Election day dawned like a battle, with far-off fireworks.
On election day Papa always made a boeuf bouquet garni. It was his way of getting people to vote, after putting his hoped-for voters in a good mood. When Mama was political… which didn't last as long as it seemed… he was always ready with his iron casserole.
He would have four ounces of butter boiling in it, browning two pounds of lean beef. Papa and I had been to Cold Storage Sam's for the beef. Cold Storage was a happy man with a red nose, a red cat, and a lot of red steer cadavers hanging from his ceiling… and only he in the whole town knew how to age beef, how to get game hung, and what to do with bear, deer, or rattlesnake cutlets…
Papa and Cold Storage would talk beef, and I and the red cat would look up at the hanging steers and wait for the bargaining to end. Cold Storage would always moan, “Damn it, Mr. L., for two pounds beef I hate to cut into half a ton of prime A… but for you, all right.”
Well, after Papa had the beef in his casserole, cut into inch cubes and cooked to the right softness, he removed it and added a tablespoon of flour and made a brown sauce. Then he put in salt, pepper, a pint of red wine, three inches of carrot, half a pint of mushrooms, one clove of garlic, and half a dozen shallots, and last, a half pound of browned onions. The meat went back to the casserole with the sliced vegetables and a bouquet garni of parsley, bay leaf, and thyme. On election day, Papa also added half a pint of Madeira and enough water to cover the meat, and simmered the casserole for four hours. Papa served this with rice.
So election day would start with Papa at the stove and the rumble of guns. Fires burned at curbs, and the lame and the halt and the blind were being taken for rides that happened to pass the open polls. The factory workers had already voted, and now the townspeople were strolling to the barber shops, which had draped their chairs and set up booths.
It was a slow day… the jam would start about three o'clock in the afternoon. Mama put on her yellow shoes and her best hat with the longest feathers, and she drew tight a silk ribbon across her little torso: LIBERTY AND THE VOTE… VOTE CERTIFIED, and we went to Buddenheim's barber shop to see how the voting was going.
Papa came out in a fresh high collar, but unshaved… he didn't trust a razor in his own hand, and the chair was not shaving that day… “Sara… there is something afoot. The voting is going to new people… not on your lists.”
“No!”
“Ward heelers, party hacks, and outright grafters… Silver Dollar has double-crossed you.”
“He wouldn't dare,” said Mama…
“He has done it.”
“I am going to see Mrs. Hansen…” Mama took me by the hand, and we rode the trolley car to the Point, where Silver Dollar had built him a huge house out of field stone and stone lions and iron deer and living English bulldogs… Mama and I shooed off the bulldogs, and rang the bell. Mrs. Hansen opened the door and she smiled at Mama…
“Would you mind ringing once more?” Then she shut the door.
Mama looked at me. “Do you think she's mad, Stevie?”
“At who?” I asked, and Mama said I was a jughead and rang the bell again. The door opened slowly, and a tall, thin man wearing a striped vest and black sideburns stood there, his nose almost caught in the ivy over the door.
“Who shall I say is calling, Mum?” said the thing.
“Never mind mumming me,” said Mama… “Olga Hansen saw me…” Mama pushed her way in and I followed, and the thing pivoted around without bending or breaking. Mrs. Hansen stood red with pride. “Isn't he wonderful! He's a butler… his name is Howard and he's English and Mr. Hansen got him for me… Watch.”
We watched. Mrs. Hansen went up to Howard bravely. “Howard, serve tea.”
Mama stood there while Howard marched like a clockwork figure to the back of the house. Then Mama said, “You have sold us out, Olga! Mr. Hansen has given you boodle!”
“Boodle?” asked Mrs. Hansen.
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