Spring was the Island’s annual time of frustration. Months of winter had led to general restlessness among the populace, and spring’s virtues, celebrated elsewhere, were less obvious on the island.
The change in seasons did not begin with sunshine and balmy breezes. It began, instead, with temperatures that were warm enough to melt snow, but not warm enough to feel comfortable, and the moisture in the air from the melting snow seeped deep into the bones with a burrowing cold. If anything, the weather became less tolerable than the deep freezes and blizzards of winter.
Months of living indoors, the relentless necessity of shoveling snow, of driving on it, of worrying about ice underfoot and snow on the roof, of having to protect against cold, sleet, rain, ice and mud simultaneously, without ever knowing in which form it would appear, made for a more or less universal winter fatigue.
Even though everyone knew perfectly well that spring rarely appeared until late April or May, the general mood was, as someone once said of second marriages, the triumph of hope over experience. Daily expectations were disappointed. Tempers were short.
Fiona huddled indoors, drinking coffee and tea, writing, reading, and doing bad translations of Martin Luther. She made periodic forays into Island society out of the campaign’s necessity, but otherwise kept to herself. She realized now how essential the obligations of caring for Robert had been to her state of mind last year. This year, being alone and thinking only of herself made her restless and anxious. Robert, she now knew, had been a key element of her survival through the island’s hard winter. The realization was not a welcome one.
As the debate grew closer her anxiety grew with it, and Fiona found herself sleepless, restless, and spending more and more time in the company of the Midnight Chewer. She was beginning to feel that it was the best part of the day.
As Fiona was tossing and turning, the midnight creature began its nightly activities. “Maybe,” she thought, just before she fell asleep, “the chewer is lonely, too.” Lulled by familiarity—if not completely consoled—she drifted off to sleep, the sound of crunching in the wall continuing well into the night.
She woke to a dark and misty morning. A swirl of fog engulfed the island, and she could hear the drip of melting snow in the gutters. Deeply elated at this augury of spring, she lay back under the warmth of her comforter and listened.
The debate between candidates for town chairman had been looked forward to eagerly by the entire population of the Island. This was a community that—of necessity—was accustomed to making its own entertainment, and the prospect of any debate would have been highly anticipated. This particular debate, however, would be the highlight of the year. Maybe of a lifetime.
The date had been set for one week before election day. Fiona had done her best to prepare, with the help of Elisabeth, Pali, and, whether she liked it or not, Emily. Emily’s little piece of advice about holding the pen made Fiona somewhat more inclined to pay attention to her counsel, but only somewhat.
She had earnestly studied the questions Elisabeth had prepared for her, practiced answering them in front of the bathroom mirror, tried to anticipate various manifestations of hostility that might throw her off her game, and planned to wear relatively sensible shoes—though still Italian—to reduce the prospect of tripping and falling on her walk to the lectern.
The debate was to be held at Nelsen’s, the scene of many local events, and one which might induce more of the public to attend. Fiona felt as ready as she could reasonably expect to be.
Fiona arrived at Nelsen’s exactly fifteen minutes before the debate was scheduled to begin. She had calculated what she believed was the least possible amount of time to be exposed to anyone’s casually devastating remark, while allowing sufficient time to prevent anxiety about missing the beginning.
Elisabeth had expected to come, but at the last moment Fiona asked her not to.
“You’ve been great. And I really appreciate the support, but you will actually make me more nervous. I think I’ll do better going by myself.”
“Pali and the others will all be there.”
Fiona noted guiltily that Elisabeth was a tiny bit hurt.
“True. But I can’t ask them not to come. They live here. You are—speaking politically, of course—non-essential personnel.”
Elisabeth laughed in spite of herself. “Fine. But I will remind you of this. Just you wait.”
“You can come to my swearing-in ceremony.”
“Try and keep me away. I have already purchased my outfit. And there’s a hat.”
“That will make you inconspicuous.”
“I should hope not.”
Just before the debate was to begin, the town clerk approached Fiona and asked her to join her on the podium. “It’s time for the coin toss.”
