Forty Days at Kamas Read Free Page A

pre–stuffed ballot boxes, and voter intimidation at polling places in major cities across the country. Even with a government blackout on live television and radio coverage at the polls, by Election Day’s end rumors of a stolen election had spread to nearly every household that owned a phone or a computer. But like too many others, I did not understand what was happening until the damage had already been done.
    "Where do we put the sticks, Daddy?" my older daughter, Claire, asked, bringing my thoughts back to the present.
    "By the woodpile, sweetie," I replied. "Break them up in pieces about so big and make a stack with them."
    "This one’s too big to break," she replied, dragging an eight–foot branch across the grass. "Will you help me?"
    "Of course," I replied and lay down my shovel.
    When I reached her, Claire had dropped the branch and was pointing toward the road at the bottom of the hill.
    "Who are those people, Daddy, and where are they going?" she asked. "Are they going camping?"
    I looked up and saw the road clogged with a slow–moving procession of cars, pickup trucks, trailers, Amish–style horse carts, bicyclists, backpackers, even big–wheeled garden carts pulled rickshaw–style. Those on foot were trailed by a pack of underfed dogs. It reminded me of World War II newsreels of the Dutch fleeing the bombing of Rotterdam or German refugees retreating later from the advancing Red Army. Most of the cars and trucks were far from new and many of the foot travelers shabbily dressed, though most gave the impression of being strong, hardy people who had once belonged to America’s middle class.
    A trio of deer peered out from behind a copse of trees near the road and hesitated, unable to find a break in the uninterrupted stream of traffic. A few of the dogs looked up, as if catching a scent, but none gave chase.
    "Where are they going, Daddy?" Claire repeated.
    "I think some are headed north to Canada, darling, like the Moores," I replied. The Moores were our neighbors who, having lost their savings to inflation and having failed to sell their horse farm before the mortgage company gave notice of foreclosure, abandoned the farm and their unpaid tax obligations and moved in with their son in Ottawa.
    "The ones in the fancy cars are probably driving to the Toronto airport to catch a flight overseas. The rest are probably headed south, where there are more jobs and it’s cheaper to live."
    "Are we going away, too?" Claire asked, turning to me with a look of disapproval.
    I heard footsteps behind me and felt my wife grip my arm. She held on with both hands as if what she saw on the road had given her a chill.
    I looked into her eyes and saw the fear of losing our business, our savings, our house and everything in it—and not being able to start over. Not in America, anyway. Not with the Unionists in power. I glanced over to Claire, hoping that she had not sensed Juliet’s fear.
    "Not today, sweetie," I replied. "We’re staying right here at home. Mommy and Daddy have work to do. And so do you and Louisa. Here, let me pull that branch over to the woodpile for you. Now, break up the small twigs, like this, but leave the big sticks for me, okay?"
    My wife squeezed my arm once more and let go to take my hand.
    "Jeff’s car just pulled in," she said softly. "I’ll brew a fresh pot of tea. Why don’t you carry some chairs onto the veranda?"
     
    ****
     
    Jeff Fisher had been my personal attorney and business advisor for nearly fifteen years. He was sharp, strong–willed, and experienced, but also honest and utterly down to earth. Jeff had studied law at Columbia and doubtless could have risen to partner at any of the big law firms in downtown Pittsburgh but chose instead to join his father’s small practice in Sewickley. I was happy he did. His advice was invariably worth more than I paid for it.
    "Any news from the Germans?" I asked, handing him a mug of Lapsang Souchong laced with a shot of