This line triggered a laugh that developed into a cheer, which built into another flag-waving crescendo.
It looked great. It looked great to Cozzano, to his close friends and family seated around him on the field, and to the three dozen camera crews that had come in from all the networks, major urban markets, and several European and Asian networks.
Until about a month ago, this field had only had one rank of low-rising bleachers, on one side of the field. That was adequate for just about any crowd that the Tuscola Warriors were likely to draw. Then a big donation had come in from the Cozzano family and the bleacher space had been quadrupled, with brand-new ranks installed on both sides of the field. The lighting system had been beefed up to the point where it lit up half the town. Tuscola now boasted the best football field of any town of its size in Illinois.
For today’s festivities, a huge podium had been built straddling the fifty-yard line, raised about six feet off the ground. There was enough space for a couple of hundred folding chairs, heavy media support, and one great big red-white-and-blue lectern, massively constructed but nevertheless groaning under the weight of nearly a hundred microphones. Amazingly enough, most of those mikes had arrived preattached to the lectern, were not actually connected to anything, and bore the logos of networks and TV stations that were imaginary or defunct.
Mary Catherine was especially interested to note that Dad now rated a Secret Service detail. Half a dozen of them were clearly visible on and around the podium, which probably meant more circulating through the crowd.
Ogle had arranged the thing in concentric circles. The inner circle consisted of VIPs, friends and family in the folding chairs up on the podium. A few select camera crews and photographers had also been allowed to circulate up here, getting close-up shots. Surrounding the podium was an inner circle of especially hysterical Cozzano fans, sort of an all-American cross section, spiced with a few dozen astonishingly beautiful young women who were not wearing very much in the way of clothing but who were careful to hold up their Cozzano signs and point to their Cozzano skimmers whenever photographers and cameramen pointed lenses in their direction, which was constantly. Banks of high-powered bluish-white floodlights, similar to stadium lights but only a couple of yards off the ground, had been erected on the edges of this crowd, pointed inward so that their light grazed the heads of the Cozzano supporters. At first Mary Catherine had thought that this must be a mistake, and that the technicians would turn the lights toward the podium. But then the Cozzano supporters had held their white COZZANO FOR PRESIDENT signs up above their heads and the light had caught them brilliantly, making them glow like snowflakes in a car’s headlights.
Beyond was a broad sweep of open turf where most of the media were stationed, including a raised platform for the TV crews, arranged so that every time they aimed their cameras at the lectern they had to shoot over the unnaturally brilliant field of waving signs, flags, soaring skimmers, mylar balloons, and pumping fists.
The outermost circle, surrounding everything, was a vast sweaty crowd consisting of all the population of Tuscola and then some. Their function here was to hurl up a barrage of noise whenever Cozzano said something mildly interesting, and to provide a colorful backdrop rising up behind him. In fact, the geometry of the bleachers, the lectern, and the main media area was such that it was impossible to get a shot of Cozzano without taking in several hundred supporters in the bleachers behind him, all waving hankies and signs, just like fans seated behind the goalposts at a football game. To make sure that the level of enthusiasm never dropped, the Tuscola High School cheerleading squad had been deployed, in full uniform, in front of one set of bleachers, and the squad from Rantoul was egging on the opposite set of bleachers. Cy Ogle had promised a free set of new uniforms to whichever squad elicited the most noise from their half of the crowd. The Tuscola High School marching band was lined up behind the podium, primed to burst into music whenever the mood seemed right. All of this, combined with the reckless Cozzano supporters setting off strings of firecrackers amid the crowd; the giant vertical COZZANO banner hanging from the soaring sign of the Dixie Truckers’ Home; the circling airplanes trailing more banners; the hovering choppers; the team of three precision skydivers who had skimmed over the podium in formation just before Cozzano was introduced, trailing plumes of red-white-and-blue smoke; and the appearance of William A. Cozzano himself, landing in the home team’s end zone in a National Guard chopper and jogging—jogging—across the field, through a tunnel of supporters, slapping hands on either side the whole way—it all added up to a show the likes of which had never been seen in downstate Illinois, and which Guillermo Cozzano could not have imagined when he first came down here to toil in the coal mines.
