Fiona’s announcement of her candidacy had an electrifying effect on the community. There was both relief that Stella would not be unopposed, and the delighted anticipation that accompanies a street fight. No one had anything but the most dire predictions for the campaign, but everyone—or nearly so—felt confident in the result of the spring election. While Fiona’s competence was not particularly highly regarded, nevertheless, the opportunity to avoid Stella’s competent malignity was widely viewed as a sign of a beneficent God. Washington Island, it was widely held, had dodged a bullet. Or would.
Fiona had accumulated a small group of advisors: Pali, Nika, Nancy, and Elisabeth were the core group, with Lars Olafsen offering advice from the phone so as not to excite the notice of Stella. You couldn’t be too careful, he told himself. It would be better for everyone if Stella didn’t know.
Their first task was to raise a little money. Fiona was in her usual state of virtual penury, having exhausted her minor resources last year with the purchase of the house and its various repairs, and had tucked away her insurance check for future purposes, whatever those might turn out to be.
They would need to buy signs and, perhaps, an ad or two in the local newspaper. But by and large the campaign would consist of door-to-door contact with voters. In a community of 400 or so, this was still a major job. Fiona was also advised to make herself visible at every possible public event between now and the April election. This was not difficult since life on the island made every event an important occasion, there were very few of these that she missed anyway, and everyone on the Island knew within hours who had attended, what had been worn, and what had been discussed. This would be useful in developing the campaign.
The hopes of the election centered on one irrefutable reality: just about no one wanted Stella to be in charge of anything, much less all of the Island’s political life. To win, all Fiona had to do was not be Stella. This, she felt, would be fairly easy.
Nevertheless, the stakes were high for Fiona. If, by some chance Stella were to win, Fiona had no doubt that her life would become significantly more difficult. Stella’s pettiness and vengeful nature made that a certainty.
Fiona dreamed that she was dreaming. She was looking down from her bedroom into the yard below, and she could see herself sleeping. As she slept, peacefully, a tree was growing rapidly out of her forehead. She was charmed, rather than frightened by it. It wasn’t disfiguring, but seemed a completely normal process. She could see the spreading canopy of branches opening above her sleeping self, and it seemed to her as she watched, how peaceful it was to have a tree always over her head, to always be engulfed by the twittering of birds and the soft play of breezes. She wondered that this had not happened to her sooner, and how she had managed to live so long without it. But then, as she watched, the peace turned to panic. The tree was rooted beneath her, its weight fully on her head. How would she move? How would she live? It must crush her skull, breaking through her body with its roots. Terrified now, she watched herself helplessly as the tree continued to grow, reaching magnificently through the earth and toward the sky.
Mike and Terry arrived one morning at Ground Zero at about the same time, just as they did on most mornings. Their daily routine was a pleasant way for them to begin their solitary workdays.
Terry ran a carpentry and cabinetry business and Mike was an artist—a painter—with an increasingly international reputation. Each had genuine talent and each worked happily alone, but these morning conversations set them up for their day of solitude, and both men had come to depend on their friendship. The period last winter when Roger had disappeared and Ground Zero closed had been hugely disruptive to each man’s work and sense of well-being. It was with a profound sense of relief that they had welcomed Roger’s return and the continuation of their ritual.
Roger, too, expected to see them every week day morning, and most Saturdays, and while emotional connections were not his habit, he did prefer predictability.
On this morning, by coincidence, Mike and Terry were both a little early, and they each pulled up at the same time. Mike stood waiting in the parking lot for a few moments while Terry fumbled with something in his truck. It was still dark, and there was not even a lightening of the horizon in the east. There had been frost that night, and the air was cold, but Mike breathed deeply. He loved the late fall with its clean lines and rich, somber colors. It was always a time of great productivity for him, and he looked forward to his day’s work.
At last, Terry climbed out of his truck, apologizing for the delay and exclaiming over the cold. The lights were on inside and outside the shop, as always, and the bright yellow awning with the words “Ground Zero” and the image of a mushroom cloud rising from a cup created a glow, if not exactly a welcoming one.
Already talking boisterously, as the two men approached the shop they were stopped in their tracks by what they saw through the glass door: Roger lying, eyes closed and apparently unconscious, on the floor in front of the counter.
Terry pulled the door open, thanking God that it was unlocked, and they both rushed inside. Roger, hearing them, opened his eyes without moving and looked up. He said nothing.
“Roger!” said Terry. “What happened? Are you all right?”
Mike squatted next to him and reached for Roger’s wrist to take his pulse.
Roger pulled his wrist away and sat up.
