Mayor of the Universe

“We will now go around the table and each Lodge member will introduce its candidate and illuminate us as to why he or she was chosen.

  “Plek, from Lodge 527, please begin.”

  The alien, who was a murky sort of purple color, stood up like a good student.

  “As you know, we are the scientists—”

  Charmat snickered and Plek glared at him.

  “—and to that end, we chose Bhakdi Shinewatri, the premiere chef in all of Thailand.”

  “You claim to be a Lodge of science and you choose a chef?” asked Charmat.

  Borlot leveled a gaze at him that would have singed hair, if he had any.

  “We realize it’s a point of pride for Lodge 1212 to get thrown out of every Universal gathering, but do you really want to get thrown out of this one?”

  Charmat’s rubbery knee nudged mine under the table, but his apology to the Head Council leader sounded sincere.

  “Our belief,” continued Plek, “is that Thai food answers questions that haven’t even been asked yet.”

  “And we shall explore those more deeply in Phase II,” said Borlot, making a notation. “And now, Veztar, let’s hear from you.”

  A khaki-colored alien stood.

  “I represent Lodge 103—the healers—and to that end, I would like to introduce Guri Ramstad—

  The silver-haired woman bobbed her head and smiled.

  “—who at the age of sixty-five human years treats her body as if it’s twenty and her body responds in kind.”

  “Ja, I tink—”

  “We’ll have time to hear what you think later,” said Borlot, not unkindly, but not kindly either. “Merdor?”

  “Greetings,” said the gray alien. “As you know, I represent Lodge 720, whose motto is, Seek and you’ll no doubt have to seek some more. We’re the spiritualists, of course, which is why we’ve chosen Buster.”

  The golden retriever thumped its tail against the chair.

  “Because we feel the true heart of a dog might possibly lead us to the great unknown.”

  “Thank you, Merdor,” said Borlot, making another notation. (I tell you, Fletcher, she was all business.) “Shezbar?”

  The blue alien introduced himself as coming from Lodge 623—“the Lodge that seeks beauty”—and said that Hammar was an Egyptian poet whose words created little rest stops for weary souls. (I’d like to read a poet like that!)

  Next an alien named Rex (!?) from Lodge 204 (the landscapers) introduced Balan from Samoa, saying that his candidate understood both land and water in ancient ways that need to be reclaimed for all planetary success.

  From Lodge 115, Zek introduced Mr. Kwaqui, a concert pianist from South Africa whose hands “speak the healing and mysterious language of music.”

  Finally, Borlot got to Charmat and after he stood and introduced himself, he said, “My candidate, unfortunately, couldn’t be with me, but I have in his place—”

  “What? This isn’t—” The head council leader scrunched her bulbous forehead as she looked at the legal pad. “—Fletcher Weschel?”

  Charmat issued a dry, dusty cough. “No, this is his proxy, Wanda Plum, a second grade—”

  “Brother Charmat, this is unacceptable. As it was, you were almost late for the session—reason enough for disqualification—but this—”

  Holding up a finger in a time-out gesture, Borlot conferred with her other council aliens.

  Nodding her head, she looked up. “Yes, we are all in agreement. Lodge 1212, in its perpetual puerile quest for fun, has disqualified itself and its candidate.”

  “Madame Borlot, please,” said Charmat, leaning over the table. “Fletcher’s reasons for not being here are precisely why he is the ideal person for this job.”

  The golden retriever growled.

  “Sorry,” said Charmat. “The ideal Earthling. His escort, Sister Tandala, was in the final throes of expiration, and Fletcher didn’t want to leave her.”

  “Sister Tandala has expired?” asked Borlot.

  Charmat nodded and the aliens in the room sounded a one-note sound of distress, so high that the poor golden retriever yowled in protest.

  “Our condolences,” said the chair-alien, and suddenly they all stood at attention as the walls and ceiling of the room disappeared so that we could view what Charmat explained telepathically to me was the three-hundred-nebulae salute that is standard operating ritual when an alien passes.

  Fletcher, there is no way I can explain the profound beauty of that sky show; it would be like asking me to build the Eiffel Tower with toothpicks. Suffice it to say that those burning, streaking colors were an appropriate display for Tandy.

