Where’s the trauma patient?
MacLachlan. OR.
Bad?
One bullet lodged in his spine, between L two and three. Another one shredded his spleen.
How many congressmen were shot?
Six total. Four here. Jensen and Davis at Bethesda.
Let me see. Bentley took one to the chest.
He looked dead when he got here.
He’s critical in the OR. I’d say it’s fifty-fifty. Bullet perforated the right lung, went through the diaphragm, liver, stomach.
Marder is over there; he’s fine. Fallon—bullet through his right thigh. He’s stable. Over there, Roberts, shot in his left leg, bullet entered thigh above knee and went downward. Also stable.
The squeaky wheels of a gurney ripped Charlie out of his dream state; he focused his attention on the examination cubicle to his left, where he could hear Fallon offering faint responses to a doctor’s questions. The hospital intercom blared periodic bulletins: a certain doctor was needed in the OR, a different one was needed in the ER. Background beeps from machines were randomly scattered through the area, like the sounds of birds and bugs around a campsite.
They just caught a fourth Puerto Rican at the bus station.
Suction, please.
I don’t understand. This is about independence?
Something like that.
Doesn’t American Sugar own half the island?
I’m not saying they don’t have a grievance or two. Hemostat. Hold that there. Just like that, right. Good.
They tried to assassinate Truman.
When was that, ’50?
Something like that. Blair House.
Killed a cop.
Yes, I remember because that was the year I got married and we were going to honeymoon in Puerto Rico but we had to cancel because of riots.
Well, you know what they say: One man’s terrorist is another man’s freedom fighter.
Dr. Klein!
He can’t hear us.
Obviously these are murderous zealots.
I’m just saying they see themselves as minutemen.
Dr. Klein!
Harriet, I didn’t say I see them that way.
Didn’t the Puerto Ricans vote not long ago to remain an American commonwealth? Did I dream that?
There are people around—
Whispers…
Hemostat.
Charlie’s eavesdropping was interrupted by a sharp voice he recognized: “Can you please just tell me where my husband is?”
“Margaret!” He stood and poked his head through the curtains. She ran to him and buried herself in his embrace. She pulled away to look at him and then burst into tears.
“Margaret, Margaret, I’m okay,” he said. “This isn’t my blood.”
She wiped her eyes and took a deep breath.
“I’ve never even heard of this hospital,” she said.
“It’s closest to the Capitol.”
She crossed her arms and looked at him sternly. “I was told about your ‘heroics’ today.” And then she punched him with both fists, not hard, but not jokingly either. He grasped her wrists and held them gently, lowered his forehead to meet hers. They stayed there silently, the buzz and hum of the hospital noises surrounding them.
Both Bentley and MacLachlan were still in surgery when Charlie was discharged that evening. In the waiting room he ran into Strongfellow.
“What are you hearing?” he asked Charlie.
“I overheard a doctor saying Bentley is fifty-fifty,” Charlie said. “They’re even less optimistic about Mac.” Margaret tugged him toward the door. He shook Strongfellow’s hand in parting. “I’ll come back in the morning.”
A Capitol Police officer hailed a cab for the two of them. The car radio was broadcasting news about the shooting.
“Could you turn that off, please?” Margaret asked the cabbie, who complied.
They sat in silence for fifteen blocks.
Finally, Margaret said, “I was talking with my sister on the phone when all of a sudden there was someone at the door. It was Jackie Kennedy; she’d heard what happened and ran over to make sure I knew. So I turned on the radio.”
Her bottom lip was quivering; having been tested at such a young age by her father’s death, Margaret was not one for whom tears came quickly. She looked out the window as Charlie reached to hold her hand. She took it, intertwined her fingers with his.
“The reporter on the radio knew nothing. Shooting in the House, at least half a dozen members rushed to area emergency rooms, blah-blah-blah. He seemed far more interested in the assailants than the victims. Puerto Rican extremists, one a woman. A note in her purse said something about her blood, the independence of Puerto Rico, the subjugation of her people…The reporter read every word of the note, as if it explained this, as if it justified it. I turned off the radio. It was making me sick.”
Charlie noticed her absentmindedly place her left hand over her abdomen, underlining why this had shaken her so badly.
“I tried to call your office, the Speaker’s office, House leadership, the cloakroom, all those numbers you gave me, but all the lines were busy,” she went on. “Couldn’t get through to police, couldn’t get through to any emergency rooms.”
“How’d you find me?”
“Sheryl Ann Bernstein called me and told me where you were. While I was waiting for the cab, Miss Leopold called to tell me too. They said they’d been trying to call but the switchboard was jammed.”
He gripped her hand more tightly. “I’m so sorry, Margaret. I had blood on me, so they whisked me away. There was no phone for me to call you from; the hospital said they had to keep their lines open. It was total chaos.”
But she was looking out the window again, distracted and still angry. “Sheryl Ann told me what you did. To draw fire. You didn’t have to be a goddamn hero. Good headlines aren’t going to be of any use to a baby without a father. My father got plenty of headlines after the crash. Worthless.”
She let go of his hand and continued staring out the window as evening fell upon Washington. He looked out his.
It was almost disconcerting, after the violent chaos of the day, to find their tree-lined street and stately town house quiet and unaltered under the street lamps. Life had changed forever a few miles away; here, it was just the same. They got out of the cab and walked silently up the stairs and inside, both too numb to speak more than necessary.
While he took a shower, she made soup, and he came down and ate it hungrily. Before long he had passed out on the living-room sofa in front of the gray haze of the television, immune to the comedic charms of Sid Caesar. Margaret woke him and gently guided him up the two flights to their bedroom. Hours later, though it felt like seconds, he was jolted awake by Margaret’s hand on his shoulder. He had been dreaming of Private Rodriguez. “Charlie, Congressman Street is at the door.”
Charlie sat up and rubbed his eyes. His muscles ached. “What time is it?”
“It’s morning.”
“What does he want?”
“He wants to bring you to the hospital. Mac is out of surgery and it doesn’t look good.”
Charlie dressed quickly and headed downstairs to find Street and Margaret at the kitchen table drinking coffee, their faces somber. Street’s eyes met Charlie’s and he gave a small shake of his head, then he stood up and reached for his fedora.
The Capitol Police officer standing guard outside MacLachlan’s room at Casualty Hospital balked when he saw Street. Other than orderlies and the custodial staff, few nonwhites were seen here. Most of the city’s black population went to Freedmen’s Hospital for medical treatment.
“He’s a member of Congress, as am I, and we’re here to see our friend,” Charlie said, and he walked past the guard. Street looked at the police officer, who nodded sullenly in acknowledgment.