“I’m okay. I was doing yoga.”
Mike and Terry exchanged a look, and then looked back at Roger.
“I thought yoga was bending and things. You were just lying on the floor,” said Terry.
“It’s Dead Man’s pose,” Roger told them seriously. “It is the culmination of the daily practice.”
“Death is the culmination of the daily practice?” asked Terry.
“Not death,” Roger answered, with a pedant’s lack of humor. “Dead Man’s pose. It’s a pose of complete relaxation.”
“I suppose that complete relaxation would be one definition of death,” remarked Mike dryly.
Terry grinned. “Do dead men make coffee?” he asked.
“They can’t drink it,” said Roger, glowering.
Message received, Terry and Mike took their places at the counter and changed the subject.
“My morning macchiato,” said Terry. “And an egg sandwich.”
“The same,” said Mike. “But make my coffee regular.”
The morning continued in its usual way, and when The Angel Joshua arrived a short while later, bathed in his usual beatific aura, no reference was made to what had gone on before.
Fiona’s group of advisors had gathered around Fiona’s tiny kitchen table to discuss the campaign. There were more people than was comfortable, but they needed a writing surface and Fiona still didn’t have a dining room table, so they all crowded in, their chairs—pulled randomly from the house and porch—arranged haphazardly around the table.
It was a cold, rainy afternoon, and the glowing warmth of the house did not suffice to eliminate the chill around Fiona’s heart. What on earth had she gotten herself into? How did she always manage to create these ridiculous situations for herself? She tried, on the now inevitable sleepless nights, to think of ways to extricate herself from running for office. She hadn’t been on the Island long. Perhaps she didn’t qualify for citizenship. She was in the midst of pondering this unlikely possibility when Pali’s voice called her back.
The group consisted of Pali and Nika, Elisabeth and Roger, Jake and Charlotte, Mike, Terry, and Nancy. Elisabeth and Roger were there primarily for moral support, and Mike and Terry had been invited because even though they weren’t Islanders, they had the perspective of two lifetimes of service in small town politics. Their experience would be helpful.
“So,” said Pali, whose role had morphed into unofficial campaign manager. “I think we already have a pretty good plan of action that should take us right up to April. Fiona is going to focus on door-to-door campaign work, and will make herself as visible as possible at all public events.”
“Visible, but not conspicuous,” commented Elisabeth, unthinkingly. Fiona looked at her sideways.
“It seems to me that the next order of business should be to choose a slogan,” continued Pali. “Stella’s is “Time for a Change.”
“And we all know how irritated people are by that,” said Nika.
“Just a harbinger of things to come,” commented Elisabeth. “The irritation, I mean.”
“Well, yes,” agreed Nika.
There was a silence.
“I suppose ‘Anyone But Stella’ wouldn’t work?” asked Terry. They laughed.
“God knows it’s what everyone’s thinking.”
Everyone doodled on their notepads.
“I have an idea,” said Nika. “What if at the bottom of the signs we just put the letters “A. B. S.?”
“But people will ask what it means,” protested Fiona. “And then what will I say?”
“Everyone will know,” said Nancy.
“True,” said Mike. “But you should have something prepared, just in case. It’s never good to appear arrogant in politics.”
“Since when?” asked Terry, taking a drink of his coffee.
“Okay,” said Pali, “so what does A.B.S. stand for? In public, I mean.”
There was a silence as they contemplated the problem.
“Alien,” said Roger, and then in response to the turned heads he added, “Well, she is. She’s not from here.”
“Alluring,” suggested Jake. Charlotte kicked him under the table as the conversation moved on.
“Active?”
“Adequate.”
“Adequate is good. I like adequate.”
“Damning with faint praise,” murmured Fiona.
“Bawdy.” This was Jake.
“Befuddled?” suggested Roger. Fiona shot him a look that was lost on him.
“Beige,” said Nika.
Pali looked at his wife.
“I’m just brainstorming.”
“I’m so glad you all have such a high opinion of me,” interrupted Fiona.
“Believable,” said Elisabeth.
“Benign?” suggested Mike.
“Bighearted!”
“Bland.”
“Fiona is not bland.”
“No, but compared to Stella....”
“Sage.”
“Savior,” said Jake. “The Island’s salvation, God knows.”
“Swell. It has a double-meaning, see what I mean?” asked Charlotte earnestly. “‘Swell,’ as in, well, ‘She’s swell’, and ‘Swell’ as in ‘a big city swell.’”
“No one uses swell in that way anymore,” said Nancy bluntly. “Probably not since 1940.”
