The Crash of Hennington (32 page)

—I know these people a lot better than you do.

—True enough, but I know
people.
Trust me on this one. It’s not hard, just a bunch of general statistics that’ll make it look like you care. You’ll thank me for it. Hell,
they’ll
thank you for it. With a large check.

—All right, fine. Another thing. When are we going to move to a campaign headquarters where I can have my own office? This communal we’re-all-in-this-together thing isn’t working for me.

—Well,
make
it work for you. It’s how campaigns are run. People vote for you because you’re one of them, not because you’re their boss.

—People will vote for me because I’m the only one running.

—So far.

—I’ll win regardless.

—Are you familiar with the lowland hound?

—Pardon?

—The lowland hound. A wild dog that hunts in the desert.

—What does that have to do with—

—The lowland hound is a brilliant hunter. The only known wild dog that doesn’t hunt in a pack, and that’s because it doesn’t need to. It can reach speeds up to seventy-five kilometers
an hour and has a jaw that can literally crush a steel pipe. They’ve been known to decapitate desert antelope so thoroughly and quickly that the poor antelope’s body still runs another fifty meters before falling.

—I don’t believe that.

—Doesn’t matter. I bring it up because the lowland hound is also one of the most spectacularly lazy animals on the planet. They only hunt when pushed to the brink of starvation. Their prey don’t fear them because they know they can’t outrun the hound if it wants to hunt, but that they probably won’t need to because it probably
won’t
want to hunt. Herds of antelope will sleep within sight of a lowland hound without concern.

—But he can eat whenever he wants to.

—I’m not yet to my point.

—Well, hurry it along. I’m busy.

—The lowland hound is also noteworthy in that it does one intensely stupid thing that has caused much amazement in the zoological world.

—This would be the point, then.

—The lowland hound never starves to death in times of famine because obviously conditions will drive it to use its hunting prowess for survival.

—But?

—Quit interrupting, please. The lowland hound never starves in times of famine, but it quite regularly starves in times of excessive plenty. Surrounded by prey that it could easily catch, the lowland hound will wait to hunt because it knows it could get food any time it wanted. It will wait more and more, until it has nearly collapsed from starvation. Then, seeing all the prey within easy reach, and this is the important part, Thomas, it will wait
still.
When the hunger has finally gotten so intense that it can barely move, only then will the
lowland hound rouse itself to hunt. But, of course, by then it hasn’t the energy to hunt. The antelopes can easily outrun it. No heads go flying off bodies in mid-stride. The lowland hound whimpers along behind, unable to catch up. Surrounded by plenty, it lies down and starves to death.

—And yet somehow, the lowland hound survives.

—That’s not the point.

—Sounds like the point to me.

—Don’t be obstinate. The species may live, but the individual dies.

—You still haven’t quite grasped the balance of power around here, have you? This is my campaign, not yours. Your help is appreciated. Your illustrative anecdotes are not.

Jon waved his hand dismissively.

—I don’t have time for this. I’m working too hard to get you elected, despite your best efforts. Learn the goddamn agriculture speech or don’t. All I’m telling you is that you’ll double your contributions from rich farmers if you do. If you need me, and you
will,
I’ll be at my own office.

He turned on his heel and walked off before Thomas could say another word. Thomas pondered calling after him, almost did, but then thought better of it. He frowned, breathing heavily out of his nostrils. In his mind, he very loudly thought of the angriest songs he knew, sustaining some extremely ferocious guitar solos before finally reaching into his pocket for a TB’s Special Blend. Some relaxation was definitely called for. He lit up and drew a long, silky cloud into his lungs before slowly, grudgingly turning his eyes back to the speech. He kept reading even when the smoke made his eyes water with deliciously narcotic tears, finally drawing a languorous smile that seemed suspiciously large and lengthy for someone reading a factsheet on local agriculture.

