by Jack Womack
"And we can't take chances on losing access to those scientists, now that they're in our grasp," said Bernard, nodding in response to Thatcher's question. "Susie's flying out to Los Angeles tomorrow to meet them, in fact, to be assured that they come immediately under our supervision as soon as their feet touch earth."
"It's obvious that Otsuka could have lived with the compromises he made in order to get what he wanted-"
"Most people can," said Thatcher.
"Why couldn't you let him?"
"'Cause it's just as obvious who'd have been the next target after Jensen," Thatcher said. "Strike before the iron gets hot, I say. He popped Jensen before he could spill, but he'd have known I'd've found out eventually. There's a Judas in every operation. Shouldn't think he'd have risked it.
"Luckily for our agreement," said Bernard, "Otsuka may have been respected in his country, but there was no love lost among his folk. The problem with living successfully for so long is that after a time your enemies increase geometrically rather than arithmetically. We exchanged the traditional harsh words yesterday with his successors, and the agreement remains solidly in effect."
"Why wouldn't it?" I asked. "No one was hurt but Otsuka. You can't take your cut from underground activities, can you?"
"That's what we're looking into," said Thatcher.
"What are you going to do about it, then?"
"Hon, you're thinking like us now," he said, his smile so irrepressible as it was irredeemable. "This is where you two come in, truthfully. First, go up with Avi tomorrow to Montefiore and pay your respects to Jensen--
"To bring flowers?" Lester asked. Thatcher stared at him as he'd once stared at me, ignoring the sass, seeing only an evanescent fulfillment of every earthly wish.
"Gus may have been talking through his hat, saying Jensen looked like he was thinking," said Thatcher. "But if he is thinking, I'd like to know what about."
"If he is, I couldn't say, Mister Dryden," said Lester. "You expect too much."
"Maybe he wants to get something off his chest besides his respirator tubes," said Thatcher. "Joanna, you'll oversee this new project solo. Strikes me you're getting damn good, handling yourself in these situations."
"I can't, Thatcher," I said. "I won't."
"Oh, don't look at me like that," he said. "Lester, keep in mind Jensen's not technically dead. I'm not saying I'd be angry if you told me there was nothing you could do, but I think you're underestimating yourself."
"We'll have to see," said Lester. "What else do you want?"
"It's a funny old world," Thatcher said, leaning back, stroking the arms of his chair as if they were his wife's, or even mine. "All you can do to get out of it in one piece. Events so often occur beyond the control of mortal man. No one can predict where lightning'!! strike, can they?"
"Thatcher," said Bernard, "speak English."
"Say something happened to Japan."
"What something?"
"A natural occurrence?" asked Lester.
"What insurance companies usually call an act of God, you could say."
"What are you talking about?" Bernard asked.
"It's been on the back burner. I've been theorizing."
"You can't be serious about what I think you mean-"
"Look at it scientifically," said Thatcher. "As I understand it, Japan's a volcanic mountain range rising out of the sea, right in the middle of the earthquake belt. That so?"
"You want me to sink Japan?" Lester asked.
"You didn't hear me say that, did you?" he asked. Butter wouldn't have melted in his heart. "Hell of a concept, isn't it? Kinda get back at 'em for Pearl Harbor."
"You're losing it, Thatcher," said Bernard, brushing stray hair toward the crown of his head, as if to keep his skull warm. "I'm not hearing this. I'm not."
"Shit happens," said Thatcher. "Who'd lay the baby on our doorstep?"
"Macaffrey couldn't bend a fork using both hands," said Bernard. "He couldn't make dice move if he threw them. Now you want him to perform exploratory surgery on the eastern hemisphere? It'd be funny if I didn't understand your intentions. Haven't you learned anything? We have to get along with them, Thatcher-"
"Long as we've got Lester here, won't hurt to see what might be done . . ."
"I'm not going to listen to this."
