Grass Roots

by Stuart Woods

  “Thank you, Mr. Lee. And now we’ll hear from Governor Dean.”

  Will saw the face of a relaxed and confident Dean pop onto a monitor screen, and he took the opportunity to run a handkerchief over his face, forgetting for a moment that he was supposed to pat, not wipe. Quickly, he dabbed at his face, hoping he hadn’t done something horrible to the makeup.

  “Hello,” Mack Dean said warmly to the camera. “I’d like to begin today by welcoming Will to the race. I’ve known this boy most of his life, I guess. When he was in high school, we gave him his first tour around the Georgia House of Representatives, his daddy and I; when he was in college, he worked as an assistant reporter on a committee I chaired in the Georgia State Senate; and when he was doing his postgraduate work with my very old friend, Ben Carr, I was serving as your governor. It’s good to see Georgia’s young people taking an interest in politics, and I’m sure that one of these days, Will is going to make a fine elected official.”

  The goddamned fucking son of a bitch, Will thought, squirming under a heavy load of patronization. He mopped at his face, again forgetting the makeup.

  “Through twenty-five years of public service I have always tried to put the people first,” Mack Dean continued smoothly, “and you have always responded by electing me to public office. I hope and trust that, when you have considered the issues in this campaign, and my service to Georgia, you will see fit to elect me once again, this time to our most august deliberative body, the United States Senate. And when you do, you may be sure you will always have a friend in the Senate.”

  Will struggled hard to get hold of himself and mostly succeeded. A procession of questions came from the panel to the candidates, and Will tried hard to give detailed and specific answers, while Mack Dean generalized, reassured, and postured skillfully. For the better part of the hour, without a break, they went on, while Will struggled to gain the upper hand on at least one question. Finally, there was three-quarters of a minute showing on the clock.

  “We have time for just one question from Shirley Scott, of Channel Six News, for Mr. Lee,” the moderator said.

  “Mr. Lee,” Scott said earnestly, concern showing in her face, “as you know, there have been reports of your involvement in a ring of homosexuals on Capitol Hill, and I wonder—”

  Will did not let her finish; he wanted to rise from the chair and strangle the life from her. “I know nothing of the sort, Miss Scott,” he said, his voice trembling with anger, “and neither do you. Name your sources.”

  Scott managed to look as though she had been struck. “Why, I—”

  “There has been no such report anywhere, to my knowledge,” Will said, “and the moment that any member of the media, including you, makes such an allegation, I promise you I will sue before sundown—”

  “I’m afraid our time is up,” the moderator interrupted, alarm in her voice. “Thank you for joining us, and good day.” Music filled the studio.

  Will stood up and started toward the long table where Shirley Scott sat; then he was yanked to a halt by the microphone clipped to his lapel. He jerked it off and continued toward the Scott woman. When he was halfway to her, the stage manager shouted at him.

  “For God’s sake, we’ve still got picture!”

  Will stopped, and a split second later, the studio lights went dark. He was blind for a moment; then Tom Black was hustling him out a side door.

  16

  “Oh, Christ,” Will said, scrubbing the makeup from his face with a handkerchief as Kitty Conroy drove rapidly toward the campaign headquarters. “What have I done?”

  “Just relax,” Tom Black said. “It’s probably not as bad as you think. You got mad, that’s all.”

  “I think your response was appropriate,” Kitty said. “If I’d had a gun, I’d have killed her on the spot.”

  “But I screwed up everything! I forgot my opening remarks; I was sweating and constantly wiping my face; and the whole time Mack was just sitting there like the Cheshire Cat, spouting platitudes that probably went down great with the audience.”

  “Well, maybe you got a little specific here and there,” Tom said, “but that’s okay.”

  “You sounded like you knew what you were talking about, anyway,” Kitty chimed in.

  “Look, I appreciate your trying to cheer me up, both of you, but it was a disaster.”

