The View from Mount Joy (34 page)

“Kristi, I…don’t know what to say.”

“How about congratulations?”

“All right—congratulations.”

Her laugh was back to its delight mode. “I really hit the jackpot with this one, Joe. Gotta run—and remember, diamonds are
always
an appropriate gift!”

“So are toasters,” I replied, but she’d already hung up the phone.

Twenty-five

Tuck Drake was a big slab of a man, six feet five inches tall and as brawny as a blue-ribbon steer. He had played football for Clemson and was an all-American in 1973, but when he blew out a knee in a bowl game, he had to hang up his cleats for good.

“Ya gotta understand,” he was quoted during his first Senate campaign, “football was my life. And when that life caved in, I pretty much let everything else. Yup, I drank, I caroused, I did everything my sweet mama told me not to, until after a night of partyin’, when I was perched over the porcelain throne, throwing up all that was in me and a little bit more, I suddenly realized how far I’d strayed—the proud athlete God had made me was now just a vessel for alcohol and other poisons, a sinner who’d let his body and his mind be taken over by the Devil’s temptations. That’s when I rose up, rinsed my mouth out, and after I spit into the sink, I looked in the mirror and I said, ‘Tuck Drake might not be a football all-star, but he can be an all-star on God’s team.’ Let me tell you, it’s the best team I’ve ever been on, with the best coaching, and the thing is—everybody wins.”

Tuck Drake had a big sheaf of blond hair and matching blond sideburns and was something of a folk hero in his home state. He also scared Beth and Linda half to death.

“I can’t believe that even
Kristi Casey
could have married a guy like that,” said Beth, who had seen the couple on a morning talk show, sharing pictures of their three-year anniversary party in the Caribbean. “I mean, she’s
weird,
but not on the level of Tuck Drake.”

My mother and aunt had entered their seventies (or “the age of advanced wisdom and subtle sexiness,” as Beth preferred to call it) and they were both out on Lake Nokomis with me, skating the perimeter of the plowed-off rink, while Ben and Conor battled it out in a pickup game on the hockey rink.

The sun had given up its halfhearted battle to assert itself in the winter sky, skittering away behind a low bank of gray clouds. Occasionally we’d be drawn to watch what was happening on the hockey rink—Ben was a good player, but Conor was excellent, albeit hotheaded—a common enough pairing in the game of hockey.

“Don’t you want to join them?” asked my mother, who skated linked to Beth at the elbow.

“No,” I said, skating backward in front of them so I could talk, “I’d rather skate with my two favorite old ladies.”

My mother let go of Beth’s arm and sped forward as if to grab me, but I easily dodged her.

“Now don’t overtax yourself,” I said, and maneuvering myself between them, I took both their arms.

“Linda says he not only thinks homosexuality is a sin, but he thinks we might want to consider the legality of it.” My aunt shivered, and I didn’t think it was because of the cold. “I mean, the guy is a real nutcase.”

“Don’t you think some of it’s just for show?” asked my mother. “He doesn’t really think he can legislate something like that, does he?”

“He’d like to,” said Beth. “He says gay people are abominations of nature and their unions are a threat to heterosexual marriages.” Beth looked at me. “Do you think Linda and I are abominations of nature?”

“No, but I do think your ‘union’ is a threat to my marriage,” I joked.

My mother laughed.

“I
wish
I could laugh,” said Beth. “But I’m scared as hell.”

“All I can say is I’m glad Kristi and the senator won’t procreate,” I said. “At least I don’t think they will. Kristi’s too old now, isn’t she?”

“If she hasn’t hit menopause, she’s not,” said Beth. “I read about a woman who was sixty-something and had a baby.”

“As the kids say now, ewwww!” I broke away from them and then turned, facing them as I skated backward.

“Either of you old bags interested in a race?”

My mother and aunt exchanged looks before charging forward. They couldn’t catch me, but a patch of bad ice could, and one of my blades got caught in it and I toppled over backward.

Not bothering to enquire if I was all right, they skated past me and to the boards surrounding the hockey rink, giving the race to the old bags.

