Before Another Dies

by Alton L. Gansky

  “You’re the guest of honor. I thought you might be here earlier.”

  “It’s a fund-raising gig, Floyd, and I’m the candidate. I’m not supposed to be here early. Most people expect me to arrive late.”

  “I’m just nervous. I’ve never been to one of these things before.”

  We crossed from concrete to the creosote-soaked planks. I looked down and through the spaces in the planks. I could see the sandy shore. Now the hard part began: Walking with dignity without plunging one of my heels between planks and breaking an ankle. It’s hard to walk with poise while contemplating every step. I was glad I went with the midheel pumps. Anything taller in this situation and people would wonder if I had enough smarts to be a congresswoman.

  “There’s nothing to worry about, Floyd. It will be what it will be. Worry is like having one foot on the brake and the other pressing the gas pedal. You get lots of noise but you don’t travel very far. I’m sure everything is going fine. I assume Nat has everything under control.”

  “Yeah,” Floyd said. “It’s amazing. She just sits there and directs people.”

  “She’s in a wheelchair, Floyd. Of course she just sits there.”

  “That’s not what I meant. I meant . . .” He caught my wink and replied with a nervous smile.

  Situated in the middle of the pier is the Fish Kettle, Paul Shedd’s restaurant. He was catering the fund-raiser, and I was glad for it. The former banker was great in the kitchen. I don’t know what kind of banker he had been, but everyone who crossed his threshold was glad he had made the career change. I looked down again, trying my best not to appear like a teenage girl learning to dance and watching her feet so as not to step on her father’s shoes. The sand had given way to churning ocean. The surf was small and rolled through the pier’s columns in a gentle, leisurely pace. Beyond the pier the ocean was a dark blue and turning darker as the sun’s disk crept toward the horizon; beneath me, however, the water was green with frothy white foam.

  I took in the surroundings. It was a beautiful night with a gentle salt breeze, a clear sky decorated with white gulls, mottled terns, and the occasional brown pelican. A section of the pier had been cordoned off with a red, white, and blue cord in the center and extending to the guardrail at the end of the pier. The pier was public property, and my campaign had to rent it for the few hours that we would be here. It wasn’t cheap, and as mayor I couldn’t ask for a break. As a public venue, we couldn’t close it off completely, not without accusations of favoritism. We took the end portion, which was plenty large enough. Others not associated with the fund-raiser could come and go as they pleased.

  In the south corner, a small band was setting up and tuning instruments. Nat had told me that she hired a band that played all the “great pop tunes.” Knowing Nat, she had reviewed their playlist and edited it. I judged the band members, a woman and three men, to be in their late twenties, early thirties. One of them stepped to a microphone and said, “Check, check.” His voice boomed from speakers in front of the stage area. He made an adjustment on the mixer board with what looked like a thousand switches and knobs. He repeated his “check, check, check.” It sounded the same to me but apparently he could tell a difference.

  “This place looks great.” I stepped through the break in the rope barricade that marked the transition from plain ol’ pier to the Maddy-for-Congress fund-raiser area. Nat Sanders had pulled her wheelchair up to one of the many folding tables that would serve as the dining area. She had several folders before her, one was open. She looked up at my words.

  “She’s here,” Floyd said.

  “I can see that,” Nat said. To me she added, “I didn’t expect to see you for another half hour. It’s fashionable for the candidate to be late.”

  “We’ve done, what, five of these fund-raisers?” I bent over and gave her a quick hug. “I haven’t been late yet.”

  “Six,” she corrected me. “You should try it sometime. Being late affords a better entrance.”

  “It’s a phobia with me.”

  She laughed. “No kidding.” She looked around. “What do you think?”

  Balloons hovered in the air, anchored to the ends of tables and the rough wood guardrail. Each balloon had my picture and the words, “Elect Maddy.” It embarrassed me. This was the part of campaigning I hated. I’ve always believed that ideals should be enough to garner votes, but campaigning has a long history of tradition. Fanfare remained the pattern. To the north side were three wide barbecues. Only in California does one barbecue in January. Waves of heat rose from the grills. Paul was well under way.

