Primary Storm

by Brendan DuBois

"Hold on. The campaign that's hiring you, they want you to dig dirt up on their own guy?"

  "Sure," he said.

  Despite my nausea, I had to smile. "Come on, you've got to tell me more. It doesn't make sense."

  "On the contrary, it makes a lot of sense. Nobody --- especially a guy running for president ---wants to come forward and expose his warts and imperfections. They hide, they shade, they ignore. Just ask what happened to McGovern back in 1972 when he went shopping for a vice presidential candidate, and his first selection turned out to be a guy who went through electroshock therapy treatment for depression. And people who back candidates --- the guys with money, the guys with power --- they don't want surprises. When you're this close to getting nominated for the most powerful office on the planet, they want to make sure everything is vetted. They don't want something to blow up in their faces at the very last minute, ensuring that their investment has gone for nothing. That's what I'll be doing, Working as if I were one of Pomeroy's opponents, instead of coming from his own campaign."

  "You've been reading up on political theory?"

  "Theories I learned came from the streets, my friend." He finished off his tea and said, "So. We okay?"

  "Yeah, we're fine. Go ahead and do your oppo research. And by the by, here's one bit of advice."

  "All right. I'm in a good mood, I'll take it."

  I raised my tea mug in his honor. "Make sure you get paid in advance, or at least on a regular basis. In politics, bills sometimes get lost, sometimes get ignored, and more often than not, never get paid when the campaign is over. There's lots of horror stories about car rental agencies and photocopying centers and other small businesses still looking to get their bills paid years later. Make sure you get paid first, Felix."

  "Thanks for looking out for me."

  "Nice to be on the other end for a change."

  Felix declined my offer to walk him back up to his car, which pleased me, because by the time he left my home, I wasn't feeling so hot. My face felt warm and the tea seemed to slosh around in my stomach, and even though I had skipped breakfast and didn't feel like lunch, I still wasn't hungry at all. Instead I was achy and I took a couple of aspirin, chased then down with a swallow of orange juice, and went back to the living room. I started up the fire from last night and stretched out on the couch, a thin comforter across my legs. I picked up a copy of Smithsonian magazine and started to read, and when my eyes felt thick, I decided to rest them.

  For only a while, I thought. For only a while. I slowly came to later, feeling groggy, feeling out of place. When I saw the living room ceiling, I realized what had happened and sat up, and then held on to the couch cushions for support. My head was spinning and then it calmed down. Well.

  I stood up, checked the time. It was 1:40 P.M.

  The campaign rally for Senator Hale was at two. If I was lucky, it would be a fifteen-minute drive to the Tyler Conference Center and I wouldn't be late. If I was lucky. It felt like a mighty big hope. I coughed, headed out to the closet to get my coat. I supposed I should have stayed home, but I promised Annie that I'd be there, and my plan was to drive out to the rally, slide in and stand in the rear, applaud at the proper places, wave to Annie if possible, and get home and get to bed.

  Some plan. The Tyler Conference Center is on the west side of Tyler, almost right up to the border with Exonia, home to Phillips Exonia Academy. It's a small hotel with conference rooms, within a five minute drive from Interstate 95, and it serves as a convenient meeting place for businesspeople out of Porter and Boston and Nashua who need to meet without fighting a lot of traffic jams and traffic lights.

  But the fight seemed to be here today. Once I got within a half mile of the center, traffic had slowed, bumper to bumper, and I felt like I was suddenly transported into downtown Boston on a Monday-morning commute. I couldn't remember the last time I had been stuck in traffic in Tyler, except during the middle of summer at the beach. But not at this end of town. There were plowed mounds of snow on each side of the road, and I checked the dashboard clock and saw I had exactly five minutes to go before the official start of the campaign rally.

  Some cars in front of me were pulling off to the side, and I decided to give up, too. I managed to squeeze into a spot and got out, locking the Explorer behind me. The cloud cover was still there, there was a sharp bite to the air, and my throat and chest hurt. Just slide in and slide out, I thought. Enough to make an appearance, and then time to go home. And then let my bed and sleep work their magic.

