Up in Smoke

by Charlene Weir

  “Eva?” someone shouted from the kitchen.

  “Be right there!” she yelled and turned back to Cass. “There’s so much I have to tell you that—”

  “Eva!”

  She took in a long breath of air. “I’ve really got to see what this problem is. Everything’s in the dining room. Help yourself.”

  Cass had to flatten herself against the wall to squeeze past the closely packed bodies. At first glance, Cass didn’t see anyone she recognized. Where were all those old friends Eva had promised? Putting on a party smile, Cass squeezed through the people grazing at a dining room table piled with slices of ham and roast beef, fried chicken, cheeses, breads, crackers, salads, sliced fruit, and fancy cakes. Bottles of wine, designer water, and hard liquor sat on a sideboard.

  Bernie materialized at her side and leaned closer to make himself heard. “Gin and tonic? I make a mean gin and tonic.”

  “Scotch and water. Heavy on the water.”

  Music throbbed a witless atonal noise that made her temples ache. Bernie returned and handed her a squat heavy glass. She took a sip and choked. He’d reversed the proportions. Smiling and murmuring inane replies to inane questions, she was buffeted through the crowd and funneled into the living room.

  “Best fuckin’ smoke jumper ever was,” a drunken voice muttered. “Anybody doesn’t agree can tell it to me! Just try! Try! I’d give my life for him! My life!”

  Wakely? His voice startled her. What was he doing here? She’d thought he was pretty much a recluse and seldom left Jackson Garrett’s side. Cass squirmed through groups of people and sat in the chair next to his wheelchair. She was shocked by his appearance. He used to be a huge, robust man with boundless energy and a shy sense of humor, now he seemed just a shell, fragile and hollow. “Hi, Wakely.”

  He jerked back and regarded her with bloodshot eyes. Homely, like an old Irish water spaniel, he had a long friendly face, bristly reddish hair flecked with gray and soft brown eyes. “Well, if it isn’t my old pal Cassie! How you doin’, Cassie? My God, how many years has it been? Must be fifty.” He took a hefty gulp from his glass.

  He was maybe three more swallows from passing out. “Twenty,” she said. The same number since his spine had been crushed and he’d ended up forever in that chair.

  “Twenty!” he shouted as though the answer had just popped into his mind. “Seen the governor?”

  Trickles of apprehension crawled along her neck. “He’s here?”

  “Has to be. I’m here, aren’t I?” he demanded belligerently. “Go everywhere together. Everywhere. Together. Everywhere together. Best pal. Hero! Fucking hero!” Wakely listed in her direction. “Don’t you say different. Saved my life!” He slammed a fist on the chair arm. “Nothing but a crispy critter wasn’t for Jack Garrett.” Tears filled his bleary eyes and ran unchecked down his face.

  “I know, Wakely.”

  His right hand shot out and grabbed her wrist. His legs, flaccid in the chair were wasted and useless, but his upper body was thick and muscled and his hand clamped her wrist like a vise. “Wanted to talk.”

  No one can talk with a drunk.

  “Death fires.”

  She tried to pull her arm away, but he held her anchored in place. “Excuse me, Wakely, Bernie is waiting—”

  “Killed her.” He leaned so far toward her she was afraid he’d fall out of the wheelchair.

  “Who?” She drew back from his stale alcohol-smelling breath.

  “Dead. Gone.”

  “Time to go, pal?” A blond young man, muscles brimming with fine-toned health, like an expensive trainer from an upscale gym, grabbed the chair and pushed Wakely through the crowd, which parted like the Red Sea.

  Cass followed in his wake, looking for Eva and finally finding her in the family room, refilling bowls of chips. “Have you seen Bernie?” Cass asked. “I’m really beat. I need to get home before I collapse.”

  Eva looked around vaguely. “He’s here somewhere. Are you okay? You don’t hate me, do you?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Jack. Isn’t that why you’re leaving? I know I should have told you but I was afraid you wouldn’t come if you knew.”

  Silence slammed into Cass’s mind.

