Up in Smoke

by Charlene Weir

  “Wearing?”

  “Baseball cap and sweatshirt, that’s why I don’t know if it was a man or woman. Sort of unisex clothes.”

  “Anything on the sweatshirt?”

  Ty shook his head. “Plain black.”

  “Thanks, Ty. That’s a great help.”

  “Look, I wasn’t paying attention to anybody but the governor. That’s who I was supposed to be looking at. I’m not with the cops. I didn’t spend time lasering the crowd to see who was pulling out a gun. I didn’t—”

  “Did anyone pull out a gun?”

  “No!” Ty blurted with exasperation. “I’m just trying to say I didn’t pay attention. I was sent there by the paper and I was trying to do my job.”

  “Okay,” Susan said.

  “Can I go now?”

  She looked at Parkhurst to see if he had anything to ask. He gave a slight shake of his head.

  “Sure,” Susan said. “If you remember anything else, let me know.”

  “You got it.”

  Ty took a step toward the door, then stopped. “Breasts,” he said.

  “Excuse me?”

  His face flushed a delicate pink. “The guy who bumped into me. He had breasts.”

  Susan raised an eyebrow.

  “I mean, it had to be a girl—woman,” he added quickly.

  “Come back here,” Susan said. “Let’s go over this again.”

  “I was trying to think how the shove felt and it popped into my head. I remember feeling—”

  She looked over at Parkhurst. He was standing with his back to the wall, arms crossed.

  “You had your hands on some woman’s breasts?”

  “Not my hands,” Ty said with exasperation. “My arm. Upper arm where she bumped into me.

  8

  Sean jumped at a loud crack of thunder. Jesus, there was enough sturm und drang to signal the end of the world. He slid another log on the fire and pushed it with the poker. Nearly two o’clock and Susan not back yet. He’d thought of following her just to see what was going on, but didn’t think he could get away with it. Stretching prone on the floor, hands under his chin, he stared at the fire and thought about his daughter. Poor kid, abandoned by both parents. Mother ran off, dad sent away on a job. How was he going to make this up to her?

  He reached for the wineglass on the hearth and took a sip. What was he doing with his life? Why was he missing out on Hannah’s childhood? He’d been with the Garrett campaign since May. In the last six months, he’d been on the road constantly and been home to California twice. All politicians running for nomination were frenetically active, but Jackson Garrett left them in the dust.

  No time for anything. Sean needed a haircut and clean underwear. The thing about popping in on relatives, they were obligated to let you use their laundry facilities while you killed time waiting for them to come home. If he’d thought to bring his laundry, he could take advantage of the washing machine and he’d have something to do besides twiddle his thumbs and play Susan’s poor excuse for a piano. Other things he needed: a warmer coat and a new pair of gloves. He’d lost one of the pair he’d thrown in his bag before he left home.

  At least he had stamina. Good thing. His peers were all energetic, mostly female and mostly ten years younger. Maybe this should be his last campaign. He was thirty-six years old and getting tired—tired of the travel, tired of anonymous hotel rooms, tired of eternally having to search for late night open Laundromats to have clean socks and underwear for the next day, tired of the politicians who all seemed to blend together so he couldn’t distinguish one from another, all trying to manipulate an apathetic public into going to the polls to keep them in office. It was all getting depressing. Thought pieces were dropped to make room for the latest personal scandal and that just diminished them all, reporters and politicians alike, reduced them to small men with puny ideas locked away in puny ambitions.

  Except maybe Garrett. He seemed to actually say what he thought. He was certainly the most interesting politician scrambling around to get the nomination. Though Sean felt like a naїve jerk for even considering it, maybe his colleague Pam was right when she said Garrett not only cared for the issues, he cared for your soul.

  Sean rolled on his back, put an arm under his head and stared at the ceiling. Maybe there was a book in Jackson Garrett, win or lose. Like the rest of his colleagues, Sean looked at Garrett with a mixture of professional detachment and personal views. Sean liked him. In Garrett’s dealings with the press, he’d always been honest, available, humorous and, Sean thought, he was sincere in his beliefs.