Mary Catherine had the seat closest to the lectern. She was wearing brand new clothes purchased for her by her personal shopper at Marshall Field’s. The personal shopper and the clothes were both paid for by Cy Ogle. The personal shopper was a fifty-five-year-old Sunday school teacher and had chosen the clothing accordingly. Except, that is, for the underwear, which Mary Catherine had picked out herself, and which probably would have gotten her in big trouble if she got into a car accident.
It had already become obvious that for purposes of the campaign, Mary Catherine would serve as a kind of surrogate wife. This was an awkward notion, to say the least, and as she sat there broiling and sweating under the July sun she made up her mind that she was going to have to have a talk with Ogle about it. The fact that she was now acting as a secret agent for Mel Meyer made it a little more palatable.
James was next to her, very handsome in a new suit that had obviously been chosen by a personal shopper of his own. She hadn’t seen much of him lately, which was probably a good thing. His book project seemed to have added years to his age—in a good sense. Somehow he looked taller, leaner, more confident. He looked like a grown-up.
The remainder of the front two rows was completely occupied with family. The Cozzano family, after a dodgy first couple of generations during which a lot of people had fallen victim to war or influenza, had begun to multiply ferociously during the last twenty years. The distribution of ages up here on the podium—a few oldsters, a few more middle-agers, and half a million kids—was a visible demonstration of the exponential growth concept. In addition, her mother’s family, a prosperous clan of blue-eyed midwestern engineers, had shown up in division strength. The Cozzanos still had deep roots in the Chicago Italian community. A lot of them were here. And so were a bunch of Meyers.
It was the biggest family reunion ever. She had kissed a hundred people on her way to her seat. She must have half an inch of powder caked up on each cheek from bussing all those old ladies. Roughly one thousand people had come up to her and told her that she looked beautiful.
Mary Catherine was glad that this campaign hadn’t yet gotten so slick and controlled that kids had been banished from these big events. The podium was an absolute riot. A little toddler girl wandered around behind Cozzano with her diaper peeking out from under her dress. A Domenici boy and a Meyer boy, both wearing suits that were a size too small, jumped and ducked around the rows of chairs, sniping at each other with squirt guns, occasionally picking off an old lady by mistake. Some of the mothers with young kids had folded up a bunch of the chairs, tossed them off the platform, spread out blankets, and set up an impromptu day-care center. With their wide-brimmed hats and their spreading skirts, all in light hues of yellow and white, they looked like a field of daffodils, the toddlers running around from one to the other like fat little bees. Inspired by the bleacher crowd, the extended family up here on the podium had become rowdy. A dozen ex-Bears had showed up and were seated in a massive phalanx at the very back of the podium, where their shoulders wouldn’t block anyone else’s view; they had started passing a hip flask very early and were now beginning to lead the podium crowd in cheers.
It was a blast. Mary Catherine was having a great time. She could hardly hear a word Dad was saying. Al
l of the kids in all of those extended families looked up to her, she was like a goddess, role model, and honorary big sister to dozens. She had the special status accorded to big girls who know how to drive, are skilled at kissing owies, and aren’t afraid to throw and catch a football. Consequently she was visited by a never-ending stream of perfectly dressed-up little kids who came up to her to pay homage, admire her dress, show her their owies, give her presents, have their shoes tied, display important baseball cards, and ask for directions back to their mommies.
