|
5
Nearly a year passed—winter, spring, and summer.
Late on a lazy Sunday afternoon on the cusp between summer and fall, Captain David Gordon, 28, crossed a tree-lined street in Alexandria, Virginia. The Little River subdivision had in recent months blossomed with short-term leases for military officers, paid for by the Government as the Second Constitutional Convention got underway.. David’s condo was a few blocks from where he now walked. He carried a bottle of wine, a handful of long-stemmed red roses, and a crisp new white plastic throw-disk. He wore a crisply ironed white shirt with rolled up sleeves; light blue jeans; and mahogany loafers. As he walked in that evening sunlight, time seemed to stand still and it seemed to take forever to cross the street. The humid heat of Washington summer had finally collapsed in a brisk, windy autumn. Though a distant plume of smoke rose from some street fight in Virginia, the massive presence of tens of thousands of troops was keeping the nation’s capital quiet as if no depression, no poverty, no violence, no calls for revolution were sweeping the land. The trees were turning cathedral colors, and rustling as if filled with important messages. David smiled at those chatterboxes. What could a bunch of leaves have to say to each other? Then again, they were old leaves, wise leaves, dying leaves, and perhaps he’d better listen to their gossip.
Parked cars lined the sidewalks, and not a vehicle seemed to be moving anywhere. The air was smoky with barbecue. The street, still warm and smelling of tar, seemed to point straight into the huge sun that quivered yolk-like in a reddish haze on the city horizon.
Hard to believe that CON2 had already been underway for two weeks, and there were serious signs of chaos as the 1,000 delegates disagreed more and more on the simplest points. Congress, which had called the convention after receiving the mandate from two thirds of the state legislatures, now sat helplessly by while its creation threatened to go amok. Neither the Judicial or Executive Branches had any more power than the Legislative to intervene. And the delegates had full immunity from prosecution for their actions.
Hard to believe all that turmoil, David thought, on a sweetly pensive day like this. He passed a group of young officers playing football, barefoot and shirtless, on a lawn. He walked through a long shady hallway (“The Palms,” a sign read, “Condos 2-3-4 BR/Good Rates”) and rang a doorbell.
“Why hello there,” said the smallish blonde who opened the door—Maxie! Her condo contained shoulder to shoulder people laughing, talking, holding drinks, yet she seemed to have waited only for him. But it was an illusion, a shared gesture, the remembrance of a special relationship. She’d been his nurse nearly two years earlier after he'd had a parachute accident. It had been the low point in his life. Recently divorced from moody and artistic Kristy, with whom he'd had little in common, he seemed to run a streak of bad luck. The accident had cost him his career as a combat arms officer, but as a West Point graduate he'd been offered this mysterious temporary duty with the electrically charged political circus in Washington, the Second Constitutional Convention. He'd had a brief crush on Maxie, but she was looking for a wealthy man to suit her parents' dreams for her. She kept saving herself for some wealthy guy who’d please her family but neglect or even abuse her.Lovable, but unreachable, she was now just a dear old friend. Times were getting better, and he fondly remembered her kindness and support. He wouldn’t stay at her party long—just enough to renew his acquaintance. She was so spunky, though, that he couldn’t really feel sorry for her. He really was glad to see her. “I told you I’d bring that throw-disk.”
“Come in, I’m glad you came, the throw-disk is great, oh look at the wine, the roses are so-o-o lovely, thank you.” She stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. Briefly he held her slight, firm frame. She wore a white summer dress, and he smelled a subtle citrus perfume on her bare back. She was not sweating at all despite the population problem between there and the refrigerator. “You did promise,” she said cradling the wine and the roses, “and you are a man true to your word.”
“And the throw-disk.”
“Close the door. Yes, and the throw-disk. We’ll all throw it later. Are you hungry?” She situated him in a comfortable corner chair between two Air Force pilots arguing about landing F-23A’s. The pilots held their beer bottles like joysticks and made repeated landings.
Maxie came back minutes later carrying a tray with hors d’oeuvres, southern style chicken pieces, and plastic cups of rosé spritzer. She chased the pilots away and sat on a folding chair beside him. “How are your legs?”
“I run five miles a day.”
She frowned as she served. “There’s no table surface free. Napkins and laps will have to do.”
“That smells great and I could eat a horse. Napkins and laps are fine.”
“If you have that kind of appetite you must be feeling okay.” She smiled, which was a sunny crinkle in a wonderful face. She had small, white, perfect teeth. Her face had a clean almost boyish squareness, with ash-blond hair flying as she moved.