Dutifully, Fiona followed, and arrived at the same time as Stella.
Automatically, Fiona put out her hand, and Stella shook it reluctantly, as if worried about contracting some disease.
The coin was flipped, Stella called heads. “It’s heads,” announced the clerk. “Ms. DesRosiers wins the coin toss. Will you speak first or second?”
“First,” said Stella smugly, betraying a lack of strategy that Fiona found surprising.
“We will begin shortly.”
Fiona and Stella seated themselves at narrow, rather rickety folding tables on either side of the lectern, in uncomfortable and rather rickety folding metal chairs. Stella glared at the audience with eyes narrowed, her normal look. Fiona maintained a wholly false air of steady calm, her Emily-prescribed pen in hand as she made meaningless scribbles on the notepad before her.
Lars Olafsen, the outgoing chairman, climbed the platform and faced the audience.
“Welcome, Ladies and Gentlemen, to a debate between our two candidates for Chairman of the Town of Washington Board.”
In a last gesture of public service, Lars had agreed to moderate the debate. He was perfectly at ease in this role, having been in the public eye for most of his adult life, and having accepted several offers of brandy before the event started.
“The rules,” continued Lars, “are simple. Each candidate will make a brief, three-minute opening statement.”
“As opposed,” thought Fiona irreverently, “to a lengthy three-minute statement.” She drew a picture of Stella’s head exploding on her notepad, and quickly flipped the page before anyone might see it.
“Afterward, the moderator will read written questions from this basket, which have been collected from the community in advance, courtesy of the newspaper, The Observer. Each candidate will answer the same question.
“At the end of forty-five minutes, each candidate will have three minutes to make a final statement.”
Lars paused looking around the room at his rapt audience, and then at the two candidates. “Ladies, are there any questions?”
Fiona smiled slightly and shook her head. Stella said “No” rather too loudly.
“Then let us begin. Ms. DesRosiers.”
The audience applauded more out of enthusiasm for the event than for the candidate, but Stella chose to take it personally, nodding with her best impersonation of graciousness.
The graciousness, however, did not last long. Stella, apparently, had never heard advice about the effects of negative campaigning. She lost no time in launching into a long list of invective against her opponent, including the now nearly forgotten goat incidents, accusations of wild parties, and of immoral behavior that was vaguely, but breathlessly implied.
Fiona listened with increasing indignation, but she managed to keep an expression of calm indifference. She was fairly sure that this effort would have earned an Oscar had it been recorded on film.
When her turn came, Fiona did not respond to Stella’s smears and sneers, choosing, instead, to focus on topics that were pertinent to the campaign. When her three minutes were up, she sat down, feeling emboldened.
The questions posed by Lars Olafsen were neither difficult nor hard-hitting, and although Fiona was relieved, the crowd, having expected something more exciting, was disappointed and grew restive. It was fortunate, Fiona thought, that the bar was just in the next room.
At last, it was time for the final three-minute speeches. Once more Stella allowed her bitterness toward Fiona to engulf her. She was just beginning to get into the meat of her subject—Fiona’s arrogance; self-importance; and immorality—when the timer bell went off, and she had to be reminded twice by Lars Olafsen that she should stop.
Fiona now stood and, pen in hand, approached the lectern.
She smiled a trifle nervously and began.
“I suppose I am fortunate that Ms. DesRosiers isn’t in charge of my public relations.”
The audience chuckled at this minor witticism, which served only to incite Stella’s indignation. She glowered from the stage as if she held a personal grudge against everyone in the room, which was quite possibly the case.
Steering well clear of Stella’s personality and her accusations, Fiona made her case for honesty, clarity, and simplicity.
“For the most part, as far as I can see, the Island has managed perfectly well without me for a long time, and I do not intend to impose myself on political life here. I expect to be—as I believe most of you would hope—as unobtrusive and as unnecessary as possible.”
Fiona heard a sound that might have been a growl coming from Stella.
“But when we do need leadership, it’s for the big things, like the harbor dredging. My research tells me that there are a number of organizations that make small harbor grants for precisely this kind of situation. There is no need to believe that we have to fight our way through this problem alone.”
