I could make out only two voices, those of George and Dewey. The other men, while presumably out there with them, wouldn’t have been able to get a word in edgewise anyway, so I’m sure they were just milling around waiting for someone to give them something to do. Or in Frank’s case, someone to wake him up. I slowly stood, deposited Tanner into Mel’s lap, motioned to my family that I’d be back soon—Good Lord willing—then walked quietly to the kitchen door and into the backyard on my way to the front of the inn. Out there, the commotion was obvious.
“Twelve hours, men! We have twelve hours to whip this event into shape.”
“What’re you talkin’ about, George?” That was Dewey, who despite having lived in Road’s End with George for the past seventy-five years or so, still hadn’t learned when to shut up and accept whatever it was George was saying. “It’s three in the afternoon. Twelve hours from now’ll make it … uh, late. Right, men? Real late.”
I could hear George sigh from thirty feet away. “Twelve hours from now makes it three in the morning, you dunce.” Ouch.
“Who you callin’ a dunce, you old coot, you?”
And the battle was on.
They spent the next five minutes exchanging age, intelligence, and leadership-based slurs. George and Dewey have been doing this for the good part of a century, so they’ve honed their insults down to just a few words—sort of an insult shorthand. Good thing, too, because the clock was ticking. We were down to eleven hours and fifty-five minutes.
When they ran out of fresh ones and began repeating their insults, I stepped between them and said, “Men! Let’s wrap this up, okay?”
Dewey seemed relieved he could stop coming up with anything creatively insulting and said, “Yer right, Pastor. Time’s a wastin’, even though I don’t know why we have to have this thing in the middle of the night. President won’t even be here.” He shook his head. “Seems dumber’n dumb to me.”
George slapped his own forehead. “That’s cause yer dumber’n dumb, and you can’t never figure anything out.”
Dewey looked genuinely insulted, and George, to his credit, immediately tried to make amends. “’Course, ya got a point there, Dewey. I didn’t mean the parade’d be at 3:00 a.m. Naw, I meant we have to be in line by 3:00 a.m. Get it?”
Dewey obviously didn’t, but then neither did I. I decided to give Dewey a break and ask the obvious question. “I don’t get it, George. In line? At 3:00 a.m.? Why on earth?”
George looked at me much like a kindly, or in this case, exasperated, grandfather would look at a two-year-old covered in a gallon of paint while standing in his newly-carpeted living room. He enunciated slowly. “For the Road’s End Inaugural Presidential Motorcade and Honor Guard Parade.” Then for good measure, “Hugh.”
“Oh.” I thought about my next words and knew they’d fall on deaf ears but went for it anyway. “George, do you really think all that’s necessary?” I held up my fingers as I ticked off my points. “I mean, he’s a guest, not a participant. This isn’t a political event. It’s a wedding. My daughter’s. STR just happens to be the groom’s uncle. Why don’t we give him a break and just forget he’s the president for a few hours? What do you say?”
It appeared that the only thing I really ticked off was the man in front of me. He leaned toward me, jaw set, and I couldn’t help noticing a wayward dogwood petal that had floated down to settle on his balding head. It had somehow lodged itself under the three or four hairs he still sported. Vaguely, I wondered how long it would stay there but realized there were things of greater import at hand.
“Well, George, how ’bout it? Deal? Can we just treat him just like any other visitor to Road’s End?”
The minute I said it, I realized the last visitors we had were Hilda Stutgardt and Special Agent MacElroy, not exactly the best example of common, everyday folk, nor were they given any special privileges as guests to Road’s End. Quite the contrary. And that wasn’t counting the drug lord and his band of merry mischief-makers from the past winter. We beat up, or in one case, shot, those guys, tied them up, and witnessed to them for a day and a half until the state police could plow through the snow drifts to rescue them.
No. Come to think of it, the fine folks of Road’s End had never had a regular visitor, and President Stuart Thomas Rogers would be no exception. George, evidently stupefied at my stupidity, still hadn’t uttered a word. I sighed and realized it went without saying that the most powerful man in the world was going to get the royal treatment from the residents of Road’s End, Virginia, and if I didn’t like it, I could just shut up and get out of the way.
