The headquarters itself was emblazoned with red, white, and blue. Large color posters of Rusty Burkhart in various poses with his rifle covered the downstairs windows. Tinny speakers played a really annoying country- western version of ‘Yankee Doodle Dandy.’ You wouldn’t think Burkhart would have much use for dandies, Yankee or otherwise.
Out front were three vendors: one giving away hot dogs, one giving away ice cream cones, and one giving away an assortment of soft drinks. Right now, even with the goodies being given away, foot traffic was thin and none of the pedestrians seemed interested. The silver Porsche was in a PRIVATE PARKING slot on the far side of the building.
When I walked in, a pretty teenaged girl in a red, white, and blue sweater rushed up to me and said, ‘Just sign this pledge, please. We want to get a list of people who are real Americans.’ Even her dark, curly locks were merry, bouncing away on her head.
I took the pledge card and read it. ‘So unless I believe in every one of these points I’m not a real American.’
Merriment and enthusiasm died in her violet eyes. She really was a beauty. ‘Well, I’d just say that if you don’t believe in these points it’s kind of funny you’d come here. If you’re press you have to make an appointment first.’
‘I’m not press.’
Confusion and anger spoiled her prettiness. She scorned me silently then said, ‘Mrs Hawthorne, would you come over here, please?’ Her voice had gone up a notch. She sounded desperate.
Mrs Hawthorne was a bulky woman of maybe fifty, dressed in an expensive and flattering gray tweed suit. She had her smile all ready for me by the time she reached us.
‘Hello there,’ she said to me. To the girl she said: ‘How may I help you, Melanie?’
I wondered if she’d ever been a flight attendant. Her words had that syrupy, grating falsity.
Melanie nodded to me the way she would to a pile of dung. ‘He doesn’t want to sign our pledge card. The one about being an American.’
Mrs Hawthorne made the flight attendant schmooze even more syrupy. I could imagine what she was really thinking: Everything’s fine. You’re embarrassing me and headquarters, Melanie. How many fucking times do I have to tell you
NOT EVERYBODY HAS TO SIGN THE FUCKING CARD?
What she said, of course, was, ‘Melanie. Now we’ve talked about this,’ smiling at me as she spoke. ‘Signing the card is optional. Some people don’t like to sign anything.’
‘Anybody who won’t sign this card isn’t a real American. Mr Burkhart said that himself.’
Let me get my hands around your throat, you little bitch, Mrs Hawthorne had to be thinking. Her face was tight now and her eyes blazed. She was probably going to reassign the ardent Melanie to making sure that all the fax machines and printers had plenty of paper.
‘Well, he didn’t put it exactly like that, Melanie. I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you go and see if Phil needs any help with the mail?’
‘I don’t like Phil. He never pays attention when we stand for the national anthem.’
Mrs Hawthorne and I would never become fast friends but at the moment I felt sorry for her. Every campaign of either stripe has volunteers who can’t be controlled. Windows get smashed at headquarters; door-to-door canvassing gets turned into arguments with citizens who made the mistake of opening the door; workers say stupid things in TV interviews. There are ops who encourage this. More of them on the other side by far but we have a few of our own. Mrs Hawthorne struck me as a pro at what she was doing. I admired her craft if not her candidate.
‘I’ll talk to Phil about that. Now why don’t you go help him, all right?’
Melanie pointed to me. ‘Be careful, Mrs Hawthorne. I think he’s a reporter trying to sneak in here.’ She stormed off.
‘I’m sorry about all this, Mr-’
‘Ketchum. Michael Ketchum.’
‘I’m sorry about this, Mr Ketchum. Once in a while our volunteers get a little too enthusiastic. Melanie has a tendency to go overboard.’ She raised a hand upon which had been bestowed a wedding ring that would easily pay for a year’s tuition at an Ivy League college. She indicated with a sweep of her hand how busy and industrious everybody was. And they were. I counted seventeen people working the phones, reminding people of why they should vote Burkhart and making sure that they planned to vote. And offering rides if needed. This was the ground war and it had damned well better be good. This one looked all too good. ‘Did you want some information on Mr Burkhart?’ The flight attendant smile. She was heavyset but the pleasant face had kept its charm. ‘Some people still haven’t made up their minds. So they stop in to pick up brochures. They take them home and study them with their spouses. We believe that if you put us alongside our opponent we’ll look very good. Mr Burkhart was never a playboy, thank goodness.’
The little dig. It’s almost impossible to resist. You’re in a war. You’ve convinced yourself that the person you’re running against takes calls from Satan at least four times a week. The mere mention of his or her name unhinges you and your knife appears in your hand. This is all internal. In public you need to present yourself as rational and professional.
‘I was wondering if I could speak with Mrs Burkhart.’
The narrowed eyes, the second-thought reassessment. She had to be thinking that maybe Melanie was correct after all. Maybe I was a reporter trying to sneak past the guards to try to humiliate Mrs Burkhart in an interview.
‘Do you know Mrs Burkhart?’
‘Not really. But she was taking some photographs and I wondered if I could get some copies of them.’
‘Some photographs? I’m afraid I don’t understand.’
She appeared in the rear of the factory-like room. Even from a distance she was as imperious as a Hollywood goddess.
‘Mrs Burkhart!’ I called and started moving fast up the center of the aisle.
‘Please, Mr Ketchum. You shouldn’t-’
But I was pounding up the aisle in long strides. Mrs Burkhart was paying no attention. She hadn’t heard me call her name above the din.
When I reached her, she was just about to walk through the door she’d just come out of. ‘Mrs Burkhart! Mrs Burkhart!’
She turned. She was a gorgeous, golden animal kept gorgeous by an army of men and women whose job was to help her defy age and fashion. Her face had the wisdom of carnality in it, that immortal knowingness of how to please and control men. Even the brown eyes, no doubt courtesy of contacts, had a golden glow to them. Those eyes assaulted you. Today she wore an emerald suit of silky material that swept the long, lean lines of her body with a true majesty. In addition to sexuality she also radiated strength and health. I wondered if she’d try to beat the shit out of me. I was sure she had it in her to try.
‘Is there something I can do for you?’ She had to be careful. I was a peon but maybe I was a connected peon and maybe my connection wouldn’t appreciate her pissing on me. Of course she couldn’t quite keep the disdain from her tone.
I got close to her and said, ‘I saw you taking pictures of James Waters. I’d like to know why you were doing that.’
She touched her hand to her handsome bosom. Before she could speak, Mrs Hawthorne, breathless, arrived.
‘I tried to stop him, Mrs Burkhart. But he got ahead of me.’
Mrs Burkhart’s eyes scathed the well-fed body of her employee and said, ‘I suppose you did your best, Mrs Hawthorne. You should get into that exercise class I keep telling you about. I go three times a week and I don’t even need it.’
Mrs Hawthorne’s eyes showed real pain. Humiliation, I guessed. This was the second time I’d been forced to feel sorry for her and I didn’t even like her.
‘So it’s all right if he stays?’ she said.
‘I’m sure I can handle this, Mrs Hawthorne. Thank you so much for your usual help, though.’
Mrs Hawthorne, whipped, looked at me then lowered her head, turned around, and headed back to the
