Authors: Don Hoesel
“And with a family legacy personified by a dead grandfather driving you. It might as well be a mandate.” Then Daniel frowned at Graham. “You would have never said ‘lest’ at Stanford.”
“I swear I’m going to hit him,” Uncle Edward said, and it did indeed look as if he might take a swing at the diminutive lawyer. His hands, still at his sides, were balled into fists. But before he could give in to the impulse, Julie got up from the couch and took her father-in-law by the arm.
“Come on, Dad,” she said. “Let’s go get a cup of coffee.”
It took some convincing, and for a few moments Graham wasn’t sure if Julie would be able to redirect Edward, but eventually he allowed himself to be coaxed to the kitchen. Julie frowned at Graham as she passed, which in his experience was the equivalent of a curse word or two from most people.
“What did I say?” Daniel asked, once Edward had left the room and attention had returned to him.
Before Graham could answer, a middle-aged woman in a nurse’s uniform appeared at the entrance to the family room. Looking over her glasses, she spotted George and joined the growing circle at the fireplace.
“Your father’s asking for you,” she said. She had a diluted Southern accent, and just a touch of the local flavor to tell Graham she’d been in Upstate New York for a while. And there was something else, something that seemed out of place—surprise, maybe? Then he remembered what Edward had said about Sal Sr.’s meds. The nurse—Patricia, her nametag said—put a hand on his father’s shoulder. “He shouldn’t be awake. I don’t understand it.”
That brought a deep laugh from Graham’s father, whose shoulder bounced beneath the nurse’s hand.
“Then you don’t know your patient,” he said. With some effort, he lifted himself out of the chair, brushed off his pants, and started for the back room.
“Let’s go say goodbye,” he called behind him.
Graham and Sal Jr. followed George down the hallway, and they were almost to the back room before Graham realized that Daniel was at his side, once again gaining entry to someplace he didn’t belong. Graham kept his smile to himself as they stepped into his grandfather’s room.
Truth be told, Sal had been going downhill for more years than any of them would have admitted to anyone outside of the family. It had started with his memory. Car keys, dentures, whether or not he’d already gassed up the Ford. After that, it might be a loaded .38 left on the coffee table, within easy reach of the great-grandkids. Or forgetting to eat for a few days. But the stubbornness that had long been a part of the Baxter genetic makeup had not allowed Sal to admit to these painfully obvious lapses. He’d taken to leaving himself notes—reminders about things like eating, or about errands he had to run, or had already completed—so that he didn’t make two trips to Kaddy’s to purchase two identical compressors. Over time, as the condition progressed, as it became more difficult for his mind to keep things straight, the notes had expanded to include more mundane tasks like making sure to lock the front door, times to bathe and change, and when to go to bed (this note cleverly affixed to the clock in the kitchen). The problem with this approach, however, was that it stirred in Sal a latent obsessive-compulsive behavior that had him wandering around the house reading his notes and checking his pocket watch, often doubting whether or not he’d completed one of his many tasks, checking the front door a dozen times in an hour, or cycling through several sets of clothes over the span of a morning, changing every time he came across that particular directive.
After months of this, and after the sons had tried their hands as nursemaids, they had paid for a live-in nurse for the house on Lyndale. She was not the same nurse who now cared for Sal. The first one—a younger, prettier woman named Alice—had not been prepared to deal with death in anything but the abstract and so, after a year of caring for Sal, acting as his memory, when it became apparent that her role would shift to helping Sal navigate the final transition, she’d left. It had forced the sons to find another nurse, one who specialized in imminent death. It was certainly not the ideal situation; Sal had grown attached to Alice, and had taken to calling her Julie, confusing her with Edward’s daughter-in-law, which only posed a problem when Julie visited and would patiently convince Sal that she was Julie, and that the girl he thought was Julie was in fact Alice. This revelation would agitate Sal, and he would wonder who Alice was, and why she was in his home. But once Julie had gone, and her visit had passed from Sal’s mind, Alice became Julie once again.
