Fire in the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  “That's right,” Ben said soothingly, but still with that smile. “We discussed it, didn't we?"

  “Ben—I'm warning you."

  But Ben had already turned around and was calling for silence in the reception hall.

  “All right, people! Could I have just a moment of your time? Thank you. Now you all know what I plan to do with the vice presidency—the president and the VP will share equal power over an equal number of departments. One will not interfere with the other. And you know I have been giving considerable thought to the man or woman who would fill that slot. I have made my decision. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the new vice president of the United States: Doctor Cecil Jefferys."

  While the applause was still thundering in the hall, Cecil leaned to Ben and whispered, “You honky motherfucker."

  But he was smiling, and his smile was full of love and admiration for the man who stood by him.

  * * * *

  “No, Ben,” Cecil said. “Those aren't the headlines I was referring to."

  “Well, for God's sake, Cec, what else could it be?"

  “The doctors. They don't like this plan of yours for a national health care program."

  “Cecil,” Ben said, drumming his fingertips on the top of his desk, “that is your baby. You asked for it, you got it. What we had in the Tri-States will work anywhere if the people will just give it a chance. Not all of what we had there,” Ben amended. “But a great deal of the programs will. You enforce that program in any manner you choose. But make it work."

  “If I have to, Ben, I'm going to get nasty with it,” the first black VP in the history of America told Ben. There was a grim look on his face.

  Ben noticed the age in the man's face—for the first time he really noticed the gray in Cecil's hair, the deepening lines in the man's face.

  “What are you holding back, Cec?"

  “Still read me like a good book, can't you, Ben?"

  Ben smiled. “What are you thinking about, Cec?"

  “That time back in Indiana—about a thousand years ago."

  * * * *

  After visiting his brother in the suburbs of Chicago, and having bitter words with the man—a man Ben felt he no longer knew—he drove fast and angry, crossing into Indiana, finding a motel. He prowled the empty rooms, finding the east wing free of stinking, rotting bodies. He gathered up sheets and pillowcases and was returning to his chosen room when he saw the dark shapes standing in the parking lot.

  About a half dozen black men and women. No, he looked closer, one of the women was white—he thought.

  Ben made no move to lift his SMG, but the click of his putting it off safety was very audible in the dusky stillness.

  “Deserting your friends in the suburbs?” a tall black man asked. Ben could detect no hostility in his voice.

  “I might ask the same of you,” Ben replied.

  The man laughed. “A point well taken. So ... it appears we have both chosen this motel to spend the night. But ... we were here first—quite some time. We were watching you. Which one of us leaves?"

  “None of us,” Ben said. “If you don't trust me, lock your doors."

  The man once again laughed. “My name is Cecil Jefferys."

  “Ben Raines."

  “Ben Raines? Where have I heard that name? The writer?"

  “Ah ... what price fame?” Ben smiled. “Yes. Sorry, I didn't mean to be flip."

  “I didn't take it that way. We're in the same wing, just above you. My wife is preparing dinner now—in the motel kitchen. Would you care to join us?"

  “I'd like that very much. Tired of my own cooking."

  “Well, then—if you'll sling that Thompson, I'll help you with your linens."

  Ben did not hesitate, for he felt the request and the offer a test. He put the SMG on safety and slung it, then handed the man his pillows. “You're familiar with the Thompson?"

  “Oh, yes. Carried one in Vietnam. Green Beret. You?"

  “Hell Hound."

  “Ah! The real bad boys. Colonel Dean's bunch. You fellows were head-hunters."

  “We took a few ears."

  They walked shoulder to shoulder down the walkway. Cecil's friends coming up in the rear. Ben resisted a very strong impulse to look behind him.

  Cecil smiled. “Go ahead and look around if it will make you feel better."

  “You a mind reader?” Ben laughed.

  “No, just knowledgeable of whites, that's all."

  “As you see us,” Ben countered.

  “Good point. We'll have a fine time debating, I see that."

  They came to Ben's room.

  “We'll see you in the dining room, Ben Raines. I have to warn you though..."

