Эд Горман - Riders on the Storm

“From the beginning of time women have waited for their men to come home from battle. As a proud Irishman I can tell you that the literature of my people is steeped in stories and poems about war. Nobody wants it, of course. I would never have voted for what we’re doing in Vietnam if I hadn’t seen the facts — that we have no choice but to stop them there before they come over here. And so the men fight and the women — the very good women just like the women here tonight — wait.”

He blathered on another ten minutes before getting down to it. Easy to tell that he was enjoying it more than his constituents were.

“You know what this country needs more than anything right now? I’m sure you already know the answer to that. This country needs patriots. Real patriots. Not the kind who go overseas and fight and then return home to claim that what they did was morally wrong. There’s a sickness in our society that breeds men like this—”

The applause surprised me. Close to half the group clapped. A few whistled.

“But I didn’t come here tonight to belittle anybody. I came here tonight to say that with your help we can put a true man and a true patriot in this Congressional seat — and I don’t have to tell you who that is, do I? A very successful businessman as well. Come over here, Steve!”

This time everybody applauded. I joined in. He was a shit most of the time but then there was a decent, generous side to him that almost, but not quite, made you like him. I’d known him since grade school. He’d always been this way.

Donovan was a slick package. A fit, blond man who’d played good basketball at the university in Iowa City, he’d just gotten his business launched when Uncle Sam dragged him out of his house. Tonight he was dressed much like the senator. Golf shirt, in his case black; tailored yellow slacks; a large and no doubt real gold watch; and a smile that could not quite hide the smirk inside.

My eyes strayed to his wife Valerie, who stood at the front. A perfect fit for him. A lithe brunette of brutal beauty in a chic emerald fitted dress and a smile very much like hubby’s. Practiced and cold. She applauded just the right, proper way and gazed just the right, proper way on our next congressman. The too liberal for these times — and face it, uninspired — congressman presently holding the seat would undoubtedly stay in Washington, but now as consultant or lobbyist.

“Those of you who know me know that I’m not really practiced at giving speeches. Valerie and me” — the classic ungrammatical pronoun to go along with this whole shuck and jive I’m just a regular feller bullshit — “we’re private folks. So this doesn’t come natural to me.”

“You do great!” a man in the back shouted.

“Well, thank you. I appreciate the support. And I’ll need that support when I run.”

The orgasm moment. He’s running. Applaud until your hands run with blood; scream until you lacerate your throat.

The camera man — a young guy interchangeable with most hippies you saw on the street — panned the faces of the excited people up front.

Donovan started waving for them to calm down, but that smile said who could blame them? A hot-shit property like me? Just who the hell could blame them?

“I’ll tell you what, my friends. I’m going to accomplish things when we get to Washington. I’m going to cut the terrible taxation we all suffer under and I’m going to make sure that every single country on this planet is either our friend or our enemy. And if they’re our enemy then all I’ve got to say is — watch out! I’m sick of hearing this country denigrated by all these third-rate loudmouths. And it’s happening right here at home. Just look at our morals. Moral people can’t go to movies anymore. And the songs on the radio. I’m not afraid of censorship. You heard me say that, right? Sometimes you have to have censorship. And one more thing — I won’t let any so-called American citizen run this country down. And that goes for soldiers who sign petitions that claim that our honorable service was immoral!”

I couldn’t take any more applause. I let my bladder lead me into the house. When I finished I put the lid down and sat on it. I smoked and did a little smirking myself. I knew just enough about politics to know that he had to use groups like these to get the initial support he needed. When he started appearing before large groups he’d have to be much more moderate. The TV news tonight would be kind to him. He’d get at most a minute and a half and the sound bite would be how he was going to make our country safe again from porno and songs of sex. He sounded good; he looked good, didn’t he? And who among the voters gave a shit anyway? He was as much against hippies and lust as they were, wasn’t he?

I sat there a while longer, enjoying the fact that my headache was fading. I was tempted to call Mary, but what would I say? If I said I was lonely she’d interpret that as meaning that the break was over. But I needed the break.

I had left a patio loud and ripe with good times. But when I returned it sounded as if the party was winding down. It wasn’t even eight thirty yet.

A beer sounded good but first I wanted to find out what was going on. I noticed that the crowd had split into smaller groups of fives and sixes. And I noticed they were talking quietly but earnestly.

What the hell was going on?

Then I heard the voices erupt from around the east wing of the house. I recognized Will’s voice first. Then Donovan’s. Donovan was drawing down on Will and Will was meekly trying to tell Donovan that he still wanted to be friends with all the vets. That his decision to sign the anti-war petition was nothing personal. I felt sorry for him then. There was no way that most of the vets would not take it personally. I understood that; apparently Will didn’t.

And then they appeared on the patio.

My stomach churned. Sometimes the three different meds I took backed up in me but I didn’t think this was the meds. It was these feelings of anger and sorrow and defeat that were so common these days. Will just looked so damned sad and played out and confused.

Donovan was dragging him. It almost looked like an old TV comedy routine. Donovan had Will by the collar of his button-down shirt while Will’s arms were trying to push against Donovan. Will kept saying, “These’re my friends, Steve. At least let me talk to them.”

This was the scene Senator O’Shay returned to from somewhere inside the house. He must have been using one of the four bathrooms, too.

He commandeered the patio instantly. “Steve, stop it! What’re you trying to do to this man?”

But Donovan was too angry to stop. His face was ruby and sweat drained off him. “This is Cullen, the guy who signed the anti-war thing! He snuck around the side of the house! I’m just escorting him out!”

O’Shay advanced. Not too difficult to understand why he, too, was angry. But not at Will, at his protégé. Donovan had sounded too angry on his first on-camera appearance tonight but he could slide past it. But dragging somebody — even an anti-war vet — out of the party... O’Shay knew the rules. You could be a lot of things and hold a Congressional seat, but you could not be a madman.

O’Shay had to be reading the crowd as well. While maybe a fourth of the people shouted agreement with Donovan’s rage, the majority looked unhappy and some looked disgusted. They knew Will as a mild, quiet man; they knew Donovan as a charming but dangerously short-fused man.

O’Shay reached out to grab Donovan much as Donovan had grabbed Will. But instead of releasing Will, Donovan launched into a real beating. Before O’Shay even had a chance to stop him Donovan pounded punches into Will’s face and stomach and then started all over again. Blood spurted from Will’s nose and the roll of his eyes indicated that he was unconscious before he hit the flagstone floor.