Spencerville

She added, “Keith, with your background—”
    He interrupted, “You don’t know my background. Whatever I told you doesn’t leave this house.”
    Gail nodded. “All right. With your intelligence, wit, and charm, you can help us. We’d like you to join us.”
    “Who is us?”
    “Just a group of reformers.”
    “Do I have to become a Democrat?”
    Jeffrey laughed. “God, no. We have no party affiliation. We have people from all parties and all classes. We have ministers, businesspeople, schoolteachers, farmers, housewives—hell, we’ve got most of Annie’s family with us.”
    “Is that a fact? I wonder what Thanksgiving dinner is like at the Baxters’?”
    Jeffrey said, “Like a lot of our supporters, they haven’t gone public yet.” Jeffrey asked, “Can we count on you?”
    “Well…” In truth, Keith had his own grudge against Cliff Baxter, which was that he was married to Annie Baxter. Keith said, “Well… I’m not sure I’m staying around.”
    Jeffrey observed, “I had the impression you were.”
    “I’m not sure.”
    Gail said, “We’re not asking you to meet him on Main Street at high noon for a duel. Just say you’re in favor of getting rid of him.”
    “Okay. In principle, I’m in favor of getting rid of any corrupt public official.”
    “Good. That’s Cliff Baxter. There’s a meeting next week, Thursday night, at St. James Church. You know it?”
    “Yes, it’s my old church. Why are you meeting outside of town?”
    “People don’t want to be seen at this meeting, Keith. You understand that.”
    “Indeed I do. But you may be overdoing the revolutionary melodrama. This is America. Use the damned town hall. That’s your right.”
    “Can’t. Not yet.”
    Keith wondered how much of this was the Porters trying to recapture the romance of revolution and how much was real anxiety and fear. Keith said, “I’ll think about being there.”
    “Good. More pie? Tea?”
    “No, thanks. Time to hit the road.”
    “It’s early,” Gail said. “None of us has shit to do tomorrow.” She stood, and Keith thought she was going to clear the table, so he stood, too, and picked up his plate and glass.
    Gail said, “Leave that. We’re still pigs.” She took his arm and led him into the living room.
    Jeffrey followed, carrying a potpourri jar. He said, “The dinner was superb, the conversation stimulating, and now we retire into the drawing room for a postprandial smoke.”
    Gail lit two incense lamps and two scented candles in the dark room. Jeffrey sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the coffee table, and, by the light of one of the candles, he transferred the contents of the potpourri jar into rolling papers that he’d spread out on the low table.
    Keith watched him in the candlelight, quick fingers and a flicking tongue, producing five nicely packed joints faster than an old farmer could roll a single cigarette.
    Gail put a tape in the deck,
Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely
Hearts Club Band,
then sat on the floor with her back to an armchair.
    Jeffrey lit a joint, took a toke, and passed it to Keith. Keith hesitated a moment, took a drag, then passed it across the coffee table to Gail.
    The Beatles played, the candles flickered, the smell of incense and pot filled the air. It was 1968, sort of.
    The first joint was now held with a pair of tweezers, then snuffed out, and the roach was put carefully in an ashtray for future use in the pipe that Keith noticed on the table. The second joint was lit and passed.
    Keith recalled the protocols and rituals as if it were yesterday. No one said much, and what was said didn’t make a whole lot of sense.
    Gail, however, did say in the low, hushed tone associated with cannabis and candlelight, “She needs help.”
    Keith ignored this.
    Gail added, as if to herself, “I understand how and why a woman stays in that kind of situation… I don’t think he abuses her physically… but he’s fucking with her head…”
    Keith passed the joint to her. “Enough.”
    “Enough what?” She took a toke and said, “You, Mr. Landry, could solve your problem and our problem at the same time…” She exhaled. “… right?”
    Keith had trouble forming his thoughts, but after a few seconds, or a few minutes, he heard his voice say, “Gail Porter… I’ve butted heads with the best in the world… I’ve had enough experience with women to write the book on the subject… don’t try to fuck with
my
head…” He thought this was what he