Amber House: Neverwas (41 page)

largest banquet room was lit up and glowing. A pianist played in

one corner, and people milled about. Waiters made their rounds

with trays of appetizers and flutes of champagne.

We joined a queue of men in tuxedoes and women in fur and

velvet wraps to deposit our various outerwear at the coat check.

I couldn’t imagine the insanity when the entire party came back

en masse to retrieve their things before walking across the street

for the exhibit’s opening.

The line moved forward. I glimpsed then, between the shoul-

ders of those in front of me, the ballroom below.

It was one of those places you know exists, has to exist some-

where — but you very much doubt you’ll ever get to see. One of

those places for
other
people, with ceilings so high and rooms so wide, you feel like Alice after she’s sipped from the “Drink Me”

bottle. Everything was polished and gilded and mirrored and, to

top it all off, entirely saturated with holiday trimmings: garlands

of silver-spattered lemon leaves that overlapped one another like

a fish’s scales, accented by gold-painted pomegranates clumped

in bunches, like Bacchanalian ornaments plucked furtively from

the gardens of Olympus.

272 O

The room held a roiling sea of exquisitely dressed people —

sparkling waves of gold and silver, crimson and forest green,

shadowed with the black of tuxedoes. And the waiters in white

jackets, weaving in and out, balancing their silver trays. I heard

the faint strains of what I realized must be a full orchestra —

strings, brass — mixed with the sounds of the assemblage.

Robert Hathaway had brought all these people together

because he believed the world was sinking toward war. I guessed,

one way or the other, I was here for the same reason. The incon-

gruity between all the frothy gaiety and the seriousness of the

evening made everything seem a little unreal — a dissonance

that made me feel as though I was standing beside myself.

“Your cloak, miss?” a pretty young woman said, holding

out her hand. Suddenly the question hit me with terrible

significance — did I leave it here now or keep it with me? It was

cold outside — would I have time to come back for it?

Do what makes sense in the moment
, I almost heard Jackson say.

I handed it over, with a thank-you. But after too much of a

pause. Mom was looking at me oddly. “Are you all right, honey?”

“I’m fine.”

“You seem so nervous.” She clutched my hand. “Don’t worry.

Try to enjoy yourself. You look beautiful.”

Dad touched my cheek, smiling one of those happy-sad smiles

parents sometimes seem to make. “I’m sure Richard will tell you

the same thing.”

I smiled back, even though I felt near tears. My dad. I saw him

in that moment with a clarity I rarely had. He was a good man, a

man with serious purpose, a gifted healer, kind, self-effacing.

Parties weren’t his thing. The crisp wool tuxedo already looked

slightly rumpled on him, because he wore it with discomfort.

Mom stepped close to him, quickly straightened his bow tie, and

kissed him softly, briefly.

o273

They were inseparable — in how they met life’s challenges,

and even in the way I pictured them in my mind, as a unit, as a

pair. But in another time, an otherwhen, they had been so cruel

to each other. I remembered my father in a different tuxedo, my

mother in a different gown, with an unbridgeable distance

between them. Broken beyond mending.

Would they be the same as they were now, after tonight?

I heard an echo of Dad’s voice, speaking to me from an

uncrossable distance.
“All of history is like that — built on an infi-nite number of almost random events that come together to push things
this way or that. If one little thing were changed, well — the whole
world might be, too.”

A thought occurred to me. I turned back to the coat-check girl.

“May I have my own ticket for my cloak, please? In case I need

to step out?”

“Of course, miss.”

That made sense, right? I tucked the little card into Maggie’s

purse.

Dad slipped one arm through mine, and the other through my

mother’s. We walked together to the head of the stairs.

Back home in Astoria, my friends and I used to go white-

water rafting. It involved a lot of floating lazily downriver to get to those spots where the water’s channel narrowed and dropped,

propelling rafters into a churning chute of roaring, foaming,

bouncing speed. There was always a moment just before the

chute when I could feel the current grab hold of the raft,

viciously, eagerly, and suck it deeper, a moment when I recog-

nized that there was no way out anymore except forward and

down. Standing there at the top of those stairs, I felt the current

take hold of me.

This was the start of it, now. The party would begin, the steps

would be taken, and Jackson and I would have to pray that we

274 O

did everything right at just the right moment. What were

the odds?

One last time, I wished I was back in Seattle.

“Ready?” Dad asked me. I wanted to tell him no, not at all.

But I nodded. We descended together into the celebration for

the last night of the year.

It was impossible not to notice the many glances in our direc-

tion. Dad met my eyes and grinned. My mother was stunning.

You couldn’t help but stare. I’m sure I would, too, if I were

below, watching her nearly float down the sweeping staircase,

her featherlight dress trailing behind her. Staircases like these

were made for women like my mother to descend.

But Dad tipped his head slightly toward my right, and I tracked

the trajectory of his gaze. A cluster of young men — perhaps

college-aged — were watching
me
. I blushed and looked away.

There was one long table at the head of the room, raised

above floor level. The rest of the room was strewn with circular

tables, arrayed with gold and silver florals worked around silver

candelabra. The meal would begin at nine, with appetizers,

soup, entree, and then a round of desserts. I guess they wanted

people to be in the best possible mood before Robert Hathaway

began to speak.

Mom was enveloped by a flock of guests — some curious

about the exhibit, some praising her for her support of Senator

Hathaway. The gathering crowd seemed to alert the staff to her

presence; we were guided to a central table, seated facing out

toward the dance floor.

