by Joseph Kanon
Nick smiled to himself. One meal. One tie. “Fine,” he said. “Don’t worry about it. This all right?” He touched the lapel of his jacket. “For tonight?”
“Don’t tease,” his mother said lightly, enjoying herself. “A proper suit. I know you have one. Funny, isn’t it? Men used to come to London just to buy suits, and now look at everybody.”
“You’ll feel better at the Bruces‘. I’ll bet the rot hasn’t spread there yet.”
“Ho-ho,” his mother said, waving her hand. “But you do see about the hair. She’ll ask. I suppose they still have barbers here.” This to Larry, a dig at the hotel left over from an earlier conversation. “I knew we should have stayed at the Connaught,” she said, as if somehow the barbershop had already let them down.
“You wouldn’t want to be there today anyway,” Nick said, skating over it. “It’s a little noisy.” His mother raised her eyebrows. “There’s a demonstration right around the corner.”
“At the embassy, you mean,” she said, fixing the geography in her head. Then, looking at him, “You were there?”
Nick nodded.
“Oh, Nick, you didn’t. It’s not fair to Larry, it really isn’t. Think how it looks.”
“I wasn’t thinking about that,” he said, glancing at Larry.
“Darling, you have to. It’s just what the papers-”
“Nobody was looking at me,” he said. “Vanessa Redgrave was there.”
“What’s it got to do with her?” his mother said sharply.
Nick shrugged. “What’s it got to do with anybody?”
His mother sighed. “I’m not talking about politics. I’m talking about this family. Larry’s in a sensitive position right now-”
“I’m going to be a lot more sensitive if I don’t get something to eat,” Larry said. “Anybody else hungry? I’ll just go get my tie.” He ducked into the bedroom.
Nick’s mother followed him with her eyes, saying nothing, then went over to the coffee table and lit a cigarette. “It’s just-I don’t want anything to go wrong. He’s so happy being back. It might even do some good. This war,” she said, exasperated, as if she’d been given another inferior room. Then she paused, hearing herself, and lowered her voice. “You know what they’re like at the White House — they don’t trust anybody, and they hate the protests. They think it’s about them.”
“It is about them.”
“You know what I mean. They take it all personally.”
“They should.”
She glanced up at him, stubbing out the cigarette. “Oh, I can’t talk to you. Do you think you’re the only one against the war? Everybody’s against the war.”
“Not everybody.”
“Well, Larry’s trying to do something about it.” She softened. “Look, I’m not trying to tell you what to do. As if I ever could. But-well, Larry’s who he is. He’s public. And that makes you public too. They’ll use you to embarrass him.”
“Mother, nobody even knows who I am. There were thousands of people there today. Thousands.”
“But only one of them has a father going to the peace talks.”
He stopped, amused in spite of himself at the end run. “Well, I can’t argue with you there.”
She blushed, taking the salute, then said, “Oh, let’s not argue at all. I can’t bear it. Nobody talks about anything else anymore. I haven’t come all this way to argue about Vietnam.” She stopped, catching herself in the glint in Nick’s eyes, almost laughing. “Oh. Actually, I have, haven’t I? Well, Larry has. No wonder he doesn’t want me to stay. I suppose I cramp his style or something. Anyway, I just came to see you.”
“Between fittings.” He grinned.
She smiled back and came over to him. “Nick, I am on your side, you know. How do you think I felt when you went there? If anything had happened-”
“It didn’t. I was transferred out of the field, remember?” he said, a trial balloon, because he had always suspected Larry had arranged it. But if so, he could see from her expression that Larry had kept it a secret from her too.
“What difference did that make? You don’t stop worrying just because- Anyway, never mind. You’re here.”
“And now it might happen to somebody else. Lots of them.”
She took his point but ignored it, following her own thought. “I’ve never been so scared in my life. I never understood it. Everybody else got a deferment. Why didn’t you? If you feel the way you do?”
