The Unfolding, page 36
He arrives early. Chez François has been his special place in Washington for more than thirty years.
As soon as he’s in the door, he feels restored, in part because the air is perfused with the scent of freshly baked bread.
“Hello, old friend,” the maître d’ says. “Jacques is not here today, but he asked me to give you this.” He hands the Big Guy a wrapped box the size of a football.
“I thought he stopped making them,” the Big Guy says.
“We just didn’t know where to send yours. I will say that this year’s is excellent.”
“The famed holiday fruitcake. There’s a fellow I know at the Pentagon who has ten years’ worth in his freezer.”
“We hear rumors.” The maître d’ leads the Big Guy to the table in the far corner. “That’s a nice tie pin. Very European. I’ve not seen one like that before.”
“You have a good eye. It’s a fifteen-karat gold collar bar.”
“I didn’t know there was such a thing as fifteen-karat gold.”
“Smart man. It was discontinued in 1932. The pin belonged to my grandfather. He believed a man wasn’t dressed if he wasn’t pinned.”
“And so, today it’s a special occasion? Big business? Bachelor party?”
“Lunch with the boys; I had to come up with something to keep myself sane.” The Big Guy carefully puts one of the black-velvet boxes at each man’s place, not on the plate but on the right just above the knife and below the wineglass.
“I like to believe I know what some men think, but I suppose one never really knows,” the maître d’ says. “I would have imagined you’d be unhappy today, but you seem in the mood for a party.”
“If my French were better I would explain, but the short version is, I am unhappy but I am doing something about it and that makes me happy—I am a man of action.”
The maître d’ shrugs. “I stay out of politics, that is the secret to my success.”
The Big Guy laughs. “Oh yeah, how’s that been working out?”
“Beautifully. Do you know how many times I’ve been asked to make a Baked Alaska in the shape of a submarine?” The maître d’ laughs. “The good news for me is that this is not my country, so I do not have to choose—you are all my friends.”
Before more can be said, Bo comes in with Kissick on his heels. “The judge is behind us; he’s paying his driver. Between us, I’ll say it now, I don’t like jewelry on men, but see what you think.”
The judge comes through the door, pausing to make sure all eyes are on him. He’s sporting the requisite Texas hat and a bolo tie with an enormous chunk of turquoise mounted in silver.
“Glad you could make the trip, Douglas,” the Big Guy says to the judge.
“Happy to be here,” the judge says. “On days like today, one is comforted by the presence of fellow travelers. It’s been shit so far. The pregame has been on since six a.m.; it doesn’t stop, and of course I can’t help but watch. It was a relief to leave the hotel.”
“Is that your good luck charm?” Bo asks, nodding toward the turquoise.
“Something like that,” the judge says.
“Nice hat,” the Big Guy says, giving the judge a pat on the back. “It’s a real tall one.”
“This one is beaver and ermine from Resistol, one of my favorite companies. I’m a loyal man, sold my piece of the shop back in the 1960s when LBJ thought that cowboy hats were a diplomatic gesture. I was pleased when Reagan reclaimed the mantle, but I was out of the business by then. That said, I still like to wear ’em. And they are weatherproof. Y’all make fun of us for how we complain about the heat, but at least we have heat. What you have here is slush and misery, a swamp that turns into a slippery mess for four months of the year.”
“Ain’t it the truth.” The Big Guy has always prided himself on his ability to get along with everybody.
Twitch Metzger shows up from Chicago rail thin, wearing high pants cinched with a narrow belt, a shirt buttoned to the top, no tie, and wing tips. He’s six foot three, and the outfit comes off like a costume, somewhere between salesman, preacher, and circus act.
Bo puts out his hand to shake. “Glad to see you.”
The Big Guy turns his attention to the judge. “I want to thank you again for the invitation to come visit; I’m sorry I wasn’t able to be with you in Fort Worth.”
“Don’t give it another thought. I so enjoyed our impromptu Thanksgiving and wanted to return the favor.”
