How Fire Runs

by Charles Dodd White

  Frank filled two paper cups with coffee and handed one to Gloria.

  “I’m not sure taking a moral stance is contrary to the gospel, Reverend,” Frank said. “Fact is, many might see it as an obligation.”

  “You sound like you have very certain ideas about how biblical interpretation should be situated in public life. Such certainty can only be found in the minds of prideful men.”

  Frank didn’t care to continue this line of talk. He hadn’t come here to change Winter’s position. Instead, there were people here who needed to see that he wasn’t afraid to advance himself, that he could stand up to public scrutiny and not wither. And most importantly, he needed to do it with a smile.

  “There’s the man himself,” a voice rang out.

  Frank turned to see a broad-chested man with pale grey hair come toward him. At his side was an elegantly dressed woman with dark hair and a Mediterranean profile.

  “Doctor Vasquez, good to see you,” Frank said, took his hand warmly. The sight of a familiar face helped dispel the sense of contagion resulting from his recent interaction with the reverend. “Mrs. Vasquez, you look lovely as always.”

  “Hello, Frank,” June Vasquez said. “We’ve been hearing a lot in the news about you lately. I asked Jamie if it was that Frank Farmer that the reporters were talking about, and he assured me that it was.”

  “Yes, we were thrilled to hear it,” Jamie Vasquez excitedly continued. “I’ve told several people at the office that any man who is an absolute Michelangelo with a chainsaw would be uniquely qualified to set about pruning the thickets of political life.”

  Frank had maintained the Vasquez’s three-acre lot with its many old hardwoods for the past several years. They had reason to keep him on regular notice. Their three-story Johnson City home was a cornerstone of the town’s historic district and both lived in the fear that some windy evening one of the massive limbs would come crashing into one of their stylishly appointed rooms. The Vasquezes had no children, and perhaps as a consequence they set great store in their possessions.

  Frank turned to see if the reverend wanted to speak a few words to the Vasquezes, but it seemed he had happily alit somewhere else.

  “You know, Frank,” Jamie Vasquez said. “I’ve got a patient who was in the office the other day. He works at the radio station here in town. He’s a bit of a political aficionado. Anything from dogcatcher on up. Anyhow, I bet if I were to get in touch with him, he would be falling all over himself to get an interview with you before the election. Especially, given the controversy of your opponent.”

  “That would be wonderful, Doctor Vasquez.”

  “Jamie, please.”

  “Alright, Jamie.”

  Frank realized that the election was just like when he was back on the field. Some people might despise the fact of your notoriety. Others wanted to pretend you were as close as family. He smiled and listened to Jamie Vasquez talk, knew that there was already a line forming of others who wanted to do the same.

  28

  IT WAS SOON CLEAR THE DEBATE WOULD BE STANDING ROOM ONLY. News media from as far away as Nashville had turned up on the courthouse’s front lawn. Several press vans were illegally parked along the adjacent streets. Sheriff Holston had ticketed them himself with no small degree of pleasure. The rumor of Gavin Noon’s special guests had been leaked deliberately, and everyone was eager to frame a shot of the candidate standing next to uniformed members of the American Nazi Party.

  They were not disappointed. Three men wearing black fatigues with red patches on the shoulders appeared half an hour before the event. Each of them stopped and spoke to the reporters with practiced elocution. They had come straight from the national headquarters in Arlington and were fully aware of the spotlight they occupied. When Kyle was asked for comment by one of the television reporters, he pretended that he hadn’t heard and went in instead to find Frank.

  He was already in the conference room seated on the first row, his wife and children beside him.

  “You ready?”

  “No,” Frank said, smiled, though he appeared collected and focused. He turned his head to scan the crowd. “Looks like we’re pretty popular. Guess we should thank our competitor for some of that.”

  Kyle turned to Frank’s wife.

  “How are you holding up?”

  She said that they were fine, that everything was just fine, though Kyle could see the unease beneath her reserve. It was as though they all shared a single long nerve that was being stretched each minute. He had never really thought much about the strain an election put on a family. He had never had to.

  Gerald and Orlynne filed into the row behind them, each patting Frank on the shoulder before they took their seats. The debate moderator, the morning news reporter for the local radio station, approached the microphone. Kyle quickly wished Frank his best and threaded back to where he could view everything from the rear of the room.

  Gavin Noon entered with his bigots. They spaced themselves throughout the audience. Noon found his reserved place up front. Kyle could see that several of those in the vicinity were not uncomfortable to sit beside him.

  Shortly, the Republican candidate Shepard Dixon had dug up came in. Wenton Keane was a potbellied man in a suit a size too large. He ran a heating and cooling repair shop just outside of Elizabethton. Kyle knew him only in passing, and what he knew didn’t distinguish him much from a piece of human-shaped cardboard. He sat down on the front row and began rifling through some notes. Even from a distance his face appeared clammy.

