America America (19 page)

“Andrew will be just fine,” said Mrs. Metarey.

Clara sobbed once, softly.

“There, sweetheart,” said her father. “There now, come on now.”

When I looked back, Christian was watching me, that striking silvery glint in her eyes. The cook came up behind her to take her plate, but she didn’t move aside for him.

T
HE POLICE SPOKE
to all four body shops in the area, and the fact that they turned up nothing has bolstered the conspiracy theorists for years and given support to those who still perk up at the suggestion of wrongdoing. But the simple truth was that Liam Metarey and I were the ones who repaired Senator Bonwiller’s car. The damage wasn’t as bad as it seemed. The hood had actually popped open and not even been chipped. The hissing had been from the radiator cap, springing its safety. There was no crack in the radiator body, nor in the block.

We didn’t have to pull out the dents. Waiting for us in the barn the next morning, wrapped in kraft paper and wound with gaffer’s tape, was a brand-new quarter-panel set, along with the chrome bumper and double headlamp. When I came in just after dawn, three large packages and two smaller ones were sitting on a pallet by the workbench, and when I unwrapped the quarter panels I saw that they’d already been painted midnight blue. All Mr. Metarey and I had to do was bolt them onto the frame. We had to replace the signal-light covers, too, and their lamps, and the chrome trim-stripe behind the wheel cutout, but all these parts had been delivered as well, and we didn’t need more than an hour to attach them. I don’t remember what Liam Metarey did with the old quarter panels, which had been crimped pretty seriously by the impact, and I suppose that’s one of the questions people want an answer to. But it’s not one I can help with. At the time, he and I worked silently together, and quickly. He was normally affable, of course, but today he worked without speaking. I took my cue from him. We exchanged almost no words at all. Only late in the afternoon, without thinking, did I say in an offhand way, “Hard to believe the parts got here so fast.”

He looked over at me. “Ingenuity of the American working man,” he answered.

That was our only conversation. At the time I simply understood that we were two members of a team with an important job to do; and for a while I flattered myself by thinking that he’d chosen me instead of Gil McKinstrey because, for that single morning at least, as I held up my end of the panels and handed him bolts and machine screws and his old Rockwell impact wrench, I might have been the last person left in the world that he trusted.

Later on, of course, I realized that his silence had been meant to protect me.

O
N THE EVENING
of January 25th, I walked into the Dunleavy commons lounge and found Mr. Clayliss looking up at me from the couch with his chin thrust forward pugnaciously. “Sorry to break it to you, Sifter,” he said, putting on a mock hillbilly accent, “but your dog’s broke a leg.” He laughed, and so did a couple of the teachers sitting around him on the couches. But not all of them, and not the two other students in the corner by the door. I joined them there. Mr. Clayliss’s chin gestured toward the TV set. “Broke bad, I’d say.”

A moment later Walter Cronkite came on and announced in his imperturbable rumble that Edmund Muskie had trounced the field in Iowa. Henry Bonwiller had finished fifteen points back, barely ahead of McGovern. Mr. Clayliss stood and strode to the door. The rest of us remained where we were, and a couple of the teachers looked over at me. After a few moments, I turned and walked out. I made my way along the walk onto the playing fields beyond the creek.

It was a clear night. Bitterly cold but bright with a rising moon. I walked well beyond the track, out into the deep drifts behind the stacked soccer goals and almost to the woods. Ahead of me the slender silver lines of the birches marked the break. Behind them the school was just a set of faint yellow windows through the branches. Most of my classmates were barely aware that a presidential race was being run. In Wilcott I could make out a group of them jostling back and forth in the hall, flinging something.

My link with everything bigger than myself was ending. That’s what I realized at that moment. That everything that had allowed me to ignore the unease I felt here, that everything that had lifted me away from it, was over now. From here forward, if I was to make something of my days in this place, I would have to lift myself. I turned and walked farther. The paths glittered with ice.

FOUR

I

The Islington Speaker
Saturday, January 29th, 1972

DIED.
JoEllen Charney, 26, of Steppan. Miss Charney was raised in Albion and worked at the law offices of McBain & Sweeney in Steppan, where she also served as President of the Carrol County Optimists’ Chorus and a school volunteer. A graduate of the State University of New York at Buffalo, she was the recipient of a Rotarian Scholarship and the winner of the 1969 Miss Three-Counties Beauty Pageant, as well as a semifinalist in the Miss New York State competition of the same year. She is survived by her parents, George and Eunice Charney, of Albion. Private services have been held at the Third Lutheran Church of Islington. Donations may be directed to the Carrol County Optimists’ Chorus.

II

E
VERY YEAR IN LATE SUMMER,
the Speaker-Sentinel Foundation holds a dinner for its benefactors. These are the people who help us with our internships—we offer more than just the one at the paper—and the other projects we sponsor in the community. This year we held it at the estate of Clive Wantik, of the grocery family—Find What You Want at Wantiks!—who has been more than generous with us over the years. For these dinners we invite all the interns we can find, past and present, so that the contributors can see exactly what their money is buying.

