by Jeff Soloway
“I was just eighteen.” My best excuse; eighteen to her was another country, full of selfish, good-looking, immature snobs. The Italy of the human life-span. “I always loved you.”
“Do you still? Then this time stay with me. Stay with me and Carlton. He’s giving me the chance I never had. When I was young, like you, I reached for real life, and missed. Not this time, Jacob.”
For a moment, I imagined that I knew nothing more than she did. That Chomp was a charming political has-been; that he nonetheless retained all of his wealth, much of his influence, and many of his friends; that she and her son could stay on the island and be treated like royalty; that life here under Chomp’s protection would be luxurious, glamorous, sunny, and fun. Would I have been tempted to stay? Just for a few weeks? I could canoodle with Shell, gather material for an article or even a book, network with the wealthiest people I was ever likely to meet.
“Will you, Jacob?” she asked.
“They found your note, Mom. Where you called him ‘President Buffoon.’ They’re going to show it to Chomp.”
“Oh, that was a joke, Jacob. He’ll understand. He loves me.”
Could I ever persuade her otherwise? Maybe only Chomp himself could. Or Jimbo.
“So will you stay?” she asked.
“I wish I could. Come back with me, Mom. We’ll take a better vacation together.”
“Jacob, I’m not talking about fun! I’m talking about building a life that matters. I’m divorced, my son’s grown, I don’t even have a cat. I thought I needed stability and comfort, but I was wrong, I don’t want them, I want to live. You travel, you’ve seen the whole world, you’ve had adventures. I’ve had nothing. I’m middle-aged. I have half my life ahead of me, more or less. Haven’t you ever dreamed of doing something important? I don’t just mean important to you. Imagine if every stupid affair you ever had—every tedious task you undertook at your pointless job—imagine if they were all preparing you for something that mattered. All those hours impressing oblivious dates and dim-witted bosses were all practice for influencing one man, the most important in the world. This is all I want, Jacob. It could be your chance too! At least come hear him speak. He’s not who you think. I helped him with the speech. He’s changing already.”
“All right, Mom. But we’ll have to stay in the back so no one sees us. And you’ll have to promise to leave with me if I say so, maybe partway through.” That would be the time to escape, when everyone was distracted.
“We’ll see.”
All the agreement I was likely to get. “Okay. Let’s go.”
“We’ve got time. He told the TV people he’d start at eleven o’clock, like the local news. And he prefers to be late.”
I had an idea. “I’d like to see those yurts.”
“Why not? They’re practically on the way.”
We started along the beach but she took me on a parallel path high up from the water, where palms and cedars whispered in the breeze. You could catch glimpses between sand dunes of the island’s interior. In one gap a wooden sign featured the outline of a horse. Stables. I wondered where the horses were now.
At a different gap between the dunes, my mother gathered her dress in her hand and we turned and hiked up a sandy rise away from the beach. At the top, she stopped and pointed. The wind had died, and the countless folds in her dress became as still as marble. In the moonlight she looked like a classical statue come to life. Below us, spread out across a wide clearing that fronted a lagoon, was a double line of gigantic gray toadstools, some leaning awkwardly into the sand, some with dented caps. Yurts.
“They’re gonna hate ’em,” I said.
“Not if they’re like his on the inside.”
“Yeah? I’d love to see it. Show me.”
“Jacob, what are you scheming?”
We still had time.
Chapter 25
My mother showed me the wonders of the yurt: the silk tapestries with their portraits of the world’s great military leaders and resort properties, one of which could be pinned back to reveal a television; the world’s classiest chemical toilet; the Louis XIV-style writing desk in which Chomp had stashed his phone; a pile of discarded presidential clothing (he had changed for television); and the futon bed where the magic had happened. She took a moment in private to revive her makeup, and then we hiked back through the mosquito-swarmed prefab fungal neighborhood to the beach. Poor Mrs. Chachkey.