What kept the nurse swap from becoming too problematic was that by the time Alice left to join her boyfriend in San Francisco, Sal was bedridden and subject to whoever would feed him, empty the bed pan, and deliver his meds to keep the ills of a long lifespan at bay. Overall, Patricia proved just as agreeable a choice as Alice had been, with the exception that Alice had not had the inclination to rob her patient blind. It was something George had noticed right away—the disappearance of small items that had been in their respective places for decades, things only noticed because of their absences. There would be a reckoning with Nurse Patricia once Sal was in the ground, but he let it go while his father drew breath, primarily because it had been so difficult to find someone willing to take the job.
When the trio of Baxter men entered the room, though, the first thing each of them noticed was that the man in the bed, while frail enough to seem as if made of dust, was watching them with clear eyes. Next to the bed, an oxygen tank released its wares through a tube that ended in a mask covering the lower half of Sal’s face. But above the mask, among the IVs and monitors surrounding Sal’s body, his eyes shone through like beacons, intimating the stronger man who had been gone for a good five years.
The pictures on the walls of this large room were older than the ones through the rest of the house, none taken less than fifty years ago, most well before that. There were a few paintings too— Baxters who had missed the advent of the photographic era. To Graham, who could remember spending time in the room as a boy, it was almost a holy place, each picture having been stared at until he could have recited every detail of each to anyone who asked. He’d liked the paintings especially—the texture absent from the photos, the way he could feel the brush strokes beneath his fingers. His grandfather had told him that these pictures represented the best of the Baxter clan, those who had accomplished great things, or who had led the family through difficult times. Sal had told Graham their stories, and the boy had learned them well enough to recite them back. Back then, he could imagine seeing his own picture on these walls, and while he was old enough now to know that getting one’s photo displayed in a relative’s bedroom was no longer a lofty career goal, he nonetheless still appreciated that wish from so long ago.
Almost before the younger Baxters had cleared the doorway, Sal gestured with his knobby hand, calling them closer. With the other, he pulled the oxygen mask under his chin.
“It’s almost finished,” he said, addressing George. His voice was weak, but there was a hint of the steel that used to be in it.
George nodded. “I know, Pop.”
The eldest Baxter gestured to his nightstand. “There’s a bottle in the drawer. Get it.”
George did as he was told, pulling a fifth of Woodford Reserve from the drawer. There was a highball glass on the table, and George decanted a generous amount and handed the glass to his father. The old man took it, and although slight tremors ran along his arm, not a drop of bourbon spilled as he brought it to his lips. A third of the drink disappeared before Sal was satisfied.
Once the dying man had settled back against a pillow and had regarded them all silently for a minute, he fixed his gaze on Graham. “Less than two months left, right?” he asked.
The question caught Graham off guard because, over the last year or two, Sal’s awareness had been an open question. No one knew how much he’d picked up on. But Sal’s mind seemed clear in this moment, lucidity likely granted by the nearness of death.
“About that . . .” Graham said.
Sal nodded, but then noticed Daniel. “Who’s he?”
“He’s the boy’s campaign manager,” George answered, aiming a withering look at his son—one designed to let him know that while he understood the benefits gained from having someone like Daniel around, even during a family crisis, he thought it bad form to have invited the man into Sal’s room.
Graham, who at forty-one found it irritating that his father still referred to him as “the boy,” pursed his lips and decided to look suitably chagrined. Daniel, who had never suffered a moment’s remorse over anything he’d ever done—and that character trait had been tested by some particularly sordid episodes during and immediately following law school—appeared not to have picked up on the fact that the conversation concerned him. He was busy studying his recently manicured nails. Graham, who knew better, was confident that his friend had heard every word, and was cataloging all of it for future use.
“His name’s Daniel, Gramps. Daniel Wolfowitz.”
Unlike his son, Sal Sr. did not seem upset by Daniel’s presence. Instead he offered the man a thin smile. “So you’re the hotshot leading the final charge, eh?”
Daniel looked up from his nails and smiled at the dying man. “I’m doing my best, sir.”
Sal didn’t answer right away but gave Daniel a once-over, which the man endured with a studied lack of self-awareness.
Finally, Sal said, “It’s Saturday, isn’t it?”
Daniel consulted his cell phone. “It is,” he confirmed.
