Big If

by Mark Costello

  “Willingboro?” Peta said. “That’s halfway to Manchester.”

  Jackie was more diplomatic. “Another van will pick you up at the polls, Mr. Nichols.”

  “Call me Leonard.”

  “Leonard. Maybe they’ll have time to drive you up to Willingboro.”

  Leonard Nichols seemed to buy this. Peta heard him pawing through the ice and free drinks in the cooler, looking for a beer, settling for a juice box. He sipped and started a long rant about the builder’s broken promises, town water and town sewer, the builder had promised, but everything is shoddy-like in Belvedere, he said.

  The next successful pickup was a man named Bob Mangano, out on disability from the navy yard in Kittery, who was listed as a four, strong for the VP, because he felt the VP would do more for people who were out on disability from the navy yard in Kittery.

  “Could you get my buddy?” Bob Mangano asked. “He votes religiously, but he lost his license over Christmas. He’s three-time DUI.”

  “Where does he live, Willingboro?” Peta asked.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Leonard Nichols said.

  Bob Mangano’s buddy wasn’t on the list, but he lived nearby and Jackie thought it was probably okay. The buddy trotted down his walk, climbed into the van, and introduced himself to everyone as Al. He was a sociable old sport, dressed entirely in tan. He sat in the backseat, next to Leonard Nichols and the free drink cooler, and soon they were discussing the shoddiness of Belvedere, the sewer lines and water lines.

  “What street are you on?” Al asked Leonard Nichols.

  Leonard said, “Tippecanoe.”

  “Over in the battle names,” said Al. “I hear you’re having problems with the deer pest over there. They come out of the state forest after dark, eat your shrubbery, I hear.”

  “Not lately,” Leonard said. “They put this box up on a pole, makes a noise the deer just hate, drives ’em down to Rye. Our problem is the water pressure. I haven’t had a shower in three days. It’s more like a dribble, what I got.”

  They passed a van from the senator’s GOTV operation. It was bigger and nicer than their van. As the two vans passed in the street, the senator’s van veered playfully at them.

  “Assholes,” Peta breathed, swerving to the right.

  The last stop in Belvedere was a deluxe unit, a steep-roofed palazzo with numbers slanting down the door. Peta pulled into the driveway, honked the horn, and flashed the lights. Two men in fur-lined raincoats came out of the house and approached the van. One was Boone Saxon. The other was the trainee agent, Christopher. They flashed their credentials, a practiced flip and back in their pockets.

  Boone Saxon said, “Do you know the woman who lives here?”

  “No,” said Peta.

  “We’re a pull team for the VP,” Jackie explained. “These are his supporters. This lady’s name was on our list. We’re taking voters to the polls.”

  Boone Saxon was distracted, reading Jackie’s button. He said, “‘Kiss me—I’m a teacher’?”

  “Yes,” said Jackie.

  “Does that mean you’re a teacher?”

  “Yes,” said Jackie. “I’m retired.”

  Boone Saxon said, “Okay. Let’s see this list.”

  Christopher walked around the van, looking through the windows at the carpet on the floor as Boone inspected Jackie’s action packet, turning several pages, flipping back. Satisfied, Boone gestured to the house.

  A thin woman scurried down the steps, zipping a jacket. She climbed into the van and the agents stepped away. Peta backed down the driveway and headed into town.

  The woman sat in back with Al and Bob Mangano. Leonard Nichols offered her a drink. The woman took a juice box, pierced it with the straw, and sucked thirstily. She was trembling.

  “What was that all about?” Peta asked.

  “I’m Belinda Johnson,” said the woman. “They’re questioning all Belinda Johnsons.”

  They dropped the Belvedereans at the polls and went down Santasket Road, past the glittering new developments, Sandy Point and Breezy Ridge. The next group of likely voters lived in Grassy Knoll, the development past Breezy on the right. Grassy Knoll was the latest, best, and biggest retirement community in town, a mini-city of units and subunits, care levels ranging from affordable to posh. Peta drove past curving roads and maple groves and multiuse fitness paths, streams and little ponds ringed by tall grass and low willows, the homes and lawns and wild dales blending into greens and roughs and undulating fairways. Jackie didn’t even notice the golf course until they were in it, and Peta pointed out the cedar wheelchair ramp down into the sand trap.

