Primary Storm (5 page)

So I looked at the senator's wife instead.

Barbara.

She stood next to him, smiling widely, and something inside of me tingled just a bit. It had been a very long time since I had seen that particular smile in person. Her blond hair was different, of course, for in college she had worn it long and straight. Now it was cut more fashionably about the shoulder, and Barbara, whose idea of fashion in college had been tight jeans and a T-shirt, was wearing some sort of skirt and jacket combo that was probably worth more than my home computer.

Her husband said, "This election is about more than just me and my opponents, it's about the direction we plan to take, the direction that all of us in this fine country will choose in the next several months as we determine what kind of people we plan to be, what kind of nation we intend to be... "

Barbara stood there and smiled and applauded at all the right points, and I wondered what was going on behind that bright smile of hers, that smile that years ago I had found so relaxing and inviting. When I had known her in college, we were both majoring in journalism, both of us planned to be investigative reporters, and both of us planned to change the world. Corny, I know, but when you're that young and that intelligent and that fueled with righteousness, well, it was easy to make fun, years later.

But it didn't mean I sometimes didn't miss that clarity.

So, years later, and here we were, together again, separated by a few dozen feet and so many years of experience and relationships and moves on both our parts. I had never changed the world and had long ago given it up as a goal. I wondered if Barbara still thought about doing it, and if so, if she planned to do it with her husband's help. That would make some sort of sense, though when I had known her, the thought of her trying to achieve some sort of goal on the basis of one's marriage to a powerful man would have gained me a hefty punch in the arm and a sharp and to-the-point comment.

The senator said, " ... Just last week, we made an important start in this process, with our victory in Iowa ... "

The news of his unexpected victory in that Midwestern state caused the room to erupt again. More cheers, more applause. Barbara applauded right along with the crowd, laughing and smiling, even though she probably knew the speech and the applause lines by heart. And as she applauded her husband's words, she kept on looking at the people in the crowd, looking at all of the supporters, looking ---

At me. She looked right at me. And I looked back.

Her face froze, just for a moment, and for a quick flash, she was no longer the senator's wife, the possible next first lady of the nation, but a woman with whom I had spent some lovely months, years and years ago, arguing about writing and style and poetry and Faulkner and Orwell and ---

My stomach rolled. The heat was just too much. The noise was too much. It was all too much.

She quickly recovered, going back to her role as supporter and possible first lady. She was no longer looking at me, which was fine, since I was no longer looking at her but for the exit. I elbowed my way through the crowd, through my fellow members of the press, through the true believers, through the short hallway and outside into the crisp, cold, and clean air.

I took about five or six steps, leaned over, and vomited in the parking lot. The usual cramps and coughing and drooling followed, but in a manner of moments, I was sitting on the rear bumper of a Honda Accord, wiping my face with a handkerchief, feeling my arms and legs tremble. I looked around the lot for a moment, embarrassed that somebody might have seen my discomfort, but this part of the lot was blessedly empty, save for the parked vehicles and nearby news vans.

And being on that car bumper, wiping my face with a soiled handkerchief, is how I came to miss the attempted assassination of Jackson Hale, senator from Georgia and probable next president of the United States. The first sign that something was wrong was when a low "oooh" or "aaahh" came from the crowd inside the conference room, audible even out in my part of the parking lot, followed by loud yells and screams, which I could make out from the open door that I had just exited. More yells. More screams. I looked over and people were running out of the main entrance and the side entrance, holding on to one another, tripping, falling, and picking themselves up and running some more. There faces were white with fear or anger or terror, and many glanced behind them, as if they were being chased by some evil force.

There were a couple of camera crews already out in the parking lot, and the crew members started shooting footage, no doubt not knowing what the hell they were recording, just knowing it was something important, something to be kept and interpreted later. I stood up, tried to get a better look at what was happening. Then the sounds of sirens cut through the cold air, and from the rear of the hotel a New Hampshire State Police cruiser roared out, followed by a black limousine with tinted windows and two dark blue Chevrolet Suburbans with flashing blue lights in their radiator grilles.

When the second Suburban hit the road, I saw that the rear hatchback window was wide open, and two Secret Service agents were sitting back there, leaning out, both holding Uzi submachine guns in their hands. War wagon, a memory came to me, that's what the heavily armed Suburbans were called. War wagons. Full of weapons, from sub machine guns to Stinger antiaircraft missiles and everything in between, all to protect a president or would-be president.

A weeping young woman came by and I said to her, "What happened in there? What's going on?"

"Somebody ... somebody shot the senator. The fucker. They killed him! They killed him!"

Jesus, I thought, not here, not now.

I thought of Dallas, I thought of Memphis, I thought of Los Angeles, I thought of all the places marked by so much history and death and shootings and assassinations and broken dreams and not here, not in my hometown, and I thought of Annie and Barbara and ---

More people came out, and somebody was yelling, "He's okay! I just got a text message from one of his aides! Nobody got hurt! They missed! They missed!"

I wiped at my face again, legs quivering. More and more people were streaming out. They were now being intercepted by members of the fourth estate, whipping into action, and I suppose if I were a better magazine writer, I would have been doing the same thing. But I wasn't. I got up and started going through the crowd, looking for Annie, to see her and hold her hand and find out if she knew anything else.

But after long minutes when I thought I might get sick again at any moment on the feet or legs of the people near me, I still couldn't find her. I wanted to go back into the conference center, but the doors were blocked by state police officers, backed by serious-looking men and women in suits with half-hidden earpieces, and I gave up. I slowly walked back to my Explorer, dodging some of the traffic streaming out of the parking lot, and got in and started the engine and put my head down on the steering wheel for a moment.

