The Unfolding, page 20
“A what?” Peggy asks.
“Immersion,” the woman says. She makes a back-and-forth hand gesture that in another setting could mean something very different.
“Really?” one of the guests says.
“Like a vibrator?” Peggy asks.
“I’ll tell you later,” the woman says, laughing.
Eyes roll all around the table. Meghan feels a rush of what her mother calls “social anxiety.” She’s never felt it until now.
“Good shoes,” the woman sitting next to her says.
“Oh, thank you,” Meghan says. “I’m at a funny age where I have big feet and don’t want to wear little-kid shoes, but I also don’t want to look too ‘available,’ as my mother calls it.”
The woman laughs. “I’m at a funny age too. I need to look serious and feminine, but I have to be able to run down the hall very fast and navigate marble stairs.”
Meghan laughs and glances at the woman’s place card, Ms. Rice.
“They talk about the glass ceiling, but no one talks about marble stairs. It’s very hard to move quickly and gracefully especially when there are people watching you.”
Farther down the table, one of the guests who has been drinking a lot asks William, “Did you make these biscuits?”
“I did not,” William says.
“I thought you were a boy who likes biscuits?”
“Let’s not start,” Peggy says. “Not tonight, Charlie.”
The man presses on. “I am just curious. I bet you are pleased about the election. Your time has come.”
“Charles, there is a name for what you are doing,” William says. “And why would you do that here at a holiday meal with your good friends?”
“Here we go,” the woman next to Meghan says. “Charles is poking the bear.”
As the voices escalate, the men in suits move farther into the room. Meghan noticed them before; neither sat at the table; they were hovering near the front door and the kitchen.
“Secret Service,” the man next to her whispers. He’d been talking with the woman on his left until now.
Interesting, Meghan thinks. Why are Secret Service people at Thanksgiving dinner?
The woman beside her keeps talking as if intentionally trying to distract Meghan from what is happening at the other end of the table. “My parents were very involved in their church. My father was a preacher. Thanksgiving was and remains my most favorite holiday. My mother made wonderful candied yams and pecan pies.”
She smiles at Meghan, a lovely warm smile.
“I go to church every Sunday,” Meghan says, leaving out the fact that it’s required.
Meanwhile, Meghan is picking up snippets from the other end. “Your hostility is more pointed than usual, Charles,” William says.
“Do you have a favorite teacher?” the woman asks Meghan.
“Ms. Adams.”
“Having one great teacher can change your life. Never take other people’s no as definitive. A lot of people will tell you what you can’t do for one reason or another. Be your own guide.”
Meghan’s discomfort grows. On the one hand, the woman next to her is trying to distract Meghan from what is some kind of race-related incident at the other end of the table. On the other hand, it makes it hard to focus on what is happening.
“For twenty-eight years I was a Democrat, and then I ‘converted.’ The downfall of the Russian government was a pivotal moment for me,” the woman says.
The turtle tureen seems to be shaking, but it might just be the rising timbre of voices.
“You people think you can own the world,” Charles says.
William shakes his head as if to ask, When is enough enough?
“You may be excused, Charles,” Peggy says, looking deeply unsettled.
Meghan notices that Tony is standing behind William. Tony puts his hands on William’s shoulders to both calm and confirm. The gesture is at once familiar and intimate. Meghan is struck with the sudden awareness that William is Tony’s boyfriend.
“I have known Tony for more than twenty years,” the man beside her whispers. “That is the first gesture of public affection I’ve ever seen. He’s like James Bond, enigmatic, sexy, unpossessable.”
Meghan can’t swallow. She can’t think. “Excuse me,” she says, getting up from the table. She makes her way into the hall in time for Charles to blow past her as he is leaving. Her equilibrium is off; every fluid in her body is shifting, the bottom falling out, the Thanksgiving meal rising in the back of her throat. The bathroom is occupied so she goes farther down the hall into a small library. She stares at the bookcases. William is Tony’s boyfriend. Tony is gay. “Dedicated bachelor,” that’s what her mother says. She must know. They must know. How did she not know?
