Staggerford (33 page)

At eleven thirty Wayne Workman came back into the room and the Giant drove away in the patrol car.

“You drive,” said Wayne. His car keys jingled in his shaking hand.

“We don’t leave for twenty minutes.”

“We’re going over to Stevenson’s house.”

“What for?”

“The superintendent should be with us.”

“Are you serious?”

“We need more than just the two of us.”

“We’ve got the National Guard. What could Stevenson do that an army can’t? Except maybe the on our hands?”

“Damn it, Pruitt, it’s his school. He’s the one who should be taking this responsibility. Now let’s get going.” Wayne’s voice trembled.

Miles drove the Mustang to Stevenson’s house, wondering if Wayne was seeking the superintendent’s help or the superintendent’s death. He stopped at the front gate.

“Come to the door with me,” said Wayne. “You’re his fair-haired boy.”

Crossing the lawn in the rain, Miles thought he glimpsed Stevenson’s face in the living-room window, but
MRS
. Stevenson opened the front door and said, “Ansel is in St. Paul for a meeting of the Minnesota Historical Society.” She spoke in the sort of steady, heavy-jowled manner that turns the boldest lie into truth. “He’s on the board of directors, you know. I’ll tell him you both stopped by. He’ll be sorry he missed you.” The two men were running back to the car before she finished. “He’ll be impressed with the way you two are handling the Indian question,” she called after them.

“That’s the kind of leadership we work under,” said Wayne. “Doesn’t it gall you?”

Miles started the car.

“Swing by Doc Oppegaard’s.”

“It’s ten to twelve,” said Miles.

“Doc Oppegaard is chairman of the school board. He should be with us.”

Miles drove to Doc Oppegaard’s office. In the waiting
room Doc was drinking wine with Stella Gibbon. “How’s your tooth?” he asked Miles, who had forgotten about his tooth.

Wayne said, “We’d like you to come with us to meet the Indians. Jeff Norquist has run away, and we’d feel better if there were three of us. The superintendent isn’t available and I thought you might like to speak for the school.”

“Oh, how exciting,” said Stella.

“Why not?” said Doc. He put on his coat.

Wayne helped him into the back seat of the Mustang, then said, “I’d feel better if there were four of us.”

“It’s five of twelve,” said Miles.

“One more man. Think of somebody.” He clamped his lower teeth on his mustache as Miles pulled away from the curb.

“Bartholomew Druppers enjoys occasions like this,” said Doc Oppegaard, a bit drunk. “I’m sure he could make a little speech, being major and all.”

“Anybody will do,” said Wayne.

Miles stopped at the mayor’s house. Wayne went to the door and came back alone. “He won’t come.”

“He’ll come,” said Doc. He squeezed out of the back seat, went to the front door, and came back with the mayor.

Mayor Droppers was jumpy. As soon as he was fitted into the back seat with the dentist and the car moved off, he began fretting in a loud, rhetorical voice. The more he fretted, the more Wayne bit his mustache.

“I tell you we’ve got ourselves a nice little community here in Staggerford, and I’d hate to see it turned into a testing ground of hate and bloodshed. Is the American Indian Movement in on this yet?”

“Oh, God,” said Wayne.

“No, they aren’t in on it,” said Miles.

“How do you know?”

“As far as I know, they aren’t.”

“Relax,” said Doc Oppegaard.

“That’s all we need is the American Indian Movement,” said the mayor. He sat on the edge of the back seat and spoke directly in Wayne’s ear. Like any good speechmaker,
he had sized up his audience and he knew which man was most moved by his words. “I tell you we’ve all seen towns in this nation of ours turned into testing grounds of hate and bloodshed. It all started years ago in Selma, Alabama. One thing I’ll say in favor of this meeting, it’s three miles from town and that shows good forethought, because that way at least our homes are safe.”

“I hope to God,” said Wayne.

“Relax,” said Doc.

“Now what I say is this. When we get to Pike Park, we get out of the car and speak our piece and get right back into the car and drive back to town as soon as possible and hope it all blows over.”

Wayne nodded.

“How many Chippewas do we expect?”

Wayne shook his head.

They drove a mile in silence.

Suddenly Mayor Druppers clutched Wayne’s shoulder and shouted. “Where’s Norquist?” looking about him as though Jeff might have been riding, unnoticed, in their midst.

