no sense of me whatsoever.
He was introduced by a gentleman who identified himself as the club president, and upon my hearing Charlie’s biography, I was also reminded of how little I knew him; as the summary of his degrees and accomplishments gained momentum, it occurred to me that I didn’t have the slightest idea what his job was, or whether gearing up to run for Congress was a job by itself. He had graduated from Princeton University in 1968, I learned, and worked from ’68 to ’73 in the hospitality industry out west. Then he’d gone on to the Wharton School of the University of Pennsylvania, graduating in 1975. (
I thought.) For the last two years, he’d been executive vice president of Blackwell Meats, where he oversaw product management and sales (so he did have a job) and was currently making his home in Houghton. But wait a second—Houghton?
Charlie stood before the podium and adjusted the microphone. “Those of us in Wisconsin’s Sixth District are a strong citizenry,” he said. “We are a self-reliant people, a salt-of-the-earth people, proud but not prideful, forward- looking but respectful of the past.”
I turned my head to the left, scanning the faces in my row. How could anyone mistake this for anything other than a campaign speech? Not that, as a campaign speech, it was bad. He wasn’t electrifying, but he seemed confident and intelligent, and—I could admit it now—he was remarkably good-looking. “It is no secret that we face challenges,” he was saying. “Our state needs more jobs, more comprehensive health care, fewer expenses for working families. These have long been priorities for all Blackwells, and they are important priorities for me.”
When he was finished, questions came from a few men (except for two grandmotherly types, the audience was all men), but it was a typical midwestern audience, polite and deferential. Even the most potentially confrontational question—“How about if you drum up some jobs by opening a Blackwell factory here in Waupun?”—seemed to be meant as a joke or was, at any rate, met with laughter. I stayed in my seat until the lodge had cleared out, leaving only Charlie, the club president who’d introduced him, another man who began folding up the chairs, and a younger man who was standing next to Charlie. From my purse, I pulled the book I was reading—
which I had started the night before—and after a few minutes, the young man approached me. When he was still a few feet away, he stuck out his hand. “Hank Ucker. You must be Marian the Librarian.”
“Alice Lindgren,” I said, standing to accept his handshake. I didn’t acknowledge the Marian reference—I heard them often, usually from men and especially from men I’d just met. The references tended, of course, to be accompanied by allusions to buns, glasses, and frigidity that concealed sexual wildness.
Hank Ucker gestured toward my Updike novel. “I’ve always enjoyed a good animal story.”
In fact,
was about a man in Pennsylvania whose marriage has foundered, but I did not correct him. Hank Ucker was shorter than Charlie, an inch or so taller than I was, with a receding hairline, intelligent and slightly squinty eyes behind tortoiseshell glasses, a large upturned nose, and the beginning of a double chin. Although I assumed he, too, was about thirty, he was one of those men who looked like he’d been born middle-aged; indeed, over the decades to come, his appearance would change little, and in his fifties, he was almost baby-faced. “A fine speech on the part of our friend Blackwell,” he said. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Will you be working on his campaign?” I asked.
Mock-oblivious, Hank Ucker said, “What campaign?”
I hesitated.
“I’m kidding,” he said. “Although we’re keeping a lid on it for now, the better to make a bang when it’s official. You haven’t been married before, have you?”
I blinked at him.
“I ask because you’re so beautiful,” he added, and the absence of any flirtatious energy behind the comment was striking. “I’d imagine a woman like you has many suitors.”
“Are
married, Mr. Ucker?”
“Hank, please, and yes, I am.” He held up the back of his left hand and wiggled his fingers, showing off a gold band. “The Mrs. and I just celebrated our fifth anniversary.”
“Congratulations.”
“It’s an institution I highly recommend, or maybe you’ve experienced firsthand its myriad pleasures?” He said this jovially—he
jovial, he was practically cherubic—but he also came across as entirely calculating. In a tone just as cheerful as his, I said, “I’m
certain I haven’t been married,” and this was when Charlie came up behind Hank, setting both hands on Hank’s shoulders for a three-second massage.
“Don’t listen to a word this man says,” Charlie said, and then I could tell that he was deciding whether to kiss me on the cheek, trying to figure out if it would be too forward or public. Instead, he took my hand and squeezed it. Slowly, not showily, I pulled my hand away from his.
As the three of us began walking toward the front doors of the lodge, I said, “I enjoyed your speech.”
Charlie shrugged. “Could have been better, could have been worse. Might’ve helped if the audience wasn’t