Charlotte looked chastened, and Fiona smiled encouragingly at her across the table.
“Adequate Bland Service,” said Roger suddenly, in the flat intonation that was his normal means of expression.
Everyone stopped talking and considered this.
“That about sums up small town requirements,” said Mike.
“It’s a bit... unimpressive,” ventured Fiona.
“That’s what we want,” Pali assured her. “It will put the electorate at ease.”
Fiona looked doubtful.
“Look,” said Terry. “I think he’s right. You say everyone’s worried about the upheaval that Stella would bring. This is exactly the opposite message. It’s perfect.” He leaned back in his chair looking satisfied. “Perfect,” he repeated.
Mike nodded slowly. “I think that’s probably true,” he said. “You don’t want people thinking you’re going to try to change things. As a newcomer—an outsider, people will say—you need to make it comfortable for them to vote for you.”
“Besides,” added Nika, “as someone already pointed out, everyone will know what it really means.”
“Does it have to be ‘bland?’” asked Fiona. “What about believable? That doesn’t sound so bad.” She turned to Elisabeth. “What do you think?”
Elisabeth nodded slowly and a bit apologetically. “Adequate Bland Service makes sense to me.”
Fiona could not help thinking that Elisabeth was reluctant to contradict her husband in his rare contribution to the public discourse.
“Everyone agree?” asked Pali, looking around the table. Everyone nodded except Fiona. “Then we have a slogan.”
“Both an official and an unofficial one,” added Elisabeth. “And I think the signs should be in soothing colors. Nothing garish. A contrast to Stella’s.”
“How about blue and white?” asked Nika.
“Perfect,” said Terry again. He had checked his watch and it was approaching time for the last ferry. Now that they had determined the main point he was not particularly interested in the color of the signs.
“Okay,” said Pali. “We have a plan. I’ll order the signs and a couple of posters. We’ll probably need about $700.”
Fiona was aghast. “Really? So much?”
Pali nodded ruefully. “These things are expensive.”
Nancy spoke up. “I’ll put in a couple hundred. It’s worth it to me to keep Stella out of office.”
“Here’s fifty,” said Jake, pulling money out of his pocket.
Fiona felt embarrassed. She didn’t think Jake and Charlotte had much to spare, and that seemed like a lot.
“I’ll handle the rest,” said Elisabeth quietly.
“Hold on, now,” said Pali. I need to write all this down. There are laws about campaign contributions, and we need to make sure we do everything by the book.”
It was in the exchange of checks and information, and the bustle of finding coats and saying good-byes that the meeting ended. Fiona went into the living room and poured herself a generous scotch. Even that, she knew, would not be sufficient to help her sleep tonight. Outside, the rain came down without any sign of stopping.
Fiona was walking along the beach near the sand dunes. The waves were high, and the harbor had white caps. The wind blew hard, and she knew that turning back and walking into it would be heavy going. She had a baseball cap that she was fighting to keep on her head. Suddenly she realized that Rocco was in the waves, romping and leaping, but getting too far out for safety. She called and whistled to him, but she could see quickly that he was struggling in the water. At that moment, an enormous white bird swept down on her and began pecking violently at her head. She fought against the attack, trying desperately to see Rocco, and knowing that she would have to go in to save him. Her anxiety rose to terror that Rocco would drown. The waves were rising, and threatening the beach. The bird called raucously, and Fiona, ignoring its dives and beating wings, flung herself into the water toward Rocco. No longer certain where he was, she swam desperately toward where she had last seen him, her mouth and nose filling with water.
Fiona awoke herself with the thrashing of her own arms. Outside the rain lashed against the windows, and the wind found the loose places of the old house and made them sing eerily. The clock said 2:07. She lay awake in the dark for a long time, waiting for her heart to slow. She knew that no more sleep would come that night. Switching on the lamp, she reached for Martin’s Little Green Book, and the dictionary.
The crunching animal, who appeared to have been stationed at her ear waiting for the sound of the light switch, began its nighttime mastications. Fiona was beginning to wonder whether there was anything much left of the house’s attic infrastructure. She made a mental note to have someone check, and returned to her book, vaguely reassured by the presence of another living thing.
“Lieber Ratten im Keller als Verwandte im Haus,” she read. With a little surge of pride, she realized that she didn’t require the dictionary for this one. “Better to have rats in the cellar, than relatives in the house,” she translated aloud. She wondered briefly what Martin Luther would have thought about chewing creatures in the attic, then turned her attention back to her book. She had made deep inroads into her translation of Martin Luther before she fell back to sleep, with the sound of crunching deep within the wall continuing throughout the night.