Palace Council (25 page)

PART IV

Ithaca/Saigon
1965–1968

CHAPTER
36

Reconsideration

(I)

A
URELIA SAT
with her arms circling her knees and her feet in the surf. The incoming tide tickled frothily over her thighs, then withdrew. She wore dark glasses and a floppy straw hat against the August sunshine, and an appropriately modest swimsuit against the stares and occasional advances of men who spotted her alone on the sand. Not that she was really alone. Behind her, Zora and Locke were building impressive sand castles with Mona Veazie's twins, Julia and Jay, named for the psychologist Julian Jaynes, one of Mona's heroes. It was the high season along the New England shore, and the beach was crowded. Taking the house in Maine for the month had been Mona's idea. She had gushed about how much fun they would all have. Aurelia understood. Mona wanted her old friend out of Mount Vernon, and as far from Harlem as possible. She would have proposed France, or Japan, if either one of them spoke French, or Japanese. Maybe next year.

For now, Maine would have to do.

Aurelia heard her son's voice, youthful and commanding, and marveled at the boy's resilience. Locke was all of seven years old, and having the time of his life. Zora, at nine, was more reserved. She tended to model herself on her mother, and knew better than her brother that Aurelia's efforts to be bright and cheery for the sake of her children were just that—efforts. Aurie wiggled her toes, fascinated by the eddies. She did it again. She was thirty-nine, and a widow, and had no idea what to do next.

Mona's son, Jay, was arguing. Only five, but already as feisty as any Veazie. Locke loved giving orders, a trait inherited from his father. Jay was resisting the older boy. Any minute the two boys would be scuffling. Mona, supervising, would let them wrestle. At that age, she said, it does them good. Let them get all their male aggressions out when it doesn't make any difference. Julia would be giggling with delight: she loved to watch the boys being boys. But not Zora. If a fight broke out, Zora would come over and sit beside her mother. Aurelia would slip an arm around her daughter and listen as the odd, observant child explained some theory about why the big waves came in bunches, or why the gulls cocked their heads to the side before diving. Since his father's death, Locke had become stubborn, wanting things more and more his own way. Whereas all the contemplative Zora ever really wanted was to talk.

Aurelia was sleepy, but if she closed her eyes, she would see Kevin promising they would talk later. Then she would feel the blast and smell the smoke.

Kevin's fortune, inherited from his father, was mostly in trust for the children. Aurelia had received enough to be comfortable, and she had no complaint.

She missed him.

“You don't get to say what to do,” Jay warned.

“This is the
right way,
” Locke insisted.

Little Julia shrieked.

Aurelia lifted her foot from the water, watched the rivulets run off, then dipped again. Water was so peaceful. The antidote to everything. The Bible said we began as dust and would return to dust, but Aurelia thought we came from the water and would eventually go back. Even the dust was eventually washed into the sea. She kicked, made little waves, wondered how many years it would take for the moist earth to rot her husband's ornate mahogany casket, eventually drawing his physical substance into the ground, and onward to an underground tributary feeding some surface creek, then dumping him into a river, and finally back to the ocean.

The funeral, at Saint Philip's, had been fit for a king. Politicians black and white had vied to speak. After consulting with Kevin's cousin Oliver and a few other senior Harlemites—and Mona, too—Aurie had given pride of place to Lanning Frost, whose life, intentionally or not, her husband had saved. Another eulogist had been Dick Nixon, who had missed Matty's funeral and wanted to avoid repeating his mistake. Although the press had no sure idea who Kevin Garland was, or had been, reporters flooded the church, fascinated by the spectacle of the two men considered most likely to face off in the 1968 presidential election speaking at the funeral of the same Negro. The family banned cameras. A few enterprising photographers snuck in, and were surprised when private security guards ushered them, filmless, back out.

White
security guards, the reporters complained to their editors. Hired for the occasion, and lots of them.

