The Dreaming Field

by Ron Savage

  What’cha got, huh?

  No, it ain’t the flu, honey-bunny.

  Bet your sweet ass it ain’t the goddamn flu.

  Hurry, hurry, step this way, Space Cadets, we take MasterCard and Visa—sorry, no American Express—hey, NO America. Just take yourself a big, deep breath and say, “Help me, Jesus…

  …help me.”

  And in the dark study, lighted only by the glow of the computer, Simon shut his eyes, put his hands flat against Dora’s warm and swollen abdomen, moving them slowly to her crotch and back again. He heard her moan, and he tried to feel the new life.

  THIRTEEN

  I

  “Morning, darling.”

  “Morning, darling.”

  Kiss, kiss.

  Patty McBaen née Thorngood, giving hubby the Hollywood air kiss, though she hadn’t set a pedicured foot in that village for twenty-one years. But damn sexy for an old broad, the senator thought. He looked up at her from his newspaper; she, gliding to the opposite end of the table—sunlight filling their Georgetown kitchen—every gray-blond hair smoothed to perfection, a frame for that face, that heart-stopping face—time and cosmetic surgery had been kind to her—eyeliner, lipstick, liquid base, all prepared without a blemish, and dressed to the nines, one of those Anne Klein, charcoal gray pantsuits, silk champagne blouse, not bad for eight in the morning.

  Could life be any better?

  Power.

  A beautiful woman.

  Viagra.

  And—as the senator was quick to point out—the very real possibility of the presidency. Hell, if Ronny and Nancy could waltz into the White House when the guy was seventy, then Robert McBaen and the knock-your-socks-off Patty Thorngood could damn well give America a hard-on.

  Yeah, life was good.

  “Clayman was on NPR this morning,” Patty said, buttering a slice of wheat toast, her pearl lacquered nails in an upward flare, as if the whole process was offensive. “I think he has money.”

  “Forbes has money.”

  “True, darling. But Forbes never blinks.”

  “Pardon?”

  “On TV. I never saw him blink. His eyes were far too creepy. Who wants a president with a tear duct problem.”

  “Flat tax, my ass.”

  “Exactly.” Mrs. McBaen bit into her toast, immediately touching the sides of her mouth with a white linen napkin. After a sip of orange juice, she said: “Senator Clayman is an attractive man, don’t you think.”

  “Voters don’t elect unmarried men. I mean. Who’d be the first lady? It’s too confusing.”

  “He’s a widower, Bobby. With a cute daughter. You know, a sweet motherless child? Don’t underestimate the sympathy of the American people.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Bobby, pretending to read the paper, feeling irritated at this obvious truth, a fact he’d done his best to ignore. He often ignored what he couldn’t change. But the former Ms. Thorngood knew her public, and she had given him a thorough make-over during their nineteen year marriage, that critical voice a part of him now: Bobby, you surely aren’t going to wear THAT tie with a blue suit? And, Bobby, look AT the camera when you’re talking, keep it conversational; remember, it’s like you’re talking to your best friend. And the one he really had a tough time with, Bobby, never, EVER attack your opponent. Just show your strength by discussing the issues and your programs. People will respect you, believe me.

  The former Ms. Thorngood knew her shit. Senator Robert McBaen had risen above the political duels and fist-fights, had taken his place on the mountain top; and like the wife Caesar had always wanted, he was beyond suspicion.

  Mrs. McBaen rang the small silver bell next to her juice glass. An elderly man fastidiously dressed in a beige suit and white shirt entered the room.

  “I’m finished, Walter.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She glanced across the table at her husband. “You done, darling?”

  “Not yet. Hiya, Walter.”

  “Sir.”

  With a formal, obligatory bow, Walter left the room with Patty McBaen’s plate and the half-eaten slice of toast.

  “Are you following your diet?” She asked when they were alone.

  “To the T.”

  “And your jogs?”

  “Right after breakfast.”

  “Good. Am I being a bore?”

  “Never,” he said.

  “The voters want a healthy president.”

  “And you?”

