A couple of muffled chuckles from amidst the group.
Jane broke through the on-lookers. She grabbed Sara with a mother’s frightened passion. “You’re all right? You’re not hurt?”
Sara bobbed her head as she answered, “Yes, mother. I’m fine.”
“Well it’s plain you’re not fine. Let’s get you home. Samuel Nelson Winters, take care of this,” she instructed him.
“You go. Ahy’ll do it,” Ed offered. “Show’s ova, folks. Those of you who ain’t had suppa yet, it’s waintin’ fur ya.”
As most of the crowd dispersed, Howard, with a blank look, faced Samuel.
Samuel draped an arm around Howard, steadying himself, his knees wobbly. “Near miss. No real harm.”
“What?” Howard asked incredulously.
“Coyotes. Misplaced priorities.” He took a deep breath, trying to force calmness on his mind and body. “Come on. We’ve got constituents waiting.”
“Are you not going home? Your daughter?”
“She’s not hurt, just shook up. Jane’ll take care of her.”
Howard’s eyebrows went up in disbelief. “What about the shooter?”
Samuel turned back towards the church. “Ed’ll talk to the sheriff when he shows up. It’ll be all right.”
Howard hurried after him. “What do you mean, all right? He should be in jail.”
“For what? No one really got hurt. He’ll give up his guns. Judge’ll probably fine him substantial.”
“You call that justice? He could have killed your daughter, or someone else.”
“Small town justice usually depends on who you are. George’s family helped settle this town. Been here longer than mine.”
“Mine, too, justa bout,” Ed injected. He looked around. “Say, where’s Pirate? I ain’t never seen George without that dog since he got him.”
Samuel looked left and right. “I don’t know. In his truck, maybe. What did you start to say about Jane?”
Ed looked at Howard. “Why don’t you two head on in, if that’s what youra mind to. Aye’ll tell ya lata. I’m goin’ ta look for the dog.”
Samuel nodded, still trying to put the last few minutes into proper focus.
The seven-thirty seating forced more tables to be set--all the church had. Waiters speculated whether they would run out of syrup and snow. The diners were boisterous. They all wanted to talk to Samuel, particularly now that there was fresh news to talk about. Howard said little after his rebuke from Betty. He stood aloof from the crowd, sipping coffee and observing.
More people than expected showed up for the final seating. Word spreads quickly in a small town. They all wanted to talk about the incident and to at least see, if not talk to, Samuel.
Ed returned. He watched Betty at the bottom of the stairs counting the cash from the last group. She wrote a figure on a piece of scrap paper, then totaled the amounts from the earlier seatings. She slid it so Ed could see the numbers before dropping it into the metal box with the cash.
As Ed approached, two men walked away from Samuel standing in a corner just out of earshot of the nearest table.
“How’d we do?” Samuel asked.
“Just ova nine thousand,” Ed answered. “Lots of folks dropped in more’n the suggested donation. It’ll keep us in business nother week or so. You decide what you’re planin’ on doing with the other?”
“No.”
“You do know that we’re getting’ outspent three to one?”
“So you said.”
“It’d go a long ways toward evenin’ the playing field.”
“Thinking on it.” Samuel acknowledged a man looking in his direction. He walked toward him, smiling, away from Ed.
It was nearly ten when Samuel and Howard walked through the kitchen door. Samuel had stayed talking until the last potential voter was satisfied. Sara and Jane, her mother’s rage modified by the second bottle of wine, waited rocking together in front of the cold fireplace, every light in the house turned on as though the light could repel whatever possible danger, real or imagined, lurked in the darkness.
Jane looked at Samuel with the silent questioning that passes between couples long married.
Howard looked at Sara for the first time not in the dark. She had arrived late in the day. She had been off seeing old friends while Samuel showed Howard around the old farm and they discussed the campaign with Ed. She was pretty, a carbon copy of her mother except for the skin. She was paler even than her father.
