“So you were just exercising your dirty little mind.”
“So—I had to come along because Couple of the Year is one more step toward the golden prize.” She drank her wine. “You might at least bring along some decent wine when you drag me around on these chickenshit missions.”
“You don’t care if they’re chickenshit as long as you have enough booze—”
“Whaddaya mean enough?” She laughed. “There isn’t enough in the province of Bordeaux—that’s Bordeaux, France—to anaesthetize me on one of your Celebrate Reuben trips.” Without turning her head to the attendant she extended her hand with the empty glass, as if placing it under a beer tap.
“Well now, Miss America, you had to flit around the country a little in 1973 when you were doing your own campaign. Wherever there was a judge or a likely judge, Miss Colorado was there with her manager—what was his name?”
“You talkin’ about Amos?”
“Yes. I’ll have to ring him up, ask him how he managed to keep you sober.”
But she had begun to cry. Reuben, in the aisle seat as always, tried to calm her. He spoke soothingly. “You were very beautiful, Priscilla.”
“Were very beautiful?” She sobbed some more, and brought a handkerchief to her face. “Were very beautiful! What am I now? Very ugly?”
“Oh, come on. You are still very beautiful.”
“Do you think so?”
“I know so. Did you see the picture of Miss Florida? It was with the packet sent up by the mayor’s office. Anyway, she couldn’t hold a candle up against you.”
“But she is seventeen years youngah. Are you sayin’ that makes no difference?”
Reuben considered just giving up. He adjusted first her seat belt and then his own against the turbulence. He smoothed out her pillow. Her left hand went under the tray to his groin. He gave her a sign of life, and then, happily, she was asleep.
CHAPTER 32
Washington, February 1991
Susan Oakeshott got the hot new polling figures. She studied them as an astronomer might study galactic oscillations. Squinting her eyes she could discern little reconfigurations not noticeable to the lay community. She resisted any temptation she might have had, after these deliberations, to act impulsively. To pick up her candidate from the polling floor, or let him down tenderly with a new speech in his mouth or a revised position for, or against, a pending measure. She didn’t do that mostly because her candidate was Reuben Castle, and she thought him the smartest man in town on the political beat, capable of picking up his own signals if they were of true consequence.
The question was whether even to let him in on her thinking, when she felt she had identified something worth noting—a discerned weakness, perhaps, that might hamper him in the months ahead. She was keenly conscious that what might strike her as distasteful, or disagreeable, or even offensive, might not strike others in the same way. When she served Adam Benjamin, during his five years in the House of Representatives, she noticed, as he headed into his fourth election campaign, a creeping stiffness of manner. Could it have been that she, Susan, had become more aloof? No no no no. The thing about Susan Oake-shott was that she never changed. The skies and the forests and the oceans might change, but not Susan Oakeshott; that was why politicians called on her when the Bureau of Weights and Measures was equivocal. She was as feminine as required indisputably to establish her gender and draw on its attributes. But nothing distracting was added to get in Susan’s way, nothing in her dress, nothing in her manner, nothing in her expressions.
On the matter of the stiffness of Congressman Benjamin…It had to be he who for some reason had changed. She wondered whether the change reflected his military background. He had, after all, spent four years at West Point, followed by three years in the U.S. Infantry, rising to first lieutenant. He had gone back to civilian life, studying law, and when Susan went to him, in 1975, he was competent as a lawyer and agreeable enough as a citizen, making pleasant way with his constituents in Gary, Indiana. But he was easily intimidated by rank. When the horrible news reached him that the candidate he would be facing in 1980 was a retired general—a fucking general, as anyone other than Benjamin would have greeted this development—he visibly lost heart, especially at the prospect of two debates at the University of Indiana. Susan never intimated to anyone her suspicion that Mr. Benjamin’s sudden death at forty-four, three months before the election, might have been precipitated by the press conference at which the general had said he proposed to teach “Lieutenant Benjamin” that there was rank to be observed not merely in military but also in civilian life.
Reuben Castle, she often reminded herself, was in many ways the ideal political figure. He was intelligent—not learned, but quick as a light hare—and renowned for his good looks. The earnestness on his face when he was arguing a political position was followed so quickly, so disarmingly, by an affability nearly aggressive, first appeasing, then disarming his critics.
The one problem that now concerned Susan had to do with the merging of Castle’s ambition and his self-esteem. The Reuben Castle of 1991 was just about ready to conclude that it was not only conceivable but altogether likely that he would do well in the forthcoming campaign, win the critical primaries, and emerge as the Democratic candidate for president of the United States.
This turn in his thinking was readable, however faintly, in his manner. It’s one thing, Susan thought to herself, to exhibit self-confidence of the kind that tells the listener you know you are fighting for a cause that is just. It becomes a little more than that—actually, quite another thing—to give the impression that your cause is just because it is your cause.
