by Janice Weber
“Do you mind if we go upstairs?” I said, shuddering in my purple peignoir. “It’s cold out here.”
Bobby didn’t argue. “Where’s your husband?” he asked as we mounted the steps.
“Who knows.” I led him into the bedroom. Two agents stayed behind in the hallway. “I expect him back in a day or two.” In a box.
Bobby was more impressed by Fausto’s massive bed than his oil paintings. Couldn’t take his eyes off it, perhaps calculating how large a bacchanalia it could handle. “What’s he going to think of this escapade of yours?” he asked, falling onto the mattress.
“He’ll laugh. Care for a beer?” I poured a glass and slipped a tiny pill into the bubbles. Forget the jungle swill: this came straight from Maxine’s medicine chest. We girls called it Ten-Minute Intermission. Never failed. I handed Bobby his drink and lay next to him on the bed.
As he kissed my bruises, his countenance softened. “Just tell me what happened. Paula’s a basket case.”
She had been sane enough to see me that afternoon—and not mention it to Bobby. “Remember Chickie’s roommate Rhoby? Ever since that concert at Aurilla’s she’s been calling me. Last night I couldn’t sleep so I went to a few bars with her. Chickie went nuts when I brought Rhoby home. Thought I was stealing her wife. First she beat the tar out of Rhoby. Then she started in on me. Fortunately Rhoby stabbed her with her cello pin before she broke my jaw.”
Bobby thought it over. “Did you screw her?”
“Rhoby? What for?”
He swallowed a great slug of beer. “Torment, sugar. Pure and simple.”
“Torment has its limits. Even for me.”
That was the last Bobby heard before plummeting to the pillow. I caught his beer and sprang Cecil from the closet. He dressed in Bobby’s clothing: the resemblance was shocking. “Ten minutes,” I told him, checking my watch. “Not one second more.”
Cecil nodded and switched to Bobby-speak. “Now for a little fun, sugar.” He opened the bedroom door a crack. “Time out,” I heard him joke to the agents in the hall.
Fortunately Aurilla was a punctual individual. Cecil and a pair of agents were waiting on the front stoop for her as she rolled down the driveway. She didn’t get invited into the house. Instead Cecil took her to the porch beneath the bedroom window, where light was dim but acoustics clear. “Is everything all right, Mr. President?” I heard Aurilla ask. “You and the First Lady must have had a terrible day.”
“How long have we known each other, Aurilla? Ten years?”
Actually only eight, but she said, “I believe so, sir.”
“I always knew you were an ambitious woman,” Cecil continued. “But I’m afraid I underestimated the depth of your ambition.”
“What do you mean, sir?”
“Oh, let’s start with your daughter’s recital in a dengue ward in Belize. A couple of mosquitoes in mesh balls. You taking a short elevator ride with Jojo Bailey … you get my drift?”
“No sir, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Aurilla spoke with such conviction that for a second I thought I had imagined everything.
Cecil simply continued. “Then I take you up on your kind offer of a home in the country, little realizing my most private actions would be videotaped.”
“Who’s been telling you these lies?” Aurilla cried, but her voice was way too high, wrung tight with fear. “I’m absolutely shocked.”
“Cut the shit, Aurilla. You’re just shocked that I found out before you had a chance to run me out of the presidency,” Cecil retorted with awesome calm. He had only been playing this game for three minutes, not thirty years. “I’d ask you why you did it, but the answer is obvious. You’re the lowest snake I ever met in my life. Now listen carefully. Tomorrow morning at seven you’re going to make an announcement withdrawing your name from consideration for vice president. Make up any damn excuse you want. But you’re out of it. Don’t contact me in any way. Ever. You’re going to drop off both those videotapes here as you leave town for a long vacation. Understand?”
No words as a chorus of crickets serenaded Aurilla’s ruin. “I beg you to reconsider, Bobby,” she croaked.
“Get out of my sight!” Cecil shouted. Behind me, the president stirred in bed. Time’s up, Cecil! Take your bow and leave! As if he had heard me, Cecil strode back into the house, leaving Aurilla on the porch. He returned to the bedroom thirty seconds later.
“How’d I do?” he whispered, tearing off his clothes.