  “They’re making millions,” Peta said.

  They collected Nadine Clanksy, a litigator’s widow from Cohasset, Massachusetts, who lived in a cookie-cutter cottage in a line of cottages facing a tricky little meadow, a par four.

  “I never have to leave,” said Nadine Clansky, explaining why she’d moved. “Everything I need is here.”

  “It’s incredible,” said Jackie.

  “I’d like to live here now,” said Peta.

  “Minimum age is sixty-five,” Nadine said, “and they enforce it strictly. Every so often, they’ll get some yuppie couple ready for the quiet life, trying to move in, pretending to be their own parents. Least that’s what I heard. It might be urban legend.”

  “You have urban legends out here?” Peta asked.

  “We have everything,” said Nadine. “Rock-climbing too. The golf course is the big draw, though. It won two awards.”

  “Do you golf?” asked Jackie.

  “No,” said Nadine. “You?”

  “Tried it,” Jackie said. “Didn’t grab me.”

  “Seems so boring,” Peta said. “Just seeing it on TV. Why is the announcer whispering?”

  Nadine turned. “How ’bout you?”

  The woman from The Truth said, “I’m sorry, what?”

  They pulled up to the Big House, as Nadine called it, a fifteen-story cube of brown reflective glass.

  “That’s full nursing,” said Nadine. “You don’t mind if I wait out here. That place gives me the creeps.”

  Jackie, Peta, and the woman from The Truth went into a creamy lobby. A guard watched them through a break in the trees. They heard the sound of water falling but saw no waterfall.

  Jackie took the bottom floors, looking for the three names. A woman, who polled as a strong supporter, had died over the weekend, and a man, another four, was having a nap and the nurses wouldn’t wake him. Jackie woke him anyway.

  The man’s name was Arthur Freilinghuysen. “’Course I want to vote,” he said. “I haven’t missed a vote since Roosevelt in ’40. Help me find my pants.”

  Jackie let Arthur Freilinghuysen dress. She went looking for the next name on her list, a Mr. Grosjean. She found him being fed his breakfast.

  Jackie knocked. “Mr. Grosjean, I’m Jackie Kotteakis from the vice president’s campaign. Would you like to vote today?”

  “He’s absentee,” said the orderly.

  Jackie said, “He’s on the list. Mr. Grosjean, hello. Would you like to take a ride with me today?”

  Peta walked the middle floors, looking for a voter named James Patrick Fagan. She stopped at a nursing station where a black man in a smock and stethoscope was picking through the pill drawer.

  Peta said, “I’m looking for James Fagan. He’s a resident.”

  The man gulped some pills and closed the drawer. “You got him.”

  “You’re James Fagan?”

  “All day long,” he said.

  “Aren’t you a little young for a place like this?”

  “That’s what I tried to tell my daughters,” James Fagan said. “They said, ‘Dad, you’re going through some changes. It’s not your fault, you’re getting older now.’ They got all worked up because once—once—they came to my house and I didn’t recognize them. They said I didn’t recognize them because I was getting older. Truth is, I didn’t recognize them
because they were getting older. I remember my daughters blowing out the candles on their kiddie birthdays, going off to proms. These girls, my supposed daughters, were fat and gray and had those tiny spider veins. Of course, I didn’t say this, knowing how sensitive women are. Next thing I know I’m living in a cube. This is what I get for being nice. Let’s roll. I’ve got a chat-room date at noon.”

  They rendezvoused in the lobby, Jackie with Arthur Freilinghuysen and Mr. Grosjean, Peta with James Fagan, the woman from The Truth with Mrs. Souza, the old piano teacher from C.E. They got the voters settled in the van, Nadine Clansky pushing over to make room.

  Peta headed into town.

  Arthur Freilinghuysen said, “Who’s running this year?”

  “The VP,” Jackie said. “You support him.”

  Arthur said, “I do?”

  “That’s how they get your name,” James Fagan said.

  “Well okay,” said Arthur, not too sure of this. “Is anyone else running?”

  “Not really,” Peta said. “The VP is a solid choice.”

  “I don’t know,” said Arthur. “I never trusted Tricky Dick.”

  “He’s not running,” Jackie said.

  “I never trusted any vice president, Humphrey, Agnew, Mondale, Bortlund.”

