Waking the Dead

by Scott Spencer

  I told Juliet about the Republicans’ nominating Bertelli and she closed her book, while keeping her place with her thumb. “It looks like I’ll have to work a little harder for this than I first thought,” I said. Juliet furrowed her brow. She was wearing a red sweater with little pearlized buttons, a black skirt, high boots: it astonished me how well she dressed for hanging around the apartment reading a book about art forgery.

  “I think it’s just as well,” she said, after a silence. “It’ll give you a chance to mobilize a staff. And it’ll bring you a lot more attention this way. People will have an opportunity to hear you speak.”

  “Your uncle’s very words,” I said.

  A flush of color, sudden as a hawk’s shadow, went across her face.

  I acted as if I hadn’t noticed. I shoved my hands in my pockets and started to pace. “I’m going to have to take what staff I get,” I said. “And that means a lot of tired old hacks from the organization. Fuck it. It doesn’t matter. When the election’s over and I have a little breathing space, I’ll start choosing my own people. All I really need now is people to answer telephones and get things printed up.”

  “You’re going to need a lot more than that,” said Juliet. “You’re going to need a press secretary, media adviser, some sort of legislative aide to help you work on your positions …”

  “No, I’m not. I’m not going to need that. I know what my positions are. I know what I want to say.”

  “Now you’re just being silly.”

  “This Bertelli. He’s a nothing. He’s like a write-in candidate, you know, like voting for Tiny Tim. And he’s a lecher.”

  “Are you going to use that?” asked Juliet.

  “No. But maybe we’d better get married so I can run on the morality issue. What do you say?” I truly thought this was a funny, or at least a frisky crack. I hadn’t meant it to be taken seriously. But the corners of Juliet’s soft, deep-lilac-colored lips drew down.

  “ I don’t think you’re in proper shape to marry anyone,” said Juliet, with a sincerity edged with vehemence.

  “I was just kidding,” I said, as if this could put me back in her good graces.

  “Uncle Isaac thinks we should get married, you know,” said Juliet, flipping open her book. It was a cold, cloudy day; the light in the room was brackish.

  “He wouldn’t dare say that to me,” I said.

  “Well, with me he’s not so shy. With Mommy and Daddy dead, he assumes that right.”

  “And what did you say?” I asked. I leaned against the door frame and folded my arms over my chest.

  She thought for a moment and then shook her head. “I don’t remember,” she said. “I don’t like talking about these sorts of things. It makes everything so explicit and ugly. I think these things are just supposed to happen and it’s awful when you make a fuss about it. Like those jerks in California applauding for the sunsets.”

  “Well it would be pretty awful if we got married and then I lost the election anyhow.”

  “Yes. I suppose we would feel like fools then.”

  I breathed in, breathed out. I felt heavy, cluttered with junk. “You should turn the lamp on when you read in here,” I said. “The light’s so bleak.”

  “Why would it be so awful if we got married, Fielding? I mean, just as a point of information.”

  “I meant if we got married for the sake of the election and then I lost anyhow. That’s all I meant.”

  “Why does that make my stomach hurt?”

  “Look, if it was me saying we ought to get married, it would be you saying what I’m forced to say. This is the system of checks and balances we’ve worked out.”

  She shook her head and looked away from me, into the uninviting darkness that gathered at the far end of the room. “You’re making me feel cheap.”

  “Cheap? You could never feel cheap. You’re just confused that you’re asking a low-life like me to marry you. And you—”

  “I am not asking you to marry me. You’re being unbelievably cruel.”

  “OK. I’m sorry I said it.”

  “Are you having any more of those … episodes?” she asked me. She wanted to make eye contact with me for this one and because she was sitting and had to look up, her eyes appeared a little crazed for the moment.

  I waited good and long before answering. It was a shitty question, but I knew sooner or later she’d have to ask it. I probably deserved it for going on about it that night of the radio, for not going to the extra bother of lying.

  “Episodes?”

  “Yes. Like before you went to New York.”

