FOUR
When I was a couple weeks old, my parents presented me to be baptized in the local Catholic Church. Insisting that their precious newborn child get indoctrinated into her faith, my mother succeeded in overcoming my dad’s resistance to have me christened. Faith wasn’t really the issue with him. He just felt that he should have a better than equal say regarding such decisions. Though dad lost the first battle, his disdain for churchgoing (and church giving) over the next couple of years eventually took its toll on mother’s church attendance. Consequently, I never got properly instructed in the Catholic faith. Dad was evidently not concerned that I might turn out to be wild and amoral. Mother, on the other hand, was deeply disturbed about this eventuality. Still, she was unable to sway my father from his dogged anti-church view.
When I was about ten, the First Baptist Church called to say that they were starting a bus ministry and would be able to pick me up at home for Sunday school and church on Sunday mornings. They promised to return me to my doorstep by noon. Mother jumped at the chance to see me mainstreamed into Christianity, albeit as a Protestant. It was better than nothing, she reasoned.
A few months later the Baptists had me baptized again — this time with full immersion in their chlorinated tank, perched high above the stage they called the platform. This most ethereal experience remains visibly etched in my mind. They gave me a white gown to wear over my underwear, and I was instructed to hold my nose as the minister dunked me backward into the lukewarm water. Six or seven other kids, who were also being bussed to church, got in the tank with me. The minister prayed over us and we were taken under the water, one at a time.
After about a year of the shuttle service ministry, though, what with the endless, predictable services and the juvenile treatment from the Sunday school teachers, I got bored. Wiping a tear from her eye mother reluctantly obliged me when I said “enough.”
Counting an unsuccessful recruitment by the Moonies and the throwing of the I Ching a couple of times in college, that is the sum total of my religious life to date.
On the way home from Fair Hills, I call Kathy Nichols on my cellular, and when she doesn’t pick up, I leave a message on her machine. Then, as I arranged earlier in the week, I stop in East Lansing to pick up my tuxedo for the governor’s gala this evening. I quickly duck into a changing room and check the fit before heading home.
It is five o’clock now, and I am on the way to my rural homestead. Long, grayish white, stratocumulus clouds have assembled on the western horizon behind an advance team of whiter, less threatening puffs, already well into their wind-driven, eastward glide across the peninsula. The air has dampened and thickened as a result of a foreboding breeze. Summer fades rapidly in the Great Lakes region. Its fair complexion in the skies dims to the color of steel as the lakes distill in the cool air. But my regrets will hold no sway. The dismal, diminished days of autumn seem to be descending upon us as predictably as nightfall.
“Hi, honey, I’m home.” I call from the kitchen to the sleeping rafters.
“Is that you, Chip?”
“Who were you expecting, the meter reader perhaps?”
Whooshing down the stairs, Maryanne casts me a frenzied look. “I was hoping it was Nonie. She’s dropping by with her black purse for me to take tonight.”
“Sorry, but it’s just me and my tuxedo.”
“Oh, you got it? Let’s see.” Maryanne loves me in a tux, even though ages pass between each opportunity to wear one. “I will probably be overdressed,” I remark, ruefully.
“You will look like you belong there. I’m the one with the problem.” She actually seems convinced of this, even though she radiates beauty like a rose in bloom. “My hair didn’t turn out right; my dress is too short; I don’t even have a bag.”
“You said Nonie’s bringing you a bag.”
“So she is.”
“You will look like a million dollars. You always do.”
“You’re just patronizing me.”
Barefoot, and clothed only in blue jeans and a faded green MSU sweatshirt, she has yet to undergo the magical metamorphosis into elegance that she can well perform. I am confident that, in a matter of hours, she will garner countless envious glances from other women at the dinner, those who could never boast of her beauty, have long since lost what they once had or lack the ability to captivate with their humor and intelligence. The men will know this as well. Maryanne is a prize, and I am the lucky winner.
I hug her until I feel her body relax. She returns the affection.
“Let’s not spoil the evening before it starts. For my money you are the belle of the ball. Want to come home with me afterward, my dear?”
She kisses me on the cheek and rests her head on my shoulder.
“I take that as a yes.”
