Defiant Heart (16 page)

He stepped over to the refrigerator and removed a bottle of milk. “Of course, the army’ll teach him how to fly the army way.” He poured the milk into two glasses. “Which, in this case, might not be all that bad a thing.”

“What’s the army way?”

Ben laughed again. “You know, I was in the army, and I can tell you there are about a hundred answers to that question. Most of them are not appropriate to repeat in polite company.” He set the two glasses of milk on the table and sat down. “I think,” he continued, “if Tommie gets anything out of the army, it should be a little discipline.” He raised his fork and waggled it from side to side. “Not that Tommie is completely undisciplined. It’s just,” he paused, thinking about the best way to put it. “It’s just that he has a little too much of his mother in him.”

Jon looked as though he was going to say something, but he didn’t.

Ben smiled wryly. “You were going to ask about his mother, right?”

“I don’t mean to pry. I’ve already asked a lot of personal questions.”

Ben shook his head. “It’s ok. That part of my life is ancient history.” He took a sip of milk. “I got married when I was in the army. I joined right after we entered the war. Nineteen-seventeen. I had this notion I would go over there and single handedly take on the Hun. The army had other ideas, though. They thought I was a little too old to be flying their precious planes. They wanted younger guys. I was thirty-four at the time. So, instead of going to France, I went to Mississippi, where I taught a lot of those younger guys how to fly.”

“You taught them the army way,” Jon said, with a smile.

“I taught them the army way,” Ben agreed, smiling as well. “Or my version of it.”

He took a bite and chewed it, remembering. “I met the boys’ mother at a dance sponsored by the Magnolia Society, or some such grand thing. She loved my uniform. I was the dashing army officer she’d been waiting for all her life. She was ten years younger than me, but she didn’t think I was too old for her, and I didn’t think she was too young for me.” He paused. “Turns out, we were both wrong.

“Shortly after we got married,” he continued, “the war ended. The army had no more use for me. Which was fine. I’d pretty much had my fill. I took my discharge, and we moved back here.”

“You were originally from here?”

“Yep,” said Ben. “You’re sitting on land that’s been in the Wheeler family for over a hundred years. What you see is just a small part of it. The place is big enough that there are three families farming on it. Tenants. The rent they pay keeps me in this luxury you see,” He waved his hands around the kitchen. “That, and eggs.

“So, anyway,” he said, picking up the thread of the story, “I brought my new bride home. She was pregnant by then, with Ben. It was hard for her living out here. This place has never been the center of anywhere, and it was a shocking change from the garden parties and social circles of Biloxi. Eighteen months after Ben was born, Tommie came along. And that was it for her. She just up and told me one day. She was through being a mother, and she was through with living in Indiana. She’d done her duty, given me two fine sons, and she was moving on.”

Jon looked at him incredulously. “She left?”

Ben nodded.

“How could she leave her boys?”

Ben spread his hands, palms up. “Not everybody is cut out to be a parent.”

Jon thought about that. “Where is she now?”

“I don’t know.” Then he smiled. “This time I really mean it. Last I heard, she was in New York. She couldn’t go back to Mississippi. The scandal would be too great. She managed to wrangle a divorce. I’m not sure how she paid for it. I signed the papers the day they arrived. I’m guessing she’s probably still in New York. But I don’t really know. I haven’t heard from her in,” he thought for a moment, “eighteen, nineteen years.”

“That’s kind of sad.”

Ben shrugged. “Water under the bridge.” He gave Jon a level look. “So, now that you know my life story, what’s yours?”

Jon blinked, and, to Ben, he seem to draw into himself.

“Not much to tell,” Jon said, somewhat vaguely. “I live in Jackson with my grandmother.”

Ben nodded slowly. It was clear to him that Jon wasn’t anxious to give details about himself. He wouldn’t push it. Hopefully, they would have time.

“You know,” Ben mused, “I’m thinking it would be a damn shame if you didn’t take lessons and really learn how to fly. And it just so happens I’ve got a little time on my hands. What do you say?”

Jon’s eyes shone. “Oh, yes. Yes, sir.”

