BY THE TIME WE REJOINED the party, the bonfire was l*****g 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,
