Interface (46 page)

Dad rolled his eyes again.

Later, after he had gone to sleep, Mary Catherine curled up on the living room sofa with a bag of microwave popcorn, rewound
"Election One," and watched it.

It was outtakes from election-related news coverage from the
past week or week and a half, ever since Dad's thumb had gotten
nimble enough to control the machine. Most of it had to do with the peculiar, stereotyped behavior patterns of men competing in
state primary elections. It made good training for a neurologist.
Hours and hours of men walking around under bright lights,
moving with the spasmodic gait of candidates. A candidate walked
on two legs like a normal man, but every time he sensed that he was
in a position that would make a good photograph, he would stop
and freeze for a moment as if suffering a petit mal seizure, and turn toward the nearest battery of cameras. No candidate could climb on
board a vehicle or enter a building without freezing for a moment
and giving the thumbs-up. Handshakes all lasted for hours, and the
candidate never looked at the person whose hand he was shaking;
he looked toward the audience.

Super Tuesday, Illinois, and New York were history. California
wouldn't happen for weeks. By this point in the campaign, the nominations were usually settled. But there was nothing settled
about them this year. Both parties were running several candidates.
The flakes, the paupers and the weaklings had long since been
weeded out. The remaining strong contenders had been beating
one another mercilessly. By the time the real campaign began on
Labor Day, neither of the two surviving candidates would have any
reputation left.

Maybe the GOP would try to draft Cozzano. But she had to
ask herself - Dad had to be asking himself - what was the point of parties anyway? All they did was get in the way. Ogle was
right.

The film crew showed up in Tuscola a few days later. It consisted
of a producer, a cameraman, and an audio person who happened to
be female. They rented a couple of rooms at the Super 8 Motel on the edge of town, out near I-57, a short drive from the Cozzano
residence.

The producer was named Myron Morris. He came with the
personal recommendation of Cyrus Rutherford Ogle, who
continued to phone Mary Catherine at work from time to time,
just keeping in touch. She had a series of conversations with him:
Ogle on a plane or in a car or hotel room somewhere, and Mary
Catherine standing in the hallway at the hospital, usually in the neurology ward, where the comings and goings of various para
lyzed, epileptic, senile, psychotic, or demented patients provided a
useful reality check.

Ogle had first brought up the idea of a film crew just a few days
after the implant. He had gone about this in typically diplomatic fashion, in a late round of the conversation, after greetings, small
talk, chitchat about politics, and a little bit of gentle probing into
the Governor's condition.

"This is like your baby learning how to walk: it's only going to happen once," he pointed out. "And consequently, you're going to
want it on film. It might seem like a weird idea now, but believe me, sooner or later, maybe ten years down the road, you and the
Governor are going to wish that you could go back and watch him
saying his first words and taking his first steps."

"We have a camcorder stashed back in the garage," Mary Catherine said. "I'll get it out."

"That's an excellent idea," Ogle said encouragingly, "and make
sure that when you're finished, you break off the little plastic tab on
the videocassette so you can't record over it by accident."

"I'll do that," Mary Catherine said, trying to hide the smile in
her voice.

A week later they spoke again. It was the same routine: small
talk, chitchat, and all the rest.

"Did you dig up that long-lost camcorder?" Ogle said
knowingly.

"Yes," Mary Catherine said.

"But it doesn't work."

"How'd you know?"

"Old ones never do," Ogle said. "The first time you put them
away in the garage, you lose half the pieces."

"There's a little black box that is supposed to charge up the
battery," Mary Catherine said. "I can't find it anywhere. Dad
knows where it is, but he can't tell me at this point in his recovery.
So maybe I'll go buy a new one."

"Don't do that," Ogle said. "There's too many camcorders
floating around the world not being used for you to go spend money on a new one."

"I sense that you have a scheme on your mind."

"As usual you are right. I know some people. People who are
very good working with film and videotape. Who would be glad
to come in to Tuscola and spend some time videotaping your
father's recovery."

"Is that right."

"Yes, it is. We could send out a three-person crew as soon as you
give the okay."

Mary Catherine laughed. "Well, I must say that is an
exceedingly
generous offer. To think that three people who presumably have
jobs and families could come all the way out to Tuscola and donate
their time and expertise to making some home movies for the
Cozzano family."

"Isn't it a remarkable thing?" Ogle said.

"You realize that this recovery process is going to stretch out
over a period of several weeks. Possibly months."

"Yes, I know that."

"Don't these people have anything better to do during this part
of their lives?"

"Nope. They sure don't," Ogle said.

Mary Catherine let a long pause go by. "What's going on here?"

"I'll tell you," Ogle said. "Your dad's gonna get better. I know
he is."

"I appreciate that confidence."

"At that point he'll be a healthy, strong, middle-aged man with
a great deal of popularity, in Illinois and in the rest of the country.
And based on his past behavior I have this feeling he's not ready to
retire yet."

"I couldn't say."