  “We’ll look at the tape when we get to the office,” Tom said. “Moss Mallet will be calling us later with the results of his telephone poll, too; that’ll give us a better idea of what the effect was in the electorate.”

  Will sat staring out the window, saying nothing. Kitty and Tom exchanged a worried glance. Kitty stopped the car in front of campaign headquarters, and they all got out.

  Will dug into a pocket for his car keys. “I’m not going inside,” he said. “I’ll call you later.” He strode toward the parking lot, leaving Tom and Kitty staring after him. Will got the station wagon started and pulled out of the car park faster than he had meant to. He made himself slow down, fighting his panic. Gradually, he calmed himself, and his mind seemed to reject all thought of anything to do with the debate or the campaign. He was surprised, a few minutes later, when he passed through the entrance of Peachtree De Kalb Airport, since he had not consciously driven there. He continued to the parking lot near his airplane, parked, got out, and began walking methodically around the Cessna, performing his usual preflight inspection. Shortly, he was taxiing toward the runway.

  Once out of the airport area, he switched off the airplane’s radios and shucked off his headset. The drone of the engine filled his head, obliterating everything else. He flew southeast toward Stone Mountain, and when he had reached the huge lump of granite, he turned due south, taking care to keep his altitude at three thousand feet, in order to stay under the Terminal Control Area for the giant Hartsfield Airport. When he was past the TCA, he climbed to nine thousand feet, leaned on the engine, and turned in the Macon VOR beacon. He knew by then that he was not going to Delano, but farther south. He switched on the autopilot and let the airplane fly itself. Then he did something he had never before done at the controls of an airplane: he loosened his safety belt, cranked the seat back a couple of notches, and laid his head against the headrest. In a moment, he was asleep. The airplane droned on into the late afternoon.

  *

  “November One Two Three Tango, Macon approach control, do you read?”

  Will sat up and looked around him. The airplane was flying steadily south. He checked the instrument panel and found all gauges normal, but the radios were still off. He glanced at the distance-measuring-equipment readout: ten miles from the Macon VOR, the point where he should be calling Macon approach. But Macon approach had called him, hadn’t it? He was sure he had heard it. He switched on the radios and dialed in the frequency. “Macon approach, November One Two Three Tango.”

  “November One Two Three Tango,” a woman’s voice came back. “Macon approach.”

  “I’m entering the Macon radar area, ten miles north, course one eight zero, a Cessna 182 RG, VFR.”

  “Would you like radar advisories?” she asked.

  “Affirmative,” he replied.

  She assigned him a transponder code, and he dialed in the number.

  “Two Three Tango, radar contact,” she said. “What is your destination?”

  “Private field,” he said, “near Thomasville.”

  “Roger. Maintain your heading, resume your own navigation at the Macon VOR.”

  “Thank you, Macon.” He knew where he was going now, but he didn’t know what good it would do.

  *

  The sun was low in the sky when he found the house and set the airplane down in the pasture behind it. Jasper was out of the house, all smiles, by the time Will had shut down the engine.

  “Mr. Will, how you doing?” he asked, shaking Will’s hand.

  “I’m all right, Jasper. And you and Minnie?”

  “We’re just fine. You were awful good o
n the TV this afternoon. Me and the Senator watched you.”

  “You’re too kind, Jasper,” Will said, meaning it. “How’s the Senator?”

  “ ’Bout the same, I reckon; maybe a little bit better. You come on upstairs to see him. He’s awake.”

  Will climbed the stairs and found the Senator propped up in bed, watching CNN. He went and sat by the bed and took the old man’s hand. “I’m glad to see you, Senator,” he said.

  Jasper backed out of the room and closed the door behind him.

  The Senator’s eyes locked on Will’s face. His hand made a tiny squeezing motion.

  Will looked down at the long face, empty of expression, still childlike in repose. “I had a bad day today,” he said. “I wanted to talk to you about it.”

