Woke Up Lonely (12 page)

As the government’s hostility to principles of democracy mandates a reluctant but immediate exercise of protest.

As the seizure, four years back, of the presidency from the will of the people has perverted the Constitution.

As liberal Americans have a common stake in the enterprise of justice and must be common sufferers of its dispatch.

As the government’s hostility to principles of democracy mandates a reluctant but immediate exercise of protest.

Rita looked over her glasses at Crystal, who said, “So what do you think? We’re passing them out at the meeting today.”

“I think it’s good. It’s got moral authority.”

Bruce cleared his throat, wanting to jump in.

“You think?” Crystal said. “Because we haven’t gotten input from HQ. Not yet, anyway. Thurlow’s a busy man.”

Rita nodded. She’d read every speech Thurlow Dan had given, and none had actually mentioned interest in the travesty helming the government or that he thought the political strife of 2000 had turned into a bald divide no country could sustain, so revolt. But still, the message was there. Implicitly. Loud and implicit. Revolt!

“We were going for a certain tone,” Crystal said. “Like, you sort of want to call up the language of back then but not the substance.”

“Exactly,” Rita said. “Because if anything, the Confederates have all the power now. Total role reversal.”

Bruce cleared his throat again. And when they continued to ignore him, he said, “Uh, there are no Confederates anymore.”

Crystal returned her feet to the floor so she could one-eighty and regard the idiot by the door. Rita gazed at him from above the rim of her glasses. Their faces were the essence of pity.

“What?” he said. “Don’t look at me like that.”

Crystal said, “Okay, but surely you’ve got a problem with what’s happening. Everyone with a brain has a problem with it. This government represents only half,
half,
of Americans. And the wrong half at that. You call that a union? It’s time we found each other. Started something new.”

As she spoke, her hair began to take on an unruly look. Static, perhaps. Or sympathetic arousal. Maybe her skin was on fire. She was so young.

“I thought the Helix was more of a therapy thing,” he said.

Crystal sighed as though to say: Who has time for this.

“Well,” he went on. “I’m apolitical, anyway. I choose not to get involved. Do I have opinions? Of course. Do they matter? No.”

“Gross,” Crystal said, and she looked at Rita, like, How was Rita married to this oaf?

“You have to know that pamphlet sounds like some ridiculous secession manifesto,” he said. “Are you in a club or something? High school play?”

“Don’t be absurd,” said Rita. “Crystal is my new assistant. I
told
you.”

She told him? Really? “Oh, right,” he said. “When did you start?”

“Couple weeks. But I feel at home already. Lucky to have been assigned to Rita. We get along famously.”

She turned to Rita. “So, you ready? Meeting starts in about an hour. I got a car outside. And there’s plenty of couches, so you can lie down the whole time.”

“You bet,” said Rita. And, to Bruce, “Honey, get me my coat?”

“Whoa, whoa,” he said. “You can’t go out. What are you doing? You won’t even pick a sock off the floor, and you’re going to some silly model congress with lounge furniture?”

“Since Rita’s vouching for you, you’re welcome to come,” Crystal said. “The more the merrier. Strength in numbers.”

She bent over to pick up her bag, brimming with propaganda. On the small of her back was a tattoo. A blue double helix.

“Rita,” he said. “This really isn’t a good idea. You don’t even know these people.”

“Oh, come on. You heard Crystal: There’s couches. Now help me up.
Slowly.
God.”

He put on his coat. Grabbed his video camera. He was not going to let Crystal the levelheaded reformist take off with his wife of no sense.

They made it down the hall and into the mudroom, Rita availing herself of techniques used to prevent a pee, should one have to pee en route to a place where peeing is welcome. She was also cupping her vulva, but this was a different matter.

Outside, Crystal’s vehicle came to life. It was a Hummer, with side wheels mounted on the curb.

“Mind if I drive?” Bruce said.

“Normally, no. But it’s my godmom’s car. Don’t worry.”

It was a box. Pewter and black. Silliest vehicle ever. On the plus side, it had reclining seats and a DVD player, which meant Bruce could live in this Hummer without complaint.

“So where are we going?” he said.

“My godmother’s. She’s got a huge basement with a separate entrance. She thinks I have parties down there.”

