Second installment, "The Election"

SECOND INSTALLMENT OF "The Election" from HER FACE IN THE GLASS,  a sequel

to A Journey of Choice. [Names have been shortened on purpose.]

 

          Mrs. H. nodded; he passed the mic to the person on his left. “Go!”

           “Hello. My name is Flint B. . . .” He talked really slow. “. . . and I want to be on the school board so I can help us get some new bleachers for the band. It’s a crying shame that our kids have to risk their necks and their instruments climbing on those rickety––”

       Ding! “Next!” Mrs. H. reset the timer each time her husband said, ‘Next.’

     “Hello,” said the mother with two small children. “I am Darling D., and I would like your vote. I think we need to start a child-care program in this district.” She shushed the baby on her shoulder, and ran her hand across her own nose. “I would be willing––”

     Ding! “Next!”

      “Hi, y’all, I’m Guy O’N. from Mountain Ridge. I’d like to see better school bus drivers out our way. You should see how they drive those winding, narrow roads. The kids say they bounce––”

     Ding! “Moving right along, now. Next!”

       After a while I quit listening. At three o’clock, as the person next to me finished speaking, the final school bell rang.

     Mr. H. took the microphone. “Mark your ballots and turn them in as you leave. Mrs. H. and I will count the votes this evening and she will call the five who are elected. We’ll send a notice to the Banner as well. Thank you for coming.”          

     I was the last to leave and he snagged me.

     “Will you stay and do the counting as my wife calls out the names and numbers?” he said to me, apparently thinking I was some student’s mother. “I need to go to the office and see about things there. Thank you.” He blew a kiss to his wife, and, dodging a student, exited the room.

     Obviously, the man didn’t know I was a reporter. But, hey! This would mean I had a scoop. I stayed. Mrs. H. made room at the table and pushed a pad and a pen over to me.

     “All right, now. List the names down the page and the number of votes out beside each name.” She picked up a ballot. “Number one is T.––he gets three votes.” She watched me write down ‘T.––I I I.’ “Second choice is J. He gets two votes.”

     ‘J.––I I.’    

     “Third is G. He gets one point.”

     ‘G.––I.’

     She wadded the ballot and looked around to toss it in the trash can. Seeing none, she called to the janitor who was sweeping the far end of the room. “Mr. B., will you bring me a trash can?” He did and she mashed the ballot, balled it up and threw it in. I thought she might  chew and swallow it.

     “Next ballot,” she said. “F., three . . .” She waited. “B., two . . . G. one.”

     Again, she wadded the ballot into a tiny ball and tossed it away.

     “Ready? C., three . . . P., two  . . . W., one. My goodness,” she exclaimed. “What if everyone gets a vote and no one has more than three?” I shrugged; she continued.

     “Next. H., three . . . G., two . . . D., one.” She looked at me. “Would you mind taking over? I must run to the ladies’ room.”

     “Sure.” I took the next ballot while her heels click-clicked across the concrete. At last, some names reappeared. G., three . . . F., two . . . J., one. Still, no one had more than five votes.

     I don’t know how long I worked on those blasted ballots, but Mrs. Secretary never came back. Soon Mr. B. said, “Miss, five more minutes and it’s my leaving time.”

     Only six ballots remained uncounted. G. had ten votes, J., ten, and G. had risen to ten. The nearest was F. with seven. For some reason, I stuffed the counted ballots into my bag. Mrs. H. would have to finish the next morning.

     When Mr. B. walked to the front door, I followed, leaving all the materials on the table. “’Night, ma’am,” he said, doffing his duffer’s hat.

 

TO BE CONCLUDED NEXT WEEK.

c 2015--PL. 

 

A peek into the sequel of "A Journey of Choice."

HER FACE IN THE GLASS

by Pat Laster
[Available soon from Amazon in softback and e-book]

"The Election"

       Several years into World War II, St. Luke, Missouri, needed a school board. The former board had gone to war, along with several young men still in high school. 

       School Superintendent Louis H. seemed to like that—he could run the schools with no interference. But the parents grumbled. They wanted an election.
 
        Mr. H. and his wife-cum-school secretary decided on a plan. This was the note they sent home:

       “Due to parental insistence, a school board election will take place next Tuesday. PLEASE READ CAREFULLY. All interested applicants for the five positions will convene in the cafeteria at 1:30 pm. Those in attendance will be considered candidates and, if elected, be willing to serve for a year, beginning immediately. Please pass the word to any you know who might not have children in the school district. Applicants MUST reside in the district.”

