Sons of Fortune

“If you take away those who are too young to vote, I presume the turnout should be around five thousand,” said Nat.

“Not necessarily. I suspect it will prove to be a little higher than that,” Tom replied. “Don’t forget Madison is where retired people come to visit their parents, so you won’t find it full of youth clubs and discos.”

“Then that should benefit us,” said Nat.

“I’ve given up predicting,” said Tom with a sigh.

No signpost was needed to guide them to the town hall, as everyone seemed to be heading in the same direction, confident that the person in front of them knew exactly where they were going. By the time Nat’s little motorcade arrived in the center of the town, they were being overtaken by mothers pushing strollers. When they turned into Main Street, they were continually held up by pedestrians spilling onto the road. When Nat’s car was overtaken by a man in a wheelchair, he decided the time had come to get out and walk. This slowed his progress down even more, because the moment he was recognized, people rushed up to shake him by the hand, and several asked if he would mind posing for a photograph with his wife.

“I’m glad to see that your reelection campaign has already begun,” teased Tom.

“Let’s get elected first,” said Nat as they reached the town hall. He climbed the steps, continuing to shake hands with all the well-wishers as if it were the day before the election, rather than the day after. He couldn’t help wondering if that would change when he came back down the steps and the same people knew the result. Tom spotted the mayor standing on the top step, looking out for him.

“Paul Holbourn,” whispered Tom. “He’s served three terms and at the age of seventy-seven has just won his fourth election unopposed.”

“Good to see you again, Nat,” said the mayor, as if they were old friends, though in fact they had only met on one previous occasion.

“And it’s good to see you too, sir,” said Nat, clutching the mayor’s outstretched hand. “Congratulations on your reelection—unopposed, I’m told.”

“Thank you,” said the mayor. “Fletcher arrived a few minutes ago, and is waiting in my office, so perhaps we ought to go and join him.” As they walked into the building, Holbourn said, “I just wanted to spend a few moments taking you both through the way we do things in Madison.”

“That’s fine by me,” said Nat, knowing that it wouldn’t make a blind bit of difference if it wasn’t.

A crowd of officials and journalists followed the little party down the corridor to the mayor’s office, where Nat and Su Ling joined Fletcher and Annie and around thirty other people who felt they had the right to attend the select gathering.

“Can I get you some coffee, Nat, before we proceed?” asked the mayor.

“No thank you, sir,” said Nat.

“And how about your charming little wife?” Su Ling shook her head politely, not fazed by the tactless remark of a past generation. “Then I’ll begin,” the mayor continued, turning his attention to the crowded assembly that had squeezed into his office.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he paused, “and future governor,” he tried to look at both men at once. “The count will commence at ten o’clock this morning, as has been our custom in Madison for over a century, and I can see no reason why this should be delayed simply because there is a little more interest in our proceedings than usual.” Fletcher was amused by the understatement, but wasn’t in any doubt that the mayor intended to savor every moment of his fifteen minutes of fame.

“The township,” continued the mayor, “has 10,942 registered voters, who reside in eleven districts. The twenty-two ballot boxes were, as they always have been in the past, picked up a few minutes after the polls closed, and then transferred into the safe custody of our chief of police, who locked them up for the night.” Several people politely laughed at the mayor’s little joke, which caused him to smile and lose his concentration. He seemed to hesitate, until his chief of staff leaned forward and whispered in his ear, “Ballot boxes.”

“Yes, of course, yes. The ballot boxes were collected this morning and brought to the town hall at nine o’clock, when I asked my chief clerk to check that the seals had not been tampered with. He confirmed that they were all intact.” The mayor glanced around to observe his senior officials nodding their agreement. “At ten o’clock, I shall cut those seals, when the ballots will be removed from the boxes and placed on the counting table in the center of the main hall. The first count will do no more than verify how many people have cast their votes. Once that has been established, the ballots will then be sorted into three piles. Those who have voted Republican, those who have voted Democrat, and those that might be described as disputed ballots. Though I might add, these are rare in Madison, because for many of us, this might well be our last chance to register a vote.” This was greeted by a little nervous laughter, though Nat wasn’t in any doubt he meant it.

“My final task as the election officer will be to declare the result, which in turn will decide who is elected as the next governor of our great state. I hope to have completed the entire exercise by midday.” Not if we continue at this pace, thought Fletcher. “Now, are there any questions before I accompany you through to the hall?”

Tom and Jimmy both began speaking at the same time, and Tom nodded politely to his opposite number, as he suspected that they would be asking exactly the same questions.

“How many counters do you have?” asked Jimmy.

The official once again whispered in the mayor’s ear. “Twenty, and all of them are employees of the council,” said the mayor, “with the added qualification of being members of the local bridge club.” Neither Nat nor Fletcher could work out the significance of this remark, but were not inclined to ask for further clarification.

“And how many observers will you be allowing?” asked Tom.

“I shall permit ten representatives from each party,” said the mayor, “who will be allowed to stand a pace behind each counter and must at no time make any attempt to talk to them. If they have a query, they should refer it to my chief of staff and if it remains unresolved, he will consult me.”

“And who will act as arbitrator should there be any disputed ballots?” asked Tom.

“You will find that they are rare in Madison,” repeated the mayor, forgetting that he had already expressed this sentiment, “because for many of us this could well be our last chance to register a vote.” This time no one laughed, while at the same time the mayor failed to answer Tom’s question. Tom decided not to ask a second time. “Well, if there are no further questions,” said the mayor, “I’ll escort you all to our historic hall, built in 1867, of which we are inordinately proud.”

The hall had been built to house just under a thousand people, as the population of Madison didn’t venture out much at night. But on this occasion, even before the mayor, his executives, Fletcher, Nat and their two respective parties had entered the room, it looked more like a Japanese railroad station during the rush hour than a town hall in a sleepy coastal Connecticut resort. Nat only hoped that the senior fire officer was not present, as there couldn’t have been a safety regulation that they weren’t breaking.

“I shall begin proceedings by letting everyone know how I intend to conduct the count,” said the mayor, before heading off in the direction of the stage, leaving the two candidates wondering if he would ever make it. Eventually the diminutive, gray-haired figure emerged up onto the platform and took his place in front of a lowered microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began. “My name is Paul Holbourn, and only strangers will be unaware that I am the mayor of Madison.” Fletcher suspected that most people in that room were making their first and last visit to the historic town hall. “But today,” he continued, “I stand before you in my capacity as elections officer for the district of Madison. I have already explained to both candidates the procedure I intend to adopt, which I will now go over again…”