“Sheriff finally showed up,” Samuel explained. “George’ll have ta face charges of dischargin’ a firearm instead town limits. He’s agreed ta turn ova all his guns ta Ed.” His accent often returned when he was joking or had something unpleasant that had to be said. “Unless, a course, you want ta press charges?” he asked Sara.
“Think he’ll buy me a new coat?” There was a touch of underlying sarcasm in her voice. Then she and Jane giggled. The wine had done its work. The icy uneasiness when the three of them were together thawed in the presence of an aged cabernet. Howard’s presence had no effect one way or the other.
“Ahym shure he’d be more than happy to,” Samuel said. “Man should know his limits. Any more of that wine?”
Jane held up a half-empty bottle. “A bit.”
“Yes, he should,” Sara pronounced. There was meanness in her voice. “Maybe next time he won’t miss.” Apparently the wine had not been properly aged.
“What are you talking about?” Samuel asked.
“God forbid a family friend should shoot your only daughter.” Sara’s tone could cut steel.
“You’ve had enough.” Samuel poured the wine out equally in two glasses. He handed one to Howard. Sara snatched at it but missed.
“I put Howard in your old room,” Samuel said Sara, his accent abated. “I didn’t know you were coming.”
“That’s fine,” she said, slurring sarcastically. “I can sleep on the air mattress.”
“No, no,” Howard interjected. “It is your room. I will sleep on the mattress.”
Sara smiled at him, flushed from the wine. “How gallant of you, sir.” She held her glass high, letting the last drop slide slowly off the rim and fall on her tongue.
“It’s settled then,” Jane stated. She finished her wine, kissed Sara on cheek, and planted her feet to stop the rocker and further discussion. She rose and walked to the stairs.
Sara stared contemptuously at her father.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing.” She followed her mother up the stairs, firmly holding the railing for support.
Samuel watched her disappear at the top of the stairs. He shook his head. He and Howard finished their wine in silence simultaneously.
Moments later, Jane was in bed pretending to be asleep as Samuel undressed.
“Did you see Pete tonight?” he asked casually as he removed a shoe.
“Who?” she asked groggily.
“Pete Maxham, from the dispatch office.”
“Your daughter’s nearly killed and you’re asking me about some railroad worker?” She pulled the covers over her head and turned her back on him.
He sat on his side of the bed to remove his socks. “He and Ed are usually together,” he mused.
She tugged the covers tighter.
Around three A.M., Samuel cautiously crept down the living room stairs. The bottom stair creaked under his foot. He froze.
In the darkened living room, Howard woke with a start. He turned on his side, the air mattress sinking under his weight, and glanced immediately at the un-shaded windows. The clouds still played with the pale moonlight. He seemed to be looking for shadows or something. Samuel watched him stare at the windows for a full minute. Nothing. He lay on his back. Within moments, sleep overtook him. Samuel could breath again.
Samuel slipped quietly past him to the kitchen. Nothing like a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on soft white bread to offset the sweetness of so much maple sugar. In the darkness, he chewed slowly, sa
voring both the sandwich and the solitude. Suddenly, the squeak of the stair. He waited. Soft steps on the living room floor? He couldn’t be sure. He tiptoed to the door jam like a sleuth and cautiously peered around the corner.
The first thing that caught his eye was something lying on the floor at the bottom of the stairs. A blanket? A robe? A nightgown? The air mattress squeaked. He could barely make out a female body slipping under the covers. Howard stirred. His head jerked up off the pillow. A hand reached out, covering his mouth. Samuel is frozen in place; wanting to know, not wanting to know.
“Sh,” cautioned a female voice.
Sara! Samuel pulled back, not wanting to see more, wishing for an alternate escape route.
“I can not do this,” Howard whispered.
“Yes, you can. Daddy’s little helper.”
Samuel could still hear. He should cover his ears but doesn’t. It’s like watching, in this case hearing, a train wreck. It’s compelling. There is the rustle of sheets on rubber as bodies move. He imagines Sara sliding under Howard.
“Don’t you just love coincidences,” she whispered, “like us both being here.”
“I do not believe in coincidences,” Howard whispered.