“Is she sympathetic?” Rita said. “To the cause?”

Bruce, who was sitting in the back, popped his head between the front seats. “Let me get this straight: we have a cause?” He was clutching their headrests and pulling.

Crystal turned to Rita. “You sure he’s okay? I don’t mean for this to be rude—he’s your husband—but there’s a lot of us who can’t include our significant others. It’s not even about priorities, putting the Helix above your husband; it’s just about keeping everyone safe.”

Bruce said, “Just to play along here for a second, your saying all that
in front of me
sort of undoes the point of excluding me.”

But Crystal just looked at Rita, who said, “I promise he’s fine. I just haven’t had a chance to fill him in.”

“Because you’ve been so busy,” he said.

He sat back in his seat. The windows were tinted; the world was grim. Crystal caught his eye in the rearview, smiled, and seemed to say with her smile, We could fuck but it wouldn’t be worth it.

They drove down to D.C. and through a residential neighborhood. Eventually, they turned off and down an inlet that meandered for several miles before pooling in a cul-de-sac. Crystal parked and said, “Voilà.” She jumped out of the truck—it was so high off the ground, you actually had to jump—and opened the rear door.

“Give me a hand, Bruce?”

He went around back. “I don’t even know where we are.”

The land was barren. Plaqued with ice. The only disturbance to the snow was a set of tracks that wandered off into a copse several hundred feet away. He thought he could make out a hedge, but it was too far to tell for sure.

“What’s this for?” he said, and he helped Crystal with a plastic sled. It was shaped like a bathtub, though it was half as deep.

“Rita, of course. How else we gonna get her there?”

He thought she was kidding and laughed.

“Clever,” said Rita, eyeing the sled. “You do think of everything.”

She lowered herself into the well. Crystal gave her a Burberry throw and said, “Okay, Bruce, we’re going to walk in single file. We’ll make like sled dogs—you’ve seen them on TV. Oh, and try to keep to the footprints that are already here.”

“Why?”

“It helps to make it look like there aren’t so many of us.”

He looked at the prints. “You’re saying more than one person has come through here?”

She squinted, did some math. “About fifty, I’m guessing. Let’s go.”

He took hold of one of the ropes and secured it over his shoulder. He looked back at Rita, who had pulled the blanket up to her chin. With her hat brought low, her bangs pressed into her forehead and eyes.

“Ready?” Crystal said.

“Hang on.” He ran back and tucked Rita’s hair behind each ear. She was adorable, his wife. All snug and pregnant in a sled.

They started off. It was slow going, having to stick to the prints. The steps were spaced so tight, he tangled in his own pants.

“Mush!” cried Rita. She untied her scarf and lashed his back. “Mush!” She was laughing. He fell down.

Crystal stopped. “Okay, guys, this is all very nice, love in the snow and all, but I’ve got a meeting to run. Can we pick up the pace a little?”

Bruce said, “Where the hell are we going? There’s nothing out here.”

“Course there is. Just up ahead.”

He realized they were making straight for the hedges, which were twenty feet tall, at least. You didn’t see hedges like these in D.C. These hedges were pledged in the defense of hearth and home. Like Beverly Hills or Bel Air.

Bruce whistled. “Holy cow, look at the size of this place.”

They had passed through a gap in the bushes and were on a path flanked by stone walls on which yew and juniper sat in pots three feet high. It was an arcade, almost. You couldn’t see the sky.

The lane egressed into a patio framed with garden chairs stacked by the dozen. The patio had just been shoveled and gave the impression that there were such festivities here as to accommodate hundreds without inconvenience. Beyond the patio was a porch in balustrade—all limestone, very old—and behind that a manor home the size of the Capitol. Twenty thousand square feet, at least.

Crystal said, “Wait here,” and she ran around the side of the house.

Bruce squatted. He took Rita’s two hands in his and blew.

“Crystal
lives
here?” he said.

“Her godmother.”

“Her godmother is God?”

“I guess so.”

“And Crystal’s working for you why, exactly? I bet whatever’s in there sells for more than we make a year. Combined.”

“You steal anything and we are through.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Crystal reappeared with six men in tow. Men in bomber jackets and bomber hats. Matching Timberlands. They looked like a boy-band militia.

