The Rake (8 page)

Washington, D.C., April 1987

Susan Oakeshott went early to the office on Monday to meet with her boss. She had heard about the fracas in Augusta. “It's as I hoped,” she told him. “There was only a single notice about the brawler, O'Dwyer. And nothing was reported about what he said before he lunged at you.”

“I take it Bill gave you the whole story?”

“Yes. And I told him not to say anything about it to anybody. Just a…a drunken guy going wild. You got out of his way and he was restrained. The only thing the people who were at that bar will be thinking about is that Hank Wright lost. Nobody's likely to hold you responsible for that.”

Reuben nodded. He was in fact deeply relieved. What he had done that day in Saigon was not his favorite memory. “So then let's talk about Harold Kaltenbach.”

“Yes. I've called a few people who are very reliable. Briefly, each time around, Kaltenbach bets everything he's got on one candidate for president. What he's got that counts is a network of amateurs who turn to him every four years to signal a winner. They trust his leadership, and they like the feel of a coordinated effort.”

“What does Kaltenbach do—I mean, specifically?”

“He puts his candidate in touch with key players, beginning in New Hampshire—always beginning in New Hampshire, never mind what they say: Iowa comes second. He sets up meetings like three, four years ahead. He gets the pols in New Hampshire, and in Iowa and South Carolina, to organize events centered on the candidate. He pays their travel expenses, so they can come to Washington and see their candidate in action. He gets two retired congressmen—I know them both—to begin, like maybe in May, June the year before the election—in this case, it would be May or June 1991—to nourish the apparatus.”

“Does he pay money?”

“Kaltenbach is the most careful, discreet man on the public scene, and he succeeds in hardly ever getting mentioned. He works through other people. But on money he's super-careful. The money that's spent comes in from volunteer organizations of the candidate's fans.”

An aide brought them coffee. “How did he pass the word to you that I had…survived our first meeting?”

“He called me himself, the way he's been doing.”

“What exactly did he say?”

“He said, ‘Susan, I had a nice meeting with your boss. He may have a political future. I'd like to see him again, make sure there isn't anything that would, well, get in the way.'”

“That's when he suggested meeting on the boat?”

“Yes. He said that he doesn't like ‘furtive encounters'—his words. But that nothing is served by provoking people's curiosity. He said, ‘I just need a couple of hours, and no one's going to interrupt us on the
Circe
.'”

“Susan, is there anything I need to think about? I mean, that I haven't already thought about?”

“He's sure to ask you, and I mean blow by blow, what you did in Vietnam.”

“And what I didn't do?”

“And what you didn't do.”

“Is he likely to ask about Priscilla?”

“He will
certainly
ask about Priscilla. And if I was him,
I'd
ask about Priscilla.”

“Anything more, Susan?”

“The Supreme Court's ruling is due in
United States
v.
Paradise
, the civil-rights case about the one-for-one promotion requirement in the Alabama Department of Public Safety—you promote one white, you gotta promote one black, otherwise you're discriminating. We have to keep an eye on that.

“And you should expect a call or two from candidates aiming at the 1988 primaries. I say that because I know that Governor Dukakis has already called a couple of senators.”

“What did they say? I mean, the senators he called?”

“
You
know, Reuben. It's pretty easy this early on. The line is that you will work hard for the election of…the Democratic nominee. Whoever he is.”

“And Harold Kaltenbach is certain that the winner this time around is going to lose to George Bush?”

“Absolutely
certain
. He didn't give any details.” Susan Oakeshott stood up. “You'd better be on your way. Tell the taxi driver to take you to the Gangplank Marina on the river, just east of the Fourteenth Street Bridge. When you get there, if anybody asks, say you're going to meet somebody on the yacht
Circe
,
which is on Pier 5. Leave your coat and tie here and take the jacket you wear to baseball games.”

Reuben Castle, at mid-morning, gave every appearance of being a carefree, boat-bound thirty-eight-year-old. He was informally dressed, with a copy of
Time
magazine in his hand and a paperback book sticking an inch or so out of a jacket pocket. If on the pier he had bumped into the senior senator from North Dakota, no less, he'd have said, “Hello, Mark. I'm taking a few hours off today. How you doing?”…Reuben could handle just about anything, anybody.

There was no one on duty in the marina office, so he made his way to Pier 5 and from there to
Circe
.

Kaltenbach greeted him from the stern, beckoning him up the gangway.

“Nice to see you, Senator. Let's go below. The cabin is air-conditioned and it's already getting hot out.”

Reuben sat down comfortably on a sofa across from Kaltenbach. The light below was dim, and Reuben's eyes took a moment to adjust.
Circe
was an eighty-foot ketch with an unusual design belowdecks. The dining table, where Reuben now faced his inquisitor, was pierced through the center by a large painted column—the mast. Reuben shifted so that his view across the table was unimpeded. To his right, he noticed four bottles of dark rum, one of light rum, and a single glass. The channel water lapped against the hull. All around, wood creaked slowly against metal.

