George stepped quickly back to his chair and plugged the headset into a computer. The dog followed, dropping to the floor at George’s feet but with a happy eye on Samuel. As much as Vermonters liked doing things their way, they were not completely averse to keeping up with the times. Dispatching trains via computers was a lot more efficient than the old electric maps, pencil and paper method. St. Pierre had been among the first to install specially designed computers. When jobs were consolidated at other rail centers, St. Pierre was ready to take on their work. It was good business, good for these men who had grown up railroading, good for the town.
“Well, George, one man can only do so much, ya know,” Samuel replied.
He made the rounds. There were five men on duty. He shook each hand firmly, smiling warmly.
“Don’t be a stranja, Sam,” Pete Maxham called out as Samuel opened the door to leave. He waved, still smiling. Here he didn’t mind being called Sam, enjoyed it really. Here he could let his guard down and be just himself, Sam Winters, son of Hugh and Edna Winters, a nice kid who wasn’t particularly gifted when it came to sports but a good sport in every situation. In Washington, he insisted on being called Samuel. It was a way to distinguish himself, perhaps garner some respect as the new kid on the senate block. Here, the only time he was called Samuel was when he was in trouble at home, at school, or in church.
Chapter Three
The sky had turned to cold grey clouds by the time they pulled into the parking lot.
“Sorry, no direct flights. You connect in New York.” Jane said, handing Samuel his boarding passes. There were some things she insisted on doing for her husband, like packing his clothes and making travel arrangements and social calls when he was home. He understood. They never talked about it but for whatever reason, she kept Betty at arm’s length from certain of Samuel’s personal activities.
The Subaru Forester, one of the line of unofficial cars for Vermont, stopped across the roadway from the Burlington International Airport terminal. Samuel did not mind being seen or even owning a Subaru. In Vermont, it was almost considered a domestic vehicle.
The terminal had undergone a facelift, prettied up, but it was still a small regional airport serving three airlines. By contrast, the parking lot was huge. Lots of business people and a few politicians used it to commute to Boston, New York, or Washington while many of their spouses remained comfortably ensconced in their Green Mountain homes.
“You coming in?”
“No, I want to beat the rush hour.”
Rush hour! You should spend more time in Washington, then you’d know rush hour. “All right.” He leaned in and kissed her lightly on the lips. She patted him on the shoulder.
He stepped out, opened the rear door, and reached for his suitcase. It was tiny. “What’s this?”
“The roll-on won’t fit in the overhead.”
“So?”
“They might miss the connecting window. You know how those city people are. Then where would you be? In Houston without a clean shirt.”
He stared at her over the seat back, smiling perfunctorily. You think of everything. “Bye.”
“Take your overcoat,” she instructed.
“It’s Texas,” he protested.
“You never know.”
Suitcase in one hand, briefcase in the other, overcoat tossed over his shoulder, he walked briskly to the edge of the crosswalk. He stopped, sniffed. “Touch of snow in the air,” he called back.
She waved. She waited until he disappeared into the terminal before backing out.
Within minutes she was on the Interstate heading home. She smiled. She had beaten the IBM shift workers returning to their country homes. She brushed away a tear.
Samuel tried to get comfortable in the narrow seat. At least she had booked him an aisle seat. It was slightly better than being jammed up against the window. He disliked these cramped commuter jets but often his schedule left no choice. He struggled to pull his briefcase from under his feet.
He pulled a page of notes from the briefcase now on his lap. “Bensen and Bensen. A major defense contractor specializing in construction but beginning to diversify through acquisition of other companies.” His thoughts drifted.
His Washington staff was efficient. They were all pros. They came with resumes steeped in Washington insider knowledge. His Vermont staffers knew Vermont inside and out but weren’t of much use in the power city. He had tried. When he was first sworn-in, he had brought his office manager, Betty, with him from St. Pierre. She lasted six months. As competent as she had been, and still was, in St. Pierre, she was out-gunned in DC. He knew it, she knew it. She was the one who found him Howard, young but an experienced chief of staff with a personality harmonious to his own. Then, by mutual agreement, she returned to St. Pierre to manage things there.
