State of Rebellion

Dan stood to take the podium, acknowledging Matilda’s introduction with a “thank you” amid a smattering of light applause, which died quickly as he surveyed the room and began to address the assembled ladies.

“It’s funny what crosses your mind when preparing to speak. As Mrs. Westegaard was mentioning my forthcoming novel, Voices in My Blood, I flashed back to my senior year English class, taught, of course, by none other than Mrs. Westegaard,” he said, smiling toward Jackie Healy, who had made the earlier comment. “Most of us will remember Mrs. Westegaard as a teacher who cared, who pushed hard, and perhaps most of all, for me at least, who molded the raw clay she was given and tried to form the best possible crucible from the limited elements available.

“Many of us,” he said, turning to look at Matilda, “owe a great deal to Mrs. Westegaard, and likely, as in my case, we have taken it for granted. The lessons learned in her class while we prayed for the bell to ring have come to mind more than once over the years. Perhaps, only on occasion, mind you, I didn’t always pay as much attention as I should have, but somehow, somewhere, the lessons seeped in.” Dan pointed to his head. “Later in life, certainly in law school, the lessons resurfaced, having been retained as a result of the caliber of the teacher.” He looked toward her again with a bright smile. “It seems, Mrs. Westegaard, that you taught us in spite of ourselves. I, for one, would like to take this occasion to thank you publicly.”

Dan began the applause, prompting most of the women in the room to stand and join him in his spontaneous tribute. Matilda Westegaard remained seated, a hint of moisture in her eyes, but with her composure intact and a smile fixed on her face as she glanced about the room. As the applause died down, the ladies resumed their seats.

One of the women in the back of the room spoke up. “Mr. Rawlings, I want you to tell us why we should elect someone who still believes the bullshit being put out by Washington.”

Instantly, Matilda Westegaard was on her feet again, standing behind the podium. “We’ll have none of that in this room. Do you hear me?” she said, her voice tinged with anger. “This is America. . at least for the present. And we will honor our traditions of respecting and listening to other points of view, at least while I’m president of this club.” She then took her seat again, and the room was quiet.

“Thank you, Mrs. Westegaard, but the questioner has raised a valid point. Why should you elect someone who believes we should remain a part of the United States of America? And who is right? Who’s wrong? In fact is there a right or wrong in this question of states’ rights? Perhaps,” Dan continued, “the lessons from our school days gave us the ability to tell right from wrong, good from evil, and to discern the essence of a situation in black-and-white terms. But over the ensuing decades, the lines seem to have blurred. The ‘anything goes’ philosophy now seems acceptable, and in some cases preferred. How do we respond when we disagree with something that will affect our lives, but because of political correctness, we’re not allowed to express our disagreement? How do we apply those lessons we learned from the previous generation to life today, when the variations between two or more issues do not contain merely right or wrong. .”

And so Dan Rawlings continued the basic format that he had developed into his formal presentation, which he had given at least twice daily for the previous three weeks. A Republican by party affiliation, Dan had firmly established himself a Unionist-a label from Civil War days-which the press had pinned on him. Each group to which he spoke, even those that supported his campaign to keep California in the Union, bombarded him with examples of oppressive federal intrusion and Washington’s increasing intervention into state’s rights. Dan did not deny any of these allegations. Indeed, he agreed with most of them while maintaining that the way to correct them was not to leave the fold, but to continue to push for change from the inside. Unfortunately, his was a platform that had been preached by legislative candidates for nearly two centuries, and one from which a tired electorate sought refuge.

The field crew lay in the shade of the few trees remaining around the barley fields south of Twin Falls, Idaho. The tired laborers were resting after lunch, trying not to think about the even hotter afternoon session ahead as they prepared for Spring planting. In an attempt to keep the buzzing and biting insects at bay, Carlos Domingo had shielded his face with a magazine as he tried to take a brief nap. Not to be outdone, a co-worker reached over and grabbed the magazine, tearing several pages out of the middle to place over his own face.

Not wishing to cause any more trouble than his limited remaining energy could handle, Carlos ignored the theft and sat up, beginning to flip through the tattered pages. Unable to read most of the English, he concentrated on the pictures, casually turning pages, waiting for the field boss to blow the whistle that would signal another five backbreaking hours of stooped labor. When his eyes landed on the picture of an open truck, with dozens of uniformed police and several suit-and-tie men standing around looking in, he froze. Turning the page sideways to get a better look, Carlos felt the instant urge to vomit, his stomach curling within him as he came to a recognition of the face before him. He quickly looked around, jumped up to find the field boss, showed him the picture, and asked him to read the caption underneath.

“Hey, Carlos, you better get some more rest. It’s hotter than Hades out here, and it’s gonna be sweat city this afternoon.”

“Por favor,” he persisted. “What say these words?”

“Well, it says ‘Gruesome remains discovered in southern California desert.’” Summarizing, he continued, “Mostly, it tells of a truckload of illegal Mexican immigrants who were locked in a truck and died of heat exposure. Sixteen people died.”

“Who is this?” Carlos asked, pointing to a well-dressed Mexican man, standing next to a gringo wearing khaki pants and an open-neck shirt.

“Let’s see-says here it’s General Rodrigo Cordoba, head of the Mexican federal police. Good thing you came over a different way, Carlos. Looks like those poor folk roasted to death.”

The field boss looked at his watch, handed the pages back to Carlos, and blew the whistle. Turning away and stumbling back into the field, Carlos felt tears rolling down his face. He considered racing back to Mexico, but he had nothing left back there. Nearly all his pay for two months had gone to Carmen to purchase her “guaranteed” passage across the border. She had gotten across all right, only to be left to roast in the California desert. This general, this Cordoba, he would have the answers. He would know what happened. And the man from MexiCal-the man to whom Carmen had given the money-he, too, would know.

In early April, in Davis, California, a small gathering, unworthy of statewide news coverage, had reason to celebrate. Daniel Rumsey Rawlings, special election candidate for California’s Eighth Legislative District, along with a half-dozen or so campaign workers, received a phone call from the state election office. Rawlings had received fifty four percent of the popular vote. Twenty minutes later his opponent called to concede. The national release of Voices in My Blood six weeks earlier with attendant media hoopla, combined with the publisher’s marketing strategy, had resulted in excellent sales for the book, a twelfth-place listing on the New York Times bestseller list by the end of the second week, and an eight-point jump in ratings for the Rawlings campaign.

Nicole Bentley, who had made the trip from Walnut Creek to attend this small gathering, found a private moment with Dan as he stepped outside to get a breath of fresh air and quietly savor his newfound direction. She leaned in and gently took his face in her hands. A smile on her face, she reached up and kissed him. As they broke their embrace, Dan looked at her for a moment. Nothing was said as he wrapped his arms around her, kissing her firmly, continuing to hold her in his arms in private, silent celebration, feeling no need to verbalize their feelings. After several long moments, Nicole lifted her head from Dan’s chest.

“Well, now that the special election is over, what’s next?”

Dan tilted his head back, looked up at the dark night sky, a long, slow exhale escaping his lips. Then, looking back at Nicole, he kissed her again.

“I have a feeling it’s not over at all. In fact, I feel it’s barely started.”

“What do you mean?”

“As happy an occasion as this is for me. . well, to put it bluntly, I’m in, but California’s out. It’s only been political posturing so far. Now sides will form, and bloodshed may well be inevitable. I’m joining an elected body that is severely divided and faced with an impossible task.”

“A civil war?” she said, looking up at him. “You’re not serious.”