by Mara, Wil
The first trip Harper took to Atlantic City on Riggins’s tab occurred less than a month later. Riggins had done some work for a number of smaller casinos and was friends with all the owners. He went out of his way to make sure the mayor had a grand old time—free room, free meals, thousands of dollars in credit, a few shows. Harper brought his wife on the first trip, but afterward he always went alone, usually with the aid of a pair of sunglasses and a baseball cap. He was a smart gambler, able to stay afloat longer than most, but in the end he always walked away a loser. That didn’t matter ultimately—Riggins kept sending the cash, and Harper kept accepting it. He lost track of the grand total after awhile. Some of it went to AC, some straight into his pocket. It seemed to be flying around everywhere. Riggins even taught him some of the basic principles of creative accounting, and Harper, to his own shock and surprise, found himself occasionally making use of his new talents. It was like an addiction over which he had no control. The sickness was always there, but he had managed to keep it at bay on his own. Once Riggins appeared, that resolve was stripped away. Part of Donald Harper hated himself for what he was doing, but another part was having the time of his life.
Four months after their initial meeting, Riggins got the contract. Subsequent deals followed, and Harper continued to enjoy himself. Years later, in hindsight, Harper realized Riggins had slid the knife in so skillfully that he wasn’t even aware of it. By the time word of their little arrangement leaked out, it was too late to deny it.
The local media picked up the story first. Initially they kept direct allegations to a minimum and buried the text in places where it would be generally overlooked. When some of Riggins’s enraged competitors pressed for more information, however, Newark’s Star-Ledger became interested, and the beginning of the end was at hand.
Like any seasoned politician, Harper denied all charges until there was no other choice. When that time came, he declined to issue any comments and hired a legal team. His wife, embarrassed and humiliated, left him and went back to her parents in rural Pennsylvania. They had no children, so there was no messiness on that front. The public, feeling confused and disillusioned, unplugged themselves from the debacle and simply waited for a successor. After awhile most people weren’t even sure Harper was technically still in office, he maintained such a low profile.
Now, six months and a string of follow-up articles later, on the eve of what surely would be his last significant appearance, he was being asked to sharpen the blade for his own professional execution. It was the only option left. At least the media and the courts didn’t find out everything, he thought. Yes, he would lose his job and maybe end up indicted, but he was certain he would go down for much less than he had actually done. And even now, a part of him was still genuinely baffled by how it all could’ve happened in the first place.
Once again Jay Bennett, Esq. shook him out of his daze.
“Mr. Harper, we have to have a decision,” he said firmly, showing more emotion than was usual for him.
Harper paused for one last, precious moment, savoring the position he’d worked so hard and so long to achieve. Then, with a heavy sigh, he wrote the first word in what surely would be the darkest chapter in his family’s political history.
Leaning back in the leather chair of an office he knew he would not occupy much longer, he said, “Tell the judge my plea will be ‘guilty.’”
“Thank you, Mr. Mayor.”
News of Harper’s plea traveled like lightning along the following path: First it went to the courthouse, where it was entered into the public record. Two minutes later it traveled from the municipal clerk through a phone line to the home office of E. Gordon Davis III, attorney-at-law. Davis lived in LBI’s upscale town of Loveladies, in a fairly intimidating three-story monstrosity overlooking the ocean.
Davis did not answer the phone when it rang. Instead it was picked up by one Thomas T. Wilson. Small and bookish with neatly combed dark hair and round glasses that added an air of intellect to his otherwise boyish face, Wilson was, technically, Davis’s political advisor. He had no formal degree in politics, nor did he have any firsthand political experience. He was commonly known as a “natural”—one who possessed an innate gift for knowing what worked and what didn’t in a particular field without the aid of any official training or education.
