Black Swan Rising

by Lisa Brackmann

  He laughed. It sounded bitter. “I’ll probably be a hundred percent just in time for the election.”

  They were sitting close together, it was a small couch, a loveseat she guessed you’d call it, designed for two people. She could smell the tang of Ben’s stale sweat. He hadn’t shaved in a few days and she was guessing he hadn’t showered either. It was probably hard with his injury.

  “Everybody misses you,” she said.

  “You seem to be doing okay.”

  “We’re managing. It was better when you were there though.” She stared at him, waiting for him to notice; he was sipping his beer and looking straight ahead.

  Finally he turned to her and met her eyes. His were hazel brown, with flecks of gold. “I don’t think you mean that,” he said.

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Because you’ve got my job, and you’re killing it.” He looked away.

  So he’s not interested, she thought. He’s jealous that Matt likes me, and he’s pissed that I’m doing his job, and doing it well.

  “Fine,” she said. She looked away too and reached for the growler in its koozie that sat on the coffee table. And saw that Ben was hard. She could see the bulge in his flimsy pajama bottoms.

  Two spots of red appeared on his pale cheeks, and he covered his erection with his hands.

  “Sorry,” he muttered.

  “Don’t be,” she said. “I don’t mind.”

  She wondered what to do. She put her hand on his shoulder. The sleeve of his T-shirt was damp with sweat. She could feel her heart speed up, the warmth gathering in the center of her chest, in her groin, and she thought, I could feel something for him.

  “No,” he said, not looking at her. “I don’t want to.”

  “We don’t have to … we could just … ”

  Maybe he doesn’t feel up to it, she thought, but she already knew in her gut that wasn’t why.

  He thinks I’m dirty.

  Now he looked at her. His erection was fading. “You feel sorry for me. I get it.”

  “That’s not … that’s not why.”

  He shook his head and laughed. She felt like she’d been slapped.

  “Look, let’s just call it a night, okay? I’m sorry for … for making you feel uncomfortable. I’m just … ” His eyes suddenly glistened with tears. “I’m tired, and I don’t feel that great. Thanks for bringing everything over.”

  He’s sad and hurt and confused, she thought. You shouldn’t be angry.

  “Okay,” she said. She gathered up her messenger bag and headed toward the door, but something stopped her after she opened it, and she turned back to face him.

  “You know, I should have just fucked Matt. I didn’t, because it would have been stupid. But maybe I should have. It’s what you think of me anyway.”

  “Sarah, wait,” he said, “just wait a minute, that’s not what I think at all—”

  Bullshit, she thought, and closed the door behind her.

  47

  “We’ve Reached A Tipping Point for Justice”

  An interview with George Drake

  By C.N. Murphy, Ed., “Alt-Culture”

  Q: About your character, Senator Linda Capaldi. Did you base her on a real-life politician? Because there are some things about her that seem familiar.

  A: (laughs) She’s inspired by a few, perhaps. But she is my own creation. Senator Capaldi cares only about power for the sake of power. All her warm words toward the so-called oppressed are for show. She has no moral center, and she’ll turn on you in a heartbeat.

  Q: Is she the center of the conspiracy? Because that seems to be where the story is heading. She’s definitely #1 on fans’ Most Hated list.

  A: (smiles) Well, then fans will be happy to know, without giving anything away, that I have something very special planned for her.

  “I just want to say again, the work you are doing today is so important. There’s nothing that has a greater ability to move a voter from ‘undecided’ to supporter than person-to-person contact. Really!”

  Smile, Lindsey reminded herself. Look at your audience. Make eye contact.

  It was a good turnout, enough volunteers that they’d had to move two of the bull pen’s long tables out of the way to fit them. A third table was loaded up with bagels, donuts, and coffee—fuel for today’s precinct walks.

  “How many of you had someone from the campaign come to your door, either this election or the one before?”

  About a half dozen of the volunteers raised their hands.

  “See? It works!”