That night I was nestled against the curves of Jenny’s back when the phone rang. There is nothing as unsettling as being awakened by a phone jangling in the middle of the night, especially when one of your children is not at home.

“What time is it?” whispered Jenny, fear in her voice.

I looked at the numbers on the digital clock. “Two thirty-five,” I said, and even though I only had to reach over to the nightstand to pick up the phone, my heart was beating as if I had sprinted around the block to answer it.

“Hello?” I asked, and my muscles were suddenly limp with relief when I heard Kristi’s voice say, “Joe?”

The relief—Flora was fine!—was quickly replaced by an irritation just a step below anger.

“Kristi, why are you calling at this time of night?”

Her voice was small, wounded. “Joe, do you think Jenny ever cheated on you?”

“Well, let me ask her, she’s right here.”

Jenny had raised herself onto her elbows, whispering at me to tell her what was going on.

“Jenny, Kristi wants to know if you’ve ever cheated on me.”

“Oh, for crying out loud,” said Jenny, rolling over.

“She said, ‘Oh, for crying out loud,’” I reported. “So I’m taking that as a no. And now I’m going to hang up and wait for your call at some civil hour.”

“Please, Joe,” she said, an uncharacteristic vulnerability coating her voice. “I don’t have anyone else I can talk to.”

“Christ,” I muttered, getting out of bed. Jenny groaned, as if she couldn’t believe I was taking the call.

“Hold on a sec,” I said into the cordless phone. “I’ve got to leave the room so I don’t disturb my wife, whom you also woke up when you called.”

“I’m sorry, Joe,” said Kristi, and for a change, it sounded as if she were. Yanking my robe off the door hook, I padded out into the hallway.

Flora’s room was closest, so I went inside and sank down on a furry beanbag chair.

“All right,” I said, making sure she heard the sigh in my voice. “What’s going on, Kristi?”

“I think Tuck’s having an affair.”

“Well, isn’t that par for the course?” I said with a laugh.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, come on, Kristi,” I said, and her name bobbed along on a short wave of laughter. “It’s always the guys who yell the loudest about other people’s bad behavior who are usually in the middle of the bad behavior themselves.”

“Why, you don’t know a thing about—”

“But I really don’t understand why you’re so upset. You’ve never seemed to mind affairs, although you’re usually on the cheating end rather than—”

The phone clicked off. I sat there in the dark for a moment before the phone rang again.

“I didn’t call you for a lecture,” said Kristi, her voice clogged with tears. “I called you because I needed a friend!”

“Sorry,” I said, although I doubted my apology would nudge the needle on any sincerity meter.

“And if you’re referring to Johnny Priestly, it’s not like I broke up their marriage—FYI, they’re still married. I just felt sorry for him, because his wife hadn’t slept with him in two years and—”

“Okay,
okay,
Kristi. I don’t need to hear all the sordid details. I’m sorry I lectured you. I guess I don’t like being woken up in the middle of the night.”

“We’ve already established that.”

I sighed again, the chair scrunching as I repositioned myself.

“Okay, I’ll just sit here—on a beanbag chair, no less—and listen to you as you tell me what’s happening.”

There was a long pause, as if Kristi was waiting for further complaints from me. Then she began to speak.

“Well, Tuck picked me up after the radio show tonight—you should see my D.C. studio, Joe, it’s state-of-the-art. Anyway, I thought we were going to go out for dinner, but Tuck said he was beat and would I mind awfully if we went straight home? He did look tired—they’ve been going into special sessions trying to get this Families Foremost bill passed—and I wasn’t about to make him sit through a fancy five-course dinner with a congressman who’s not that important anyway. So we go home, he climbs into bed, and about twenty minutes later, the phone rings and a voice on the other line says, ‘You might be interested to know that Senator Tuck Drake is having an affair with a Senate page.’” She paused—for dramatic effect, I assumed. “So you see, Joe, you’re not the only one to get a call in the middle of the night.”

“Not to be a stickler,” I said, “but it doesn’t sound like your call came at two-thirty in the morning.”

