Part 29 (1/2)
”On what?”
”He wants to come back for dinner.”
”What the h.e.l.l? I hope you told him to go f.u.c.k himself.”
”I could have, but that would've pretty much guaranteed a highly incriminating post on his blog tomorrow.”
”What the h.e.l.l does he want?”
”I could be wrong, but I think he wants your girlfriend.”
”What are you saying?”
”I'm saying I think he wants me more than he wants the story.” When he doesn't respond, I go, ”Tom?”
”Did he say that?”
”Not exactly.”
”What did he did he say exactly?” say exactly?”
”Well, I can't recount the whole G.o.dd.a.m.n conversation verbatim. But he made it pretty clear he was interested. And he basically kind of indicated that if I wasn't interested in him then he'd take that to mean I was involved with somebody else.”
”What do you mean, he indicated indicated?”
”I'm summarizing like ten minutes of back and forth. I'm interpreting.”
”You told him you were involved with somebody else, right? We agreed that Rob's our cover story.”
”He knows Rob's not straight. I mean, come on, Tom.”
”What did you say?”
”What do you want me to say?”
”I want you to get rid of him.”
”I can do that.”
”Does he have anything solid?”
”He claims he has a source for us getting caught in the shower in Manchester.”
”Then why doesn't he just go with it?”
”He may.”
”You really think he likes you enough to kill the story?”
”It's possible. He wants to come over here and cook dinner for me tonight. What do you want me to do?”
”I don't know, I have to think about this. Let me talk to Rob.”
”You're going to talk to Rob about this,” I say, incredulous. ”I don't want to know what Rob thinks, Tom. I don't care care what Rob thinks. I want to know what you think. I want to know what you want me to do.” what Rob thinks. I want to know what you think. I want to know what you want me to do.”
”s.h.i.+t, Rob's at the door and I'm late for the VFW.”
”What do you want me to do about Mr. Below the Beltway?”
”I don't know. You're going to have to handle this one, honey.”
”I don't know what that means.”
”It just means you should do whatever you think is best.”
”You mean whatever I have have to do.” to do.”
”I have tremendous faith in you, darlin'. I love you. I know I can count on you.”
Up until that moment, I'm still hoping. But the way he says he knows he can count on me-that tone of voice, that public speaking inflection he uses in his speeches-it broke my heart. Even the way he said ”darlin'” was stage southern. It wasn't an endearment so much as an imitation of an endearment.
”Alison, honey, I gotta get going. I'll call you later.”
He was walking out the door. I couldn't help trying to picture that room, even though it would look pretty much like all the other hotel rooms along the campaign trail, like one of the many rooms I snuck into in Fran-conia or Nashua, in Cedar Falls or Gastonia-those rooms that conveniently seemed to have no personality and no history, with a vinyl-covered ice bucket flanked by two cellophane-wrapped plastic gla.s.ses-without ever really wondering too much about all the people who had been there before us, about what had happened in these rooms. Maybe every room deserves its own bronze plaque, if we only knew. I would never see that room at the Hampton Inn in Dubuque, but I couldn't help wondering if he would remember it, out of all the hundreds of hotel rooms that year, as the place where he traded his soulmate for something he loved more.
2008.
The March Corrine had agreed to meet Was.h.i.+ngton and Veronica at the diner on Fifty-second Street, a place they'd come for hamburgers on Sat.u.r.day or brunch on Sunday when they were living in the neighborhood back in the eighties. It had been more than a decade since she'd set foot there, and the glazed apple pies and coconut cakes under their plastic domes seemed like museum displays from the distant era of her lost youth. But now it was jammed with cops-she hadn't seen this many uniforms since her days at the soup kitchen downtown, feeding cops and firefighters and san men and the steelworkers who had come together in the smoking ruins. She'd gotten to know several cops then, but the cohort here today seemed less benign, their faces tight, closed and bolted against fraternization. That moment of solidarity, of strangers comforting one another in the streets, of stockbrokers hugging firemen and waving to cops, had already faded into history. The citizens of the metropolis were changed, though less tangibly than they might have imagined or hoped back in the time of anthrax and missing-person posters. They had, most of them, been given a glimpse of their best selves, and told themselves they wouldn't forget, or go back to the old selfish, closed-in ways. But then they'd gone back to work and the rubble had been carted away and the stock market had recovered. You woke up one morning not thinking about that terrible day, not remembering it had happened until perhaps seeing the tattered remains of an old poster on your way to lunch. And it felt good not to think about it all the d.a.m.n time.
She stepped outside to wait. Already, at ten-thirty, the street was jammed with people bundled against the cold and carrying signs. ALL WE ARE SAYING IS GIVE PEACE A CHANCE ALL WE ARE SAYING IS GIVE PEACE A CHANCE. A little kid holding one that said WAR IS TERROR WAR IS TERROR and his sister in a red snowsuit with her own sign: and his sister in a red snowsuit with her own sign: DRAFT DRAFT THE BUSH TWINS THE BUSH TWINS. Russell had stayed home with the kids, who were working on a play for her birthday. While he shared Corrine's feelings about the imminent war, Russell was not a joiner. ”I don't march,” he'd said earlier that morning, showing the same kind of contrarian pride he sometimes brought to his traditional refrain of ”I don't dance.”
Looking south down the sidewalk for Was.h.i.+ngton and Veronica, she felt her chest tighten as she picked out a familiar figure-the loose, loping stride beneath the camel polo coat, the flopping sandy forelock, a garment bag hanging on his shoulder like a vestigial wing. She waited, paralyzed at his approach, and watched the changes ring on his unguarded visage as he recognized her, the rapid modulation from shock to wistful chagrin that preceded his public Isn't-this-a-pleasant-surprise mien.
”I might've known you'd be here,” he said as he kissed her cheek.
”Actually, I was just thinking about you,” she said, a statement that to her ears sounded false in its implication of surprising coincidence; it would have been true on almost any given day, despite the fact that they hadn't seen each other in more than a year-not since that snowy night in the plaza outside the New York State Theater when they'd both been on their way to see The Nutcracker The Nutcracker with their respective families. By now he had occupied more time in her thoughts than he had in the flesh. They'd exchanged e-mails and he had called from Tennessee and left a message five months ago, on September 11. with their respective families. By now he had occupied more time in her thoughts than he had in the flesh. They'd exchanged e-mails and he had called from Tennessee and left a message five months ago, on September 11.
”I mean, I was thinking about those days downtown, at the soup kitchen. This whole thing ...” She waved her arm to indicate the milling crowd with their signs. ”For me, it all kind of loops back to that time. The demonstration-the war.”
”Yeah, I guess so,” he said. ”At least that's the question, isn't it? They'd have us believe that what happened back then justifies their war.” He sighed. ”I didn't know this was happening, actually. The march, I mean. I was just on my way to the airport and I kind of waded into this thing. I was staying up the street at a friend's place.” He pointed behind him, as if to lend credence to the claim. ”We sold the apartment as part of the separation agreement.”
She tried not to react to this last phrase, the confirmation that he'd parted from his wife.
”You're heading back to Tennessee?”
He nodded. ”Ashley's really settled in-she's going to a girls' school in Nashville and seems to love it.”