by Jeff Soloway
“Does he have to pass security too?” an elderly woman asked a roving line ambassador.
“He’ll be on the ship, ma’am. That’s all I can say.”
The security men nodded approvingly at her circumspection.
“He’ll probably swoop in on one of his fighter jets,” the woman’s slightly younger companion said. “He was commander in chief. He has rights. He could land on the top deck.” As if we were cruising on an aircraft carrier.
“Should’ve brought a B-1 bomber for those animals outside,” said a man behind them, his laughter booming overhead.
Near the X-ray machine, a man was getting yanked from the line after announcing his carry-on contained a licensed weapon. “You expect me to cruise naked?” he asked incredulously.
My mother lowered her phone. I saw that she’d been reading the Miami newspaper about the protest outside. “What do you think they’ve done with Clark?” she asked.
“Detained him for the afternoon,” I said. “They’ll let him go tonight. He’s the wrong demographic for a terrorist.”
“Oh, Jacob, what if they all betray me, all of them, for the rest of my life? They never used to. This is how the end begins. I wish I had a little notice.” She looked me not quite in the eye and gave me a little smile, a sign that she wanted to be taken seriously. She liked to apply to her deepest feelings a protective coating of irony.
“They’re still falling for you, Mom.” I thought of my father, permanently fallen for her.
“That’s not what concerns me. As I always say, Jacob, you and I are really the same. We both lose our minds for love. We should try to be more like those lunatics outside. At least they’re losing their minds for a cause.” She picked up her phone again.
I wondered if my father had lost his mind for a cause. Maybe that’s why he had flown here—to join the protest. Nowadays my father did nothing more political than vote, but once when I was a baby he and my mother packed a picnic and dragged me to some Earth Day rally. I know it only from a picture he took, of my mother and me—her, achingly lovely; me, nauseatingly slime-nosed—sitting on a blanket amid a springtime fiesta of bubble-lettered signs, puppets, and hippie-throwback outfits. More like a folk music festival than the rage spasm I had just witnessed.
No, my father would have told me if he’d suffered some political conversion. He must have come for my mother and me. But what if, in trying to track us down, he had stumbled onto this crazy protest, so different from the ones he remembered? Crowds always addled him. He would have asked everyone he met if they’d seen his son or his wife (as he still thought of her); they would have assumed he was a narc or an ICE agent in disguise. Or he might have demanded assistance from some hypersensitive cop. No catastrophe was too absurd to befall him.
How many other clueless unprepared people were in the crowd today? How many apolitical types had come along only to accompany a gung-ho roommate or a lefty ecumenical church group or a new boyfriend? Only a fraction of the country was prepared to fight a civil war for its future; the rest watched anxiously as the battle zones widened and more and more of us were forced to take sides and suffer consequences. In some cities, they were once again rounding protesters up with plastic netting, as they used to do in the mid-aughts in New York. They might be doing it right now.
Our check-in agent took our name and licenses and examined his computer. He took his time. He had to ask for our licenses again. At snazzy hotels, the front desk always knows how to handle the travel writer. Cruise-terminal desks are less adroit. While he puzzled it out, we examined an eight-by-eleven glossy of the master of the ship, Captain Prosti, in full uniform.
“Okay, you”—the agent pointed at my mother—“are in a stateroom with Clark Wolfson.”
“We changed all that,” I said. “She’s with me. Separate beds, please. We arranged all this two days ago with your marketing director.”
“So who’s with Mr. Wolfson?”
“It probably depends on the bail,” my mother said. “But do keep his room available.” She murmured to me, “We wouldn’t want them offering him a refund.”
“Okey-dokey,” the agent said. I’d never heard that word uttered so doubtfully.
“Where’s the marketing director?” I asked. “He’s organizing my interview with Mr. Chomp.”
I hoped the name would finally spark some action. It did.
The agent signaled to one of the line ambassadors, who took our licenses and walked away. My mother and I had to follow the man down the long line of boisterous passengers and their agents, several of whom glanced curiously at us as we passed. Like so many victims of unreasonable authority, I was perplexed, ashamed, annoyed, and anxious.
The line ambassador finally halted at an island desk set apart from the rest of the agents. He passed our licenses to a silent woman who wore her hair in a tight ballerina’s bun. She looked like she had recently aged out of the corps and now had to take a job she hated. She examined both licenses front and back.
“Is something wrong?” I asked.
A CHOMP-jacketed security guard was leaning against the wall nearby. He watched the room with undisguised contempt, probably wishing he were outside where the action was; but something in my tone, some note of nascent resistance, caught his interest.
“No.” The woman tapped lightly and efficiently at the keyboard. With a dancer’s efficiency, she had eliminated all extraneous motions, including the smile. She confirmed our room assignment but gave no recognition of my writer’s status beyond pointing out the Commodore’s Club stripe on our cardkeys, which entitled us to a champagne reception. As she handed over the cardkeys, she finally betrayed some emotion by emitting a small look of obvious relief at the end of our encounter.
“I need to speak to the onboard marketing director,” I said. “No one’s told me where to meet Chomp for my interview.”
