“Holding.” The sun had shifted in the time since we’d sat, and now a bright beam was almost directly in my eyes. But I didn’t want to take even the spare second to pull my sunglasses from my purse, I was so desperate to hear what she was about to say.
“When Blake was at College of Charleston, he was part of a fraternity.”
I felt my pulse accelerate. “This is about Blake?”
“About mother and son, yes. So, Blake is a senior, and as part of the frat’s hazing rituals, he stuffed five freshmen into a port-a-potty and pushed it down a hill.”
“Shit.”
“Exactly. It crashed into the side of a building and cost a few thousand in damages. A pledge also broke his leg. The pledge happened to be a prized basketball recruit. The coach was not thrilled.”
“And Blake was suspended?” This was turning into a story of a college kid doing dumb things, and while it was entertaining, I wasn’t sure how it would be useful.
Ari scoffed. “Maybe if the pledge had broken his neck. But for a leg? No. That was only a violation. But something happened after that, like Blake was trying to get himself expelled. His entire senior fall semester was spent jumping on land mines as if he liked to hear the boom. The pièce de résistance was when he was caught in the doggy door of his English professor’s home with a sword in hand.”
“A sword?” I asked, struck by this bizarre detail.
“Ceremonial? From the frat. What makes it even better is that he’d cut himself up pretty badly with it. And that he was found drunk, asleep, stuck in this door the professor had built for his pug.”
“He did have a few scars on the palms of his hands,” I said, remembering the time Wallis had asked about them. “He had this heroic story about breaking into a car window in a parking lot to rescue an overheating dog.”
Ari rested her cheek in her hand, amused. “If you classify heroism as drunken, bumbling ineptitude, yes. We could call him a hero.”
“Breaking into a professor’s house with a weapon is no joke,” I said, though I, like her, was now on the verge of giggles.
“That seemed to be it for the administration,” Ari said. “They put him on disciplinary suspension, but here comes your girl, Melinda Darley. She couldn’t even let him take the hit on the chin like a man. Word is she bribed at least one dean, and made a pledge to the college president for an addition to the library. Blake graduated as planned, and the college library now has a coffee shop. Meanwhile, that same semester, a professor of Women’s Studies was fired for having less than an ounce of marijuana on her at a family barbecue.”
“A bribe?” Melinda Darley—widow of the minister, squarest of the square, proselytizer of family values—bribed someone? “What hard evidence is there?”
“Might be some emails.” She blinked coyly. “Might be able to get them for you.”
So she had proof. Good. I would need it. I checked the calendar on my phone. “Confirmation hearings start next week,” I said. “If Miles is going to use this stuff, I should get it to him soon.”
“What do you mean if?” Ari asked. “Of course he’ll use it! People hate Melinda Darley. They’ll be sending you fan mail for this.”
“And for you?” There was no time to be delicate. “What are you looking for in exchange?”
Ari shook her head; it felt like she had anticipated this question. “No angles. Like I said, I have a few clients who’d like to see her jammed up. But otherwise this info is yours, free. Do what you’d like with it.”
“Thank you,” I said, and I meant it.
“I hope this helps bring you in from the cold,” she said. “I’ll be in touch. And of course, I’ll tell Atlas you said hello.”
Then she was gone with a hug that I couldn’t quite make it out of my seat to reciprocate. I sat at our table, phone in hand, trying Bo again and again until he answered. Miles was currently in Annapolis, Bo said, with the Chesapeake Bay people, oyster and watermen, the nonprofit folks, representatives from the Corps of Engineers. The meeting was getting heated; best not to disturb. But Miles would be back in the office tomorrow. At last, a time was set to see me.
* * *
After she was done with work, Wallis met Cricket and me on the corner of Connecticut and Q. “An evening with my girls,” she said, hugging us both, more buoyant than I’d seen her in days. “This is just what I needed.” The perfume she wore to the office was light, touches of lily and citrus.
“What a treat,” agreed Cricket, who’d been more than willing to join.