  Eva nodded. “In the kitchen, I think. I—”

  Into the stillness, whispers floated like tattered wisps of fog, with the faintest crystalline echoes. At first they were on the far side of hearing. Gradually, they thickened and shaped as she still strained to hear. Never came back. Never came back.

  “Cassie, you okay?”

  “Fine.” Why was she so surprised? Wakely had told her Jack was here. Her mind had simply refused to take it in.

  Governor Jackson Garrett, sleeves rolled up, stood at the kitchen sink washing dishes. Head down, he was listening intently to a young woman in a short black skirt and white blouse, one of the caterers. Funny thing, you always forgot how big he was until you saw him again and it jumped out at you. His dark hair was now liberally sprinkled with gray.

  He could listen better than anyone. Like you were the most important, most interesting person alive, like he had all the time in the world and he wanted to hear what you had to say. Even Ted never made her feel that way.

  Something long dead stirred, opened one eye and flicked its scaly tail.

  He handed the caterer a dripping glass. She snatched it and rubbed vigorously, held it up to the light to check for spots and gave it another brisk polish.

  “I mean, I’m holding down two jobs now,” she said. “I don’t see what more I can do.”

  “It’s a cryin’ shame,” Jack said. “You need some help. It’s people like you, baby with special needs and a mother who’s takin’ medicines that cost more than she can pay.” He shook his head. “We’ve got to do something about this. You and me and every other person in this country. We’ve got to take care of those who need it. Babies can’t be allowed to die because it costs money to save them.”

  “Governor?” murmered a dark-haired man with glasses, wearing a blue suit. “Rotary Club. We’re late.”

  “Todd keeps me on schedule.” Jack took the dishtowel from the caterer, wiped his hands and gave it back to her. Engulfing one of her hands in both of his, he said, “I’m glad you told me about your son. You’re a brave young woman.”

  Tears came to her eyes.

  Todd, keeper of the schedule, held a coat and Jack shrugged into it. Just before he ducked out the kitchen door, he spotted her. “Cassie. Oh my God, Cassie.”

  “Governor—?” Todd said.

  “Right. I’m coming. Cassie. Lord, Cassie, this—. Listen, I’ve got to go, but we’re out at the farm. Meet us there at twelve-thirty.”

  He stared at her a second, nodded, picked up a cane, and limped out.

  12

  Cass found Bernie, told him she wanted to go home, and went in search of her hostess who was on the patio dancing to the noise that passed itself off as music. When an arm shimmied by, she grabbed it and extracted Eva from the man either dancing with her, or just in the vicinity and having a very expressive moment of his own.

  “Eva,” she shouted. “I’m dead on my feet. I have to go. It’s been a lovely party.”

  “You won’t hate me forever because I didn’t tell you Jack would be here?”

  “Don’t be silly. That was all a long time ago.” Another lifetime, another set of people.

  “Did you talk with Gayle?”

  “Who?”

  “Gayle Egelhoff. She called asking how to get hold of you. I told her you’d be here and invited her to come.”

  Oh, Cass thought, the woman who’d left the message on her machine.

  “She said if she couldn’t reach you she’d come, but since she didn’t show, I figured she must have talked to you.”

  “What does she want?”

  Eva shrugged. She’d had a bit to drink and her eyes didn’t quite track. “Her husband is Vince Egelhoff. You know, one of the smoke jumpers with J
ack that awful time. When all those people died and—” Her dance partner grabbed her and whirled her away.

  In the car, Cass asked Bernie, “What is this twelve-thirty at the farm all about?” She cracked the window, cool night air brushed her face. A crisp feel of fall was in the air, crickets chirred, somewhere a coyote yipped.

  “Politicians work late at night. Weekends, holidays. All those times when real people have real lives.”

  “Why was I asked to come?” It had shaken her, when Jack said come to the farm. For a split second, she’d thought he wanted to explore apologies and explanations, but that had all been said and done long ago.

  “The governor told me to hire you.”

