“Inexcusable.”
“Sir,” I began, “there has never been anything like—
“We’d heard this was a good, clean place,” the man snarled. “Believe me, you’ll hear from our lawyer!”
Braverman took the salad bowl. “I don’t know how—”
The man took it back. “I need that as evidence.”
Brenda Babcock whipped out her deputy’s license. “I’ll be taking it as evidence. We’ll keep it real safe for you and your attorney.” She wrote something out on her official deputy pad. “If you’ll just sign here.”
Suddenly that sweet couple got nervous.
“What … do you want us to sign?”
“This just says you found the mouse in your salad.”
The woman backed off. “I … I don’t know if we should sign anything.”
“Have you ever seen that mouse before?” Brenda Babcock asked. “Prior to it being in your salad?”
The woman looked down. “How … could I have seen it before?”
“Have you, sir?”
“Of course not.”
“Then would you sign here, please?”
The couple looked strangely at each other.
No one spoke.
Then a nervous smile. “I think, officer,” said the man, “we’d just like to forget the whole thing.”
“You will not be pressing charges, then?”
“No,” they said together.
“May I see some identification, please?”
“Why,” asked the man, “would you want to see that?”
“Because I maintain the peace in this town.”
Hard to argue with that.
They took out their driver’s licenses. Deputy Babcock wrote down the information.
The woman gulped. “What are you going to do with the mouse?”
“I’m going to have the crime lab check it.”
“For what?”
“How long it’s been dead. Is it native to these parts. I see you’re from Michigan.”
“We’re traveling through,” the man offered quietly.
She handed their licenses back to them. “Enjoy your stay.”
The man put a twenty on the table and they walked quickly out the door.
Deputy Babcock turned and addressed the diners. “Go back to your meal, folks. I think we had some visitors who were trying to shut this establishment down.”
A collective gasp.
And Deputy Brenda Babcock, crime-fighting ace, raised a humble hand like it was no big deal that she’d just saved the Welcome Stairways from scandal, asked me to keep her cake for later, and marched out the door holding that salad bowl that was sure to reveal major mouse tampering and God knows what else.
12
G.T. and I were in his truck heading off to a day of political campaigning. He’d asked me to come along and be his right-hand person. I couldn’t have been more proud.
I checked the schedule that Adam had put together. How he expected two human beings to accomplish all this was beyond me.
“G.T., this is going to be a beast. In eight hours we’re supposed to stop at a cheese factory and talk to the workers, hit the commuter train terminal and pass out literature. Meet with leaders of the Small Businessman’s Association for lunch. Speak to a parents’ meeting about overcrowding in the kindergarten. Go to the Tick Tock Clock Shop for a coffee in your honor. Stop by a bingo game at BVMRCC. I don’t even know what that is.”
He chuckled. “Blessed Virgin Mary Roman Catholic Church.”
I shook my head. Some things shouldn’t be abbreviated.
“And Adam made up a list, G.T., of the people who have contributed to your campaign so far and what they gave. He said we should go over it.”
G.T. shook his head. “I never want to see that list.”
“Sorry …” I put the paper away.
“You can get so messed up learning who gave what and how much that it’ll change your opinion of people.”
I’d peeked at the list earlier. The biggest contributor was Slick Bixby; the cheapest was Mrs. Scarlotti of Scarlotti’s World of Cheese, who gave a measly five dollars with that thriving cheese store of hers. Some people.
“I can’t imagine you’d change your opinion of people because of a list, G.T.”
“I don’t want to take the chance. We’re running for everyone. Whoever gives, I’m grateful. Whoever doesn’t, has a right. I’ll talk to Adam.”
G.T. pulled his truck into the parking lot of the Wisconsin Cheese Company, parked by a big trash compactor, said, “I’ll be with you in a minute,” and bowed his head.
I waited.
A few minutes passed and his head was still bowed. I figured he was praying. I checked my watch. We were already fifteen minutes late.
I wasn’t sure what to do.
I coughed to remind him I was present.
Cleared my throat.
Yawned pretty loud.
Finally, he opened the truck’s door and headed toward the factory.
* * *
“My name’s G. T. Stoop, folks, and I’m running for mayor.”
The midnight shift was just getting off. G.T. was standing in the cafeteria shaking as many hands as he could get to. Men and women in white coats and white hard hats were pressing in to see him the way you’d look at a curiosity. Weird cheese posters lined the walls.
CAN’T MISS SWISS
FETA? YOU BETA
PARMESAN POWER
I was doing my best to hand out the Students for Stoop newsletter and smile with flashing intensity. This was politics up close and personal.
Down the line he went asking people how they felt about things.
When a man said he didn’t think politics could help anyone anymore, G.T. said one person can make a difference, two can lift a burden, and more than that can start a revolution.
When a woman said she hadn’t voted for years, G.T. asked her why.
“There hasn’t been anyone I trusted.”
“I know what you mean,” G.T. told her. “Trust doesn’t always come right away in life, it has to be earned.” He asked if she’d come to listen when he spoke; talk to people who know him. “If I can earn your trust in the next few months, will you vote for me?”
