Mortal Friends (20 page)

T
he invitation stipulated that guests were to enter through the Sackler Gallery on the Mall side. Traffic was backed up in front of the serene classical building as cars inched their way into the circular cobblestone courtyard. A valet attendant took charge of the Buick and handed Grider a ticket. A guard checking names on a list recognized Grider as we entered the museum.

“Evening, Senator,” the guard said. Grider shook the man’s hand with genuine warmth. He seemed touched the guard knew him, rather than treating the encounter as a chore.

An attendant took our coats. The guard directed us to the underground galleries leading to the Freer. Grider offered me his arm as we walked down the diamond-shaped staircase together.

The first perk of the evening was the chance to view a special exhibition of ancient Chinese bronzes, which, unsurprisingly enough, had been made possible by the Cynthia A. Rinehart Foundation—a fact heralded by an enormous sign at the entrance to the rooms. We began our tour in the Sackler and continued on through the underground passageway leading to the Freer, where the dinner was being held.

Grider knew quite a bit about Asian art. He was explaining the finer points of a Shang Dynasty bronze brazier to me when I spotted Cynthia striding briskly through the exhibition, breezing by history as if she had only the future in mind. She was wearing a tight, heavily embroidered mandarin-style dress, the breast area of which featured a cutout designed to reveal her bosoms squished together like two large balls of Turkish delight. She ignored all but her most prominent guests.

Luckily, she didn’t see me. Grider and I had continued strolling through the exhibition when he suddenly raised his head and sniffed the air.

“Something’s burning,” he said.

I smelled it too. We quickly made our way upstairs to the Freer’s boxy reception room, where the aroma of sandalwood incense was intense. There was a sudden crashing sound, as if someone had knocked over a cabinet full of crystal ware. A few seconds later, another crash came.

“What in the heck’s
that
?” Grider said irritably.

Just then I spotted Greg the Spy, as I called him. Greg Boyd was a former schoolteacher who now worked as a majordomo for Couture Cuisine, one of the best caterers around town. In that capacity, he not only supervised big events such as this, he also saw to it that dinners and parties ran smoothly in the private homes of the most powerful people in Washington—including cabinet members, congressmen, the president of the World Bank, and the chairman of the Federal Reserve. He was privy to many sensitive dinner-table conversations. Greg knew what everyone really thought of everyone else, but he was trustworthy to a fault. Since he was way overqualified for his job, I always teased him about being a spy for some covert government agency.

I flagged him down as he was offering a tray filled with champagne flutes to passing guests.

“Greg! What’s with the crashing glass?” I asked him.

“That’s meant to be wind chimes, but the sound system isn’t working right.” Greg offered me some champagne, then said to Grider, “Can I get you a diet cola, Senator?”

“Yup, thanks,” Grider said. “This is almost as bad as the peacocks, isn’t it, Greg?”

“Almost,” Greg said with a smile as he walked off.

“What peacocks?” I asked.

“Greg and I were at the opening of this place years ago. They had these peacocks parading up and down the lawn. Two of ’em got into a fight, and there was blood all over!” Grider said with a guffaw. “I told Greg, let’s get those birds into Congress, and we can all join in!”

“So you know Greg?”

“Everybody knows Greg,” he said. “He was the only one my wife would ever let into our kitchen.”

Another crash. Grider and I both cringed.

“Oh, where is Cole Porter when we need him?” I said blithely.

“You like Cole Porter? He was a Hoosier, you know. Born in Peru, Indiana.”

“Do you make it your business to know where everyone is from?” I asked him.

“Just people I like a lot. And people I don’t like so much.”

“Doesn’t that just about cover the waterfront?”

“Nope. There’s a world full of people I don’t give a hoot-owl hoot about.”

At the far end of the room, a giant papier-mâché laughing Buddha on a pedestal loomed over the room like a macabre parade float. We went to take a closer look. Our skin glowed blue under the glaucous lights. We looked like a roomful of corpses.

Eight round tables set with brown tablecloths, orange gauze napkins, and black chopsticks surrounded the Buddha. The centerpieces consisted of glazed pink pagodas rising up out of beds of brown moss. These modern sculptures, capped with sloping tops, were slightly reminiscent of penises.

