“I mean, again?”
“You hear Nate in his room: ‘Mommy, I’m awake now. I opened my eyes up now.’”
“Well, the other day he said, ‘Daddy, my eyes are opened up now,’” I responded, trying to coax Mauru into getting Nate.
“Still not gonna get up and get him ready, Jan. Not my week. Why did we have kids again?”
“You said you wanted eleven—”
“A football team, babe. We’ll call them the Virdis Sardinians—”
“You’ve got the jokes. Are you gonna carry eleven kids? And none of my kids is going to have head injuries—”
“All my kids are going to play football—”
“With their dad, sure. But not eleven and—”
“My eyes are opened, Mommy!” Nate said.
I went to Nate. Jon walked up to me and said I didn’t love him. I was tired, and I didn’t want to convince my son that I loved him. He stared at me. “Mom, you don’t love me. Why?”
“Of course, I love you, Jon. Just let me change Nate’s diaper. OK, sweetie? Of course, I love you.”
“But why is he still wearing a diaper when he’s four already? You said he was stopping, Mom. And why don’t you want to make me breakfast today? If you love me.”
“Nate’s not yet four, Jon. And Dad’s making your breakfast today, Jon.”
“But Dad always makes breakfast, and you only like Nate.”
I shook my head. “Um, Mauru, can you just—”
“In the shower, babe.”
“Argh, Jon, just hold on. Nate’s crying. Give me a second. Mommy loves you.”
When Mauru got out of the shower, he made breakfast as I got both Jon and Nate ready.
Jon commented on everything.
He didn’t like the blue sweater I’d selected because it was “the wrong color, Mom.” He wanted the orange one.
“OK, Jon.”
He’d made up his own word for windows, “look,” so he wanted me to “look at the ‘look’ because you can see the sun through the ‘look,’ Mom.”
“Right, the sun is shining through the ‘look,’ Jon.”
His best friend’s name was Lee, and Lee was kind to everyone at school because Lee’s dad told him to be kind.
“Right, Jon. It’s important to be kind to everyone because people like kind people. Are you kind to Lee, Jon?”
“Sometimes, Mom.”
“Raise your hands so that Mommy can put your orange sweater on.”
“But I want the blue one now, Mom.”
“No, the orange one, Jon. Mommy’s also got to take a shower for work.”
I finally got Jon ready, and he stared out the ‘look.’
Nate had his own questions.
“Mom, why is Jon calling the window a ‘look?’ Jon does what he wants, Mom. Dad said it. He said it, Mom. Ask him. Dad! Dad! Jon is calling the window a ‘look.’”
I took them both to the kitchen and fed them. I took a quick shower and got ready for work. How I wished we could afford some help!
As we put Jon and Nate in their car seats, Jon wanted the car’s ‘looks’ open because Nate was stinky. Jon was seven years old and still enjoyed coming up with his own words for things, which he thought he’d invented. A fork was a “prickly,”a rug was a “softy,” and a TV was a “talkie”; I didn’t even ask.
“Nate’s stinky,” Jon said again.
“He’s not stinky, buddy. He just passed gas. He’s human,” Mauru said.
“But I want the ‘looks’ open, Dad.”
“OK, buddy. ‘Looks’ open.”
“Where’s Mom?” Nate asked.
I was in my car, fastening my seat belt as Mauru prepared to take the kids to school and day care.
“Naughty Mom!” Nate shouted. “Naughty Mom! Mom ran away. Catch her, Dad! Catch Mom!”
I reminded Mauru that I’d be working overtime since Jeremiah Trehoviak of the California Water Party was holding his fundraiser that evening at my job. The 2038 election was only eighteen months away, and Wagon, Shui & Xebec, my employer, wanted to cash in on the rising political party that was always in the news.
Hearing me say that the CWP was coming to my job, Mauru shook his head and frowned. I smiled and said, “They pay me well enough, so I put up with it, babe.”
He tried to smile.
I loved Mauru’s smile.
It was like the first ray of light in the cool early morning. You waited for it, and when it came, you realized you were in the right place. Mauru winked at me. I tried to wink back, but I always ended up closing both eyelids at once as if I were fighting off sleep.
