CHAPTER TEN

"I can say it no better than the bumper stickers on thousands of
cars across this great country of ours.
‘America: Love it or leave it.'"
Samuel Parsons, A Rogue At Ground Zero

"Free speech guarantees the right of each and every one of us
to say what he thinks and feels. Its flip-side carries an obligation
to listen when someone else is talking."
Hal Simpson, Editorial in The Carlsbad Current Argus

After he'd hung up the phone, Hal fell back into his overstuffed leather chair. He examined the small tears in its arm, twirling the loose stitching around his index finger. How could those people cheer so hard for that poppycock? We've faced harder economic times before. Course, we didn't go into them having so much or being so spoiled. Trouble abroad? When wasn't there? The heady days of America's post-World War II power had to end sooner or later. Britain was eclipsed, but it survived. France has been eclipsed; well, it is France—they still think they’re a world superpower, but hey, they’ve survived. He couldn't seem to focus his thoughts on anything in particular. He wanted to just sit in the dark and take in the silence around him. Parsons was still talking but the drivel was winding up. Down to the “I need your support to make it happen” part. He turned off the television and sat back down.

But he'd have to go to Susan's. The need to make another excuse about work awaiting him at the office. He was startled by a sudden noise coming from his back yard. The trash can? He walked to the back wall and flipped the light switch. He pushed the slats of the blinds apart slightly and looked toward the alley. His garbage can was on its side, white plastic bags lying on the ground around it. It looked like a couple of the bags were torn open; blasted neighborhood dogs probably smelled some food. The city had ordinances to keep this from happening. Oh well, fodder for another editorial. He'd straighten out the mess in the morning.

He turned off the light, checked the lock on the back door, picked up his slippers and walked toward his bedroom. Ruthie was propped up on a couple of pillows reading Parsons' book. She opened her mouth to make a comment on the passage she had just read, but something in his expression stopped her. She had heard Parsons’ speech through the open door of the study. She heard Hal's groans and snorts. How could he live here so long and not be more in tune with things?

He saw what she was reading and stopped himself from rolling his eyes. She asked what he thought of the speech and he gave her his opinion: he rolled his eyes. He asked how the book was going; he could tell by her tone she was genuinely impressed with what she was reading though it dawned on him after she had answered that he had not heard a word she said. It could have been her face in the audience, cheering and jumping up and down. No, her knees wouldn't allow that. Oh well.

"Not any later than it is, guess I'll go over to the office, start the editorial for tomorrow's edition." Did she really believe these stories? She never asked why he couldn't work on the computer in his study. "Shouldn't be too late. Just want to get the words on paper while they’re still on my mind." Why couldn't she see through Parsons' promises? "Just a few words on how we're willing to throw democracy away. The rantings of a would-be dictator. Nothing major."
Ruthie managed a smile. Hal walked over to the bed, bent over and kissed her on the forehead. "Don't read that stuff all night. I won't be long."

He put on his shoes and grabbed his jacket. He clicked the remote and the garage door squeaked as the chain pulled it upward. The garage was behind the house; it was his habit not to turn on his headlights until he got to the street. It dawned on him that this gave him the opportunity to see people in front of his house before they could see him at the very same time he saw a strange car parked on the opposite side of the street. Was it the same car he had seen in front of his office the night of his brother's phone call? He turned on his headlights and hit the high beam. Was that someone in the front seat that quickly ducked? He stared but saw no one. He sat there for a few minutes, the car directly in front of him illuminated by his halogen headlamps. No movement inside. Maybe it was his imagination. The car looked to be a dark blue 2014 or 2015 Chevy. Guess the neighbor finally got his kid the car he was angling for. He clicked off the high beam and turned his car onto the street and toward Susan's.

He drove south, passing the turn to his office. He always drove more carefully when he would visit Susan; no reason to tempt the fates with a ticket he got at the wrong time and in the wrong place. But he drove even more slowly than usual tonight. There were only a few cars on the road; Carlsbad seemed smaller, older, unconnected to the place in which he had grown up. He remembered the unrecognized car on his street and glanced at his rearview mirror. No, no one following. Would a Parsons victory really be that bad? Would he really destroy democracy to save it? He remembered hearing someone talking about an acquaintance who told his wife he wanted a divorce to save his marriage. Are we collectively divorcing ourselves from democracy to save it? Can we be millions of crazies like that guy? No, surely not. After all, Congress and the courts would stand in Parsons’ way. Wouldn’t they?

He directed his car up the narrow gravel road and into Susan’s driveway. As usual, the porch light was off. The key to Susan’s front door was on his keychain. After fumbling a moment to find it, and before he could extend it forward completely into the lock, Susan opened the door. Her front room was well lit, completely unlike the blocks of homes and stores he had passed getting there. She closed and locked the door behind him. He studied her before they embraced. She looked tired, or maybe it was confused. A quick buss on her forehead. She looked up at him, pulled away, reached for his hand and led him into her living room. Uh-oh.

They sat together on the sofa with the southwest fabric; she sat on brown desert sand while he sat on a green prickly pear. Susan spoke first, asking him what he thought of Parsons’ speech.
“I hate to say it, but it sure seemed effective. He’s going to piss a lot of people off, but he definitely appeals to too many others out there. I’m not sure how he can be so anti- so many people and religions and all, but he has a commanding lead in the polls. It’s just strange.” He kept his eyes on her as he spoke. He knew he wasn’t telling her anything she didn’t already know.

“He’ll tear the country apart, you know.” Her words seemed measured; she spoke slowly, looking at him but perhaps seeing something more distant. “You know he’ll have a huge majority in both houses. He’ll find a way to make himself dictator.” She sighed heavily.

“You’re overstating. All he’ll do is pass a couple of laws that allow him to check your email, see what you’re reading, take Howard Stern off the radio. They’ll use the IRS to hound a few people, but you’re worried over nothing. We have a 200 year history of democracy. Not even the militia zanies want to trash that.” Well, maybe not. “You’re too worried. Dictator? Won’t happen here.”

“No, Hal, it can happen here. I’m afraid it really will happen here.”

There was silence as she stared at her feet. She slowly wiggled her toes and sighed, turned to him, began to stand up, and then fell back onto the sofa, slouched in a most unladylike posture. “I’ve decided to go away for a year or two.”