We continued our sandy slog in the direction of the pavilion tent. Chompians were now flowing out of the tent and toward the pirate ship. Staff standing along the tiki torches pointed the way, but Chompian renegades nonetheless wandered in couples or packs in our direction, toward the isolated and darker parts of the beach, or skipped down toward the water, or plopped down in the sand with drinks. I had to avoid the torches and the staff; luckily, my mother and I fit in among the free-spirited couples.
In the distance a lone drunk was stumbling toward the plaza. Dark forms scrambled to redirect him back toward the pirate ship. Chomp’s security was standing guard. We would never get through to the cruise ship that way. Perhaps they would reposition when the speech started.
“I have to see a friend,” I told my mother.
“Who?”
“Erica. The dancer.”
She smiled in approval. “If only…”
“What?”
“If only we could ask her to stay too.”
My mother knew that there were limits to even her influence.
When I could make out the pyrotechnicians, on their own near the water, I skimmed across the sand toward them, moving as fast as I could without running, like a sandpiper.
Uniformed Fun Patrollers were still gathered near but apart from the fireworks team. Some lounged on their elbows on the sand and stared up at the stars; others clustered together, chitchatting, I supposed, or discussing entertainment tactics. A lone pyrotechnician was squatting below a portable lamp. Beside him an unzipped duffel bag bulged with fireworks, like guts in a ripped-open stomach. He shouted something to his colleagues. I heard a loud fizz and looked up. A red star shot through the sky, burst into a great yellow sea anemone, and then (the slowness of sound) boomed above us. A few whoops and shrieks sounded from the passengers, but the Fun Patrol soldiers remained at ease. This was practice.
One of the lounging Fun Patrollers spotted us and pointed to the pirate ship. “That way!”
“I’m looking for Erica,” I said.
“Sorry, no passengers permitted in this area.”
My mother came still closer to the Fun Patroller, to bring her face nearer. “We’re looking for Erica,” she said.
Other Fun Patrollers saw her and knew her. One popped to his feet and pointed to a figure seated apart, her arms wrapped around her shins and her head burrowed between her knees.
My mom waved me on. She crossed her legs and sat uncomplaining on the sand. She had forgiven me, for the moment. My ambitions, particularly romantic ones, always made her conciliatory. She turned from the sea to gaze at the crowd gathering before the pirate ship. Chomp would soon be ascending to his perch. The quiet endlessness of the sea was of no interest to her tonight. She was thinking not of death but of defying it. She had found her hero in the world’s most defiant man.
“I need a favor,” I said.
Erica lifted her face to me. “So did my sister.”
“Is she okay?”
“I went with her to look at ID photos on a computer. The fucking Chomp guys kicked down the door in the Resources room. They called her a whore and a secret agent. They wanted to take her away.”
“What happened?”
“Bullinski stood up to them. They called him a traitor. The guy with the huge belly said they could kill us if they felt like it. There’s no law against it. But you know what they really wanted?”
“Me?”
“Yeah. And I think I know why. Before they came, my sister picked out the photo of the guy she saw. She said she was absolutely sure. Bullinski said the guy was your father. Is that why you lied to him?”
“My father’s not the killer.”
“Neither’s my sister. Bullinski talked them down. He said he’d have his guys look for you, but they had to leave my sister alone. So they left. Assholes. On the way out, one of them said he’d be looking for me at the island. Said I was pretty hot for a spic.”
“You should’ve stayed on the ship.”
“Then some other spic would’ve had to dance for them. I hate this job. Wish I could quit. But I got to look after my sister. She can’t handle this place on her own.”
“They’re the ones who murdered the passengers. I can prove it.”
“I hope you can.”
“Want to be a hero?”
“Your hero?”
“Everyone’s.”
She said nothing.
“Want to stick it to Chomp?”
Now she was interested.
“Take this back to the ship.” I gave her a sock embroidered with the presidential seal.
“What the fuck is this?”
