The Crash of Hennington (39 page)

—This phone will cycle as a mobile, so no one will know where you’re calling from, and the mobile account is in the name of a dead person. What I’m worried about is putting out to the world that you’re here, that you want to contact someone. That’s a weakness that could be exploited. Plus and yes, your sons are almost definitely going to be watched.

—My ex-husband isn’t going to let them be in any danger.

—It’s not for your ex-husband to say whether they’re in danger or not. He probably won’t even know. Look, it’s a big risk. I still advise you not to take it.

—But, well, see, have you ever had a feeling that you know is absolutely right, no matter what the externals are or how they tell you to do something else? That you’ve got to do this one thing because it’s the
right
thing, no matter what?

—No, but I’ll believe that you feel it. Just be careful. Don’t over-use the line, don’t talk too long or try to call too often. Tell absolutely no one where you are, and try to get them to keep even the fact that you called a secret.

—I might not even get through. It’s been a long time.

—Be careful.

—I will. Wish me luck.

—Good luck.

—Jacki. It’s Jacki. Say, ‘Good luck, Jacki'.

—I wish you hadn’t told me. It’s better if I didn’t know.

—Too late for that. Say it. You’re the only human contact I’ve had in ages.

—I don’t know—

—It would mean a lot.

He laughed. Her persistence was becoming an expected pleasure.

—All right, all right. Good luck, Jacki. Happy?

—Blissful. And nervous.

—Then definitely ‘good luck'. I’ll be back in the morning with some more water.

She spent the next hour walking the same circle through the storehouse, trying to talk herself into it, trying to gather enough nerve from her frayed system to actually push the buttons. The facts: two years was a long time not to see your sons and an unforgivable length if it was voluntary. Worse was the full year that had passed since the last phone call, and she couldn’t really remember what it was even about. Probably nothing but embarrassed nonsense. She was deep in the grip of Forum then, and so many things were blurred.

But also factual: though she still occasionally pissed blood, though her heart still raced in odd fits and starts, though her temperature could skyrocket and plummet with no warning, she had kicked the Forum habit. Somehow, in all this mess, there was this miracle to hang on to, there was a reason to go forward, there was a reason to do this, yes?

But then the questions, too: why motherhood so suddenly? Or was that just a question from the old Jacki, the mean one, the harpy (so Jacki had taken to envisioning her) who wanted the needle? Was this too much too soon? Was she just feeling good again, and thought that automatically meant that all the trouble she’d had with being a mother to two boys was just going to vanish? Was she giving in to simple irony that now that she’d stopped producing milk then that must be the signal to start feeling maternal again? And why would her boys even give her a chance after she had behaved so badly? What in blazes was she doing? Was she so far out on a limb that she
was willing to try anything? Or did being on a limb free her? Which was it? Was there a right answer after all?

When the moment finally came, she didn’t think about it, finding herself suddenly dialing, and then doing everything she could not to pass out while it rang. She squatted down on her haunches and tried not to hyperventilate. Ring Ring. She was equally desperate that no one be there and that someone answer. Ring Ring. Maybe no one was home. Ring Ring. She could always call back, but the thought of gathering this courage all over again seemed momentarily unbearable.

—Hello?

Oh, my God.

—Hello.

—Yes?

The voice seemed out of breath.

—I’m sorry. Am I interrupting?

—No, it’s fine. I was out back. Who’s speaking, please?

Phrased politely, so it had to be Morton, the youngest, who would be what, fifteen? Sixteen? When was his last birthday? Her heart chilled in the few seconds that it took her to remember. She should have known immediately.

—Is that Morton?

—Yes. Who’s this?

Still friendly, still welcoming, still persisting in the question, one that opened up a landslide of answers. Mom? Jacki? Jacqueline Strell? Former prostitute, former drug addict, former slave to Thomas Banyon? Who was she now anyway?

—It’s, um … It’s—

—Yeah?

—It’s someone you know.

She winced. A stupid answer. You can’t get to the finish line and then stall, she told herself. Shit or get off the pot. A
phrase, unbidden and unwelcome, that her ex-husband used to say with a cheeky grin on his face, waiting for someone to laugh.