  Difficult man to figure out. Maybe his campaign manager, Todd Haviland, knew him. He’d been with the man the longest. Or Bernie Quaid. Hell, nobody really knew anybody, but still. Garrett had an air of complexity that set him apart. And he refused to make use of contrived revelations of personal tragedies. In fact, the best way to get on his bad side was to ask about Wakely Fromm, friend, constant companion and confidante. A broken man in a wheelchair who was drunk more often than not. That whole situation might be a puzzle worth solving.

  He heard a muffled ring. Tired as he was, it took him a second to remember what had happened to his jacket. Thrown over the back of the couch. He found his cell phone in the pocket. His boss at NewsWorld.

  “The hot news is that Jack Garrett was injured by a crowd of vicious Jayhawkers this evening,” Kat Macklyn said. “This I learn from the opposition and I hear nothing from my man on the spot?”

  9

  Casilda dreamed in black and white, dark dreams. She dreamed of a weeping figure moving through trees, branches heavy with snow and elongated black shadows cast by the moon. She dreamed of a man and a little girl dancing in slow silence, floating lightly even in death. Her pain was brittle and white like old bones. Voices stretched across a fog-laden meadow, calling, pleading, gauzy fingers beckoned, urging her to follow and slip past the edges of the night silvered with moonlight.

  She snapped awake to find green eyes glaring at her. They were Monty’s. He was crouched on the pillow. On the other side of the bed with its head resting on the mattress, the Black Dog gave a whimper of greeting.

  For several seconds her mind shriveled and leapt searching a familiar landing before she remembered. Hampstead, Aunt Jean’s house, picked up stray dog. One of the animals had apparently figured out how to work a doorknob during the night and, whatever had happened, they hadn’t killed each other. They were pretending détente was the only way to go.

  From the strength of the sun behind the closed curtains, she thought it must be close to noon. Stiff from hours of driving yesterday, she hunched her shoulders forward to stretch her spine, then straightened her legs under the sheet and pointed her toes until her ankles cracked.

  Pulling in a deep breath for motivation, she shuffled into the kitchen and let the dog out into a sad, storm-battered garden. Sunflowers were flattened and exhausted. Rose petals had been snatched from blooms and scattered in the mud. Maple leaves lay in sodden little heaps of red and gold. She wondered if the fence had an escape hole in it anywhere and stepped out on the back porch. The dog took care of its needs, then limped back to her.

  She filled the cat bowl with dry nuggets and Monty flowed up to the counter and dug in. The second bowl she put on the floor. The dog inhaled every chunk in seconds flat and looked hopefully at the cat’s dish. Monty growled. Cass headed for the shower and gallons of hot water. Wrapped in a towel, she dug jeans and a long-sleeved knit shirt from her suitcase. While she was getting dressed, the dog padded in and collapsed in a corner. Cass flipped back the bedspread to smooth the sheets and saw splotches of blood. She looked at the dog. Alerted by her expression, it backed away.

  Last night in the dark and the rain, with all that black hair, she hadn’t noticed, but now she could see a nasty wound on top the dog’s head. A flap of fur hung loose, edges crusted with dried blood, wet blood oozing in the center. Why hadn’t she seen this last night? Past exhaustion to the point where she
’d stumbled when she walked, she hadn’t paid attention. The poor dog.

  She tracked down the phone book, found her shoes, grabbed a rope from the garage and loaded the dog in the Mustang. At the vet’s office, she coaxed and tugged it inside where she explained the dog’s appearance in her life and left it to have its head X-rayed, cleaned and stitched. On the way home, she stopped at a bakery and bought two apple fritters. At the next stop she staggered out under a load of flattened cardboard boxes. Monty met her at the door with loud complaints of abuse. Fur all standing on end, he sniffed at every place the dog had been, in case she didn’t get the picture. She found the coffee maker and got it going.

  Just as she was pouring the first cup, the phone rang, startling her so she sloshed hot coffee over her wrist. The answering machine clicked on with the second ring. Aunt Jean’s voice recited the number and politely invited the caller to leave a message.