When I explained, she gave me a look I’d never seen from her. It took me a moment to interpret it: She was impressed.
“You’re gonna die,” she said.
A mighty squeal tore across the sand, and then a voice as loud as fireworks made all of us, even the pyros, turn and look: “Ladies and gentlemen, the president!”
Chapter 26
My mother and I settled under the overhang of a deserted kiosk, just behind the back fringe of the crowd. Lights installed atop the pirate ship and in the surrounding palms made everything as bright as a night ballgame. A giant white movie screen, like a square-rigged sail, had been unfurled below the crow’s nest, and speakers the size of storage sheds flanked the hull. The crowd near the ship was packed close, but many toward the back were sitting, screwing their drinks into the sand, to enjoy Chomp’s show like an outdoor pops concert. Perched on a sand dune to the side were some scurrying techies, a camera crew, and a lone beautiful man burdened only with a microphone. No Chompian was giving him the finger, which meant he must be from Fox.
A few savvy Chompians had mounted the wheelchair ramp, which was slightly closer to the crow’s nest and offered a view over the crowd. There was Shell, learning far over the railing to yell something to a friend below. Had she been able to flirt with Chomp? Back at the plaza, some of the local workers were taking a break to watch the spectacle. One of them stopped, crouched in the concrete, and lit a cigarette. The red laser dot glowed bright, then faded.
The lights dimmed, and everyone began staring up at the illuminated crow’s nest, like New Year’s Eve revelers waiting for the ball to drop in Times Square.
A cheer rose from the crowd, first as softly as a gust through the palms and cedars, but then gathering force. A man was ascending the spiral staircase around the mast. As he reached the better-lit heights, the cheering built to thunder. It was Chomp. Toward the top he began planting his hands on the outside guardrail and hauling himself up like a mountaineer. The cheering relaxed. No one knew whether this was a self-deprecatory joke or the painful strivings of an out-of-shape gourmand. The crowd turned to “Chomp, Chomp, Chomp!” to urge him on.
Chomp paused, got his breath, and trotted up the last few steps. He waved from the crow’s nest, gave a few exaggerated puffs, and grinned. His face burst onto the screen. The HD was so good you could see his eyebrow hair quivering in the high-altitude breeze. The light from the screen was enough to make gray shadows fall behind all the Chompians.
“Hello, Chomp Nation!” The speakers screeched, then settled. The audio was plenty powerful enough to reach the back of the crowd, and probably even the plaza, the pier, the ship, and the fish chewing on the ship’s anchor. Chomp extended and lowered his arms to crush the cheering; the crowd fell silent after just a few more postorgasmic spurts of “Chomp.”
My mother stage-whispered into my ear: “Guess which lines are mine!”
“Nothing more beautiful,” Chomp said, “than ten thousand Chompians.” The ship’s passenger capacity was just over three thousand. “I have one question.” He pointed down at the Jolly Roger fluttering below the crow’s nest. “What has only one eye and one leg, because of the unprecedented barrage of unfair attacks launched by the lying media?”
The crowd remained silent in anticipation. Chomp leaned his arms on the podium, crooked one leg, closed one eye, and bent forward to leer at the crowd.
“Me! Harrr!”
“That must be yours,” I said.
“Har,” my mother replied sorrowfully. “He writes the pirate jokes.”
“But, folks,” Chomp continued, “when I mention the despicable lying media, we all know that I am referring to the cash-strapped lightweights at CNN and The New Jerk Times and not, mostly, our friends at Fox. They put together the incredible story of our cruise, our story, the real story. So tragic. So beautiful. You lived it, and now everyone watching Fox—which must be all of America and a good portion of the rest of the world, maybe two-thirds, three-quarters—they’ll see it too. Here it is, folks.”