  When they pulled up at the Gateway-to-the-Wetlands Nature Center with the second load of voters, Leonard Nichols was fuming in the rain, water running from the fangs of his mustache.

  “Where’s the other fucking van?” he shouted at Jackie. “I been waiting half an hour. Is this your strategy? Get my vote and then it’s Leonard who?”

  “At least you got a shower,” Peta said.

  “I’ve been here before,” said Mrs. Souza, looking with suspicion at the nature center.

  Peta often saw flocklike delegations from Grassy Knoll visiting the nature center under heavy chaperon. She said, “Yes, Mrs. Souza, the horseshoe crab exhibit’s really interesting. Can you get out, dear, or do you need a hand?”

  “No, I mean I was here this morning,” Mrs. Souza said. “Some nice men in a van—they asked for my help.”

  The voters from Grassy Knoll assembled on the curb, popping their umbrellas, everyone but Mrs. Souza, who had already voted for the senator, apparently. The woman from The Truth went around the back and helped Mr. Grosjean with his folding walker.

  Leonard Nichols said, “Don’t vote for their lousy candidate. I did and look where it got me.”

  Nadine Clanksy said, “I’m too old to walk home.”

  Jackie said, “You won’t be stranded, Mrs. Clansky. We’ll wait for you, I promise. Now all of you get in there and do your civic duty.”

  Voting was a careful process in New Hampshire. You stood in line as the ladies from the League of Women Voters checked names on the print-outs, then you waited for an open booth, then you pulled the big lever and the curtains closed behind you, and you pressed the little button by your candidate’s name, then you got a cookie and a cup of juice from the women who did juice and cookies. It was like giving blood and took about as long.

  Peta, Jackie, and the woman from The Truth waited in the van with Leonard Nichols, who had calmed down a bit, and Mrs. Souza, who had brought her knitting bag and was working on a sock.

  Peta called the campaign office. Tim said the C.E. pickup van had been reassigned to Rye when the Rye van went to Eatontown. The van for Eatontown had thrown a rod on 95, and the van from Portsmouth, dispatched to get the stranded voters, took them by mistake to Rye.

  “But everything’s on track again,” said Tim, “except for Exeter.”

  By then it was clear: the VP’s operation was a shambles.

  Peta heard snoring. It was Mrs. Souza.

  The senator’s van pulled up, unloaded, and pulled out again. The senator’s brisk and chipper volunteers made three trips while Peta and the others sat there waiting.

  Leonard Nichols said, “Maybe we should send somebody in, tell them to hurry up.”

  “They’re voting, not shopping,” Peta said. “You wait in line, you vote, you get a cookie and you leave. There’s no way to ‘hurry up.’”

  The van was beginning to feel cramped.

  Leonard Nichols said, “You promised me a ride to Willingboro.”

  “No we didn’t,” Peta said. “We said the pickup van might possibly have time to go all the way to Willingboro, though it isn’t very likely when you think about it, Leonard, because Willingboro’s thirty freaking miles from here. Jesus, buddy, take a bus.”

  “I missed the bus to vote,” Leonard Nichols said. “I can’t be late for this interview. I really need this job.”

  “Want a fruit drink?” Peta asked.

  “No, I want a job. I’m a skilled mechanic. I can break an engine out like nobody’s business. Don’t roll your eyes at me, you stuck-up bitch. I’m a piece of shit, I guess, until your Saab breaks down.”

  Jackie said, “Enough of that. Leonard, I’m surprised at you.”

  James Fagan came down the steps of the nature center. He said that Nadine Clanksy was almost finished. “I saw her with a cookie. Freilinghuysen’s going to be a little longer. I think he’s doing write-ins. He was going booth to booth, trying to borrow a pen.”

  “Where’s Mr. Grosjean?”

  “They’re looking for him now. They know he checked in, because his name is checked off. They’re peeking under the curtains, looking for his shoes, trying to figure out which booth he’s in.”

  Nadine Clanksy came out next, followed by Arthur Freilinghuysen, who had cookies for the group.

  Jackie said, “Have they found Mr. Grosjean?”

  “They found his booth,” said Arthur Freilinghuysen “They’re calling for him, but he won’t come out. They’re asking if he needs medical attention, but he won’t respond. He’s just in there, humming to himself. They’re trying to locate a family member now.”