Then Richard, his father, and his mother came down the

stairs. They were besieged on all sides: smiling faces, outstretched hands. Their progress across the floor was measured in inches.

Richard broke away and came to our table. “Dad wanted you to

meet a few people,” he told my parents.

o275

So we stood and squeezed our way through the crowd. We

trailed Robert as he was guided by aides to “the dowager queen,”

“Prince George and his wife, Princess Theresa,” “His Excellency

Don Julio del Rio,” “Prime Minister Benjamin Goldblum,” “le

Marquis d’Orleans.” On and on, group after group. I hadn’t

realized I would be expected to drop curtsies and, apparently,

neither had my mother, who did it stiffly — the only thing I’d

ever seen her do without absolute grace. But we followed Claire’s

lead. This was the Hathaways’ show.

After ten minutes, I excused myself, though I don’t think any-

one heard, and wandered back to our table. Most of the attendees

were also trickling to their tables. The orchestra began playing

softer music. Mom and Dad finally joined me in our seats. The

New English prime minister took his place behind the podium

in the middle of the long raised table for the most honored

guests; Robert and Claire stood to one side, poised, ready.

Silence settled over the room.

The prime minister introduced Senator Hathaway to the

crowd, then Robert and Claire moved center stage. He stood,

smiling, glowing in the spotlight like some kind of movie idol as

the crowd applauded a thunderous welcome. And I thought to

myself, as the thunder rolled on, that if anyone had a chance of

bringing all the factions of the Americas together into one united

force, it was that man.

“First, my family would like to extend our sincere thanks, to

each and every one of you, for spending your holiday with us this

evening,” Robert said.

More applause.

“I’m not going to keep you from your dinners. But before we

eat, I’d just like to offer a brief toast, if I may, to the coming

year.” Everywhere, people stood and lifted their glasses. “May it

bring with it prosperity, strength, and tranquility to this nation,

276 O

to its neighbors, and to all Americans north and south. To our

disparate pasts, and our shared future.”

After a mass clinking of classes, “Hear, hear,” and the obliga-

tory sips of champagne, the crowd settled themselves back in

their seats. On cue, a small army of waiters emerged from the

doors, carrying trays of the first course: classic Chesapeake crab

cakes in a piquant sauce. As I puzzled out which fork to use and

whether I would actually be able to make myself eat, I noticed a

latecomer sailing gracefully down the wide stairs. Resplendent

in a short black dinner jacket worn over a white vest and white-

piped trousers, and flecked with silver buttons and insignia, it

was my ubiquitous Nazi, Jaeger.

He walked toward a table in the back, where he was greeted

by a blond goddess in black velvet. He must have felt my eyes on

him, because he zeroed in on me across the depth of the room.

And smiled.

As anxious as I had been up to that point, the Nazi’s presence

threw me into overload. I felt like a nest of hornets had settled in my brain. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t remember what was supposed to happen next. I wished I could talk to Jackson.

The salad course came and went. I don’t know whether I ate

any of it. I kept checking the clock on the rear wall, watching the

hands crawl closer and closer to the end of the year. President

Stevenson’s footage would play sometime around eleven, fol-

lowed by Robert’s formal speech. The ribbon cutting for the

exhibit was supposed to occur right at midnight. I would be long

gone by then. I hoped.

If I found the key.

I wished violently Jackson had told me how to get in touch with

him or where to meet him or how he was going to find me.
Why

didn’t he?
Several times I had to stop myself from rising and heading for the stairs, the lobby, the doors to the street. He said he’d be here. He said he didn’t need an invitation. All he needed was —

o277

— a white jacket. That finally penetrated my mental fog. I

started searching the faces of the waiters and found Jackson

almost immediately, on the far side of the room. He was refilling

a guest’s wineglass with all the confidence and flair of someone

who did it every day of the week. He glanced up at me briefly,

but I knew he knew I had finally figured it out. I bet he was hid-

ing a smile.

Crazy man
, I thought. Bunches of people here knew who he

was. My parents, the Hathaways, not to mention the Nazi. What

if they spotted him? But I realized that his white jacket was the

perfect disguise. It made him invisible. No one ever looked into

the faces of the waitstaff.

I forced myself not to watch him. But I felt instantly calmer.

Everything was all right. Jackson had it all under control. I found

I was finally able to eat some of the food that had been set before

me, and I focused on that. It was going to be a long night. I

would need all the energy I could get.

At some point, I thought to ask Mom if she’d ever found her

key, but she hadn’t. “Is there some other one we can use?” I

asked.

“We don’t need a key anymore, honey. We’ll all be heading

over together.”

No key, no break-in
, I thought. It was a not unpleasant prospect. But during the dessert, I dutifully bent my brain to the task

of reconstructing the page of notes Jackson had tasked me to

memorize.
12:02 Turn left to South exit. Follow dirt path through
trees — DO NOT USE SIDEWALK. Just before fountain, turn right up
hill, come out —

“I mean, only if you’d like,” Richard said.

I stared at him. Realized he’d been talking to me. I hadn’t

even noticed when he’d walked up. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Jeez, coz,” he said with a rueful smile, “way to make me feel

like a putz. I asked if you wanted to dance.”

278 O

The brassy strains of an Orleans standard were winding

through the room. Couples were slow dancing in time with the

music. I literally
hated
dancing.
Aside from the twist.

I looked at the clock. 10:33. Still no key. I smiled and nodded,

and Richard took my hand and led me to the dance floor.

He was an excellent dancer, of course. There wasn’t a sin-

gle thing Richard Hathaway wasn’t good at.
Perfect
at. But