Spencerville

  Keith did not reply.

  Gail continued, This son-of-a-bitch blackmails people. He's a fucking J. Edgar Hoover clone. The bastard has illegal files on people, including me. He showed me my file, the stupid shit, and I'm going to subpoena all his records now.

  Keith looked at her and said, Be careful with this guy.

  They all sat in silence a moment, then Jeffrey said, He's a bully, and, like all bullies, he's basically a coward.

  Keith replied, Even cowards can be dangerous when they're armed.

  Jeffrey nodded. Yes, but we're not frightened. I've faced armed soldiers with fixed bayonets, Keith.

  Maybe you faced me, Jeffrey. Were you in Philadelphia in the autumn of 1968?

  No, and we weren't at Kent State when the soldiers fired, but we had friends who were there, and I'll tell you, I would have been there if I'd known what was going to happen.

  Keith nodded. Yeah, you probably would have. But that was a different time and maybe a better cause. Don't get killed over zoning ordinances.

  Again, no one spoke for a while, and they drank the jug wine. The candles flickered in a soft breeze coming through the window, and Keith could smell the wildflowers and honeysuckle, an incredible medley of scents.

  Gail asked Keith, Do you know anything about him?

  Who?

  J. Edgar Baxter.

  No. I think I remember him from high school. But that's not what we call current intelligence.

  Well, said Jeffrey, I remember him quite well. He hasn't changed much. Same asshole. The family has some money, but they're all short on brains and social skills. The Baxter kids were always in trouble—remember? The boys were bullies, and the girls were pregnant at the altar. In the jargon of small towns, 'There's bad blood in that family.'

  Keith didn't reply. Clearly, Jeffrey and Gail were not simply gossiping or complaining to him. They wanted to recruit him. He recognized the method.

  Gail said, He's a very jealous and possessive man. I'm talking about his marriage now. Annie, by the way, is still very attractive, which makes Mr. Baxter watch her like a hawk. From what I hear, she's the paragon of virtue, but he doesn't believe it. People on their street whom we know say he keeps their house under constant surveillance when he's away. A few weeks ago, there was some kind of firearm incident there at about five in the morning. He was home. The neighbors were told that it was an accident.

  Keith said nothing, and his face revealed nothing except perhaps his well-practiced mixture of mild interest and a touch of skepticism whenever the monologue got into areas of hearsay. He had a feeling he was sitting in some European cafe again, getting a pitch about something or another.

  Gail continued, He's not a nice guy, but people in town have to deal with him. Even some of the men who work for him find him brutish and offensive. Yet, in some perverse way, he can be charming. He's from the old school and tips his hat to the ladies, calls women 'ma'am,' and he's outwardly respectful to the town fathers, clergymen, and so forth. He's even been known to pinch babies and help old ladies across the street. Gail smiled, then added, But he also pinches waitresses' butts and helps damsels in distress out of their clothes. This guy's got a wild weasel. Gail poured the last of the jug wine into their glasses.

  Keith listened to the night birds and locusts. Somehow none of this was news to him, though actually hearing it made a difference. Somewhere in the back of his mind, the place where the old-learned morality resided, was the thought that he should not be contemplating breaking up a marriage, a home, a family. He'd been involved in a lot of situations over the years that might be considered somewhat indelicate, maybe even gross and shameless, but that was then and there. This was here and now. This was home. Yet, if he believed Gail and Jeffrey, the Baxters were not entirely happy, and Mr. Baxter was a sociopath, and Mrs. Baxter needed help. Maybe.

  Jeffrey said to him, Professionally, the guy is a Neanderthal. He has a serious problem with the kids in town. Yeah, a lot of the kids dress weird, wear their hair down to their shoulders, or shave their heads, and they blast their boom boxes in the park, and hang out and all that. We did some weird shit, too. But Baxter hassles them instead of helping them. His police force has no youth officer, no school outreach program. It only has patrol cars, cops, and a jail. The town's dying, but Baxter doesn't see it. He's into law and order and not much else.

  Keith commented, Law and order is his job.