On the street afterward, Eddie had waited as one of perhaps a hundred people wanting to whisper their condolences to the widow. Aurelia had stood there in her mourning black, holding the hands of the bewildered children, her family's rituals of grief, like all America's in the mid-sixties, dictated by Jacqueline Kennedy. There were no public displays, tears least of all. Oliver stood nearby, and people whispered to him, too. As a matter of fact, their whispers to Oliver were often more detailed than their whispers to the widow, as if he was now the man in charge.

Aurelia was unoffended.

When it was Eddie's turn, he murmured the right things, but added that they needed to talk, as soon as possible. He lingered, imploring her with his eyes. He continued to clasp her hand. Eddie said they should get together. Aurelia said nothing. He said please. She sensed a stir along the line of mourners. People would be telling stories tonight all over the darker nation. At the funeral, of all times: couldn't the two of them even
wait
? Aurelia felt Oliver preparing to intervene. She stared at her former beau. Most of her was offended, and wanted never to see him again. But another part wanted to grab Eddie and her children and run off to—

Well, that was the problem. There was nowhere to run. Aurelia was now, forever,
the
Mrs. Kevin Garland.

“Thank you for coming,” she said. “It means a lot to all of us.”

She dropped his hand and turned to the next in line.

(II)

O
F COURSE
they had eventually had their conversation. They met for lunch on a pleasant June afternoon, in the Oak Room at the Plaza, where Eddie was staying for a few days while in New York doing publicity. His fifth novel,
Pale Imitation,
had just won him his second National Book Award. He was not yet forty. His sales remained durable if undramatic, but the cognoscenti knew him, and his essays were published everywhere.

This time, Eddie behaved better.

When Aurelia swept into the room, more glamorous than any of the wealthier women present, he stood and clasped her hand and did not hug her. He did all the talking to the waiter, as a gentleman was supposed to. He renewed his condolences, asked after the children, then asked after her.

She muttered something inane about taking things one day at a time.

As it happened, Eddie's father had died of cancer the month after Kevin's murder. Aurelia had sent flowers, and now offered her own condolences. A part of her cringed, because she had not even known Wesley Senior was ill. She did not know whose job it might have been to tell her.

Talk turned to other things. The children liked Mount Vernon, but memories were everywhere. They could not stay in the house. Mona wanted her to apply for an open position as an instructor at Cornell, where one of Mona's many old flames now ran the English department.

“I wouldn't think you'd have to work,” said Eddie, the first faux pas of an otherwise impressive performance. “Kevin must have left you well provided for.”

“Kevin provided just fine,” she agreed. And this was the simple truth. In addition to insurance and investments, Kevin had left her his quarter interest in Garland & Son. A Wall Street giant was negotiating to acquire the firm for a tidy sum. “But I
want
to work, Eddie. Not writing gossip. A real job.”

“In Ithaca?” he asked, as if she was going to Jupiter.

“That's where Cornell is.”

“It's so far.”
From me,
he meant.

“I haven't decided yet. They might not hire me even if I apply.”

“Then they'd be out of their minds,” Eddie said warmly, and, for a moment, they looked at each other the old way; then dropped their eyes.

It was Aurelia who finally centered the conversation.

“Eddie, listen for a minute. Will you listen? What you mentioned that day—the day Kevin—the day he died—this theory of yours. No, no, don't say anything. I want you to understand. You've been a wonderful friend for a long time, and I hope you always will be. But I will not discuss my husband with you. Not his business affairs, not anything about him. Not now. Not ever. Whatever you're thinking about, worrying about, wondering about, don't ask me. I don't want to know. My job is to make the best life I can for my children, not to investigate the past. Will you make me that promise?”

Probably he nodded. Possibly she imagined it. Certainly he did not argue.

Out on the street, she lit a cigarette to cover the trembling in her hands. Burning bridges is difficult, especially when you have no idea where you are heading. But sometimes only the fire moves us forward.

“Eddie,” she said.

“Yes, Aurie.”

“There's one more thing.” She glanced at him, then glanced away, because those beautiful eyes were too imploring. She was going to wound him. She did not intend to pretend to enjoy it. “Eddie. Dear, dear Eddie. I'm not the old Aurie any more. You have to understand that.”

