Primary Storm

by Brendan DuBois

  I went past the gift shop and then made my way in, looking for a familiar or friendly face, and found neither. There was a young woman I didn't recognize behind the counter, dressed in black and with a hoop through her left nostril, leafing through a copy of Rolling Stone magazine that had a nightmarish cover depicting all of the candidates currently traipsing through my home state.

  I went up to her and said, "Is Stephanie off tonight?"

  She looked at me and said, "Hunh?"

  "Stephanie Sussex. The gift shop manager. Where is she?"

  "Oh," the young woman said, flipping through another page.

  "She don't work here no more."

  It was like I was back in the ocean again. "What?"

  "She don't work here no more. I guess she got fired."

  "Fired? Why?"

  She shrugged. "Heard she pissed off the boss. Which isn't hard to do, if you know what I mean."

  I said, "I do. I really do."

  Damn. I turned around. What a perfect way to end a perfectly miserable day.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Getting home was challenging, with my bum knee and the rubber-tipped metal cane slipping on the snow and ice. Usually, the sight of my home at night is welcoming. Seeing that small place of refuge and comfort by the water's edge after the past forty-eight hours I had just experienced should have cheered me up, but it didn't. It looked dark and brooding and I thought that if it wasn't for my hurting knee, I would have turned around and gone back up to the hotel, to take Agent Reynolds up on his offer for the free stay.

  But instead I made my way inside, checked again for messages --- none --- and turned up the heat. I poured myself a big glass of Bordeaux and stretched out on the couch, wincing at the pain, pulling a down comforter over myself. I called Annie three more times on her cell phone. The phone wasn't picked up, not once.

  I drank my wine and if I had had the energy, I would have built a fire, but the energy just wasn't there. To torture myself, I guess, I turned on the television and went through the various cable channels, catching the headlines of the evening, a few hours before the start of the New Hampshire primary. The campaigners were scrambling and the polls were in disarray --- not one of them agreeing with another --- and I saw just one thing that made me smile, a story that Senator Nash Pomeroy was trying hard to kill: the junior senator from Massachusetts was about to drop out of the race over the next several weeks. The spokesmen and spokeswomen for Senator Pomeroy seemed halfhearted in their denials of the story, which had been first reported in a small newspaper based in Tyler, New Hampshire, and later broadcast across the world.

  Good job, Paula, I thought, thinking that here at least was one place where I hadn't carpet -bombed to dust my relationship with someone dear to me.

  I finished off the wine and pulled the comforter up and watched television until I fell asleep.

  The phone call from a woman came late that night, just before midnight.

  I scrambled some in the darkness on the couch, reached the phone and put it on my chest and said, "Hello?"

  "Lewis?"

  A woman's voice, but one I didn't recognize. "Yeah. Who's this?"

  "Lewis, my name is Angie Hawley. I'm an assistant for Barbara Hale, Senator Jackson Hale's wife."

  I rubbed my eyes in the darkness. "Good for you. Must be a hell of a job."

  She ignored my little editorial comment and said, "I have something I need to pass along to you."

  "You do? What's that?"

  "Mrs. Hale wants to --- "

  "Wait."

  I sat up, rubbed my eyes again.

  Sir?" she asked. "Are you there?"

  "Yeah. Hold on. Are you telling me that you have a statement for me? From Barbara Hale?"

  "Well, it's not really a statement, it's more like a ---

  "Wait, just one more time. Is she there?"

  "No, it's just me."

  "So she doesn't want to talk to me one-on-one. She wants you to read a statement to me. Am I right?"

  She stopped, like she was trying to figure out how to appease me, and she said, "Partially right, sir. But-"

  I said, "Sorry, not interested," and I hung up.

  And surprisingly enough, it didn't take too long to fall back to sleep.

  The ringing phone woke me from a dream in which I was sinking into the ocean, icebergs around my feet, and a woman said, "Hello?" and I said, "Annie?"

