Pinocchio Syndrome

1 SIX MONTHS LATER Liberty, Iowa November 15 11:45 a.m. SNOW FELL silently, like a sleep coming over the land. The postman came around the corner, pulling his bag behind him. The wheels of his cart left moist black trails in the fresh snow on the sidewalk. A crumpled snowman, made from yesterday's storm, regarded the passing postman pathetically, its corncob pipe falling down its face. It was the biggest snow on record for this time of year. School had been canceled yesterday. Today was Saturday, so the town's children could enjoy what was left of the accumulation with their sleds and flying saucers. The postman wore his Saturday look, a bit more watchful than usual, as he started to cross the street. Saturdays were more dangerous for him than weekdays, and more interesting. Children were on the loose. With children came snowballs, pranks, and sometimes an unruly dog. He had to be on his toes. But something stopped him in the middle of the street. He stood still in his tracks, his cart beside him, his eyes fixed on something beyond the houses and the trees and the snow-covered lawns. One hand was raised toward his chin, as though to stroke it thoughtfully. The other was at his side. His eyes blinked as a wind-blown snowflake plopped on the lashes. His mouth was closed, the jaws set rigidly. No one would find him for ten minutes. As luck would have it, the children were all inside their houses, playing in their rooms, watching Saturday-morning television, or getting ready for lunch. Those mothers who were not out at work did not expect the mail until after noon, so no one came out to check a mailbox. During those ten minutes the postman did not move a muscle. He was as rigid as the dying snowman who sagged under the new-fallen snow. The mother was standing in her kitchen, watching the news station on TV as she talked to her sister on the phone. "No," she said. "Just getting ready to give the kids lunch." She paused, listening to something her sister was saying. "No," she said with some anger. "I'm so fed up with husbands, I'm not going to move a muscle. They can get along without me. I've had it." She craned her neck to glance into the playroom. Her maternal radar had alerted her to the fact that the little ones were up to something. "Just a second," she said to her sister. Then she held the phone against her breast and shouted at her older child, the boy, "Stop doing that to her!" There was a pause. The mother went to the door of the playroom and gave both children a hard look. "Lunch in five minutes," she said. "Don't leave this room until you clean up this mess." They were five and seven. The little girl was quiet enough when left to her own devices, but the boy, Chase, was a terror. When he wasn't torturing his sister he was putting her up to some sort of mischief. It was impossible to leave them alone in a room for half an hour without a crisis resulting. The mother went back to the kitchen, the cordless phone in her hand. On the TV screen was the face of Colin Goss, the controversial right-wing politician whose rise in the polls had alarmed many observers. "God," she said, "there's that maniac Goss on the news." "Turn it off," her sister advised. "I wish I could turn him off," the mother said. Both sisters hated Colin Goss, a perennial independent candidate for president who had lost three times in the general election. They considered him a pure demagogue, a menace to freedom and a potential Hitler. Their husbands, however, had been swept up in the recent groundswell of support for Goss. It was difficult to get through an evening without an argument on this subject. "Gary watches all Goss's speeches on C-SPAN," the mother said. &Zeman, David is the author of 'Pinocchio Syndrome', published 2003 under ISBN 9780385509558 and ISBN 0385509553.