“Much appreciated. I’ve been dealing with a few things that couldn’t be avoided.”
“My wife’s a drunk too,” the judge says. “God love her, but she’s a drunk. She won’t admit it though. My trick: smart locks. I don’t let her out of the house after six p.m. Hell yes, it puts a crimp in our social life but you do what you have to. Everything out of her mouth after seven p.m. is a foul play.”
The Big Guy is caught off guard; it hadn’t occurred to him that (a) people knew Charlotte had a drinking problem, and (b) they talked about it behind his back.
“My wife finally realized it had become a problem and is doing better now,” the Big Guy says. “With any luck, yours will come to the same realization.”
“I just wanted you to know we share a sinking ship.”
“I feel bad for these women,” the Big Guy says. “If they’d done something with their lives, maybe this wouldn’t have happened. For the smart ones, wife and mother aren’t exactly the careers they had planned on. In retrospect, we should have encouraged them more.”
The judge nods. “Smart as whips. That’s part of the problem. Just like Martha Mitchell, heard it all and no one wanted to believe her.”
“I knew her and John back when they had a house at the Apawamis Club in Westchester. They had a little girl, Martha Jr., and they called her Marty,” Kissick says. “The woman was driven crazy by everyone trying to shut her up. I like to think things have changed at least a little bit.”
Eisner arrives sweating despite the fact that it’s January. His pants are clipped to his legs. “I rode my bike,” he says, putting his helmet on his seat. “Be right back—going to wash my hands.”
“Please tell me his bike is a Harley, not a Schwinn Sting-Ray with a banana seat,” Bo says.
The Big Guy shakes his head. “I hope to god he rode his bike because that’s what he likes to do, not because he can’t afford a car.”
“He’s got a car,” Kissick says. “I’ve been in it and it’s got a bike rack.”
“Does he think he’s saving the world by riding his bike?” Bo asks.
“If anything, he’s saving himself. It’s part exercise, part mental health,” Kissick says.
“Between us,” Bo whispers to Kissick, “I keep our scrivener in my back pocket as a suicide bomber in case we need to buy a vowel or an action figure. No one is going to stop a white man in Dockers from entering any building in America.”
“What makes you think he’d offer himself up like that?”
“He’s got no one in his life and he would die a hero. And if he wasn’t inclined, I’m pretty sure I could make him want to die, if you know what I mean . . .”
“You’re the scariest man I’ve ever met,” Kissick says. “Terrifying.”
“I take that as a compliment,” Bo says.
The Big Guy taps his glass to bring them to attention. “Before we get too far, I just want to thank you for your effort and your willingness to embark upon this endeavor. We come from different places and different experiences, but I take great comfort in knowing that we share a common goal.”
“It certainly was a pain in the ass getting out here. Who picked this place?” the judge wants to know.
“I did,” the Big Guy says.
“It’s far from everything,” the judge says.
“I used to come here with my parents,” Eisner says, taking his seat at the table.
“Back in the day, when the restaurant was downtown, I used to see Bob Haldeman there with Ehrlichman. You know what I loved about Haldeman?” Metzger says.
“I can’t wait to hear this,” Bo says.
“He was an ad man, worked at J. Walter Thompson for a long time. I met him with my dad when I was a kid. He was an advance man for Ike’s reelection and my dad really liked Ike.”
Bo laughs. “I remember the button . . . I Like Ike.”
“Pete Peterson came up with that at Market Facts. But it was Irving Berlin who wrote the song for the 1952 campaign,” Metzger says.
“The same Pete Peterson who ran Lehman and then started Blackstone?” the judge asks.
“The same,” Metzger says.
“You boys are forgetting that Ike was drafted to run for president, the only time in US history that a private citizen was delivered to the Oval Office like that,” Bo says.
The General enters. “Apologies for my tardiness. I was scouting the perimeter, spotted something of interest.” He sets his Steiner binoculars on the table. “Spotted a red-breasted merganser not far from the front door.”