  I slogged my way to the conference center, a four-story hotel with a low-slung building off to the right, a banner saying WELCOME SENATOR JACKSON HALE AND SUPPORTERS flapping in the breeze above the main entrance.

  And the supporters were there. Scores of them. The parking lot was full of people holding up campaign signs, most of them for Senator Hale, but there were a few brave others working for his three opponents. These folks were getting jeered at by some Hale supporters, but in a relatively good-natured way. Three large buses were by the rear entrance of the building, diesel engines grumbling, Senator Hale signs hanging off their sides. I moved through the crowds, working my way to the entrance, and I stopped. The crowd was just too damn thick. Some people were chanting, "Go, Hale, go! Go, Hale, go! Go, Hale, go!" Their voices were loud in the cold air. I moved away from the crowds by the entrance, about ready to give up, when there was a tug at my arm.

  "Looking for something, Mr. Cole?"

  I turned, smiled. The voice and face were a welcome sight. It was a woman about my age from the Tyler Police Department, wearing green uniform pants, a knee-length tan winter coat with sergeant's stripes on the sleeves, and the typical officer's cap, which looked very out of place upon her head.

  "Detective Sergeant Diane Woods," I said, raising my voice.

  "How very nice to see you."

  "The same."

  "Out of uniform today?" I asked, making a sly joke, since I hardly ever saw her in her official dress uniform.

  "In uniform, on detail, making a nice piece of pay per hour. What's up?"

  "Trying to get into the rally and not having much success." She smiled. "Didn't know you had such a burning interest in politics."

  "Well... "

  The smile remained. "Perhaps you have a burning interest in someone involved in politics."

  "Perhaps," I replied. "But right now, I have a burning interest in getting inside to the rally. But that crowd isn't moving."

  "That's right. But why go through the main entrance?"

  "Excuse me?"

  She reached up and gently tapped me on the cheek with a gloved hand. "Silly man. Lovemaking on a regular schedule is screwing up your mind. You're obviously not used to all that attention and it's scrambling your thinking process."

  "Meaning?"

  "Meaning you're a magazine columnist. You have a press ID issued by the New Hampshire Department of Safety. Go through the press entrance."

  “Oh."

  "Come with me."

  I followed Diane as she maneuvered her way through the crowd and went to a side door that was offset by a set of orange traffic cones and yellow tape. There was an older, beefy man with a red beard at the door, holding a clipboard, and when I turned to say thanks to Diane, she was gone. From my wallet I took out my press identification badge, which has my vital stats and a not-so-bad photo of me taken a couple of years ago by the same people in the state who do driver's license photos.

  The bearded man, who had the nervous energy of being part of a process that might make his boss the most powerful man in the world, looked at my identification and me and then the list. For just a moment, there seemed to be a flash of understanding on his face, but I was mistaken. He shook his head.

  "You're not on the list."

  "I'm sure I'm not. But why can't I go in?"

  "Because you're not on the list."

  I took a breath. For Annie, only for Annie. I said, "This is the press entrance, right?"

  “Yes.
”

  "And I'm a member of the press, aren't I?"

  "Yes, yes, of course."

  "Then," I said brightly, "it's all coming together, right?"

  I pushed by him, he squawked some things at me, and after a brief walk through a narrow hallway, I was into the large conference room and into ---

  Chaos. Absolute and unfettered chaos. I moved so that I was standing against a wall. Near me was a raised wooden stand. There, almost a dozen cameramen with their cameras on tripods were aiming at the stage at the far side of the room. If the gatekeeper had followed me in, I had lost him in the crowd in a matter of seconds. And the crowd inside made the crowd outside look like a meeting of surviving World War I veterans. People were jammed up tight against one another; the room was hot and loud, the sound coming from rock music over a sound system and hundreds of people trying to be heard over the din. Balloons and bunting hung from the ceiling and walls. The stage was nearly empty save for a large JACKSON HALE FOR ALL OF AMERICA'S TOMORROWS sign hanging at the rear. A lectern was in the middle of the stage, along with a number of empty chairs on each side.

