Heathern (19 page)

"Thatcher-"

"We'd be helping 'em out, that's all. Taking control of
their operations for a spell, like it says we can do. Till they
get back on their feet." Joy so enriched his voice that a
singsong quality entered it as he continued to speak, as if he
were crooning a child to sleep. "If there's anyplace left to
stand."

"Psychosis I can deal with, Thatcher, I can't handle
insanity-"

"You think you can have countries destroyed at your
request?" I said. He regarded me as if I'd told him the sun
rose in the morning, thinking it news.

"Subtlety's everything," he said. "What I think's unimportant, hon-"

"Enough of this," Bernard said, rising and walking to the
door. Avi stood, blocking his exit. "Take a stress pill,
Thatcher. Collect stamps. Do something to get your mind
off things. We have enough to deal with as it is. Avi, unlock
the door."

Avi looked to Thatcher, who gave his assent. "We'll be
getting up ourselves in a minute. Almost suppertime. Can't
wait."

Lester showed no greater loss of aplomb over this turn of
events than he had during any other. Thatcher studied him
for several wordless moments.

"Yes, Mister Dryden?"

"Thatcher," he said. "Thatcher, please. What do you
think, Lester? You don't have so negative an attitude about
this as Bernard has, do you?"

"Godness sent the rainbow," said Lester. "God brings
the fire."

"Don't know as how I follow what you're getting at."

"Sometimes a challenge is taken up with interest," Lester
said. "It's best not to offer such-"

"Who's challenging?" Thatcher asked. "An idle thought,
nothing more."

"They'll see it as a challenge," Lester said. "As I understand the arrangement, that is. I couldn't guarantee what
form Their response might take."

"Can't tell till you try, Lester," said Thatcher. "Christmas coming up. I love surprises."

"So does God."

Thatcher bade that we follow him into the living room;
we hung back as he strode forward, hoping to lessen among
the others the impression that we were with him. His
appearance among the guests stopped their conversation
cold; lifting a hand as he sauntered in, he signaled to all that
his presence should neither distract their attention nor
hinder their fun. As the guests picked up their words from
where they'd dropped them, an almost palpable difference
was noted in the volume and tone; a hitherto undetectable
air of false nonchalance sharpened the now-subdued chatter, as when in a crowded subway car a lazar pushes
suddenly down the aisle, thrusting a cup beneath willfully
blind travelers.

"Boy," he said, noticing his son on the edge of the sofa,
drawn deep within himself. "Get up and circulate."

Junior shook his head; such color as he possessed left his face. Thatcher walked over, gripped him by the shoulders,
and snatched him up as he might a misplaced cushion.
Marching him across the room, Thatcher inserted his son
into a close circle of acquaintances with the manner of one
driving an axe into a pie. No sooner had Thatcher moved on
than Junior fled the group, flying back to his nest, brushing
his arms with his hands as if to preen himself, fearing
perhaps that his brief exposure might have left spores of
contagion behind.

"He has so much money," Lester said, admitting unexpected awe. "So much must go to taxes-"

"Thatcher and Susie are exempt," I said. "Dryco, the
company, is exempt. I'm not, Bernard's not, no one else
working for them is-"

"How?"

"Part of the deal," I said. "Last year the IRS actually sent
someone over to audit him. Someone made a boo-boo, as
Bernard might say. Gus showed him out."

"Bernard might say about what?" Bernard asked, rising
up behind us as if from a cloud, clutching a drink. On the
side of his glass was a cartoon of a turkey wearing a
Pilgrim's hat. I couldn't remember the last time I'd seen
Bernard drink, but knew I didn't want to recall. "Try as you
might, you couldn't make it up. God must have made man
in His own image, it's Thatcher's only excuse." Judging
from his breath it was evident that he sipped from a refill. I
wished he'd go away without my having to ask. "Have I
offended sensibilities again? Silly me ..." he said. "Sweetness?"

