I.
On the night of the hearing before the school board, the parking lot was overflowing with people wearing red shirts. Cynthia Weston, the organizer, had told everyone to wear shirts to show unity. The school board, conducting a hearing and vote on a mask mandate, was made up of seven volunteers, all sitting in chairs at a large table in the front of the room, wearing cloth masks. Since arriving late, Marilyn Fairchild had to stand in the back of the room. A microphone was set up to receive testimony. There were brochures from federal, and State agencies spread out on a table. One man crumpled up one of the flyers, yelling “free our kids from this propaganda.”
“Please sign in if you want to speak,” the chairman said solemnly. This brought a rush of people to the front of the room. Marilyn walked up amongst the throng and signed her name. She appeared to be the fifteenth speaker of the night. Other names on the list were people she knew, mainly from her high school.
The chairman opened the meeting with the pledge of allegiance, followed by the reading of the minutes. The mask mandate was the only agenda item. It had been bouncing around Town Hall and the community for the past three months. As covid raged through the country, it seemed only prudent to follow guidance from the CDC, or so the chairman had thought. Editorials and speeches were made, both for and against, leading up to the hearing. Cynthia Weston was the first one to speak since she was signed up first. With long dark red fingernail polish to match her dark red shirt, she walked gingerly to the podium with an air of confidence and doom.
The room quieted as she stepped into the microphone.
“My name is Cynthia Weston, and I live at 123 Main Street. I am chairman of Parents against Masks. I was on the school board like you, about ten years ago. I sat through many meetings like this where I tried to change things that posed dangers to our kids. So, I know what you are feeling. But you are at an important moment that can define the culture and educational efforts of this town. Great men and women made this town and country great, and they all insisted on freedom. Freedom to be your own person and not be dictated to by those in charge. You that are presiding over this hearing are not politicians; you are volunteers that represent the community. You must vote for the will of the people. All of us wearing red shirts tonight are saying ‘No’ to the mask mandate.” She continued with this content for several more minutes. Then:
“I stand here tonight representing the weakest among us, our kids. Jesus would want that. We Christians have let the ruling class run all over us, take away our jobs, our education. Men love men, women love women, and men want to be women and women want to be a man. What are we coming to? Now, they want our kids to wear masks. Folks, we must stop all the madness.”
“Your five minutes is up Mrs. Weston.”
“My time is up?” she said to the chairman sardonically. “Your time is up. The final thing I will say is that the fight does not stop tonight but only begins!” Cynthia received thunderous applause from all who were wearing red shirts, including Marilyn.
None of the following fourteen speakers could top Cynthia’s content and simply repeated some of the main points.
“Marilyn Fairchild is the next speaker,” the chairman said.
This was not the first time she had testified at this Board. When her son Bobby was in grade school, she testified in favor of an expanded lunch time for kids. Lunch time was bumped from forty-five minutes to thirty minutes, which she thought was not enough time to eat the lunch she had packed. The parents had won that one. For this one, she did not confer with Bobby or her husband. She told Cynthia she would testify because she wanted to. Making kids wear masks seemed not right. In her testimony she reiterated the freedom issue, a theme that pervaded all testimony. She told the board that she did not know anyone in town that had contracted covid and wasn’t sure why the mandate was necessary. Masks were an inconvenience for everyone, she said. Why not make mask wearing an option? In the end, she finished her testimony before her time was up.
Other testimony followed until the chairman called on those who supported the measure. There was a total of five letters read into the record by the chairman. Cynthia laughed cynically out loud at the conclusion. “They were afraid of being in the room with us,” she bellowed, looking at the group.
The chairman closed the meeting. The Board members talked amongst themselves, but quietly. After a brief discussion, and agitation growing in the crowd, the chairman called for a vote. The mandate failed by a vote of 6-1 (the chairman being the only yes vote.). A roar was heard from the crowd. They had succeeded. There was a great commotion of people talking, laughing as they excited the room to get in their cars. While some board members received a pat on the back, the chairman was shunned.
On the way home, Cynthia had called to thank her. “You did good Marilyn,” she said. “You can come over to my place tonight, if you want. A few of us are getting together to debrief and plan.” There was a lot to admire about Cynthia and her group. They were vigilant at making their opinions known and getting things done. Cynthia had been very accommodating to her and did give her some pointers for her testimony. Marilyn was shy in her manner and needed more time to think; she couldn’t just do something. Testifying took a lot out of her. She felt she had committed enough time for one night to the cause and passed on Cynthia’s offer. She was, however, full of energy. Putting on her nightgown she went downstairs and turned on the computer. It was raging with action, as usual. Cynthia’s posts were frequent and consistent throughout the night, mostly talking about the town hall vote. As the sun rose, she realized she had not slept. It was the weekend. So, she turned off the computer and went to bed.