Wayne shook his head. He didn’t want to say the words,
he ran away
. “Tell him, Miles.”

“He ran away,” said Miles.

The mayor sank back, speechless.

Wayne gave Miles a bitter look. “How can you be so calm?”

“Why shouldn’t I be calm?”

“Why? Because your life is at stake!”

Although Miles didn’t believe it, it was a disquieting thing to hear. A disquieting perturbation.

They passed the Bingham driveway and saw a soldier standing guard beside the mailbox, a forlorn figure pelted by the rain.

Pike Park. At the entrance, the governor’s Giant stood on the shoulder of the highway. He waved the Mustang into the park, and Miles, according to instructions, parked next to the pump. No other car was there. As soon as he switched off the engine, the windows steamed up.

The four men were silent for a long time. In the back seat, Doc Oppegaard drew hearts on the window with his finger. The mayor’s breathing was a tense whistle through the nose. Wayne frowned. Over and over again, Miles rubbed the steam from his side window and peered out toward the highway where the Giant’s patrol car was parked. Cars of sightseers passed slowly on the highway. One of them stopped.

“Here they come!” said Wayne, leaning over and looking out past Miles’s ear.

“That’s
my
car,” said Doc Oppegaard. “And that’s Nadine driving. Relax.”

The Giant sent the car on its way.

“Maybe they won’t show up,” said Wayne.

“They’ll show up,” said Doc. “Indians are always late for appointments.” He continued to draw hearts on the window.

“I don’t like sitting out here without Norquist,” said the mayor. “It could get mighty unpleasant.”

“An Indian will listen to reason,” said Doc.

“We’ll promise them anything money can buy,” said Wayne. “The governor says the sky’s the limit.”

“But only one thing at a time,” Miles reminded him.

Across the river a shot was fired. “It’s an attack!” said Wayne. The mayor ducked his head.

“A deer hunter,” said Doc.

While they weren’t looking, a car drove into the park and pulled up in front of them, bumper to bumper. They saw its dark shape through the steam on the windshield.

“Here they are!” shouted Wayne. “Don’t let them into this car. Don’t get into their car. Stand clear of both cars so the trooper in the hills can see us at all times.”

“What trooper in the hills?” said the mayor.

“Don’t let them lay a hand on you! Promise them anything!”

“Let’s see who it is,” said Doc.

With his sleeve, Wayne wiped the steam from his half of the windshield, but he couldn’t see through the rain flowing across the glass.

“You know who it will be,” said Miles, wiping his half. “It’s bound to be Bigmeadow and Bird.” He turned on the windshield wipers and bent forward over the steering wheel to see his adversary, and he looked into the face of Miss McGee. The car was his own, and Thanatopsis was at the wheel. Sandwiches.

Wayne and Miles got out and stood at the windows of the Plymouth, Wayne on his wife’s side and Miles on Miss McGee’s.

“You forgot to bring the lunch,” said Miss McGee.

Wayne told his wife to get the hell out of the park. He said she was throwing a monkey wrench into the governor’s plan. He said any minute all hell was going to break loose. He spoke of an ambush. Meanwhile, Miss McGee was handing Miles, through her window, a pair of shoe-boxes containing two dozen sandwiches. “The coffee is in the back seat,” she said. “It’s a shame you couldn’t have had a nicer day for your meeting. Rain is so discouraging.”

“Beverly is at the Hub,” said Miles.

“Yes, we stopped there. We told her we were coming in this afternoon when she gets off work. To plan her future.”

“That big cop out there tried to stop us,” laughed Thanatopsis, leaning over to talk out Miss McGee’s window. The one on her side had been rolled up against Wayne’s admonitions. “But we plowed right past him.”

Miles carried the sandwiches and four Thermos bottles to the Mustang and handed them to Doc Oppegaard in the back seat. He went back to his Plymouth and said, “Thanks for coming out. I’m sure we’ll be back in town in a little while. I don’t look for the Indians to show up.”

“Take a hot bath before you come to the Hub,” said Miss McGee. “It’s a day for catching cold.”

In the Mustang the four men unwrapped a sandwich apiece and poured themselves coffee.

“What did you get?” asked Doc.

“Bologna,” said the mayor.

“Bologna,” said Wayne.

“They’re all bologna,” said Miles.

They ate in silence. The sound of rain on the roof of the car gradually diminished. They heard two rifle shots in the distance. They heard a helicopter pass overhead. It was nearly one o’clock.