  17

  Harold Perkerson peered into the mirror as he shaved, wondering how he looked behind the bandages. Today was the day he was to find out, and he was excited. He had not been shaving his upper lip, because the bandages interfered. As he finished, he heard the jeep pull up outside the house, and he checked, as he always did, to be sure it was Suzy, the nurse.

  She came into the cabin with her bag and gave him a playful poke in the ribs. “This is it, huh? Let’s see what you look like.” She sat him in a chair, took some scissors from her bag, and began snipping through the gauze. “Oh, yeah,” she said. “I like the mustache, too. Suits you.”

  “Let me see,” he said, starting to rise.

  “Just a minute now, don’t get into a rush.” She doused a cotton ball in alcohol and began dabbing at his face. “Let me get all the adhesive off.” She finished. “There.”

  Perkerson stood up and walked to the bathroom mirror. He was stunned by the man who stared back at him. The ears were snug against his head—that would have changed his appearance a lot, but the nose, the nose changed everything. Somehow, it all went together. He was reminded of a teacher he had had in high school, a man who always wore tweed jackets with leather patches on the elbows. The new Harold Perkerson looked … professorial; that was the only word that described him. The mustache helped, too. He had never had hair on his face before. His mother, if she had been alive, would not have recognized him.

  Suzy walked over with a hand mirror. “Want to check the profile?”

  Perkerson held up the mirror and turned sideways. The big hook of a nose had gone; there was a little bump, though; it looked like a real nose, like a nose he had been born with. The nostrils had been made smaller, too. It worked.

  “There’s just a tiny bit of bruising,” she said. “Come sit down, and I’ll fix it.” He sat, and she took a compact from her purse and applied a dab of powder here and there. “Perfect,” she said.

  He pulled her down and kissed her. He felt elated. He pulled at her shirt and unsnapped her bra. He buried his face in her large breasts.

  “Come,” she said, “come with me.” She pulled him toward the bed, shucking off clothes.

  *

  “Are you awake?” she said later.

  “Just barely,” he said. “I never felt so good.”

  “Me neither.”

  He turned and looked at her. “What now? When do I get out of here?”

  “Today,” she said. “Now.” She rolled over, got up, went to her purse, and retrieved two envelopes.

  He watched as she crossed the room toward him. She wasn’t exactly beautiful, but she had a great body, he thought.

  She handed him the first envelope. “Here’s your new address and phone number. It’s a furnished condo in Marietta, right outside Atlanta. Lots of singles; you’ll fit right in. Down in your car, there’s a sample case with stationery in it. You’re still James Ross, a printing salesman for the company on your credit cards. It’s a tight cover.”

  “Good,” he said. “What’s in the other envelope?”

  “Let’s save that for later,” she said. “I want you one more time before you’re gone.”

  When they had made love again, she helped him get his things together and get them into the jeep, then drove him down the mountain. The Mazda was parked at the bottom, and she showed him the sample case in the trunk.

  “Well, that’s it,” she said. “I guess you’re on your way. Go out there and do good.”

  “Thanks,” he said. “I will. Now how about the other envelope?”

  She smiled and handed it to him. It was sealed.

  He tore it open and read the single typed page.

  “Good?” she asked.

  “I like it,” he said. “I like it a lot.”

  “Tell me,” she said.

  “You know better than that.”

  She blushed.

  “You’ll read about it in the papers.”

  “When?”

  “As soon as I can set it up. You’ll know it when you see it.”

  She wrote down her telephone number. “Memorize it and call me if you need me. Say you’re Hank, and I’ll know.”

  “Does the Archon know about that part?”

  “No,” she said. “That’s personal between me and you.”

  He kissed her again, got into the car, and turned toward Atlanta, memorizing her number. When he had it, he threw the paper out the window. Then, a little farther along, he stopped and read his assignment again, memorizing the name and address. When he had that, he put the car’s cigarette lighter to the paper and dropped it out the window, then drove on.

  He thought about the assignment. He liked it; he really did.

