House of Secrets - v4

by Richard Hawke

  “I think maybe the vice president of the United States has reached his expiration date. Chris Wyeth owes it to the country to step aside.”

  “Look. President Hyland’s honeymoon has already been undermined. That’s over, folks. Sorry. The only question now is, will he let blind loyalty do the same to his presidency?”

  “Vice President Wyeth is a heartbeat away from the presidency and a heartbeat away from indictment. It’s not Chris Wyeth anymore, George. It’s Crisis Wyeth.”

  Andy monitored the news programs from the study in his apartment. Dressed in gray sweatpants and his faded navy blue sweatshirt, he sat in his swiveling black leather chair, his chin planted on his two thumbs. Christine had fashioned a less intrusive bandage for the wound over his ear, but there was nothing she could do about the headaches. And certainly nothing she could do about the pulsing pangs of guilt and anxiety that were inhabiting her husband’s gut. These he was keeping to himself.

  Christine and Michelle were in the kitchen, making brownies. Forty-plus hours essentially off her feet, and her ankle was sufficiently functional again. To be safe, it was wrapped in a small Ace bandage. Michelle had enjoyed the game of “taking care of the invalids” all day Saturday.

  The smell of the brownies wafted down the narrow hallway and into Andy’s study. Christine and Michelle were singing a silly song, or attempting to. Peals of laughter kept interrupting snatches of the actual melody. Normally Andy might have eased the door closed or simply turned up the volume on the TV. The Sunday chatter was required listening. But this morning he wasn’t really focusing on the particulars. The general tone was clear enough. The specifics themselves were either talking points that would be repeated ad nauseam by the loyal foot soldiers over the coming days or else predictable personal hyperbole. Andy wasn’t in the mood to hear either. The TV simply gave him cover for not conversing with his family.

  Doc lay in a heap at his feet. The old boy was snoring and twitching lightly every several seconds. Probably dreaming of a younger and pre-arthritic Doc, chasing cute cocker spaniels or comely collies. Doc was a cross between a Great Dane and a German Shepherd, which essentially meant a German Shepherd the size of a small horse. He was only several months older than Michelle. In dog years — at least for a hybrid mutt of this size — AARP time. His hips were going, and when he walked, his rear end traced painful circles. Andy and Christine both knew that an irretrievable layer of their daughter’s innocence was poised to be peeled back any time now. The Death Discussion was looming. Doc in Dog Heaven, and all that. Andy and Christine had discussed the matter. Michelle had a lively imagination. Already she sent the dog postcards whenever the family traveled. The two had no doubt that soon after Doc’s inevitable demise, their daughter would be asking them for the zip code for heaven.

  Michelle came into the study holding a plate stacked high with brownies. Even though the plate wasn’t hot, Michelle was wearing a pair of oven mitts that came halfway to her elbows. Doc raised his head, and a thin line of drool fell onto one of his paws.

  Michelle announced, “I made brownies.”

  Andy straightened in his chair. “I see that. You made the brown kind.”

  “They’re brownies.”

  “I see that,” Andy said again, the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You made the brown kind.”

  Michelle turned her head and yelled back toward the kitchen. “Mommy!” She turned back to her father. “You can’t have any.”

  “Oh? And why is that?”

  Christine came into the room, wiping her hands on her thighs.

  “Mommy. Tell Daddy why he can’t have any brownies.”

  “Because they’re for Grandpa and Jenny,” Christine said. She placed a hand on her daughter’s head and lightly stroked her hair. She addressed Andy. “Are you sure you’re up for it, sweetie?”

  Andy reached for the remote. “I’m fine. Plus I gather it’s the only way I’m going to get one of these hot-to-trot brownies that some elf pulled out of the ground.”

  Michelle puckered up her face. “You’re an elf!”

  Footage of Chris Wyeth being sworn in as vice president came onto the screen. Andy thumbed the off button and the screen went blank.

  Christine frowned. “Is that any way to treat a friend?”

  “I guess I’m just a mean old backstabbing bastard kind of friend,” Andy said. He’d intended to sound more jokey than it came out. At the word bastard, Christine’s eyes dragged his attention to their daughter, whose eyes and mouth were all zeros.

  “Bad Dad,” Michelle said.