  Ben tensed; he was boxed in, no way to make a move.

  “...The water is ice cold. Bathe very quickly."

  * * * *

  Ben didn't trust black people. He didn't know why he didn't trust them. He just didn't. He despised the KKK, the Nazi Party ... groups of that ilk. And he asked himself, as he bathed—very quickly—have you ever tried to know or like a black person?

  No, he concluded.

  Well, you're about to do just that.

  As he walked to the dining area, the smell of death hung in the damp air. But it was an odor that Ben scarcely noticed anymore.

  The dining area was candlelit. Cecil smiled as Ben entered and offered him a martini.

  “Great,” Ben said. A martini-drinking black? He thought most blacks drank Ripple or Thunderbird.

  Come on, Raines! he chastised himself. You're thinking like an ignorant bigot.

  He sat down at the table. Moment of truth. He smiled a secret smile.

  “Something funny, Mr. Raines?” he was asked.

  “Sad more than anything else, I suppose."

  “Ever sat down to dinner with blacks?” a woman asked. Her tone was neither friendly nor hostile ... just curious.

  Hell, Ben thought—they are as curious about me as I am about them. “Only in the service,” he replied.

  “Well, I can promise you we won't have ham hocks or grits,” she said with a grin.

  “Tell the truth,”—Ben looked at her—“I like them both."

  A few laughed; the rest smiled. An uncomfortable silence followed. The silence was punctuated by shifting of feet, clearing of throats, much looking at the table, the walls. It seemed that no one had anything to say, or, as was probably the case, how to say it.

  They talked over dinner, the conversation becoming easier on both sides. Ben began putting names to faces; his attention kept shifting to the woman called Salina. He still wasn't certain what nationality she was. Just that she was beautiful.

  He liked her immediately.

  He hated the black called Kasim just as quickly, and felt the vibes of hate blast toward him from Kasim.

  Kasim confirmed the mutual dislike when he said, “How come you didn't stay in the city with your brother and his buddies and help kill all the niggers?” His eyes were dancing with hate.

  Salina shook her head in disgust. Cecil's wife, Lila, sighed and looked at her husband. Cecil summed up the feelings of all present by saying, “Kasim, you're a jerk!"

  “And he's white!” Kasim spat his hate at Ben.

  “Does that automatically make me bad?” Ben asked.

  “As far as I'm concerned, yes,” Kasim replied. “And I don't trust you."

  “And maybe,” Salina said quietly “he is just a man who sat down to have a quiet dinner. He hasn't bothered a soul—brother.” She smiled at her humor.

  Kasim didn't share her humor. “I see,” he said, his words tinged with hate. “Zebra got herself a yearning for some white cock?"

  Salina slapped him hard, hitting him in the mouth with the back of her hand, bloodying his lips.

  Kasim drew back to hit her and found himself looking down the barrel of a .44 magnum. Cecil jacked back the hammer and calmly said, “I would hate to ruin this fine dinner, Kasim, since raw brains have never been a fav
orite of mine. But if you hit her, I'll blow your fucking head off!"

  Kasim could not believe it. “Cecil ... you'd kill me for him?"

  Cecil nodded.

  “You know what those white bastards did to my sister."

  “Ben Raines wasn't one of them."

  “He's still white!"

  Ben rose to leave. “I'd better leave."

  Cecil surprised him by agreeing. “I'm sorry, Ben. I was looking forward to some intelligent conversation later on."

  Ben spoke to Cecil. “Perhaps we'll meet again?"

  Kasim summed it all up. “You put your white ass in New Africa, motherfucker, it'll be buried there."

  “I will make every effort to avoid New Africa,” Ben said. “Wherever that might be."

  “Mississippi, Alabama, Louisiana,” Kasim said. “A black nation."

  Ben smiled. “My home is in Louisiana, Kasim, or whatever your goddamned name is. And I'll give you a bit of advice. I'm going to my room and get some sleep. I'll put out just after dawn tomorrow. I will start no trouble in this motel. But if I ever see you again—I'll kill you."

  Kasim sneered at him. “Words. Big words. How about trying it now? Just you and me?"

