Gathering String

by Mimi Johnson

  “Yeah, yeah, the convention tomorrow. I’ll try not to forget,” he laughed over at Jack who looked back at him solemnly.

  The door shut, and Jack pulled his hand from the pocket of his sport coat and said softly, “Congratulations.”

  With a puzzled look on his face, Swede crossed the room and pushed away Jack’s offered hand, “What is this? I get enough of that formal crap from people in the party. But not between you and me.” He pulled Jack into a bear hug, slapping him on the back at the same time. “Can you believe it? It really has happened. Your dad told me over and over, I could be whatever I set my mind to. Damn, I wish he was here to see this." Jack didn’t answer, his shoulders stiff, resisting the embrace. Swede pulled back, his face determinedly jovial. “Mama’s turned in for the night, Betty’s still working on dress and hair details for her and Bethany, and Pete’s amusing himself by ordering up room service every hour. Thank God, you’re here to watch out the night with me. I’m too wound up to sleep, and God knows you never do.”

  Still Jack said nothing, and Swede’s smile slowly faded. “What is it? My God, Jack, what’s wrong?” Jack knew his misery was plain in his face, but before he formed a single word, Swede added, “It’s Tess, isn’t it? Damn it, only she could make you this unhappy.”

  Jack shook his head. “It’s not her.”

  Erickson took several steps back, brow knitted as he settled a hip on the edge of the conference room table. “What then?” He waited, but Jack could only look at the floor silently. “Jesus, Jackie, for a guy who just had to talk to me, you’re mighty quiet. I don’t ever remember you being tongue-tied. Don’t let the hurly-burly get to you. Whatever is up just spit it out. I’m still the same guy who taught you how to gig frogs.” Then, with his usual good grace, Erickson attempted to put Jack at ease. “Hey, remember that night we tipped the rowboat over? I was hanging onto the side, watching the flashlight go down in that black water. I figured you dropped it, but pretty soon it started on its way up again, with you on the other end …”

  Swede started to laugh, but Jack’s anguished eyes came up and he muttered, “Stop it. Just stop it.” He’d thought of dozens of scenarios to begin what he knew he had to say, but now the only thing he could remember was Tess on her knees in front of him saying, “Just tell me.” Abruptly he said, “I know …” Jack’s throat was so dry, he had to force the words out in a raspy whisper: “I know what happened at the Sheffield store.”

  “The fire?” Nonplussed, Swede just looked at him for a second and then added, “Who doesn’t?”

  “Most people. Most people don’t know what really happened.”

  “What really …?” Erickson leaned toward Jack.

  “Your father set that fire.”

  Swede pulled back, clutching the edge of the table in surprise. “Jesus-God-in-heaven, where did you get such an idea?” It was only his normal speaking voice, but it seemed to rip through the unnaturally quiet room. “Who told you something so ridiculous?”

  “No one. I talked to the people in Sheffield. I talked to Andy Brubaker. And I put it together, just like any reporter looking into your background will.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Swede’s eyes were wide with shock and dismay.

  Jack met his stare. And then the harsh whisper began a litany:

  “I’m talking about the fact that Carl made a mess of managing that store, and he figured he’d get the insurance money to bail himself out. I’m talking about the fact that he was drunk out of his mind when he set the fire. I’m talking about the fact that there were three boys in the back storage room, hiding when he struck the match. I’m talking about the fact that you hid him in a rehab or hospital somewhere afterward. I’m talking about the fact that you claimed he’d gone to Sweden, but he couldn’t have made a trip like that because there was never any passport issued for him. I’m talking about the fact that the fire inspector, Ralph Miller, knew the pattern of the fire didn’t add up, but you persuaded him to write a report that suited you, and then appointed him state fire marshal for his help. I’m talking about the fact that you convinced Richard Webster to talk the kid into pleading out, and then appointed Webster a judge to keep him quiet. I’m talking about the fact that Miller and Webster suddenly both had a bunch of money. I’m talking about the fact that you let the poor boy pay the price instead of your father. I’m talking about the fact that you covered up a double homicide.” Breathing hard, Jack stopped suddenly.