Fiona, now well launched, remembered Emily, and raised her pen for a carefully practiced gesture. She was feeling that things were going extraordinarily well, and thought she could sense the support of the room.
Moving inexorably toward her final summation, she continued. “If I am elected, I will put my experience in research and writing to make every effort into applying for and securing such a grant.”
Now flowing with confidence, Fiona made an extravagant motion of the hand to emphasize her last word, and at its apex of speed and movement, the pen slipped from her fingers. It flew like an arrow, at great speed and in a spectacular arch, straight into the teased—and rather dated—hairdo of the Baptist minister’s wife, about five rows back.
At the moment of impact, the lady gasped and jumped, her hands clutching her hair, unclear about exactly what had landed there. Was it a fly? A wasp? Her alarm grew from her uncertainty. There was a flurry of activity as the other women nearby came to her aid, and attempted—with little cries of alarm and sympathy—to console her and to extricate the pen, which was rather a nice one, from the hairdo. Fiona looked on in petrified horror from the dais.
One elderly gentleman, seated a row ahead of the ladies, turned around to add his assistance, and in his gallantry, knocked over his chair, beginning his own little hubbub of apologies, stumblings, and related activities, and the chaos grew as he, too, was assisted by his nearest neighbors.
The minister’s wife’s hair was by now in extraordinary disarray, as innumerable women plucked at it like hens around an anthill. Others joined in, or stood to see what was happening. This led to shouted instructions to sit down from those in the back, while others began milling around in search of a drink or conversation. It was a matter of moments before the room was engulfed in what an outside observer might have guessed was a minor riot.
The havoc was beyond the capabilities of even Lars Olafsen to restrain. He attempted valiantly to make his voice heard above the noise. “Thank you, Ladies and Gentlemen, and candidates, for attending this important part of our civic life… .” He looked on, bemused, at the furor before him. “And, er… good night.”
Helplessly, he turned to Fiona and shrugged. She smiled wanly back. Feeling that it would be better to be in a less conspicuous location, she gathered her notes with the meaningless scribbles on them, and wandered off, penless, toward the bar. Stella, of course, was somewhere nearby, but Fiona was almost past caring. This election thing had been going on far too long for her taste, and she was heartily sick of it, and of Stella, too.
In the aftermath of the debate, the television in the bar was already playing again in the background, a feature of the establishment that Fiona never particularly enjoyed, although she had to admit that local news always afforded possibilities for entertainment. Endeavoring to forget what had just occurred, she was engaged in various conversations as people approached to discuss the election, when Pali suddenly called out.
“Hey, Eddie! Turn it up! It’s Hillard! He’s on TV!”
All eyes turned to the television set, the bar grew quiet, and the voice of the Green Bay anchorwoman filled the room.
“Local Assemblyman Dean Hillard was arrested in Madison today, on charges of prostitution and possession of illegal substances. Police say that the arrest was part of a sting operation that included a number of prominent public figures.”
Fiona heard a gasp and the sounds of commotion from the back of the room, as a campaign photograph of Hillard accompanied the anchorwoman’s story. But Fiona’s full attention was riveted to the television screen. This was being treated as a major story.
The video shifted to a reporter on the scene, and continued with an interview of the spokesman from the local branch of the FBI, who described the seriousness of the charges. Then came the images of Dean Hillard being helped into the back of an official car, his head carefully protected from hitting the roof by the officers who held him by the arms.
A stunned silence fell over the crowd at Nelsen’s. No one had ever known someone targeted in an FBI sting. It was as good as one of those big city crime shows. Eyes began to turn toward the back of the room where increasingly urgent whispers came from the small cluster of Stella’s followers as they tried, unsuccessfully, to escort her from the room.
“I never liked that guy,” said Jake in a carrying voice. “Always thought he was a scum bag.”
Jake’s sentiments were echoed—though more discreetly—throughout the room.
But the story was not yet over. There was a shift in the televised scene, and the camera cut to footage of a shiny, red, vintage car, shown abandoned in an official lot. Suddenly there was a shriek from the back of the room that momentarily stunned the crowd.
