The Nearly Complete Works, Volume 2

by Donald Harington

  “So why did we come here?” Cast wanted to know.

  “Just to let him know that we’re not afraid of him,” Bo said. “But listen, we’ve got to stay focused. This campaign is going to be all uphill, and we can’t let our recent adventures distract us from the matter at hand.”

  Speak for yourself, Bo, he thought. He was having the devil’s own time keeping his mind clear of the two enthralling women whose company had given him so much recent pleasure. If he were not already madly in love with Jelena, he could so easily have fallen in love with Juliana (Bo took credit for being the first to notice, even before Vernon did, the great similarity of their given names). And because he had lost his head and his heart over Jelena, it was easy for him to want, even without thinking about it, to push Vernon toward Juliana. Had there ever been a situation in politics comparable to this one? Had a campaign manager ever become a pimp to get a woman for his candidate so that he could steal his candidate’s woman? That was a blunt and equivocal way of putting it, but that was the way it was going to look in Bo’s memoirs whenever he got around to writing them, and the more complicated this situation became the more determined Bo was to put the whole story on paper eventually. But that’s the distant future, Bolin Pharis! Get ahold of yourself!

  “Sir? What’s the distant future?” Cast asked.

  “What? Was I talking aloud?” Bo muttered.

  Finally Billy Joe Slade came out of his inner sanctum and greeted them. “Sorry to keep you guys waiting,” he said.

  “Like hell you are,” Bo said.

  “Doin’ all right, Bo?” Billy Joe said. “Aint seen you in ages. Welcome to L’il Rawk again.” He gestured expansively with his hand and ushered them into a room where there were four chairs facing a blackboard, one of those portable flip-over two-sided blackboards on casters. There was no table, and nothing else in the room. “Just have you a seat, and he ought to be here any minute.”

  “Who ought to be here?” Bo asked.

  “The guv’nor.”

  “Hell, Slade, you didn’t tell me that Bradfield was going to be in on this,” Bo objected.

  “You wouldn’t want to leave His Excellency out, would ya? That would be downright rude and disrespectful.”

  “But it would only have been fair, then, if Ingledew could have joined in also.”

  “I heard tell he was real busy starting a wham-bang stump speakin rally down to Pine Bluff.”

  That was true. Vernon himself had chosen to inaugurate his new tour of Arkansas towns—almost a hundred of them scheduled—by throwing a gala party-cum-speech at one of Arkansas’ less prepossessing locales: the populous but downtrodden city of Pine Bluff, where equal numbers of blacks and whites would turn out (they hoped) to feast on Ingledew Ham and to watch and hear Ingledew’s Instrumentalists, Vernon’s Vocalists, and The Cheerleaders in a three-ring extravaganza opening for an old-fashioned demonstration of oratory by the Democratic candidate. Lydia and Carleton had used good chunks of their recent vacation planning it all.

  It had been hard for Bo to decide whether or not to give the staff the brief vacation in the first place. Arch had argued against it, and had only grudgingly agreed to take a few days off, go to Turner’s Bend (where, Bo knew, Arch would love to reside permanently if Beverly would allow it) and kick the campaign out of his canoe for a while. As for himself, Bo had needed and thoroughly enjoyed every minute of the vacation…although he’d not exactly consummated his passion for Jelena.

  While the Samurai had been on brief vacation, Shoat Bradfield himself had lost no time in beginning the contest…although, characteristically, he had stuck his foot in his mouth. As soon as Vernon’s victory in the run-off was announced, the governor had gone on television to declare, “If he thinks beating a two-bit preacher-man earned him a shot at the title, let him come on. The lowdown scumbag deserves to be kicked to death by a jackass, and I’m just the one to do it!” Moments passed before Billy Joe Slade whispered something into Bradfield’s ear, and Bradfield blushed and said, “Let me rephrase that.”

  And now here was the jackass himself. Bo and Cast rose from their seats respectfully as he entered the room. Even if the man was a crook, a lowlife, and an asshole, he was still the governor of Arkansas, the state’s highest elected official, and you couldn’t help feeling some sense of awe or reverence in his presence.