Jane, too, was out of place in Washington society. Her mother had been an avid reader. It came as no big surprise to any of the family when her mother insisted on naming her first-born Jane Austen. Her father assumed their next child would be a boy and that he would be permitted a majority vote on his name. Except that there had never been a second child, which partially explained Jane’s tomboyish childhood. Growing up, she had to be daughter and son. She had the body for it, long and lean, only a head shorter than Samuel, and muscular for a girl. In her teens, she could climb trees, pitch hay bales, and field softballs with the best of the men and boys around her.
When she smiled, which wasn’t often enough by her mother’s standards or Samuel’s, her face lit up as though she had some sort of electrical switch she could turn on and off. It contrasted nicely with her auburn hair and brownish skin, something else that made her stand out from the rest of the kids. Perhaps there had been an American Indian or African-American mixed into the ancestral gene pool in a time long forgotten, intentionally or not. As far as she knew from family lore and records, all her ancestors were Brits, Irish, or Scots. For whatever reason, she was the only one in the family, indeed, the only one in St. Pierre, with such skin color.
Growing up with the last name of Lampiere wasn’t so bad. Kids being kids, insensibly mean when trying to be funny, tried to make something of her initials—JAL—but most comments were neither funny nor derogatory. She learned that if she pretended indifference the name-calling died soon of its own ineffectiveness. It was different now, married to Samuel. Most people never evolve socially beyond junior high school. His denigrators in Washington were among them, sniping at her using the nickname, JAWs. Never in his presence of course but he heard about it. He tried not to memorize from whose camp came the slights. It wasn’t easy. It was true that she was plain by Washington standards but she was not ugly or aggressive. True, she was efficient like a shark but she had no killer instinct and no interest in people who did.
She was frugal, another trait imbedded by both her parents. She didn’t care to dress extravagantly or entertain for the sake of politics. She was not a good fit for the Washington social crowd. She knew it, he finally accepted it, and she stayed away as much as she felt she could and still maintain their marriage.
He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. He turned his attention back to the matter at hand. What possible use could he be to a man like Walter Bensen? Unless Bensen and Bensen was branching out into railroads. Samuel scanned the two-page document. Horizontal construction, vertical construction, ground transportation, nothing about railroads. Could it be his efficient staff had missed something critical?
He stowed the briefcase. He stretched as much as possible in the little seat trying to get comfortable. He hoped there would be turbulence throughout the flight. That way, if anyone did recognize him and felt compelled to share their views on Washington politics, the seatbelt sign would keep them in their place. He wanted the time to himself in order to think without disruptions. Whatever it was that Walter Bensen wanted, the intimated offer of multiple campaign contributions was enough for him to make the trip. He assumed, and Howard had assured him, that
Walter Bensen knew his way around campaign contribution laws. In a few hours he would know for sure what the Texas millionaire wanted, the price he was willing to pay for it, and the price he would extract in return.
The passing of the beverage cart and two attractive female flight attendants caught his attention. He turned to watch them bend, lean, reach, taking orders, handing out drinks and snacks, all the while remaining poised, confident, efficient, not a single wasted movement. It was like watching a ballet.
As they got closer, he could read their nametags—Sarah and Carrie. He smiled. His stomach growled perceptively. The smile faded. There hadn’t been time for lunch. A couple of cokes and bags of peanuts would be all he would have to sustain him on the six-hour trip. Maybe there would be time to grab something between planes.
The Subaru pulled into the slanted parking space directly in front of Winters’ campaign headquarters. The space wasn’t officially designated for the Winters but nearly everyone in town respected it anyway. A few light snowflakes floated down, dissolving into miniscule drops of water the moment they touched the warm windshield. Jane hardly noticed. She hurried inside.