  Looking at him open-mouthed, Swede seemed incapable of speech, of movement. And then slowly, he reached up and ran his hand over his face. Jack waited, but still Swede said nothing. Instead, still slowly, as if it caused him pain, he reached back and dragged the phone on the table toward him. Picking up the receiver, he punched a button and said, “Deb, I’m going to need a lot more time here. And I don’t want any interruptions.”

  Sam Waterman was unusually quiet as he sat with some of Politifix's reporting team, nursing a Glenfiddich in one of the hotel bars. A few of the their key reporters were still hacking away at sources, trying to come up with something new, something no one else had. But everyone else had gathered for a nightcap after a long day. As Evie Bundy came through the door, Sam was remembering the last convention. Swede Erickson was the man of the hour then too. But Sam had been the senior reporter on the Trib’s crew, and he’d spent most of the night making love to Tess, who’d slipped him a keycard to her room.

  Evie's smile was huge, unabashedly pleased as she took a seat at the table, a chorus of compliments rising around her. She'd broken the biggest news of day, confirming Erickson's running mate, and she cut her eye toward Sam, waiting for his acknowledgement. But he only seemed to be studying the ice cubes in his drink. Nodding and thanking the others, her smile faded. Didn't the son of a bitch even have the good grace to give her a 'Good piece?' Feeling her eyes on him, Sam finally looked up, but still didn't utter a word.

  "I'm sorry, Sam," Bundy's words addressed the table at large, as much as him. "I know you got the run-around from Erickson." She waited. It was the perfect opening for him to at least concede she'd done a good job maintaining the site's reputation as cutting edge. But he only shrugged.

  Her mouth thinned. "You put him off with the carping on Webster, but he expected that scrutiny." Sam's mouth went up in that cock-sucking grin, and Evie just couldn't stop her next words. "But what really pissed him off was your nasty shot at that good friend of his, the guy you interviewed for his profile, Jack Westphal." Everyone else grew quiet, suddenly aware of Evie's open hostility. "The Governor really didn't understand that, especially since Westphal married your dear friend, Tess Benedict.” That stopped all the other conversations, and she added with a small laugh, “By the way, is her last name Westphal now?”

  Sam stared at Evie’s stony face, aware that the whole table was no doubt surprised at the conflict he’d ignored to do that interview, and were waiting now to hear what he’d say. He drained his drink before he spoke. “Well, Jack Westphal’s a hell of a guy. He can stand a little heat, apparently better than the Governor.” Sam rose and tossed a few bills down to cover his tab. “If I were still covering him, I’d be wondering why.” He’d taken a few steps away, then turned back and added softly. “She’s still Tess Benedict.”

  Swede Erickson’s sigh cut through the silent room, and he pointed to a chair next to the table. “For God’s sake, Jackie, sit down.” He watched Jack slump into the chair. “I’m sorry. If I’d been around to see you ... You’ve been struggling with this for awhile, haven’t you, son?”

  Jack nodded, and said, “Stop calling me Jackie, stop calling me son, and tell me why.” Swede just stared at him. “Why did you do it?”

  Erickson shook his head slowly. “You're too young. You have no idea how we lived. From the time I was 12 years old, I was rushing out of school to help that old man at the store. He couldn’t stay sober past four in the afternoon. It was so important to Mama that people not realize how bad he really was.
I was always chasing after him, apologizing to customers he’d insulted, straightening out stock orders he’d fucked up or placed twice. I was always begging employees he’d forced to quit to come back, just to keep someone working at the store. That’s how I spent my time, cleaning up after him.

  “When I finally got to high school, your dad did everything he could to help me out. Remember how often I was at your house? Your parents even tutored me to keep my grades up so I could stay on the basketball team. But I had to keep it real low-key. As it was, Pop tried his best to keep me from getting to practice on time. He always made sure there was something for me to do just as I was leaving. But Coach Westphal caught on. He'd swing by and pry me loose from Carl, and even drive me to practice. He knew how much it meant to me, to be part of a team, part of something that was good and fun and wholesome. Of course, he couldn't have known how I prayed before each game that my old man wouldn’t show up and embarrass me.”

