New England White (29 page)

“What are they?”

“Maybe it’s still hidden, and the good guys haven’t found it yet. Or maybe—”

But she stopped herself. She was not about to offer the worst possibility of all, that Kellen had somehow gotten his greedy hands on Arnold Huebner’s diary and, instead of clearing DeShaun, had auctioned it to the highest bidder.

“Maybe you shouldn’t come around for a while, Julia. A fella could get into bad trouble, talking about these things.”

(III)

J
ULIA MARCHED OUT THE DOOR
, the newly purchased Federal mirror from the Winterthur book under her arm, intending to hit Cookie’s before it closed, and hit instead a patch of black ice at the bottom of the steps. Her feet went out from under her, the mirror shattered on the sidewalk, and her head would have hit the nearest wall had a strong hand not chosen that moment to grab her.

What happened next was confusing.

Mitch Huebner, broad and red-faced and boozily unshaven beneath his watch cap, had firm hold of her shoulders and jerked her to her feet, then saw who she was and got up in her face, thick finger waggling, demanding that she stop spreading all these lies about how he had broken her lights and refused to pay. Julia, dizzy from the fall, and dizzier from the coincidence of meeting him immediately after hearing Frank’s story, at first had literally no idea what Huebner was talking about. He said that it was hurting his business, that he never in his life had refused to pay for damage he had done, but he resented being pressured to pay for harm he had never caused, and his words were all gibberish to her, sheer gibberish.

Then Mitch stopped and turned away and said what sounded like “Oof!”—exactly the way they used to write it in the comic books—and Jeremy Flew was between them, palms raised toward the larger man as if to make peace, but also effectively holding him away from Julia—at some risk to himself, she realized, should Mr. Huebner decide to take a hammy fist to the little man’s slender face.

“Please leave Mrs. Carlyle alone,” said Flew reasonably. “We don’t want any trouble.”

“Who the hell are you?” he demanded, confused. Bleary eyes measured Flew, then flashed at Julia. “I’m not making trouble. She’s the one making trouble.”

“Please do not put your hands on Mrs. Carlyle again.”

“She’s telling everybody these lies—”

“Please,” said Flew again, the voice of sweet reason in the middle of the wintry street. A couple of passersby had stopped to watch the fun. Julia, every bit as bewildered as Mitch Huebner, had no idea where on earth the sprite had materialized from.

“This is a private conversation,” Huebner snapped, and tried to push past, but Flew moved with him, keeping between the adversaries.

“Please do not do this, sir.”

“She’s libeling me!”

“I believe you mean she’s slandering you,” said Flew, still smiling.

So Mitch Huebner put his hands on the little man instead, sweeping him aside in a rage, except that the bigger man wound up sitting on the frozen sidewalk, Flew still standing there with his hands up and out. Huebner started to get up, and Flew shoved him down again. It seemed to take little effort. His smile never wavered.

“Who the hell are you?” said Mitch again, but with less force. He was so large and, to those in the Landing, so scary. Thirty years ago, he had been the great bully in the local schools: Landingers still trembled when they told the stories. But here he was, sitting on his derrière, obviously in no hurry to try getting up again. Julia felt for him.

“A friend of Mrs. Carlyle’s.”

“Well, you better not touch me again.”

“Please stay away from Mrs. Carlyle,” said Flew again, like an automaton.

Julia said, “Jeremy, wait.”

“I’m just trying to—”

“Let him up.”

The little man stepped hastily back, and Mr. Huebner climbed to his feet. He jabbed an angry finger at Flew. “You try that again, you little bastard, we’ll see who winds up on top.”

“No, thank you,” said Flew, with a polite bow. But he remained between the larger man and Julia, and she saw something in the playful eyes that frightened her.

She said, “You’re right, Mr. Huebner. I’m sorry.”

“You what?”

“I’m sorry to have accused you falsely. I’m sure you didn’t break my lampposts, and I was wrong to tell anybody that you did. Please forgive me. I hope that you’ll be taking care of our driveway for years to come.”

She shook his astonished hand, his huge paw swallowing her tiny one.

“I’d like to ask you a question if I could.”

“What question?” he asked, sullen eyes still on Jeremy Flew.

“It’s about your father—”

“What about him?”

“I was wondering if you ever found his diary.”

Violence rose in the puffy red eyes, and Flew, sensing the recharged atmosphere, moved closer. But Huebner only glared at her, then turned on his heel and stalked off.

Escorting her to the Escalade, little Flew broke out in paroxysms of nervous laughter. “I never did that before. I’ve had self-defense classes for years, but I never got to use them. Know what? I can see why people go to war. It’s fun!”