“I'm not the old Eddie, either.” And this was true. He had given up alcohol the day he learned of his father's illness. Since then he had become sturdier—less impulsive, more reflective—in short, a grown-up.

“What I'm saying is—Eddie, I'm Mrs. Kevin Garland. I have certain responsibilities now.”

“I would imagine so.”

The kindling was set. The bridge would burn horribly, and fast. She touched his face. “There can never be anything between us,” she breathed. “Not now. Not in the future. I want you to promise me.”

“Promise you what?” he asked, and the hopelessness in his voice drew her. “You've already set the rules.”

“That's right. I have. I'm sorry, Eddie. It has to be this way, and—and you can't ever ask me why.” She had made her speech. Now she had to leave him his dignity. She smiled sadly. “Not that you'd ever want me.”

But Eddie refused the easy escape that agreement would have given. “I'll always want you,” he said, and, bowing slightly, handed her into a cab.

Riding away toward Grand Central, Aurelia knew Eddie would still be standing there under the awning, watching her go. She felt his gaze. She dared not turn and look. If she turned, she would stop the driver, run into Eddie's arms, and never let him go. She was
the
Mrs. Kevin Garland. She had responsibilities. And secrets. Secrets she could never share, least of all with Eddie Wesley.

Yet she could not help herself. She had been in the taxi just a moment when she glanced, as casually as she could, over her shoulder.

Eddie was gone.

(III)

T
HE BOYS WERE FINALLY FIGHTING,
and, sure enough, Zora slipped down onto the sand beside her mother. Julia continued to giggle. That child giggled too much, Aurelia decided, especially around boys. True, Julia was only five, but at ten she would be a terrible tease, and at fifteen she would be a terrible flirt. Aurelia had grown up with girls like that in the orphanage, and a couple of them wound up with babies before they finished high school.

Mona had better keep a close eye on her daughter.

“Mommy?” said Zora.

“Yes, baby?”

“Why do boys fight?”

Aurelia sighed. She longed for a cigarette, but Mona did not allow smoking around her children. At night, Aurie smoked on the front porch of their rented house. Mona would sit beside her, offering newspaper clippings about the Surgeon General's recent report, and asking if she wanted to live to see her grandchildren.

“The reason boys fight,” Aurelia said, hugging her daughter close, “is that they're not as tough as girls.”

“I thought they were tougher.”

“If they were tougher, they'd find ways to control themselves. They can't control themselves. That's what makes them boys.”

For a little while, they sat there. The fight had subsided. The boys were building again.

“Mommy?”

“Yes, baby?”

“Why are boys the only ones who get to be President?”

Aurelia smiled. “Would you like to be President one day?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I want a job for
smart
people,” Zora said firmly, and could not understand why her mother laughed so hard.

Later that night, the two women left the children with a sitter and had dinner at a fancy restaurant on the water in Portland. A couple of guys hit on Mona, and a couple of guys hit on Aurelia, and a couple of guys hit on both of them at once. Their dessert was interrupted by their waitress, who said she did not want to be a bother, but she had a question.

“Ask away,” said Aurie, very confused.

“Somebody said you're like the wife of that Negro guy? The widow, I mean. You know, the guy who protected Senator Frost? Gave his life?”

Aurie covered her mouth in horror.

“I'm gonna vote for him,” the young woman persisted. “Lanning Frost. He'll be like the best President we've ever had? I'm so like grateful? To your husband, I mean. Can I shake your hand?”

“No,” said Mona, because Aurelia was crying.

The waitress went away, looking offended. Mona bundled her friend into the car. All the way back to the house, Aurie kept her head pressed into the corner between the window and the seat. She was tired of hearing the story. About how her gallant husband had stepped in front of the car and taken the bomb. Could no one see that the story made no sense? Kevin could not have known about the bomb until it exploded, and by that time it would have been too late to push the Senator out of the way. Why did the newspapers have to invent heroes all the time?