Boomsday

by Christopher Buckley

  Randy nodded.

  “WHITE HOUSE SAID TO BE IMPRESSED BY JEPPERSON PERFORMANCE ON COMMISSION.”

  “WHITE HOUSE DAZZLED,” Bucky corrected.

  The president smiled. “You want to hear one more? PEACHAM ASKS JEPPERSON TO BE RUNNING MATE. Do you like that headline, Randy? Do you?”

  A little voice inside Randy was shouting, Look out! but what came out of his mouth was, “I believe so. Yes.”

  The president leaned back with a contented air. He looked over at Bucky. “What about you, Buck? You like that headline?”

  “I like it a lot.”

  The president stood, extended his hand, and said, “Okay, then, pardner. See you round the corral.”

  It was only later that Randy would note the conjunction of the words okay and corral in the sentence.

  Cass was cooking dinner for the two of them—a rare thing in these busy days—in Randy’s Georgetown manse. She had the TV on as she worked. She heard the anchor say, “And the White House today announced that it was appointing a special Presidential Commission on Transitioning . . .” She looked up from her soft-shell crabs.

  The phone rang. It was Terry, saying, “Turn on the TV.”

  “It’s on.”

  “What do you know about this?” he asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Where’s the junior senator from the great state of Massa-chusetts?”

  “He’s on his way. I’m cooking dinner for him.”

  “What are you making?”

  “Soft-shell crabs.”

  “What are you cooking them in?”

  “Skillet. Why?”

  “Well, when he walks in the door, hit him in the face with it. He’s on the commission. It was just announced.”

  “What? Impossible. He’d have said something.”

  She heard the door open. “Randy?” she called. “Is that you?”

  “Hi, darling. Are you in the kitchen?” His voice had a foreign upbeat quality to it.

  Cass said to Terry, “I don’t believe this. Call you back.”

  “Kill him,” said Terry.

  “Yum! Soft-shells! I love soft-shells. How was your day, sweetie?” He gave her a kiss on the cheek.

  “Fine. How was your day? Darling.”

  “Gosh. Busy. Listen—great news.”

  Cass sliced tomatoes. It kept her from disemboweling Randy with the knife.

  Randy said, “You won’t believe it.”

  “I’ve seen a few things in my time. Try me.”

  “I got the White House to appoint a commission on Transitioning.”

  Cass stared.

  He added, “It’s unbelievably good news for our side.”

  “A presidential commission,” Cass said somewhat coolly. “Boy. Those don’t come along just every day.”

  “It wasn’t easy, let me tell you. Had to twist quite a few arms. Bucky Trumble is one tough cookie. I had half an hour’s face time in the Oval with the president.”

  “Really? Well, you have been a busy boy,” Cass said, clutching her knife, reminding herself that killing a U.S. senator was a federal crime.

  “Aren’t you pleased? You don’t sound pleased.”

  Cass adopted a pensive attitude. “Didn’t you tell me that presidential commissions were what they appointed when they didn’t want to do anything about something, while giving the illusion that they do?”

  “Moi? Did I? I don’t remember that. No. No, no. Au contraire. Commissions are—my gosh, if you want to shine a light on something, there’s no better way. Darling, you don’t seem to grasp what marvelous news this is: a presidential commission. Blue-ribbon. You might be a little enthusiastic.”

  “Let’s review,” Cass said. “You’ve gone from hating the idea, to championing the idea, to giving away the idea, to sitting on a commission to discuss the idea. It’s not quite the ‘take that hill’ brand of leadership, is it?”

  Randy said, “I’m going to be more than just a commissioner.” He chuckled. “Don’t you doubt that. The White House is . . .This is really-really-really between us, okay? . . .The White House is on our side.”

  “Really?” said Cass. “Funny. You wouldn’t think so, the way they’ve attacked the idea day after day. Not to mention encouraging my father to denounce me.”

  “Darling. They can hardly come right out and say they like it. Presidents can’t just endorse mass suicide. It’s not presidential.”

  “Yes, that seems to be the general case in this town. Everyone walking around wishing they could say what they really believe.”

  “I’m starved. Let me go wash up.”

