Roger Franklin: A house divided by suspicious minds

COMMENT

Live in a strange country long enough and you begin to understand the locals. Marry one, as I did more than 20 years ago, and the insights should be clearer than crystal.

That's the theory, but it doesn't always work that way, and the proof is snoring softly in the bedroom, exhausted after a two-hour rant about George W. Bush, and why, if I had a shred of decency, I'd hot-foot it to take out American citizenship and vote for John Kerry.

All of which shows that cultural incomprehension cuts both ways because, while there is an awful lot to dislike about Bush, if I could vote, it sure wouldn't be for Kerry.

Don't get me wrong. He's probably a decent enough guy - no worse, at any rate, than any presidential challenger thrown up by a system that, by and large, produces the best candidates money can buy. The big objection is: what would he do to stop a second squadron of Islamist hijackers parking a jumbo jet or two on top of another Manhattan landmark? Actually, that was what prompted my soulmate's diatribe, as she thinks last weekend's warnings about another spate of attacks prove beyond doubt that Bush isn't fit to govern.

"Yeah, right," she snorted. "The Democratic Convention ends and Bush starts scaring folks to steal Kerry's thunder."

She wasn't alone in believing the White House was playing politics with fear. Homeland Security tsar Tom Ridge had no sooner finished his press conference than failed presidential contender Howard Dean had this to say: "I'm concerned that every time something happens that's not good for President Bush he plays this trump card, which is terrorism."

Like millions of other Bush-haters, Joanne harbours no doubts that the Administration's motives are purely venal, and that is where my appreciation of the American mind gets lost in the cultural gulf.

You see, almost three years ago, when what was left of the Twin Towers still smouldered and anthrax scares were emptying offices across the country, she didn't experience an instant of doubt.

The authorities recommended duct tape for sealing windows and doors against germs and chemicals, so Joanne bought industrial-size rolls. And she pestered the doctor until he wrote prescriptions for Cipro, supposed to counteract anthrax.

Nor did she stop there. Our apartment is on the East Side, about 200m from the entrance to the Midtown Tunnel and the highway to the presumed safety of Long Island. If the worst happened, she figured it would take two minutes to get the car out of the garage, just enough time to escape Manhattan before authorities sealed it off.

I remember that distinctly because, as she packed suitcases with everything the well-equipped refugee family could need, the duds she selected for our son prompted one of those fights that parents of adolescents know too well. If he had to live under canvas, he damn well wasn't going to do it in his mother's idea of fashionable attire.

Well, we got through that blowup and like everyone else in Manhattan, the fear of another September 11-style attack subsided. Low-flying planes still draw nervous glances, but the anxiety is fleeting. You adjust. You forget. You get on with life.

I reminded Joanne of this as she fulminated about Bush and his terror warnings, but it didn't slow her down. Couldn't I see a manipulator at work? There had been no further attacks, why should there be one now? The Spanish strategy, I countered. A few satchels of explosive blew away the pro-US government of Prime Minister Jose Zapatero. Why shouldn't they try the same tactics in the run-up to the US election?

It wouldn't work, being more likely to get the US fighting mad, but since the Islamists' understanding of the American mind appears to be even more flawed than my own, they might give it a shot - especially with the Republican Convention about to make Manhattan an even more target-rich environment than normal.

Rubbish, she responded. It wasn't going to happen because, well, because she said so. Sensing a lost cause I gave up and we retreated to neutral corners, as long-married folks learn to do.

But a bit later, I noticed she wasn't around. "What's your Mum up to?" I asked our son, who turned away from his video game long enough to shrug "Dunno".

"She had the suitcase out," he said, "and then she took it down to the car."

Much as Joanne mistrusts Bush's every word, the terror message had sunk in. I didn't say boo when she came back. That we are packed and ready is enough. Domestic peace is too precious to shatter for the satisfaction of a little gloating.