Exiles in the Garden (21 page)

When she returned to her room at the hotel on the port she found a message from Alec, his voice subdued, long pauses between thoughts. Annalise stood at the open window and watched the boats turn at anchor while she listened to Alec.

His father had passed away on Tuesday night, an unquiet death. Alec and the nurse were with him but he was not aware of that. His eyes were wide open and filled with terror. He did not speak but raised his hands as if to ward off an intruder. Alec apologized for telling her this but he had no one else to tell it to and felt the need to describe the old man's last minutes. Hours, actually. Whoever said "Do not go gentle into that good night" didn't know what he was talking about. After a long pause, so long that Annalise thought that he had rung off, Alec said that his father made a cry deep in his throat, then he closed his eyes and after a convulsion he died. The nurse was in tears because she was so fond of him. The funeral would be Friday, family only, meaning just him and Mathilde. Mathilde was arriving from London on Thursday. He had tried to get the Senate chaplain to officiate but the chaplain was vacationing in the Ozarks or the Poconos or somewhere and was unavailable, and the task now was to find a clergyman who could say a few words at the grave. Alec had no idea where such a man would be found. He planned a memorial service for the early fall when the Senate resumed session. Music, a dozen or more eulogies.

Alec went on about plans for the memorial service. Annalise thought he sounded disoriented, his voice unsettled; at the same time his tone was flat, as if he were reading from a prepared text. She continued to watch the boats turn lazily at anchor. A beautiful yacht was moored in the inner harbor, sixty feet long at least, flying an Italian flag aft. A steward, immaculate in white, served drinks in long glasses to three girls sunning themselves on the foredeck. When the girls raised their hands to receive the drinks, their arms curved like swans' necks. The steward carefully placed a long glass in each hand and backed away, a priest at the altar. Annalise remembered a midnight sail from Tangier that began well but ended badly, unpleasantness from one of the older men who had drunk too much and thought he was owed something because it was his boat, his liquor, his hash. Eventually he fell asleep and she and her friend Susanna sailed the yacht back into harbor as dawn broke, the surface of the water a vivid pink. That was when she knew her time was up in Morocco. The parallel universe lost its allure when the sea turned pink. The next day she packed her bags and flew off to Madrid and then Chicago and not long after that to Los Angeles, where her agent had arranged for a car and driver to take her from the airport to the studio, where a contract awaited her signature, Annalise Amiral.

The old man put up a mighty struggle, Alec said.

He didn't want to give it up.

Did I mention the obituaries? They were respectful, without errors so far as he could tell. All the facts were in order, trees concealing the forest. The obits spoke of the senator as an inside man, more a figure of the cloakroom than of the floor. Friend of presidents, FDR, Truman, JFK, Johnson. LBJ once said that Kim Malone was a better raconteur than he was. Untrue but a generous remark. One of the papers mentioned the bitter 1968 campaign when there were allegations of dirty tricks. The allegations were never proved, though they were widely believed. Alec said, It's disorienting to read an account of your father's public life summed up in a thousand words. They called me for quotes and anecdotes but I couldn't remember a damned thing. My mind went blank. You must have felt the same thing when your father died and you read the notices.

No kidding, Annalise said aloud.

She continued to watch the yacht with the Italian flag, much commotion along the rails. A deckhand slipped the anchor chain, the mainsail rose, and the yacht was abruptly under way. Flat on their backs the girls watched the sail billow. They toasted the sail with their long glasses. On the fantail two men played cards and did not give the sail so much as a glance. Annalise watched the boat exit the outer harbor and gather speed, its sails full. It was bound east through the Strait of Gibraltar and then—probably Marbella for a few days before continuing along the Spanish coast and into the Mediterranean, to Capri or wherever the boat was berthed. Well, it could be bound anywhere. Annalise remembered that her father's obit contained a sneaky sentence in which he was described as a most convivial after-hours House colleague. Everyone knew what that meant.