Miles took two sandwiches and a bottle of coffee out to the highway and gave them to the Giant. “How much longer shall we wait?” he said.

“Till two thirty,” said the Giant. “We’re calling it off at two thirty.”

“Has anybody gone out to Sandhill to see what’s holding them up?”

“No, nobody’s gone out there. Let sleeping dogs lie.”

Returning to the car, Miles caught Wayne tattling on Superintendent Stevenson.

“…  And I know for a fact that there’s no meeting of the Historical Society today. Nobody has meetings on Saturday.”

Doc Oppegaard was not giving him a sympathetic ear. “Bologna always gives me gas,” he said, beating his breast.

“Are you saying Ansel Stevenson is not a truthful man?” asked Mayor Druppers. “Because, my goodness, if you’re saying Ansel Stevenson is not a truthful man, that’s a strong statement. Ansel Stevenson has been a public servant in our community for a good many years. I was on the board when he was hired and I’ve been on the board ever since, and I know he sometimes doesn’t take the bull by the horns the way he should, but to say he is not a truthful man is saying quite a lot. I would want to be very sure of my facts before I said
that.”
He sat back and folded his arms.

“Then let me ask you this,” said Wayne. “When is the last time you heard of a meeting on Saturday?”

“I’m at one right now,” said Doc, pressing his chin to his chest and working up a burp.

Miles fell asleep.

At two thirty the rain stopped altogether. The Giant radioed his trooper in the hills and his troopers in the helicopter and he radioed the army in the gulch. Across the river Miles could see the trooper in the hills leave his station and drive down through the pines. The Giant made a U-turn on the highway and returned to Staggerford, followed by several cars of disappointed sightseers. The military convoy of six jeeps and four trucks passed the park in the opposite direction, crossing the bridge, then turning north toward Berrington. They disappeared between the hills on the other side of the river.

Miles started the Mustang. Doc Oppegaard told him to wait. He had to piss. Once he mentioned it, they all felt the urge, and Miles switched off the engine.

“Who’s that?” said the mayor as they were getting out of the car. He was pointing across the highway where an old white Buick was emerging from the woods and bouncing along a trail, heading in their direction.

Miles said it was Alexander Bigmeadow’s car.

“God, don’t tell me!” said Wayne.

“Judas Frost,” said the mayor, and he got back in the car.

The Buick climbed the grade to the highway, crossed it, drove into the park, and pulled up next to the Mustang. The Buick contained three men and a boy. Alexander Bigmeadow was at the wheel, and with him in the front seat was Bennie Bird. To Miles’s great relief the carnival-hatted Indian who had found so much to laugh at on Wednesday was in the back seat. He was already grinning and raising his eyebrows expectantly, as though all that remained of the Pike Park meeting was the punch line. Sticking out of his lime-green hat today was the bent tailfeather of a grouse. Also in the back seat was little Hank Bird. He had scabs on his face and his finger was still in a splint. In his good hand he clutched an empty Pepsi bottle. He jumped out of the Buick and went to the pump to fill the bottle with water.

“How would you like a brand new motorcycle?” Wayne asked him.

Little Hank stopped pumping. This man who last week had made him stand for forty minutes on two sheets of paper was now offering him a motorcycle. Hank broke into a great gap-toothed smile.

Alexander Bigmeadow moved his great bulk out from behind the wheel and carried two six-packs of beer over to a wet picnic table under a wet pine tree. The green-hatted Indian and Bennie Bird followed him.

“Help yourself,” Bigmeadow said to Doc Oppegaard.

Doc thanked him but said he never drank beer.

Green-hat chuckled.

“Beer gives me asthma,” Doc explained.

Green-hat let out a deep, joyous roar.

“How about you two?” said Bigmeadow. Miles and Wayne took the beers he offered them.

“Who’s that in your car there?” asked Bennie Bird. It was a civil question asked in a civil tone. Bennie appeared not to be angry today.

Doc said, “That’s Bartholomew Druppers.”

“Druppers the mayor?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe he’d like a beer.”

Wayne and Miles glanced at each other. Was this the same Bennie Bird they had met on Thursday?

Doc beckoned to the mayor, but the mayor didn’t budge, except to lower himself a bit deeper into the back seat.

“How come you brought along the cops and the army?” asked Bigmeadow, looking pained at having to ask.