Broken Sleep (51 page)

Over a breakfast of scrambled egg whites and whole wheat toast, Jay said, “Persephone’s face just lit up when she saw you. You think she has any clue?”

“No. I just spoil her. That’s what uncles do.” He sipped his coffee. “Jay, I’ll be forever sorry for the way I acted. I’ll always blame myself that we never tried for a child. No excuse, well, sort of an excuse, but it’s also true, with me being sick and all, I was afraid I’d pass it on. Or die. I couldn’t handle it.”

“I didn’t handle it so great either. I wanted what I wanted and I couldn’t, I refused to see your side of it. So, yes, and no. I’m sorry and I’m not. Worst thing is listening to people with kids who think I’m a failure as a woman for not having kids. Or they have divine rights because they have kids and I’m some childless witch.” She paused. She remembered that he
had
a daughter. “Sorry for, ah, just a pet peeve.”

“No, I get it.”

“Moses, I can’t dwell on my regrets. I’m gladdest that we’re back together.” Still, she wondered: Would Moses have agreed to sire Persephone if they had not split up? If they’d had a child? What would have become of Moses if Salome had raised him? What if she had never slept with Alchemy? No, she couldn’t allow herself to venture too far down those roads.
She and Moses were together again, Persephone gave him joy, and he and Alchemy were friends
and
brothers, and that is all that mattered.

“Me, too.” Moses smiled wanly and took her hand in his. Almost as if he read her thoughts—that looking forward was essential to Jay’s Livability Quotient.

Crazy Like a Fox

Louise Vulter:
So, why do you want to get involved in electoral politics?

Alchemy:
When I lived in Berlin in the ’80s with my mom—

Vulter:
You speak German?

Alchemy:
Badly. Living abroad helped me gain a wider perspective on the world. From our apartment, my mom and I watched a woman on the east side of the Berlin Wall attempting to escape to freedom—the tower guards shot her.

Vulter:
That must have been traumatizing.

Alchemy:
It left an indelible impression. When Gorbachev allowed the wall to come down, it was an act of great political courage that changed the course of history.

Vulter:
Aren’t you forgetting someone?

Alchemy:
If you mean Reagan, I will concede that point for now, for the sake of my larger argument.
Politicians
achieved it. You can influence the ways of the world from outside standard power structures, but it must be from inside that you institute a vision for the future.

Vulter:
And one of your visions is downsizing our nuclear arsenal by eighty to ninety percent. That is worrisome. It is not a vision shared by patriotic Americans.

Alchemy:
As a patriotic American, I am worried, too. But our worries need to change, as do our visions. We are almost twenty years into a new century and we are still behaving like it’s 1989. There are hundreds of better ways to use our power to keep America safe and strong. When I served in the army—

Vulter:
Yes, yes, you volunteered to serve, only to quit early when family connections—

Alchemy:
Louise, I’m not sure where you’re getting your information, but my mother’s health was in danger and as her only living relative—

Vulter:
By danger, I know this may be hard, but you mean her hospitalization for mental illness?

Alchemy:
Yes. I enlisted so I could serve my country in Iraq. Unfortunately, for many reasons, my mom’s doctors urged, no,
demanded
I come home. I love my country, but I love my mother more.

Vulter:
As well you should.

Alchemy:
I want to return the focus to my vision of a future for America, and I’ll be happy to come back to speak about mental illness and its effects on a family, but first, I’ll say this. My mother’s problems should not be equated with my seeking the counsel of a therapist, which helped me immensely in understanding and coping with her illness.

I’m not sure what most disturbed me, Vulter’s discursive nuance-free style or my son’s “my mother, the nutcase albatross” insinuations.

Laluna and I watched the cable news broadcast in the main house, another of our attempts at filial piety. Things went sour when I quipped, “At least he didn’t bring up my ‘troubles’ after the woman was shot.” Laluna picked up Persephone from her blanket on the floor where she’d been tapping on a tiny computer screen like a modern Etch A Sketch. “Time for bed. Kiss Granmamma good night.” Laluna didn’t like Persephone to hear a word of my vacation history, as if it would contaminate her. Only in my studio would she allow me to be alone with Perse. She wouldn’t let me babysit at night without a nanny in range. When Perse got older, she damn well was going to hear all about it from me. (I’d tell her now, if Parnell Palmer would allow me to see her.)