She was surprised at first, but met his gaze. “Yes, I will.”
A man said, “I vote because I have to, not because I want to.”
“I’ve felt that way in plenty of elections, too,” G.T. admitted. “Once I didn’t vote. I learned I always felt better voting even if I wasn’t happy with the choices.”
Person after person. He dealt with each one like he or she was the only one in the room. This audience, I can tell you, was moved. Faces pressed in around him, open and smiling. People who looked like they’d just had a good meal.
I walked behind him passing out newsletters.
“Thank you for coming out to see G.T. today,” I said over and over. “I hope you’ll give this a read. We really need your support.”
A short woman muscled through the crowd, stuck her hand out at G.T. “I’m voting for you, Stoop. Go out there and kick Millstone’s butt.”
G.T. shook her hand, laughing. “I appreciate it.”
Then a few men in the back started shouting, “Kick Millstone’s butt! Kick Millstone’s butt!” And soon most of the crowd was hollering it.
Kick Millstone’s butt!
Kick Millstone’s butt!
The cheers swept us into the parking lot.
“Kicking butt wasn’t the rallying cry I was going for,” G.T. said as he drove to the commuter train terminal. “I’m nonviolent.”
“I think they know you’ll fight for them, G.T. Those cheese people need a warrior.”
* * *
“Hope, why do you think people need a warrior?”
We got to the train terminal late and missed the 8:53. There was no one on the platform.
“I’m not sure, really … I think people are looking for someone who’s strong to fi
ght for them.”
“But I’m not strong.”
“You are in what you believe.”
“But not in my body.”
“Well …” I wanted to change the subject.
“We have this need, Hope, for leaders to look good, sound good, and be perfectly healthy. But life’s never been more clear to me than when I got this cancer.”
I looked at his face, so determined, so tired. He was fighting for strength—pushing, straining to make this day count.
I slapped away the fear I had for his health and tried to enter into the courage.
What else can you do when you’re spending the whole day with one of the finest men on this planet?
* * *
We survived the irritated kindergarten parents.
Managed to down the rubbery chicken in lukewarm white gravy at the Small Businessman’s luncheon.
Headed off to the Tick Tock Clock Shop.
“What’s your mother like, Hope?”
I sure wasn’t expecting that question.
I squirmed. “You know Addie’s not my mother.”
“She told me that.”
What else had she told him?
“My mother’s a waitress, G.T.”
I let that hang there between us, but it didn’t quite tell the story.
“She’s a much better waitress than she is a parent. She doesn’t know how to be a mom, I don’t think.”
G.T. stopped at a light. “That’s a lot for you to deal with.”
“I’ve gotten pretty good at it.”
Driving again.
“Your mother’s missing out not knowing you as a daughter.”
I’d never once thought of that.
I don’t know why, but I almost started crying.
“You know what I’ve found out about disappointments?” G.T. asked.
I sniffed. “No.”
“I think that if we face them down, they can become our strengths.”
“Is that what you’re doing with your cancer?”
“I’m trying, Hope. I’m sure trying.”
* * *
Drinking weak coffee at the Tick Tock Clock Shop.
Six cancer survivors present, invited there by the owner, Beth Wisocki, who had breast cancer four years ago. This was her support group.
No handshaking here. Survivors hug.
“I’ve been clear of cancer for seven years,” said a woman. “Faced death, bought my cemetery plot. They’re going to have to wait awhile to bury me.”
“Tell people,” said a tall, thin woman with fiery eyes, “that life’s being lived powerfully by many people with cancer. You tell this town that there’s all kinds of things that make us sick. Disease is just one of them.” She handed him a little card with flowers on it that read LIVE THE DAY, NOT THE CANCER.
As if on cue, every bell, gong, and cuckoo went off in the shop. It was three o’clock.
“This is my favorite time of day,” Beth Wisocki shouted.
“Well, I sure know where to come if I’m ever feeling discouraged,” G.T. shouted over the dings and dongs.
But he was doing too much.
I could see it on his face—it was drawn; gray; and stayed like that all the way to BVMRCC.
The intensity in this church basement.
Women had ten bingo cards going at once.
“We get a roomful of committed people like this behind us,” G.T. whispered to me, “we could change the world.”
An old woman said to him, “You don’t look well enough to make it home, much less be mayor.”
That cut deep.
“Do I look that bad?” he asked me.
I gave him the short-order truth. “You look like a plate of cold fried eggs. No offense.”
“Lost my appeal, huh?”
“It’s best the customers don’t see the food in that condition.”
“You don’t mince words.”
“Just garlic,” I reminded him and led him to the truck.
13
We pulled into the Welcome Stairways at 8:45 P.M.
G.T. said he thought he’d stop in the kitchen and see how things were going and I said, while still being respectful, that from what I could see he needed to take care of himself and that did not include a stop in the kitchen. You’d think a man running for elected office would have the sense to listen to his body.
