On ‘Plainview 3’ Over in the USA, Reconstruction is starting to take hold – it’s claimed Plainview for sure, and Marty Sorenson is now the mayor’s son. Of course, there’ll be complications. Marty’s not one for knuckling down, but if he’s to have any sort of life, he’s got to reach some sort of accomodation with the New Order.   Plainview 3 – February 2003   So I was now the mayor’s kid. I expected Mom and Dad to whoop and holler and carry on when the count came in, but there was nothing of the sort. Dad looked pleased, sure, and he must have shaken a million hands that night, even though Plainview had a voter register of only a couple of thou. But the victory party was celebrated with cartons of OJ, and resembled more a church meeting than a political rally. Mom just looked stunned, like she’d never really believed it possible except in her wildest fantasies. I had no idea how wild those fantasies could get – something you didn’t really discuss with your mom – but her glazed expression told me that Dad could have been voted honorary chief of some Indian tribe and it would have seemed more plausible. Charlie bounced around singing "My dad’s the mayor, my dad’s the mayor," for the rest of the night until she collapsed with exhaustion around midnight. She clearly had no idea of how horrible it was going to be. I had this sick feeling in my stomach, the sort you get when you’re a second away from being caught doing something you really oughtn’t, and you’ve just heard a heavy footstep behind you. In that moment, you imagine you’re going to be turned upside down and your skin stripped clean off by the power of the words used to tell you off. Maybe if I’d still been at Plainview Elementary, I’d have my fears justified; head down the toilet, face in the water fountain, wedgies in the corridor, notes passed in class. I wasn’t the most popular kid in town, somewhere in the middle I guessed. I didn’t have cooties, but I was no jock, either. I’d started seventh grade at the Lutheran school instead. That came as a real shock. My parents had told me the night before I was supposed to go that they’d enrolled me. I went mad, of course. Told them that I’d have no friends, that I was doing fine at the old school, and what did they think they were doing, sending me to some dumb church school instead where they didn’t teach science because they didn’t believe in it. When I’d stopped to draw breath, Mom told me that around half my class were transferring anyhow, so I’d have plenty of friends, and Dad said something about values and morals, that I could go back to the county school when they’d ‘fixed it up properly’. That was that. I suppose we were Lutherans. We went to church once in a blue moon, and we went to the Lutheran church when we did. I missed Pete Mayer. We caught up after school, but it wasn’t the same. His dad seemed happy with the way the school board were running things, and neither of us could explain why it was suddenly so wrong for me and every second kid in town. I tackled Mr. Mayer about it, but he told me straight that he didn’t mess with another man raising their family the way they saw fit, if he didn’t want them messing with him and his. Pretty fair, but infuriating. Like there was some big secret I was missing. So there I was, squeezed into my Sunday best like a trussed-up turkey, holding a plastic cup of juice, watching this gyre of people around my dad and feeling sore. A hand clapped on my shoulder, solid, firm – almost hard enough to hurt. I looked up, and saw Pastor Brughouse behind me. I say looked up; I hadn’t started to grow. I was one of the midgets of seventh grade. The girls were way up there somewhere like redwoods, and some of the boys had started to sprout like weeds, too, leaving me behind down near the floor. "Marty, congratulations," said the Pastor. "Thank you, sir," I said. I had been told to be polite to everyone on pain of death. "You must be proud of your father. Takes courage for a man to stand for public office, put himself and his family up to scrutiny." Pastor Brughouse nodded and stroked his neat white beard. "To be examined and not found wanting. It’s a fine thing." I didn’t know what else to say but, "Yes, sir." "It’s warm in here, don’t you think? Care to step outside with me for a breath of fresh air?" He said it in such a way that I knew I ought not refuse. I wanted to say no, sure, but I glanced at my dad and imagined what his reaction might be. Polite, he’d said with gritted teeth. I knew he meant it. "Okay, sir. Just for a minute." We were in the church hall, short, sturdy, brick built. Outside was the porch and the dark night. The Pastor stood against the one of the uprights, staring up at the star-pricked sky, then leaned forward onto the wooden rail. "You’re not too certain about this mayor situation, are you Marty?" I had hoped that it wasn’t so obvious. Plan B. Lie. "I’m fine with it, sir. Take a little getting used to, that’s