“That woman’s sign has more words than Anna Karenina,” says Mr. DeVille. “But I suppose that’s a good thing. If our opposition ever organized, we might both be out of a job. I—”
“Am I out of a job?” Andre blurts out, and regrets the interruption. But what are they here for, if not to settle this question? They are both busy men. No need to draw this out. “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean any disrespect.”
“I’ve received a briefing on Carthage.” The old man whistles. “Messy, isn’t it? I’ve read your memos. Talked to PISA. Studied the finances. Fiona wanted to replace you as team lead, and I think she—”
“Sir, with respect, I don’t think she understood—”
The old man sets his jaw, raises a brow, an expression that says, That was the second time you’ve interrupted me. I dare you to try a third.
“I’m sorry,” Andre says. “Yes, sir. She did want to replace me.”
“I asked Vinnie to put a tracking poll in the field. Apparently, you’re ahead. Fifty-five/forty-five. Likely voters. That stunt at the county council. The man electrocuted in front of his wife. Turned the tide, didn’t it? People were on the fence, but now they’re mad, and rightly so. That video made me mad.”
Andre thinks that if Mr. DeVille knew Tyler, then Mr. DeVille might feel differently, might feel the sizzle of a hand Taser is precisely the public reprimand that a jackass like Tyler needs.
“I see no need to replace you,” Mr. DeVille says. “You can keep your team as is. It’s you and an intern, right? But understand, we can spare no more resources. Money or staff. You must win with what you have.”
Mr. DeVille doesn’t say what Andre presumes. This reprieve is not an act of mercy. Most likely, Mr. DeVille couldn’t find a volunteer to take over the campaign. Not this late in the game. Not this small backwoods campaign without an ounce of prestige. Andre’s colleagues, the firm’s other junior and senior associates, are many things: ambitious, cunning, and shrewd. They are not fools.
* * *
To be safe, he waits a little longer in the vestry. Not too long, only long enough to ensure that he won’t bump into anyone he knows. To pass the time, he checks his phone, hopes for a message from Brendan. The two haven’t talked since the night Mrs. Fitz died, the same night that Andre drove the kid to the airport.
He leaves the vestry, tiptoeing between pews, careful not to disturb a praying woman, makes his way to the cathedral’s front entrance, where, beside the door, is a picture of Mrs. Fitz. Across the street a few protestors collect their things, their numbers now small. The cameras have left, as have the homophobes, no doubt off to ruin another solemn occasion. Only three anti-capitalists remain, scruffy white boys with designer scarves and blond dreads, laughing, high-fiving, slapping each other’s backs. Now they can enjoy that late brunch. Andre doesn’t wish to spoil their good cheer, but he’s tempted to ask what exactly they think they’ve accomplished. Did you advance your cause today? Is corporate money now and forever banished from American politics? He knows what they’ll say, what they always say: We made our voices heard. He hates that answer, which invites the reply: Well, good for you. Too bad you don’t have corporate money, because then your voice might have been heard a little louder.
Andre descends St. Benedict’s granite steps, tries to hail a cab, the first two passing, the drivers not bothering to hide their skepticism. Two more empty cabs pass before one stops. Inside the cab, which is cold and smells of pot, he dials the kid again, gets his voicemail. He can’t win without B, and, deep down, he doesn’t want to. The kid, he hopes, has forgiven his sin, but they haven’t discussed it, haven’t hugged it out bro-style, which leaves Andre to question why the kid hasn’t returned his calls. But what if lingering resentment isn’t the reason? What if Brendan simply needs more time to grieve? Mrs. Fitz passed only six days ago. Is it too soon to ask the kid to leave the comfort of kin? Andre doesn’t have much experience with this kind of loss. Perhaps for once, Andre should choose honesty, explain that he needs Brendan, that the two could support each other through this time of loss and sorrow, and perhaps Andre’s better off starting with the God’s honest truth: Goddamn, B, I miss her too.