“When you win,” muttered Julia, who had seen humiliation and its close cousin, murder, warring in Mitch Huebner’s eyes before she sounded retreat. But Mr. Flew just went on laughing his delighted executioner’s laugh, and Julia, slogging through the snow, forgot to ask how on earth he had shown up just when needed. She was too busy wondering who exactly her husband had invited beneath their roof.

And why.

CHAPTER 31

FRIENDLY ADVICE

(I)

T
HE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON,
Senator Malcolm Whisted spoke at a campaign rally on the edge of campus, a risky decision in the middle of final exams, but the only time he could squeeze in a visit to his home state. He made a total of four appearances in that one day, not counting his informal tea with the political-science students, his own major before he had gone into the State Department, then graduate school, then a university sinecure of his own, then electoral politics. That night the Senator dined at the home of his old friends Lemaster and Julia Carlyle. The event was carefully not styled a fund-raiser, because Lemaster and Julia were hosting in their dual roles—as president and first lady of the university, and also as dear old friends of Senator Malcolm Whisted and his wife, Maureen—and could not, in either role, be seen as partisan.

Said Lemaster.

To the surprise of the meteorologists, the weather held, so everybody came. Once the renovations on the presidential mansion were complete, the Carlyles would entertain on campus, but for now a dinner at home meant Tyler’s Landing. The guest list at Hunter’s Heights was forty-two strong, not counting aides. Food was served buffet style. There was lots of eating on laps as the old roommates, very loudly, traded stories. Most of the guests were faculty, who mostly fawned over the Senator, perhaps jockeying for places in the forthcoming administration, perhaps merely exulting at the thought that the forces of the Antichrist might shortly be driven from the White House. Some were the dignitaries of Elm Harbor. Some were Carlyle acquaintances from the Landing, because to try to find “friends” would have taxed their abilities. Back in grimy, dilapidated Elm Harbor, which Julia had been in so great a hurry to leave, neighbors of several colors had been on their doorstep with casseroles and freshly baked cookies the day they moved in, and, through the process of reciprocal invitation, the Carlyle family had made friends. Six years on Hunter’s Meadow Road, where the houses stood continents apart, and Julia had learned the names of perhaps two families in the near vicinity. Here was the secret segregated truth at the heart of integration. No vandalism was committed. No crosses were burned. No epithets were uttered. The family was not attacked. It was simply ignored.

But, for Malcolm Whisted’s dinner, suddenly everybody wanted to come. Mostly people crowded around the guest of honor, who, like all successful politicians, possessed the gift of seeming to lavish every bit of attention on your little question or concern even when his mind was on tomorrow’s speech or this morning’s
Times
editorial. His aides kept coming over to whisper: another competition between the roommates was over who would be called away to the telephone the most times. Across the foyer was a library equipped with a private bath, so that it could double as an extra guest room. Senator Whisted had converted it into his temporary office for the evening, a place to take his calls or answer questions from his aides. As the evening wore on, he spent more and more time closeted inside.

Julia moved dutifully from group to group, wishing Lemaster were beside her instead of across the room doing the same thing. In the bay window near the piano, Suzanne de Broglie from the divinity school was explaining dreamily to Donna Newman, doyenne of Landing society, how no moral person could support the blood-for-oil hegemony of the current Administration. Out in the solarium, Marcus Hadley, a law professor and old crony of Lemaster’s, was lecturing Gayle Gittelman, the county’s leading criminal-defense lawyer, on how support for school vouchers among poor black parents in the inner city should be ignored, for it was simply evidence of careful racist brainwashing. Julia, who had loved the darkly joyous Clannish boister of Harlem parties when she was a little girl, had come to hate the confident white preachiness of the campus parties to which her status required her to go.

Now and then Lemaster smiled at her across the room as he worked it, or even kissed her as he passed, but Julia saw nothing straight just now, and suspected her husband of putting on a show for his guests.

At some point in the evening, as Julia struggled to extricate herself from a conversation in the corner of the living room about how the family could in good conscience worship at a crazed right-wing congregation like Saint Matthias, Jeremy Flew tapped her on the shoulder and asked to borrow Mrs. Carlyle for a minute.

“The Senator would like a word with you,” murmured the little man, turning her over to one of the Senator’s people, who knocked on the library door. Inside, Malcolm Whisted was sitting atop the desk, tie loosened, one long leg swinging, his elegant wife, Maureen, sagging exhausted in an armchair.

Maureen said, “Thank you for having us to dinner, Julia.”

“It’s our pleasure. And our honor.”

“We really need to get together more often. You need to call us next time you’re in Washington.” Using
need
like a command. “We can’t let it be this long again.”

“I agree,” said Julia, trying unsuccessfully to watch them both.

