Читать книгу Twentieth Century Limited Book Two ~ Age of Reckoning - Jan David Blais - Страница 5

WE GOT THE WORD – our Motion to Dismiss is denied. Not to worry, Cahill says, he only gave it a twenty percent chance anyway.

“That means I pay twenty percent of your bill, right?”

He sighs. “Gus, what’s your availability? They want to schedule your deposition.”

“For that I have no availability.”

“Figure it out and get back to me.”

Paul mentioned Truman. In my view, a man of limited scope but he had the guts to buck the generals on Korea. Imagine if we had used the bomb against China! Every half-bit country that got one later would have felt free, in fact felt obliged to use it. If there’s such a thing as a moral government act, that was it. Too bad he didn’t figure that out in ’forty-five, though I have to admit I didn’t complain about the war being over.

That Ed Said is impressive. His remark about the Declaration of Independence was right on. That two-hundredth birthday bathos totally missed the point. What makes us work is the founders’ willingness to compromise, find common ground. Dealing with your adversary was no easier then than now, but they did it better. Washington could have been emperor, for God’s sake – our current King George would have the title to go with the pretense.

Carter tried but in the end he lost heart. Of course Latimer and his business buddies blocked him at every turn, then right on schedule along comes Reagan. It fits together, doesn’t it? The Latimers thrive because they back the big guns. These days it’s all about the money – money and not giving an inch.

Last night I finally got around to Jonathan’s draft, the CD, that is. I’m surprised – it flows quite nicely. I spent a couple of hours getting Paul through college and on to Berkeley. I can’t wait to see what Jonathan says about us – not that I care, of course. What if he lucks out and actually finds something in Iraq? I wonder how he’d work that in?

* * * * * * *

THE PRIMARY SEASON was in full swing. Rebounding, Jimmy Carter handily won Iowa and New Hampshire, dominating the primaries until Kennedy took New York and Connecticut, then swept the last set. Going into the convention the race was hotly contested, unsettling for the party and the incumbent. Ronald Reagan, the odds-on GOP favorite, beat back George H.W. Bush and locked up the nomination early.

Which brings me to our neighbors (don’t worry, I’ll hook it up). So far I haven’t told you much about them which isn’t an oversight, it’s just that in seven years I hadn’t made any really close friends there. My fault as much as anything else. I was away so much and when I was home the family tended to monopolize my attention.

The lots in our part of town were spacious, with houses set back – some palatial, some modest like ours. One side of us in a House Beautiful spread lived an elderly couple, the Robinsons. Martin (nobody called him Marty) was a retired insurance executive and one of my least favorite people, Dorie a former sixth-grade teacher everyone liked, even her former students, people said. Each spring was marked by Martin’s assault on the line of shrubs separating our two lots. As he flailed, I half-expected to see a flash of light as his electric shears bit into the long orange cord. Most Saturdays Martin fired up his riding mower at eight sharp, an attention-getter if you’d been up late the night before. A crew of Hispanic guys did everything else with a leaf blower powered by some variant of the J-79 I knew from Vietnam. Martin belonged to an exclusive golf club the next town over and was always complaining about his game, though even I knew a seven handicap was damned good. Years ago I quit talking politics with Martin. He was the most rigid, unbending individual I’d ever known – even made Gus look reasonable by comparison. That REAGAN FOR PRESIDENT eyesore on his front lawn was the first in our neighborhood.

Across the street from us lived the Salvatores, six children seven to nineteen. Peter was tight with their youngest, Noah, always playing catch or kicking the ball around. Tom was a lawyer in a big New York firm, trusts and estates. His calm courtliness made it easy to visualize his influence on elderly folks. “Just a mom,” as far as I could tell Sally had never held a “real” job, though raising six kids counts as far as I’m concerned. She was a big reader, in a book club with Diane and always pressing me to join. But I wasn’t interested. Philip Roth, William Styron, Joyce Carol Oates. My loss, I’m sure.

The guy at the end of the cul-de-sac was the most interesting of the bunch. Art Koeppel was a TWA captain senior enough to work only ten days or so per month. With all that spare time he held down a second job, as many pilots did, he told me, doing tax work for other pilots. His wife, Tammy, a former TWA stew, was bright and pretty. They had no children. Art’s travels put mine to shame, and he had great stories, but the most fascinating thing about him was happening in his garage. He was building an airplane.