  She stared at him. The green glow of the dash lights gave him a ghoulish look. He gave her a quick weighing glance, then returned his attention to the road.

  Yeah, right. “To do what?” she asked.

  “Full-time campaign staff member.”

  That knocked her socks off. “Why?”

  Bernie shrugged. “Probably because he knows you’ll do a good job. He’s smart that way.”

  “Just take me home, please.”

  “Sure.”

  “I’m not a politician.”

  “If we go out there, you can ask him why.”

  “I don’t want to go out there.”

  “Because—?”

  “Because I’m tired. And I don’t want to—I just—My feet hurt. I want to go home.”

  “Okay.”

  After a moment or so, she said, “You’re going the wrong way.”

  “I know.” He kept on going.

  “Damn it, you said you’d take me back whenever I wanted.”

  “Right. Can you hang on just a little longer?”

  “No.”

  “Give the governor five minutes.” Bernie glanced at her and quickly threw out, “Two minutes.”

  Could she do that? Did she want to? No. What did it matter?

  “If you don’t,” Bernie said, “you’ll never know what the governor has in mind.”

  She didn’t care.

  “Two minutes,” Bernie urged. “Then we’re outta there.”

  So she went, mostly because Bernie wouldn’t stop and she didn’t want to throw herself from a moving automobile. And maybe she did care. A little.

  The barred gate was new since she’d last been here, and the man in a dark suit wearing an earring who came out of the hut was also new. He stooped to look at Bernie, and then at her. She was sure she looked half dead, skinny with grayish skin and dark circles under her eyes.

  “Casilda Storm,” Bernie said. “He wants to see her.”

  On the long drive to the house, she uneasily regretted not being more insistent about going home. She’d been out here many times when she and Jack were tight, some visceral memory was stirring deep inside.

  Floodlights lit up the front of the house. Two troopers stood by the door. In the living room, plates of sandwiches and platters of cheese and fruit sat on tables along with coffee cups and cans of soft drinks. Jack wasn’t around, but Todd, the campaign manager, who was with Jack at Eva’s party, gave her a smile and a hello.

  A man came up and clapped Bernie on the shoulder. “It’s about time. Where you been?”

  Bernie turned. “Cass, this is Leon Massy. Media consultant.”

  “The best in the business.” Leon was tall with an aw-shucks smile, an abundance of cornstalk yellow hair, and a hint of down south in his voice; from the waist down he was a shocking billow of fat.

  “Leon thinks he’s hot shit right now,” Bernie said, “’cause he just won a special election in Georgia with a pro-choice ad.”

  “Yes indeed.” Leon nodded with a pleased smile. “Had the founding fathers concerned they’d taken a Yankee viper to their righteous bosoms, until it brought an overwhelming herd of citizens stampeding to the voting booths to demand their right to a D and C. Then they let their clouds of doubt drift away on the sweet odor of success.”

  He grabbed for her hand, yanked her close, and crushed her in a full body hug, forcing the air from her chest. “Welcome aboard!”

  “Uh—”

  “He says you’re gonna be great, just great. We’re gonna win this thing. Right, Bernie? Tell her what we’re doin’ here. You’re goin’ to love us.”

  “I’m not even sure who else is running.”

  “Honey chile, I’ll give you your first lesson in politics,” Leon said. “Nobody’s runnin’.” He wiggled bushy eyebrows. “Yet,” he added with a braying laugh. “We’re all out there feelin’ around and dippin’ our toes in the water to see how hot it is.”

  “Cass.” Jack, buttoning his shirt, walked into the living room from the hallway behind her. “Thank you for coming,” he said, awkwardly formal. He smiled, a little wary, a little unsure of how she’d respond.

  “Hey, not every political candidate seeking the nomination asks me out to his farm.”

  “Cass—” He looked around, then took her arm. “Let’s get out of here.”

  With a hand on her elbow, he steered her into the kitchen. Two officers followed. “Going somewhere, Governor?”

  Jack shook his head. “Just out back.”

  Floodlights had been set up in the back also. Using a cane and limping slightly, Jack walked across the patio and along a gravel path toward a small grove of trees.