  "Urn, no, sir, this is the campaign of Congressman Wallace calling, to see if you need a ride to the polls today, and ---"

  I hung up. Scratched my chin. Checked the time. Almost nine o'clock. Sweet God.

  I picked up the phone again, dialed the number that was burned into me.

  Nothing. Damn.

  I switched on the television and made a light breakfast of tea and toast, and ate while sitting on the couch. I had a bit of a smile in seeing that the thriving metropolises of Dixville Notch and Hart’s Location, up in the northern regions of the state, had opened and closed their polls overnight, thereby casting the very first votes in the very first primary state, said votes totaling about a dozen. I suppose it was a testament to the depths that the news media and the campaigns had sunk that these few votes were interpreted and analyzed for most of the morning by people who should have known better.

  I was washing my meager dishes when the phone rang again, and I hopped over and picked it up and sat down and said, "This better not be a solicitation of any sorts."

  The man on the other end laughed. "Hell of a way to start Primary Day."

  I sat on the couch. "Felix. What's up? Thought you'd be at Pomeroy headquarters."

  He laughed again. "After what I found out for them, I took their cash and practically went into hiding. It's going to be a rough week or two for all concerned before the plug gets pulled on the campaign. What are you up to?"

  "Sitting. Watching. Waiting."

  "You vote yet?"

  I looked out the window, at the cloudy sky. "Nope."

  "You going to?"

  I said, "Wasn't planning to."

  "Why the hell not? Sure doesn't sound like you, not at all."

  I looked at the brown brace holding my knee together. 'Well, I banged up my knee yesterday."

  "What happened?" Felix asked.

  "I'll tell you later. Right now, it hurts like hell and I don't feel like moving."

  Felix said, "Man it up, nancy-boy. I'm coming over to get you to the polls."

  "Hey," I said, but by then, I was talking to a dead phone.

  True to his word, Felix rolled in about fifteen minutes later. He came through the front door without knocking and whistled when he looked at my knee brace and the metal cane that I was using.

  "What does the other person look like?"

  "A hell of a lot better than me," I said.

  "Which was ... "

  A wide smile before he closed the door. "Teaching himself how to be left-handed for the next month or two, after growing up right-handed."

  "Care to tell me the story?"

  "Promise to keep quiet?"

  His face fell a bit, like I had insulted him, and he said, "After all these years ... "

  "Oh, for God's sake, put away that hurt puppy look and help me get out of here."

  In a flash, his ready smile returned and he said, "Point noted. Sometimes I like to practice the hurt puppy look. You wouldn't believe the places and the women it's gotten me."

  "I can imagine."

  He laughed. "No, you can't."

  I grabbed a coat and made my way to the front door. Felix was driving a black Toyota Highlander with dealer plates, and as he helped me down the steps, I said, "What's going on here? You've been raiding a local dealership?"

  "No, just partial payment for a favor done, that's all."

  We went around to the passenger's side door, and Felix opened the door and helped boost me up, and I felt slightly ashamed, like I was suddenly old and needed help to get around. Before Felix closed the door, I said, "Wha
t kind of favor?"

  He said, "There's a dealership in Porter where I get my Mercedes serviced. The service manager had a problem with his daughter. Or, more to the point, the daughter's boyfriend. The daughter was no longer interested in the boyfriend. The boyfriend had other ideas and was quite determined in his other ideas. The police did what they could, but the boyfriend ... well, he was persistent. When I found out what was going on, I had a talk with said boyfriend and showed him a better way of living. Case closed."

  "Really?"

  He gave a slight shake of his head. "Young men like that, they really need to learn how to channel all that excessive negative energy, especially when it comes to relationships. So I gave the young man an opportunity to redirect his energies away from trying to win back his old girlfriend to something more productive."

  Along the way to the polling station, I said, "You know, I've never really seen this part of you, Felix."

  "Which part is that?"

  "The civic part, interested in voting and all that. Doesn't quite ... fit."