—Who? I don’t really have time to guess. I’m doing yardwork.

Morton doing yardwork. Her sweet, sensitive youngest out in the yard with his flowerbeds and his vegetables and his shrubs and trees. A world that perplexed both brother and father, but one they nevertheless were a little in awe of as Morton coaxed all kinds of amazing beauty into their tiny yard. Jacki was suddenly overwhelmed with love for him. She placed a hand on the floor to steady herself. Whatever happened was whatever happened. She would move forward no matter what.

—Morton, it’s Mom. It’s your mother.

84. Triumph of the Will.

—You know, for someone who’s done precious goddamn little for this campaign, you’re sure throwing your weight around a lot.

—'Precious goddamn little'? Have you paid attention to
anything,
Thomas?

—I’m just saying your pushiness is getting a little boring.

—All I said was that you should have let me read the letter first before you sent it.

—It’s been a huge success. We’re getting a shitload of supportive phone calls.

—Phone calls mean nothing. All they reflect are the opinions of those crazy or lonely or annoyed enough to call. They are only tangentially connected to reality or how the city actually views you.

—It’s a success, Jon. The only reason you can’t see it is because you didn’t think of it.

—I didn’t think of it because it’s a
bad idea
, you overgrown bullock.

Thomas smiled. You were winning an argument if you could lower your opponent to name-calling. In fact, this whole exchange was turning into a great pleasure. A good opportunity to get out some aggression. He still didn’t have his own campaign office. He still had to memorize idiotic facts about idiotic subjects to impress slack-jawed crowds of idiotic voters. He was still spending copious amounts of money while this extremely rich pompous twat opposite him prattled on with his
advice.
It was time for someone to feel some heat, and if it was Jon then so much the better.

—I apologize for the name-calling.

Thomas frowned.

—You do?

—Yes, it was juvenile. We’re grown men. We should act like it.

—Fair enough.

—Also fair enough would be to run things by me, at least for an opinion, before splashing it before the eyes of every voter and, more importantly, every donor in this city.

—We’ve pulled in almost forty thousand since the letter ran.

—Thirty-seven thousand of that was already pre-arranged. By me. The remaining three thousand could be counted under regular daily donations. It proves nothing.

—It was more of a symbolic gesture. I was taking a stand.

—A suicidally unpopular stand.

—Now, there you’re wrong. Unpopular, yes, but it shows I’ve got guts. Plus, The Crash did kill that smelly pile of shit. I saw it happen.

—The trauma is obvious.

—Could you possibly come down from your superior tree for just one short conversation? It’s an unpopular stand. No shit. The Crash are an institution. But now they’ve killed someone. People aren’t going to know how to think about that. They’re going to wonder what to do. They’re going to wonder until someone
tells
them what to do. I’m there first. If we change their opinion, then Max, who is Crash Advocate-General, that fucking fake job he made up, he’s right in the cross hairs of public discontent. Check and checkmate.

—I’ll admit that the idea has some appeal—

—Thank you.

—But I don’t think it’s that clear-cut. You’re not absolutely sure you can swing the opinion.

—No one said it wasn’t a risk.

—My point is I could have helped you make it better if you’d had even the common courtesy to show it to me before you had it printed. And that was it, wasn’t it? You had it printed because Banyon Enterprises owns that paper, if I’m not mistaken.

—And your point?

—My point is that you looked like a buffoon.

—Now you go too far—

—No, Thomas, wrong. You looked like a half-literate moron in that letter, like an anti-intellectual jackanapes trying to stampede his way into power with all the finesse of a lovestruck buffalo.

Thomas smiled again. This was more like it.

—Why? What was wrong with it?

—Where do I start? How about the runaway capitalization?

—Emphasis.

—If you emphasize everything, then it just looks like
you’re screaming. Plus, do you even know what a split infinitive
is?

—No one gives a shit about split infinitives!

—Not consciously, but on some level, deep down, they can see that they don’t have to take you seriously.

—Wrong. Deep down, they can identify with me because they split fucking infinitives all the fucking time.

Oh, yes, this was turning into good fun. Jon’s face was apoplectically red. Thomas had never seen him this upset.

—Why do I even offer my help to you if you won’t take it?

