by Sloan, David
“Huskers dominate!”
“I know that one, honey, anything else?”
“Let’s see… gridlock in Congress, arson on Wall Street, death, death, death, and… crop failure in Thailand. Those are the main ones.”
“News is about as cheerful as today’s weather,” Regina remarked on her way to a sip of coffee. “So what are the headlines going to be next week?”
It was an old game that Regina played exclusively with Tucker. She had made sure that all of her boys knew what was going on in the world and had quizzed them regularly when they were young. But Tucker retained current events so easily that he got bored, so Regina changed the game: she began to make him guess what would show up in the next week’s paper and offered a dollar every time he got something right. She had to stop handing out money when he got to high school—he was cleaning her out—but it remained a tradition between herself and her youngest son. Tucker didn’t mind.
“Next week?” Tucker hesitated only long enough to finish his bite. “Next week Tucker Barnes watches eight more hours of basketball and blacks out after a Skyline Platter overdose.”
“Speaking of that, you get enough sleep last night? TV was on pretty late.” Henry joined them at the table and began rifling through the paper.
“Hey, I got more games in last night than I got in the whole first two days. This summit thing is taking up all my time.”
“You aren’t still making up schedules for that Dr. Tonkin, are you? Doesn’t he have people for that?”
“Yeah, but he’s been asking me to do a lot of background research for him, just little things that he doesn’t want to give the grad students, looking up stuff he can’t remember, that kind of thing. Like, he wants me to write a page on why the South Koreans decided to be neutral in the whole famine aid debate. I don’t think it will come up at the big State dinner tonight since none of the Koreans will be there, but he still wants to know. It won’t take long to write, but when he asks me to do a bunch of these things, it starts to add up.”
“But he’s paying you, right?” Henry asked.
“Yeah, he’s paying me.”
“And you’re gonna get free food at this dinner?” It was an article of faith among the Barnes men that free food was nearly sacred.
“It’s supposed to be barbecue. It might be good, if it isn’t fake barbecue.”
Henry raised an eyebrow over the edge of the newspaper. “It’s the Secretary of State, I’m sure he knows how to put on a good spread.”
“Not that he’s the one doing the cooking,” added Regina. “So, why is South Korea staying out of this?”
“Because they’re worried about the barbecue, too.” Tucker said slyly, Regina whacked him lovingly with the spoon. “I don’t know, I don’t think there’s a lot of public support in their country to get involved, and the president has his own problems. Tonkin says the U.S. wants them involved, and I think it might help if they were, but, you know, that’s how it is. Tonkin doesn’t think they’re committed enough to be helpful, anyway.”
“Then why is he having you write the paper?”
“Probably to prove that he’s right.”
“I see,” said Regina, who always took pride when her little boy said something smart. “When do you have to leave, honey?”
“Now,” Tucker said, swiping the last bite from his mother’s plate and narrowly avoiding her retaliatory swat. “Five minutes ago. Lena wants to meet this morning so she can try to get me in on her latest project.”
“So things are going well with you two, then?” His mom had finally come to her favorite subject.
“We had our ‘Drama-free February’. That was our deal. We’ll see how it is after March. This was when she dumped me last year. I wasn’t paying enough attention to her with all the games. She won’t like it this year, either.”
Tucker glanced over at his dad, expecting the typical wisecrack about how basketball was more important than girlfriends anyway. But Henry was absorbed in a pile of papers that showed crinkles and bends from being handled by worried hands. Looking back to his mom, Tucker saw her shake her head slightly.
“Okay, Dad, gotta go now.” Tucker’s voice sounded cheerier than necessary.
“OK, son, OK,” Henry lifted a hand without raising his head.
“You do good tonight,” Regina said, hugging him. “Don’t embarrass us in front of all those diplomats. We don’t want them going back to their countries talking smack about those darn Barnes.”
“Mom, they won’t even know I’m there.”
“That’s my boy,” she smiled. “I love you, sweetie.”