* * *
Andre could work for a lifetime and never afford a house like Mrs. Fitz’s. A two-story stone-and-clapboard nestled on a ten-acre Northern Virginia estate. He’s had some good times here. Thanksgivings. Christmases. His first celebration of Easter. But now, standing in her front yard, Andre hesitates to enter. He knows that he shouldn’t feel anxious, but he remains unclear on whether, in the end, he enjoyed her favor. Andre doesn’t wish to cause a scene, doesn’t wish to make a grieving family feel unease. But he’s scheduled to return to South Carolina—his flight leaves in, can that be right, hours?—and because he needs to know whether Brendan plans to return too, he’ll risk their whispers.
“Dre. Thank God you’re here.” Gracie Fitzpatrick flies through the front door, gives him a peck on the lips. “It’s madness inside. Six sons and six wives. Twenty-two grandchildren. Eight great-grandchildren. A baby that refuses to stop crying.” She counts each on her hand, one by one, by name. “And, if that wasn’t enough, a pack of aunts and uncles and cousins crossed the Atlantic for the service.”
“Proof that family transcends international borders.”
“Proof that everyone assumes they’re a beneficiary of her will.” Gracie, in her thirties, has a classic beauty: eyes dark with mascara, flawless skin, raven hair pulled back to reveal a long, elegant neck. “Last night there was a fight. Can you believe it?”
“Everyone’s emotional. Arguments are bound to happen.”
“Not an argument. I mean a fight. Fisticuffs.” She shadowboxes with her elbows tucked in. “My brother, Sean, got popped right in the nose. The whole thing was a mess. Blood and snot. We had to fetch a physician.”
Andre struggles to remember which grandson is Sean. Is he the one whom both Brendan and Mrs. Fitz mocked, the twice-divorced, rarely sober mooch who never finished high school, who never held a steady job, who, now thirty, still harbors delusions that one day he might become an international rock star?
“Don’t pity him. If that’s what you’re thinking,” she says. “Sean had it coming. He thinks he’s funny. Kept asking the extended family stupid questions about Ireland. You ever seen a leprechaun? How often do you say begorra? Do you know the words to ‘Danny Boy’?”
“Is Sean okay?”
“Who knows? But I know one thing: if he heals too quickly, he won’t learn his lesson.” Gracie channels her grandmother. “I mean, I love my brother, I do, but let’s face it, he’s a bum, a bona fide asshole. Nana, God rest her soul, thought so too. Speaking of bona fide assholes, how are you?”
Eight weeks ago, of all Mrs. Fitz’s kin, Andre knew Gracie best. She’s her grandmother’s favorite, the unmarried millennial socialite who sacrificed her own love life to move in here after Mrs. Fitz’s second husband died. Gracie’s a critic and dramatist who, last year, produced an acclaimed performance, a high-concept piece entitled How Spiders Learned to Dance, which debuted at the Kennedy Center.
She escorts him inside, where half the firm stands around, chatting up senators, ambassadors, former cabinet secretaries, and a former Speaker of the House. In the anteroom, huddled beside the open bar, the firm’s three newest junior partners, phones in hand, whisper, probably wondering whether they should stay longer or whether they’ve put in sufficient face time. At the base of the master staircase, three shaggy blonds, boys no older than ten, wearing black ties and black suspenders, leap from the bottom step, their polished loafers slapping against the marble floor.
“Stop running!” Gracie says. “Cousins from Waterford. They’ve never seen a house this big before. Brendan told them somewhere hidden around here, there’s a passage to Narnia. Dummies have been searching the house for three days.”
Andre lets loose a laugh that causes some to stare.
“It’s not funny. They’ve punched h
oles in three wardrobes. Some of those were antiques.” She pinches his arm. “I shouldn’t be surprised. You and Brendan together, good grief, for eight weeks in the middle of nowhere. Amazing South Carolina’s still in the Union. Whose bright idea was that?”
He smiles politely, doesn’t share Mrs. Fitz’s final admonishment, her regret at having ever paired the two. He wonders whether Mrs. Fitz really meant that. Perhaps she expressed not truth but frustration. He hates not knowing, considers asking Gracie—Did she mention me near the end, did she think me a disappointment?