  “We meet at last,” Shoat Bradfield said to Bo, pumping his hand. “I’ve heard so much about you. You’re a legend in Arkansas politics, even if you turned your back on us and went east.” Bradfield was physically imposing, in much the same way that Bo himself was, but his face, up close, was pocked and sallow, and whatever handsomeness he had once possessed had been corroded by alcohol.

  “I never turned my back on you, Governor,” Bo said. “I just had more important things to do.”

  “But now we’ve got the most important thing to do, and I’ve got another meeting at the statehouse in an hour, so we’d better get cracking. Billy Joe, light into ’em!”

  “Yessir,” Billy Joe said, “if y’all will just make yourselfs comfortable. Anybody want a drink or anything?” Billy Joe moved to the blackboard and gave it a flip so that the empty frontside turned away from the backside, which had writing all over it. “Now let’s see what we got here,” Billy Joe said.

  There were thirteen items written on the blackboard. In the margin at the beginning of each was a crude drawing, like restroom graffiti, representing some kind of bird, a cross between a chicken and a seagull, except that its wingspan was extremely long and thin. After Bo had read Item One on the blackboard, he suddenly realized what the crude drawing was supposed to represent: an albatross.

  Refuses to believe that Jesus Christ is the Son of the Living God.

  Never elected to any office anywhere at any time.

  Has slept for thirty years out of wedlock with his very own first cousin. No children, no experience with child-raising.

  Never worked. Owns a large unregulated pig farm managed by others, and earns income from ham-processing operation in which he takes no part.

  Said pig farm is in remote Ozark Mountain boondocks, out of touch with the rest of Arkansas.

  Resides there with said first cousin in outlandish homemade “house” consisting of two huge bubbles, unlike anything ever seen elsewhere.

  Never been to college. High school diploma only.

  But uses big words to make himself seem smart, although this makes everybody else feel dumb.

  No military experience whatsoever. Could have served in Vietnam, but never signed up.

  Walks and moves around like he’s got all day; laziness is infectious.

  Really just a pretty boy. Like all very good-looking men, he’s vain and obsessed with appearance.

  He’s opposed to things that give enjoyment, like television, cigarettes, and guns. He thinks schools and prisons and hospitals ought to be abolished.

  Despite being handsome, he’s scared to death of women, or anything female. Can’t even look at them, let alone talk to them.

  “Isn’t that just beautiful?” Governor Shoat Bradfield declared admiringly. “Good job, Billy Joe!”

  “Where did you get this?” Bo demanded.

  “Well, I’ll tell ya,” Billy Joe said. “You’ve been known to mention the Albert Ross bird to other people, haven’t you?”

  “Who? Oh, yes, I’m the originator of the metaphor of the albatross, but I didn’t spell out all these items.”

  “But there they are!” said Shoat Bradfield. “And boy, are we gonna have us some fun with ’em! Billy Joe, do you want to give him the big news, or do you want me to do it?”

  “I can do it, Chief,” Billy Joe said, and he and the governor exchanged huge smirks. “Hate to tell you this, Bo, cause I know it will just break your heart. But Mr. Carleton Drew aint working for you folks any more. As of day before yesterday, he is in the employ of His Excellency Shoat Bradfield.”

  Bo was infuriated, but he kept himself in check. It
was understandable that Carleton, given his fondness for television advertising and his frustration over Vernon’s refusal to sanction it, would have wanted to work for a man who would appreciate his talents. But to betray his former employer by giving the opposition all of the thirteen albatrosses was incomprehensible.

  “I thought he was a good man,” Cast remarked mournfully, “but he’s just a greedy shit heel.”

  The governor snuffled. That was the only word that would describe the man’s inability to laugh or chuckle or chortle. Billy Joe Slade began to describe in detail just what they intended to do with their information about Vernon, but Bo found that he couldn’t pay attention, that his mind was deliberately wandering, not just to escape the dishonor of Carleton’s defection but to seek out more attractive objects of contemplation: a pair of fabulous women. Even if the holiday in Stay More hadn’t afforded any sexual consummations (other than Cast’s), it had certainly started something. At least Vernon was willing to report to Bo that he and Juliana had talked into the wee hours not just one but three nights. Or perhaps four—after Bo had had to leave Stay More, Vernon had remained until it was time for George to helicopt him down to Pine Bluff. And Vernon was willing to admit to Bo that he had quickly discovered the essential difference between Jelena and Juliana: Jelena was lovely and warm and almost unbearably intelligent, but Juliana was unimaginably beautiful and earthy and vigorous.