  “I want you with me forever,” she whispered, and blew him a kiss.

  “I love you, Pat.”

  “Even though I’m an old thing?”

  “You’re my old thing.”

  Last fall, Senator McBaen had suffered a mild coronary. “Nothing to get all excited about,” Dr. Kauffield had told him. “But you better change your ways.” Bobby did. He stopped the pastrami sandwiches at the Ebitt Grill; stopped the cigars and the Hinnies; made his way into the land of brown rice, vegetables and fruits, and—Heaven save him—exercise. Shit, if Clinton could jog that Pillsbury Doughboy body through the streets, then Bobby McBaen could trot his little buns off.

  Patty had bought him dozens of jogging suits in every conceivable color—white, black, ivory, pale yellow, hot pink, hot orange, red, lavender, amethyst, parrot green (whatever in the hell that was), emerald, soft blue, blueberry, etc., etc.—and the press loved it. They’d jog along side of him, not the TV boys so much as the newspaper people; asking, “What’s the story here, Senator? Is this an effort to get America into shape?”

  He hadn’t thought of that.

  But hey.

  “Boys…” Bobby noticed two young women in white Nikes running with the male journalists. “…and ladies, America needs to turn off the TV and stop eating all that garbage. We suck down more donuts and burgers than any nation in the world.” He could barely hear himself over his own heartbeat. “Bob McBaen is about to get our country in shape.”

  If it doesn’t kill me first.

  II

  “Are you going to run?”

  “I’m running now.”

  This got a nice laugh from the seven reporters who were jogging with him—four of them huffing and puffing, their shoes fresh from the box—one keeping pace, though, and Bobby realized the man wasn’t even sweating.

  The group moved along the edge of the muddy Potomac, the senator feeling good; more importantly, he looked good, wearing his pale yellow number and matching head band. Young and vigorous, that’s the impression he wanted to project, a young and vigorous president, or at least a future party nominee. The river brought a fishy scent along with its breeze, and the June morning had a blue cloudless sky.

  “Terrific day, huh?” McBaen said to the man keeping his pace.

  “Glorious.”

  “You’re a runner, I see.”

  “Only when the situation demands it, Senator.”

  This also got a laugh from the journalists, who would’ve probably liked a less strenuous encounter.

  “What paper you with, son?”

  “…I’m a freelancer,” the man said after a pause.

  Then behind him, McBaen heard, “You think Senator Clayman will give you a problem?”

  “The senator and I are friends. He’s got initiative.”

  “But will he be a problem?”

  “I try not to underestimate anyone. There are many good candidates, especially this early in the race.”

  “How’s your health, sir?” The question came from the man running next to him.

  “Do I look sick?”

  “No, sir.”

  “My doctor tells me I’m in great shape, the best in twenty years.”

  “And your heart, sir?”

  McBaen glanced at the man. No much more than thirty, he figured. Decent looking kid, sort of a blah gray sweatsuit, but handsome face. The guy needed to do something with his hair, though, all slicked back and black. Elvis hair, that’s what it reminded him of: the Fifties.

  “The hear
t’s fine,” Bobby said, hoping his tone sounded cheery enough.

  “We’ll have to correct that.”

  “…w-what?”

  “My story.” The young man grinned, little white teeth. “I thought you were ill.”

  “I was, two years ago.” With a forced laugh, “Where’ve you been?”

  “Here and there, Senator.”

  Who is this asshole?

  What’s he trying to do?

  McBaen heard one of the reporters behind him, a woman’s voice, more distant now and gasping from the run. “Senator Clayman does seem to be…making a…big to-do…about your health.”

  “Listen, this is America. Mr. Clayman has a right to share his thoughts.” Relax. Be friendly. These people are just doing their job. “I’ll release my health records early next week. I’m sure this should end any confusion, rumors, whatever.”

  Again, McBaen glimpsed at the young fellow jogging adjacent to him. The guy didn’t have a hair out of place or a drop of perspiration anywhere.

  Incredible.

  How can a person NOT possess sweat glands?

