“You were originally from here?”
“Yep,” said Ben. “You’re sitting on land that’s been in the Wheeler family for over a hundred years. What you see is just a small part of it. The place is big enough that there are three families farming on it. Tenants. The rent they pay keeps me in this luxury you see,” He waved his hands around the kitchen. “That, and eggs.
“So, anyway,” he said, picking up the thread of the story, “I brought my new bride home. She was pregnant by then, with Ben. It was hard for her living out here. This place has never been the center of anywhere, and it was a shocking change from the garden parties and social circles of Biloxi. Eighteen months after Ben was born, Tommie came along. And that was it for her. She just up and told me one day. She was through being a mother, and she was through with living in Indiana. She’d done her duty, given me two fine sons, and she was moving on.”
Jon looked at him incredulously. “She left?”
Ben nodded.
“How could she leave her boys?”
Ben spread his hands, palms up. “Not everybody is cut out to be a parent.”
Jon thought about that. “Where is she now?”
“I don’t know.” Then he smiled. “This time I really mean it. Last I heard, she was in New York. She couldn’t go back to Mississippi. The scandal would be too great. She managed to wrangle a divorce. I’m not sure how she paid for it. I signed the papers the day they arrived. I’m guessing she’s probably still in New York. But I don’t really know. I haven’t heard from her in,” he thought for a moment, “eighteen, nineteen years.”
“That’s kind of sad.”
Ben shrugged. “Water under the bridge.” He gave Jon a level look. “So, now that you know my life story, what’s yours?”
Jon blinked, and, to Ben, he seem to draw into himself.
“Not much to tell,” Jon said, somewhat vaguely. “I live in Jackson with my grandmother.”
Ben nodded slowly. It was clear to him that Jon wasn’t anxious to give details about himself. He wouldn’t push it. Hopefully, they would have time.
“You know,” Ben mused, “I’m thinking it would be a damn shame if you didn’t take lessons and really learn how to fly. And it just so happens I’ve got a little time on my hands. What do you say?”
Jon’s eyes shone. “Oh, yes. Yes, sir.”
7
“You make a compelling case, Jim,” said Bob Chapman, wiping the corner of his mouth with a napkin. The older man sat back to allow his plate to be taken away. Then he leaned forward again. “And I’m ready to get behind someone I think can take the damn seat away from the Democrats. But it’s all about the money. Do you have any idea how expensive it would be to mount this kind of challenge? We’re not just talking about an incumbent. We’re talking about a guy who’s spent practically half his life in Congress. Hell, he raises money going to the toilet.”
Jim Dahlgren nodded soberly. Inside, however, he was excited. He had carefully led Chapman to this point through the entire dinner. Just a little bit further.
“So,” Dahlgren said, thoughtfully, “you think if I could match Barker in fundraising, you’d be in a position to put your support behind me?”
“In a heartbeat.”
Bingo.
They were dining at the Lodge. Unfortunately, it was too cold to sit out on the veranda, so they were in the main room, a comfortable, wood-paneled space that nevertheless provided an expansive view of the river through a series of large windows, or at least it had until the sun had set. Chapman had accepted Dahlgren’s invitation and had made the almost hour and a half drive from Ridley.
A private club, the Lodge was situated on the site of the former Olmstead estate. The Olmsteads had been the first known settlers in the region, and they had built their home on a spot where the Winamac River made a wide lazy turn around a spit of land that jutted out and interrupted its largely southward course. Dahlgren had been part of the original founding group that had acquired the site after the last of the Olmsteads passed away. It had been one of his best investments. The value of his membership had quadrupled in nine years. People from as far away as Terre Haute wanted to join, which, to some folks, seemed extraordinary, given the fact that the only thing the club offered was an opportunity to dine in a spectacular setting. There were no other facilities to speak of, though it was possible to reserve one of three suites of rooms for overnight stays. For the substantial initial investment and the significant annual dues, it seemed to many not to be worth it.
