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on, before he'd done much more than test the waters of a congressional campaign. Now he looked like a prophet, while other politicians were trying to explain why they'd initially approved of the war.
    The 8th Congressional District included most of Manhattan's Upper West Side and points south encompassing Chelsea, SoHo, Greenwich Village, TreBeCa, and downtown Manhattan, as well as Sunset Park, Bay Ridge, Bensonhurst, Coney Island, Brighton Beach, and Gravesend in Brooklyn. As such, the district was composed of the most left-leaning voters in the entire state, who were only too willing to believe that a Republican administration had lied to lead Americans into a disastrous war and was possibly even responsible for the destruction of the World Trade Center.
    Personally, Charlie had a hard time swallowing the notion that the Bush administration could have carried out what would have been the most complex and well-executed conspiracy and cover-up ever conceived by any government anywhere. Hell, they can't even keep their sexual peccadilloes off the front pages and newscasts, he thought, much less pull off 9/11 and blame it on the fucking camel jockeys. But publicly, he bent in whatever direction the voters in the district leaned.
    Even up to Jessica's declaration that Islamic extremists were fighting for Allah, rather than Big Oil, Charlie had been able—when the press called asking for comment—to shake his head, plaster an affectionate smile on his face, and fall back on his wife's First Amendment rights while pointing out that being married did not mean that they shared all the same views. "At least not necessarily to the same degree of... vigor," he'd add, with a "what can you do" chuckle.
    Charlie's own idealism had mellowed with age and political realities. As he had pointed out to his wife numerous times when asking for a bit more discretion in her comments, radical leftists rarely had their husbands elected to high office in the United States. The caution usually had the desired effect, because she wanted it as much as he did. She positively dreamed of becoming the darling of the Left within the D.C. beltway and being offered an endowed chair at Georgetown University.
    Still, she couldn't seem to shut up for long. Something would set her off, and the next thing he knew, he'd be speed-dialing for the public-relations spin doctors.
    At the same time that NYCU was trying to distance itself from his wife's comments, Charlie's political handlers, who privately referred to her as the "C-word," prepared Charlie's responses to the media. To wit, she had been taken out of context, and even at that her comments were "devil's advocate-type provocation intended to make people think about how our actions are perceived in other countries."
    "My wife was merely trying to say that if U.S. foreign policy is based on violence, then violence is to be expected in return," he'd explained during an impromptu speech at Columbia University, where he could expect a sympathetic crowd. It was a few days after the birth of Benjamin, and he had said, "My wife and I have a new baby boy ... yes, thank you for your applause, we like him too ... and he's why I'm running for Congress. We need more voices for reason and diplomacy, not more dead soldiers or a draft of our sons and even our daughters. Our current adventurism in the Middle East has only created more enemies and a more dangerous world for all of our children."
    Charlie and his team thought the speech had gone over well. But when Jessica saw the clip on the evening news, she'd lashed out. "I don't need you interpreting me for the masses," she'd hissed, "or using our son for cheap political theatrics."
    "Great, here we go again," he'd snarled back, then ducked when she hurled a crystal ashtray at him. "You're nuts! I can't keep up with your fucking moods." He'd stomped out of the house and didn't return that night.
     
    But that's all water under the bridge, Jessica thought, standing in the