  “Oh that.” I waited another moment and then said, “Yes.” I suppose I’d meant to put her in her place, to stiff-arm her for coming after me like that, but the thing backfired on me and the ease of my admission, and hearing it, hearing my voice putting that weird signal out into the world, sent up a storm of longing in me—and a second storm of fear. I’ve always done passably well in masking my feelings, but at that moment my face must have looked no more stable than a broken egg.

  Juliet stood up at her desk. I could see she wanted to come to me. I don’t know if it was instinct or feminine training, but my distress awakened in her a desire to shelter me from my own misery. She opened her mouth to say Are you all right? but there were other forces in play by now. We were in a complicated situation and she was letting it dawn on her slowly just how over her head she was. This was supposed to have been something rather easy, this arrangement between the two of us. But now she was living with a man who, for all she knew, might start chasing after cars in a day or two. And she was also living with a man who loved someone else with the openness and lack of common sense that we dare only with unattainable lovers.

  Juliet had taken me on, knowing that in a hundred ways I was the wrong sort of man for her—I’d slept too close to a noisy childhood radiator; been too shifty and mean through school; developed a kind of flipness and even a hardness that made me a little coarse and obnoxious to someone as delicate, as cultivated as Juliet. I mean, I still thought it was funny to open and close my mouth and wave my arms around when she watched the opera on TV, and even when I was on my best behavior, acting so proper and under control that it could give you a pounding headache to behold, there was always something a little off, like a Russian playing jazz. But Juliet had allowed herself to go this far and perhaps she thought that at thirty-four there was no easy turning back. I don’t know what exactly was going through her but it was no one thing. And like a three-penny nail quivering in the invisible net strung between the positive and negative poles of a magnet, Juliet could neither come closer to me nor get further away. She could not even say whatever it was she wanted to say. She just looked at me, with her eyes pulsating betrayal one moment and compassion the next, and soon it was me going toward her, coming closer and closer and she drew herself up to receive me, and then finally I had her in my arms and was holding her close, whispering, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” into the fragrant folds of her soft white neck.

  SUNDAY THERE WAS a brunch at Isaac and Adele’s and I was introduced to the people who’d be running my campaign. Juliet and I arrived before the others. Juliet was sensing in me a return to a somewhat businesslike attitude and for this I guess we had the Republicans and old Bertelli to thank. And if I was going to start acting a little more like my old self, then Juliet could, too. Though she was moodier, and more disorganized than I was emotionally, she was still perfectly capable of doing a profit and loss calculation, and had, it seemed, come to the decision that I was essentially the same person I’d always been, one, and two, that I was about to be getting to the serious part of my career, which would surely be interesting, and three, that whatever possessed me to rub her face in the ashes of the dead was probably just a reaction to my sudden fortune and would surely pass, if it wasn’t exactly passing already.

  Juliet was helping Adele and Mrs. Davis in the dining room, whereas Isaac and I were sent into his grand Tudor study.The
re seemed some primitive superstition involved here, as if we were not supposed to see the dining room table, with its place settings and goblets and linen-covered bowls of bagels until it was completely prepared and the lunch was to begin, just as a groom is not supposed to look at his bride while she dresses for their wedding.

  “These are animals, you know that, don’t you?” Isaac said to me, leaning forward in his club chair and patting me on the knee. He was giving me a little rebriefing about the people we’d be meeting today.

  “Me too,” I said.

  “No. These are different kinds of animals. The kind that push over garbage cans for their meal.”

  “Those are called raccoons, Isaac. Raccoons are cute.”

  “Don’t quibble, Fielding. I’m trying to help you through this.”

  “Well, I guess it’s the least you can do. Right?”

  He looked at me queerly. Isaac gave me a lot of leash, but he didn’t like to take any nonsense. He believed in contracts, both written and unwritten, and ours stated that he would train me, guide me, give me access and acceleration, whereas I would continue to listen to him, respect him, carry the torch he was handing over to me.

  “I never do the least for you, Fielding,” he said. “I do only the maximum.”