“Where else would I go?” She slips from my grasp and turns to peer out the front window, presumably looking for Nonie. “How was your day?” she says to the shrubbery.
“The usual assortment of lies, half-truths and innuendo.”
“Oh, please. I thought Peggy was a good source.”
I walk over, slip my arm around her waist, and join her in gazing through the glass into the darkening afternoon. “Peggy was her usual, frustrated self, but I also stopped to talk with Father Joe.”
“Really! And how did that go?”
“Rather badly, I’m afraid. He just fed me the party line and dodged my questions about Colin. What baffles me is his support of Rierdon, especially considering the historical, Catholic bent toward Democratic ideals. It just goes to show you how the abortion issue can dominate the entire political landscape.”
She turns to make eye contact with me, and I am reminded of one the reasons why I love her.
“I thought Colin was trying to walk the line on the abortion issue. Does Father Joe really believe the governor is on his side?”
“Good question. But where else are these one-issue voters going to go? Even with rhetorical equivocation on the issue, the Republican Party is the pro-lifer’s last great hope. Why else would someone like Father Joe allow himself to be viewed as a Republican supporter, except for the strong anti-abortion language in their platform? Anyway, without actually campaigning on the issue, Rierdon has more than once intimated that he supports the abortion ban, so the pro-lifers can comfortably believe he’s in their camp. Then, in order to keep the pro-choice Republicans from defecting from their own party, Colin has kept the focus on everything but abortion since well before the election last fall. It’s a tap dance, but he’s made it work for him.”
“You can ask him tonight how he really feels.”
Maryanne is just innocent enough to believe that I would actually get a straight answer out of the straight-and-narrow governor.
“Of course I can. However, I would rather like to ask him about something that Peggy dropped on me at lunch.”
“What’s that?”
“She wouldn’t say exactly, although she gave me the number of a friend of hers, a girl Colin dated in high school — Kathy Nichols is her name. Peggy said she has something she wants to go public with.”
Maryanne purses her lips and then responds with obvious interest, “I wonder what that might be?”
“We’ll probably find out soon enough. I left Ms. Nichols a phone message that I would appreciate a meeting with her.”
“Well, as the world turns.”
Glancing back outdoors, I see our neighbor and friend, Nonie Russell approaching the house on the front walk. In her hand is a Hudson’s bag that undoubtedly contains the key accessory for Maryanne’s evening ensemble.
“Nonie’s here,” Maryanne declares.
“Good. I’m going upstairs to shower and get ready.”
* * *
A city of inauspicious beginnings, the site of barely more than a sawmill and a dam on the Grand River, Lansing became the unlikely choice for state capital in 1847, a decade after Michigan was granted statehood. According to a federal mandate, a permanent capital site had to be chosen within ten years, through an act of the state legislature. The former Michigan Territory that had survived as part of the U.S. after it recaptured Detroit from the British in 1813 was largely comprised of wilderness and Indian lands at the time. There were few areas of concentrated population aside from the century-old city of Detroit. Pioneers who had come to settle on the peninsula did so mainly in the southern tier along the border with Ohio and Indiana and, to a lesser extent, north of Detroit in the Saginaw Valley. Connected to Detroit by rail, the communities of Ann Arbor, Jacksonborough (present day Jackson) and Marshall were small but viable.
Detroit had been the capital of the Michigan Territory since its establishment in 1805, and it also served as temporary capital of the new State of Michigan. But, with Detroit as its political and commercial nucleus, Michigan remained vulnerable to attack by water from British-ruled Canada across the river.
Meanwhile, a popular trend had begun to emerge across the nation in which central locations were being chosen as new state capitals. So, with legislators from Detroit and the southern cities squabbling over the question of where to locate the permanent capital, a proposal to select Lansing Township for the site was made by the local county representative on behalf of a landowner who was willing to donate land for the new capitol building. Many legislators considered it folly to seat the state’s government in the wooded, nearly inaccessible wilderness of the interior, but the unlikely choice got made, regardless. In what must have been an embarrassing series of maneuvers aimed at preventing any of the other, southern cities from capturing the prize, Detroit and Wayne County lawmakers supported the Lansing location with enough votes to put it over the top. And, to the chagrin of those who were appalled by the selection of such an out-of-the-way location, the governor signed the measure, giving Lansing both purpose and success overnight.
