The Fresco (9 page)

“It's going to be a little complicated. Your father has mortgaged the house, and the bank is going to foreclose. He'll expect me to step in and stop it, and when he knows I'm not going to do it, he's going to get belligerent. It'll be easier for everyone if you just don't know where I am.”

“Are you going to get a divorce?” her daughter asked.

“I don't know. I'm not even thinking about that now.”

“I say go for it. If you want to tell Carlos, I'll ask him to stick around here tomorrow night. Call around eight, our time. Okay?”

Eight their time would be eleven where she was, but she didn't mention that. All she could think of was what Angelica had gone through. And she'd been only a child!

She threw herself down on the bed, sprawled every which-a-way like cooked spaghetti, muscles letting go all at once, mind switching from Angelica to the bookstore, back to General Wallace, and then to the creature that had called itself an athyco. Whatever did they really look like? And how could they have gone out of her mind even for a moment? So strange, so wonderful, yet hard to think about.
Well, strangeness was hard to think about. Wonder grazes you like a bullet; it zips by and is gone, and all you really perceive is the zing as it goes past, or maybe the pain if it comes too close. It does no good to search for whatever it was, for it never lodges anywhere you can get a good look at it. The truly strange has no hooks of familiarity that one can catch hold of.

It had happened, though. It wasn't a dream. She really had met weird aliens, Chiddy and Vess, who had done her a good turn, who had to have done it, because it was the only way she could explain how well she'd been doing. She hadn't cried once. She hadn't lain awake, worried over what she might have done or said wrong. She hadn't been concerned about running back home because it was her duty. Somehow, it seemed, Chiddy and Vess had unquirked her.

TUESDAY

Senator Byron Morse, R–New Mexico, edged his just-waxed black Lexus into the too-narrow space Lupé had left him beside her red convertible, cursing mildly under his breath. Squeezing out of the car, he tugged his suit coat into alignment, picked up his briefcase, gently kneed the door shut and went through into the back hall, which throbbed at him.

Lupé was definitely home. The house boomed distantly, mute to melody but attentive to the beat. Wherever Lupé was, basses thumped, brasses blared, drums roared and rhythm filled the silence. Which was okay with the senator. He'd married her for her sociability, her elegance, her sleek body and fantastic hair. She made him look good, and since he'd soundproofed his den, he didn't have to listen to the racket.

She saw him coming up the stairs. “Hi, By,” she called, feet moving in time to the music, hips swaying. “Home early!”

He dropped the jacket over the bannister and made a twisting motion with his fingers.

“Oh, hey, fine. Jussa minute!” And she was off down the hall, doing an exhibition number. The woman was jointless
as a snake, and the sight warmed him, though only slightly. He couldn't afford the time at the moment, and quickies only made Lupé resentful.

The music softened, the beat relented, she came back, walking. “Janet, she call you.”

He stopped in his bedroom door. “Janet? What in hell did she want?”

“I don know, By. I din ask…”

“Cut the El Paso accent, Loop.”

“Oh, sorry. I was hearing the Spanish station. It's catching.”

“I can't read your mind, Lupé. Am I supposed to call her?”

“God! You're uptight as cheap jeans! Yes, Mr. Senator. She wants you to call her. She says tell you it's about Timothy.”

“And where does she want me to call her? Is she home?”

“The number's by the phone in your bedroom. She says try there, if you don't get her, try her at home.” Lupé drew herself up. “And I wohn bother you any more till you get these little details taken care of. Then mebbe we can say hello, and did you have a good day, and stuff like that.”

She was off again, back down the hallway to what she called her
nido
. Her nest. Gaudy pillows and painted furniture, and scented candles for God's sake, everything ablaze with color. When they went out, she was always dressed in perfect taste, her accent patrician, her manners impeccable, but her private life was carnival in Rio! He hadn't known of her private preferences until after they were married. He'd never been to her place. Too many eyes in Washington. Too many secretaries keeping track. Luckily the house was large enough she could have the two-rooms-and-bath at the end of the upstairs hall and they could lock the hall door when they entertained. He'd thought the pre-nup was comprehensive, but who would have thought of specifying tasteful home furnishings?

He tossed the jacket on the foot of his bed, one he'd bought years ago at an antique auction: solid cherry, barely ornamented, built to last. The framed mirror above the matching bureau returned his approved picture of himself: tall, patrician, dignified and solid. His eyes were chilly gray,
as was the hint of beard showing along the jawline. Age had its rewards. Now that he was graying, his beard didn't turn his face gangster blue by midafternoon, the way it used to.

