Up in Smoke (15 page)

“Waiting for what? No one's out there!”

She switched off the lamp so she wouldn't be lit up like a stage. New locks, she'd get new locks on all the doors. Windows, too. Then she'd be safe. And the dog would bark. It might even protect her. She looked down at it. It looked back at her and swished its tail back and forth. Foolish to be worried about what would come at her from outside. It was from inside herself that danger would come.

Getting up so abruptly, she startled the dog, she jerked the curtains closed. Dark. Comforting, safe, no one could see her. She took in deep breaths, right, now
let it out slowly through your mouth, think of an empty beach with soft white sand, the surf whispering low
—

The exercises she'd been taught to slow her heartbeat and ward off a panic attack weren't working. She was here all by herself with no drugs. Someone was outside creeping up to the door, waiting, listening—

“This is stupid.”

Opening the curtain, she stared out into the darkness. There was nothing there but a small crescent of moon. She dropped into the chair and determinedly picked up the book. Concentrate. Her heart hammered, her chest grew tight, a light buzz started in her head. Despair built into a sense of terrible disaster so close to doom she felt she would die.

Nonsense. I won't die. I've been through this a million times. I won't die!

“I am forty-six years old,” she said aloud to wash out the rising roar in her head. “I had a husband. Long after I gave up hope I had a child. I was in hell and I survived. I can survive this. My heart will not stop. I will not be shredded to a victim by a panic attack. No!”

The buzzing in her mind made her dizzy, her head ached. She stumbled through the kitchen, fumbled with the lock on the door until she thought she would scream, got it open and fled out into the night. A rock tripped her and she nearly went sprawling. When she reached the circle of maple trees, she dropped, scooted her back against one and put her arms around her knees. Head down, she pulled in air, feebly trying to use visualization exercises to neutralize a hurricane.

Finally, finally, the terror reached a peak and began the slow climb down the other side. Finally, sanity began to return, her heart began to slow, the dizziness receded and the buzzing in her mind faded. She didn't die.

Raising her head, she noticed the dog beside her. It licked her icy fingers. Each time you survive one of these attacks, you get stronger. That's what the shrinks said. She wasn't so sure. When one came, it was like an old friend and every fiber of her being urged her to accept the invitation, throw away rational thought and give in to total mindless panic. Run. Blindly. Anywhere. Because it promised the blessed relief of oblivion.

When it was over, she was always tired, lethargic, feeling like she'd recovered from a bout of flu that had left her drained and weak. A breeze stirred the maple leaves. She strained to hear. It sounded almost—if she let her mind float—she could almost hear echoes of Laura's laughter.

After a long time—a minute? an hour? five hours?—she shivered and noticed how damp she was from sitting on the wet ground. She uncoiled herself, went back inside with the dog padding along beside her, peeled off her damp jeans, and pulled on a warm robe.

Roaring with avenging fury, the dog scrambled to the door and a minute later the bell rang. Terror reached out and sent a rigid finger touching Cass's heart. Not two attacks in one night! She shoved the dog out of the way and yanked open the door.

“I hope I didn't wake you.”

“Bernie! What are you doing here?”

He stepped inside and the dog nuzzled his hand, making little crooning sounds. “I came to bring you to the meeting.”

He patted the dog's sides and swung her head back and forth. “Hey, Carmen. Figured out I'm one of the good guys, have you?” The dog slathered him with exuberant kisses.

“Carmen?” Cass said.

“When she whimpers like that she sounds like she's singing. Everybody deserves a name. I figured I'd give you some help with it.”

“She's not mine,” Cass said.

“Okay. So until she's somebody else's, you need something to call her.”

Cass dropped it, she could see she wasn't going to win. “What meeting? It's bedtime.”

“Yeah, it is. Remember, I told you when politicians work? We just got back from Omaha and something's come up.” He went through the arched entryway into the dining room and picked up the roll of tape sitting on the stacked boxes ready for donation to the church rummage sale, that long day's work emptying the attic and Aunt Jean's closets still waiting. “Not all unpacked yet?”

“That's stuff I'm getting rid of. Look, Bernie. I've thought it over and I really don't want to get involved in a political campaign. I'm not going to be around long enough to do you any good. I wish you all the best of luck, but I'm not interested. Find someone else.”

“I don't find people, I just do what I'm told. I was told to bring you.” He tipped his head and studied her face. “What else have you got to do?” he said gently.

I have to hang on,
she thought. Because she was losing them. She had grieved for Ted and Laura with a keening ache and echoing emptiness, a pain as sharp as pulling her arm through a coil of barbed wire. The pain wouldn't go away. The staggering loss continued to hit her with ever-new disbelief and vacant despair. Every day for the last year, the pain of their loss waited in hiding to leap out and grab her by the throat, to choke the life from her. But now, far worse, the times and duration were growing less. Once, she could see them clearly, she had long conversations with Ted. She saw Laura's smile and heard her laugh and heard her singing to Monty. Now there were only brief flashes, unmoving, frozen like old snapshots. She was losing them and she wouldn't be able to live.

“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.”