“I thought we could all use it,” I said, happy to be out, together, in the spring. As we walked together north, away from the traffic swirling around Dupont Circle, I took a moment to enjoy the daffodils and hyacinth sprouting in planters along the sidewalks, and the budding canopy of green leaves and delicate white flowers. “The restaurant is just up here.” I’d read the reviews. Five stars. Try the crispy brussels sprouts and handmade rigatoni, people said. A splurge, but I’d assured myself a paycheck was forthcoming.
Tomorrow I would be getting my job back. I feel it in my bones, my father used to say. This is how optimistic people carried themselves all the time—what a wonder! I was light on my toes. Feeling celebratory, I’d even curled my hair. The big ringlets had unraveled almost immediately, but still! It had bounce!
When we arrived at our destination, a converted Georgian townhome, Wallis stopped short. “This?” she said, calm, one hand extended toward the restaurant. “This is the place you picked for dinner?”
“Yes,” I said cautiously, smile tight. “Is it bad?”
“Are all these people waiting for a table?” Cricket crossed her arms as she eyed the patrons sitting on the townhome’s stoop and wrought-iron benches. “You know I don’t like eating past eight.”
“Blake and I ate here. It ended up being the last night we were together before—”
Good grief. Leave it to Blake Darley to sneeze over everything fun in this town.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, wanting to assure her that I would never deliberately whip up those old memories. “I didn’t know.” I turned aimlessly in a circle, scanning the block for another place we might eat that didn’t have a wait of hours.
“It’s all right, Daisy. It’s...not as painful as I thought it would be.”
“We’ll go somewhere else,” said Cricket.
“Just give me a second.” Wallis looked at the sidewalk and then at Cricket. The sun was setting down R Street, and from behind, she was illuminated. “I loved him,” she said. “That’s what I’ve been thinking about the last few days. I loved him. I wish I knew if he ever loved me, or if I was just deluding myself the entire time. Don’t worry, I’m not about to forgive him, or excuse what he’s done. I just had this idea that I could change his heart. That I could draw him out of his family. I was stupid to think I could.”
“It’s never stupid to hope,” said Cricket.
Atlas came to mind, his long fingers as he once slipped a piece of printer paper under an industrious spider in my living room, placed it so gently over a glass cup, took it down three flights of stairs and released it, safe, in the mulch. Was it silly to hope that this careful, compassionate man would ever be mine? Or, like Wallis, was it time to up my dosage of reality?
“Blake and I were both so naive,” replied Wallis, gazing at the sky. “Even if his mother could tolerate me, what would our future have looked like? He would’ve always been part of that family. And what could I have done with that? Don’t you think we both would’ve started resenting the hell out of each other?”
The host, in a vest and tie, came out on the stoop and announced to a nearby party that their table was ready. Maybe another night, I thought, and that will be our name he calls. We wouldn’t get our nice dinner, not there, but I’d have this: proof that my sister’s pain was ebbing.
And I had one more thing
that might help speed her recovery. I beckoned the two of them close. I’d planned to wait until dinner, but now, on the sidewalk, was as good of a time as any. We huddled together against the iron fencing, and they listened to Ari’s story about the Darleys until the sun was well and truly set, replaced by the glow of the streetlamps and the lights planted under the trees. Wallis wanted every detail. Every word. I summarized as best I could, but I did not mention my source. I couldn’t bring myself to explain about Ari.
After I’d gone through it twice, we walked north on New Hampshire toward home. Cricket ordered curry takeout from her phone, and Wallis had me narrate the story yet again. When I was finished, she said sadly, “I should’ve been able to see the writing on the wall.”
Cricket complained of tight shoes and aching feet, so we hailed a cab. I had one final thought for my sister before we got in. “His behavior isn’t reflective of you, Wallis. You don’t owe anyone an explanation.”
She gave me a grateful look and squeezed my hand. But in the back of my mind were thoughts of my father, and the checks he wrote, and the secret I still couldn’t bear to tell.