"You ever read that boilerplate in the agreement you drew up? Either country can take over the other's business affairs in the event of nationwide catastrophe. There's our loophole-"
"Thatcher-"
"We'd be helping 'em out, that's all. Taking control of their operations for a spell, like it says we can do. Till they get back on their feet." Joy so enriched his voice that a singsong quality entered it as he continued to speak, as if he were crooning a child to sleep. "If there's anyplace left to stand."
"Psychosis I can deal with, Thatcher, I can't handle insanity-"
"You think you can have countries destroyed at your request?" I said. He regarded me as if I'd told him the sun rose in the morning, thinking it news.
"Subtlety's everything," he said. "What I think's unimportant, hon-"
"Enough of this," Bernard said, rising and walking to the door. Avi stood, blocking his exit. "Take a stress pill, Thatcher. Collect stamps. Do something to get your mind off things. We have enough to deal with as it is. Avi, unlock the door."
Avi looked to Thatcher, who gave his assent. "We'll be getting up ourselves in a minute. Almost suppertime. Can't wait."
Lester showed no greater loss of aplomb over this turn of events than he had during any other. Thatcher studied him for several wordless moments.
"Yes, Mister Dryden?"
"Thatcher," he said. "Thatcher, please. What do you think, Lester? You don't have so negative an attitude about this as Bernard has, do you?"
"Godness sent the rainbow," said Lester. "God brings the fire."
"Don't know as how I follow what you're getting at."
"Sometimes a challenge is taken up with interest," Lester said. "It's best not to offer such-"
"Who's challenging?" Thatcher asked. "An idle thought, nothing more."
"They'll see it as a challenge," Lester said. "As I understand the arrangement, that is. I couldn't guarantee what form Their response might take."
"Can't tell till you try, Lester," said Thatcher. "Christmas coming up. I love surprises."
"So does God."
NINE
Thatcher bade that we follow him into the living room; we hung back as he strode forward, hoping to lessen among the others the impression that we were with him. His appearance among the guests stopped their conversation cold; lifting a hand as he sauntered in, he signaled to all that his presence should neither distract their attention nor hinder their fun. As the guests picked up their words from where they'd dropped them, an almost palpable difference was noted in the volume and tone; a hitherto undetectable air of false nonchalance sharpened the now-subdued chatter, as when in a crowded subway car a lazar pushes suddenly down the aisle, thrusting a cup beneath willfully blind travelers.
"Boy," he said, noticing his son on the edge of the sofa, drawn deep within himself. "Get up and circulate."
Junior shook his head; such color as he possessed left his face. Thatcher walked over, gripped him by the shoulders, and snatched him up as he might a misplaced cushion. Marching him across the room, Thatcher inserted his son into a close circle of acquaintances with the manner of one driving an axe into a pie. No sooner had Thatcher moved on than Junior fled the group, flying back to his nest, brushing his arms with his hands as if to preen himself, fearing perhaps that his brief exposure might have left spores of contagion behind.
"He has so much money," Lester said, admitting unexpected awe. "So much must go to taxes-"
"Thatcher and Susie are exempt," I said. "Dryco, the company, is exempt. I'm not, Bernard's not, no one else working for them is-"
"How?"
"Part of the deal," I said. "Last year the IRS actually sent someone o
ver to audit him. Someone made a boo-boo, as Bernard might say. Gus showed him out."
"Bernard might say about what?" Bernard asked, rising up behind us as if from a cloud, clutching a drink. On the side of his glass was a cartoon of a turkey wearing a Pilgrim's hat. I couldn't remember the last time I'd seen Bernard drink, but knew I didn't want to recall. "Try as you might, you couldn't make it up. God must have made man in His own image, it's Thatcher's only excuse." Judging from his breath it was evident that he sipped from a refill. I wished he'd go away without my having to ask. "Have I offended sensibilities again? Silly me ..." he said. "Sweetness?"
"You didn't care if I knew beforehand?"
"Of course I did," he said. "You might have given away the game, had you known. Your poker face won't get you through the ante."
"I could have been killed."
"You could have been. You weren't. God has mercy on us all, doesn't He?"