Kaltenbach wanted to talk about Vietnam. Had Reuben done anything to avoid serving, or to postpone serving?

Where had he trained for the army?

Had he taken any specialized courses at Fort Gordon?

Was he attached to an infantry unit?

At what point in basic training had he applied for Officer Candidate School?

On receiving his commission, had he been sent immediately to Vietnam?

Did he rejoin his unit, after being commissioned?

When he arrived in Saigon, was he still part of an army combat unit?

Who was responsible for detaching him from that unit?

When he was attached to headquarters, who was his boss?

How long did he work in headquarters?

Was it routine to stay on for a period in headquarters, once you were attached there?

The colonel's clerical staff consisted of six men. How many of them went on to combat duty?

How do you explain that you were the only lieutenant at headquarters who didn't go on to combat?

“Ask the colonel,” you say? No way to do that. Okay. We move on.

Why didn't you complete law school?

What were your grades in law school?

Do you have a record of your grades?

You'll try to find those for me? Okay.

Do you have copies of faculty reports on your work?…You mislaid them?

Did you fail any course in law school?

So—you were drawn to public service, and then you just wanted to get on with life, make a living, start a family. Beginning in college, did you have any romances?

No. I mean anything anybody would be interested, in 1992, to hear about.

That's a nice answer, Senator. You wouldn't want the ten girlfriends you had in college to think nobody would be interested in hearing about them. Okay.

Now Mrs. Castle—Priscilla. One child, a boy, Reuben Jr. Is Mrs. Castle alone a lot?

Does she go out with other men?

Has she had any affairs?

You
assume
not? If somebody set out to prove that she did have…outside interests, would they find evidence?

Come on. You know what I mean. Have there been any items, gossip columns, rumors that got to you, about Priscilla?

Does she want you to become president?

Is she willing to put aside her own interests to help you in your career?

What is your financial worth?

“A couple of hundred thousand”? Plus real estate?

And Priscilla's?

You say, “Twice that.” On account of Miss America?

“And an inheritance,” you say. So together, for both of you, it's about a million dollars or around that?

Thanks very much, Senator. One day maybe you'll be sailing up and down the Potomac. Maybe quite a few times. Say hello to your Miss Susan.

Boulder, December 1987

“Mom! What have you done to yourself? Is that the way you looked when you married my dad?”

“Well, darling, that was eighteen years ago. Obviously I've changed in some ways.”

“But how come you can make yourself look, well, the way you must have looked back then?”

She didn't try to disguise her pleasure. Justin left the room to get a Coke, and Henrietta turned her head to look into the hallway mirror. It had been a full minute since she had last looked at herself, in the bathroom mirror. Her hair was curled over her forehead, coming down around her ears, glistening behind her long young neck. On her shoulders she wore the yellow tulle her father had given her when Justin was born, and around her neck she wore her mother's pearls. The lipstick, pink and moist, she had had to go out to buy, at Jacki Goodman's. She hadn't used lipstick for all those years.

She wondered, did she look too much like a vamp on the prowl? What would they have thought of her at the university in Paris, got up that way, in the light of her reputation for resolute drabness? Her father had once upbraided her for her neglected appearance, but her aunt Josephine, who was naturally
austere, defended her. “It is perfectly right,” she had told her brother, “that Henrietta should continue in mourning for her husband.”

Amy had been forthright in her invitation to come for drinks and dinner. “I'm not telling you,” she said over the phone, “that you have to tart yourself up. I
am
telling you that it wouldn't make any sense to arrive with your natural attractions in disguise, the way they've been since you came to Boulder. Jean-Paul may not notice if you dress up, but he would certainly notice if you came in looking like a nun.”

“Jean-Paul? Have I met him?”

“Probably not, unless you've attended meetings of the French faculty. I've never encountered him in the stacks, where you and I hang out.”

“Why did you invite him?”

“Because he's attractive. And a widower.”

“When did his wife die?”

“You remember the Air India flight that went down?”

“Oh mon Dieu, yes!—I won't tell any jokes about airplanes.”

“You are coming to life, dear Henrietta.”

Also invited were Halston Rauschig and his wife, Helen. Halston was the soul of the Democratic Party in Boulder. He was pleased when Amy, in introducing him to Henrietta, took pains to point out that it had been Halston who had put together the Democratic rally the previous semester, “where Reuben Castle wowed everybody.”

“Were you there?” Halston asked Henrietta.

“Yes, I was.”

“What was your impression?”

“Impression of what?”

“Well, of the speaker. Senator Castle.”

