door County’s name derives from it. It has shallow shoals to catch at ships and a propensity for brewing sudden, violent storms. Pali knew all this, but Death’s Door was home territory, and he traversed it many times a day. He had seen some rough waters, and he did not trivialize the storms that rolled up without warning. But he had good sense, experience, modern equipment, and a sailor’s stoicism, enhanced by the Nordic calm of his forebears. He took stock of his instruments, the sky, and the waters, and judged that his ferry would be safe.
But he had lost the small surge of joy he had always felt seeing the Island there on the horizon. Pali squared his shoulders and shifted his hands on the wheel. He would have to learn to find his path in this new gray existence. The wind and snow battered the ferry all the way home.
Nika was not a worrier. She knew her son and his little ways, and, despite his recent secretiveness, they had an understanding about his after-school wanderings. She did not take seriously the rumors about some lunatic wandering the island, and although she was troubled by her husband’s fears solely on his account, she refused to believe in evil spirits. Ten years without incident had, perhaps, given her a certain amount of complacency about her son’s good sense, but despite the lack of human threats, Nika knew well enough that the island had its share of the other kind.
At this time of year, her biggest concern was ice. Ev
en the most experienced outdoorsman could misjudge the soundness of ice over open water, and she had made a habit of reminding their intrepid boy of the need to avoid all water crossings until his father had investigated and given his approval.
Ben was well aware of his parents’ strictures, and had always respected their authority. He understood that icy water was deadly. Hypothermia and the prospect of being trapped beneath the ice were the topics of many dinner table conversations. The lake, in particular, was off-limits at this time of year. The lure of its beauty, however, with its ice floes and crackling waves, and the inviting appearance of solidity, with open space to walk where no one walked at any other time, was often hard for a boy to resist.
Ben’s paths through the woods often took him along the bluffs above the shoreline. He liked this route, because it afforded him a view of the horizon to the north and west, while keeping him among the shelter of trees and the activities of the woods. He noticed birds, and admired the eagles, owls, and vultures, but mammals were his primary interest, and they, too, had the sense to avoid the lake in winter. He had once seen a fox playing with her kits near the waves, but that had been in the heat of August, not in winter, when the waves carried blocks of ice that could crush a living thing, or worse, push it beneath the water.
It was this path that Ben had chosen today. He guessed that the foxes would be out to play in the snow, and their trust in him—which had been hard-won with months of patience and offerings of food—meant that they would allow him near to watch. He was, of course, also looking for his friend.
In addition to the food for his friend, he had carefully saved the crusts of his peanut butter sandwich from lunch for the foxes, and had a reserve of dog biscuits he kept in his backpack for such occasions. His mother had discovered this recently, along with copious evidence of mice in their back hall. After a sigh, an affectionate shake of the head, and vast quantities of bleach, she had replaced his backpack and its contents. Now instead of a worn, mouse-eaten, plastic bag, Ben’s supply of dog/fox biscuits were stored in a brand new green metal box with a tightly-fitted lid. It rattled a bit when he walked, but it gave Ben a great deal of secret satisfaction, knowing that he was prepared for a chance meeting. Along with his pocketknife, this was his most important tool. His mother’s discovery had given him some anxiety, but she had not seemed to think anything was out of the ordinary.
The Audacity of Goats Page 24