by Nick Poff
“Thanks,” Rex said again. He looked away, and then back at Ed. “I know Gordy called me the little bro, but sometimes I kinda think of you and Rick together as the dad I always wanted. If I slip and call you ‘dad’ someday, you won’t get pissed, will you?”
Ed was a little taken aback at the idea of having a son Rex’s age, but after years of feeling as though he were a substitute father to Claire’s kids, he wasn’t upset or surprised. He nodded. “I won’t get mad, but I may ask you to fetch my walker.”
Rex laughed and Ed joined him. “Now that the Hallmark moment is over,” he teased, “let’s go look over the kitchen. I’ve got some decisions to make in there.”
They walked to the kitchen and together debated the pros and cons of the cabinetry, the ancient appliances, and the sink. “No dishwasher,” Ed sighed. “There’s no way we can sell this house without a dishwasher.”
“How come you guys don’t have a dishwasher?”
“Oh, believe me, that was one of the first things I had planned when we moved in, but Effie Maude pitched such a fit it was easier to wash them by hand when she’s not around than listen to her lectures on the inefficiency of dishwashers and the lazy people who use them.”
“I think I’m in love with Effie Maude,” Rex said with a grin.
“Yeah, I know. I love her so much sometimes I want to kill her, but that’s another story.”
Ed bent down and opened the cabinet doors under the sink. He frowned at the layer of yellowed newspapers lining the bottom. “Look at that,” he grumbled. He gathered one end of the papers and lifted. “See that?” He demanded. “I knew it. They were covering up a leak stain.”
“What are you going to do?”
Ed shrugged. “Oh, I’ll cut a whole new piece for the floor of the cabinet. It’s probably best in the long run.” He was about to wad up the papers for the trash when he noticed the date on one of them: September 16, 1960. His eyes widened in surprise.
“Rex,” he said. “Would you go out to my truck and get the buckets, Mr. Clean, and brushes I brought over? I want to give this floor a good going over. The pattern is so out it’s almost in. I want to see if it’s worth saving.”
Ed quickly spread the newspapers across the floor. They were all issues of the Porterfield Courier from the same week in September 1960. He was shuffling them into chronological order when he noticed a portion of the front page of the September 12th paper had been neatly cut away.
“Daniel?” He muttered. “Did you do this?”
He picked up the papers from the floor and quickly stashed them in the utility closet next to the bathroom. Ed was suddenly very glad Rex had driven his own car to the house, because as soon as he had Rex hard at work he was going to make a trip to the library and have a talk with Miss Edith Clayton about back issues of the Porterfield Courier.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“Of course we have back issues of the Courier,” Miss Clayton told Ed. “We don’t keep the actual papers, though. They’ve been converted to microfiche.”
“Microfiche?”
“It’s similar to the film strips you remember from school. Come with me, Ed. I’ll show you.”
Ed followed the librarian to a room adjacent to the non-fiction stacks. Soon he was seated in front of the library’s microfiche scanner eagerly scrolling through the 1960 back issues of the Porterfield Courier.
When he reached the edition for September 12 he stopped scrolling and all but held his breath as he read the headline he was looking for: SCHOOL BOARD TO DEBATE HIGH SCHOOL ENGLISH CURRICULUM.
“Huh,” he muttered, taking a closer look at the article. It seemed some PTA parents had taken issue with the assigned reading for English 9 and English 10 students. “We take great care in selecting the reading material for our students,” said English department chairman Mrs. Hilda Penfield. “While I feel the selections we’ve made are excellent in regards to establishing student interest, critical thought, and reading comprehension, it is the right of all local citizens to challenge our decisions and decision making process.”
“Atta girl, Mrs. P.,” Ed whispered.
As he continued to read his eyes widened in surprise. “It is the civic duty of all good Americans to scrutinize the teaching methods used in our schools,” said newly elected PTA chairman Gladys Jacks. “It is critical that we not allow our children to be influenced by a socialist agenda.”