  Ben smiled. “Drag your ass out of that chair, hotshot."

  “Cool it, Kasim,” Cecil warned. “You're outclassed with Ben. Let it lie."

  Ben spoke to Mrs. Jefferys. “It was a delicious meal. I thank you."

  She smiled and nodded.

  Ben's eyes touched Salina's. She smiled at him.

  He walked out into the rainy night, leaving, he hoped, the hate behind him.

  He was loading his gear into the truck at dawn, tying down the tarp when he heard footsteps. He turned, right hand on the butt of the .45 belted at his waist.

  Salina.

  “We all feel very badly about last night, Mr. Raines. All except Willie Washington, that is."

  “Who?"

  She smiled in the misty dawn. A beautiful woman. “Kasim. We grew up on the same block in Chicago. He'll always be Willie to me."

  In the dim light he could see her skin was fawn-colored. “Does he really hate whites as much as it seems? All whites?"

  “Does the KKK hate blacks?"

  “They say they don't."

  “Right. And pigs fly.” They shared a quiet laugh in the damp dawn. “Kasim's sister was ... used pretty badly when he was young. Raped, buggered. He was beaten and forced to watch. The men were never caught. You know the story. It happens on both sides of the color line. He's about half nuts, Ben."

  “I gathered that."

  “There are a lot of differences between the races, Ben. Cultural differences, emotional differences. The bridge is wide."

  “I do not agree with what my brother and his friends are doing, Salina. I want you to know that."

  “I knew that last night, Ben. I think ... we need more men like you and Cecil; less of Jeb Fargo and your brother."

  “Who in the hell is Jeb Fargo?"

  “His name is really George, but he likes to be called Jeb. He came up to Chicago about five years ago—from Georgia, I think. Head of the Nazi Party."

  “I met him—didn't like him. I hope his mentality doesn't take root."

  “It will,” she predicted flatly. “What are your plans, Ben?"

  He told her, standing in the cool mist of the morning. He told her of his plans, his schedule. He told her of his home in Morrison, and how he had literally slept through the horror after being stung by dozen of wasps, knocking him out.

  “Probably saved your life,” she said. “The venom, the Benadryl."

  “What are your plans, Salina?"

  “I go with Cecil and Lila."

  “Kasim called you a zebra. What does that mean?"

  * * * *

  “...You're not telling me everything, Cec,” Ben's voice brought him back to the present. “Come on, what are you holding back?"

  Cecil grinned at him, the grin quickly fading. “Over in Kentucky, day before yesterday. A woman died because the hospital refused to admit her. She didn't have the money. I'm not going to tolerate that, Ben."

  “Nor I, Cec. The plans we talked of, you're in agreement with them?"

  “A percentage of a person's income going into a health fund. Of course the rich are going to scream because they'll be paying more."

  “They can afford it."

  “Luxury tax on jewelry, smokes, booze, expensive items. The HHS runs it. Those are the high points; yes, I'm in agreement—but Congress isn't."

  “They are now."

  Cecil lifted an eyebrow.

  “Since I told them to be in favor of it. Representative Jean Purcell is the author of the bill. It will pass."

  “The liberals will love you for it."

  “For a week. Next week it'll be the conservatives who love me."

  “Yours is going to be a very interesting term of office, Ben."

  “So I've been told,” Ben said dryly.

  Three

  “Ben,” Doctor Chase told him, “I'm just too damned old for this Richmond nonsense. I love you for thinking of me, but no, I won't become your surgeon general. I do know a good man for the job, though. Doctor Harrison Lane. Army doctor, although it hurts my mouth to admit it. He's a good man. I asked him to come in, see you about one this afternoon."

  Ben nodded. “If you say he's the man for the job, that's it. What are you going to do, you old goat?"

  “I'm going back to the mountains, Mr. President,” he said, grinning as Ben flipped him the bird. “That is not a gesture the president of the United States should make. I have ... ah ... someone back there who is carrying the torch for me something fierce."