  During his own lengthy conversations with Juliana, in the gradual process of “introducing” her to Vernon, Bo had learned much about her background and her original motive for coming to Stay More. Bo and Juliana had in common that they were recent readers of the memoirs of Jacob Ingledew, and Juliana was willing to admit that it was difficult for her to cling to the notion that Jacob had raped Kushi, as Fanshaw’s wife was called, after having read the memoirs. Or even to blame Jacob in any way for the out-migration of those last two remaining Osage. Juliana had showed Bo her .38 Smith & Wesson and had told him of the arsenal of weapons that Thomas Bending Bear kept in the trunk of the Pierce-Arrow, and had declared that she had fully intended to employ the weapons on all of the Ingledews, but after reading Jacob’s candid and apparently truthful memoirs she had told Ben they wouldn’t be killing anybody.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Pharis, are you paying attention?” The governor’s unpleasant voice brought Bo back from idyllic Stay More to the harsh reality of Little Rock.

  Bo looked at the governor, taking in his sneer, his clouded eyes, his haughty jaw, and for a moment, just a moment, he felt sorry for him.

  “You may call me Bo,” he said. Then he rose from his chair and moved to the blackboard, and gave it a flip which turned away the thirteen albatrosses and revealed a clean slate. He took up the chalk, silently thanking Harry Wolfe and his sidekick Garth Rucker. He drew a bird, a cross between a pelican and a bald eagle, and said, “This, gentlemen, is not an albatross but a foo bird. Have you ever heard the legend of the foo bird? Stop me if you’ve heard it. The bird is a native only to areas of Africa where elephants live, although the connection between the bird and elephants is not certain.

  “Anyway, a group of explorers quickly discovered the foo bird’s habit of dive-bombing them from the air with excrement, as we’ve all experienced from pigeons and other birds. Several of the explorers thus besmirched quickly washed it off, and just as quickly died a painful death. A native explained to the last remaining explorer that the only way to survive the droppings of the bird is not to wash it off. The moral of this story, gentlemen, is: if the foo shits, wear it.”

  The governor’s snuffle was feeble. Billy Joe’s laugh was perfunctory and impatient. Cast cackled.

  “All right,” Bo said, “Foo Bird Number One.” And he began to sketch thirteen numbered foo birds on the blackboard, and with each number he spoke these words:

  Sent to principal in fourth grade for calling Abraham Lincoln “a Jew niggerlover.”

  Suspended from school in fifth grade for calling principal “a cunt.”

  Expelled from school in the sixth grade for drilling peepholes through the wall into the stalls of the girls’ restroom. And for charging admission.

  Insufficient credits for high school graduation. Purchased for $100 an equivalency certificate from a school official later jailed.

  Did not actually receive diploma from Southern State University; registrar’s records show sixteen hours of incompletes and thirty hours of Fs.

  Defeated in three high school elections and four college elections.

  Never elected to any office before running for governor. Defeated in three high school elections and four college elections.

  Spent most of military service in the brig for insubordination and goldbricking.

  Made fortune in real estate, mostly from selling poor properties at twice their value.

  Of all his promises made in his first campaign for governor, not one has been kept.

  Three different physicians have urged him to join AA, but he refuses. Gave January’s state of the state address while plastered and incoherent.

  Has not been able to keep a chief of staff longer than three months, and has had six of them so far.

  His Republican predecessor, Mike Huckabee, has privately called him “inept, foolish, and disappointing.”

  Bo’s thirteen foo birds nearly covered the blackboard but he could squeeze in one more. “I see you, and I’ll raise you one,” he said to Billy Joe Slade, who was sitting open-mouthed and dumbstruck. And he put one more foo bird on the board:

  His teenage daughter is residing at a private mental hospital, Charter Vista.

  “I assume that when you stole Carleton Drew from us you also attempted to steal Harry Wolfe,” Bo said. “But you didn’t. So he’s busy, even as we speak, tracking down those five former chiefs of staff of yours to learn their reasons for quitting. And he has dispatched his lieutenant, Garth Rucker, to Charter Vista to learn by hook or by crook the reasons your daughter is incarcerated there. Their next project is to find out why your wife wears such heavy make-up. To cover her bruises perhaps?”