“I didn’t know I felt it then.”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “Something else. Proving yourself, I suppose. Men. And we’re the ones who end up worrying.”
Nick looked away, seeing himself for a minute as he had been, the blind desperation to be thought loyal, beyond reproach. Like everyone else. His friends, who were safe, without a past, could afford to be different. So he’d gone, not fighting for his country, just asking for its good opinion. Not that that was any excuse. He turned back. “You know why.”
Her eyes widened, as if they had felt the crack that opened up in her, and for a moment he thought the crack would widen, that at least she could admit this. But the lacquer worked; she came back together, sealed up. He saw that he had frightened her and he retreated, literally taking a step back.
She looked at him for a moment but didn’t answer, and then began her own retreat, walking back over to the coffee table.
“Would you do something for me? Could we just not talk about any of this at lunch? I don’t think I’m up to it. I really don’t.”
Nick spread his hands. “No politics. No religion.”
“Oh God, that reminds me. Did I tell you? Father Tim had a heart attack. You might send him a note.”
“Serious?”
“Well, he thought it was indigestion,” Larry said, coming out of the bedroom, smoothing his tie.
Nick laughed.
“You’re both terrible,” his mother said indulgently. “I don’t know why you’re so mean about him,” she said to Nick. “He’s very fond of you.”
“He means well,” Nick said, tongue-in-cheek.
“Well, he does. Anyway, at his age anything’s serious. It would be sweet if you did write.”
“I thought you were the same age,” Nick said.
“Not quite,” his mother said. But her eyes were happy again, enjoying herself.
“What gets me,” Larry said, “is how anybody dares to confess anything to him. Man’s the biggest gossip I’ve ever met.”
“That’s because you’re not a Catholic. You don’t confess to a man-a priest is someone else then. Tim takes that sort of thing very seriously, you know, whatever you might think.”
“Come on,” Larry said. “I’m starving. You two solve all the problems of the world while I was in there?”
“We left a few for you,” Nick said.
“You go ahead,” his mother said. “I just want to fix my face.”
“Should we start without you?” Larry said, implying the usual long wait.
“Don’t be fresh. Five minutes. Not everybody slept all the way over. I need a little armor.”
“Don’t do any damage.”
“Go on. Off,” his mother said, shooing them out the door.
They passed up the elevator for the thick-carpeted stairs, Nick quickening his step to keep up.
“So how are things, Nick?” Larry said, putting a hand on his shoulder as they walked. “Do you like it here?”
“It beats law school.”
Larry stopped. “You can always go back and finish, you know,” he said seriously.
“Larry-”
Larry held up his hand. “Withdrawn,” he said, smiling, and started down the hall again. “But what are you actually doing? Except having a good time. You are, I hope. When I was your age- You seeing anybody?”
Nick shook his head. “You know, a girl tried to pick me up this morning. At least I think she did.”
Larry grinned. “If you don’t know, then it’s time to get
out of the library.”
“I guess,” Nick said, returning the grin. “It suits me, though. For now,” he added, wondering if it did, if the long afternoons in the stacks were anything more than an academic time-out.
“Well, it’s your life. Sounds a little quiet to me. What do you do all day?” Larry said, his voice filled with telephones and secretaries and agendas.
Nick smiled to himself. “At the moment I’m doing some research for Aaron Wiseman.”
“So he said.” Then, catching Nick’s look, he smiled. “I ran into him when he was in the States last month.”
“Checking up?”
“Just a little. Old habits.” He brushed it aside. “What exactly are you writing?”
“He’s writing. I look things up. He says history’s like a criminal investigation. The documents are the clues.”
“And you’re the detective?”
Nick heard it, the tiny edge under the geniality. Instinctively he glanced over, but Larry was nodding to the bellman at the bottom of the stairs, ignoring him.
“So the students do the spade work,” Larry said easily. “The old fox. No wonder he keeps churning them out.” They turned into the long corridor of the lobby. “What’s this one? Something about HUAC, I gather.”
