Under the Dome

There's not much to see in the Coop, because hope is as invisible as we are. The two men have nothing to do but wait until tomorrow night, and hope that things break their way. Rusty's hand hurts, but the pain isn't as bad as he thought it might be, and the swelling isn't as bad as he feared. Also, Stacey Moggin, God bless her heart, snuck him a couple of Excedrin around five p.m.

For the time being, these two men—our heroes, I suppose—are sitting on their bunks and playing Twenty Questions. It's Rusty's turn to guess.

'Animal, vegetable, or mineral?' he asks.

'None of them,' Barbie replies.

'How can it be none of them? It has to be one.'

'It's not,' Barbie says. He is thinking of Poppa Smurf.

'You're jacking me up.'

I'm not.'

'You have to be.'

'Quit bitching and start asking.'

'Can I have a hint?'

'No. That's your first no. Nineteen to go.'

'Wait a goddam minute. That's not fair.'

We'll leave them to shift the weight of the next twenty-four hours as best they can, shall we? Let us make our way past the still-simmering heap of ashes that used to be the Democrat (alas, no longer serving 'The Little Town That Looks Like A Boot'), past Sanders Hometown Drug (scorched but still standing, although Andy Sanders will never pass through its doors again), past the bookstore and LeClerc's Maison des Fleurs, where all the fleurs are now dead or dying. Let us pass under the dead stoplight marking the intersection of Routes 119 and 117 (we brush it; it sways slightly, then stills again), and cross the Food City parking lot. We are as silent as a child's sleeping breath.

The supermarket's big front windows have been covered with plywood requisitioned from Tabby Morrell's lumberyard, and the worst of the gluck on the floor has been mopped up by Jack Cale and Ernie Calvert, but Food City is still a godawful mess, with boxes and dry goods strewn from hell to breakfast. The remaining merchandise (what hasn't been carted away to various town pantries or stored in the motor pool behind the PD, in other words) is scattered helter-skelter on the shelves.The soft-drink cooler, beer cooler, and ice cream freezer are busted in. There's the high stink of spilled wine. This leftover chaos is exactly what Big Jim Rennie wants his new—and awfully young, for the most part—cadre of enforcement officers to see. He wants them to realize the whole town could look like this, and he's canny enough to know he doesn't need to say it right out loud. They will get the point: this is what happens when the shepherd fails in his duty and the flock stampedes.

Do we need to listen to his speech? Nah. We'll be listening to Big Jim tomorrow night, and that should be enough. Besides, we all know how this one goes; America's two great specialties are demagogues and rock and roll, and we've all heard plenty of both in our time.

Yet we should examine the faces of his listeners before we go. Notice how rapt they are, and then remind yourself that many of these (Carter Thibodeau, Mickey Wardlaw, and Todd Wendlestat, to name just three) are chumps who couldn't get through a single week of school without scoring detention for causing trouble in class or fighting in the bathrooms. But Rennie has them hypnotized. He's never been much of a shake one-on-one, but when he's in front of a crowd… rowdy-dow and a hot-cha-cha, as old Clayton Brassey used to say back in the days when he still had a few working brain cells. Big Jim's telling them 'thin blue line' and 'the pride of standing with your fellow officers' and 'the town is depending on you.' Other stuff, too. The good stuff that never loses its charm.

Big Jim switches to Barbie. He tells them that Barbie's friends are still out there, sowing discord and fomenting dissension for their own evil purposes. Lowering his voice, he says: 'They'll try to discredit me. The lies they'll tell have no bottom.'

A growl of displeasure greets this.

'Will you listen to the lies? Will you let them discredit me? Will you allow this town to go without a strong leader in its time of greatest need?'

The answer, of course, is a resounding NO! And although Big Jim continues (like most politicians, he believes in not just gilding the lily but spray-painting it), we can leave him now.

Let's head up these deserted streets to the Congo parsonage. And look! Here's someone we can walk—with: a thirteen-year-old girl dressed in faded jeans and an old-school Winged Ripper skateboard tee. The tough riot grrrl pout that is her mother's despair is gone from Norrie Calvert's face this evening. It has been replaced by an expression of wonder that makes her look like the eight-year-old she not so long ago was. We follow her gaze and see a vast full moon climbing from the clouds to the east of town. It is the color and shape of a freshly cut pink grapefruit.