  Bobby wasn’t breathing hard, but he damn sure could feel the sweat rolling down his neck and chest, the dampness of his hair. Jesus, it must be eighty degrees. McBaen checked his pulse: a hundred and fifteen. He saw the man watching him.

  “The old ticker pumpin’, sir?”

  “The old ticker’s just fine, thanks.”

  “No offense,” the man said, flashing those tiny white teeth.

  “None taken…mister…?”

  “Call me Eddy.”

  The senator didn’t particularly want to call the asshole ‘Eddy’. Mr. So-n’-So would’ve been sufficient, something more formal, something with distance to it, that ten foot pole sort of distance. Stop over-reacting. Give the man the benefit, maybe he’s only concerned. Let’s not get paranoid with the press. That’s all you need. If they see your weakness, they’ll be on you like rabbits in heat. Still, Robert McBaen would’ve preferred a last name from this annoying cretin.

  “—Senator,” a woman’s voice calling from behind him, one of the laggers: “I appreciate your time, but I’m afraid I need to plop myself under a tree for awhile.”

  “No problem,” McBaen said without turning. “You can find me running here every day. Love the river.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind,” she muttered.

  He heard an ahhh sound from her, presumably as she found a tree.

  Then the others: “See ya, Senator.” And, “Catch’ya tomorrow.”

  When he glanced back, all of them had collapsed under the same shady oak near the river’s edge…

  …except Eddy.

  III

  The asshole could have run on and on, not a sweat gland to his name, and a pulse rate probably refusing to exceed seventy-six. Robert McBaen had even jogged an extra quarter-mile. Nothing. Eddy didn’t flinch. Finally, the senator saw a wooden bench, and sinking onto it, he used a white hand towel to wipe the perspiration from his face and hair. Eddy sat beside him.

  “Don’t see…how you…do it,” Bobby huffing the words. “How can a person not sweat.”

  “Just young and immortal.”

  “Bullshit.” McBaen took a couple of deep breaths.

  Eddy held out his wrist. “Go ahead. Feel.”

  The senator counted sixteen beats for fifteen seconds, a pulse of sixty-four.

  “That’s…impossible.”

  “The heart doesn’t lie.”

  “Who are you? And don’t give me the journalist thing.” McBaen felt a tremor in his left hand. He closed the fingers, burying the fist beneath the hand towel on his lap. “If you were a reporter, you’d be laid out back there with the rest of them.”

  “Stereotyping, are we?”

  “No, that’s experience talking.”

  He watched the young man slump down on the bench, cross his legs, and stare off at the Potomac.

  “Beautiful goddamn day, Bobby.”

  “Who do you work for?”

  “Self-employed.”

  “So’s my ass. Who do you work for?”

  “Senator Clayman, I suppose. We’re associates.”

  “Look, whatever-your-name-is—”

  “Eddy.”

  “I’d prefer a last name.”

  “Just Eddy. You know, like Cher.”

  “Fine.” McBaen was feeling totally irritated at this cocky son of a bitch. “You tell your associate that Senator McBaen doesn’t like being harassed by staff. Understand? If Clayman wants to talk, he can pick up a goddamn phone.”

  “I don’t think I’ll tell him that.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Have you considered retirement, senator?” A matter-of-fact tone: “How old are you now? Sixty-seven? Sixty-eight?”

  “Sixty-four. And you can tell Clayman I’m not dropping the race.”

  “That’s my question. Like I said, I’m self-employed.”

  “Reagan was seventy when he became president.”

  “He was also a popular disaster. Reaganomics should’ve been dumped into the Potomac.”

  McBaen smiled at that. Maybe he’d misjudged the boy. “So we agree on Mr. Reagan.”

  “The country needs a new voice, senator. You’ve had your time.”

  Ah, an asshole after all.

