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“And it could very easily turn into a war between the wackos of one side and the wackos of the other,” said Reuben. “We saw it in Yugoslavia. People were getting along fine, Serbs and Croats, Christians and Muslims. But when the wackos started shooting, you either had to shoot back or die. Not wanting to fight didn’t protect you. You had to choose up sides.”
“There weren’t any sides today,” said Coleman. “Just uniforms and non-uniforms.”
“The whole leftist philosophy is about rejecting authority,” said Reuben bitterly. “And replacing it with an even more rigid list of forbidden ideas. The only difference is that the Progressive thought police won’t wear uniforms.”
“Stop it,
” said Cessy. “Like I said, it could have been the right wing, and then the thought police would carry Bibles.”
“Let’s not do this now,” said Reuben.
“But you were doing it,” she said. “You’re married to a liberal, Reuben.”
“Not an insane one.”
“Most of us are not insane. Just like most conservatives are like you, reasonable people. You warn us how it could turn into a war just like Yugoslavia, and then you start condemning the other guys like their ideas don’t matter.”
“I was, wasn’t I,” said Reuben. “I’m just so angry. They killed the President.”
“Really? All the Progressives of America, all the liberals, they got together and plotted to kill the President?”
“But they’re glad.”
“No. You’re wrong. The sick ones, yes. The sad, miserable, mind-numbingly self-righteous ones, sure. But most of them are in shock. They didn’t do it and they didn’t want it done. They didn’t ask for anyone to invade New York, either.”
“But they’ll let it stand, won’t they?”
“They might. Or they might enthusiastically join this Progressive Restoration. That’s what they’re counting on, aren’t they? That people will flock to their banner. And if we start talking and thinking the way you were talking and thinking just now, Reuben, then we’ll end up driving them to the Progressive banner. So stop it!”
Reuben looked out the side window.
“Reuben,” said Cessy. “I think the great American achievement of our war against terror was that we did it without having to hate all Arabs or all Muslims or even all Iranians, even though they’re financing it now. We stayed focused. We waged a war without hate.”
“Except for the Americans who hated us for fighting it.”
“Do you hate them, Reuben? Enough to kill them?”
He shook his head. “You’re right,” he said. “Completely right. But they’re tearing apart my country. They’re killing guys like me because we volunteered to defend it. You can’t expect me to stay calm.”
“When it’s all over,” said Cessy, “I want you to come home as Reuben Malich.”
“Me too,” said Reuben. “I will.” And then he turned again toward the window and Cessy realized that he was crying, his forehead resting on his right hand, tears dropping straight down from his eyes onto his lap. “I killed a man with my bare hands today,” he said. “And another with a knife. And another with a spray of bullets. I cut off a guy’s thumb.”
Cessy had nothing to say to that. She knew that was the kind of thing a soldier had to do. If he hadn’t done it, he’d have been found and killed. He got other men out of the city alive. He helped stop the mechs at the Jersey end of the Holland Tunnel. And that’s how jobs like that are done—with force. Force unto death.
But she couldn’t say, There there, that’s all right. It wasn’t all right. It was a terrible thing. It had to be done, and because he and Coleman were the ones who knew how, it had to be done by them.
Steering with her left hand, she hooked her right hand through the crook of Reuben’s left arm. She slid her hand down the inside of his arm, pulling it closer until she was holding his hand. She squeezed. He squeezed back. But he still cried.
In the back, Coleman had brains enough to keep silent.
On the radio, the press conference and commentary went on and on, almost too soft to hear now. A constant background of commentators pooling their ignorance but coming, bit by bit, closer to the conclusion that a second American revolution had begun, if you viewed it one way, or a second civil war, if you looked at it another.
“What did that professor of yours say?” Cessy asked softly.
“What?”
“At Princeton. That one professor. What’s his name? Torrance. No, that’s a city in California.”
