Of course he had to remind himself that this was the whole idea of a political campaign. Word was supposed to get around. But Clyde had never been the type to draw attention to himself. In high school he had hung around a little bit with attention-getting people who acted in plays and played musical instruments, almost all of whom had now moved to distant places where that kind of thing was not considered outlandish. The only people left behind at home were the ones who did not act that way. So for a man to go around knocking on every door in the county and putting his name and even his face upon signs in people’s yards seemed very peculiar—not a good way to earn the respect of the citizenry.
The northwesternmost house in Forks County was pretty easy to find. He just drove west on 30, the Lincoln Highway, until he reached the border between Forks and Oakes counties, which was marked out by a straight gravel road running north-south, then took a right on that road and drove north until he saw a sign saying Maquoketa County. Then he shifted the wagon into reverse and backed up about a hundred feet. A farmhouse was on the right side of the road. Clyde backed directly into its driveway,leaving the Murder Car pointed outward so that he could escape rapidly if the place turned out to be occupied by one of the roughly eight thousand Mullowneys who lived in Forks County. But when he climbed out, he could see that the name Frost was on the mailbox. He went up and knocked on the door.
Only one person was in the place, a man in his fifties or sixties who looked vaguely familiar to Clyde. When he pulled the front door open and looked at Clyde through the screen door, his mouth was openand turned down at the corners like one of those thespian masks. He was lacking teeth, and this made his mouth seem especially large, further emphasizing the mask analogy. Also, his eyes were wide-open and greatly magnified by a pair of exceptionally thick eyeglasses, and he seemed to be staring at Clyde with kind of a haggard, amazed, slack-jawed look.
“Deputy Banks,” the man said. “Why are you here?”
“Hello, Mr. Frost,” Clyde said. “Sorry to bother you.”
What should he say now? It seemed kind of rude for Clyde to ask if he could come in. He should leave that up to the individual voter. Besides, he had said only that he’d knock on every door in Forks County, not go into every living room. He was going to have to learn how to do this stuff quickly if he was going to hit every door between now and November.
“I just wanted to talk to you for a second,” Clyde said.
Mr. Frost opened the storm door wordlessly and backed out of the way, holding it open with one arm, apparently indicating that Clyde could come into his house. So he walked into Mr. Frost’s house. It was dark and fairly empty, and it smelled of mildew and old cigarette smoke not well vented to the outside.
He turned around in the middle of the living room and saw that Mr. Frost was still standing there by the front door, staring at him with that expression of tragic astonishment. By now Clyde was beginning to convince himself that this all had to do with the shape of Mr. Frost’s mouth without dentures. If Mr. Frost had his choppers in place, it would change the shape of his whole face, and he would be beaming confidently at Clyde.
“How are you today, Mr. Frost?” Clyde said.
“Don’t feel so good,” Mr. Frost said.
“Oh, well, I’m sorry to hear that.” Now Clyde felt like a heel. “I’ll just do what I came to do very quickly,then.”
“Go ahead and get it over with,” Mr. Frost said.
“As you know, Mr. Frost, I’m a deputy county sheriff and have been for the last five years.”
Mr. Frost let out a soft, aching moan as the word “sheriff” was making its way across the living room. He walked over to a footstool and sat down on it and grabbed his left forearm with his right hand and began to squeeze and rub it.
“You ain’t gonna handcuff me, are you?” Mr. Frost said. “Please, I won’t make no trouble.”
“Oh, Jesus, Mr. Frost, that’s not why I’m here!” Clyde said.
“God, my arm hurts like hell,” Mr. Frost said.
“Oh, man,” Clyde said, and put one hand up to his face and began to rub his eyebrows, staring at the old cigarette-burned carpet. “I’m really sorry, Mr. Frost. I’m new at this, and I should have just told you right up front that I didn’t come here on official business.”
All of a sudden he remembered where he had seen Mr. Frost before. Mr. Frost had beaten up his wife a couple of years ago on their farm south of town and broken one of her cheekbones so that her eye got out of place. Clyde had arrested him and taken him down to the station, and later Mr. Frost had pleaded to a lesser charge and got off with six months. Now it kind of looked as if Mr. Frost was living alone.
Mr. Frost was just gaping at Clyde with his mouth still turned down. He had stopped rubbing his forearm and put one hand on his chest. As Clyde watched, he made that hand into a fist and pressed it against his breastbone.
“Did you punch me in the chest?” Mr. Frost said.
“No, sir, I did not touch you. I’m sorry if—”
“I feel like barbecued shit,” Mr. Frost said, and slumped back so he was leaning against the wall. Clyde noticed that he had got all sweaty. Once again Mr. Frost made the chest-punching motion.
Clyde remembered a piece of nurse lore that Desiree had told him, which was that when heart-attack patients came in, they almost invariably made chest-punching motions.