  The volunteers seemed enthusiastic, even though they’d gotten her instead of Matt for the precanvass pep talk. “I’m not gonna make it in time,” he’d said on the phone from DC. “But I’ll be there when everybody gets back from the walk.”

  “Part of what we’re trying to do with this round of canvassing is to determine what precincts Matt should try to walk himself. That makes a big difference.”

  Nods of agreement. A few chuckles. She wondered how many of them were here for a chance to meet and hang out with Matt later.

  “Assuming our data is accurate, you’ll be targeting soft supporters and persuadables today, so most of the people you’ll be talking to will be receptive—don’t worry, we’re not trying to convince hardcore Tegan fans that she’s awful. Occasionally you’ll get a persuadable who really doesn’t like your candidate and wants to tell you all about it. But it doesn’t happen that much, and in my experience, most people are polite. I like to start by telling them I’m a neighbor. I live here just like they do.”

  More nods.

  “The app will give you policy scripts if people have questions, and it’s super easy to use. But please feel free to use your own words. You don’t have to be perfect. People respond when you’re speaking from your heart. Even if you’re someone like me, who’s not very good at it.”

  Now people did laugh. She knew what her reputation was.

  “You’re great, Lindsey!” someone shouted.

  “And you are much too kind.” She smiled, and realized that she actually meant it. “The main thing is? Have fun with it. It really is fun, once you get the nerves out of the way.”

  Maybe not “great.” She’d never have Matt’s level of comfort with talking to crowds. But she’d gotten better.

  The campaign office was quiet now, save for an occasional ringing phone. The tablets had been handed out, one per pair of walkers, and the volunteers were on their way to their assigned precincts—all except Rachel Eisenstat, the senior volunteer who had helped coordinate today’s event.

  “Guess I’m on my own,” she said. She looked ready to go. She wore a Cason for Congress T-shirt, sports sunglasses, and one of those floppy Tilley hats you’d take on a hike or a safari.

  Rachel had logged so many hours on Matt’s first campaign that they’d offered her a paying job on this one, but she’d turned it down. “I don’t need the money,” she’d said, “and I have the time.” A sturdy woman on the older side of middle-aged, with sun-streaked graying hair, she was one of those volunteers who kept a campaign going—so many political organizations would fall apart without them, this legion of middle-aged-to-older women.

  “Would you mind some company?” Lindsey asked. Not because Rachel needed a partner. If anyone was equipped to canvass on her own, it was Rachel Eisenstat.

  It was just that she wanted to be outside, for a change. Get away from the numbers and the endless databases and the fundraisers and see what people in an actual Clairemont neighborhood had to say. See how she did, talking face-to-face with voters, without Matt. Even if she was doing it for Matt.

  “That would be great!” Rachel said. “Do you want a T-shirt? I think there’s an extra.”

  Lindsey thought about it. “I’ll stick with the button.” Something about the candidate’s wif
e wearing a T-shirt with the candidate’s name on it seemed a little corny to her.

  “You know, I don’t care what anyone says.” Rachel mopped her head with a kerchief. “A dry heat ain’t necessarily better.”

  “Agreed.”

  Rachel handed Lindsey a bottle of water. Another hot, late-September day, a Santa Ana without the winds. This precinct didn’t have a lot of trees to block the sun; it was on the mesa and didn’t get canyon breezes either.

  At least it was flat.

  No one answered the doorbell at the first house, a small stucco ranch like most of the houses in the neighborhood. “Not home,” Rachel said, pressing her index finger on the tablet. “Or they’re hiding.”

  Lindsey laughed. “Their loss.” She got out a door-hanger and a foldout, which she placed just under the edge of the doormat, since the house didn’t have a screen door.

  One not home. One soft supporter, a nice woman who wanted to know what Matt’s stance on “no-kill” animal shelters was. “Because I know they say it’s no-kill, but animals still get put down there, every day.”

