The School on Heart's Content Road

by Carolyn Chute

  Gordon was feeling the fender of the car.

  Rex stood between Joel Barrington and Eddie Martin as they all talked quietly. Rex was toned-down militia: dark T-shirt, work pants, army cap. There was something about that relentless light. Though his big sprawling mustache was still dark, I saw that these past months he was getting craggy.

  Aurel dropped down in front of the car with a flashlight, eager to show Gordon some “bad news.”

  And Gordon got down on all fours too, so I couldn’t see him as Evan Martin shuffled left or right and someone else moved into the open space.

  Then Aurel was up again, barking to the little wide-eyed mob, “We fix our trouble as we go! She going to roll in about twenty minutes. Diss fuckup iss not going to spoil t’iss major plan off e’stacy and delight off dese people! I mean it! And afterrrr”—he really rolled those beautiful r’s—“she hass been outside charging up all day, she iss frisky inside, her!” Without even taking a breath, he turned to one of the Vandermast guys, one of Bree’s brothers, who had been around all day for this. “What do you t’ink off t’iss nice purple car now, you?”

  And I remember this, those last finishing touches: Mickey hot white-gold against the mad purple glow of the car, like a shy apparition. And blond ruddy Joel Barrington leaning close to Butch Martin to confer, and Beezer with her stocky shape, plump ass in jeans, winking at me as she passed the pliers to Mickey, and soft-looking twelve-year-old Kirky Martin, electrician and electronics man extraordinaire, hands in pockets now, but hovering. And I saw Mickey and Aurel bend over the bank of batteries, and I knew then, as I know now, how it is when chemistries of different bodies combine through rhythm and heat, that when this happens, those five or six human systems will operate in sync, like the miracle of wolves. And tell me, isn’t this what we want for our children? Is it so wrong? So outmoded? I looked over at Gordon at that moment and, seeing the back of his head, his rather cowlicky “new” short hair, I knew I loved him more than at any other time. Yes, he had been our savior.

  Penny.

  And then I caught sight of the stranger, who was yakking with some people from town.

  Claire.

  Aurel put a hand on Mickey’s bare shoulder and whispered. Then Mickey was grabbing his camo shirt from a pile of shirts on one bench and then easing himself into the windowless cockpit of Our Purple Hope.

  Somebody from town was feeling the photovoltaic collectors on the car roof. And Rachel Soucier, who had worked endlessly with her father devising all the elevation charts, stood near with her clipboard. And then I saw big ol’ fifteen-year-old Cory leading Jane through the ring of men. She was giggly and antsy and dressed cute, as always. Little plaid smock and black velvet ribbon in her upswept curls. And Aurel was assuring her, “Oh, yess, mademoiselle, t’iss iss a sports car, a Camaro . . . sort of.”

  And Josée and I smiled at each other; I, for one, feeling that cold-hot up-down sensation I always had, seeing those dark solemn eyes, proud chin, and small shoulders.

  And everyone stood around some more while Jane settled into the passenger seat, with Mickey Gammon at the wheel. Buttoning up his militia shirt, he spoke to her, something like two words, some ordinary thing, and Jane (no secret agent glasses tonight) patted her hair.

  And Butch Martin threw up a fist and hollered, “To the Revolution!”

  And Rex glanced over at Butch with his steeliest look.

  Rachel Soucier waved the clipboard, passed it to Mickey, and now Whitney was hollering from nearby, “To the Revolution!”

  And the motor kicked on like the innocuous hum of a Frigidaire.

  When the car lurched forward, people were screaming, “Hey, Mickey, Mr. Astronaut!” and “Hi, Jane!” and some were toasting the car with beers, and there were whistles, and off into the night the little car whooshed.

  Penny.

  Some youngsters ran after the car, out there in the night all this laughter and yahoo! and one kazoo buzzing and Michelle St. Onge and Samantha Butler were passing out True Maine Militia flyers. And Aurel was explaining in a series of shouts, “Mister Gammon will take diss purple photovoltaic sweetie up t’at tar road to Lancasters’ dere’bouts and help Jane mark t’el’vations wit red on bote charts for now. Juss coming right back. No real travel. No sun, juss stars. And meanwhile, iff t’Lemonade Committee back in force, t’worl’will sing!”

  Meanwhile (present time).

  The little car hums along in the night.

  Meanwhile.