As she spoke she opened her lips only slightly, barely enough to whistle: “There is no interview.” Now she seemed neither efficient nor rude, only furtive.
“I was promised—”
The agent leaned just slightly over the desk. Even the very furtiveness of her movements was furtive.
“Everything’s changed,” she murmured. “He canceled the interview. He threw a coffee mug at our publicity director.”
“Why?”
“They all dropped him. All the networks. Even Fox! They’re refusing to cover his speech on the island. They think it’s a gimmick. He blames us. He tried to extort better terms on his contract. And today they say he’s even angrier.”
Was that anger? “Why?”
“There was a threat.”
“What kind of threat?”
“A credible threat.”
“From a protester?”
No one, as far as I knew, had ever tried to assassinate Chomp. His adversaries’ tactics had never extended beyond marching, chanting, and obstructing his favorite bills in Congress. They preferred to see him defeated, disgraced, and scorned, rather than martyred. But they’d been waiting a long time.
“They wouldn’t tell us. But they’re already blaming our security. So enjoy your cruise. Just please leave the president alone.”
She flicked her eyes at the exit, where she obviously wanted me to go. The security guard pushed himself off the wall.
I spoiled his fun by walking away.
“I still think you’re important,” my mother said.
* * *
—
The ship wasn’t quite ready to receive us, but there was a lounge in which Commodore’s Club members could luxuriate in free Wi-Fi while they waited. My mother hit the bathroom for an extended facial touch-up. The lounge’s windows looked out only to the harbor, but through the glass I could hear the steady thrum of chanting. The protesters were still out, still permitted to chant. The two sides must have backed o
ff from all-out war. But my heart, instead of leaping up, seemed to hunker down.
Upon her return, my mother greeted me with a sympathetic, entirely well-meaning smile that filled me with self-loathing.
“Cheer up,” she said. “Everything’s better after a piña colada. Maybe we can interview Captain Prostate instead.”
“Prosti,” I said. “He’s an Italian, not a gland.”
“Not much difference, dear, but I suppose you’ve never dated one.”
“Chomp will talk to me.”
“I’m sure he will.” But her sympathy had stretched as far as it could go. “Maybe someday when you’re a successful writer. You know I hate to criticize, but if you want to be taken seriously, you should start writing about things that really matter, like ISIS or cancer, instead of monasteries in Bolivia or water management in the Grand Canyon or whatever hotel your monthly floozy happens to be promoting.”
Luckily for us both, attendants were now telling us to board. We took an escalator to a covered gangway high above the pier. We had to wait for an advance party of the extremely elderly to complete their crossing first. The man at the rear lifted and planted his walker like a giant spiked boot. Through the flimsy walls I could once again hear the low moans of distant chanting. But no one else seemed to.
We finally crossed the gangway. In the ship’s foyer, a South African assistant cruise director, blond and approachably gorgeous in the manner of her profession, was instructing us early arrivals to sun ourselves by the pool on the Exultation Deck or raid the buffet while we waited for our staterooms. I knew she was South African because she had to explain her accent to almost every arrival. The elderly Chompians nodded their approval. They probably kept old Krugerrands in their desk drawers.
“Eleanor!”
We turned. Trotting down the gangway was Clark.
Only I could hear my mother’s gasp.
“They cleared me!” Clark stopped and waited for congratulations. When they didn’t come, he pretended he was catching his breath. “Whew! I kept saying I was a passenger. I kept saying I was on the right side! Do I look illegal? I don’t even know what social justice is! Lucky they checked the manifest.” He took a few more breaths to settle his nerves. He must have known that only the bold had a chance with my mother. “Eleanor. They told me you took another room. I get it. But let’s—”
“I wish my son had let them crush you.”
I looked around for an escape. We were at the back of the mob waiting for the next elevator. Around us, genially resolute Indonesians from ship security stood guard by the forbidden stairs and hallways leading into the ship.
“I’m from Capetown!” declared the assistant cruise director yet again.
“Leave her alone, Clark,” I said.
The elevator pinged. A load of passengers shuffled on.
“How about a visit?” Clark begged. “Suites are ready first, they said, and I sprung for a suite. Number 1103, right near Chomp’s room, seriously! Please, Eleanor. After my divorce, I never loved a woman. I never had the chance. No one would look at me. Now things are different. You can’t know what it’s like—to be okay-looking when you used to be…you know. But I learned my lesson.”
If my mother could have vented the insults leaping up in her brain, I’m sure she would have felt better. But she’s not one to embarrass herself in front of a crowd.
“Just say you’ll listen to me, Eleanor. Please.”
He was begging her not to act, not even to listen, but just to say she’d listen. He could make the request as minuscule as he wanted, and she’d still deny it.
“Give up, Clark.” I was surprised by how gentle I sounded.
“Jacob, listen. You and me have to talk too. It’s about your dad.” He nodded hopefully.
Something in my face made him press on.
