Chapter Fourteen

DAD SUGGESTING THAT another woman wanted me unsettled me on several levels. I put Marin’s business card in my pocket, but as soon as I was back to my own truck, I drove to find Charity. I wanted to tell her about Ricky. I wanted her to assure me that what happened to Ricky was a random thing and no one here in Bend could possibly have done it. I wanted her to tell me we were safe. Hell, I wanted the moon and to be kissing Charity by the light of that moon. Maybe it would stop me from thinking about Ricky—that he might die like Becky did; and somebody was out hunting queers.

Well praise the lord and pass the hotdish. Charity’s little red truck was parked in the drive by Grind’s tan sedan. The Grinds’ tidy white two-story house stood like something out of a story book. The grass had been cut, the front flower beds were weedless and mulched. A cross hung on the oak front door, visible through the beveled oval glass opening of the storm door. I scanned the yard for Charity’s dad. I chanced being run off by him if he found me there.

Pastor Grind was occupied, thankfully. He didn’t take time to come over and chastise me for being there or warn me against seeing Charity or condemn me for being queer or just being. He sat on a lawn chair with his back to me, oblivious as he jabbered with another man, vaguely familiar, but his face was obscured by the pole of the table umbrella. I couldn’t identify him. Mrs. Grind told me to wait on the outside porch and she would get Charity for me. From where I sat I heard bits and pieces of Grind’s conversation with the faceless man.

“You’ve heard about my campaign I assume? I’m sure you have. I’m endorsed by the Traditional Party and mother approved.” His voice trailed off, but then he said, “But I have bigger ambition than that.”

Words and fragmented sentences filtered back to where I waited for Charity. I heard something like, “If we are going to take this country back…Godly men…purification of America through…word of God… I want…this district... Allister, my campaign wants you…in Bend, Minnesota. Congratulations.”

Round two involved trying to make sense of Pastor Grind’s words from that distance. “President of… I don’t know what to say.” I stepped back from the door and peeked at Pastor Grind. He rubbed his neck. I couldn’t tell if he was excited or fatigued.

“Allister.” The man leaped to his feet. I ducked back nearer the door. I still couldn’t see his face, but he spoke louder. “Of course, you’ll think about it. Don’t take too long, you’re the committee’s first choice and we’re willing to waive half the usual commitment contribution, but there is a Baptist fellow in St. Wendell who received nearly as many votes as you did, and he didn’t seem to need the waivered fees. But, as I said previously, you’re the committee’s first choice.”

“Baptist?” Grind spoke louder now and even with his back to me I caught most of what he said. “What is the contribution? What’s involved in being president of a local chapter of your campaign?”

In more whispered tones the man continued. I strained to hear what they were saying. Then I heard the man say something like, “Your job is to…a vote for me is a vote for God, family and the values of America.”

“When you say meetings…”

I missed a lot of what they said but perked up when I heard the other man say, “Be it evil or a threat to democracy in this community, your church, or own home, I will vanquish it.”

I imagined my senior picture in the dictionary next to the entries of this man’s notion of evil.

Flat against the siding of the house, I passed the picture window to get a closer look. Pastor Grind nodded like a bobble-headed dog in the back window of a car. I’d heard him preach the exact stuff the man prattled on about, but perhaps Pastor Grind had never been made a president.

The man extricated himself from the lawn chair. “Well, certainly if you need more convincing of the world’s need for God, I could drop by some printed materials. I just thought an experienced man of the word like you wouldn’t hesitate to heed the call of Jesus and be a leader. If we have misjudged your commitment I’m sincerely sorry. I can withdraw your nomination.”

“No, no, don’t do that. I am very committed.” Pastor Grind searched his pockets and pulled out his checkbook. I imagined Grind’s picture by the evils of pride and gullibility in that man’s dictionary. “What was the fee you spoke about?”

“A mere five hundred dollars.”

Holy crap. Who would want to have to pay five hundred dollars to be president of anything?

As the man pocketed the check he passed a paper to Grind with a list of what he called talking points for his campaign.

I scooted back to my original position by the door. I swallowed hard and knocked for a second time.

Mrs. Grind came to the door again. She was red faced and I suspect she lied to me. She expressed her apologies. Charity was not home. She had left earlier with a friend and Mrs. Grind had forgotten. She’d give her a message that I stopped by when she saw her again. Mrs. Grind closed the door before I could respond. I hustled to my truck as the men walked closer to the house and left.