“Mom loves you,” I said to Jon and Nate as I kissed them on the forehead and wished them and Mauru a good day.
My workplace, Wagon, Shui & Xebec (WS&X), was a relatively new general litigation firm founded in San Diego, in 2027. Larry Wagon, Amandine Shui, and Andrew Xebec had all been associates and partners at the same multinational law firm in Los Angeles. They decided to move down to San Diego, where they were all from.
There was an opening at their new law firm. Mom got me the interview through a friend of hers, who had just been hired as the head of billing. I was a natural, Larry said, comparative literature degree from the University of the Finger Lakes and all.
The profits per partner at the Los Angeles firm were several million a year. At WS&X, Larry, Amandine, and Andy were making a little less, but were thrilled to have their own firm.
“Not too shabby,” Larry said, “for a bunch of kids from Escondido. My doctor always tells me to keep my stress in check. But I don’t have any stress, Janet. I make other people’s lives stressful. Just ask Hannah. Ha-nnah!”
Hannah, the gifted associate, rolled her eyes as she walked briskly past my desk, sighed, and smiled at Larry. “Hey, Larry. What’s up?”
“Hannah, guess who I saw at Sequoia & Birch last night?”
“Wow, Larry, you got a reservation at Sequoia & Birch?”
“Yeah.” Larry nodded. “That’s how I roll. Three Gourmet Critics of America awards and all. Anyway, Gourmet Critics of America is overrated. Everyone loves me at Sequoia & Birch. They love me. The owner, Michelle, comes over to my table each time I go there and gives me drinks on the house. Everyone loves me there. When my mom died, they sent flowers and shit.”
“Wow, Larry.”
“Anyway, guess who walked in when I was at Sequoia & Birch?”
“Um, Eleanor Roosevelt. No, sorry, she’s dead, Larry. Sorry, I’m not trying to be cute.”
“Almond fucking Leather, that’s who!”
“No! I love them, Larry. Almond Leather are so famous right now. Their song, ‘Momma Is King’ is so much fun—”
“They probably knew who I was because they waved at me.”
“Wow, Larry. I would have—”
“Anyway, I ignored them because I was trying Michelle’s newest menu item. Michelle was awesome. Sautéed frog legs, tripled-churned umami New Zealand butter curls, and a marmalade sauce with swollen blackberries and pumpernickel flakes. They’re even talking of making a documentary about her, and I told Michelle they should call it Michelle’s Magic Touch.”
“Wow, Larry—”
“Last night was fucking awesome, Michelle! I mean, ‘Hannah.’ But Michelle’s not putting frogs on the menu because she’s worried about the environmental crazies, who want us to go back to simpler meals that have a” [Larry used air quotes for what followed] “‘more modest water footprint since frogs live in water, and there’s a collapse in frog populations.’ Fuckers!”
“Oh—”
“Yeah, they’re fuckers, Hannah! Plain old fuckers! This is why I wanted to talk to you. Tonight, I want you to introduce Jeremiah Trehoviak at the fundraiser we’re holding for him. We’ve been preparing for this event for years, and it’s finally all coming together tonight. I can’t introduce Trehoviak because I had a long night last night. You know, triple-churned umami New Zealand butter curls and all that. Our guests are all
paying $5,000 a seat, and we want to rake the business in.
“I’ve already told you and Janet that the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court is coming, the Speaker of the House, several US senators, four justices on the California Supreme Court, lots of influential Hollywood types and businesspeople. It’s about business, Hannah. More business means bigger bonuses, and although I couldn’t give a damn about the environment because global warming is for the poor, and I’m not the poor kid I once was, I do care about my kids’ future and about my ability to buy gifts that keep my girls happy. You get me?”
“Right, Larry. How long do you want the introduction to be?”
“Want me to tell you everything, Hannah? How about I hold your hand while you pee? Or do you want me to hand-deliver your lunch and dinner for you? I pay you $300,000 a year, Hannah, excluding bonuses, so that I never ever have to think for you.”
“Right, Larry, I’ll have an introduction ready within the hour.”
“Forty-five minutes. We have two other clients coming in this morning. One at 10 and the other at 11:15. The office is going to be pretty hectic today, and Janet’s going to be busy.”
