Free Up in Smoke by Charlene Weir

and—” Her dance partner grabbed her and whirled her away.
    In the car, Cass asked Bernie, “What is this twelve-thirty at the farm all about?” She cracked the window, cool night air brushed her face. A crisp feel of fall was in the air, crickets chirred, somewhere a coyote yipped.
    â€œPoliticians work late at night. Weekends, holidays. All those times when real people have real lives.”
    â€œWhy was I asked to come?” It had shaken her, when Jack said come to the farm. For a split second, she’d thought he wanted to explore apologies and explanations, but that had all been said and done long ago.
    â€œThe governor told me to hire you.”
    She stared at him. The green glow of the dash lights gave him a ghoulish look. He gave her a quick weighing glance, then returned his attention to the road.
    Yeah, right. “To do what?” she asked.
    â€œFull-time campaign staff member.”
    That knocked her socks off. “Why?”
    Bernie shrugged. “Probably because he knows you’ll do a good job. He’s smart that way.”
    â€œJust take me home, please.”
    â€œSure.”
    â€œI’m not a politician.”
    â€œIf we go out there, you can ask him why.”
    â€œI don’t want to go out there.”
    â€œBecause—?”
    â€œBecause I’m tired. And I don’t want to—I just—My feet hurt. I want to go home.”
    â€œOkay.”
    After a moment or so, she said, “You’re going the wrong way.”
    â€œI know.” He kept on going.
    â€œDamn it, you said you’d take me back whenever I wanted.”
    â€œRight. Can you hang on just a little longer?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œGive the governor five minutes.” Bernie glanced at her and quickly threw out, “Two minutes.”
    Could she do that? Did she want to? No. What did it matter?
    â€œIf you don’t,” Bernie said, “you’ll never know what the governor has in mind.”
    She didn’t care.
    â€œTwo minutes,” Bernie urged. “Then we’re outta there.”
    So she went, mostly because Bernie wouldn’t stop and she didn’t want to throw herself from a moving automobile. And maybe she did care. A little.
    The barred gate was new since she’d last been here, and the man in a dark suit wearing an earring who came out of the hut was also new. He stooped to look at Bernie, and then at her. She was sure she looked half dead, skinny with grayish skin and dark circles under her eyes.
    â€œCasilda Storm,” Bernie said. “He wants to see her.”
    On the long drive to the house, she uneasily regretted not being more insistent about going home. She’d been out here many times when she and Jack were tight, some visceral memory was stirring deep inside.
    Floodlights lit up the front of the house. Two troopers stood by the door. In the living room, plates of sandwiches and platters of cheese and fruit sat on tables along with coffee cups and cans of soft drinks. Jack wasn’t around, but Todd, the campaign manager, who was with Jack at Eva’s party, gave her a smile and a hello.
    A man came up and clapped Bernie on the shoulder. “It’s about time. Where you been?”
    Bernie turned. “Cass, this is Leon Massy. Media consultant.”
    â€œThe best in the business.” Leon was tall with an aw-shucks smile, an abundance of cornstalk yellow hair, and a hint of down south in his voice; from the waist down he was a shocking billow of fat.
    â€œLeon thinks he’s hot shit right now,” Bernie said, “’cause he just won a special election in Georgia with a pro-choice ad.”
    â€œYes indeed.” Leon nodded with a pleased smile. “Had the founding fathers concerned they’d taken a Yankee viper to their righteous bosoms, until it brought an overwhelming herd of citizens stampeding to the voting booths to demand their right to a D and C. Then they