Consequently she had no idea what was going on when, suddenly, the entire crowd—bleachers, podium, everywhere—suddenly jumped to its feet and burst forth in wild exaltation. Ten thousand helium balloons launched themselves from the end zone and headed for Mars. Tremendous barrages of firecrackers went off all over the place, releasing skeins of acrid smoke into the air. Boat horns screeched all over the place as if all the world’s seagulls were dying at once, the podium reverberated with the thumping bass drums of the marching band, and from somewhere—a helicopter, maybe?—a thunderhead of confetti descended upon the scene, so dense that for a few moments you could hardly see your own hand. Mary Catherine instinctively looked to her father, who was just visible through the confetti as a glowing outline, limned by the television lights, blurred by the red-white-and-blue blizzard.
It seemed like he was a thousand miles away from her. Not a human being, but an electronic figment conjured up from the computers of a media laboratory. Ronald Reagan had been an actor. At times, William A. Cozzano had begun to seem like a special effect.
Then the blizzard of confetti cleared and he was just standing there, letting the waves of sound roll over him, and he turned toward her, his eye searching through the faces, the smoke, the streamers and balloons, and he found her, caught her eye, and smiled a smile that was for her and for her alone.
She smiled back. She knew that both of them were thinking about Mom.
She wasn’t sure what she was supposed to do. She didn’t even know what was going on, really. But she wanted to be with Dad, and so she walked across the podium and climbed the steps to the raised lectern. He caught her up with one arm around her waist as she reached the top step and crushed her to his side. The noise level went up by another few decibels, if that was possible, and she did what she was supposed to do: she looked not at her father, but out into the crowd, into the battery of lenses, and waved. She felt terrified and forlorn, but with Dad holding her up she knew she’d get through it. It was so good to have him back.
A huge banner had unfurled from the top of the bleachers and it said, COZZANO FOR PRESIDENT. This was not the first time that Mary Catherine had seen those words, but when she saw them up there, ten feet high, on the Tuscola High School bleachers, she knew it was for real. And she finally realized what had touched off all of this tumult: Dad had done it. He had announced. He was running for president.
The rest of the day was completely out of control. It was like being stuck in the middle of a riot in which no one got hurt. It was like the biggest, rowdiest, most drunken wedding of all time, to the tenth power; and instead of a single photographer telling everyone what to do, there was an army of photographers. So many flashes went off in Mary Catherine’s eyes that she began to see things that weren’t there, as if the electronic flash was a gateway to a hidden dimension. The rally devolved into an open-air hugging, kissing, handshaking, and sweating festival and, assisted by shuttle buses, gradually migrated across town to the Tuscola City Park, where half of the pigs in the Midwest were revolving on spits inside giant, rusted, smoking, portable barbecue pits. Green fiberglass portable toilets were lined up in ranks at one end of the park, like ceremonial guards at a coronation. A linear mile of picnic tables had been set up with red-white-and-blue tablecloths and loaded up with lemonade, iced tea, punch, water, coffee, and beer.
Mary Catherine made her way through all of this one step at a time, stopping every yard or so to greet someone new. After the first thousand or so people, she completely lost her ability to remember faces. A nice lady came up and shook her hand and chatted with her for a while; Mary Catherine had her pegged as her old Sunday School teacher until she realized that this woman was, in fact, the wife of a Supreme Court justice. She said hello to Althea Coover, DeWayne Coover’s granddaughter and an old college mate of hers. As the hours went on, she saw a great many people whom she recognized, but oddly enough they were people she had never met before. They were movie stars, professional athletes, senators, and musicians. She knew their faces as well as she knew the faces of her own aunts and uncles, and so it didn’t seem strange at all to see them wandering around Tuscola, to see the Senator from Wyoming swapping jokes with the coach of the Bulls.
At one point she even ran into Cy Ogle and had the presence of mind to tell him that she wanted to talk to him when he got a chance. He couldn’t talk to her right away because he was addressing the two squads of cheerleaders, Tuscola and Rantoul, who had all gotten a chance to take showers and get pretty. He was confessing his total inability to choose which squad had done better, and promising to buy new uniforms for both squads. Consequently he didn’t talk to Mary Catherine until about an hour later, when he finally tracked her down on the edge of the festival.
