Spirit of the Place (9781101617021) (25 page)

The crowd was still, as if transfixed. To Orville, to Miranda, to Penny, to the others, it was as if Henry were speaking only to each of them and paying attention only to each of their reactions, as if each were the most important person in the room. As if each were a TV camera.

Remarkable,
thought Miranda.
Truly.

Orville wiped a runnel of sweat out of his eye.
He's not even sweating, how come? His tie's cinched tight and he's not even sweating?

“Let me begin with a pledge of my neutrality. I am not for saving the Worth and am not for destroying it. I am for us, all of us. For Amy and Milt, for my family and yours, for Columbia, for America, and for the world.”

“Oh, yeah?” came a contemptuous voice from the dark. “What about Plotkin and Schooner puttin' up the Slasher?”

“And the mini-mall. Don't forget the mini-mall!”

“I'm glad you asked that question. As you know, I'm running for Congress. As a candidate to represent
all
of you, I do not want to be beholden to any special interest group, any monies.”

Orville was amazed—had he really said “monies,” not “money”?

“Thus Milt and I have agreed that, effective today, I am resigning from Plotkin and Schooner. I will put all my holdings in escrow. If I lose the primary in September, or win that and lose the election in November, I will rejoin my firm. I'm sorry to leave my dear friend and partner, Milt—he and I have batted this around in great depth—but I need to devote my full-time effort, one hundred and fifty percent, to serve my country in peace as I served her in war. I want to now publicly offer a hearty ‘Thanks, partner!' to Milton Plotkin.” Henry applauded Milt. Others joined in. Milt looked like this was news to him, too, and not welcome news either. He sat there, waving limply to the crowd, and despite the wan smile on his face he seemed to be saying,
I'm toast.

“And so, my fellow Columbians,” Schooner went on, “we have to learn to live together and to work together. This isn't about I or you, it's about we and us. We Downstreeters, like my friend May Carter, representing PALH. We antique sellers and lovers of antiques working our best to rejuvenate Downstreet through CATS. We SPOUTers, working for basically the same goal with different means. And we parents of terrific kids like Amy Plotkin, who can give such a stirring rendition of Shakespearean poetry. Not I or you, but we Columbians, we Americans, and, in this world where we are constantly threatened by dark forces with nucular weapons,
we
human beings. And so, my friends, I humbly propose the following solution. I make a motion we employ what my dear old friend the good doctor of Columbia, Orville Rose, calls ‘tincture of time.' My motion, to the council and to this gathering of good-hearted citizens and friends all, is that we give the hotel a stay of execution, challenge our friends in Worth Saving to come up with sufficient monies to renovate within nine months, until the end of the year. If they fail, then at that time, we as a community will have no choice but to sell the rights to others. That's the American way, through private-sector efforts, to raise the funds for the public good.”

“Ain't they had enough time already?” someone shouted out.

“No, they have not,” Henry said firmly. “Tonight is the first night that we finally addressed the issue as a community. Together. We are processing this together. I have been informed that they require nine months, minimum, from tonight.”

“We wasted enough time on this!”

“Yeah, let's just get it over with!”

“Let's not rush anything,” Henry said, so softly that it was hard to hear him, but everyone strained to hear, so what he said next, though said even more softly, was heard by all. “Once destroyed . . .” Henry held up a closed fist, paused, and then opened his fingers like the
poof
of a magician making a live dove disappear, “gone forever.” He paused, letting this sink in.

Death, the crowd thought. He's talking about death.

“Gone. Forever.” Schooner sighed, as if thinking of all the deaths he'd seen in war. “I make a motion we give the Worth Savers until the end of the year to make the hotel the centerpiece of a revitalized Downstreet. If they fail, Milt or other developers can extract it and make the Price Slasher—and the mini-mall—the centerpiece. Either way, we all win. Second, I propose we organize more police protection—if we can afford it—to ensure the public safety of all those who live near the Worth. If we can't afford it, I propose we form a citizens' patrol for safety, to make sure the undesirable elements don't continue to inhabit the hotel, which, despite her rich history, has fallen so low. I for one am volunteering here and now to take the first patrol, tonight.”

He turned to the low railing, picked up his sports coat, and slung it over his shoulder, looped around one finger, an ordinary guy ready to fight the good fight against evil until he won. He turned back to the crowd.

“
We need to pull together.
We need to have our differences add, not subtract and divide, us. We can be an example—and not only for our children, but for each other, and for others. We Columbians, we Americans, we who inhabit our dear planet Earth for a brief moment of . . . yes, mercy under God. God bless you all, and God bless America.”

Henry bowed his head. There was thunderous applause, stompings, and full-throated cheers. Henry made his way back to his seat, squeezing into a remarkably small space between Amy and Nelda Jo, who put her arm around his shoulders and kissed him.

Henry sat looking straight ahead.

“Do I hear a second to the motion?” the mayor asked.

“I second it!”

“I third it!”

Laughter.

The vote wasn't even close.

Everyone left the meeting feeling up, high.