“This looks like a party for an Asian porn star,” I said.

“Never been to a party for an Asian porn star, or any porn star, for that matter. Have you?” Grider said.

“No. It was just a little joke.”

The Buddha was the only one laughing. The noise, the smell, the lighting, and the décor had dampened both of our spirits. In fact, all the guests seemed to be moving in slow motion, like they were in an aquarium.

I saw Cynthia chatting with several people, but Grant was nowhere in sight. It was getting late. We were all hungry. Then a voice rang out over the crowd: “Quiet, everyone! Grant Bolton is coming! Grant Bolton is coming!”

“Paul Revere at the Freer!” Senator Grider quipped, looking to me for approval. I rolled my eyes. “Didn’t like that one, eh?” he said.

“Senate humor, I presume?”

A smiled twitched across his thin lips. He seemed to like it when I teased him.

The crowd quieted down. Grider and I edged closer to the entrance. I wanted to get a good look at Grant. Finally he appeared, looking
dapper in a custom-made tuxedo and black needlepoint pumps embroidered in red with his intertwining initials. He remained glacial despite the applause. Cynthia threw her arms around him and cried in a breathy Marilyn Monroe imitation, “Happy birthday, Mr. Bank President!”

“Now maybe we’ll get to eat,” Grider said.

Cynthia paraded Grant around the room like a show dog. When he caught sight of me, his face kind of crumpled with consternation. The next thing I knew, Cynthia was barreling toward me like a fist.

I nudged Grider. “Oh-oh, here we go.”

Cynthia marched right up to me without giving Senator Grider a glance. She said, “Well, if it isn’t Nightmare Girl. And just what the hell do you think you’re doing crashing my party?”

Senator Grider stuck out his hand. “How do, Ms. Rinehart? I b’lieve you’re my hostess for this shindig tonight.”

“Who are
you
?” she said, squinting at him in the low light.

“I am the man who accompanied Reven Lynch to this party,” he said, then whispered a pointed aside to me: “Presidential humor.”

Cynthia looked like she was getting ready to call security to have us both chucked out when the light suddenly dawned. Watching her fury morph into embarrassment when she realized she’d just offended Senator Grider was a gratifying moment. I wished that Violet could have been there. I never thought I’d see the day when Cynthia was speechless, but she was then. She looked back and forth at us several times, as if to say, Don’t tell me you two are here
together
?

“I told Senator Grider that you might not be thrilled to see me here, Cynthia. So if you’d prefer us to leave, we certainly will, won’t we, Zack?”

Before Grider could respond, she slammed into reverse.

“
Leave?
I wouldn’t hear of it! I was rude. I apologize. Forgive me, Senator, for not recognizing you. Reven, since you are gracious enough to be here tonight and accept my hospitality, the very least I can do is to offer it to you with open arms.”

She pointed her hand at me like a gun, daring me to shake it—which I did, with a sulfurous smile. She turned to Grider and purred, “Now you, Senator, are sitting next to me at dinner. We mustn’t talk now, or we might run out of conversation.”

“Doubt it,” he said.

Cynthia flitted off to “attend” to her other guests. Grider stared after her.

“Like watching burlap turn to silk,” he said.

Cynthia headed straight for Grant, obviously to inform him who I was with. I saw they were having a little tiff. It looked like she was trying to get Grant to come over and say hello to Senator Grider, and Grant didn’t want to oblige her, probably because it meant having to face me. I knew he was desperate to avoid me, but it was difficult to do so without appearing rude to the senator.

Cynthia won. She and Grant shuffled over to us. Grant shook Senator Grider’s hand and thanked him for coming. Then he said a sheepish hello to me. I just stared at him. He knew what I was thinking. I didn’t have to say a word.

Dinner was announced. Cynthia grabbed Grider’s arm and pulled him toward the dining area. Grant and I were left alone just as another burst of those breaking-glass-fingernails-scraping-a-blackboard wind chimes crashed over the sound system. I said, “Sayonara, asshole,” and moved on to find my seat.