The decades following saw business and commercial interests chart an investment trend in the new city of Lansing that continued practically unabated for over a hundred years. Situated on a big bend of the Grand River, with water power in abundance, this area quickly became home to mills and factories of every sort. Then came schools, shops, insurance companies, rails, roads and ultimately Olds-built horseless carriages, all before the advent of the 20th century.
In 1855 the Michigan Agricultural College was chartered just three-and-a-half miles east of Lansing on a large, wooded tract of land straddling the Red Cedar River, a tributary of the Grand. Despite considerations that this was less-than-ideal agricultural property, and that massive land clearing would be necessary before whatever potential it had could be realized, the college succeeded, eventually becoming Michigan State University, one of the premier land grant universities in the country.
Here then, a century-and-a-half later, at the nexus of Michigan government, industry and educational interests, the present day cities of Lansing and East Lansing flourish. Along the banks of the Red Cedar and Grand Rivers beats the heart of Michigan, with heavily traveled rails and roads extending like arteries to Detroit, Grand Rapids, Flint, Jackson, Battle Creek and the North Country.
* * *
Wanting to ingratiate himself with the locals, immediately after he was elected last year, Governor Rierdon purchased an historic, Second Empire home in a revival section of Lansing, southwest of the capitol. This is no ordinary house. A remnant of the glory days of the Lansing boom, the 6,000 square foot “mansion” had been built in the middle 1870s to accommodate its owner’s lavish lifestyle. It was originally constructed in three stories with a dormered parapet atop a slate-shingled, gambrel-style, third floor. Arched porticos grace the front of the home on both the main and second floors, and a generous porch extends around the first floor, supported by decorative columns, hand-carved roof brackets and a rail with a balustrade. Once restored by an auto executive in the 20s, and subsequently given a facelift by a more recent proprietor in 1978, Rierdon’s piece of Americana had nonetheless slipped into terrible, structural decline — its plaster loosened and crumbling, its clapboards rotting under peeling paint, its porch listing and much of its ornamentation cracked or altogether missing.
Immediately after taking possession of this jewel-in-the-rough in January, with grandiose plans and a bracing optimism, the new governor retained an architect and subsequently brought in an army of contractors and laborers to restore some of the former splendor to the rare period home. Restoration experts have estimated the total bill to run over a half-million dollars, that is if Colin and his wife Barbara complete all of the renovations and improvements they have talked about publicly. Decorating alone will probably exceed $100,000. As might be expected, the local gossip circles are abuzz with speculation regarding how Colin could afford such a massive undertaking, especially considering his governor’s salary and his twenty years of public service.
As Maryanne and I approach, it appears as though the governor and Babs Rierdon have exercised some pull with the local construction people. Under the incandescent, period street lamps the mansion looks both magnificent and reminiscent of its Victorian-era beginnings. We find that Colin has arranged for valet parking for the guests. We queue up behind a Cadillac El Dorado and a shiny, older Jaguar sedan. One of the valets, a well-groomed young man appearing to be in his late teens, opens the passenger door and escorts Maryanne up the half-dozen or so stairs to the entry portico. I am relieved of my driving duties by another eager young gentleman. I approach the house against a biting wind that threatens to deliver rain at any moment, yet I linger a moment to gaze at the imposing spectacle before me. With Maryanne waiting I cannot take the time to adequately survey the work on the mansion’s exterior. In the quasi-dark it appears that the painters applied white and gray as main colors and dark red for trim accents. All of the masonry and woodwork seem to have been repaired and the decorations, rebuilt. Immediately, I wonder why I haven’t driven by recently to observe the work in progress. No doubt, the transformation was costly and yet surprisingly quick. I am suitably impressed.
“Some house,” I comment to my wife as I step onto the gray-planked porch which is illuminated by a diamond-shaped, hanging fixture and the glow from the windows on either side of the arched, double doors.
“Let’s go inside. It is freezing out here.” Maryanne has never really been a student of architecture. Once inside, though, I am sure her eye for decorating will be captivated.
I take her arm, and, as the attendant opens the door for us, we step in. We are greeted in the oak-paneled foyer by Colin’s chief assistant and press secretary, Jim Stafford.
“Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. Halick.”
“Hello, Jim, this is my wife Maryanne.”
“Pleased to meet you.” Jim shakes my wife’s hand and I look around to see a couple of stiff but beefy security types anchoring either end of the hallway.
“Allow me to take your coats,” Jim suggests, assuming the role of majordomo. I wonder if the perks of his job make up for this type of service.
We divest ourselves of the raincoats we wore in preparation for the wet night ahead. I regret not bringing in an umbrella, though I am sure the “help” are adequately equipped, should it be raining later.
Other guests are socializing in the parlor to our left. Jim directs us toward them as he hands off our jackets to a smartly dressed and coiffed young woman. She thanks us and then disappears around the other end of the hall. We proceed into the main room toward the mingling guests, past a carved mahogany table with a period style lamp.
“I’m nervous,” Maryanne whispers toward my right ear.
With an attempt at reassurance, I whisper back, “Relax, you’ll do fine.”
The parlor is spacious and exquisite with warm mauve-colored walls and a stenciled ceiling, separated by painted, double cove moldings in off-white with pink accents. Elegant upholstered French Provincial furniture and several large, potted trees have been arranged along the perimeter of the carpeted room. A capacious central area has been left open except for a linen-covered table, set with a punch service. A young woman attends the punch bowl, and a couple dozen guests are standing around in small groupings of conversation.
“At least we aren’t the first ones here,” I proclaim. Maryanne shoots me a look that says she is not consoled.
“Mr. and Mrs. Halick. Welcome to the party.” I now recognize the young woman as the Rierdons’ daughter, Michelle, a tall, blonde, graceful-looking coed of about nineteen. “Would you like some punch?”
“Why not?” I reply. “As long as it’s not spiked too heavily.”
Maryanne jabs me with her elbow, clearly not appreciating the humor.
“It’s Michelle, right?”
“Shelly.”
“Oh, sure, I should have known that. I’m Chip, and this is my wife, Maryanne.”
Shelly smiles and nods while handing each of us a glass of punch. “Nice to meet you. By the way, the punch is basically apple cider; I can assure you it is extremely tame.”
“Please ignore my husband. He was not seriously concerned.” Maryanne makes my apology, as though it were really required.
“Oh, no problem.” Shelly smiles as if to say she appreciated the joke in the first place.
We saunter over toward two couples who are talking while alternately laughing and sipping punch. As we approach them, Maryanne, stunning in her black crepe dress with a single strand of pearls, predictably succeeds in turning all four heads toward us without so much as a word. Seeing the face of one of the women, I her as recognize Alice Brown-Petrovsky, the Governor’s outspoken supporter from the State Board of Education. This is a genuine stroke of luck since Maryanne knows Alice even better than I do.
“Hello, Alice,” I say.
She casts us a widely stretched grin, sufficiently contrived. “Well, Chip and Maryanne Halick! This is my husband, Stan. And this is the Reverend Bob Travis and his wife Becky, from Covenant Victory Church.”
We exchange pleasantries and shake hands all around.
“That was an interesting article you wrote for today’s paper, Chip.”
“I’m glad you enjoyed it, Alice.” Already it seems like an eternity since the Ledger was published containing my article that essentially articulated the pro-choice argument. And I realize, too late, that I responded without thinking. Surely Alice and the minister must have disagreed with the underlying theme of the column. I attempt a recovery, “I trust you’ve read the previous articles in my series.”
“Yes, I have,” Alice says, graciously.
“You’ve no doubt heard that the amendment almost came up for a vote in the house today,” Reverend Bob says in a way that reveals his sense of satisfaction with the news that his key issue has made it to the top of the political agenda.
I am too embarrassed to admit that I have not bothered to check the results of the legislative session, so I turn the question around, “What do you make of that, Reverend?”
Reverend Bob beams with the opportunity to show off his political insight. “Well, the word is that, at the last minute, the Democratic leadership decided to forego the vote because they weren’t confident they could defeat the amendment. Seems like the governor’s popularity has a few of the Democrats shaking in their boots; they’re afraid to vote with their own party.”
“Speaking of the governor, where is he?” Stan Petrovsky wisely attempts to get the conversation back to a less controversial topic.