II.
Cynthia Weston did not need a microphone when she spoke. Her voice carried across any room. Her noticeable limp to the microphone was caused by an auto accident. At high speed, her car had hit a retaining wall on Route 55. Admitting to having too many martinis, and living a life of sin, she turned her life over to Jesus Christ. There was a picture in the Bloomington Post with her and Pastor Matson accepting the Lord Jesus Christ as her savior in the hospital bed. Her hair was in her typical beehive style, and she had a sweater pulled over her hospital smock. Since that time, she did not miss church service at Pastor Matson’s church on Wednesday night or Sunday.
Cynthia commanded a demeanor that required attention. She personalized opinions and conspiracies from social media to such a degree that one would think they were original thought. She challenged any naysayer with a litany of facts and non-facts. Most of her suppositions were mainly derived from the social media space. A born organizer, Cynthia and her late husband had started a local advocacy group. In the beginning, they focused on local issues, such as road improvements and property taxes. Over time, after her husband’s death, her issues broadened to mirror the politics of the day. She produced a newsletter that was sent out to loyalists every Friday afternoon. The newsletter covered local topics, social media posts and essays from far-right columnists, as well as bible quotes. If you disagreed with her, she would look at you with a face that was in total disbelief. “Marilyn, you got to get right with the story.”
The covid outbreak, with all its anecdotes, government missteps and conspiracies, was the perfect local issue for her to organize around. She could manipulate the information received from government and blend it into her local argument against masks and vaccines. She made covid into a larger issue of freedom of choice. Couching the issue into the milieu of what the founding fathers would think, and the risk to constitutional freedoms, she recruited many people to her cause. Spearheading local meetings, in which she would be chair, and attending national conferences on covid enhanced her credibility and leadership.
It was the church, not politics, that gave Cynthia’s life meaning. All her actions were driven by faith in Jesus Christ. And while the issues she chose had political implications, she believed that Jesus was on her side. To reinforce these views, she and Pastor Matson led meetings after church, or one time, she even shared the pulpit. They were often seen together after church in his office, or at his rectory.
“I always wanted to be a pastor’s wife,” she confided to Marilyn one day. “I was not a Christian when I married Ernie. We did not lead a Christian life. I am too old to go to seminary, but I feel I have been called to support Pastor Matson through his ministry.”
“I am sure he is very appreciative of your support.”
“Absolutely. We are a team.”
“It has certainly not been easy for him, with his wife and all.”
“We visited her gravesite yesterday.”
Everybody knew and loved Carolyn, Pastor Matson’s wife. Attractive and rather plain in manners and dress, she had a radiant and contagious smile. She was from Indiana, and they had met at the church there when he was in seminary. They had no children. During Sunday sermons, she sat in the pew looking proudly up at the pulpit, listening intently, devouring every word. Then she turned on that smile and charm at coffee hour, welcoming newcomers and members alike. When something was needed at the parish, a light bulb or a plumber, it was Carolyn who took the call and followed up. Married for near twenty years, ten years at the church, his wife died of breast cancer. The announcement of her diagnosis stunned the parish. After an elaborate service attended by bishops and other clergy, she was buried behind the church. In the year since, the parish supported Pastor Matson in his grief, but no one more than Cynthia.
III.
Marilyn was feeding her cats when she got the call. She played Rafael’s voice mail two times to make sure she heard correctly. Covid. There was a moment of panic. He was in the hospital! She remembered seeing the body bags stacked up in refrigerator units in the big cities like New York. “I will be there as fast as I can,” she said to him when she called him back.
Arriving at the hospital, there was a line of women protesting at the main doors. A few had anti-vaccine and anti-mask signs. She saw Cynthia in the line holding a sign that said: “Free Don Johnson.”
“Marilyn! Get in line! They are trying to kill Don Johnson. Doctors want to make him a zombie,” Cynthia bellowed.
“Is he alright?” Marilyn asked.
“I don’t know. The drug companies are in cahoots with the government to numb us. Who knows what they are doing there.”
“I found out Bobby has covid. That is why I am here.”