  We shared a long feeling of reverence until the ghostly tails of the lights disappeared and the walls and ceiling returned, and the aliens and Earthlings sat down and the foreheads of the other Head Council members scrunched down as they leaned into one another, conferring.

  “While the sympathy card is a crafty play, our edict is still the same. Fletcher Weschel is not—”

  Before I could hear anything else, I was sucked up in that vacuum of speed and color, and the next thing I knew, Charmat and I were in my dining room.

  Wanda sat for a long time, staring at the words she had written before unrolling the paper and adding it to the small stack next to the typewriter.

  After exhaling a long sigh of effort, she said out loud, “I guess I’d better put that lasagna in.”

  It was the smell of tomato sauce and garlic that woke Fletcher.

  For a moment, he was allowed the sweet sleepy fuzz of knowing nothing more than he was awake. Consciousness of where he was came next—Why, I’m at Wanda’s. On her couch—and it was a comforting and happy consciousness but short-lived, shoved aside by the memory of himself kneeling on the Mozambique shoreline.

  “Tandy,” he had cried, and as the waves lapped against him, he felt he was shrouded in a loneliness so black he didn’t think it could ever be lifted.

  But it was.

  “Fletcher,” said Revlor, his rubbery one-fingered hand on the human’s shoulder. “Look.”

  He was surprised by how pleased he was to see the smart-aleck alien, and his eyes followed the direction where the alien’s other finger was pointing.

  The sky was filled with swirls of color—the northern lights, although it reminded Fletcher of the lights in which the aliens would appear and disappear.

  “That’s for Tandy’s send-off,” said Revlor, his voice clotted with emotion. “Anytime you see the aurora borealis, know that a Lodge member has passed into the great beyond.”

  He and Fletcher stood watching until it evaporated.

  “Godspeed,” said Revlor reverently, and then, remembering who he was and in what Lodge he was a member, he added, “Whatever that means.”

  Sighing, Fletcher got up and folded the afghan that had covered him in a precise rectangle. After using the bathroom he went into the kitchen, and when he saw Wanda, wearing a gingham apron with the silhouette of a turkey stitched onto the bodice, he felt a little wobbly in the knees.

  “Fletcher,” said Wanda, who had been greatly relieved to see him asleep on the couch when she had zamooshed into the living room with Charmat. “You’re awake.”

  With outstretched arms, they stepped toward one another, and their hug was long and hard.

  An oven timer went off.

  “Time to put the garlic bread in,” she said, gently pulling away from him.

  “Wanda, what happened? Where did you go?“

  “It’s all there, Fletcher,” said Wanda, nodding toward her typewriter on the table. “You can read it while I work on dinner.”

  And as Wanda dipped a brush into melted garlic butter and painted the French bread with it, as she mixed the salad and uncorked the wine, Fletcher did.

  “Hoola, baby,” said Fletcher after reading it for the second time.

  “I know,” said Wanda. “It’s a lot to take in, isn’t it?”

  Fletcher, overcome, nodded and shook his
head at the same time so that it looked like he was tracing out erratic figure eights.

  As a teacher, Miss Plum knew when her children needed a break, which is why story time came after the rough-and-tumble of recess, and why sing-a-longs at the piano followed math drills. As a woman, Wanda knew that Fletcher was overloaded and needed, for just a little while, to decompress.

  “Let’s eat now,” she suggested. “I’ll bet you’re starving. I know I am.”

  By the light of the candles that flickered like little buds of flame on the branch centerpiece, Fletcher ate three helpings of lasagna, three pieces of garlic bread, and two bowls full of salad.

  While Wanda enjoyed her own smaller portions, she told him all about the school pageant that had taken place the day before and the strange pumpkin fudge Caroline Seeholt, the kindergarten teacher, had brought to the teacher’s lounge.

  “Jim Manning, the fifth grade teacher, had to spit his into a napkin.”

  She told him that Reed Quinn, a student of hers, was going to Mount Rushmore over the holiday weekend and that Reed’s brother had told him that birds nested in all the presidents’ noses so it looked like they all had boogers.

