by Jean Stone
Roger blinked. “What do you want from me? I can’t force her to go.”
Sometimes Evelyn wondered why, when Daniel was killed, she hadn’t just gone off and found someone else. But oh, no, not her. She’d been stupid enough to believe that being part of the Adams clan would automatically mean a future that mattered. And what had it gotten her? A husband who believed he’d rather be with a man and now a sister-in-law who wasn’t thinking of anyone but herself. Where was their pride, their drive? Did no one else care what other people thought? A muscle tightened somewhere in her chest.
“Never mind,” she said in disgust. “I’ll find a way to take care of your sister myself.”
Chapter 13
He was a son of a bitch who acted like God, but sent his son off to be killed and hated one of his daughters, namely her.
BeBe stood in the doorway of the room that she once shared with Liz, the room that now belonged to Liz’s daughter, Mags. She thought about Father, and the many times she’d lain on the bed right here in this room and looked out the window and wanted only to escape from Beantown and Will Adams and all the trappings of wealth and privilege that came with being his daughter.
Unlike BeBe, Mags apparently had no intention of going anywhere, except the White House for four years, maybe eight. Where BeBe had once papered the walls with posters of places like Paris and Madrid, places as far from home as she could imagine, Mags had the walls covered only with Laura Ashley designs, with matching duvets on the twin beds, and coordinating canopies, draperies, and toss pillows, too. It was as if the room had been transformed from the bedroom of a very transient teenager into a Spiegel catalog spread. It had been a while since BeBe had seen Mags, but she hadn’t thought the twenty-year-old had turned into Ms. Traditional.
“What do you think?” Mags asked BeBe now as she stood beside her, showing off her room.
“It sucks,” BeBe replied. “I thought you were majoring in fashion design. You call this creative?” BeBe, of course, had left home and never finished college, but she’d had greater hopes for Mags—hopes that, one day, her niece’s education would pay off in the world, that Mags would not have to hinge her future on a chance meeting with some guy named Pierre.
Mags laughed. “Isn’t it gross? It was Evelyn’s idea. For the funeral.”
BeBe turned from the sight. “Excuse me?”
“Aunt Evelyn didn’t think the press should have to witness my ‘shrine to Brad Pitt,’ as she called it.” Mags frowned and pulled her hair away from her face, the face that looked so much like Liz’s had that last summer they were on the Vineyard together, the summer that everything changed. “I wouldn’t exactly call a couple of posters a ‘shrine.’ ”
“I’d like to say Evelyn meant well,” BeBe said, “but she never has.”
“Oh, Aunt BeBe, I wish you lived closer to us. I wish you didn’t live in Palm Beach.”
BeBe smiled. “Apparently Evelyn thinks Palm Beach is more appropriate for me.”
Mags tossed one throw pillow onto the floor and kneeled on one of the beds. “I can’t stand her, Aunt BeBe. Why did Uncle Roger ever marry her, anyway?”
Crossing the room, BeBe pulled out the chair to the built-in desk and sat down. “Who knows? I guess he was bored. But it could have been worse. They could have had kids.”
Mags wrinkled her nose. “Poor Uncle Roger. But why do they stay married? For godsake, he’s gay.”
BeBe liked the way her niece felt free to say—or ask—what she wanted. “I have no idea, Magsie,” she replied honestly. “But I suspect it has something to do with being both stubborn and stupid. She proposed to him, you know.”
“No way!” Mags shrieked. “She asked him? Gross.”
“The day after Daniel was buried.” BeBe suddenly remembered the flag-draped coffin, the twenty-one gun salute that felt as if it had been shot through her heart, and the hard stares from Father, as if she’d been the one who’d sent him off to be killed just because she knew the truth that Father could have stopped it, but chose not to instead. She cleared her throat and began again. “The day after Daniel was buried, Evelyn proposed to Roger. She told him that together they would be stronger than they would be apart, that she would help him get through the crisis.”
“And he believed her.”
“He was scared, I guess. We were all scared. Fear can really screw you up.”
“I was scared when Danny had his accident.”