“Oh, my god, I will pray for him. I am so sorry. You need to go to him. I will text Pastor now to start a prayer chain. Tell those nurses to give your son his freedom of choice.”
“I have to go.”
“No worries, Marilyn. Go to your son. We have this covered.”
Her son Bobby had been the focus of her life. He recently moved out of her house for a teaching job in a city about an hour and a half drive away. His four years of college seemed temporary, but now his separation was permanent. While she was in frequent contact with him, the communication was mostly one-sided. He was busy, she knew that, but no one, she thought, was so busy that they did not have time to call mom. His roommate, Rafael, who he met in college, was from the Dominican Republic. She did not know him well, other than seeing him at the graduation with Bobby. Both were now elementary school teachers.
Bobby was in the ICU ward and could not yet be seen. As she entered the lounge to wait, standing up and walking towards her was Rafael. He had grown a beard since they last met. It showed under his mask. His eyebrows were bushy, and his eyes were reassuring somehow. He hugged her.
“Bobby is stabilizing,” said Rafael. “I think they will let us in to see him soon.”
“What happened?”
“He was making breakfast and complained of a splitting headache and shortness of breath.”
“What did you do?”
“I thought at first it was a heart attack, and I panicked.”
“Thank God it wasn’t that.”
“Once I realized it was covid, it was a double panic.”
“Do they have plenty of beds here?”
“That was my worry. But yes, they had one available for Bobby.”
“I am glad you were there to take him.”
“I know most of the emergency staff here and they got him quickly.”
Rafael was attending classes to become a nurse. He was already involved in emergency services at the hospital as a volunteer. Becoming a nurse, he said, would put him on the front lines of helping patients.
After twenty minutes sitting in the lounge together, they were told that Bobby could be seen.
“Your mom is here.”
“I see her,” Bobby said, as he opened his eyes and adjusted his mask. “Hi mom.”
“Rafael filled me in on what happened. How are you doing?”
“Fine now, I guess. I could not breathe when I came in here.”
“I broke road speed records getting him here,” Rafael said.
“I am glad you are better. When Rafael called me, of course I thought the worse.”
“I am breathing on my own now. If it wasn’t for Rafael,” Bobby was pointing to him and looking at Marilyn, “I am not sure I would be alive.”
“I am grateful for what you have done,” she said to Rafael.
Then Stan entered the room.
“Hi dad. Are you still at Aunt Tina’s house?” Tina was Stan’s sister. His separation from Marilyn had been a constant topic for Bobby, mostly blaming his mom.
“Still there.”
“Mom, what gives? Why are you doing this to him?”
“Your mother and I need some time apart.”
“Who gives in first?”
“Your mother.”
Feeling she needed to speak: “As your dad said, we needed a break from each other.”
In truth, Stan had become a liberal suddenly. Up until covid, their politics was similar, both Republicans. They were proud to say that they did not cancel each other’s vote on election day. His initial job at the mill where they met was to determine the weight of the grain delivered each day, usually by rail car. One day he got caught in a large volume of grain flowing down into the storage containers. The velocity of the grain discharging from the chute had caught the top of his head and knocked him in. He had trouble remembering things after that, like where he was at a given moment. As this memory loss got more frequent, depression set in, and he began to drink. While he was not a mean drunk, he was an argumentative drunk. They argued about Cynthia, the President, covid, Fox News, and just about everything else. After one screaming match he stormed out of the house.
In the three months since, Marilyn had pushed to understand her life. At fifty-four, she was not ready to retire. Her work was the same, the people in her life were the same. Why did she feel different? Her reflection in the mirror affirmed that she was the same person, if not a little overweight. With Stan and Bobby gone, she was living in a house that she and her husband had bought twenty-five years ago now. Rooms that had served her and the family at one point were now cavernous and foreboding. Had she outgrown Stan? Would they get a divorce? If her mother were alive, she would be horrified that she and Stan were living separately. Women in her mom’s generation had made every sacrifice to save their marriages. It wasn’t that she no longer loved Stan. She still had strong feelings. All she knew was that she was tired of arguing.
“You look great Bobby. Quite a scare for all of us,” said Stan.
Stan to Marilyn: “I bumped into Cynthia on the way up. She is protesting outside. Who is Don Johnson?”
“Cynthia is the woman full of conspiracies and destruction,” Bobby said.
“Don Johnson has a radio show and speaks at conferences,” said Marilyn.
“Another one of your anti-vaxers, I presume?” said Stan.
“He does not believe in vaccines or covid, yes, that is true.”
