The Last Day

by Glenn Kleier

  Cornered by the truth, Feldman remained silent.

  “I can help.” She advanced persistently, tracing the fingers of one hand lightly across the sculpted pectorals of his chest. “I can break that spell, if you'll let me.”

  It was ironic to him. Throughout his entire life he'd always abandoned his relationships whenever they became difficult or complicated, finding quick solace in the arms of someone new. Now enmeshed in the most complicated of triangles with Anke and Jeza, he refused to escape.

  Brushing Erin off, Feldman concluded the issue decisively. “No. You don't understand. You can't begin to understand. Whatever my problems, no one can help me with them. Now, Erin, I'm telling you for the last time— leave!”

  She sighed heavily, drew her legs into her body, and spun neatly out of bed to her feet, facing away from him. Without looking back she lamented, “We could have been so perfect together. The quintessential media couple…” Her voice dropped, she girded her robe about her and slipped away to the door, quietly letting herself out.

  Surveying the room before he turned off the light, Feldman noted the chair at the end of the bed on which Erin had been standing. He shook his head sadly, hit the switch and watched smears of luminescent paint signal their presence randomly about the room: on the doorknob, in ghostly footprints across the carpet to his bed, in a handprint on the receiver of his desk phone, all over his sheets, all over himself. He shut his mind and fell back on his pillow, numb.

  96

  Brookforest subdivision, Racine, Wisconsin 8:40 P.M., Tuesday, April 4, 2000

  This scripture stuff's lame,” Tommy Martin's friend told him. “Let's go to the weapons section.”

  Tom Martin, Jr., was sitting in his darkened bedroom with a friend, in front of a computer screen, rapidly paging through the hellfire and brimstone Internet Web site of the Guardians of God.

  “There,” his friend indicated, and the graphic of a medieval-looking castle came up on the screen. “This is it!” He impatiently grabbed the mouse away from Tommy and clicked on the drawbridge. Immediately, they entered a virtual great room, then turned right down a torch-lit hallway to a door marked “Weapons Keep.”

  Tommy's eyes widened.

  “Look,” the boy pointed at the screen, “they give you all these radical weapons, and then you click on the one you like and they show you exactly how to build it.”

  He directed Tommy's attention to a short, broad, pointy club with a carved handle and sheath. “See, here's this thing called a tronchoun. You use it to beat and stab the enemy. It's made out of wood, just like the ritual stakes you use to kill vampires. Only, with this, you gotta follow a different ceremony. You gotta consecrate it with special prayers and Holy Water and stuff to make it work on the Antichrist!”

  “Okay, cool,” young Tom agreed. “Let's do that one!”

  97

  The Oval Office, Washington, D.C 9:30 A.M., Wednesday, April 5, 2000

  Edwin Guenther, presidential campaign manager, and Brian Newcomb, Democratic Presidential Reelection Committee chairman, rose respectfully and solemnly as the forty-third president of the United States entered the Oval Office.

  Smiling faintly, Allen Moore motioned them back into their chairs and took his seat behind his desk. This morning, the day after Super Tuesday, the normally youthful-appearing president looked much older than his fifty-six years. Yesterday had been a disaster. Of the nine states holding presidential primaries, not a one supported the incumbent. It was a landslide for Moore's tenacious opponent, Billy McGuire.

  “A tough night, eh boys?” The president broke the uneasy silence.

  “Yessir,” Guenther responded glumly.

  “I don't see how we can give credence to yesterday's results when only eleven percent of the electorate shows up to vote,” Newcomb volunteered.

  “Is that what the final tally was?” Moore sighed, “Yeah,” Guenther confirmed, “and only seven percent turned out in California. Now what the hell kind of primary is that?”

  “The most expensive ever conducted,” Newcomb calculated.

  “There's gotta be a way we can invalidate the returns based on insufficient voter turnout,” Guenther suggested. “I've got the attorneys working on that now. Given the unprecedented national crisis, I think we've got grounds to—”

  Moore held up a hand to stop the turning wheels. “No.” He shook his head. “That wouldn't change things. Look at the polls. We've been dropping steadily since early March.”

