25

Tuesday, January 26, 2021, 3:00 PM Eastern Standard Time

Jane trudged down the highway access road back toward her family’s rented house, her mask draped around her neck, on top of her medallion, in the absence of other people. Her father had halfheartedly offered her a ride to the Free Clinic to get tested for the virus the previous Wednesday, but she had told him it was unnecessary, that she felt better, and that she was sure she did not have the virus. He had not taken much persuading to return to his laptop and his political obsessions.

Similarly, today, her father had offered her a ride. But today she really wanted some exercise and to get outdoors after a week in bed, and also to figure out what was actually wrong with her. Walking long distances was not something that she disliked; she had run track in high school. The steady rhythm of her feet on pavement helped to shuffle her thoughts into order.

She was 18 years old; she would be 19 in July. She had (non-) graduated from high school some eight months earlier, with average grades, into a pandemic world, without a four-year-college acceptance or a job waiting for her.

She had responded to the sudden suspension of regular life with further withdrawal into silence, into her room, into an on-line world. The virus had helped to justify her already withdrawn personality. Before it hit, her mother would ask her far too often, “Why don’t you go out, be with your friends?”

Jane had almost no friends; she was pretty sure that her mother at least suspected that, but “Go be with your friends” was one of the many things her mother said that seemed to Jane to be just something mothers were expected to say.

Jane endured these attempts at penetrating her inner sanctum without yielding to them in any real way. She sensed that her mother actually feared finding out what was going on in Jane’s life, and it was obvious why.

Her mother had spent the past five years, since her brother’s suicide, radiating anxiety onto her. It was as though there was a neon sign in the house that flashed “DO NOT KILL YOURSELF” every second her mother was there.

As she walked, she thought of Hamlet, one of the few things from high school that had really stuck with her. The part where Hamlet’s friends are trying to spy on him for his mother and stepfather, and he shows them a flute or something and tells them to make music on it, and they say they can’t, and then Hamlet says “But you would pluck out the heart of my mystery? Do you think I am easier to be played on than a pipe?”

That’s what she felt like saying to her mother every time she came into Jane’s room and began to try to ingratiate herself using whatever latest pretext she had for coming into her room.

She got along with her dad; mainly, she had to admit to herself, because, unlike her mother, he pretty much left her alone, and that was because he had turned into a “political animal,” as even he called himself. Lately he had been snarling about a “Black Lives Matter” sign on their next-door neighbors’ lawn.

“All lives matter,” he said. “They’re just trying to say ‘We’re not racist, but maybe our neighbors are.’”

A day or two later, the sign was gone, and she had found a mangled, twisted “Black Lives Matter” sign in their trash in the garage. She thought about asking her father about it, but decided against it. Then the neighbors had put up another “Black Lives Matter” sign, around the day of the Inauguration. That one had also disappeared since then. A “We Stand With the President” sign had disappeared from their own lawn at some point in the last few weeks, and though her father had fulminated against the neighbors over that, Jane personally thought it might have been taken by a teenaged neighbor boy for his bedroom wall. She was amused at the back-and-forth between the two houses. She thought her father was funny; she still liked him.

It was not fair, though, Jane thought. She really should resent her father, the failure, the recovering addict, the architect of their downfall. Paradoxically, though, it was his very self-absorption that made him seem to her to be more natural, less forced, even occasionally fun. Maybe it was something they taught in 12-step programs about not worrying about things you couldn’t control. Maybe it was that he simply could no longer make himself vulnerable to the possibility of another such loss.

Maybe her mom was actually the tough one, because it was obvious how much she cared. But both parents clearly had problems reaching her on any real level. Her mom was so busy keeping the family in one piece that she didn’t have time for real connection. Her dad was less busy, and therefore more available; at the same time, since he was less interested in her as a problem, and was obsessed by other things, he was closer to being a friend than a parent. That made him easier to deal with, but probably less of a father.

Her mother seemed to understand this, at a gut level. She seemed glad that Jane and Jeff got along. She probably thought it was far better than the alternative. And she did generally respect Jane’s space. It was only at moments when the fear that Jane might do what her brother did began to outweigh her exhaustion that Mary invaded. But if something really was wrong with Jane, Jane thought, even her mom probably would not be able to handle it. Despite her mother’s oft-repeated refrain of “You know you can tell me anything,” Jane knew her brother had taken any right Jane had to be a normally miserable teenager with him to his grave.