  “Yes,” Cass said. “You’d better, if you’ve been at the White House.”

  He ignored it and gave her a peck kiss on the cheek and toodled off.

  Cass called Terry. “Should I use the nine-inch skillet on him or the twelve-inch?”

  “The twelve-inch,” Terry said. “They just announced Gideon Payne is on the commission.”

  Chapter 22

  Dinner was not a success, and through no fault of the food. Cass served the crabs, along with dilled new potatoes and fresh tomatoes in balsamic vinegar, onto Randy’s lap. She then stormed out of the mansion, giving the ancient door such a satisfyingly good slam that the stained glass transom rattled. She drove back to her apartment and hunkered down in front of her computer in a Red Bull rage. When the going gets tough, the tough get blogging.

  There was a lot to do. She had to respond to Gideon’s charge about the Bosnian “evidence.” Once that was done, she would have to explain to her millions of loyal followers—followers who were depending on her—why their maximum leader, the senator from the great state of Massachusetts, Randolph “Let’s Make a Deal” Jepperson, had apparently sold them all down the river for some unspecified mess of pottage. The proximate cause of her dumping the delicious meal onto his lap was his refusal to tell her exactly what devil’s bargain he had entered into with the White House (in return for selling her out). Then there were thousands of e-mails wanting to know about her father’s denunciation of her. She sighed. She was tired. Should she take a Ritalin? It would be a long night. But it was good to be back in the cockpit. In cyberspace, everyone can hear you scream.

  The phone rang and rang. Randy. She answered four times, each with, “Fuck off,” and hung up. The fifth time, she picked up and listened. A strained voice said, “I’m all in favor of screwing, but can we at least do it in bed and not over the phone?”

  “I’m glad you called,” she said. “I need your help with the wording of this posting for CASSANDRA. See what you think: ‘Senator Sells Soul to Lowest Bidder. . . .’ Do you like it?”

  “Cass—”

  “Originally I had ‘Highest Bidder,’ but I changed it to ‘Lowest.’ I’m not sure what it means, but I like it. It says ‘sleazy.’ That’s just the headline. Do you want to hear the whole post?”

  Randy said, “Cass, will you please calm down?”

  “Too late. I’ve drunk three Red Bulls.”

  “Well, take a pill. You’re coming unhinged. You’re completely misinterpreting this. I’m telling you, it’s a coup what I’ve pulled off.”

  “What did they promise you?”

  Randy had been in Washington long enough to lie smoothly, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to do it to her. Anyway, she wouldn’t believe him. Once you’ve slept with a woman, it’s harder to lie to her, despite the necessity. “That Transitioning would get a good full hearing, with all sides represented, in the plain light of day. You have to understand, Cass, this is the way to go.”

  “I can’t even discuss it. And please, spare me a lecture on ‘How Our Democracy Works.’ It’s a good thing it was your ancestor and not you who worked on the Declaration of Independence. You’d have put in a clause reimbursing King George for the tea they dumped in Boston Harbor.”

  “What do you want me to do? Get down on my one good knee and beg forgiveness?”

  “A new record. Less than a m
inute into the conversation and you’ve played the amputee card. I’m beginning to wonder if it’s your leg you left over there or two other parts.”

  “That’s not very nice.”

  “Sorry. No, actually I’m not sorry.”

  “All right. Start over. I’m sorry I didn’t consult with you first.”

  “You should have.”

  “I know. You’re right. I’m pathetic.”

  “More.”

  “How can I ever forgive myself? I should have told the president, ‘I have to check with my girlfriend first.’”

  “Girlfriend? You mean the one you got the whole idea from in the first place?”

  “Intellectual partner. Soul mate. Anam cara.”

  “What?”

  “It’s Celtic. A good thing. Trust me.”

  “Trust is the issue here, Randy.”

  “I’m sorry. Okay? I am truly, sincerely sorry.”

  “Try practicing in front of a mirror. Call me in the morning.”

  “I will. But no blogging, okay? Promise? . . .Cass? . . .Ca-ass?”

  Cass and Terry were working on a PowerPoint presentation for a client who was looking to get a fat government subsidy for distilling automobile fuel out of used fast-food restaurant fry grease when the senator from the great state of Massachusetts walked in, looking somewhat less great than his state. He was limping, Cass noticed, and for once it had the look of sincerity. He slumped wordlessly into a chair.

