Shadows

by Peter J Manos

  “Claudia! Let’s not be vulgar.”

  “It would be his word against mine and no matter what people believed his reputation would be ruined.”

  How had Conklin become VP of the Grumman GBSD team, wondered Cummings. She was so small-minded.

  “Northrup Grumman does not operate by ruining people’s reputations.”

  “What do you want me to do?” asked Cummings, becoming angry. After all, she’d taken some risk to silence the troublemaker.

  “Tell him that you’ve been forbidden ever to reveal to his wife or anyone else what happened. You’re to tell him the company had nothing to do with what you did. And you’re to apologize. And all of this as discretely as possible. On second thought, I’ll tell him. You stay away from him.”

  “So you’re not as worried about him as you appeared?”

  “Claudia, I’m more worried about him now than I was before he told me about this. If you tell his wife what happened, everyone will learn about your little love potion and blackmail scheme.”

  Cummings shook her head. “They won’t believe it.”

  “They’ll believe it when the transcript of your confession appears in the news.”

  “Transcript of my confession?”

  “He recorded your last conversation with him. A nice crisp recording.”

  Claudia felt her throat tighten. She swallowed.

  Conklin spoke. “As I said, I’ll do the apologizing. I don’t want you to have any contact with him whatsoever. Promise me that.”

  Cummings nodded.

  “I promise.”

  He’d outsmarted her. She felt a keen bitterness, but could she accept defeat? Re-examining their last meeting, she saw that pencil and pen in his pocket. So that’s how he did it. She should get one of those, she thought.

  Almost everyone on campus— staff, students and faculty—read Betty Carlson’s article on O’Hare’s minimally attended street march, the ideas behind it, and street fight that followed it. She went so far as to publish the names of the attackers and of the marchers.

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Of course, even in summer, even if all she grew were sunflowers, even if her hired hands still showed up when they were supposed to, there was always work to do on the farm. Edna mended fences. Repainted the front porch. Straightened up the woodshed, did some canning.

  To say she was racked with guilt would be to exaggerate, but she blamed herself for not having the fortitude, or was it just thick enough skin, to continue with her protests. Few people showed any concrete interest in the GBSD. Calling their door-to-door visits in the business district a parade was ludicrous. Then they were attacked and finally someone had set off a bomb on her front step, endangering Will and Karen.

  Yes, she was energetic for her age, but she was frightened and depressed. And now Will was again beginning to talk about going to New York. She hadn’t realized how much his mere presence meant to her, how it made getting up in the morning easier and coming home in the evening easier as well.

  Will’s mother had called again.

  “Can you believe it? Tom hid my phone from me; that’s why I haven’t been able to call. Where are you anyway? Why don’t you call? When are you coming out here? Oh, damn, I shouldn’t be talking on the phone in the first place.” She lowered her voice. “You know what I mean.” And then again loudly, “I need your help. They’re going to lock me up. You know that will kill me. Will, what do I have to do to convince you? Jump from the Brooklyn Bridge?”

  Edna’s protest had fizzled so Will doubted his presence was particularly significant, if it had even been so in the first place. After he told her he was on his way, he began questioning himself? What would he do when he got there? Was his goal to keep her out of a psychiatric hospital because that’s what she wanted? Was he anti-psychiatry? Was he doing what she wanted because he’d always done what she wanted? Why was he so conflicted about this?

  The same day Will’s brother called.

  “No. I don’t think she’ll get violent. But she blows up and Grandma is at her wits end. And now she’s bringing in stray dogs, but she doesn’t walk them. Her hygiene is godawful. She’s been arrested again for shoplifting. I know a psychiatrist who’ll help get her committed. I’m calling just so you’ll know what’s going on. I know you’re on your way out here, though what’s so fascinating about Minot, North Dakota is beyond me. A healthy corn-fed midwestern girl? Anyway, there’s no rush.”

  Fortunately Will procrastinated.