Sal digested that with a grunt, then asked, “So why are you working?”
Among the other Baxter men circling the bed, the growing consensus was that Sal had lost his hold on the reason he’d reclaimed for these few brief moments. Graham was about to offer Daniel an apologetic smile when he saw a light come on in his friend’s eyes, replacing an expression that had been as equally perplexed as everyone else’s.
“I’m not devout, Mr. Baxter,” Daniel said. “In fact, I don’t practice at all.”
At that admission, Sal gave a single laugh that sounded almost like a bark. “So a member of God’s chosen people is in charge of my grandson’s campaign, and yet you’re deliberately ticking off the Almighty.” He laughed again.
“I wouldn’t worry about that, Mr. Baxter,” Daniel said. “My father’s a rabbi, and I’m pretty certain there’s something in the contract that says God can’t smite the wayward son of a rabbi.” He paused, then added, “Or his gentile friend.”
Daniel took Sal’s laughter in good humor, flashing Graham a grin.
Sal’s grandson, and the uncles who stood alongside him, however, failed to share in Daniel’s amusement. Although, as with most things related to the ascension of a Baxter to any position of power, the dying man’s laughter should have been considered in its proper defeatist context, rather than as the feeble-minded mirth for which they took it. If the history passed down with a religious fervor through the generations had taught them anything, they should have recognized the fatalistic element in the sound—an understanding, only granted through the perspective of someone old enough to have experienced the history firsthand, as well as to have that experience supported by an oral tradition embraced like a litany—that the Divine himself seemed intent on keeping a Baxter from connecting on any swing for the political fences.
For all intents and purposes, the family civic record was one of marginal influence, almost entirely a local affair. True, over the city’s long history, the Adelia populace had elected six Baxter men to the mayoral post, with most serving more than one term, but time and again the town’s founding family had failed to extend a measurable political influence beyond the confines of their valley.
The closest they’d come was the 1928 gubernatorial race when the elder Sal’s own father had come within four hundred votes of getting the Democratic nomination. It was something of an enigma to those long-lived enough to have a clear perspective on the matter, who had watched the money change hands over promises of political appointments that never materialized, nominations that fell short of the necessary votes. It was a crushing legacy for one of the oldest lines in America—a line that might have claimed a more obvious place in the history books alongside Washington and Jefferson. But as with most families with sufficient resources, the Baxters had learned the fine art of wielding influence behind the scenes. The elder Sal’s grandfather had been instrumental in Calvin Coolidge’s nomination to the Republican ticket, and lobbyists sympathetic to the family interests had ensured the passage or blockage of many a bill that impacted Baxter business holdings. But while these machinations had allowed the Baxters to prosper, they had failed to scratch the itch passed down through the generations—the lusting for electoral validation.
Graham’s election to the state senate had come as a surprise to everyone. His opponent was a strong incumbent, and Graham had only run against him because Adelia’s current mayor, a three-term Republican, after bringing in the last of the county’s two prisons and providing almost four hundred jobs, had been even more firmly entrenched in his administrative cocoon than was Graham’s eventual adversary for the senate seat. Nothing about the campaign signaled a win for the newcomer; every poll had Senator William Paisley ahead by a comfortable margin, and the Baxters, for all their money and lengthy presence in the political arena, lacked the recent expertise necessary to mount a cogent fight. Even so, when the votes were counted, it was Graham whom the TV cameras shot giving his wife and two kids victory kisses. It was another of those things that local historians couldn’t explain, except to assume that the quiet influence of Adelia’s oldest family had finally greased the right palms.
Now two years into Graham’s first term, and with the sponsorship of three successful bills and a committee chairmanship under his belt, the winds had favored a run at a position with national influence. Sal Sr., who saw in his grandson the family’s best chance to finally achieve the stature they’d long coveted, could not shake the suspicion that Graham’s rising political star might have had more to do with the lessening of the standards people currently held for their elected officials than any claim Graham might have to consummate statesmanship. Still, and despite the fact that he suspected something would go wrong, something that would prevent Graham from winning the election, he was proud of his grandson, and only regretted that he would not live to see how the whole thing played out.