Free America America by Ethan Canin

governor. That’s why Mother wants to have the party for him. He’s been other things, too, like ambassador to Russia. He’s very well connected in the Democratic Party. Oh,” she said, looking at my face. “Don’t be nervous—he’s friendly. I’ve met him.”
    “I
am
nervous,” I said.
    “Don’t be. Mostly, Mother thinks he can help with Henry Bonwiller.”
    “With Senator Bonwiller?” I knew his name, of course—everyone did—but that was the first time I’d heard it spoken at the Metareys’.
    She smiled at me, reached up, and kissed me quickly on the cheek. “Oh, Corey,” she said. “You’re going to have an interesting summer.”

    T HAT S UNDAY MORNING, as I was washing the Massey-Ferguson in the big garage, a rusty yellow Corvair pulled in behind me and a man began to struggle out. He had to shove his cigarette into his mouth and lean both hands on the door to get his legs free from the driver’s seat, but then without turning to look at me he tossed his keys backwards over the roof into my hands. I noticed they were on a Buffalo Bisons ring.
    “Hear you’re an Indians man,” he said in a short-of-breath voice. When he finally stood, I saw how fat he was.
    “Yes, sir.”
    He stopped and looked behind himself theatrically, as though I’d been speaking to someone else.
    “Bisons fan myself, kid.” He slapped his huge belly. “If that’s not too ironic.” Then he limped around to my side of the car, tugging at his sweaty shirt. “Born and bred Buffalo.” He bent forward to draw on his cigarette. “You watch, though. Bisons’ll be an Indians farm club before too long.”
    I set my sponge down on the Ferguson’s muddy engine case. “Not for a while, anyway.”
    “Johnny Bench was a Bison originally. Before the team went Canuck.”
    “I know that, sir.”
    Again he looked around theatrically.
    “You know who I am?”
    “No, sir.”
    “Then
that’s
why you’re calling me that.”
    “Excuse me?”
    He leaned forward and peered at me. “You don’t even realize it, do you? Remarkable.” He stood again. “I’m the bottom of the fish tank, kid.” He stuck the cigarette in his mouth and held out his hand. “Glenn Burrant.
Buffalo Courier-Express
. Politics beat.”
    “Corey Sifter. I help out at Aberdeen West.”
    “Washing tractors?”
    “And grounds work, sir.”
    “You ever hear of the
Courier-Express
, Corey?”
    “Of course, sir.”
    “Mark Twain’s old paper.”
    “I wouldn’t know, I guess.”
    “I wouldn’t expect you to.” He looked at me closely again. “I hear we’re going to have some news out of here any day now,” he said. He raised his dark eyebrows and jiggled the cigarette with his jaw.
    “I wouldn’t know that, either.”
    “I guess you wouldn’t then, would you? Say,” he went on, “you read my roundup yesterday on the possible Dem contenders?”
    I didn’t know what to say.
    “Oh, I see. So you’re just like every other kid in this town.” He ran his hand along the door of the yellow Corvair and a smudge of black came up on his fingers. “Don’t read no
news
paper, I guess.”
    “Not much, sir, I guess. I’m sorry. I can wash your car for you if you want.”
    He laughed. “Not enough water in the well.”
    “I can do my best.”
    “The whole aim of practical politics is to keep the populace alarmed,” he said then. He leaned down to the side mirror, wiped it clean, and ran a comb through his hair. “By menacing it with an endless series of hobgoblins.” He set the comb in his pocket. “All of them imaginary.”
    I looked at him.
    He stood and tugged at his shirt again, then snorted. “Mencken.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    He peered at me. “God damn,” he said. “You don’t know who Mencken is.”
    “I guess I don’t, sir.”
    “H. L. Mencken. Henry Louis. Most famous man ever to pick up a pen in my business. Too bad, kid. I suppose, anyway. But guess I can’t blame you. You ever hear of Ed Muskie?”
    “I think