Читать книгу A Thin Place - Jack Peterson - Страница 28

July 4, 1992

Angels Camp, California

Three thousand people call it home. Founded two years before Placer gold was discovered in 1848, Angels Camp sits buried deep in the Sierra Foothills between Yosemite and Lake Tahoe in the heart of the gold country. Still honeycombed beneath with old mine tunnels and above with many of the original buildings, Main Street once vibrated to the roar of the stamp mills and to the music of dance hall saloons. City Hall sat on the site of an old saloon that, during Prohibition, was the local source for bootleg liquor.

Not much had changed in his town since the close of the gold rush days, and Samuel Crockett liked it that way. Just after the sun crested over the mountain, he sat down alone on the outside deck, savoring a second cup of Anna’s coffee. Today was the Fourth of July, his holy day, a special day to celebrate life at home with whoever cared to join in. He moved to Angels Camp in 1955 when he accepted a job fifty miles away as the political editor for the Sacramento Bee. His daughter was born in the upstairs bedroom, the same room his wife died in after a long illness, just a week after Elena started her second year of law school. Even in times of loneliness and sorrow, thoughts of happier days always surfaced to help ease the pain. Days like today would only add to what had become a long list of fond memories.

Today was July 4th, picnic day, free food and beer for all the locals. What had started as a small family gathering had become an annual July 4th traditional assemblage for the town’s citizenry. After a late afternoon picnic in his backyard, most folks would trek down the hill to the county fairgrounds and redeposit themselves in preparation for the evening fireworks, and the traditional ceremonial explosion of the old park cannon. For the town, it was a chance to gather with others to celebrate, not only America’s independence, but the history of Angels Camp. For Crockett, it had become traditional for him to don his white linen suit, stand high on top of the brick BBQ in his backyard, and give the crowd a few minutes of Mark Twain style patriotic wisdom.

A voice came from the kitchen. “Congressman, are you out there?”

Crockett did not respond. Anna pushed open the screen door. “Why didn’t you answer me?”

“No need. I learned long ago there is no escaping you.”

Anna ignored his comment. “I forgot to tell you. Somebody called for you last night after you went to bed.”

“And?”

“At first, I thought it was just someone calling for directions to the picnic, but this man knew nothing about it. He wanted to make an appointment with you.”

“What did you tell him?”

“The same thing I tell everybody around this time of year. Come to the picnic.”

Grumbling something about it being picnic day and behind in her schedule, Anna turned to walk back inside but stopped suddenly and turned back. “The man said he came all the way from Minnesota just to talk to you.”

Crockett sensed what was next. Anna confirmed his suspicions. “I forgot to tell you. I told him he could have some time with you after the picnic. The rest is up to you.”

“Does he have a name?”

Anna curled her brow. “Yes, but I can’t remember it. I wrote it down somewhere. I’ll get it later.”

Anna disappeared inside as quickly as she came. Crockett smiled. He felt blessed. Since Shirley’s death, Anna had taken control of the minutia in his life, and he rarely questioned her judgment. Today would be no different. He knew he would be tired, but would honor the meeting.

Later in the afternoon, Crockett was in his glory as he toyed with an unlit cigar as he stood atop the BBQ addressing the crowd. With a huge United States flying high atop his backyard flagpole, he paused a moment and looked around. It was the fifteenth backyard everyone’s invited Independence Day celebration at his home, and it always ranked high on his list of priorities. He had no idea how many people had squeezed themselves into every possible crevice of his yard and didn’t care.

Speaking with well-honed voice inflections reminiscent of Mark Twain himself, Crockett began to wind down. “Let’s all remember that today’s celebrations are all about the character of those who brought independence to this great nation. As for my own character, I can only tell you that all my life I have been honest. Well, comparatively honest, I could never use money I had not made honestly—I could only lend it.”

Amid laughter and applause, Crockett bowed to the crowd, stepped down from his makeshift perch on the BBQ, and promptly gave Anna an appreciative hug. It was over. He had done his job and Anna hers. Slowly, the crowd began dispersing, some coming forward to shake his hand and take photos, while others picked up their blankets and coolers and pointed themselves down the hill toward the fairgrounds. Anna barked a few instructions to the cleanup crew and disappeared inside.

Minutes later, Crockett sat alone in the kitchen with a small smile on his face as he rehashed his afternoon. Except for the unexpected appointment Anna had unilaterally added to his schedule, his day was going exactly as planned. He had a feeling that was about to change.