by Peter Stone
Then, Lena found a statement from Nani Lancaster. BEREAVED MOTHER AND BETRAYED COLLEAGUE REACTS TO BECK NEWS, the headline announced.
A spokesperson for Lancaster had released the message: “Congresswoman Lancaster is troubled by the allegations against her colleague and friend Congressman Beck. She trusts that the justice system will accurately identify his innocence or guilt. She hopes the country will not allow one man’s tragic indiscretions to distract from the critical work she was elected to do. She vows to do her part to unite the party and provide continuity in this time of transition.”
“She knew,” I said. “She basically said it to my face. She looked the other way because BIB was helping her out. Because they were political friends.”
“What a loyal friend,” she observed. “ ‘One man’s tragic indiscretions.’ She might as well be condemning the guy. The only winner in this thing is her.”
The last bombshell of the day was Katie Campbell, who turned herself in to the same police department BIB once claimed to “own.” She copped to conspiracy for Ariel’s murder and was apparently hashing out some deal for minimal prosecution in exchange for her unique POV on BIB’s maneuverings over the past several years.
“I guess allegiance has its bounds,” I said.
“I guess you’re going to need a new mentor,” commented Lena. She added, “Do you think it’s safe for you to walk the streets again?”
“As long as you promise ‘lasirenita’ is going to remain anonymous.”
“I learned all my tricks from our IT guy. It’s watertight,” she claimed.
“Continental socialite and competent hacker,” I said. I wondered what else Lena was capable of.
“More than competent, my friend. But don’t worry—I only use my powers for good,” she replied with a mischievous smirk. “And don’t call me a socialite.”
“Well, then I guess I will be able to leave this building.” I brushed some dried mud off my pants and added, “I should really get home and clean up. There is this party at Tortilla Coast tonight, though. End-of-summer thing. Wanna come?”
“Nothing like good-bad Mexican food to celebrate a fallen politician,” she said.
We kissed good-bye, and I headed out of the embassy. I took a few steps toward my place and then stopped in my tracks; there was somewhere else I had to go first.
28
A metro ride to the Smithsonian stop got me within walking distance of the most upstaged monument in the city. I jogged toward the Jefferson Memorial, which nearly blinded me with its brightness in the morning light. The temple-like structure appeared bigger and more regal as I neared it.
A closer examination revealed a less exalted reality, however. There was a thick coating of dirt and trash around the rim of the monument. A custodian dutifully cleaned up the empty bottles and wrappers people had left behind the night before. He scraped away at persistent pieces of dried gum. But the coating of grime remained. The closer I looked, the filthier it got. When I wiped the outside wall with my hand, a brown-gray dust covered my fingers. I stepped back to look up at Mr. Jefferson himself. I wondered who his Katie Campbell was. And if there were any Russell Meteers in his life—fighting and killing to protect his reputation.
No offense, Mr. Jefferson, but if you had the summer I’ve had, you would be asking the same questions.
I stepped down from the Jefferson Monument and across the parking area that led down to Second George. He was, predictably, all alone.
I sat next to him, dwarfed by his larger-than-life dimensions. Five minutes of silence passed before I noticed the note. It was lodged in the pages of the iron book Mr. Mason held ajar with his right index finger. I almost said Excuse me as I lifted the neatly folded piece of paper out from the book.
I recognized Katie’s handwriting immediately.
C,
I figured you might stop by here.
I hated you for what you found this summer. You found the worst of me. You found the truth when it was too late for me.
But I mean it when I say that I found the best in you. And it reminded me why I started. And how far I’ve strayed.
Truth is, I’m tired of protecting, covering, hiding. . . . You spend enough time around darkness and it gets to you. In you.
So by the time you read this message, I’ll be tearing down a man whom I have focused on building up for the past eight years.
And then I’ll see if I can build up myself for a while.
That’s part of the deal. I cooperate. Then I disappear.
I’m sorry. Your turn. Do it right.