Orville and Miranda got into the Chrysler. They were due to pick up Cray, but they found themselves just sitting there, not moving or talking, stunned by Henry Schooner.

· 20 ·

“He even
smells
good!” Orville finally said. “Smells like breakfast cereal—‘Schooner Flakes' or something. The most compassionate of the Columbians, Henry Schooner?”

“Amazing,” Miranda said. “I've never seen him do that before. Something's happened. Whether we like it or not, the boy's got it. He's launched. He's on his way.”

“Smooth as puppy shit. A total fake.”

“Maybe not.”

“That smarmy, patriotic God-goop, are you kidding? C'mon, I know the guy—he's a bully, a brute, a fake. At best a fake.”

“You knew him a long time ago.”

“I know what I've seen since, too. Look, I don't mind fake, if I know that underneath the fake is more fake and more fake—but not evil.”

“What?” She was stunned. “Wait a second. How can you possibly know that?”

“You know right here,” he said, tapping himself on the sternum, “in the center of your chest. You know when you're a kid and you wake up in the middle of the night in terror and realize you're seeing his face in a nightmare. He was a bad kid, he's a bad adult. A total phony. He doesn't really care about anything. Nothing.”

“So?”

“So?!”

“What difference does it make?”

“A lot. I've seen the damage. When I went around the world trying to patch people up, I'd run into guys like Schooner—I'm sensitive to them, the hollow ones, the ones who don't care. And one thing I learned. People who don't care about anything can
do
anything! Suppose, under all that fakery, instead of nothing, there's really bad shit? Suppose, deep down inside he's so vacant and . . . and untethered that he'd do
anything?
Suppose he makes it look so good that you buy it? That everybody buys it?”

“And?”

“And look at the effect! Look at the town, the country! Come spend a day with me—no, no, first, spend a night watching TV, seeing what Reagan Inc. is putting out as ‘normal' American life,
then
come spend a day, come see what I see—the poverty, violence, racism, gay hating, the fear of commies, of bad guys with bombs! You saw it tonight—they hate these antiquers not because they're rich or successful but because most of them are gay or Jewish or ‘liberal.' It starts right here!” He tried to cool down. “So when I see it happening on a small scale here, people falling in love with Schooner, I get very wary.”

“So do I. But the country's tired. People want a rest. After the sixties—civil rights, Vietnam, the assassinations, Watergate—people don't want to face things, they want to believe. So they believe in Reagan, they believe that ‘America's Number One.'”

“Reagan's screwing them, emptying their wallets and handing it to the rich, and they're saying, ‘Oh, thank you, Mr. President, for screwing us and handing my money to the rich. Thanks for the denial—and thanks for giving us permission to hate.' Think I'm crazy? Where did he kick off his first campaign? Philadelphia, Mississippi, where the local Great Americans tortured and murdered the three civil rights workers. It was a clear racist message, sent subtly—brilliantly disguised. He's given them license to hate.”

“I guess it's just human nature,” she said. “History—American history, anyway—seems to go like that, in thirty-year cycles—the sixties were like the thirties, the eighties like the fifties. Watch—in the nineties, when Cray's in college, kids will be activists again.” She paused. “Americans want a rest. Reagan's a rest. And so's Schooner.”

“Terrific.”

“The other day I came across something in Emerson: ‘The first lesson of history is the good of evil.' As governments go, this may be as good as it gets.”

“This?”

“Look how hard it is even for us—two people who . . . who love each other—to see eye to eye. Look at the thousands in this town, at the mob at the meeting. Magnify that up to millions, hundreds of millions. It's the way things are. It's the way people are.”

“They can't do better?”

“I don't know. They haven't much, historically.” She watched as his face turned sad. She felt a sense of doom.

“Yeah, well,” he went on, somberly, “I feel like we've failed.”

“Us?” she blurted out, panicked. “You mean you and—”

“No, no, we humans. Nothing as grand as us. Like the Quakers and their utopia. I keep imagining that we can do better, that people can change, grow. I've seen it.”

How, she wondered, with all his cynicism, is he still so innocent? Is it because he's never been really sick or disabled? Is he so idealistic that everything winds up being a disappointment, his innocence fueling his cynicism? She asked, “But not Schooner?”

“No, not Schooner.” He shook his head for emphasis—and felt energized. “Look, I can't accept things as they are. It can't be this shitty. It's not enough.”

“I never said accept things as they are—”

“You're the one who's so cynical about the possibilities.”

“
I'm
the one walking the picket line,” she said hotly. “Remember?”

“Okay, okay, but why picket, when you have such a dim view of human nature? Why not just give up?”

“Because if you don't get on a picket line,” she said, her voice fiery, “then the great imbeciles of history that you're ranting and raving about, like all the people back in there who hate people like you and me and Amy—they'll tear down your dear old hotel, and if—” She stopped herself. “Forget it. We're late for Cray.”

“No, no, tell me.”

Miranda glanced at him, then away. At him again. “Because if you don't bust your butt trying to move the muscles of your leg, it'll atrophy and you'll never walk again.”

Silence, but for the wind cutting across the half-open windows of the car.