I shut up, but I refused to get out of the way. If George wanted to see the other men, he’d just have to peek around me. A good pastor knows when to stand his ground.
With that settled, George announced the final plans. Joe Rich, who, along with Rudy Wallenberg served as Road’s End’s volunteer firefighters, EMTs, and ambulance drivers, would lead the parade in the town’s third-hand ambulance. It wasn’t showy, and a good share of the time it had to be started with jumper cables, but by golly, if you were having a medical emergency in Road’s End, Virginia, that was the vehicle you wanted to see chugging your way. There was no fancy rack of lights on it, but it did have one flashing light atop it that used to rotate but now just sort of starts and stutters. Nevertheless, the effect is still eye-catching, and headache inducing. Fortunately, the siren died decades ago, and no one has bothered to repair it.
Rudy would follow in the fire truck. It too was a relic, but considering the whole town was a relic, it fit in just fine. No lights or siren on the fire truck, but since all of Road’s End, with the exception of Leo Walling’s pig farm and George and Martha Washington’s Mount Vernon, was within a three-block radius, it never seemed to matter. Everyone in town knew when the truck was on its way because they could see it leave the garage—well, the lean-to—at Frank’s Repair Shop and Convenience Store.
It took a bit of time to negotiate who’d follow the fire truck. George and Dewey had a verbal tussle, but in an uncharacteristic gesture of good will, George announced he’d step aside. Dewey was thunderstruck and deliriously happy. What the poor guy didn’t realize was that by doing so, George had saved for himself the coveted position of leading the presidential vehicle into town. But Dewey was happy, and George got his way and all was well in Road’s End for about seven minutes. No one seemed to notice that the parade, including the presidential vehicle, was comprised of only five vehicles, one of them a rusty John Deere tractor, and even if they crawled along at five-miles per hour, it would take all of forty-five seconds to drive the parade route.
The rest of the men stood around looking bored until they got their assignments. Pastor Parry would ride with George in the Presidential Motorcade and Honor Guard Lead Car. Frank, who would probably sleep through it all anyway, was assigned to ride on Dewey’s John Deere, recently dubbed the PMHG Scout Tractor, which seemed a little unwise to me, considering Frank’s ability to sleep through anything quieter than a space shuttle launch. But no one else seemed to give it a thought. Leo was given the choice of either the fire truck or the ambulance. He had to think about it, and I assumed he’d give them his decision before the middle of the night arrived and they had to assemble their myriad vehicles and await the guest of honor.
All that serious work aside, they adjourned to hustle over to Sadie’s place for their afternoon coffee and cookie break. I saw my chance to break away and was in the process of sidling my way back into my yard when Pastor Parry slapped his forehead and yelled, “Wait a minute! We haven’t assigned Hugh or Bristol yet! What were we thinking?”
“Dang it,” George said. “Sorry ’bout that, men. Got so busy making all these arrangements, I darned near forgot ’bout yours. Seein’ as you and Bristol are the youngest of us fellas, I thought you could run alongside the presidential vehicle. You know, like Clint Eastwood did in that movie he did ’bout gettin’ the president shot? What was that called, Dewey?”
“The name of that movie where Clint Eastwood gets the president killed. You know, something ’bout getting fired?”
“Well, I would think so,” Pastor Parry said in an apparent huff. “Getting the president killed and all. Killing the president? Who wouldn’t get fired?”
“Naw, that’s not it,” Dewey said. He scratched his head. He had about ten more hairs than George, so he often made a big deal of moving his multiple hairs around to bring attention to his manly mane. “Not sure. Gotta think on that, George.”
“Okay. Don’t matter anyhow. Hugh, you and Bristol are gonna run, one on one side, one on t’other side, to keep shooters, assassins, you know, riff-raff like that, from takin’ out the prez.”
The prez? Riff-raff? Takin’ out? Run?