  “Ever since the Jeza fiasco,” Newcomb icily finished the thought.

  “So what would you have us do, anyway?” Guenther spit out. “Have Al get born again and make him suck up to the anti-Jeza far right like that craven opportunist McGuire?”

  ‘It's a little late for that,” Newcomb spit back. “You know McGuire got the Confraternity of U.S. Catholic Bishops to endorse him. Hell, the Church even ordered their flocks to the polls to support him.”

  “They were leaning that direction anyway.” Guenther's corpulent face was turning a fiery red. “It was as much McGuire's anti-abortion stance as it was the pope's decree.”

  Newcomb started to respond, noticed Moore's crestfallen face and thought better of it. “Al,” he tried to sound encouraging, “it's a long way to the convention. And with the political climate in such an uproar, hell, a lot can happen between—”

  Moore held up his hand once more and forced a dim smile. “No, gentlemen, please. Enough's enough. The writing's on the wall. McGuire has a two-to-one margin of delegates already. He's leading in fourteen of the twenty states left. I talked it over with Susan last night. It's a doomed effort, boys. It's time to pull the plug.”

  Guenther and Newcomb shot looks of hurt disbelief at their president. Although Moore's decision should have now seemed inevitable, neither campaign manager was truly prepared to accept this incredible turn of events— the most decisive rejection of any sitting president in the history of the Union.

  “At two o'clock this afternoon,” Moore informed them, “I'm holding a press conference to announce my withdrawal.”

  “Al, please,” Guenther pleaded, “anything could happen between now and the convention. Or even during the convention. You can't abandon the party to the likes of McGuire!”

  “I'm sorry, Ed.” Moore stood up to make his decision final. “To be quite frank, it's not so terribly hard for me to give up the responsibility of this office. Nothing makes sense to me anymore. I feel like I've completely lost the handle on the nation. And I pity the poor bastard who inherits the social nightmare out there. I'm beginning to think that little woman is right. Maybe it is the Last Day.”

  98

  Na-Juli apartments, Cairo, Egypt 9:39 P.M., Friday, April 7, 2000

  Returning to his apartment after a long day, Feldman found the tape on his answering machine completely filled. This time, however, no calls from Anke. There was an assortment of unimportant business messages, and then an almost continuous series of short, anxious calls from the resurfacing Cardinal Alphonse Litti.

  The cardinal left no number, but claimed it was important he reach Feldman, gave the time of his call, and added that he'd keep phoning every hour, on the hour, until he connected.

  Litti was perfectly prompt. At ten o'clock sharp, the phone rang and Feldman heard a familiar, welcome voice. “Jon, thank God I've found you!”

  “Hello, Cardinal. How have you been? Where have you been?”

  “That's not important right now, Jon. Let's just say I've been meditating and studying and learning from the Messiah.”

  “How is Jeza?” The concern in his voice was apparent.

  “She's well, Jon. We've had to keep Her hidden as much as possible with circumstances as dangerous as they are, you know. Not that we can do so for long. She has this uncanny knack for slipping away when She has a mind to.”

  “Yes.” Feldman smiled drolly. “I've experienced that a few times myself. When can I see her again?”

  “Shortly, Jon, I suspect
. I don't know Her plans exactly, She's rather mysterious in that way. But that's the reason I'm calling you. I—She—needs your help.”

  Feldman's heart kicked.

  “Jon, I have to rely on your complete confidence here.”

  “You know you can, Alphonse.”

  “Jeza wants to leave Cairo and return to Jerusalem. I need your help to smuggle Her back.”

  “Jerusalem? Why? It's too dangerous. All her enemies are there. Everyone who thinks the world's about to end is converging on Jerusalem for a front-row seat. It's safer here in Cairo.”

  “She has to be ‘about Her Father's business,’ as She says. Whatever the Almighty might be asking of Her, I don't know, but She's determined to return, one way or another.”

  “You realize, Alphonse, WNN's still blacklisted in Israel. All our facilities up there are seized and we're not allowed back in the country.”

