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“Come on, guess. Think of the newspapers. Chicago.” He jiggled in his seat. It had worked; he only wanted to talk about himself.
“Something with money?”
“No, no,” he said irritably. “The convention. The Democratic Convention. I was a delegate.”
“Great.”
He rocked back. “A delegate! Me! A baker! A delegate to the Democratic National Convention. I actually ate breakfast with Adlai Stevenson.”
“Wow.”
For ten minutes, while the duck bobbed along the trail, the man described how a friend had talked him into going down to his local Democratic club, how he’d run errands, walked the streets, handed out leaflets—done all the low-level jobs a beginner has to do. And then, last spring, when the president of the club died suddenly, and the vice-president went bankrupt, they’d put him on the ballot as a delegate. And he’d won!
The man was completely turned around, kneeling on his seat. I felt safe, since he’d clearly lost interest in quizzing us, but Elro didn’t understand that. He’d slowly gone rigid as a firecracker. Only his hands and arms moved, rubbing methodically up and down his thighs.
“Now they want me to give a speech at the high school on opening day,” the delegate said. He gripped the metal bar between us. “And you know what I’m gonna tell those kids?”
“No.”
“Guess.”
“I can’t.”
“What’s holdin’ ya back? You know?” His eyes were burning. “That’s what I’ll tell ’em: What’s holdin’ ya back?”
With that, Elro blew. “Shut up!” he screamed, his face brilliant red. “Shut up. Just turn around and shut up!” His hands were clenched in tight fists.
Everyone stared. A little dark-faced boy, across the aisle on his mother’s lap, put his face next to hers and clung nervously to her sleeve.
The delegate flinched and leaned back, holding onto the bar. “You don’t need to be so touchy about it,” he said. He looked Elro over, then looked around, apparently assessing what stake he had in facing up to the challenge. When his wife pulled on his arm, he turned and settled back into his seat.
Elro was panting, so I put my hand on his leg to calm him. His jeans were still hot where he’d been rubbing.
We rode on quietly for another mile or so. Elro’s outburst had silenced the other tourists. Where before there’d been noisy chatter, now there were only soft murmurs and occasional glances to see how Elro was bearing up. Once again, in our eagerness for anonymity, we’d managed to draw the attention of everyone.
Soon the woods opened up and the duck slowed to approach the edge of a large lake. We crawled down a concrete ramp that disappeared under the blue-green water. Hitting the surface of the lake, the duck was lifted gently, and we seemed to be floating in air. Then the propeller started up with a muffled roar, and we pushed on.
Here was the real Dells—the high, red cliffs lining the lake, the rocks balanced impossibly at crazy angles, always on the verge, it seemed, of breaking loose and clattering murderously into the water far below. After the flatness around Katydid, the wide, tended stretches of green, the cliffs looked incredibly harsh and unfriendly. They were spectacular, but almost too much so, as if they were man-made or inauthentic, nature’s equivalent of a platinum dye job.
Sitting there beside Elro, I gradually came to realize how ridiculous this was. I’d just changed my life forever, abandoned my mother, run away with a boy I didn’t even like, and now I was sailing around in a weird boat in the middle of a resort. Nothing ever turns out the way you expect. No matter how hard you think, no matter how carefully you plan, things always end up differently. There’s no imagining that works. I mean, riding a duck! That’s what it always seems to come down to.
The boat puttered along the shore, here and there nosing into a small cove, while the driver crackled away about the sights. Compared to the constant bumping on the Duck Trail, the ride on water was pillowy. The duck moved slowly and the waves drummed rhythmically along the sides. The delegate ignored us. He said a few quiet words to his wife, but mostly he stared coldly off at the cliffs. Elro didn’t talk, but I sensed him starting to relax. His body slackened, then rocked with the regular motion of the boat. Eventually, he slumped down, put his head on my shoulder, and went to sleep.
He woke again as we pulled into the parking lot. To avoid any confrontations, we waited to get off until everyone else had left. People filing out inspected us carefully. The delegate permitted himself one quick peek our way. The corners of his mouth were stapled tight, and he shook his head for our benefit.
“What a bunghole,” muttered Elro.
“Shhh,” I said, patting him on the arm.
When we got to the pickup, the cab was filled with superheated air, and the seat was too hot to touch. I fanned the doors for a few minutes, the way I’d seen the mother do earlier, and Elro took a towel out of his suitcase for me to sit on. Finally we started off and pulled into a line of cars easing onto the road. After a few minutes of starting and stopping, a loud, insistent honking erupted behind us. I looked back. A blue convertible was trying to butt into the line of cars just in back of us. The driver hollered and honked again. It was the delegate. He’d spotted us and was trying to catch up, though parked cars were blocking his way in front, and the cars in line weren’t letting him in.
“Hey! You!” he yelled, waving at me. “Hey! I thought you said you came on a bus?”
He in
ched the convertible forward, but the car behind us held its ground. The delegate stood, pulling himself up by the steering wheel. He pointed toward me. “She said she came on a bus,” he yelled to the other drivers, as if that alone were reason to let him in line. Still, no one made room. So again the delegate honked, and this time he held it, sending out a long, mean howl that hung in the air.
Again, Elro blew. He looked back wildly, his face clamped in a fierce mask. Then he rammed the gearshift into low. The pickup roared and shot out of line. It jumped a curb onto a grassy median, churned over the ground, and hopped the median at the far end. Turning and digging into the main road, the truck spit pebbles at the parking attendant, who had jumped behind a signpost. Both lanes of the road were packed with cars, but Elro headed down a shoulder, zooming past cars stuffed with faces set in wonder. After about fifty yards, he cut behind a street sign, ran over a sidewalk, and bounced onto a side street. It, too, was busy, but he stayed on the pavement, swinging into the oncoming lane to pass several cars. He went a few blocks, then cut left across traffic onto another side street and soon turned and turned again. We were in a subdivision. Small, frail summer houses were crammed side-by-side. Here and there, a thin pine jutted out of a lawn. The street was quiet, and Elro finally slowed down.