I put my hand on George’s shoulder and told myself not to bring the other hand up and throttle the living daylights out of him. “Uh, George, that’s not going to happen. The president will have his own men with him, although I doubt they’ll be running alongside the car. They can take care of his security just fine. I’ll just let you men do your thing, and I’ll do some more work at the church. How’s that? Or better yet, I’ll wait at the inn to welcome the president when he arrives. Yeah, that’s what I’ll do. Mel and Mandy and Jonathan are going to want me there with them. You guys go ahead without me.” I thought about Bristol, who was conspicuously absent from this gathering. I’ll get you for this, Bristol. “I’ll need Bristol at the inn with me, too.” And now you owe me big time.
“Well, who’s gonna toss the candy to the onlookers?” That was Dewey, ever the holly-jolly one.
“Candy?”
“Yeah, you know,” he said. “Candy?”
“I know what candy is, Dewey. I just didn’t know we … uh, you were throwing it.”
“I’m not, Pastor,” he said. “You and Bristol are. Long as you’re runnin’ ’longside the car, you might as well toss the candy to the bystanders, don’t’cha think?”
No, Dewey, I don’t think.
“What bystanders, Dewey?”
He thought about that for a second. I could see the wheels were turning, but he wasn’t getting any traction up there. “Well, the people. The people who want to see the president. Kids! Yeah, the kids!”
“Dewey,” I said, “look around you. We are the people. This is just about it for people in this town. And there are no kids. None. Yes, we might have a few stray folks wander outside to watch, but most everyone can see anything they want from their front windows. Besides, even if they do line up on the street, no one wants to get pelted with candy.” Truth is, most of them would probably break a hip reaching down to pick it up—me included.
“No kids? Hadn’t thought about that, Hugh. Guess you’re right.” He sighed as if I’d told him his Social Security check had been revoked and he’d have to pay back the last twenty years of payments. Then his eyes opened wide, and he pointed a bony finger at the front door of the inn. “There’s a kid. See, Hugh? There’s a kid on your porch. We do have kids!”
I followed his finger’s trajectory and sure enough, there stood a kid. Tanner. Waving to me. Hollering “Hi, Gwampa!”
I hung my head. No, Dewey, I thought. You’re wrong. We don’t have kids; we have a kid. One. But he looked so hopeful, and I couldn’t break his heart. “You know, Dewey, I’d forgotten about little Tanner. Yes, I guess we do need candy. Good job, man.”
Dewey looked like a new man. I waved at Tanner just as Mandy stepped out to the porch and took his hand to lead him back into the inn. I decided I could use a cup of coffee myself and walked the rest of the way across the street. We reached Sadie’s front door, and I held it open for Dewey and the others. They hollered their hellos to Sadie, who hollered back at them to shut up because she couldn’t hear if her cookies were done. Cookies talked? They took that in stride, pulled out their chairs and plopped down, while Leo walked to the coffeepot and brought it back to the table.
“In the Line of Fire!” someone hollered, and the debate was on. Was that the name of the movie? Did Clint mean to kill the president, or did he just not run fast enough? Was he ever investigated by the Warring Commission? I let that Warren/Warring thing go—no sense getting into an argument I could never win. Besides, if the members were anything like my Road’s End friends, it had been the Warring Commission.
That should keep ’em busy for a while. For the moment, all was well in Road’s End.
I grinned to myself. Surprising how little things can make a man’s day, like some hot coffee, fresh cookies, an intricately planned presidential parade, and making an old man happy with just a few words. Thank You, Lord. I’m a blessed man. But I’m not running beside the president, and I’m not throwing any candy.
Chapter 23
The rest of the evening was spent getting to know Jonathan and Tanner, finalizing plans for the rehearsal dinner the following night, and making sure all was well with the food/dressmaking/cake/decorating committees. I left that to Mel, as I didn’t have any arguing, mediating, or doing my best not to choke the living daylights out of someone left in me. So, while Mel checked on any progress and/or regression made by the fine ladies of Road’s End, I sat down with Jonathan after Tanner was tucked away in bed—and had my world turned upside down.