all." "How old are you now, Marty. Twelve, is it? I think we can be honest with each other, don’t you?" I coughed to cover my confusion. "I guess so. Sir." "Worried the other kids might rag on you?" "A bit." "Don’t. Their parents put your dad in office, and they know it. As long as you act humble and don’t lord it over them, they’ll leave you alone. Boasting doesn’t become a man, Marty." "You won’t get any of that from me, no sir." And wasn’t that the gospel truth? I’d rather forget about the whole thing. I tentatively leaned on the railing next to the Pastor. "You might when he gets elected to the state legislature. Or sent to Washington. He’s a good man, your father. We need good men in our government." "You mean, mayor’s only the start?" "Could be. There’ll be a Reconstruction Presidential candidate in 2005." He must have seen the expression on my face by moonlight. "Not your dad, Marty. But he’ll be someone’s father. There’s some young man somewhere, just like you, having the same fears and doubts as you. Just like his father, your father needs your support and your loyalty. If you behave, it’ll reflect well on him. If you don’t, well, it’ll rub off twice as bad." "Uh, yes sir." "So no raiding the liquor cabinet, or faking IDs, or sneaking underage into the movies. We all know you in Plainview, but Plainview’s not the whole world." He stopped and smiled. If it had been TV, he would have lit a cigarette about now. "I was young once, though you might find it hard to believe. Headstrong, too. Like you, Marty. You’ve got a spark about you. You could end up being your father’s ruin, or his greatest joy. Took me years to set my path aright, and caused my parents no end of woe. Don’t be like I was back then." "No sir." "You listening to me, Marty Sorenson?" "Yes sir! I’m listening. Honest." "Good. Mind my words. You’ve been told now." He turned his back to the night and watched the moths flicker and spiral around the porch light, batting against the glass with their strange combination of solid bodies and fragile wings. "Ask me a question, Marty. Anything you like." I thought about it for a long while. As long as a twelve year old things about anything, anyway. "What happened to Pete Mayer’s mom? It’s like everyone knows, but nobody tells." "Well now, that’s going back a few years." He shifted his weight again, rubbing an uncomfortable leg. "You sure you want to hear this, Marty? Might change the way you look at your friend." "You said anything." "So I did. You’re both of an age, you and Pete. You know your mother and your father love you, and Charlotte, and each other too. Right?" "Sure." "Pete Mayer isn’t Chris Mayer’s son. No sir. The child was conceived in sin, on account of Rose Mayer carrying on with another man." The Pastor leaned close, and I could smell his aftershave. "You understand what I’m saying?" "I reckon. Pete’s mom had an affair." I furrowed my brows. "So how come Pete doesn’t live with his mom?" "You figured it out, Marty. Rose and her, her adulterous lover wound up dead in a car wreck when Pete wasn’t even out of diapers. First poor Chris Mayer knew about it. Last man in town to know, though. I thought he’d turn to the bottle, or sell up and move out to duck the shame. No. He just changed his jobs so he could look after little Pete himself, and brought him up as if he were his own." "Gee, that’s really rough." It was, too. I repeated it out loud. "Really rough." "It’s also a lesson on how we have to change as a community. No-one thought it their business to tell Chris Mayer what his wife was up to. So no-one did. Maybe the right word at the right time could have turned things around. We ought to make it all our business now. We have to look after each other better." "That’s what my dad said." "And he’s right. The Bible says we should bear one another’s burdens. And so we will. Right, Marty?" "I guess so." I thought of the cache of home-made explosives I’d got secreted on the golf course, and how careful I’d been in ordering chemicals never from the same firm twice, in any combination that might be considered incendiary. I only wanted to make the perfect mushroom cloud, not blow anyone or anything up. I was going to have to be twice as careful from now on. "Well," said Pastor Brughouse, "It’s a fine night, but it’s getting mighty cold. This wind’s all the way from the Arctic Circle, and it chills a man’s bones. Better get back inside." He stretched his leg a couple of times before holding the door open for me. "Thanks, Pastor," I said. Apart from Mr. Mayer, the Pastor had been the only man to talk to me like I had something to contribute. I guessed that was why he was in charge of the church. And in case you’re wondering about the leg thing, he lost everything below the right knee by stepping on a mine in Vietnam. When it was cold, he’d hobble. I only found out about that a while later, by actually listening to one of his sermons, rather than dozing through it.