To the Second Georges,
K
I sat there with Second George for almost an hour—thinking about this city that had built up many and destroyed others. And the countless, nameless people in the background who really made things happen—and didn’t even get a second-rate monument to show for it.
I pulled out my wallet and held the tiny picture of my mom in my hand. Dad said it was one of her favorite pictures of herself, so she’d had some extra prints made. She was just a few years older in it than I was now.
“I think it’s because her smile looks so real—that’s just how she was,” he would say.
But I knew better.
It was because this city would always be a part of her, and keeping those small government ID pictures was a way of reminding her of that. A reminder of her pre-Lagrima life. What she was truly capable of. What just might have been again in the future.
And even though she never returned to DC, I felt like I had been there that summer for both of us. Finishing what she started, making a difference. Even if it was in the last way I had expected.
I held the weathered, faded photo between my clasped hands and then slipped it down into the crack of Second George’s book, replacing Katie’s note. It was my monument now. Because even if there would be no official statue for my mom, Second George seemed like the kind of guy who would share the spotlight.
As I started to walk away from the statue, I called my dad. In the background, I heard the grainy, bass-less strains of Los Lonely Boys blasting from the blown-out car speakers. I’ve always hated “Heaven,” but somehow the song sounded less offensive, even comforting in that moment.
“Cam, I see your boss got into a little bit of trouble!” he said. “Everything okay? Are they going to let you come home?”
“Yes,” I answered. “Yes, I’m coming home.”
“What are you up to?” he asked.
“Just checking in with some old friends before I leave,” I responded, turning to look at Second George’s face—and his new bookmark—one last time.
“Well, speaking of old friends, I convinced Berto to pick you up at the airport, even though he says you are . . . what was it he said?” My dad paused.
“A douchebag!” barked Rogelito from the background.
I guess the word was out.
“Well, after hearing how you’ve basically ignored your best friend, I might say you’re more of a dick,” said my dad.
“Dad! You’re my dad. You can’t call me that.”
“I’m going to be calling you a lot worse for a while—get used to it,” shouted Berto.
“Okay, okay, I’ve got some catching up to do,” I admitted to my dad. “You know, remember where you came from but take the best of where you’ve been.”
“Cameron, where did you hear that before?” he asked with a sudden, serious intent.
“I don’t know, just came to my mind,” I explained. “Why?”
“That’s exactly what your mother said when she moved out west with me. ‘Take the best of where you’ve been.’ ”
Like mother, like son.
29
Though everyone was talking about the BIB scandal at Tortilla Coast the following Friday evening, there was no question why they had assembled there: the big reveal of HillZone.com’s Fifty Hottest Staffers on Capitol Hill.
Though the inescapable business casual apparel made the room l
ook like Brooks Brothers goes to Acapulco, it was a decent party. I looked around the restaurant and recognized many of the faces from metro rides and hallways on the Hill.
“Look, it’s no big deal, but the IT guy’s roommate works at HillZone, and he told me I’m on the list,” said Hillary, literally behind the backside of her hand and into Lena’s ear. Lena and I had been talking about her upcoming Princeton class schedule when Hillary had appeared and spoken what were her first words to Lena.
“Marielena Cruz,” she said and extended her hand to Hillary.
Hillary leaned forward for an elaborate triple-cheek-kiss routine that was clearly foreign to Lena.
“Oh, I know who you are. I’m Hillary Wallace,” she responded. “Cameron and I go way back, don’t we, Cam? You snagged yourself one of the good ones, chica! And so did I. Zeph? Zeph!” She released her inner Lagriman with a hearty, ranch-hand shout and scanned the inside of the increasingly packed restaurant. “Anyway, awful day at the office. Investigators are still questioning half the staff. But Zeph and I got off easy. I mean, seriously, how is an intern going to stir up any trouble in one teensy summer?”
“Good question,” I said as Lena did a knowing squeeze of my hand.
“Anyway, I’m sick of talking about it,” Hillary continued. Then, back to Lena, “So I hear you’re from Mexico. I love Mexico. Have you ever been to Mazatlan?”