So, Jane was glad that her father had not gone to the trouble of driving her mother to work again today, so that he would then be able to drive her to the doctor. Her mother liked having the car, Jane knew. And Jane was happy to be out of the house and away from parental scrutiny. Everybody is happy. Jane smiled at the thought. So happy…

Jane passed by the elementary school that marked the halfway point of her journey from the clinic. She had not attended that school; her grade-school days had been elsewhere, during more chaotic times. Many of her middle-school and high school classmates had gone there, however. She had always wondered about the school. Was it the reason so many of her classmates seemed so much more confident, so much happier?

But more recently, the school reminded her of the first election in which she had been eligible to vote, just over two months before. That had indeed been chaotic.

She fingered her MK medallion as she recalled the scene on November 3.

***

Her father had parked the Buick several blocks from the elementary school, which served as their polling place, and they had gotten out and shut the doors.

Their voting district had a large proportion of minorities compared to the rest of their slightly Republican state. Rumors of a rebound in the rate of infections and deaths from the virus were seemingly everywhere. Yet the line to vote was almost a mile long. People seem pretty determined to vote, Jane thought.

Her father, who was ineligible, had brought her to vote more or less for him. He had spent much of the previous few months impressing upon her how important it would be to re-elect the President and all Republican candidates. Jane was not political, but she liked her father, and wanted to please him. But she was taken aback at the line of voters that stretched out from the school, most but not nearly all socially distanced from one another.

“Why is the line so long?” Jane asked her father.

“Well, it’s a long story,” her father had said. “Between you and me, this precinct has a history of radical Democrat voting patterns.” He grinned conspiratorially. “I think the governor has decided that maybe they don’t need as many voting machines as some of the more solid districts.”

“But,” Jane said, slowly, “isn’t that unfair?”

“Life isn’t fair,” Jeff said, winking. “The Democrats would do the same thing if they had the chance, believe me.”

After a few minutes, Jeff waved to someone who had exited the school, far ahead.

“I know that guy. He’s a Republican election observer. I’m going to go talk to him, see what’s going on,” Jeff told her. “Save my place?”

“Sure,” Jane said.

Jeff turned to the people behind him in line. “I’m going to be back,” he said. “My daughter is saving my place in line.” The people behind him barely reacted. Jeff walked to the front of the line and followed his acquaintance, a fit, freckled man with a military hairstyle, into the school.

Jane stood in the line as it moved forward almost imperceptibly. After five minutes or so her father returned.

“There’s been some trouble,” he said.

“What kind of trouble?”

“Vote fraud,” Jeff said, under his breath. “Lots of non-citizens voting. Also, people without medallions are coughing on healthy people. Looks like it’s well-organized. The election observers are arguing with the judges, saying maybe they should shut the place down.”

“But I want to vote,” she said. “It’s my first time.”

“And I want you to vote, because I can’t,” Jeff said. “But we can’t let the Antifa people rig this election.”

Jane looked around her. She did see a lot of people in black masks, and she also saw a fair number of people without MK medallions.

“Sometimes the greater good is served when some people make a sacrifice,” Jeff said.

“Like in a war?”

“Exactly. This is a kind of war,” her father replied.

After half an hour, the line had reached the door, and Jeff held it open by leaning on it as they waited. There seemed to be an argument going on inside the voting area.

“These people are not citizens,” someone was yelling. “And they’re here to spread the virus.”

Jane stuck her head inside the door and saw the man her father had previously pointed out. He was a burlier, scarier man than he had appeared from farther away.

“This is vote fraud going on here,” the man said. He was not wearing a mask, but he did have an MK medallion hanging from a lanyard around his neck.

“Please maintain social distancing,” an elderly female election judge said.

“Fuck social distancing,” the man said. “These people have no medallions. And they are not citizens. This is vote fraud.”

“Maybe we ought to slow things down,” another election judge, a heavy-set middle-aged white man, said.

“Goddamn right,” the military-looking observer said.

