The Body in the Cast ff-5

by Katherine Hall Page

  “I'd like to welcome you all here tonight on behalf of the League of Women Voters and explain the format.

  Each candidate will have seven minutes to introduce himself or herself, then I will ask several questions prepared by the League. After that, you will have an opportunity to ask questions from the floor, and finally each candidate will have five minutes for a closing statement. Please refrain from any applause or vocal demonstrations, as it merely wastes our time" Peg looked sternly at the rows directly in front of her. Faith had no doubt the librarian would move to eject any miscreant from the hall and take away his or her borrowing privileges for a week.

  Alden Spaulding was making quite a show of cradling the cast on his left wrist with his right hand. Faith was sure the wrist wasn't broken and that he had somehow intimidated the doctor into putting a cast on in a bid for sympathy votes. Audrey's remarks had eliminated any possibility that Spaulding would sue the caterers, but with everything that had been happening lately, Faith was jumpy and would have preferred to see the wrist bare, or in an Ace bandage at most.

  “Now, James Heuneman will begin as he drew the highest card.”

  Peg passed the mike to James and he seemed a bit confused by its appearance for a moment. Admittedly, it was vintage, a twin of Edward R. Murrow's "London Calling" one. James managed to elicit a high-pitched squeal with his first word, then delivered a fairly bland speech about the importance of democracy in action and preserving the town for future generations. It took a total of three minutes. He handed the mike back to Peg with a smile of obvious relief.

  “Thank you, Mr. Heuneman. Now Penelope Bartlett will present her remarks”

  Penny took the mike easily, like the true club woman she was. Faith was surprised she wasn't wearing a hat and gloves, but she had put on one of her good flowered silk dresses and her handbag was sitting squarely between her feet, sensibly Cobbies-clad. She took the full seven minutes to touch on several subjects. A brief, and modest, description of her own qualifications—Wellesley '49, her volunteer work, years in Town Meeting—then proceeded to a description of the problems Aleford was facing with diminished resources and a population that was growing most rapidly in the over-sixty-five and school-age categories. "Two wonderfully entertaining groups," she declared, "but one like as not on a fixed income and the other with none. Which means we have to find ways to be fair to both. We'll need to reopen one of the schools we closed when enrollments were down, yet we can't let our older friends turn the heat too low or start eating one meal a day less as a result.”

  Faith couldn't imagine life being sustained with the heat turned any lower than it was in the majority of Aleford households, whatever the age of the occupants. In fact, it seemed the older they were, the more insistent they were on flinging windows open in December to let in some fresh air, or firmly shutting off the furnace in April because it was spring, come what may. Economizing by cutting down on food was another matter, and she knew from Pix and her Meals-onWheels work that malnutrition due to a lack of money was a big problem among the elderly.

  Penny had barely finished—leaving, Tom whispered to Faith, a warm, fuzzy feeling, like one of the kids' blanket sleepers—when Alden seized the mike with his good hand and, without waiting for Peg's introduction, launched into his speech—or rather, attack.

  “My good friends, here you see exactly what iswrong with us and why, if you'll pardon the expression, Aleford is going to hell in a hand basket.”

  Alden was opting for slightly less than the full treatment. Profanity, yes, but genteel, even folksy profanity.

  “Now let's start with Mrs. Barlett's ill-advised, and I do not use these words lightly, notion of reopening schools left and right." He took a sheaf of papers from his suit pocket and rustled them importantly in front of the microphone, startling James Heuneman, before quoting to the penny how much it would cost to reopen even one school and how much the town would lose in revenue from the current tenants, a computer-software development firm.

  “If you elect me your selectman, I will not spend one cent to reopen these schools. We have no idea whether this trend will continue." He eyed the audience, as if to say, And it better not.

  Faith poked Tom in the ribs. "If we have another baby, we'll have to answer to Alden.”

  “A pretty good reason," he mouthed back, and she was sorry she'd made the comment. Tom came from a long line of large families—to Faith more than two children fit the category—and was eager to maintain the tradition.

