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watching baseball. He was the pitcher of the Round Corners Royals softball team; George was the third baseman.
    One night while the Montreal Expos were kicking butt Odie announced his campaign plans for reelection. He leaned forward, looking us in the eyes, and whispered: “Culture.” That was Odie’s campaign strategy. He was going to bring not only leadership, but culture to Round Corners. This was about the time The Burlington Free Press ran an article on the explosion of the arts scene in Vermont.
    When I told Freda, the next day after work, she couldn’t take it. She laughed so hard she almost fell out of the booth, where we were sprawled, tired and dirty. The doors were locked, and we smelled of hamburgers. There were two sodas on the table and an ashtray. “Culture,” Freda sighed, wiping the tears from the corners of her eyes and lighting a cigarette, “It’s good Odie is sticking to something he knows.”
    George died shortly before Odie was elected. Odie took it hard. He and George had met in Vietnam, two scared, green kids with faces full of pimples and a shared love of baseball. At night as they listened to bombs in the distance, they whispered baseball statistics to each other. George had been visiting his old Army buddy Odie the day I met him.
    In the aftermath of losing his best friend and winning his second term, Odie forgot about his cultural mission. Until now. Our period of mourning was over, as was half of Odie’s second term. Even Odie can figure out a calendar. And the issue of the Round Corners mural was heating up. People liked the idea. When they talked about the painting—what it would look like and who would be in it—they discovered they felt closer to each other. “What about that painting” became the popular greeting, comparable to sports salutations such as “What about those Bosox” or “What about those Expos” (depending on your baseball persuasion). The concept of the painting grew in the town’s mind. Odie envisioned something the size of a city block while the last thing I had done with any confidence—the greeting cards—was no bigger than a brick. You could say I was feeling the pressure.
    George had been oblivious to pressure. “A person can do anything he wants to or can afford,” he said, straightening his tie and heading out the door for the closing of a house. I remember the day because it was the biggest house George had sold yet. He was extremely proud of that transaction. “Maud,” he said, “this is a Renoir of a real estate deal.”
    The irony of the situation was that Odie wouldn’t lose the election if he didn’t produce a town mural. My spiteful side was denied even that satisfaction. The voters weren’t irate. They wouldn’t feel cheated if their cultural consciousness wasn’t raised another notch. And if they did, what choice do they have? Odie was running unopposed, again.
    So I should have been able to tell Odie to stick that painting where the sun doesn’t shine—in his L.L. Bean thermal underwear.

What’s stopping me, George? I’ll tell you what’s stopping me… it’s the look of excitement everyone gets in their eyes when they talk about the mural… it’s this sense of bonding that has begun to permeate the town… it isn’t my mural… it’s theirs.

Everyone wants a piece of this dream. They say it will put Round Corners on the map again. For once, people will stop here for more than a hamburger between downhill ski runs or for a break from heavy-duty leafpeaking. They’ll come to see the mural.

Just like once they came to see my house.
    I leaned back and studied the painting in front of me. I had put away the Hatteras Holstein and started again. The new painting was beginning to look suspiciously like another cow, only this one had two heads.

What does it look like I’m doing, George? You’re dead, not blind.

Of course, it’s not right. I don’t know how to fix it, George; if I did, I would. Yes. It’s a good thing