It had been a long time since we’d thrown a party and Diane suggested the final night of the Republican convention, but I said I had to remain above the fray. Our solution – two cookouts. The GOP was up first. Along with neighbors, we’d have an assortment of parents from the Montessori and church, plus Diane’s parents and Penny. Some of Diane’s Salomon colleagues also, and a few from the paper, though none of my peers lived out our way. Tom O’Connor and Frank Astell were on the North Shore but traveled in a different circle.

We originally planned to use just the patio in back, but numbers forced us to spill over into the front yard. We rolled the big-screen television to the patio so people could follow the events in Detroit. Just the day before Reagan had neutralized his only opposition by inviting Bush to join the ticket, so it was all over but the shouting, but somebody might still be interested.

People started arriving about five, but as it was a work day, most wouldn’t show until six-thirty or so. Aside from one old-timer who planted himself in a chair directly in front of the TV, people seemed more interested in drink and food than politics. As the evening went along I noticed Martin tucking away one Glenlivit after another. That wasn’t my problem, I figured, he wasn’t driving. Earlier I overheard him and Mr. Archer going on about Scotland. They’d both played Old St. Andrews and were having a good time swapping lies. It’s always a crap shoot when you throw a bunch of people together, but as our guests mellowed out I thought, so far so good. I was taking tomorrow off and had no deadlines until next week. No need for a speech either – I’d just pass the word when the star appeared. I was chatting with Alan and Fred and keeping an eye on the street where Peter was in the middle of a scrum, when I heard shouting.

“Rhodesia!”

“Mugabe!”

“Asshole!”

Martin. Who’s he facing off with tonight? “Be back,” I said, hurrying toward the patio. It turned out Martin’s opponent was Todd Breslau from two streets over, an attorney and a staunch liberal. Short and wiry, he was extended to full height and going chin-to-chin with Martin. “You, sir, are a racist! And an asshole!”

“I’m a realist, son. Since when does that make me a racist and an asshole?”

“All those clever code words. Say what you mean! Keeping the black people down another century – that’s what Reagan’s all about!”

“Martin never said that,” said Ray Morgan who lived down the street. “You don’t want to hear it but he’s right.”

Martin stuck out his jaw. “Now they’ve chased the Brits out, you tell me they’re going to run that country? They’ll run it into the ground, just like they would here if we ever gave them the chance. I pity the white folks that’ll be left.”

Todd paused, smiling. “That’s it? That’s your best shot?”

Martin wagged his finger. “Let me tell you something, son. I despise lawyers. Your kind are behind this whole mess, you and that goddamn Supreme Court of yours.”

Looking on uncomfortably, Stan Fredette, parent of two little girls, one in Peter’s school, one of the few black families in the neighborhood. Combat was not Stan’s style but I could see he’d had it up to here. Don’t need a race riot tonight, I thought, stepping between Todd and Martin. “C’mon, guys, that’s enough.”

Todd stepped back but not Martin. “I’m not through! He started it!”

“I don’t give a shit who started it!” I said. “You had your say, now back off!”

“Who are you, tellin’ me to back off!”

“If you don’t settle down, you’ll have to leave.”

“Leave! This is my neighborhood!”

“Not this part of it, not the way you’re acting.”

Martin’s son-in-law Vince had just arrived. “What’s going on, pops? They beating up on you?”

“Mr. Breslau and I, we were having a spirited discussion when Mr. Bernard lost his cool. He is making me feel unwelcome.”

Vince, a tall, burly guy, we got along fine, he looked at me and shook his head. “I expect there’s more to it than that.”

I nodded. “I expect you’re right. Vince, how about escorting Mr. Robinson home. Some black coffee wouldn’t hurt. I’ll get him a cup.”

“Don’ want your damn black coffee.”

“C’mon pops, you had your say.”

“Damn Gazette, goddamn pinko rag. “I’ll be back!” he yelled over his shoulder as Vince steered him down the walk, Dorie on his other side. She rolled her eyes at me.

“I hope so,” I shouted at him. “After these people go home we’ll still be here.”

Diane appeared as they were leading Martin away. “Was Martin not feeling well?”

“You might say that. He gave us his lecture on white supremacy – you know the one.”

“I hope you weren’t too hard on him. They are our neighbors, after all.”

“You would have been proud.” I looked around. People seemed kind of subdued. “C’mon, everybody,” I said, “these things happen. Have another steak. Have two!”