There is a bar in the library, heavy crystal glasses on a mirrored tray. She pours herself a glass of vodka. It tastes like a cleaning product, like something you’d use in the event of an emergency to dissolve grease and grime. There is nothing about it that says Drink me. But she does. She drinks the whole glass, then carefully sets the glass back in place and returns to her seat and has another biscuit with butter before the cakes are served.
“Football,” the woman sitting next to her says. “That’s what we always used to play after Thanksgiving supper. My father was a football coach as well as being a preacher. We would all go outside and play ball, even the girls.”
When Meghan gets home, she writes another letter to the dead girl’s parents.
Dear Mr. and Mrs. XXXXXX,
Things are not what they seem. This might not be news to you. But to me it is a great awakening. The things that I took to be “truths self-evident” are not truths at all. These are ideas that I grew up believing that were indoctrinated into my thinking as truth—it was part of the narrative, part of the story of my life, a story that fit so well that I believed it without question. But it turns out the story is larger and more complex than those around me are willing to admit. Lies. Untruths. This awakening has made clear to me that much of what I took to be fixed as fact is simply a story, a fiction told to me, and a story that fit so well that I believed it without question. In my awakening I have discovered that one must question, one must look with one’s own eyes and think for oneself. This awakening comes with a new kind of terror. The fear that truth is an elusive thing, that history is not fixed in time and space but subject to fluctuation and interpretation and to the possibility that there are other stories, other narratives, that are potentially as strong, as believable. History changes as the world around us changes. Whose history is being recorded is dependent on who is doing the reporting and what lens they are looking through. What is clear to me now—in my awakening—is that the subject is not history. The subject is histories. I don’t want to just study it; I want play a part in it. I want to make history, to live in history, and to be the history of the future.
Saturday, December 6, 2008
Georgetown, Washington, DC
Conference Call
9:00 a.m.
Tony is the first to mobilize. “As discussed, there are areas of the country that need representation. I consider the Midwest a flyover, but Chicago is the place to go for the Oracle.”
“The what?” Bo asks.
“Fortune teller?” Eisner suggests.
“The guy who tells us which way the wind’s gonna blow,” the Big Guy says.
“Sometimes I just wish you boys would speak English,” Bo says. “It’s six fuckin’ o’clock in the morning—do me the favor.”
They are on a Saturday-morning conference call. Tony is standing outside his Georgetown town house just in case the house is bugged. Tony watches his neighbor, a retired general, come out in his pajamas to get the Sunday paper. The man picks up the paper and salutes Tony, who salutes back, and then the retired general turns and goes back into the house.
“Even in ancient times, people wanted to know what was going to happen next, half out of curiosity and half so they could be ready for it,” Kissick says.
“Exactly,” Tony says. “I’m sending you to the guy I use when I need to see over the fence.”
“Is this man aware that we’re not looking to hire someone, that this is pro bono and then some?”
“He is. At first, you might wonder—why this guy? He lives in a plain house on a plain street and is a most discreet, inconspicuous, unremarkable man.”
“I hope we don’t accidentally knock on the wrong door,” Bo says. “How would we know if he’s so indistinguishable?”
“I’ve met him before,” the Big Guy says. “Despite being inconspicuous, he’s not someone you’d forget.”
“Exactly,” Tony says. “He and I worked together thirty years ago.”
“I remember,” the Big Guy says. “You came back from reading philosophy at Cambridge and took a job selling chocolates in Chicago. I thought you were nuts.”
Tony corrects the Big Guy. “Actually, it was hard candy.”
Bo chimes in. “We used to call those suckers.”
“I’m going to pretend that you all just said, ‘What an inspired idea, thank you; and we’ll talk again soon,’ ” Tony says, hanging up.