She incorrectly invented a dramatic emphasis on the second syllable of the city name.
“I can’t say that I have,” replied Lena with another tight squeeze of my hand, which seemed to say WTF?
Hillary’s eyes grew at the prospect of being able to tell someone about her family’s cruise to Mazatlán during spring break of her senior year of high school. A server brought us a bowl of chips and salsa and took our drink orders. Hillary proceeded with arduous detail about her family’s trip. Including the obligatory selfie of her with cornrowed hair, still saved to her phone.
“I look hideous, don’t I?” Her affected pronunciation of the adjective rhymed with “Amadeus.” “But it’s secretly cute, right?” she pestered a decreasingly interested but graciously engaged Lena.
“Those are cornrows!” Lena opted for stating a fact.
“I know, it’s crazy,” she replied, as Zeph mercifully appeared to dilute the Hillary-ness of the conversation. “I’m so glad you like them. Zephaniah, Marielena likes my cornrow picture!”
“You can call me Lena,” she said as she reached out to shake Zeph’s hand.
“You can call me Zeph,” he answered. “Apologies that we seem to be a little excited about this Top 50 thing. Ever since those investigators finally let us go this afternoon, it’s all we’ve been talking about. By the way, they never asked for you, Cameron. Full-on roll call of the whole office, but they didn’t ask for you. . . .”
I tensed up as Zeph started a conversation I didn’t want to have. Hillary changed the subject, her interruption welcome for once. “Pictures of all fifty staffers will appear on the TV screens. And then the full article shows up online.”
At that point, we saw Marcus parting the increasingly cramped crowds to reach our corner of the restaurant.
“Marcus,” said Hillary as she looked him up and down. “What are you doing here?” Because Marcus doesn’t belong at a 50 Hottest Staffers on Capitol Hill party, obviously.
“Just wanted to say good-bye to you guys,” he answered. “And get out of the office. Weird day. Weird summer.”
“How is everyone doing?” I asked.
“Refreshing their résumés,” said Marcus. “But I was pretty much on my way out of there anyway.”
“Just couldn’t find a way to finish that literacy report?” I teased.
“Shut up,” he said. “No, I’ve got a friend on the subcommittee on fisheries and wildlife, and there’s a spot there, so I’m feeling pretty good about it.”
“That’s where the real power is,” said Hillary with her particular brand of tactless sarcasm. No one responded.
“And you heard about Jigar?” Marcus inquired.
We hadn’t.
He explained, “Went into this new fancy manicure bar for men yesterday. Get your barf bags out, because the place is called MAN-icure. Anyway, he got the whole deal, whatever they do in those places. And then when they gave him the bill, he told them that he works for the next Speaker of the House. The owner was not impressed. Word got back to Nadia, and now she’s not giving him any references for a new job. I heard him talking to a state government on the phone today. A state government.”
“I can think of nothing worse,” said Hillary. Followed by, “What about Nadia?”
“Nadia is now working for a fashion industry lobbyist firm on K Street. She left the office for lunch and then never came back. We saw the update on her LinkedIn profile a couple hours ago.”
“That woman is invincible. A goddess,” mused Hillary. “What’s the name of the firm?” Always thinking about the next internship. . . .
“And Katie!” said Marcus. “Didn’t see that coming. Evil henchman disguised as awkward, bossy, mean, but kind of cute—okay, beautiful eyes—and—”
“You had a thing for her,” I said. “I knew it!”
“My mom always says I’m attracted to the bad girls,” he mused as Hillary snort-laughed in judgment.
“Pretty good girl,” I corrected him. “Bad situation.”
“OMG,” said Hillary, dramatic emphasis on each letter. “You’re defending her! Did you have a thing for her too? When you have Salma Hayek’s hot younger sister right here by your side?”
“Why is Salma Hayek the only attractive Mexican anyone can think of?” was Lena’s reaction, before covering her mouth and apologizing with a quick “Sorry.”
