Up in Smoke

by Charlene Weir

  Given this golden opportunity, Senator Halderbreck said several times on several different occasions that “there was no proof that Governor Garrett and Wakely Fromm were anything but friends and I deplore this innuendo that anything more could be made of it.” And he said it again now.

  Reporter: “It’s a well-known fact, Senator, that they lived together for years, even before the governor got married.”

  Senator: “And so what if it is? Does this have anything to do with Governor Garrett’s ability to lead?”

  Damn. Give it a little time and the information floating on the air would bring the bigots out in droves. Jack spent more time with Wakely than with his wife. What did that imply? Well, any idiot could see, it clearly indicated Garrett was gay. A queer, a fairy, a pervert. Before long there’d be articles and political discussion about a person of this sexual identity in the White House. Would you trust this man to run the country?

  Fate had given the opposition a magic wand and they were waving it around like a flag.

  He turned off the television and slipped it in his jacket pocket. Garrett was giving an outdoor speech on the campus that was aimed at women. Day care, shelters for battered women, education to prevent child abuse, better ways of dealing with men who beat up wives, harsher punishment for crimes against women. It was scheduled for noon, the idea being that clerical workers and other nonstudents could listen if they were so inclined.

  “Isn’t that my jacket?” Todd said when Bernie walked into the living room. “When you going to give it back?”

  They waited for Leon and Hadley and then drove to Emerson.

  The sky was a soft, clean blue. Wind blew against Bernie’s face with just enough bite to let him know that winter was on the way as they hiked to the plaza where Garrett would speak, a little hollow surrounded by a grassy area and stone buildings. Highway-patrol cops, waiting in a knot, were tight-lipped and tense. When Bernie ambled up, officers Art van Dever and Phil Baker were giving instructions and telling everybody to be on their toes.

  “This is the kind of scary-ass thing the governor does,” Art muttered.

  Todd started patting pockets. “Lost my sunglasses,” he complained.

  “What are you putting on your nose?” Phil slipped on his own sunglasses.

  “Picked ’em up at the drugstore. They don’t fit right.”

  Art and Phil left to get Jack. They’d be with him when he came into the plaza and they’d stand in front of the platform watching the crowd while he spoke. Like the Secret Service who protected the president, these cops wore sunglasses in this detail. John Hinckley would be in the history books for shooting Reagan, but a footnote would say that Secret Service agents wore sunglasses because of Hinckley. After the attempt on Reagan, agents picked out Hinckley drifting through the crowds in films of a Jimmy Carter speech. When Hinckley was picked up, he admitted he’d been there to shoot Carter, but an agent was wearing sunglasses and Hinckley couldn’t tell who he was looking at. Hinckley was afraid the agent was watching him.

  “Probably was,” Art had told Bernie. “The guy had the face.”

  “What face?”

  Art shrugged. “Different. You look at those old films sometime and you can just see he looks different. You can spot him without even knowing who he is.” He gave Bernie a tight-lipped smile. “Somebody’s going to do it. Take a shot at him.”

  “Aren’t people screened for guns?”

  “Situation like this? Where people just wander in? And it doesn’t have to be a gun. Knife, skewer, bomb. Hell, anthrax. Some fucking nutball is going to try. I just pray it isn’t on my watch.”

  A few people had already gathered in front of the platform and Bernie, standing with Todd, studied them. Students, office workers, some faculty maybe, professorial-looking types anyway. Not having Art’s kind of experience, Bernie didn’t think he could spot the face even if it sat next to him.

  * * *

  Only about ten people were milling round the plaza. She was too early, Em realized, there weren’t enough people here yet. Somebody might remember her.

  The sun was shining, but the wind felt cold as it nuzzled her face and she turned her back to it. Hitching up the strap of her shoulder bag, she couldn’t help running her hand across the smooth leather. The knife was inside. She’d have to get close. She was afraid.

  Stupid to let doubts get in the way. How long would it take, to slide the knife from her bag, run toward Governor Garrett and plunge it in his heart? All she had to do was get close.