  18

  Will was awakened by sunshine streaming through the windows. Disoriented, he looked around the room. It was old-fashioned, with floral-print wallpaper, a brass bed, and wicker furniture. It took him a moment to locate himself in a guest room at Flat Rock Farm, Senator Carr’s home.

  A few minutes later, he appeared in the kitchen, drawn by the scent of frying bacon. Minnie, clad in an apron, was scrambling eggs.

  “Morning, Mr. Will,” she said. “There’s a piece ’bout you on the editorial page of the Constitution.” Will poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down to the newspaper. It was the lead editorial, and it damned Shirley Scott for her question to him during the debate of the day before and quoted Governor Mack Dean disassociating himself with her question. It called “baseless” any suggestion that Will might be anything other than a heterosexual bachelor and concluded:

  This newspaper has not yet determined which candidate it will support in the Democratic Primary, but it has concluded that Will Lee is, by background and experience, a credible candidate for the United States Senate and that false accusations from the other camp are likely to cause a backlash in Lee’s favor. Governor Mack Dean and his supporters would do well to give some thought to that notion.

  Will took a deep breath and let it out. The editorial should have made him feel better than he did.

  Jasper walked in. “Pretty good, huh?” he said.

  “Pretty good, Jasper.”

  “A Mr. Tom Black been on the phone looking for you this morning, but I told him you was asleep.”

  “I’ll call him in a few minutes,” Will said, “but right now, I want some of that bacon and some scrambled eggs.”

  Will ate in silence, wondering what Tom would have to tell him. He had already decided that he was in the race to stay, but still, he wondered what Tom’s attitude would be. He drank the last of his coffee and called campaign headquarters.

  “You okay?” Tom asked.

  “Sure.”

  “We were worried about you.”

  “I just wanted some time alone, and I wanted to see the Senator.”

  “How’s he doing?”

  “Maybe a little better, Jasper says.”

  “Good. The news I’ve got should make him feel a little better still.”

  “What’s the news?”

  “Well, we’ve got our first statewide poll from Moss Mallet, and you’re eleven points behind.”

  Will’s heart sank. This confirmed his worst fears. “That’s the good n
ews?”

  “The good news is that it was taken before the debate. There’s better news.”

  “I can use it.”

  “Moss’s hurry-up poll taken of people who saw the debate puts you three points behind; that’s within the margin of error.”

  Will couldn’t believe it. “You reckon this race is tied?”

  “Nope, and neither does Moss, because not all that many of the electorate saw the debate. But I reckon that right now you’re closer than eleven points, and the after-debate poll indicates to me that the more often you’re seen head to head with Mack, the better you’ll do.”

  “I can’t believe the comparison yesterday was a good one.”

  “It looked different on the tube than it felt in the studio. Kitty was in the control room the whole time, and she’s an old friend of the director, who seemed sympathetic. When you were mopping sweat, he was shooting the panel of questioners or Mack. He managed to catch Mack looking uncomfortable a couple of times, too.”

  “What about at the end?”

  “He cut to the panel when you stormed across the studio, so the TV audience missed that.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  “The result is, you looked pretty good. But next time we can’t trust to luck or a friendly director; we’ll have to prepare a little better.”

  “Right, but if we did this well this time, we can do a lot better next time. We’ve one more debate to go.”

  “I don’t know if we have.”

  “What do you mean? They’ve agreed to two debates.”

  “Mack’s campaign manager has already called this morning. I haven’t returned his call yet.”

  “You think they’ll renege?”

  “I think they’ve got a pollster, just like we have, and when they see the results, Mack may decide to cut his losses. He’ll notice an eight-point drop in his popularity after one debate, and he won’t want to give you another shot at him.’ ”

  “Shit.”

  “Exactly. What we’ve got to do is redouble our efforts on fundraising so that we’ll have enough to get you on TV all over this state. Kitty’s already working on more TV interviews for you. At least they’re free.”