I was placed at the head table between Senator Grider and Mr. Bolton Sr. My place card read, “Guest of Senator Grider.” Zach obviously hadn’t told them I was coming. Mr. Bolton was standing, waiting for the ladies to be seated. As he turned to shake my hand, he suddenly realized who I was. He froze. He couldn’t even say my name. He gave me a curt nod and sat down. I figured that was because I was a reminder that his son was still married to Violet, and that this evening’s festivities were hardly in the best of taste.

I admit I was very surprised to see Grant’s parents there at all. The senior Boltons were a pair of ruthless pioneers who had reinvented themselves as landed gentry. Grant Bolton Sr. was a robust man of seventy-plus years with iron gray hair and the hardy demeanor of a sportsman. Though he cultivated the style of a patrician to the manor born, he was in fact a tough, snobbish, self-made man who had all the pretensions of Old Money and none of its charm. He had built the Potomac Bank virtually from scratch into the powerhouse it was today.

His wife was seated next to Grant, on the opposite side of the table. Rainy Bolton was a petite and tidy woman who wore her steel-wool hair in a tight bun and her mouth in a smile that looked like a frown.
Her beige silk evening suit was tailored and proper, and purposely plain in the style of Really Old Money. I figured she’d bought it at Inga’s. She wore a diamond and pearl choker and earrings to match. I knew from Violet that her mother-in-law’s collection of dowdy antique jewelry had not been “handed down” to her from her grandmother, as Rainy claimed, but surreptitiously purchased at auction to look as if it had been inherited. To me, Rainy Bolton was “mutton dressed as lamb and twice as tough,” as my mother used to say.

Grant was the apple of his parents’ eye—the only son who had been brought up like a prince and who was expected to marry a girl of substance and worth. They thought I was much too frivolous for Grant. But, as I said, I was astonished to see them there; I thought they had really loved Violet, who had done the family credit while posing no threat to Rainy, plus given them a grandson they adored. Maybe Violet was right, I thought. Rainy was a stealth starfucker, and Cynthia was now a big star.

Cynthia monopolized Grider. Mr. Bolton Sr. barely spoke to me, probably out of guilt. There was nothing left for me to do but drink. The appetizer arrived, followed by the first bout of the evening’s entertainment: twin brother violinists dueling to see which one could play “Flight of the Bumblebee” faster. Other variety acts punctuated the five-course meal, including six Chinese drummers who were more deafening than Niagara Falls and a bewildering scene from a Kabuki play. By the time the troupe of Korean acrobats showed up, jumping and flipping around the tables just before dessert, I’d had so much to drink I felt sloppier than a half-eaten egg roll. Yet I wasn’t quite comfortably anesthetized, so when I noticed that Senator Grider’s wineglass was still full, I asked him if I could have it. He pushed it over with a judgmental air.

“You a teetotaler?” I asked him.

“Yes, ma’am, I am.”

“Well, then, don’t mind me!” I toasted him and drained the glass.

His expression soured. “My wife had a drinking problem.”

“Oh, I don’t have a problem. I just like to drink! Nights like this, you should seriously reconsider your position on the subject.”

Finally, a huge cake was wheeled in on a trolley. It was one of those fantasy cakes: a large pagoda, with “Happy Birthday Grant” written across it in big red letters. Grant rose from his chair to blow out the six
candles—one for each decade, and one to grow on. He blew them out in one breath, but they all flickered back to life—trick candles being Cynthia’s idea of a joke.

Cynthia got up from her seat and tapped her glass. A chorus of pinging crystal soon silenced the room. She fastened her eyes on Grant, who was seated across the table from her. She wished him a happy birthday and then, in one of the great understatements of all time, she said, “I’m sure that some of you are wondering why I chose this museum to celebrate Grant….”

Not some.
All
.

She launched into a speech about how this was going to be “the Asian century,” and the party was not only to celebrate Grant but to mark the opening of the new exhibition, sponsored by her foundation. I may have been a little tipsy, but I got the point: she’d made
another
big contribution to
another
important institution, and this was
yet another
party to show it off. Grider sat with his arms crossed in front of him, his straw lips clenched tight, staring up at her like a farmer with a pitchfork.

The valet attendants were all backed up. They took forty-five minutes to bring the car around. By the time I collapsed into the gray Buick, I was utterly exhausted. Grider and I hardly said a word to each other on the way home. He pulled up in front of my house and said, “I hate to leave you after all we’ve been through together.”