“How are you holding up?” He realizes he hasn’t asked. “Anything I can do?”
“You can eat a gluten-free vegan lunch.” She points toward the crowded dining room, to a catered feast. “I bet it’s awful.”
“I’m happy to,” he says. “First, though, is Brendan around?”
She gives her grandmother’s knowing stare, and for a moment, he expects her to say no. He feels the burn of shame, wants to ask another insecure question: Did he tell you that I was needlessly cruel? But she points at patio doors that open onto the backyard, where a greenhouse stands.
He kisses her cheek, crosses the lawn alone, passing a blossoming tulip tree that he planted years ago. The exercise blistered his hands and nearly broke his back. Mrs. Fitz lured him here on a Saturday, promising to discuss a potential presidential contender who wanted to establish a ground game in Nashua. Of course, Andre came running—who doesn’t want to win the New Hampshire primary?—even brought cheddar-and-onion bagels, her favorite, from the Georgetown baker she adored, only, as soon as he walked through her door, to experience the bald-faced bait-and-switch. Shall we chat outside while we plant a tree? Like a fool he agreed, assumed that the whole project would take, what? Ten minutes tops? What the hell did he know about planting a tree? A black kid from Southeast simply assumes that trees plant themselves. Twice he pinched his skin between post and driver. Twice splinters pierced his palms. Mrs. Fitz stood sentinel, issuing orders, judging his work, obsessed with getting the tree to stand perfectly upright. I won’t have a crooked tree causing my guests vertigo. In the end, tree planted, they sat upon the earth, eyeing the sunset, drinking honey-sweetened tea, eating bagels now as rigid as smoked beef, the first picnic of his life.
Of all his memories of her, this is his favorite.
The greenhouse reeks like a stagnant pond. The humidity, the stench, the steady trickle of water that would drive any sane man mad—he struggles to understand this greenhouse’s appeal. When Mrs. Fitz first announced she planned to take up aquaponics, he confused her intent with aqua aerobics, blue-haired biddies bouncing around a public pool with floaties around their arms. Now he must give his mentor credit. The garden impresses, pleasant to see and good for food. Peppers and peas, cucumbers and kale, potatoes and plump green tomatoes ripe on the vine.
Brendan sits atop an upturned crate, hunched over, eyes stuck on the ground. The kid, sweaty and pink faced, looks like he’s lost a fight: hair disheveled, shirt untucked, top button unfastened, tie undone. The kid chugs an Irish ale sloppily, with brew seeping around the curves of his lips.
“Careful,” Andre says. “You don’t want to ruin your suit.”
“Not my suit.” The kid wipes his mouth. “Borrowed it from my cousin Sean.”
“Is that the same Cousin Sean who got popped in the nose?”
“Who do you think popped him?”
“You? Busted his nose? That before or after you asked to borrow his suit?”
“Once you beat down a punk, you don’t need to ask his permission for anything,” the kid says. “Didn’t you teach me that?”
Andre doesn’t remember that specific lesson, but he can’t deny the statement’s truth. Sounds like something he might say. Almost certainly the kind of streetwise maxim that he learned from Hector or in juvie, a truism that Andre, drunk and chatty, might have passed along during an all-night gaming session.
“I hope I taught you other things too.”
“One day I’ll write a book.”
The kid fishes behind him, trembling, retrieves and lights a cigarette. The smoke tickles Andre’s nose. A sneeze. A cough. A quick ahem to clear his throat. Brendan seems to enjoy Andre’s discomfort. The kid takes another prolonged puff, blows the smoke toward Andre’s face. Andre ignores the insult, blinks hard to clear his irritated eyes, says the first thing that comes to mind, which he immediately regrets. “I thought you quit smoking.”
“Dre.” Brendan checks his phone. “I have a lot of work to do.”
“I’ve tried you every night for the past four days.” Andre hears the exasperation in his own voice. “I left two voicemails this morning.”