70. The Worm, Aching to Turn.

Cora sat in the underlit reception area, angrily pondering its opulence. An office conjured seemingly from nowhere in a building she knew for a fact had no new rental space available. Yet here it was, all white marble and shadow, hard lines diffused by the organic curves and greens of tall plants emerging from recessed vases. It was beautiful, if too damn dark, much nicer than her own office, and irritatingly improbable. The receptionist, a dark, handsome boy of about twenty, had shown her where to sit, pressed a single button which was allegedly a summons to Jon, then went back to talking to his equally dark, handsome girlfriend, who was slouching forward over the front of the reception desk, her face close to his, her ass roundly up in the air like a new planet. They bantered back and forth in an irritating chatter too soft to be understood but too loud not to be heard, smiling deeply into each other’s eyes with the velvet intimacy of those who seem to be just marking time between sexual encounters. Cora stared at them unabashedly, for there was nothing else in the waiting room to look at, not even a magazine. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. They were so oblivious she could have danced a striptease and been left to finish it unobserved.

Gradually, she noticed that her first impression had been slightly off. The boy was a little less handsome than at first sight. Acne scars dotted his face here and there. His hair, though obviously expensively cut, had not been further attended to by hands that knew what to do with an expensive haircut. The girl, too, was slightly girthful in the legs, and Cora noticed the reddish eczema of a worker’s fingers when the girl caressed the boy’s face. A certain amazement also
accompanied the movements of both, as if neither of them could believe that the life that was happening to them hadn’t been delivered by mistake. The easy intimacy seemed to also include a measure of huddling, as if separating, even for a moment, might be irreversible. Cora felt herself soften towards the two young lovers, even saying a silent blessing, wishing them well.

Jon strode into the room through a door that had opened soundlessly. Cora stood. The boy and girl didn’t bother to look up.

—Cora. What an expected non-surprise.

—We need to talk.

—Perhaps, though I warn you now might not be the best time.

—No. Now.

—Then if you insist.

He ushered her into his office with a mysterious grin. He motioned her to a seat. When she remained standing, he shrugged and took the chair behind a lavishly understated wooden desk.

—What are you doing?

—What could you possibly mean?

—Don’t fuss me about, Jon. Thomas Banyon for Mayor? You think you can swoop into Hennington out of nowhere, install the worst Mayor possible and that this will all somehow result in wooing me?

—Cora, Cora, Cora. Why would I want to discuss anything at all with you after the way you’ve treated me? Why should I even entertain this visit?

—Because someone needs to get through to you that you’re off your rocker.

—Compliments like that do so much to keep up my good graces.

—It’s never going to happen, Jon. Understand this. It’s
never
going to happen.

—Have you grown so calcified that you actually believe you have power over ‘never'? Even your anger has grown old, Cora.

A misstep. A slight one, but a misstep nonetheless. Cora blinked. Was that it? After all this hullabaloo, was that really it? Had it really been that ordinary this whole time? She regretted that it had taken her this long to understand that Albert was right, that ‘petty’ was the right word, regretted, for a moment, that now they weren’t even going to be able to have a proper row.

—You don’t really want anything, do you?

Jon looked surprised.

—I beg your pardon?

—You don’t want me back.

—But of course I do.

—No. No, you don’t. You want to hurt me, that’s all.

—Cora, my darling, my love, that’s exactly what I
don’t
want to do. I would stop all this right now with a single word from you. All of this, I’m doing for you.

—Wrong. You ask me for the impossible and now you’re using my refusal as the justification for your real aim. You want to hurt me, to hurt Albert, to satisfy some wound that you’ve been nursing for all this time that the rest of us have forgotten about, one that any sane, rational person
would
have forgotten about. That’s it. That’s the beginning and end of your agenda. You want to demonstrate how powerful you are. You don’t want me. That was just a pretense. You knew all along that I would never say yes to you. It’s actually kind of disappointing in a way. It’s so
usual.

—It most certainly—

—It is, whether you can admit it to yourself now that
you’ve come this far or not. Fortunately, that makes things a good deal easier for me now.

—Meaning what exactly?

—Here I thought you were some ghost from my past come to haunt me with insane claims of ownership, throwing the world into chaos to get your way. It was almost mythological. But you’re just a small,
petty
man, nursing a small, petty grudge, another schoolboy who’s managed the appearance of adulthood without ever assuming the mantle.