Again.
Frankly, it was starting to annoy me. How many secrets could this guy hold? At least one—make that three—more, it seemed.
It started off innocently enough. We discussed our favorite foods, like barbeque potato chips, jelly beans, and peanut butter cookies on my part and anything and everything, except anchovies and raw clams, on his—smart man, this Jonathan. So far, so good.
On to favorite drinks. Lemonade, coffee, iced tea—no sugar—for me. Coke, coffee, sweet tea for him. Sweet tea? Are you nuts? You’re marrying my daughter and you drink sweet tea?
Then on to professional football teams with the Detroit Lions on my part and some rinky-dink team called the Steelers on his. Big Ten favorite? No contest there. Me? Michigan State Spartans! Jonathan? The University of Michigan Wolverines? Traitor. What did Mandy see in this guy? Well, aside from his intelligence, sense of humor, good looks, little son, all that irrelevant stuff. I wasn’t sure I could sanction this marriage, but I swallowed my pride, and let him off with a warning. Then it was on to politics, and it went downhill from there.
I wiggled around trying to get comfortable in the wing chair. “I’m a staunch supporter of your uncle, Jonathan,” I said. “Loved his campaign promises. Hope he’ll be re-elected so he can make sure some of them come true.”
His hesitation was no more than a half-second, but I caught it. “Yeah, Uncle Stu’s a great guy.”
“Will you be helping him with his re-election bid? Assuming he goes for it, that is.”
Jonathan looked away for a second. I could see his grip on the arms of the chair tighten just a little. He looked back at me, and a sniggle of uncertainly crept slowly up my spine.
“Truth is, Pastor Foster, I’m not sure I want him to run again.”
“Oh, really? Think it’d be too rough on him?” Frankly, I agreed. Being the POTUS had to be the most thankless job on the planet, with the possible exception of those telemarketers who keep trying, in broken English, to convince me they’re calling from some good old all-American city when we both know they’re sitting in a crowded room, somewhere in India, surrounded by other people pretending to be from some good old all-American city. But I digress.
“No. Well, yes, of course it would be tough on him. But I’m thinking more of his platform.”
“His Christian platform? Think it got him in trouble the last time?”
Jonathan shook his head. “No.” He glanced away, grimaced, then looked me in the eye and went for it. “No, I mean I don’t think I can get behind it.”
T
he niggling uncertainty finished its journey up my spine and lodged itself in my throat. “Can’t get behind it as in you’ll be busy at your job or Christianity doesn’t belong in politics or you can’t because you don’t agree with …uh, Christianity?”
He didn’t answer.
I had my answer.
How do I keep finding myself in these ridiculous situations? I had the President of the United States, not to mention a United States senator and his wife, due at my house in a few hours, a wedding being planned and carried out by a band of senior citizens who’d proven themselves incapable of doing anything remotely normal, a brand spankin’ new grandson, and now his father—my soon-to-be son-in-law—sitting across from me who couldn’t get behind his uncle’s Christian platform? Had he missed the point when Mandy told him what I do for a living? Did he think “Pastor” was my first name? And why hadn’t Mandy told us? Well, that last one was overkill. She hadn’t told us about any of it; what was one more devastating revelation added to the list?
Time to get to the bottom of this. “Uh ….”
Jonathan held up his hand and said, “I know, Pastor. I know. Makes it awkward, doesn’t it? Since Mandy and I haven’t had a chance to talk privately, I’m assuming she hasn’t told you this?”
I took a breath, let it out slowly, and said, “No, Jonathan, she didn’t mention this. Nor did she mention that you had a little boy or your mother is the president’s sister, for crying out loud.” My voice rose in volume and pitch. “Or that your stepfather is Senator Gilbert Austin, arch-enemy of your uncle, who just happens to be the President of the United States!” I stood up and paced for a few seconds while he sat there like a good boy and kept his mouth shut. “Is there anything else I should know?”
Faux Pas (A Road's End Mishap Book 2) Page 12