—What do you mean not take it? I take your advice when I deem it worthwhile. You are an advisor on this journey, Jon, not the captain. That you keep forgetting is an unpleasantness that’s wearing on my patience.

Jon took a long, angry breath.

—I only want you to win, Thomas. Then you can do whatever the hell you like as Mayor. It’s only important to me that you win.

—Why? Why is it so important? We’ve come this far and you’ve said nothing except, ‘Oh, I have my own blessed reasons'. Well, out with them, Jon. Out with your bloody blessed reasons if you want to stay here and help me, Mr It’s-Only-Important-That-You-Win.

—My reasons are my own. My help, which is more valuable than you can possibly understand, is what I offer.

—'More valuable than you can possibly understand'. Do you know how intolerable you sound when you say that?

Thomas leaned slowly back into his chair and reached into his pocket for a cigarillo. Before he got it to his lips, Jon smacked it to the floor.

—And quit smoking those goddamn things! You can’t be stoned and run a campaign!

—It’s a mild narcotic,
Jon.
Are you suddenly my mother? Because I’ve got news for you. She’s dead.

Jon cocked his head and was silent for a moment.

—I think this is just about enough, really.

—I beg your pardon?

—You’ll either win or you won’t. I no longer have any influence here, even though later on you’ll wish I did. I’ll still do what I can to see that you win, Thomas, even though you don’t remotely deserve it. But enough of this bullshit.

He stood from his chair.

—What do you mean?

—What do I mean? I mean you now command this boat alone. I’d wish you well if both of us didn’t already know that I wouldn’t mean it. Good day, Thomas.

Six brisk steps and he was out of the office. Thomas was astonished, and then he was pleased. What a nice day this had turned out to be. He couldn’t stop smiling even as he got down on his knees to look for the errant cigarillo.

85. Getting to the Bottom.

—I think I know what it is, Pastor.

—Come in, come in.

Jarvis was unnerved by both the ashen look on Mrs Bellingham’s face, a look he had only seen the once before when she related her disturbing dream to him (a memory that stirred up its own unsettling chain of thoughts) and by the fact that he had no need to ask her what ‘it’ she was referring to.

—Unburden yourself, Sister.

She looked surprised.

—That seems awfully formal, Jarvis.

—Sorry, Mrs Bellingham. I’m just on edge.

—And you think I’m not?

—Of course, of course, I—

—Forgive me, I’m wound up. I’m very upset.

—Tell me what’s bothering you, Sister.

She sighed deeply, as if she had at last found a place of rest after a long run.

—My friends Tova Kikaham and Evelyn Tottenham, you know them.

—Yes.

—Well, they paid me a visit this morning, which was unusual.

—Why unusual?

—Friends don’t really ‘drop by’ anymore, do they? You call on the phone. You see each other at church or out shopping or visiting someone on a birthday. You don’t ‘drop by'.

—I can see that.

—Can you? Good, because it didn’t feel right to me and I thought that was the reason. All I was sure of is that it felt strange.

—So I’m guessing it wasn’t a straight social call?

—I’m getting there. I’m sorry, that was curt. I’m just out of sorts.

—Take your time.

—
I
am.
Sorry. Tova and Evelyn came by just after breakfast. They just knocked on the door, and when I answered it, they stood there like they were salesmen or something. It was very strange. I’ve never even had Tova Kikaham over to my house before, come to think of it. I just know her from church and that’s it. Evelyn’s been to a few dinner parties, I guess, but not for a while. Yet there they were, on my doorstep like they were going to offer me new carpeting. They had this look, this kind of eager look that I couldn’t figure out. This
strange thing in the eyes, kind of spooky. I almost didn’t let them in, it shook me so.

—But you did?

—Of course! I couldn’t just slam the door on them, could I now? They sat on my couch, right on the edge, not leaning back, not relaxing at all. They wouldn’t take any coffee or cake that I offered, which was even stranger because you know Evelyn eats like a starved hyena. They just looked at me with their eyes all wet and sparkly, and I began to wonder who was getting married or having a baby. Then do you know what they said? They said, ‘Please sit down, Sister'. Sit down! Like I was visiting
them.