  “I think we all want to get to a no-kill county,” Lindsey said. “And the best way to do that is to fund trap-spay-neuter-release programs. Matt is a big supporter of those. Have you approached your city councilperson and county supervisor? Because this is the kind of issue where local involvement really makes the biggest difference.”

  “You’re good,” Rachel said. They’d stopped under a rare tree for a water break.

  Lindsey felt her face flush, from the heat as much as the compliment. “I’ve gotten better, I guess. But I don’t know if I’ll ever be comfortable talking to strangers like this. Not like Matt. He thrives on it.”

  Rachel smiled. “You’ve got your own style. You don’t have to be Matt.”

  “Thanks.”

  Maybe I don’t, she thought. But it was still all about Matt.

  And you knew that, she told herself. You’re a team. No one made you throw yourself into supporting his career. You did it yourself. Because what he’s doing is important, and you thought it was the best way to do good things, because he’s better at it than you are.

  Do I want to keep doing it?

  Later, she thought. After this election is over. Then she’d figure out what made sense for her to do.

  “Okay,” she said. “Who’s up next?”

  The next house was marked persuadable but had a Jacob Thresher yard sign to the left of the driveway. Thresher for a better tomorrow, it said, with a stylized sun and surf graphic.

  “I don’t know, do we try?” Lindsey asked. “What’s your experience with Thresher supporters?”

  “Probably not worth it. Those Thresher people tend to be true believers. ‘Be the change you want to see, and we’ll create a tidal wave of progress.’” Rachel snorted. “It doesn’t matter that he can’t win. They’re one step away from clapping for Tinker Bell.”

  She looked at her iPad, tapped, and swiped. “I guess we should double-check. There’s two people living there, maybe one of them is the persuadable. You want me to take it, and you get the uncommitted across the street? The sooner we get this done, the sooner we can get out of this heat and go for margaritas.”

  “I like the way you think,” Lindsey said. Her blouse was soaked with sweat. Maybe she should have worn the Cason T-shirt after all.

  The house across the street was gray stucco and white trim, a small front yard with flower boxes and a patch of Astroturf. “Mrs. Francine Madison,” Lindsey muttered. “Age sixty-seven.”

  The front door was open, the entrance guarded by a white metal security screen. Lindsey rang the doorbell and took two steps back. You weren’t supposed to stand too close to the door; it could make the potential voter feel uncomfortable.

  A woman came to the door. From what Lindsey could see through the security screen, she looked to be the right age for Francine Madison: a thin woman with shoulder-length light-colored hair.

  “Hi, my name is Lindsey Cason, and I’m here on behalf of the Re-elect Congressman Matt Cason campaign. Are you Francine Madison?”

  “Yes.”

  “Great!” Smile, she reminded herself. “We’re canvassing today because Congressman Cason wants to get a better idea of what issues people are concerned about here in District 54.”

  “Did you say your name was Cason too?”

  “I did. I’m Matt’s wife, actually. And we also live in Clairemont. Just west of here.”

  “Really? You’re his wife?” She sounded ever so slightly impressed.

  Now that Lindsey’s eyes had adjusted somewhat, she could see that Francine Madison had dyed blond hair, wore pink chino shorts, and a scoop-necked white T-shirt. “I voted for him before,” she said. “I like that he’s a veteran and served our country.”

  “That’s great! And I couldn’t agree more,” Lindsey said, remembering to smile. “It’s especially important for this district. We have so many veterans and active service members here.”

  Francine Madison opened the screen door. “It’s easier to talk this way.”

  Good, Lindsey thought. Francine wanted to talk, that was a good sign.

  “So, Matt wanted me to ask you what issues are the most important to you.”

  “Well, there’s a few. But one reason I’m thinking I might not vote for him this time is because of the illegals.”

  Shit, Lindsey thought. This was going to be hard. There were few issues that tripped people’s switches like immigration, especially illegal immigration. You could talk about history and about migration in border regions, about crime and economic statistics, but none of it generally made a difference.