7

“You make a compelling case, Jim,” said Bob Chapman, wiping the corner of his mouth with a napkin. The older man sat back to allow his plate to be taken away. Then he leaned forward again. “And I’m ready to get behind someone I think can take the damn seat away from the Democrats. But it’s all about the money. Do you have any idea how expensive it would be to mount this kind of challenge? We’re not just talking about an incumbent. We’re talking about a guy who’s spent practically half his life in Congress. Hell, he raises money going to the toilet.”

Jim Dahlgren nodded soberly. Inside, however, he was excited. He had carefully led Chapman to this point through the entire dinner. Just a little bit further.

“So,” Dahlgren said, thoughtfully, “you think if I could match Barker in fundraising, you’d be in a position to put your support behind me?”

“In a heartbeat.”

Bingo.

They were dining at the Lodge. Unfortunately, it was too cold to sit out on the veranda, so they were in the main room, a comfortable, wood-paneled space that nevertheless provided an expansive view of the river through a series of large windows, or at least it had until the sun had set. Chapman had accepted Dahlgren’s invitation and had made the almost hour and a half drive from Ridley.

A private club, the Lodge was situated on the site of the former Olmstead estate. The Olmsteads had been the first known settlers in the region, and they had built their home on a spot where the Winamac River made a wide lazy turn around a spit of land that jutted out and interrupted its largely southward course. Dahlgren had been part of the original founding group that had acquired the site after the last of the Olmsteads passed away. It had been one of his best investments. The value of his membership had quadrupled in nine years. People from as far away as Terre Haute wanted to join, which, to some folks, seemed extraordinary, given the fact that the only thing the club offered was an opportunity to dine in a spectacular setting. There were no other facilities to speak of, though it was possible to reserve one of three suites of rooms for overnight stays. For the substantial initial investment and the significant annual dues, it seemed to many not to be worth it.

However, the real attraction of the Lodge, the one that those who couldn’t see themselves making the investment also couldn’t appreciate, was its exclusivity. Members of the club represented the elite from the three county area. They were people who could afford the indulgence for a chance to rub shoulders with one another.

For Dahlgren, the Lodge now offered him a base from which he could launch his campaign for Congress. For the past few weeks, he’d been carefully selecting and inviting influential people to spend an evening dining on fine food while being skillfully courted for their support in the upcoming primary election. Bob Chapman was one of those people. He was a city councilman in Ridley, a former mayor, and a prominent voice in county politics. His support would provide a big boost to Dahlgren’s efforts to get himself elected.

And he had just said he would give that support if Dahlgren could show him he had the money. Dahlgren had one last big gun to fire.

They left the table and, befitting their fine meal, strolled casually toward the entrance. Quietly, Dahlgren said, “Bob, there’s something I’d like to tell you, but I need your assurance you’ll keep it confidential for a short time, just a few weeks.”

Chapman looked intrigued. “You have my word.”

“I’m not jumping into this race completely on my own. I have the full support‌—‌financial support‌—‌of the America First Committee. General Wood himself has asked that I run. The AFC will foot the lion’s share of the cost. Mine is one of a handful of candidacies that the AFC has decided to back in an effort to shake things up in Washington in a more direct way.”

Chapman thought about that, then nodded. “You know, I’ve been wondering when the AFC would start getting more political. It just makes so much sense.” He stopped and gave Dahlgren an appraising look. “You’re very fortunate, Jim.”

“I am,” Dahlgren agreed. “Particularly,” he added, with a smile, “if I can count on your support.”

Chapman put out his hand. “You’ve got it.”

Dahlgren took his hand with both of his and shook it. “Thank you, Bob.”

As they entered the grand foyer, an open space with a large staircase that led up to the rooms on the second floor, Dahlgren noticed a trio of men standing near the foot of the stairs. They were in conversation, but they stopped abruptly when they spotted Dahlgren. He had the immediate sense they’d been waiting for him.

After seeing Chapman off, Dahlgren walked over to the three men. Mort Fletcher, the president of the Farmers Bank, and Everett Crane, a prominent Jackson businessman, were close acquaintances of Dahlgren. It was the third who was the most intriguing.

Charlie Harper was one of the wealthiest men in the county and an influential figure in local politics. Dahlgren and Harper had never been close.