  Swede stood up, his hands jammed in tight fists in his pockets. “Did you know I was offered a basketball scholarship to Iowa State? Full ride, just like yours.” Jack shook his head. “No, I suppose you never heard about that, because I had to turn it down. I couldn’t go away to school. I couldn’t leave Mama and Pete. He was starting in on Pete, doing the very same things he’d done to me, but Pete could never come close to handling it. How could I leave him at Pop’s mercy?” He paced back and forth behind the long table as he talked.

  “But when I stayed, it was with the understanding that I’d really run things. And I found out that I could. I was good at it. For the first time, the store started making money, and I socked away every dime, where Carl couldn’t get his hands on it. I did it all: growing the business, keeping Pop under control, helping Mama, protecting Pete, working on my degree at night. I worked so damn hard. Every day I hammered away at a million different problems. My only mistake was joining the National Guard. I only thought about how the pay would help with my tuition. I never dreamed I'd be called up.

  “The whole time I was in the Gulf, I knew I had to stay alive. I had to get back to take care of things at home. Well, I made it home alright.” He stopped pacing and looked at Jack. “Of course he’d fucked things up again, and when I saw what he’d done to Pete ... People think Pete’s slow, not very bright. But Pete’s damaged, Jack. You don’t know, you can’t know, what our father did to him to make him like that. He’d been through his own kind of war, and he was still just a kid, only a little older than you.

  “But I was a grown man. I’d seen so much. And I knew then that I could do whatever I had to, to get what I wanted. The old man couldn’t stop me because I wasn’t scared of him anymore. I made him retire, and that helped the business more than anything. I started expanding, forming a chain. And my God, I was so fucking good at making money. Suddenly a whole world started to open up. Jesus, Jack, once you have some money, people start paying attention to you. The Republican Party began to court me, and you know what? My ideas for solving problems around the state were good ones. I could see what needed to be done, and I knew how to make it happen.”

  “And you didn’t care very much what happened to you along the way,” Jack broke in, sharp and bitter.

  “That’s not fair,” Swede shot back with a frown. “Jim was a hell of a father to you, so don’t you dare think you can have the slightest idea what it was like for me. The more successful I became, the more abusive Carl became. It was like the old goat couldn’t be happy until he saw me fall flat on my face. When I declared for the governor’s race, it drove him crazy, and he started slamming away at Pete like never before. And what he did to Mama, my God, Jack, you have no idea.”

  “Why didn’t you send him away? Get him into a place to dry out?”

  “I tried that before. And I was running for governor. How well do you think that would have played? Mama insisted he just needed something to do, something to make him feel useful. So I let him run one store, just that one little Sheffield store. Well,” he sighed again, and when he looked at Jack, it was with real anguish, “I shouldn’t have listened to her. It was a terrible mistake.”

  Jack shook his head, sadly, “I guess I pretty much knew what happened before I came in here.” The tight lines around Erickson’s mouth began to relax slightly at what he took for sympathy as Jack stood and walked to the window, looking out into the night. “But this has got to stop. It’s the only way. You’ve got to get out, now, before someone else, some other reporter, puts together …”

  “What the hell are you saying?” Swede’s voice rose behind him.

  “I’m saying you can’t accept the nomination. My God, you were crazy to try this, and you’re still crazy if you think you can keep this …”

  “You must be joking. Why do you think I took so long to get in the race? Believe me, this was the one sticking point ... ”

  “Sticking point? This is so much more than a goddamn sticking point. How could you think it wouldn’t come out?”

  “But that’s just it, Jack, it hasn’t come out. I just got nominated. I made it, and it didn’t come out. No one knows.”

  “I know.”

  “Only because you know me so well. You're like Mama or Pete. But there’s not a newsperson in the pack that will pick up on the things you did. I made it today, and I’ll be damned if I’ve come this far, only to give it all up. Jesus, you think they wouldn’t be all over me asking why I suddenly …”

  “Tell them you’re sick. Tell them your business needs you. Shit, tell them anything, but let Morton or Fuller …”

  “I won’t do it, and you’re the one who’s insane if you think I would.”