  The moderator asked for everyone’s attention and the crowd’s rowdy stirring eventually subsided. He then introduced himself and emphasized that no disruptive behavior would be tolerated. This debate was a means of hearing each of the candidates speak to the issues that concerned the community. A well-informed citizenry was the cornerstone of the structures that kept this country great, he claimed. Once he was satisfied that he’d chalked the necessary ethical lines, he turned and called each of the men to the lecterns. There was some cheering and booing before he could pose the first question. After the moderator shot a chilly glare at the general area, everybody quieted and he was able to begin.

  They talked around the edges of things for quite some time. Opinions on zoning, county obligations on matters of infrastructure, the expansion of the volunteer fire department. The raw material of what the routine occupation of a county government official entailed. Kyle saw that a few of the attendees had begun to nod off, the heat and poor ventilation having its inevitable effect.

  “With my next question, I’d like to turn to the issue that’s been on the minds of many people,” the moderator said. “That would be the fitness of character to hold public office.”

  Wakefulness jolted through the gallery.

  He continued, “There has been discussion about who each candidate is and how they see themselves fitting into the community they intend to serve. Could each candidate please speak to their idea of how their belief systems and personal ethics qualify them to the best and most representative candidate for the voters of Carter County. Mister Noon, the question falls to you first.”

  Noon stood silently for a moment, head bowed and hands clasped to the wings of the lectern.

  “Thank you for that question,” he began. “It is agreeable when what’s foremost on our minds is brought into the light. I will say that I am the superior representative of this community because it is a community I have chosen, a place I have sought out. This is a place that is often not understood by outsiders. These mountains are either a momentary stop for tourists looking at autumn leaves or some strange half-imagined place they call Appalachia, though they don’t know what that means or how it has persisted through history. These kind of people think this place is backwards, an embarrassment. Then too, there are the well-intentioned liberals. Those who have descended on the hill country like a new breed of carpetbaggers, bringing their trust funds and patchouli. They would hold themselves up as saviors of
this land. The absurdity of this is self-evident.

  “But this is a proud country and it should not hide its face from the world. It needs men who know what they are and are willing to stand for principled beliefs. There is no greater strength of character than that. I have made no secret about the ethics I hold dear, and I have made my home here in Carter County because I believe it is one of the few places decent enough to acknowledge who they are and what their heritage is.

  “These mountains harbored the pioneering spirit of European immigrants who sought a better life for their families. They didn’t expect handouts. They didn’t expect their lives to be without conflict. That’s because they were made of better stuff. They drew strength from their heritage. I believe the descendants of those people are still here today. I think many of them are sitting in this very room tonight.

  “I believe my character is true and respectful to the people of Carter County. I believe my honesty is necessary because others who have believed the same have felt belittled and hushed for far too long. But they aren’t willing to be quiet any longer. And neither am I.”

  Voices in the crowd fluttered. The moderator told everybody to keep their opinions to themselves. After a time they did.

  It was time for Wenton Keane to address the question. He did so in such a fumbling and shaky way that it was hard to say if he actually understood what was being asked of him. Still, when he concluded he smiled with what seemed to be great confidence. No one saw the point in challenging it.

  “Mister Farmer,” the moderator then said. “It is now your turn to address the question.”

  Frank nodded, glanced at his page of notes, then turned the sheet over and began to speak.

  “I know there are a lot of you here tonight who don’t know what to make of me, why I would want to get involved in something like this. I’ll have to tell you the truth, none of you are asking anything I haven’t heard from my wife.”

  Some laughter.

  “But I will say that it’s not something that I’ve agreed to lightly. I’m not a politician, have never had the desire to be one. My father once told me that more evil in this world was accomplished by men who wore suits than those who didn’t. I imagine that his words had something to do with the vocation I chose. I’ve worked with my hands, gone out to see many of you sitting here, cut down limbs and tangle that threatened your property and homes. I like that kind of work. Being outside in the sun through summer and winter. It’s not always comfortable, but it is something that feels real to me. And that matters. It matters too that I feel that work is for the good of the people who employ me, the people of the county.

  “Now, you may have noticed I’m a black man.”

  Again, a ripple of laughter.

  He smiled, said, “This has clearly become worth mentioning in this bid for county commissioner because of the man I’m running against. He has said this is a place that is defined by its past, by what it once was. He sees this as a strength. But I will tell you plainly. I think there are many things about the mountains that are not what I would have them. I’ve been called nigger by a white man to my face more times than I can count on one hand. I’ve had to hear that and hold myself to my own standards of behavior of not saying anything back in anger because I knew deep in my heart it made me a better man than him. And I can tell you now that that is the same reason I stand here as a candidate. Gavin Noon can claim this county belongs to the past and to all that means to him, but that’s not the truth. Carter County belongs to the people who live and work here, who have been working here. At the end of the day, regardless of what the votes might say, I know I am a better man than Gavin Noon and it matters that I’ve taken a stand.”

  The debate turned next to the subject of what community initiatives each of the candidates would prioritize. Frank discussed the veterans group with its reforestation project while Noon pointed out his desire to have a formal program that policed pollution of the watershed. Wenton Keane stammered for a few minutes about the need for more game wardens checking for out-of-state fishing licenses on the Watauga. But Kyle realized that Frank had his feet under him now. He considered his responses, made the ideas stick together in a way that people could follow. He was on the right path. All Kyle needed to do was make sure he didn’t get in Frank’s way.

