“This is ridiculous,” she fumed. “‘Further study is needed’! You could say that about anything. You could say that about…paleontology.”
“Darling,” Randy said, “don’t get so worked up about it. We gave it our best shot.”
“We’ve been sandbagged. Don’t you see it?”
“Time to move on,” Randy said.
“What are you talking about?” Cass said.
“There’s a time for fighting and a time for not fighting,” Randy said. “This is one of those times.”
The White House issued a statement thanking Secretary Bledsoe and the commissioners for their “sacrifice, diligence, and hard work.” Asked about the commission’s report at a press conference the next day, the president said he, too, was satisfied that further study was needed and suggested that it was time to “move on.”
“Funny,” Cass said to Randy, “that the White House used the same language you did yesterday. ‘Time to move on.’”
“Hardly unique,” Randy sniffed.
“But ‘moving on’ is how it got to this point in the first place. It isn’t the time to move on. It’s time to fix it.”
“The only way to eat an elephant is one spoonful at a time,” Randy said.
“Is it me,” Cass said, “or do you hear the sound of a pressing issue of vital national importance being swept under a giant carpet?”
Randy put down his newspaper and listened. “Nope. Must be you.”
“Did you know this was going to happen?” she said accusingly. “It feels kind of scripted to me.”
“You saw the report I submitted to Bledsoe. It was teeming with recommendations. Full of piss and vinegar. I was all in favor of Transitioning. Within reason.”
“Oh, please. You recommended Transitioning at age eighty-five! You totally sold out to ABBA and the other Boomer lobbies.”
“Darling, I can’t help it if Bledsoe buried my recommendations. He’s a Prussian when it comes to keeping things in check. Veins like ice water. Hell of a squash player, they say.”
“You seem awfully…laid-back about this,” Cass said. “For someone who was championing the issue.”
“What can I say? I’m a WASP. I try not to let my emotions get the better of me. Inside, I’m churning.”
“Aren’t you going to say something?”
“Thought I might write an op-ed piece.”
Cass stared.
Randy said, “What?”
“It’s not quite ‘The Charge of the Light Brigade,’ is it?” Cass said. “‘Thought I might write an op-ed piece. Give them a whacking big piece of my mind. But first I’ll have a spot of tea.’”
“Oh, stop being such a grumpuss. Meta-issue, remember? We got our day in the sun.”
“I can’t even discuss it. Why don’t you go write your stirring ‘J’accuse!’ for the op-ed page?”
“If you really want to know,” Randy said coyly, “I thought I might sashay on down Pennsylvania to the White House and point out that it’s time they lived up to their part of the bargain.”
“Bargain?”
“The vice presidency, darling. You’re not forgetting?”
“So it really was a deal? You’d cave on Transitioning in return for-”
“Not ‘cave.’ Well, all right. Cave. But in return for being tapped to be VP.”
Cass sighed. “I just hadn’t realized your little arrangement was so straightforward.”
“Straightforwardish,” Randy said. “They couldn’t exactly issue a press release about it.” He gave her a peck on the forehead. “Cheer up. You’re going to be First Lady of the United States someday. And then”-he grinned-“you can have your own Transition commission. We’ll even make Transitioning mandatory-at age fifty. How would that be?”
“Thank you. That was truly patronizing.”
“Darling, I can do a lot more for your debt-ridden generation from inside the White House.”
“Yeah, well, send me a postcard when you get there,” Cass said, her heels making a clickety-click on the polished wooden floor of the Georgetown mansion as she headed for the door.
“Where are you going?” Randy called after her.
“To overthrow the government.”
“Cassandra.”
She’d kept a relatively low profile blogwise during her stint as a commissioner. Now, sitting in front of the glowing screen, she felt like a fighter pilot strapping herself into the cockpit, firing up the engines, and doing a weapons systems check.
She posted: “Further Study Needed-into Transition Commission Whitewash…” and happily, busily blogged until dawn.
Randy’s first inkling that all was not well came when he called Bucky Trumble-only to have a difficult time getting through to him.
“Can I tell him what it’s about?” Bucky’s assistant said.
“It’s Senator Jepperson,” Randy repeated. “Senator Randolph Jepperson.” He wondered if he should add, “Of Massachusetts?”
The assistant said she would “pass along the message.” Randy hung up and stared at the phone. After ten minutes, he began to think that there might be a more therapeutic use of his time than trying to will an inanimate object to ring and busied himself with inserting an earmark into a highway bill. Bucky called him back five and a half hours later.
“Sorry,” Bucky said. “Busy day. The Middle East just blew up.”
“How unusual,” Randy said stiffly. “It’s normally so placid.”
“So what’s up? Hey, listen, what’s with your girlfriend?”
“What do you mean?”
“She’s going after us on that blog of hers. Saying the commission was fixed.”
“Well?” Randy said. “Wasn’t it? That was the whole point.”
“Tell her to lighten up. She called the president ‘a manipulative scumbag.’ That’s not the sort of language a presidential commissioner ought to be using.”
“I didn’t know. She doesn’t clear her stuff with me. And I’ve got better things to do than keep up with blogs.”
“Maybe you ought to start. She called you a wimp.”
“What?”
“She said you were part of the quote-unquote whitewash.”
“I…” Randy made an exasperated sound. “I’ll give her a good spanking. Look, meanwhile, I need to see the president.”
“Okay,” Bucky said, sounding unenthusiastic. “Anything special you’d like to discuss?”
Anything special? “Well, yes. In fact.”
“Like?”
“Excuse me, do I have the wrong number? Is this the White House? Washington, D.C.?”
“Yes,” Bucky said, sounding as though he might be doing a crossword puzzle or sketching out ideas for a State of the Union speech.
“Is this call coming as something of a mystery to you?”
“No. No, no. Just swamped, is all. Let me take a look at his calendar.” Bucky made a clicking sound with his tongue. “It’s pretty chuggy-jam this week. And the next. Is it something you want to just run by me first over the phone so I can give him the gist?”
“Not especially, frankly.”
“Then we’re probably…looking at next month.…”
“Next month? Look here-”
“Unless you want to fly with him on Air Force One next week.”
“Oh. Well, sure.” That’s more like it.
“He’s doing a flyover of the drought-stricken states. The vice president’s coming along. Please don’t mention that to anyone, for security reasons. Normally, they don’t fly together. But since the vice president is from Oklahoma…Ought to be a really interesting trip. The top experts on drought and irrigation will be aboard.”
“Sounds riveting. You say the vice president is going to be there?”
“Yeah. Is that some kind of problem?”
“Well, Bucky,” Randy said, “that’s rather what I was hoping to discuss with the president.”
There was silence over the line. “Oh,” Bucky said, “I…see. I see. Yes. Yes. Well, Randy, gosh, kind of awkward. But let me give it to you straight up. There’ve been developments on that front. The vice president indicated to the president that he wants to stay. He got a clean report from the prostate docs at Bethesda Naval. So he’s still on the team. As you know, the president is nothing if not loyal. It would have been great to have you on the team, but as it is, the slot’s filled. I realize this must be a disappointment to you. You did a hell of a job with the commission. We’d love to use you as a surrogate during the campaign. I shouldn’t be saying this, but there are going to be some cabinet openings coming available after next November. But we’re going to have to work our tails off. It’s going to be one tough election.…?Randy?…Hello?”