Mayor of the Universe
Also by Lorna Landvik Published by the University of Minnesota Press
Best to Laugh
Mayor of the Universe
A Novel
Lorna Landvik
University of Minnesota Press
Minneapolis • London
An earlier edition of this book was published in electronic and print-on-demand formats.
Copyright 2012 by Lorna Landvik
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Published by the University of Minnesota Press
111 Third Avenue South, Suite 290
Minneapolis, MN 55401–2520
http://www.upress.umn.edu
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Landvik, Lorna.
Mayor of the universe : a novel / Lorna Landvik.
ISBN 978-1-4529-4331-2 I. Title.
PS3562.A4835M39 2014
813'.54—dc23
2014016890
The University of Minnesota is an equal-opportunity educator and employer.
To Patty DeMarco
for friendship, counsel, and your big laugh
Contents
Prologue
Part I: 1
2
3
4
5
Part II: 6
7
8
9
10
Part III: 11
12
13
14
Part IV: 15
16
17
Part V: 18
19
20
21
22
23
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Questions for Book Clubs Reading Mayor of the Universe
Prologue
In the desolation of a South Dakota field whose shorn wheat stubble poked through a lather of new snow, a boy in a maroon corduroy jacket danced. A bitter wind snatched at the music playing on the transistor radio held in his mittened hand, but still the boy shook his shoulders and swiveled his hips, a trillion stars his nightclub ceiling, the full moon his spotlight.
“Ladies, ladies, please, no fighting,” he said, his boots raising tiny white clouds. “You’ll all get your chance.”
With studied cool, he flicked up his matted fake shearling collar and jumped into the air, bouncing to the ground in a half-split. He was James Brown, urging his hordes of fans to “Tighten up!” while his furious footwork generated heat that scorched the snow. He was Elvis Presley, whose teasing pelvic thrusts and wobbly knees caused multiple swooning. He was—his mitten rode up and he saw the face of his watch glint in the moonlight—he was Fletcher Weschel, and he was late.
“Ladies, please!” he exclaimed, batting away the keys and underpants and love notes thrown at him as he ran toward the Ford Galaxy he had just that day been licensed to drive. Before opening the door of the idling car, he tipped the brim of his plaid wool hat and pointed to a lovely redhead. “Now you, Ann-Margret—I’ll see you in Vegas.”
Even though the roads were empty in all directions, he turned on his blinker to indicate his merge into traffic and cautiously steered the car back toward town. Where there had once been music and dancing and adoration and sexual conquest, there was now only the wind blowing across a winter wheat field and, underneath its cold whistle, laughter.
Part I
1
For as long as his trial Popular Mechanics subscription lasted, Wendell Weschel, or WW as he insisted he be called, fancied himself an up-and-coming Alexander Graham Bell or Thomas Edison. He was certain that in him there was a creation as monumental as the telephone or the light bulb, but after a year of tinkering with transmitters, duct tape, and linseed oil, he gave up his dream of patent numbers and a fortune in royalties, complaining, “All the good stuff’s been invented!”
WW was a man going places, the only trouble being he wasn’t sure in what direction.
He provided for his family by working as an insurance agent—For all your crop coverage, see WW! read his card—and while he was considered one of the movers and shakers of the Pierre, South Dakota, business community, he knew it was only a matter of time before he shook the world at large.
“If they passed out a medal for confidence,” he liked to tell his son, “WW would win solid gold.”
“It’s not what you can do, it’s what they think you can do.”
“Always walk like a warrior who knows he’s going to win the war.”
He believed the occasional pithy aphorism went a long way in fulfilling his duties as a father, although he did allow for quality time, too, which might mean calling Fletcher into supper with his sharp, mean whistle, or reading the paper on the front porch and shouting out baseball scores as his son passed by pushing the lawn mower, or letting the kid help him wash the Bel Air on Saturday mornings.
He didn’t issue invitations to his think tank (a damp little corner in the basement where he spent much of his time), but apparently the boy didn’t think he needed any and often visited WW at what inevitably were inopportune times.
Disappointed, but not undaunted by the fact he was not Bell or Edison, he was now focused on becoming the next Parker Bros. (if anyone could do it without the Brother, he could), inventing the board game that would usurp Monopoly and Clue. But other than a few doodles on his insurance stationery, WW had few ideas other than its name—Cash-O!—and that its tokens looked like coins. He tried to explain to his son that the game was still in the thinking stage and his concentration was bothered by questions like, “Daddy, why are you just sitting there?”
“Fletcher,” he complained, “first and foremost, a man needs time and space to think. What you call ‘just sitting there’ is actually giving the mind the freedom to do what it does best: think.”
“Oh,” said Fletcher.
“Now why don’t you run upstairs and do your homework?”
“I already did it.”
“Then why don’t you just run upstairs?”
As Fletcher climbed the worn green-painted stairs, he heard his father’s shrill whistle and his admonition to straighten up and walk like a warrior. Discouraged, the son wondered what it was about him his father despised so much, while WW leaned back in his swivel chair, congratulating himself for putting in some father-son time. It’s what Olive wanted, for Christ’s sake, what Olive nagged him about night and day.