“We’ll see.” In fact, Cecil’s performance had been overwhelming. He was dangerous beyond belief, capable of sparking World War III if he ever got serious about impersonating the president. As I shoved him back in the closet, I heard Aurilla’s car leave. Good luck trying to figure out who had betrayed you, sweetheart.
I replaced Bobby’s tainted beer with good stuff and waited for him to come round. Then I picked up exactly where we had left off. “Torment has its limits. Even for me,” I repeated. “Sorry about Chickering.”
“I’m not, sugar. She was a pain in the ass since she was twelve years old. But she was loyal. Paula’s going to have trouble functioning without her.”
Paula would bounce back sooner than Bobby thought. She’d be on the receiving end of a lot of sympathy at Chickie’s and Jojo’s funerals. Then she could busy herself finding a new vice president. Then she could sift through an army of pit bulls panting to step into Chickie’s shoes. Throughout this traumatic period, her personal healer would be at her side, dispensing potions. “Just tell your wife Chickie started it, all right?”
“I’ve been telling her that all day.” Bobby put his beer on the night table. “I just get the feeling there’s a piece missing here.”
I stayed with him until five o’clock, when he finally gave up trying to get an erection: Maxine’s pills had that annoying side effect. Bobby was mortified. Hadn’t had this problem in his life but the stress of the day, this whopper bed, the excitement of actually seeing me naked after all the goosing around…ah well, some other time. I patted his cheek and walked him downstairs, where the Secret Service agents were just about pickled with boredom. At the front door, near the spot where Fausto had taken me, I kissed Bobby good-bye. “It’s been fun.”
He seemed bemused. “Good night, ma’am. Take care of yourself.”
The presidential party drove home. Bobby wasn’t a bad egg. He’d forgive me.
Chapter Fifteen
AFTER BOBBY HAD LEFT, I sprang Cecil from the secret closet. “You nailed it,” I told him. “Tell me where to wire the fifty grand.”
“You mean I’m done?”
“Class dismissed. You’d better get out of here before the caterers come.” Fausto’s breakfast ritual had continued in his absence and I wasn’t ready to call it off before seeing the death certificate.
“But who killed Polly?”
“Vicky Chickering. Sorry, I’ve already taken care of her. Aurilla was an accessory, but I’d say you’ve effectively neutralized her.” I started making the bed, smoothing Bobby’s wrinkles away. “Good luck with your career. I’d avoid Washington for a while, if I were you.”
“Can’t leave until I settle with Fausto. He owes me a million bucks.”
That frigid wind ruffled the hair at the base of my neck. “He went to Belize. You’ll get your money. I promise.”
Cecil—Bobby?—shook my hand. “It’s been a blast. Will we meet again?”
“Not while you have that face. What are you going to do now?”
“Catch a little sleep. Then get the hell out of here.” Cecil’s fingers lingered over the bruises on my chin. “You’ll keep my secret, won’t you?”
“You’ll keep mine?”
“Word of honor. I wouldn’t want you coming after me with a frying pan.” A prim kiss. “Bye, luv. I won’t forget you.”
In his own twisted way, an honest, hardworking man: if Cecil had any brains, he’d revert to his original face and settle down with a good stockbroker. Outside, dawn w
as gilding Fausto’s trees. Ah, for a man, a pet monkey, the sound of water, the scent of hyacinths, anything alive to keep me company: but I was alone. In this war, I suppose that meant victory.
After the kitchen crew arrived, I got my violin from the closet. Fausto had left a letter inside. I took it to the window and began reading as the first cars piddled down his driveway.
Dearest wife,
You would not be reading this unless the inevitable occurred. It was a long shot, but for a few magical days, because of you, I was immortal. My only regrets are that we met too late and that I have made you a widow again. Be a merry one, would you? I met Finstein the morning after our wedding and told him what to do in case I didn’t make it back. In short, you won’t be needing pocket money for a while. Lest you think I’m a totally selfless man, I confess that I want to make it extremely hard for you to marry again. I want you to distrust any man who swears he loves you. Forgive me. For the first time in my life, I’m uncontrollably jealous, full of rage and despair at the same time that my heart bursts with a gigantic hope.…
Without you I would have departed right on schedule, an empty train. Now I can at least barrel into the long dark tunnel full of freight. God, I feel so young today, so besotted with life! I hear you, smell you, my fingers throb, my mouth aches for your moss and roses. I should never have sent you home. Stage fright at my age … how absurd.