  “I realize that,” I said, sitting deep in the chair, stretching my legs out before me. I checked my shoes. I’d stepped in a bit of snow between our front door and the driveway and my black shoes were stained near the sole by a pale lacy fringe of ice and salt. “But,” I said, with a sigh, “I can’t help wondering what Kinosis owes you. He doesn’t really know me and it doesn’t seem he much likes me.”

  “Granted,” said Isaac, cutting in, trying, I suppose, to bring me back to my senses.

  “So what’s the deal?” I asked. “I think I better know, don’t you?” I wanted to grill him on this one; I wanted to stand up and poke my finger against his chest.

  “If that was my thinking, I would have said so,” replied Isaac, with one of those old-fashioned wan smiles.

  “I’m under a lot of pressure here, Isaac. I have to get things straight.”

  “What kind of pressure, Fielding?” he asked, three perfect wrinkles appearing in his forehead, like a trio of gulls. We’d long ago taken that extra twist and turn to where it was impossible to distinguish his paternal concern for me from his ambitions.

  “Internal pressure.”

  “Trouble with the New York family?”

  As if that wasn’t the only family I had.

  “No, no. None. They’re thrilled for me.”

  He shrugged, as if doing me the courtesy of not puncturing the fantasy. It was really so incredibly disagreeable of him, but it wasn’t as if he could help himself. “Then what sort of pressure? Everything OK with you and Jule?”

  “Hey, we’re getting pretty man-to-man, aren’t we?” I said, with a bright smile that he was smart enough to know meant Watch It.

  “I’m trying to help you through what I fully realize is a difficult period of transition. First you want to talk and then you don’t.”

  “I want to talk about why Kinosis is putting me on the ticket.”

  “It’s a very complex debt, Fielding. It’s an accumulation. The primary reason I haven’t gone into a great deal of detail about it is that frankly it would take me hours, weeks, to unravel the whole thing. As you know, the governor is not a brilliant mind. But he listens and it’s better than having a Republican down there. A Democrat is simply beholden to a more cosmopolitan constituency and has to answer to a greater variety of people. Kinosis comes to me from time to time for advice. Asks me to look things over. I tickle his vanity, if you want to know. He appreciates it. And since you’re probing, I may as well tell you it is an exhausting task. Nothing takes its toll like emotional labor.”

  “That’s what my father used to say.”

  “Oh?” said Isaac, raising his eyebrows—flat, furless little creatures that looked like white makeup painted over his eyes.

  “Yeah,” I said, pretending I could not decipher the message in Isaac’s eyes, which were cloudy but bright, like pieces of quartz dipped into icy water. “My father always said he’d rather lug trays of type than answer a question from the boss.”

  “What was he afraid his employer was going to ask?” inquired Isaac.

  “That’s not the point,” I said. “Emotional labor. That’s what we’re talking about.” Something directed my attention toward the window, a change of light, as if a hand had suddenly passed in front of the sun. The window darkened, giving me a shaky, out-of-control sensation in the pit of my stomach. The darkness seemed to hover there like a curious bird, and then it lifted and the sharp winter light was back.

  Isaac rubbed his palms together, his signal that it was time to proceed with matters. “All right,” he said, “let me tell you who’ll be here. It’s a mixed bag, to be sure.” Isaac reached into the inside pocket of his suit and withdrew a discreet leather notebook. In the past year, his memory was, as he put it, “starting to go on the fritz,” but his response to this was completely practical, straightforward. He simply began writing everything down and he did so without drama or effort—just like quickly rinsing the cup after finishing your tea. He opened the notebook and pursed his lips.

  “Mostly Party regulars,” he said. “People we’ve discussed over the years.”

  “You mean hacks,” I said, smiling.

  “Yesterday they were hacks, Fielding. Today, they are dear friends. OK?”

  “OK. Let’s hear it.”

  “Rich Mulligan.”

  “The bloodsucker.”

  “Please. No comments. Let’s just get this done. Tony Dayton. He’ll be helping run the campaign. Roman Kurowsky.”

