by Peter Stone
“Don’t worry.” I patted him on the back and tried to calm him down, as Memo’s text popped into my head: Let the digging begin. I looked at Marcus—knowledgeable, suddenly indebted to me, and just absentminded enough to tell me too much about people who may be connected to BIB.
“Nice place you’ve got here,” I said as the early-afternoon sun sharpened its glare. Most of the other partiers walked inside for the air-conditioning while another group clustered under an umbrella on the deck, leaving Marcus and me as the lone keepers of the sizzling meat.
“Well, if you’re going to live with nine other guys, a decaying Georgetown row house is where to do it.” He shrugged, followed by a conspiratorial, “But if you see my landlord, it’s only four of us who live here, okay?”
“There are ten guys living here?” I asked. The house was nice, but not big and certainly not ten-inhabitants big. I tried to find the right moment to hit him up for info.
“Not all of us are subsidized interns, okay?” he said. “DC is expensive. And besides, I’m lucky. I got the whole master bedroom walk-in closet to myself.”
“You live in a closet,” I stated.
“Yes,” he said. “And this is how my parents can brag to their friends at home that their son is a big-deal Capitol Hill staffer.”
“Big deal, indeed.” I laughed as I turned the sizzling patties and juicy chicken on the grill. And then I went in for the kill.
“Oh, Marcus,” I said casually, “you may be able to help me with this work thing. I was organizing some files, but I found this list, and I don’t know where to put it. Has all these names—about forty or fifty people. . . .”
“Are you talking about the Fifty Hottest Staffers on Capitol Hill, because no, for the fifth time, I declined the offer to be featured.” He chuckled to himself and gulped down sips from a triple-digit-ounce drink container.
“No, no, not that,” I clarified. “I think they’re friends of BIB or something. Susan McArthur, Walter Wendler . . .” I did my best to recall the names Ariel had written.
“Did someone say Fifty Hottest Staffers?” Hillary suddenly appeared, like an impish child who knows cookies have just been removed from the oven.
“No, Hillary, just grilling over here.” I tried to swat her away, so I could have Marcus to myself.
“Because I heard that interns can be nominated.” She wrapped her arm around Marcus. “But they have to be nominated by a full-time staff member. Marcus?” She fluttered her eyes at his sweaty face. “Deadline to nominate people is next week,” she said sweetly.
“I think I recognize some White House staffers over there,” I interrupted, and Hillary immediately darted her head toward the inside of the house. Anything related to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue was the perfect distraction for her. “One of your roommates works at the White House, right, Marcus?”
“Well, he’s on the advance team, so he’s never around, but he is here today.” He pointed at a guy wearing a light blue polo shirt and jeans—and that was all Hillary needed to continue her social butterflying.
“Tootles, gentlemen,” she said, followed by an all-business: “And remember to nominate me, Marcus. HillZone.com. There is this red button on the right side of the screen that says NOMINATE. So you click on that, just drag and drop a picture, and fill out the . . .”
As she prattled on, I peeked at the flip-phone screen and studied the image of Ariel’s list of names.
“We got it, Hillary,” I assured her and slipped the phone back in my pocket. She let out a gracious and totally sincere “Thank you” before prancing back into the house.
“Do you think these are ready?” asked Marcus.
“So, anyway, that list,” I continued. “Do any of these names sound familiar? I could really use your help.”
I listed off the other names I could remember, as Marcus prepared a plate for his finished product. He started to pull off the burger patties and chicken and delicately placed them on the platter.
“Ring a bell?” I asked, as Memo’s persistent urging rang in my head.
Marcus was clearly more focused on showing off the spoils of his barbecuing.
“Lunchtime!” he announced, and suddenly a line of hungry partiers formed around the table where he placed his cookout masterpieces.
“Couldn’t have done it without you,” he commented as he put his arm around me. As if we had just built a barn together.
“Great burgers, Cam!” someone shouted, to Marcus’s dismay.
