Mark Costello - Big If

Jackie knocked. “Mr. Grosjean, I’m Jackie Kotteakis from the vice president’s campaign. Would you like to vote today?”

“He’s absentee,” said the orderly.

Jackie said, “He’s on the list. Mr. Grosjean, hello. Would you like to take a ride with me today?”

Peta walked the middle floors, looking for a voter named James Patrick Fagan. She stopped at a nursing station where a black man in a smock and stethoscope was picking through the pill drawer.

Peta said, “I’m looking for James Fagan. He’s a resident.”

The man gulped some pills and closed the drawer. “You got him.”

“You’re James Fagan?”

“All day long,” he said.

“Aren’t you a little young for a place like this?”

“That’s what I tried to tell my daughters,” James Fagan said. “They said, ‘Dad, you’re going through some changes. It’s not your fault, you’re getting older now.’ They got all worked up because once — once — they came to my house and I didn’t recognize them. They said I didn’t recognize them because I was getting older. Truth is, I didn’t recognize them because they were getting older. I remember my daughters blowing out the candles on their kiddie birthdays, going off to proms. These girls, my supposed daughters, were fat and gray and had those tiny spider veins. Of course, I didn’t say this, knowing how sensitive women are. Next thing I know I’m living in a cube. This is what I get for being nice. Let’s roll. I’ve got a chat-room date at noon.”

They rendezvoused in the lobby, Jackie with Arthur Freilinghuysen and Mr. Grosjean, Peta with James Fagan, the woman from The Truth with Mrs. Souza, the old piano teacher from C.E. They got the voters settled in the van, Nadine Clansky pushing over to make room.

Peta headed into town.

Arthur Freilinghuysen said, “Who’s running this year?”

“The VP,” Jackie said. “You support him.”

Arthur said, “I do?”

“That’s how they get your name,” James Fagan said.

“Well okay,” said Arthur, not too sure of this. “Is anyone else running?”

“Not really,” Peta said. “The VP is a solid choice.”

“I don’t know,” said Arthur. “I never trusted Tricky Dick.”

“He’s not running,” Jackie said.

“I never trusted any vice president, Humphrey, Agnew, Mondale, Bortlund.”

When they pulled up at the Gateway-to-the-Wetlands Nature Center with the second load of voters, Leonard Nichols was fuming in the rain, water running from the fangs of his mustache.

“Where’s the other fucking van ?” he shouted at Jackie. “I been waiting half an hour. Is this your strategy? Get my vote and then it’s Leonard who?”

“At least you got a shower,” Peta said.

“I’ve been here before,” said Mrs. Souza, looking with suspicion at the nature center.

Peta often saw flocklike delegations from Grassy Knoll visiting the nature center under heavy chaperon. She said, “Yes, Mrs. Souza, the horseshoe crab exhibit’s really interesting. Can you get out, dear, or do you need a hand?”

“No, I mean I was here this morning,” Mrs. Souza said. “Some nice men in a van — they asked for my help.”

The voters from Grassy Knoll assembled on the curb, popping their umbrellas, everyone but Mrs. Souza, who had already voted for the senator, apparently. The woman from The Truth went around the back and helped Mr. Grosjean with his folding walker.

Leonard Nichols said, “Don’t vote for their lousy candidate. I did and look where it got me.”

Nadine Clanksy said, “I’m too old to walk home.”

Jackie said, “You won’t be stranded, Mrs. Clansky. We’ll wait for you, I promise. Now all of you get in there and do your civic duty.”

Voting was a careful process in New Hampshire. You stood in line as the ladies from the League of Women Voters checked names on the print-outs, then you waited for an open booth, then you pulled the big lever and the curtains closed behind you, and you pressed the little button by your candidate’s name, then you got a cookie and a cup of juice from the women who did juice and cookies. It was like giving blood and took about as long.

Peta, Jackie, and the woman from The Truth waited in the van with Leonard Nichols, who had calmed down a bit, and Mrs. Souza, who had brought her knitting bag and was working on a sock.

Peta called the campaign office. Tim said the C.E. pickup van had been reassigned to Rye when the Rye van went to Eatontown. The van for Eatontown had thrown a rod on 95, and the van from Portsmouth, dispatched to get the stranded voters, took them by mistake to Rye.

“But everything’s on track again,” said Tim, “except for Exeter.”

By then it was clear: the VP’s operation was a shambles.

Peta heard snoring. It was Mrs. Souza.

The senator’s van pulled up, unloaded, and pulled out again. The senator’s brisk and chipper volunteers made three trips while Peta and the others sat there waiting.

Leonard Nichols said, “Maybe we should send somebody in, tell them to hurry up.”

“They’re voting, not shopping,” Peta said. “You wait in line, you vote, you get a cookie and you leave. There’s no way to ‘hurry up.’”

The van was beginning to feel cramped.

Leonard Nichols said, “You promised me a ride to Willingboro.”

“No we didn’t,” Peta said. “We said the pickup van might possibly have time to go all the way to Willingboro, though it isn’t very likely when you think about it, Leonard, because Willingboro’s thirty freaking miles from here. Jesus, buddy, take a bus.”

“I missed the bus to vote,” Leonard Nichols said. “I can’t be late for this interview. I really need this job.”

“Want a fruit drink?” Peta asked.

“No, I want a job. I’m a skilled mechanic. I can break an engine out like nobody’s business. Don’t roll your eyes at me, you stuck-up bitch. I’m a piece of shit, I guess, until your Saab breaks down.”

Jackie said, “Enough of that. Leonard, I’m surprised at you.”

James Fagan came down the steps of the nature center. He said that Nadine Clanksy was almost finished. “I saw her with a cookie. Freilinghuysen’s going to be a little longer. I think he’s doing write-ins. He was going booth to booth, trying to borrow a pen.”

“Where’s Mr. Grosjean?”

“They’re looking for him now. They know he checked in, because his name is checked off. They’re peeking under the curtains, looking for his shoes, trying to figure out which booth he’s in.”

Nadine Clanksy came out next, followed by Arthur Freilinghuysen, who had cookies for the group.

Jackie said, “Have they found Mr. Grosjean?”

“They found his booth,” said Arthur Freilinghuysen “They’re calling for him, but he won’t come out. They’re asking if he needs medical attention, but he won’t respond. He’s just in there, humming to himself. They’re trying to locate a family member now.”

An ambulance pulled up. The EMTs ran the gurney up the steps into the nature center.

Jackie said, “They seem to have the situation well in hand. Let’s take these people home.”

They went south to Grassy Knoll, dropping Nadine at her cottage and the others at the cube. They started back for Portsmouth on the coast road. Leonard tagged along, still hoping for a ride to Willingboro.

There were three museum roomsat the Gateway-to-the-Wetlands Nature Center. The line to vote snaked through them from the street doors, past the pay phones and a giant diorama called The Marshes Before Man . Jens shuffled with the others, briefcase at his feet, taking the odd pull off a bottle of Glucola. Word was coming down the line that there had been a medical emergency in one of the booths, a stricken voter or a claustrophobe, and help was on the way, which was why the line was stalled. Two EMTs bustled from the street a few minutes later, their belts and O2 bottles riding on the bedding of their gurney, and after that the rumor stood confirmed.