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Winnetka, Illinois
12:00 noon
Bo and the Big Guy are in a Lincoln Town Car outside the plain house on the plain street. It’s snowing lightly. Flakes are collecting on the windows. Every few minutes, Bo opens and then closes his window to clean it.
“I need to be able to see,” Bo says, apologizing for the burst of cold air.
The driver turns the windshield wipers up a notch.
“How do you know this isn’t a setup, some kind of sting? Tony would have every reason to want to take this down before it even begins.”
“Because Tony is the man I trust with my life,” the Big Guy says, busy texting with Meghan about Christmas plans. “And I’ve met this guy before. He’s the real deal, the Oracle.”
“We’re sitting ducks,” Bo says.
A car pulls up behind them.
“Who the fuck is that?”
The Big Guy turns his head. “The scribe.”
A minute later there’s a knock on the car door. “May I join you?” Eisner asks.
“Take the front seat,” Bo says, rolling down his window. “And take note, we’re not alone.” He nods toward the driver.
Eisner climbs into the car. “I drove down from Madison. It took longer than I expected, what with the weather. I was visiting my mother.”
“No one cares,” Bo says.
“Is Tony joining us?” Eisner asks.
“No,” the Big Guy says.
“I understand that he’s your best friend, but the fact that he plays for both teams is a thorn,” Bo says. He’s clearly in a bad mood.
“He doesn’t play for both teams,” the Big Guy says.
“Then why is Obama going to keep him around?”
“One of Tony’s gifts is that he’s willing to touch what no one else wants to.”
“Meaning what?” Eisner asks.
“He deals with a lot of shit.” The Big Guy puts his device away. “If anything, when it comes to politics or taking sides, Tony is a soloist.”
Kissick pulls up in a taxi.
“Game time,” Bo says, getting out of the car.
The Big Guy rings the doorbell. Bo, Eisner, and Kissick are lined up behind him.
Snow is landing on the back of Kissick’s neck. “Among the reasons I live in Florida,” Kissick mutters.
The Big Guy rings again. The cover of the art nouveau peephole slides open and he feels an eyeball on them. The door opens and they are greeted by a thin man wearing a white lab coat.
“Friends of a friend,” the man says. “Welcome.”
“Good to see you again, Twitch,” the Big Guy says, stepping into the house.
“Welcome, like the mat,” Bo says, wiping his feet on the thick doormat. Bo shakes the man’s hand and is surprised. He looks down; the man is wearing white latex gloves with the words Matfer Bourgeat written on top.
“Apologies,” the man says, pulling off the gloves. “I was doing some sugar work.”
“Well, that’s a relief. I thought perhaps you were Dr. Strangelove,” Bo says.
“Twitch,” the man says, shaking Eisner’s hand. “Twitchell Metzger.”
“Tony tagged you as a mad scientist,” Eisner adds.
“I’m making caramel; come in quickly before it burns,” Metzger says, ushering them in.
As they enter, fumes envelop the men. The smell is like a toxic Halloween meltdown, hot sugar and ash. Inside the house, the air is foggy, dense with tobacco particulate.
Kissick whispers to Bo, “They’ve done studies on retained tobacco smoke, but this is a whole other level; I feel like I’m licking ashes.”
“You live alone?” Bo asks.
“How’d you guess?”
“Children don’t like eating Pall Malls for breakfast,” Bo suggests.
Metzger leads them through the living room into the kitchen, which is set up more like a chemistry lab than a kitchen in Martha Stewart Living. He checks the temperature of what’s on the stove, lowers the heat, and pours some bourbon in, stirring. “It’s all about avoiding caramelization,” he says.
“I feel the same way,” Bo says.
On the kitchen table are four bright pink 11x14 sheets of what looks like foam insulation.
“Home repair or Christmas presents?” Bo asks.
“Boozy marshmallows,” Metzger says. “Made with Rumple Minz and pink food coloring. You’re going to see a sizable uptick in liquor-infused foods globally. Chocolate consumption in the United States is rising, but Europe is the real sweet spot. You know that’s how I met Tony?”
