Mulch (2 page)

“You have reservations about me.”

“Pete, we went through a lot together in ’Nam.”

He narrowed his eyes and looked at his old friend. “I remember every minute of it, Jack.”

“Well, that was then, and this is now. But …” Again he looked as if he’d rather walk on hot coals than to say what he was going to say. “We have to be careful. That girl, a few years ago …”

“Girl. What girl?”

“The girl who drowned on that Rhine River trip. There was talk. I hope someone doesn’t come across it before the confirmation hearings.” He adjusted himself in the French chair. “But even if they do, the matter could be explained. What really bothers me is the here and now. We keep hearing things about … women. I can’t emphasize it too much, Pete: We have to assure there’s nothing current that might cast a shadow on your nomination. The religious right, you know.”

“The religious right? Jesus! Are people still worrying about the religious right? What do they have to do with your choice of a deputy secretary of defense?”

The president looked incredulously at him. “I forgot. You’re totally apolitical. You haven’t changed a bit.”

“Well, not entirely,” said Peter with a smile.

“You mean you watch the TV news, and read the
Times
and
Post.
‘Fraid that doesn’t cut it, Pete. Let me explain.”

Casting a wary eye about the chamber as if searching out hidden listeners, the president said in a low voice, “The fuckin’ religious right has half the small towns in America by the balls … don’t you realize that?” With a clatter he set his cup into its saucer. His voice was still low.

“Pete, goddamn it, they’re drivin’ me from the right
and
the left, just like they’re driving every other politician. It’s crazy—there’s no middle any more! And there’s no money. But worst of all, there’s no fuckin’
middle!”
He looked at Peter, who looked back without expression.

“Don’t worry about things so much, Jack. To answer your concerns, the woman on that Rhine River trip died accidentally; there was even a formal investigation by the German police.” He reached over to the table and grabbed a cookie and took a large bite. Buttery crumbs spilled on his brown Harris tweed as he munched. “As for the here and now, didn’t you know that I’m a proper married man?” He waved the fragment of undevoured cookie at President Fairchild. “Married for three years, no children, big designer house near Alexandria in a funky little subdivision called Sylvan Valley. It’s real normal for Washington: filled with bureaucrats workin’ late and intellectuals workin’ early.” Using the cookie fragment as a pointer, he indicated a tan folder lying on the tea table. “You know all that: It’s all in there. Above reproach. Not a thing on me.” He gobbled the rest of the cookie.

“Forgive me, Pete, I didn’t even want to bring it up,” said the president, his voice swollen with apology. “I need you. I want you confirmed. Together, we’ll bust his balls.”

“The secretary’s.”

“Yeah,” said the president.

“Hey,” said Peter, casually, “we’ll do it.”

The men rose, Peter standing in close and, at six feet four, looking down on the commander in chief. President Fairchild said, “There’s no friend like an old friend. And you and I go way back. We saved each other’s lives.”

“We saved each other’s asses, too, as I recall.”

The president chose to ignore the remark. His savoir faire had returned. His voice had resumed its strong, velvety pitch. “We’re going to make a great team. We’re going to show ’em how a country can be strong
and
solvent at the same time.” He extended an enthusiastic hand toward Peter.

Peter took the hand in a visclike grip and said, “We’ll cut your defense secretary off at the knees.” Jack Fairchild’s eyes glistened with admiration.

Then Peter released the pressure on the president’s hand and looked at his watch. A woman was waiting for him in Georgetown. At the thought he felt a pull through his body that only took a millisecond to focus in his groin. There were all those goddamn cherry blossoms out there, too. It was ridiculous for a man like himself, but he almost felt like he was in love.

“Y
OU MEAN WE’RE LOST?” JANIE ASKED
.

Louise clutched the steering wheel as if it were a life buoy. “I could have sworn it was
this
cul-de-sac. But it’s not. Darn! Why did I leave that neighborhood map at the motel?”

“Map, my foot, why did you leave
Dad
in the motel? I bet he knows—”

“Look,” Louise snapped at the fifteen-year-old beside her, “he couldn’t help it; he had a meeting with his new boss in Washington. You heard him say that.”

“Okay, Ma, sorry. Don’t freak out—we can find it. Too bad your air-conditioning doesn’t work.”

“Isn’t it,” muttered Louise. As if for verification she fiddled again with the unresponsive controls on the dashboard of her seven-year-old Honda station wagon. She could feel the sweat in the armpits of her dress, a dress she picked up from the young people’s department sales rack meant for Janie or Martha. When they both rejected it, Louise decided to keep it for herself. It was her color: French blue. Now the dress was riding up stiffly in folds like a Roman shade, so that her bare thighs felt as if they were glued to the vinyl seat cover. In contrast, Janie slouched comfortably, her long legs in faded cutoffs waggling steadily like an accordion.

She was lost. Couldn’t even find her new house. This must be what they called hitting the bottom. How many times had they moved? Overseas twice. Back twice. From one foreign post to another, twice. From one domestic post to another, once. So here she was, forty-two, attractive, jobless, having masterminded another move to another town—the third time to this one—having sent Martha, her firstborn, to Chicago to start college, having said good-bye to friends, to her garden club, to her minister. Having stopped the phone, gas, electricity, papers in the house in New York, and ordered them up in the new home in Fairfax County. Having filled out scores of postcards telling people their change of address. Each process cutting a little at the roots they had established in their old town, until all the roots were severed. But now not having enough brains to find her new house! That was because Bill had done all the driving on their two visits to the house when they bought it back in May.

That in itself was strange: making one of life’s biggest purchases after one or two quick looks. But at least they owned a house. For years they lived in government housing overseas or rented places in the States.

Bill had navigated while oblivious to street signs and landmarks, she had just sat and gushed over the scenery—excited as a child about living in the Virginia woods.

