Bewks dismounted, removed his cavalry gloves, and slapped them against his thighs, causing micro dust storms to rise up. “They leave any liquor?”
“They drank all the Montrachet.”
“Damn Yankees,” Bewks said. “They do love that white burgundy.”
“War is hell. I believe they left some whiskey. Go pour yourself a snort, then come tell me some lies. And make them entertaining. I had a rough week.”
Bewks returned with his drink, unbuckled his saber, and sat next to his brother.
“Long day out there. Gettysburg’s coming up, July first. We’ve got work to do.”
The two brothers sat silently, taking in the evening. Fireflies blinking on and off, fairies with flashlights.
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Bird said, “but do you and the boys ever reflect on the fact that you’re fighting on the slavery side?”
“Now, big brother, you know it wasn’t all about that.”
“Oh? What was it about? Remind me.”
“Yankee soldier’s talking to a captured butternut. Asks him, ‘Why do you hate us so, Johnny Reb?’ Reb says, ‘Because this is our land. And you’re on it.’ ”
Bird took a slug of his drink. “We’re Yankees, you and I. And here we are. On it.”
Bewks shrugged. “You got me there.”
They watched the shadows lengthen.
Bird said, “Myn says there’s some kind of horrible smell coming from down by the swamp. Know anything about that?”
“It’s in the nature of swamps to smell.”
“She says it’s some chemical kind of smell. Is Peckfuss okay? He’s not operating a meth lab down there, is he?”
“Peckfuss hasn’t been quote/unquote okay since the day he was born.”
“I know. But Myn says he seems kind of excitable lately. Edgy.”
“Suspect he took another tumble off the old wagon. You got to feel for the guy.”
“Bewks,” Bird said. “I do more than ‘feel’ for him. I support him. I clothe and feed him. I could find a more capable caretaker at the state asylum for the brain-impaired.”
“By the way, Belle busted a riser on the staircase.”
Bird sighed. “That girl has got to shed some weight.”
“Tell me about it. She’s going to bring down that whole stair-case.”
“She’s still the only person Mother doesn’t snarl at. I’ll look in after dinner. How’s Mother been?”
“She wanted me to drive her to the polling booth the other day.”
“In June?”
“So she could vote. For Eisenhower.”
Bird reflected. “That’s Alzheimer’s for you. She was a Stevenson girl.”
Bewks lowered his voice. “I don’t think Myndi is very content with the present arrangement.”
“I know.”
“I heard her talking on the phone. I wasn’t eavesdropping. I was just getting something from the kitchen. But it sounded like she was talking to someone about a home.”
“I’m not sending her away, Bewks. Not going to institutionalize her.”
“Wasn’t suggesting anything of the sort. Just pointing out to you that your wife is not exactly in a state of equilibrium with respect to the existing situation.”
“Well, my wife can go—”
“Go where?”
Myndi was standing behind them, arms folded.
“Darling!” Bird said with spastic merriment. “I was telling Bewks how you can go over any-height fence on that horse of yours. In any kind of terrain. Jumping . . .”
“Really?” Myndi said coolly. “How complimentary of you. Darling.”
“Is dinner ready? I could eat a horse. Bewks, want to join us?”
“No!” Bewks said quickly, leaping to his feet. “Got to get Chancellor settled in for the night. Thanks anyway. Myn.”
Bird and Myndi ate a quiet dinner.
Finally Bird said, “Darling?”
Myndi looked up from her arugula with grapefruit and pine nuts. “What.” No question mark. Just what.
“I’m an asshole.”
“Why? For telling your brother what a wonderful jumper I am?”
“Myn.”
“No, Walter,” she said, dabbing her mouth with a napkin. “I really don’t know what I’m supposed to say at this point.”
“I was just feeling protective about Mother.”
Myndi put down her fork and knife. She was on the verge of tears. “I try, Walter, you know. I really do try.”
“I know you do, baby. You’ re—”
“It’s not easy, running this house.”
“I know, baby.”
“When we talked about living in the country, I didn’t think I was going to end up in a trailer park.”
“The garden looks great.”