He reached for her hand. “I'm sorry.”

“Me too. I don't do outbursts well.”

Orville parked in front of the Schooners', not feeling up to seeing Henry. Miranda went in to fetch Cray. Henry came out, still in the white shirt but the tie now loosened, giving him a homey, paterfamilias look. He stood under the amber porch light and waved heartily. Orville waved back, feebly. Henry ambled down the steps and over to the Chrysler.

An audience with Saint Henry? Have I died and gone to heaven? Orville hit the window's
UP
button by mistake, shutting him out, and then hit the
DOWN
. There he was, face-to-face with the town savior.

“Great to see you there tonight, Orvy.”

“You did a good job with the crowd, Henry.”

“Democracy in action. It's a great country, isn't it?”

“Sure is, Henry,” Orville said, feigning sincerity and wondering, Why is it that when I'm talking to him
I
sound fake?

“Damn,” Schooner said, shaking his head in wonderment. “Maybe, old friend, one of these days you'll say that and mean it. Don't matter a damn to me, but, as they say, ‘If you don't feed the teachers, they'll eat the students.'”

“Huh?”

“Cray-ballistic!” Henry shouted suddenly, straightening up as Cray ran fast toward the car. “Did you have a beautiful time with Maxie?”

Orville was glad when Cray gave Henry the response he used to give him: none.

“Glad to hear it,” Henry said, chuckling.

“Hey, Orvy!” Nelda Jo was calling him from the porch. She had changed into a silky bathrobe, showing a lot of curve and a little skin. “Why don't we see more of you? Y'all come see us, ya hear? Say ‘okay.'”

“Okay.” Miranda and Cray got in the car. Henry moved back out of the way, smiling and waving as if they were all embarking for a year on a trip around the world with Bill and Babs and Wolfgang and Kenni.

Cray was in a foul mood. He didn't respond to their questions about whether he had a good time with Maxie and about what they did and what they ate. When Miranda persisted on the eating part, Cray said, “I don't want to talk about it.”

Miranda knew that Cray hadn't pooped for three days and was worried that he wasn't eating because he didn't like pooping. Although she knew she should just leave it alone, she asked, “Did you poop?”

“No! Don't ask me anymore!”

“Okay, I won't ask you anymore if you tell me one thing you did with Maxie.”

They were out on Route 9, heading home. “He showed me some pictures, sexy ones, you know, sexy. He said it was ‘fucking.'”

“What?” Miranda cried out. “Who said that?”

“Maxie. He showed me pictures.”

“Where'd he get the pictures?” Miranda asked.

Cray said nothing.

“Come on, Cray, where?”

Cray said more nothing.

“Was it from his dad?” Orville asked, remembering how Henry, as a kid, had shown them all a set of Mexican playing cards with couples fucking.

“Nope. From his brother. From Junior.”

“Does his father know this?” Miranda asked.

“Dunno.”

“Well, he will tomorrow!”

“No! You can't tell him.”

“Why not?”

“Maxie'll beat me up.”

“Oh God, did he say that?” Miranda asked.

“Can't tell you.”

“I'm calling his father as soon as we get home.”

“No!”

“He'll take care of Maxie, don't worry. And you're too young to be seeing things like that and talking like that. Don't ever say that word again.”

“You do. Orvy does.”

“We're grown-ups,” she said, with a glance at Orville, “you're not.”

“Don't I have any rights?”

“Some.”

“No, I don't! Damn and fuck!”

“Stop that right now!”

“Fuck.”

“Or you lose TV for a week!”

“I never get my way!” He started to cry.

Back at the house Miranda called Henry, who said he was “Shocked, just shocked!” and he'd take care of it right away. Cray overheard the conversation and, though sullen, seemed okay. They did the normal things with him, Orville reading to him and Miranda lying next to him rubbing his back until he was asleep, and then they went to bed, too.

As they lay together they both sensed a slight shift. They had said things without love and had survived a scare, had sensed themselves a little out of their depths, just that inch or two, which, in novice swimmers, can drown them. The close call had brought them back in to where they could touch bottom, stand, and breathe.

“I'm glad you're here,” Miranda said, snuggling into his neck.

“Me too. What a day.”

“Maybe, given what Junior did, you're right about Henry.”

“I've had enough Schooner for one day, okay?”

“Me too. But not of you.” She traced a circle on his thigh and brought his hand to her breast.

“Well, sweetness,” he said, feeling that merciful release of being excited and relaxed both, “I guess we'll find out, eh?”

“Hmmm?” She was letting go of the pain of the day, easing down into him. “Find out what?”

“Whether the humans can do better.”

“How'll we find that out, Doc?”

“From us.”

At four in the morning, called out into the precarious dark, Orville sighted Selma flying in low off the Hudson from Athens, banking sharply overhead so she was facing due south, floating a little as if getting ready for a final push down the tracks into Columbia. Hair permed, she wore a silky black dress with a scarlet scarf billowing out behind. She was moving fast, riding what looked like an Electrolux.

“Can't stop to chat!” she said, zooming off. “I'm on my way to something else!”