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And then Nick added, “And God bless Daddy and all the soldiers.”
“Amen,” said Cecily. But then she hastened to add, “But as far as we know, Daddy’s all right.”
“But it’s a big war now,” said Nick. “It has to be.”
Go about your normal business, LaMonte had said. But what was her normal business now?
She sat the kids down and explained about presidential succession. She told them about her time working for LaMonte Nielson. She talked about the slain President.
“You didn’t even vote for him, Mommy,” said Lettie. “Mark said so.”
“Your father voted for him,” said Cecily. “And even though I didn’t, he was still our President, and he did the best he knew how to do for our country. It’s a terrible thing, not just for him but for all of us, all Americans. By killing him, they were trying to hurt us all.”
But after a while, she ran out of words. The girls were too young to really understand it all well enough to stay interested. She let them go back to their room and play quietly. “Indoor rules,” she said.
Mark and Nick, though, stayed with the television, watching CNN. Cecily knew the footage at the Tidal Basin would come back on. She knew that at some point, someone would tell the names of the men who were firing at the terrorists. But she couldn’t very well forbid them to watch history unfold. And she couldn’t stay and watch with them, because J.P. needed her attention.
And because she might break down and cry from sheer frustration and fear if she didn’t keep herself busy. So with J.P. playing on the kitchen floor, she fumbled around the cupboards looking for something to prepare for dinner that might keep her busy for a few hours.
The first call came from DeeNee Breen. “As far as we know,” she said, “Major Malich was not injured in any way. Nor was Captain Coleman. But it’s confirmed that they were the ones who fired at the terrorists and disabled one of the launchers. At the moment their location is unknown but I can’t imagine they won’t make their way here as quickly as possible to be debriefed. Or somewhere.”
Cecily thanked her and then went in to tell Mark and Nick that yes, it was their father and his new assistant who were in the video, firing at the terrorists.
“So . . . Dad’s, like . . . a hero,” said Nick softly.
“Honey,” said Cecily, “your dad’s a hero about forty times over. But yes, he did all he could. But I also know he’s very sad right now that he wasn’t able to stop both rockets from firing.”
“They thought the bodies were booby-trapped,” said Mark. “Of the terrorists. But it was just the rocket in the launcher they didn’t fire at the White House. Somebody touched it and it launched into the ground and blew up and killed a bunch of guys.”
“But not your father,” said Cecily. “Or DeeNee would have known. They would know if he was hurt and she would have told me. So he’s okay.”
Mark looked relieved. But Nick—she could never guess what he was feeling. Privately, Reuben called him Stone-face, because he just took things in. She had worried when he was four that he might be autistic or suffer from Asperger’s. But no, not at all, he was just a quiet kid who kept things to himself. Like now. Did he believe his dad was safe? Or did he not care? Or was he a seething mass of fear and none of it showed? The mystery child.
But she wasn’t going to try to get through to him right now. What would “success” consist of? Nick erupting in tears? Oh, he’d thank her for an achievement like that! “Yes, Oprah, my mother was never happy unless she could get me to cry.” Child-rearing today was so complicated. You always had to think of what they’d say on television later.
DeeNee called again to find out if she knew anything about Reuben’s whereabouts. And then she started getting calls from friends who wondered if it could possibly have been Rube in those videos from the Tidal Basin. “I don’t know,” she said. “It looked like a blur to me. No, I don’t know where he is, but he could be anywhere, you know how his job is.” Of course they didn’t know how his job was, but what could they say, anyway?
And then came the call from Reuben.
She said hello, not recognizing the number on caller ID, expecting it to be another curious friend.
She knew Reuben’s voice at once. “You go ahead and visit Aunt Margaret without me,” he said. “I’ll get up there as soon as I can.”
“Reuben, what—”
But he talked right over her. “I love you, Cessy.” And then the connection was gone.
He had warned her back when this most recent assignment began that there was a strong chance their phones would be tapped all the time. By both sides. So they had longstanding telephone discipline—play along with whatever the other one is pretending.
The game was this: Apparently they were planning a trip to Aunt Margaret’s in West Windsor, New Jersey. Though Reuben’s tone was cheerful, the cryptic nature of his instructions told her a great deal: He wanted her and the kids out of town. And it wasn’t just because the press would hound them as soon as his identity was known—he would have explained that openly over the telephone. Something was seriously wrong.
And her job, now, was to trust Reuben.
She went into the living room and knelt down in front of the two boys. She beckoned them to get their faces close to hers, so she didn’t have to talk loudly to be heard above the noise of the television.
“That was Dad,” she said. “He’s fine. But he asked us to do something. We’re getting in the van and we’re driving to Aunt Margaret’s. I need you two older boys to pretend that we’ve been planning this trip for a long time, and the only thing different is that Dad will be coming along later. If the girls don’t play along, don’t argue with them. I’ll help them pack and you guys pack your own stuff. Three days’ worth of clothes, plus Sunday clothes, plus swimming trunks, plus a couple of books and maybe DVDs and the PSP and the Gameboy Nintendo thing—the DS.”
They looked at her gravely and Mark nodded. Nick didn’t nod, but when Mark got up, so did Nick, and they padded out of the room together.