"You didn't care if I knew beforehand?"

"Of course I did," he said. "You might have given away
the game, had you known. Your poker face won't get you
through the ante."

"I could have been killed."

"You could have been. You weren't. God has mercy on us
all, doesn't He?"

His preoccupations were writ plain on his face; I let what
he said slip away from my mind. "You believe these plots of
his?" I asked. "With Otsuka? With Gus?"

"There's evidence, Joanna. If he hadn't shown me the
ground of being for his beliefs I'd have never gone along.
Sweetness, it's not professional to take this so personally-"

"Oh, fuck you, Bernard."

He lifted his glass; took a long swallow. "In dreams," he
said, his voice trailing away.

"Thatcher means what he says?" Lester asked. Bernard
examined him as he might a spider crawling across his desk.

"Depends on what time it is," he said. "Or the phases of
the moon. Barometric pressure. Says about what?"

"Sinking Japan."

"I was never consulted on it."

"Do you think he's serious?" I asked, and watched as
Bernard's expression sagged from grim into chopfallen, as if
he were disappointed in me for having needed to ask.

"Apparently. Concern as to the little yellow people is still
evident. This too, will pass. Excepting Susie D, his infatuations linger no longer than spring rain." He raised his hand,
and pinched Lester's cheek. "Some, sooner than that. It'll
pass. Everything passes ..."

"He should consider what he asks for before asking,"
said Lester.

"I've said as much." Bernard drained the remainder of his
drink, letting the cubes slam against his lips, as if to punish
in the midst of comfort. The ensuing pause held a deeper
silence than one employed entirely for dramatic purpose.
"Why would you care? You can't supply it, whatever he
wants."

"Bernard, go away," I said. "If you're mad at Thatcher,
don't take it out on us. I'm not sure why I'm even speaking
to you, considering-"

"So don't." Turning from us he stumbled off, ambling
toward the bar, giving signs of being embarrassed for what
he'd later have to say.

"Bernard," I said, calling after him. He lifted his hand as
if to shoo me away. "Bernard! Dammit-"

Lester moved closer to me, and whispered in my ear.

"Are you scared?"

"No," I lied.

"Me neither."

"It's unavoidable?"

He nodded. I slipped my arm through the crook of his, so
that whichever of us was most tired might be supported by
the other when we fell. With as little warning as when he
entered the room Thatcher reappeared, throwing open the
dining-hall doors and shouting:

"Happy holiday!"

The long table was so laden with tureens and casseroles,
baskets and boats and bowls that the lace tablecloth was but
barely visible. Between the candlesticks were five domed
silver platters. The guests stampeded for their seats as if
they'd been released from the starting gate under threat of
fire.

"Don't shove," Thatcher said, failing to calm them. Susie
rested, sipping from a tumbler, presiding over her side of
the table, her duties of overseeing the galley slaves attended
to for another year. Thatcher sat on her left, at the head of
the table; Junior sat to his left. The room's high windows
along the west wall allowed in late afternoon sunlight
enough to wash every guest in gold.

"Everybody gets a drumstick this year," he said. A
quintet of servants raised the domes, exposing the entree.
Some of the younger children present started to cry; of the
adults, all were too overcome to speak, save Thatcher.
"Don't thank me. Thank the boys at Perdue. We've got the
lead in genetic engineering now. Europe can go hang."

Each nut-brown carcass bore six drumsticks. A vision
entered my mind, a scene revealing a parallel world:
Squanto presenting Miles Standish with giant roasted spiders, welcoming the immigrants to American shores. The
sails are ordered raised on the Mayflower, and the fresh
green breast is left to its lessees.

"How do they walk?" Bernard asked, raising his drink as
if to salute. If he'd imagined that liquor might still his
tongue, he had no one to blame but himself.

