Up in Smoke

by Charlene Weir

  “You might want to put some clothes on,” Bernie said. “If you go the way you are, the night guards might get the wrong idea. I’ll stay here with Carmen.”

  Despite his coaxing, Carmen the dog followed Cass to the bedroom and watched nervously as she got out a clean pair of jeans.

  “We need to talk about abandonment issues,” Cass told her wearily. She pulled on the jeans, zipped them up, stuck her head in a sweater and fought her arms into the sleeves, then slipped a jacket from a hanger. How did it happen that she always ended up doing what Bernie wanted?

  “I can’t weld myself to some political campaign,” she told him as she slid into his car. “I have responsibilities. I can’t just take off for God knows where at a moment’s notice. I can’t—”

  “Right. What else?”

  “Monty—I can’t just leave him. My daughter’s cat…” My sweet child, my darling Laura. “And now I have some stray dog that somebody injured and—”

  “I’m just asking you to come to a meeting, not to slaughter your pets.”

  “I’d have to be away for long periods of time.”

  “There are kennels just made for that situation.”

  “Monty in a kennel?” Cass was horrified. “He’d hate it.”

  “There are people who do this for a living. They come and stay in your house while you’re gone, and give cats and dogs the loving care they’ve come to expect.”

  “If anything should happen to me, you’d take care of them?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Promise?”

  “I promise,” he said solemnly.

  Relief left her feeling lighter. One thing that had pulled her through the night was Monty, the dog, too—now she didn’t have to worry. Bernie had no idea how soon he’d have to keep that promise. “Why me? I can understand why you’re doing this. You need to make a living—” Something she no longer needed to worry about.

  Bernie laughed. “You call this living? I could make more money selling shoes.”

  “Then why do it?”

  “I’ve been a political hack all my life.”

  “So you must like it.”

  “Are you kidding? In the good times, it’s vicious and dehumanizing. In the bad times, it’s painful and brutal and stressful beyond bearing.”

  “Then why?” she repeated.

  “You get committed, swept away. It’s like a disease. Like those people who can’t quit gambling? It’s this huge gamble. If you win, oh man, do you win. You get the biggest prize imaginable.”

  “If you lose?”

  “You lose everything important to you. Privacy, dignity, reputation.”

  “Sounds risky.”

  He glanced at her. “I know something devastating happened to you and you’ve wrapped a thick layer of numbness all tight around you, but underneath you’re a romantic. So is Garrett. That’s what it takes. To be a real candidate and a good leader.” Bernie shot her a glance, probably to see how she was taking this. “It’s not enough to want to make a difference, you have to imagine that you can.”

  “You’re the romantic.”

  Bernie flashed a quick smile. “If I had any sense I’d be working for the president. He’s been at it forever, he rarely makes a mistake, and he’d kill his own mother if that would get him a win. And if the polls showed it would fly, he’d pepper TV with ads showing him sobbing buckets at the pain her death caused him. Garrett is honest and passionate and studies the polls to figure out how to get the voters to understand his side, not manipulate them just to get their vote. I’ve waited fifteen years for a candidate like him.”

  It was after nine by the time they got out to Jack’s farm. A trooper looked at Bernie, looked at Cass, checked the car and waved them through. The living room had the feel of after-party fatigue. Low-wattage lamps were on at either end of the couch where Jack sat with his wife, Molly. Nora, Molly’s personal assistant, sat in an easy chair at a right angle to the couch. Platters of drying sandwiches and cheese and leftover fruit sat on end tables and coffee tables. Jack was half-watching a football game on the television set with the sound low. When she and Bernie came in, he looked up and smiled at her. That old smile she knew so well, and despite all the years that had gone by, and all the water under the bridge, she felt a tug of pain, like an old guitar string that could still give a twang if someone strummed it.

  Molly must have felt something in the air, she gave Cass a hard stare that said keep your hands off my property. Molly had nothing to worry about. Cass had no intention of putting her hands anywhere near Jack. Just as well, she thought. She got the impression Molly could be dangerous if she felt threatened.