  “No.”

  “Yes. He’s a congressman, a Democrat, his district abuts ours.”

  “He’s an insane pig.”

  “Fine. OK. Lucille Jackson. Dr. Henry Shamansky—”

  “Wait a minute. Doctor Henry Shamansky. I know this guy, Isaac. He’s a sociology professor, for Christ’s sake. He runs the Independent Voters of Illinois. He wears corduroy suits and has muttonchop sideburns. I am not calling him ‘Doctor’ Shamansky.”

  “Call him whatever you like, Fielding.” He squinted at his notebook. “Goodness. I can’t even read my own writing. Yes. Oh yes. Sonny Marchi.”

  “You’ve got me on that one. Never heard of him.”

  “A real live wire. Criminal face. He’s married to the governor’s daughter Cynthia.”

  “Yes.That’s right. I remember your telling me about him. You said he was a baboon.”

  “Yes. Well, Kinosis can’t simply give us a gift. He’d put a string on his dime before dropping it into a pay phone, if he could.”

  “This kind of stinks, doesn’t it, Isaac?”

  “Not at all. What we have here is something completely marvelous. You are going to Washington. This is what we wanted, remember? This is what you wanted. And for all those lovely reasons.”

  “I still feel that way,” I said, with a twinge of defensiveness. Did he think I’d forgotten? What Sarah despised in political ambition was its habit of becoming a tautology: I want to win because I want to have power; I want power because you’re nothing without it.

  “Then be realistic,” said Isaac, as if this was enough to settle the issue.

  I nodded. And it did make sense. Then and now. If I could actually house the homeless, say, then the person who climbed into that warm bed would not care if Congressman Pierce had to smile when he felt like snarling in order to put that bed in place. No, my abused scruples would not be the pea beneath the mattress. “Who else’ll be here?” I asked.

  “A woman named Kathy Courtney.”

  “Don’t know her.”

  “She was Carmichael’s press aide for the past four years.” He paused, let me digest. “Very capable. Comes from New York.”

  “Very loyal of her to be working with me.”

  “I don’
t think loyalty has much to do with it, one way or the other. Carmichael had seventeen people working for him. Five here in the district, twelve in D.C. What do you think they’re doing? They’re working on their résumés, that’s what. And if you keep any of them on, they’ll continue to work on their résumés and be on the phone and having lunch with anyone who can help them find the next position.”

  “Then I won’t keep any of them on.”

  “That’s one solution. Of course, you’ll be spending most of your time interviewing people for staff positions …”

  “OK. Go on. Kathy Courtney.”

  “She knows the press. Here and in Washington. She’s organized. Energetic. Celibate.”

  “Celibate?”

  “An observation,” Isaac said, shrugging.

  “What does she want to do for me?”

  “She wants to be your press aide. She wants to stay on. And in the meanwhile, she can keep you keyed in to Carmichael’s unfinished business. All the people waiting to hear from him who might not know he just got caught with his trousers down.”

  Congressmen with their pants at their knees, celibate press aides. All of this was pretty raunchy material for Isaac. The excitement was really getting to him.

  “Shall we?” he said, rising. He had my father’s vanity upon getting up from his seat—never push off on the arms, never grunt.

  The brunch. Adele served food she normally wouldn’t think of putting on her table: strawberry-flavored pancakes; rasher upon rasher of curly, glistening bacon; pitchers of orange juice made from concentrate; a baked ham with pineapple rings impaled on it. Isaac claimed to be on a diet and stuck to coffee and Coffee Rich. Adele had long before perfected a way of appearing to eat without actually letting food pass her lips. I, of course, succumbed to the siren song of Free Food and ate heartily—so much so that at one point Juliet put her hand on my wrist, in what might have appeared to be an affectionate gesture but which was really one of those subtle, firm signals, such as an expert trainer can give a mad, snarling dog. I grinned at her and put down my fork and then began slugging down orange juice. It occurred to me that two weeks on the campaign trail ought to have me looking like Taft.