  “I mean, I don’t have anything against Mexicans or people like that. But the whole thing’s out of control. They come here illegally and they’re breaking the law, they’re getting all these benefits from the government and taking jobs away from Americans by working so cheap, and I don’t understand why Congressman Cason doesn’t care about it.”

  “Well … of course he cares,” Lindsey began. She felt a fresh wave of sweat break out on her scalp and back. “We live on a border, and those issues are extremely important to our district. It’s something Matt deals with a lot in Congress.”

  “I’ll be honest with you, I like what Kim Tegan has to say.”

  “I can understand that. If you have some time, I’m happy to talk to you about what Matt’s proposals are.” Smile, she told herself. “Maybe he’ll even come back and tell you about them himself—”

  A loud engine sound behind her, a car with a bad muffler maybe, loud enough she didn’t want to try to talk over it. The engine revved again. She could smell the exhaust.

  “Oh for god’s sake,” Francine Madison said. “That should be illegal.”

  Well, there’s something we agree on, Lindsey thought.

  She turned. A rusted-out bronze beater, some big, old American car, across the street. The engine revved again, and she heard the engine backfire, once, twice. The engine revved once more, like an exclamation mark, and the car sped down the block, tires squealing.

  Then Lindsey saw Rachel lying on the ground, head and torso on the sidewalk, legs sprawled over the curb and into the asphalt street.

  48

  News 9 San Diego @News9SanDiego

  LIVE Volunteer on @RepMattCason campaign shot and killed while walking precinct @CaseyChengNews9 has campaign’s reactions kasd.us.Wgu9X

  Casey Cheng News 9 @CaseyChengNews9

  Campaign confirms Lindsey Cason, the congressman’s wife, witnessed shooting, is unharmed.

  “Lindsey wanted me to assure all of you that she’s doing okay. She’s tough, she always has been.”

  Matt Cason had that distant look in his eyes, slightly stunned. Staring at the reporters but not seeing them. Casey recognized it from the press event at the hospital back
in June.

  “But emotionally … she’s devastated. We all are.”

  He stood in front of the campaign headquarters, flanked by Jane Haddad and a young black guy in tortoiseshell framed glasses—assistant campaign manager Angus Wheeler. The shaved-head bodyguard stood behind them.

  The late-afternoon sun bathed Matt’s face in a golden light—the perfect shot for a campaign commercial, Casey thought, if it weren’t for the occasion.

  “Rachel Eisenstat was an amazing person. I walked precincts with her the first time I ran and assumed we’d be doing that again next week. I can’t believe she’s gone. I can’t imagine the depth of grief her friends and loved ones are feeling right now.”

  He paused for a moment, his eyes brimming with tears. If he didn’t mean it, he was one hell of an actor, Casey thought.

  Now Matt seemed to gather himself. “But I want to be clear about something. Attacking a campaign volunteer like this … it’s an attack on the foundations of our democracy. Democracy requires citizens to participate. This is an attempt to sabotage that process.” He was focused now, and angry. You could see it in his face, hear it in his voice. “But it’s not going to work. Because come next Saturday, I will be out walking precincts myself.” His voice shook. “And I know Rachel will be walking right by me in spirit. Thank you.” He turned to go inside.

  “Congressman,” she shouted out, “are you saying someone deliberately targeted your campaign?”

  He turned back, fixed his gaze on her. He knew who she was. “Are you asking me to believe that it’s a coincidence at this point?”

  “The congressman needs to get home to his wife,” Jane Haddad said, as Cason headed inside, followed by the bodyguard. “Angus and I will try to answer your questions as best as we can.”

  Kimberly Tegan Statement on

  Murder of Rachel Eisenstat

  We are heartbroken and furious to hear of the vicious murder of Rachel Eisenstat. Our deepest sympathies to her family, her friends, and everyone at the Cason campaign. The sick thug who did this will be brought to justice. This kind of violence has no place in our political system.