  “Who’s playing?” Todd asked. The campaign manager, dark hair hanging over his forehead, glasses sliding down his nose, was sitting on the floor with his back to the wall, forearms resting on bent knees. Tie pulled loose, shirt cuffs turned back, he didn’t sound like he cared very much.

  “Kansas State against Nebraska State.”

  “Jack will watch any kind of football,” Bernie said.

  She knew that about Jack. A fistful of nostalgia formed low in her chest. She felt sadness for the two kids they had been, she and Jack, long ago. Full of youth, sure of themselves, happy and eager for each other, for life. When she sat in the gold easy chair, Bernie retrieved a chair from the dining room and placed it beside her.

  It occurred to her there was no bent figure in a wheelchair present. “Where’s Wakely?” she asked Bernie.

  “His place.”

  Leon Massy, Jack’s media consultant, came in and squeezed into an easy chair that wasn’t up to containing his bulk. His dark suit was wrinkled and his tie, red with small flags waving all over it, was loosened. He dropped a stack of newspapers on the coffee table with a loud thunk. The Washington Post was on top. “We got a problem.”

  “It’s more than a problem,” Bernie said. “It’s a catastrophe.”

  “Worse than my being a homo-sex-u-al?” Jack said.

  “I got a call from Sean Donovan.”

  “What’d he want?” Todd wanted to know.

  “He works for NewsWorld, different deadline. He told me he got a call from Jerry MacEnrow at the Wall Street Journal. They know you met with Halderbreck.”

  “This is a problem?” From the way Jack said it, Cass thought he felt it was a serious problem.

  “Governor, Jerry’s column tomorrow is going to say you agreed to take the two spot if Halderbreck gets in.”

  “Whoa.” Jack looked stunned. “That’s pretty audacious. Insolent, too.” He thought a moment. “When’s their deadline?”

  “I don’t know,” Bernie said. “An hour, maybe a little more.”

  Cass wondered why she’d been dragged here and what this had to do with her. She could be at home, being entertained by panic attacks.

  “The bastards will probably say we missed it.” Jack looked at Todd. “Flat out deny it?”

  “I don’t think that’ll do it,” Leon said. “It must’ve been leaked from Halderbreck.”

  “Yeah,” Jack said. “Can’t you just hear it? ‘That Governor Garrett, he’s a sharp one, all right. Going places. We had us a real friendly discussion and traded ideas and I’m here to tell you there was real respect and real liking going back and forth. It was an easy visit and, you know what? Jack Garrett just mentioned that Halderbreck and Garrett would make a great team, a hard to beat ticket.’”

  Jack changed his voice to reporter’s interest. “‘And, Senator, would you accept him?’”

  “‘Well sir, it certainly is something to think hard about, isn’t it?’”

  “Would he actually do that?” Bernie asked.

  “In a Massachusetts minute. He’s squashing me. Stepping on me like I was an ant coming to the kitchen. Anybody who reads the Wall Street Journal isn’t going to take a chance on some pissant governor from a state half the voters have never heard of and the other half don’t care about, who says he’s running for president but uses his
free time trying to get invited to Halderbreck’s picnic.”

  “Well, boys and girls, anybody got any brilliant ideas?” Leon’s honey-dipped southern voice was crystallized with irritation.

  “I need to go home,” Cass murmured to Bernie.

  He squeezed her hand lightly. “Wait for it.”

  “Get him on the phone, Bernie,” Jack said, “and I’ll talk to him.”

  “Jack,” Molly said in a warning voice.

  Cass wondered if Molly was happy being married to Jack. He wasn’t exactly a restful person to be with even back when they’d been together; now he was focused like a predator on the prowl.

  Bernie took a cell phone from his jacket pocket and punched in a series of numbers. He talked a few seconds and handed the phone to Jack.

  “Hey, Jerry, Jack Garrett here.” He listened.