A look passed between the pair. The Senator said, “I’d like to explain about what happened with Astrid.”

“Oh, no, no, you don’t have to—”

“I run only clean campaigns, Julia. No other kind.”

“You need to understand that,” ordered Maureen, perfect political wife and, some said, the brains of the outfit. “You need to remember what kind of man my husband is.”

Whisted glared at her, but contrived to turn it into a fond gaze before Julia could be sure. His voice had the tone and conviction of the answer to a reporter’s question. “Astrid Venable worked hard for us. I wish her all the best. But she wanted to dig up dirt on our opponents, and we don’t do that.” Eyes still on his wife. “We’re the good guys.”

“I understand,” said Julia, hands massaging each other nervously behind her back.

“And we ask our opponents for the same courtesy,” the Senator said.

“Of course.”

“Nobody’s a saint, Julia. Everybody has secrets in the past. I do. You do. Everybody does.”

She went very still.

“What my husband is saying,” Maureen explained, unnecessarily, eyes tightly shut, “is that we all had our wild periods.” She brushed graying hair from her forehead. She had slipped off her shoes. Long ago, before her husband got into national politics, Maureen used to tell people she could read palms and auras. One night, at a party in the Hamptons, she had read Julia’s, predicting decades of warmth and joy. “I can’t imagine why anybody would try to dig those things up. You have to realize it has nothing to do with how a man would govern.”

“Campaigns should be about ideas,” said the Senator.

“Not about personalities,” added his wife.

“About the future.”

“Not about the past.”

“About who a man is now.”

“Not who a man used to be.”

A knock on the door, an aide poking his head in. The Senator said they would be another minute, and the head disappeared. Everybody was in motion. The Senator was straightening his tie, Maureen was slipping on her shoes, Julia was backing away. Somehow Whisted had her hand in his and pumped it twice, then continued to hold on, dark, sincere eyes burning into hers. “Let’s keep the campaign clean,” he said, and slipped out to meet his admirers.

Maureen lingered. “Julia.”

“Yes, Maureen.”

“My husband is a good man. You need to know that.”

Julia felt tired and, unaccountably, afraid. She had thought it was Scrunchy. If it was one of the Horsemen, it was Scrunchy. But now she was less sure.

“I know that, Maureen. I promise.”

“He had a youth. We all had a youth.”

“I understand.”

“Julia, listen to me.” Taking both of Julia’s hands in both of hers. Maureen was a tall woman, in small ways endearingly awkward despite the surface elegance. “Nobody cares about what anybody did at that age. Most of us did things at that age we wish we hadn’t. My husband did things I’m sure he wishes he hadn’t. But he would never hurt anybody. Never.”

“Maureen—”

“My husband is not a wealthy man, Julia.” A sudden smile, like unexpected treasure. “The Whisteds have always believed in public service.”

“I understand,” said Julia, who did not.

“I’m sorry about Astrid. Truly sorry. Please don’t hold it against my husband. It’s going to be a tough campaign. Astrid understands.”

“Believe me, Maureen, I don’t hold anything against your husband.”

“Good. I’m so glad.” A long look, as if considering how much to tell. Then a polished detour. “Call me when you’re in Washington. We need to spend more time together.”

“Thank you.”

“Or if we can do anything for you. Call.”

“I will.” She tugged but could not get her hands free. “Thanks.”

“It’s the Landing,” Maureen explained, eyes hammering at her. Her flesh was slick and warm. Julia squirmed. “I remember from when we lived here. The Landing affects people. The things that happen here are always so—”

She stopped, hugged, went out.

(II)

I
N THE FOYER
, Julia said goodbye to the Senator and his wife and, rubbing her eyes, watched as the tide drifted out, the last few stragglers among the guests draining toward the door. The Senator wanted her to stop. As simple as that. Malcolm Whisted wanted Kellen’s surplus to stay buried, and so did his wife.

Which meant—

“So—you heard about Tice?” Marcus Hadley was suddenly beside her, white and hefty and confidently judgmental. His family had been around the university even longer than the Lands. His uncle had been one of Lemaster’s predecessors as president. His grandfather had discovered a famous dinosaur fossil. Back when Marc and Lemaster were professors together, they used to run a competition—a serious one, with rules nobody else understood—to figure out which of the two was the most brilliant member of the law faculty. “That lawyer? The one with the commercials?”

“Tony Tice?” she said, as foreboding rose.

“Right. Lemaster told me how he bothered you.”

Julia realized that she had been holding her glass all this time. She handed it to a waiter, feeling the room waver. “What about him? What did he do now?”

“Beat up his girlfriend. Gayle Gittelman was telling us.”

“What? He did what?”

“Tice. Tricky Tony.” Eying her. “He’s been arrested.”