Boomsday

Chapter 6

There were no crowds or WELCOME HOME, HERO! banners for ex-corporal Cassandra Cohane.

People seemed unsure how to respond to her, whether to wink (Banging a congressman in a minefield? Party down, girl!) or disapprove (you slut) or evince sympathy (Well, thank heavens you’re alive, but no more minefields for you!). By the end of the first week home, Cass had dyed her lovely blond hair a shade called “Mississippi Mud,” bought clear prescription-type glasses, and spent hours in front of the mirror attempting to make herself unrecognizable even to her mother. She went to the library and looked up articles on cosmetic surgery.

Her mother’s eyes widened as Cass emerged from the bathroom after one session of home makeover.

“Well?” Cass said.

“You look…Gosh, it’s good to have you back.”

“Mother. I did basic combat training. I can kill a man with my hands. Tell me. I can take it.”

“You look lovely, darling. Just like that movie actress.”

“Which movie actress?”

“The one who was arrested for shoplifting. Her mug shot…I mean, she’s very pretty.…”

In due course, a letter arrived from the Department of the Army saying that under the terms of her discharge, no, Cass was not eligible for tuition assistance. Indeed, the Yale admissions office did not sound in any great hurry to have her matriculate. Cass reentombed herself in her room for a week, watching the ceiling and television in equal proportion.

One day her father telephoned. Her mother knocked and entered, bearing the cordless phone as though it were something that had been retrieved from deep within a septic tank.

“Sug? Hey! How’s my girl?” He sounded California hearty, as though his veins coursed with pomegranate juice. They had not spoken in a year and a half.

“I’m great,” she said.

“Hear you had a little accident over there.”

“Yeah.”

“What were you doing driving in a minefield?”

“Long story, Dad.”

“Well, you sure had us worried.”

“Us?”

“Yeah. That’s what I’m calling about. Primarily I was calling to see how you are. But secondarily”-this was how engineers talked; by the end of the conversation, he’d be up to “duodecimally”-“I’ve got news. I’m getting married…You there?…Sug?”

“I’m here.”

“Her name’s Lisa. She’s fantastic. She can’t wait to meet you. I’ve told her all about you.”

“Dad…”

“Yeah, Sug?”

“Hang up.”

“No prob. I’ll call you in a few days. It’s going great out here. I’m going to be sending you some money. Soon as I can. This time it’s gonna happen. We’re on target. Love ya.”

No prob?...?Love ya? This wasn’t how he used to talk in Connecticut.

She went back to staring at the ceiling. Ceilings can actually be interesting, if you stare at them long enough. With the right drugs, they’ll outperform the Sistine Chapel.

One afternoon three weeks into her self-immurement, she turned on the television and saw Congressman Randy arriving at the Capitol building for his first day back at work. Another huge crowd awaited him. A large banner proclaimed the return of an AMERICAN PATRIOT. He emerged from his car on two crutches, gave his now signature thumbs-up gesture, and caused a roar of applause from the perhaps five hundred people waiting for him on the steps of the Capitol. She had to admit, it made for pretty good TV. It’s not every day that a politician is hailed as a living hero.

Both the House majority and minority leaders were there. They welcomed him in terms that would have made Douglas MacArthur blush. When finally Randy was allowed to speak, they both crowded in on him to get in the camera shot, a practice called among Capitol Hill aides “parasiting.”

“Thank you,” Congressman Randy said. “Thank you, colleagues, dear friends, Americans, for that tremendous welcome. And let me say from the bottom of my heart, it’s great to be back at work!”

Thunderous applause and cheering. Cass watched in numb amazement. It reminded her of a documentary she’d seen on TV about a place in India where they paraded the mummy of a five-century-old saint through the streets and people in the throes of religious ecstasy would bite off its toes. If he wasn’t careful, he’d lose the other leg. Any minute now they’d be talking about renaming Reagan National Airport “Jepperson Field.”

“I want to say,” he continued once the din had subsided, “I want to say, to the brave men and women serving in the armed forces overseas, we honor your sacrifice!”

Roars.

“We will not forget you!”

Louder roars.

“And we will fight for you here just as you fight for us there!”

Was that a flight of doves she saw in the background? My God. Doves. They were releasing doves, from a cage, on the Capitol steps. Why bother running for Senate? she thought. Why not just announce for emperor? It was the photo op from heaven. It would be studied in PR academies centuries from now. Now he was limping away from the podium. Women nearby were dabbing tears from their eyes. Was that-music? Yes, music. They were playing Bruce Springsteen, “Born in the USA.” To hell with running-just carry him down Pennsylvania Avenue and install him in the Oval Office. Cass turned off the television and went back to watching the ceiling.