However, the real attraction of the Lodge, the one that those who couldn’t see themselves making the investment also couldn’t appreciate, was its exclusivity. Members of the club represented the elite from the three county area. They were people who could afford the indulgence for a chance to rub shoulders with one another.
For Dahlgren, the Lodge now offered him a base from which he could launch his campaign for Congress. For the past few weeks, he’d been carefully selecting and inviting influential people to spend an evening dining on fine food while being skillfully courted for their support in the upcoming primary election. Bob Chapman was one of those people. He was a city councilman in Ridley, a former mayor, and a prominent voice in county politics. His support would provide a big boost to Dahlgren’s efforts to get himself elected.
And he had just said he would give that support if Dahlgren could show him he had the money. Dahlgren had one last big gun to fire.
They left the table and, befitting their fine meal, strolled casually toward the entrance. Quietly, Dahlgren said, “Bob, there’s something I’d like to tell you, but I need your assurance you’ll keep it confidential for a short time, just a few weeks.”
Chapman looked intrigued. “You have my word.”
“I’m not jumping into this race completely on my own. I have the full support—financial support—of the America First Committee. General Wood himself has asked that I run. The AFC will foot the lion’s share of the cost. Mine is one of a handful of candidacies that the AFC has decided to back in an effort to shake things up in Washington in a more direct way.”
Chapman thought about that, then nodded. “You know, I’ve been wondering when the AFC would start getting more political. It just makes so much sense.” He stopped and gave Dahlgren an appraising look. “You’re very fortunate, Jim.”
“I am,” Dahlgren agreed. “Particularly,” he added, with a smile, “if I can count on your support.”
Chapman put out his hand. “You’ve got it.”
Dahlgren took his hand with both of his and shook it. “Thank you, Bob.”
As they entered the grand foyer, an open space with a large staircase that led up to the rooms on the second floor, Dahlgren noticed a trio of men standing near the foot of the stairs. They were in conversation, but they stopped abruptly when they spotted Dahlgren. He had the immediate sense they’d been waiting for him.
After seeing Chapman off, Dahlgren walked over to the three men. Mort Fletcher, the president of the Farmers Bank, and Everett Crane, a prominent Jackson businessman, were close acquaintances of Dahlgren. It was the third who was the most intriguing.
Charlie Harper was one of the wealthiest men in the county and an influential figure in local politics. Dahlgren and Harper had never been close.
His voice sounding a little strained, Fletcher said, “Jim, something has come up, and we’d like your assistance. Can we step in here for a moment?” He indicated the adjoining parlor.
Dahlgren nodded, and he followed the three into the small room. They were alone.
The three of them looked at one another, and Dahlgren waited. Finally, Harper spoke. “Last night, there was an incident at the diner involving several of the boys from the high school basketball team. They apparently got their hands on some alcohol.” He glanced quickly at Fletcher, who looked away. “Things got a little out of control. Some of the tables and chairs were damaged, and they didn’t pay their bill. Patsy Langdon is fit to be tied.
She swore out a warrant for the arrest of several of the players.”
Surprised, Dahlgren asked, “Were they arrested?”
“Not yet,” Harper replied, again looking at Fletcher. It occurred to Dahlgren that Fletcher’s son, Jeff, must have been one of the boys involved.
“Bill Jansen’s sitting on the warrant right now,” Crane said. “As a favor,” he added.
Jansen was the Winamac County sheriff. Dahlgren knew him well.
Fletcher had found his voice again. “Look, Jim, he won’t hold off for long. The only way the boys aren’t going to be arrested is if Patsy can be convinced to withdraw the charge. I tried to talk to her, and she wouldn’t give me the time of day.”
“Jeff is one of the boys?” Dahlgren asked, knowing the answer.
Fletcher nodded ruefully. “Yes,” he said, unable to hide the embarrassment. “Obviously, I don’t want to see my son go to jail. But there’s more to it than that.”
“This will absolutely destroy the basketball team,” Crane said. “It’ll ruin what should be an amazing season, and it’ll devastate the town.”