  Andy could feel his face reddening. Nothing he could do about it. He managed a weak laugh. “Yes, honey. So true. Daddy’s a baddie.”

  “It’s a fine mess, Andrew.”

  Andy and his father-in-law were seated on the stone deck overlooking Whitney Hoyt’s vast backyard. Off near the garden, some fifteen or so children gripping wicker baskets were scurrying about in search of eggs. Parents were positioned at certain key locations, like buoys in an open ocean, making exaggerated head fakes and little gestures whenever a child approached one of the hiding spots. The children — and for that matter, most of the parents as well — were dressed in Easter pastels. A lawn full of sugar-candy people.

  Andy looked across the glass table at his father-in-law. “What mess is that, Whitney?”

  The former governor and ambassador held the senator in a studied expression. “Well, let’s see, Andrew.” He ticked off the options on his fingers. “We’ve got the Yankees traveling all the way to bloody Japan to lose their season opener in a lopsided embarrassment. That’s one mess. Or maybe you missed that one. Jennifer informs me that it is becoming harder and harder to locate a certain type of perfume that she prefers. That would be number two.”

  Andy held his tongue. Whitney liked to do things his way.

  “Let’s see, what else? Oh. Yes. How silly. The executive branch of our government is in the process of imploding. I knew there was another one. Three messes, Andrew. Any one you wish to discuss is fine with me.”

  Off next to the swinging love seat in the garden, one of the children had managed to shatter his own happiness. A sound like a toy siren carried up to the patio. Parents were swiftly converging.

  “Chris has indicated to me that he can weather this thing,” Andy said.

  The former governor pulled the stalk of celery from his Bloody Mary. He let some of the liquid drip back into the glass, then with a flick of the wrist tossed the celery over the railing into the bushes below.

  “The only weather is whether he leaves on his own or is pushed.”

  Andy smirked. “Cute.”

  “I’m glad you think so. But I’m dead serious. Your good friend did a service to nobody by making certain his skeletons remained locked away until after the election.” Hoyt took a slow sip of his drink. The tip of his tongue darted snakelike along his lips. “For God’s sake, John Hyland was always going to take the general in a landslide. Arnold the Pig could have been his running mate. Chris Wyeth was no do-or-die element to that ticket; everybody knew that going in. The man was handed the vice presidency with a kiss on the cheek and a pat on the ass, and now he has gone and crapped all over it in just two months.”

  Andy started to protest. “Whitney, I hardly think—”

  Hoyt held up a hand. “Don’t interrupt me, Andrew. I’m telling you right now, Chris is finished. This country is in too fragile a state. The whole reason John Hyland was elected was because this country is on life support. Mr. Hyland promised the cure. We can’t afford for him to go lame this early. I’m serious, Andrew. At this point, the rest of the world will just shoot the patient if he shows signs of weakening.”

  “That sounds a little extreme to me.”

  “Do you know those old movies? You probably don’t. No one’s got time for old movies anymore. These were mainly the Westerns and the war movies. Two men running for their lives and one of them twists his ankle and drops to the ground. ‘Go
on without me.’ That was the line you’d always hear. ‘Save yourself. Go on without me.’ All very noble.”

  Hoyt took another sip of his drink, studying the rim of the glass for a moment. Andy waited. He knew the routine. Hoyt finally continued.

  “That’s where we’re headed, Andrew. If this country can’t lead anymore, it’s ‘Go on without me’ time. John Hyland can get away with twisting his ankle a little bit at this point. A little tiny twist. He’s still in the honeymoon. But if he falls onto the dirt? It’s not good. And if you come up with a self-serving vice president who is being outed by the press for past sins and you don’t act swiftly on it, that’s where you go. To the dirt. And the part they don’t show you in those movies is when the vultures come down and start to work over the poor sap who’s lying there. Before he’s even a carcass.”

  Andy lifted his glass. “By the way, Whitney, happy Easter.”