After meeting Finstein, I did a rather impulsive thing. If it’s any consolation to you, my dear, I’m not totally dead. My frozen sperm awaits your beck and call in a clinic on Wisconsin Avenue. You once told me that you desired nothing. I don’t believe that, not anymore. If you would ever like to hold me in your arms again, please avail yourself of it.
If all goes well, Louis and I leave for Belize tonight. I have a hunch you’ll come after us with a flogging cane.
Ah Leslie, I pray you never read this! I live—and die— breathing your name.
Love forever,
Fausto
I put my wedding ring back on. Then I went to the dresser with all the pictures on top. Mother and son looked so content, so complete … why not try again? Maybe Louis would get his antidote together with the fourth generation of Kisses. I tucked the smallest picture into my case and turned on the tube. Shortly before seven, a bulletin interrupted one of those mindless-as-cornflakes breakfast shows. Flash to a perfectly manicured Aurilla Perle, speaking from the steps of the Capitol. She looked fantastic, triumphant, as if she had just won the Battle of Trafalgar.
“It has been a privilege to have served the nation for the past eight years,” she orated to a dozen microphones. “Now it is time to step aside and become, first and foremost, a mother to my daughter Gretchen. I resign my Senate seat, effective immediately, and look forward to private life again. I wish to thank my staff for their devotion and my constituents for their trust.” She smiled through the ensuing pandemonium, waiting for the inevitable question.
“What about the vice presidency?” someone shouted. “Are you withdrawing your name from consideration?”
Aurilla’s perfect smile augmented. “I will resume the life of a private citizen. Gretchen and I will pray for Jordan Bailey, as we will for President Marvel. Thank you.” End of conference.
I watched the instant traffic jam in Fausto’s driveway as most of his guests left: Aurilla had reshuffled all their decks. Duncan called from Cleveland. “Justine just ran out!” he screamed. “Bobby Marvel called! You could hear him across the room! My mother’s wasted! She said she would never have voted for him if she knew what kind of language he used!”
“What can I tell you, Duncan. Justine had to get back to Washington.”
“This is the last straw! She told me she was leaving him!”
“Get real. They’re Siamese twins.”
Soon even the caterers left. It was a beautiful morning, full of light and wind. I unlocked the front door. Took my violin to the music room and began practicing scales. I was up to A major when Bendix Kaar stormed in with a small package. “Where’s Fausto?” he shouted. “Upstairs? I’ll kill the bastard.”
“He’s out of town. Won’t be back for a few days.”
Bendix strode up to me. When his eyes got wild, he looked like a jackal. “And you’ve been throwing your own parties meanwhile. With AC and DC.”
“A girl’s got to keep herself amused,” I shrugged. “What’s the matter with you today?”
“Haven’t you been watching the news?”
“No. Am I missing something?”
“God! You’re hilarious!” Flung his package on the red divan, apparently not even noticing the bullet hole in the upholstery. “Here are some videos your friend Bobby wanted dropped off here. I wouldn’t peek if I were you.”
Nothing to see, Bendix: Wallace had erased them. As he was out the door, I called, “Should I tell Fausto to phone when he gets back?”
“Tell Fausto I’m going to catch up with him. His gaming days are over,” Bendix shouted, voice shredding. Bad luck: thirty years of work down the tubes, Aurilla would need another ten to rehabilitate herself, and they’d both spend the rest of their lives looking over their shoulders, wondering who knew their secret. Ah, Bendix, maybe you should have stuck to real opera. Washington was nothing but the soaps.
The last I heard of Bendix was a screech of rubber on macadam. Dozed a while on the ruined red divan. Eventually another car squealed to a stop outside the front door. Justine Cortot stomped in. Maybe she had been bitten by a rabid bat in Cleveland. She seemed to be frothing at the mouth. “Where’s Fausto?” she shrieked. Gone was the blue-blood accent. “Don’t tell me you don’t know, you bitch!”