By one-fifteen that day, the cafeteria teemed with people––old men still in their work clothes, harried women––some carrying one child and holding another’s hand––all interested in their school. I had come earlier from the newspaper to get a feel for the crowd. Several of the women wore faded and frayed shirts.

No one thought of name tags. But folks walked up to people, said their name and stuck out a hand. Superintendent H. had scheduled two minutes for each person to introduce him-or-herself and say whatever could be said in that short time.

            At 1:30, Mr. H. tapped on a thin glass. “Take a seat, please,” he said. The folding chairs––some wobbly, most all scarred by pocket knives or paper clips––were arranged in a circle, a formation that stopped at the head table.

          When the room was quiet, he said, “At the end of each two minutes, I will rap on a water glass––the pitch of which is exactly A-440, heh, heh.”  No reaction. Perhaps no one but me and the music-teacher-turned-librarian knew what perfect pitch was. If he had mentioned a rifle ping, or the sound of a hound baying, some might have understood.

        His rule was to stop at the clinking sound, even in mid-sentence, and hand the microphone to the next person, who would then stand and wait for the word, ‘Go.’

       “My wife will pass out ballots and pencils. After the speeches, write down three names, numbering them one, two, and three. The first name gets three points, the second, two points and the third, one point. The five people with the most points will be considered your new school board.”

        Mrs. H. stood and jabbed a sheaf of ballots to the persons on each side of her, one of whom was me. “Take one and pass the rest on.” She plopped back in her padded seat at the table. Her husband waited until all the ballots had reached the audience. 
 
       “Are you ready with the timer, Mrs. Secretary?”

        I saw him wink at her.

[Second installment next week.]
PL - c 2015

An outtake from the sequel to A JOURNEY OF CHOICE

 

From the pen of CELLEY REDD, acting editor of The St. Luke (Missouri) Banner.

St. Luke’s sheriff Zeke Jasper had his hands full Saturday night when a party guest from Arkansas, disguised as a Frenchman, attempted to harm the hostess, Mrs. Liddy Grindle. He presented her with a Christmas gift “to open later—when you’re alone.”

         Back in September of last year, Mrs. Grindle, editor of The Banner, had ferreted out the shenanigans of St. Luke’s school superintendent and wife-secretary. They manipulated a school board election by publicizing the election of their own cadre of candidates, none of whom was nominated.
 
         Even though it had been over a year since the couple and their entourage of five adults abruptly left St. Luke after setting the school on fire, the Hoosers apparently had not forgiven The Banner for outing them.

          In September of this year, they made a trip to St. Luke. Leah Hooser endeared herself incognito with the owner of the Blue Plate Diner, who invited the new woman to the local book club meeting.

          This is where our source heard the gypsy-dressed lady bad-mouth both the school and the newspaper. Before leaving the meeting in a huff, the woman said they were headed north to "take care of some business," and then they’d be back to St. Luke for the same reason.

           Since the boardinghouse held wall-to-wall party guests last Saturday night, it is unlikely anyone noticed the French-looking couple who came in with Mrs. Queen. Anyone, that is, except Liddy and her closest friends. When the man presented her a gift, Liddy recognized the fragrance she’d smelled when he’d ordered her out of his office sixteen months ago.
          
           She surreptitiously summoned the sheriff––dressed in plain clothes––and told him her fears.  She asked him to check out the gift. He and his three deputies prepared a space on Depot Street far away from vehicles and dwellings in case it was an instrument of death. Or dismemberment.

           According to the sheriff, the Hoosers, still under the impression that no one knew their identity, left the party early, their mission partially accomplished.

          When the couple saw activity near their vehicle—also disguised with paper strips advertising “French Dance lessons”––they had nowhere to run. They were handcuffed together, but were asked to open their gift to Liddy.

          They refused, and Sheriff Jasper knew Liddy’s suspicions were correct. He shot his pistol through the container. It exploded, scattering debris throughout the area.

         The Hoosers, handcuffed together by their inner wrists, dug their predicament deeper. Using their cuffed arms, they gave the sheriff a terrific uppercut, knocking him backwards.

         Suddenly, from behind, Xann Price, with two quick motions to the necks, knocked them to the ground, unconscious.

          Before the two could recover, their cuffs were removed and refastened so that both suspects wore their own bracelets.

END OF OUTTAKE.

~~~~~~~

            Why not get your name on my “reserve-one-for-me” list? Her Face in the Glass will be formatted in softback and e-reader and should be published by the end of 2015.

c 2015 by PL