BY THE TIME WE REJOINED the party, the bonfire was licking at the boughs of the maple trees and the staging had been erected for Calvin’s speech—staging he was already ascending, gripping the rungs with one hand while holding a rolled up document—or documents—in the other, the firelight reflecting off his glasses.
“So what’s he going to talk about?” I asked Fiona, heaving one of the two chairs I’d brought onto the fire—its red upholstery going up like dry paper, creating plumes of black smoke.
“How should I know? He’s barely said two words to me since North Carolina.” She pitched the framed pictures she was carrying—one of a dude she’d called Jimmy Carter—onto the roaring heap. “Look, Leif. I know he’s something of a hero to you ... but you don’t know him like I do. And I’m telling you,
