Boomsday

Chapter 34

It had been a long time since he’d been back to Frenchman’s Bluff, overlooking the Coosoomahatchie River. Gideon Payne was attended by several campaign aides and the crew of 60 Minutes. The producers had even found a 1955 Cadillac Eldorado convertible with red leather upholstery.

“Will you be sending the car off the cliff?” Gideon inquired. The answer, thankfully, was no.

“It is a bit eerie,” Gideon told the reporter who was doing the segment. “Most eerie.”

“You’re a sport to do this,” the reporter said.

“My pleasure.” Gideon smiled faintly. “Well, perhaps that’s not quite the right word.”

“Okay,” said a cameraman, “we’re rolling.”

“Mother was sitting right where you are now, in the passenger seat. We often came to this place on our Sunday drives. We’d stop right where we are now. On that day, I put it in park, just like…so. Set the parking brake, so. I left the motor running. We never stayed very long. Got out of the car…” Gideon opened the door and got out, reporter, cameraman, and sound technician following. “And walked over to this spot here. There used to be a bush. So you see, I had privacy. I was standing here, facing away from the car, taking care of what had to be taken care of, and that’s when I heard this dreadful sound.”

“What kind of a sound?”

“A sort of grinding, mechanical sound. Then I heard Mother shrieking and expostulating. I zipped myself up and turned and saw that the car was rolling down toward the edge of the cliff. And I ran.”

“Can you show us?”

“I was more, shall we say, fit in those days. I ran toward the car. Mother was continuing her shrieking, and I think trying to turn the car, also doing something with the transmission. She went over before I could reach her. It was dreadful. I still remember the sound of the car.…?It’s a moment that has stayed with me all my life. As you can imagine.”

“But if the transmission somehow slipped out of park, wouldn’t it have gone into reverse?”

“One would think,” Gideon said. “Yes.”

“And yet the sheriff’s report states that the transmission was in drive when the car landed.”

“Yes,” Gideon said, patting his vest pocket for his watch, “I can only surmise that Mother, in her panic, managed to shift into drive. She was not very adept at driving to begin with.”

“The sheriff’s report also indicated that the parking brake was off.”

“Yes,” Gideon said, “I believe that was accounted for by the impact of the landing. It’s nearly four hundred feet down. Don’t stand too close.”

“Did you kill your mother?”

“No, ma’am,” Gideon said. “But I do appreciate your candor, and I appreciate your having come all this way to put this matter to rest.”

“Is it at rest? Some people around here we’ve talked to still seem to have doubts.”

“Well…” Gideon smiled. “I would say to you, let them come forward and present their evidence. I don’t think they will, for evil shunneth the light and hideth its face at noon. No, I did not kill her. In fact, this is part of the reason I find myself a candidate for the presidency. There are those who are advocating that we drive our dear old mothers and fathers off cliffs. Surely there must be some better way of resolving our Social Security and Medicare problems, critical as they may be.”

Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick…

Gideon watched the broadcast with his campaign staff at headquarters. When it ended, the place erupted in whoops and hollers. (Most of the staff was from the South.) His press secretary, Teeley, gave a thumbs-up, despite the bit with the aging coroner, who told the 60 Minutes correspondent, “I don’t think we’re evah really going to get to the bottom of what happened that day at Frenchman’s Bluff.” Gideon was accepting congratulations and pats on the back when his aide thrust forward and said that there was a call from a Ms. Tolstoy.

“Who?” Gideon said.

“Something about a gold watch.…?Reverend? Are you all right? Should I fetch some bicarbonate?”

Cass had watched 60 Minutes with Terry and Randy. Randy said, “He came off rather well, I thought. I still think he did the old girl in.”

“No,” Cass said. “He didn’t. But there’s something missing to it. Whatever. He came off well. He defused it.”

Randy said, “I’ll bet my guy Speck could find out if he sent her off that cliff.”

Cass said, “Now, now-we’re not going negative, remember?”

“Not yet, anyway,” Terry muttered.

“I thought the plan,” Randy said, “was to scare the shit out of the U30s?” U30s was their shorthand for the under-thirty voters they were after. It sounded like a German submarine.

“It’s not the same thing,” Terry said.

“We’re going negative against Boomers, not individual candidates,” Cass said. “We need a symbol. I’m tired of doing photo ops in front of the Social Security building.”