“I don’t do the gardening.”
“I know, but you do such a wonderful job of supervising all those nice Mexicans.”
“I’m under a great deal of stress right now. I’m this close to qualifying. I have to focus.”
“I’m so proud of you. How’s the new horse doing?” Bird thought, No tendon jokes. “Is it all working out all right? Horsewise?”
“She’s no Lucky Strike.”
How was he supposed to respond to that wee note of discontent? Two hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars and she’s “no Lucky Strike”? Well, great. Wonderful. Couldn’t be more delighted. “Sorry to hear that.”
“Sam seems to think she’s coming along,” Myndi said, “but I don’t know. I have my doubts. I’m doing my best. I can’t do more than my best.”
“I bet you’re doing just—”
“Belle destroyed the staircase.”
“Bewks mentioned. I did wonder why there’s all that yellow crime-scene tape across the bottom.”
“I got the estimate. Eighteen thousand.”
Bird stared. “Eighteen thousand? For a riser?”
“Walter, the entire staircase is about to come down. It wasn’t built to be a footpath for elephants.”
Bird sighed. “Okay. I’ll deal with it in the morning.”
“She’s up there now. Probably watching another reality show starring cretins. It can’t be healthy for your mother. Not that she notices. Walter, I simply can’t go on like this. It’s getting to me.”
“Can we talk about it in the morning?”
“It’s a very big deal, this competition. If I make the team, I go to China.”
“China? What’s happening in China?”
“Oh, Walter, I told you about this months ago. You never listen.”
“Sorry, babe. I know. Mind like a sieve. Tell me again?”
“The Tang Cup. Tang as in Tang dynasty. The famous terra-cotta horses?”
“Is that where they got the name for the orange-flavored powdered beverage?”
“The Tang dynasty was a hugely important era for horse development in China. The Beijing government decided to celebrate it by holding a gymkhana in August. In Xi’an. It was the capital during the Tang era. It’s going to be a huge international equestrian event. Teams from all over. It’s a big, big deal. And if I make the team, I go. I’ll be representing our country.”
Bird’s mind raced. “Gosh,” he said, somewhat ambiguously.
“You don’t sound very excited about it.”
“No. No, I am. China. China is . . . big. Definitely. Didn’t de Gaulle call it a ‘big country. Full of Chinese’?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Nothing, really.”
“You do want me to succeed, don’t you?”
“Of course I do, darling. It’s just that . . .”
“What?”
“Well, I mean . . . their record on human rights. Tiananmen Square. Taiwan. Tibet. You know . . .”
“What does all that have to do with the Tang Cup?”
“Nothing, I suppose,” Bird said, sounding retreat. “I suppose it’s all about reaching out. Hands across the ocean.
Global . . .”
Myndi dumped the dishes into the sink with petulant efficiency and stomped off. Bird reflected that his wife had developed the unique ability of stomping in stocking feet.
He loaded the dishwasher.
Did it have to be China? He’d have to maintain a very low profile. That was probably doable. Angel would be the one on the front lines, leading the public charge.
He took the back stairs up to Mother’s room. Belle was sitting beside her, both of them bathed in television light. Bird avoided looking at the screen.
“Hey there, Mr. Mac,” Belle said pleasantly. The front of her smock was littered with nacho scree. “Ma, look who’s here. It’s Mr. Walter. Your son.”
“Walter who?”
Bird tried to give his mother a kiss.
“Don’t you touch me!”
“Mother, it’s me. Walter.”
“I don’t care who you are. You get away from me. I’ve got a gun.”
“I just wanted to tell you good night. I love you.”
“Where is it? Where’s my gun? Did you take my gun?”
“Bewks has your gun, Mother. Remember? He’s getting it fixed?”
“Bewks? What kind of name is Bewks?”
“Now, Ma,” Belle intervened, “why you being so snickety at Mr. Walter? He’s your son.”
“Where’s my gun? You give me my gun. I’m going to shoot him through the head.”
“You hush, Ma,” Belle said in a commanding voice. “You don’t hush, I’ll turn off the television. You know I will.”