  “Uh-huh … well now, the Senator may have been mistaken about … yeah, we did meet. A little while back we were both in Boston and it was a good opportunity to … we did. We talked … uh huh, uh-huh … about a lot of things. One thing we talked about was how interesting the primaries were going to be this year and the chance the party had of giving the president a hard time … especially about the war on terrorism … uh-huh, when was the last time you heard him say anything about jobs? People around here want … Well, no, that’s not exactly … no, I said we had to run it out, get a discussion of the issues.… Yeah, and then we had to all get behind whoever the nominee was.”

  Jack’s hand was tight on the phone and Molly watched like she was ready to pounce if he said a wrong word, but his voice was calm. “No, Jerry, we didn’t have any kind of discussion about that. It’s way too soon anyway. First, the senator has to get out there and see if he can beat some of us.… Yeah, it happens. Misunderstanding. No problem.… Yeah, thanks.”

  Molly looked relieved when he hung up and handed the phone back to Bernie. “How much can we trust this Donovan guy?” Jack asked Bernie.

  Bernie shrugged. “He’s a reporter. From all I know, he’s honest. But he’s a reporter.”

  “So,” Todd said. “Anyone got any ideas how to go with this?”

  “Get something against him,” Leon said.

  Jack looked at the game on television, gently touched his wife’s cheek, and smiled again at Cass. He’d always been able to track five things at the same time. Molly liked the smile for Cass even less the second time.

  “Why am I here?” Cass said.

  “We’re getting there,” Bernie said.

  Jack stood up, jammed his hands in his pockets, and started pacing. “Follow the middle road. If we beat Halderbreck, we’re set for the gold. Right, Bernie? Of course, there’s always the possibility we may not beat him. But taking the middle road and losing would put us almost certainly in a position where he’d pick us for number two spot. Lord, Lord, then I’d have four years of walking in the shadow of an idiot.”

  “We need to figure how much,” Leon said, “to distinguish you from Halderbreck and how hard you need to push against him. This campaign shows a rift in the party, you’re the future, Halderbreck’s the past. Take him on. Be anti-Halderbreck and you’ll stand out from the crowd.”

  “Not too anti-Halderbreck,” Todd said. “You want the votes. Not just the antis, the whole party.”

  “I can’t let him slice and dice me,” Jack said. “First, he makes me a queer, then unpatriotic for saying we face other problems besides the fucking terrorism threat. Now he has me begging for second place in the Journal.”

  “He has to be careful, too,” Leon said. “Slicing you makes you look important. Otherwise, why slice, you know?”

  “What about the polls?”

  “What about them?”

  “New Hampshire, where do we stand?”

  “Three,” Todd said with great satisfaction.

  “And Senator Halderbreck?”

  “Oh, hell, he’s something like nineteen.”

  Everybody laughed, except Cass. Why had Bernie been so insistent that she come? She was sitting here like a bump on a log and nobody but Molly paid the slightest attention to her.

  Todd shoved his glasses up his nose and looked at her, an openly judging look that was far worse than being ignored. It made her very nervous. With the chair groaning in protest, Leon heaved his considerable bulk up and lowered himself onto the floor where he stretched out on his back, put his hands behind his head, and stared at the ceiling. Bernie got up and rattled through the soft drinks on the dining room table. He found a Coke and held it up to question if she wanted one. She shook her head. He popped the tab, sat back down beside her, and patted her hand.

  “We have to do something,” Leon said. “If we don’t come on strong, Halderbreck is going to pull some kind of shit like this again. He does it often enough and voters are going to start believing him.”

  “Yeah,” Todd said. “The point is what do we do?”

  They both looked at Cass and she felt like she was being eyed for the position of Thanksgiving turkey.

  Todd shifted his gaze. “Jack?”

  Jack looked at Bernie.

  “The crows aren’t going to like it,” Bernie said.

  “Screw ’em,” Todd said. “Since when have they cared about us. All they want is something blood-dripping to throw at the public.”

  “What’s going on here,” Cass said. “And why do I feel like I’m being measured for a noose?”

  “We need to leak something to the crows,” Leon said.

  “Crows?” She looked at Bernie.

  “Press.”

  “And you want me to do it? That’s why you’re all looking at me? Trying to figure out if I’m capable of doing it right?”