“I’m feeling just fine. And I want to thank you for being a friend when I really needed one.”
“It’s my job.” But she glowed, searching with small, square hands and greasy fingers for just the right chicken breast. “Aw hell, David, I enjoyed your company too. I missed you after you left.”
“I’ve missed you too. So what’s this about you being a combat flight nurse? You promised to tell me all the details.”
She sat bolt upright, a little leap from the tush sort of, and folded her hands in her lap as if sitting for a portrait. Her face lit up in a proud, excited smile. She made fists. “I decided I couldn’t be an old maid anymore, so I broke off with the man I was seeing. I applied for this combat flight nurse school, and I got in—on my own, with no help from any uncles—and I just graduated a few weeks ago with honors! Can you believe it? So now I’m stationed here at Walter Reed. We spend most of our time up on the flight deck—on the roof—or flying around town.”
“What unit are you with?”
“55th Aviation Battalion (MAES).”
“Which means?”
“Medical Air Evacuation Service.” She added with a hint of pride: “I’m in Flight 1. We have three flights, each with four completely equipped and staffed helicopters.”
“Sounds exciting, Maxie. I’m thrilled for you.”
“It is exciting. One chopper can act as a complete field dispensary, or carry six stretchers.”
David frowned a little. “So the military has extra MAES units in town. They’re ready for a war, sounds like.”
She shrugged. “We’re training to evacuate sick people from the roof of the hotel, or if someone is in an accident. I doubt there will be anything more than that.” She frowned a little.
David changed the subject. “The papers came in a few months ago. I’m a single man again.” He chomped down, enjoying a mouthful of fried chicken followed by a wash of rosé. The divorce was final. Kristy had sent him a little hand-lettered note of apology and goodbye, with a heart in one corner, and a not very happy Happy Face with a tear coming out of one eye. He’d written her a thank-you note. Other than that, he didn’t expect to ever hear from her again. Which was kind of what he preferred, because he still felt the loss of her passion that had been like an addiction. Often, he thought there could never be another woman like her in his life. He still felt like a bomb crater inside. It was best to just move on.
Maxie studied him. “Should I say sorry?”
“That’s behind me, along with the broken legs and the airborne corps.”
“But you want to stay in the Army?”
“Yup. I’m taking it a day at a time. I’ve seen all the combat I want to. I’m just not ready for a desk job quite yet. This little assignment here with CON2 can’t last more than three months. Just enough time to build up time in grade so I can apply for a waiver and move back to Infantry. I want to be a company commander for at least a year or two. Got to have that experience under my belt.”
“I see you are still the same never-give-up hard charger, David.”
“I’m afraid so. Maybe a little more selective about where I’m charging.”
Maxie laughed, apparently reading his thoughts. “Army people shouldn’t marry civilians, huh?”
“Not if they’re nutty civilians. Oh God, this chicken is good. Did you make this?”
“You always made me laugh, David.”
“No, I’m serious. I’ll bet these were all first-born chickens with references.”
She gave a demure smile that seemed to light up a few freckles on each cheek. She’d confessed once that she felt very self-conscious about the freckles, and spent a fortune on all sorts of creams and salves from around the world. A hint of Southern Lady crept into her voice. “Actually, I had it catered in from a little specialty house in Georgetown, sorry. My little fingers just ache from all that telephoning and debit carding.”
He wiped his mouth and fingers with a warm, wet terrycloth towel scented with lemon. “Maxie, you’re first class. How do you do it? Have you met Mr. Right yet?”
She sighed deeply, and her slight bosom hove. “I’m afraid not. Those are the first roses I’ve received in about two weeks.”
“Two weeks, huh? So there is a guy.” So she’d finally dumped Mr. Wrong in North Carolina, and it sounded as if she’d found another Mr. Wrong in Washington.
“Yes,” she said looking down and folding her hands in her lap. The sun was going down outside and some of the sun was going down in Maxie’s eyes.
“A doctor,” David prodded. She must be getting the run-around again.
“Yes.”
“A brain surgeon.”
“No, a proctologist.”
“Oh.” David held up a chicken leg, making poking gestures with its thin end.
She laughed. “Stop it, David.”
“I haven’t teased a woman since I irritated my two sisters when I was home on leave. That was last Christmas.”
“Well you’re quite good at it. I’m very irritated.” She rose, running her fingers along his cheek. “I have to speak with my roomie. You stay put and rest your legs.”