Dahlgren looked at each of them. He did not reply immediately. The wheels were turning in his head. Finally, he said, “What do you need me to do?”
A look of hope passed across Fletcher’s face. “Talk to Patsy,” Fletcher said. “Convince her not to push this. Look.” He pulled an envelope from his pocket. “This will cover the damages and then some. I know she’ll listen to you.”
Dahlgren accepted the envelope and looked inside. There were several bills in a neat stack. He looked back at the three men. Again, however, he did not say anything. He considered each of them in turn, Harper being the last.
As if reading Dahlgren’s mind, Harper spoke. “Jim, each of us would consider this a big favor. We’d owe you one in return.”
It was what Dahlgren was waiting to hear. He nodded. “You can count on me.”
#
Jim Dahlgren was waiting at the entrance to the diner on Monday morning when Patsy Langdon opened for business.
“Mr. Mayor,” she said with surprise. “You’re up awful early.”
Patsy was a tough cookie. She and her husband, Al, had purchased the diner in 1916. Shortly thereafter, Al went off to France with the American Expeditionary Force. When he returned eighteen months later, he was missing an arm, most of a leg, and his eyesight. Patsy had done her best to care for him, but he never really regained any semblance of a life, or, for that matter, any real desire to live. Six months after he got back, he managed to locate the service revolver the army had allowed him to keep when he was discharged. He loaded it with a single bullet, crawled into the bathtub and put the bullet through his brain.
Patsy had forged on. With the help of her younger sister, she had operated the diner now for twenty-five years. It was a hard life. She was up before dawn to open the doors, and she generally stayed until they closed at nine o’clock. She was a no-nonsense type of person. She would extend some credit, but not a lot. She ran a clean kitchen. The food, though basic, was generally good and always served hot.
As Dahlgren entered the diner, he glanced to the rear sitting area and could see tables and chairs stacked in the corner. Patsy saw him looking that way. “Sorry for the mess. We had a little problem Saturday night. You might have heard.”
Dahlgren nodded. “Actually Patsy, that’s what I’d like to talk to you about.” He took a seat at the counter.
She looked at him for a long moment, then poured two cups of coffee and slid one in front of Dahlgren.
“If I’d thought about it, I would have realized they’d send you.”
Dahlgren didn’t answer right away. He took a sip of the coffee. Then he gave Patsy a frank look and nodded.
“Well,” Patsy said, in a matter-of-fact tone, “it’s not going to do any good. I respect you, Jim. But those boys deserve to be punished.”
“I’m not going to argue with you, there,” Dahlgren said immediately, his tone reasonable. “What they did was wrong, and they deserve to be punished.”
Patsy looked surprised, and, for a moment, pleased. Then she narrowed her eyes, gave Dahlgren a suspicious look, and said, “But?”
“But, does the whole town deserve to be punished?”
She was silent for a long time, considering him. Finally, she said, “So, that’s where you’re going with this. You want to make me out to be the villain. My establishment gets wrecked, I get cheated, and, yet, I’m the bad guy because I complain. Is that what you think?”
Dahlgren chose his words carefully. “No. That’s not what I think. No rational person will either. But here’s the thing. People don’t always think the way they should. They get emotional. They let their prejudices take over. They do the wrong things, sometimes terrible things. I don’t want that to happen.”
Patsy’s eyes flashed. “What kind of ‘things’ are you talking about?”
Dahlgren had not wanted to go there. But he’d anticipated that he might have to. “I don’t know for sure. But you know how excited everyone has been since last year. People absolutely believe the basketball team is going to the state finals. It’s been the collective dream of this town for months. If that dream gets crushed, they’ll want a scapegoat.”
“Then they can blame those boys,” Patsy said, angrily, and she pointed toward the back of the diner, “and what they did.”
Dahlgren winced, and nodded. He reached into his coat pocket and took out the envelope Mort Fletcher had given him the night before. He set it on the counter.
