The Unfolding, page 16
Baldy talks like someone from the movies, like George C. Scott playing Patton. He would be Patton except that they’re in a strip mall somewhere near San Diego with their feet soaked, sanitized, and dried with sandpaper-rough towels now being manipulated by Korean women with jackhammer strength who squat with their asses floating two inches off the floor.
Baldy is in love with the sound of his own voice. “Continuity of government—COG. I always found that an odd turn of phrase. Like a cog in a machine, like those tourist stops where you put a penny in, turn the crank, and get your penny back, but now flattened with the face of Abe Lincoln looking like you made him into Silly Putty. In 1958 and 1959, Eisenhower sent letters of authorization to ten men giving them special powers in the event of a national emergency. These letters had no expiration date.” Baldy takes a long thin breath as the foot queen snaps each of his toes hard and fast in succession; it sounds like old-fashioned stove-top popcorn. “George Bush declared a state of emergency on September 14, 2001. When he did that, he set in motion the basis for five hundred dormant legal provisions—everything from censorship to martial law. They’ve never been made public. And here’s the big news, no one’s revoked that state of emergency. It’s all still in place. Right here, right now. We train for shit you don’t even dream about. Lone wolves, Waco, outer space shit crashing to earth, insects that no longer exist coming back to life, a spectrum of biological incidents—lettuce that can kill you in twenty-four hours, brain-eating amoeba, viruses that pass invisibly through the air two feet in front of you and can kill thousands of people a day. I know I’m not telling you anything that well-informed people don’t already know or suspect. Know that it is real—it’s not a question of if but when. It’s the when that we are ready for.”
“When the when comes, how will you know when it begins and what to do?”
Baldy laughs. “This is just the surface,” he says, gesturing to the world around them. “What’s key is what happens below. It’s the only way to get things done—in the dark. The best-laid plans can sour at any time. We remain vigilant. The minute you let down your guard—shit happens. It can be naturally occurring or man-made—a change of public sentiment. Any one thing or a series of things, a cascade, can trigger an unfolding. Civil unrest, riots. News spreads fast. So does dissent. People feed off one another, the vibe of discontent.”
“When do you let go of the kite string?” the Big Guy wants to know. “Who decides when you begin and when you’re done?”
“We are in a unique moment; the fact that we’re even having this conversation is unusual. We don’t discuss operations with civilians or anyone not already in the program.”
“This is an extraordinary time and none of us can be considered civilians anymore—we are all in this army.”
“Aww,” Baldy says, with a voice usually reserved for throwing candy to children at parades. “What a lovely thought, all of you in an army. But it’s not like a marching band you can buy with your loose pocket change.”
“Billions,” the Big Guy says, insulted. “Our loose change is billions.”
“It’s like finger cymbals on a belly dancer. We’re talking about a ten-layer plan that’s been in the works since the day we dropped the bomb on Japan.” He catches himself. “What am I even saying? It’s not ten layers anymore—we’re easily up to fifteen, twenty-four, or more. We’ve got layers on layers. After 9/11, we added so many more layers that you’d be hard-pressed to find any one man who knows what really goes into the mix. That’s the beauty of it, always a little bit of a question mark.” He lifts up both arms as if to say, Look Ma, no hands. “Who is driving the bus?”
“That is among our questions. When the when comes, who will be at the helm?” the Big Guy asks. “What can we do for you? How can we ensure that when the moment comes the wind doesn’t blow the whole show south?”
“We don’t typically work with civilians, but there is certainly historic precedent. The Eisenhower Ten were scions of industry, communication, and banking. It’s helpful to know that there are men willing to serve. For those of us doing the work, sometimes it feels too insular. There are times I’ve wondered whether I was making the whole thing up, like a giant novel written in the sky.”
“I hear you. My group has interests in a variety of areas and is keen to be of use. Who is your commander?”
“I can’t answer,” Baldy says.
On cue, a Korean woman comes in with a large plate of steamed dumplings. The pile of bean husks has disappeared and a dish of brown sauce has appeared along with two sets of wooden chopsticks. Baldy separates his sticks, rubs them together so fast and fierce, sawdust flies. He pinches a dumpling, dunks it in the sauce, and pops it into his mouth. “So good,” he says, breathing out the steam and quickly popping more into his mouth. Speaking in Korean, he asks the woman what kind of dumplings they are. “Homemade,” the woman says in perfect English. “Wild mushroom. I picked them myself.”
“Fuck me,” Baldy says. “The one thing I’m allergic to.” He whips an EpiPen out of the side pocket of his cargo pants, slaps it down on the table, and starts checking his pulse against his watch. “It’s nothing to worry about until my heart stops.”
The Big Guy is sweating. Sweat trickles down his head, forms tributaries over his ears, the sides of his nose, and then rivers down his back into his pants. Minutes pass; everyone is focused on the second hand of Baldy’s Rolex Milsub. The Big Guy isn’t into “stuff,” but he knows watches.
Suddenly, down the narrow hall comes the woman in red carrying two cups from the carry-out across the street. She hands the Big Guy one of the cups.
