the Plan (1995) (13 page)

"And now, a political commentary from Brenton Spencer," the P
. M
. announcer said. And then Brenton was on camera, seated in front of the world map in the center of the Rim while news staffers ran around in the wide shots with arms full of empty folders.
. T
he newsroom look had been Brenton's idea. Then the camera moved in close for his political update section of the newscast.

He looked seriously into the lens. "What New England governor is mad as hell and about to do something about it?"

The shot switched to some edits of Haze Richards. They'd picked his "angry as hell" sound bite.

The film clip started. "I'm mad that our system of government has been stolen by special interest groups. I want to take America back," Haze said from the rotunda.

In the control room, Steve Israel hunched in his seat behind the director looking at the "line" monitor as the
"B-roll" footage on Haze's press conference was running. On the "preview" monitor, he could see Brenton fidgeting with his tie. "Tell him to sit up. He looks shifty," Steve said as the director hit the "God Button" and repeated the instructions to Brenton who sat up and put his hands to his temples and massaged them briefly. "Coming back from the B-roll on camera one in five-four-three-two take one. . . . "

The shot switched back to Brenton, who looked into camera as they made a slow push-in. "With that startling declaration, Haze Richards, a man unknown to most of America, hurried out of Providence and became the last Democratic candidate to head to Iowa and the big show that is scheduled to open tomorrow with the Register-Guard debate. So who is this man and why is he so angry? We know very little beyond the fact he was born rich, the son of a doctor. He has had a life of privilege. His govenunent watch in Rhode Island has been marked by inconsistencies, failing even the most modest list of prerequisites for the greatest office in the world. How can a man with no outstanding achievements join a select group of qualified, tested politicians seeking the Democratic nomination? Unfortunately, in these times of media-created candidates, his lack of credentials seems of little consequence. He has no stated position, policy, or point of view. He wavers on important issues, even in his own state."

He went on to say what he'd been told to say. He'd never taken on a candidate so directly, and it scared him. He had moved outside his role of news reporter and entered the fragile territory of participant. And tomorrow he would fly to Des Moines, where he'd take a dive on national TV.

After the show, he felt light-headed and queasy. He went back into his office, pulled the curtain, and poured himself a shot of whiskey to calm his nerves and relieve the pounding pain in his head. Then, without warning, before he could drink it, he threw up into his wastebasket.

Chapter
18.

SLEEP-OVER
WITH A JO-BOB

FORTY MINUTES OUT OF DES MOINES, THE HUGE JET TOOK
a series of bone-jarring, fifty-foot drops off of air ledges, throwing open overhead luggage compartments and spilling their contents. The flight attendants had their smiles fixed with adhesive insincerity, their lips pulled tight against dry teeth. "It's okay. We're just experiencing a little turbulence."

"Turbulence, my ass," Ryan thought. "We're in a Mix-master."

Haze Richards lost his cool completely. Ryan had been trying to film him sitting in the coach section. Rellica Sunn had been kneeling in her seat, facing backward, gunning off footage of the governor, who was sitting a row behind her studying Iowa grain-export reports. But when the plane took its first huge kaboom, Richards's eyes went wide.

"What's that? What's happening?"

Susan Winter tried to soothe him from the seat next to his. "Just turbulence."

Rellica went flying and would have hit the ceiling if Ryan hadn't grabbed her belt. She never took the camer
a o
ff her eye. Ryan continued to hold her as theplane hit another deep air pocket.

"Turn around," Haze whispered in panic. "We have to turn around."

The plane lurched to the right, winged over, and dropped five hundred feet, fire-falling . . . the engines screaming, handbags and briefcases showering down out of the overhead compartments like calfskin raindrops.

"Turn around, that's an order," Haze barked, his voice suddenly strong. "I'm the governor of Rhode Island. Turn around!"

A. J. Teagarden was slowly making his way to Haze, holding on to seat backs, pulling himself up the aisle, once losing his footing and falling to his knees with a painful whack. Finally, he reached Haze's side.

"Just Iowa Republicans throwing up a little antiaircraft." He grinned.