“Get him off all right?” Betty asked, standing over the desk of a volunteer.
“Yes,” Jane replied. “Is Ed here?”
“In the office.” Betty forced a smile as Jane brushed past her toward the windowed back room. There was a bit of tension between the two women over who should attend to which details when Samuel travelled.
Ed, standing, holding a bunch of papers, glared over his reading glasses as the office door opened. Seeing it was Jane, he smiled. “Plane take off on time?”
“I expect so. I didn’t wait to see. Wanted to beat the traffic.” She stared at the papers he was holding.
“Financials. Guess Sam was right ta meet with this fella.”
“He usually is. You got time to stop by the house later?”
“Sure. Any particular reason?”
“Yes.” She turned on her heel and left as brusquely as she had arrived.
Ed slowly lowered into Samuel’s chair, watching her until the Subaru drove off.
It was dark when the Ford F-150 turned into the Winters’ dirt driveway off the secondary road. Jane heard it coming up the hill. There was no mistaking the sound. It was a working truck, not some IBM engineer’s weekend toy. An inch of snow, she thought, and he already has it in four-wheel drive. She knew him well. Ed Burke was not a man to take unnecessary chances; calculated risks, yes. He was someone you could depend upon.
She smiled as she sat rocking in the antique chair. It had been her grandmother’s. It wasn’t distinctive, not shaped by some famous furniture maker of the previous century. It was just old, comfortable in design, and comforting in memories. The soft creak on the throw rug covering the hardwood floor stirred memories. Her grandmother gently enfolding her, rocking away a childhood stomachache or fever or hurt, physical or emotional. Kneeling at her mother’s feet, pouring out her heart over some teenage catastrophe or other. Memories not of this house, of course, but the one she grew up in which was not all that different. With both parents gone, memories, likely favorably embellished subconsciously, were all that remained.
Both houses had been built as farmhouses, two-story, frame, white with green trim, four bedrooms, practical. Her house, sold to strangers after her father passed, had changed only to accommodate modern conveniences such as electricity, blown-in insulation, and indoor plumbing. Sam’s house had been thoroughly renovated. She had seen to that. She had kept the ambiance but by changing made it seem more authentic. The wide spruce flooring in the downstairs rooms had been replaced with narrow dark oak, except in the kitchen. New linoleum covered those boards. Thick, rough-hewn support posts had been exposed, eliminating the wall between the living and dining rooms. The floor joists in those ceilings had been exposed as well, packing wallboard and textured white paint in between. Large triple-pane windows let in the indirect afternoon light.
Afternoon sunlight was reserved for the sunporch. Samuel’s mother had a small raised platform built so she could sit and bask for a few minutes in the warmth of a setting sun and the sweet smell of apple blossoms or fresh mown hay or wood smoke, depending on the season. Jane had more free time than Samuel’s mother. She replaced the platform with a porch that extended nearly the length of the house, accessed from inside by a new door in the living room. When she started spending less time in Washington, she had it enclosed with sliding glass windows and screens.
Overlooking the pond below and the wooded-hill beyond, spring, summer, and fall, it was her favorite place to sit and contemplate or just sit and not think. Most winters were just too blessed cold to sit out there.
One tree stood out; an old apple tree hardly able to bear fruit. Its few apples were small and hard. But there was a branch unlike the others. It jutted straight out from the trunk before turning skyward. It would have been the perfect branch to hang from upside down if it had been there in her tomboy years.
Of much less interest to her were the fields north and south of the house. They were well maintained, leased out in barter of goodwill, but it had been years since any real farming had gone on at the Winters’ farm. Still, they added to the sense of tranquility and privacy that came with living at the end of the road on top of the hill.