  “The whole thing can be solved with a little ingenuity. That's what this town is lacking these days. Yes, a little ingenuity and belt tightening. Mobile classrooms can fill the bill nicely for a few years and then we can sell them to some other school system."

  “Trailers!" Faith gasped to her husband, who nodded grimly.

  “Four walls are four walls, and what happens inside them depends on the teacher, anyway. That's what all the research the fellows at Harvard—oh, pardon me—the fellows and gals, say." Alden really was wicked. He'd probably picked up one issue of The Harvard Educational Review and now would cut its findings to suit his cloth. Faith was suddenly nervous. "We'd better give some more money to Penny's campaign," she murmured. "You bet your sweet ass we will," he muttered.

  Tom, from the evidence, was even more nervous.

  Alden finished with a flourish. "Everywhere I go, I see the quality of small-town life deteriorating, and this was not why I put on our great country's uniform and laid my life on the line. We've got to go to war again and fight against the spendthrift mentality represented by my opponents here. I know you will help me in the struggle. Together we will succeed!" He smiled ingratiatingly and passed the microphone to an obviously annoyed Peg Howard.

  “What war was he in?" Faith asked Tom. "Korean?”

  “No war. National Guard. But to be fair, he stayed in a long time."

  “Who wants to be fair?" Faith remarked, then decided to curtail her remarks. Millicent, in the next row, had turned around, and Faith didn't want to see a finger on those pursed lips.

  Round one was over and Alden had definitely won, on shock value alone. He was at one end of the table. James sat between him and his half sister, which most of the audience knew was no accident.

  Firmly in control of the microphone and protocol once more, Peg asked the questions prepared by the League. The candidates' replies contained few surprises, and the heat in the auditorium supplemented by all the warm bodies in the audience combined to make Faith very drowsy. She was having trouble keeping her eyes open and had resorted to pinching herself to stayawake. Even putting the finishing touches on the menu Alan Morris had requested for a surprise birthday party for Max Reed the next night failed to capture her attention, but the first question from the floor catapulted her into a state of total alertness.

  It was asked by Daniel Garrison, sporting a gigantic Spaulding button, befitting his dual role of best—and some said only—friend and campaign manager.

  “My question is for Mrs. Bartlett," he began suavely. "Would you not agree that it is absolutely necessary to have the trust and confidence of the entire community in order to serve on the board?"

  “Yes, of course." Penny seemed puzzled about where the question was going, as was a sizable portion of the audience.

  “You would agree that a member of this board, the most important single unit in governing the town, must be like Caesar's wife, let us say, and thus above reproach?”

  Penny's face grew stern and her no-nonsense reply made it clear she thought the question just so much hollow campaign rhetoric, paving the way for a paean to Alden's own lofty qualifications.

  “Mr. Garrison, could you get to the main point and leave Caesar's wife to Caesar? If you want to discuss accountability, I am more than happy to address the issue."

  “I'm delighted to hear that, Mrs. Bartlett." He pronounced her name as if it was an alias. "Then you will not mind disclosing certain financial transactions made by you and your late husband,
particularly regarding those reported on your state and federal income tax statements in 1971?”

  There was an immediate buzz in the audience, fol- lowed by absolute silence. Faith reached for Tom's hand and whispered in his ear, "What is this? Alefordgate?”

  Penny did not retreat. Faith's admiration for the woman doubled, if that was possible. Had she been attacked in such a manner, Faith's inclination would have been to hoist her loaded pocketbook and bean both Alden and his slimeball friend.

  “Mr. Garrison." Penny smiled gently. She shook her head slightly in sorrow for someone led astray by bad companions. "I think this town knows me well enough after all these years to trust me. I have always been forthcoming, and my late husband was the same. I find your question inappropriate.”

  A real lady. Right down to her mother's wedding pearls and the slim gold band from Shreve's on her left ring finger, worn thin from years of constant wear.

