Free America America by Ethan Canin Page A

so.”
    “Humphrey?”
    “Yes.”
    “How about George Wallace or Gene McCarthy?”
    “Who?”
    “Maybe you ought to find out, then.” He sniffed. “Before you end up in a jungle somewhere.”
    He turned away gruffly. But just before he disappeared out the door, still tugging at his shirt, he turned. “Listen, comrade,” he said. “Go ahead and wash it. But not
too
clean.” He winked. “And if you find a ham and provolone sandwich under the right front seat, send Jeeves inside to fetch me.”
    I watched him limp across the driveway to the house, where he slowly climbed the stairs, gathered himself at the door, and, to my surprise, went in without knocking.
    And it was that morning, while Glenn Burrant was inside the Metareys’ house, that for the first time in my life I picked up the front section of a newspaper. It was the
Courier-Express
, and it was under the front passenger’s seat, just where he’d said the sandwich might be. His article was right there at the top of page one, below the headline “Early Field Takes Shape,” and I remember the feeling that came over me as I read it. Under the headline, in good-sized type, was his name—Glenn Burrant—and seeing it there gave me a sudden and unfamiliar thrill almost as deep, I have to say, as if it had been my own.

    “P UT ON A TIE , C OREY!” my mother called from upstairs. It was Tuesday evening, and I was checking my clothes in the front hall mirror before I went back to the Metareys’ for the party.
    “Nah,” said my father from the couch. “Don’t waste one.”
    He was reading the baseball scores in the living room with our neighbor from next door, Mr. McGowar, who was listening to his portable radio. Mr. McGowar spent his days digging up the never-ending supply of rocks that poked up in the gardens along Dumfries Street—a service that was much appreciated by the gardeners, who were also the housewives—and his evenings in our half of the duplex, listening to baseball on his radio while my father read the sports pages. Neither of these activities involved speaking, which is why Mr. McGowar liked them. He’d long ago lost his voice from half a century at the stone saw in Metarey Granite Mine #2.
    “Mr. Rockefeller’s been governor since Corey was in diapers,” my father said. “Isn’t that right, Eugene?”
    Mr. McGowar looked up quizzically.
    “Just saying,” my father said in a louder voice, “MR. ROCKEFELLER’S BEEN IN THERE FOR AS LONG AS ANYONE CAN REMEMBER. Isn’t that right, Eugene?”
    Mr. McGowar pulled the flesh-colored radio cord from his ear. “Since,” he rasped, taking a deep breath. “Fifty.” He coughed. “Eight.” He cleared his throat, and I could see him concentrating. He was as tall as the doorway and as vigorous a man as I’ve ever seen, but it was painful to watch him speak. “Yan-kees. Braves.”
    “I don’t see why they’re even bothering with this other what’s-his-name,” my father went on. “And who starts a campaign this early, anyway?”
    “Morlin Chase is his name,” I said. “He’s very well connected in the Democratic Party.”
    My father looked up. “Well, Cor, don’t be too impressed by any of it.”
    “Christian Metarey said Governor Rockefeller’s vulnerable because he spends so much time thinking about being president. So Morlin Chase could beat him. He’s supposed to be very smart, too. That’s all I’m saying. I’m not impressed, Dad, I’m only telling you.”
    “Nelson Rockefeller wouldn’t get out the front door against Nixon,” my father answered. He laughed. “I’ll give you five bucks on that one. Right, Eugene?” He looked over at Mr. McGowar. Then he put down the ball scores and picked up
Lou Gehrig: Pride of the Yankees
, which he’d been working on for as long as I could remember.
    Mr. McGowar raised his finger in the air. “Nixon’s got—” He tried to stifle another cough, but couldn’t. When he was finished he raised his finger again.