His voice sounding a little strained, Fletcher said, “Jim, something has come up, and we’d like your assistance. Can we step in here for a moment?” He indicated the adjoining parlor.

Dahlgren nodded, and he followed the three into the small room. They were alone.

The three of them looked at one another, and Dahlgren waited. Finally, Harper spoke. “Last night, there was an incident at the diner involving several of the boys from the high school basketball team. They apparently got their hands on some alcohol.” He glanced quickly at Fletcher, who looked away. “Things got a little out of control. Some of the tables and chairs were damaged, and they didn’t pay their bill. Patsy Langdon is fit to be tied. She swore out a warrant for the arrest of several of the players.”

Surprised, Dahlgren asked, “Were they arrested?”

“Not yet,” Harper replied, again looking at Fletcher. It occurred to Dahlgren that Fletcher’s son, Jeff, must have been one of the boys involved.

“Bill Jansen’s sitting on the warrant right now,” Crane said. “As a favor,” he added.

Jansen was the Winamac County sheriff. Dahlgren knew him well.

Fletcher had found his voice again. “Look, Jim, he won’t hold off for long. The only way the boys aren’t going to be arrested is if Patsy can be convinced to withdraw the charge. I tried to talk to her, and she wouldn’t give me the time of day.”

“Jeff is one of the boys?” Dahlgren asked, knowing the answer.

Fletcher nodded ruefully. “Yes,” he said, unable to hide the embarrassment. “Obviously, I don’t want to see my son go to jail. But there’s more to it than that.”

“This will absolutely destroy the basketball team,” Crane said. “It’ll ruin what should be an amazing season, and it’ll devastate the town.”

Dahlgren looked at each of them. He did not reply immediately. The wheels were turning in his head. Finally, he said, “What do you need me to do?”

A look of hope passed across Fletcher’s face. “Talk to Patsy,” Fletcher said. “Convince her not to push this. Look.” He pulled an envelope from his pocket. “This will cover the damages and then some. I know she’ll listen to you.”

Dahlgren accepted the envelope and looked inside. There were several bills in a neat stack. He looked back at the three men. Again, however, he did not say anything. He considered each of them in turn, Harper being the last.

As if reading Dahlgren’s mind, Harper spoke. “Jim, each of us would consider this a big favor. We’d owe you one in return.”

It was what Dahlgren was waiting to hear. He nodded. “You can count on me.”

#

Jim Dahlgren was waiting at the entrance to the diner on Monday morning when Patsy Langdon opened for business.

“Mr. Mayor,” she said with surprise. “You’re up awful early.”

Patsy was a tough cookie. She and her husband, Al, had purchased the diner in 1916. Shortly thereafter, Al went off to France with the American Expeditionary Force. When he returned eighteen months later, he was missing an arm, most of a leg, and his eyesight. Patsy had done her best to care for him, but he never really regained any semblance of a life, or, for that matter, any real desire to live. Six months after he got back, he managed to locate the service revolver the army had allowed him to keep when he was discharged. He loaded it with a single bullet, crawled into the bathtub and put the bullet through his brain.

Patsy had forged on. With the help of her younger sister, she had operated the diner now for twenty-five years. It was a hard life. She was up before dawn to open the doors, and she generally stayed until they closed at nine o’clock. She was a no-nonsense type of person. She would extend some credit, but not a lot. She ran a clean kitchen. The food, though basic, was generally good and always served hot.

As Dahlgren entered the diner, he glanced to the rear sitting area and could see tables and chairs stacked in the corner. Patsy saw him looking that way. “Sorry for the mess. We had a little problem Saturday night. You might have heard.”

Dahlgren nodded. “Actually Patsy, that’s what I’d like to talk to you about.” He took a seat at the counter.

She looked at him for a long moment, then poured two cups of coffee and slid one in front of Dahlgren.

“If I’d thought about it, I would have realized they’d send you.”

Dahlgren didn’t answer right away. He took a sip of the coffee. Then he gave Patsy a frank look and nodded.

“Well,” Patsy said, in a matter-of-fact tone, “it’s not going to do any good. I respect you, Jim. But those boys deserve to be punished.”

“I’m not going to argue with you, there,” Dahlgren said immediately, his tone reasonable. “What they did was wrong, and they deserve to be punished.”