  It was this last article of jewelry that Faith noticed Penny began to twist after handing the microphone back to Peg. It was the sole outward sign the question may have disturbed her.

  Dan Garrison tried to ask a follow-up question, but Peg was quick to cut him off. "Thank you, Mr. Garrison, we'll get back to you if there is time. However, I see many other hands”

  After this beginning, the rest of the questions seemed tame, even the heated exchange between Alden and one of the PTA presidents over the use of mobile classrooms, which ended with the good lady red with frustration, exclaiming, "Why am I wasting my breath? You just don't get it and never will!”

  The order for the closing statements had also been predetermined and Alden was last. After expressing his thanks in a similar manner to his opponents, he choseto use the rest of his time to discourse on the importance of trust.

  “Public office is not sought lightly. Representing one's fellow citizens is a sacred duty. Therefore, I find it extremely unsettling that Penelope Bartlett has refused to level with all of us tonight. She was given the opportunity to answer a specific question regarding her participation as a taxpayer and she avoided the issue. I don't know about you, my fellow Alefordians, but her response has made me nervous. Can we have someone in our highest office who presents a mere part of the picture? Is this the type of leadership we need in these difficult times? I leave it to you.”

  Alden pushed the microphone past James and toward the moderator, but it didn't quite make it. As Penny passed it on, it was impossible not to notice that her hand was shaking.

  “What in heaven's name is he talking about?" Faith asked Tom fiercely. Peg had thanked them all for coming and everyone was assuming the burden of their winter overcoats. There was no longer any need to whisper, but Faith's seemed the only voice raised, and several people turned to look at her.

  “I have no idea, honey. I can't imagine Penny or Francis Bartlett being involved in income tax fraud. But the scary part is, I also can't imagine Alden making an accusation without something to go on."

  “I know. Insinuation is one thing, yet this is a direct challenge, and if he didn't have at least some sort of evidence, it would mean the end of his own bid for the seat.”

  Millicent was steaming up the aisle, scattering people, jackets, mufflers, and gloves to the left and right of her.

  “Obviously, we'll have to issue a statement. The man is abominable! To even suggest such a thing! Poor Penny. She'll want to set the record straight as soon as possible, no doubt”

  However, Penny most emphatically did not. Joining them in the lobby for coffee and cookies, she looked more than a little tired, but she was completely resolute.

  “It's no one's business. I told that Daniel Garrison that people in Aleford should certainly trust me after all these years, and that's all I'm going to say. I will not start digging through Francis's and my old papers to please Alden and his crowd. No, Millicent, I know what you're going to say, but this is my decision.”

  Faith had never heard anyone say no to Millicent, and when it became apparent that lightning would not strike nor the earth open, she decided to follow suit.

  “I think you are taking the right course, Penny. It's the desperate tactic of a desperate man. We should be encouraged, actually. If they have to resort to things like this, it means they must certainly think they'll lose."

  “You don't know what you're talking about," Millicent snapped. Penny might be off limits, but the minister's wife wasn't—especially since it wasn't Miss McKinley's church. "Of course I'll abide by whatever Penny wants to do. She's the one running, after all, but people are going to talk."

  “People have always talked. Now let's get some food before it's all gone." Penny took Millicent's arm and marched her over to the refreshments, prepared to mingle and drink yet another cup of coffee.

  In bed that night, Tom agreed with Millicent.

  “It would be much better if Penny cleared up whatever this is and issued some sort of statement to the Ale-ford Chronicle. Alden planted a seed, and in the kind of political soil we have around here, we are talking kudzu.”

  Faith nestled close to her husband and debated whether their marriage would withstand putting her cold feet against his warm legs.

  She had decided both Tom and Millicent were right, but she wasn't about to admit it. "I think people will admire Penny's stand. There's entirely too much invasion of privacy when people run for office. She'll be admired for choosing a loftier path."

  “You mean a lonelier path."

  “And this from a man in your business," Faith chided as she slid her feet from the polar regions they were occupying to her husband's side of the bed.

  “Faith!"

