Part 3
The trees along the highway are sleeping out the winter. They are closed off with no leaves on their limbs and they sit still and untouched by the cold. The entire landscape outside the window of the SUV is blue, with a mist made up of of fog and chimney smoke that sits low on the fields. There’s something about it that makes me feel cozy and safe and I’m unhappy that I’ll have to get out of the car once we reach the fairgrounds.
Clay has a new assistant named Damien and they both have the same phone. It’s a cyborg or a droid or something like that and they both are speaking into their own matching devices. It looks silly, the older man sitting in front of me on the left and the younger sitting on the right, both jabbering away. They drone on and on and make comments and answer questions and when I listen in and hear the conversations go to other topics besides me I get slightly irritated. Both of their lives are now committed to talking about me, or at least an idea of me. I trust them both to do their jobs.
Damien is rather ugly. He’s probably n his early thirties, hard to tell, but he has a large mole near his right nostril that is dark brown in the center and then a light brown, sort of blond, around the rim of it. He has thick eyebrows and I wonder why he doesn’t have them trimmed. It’s now excepted for a man to take care of himself and trim hair and make himself look good. I wish Damien would do something about those brows, or at least the mole. It may be a small thing but when people see him they see the campaign. God forbid that he should ever be interviewed on TV and people see his face with the words “Bates Campaign” under it. Freaking A.
The driver turns us off the highway and into the neighboring street and we only go a block before we’re at the fairground entrance. There’s a large crowd gathered near it and everyone seems to be wearing orange shirts. I’m about to roll the window down and wave before Clay explains that they’re protesters.
“Protesting what?” I ask.
“Well, these are the Agent Orange folks, the gay rights folks, so I imagine it’s the comment you made at the debate.”
“I never said a freaking thing about gays!”
“Marsha, what were you supposed to do? They asked you about marriage.”
I recall what I said but I didn’t say anything about gays. One of the people from CNN had asked me if marriage was between a man and a woman and I had said: “I believe it is. Once you step beyond that you could have people marrying their dog or even their turtle.” I have used that line many times and people think it’s funny. I never said gay though. Typical, always sensitive and thinking everything is about them.
We drive by and even though these Agent Orange people can’t see through the dark windows and spot me inside they hold up their signs and chant. I can’t hear the chants but the signs say things like “Gay rights are human rights” and “Marsha Hates”. Most of them are women which I find strange. There are even some older women, in their sixties or seventies. They don’t look like gays or even liberals. This confuses me and I hope some of these people will see me speak today. I will bring up the Lord and remind them that He is still watching and that He still has a strong opinion about the whole thing. I will separate those that are with me from those that are against me by using His name.
The SUV plods through the fairground’s cement lanes and through the dirt to a tent in the far back. A metal fence is opened by security and we enter and park behind the tent where some trailers and porta pottys are set up. I step out of the truck and there are at least nine cameras pointed at me and flashing. I see an additional five camera men shooting video for television. I nod and wave and flash the smile for a brief moment before Clay motions to me and we retreat into one of the trailers.
“I don’t exactly understand what we’re doing here,” I tell him once we’re out of sight of the cameras.
“You were asked to come here. There’s a bunch of Liberty Party people that want to hear you speak,” Clay replies defensively.
“But what is this? A rally?”
“It’s a country fair or something. It’s just something these people throw in the fall. There’s a lot of good people here and more importantly the press followed the lead and showed up. You saw all those cameras did you not? They all came because we got the word out that you were going to speak. You’re a hot ticket Marsha.”
I like the cameras but I’m sick of these kinds of events. I’ve been doing these things since I first ran for congress. All these over weight ugly people with their fat little kids running around covered in ice cream and corn dog and looking for the bathroom. Sure enough I’m observing a pie eating contest forty five minutes later. The cameras all sit focused on me in the distance as I smile and chuckle along to the grown men and boys shoving their faces into huge berry pies laid out in front of them.
I walk along the fence where they have the live stock and I look at the dirty stinking pigs and the donkeys and even the one lone llama with buck teeth and I smile at them like I find them appealing when really I want to throw up in my mouth from the stench and the flies. Clay finally beckons me into a tent where a town hall meeting has been set up. The seats are all filled but I wait for the cameras to catch up with us before I take the stage.