  “Cassie? It’s Eva. Are you there? Pick up.” A second of silence. “Come on, Cass, pick up!”

  She answered the phone.

  “Hi, Eva. How’d you know I was here?”

  “Everybody knows you’re here.”

  “I didn’t get in till nearly ten last night.”

  Eva giggled. “You have an unknown vehicle. You were clocked in when you turned onto Falcon road and followed all the way to your aunt’s house, at which time, the neighbor following you figured out who you were and went home to spread the word. How are you, Cassie?”

  “I’m not sure. I haven’t had coffee yet.”

  “I can’t wait to see you. Eight o’clock at my house.”

  “What?”

  “I’m having a party. Everybody you haven’t seen in years and can’t wait to talk with. I’m so glad you’re back. It’ll be just like old times. We have so much to catch up on. Bye now—”

  “Eva, wait! I don’t think … I mean, I can’t—”

  “Sure you can. And don’t worry about what to wear, just throw on any old thing. See ya.”

  “Eva, I can’t really face people right now. I—”

  “Cass, I haven’t seen you for years and years and years and years. You have to see people some time. This way you can get it all over at once and it’ll be such fun you’ll—”

  Trying to resist Eva was like trying to stop a waterfall.

  “I can’t wait. Bye now.”

  Cass hung up, wondering why Eva had put that funny emphasis on everybody. She got out a plate for the apple fritters, sat down and opened the Herald. Tearing off a bit of the fritter, she popped it in her mouth and chewed, reading about storm damage. Trees uprooted, basements flooded, power outage, three-year-old killed by falling chimney bricks.

  Without warning, the black side of her brain oozed terror. Words swam together, cold tickled the back of her neck. What the hell am I doing? I can’t make a life. They should have kept me locked up. There’s nothing I—

  Stop it! Of course, it’ll be hard. Don’t give up before you start. No gain without pain. Forget that. I hate that stupid phrase.

  Focus, Casilda. Move forward. Keep moving. Never stop. Eye on the ball. First day of the rest of your life. Ha! Who said so? It could be the first day of the end of her life.

  Her thoughts kept running faster and more mixed up, more nonsensical. She clenched her jaw and her fists.

  Watch it, you’re working up to a panic attack. And nothing to fight it with.

  Right before she’d left Las Vegas she’d made a ceremony of dumping all her drugs, one pill at a time, into the toilet. She sang, a hundred and twenty-two pills in my hand, a hundred and twenty-two pills, if one of those pills should happen to fall—plop—a hundred and twenty-one pills in my hand, a hundred and twenty-one pills—. When her hand was empty, she’d flushed.

  Stop! Deep breath. Again. Again. Better now? One step at a time. Things to do. Make a list—Forget that. A list wasn’t important, speed wasn’t important, efficiency wasn’t important. Breathing was important, getting out of bed was important, moving was important, never forgetting Laura’s face was important.

  The chair screeched across the polished wood floor when she abruptly shoved it back and ran to the bedroom for the small zippered bag, plastic-lined and meant for cosmetics.

  Three large maple trees grew in the backyard, the tallest in the corner, flanked by a slightly smaller one on either side. They still had leaves on the branches, though the storm had whipped many away. Kneeling on the wet ground, she made two small holes with the tip of the trowel and stuck a candle in each. She struck a match and held it against the wick of the first one until the candle burned, then lit the other. She dug another hole, bigger, rounder. A cardinal, flashing scarlet in the bright sunlight, swooped onto a branch and observed her, tilting its head from side to side, hopped to a lower branch and observed her from that vantage point.

  She unzipped the bag and emptied all but a small amount of Ted and Laura’s mingled ashes in the hole. Most lay scattered beneath the pine trees in the forest above Chester, California. Sitting back on her heels, she struggled, twisted and pulled to work off her wedding band. She kissed it and placed it on top of the ashes, added a lock of hair from Laura’s first haircut and filled in the hole with a scoop of mud, then patted it smooth with the back of the trowel. She scraped together a small mound of fallen rose petals and picked them up. Giants’ tears, Laura had called them. Softly to herself, she sang “When You Walk Through a Storm Keep Your Head Up High” as she let the petals slip through her fingers onto the site.