“I haven’t seen him or Babs,” Becky Travis says.
“If I were putting on this big a reception, there’s no way I’d be ready yet,” Maryanne states flatly.
“You’re not kidding,” Alice says. “I’ve heard there were over sixty people invited.
“This is quite an unveiling for the mansion. It’s unbelievable how much they’ve accomplished.” I am only too happy to kick off an innocuous topic.
“It’s just gorgeous, isn’t it?” Alice says with obvious enthusiasm as she glances around the room.
“Have they finished the whole place?” Maryanne says.
“Not from what I’ve heard,” Stan says. “I don’t think much has been done on the living quarters upstairs.”
“Still, they’ve done some major work here.” Becky says.
“You’re not kidding. Compared to what it looked like when they bought it, this is a complete renaissance,” Reverend Bob says.
He continues to talk about the house, but I am distracted by the flow of guests. Looking about, I see numerous people I recognize as news-makers and VIPs, many of whom I have not officially met. Colin has evidently gone out of his way to invite someone from each of his constituency groups. Aside from an educator and a preacher, I see Sal Dimitris, one of the Detroit pizza moguls; Harold Wurtz, CEO of Michigan Power; Stephen Hackula, a Grand Rapids furniture company president; Circuit Judge Susan Scott; Joe McMurtry, one of the local hospital directors; Clifton Frederick, president of First State Bank here in Lansing; and several others whom I do not recognize though they are probably equally well positioned. Cindy Cook, one of the local TV news anchors, has just appeared on the arm of a tall, handsome fellow. I wonder if there will be any other media types.
Focusing again on the conversation at hand, I see that Maryanne and Alice are amusing each other with shop talk about schools. Stan and Reverend Bob have taken a deep dive into historic home restorations and are bemoaning the lack of skilled tradesmen who can do wet plaster and high-quality finish carpentry. Becky seems left out of both conversations, so I attempt to engage her, “Do you know the Rierdons well, Becky?”
“Oh, it seems like we do, but, you know, they only began attending our church a year ago. It really feels like so much longer than that though. We’re so glad to have them here in Lansing. They’re such lovely people, don’t you think?”
“Well, to be honest, Maryanne and I have never really gotten to know them personally. I’ve certainly written a lot about Colin, but it is mainly on the political issues, not really reflective of his private life.”
“Wow, that’s surprising. But I guess that’s the way it goes in your business. It must be hard to get close to the people you write about.”
“No question. We stay at arm’s length most of the time. It’s the only way to remain objective.”
Becky nods. “I see. But how can you be sure that you are writing the truth about someone if you don’t really know them?”
“That’s a good question. I don’t think that the truth about someone is really the issue though. In politics the really important questions are: What is their public record, and what do they aim to accomplish in the future?” As I say these things, I realize that, now, I’m the one trying to defend myself with the meaningless mantra of my profession. Knowingly or not, Becky has struck right at journalism’s Achilles heel.
From the far corner of the room, the sound of a single clap of applause quickly spreads through the crowd, prompting everyone present to turn as Governor and Babs Rierdon emerge from the back hall. Babs looks radiant in a flowing, ankle-length, dusty-rose chiffon gown. Colin is wearing a broad smile to go with his perfectly fitted tuxedo and pink, ruffled shirt. They wave to everyone, and Colin vigorously shouts out, “Welcome to Freedom House everybody. We’re glad you came.”
After the applause dies down, they stop to greet a few of their guests personally, and the various conversations spring to life once again.
“Freedom House. That’s catchy,” Alice quips.
Reverend Bob is quick to join the refrain. “To me, it’s reminiscent of the Underground Railroad. Houses like this were once used by great patriots to shelter blacks who had escaped slavery in the South. Michigan was prominent in that effort. Now we’re paving the road to freedom for those who have been enslaved by the failed policies of big government over the past 50 years.”
I am thinking that, if this is a railroad, then Rierdon is the locomotive. What’s more, he is powered by the unflagging support of ideologues like the good Reverend.
“Dear, shall we drift over and say hello to the Rierdons?” Alice prompts her husband rather indiscreetly.
“Certainly, my love.”
They take their leave of the rest of us.