That had been one of Janet's favorite comments when she'd had one too many. “I may look like a sack of shit, Byron, but by God, you look and act like a gangster.” Of course, with Janet, even one drink was one too many.

At fifty pounds overweight with a face like a damp cruller, Janet had had no room to talk. Besides, she was gauche as a pig in a penthouse, and too damned often pregnant. Some women were said to look radiant when pregnant, but Janet hadn't been one of them. To be honest, he had never seen a pregnant woman who did. Not his wife or anybody else's wife! To use Janet's phrase, pregnant women looked like a sack of shit. Even if the process went “normally,” which in Janet's case it never had, it was still revolting. In his mother's day, people still observed a period of “confinement,” and that's the way pregnancy ought to be handled in By's opinion. Confined. Somewhere else.

The phone rang eight times before she answered. “By?”

“Yes, Janet. What's the problem?” He knew his voice was cold, but it had to be. Let her get anywhere near him and she'd start shedding tiny dead flakes of herself all over him, like emotional dandruff.

“Oh, By, don't sound like that.”

He held the phone away from his ear, waiting for the whine to run down. Make me happy. Make me mean something. Make me satisfied. He'd married her because she came from a well-known political family and he needed the support. He got the support, but he'd paid a high price for it. During all but the first two years they'd been married, Janet had been neither enjoyable at home nor fit to be seen in public. He'd ended up staying away from home, going stag too many times, making passes he shouldn't have made, a definite error in judgment. Luckily, the press hadn't picked up on any of it. Back then, people's personal lives had been off limits to the media. He'd been damned lucky. The only dangerous lapse had happened here in Washington, before he'd run for the senate. Mouthy bitch! It took two years to
wear that story out. Now, of course, the shoe was on the other foot. That same mouthy bitch would deeply regret her remarks by the time he was through with her.

The gnat-voice faded. He put the receiver back to his ear.

“Janet, if you have something to tell me, do it.”

“Timothy. He's in the hospital.”

His breath caught, but he forced his voice to remain calm. “What's the matter with him?”

“He broke his leg. Poor baby, those skates are just murderous, murderous, I don't know why they all think they have to have those terrible skates…”

“How bad is the break?”

“He's in a cast!”

“How bad is the break?!”

“He's…he's coming home tomorrow.”

“He's not in traction or on antibiotics?”

Another sob. “No.”

“Then there's probably nothing to worry about. I'll FedEx him a get-well card and call him once he's home. Okay?” He started to hang up, then said quickly, “What's his doctor's name? And what hospital?”

She told him and he wrote it down. Timothy wasn't a poor baby. He was sixteen, born the second year of his first senate term. Steven had been born a year earlier. Before that there had been miscarriages, one after another, year after year. Janet had wanted to quit trying, but By disliked failure. One of the two things he'd wanted out of marriage was a son. He'd sent Janet to clinics and paid for her doctors, by the dozen. She, of course, said it could be his fault, which was ridiculous, as it had proved to be in the end. He had succeeded, just as he always did. Two boys in a little over a year. An heir and a spare, wasn't that what the nobility said?

After Tim's birth, Janet no longer had any excuse for her appearance, and he'd given her the ultimatum. Lose fifty pounds, change her hairstyle, take a course in public speaking, and learn how to dress. She'd gaped at him like a halfwit, thirty-three to his thirty-seven, and looking fifty. All she could do was whine about his using her as a brood mare, not caring anything about her as a person. He'd said fine, he
didn't care about her as a person, but he was willing to take care of the brood mare and the colts.

He gave her very generous terms and no battle over custody. So long as the boys were children, let her deal with measles and chicken pox and ear infections and schoolwork. He intended to found a dynasty, but he'd do his part later on, when the time came for the right schools and meeting the right people. He wanted no gossip, no imputations of being unfair. Out and out feminists would never vote for him anyhow, but he sure as hell wasn't going to lose the sympathy of conservative women by mistreating his ex-wife. A lot of them lived on alimony, too.

Janet's lawyer had suggested she take the offer and not make waves. By had given her no cause for a countersuit; except for that one semipublic embarrassment, he had been careful and extremely discreet. After the divorce, he'd stayed discreet, but when he began thinking about the presidency, his advisors said a Hispanic wife might draw the voters. He had just the girl in mind: Guadalupe Roybal, descendent of first settlers of New Mexico, someone to help him court the state's La-Raza-proud Hispanics right along with its Anglo aristocracy. She had flawless light olive skin and a wealth of curly brown hair; she spoke fluent Southwest Spanish, and usually unaccented English.