BeBe was silent. Of course Mags and Greg must have been scared. Scared that their brother would no longer be the brother they’d grown up with, the older brother they could count on, no matter what. “You’re lucky, though, Mags. You still have Danny.”
“He’s not the same.”
“None of us are the same, honey. Life changes us. Always. Constantly. In my wildest dreams I never thought I’d live longer than your grandfather.”
“You didn’t like Gramps much, did you?”
BeBe stood up. “Gramps didn’t like me very much,” she said, then added, “I’d say we were about even.” She looked out the window, down to the garden, where Liz stood now, alone. “I think I’d better go downstairs and talk to your mom. She looks in need of a friend.” She headed for the doorway, then turned back. “Remember, though, Mags, I think your room really sucks.”
Mags laughed. “And I think it sucks that you live in Palm Beach. We don’t see you often enough.”
BeBe felt the same way. Their twice-a-year visits were not enough. BeBe had relied on Liz to make the trip south—Boston and the Vineyard were simply out of the question as long as Will Adams still lived, as long as Will Adams still breathed.
“I think it sucks, too, Magsie. Maybe we can change that now.” She wondered if Evelyn would try and stop her from being part of the family if Liz moved into the White House. Then she realized that Evelyn’s opinion counted for shit now that Father finally was dead.
As if she’d been standing outside Mags’s room listening to their conversation, Evelyn greeted BeBe on the stairs with a look on her face that was more sour than usual.
“Can’t you talk some sense into your sister?” she demanded.
“Excuse me?”
“Liz is dodging the press, she won’t sit with the guests, and I’ve just learned she won’t go to Illinois tomorrow.”
BeBe wasn’t sure which of those mortal sins she was supposed to address with her sister. “This may surprise you, Evelyn, but there are more things in the world than a presidential campaign. Maybe my sister is grieving. She actually liked my father, though I’ve no idea why.”
Of course BeBe knew why—it was because BeBe had protected her younger sister from ever learning the truth about Father, about what he’d done. But BeBe was not in the mood to discuss that with Evelyn, no matter how many “guests” Liz refused to sit with. Besides, it had been Evelyn’s sainted congressman-grandfather who had assisted—or rather not assisted—in the deed that led to Daniel’s death. BeBe wondered, not for the first time, if Evelyn knew about that.
“I should have known you’d stick up for your sister,” Evelyn snapped. “But this is for her own good. The race is tighter than anyone predicted. If Liz pulls out now …”
BeBe forced a sincere-looking smile. “Maybe she just doesn’t like Illinois.”
Evelyn glared. “It’s not fair, BeBe. Roger went to a lot of trouble to arrange for her to speak at the National Businesswomen’s Alliance …”
“Come on, Evelyn, I’m not stupid. I doubt it was much ‘trouble’ to arrange a free speaker. Especially someone in her position.”
“That’s not the point. The point is I’m afraid she’s losing it. To desert the campaign now, when everything is so critical …” Her whine was pathetic.
BeBe sighed. “Did you ever hear the term ‘fast-forwarding,’ Evelyn?” Evelyn’s eyes narrowed. In that instant, BeBe almost felt sorry for her, a victim of her own compulsions and need to control. “Fast-forwarding is worrying too much about the future before it gets h
ere,” BeBe continued. “Liz will work things out the way she thinks best. Give her that freedom and give her that respect and stop trying to run her life.”
That said, BeBe pushed past her pain-in-the-ass sister-in-law and continued her way down the stairs.
“You don’t understand,” Evelyn called after her. “They’re on the way to the White House … the stakes are much higher …”
BeBe shook her head but did not turn around. Talking to Evelyn was, as usual, worthless. However, maybe she should find out what was going on with her sister.
“I can’t go, BeBe. I thought that, of all people, you’d understand.”
Thankfully, none of the guests or the media or anyone had found their way into the secluded walled garden. “I know you’re upset about Father,” BeBe said, “but there are other things to consider.”
“Such as?”
