And unfurl.
Every one of these signatures represents ascientist,he’d say. Who worked and studied and mastered his or her field. Whodemurs.Who respectfullydisagrees.Think about that, he’d say. And ask yourself: Is it possible we’ve got some hysteria going on here?
Then from out in that auditorium would come a sound (or, to be more precise, an abrupt diminishment of sound) that indicated:minds being changed.Maybe not changed: softened. The sound of just a little bit of doubt sneaking in there. Folks sitting on the fence were suddenly, guess what? Less on the fence. Even the Luddites/pearl clutchers/prophets of doom were given pause. You could feel it in that new quality of quiet.
Seventeen thousandscientists?
That got a person’s attention.
If later someone pointed out in the local rag that certain of the signatories (i.e., Bugs Bunny/Mozart/Abe Lincoln et al.) were not, strictly speaking, living scientists: no matter. Not every person who’d been in that crowd would see the correction.
Boom: a win.
And, well, yes, guilty as charged: even after Landon or Lerner or London from Legal had pulled him aside and pointed out the alarming prevalence of spurious signatures in the thing (Thomas Edison? Elvis Presley? Come on, it was actually kind of funny), they’d (he’d) continued, occasionally, to use it. To tout it. To, uh, unfurl it. As needed. The whole thing was a kind of white lie, okay? Like, in an opera, when, to indicate HOUSE, you put up a huge brightly colored cutout of a HOUSE.
Everyone knew it wasn’t a real house.
But it sufficed. Did the trick.
Served the cause.
Is that your confession, Kenneth? Miss Eva said.
Yes, he said, relieved to have it off his chest.
Her eyes narrowed the way they would when a student needed a correction and she was about to give it.
I don’t envy you, Kenneth, she said. Even with all your many houses.
Miss Eva had always lived in a modest house by the fairgrounds. And often spoke of it bitterly to the class. Her pantry was insufficient. The flour and sugar had to be kept on top of the stove, so, when cooking, she had to relocate these to the dining table, which itself was barely large enough to accommodate two decent-sized platters, which made it all but impossible to host a proper gathering.
Do you find it honorable, Kenneth? Miss Eva said. To confess only the most minor of your sins?
Thinking of her inadequate little house had apparently put Miss Eva into a snit.
Sins, my ass.
Look, he said.
You look, she said.
Something funny was happening out the schoolhouse window.
And don’t look away, she said.
Crow Creek was just pure shit, flowing past. A fisherman in hip waders was midstream, fishing away, holding his nose. The clouds had a sulfur taint and the flowers the class had planted near the fence were in flames. The town’s dogs raced by in a pack, seeking a source of clean water. The leaves on the trees were turning to shit and dropping.Plop, plop, plop.A shit-leaf plopped right into Mother’s best purse. What was Mother’s best purse doing out here at the schoolhouse? She’d had only that one, long as he’d known her. Later, when she was already old, he’d bought her three new ones in Paris: Hermès, Gucci, Prada. She’d never had any use for them. Too fancy, too badly designed. There was no place to actuallyputanything. Only her old purse would do. Now here it was, filling up with shit-leaves. Mother was going to hit the ceiling. Here was Mother now.Standing beside Miss Eva. Eek, hello, Mother. She glowered at him more fiercely than she’d ever glowered at him in life.
And she’d glowered at him pretty fiercely in life.
What have you got yourself into, Kenneth? she said harshly.
He’s lying to beat the band, said Miss Eva. Lying right to my face.
It’s the drugs, he said. You two are. You’re the drugs.
It all starts to cave in on him, said Mother.
His long service to his colossal ego begins to undo him, said Miss Eva.