  “You listen to me,” Jack turned to face him, and he saw that Erickson’s eyes were narrowed and filling with anger. “Sam Waterman is this close behind me,” he held up two fingers close together. “He’s already talked to Thurm McPaul about a fatal fire …”

  “Waterman?” Swede’s laugh was dismissive. “He’s not a problem. I know how to deal with hacks like him. His editors have already sat on him. He hasn’t covered anything more important than the House Transportation Committee in the last month. I may be saddled with crazy Tami Fuller as a running mate, but it's worth it. She did a hell of a job keeping a certain investigation front and center. I happen to know Waterman will be holding a subpoena before noon, and public opinion will think it's about time. He’ll be so busy with lawyers he won’t be writing anything about anybody. And in spite of their best efforts, he’ll be in jail long before the election. He’s such a stupid bastard, he’ll refuse to cooperate, so there he'll sit for a hell of a long time. His good friend Steve Johnson might be Politifix's editor, but after this debacle, even he won't be able to save Waterman's job.”

  Erickson put his hands back in his pockets and studied Jack closely. “Look, Jackie,” he raised his eyebrows as he said the name defiantly. “I’m sorry I’ve disappointed you. I know it must be hard. But hell, it’s time you grew up. People aren’t perfect. Not me, and sure as hell not that saucy little wife of yours. Son, there are things she doesn’t want you to know.”

  Jack felt the color drain from his face, and he saw Swede nod. “You think I’ve let you down? Ask her about Waterman, and see what she has to say. His divorce might be final tomorrow, but keep in mind that he was married when they worked together. We all have our secrets. Go home and deal with the ones there.”

  From the stains on the floor, to the picture on the wall, to the ceiling corner, Jack’s eyes shifted back and forth. He felt like he was drowning, his chest tight, as he struggled to draw a breath. Then he said, “Don’t accept that nomination tomorrow, Swede. You’ll regret it if you do.”

  He’d never heard Swede laugh like he did now, a low, nasty sound. “You’re threatening me, Jackie? You? Come on, you’ve got to know better than that.”

  “I’ll run it, Swede. I’ll run the story, I swear I will. And that will be the end of everything.”

  Erickson laughed again, this time more natu
rally. He was actually amused. “No you won’t. You wouldn’t do that to me. You wouldn’t do it to Mama. No matter what I’ve done, you could never hurt that old woman.”

  “You’re right, I’d hate to hurt her. But I won’t be a party to this. Get out now, or I’ll print the story.”

  “No,” Swede sighed, and walked over to stand next to Jack. “I know you too well. We’ve been through too much together. We’re family, you and I. I helped you bury your folks, for God’s sake. You’re not ruthless enough to forget all that and pull the trigger on me. But even if you were, you still wouldn’t do it, and I’ll tell you why.” Jack didn’t look at him, but he could see both their reflections in the black window.

  “Think about this, Jack. How much of your revenue comes from my stores? Not just the print ads, but also the electronic coupons on the web site. And then there are the sale fliers and brochures that keep your press busy. I’ve been your biggest supporter. You hurt me and my family, you think you’d still have my business?”

  “You won’t have a business …” Jack’s voice rose, but Erickson’s smile chilled the words in his throat.

  “Yes I would. But you might not. How do you think it’d play with the folks back home? You think Bernie Sorensen at the Chevy dealership, or Mitch Casperson down at the farm supply, or Rap Nielson at Ladies Apparel would reward you for turning on their local hero? The guy who put Lindsborg on the map?”

  Standing as they were, Erickson reached out to put a hand on Jack’s shoulder, but Jack shrugged it away. Swede slowly shook his head. “Now think about this. You really want to test how much influence I’ve got? Because when you’re powerful, Jack, you’ve got so many friends. From the Highway Patrol to the high court, there are a hell of a lot of people who want to make me happy. Can a former jock that never made it to the big time make the same claim? How long do you think the Journal would last if I decided I wanted it gone? Jack, if there’s no revenue, there's no Journal. You know it’s that simple.