“In here,” he said, tapping the envelope, “is more than enough to cover the repairs, the bill they didn’t pay, and your trouble. It’s a very generous sum.”
She looked at him hard. “What kind of ‘things’?” she repeated.
Dahlgren looked away, then shrugged and said, “I don’t know. Maybe they stop eating here. Maybe they try to find other ways to hurt your business.”
“Like what?”
Still not meeting her eyes, he said, “Who knows. I’ve seen strange ordinances proposed at the city council. Limits on hours of operation, building upgrade requirements, things like that.”
She laughed, but there was no humor in it. “That would be illegal. We both know that. And, anyway, you could stop it.”
He looked at her again. “Maybe I could, maybe I couldn’t.” He took a deep breath. He was committed. Meeting her eyes, he said, “Then again, maybe I would, maybe I wouldn’t.”
He braced himself for her response. But, instead of anger, what he saw on her face was sadness. And something else. Pity?
She pursed her lips, eyed the envelope lying on the counter, then slowly looked at him. She was silent for a long time. Finally, she said, “All right. If that’s the way it has to be. I’ll take the money. And I’ll call Bill Jansen.”
Dahlgren nodded. Awkwardly, he reached in his pocket, pulled out some change and put the coins on the counter. “Thank you, Patsy,” he said.
He rose and turned to go, but she called after him. “If they get away with this, what kind of message does it send? That they can get away with anything? What do you think they’ll do next?”
He had no answer for that.
#
At lunch on Tuesday, Jon was sitting at one of the benches in the outdoor seating area. He was alone, which was not unusual. When he was in a charitable mood, Jon actually found it almost funny the way he could clear a table in the cafeteria just by sitting down.
It was a little chilly today to be outside, but Jon figured, if he was going to take up a whole table, it might as well be one of these. And, truth be told, he preferred not to advertise his isolation in the public manner that sitting alone in the main dining area entailed.
The door leading from the cafeteria opened, and he glanced up to see Jeff Fletcher and one of the other boys from the basketball team, Caleb Pratt, step outside. They were speaking in hushed tones. Caleb spotted Jon and nudged Jeff, who glanced in Jon’s direction, m
ade a face, then turned back, shaking his head. Jon wondered what they were up to, then realized a moment later when he heard the telltale scratch of a match and almost immediately smelled the tobacco.
Jon turned his attention back to his sandwich and ignored the two boys as they smoked their cigarette in violation of school rules. It was none of his business what they did.
“I wouldn’t worry about him. He’s a pansy.”
Jon glanced up. It was Jeff who had spoken. He and Caleb had taken a few steps toward Jon’s table. Jeff had the cigarette between two fingers. He casually held it up to his lips, took a drag, then blew the smoke in Jon’s direction. “Isn’t that right, Jew boy. Aren’t you a pansy?”
Jon looked at Jeff, but said nothing. He knew the toughness was, in large part, the result of Caleb’s presence. He’d observed Jeff over the past couple of months. For all his bravado, Jeff was a coward. Still, the boy was a good two to three inches taller than Jon, and he had at least twenty-five pounds on him. Jon had no desire to provoke a fight. He took a bite of his sandwich and chewed slowly.
Jeff’s mouth curled into a sneer. “Yep. Like I said. Pansy.” He looked back at Caleb, who shrugged.
The school bell rang, signaling the end of the lunch period and indicating the next classes would start in five minutes. Watching Jeff carefully, Jon rose.
Jeff whipped his head back around. “Where do you think you’re going?”
Keeping his voice level, Jon replied, “Same place you are. Science.”
Caleb tapped Jeff on the shoulder, turned and started toward the door. Uncertainty played across Jeff’s face. He hesitated, then turned, and started walking toward the door as well. Cautiously, Jon followed.
Just before he reached the door, Jeff wheeled and stepped toward Jon. He was now close enough to reach Jon. Jon tensed, watching Jeff’s eyes.
They stood, facing one another.
Jeff’s eyes narrowed. “What?” he said, loudly. “What did you call my mother?”
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