She stayed in her room for a week, leaving only to go to the bathroom and forage for food in the kitchen. She subsisted mainly on rice cakes and soda. Her complexion was sallow and waxy, her hair a mйlange of about eight different dyes. Finally her mother came into her room and said, “Are you planning to assassinate someone?”

“What?” Cass said, still staring at the ceiling.

“Because the way you’re acting, I won’t be surprised if the phone rings someday and it’s some reporter saying, ‘Mrs. Cohane, your daughter has just shot the president. Do you have a comment?’”

“Interesting idea. Thanks for the input.”

“Cassandra, don’t talk like that.”

“Mother. I don’t have the energy to shoot anyone.”

“You look like something out of an Anne Rice novel. Unhealthy. You haven’t been outside in a week. And this room. It smells.”

“Not if you stay in it all the time.”

“Honey, you’re going through post-traumatic stress disorder. It’s understandable after what you’ve been through. I want you to see a psychiatrist.”

“No.”

“A psychologist, then.”

“No.”

“Licensed clinic social worker. They’re almost as-”

“No. Go away, Mother.”

“What are you reading?”

“The Fountainhead.”

Her mother frowned. “Ayn Rand? Is that a good idea?”

“It’s about someone who refuses to compromise,” Cass said, conscious that she sounded a bit robotic. “Someone who stands up against mediocrity and compromise and weakness and bullshit.”

“QED,” her mother snorted.

“What’s that? A British cruise ship?”

“You know perfectly well what it means. You got into Yale, didn’t you? I’m sorry, honey, I didn’t…I just don’t see that reading Ayn Rand is helpful at this stage. I had a boyfriend in high school who read Atlas Shrugged. He ended up handing out leaflets on street corners about how we all have to watch out for number one. It’s an unpleasant philosophy.”

“No,” Cass said. “We can’t have me looking out for myself, can we? I mean, how selfish would that be?”

“I was never any good at arguing. It’s why I went into economics. Numbers don’t argue. How long are you planning to inhabit this cave?”

“Until stalactites form. Could I have some more rice cakes?”

“You can get your own rice cakes.”

The next day, her mother came into her room bearing the cordless phone, this time as if it were a trophy. “For you.” She was beaming.

“Who is it?”

“Bertie Wooster Goes to Bosnia.” Cass had confided in her mother the full details of what had happened over there.

“Hello?” Cass said suspiciously.

“Well, there you are,” said Congressman Randy. “You don’t call, you don’t write. I didn’t know how to find you. Are you all right?”

“Depends on your definition of ‘all right.’ I’m alive. I see from TV you are.”

“Cass,” he said, “I don’t know where to begin.”

“Shit happens. Especially in the Balkans.”

“How’s your arm?”

“Itches.”

“The high point of my day is scratching my stump when I take off the prosthesis. As you get older, it’s the little things in life. Look, I’m…I…I was just trying to…”

“Drive across a minefield. It was an accident. We’re alive.”

“Well, I’m sorry. I’ll do anything I can.”

“I saw you on television. At the Capitol. Doves?”

“Don’t tell anyone, but they’re actually pigeons. They dip them in Wite-Out. Cheaper. I have a new PR man. Genius at the photo op. Name’s Tucker. Now look here, I’m sending a plane for you. I want you to come down here. I want to talk to you.”

“Talk? What about?”

“Your future.”

“Do I have one?”

“Those idiots in the army. I told them it was all my fault. Want me to denounce them?”

“No. Leave it. But I could live without the media stuff about how we were having sex in the minefield.”

“That didn’t come from me.”

“Collateral damage, from your reputation.”

“Guilty as charged. All right, I feel guilty. I’m wealthy, and a congressman with political ambitions. You’re in a spectacular position to make me pay through the nose. And I want to.”

“I don’t want your money.”

“I’m offering you a job. And money if you want it. Your mother hates me. She made that perfectly clear on the phone. Put in a good word for me, would you? Can’t stand it when the mothers hate me. Guess it goes back to childhood.”

Cass heard a humming over the phone.

Randy said, “She told me you’re clinically depressed and that you’re going to shoot someone. Please don’t. It would completely ruin my political career. Are you in much pain?”

“The physical kind or the kind where you spend week after week looking at the ceiling?”

“If it’s any consolation, I’m still in pain. I can’t get out of bed in the morning without a couple of Percocets. I sit in hearings and drool, like something out of One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest. My aides have to wipe off my chin so I won’t glisten on C-SPAN. I’ll probably end up at Betty Ford. I could always announce my Senate run from there. Lock up the rehab vote early.”

Do not laugh, she told herself. This man ruined your life.

“Cass?”

“What?”

“I’m sending a plane. Tomorrow. Will you come?”

“I don’t know. I’m a little agoraphobic right now.”

“I’ll share my Percocets with you. Fifty-fifty.”

“Fine.”