A Hispanic-looking man in line spoke up at this point.

“We want to vote,” he said, from behind his mask.

“Why don’t you have a medallion?” the military-looking man asked loudly, moving closer to the Hispanic man.

“It don’t come in the mail,” the Hispanic man said. “Why you no wear a mask?”

The military man held up his MK medallion and said, “Because I am disease-free, and a citizen,” he shouted. “Can you prove you are?”

“I am citizen,” the Hispanic man said. “And you need six feet from me, please.”

“I’m disease-free,” the military man said. “If you want to stay six feet from me, I suggest you back off. It’s probably someone like you gave the President the virus.”

“I am in line to vote,” the man said. “It is my right.”

“‘Eet eez my right,’” the military-looking man said mockingly. “Non-American citizens don’t have any rights in my country.”

“Ee’s my country,” the Hispanic man said. “My country too.”

At this the military-looking man got right in the Hispanic man’s face. He was at least half a head taller than the Hispanic man. “Please! Six feet,” the Hispanic man said.

The male election judge got on the phone. “Police, we have a disturbance here at Montgomery Elementary.”

“What did you say?” the military man said.

“I say, six feet,” the Hispanic man said.

“Leave him alone,” another voter, a masked and medallioned white man standing behind the Hispanic man, said.

“You’re defending this illegal?” the military-looking man said, his freckled face now red with rage.

“Everyone has a right to vote, and you’re making a disturbance,” the other man said.

“What are you, Antifa?”

“I’m a Republican,” the other man said.

Over the next few minutes, Jane and her father watched this confrontation escalate from the door of the school. When the first punch was thrown, Jane was aghast. When several other voters standing in line also began swinging, her father was tensed up as if he was about to join the fray.

“Dad,” Jane said. He looked at her and relaxed a bit.

A minute later the police showed up in full riot gear. They began grabbing the combatants and dragging them out. Jane and her father had already been forced outside the school by the entry of the cops. When pepper spray began to sting their eyes, her father pulled her away from the school. A stampede of would-be voters followed them, rubbing their eyes and gagging.

“I don’t think you’re going to be voting today,” her father said.

The police dragged the military-looking instigator out. One of the cops asked the other, “I didn’t use any pepper spray, did you?” The other simply shook his head. Jane thought she saw the muscled, freckled “poll watcher” wink at her father, though that might have been the tear gas. She turned to Jeff to see him grinning.

“What’s… funny?” she asked.

“Ah, nothing,” Jeff said. “Are you okay?”

“My eyes hurt a little, and my nose is running,” she said. “Are you really saying I can’t vote?”

“How did you know that guy?” Jane asked, blowing her nose.

“Oh, just from around,” Jeff said, still grinning as he blew his own nose. “On-line, mostly.”

“He meant to do that,” Jane said.

“Do what?” Jeff said.

“He meant to stop people voting here,” Jane said.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Jeff said. But he was still grinning.

That night, the news had a number of stories of long lines and unrest at polling places. All of them appeared to be in heavily Democratic areas; many of those polling places were unable to secure their ballots before being evacuated “for safety reasons.” In some cases, it was someone coughing all over would-be voters; in other cases, it was an altercation like the one they had seen; in others, groups of armed white men stood near the polling places, intimidating voters into leaving; in others, there had been phoned-in bomb threats. There were also reports of Postal Service failures to deliver ballots, mail-in ballots being dumped into landfills or burnt, and Democrats impotently protesting Republican election officials’ refusal to wait until all mailed ballots had been counted. Jane had seen her father grinning through all the reports.

By the time the President came on much later that night to declare victory, her mother had gone to bed hours before. Her father had jumped up and punched the air in exultation as the President, seemingly fully recovered from the virus, grinned and nodded to a very distant adoring crowd.

Jane was happy that her father was happy, but she felt a deep sense of unease. Why didn’t I get the chance to vote? she thought. Why didn’t that Hispanic man? Something seemed off about the entire thing.

***

Well, Jane thought, as she reached the front door of their house, maybe next time.

She looked over at the neighbor’s lawn. Another Black Lives Matter sign had been put up. Dad won’t be happy about that, she thought.