“All right. All right.” He climbed the stairs slowly up to his apartment. “Thank you for coming with me today, Hope. You’re a fine companion.”
“I loved every minute of it, G.T.”
I heard him unlock his door; shut it.
I went into the kitchen, planning to ask Braverman to make me a pork-chop sandwich. He tenderized the chop better than Addie did, and believe me, I would take that fact to my grave. He was working nights all this week.
I saw Addie at the grill instead, putting up orders.
“Where you been?” she asked, keeping her eyes on the food. Good cooks have eyes in the back of their heads like vampires.
I started telling her all the places G.T. and I had gone to, but she cut me off.
“We’ve got a situation here, Hope.”
She was working in choppy, harsh movements. Addie only cooks like that when something’s wrong.
“What …?”
“It’s Braverman.” She took a deep breath. “He got beat up.”
“What?”
“He’s going to be okay. They broke a couple of ribs. He got some stitches over his eye. When he didn’t show up for work, I just kept cooking.”
I felt a chill in my spine.
Addie flipped three burgers, piled garlic mashed potatoes on a plate with balsamic chicken. “It’s Brenda Babcock’s day off. Flo said she took her mother into Milwaukee for hospital tests.” Addie slammed a sauté pan. “What do you think of that coincidence?”
I closed my eyes.
My breath came out like it had been trapped.
* * *
I called Braverman’s house, but his mother said he was sleeping. I called Jillian because I needed to talk to someone. I started crying over the phone and kept saying I didn’t know what was wrong with me. I’m not a crier.
“You care for him,” she said.
I bristled. “We all do.”
“But I think, Hope, you care for him in a deeper way.”
That’s not what I needed to hear, even if it was, just possibly, true.
Batten down the hatches. That’s what Brenda Babcock had said. I felt a huge wind picking up everything that wasn’t nailed down.
* * *
8:35 A.M.
The wind beat strong.
G.T. was just leaving Braverman’s house when I got there—worry and anger carved in his face.
I was holding the cactus I’d gotten for Braverman—$3.95 at Glugg’s Grocery. Flowers didn’t seem right; a cactus was manly.
I felt stupid holding it.
“He looks pretty bad, but you’ll cheer him up.” G.T. patted my shoulder. “I’m going to do everything I know to do to stop this madness.” He marched down the walk, but he didn’t seem strong.
The house next to Braverman’s looked abandoned. A broken-down car without rear tires was across the street.
I rang the bell.
Braverman’s mother answered, let me in. She was tall and looked scared. She walked with a cane.
“I’m Hope from the—”
“Oh, yes,” she said, smiling. “He’s talked about you.”
He has?
I saw his twin sisters, Heidi and Hannah.
“Are you his girlfriend now?” Heidi asked, giggling.
“No.” I felt my face get hot. I put the cactus behind my back. “We work together. That’s all.”
Hannah skipped off, shouting, “Eddie, your girlfriend’s here.”
Eddie?
I smiled dumbly at his mother.
“Eddie, your girlfriend’s here!”
I’ve always appreciated being an o
nly child.
A door down the hall creaked open. In the shadows I saw Braverman.
His face was swollen, he had a large bandage over his left eye. He stepped out into the light.
My heart broke for him. “Oh, Braverman …” I held out the cactus. “How do you feel?”
“Like three guys beat me up.”
I walked over to him.
“There were three?”
He nodded.
“It must hurt a lot.”
“I don’t recommend the experience.”
I almost took his hand, but didn’t. We walked down the hall. All the furniture seemed old, not much on the walls. I didn’t picture him living in a place like this. The nicest thing I could see was a big wooden case filled with books. The small, cramped kitchen had dirty dishes in the sink, a milk carton on the counter, cereal boxes lined side by side. He motioned me out onto the porch. It had two plastic chairs. I sat on one. He stood before me stiffly like Frankenstein.
I looked down at a little garden. The morning sun shone bright. It seemed to dance across the yard, touching the flowers.
No matter what happens, girl, remember the power of the light.
“Do you know who beat you up?” I asked.
“They didn’t introduce themselves. They said I had a big mouth about the campaign and I’d better shut it.” He looked at his feet. “I don’t know which was worse—getting hit or not being able to hit back.”
I swallowed hard.
“I was really worried about you, Braverman.”
“Thanks.”
A weird silence.
“For the first time in my life, Hope, I think I could have killed somebody. If I’d have broken free and gotten one of those guys I don’t think I could have stopped hitting him.”
“I think you would have stopped.” I hoped he would have.
He clenched his hands. “I’m scared at how angry I feel. I’m yelling at my mom and my little sisters. I keep seeing those guys in ski masks holding my arms and I couldn’t break free!”
I wasn’t sure what to say. A big part of me wanted to hug him. “I know all about anger, Braverman.” I told him about my boxing.
He was quiet.
“And sometimes,” I added, “I have to remind myself who I’m mad at so I won’t take it out on the wrong people.”
“Like the cook,” he offered.
We laughed.
He looked down again. “Will you do me a favor?”