They were standing in the glassed-in garden room, which looked out over the mountains, still faintly visible against the early December dusk. Amy suddenly remembered: “Hey, Henri! Weren't you at the University of North Dakota, before going to Paris? Castle was also at the University of North Dakota! Did your paths cross?”

“I don't remember.”

The doorbell rang and Amy went to answer it as Halston broke in: “Reuben Castle was a big shot on campus—chairman of the Student Council and editor of the student newspaper. If you were there at the same time, he'd have been hard to miss.”

“My mind was on other things. I had some extracurricular activities of my own.”

“Like what?” Amy Parrish asked, returning with Jean-Paul Lafayette.

“Like duck hunting.”

Jean-Paul was extending his hand. “Enchanté,” he said.

Henri murmured a reply, and Amy told her how lovely she looked. Helen agreed. “You're hardly dressed to go duck hunting, Henri.”

“I don't know, Helen. Maybe I am.”

She sat down next to Jean-Paul. His thick dark hair was cut short and curled close to his head. His gentle eyes and wry smile caught her, and his voice was light but warm. His native French was flawless, of course, but also colorful, and he insisted on using it. That was perfectly agreeable to Henri, less so to the other
guests, but they all enjoyed themselves, talked politics for a bit, and ate and drank with relish, keeping John Parrish busy tending bar and pouring wine. He did manage to say to the Rauschigs—first to Halston, then separately to Helen—that the new line of Buicks, which his dealership was currently displaying, could be outfitted with a collapsible bar, “if you want one.”

Halston said that if he was getting a new car he might well want one. “It would be handy to have for celebrating the Democratic victory next November!”

John poured Halston's glass full.

Boulder, December 1987

Jean-Paul Lafayette called Henrietta's number the next morning, speaking French as usual. It was Justin who answered the phone. He was taken aback for a moment at being addressed in his native tongue. Finally: “Vous voulez parler avec Madame Durban?”

Jean-Paul answered gratefully, “Justement.”

Justin bounded into the kitchen. “Mom, some frog wants you on the phone.”

“
Justin! Do…not…use…that…word.
”

“Okay.” He sat down at the breakfast table, pulled up his glasses, and began to read the sports page.

It has to be Jean-Paul, Henri said to herself, walking to the phone.

He greeted her.

He had much enjoyed the dinner…. “Amy is a darling…. I have been talked into test-driving a Buick car. Do you know anything about Buicks, apart from what you've heard from John?”

They rattled on in French for a few enjoyable minutes.

Was Henri free to have lunch with him that day? “I am lecturing at two. Perhaps the Faculty Club at twelve-thirty?”

She questioned herself rapidly. She had never even been inside the Faculty Club. “Um, yes. That would be very nice. I would attend the lecture except that I have to be back at the library.”

“I will give you the lecture at your convenience. And that way I can deliver it in French!”

The telephone rang again within minutes. It was Amy. Henri could picture her, petite and tidy, with the broad smile that reconfigured her whole face.

“Darling, you were a big hit last night. With everybody, but especially JP. ‘Jean-Paul' sounds so formal. Sounds like a French opera.”

“He doesn't object to ‘JP'?”

“Oh, no. By the end of dinner, he was telling Halston and Helen to call him Zhay Pee.”

“Listen, Amy, he called me just now. Wants me to have lunch with him at the Faculty Club.”

“That's my Henrietta! You can ask him to call you Henri.”

“I like him. He told me he's lecturing on Daumier this afternoon. I won't be there, but I like the way he sort of half treats me as a French student, half as a lover.”

“Well, what do you know! You'll have to travel to France some day and reacquaint yourself with how those—”

“
Don't say ‘those frogs.'
”

Amy laughed. “I wasn't going to. Never would use the word, let alone when talking to someone whose father was French. No, I like him too, and Professor Gauthier, the head of the French department, I know likes him. Gauthier struggled hard to persuade him to stay at the university last year.”

“He wanted to quit?”

“When Stephanie died, that left him pretty wasted. He just wanted to do something else. But I think he's over that. I'm so
pleased
you've taken a shine to each other.”

“Amy, I have to go. Justin's finished his breakfast and I need to take him to school. I'll report for duty at the library by nine.”

“I'll be a half hour late. John insists I go by his dealership and see the new Buicks.”

“You can drink from the bar in the backseat.”

“Oh. You heard his line last night—”

“Got to go. See you later.”

How would she dress? She'd be going to the Faculty Club right from the library. She had to act quickly. Justin mustn't be late. Anything other than her work slacks and blouse! If she wore the silk shantung skirt she'd bought last Christmas, would that be a little flashy as office wear? The hell with it. She found it deep in the closet and put it on. She put her pearls in her pocket; she'd keep them there until she left for the Faculty Club.