Read Online Elect Mr. Robinson for a Better World: A Novel by Donald Antrim - Free Book Online Page A

proclaiming, “We’re all murderers here.”
    At that moment the banquet hall’s wide metal doors swung open and Bob and Betsy Isaac entered from the kitchen, bearing silver trays laden with pie topped with generous helpings of whipped cream. “Ah, ooh,” people said. In this way, beneath sounds of eating, Jim’s solemn commentary was buried. For the moment at least. Many times after that day I pondered Kunkel’s words. Holding the thawing foot above the grave, I felt engaged in an enactment of prophesy, and I knew my midnight burial signified not only community rebirth and regeneration but also personal genesis. Entombing Jim’s foot was an essential step toward assuming the mantle of civic leadership, becoming mayor. Campaign poster slogans filled my mind: PETE ROBINSON FOR PEACE ON EARTH. PETE ROBINSON, A STEP TOWARD PARADISE.
    The foot grave was two feet deep, not traditional depth, but deep enough (probably?) to discourage animals. I lowered the foot into darkness. I left it tightly freezer-wrapped—the twist-tied plastic, washed in leaking fluids, served admirably as a makeshift shroud. And I set aside The Egyptian Book of the Dead. It was wrong to use it. Wasn’t I just appropriating text from one culture, blindly applying it within another, merely to suit a private agenda? Better to honor my burial scenario with a song born of the moment.
    I improvised: “Proud foot, never again will you walk over grass or road or sidewalk. Once you carried a man on his daily rounds, you carried him through life. Now his work is done. Carry us, the living, carry us forward into knowledge of the heart’s truth.”
    And I scooped dirt, held my hands over the grave, let the black earth trickle down onto the foot. I felt, then, a creepy intimation of surveillance. As if, from the shadows behind the trees, someone watched. How might this ceremony appear to a stranger? Certainly people bury things. Deceased pets, for instance. I packed loose soil and called out, “Hello?” But there was only stillness and a smell of ozone sweetly lofting in on a wind; and, from the west, the sound of thunder, its heavy echo rolling in from over the wetlands bordering town. Clouds eclipsed the moon and stars. I stuck a twig into the burial mound. It wasn’t much, only an obscure marker. Nevertheless I bent my head prayerfully over it and intoned these words: “Herein lies Jim Kunkel’s left foot, symbolizing leadership, fearlessness, creativity, and strength. Soon it will become dust. But the spirit of Jim shall rise up and walk into our homes and our hearts, it will guide us out of darkness.”
    Rain struck the canopy of leaves. I groped for library book, trowel, candles, the purple knapsack. I eased aside thorny stems, stepped tentatively onto fallen leaves that sponged underfoot. Immediately the soles of my Keds sank deep into sucking mud. Mud that was, apparently, mined. There was no way of knowing where to walk. Quietly I whispered, “Okay, buried foot, I’ve done my part, now you do yours and get me out of here.”
    Sure enough, a voice spoke. “Pete.”
    I looked up to see a man with tangled hair. He was standing beside a tree. His clothes were soiled, dirt messed his face and arms. He was immense. He said, “It’s me, Pete, Ray. Ray Conover.”
    “Ray?”
    The man stepped forward, leaned in close. “You wouldn’t recognize me, would you, Pete?”
    “Uh, no.”
    He raised his arms and waved his hands, wildly, for emphasis. “Grief changes a person, Pete. Once I was happy. I was. Look at me. I’ve aged, my teeth hurt. You, your world is intact. Oh, you’re out here tonight doing unfathomable things. But tomorrow you’ll be in a warm bed beside a person you love. I don’t have that anymore. This is my home now.”
    “The park? You live in the park? There’s a war going on here.”
    “Yeah, well.” How sad the man sounded. How dejected. I decided to be up front with him. In a firm but cordial voice, I said, “Listen,