He sighed. “Seriously?”
The moment had passed. Marcus’s roommates gathered around him, the deck area swelled, and someone blasted Neil Diamond’s “America.”
“Today!” shouted everyone, as if on cue at the end of the song. Over and over, along with Mr. Diamond’s earnest cheer, “Today!” Once the song finished, Marcus continued proudly shouting, “Today!” as the group looked at him with increasing alarm. He was that guy.
The day somehow got hotter as the shadows grew longer. And the group started talking about migrating to the Mall to watch fireworks.
“Lincoln Memorial steps are the best spot,” someone announced.
“Only if you can get there in the morning,” interjected another partier. “The steps fill up, and there’s tons of security.”
“I like this area near the Jefferson Monument,” said Katie, smiling at me.
“No, no, no,” added one of Marcus’s roommates. “That’s where all of the smoke goes. You can’t see anything after a few minutes.”
“We are going as close to the Washington Monument as we can get,” declared Marcus with a newfound authority. “Optimal viewing, less security, a little more elbow room.”
“That settles it,” confirmed Katie.
These type A staffers took their fireworks viewing as seriously as health-care reform or negotiation over appropriations bills. What happened to a few Roman candles and ground bloom flowers on the sidewalk?
As the party closed down and the group headed for the door, I joined Zeph and Hillary on the long walk from Georgetown to the Mall. As we turned the first corner, Marcus pulled me aside.
“National Cancer Society, Americans for AIDS Relief, Diabetes Research Group,” he listed.
“What?” I asked.
“Those names,” he said. “You have at least three CEOs of health-care-related NGOs in there, probably more. I don’t do health stuff, so I just recognize the well-known ones. . . .”
I closed my eyes for a long blink and continued walking with the crowd. A list of health-care NGO leaders?
“So, anyway, barbecue Jesus, hope that helps you out.”
“With what?” I said, somewhat defensively.
“With the missing file?” he asked. “Remember?”
“Oh, yeah,” I said. “Huge help. You really saved me on this one.”
Marcus rejoined his pack of roommates. As I walked over to join Zeph and Hillary, I heard Katie’s voice: “Overachiever.”
“What?” I looked back and uttered an unconvincing, nervous laugh. She was a few steps behind me—a distance from which she definitely could have heard the conversation with Marcus. I tried to retrace my words, but she clearly wanted to talk.
“You’re talking shop on a holiday, that’s what I mean.”
Though my conversation with Marcus was harmless on its face, no one else needed to know. The fewer people who knew about my extracurricular pursuits the better. Still: What did she hear?
I slowed my pace slightly to ensure maximum distance from Marcus. “Poor guy,” I told Katie. “He’s nervous about a report he’s working on, just asking for help when something came to mind. I’m happy to help.”
Katie’s smile indicated she was 70 percent convinced of my story and 100 percent convinced of Marcus’s ineptitude. “I don’t believe that for a second.”
Okay, 0 percent convinced of my story. Not good. I looked away from her and widened my eyes, trying to think of a good reason to chat about a very specific set of BIB’s
friends with Marcus. . . .
She continued, “You’re writing another report for him, aren’t you?” she said. “You’re running circles around that guy, even with a sick day.”
“No, I’m not doing it for him,” I said. “And what do you mean ‘sick day’?”
And then I immediately realized she was referring to my faux intestinal challenges/trip to Virginia Beach earlier in the week.
“Tuesday?” she offered. “The day you didn’t come into work?”
“Oh, yeah.” I quickly recovered, or tried to. “I prefer to block that out.”
“Oh, Cam, I can see you’re flustered,” she said. “You really don’t need to be.”
“I’m not,” I answered.
“Well, you shouldn’t be. BIB asked where you were on Tuesday.”
“He did?” I asked, trying to wipe the guilt off my face. Geez, one day out of the office and everyone notices. It made me wonder what else people noticed.