  Felix said, "Oh, my friend, it does fit, and fit very well."

  "Really?"

  "Oh yes."

  We were on Atlantic Avenue, heading south, and then he turned north on Winnicut Road, one of the direct routes into Tyler proper. We passed through an area of homes and subdivisions, and a fair number of homes had campaign signs out in the snowbanks. The last day, I thought, the very last day. And then the signs would magically disappear overnight and New Hampshire would once again return to its usual state of peace, harmony, and understanding among all peoples.

  Yeah, right. In a month some of these signs would still be there, the paint faded, the sticks cracked, still waving in the breeze like the banners of a defeated army, stuck in the mud of some forgotten battlefield.

  Felix said, "My grandfather's fault, I guess. Mikos Tinios. Grandpa Mikey is what we called him. A short guy, spoke passable English, had a thick white handlebar mustache and loved to play tricks on his grandkids. You know what I mean. Pulling nickels out of our ears, making cards disappear, stuff like that. Lots of laughs. Seemed like the happiest guy you could ever meet. And one day ... oh, I don't know how old I was, I was maybe eleven or twelve, he was in his backyard --- about five yards to a side, but he was so damn proud of that little plot of earth --- sunning himself. I still remember what he was wearing, these old khaki shorts and beat-up sneakers, and he was under a beach umbrella, drinking ouzo or something, and I saw these old, old scars on his chest and belly. And, being the inquisitive little squirt that I was, I asked him about it."

  "And what did Grandpa Mikey say?"

  Felix's voice was quiet, almost somber, a tone I usually don't associate with him. "At first, he tried to make a joke about it, about being a circus performer and being mauled by lions and tigers, but I didn't believe him, not for a moment. I mean, the old boy used to tell me stories about gypsies and Greek gods and ghosts, so I didn't believe the circus crap."

  "So suspicious at such a young age," I said.

  "Yeah, well, blame my environment. Anyway, so I pressed him and pressed him, and finally, the story came out. Old happy Grandpa Mikey, he with the big booming laugh and love for his family, was a partisan in Greece during the 1940s. Some of the scars, he told me, came from the Nazis ... and others came from the communists, during the civil war after World War II, and then he changed the subject. Even my dad didn't say anything to me about it, it was my mom who told me the rest. Grandpa Mikey was a famous partisan fighter, famous for going behind enemy lines ---- whether they be German lines or communist lines ---- and doing the killing that had to be done. With a knife. Never a firearm. Too noisy. With a knife ... And when something approaching peace had finally come to Greece, Grandpa Mikey came to America ... and you know what? I think he was happiest here, in the States. And not once did he ever forget to vote. Not once. When I got older and he got older, and getting him to vote meant bundling him in a wheelchair and carrying an oxygen tank along, he told me that it was a blessing to be in this land, where you settled your arguments at the ballot box, and not with a knife blade or a bomb."

  Now we were at the polling station for the town, the uptown fire station for Tyler. Felix found a parking spot near the rear and said, "So I make it a point to vote, and I've not missed an election yet. All for Grandpa Mikey. In his memory."

  "Good story," I said.

  'Wasn't a story," he said back. "It's the real deal. So, go ahead and do your part, all right? I'll be waiting for you. And maybe later you'll tell me about that knee of yours."

  "Okay," I said, stepping out, wincing as my right foot hit the ground and my banged-up knee flexed some. I walked across the plowed parking lot to the front of the fire station, where the town's uptown fire engine and ladder truck had been pulled out to make room in the equipment bay for the voting stations.

  A mass of people were outside the door leading into the fire station, all of them holding signs or placards for their various candidates. There was nothing else on the ballot today save presidential candidates, and sample ballots were pasted up at the doors leading into the fire station. I spared them a quick glance as I hobbled up to the doorway.