“Tell me about your church, Reverend,” I say, inquiringly.
“Why, of course. We are a medium-sized fellowship of about 500 believers, and we’re non-denominational. We put our emphasis on the Bible as the literal, inspired word of God, and on the great commission, which directs us to preach the gospel to every nation and people. So naturally, we have an emphasis on missions. In fact, we’ve sponsored missionaries all over the world, including Africa, India, the former Soviet bloc and the Caribbean. And my ministering staff includes a full-time youth minister and a choir director, so we’ve become quite popular among young people. We have special music from our choir and orchestra in every service. And we always take the time to hear from one of our young people as to how God has been working in his or her life. Still, we haven’t forgotten the basics. We devote a good portion of every service to the preaching of God’s word. We’re really like a big family, Chip. You should come and visit sometime.”
I am reminded of what Dan said last evening: ...I don’t think you will find a story there. You may, however, get saved. “Perhaps we will. How about it, honey?”
Maryanne paints on a forced, but nonetheless convincing smile. “Perhaps we will. Do you have any missions here locally, Reverend?” she asks.
“Well, not exactly, at least not yet. We have talked about it though, haven’t we dear?”
Becky comes to his rescue. “Yes, we have looked into that. But there are so many competing organizations trying to evangelize locally, we just haven’t identified our niche yet.”
Maryanne probes deeper. “I mean missions to help the poor. Have you been active in that sort of work?”
“Uh, we do have a relief program for members of the fellowship,” Bob says. “They can get clothes and food which are donated by other church members. It’s been a good program. No one should be without food or clothing.”
“Oh, I agree,” Maryanne replies. “Still, with all the welfare reform of the last couple of years, I would have thought that you’d be inundated with requests to provide assistance to people who don’t qualify for government assistance any longer.”
“There have been numerous requests, of course,” Bob admits. “All we require is that they attend our church. That way we can provide for their spiritual welfare as well. After all, in the final analysis, what is more important than that? ‘What does it benefit a man if he gain the whole world and then lose his soul?’ Jesus said those words. So we see welfare reform as a great opportunity to preach the gospel. It’s as if the Lord provided a means to help us spread His word. These people suddenly have a reason to come to church — they hear the good news, get saved and begin the exciting journey of walking with God, where they will no longer experience lack.”
“I see,” Maryanne says. I perceive that she is trying hard not to betray her incredulity. What kind of Kool-Aid has this guy been drinking, I wonder? But I recognize how pointless it would be to challenge his theology. His politics are probably impenetrable.
“I must confess, that is an angle I’ve never contemplated. You must be enjoying real church growth these days,” I say, after a moment’s thought, trying to nip Maryanne’s interrogation in the bud.
“Oh, yes. We have added forty new members just since the beginning of the year. The Lord has been adding to our numbers.”
Two attendants in tuxedos now enter the room from the foyer and walk past us to the double doors centered on the back wall. They each slide one of the overly tall, hand-carved wooden masterpieces into its receiving pocket within the wall, revealing another cavernous room set with numerous, linen-covered tables.
One of the young attendants speaks out in a deep resonant baritone, “Ladies and gentlemen, please proceed into the dining room. Your tables have been prepared with name cards.”
From inside the dining room a small string ensemble begins a classical chamber piece, as though on military cue. Governor and Mrs. Rierdon quickly position themselves on either side of the doorway to shake the hands of their guests. As we all funnel in, I take Maryanne’s hand and solicit her input, “What do you think, so far?”
“It’s like coming to church without a hymnal.”
“Don’t worry. If you’ve forgotten yours, one will be provided for you.”
“So I see. I can’t wait to find out who we get to sit with.”
“Maybe the governor, himself.”
“I rather doubt that.”
“Me too.”
The first state dinner at Freedom House could only have been described as luxurious. Babs Rierdon had selected an all-Michigan menu. A salad of mixed greens, tomato wedges, and walnuts, dressed with a raspberry vinaigrette, adorned each place at the elegantly set tables containing gold-rimmed service and gilded flatware. Breadbaskets piled high with farmer’s sourdough and Upper Peninsula Swedish rye were passed to help stimulate the appetite. The main course was roast pheasant with herbed rice stuffing and Traverse City cherry sauce, accompanied by twice-baked potatoes containing Pinconning cheese, and broccoli with a Hollandaise sauce. For dessert, a choice was offered among Romeo Cortland apple pie, Leelanau cherry cobbler and a cheesecake slathered with South Haven blueberry sauce. The coffee and decaf were brewed to perfection, and chilled bottles of sparkling spring water from the Keweenaw kept us from longing too much for a good Chardonnay.
