Part 64 (2/2)
Pat and I have the satisfaction that every dime that we've got is honestly ours. I should say this-that Pat doesn't have a mink coat. But she does have a respectable Republican cloth coat. And I always tell her that she'd look good in anything.
This man's Nixon was darker, more menacing than I ever allowed myself to imagine. Upset by my own naivete, I wonder, Can I allow myself to know what I know and still love Nixon as deeply as I do? Can I accept how flawed, how unresolved he was, the enormous fissures in personality, in belief, in morality? Is there any politician who hasn't sold his soul ten times over before he even takes office? The mystery man in the elevator told me what I didn't want to hear, and on some level I know it all might be true. For some this might be a turnoff, but it draws me closer, makes RMN all the more human. He clearly wasn't the first or the last to have gotten confused with regard to the boundaries between executive power and imaginary superpowers-he just may have been that rare bird who doc.u.mented himself more heavily.
I ask Ching Lan to pull up the ”SOB” story so I can take another look.
Quoting from ”SOB”: ”If people had a clue about what's been going on they'd be shocked, more than shocked, they'd want something to happen-the last thing anyone wants is for the truth to come out-that'd be detrimental to us all.”
”Son of a b.i.t.c.h it would kill this country.”
”Whatever it is you know or think you know or that anyone else you know thinks he knows-you make sure they forget it, make sure that it goes away. There's a way to do that, have things go quiet for a while-for as long as it takes.”
”Son of a b.i.t.c.h who the h.e.l.l does he think he is-Charlton Heston in the Ten Commandments. SOB...”
I glance up and see Wanda in the hall chatting with Marcel, who pushes the chrome mail basket around delivering mail. Later, I ask Marcel what he knows about Wanda. ”Not much,” he says. ”Only that she's the granddaughter of Nelson Mandela-or Desmond Tutu, or someone like that...” He trails off. ”Born in South Africa, sent to England for school, came here, sold her memoir for three-quarters of a million dollars,” he adds as an afterthought.
”Why is she working here?”
”Going to law school in the fall,” he says. ”And she gave away the advance, donated to charity.”
”Really,” I say.
”Really,” Marcel says, echoing my tone, as he pushes his cart down the carpeted hall.
Tapping the resources of what she calls ”the sisters-are-doing-it-for-themselves network,” Cheryl has arranged for a party planner and a travel agent to come to the house and discuss Project BM South Africa. Everywhere we go, Cheryl keeps saying ”BM” loudly-it gives me flashbacks to my mother asking, ”Did you make a nice BM?” ”I can't talk right now, I have to make a BM.” ”Are your BMs regular?” and so on...
”Can we change the name?” I beg her. ”Just call it what it is, a bar mitzvah.”
”Too much to say,” she says.
”Then let's just say 'bar,' as in 'We're planning a bar.'”
”Won't people be confused?”
”No more than they already are now.”
Sofia, the party planner, arrives with a box of props marked ”Bar Mitzvah.” She slaps it down on the dining-room table. ”I have boxes for every occasion-Communion, Bar-Bat, Sweet 16, Engagement, Baby Shower, Adoption Celebration, Family Reunion, Corporate Picnic, props for every event, everything from your yarmulkes to flight jackets and those magic pens with a photo of either the bride or groom, tilt it and their clothes fall off-very popular. Let's face it, people like free stuff. It's gotten so bad, you go to someone's house for dinner and you leave wondering, Where's my booty bag?”
”How did you become a party planner?” I ask.
”By accident,” she says. ”My mother was a wonderful hostess: flowers on the table, so many ways to fold a napkin. You'd be shocked to know the number of people who don't know the fork goes on the left, much less what to do if there's a salad fork and a dessert fork.... Okay,” she says, catching herself, aware that she has a propensity to go on. ”What's the time frame?”
”The temple date was July 3; Nate's actual birthday is the fifth.”
She looks stricken.
”What?” I ask.
”We're beyond late-this is like sudden-death overtime.” She takes a deep breath. ”It is what it is-so we'll jump right in and get started. First the invites.”
”The good news is, we don't need invites. It's going to be really small, and Nate has already told me, no gifts. We're going to make a donation to the village to help them improve the school.”
Sofia looks at me like I'm an idiot. ”You're having the bar mitzvah in July in South Africa-no one is going to come, so what you want to do is invite everyone. All the more if you want to raise money for the school. Invite his whole cla.s.s and the faculty. Do you have a list of who came to the funeral? The family holiday-card list? The wife's relatives, who might hate you but still care for the boy? Invite everyone you can think of-it's halfway around the world and in the height of summer; they'll be thrilled to say no and send a gift. Figure you invite two hundred fifty people and they each spend fifty to a hundred bucks, you'll do very well. The cost of the invite is going to be a little high. We want it nice, lined envelope, reply card, stamped envelope. It's about three fifty per-plus some kind of a rush charge. Let's call it a start-up or opportunity cost. We want people to open the card, read the program, and be moved to send money. We'll have thank-you notes printed at the same time. Anyone who sees this is going to know the kid got lucky having an uncle like you.”
This is the first compliment I've gotten about my new role, and I am surprised at how good it feels.
”Okay,” she says, not giving me a second to revel in it. ”Let's use our time wisely. For the invitation, thermography is fine. In this case, with the family history, to go full-on engraved would be excessive. And I strongly suggest you not invite people by e-mail. We'll have a nice invite, and people will feel obligated.... 'At Nate's request, all gifts will be directed to building a school in the village....' They can make a PayPal donation-I'll find out how you do it. Meanwhile, can you get a quote from Nate about his visit there and why this place is important to him?”
”Sure.”
”Write it down,” she says, tapping the blank pad of paper in front of me: ”This is your to-do list. 'Please Join Mr. Harold Silver and'-what's the sister's name?” she asks.
”Ashley.”
”'Ashley Silver in celebrating the Bar Mitzvah of Nathaniel'-what's his middle name?”
”Ummm, Allan?”
”Nathaniel Allan Silver on, let's call it July 9 in-what's the name of the town?”
”Nateville.”
”Nateville, how cute, South Africa. 'Bar Mitzvah at Noon, Followed by Ceremonial Feast and Dancing.' Do you know where in South Africa Nateville is?”
I shake my head no.
”What's the biggest city?”
”Durban”-I think.
”We're going to need a caterer, a rabbi, a band, and probably a refrigerated truck to get everything to the location, maybe a tent and air conditioning. What's the temperature there in July?”
”I think it's their winter.”
”I'll find out.” She jots a note to herself. ”What are you thinking regarding food? Roast-beef carving station? Omelets made to order? And what about the band? A Jewey klezmer rock group imported from the big city-you know, top hits plus traditional Jewish songs to a danceable beat? And we need to talk budget. I can dream all day, but I have no idea what you're thinking.”
”I'm thinking something a little more-what's the word?-not exactly low-key, but taking advantage of whatever we can arrange right there in the village.”
”Rustic?” she suggests.
”Whatever we do should be in keeping with whatever the South African village traditions are and not too over-the-top.”
”Is there, like, a hotel or a B&B in this village?” she asks.
”I don't know.”
”You know,” she says, ”you and I are working at a disadvantage right now.”
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