“That was a nice Christmas present.”
“Yes,” he agreed. Turning to look at Jon, Crane asked, “And who is this young man?”
After only a brief hesitation, Marvella said, “This young man is my grandson.” Then she added, “Jonathon.”
Crane put out his hand and said, “Merry Christmas, Jonathon.”
Jon took his hand and replied, “Merry Christmas to you, sir.”
After exchanging a few more pleasantries, they parted, and she and Jon began the walk home. It was a cold, clear night, and the sky was resplendent with stars. The quiet was broken only by the soft crunch of their feet on the day-old snow lining the side of the road. Notwithstanding all the talk of war, Marvella felt an odd sense of peace.
8
“I’m sorry, sir, but Mr. LoBianco is not in the office at the moment.”
Jim Dahlgren couldn’t be sure, but it sounded like the voice of the woman who’d answered the phone the last few times he’d called. “Can you tell me when you expect him back?” he asked.
There was a pause, then the woman said, “I really don’t know.”
He gave the woman his number, for what had to be the fifth or sixth time, and hung up. He sat back in his chair, raised his fingers to his temples, and rubbed gently. What the hell is going on, he asked himself, not for the first time today, and certainly not for the first time in the past two weeks.
On December 11, a few days after the attack on Pearl Harbor and the declarations of war against Japan and Germany, the America First Committee had issued a statement announcing it was disbanding, declaring, “Our principles were right. Had they been followed, war could have been avoided. No good purpose can now be served by considering what might have been, had our objectives been attained.”
It was a potential body blow to Dahlgren’s candidacy. At a minimum, it meant an already organized constituency had just vanished into thin air. That was bad. What was worse, however, was the possibility that the funding on which Dahlgren had been counting was no longer available.
“Damn it,” he said to himself, not for the first time that day, and not for the first time in the past two weeks.
There was a knock on his door. He composed himself, and called out, “Come in.”
The door opened, and Mary entered. “I’m ready to get going,” she said. “Do you have the final list?”
Dahlgren looked at his daughter. For the past two or three months, he had noticed a change in her disposition. Mary had always been one of the most vibrant, alive persons he had ever known. She took after her mother in that respect. But the Mary standing before him now was very different. She was quiet, reserved. Behind her uncharacteristically veiled eyes, there lurked something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. She seemed, for lack of a better term, sad. He’d made a couple of attempts to talk to her about it, but she’d deflected him, and, to tell the truth, he’d been so busy organizing his campaign, he hadn’t really pursued it.
“Mary, will you please tell me what’s wrong?”
She gave him a wan look. “Nothing, other than the fact that I need to get going so I can make it back before the storm hits.”
Mary, who was out of school for the Christmas holiday, would be driving to Parkersville to pick up some checks from donors. There had been reports that a major winter storm would be rolling into the area in the late afternoon or early evening. It was projected to bring a great deal of snow and would likely close most of the roads in the area.
“There’s time. You and I both know that something’s wrong. Let’s have it.”
Mary didn’t reply right away. She looked at him, then looked away. She seemed to be debating with herself. Telling himself he needed to be patient, he waited.
Finally, she gave him a direct look, and asked, “Why are you doing this?”
He spread his palms. “Doing what?”
“Well, for starters, running for Congress.”
He sat back, a little surprised. “Why would you even have to ask? It’s an incredibly important and prestigious thing to be a United States Congressman.”
Mary thought about that. “Prestigious? Maybe. But how important is it really? Is it worth what you’re doing? Is it worth what you’ve,” she stopped, her eyes dancing around the room, before settling again on him, “become?”
Puzzled, he repeated, “What I’ve become.”
She suddenly seemed uncertain, but she nodded.
“What,” he asked, “have I become?”
“Dad, it’s like you’re a different person. I’m not sure you even see it yourself. You’ve been doing things I’d never have expected you to do. And the way you treat people,” she paused, apparently searching for the right words, “it’s as if everything has to be weighed in terms of how it’ll affect your chances of being elected. And, if it means you have to step on someone’s toes, or worse, these days you just do it.”