  “The count looks good,” Nat said. “We had a few people drop out because of illness but we also had some late RSVPs come in. Every spot is filled. The others will have to stand while they eat. I have get-well cards for you to sign.”

  “That was thoughtful.”

  Nat had arranged for a limited number of tables and chairs and had designated them for those who had bought the hundred-dollar-a-plate tickets. Volunteer waiters would serve those people, and I would spend most of my evening schmoozing with them. Others were welcome but had no assigned place to sit. In an innovative flash of brilliance, Nat had made campaign buttons for place markers. Instead of my name in big print there was the name of the supporter, and instead of the traditional “Vote Maddy” or similar, in bright red letters it said, “Elected by Joe Contributor.” An ingenious piece of marketing, I thought. Not only would the badges tell the people where to sit but it gave them a souvenir to remember the event and loss of at least one hundred dollars.

  “You never cease to amaze me, Nat,” I said. “This is wonderful.” It was especially wonderful since I had done none of the work. Nat was brilliant and possessed a memory that was almost frightening. Not only were facts and faces logged away in her mind, but she seemed able to access them like some people access computer files. But she was far more than a repository of research; her journalism experience had taught her to think outside the box. She was brilliant, creative, and driven.

  When we first met I had assumed her zeal and unending work were overcompensation for her paralysis, but I soon learned that she was that way from childhood. All the auto accident did was put her in a chair; it changed nothing else about personality or drive.

  “Yeah, I am pretty incredible.” She closed the folder, but not before I saw that it was the expected guest list. She opened another file that rested on the table. By the wheel of her chair was a black-leather briefcase. “I went over your speech again. For a politician, you write pretty well. I can’t find anything to change.”

  “That’s good. I hate last-minute alterations.”

  “I do want you to do something, though. I figured you’d be here early so I spoke to Paul. He said you can hide out in the restaurant.”

  “I don’t want to hide out,” I protested.

  “Sure you do. I want you to make an appearance. If you stand around here as people arrive you’ll look too eager, maybe even desperate.”

  “Nonsense, I’ll just greet people and be my usual captivating self.”

  “Don’t make me recite our agreement again.” She narrowed her eyes so deliberately, I knew she was acting. The agreement was the only thing I regretted about our relationship. I have always been self-motivated and very involved in my campaigns. Of course, those were much smaller efforts. Running for congress was a good light-year beyond my experience. As a former political reporter and later news anchor for a major LA television station, Nat had seen more campaigns than I. It had been she who finally pushed me into candidacy. I had thought of running for congress but had put the idea off. When the sitting congressman Martin Roth leaked his retirement plans, it put me in a tight spot. Defeating an incumbent is always tough. Running for an open seat is preferable. It was now or maybe never. Nat pushed and I let her. My agreement to run came with a stipulation: Nat would be my campaign manager. She objected at first but only mildly. Not to be outdone, she had her own stipulation. I heard it then
, and I’ve heard it several times since: “I’ll run your campaign, but I run everything. On matters of policy and ethics you can overrule me, but not on anything else.” I agreed, and now she was reminding me of it.

  “How often are you going to remind me of that?” I said it with a smile.

  “Every day if necessary. Now mosey into the Fish Kettle, or I’ll have young Mr. Grecian toss you over his shoulder.”

  I looked at Floyd and watched the color slip from his face. “That’s all right, Floyd. I’ll save you the indignity of carting my carcass across the pier.”

  “Paul has a booth set aside for you. Sip a soda or something, but go light on any food. You have to eat with your guests. I’ll send Floyd to get you when it’s time.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain.”

  “That’s better. And don’t spill anything on yourself.”

