by Marge Piercy
“Makeup will take care of that.”
“Alison, I’m in school. That matters to me, even if it’s of no discernible importance to my mother or my brother. I look forward to seeing the baby over Christmas.” She hung up and turned off her cell phone.
“The dynasty continues,” she said sourly and filled Blake in.
“They really don’t take your college career seriously, do they?”
“They don’t take anything I do seriously.” She let the corners of her mouth turn down. “That’s their mistake.”
“Absolutely. But I take you very seriously, don’t I, babes? You’re my Bible. My compass. My heart.”
“I’m your wife, which is more important.”
“You sure are. So, what will they name the baby?”
“Richard, of course. That’s what they call the firstborn boys nowadays. Richard the Fifth. Quintus.”
“She told you all that? I didn’t even hear you ask the baby’s name.”
“I don’t need to ask. I know how it works. The new king is born. I can just imagine the fuss, and it makes me want to vomit.”
“It’s not the baby’s fault. Maybe he’ll grow up to be a jazz musician or a horse trainer.”
“Never. He’ll draw himself up to the public trough. They’ll start grooming him before he’s five.”
Rosemary called next to issue her edict: Melissa had to go to Philadelphia. She flew down Saturday morning with a return ticket for Sunday night. It felt really lame to have given in, but the whole gang was there; even Karen had been summoned. This was the birth of the heir to whatever.
She walked into a hospital room crammed with flowers from local politicians, supporters, friends of Rich or Laura, friends of Dick. Her father was in a corner talking on his cell phone. Rich was outside in the hall in earnest conversation with his campaign manager, an oversize man who had played football for Notre Dame but carefully retained his South Philly accent. Actually she had heard him switch accents from phone call to phone call—like Blake, who could make his voice and language whiter, blacker, more streetwise, academic, hackerese. She barely fit in the room, but she had to make herself visible so that Rosemary would cross her off a mental list. See, I showed up. Give me one credit. The baby, red faced and crying, was clasped in Laura’s arms. Probably he needed to be fed, but there were just too many people.
“How come they made you come?” she asked Karen in the hall when she had a chance to get her out of earshot.
“Since Father left me the farm, I have a certain position. If they want to use it now and then in the summer or fall, they have to stay on my good side. But then I also have to pretend to be a member of the Dickinson mafia.” Karen glanced around. “So where’s Blake? Have you made your big announcement?”
“Not yet. I want to. But because so much is up in the air with your friend being busted, we’re hanging back and waiting to see what happens.” Melissa looked around nervously to make sure they couldn’t be overheard.
“He’s a cute little bugger—the baby, not Blake. Have you seen him yet?”
“Me and half of Rich’s constituents. I hate coronations. So is Rosemary enjoying being a grandmother? I’d think it would freak her out.”
Karen pursed her lips. “The line has to continue. But she isn’t going to do a lot of diaper changing. She’s found a nanny already, and she’s lending Rich and Laura her assistant Alison for a week…. It must be funny to be lent out like a lawn mower. Here, take her, she’s useful.”
“I don’t think Rosemary can do anything wrong in Alison’s eyes. But she’ll suffer, being away from Washington and Rosemary.”
“So Rosemary’s going back?” Karen glanced over her shoulder.
“Monday morning. She said, ‘The Senator has an important committee hearing.’” She imitated her mother’s voice referring to her husband as “the Senator,” as she so often did.
They were called in to view the baby. Melissa never understood what people meant by a cute baby, all red and squally. She supposed that if they had everything they were supposed to, the standard equipment and all functioning, that made them beautiful in the eyes of those who had spent so many months producing the kids. She wanted children, she wanted them badly, but she still couldn’t see that babies were cute. She was sure, however, when she had her first baby with Blake, she would change her mind. She would think that baby shone like a little sun. Not that she was in a desperate hurry to reproduce yet. Mostly she just wanted them to live together as husband and wife and be recognized by everyone as married. Then other girls would stop flirting with Blake and behave themselves. Then she would be free to show off her pride in her handsome brilliant husband.
