TEN
“You can’t be serious.” Maryanne gapes at me incredulously over the kitchen island counter.
“I’m telling you straight. He dismissed me like a third grade class.”
“After you told him that Kathy... How’d you put it?”
“She leveled a serious charge against him.”
“Right…” She turns to tend the stove where our dinner of chicken rice soup and grilled cheese sandwiches is rapidly approaching terminal cooking velocity. “And he never acknowledged that or looked even the least bit worried?”
“Not at all. Total poker face. He bluffed me right off the table.”
She shuts off the burners and turns toward me with a look that says she is temporarily lost for words. Then she gasps.
Having arrived home barely ten minutes ago, Maryanne has not yet taken time to change from her working attire. For dinner prep she has donned a colorful, country apron that disguises her slender figure but renders a particular allure — that of the domestic wife. “You shouldn’t have bothered to hear him out. I knew it would be a waste of time.”
“Well, I’m committed to my strategy, and I’m going back tomorrow for round TWO.” This, I decided while on an unaccompanied walk through the woods after my arrival home at about four-thirty. I needed to get my head straight, especially since the overwhelming emotion I felt at the time was anger — anger at the way I was treated and at Colin for his presumptive air of self-importance and invulnerability.
After I talked with Benny from the car and received confirmation on the authenticity of Colin’s letter, my initial temptation was to quickly draft a scathing article and send it in to the Ledger before final deadline. Colin could read for himself the charges Kathy had leveled against him, right off the front page of the morning paper. But I cooled down on the hike along the river. Once again I could see myself in the eye of the hurricane: one or two more moments of peace, and then all hell would break loose. Motivated partly by self-preservation, I decided to take one more day to see everything through. As governor, Colin deserves whatever benefit of doubt can be squeezed from this turnip of fate. Otherwise, I would not be able to live with myself; I’d be no better than a tabloid sensationalist.
“Well, I hope this time you wear a helmet,” Maryanne says. “Unless you’re fond of getting your head kicked in.” She has removed the apron now and assembled the sandwiches onto a plate with an assortment of raw vegetables. She hands it to me. “Here, make yourself useful. Put these on the table. And how about getting us something to drink?”
“Yes, dear.” Women in the nineties have their own power zone, especially in and around the kitchen. Maryanne’s approach contains a good measure of bark but no real bite — well, maybe a bit of snappishness from time to time, when provoked, but that is about the extent of it. I pull a half-empty bottle of Chardonnay from the refrigerator and reach for a couple glasses to take to the table.
We sit across from each other. After I pour the wine, and she dishes up the soup, the wordless ritual of eating begins. Some awkwardness has crept between us, probably left over from the former conversation, although it is masked by our separate actions of slurping, chewing and sipping. I wonder who will speak first.
My mind floats off to consider the column I outlined earlier, before Maryanne arrived home. I believe I can finish it this evening. Half the job is mental readiness, I’ve found. If I concentrate long and hard enough about a subject and how I will treat it, the production of an article is easy. Once I am properly mentally prepared, writing the story itself is generally less difficult and time consuming than performing the style and grammar editing and putting on the finishing touches that give the piece optimum appeal. Conversely, if I sit down at my computer with only the kernel of an idea, not thoroughly thought through, I might turn to stone before getting out the first paragraph.
In mid-crunch of a carrot stick, Maryanne breaks the silence. “So what do you suppose he’ll have to say tomorrow, after having twenty-four hours to consider his alternatives?”
“I’m afraid I can’t predict. He fooled me totally this afternoon, upending me without even a minute to think about how to respond. Who knows what he’ll pull after having some time to prepare?”
“Are you scared?” she asks, looking me in the eye.
“No. There’s nothing to be scared of. I’ve got the truth on my side, not to mention research, facts and the right motives.” I wash down a mouthful of dinner with a swallow of oak-aged wine. “The only thing I fear is being made to look like a sleazy bastard who’s out to dig up dirt on our virtuous, unsuspecting governor, ostensibly for the sake of my own career.”
“People know you’re not like that, Chip.”
“Who really knows that? Anyway, what registers with the public is the way things look, not the way they are. Perception is everything. And you can bet Colin will pull out all the stops to make me look sleazy, no matter what I actually am.” I drain my glass and practically slam it down onto the wooden tabletop. This situation has obviously thrown me off balance.
The phone rings, and Maryanne rises to answer it.
“Hello... Yes, of course.”
She cups the mouthpiece. “Chip, its John Harrington for you.”
Perfect! I’ve been avoiding John since this morning. No doubt he’s calling to harass me about letting him in on the story.
“Hi, John.”
“Chip. What the hell’s going on? I half expected to get something from you for tomorrow’s paper. What about that exclusive you’re working on? Benny says it has something to do with the governor.”