  A stranger steps up to Gordon, who is standing with Rex and a Vander-mast guy. Stranger wears a summery dress shirt, white with narrow pinstripes, jeans, military boots, and introduces himself as “Gary Larch, a patriot.”

  Rex looks him up and down.

  Gordon puts out a hand. “Yessir,” says Gordon. “You’ve come to the right place.”

  Rex stares at the guy, not so quick to put out his hand, but he eventually does.

  Meanwhile, in the Settlement lot.

  Rex’s daughter, Glory York, steps from her car. She walks oddly. She walks toward the lights and noise. She is accompanied by a friend. Both girls wear short low-cut dresses. Glory’s shoes are wooden-heeled clogs. But it is not the clogs or the old ankle injury that gives her that little stumbly sashay.

  All that dense flashing dark auburn hair swishes around her. Her earrings are long and silvery. In her hand, a stalky late-season clover. She sees her father, who is quietly talking with a stranger, hand on the fender of a Settlement flatbed truck. She avoids her father. No Daddy; no, not Daddy; Daddy just thinks of one thing, one little little little thing and nothing else: militia. Old pooperdooper.

  What she is kind of swimmingly aiming for is that loud voice, not hard to locate really: Gordon, preaching away to a bunch of visitors, in one of the blindingly bright bay doors, commanding attention as always.

  “Electric cars,” Glory tells her friend, “are the big thing here . . . besides everything else.”

  There are a lot of little kids. Fussy. Crying. Fighting. Mothers and fathers and other kids are dragging them off to their beds, long overdue.

  And there are young guys, some Glory knows from her school days, some older. Some Settlement guys: Butchie Martin. Mmmmm, Butchie Martin. Fit and slim-hipped, cocky in the walk, teasy in the eyes, quiet, dark-haired, one of those really capable ones here. French on both sides. Mmmmmmmmmmm. He is, yes, giving her the eye now, she thinks. He is looking at her, definitely.

  Behind her, someone says, “Glory’s smashed.”

  She laughs, whirls around. “Yessss! Jealous?”

  And one guy says, “Glory, let me take your car a minute. I’ll be right back. I’m going to catch up with those guys and give them a hard time.” (Meaning Mickey and Jane).

  Glory waves a hand dismissively. “My car is resting.”

  Gordon doesn’t see or hear her coming, so involved in his speechifying about the world being on the brink of total economic collapse, starvation, thirst, chaos, his Atlas-like body almost filling up the open bay. She is just suddenly there, stuffing the long stalky clover into a pocket of his work shirt and hugging his arm. He doesn’t notice her breath because of his own beer breath, but he knows she is really drunk, which he is not.

  She says, “Shara has seen you in the newspaper and she didn’t believe you are like a father to me. That I was practically raised here at the Settlement. Tell her it’s true, Ghee-yome.”

  The group of visitors standing near are looking sheepishly at Glory. Gordon is looking at Glory, her face only, forcing his eyes to stay up there away from what he knows is the lowest neckline he’s ever seen on her . . . something like a little gold ladybug on a gold chain fine as a trickle of light squirming between her almost entirely exposed breasts.

  Glory’s friend is nervously laughing.

  Glory places her right foot between Gordon’s work boots and fools with the button of his shirt. “Shara, you believe me now?”

  The friend is wide-eyed, obviously impressed.
r />   “Shara, take a picture of me with the Prophet.”

  Giggle. “I don’t have a camera!” Giggle. Giggle.

  Glory gasps. “Shucks! No picture. Nobody will believe it”—she gasps—“without proof!”

  Gordon says quietly, “Your father needs to take you home.” He looks around toward where he last saw Rex.

  Taking him by his short beard, she guides his head to face her. “Please, Ghee-yome. Let my friend see your pretty face.” She smiles at her friend. “I have never in my life seen such a beautiful man, have you?”

  Gordon pries her hands away. He looks at the friend, her eyes with too much makeup and her mouth—something going around in her mouth there. Chewing gum. She does not look drunk. Gordon puts Glory’s hands in hers. “Don’t let her drive,” he says gravely.

  But somehow Glory’s hands are back, stroking him in the area of his ribs, both sides. She whispers sadly, “Ghee-yome, we love you on the mouth and everything be wifey, everybody be wifey. Ghee-yome is a mighty sheik.” And she turns to her friend, gives her friend a little shove toward him, saying happily, “Give Shara a kiss. So she will believe she’s been here.” But of course, already, Shara is blushingly shrinking away.