  “You wouldn’t believe all the things Reed’s brother tells him.”

  Fletcher was grateful for and entertained by the one-sided conversation, but finally he dabbed his mouth with his napkin and pushed aside his plate.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “You’re welcome,” said Wanda. “I know it was sort of a strange dinner for—”

  “Not just for the dinner. Which was wonderful, by the way. Thank you for everything.”

  “I say the same to you,” said Wanda, and they looked into one another’s eyes and into a deep place.

  The afternoon darkness—but not the snow the weatherman had promised—began to fall and they moved from the dining room into the living room, taking Wanda’s report and cups of spiced apple tea with them.

  “All those people assembled!” said Fletcher. “And a dog! What were they thinking?”

  “I’m sure I would have learned a lot more had I stayed,” said Wanda. “Phase II was coming up after the introductions.”

  They sat next to each other on the floor, leaning against the ottoman and facing the fire that snapped in Wanda’s feminist fireplace.

  “Do you suppose they all had the same fantasy experiences I had?” asked Fletcher. “Did the dog get to see what it was like to be a cat? Did the guy from Samoa get to experience life as a stockbroker in New York or a male stripper in Milwaukee?”

  “Charmat was of the mind that only you got that particular honor, because you needed to be reminded why you were recruited.”

  “I’m sort of following you, and sort of not.”

  Because they were sitting so close together, Fletcher felt the little shake of Wanda’s shoulders as she laughed.

  “Remember, all Lodges were ordered to recruit a candidate truest to their values. Lodge 1212 thought you best exemplified fun—but they had to make sure you believed it.”

  “Do you know that there isn’t a single human being I’ve ever met who would accuse me of exemplifying fun?”

  “Aliens are smarter than human beings. They saw the real Fletcher.”

  “So what was this contest for? I mean, all these Lodges swooping down to Earth and gathering their candidates—these people and a dog—but their candidates for what?”

  Wanda took a sip of tea and held the taste of apples and cinnamon in her mouth for a long time. This was what she had been waiting to tell Fletcher, the last words that Charmat whispered in her ear.

  “Well, believe it or not,” she said, “they were looking to elect the Mayor of the Universe.”

  For a long time, they watched flames leap and the wood spit sparks, and then, in a very small voice, Fletcher asked, “I was Lodge 1212’s candidate?”

  Wanda nodded. “And Charmat said that disqualified or not, as far as he was concerned, you are the Mayor of the Universe.”

  Fletcher felt an odd charge of fear and glee. “But what does that mean?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe we’ll find out. Maybe not.” Holding up her teacup in a toast, she said, “Either way, Happy Thanksgiving.”

  “Happy Thanksgiving,” answered Fletcher, and the sound of their clinked china was a soprano’s high note that still sounded after their lips met.

  21

  The Tuesday after Thanksgiving they were married in the Aberdeen City Hall during Wanda’s lunch break.

  “So where should we go on our honeymoon?” asked Fletcher, driving his bride back to school in her VW.

  “As if I need one after Mozambique and outer space.”

  They laughed, something they found they did a lot together.

  When Miss Plum brought her new husband in for Show and Tell, Katie Charbonneau asked her what was so funny.

  “What do you mean, Katie?” asked Miss Plum, who stood in front of the class holding Fletcher’s hand.

  “Well, you two keep laughing.”

  “We do?” said Miss Plum.

  “It’s because we’re so happy,” said Fletcher.

  Katie Charbonneau, who was prepared to not like Miss Plum’s new husband (who could be good enough for her?) lowered her head and smiled. She liked when adults gave sensible answers.

  Matt Hefflinger raised his hand. “Are we supposed to call you Mrs. Wisher now?”

  “Weschel. My husband’s last name is Weschel. So now I’ll be Mrs. Plum-Weschel.”

  “And I’ll be Mr. Plum-Weschel,” said Fletcher proudly, and the couple laughed.

  “That’s awfully long,” said Reed Quinn. “My brother says teachers should just be called ‘Teacher’ because that’s what they are.”