  “Did you really,” he said to Cass, rubbing his forehead, “have to say that about me on your website?”

  Terry looked at Cass.

  She explained, “I quoted Groucho Marx: ‘I’ve got principles. And if you don’t like those, I’ve got others.’”

  “Sounds about right,” Terry snorted.

  “Before you two swoop down and begin feasting on my carcass,” Randy said, “I’ve got something to say.”

  “If it’s your Ich bin ein asshole speech,” Terry said, “I’m all ears.”

  “Finished?” Randy said. “I called Bucky Trumble this morning, and I gave him what-for.”

  Terry said to Cass, “‘What-for’? Is that WASP-talk?”

  “I said to him, ‘How could you put Gideon Payne on the commission when just the other day he suggested that Cass and I were . . .screwing in a minefield?’ He said they had to put him on. I told him in no uncertain terms that I was not pleased.”

  Cass said, “I bet that had him quaking in his loafers.”

  “I’m trying,” Randy said, “to make amends.”

  “Why don’t you tell us what deal you struck with them in return for this abortion.”

  Randy glanced at Terry, then at Cass with a look of Not in front of the children.

  “Is he suggesting,” Terry said to Cass, “that I leave—my own office?”

  Cass said, “Randy. What do I have to do—toss a stick of dynamite down your throat? Just tell us.”

  “This stays in this room. They’re thinking of dumping Laney. And when they do, they’ll make me VP.”

  Cass and Terry stared.

  “They were very impressed with the way I’ve handled the Transitioning bill.”

  Still no reaction from Cass and Terry.

  “He said I remind him of JFK.”

  Cass and Terry reacted. They burst out laughing.

  “You, uh,” Cass said, trying to compose herself, “got this in writing?”

  “Of course not. It’s a deep, deep secret. Which I’m counting on you two to keep. So don’t, please, blow it for me.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it. Well, at least I got it right that you sold out to the lowest bidder.”

  “Lowest bidder? They’re offering me the vice presidency! You make it sound like I won ten dollars in some county fair for growing the second biggest cucumber.”

  “More like for laying the biggest egg. There wasn’t much point left to Transitioning after your Boomer pork giveaway spree. And now you’ve thrown the rest of it down the drain for a slot on some idiot commission.”

  Randy glowered.

  “And you can cool it with the ‘kinda spooky’ look. You look like a poodle pretending to be a Rottweiler.”

  For a few seconds, Randy looked as though he might take off his leg and start smashing furniture. Then the air went out of him. His muscles untensed. Suddenly he looked like a schoolboy who’d run out of excuses. Cass was almost moved to comfort him.

  “I guess I have made a bit of a pig’s breakfast of it,” Randy said, chewing on a fingernail.

  “There,” Cass said. “See? Telling the truth is like riding a bicycle. No matter how out of practice you are, it’ll come back to you.”

  “I don’t suppose you two would help me clean up the breakfast?”

  Cass and Terry looked at each other.

  Randy added, “On a professional basis, of course.”

  “Oh,” Terry snorted, “definitely.”

  Randy said, “I can’t do this without you.”

  “What about that crack ninja Senate staff of yours?”

  “I don’t like them. I don’t trust them. They scare me.”

  Cass said, “I work for Terry. It’s up to him.”

  “In that case,” Randy said, “I’m done for.”

  Terry said, “Are you capable of following instructions?”

  “Within reason,” Randy said, reverting to aristocratic mode.

  It was Cass, not Terry, who issued Randy his first instruction: to call Bucky Trumble and tell him that if Gideon Payne was going to be on the presidential commission, then so was Cassandra Devine. When she got Bucky on the phone, he resisted, but Randy, with Cass hovering over him, informed the president’s chief counselor that he didn’t really have a choice in the matter.

  The ring tone of Gideon Payne’s cell phone was programmed to the sound of church bells tolling “Hallelujah.” All day long it had sounded like Easter Sunday.