  “Please, Jon, I have nowhere else to turn!”

  “Did Jeza ask you to contact me?” He held his breath.

  “She doesn't know I'm calling.”

  Feldman sighed.

  “She's intending to leave within the next week or two, I believe,” the cardinal continued. “She doesn't want me along, says it is too dangerous. But I insist that you also make provisions for me.”

  “Okay,” Feldman agreed. “I'll see what I can do. How can I get back in touch with you?”

  “I never know where She'll lead me next, Jon. Just tell me when and where, and I'll contact you.”

  Feldman did so, hung up and immediately placed a call to Sullivan. A short time later, he was phone-conferencing with Bollinger, Hunter and Cissy, developing a plan of action. While still going over a few details with Cissy, he heard a knock at his door. Begging Cissy's indulgence, Feldman laid down the phone, rushed over to the door, flipped the latch, shouted, “Come on in!” and dashed back to the phone.

  Looking over his shoulder, he saw the slender form of a young woman dressed in a full-length trench coat, white beret and matching scarf, her head tilted downward. Signing off, Feldman replaced the receiver and turned to meet his visitor.

  When she lifted her head, he gasped. Anke! She looked tired, her eyes red-rimmed, her fine jaw set in determined anger. She folded her arms and leaned back against the door, closing it.

  “Anke,” he whispered, the guilt welling up inside him.

  She said nothing, staring at him through steely eyes.

  “Please. Come in. Let me take your coat” He approached her, combing his hands through his hair in a haphazard attempt to make himself look more presentable.

  She didn't move.

  “Anke, I know you're upset with me, and I don't blame you, the way I've neglected you—”

  “How understanding of you, Mr. Feldman,” she snapped, and he pulled up short at the unaccustomed sharpness.

  He tried again, opening his arms to her, “Sweetheart, I'm not sure what to—”

  She wasn't listening and cut him off flat. “I can lose my patience with you, Jon,” she hissed through clenched teeth. “I can lose my temper. My mind, even. But the one thing I never thought I'd lose is my respect for you! If you owed me nothing else, Jon Feldman, you owed me honesty. I would have stood by you through hell itself. But this! This is so, so”—she began to cry—”so cruel of you.”

  Feldman was beside himself. “Anke, I never meant to hurt you.” He moved toward her again, but she held him at bay with a fierce glower, her anger cauterizing her tears.

  “Since you seem incapable of the truth, let me take the initiative to be straightforward with you.” She closed her eyes tightly, as if squeezing out her response. “I know what's going on, Jon. I—I know there's someone else.”

  He sat down numbly and heavily on the couch.

  “What I don't know,” she continued, “is why you didn't have the decency to be truthful with me. I just can't walk away without knowing that. After all we shared, after all we meant to each other, why didn't you respect me enough to tell me the truth instead of just letting me hang on like that? How could I have misjudged you so badly?” The tears came again.

  “Anke,” he pleaded, “I don't know how to explain this. I do love you. I want to work things out. In my mind, and with you.”

  “You have such an incredible ego,” she flashed at him. “There's nothing left to work out. Do you think you're so irresistible? That I have such little self-esteem that I'll just accept this in you? Honesty isn't something I value lightly, Mr. Feldman. You can't just lose and redeem faith with me so casually!”

  Feldman was heartstricken. “But Anke, nothing really happened. It was more of a… spiritual thing. I honestly don't know how to explain it. It was so, beguiling.”

  “Jon, don't make this any worse, and don't insult my intelligence. I know the two of you spent the night together.”

  Feldman was more confused than ever. He shook his head, stood up and tentatively approached her. “Anke, please, I don't know what you're talking about. I'm telling you the truth.”

  “And you're going to tell me she was never in your hotel room, I suppose?”

  “No, Anke, she wasn't Honest.”

  Anke lowered her head in despair. “Jon, for your information, I called your room in Rome Monday night— early Tuesday morning, I should say.” She turned away from him and faced out the window. “After watching you battle that cardinal on TV, I couldn't sleep. I—I just had to talk to you. I wanted to tell you how proud I was of you.” She choked with her emotion. “I was so touched by what you tried to do. You were so, so… gallant.

