Elect Mr. Robinson for a Better World: A Novel (7 page)

“Did the torturers leave the people on that thing for a long time?”

“Did you get taller?”

“Could you get torn in half?”

I could sense my adult audience’s yearning to raise their own inquiries, as I casually dropped the chalk in the chalk tray and returned to the podium. I watched Rita Henderson brush lint from her purple blouse. Jerry folded and refolded a napkin. Jim Kunkel chewed a toothpick. I let all these people contemplate the past. “In those days you were guilty until proven innocent.” I took another sip of water. Heads wagged, a fork scraped a plate, ice rattled.

“Questions, anyone?”

Jim raised his hand. “Pete, would you say that the past lives on in the present?”

“Certainly, brutality has long been the order of the day, Jim.”

“Yep,” he said. Then Barbara Nixon—not a bad-looking woman, incidentally—spoke up. “Mr. Robinson, are you saying that ours is a cruel culture?”

“Something like that.”

“I can’t accept that. We’re good people here. We care about one another.”

“Oh, give it a rest,” Jim growled at her.

Everyone regarded the ex-mayor.

“Excuse me?” from Bill.

“There’s no love here,” was all Jim said.

Bill told him, “I think you owe my wife an apology.”

Barbara nudged her husband, “Forget it honey, he’s just a crazy old man.”

To which Jim replied, to both or either of the Nixons, or maybe—who knows?—to the room in general, “Fuck off.”

At which point Jerry broke in and diplomatically asked, “What I want to know, Pete, is could you be torn in half on one of those racks?”

“Probably not. There were, however, methods of accomplishing such punishment.”

“Drawing and quartering,” said the ex-mayor. There was a feeling, in the room, of unease. I pressed on: “Precisely. The accused is harnessed by hand and foot to four hardy beasts of burden, which are then encouraged by drovers to walk or trot away in different directions.”

“That’s a powerful image,” said Rita Henderson. Abraham de Leon, who rumor had it was conducting an on-again, off-again affair with his friend Jerry’s wife, added, with an air of nonchalance, “Yes.”

Everyone nodded agreement. I elaborated: “It’s an image that speaks not only to physical but emotional fragmentation. We say, ‘I’m torn,’ to describe confusion over complex choices. Once upon a time, individuals who challenged received truths were literally torn by oxen or horses. Modern man’s psyche is figuratively torn by internal dilemmas posed in the struggle to escape unconscious prohibitions and taboos passed down from generation to generation.”

“Sexual taboos?” Barbara Nixon suggested. Did I see her wink? I looked back at Meredith, who was grinning. Bill Nixon was grinning too. Or sneering. Barbara didn’t seem to notice her husband’s sideways gaze on her; she smiled widely and asked, “Is that what you mean, Mr. Robinson?”

Before I could reply, Bill broke in, rudely, “Of course that’s what he means.”

“I didn’t ask you, honey.”

It was an embarrassing moment. Why can’t couples behave? I said, “Sure, sexual, spiritual, intellectual, whatever.”

“The point being that we’re not supposed to explore our true feelings, or discover our innermost selves.” This from Jim, who rose from his chair and gestured dramatically with a water glass held high; cold water sloshed over the undulating glass’s rim, splashing the carpet and threatening nearby diners, who ducked away. Jerry Henderson cautioned, “Easy with that water, Mr. Mayor,” as icy liquid splashed in a crystal arc over Tom Thompson’s crew-cut head.

“Hey, watch it,” Tom said.

Jim replaced the glass on the table and grunted, “Sorry.” Tom dried himself with a napkin. Rita Henderson clutched her husband’s hand—tightly. And Barbara Nixon looked up at me looking back at Meredith. We all listened to the decrepit voice of the ex-mayor, flatly proclaiming, “We’re all murderers here.”

At that moment the banquet hall’s wide metal doors swung open and Bob and Betsy Isaac entered from the kitchen, bearing silver trays laden with pie topped with generous helpings of whipped cream. “Ah, ooh,” people said. In this way, beneath sounds of eating, Jim’s solemn commentary was buried. For the moment at least. Many times after that day I pondered Kunkel’s words. Holding the thawing foot above the grave, I felt engaged in an enactment of prophesy, and I knew my midnight burial signified not only community rebirth and regeneration but also personal genesis. Entombing Jim’s foot was an essential step toward assuming the mantle of civic leadership, becoming mayor. Campaign poster slogans filled my mind:
PETE ROBINSON FOR PEACE ON EARTH. PETE ROBINSON, A STEP TOWARD PARADISE.