“Cameron.” She chuckled. “You’re not in trouble. Don’t worry. He wanted you to meet another group of constituents who were visiting. From Lagrima. He told me how impressed he is with you. Disappointed you’re at the beginning of college and not the end, when he can hire you. Blah, blah, blah. This is good news. You should be very happy about hearing this.”
She was trying to change the worried look on my face, I could tell. But not very successfully. Even though I knew Memo’s questions and Ariel’s trail led to something real—something bad for BIB—the man believed in me. He wanted to hire me. And I was searching for evidence that could bring him down.
“Really?” I asked. It was the best I could do in the midst of the conflicting loyalties in my head.
“The man knows how to spot talent,” she said, and then added, laughing, “I should know. I’m evidence of that.”
But does he know how to spot an inside man?
“Okay, something’s up,” she declared, no doubt in response to my lack of engagement. “Is Nadia bugging you again?”
“No, no, it’s not,” I protested. “She’s not.”
“Okay, well, I hope you can shake off whatever overachiever’s curse you have going on in your head. Because you’re doing just fine. You’re family. And we’re here for you whenever. I’m here for you whenever. Scary stuff happens in this town, and I want you to know you can always come to me with questions—even the crazy ones. Especially the crazy ones.”
“Thanks, Katie. I will do my best to come up with some crazy questions.” Like, what does BIB have to do with a defective depression drug?
She patted me on the back and then our paths diverged slightly as she pecked away at her phone. The pat on the back—it felt ordinary, but really good. It felt good to be family. It felt easier to be the golden boy than the whistle-blower.
“Cameron! Buddy!” Zeph dragged Hillary toward me as we crossed the Rock Creek bridge on our way to the mall. “Tell me you know someone who’s been injured by fireworks.”
Hillary and Zeph yammered on about firework safety (because a lazy chat about reality TV never suffices with these people), and I occasionally added a detached “Yeah,” “Wow,” and “That’s crazy.” In my mind, I tried to connect an increasingly beguiling set of dots. The partly cloudy sky burned a darkening and purplish orange as we crossed the Rock Creek bridge. And as we walked through GWU, hundreds of others joined us in an impromptu parade down Pennsylvania Avenue, toward the big show.
• • •
We arrived at the Mall just as the red blinking light atop the Washington Monument started to really contrast with the darkening sky—a teasing reminder of my private tour up there with Lena. Who was probably picking over shrimp at some country club buffet along the Potomac. Or whatever “embassy thing” meant. The Mall was packed. The normally expansive and clear area was covered with families and friends. It looked like a large quilt of picnic blankets with grass peeking through in between—not the normal, other way around. I texted her Celebrating with the masses while you do an “embassy thing.”
“Elbow room?” complained Hillary to Marcus, as territorial revelers called us out whenever we set foot on even a corner of the land they had likely claimed hours earlier.
“Okay, so it’s my fault the Fourth of July is so popular,” replied Marcus.
We settled in a corner of grass, bound by a walkway. It seemed like the only remaining empty space on the Mall, likely because of the cakey mud that slathered anyone who dared to set foot in it.
“Okay, so now I know what pigs feel like when they see fireworks,” continued Hillary. She trotted over to an unsuspecting family and sat on a corner of their blanket. “Hi, I’m Hillary,” I heard her say to the confused but ultimately accommodating father, mother, and two kids. She rubbed her hands together in fake excitement to the children. “Fireworks!”
As we waited for the fireworks to start, I decided to check on the holiday on the other side of the country. I called my dad, but Rogelito picked up.
“Que ondas, guerito?” he asked. What’s up, little white boy? I didn’t love the nickname back home, but for some reason, I loved hearing it now.
“Hey, happy Fourth!” I said. “Is my dad there?”
“He’s setting up some picnic tables for a dinner,” Rogelito said to me as he simultaneously carried on a conversation with someone else in Spanish. “Big party! We miss you!”
I scanned the festive but overwhelming scene on the Mall. Latecomers started to join us in the patch of mud. There was literally nowhere else to stand. Hillary braided the hair of the little girl from the family whose party she crashed.