“MY CAR! THEY’VE GOT MY CAR!”
Stella had broken away from her assistants and began elbowing her way through the crowd toward the television set, as if somehow, being closer might enable her to reach into the screen.
“Look!” said someone. “It is! It’s Stella’s car!”
The news set the room into a furious buzz of excitement. There could be little doubt. The FBI agent was standing in front of a shiny, red, vintage convertible with a sneering grill. It certainly looked exactly like Stella’s car, and since it had been in Hillard’s possession, it must surely be hers. The agent was saying things like civil asset, and forfeiture, but the meaning was clear. The car, having been part of a crime, was now the property of law enforcement.
“They can’t take it! It’s mine! They can’t take my car!”
Stella did not seem to care that she was being observed by her voting public. She was beside herself with rage, her face mangled by it. Fiona stole one look and turned away from the public display of such raw emotion. There was no reason she should feel even the smallest shred of sympathy for Stella, and yet, her anguish was painful to see. That Stella’s feelings should be expressed for the car rather than the nephew was, Fiona thought, an interesting detail.
The crowd fell silent as they struggled to hear the rest of the story with the sound of Stella’s howling in the background. A group of women—more out of consideration for others than compassion for Stella—escorted her outside to the relative privacy of the parking lot. Cries of “My car! My car! They have no right!” came floating into the building each time the door was opened. An unusual number of patrons found the need to go outside for a quick smoke or to retrieve some forgotten necessity from their cars, and only just happened to be able to witness the drama going on in the parking lot.
Inside, the volume in the room increased.
“They’ve impounded it!”
“What does that mean?”
“Will she get it back?”
Fiona sat still, slow to fully comprehend what had just happened. As the realization dawned, people began coming up to her, slapping her on the back, and offering to buy her drinks. The congratulations flowed as freely as if she had already won the election. Everyone, it seemed, had come to the same conclusion: Dean Hillard would no longer be a factor in Island politics.
Some hours later the crowd had diminished, but the excitement still seemed to hang in the air. Fiona had long since excused herself and gone home.
Pali leaned over the bar to talk with Eddie before heading out.
“Well,” he said quietly, “that didn’t play out in quite the way I’d imagined.”
Eddie nodded thoughtfully. He was marveling over the workings of Fate.
“No,” he said, his eyes sparkling. “It was way better.”
He became suddenly serious, and lowered his voice.
“But we’re not out of the woods yet. With Hillard out of the picture, Stella won’t have the guarantee of state funding to dredge the harbor. But can we get the word out? There’s only a week left.”
Pali shrugged. “Well, half the damn Island was here tonight. If that’s not getting the word out, I don’t know what is.” He paused, reflecting.
“Fiona made some good points, but the harbor problem isn’t really resolved.”
“No,” said Eddie. “It’s not.”
He stopped, thinking it all through. “So somehow—and damned if I know how—we got our demons, even though they were played by federal agents instead of elderly choristers.” He shook his head slowly as he contemplated the chain of events. “It’s almost as if we made it come true by imagining it. Hardly seems possible.”
Pali nodded, laughing. “Stella may not be the one who got dragged away to Hell, but it works just as well.” He took a last swallow of beer before heading out. “You’re right, though. It’s almost too good to be true.” As he was about to head out the door he turned back, his face serious. “Let’s just hope it’s enough to win the election.”
Fiona woke to the sound of a Skype call coming in from her laptop. Only one person in the world used Skype to reach her, and she leaped from bed to her desk instantly awake.
The strange glunking sound—like an electronic frog—responded to her click, and there was Pete, his face slightly distorted by the camera.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi,” said Fiona, trying without success to tame her sleep hair with one hand.
“Sorry to call in the middle of the night, but it was now or never.”
“I like now.”
“Me too.”
“Where are you?”
“Tsingdao.”
“Have you been arrested yet?”
“Don’t even joke about it. Nothing in China is private, you know. Have you been elected yet?”
“Not yet. But there’s been a development.”