Primary Colors (29 page)

"So many wonderful things happened to your reputation here," she said.

"No, really," he said. "It was okay. It was a rite of passage. You realize how amazing these folks are, voting for me after all this shit? There was a time, last night, it was getting on toward ten o'clock, and I was working-what?-my eighth restaurant, table to table? And I knew most of these damn people wouldn't be voting for me-hell, half of them wouldn't be voting, period. And I come to this table, two couples 'bout our age-teachers, lawyers, something like that-havin' dessert, getting ready to split the bill. Back home, the kind of folks that would've been friends of ours. Up here, they're gonna be voting Harris without even thinkin' about it. One of the women teaches preschool. She asks about Head Start. And y'know, we just start talkin' about it. I forgot we were in a campaign, damn near sat down and had a cup of coffee with 'ens. She was smart. You could tell she was good at what she did. And I told her about some of the things we'd been messin' with down home."

"Tish Miller's thing," Susan said.

"Yeah," Stanton said, moving over to the wing chair where Susan was sitting, leaning down, putting his hands on her shoulders, staring her in the eye. "Tish Miller's one of wine-inspirational model, right, sweetheart?"

"Okay, okay."

"Anyhow, this woman says to me, 'Governor, from all I've heard and read during this campaign, I'da never guessed you knew or cared about this stuff.' "

"I wonder why," Susan said.

"No, it's not just them-not just the scorps," he said. "It's us. It's me. We gotta figure out how to communicate what we love about what we do. We've gotta show them we're doin' this not for ambition or glory."

"Not just," Susan said, but softer. She was with bins now.

"Not just, not only-but because we love doin' for the folks, finding things that work. We gotta think about how we can do that-right, Henry? Because, you know what? I would be willing to bet you anything, I got that woman's vote today."

"Now all you have to do," Susan said, "is personally meet and greet the other two hundred fifty million Americans."

"Fine with me," Jack Stanton said. "But first, I want to go home."

Home. We landed in deep night. There was no moon. There was, however, a soft breeze coming up from the Gulf, carrying with it a moist hint of spring. I stood by the river for a moment before going up to my apartment. The river seemed familiar, an old acquaintance; it flowed quickly, silently, as if it were a well-oiled piece of machinery, doing its job. My apartment was less familiar. I hadn't slept there in a week, but it seemed much longer. The place felt dusty, moldy. Several of the plants along the river window had died. I turned on the television. CNN was telling it our way. We were alive, and Lawrence Harris was breathing more life in us yet: his sound bite was pompous, trite. "The people of New Hampshire have sent the message that they are ready for fiscally responsible governance," he said, without a hint of a smile. "I expect the rest of the American people will respond favorably to this message as we move along." Then the clincher: "I think we are growing up as a nation."

Lovely. I opened the refrigerator and winced; something had gone bad. This presented me with several decisions. Clean the fridge or let it fester? A Perrier or that lone bottle of Heineken? Fester. Heineken. My own personal victory party. I lay down on the bed, watched CNN some more. It was pundit time. Several Washington scorps were talking about the "weak" Democratic field and who would save it. Ozio's non-write-in campaign had fizzled in New Hampshire. They showed a clip of the governor of New York rushing into or out of a building. He seemed perturbed. "I never asked for it, I never encouraged it," he said, "so why should I comment on it?" And so, the anchor wondered, If not Ozio, who? Larkin? Someone was saying very definitively that Larkin would soon jump in. "You don't know anything," I told the television and shut it off.

I noticed the collection of Alice Munro stories I'd bought a month earlier splayed open on the coffee table across the room. Had I left it like that? Cruel and unusual punishment for a book (I hated broken spines; I was willing to endure personal discomfort to maintain the
integrity of a spine). It seemed a long way to go, but I got up and walked across the room. The book had been left open to a story called "Bardon Bus." I began to read the first paragraph in the half-light; it was bold and yet wistful-perfect. I snapped on the reading light, lay down lengthwise on the couch facing the river and read myself to sleep there.