Ernie’s mom, no doubt, the dirty old bitch, Ed thought. It just figures someone like her would worm her way into running the PTA. She’s the 1960 version of Harriet Drinkwater.
He was about to read the continuation of the story on page six when he suddenly remembered those apparently unread copies of Animal Farm he and Rick had uncovered. A discomfiting thought rocketed through him. What if Gladys Jacks’ crusade wasn’t so much about the curriculum but rather who was teaching it?
“Daniel, did she find out about you and Ernie?” Ed murmured.
Miss Clayton had shown him how to make copies of the information he needed. He quickly did so, returned the microfiche to her, thanked her profusely, and took off across the street to Cummings Realty.
###
“I’m sorry, Ed, Rick’s out with a client,” Patty Kercheval said in her low, almost gruff voice. “He’s stuck with one of those Kelsey-Daniel matrons, and you know what they’re like.”
She gave Ed a conspirator’s look. Patty and Ed had become acquainted long before Rick had even moved to Porterfield. Ed had once repaired a fence her husband had crashed into with a riding lawn mower, and she’d been one of his devoted handyman clients ever since.
“So no clue when he’ll be back, huh?”
“Afraid so.”
“Rats,” Ed mumbled. He thought for a moment. He smiled as an idea struck him. “Well, when you see him, tell him Daniel called.”
“Daniel?”
“He’ll know what it means.”
###
The boom box was playing a mix tape Ed had made from his new-to-me records. He and Rex were singing along with a group he’d never heard of called Flavor. “Oh, you’re a heart-teaser, crowd-pleaser, don’t you know you’re messin’ up my mind,” Ed was chagrined to discover Rex could actually carry a tune. Fortunately for his imagined status as Ed’s son, Rex tactfully made no comment on Ed’s inability to do the same.
Rick burst through the front door and took in the two of them dancing to the beat of the music as they scrubbed the living room walls. He rubbed his chin. “Well, that’s one way to make the work more interesting,” he commented.
Ed dropped his sponge. “Hey! Look at these walls. We were debating whether to leave the wallpaper or paint over it and we finally decided to do both! You’re gonna die when I tell you.”
“I don’t want to die,” Rick said patiently. “I want to know why you stopped by the office this morning.”
“In a sec, okay? I’m gonna put in a white chair rail. We’ll leave the wallpaper below and paint over it above with a leafy green color to bring out the pattern in the wallpaper below. Those Kelsey-Daniel broads will flip when they see it!”
“Speaking of Daniel…”
“And check out the kitchen! Rex and I scrubbed the linoleum and decided it’s in good shape for its age. I think we should keep it. That polka dot pattern is so retro it’s cool. We thought we’d just give the cabinets a coat of paint, and then we’d put in a new sink and dishwasher and send the fridge and the stove to the Smithsonian.”
“That’s inspired, baby, but…”
“I’m thinking white or chrome finish for the new appliances,” Ed said thoughtfully. “I’m also gonna build a rack over the stove for a microwave. I think the mix between old and new will make this the coolest kitchen in Porterfield.”
“Edward, why did you stop by the office today?”
“Yeah,” said Rex, entering the kitchen. He winked at Rick. “Why did you stop by his office?”
“None of your business.” Ed pointed to the living room. “Back
to work! You,” he gestured to Rick. “Outside.”
Once they were out of Rex’s hearing Ed pulled the copy of the article out of his back pocket, unfolded it, and gave it to Rick. “I’ll tell you how I found it later,” he said. “Just read.”
Rick studied the page and looked up at Ed. “Jumping Jesus Christ!” He exclaimed. “Animal Farm!”
“I thought that book was a poke at Stalin and Communism,” Ed said. “Why’s she blowing a fuse over that?”
“Yes, it’s about communism, but George Orwell was a socialist,” Rick told him. “I did a paper on him once and how politics influenced his work. Fucking John Birchers!”
“Yeah. Can you believe she’s president of the high school PTA? Shoot, Ernie graduated four years earlier. She doesn’t even have a kid in high school.”