“Honestly, WW, just show him you don’t think he’s a complete washout!”
“Who says I don’t?” joked WW, only Olive didn’t laugh. But what the hell was he supposed to do with a chubby kid with a cowlick who dropped every ball ever thrown to him, who couldn’t swim because of a propensity to ear infections (WW’s backstroke had won his high school relay team a tri-county championship), who had the personality of a box turtle?
They just weren’t a good match, WW had decided, and he had begun to wonder if this observation might include his wife, too.
And so when he volunteered to lead a Cub Scout den (“What their organization needs,” he announced at the dinner table, “is WW’s snappy ideas and innovative leadership”), both his wife and son had the same reaction. They nearly choked.
“Why, WW,” said Olive red-faced, coughing into her napkin. “That’s wonderful! You’ll be absolutely wonderful!”
“Damn right.” Then winking at Fletcher, he said, “Darn tootin’. Guess if I’m going to lead the Scouts, I’ll have to do a litt
le cleanup on the old language.”
By chugging down a glass of water, Fletcher managed to dislodge the goulash that had taken a detour in his windpipe. He was equal parts stunned and elated.
“Gee, Dad, that’s swell!” he ventured, and when WW reached over to tousle whatever part of his son’s crew cut he could tousle, Fletcher had to sit on his hands to prevent himself from leaping up and embracing his father. WW had told him long ago that hugs were for sissies and that real men shook hands.
“Even good night?” the then four-year-old Fletcher had asked.
“Especially good night,” said WW, offering instead a brisk clap on the shoulder before sending the boy off to bed.
Dressed in their matching navy shirts, their yellow kerchiefs smartly knotted, Fletcher felt, as soon as he and his father pushed open the doors of the community center, as close to invincible as an unpopular, chubby boy could feel. Building Popsicle stick birdhouses or three-dimensional maps of South America in a room that smelled of disinfectant and overperked coffee filled Fletcher with a happiness that made the rest of the week (full of teasing and threats) easier to bear.
Occasionally a fellow Scout would forget to be cowed by the fact that Fletcher’s father was leading the meeting and would whisper orders to “Shut up, Lard-o!” or “Pass the paste, Four Eyes,” but for the most part, the boys felt duty-bound to be nice to him.
As the season progressed, however, it was Mr. Rooney, the second Scout Master in command, who demonstrated knot tying on a piece of dirty rope (“Over, not under, Zimmerman!”), the one who explained the markings on the compass (“No, N does not stand for ‘nowhere,’ Gleisman, it’s stands for ‘north’”), the one who practiced bird calls with them (“Come on, Hilstead, enough with the screech owl!”).
WW had lit a cigarette during the first meeting as the boys were introducing themselves, but Steve Rooney took him aside and said, “Say, WW, I don’t think smoking in front of the kids is the Boy Scout thing to do,” to which WW replied, “How ’bout if I teach them to blow smoke rings?”
In truth, taking a cigarette break was WW’s favorite part of the meeting, especially when he discovered Shirley Quigley, the cute redheaded Brownie leader, doing the same thing. It didn’t take them long to realize they shared more than a love of nicotine the night WW was out of matches and the Brownie leader lit his cigarette. Their eyes made contact across the trembling flame of light.
“Why, you’re shaking,” said WW.
“It’s that community center coffee,” said Shirley, stalling the inevitable with a nervous giggle. “The stuff’s so strong, a half-cup makes me go all palsy.”
“Hold me tight,” said WW, flinging down his cigarette and wrapping the Brownie leader in his arms. “I’ll show you some good vibrations.”
From that night on, WW was present only at the beginning of the meetings to set out supplies and at the end to offer hearty praise for whatever gimcrack the boys had glued or woven or notched together. But it wasn’t until Lincoln’s Birthday, after the Scouts had made stovepipe hats out of construction paper and recited the Gettysburg Address, that the slow-to-burn Mr. Rooney finally got fed up. Deciding to punish the son for the sins of the father, he sent Fletcher outside to retrieve WW.
“I signed on as first mate,” grumbled Mr. Rooney as he watched the boy grab his jacket off the wall rack and head down the tiled hallway. “Not the goldarn captain.”
The temperature was above average but still below freezing, and Fletcher slapped the sides of his arms as he called out tentatively, “Dad?”
There was no answer but the wind rattling the hooks and ropes of the flagpole. Fletcher stood there for a moment, shivering in the cold. He made a V with his fingers and held them to his mouth, inhaled, and blew out a trail of vapor. He tossed his imaginary cigarette and stepped on it, grinding it out with a little pivot of his foot the way WW did.
Where could his father be? Not wanting to disappoint Mr. Rooney by failing his mission, he decided to broaden his search by following the shoveled path around the building.
When he saw the stream of exhaust trailing out of the family’s Chevy, he whispered uncharitably, “Cheater.” If his father was going to take forty-five-minute cigarette breaks, he should take them outside, braving the elements the Boy Scout way rather than in the warmth of his idling car.