Tears sprang to Louise’s eyes. She felt like stopping the car and having a good cry. Instead, she stiffened her spine against the seat, whipped the wheel around, and sped out of the nameless cul-de-sac.

“All riiight,” said Janie, admiring the move. Her long blond hair blew in the unaccustomed breeze. After a moment she said, “Y’know, Ma, these woods make the roads seem like canyons, just like Milton said.”

“Milton who?” asked Louise absentmindedly as she drove.

“Really, Ma. ‘In this dark canyon of our souls,’ something, something, something. I had it last fall in English.”

“They do look like dark canyons, don’t they? But Sylvan Valley is a wonderful place—modular homes with lots of glass, and the developers, for a change, didn’t cut down the trees. Interesting people are supposed to live here, too. I bet you’ll like it. And it’s not too far from Bethesda, where you still have friends.”

Janie agreed grudgingly. “Maybe it’s not that bad. Just creepy and ominous, that’s all. And the street signs are hidden behind trees.” She waved a thin arm out the window as tribute to the greenery and declaimed in a ponderous Carl Sagan voice, “Billions and billions of trees.” Then, in her normal voice: “And all those weird buzzing sounds …”

“Cicadas. You’ll get used to them.”

“But I still think Dad should be here when we move into our seventh house.”

Louise smiled faintly. “Seventh house. That’s right, I guess.”

Despite the smile, she felt sad. Moving represented advancement for Bill: the next challenge as a deep-cover CIA agent. But so ironic. No one could share those glory moments with them, because he was a spy. The overseas posts, interspersed with assignments to the NSC, the UN, and now the State Department. Each was another step up the ladder. Someday, she thought wistfully, he might climb up into the light.

For Louise, moving was like having a tooth pulled without novocaine: the sharp loss of familiar people and familiar places. Not that she didn’t bring it off gracefully. As a foreign service wife, it was expected of her.

Janie was warming to her subject. “And you bought a new house and you can’t find it. You know the moving truck is there by now. Boy, I can see it all now. They’ll be big guys—they’re always big guys with sweaty armpits.” She was waving her arms now, her knees still waggling. “I can see them all standing around, and really mad at us because we aren’t there to tell them what to do with the stuff. And they’re just standing there.” She looked over at her mother to see what effect she was having.
“Probably
in the sun, and the temperature is about two hundred—and all they really want is booze. They’re living for the end of the day, when Dad’ll give them those beers you bought, and maybe some of the whiskey that you packed—because you guys will be so grateful they didn’t break any of your little knickknacks … your little glass
menageries of things.” Janie darted another glance at her mother. Their eyes met.

The sweat now dripped down Louise’s cheek, the one that faced the 95-degree Virginia morning. She said, “Janie, I have a great reservoir of affection for you, built up over the years. Let’s not tamper with it. I feel foolish enough without you railing at me.” Her voice had edged up several tones. “Now help me find the damned house!” She backed viciously into a driveway and returned the way they had come down the first dark canyon. Even in their confused passage she noted that the neighborhood had a road at the crest of a high hill named after their older daughter—Martha’s Lane. It gave Louise another little twinge of loss; her first baby, gone to college.

Janie had fallen silent, as children do when they know they have gone too far. Her knees were still. “Ma, I’m sorry I gave you a hard time. I’ll help you find the house. But first, let’s make a deal. We’re in a new place; call me Jane, not Janie. In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m not a little girl any more.” She turned plaintive blue eyes at her mother.

“Oh, sweetheart, I’m sorry.” Louise reached over and patted her daughter’s bare leg. “I will remember. I will call you Jane. And forgive me. You know it’s not easy to move again, not for any of us.”

The girl said, “Plus it’s always harder because we move when it’s hot.” She cocked her head. “’Course, I ought to be used to it by now. My father gets transferred and I just tag along like the caboose on a train.” She sighed and dropped her thin shoulders. “Martha was smart. She unbuckled her car from the train before she had to move.”

“She unbuckled her car? You mean uncoupled her car?”

“Okay,” said Janie. “Uncoupled.” She turned in her seat toward her mother. “Oh well, that’s enough of that. So, Ma, how’re we going to find the place?” She wrinkled her nose. “Dogwood Court: what a weird-sounding address. Could you have picked it just because the street’s named after a tree?”

“of
course not.”

“Just speculating, because I know you and
gardens.
The first thing you’re going to do after you move in is rip up the entire yard and make it all over your way.”

Louise sighed. “Right now, the point’s moot, since we can’t find the house. I would ask somebody, but it’s so humiliating. If everything in this neighborhood didn’t look the same, we wouldn’t be having this trouble. Our house is tan stain with white trim. It’s one story, just like that one.” She pointed to a flat-roofed house barely showing through the trees. “As opposed to that two-story type there that is like a house of glass. Isn’t it pretty? And it’s somewhere right near that big hill we’re just coming to again.”

“How about trees?” Janie asked slyly. “Does it have any distinguishing trees?”

“Oh, how
smart
of you-that’s it! On the corner is a house with a gnarled old tree, a dogwood, I think. I noticed it because it needs a good feeding and pruning. That’s where we turn!”

“There,” said Janie, pointing ahead. “Is that what you call a gnarled old tree?”

“Yes, yes, yes, oh God,
yes!”
cried Louise.

As they approached they could see a giant blue van tucked into the shady reaches of the cul-de-sac. Four big men sat casually on the ramp near its open doors. Louise coasted in
alongside its long, steel expanse and parked in front of it. The van. The van with their beds. Their chairs. Their antique loveseats. Their excess of books. Their files. Their fossil rocks. Their family photos. All the appendages that had safely crossed state and international borders, oceans, seas. Ready to be set up again in a new place by the resident homemaker.