Mirror Image

“Get a doctor, somebody. Eddy! Jack! Somebody do something. He’s hurt!”
    “I’m all right.” He struggled to sit up. Swaying dizzily, he groped for support, found Avery’s arm, and held on tight.
    Since Tate could speak and make an effort to sit up, she was sure that the bullet had only grazed him and not penetrated his skull. She cushioned his head on her breasts. His blood ran warm and wet down the front of her clothing, but she didn’t even notice.
    “Jesus, what happened?” Eddy finally managed to elbow his way through the crowd to them. “Tate?”
    “I’m okay,” he mumbled. Gradually, Avery released her hold on his head. “Give me a handkerchief.”
    “They’re calling an ambulance.”
    “No need to. Something hit me.” He glanced around him, searching through a forest of feet and legs. “That,” he said, pointing to the broken beer bottle lying nearby on the pavement.
    “Who the hell threw it?”
    “Did you see him?” Avery was prepared to do battle with the attacker.
    “No, I didn’t see anything. Give me a handkerchief,” he repeated. Eddy took one from his pocket. Avery snatched it from him and pressed it to the bleeding gash near Tate’s hairline. “Thanks. Now help me up.”
    “I’m not sure you should try and stand,” she cautioned.
    “I’m okay.” He smiled unsteadily. “Just help me get up off my ass, okay?”
    “I could throttle you for joking at a time like this.”
    “Sorry. Somebody beat you to it.”
    As she and Eddy helped him to his feet, Jack ran up, huffing for breath. “A couple of the workers don’t like your politics. The police have arrested them.”
    There was a commotion at the far corner of the parking lot. Anti-Rutledge picket signs bobbed up and down like pogo sticks. “Rutledge is a pinko fag,” read one. “Vote for a bleeding liberal? You’re bleeding crazy!” read another. And “Rutledge is a rutting commie.”
    “Let’s go,” Eddy ordered.
    “No.” Tate’s lips were stiff and white from a combination of anger and pain. “I came here to shake hands and ask for votes, and that’s what I’m going to do. A couple of bottle throwers aren’t going to stop me.”
    “Tate, Eddy’s right.” Avery clutched his arm tightly. “This is a police matter now.”
    She had died a thousand deaths on her headlong rush to reach him. She had thought, “This is it. This is what I wanted to prevent, and I have failed to.” The incident brought home to her just how vulnerable he was. What kind of protection could she offer him? If someone wanted to kill him badly enough, he could. There wouldn’t be a damn thing she or anyone else could do to prevent it.
    “Hello, I’m Tate Rutledge, running for the U.S. Senate.” Stubbornly, Tate turned to the man standing nearest him. The UAW member looked down at Tate’s extended hand, then glanced around uncertainly at his co-workers. Finally, he shook Tate’s hand. “I would appreciate your vote in November,” he told the man before moving to the next. “Hi, I’m Tate Rutledge.”
    Despite his advisers, Tate moved through the crowd, shaking hands with his right hand, holding the blood-stained handkerchief to his temple with the left. Avery had never loved him so much.
    Nor had she ever been more afraid for him.
    * * *
    “How do I look?”
    Tate asked for her opinion only after dubiously consulting his reflection in the mirror. He’d remained on the parking lot of the assembly plant until those going off duty had left for home and those reporting to work had gone inside.
    Only then had he allowed Eddy and her to push him into the backseat of the car and rush him to the nearest emergency room. Jack, who followed in the second car, joined them there, where a resident physician took three stitches and covered them with a small, square, white bandage.
    Avery had placed a call to Nelson and Zee from the emergency room, knowing that if they heard about the incident on the news they would be worried. They insisted on speaking with Tate. He joked about the injury, although Avery saw him gratefully accept the painkiller the nurse gave him.
    A horde of reporters was waiting for them in the lobby of the Adolphus when they returned. They surged forward en masse. “Be sure they get pictures of the blood on your dress,” Eddy had told her out the side of his mouth.
    For that insensitive remark, she could easily have scratched his eyes out. “You bastard.”
    “I’m just doing my job, Carole,” he