I didn’t demean myself by offering to take Persephone upstairs and sing her to sleep, only to be rebuffed. I watched alone as Vulter zinged Alchemy about his “Socialist dogma” and desire to close the stock market. He parried the attacks with aplomb. “Don’t misquote me—I said I’d shed no tears if we could do away with traders and bankers who prey on the middle class. I made a fortune by taking risks on ideas I believe in, not companies that cut workers’ salaries or fire people to aid the bottom line. I am all about creativity in all forms and profiting from it and using that money to do good.” Nathaniel would have been proud.

Laluna returned during the audience Q&A. A jealous prig was asking Alchemy an insipid question about why he lived
with a woman twenty years his junior. Next to him I glimpsed a familiar face.

“That woman”—I pointed at the screen—“do you recognize her?”

“Sure, it’s Jay. She lives with Mose. He’s probably backstage.”

“So you know her?”

“Yeah. She’s cool. It’s not like we’re BFFs or anything. I see Mose more than I see her.”

Ah, yes. I remembered at a Nightingale-sponsored play, just before the curtain came up I caught a glimpse of him, mealy skinned and slinking down the aisle. My first reaction—another setup. Thankfully, no one attempted to force a confrontation. During intermission I followed the woman, who was clearly with him, and tapped her shoulder just outside the restroom. Startled, she spun around. “Are you
his
wife?” I asked.

“That is none of your business.”

Her eyes shredded me with hatred, and for that I admired her. “You love him. That is good.”

“You are missing out by not loving him.”

I stared now at the TV. Laluna had muted the sound and was already texting someone. As the credits rolled, I saw Alchemy, Vulter, him, and his wife talking and laughing together.

I waved good night to Laluna, who barely waved back. I walked to my studio, Margarita’s words circling above me: “You are their mother, you must be the one.”

So Cynosure of Yourself

After years of debate, exploratory research, and financial planning, Alchemy had dived into assembling a “professional” political team that would aid in his run for the presidency in 2020. Alchemy was seriously considering hiring Dewey Winslow to be his chief political consultant, but before making a final choice he wanted Moses’s opinion.

Moses drove alone to Winslow’s Dana Point home. He and Alchemy welcomed Moses to the wing of the house that served as Winslow’s office. In his pink Lacoste shirt, Gucci glasses, and a caterpillar mustache, he impressed Moses as someone who’d spent his childhood summers partaking in the Newport, Rhode Island, regatta. A modest five foot six and muscular, he assumed a larger presence by thrusting his chest forward. Alchemy introduced him as the “best political consultant in the business.”

“Patronizing me already? And why not? With everything I’m going to do for you.” Winslow guffawed. They took seats around a table carved from an oak tree trunk, which he quickly explained was not taken down for logging but had been damaged during a lightning storm. It was laid out with snacks and
two pitchers of iced tea, two pitchers of lemonade, and two open bottles of white and red wine. Moses noted the photographs on the walls of Winslow with Nancy Pelosi, Barbara Boxer, and other California Democratic luminaries.

Winslow began with his prepared remarks. “Moses, your synopsis of third-party movements is impressive, as is your analysis of how, in the last elections, more people, both white and nonwhite, stayed home than voted for either candidate. Your hypothesis that they did this not because they were uninterested but because neither candidate enthralled them opens the door for us.”

He took a few gulps of lemonade and continued, consciously directing himself toward Moses.

“Alchemy already made it clear that he does not want a ‘spin doctor.’ I prefer to call myself a ‘contextualizer.’ ” Moses took out a pad and pen from his frayed brown leather briefcase. Winslow stopped him. “Sorry, no note taking, no tapes today. Questions?”

“We want to undo the status quo. You are the establishment. The last time any national third-party candidate got anywhere, and Nader doesn’t apply here, was Ross Perot in 1992 and he soon fizzled out. Why are you doing this?”