“It’s no secret how Evelyn feels about me. It must have killed her to ask me to help. She thinks you’re losing it.”
“I’m not losing anything, BeBe. I explained everything to Roger.”
“And he explained it to Evelyn. What you haven’t done is explain it to me.”
Silence hung over the garden the way it had earlier in church, as if this congregation of two now needed a pastor to tell them their next move. Liz did not reply. Her gaze dropped to the ground. She moved to a wrought-iron chair set at a wrought-iron table. She brushed the seat, examined it closely, then apparently decided it was too dirty to sit on. She walked to the stone wall and studied the ivy that crawled over it.
“You weren’t this unglued when Mother died,” BeBe said.
“Mother did not choose to die with an election hanging in the balance.”
“Pardon me, but I did not notice Father’s name on the ballot.” She took a deep breath. “No matter how Father and I felt about one another, Lizzie, I can say this: he would have wanted you to go on. Having Michael become president meant everything to him.”
It was sort of true. What BeBe wanted to say was that having Daniel become president had meant everything to Father, but by his own hand his plan had backfired from an M16 rifle into Daniel’s young face.
What BeBe wanted to say was that Michael was Will’s second choice, the runner-up, the person assigned to take over the duties should the first choice be unable. She wanted to say these things, but now was not the time for truth.
Liz plucked at the ivy. “I know it’s what Father wanted, Beebs. It’s why I’ve kept going all these years. It’s why I stood beside Michael when he ran for governor, why I was still standing there when he resigned to begin this campaign. God, BeBe, that’s all I’ve ever done was be Michael’s support … not even so much for Michael but for Father. Because he expected me to.” There was a slight quiver in her voice and BeBe wondered if Liz wanted to add that she had even married Michael because it was what Father had wanted, that everything she had ever done had been because Father wanted it. Well, almost everything.
But BeBe knew that Liz would not speak these things because they, too, were truths, and because Liz was Liz, the silly old fool.
BeBe went to her sister and drew her into a hug. “Do whatever you want, honey,” she said. “Do whatever makes you feel right.” She felt sure, that after a night’s sleep, Liz would decide to go to Illinois with Michael, because that’s how she was, always there for others, hardly there for herself. “As for me,” BeBe continued, breaking away and wiping away a tear that had slid down her sister’s cheek, “I have to get home. Business to attend to.” She did not mention the offer to sell French Country, or her decision to wait. If Liz knew the election results might make BeBe rich beyond dreams, Liz would want that for her. And BeBe still wasn’t sure what she wanted for herself.
Liz hugged BeBe back. “When will we see you again?”
She hesitated, then smiled. “When will you be in Palm Beach?”
“Depends on the polls.”
BeBe smoothed her sister’s hair and nodded. “Maybe we’ll catch up before then.”
“Wish us luck, Beebs.”
BeBe looked around. “Hopefully,” she said in a sober tone that she knew her sister would understand, “you won’t need it.”
Danny was bored. Aunt BeBe was gone and Mags was staying in her room and even Dad seemed too tired from all the commotion to do anything more than sit with his feet up.
He, too, did not feel like getting on a plane tomorrow and schlepping off for some unknown city where his wheelchair was probably good for another one or two points, depending on the mothers who were polled. Lately he’d found himself imagining what it would be like to somehow stand up, wave his arms, and tell the crowds that this thing with spokes and an infernally humming motor was all a big, tasteless joke done for votes.
But he could no more stand up than he could survive without Clay, his cinnamon-skinned, yellow-haired nurse who did all the unmentionable things for Danny so no one else would have to, like empty his pee bag and clean up his crap and wash his crotch. And help him escape when he could no longer stand it.
He looked through the window where Clay, his hero, was talking with Liz, his mom, in the garden. He figured, of course, they’d be talking about him, the common denominator of their lives. Danny decided to wheel out and find out what they were saying and if any of it was good.
He maneuvered the chair through the narrow doorway, onto the flagstone walk. “Gramps would have liked the funeral, Mom,” he interrupted. “A lot of people showed up.”