  “Welcome,” she whispered. “Whatever is to come, you’re now part of it.” The last small spoonful of ashes she trickled into a tiny suede pouch, took it to the bedroom and put it on the bedside table. When she went anywhere, she’d carry the little pouch in her pocket or purse, so they’d always be close.

  Access to the attic was in the hallway. Cass carried in the ladder and climbed up. Steep pitch to the ceiling and bare wood floor thick with dust, the attic was filled with remnants of her childhood and castoffs her aunt couldn’t bear to part with. Twin-sized bed leaned against a wall, desk under the window. Shelves piled with board games, jigsaw puzzles, and books. Piggy bank, dress form, old birdcage. She’d forgotten about her aunt’s canary. Buddy? Billy? The poor thing led a perilous life, the neighbor’s cat always skulked around scheming ways to grab it.

  Cass picked up the piggy bank and shook it. It rattled richly. Why had she never smashed it and taken the coins? Shaking the dust off the suitcases, she dropped them one by one to the hallway below and firmly closed the door on the rest of life’s leftovers. Weepy hours went by, broken now and then by a teary smile, as memories unfolded while she packed her aunt’s clothing. At five thirty, drained and exhausted, she realized she had to pick up the dog before the vet closed at six.

  “Where did you say you got this dog?” Dr. Newcomer asked.

  “On the old highway into Hampstead. Is it—What’s the matter with it?”

  The black dog gazed at Casilda with eyes that said what the hell did you get me into? This wasn’t in our discussion.

  “It is a she,” he said. “The limp is nothing much. She’s got a bruise, probably from a kick. The head wound is more serious.”

  Inside a shaved strip along the dog’s head, ran a row of neat little stitches.

  “My guess is she was hit with something that has an edge but isn’t necessarily sharp. The wound is more a gouge than a cut. Something came down hard on her head and scraped away a section of skin and hair.”

  Cass put three hundred dollars on her credit card, stuck the vial of antibiotics in her pocket, filled out a card for a found dog, tacked it on a corkboard with half a dozen others and took the dog out to the car.

  At a pet store, she bought dog food, bowls, collar, and leash. The Black Dog in the passenger seat looked on with anxious eyes as she loaded items in the trunk and kissed her when she got back in the car. “It’s only temporary,” she said.

  10

  Em, sitting on the bed in he
r motel room, watched the television, transfixed.

  Garrett was in a hall, standing behind a table, talking to a roomful of people. “I feel quite strongly that anyone who takes a life should pay for that action. But taking another human life doesn’t begin to make amends. Only God has the right to take a human life—”

  Somebody has to pay. God’s law, an eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth. Retribution for those who ignore God’s law. A death for a death.

  The scene on the television set changed to another hall, this one with a stage. Garrett stood, passionate as Hamlet, words hard as sharp stones.

  “… the Bill of Rights. Does any one of you feel that James Madison had bigots in mind when he wrote it? The right of madmen and psychopaths to use assault weapons and handguns to slaughter innocent men, women, and children? I think not, ladies and gentleman, I think he’d feel this country had let itself become a land of potential victims by letting a small group be in charge.”

  Nausea tickled her throat. She ran to the bathroom and bent over the toilet, heaving in spasms a vile mess of brown hate and fear.

  Shaky, she straightened and flushed. Her throat burned and her mouth tasted awful. She washed her face, brushed her teeth, and swished around some mouthwash. The knife felt heavy in her purse. She snapped off the television. It was time.

  * * *

  Damn, Bernie thought. In his room at the Garrett farm, he was watching the opposition on the little handheld television. In politics, any outrageous lie repeated often enough takes on the glimmer of truth and sooner or later is believed.

  Someone—and Todd suspected the Halderbreck’s campaign manager, it takes one to know one—planted speculation about Jack’s marriage with focus on Molly Garrett. She didn’t always accompany the governor when he traveled, but Wakely Fromm did. He lived with the Garretts. Had lived with Jack before he married and continued to live with them after he married. Fromm seemed to be with Jack far more than his wife.