  Shoat Bradfield was standing, his hands on his hips, his face as red as a baboon’s buttocks. “You filthy scum,” he said. “Have you no decency at all?”

  “Have you?” Bo asked.

  The governor glowered, or tried to glower, but his lip was trembling, and suddenly he burst into tears. He lost control completely and shook with sobs and Billy Joe Slade had to embrace him and hold him for a long time, and then to lead him out of the room into another chamber.

  “Gosh, sir,” Cast said when they were alone. “I’ve never seen such a display of swordsmanship in my life. You shredded him!”

  “He has shredded himself,” Bo observed.

  They waited for a while, but remained alone. “Maybe we should just go?” Cast suggested.

  Bo held up a finger. “One minute.”

  In less than a minute, Billy Joe Slade returned. “Shame,” he said. “Shame on y’all. That was uncalled for, and it was disrespectful to the chief executive of Arkansas and you’ve hurt a good man in such a way that it just makes my blood boil!”

  “It was tit for tat, plain and simple,” Bo said. “If you don’t know that, you haven’t learned the first thing about politics.”

  “But y’all have got such an unfair advantage over us!” Billy Joe observed.

  “Thank you,” Bo said. “I intend to keep it that way.”

  “What are your plans, could I ask? Do you plan to start leaking that stuff right away? Or are you gonna save it for later in the campaign?”

  “We would prefer never having to use any of it,” Bo told him. “But it depends on what you do with what you’ve got on Ingledew. If you don’t reveal anything, we won’t. That’s tit for tat too, you know.”

  “But that’s not the way people campaign any more. You know that. Even the public expects us to tear into each other, and if we don’t, they’ll wonder if we’ve made some kind of deal.”

  “Let ’em wonder,
” Bo suggested, and then he asked, “Have we made a deal?” He offered his hand.

  Billy Joe didn’t take it. “I’ll have to clear it with the governor first. I’ll get back to you soon as I can.”

  So that was that, for the time being. Mission accomplished. Bo and Cast got back into the Jaguar and headed back to Fayetteville. Bo had considered going on down to Pine Bluff to watch Vernon’s big rally, but he had seen it before and he hated crowds and there really wasn’t much that he or Cast could do to lend a hand down there. But he intended to promote Cast into Carleton Drew’s position, and he told him so, on the return trip to Fayetteville. Cast protested that he wasn’t a media expert like Drew. “But didn’t you learn anything from him?” Bo wondered. Oh yes, lots, Cast said, but he just wouldn’t know how to do all the things that Drew could do. “Like turn traitor?” Bo said. Cast said he couldn’t understand why Carleton would have done that. Bo said, “Then you’re not as smart as I’ve been giving you credit for.”

  Once again Bo permitted his thoughts to drift away from the machinations of politics, away from the self-serving dishonesty of such as Carleton Drew, and toward the halcyon contemplation of those two goddesses in Stay More. Or three, if we counted the Woman Whom We Cannot Name, who had told Bo that the coming of the two Osages must have been ordained by Anangka, the name she gave to her personal Fate-Thing, a sort of fairy godmother. Bo knew that the Woman had spent years researching a book she’d published on the Osage, and Bo also knew that the Woman was rumored to have been a novelist before she went into seclusion. Maybe, Bo reflected, she would beat him to the pleasure of telling the story that was unfolding before them.

  At Russellville, Bo abruptly left the Interstate and headed north on State Highway 7. He told Cast that they’d done enough work for the day, maybe enough for two days, so why didn’t they just take a little detour and drop by Stay More to see if it was still there? Cast of course was thrilled beyond words, but he did have to call Bo’s attention to the fact that they were driving the Jaguar, not the Nissan 4-by-4, and the roads of Stay More were rough. Bo suggested they could just leave the Jag at the Stay More Hotel and get people to come pick them up. Didn’t Cast’s girlfriend have a car? Sure, Cast said, and then he asked, Hotel? And Bo explained the history of the Jacob Ingledew house, how after the death of the original Whom We Cannot Name, one of the Ingledew women had converted the house into a hotel, which had never done much business during the decline of the village. Bo told Cast that if he ever found the leisure to do so, he ought to read The Architecture of the Arkansas Ozarks.