  She clamped her teeth. What if she couldn’t reach him? She imagined a bullet entering her brain a moment after the knife penetrated his chest—because that’s all she’d have, a moment—and she’d fall dead at his feet. Would he look at her as she was dying? Would his face be the picture she’d carry into eternity? She was afraid, afraid of the look on his face, afraid of dying too soon.

  “Are you all right?”

  Panicky, she turned. A girl, one of the group waiting. Oh God, now she’d been noticed.

  “Fine,” Em blurted. “Fine,” she repeated. “Didn’t eat breakfast.” She turned her back. Walk, don’t run. Walk. She strolled to the other end of the plaza.

  More people arrived and they wandered around on the grass. Lots of students, men and women from town. And police. She wondered how fast they were with their guns.

  A black limousine with tinted windows pulled up to the curb. A police car glided in behind it. Doors opened on the second car and police piled out. One opened the door of the limousine and when the governor got out police flowed around him. The crowd applauded and cheered. Governor Garrett waved to them.

  She could do it, Em thought. She could push the knife in him and create a huge hole in his chest before the police shot her.

  The governor said something and the crowd laughed. He started talking about a woman’s rights.

  Em felt sick again. She shoved through the people pressing in on her, nausea clawing at her throat. Just as suddenly, panic hooked onto her lungs. She couldn’t breathe. Gasping and trembling, she stopped and put her arms around her chest. Air air air.

  Finally, the vise loosened and air whooshed in. She panted and pulled in another chestful. Tears of shame and humiliation nearly choked her.

  Coward, she accused herself. She’d been afraid to take the chance, afraid the police would kill her before she could accomplish her mission. Afraid.

  * * *

  Sean Donovan saw her when he got off the press bus. A middle-aged woman, slightly dowdy, running flat out. At first he thought someone was after her, but she made a sudden stop and clutched her chest with a panic-stricken look on her face. Maybe she was having a heart attack and he should call an ambulance.

  Then she straightened and the panicked look was replaced by one of anguish. She had demons, poor lady, they were loose and they were vicious. He wondered what they were. She stared wildly at him and started walking rapidly away.

  He turned to look after her. He’d seen her somewhere before, but for the life of him he couldn’t remember where. Probably somebody who’d sold him toothpaste or cleaned his hotel room.

  * * *

  Em stumbled to a bench on the grass between the library and the political science building. Just to catch her breath, she told herself. And anyway, if she kept running around in a blind fit, people were going to notice and they’d, for sure, remember her. If that happened she’d never reach her goal. She needed to think. Maybe go about this a different way.

  Damp wind blew against her face. She looked at the section of wooden bench beside her. Wet. And her jacket was wet. When had it started to rain? Only drizzle really, but her hair was soaked. It was four o’clock on a Saturday afternoon. She felt disoriented. In her mind, she saw the knife strike the governor’s chest and the blossom of red blood erupt. She saw it so clearly, she almost began to believe, then she had to remind herself she hadn’t yet accomplished it.

  The young woman who’d asked her if she was all right, blond
hair and clear blue eyes, had looked so much like Alice Ann that pain squeezed Em’s heart. Would the young woman remember her? She had to be more careful. Otherwise she’d be picked up before she could even get to the governor.

  She needed an excuse, a reason for hanging around. The street was slick with rain. As she started across, she saw a police car. Her heart banged. Wildly, she looked around. Where to run? Then she forced a breath. Stop sign, he’d only stopped for a stop sign. He wasn’t even looking at her, he was looking straight ahead. With the knife feeling heavy in her shoulder bag, she turned right and walked briskly. Cold drizzle fell on her face. The moisture felt cooling and good, washed away the hot sick feeling.

  In the next block, she came to it. The answer. A large dingy building with GARRETT FOR AMERICA signs plastered all over the windows. The building at one time was apparently a grocery store, marks were still visible where check stands used to be.

  A young woman at a long table, the kind with legs that folded up, watched her come in. Partitions gave the illusion of a reception area. The murmur of voices came from the other side.