“Good night, Mother,” Bird said. “I love you.”
“You come back here, I’ll shoot you dead. Where is my gun?”
Bird descended by the back stairs, which also seemed to be creaking ominously.
He went into the den and poured himself a stiff nightcap, sat down, and flipped open his laptop. The screen came alight to the Yahoo! home page. He hesitated a moment, then typed, “Alzheimer homes Rappahannock County Virginia.” He was about to hit Enter when, amid the other headlines on the home page, he saw this one: DALAI LAMA “HEALTH EPISODE” FORCES CANCELLATION OF MEETING WITH POPE.
Bird stayed up until after 2:00 a.m., clicking and surfing.
Myn was long gone by the time he awoke at eight. He reached Angel on her cell phone at her son’s soccer game.
“Hold on,” Angel said. “Barry, sweetie! Stay with the ball! Stay with the ball! The ball! Kick it! Kick the ball! Barry! Kick THE BALL!”
CHAPTER 5
THIS IS OUR EUREKA MOMENT
Angel refused—refused absolutely—to meet with Bird over the weekend. Apparently she had a rule about weekends being devoted exclusively to the eight-year-old Barry Goldwater Templeton.
It was Monday morning now, and Bird and Angel were in a car on the way to a TV studio. Her bodyguard, Mike, was at the wheel. A briefing book was open on Angel’s lap. She was scanning the pages at an urgent tempo.
Bird scribbled on a piece of paper and handed it to her: CONFIDENTIAL. RAMBO OK?
Angel scribbled. OF COURSE.
Bird spoke just above a whisper.
“According to the latest reports, he’s still in the hospital in Rome. They’re saying he’s okay. That it was some stomach bug. Bad clam, Roman tap water, whatever. They’re doing tests.”
“Uh-huh,” Angel said, not looking up from her briefing book.
Bird said, “Hello, hello, is there anybody in there?”
Angel gave him a frosty look. “I can multitask, you know.”
“I’m saying, this could be a gift. A gift from the gods of spin.”
“It’s a stomach bug,” Angel said, returning to her book. “What’s the ‘gift’?”
“They’re canceling a visit with the pope because of an upset tummy? Really? They couldn’t give him Pepto-Bismol or Imodium?”
Angel sighed. “Do you imagine, for one second, that His Holiness the Dalai Lama, spiritual leader to twenty million people, is going to risk throwing up—or worse—on His Holiness the pope, spiritual leader to one billion?”
“I understand all that,” Bird said. “But suppose a rumor got started that it wasn’t a tummy bug. That they tried to poison him?”
“Who?”
“Could you pay attention for two seconds, please? The Chinese.”
“Why would they do that?”
Bird groaned. “You’re supposed to be the foreign policy guru here. In 1959, after China invaded and took over Tibet, the Panchen Lama—the number-two lama, vice-lama, backup lama, whatever—returned to Tibet. Bad move. He gave a speech about what ass-holes the Chinese were for taking over Tibet. Very bad move. Five days later he’s dead. Of a”—Bird made quotation marks with his fingers—“ ‘heart attack.’ So the Chinese have some street cred when it comes to offing lamas.”
“That was 1959,” Angel said.
“So? Are you telling me that totalitarian governments no longer go in for assassination? Look at the Russians. They’re poisoning people every two minutes! That poor son of a bitch ex-KGB guy—Litvinenko—the one they got in London? Polonium-210 in his tea? He ended up melting. Nas-ty.”
“What are you proposing? That we start a rumor that Beijing tried to kill the Dalai Lama on his way into a meeting with the pope?”
“Yes. Exactly.”
“And what are we offering by way of evidence?”
Bird grinned. “Who needs evidence when you’ve got the Internet?”
“So we post it on your Facebook page that the evil Chinese tried to poison him. And you expect that to lead the evening news?”