“That we know of,” Rick reminded Ed. “Ernie could have siblings Daniel hasn’t mentioned. As for dear Gladys, Birchers were notorious for flooding parent/teacher groups and taking over school boards. My dad was always carrying on about their influence on public education. This doesn’t surprise me a bit.”
“Okay, but is it really about the books the kids are reading, or is it about Daniel?” Ed pointed out.
“Good question.” Rick read the rest of the article. “Know what, baby? I think we’d better fast forward to Daniel’s Book 3 tonight.”
###
Ed arrived at home late that afternoon tired and dirty but pleased. He had outlined a program of work for Rex at the Cooley Street house and he was confident Rex could proceed on his own while Ed returned to his handyman work.
He walked into the kitchen and found Effie Maude busy putting together a fruit salad. “Bill Wormcastle called,” she said without looking up. “He said it’s not important, but to give him a call when you have time.”
“Okay,” Ed said absently, his mind still on Cooley Street.
Neal came in from the backyard after a leisurely afternoon of reading in the hammock, a library copy of Less Than Zero under his arm.
“That any good?” Ed asked, swiping an apple slice from the cutting board.
“It’s okay,” Neal grimaced. “I wanted to check it out before the movie comes out. I don’t think I’m cut out for life in the fast lane.”
“Well, if it’s any consolation, I certainly never was, and it’s been my experience that most fast-laners end up in the breakdown lane anyway.”
“Tell that to those country club snots I went to school with,” Neal said.
Ed snorted. “Forget ‘em. There’s nothing worse than thinking you’re hot shit in a backwater town like Porterfield.”
“Ed!” Effie Maude barked. “Watch your language.”
“Sorry,” he mumbled, grabbing another apple slice while he thought back to the rich kids in his own class at school. He gasped as a thought struck him.
“Are you choking?” Neal said, rushing to his side.
“No, no, I’m fine.” He swallowed the last bit of apple. “No, Bill Wormcastle was on the school board.”
“Huh?”
“Nothing,” Ed said as he dashed out the back door.
“Ed Stephens,” Effie Maude shouted. “Just where do you think you’re goin’ lookin’ like you crawled out of my brother’s pig pen?”
“I gotta go see Bill,” he called over his shoulder. “Tell Rick I’ll be home for dinner.”
“Boy, is he acting weird today,” Ed heard Neal say.
“That’s nothin’ new,” Effie Maude grumbled.
Ed rushed the two blocks down Spruce Street to Bill’s house. Once there he found the retired judge and president of the Porterfield Days committee, hose in hand, watering the plants on his porch. Bill’s eyes widened as he took in Ed’s disheveled appearance. “Turn off the siren, Ed,” he said. “I told Effie Maude it wasn’t important.”
“Yeah, she told me,” Ed said, coming to a halt at the porch steps. “I need to ask you about something else.”
Bill looked from Ed to his hose. He seemed to be debating whether to turn it on Ed. He walked down the steps, brushed a cobweb from Ed’s head, and reached to turn off the hose faucet. “What’s so important?”
“You were on the school board weren’t you?”
“Sure, back before I was a judge I did a couple of terms on the school board. Is that why you raced over here?”
“Muriel’s doing a story for the Courier, and I’m helping her,” he said with his fingers crossed behind his back. “She has a deadline.”
“Oh.” Bill let the last bit of water in the hose dribble onto a rhododendron bush. “Well, okay. What do you want to know?”
“Do you remember the John Birch Society objecting to books assigned at the high school in the early sixties?”
Bill groaned. “I’d like to forget it. Those people were…were…”
“Extreme?” Ed suggested.
“Well, that’s a more polite word than what I was thinking, so we’ll go with that.”
“Was Animal Farm one of the books?”
“George Orwell,” Bill nodded. “Yes, I recall that one. I also remember them giving poor old Hilda a rash of shit over The Good Earth. Said it was sympathetic to Red China.” He rolled his eyes. “You can tell they never bothered to read them. Hell, I don’t think half of those idiots knew how to read. They just believed what they were told.