* * *
After Cricket had disposed of the take-out containers, she and Wallis both retired to bed. I was still on their couch with a handful of Thin Mints and the local news on mute, not sleepy in the slightest, not ready to go down to my empty apartment, to give up the night that was supposed to be about a better future. It’s never stupid to hope, Cricket had said. I knew exactly who I wanted to talk to. The phone rang only once before he picked up.
“Hi, there,” Atlas said.
I tucked a knee beneath my chin. “Hi,” I said.
“What are you doing?” he asked at the same moment I said, “Are you busy?”
We laughed. “I was trying to write,” he said.
“What are you working on?”
“I’m supposed to be writing this piece on very public social media mistakes by government employees,” he said, “but I fell down a YouTube rabbit hole. I started on White House dot gov and then all of a sudden I was watching videos of people singing show tunes in cow suits.”
“You know that’s my guilty pleasure, Atlas. Send that link over right now.” He laughed, and I could imagine it was like old times. Just him and me and a late-night phone call. And the elephant. Best address it, so we all could move forward. “I’m sorry I haven’t responded to your texts. I’ve been...missing.”
“I knew where you were,” he replied after a second. “You weren’t AWOL. You were just angry with me.”
“With you?” That I didn’t expect. “No, not with you.”
“No?” He sounded relieved. “Your silence—I thought you were furious I’d told you about—”
“Atlas,” I said, stopping him. “I’m glad you told me. If I had to know, I mean, I’m happy I heard it from you.” It was true. And it did feel good to have someone supportive with whom I could discuss it. Keeping it to myself was quickly becoming exhausting.
“I see.” Then he was quiet. So was I. But eventually: “That’s actually why I went back to Arizona. I couldn’t just leave you with that uncertainty. Especially since I was the one to cause you that headache to begin with. I wasn’t being a responsible friend last month when I came to you with hearsay. Maybe he did this, maybe he did that—no. God, I cringe at myself. I was wrong to have brought that to you without all the facts. I hope you’ll forgive me for continuing to track this down, even when you told me to stop. I just, I thought that you should know in case—”
“In case someone else discovers it,” I finished for him. I’d been aware of this truth for less than a week, but it hadn’t escaped my mind that if Atlas knew, other journalists might, too. “I understand.”
“All right,” he said. “Then you don’t feel like you were hung out to dry?”
It would’ve been unfair, to say the least, to hold Atlas, the messenger, accountable for how he delivered the news of my father. But Ari’s voice, materializing out of the ether at the book party, still echoed in my ears. “About my father, no. But, seriously, Atlas, you could’ve told me about Ari moving back.”
From Atlas, a very deep breath. “Can we FaceTime?” he asked.
I agreed, and soon enough we were looking at each other. He wore a simple white T-shirt—his pajamas, maybe?—and his hair appeared as though he’d been running his fingers through it. I hoped he didn’t notice the dark circles under my eyes like I noticed the ones under his.
“You felt I was hiding something from you?” he asked, earnest.
“Yes.” Honesty, as necessary as it was, still made me uncomfortable. I pulled at my ponytail, cleared my throat. “And it made me feel—”
“Bad.”
“Yes. Bad. But I’m sure you had your reasons—”
“Daisy.” He put his hand out, mock stern. “Don’t you let me off the hook.”
“Fine.” I smiled. “Keep groveling.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.” He was back to seriousness. “I’ll do better in the future.”
I’ve had men in my past apologize to me like they are taking out the trash, like it’s a chore. Another couldn’t stop apologizing for his wrongdoing, a failure to call when he said he would. I had the sense he wanted to bury me in an avalanche of sorrys until I gave up and suffocated. Defensive ones. Lazy ones. And from my father, none at all. This one from Atlas was sincere, and though it was painful to bring up Ari, I was glad I had. At least now I didn’t have to sit with the lingering resentment of her ambush.
Anyway, there were bigger concerns. And Ari—who wasn’t so terrible, actually—had helped me. I could live with her in his future. “Forgiven,” I said. “Best friends forever?”