“Out of town. Why is everyone so hyper this morning?”
“Aurilla Perle quit!” she informed me, as if the Japanese had rebombed Pearl Harbor. “She’s gone! No one can find her! Bobby’s beside himself!” She stamped her foot. “Is she with Fausto? Tell me!”
“Why should she be with Fausto? He doesn’t even like her.” I screwed up my face. “Aren’t you supposed to be in Cleveland making a good impression on Duncan’s mother?”
“Fuck Duncan’s mother!” Justine reeled to the bar and downed two inches of vodka. It was the only thing to do when your clever plans to outmaneuver a president, an arms merchant, and a mercenary went down the tubes and all that stood between you and them was a fox named Fausto.
I watched her swallow a small pile of white tablets with another gush of vodka. “What’s that? Estrogen?”
“Shut up!” Justine threw herself onto the divan where, just a few days ago, she had perched so nicely with Cecil’s head in her lap. Now she looked like a tiny, shriveled mummy. “I’ve got to find Fausto,” she moaned. “He’s got to help me.”
You find him, you let me know, sister. I played a few more scales. Strange jungle, Washington: the animals herein all thought they would die of old age. “What’s the matter?” I asked finally. “Need a loan?”
Justine cackled hysterically, much like Bendix. “Cecil played a trick on me,” she raved, rocking her head in her hands. “I knew it knew it knew it. Bastard.”
“Who’s Cecil?”
She began walking in circles, muttering to herself. “Fucking double-crosser. Damn damn damn. Who had what on Aurilla? Who who who? Someone big. Bendix won’t tell me what happened. Oh my God! Where’s Fausto?” A little beep from her pocketbook. Justine fumbled a great deal but finally unearthed. her pager. She ran to the phone. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” she screamed. “You think you’re being funny? You won’t be laughing when I get in front of a dozen microphones.” She began to cry, “I need to see you right away.… Okay.”
“Who was that? Duncan?” I called cheerfully after she had hung up.
“Leave Duncan out of this!”
“Why should I? You dragged him into it.”
For a moment Justine’s face looked like Chickering’s when an eight-inch pin went through her heart. “Why don’t you go back where yo
u came from? Screw some Germans for a change! Nothing’s been the same around here since you came to the White House! You think Bobby loves you?”
“Jesus, I hope not.”
Didn’t register. “I set that all up!”
“I know you did. Why, though? Isn’t Bobby your heartthrob? Oh, sorry. I forgot. You’re in love with Duncan now.”
Justine frowned, terminally confused. “Fausto!” she screamed, running upstairs. “Where are you, goddamn it!”
As her footsteps rained over my head, I hit redial on the phone. Cecil answered. Bad move, Justine. Should have gone to Bobby. He would have forgiven you.
After she flounced out, I went to sleep in Fausto’s bed. If I put my nose deep into the pillow and inhaled, I could still smell him, still feel his tongue between my legs, hear his voice. Alas, he was already fading into a mist of lost dreams.
Later in the afternoon, the phone rang. It was the guy who handled incoming ashes at the airport. I drove down and picked up the remains. My great mound of a husband in that little box? Bury him and go home, Smith. Fought my way through tourist traffic to the Congressional Cemetery. As usual, it was devoid of the living except for Old Faithful righting headstones at the bottom of the hill. I walked down to him. “Hi. Got a moment?”
Seeing the box in my hands, he wiped his hands on tattered overalls. “Sure.”
We walked to the Kiss plot. It was another clear, gentle evening, fragrant with autumn. A southbound V of geese squawked overhead as I stood on Ethel’s grave. “What’s your name?” I asked.
“Hiram Littlefield.”
“I know you’re not a preacher, but could you say something?”
He removed his cap. “I am the resurrection and the life.” He waited. “Praise God Almighty!”
King of all jungles. I handed over the box. “Scatter that for me, would you?” I whispered.
Hiram tossed Fausto high in the air, in several handfuls. The wind took most of him but a few big pieces hit Ethel’s stone and bounced into the flowers. When the box was empty, Hiram repeated, “Praise God Almighty! Amen!”