Tucker ran upstairs for his laundry and returned outside to find his car already running.
“Have to let these things warm up,” Henry said, stepping out of the driver’s side. “It pays to take care of them, especially in the winter.”
“Yeah, Dad, I know.”
“Well, I left some gas money for you in the cup holder. Remember to use premium.”
“Dad, you don’t have to give me money. Really, I don’t need it. You and mom—”
“Your mother and I are doing just fine,” Henry interrupted him. For a moment, the two men stared at each other silently. “You go focus on school and such and let us old folks take care of ourselves.”
There was no more room for argument. Tucker opened the car door and slid in as his dad stepped back.
“Oh, and don’t forget.” Henry, smiling a little, pointed to the side seat where he had placed his piece of the Eiffel Tower. Tucker hopped in behind the wheel. Then, waving good-bye to his dad, he drove off down the cold, straight road, his dad becoming smaller and smaller in his rear-view mirror.
* * * *
The barn on Secretary Maxwell’s ranch was anything but a barn. It was shaped like one and painted like one, but the wide red doors opened to row after row of round tables, each spread with fine linen tablecloths and set with wine glasses, candlesticks, and centerpieces made of small hay bales and corn husks. In the serving area, engraved silver chafers piled with food sat steaming on red-checked tablecloths, while a line of caterers stood in white shirts and ties to make sure the barbeque was served correctly. Tucker had actually grown up with a barn, and to him the room had the feel of an amusement park attraction. But it wasn’t his barn or his party, so he didn’t care.
Representatives from all over the Pacific coast of Asia began to gather at 6:30. Most were prompt, some tardy. The dinner was to mark the beginning of a four-day summit on Southeast Asian politics, so it was full of all the niceties and ceremonial good expressions that always prevailed before a tense, high-stakes political scrum. Delegates, aides, business leaders, and other guests were assigned seats that assured maximum diversity, and State Department staffers circulated tensely between tables making introductions and encouraging everyone to try the hors d’oeuvres. After all, it was a conference on bringing nations together, on unity, on the kind of diplomacy that would prevent a severe multinational military conflict. For Secretary Maxwell, the best way to begin achieving those goals was through well-orchestrated mingling over roasted corn on the cob.
Tucker had opted out of sitting next to the diplomats, much to his boss’s disappointment. Tonkin was always trying to get him more interested in international affairs as a career, but Tucker steadfastly resisted. It was a great job by undergraduate standards, but not what he wanted to do with his life. So, for the night, he found an empty seat at an empty table that was far enough away that he could watch the games on his phone—fully charged this time—and not bother anybody. And he would still get the free food.
As he leaned back, watching a tiny Syracuse player shoot a three-pointer in transition over a hapless Arizona defender, he felt someone walk up behind him. A hand patted his shoulder. He looked up to see a man not much older than him with a friendly, slightly familiar face and a plate of kabobs stacked haphazardly. A woman was close behind him. He couldn’t quite place them until the man spoke.
> “Tucker!” Richard O’Shea greeted, sitting down across from him. “You look much warmer.”
Despite Rick’s full plate, they looked like they had just entered in a hurry. They were slightly out of breath, and Abby’s hair was still staticky from a hat recently pulled off. But in that moment, they showed no hurry. They both settled into their seats, and Abby began to inventory her purse while Richard took a kabob in each hand and slid several pieces of meat into his mouth.
“Uh, are you guys supposed to be here? I thought it was no press tonight.” Tucker actually cared less about getting them in trouble than having to share his table. Now it would be harder to follow the games.
“Oh, we’re not press tonight,” Rick said offhandedly.
“What, so you used to be reporters and now you’re not?”
“Well, it comes and goes.” There was no sign that he wasn’t serious.
“Um… so what are you now?”
Rick glanced at Abby, who looked up from her purse to answer. “Attachés,” she said. “We’re representing a guest that wasn’t able to attend.”