  “So when can I see them all on `Larry King Live?' Niki asked late the following afternoon after Faith and Pix had thoroughly discussed the debate and its possible repercussions. "Your campaign makes the national stuff seem as dull as dishwater.”

  Pix, Faith, and Niki were packing everything up to take to Maxwell Reed's rented house in preparation for the evening's birthday party. According to Cornelia, Max would be completely surprised, particularly as the cast and crew had already presented him with a large cake in the shape of the letter A at lunch.

  The dinner party was a select one—the principals, including Caresse and her mother; Alan Morris; Max's two production assistants, Cornelia and Sandra; the cinematographer, Max's close friend and longtime associate, Nils Svenquist; and the two producers, Kit Murphy and Arnold Rose, hitherto holed up in a suite at the Ritz-Carlton in Boston, biting their nails to the quick. Max allowed no one, but no one, on the set while he was working.

  Faith had asked Alan what Max's favorite dish was. "His mother's meat loaf, but don't try to copy it. Only she can make it, I understand.”

  Although Faith didn't, she had nodded, anyway. Meat loaf? What kind of favorite dish was that?

  “So what you're saying is, he's more of a meat and potatoes man than say sushi and angel hair pasta?"

  “You got it.”

  Accordingly, Niki was now covering two impressive crown roasts of lamb from Savenor's new market on Charles Street with a coating of mustard, garlic, bread crumbs, and crushed juniper berries. No one had answered her Larry King question. Faith was busy peeling Yukon Gold potatoes, which would be boiled with whole cloves of garlic, the cloves removed, and mashed with basil, butter, and a mixture of warm cream and milk. Pix was making lists.

  “Come on, you guys. Lighten up and talk to me. We have plenty of time. What's with this Alden Spaulding and did any of you check to find out if that's his real name? Alden Spaulding. Give me a break.”

  Faith laughed. "Sony, Niki, my mind was wandering.”

  Wandering to the sorbets they'd prepared to go along with the cake Alan Morris had insisted he would provide. He also said he'd take care of the wine, and Faith hoped it wouldn't be California Cooler.

  “Alden Spaulding is his real name. Probably with something old and familial in the middle. And it's true, last night did make history in Aleford. The first out-an
d-out negative campaigning.”

  Pix finished her lists with a last definitive stroke of her pen. "You know what politics are like around here, Niki. It's not that there haven't been innuendos—and even dirty tricks—in the past. But no one has ever made such public accusations before."

  “Have you ever heard any rumors about Penny and her husband's finances?" Faith asked Pix. Pix was twenty years younger than Penny, but both their families had lived in town "forever."

  “Never. The only gossip about Penny has been her feud with Alden, if that's the right word. They don't speak to each other."

  “Millicent says Penny doesn't speak to Alden, not the other way around"

  “She's splitting hairs. I don't know who's not talking. I just know they don't—and haven't ever since I can remember. And to answer your next question: I don't know why."

  “Too bad it wasn't a real debate," commented Niki. "Would they have addressed all their remarks to the moderator?”

  Faith was busy thinking again, and this time the sorbets had figuratively melted away. Tom had told her that Penny's husband had died around 1971—the time of the tax returns in question. It didn't take Sherlock Holmes to connect the two events. Even Watson would have tumbled to it.

  Pix seemed to be reading her mind. "Penny has been a widow for so many years. She was about the age I am now when her husband died."

  “And what would you do, Mrs. Miller?" Niki asked mischievously. "Carry your sainted husband's memory to the grave?"

  “First of all, my husband is no saint, thank goodness, and no, I would not. I'd rather remarry than spend so many years alone. That is, if I could find someone halfway decent who wasn't interested in a nubile woman your age, Niki. You know—men get distinguished-looking and women get old."

  “I told you not to read that Germaine Greer book," Niki chided. "Besides, I don't believe it's true. Look at you. Look at Faith.”

  They looked at each other, both in what they thought of as their prime, Pix from ten years further down the road than Faith.