“Sure, Larry. I’ll have it ready in forty.”
The phone interrupted my eavesdropping on Larry’s and Hannah’s conversation, which I always recounted to Mauru after we put the kids to bed.
“Larry Wagon’s office. This is Janet.”
“Hi, Janet, this is Mary-Ellen Felix from Jeremiah Trehoviak’s office. How are you today?”
“Good, thank you. How are you, Mary-Ellen?”
“Thank you for asking, Janet. Larry said we should call you directly. We’re looking forward to the fundraiser tonight in your conference room, which we understand can hold up to 150 people?”
“Right. We also use it for mooting cases and for business functions.”
“That’s great, Janet. We’re having our people come over to your offices in the next half hour. We’ll sweep all seven floors of your building one last time for any security threats. That’s at 10 a.m. At 10:30, members of our team will be talking to a few members of your staff we’ve identified as possible security threats to Mr. Trehoviak and his guests. Some of your team members have been putting stuff on social media that makes us concerned about them, Janet. Larry’s approved sending them home for the day, and you’ll see them again tomorrow.
“At 11:15 a.m., our team will do a walk-through of the conference room. They will sweep it again for any security threats just before the guests arrive this evening. There will be sniffer dogs on the premises. Nothing to worry about. We understand that there are three very large rectangular windows in the conference room and three exit doors.”
“That’s right. Yes.”
“We have those secured.”
“As part of our process, Janet, you’ll understand that we run multiple background checks on everyone who will come into contact with Mr. Trehoviak and his guests, including details about family members.”
“Right. Larry mentioned that.”
“Great, Janet. We understand that your husband is Mauru Whitaker Virdis, born in Nashville, Tennessee on January 5, 2001, to Giulio and Anna Virdis now of Sacramento, California. Mauru Whitaker Virdis is a high school history teacher at St. Martin de Porres, a private school in San Diego, and he’s a registered independent.”
My heart was beating so fast I thought I might pass out.
“Is Mauru OK? Is he OK? Did something happen to him?”
“He’s OK, Janet. We’re just double-checking that anyone who has any contact with Mr. Trehoviak and his guests is not a security threat. It’s for everyone’s safety.”
“OK. Mauru’s OK, though?”
“He is, Janet. These are just the security protocols we discussed with the partners of your law firm if they’re to host Mr. Trehoviak and his guests tonight. It’s for everyone’s safety. Shall we continue? Your name is Janet Whitaker Virdis, born January 2, 2000, in Cortland, New York. You and Mauru have two children, Jonathan Whitaker Virdis, born March 9, 2030, and Nathan Whitaker Virdis, born August 3, 2033, both in San Diego, California. You’re a registered independent.”
“Why do you guys need to know this stuff about my husband and my kids?”
“It’s for everyone’s safety, Janet. If you look into Hannah’s office right now, you’ll see she’s also on the phone. We are verifying publicly available and other gathered information for everyone who will be in contact with Mr. Trehoviak and his guests. Again, we have your employer’s permission to have this discussion with you. It’s for everyone’s safety.”
“Sounds illegal, if you asked me.”
“But it’s not, Janet.”
“Right. I’m sorry. Personal safety and all. I understand.”
“Right, Janet. You’re now approved to participate in tonight’s dinner. You’ll see our people throughout the building today. We’re taking everything from here. We understand you’ve helped make the arrangements for tonight’s event.”
“Right. I discussed everything with Larry, Amandine, and Andy.”
“We’ll take it from here, Janet. Mr. Trehoviak looks forward to thanking you in person for your time, Janet. The California Water Party needs your advice and help. Please join us.”
The call ended. Hannah walked to my desk.
“They called you too, Janet?”
I nodded.
“Trehoviak’s dangerous,” Hannah whispered. “I’ll never vote for him. He’s the coltan king. He’s pillaged the mines in Africa and has blood on his hands. Just disgusting. And he’s shorter than James Madison, so you can imagine what kind of ego the man has. And yet people like him. That’s the crazy thing. People like assholes who clean up nicely. Trehoviak has the California Bear Foundation, which says it provides thousands of scholarships each year to inner-city kids across the country.