"I want us to turn around." Haze was pale as a Russian princess, his eyes darting around the plane in panic. And then the plane rolled left, falling sideways in a wing slip, both engines screaming as they sucked in the light, vacuous air.

"This is a direct order from the governor of Rhode Island. Turn us around immediately!" His voice was shrill, terrified.

Rellica Sunn was still shooting. Ryan was holding her around the waist with both arms, trying to keep her from flying around the cabin. A. J. Teagarden leaned over to speak to Ryan and Rellica.

"Turn that camera off. I don't think we're gonna wanna use much of this." When Rellica shut off the camera, Haze appeared to be sobbing.

"Damn it, Haze, stop it!" Finally, A
. J
. slapped the startled governor.

Miraculously, at that moment, the plane found stable air and they were all sitting in the cabin with the blank expressions of condemned prisoners, their luggage and papers strewn around in the aisle.

They landed twenty minutes later in Des Moines, Iowa, and piled out of the back door of the Republic 737, dragging their luggage, like refugees from a Texas flood.

The Rouchards met them at the gate.

They went to the Iowa Feed and Grain Show, where Governor Richards had his picture taken with the 4-H pig, sold kisses in the kissing booth, and watched prize Herefords on show in the small ring. The Rouchards had found a farm in Grinnell, Iowa, owned by a near-bankrupt couple named Bud and Sarah Caulfield, where Haze would spend the night.

The meeting between Haze Richards and the Caulfields was captured by Rellica Sunn on film. Haze hugged the ruddy potato farmer's wife on their sagging front porch.

"It's so kind of you to let me stay in your beautiful, beautiful home." He sounded like Robin Leach, bowing slightly at the waist, holding Sarah Caulfield's hand for a second too long to show he really cared. They all went into the house and Haze looked around the shabby living room with a picture of their dead son on the mantel. He'd been a casualty in Vietnam. Haze picked up the picture, looked at it for a long time, then set it carefully down as Rellica tightened the shot.

"Hunert-an'-sixth Airborne," Bud said, reverently, "Young Bud died during Tet tryin' to help get his buddies out." His voice cracked with proud emotion.

Later that night, A. J. Teagarden and Haze Richards huddled in the small master bedroom and talked about tomorrow's debate.

The room was done with no-frills simplicity. Faded yellow drapes faced a handmade wooden bed and dresser. A colorful quilt made by Sarah Caulfield's mother was folded over the foot of the bed.

"There's no mirror in the bathroom," Haze quibbled as he moved around the small room.

"We've got to go over this stuff," A
. J
. forged ahead. "Shoot," Haze said, finally resigned to the small room.

At least he wouldn't have to share it with his wife. Anita wasn't arriving until tomorrow.

"We're gonna stick to the message. Haze Richards is going to make America work for you."

"Come on, A
. J
., I gotta say more than that. . . . They're gonna demand to know where I stand. What if they ask me about gays in the military? I'm gonna say, 'I'll make America work for homosexuals'? . . . That's nuts!"

"No, you don't say that. You look appalled. You look right into the camera and say, 'I think every American should have the right to serve his country if he wants to. I understand there are problems and I think we can work out those problems satisfactorily. But, damn it, this is just another example of special interest divisiveness. We're standing around arguing about gays in the military when the real argument should be, what is the role of the American military? Are we going to continue to spend one fifth of our gross national product on defense while people in this country are starving? Do we stand guard over every democracy in the world and, if so, what is the cost of that experience? Who pays for it? Do we bill rich nations we're protecting, like Japan and Germany and Kuwait? Or do we make hardworking American laborers pay? Those are the questions that the Haze Richards presidency will address. I'm going to make America work for all of you again.' "

"That's fucking gobbledygook and you know it."

"Pound the message home, Haze. It's the sure route to the White House."

Haze looked down at his glossy, pale fingernails.

"Okay, you want an issue? I'll give you an issue. All of these other guys are pandering to the Iowa voters. They're saying what they think Iowans want to hear, and none of 'em have a clue. Iowa's a farm state, so they're all supporting farm protection. Every damn one. So, let's go the other way. Let's take on farm subsidies."