“Now, hold on a minute,” he said, leaning forward. “That’s not fair. Yes, I’ll admit the campaign has become very important, and, yes, I’ve been a little distracted. But I’m still the same person. I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“Really?” Mary asked, a little fire returning to her eyes. “Didn’t you threaten Patsy Langdon’s business if she refused to drop the charges against the boys who damaged the diner?”
That caught Dahlgren by surprise. “Who told you that?”
“What difference does it make? Did you or didn’t you?”
“No,” Dahlgren said, shaking his head. “No,” he repeated, “it wasn’t like that. And, in any event, what I did was for the town.”
“If you weren’t running for Congress, would you have done that,” and she allowed sarcasm to creep into her voice, “for the town?”
Before he could respond, she continued. “Let me help you there, Dad. The father I knew would never have tried to strong-arm Patsy. I don’t know what you got out of it, but I know it had something to do with the election. And, it’s disgusting.”
He was shaking his head again. “That was an isolated incident…”
“No it wasn’t. Didn’t you vote to exclude Lodge membership to a man from Ridley just because he’s Jewish?”
That caught him up short. It was true. Dahlgren had pulled strings to prevent the admission of a businessman from Ridley as the Lodge’s first Jewish member. He’d been concerned that, if word got out Dahlgren was the member of an exclusive club that included Jews, with whom he would be seen as associating closely and sharing confidences, it would devastate his candidacy. How, Dahlgren asked himself, did Mary learn about that? Membership committee deliberations were supposed to be secret. Damn, he thought, would that whole thing backfire on him? He’d have to do some checking and maybe rebuild some bridges.
Mary emitted a dry laugh. He detected a tinge of scorn. “Are you doing political calculations right now? Trying to figure out if this is going to hurt your campaign?”
Hoping his guilt didn’t show, Dahlgren replied, “No, of course not. Look, honey,” he said, trying to sound reasonable, “that’s not the kind of person I am.”
“It’s not? Didn’t you fire Jon Meyer just because he’s Jewish?”
Dahlgren now regretted bringing up the conversation, and he was desperate for a way out. With this latest comment, he saw an opening. “Is that what this is all about?” He narrowed his eyes. “You haven’t been seeing that boy, have you?”
This time there was no hiding the distain. “No, I haven’t. Just like you ordered. And,” she added, “it hasn’t been all that difficult to do, because he’s certainly ignored me.”
Despite himself, he felt a touch of anger. “And you blame me, right?”
“Why not? I’m sure he thinks we’re both monsters. And he may be right.”
Dahlgren bit back a retort. He took a deep breath and put out his hands in a placating gesture. “Look, let’s calm down. You’re angry with me. Ok. I’ve been distracted by the campaign. Maybe I haven’t been exactly myself. But this
will pass. We’ll get back to normal. You’ll see. Everything’s going to be fine.”
The veil had dropped down again over Mary’s eyes. After a long moment, she nodded and shrugged. “Do you have the list?”
Dahlgren looked at her silently. Then he picked up the sheet that contained the names and addresses of donors from whom Mary would collect checks, and he held it out to her.
Wordlessly, she took the paper, turned and walked to the door.
“Mary?” he called after her.
Her hand on the knob, she stopped and turned slightly, but she did not look at him.
“Drive carefully, please.”
She nodded, walked out, and closed the door behind her.
Dahlgren sat back, his mind a swirl of contradictory thoughts. On one level, he understood Mary’s anger. Politics, he had come to discover, could be a dirty business, and she was seeing some of the seamier parts. But, he knew, much of that was simply necessary in order to be able to be in a position to do good things. And he was prepared to do good things. He just had to get from here to there, and, in the meantime, keep his eye on the big picture. Mary would eventually understand. He’d make it up to her.
The ring of the phone caused him to start.
“Jim,” came the voice on the other end, “it’s Burt LoBianco.”