I raised my head, saw that there was finally a break in the traffic trundling by. I got out onto the road and drove home. Along the way, from some of the homes on this stretch of road leading out from the conference center, residents were standing in their driveways, looking out at the traffic, no doubt knowing they were viewing some sort of historical event, and no doubt not knowing what in hell it was. Well, it wasn't my place to tell them, and like the rest of the world, they would learn what had happened back there soon enough. Halfway back to Tyler Beach, I caught a bulletin on WBZ-AM radio out of Boston, which announced that the Secret Service and New Hampshire State Police were investigating the attempted assassination of Senator Jackson Hale, who was fine and was being protected at an undisclosed location somewhere in New Hampshire. After the bulletin was a series of live reports from shaky-voiced reporters at the scene in Tyler and at Hale campaign headquarters in Manchester and down south, in Atlanta. What followed were several minutes of prediction, analysis, and the ever-sorrowful what-does-this-attempted-assassination-mean-for-us-as-a-people.

By then I was home at my very disclosed location, probably feeling no better or no worse than poor Senator Hale. I parked in my shed and trudged through the snow to my front door, and before going inside, doubled over again in another bout of vomiting, this time just bringing up some harsh bile. I kicked some snow over the mess I made and went inside, straight to my telephone. I placed a call to Annie Wynn. Her cell phone dumped me into her voice mail and I said, "Hi, it's me. I was there at the rally... couldn't find you .. hope you're okay... call me or come back here I'm coming down with something and I'm going to lie down "

Which is what I did, stretching out on the couch and resisting the urge to turn on the television, knowing that everything I saw now would be repeated later, and so I just stayed there, comforter up to my neck

And despite everything that had just happened, I was feeling so lousy that I did fall asleep. I woke to the sound of the door being unlocked and I sat up, as Annie came in, face red, eyes red. She dropped her bag and came right at me. I sat up on the couch and she sat there, now in my arms, and I held her tight as she choked and cried some and then cried some more. She then pulled back and rubbed at her eyes, and I said, "Get you something? Drink? Something to eat?"

She opened her purse, took out a tissue, blew her nose. "How about a new day? Can you do that for me?"

"If I could, I would."

She managed a wan smile, crumpled up the tissue in her hand. "Oh, Lewis, I never want to go through anything like that ever again."

"Tell me where you were. Tell me what you saw."

She took a deep breath, clasped her hands around her purse so tightly I could see her knuckles whiten. "I... I was backstage, with some of the campaign people. You see, most of us, the volunteers, what little compensation we get is the ability to be behind the scenes, to say hi to the senator and his people. A couple of times, though, I snuck a peek out to the crowd, tried to spot you."

I said, "I was near the press section. I couldn't see you. And I guess I'm lucky... I mean, I didn't see what happened. I got sick, had to get out of the building. Went out to the parking lot, dumped my guts on the ground, and then people started running out."

She closed her eyes for a moment, like she was trying to see again what had happened back at the conference center. "He came in... right on time .. Hale time, you know? He's always on time. But he had to wait backstage. That dimwit county chair, she had to go on and on, practically introducing candidates for dogcatcher... but then he went out with his wife, and started his talk... "

"Yes," I said, now holding my hand over her two hands on the purse. "I was there for that."

She said, "You know, I've read his damn stump speech, and I've seen bits of it on TV, so it wasn't any surprise... but you know, seeing him in person, it was wonderful. It's a damn cliché and all, but he held me. He's a great speaker, Lewis, he really is ... and about halfway through it there was a gunshot, and then another."

"Just two, then?"

"Yeah. Two too fucking many, if you'll excuse my language. The first time, I think we all froze, thinking maybe it was a balloon, but the Secret Service jumped ugly real quick, heading to the senator and his wife, and there was another shot, and people started screaming and running."

"Did anybody see who did it?"

"Nope. You saw how crowded that place was... Jesus, what a mess. There were two shots and then people started running, and the senator and his missus were practically carried out the rear... and that was that."

"Annie, I'm sorry it happened. Even more sorry you were there to see it."

She smiled, squeezed my hand back. "Sounds crazy, but there's no place I'd rather be ... I had to be there, Lewis, and I'm damn glad I was."

"Any idea who or why?"

"Why? Take your pick... every position the senator holds, there's sure to be some sort of nut who opposes him. And who... no idea who the shooter was, but I heard a rumor that the cops and the Secret Service caught themselves a break."

"How so?"

"After most everybody bailed out, they found a gun on the floor of the conference center. There you go. Some of the cops tried to keep people from running away after the shooting, so they could be interviewed, but you saw what the crowd was like. Lucky nobody was trampled to death."

I squeezed her hand again. "That's a big break.  It could mean a lot in tracing who in hell was involved. Look. You must be tired, must be hungry, why don't you ---"

She shook her head. "No. Sorry. You're being a dear and all that, and any other day, I'd love to sit here in front of the fire and veg out, but not today, not after what happened."

"You're going back to Manchester."

"Yes," she said, a bit of steel showing in her voice. "I've talked to others in the campaign. I'm going back to Manchester and make the phone calls and stuff the envelopes and crunch the numbers, and I and the rest of the crew are going to work twice as hard, after some asshole tried to take our candidate away. Our next president, Lewis. He can make it, he really can, and I'm not going to sit on my butt and be intimidated."

"And such a lovely butt it is."

On any other occasion, that would have brought a smile, but this wasn't any other occasion. She stood up, put her coat back on, and bent down and kissed me quickly on the forehead. “I’ll call you, okay? Don't worry about me. I'll be fine."