“There are a few details to work out.” Bird leaned into Angel. He could smell her perfume. “Friday I stayed up until the roosters started, doing research. The Dalai Lama is the one thing having to do with China that Americans actually care about. Human rights? Zzzzz. Terrible working conditions in Chinese factories? Zzzzz. Where’s my iPad? Global warming? Zzzzzz. Taiwan? Wasn’t that some novel by James Clavell? Zzzzzz. When’s the last time you heard anyone say, ‘We really must go to war with China over Taiwan’? But the Dalai Lama? Americans love the guy. The whole world loves him. What’s not to love? He’s a seventy-five-year-old sweetie pie with glasses, plus the sandals and the saffron robe and the hugging and the mandalas and the peace and harmony and the reincarnation and nirvana. All that. We can’t get enough of him. If the American public were told that those rotten Commie swine in Beijing were”—Bird lowered his voice—“putting . . . whatever, arsenic, radioactive pellets, in his yak butter, you don’t think that would cause a little firestorm out there in public-opinion land?”
Angel took off her glasses and looked out the window pensively. “Getting the story planted isn’t the problem,” she said. “The Lama people will pooh-pooh it, though. I’m not an expert on Tibetan Buddhism, but I’m guessing they’re not about spinning fake assassination attempts.”
“That’s the beauty of it!” Bird said. “Of course they’ll deny it. Why? Because they’re all about peace and forgiveness and turning the other cheek. Meanwhile—world opinion in a furor! And Beijing?” Bird smiled. “Beijing gets to put out statement after statement saying, ‘We did not poison the Dalai Lama!’ Angel. It’s a slam dunk.”
Angel shuddered. “Don’t use that expression. Please.”
“All right. A home run.”
She put her eyeglasses back on. “You might have something.”
Bird threw up his hands in exasperation. “I bring you E equals mc-squared and you tell me, ‘You might have something’? Angel, this is our eureka moment. Move over, Archimedes.”
“We’ll discuss. Look, I have to concentrate. I’m walking into a gang bang.”
Friday, in the course of a call-in radio interview about her article in Neo-Com magazine, “Nuke Iran Now,” Angel had referred to the head of Mothers Against Military Action (MAMA) as a “headline-hungry harridan.” Now she was on her way to a TV studio to expand on her comment, which had triggered a tsunami of indignation.
Burka had informed her that they were anticipating hundreds of furious protesters outside the studio. Some were planning to pelt Angel with their sons’ and daughters’ Purple Heart medals—truly a photo op from hell. Extra security had been laid on. They were to enter the studio via the basement entrance.
“You know you’re doing your job,” Angel observed, “when they have to bring you in through the basement.”
Bird let her concentrate on the briefing book while he turned over scenarios in his mind.
“Radioactive pellets . . . in the rice bowl,” he murmured. “Radioactive pellets. Rice bowl. Fabulous juxtaposition.”
Angel said, without looking up, “Not to rain on your parade, but if you eat radioactivity, you die. Horribly.”
“So?”
“But he’s not going to turn into a lava lamp and glow in the dark and melt, is he? He’s not going to die. So what’s the point of announcing that they put radium in his tapioca?”
“They tried, but the pellets . . . expired. Or he ate from a different rice bowl. But they’ll keep trying.”
“Needs work.”
“No. It should be herbal. Yes. Yes. Of course. The Chinese are all about herbal. They wrote the book on herbal. We just need to find out what’s the best death herb. I bet they’ve got some killer stuff, don’t you? Bat wing. Tiger claw. Tiger penis.”
“Bird. Please. I need to read this.”
Bird gripped Angel’s arm. “Panda.”
“What are you talking about?”
“They took a death enzyme from a dead panda’s . . . liver. That’s it. They killed a panda. It’s a twofer. Americans are crazy about pandas. Every time the one at the National Zoo gets a head cold, the TV networks go on a deathwatch. ‘This just in from the National Zoo. Ping-Ping’s temperature is up to a hundred and two! The president has asked all Americans to join in prayer.’ Yes. The rotten swine killed a panda—a baby panda—and extracted the death enzyme. In order to poison the Dalai Lama.” Bird fell back against the car seat in a swoon of creative exhaustion.
“That’s sick,” Angel said.
“But good sick.”
They Eat Puppies, Don't They? Page 5