Crystal motioned to Rita and the sled. “Now, be careful. Three of you on each side.”

They did as told and lifted. Like pallbearers. Rita went up five feet. “I don’t like this!” she said, and she covered her face.

The men walked in step. Bruce felt in his pocket for his video camera. He wished he had brought a second battery. The crappy battery life on this camera was reprisal for his having read six reviews of the product in which crappy battery life was the main complaint, only Bruce had wanted the camera,
this
camera, because it was password protected. It was the only camera he knew of that could safeguard his work from the nosing of a certain wife, who had every right, at this point, to nose through whatever she liked.

The men whisked Rita through the side door, followed by Crystal, who stopped to say something to a security guard, himself secure behind a receiving desk in a booth. Bruce lingered by the entrance, marveling at the grounds. Twenty acres? Sixty? By the time he went inside, Crystal was gone. Rita too.

He asked the guard for directions.

“Driver’s license, please. Arms out, please.”

Bruce was getting frisked. “This is totally over the top, don’t you think?” The frisking continued. And a search through his bag. “What the hell?” Bruce said. “You better have the president in there for me to be going through all this. Hey, if you all are so by the book, why wasn’t my wife patted down? You think a pregnant woman in a sled can’t blow up a house? Maybe she’s got a bomb under the blanket—ever think of that?”

“She has security clearance.”

“Security clearance,” Bruce said. And thought: So maybe Crystal’s godmom really is God.

The guard was unpacking his bag. Bruce always traveled with this bag, so it was complete with items unsuited to today’s excursion but handy in a pinch. Tums. A hank of rope. Pajamas.

The guard said, “I might as well confiscate the whole thing until you leave. Unless you want to walk around with an empty bag.”

“That’s fine,” Bruce said. He’d had the foresight, or luck, to have put his video camera in the inside pocket of his jacket—a great big poofy jacket—which had somehow escaped the security guard. He was going to count his blessings and move on. “But, just out of curiosity, what’s the danger in pajamas?”

“Your receipt,” said the guard. “And here is one for the camera. Electronics are logged separately.”

Bruce dove into his pocket, but the camera was gone.

He stared into the booth. At the monitors along the wall. Each was split into quadrants and each quad appeared to broadcast from a different room. Five monitors, twenty rooms and scenes, among them an overhead view of an auditorium jammed with people, at least two hundred, and, in a clearing by the wall, his wife on a cerise banquette, sipping juice.

“Meeting’s that way, sir,” said the guard.

Bruce walked down the hall. It was paneled in wood, and underfoot were carpet runners in royal blue with sangria trim. He kept walking but found no meeting, just doors that were locked, except for one, which was ajar. He peered inside and listened. Listened hard, heard nothing. How could this building assimilate the noise of two hundred? It was all limestone and brick. In places like this, men were eviscerated on the rack, and their screams were heard for miles.

“Hello?” he said. And then louder, because in this parlor was a cup of tea, steaming; a half-eaten red velvet cupcake; and a cigarette butt smoldering in an ashtray. “Anyone here?”

He stepped inside and nearly upset a cart of desserts. Éclairs, profiteroles, soufflés. Poppy-seed cake and tiramisu. He eyed the spread and felt it narrated something of his future, like he’d snatch a dessert and indenture himself to the fabled witch of the house. He stepped away from the cart. Gingerly. Touch nothing. The cigarette smoke nested in his eyes. He put out the butt and spun around.

“Jesus,” he said, and he brought his hand to his chest. “You scared me to death.”

“My apologies, sir.”

It was not the guard but a man in a tailcoat—a butler, it seemed—whose
sir
was of a different caliber altogether.

“Oh, well, that’s okay. I’m probably not supposed to be here anyway.”

“Mrs. Anderson will be in shortly. She asks that you make yourself at home and enjoy a pastry.”

“That’s very nice, but I’m just here for—”

He paused, recalling what Crystal had said about her godmother. How much she knew. Whatever they were doing, however ridiculous, he didn’t want to blow it. Rita would get in trouble; Crystal would be mad; they’d all look at him funny in homeroom. He threw up his hands.