“Besties,” replied Atlas in that very drawn-out, highfalutin voice that always made me laugh.
Twenty-Seven
I was Miles’s first meeting of the day. I’d come in, shoulders squared, ready to take back my office, my title, and the one part of my life in which I was usually successful.
“A bribe?” he asked once we sat down, scanning the emails from Ari on my phone. Every so often he’d pause, squint, pinch his fingers on the screen to zoom, take a bite of his organic apple. “Because her son got stuck in a doggy door? This can’t be true.”
I had wondered the same, but the facts were the facts, and I was ready to wield them. “The emails look to be authentic. The addresses check out, time line matches up. Have you gotten to the one where she says, I don’t want to do anything illegal, but...?”
When he shook his head, I grabbed the phone and scrolled forward.
“Is this illegal, though?” Bo asked, getting up to stand over Miles’s shoulder. “If we bring it up in the hearings, she’ll spin it as a simple charitable contribution to the school. She’ll claim she was planning on making the donation anyway.”
Miles, incredulous, tossed my phone so it spun on its belly across his shiny wood desk. Outside the tall office windows behind him, rain. A soggy beginning to May, overall, and despite the nice weather when Wallis, Cricket, and I’d had our almost-evening out yesterday, this one suggested that summer would be delayed.
“You’re disappointed?” I deflated back into my chair.
“You’re not? Daisy, Jesus, this woman has championed voter ID laws, bathroom bills, creationism in textbooks. And the best we can do is strongly imply that she got her son out of a college disciplinary hearing?”
“It’s something.” This was falling apart, fast.
“Not once did she hook up with some younger guy in her office?” Bo said, only partially ashamed to ask. “There’ve been no shady dealings with au pairs?”
“This would be easier if she were a straight man,” I admitted.
Miles leaned back in his chair, cradled the back of his head with his free hand, and chewed thoughtfully. Bo crossed back over and sat next to me agai
n. They didn’t say anything, just stared at each other, deliberating.
“Confirmation hearings,” prompted Bo, “start next week.”
“I can’t use this,” Miles said. He tilted forward in his chair. “No way would it derail her confirmation.”
“If the situations were reversed,” Bo advised, “she’d use anything she had against you. She’d bring up your father’s service record, your mother’s pay stubs, your bad ex-boyfriends. She’d get your dental records and hold your cavities against you.”
“But we don’t have to use this in the hearings,” I interjected. I had thought this through all night after Atlas and I hung up. “We’ll go to her, backdoor, say we want our highest priorities fast-tracked once she’s in cabinet. Or else this embarrassing little anecdote might slip through our fingers, potentially complicating her nomination.”
“Blackmail?” asked Bo.
“Not blackmail.” My plan was not quite upstanding, but it certainly wasn’t unheard-of on the Hill to press in this way. “Just a kind suggestion. A helpful hint, if you will. She does something for us. We do—or don’t do—something for her.”
Miles measured me. “Bo told me what happened in Charleston,” he said matter-of-factly.
“I figured he would.” I kept a straight face.
Miles continued to look at me, steady. “I understand now why you want to win this battle against the Darleys.”
“This isn’t a personal vendetta,” I said truthfully. “Melinda Darley is all but formally confirmed. Blake will run and probably win. I’m concerned for us, for our objectives. That’s the battle I want to fight. And I’m showing up, with every weapon I have, standing behind you.”
With Miles, I knew when to speak, I knew when to wait. Now was the time for the latter. In his cheek, the evidence of his jaw clenching, unclenching. “Do it,” he told me. “Call Darley’s office. Arrange a meeting. And hope to God this works.”
As he rose from his chair, I closed my eyes, just for a moment, and begged for favorable winds, for sunny skies, for a universe that was fair and just. I dared myself to believe that this might succeed. “Your vacation is over,” said Miles, dropping the remains of the apple core in the wastebasket on his way out. “Hope you enjoyed it.”
Ladies of the House Page 21