“I jog five miles a day,” he said but she ignored him. He watched her walk away—small rear; narrow hips; perfect calves under knee-length skirt.
The Air Force guys floated in again This time they were trying to impress two nervously smiling women, who nodded a lot and made fluttery, wide eyes. The pilots waved Little Smokie Weenies and foreign beers as they made takeoffs and landings, and it was clear they wanted the women to come fly with them.
David ignored them as his gaze roved. He made his way to the front door, plotting his escape, and then back to his seat in the corner. Another half hour, he thought. Time to move on.
He noticed a tall, dark-haired young woman speaking with Maxie as they walked in his direction. The roomie wore a black dress and was bare-shouldered. David’s interest perked up, and he forgot about the half hour thing. The roomie was attractive in a sultry, mysterious way. Somehow, in his first impression, he got a sense of something not happy about her somehow, but he brushed it off. She walked in long, languid steps and, when she smiled, her features lit up with mischief and self-assurance. And yet—ah, but how white her eyes and her teeth gleamed, ivory-perfect, against the smooth texture of her skin. She carried a black purse that looked small against her long frame. Maybe because she was tall, she let her shoulders stoop a little and move with the rhythms of her walking.
By the time they were halfway to him, he realized that Maxie’s roomie was gorgeous. Of course she would be. Everything Maxie did had class. Take the plastic cups. Anywhere else that would be kitsch. Better glass, or even crystal. But in Maxie’s matter of fact world, that would be overdoing it. Plastic was just right, the simple, elegant solution. Less was more. It wasn’t that Maxie was affected or snobbish; things just always went that way. And of course Maxie’s genes dictated that she act as social glue, rescuing people from being loose ends or third wheels. Maxie was to wallflowers as fresh water was to droopy house plants. David rose.
“David, I’d like you to meet Lieutenant Victoria Breen. Tory, this is Captain David Gordon.” David and the roomie shook hands. She had a dry, warm grip; long arms; honey-tan skin with butterscotch freckles on her shoulders.
“David promised me roses, and look over there.”
“That’s nice, Maxie.” Her gaze avoided David’s but he sensed she might be interested. Maxie kept chattering, and then she was gone and David was alone with this Breen woman who sat quietly, comfortably leaning her chin on her fist, watching the pilots and their quarry. She seemed to have a playful inward smile, as if she had a secret. And she didn’t appear to be in a hurry to go anywhere. She carried herself almost regally, in an unassuming manner, he thought. She had cute eyebrows, too, that seemed knit up in some undefined discomfort which he immediately longed to understand and soothe.
Ah Maxie, you planned this all along.
“Have you lived here long?” David asked.
Breen turned to look at him for the first time. She had rich dark hair piled neatly around her head. On each bare shoulder was a small galaxy of brown-sugar freckles. Her skin was lightly peeling, and the circles of new skin were pinker, but still not entirely fair-complected. Her answer was direct and soft and aimed right at his heart without intending to be, and he didn’t even hear the answer—she could have lived here a month, a year, a thousand years—because they looked in one another’s eyes—hers teasing and dusky like a forest—and he totally forgot his half hour was up.
They talked about nothing and everything for a while. “Would you like another spritzer?” she asked, looking away, breaking the spell. Her tone had a hint of teasing: “Your legs—”
“No thanks.” He added in protest: “I jog five miles a day. Six. Sometimes ten.”
“Oh really.”
“I’m serious. Airborne.”
“I’ll be right back.” She had a way of closing up, of withdrawing, and then she seemed darker somehow, as if she had something on her mind. Was there a guy? She rose to open a window, long-limbed and graceful, then wandered toward the kitchen. He watched her as she nodded and smiled, first here, then there along the way. She moved with an unpretentious stride. She was indeed pretty, her white smile dazzling. Her head rode gracefully on a long neck. Her features were delicate and even, and her jaw had a brittle china-cup strength.
David and Tory sat talking all evening, most of it on a love seat where they sat close, face to face, gazing into each other’s eyes.
“What do you do?” Tory asked.
“I’m working for the I.G. detachment assigned to the Composite.” He was sure she’d find that boring, but she actually looked startled, and he wondered why. Some dark wink or thought or other moved in the liquid depth of that dark gaze: an involuntary blink tightening her pupils. The Inspector General’s office existed to inspect everything from blankets to burros, from tarps to tanks, from boots to bullets, and make sure it was according to regulations; the I.G. also listened to soldiers’ complaints and tried to make right where right was due. Did she have a complaint? The Composite was the 20,000 member military joint command assigned to guard CON2 in these violent times, with so many bomb threats and shootings related to nutty causes. “What about you?” he asked Tory. “What do you do?”