“Squeeze my legs.” Sara’s whispered command reached Samuel’s ears.
Samuel retreated toward the farthest part of the kitchen, feeling his way past chair and table, trying desperately not to bump into anything, not to make a sound that would give away his presence. Before he could safely cover his ears he heard more rustling.
Then Sara said, “Slowly.”
Samuel pressed his face against the outside wall, a finger shoved in each ear. He willed the imagined rhythmic moving of bodies from his consciousness, though it would be forever seared into his subconscious.
Chapter Seven.
“Morning, Sunshine,” Samuel said coldly, leaning against the doorpost, coffee in hand.
Howard rubbed sleep from his eyes. Light filtered through the blinds in the living room. Then panic. He reached next to him. An empty mattress. Samuel doesn’t wonder about the relief showing on Howard’s face.
“We need to catch the next flight to Boston. Already missed the first one. You hungry?” Samuel asked.
“Famished,” Howard replied with too much exuberance. He rolled off the mattress. “The ladies not up yet?”
“No. There’s toast and coffee.” Then he added, “You better take it to go.”
“Right, Chief.” Howard pulled on his pants. “Will not take two shakes of a lamb’s tail.” He grinned.
“A fish out of water dies. Don’t try to be country, Howard. Stay in your element.” There was not a trace of humor in Samuel’s face or voice.
“Yes, sir,” Howard replied, hastening to button his shirt. “How are we getting to airport? Taking the Subaru?”
Samuel took another hit of caffeine. “Ed’s picking us up.”
The deep-throated rumble of the F-150 in the drive signaled Ed’s arrival. Howard scrambled to jam a slice of toast in his mouth and tie his shoes.
Howard picked up a book from the seat as he slid into the middle between Ed and Samuel. He placed the book on the dash. Samuel reached for it.
Ed turned to look out the back window as he guided the truck out of the drive.
“What’s this?” Samuel asked, holding the Spanish language book. “You learning Spanish?”
Ed looked at him. The pickup veered off the path onto the grass. Ed looks back at the direction of travel, bringing the pickup back on track. “Thought it might come in handy. All them illegals and everythin’ movin’ up this way.”
Minutes later, the pickup came to an idle in front of the First National Bank.
“I won’t be a minute,” Samuel said. “Stay with the truck.”
Samuel slipped out the passenger door, Ed the driver’s side. Howard sat, engine running, wondering.
Inside the bank, Ed unlocked the steel door to the safety deposit box area. He and Samuel walked quickly to a bank of boxes. Samuel inserted his key in box 101. Ed did the same. They turned the keys simultaneously. Ed removed the rectangular metal box. He opened the cover in Samuel’s direction. Samuel deposited the envelope. Ed returned the box to its resting place. Samuel handed him his key.
“You keep it, just in case,” he said.
Ed slid both keys into his pocket. “’Fore you go, got somethin’ you should know.”
Samuel took a deep breath. “What?”
“The day you went ta Texas, Jane come ta see me at the office. Asked me ta stop by the house.”
Ed was a veteran storyteller. It wasn’t not often he had a captive audience. He spilled every detail, even the unimportant ones, like the sound his truck made rolling over Samuel’s driveway. Never one to let the facts get in the way of a good story, he embellished parts, even adding bits and pieces of what he thought Jane might be thinking. By the time he finished, Samuel was convinced that Jane was ready to ruthlessly divorce him.
The St. Pierre operation and Washington office were polar opposites. There was a dynamic, focused energy pulsating through the latter. People moved with such rapidity it was as though they were locomotives on individual tracks whizzing about continuously in motion intersecting with each other but never colliding. Their intensity of action was matched by their efficiency.
The Washington décor, too, was a stark contrast to St. Pierre as well. In the outer office, everything seemed new or at least extremely well maintained. The colors were neutral and subdued blues and grays. Desks and filing cabinets were of modern design made of matching polished steel. Only two large, framed black and white pictures adorned the walls. One was of the gold-domed capital building in Montpelier, the other of Camel’s Hump taken on an overcast day through a tele-photo lens. A discrete stack of election bumper stickers and a glass bowl of lapel pins sat on a side table. In its entirety, it conveyed a sense of business and importance.