The light in the crow’s nest went out. Chomp’s silhouette blended with the crow’s nest and the mast behind it. The Fox News intro coalesced on the screen, and a new voice announced, with professional sonority: “This is a Special Report: Murder on the High Seas: The Carlton Chomp Cruise. A true story of hope, courage, brotherhood, sacrifice—and terror.”
The logo gave way to black, and then a phrase expanded from the screen’s center. “Hatred in Miami: Earlier Today.” A video montage followed. The first, silent clip showed Chomp smiling, waving, and upthumbing as he emerged from his limousine outside the port. Then the camera zoomed out to capture the mob rattling police barriers right in his face (seemingly), as audio kicked in with their chant: “We chased out the racist!” Next came a series of close-ups of hate-disfigured black and brown faces, followed by their most brutal and least clever signs: PRESIDENT OF STUPID, AMERICA WAS NEVER GREAT, and CHOMP MY CLIT. The recorded chanting hit a brutal crescendo to accompany an aerial pan revealing the protesters’ terrifying mass. They filled the port parking lot, the access highway behind it, and, for all the viewer could tell, most of the rest of Miami.
“The posters were my idea!” My mother now had to holler in my ear. “Especially the vagina ones!”
The camera returned to earth to spotlight more signs, more faces, more hate, but now the clips were mingled with the Chomp campaign’s favorite still image of the Witch (the real one), the famous shot of her grinning dopily at some fundraiser, jowls a-quiver and pantsuit askew, as she raised her hand. Forensic analysts had pointed out that the photographer had obviously caught her in some transition between waving and clasping a supporter’s outstretched hand, but even the most evenhanded agreed that the image, however inadvertently, perfectly conveyed a sense of fascistic triumph. Such blunders, the pundits declared, deserved nothing but scorn.
In these skeptical days, lying with pictures is better than lying with statistics, but lying with video is best of all. The montage had driven its message straight into our brains: The Witch was the diabolic mastermind behind both the protest and the larger plot to undermine human decency, as represented by one good-hearted man, Carlton Chomp.
My mother refused to look at me. The Witch was not her idea.
Now the screen darkened, and new words appeared: “The Victim.” As a bagpipe dirge swelled from the speakers, an image of the port protest emerged on the screen in grainy black-and-white. It must have come from one of the terminal’s outdoor security cameras. Chomp and his entourage could be seen off to the side, but the image expanded and shifted to center on a different figure, his face, even in high
ly pixilated form, downcast and troubled. I remembered that face, that expression, and even that moment. The man was Clark.
I could barely hear my mother say: “All because of me.”
I knew what she meant: that she was to blame for Clark’s despondency and his fate afterward. But I also knew, as she surely did too, that anyone else watching, anyone with the normal human narrative sensitivity that makes us all choke up involuntarily at children-in-peril movies, YouTube videos of heroic mother elephants, and commercials starring athletes who are finally coming home, would assume that Clark was instead despondent at the reviling of a good man.
And then the recorded anti-Chomp chant rose and overwhelmed the bagpipes, and the still image was put in motion. Some maniac—Carlos—lunged forward to grab Clark and then drag him toward the maddened protesters.
The screen went black. The audio cut off. The announcer spoke: “Two hours later, Clark Wolfson, a passenger on the Regal Majestic Britannia ship Iron Lady and a steadfast supporter of President Carlton Chomp, was found in his stateroom. Murdered.”
The crowd moaned.
“Mom—”
“It’s all true! Every word and every image.”
“Did you ever call Clark’s sister?”
The indignation in her voice died. “I never had time. Oh dear…to get the news from Fox…”
The screen went black again. Now it showed a close-up of Carlos’s grim face as he hauled Clark away. And a closer, grainier close-up. And a still closer one. The announcer continued:
“His attacker, Carlos Suarez”—the name itself was enough to provoke howls from the crowd—“was, after a careful investigation conducted by Carlton Chomp himself, arrested and detained. Investigators later found in Suarez’s stateroom a laptop containing instructions from leftist commanders. The next step in his plot was to assassinate the president.”