“I’ve had a little trouble verifying the story, John. Looks like it’s going to take at least one more day.”
“Well, let’s make sure that’s all it takes. News doesn’t have any shelf life, as you must know. Besides, it’s been rather slow around the newsroom since Friday. Even Reuters has gone flat. And I’m already sick of all this horse crap on abortion. Short of going on a crime spree myself, I don’t know what we’re going to have that’s worthy of the front page.
“I’ll give it my best shot, John. But the situation is somewhat complicated.”
“Somewhat complicated? What the hell does that mean? Why not tell me what you’re working on, and maybe I can help you uncomplicate things — somewhat!”
“I wish I could, John. But to save everyone future embarrassment, I need to play this one close to the vest.”
“You’re not planning to go to the Freep with this, are you?” The Detroit Free Press is his chief competition.
“No, no, John. Soon as the story comes together, you’ll have it, and they won’t.”
“Good. Now, don’t get so busy you forget about the column you owe me tomorrow.”
“No problem. You’ll have it.”
“All right. I’ll let you get back to work.”
“Work? I was having dinner.”
“Well, don’t let it get cold. See you tomorrow.”
“So long.”
Maryanne remains at the table, leisurely enjoying the remains of her soup. She has a question ready as I join her. “So, you’re just going to go in there tomorrow to take another beating?” No doubt, she is genuinely concerned for me. She just has a peculiar way of showing it.
“No, not at all. I am, however, going to confront Colin with the facts and hold his feet to the fire until I get a straight answer. And if he tries to hand me some baloney about not being able to confirm or deny, I’ll submit the story anyway.”
“That’s some pretty tough talk.” She finishes her wine.
“I’m a pretty tough guy.”
“Prove it.”
“Later.”
We rose from dinner and cleaned up the dishes together, a rather small job considering tonight’s menu. Maryanne dropped her interrogating posture and talked of her day at the office. She has been working on rolling out the latest reading assessment (an educator’s euphemism meaning “test”) to all of the school districts in the county. There are always glitches in these things, and naturally, the naysayers come out of the woodwork. Nobody ever has an idea until someone else proposes an approach, or a method or whatever. Then everyone’s a critic. In the end they adjust to it, or the program is watered down beyond reasonable recognition, and by then, an army of terrorists couldn’t get them to change their minds. Public education, for all the money that gets poured into it, remains a bottomless pit of despair — all teaching to the middle and a lot of empty talk about differentiation. Nonetheless, Maryanne loves it. And most everyone loves and appreciates her. I don’t think she ever gets snappish at the office. But what would I know? I’m never there.
Dan called. I gave him the rundown on the day’s main event. “Holy cow,” he said. “Sounds like vintage Nixon. Next thing you know, after he threatens to cut off your arm at the shoulder, you’ll be glad to settle on losing a hand.”
“That’s not going to happen,” I told him. “Tomorrow is Colin’s day of reckoning.”
Dan said he wished he could be there to witness the confrontation, but as it was, he could do little more than offer up a prayer on my behalf. I thanked him and said we’d talk again tomorrow.
Then I shut myself into the study to write my column.
Breaking the Bonds of Freedom
“Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose.” So goes the old refrain to Me and Bobby McGee. In the late Sixties and early Seventies, many young people understood freedom in just that way. After all, what else did that generation have to lose? Under the political banner of “making the world safe for democracy,” with the Viet Nam War hanging as a backdrop to scene ONE of their adulthood, there was little worth saving beyond their lives: no faith, no trust, no honor, no respect for the law, no ambition. Their trials and tribulations had all but severed them from society and previous generations. They cast aside the workaday world that had served their parents so well. Many ran afoul of cultural mores — standards that had stood for ages and generations. The phrase “generation gap” became a metaphor for the colossal failure of a society where young and old could no longer connect.
Marriage came to be viewed as confining, or worse — unnecessary. After all, love was free! Drug and alcohol abuse bled like an open wound across the patchwork tapestry of tens of thousands of young lives. Numerous young men fled over the border to Canada to avoid the draft and possible death from a war that held no meaning. Others, young men and women alike, were struck down for expressing themselves under their constitutionally guaranteed freedom to assemble. Like gruesome monuments to hopelessness, their battered bodies lay strewn recklessly across the streets of Chicago and over the grounds of the once idyllic campus of Kent State University. All the while, the former standard bearers for freedom — their parents — watched from the safety of their living rooms. With nothing left to lose, this generation was free. Free from society and the ties that bind.
A generation later, these events are viewed in an entirely different light. The troubles of our nation are behind us. America prospers, as do its young people — most of whom are conformists. Lessons have been learned from the Viet Nam generation. But, even with peace in our land and some time to reflect, our understanding of freedom has not fully clarified.
As we look about us today, we see that America’s success and her freedom are the envy of the entire world. All nations and people want what we have. But freedom is not, and has never been, free. There is a price that must be paid.