Relief flooded Dahlgren. Keeping his voice steady, he said, “Tell me what’s happening Burt.”
“Well, you know we disbanded the committee. Had to. We’d have just been throwing gasoline on the fire if we’d kept on. And, we’d have gotten everyone mad at us in the process. What we said in the announcement was about as far as we dared go in this climate.”
LoBianco hadn’t yet gotten to the important part. Dahlgren remained silent. He wanted LoBianco to bring it up.
“Anyway,” LoBianco continued, “I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know. I suspect what you care about is the impact on your campaign. Am I right?”
“You are.”
There was a long quiet on the other end. Then LoBianco said, “I’m afraid it’s not good news, Jim. We’ve shut it down completely. We’re doing no further fundraising. In fact, we’re having some trouble with contributors who want their money back.”
Dahlgren felt a pain in his stomach. More out of frustration than anything else, he said, “So what do you suggest I do now?”
“It’s your decision, of course. I’d certainly understand, we’d understand, if you chose to stop now. Here’s the thing, though. That seat is still vulnerable. I think Barker can be beaten. I’ve always thought you were the right man to do it, and everything I’ve seen and heard about the efforts you’ve been making leads me to believe I was correct in my initial assessment.”
That made Dahlgren feel better. Not a lot better, but some.
“Listen,” LoBianco continued, “I’ve got to run. I’m fielding calls from disgruntled contributors, and I’ve got a few more guys like you I have to talk to. If you do decide to move forward, stay the course. I think you’ve got a good strategy. Keep the message clear and avoid controversy, ok? Good luck.”
After they’d hung up, Dahlgren spent several minutes in quiet contemplation. Of the money he’d raised, most of it he’d already spent or committed to expenditures that couldn’t be cancelled. He could repay that money, though. It would set him back, but he could do it.
The problem was, he didn’t want to. He looked around the room that had been his office for almost twenty years now. There was nothing to it. He rarely had meetings here. It was a room above a hardware store, for heaven’s sake. He’d now had the chance to contemplate a more grand existence. He wanted the trappings. He wanted the spotlight.
After a few more minutes of thought, he came to a decision. He would figure out a way to make it work.
#
Jon had known a big storm was coming, and he had started home from Ben’s place a little after 1:00. When he’d left, the snow had been only a swirl of light flakes.
He’d barely traveled a mile, however, when the snow started falling in earnest, large, heavy flakes that clung to him and his bike and began to accumulate on the road. After he’d gone another mile, the wind had picked up. By the time he’d covered about half of the twenty miles to town, the snow on the road had become simply too heavy for him to keep riding. He had dismounted and continued on foot, half walking and half jogging, wheeling the bike alongside.
He was now still a good six to seven miles from town. About a mile back, he’d picked up the bike and started carrying it. The drag of the wheels through the snow had been too much for him to continue pushing it. The added weight on his shoulder had slowed him to a crawl.
He knew he’d have to abandon the bike soon. The thought was devastating. Even though he’d have a chance of finding it after the spring thaw, he hated the prospect of doing without for months. Moreover, he knew there was a possibility he might never see it again. He was becoming dreadfully tired, and a mild panic was beginning to overtake him. At the rate he was going, and at the rate the snow was falling, he was beginning to fear he might not even make it himself.
The snow had the effect of deadening most sounds. The only thing Jon could hear over his own labored breathing was the wind. For that reason, he didn’t even know the car was approaching until it pulled up alongside him. He caught the movement out of the corner of his eye, and the shock made him stumble and almost drop the bike. Through the fog of his exhaustion, he registered what the object was and he took a step toward it.
Suddenly, however, a warning sounded in his head. He stopped. Images flashed before him. A spray of mud and gravel. Blood dripping down a locker. Awful things. He recoiled. Instinctively, he turned away from the vehicle and began staggering up the road in the direction he’d been traveling. His breath was coming in wheezes now.