Laura looked worn out but pleased with herself. She mostly concerned herself with little Dickey. Richard Potts Lee Dickinson. He would be wealthy and spoiled. He would go to the best schools, and trainers would be purchased to teach him whatever he needed to know to excel in sports. Why was she so jealous? Well, she just was. It was the same scene replicated. Rich Junior, heir apparent to the Dickinson political dynasty, now had his own crown prince. God help the girls who came along later. Blake was right: the dynasty would roll on and on unless someone threw up a roadblock. After all, she wasn’t dynastic. She was superfluous.
Dick took a moment to put his arm around her shoulders and smile into her eyes. “I’m glad you came to your senses about that Ackerman boy. He simply won’t do for you. You have to mistrust someone like that.”
“He’s just a student, Dad.”
“And you’re my girl. My little honeybee. We’re a family and we have to stick together. Strength comes from unity, you understand?”
She tried to wait him out, but he was not about to let her go without a response. “I understand what you mean.” Oh, did she.
“That’s my sweetheart.” He gave her shoulder a squeeze before letting go. His blue eyes looked into hers until she just had to look away. She could not help the surge of guilt that swept through her, until she was afraid she was sweating it through every pore. “We’re all in the public eye, and we have to be conscious of our responsibilities—to ourselves and to each other. I know I can depend on you, the way I always have.”
Finally they went out to supper in a restaurant where Philadelphia politicians and bureaucrats ate, where her father was greeted even by the Democrats with unctuous goodwill and hearty backslapping. He strode among the tables like a conquering hero, Rich in his wake, and they both received congratulations as they passed out cigars and showed off photos from the afternoon. While Rosemary had insisted she attend, Melissa was left pretty much alone. Rosemary was running over arrangements with Alison, who was making lists and notes on her PalmPilot. Their two heads almost touched, sleek blond and cropped auburn, as they created a zone of intensity and concentration. Melissa could not stifle a pang of jealousy for their closeness, but she suppressed it quickly. To be as close to Rosemary as Alison was, it would only be necessary to relinquish any pretense of her own life. Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here.
Afterward, they adjourned to the town house, except for Laura, who was at home with the baby and the new nanny. Merilee had been called back from interviews in Boston. She was busy already being interviewed in various cities. Melissa was surprised that her older sister wasn’t going to return as a matter of course to the firm in which she had interned the previous summer. Perhaps, Melissa speculated, the men who ran that firm were too close to Dick, and Merilee wanted a little more independence. Perhaps her sister hadn’t done as well as everyone expected and they didn’t want her back. Melissa was sure she’d never find out, unless she could get Alison talking. Sometimes Alison let things slip—but so rarely it was hardly worth the investment of effort. “So how did it work out with you and Angus?”
“Who?”
Rosemary heard that, her third and fourth ears pricking up. “That charming young man serving in the House. You got on so well with him at Thanksgiving.”
“Oh, him. What
about him?”
“Have you seen him again? You seemed to hit it off.”
“Mother! I don’t have time for that.” Merilee sounded exhausted. “I’m on the Law Review. I’m trying to keep my grades up. I’m interviewing. I don’t have time to do my laundry, let alone worry about some representative who lost a wife and needs a replacement.”
“You have more time now than you’ll have when you’re practicing law as an associate in some huge firm, working an eighty-hour week,” Rosemary said in a gentle, reasonable tone. “So now is the time to put some effort into finding a suitable mate. Angus is eminently suitable.”
“I’m not ready to ‘mate.’ I’m not going through all the hassle and bone-breaking work of law school to throw it all away on a mommy track position married to some guy who needs an acceptable photogenic wife to further his career. I want my own career, and I want it fifty miles away from politics.”
Oh, it was such fun when Rosemary and Merilee disagreed. She had to root for Merilee, but mainly she was delighted when Rosemary focused her annoyance on her older daughter. Melissa was about to escape back to school, back to Blake, back to Emily, back to her half-written sociology paper. Back to freedom, and none too soon.
• CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT •
Melissa and Blake had been studying together in the library. It was nine and they were just collecting their books to head for his room when Phil came up to them. “I got to talk with you, man.”
“You can talk in front of Melissa.” Blake’s forehead furrowed in annoyance. “What’s wrong?”
“This is personal.”
“Lissa, babes, want to go back to my room and wait? Do you mind?”
Of course she minded, but she didn’t see how she could tell Phil to fuck off when he was obviously upset. “I’ll wait for you there—until eleven. If you aren’t back by then, I’ll head for my dorm.”
She found herself in Blake’s room alone. Suddenly she wasn’t annoyed. She had been given a secret, rather shameful gift, one she relished. This was her lover, her husband, and all his private things were open to her careful inspection. She felt a buzz of arousal, as if this were his body. First she opened his top drawer, much neater than hers. All his socks were individually balled and sorted by color and type, all his sports socks together on the right, all his dress socks on the left. His underwear drawer was equally neat, with a couple of ties folded to one side for the rare occasion when he needed one.
The third drawer was sweaters, each one folded. She buried her nose in them and smelled his gingery body odor lightly clinging to the wool and cotton. Then she felt something hard underneath. A box. She carefully drew out what she was feeling: a box of .38 shells. She stared at them, confused. Why would Blake have shells? Unless he also had a gun. Carefully she returned the shells and more quickly but equally carefully went through his other drawers. She found nothing but clothing and sports gear. She rushed to his closet. His shirts were grouped by color; his pants suspended from pants hangers; his jackets and coats occupied the far end. No gun. Why would he have shells without a gun? There had to be a gun someplace—unless he was keeping them for someone else. Just as cautiously she explored his desk drawers. Normally she would have taken her time and prowled through everything, but she was on a mission. She perched on his bed, terrified he would walk in and catch her snooping. Then on impulse she squatted and felt under his bed. Something was taped to the underside of the box spring. She ran her fingers over it, heart pounding. She could feel the outlines of a gun. Why did he have a gun? She could scarcely ask him. She checked that she had returned every object to its rightful place. It frightened her that he had a gun. It felt out of character. It felt all wrong.
She was sorry she had looked. Now she had an upsetting mystery she could not solve by asking. She would have to find some roundabout way to learn why he had a gun and where he had acquired it. And when? Had he always owned a gun? She found herself shamefully remembering the way Rosemary always described Blake as the son of a murderer. His father too must have had a gun. She simply could not face him. Although only forty minutes had passed, she scribbled a note saying that she had gone home to get a good night’s sleep, since she hadn’t been getting enough z’s all week. “Love, XXXX,” she scrawled, but she felt funny. She hoped she wouldn’t run into him on the way out of his building. Nervously she kept glancing around, but he must still be with Phil. Of course, she had grown up with guns. Her father collected guns. But that was her father, champion of the NRA. Why did Blake have a gun? Maybe he too had grown up around guns. Maybe Si kept guns for self-defense. After all, a lawyer who dealt with murderers must have a sense of personal danger sometimes. But Blake had never said anything about it to her. Of course, neither had she ever brought up her father’s gun cabinets. Blake had seen them in Washington but never showed any interest. Maybe because they were old hat to him, as to her.
The excuse she gave him proved ironic, because she did not sleep at all. She tried to tell herself that a lot of guys had guns, but she didn’t believe it. Not at Wesleyan. Not Blake. It frightened her. It made her doubt him. At the same time, she could not, absolutely could not, let him guess that she had been going through his drawers. He had such a developed sense of privacy, he would never forgive her. It would be too sleazy a confession. She deserved her punishment because she had been snooping. It was a character flaw, the same curiosity and love of secrets that gave her a thrill when they were uncovering information about Dick and Rosemary. But she had to trust Blake. He was her husband. He was the center of her life. She had to trust him. What choice did she have?