Wilson had been Harper’s right-hand man since the day Harper’s name first appeared on a ballot. Outwardly, Wilson hated everything political—he hated the underhandedness, the sleaze, the corruption, and the rampant, unchecked incompetence. He favored no party, only truth and honor. To that end he resented any elected official for not using his granted power to inject more good into the world. Anyone who had the opportunity to do something decent and chose not to, he felt, should be stripped of their power and humiliated. He was as honest as the day was long.
Wilson was willing to work as an advisor for Harper because he felt Harper had similar qualities and beliefs, and because local history suggested Harper’s family did likewise (his personal theory was that the Harpers never rose above a modest local level because New Jersey’s corrupt upper echelon intentionally kept them down). He believed Harper possessed the seeds of greatness and, with his help and a little luck, could reach dizzying political heights. In truth, deep down, he loved the political system of America because he believed it was the only one where a person even had the chance to do great things; in other systems such opportunities simply did not exist. He never considered running for any office himself, for he knew he didn’t have the required traits. It simply wasn’t part of his destiny.
Harper, on the other hand, had them all—he was handsome, commanding, sure of himself without being cocky, a scholar, and a reassuring leader. He was also an excellent speaker with tremendous public presence and charisma. Women liked him; men wanted to be like him. He came from a solidly middle- to upper-class family: He wasn’t too rich. He was active in extracurricular activities during his school years and retained close friendships with people from a wide variety of backgrounds and races. He worked hard and didn’t complain about it. In short, he was blessed with what most called the “X factor”—that indefinable quality that makes people follow and believe in you. Politically speaking, he was built for speed.
The two men fit together seamlessly. Wilson covered Harper’s blind spots, and Harper covered his. They trusted each other, and their egos never clashed. They were comfortable in their respective roles, and both focused on the same objective—getting Harper into the U.S. Senate.
When the scandal first reared its head, Wilson didn’t believe it. He was sure one of Harper’s political rivals had fabricated the story. When bits and pieces of what appeared to be solid evidence began surfacing, Wilson decided it was an elaborate setup, and that Gus Riggins had been a plant.
Then the night came when Harper, alone with Wilson late in his office, confessed that it was all true, every word of it, and that he had no explanation or defense for his actions. He said he got caught up in a current and was unable to free himself. Wilson was stunned, speechless at the ugly fact that his idol was not only human after all, but no better than the legions of crawling maggots who polluted the current political scene. He was just another one of Them.
Wilson stormed from the office and never spoke to Harper again. He drifted for awhile, unsure of everything he had ever known. Ten years of his life shot to hell. How could Harper have done this to him? How could he be so evil? (Maybe he did still have a bright political future, Wilson thought—he was, after all, obviously a master of deception. In today’s political climate, he’d fit in perfectly….)
Harper tried repeatedly to contact his old friend, tried to make amends and attempt to explain himself. Wilson wanted nothing to do with it. He didn’t want to hear Harper’s story because Harper had had plenty of time to compose it. It would be good, for sure, but it wouldn’t be honest. It’d paint him in a sympathetic light, somehow make him out to be the victim. Wilson believed he was the
only victim here—he and all the people who had believed in Harper and given him their support. On an island that was largely Republican but still had its fair share of Democrats, Harper got nearly eighty-six percent of the vote. Eighty-six percent. It was a record, and a confirmation of Harper’s mass appeal.
What did the electorate think now?
Roughly three months after their last conversation, Wilson decided his future. As he had played a key role in putting Harper in power, it was his duty to the people of Long Beach Island to take him back out. In addition, he had to make sure some other lowlife didn’t take Harper’s place. He had to find someone with genuine integrity, someone who was already high-profile enough to slip painlessly into the job.
Elliot Davis became the man. Davis was small and heavy, with a charming, impish way about him. He smiled easily and enjoyed the company of others. He had been the president of Continental Savings and Loan for nearly ten years and was active in community affairs. He had earned a reputation of unprecedented decency and compassion as a bank president, working out cautious but generous loans for private citizens and businesses after they’d been rejected everywhere else. He seemed to be a shining example of the now-famous “compassionate conservatism” ideology, which appealed to much of the island’s populace. He most assuredly did not possess Harper’s many other, smaller political gifts and certainly would never get anywhere near the U. S. Senate in this or any other lifetime. But he would be an easy replacement for Harper. He would competently mind the store while the people of Long Beach licked their wounds. At least this was how Wilson envisioned it.