  “'Carrying the torch,’ Lamar? God! I haven't heard that expression since I was a kid.” Ben laughed, a good, hearty laugh; and it felt good, for of late, Ben had not had that much to laugh about. He wouldn't admit it, but he was more worried about Jerre than he would allow others to see.

  “You know, Lamar, I did some research on that back when I was making my living pounding the keys of a typewriter. Close as I could figure, that phrase originated about 1949."

  “I can't tell you how impressed I am with your knowledge of phrases, Ben. You wouldn't be implying I'm over the hill, now would you?"

  “Not as long as you can get it up!"

  Both men shared a laugh at the crudeness. Lamar sobered and said, “Ben—get this nation right side up again, then hand it over to someone else. You should be able to do it in two, maybe three years. I think you're probably the only man who could do it—that's why I pressed you so hard to take the job. At least, Ben, you'll have the knowledge and the satisfaction that every man, woman, and child in this nation will have all the rights afforded them by the Bill of Rights.

  “I'm an old bastard, but I'm going to hang on to watch you do these things, Ben—all the while helping to re-form the Tri-States. When you're done here, come home, back to your dream, and sit with me on the front porch of my house and we'll talk of things dead and past while we watch my...” he smiled, “...little daughter or son wobble around."

  “Why, you old bastard!” Ben laughed. “That's why you're going back."

  “Yeah. I should be ashamed of myself, I suppose; but I'm not. I'm damn proud."

  “You should be. Congratulations. Lamar, you sound as though you believe no matter what I accomplish here, it won't last."

  The doctor fixed wise eyes on the revolutionary dreamer. “You know it won't, Ben. It will work for us in the Tri-States, but not for the majority—you said it yourself, back in Tri-States. You're a student of history, Ben, just as I am. You know that many—too many—Americans don't give a flying piece of dog shit what's good for the nation as a whole. We gathered the cream of the crop back in ‘89, friend; the best we could find to populate Tri-States.

  “Out here,” the doctor waved his hand and snorted, “hell, you know the majority of Americans—even after all the horror we've been through—don't care for anyt
hing except themselves or their own little greedy, grasping group or organization. Americans are notorious for wanting to run other people's lives.

  “No, Ben, for two or maybe three years, if you're lucky, you'll see all Americans being treated equal—for the first time in more than seventy-five years. Just think, Ben. Why, a citizen will be able to turn on the TV set and view any damn program he or she chooses to watch, without some so-called Christian organization screaming bloody murder because someone said ‘hell’ or ‘damn’ on the air."

  “The best censor in the world has always been a parent turning off the set or changing channels,” Ben muttered.

  “Why of course it has!” Chase said. “Or simply telling the kids they can't watch a certain program and then belting the hell out of them if they disobey. We know that, Ben. Thinking, rational adults have always known it. But there again, ol’ buddy, comes the truth: people simply cannot stand it if they're not butting in someone else's life."

  Ben laughed and shifted his butt in the chair, knowing Lamar was just warming up to his topic. He waited.

  “Right now, Ben—this minute—you have done more in two weeks in office than anyone else in the more than a decade since the bombings. You just jerked the lazy folks off their asses and told them if they didn't work they weren't going to eat. That should have been done fifty years ago."

  “Yeah, but don't think I haven't got a bunch of civil rights groups down on my ass for doing it, either. And the ACLU is screaming that everything I'm doing is unconstitutional."

  Lamar muttered something very uncomplimentary under his breath and Ben laughed at him.

  “It isn't funny, Ben—not really. It's tragic that some people—and I'm not singling out the aforementioned group—can't see, won't see, what is good for the entire nation just might step on the toes of a few.” He shook his white head and sighed. “Let's say it, Ben. First, when are the twins due in?"

  “Tomorrow. Ike tracked them down and is having them flown here."

  “Ben—have you thought that Jerre might be dead?"

  “It's crossed my mind."

  “But you reject it."

  “Yes. I don't know why, but I just know she is alive. Hartline is holding her—why, I don't know. Probably as a lever to use against me."

  Lamar looked at him. “The new Moral Majority is yelling about the president of the United States living in sin with a woman."