I'm tired, Alec said finally. I'm tired in my bones. As tired as I've ever been in my life. After the funeral I'm taking a week in Maine, two weeks if I want it. I've rented a house, and the house comes with a boat. Annalise raised her eyebrows at that, watching the Italian yacht bend into the breeze. The men were still playing cards but the girls were watching the water fly by. I'll be out of touch for a while, Alec said. I'll call you in Los Angeles. Thanks for your ear, darling. Then he rang off.

Annalise watched the yacht a few minutes more, then went to the telephone to call the airline to book her on the first available aircraft to New York via anywhere—Casablanca, Madrid, Paris, London. She'd wait a day to call Alec, to see if he wanted company in Maine. She had no plans and she hadn't been to Maine in years and years. Maine would be the opposite of Morocco.

The grave was on the downslope of the cemetery, within sight of Rock Creek Parkway. Alec had placed the urn on a green baize cloth and now waited patiently for Mathilde, making small talk with the Baptist minister recruited for the occasion. The day was warm and threatening rain but the Reverend Willis appeared cool and composed in his heavy black suit and shiny white shirt, bow tie. Alec thought it was strange that his father, always surrounded by people, feeding off them, had at this last moment only his son and a stranger. Alec explained that his was a small family. His parents had no brothers or sisters. He was an only child and his daughter was an only child. Such situations often ran in families, a combination of genes and attitude. Mathilde was in her forties but unmarried and likely to remain unmarried. She was extremely attractive and had a fine job with the State Department. She was said to be an able diplomat, good with languages, good with her counterparts. She took the Foreign Service exam and her grandfather saw to it that she would be accepted and receive a good assignment—a clear case of senatorial interference, but it worked out very well all the way around. You couldn't do that today. There'd be a leak to the newspapers and all hell would break loose, a scandal. Mathilde's had, I don't know, three or four serious boyfriends but marriage was never in the cards for her. She told me that once in just those words, but did not explain why, or whatever explanation she gave was not convincing. They were nice boys, too. One was English and the others American. Still, I think she has had good fortune in her life. She's close to her mother, closer than she is to me, but they both live in Europe so that's logical. Mathilde travels a lot for her work, which she loves and is good at. Alec was conscious of talking too much, speaking on automatic pilot, saying whatever came into his head.

She told me she thought marriage was a kind of trap.

She liked men but she also liked her own company.

I suppose she's what you would call a modern woman.

Do you have children, Reverend Willis?

I have five children, he said. Boys, he added with a brief smile to indicate that he would say nothing further.

The Reverend Willis was a middle-aged black man with a stoop, watery eyes, and a sympathetic smile. He listened politely but said little, his reserve suggesting a family retainer whose personal life would remain forever mysterious. Alec said he envied him his boys, always a handful but insurance that his line would continue. Alec's family name would die with him. Hell of a thing, isn't it, a family name disappearing like one of those remote stars that burn up, never to be seen again. Alec reached down to brush leaves from the surface of his mother's gravestone. Many of the nearby graves looked to be untended and unvisited like his mother's. He thought of the cemetery as an enormous battlefield, the dead scattered helter-skelter: he and the Reverend Willis were the only survivors. Black clouds gathered in the west and in a moment the distant shudder of thunder. Alec wished Mathilde would show up. She had left at nine on some errand and promised to meet him at the gravesite at eleven. Now the time was eleven-thirty. Alec said, The name Malone used to mean something in our state but it's mostly forgotten now except in political circles. The local paper gave my father a fine obit with a picture and a two-column headline below the fold on page one. Someone called me yesterday, a condolence call, and said they were surprised that he was being buried here instead of the state. But my father and mother were Washingtonians. They were from the state but they lived here, and Washington was where they wanted to stay. Back home was where the voters were. This was where politics was. Their life was here, you see. They loved Washington, both of them. It's a personal thing. The father of a friend of mine was a ten-term congressman from Illinois. Died too young. But they took him right back to Winnetka for burial. Maybe that's the difference between the Senate and the House.

I don't know where Mathilde is, Alec said.

We'll give her another few minutes if that's all right with you, Reverend.