“I remember,” he said with a chuckle, “that Hilda had us reading excerpts from Upton Sinclair’s The Jungle when I was in school. I can only imagine the fit they would have pitched over that!”
“So what happened when they stormed the school board?”
“Well, aside from the one Birch fool they’d managed to get elected to the board and old Hiram Fairweather, God rest his withered soul, the board at that time was composed of more rational heads. I recall us telling that fishwife Gladys Jacks that Hilda Penfield had our full support. By that time Hilda had been at Porterfield High for almost thirty years and had actually managed to cram some knowledge into the jugheads that mostly slept through school. She knew what she was doing.”
“So no one insisted the reading lists be changed?” Ed wanted to know, thinking of those Animal Farm paperbacks.
“We didn’t, but Gladys and her cronies bitched so loud and so hard that Hilda gracefully gave in and went back to the nineteenth century literature that had been taught for decades. She told me privately she considered losing the battle less important than the well-being of her fellow English teachers and their students. Good woman, Hilda Penfield, but you know that.”
“I sure do,” Ed said. He could almost picture Mrs. Penfield in her tactful and tactical retreat from the marginally literate John Birchers.
“That was pretty much the end of it,” Bill said, leaning against the porch wall. “Oh, those fools carried on for a few more years, but the local John Birch chapter began to fall apart after Barry Goldwater was clobbered in the ’64 presidential election. He couldn’t even take conservative Stratton County. After that the ones who were left turned their attention to Lyndon B. Johnson and his civil rights initiatives.”
Ed shuddered. “Now, that I remember. Whatever happened to Gladys Jacks?”
“Well, you know, her husband Floyd owned Jacks Hardware, but Gladys wore the pants in that family. She lost more business for that store than Floyd could recoup thanks to her mean mouth. As I recall, Floyd sold out to Custer Hardware to avoid bankruptcy.”
“What happened to their kids?”
“Oh, they all moved away. Having Gladys for a mother didn’t do them any favors in Porterfield. Gladys and Floyd left town after the store was sold. I don’t recall a lot of people being too upset about that.”
“Do you know any specifics about their kids?” Ed asked, hoping for any information about Ernie.
“No, I don’t, except that they had two girls and a boy. The only reason I know that is because one of the girls was the same age as my daughter, and they were in Girl Scouts together.”
Bill looked at Ed c
uriously. “What would that have to do with whatever Muriel’s writing?”
“Oh, nothing,” Ed replied hastily. “I was just curious. What did you need to talk to me about for Porterfield Days?”
“I just wondered if you had the promotional budget. I can’t seem to find it.”
“Yes, I’m pretty sure it’s in my stuff at home. I’ll bring it over this evening.”
Bill frowned at him. “Could have called me and saved yourself a trip. Don’t worry about it anymore tonight, Ed. I think you need to put your feet up and rest. You’re looking a little frazzled these days.”
###
Friday, September 16, 1960
Mrs. Penfield (I still cannot get used to calling her Hilda) asked me to stop by her classroom after school today. I wasn’t particularly surprised when she told me she was caving into Ma Jacks and her minions in regard to our literature selections. “The support of the school board will only anger these people to a point, I believe, where our ability to educate our students will be continually hampered by their interruptions. Let’s let them think they have won this battle, as it’s more important we win the war against ignorance.”
I don’t blame her, really. A part of me is very relieved to have the hot breath of the John Birch Society removed from the back of my neck for reasons even Mrs. Penfield doesn’t know. I could not help but worry this whole mess would end with me branded as some sort of pinko. Perhaps it is best to just move on. Now my only immediate burden is the creation of three weeks’ worth of alternate lesson plans for my freshmen classes. Oh, and the disposal of forty paperback copies of Animal Farm. Mrs. Penfield suggested I take them home as a precaution against future PTA snooping in our classrooms. I was going to throw them in the garbage, but I suppose I should hang on to them. As Mrs. Penfield said, “Don’t despair, Daniel. I have a feeling you will eventually be using those books in your classroom.”