"Don't think they ever leave their pens. I look like a
farmer?" Thatcher tapped his spoon against his plate as if to
make it shatter. "Those of us who are still alive have a lot to
be thankful for. A moment of silence, please, for those
who've eaten their last piece of pie." Hardly had we bowed
our heads before his benediction continued. "A couple of
years ago, I don't have to tell you, we were facing a gloomy
forecast. Look around you today. Business in every area up
three hundred percent." To ascend from nothing was
guised, as ever, as achievement. "The troubles across the
river are just about thrashed out. The new alliance you
all've heard about with our Japanese brothers is signed,
settled, and in effect."

Polite applause of the sort that accompanies an announcement that the recording secretary is retiring followed. Two dozen chairs creaked, and creaked again; no
one could eat until Thatcher finished his spiel.

"In finding the future, let's not forget where we left the
past," he said. "Let us remember the Pilgrims, who, in
looking for a better life, landed at Jonestown-"

"Jamestown," said Susie.

"Plymouth!" Bernard said, his word exploding as he
corrected his masters.

"Wherever the hell they landed," Thatcher continued, "it
was a stern and rocky shore, and they were comforted then
as we are ourselves, by our wealth of spirit and by our
families-"

"Speak for yourself, John Alden." We didn't have to look
to see who said it.

"What did they do when they landed?" Avi asked,
shilling at an instant's notice; another requirement of the
job.

"They ate, because they were hungry," Thatcher said, his
mood for oratory dwindling. "Thanks, Lord." The ceiling,
firstly, was blessed by his gaze; then he turned his eyes to
Lester, anxious to cover all possibilities. "Let's eat."

Perhaps I had no appetite anymore; the turkey could have
been smoked cotton, for all it held in taste or texture. I
declined a drumstick, that another might be doubly sated.

"Thanks for seeing to dinner, darlin'," Thatcher said.
Susie smiled and nibbled cottage cheese, taking one curd
per bite. The strict diet she followed, that year, allowed her
only white food; on her plate were several shades of pale,
those of unflavored yogurt, cauliflower, cave-grown asparagus, and mashed potatoes. Most seated gourmandized as if
they hadn't been fed for weeks. Neither Bernard nor Lester
seemed any hungrier than I. Jake extended his scalpel,
lifting his cup of tea.

"Dad," Junior said, looking toward his father, and not at
him. "Bread me."

Thatcher stared into the middle distance, as if spotting an
unlikely mirage. "Bred you to speak English," he said.
"Want to try again?"

Junior's lips moved without accompanying sound; the
impression lent was that he'd had his voice erased, and
didn't realize it. "Bread, Dad," he repeated, attaining
audibility. "Starching's essentialed."

"For shirts," said Thatcher. "You want biscuits?" Junior
must have twitched even in sleep; for an instant he drew
mimosa-like from the table; then, catching himself in the act
of showing weakness, quickly leaned forward, bumping his
chest against his plate, knocking his plate against his glass.
The glass spilled, soaking the tablecloth. A servant ap peared, blotter in hand. "You got to be literate in the
business world," said Thatcher; I could tell by his expression that he was trying not to laugh. "You ever going to
understand that?"

"World's postliterary, Dad-"

"Listen to Bernard when he talks," he said. "There's
talking for you. One of these days you're probably going to
be his boss, and how's it going to look if your subordinates
sound better than you do?"

Bernard dropped his knife and fork onto his plate, his
efforts at eating ended. He said nothing that I would have
hoped he might say.

"Understood, Dad. Doubledone. No ifs or maybes."

"You fucking idiot," Thatcher said, rising from his seat, as
if to take better aim. "Here's your goddamn biscuits. Don't
bother to ask next time if you're not going to ask in
English." He slung a wicker basket top-heavy with rolls
toward his son; Junior threw up his arms to ward off the
blow. The rolls shot through the room, bouncing off the
table, the walls, off the other guests. No one but the
Drydens behaved as if anything were amiss. "How the
hell'd I wind up with a goddamn son so goddamn stupid he
can't even talk good English?"