The Reverend Willis said of course and looked at his watch. He held his Bible in both hands against his stomach.

She's often late, Alec said. She gets that from me.

Will anyone want to speak? the reverend asked.

I don't, Alec said. I'll ask Mathilde if she wants to.

I'll only read the one psalm then, the reverend said. If that's all right.

Yes, that's what I want.

And I will put the urn in the grave and, if you and your daughter wish, you can cover it yourselves. They've provided a shovel.

Yes, that's fine.

Later on today the cemetery personnel will smooth it over.

Yes, good.

The Reverend Willis looked over Alec's shoulder and smiled.

Hello, Alec.

When he turned he saw Mathilde and Lucia, both dressed in black and carrying bouquets in their arms. Alec had not seen Lucia in years and did not expect to see her now. He had not recognized her voice. Mathilde was wearing a hat and veil; he had never seen her in a hat and thought it added years to her appearance. Lucia put out her hand, he took it, and they shook hands formally, as if they had just then been introduced. She said, I'm sorry, Alec. I know how close you were.

Mama wanted to come, Mathilde said.

Well, fine, Alec said.

I wanted to say goodbye to him, Lucia said. I remember his funny stories and his hats, the fedora in the fall, winter, and spring, and the straw boater in the summer. His seasonal hats.

Mathilde kissed her father. She said, We got lost trying to find the grave.

I hope he had an easy time of it, Lucia said.

He didn't, Alec said. Then Alec introduced Mathilde and Lucia to the Reverend Willis, and when that was done he said, Let's get started.

They moved close to the urn and the mound of dirt next to it. Lucia and Mathilde placed their bouquets to either side of the urn, a sudden splash of color. Rain began softly and Lucia opened an umbrella; she and Mathilde stood close together. Alec thought they looked like sisters. The Reverend Willis spoke beautifully and the service was completed in under two minutes. Alec explained about the shovel and they all threw in a ration of dirt. The Reverend Willis said a few more words and wished them Godspeed. Alec handed him an envelope and he moved off slowly through the gravestones to his car, parked somewhere over the hill in Georgetown. The rain eased off, only a few drops now at intervals. Alec stood alone looking at the grave and his mother's headstone next to it. She had had a church service and more than two hundred people were present at the graveside, the Senate chaplain speaking at length, a psalm, a brief eulogy, and another psalm. Halfway through it his father began to cry silently, great tears spilling from his eyes. Alec took one arm and Eliot Bergruen the other and he remembered now that his father seemed to sag, near collapse, and then he gathered himself and pulled the brim of his fedora over his forehead so that no one could see his tears, and he remained with his head down until the chaplain had completed the last psalm and the coffin began its slow descent into the ground, whereupon he looked away, up the hill. God, it was cold that day, snow in the air, everyone in mufflers. The chaplain went on and on about Gawd, Gawd this and Gawd that, Gawd's grace, Gawd's mercy, Gawd everlasting, his plains accent as flat as a drum. The chaplain had the voice of a senator, of a timbre commonly called sonorous but still flat as a drum. After the service the old man went home and poured himself a double Scotch, drank it off, and made another. That was twenty years ago. Alec was suddenly lightheaded and placed his hand on his mother's headstone to steady himself. He closed his eyes, thinking that the service had been too brief. The old man deserved more. But of course in the autumn would come the memorial service, all the ceremony anyone could want.

Alec?

He thought of Maine and the boat that went with the house. He reckoned about eleven hours door to door, and he had no reason not to start tonight except he didn't have the energy for an eleven-hour drive. And it would be good to have a quiet meal with Mathilde. At least this was over with and the Baptist had done exactly what he was asked to do, done it correctly and with formality. But what was Lucia doing here? He had no idea she was in the country or knew anything of the old man's death.

Alec?

When he raised his eyes he saw the Reverend Willis pause to catch his breath, then resume his slow pace until he was over the hill and lost to view. The moment of vertigo passed but Alec remained with his hand on his mother's headstone, the marble gritty on his fingers. He became aware of the thick silence behind him.

Lucia said, Are you all right, Alec?