  While Will was out checking over his car, Dr. Rasmussen came over to see Edna.

  “Hello, Will.”

  “Oh, hi Dr. Rasmussen. Long time no see. Are you okay?”

  “Never felt better.”

  As usual Edna needed coffee to fortify herself.

  “I wanted to tell you in person that I’m ready to get back into the parade and flyer business, Edna,” Rasmussen said.

  “Oh, my goodness. What about you-know-who? What happened?”

  He began the tale in a measured pace, but the words eventually began tumbling out like a load of smooth round stones from a wheelbarrow, their clatter indefinably pleasing. Best of all, besides imagining Cummings’ chagrin, of course, was Ellen Conklin’s face-to-face apology and assurance that he was free to say anything he wanted without fear of being—how did she say it—compromised.

  “And I don’t just want to march. I want to give speeches. But we need you. And people are asking where you are?”

  “That’s sweet of you but I don’t know if I’m up to it. Nobody seems to be listening and even if they were I know this whole protest business is quixotic. Besides it puts people in danger. A bomb! Can you believe it?”

  “From what I’ve heard it wasn’t meant to kill anyone.

  “Listen, Edna, I’ve been reading up on this ICBM business ever since you opened my eyes to the danger. I see plenty of suffering in my practice, but that suffering is like a grain of sand compared to the Everest of suffering, death, and desolation of nuclear war. And as I’ve said there is no medical response possible. These missiles could be launched by mistake. I’ll take your flyers if you’re not going to use them. Your sign, too. I don’t blame you for taking a break, but I can’t. I’m even cutting back on the time I spend in the office.”

  “Well, Andrew, I don’t think I can put people at risk and I’m not telling you anything you don’t know if I say I’m down in the dumps. I think I’ve had it.

  “I understand. I hope you won’t mind if I ask for your flyers and signs. I’m going to work on this. You can always let me know if you change your mind.

  His having avoided marital catastrophe by his own daring was a pick-me-up, one with ramifying effects.

  He spoke to his colleagues about cutting back his work hours and taking no more new patients. They’d considered adding another partner to their practice for years. Now was the time to start interviewing.

  “What’s up, Andy?” asked Rich Kovacs.

  “I’m going to sound like a politician who’s dropping out of a race, but I just want to spend more time with my family.”

  To avoid sounding like a fanatic, he made no mention of a prolonged campaign against the GBSD.

  But he had not lied about wanting to spend more time with his family, by which he meant his wife, whom he’d come close to losing by neglect if not by revelation of his sin. He now routinely arrived home in time to eat dinner with her.

  Earlier in their marriage they had regularly read aloud together. He suggested they do so again, mentioning The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo. One would read, the other would cook, and they’d rotate duties.

  “You’ll cook?” asked Darlene. “Every other day? I want it in writing.”

  He suggested that after dinner each night, they watch a Netflix series together, maybe the one about the unflappable, stoic Wyoming Sheriff Longmire, who rode the range in his Ford V8 Bronco.

  “It’s not too violent,” he assured her. She accepted.

  After
ten days of newly established domesticity, she still rejected his intermittent, amorous approaches, her bitterness over years of neglect not easily assuaged. His patients and his colleagues had always come first.

  But despite her bedtime coolness, he continued coming home on time, cooking, sitting close to her in front of the TV. And his mood was more upbeat than it had been in years.

  They even began going on walks together.

  Rasmussen was at peace with himself. On weekends, he went to Edna’s for an hour or two. Occasionally Darlene went with him. But at bedtime she remained aloof until one night, after he’d gotten into bed, she appeared at the bedside in a new, pale blue, baby doll pajamas. In her palms she cupped her breasts, their nipples visible through the gossamer material.

  “What are you looking at?” she asked in a teasing, little girl voice he could not remember ever having heard.

  He rolled over in bed to grab her, but she moved a few steps back.