“We know,” Bo says.
“I’d be curious to hear more,” Eisner says.
“It was his first job, but for me, it was a homecoming. I grew up not far from here; the men in my family were butchers in the beef markets of Chicago, laborers in the steel mills. They made cars in Detroit. But when I was a kid, I was an idiot. Life was all about the sugar coating, all about the candy. Vita, Dulcedo, Spes.”
“Is he speaking in tongues?” Bo wants to know.
“Life, Sweetness, Hope,” Kissick says. “It’s the Notre Dame motto. His alma mater.”
“I met Tony when we both landed in Chicago. Back in the day, Chicago was the candy capital of the world. Lemonheads. Brach’s, Boston Baked Beans. We traveled the Midwest in search of regional sweets. Sunshine Candy, Jujyfruits. Now and Later.” He pauses. “Any of you know what the shelf life of a Twinkie is?”
They all shrug.
“Twenty-six days. What does that remind you of?”
“No idea,” Bo says.
“The female menstrual cycle,” Metzger says.
The men look pale.
“I thought that was twenty-eight days,” Kissick says.
“Close enough. You might wonder why I’m wearing a lab coat in the kitchen.”
“Yep,” Bo says.
“I find aprons too feminizing.” Metzger takes the caramel pot he’s stirring off the heat. He points to the fridge. “Take a look inside.”
Eisner opens the refrigerator. The four shelves inside are filled with trays of candy. “Looks like what my grandmother used to call turtles,” Eisner says.
“Turtle gophers,” Metzger says. “A spin-off of an old recipe from Savannah’s. Go ahead and try one.”
Eisner peels a turtle off the wax paper and hands it to Bo, who demurs.
“Go ahead,” the Big Guy says. “You need it.”
Bo tastes the candy. “Rich,” he says, smiling. “But delicate.”
“The contemporary palate leans more toward the salty than previous generations do. I use lemon juice as well as cream of tartar. Both are acids that break down the sugar molecules—an inversion. Instead of boiling, I simmer. Gives me the flavor I want and minimizes the crystals. I have always maintained that if you want to sell something you need to know how it’s made and what it means to people. I can’t sell something that I don’t know intimately.”
“You and Tony handled the Atomic Fireball?” Bo asks.
“Briefly, long ago. At the moment, I’m tinkering with a dream confection that will ease my way into retirement. But I don’t think you boys came all this way to talk about my hobbies. How about we take a seat in the conference room.”
“Pass me a couple more of those turtle pies,” Bo tells Eisner.
“This was my great-grandmother’s dining table,” Metzger says, leading them into the dining room. “I’ve got snacks and I’ve got smokes.”
In the middle of the table is a giant candy dish filled with Halloween leftovers and a brass globe. He pushes a knob on the globe and it opens, fanning out cigarettes in assorted shapes and sizes.
“Cowboy killers.” Metzger takes one for himself and gestures that the others should feel free.
“My first job was in Richmond, Virginia—Cigarette City. Wherever I’ve traveled in life, I’ve picked up one bad habit in each place.” He unwraps a chunk of milk chocolate. “Switzerland,” he says. A twitch in the corner of his mouth jerks his lip upward. “I do my laundry there,” he says with a dry wheeze, clearly pleased with his own comic timing.
Bo smiles, which makes the Big Guy smile; so far, so good.
Eisner reaches for a Butterfinger. “Haven’t had one of these since 1979.”
Metzger lights his cigarette and takes a drag.
“I can barely breathe; can you open a window?” Kissick asks.
Like deadweight falling through the air—ker-fucking-plunk—an enormous fat cat jumps from on top of the china cabinet, landing squarely on all paws, tail sweeping the air like an antenna trying to catch a signal. The cat walks the length of the table, hops onto Metzger’s lap, then jumps to the floor.