  An ambulance pulled up. The EMTs ran the gurney up the steps into the nature center.

  Jackie said, “They seem to have the situation well in hand. Let’s take these people home.”

  They went south to Grassy Knoll, dropping Nadine at her cottage and the others at the cube. They started back for Portsmouth on the coast road. Leonard tagged along, still hoping for a ride to Willingboro.

  There were three museum rooms at the Gateway-to-the-Wetlands Nature Center. The line to vote snaked through them from the street doors, past the pay phones and a giant diorama called The Marshes Before Man. Jens shuffled with the others, briefcase at his feet, taking the odd pull off a bottle of Glucola. Word was coming down the line that there had been a medical emergency in one of the booths, a stricken voter or a claustrophobe, and help was on the way, which was why the line was stalled. Two EMTs bustled from the street a few minutes later, their belts and O2 bottles riding on the bedding of their gurney, and after that the rumor stood confirmed.

  Jens could see the women at the folding tables flipping through the multivolume voting rolls, A through E, F though L, M though XYZ. Voting was taking longer than Jens had expected. He was tempted to skip it, but he had already invested fifteen minutes in the line by then, and he was prepared to waste another fifteen minutes so that the first fifteen would not have been in vain.

  The EMTs were standing by a curtained booth, trying to question the voter within. Jens saw a pair of Wallabees facing inward, away from the EMTs. All around, people gave their names, lined up for a booth, voted, had juice and cookies, or left right away. A priest joined the EMTs at the curtain and asked if he could help.

  The line advanced. Jens gave his name to a woman who took names. The woman stamped his hand and he joined the nearest line. The priest and EMTs were standing at the center booth, talking to the Wallabees inside. The priest coaxed the old man out. Climbing on the gurney, the old man looked quite tired and relieved.

  Food and drink were not allowed inside the booths, so Jens slipped the bottle of Glucola into the side pocket of his overcoat. He pulled the iron lever, closed the c
urtain with a clang. He stared at the options, the parties and the offices, the names in tiny type. He focused on his choice: the VP or the senator?

  Peta had insisted that he vote (“Don’t bother coming home if you don’t vote,” she’d said, smiling, that morning), which was just another way in which they were different: Peta so rooted, so engaged, so strong for the VP (in poll code terms, a four); Jens undecided (poll code five). Jens had declared this status to the first pollster who had cold-called the condo in the spring. He had stuck to his position through a hundred calls and canvasses since then. It was easy in the spring to express no preference between candidates because there were no candidates back then. There were many candidates, mentioned, rumored, or projected, but none of them declared, senators, ex-senators, governors, single-issue mavericks with small, fervent followings, some of whom were also ex–unsuccessful candidates for president, drubbed in past New Hampshire primaries. Jens saw these men on the nightly news, winking, hinting, being coy, refusing to rule out. He also saw them (sometimes the next day) on the streets of Portsmouth, or shaking hands at Monsey’s Luncheonette, shirtless, tie loose, coat over the shoulder or held by an aide. Jens was prepared to shake the hand of any declared candidate, liberal, conservative, both parties. They shook his hand, sought his vote—it was honest and forthright. He wouldn’t shake the hands of any nondeclared candidates he happened to run across (he felt that a governor of Texas or a senator from Delaware ought to declare his reasons for hanging out at Monsey’s on a Saturday)—it was sneaky in a way, running undeclared. As the election neared and the field firmed up, pollsters called the house, pressing Jens: Would it change your opinion, sir, if you knew that the vice president was soft on the economy? Or: Would it make you any less undecided if I told you that the senator has voted to put a nuclear waste dump about four hundred feet from your house? This was called push polling, another sneaky tactic, campaign hirelings posing as true pollsters, spreading crummy information in their questions. Eventually Jens installed a voice-mail firewall to keep pollsters and fake pollsters at a distance, but this didn’t block the rest of the barrage, the canvas vans, the TV spots, the radio, the mailings, the flyers and lawn signs, the billboards and the bumper stickers in the corner of your eye a zillion times a day. Jens had clung to his non-opinion through summer, fall, the holidays, and he found it hard, standing in the booth, to cast his longdefended undecidedness aside. The VP or the senator? He finished the Glucola, gazing at the names.