Tucker didn’t know how to respond. They clearly weren’t attachés or reporters. He wondered if he should warn security, but nothing about them seemed dangerous. They were more like wedding crashers than spies, and they didn’t seem to warrant starting a commotion. But if they became more annoying…
“Don’t worry, Tucker, Maxwell knows we’re here. See? Look at all this food he gave us!” Rick brandished an ear of barbequed corn and grinned. “So enough about us. Who’s winning?”
“What?”
“The game—dude, I can see it on your screen. Is Arizona winning?”
Tucker took a deep breath and contemplated ignoring the man. But it was an irresistible part of his nature to talk about basketball.
“Arizona’s down 12 to with three minutes left.”
“Ha!” Abby was suddenly in the conversation, pointing her finger at an unsmiling Richard. A few people at the closest table turned to investigate. “Ha!”
“We have a little bracket bet between us,” Richard explained. “Arizona was in my Final Four.”
“That was stupid. What did you bet?” Tucker asked in spite of himself.
“The loser has to buy a freezer-full of Ben and Jerry’s ice cream,” Abby said gleefully. “And I’ve almost finished my winnings from last year.”
“Wait a second,” said Richard. “Why was that stupid? How could anybody see Syracuse over Arizona when Arizona went 10-0 to end the season and Syracuse is a 12-seed?”
“Because,” Tucker responded, “they have no perimeter ‘D’. They won games because they could run and block shots, but when teams shoot from outside, they panic, start to overplay men on the perimeter, and open themselves up. And Syracuse is all about the outside shot, so that’s what’s happening. You need to watch more SportsCenter, man.”
Rick sat back and picked up another kabob thoughtfully.
“So you knew Arizona would lose, huh?”
“Uh, yeah.”
“Huh.” Rick chewed and swallowed. “Just out of curiosity, how many games did you guess right in the first round?”
Tucker shrugged and smiled slightly. Rick was about to press more, but Secretary Maxwell stood up at the podium just then, looking authentically clichéd in his suit, string tie, and cowboy hat, holding up his hands for silence.
“Welcome, honored delegates and guests. On behalf of the United States of America and the great state of Nebraska, I want to express my deep and sincere appreciation that you have all gathered in a spirit of cooperation and goodwill to address the delicate and devastating circumstances facing the nations of Southeast Asia…”
Rick leaned over to Tucker as the Secretary droned on, whispering loudly, “Why are you smiling? Seriously, how many did you get right?”
“Shhh,” Abby hushed. “Rick, that’s rude.”
“Sorry,” whispered Rick. The Secretary continued.
“Tonight we will have the distinct honor of hearing from several individuals with tremendous knowledge and compassionate insight into the plight of the people living in this region. First, we will hear from Mr. Wol Pot, the honored ambassador from the Nation of Thailand. Mr. Wol Pot has demonstrated political courage and integrity in speaking out against the national and international gridlock that has prevented humanitarian aid from being delivered to starving citizens in his …”
Tucker’s phone vibrated, interrupting the silent streaming feed from the game. It was a text from Lena: Is Wol Pot speaking yet?
Tucker bent over his phone in the dim light, laboring over the smudged touch screen. Almost.
Another text. How soon?
He wrote back hastily. What u care?
Just tell me when, Lena sent back.
The Secretary was wrapping up his introduction at that moment: “…he has been tireless in petitioning foreign governments for aid and in speaking up for the suffering among his people. We would like to thank Mr. Pot for his presence here and welcome him now to the podium.”
Tucker noticed that the applause for Wol Pot was wild among some tables and non-existent at others. This would be a tough crowd to negotiate, and the old man looked somehow older and frailer as he stood to speak than he had just the day before.
“My esteemed—colleagues, my brothers and sisters in the world,” he began. “We are here to do good. But how does one do good? How can one do good when each path is dark and unknown? How can one do good when there are so many to lift and carry and so few to help?” Wol Pot’s voice trailed off, contemplative, and in that moment, Tucker remembered that Lena was waiting for his text. He pulled out his phone and pecked “now” as Wol Pot started speaking again. He would ask her why she wanted to know later.