  And Gordon backs away too, goes to find Rex. But Rex is with the stranger, the patriot, who says he once belonged to the Militia of Montana and knows Randy Trochmann and knew the Freemen well. And he has just given Rex his phone number and explains where he lives, which is right here in town, a rented trailer backside of the Wilson farm place. He explains he has some weapons he’d like to show Rex. Sometime. Whenever there’s time. He says he’s been working a lot of hours in Lewiston. “Mallory Foods.”

  Gordon tells Rex, “Your girl is here.”

  Rex turns and looks toward the lighted bay. But it is plain to see that he doesn’t really know what to do about Glory. He looks at Gordon and gives him a thin miserable grimace.

  Mickey explains.

  So I’m backing the car into the bay. The little black girl that rode along says, “Thank you for a very nice time.” And now everybody’s laughing over how the car didn’t conk out up the road. Somebody goes by and pushes a jar of lemonade at me, big, like a pail of it. There’s also beer everywhere. Hard cider. And sissy cider. Apple pies and pans of apple stuff and sugared-up tomato stuff on the workbenches. Dried zucchini things you’d think were potato chips.

  A bunch of us are talking. One guy’s suggesting we experiment with what’s called a microenergy flywheel. It runs on just a pilot-sized flame of cooking gas. The flywheel has to have no friction. And Samantha comes over, and she has her Indian-style rag around her practically white hair. And a pair of little-little shorts. And a red T-shirt with sleeves ripped off. She looks sticky. Arms, face, neck, and bellybutton. Sweet and sticky. She is not one of them carrying pies. Cory’s eyes take all this in. Butch Martin’s eyes don’t seem to get enough.

  I can’t believe it, her face getting close to my right eye, right ear. It jumps me. It sucks to act so jumpy in this situation. Everybody’s laughing loud, almost drowning out what she’s whispering in cold lemon breath, her mouth on my ear, man, I mean like on my ear. “Thursday. Seven-thirty A.M. pronto. Out front here by the bays. The True Maine Militia hits the statehouse. Be there.” She flicks my hair, the tail.

  Laugh. Laugh. Laugh. All of them have forgot flywheels and pilots. It’s really not that funny that I have a stupid look on my face.

  Samantha is already gone into the elbows and stomachs of the crowd, and all I see is wagging dog tails and small kids’ crying faces and some guy’s beer gut before my brain remembers where I am. Remembers to think. I am not thinking about the statehouse or how she throws orders, man; no, I’m thinking about how to stop thinking about the little-little shorts before it shows.

  Late P.M. Marty Lees, once a low-ranking member of the Rapid City SWAT team, now just an operative, is back in his rented mobile home, transferred to this Maine situation, transferred out of there, due to complications, due to the fuckups of others and some bad turns.

  Now, here he is. Oh, boy. Step one, a success.

  Needs to get in that militia. Needs to be helpful. Needs to have that York guy stop staring at him like he is mold on dog shit. Needs to sort out the wacky shit from the real shit and why the Bureau thinks the other one, the Big Puppy, St. Onge, is more useful. Don’t matter. They say he’s dangerous, he’s dangerous. We got time. We got all the time in the world. Like watching an ant farm. Watch those guys lift those big grains of sand. Watch ’em grunt. Blow a little air on ’em.

  Next meeting of the Border Mountain Militia is in two weeks. No invitation yet. But there will be an invitation. Just need to keep being Mr. Charm and Trust Me. Go with the flow. See what turns up. You have to be like an artist. Thunder and lightning? You paint thunder and lightning. You see bananas and grapes in a bowl? You paint bananas and grapes in a bowl. You see scum? You paint scum. It ain’t always pretty.

  Statehouse, Augusta, Maine.

  In the statehouse Hall of Flags, there is a set of stairs that takes you up to the two legislative chambers, the Senate off to the left, the House to the right. These stairs are marble. Very grand.

  At the foot of these stairs are benches, for rest or for waiting. Water fountain. Big nice painting in a gold frame of Joshua Chamberlain, Civil War hero and past governor who has a nice bushy mustache. Self-possessed smile—a quiet smile—not the scary big-teeth smiles of today’s politicians. To the right of the painting is the governor’s office, a door with a frosted glass window. Paper sign says USE OTHER DOOR, with an arrow pointing to the right.