  Hoyt barely heard him. “I’m quite serious. The plucking starts right away. I daresay it has started already. If Chris Wyeth is taking a nosedive this early in the game and the president doesn’t act swiftly and skillfully on it…”

  He allowed the rest of the thought to go unspoken. Over by the tennis court, Hoyt’s wife, Jenny, and Christine were playing keep-away with Doc, tossing a tennis ball while the insistent animal lumbered back and forth between them, barking hoarsely. All of seven years older than Christine, Jenny had married Whitney just months after Hoyt’s divorce from Lillian had come through. Jenny’s own marriage — to a Greenwich real estate developer with a known drinking problem — had ended when her husband lost control of his car while scouting properties near Port Jervis. Whitney had known Jenny and Roger Mead socially. At first the age difference between the widow and the recently divorced former governor had raised some eyebrows. But by the time the two married in a small ceremony in Hoyt’s backyard, the matter had lost its charge.

  Spotting her husband looking in her direction from the deck, Jenny Hoyt waved over at him. Whitney Hoyt returned the wave and turned back to Andy.

  “You’re not being stupid about this, are you?”

  “Stupid?”

  “Our Mr. Hyland is going to need to find himself a new VP, Andrew. That’s the endgame here. There’ll be the usual denials and positionings and repositionings. It’s the oldest dance in the book. I swear Arthur Murray himself taught everyone the steps. But Chris Wyeth is out, and Hyland is going to need a new man. Someone the country already knows and already feels comfortable with.”

  “Jeff LaMott looked like he was having a pretty good audition on the talk shows this morning.”

  Hoyt dismissed the notion with a wave of his hand. “Please. Jeff LaMott wants to please all the people all the time. Do you know what that qualifies him for? Kindergarten teacher. Don’t be cute with me here. You know as well as I do how close you got to the ticket last year. It was Chris’s time, of course. But you polled well, and everyone knows you did. And you did well by John Hyland in the general. His numbers here were outrageous. None of his people have a single thing to complain about when it comes to you.”

  “That’s all well and good, Whitney, but I already have a job. Plus, if LaMott were to step up, that positions me for the head of Foreign Relations.”

  “I’m telling you, he won’t. Hyland might make overtures, but he’s not going to put that man next to the presidency. Besides, Foreign Relations? That’s a fine thing, but is that where you’re planning to park your car?”

  Andy was not really in the mood for this conversation. Not with Whitney, at any rate. Attempting to lighten things up, he grimaced in mock agony. “Go on without me.”

  “Okay. I’ll shut up now. I don’t want to be the cause of your going stubborn.” Whitney allowed himself a smile. “I know down deep you’re a smart man, Andrew. For goodness’ sake, you did a more than admirable job of choosing your father-in-law.”

  “Don’t take offense, Whitney. But his sexy little daughter did figure into the equation. And by the way, I suppose you know Christine’s views on all this?”

  Hoyt scoffed. “John Hyland is not going to ask Christine to be his next vice president.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “All I’m going to say is, she married you and she certainly didn’t have to. You two seem to have done okay with your separate but equal lives.”

  “This would be different. The vice presidency. You know it would. So does she.”

  Hoyt again looked out over his backyard. Jenny and Christine were heading toward the house. He indicated the women.

  “She’s a strong kid,” Hoyt said. “I raised her right. I wouldn’t spend too much time worrying about her if I were you.”

  While the children were ushered to a long table set up on the grass, the adults took their meal on the upper patio. Lamb, cauliflower au gratin with capers and goat cheese, roasted red potatoes. Most of the guests were acquaintances of Whitney’s and Jenny’s from the Greenwich area — many of them from the club, others coming to them through Jenny’s various charitable functions. A decidedly nonpolitical crowd, which was just fine with Andy.

  He found himself seated next to a petite British-born woman named Hailey Jordan, who was the wife of Whitney Hoyt’s long-standing personal secretary, Paul Jordan. They lived in nearby New Canaan. Andy had always found navigating a conversation with Hailey Jordan a tedious event. As he’d once commented to Christine, “There’s prim, and then there’s Hailey.” There were times when Andy found himself fighting back a nearly irresistible urge to say something deliberately shocking to the woman, simply to observe her reaction.