HE CAUGHT UP to her at noon. “Babes, I was surprised you didn’t wait for me. Are you feeling okay?”
“I was wiped. I’ve been having trouble sleeping.”
“You’re worried.”
“Yeah, a bit. You know?” She shook her hair back, not used to the new heft of it. “What did Phil want?”
“He’s nervous. He’s feeling guilty about feeding his dad stuff that got him in legal trouble. Basically he wanted reassurance.”
“Well, his father isn’t about to turn him in.”
“He needed hand-holding…. Oh, Nadine and Si are coming up this weekend. They want to know how we’re doing. They’ll take us out to dinner Saturday night, okay? They want to see you too.”
“Really? That’s sweet. But didn’t you just see them last weekend?” If he hadn’t gone home, then where had he gone?
“Things are happening fast, and he probably knows something he doesn’t want to talk about on the phone. We’ll find out Saturday. Feeling better?”
Yes, somehow she did. Nadine and Si seemed so normal, so much parents, so caring and affectionate that they made things feel almost safe. “I’m glad they’re coming. I like them. And I want them to like me.”
“They do. As they get to know you, they’ll like you even better. I promise.”
In the women’s room at the restaurant, she approached Nadine. “How well did you know Blake’s father?”
Nadine was renewing her lipstick, brushing at her halo of lamb’s-wool white hair. “We knew him even before the frame-up. He was a good man. A really good man. We tried like hell to save him. It was an awful defeat.”
“Are you so sure it was a frame-up?”
“Absolutely. As sure as I’m standing here. He wasn’t a thug, Melissa. He was an intellectual. A sensitive man. An organizer. He was charismatic. He had a voice like hot chocolate. He even had a fine singing voice. He wasn’t religious but he was a deeply ethical man. He might have killed in self-defense or in defense of his family, but he would never go out and shoot down a cop.” Nadine turned from the mirror to search Melissa’s face. “Why are you asking about him?”
“Because he’s Blake’s biological father, because he means so much to Blake, I want to understand who he was. My parents demonized him, so I have a lot of mental rewriting to do.”
Nadine seemed satisfied by her answer. “You should talk to Si. Af
ter all, he was Toussaint’s lawyer all through the appeals. He ran the defense team. Si knew Toussaint even better than I did, because of seeing him through all the stress and hope and loss of hope, to the bitter end.”
“Just to be safe, I’ve brought you a new computer,” Si was saying. “Transfer what you absolutely need to it and junk your old one. Don’t give it away. Don’t play around. Smash it with a crowbar and take it to the dump.”
“A new computer?” Blake was startled, she could see. “You think things might get really hairy.”
“They might. I want you on this right away.” Si turned to her. “Now, is there anything on your computer that might cause problems?”
“I don’t think so….”
“Please check it over. I can FedEx you a new computer tomorrow if you call me. Don’t think because you’ve erased things that they can’t be restored.”
“Even e-mail?”
“Sure,” Nadine said. “I’ve had two cases where erased e-mails were restored and used against clients.”
As they stood outside around the Ackermans’ car, awkwardly she gave them each a peck on the cheek. Her family wasn’t much for kissing, but she had noticed the Ackermans went in for that. “I’ll go check my computer. Actually, there’s all the family e-mails. Blake was reading them. I never thought about that.”
“Tomorrow I’ll FedEx you a new one, overnight. Transfer what you need and destroy the old computer. Tell me what you have, and I’ll get something that looks enough like it so perhaps no one will notice and you won’t have to give any lengthy explanations.”
The men had opened the trunk and were looking at the computer Si had brought with him. “Nadine”—she clutched her mother-in-law’s hand—“would it be good, would it help, if I converted?”
“Converted what?” Nadine was watching the men deep in argument.
“To Judaism.”
That got Nadine’s attention. “Oh, Melissa, we aren’t religious really. We’re what they call bagels and lox Jews. We identify, but we only go to a synagogue for High Holy Days and bar and bat mitzvot. It’s a long and complicated and not very pleasant process to formally convert.”