“Come to my room, and I’ll tell you everything. Look, they gave me an extra cardkey. It was supposed to be for you, Eleanor, but I get it, I understand.” He held the card out gingerly. “You take it, Jacob. Come by anytime. Just knock first. Or whatever. Knock loud so I hear you if I’m, you know. In the john.” A man in his position couldn’t risk ambiguity.
My mother was pretending to examine her nails. I could see how her fingers trembled. I took the cardkey. It seemed the best way to get him to leave.
“I’m changed.” Clark’s voice crouched low, an athlete ready to move in any direction. “After that shitstorm outside, I’m taking a stand. I’m full bore for Chomp. I’m not just about making deals and watching football anymore. I’m serious, Eleanor. About you too.”
The elevator pinged again. This time my mother knifed through the crowd, leaving a handful of elderly grumps to squawk almost in satisfaction at her rudeness. I had to piss them off further by following her. She crammed herself into the elevator’s corner.
Clark was relentless. He followed in the path we had cleared and managed to board the elevator too. He fit himself just beside me.
“Back off!” I was trying to shame Clark, but no one heard. A tiny, incredibly loud woman was berating the elevator attendant for not pressing the Door Close button.
“It’ll close on its own, ma’am!” the attendant said, her voice a little shrill.
My mother offered the rest of the elevator a smile that held, miraculously, most of its usual radiance. The doors finally shut, and the elevator crept up to the next floor. Our destination was ten floors away. Clark leaned forward to stare forlornly past me at my mother. His cow eyes made me want to chuck him into the wall, which I could never do without smashing several brittle human packages. At the same time, I had to admire his loyalty to my mother. He was unafraid to abase himself for what little chance he had to win her back. My father’s morose withdrawal had been more seemly but less satisfying. At least Clark would know he had done all he could.
Clark locked eyes with me. “Your dad, Jacob. You won’t believe it.”
“What are you talking about?” I said, hoping he wouldn’t tell me, not right now.
“He wrote me an email. Then he saw me at the airport. He’s got a secret. Bring your mom along and I’ll tell you both all about it.” His slyness was pitiful. He gave it up immediately. “Please, Eleanor!”
I felt her breathing change. Clark grinned. We were listening to him. He tried again to gaze into my mother’s eyes.
“Don’t look at me,” she said.
Everyone heard that. I caught the elevator attendant’s eye. He nodded.
At the seventh floor, a floor currently off limits to passengers, the elevator doors opened to reveal a room attendant holding a bucket. She sighed when she saw the crowd and waved us on.
But I grabbed my mother’s hand and slipped through the pack. “Getting out!” I flashed my Commodore’s Club card at the elevator man. He held the Door Open button for us, but dropped a forearm to keep Clark from following. “Commodore’s Club only, sir. Buffet is five floors up, sir.”
“But I have a suite!”
One of the passengers cackled. “He thinks he’s special!”
Once the doors had closed, my mother leaned lightly on my shoulder and kissed me on the cheek. I was once again ten years old, and she was rewarding me the same way outside my school playground. She had discovered me playing wall ball with the fat kid who had stayed back a grade and always played alone. (Why was I doing that? Presumably the other wall-ball players had gone home early. I loved wall ball.) The sensation was so gratifying that I had made a point of playing wall ball with Rob Bone the rest of the week, despite the risk to my own popularity. Once I even smacked down (verbally) a kid who told Rob to fuck off. Rob never suspected my dual motive. After his parents transferred him to another school, he sent me a letter, on stationery adorned with printed baseball-player cartoons at each corner. If only my mother had known how much better she could make me if she tried.
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br /> “What was he saying about your father?” she asked. The cleaner had given up and taken the stairs.
“I wish I knew.”
“I think you have an idea. Clark’s been talking to him, hasn’t he? I can guess why. Your father tried to warn Clark away from me. Did you put him up to it? I always believe you, Jacob, so it’s not fair to lie to me. You were smart enough to hate Clark from the start.” She was now hoping I had tried to sabotage her relationship with Clark. It would prove how much I loved her.
“Whatever he meant about Dad, I had nothing to do with it.”
“But who would have put them in touch? No one else has your father’s contact information. Except perhaps his bookie and his dominatrix.”
“Don’t laugh at Dad. He never laughed at you.”
“That must be why we so enjoyed our time together.” She looked around the empty hallways. The only activity was on the staircase. “So where do we Commodore’s Club dignitaries go?”
“You head upstairs to the pool deck. I’ll meet you.”
“And where are you going?”
“To Chomp’s room. I’m getting that interview.”
Chapter 7
She insisted on coming along. We tripped up the main staircase, keeping to the rails to make way for handymen, vacuum jockeys, and linen-hauling Sherpas, all of them too intent on their tasks to question us. I stopped on floor 11, officially named the Indulgence Deck. This was the VIP floor. But the hallways that led to the staterooms were blocked by full-length sliding doors. Signs read, CHEERS! WE’RE APPLYING THE FINISHING TOUCHES TO YOUR STATEROOM! IN THE MEANTIME THE FUN HAS BEGUN IN THE SUN ON THE LIDO DECK!
“Now what?” my mother asked.