  Yeah, agreed Jeffrey, but I'll tell you something else—he's not real good at that either. We still have low crime here, but it's starting to get worse. There are drugs now—not good grass, but hard stuff— and Baxter doesn't have a clue about where it's coming from, who's selling it, or who's buying. The nature of crimes and criminals has changed, and Baxter hasn't. We have more domestic violence, we had a few car-jackings, we had two rapes so far this year, and we had a gang who came from Toledo by car and pulled off an armed robbery at the Merchants Bank. The state police caught them, not Baxter. Anyway, the state has offered the Spencerville force advanced training, but it's nott mandated, so Baxter blew them off. He doesn't want anyone knowing how inept or corrupt he and his gestapo are.

  Keith didn't respond. In fact, he'd been charitable enough to think that maybe Cliff Baxter was a tough but effective cop. A lousy human being but a good chief, dedicated to public safety. On the other hand, the incident in the supermarket parking lot and the police car drive-bys had already told him he was dealing with a corrupt police force.

  Jeffrey went on, Baxter blames drugs for this mini crime wave, and he's partly right. But he also blames the schools, parents, television, MTV, movies, music, video arcades, smut magazines, and all that. Okay, maybe some of this is true, but he doesn't see the relationship between crime and unemployment, and teenage boredom, and lack of opportunities, and lack of stimulation.

  Keith commented, Jeffrey, when has small-town America been any different? Maybe a tough police force is just what's needed. Look, maybe progressive solutions could work in the cities, but this is not Columbus or Cleveland, my friend. Here we need small-town solutions to small-town problems, and you guys need a reality check.

  Gail said, Okay, we're open to reality. We're not the wild-eyed idealogues we used to be. But the problem remains the same. She asked him, Do you care?

  Keith thought a moment, then replied, Yes, it's my hometown. I thought maybe things hadn't changed much, and I could find some peace and quiet here, but I see you two aren't going to let me go fishing.

  Gail smiled and said, Old revolutionaries don't fade away like old soldiers, Keith. They just find a new cause.

  So I see.

  Gail continued, We think Baxter is vulnerable, that he's developed some career problems which we want to exploit.

  Maybe he just needs counseling and sensitivity training. That's what progressives like yourselves offer criminals. Why not cops?

  Gail said to Keith, I know you're baiting us, and you're good at it, but I also know you're an intelligent man. You know, or you're soon going to find out, that Cliff Baxter is beyond salvation, professionally, spiritually, or otherwise. Christ, he knows that. And he's getting nervous, like a trapped rat, and that makes him more dangerous.

  Keith nodded and thought, And certainly not a better husband.

  Gail said, We think it's time to get him fired. We need a moral victory, something to galvanize public opinion. She added, Keith, with your background—

  He interrupted, You don't know my background. Whatever I told you doesn't leave this house.

  Gail nodded. All right. With your intelligence, wit, and charm, you can help us. We'd like you to join us.

  Who is us?

  Just a group of reformers.

  Do I have to become a Democrat?

  Jeffrey laughed. God, no. We have no party affiliation. We have people from all parties and all classes. We have ministers, businesspeople, schoolteachers, farmers, housewives—hell, we've got most of Annie's family with us.

  Is that a fact? I won
der what Thanksgiving dinner is like at the Baxters'?

  Jeffrey said, Like a lot of our supporters, they haven't gone public yet. Jeffrey asked, Can we count on you?

  Well . . . In truth, Keith had his own grudge against Cliff Baxter, which was that he was married to Annie Baxter. Keith said, Well . . . I'm not sure I'm staying around.

  Jeffrey observed, I had the impression you were.

  I'm not sure.

  Gail said, We're not asking you to meet him on Main Street at high noon for a duel. Just say you're in favor of getting rid of him.

  Okay. In principle, I'm in favor of getting rid of any corrupt public official.

  Good. That's Cliff Baxter. There's a meeting next week, Thursday night, at St. James Church. You know it?

  Yes, it's my old church. Why are you meeting outside of town?