  “Does your brother’s teacher call him ‘Student’?” asked Mrs. Plum-Weschel.

  “No, ’cause his name’s Bruce.”

  Always encouraging her kids to figure things out for themselves, Mrs. Plum-Weschel said nothing further.

  Now, on the first day of winter break, they were headed to Fletcher’s home in Pierre to pick up his roomier car and begin a two-week road trip.

  “You don’t have to be nervous,” said Wanda, who, Fletcher was finding, sensed what he was feeling almost as soon as he did. She took her hand off the gearshift to pat his knee.

  “I know,” said Fletcher, blinking back tears. That was another discovery he and Wanda had made; the fire had been turned up under all their emotions.

  With a laugh, Fletcher might recall for Wanda the sight of Tandy doing a handstand on the hood of a Cadillac in her cowgirl outfit, or of Deke Drake and Millie outrunning their pickpocketed victims, or of Shark and Tandy waltzing on a glittering strip of moonlit water, and three seconds after the words were out of his mouth, he would be sobbing.

  Even as Wanda comforted him, her own tears fell.

  “How can we not cry, Fletcher?” she said, after they’d reminisced about the sensation of zamooshing. “We’ve seen so much . . . wonder.”

  “Yes, we have,” he said, looking into the lovely face of his bride.

  The snow that had made the drive pretty but not dangerous picked up a couple of miles outside of Pierre, and by the time Wanda turned the Beetle into Fletcher’s driveway it was coming down fast and furious.

  “Weschel?” cried Dodd Beckerman, who liked to do what he called a pre-shovel even before all the snow had stopped falling. “Weschel, is that you?”

  In his bulky army coat, he leapt over the narrow strip of whitened lawn that separated his driveway from Fletcher’s.

  “Hey, Dodd,” said Fletcher, getting out the car.

  “Hey?!” said Beckerman, yelling as the snow swirled. “You’ve been gone almost a month and you just say, Hey? Where the hell have you been?”

  “I got married,” said Fletcher, opening the driver’s-side door. “This is my wife, Wanda.”

  For a moment, Beckerman was rendered speechless by the announcement and the small pretty woman who emerged fr
om the car, but then the butcher bawled, “Married?!” and invited the newlyweds into his house for a drink.

  “Now, come on!” he shouted. “I won’t take no for an answer!”

  When you’ve been a pulsing ball of light flitting through the rings of Saturn, an invitation into a home with its knick-knackery of beer bottles and paintings of topless women on different makes of motorcycles isn’t all that daunting an experience. Or so Wanda tried to telegraph to Fletcher with her eyes as he telegraphed his apology with his.

  “First snow of the year, and it’s a doozie,” said Beckerman, who after dumping their coats over the banister gestured toward the Naugahyde couches.

  “Now you two make yourself at home whilst I retrieve our libations.” Dodd made a move toward the kitchen but froze for a moment before making a slow pivot to face his guests with an apology.

  “Oh man, I haven’t made my beer run yet.”

  “We’re fine,” said Fletcher.

  “I might have some schnapps.”

  “Really,” said Fletcher. “I think we’re fine.”

  “You let the old man speak for you?” asked Dodd, throwing a little wink Wanda’s way.

  She winked back at him. “Only when we’re in agreement.”

  “Okay, then,” said Dodd, gesturing that they all sit.

  “So,” said Beckerman as they all slid into position on the slippery Naugahyde. “You are the talk of the town, Fletcher! Quitting your job and running off with some black babe!” He shrugged at Wanda. “Sorry, but that’s the scuttlebutt.”

  “The scuttlebutt is true,” said Wanda.

  “So you knew about her?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Wanda. “I met her several times. But she wasn’t really black, Dodd. She was green—at least in her presentation to us Earthlings.”

  Fletcher had two simultaneous reactions, but the volt of shock zapped the laughter like a laser cauterizing an internal bleed. He sat frozen on the slick couch, his hands between his knees, waiting for whatever was going to happen next.

  Dodd leaned forward and rifled the pages of the TV Guide that normally served as a coaster on his coffee table. He cocked his head and offered Fletcher and Wanda an uncertain smile.