  On one ballot, there would be one name listed, that of the current president, who was running unopposed. And on the other ballot, besides a host of minor candidates, the list would include those names that I had become so familiar with these past months. Senator Jackson Hale, Senator Nash Pomeroy, Congressman Clive Wallace, and retired general Tucker Grayson. The volunteers were laughing and talking and were trying to make eye contact with us few voters as we trickled in, and they all stood behind orange tape, strung along some sawhorses on loan from the Tyler Highway Department.

  Among the people were two Tyler police officers, making sure that the campaign workers kept their distance-New Hampshire is very strict on anyone hassling voters as they enter their polling stations-and one of them turned and said, "Hey, Lewis. What in hell happened to your leg?"

  It was Detective Sergeant Diane Woods, of course, and I went over to her and said, "A slip and a fall. Nothing too serious. How are you?"

  She was smiling. "Great. Voters are fine, the campaign folks are minding us and keeping behind the barrier, and I'm making some good detail time. Man, the money I made off these people this year ... Kara and I are going to have fun trying to spend it all."

  "Glad to hear it," I said.

  I was going to say something else but she gently grasped my upper arm. "Would love to chat with you some more, friend, but I have to at least pretend I'm working."

  "Understood."

  She said, "Anyway, it's good to see you. Lunch next week?"

  "Sure," I said, and as I went into the fire station, I think Diane called out, asking me how Annie was, but I pretended not to hear her.

  Inside was the low murmur of people working, of democracy in action. On a table to the left was a large blowup of two sample ballots, and overhead were two cardboard signs. A-N, one said, o-z, the other said, each with an arrow pointing in opposite directions. I got in the A-N line and moved forward, as the line went up to a table where three older women of a certain age sat, with large bound volumes before them. The supervisors of the checklist, making sure that only registered voters got to play at democracy today.

  When I reached the table, one lady, wearing black-rimmed eyeglasses with a gold chain hanging from the stems, said, "Name?"

  "Cole, Lewis Cole."

  She opened up the book and with a ruler in hand went down the list of names. She stopped and looked up. "Address?"

  "Mailing address is Box 919, Tyler. Physical address is Eight Atlantic Avenue, Tyler Beach."

  She nodded and said, "Mr. Cole, you're listed here as an Independent. That means you can either have a Democrat or Republican ballot. Which do you want?"

  I told her and she passed the ballot over and said, "Step over there, and one of the poll workers will assist you."

  "Thanks," I said, and as I
made my way out, she said, "By the way, I love your magazine columns."

  I almost froze in my tracks. It had been many, many months since I had heard anything remotely like that.

  "I'm glad you do," I said, and I meant every word of it.

  In the equipment bay of the fire station, voting booths had been set up, made of a metal framework and covered with stiff canvas, the material being painted red, white, and blue. An older man of a certain age, wearing a VETERANS OF FOREIGN WARS cap, waved me along to an empty booth. I went in with my ballot. Before me was a metal counter that didn't seem too sturdy, and a pencil attached to the booth with a length of string and some tape.

  I held the ballot on the counter, examined it, and in the space of five seconds made my mark.

  I opened up the curtain and went down to the end of the equipment bay, where a large wooden box, almost the size of a steamer truck, had been placed on yet another table. The hinged box was locked and four or five sets of eyes watched me as I slipped my ballot inside an opening at the top.

  There. I had voted. And in the simplicity that is Tyler, New Hampshire, the ballots would be hand-counted in front of election officials and representatives from all the campaigns, and the number of ballots would be matched against the registrar's tally of how many voters had come in. A simple arrangement, and one that didn't lead to conspiracy theories about manipulated electronic voting machines, or, God help us, hanging, pregnant, or swinging chads.

  It was a method that had been used in Tyler for two hundred years --- that same old wooden box ---- and I hope it would still be in use two hundred years hence. I went back to the registrar's desk and ensured that my voter affiliation went back to Independent.

  And then I took a last glance and listened to the soft murmurs of the people coming in and out of the fire station, the voters here in this small town, one of scores of small towns in my quirky home state, and it felt all right.