His preoccupations were writ plain on his face; I let what he said slip away from my mind. "You believe these plots of his?" I asked. "With Otsuka? With Gus?"
"There's evidence, Joanna. If he hadn't shown me the ground of being for his beliefs I'd have never gone along. Sweetness, it's not professional to take this so personally-"
"Oh, fuck you, Bernard."
He lifted his glass; took a long swallow. "In dreams," he said, his voice trailing away.
"Thatcher means what he says?" Lester asked. Bernard examined him as he might a spider crawling across his desk.
"Depends on what time it is," he said. "Or the phases of the moon. Barometric pressure. Says about what?"
"Sinking Japan."
"I was never consulted on it."
"Do you think he's serious?" I asked, and watched as Bernard's expression sagged from grim into chopfallen, as if he were disappointed in me for having needed to ask.
"Apparently. Concern as to the little yellow people is still evident. This too, will pass. Excepting Susie D, his infatuations linger no longer than spring rain." He raised his hand, and pinched Lester's cheek. "Some, sooner than that. It'll pass. Everything passes ..."
"He should consider what he asks for before asking," said Lester.
"I've said as much." Bernard drained the remainder of his drink, letting the cubes slam against his lips, as if to punish in the midst of comfort. The ensuing pause held a deeper silence than one employed entirely for dramatic purpose. "Why would you care? You can't supply it, whatever he wants."
"Bernard, go away," I said. "If you're mad at Thatcher, don't take it out on us. I'm not sure why I'm even speaking to you, considering-"
"So don't." Turning from us he stumbled off, ambling toward the bar, giving signs of being embarrassed for what he'd later have to say.
"Bernard," I said, calling after him. He lifted his hand as if to shoo me away. "Bernard! Dammit-"
Lester moved closer to me, and whispered in my ear.
"Are you scared?"
"No," I lied.
"Me neither."
"It's unavoidable?"
He nodded. I slipped my arm through the crook of his, so that whichever of us was most tired might be supported by the other when we fell. With as little warning as when he entered the room Thatcher reappeared, throwing open the dining-hall doors and shouting:
"Happy holiday!"
The long table was so laden with tureens and casseroles, baskets and boats and bowls that the lace tablecloth was but barely visible. Between the candlesticks were five domed silver platters. The guests stampeded for their seats as if they'd been released from the starting gate under threat of fire.
"Don't shove," Thatcher said, failing to calm them. Susie rested, sipping from a tumbler, presiding over her side of the table, her duties of overseeing the galley slaves attended to for another year. Thatcher sat on her left, at the head of the table; Junior sat to his left. The room's high windows along the west wall allowed in late afternoon sunlight enough to wash every guest in gold.
"Everybody gets a drumstick this year," he said. A quintet of servants raised the domes, exposing the entree. Some of the younger children present started to cry; of the adults, all were too overcome to speak, save Thatcher. "Don't thank me. Thank the boys at Perdue. We've got the lead in genetic engineering now. Europe can go hang."
Each nut-brown carcass bore six drumsticks. A vision entered my mind, a scene revealing a parallel world: Squanto presenting Miles Standish with giant roasted spiders, welcoming the immigrants to American shores. The sails are ordered raised on the Mayflower, and the fresh green breast is left to its lessees.
"How do they walk?" Bernard asked, raising his drink as if to salute. If he'd imagined that liquor might still his tongue, he had no one to blame but himself.
"Don't think they ever leave their pens. I look like a farmer?" Thatcher tapped his spoon against his plate as if to make it shatter. "Those of us who are still alive have a lot to be thankful for. A moment of silence, please, for those who've eaten their last piece of pie." Hardly had we bowed our heads before his benediction continued. "A couple of years ago, I don't have to tell you, we were facing a gloomy forecast. Look around you today. Business in every area up three hundred percent." To ascend from nothing was guised, as ever, as achievement. "The troubles across the river are just about thrashed out. The new alliance you all've heard about with our Japanese brothers is signed, settled, and in effect."