  People don't want to be seen at this meeting, Keith. You understand that.

  Indeed I do. But you may be overdoing the revolutionary melodrama. This is America. Use the damned town hall. That's your right.

  Can't. Not yet.

  Keith wondered how much of this was the Porters trying to recapture the romance of revolution and how much was real anxiety and fear. Keith said, I'll think about being there.

  Good. More pie? Tea?

  No, thanks. Time to hit the road.

  It's early, Gail said. None of us has shit to do tomorrow. She stood, and Keith thought she was going to clear the table, so he stood, too, and picked up his plate and glass.

  Gail said, Leave that. We're still pigs. She took his arm and led him into the living room.

  Jeffrey followed, carrying a potpourri jar. He said, The dinner was superb, the conversation stimulating, and now we retire into the drawing room for a postprandial smoke.

  Gail lit two incense lamps and two scented candles in the dark room. Jeffrey sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the coffee table, and, by the light of one of the candles, he transferred the contents of the potpourri jar into rolling papers that he'd spread out on the low table.

  Keith watched him in the candlelight, quick fingers and a flicking tongue, producing five nicely packed joints faster than an old farmer could roll a single cigarette.

  Gail put a tape in the deck, Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band, then sat on the floor with her back to an armchair.

  Jeffrey lit a joint, took a toke, and passed it to Keith. Keith hesitated a moment, took a drag, then passed it across the coffee table to Gail.

  The Beatles played, the candles flickered, the smell of incense and pot filled the air. It was 1968, sort of.

  The first joint was now held with a pair of tweezers, then snuffed out, and the roach was put carefully in an ashtray for future use in the pipe that Keith noticed on the table. The second joint was lit and passed.

  Keith recalled the protocols and rituals as if it were yesterday. No one said much, and what was said didn't make a whole lot of sense.

  Gail, however, did say in the low, hushed tone associated with cannabis and candlelight, She needs help.

  Keith ignored this.

  Gail added, as if to herself, I understand how and why a woman stays in that kind of situation . . . I don't think he abuses her physically . . . but he's fucking with her head . . .

  Keith passed the joint to her. Enough.

  Enough what? She took a toke and said, You, Mr. Landry, could solve your problem and our problem at the same time . . . She exhaled. . . . right?

  Keith had trouble forming his thoughts, but after a few seconds, or a few minutes, he heard his voice say, Gail Porter . . . I've butted heads with the best in the world . . . I've had enough experience with women to write the book on the subject . . . don't try to fuck with my head . . . He thought this was what he wanted to say. It was close enough.

  Gail seemed to ignore him and said, I always liked her . . . I mean, we weren't big buddies, but I . . . she was kind of like . . . always had a smile, always doing some good deed . . . I mean, I could puke, you know . . . but deep down inside, I envied her . . . completely at peace with her man and her . . . like, uninvolvement with anything . . .

  She became an antiwar something or other at Columbus.

  Really? Wow. That piss you off?

  Keith didn't reply, or thought he didn't. He couldn't tell any longer if he was thinking or speaking things.

  The room seemed to be silent for a long time, then Gail said, I mean, if you do nothing else here, Keith, if you do nothing else with your life after conquering the fucking world . . . get that woman away from him.

  Keith tried to stand. I think I'm leaving.

  Jeffrey said, No way, buddy. You're sleeping here. You can't even find the front door.

  No, I have to—

  Gail said, Subject closed. All subjects closed. No more heavy shit. Get mellow, folks. She handed the joint to Jeffrey, then stood and changed the tape and began dancing to Honky Tonk Woman.

  Keith watched her in the flickering light. She was graceful, he thought, her thin body moving in good time to the music. The dance was not particularly erotic in and of itself, but it had been a long time since he'd been with a woman, and he felt a familiar stirring in his pants.

  Jeffrey seemed indifferent to his wife's fugue and concentrated on the candle flame.

  Keith turned away from Gail and helped Jeffrey look at the flame.