“I’m the Executive Officer of a data security unit. I’m afraid it’s kinda hush-hush.” She looked regretful, signaling she couldn’t say more about her job.
They turned from topic to topic. She was from Iowa. Her grandpa had been an Army officer killed in Vietnam. Her parents had a home in Davenport. Her dad was in real estate, her mom a housewife. She had an older brother and a younger sister.
David liked to read. He'd read some of the same books as Tory. He was sportsy—liked biking, hiking, martial arts, swimming, soccer. Funny, so did she. She laughed. “You’re making all this up, aren’t you?”
“Yes. I read minds, you see, and I just parrot whatever you’re about to say, so that you’ll be impressed.”
She threw her head back in a cascade of soft laughter. Light gleamed on her teeth, the pink of her palate. It took her a moment to regain control. “Maxie said you could be really funny.” She looked as if she were having fun.
People began leaving. Maxie opened some windows and a wonderful breeze came through.
The Air Force pilots left silently and slightly tipsy by the back garden gate, without passengers. Maxie brought two frosty rosé spritzers, and handed David and Tory each one. “Thanks,” David said, hardly noticing Maxie’s triumphant look.
A while later, Maxie signaled from the kitchen and Tory strode away. David sat with his eyes closed, enjoying the cool night air, and wondering how to make sure they saw more of each other. Maybe dinner? Or lunch?
More people left. Maxie was in a battle of goodbyes at the door, shaking hands right and left, smiling, hugging, encouraging. A man and a woman in white smocks appeared and began cleaning. David went out into the garden and inhaled a scent of trees. The city loomed darkly all around, sleeping, glowering.
Leaning on a wrought iron railing, he glimpsed the two women inside. Unseen, he watched Tory, trying to figure out how she had managed to tug that one note on his heart’s strings that no woman had in years. He was determined to have her. Under the thick hair with reddish highlights, she had a wide, sure smile. Her eyes seemed to throw off light when she smiled, but at moments she looked sullen and mysterious, almost hurt, and then her mouth took on a sultry pout, lower lip full. Was there a man in her life? This all seemed too easy. Maybe she was getting the proctology treatment from some other geek, and Maxie was trying to fix her up with David as a mercy thing. Everyone is getting the shaft from someone, David thought in a moment of alkaline despair. The world is full of proctologists. Actually, they are an alien race, invading the earth, and killing us off by ruining our love lives and frustrating us until we become extinct. We shall be as dinosaurs. Then the world will become one gigantic rectal exam populated by these people with huge gloves. But how long will they rule? How will they fare before other aliens—endodontists, perhaps—take over by a fiendish ploy? David set down his spritzer, and with it the childish thoughts. Courage, he thought. He went back inside to mount his attack.
Already, the white-smocked man was vacuuming, and the woman cleaned plastic cups and plates from every surface. Maxie exhaled a puff of breath, and a few straight blonde wisps fluttered over her forehead. “David, I’ll invite you again. I’m having a cookout in a few weeks.”
“I’d love that.” He looked over her shoulder, and saw Tory in the kitchen with a broom and dust pan. Her hair looked frizzled from effort, her look preoccupied. How neatly drawn was the outline of her face, how warm her lightly-rouged lips, how neatly arranged her features seemed, crisp and just right.
“Tory,” Maxie said to her, seeing his look. She put her tools aside and walked toward them. Though she bore faint impression of pleasure, there was something dark in her eyes; not something cold at all, but warm and defensive, a beast that could be roused, a wall that might have to be climbed over.
The two women walked him out to the street. They swatted mosquitoes and talked for a few moments under the bug-chased lights. “Maybe my unit will fly around your building one of these days,” Maxie said.
David laughed, teasing: “Don’t tell me you wear a flight suit?”
“Bigger than Miami. Helmet, boots, this suit with all these pockets full of medicine packets. I also carry a great big gun on my belt. It’s just so cool. Beats doing blood draws and emptying bed pans. No offense—you were a fun patient.”
David told Tory: “I would really enjoy having lunch with you. Maybe a movie. We can talk some more about my mind reading and your interests?”
She thought darkly for a moment. Then, as if a sudden breeze had blown those thoughts away, her eyes sparkled and her red lips pleasured in a smile. “I’d like that.”