Our founding fathers toiled to buy America’s freedom, and then fought to preserve it. These great men established the world’s most successful government, a democracy (or more rightly stated — a constitutional republic), a nation governed by the rule of law. Those who seek freedom in America must still submit to her laws, laws written through the genius of learned and gifted men, laws that are a large part of the price we pay for freedom today.
And so we have now come full circle in a generation. Thirty years ago, in attempts to be free, young people threw off the shackles of society and its laws. Today we advocate the passage of more laws for the same ostensible purpose.
Which road to freedom is the right one? It cannot be both. And, while many are glad to be free of the memories of the war-torn Sixties, I cannot help but look back. When I watch as freedom fighters clamor for the right to carry concealed weapons, I cannot help but look back. When I hear political hopefuls spouting off about the laws they will advocate and the jails they will build to secure our freedom, I must look back.
If, as I have come to wonder, with the passage of each new law, some part of freedom is abolished, then it follows that more and more laws will bring about a society of less and less freedom. We are fooling ourselves if we think otherwise. Furthermore, freedom of choice is diminished in such a society, and there exists an ever-widening gap between right and wrong, as defined by the law.
So, considering the current propensity for legislating in the name of freedom, one cannot help but wonder how long it will take for the revolutionary atmosphere of the sixties to once again descend upon us like a curtain on the final act of democracy. We can only hope for someone powerful and influential to recognize the trouble we face. (Now, please pardon me while I carry this logic to its ridiculous conclusion.) Since today’s society has gained such abundant freedom in the face of so many new-found laws, it therefore follows that the possession of such freedom leaves us with nothing much left to lose.
And, sooner or later, something has got to give. Look close; you can see it in the desperate eyes of our young students. They’ve been rammed through somebody else’s chamber. They’re not quite sure how they fit. They haven’t really been taught to think for themselves. Indeed, they are not free to do so, the mantra of our school systems being, “If you want to succeed in life — get with the program — follow our lead.” In other words: go with the flow or else! Or else what? Failure, perhaps, or exclusion. No one wants to be made a foolish example of the consequences of non-conformance. And children learn this painful lesson very early in life. They learn to go along, even though they may not really understand why. It’s the rule, we tell them, the law, the accepted way. And if they dare to be different, punishment looms over them like a threatening cloud.
Meanwhile, historians and freedom fighters and REAL Americans are out trumpeting the melody of rugged individualism. It is the underlying strength of our American republic — or so they say.
Well, once again, and at the risk of repeating myself: You cannot have it both ways. If you want people to think like rugged individualists, you must encourage them to do as much — even teach them how. You can’t pour everyone through the same sieve expecting that they will come out the other side as glistening examples of independence and free thinking individualism. And, if you want to encourage freedom, you have to eventually set young people free — free to choose, to make mistakes, to succeed, or to fail — presuming, of course, that you have first taught them how to think. Instead of passing laws to fence them in, how about teaching young people to make good and proper decisions, and then turn them loose? Teach them respect for others and their property, and you may not need laws to restrain improper behavior; they will know the difference between the two.
All of us want freedom to remain the hallmark of society. But if that is to be so, we cannot allow this noble concept to further degenerate into an empty rhetorical rallying cry.
We want freedom to become real in our hearts, in our streets, in our society and most of all, in our government. But I cannot be the only one who shutters as I read the news or when I see a clip on TV, where yet another candidate promises us tougher laws and more prisons for greater freedom. There must be others besides me whose hearts’ cry, “Stop! That is not the answer. How about demonstrating freedom by the example of your own life, how it is an empowering force — for good and not for evil?” After all, this is what gets preached in our schools, our churches and the halls of our government. Is it not?
At this, the closing of the twentieth century — a century that has seen the most atrocious wars and the most prosperous peace; in which most of the nations of the world have followed in our footsteps to democracy; where great strides have been made to wipe out poverty as we know it — indeed, while we still have the time, the strength, the resources and the hope, let us break the bonds of freedom into a new and glorious way.
Then, when a politician talks, some of us might begin to listen.
I go back and re-read this column again and again, trying to find a reason not to send it in to the Ledger for publication. It is the product of my dour mood, I realize, the remains of a horrendous day. It hangs precipitously as a somewhat hopeless mirror of American society, a direct reflection of what I see in the governor of Michigan, Colin Rierdon, and so many others like him who seek and gain high office. But, as depressing as the picture may be, the words I have written are nonetheless true, at least as far as I can discern truth.
I finally decide to sleep on it. Another column could be written before deadline tomorrow if I change my mind, as perhaps I should — unless there is some open space on Wednesday’s editorial page, that is.
Once upstairs, I find Maryanne waiting for me in the bedroom suite. She will know exactly how to revive my spirit.