  He didn't know how much time passed, but he was aware that the tape had changed again and was now playing Sounds of Silence, and Jeffrey was declaring that this was the ultimate musical accompaniment to pot, then Keith was aware that Gail was sitting opposite him again, drawing on a joint.

  She spoke, as if to herself, and said, Hey, remember no bras, and see-through blouses, and nude swimming, and group sex, and no killer diseases, and no hang-ups, no Antioch rules of sexual conduct, and men and women who actually liked one another? Remember? I do. She added, God, what has happened to us?

  No one seemed to know, so no one replied.

  Keith's mind was not working very well, but he did remember better days, though perhaps his idea of better was different from Gail's or Jeffrey's. The point was, things were once better, and his heart suddenly ached with a sense of loss, a nostalgia and sentimentality partly induced by the cannabis, partly by the evening, and partly because it was true.

  Gail did not offer herself to him, which was a relief, because he didn't know what he would have said or done if she had. The evening ended with him sleeping on the couch in his underwear with a quilt thrown over him, and the Porters upstairs, in their bed.

  The incense burned out, the candles guttered and died, a Simon and Garfunkel album ended, and Keith lay in the quiet dark.

  At dawn, he rose, dressed, and left before the Porters awakened.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  It was a few days after dinner with the Porters, a Friday night, and Keith Landry, reacting to some remembered behavior of farm life, decided to go into town.

  He put on slacks and a sport shirt, got into his Blazer, and headed for Spencerville.

  He'd seen no sign of Annie during the past few days, but that was not for lack of vigilance on his part. He'd been home, he'd stayed within earshot of the phone, he'd checked his mailbox a few times a day, and he watched the cars that went by. In short, he'd reverted to a lovesick adolescent, and the feeling was not entirely unpleasant.

  The day before, he'd seen a blue and white patrol car from Spencerville pass about noon, and that morning he'd seen a green and white county sheriff's car go by. The sheriff's car might have been a random thing, but the town police car was a long way from home.

  In any case, he kept his Blazer out of sight, and he didn't know if they'd discovered his new automobile, unless, of course, they'd run his name through the Bureau of Motor Vehicles.

  It was sort of a low-key cat-and-mouse game at this point, but Keith knew it had the potential for confrontation.

  He drove up Main Street, which was quieter than he'd remembered it on Friday nights. In th
ose days, Friday was called market day, and there had been a huge farmer's market on the blocked-off street north of Courthouse Square. Now, everyone, including the farmers, bought most of their food in supermarkets, prepackaged.

  The commercial strip outside of town probably got the majority of Friday night shoppers, Keith thought, but there were a few shops open downtown, and the bank was open late. Also open, with cars parked nearby, were Miller's Restaurant and the two taverns—John's Place and the Posthouse.

  Keith pulled into a space near John's Place and got out of the Blazer. It was a warm Indian summer evening, and there were a few people on the sidewalk. He walked into the tavern.

  If you want to know a town, Keith had learned, go to the best and the worst bar, preferably on a Friday or Saturday night. John's was obviously the latter.

  The tavern was dark, noisy, smoky, smelled of stale beer, and was inhabited mostly by men dressed in jeans and T-shirts. The T-shirts, Keith noticed, advertised brand-name beers, John Deere tractors, and locally sponsored sports teams. A few T-shirts had interesting sayings such as, Well-diggers do it deeper.

  There were a few video games, a pinball machine, and in the center of the tavern was a billiards table. A jukebox played sad country-western songs. The bar had a few vacant stools, and Keith took one.

  The bartender eyed him for a moment, making a professional evaluation that the newcomer posed no potential threat to the peace of John's Place, and asked Keith, What can I get you?

  Bud.

  The bartender put a bottle in front of Keith and opened it. Two bucks.

  Keith put a ten on the bar. He got his change, but no glass, and drank from the bottle.

  He looked around. There were a few young women, all of them escorted by men, but mostly this was a male domain. The TV above the bar broadcast the Yankees vs. Blue Jays in a tight pennant race, and the sportscaster competed with some country singer sobbing about his wife's infidelities.