Maryanne and I were seated with Cindy Cook, the TV anchor, and her fiance, Brent Barstow, a hunk-like actor from the world of daytime television. We learned that Cindy met him about a year ago while doing a live remote broadcast from Hollywood.
Brent and I didn’t seem to have much in common. Consequently, I struggled to keep a conversation going with him. Maryanne, on the other hand, evidently found him intriguing. So, while they chattered about the rough life of an up-and-coming screen actor, Cindy and I speculated as to why we were chosen from among our peers to receive invitations to this evening’s reception.
“Damned if I can figure it out,” Cindy said.
“Me either,” I replied.
“It’s a real hoot, though,” Cindy went on with bombast. “All these big shots here to break bread with the gov. Seems we’re the only ones who don’t quite fit into his clique.”
“It’s a golden opportunity, though, don’t you think? You know, to grab the brass ring and all.” I said this with tongue in cheek, and to hold up my end of the conversation, but also because I did not want to let Cindy into my head at the moment. Though she’s well liked among mid-Michigan television viewers, I didn’t feel I should trust her with my innermost thoughts.
“Yeah, but what will we do with it once we’ve got it? You and I aren’t ever going to be on Rierdon’s short list of friends. This is mega-society, my man.”
Before tonight I had not interacted with Cindy enough to notice her callused and cynical side. On camera she always comes across as savvy but sweet. Evidently that is merely her public persona. In real life she seemed altogether different to me. But I had to play along, regardless.
“So it is. But our mission is to find a story here somewhere in the garden of the contemporary elite.”
“The only stories here worth reporting are: Who came, and what did they wear.”
“Bet you’re sorry you didn’t bring a camera crew.”
“Believe me, I tried to figure out a way to get one in the door. This little pageant would make for some choice footage.”
The sound of the string quartet with its lyrical violin and warmly resonant cello helped to elevate our moods even as it put an exclamation point onto the aristocratic statement of the storybook evening. At one point I drifted off to thoughts of my earlier activities — of Peggy and her despondency, of Father Joe and his pedantic one note samba, of the phone call from Kathy Nichols which rung in as we were about to depart for the dinner. I could tell from Kathy’s tone that she was anxious to meet with me. She agreed to an appointment for noon, Sunday, at the Cafe Royal in downtown Ann Arbor. Whatever had become so urgent after all these years I would be discovering in less than forty-eight hours.
Just before the dessert got served, the governor stood up and made a brief statement thanking everyone for the cooperation and help that had been extended to him and his administration over the past year-and-a-half since the campaign began in earnest. Tonight’s dinner was “…a gesture of good will that cannot even begin to communicate my appreciation to everyone present,” he said. With the toughest job still in front of him and his administration, Colin pledged to “get the job done.” Presumably this was a euphemism for ramming his conservative agenda through a favorably inclined legislature, as soon as conditions were ripe. But no one present objected, at least not audibly. Cindy observed that nothing he said would pass muster as a news story. I agreed, but felt no more compassion for her than for myself. At least I was here to obtain first-hand information to dole out to the stargazing public. Other journalists in town weren’t so lucky.
Maryanne seemed enraptured by the evening’s aura and quite content to bask in its serene glow. Surprisingly, even though I had been eagerly anticipating this affair for weeks, I found myself feeling flat and listless. For me the whole scene amounted to no more than a tawdry sham, an orchestrated drama designed to crystallize support for the New Freedom within the attending cadre of influential members of Michigan society. Only a few times in my life have I been treated like a pawn, and each instance made me bristle. In fact, everything in me has been geared to resist being manipulated to do the bidding of another, however highly exalted or openly benevolent that person might be.