The only light in the room now came from the fire blazing behind the spark screen in the brick fireplace. The bricks and the boilerplate on the inside were black from years of fires. The exterior bricks were a dull red. The mantle seemed out of place. It was made from birdseye maple, burnt orange in color, two-inches thick, and extended well past the fireplace on both sides. It was special because Samuel’s grandfather had cut the tree it came from, milled the lumber, and installed it himself. The rest of the lumber had gone to other people, other projects, gone now like his grandparents. The mantle was a special reminder of him. She stared into the fire, sipping her half-full glass of merlot.
A rap on the kitchen door.
“Come in,” she called still rocking.
She heard Ed stomp his feet, wiping off the snow and mud, before she felt the rush of cooler air as he opened the door.
“Jane?” he called out.
“In here.”
Ed stopped in the doorway, silhouetted by the kitchen light. He was more used to talking to Sam and Jane over the kitchen table than in the living room.
“You want a beer?” she asked, rising.
“Well, no …”
She held her glass in his direction.
“Shure.”
“Sit,” she said as she glided past him to the kitchen.
He stood waiting instead.
She smiled as she pulled a bottle of Magic Hat from the fridge. She enjoyed throwing Ed off-balance now and again. She handed him a glass of beer and walked back to the living room.
He followed, sitting on the first few inches of Sam’s wingback chair, his parka unzipped but still on. The blaze began to lessen. “That birch is a good fire-starta,” he commented.
“Yep,” she replied.
“Burns quick, though.”
“Uh huh.”
He took a sip. Stared at her, puzzled. “You goin ta tell me what’s up?”
She walked to the fireplace. Pulled aside the screen. Carefully tossed two smaller maple chunks on the fire. Replaced the screen. Ran a loving hand over the mantle. Turned her rocker to face him. Sat. Sipped her merlot.
“Sam’s leaving me.”
Ed choked on his beer, spewing out a few drops onto the floor. He coughed three times, then got down on one knee and wiped the spill with his handkerchief.
She waited until he had settled back in the chair. “I need your advice, Ed.”
“Jeez, Jane, I ain’t no lawyer.”
“No, but you know everyone and how things are.”
“You shure?”
“Pretty sure. Woman’s intuition.”
Ed took a long pull on his beer. “By God, Jane. I dunno
…”
She emptied her glass. Stood up. “Another?”
He finished the beer. Handed her the empty bottle. She stared at him with a peculiar twist to her mouth.
“I have no intention as coming off in this looking like the bad guy to St. Pierre’s favorite son.” She turned on a table lamp on her way to the kitchen.
From ten thousand feet, Houston looked beautiful, lit up like Christmas decorations against a black night. Samuel wondered what it really looked like with the façade stripped away.
Samuel clutched the carry-on bag as arriving and departing passengers pushed by him.
“Senator Winters?” A weathered hand reached for his.
“Yes.”
The man’s grip was strong, like someone who spent a lot of time doing manual labor. Samuel sized him up--tall, lanky, deeply tanned. Except for the brown pinstripe suit, he looked like a cowboy, with his string tie and his well-worn boots contrasting to the crisp white Stetson hat.
“Dusty Rhodes. Walter sent me.” The voice had a slight Texas twang but modulated.
He hasn’t spent all his time riding the range, Samuel thought.
“Got a car waitin’.” The hand wrested the small suitcase from Samuel.
The walk down the spacious concourse with its four-story windows was more than enough evidence he was not in Vermont any more, or even Washington. Everything in Texas is bigger, Samuel thought. Even the … “What the?” He stopped and stared.
Dusty chuckled. “You ain’t never seen a space cow before?”
Standing in front of them was a Holstein pattern space suit, one foot mounted on a rock replica, and the head of a cow inside the helmet. The caption on the rock read, “Houston we have landed.”
“Only in Texas,” Samuel said.
“You betcha.”
Samuel was impressed by the Mercedes idling in the pickup zone. He tried not to let it show. Dark green? Probably. It could be black, impossible to tell in this light. Dusty held the right rear door open for him. Samuel slid in. Dusty strode to the other side. The car eased effortlessly, noiselessly away from din of the arrival section.
Mid-Life Friends and Illusions Page 3