“He didn’t tell you more?” Nick said, amused at Larry’s cat-and-mouse. “One old fox to another?”
“You tell me.”
“Jacobinism,” Nick said flatly. “How the patterns never change. HUAC, the other committees. He’s got me on SISS, the Senate committee.”
“Mr McCarthy,” Larry said after a pause, as if he’d been trying to place the reference. “You know, he never really cared one way or the other,” he said, his voice oddly reminiscent.
“He did a lot of damage for not caring.”
“He didn’t, though. I think he was surprised anybody took it seriously.” They had passed the Palm Court, with its swirl of angels and gilded moldings, when Larry stopped and turned to him. “Do you think this is a good idea, Nick?” he said, still trying to be casual, but Nick was alert now.
“You don’t.”
“I’m not sure what it means to you, that’s all,” Larry said softly. In his voice Nick heard the old protection, transferring him back from the field again.
“It’s a research assignment, Larry, that’s all. There are four of us. Nothing personal,” he said. He smiled at Larry. “It’s okay.”
Larry looked at him, but apparently decided not to press the point. “Well, you know your own mind. I just don’t want you picking at scabs.” He hesitated. “Don’t mention this to your mother.” Nick nodded, wondering for a second if that had been his real point all along.
“You know, when you live through it-” Larry said suddenly, talking to himself. “Wiseman never knew them. Drunks. Opportunists. Little men who wanted to be somebody — that’s all it ever was.” He paused. “They’re not worth your time, Nick. Anyway, they’re gone.”
“Not all of them,” Nick said, looking straight at him. “Your new boss is still there.”
Larry held his eyes for a minute, then turned toward the dining room. “Let’s go in.”
The maitre d‘ recognized Larry and took them across the pink room to a table near the tall windows facing Green Park. The day was still gray and dreary, but overhead, clouds floated across the painted ceiling sky. Gold ran along the walls and hung in long swags between the bright chandeliers, giving the room the summer luster of a giant jewel box. As they opened their napkins, waiters swarmed around them, removing cover plates, dishing out butter, taking drink orders, so that finally, when they were gone, Nick smiled at the sudden peace.
“Imagine what it’s like at dinner,” he said, apologizing by moving on.
But Larry refused to be distracted. “I didn’t elect him.”
“It’s none of my business.”
“Yes, it is. I don’t want you protesting me too. You think-well, what do you think?”
“I don’t see how you can do it,” Nick said simply. “Nixon. Of all people.”
“Yes. Of all people,” Larry said slowly, looking down at the table. “Leader of the Free World. One of history’s little jokes.” He paused as the waiter filled their wineglasses, then looked up at Nick and said quietly, “He isn’t Welles, you know.”
“Was he any better?”
“Times change, Nick,” he said gently.
“You think he’s changed?”
“Dick? No. He doesn’t have an idea in his head. Never did.” He took a sip of wine. “He had instincts, though. I guess that was all he needed.”
“And now his instincts are telling him to end the war.”
“No, the polls tell him that. He just doesn’t know how.”
“So you’re going to help him.”
“I’m going to help him.” Larry nodded. “My gray hair. My years of experience,” he said sarcastically. “You can read about it in the papers. I’m going to give him-” He searched. “Credibility. Self-preservation’s a powerful instinct. You can work with somebody who’s got that. They’ll do anything, if you find them an out.”
“No matter what they said yesterday.”
“They don’t remember yesterday. They’re not stuck in the past.”
Nick took the point and looked away. “What if you’re kidding yourself?”
“Well, what if? I don’t think we can wait another four years to find out. This thing-riots, for Christ’s sake. It’s like watching somebody having convulsions. Sometimes it feels like another country to me.” His voice was almost wistful, and Nick saw suddenly that he was older, propped up by the straight shoulders of his tailored suit. “You wonder where the other one went.” Larry looked up. “Nothing’s been happening in Paris, you know. Nothing. They argue about where to sit.”