“You have our number,” Maxie told David with a dig in the ribs. The women waved and said goodnight as David drove away.
( ANN Breaking News with Allison Miranda (
ALLISON: Washington in this pre-election year has a kind of nervous energy that borders on psychosis. Grinding poverty for half the population since the third collapse of the world economy in less than ten years; international humiliations of the U.S.; armies of homeless people on the streets; terrorism; scandals; rioting; the collapse of Social Security; the relentless bickering of hate radio; the endless partisan impeachment struggles between armies of lawyers; these are just some of the complex factors that have brought us to this Second Constitutional Convention. Here is our political reporter in the field, Peggy DeMetrio, for a convention center update. Peggy, can you give us a complete update and analysis of what’s at stake, and where the Second Cosntitutional Convention is right now?
PEGGY: Sure. I’m standing before the Atlantic Hotel and Convention Center, near the Islamic Mosque and Cultural Center along Embassy Row. It seems hard to believe that CON2 has been in session now for two weeks. Remember how, when the first bus loads of delegates rolled in, everyone was so upbeat and excited? To quote one delegate I spoke with, “We’re tired, we’re angry, and we’re going to do something about it. The Constitution is over 200 years old and needs to be amended. We’re going to take our country back from the criminals, the foreigners, and the liberals. We’re going to stop the constant sniping, the impeachments, the censures, the stealing of our money.” That sentiment may still be there, but the exhilaration has faded in the midst of gridlock. The convention has been stalled for two weeks now on procedural issues. Radicals of the left and of the right, as predicted, are pushing the center to allow for more amendments. The limit of ten very carefully predetermined amendments so far still stands firm, but one has to ask for how long. People here are beginning to talk not about amending, but about rewriting. People are saying that it was a long, arduous road to this point, and they want to make it count.
There are signs that the American people’s confidence in this convention is slipping. Polls show the support level is down to just under 50% today, down from 75% six months ago when this movement roared through the state legislatures like a brush fire. This convention was approved by the legislatures of 45 states as a handshake with the American people—a carefully crafted compromise of positions on abortion, creationism, gay rights, a balanced budget, and other positions—designed to resolve a number of long-standing conflicts without tipping the game to either extreme.
The majority agree on what are called the core amendments—balancing the budget, eliminating the Federal debt, creating a replacement for Social Security, joining every other civilized nation in guaranteeing full medical coverage to every citizen regardless of class differences. Then there are the so-called special interest amendments, designed to mandate positions on abortion, creationism, gay rights, furthering the separation of church and state by taking away the right of clergy to create marriage contracts, and so forth. This is only the first such national convention since 1787, and there are a lot of questions about what to do next at every step.
There is a strong swell of support for the notion that CON2 should dictate what, but not how—in other words, we want universal health care, but it will be up to the Executive and Legislative branches to work out the details—for example, can we eliminate the health insurance industry entirely, thereby saving 20% of the annual medical dollar up front as some argue?
There is another swell, however, in support of dictating both what and how, in the frame of mind that the people don’t trust Congress to get it right—after all, we’re here, those delegates say, because the two lawmaking branches failed to get it right decade after decade, so why should we trust them now, especially since they reached such a low point in the 1990’s?
The most dire warnings were that this convention could not possibly be such a big tent and hold together so many opposing views; that the convention would fall apart, resulting in no new document. That would leave the United States without a new Constitution, but the old one, the 1787 Constitution, would be tarnished. It would be seen as just another piece of paper now that its glory had been poked through. Those warnings have not come true so far, Allison, but we are holding our breath.
The key to the whole thing is if the limit of ten amendments is breached. Right now, the Procedures Committee is deadlocked as extremists of the left and right want to remove the limit, and centrist moderates are fighting desperately to keep the limit, get the convention rolling, finish the business, and go home. The extremists don’t want it that way. They want a whole new piece of paper, and they’ve got to eliminate the center before they can go at each other’s throats.
ALLISON: Is there any progress in the committee at all?
PEGGY: The next vote in the committee should tell the tale. Right now, we have 50 committee member delegates wrangling in a room off the side, while the other 950 are engaged in arguments in the main hall. Those 50 are going to hold one final vote in the next few days. I cannot over-emphasize how critical this will be. If the center holds, the number of amendments will remain at ten; the convention will do its business and go home. If the committee again deadlocks, the extremists have promised to walk out and hold a floor fight. If they have the numbers, they can open it up, and then we could have a hundred amendments, a thousand. The entire Constitution might be rewritten.
|