  “May I help you?” she called when Em hovered in the doorway.

  Was this the right thing to do? If people saw her every day, they would be able to describe her to the police. Maybe she should—?

  Time to stop dithering. What did it matter if they could describe her afterward. She never expected to survive anyway. “I’m here to volunteer.”

  “Hey, that’s great. We can use the help. Garrett’s really the best, you know?” The woman whipped out a form to fill in.

  Em accepted it, moved a ways along the table, and sat down. Awkwardly, as though she couldn’t remember the spelling, she wrote in the name Em Shoals and the address of the motel, then put check marks more or less randomly beside any task that would keep her at the headquarters.

  A young man with springy ginger curls and a pleasant face came from the other side of the partitions. Jeans and a white T-shirt, bulging arm muscles. “Stewart Gallagher.” He grabbed her hand and shook it. “This is really great. We’re glad to have you.” He took a moment to look at the form she handed him. “Come with me,” he said. “We’ll put you right to work.”

  The area behind the partitions was one large room filled with long tables of the fold-up kind with volunteers sitting in front of telephones making call after call and reading from a script in front of them.

  “With the primaries starting in about ten weeks, we need to identify which voters will vote for Governor Garrett and make sure they’re going to the polls. That’s what we need you for.”

  “But I thought the primary wasn’t until next year.”

  “Yep. D.C. in January, ours in February.” He grinned. “Voters need to be nudged along, you know.”

  The volunteers were all young, most probably students at Emerson. She felt odd, different, like she didn’t belong. “You have so many already, maybe—”

  “Right,” Stewart said. “The second shift comes in at night. For the people who have jobs.”

  “Well, maybe—”

  He gave her a big smile. “It’s easy,” he assured her. “You get a list of voters with information on what party they belong to, the precinct, where they live, and ethnic background. That way precinct captains get a list of Jack Garrett voters to get to the polls.” Another big smile. “This is really important. If you do your job, if every volunteer does his or her job, Governor Garrett could get the nomination.”

  Getting caught up in the fever of his excitement, she smiled back.

  “You’ll be fine,” he said. “All you have to do is follow the script.” He introduced her to another young man named Skip who led her to a chair at one of the tables. Skip pointed out the computer list of names she was to call and explained the form that was to be filled out. “Just note whether you talked with the name or not and who the name is voting for. Garrett or Halderbreck. At the end of the day, total up the number who are for Garrett and the number who are for Halderbreck. Okay? If you have any problems, give a holler and I’ll come running.”

  He gave her an encouraging pat on the shoulder and galloped off. She read the script.

  Hello. This is (your name) and I’m calling for Governor Garrett.

  Is (voter’s name) there?

  If no, May I leave a message?

  If yes, Great. I’m calling to see if you’ll be supporting Governor Garrett in the primary.

  With some reluctance, Em picked up the phone and poked in the number.

  “Hello?” The voice sounded like an elderly woman.

  “Hello, this is Em Shoals. I’m calling to see if you support Governor Garrett.”

  “Oh, absolutely. He’s so wonderful. He reminds me of that actor. Oh, you know the one, that was so brave in the movie—”

  When she hung up, Em thought how really odd the world was. She’d just gotten a vote for a man who would be dead before the primary.

  11

  When Cass got home, she went back to it, filled boxes of life’s leftovers from the attic and stacked them in the dining room. Monty hissed and growled from the top of the refrigerator and the Black Dog stretched out in front of the cold fireplace and moaned in her sleep. At eight-thirty, drooping from fatigue and the satisfaction of accomplishment, she dropped into her aunt’s easy chair and clicked the remote for the television. After twenty minutes of watching whatever appeared, she fell asleep.

  Blood-curdling barks pierced her dreams. She shot up from drowning, choking on imagined water and her own pounding heart. The doorbell rang.

  Sniffling at the crack between door and frame, the dog growled deep in its throat, fur stood up on its neck. Cass put a hand on the collar. “Who is it?”

  “Eva sent me to pick you up.”

  “What?”

  “The party. She told me to come get you.”