She was standing at home plate on the softball diamond. She had hung her blazer up on a nail sticking out of the wooden backstop. She had an aluminum bat in her hands and she was knocking fly balls and grounders to half a dozen preadolescent boys, arrayed throughout the infield and outfield, playing a game called five hundred. In honor of her high birth, superior muscles, and pinpoint place-hitting ability, they had named her All-Time Batter. She punched the balls out. They caught them, keeping track of their own scores, and threw them back. By hitting the balls in the right places, she was able to keep their scores pretty closely bunched together. After a while, a Japanese TV crew showed up and began to film her. She didn’t mind.
“I detect some bias here,” someone drawled, just after she hit an easy grounder to a small boy who had just entered the game.
She turned around. It was Ogle, watching her through the backstop. “How long have you been watching?” she said.
“Couple minutes. I was going to come out and catch for you. But that’d spoil the visual,” he said, nodding toward the Japanese video crew. She could not tell, from the way he said this, whether he was serious or making fun of himself.
“They’ve got their visual,” she said. “Why don’t you come out and catch before I break a nail and spoil that visual.”
“Okay, kids!” Ogle shouted, emerging from behind the backstop, “now y’all got an all-time catcher too! First one who bops me in the head gets two hundred points!”
A ball came sailing from left field, directly toward Ogle’s head. He pretended not to notice until it was nearly there, then suddenly held up his hands and grabbed it inches away from his face. “Wow!” he said, looking frightened and shaking his head in astonishment. The kids went nuts.
Ogle underhanded the ball gently to Mary Catherine. She one-handed it, then turned to survey the field. All the kids jumped up and down and punched their gloves. Little Peter Domenici was currently trailing the field, so she tossed the ball lightly up in the air and punched a pop fly to him. He didn’t even have to move in order to catch it, but he dropped it anyway.
“We need to talk about a couple of things,” she said.
“I’m all ears,” Ogle said, pulling on his ears ridiculously. They were prominent ears at the best of times. A hard pitch from Peter Domenici was sailing directly toward his right temple and at the last minute he let go of his ear and clawed the ball out of the air. A moan of disappointment went up from the fielders.
“This whole thing is so vast that I don’t know where to begin,” she said. “I have so many questions.”
“There’s no way you can understand everything,” Ogle said, tossing the ball to her. “That’s my job. Why don’t you just tell me your main concerns.”
Mary Catherine knocked a difficult grounder out to one of her Tuscola cousins. “Whose idea was it to have Dad jog from the helicopter to the podium?”
Ogle squinted into the sun, thinking that one over. “I’d be hard put to remember who came up with that one first. But your dad enjoyed doing it. And I didn’t try to discourage him.”
“Do you think it’s advisable, given his medical problems?”
“Well, he’s been jogging three miles a day.”
“Yeah, but wearing a suit, under all that stress, and in front of all those cameras—what if he had some kind of a problem? Even healthy people like Bush and Carter have had problems while jogging.”
“Exactly,” Ogle said “that’s exactly why it works.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You know and I know, and your dad knows, that it’s perfectly okay for him to run that short distance. My god, the man is like a human steam locomotive. But most people don’t know that. All they know is that Cozzano is supposed to have been sick. They have developed this image of him as a frail, faltering invalid. When they see him jog across that football field, they see vivid evidence that this is a wrong impression, and they watch very carefully, because there’s an element of danger.”
“Could you run that last part by me again?” Mary Catherine said. She and Ogle had gotten into a smooth rhythm now, knocking hit after hit out to the little kids with their baseball gloves.
“The skydivers,” he said. “We had three skydivers come in low over the podium and land on the grass. Now, why on earth did we do that?” Ogle sounded mystified.
“I don’t know. Why did you?”
“Because everyone knows that sometimes skydivers break legs. They can’t help watching. Same deal with those idiots who were setting off firecrackers.”
“They worked for you?”
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