How to say that to him? How even to…describe the problem? It had briefly crossed her mind to discuss the matter with Harold Kaltenbach in one of his increasingly frequent telephone calls, but no. Hal had no patience with any talk about his candidate’s manner. He wanted to talk about where the candidate should appear, what issues he should stress, whom he should endorse, whose financial aid he should solicit, whose he should grandly—or discreetly—decline. Hal had no time to reflect on, let alone adjudicate, questions that had to do with human temperament. Those matters, if relevant, had been weighed by Kaltenbach before he took a candidate on. They were yesterday’s questions, and mustn’t interfere with today’s priorities.
So, on the phone, Hal moved down his own list of questions for the day. Susan could tell that he was feeling a quiet optimism about the candidacy of Reuben Hardwick Castle.
It was February, and the invitations to give commencement speeches had begun coming in. Susan was accustomed to these, after ten years of service with Senator Castle. She knew that the issuance of these invitations was governed by three considerations.
(1) Could the sponsoring college, without depreciating the tradition, grant an honorary doctorate to this particular invitee? If the proposed honoree had given a great deal of money to the college, that was always qualifying. Graduating students could understand an honorary degree for the gentleman who had come up with a few million dollars for a new physics lab. But other candidates were judged by other criteria.
(2) Would the proposed honoree do a creditable job delivering the commencement address? There was no question here about Castle’s competence. But did he have sufficient status as a figure in public life? Reuben Castle had so far accumulated four doctorates of law (LLD) and four of letters (LittD) during his time in the Senate, but had only twice been asked to be the commencement speaker. However, he was steadily rising to national prominence, his growing reputation fueled by performances like the Westmoreland debate.
(3) Could the college reasonably expect that the honoree would not ask a heavy speaker’s fee? That he would settle for expenses, generously conceived? No problem here with Castle. Under Senate rules, senators were not permitted to receive any speaking fees, let alone exorbitant ones.
Susan expected invitations to come in from about a dozen campuses. The trick was to delay acc
epting an invitation from lesser folk, pending a crystallization of the larger picture. Two came early: little Haverford, in Pennsylvania, and another small campus nearby, Lafayette. Both were distinguished old colleges, but not front-page news. Susan bought two weeks of time by doing nothing. The invitations just lay there.
Then she would wangle a little more time by asking for precise schedules, “because the senator’s agenda is very full this year.” Back-and-forth on that could get you another two weeks’ delay. By then any heavier hitters should have rolled in.
In the third week of March, the senator received invitations to give commencement talks at the University of North Carolina, the University of Maryland, and Johns Hopkins. Not quite the same as Harvard, Stanford, and Columbia, but pretty good. Have to act now. Time to call Hal.
“Tell you what, Susan. Have one of the people on the staff—Bill Rode would do this okay—write to them and say the senator has been asked by the president to hold a couple of dates (don’t say which) to handle West Point or the Naval Academy or the Air Force Academy in case the president can’t make it on account of Iraq. He wants a Democrat to make an appearance for bipartisan reasons. So the whole schedule will need to be frozen until—oh, March 24. That way we can give the big-timers one more week. Susan?”
“Yes, Hal?”
“If things go right, in a few years Reuben will be telling them when to hold their commencement exercises!”
The strategy worked, and the last-minute invitation from the University of Pennsylvania was accepted. That monopolized one Saturday, and left the senator free to accept a lesser academic patron the Saturday before Philadelphia, and another the Saturday after.
It was always a happy development when Priscilla gave word that she did not wish to go along on a particular speaking trip. But the office could never count on that. Sometimes she insisted on going. And then what? The University of Pennsylvania had expressed itself as hoping very much that Mrs. Castle would accompany the senator and perhaps even say a few words at the banquet the night before the commencement exercises. There was nothing to be done when that happened; no interposition was thinkable. “It’s always possible, Bill,” Susan offered hope to the nervous Bill Rode, “that Priscilla won’t feel up to it.”
“Sure. That can happen. I remember the University of Texas last year, no problem.”
“Yes. No problem. The problem comes if she does feel like going.”
“We’ll just have to hope and pray. How did she react when you told her they wanted her to say something at the banquet?”
“She said that would be good. She’d been used to giving little speeches going back to when she was nineteen years old.”
“And now she’s running for Miss First Lady.”
“Quiet. We don’t allow those words to be spoken. The main event is Senator Castle, receiving an honorary degree and giving a nonpartisan talk on the Gulf War and the need to contain Saddam Hussein.”
“Yes. Contain Saddam and contain Priscilla.”
CHAPTER 33
Boulder, June 1991
At the beginning of summer vacation, preparing for senior year at Notre Dame, Justin set out to save one thousand dollars. If he succeeded, his mother, serving as trustee, would invade his grandfather’s fund to the tune of a second thousand dollars. And the money would get Justin a sturdy used car.
As a senior at Notre Dame, he was authorized to keep a car on campus. It would be the fulfillment of a dream, having his own car. He told his mother, and told Amy, and told Alice Robbins, Paul’s mother, what good deeds he might perform, having his own car.
It was very hard work at the Balthasar Construction Company, but the pay was good, eight dollars an hour, overtime after forty hours, and a supplementary twenty-five percent for work done on Saturdays and Sundays.
