'Yeah, that's Compton.'
'So I thought about it for a week or so,' said Baedecker. 'Then one Saturday morning I saw him on the playground across the street from where I lived. I went upstairs and got my over-and-under out of my mom's closet.'
'You had your own gun?' asked Foster.
'My father gave it to me on my eighth birthday,' said Baedecker. 'Four-ten-gauge shotgun on the bottom. Single-shot twenty-two on top.'
'A Savage,' said Foster. 'My brother used to own one.' He threw the stub of his cigarette away. 'So what happened?'
'I waited for Compton to get close enough,' said Baedecker. 'First I took the screen off the window in my mother's bedroom and waited for him to cross the street. He couldn't see me behind the lace curtains. I loaded both barrels but figured I'd use the four-ten. Figured I couldn't miss at ten yards. He was that close.'
'A four-ten would give you a nice pattern at that range,' said Foster.
'I loaded it with number-six quail shot,' said Baedecker. 'Jesus.'
'Yes. I wanted Compton's guts spilling out on the ground like with the rabbit my father'd shot with number-six pellets a couple of months earlier. I remember how calm I was as I was sighting down the barrel at Compton's face. I lowered the sights to his belt because I always pulled a little high and to the left. I remember trying to think of any reason why I should let the son of a bitch keep living. I honestly couldn't think of one. I squeezed the trigger the way my father had taught me — holding my breath but not tense, squeezing very slow and easy rather than jerking it. I pulled it. The goddamn safety was on. I clicked it down to free the four-ten pin and had to take aim again because Compton had moved a few feet. He stopped to say something to a neighbor girl who was playing hopscotch, and I aimed at his lower back. He was only about seven or eight feet farther away.'
'Then what?' asked Foster. He lit a new cigarette.
'Then my mother called me for lunch,' said Baedecker. 'I unloaded both barrels and put the gun away. I stayed out of Compton's way as best I could for the next few weeks. He got tired of hitting me after a while. We moved the next May.'
'Huh,' said Foster and took a swig of beer. 'Chuck Compton always was an asshole.'
'Whatever happened to him?' asked Baedecker and set his beer carefully on the ground. He raised the .22 and took aim down the ravine.
'Married Sharon Cahill over in Princeville,' said Foster. 'Got born again. Was real religious for a while. He was working for the State Highway in ‘66 when he fell off his mowin' tractor and his own blades ran over him. Lived a week or so before pneumonia got him.'
'Hmmm,' said Baedecker and squeezed the trigger. A scurrying shape kicked sideways and squealed in pain. Baedecker returned the rifle to port arms and pumped it three times to make sure the chamber was empty. He handed it over. 'I've got to get back,' he said. 'I have a speech to make at eight.'
'Fuckin' A,' said Carl Foster and handed the weapon to Galen.
'Are you sure you wouldn't like some coffee?' Bill Ackroyd asked nervously. 'I'm sure,' said Baedecker. He stood in front of the hall mirror in Ackroyd's home and tried for the second time to knot his tie.
'How about something to eat?'
'Had a big breakfast,' said Baedecker. 'Two of them.'
'Jackie'll heat up some of the roast.'
'No time,' said Baedecker. 'It's almost eight.' They hurried out the door. The twilight bathed the cornfields and Ackroyd's RV in a Maxfield Parish glow. Ackroyd backed the Bonneville out and they roared into town.
Old Settlers was ablaze with lights. The canvas of the big tents seeped light, yellow bulbs were strung between the gaming booths, the softball diamond was bathed in arc-lamp brilliance, and the carnival rides were outlined in colored bulbs. Baedecker suddenly recalled an August night when Jimmy Haines had been sleeping over. It had been the night before Old Settlers. Sometime after midnight the two boys had awakened as if responding to a whispered summons, dressed silently, gone over the wire fence at the back of the property, and pushed through the high grass of the fields behind the high school until they were close enough to hear the soft curses and commands of the carny men assembling the rides. Suddenly the lights of the Ferris wheel and merry-go-round had blinked on, brilliant constellations against the black Midwestern night. Baedecker and his best friend had stood motionless, paralyzed with the wonder of it.
Baedecker remembered standing on the moon, shielding his already-shielded visor with a gloved hand and searching the black sky for a single star. There were none. Only the white glare of the cratered surface and the light from the inconsequential crescent that was the earth had pierced the gold-tinted visor.
Ackroyd parked behind a police car, and the two men joined the crowd filing into the high school gymnasium. Baedecker immediately recognized the wood and varnish smell of the place. He had dribbled basketballs where the folding chairs were set in even rows. The platform that he was ascending had been the stage for his sixth-grade operetta. He had been cast as Billy the Orphan who, in the final act, was revealed to be the Christ child come again to check on a family's charity. Baedecker's father had written from Camp Pendleton to say that it had been the most colossal case of miscasting in the history of the theater.
He sat with Ackroyd on gray metal chairs as Mayor Seaton quieted the crowd. Baedecker estimated that there were three to four hundred people filling the chairs and wooden bleachers. More people milled in the open doorways at the back. The sound of the merry-go-round music came in clearly on the humid air.
'. . . of the Apollo Program. Our voyager to the moon. One of America's true heroes and Glen Oak's very own son . . . Richard M. Baedecker!' Applause filled the gym and momentarily drowned out the midway's music. As Baedecker rose to his feet, Bill Ackroyd gave him a pat on the back that almost sent him to his knees. He recovered, shook the mayor's hand, and faced the crowd.
'Thank you, Mayor Seaton and members of the city council. I'm happy to be back in Glen Oak tonight.' There was another round of applause and in the few seconds before he resumed speaking Baedecker realized that he was quite drunk. He had no idea what he would say next.
Baedecker had learned how to lessen his fear of audiences by slightly unfocusing his eyes when he spoke. Crowds became less formidable when they blurred into a colorful sea of faces. But this night he did not do this. Baedecker looked earnestly at the crowd. He saw Stinky Serrel in the second row waving at him with little motions of her hand below her chin. Her husband, still in his softball uniform, was dozing in the chair next to her. Phil Dixon and his family sat three rows farther back. Jackie Ackroyd sat on the aisle of the front row. Next to her, Terry was kneeling on a chair with his back to Baedecker, talking loudly to an older boy. He could not see Carl Foster or Galen, but he sensed that they were there. In the seconds of silence after the applause died away, Baedecker felt a sudden rush of affection for everyone in the crowd.
'The exploration of space has been rewarding to scientists in terms of its payoff in pure knowledge and exciting to engineers because of the technological challenge it has posed,' Baedecker heard himself begin, 'but many people do not know how tremendously rewarding it has been for the average American in terms of spin-offs, which have improved the quality of all of our lives.' Baedecker relaxed as he spoke. He had gotten through the original five-month NASA public relations tour after the mission only by memorizing half a dozen set speeches. What he was starting into now — although updated by him — was the NASA-written piece that he always thought of as his Teflon Speech.
'. . . not only those wondrous materials and alloys, but as a result of the NASA-sponsored advances in electronics we can enjoy the benefits of such things as pocket calculators, home computers, and relatively inexpensive video cassette recorders.'