Boomsday Page 5

  “Corporal”—it was the colonel talking—“why was the congressman driving your vehicle?”

  “He asked.”

  This brought a wave of frowns around Cass’s bed.

  “You understand that was in violation of regulations.”

  “I’m aware of the fact.” Painfully aware.

  “And you nonetheless let him commandeer the vehicle?”

  “Sir, he’s a U.S. congressman.”

  The uniforms exchanged glances. “What were you doing in the village?”

  “Fact-finding, sir.” Lovely, morphine. Takes the edge off anything, even the prospect of a court-martial.

  “Corporal, you’re in a deep hole. Don’t keep digging.”

  “The congressman was hungry. He insisted. I attempted to persuade him to eat an MRE instead. It was apparently not up to his gastronomic standards.”

  “‘Insisted’? He was your responsibility, Corporal.”

  “Yes, sir. I seem to have screwed up big-time, sir. Might I inquire how the congressman is?”

  Deeper frowns.

  “They’re still working on him. Trying to save his leg.”

  The uniforms left. Cass had a cry. The obliging nurse gave her a shot, and she tumbled gratefully back into the outstretched arms of Mother Morphine.

  When she awoke—was it the next day?—there was a uniform sitting by her bed. It was Captain Drimpilski. He had flowers. When she realized it was he, she began to blubber.

  “All right, Corporal. It’s all right. Come on now, soldier, enough of that. Eagles spin. They don’t cry. Suck it up.”

  “Yes, sir.” She blew her nose. “What is the captain doing here?”

  “They flew me in. I talked to the doctors. You’re going to be all right, Cohane. You’re damn lucky.”

  Cass stared. “Lucky? In what way, exactly, sir?”

  “Could have been a lot worse.”

  “How’s Randy?”

  “Randy?”

  “The congressman. Whatever. Is he . . .all right?”

  “They’re flying him stateside for further surgery. They”—Drimpilski sighed—“removed a portion of his left leg.”

  “Portion?”

  “Below the knee.”

  Cass groaned.

  “He’s got a dozen broken bones, a collapsed lung, internal bleeding, his left arm got pretty shredded, but they think that’ll be all right eventually. He’ll be setting off metal detectors for the rest of his life. But he’ll live. So it could have been worse.”

  Captain Drimpilski handed her another tissue and helped her blow her nose.

  “Cass,” he said. It was the only time he’d ever used her first name. It made her start blubbering again. Realizing what he’d done, he self-corrected and spoke gruffly.

  “You represent the 4087, Cohane.”

  “Yes, sir,” Cass said miserably. “Eagles spin the way. Hooah.”

  “All the way. That’s more like it. All right, then, let’s review the apparent facts. You went beyond the perimeter of operations, broke regs by permitting a civilian to drive a military vehicle, did something to provoke the locals—hold on, let me finish—and in the process nearly lost a United States congressman. A congressman known for being outspokenly critical of our presence here. And who is known to have a certain reputation with the . . .female of the species.” Captain Drimpilski pondered a moment. “As you can see, there are a few layers to this onion.”

  “Is the captain implying,” Cass said, suddenly dry-eyed, “that the corporal was having sex with the congressman? In a minefield?”

  “No, I personally do not believe that.”

  “Do they?” she said incredulously.

  Captain Drimpilski cleared his throat noncommittally. “What I know is that discussions are being held even as we speak. In Washington, D.C., at the Pentagon. And at the White House. I am given to understand that the secretary of defense himself is taking part in these discussions. While I am not privy to these discussions, it is my general understanding that they are not arguing over whether to award you the Distinguished Service Medal or the Medal of Honor. By the way, there are approximately fifty members of the media outside this facility, all of them extremely eager to interview you.”

  Cass was not one for self-pity, but she couldn’t help reflecting that eighteen months ago she was at home in Connecticut opening a letter saying she’d been admitted to Yale and she was now lying wounded in an army hospital in Germany, responsible for the mutilation of a member of the United States Congress and listening to what sounded like a preamble to her court-martial. She began to laugh. She couldn’t help it.

  “You all right?” Captain Drimpilski said.

  “Fine. Fine. So when’s the firing squad?”

  Captain Drimpilski stood. “I’ll stick around, see what can be done.” He patted her on the knee. “You get some rest now, Corporal.”

  “Captain,” she said as he was leaving.

  “Yes?”

  “The corporal was not having sex with the congressman in a minefield.”

  “Noted.”

  The next day, off morphine and wishing she weren’t, Cass watched CNN and saw Congressman Randy being wheeled off a military air transport at Andrews Air Force Base outside Washington. A large crowd awaited him. His mother was there, along with the entire Massachusetts congressional delegation. Randy gave a thumbs-up gesture—which would be replayed a thousand times—as he was bathed in the flashlight from dozens of cameras. People waved American flags. A welcome banner read, WELCOME HOME, HERO! Cass noted the presence of the secretary of defense and various Joint Chiefs, including the chairman. The secretary’s demeanor, not normally jocund, resembled that of a man chewing aluminum foil. She became aware of the reporter saying, “Congressman Jepperson was wounded when the vehicle he was being driven in went off the road and onto a mine. From here he will be transferred to . . .”

  Was being driven in? Had she heard correctly?

  Cass was not left to speculate for long. That afternoon, the colonel returned, this time alone. He closed the door and sat beside Cass’s bed. He handed her a clipboard. There was a sheet of paper on it, with a line at the bottom.

  “It’s your request for discharge.”

  “From the hospital?”

  “No, Corporal. From the army.”

  Cass tried to sit up. “Sir, though my mind is kind of clouded up with morphine, I do not specifically recall requesting a discharge.”

  The colonel gave her a meaningful look. “Does the corporal recall being offered a choice between court-martial for negligent endangerment of a civilian, punishable by up to twenty-five years in military prison—and an honorable discharge for personal reasons?”

  So there it was. “Now that the colonel mentions it, I do recall something of that nature. Perhaps the morphine caused amnesia.”

  “It does that. Sign here, here, and here.”

  “Shouldn’t I first consult with an army lawyer?”

  “Cohane,” the colonel said with just a fleck of sympathy, “there were those who wanted your flayed hide nailed to the front door of a certain five-sided building in Washington, D.C. Were it not for Captain Drimpilski and Congressman Jepperson, the crows would by now be feasting on your remains. I’m putting it explicitly, but I want to make everything clear for you. Do I?”

  “As designer water, sir.” Cass sighed.

  As the colonel walked away, she said, “Do I get a Purple Heart?”

  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 un
recognizable 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 mélange 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.”