  I went, but I took my time. I said hello to several of the volunteers and thanked them for their fine work. I’d send thank-you cards later. Nat would make sure of that. Two minutes later I took a seat in a corner booth that had apparently been saved just for me. Paul Shedd’s wife, a round woman with blue eyes, greeted and seated me. Like her husband, she was a deeply spiritual person and had become a role model for me. I was sure I’d never grow in my faith like she had. Every time I saw her I expected to see a halo. This evening she looked a tad tired, and I said so.

  “Ain’t nothing but age, Mayor. I don’t know what’s wrong, but I seem to get older with every passing year.”

  “Maybe you should see a doctor, Martha. I’m sure they have some magic elixir to make you grow younger.” Paul and Martha were only in their early fifties, but I’ve noticed that people who cross the fifty barrier love to banter about their age. Maybe it was a way of accepting the inevitable fact that no one gets to stay young forever.

  “I’ve learned to be content with whatever circumstances I’m in.”

  “Wait, I know that one,” I said as I took my seat. “Don’t tell me. It’s John, right?”

  She smiled and shook her head. “The apostle Paul. Philippians 4:11.”

  “Rats! I thought I had it this time.”

  “Give yourself time. The Word has a lot in it. It takes time to get some of it down.”

  I had been reading the Bible daily for almost a year. I had been taught the basics at a new believer’s class at church, but I was having trouble retaining it all. “I have a good memory, but sometimes the Bible just seems beyond me.”

  “It’s beyond all of us, Mayor. The thing to remember is that it is a process, not an event. Just keep reading, and more and more of it will take root. You’ll see. Can I get you anything?”

  I looked around the room. The restaurant could only seat about 125 people and it was doing so now. There was a buzz in the air and waiters and waitresses moved with precision between the tables. I didn’t have to be a prophet to know that Martha and Paul were busy and that my fund-raiser just added to the day’s challenge. “Just tea. I’ll be eating later.” I felt guilty for taking up an entire booth that could hold four paying customers.

  “I’ll bring you an assortment. What about you, young man?”

  Floyd looked at me, then back at Martha. “I need to get back out there and see what Nat wants me to do.”

  A second later, I was alone gazing through tinted glass as volunteers scurried around. I drummed my fingers on the table. I removed a folded copy of my speech from my black purse. I would be speaking from memory and it was my job to make it all sound spontaneous. My eyes traced the words but my mind took a detour.

  Suddenly, I felt cold.

  chapter 19

  Most people move their eyes when reading.”

  The words yanked me up from a dark place. Standing by my table was Paul Shedd, a smile creasing his deeply tanned face. He had an empty cup in one hand and small plate with one of those restaurant-sized metal teapots in the other. On the saucer were several types of tea bags. He set it all down. “Hey, Paul. I’m sorry. I didn’t see you walk up. I was just going over my speech.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “May I join you?”

  “Sure, if you have the time.”

  “I have a few minutes, then I have to help my crew toss down some meat on the grill.” He sat. “It looked to me like you were glancing through your notes, not reading them.”

  “I may have been daydreaming.”

  He nodded. Paul is one of those intuitive people who know if something is wrong with you by the way you blink your eyes or move your lips. He studied me for a second. “Are you okay?”

  “Sure, why wouldn’t I be?” Ants began to crawl inside me.

  He worked his mouth a little before speaking. “I know it’s hard for you to come to the pier.”

  Last year, during some of the worst days of my life, a friend of mine was found strapped to one of the mussel-laden pylons. Her body wasn’t discovered until low tide the next day. “Facing hard things is part of life. I can’t avoid this place.”

  “No, I don’t suppose you can. I, for one, am glad for it. We’re always glad to see you at the Fish Kettle.” He paused and looked out the window. “You ready for all of this?”

  “I was born ready.” I was overstating things, something I did when I felt uncomfortable. I was never ill at ease around Paul. It had to be something else.

  “So how’s the walk?”