  Cass had completely forgotten. “Oh, I’m sorry, I can’t go. Tell Eva I’ll call her tomorrow.”

  “She told me you might say that and not to leave without you.”

  “Tell her I’ll call,” Cass repeated.

  “I’ll wait till you’re ready.”

  “I’m going to bed.”

  “How do you like your eggs?”

  “What?”

  “For breakfast in the morning. I’m not going anywhere without you. I’ll stay all night if I have to.”

  “This is ridiculous. Go away.”

  “Sorry, can’t do that without you.”

  Cass yanked open the door. The dog snarled, saliva dripped from very impressive teeth.

  “Bernie Quaid,” he said. Tall, lanky, curly brown hair, smile, dark blazer, pale blue shirt, and dark tie. “Part-time chauffeur and other end of the spectrum from rapist and murderer. You might want to grab some shoes.”

  She looked down at her bare feet and the threadbare corduroys with her knee poking through a rip in one leg. “Do I look dressed for a party?” she said.

  “You look great. We don’t have to stay long.”

  “No.” She had trouble hanging on to the dog who kept lunging at Bernie Quaid as though she wanted to rip him apart.

  “Please,” Bernie said. “Just make an appearance. Step in, look around, say hi to Eva. I’ll bring you right back.”

  “No.”

  “Look, I know I’m bugging you. That’s the last thing I want, but I’ll probably get fired, if you don’t come.”

  She let disbelief leak into her impatience.

  He raised his right hand. “God’s honest truth.”

  “I’m sorry about the loss of your job, but I’ve spent all day with past lives and I’m wiped. Go away.” She started to close the door.

  “Food,” he called through the crack.

  Her resolve weakened.

  “Great food. And anything you want to drink and my undying gratitude and—”

  The second mention of food roused an awareness of hunger she didn’t know she had. “I’m going to let you in. If the dog doesn’t eat you while
I’m trying to find something to wear, I’ll go.”

  “Deal,” he said. “Dogs love me.” He started in and the dog leaped for his throat. Dragging it back, toenails scraping on the wooden floor, she let Bernie in, settled the dog by the fireplace and told Bernie she’d only be a minute.

  She took a quick shower, put on a long black wool skirt and a long-sleeved gold top with a scoop neck. In the living room, Bernie sat frozen in a wing chair, the dog at his elbow growling softly, waiting for an excuse to grab his throat.

  “We can go now,” she said when he didn’t stir.

  “Your dog won’t let me move.” To illustrate, he started to lean forward, the dog’s upper lip curled and the growl got more intense.

  Cass grabbed its collar and told Bernie to go outside, she’d follow. He rose slowly. The dog hadn’t wanted to let him in and she didn’t want to see him go. She kept suspicious eyes on him as he opened the door and went out.

  In the car, Cass asked Bernie how he knew Eva.

  “Just met her two hours ago.” And that was all the explanation she got. He mentioned the vastness of the sky, how bright the stars looked, how close the sliver of moon seemed and how different the landscape was than he’d expected, totally flat, not these small hills.

  Parking anywhere near Eva’s house was impossible. Every feasible niche and some that weren’t had a vehicle in it.

  “How many people did she invite?” Cass asked.

  Bernie drove slowly past the house.

  “Reporters?” What the hell? She counted at least five reporters in front, a couple with technicians armed with minicams. Grouped on the sidewalk, they talked among themselves and sipped from steaming paper cups.

  Bernie made a U-turn and pulled into Eva’s driveway. The reporters surged toward the car. When she stepped out, they drifted back, obviously realizing she was nobody. Arm on her back, as though afraid she might make a run for it, Bernie walked her to the door.

  “You’re finally here!” Eva gave Cass a fat smacking kiss on the cheek. “I was beginning to think you’d copped out on me. Or fell head over heels and decided on a night of romance with Bernie.” Eva had to shout to be heard above the din. Brown hair sleeked back, eyes bright, looking very festive in a long filmy salmon dress, she squeezed Cass in a hug. “It’s so great you’re back!”