“I understand that there is a great sports tournament underway in this country. I have a young friend with an interest in American sports. He has told me about something called a ‘Hail Mary’. It is my understanding that this is something done at the end, in desperation, something done with a prayer and a fool’s wish. After ten months of impasse and thousands of my countrymen on the brink of dying, I believe that it is time for a ‘Hail Mary’.”
Tucker looked around the room. Everyone, including the couple at his table, had their eyes riveted on the old ambassador.
“I find myself here,” continued the ambassador, “in a city named for the great Abraham Lincoln. I am here surrounded by a generous abundance of food in this hall. I am in one of the largest food-producing states in the richest country in the world. How does one do good in such a place?”
Bodies began to shift in chairs. Tucker noticed Rick put a half-eaten kabob down on the pile of empty skewers on his plate.
“At this very moment in which we are finishing an evening meal, hundreds of my people are dying of starvation. At this very moment in which we are enjoying cordial conversation, the world’s most powerful nations refuse to formally sit down together and agree upon a course of action. At this very moment when college basketball teams are facing each other in games, protesters are battling with the police in the beautiful streets of Bangkok. I ask you, my friends, how does one do good at such a time?”
Wol Pot’s voice had regained its strength, and he no longer looked frail. If anything, he looked resolute. Tucker glanced up at the Secretary of State, sitting behind Wol Pot. He had his hand slightly raised, about to signal an aide, apprehension on his face. Something very unexpected was happening.
“I would like to announce, at this time and in this place, I begin a hunger strike. Here, in this land, I will not eat until the mighty countries of China, Thailand, and the United States of America agree to come together for the poor of my country…”
The rest of his words were drowned out by a cacophony of scraping chairs and urgent chatter. Secretary Maxwell was issuing rapid-fire instructions to a tight circle of aides, and one of them had already pulled out a phone to take video footage of Wol Pot standing serenely at the podium, sur
rounded by a chaotic crowd. The next moment, Mongkut Thaifun rose to the ambassador’s side, whispered something, then pulled him back to sit down at the head table where, Tucker noticed for the first time, Wol Pot’s plate was completely empty.
“There go the Burmese,” Rick commented, watching a group of six men in collarless white shirts and longyis stalk out through the side door.
Abby stood up. “We should be going too,” she said to Rick.
“You’re leaving now?” asked Tucker.
“Nothing to see anymore,” Rick said, “and we didn’t get much sleep. Tell your boss to have fun!” They stood to go, but then Rick turned around again. “Seriously, how many…”
“None,” Tucker snapped. “I didn’t miss any. Now stop bothering me, I think I’m about to have stuff to do.” He stood, pocketed his phone as soon as there was a foul called, and walked over to Tonkin, who looked like the ceiling had crashed on his head.
* * * *
To Tucker’s relief, Tonkin didn’t need him anymore that night. The Secretary of State had called an impromptu meeting with the US and Thai delegations, and Tonkin had been asked to stay as a mediator for Wol Pot. Tucker had been allowed to go home, but his boss had made it clear that he would need a lot of help the next day. There was no point in Tucker mentioning that the next day was Sunday.
As he drove west on Route 6 toward downtown Lincoln, Tucker wondered about the old ambassador’s motives. The hunger strike was a gutsy move, no doubt, but it was hard to see how it would be an effective one. One drastic move usually led to another, and there were some big players in the conflict. The headlines next week could be pretty intense. He let the scenarios play out in his head until his thoughts drifted inevitably from international politics and into reflections on the shot selection and NBA readiness of certain college hoops players. If he hurried, he might make it home before the last game.
Lena. He suddenly remembered that he’d planned to call her and find out why she wanted to know when Wol Pot’s speech was starting. The speech wasn’t broadcast—she only knew about it because Tucker had mentioned it. He had mentioned it, right? She was probably lighting a candle for him or something. She did things like that. He voice-dialed her number and held his phone aloft in his hand.