Davis was amenable to Wilson’s plan because, as Wilson knew, he had often flirted with the idea of running for mayor. He was born and raised on LBI and loved every inch of it with all his heart. Davis knew Harper well and felt genuinely bad for him when his career began to unravel. He knew nothing of the details aside from what was printed in the local papers, and Wilson never offered any. So he simply accepted the situation and went forward, letting Wilson be his guide. This guy had a proven track record, after all.
Wilson, perched on the edge of Davis’s desk, snatched up the phone when it rang on this sunny spring day. He’d been staring out one of the windows at the back of the house. Sandy Island was hazy but visible in the distance.
“Elliot Davis’s office. Yes? Oh, hi, Freddie. What’s up?”
Davis leaned forward, his eyebrows raised. Wilson held up a finger.
“Really? Are you certain? Okay, thanks. I’ll talk to you a little later.”
Wilson’s expression did not change. In fact it rarely ever did—he was as stone-faced as they came. If you were to draw a picture of his mouth, a short, straight line would be more than sufficient.
Davis was about to crawl out of his pants. “Well?”
Wilson permitted himself a rare smile in this instant—one side of that short, straight line curled upward almost a millimeter.
“Congratulations, Elliot. You’re going to be our next mayor. Our current one just figuratively tipped over his king.”
Davis stood and shook Wilson’s hand.
“Great, Tom, just great. Sad that it had to happen this way, but…”
Wilson nodded, tried to appear empathetic. Inside he was savoring the victory.
“Yes, very sad. Very sad indeed.”
Mark set the cell phone gingerly on the passenger seat and pressed the foam-covered bud into his ear. The microphone hung about six inches farther down the coated wire, bouncing off his neck. He worked the tiny buttons without taking his eyes off Bay Avenue, cruising past Marine Street in central Beach Haven. Jennifer picked up on the first ring.
“Hello?”
“Hi, sweetheart.”
“Hi!”
Warmth flooded into him, a nourishing, soul-caressing warmth. He had grown addicted to the joy in her voice whenever she picked up the phone and found him on the other end. That unabashedly I’m-so-glad-to-hear-you tone that made him feel like he was truly wanted. They’d been together nearly a year now, and it was still as bright and sincere as ever. I love her so much, he thought.
“What’s going on? Are you almost there?”
“Yeah, almost. I just wanted to call and say hello, tell you that I loved you, and make sure everything’s still on for later.”
“You bet it is. I wouldn’t miss it for anything.”
“Great.”
“And I love you, too, Mark.”
He paused, stiffened slightly. His foot went to the brake pedal on its own as he drew too close to an elderly woman puttering along in a rusting red something-or-other from the sixties.
“You do?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Really? I mean…really?”
“Yes,” she said through a laugh that sounded more like an attempt to clear dust from her nose. “You silly, of course I do.”
He relaxed, smiled. “Okay. Sorry, I don’t mean to be so needy.”
“That’s all right.”
It is? Are you sure about that? The words were there, in that echoey place in his brain where all his words were manufactured. But he clenched his teeth and kept them in. He didn’t want to push, didn’t want to turn her off. If he pushed too much she might…
Disappear like your dad did? Or maybe just stop loving you like your mom? Stop loving you and pretend you’re not even there? No…please God, no. Not with Jen. Not that. Anything but that. Anything…
“Uh…what time? Twelve-thirty?”
“Right, twelve-thirty,” she said. “I’ll bring the food, you just bring your wonderful self.”
“Great. I’ll see you then.”
“Okay,” she replied, kind of singing it—o-KAY-ee.