“His Foundation also says it’s been fighting malaria in Africa, and now he’s talking of providing potable water to everyone in Africa by 2055. They’re probably going to fail on that. And they’re also exploiting people at San Ysidro. Have you read their seven postulates about morals and water? Well, I can smell a dangerous man from a mile away, and Trehoviak’s dangerous, Janet. Trehoviak’s bad news.”
Before I could answer, Hannah told me not to read the CWP’s seven postulates.
“Crap,” she said. “Just BS.”
“Ha-nnah!”
“Yes, Larry.”
“Have you finished the introduction?”
“I was just asking Janet,” Hannah said, “if she could check something quickly about those seven wonderful little postulates of the California Water Party, Larry. I need to get it right.”
Larry nodded.
“If Trehoviak gets elected or his party wins, I’m moving back to Cleveland,” Hannah whispered as she left my desk. “I won’t be part of what comes next.”
At 9:59 a.m. precisely, two impeccably dressed CWP women came by my desk and thanked me for everything I had done to facilitate Jeremiah Trehoviak’s visit. They gave me a box of white chocolate truffles, a bouquet of proteas, and a bottle of . . . Chartreuse.
I shook my head in bewilderment and thanked them for the gift. Then came two men in those really expensive green double-breasted wool blazers I had seen Mike wear when he visited us with Granite. The men also wore a thin green tie with the letters “CWP” embroidered on it, a white cotton shirt, green slacks, and loafers with green socks; this was their uniform.
“Janet.” They shook my hand one after the other. “Mr. Trehoviak thanks you for your time. Please join us.”
Within an hour, there were about fifty of Trehoviak’s people on the premises, and clients were impressed by how unobtrusive they were, how polite, and how well-dressed. Some clients giggled and asked if it was all a gag. I told them these were our clients from the California Water Party, headed by Jeremiah Trehoviak, and he was coming in for a dinner with some important people.
“What a nut,” one of them said. “The
guy’s cray-cray. Ever seen him bang his fists into the podium as he talks? You guys should be careful about welcoming him into your home.”
“The Water Party’s harmless,” I said as Larry looked directly at me and shook his head.
“My grandma always said that harmless is one short stop before harmful,” another client retorted. “We think the world of Larry, Amandine, and Andy, but Trehoviak’s a nut.”
What people didn’t know, and I could have lost my job for revealing it, was the identity of all the people coming to dinner. We’d had security personnel on the premises a few days after the dinner was announced months before, to interview people and examine the premises. Larry told me not to mention anything to anyone, including Mauru, until the event was over, so I kept quiet.
Amandine Shui, whom I liked a lot, used her contacts in the state legislature to get four of the seven justices on the California Supreme Court to attend. Amandine said she’d merely called in “a few favors from dear old friends, Janet.” The firm paid for the justices’ dinners and for the ethics opinion clearing their attendance at the fundraiser.
Larry used his own contacts to get both US senators from California to attend, as well as the US senators from Arizona, Colorado, Nevada, New Mexico, and Texas. Each of their campaigns received the maximum permissible donation under recent law from Larry, Amandine, and Andy in their individual capacity. Their national parties also received the federal maximum.
Since Larry maintained an apartment on the premises in which he met with his mistress, Michelle Birch of Sequoia & Birch Restaurant, the argument was made that all the senators could receive their dinners as free gifts under Senate Rule 35.1(c)(6), which allows senators to receive food and lodging offered at the residence of the individual extending the invitation; the “hospitality” exemption from Senate rules on gifts under federal law.
The stronger argument, Larry, Amandine, and Andy agreed, was under Senate Rule 35.1(c)(2), which relates to attendance at a campaign or political event, which the fundraiser for the California Water Party clearly was. The CWP picked up the cost of first-class airfares and five-star accommodation for the senators during their time in California.
Andy pulled his family’s Washington contacts to have Chief Justice Barryman Waldis Cathay of the Supreme Court of the United States attend, as well as the Speaker of the House, Raphael Imaga of Alabama. Ahead of the dinner, Chief Justice Cathay had twenty-two cartons of his autobiography, A Life of Stellar Service, delivered to WS&X so that his publisher could sell personally autographed copies.
Sands Rising Page 9