Jack Stanton woke me in the morning, banging on the door. "Henry! Henry! Rise and shine!" He was wearing a yellow knit shirt, leather jacket, jeans and cowboy boots. It was eight o'clock. "Jeez, you look a sight," he said. "Fell asleep in your clothes, huh? Didn't watch me, all fresh and confident, on the morning shows? Well, get on up. We're going for a drive, goin' down to Grace Junction. Hey, look-1 even brought you breakfast: a banana, an apple, black coffee-all your favorites."

"Why Grace Junction?"

"Dunno. Take a drive. See some country. See Momma. C'mon, Henry. Get yourself showered and shaved. I'll just sit here, read the paper, make some calls."

The Bronco was downstairs, Uncle Charlie lounging in the back. I rode shotgun; the governor drove-and sang. He had the radio turned way up. He sang tentatively on the new songs, more confidently on the oldies. He turned the radio down when "Achy Breaky Heart" (which was just gathering steam about then) came on. "I hate that goddamn song," he said. "I have always hated gimmick songs, even when I was a kid-Purple People Eater,' How Much Is That Doggie in the Window,' the Singing Nun. People should have more respect for music than that. You know, it's like politics. You should always have respect for what you're doing, respect the ceremonies and rituals, respect the audience."

He was certainly feeling chipper. He drove south on the interstate about thirty miles, sticking right on the speed limit, then turned west on a two-lane state road toward Grace Junction. It was an uncomfortable sort of day. The sun was warm, but the air was cold-the wind had shifted around north and carried with it memories of New Hampshire. The governor couldn't find the right mix. He lowere
d t
he windows, and it got cold. He raised the windows and it got stuffy. When he lowered the window just a little, the whistling made it hard to hear the music. "Henry," he said, snapping off the radio and lowering the windows about ten miles out from Grace Junction. "I'm gonna go over Doc Hastings', get some blood pulled. I think it's about time we dealt with the McCollister situation."

I'd been dreading this moment. Fat Willie had been there in New Hampshire, in the back of soy mind. He would blindside me whenever I began to feel optimistic (when there was no cause for optimism, the McCollister situation seemed moot-a pragmatic callousness I did not admire in myself). But I never really thought it through. It was too awful. I never seemed able to fix on it, to analyze it, to make a judgment. Sitting there, beginning to freeze a little in the Bronco, I suddenly realized why: I could not allow myself to believe that Jack Stanton would take advantage of Fat Willie's teenage daughter; and yet I couldn't believe he hadn't.

"Deal with it?" I asked.

"Tomorrow, I want you and Howard to go over there, to Fat Willie's, and lean on him a little," the governor said. "Not really lean on him-but tell him we have to resolve this thing, establish paternity. Tell him we want the girl to have an amniocentesis. Explain what that means, in detail. Tell him it's a long needle through the belly button. Tell him to explain that to Loretta. Henry, these aren't sophisticated people. They're good people, but not sophisticated. I think you present this to them, tell them that I am insisting on it, that I had my blood pulled already. Chances are, the girl will back off her claim." "Why me?" I said, shivering. "Is it because I'm-"

"It's because Willie chose you," he said. "I didn't. I can't help it if he can't see past skin color."

"Maybe he just thought I'd be sympathetic," I said, knowing that was only part of the truth.

"Look, you don't have to say anything. Howard knows what to say. But you should be there, since he came to you."

I turned toward the open window. The air was sharp but fresh; it smelled of newly turned soil. We were riding through raw red-clay farmland. It was exotic country; the roadsides were the color of a squeezed fingertip. I remember thinking it must be tough to far
m s
uch land. "Governor," I said. "If I'm going to do this, there's something I need to know."

"I am not the father of that child," he said.