“We could trash a few more golf courses,” Terry said.

“Been there, burned that.”

Cass’s cell phone rang. She took the call.

“I guess the Today show watches Sixty Minutes. They’d like the senator”-she sighed-“to return to Bosnia.”

Terry said, “Must be Presidential Candidates Acting Badly in Vehicles Week. Didn’t Peacham run over a deer one weekend at Camp David while he was giving the president of Latvia a tour?”

“Racoon.”

Randy said, “So. Are we going back to Bosnia? You did say the U30s rather liked the idea that we were ‘doing the deed.’”

“Why not,” Terry said. “Cass could give you a hand job while you drive into a minefield. Very presidential.”

“I don’t think so,” said Cass.

“Too bad,” Terry said. “Could have been our PT-109 moment.”

“And in Washington tonight, a stunning announcement from the Vatican. We go now to our correspondent, Wendy Wong.”

“Brian, a senior Vatican official at the Holy See’s embassy in Washington today issued a stern warning to Americans not to vote for any candidate who supports legalizing suicide-or, as it has come to be called, Voluntary Transitioning.

“The warning came from Monsignor Massimo Montefeltro, Rome’s second-highest-ranking official in the United States, a man said by observers to be close to Pope Jean-Claude the First.

“Montefeltro today threatened the most severe sanction that the church can issue, a so-called bull of excommunication, which effectively bars a Catholic from the sacraments. He issued the warning at a press conference:

“‘Legal suicide, or Transitioning, as its proponents call it, is absolutely contrary to all Catholic moral teaching. The holy father has been watching the political developments in America. Therefore he is, regretfully, compelled to issue a bull of excommunication. This would take effect against any American Catholic who votes for, or who supports, any candidate advocating legal suicide’…

“Strong words.…?Brian?”

“Wendy, why is it called a ‘bull’?”

“The name derives from bullae, the wax or lead seals that popes used in the old days to seal proclamations. In any language, Brian, it spells ‘tough medicine.’”

“Thank you, Wendy. In the Middle East today, a spontaneous display of affection between Israelies and Palestinians.…”

Monsignor Montefeltro’s discomfort at the press conference was much commented upon. Some Vaticanisti suggested that it hinted at a theological divide between him and Rome.

Cass and Terry were at campaign headquarters going over campaign Boomer attack ads when Randy called. He sounded frantic. He was in Minnesota on his way to a fund-raiser. Cass had insisted he hold at least a few, for appearance’ sake.

“What the hell’s going on?” he demanded.

“What are you talking about?”

“I just got a call from some Reuters reporter. She said the pope had just attacked me?”

“What?” Cass said. “Don’t talk to anyone until I call you back.”

Terry was already online. “Holy shit.”

Cass read over his shoulder. “You got ‘holy’ right. Where did this come from?”

“Sort that out later. Now what?” Terry said. “Do we denounce the pope?”

Cass thought. “At least he’s French. I better stuff a sock in Randy’s mouth. He’s got that old-WASP thing about Catholics. Calls them ‘papists.’”

“I’ve had four more calls,” Randy said. “I’m not going to take this from some old Frog in a miter-”

“Just stonewall, Randy.”

“I am. But they’re going to pounce on me at the fund-raiser. What do I tell them? What I’d like to tell them is the pope can go jump into the Tiber. What business is it of his-”

“You have the greatest respect for the pope-”

“I do not. I’m Episcopalian. Not very practicing, but-”

“Randy. Shut up. You’re looking forward to a vigorous debate…you-”

“I’m not here to debate the pope, for God’s sake.”

“I’m trying to formulate our position. If you’d just be quiet for a second.”

“Well, formulate fast, the limo’s pulling up. Oh, hell. There’s a mob of them. Vultures.”

“Tell Corky to drive around the block.”

“Too late. Here they come.”

“You’ll be issuing a full statement tomorrow morning.”

“Why can’t I just-”

“You’re going to…consult. You’re going to consult with…theologians. That’s it. Religious authorities.”

“Which theologians?”

“I don’t know! Thomas Aquinas. St. Jerome. Thomas More. Just stonewall.”

Cass hung up. She let out a breath and said to Terry, “Do we know any theologians?”

“On K Street?”