There was movement to his side. The car. Then it was in front of him, and it was no longer moving. He lurched to a stop, and stood there panting, too fatigued to do anything else. The driver’s side door opened, and a figure emerged from the car. His heart was pounding.
He peered through the snow. Whoever it was had put his hands on his hips. Jon could hear the muffled sound of the engine.
Finally, a female voice said, “Are you so pig-headed you’d rather stay out here and die than accept a ride from me?”
#
Mary squinted and peered ahead at the snow-covered road. The wipers were struggling now, snow having built up along the base of the windshield, hampering their movement and causing them to stick each time they swung downward. She was driving slowly, taking clues from the trees and other vegetation along the sides in an effort to stay in the middle of the roadway.
They had managed to get the bike in the back of the car. To fit it in, Jon had removed the front wheel with a wrench he’d retrieved with some difficulty from his knapsack. As he’d placed the tool and turned it, Mary had needed to hold his hands steady, they were shaking so badly. Once in the car, Jon had tried to speak, but the shaking had overtaken him. He was curled up and leaning against the passenger door. Mary could hear his teeth chattering.
Through the swirling snow, a structure appeared on the right hand side of the road. A moment later, there was one on the other side. They were on the outskirts of town. They crossed over the railroad tracks, and Mary turned the car onto Elm Street. As she pulled up in front of Mrs. Wilson’s house, she could see the outline of the woman standing by the front window, a shawl wrapped around her shoulders.
Mary jumped out of the car and hurried around to the passenger side. She opened the door. “Jon,” she said urgently, “you need to get inside.”
Still shaking, Jon slowly pulled himself out of the car, where he stood, swaying side to side. Mary lifted one of his arms and placed it over her shoulder. Then she reached around his back and got a grip on his torso.
With Jon leaning against her, they stumbled up the front steps. Mrs. Wilson had opened the door, and she pointed down the hallway. “Firs
t door on the left.”
Mary guided Jon into what turned out to be a small bedroom. She helped him on to the bed, where he curled up into a fetal position. She touched his forehead. He was burning up.
Mrs. Wilson came in carrying a blanket and towels. “I’ll take care of him,” she said and began unbuttoning Jon’s coat. “You get home now, Mary Dahlgren, before you catch your death of cold.”
Mary nodded. Slowly, she backed her way to the door, looking around the room. It was bare, save for a series of books and a framed picture on the desk. She couldn’t make out who was in the picture. She was about to leave when Mrs. Wilson straightened and turned. “Thank you,” she said.
#
On New Year’s Day, Jon was finally able to get out of bed under his own power.
Of the prior three days, he had limited recollection. He remembered most of what had happened to him up to the moment when he first saw the car in the snow. After that, things were hazy. He could vaguely recall his grandmother feeding him some sort of broth and a man prodding him and listening to his breathing through a stethoscope.
He knew that Mary had driven him home, because his grandmother told him so, but he had no memory of it. For some reason, however, he was able to recall with a startling clarity the image of Mary’s face hovering above him, her eyes clouded with concern. When, where and how that occurred, he had no idea. He wasn’t even sure he hadn’t dreamed it. Still, he couldn’t get the image out of his mind. It both haunted and thrilled him, and it left him with the feeling that he had to do something.
At a minimum, he knew, he needed to thank Mary. But, more than that, he was hoping it would lead to something else. What, and perhaps more importantly, why, he couldn’t say. On the first day back at school, Jon was seated at his desk in Miss Tremaine’s first-period class when Mary entered. He watched her closely. She was subtle about it, but he noticed that she glanced in his direction before taking her seat. He opted to accept that as an encouraging sign.
The opportunity he’d been waiting for came sooner than he thought it might, at the end of second-period math, when Mary stayed behind to discuss an assignment with Mr. Hanson. Jon exited the classroom but lingered in the hallway as the other boys and girls headed in opposite directions to the separate classrooms they attended for health. He crouched down across the corridor from the door to Mr. Hanson’s room and pretended to tie a shoelace. He’d been in that position for a couple of minutes when the door finally opened.
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