His mother smiled and reached down for a hug. “You’re right, honey. He would have enjoyed the show.”
She stood up straight again and he tipped back his head in the familiar position of speaking to anyone who was not sitting down. “So what next? Cleveland? San Diego? Beijing?”
“No. It was supposed to be Illinois …” Liz looked from Danny to Clay, then back to Danny again. “But I was just talking to Clay about a vacation.”
Danny did not miss the way Liz wrung her hands together. He did not miss a lot of things from his perch on the chair. “A vacation?” he repeated. “So close to the election?”
“Just us, honey. I thought we’d go to the Vineyard for a few days. Would you like that?”
The Vineyard? Just them? Well, Danny thought, it didn’t really matter where he spent his days, though he preferred to be out of the limelight, as if that were possible. But part of him thought his mother couldn’t be serious, that they couldn’t just up and drop everything in the middle of the campaign and take off for the island.
Could they?
Then he wondered if he wasn’t the only one who sometimes needed to escape, and if his mother would wring her hands less if they went.
Sure,” he said finally. “The Vineyard sounds great. But shouldn’t Dad …”
Quickly, Liz shook her head. “I need a break from the campaign, honey. I thought you might, too.” She glanced at his nurse. “And Clay, of course.”
He did not know what this was all about, his mother’s desire for a hiatus from, well, from her life. He wondered if, on account of Gramps’s death, she was going to have a breakdown, and if he would know what to do if she did. On the other hand, could he use a break? Sure, what the hell, he thought. One less rubber chicken dinner, one less picture of him on the evening news, was fine by him.
Danny tried to act ponderous, then nodded at Clay. “Clayman,” he asked, “ever been to the Vineyard?”
“No, mon. Not once in my life.”
“Then get out your flippers,” he said. “and I’ll teach you to swim.”
Chapter 14
http://www.rogerdodger.com
Uncle Roger had made Danny memorize the Web site address as if he were an idiot as well as a cripple, as if he did not have only thirty semester hours left to get his degree in pre-med and biochemistry if he ever decided to go back to college, as if he had not already been accepted at the top three medical schools in the country, accepted on his grades, not on his father’s or his grandfather’s
name.
He stared at the screen of the computer he’d set up in Gramps’s old Vineyard study—and wondered what he was supposed to write to Uncle Roger.
“You must keep me posted on your mother,” Roger had said when he’d cornered Danny at the house on Beacon Hill yesterday. “I’ll be watching the polls, and if they begin to dip, we’re going to have to get her off the island and back on the campaign trail, fast. In the meantime, I’m depending on you to monitor her progress.”
Progress? Danny thought now. Roger made it sound as if his mother had retreated to the island to knit an afghan or to paint the house. She’s on the right sleeve, roger-dodger, he could report. Or: She’s done with the dormers and is working her way to the roof.
Tangible goals, tangible progress.
But grief? How does one progress through grief? A psychiatrist at the rehab center in Switzerland had told Danny that he needed to grieve, that the loss of the function of his lower body was, in many ways, similar to bearing the death of a loved one. The doctor had also said that Danny would not begin to heal—mentally, of course, because no one talked physically—until he’d put closure on the accident and could begin to walk (no pun was intended, Danny was sure) through the stages of grief.
He had been sitting in his wheelchair on the patio overlooking Lake Lucerne, staring at the picture-postcard landscape of the snow-capped Alps, and listening to the harmony of the bells of the cows grazing in the mountainside meadows. He had been sitting and watching and listening. Then he stared at the deep denim-blue water—“indigo,” Ralph Lauren, the guy who made macho jeans for the machoest men, might have called it—and said, “Oh, sure, Dr. Weggis. I loved my legs all right. I loved my dick, too. Shall we have a funeral tomorrow so I can get on with my grief?”
Dr. Weggis had not been amused. But then, unlike Danny, Dr. Weggis was able to get up and walk back inside, and prepare himself a bowl of muesli with fresh cream instead of waiting for someone to serve him. He was also able to crawl into bed with his wife or his lover or whomever at night and do the things that one did when one had all working parts.