“Well, please ask my dad why he’s never able to talk to me anymore,” I half joked. Katie was standing nearby. She heard me and smiled.
Rogelito replied with a hearty laugh and a “No, no, put the hot dogs over there!” I could hear the splashes and squeals of a children’s cannonball contest in the community pool. His voice grew clearer as I imagined him putting the phone back to his ear. “So, how is the big city out there? Are you putting all those politicians in their place?”
“Yeah, it’s amazing,” I responded as I played tug-of-war over my shoes with the muddy ground. “Huge fireworks show about to start. Way bigger than anything we have in Lagrima.”
“Listen, that’s great,” said Rogelito, who sounded like he was much more interested in the hot dogs than what I had to say. I couldn’t really blame him. “I’ll tell your dad to give you a call. Have fun!”
The familiar sounds of a Lagrima Fourth abruptly stopped when the call ended. In that moment, I wanted to jump through the phone and join them all back home.
Katie walked over to me. “So, what do you think?”
“It’s incredible!” I mustered.
“And your family has forgotten about you?” she added.
“Yes, unfortunately,” I said.
“Well, don’t worry,” she said. “I haven’t. You have a bright future here, if you play your cards right.”
If she only knew the proverbial cards I was drawing, then holding, clasping, creasing with my uncertain, clammy hands.
The first shot of light weaved its way through the sky and then exploded in a circular globe of sparks, followed by three more. The crowd cheered. The show had begun.
“No better place to watch fireworks in the whole world,” she commented as we looked up to the progressively illuminated night sky.
“Yeah.” I nodded hesitantly—thinking that the ground blooms and sparklers back home weren’t all that bad.
Sparkly white lights hovered in the air and strobed through the sky. And every minute or so, a massive globe of fire rattled the sky and lit up the crowd in reddish hues. Looking at the dots of fire shot toward the masses made it feel like the ground was actually lifting us toward the sky.
I closed my eyes, and I envisioned my mom.
For some reason, a slide show of all of the photos of her in DC went through my head. That picture of her and my dad in front of the National A
ir and Space Museum. Her model-like gaze into the Tidal Basin. A playful salute at a dot in the sky, which my dad later told me was President Clinton’s helicopter. A shot of her back and her hair in the breeze near the Washington Monument—just a few hundred feet away from where I stood. I could feel her there with me. And then I could feel okay with not being at the Lagrima party. I was with her.
“Open your eyes!” nudged Katie.
“Sorry,” I instinctively said.
The blasts increased in frequency and intensity, eliciting oohs and screams from the crowd. I looked around and saw everyone’s smiling, jaw-dropped faces turned heavenward.
Except for one.
From just across the cement walkway, I saw Lena. Looking at me.
When we briefly made eye contact, she looked away and up. I smiled and started to walk across the path and talk with her when I noticed that she was with a guy who placed his arm around her shoulder. His arm, which was adorned with a very expensive-looking watch.
Embassy thing.
She quickly glanced back at me as I rejoined the BIB crew in the muddy knoll. She turned her head toward the douchebag who embraced her and shot him a quick, guilty smile. I instantly hated him. And his Rolex, which gleamed even in the dark.
The show climaxed in a horrendously beautiful and chaotic blur of light, followed by silence and nothing but a blanket of smoke in the air. The crowd applauded and some people started to stand up. I turned back to look at Lena, but exiting crowds already clogged the walkway and obscured the view.
I tried to decide the appropriate mix of What the hell? and Did you have a nice date with The Watch? for my text to her.
17
Ultimately, I decided to send no text at all.
Let her text me.
Let her think that I didn’t care. That she and that guy and his fancy timepiece weren’t bouncing around my mind and my holiday hangover.
But the only texts that came the next day were pictures of my dad and friends at the community pool back home. And, of course, from Memo.
What’s the connection? rang a text from the flip phone.