They all drove back to Milford in silence, exhausted from the chase. About a half mile from the barn, Justin pulled the wagon to the side of the road and the pickup followed suit. Before Jackie knew what was going on, he’d managed to persuade everyone in the wagon to hitch a ride to the barn in the back of the pickup. Suddenly, after ail the bodies, all the noise, all the racing and dancing and running, they were completely alone.
Justin grabbed the handle and ripped the car door open. He pulled Jackie out of the car with him and they stumbled a short ways down a wooded path. He held her to him, listening to the night sounds around them. Over her shoulder, he could see a stream with a mass of ice chunks bobbing by, their whiteness caught by the moonlight.
“Sorry, Jackie,” he said, still holding her close. “This was really stupid. We’re like a bunch of kids—not Resisters. We don’t even know what we’re for or what we’re against.” He held her at arm’s length and studied her tear-streaked face. “Let me tell you, if I ever ask you to do anything with me again, I’ll make damn sure that I know what I’m doing. Okay?”
It was as if she weren’t listening. She leaned into him again, kissing Mm passionately. He held her, confused by her behavior.
“I want to make love,” she said finally.
“Jackie—”
“Maybe we’ll never get a chance. Maybe we’ll be killed trying to get home. I want—”
“Stop it, Jackie. I love you. I want to make love to you.” He paused. “I always want to make love to you, but not like this. I’m standing here listening to you and I feel like—well, like it doesn’t matter who you’re with tonight, like I don’t matter…”
He shrugged, unable to complete his thought. She looked away from Mm and stared into the stream. She said nothing, just stood there sighing and shaking her head. When she finally spoke, her voice sounded melancholy.
“We’re never going to have anything, are we, Justin? I love you, but it’s like all our life is going to be like… She sighed again as if it were all too much for her to understand. “I don’t know. Forget it, it’s nothing.”
Justin grabbed her, forcing her to look at him. “No, it isn’t. There’s going to be something, I promise. It’s just not going to be this.”
He pulled her into his arms, staring up at the gibbous moon, swearing silently that one day he would give her all the things he could not give her now. “C’mon. I’ve got to get you home.”
After Peter had been led away to meet with Andrei, Amanda found herself alone and uncomfortable, surrounded by strangers she did not care to know. But her loneliness in the glittering ballroom did not last long; she had no sooner reached the sanctuary of her table when Marion Andrews joined her. They had never been friends in the old days, really; at best, they were acquaintances who didn’t travel in the same circles. Now, their dissimilarities polarity seemed even more distinct—Marion a political powerhouse and a mannequin for haute couture, Amanda a country wife wanting only her old serenity—and yet here was Marion, magistrate and PPP disciple, talking with Amanda as if they had always been the best of pals. To Amanda, Marion seemed somehow calculating, her sleek charm too practiced, too easy. And so they chatted—a bit awkwardly for Amanda, who asked about the boys but thought it best not to mention Devin.
After a while, Marion excused herself and was replaced soon after by the singer, Kimberly. The difference between the two was, to Amanda, quite remarkable, and she found herself enjoying Kimberly’s innocent chatter about songs and plays, and her indifference to the political pomp that surrounded them.
Peter finally arrived at the table with Andrei. Amanda was prepared to dislike Colonel Denisov, and was almost disappointed to find him so charming as he warmly took her hand and praised her husband. Amanda was surprised, and perhaps a little bit ashamed, to find herself actually enjoying the evening.
As the dinner was served—real pork chops edged with fat that had never tasted quite so savory, fresh peas, ice cream with real cream in it, and honest-to-God coffee—Amanda wondered when these political types would get around to speech making. She knew many of the faces from functions she had attended with Peter and from news pieces on Natnet, the national government television network. She dreaded the thought of listening to harangues on the quality and honesty of life under the New Understanding.
She found herself thinking about Devin. He had been a wonderful speaker, with his unsettling habit of telling the truth making him all but unique among politicians. When he was in Congress, he’d begun one memorable speech, “You people make me sick.” The speech had stretched his fame far beyond the borders of Nebraska. Now all that was changed. Amanda wondered what five years in Russian prisons had done to him—and guessed she’d find out soon enough.
She looked at Andrei Denisov, so sophisticated, so urbane. So “American.” And yet he was one of the people responsible for putting Devin in prison. For what? For being an American? For loving his country? She wanted to hate Denisov, but somehow that emotion was forced, not natural. It was all so damn confusing.
Andrei arose suddenly and clinked his spoon against a wineglass. The buzz of the crowd at the tables slowly died down until the room was almost silent. Andrei cleared his throat before speaking; he had their undivided attention.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I have a very special announcement to make.”
Amanda glanced at Peter, who seemed to be watching Andrei intently.
“Since Congress established the administrative areas in 1993, there has been little change,” Andrei went on. “The UN Advisory Office has been very successful working with the five state governors and enlightened members of the state legislatures. Studies by our own Area Advisory Group and the National Advisory Group have determined that a central coordinator for each area needs to be established. There is still unrest in the areas, as most of you know, and our efforts to restore the kind of national communications network which existed prior to 1993 have met with less success than we had hoped. Sabotage and, frankly, the increasingly diverse nature of the areas have forced us to come together more as a region, with more area-wide planning for the future. We would all like to speed the day when foreign advisers of every kind will be able to leave your soil.”
Peter and a few others spontaneously applauded, and Amanda joined in, though she was a little hesitant, unsure of whether enthusiasm over such a prospect would be deemed appropriate by Denisov and his ilk. After several seconds of applause, Andrei signaled subtly for quiet and received it almost instantly.
“I’d like to take this opportunity,” Andrei said, “to introduce the nominees for the new post of governor-general of the Central Administrative Area: the area you have come recently to know as Heartland.”
Amanda was mildly curious. She wondered if Peter would know any of the candidates, and hoped he didn’t get caught up in any of the political wrangling that would no doubt follow the “coming together” of this “Heartland” thing. He had worked hard as county administrator, and had managed to do it all without selling his soul to the PPP or compromising his belief in what used to be called the American Way. Amanda hoped whatever this new alignment called for, it wouldn’t take that away.