The foot grave was two feet deep, not traditional depth, but deep enough (probably?) to discourage animals. I lowered the foot into darkness. I left it tightly freezer-wrapped—the twist-tied plastic, washed in leaking fluids, served admirably as a makeshift shroud. And I set aside
The Egyptian Book of the Dead.
It was wrong to use it. Wasn’t I just appropriating text from one culture, blindly applying it within another, merely to suit a private agenda? Better to honor my burial scenario with a song born of the moment.

I improvised: “Proud foot, never again will you walk over grass or road or sidewalk. Once you carried a man on his daily rounds, you carried him through life. Now his work is done. Carry us, the living, carry us forward into knowledge of the heart’s truth.”

And I scooped dirt, held my hands over the grave, let the black earth trickle down onto the foot. I felt, then, a creepy intimation of surveillance. As if, from the shadows behind the trees, someone watched. How might this ceremony appear to a stranger? Certainly people bury things. Deceased pets, for instance. I packed loose soil and called out, “Hello?” But there was only stillness and a smell of ozone sweetly lofting in on a wind; and, from the west, the sound of thunder, its heavy echo rolling in from over the wetlands bordering town. Clouds eclipsed the moon and stars. I stuck a twig into the burial mound. It wasn’t much, only an obscure marker. Nevertheless I bent my head prayerfully over it and intoned these words: “Herein lies Jim Kunkel’s left foot, symbolizing leadership, fearlessness, creativity, and strength. Soon it will become dust. But the spirit of Jim shall rise up and walk into our homes and our hearts, it will guide us out of darkness.”

Rain struck the canopy of leaves. I groped for library book, trowel, candles, the purple knapsack. I eased aside thorny stems, stepped tentatively onto fallen leaves that sponged underfoot. Immediately the soles of my Keds sank deep into sucking mud. Mud that was, apparently, mined. There was no way of knowing where to walk. Quietly I whispered, “Okay, buried foot, I’ve done my part, now you do yours and get me out of here.”

Sure enough, a voice spoke. “Pete.”

I looked up to see a man with tangled hair. He was standing beside a tree. His clothes were soiled, dirt messed his face and arms. He was immense. He said, “It’s me, Pete, Ray. Ray Conover.”

“Ray?”

The man stepped forward, leaned in close. “You wouldn’t recognize me, would you, Pete?”

“Uh, no.”

He raised his arms and waved his hands, wildly, for emphasis. “Grief changes a person, Pete. Once I was happy. I was. Look at me. I’ve aged, my teeth hurt. You, your world is intact. Oh, you’re out here tonight doing unfathomable things. But tomorrow you’ll be in a warm bed beside a person you love. I don’t have that anymore. This is my home now.”

“The park? You live in the park? There’s a war going on here.”

“Yeah, well.” How sad the man sounded. How dejected. I decided to be up front with him. In a firm but cordial voice, I said, “Listen, Ray, I’d love to spend some time talking, but I also want to get out of these woods.”

“Sure, Pete. No problem.”

And so off we went, rain smacking our heads and the slushy ground underfoot. From the tops of trees, narrow vines descended; Ray and I made our way through their tangle, clutching twisted tree limbs for balance, stepping around roots. It was slippery going through those woods. Everywhere life crowded in. I placed my feet where Ray’d set his, and with each step tensed for a buried trigger’s click. It was awful. Ray said, “I watched what you were doing, Pete. The burial. The eulogy. Why, Pete?”

“I want a better world.”

“So you buried a foot.”

“Not just a foot. More. Much more.”

I tripped on a root. This was terrifying under the circumstances. A few minutes later lightning struck nearby, lighting the woods instantaneously neon—I was certain it was the end, and hit the dirt and rolled, coming to rest sprawled piteously on my stomach in a patch of weeds, my hands covering the back of my head, the way they’re supposed to, reflexively, when a bomb goes off. Ray came over, stood above me, said, “Whoopsie!” and helped me to my feet. Pine needles and leafy rot adhered to my clothes and skin; I was covered in mud. I brushed off as best I could, but it was more like smearing body paint. I asked, “So, Ray, what can you tell me about this Benson-Webster thing?”

“Not much. It’s the old story. Someone does something and someone else does something back. After that things have a life of their own. Who can say what it’s about anymore? The Bensons have the southern triangle from Lighthouse Point to the boathouse. The bandshell, goldfish pond, and Japanese pagoda belong to the Websters. This is neutral territory we’re in right now. Watch out, there’s a log ahead.”