  I wiped at my face and my eyes. My heart was racing and my throat hurt and nausea was sloshing around in my stomach. A woman's voice, close to my ear: "Hey, Lewis. What brings you here?"

  I turned. A young woman was standing next to me, wearing a thin down tan winter coat and a bright smile. Despite how lousy I felt, it was good to see her. Her ears stuck through her blond hair, and Paula Quinn, reporter for the Tyler Chronicle, one-time lover and now friend, and second-best writer in Tyler, stood there with a reporter's notebook in her small hands.

  "Just getting a piece of the political world," I said.

  "Yeah," she said, smiling knowingly, "A piece of something, I'm sure. How's it going?"

  "Not too bad."

  "Really? Don't take offense, but you look like crap. You coming down with something?"

  "Sure feels like it."

  She gently nudged me with her shoulder. "My, she sure is something, to get you here today."

  "That she is. How's your day?"

  She laughed. "Campaign rally here, another rally this afternoon, and another rally tonight. Rah rah, sis boom bah. The joys of primary season. Look I'm going to get closer to the stage. If you feel better, let's do lunch later this week, all right?"

  I nodded and tried to say something, but she had moved by then and the noise seemed to have gotten louder. I looked around the crowd, trying to spot Annie, and gave up after a few minutes. It was impossible. There were just too many people, too many signs, too many conversations, and as I stood against the wall, as the crowd flowed and ebbed around me, I could only make out quick snippets of the give-and-take.

  "---latest polls show it's tightening up---"

  "---can't believe we'd lose to somebody like Pomeroy, even if the moron is from Massachusetts---"

  "---budget deficit as a campaign issue is a loser---"

  "---so I told her, if I don't get five minutes with the candidate, then---"

  "---God, guns, and gays, how often have you heard that--"

  The crowd was a mix of journalists, young, enthusiastic volunteers, and in one comer, a knot of well-dressed older men and women who talked among themselves like veteran campaign observers who had Already Seen It All. One woman with brown hair, wearing a dark blue wool dress, seemed to be the center of attention, and I found it amusing that a few of her companions were busy trying to hear what she was saying, instead of paying attention to what was going on elsewhere in the room.

  I closed my eyes, my stomach rolling along. The music went to some sort of crescendo, and there was a burst of applause as people started filing across the stage, waving at the crowd. There were four men and two women, and I didn't recognize any of them. Was something odd going on?

  I took a breath as one of the women --- older and wearing a sensible pantsuit, bright pink --- came out and adjusted the microphone on the lectern. Something went wrong and the squealing feedback felt like an ice pick stuck in my ear.

  No, nothing odd, as the feedback went away. Just politics. The woman started speaking in a loud, breathy voice, and I quickly learned that she was the head of the county party organization, and that the people sitting behind her were candidates for local state representative openings, the governor's council, and county attorney.

  As she started introducing each of these people, it quickly became apparent that the crowd was not in the mood to listen to the candidates for state representative, the governor's council, or county attorney. The respectful silence moved rapidly to low mutters and murmurs, but the head of the county organization kept plugging away, talking about the challenge facing the local towns and the county, and how all must work together. As she gamely went through her fifteen-plus minutes of fame, I wondered if the crowd would eventually revolt and charge the stage.

  I leaned against the wall. Closed my eyes. Kept my eyes closed. It was so loud, so hot.

  And then ---

  " ... my honor and privilege to introduce the next president of the United States, Senator Jackson Hale!"

  The crowd erupted with cheers and applause, long bouts of applause, which grew even louder as the senator came up on the stage, waving and laughing, pointing to people in the crowd. I had seen him, of course, on television and in the newspapers, but in the flesh, he seemed more fit, more tan. He was about six foot tall, with a thick thatch of gray black hair, and an easy, engaging smile that seemed to make everyone in the room think they were his very best friend. He waved and waved, and then motioned, and a slim woman joined him up on the stage, Mrs. Senator Jackson Hale herself, also known as Barbara S. Hale, and known to a few others, years earlier, as Barbara Scott, a name I knew her by back when I had dated her in college, so many years and lifetimes ago.