  “Not a good idea, Governor,” an officer said. “This area isn’t secure.”

  “It’d have to be a great big coincidence if some whack job wanting to kill me just happens to be out there in the dark and I just happen to come out here and he just happens to have a gun.”

  Cass could tell the officer wanted to say something like, Fuck, yeah, it could happen, but he clamped his mouth and kept his eyes on the tall trees they were heading toward.

  “We won’t be long. It’s too cold, for one thing. I want to talk with Cass. You can stay over there.”

  With stiff reluctance, the officers moved out of earshot and stood facing them, legs wide apart, hands clasped in front. Jack turned her around so she was facing him and looked directly into her eyes. His scrutiny embarrassed her and a dizzying surreal feeling came over her. Twenty years since she’d seen him. What did he want with her? Stray fingers of wind stirred the hair around her face and she brushed it back.

  The silence grew thick and when it started to choke her, she said, “It’s late and I’m sure you had a long day and—”

  “Would you like something? A drink? Coffee?”

  She shook her head and pulled her coat tight.

  A trace of a smile. “Hot tea?” He crossed his arms. “I didn’t realize it was so cold.” He shifted his weight from one leg to the other, easing his injured ankle, and looked up at the night sky. “It’s a night of a new moon.”

  She looked up and saw nothing but stars, cold and glittery, reaching forever across the endless sky.

  “I want you to join the campaign,” he said in a different voice, softer, full of loss and longing and regret and maybe even a little pleading.

  Bernie had told her as much, so that came as no big surprise. “Why, Jack?”

  “Foreign policy advisor.”

  “What? You’re crazy.”

  “The resolution of this war on terrorism and the political consequences are the key issues in this election. You know that area.”

  She put her hands in her pockets, somehow to keep herself steady. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that an old girlfriend wasn’t tracked down simply to talk over old times. It only made sense if the old girlfriend in question could contribute something important to the cause. “I know nothing,” she said.

  “Lives are at stake. People are at risk and they aren’t confident their government can protect them. Most politicians think it’s naïve to tell the truth. I think that’s really what people want.”

  In the silvery moonlight, the lines in his face were smoothed away and the gray in his hair didn’t show. His voice had the same passio
nate intensity she remembered. It could have been twenty years ago, the two of them together, talking way into the night, discussing, arguing, solving unsolvable problems, clinging to each other with sweaty promises. He had gone off to fight a fire and never returned to her. She never knew why.

  “Tell the truth,” he said. “Create a policy that’s sound and build a platform with the best interests of the people at heart, promise to do the best we can and then—” He shrugged and his voice went from oration to embarrassed. “Sorry. Did I sound like I was giving a speech? There’s a lot of that going around.”

  “I can’t help you,” she said.

  “You’ve been there, Cass. For nine months you were in the Middle East. Lived with them, talked with them.”

  “Taught them.” When she’d been released from the loony bin, she’d fled to the most dangerous place she could think of, the granite mountains on the front lines of the war against terrorism, a place of severe poverty, where most people were illiterate and babies died before they reached their second birthday.

  “I know.”

  “I went there because—” Because a drunk driver wiped out Ted and Laura and I should have died, too, because I wanted to die and thought I might as well do something with my miserable life until it happened. I thought someone would kill me and save me the trouble.

  “Girls,” she said, “Women. They had nothing and—” And so with no training and no credentials, I taught. And waited to die. They had no schools and no teachers, no books and no supplies. Nothing. With Ted’s insurance money, she’d built a school. Sixty-three girls came to her to learn to read and write. Little Amoli, the first girl in her village to learn to read, wanted to be a teacher just like Cass. Cass had given her the money for training. It all came to an end when Aunt Jean’s stroke landed her in the hospital and Cass had to come home.

  “They talked to you, these girls, these women. They told you what the thinking was and who the players were and what was happening. I need you, Cass. You can speak out about the harsh realities of the situation and bring a little sanity into campaign rhetoric.”