LITMIR.BIZ

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and clacking the warm action of their large magazine rifles. Like the Vietcong, they could pop up anywhere now. Bruce, Bruce, Bruce, they croon.

      

Midafternoon of another day, Gordon alone up across the field from the old farmplace.

      He settles down tiredly on the edge of the motionless merry-go-round platform, the bright animal figures above him, frozen in frenzy, raised paw, hoof, wide jaws, sludgy eyes. All are monsters made with tools and paint in the hands of kids. And with the assistance of one gasoline generator, these disturbing beasts can come to life, churning in their monsterific colors.

      A cat has followed him, a stringy young kitteny cat, solid charcoal gray. Not a hunter. Just a follower. She glides around on the platform, touching things disdainfully with her nose the way cats do.

      Then she shoves herself against Gordon’s side, snakelike.

      A single-engine plane drones along smartly through the vague-looking insincere sort of clouds, clouds as thin as thoughts, sky being almost the very best blue. Burned-looking goldenrod leans. Viny stuff creeps around. Except for the plane, everything is so quiet. And quite frank. Nothing lies.

      Gordon takes something from the pocket of his jacket. A large, almost square brass key.

      Now a beige card. He looks at the card awhile, not reading the words and numbers, just staring into it, and then his fingers and a thumb press and prod the card as he stares downhill awhile at the tarred Heart’s Content Road.

      Then he holds the key with the slender jagged part upright. And he looks into its sheen.

      Cat paw reaches out and gives the key a serious ambush cuff.

      “Yeah,” Gordon tells the cat. “That’s the idea.”

      

From a future time, in her oceanfront home in Cape Elizabeth, Janet Weymouth remembers.

      Did I contribute in any small way to the direction he took?

      I relive every conversation, reread every letter, hearing my own words, assuring myself that I am in no way to blame, then, a few days later, I find myself anxious again. I see clear as ever his brooding profile one of the last times he stood in our front room, barely hearing anything anyone said to him, something inside him that could not see the positive aspects of that day . . . yesss, more than thirty riveted governors’ wives and such a perfect little coup de théâtre by his exuberant progeny. I wanted to see triumph on his face. But he recoiled.

      Maybe there was tension between him and Claire. Or him and the redheaded girl. Age fifteen. They said she was a neighbor. I repeat: age fifteen.

      Brianna Vandermast. “Bree.” Writer of The Recipe for Revolution, which he had mailed to me a couple of weeks earlier, two drafts and a flyer version. I repeat: she was age fifteen. It was said he had twenty wives. I wondered if she were one. Is this what decent people do?

      Gordon, the child of elegant and proper and sturdy-of-heart Marian St. Onge who, as part of the influencial Depaolo family, often appeared with one of her engaging brothers or uncles at functions, the small private kind and those scintillating fund-raisers in Augusta or Bangor or Portland.

      I cannot count the times she honored my invitation to have lunch here, just the two of us in the garden or on the beach, laughing like girls. Or we met at restaurants. Such a tall rawboned young woman with the liquid grace of the sveltest among us, meticulously dressed, her dark hair never curled though curls were the rage in those days. She had what you might call a bob.

      She had an unusual marriage. She’d married a heavy-equipment operator from one of her uncle’s crews. When she spoke of him, though it was rarely, her cheeks flushed. I heard from others that her marriage was as deep and meaningful as her friendships were, her friendships always being of the more prominent classes than whence came her darling “Gary,” Guillaume St. Onge Sr., who, it was said, was a head shorter than her and of a slim wiry build.

      This is what I’m trying to tell you, this pain for me of the hairpin turn I was about to make away from Gordie, whom I had known since he was a quiet but droll ten-year-old, yes, quiet and watchful and droll. And even from Marian, as virtuous as earth and sky, I would soon consider cutting ties.

      No, it was not on account of the red-haired teenager or the wives uncountable. It was a daydream I had begun to have . . . a daymare . . . where the Roman centurion asks, “Are you associated with this thief?”

      

Present time, before her hairpin turn, a letter arrives at the Settlement.

      He can feel her excitement and breathiness, even in her handwriting.

      She tells him that eight of the governors’ wives have contacted the committee about HIM. And of course his talented children. Their various women’s clubs and civic groups desire “the honor” of his presence. “You know, tea and crumpets and tall ceilings.”

      As kind of an afterthought, Janet explains that one of the “governors’ wives’ husbands” (her little joke) “has invited you to join him and a few others for a semiformal dinner at the governor’s mansion. We are talking South Dakota. Some people from the Commission on Indian Affairs will be there and one of their state senators, Wally Dodge, who is a closet environment man from way back. Wally was told you’re a “tree hugger” but you can straighten that all out when you get there in a way that nobody but you can do. As you once remarked to my friend Marcia that you are not a tree hugger . . . you are a tree. And she hugged you!”

      Her PS reads: Gordon, they need to hear your lively message. Fac- to-face. It has power, believe me. Call me if you can. When I call you I only reach three-year-olds.

      

Gordon writes back.

      Dear Janet,

      Again I want to thank you for being so welcoming to my family. And all that delicious food.

      And it meant a lot to me to hang out with Morse awhile. It’s upsetting to see how fucked up he got by the stroke. I can’t believe the way time evaporates. It’s been six years since the McNelty hearings. I’ve got gray in my beard and yet I know there will always be that Morse-worship in me. He is THE ROCK. There is a forever bond between Egypt and Cape Elizabeth. Whatever happens tomorrow, that will not change. To both of you I pledge my love.

      I still keep that 5 × 7 and the clipping of Morse and J.J. and Bob at that first shareholder activism symposium. Here in the kitchen by my desks it is framed. That he can still convince people to press those vital changes in culture on resistant people of the investment class through his past writings, which never lose their voice, including that foot and a half of shelf space here in my hallway, means his voice will always be, as ever, cannon thunder.

      About the gracious invitation from his governorship and the eight gals, I must respectfully decline. Will explain later.

      Keep in touch. As ever, I invite you and Morse to visit. There are quiet places here where we can be alone but I so wish for you to smell the late summer fields and woods and to lay eyes on these foothills. Our tallest, our “mountain,” has the windmills and when the sun is right they reflect like pure gold so you can see them from the comfort of the East Parlor windows.

      Are you tired of me nagging you guys to come visit?

      Love, Gordon

      

Janet writes back in a flash.

      My dear old friend. Are you irked at me? I know you really want to get your ideas out THERE. But I’m not surprised by your letter. I knew all the while you were here that something was wrong. You weren’t yourself! Please, let’s talk about that.

      Love, Janet

      And love

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