  Chapter Three

  The applause went on and on. Hale held up both of his arms like a prizefighter, finally getting to a place he belonged, a place that was soon to be his destiny, and then he went to the lectern, where he adjusted the microphone with practiced ease. Near me the cameras on the raised platform moved as one, scanning to one side as he made his way to the lectern. The applause began to ease and he bent forward, saying, "Thank you, thank you, thank you... "

  I noticed that I was being watched by some of the people about me, staring at me with hostility, and I started applauding, too. No reason to upset the true believers in my immediate vicinity.

  Senator Hale said, "Thank you so much for this lovely reception. I'm honored to be with you here today, among the good people and voters of New Hampshire, and I'd like to take a few minutes to... "

  I looked around the room again, trying to find Annie, but gave up. It was impossible.

  So I looked at the senator's wife instead.

  Barbara.

  She stood next to him, smiling widely, and something inside of me tingled just a bit. It had been a very long time since I had seen that particular smile in person. Her blond hair was different, of course, for in college she had worn it long and straight. Now it was cut more fashionably about the shoulder, and Barbara, whose idea of fashion in college had been tight jeans and a T-shirt, was wearing some sort of skirt and jacket combo that was probably worth more than my home computer.

  Her husband said, "This election is about more than just me and my opponents, it's about the direction we plan to take, the direction that all of us in this fine country will choose in the next several months as we determine what kind of people we plan to be, what kind of nation we intend to be... "

  Barbara stood there and smiled and applauded at all the right points, and I wondered what was going on behind that bright smile of hers, that smile that years ago I had found so relaxing and inviting. When I had known her in college, we were both majoring in journalism, both of us planned to be investigative reporters, and both of us planned to change the world. Corny, I know, but when you're that young and that intelligent and that fueled with righteousness, well, it was easy to make f
un, years later.

  But it didn't mean I sometimes didn't miss that clarity.

  So, years later, and here we were, together again, separated by a few dozen feet and so many years of experience and relationships and moves on both our parts. I had never changed the world and had long ago given it up as a goal. I wondered if Barbara still thought about doing it, and if so, if she planned to do it with her husband's help. That would make some sort of sense, though when I had known her, the thought of her trying to achieve some sort of goal on the basis of one's marriage to a powerful man would have gained me a hefty punch in the arm and a sharp and to-the-point comment.

  The senator said, " ... Just last week, we made an important start in this process, with our victory in Iowa ... "

  The news of his unexpected victory in that Midwestern state caused the room to erupt again. More cheers, more applause. Barbara applauded right along with the crowd, laughing and smiling, even though she probably knew the speech and the applause lines by heart. And as she applauded her husband's words, she kept on looking at the people in the crowd, looking at all of the supporters, looking ---

  At me. She looked right at me. And I looked back.

  Her face froze, just for a moment, and for a quick flash, she was no longer the senator's wife, the possible next first lady of the nation, but a woman with whom I had spent some lovely months, years and years ago, arguing about writing and style and poetry and Faulkner and Orwell and ---

  My stomach rolled. The heat was just too much. The noise was too much. It was all too much.

  She quickly recovered, going back to her role as supporter and possible first lady. She was no longer looking at me, which was fine, since I was no longer looking at her but for the exit. I elbowed my way through the crowd, through my fellow members of the press, through the true believers, through the short hallway and outside into the crisp, cold, and clean air.

  I took about five or six steps, leaned over, and vomited in the parking lot. The usual cramps and coughing and drooling followed, but in a manner of moments, I was sitting on the rear bumper of a Honda Accord, wiping my face with a handkerchief, feeling my arms and legs tremble. I looked around the lot for a moment, embarrassed that somebody might have seen my discomfort, but this part of the lot was blessedly empty, save for the parked vehicles and nearby news vans.