JEPPERSON CALLS VATICAN THREAT “A LOAD OF BULL”

Cass stared at the headline. She had already seen a dozen online versions of it throughout the night. She was tired. She found herself wishing that she had lived before the age of the Internet and cable TV, when news arrived twice a day instead of every fricking second.

Terry walked in. He looked as if he hadn’t slept much, either. He glanced at the front page of the Post. “I see our boy stayed on message.”

Cass looked up gloomily. “I guess I’ll be spending more time on the road with the candidate. Hurling myself between him and the nearest reporter.”

The phone rang. Randy.

“Well, if it isn’t the Antichrist,” Cass said.

“I’m a god in Minneapolis!” he said. “Have you seen the papers?”

“Yeah.”

“They lapped it up!”

“Randy. They’re Lutherans. Before you go nailing any more theses to the front door of the cathedral, let’s see how this plays in small cities like, you know, Chicago, Boston, Miami, Baltimore, Los Angeles. Other little villages where they actually like the pope.”

“He’s French.”

“Randy, he’s the pope.”

“Well,” Randy sniffed, “he fired the first shot. I know how you and Terry hate it when I actually have an independent thought, but I have a strong feeling in my gut about this.”

“So do I. Like a cramp.”

“Americans don’t like being bossed about by foreigners.”

“Let’s hope for the best. Meantime, please try to avoid the subject. I really don’t want to pick up Time magazine next week and read that you called the Virgin Mary a slut.”

The phone at the papal nunciature had not stopped ringing. Every major media outlet in the country wanted to interview Monsignor Montefeltro. Even the late-night comedy shows wanted him. A New York City tabloid put him on the front page with the headline RAGING BULL!

The papal nuncio, Montefeltro’s nominal boss, was a bit put out that Rome had bypassed him and asked his number two to be Vatican point man. As for Montefeltro, he wanted to crawl under his desk. He was hoping against hope that Ivan the Terrible and the jezebels Tolstoy and Dostoevsky hadn’t watched TV yesterday or seen a newspaper. Or a magazine. Or the Internet. Or…Dio mio.…?Maybe they’d all gone back to Russia. Maybe they’d all died of venereal disease or in a gun battle over drugs. Maybe-

“Monsignor? It’s a Mr. Ivan for you. He says you know him. And a Ms. Katie Couric from the television called again, twice.”

“What do you want?”

“Everywhere you are on television. I think you will be pope someday. So, am calling for donation to orphans. Donation should be more now that you are such big important man in church. I think…one hundred thousand dollars. Orphans will be very happy. God will be very happy.”

Montefeltro wondered if the Swiss Guard had a secret assassination unit. He sighed. “I don’t have one hundred thousand dollars. Why don’t you call Mr. Pine. He is very rich.”

“We called him. He was very happy to hear watch is located. There is Mercedes SL 550 parked outside your office. Is very nice car. Why you are not donating that to orphans? Humble priest should not be driving one-hundred-thousand-dollar Mercedes-Benz. Jesus did not drive in Mercedes. He drive on donkey.”

Gideon was indeed very happy to hear that his gold watch and fob had been located, though that was not the sum of his reaction.

It is unpleasant to be blackmailed at any time, but especially inconvenient when you are launching a presidential campaign, and worse yet if your name carries the prefix Reverend. Yet for all that, Ms. Tolstoy sounded quite friendly over the phone and made no mention of money.

“You look cute on TV,” she said. “I don’t think that you kill your mother. You are too nice-looking. Why you not come to my apartment? We will have party, with Champagne. Watch sexy movies. I am wery wet for you.”

Gideon shifted in his chair. He was almost fifty years old, and no woman, ever, had purred to him this way, much less asked him to come party with her. I am wery wet for you.

“If I,” Gideon croaked, “come, you will return me my watch?”

“Oh, yes. But,” she said, “first you must find watch. I have many hiding places. Mmmm. Hurry, Gidyon. I so wery wet for you, I am having to change my panties.”

She gave him an address in Arlington.

It occurred to Gideon, poor Gideon, that it was Sunday, the Sabbath. What was it Stonewall Jackson had said after he asked the surgeons if he was dying and they told him yes? “Good. I always wanted to die on a Sunday.”

No. Mustn’t. Madness. Then he thought, The watch. He must retrieve the watch. He would retrieve the watch and leave. Maybe, just to be friendly, he’d stay for just one glass of Champagne.

Gideon slipped out of campaign headquarters unnoticed.