“We’ve been busy.”
“Too busy to return a text?”
“I swear to God, Dre. You’re worse than a girlfriend.”
The kid takes another puff, blows the smoke upward, the poisonous vapor evaporating around a bush of navy beans. Andre assumes cigarette smoke isn’t good for vegetation, but who will complain if a dead woman’s tomatoes taste like ash?
“Our plane leaves in four hours,” Andre says. “The firm has paid for our tickets. You made a commitment. To the firm. To the client. To your grandmother.”
“Who do you think you are?”
“Tell me what to do. Whatever it takes to go back to the way it was. Please,” Andre says. “You want me to beg? I’m begging. You want me to change the direction of the campaign? We’ll run the most honest fucking campaign the world’s ever seen. Just name it. Name it.”
Brendan drops the cigarette, smashes it beneath his heel before kicking the smoldering butt beneath a bench. The kid drains the half-empty beer, hands trembling. Andre worries about the shakes. Maybe a rush of adrenaline, maybe a symptom of grief, or maybe the kid’s drunker than Andre thought.
“I made a mistake, B,” Andre says. “I’m sorry.” And he means it. “You deserved better. You were always . . . you are an excellent friend.”
“Dre, it’s not just that. Profiting from discord. Working for corporations to manipulate communities. A career in dark money, in secrecy, in legalized corruption. Dre, that’s not what I want my life to be.”
“You haven’t given it a fair chance. I mean, weren’t we having fun?”
“It was the most fun I’d had in a long time.” The kid’s voice breaks. “You were my best friend until you weren’t.”
Andre feels a catch in his throat. That may be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to him. “Come back. The fun doesn’t have to end after Carthage. When I make junior partner—”
“Jesus, Dre. You still don’t know. Nana, she had a plan. You and me. The middle of nowhere. Thirteen weeks. She didn’t care about PISA. She didn’t care about you. She knew you were on your way out. Hell, everyone at the firm says you’re falling apart. Ask an intern. Nana wanted you to teach me your tricks. Wanted you to convert me to her cause. Wanted you to show me that fixing elections is flashy and sexy and cool. Dre, she was going to shitcan you and I was your replacement.”
“I don’t know where you get your information—”
“From her. She told me herself. Before you and I went down south. In her office. This was your last campaign. She was done with you. You weren’t worth the trouble. That’s exactly what she said. Not worth the trouble.”
“I get that you’re mad, but your grandmother would never—”
“Oh, Dre. Grow up. She screwed people over for a living. Made a fortune doing it,” Brendan says. “Why would you assume that she wouldn’t screw you over? Why would you ever think that you’re special?”
“Because she told me so.”
Brendan laughs, a sincere and deep laugh. “You ask whether I’m heading back to South Carolina. I ask, what’s back there for you?”
Three shaggy blonds, the ten-year-old boys, storm the greenhouse, racing up and down the verdant aisles, cheering, energetic, and gleeful. The boys open cabinets, peek beneath benches, run their little fingers thr
ough barrels of soil like cops executing a search warrant. Their search is meticulous; no space escapes their inspection, but, in the end, the effort is unsuccessful, and the boys, exhausted and frustrated, stand impatiently before Brendan.
“Cousin Brendan,” the shortest one says, “we can’t find it.”
“Well, it’s not here,” Brendan says. “I can tell you that.”
“But we checked everywhere else.”
“Why would there be a passage to Narnia in a greenhouse?” Brendan says. “Come on, lads, use your heads. Think. Think! Go on ahead, I’ll catch up.”
The boys fly, spinning through the greenhouse, knocking over a clay pot that shatters into three sharp shards, soil and seeds spread across the floor. The boys don’t stop or slow. They simply sail through the door, shouting, laughing, indifferent to the destruction they’ve wrought.
“Look, Dre—”
“Don’t commit right now.” Andre pulls a folded itinerary from his pocket, sticks it in Brendan’s jacket. “Give it some thought.”
The Coyotes of Carthage Page 18