Polite applause of the sort that accompanies an announcement that the recording secretary is retiring followed. Two dozen chairs creaked, and creaked again; no one could eat until Thatcher finished his spiel.
"In finding the future, let's not forget where we left the past," he said. "Let us remember the Pilgrims, who, in looking for a better life, landed at Jonestown-"
"Jamestown," said Susie.
"Plymouth!" Bernard said, his word exploding as he corrected his masters.
"Wherever the hell they landed," Thatcher continued, "it was a stern and rocky shore, and they were comforted then as we are ourselves, by our wealth of spirit and by our families-"
"Speak for yourself, John Alden." We didn't have to look to see who said it.
"What did they do when they landed?" Avi asked, shilling at an instant's notice; another requirement of the job.
"They ate, because they were hungry," Thatcher said, his mood for oratory dwindling. "Thanks, Lord." The ceiling, firstly, was blessed by his gaze; then he turned his eyes to Lester, anxious to cover all possibilities. "Let's eat."
Perhaps I had no appetite anymore; the turkey could have been smoked cotton, for all it held in taste or texture. I declined a drumstick, that another might be doubly sated.
"Thanks for seeing to dinner, darlin'," Thatcher said. Susie smiled and nibbled cottage cheese, taking one curd per bite. The strict diet she followed, that year, allowed her only white food; on her plate were several shades of pale, those of unflavored yogurt, cauliflower, cave-grown asparagus, and mashed potatoes. Most seated gourmandized as if they hadn't been fed for weeks. Neither Bernard nor Lester seemed any hungrier than I. Jake extended his scalpel, lifting his cup of tea.
"Dad," Junior said, looking toward his father, and not at him. "Bread me."
Thatcher stared into the middle distance, as if spotting an unlikely mirage. "Bred you to speak English," he said. "Want to try again?"
Junior's lips moved without accompanying sound; the impression lent was that he'd had his voice erased, and didn't realize it. "Bread, Dad," he repeated, attaining audibility. "Starching's essentialed."
"For shirts," said Thatcher. "You want biscuits?" Junior must have twitched even in sleep; for an instant he drew mimosa-like from the table; then, catching himself in the act of showing weakness, quickly leaned forward, bumping his chest against his plate, knocking his plate against his glass. The glass spilled, soaking the tablecloth. A servant ap peared, blotter in hand. "You got to be literate in the business world," said Thatcher; I could tell by his expression that he was trying not to laugh. "You ever goin
g to understand that?"
"World's postliterary, Dad-"
"Listen to Bernard when he talks," he said. "There's talking for you. One of these days you're probably going to be his boss, and how's it going to look if your subordinates sound better than you do?"
Bernard dropped his knife and fork onto his plate, his efforts at eating ended. He said nothing that I would have hoped he might say.
"Understood, Dad. Doubledone. No ifs or maybes."
"You fucking idiot," Thatcher said, rising from his seat, as if to take better aim. "Here's your goddamn biscuits. Don't bother to ask next time if you're not going to ask in English." He slung a wicker basket top-heavy with rolls toward his son; Junior threw up his arms to ward off the blow. The rolls shot through the room, bouncing off the table, the walls, off the other guests. No one but the Drydens behaved as if anything were amiss. "How the hell'd I wind up with a goddamn son so goddamn stupid he can't even talk good English?"
"Shut up, Thatcher." When anger rushed into Susie's spirit, her voice lowered until she sounded as if she'd been born to broadcast. "Won't you ever let him be?"
"You can only baby him so much. He's going to have to find out what a tough world this is, darlin'. He can't be as stupid as he looks-"
Junior could bear his parents' opinions no longer; without a word he leapt from his chair.
"Where you think you're going? Come back here, goddamn your ass-"
He tripped before he'd gone five feet, falling into one of the immovable house guards stationed around the table. Junior punched the man in the sides and stomach, flailing his fists to no evident effect; then, he dashed from the room.
"You have to speak to him in public like that?" Susie asked; anger increased her hunger, and her rate of intake, and within moments she was spooning food into her mouth as one starving. "In front of these people?"