Winslow, unperturbed, shifted from his effervescent prattle-patter to a measured imperiousness. “My father was an air traffic controller fired by Reagan in ’81. He couldn’t get another decent job, tumbled into a sinkhole, and never dug himself out.” Winslow’s face didn’t betray a scintilla of emotion. “I’ve worked within the establishment for over twenty years. The ‘great hopes’ of my party have let me down. As
Alchemy says, we need a twenty-first-century Social Contract. Is this venture risky? Sure. What defines failure? Not getting Alchemy elected president, not establishing a third party—or not pursuing the dream?” He sipped his lemonade again. “I’m not looking to make friends. I got one.” He nodded toward a white cat sleeping on a large pillow in the far corner of the room. “I honestly don’t know what ‘winning’ means here. I just want to help.”

“Whatever it is, what is your ‘winning’ strategy for us?”

Winslow picked up a sealed plastic bag and tossed it to Moses. “Open it. Take a close look.” The bag contained four cloth wipes, which Moses examined skeptically.

“It says here, ‘Four Fabulous Colors, Red, Green, Blue, and Yellow.’ ”

“And?” Winslow challenged him.

“Um, they’re all blue.”

“Correct!” Winslow laughed loudly. “Back in the late ’80s I was the kid gofer at AMACON Worldwide ad agency on a campaign for these wipes. We used all four colors in the ads. In the stores, only one out of every ten bags had four colors. The rest, all blue—it was so much cheaper to produce. They sold hundreds of millions, ninety percent of them blue.” Winslow caught a subtly skeptical glance between Moses and Alchemy. He dropped the wipes angle, and his tone became more serious. “Lincoln said, ‘You can fool some of the people all of the time, and all of the people some of the time, but you can’t fool all of the people all of the time.’ That’s where Abe got it wrong. You only have to fool fifty point one percent. With a third party, you need even less.” He turned toward Alchemy. “My aim is
not to fool people but to persuade them that you are the all-American great leader that the country needs now.”

Moses understood it wasn’t essential for him to like Winslow. They needed someone like him. And Winslow was about to make it even more clear why they needed him.

“Alchemy, despite you being what I call ‘a public domain celebrity’ for over twenty years, my guess is you got a few skeletons I’ll need to deal with. Music is a dirty and corrupt business, but it’s the minor leagues compared to politics.” A woman knocked on the door and entered. “My partner, Elizabeth Borden, the pretty face and charming personality of the organization. She is also the finder and keeper of the skeletons.”

Borden wore light red lipstick on her thin lips and a navy blue pantsuit that epitomized seriousness. She passed folders to the three of them and sat in the fourth chair. Winslow resumed. “Drugs? No problem. The Nightingale Foundation programs negate prior indulgences. Years of therapy? I can turn that into an asset if you don’t mind me referencing your mother’s past.”

“Fine, within limits.”

“We’ll need you to verify what’s in here and fill in what we’ve missed.” Borden spoke in a clipped tone.

“Candy Rappa?” Winslow looked up from the pages and whistled.

“She’ll help with the porn vote—it’s um, huge.” They all looked at him quizzically. “Bad joke.” Alchemy grinned.

“Tonguing and gunning?” Winslow asked, befuddled.

“Just a little harmless sex thing.”

“Hmm.” Winslow angled his head to the left and then to the right, as if he were working out the cricks in his neck or maybe his thoughts. “Sex is not harmless, but Clinton proved it need not be fatal. It’s the Tiger Woods–Derek Jeter duality. Tiger Woods presented himself as the faithful family man while diddling everything that moved. The public turned on him, and he never recovered. Derek Jeter never claimed to be anything but a playboy. He’s a hero to men, and women still love him.” Winslow purposefully paused. “Most Americans will accept you if you present yourself as who you are. They hate lying, hypocrisy, and bad judgment. An affair with a porn star raises questions of judgment. Still, I can handle that.” Winslow leaned forward in his chair, his voice almost mellow. “The affair with Absurda when she was with Mindswallow, and, I’m sorry to bring this up, but one other affair, with uh, how should I put this—”

“Jay,” Moses interrupted him. None too thrilled with hearing Jay mentioned in the same conversation as a porn star, he clenched his fists and uttered the necessary assurance. “It happened before Alchemy and I met and, although I hope it doesn’t come up, if it does, it won’t be a problem.”

Alchemy flashed Moses a thank-you smile before interjecting, “No matter what the rumors say, I did not have sex with Absurda before, during, or after Ambitious and Absurda’s relationship.”