An old woman with thinning hair asks about what I think of the fair and a fat man with a trucker hat asks what I think of Iowa and I literally can’t remember what I replied seconds after the answer has come from my mouth. This all has become so old and routine. And for what?
A younger guy who looks bitter and sullen asks about the economy and I throw out my “get back on track” answer that I worked on with Frank. It gets a big reaction from everyone in the tent. The next person asks pretty much the same thing like a freaking idiot and I answer basically the same way and get almost the same roar of applause that came the first time. A woman asks about the president being a Muslim and I realize this is truly my crowd. I don’t reply that I agree or know anything more than she does but I tell her that it’s time to take America back for Americans and everybody gets the message. They stand up and applaud as I leave the stage.
There’s a country band playing under the over cast sky and there’s barbecue getting served near the entrance of the fair grounds. I’ve shaken probably five hundred hands at this point and I have Pam bring an entire roll of paper towels and a bottle of hand sanitizer over to me so I can wipe off the bucolic germs. Don walks over with Pam, having just arrived and looking happy to see everyone. He is still a handsome man with his thick head of black hair having long ago lost it’s color and now a striking silver. It makes him look distinguished. He takes me in his arms and gives me a light kiss on the lips.
“You speak already?” he asks and I wonder if he even cares. I’m sure Clay had to call him at least five times to get him to even show up.
“Yes,” I reply sharply, my smile intact in case the cameras are watching.
He nods stupidly and glances around with his grin, recognizing that I’m annoyed. Sandra the intern strides up with a group of people that want to get their picture taken with me. Will Cedar is with them too and Don grins at him and introduces himself to him to which Will nods warmly. Don stares at Will as the young man explains his role in the Iowa campaign and I notice the stare is the same look he gives his patients when they have his full attention. It is a look I haven’t received from my husband in many years.
I am suddenly fiercely annoyed with Don and I interrupt their conversation to take him aside.
“I want to leave here a soon as I’m done with these people,” I tell him and I can’t help but let the smile drop away and my mouth becomes hard and unmovable.
“Nice kid there. Is he going with you guys to California?” he asks, ignoring what I have said.
“Don. Freaking A! I want you drive me out of here when I’m done with these people.”
I’ve raised my voice and it makes him snap to attention.
“But honey, why can’t Clay have one of the cars drive you to the hotel?”
“He won’t let me. He’s going to try to keep me here to the bitter end.”
“But honey, we can’t leave right now. Brad Calfston is performing in a little while.”
“Who the-. Who is Brett Calfston?”
“Brad honey. He’s a Christian comedian. He’s hilaaaaaarious.”
I can’t look at him anymore and turn over to Sandra who smiles widely as she waves an older couple over who have come equipped with their digital camera. They are both shorter than me and I feel like an oaf as I stand between them and Sandra snaps the shot. Next is some guy, a pale guy with thick pink lips, and while he disgusts me I let him put an arm around me as Sandra shoots the picture. We’re doing the fourth picture when the commotion starts over by the live stock pasture.
“What is that?” says the skinny woman next to me and I’m annoyed as she looks away when Sandra snaps the photo.
“What is what?” I ask and try to mask the bitterness in my voice.
The woman doesn’t answer but points over towards the pasture and I see the animals and the blur of orange beyond them. There is the sound of many voices, yelling together, and there is an anger and resolve to it that makes everyone around us perk up their heads and turn them in the direction of the onslaught. The blur of orange quickly comes into focus and I see it is a line of men and women, all dressed in the shirts and sweatshirts of Agent Orange, and they are making their way through the fair grounds unchallenged. They stare at the people around them, looks of hostility exchanged as they chant:
“No more Marsha Bates! All she know is fear and hate! No more Marsha Bates! All she knows-”
A short blond girl, not much more than a teenager, is the first one to spot me. She sees me and her eyes lock on and then she’s pointing a long white finger at me. The crowd of orange is suddenly shifting and coming right towards us. I automatically turn my gaze towards the camera men thirty feet away. Three of them are desperately snapping shots of the approaching mob while two of them are shooting my reaction. I look at the people I’ve just taken pictures with and they are all watching the approaching cloud of orange, stupefied, like the victims of a tsunami watching the inevitable wave roll in on their village.