Grace Junction was Onawachee County's seat. It had the requisite domed, two-story county-court building on the town square and a gray granite Confederate War Memorial that was particularly grisly: "These, Our Sons, Gave All in Glorious Struggle." There was a tablet for Civil War dead, two more for World War I and II, and a fourth for Vietnam, which was practically empty-leaving plenty of space for the next war. The governor's father, William H. Stanton, was listed among the World War II dead, though he had never lived in Grace Junction. The square around the court building was half populated now-lass offices and the Willows Funeral Home on the north side; Presley Drugs and the Florida (the most popular, and political, cafe' in town) on the west. The south had several thrift shops and a gaping hole where Zucker's furniture had once been; the east side had Meyer's Stride-Rite Shoes, the Modest Values dress shop and more vacant storefronts. Despite the strong sense that time had passed it by, this was a fairly pleasant square, as such places go: the sidewalks were red brick, set in a herringbone pattern; the courthouse was framed by live oaks. Daffodils were blooming now; spring was coming. The town seemed green, lived-in-not stark or defeated, as so many rural towns were. We entered town from the east, through Black Town, which was mostly shotgun shacks and cinder-block convenience stores, set in a web of train tracks, dilapidated garages and auto repair shops. The sawmills-mostly closed now-were on the south side of town. White folks lived on the north and west; rich folks north, rednecks west. Momma lived on the west side, in a tan clapboard house on a double lot. The governor had offered her a new house in Mammoth Falls, a brick house on the north side of Grace Junction-anything she wanted-but she was a creature of her place and wanted to stay put. "The gals wouldn't know where to come for our Wednesday poker party if I picked up and moved," she said.

Momma was sitting out on the front porch, bundled up in a heavy sweater over her usual State U. tracksuit, when we pulled up. "Hooray
,
hoo-rah, yeeee-hah!" she said, tugging him down by the neck and planting about an ounce of lipstick on his cheek. "You did it, honey." "Well, I survived," the governor said. "By the way, what on earth happened to you? You just took off, never said 'bye. When'd you get home, Momma?"

"I left there on Monday. I shoulda stayed, I know. But I was just too nervous, bifin' my fingernails, pacin' the floor, practically drippin' in my britches. I was intendin' to stick around, but then I heard a whole bunch of Grace Junction folks was takin' out on Monday, so I went with 'em-Doc Hastings and all."

"Goin' over see Doc now," the governor said. "Henry, Charlie-you guys keep Momma company. We can all meet up at the Florida for lunch."

"I'll come with you," Charlie said. "Got some business with Jerry Conway over at the County Barn. Owes me some money off New Hampshire."

"You take odds?" Momma asked.

"Naw, just straight-fifty bucks on twenty-five percent."

"I did better'n that," Momma said. "Jackie, you makin' your Momma a rich ol' lady."

"I get a cut?" the governor asked.

"I'll give you ten percent on my take in November," she said. "Now, get outtahere. Henry, what's your pleasure? Cup a coffee?" It was an old-fashioned house, a sane person's house. It probably hadn't changed much since the governor was a boy. The living room was on the left, dining mom on the right, with the kitchen behind. The dining room had a solid old mahogany table and chairs, with matching sideboard-good stuff: Momma had come from gentry. There was a dark green horsehair Chesterfield sofa with antimacassars along the wall in the living room, flanked by a La-Z-Boy and a maple rocker with a crocheted seat cushion-all facing an enormous console television, which seemed the only new piece in the house. There were several oak lamp tables with doilies, a magazine rack next to the La-Z-Boy (Momma subscribed to Time, Good Housekeeping, Sports Illustrated and the Smithsonian), shaggy chocolate wall-to-wall carpeting. There was a mirror on the wall behind the sofa, portraits of her parents on the back wall and a large campaign poster of her son, looking very seventies and glamorous running for attorney general, over the television. We moved on back to the kitchen, which was light and large, and had more photos-Jack as a boy, Jack as a teenager, Uncle Charlie, other folks I didn't recognize.

"You have any pictures of Jack's father?" I asked.

"Over here," she said. "Here's the two of us in Kansas City." It was a studio shot. They were holding hands, their heads together-lovebirds. She wore a lot of makep back then, too; he had a sort of Ronald Colman look-dark slicked-back hair, pencil mustache. He was in uniform, a private first-class. The governor, it was clear, looked a lot like his mother; he had her nose and mouth. "So: you did say coffee?" she asked, already pouring some from a Mister Coffee. "'Bout losin' my mind. Take anything?"

"No thanks, just black," I said. "What was he like?"