Nobody was paying attention to the TV. Some of the children had infiltrated the back yard and were whining they wanted to switch channels. “Not tonight,” I said, “this is a historic event.” Walter Cronkite was saying Reagan was scheduled to go about ten. I sidled up to a group. Art Koeppel was going on about his airplane. “How about a tour?” somebody asked. “I’ve never seen it.”

“Don’t know if that’s such a good idea. Alcohol and aviation don’t mix.”

“Oh, come on, we’re responsible citizens.”

“In fact that’s why we’re here,” Tom Salvatore added, nodding at the TV.

Art looked at his watch. “I guess a peek wouldn’t hurt.”

“I wanna go, Dad!” Peter pleaded.

“Me too!” This from Noah, Tom’s son.

“What about it, Art?” I asked.

“If you’ll keep an eye on them. Follow me.”

He turned and walked into our back yard. “Our short cut,” he said, heading for a gate in the fence that straddled our property line. It was dark as we walked along but Art pulled out his key ring and pointed a tiny flashlight toward the fence ahead.

“Always prepared,” Tom observed.

“Boy scouts and pilots. Watch your step.” He opened the gate and led us through. I was holding Peter’s hand. Several other children had joined up. As we neared an overhead flood lamp suddenly snapped on. “Motion sensor.” Art opened the back door and flipped some switches. The lights came up and the air conditioning rumbled to life. Smelling of industrial solvent, the garage was immaculate – whitewashed walls and ceiling, a shiny gray finish on the floor that sloped to a drain. The windows were sealed tight. I had been here many times and always enjoyed seeing his progress. Brought back memories of the model airplanes I used to make as a kid... on a somewhat bigger scale.

Somebody whistled. “This isn’t a garage, it’s an operating room.”

Art nodded. “Not so different, actually.”

Poised in the center on several metal sawhorses, a one-seat airplane, with wings but no tail, aluminum skin covering a portion of the frame. The first time I saw the wings I asked how Art how he planned to get it out of the garage.

“They unbolt easily. Strap the whole thing on a flatbed, put ‘em back when you get to the airport.”

“Where’s the propeller?” someone asked.

Art pointed to a three-bladed prop hanging on the near wall, a shiny cone at its hub.

“Couple of weeks, we’ll be hooking it up.” An array of metal ribs ran along the outside of the vertical bulkheads tapering to where the tail would be attached.

“How fast will it go?”

“Top speed 180, should cruise at 160. Knots, that is. Times 1.15 for miles per hour.”

“Where’s the tail?”

He pointed to a far corner where a pile of tubing and several rolls of shiny metal were stored under a workbench. “In a couple of weeks it’ll look a lot more familiar.”

“You did this all yourself?”

“With some help but yes, it’s my work.” Art ran his hand over the smooth aluminum skin along the fuselage. “It’s coming out real well.”

Early on I’d told Art about my father’s shop and he asked if I’d like to give him a hand, but I declined. “I’d only get in the way. I never picked up on that.”

“Who’s going to fly it first?” someone asked.

“You’re looking at him. An FAA inspector keeps tabs on me, he signs it off before it goes anywhere.”

“You’re really going to be the first to take it up?”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Suddenly there was a crash and a scream. I caught my breath. It was Peter! He was sprawled on the floor next to the workbench. Blood was pouring from a gash under his eye!

“Get some towels!”

“Here!”

Art rushed over to Peter and pressed a towel to his face. “Shit!” he said under his breath. “Peter, can you sit up?”

He looked at me. “Help him sit up. We need to keep his head up.”

I put my arm around Peter and raised him up. He was crying, his breath coming in gasps. Blood was soaking through the towel. “Somebody go get Matt,” I said. Matt Bailey was a doctor, an orthopedic surgeon.

Tom ran out the front door of the garage. “I hope he’s still around.”

By now Peter had stopped screaming. He was sobbing and shuddering. “Blanket,” I said, “I need a blanket.” Tammy disappeared into the house.

“Peter,” I said, kneeling stiffly beside him, “what happened, big guy?”

“I fell on that thing,” he said, looking toward the rolls of aluminum. “Oh that hurts!” he screamed as I moved the towel, looking for a dry spot.

“Sorry... sorry. Just hold on, be brave.”

“Noah pushed me. It’s his fault.”

Noah was standing nearby, his face white. “Did not,” he whispered.