The Wantik property is magnificent—horse stables, a dark-bottomed pool, a main house built from stone that looks as though it was brought over by ship from an English manor with the moss still on it. It’s even more impressive at a glance than Aberdeen West used to be. Even at its apex, the Metarey estate maintained all the equipment and services of a working piece of land, while at the Wantiks’ you’d be hard-pressed to find a stack of firewood. Let alone a metal lathe. But you could no doubt take your choice from a shelf of extra-plush towels in a variety of colors if you wandered into one of the pool cabanas. And all of it is owned by a man who’s risen in thirty years from stock boy in a town grocery on the Jersey shore. For the dinner we sat at round tables set in linen. Trieste was seated at my own, making pleasant enough conversation every time I looked over, with Isabelle Wantik herself, who I suspect is the one who writes the checks.

We’d stumbled on a splendid night. The dinner was held outdoors on the brick of the rear patio, which also held a twelve-piece brass orchestra on a bandstand, a wooden dance floor, and a raft of Polynesian-looking torches whose flames were doing a nice job of keeping the mosquitoes to the other half of the yard. Each intern was at a table with a benefactor, and I must say I was proud that Trieste was at mine. The tickets cost fifteen hundred dollars each and the dress was black-tie. Most of the girls looked wonderful in their long dresses—it’s a graceful age—and most of the boys wore sport coats.

And that’s what Trieste was wearing, too—a sport coat. Herringbone. In the heat it stood out even more, and it actually pained me a little—but it was a fine evening and full of good feeling. And to tell the truth, I hadn’t expected her to dress up at all. We’d been served gazpacho while the horn players snapped their way through “Pennsylvania 6-5000” and “Tuxedo Junction.” As the gazpacho was being cleared, Isabelle Wantik rose and crossed to the bandstand, and I saw Trieste reach over and borrow her soup spoon. She set it over her own to make a maraca, which she sat lightly tapping on the table as our hostess waited for the beat of Glenn Miller’s memory to wind down. The band finished and in another moment the guests quieted. The afternoon had been hot, but now the heat had softened into a mist of lilac and citronella, and the season’s last fireflies were dancing. Isabelle Wantik made the usual pleasantries and acknowledgments, then bowed slightly as her guests applauded. My wife was between Trieste’s seat and mine, and I saw her raise her eyebrows.

When the chairman of the foundation then stood to make a toast, my wife looked at me dead-on. Then she inclined her head a little toward Trieste. I looked over. She was holding the maraca in her lap. A waiter appeared with a tray to collect the dishes, and as he leaned over her I saw her drop one of the spoons into her pocket. Then she handed her bowl to him, cleared her throat, and looked up expectantly as the board chair began his toast. My own spoon was still in my hand. Even in the low light I could see it was silver.

“Well,” she said, a half hour later, when we were away from the tables. I’d approached her next to the shellacked wood stage. “Find what you want at Wantiks!”

She was smiling. There were, as there always are, any number of ways to interpret that smile. I wasn’t exactly at a loss, but I was certainly wary of tipping my hand. Actually, I had no intention of accusing her. Near us, the trumpeter slouched in his folding chair and beat out a mournful solo through his mute, sweat shining on his bald head. Trieste leaned against the bandstand, both hands in her pockets, and looked frankly out at the guests. At that moment, I must say, she seemed much older than she was.

“You enjoying yourself?” I asked.

“Do you ever just want to steal from these people?” she answered.

“I see.”

“All this money—it makes me want to steal sometimes. Doesn’t it ever make you?”

“I suppose I’ve never thought of it that way. They’ve been very generous with us.”

“Haven’t you? For some reason I think of it every minute.” She shrugged her shoulders, which were a little tight in her herringbone coat. “I was just wondering if maybe you do, too.”

She’d had some wine, I realized. That explained it. There was something undone in her voice.

“Maybe I’ve thought about it, Trieste,” I said. “But I’ve certainly never acted on it.”

She looked at me. There was a pause, and then she laughed. “Not bad, Mr. Sifter.” Then she looked away. “I had a feeling you saw. That was very observant.”

“Why don’t you return it?”

She thought about that. “Just mail it back with my thank-you note?”

“Trieste.”

“Yes?”

“Just walk over and put it on the table.”

“I need it for my collection.”

“Your collection—”

“My little—I don’t know—my little nostalgic collection. My little jewels of revenge.”

“Revenge for what, Trieste?”

She looked at her fingernails. “I’ve been taken to more than my share of these parties, sir. There’s something about me, I guess. People like to feed a stray.”

“You sound like an ingrate. These parties help a good cause. They help
your
cause.”

“Ingrate?” She smiled to herself. “I don’t know if I even believe in good causes,” she said, gesturing at the tables. “And what’s charity? I don’t think there’s any such thing. Or public service, for that matter. Do you?”