  “I tried to reach you for hours. The international lines were tied up with all the turmoil. And then finally, when I do get through to your room, Erin answers the phone! She was whispering, but I recognized her voice. I couldn't say anything, I just hung up.”

  Feldman's mind churned, failing to assimilate this puzzling information.

  Anke wheeled back on him with accusing eyes. “I called the front desk to make sure I had the right room. The desk clerk told me that both Mr. and Mrs. Feldman had checked in. Then I had them switch me to the room they had listed for Erin Cross. There was no answer.”

  “You're talking about Erin?” It finally sunk into Feldman's head. Taking off his glasses and covering his eyes with his hand, he shook his head. “No Anke, you've got this all wrong.” He collapsed slowly to the couch again. “Please, come here and let me explain everything to you, from the beginning.”

  “Why, Jon? So you can spin me more tales and cause me more hurt?”

  “No, Anke,” he said sadly, looking her squarely in the eyes. “So I can tell you the whole truth. While you've got a right to be mad at me, it's not for the reasons you think. Please. For everything we've meant to one another, at least hear me out.”

  She faltered for a moment, then stiffly took a seat in a chair as far from Feldman as was available. Crossing her arms and legs, she glared distrustfully at him.

  “First of all,” Feldman bent toward her, his hands spread imploringly, “let me tell you the whole story about Erin…”

  And he started at the beginning, relating the early flirtations and his initial suspicions about the woman. Then he described their trip to Rome. How he purposely declined dinner with Erin after the debate, and went instead to his room to shower and turn in without supper. How in an effort to assuage his frustration over the disastrous telecast he foolishly drank the champagne Erin had sent to his room.

  Feldman was exceedingly embarrassed and uncomfortable in recounting the bizarre seduction sequence. He watched Anke drawing herself up in her chair, tucking her legs under her, appalled. When he arrived at the part where Erin confessed how she got a key to his room, Anke began to relax.

  “All I can figure,” Feldman explained, “is that you must have called after Erin had entered my room and before she aroused me—” He flinched at the wrong choice of words and hurriedly redressed himself,”—before she woke me. Maybe after drinking all that champagne I was sleeping a
little more soundly than usual and she simply got to the phone before I heard it.

  “But Anke, I swear, as soon as I recognized her, I made her leave, so help me God! Nothing happened, honest.”

  Anke's eyes narrowed at a sudden awareness. “But you just told me Erin was never in your room,” she said, suspiciously. “You can't seem to keep your stories straight, Mr. Feldman!”

  Feldman sighed and shook his head. “No,” he said heavily. “You're confusing issues. I wasn't referring to Erin.”

  Anke, who had been gravitating toward the edge of her chair, came to an abrupt halt and retreated again, dumbstruck. “You mean there's someone else other than Erin?” She looked crushed.

  Feldman nodded his hanging head.

  “Please tell me it isn't Cissy!”

  “Christ! No, no, it's not Cissy.”

  Anke studied him for a moment. And then her eyes grew increasingly large. Softly and slowly she exclaimed, “Oh my God!” She rose to her feet and looked down at the tortured Feldman. “Don't tell me.” She began to amble slowly around the room without direction. “Oh my God!” she cried repeatedly.

  Feldman peered up at her from under heavy brows.

  At length, she stopped her pacing, sat down next to him and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Jon, do you… do you love her?”

  He bit his lip and glanced furtively over at Anke, his face contorted with confusion. “I honestly don't know. I feel something very strong for her. But it's, it's not like what I feel for you. I mean, it's—God, I don't know! I feel very loving and protective of her.”

  “And you don't feel that way for me?” Anke asked, hurt.

  Feldman looked over at her, puzzled, then realized what he'd just said. He scrunched his face. “No, no, that's not what I mean at all.” He shook his head and looked away. “I don't know what I mean anymore. It's not a romantic love I feel for her, I don't think. But—I'm trying to be completely honest with you—I do want to be with her. I do miss her.”