“Is that the enemy?” Kissick asks.
“It’s a duck,” Bo says.
“Correct,” the General says. “And I am pretty sure I spotted a saw-whet owl.”
“Hmm,” they all say, having no idea what that might mean.
“The saw-whet is a very secretive animal, but I am damn near positive. I’m gonna take that as a good sign.”
“Has anyone looked at the menu?” Eisner asks.
“I was waiting for the doctor to arrive,” the Big Guy says.
“Are we getting one course or two?” Kissick wants to know.
“Whatever you feel like,” the Big Guy says.
“Sharing or every man for himself?”
“Kissick, just pick what you want. You don’t need to interview everyone,” the General says. “Trust yourself. You can do it.”
“Two courses,” the Big Guy says.
“Does someone want to remind me where our beloved is?” Bo asks.
“Charlotte?” the Big Guy asks.
“Tony,” Kissick says.
“He’s working,” the Big Guy says.
“At the White House?” Bo asks.
The Big Guy nods.
“Is he packing for Bush or unpacking for Obama?” Bo asks.
“He’s doing his job,” the Big Guy says tersely.
“What’s with the ring boxes?” Bo asks. “We getting engaged?”
“The boxes are my gift to you,” the Big Guy says. “We’ll open them at dessert when we have our little naming ceremony.”
“Remind me, what is it Jews do when they mourn?” the judge asks.
“They rend their clothes, tear them in anger and shame. It’s a Bible thing—not just Jews,” Kissick says.
“Whatever it is, it happened to me this morning. I rended my ass pocket on a rough wooden hanger and no one at the Four Seasons could stitch me up in time.” He lifts his suit jacket and flashes his substantial ass. “My shorts are showing.”
“There’s a word for that,” Metzger says.
“Pornography,” the Big Guy says.
“For when everything goes wrong,” Metzger says.
“Recount?” Bo offers.
“Resistentialism: the spiteful behavior of inanimate objects, usually electronics, but it can be applied to anything if there are enough causative elements,” Metzger explains.
“I might just get two appetizers; I’m trying to watch my weight,” Kissick says. “I doubt any of you are aware, but we accountants get a paunch—a donut of fat that’s very unhealthy.”
“Don’t show me your donut,” the Big Guy says.
“I can’t get rid of it. It’s the job, sitting at a desk all day. I maintain that accountants digest things differently.”
“Apologies, apologies,” Dr. Frode says, arriving at the table. “Traffic.” Frode’s beard has grown substantially since they last saw him. It’s so long that he has it divided into several sections with rubber bands and there’s sort of a bun or bulb at the end.
“Maybe it’s a disguise?” Eisner whispers.
“It’s certainly not sanitary,” Kissick says.
“It must have some kind of special meaning,” the Big Guy suggests.
“Skegg,” Frode says. “That’s what the beard is called. All Norse gods have them except one.”
“Which one is that?” Bo asks.
“Loki. If you read the Codex Regius, it becomes clearer. Personally, I enjoy the Njáls saga more—a blood feud, family honor, a tale rife with omens, dreams, and the struggle against one’s fate. When I’m not in the lab splitting atoms or tracking hot zones and bioterrorist activities, I like a bit of escapism.”
“Who doesn’t?” the Big Guy says.
Bo checks his watch, a vintage Rolex Submariner. “T-minus fifteen on the Mall.” He shoves a white corded earbud into his left ear and fiddles with something inside his jacket pocket.
“You missed the debate. One course or two?” the judge recaps.
“Two courses,” the Big Guy says.
“There’s a lot of duck on the menu,” the judge says.
“They have a Baked Alaska,” Kissick says.
“You’re looking at dessert already?” the Big Guy asks.
“I like to back into my decisions,” Kissick says.
“You just said you were watching what you eat.”
“Is Baked Alaska fattening?”
“More sugar than fat,” the doctor says.