“And you’re going to change that.”
Larry said nothing, then leaned forward, a gesture at once earnest and conspiratorial. “We have to save face, Nick. We can’t get out of this otherwise. Does it really matter if it’s Nixon’s face that’s being saved?”
Nick looked away. “Why tell me, Larry? What difference does it make?”
Larry kept his eyes fixed on him. “When you lie down with dogs, you pick up a few fleas. Maybe I want you to know why I’m doing it before they start to bite. You’re my son, Nick,” he said, the words drawing Nick back. “I don’t want to be one of your bad guys.”
Nick looked at him, touched and disoriented, as if someone had tried to embrace him in this public, overdressed room. “I’d never think that,” he said.
Larry leaned back in his seat, drawing away. “I know what he is. I’m not buying a car from him. I just want him to make the peace. You don’t have to be honorable to do that. Not even a little. Not to make a deal.”
“You just need a good lawyer.”
Larry nodded, with a faint smile. “You just need a good lawyer.”
“Who knows his way around. God, how you love all this, Larry,” he said, then stopped, suddenly hearing another voice, back at the study door.
But Larry had heard only his. “That’s how it gets done, Nick. Nothing ever got decided in the streets.” He paused, letting the ball hit its court, then shifted in his chair. “Anyway, I didn’t bring you down here to argue about Nixon. I wanted to talk to you before your mother comes down. She hates this sort of thing-she thinks we’re all immortal. Of course, she may be,” he said, smiling.
“What do you mean, immortal? Is something wrong?”
“No, no, nothing like that. I’m in the pink. Twenty pounds too pink, according to my doctor, but what does he know?”
He caught Nick’s look. “I’m fine, Nick. It’s not that.” He motioned to the waiter to refill his wineglass. “But I’m not getting any younger either, so we have to think about these things.”
“What things?”
“Money.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out his wallet. Then, seeing Nick’s face, he laughed. “No, I’m not trying to g
ive you a fiver. Here.” He handed Nick a card. “There are some papers you need to sign. Needles is sending them to that address-it’s the firm they use over here. They may already be here, for all I know. Anyway, give a call and they’ll set up a time, okay? It’s not very complicated, but they can walk you through them. Of course, you can still draw on the trust, but this will be yours outright.”
“Larry, what is all this? I don’t need any money.”
“It’ll all be yours one day, Nick. Unless your mother runs through it first. Which she’s capable of doing,” he said, a verbal wink. “Anyway, it’s taxes. Needles says if I don’t start signing some of it over now, the Government will get it later. I’ve given Uncle Sam the best years of my life. I don’t have to give him all my money too. So why wait?”
Nick looked at the card, too surprised to respond. Larry’s heir. He ran his finger along the edge. It was just a card, a harmless token of this easy generosity, yet he felt that merely putting it in his pocket would mark a turning, make what had been provisional something permanent, a formal acceptance.
“You don’t have to give me anything, Larry,” he said quietly. “I never expected-”
Who else?“
“What about your family?”
“Who? My sister? I wouldn’t give Phyllis the time of day. Besides, she’s got her own money.” He leaned forward again.
“Nick, you’re my family. Legally you’re my son. I’m not likely to have another one.” He covered Nick’s hand with his own. “Anyway, I’m happy with the one I’ve got.”
Nick looked up from the card. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Well, ‘thank you’ is always appropriate.”
Nick nodded slowly. “Thank you,” he said, then pocketed the card, feeling a lightheaded letting-go. He took in the jewel-case room and grinned. “Does this mean I’m rich?”
“Comfortable. You don’t have to vote Republican yet.”
Nick smiled. “No strings?”
“No strings. Of course, you have to take care of it if you want to keep it. There’s always that string. But talk to Needles when you get back. He never loses a dime.”
“Am I coming home?”