“You okay?” she asks Baldy, putting the other drink in front of him.
He takes his fingers off his carotid artery, abandoning the pulse check.
“Either I’m not allergic anymore or the mushrooms weren’t really wild.”
A sigh of relief. The Big Guy takes a long pull on the red straw sticking out of the cup. Vanilla milkshake. For a second, he thinks it’s the original milkshake, but that’s impossible, it would have melted by now. This one is fresh and thick with ice cream crystals that melt on his tongue.
The woman in red looks at the Big Guy, her face stricken. Is something wrong? Is he being poisoned? He feels fine, but there’s something odd about her expression. “I’m so sorry,” she says. “I couldn’t help it.” He looks at the drink and sees that the red straw has the darker red imprint of her lipstick.
“It looked so good, I had to have a little taste.”
“No worries,” he says, taking another long pull on the straw, cold and creamy and as perfect as perfect can be.
“So, we’re good?” Baldy says.
“I’m good if you’re good,” the Big Guy says—lost in a boner and brain freeze.
“Do you have any singles?” Baldy asks him.
For a moment, he’s distracted; is Baldy asking if he’s single?
“Singles,” Baldy repeats. “Dollar bills? Greenbacks?”
The Big Guy checks his wallet. Nothing smaller than a hundy.
“Forget about it.” Baldy passes him a couple of dollars.
“What’s this for?”
“The valet out front.” Baldy slides him a parking ticket. “I don’t think you’re going to want to walk all the way back to Denny’s. Your shake will melt.”
“That’s it?” the Big Guy says. “We’re done?”
“For now.”
When he goes outside, the valet appears with his car. He gives the guy the two bucks and gets in.
He stops to get the car washed on the way back to Palm Springs. He stands watching through the glass as the car is pulled through the machine, foam wash, wheel cleaning, wax. As he watches, he’s sucking up what’s left of the shake, the red-and-white paper straw now a limp wet noodle between his lips.
When they’re vacuuming the car, they find something and give it to him.
“Button?” they ask. It looks like a cross between the brass button from a woman’s coat and a coin from a foreign country. It’s not something he’s seen before, not off his blazer or Charlotte’s coat. It’s a bug; they planted a bug in his car. He takes it from the guy, goes to the men’s room, and flushes it down the toilet.
When he gets home, Bo is waiting in his driveway, sitting in his car, blasting the AC even though it’s a beautiful seventy-three degrees outside.
“So, how’d it go?”
“Sew buttons,” the Big Guy says. “Weirdest fucking meeting I ever had. It was like fucking Apocalypse Now. Was it all a ruse, a stress test to see how I responded? A psychological car wash? What was the vanilla milkshake about, a temptation offered, then removed, and then delivered? Was it my reward for jumping through weird-shit hoops?”
“Slow down, old man. I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Bo says.
“You set me up. I jump through a thousand hoops, turn right, turn left, knock twice, code name Twinkle Toes, to sit down with this wackadoo who tells me that basically he’s been asked—I assume by you—to peel me down off the walls, to offer reassurance from the ‘highest levels’ that things are well in hand. Stand down and thanks but no thanks.”
“What did you expect?”
The Big Guy snorts. “What did I expect?” He pauses. “I have no fucking idea, but it wasn’t what I got. I sound fucking insane and I suspect they bugged my car.”
“I bugged your car,” Bo says.
The Big Guy looks at him—WTF?
Bo shrugs.
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“It’s supposed to show you how much I care,” Bo says. “Seriously, did you think that you could actually walk in there and say, ‘Oh hey, General, my buddies and I are unhappy with the way things shook out and we’re wondering if we can partner with you and—you know—flip the switch.’ This isn’t some kind of upside-down Banshee or Montu roller coaster. You can’t just walk into the military and go wink, wink, I know and you know that there’s a secret ‘other’ room and I want to do business in it.”
The Big Guy shrugs. “I’m not used to hearing no.”
“What if he’d said yes? What if he said, ‘You bet, we’ve been waiting for a guy like you to come along. How about I stop by your place on Wednesday night and we figure it out?’ Would you think he was a man you want to be in business with? Would you trust him? You don’t know him. He doesn’t know you. These things take time. The meeting went well. You got what you wanted; you wanted him to tell you to fuck off. You wanted him to tell you—it’s not going to happen, there’s no place for men like you in our world.”
“Interesting,” the Big Guy says.
“Now you’re on his radar and you can bet he’s gonna be watching you. He’s gonna figure out if you’re serious or not—Rome wasn’t built in a day.”
“Yeah, but it burned pretty fast.” He pauses.
“If it’s going to happen, you want him to come to you, to think it was his idea to invite you to the party. Let them think the wheel is their invention.”
“Smart,” the Big Guy says. “Question for you. When you called it Operation Twinkle Toes, did you know I was going to have to take my socks off and let some lady rub my feet so hard that I doubt I’ll be able to walk tomorrow.”