  “I know what you want to do, you naughty boy.”

  When she didn’t move, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and lunged for her, but she was too quick and moved to the foot of the bed. He pursued her around the bed, but she sprang onto the bed and over it, so she was still out of reach.

  “You really want to stick it in, don’t you?”

  “Darlene!”

  In turn he sprang across the bed to the other side, but she was already at the foot again. He was out of breath, but Darlene, summer jogger, winter skier, was inexhaustible. He was now as excited as he’d been on that drug. Again he lunged for her and again she eluded him, moving to the other side of the bed, quick as a rabbit. He followed but again she sprang onto and over the bed.

  “Come on, Andy. Don’t you want to do it to me?”

  But she wouldn’t let him catch her. In half an hour he really was both exhausted and exhilarated. Hands at his sides on the bed, he hung his head, but kept his eyes on her feet. When she was in range he pushed off the bed with both hands and tackled her, landing on top, but she struggled against him, laughing.

  He pinned her wrists over head with his left hand, wedged himself between her legs, but pressed against her rocking body, the excitement was too great. He released his grip and lay atop her, quiescent as was she.

  “I love you, Darlene.”

  “I love you, too, Andy.”

  In seven minutes they stood and got into bed.

  “Please don’t run off again,” said Rasmussen.

  “And don’t you either,” said Darlene.

  The second grinding of the mill was entirely satisfactory.

  Surprised by his ardor and pleased with her response, she finally asked, “What’s going on with you, Andy? I like it but I don’t understand it and I’m afraid it’s not going to last.”

  “At first my protest against the new missiles was purely intellectual. I thought it was, anyway. But fearing the mistakes that could lead to nuclear war jogged loose other feelings and made me finally examine the life I was leading. You know I like my patients, but, God, I don’t love them. I realized, though, that I was too fond of them loving me, or maybe just adoring me. Real ego boost. And if my partners asked me to cover extra time for them, or fit in that extra one, two, or three drop-in patients, I said, ‘Sure, I can do that’. I was too fond of hearing their gratitude and praise.

  “I love you and Robert, and my siblings, and some of my friends and—sorry, this sounds corny—I love humanity, which is in danger of annihilation. I needed time to play my bit part to stop that and I needed time to be with you. That’s the long and short of it.”

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  The several protests, flyer distributions, newspaper articles, and rumors had lent Edna O’Hare a certain notoriety and even respect, so when Karen, Will, and Rasmussen spent a few days distributing her new flyer announcing a rally to protest the GBSD, more than the handful of people were curious. The big attraction, though, was not O’Hare—who in any case was dispirited and house bound—but Andrew Rasmussen, probably the physician of record for half the people who’d attend.

  Rasmussen was a man who demonstrated daily his caring and concern for the town. He’d volunteered for the Minot Area Homeless Coalition, Habitat for Humanity, the Find the Children’s Foundation, and United Blood Services. Indeed people wondered how he managed his practice, volunteered his services, and still managed to be a good husband. No one suspected that for years now he and his wife might read in bed or sleep in bed, but not love in bed.

  Announcement of the time and place appeared in Minot State’s Red & Green and in the Minot Daily News. Rasmussen had called the media, promising a big story. Betty Carlson and Suzy emailed friends and placed a notice on their Facebook pages.

  By doggedly calling various newspaper offices, Rasmussen had managed to obtain a not quite iron-clad commitment from Ben Grossman of the Bismarck Tribune to attend the rally, though it meant a two hour drive to get there. Amy Haugen would be there for the Minot Daily News, and Betty Carlson from the Red & Green, of course, but what really excited the Committee for a Sound Nuclear Deterrence, as they now called themselves, was the chance that they might appear on local TV since they were going to hold their rally in front of the KMOT TV station near the corner of 16th Street S.W. and 18th Avenue S. W. In the parking lot to be specific.