“Mom, you don’t believe that garbage? Do you? Look around. It is not just me. There are a bunch of us here in the ICU. It is not caused by anything else but covid. It is not a myth. I can confirm that.”
“The people your mom hangs out with have death wishes,” said Stan to Bobby. “I stopped going to her church. They condemned people for getting vaccinated. They said they were exercising their God-given freedoms.”
“Freedom to die. That is no real freedom.”
“You’ve been vaccinated, right mom?” Bobby asked his mom. “I am vaccinated now. So is Rafael.”
“No. I thought I shouldn’t. As teachers, I guess you should.”
“Teachers have nothing to do with it. I slipped up and didn’t get the vaccination in time and look what happen. It can happen to you too. It is happening to all of us.”
“I don’t like how the whole thing is being handled.”
“Get over it. When you are sick, you listen to people who are in the know. I want doctors to tell me what to do. It’s a worldwide pandemic mom! We should not trust a bunch of politicians and quacks. It is too dangerous.” he exclaimed.
“We are hardly experts.”
“No one is. Just get the vaccine, for heaven’s sake,” said Stan who proudly added that he and sister got vaccinated two weeks ago.
“You are not vaccinated because of Cynthia, right? Look, I admire her tenacity, but on this issue she is wrong. She is going to kill us all.”
“You must stop listening to crackpots,” said Stan.
Marilyn was new at this. She was inundated with opinions every day, no matter where she turned. What did she know about covid, the science and health information behind it? What did anybody know? There were experts on both sides. She was more into being helpful than in defending political positions. Covid was not a hoax, as some said, and she never thought it was. Seeing Bobby in the hospital with all the others in the ICU brought the reality of the issue full frontal.
“Bobby, I am so glad you are not in school to worry about this. Particularly masking.”
“Mrs. Fairchild, we teach in the system. Trust me, kids don’t mind wearing masks. They take the masks off at recess and put them back on when they come back to class. It is the parents that have a problem with masks.”
“The school board did not approve the mask mandate the other night. You know that, right?”
“We know. Cynthia and her gang rode again. She ignored all of the public health concerns.”
“The chairman voted in favor of it.”
“Good for him. Too bad he couldn’t silence the majority in that room.”
“These are fools,” said Stan. “I told your mother not to testify.”
“What are you doing testifying anyway? You never do that.”
“I just felt like I wanted to.”
“Were there any teachers at the hearing?” asked Rafael to Marilyn.
“Not that I saw. There were only five in support.”
“If the facts were known, there would have been a lot more people in support, Mrs. Fairchild.”
“You were in a room with a bunch of people who were more interested in scoring political points than having a serious discussion about life and death issues.”
The nurse came in to check Bobby’s blood pressure and temperature. Visitors’ time had ended, and Bobby looked visibly tired. She had to promise to the group to get a vaccination. Rafael even helped her set the appointment up on her cell phone. There were hugs, kisses and a prayer led by Rafael. Since she had missed church the last few Sundays, his prayer centered her into the present moment. She was resolute in her determination to mend her brokenness.
She and Stan left together. As they were leaving, they saw the line of four women calling for the release of Johnson. Cynthia was at the front of the line. She and Stan both paused at the doorway.
“Don is better Marilyn,” exclaimed Cynthia, seeing them, as she lowered her sign. “How is Bobby?”
“We think he is going home tomorrow.”
“Praise the Lord. I will tell Pastor Matson.” She handed Marilyn a pin badge with a dark line marked through the word vaccination. Stan kept walking to his car. “Don’t forget about next week. We are having a planning meeting around vaccinations. Zoom. A lot of national folks. That idiot Fauci is at it again.”
She looked at Cynthia and the women behind her, then at Stan. “I need to get home to feed my cats.”
“By the way, we’re going to have a party for Don when he gets out. I will let you know when that is. Pastor Matson and I are planning it now. I am glad that Bobby is better.” Looking at the cars: “We are getting a lot of cars beeping in support of what we are doing.”
Marilyn put the pin badge in her purse, turned and caught up with Stan heading to the parking lot.
“Hey, I want you to come over to the house tomorrow night. Sounds like you have been living off fast food these weeks.”
“It’s not that bad. But I would like that.”
“I can make my pot roast.”
“I am sorry about everything.” She shook her head as if to dismiss and acknowledge her forgiveness.
“I finally had time to paint the bathroom upstairs in our bedroom, and I would like you to see it,” she said. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
And she would call.