“No,” Bo says. “I called it Operation Twinkle Toes because something about the way you move reminds me of Fred Flintstone. Remember when Fred and Barney would go bowling?”
The Big Guy shakes his head no.
“Fred would go down the lane on his tiptoes trying to be light on his feet. The sound was a rapid tinkle of the piano keys?” Bo looks at the Big Guy; still nothing. “When we were all here and you ran across the patio and jumped into the pool, it reminded me of Fred Flintstone. To me you are—Twinkle Toes.”
“I need a drink,” the Big Guy says. “You staying in your car or coming in?”
The two men go into the house; the Big Guy makes them both a drink. The booze is disgusting, weak, watered-down. “I might actually cry,” the Big Guy says.
“I’m happy to take you out and buy you a drink.”
“I don’t care about the drink. I had a milkshake with the General. I’m just sad. Sad.”
Bo gives him a big bear of a hug.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
McLean, Virginia
8:30 p.m.
“Is now a good time?” the Big Guy asks, when Meghan answers the phone.
“Sunday night study hall—doing homework.”
“You’ve always been first-rate at that,” he says.
“My whole life you’ve been telling me that my job is going to school and that I had to work my way up the ladder so of course I’m good at it.”
“Fine thing,” he says. “And the horse is well?”
“Still skittish about the woods. The trainer and I have been going on some rides together. Ranger picked up on my stress, which has stuck with him.”
“Keep at it,” the Big Guy says. “One foot after another, sometimes that’s all you can do.” There’s a pause. “I have some news.” He clears his throat. “It can’t have escaped you that your mother . . .” Another long pause.
“You okay?”
“Fine. I meant to lead with that. We’re fine. Everything is going to be okay.”
“That’s good,” Meghan says, unconcerned until now.
“What I’m trying to talk about, not very successfully, is drinking. Your mother’s drinking.”
“Vodka?” Meghan asks. She’s not entirely clear about why he called; did he call to tell her that her mother drinks?
“Yes. Vodka.”
“She told me the reason she drinks vodka is because it has the lowest calories.”
“Fascinating,” the Big Guy says. “I thought she drank vodka because it doesn’t really taste like anything. But the point is, the reason she drinks, it’s not about the calories. She has used alcohol to help her manage her days and it’s clearly not helping. There is something I need to tell you.”
“Okay.”
“After the disappointment of the election, she made a big decision to seek help.”
There’s another long silence.
“I don’t mean to be weird, but I’m not sure what you’re saying.”
“Your mother is an alcoholic. She’s gone into treatment at the Betty Ford Center. It’s one of the best places in the country for this kind of thing.” The tension in his voice ratchets up. He stops and takes a deep breath. “You might remember we spent some time with the Fords years ago when you were little. The father, Gerry, was VP under Nixon and took over the presidency after Dick resigned, a thankless job if there ever was one. And Betty, she was the powerhouse; God bless her for coming forward with her problems. Do you remember years ago when we went over to their house? It was Easter. Their son, Jack, was visiting with his boys.”
“I’m not sure,” Meghan says. “Mostly, if I think about going to visit people, I remember you and Mom being nervous in the car before we went to anyone’s house and Mom checking to make sure my dresses were long enough and my shoes were clean. Also my nails—she always checked my nails.”
“Your mother cares a lot about how she’s seen.”
“She was worried about how drinking made her look?”
“She’s concerned about her privacy, about what people know about her or that she’s being judged by others. It’s important to her that others see her in a good light.”
“So, this Betty Ford, is it like a hospital? Is she locked up on a psych ward? Last fall a girl here took some kind of drug and had to be tied to an office chair in the infirmary until they could get her to the hospital. She kept saying she was God and the nurse on duty kept saying, ‘God is a man and you’re a lovely young girl,’ which aggravated the girl even more.”
“She’s not on a psych ward. Your mother’s not crazy.”
“Is she on an IV?”
“I don’t think so. My understanding is that it’s a good environment for people who have this issue. They talk to one another about what drives them to drink and how to handle things differently.”
“This was something she wanted to do? She’s not usually big on talking about problems.”
“It was what she needed to do,” the Big Guy says, trying to get things back on track.
A long pause. “Was she driving drunk?” Meghan asks.
“No, she’d never do that. She never wanted to put anyone in danger. Things got to a certain point and she had to take action. The reason I’m telling you is that it will affect Thanksgiving. We won’t be making our usual trip to be with you, which is disappointing, but I talked with Tony and he’s going to have you join him in DC. You’ll probably have a lot more fun with him than being with your mother and I in a hotel somewhere.”
“Your mother and me, that’s how you’re supposed to say it; your mother and I is not grammatical.”
“Well, fancy that you know something I don’t,” the Big Guy says. “It’s pretty cheeky of a kid to correct her father. I suppose I should be glad you’re a confident young woman. Speaking of which, are you in good shape with your college applications?”
“It’s a work in progress,” she says.
“If there’s anything I can do, let me know.”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Yes.”
“Were you born in Delaware?”
“In Wilmington,” he says. “You do know that Delaware was the first state?”
