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Election Day - Part Three

By Porter Shreve

"Word's traveling fast about your school," Cleo said. "And not just from people at Our Lady. You might be hearing from Dawn's older sister, Brie. Watch out, she's a real wild child. She got booted from Pilgrim Hill for sending notes -- you wouldn't believe what they said -- to one of her teachers."

Cleo paused and I thought of asking her about the notes, but her face had turned scarlet and I didn't want to embarrass her further.

"Even a lot of normal kids are frustrated," she continued, "because most of the schools around here just don't get it. You'd think the Civil Rights Movement or Women's Lib never happened. We use old-fashioned textbooks, and forget about taking courses like World Religions or Native American myths or getting to read books you care about. I brought "Forever" by Judy Blume to Our Lady one day -- it's about a senior in high school who goes on the pill -- and I was reading the book in the library when one of the nuns snatched it from me. She probably took it back to her bedroom," Cleo leaned in to whisper. "Anyway, I think it's so cool what your family is doing. A school where you can study whatever you want. Why can't they all be that way?"

I couldn't tell Cleo that we were out of money and completely disorganized, so I went in the opposite direction and said we'd received a huge grant -- which of course hadn't happened nor likely would -- and that we had a fabulously wealthy aunt who'd left us a pile of cash. "Her husband was Henry Ford's right-hand man," I said, though in fact Uncle Les had been in sales and detested Henry Ford. "He designed a lot of the great cars. You know: the Corvette, the Mustang." I couldn't remember if Corvette and Mustang were even made by Ford. But then, to my relief, I felt a tug on my sleeve and there was Molly.

But instead of bailing me out she sniffed the air and said, "Are you wearing Dad's cologne?"

"No." I blushed, then stepped back so Cleo wouldn't catch the scent. "My sister doesn't know what she's talking about."

"What are you guys talking about?" Molly asked.

"Daniel was saying that you have a rich aunt." Cleo wore the same bemused look that I'd seen on Bailey's face. It was the first glimpse I'd had of her even vaguely resembling her father.

"Aunt Natalia wasn't that rich," Molly said matter-of-factly. "Mom thinks we need to save the money in case of emergency."

I tried futilely to correct her. "Uncle Les had a special account," I lied. I hated for Cleo to think of my family as pathetic, a bunch of Midwestern hayseeds unable to get by on our own. "It's the school account. There's a ton in there."

"I've never heard of it." Molly crossed her arms. "Mom would have told me."

Years later when Cleo's name would come up I'd ask Molly why she went out of her way that night to call my bluff and make me look foolish, but all she remembered from Bailey's house was what happened afterward, and how, in this actual mansion, the kind of place where she'd always imagined herself, she felt small and inconsequential.

A chorus of boos resounded from the television room, and we went over to check in on the election coverage. Carter had just won Missouri, and though he was expected to lose the West he had locked up nearly the entire South, including the biggest prize of all: Florida. Now, with sixty percent of precincts reporting he led by three percentage points in Pennsylvania, and was in a dead heat in Ohio. To win the election all he had to do was capture one of these two states.

"Christ!" Bailey said, and the crowd quieted. He'd been right up close to the television, but now he turned and headed back toward us.

A charge of anticipation ran through me, the like of which I hadn't felt since the closing minutes of Game Seven of the 1973 ABA Championship when George McGinnis and the Pacers were putting away the Kentucky Colonels. But I knew I had to bottle up my excitement.

Bailey stopped and zeroed in on me. "Are you ready for four years of tax-and-spend?" he asked.

Cleo answered for me. "He doesn't pay taxes, Dad."

"That's right. And his family doesn't pay rent either."

I wanted to say Yes we do or speak up for my father, but I froze.

After Bailey had continued on past us, Cleo said, "Don't listen to him. He's just a sore loser."

I remembered my mother once telling me that in my father's sophomore year at Wisconsin he and Bailey both vied for the starting third-base position. My father had won the job and gone on to lead the team in every batting category, while Bailey languished at the end of the bench. It seemed as if that competition nearly twenty years before had never gone away.