  The walk. It was Paul’s shorthand for my newfound faith, a faith he was instrumental in bringing into my life. “Forever forward,” I said, “but . . .” I didn’t know where the “but” came from.

  “But what?”

  I ripped open a tea packet, Apple Orchard, and dropped the bag in the hot water. “I don’t know why I said that. Really, I’m fine.”

  “Let me guess,” he leaned back and studied me as if I had my anxieties tattooed on my face. “You’re having trouble adjusting to the Christian life.”

  “I wouldn’t put it that way.”

  “How would you put it?”

  I played with the tea bag, lifting it from the water and dropping it again, as if I were torturing it for some crime it had committed. “I’m excited by my faith, and I’m learning new things every week . . .”

  “But you’re struggling with something.”

  I released the tortured tea bag and closed the lid on the tiny metal pot. “I’m not having trouble believing, although I have a great many questions. I’m struggling with myself.”

  “Well, after you’ve been a Christian as long as I have you’ll . . . still have a great many questions. It goes with the territory.”

  “I’ve always been such a quick study; I just thought that I’d have a better handle on the spiritual things by now.” I poured tea into my cup. It looked weak. Apparently I was feeling impatient.

  “By spiritual things, do you mean Bible knowledge or the daily stuff?”

  “Stuff? Is that a theological term?” He smiled but the little joke wasn’t going to derail his thoughts. “It’s me. Do you remember that verse you asked me to memorize after I gave myself to Christ? The one about being a new creation?”

  “‘Therefore if any man is in Christ, he is a new creature; the old things passed away; behold, new things have come,’” he quoted. “That one?”

  “That’s it. I don’t feel like a new creation. I feel like the old creation with a new coat of paint. The structure is all the same.”

  “What brings all this on?”

  “Life brings it on. Business brings it on. When I’m around people who annoy me or who I think are doing things for selfish motives, I turn back into the old Maddy. I’ve always had a quick tongue and tend to speak my mind. That’s not always good.”

  He considered what I said, then, “Is it always bad?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Someone at work is annoying you and you let them know what you think. Is that it?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Do you curse at them? Run them down? Degrade them?”

 
; “No, of course not.”

  “Was there a time when you would have?” He leaned forward.

  It was my turn to mull things over. “Yes. I’ve been known to take head shots at my detractors and a couple of people on the council.”

  “Do you still do that?”

  “I’ve had a few terse conversations, Paul. Some of them pretty blunt.”

  “It sounds to me like you need to give yourself a break. How’s Floyd working out?”

  Paul attended the same church as I did and knew Floyd was Pastor Lenny’s son. “He’s catching on but has a long way to go. I think he has potential. He just doesn’t know it.”

  “Sounds like you’re pretty patient with him, Mayor.”

  “Well, of course I am. This is all new to him. It’s going to take time for him to find himself.”

  “Why not fire him and get someone more competent?”

  I sipped my tea. I had the feeling I was being taken for a ride. “I don’t fire people for not having had the time to learn what they need to.”

  He gave me a gotcha smile. “I have to scoot out and start throwing things on the grill so let me do this quickly. You are far more patient with others than you are with yourself. Of course you’re going to struggle with old patterns and habits. Every believer does. The apostle Paul called it the old man and said he struggled with it every day. You can look this up later, but Romans 7 tells of Paul’s inward struggle. He said, ‘For I know that nothing good dwells in me, that is, in my flesh; for the wishing is present in me, but the doing of the good is not. For the good that I wish, I do not do, but I practice the very evil that I do not wish.’”

  It still amazed me that Paul had so much Scripture at his mental fingertips.

  He went on. “If he was in a daily wrestling match, who are we to think that we’ll fare better than he?” He reached across the table and laid his hand on mine. “You are a new creature in Christ, but the Christian life is a process of becoming. We’re not one thing one day then, boom, something else the next day. Victories in the Christian life come one day at a time. Give yourself a chance to change. By the way, speaking your mind is not a sin if done in love. Okay?”