“Let’s stick to the spoon.”

She opened her palms. “Are you going to turn me in, sir?”

“I don’t know.”

“I hope you don’t. It would only confirm what they think.”

“Not everybody thinks that way.”

She laughed quietly.

“Why do you care, Mr. Sifter?”

“Because I suspect I know what the world is like for you. It was like that for me, too, Trieste. Sort of.”

She gave me a slight, teasing smile. “What goes around, comes around, I guess.” Then she turned to watch the trumpeter, who seemed to share a knowing look with her as he tapped out the melody to “Baby Mine.” I watched, too.

“Ingrate?” she finally said, looking out over the milling crowd. “I’m surprised that
you
would say that, sir.”

T
HE SHARPNESS OF THE KNOCKING
startled me from sleep. Early morning, the day after the Iowa caucuses. Still dark. From my bed I watched Astor shuffle across the floor in his pajamas. He straightened, then stepped aside. Mr. Clayliss’s head appeared: “Phone, Sifter,” he said gruffly.

“Sir?”

“
Phone
, I said.”

“Yes, sir. Is it my mother?”

In the hallway he was already striding ahead. “No, boy, it’s not.” He didn’t turn around. “And this isn’t a farm, either. Get your shoes on.”

I did, then followed him across the quad and through the covered portico to the administration building. He had to punch the buttons on the main lock, and when I came up behind him he shielded me from the combination. Then he roughly pulled open the door. Inside his office, he handed me the phone and said, “When you’re done, I need to talk to him.”

I put the receiver to my ear. “You heard the news?” said Liam Metarey.

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry. I was going to write you a note this morning. I’m sorry about it.”

“Sorry?” He cleared his throat. “Corey—it’s good news.”

“Sir?”

“We couldn’t have gotten better news.”

“We couldn’t have?”

“God, no. Second place in the first primary. Don’t be sorry at all. He’s done better than anyone thought he could. And that’s how they’re covering it, too—thanks to a little effort on our part. Forgive me,” he said. “I thought you knew. I’m sorry if you didn’t. That’s probably my fault.”

“No, sir, it was my fault. I haven’t had a chance to look at the papers.”

“Hell, he beat Humphrey and McGovern. Think of it. Muskie’s been the nominee now for months, if you follow the polls. And he’s still a tough steak to cut. But I’ll tell you, they’re the ones who’re worried now. I’ll tell you that. Second place in a state that wouldn’t eat lunch with anybody east of Indianapolis! It’s the war, Corey. That’s what’s getting people out. And it gives us a real honest-to-goodness chance. We’re gearing up.”

“You are?”

His voice quieted. “Those graphs, Corey,” he said. “History. Foxes and hedgehogs. History’s on our side.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I talked to your parents. They say it’s fine for you to come back weekends.”

Mr. Clayliss was frowning.

“To work with the campaign,” said Mr. Metarey.

“And it’s all right with school?”

Mr. Clayliss rose from his chair and began sharpening a pencil at the corner of the desk.

“I’ll
make
it all right,” said Mr. Metarey.

I remember wondering then why he did that. I was useful around the house, but there were plenty of other boys in Saline who could do just as much. Most of what I did for the campaign was drive Henry Bonwiller around—and even this was only when Carlton Sample wasn’t available—and now and then wash a few cars. Anybody could have done those things, and anybody could have set the
Globe
and the
Post
and the
Times
on their café sticks in the library, and anybody could have made sure the bottles of Glenlivet and Glenfiddich hadn’t run low in the pantry. Did Liam Metarey know how unmoored I felt in my new life at Dunleavy? Did he feel he had done that to me? Was that why he was offering me the chance to come home?

“I’d be honored to do it, sir.”

“Good, then,” he said loudly. “Let’s consider it done.” Then he lowered his voice to a whisper. “Now give me back to the imbecile.”

“Yes, sir,” I said. “Just a moment. He’s right here.”

“I
T HAD NOTHING
to do with him feeling sorry for you.”

“How would you know that?”

“He wanted you close by.”

“That’s flattering. But I don’t know if it’s true.”

“In case the cops came in on it, I mean.”

“That’s one possibility, Trieste.”

“One
strong
possibility, Mr. Sifter.”

We were the last two in the newsroom. A Sunday night. Closing on our Monday edition, the biggest of the week. “He was a very decent man, Trieste.”

“So are you, sir.”

“I don’t know.”

“A decent man is all you can hope for.”

“Liam Metarey made some big mistakes,” I said.

“I said
decent
, sir. Not perfect.” She smiled.

I took a drink of coffee. “How do you come to such strong beliefs, Trieste? At your age.”

“My father,” she answered, without a moment’s pause. “Where I live, if you don’t have strong beliefs, you’re eaten for breakfast.”

“And
you’re
not going to be eaten for breakfast.”

“No, sir,” she said. “I’m not.”