Clay grabs my arm and is leading me away, running, looking around for any means of escape. There is metal fencing all around us, our only choice to run through the flap and enter the tent that the question and answer session was held. I look around for Don but he has disappeared and although Sandra was with us for a moment we seem to have lost her. We can hear the chant outside the tent coming closer. They have observed our escape and are coming fast.
Clay drags me up on to the stage and into the back where Will and a couple of fair volunteers are standing around looking alarmed.
“Who the fuck let those people in?!” Clay barks at the volunteers.
They both look at him stupidly, unsure how to answer.
“They stormed the front gate basically. Our guy said they went right through and nobody could do nothing,” one of them says and Clay dismissed him with a look while dragging me over to Will.
“You! Where’s your car?!” he demands and Will tries to focus on him while being distracted by the noise from the mob, who from the sound of it, have entered the tent and haven’t given up their pursuit.
“It’s right outside,” Will replies.
“Right here? Through the fence there?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, get Mrs. Bates in your car and get her the hell out of here. These people are out for blood for God’s sake.”
He shoves me over to Will and Will places his hand lightly on my back, coaxing me forward towards the metal fence. I can hear the chant booming out of the tent. They must be on the stage. They must be tearing the place apart looking for me. But for what? To do what? I rarely have been as scared as I am now.
Will kicks a wooden partition out of the way and leads me into the dirt parking lot towards his car. We get in and he pulls out, shooting gravel and rock in our wake. I feel safer in the car and look over at him. His eyes are wide and anxious and only become more so when we spot the small crowd of orange posted near the exit on the road. Will slows the car down, apparently thinking we can slowly sneak by the Agent Orange people without raising much notice. There’s a man in orange standing close to the parking lot, almost in our path, and as we get closer he looks over and becomes alert. I look at his scraggly beard and his long nose and his little rat eyes and I realize he is also looking into mine. The flash of recognition shifts across his face.
The man jumps into action and puts himself directly in front of us, blocking the way. Will has no choice but to bring the car to a stop. As he looks back to reverse the man in orange climbs up onto the hood and stares through the windshield at me, his face like a bearded gargoyle. I scream which causes Will to turn around and see the man and he opens the door and leaps out of the car.
He grabs the man by the back of his sweatshirt and hurls him into the dirt, and the rest of the people in orange take a step back. The bearded man gets up, enraged, staring at Will, taking him in, and then he charges head on. Will takes the man’s attack into his chest and they embrace, falling awkwardly against the car and I stifle another scream. Will pushes the man away at which point the man swings a blow towards his face which flies wild, off to Will’s right. The man is bringing his body back into balance when Will takes his own swing and cracks the man across the forehead with his fist. The man flies back into the dirt in front of the remaining Agent Orangers and Will jumps back into the car, tearing out of the parking lot and on to the main road.
We’re miles down the freeway when I ask Will to stop the car. He takes the next exit which leads to a long deserted road and he pulls over to the side of it. I get out and stare at the barren fields, trying to get my breathing to come back to normal. There is one lone tree sitting amongst miles of dead corn field. Everything looks and feels like a dream and it takes a minute before I notice that large drops of cold rain have begun to come down around me. I open the car door and Will watches me as I place myself back into the seat.
“Are you alright?” he asks and I don’t reply.
I see the look on the bearded man’s face and the expressions of the women that stormed the tent in my mind. The looks on their faces have confirmed something I have wondered for a long time and I don’t know what I think or how I feel. I don’t even really know who I am as I sit in that car and the rain crashes down around us.
“I’m really sorry,” I hear Will say. “I didn’t know what to do. That crazy bastard, that guy- I thought he was going to hurt you or something.”
I turn towards him and I see his face clearly. His eyes are big and blue and they look at me with such a worry and such a concern that I want to laugh. He is looking right into my eyes and I feel like I did when I was a young girl but without any of the doubt or worry. His face gets bigger as I lean my body into his side of the car and when I kiss him he doesn’t kiss back at first. I steady myself with one hand next to the emergency break and touch the side of his head with the other and then we’re kissing each other with the desperation of two people at the end of the world. It has been so long since I have been touched that when he does it feels like the first time and as his seat goes back I climb over to his side of the car.
To be continued in Part 4 on December 21st 2011.
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