Tammy was back with the blanket. “Help me wrap it around,” I said, “we need to keep him warm.”

“Is he still bleeding?”

“Get me another towel.”

Just then Matt showed up, doctor’s bag in hand, Diane and Penny right behind. Diane stood for a moment, eyes wide, then rushed over and took the towels from Tammy.

“Peter my man, what did you do to yourself?” Matt said, kneeling down. “Here, let’s take a look.” He gently removed the towel. I was holding Peter, he was still shuddering.

“Ah, that’s a nasty one. Reach in that bag,” he told Diane, “get me that brown bottle. Open up four of those gauze pads, the big ones.” He unscrewed the bottle of peroxide and poured some on his hands, wiping them with a pad. Then he wet a second pad and brought it close to Peter’s cheek. “You’re not going to like this but I’m going to clean your cut. Take a deep breath.” He looked at me. “Hold him tight. He’s going to jump.”

“OWW! OOOWWWW!”

Diane’s eyes were filled with tears. She glanced at me with a puzzled expression.

“He fell on a piece of metal,” I said.

Matt tossed the gauze aside and reached for another. “You’re doing great, Peter. One more time, that’ll do it.”

Peter screamed again. My heart was pounding as I looked at his little face. He squeezed my hand hard. Diane was holding Peter’s other hand. “Get me the tube of ointment from the kit.” Diane rooted around and pulled out a tube of Bacitracin.

“That’s it,” Matt said, squeezing a line of ointment onto the pad. “Got to keep this lubricated. Another gauze.” As he changed the pads I winced to see the cut, raw and deep. The bleeding had slowed, at least. “Adhesive tape. Four strips.”

Diane ripped off one strip and held it out. Matt taped one pad to Peter’s cheek, then a second over it. “A clean towel. Fold it and hold it against the gauze.” Diane pressed the towel to Peter’s face. “You’re doing fine,” Matt mumbled, “you’re going to be all right.”

“Are you a doctor?” Peter blurted out.

“Matter of fact, I am.” Matt began taping the towel to Peter’s face. “And when we finish you’re going straight to the emergency room where you’ll see some more doctors. I’ll bet you’ve been there before.”

“I broke my arm last year.”

“They fixed you up fine, right? And they’ll do it again.” Matt rubbed his hand through Peter’s hair. “You’re doing great. You’re a terrific patient.”

Diane stared at me. “Here, let me hold him.” I loosened my grip and she sat down on the floor and put her arms around him, pressing him to her. “There, there, you’re going to be all right. Poor baby, poor, poor baby.”

That started Peter bawling again. “I want my brother. Where’s Paul?”

“He’s at home. You’ll see him soon.”

Matt wiped his hands on a clean towel. He had bloodstains on the sleeves and front of his shirt. “He’ll need stitches. When was his last tetanus shot?”

I shook my head. “Last fall, before school,” Diane said.

“They may want to give him a booster. Better carry him, he’s lost a fair amount of blood. I won’t be surprised if he has a mild case of shock.”

“I’ll get the car.”

Shaken, I walked out into the night, Tom Salvatore with me, Noah with him.

“We took our eyes off them,” he said. “I feel awful.”

“Same here,” I said resignedly.

Word had spread. The party was fast winding down, guests just standing around. The cleanup was underway. Everyone wanted to know about Peter. “We’re taking him to the emergency room to get stitched up. Thank God for Matt. He was great.”

Kristin had Paul and Emma in tow. “Don’t worry about anything, Mr. B, I’ll put these two to bed.”

Tom put his hand on my shoulder. “I’ll keep an eye on things. Go do what you have to do.”

I went inside to get my keys and wallet. The last thing I saw as I went to get our car was Ronald Fucking Reagan, his cheery mug filling my thirty-three inch screen. Nobody was watching. We got home about two. Twelve stitches plus a tetanus shot. Plus antibiotics. Plus instructions for cleaning and covering. Thank God it wasn’t his eye. The stiches would come out in ten days. I had no travel coming up, I would have put it off anyway.

Tom and Art felt terrible, but I knew I had screwed up. Diane let me know it too. A mild rebuke – she had enough sense to realize how bad I felt already. Though I knew her mental score sheet had another mark beside my name.