  Rasmussen built a sturdy one-foot-tall wood speakers’ platform—essentially a box—broad enough for a person to stand on. To get the lay of the land, the featured speaker visited the venue, a one story studio building, nondescript except for its dazzlingly tall transmitting tower.

  On the morning of the rally the sun rose before the first of the protestors appeared. The building faced east so, with their backs to the sun, the demonstrators faced the studio. Studio manager Tina Nilsen, a patient of Rasmussen’s, agreed to video part of the demonstration, and produce and air a news clip if more important events didn’t take precedent.

  “More important than safe nuclear deterrence,” said Rasmussen smiling. “Like what, Tina?”

  “Be grateful for what you get. There are people who are going to want to scalp me after this thing airs, believe me.”

  He flinched at the word scalp, remembering that there was another speaker, John Silverhawk, a man that Will had met in a diner in Grand Forks, who might object to that phrase.

  Fifty-three well behaved men and women, several with signs, watched as Karen, with Will and Rasmussen at her side for assistance, stepped onto the platform.

  “Good morning and thank you for coming. My name is Karen Haugen. I’ve lived in Minot my whole life. I’m one of the founding members of Edna O’Hare’s Committee for a Sound Nuclear Deterrence, whose goal it is to tell people of the danger, pointlessness, and wastefulness of replacing the Minuteman missiles with the new GBSD missiles, which stands for ground-based strategic deterrent. I only have a few words to say before I introduce the first of today’s two speakers.

  “A Russian intercontinental ballistic missile can reach the United States in about thirty minutes so if our missiles are fixed targets there’s little time to verify that a warning is real before launching them. And firing the missiles by mistake, leads to nuclear war. I know I’m a broken record but this needs repeating. Nuclear war could lead to the detonation around the world of thousands of nuclear warheads with the destructive power of 100,000 Hiroshima bombs.

  She spoke for a while longer before introducing the first of two speakers.

  “Hello. My name is John Silverhawk. I own an auto shop in Grand Forks. As you probably guessed, I’m a descendant of the first Americans, specifically I am Sioux. Now I am not here today pretending to represent the Sioux nation. I am here as an American citizen with a Sioux heritage. But because of that heritage I am sensitive to the value of the land in a way that is not the same as the real estate value of the land. And in this I can speak for the Sioux, the Mandan, the Hidatsa, and the Arikara Nation. The Chippewa and the Sisseton-Wahpeton Oyate Nation.

  “I am her
e to talk about the danger to the land. And about warnings ignored. There have been many warnings, and oil spills despoiling land and water and killing wildlife. Many oil spills. The last one was an hour’s drive from where I live. Hundreds of thousands of gallons covered half an acre of wetlands. It could take years for the wetlands to return to their normal state.

  “Warnings ignored. Damage done.

  “And now again warnings about the danger to the land. The US government has turned the upper Midwest into a bull’s eye target for Russian atomic bombs. I know what the government says. The rockets are here to protect us, but they do not protect us. In official descriptions the land has been described as a rocket sponge to absorb hundreds of atomic-tipped rockets from Russia. But unlike years for an oil-soaked wetlands to get healthy, a radioactive wetland may stay radioactive for thousands of years.

  “North Dakota has about one hundred fifty missiles in underground silos and many of them are in danger of flooding as happened to one of them a few years ago. The missile had to be pulled out and inspected.

  “To spend a hundred billion dollars to replace these rockets is much worse than foolish spending.

  “I have said I am not here as an official representative of my tribe whose members have their personal travails, but I will be speaking with them and with other tribes. If you believe these rockets put you in danger, you too must speak up. Remember there are people in this country who don’t even know these missiles exist.

  “Thank you for your attention.”

  After he was applauded, Rasmussen climbed the little platform, the morning sun in his eyes also.

  “Good morning. My name is Andrew Rasmussen. I’m a family doc her in Minot and I know many of you—”

  “Most of us,” called someone from the crowd.