  Old and ornate flags stand in glass cases. Flags with gold tassels, flagstaffs, and ornaments made with care and reverence, the way things were made before progress. Some of the flags are grayed and stained, by battle and by time. Yeah, war and time. So many lives and home places shattered or worn away. But the flags remain. Some of the flags are state flags. The rich blue. The moose and his lone tree, the word DIRIGO and radiant star above. The farmer and the sailor lean on their scythe and anchor. The moose, he reclines. The moose, the farmer, the sailor all enjoying great leisure, the lie, the leisure lie . . . this that was a lie then and is still a lie today. For what is life but eternal struggle, eternal vigilance, and breathtaking disappointment?

  In the middle of the bright cavernous dome area, a bust of Governor Baxter, long dead, famous for his kinship with dogs and his generosity. And over by the windows, several tables are set up in a horseshoe, black backdrops for posters. Here we have some schoolteachers and their prized science students, science projects, the sixteen best of the year, best in the state, best projects, best students, best schools, top shelf. One schoolteacher is blonde and tense. She stands by the platter of doughnuts donated by a local business for people to munch on while they admire the noteworthy science projects.

  Who are the people who will admire the science projects?

  Here comes someone now, a nice lobbyist for Corporate America, for a corporation of magnificent proportions, big insurance company or investment firm, paper company or oil company, incinerator or sludge, or maybe tobacco, maybe nuclear waste “management.” Who knows? They are all pink-faced and light on their toes, like stars in a Broadway musical. This one says some nice predictable things about a young girl’s wind tunnel. Another young girl’s Ping-Pong-ball DNA and molecule diorama. He picks up a doughnut, a chocolate one with crunchy stuff on it. And the blond schoolteacher smiles and smiles at him.

  A moment later (same place).

  What is that clanking and bonking in the distance? And a big BUROOOOM! Sounds like a big drum. Must be something wonderful, something to do with our esteemed legislature, not in session but in and about. Maybe some special performance by another best school, best student, given to our esteemed governor, who has promised to bring lots more big business to Maine to “help” small business and “revitalize” Maine’s economy.

  All the schoolteachers in the sciency horseshoe sm
ile as another fine pink lobbyist in his smashing and costly three-piece suit selects a doughnut and compliments the bright-eyed A-plus student who has fashioned wooden balls that represent atoms moments before and after fission.

  What is that clanking and bonking and big drum sound? Seems to be getting louder. Maybe it is trouble with the furnace.

  A pair of the corporate lobbyists are now standing near the projects, talking to each other. Their smiles are wide and white and pre-prescribed. One of them kind of glances in the direction of the stairs that go down to the lower hallway and the statehouse tunnel that connects the two main buildings, the mysterious racket drawing very close now, coming up, up, up the stairs. BUROOM! Clank bonk BUROOM! chunkachunka chink chink tweedle zzzzzzzzzzz clonk!

  Now a distinctive tromp tromp tromp along with the clanks and bonks and BUROOOOOM!s. And “Hup!” . . . “Hup!” . . . “Hup!”

  Several lobbyists now smile in the direction of the mystery. Their smiles are expectant and contemplative. But the schoolteachers, sixteen in all, stare unsmiling, their eyes narrowed, foreheads pinched, lips thin. The sixteen best students are so bright-eyed, ready for whatever hits.

  It arrives, a great army, each soldier armed with nothing less than a placard, a small fluttering graveyard-sized American flag, or a set of spoons, a cowbell, a kazoo, a flute, or a recorder. There is one fiddle and one sword, lotsa squirt guns. They are flushed, every one, because the great halls of democracy are, as usual, fossil-fuelishly overheated. So much sweaty uneven hair. A few soldiers look kind of grimy, overdressed or barely dressed, bruised, scratched, muscular or rotund, mouths with stains; some smell of their breakfasts of smoky meat, butter, and eggs; some smell like live cattle and sheep; and there’s a cheery sweet warm lipstick smell from one single source, a face war-painted with zigzags of crimson Avon. A few tricorne hats are worn, or yarn wigs. And plastic caps with ads on front. Several billed army caps, one bush hat. One Civil War kepi, gray. And what’s that over there? A billowing but erect orange plume sticking out of a World War Two U.S. Marine helmet. Lots of BDU shirts of forest camo. A doctor’s smock. A purple robe with artificial ermine trim resembling what kings used to wear. Several faces painted like skulls. Others painted camo. “Hup! . . . Hup! . . . Hup!”