"And I don't know what he'll choose to do with the remaining,
best years of his life. But would it be fair to say it's not out of the
question that he might continue with his current career in politics?"

"Who knows?"

"Well, if he does continue in politics - even if he just wants to
run for mayor of Tuscola - I would very much like to serve as his
media consultant."

"I'm looking at my watch," Mary Catherine said, "and noting the time. I think you just set a new record."

"For what?"

"For beating around the bush. You've been talking to me for a
month and this is the first time you've come out and said that."

"Well, I hate to be direct," Ogle said. "It's just the way I am."

"Please continue." She sighed.

"If he were to make that choice, and if he were to hire me, I
would want to make campaign ads explaining to the voters who William A. Cozzano is and why he would be a good man to vote
for. And as a man who understands the media, I cannot think of
anything that would tell voters more about the character of your father than some footage - discreet, dignified - showing his slow
and difficult recovery from the terrible, terrible tragedy that
overcame him. And, because it is my job to think ahead, it has
occurred to me that, if all these things were to come to pass, I
would not to able to make such advertisements unless I had footage
of the real thing."

"So you're willing to spend, what, tens of thousands of bucks to
put a film crew in Tuscola full-time, just on the off chance that he
will recover fully, choose to continue a career in politics, and
choose to hire you as his media consultant."

"What can I say," Ogle said. "I'm an optimist."

Ogle was up to something. That was no surprise. Mary
Catherine wasn't a professional politician but she wasn't a complete
moron either and she had known from the beginning that Ogle
must have some kind of agenda.

Her first reaction was not to trust him, not to get herself
entangled in anything. To play it safe, in other words. She had been
noncommital when Ogle had suggested that Dad might want to continue his career in politics. The fact was, of course, that Dad
very much did want to continue it. She had something of a duty to
help him. Not to close off any options that he might want kept
open. And if she failed to accept Ogle's suggestion, she'd be
blowing an opportunity. Being the overprotective daughter.

Besides, she still wasn't committing the Cozzanos to anything.
There couldn't be any harm in letting some people hang around
and film Dad. Later, when he had recovered more fully, then he'd
be able to make the command decision. If he didn't like Ogle, those
people would be out on their asses.

Mel wasn't crazy about this. But he had changed his tactics. He
no longer challenged Mary Catherine on every little point, just grumbled and simmered a lot in the background. Just to give him
something to do, she had him deal with Ogle's lawyers. They drew up an agreement that gave the Cozzanos absolute, permanent,
unequivocal control over any films, videotapes, audiotapes, or
other media that Ogle's people created on Cozzano property. Mel was good, Mel knew how to make the agreement airtight, and by
the time Myron Morris and his two assistants pulled into Tuscola in
their four-wheel-drive Suburban, Mel was as satisfied as he could
ever be that this thing was above board. There was no way they
could pull anything sneaky.

Mary Catherine was astonished the first time she saw the crew in
action. Myron Morris himself wasn't there; he had hung around
quite a bit for the first day or two, then excused himself. That left
the cameraman and the sound woman. The sound woman was
carrying some heavy-duty gear: a big reel-to-reel machine slung
over a shoulder strap, with an assortment of microphones. But the
cameraman was packing a cheap piece of junk: a home-style VHS
camcorder not much different from the one that was rusting away in the Cozzanos' garage.

"Why are you using a home camcorder?" Mary Catherine asked
him, when he wasn't actively filming Dad.

He shrugged. "That's what Myron said to use. I don't get it
either."

"Where's Myron?"

"Scouting."

"Scouting?"

"Locations. He's looking around the area."

"Why? Is he planning on producing a movie in Tuscola?"

The cameraman shrugged. "I'm just repeating his words."

She found him outside of town, at the old Cozzano farm. His giant
Suburban was parked along the shoulder of the country road,
looking as if it might roll over into the ditch. Morris had jumped a fence into a cornfield and was walking down one of the freshly
plowed rows, his shoes sinking into the soft black earth. Every few
paces he would stop walking and turn toward the farmhouse,
which had been rebuilt by Dad and his cousins after the tornado
destroyed it in the early fifties. He would lift a short, stubby black
telescope to one eye and peer through it for a few seconds. Two or
three of these devices were hung on ropes around his neck,
clacking into one another as he walked.

Mary Catherine parked behind his Suburban, jumped the ditch,
and vaulted the fence. Fence-vaulting was something she had
known how to do, expertly, since an early age; in the extended
Cozzano family, kids who couldn't vault fences got left behind and
never had any fun. In her fancy grownup clothes it was slightly
more complicated, but nowadays she had the advantage of height. Half
a mile away she could see her second cousin Tim out plowing
the field on one of the old tractors.

Myron Morris noticed her approaching. He stopped, waved, and
stood there for a few moments, hands in pockets, watching her
approach. Then he picked up one of the short stubby telescopes
and used it to peer at her. He dropped that one and looked at her
through another. Then another.