  Perhaps a different approach, Bobby thought; then calmly, “Why don’t we let the voters decide. You astound me, Edward. In most countries, age is revered, equated with experience, knowledge. The network I have in this city took years to develop; the sort of network, I might add, that gets things done, that gets programs accomplished. Those folks in the House and Senate not only know me, they like me, they respect my ideas. And I’m not saying your Senator Clayman wouldn’t be a good president. But this isn’t his time, it’s mine. He’ll have another chance. Hell, I’ll support him.” McBaen felt the hand in his lap begin to tremble, again. The fingers had a vague numbness. “I don’t understand you. Why throw away what I have to offer this country?”

  Eddy pulled a Lucky hard pack from the waistband of his sweatpants. He lighted a cigarette with the Zippo inside the box.

  “You smoke?”

  “Two packs a day,” he said, grinning, showing those eerie little teeth.

  “How can you run like that and…and—”

  “Good genes.”

  “Jesus. Unbelievable.”

  He blew a thin line of smoke in the senator’s direction. McBaen waved it away and coughed.

  Eddy nodded to the cigarette. “Is this a bother?”

  “Of course, it’s a bother. I’m…I’m allergic.”

  “You puffed a cigar for twenty-five years.”

  “Put that thing out.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “…what?”

  “Fuck you.”

  McBaen glanced around the grassy area: a few trees, some empty benches, and the river. He felt an ever-so-slight pain in his chest. When he tried to stand, the pain knocked him back onto the bench.

  “Your time’s done, Senator.”

  A swift panic seized Robert McBaen, his body heating up then going cold.

  “—Help…me.”

  “I am,” Eddy whispered, looking out at the Potomac. With thumb and forefinger, he flicked his cigarette toward the dirt path. “It’s all that jogging. You’re an old guy.”

  “I…can’t…breathe.”

  “That’s not a good sign.”

  “We can…make…a deal.”

  “Oh? Well let’s hear that. I love a good deal.”

  “The second…slot.”

  “You offering Clayman the vice-presidency?”

  “…yes. Only call an…ambulance.”

  “I think you’d be a terrific vice-president, Senator. You know, the wise counsel. That sort of shit.”

  “—All right.” His heart seemed trapped in a powerful fist. “…I’ll do…what…you want.”

  “Give up the presidency?”

  “…yes.”r />
  “Well…” Eddy stood, stretched; then walking away, he said, “That’s certainly something to think about, isn’t it?”

  McBaen fell forward, body leaving the bench, a soft thump muted by the grass.

  IV

  New York, New York.

  What a wonderful fuckin’ town.

  Snatch’s arms reached upward to the night tinted in orange by the fires of the city. He did a little twirl, a little soft-shoe under the Washington Square arch. Feelin’ good. Yes, sir. Yes, sir. And a depressing thought occurred. His arms drooped to his sides, the victory short and not that sweet. The whole unfair scenario gnawed at him. Odds were still in Benjamin’s favor. Differences between the two Feebs had grown negligible, if differences ever existed at all. No absolute malevolence, no faultless altruism. The Feebs had changed since his first encounter with them, and not just Jonathan and Simon, but the entire flock. Motivation was a dirty thing, clarity dulled by wishes too thready to interpret. Gone were the simple minds, the truly wicked and the naïveté madness of saints. A few extremes did appear, nicks in the chain, relics of another time, yet most seemed like McBaen, bartering, appeasing his greed for services.

  You could argue the senator’s glory or fall from grace with equal conviction, equal truth. And though Snatch preferred it not to be the case, he felt the Feebs had actually improved, and the fact was troubling: something akin to reason had begun to blossom in them.

  Didn’t Oh-So-Perfect see this?

  The Infinite Twit.

  The Cosmic Neurotic.

  Or is there far more bullshit in Heaven than Hell ever dreamed? How effortless to imagine the mewling:

  They don’t love us, Benjamin. Time to burn their ungrateful asses. We’re tired of being ignored.

  Yeah, that ought to do it, Snatch thought.

  They’ll love you then.

  Duh.

  You’d think if the Twit-Who-Is needed to be remembered, he’d show up once in awhile. You know? Take the Feebs to dinner. A movie. SOMEthing. But no, no. It’s just burn their asses, drown their asses.