Crouching, he was suddenly Vince Shark, CIA secret commando, and he made his way toward the parking lot, reporting his progress to the chief of Interpol.
“We’ve spotted the suspect,” he whispered into his cupped hand (which was equipped with high-frequency radio sensors). “If he refuses to come out peacefully, we’ll force him out with smoke bombs, and if that fails we are prepared to shoot. Over and out.”
To confuse any Russian spies following him, Shark ran in zigzags over the old, dirt-clotted snow. Making his way to the car, he tucked his right arm into his pocket and gripped his laser gun.
“Chief,” he said, sidling up to the snowman that had been erected during the Christmas holidays and still stood, pockmarked and emaciated. “I’m going to need you for backup.” He conferred with the snowman, making an elaborate diagram with his hands, before closing in on the enemy outpost.
He was ready to tell the suspect to “Freeze!” but instead he found himself obeying his own command, and all traces of Vince Shark, superspy, evaporated.
It was not the sight of his father that shocked him but the action his father was engaged in. It was definitely not smoking, although from the way the woman was bouncing on his father’s lap, it did look to Fletcher like someone was trying to put a fire out.
WW’s head was tilted back and on his face he wore a contorted expression of someone in great pain. The woman—Fletcher could see it was Miss Shirley, the Brownie leader—appeared to be screaming.
“Agent Shark—come back. We’ve got to help her!” whispered Fletcher, even though he was fairly clueless as to what kind of help he could or should offer. This wasn’t a cut-and-dry Scout situation; this was not a paper drive in which a half-ton of newspapers needed to be collected; this was no old lady needing assistance crossing the street; this was Fletcher’s dad hurting Miss Shirley!
Cold air rushed into the boy’s lungs as he took a deep breath.
“Charge!” was his rallying call and warning as he lunged at the rocking car and flung open the driver’s side door.
Branded into his memory cells were the pictures of his father’s pants puddled around his shoes, his hands on the white and bare bottom of Miss Shirley.
There was a second that froze the features of all parties into masks of disbelief, broken by WW’s bellow, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Mayhem broke loose as WW pushed his son back into the snow, slammed the door, and scrambled, along with Miss Shirley, for the lower halves of their clothing.
Dazed, Fletcher crab-walked backward a few yards before flinging himself over and scuttling to his feet. He raced around the community center and to its front doors. He leaned over, panting, thinking he might vomit.
He had never been taken aside and told the facts of life by anyone; there was no dry and awkward explanation from his parents (once, driving by a field in which a bull was mounting a heifer, Fletcher had asked his mother, “What are they doing?” to which Olive had tersely—and to Fletcher, logically—replied, “They’re giving each other horsey back rides”). Nor had there been a fevered tell-all in a best friend’s tree house (he had no best friend, let alone a best friend with a tree house). Here and there he had heard snippets of things going into things, of men planting seeds, but he had never pieced them all together. Now no one had to tell him; he understood perfectly what his father and Miss Shirley were doing in the front seat of the family sedan was It.
Fletcher’s head was noisy with questions: What should I do? Why would Dad do that? Will he kill me? Where should I go?
He thought briefly of the kindly but exasperated Mr. Rooney who no doubt would have begun to wo
rry about him, but Fletcher couldn’t bear the thought of returning to a roomful of Scouts whose only worry was who was going to get the biggest Rice Krispies Treat during refreshments. He knew that even if he’d been able to concoct an answer to Mr. Rooney’s question “Find your Pop?” his blushes and stammers and quite possibly tears would raise more questions than he could answer.
The idea of worrying Mr. Rooney was far less intimidating than facing his father, and so Fletcher, without regard to the twenty-one-degree temperature, began running. Running, running, running, slipping and sliding on the icy walks, falling twice, running through the dark night, running away from the sound of his father screaming, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Fletch?” came his mother’s voice from the living room as he tore through the front door and stumbled up the stairs.
“Fletcher?”
Olive Weschel sighed, not wanting to leave her cozy perch on the couch. She had been pasting recipes clipped from Good Housekeeping in a scrapbook titled “Household Hints.” It was a vague title for a book that encompassed stain removal guides, fabric yardage configurations, and menu plans. As a reference book it was rarely referred to, but compiling it gave Olive satisfaction, somehow offering tangible proof that she was doing a good job as a housewife.
“Fletcher? WW?” When there was no answer, Olive allowed herself another aggrieved sigh, put down her glue pot and the magazine opened to “Down-Home Recipes That’ll Have ’em Begging for Seconds!” and went off to scold her husband and son for not having the courtesy to come in and say hello.
She parted the living room drapes her sister had given her (Florence worked in Home Furnishings at the Montgomery Ward in Sioux Falls and was generous with her store discount), and when she didn’t see the car in the driveway, her heart thumped. Maybe it wasn’t Fletcher who had come through the door, but the Whistling Bandit of Yankton who’d been written up in the paper? Shaking her head, she reminded herself that she heard no one whistling.