by Mike Miller
The Askew place was another square gray pile set back on a standard lawn with one young sugar maple, a white wrought iron bench next to the front door, and two balanced oval flower beds planted with an explosive array of orange marigolds, crimson salvia, and something taller and feathery in silver, a vibrant professional tableau with no redeeming idiosyncrasy. Very young firs in a strict row formed a palisade along one side of the property, and the windows had shutters painted what was no doubt an historically authentic shade of dull green.
A small crescent of bricks marked the doorway, and on that sunny afternoon it featured a semicircle of microphones: Ruth was going to make some kind of statement. She’d called to invite me, in fact insisted I be there, so I anticipated a charitable endeavor in Thom’s name, heartfelt and fairly high profile, a providential career path and fount of personal respect. An ideal solution, a personal victory.
Of course I should have known better. And then the unexpectedly healthy crowd, the news vans at the curb, and that sense of something actually going on I should have known about.
Even so my immediate reaction, seeing them in the open doorway, was utter stupefaction. There was Harry Ciccarelli with Ruth, and Gerry Bright just visible behind them. And then I wondered how the hell I could be so dumb. Of course they’d suggest it. Of course she’d agree.
Bright spoke first, sketching out the background, coming across as properly honored but deeply satisfied. “As you all know, Council currently faces the difficult task of filling a vacant seat.” An unremarkable loyalist was already in van Zandt’s chair, designated a permanent replacement, and that wasn’t the Democrats’ concern anyway. They were busy pressuring Mealy to resign, eager to replace him with a younger, uncontaminated union lawyer.
And Ruth Askew would replace her late husband as Councilperson-At-Large, pending the almost certain result of a special election in November. Rising on his exalted reputation rather than her own clouded name, acquiring the remaining three years of his term and potentially additional terms.
“As a Democrat?”
I wasn’t the one asking, but she found me in the assemblage and gave me a little grin. “Not actually a surprise, is it?” And that was true, considering she’d inherited Thom’s huge moral legacy, and also because somehow it wasn’t a surprise. Only there was still the issue of all that year’s outrageous, gleeful extremism.
“This is about ideals I’ve always supported with my whole heart.” She sent another smile to Bright, deliberately impish, like a proper cute puppet, then turned back and continued with increased conviction. “What’s important is that everyone knows the kind of person I am. But I will say that the Democratic Party was my first political home; it was my father’s party and it gave me my ideals about what government could accomplish. My husband represented those ideals better than anyone else I’ve ever met, and I’m proud to be able to carry on his work.”
Plus they asked; they wanted her. Don’t overlook the importance of that conciliatory move towards the bitter prodigal daughter.
The two men were moving apart, both emanating an exhausted gratification that spoke of an unpleasant task expertly completed. Ruth continued on for a bit but nothing else pertinent was said, everything was perfectly clear.
While we were milling around in departure she came over to me. “Stay a few minutes.” So I trailed inside after her, into that studied display of intimate comfort.
Books everywhere, a self-congratulatory show of erudition - or more than a show, it was sheer exhibitionism. Books casually stacked on the coffee table with their titles every which way, built-in shelves with paperbacks in front of hardcovers, books in half-cases on the balcony overlooking the great room. Mysteries and history and popular science, politics and law and religion, contemporary literary novels from every prestigious short list and classics in matching covers: Dickens and Austen, Lawrence and Hemingway, Salinger and Twain and two Durrells. Various sections dedicated to momentary enthusiasms: Jack the Ripper, the Knights Templar, Colonial-era Africa. Jean Kerr and Dave Barry with a volume of Perelman pieces. Heinlein and Asimov, histories from Tuchman and Ambrose and Boorstin. Best-sellers by political pundits of every stripe, biographies galore, works of French literature both modern and ancient with the balance in French (did either Askew read French?), obscure British satire from the middle of the last century, Kerouac and Ginsberg and Ferlinghetti. Books to impress, compulsively acquired and clearly considered holy.
They had only original art, running the style spectrum but all rather pleasant and some actually good although nothing outstanding, nothing that soared. Otherwise the furniture was contemporary, beige and bland, accented with unfashionable brass lamps, blue and yellow ceramics, and a tattered quilt draped over a chair back like pretentious sunshine.
I reached down a framed photograph from the white marble mantle. “This is your father?” A thin man with a strong nose, Ruth’s nose, and hazel eyes that challenged you in order to conceal; he posed with a narcissist’s ease, confident of his good looks. I wouldn’t have trusted him much, myself; he struck me as a superficial type, the kind of guy who prefers shrewdness to intellect, who loves a clever angle.
Ruth perched herself on one corner of the sofa, legs crossed at the knee as was proper for her skirted suit, and gestured me to the easy chair opposite. “I’ve decided to sell this house. It’s hard but I think it’ll be better if I make a fresh start.”
There was a dog, which I never knew and wouldn’t have suspected; a feathered Irish Setter with tags dangling at its neck suddenly bustling about the coffee table being friendly and inquisitive. He tried to inspect my crotch with an intrusive nose and Ruth took him by his collar and stroked his head.
“He was a Christmas present from Thom, as if I were a little girl. It was wonderful.” Then she sat up and adopted that familiar earnest expression and got to the point.
“It’s a way to make sense of things.” In fact it was brilliant, an impeccable professional escape.
“Except your husband’s death was senseless.”
She tilted her head and got a bit fervent. “Everything has meaning. What it turns out to be is for me to determine.”
“That’s crap.” I said. “It’s cheap. You know better.”
“I know you blame me. You think he was upset and distracted, hurrying home.”
“So do you.”
“Maybe. Probably I guess.”
How brave. I’ll tell you something else I think: I think a certain kind of man might find himself in a situation where the only possible resolution is a fatal mistake. In the end, every man constructs his own death.
She was waiting, I suppose automatically expecting my admiration or sympathy. But eventually she sighed and straightened, resuming that pleasant but businesslike demeanor. “May I have your professional opinion? Will I crash and burn?”
“Maybe.” I couldn’t begin to grasp the possibilities. “I don’t know. Or maybe not.” She could be so competent, so easily successful. Or would the crazy kick in again, if it ever left? “Or maybe you’ll learn something.”
“Well, I’ll be giving it all I have. But you know, I think politics is where I belong; it feels right. It fits.” That with finality, and she stood in dismissal; even the dog was on its feet, favoring me with that typical befuddled dog stare. I rose obediently and stood there across from her, not wanting to think yet.
She was looking at me from those huge blue eyes with their familiar intensity. “I want you to understand this isn’t just about ambition or even about having a purpose in life. It’s so much more. It’s a reclamation.”
visit Mike Miller at www.asmikemiller.com
or on Twitter at @asmikemiller
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