Justin began by helping to haul heavy materials. “Maman, I figure today by noon—that’s starting at six-thirty—I had transported four tons, presque quatre mille kilos, of cement from the warehouse onto trucks. We were given a five-minute break at the end of every hour. Maman, I think maybe I should take up smoking cigarettes. That’s what the men mostly do during those breaks.”
“That would be quite silly. Cigarettes are very expensive now. It would be the equivalent of taking away—oh, ten, fifteen percent from your salary.”
“I wouldn’t like that.”
“Nor would your lungs.”
“They’ll invent something for lungs before I get old.”
“Justin, you stop right now, close your eyes, and say a prayer. Just say, ‘Je m’excuse, mon Seigneur, de ma bêtise.’”
“All right.” He held up his hand. “Don’t interrupt me while I’m praying.” He lowered his hand after a few seconds. “Done.” He indicated that he had made amends with his maker for his foolishness in presuming a cure around the corner. Then he winked. “Well, okay. I said we could skip lung cancer—and settle for a cure for venereal disease.” He roared with laughter.
Henrietta just smiled and turned back to the catalogue she was looking through. “Have you decided what sort of automobile you’ll get?”
“I’ve been thinking a lot about that, and trying to decide whether I should buy it here or in South Bend. I have a friend at college, Jimmy—his family lives in South Bend, and he’s going to clip ads from the papers giving prices, and I can compare them with prices here. Maman, I think I will end up with a Ford. Or maybe a Chevrolet.”
“And you have promised that you will wear a seat belt at all times. And that—complètement défendu!—you will never drive if you have had anything to drink.”
“Students aren’t allowed to drink on campus. So when would I be drinking?”
Henri didn’t even smile at the effrontery.
He left, in his brand-new old car, a full week before classes began at Notre Dame. He said he was going to do a few days’ fishing with his friend Mike O’Brien, who knew just where to go.
Henri asked, “Where is Mike O’Brien from?”
“You mean hometown? I don’t know. But he’s out of state, I know that.” He smiled at his mother. “Don’t worry. I’ll send you a postcard.”
She helped him pack the car, and they embraced. Although he was beginning his fourth year at Notre Dame, Henri still had not got used to saying good-bye to her son.
CHAPTER 34
Grand Forks, September 1991
Justin’s destination was not South Bend but Grand Forks. He had established that the University of North Dakota’s fall semester began a week before Notre Dame’s.
After paying for the car, he was short on funds. He didn’t want to spend money on motels and was prepared to use his tent, neatly packed in the trunk along with his fishing rod and his shotgun. But before pitching his tent somewhere outside the city, he decided to see if there was anything around in the way of native hospitality. He sought out the office of the Dakota Student, where he displayed, not without a trace of pride, his press card, identifying him as a junior editor of the Notre Dame Observer. He was a fellow journalist.
The girl on duty was pleasant and inclined to be helpful. “I’m doing a story on your junior senator,” Justin told her, “focusing on his time at UND. Castle may be going big-time. Meanwhile I have a practical question: is there any chance of getting a dormitory room so I don’t have to pay for a motel?”
The editor was solicitous. “Hm. Let’s see. Hm. For how long?”
“Maybe three, four days. Maybe less.”
“Harold Burton has a room at Alpha Chi, and he’s going to be a week late getting back from Spain. I know, because he called and asked me to straighten it out with the dean. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if you used his room. He’s that kind of a guy.”
“That would be great. Can you show me where? Then I’ll come back and start my research on the senator right here.”
“Sure. But all we have is back issues, that kind of thing. We don’t keep story files.” She extended her hand. “I’m Judy, by the way. I’m a jour
nalism major, and a junior. And I hold the fort at the Student apart from press days. We publish twice a week, Tuesday and Friday.”
An hour later, Justin was back, carrying his laptop. He started to track down references to Reuben Castle. There were a great many, dating back to his election to the staff as a junior editor in 1967.
Justin started reading Castle’s columns. They concentrated heavily on the war, and on the impending deployment of the Sentinel missiles in North Dakota. Justin got a kick out of the Zap campaign.
After a while he picked up the phone and called Judy’s extension. “Is there anybody around here who was at UND when Castle was?”
“That was when?”
“That was…1966 to 1970.”
“I don’t know, not for sure. Maybe Maria Cervantes was here back then. You want her phone number? She’s dean of students.”
Justin made the call.
Maria Cervantes proved to be a portly woman who wore glasses low on her nose. Outside her navy blue blouse a gold chain hung, a gold sorority pin suspended from it. She inquired matter-of-factly about Justin’s mission. “I used to be on the Dakota Student, so I’m disposed to be hospitable to student reporters. They usually don’t know enough,” she smiled, “to do any harm.”
“Ma’am, did you by any chance know Reuben Castle?”
“I certainly did. We competed together to join the staff of the Student. Then we competed for the office of editor in chief. He won, though Eric Monsanto gave him a run for his money. But Eric settled for business manager.”
“Castle was pretty successful, right, ma’am?”
“Oh, yes. He won just about everything he contended for, including chairman of the Student Council.”
“Did he have a girlfriend?”
Maria Cervantes drew back for a moment. “Every male student has a girlfriend.”
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