“She looked out for me,” I answered Hillary. “Just a shame she didn’t do the same for herself.”
Suddenly, the multiple four-foot TV screens in the restaurant lit up with fifty thumbnail photos of that summer’s chosen few. All eyes scanned the rows of pictures and eruptions of laughter and cheers ensued.
I noticed Hillary’s squinty, stressed eyes searching through the pictures as Lena said, “You still need to pack. Are you ready to get out of here?”
“Yes,” I answered as Zeph pulled me closer to him and pointed at the TV.
“Third row, second from left,” he said.
“I know, I know. Congratulations, Hillary,” I told him.
“No, buddy,” he said. “It’s you.”
“Don’t be ridicu . . . ,” I said as I looked up at the screen and saw the picture from my ID badge, nestled between a couple glamour shots of fellow staffers. “What?”
“You have got to be kidding me,” said Hillary, coming to the conclusion that this was not her year on the Top 50 list. “Who nominated you? A full-time staffer has to nominate an intern. How did this happen?”
“Let’s be happy for Cam and his accomplishment,” said Zeph.
The restaurant buzzed as everyone celebrated and debated that summer’s picks. Marcus pulled up the list online and read the text for my entry to us. “First time on the list, intern Cameron Carter has shown promise not just for his looks, but also for his insatiable curiosity and proactive work ethic this summer. Don’t let this country kid fool you. He enjoys edamame and a good ’90s cover band at Kramerbooks. Favorite monument? The Washington Monument observation deck, preferably after dark. Just don’t ask for his ID.”
My face flushed red as Marcus finished the paragraph. I looked to Lena, who innocently stared straight ahead, a sly smile creeping up on her face. Claiming a “jalapeño emergency,” a teary-eyed Hillary led Zeph to the bathroom. Marcus lied that he’d “be right back,” leaving Lena and me in the middle of the boisterous crowd.
“Congratulations,” she said, as we clinked Diet Cokes.
“How did you . . . ,” I asked.
“Stop asking questions.” She smiled. “I know people. Haven’t you figured that out yet?”
“Bu
t . . . ,” I replied, incredulous and a little embarrassed at the dubious honor.
“Shut up. You earned it.”
I motioned toward the door with my eyes and she followed me out. A couple of staffers held up a friend, who whined, “Oh no, I’m gonna barf, and this is my mom’s St. John suit.”
“Romantic place for a good-bye,” Lena said to me.
“What?” I asked. “I’m not going to see you again before I leave?” I felt that preemptive homesick feeling as I realized this was not how I had envisioned saying good-bye.
“Some immigration conference in San Diego that I need to help my dad with. Remember? I have a day job too!”
“But I’m supposed to surprise you by taking you back to the Washington Monument after hours! And then to all these places we need to go together—Eastern Market breakfast, U Street jazz clubs, that other Smithsonian museum by the airport . . . I was supposed to be giving you a half dozen Baked and Wired cupcakes. They say they’re much better than the ones at Georgetown Cupcakes. . . .”
She was the kind of girl for whom dinner and a movie just wouldn’t do. The kind of girl who made me want to do more, see more. The kind of girl who made me see more in myself. And I was beginning to mourn all the cool dates we would never be able to go on. And the country that would soon separate us.
“I guess you’ve been doing all kinds of research since you arrived. You’re sounding like a local. I have always wanted to go to the other air and space museum,” she admitted. “But the summer’s over, Cam.”
“Don’t say that,” I said, reaching for her hand. “Don’t say that. This isn’t how I thought we’d say good-bye. There was a time when I just wanted the summer to be over. And now I don’t want it to end. I don’t want you and me to end.”
“Same place, next summer?” She smiled, trying to soften the blow of our approaching separation.
“Just watch out for guys with nice watches at Princeton,” I teased. “Your Cartier Kryptonite . . .”
“You and that watch. . . .” She laughed. “If you didn’t look so cute, I’d hit you right now. Okay, I’ll hit you anyway.”