Haze looked at Teagarden like he'd lost his mind. "Attack farm subsidies in a farm state? What're you smoking?"

"I've researched it. It's perfect. It makes you look courageous. Haze Richards talks the truth. You know this is political suicide, but fuck it, if you can't speak honestly, then this country is farther up shit creek than you thought."

"We come out against subsidies, we're dead."

"I don't think so. There's a big difference between the farm program, which you're going to support, and farm subsidies, which you're against. The farm program
helps the little farmers, people like the Caulfields. They're all Democrats. It gives them low-cost loans and pays them to let their fields lie fallow. We support that. But subsidies only help the big corporation farms and those guys are all Republicans anyway and wouldn't vote for you if you were giving away flathead tractors. It's a perfect issue. You make the other guys look like pandering assholes, and the real Iowa farmers will know you aren't hurting them because, believe me, these guys know the difference between the farm program and farm subsidies. I'm telling you, it's a perfect issue. I'll give you all your lines. Just do it the way I say . . . okay?"

A
. J
. thought Haze looked tired. Not a good sign for the beginning of the campaign.

"Something else . . . Brenton Spencer is going to harass you during the debate. He's going to characterize your candidacy as unqualified and unsound. Mickey Alo says they've gotten to him. When the time is right, I want you to shoot him down. I'll talk to you about it tomorrow when I've got something written up."

A
. J
. left Haze alone in the Iowa farm room. Haze looked out the window at the desolate farm that Bud and Sarah Caulfield had put their lives into and were about to lose. Haze thought they would be well rid of it.

The Caulfields had given over their house to the Haze Richards for President Campaign and, after dinner, had driven off to spend the night with a neighbor. Haze had their bedroom; Malcolm and A
. J
. had borrowed their dea d s on's room. Susan Winter got a couch in the side room. Ryan had been given the couch in the den. Rell Sunn had elected to sleep in the back of the van, which was parked in the barn. Ryan had worried about her sleeping out there in thirty-degree weather but she shook him off and bundled up Bud's down sleeping bag, grabbed a pillow, and moved to the door.

"Ain't ya heard . . . ? Wild rice won't freeze." She put a hand on his arm and smiled. "I like it cold. See ya in the morning." And she left, walking across the cold ground toward the wood barn.

Ryan spent a while wandering around Bud Caulfield's tiny den looking at the books. He pulled down one about crop rotation and flipped it open. Parts had been underlined and there were margin notes.

He was suddenly someplace else. In his mind, he saw another study with books all around. The red-haired boy was with him. "Come on, Ryan, come on," the boy said. "Race ya to the swing." Suddenly, he knew his name. . . . It was Terrance Fisher. And then the memory ended. He sat on the sofa in Bud Caulfield's cluttered den.

On the coffee table, there was a photo album. He opened it and found pictures of the Caulfields in better days: There were shots of Bud junior growing up. The last one showed him at a bus station in his new army uniform going off to war.

Ryan knew the pain of their loss.

He closed the album and thought about Matt. Then he turned out the light and lay back in the darkness. He felt he was close to something important--close to the shadow. Soon he was asleep.

And then he had the dream. . . .

He was standing by a swing in a backyard he didn't recognize. But he knew he was seven years old. He was watching while the red-haired boy named Terrance pumped back and forth on the swing. "Race you, Ryan," he yelled and jumped off the swing and ran toward the house. Ryan was after him, both boys running for all the y w ere worth. In the dream, Ryan was everywhere, as in a poorly edited movie. . . . First he was behind Terry; then he was watching from the side: then he was back in his own body, chasing. His laughter came, tiny and hollow, as Terry rounded the pool. And then ... Terry's feet slipped on the pavement and he screamed--splashing, floundering. Ryan saw it now in black and white--crude still frames blurred the memory. Ryan stopped and looked down, his feet frozen. He wanted to reach out to Terry but he was held by an invisible force--he couldn't move.