  Paul Jordan, on the other hand, was considerably less socially flat-footed than his tightly wound spouse. He possessed a wit only a dram less dry than the Sahara, but also the self-restraint to keep his arid barbs largely undelivered. Jordan had been with Hoyt for nearly fifteen years, beginning before the conclusion of Hoyt’s ambassadorship. Andy knew from Christine that her mother had never found much to embrace in her spouse’s secretary. The easy interplay between the two men had irked Lillian, and in fact had been one of the rare points of contention between Lillian and Whitney on which Christine had come down on the side of her mother. Neither much cared for Jordan, and both considered his wife to be a buttoned-up little snob. Andy’s own feelings on the matter were much less charged. He simply found the couple tepid.

  As he was pouring Hailey Jordan a glass of lemonade, Andy asked after her husband and was told that Paul was currently lying flat out on the floor in the family living room in New Canaan with a moist towel over his head. Andy passed up any number of wiseass remarks.

  “Paul suffers horrible migraines,” Hailey Jordan went on, her accent not flattened in the least by the years of being surrounded by vowel-chewing Yanks. “Although given Paul’s agnostic bent, it’s not implausible he only wanted to slither out of what he considers a patently absurd ritual.”

  Andy gave her a look of mock dismay. “Cute little children and colored eggs? Hailey! Your husband is one cold, cold customer.”

  The woman’s explosive little laugh was like shrapnel to the eardrums. On Andy’s private list of Hailey Jordan’s “challenging” features, the hiccupy laugh ranked high. Andy made a mental note — again — to dial down the levity when he was in the woman’s company.

  The man who had been seated next to Christine at the table was an executive with Ogilvy & Mather, and he had worked hard throughout the meal to impress her with tales from the advertising jungle. Graciously, Christine had granted him the expressions he sought, though her private thoughts would have devastated him.

  After the meal came the croquet, an amusing blend of the competitive and the could-care-less. The man from O & M proved to be one of the former, and he was managing to do his part in squelching the fun for the latter.

  Andy sat out the croquet, logically asserting that the banging of wooden balls with wooden mallets was the precise sort of activity that the doctor who had stitched him up the other day had su
ggested he forgo for the immediate future. He parked himself in one of the children’s chairs with a tumbler of scotch and watched the game from there. In truth, his head was throbbing. Alcohol was probably not the wisest medicine for someone in Andy’s condition, but he had found himself edgy ever since arriving at the house and he could see no real harm in a little anesthesia.

  Andy’s mind wanted to drift back to Joy Resnick, but his heart resisted. Or possibly it was the other way around. Maybe it was his heart that felt the tug, but his mind was resisting. It was the kind of silly semantic distinction he and Christine enjoyed batting around with each other. They both were sticklers for precision in that way. Of course, Andy could not very well walk over to his wife and put the query to her. The details necessary to define the terms of the question would themselves… Well, it wasn’t going to happen.

  Andy sipped at his drink and traced the sweet liquor as it infiltrated his system. On the train coming up from D.C., Andy had briefly imagined coming clean with Christine about his involvement with Joy Resnick. Briefly. He had tried imagining Christine displaying astonishing grace and understanding of the affair as having come completely out of the blue. But that was nonsense. “Out of the blue” would have suggested that Andy’s affair with Joy Resnick had represented a completely aberrant episode in his life with Christine, and this was simply not the case. Andy took grim solace in the thought that he could count on one hand the number of women he had slept with since being with Christine. The grim part being that with Joy Resnick, Andy had used up his last digit.

  Two of the occasions had been completely anonymous, legs and mouths and shoulders with no names. The first had come prior to his and Christine’s marriage, during a junket to Venezuela: a brisk bounce in a Caracas Hilton followed by a dark funk and raging hangover the next morning. The second nameless encounter — bizarre by any standard — had transpired many years later, in the back office of a Georgetown jewelry store where Andy had gone to buy his wife a bauble. Andy’s heart could still get its beat screwed up at the memory of that one. The SORRY WE’RE CLOSED sign making an uncommon afternoon appearance on the store’s glass door. The audacity of the tall, heavy-hipped woman’s smirk as she insisted that Andy keep his eyes glued to her face the entire time. Her painted talons kneading his thighs while the wall calendar ripped free behind her head. Andy had gone directly to the nearest bar afterward and devoured a scotch, neat, almost fearful that the Amazon might march into the bar any minute and lead him by the tie to the nearest cramped space for round two. Andy’s stomach still berated him every time Christine lifted the necklace from her jewelry box.