“Bye.”
He pressed the button that disconnected all calls and removed the bud from his ear. He tried to return his attention fully to the road as he entered Holgate, but it was hopeless. For nearly twelve months he had examined and re-examined the mystery of why a girl as sweet and as wonderful and as…normal as Jennifer King would want to dispose of her precious hours with the likes of him. She came from the kind of sane, stable world he only dreamed of—a nice home in a middle-class town, with parents who were still together and, from all outward appearances, still in love with each other. She was “good stock,” a girl any mother would want her son to marry.
And him? Well, we know all about that, don’t we? We know this bubble’s going to pop sooner or later. You’ll wake from this dream and find yourself back in reality, chump. You’re so far out of her league it isn’t even funny. You’ve got some nerve—carrying this thing as far as you have. Why waste the time? Why waste her time? If you really love her so much, do her the favor of her life and cut it off now. Give her a chance to find someone who deserves her.
He knew she’d have a fit if she got wind of these thoughts. And he felt bad keeping them from her—they had agreed not to keep secrets from each other, and for the most part he’d kept his end of the bargain. But these feelings of inadequacy were proving harder to shake than a shadow. Jennifer had a mother and a father who doted on her. He had a mother who barely noticed he was there, and an overbearing brute of a stepfather who wished he wasn’t. She had a good education and a bright future. He had a high school diploma and six credits at Ocean County College. She had an older sister she spoke with almost every night. He had no relatives he could stand, much less communicate with. He couldn’t suppress the notion that he wasn’t contributing anything to the relationship, that he brought nothing to the table. She had so much, he had so little. The disproportion riddled him with guilt. And depression. And, most of all, fear—the stark, white terror that one day she would wake up, realize she could do so much better, and toss him like a toothpick. What was I thinking? she’d wonder as she walked off, arm in arm with someone else. Just what in hell was I thinking?
He shivered at this image and doubled his determination to concentrate on his driving. The entrance to the Edwin B. Forsythe National Wildlife Refuge
came up at the end of Long Beach Boulevard. He eased into the parking lot and discovered, with a certain selfish pleasure, that he was the only one there. Makes sense—how many other people would be visiting an LBI wildlife refuge on a weekday morning in May? He grabbed his camera bag from the back seat and got out, not bothering to lock the tired ’92 Honda Accord that served as his sole mode of transport. And she drives a 2004 Camry. Another way she outclasses me hands down…. He slung the bag over his shoulder and began to walk.
The air was warm and sweet. He loved nature, loved being in the middle of it. He spent the first few moments just looking and touching, feeling and admiring. Then the professional side of him remembered why he had come, and he took out the camera. It was a basic model—Pentax K-1000, the camera high schools give to their Photography 101 students—but it was all he could afford. Much to his surprise, it had served him very well. It had no automatic features, but he came to love that. Having full control gave him more room to express himself, and the dependency forced him to stretch his abilities to their limits.
He brought the camera to his face and turned it sideways. All shots would be taken this way today—portrait instead of landscape. They needed covers back at the SandPaper. Mark’s boss, the paper’s photo editor, told him to shoot at least a hundred. The theme was spring, with a nod toward the coming summer. Mark had worked there for nearly two years now, as both a writer and photographer. The exposure had made him something of a minor local celebrity.
He spotted a prothonotary warbler atop a little shrub. It was the first one he’d seen this year. He attached a zoom lens and eased toward it.
When he felt close enough, he brought the camera up and twisted the lens into focus. Through the viewfinder he found a beautifully composed frame—the animal’s primary yellows against the burning blue of the morning sky. He was awed by the sheer austerity of it and found it impossible to click the shutter for a moment.
The bird took flight when his cell phone twittered. He tried to get the shot anyway but he knew he’d missed it. He pulled the phone from his belt and flipped it open, then closed it when a voice on the other end asked if he’d be interested in having his kitchen remodeled. So much for the National Do-Not-Call List.