What happened, the two boys and another were roughhousing, pushing and shoving, and somehow Peter fell face-first into the business end of a roll of sheet metal. Half an inch higher, he could have lost an eye. When the stitches came out they left a two-inch slash. It will lighten, they said, but he’ll carry a scar his whole life. Ironically, it was in nearly the identical place as my shrapnel divot. It almost made me cry to look at him.

A couple of months later, I had just finished reading him a story. “Dad,” he said, looking up, “when I grow up I want to be like you.”

He’d never said anything like that before. “Peter,” I said, “when you grow up you’ll be a lot better than I ever will.”

“ And you know what, Dad, I’ve already started.”

“Started? What do you mean?”

“My scar. See? It’s just like yours.”

I bent down to kiss him, turned out the light and walked from the room, overcome.

As for the conventions, the Republicans we’ve already talked about. Jimmy Carter withstood a furious late Kennedy challenge and secured the nomination at Madison Square Garden, called by some the nastiest convention ever. Our Democrat party? Cancelled.

ISSUES WEIGHED HEAVILY ON THE CAMPAIGN. His approval at a historic low, Carter was portrayed as weak and inept, unable to resolve the hostage crisis or the terrible economy. Inflation + declining employment = stagflation, which is what they said we had a case of, along with historically high interest rates. Carter added to the dour mood by continuing to preach belt-tightening and sacrifice. He offered no grand plan, in fact no plan at all.

Many still viewed Reagan as an unqualified lightweight and reckless hawk, but for his part, the sunny candidate told the American people what they wanted to hear. They deserved to have it all and they would have it all. His economic revival would be led by tax cuts and a balanced budget, a paradoxical recipe his primary opponent George Bush had called “voodoo economics,” though he backed off that when ambition got the better of him. The mechanism was simple – lowered taxes stimulate the profit motive and “hands-off” government lets business do its thing. Production increases, there are more goods and services at lower prices, which consumers, back to work again, can afford. With higher incomes, everyone pays more taxes. Q.E.D. “A rising tide lifts all boats,” Reagan pontificated. What he’s really saying, critics fired back, the wealthy and powerful get theirs first, everybody else gets theirs later (wink, wink). Noblesse oblige with a dash of devil-take-the-hindmost.

The first televised debate was a charade, Carter refusing to appear in the three-candidate format. Reagan and independent John Anderson took turns blasting him for not showing up. The second debate, however, was pivotal. With Anderson excluded, Reagan’s easy manner and communications skills turned the momentum his way. Consider the impact of one simple question he asked voters: “Are you better off than you were four years ago?”

Comedians and late-night show hosts had a field day with Carter, while Reagan’s bon mots were superb. “A recession is when your neighbor loses his job, a depression is when you lose yours, recovery is when Jimmy Carter loses his.” Reagan surprised in the debates, coming across as statesmanlike, even presidential. Carter was Carter, and that did him in. The tide was turned.

I still hadn’t been to Iran and wasn’t likely to anytime soon, but I was looking forward to visiting Baghdad for the first time. For its twentieth anniversary, OPEC was planning a big celebration there in late September and I had just received my invitation. But before the event, Iraq’s strongman, Saddam Hussein, invaded Iran, seeking to exploit his neighbor’s post-revolutionary chaos. It took time for a U.S. position to emerge, and we came down, reluctantly, on the side of Iraq. As Carter Administration officials later explained, “We let Saddam assume the U.S. green light was on because there was no explicit red light.” Later, even as we opposed Iran militarily, we would covertly supply it with arms. If that sounds confusing, it is. Our position seemed to be – we want both sides to lose. In the early going the Iraqis had much the better of the fight, but Iran’s resistance would stiffen and the battle surge back and forth for eight long years. More on this later.

As the election came on, efforts to free the hostages intensified. Carter needed a miracle and the prospect of an “October surprise” frightened the Reagan camp. Rumors had the Reaganites in clandestine negotiations with Iran to delay a release until after the election. True or not, that’s exactly what happened. In the end, Jimmy Carter sank under his burdens, losing the popular vote by nearly ten percentage points and going 49 - 489 in the Electoral College. His coat tails also failed, and for the first time since 1964 Republicans controlled the Senate. Carter’s star would rise again, but this was the worst defeat for an incumbent since Herbert Hoover, the first to fall since Andrew Johnson. Massachusetts – even Southie, Gus – went for Reagan. I called my old friend to commiserate. He passed along a remark going around Berkeley that summed up what some thought we were about to experience: “Morning in America.”