—Oh, but you’re wrong, my love. You couldn’t be more wrong.

—I don’t think so.

—I’m on a mission—

—You’re not. You’re throwing a tantrum.

—Funny, but that’s how powerful women always try to de-fang powerful men. By calling them boys.

—I should have said yes to you on that first day in my office just to watch you scramble.

—You’re making an enormous mistake in underestimating me, Cora.

—Ah, now you’re just flailing.

—I suppose we’ll have to see who’s right.

—And the predictable threat of ominous, yet un-named future recrimination. Good grief, Jon, I’ve been a lawyer and a politician for my entire adult life. Do you honestly think you can hold any surprise for me now that I know what you are?

—You’ll be very sorry for this, Cora. It hurts me, this course of action you’re forcing—

—Blah blah blah. Your next line should be a threat for me to ‘leave this office at once!'. I’m stunned that I didn’t see it before. Stunned. You’re nothing special at all, are you? You’re merely a man. Nothing more, nothing less.

—Is this all somehow supposed to send me home with my tail between my legs? Now that you’ve made this alleged grand discovery, I’m supposed to just run screaming into the night?

—Irritatingly, your type never do, do they?

—You’re making a huge mistake, Cora. Bigger than you can imagine.

—Haven’t you already said that?

—Cora—

—No, listen to me, Jon. Listen with as much attention as your navel-gazing egomania can allow. I suggest you quit what you’re doing, this idiotic alliance with Thomas Banyon, this whole farce of ‘winning me back'. Get out of Hennington. Leave. Today. Because know this, I’ve cut you slack because I thought you were a special case, a misguided pain in the ass, but at least interestingly so. Now I see that you’re not. You’re just a miserable old man looking for a scapegoat for some imagined wrong. You’re a dime a dozen. Hell, half the City Council used to be filled with you, but guess what?
I know you.
I know how to fight you. Moreover, I know how to
beat
you. So bring out your big guns, Jon. Go ahead. I’m calling your bluff. Let’s see your best hand. But consider this—

She leaned over his desk, pushing her face towards his, stopping uncomfortably close as he refused to give ground.

—Maybe you’re the one who’s underestimated his opponent.

71. Paradise Interrupted.

A change could come so quickly, so unfairly.

Jacki shook quietly where she lay, still barely awake, under
a pile of woolen blankets in the back seat of the laundry truck, heading off in unknown directions under cover of just-breaking dawn. The weight of the blankets caused her back to sweat while her front reeled from the cold of the truck’s metal floor. She was exhausted, groggy, terrified, and her stomach was pulled into a queasy tautness from hunger and nerves. She had probably been under here less than a half hour, bumping along as the truck sped towards ostensible safety, but in the dark, with only herself and the itch of the wool, she felt trapped in a nightmare that had followed her into wakefulness, a nightmare set aflame by the strong possibility that this escape might not work.

The Jacki with the annoying nihilistic tone tried to convince her that it was her own complacency that had gotten her into this mess, a sense of untouchability in her weeks in the Foster Downs that had caused her to drop her guard, that had caused her to dare to imagine a world without Thomas Banyon, a world that included, maybe, just maybe, her own two sons, Tucker and Morton. But the new Jacki fought back. Who
wouldn’t
have grown complacent in a setting as compactly bucolic as the Foster Downs, with the endless sunny days, the forests of flowers, the warm hospitality of Katherine? It was circumstance, perhaps inevitable circumstance, that of course she would eventually be caught out by Thomas. Nothing more, nothing less.

Indeed, days and nights had passed with such graceful steps that Jacki had begun to feel almost outside of time, as if the world had accidentally left her behind on its relentless march forward, leaving her to rest in that small stone walkway of paradise. Katherine filled the house with the scents of good cooking, insisting that Jacki tend her tired, withdrawing body as it adjusted to life without even the Recatur to help it along anymore. Under blue skies and the eccentric company of
Reginald and Rhona, Jacki started to feel better, then actually to feel
good,
a sensation so alien that Katherine had to explain it to her.