“Thanks.” I stepped over and we moved on. Ray told me, “Other parkside families are taking sides. The Lloyds with the Websters, the Glazers with the Bensons. Coalitions are developing.”

“They’ve captured Chuck Webster.”

“That’s too bad, Chuck’s a good guy. There’s a sinkhole up here, careful. Remember that time Paul and Cindy Garrison’s daughter Mindy fell off Jack Conley’s glass-bottom reef-tour boat, and no one realized it until everybody saw Mindy through the glass, about to get run over by the propeller, and Chuck dove in and fetched her out and gave her mouth-to-mouth? I always admired that.”

Ray ducked beneath a branch. I ducked after him. He guided a path through brambles and ferns that gave onto a wall of leaves hanging like black curtains. “Here we are, my friend,” he said, stepping out of the forest and onto a narrow white beach: the peninsular tip of Turtle Pond Park. We’d gone away from, not toward, town. Waves were coming in close. Salt smells blended with the complex atmospheric odors that accompany rough weather in this part of the world, forming a cool perfume evocative of the miseries of childhood. Here in the wide open the wind was fierce, and it didn’t take long to get soaked. Ray hollered, “My world’s gone, Pete. There’s no logic left. Kunkel was crazy, he caused deaths. Miriam’s. Other people’s.”

“Ray, I know you’re in pain. I wish it hadn’t happened, hadn’t had to happen. Jim was warning us. He was sending a message.”

Ray shivered, his teeth chattered. “There is no way that I can accept that.”

I reached into the knapsack and brought out
The Egyptian Book of the Dead.
“Got a light?” I scooped a hollow in the sand, then tore pages from the book and crumpled them into a pile in the shallow campfire depression. I knelt over, guarding paper from pelting rain, and said, “Hate to do this to a book, especially a library copy.” Ray said, “Well, anyway, no one except you is ever going to want to check that out.” He crouched down and butane-lit a page; as the fire caught and kindled I added more pages; I kept ripping out text. Surf broke and rolled nearly to our shoes. We warmed our hands above incendiary hieroglyphics soaring aloft on convective heat, tumbling wetly up the beach, and Ray told me, “I want a better world too, Pete.”

“Then help me. Join my school. Become a teacher.”

“Me?”

“You have so much to offer. You can stock an aquarium. Take the kids wading in tidal pools, go snorkling over the reef. The pay’s not great but the rewards are priceless.” I had a feeling, as I said this, of conviction: the home school was more than a kitchen table fancy. By pitching the vision to potential colleagues—first Ben, now Ray—I made intention tangible; and I knew, whether the feral biologist signed on or not—I knew the school would come to pass.

Ray felt my enthusiasm. “I could teach?”

“Why not?”

“I’m a researcher.”

“You know things, Ray. Look around. The ocean, the sky, this terrible weather. It’s all happening. The world at work. Your world.”

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

I ripped more pages. Lightning struck over the water. I counted slowly to seven before hearing thunder rumble in above waves crashing onto nearby rocks littered with cast-up debris. That meant the storm was seven miles out to sea. So it was moving away. As if that mattered. Everything was drenched. The fire was a lost cause. I raised my hands with palms turned upward and cupped to catch rain, and drank a libation of sweet rainwater. Ray, too, cupped his hands and drank. He exclaimed, “In the beginning of time, this is what there was.”

“Ray, are you hungry? Break bread with me.”

That’s when I discovered my fig bars’ contaminated condition. Not by eating one myself but by watching Ray eat one. He spat fig. Talk about your difficult moments. But wasn’t it fitting?—the bereaved taking into his mouth the blood of his wife’s executioner. Ray couldn’t see the elegance of this symmetry, he was too busy going berserk from the putridity of blood and rot that had entered his mouth via a leaked-on fig bar; and he was saying words to me, attempting to anyway—something garbled I couldn’t quite make out but that was, judging from tone and inflection, harshly accusatory. He got up then and started walking away. Staggering, actually, was more like what he was doing; he staggered, retching, down the beach. What could I say? Let him go. I have to admit I was relieved to find myself alone again. But I felt sorry, too, that our evening had come to this distressing close, because, crummy weather aside—wasn’t the weather an integral part of the evening? Hadn’t the weather in some ways
defined
the evening?—rotten weather aside, our hour together on the beach, watching the world and feeling exposed to elemental forces, had been, as Ray himself had claimed, beautiful.