  GAVIN HAD the men from Arlington drive out to Little Europe for a toast after the debate had concluded. He was euphoric, his chest light. He felt he had the world between his teeth.

  Before leaving for the compound, they had explained that they regretted not being able to have more officers present to watch the debate in person, but the last thing they wanted was to disrupt the proceedings, make it all about the Nazi Party officers when Gavin was the one who deserved the crowd’s focus. It was a chancy thing to insert themselves too egregiously. Gavin said that he completely understood.

  The dining room had been cleared, a long table brought in. He had wanted candles to be set up but there hadn’t been sufficient time. The dimmer switch wouldn’t work either, which spoiled the effect he had wanted to create. But these were minor things. He wouldn’t be upended by trivial disappointments. Too much had gone just as he had needed it to go.

  The three officers entered—handsome and efficient in their pressed fatigues. Gavin welcomed them in, introduced them to those they hadn’t yet had a chance to meet. They stood politely for a few minutes before taking their places at the table. Jonathan came around, inexpertly poured out a couple of bottles of champagne he’d been told to bring back from the Food City. It sizzled beneath their noses.

  “I would like to toast our visitors,” Gavin said, rose to his feet. “Commander Hopkins, and Captains Varner and Stone, it is a great honor that you have visited us here in Little Europe, and that you have shown the support of the American Nazi Party. We hope that the results of the upcoming election will justify the backing you have extended.”

  Hopkins bowed his head in acknowledgment, swallowed his champagne.

  “Thank you, Mister Noon,” he said, wincing briefly at the taste. “It has been our pleasure to assist in any way we can, even if it was just a short show of public support through the website and our press releases. It was the absolute least we could do for someone who is so driven. We were delighted when you reached out to us. Too many communities like those here at Little Europe prefer to conceal their identities from the general public. It is refreshing to see your own directness, particularly given your ambitions for political office.”

  His two captains nodded reflexively, as if trained to an established series of verbal cues.

  “Yes, well, I do hope it is part of something larger,” Gavin said.

  “Something larger? I’m not sure I understand.”

  “The support. The support of the national office. What we’re doing here, what’s happening is part of a change throughout the country. Look at what happened in Charlottesville. This is a movement, a desire to claim a part of the country for ourselves. We have a real chance to seize political power in this country. The will is there. All we need is people with the ability to organize . . .”

  Hopkins arrested Gavin’s building speech with the slightest lift of his hand.

  “I do appreciate your enthusiasm, Mister Noon. It has clearly served you well. But you must remember that what you’re talking about is far more complicated than a few rallies and some properly placed television coverage.

  “It’s true that what happened in Charlottesville was important, but it was important because of the reaction it caused, not because it was a sustainable political overture.”

  “Now it may be me that doesn’t understand.”

  Jonathan shook his head, drank off his tumbler of oversweet champagne.

  “Hell, Gavin. He’s saying he thinks we’re all just little pissants down here in the cove, raising hell but not much else. Ain’t that right?”

  Hopkins pressed his mouth into an expression of tolerance but added nothing more.

  “Jonathan,
” Gavin began, though his eyes did not leave his guests. “I believe there might be a few more bottles of something to drink in the trunk of the car. Something a little more spirited. Please bring some back for the officers.”

  If Jonathan had any sense of being dismissed, he did not show it.

  As soon as his assistant had left, Gavin said, “Commander Hopkins, if you will elaborate. Now I am better able to hear what it is you are trying to tell me without distractions.”

  Hopkins shrugged.

  “I don’t want to dampen your enthusiasm, Mister Noon.”

  “Not possible. Please continue with what you were saying.”

  The Nazi administrator cleared his throat before reluctantly stating, “Our situation, despite certain admirable gains, is relatively unchanged on a national level. We are happy to show our faces here, happy that you want the association between your campaign and the party, because our greatest power on the national stage is in the imagination of those who detest us. We are the minority. That doesn’t mean that we can’t have an effect on the way the world is going. But we’re in no position to make real strides. Charlottesville was a handful of young men with a coherent, unified ideology. But their involvement isn’t sustainable. They still have to go to work on Monday morning. They are middle-class people. What they did was a kind of performance art.”

  “Performance art?”

  “Maybe that’s an unfortunate choice of words. Forgive me. As I said, I don’t want to dampen your enthusiasm. Your commitment to the cause is commendable. We rely on exactly that sort of dedication to retain the focus of the national media.”

  Gavin’s drink settled bitterly on his tongue.

  He no longer tried to continue the conversation. He simply concentrated on behaving well, pretended that he was unmoved by what had been said. The liquor circled the room. Despite the steady seep of the alcohol, his nerves failed to unknot. He had to hold himself together for the next hour until Hopkins and his men were ready to leave. After they had been shown to the door and thanked one last time for their visit, he went up to his room, shut himself within. As his head sank against the pillow he was grateful that he no longer had to suffer their talk.