systemic racism.” Aubrey’s eyebrows climbed. That was interesting. “Huh, okay, well he claims to be an independent thinker and voter because, and I’m reading a quote, “Sitting in the middle of the road gives a person full view of two lanes thereby making it easier to watch both parties fuck things up.” Our eyes met over the old stick shift I was forcing into fourth gear. Bettina Sue got a little stubborn about fourth on occasion. “He sounds like a real ass.”
“Oh, I agree with that assessment. He was a real ass back when we were ten. Can you find out online why he’s come back to Cedarburg? If he was doing so well out on the West Coast why would he uproot his livelihood to come back here? A job in a little county newspaper seems shifty for such a big personality.”
“Hmmm.” He sucked loudly as he perused the internet. I stared straight ahead at the big chain link gate we were easing up to with the shuddering rumble of a missed gear. Aubrey tossed me a questioning look. I waved a hand at Bettina Sue. “Not much really. There is a mention that his mother died during the summer. Pancreatic cancer.”
“Ouch,” I murmured, knowing how hard that particular battle was. My grandfather on my father’s side had given his best to fight it and had lost the horrible battle quickly. We’d flown his cremated remains back to Wales when I was sixteen.
“He has a couple of books listed with links on his website. Want me to call over to Beth at the library and see if she has them on her shelves?”
“Yes, please. I’d like to read them. Maybe get into his head a little bit better now that he’s here and lining up his sights on me, my budgets, and improvement plans.”
“Will do.” Aubrey was already dialing. The man knew me too well. We eased to a stop at the gate where I tooted my horn. Ben Willy, the foreman of the facility, came jogging out of the small cement building where all the bells and whistles were monitored. He was grinning widely as he threw the gate open to let us in. I returned the smile, parked, and got out of the car. Thankfully, the wind was in our favor, and it was cooling down. I’d been here in the dead of summer on the wrong side of the wind, and the smell wasn’t a pretty one. I handed Ben my shake, saving myself hours of gastric upset later, and the three of us stood there under a bright fall sun, talking about shit. Literally. Talk about leading the glamorous life.
Four days later, on one of those gloriously warm October days that those of us in Pennsylvania like to call “Indian Summer,” I was taking my lunch break in our bucolic little village green. Seated at a small picnic table about twenty feet away from the recently scrubbed stone statue of Poe Dupree, the World War I hero who went on to achieve a modicum of fame in the silent pictures. Seems Poe had a bit part in a Lillian Gish film. Played a butler or some other kind of one-line servant. Cedarburg had a rather minuscule list of famous people to brag up.
I was chewing on a bite of a tuna fish sandwich while reading The View from the Verge, Gideon’s first book that had been published when he’d been in his early twenties, and enjoying the hum of a few tiny bees that had warmed up as well as the sun on the back of my neck. The wind rustled through the oak trees that lined the green. Several mothers with small children were having a meeting of some sort a few tables over. I suspected they wanted to talk to me about something, but I was tired of talking. Knowing a politician that didn’t want to talk was akin to a dog that didn’t want a T-bone steak, yet I still kept my eyes on my book. I loved my constituents dearly but sometimes I’m just emotionally exhausted. And today was one of those days. It had been a long week filled with dead ends in the search for stipends and/or grants from the state.
It rankled to no end that we’d been passed over yet again for road and bridge work grants for next summer. All my calls to the governor had fallen on deaf ears. He’d been genuinely sorry to say no