Moreover, she knew what was expected of her. Being married to Janet had taught him an invaluable lesson: finding a wife was just like filling any other staff position, it required a detailed job description. There would be no children. Since he was twenty-five years older than she, she balked at a tubal, but said she would “handle the matter herself.” Within her generous allowance she was to stay healthy, elegant and well dressed. She was to bone up on Hispanic issues, use the name Roybal-Morse, stay out of any situation that could look even faintly compromising, and stick with him at public functions, keeping him out of any hint of trouble with the female kind. It was all agreed to, written down, signed and witnessed.

His part of the agreement committed him to treating her with unfailing courtesy and deference whenever they were
in the public eye. He'd picked this up from a Southern senator so long in office he'd grown moss. “Whup 'em in the bedroom, By,” the white-haired old lecher had confided, “but treat 'em like queens where the world can see. They'll forgive you the one out of gratitude for the other.”

Also, for every year of service, Lupé got a generous payment deposited into an account in the Cayman Islands. If she lasted ten years, she'd have well over a million, but she had to stay until he said leave in order to collect. Which could be during or after his second term in the White House. Fulfillment of that ambition would begin when he utterly destroyed the incumbent as well as the reputations of the incumbent's family, friends, and acquaintances! He smiled secretly to himself, relishing the battle plan.

“Trouble, By?” Lupé said in the open doorway, two drinks in her hands. She held one of them out to him.

He shook his head as he took it. “Tempest in a teakettle, like always. Any little thing, she comes unglued.”

“Was Tim hurt?” Lupé liked Tim, despite his brave attempts to hate her on his mother's behalf. Poor kid. He didn't get much fun at home. Lupé believed in fun. When By was too busy to enjoy it, she had fun elsewhere, though carefully. There was always fun available.

“Broken leg, not serious. Is there something in the gift closet?” Lupé kept gifts and cards on hand for all conceivable occasions. Whenever Byron needed to mark an occasion, she had something suitable. She made a virtue out of shopping.

“Oh, lemme think. I bought two new computer games last week. He can have fun with those, sitting down. And a book on astronomy.”

“Astronomy?”

“He was reading articles on it, last time he was here. It's written for nonscientists, but it isn't childish.”

“I'll sign the book tonight. Send the stuff FedEx, okay?”

“Sure thing. Tomorrow morning.”

He grunted assent. “I expected a call.”

“A man did call. ‘Mr. Jones.' He said you wanted to see him this evening before dinner, and he'll be here in half an hour. I told Cally to hold dinner until eight.”

“Fine.” He gulped at the drink, feeling the taste all the way down.

“Cally put some tapas out in the den, and unless you need something else, I'm going down to Edwina's until about seven-thirty.”

He nodded, not bothering to respond, merely registering that she was going down the stairs and out. He heard her car leaving the driveway. Just for the hell of it, he wandered back to her
nido
and picked up the daily diary by her phone.
Tuesday, noon. Lunch with DeeDee McIntyre, shopping. Five pm—cocktails with Edwina Taylor-Lopez, re the Hispanic Caucus
. Very nice. She was absent, her absence was documented, leaving her blameless. She knew Mr. Jones had called, and that's all. When she returned home, her husband would be alone. Their relationship depended, he thought, in large part on what he did not tell her. He would have been surprised to learn that Lupé thought it depended as much on the things she didn't tell him.

He heard the door chimes and Cally's voice in the hall. When he arrived at the door of the den, the two of them were at the bar cabinet and ice was clinking into glasses while very expensive single malt was poured over them. They had ignored the good but much less pricey stuff Lupé had put at the front of the cabinet.

“Senator,” said the larger man: “Dink” Dinklemier, all six foot five, two hundred thirty or forty odd pounds of him, ex-college football star, ex-mercenary, smarter than he looked and a current employee of the Select Committee on Intelligence that Morse chaired.

“Good to see you, Byron,” murmured the other man, removing his coat and seating himself. He was Prentice Arthur, slightly graying, dignified as a deacon, ex-CIA, ex-security advisor, currently serving as the senator's hook and line to certain unnamed fish in the Pentagon. With the money that flowed over there, there was habitat for lots of fish, everything from sharks to bottom feeders, each of them useful in his own way.

“Dink. Arthur.” The senator seated himself, putting his half-finished drink on the table beside him. “I hope you've got some news for me.”

“Well,” the larger man split a grin, one side of his mouth expressing amusement while the other half looked on, uninvolved, “I've got good news and other news.”

Morse regarded him narrowly, disliking this jovial approach to what was very serious business. “Very well, let's have the good news. They'll support me?”