  A number of his callers were incredulous that he had accepted a job on a commission appointed to study the feasibility of legalizing mass suicide. Many of these were big SPERM donors. Gideon patiently explained that he was now in a position to influence—or as he put it, “determine”—the outcome. He did not reveal the precise terms of his deal with the president. But he hinted heavily that before long they would be hearing a message of support from the White House about SPERM’s long cherished memorial on the Mall to the 43 million unborn. To this reassurance, he added, with a coy little chortle, that with him on the commission, Transitioning now stood as much chance of becoming national policy as a snowball in the infernal region.

  Gideon did not have much chance to wallow in his new position. The next day, a sheepish-sounding Bucky Trumble called him to say that, uh, well, it seems that Cassandra Devine is also going to be on the commission.

  “This is monstrous!” Gideon exploded. “She’s the architect of this fiendish scheme! It’s like putting Adolf Hitler on the board of B’nai B’rith!”

  Bucky equivocated to the overheated reverend that, much as he wanted to, he was unable to remove the dreadful woman from the commission. In soothing tones, he said that he and the president had “full confidence” in Gideon’s ability to “decisively influence” the commission.

  “The president is counting on you,” Bucky said. “You’re our man on the commission.”

  “What about my memorial?” Gideon demanded sulkily.

  “Gideon. If we don’t get the president reelected, there won’t be a memorial. If Jepperson and that terrible woman prevail . . .well, I shudder.”

  “I still want a statement for the record of the president’s support.”

  “The announcement is being drafted even as we speak.”

  Late the next Friday afternoon, when even an announcement that the United States was preemptively launching a nuclear war might be overlooked by the media, the White House issued a statement saying that it had “no objection in principle” to a “life memorial in a suitable locale within the nation’s capi
tal.”

  Gideon telephoned the White House to express his displeasure at this tepid declaration of support. Bucky assured him that the president would make his memorial “a priority” in the second term. On hanging up, Bucky Trumble wondered if he had done the right thing by inviting Gideon into his tent. His days were full enough without being on the receiving end of half a dozen daily hysterical phone calls from a steam-driven man o’ god. Gideon’s high-pitched voice was far from dulcet, even on an otherwise calm day.

  Gideon and Monsignor Montefeltro met for a glass of 1997 Brunello di Montalcino to discuss strategy. The monsignor kept a superb cellar beneath his Georgetown home. Bottles from this happy catacomb had lubricated the pen hands of many a wealthy Catholic widow as they signed away vast tranches of their substance to Mother Church. How well the Lord would be pleased with them. Don’t forget to sign here, too. And initial here.

  Gideon shared with the monsignor every jot and tittle of his deal with the White House. Montefeltro was himself a man thoroughly versed in hierarchies, a denizen of one of the world’s most ancient bureaucracies. Gideon craved his advice.

  “Bucky Trumble, he sounds a very clever fellow,” he said, pouring Gideon a second glass. “But since he is a clever fellow, you must be vigilant, Geedeon.”

  “Oh, to be sure,” Gideon said sipping the wine, “to be sure.”

  “Do you believe Bucky Trumble when he tells you the president will make the memorial a priority in his next term of office? After he is reelected, he won’t need quite so much from his old friends and supporters.”

  “Massimo,” Gideon said, “no more, thank you, it’s delicious, just delicious, but I’ll be three sheets to the wind. Of course they’re lying to me. How they do lie. But don’t suppose for one second that they’re going to play me for the fool. Gideon Payne did not fall off the back of a sweet potato truck. No, no, no. At the appropriate time, between the national political convention in August and the start of the general election on Labor Day, I will insist that they make the memorial a campaign issue. I will insist on a written declaration.” Gideon pursed his wine-moist lips.

  “There is a matter I must share with you,” the monsignor said. “There was a meeting at the Vatican some days ago. On the subject of the American Transitioning bill. There is a group of some cardinals. Very orthodox, very doctrinal, very severe. The chief of them is Cardinal Restempopo-Bandolini. He is very important in the Vatican. Really, he is the semipope. Very powerful. What I will tell you now must sound very old-fashioned, but these cardinals, they see in this Transitioning an opportunity. At this meeting—this is very secret, Geedeon—they urged the holy father to issue a bull.”