While Brent and Cindy cheerfully entertained questions from Maryanne about the glitzy world of television, my mind rambled on. Where did I fit on the political chessboard if not as a mere pawn? Never having considered myself conservative, I have nonetheless been impressed with the conservative approach to the economy, the aim to reduce big government and taxes. On the other hand, I have always been inclined to protect the poor, the working class and immigrants, all of whom need a representative voice in government and some financial consideration from time to time. Furthermore, I have never felt comfortable in following any form of “group think,” but neither have I been ready to lead the way toward the establishment of a new political order. Perhaps my only real burning desire has been to comment upon what I see others doing, while not necessarily doing anything myself. These facts about my personality made me seem most like the bishop. Slanting my way across the board, I can generally be found looking for an opportunity to trap my opponent in an unfortunate position. Chess, however, is merely a game; no one gets hurt. The stakes in real life are much higher. People can be destroyed with the wrong move. So, who actually holds the high moral ground, that which is worth protecting — these ideologues and opportunists, or me, with my simple ambition of getting to the truth?
As dinner slipped from manifestation to memory, and the last of the coffee turned cold, Colin and Babs made the rounds of the room to speak personally with their guests. They walked the milky-white ceramic tile floor under the room’s immense, crystal chandeliers and made a show of engaging everyone. When the First Couple reached our table, Cindy had already pulled away with Brent, determined to get the scoop on Michigan Power’s proposed take-over of the local Lansing Electric Company. MiPowCo’s CEO, Harold Wurtz, was directly in her sights. Babs Rierdon arrived at the table gushing over Maryanne’s “delightful” dress, and Colin actually sat down for a moment to talk.
“Chip, I just want you to know how much I really appreciate the fair and forthright way you’ve written about our administration. Considering the prevalence and popularity of attack journalism these days, and the reporters who are simply out to make a name for themselves, it’s refreshing to have a clear, honorable voice getting out the facts. Babs and I really look forward to your articles in the Ledger. We both hope you will keep up the good work.”
“I am honored you feel that way, governor. I plan to do more of the same.”
“Will you be covering the convention next week?”
“Absolutely. I wouldn’t miss it. Harbor Springs is beautiful this time of year.” Here was my chance to get the jump on my fellow journalists. “Will you be proposing anything newsworthy in your keynote speech?”
“It’s possible that we’ll advance a proposal or two. You know how these things go, though. My speech probably won’t be finished until Thursday, just before I’ve got to deliver it.” He chuckled. “We’ve been kicking around some ideas, but I am not at all certain the convention is the right place for announcing them. The better part of wisdom says we should stick to promoting our platform and keep focused on results. The upcoming year will be much kinder to us if we can keep the politicking to a minimum.”
He used “us” somewhat recklessly. Did he mean to include me as a beneficiary of his conservative largesse, or was it merely a supposition that could be invoked with impunity when one sat at the top of the political heap?
“Perhaps you can comment on the stalling of the Right to Life Amendment in the house today.”
“We were pleasantly surprised to see that happen, of course. We thought the vote could go either way.”
“Are you looking forward to signing it if it gets through both chambers?”
“We’ll have to wait and see if and when that happens, Chip. But I think I’ve made my position on abortion clear in the past.”
This was an unmistakable dodge of the question, and, besides, my view of his position is about as clear as mud.
“How do you feel personally about the bill, governor?” I was pressing the issue, but anyone else in my shoes would be doing the same.
“The will of the citizens of this state is what counts, Chip, not my personal opinion.” He paused, then continued, “Let’s wait and see what happens in the legislature.”
“Fair enough. Incidentally, this is a beautiful home you’ve got here.”
Colin’s ever-present smile distorted a bit as he replied, “I might tend to agree when we finally get the opportunity to actually live here. Until then, while we continue to liberate it from the neglect of the past hundred years, it shall remain the biggest monument to the New Freedom in the state...and the most expensive.
“Once again, Chip, Maryanne, we are sincerely glad you came, and thanks again for your superb work.” He reached for his wife’s hand as I forced out an amused nod. “Well, dear, shall we move along?” he said to Barbara. “Several more guests to see.”
“Of course, dear. It has been a real pleasure meeting you, Maryanne.”
“My pleasure as well,” Maryanne replied.
“Bye, now. See you next week up north,” Colin said, departing for the next table.
“Good-bye.”