“What about wine?” Kissick asks.
“There’s a Gevrey-Chambertin pinot,” the Big Guy says. “I’ve had it before, nicely textured, grippy with soft, firm tannins . . .”
“You’re not fucking this wine, you’re drinking it,” Bo says. “I hate when you boys start a pissing game with the wine. I’m the man who grows grapes; let’s go American with Shafer Hillside Select. Judge, do you care to weigh in on the decision?”
“Nope.”
The Big Guy leans over and asks Eisner, “Have you talked to Meghan lately?”
“Yes.”
“Been quite a time,” the Big Guy says, testing the waters to see if Eisner knows what the family has been going through.
Eisner nods. “We chatted about liminal identity on New Year’s Eve.”
“Fine thing,” the Big Guy says. He has no idea what liminal identity might be.
“We talk mostly in pictures.” Eisner pulls out his phone and shows the Big Guy a photo he’s not seen before: Charlotte riding in the new car, top down, waving at the camera—smiling.
The Big Guy chuckles—a self-defense mechanism. He’s glad that Charlotte and Meghan are in touch but feels left out. He looks again. Charlotte looks relaxed—satisfied. He assumes Terrie took the photo.
“Did Meghan tell you about riding her horse down on the Mall?”
“She did.” Eisner shows the Big Guy another picture: Meghan on Ranger, the US Capitol in the background, and a message—“January 2, 2009. Off to a good start.”
“Let’s hope it stays that way; 2008 was pretty crappy. We had a rough patch just after the new year; she said her sense of self had been shattered. When I took her back to school, she asked for ‘space to process things.’ Both she and Charlotte are ‘processing.’ But I assume you already know that?” The Big Guy looks at Eisner, who nods tentatively. “It’s okay. I’m glad she talks to someone.”
“Can we please order?” Kissick asks, as he flags the waiter. “Does Dover sole have a season?”
“At this time of year, ours comes from Alaska,” the waiter says.
“I’ll have the sole,” Kissick says. “Can they prepare it without butter?”
“No butter at all?” the waiter asks.
“Olive oil if necessary,” Kissick says.
“I’ll have the bouillabaisse,” the judge says.
“Make that two,” the General says.
“Any allergies?” the waiter asks.
The General pulls his EpiPen from the side pocket of his tactical pants and puts it on the table. “We’re good,” he tells the waiter.
“Chateaubriand,” the Big Guy says.
“Same,” Metzger says.
“The last couple of months have been informative,” the Big Guy says to Eisner. “I kept saying that the election was a wake-up call, but it wasn’t just about McCain losing and the failure of the Republican Party. It was bigger; I’d drifted into some strange old-fart coma and lost sight of everything. I didn’t see that Charlotte and Meghan were struggling. For years I thought I was taking care of Charlotte, but it turns out that she was trapped, she couldn’t see past me to clear sky. I was living in my own world, built on the Ping-Pong table in my basement. Not only was I not seeing them for who they are, I was actively denying them their own story. It was all about me, my need to protect myself. What an ass I am.”
“It’s happening,” Bo says, cutting into the conversation. “John Paul Stevens is giving the oath to Biden.”
The doctor orders cooked vegetables.
“If you are vegetarian,” the waiter suggests, “the chef can prepare something else. He uses some mushrooms, maybe some leeks, whatever he has back there that is good.”
“Excellent,” Frode says. “If you don’t mind, I’ll just go into the kitchen and talk with him myself.” He gets up and heads toward the kitchen. The waiter, stumped, folds Frode’s napkin and puts it back in place.
Bo mutters something under his breath, not entirely clear, but akin to, “If the doctor was any weirder, he’d be wearing an aluminum-foil cap.”
“For all you know, next year he’ll be making millions selling foil caps,” Kissick whispers to Bo.
“Everybody and their mother is down there: Jimmy Carter, GHW, Clinton, even Hillary, not as the loser but as a former first lady; that’s gotta sting,” Bo says.
