“Oh, yes,” Ngo said. He spoke lightly, as if it were a matter of no consequence. “What my teacher will say when I am handing in such a composition, I don’t know.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Probably he will say, ‘Ngo, you are not ready for the American Way.’ But 1 will say the truth of what I feel. What did you think, Johnny?” His eyes moved to the bruise, then moved away.
“I think he’s dangerous,” Johnny said. “I ... I know he’s dangerous.”
“Do you?” Ngo remarked. “Yes, I believe you do know it. Your fellow New Hampshires, they see him as an engaging clown. They see him the way many of this world are seeing this black man, Idi Amin Dada. But you do not.”
“No,” Johnny said. “But to suggest he should be killed ...”
“Politically killed,” Ngo said, smiling. “I am only suggesting he should be politically killed.”
“And if he can’t be politically killed?”
Ngo smiled at Johnny. He unfolded his index finger, cocked his thumb, and then snapped it down. “Bam,” he said softly. “Bam, bam, bam.”
“No,” Johnny said, surprised at the hoarseness in his own voice “That’s never an answer. Never.”
“No? I thought it was an answer you Americans used quite often.” Ngo picked up the handle of the red wagon. “I must be planting these weeds, Johnny. So long, man.”
Johnny watched him go, a small man in suntans and moccasins, pulling a wagonload of baby pines. He disappeared around the corner of the house.
No. Killing only sows more dragon’s teeth. I believe that. I believe it with all my heart.
3
On the first Tuesday in November, which happened to be the second day in the month, Johnny Smith sat slumped in the easy chair of his combined kitchen-living room and watched the election returns. Chancellor and Brinkley were featuring a large electronic map that showed the results of the presidential race in a color-code as each state came in. Now, at nearly midnight, the race between Ford and Carter looked very close. But Carter would win; Johnny had no doubt of it.
Greg Stillson had also won.
His victory had been extensively covered on the local news-breaks, but the national reporters had also taken some note of it, comparing his victory to that of James Longley, Maine’s independent governor, two years before.
Chancellor said, “Late polls showing that the Republican candidate and incumbent Harrison Fisher was closing the gap were apparently in error; NBC predicts that Stillson, who campaigned in a construction worker’s hard hat and on a platform that included the proposal that all pollution be sent into outer space, ended up with forty-six percent of the vote, to Fisher’s thirty-one percent. In a district where the Democrats have always been poor relations, David Bowes could only poll twenty-three percent of the vote.”
“And so,” Brinkley said, “it’s hot dog time down in New Hampshire ... for the next two years, at least.” He and Chancellor grinned. A commercial came on. Johnny didn’t grin. He was thinking of tigers.
The time between the Trimbull rally and election night had been busy for Johnny. His work with Chuck had continued, and Chuck continued to improve at a slow but steady pace. He had taken two summer courses, passed them both, and retained his sports eligibility. Now, with the football season just ending, it looked very much as if he would be named to the Gannett newspaper chain’s All New England team. The careful, almost ritualistic visits from the college scouts had already begun, but they would have to wait another year; the decision had already been made between Chuck and his father that he would spend a year at Stovington Prep, a good private school in Vermont. Johnny thought Stovington would probably be delirious at the news. The Vermont school regularly fielded great soccer teams and dismal football teams. They would probably give him a full scholarship and a gold key to the girl’s dorm in the bargain. Johnny felt that it had been the right decision. After it had been reached and the pressure on Chuck to take the SATs right away had eased off, his progress had taken another big jump.
In late September, Johnny had gone up to Pownal for the weekend and after an entire Friday night of watching his father fidget and laugh uproariously at jokes on TV that weren’t particularly funny, he had asked Herb what the trouble was.
“No trouble,” Herb said, smiling nervously and rubbing his hands together like