“Yeah, well,” said Kristi impatiently, “my news was a little more shocking.”

I tried to laugh at the inanity of our argument, but I was too tired.

“Did you tell Tuck?”

“No! He’s a bear if you wake him up out of a deep sleep.”

“Are you going to tell him?”

“Should I?”

“I don’t know, Kristi. I mean, how do you even know if it was real or not? Maybe it was just a prank.”

“Do you think so?” asked Kristi, hope flooding into her voice. “Oh, Joe, I never even thought of that—I do get nuts calling the show and stuff, but not at home. I mean, this is a private number—”

“Kristi, you know there’s no such thing as a private number. Really, I’m surprised at how quick you are to believe what some prankster tells you over the telephone.”

Her laugh was weak but hopeful. “Do you really think it might have been a prankster? Because I couldn’t stand it if I thought Tuck was cheating on me, Joe. I have poured
everything
into this relationship; God knows he doesn’t need to go anywhere for sex, because he’s getting all he wants here.”

“Please, Kristi, spare me.”

“It’s just that…well, there’s been some gossip.”

“There’s always gossip in Washington, Kristi. You know that.”

“You’re right, Joe. I’ll bet Washington’s even worse than Hollywood.”

I heard the rasp of a match and an inhale.

“Don’t tell me you’re
still
smoking.”

“Oh, I’m down to two a day.”

“Packs or cigarettes?”

“Ha ha ha.
Cigarettes.
And most of the time it’s just one, after breakfast. It’s better than a laxative.”

“Now you’re starting to gross me out.”

Kristi laughed. “Thanks for listening, Joe. I feel much better now.”

She hung up then, unconcerned with good-byes.

“So what was
that
all about?” asked Jenny when I climbed back into bed. After I told her, she said, “I’ll bet he is.”

“Having an affair?”

“Sure,” said Jenny. “He strikes me as the kind of man who needs more than his wife to tell him how great he is.”

I pulled her close to me.

“It doesn’t bother you when Kristi calls me, does it?” She had always told me she didn’t mind, but I liked to check in case she had changed her mind.

“It does when she calls at two in the morning,” said Jenny. She put a hand on the side of my face. “I used to find her calls kind of entertaining—or at least your retelling of them—but more and more, I just feel sorry for her.”

“Don’t ever tell her that.”

“She just seems so lonely. Doesn’t she have any other friends? Any girlfriends?”

“I think she thinks of women more as rivals than friends,” I said, and then, tired from all the talk, I used my mouth to kiss my wife, my lips lingering on hers for a long while, as if they were weary and had found a place to rest.

We got another telephone call the next night, and it was about Flora—in fact, it was from Flora—but it came at a much earlier hour and was much better news. At least I hoped it was good news.

“Well, what’s he like?” was my first question after Flora had shouted, “Guess what—I found the guy I’m going to marry!”

“What’s he like?” she answered. “Oh, Papa
mon
Joe, he’s
perfect.
He’s kind and funny and smart and handsome
—mon dieu,
is he handsome. And he plays guitar—oh, you should hear him—and he’s got a great singing voice too, and—”

“When did you meet him, honey?” asked Jenny, giggling over Flora’s excitement.

“Last week, on the plane to Paris.”

Flora was Haugland Foods’ international buyer (yes, nepotism got her the job, but nepotism’s an easy thing to practice when your daughter graduates summa cum laude from college—her degree was in French literature with a minor in business—and it didn’t hurt that she was also fluent in Spanish and almost fluent in Japanese…I could go on and on, but I don’t want to brag) and her job included travel to Europe and Asia, expanding our international foods and wine section.

“Is he French?” I asked.

“No,” said Flora. “
English.
And his name’s Nicholas—Nick. Isn’t that the best name you’ve ever heard?”

“Does he live in England?” I asked, already lonesome, imagining Flora spending all her free time on the other side of the Atlantic.

“That’s the funny thing, Dad—he lives in Monterey! And he’s been to the Haugland Foods there!”

We now had two stores in California—Santa Barbara, where Flora still lived, and most recently Monterey.