As Samuel and Howard walked through the outer office toward Samuel’s inner sanctum, an attractive young woman handed Howard a folder. Samuel observed her quickly. She was beautiful. Soft, southern-belle brown eyes. Shoulder length full blonde hair. A little short; five-two, five-three, he guessed. Shapely, he could tell, under the expensive gray business jacket and skirt; too expensive for an aide’s salary. New. She walked quickly back to her desk.
“Morning, Jean,” Samuel called to his office manager.
“Good morning, Senator,” she responded with a hint of a New England nasal twang. Samuel was never quite sure if she meant the “good” part. She kept a fairly even face in the midst of tragedy or jubilation. She was thin, not unattractive for a woman past fifty. A somewhat severe cut to her straight brown hair made her appear younger. Her reading glasses, usually dangling from a silver chain around her neck, made her look older. She was a dichotomy in more ways than one.
“Susan,” Samuel said as he passed her desk.
“Senator,” she smiled back. She had a sense of humor. Younger than Jean, prettier, taller, divorced, she no doubt had her sights on the office manager job if Jean retired or left and Samuel continued to be re-elected.
Howard closed the door on the commotion. The inner office was more personal. There were, of course, the obligatory captured photo-ops of Samuel with the president, the vice president, and ranking Republican members of both the House and Senate covering the wall behind his desk. A color photograph of Jane and Sara adorned it. The Vermont and US flags stood off to one either side. The soft leather swivel chair behind the desk could move easily on the blue-gray carpet. Two black Champlain chairs with spindled, medium high backs and curved arms surrounded a low, black coffee table of similar design.
But the most intimate object hung between the flags. In the foreground of a blown-up, rectangular photograph was an old steel milk can, partially rusted away, the cap lost, tilted in tall green grass, red clover, and wild flowers, a falling down weathered barn in the background, a dying, leafless gray maple tree to one side, and se
veral green spruce trees on the other. One could gaze on it for a long time, as Samuel sometimes did, reading into it meanings of the inevitable withering away of all things, rebirth, continuum of life, hope for the future, the superiority of nature to reclaim all things, or nothing other than what it was—a snapshot of time and place.
Howard scanned the contents of the folder. Samuel sat behind his desk.
“Well?” Samuel asked.
“Good news. The chairman isn’t going to hold hearings until after the election.” He handed the open folder to Samuel.
“Didn’t think he would,” Samuel said.
Samuel scanned the “Executive Summary, Minutes of September 8th Meeting of the Subcommittee on Surface Transportation and Merchant Marine Infrastructure, Safety, and Security.” Below the signature block of Theodore M. Ramirez, Chairman, a footnote reads, “Next meeting, 10:15 AM Nov 11th.” He laid the folder aside. He picked up the day’s agenda from the desk.
“Who’s the new girl?” Samuel asked.
“Beth? We talked about her before you left for Vermont.”
“Refresh my memory.”
“Elizabeth Ware, master’s in poli-sci, Vassar, Harvard. Came highly recommended.”
“By whom?”
“Wow. Who did not? Ah, Senator Ramirez for one.”
A hint of recognition. “Oh, right. I thought Jean wasn’t too keen on her?”
“She acquiesced. You okay, Chief?”
Samuel rubbed his forehead. “Fine. It was a long weekend.” The machinations of Washington political maneuvering were going to seem tame compared to the weekend in idyllic Vermont.
“We can scrap some of the agenda if you want.”
“No, it’s fine. Have Jean get me…” He checked the agenda sheet. “Ted Ramirez. Duh.”
Howard suppressed a grin as he reached for the doorknob.
“And have somebody bring me the Florida rail file,” Samuel called after him.
“Yes, sir,” Howard replied as he opened the door.
In less than two minutes, Beth walked through his door carrying a large file and a cup of coffee. She set both on his desk in front of him.
Mid-Life Friends and Illusions Page 7