  “So she’s smart,” Todd said. “Okay, what’ll we say.”

  “Just a minute,” Cass said.

  “This is a very bad idea,” Nora said.

  “The governor said,” Leon’s soft southern voice took on hard corners, “that Senator Halderbreck is so stupid he needs help shooting himself in the foot.”

  “Maybe he tried it and missed,” Bernie said.

  “What the hell does that mean?” Todd said.

  Jack grinned. “Perfect. Who do we leak it to? The Donovan guy?”

  “No,” Todd said. “He’s been at this a long time. He knows his prick from a hole in the ground. Anyway he’s print. We need one of the cookies.”

  “Female reporters,” Bernie said.

  “Television faces,” Todd added.

  “You want me to tell one of these—these—cookies, that—that—” Cass held a hand out toward Jack, “he called the Senator from Massachusetts stupid?”

  “Got it in one,” Todd said.

  “Leak it,” Bernie said.

  “Why me? Why don’t you do it. Or Todd?”

  “I’d never say anything like that.” Todd sounded offended. “Neither would Bernie. He’s an old hand. They’d never believe him. You’re new. You might accidentally let something slip.”

  “This is a very bad idea,” Nora said again.

  Cass agreed wholeheartedly.

  21

  The kitchen was black as that shrivel-headed cop’s heart and Moonbeam didn’t dare turn on a light. Her own house and she couldn’t turn on a light! She was a fugitive and old Mrs. Hadwent next door was sure to notice a light. She bashed her toe against the table leg. “Ow. Damn it! Oh damn it!” Crumpling to a cross-legged sit, she grabbed the throbbing toe. “Ow, oh ow, oh ow.” Tears clogged her throat. Why was everything so awful?

  She rocked back and forth. Why did dirtbag cops have to be after her trying to throw her in jail? Why did she have to be here in the dark? Why did Gayle have to go and die? I am not going to cry. I am not going to cry. I don’t cry. She rubbed a forefinger back and forth beneath her runny nose.

  Well, fuck it. If she didn’t have a right to cry, who did? She was an orphan. Her only relative had been bashed over the head and thrown in the car trunk. Cops were looking for her. She was hiding ou
t in her own house, not daring to turn on the light. So far, this was turning out to be the worst day of her life. And where was Rosie anyway? What the fuck happened to Gayle’s dog?

  Moonbeam had thought it was so brilliant, sneaking back in here. The cops were done searching and wouldn’t be back, so it was the best place to hide. She just had to be careful that Mrs. Hadwent didn’t notice anything, and stay away from windows and stuff. But there was food here and water. She could even take a shower as long as nobody saw steam coming out a window or something really dumb like that. And clean clothes.

  Except she hadn’t thought about it getting dark and not being able to turn on a light and it being really creepy and weird noises scaring the shit out of her and sounds like somebody sneaking in and maybe the psycho killer was coming back. Like he dropped something that would really prove who he was and everything and he had to break in and get it. And he wouldn’t know she was here. Oh, shit. Gayle? I really miss you.

  Who would kill Gayle anyway? Of course, she did have her bad side when she came all over the heavy parent and everything and they didn’t always get along like catsup and fries, but, hey, who does? At least, they had each other. Now she didn’t even have the dumb dog. Just in case the cops really had taken Rosie to the pound or something, she ought to call tomorrow and ask. There couldn’t be too many Belgian shepherds turned in.

  Moonbeam stopped rubbing her seriously sore toe and moved carefully and slowly through the dining room and into the hallway, clutching a box of crackers. After dark, she was afraid to open the refrigerator door, thinking even that small light might be noticed. Who knows, but what the cops might be driving by at certain times all night.

  Her bedroom was really totally dark. Isn’t that just perfect? She shuffled a perilous path from the doorway to her bed and climbed in. Why was she shaking so much? It wasn’t that cold.

  She pulled the blankets up to her chin and lay staring up at the black ceiling. When she’d been little, Gayle had pasted stars up there, because Moonbeam had been scared of the dark. Well, she wasn’t little anymore, and she wasn’t scared of anything.