Walter Williams - The Rift

“Why did you bring those people?” he demanded.

“I’m sorry, Jase,” Frank said. “But it was the only way I could get here. The government isn’t letting people fly into the earthquake zone, not unless they’re aid workers. I would have had to fly into Meridian, then rent a four-by-four and try to get here on my own. And even then I might have run into roadblocks. But the tabloids have their own helicopters, and fly in whenever they want, so I thought-” He hesitated. “Well, I sold our reunion story for twenty thousand dollars, and that will help pay for your college.”

Jason stared at his father. “I don’t believe this,” he said.

Frank looked at Arlette. “Honey,” he said, “can you excuse us for a little while? It’s nice to meet you, but I’d like to talk to my son.”

Jason snagged Arlette’s arm and kissed her good-bye before she made her dutiful exit. It was one of the last kisses he was likely to get, he figured.

He led his father to his own cot, and they sat down. The infirmary tent was large and smelled of canvas and antiseptic. It was light and airy, since the canvas sides were rolled up, but the mosquito netting was down and kept out the bugs. None of the people in the tent were hurt very seriously- the critically injured were kept elsewhere, in the field hospital. Half the cots in the tent were empty, because refugees were constantly being evacuated inland, where the water was safe and the quake damage much less severe.

“We’ll be leaving on the helicopter before dinner,” Frank said. “We’ll fly to Houston, stay overnight, then get on a plane to Los Angeles.”

Jason looked up at him. “I’m going to L.A., then? Not to Aunt Stacy?”

Frank sighed. “I guess you won that argument, Jase.”

Sadness crept through Jason’s thoughts. Once he had wanted nothing so much as to fly to Los Angeles. Now he wanted nothing so much as to stay.

“Can Arlette come with?” he asked. He knew perfectly well the question was hopeless, but he also knew this was a question that had to be asked.

“Jase,” Frank said, “there’s hardly enough room in our apartment for you.”

“Yes,” Jason said. “I know.” A fragment of hope lodged in his heart. “Can I visit her later? Spend some of that money to fly out here, and-”

“We’ll see,” Frank said, in the tone that said, See how I humor my child?

“There’s something else I need to tell you,” Frank said. “This money from the tabloids- that could be just a beginning. Your story is getting out to the media now. There’s some real interest. I’ve been talking to some of the intellectual property people at the firm, and they’re very excited. We’re thinking of contacting some literary agents and publishers, some people at the studios. You could be famous.” He grinned and slapped his knees. “What do you think of that?”

Jason shrugged.

“All you’d have to do is cooperate,” Frank said. “Just tell the writers, or whoever, exactly what happened. And they’ll write it down, and it’ll be a book or a movie.”

“I can be famous,” Jason said, “but I can’t see my girlfriend.”

“I said we’ll see.” Irritation was beginning to creep into Frank’s voice. “The point is,” he went on, “there is some real money here. It will go into trust for you, and pay for your education. This is a terrific break for you.”

“Great,” Jason said.

Frank looked at him severely. “I thought you’d be more excited,” he said. “Don’t you understand how colossal this is?”

“I’ve been shot,” Jason said, “I’ve been beat up, and I’ve come hundreds of miles in a little boat with the whole world trying to kill me. I’ve fallen in love with a beautiful girl. Movies and books just aren’t very exciting right now. I’m sorry.”

Frank looked at him for a moment. Then his lips tightened. “It’s that Nick Ruford’s fault,” he said. “He put you through this. I’m going to talk to some of the litigators at the firm. We’ll sue him naked.”

Jason looked at his father. “If you do that,” he said. “I’m testifying for Nick.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Frank said. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Jason rose from the bed. “I’m going to go say good-bye to my friends,” he said. “I’ll see you at the helicopter later.” He reached under his cot, pulled out the Astroscan. “This is all I’ve got,” he said. “Could you hold onto it for me?”

Frank looked at the battered red telescope in surprise. “What is it?” he said.

“It’s the birthday present Una sent me,” Jason said. “But don’t worry,” he added as Frank turned pale, “she signed your name.”

*

“So,” Jessica said as she looked, with her one good eye, at the message from Bill Marcus, the President’s political consultant, “you think I should call him back?”

“That depends on whether you want to run for office,” said Pat. He was reclined as far as possible in a chair by Jessica’s bed, and he picked repeatedly at a mandolin as he twisted at the tuning pegs.

“ Do I want to run for office?” Jessica asked.

“If you think,” Pat said, “that I’m going to play folksy tunes at your rallies and otherwise behave like a buffoon, you can think again.”

Jessica frowned and touched the bandage over her left eye. She’d had an operation that morning, a much more elaborate procedure than she’d undergone with the laser. Instead of cooking the interior of her eye with a laser, this time her eye had played host to a freezing probe that had chilled her eye tissue and, it was hoped, returned it to its normal position.

She was now at home in a semi-darkened room. She had been told to lie with her head on two pillows and avoid straining at bowel movements for at least six months.

She planned to be back at her desk in the morning. Perhaps she would wear a dashing Moshe Dayan eye patch.

Army troops were firmly in control of Spottswood Parish. The place had also been flooded by Justice Department investigators, all now in the process of mortally offending the locals with their earnest Yankee tactlessness.

It was beginning to look as if those responsible for the Spottswood Parish massacres were truly dead. Even David Paxton, the sheriff’s son, who according to some of the chronologies might have set off the whole thing. He had got across the bayou and was walking south, but he’d run into the main body of the A.M.E. evacuees, who had also crossed the bayou at night and were heading in the same direction. David had been shot dead on the spot, and there were about ten people who claimed the honor of killing him.

The person Jessica most wanted to talk to was the swamp hermit known as Cudjo. But that strange man hadn’t been evacuated with the others: as the helicopters came in to carry the others away, Cudjo had faded back into the bayous and swamps that were his home. Perhaps he was just shy, but there was a story that a warrant was out for the man in another part of the state, and that he’d slipped away from the law. In any case, Jessica doubted that Spottswood Parish would ever see him again.

Jessica looked at Bill Marcus’s message again, then sighed and held out the piece of paper to Pat.

“Dial it for me, will you, sweetie?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She looked at the ceiling and sighed. “I have but one eye to give for my country,” she said.

*

Jason heard the sound of bells chiming “Claire de Lune,” and he followed the sound to Arlette sitting cross-legged beneath an awning near the infirmary tent. Sorrow brushed her face as she held the watch in both hands and gazed down at it. He crouched down next to her, touched her arm.