She hoisted herself up—truly, she felt fine—and held out her arms possessively. The nurse handed him over, then said, “Take a good whiff. That’s how you know you’re his mother. I’ll just leave you alone before the onslaught.” The nurse sashayed out, pulling the door closed behind herself.
Maybe Janet remembered the first time she saw Emily, but maybe not—she’d been drugged or panicked or tired from a long and painful overnight labor. She did remember that Emily had been a tight little bundle, self-contained, or self-sufficient, from the beginning. But now, when she sat up in the pale, brilliant California room where they’d sequestered her and brought Jonah to her, he relaxed. What it felt like was that something that had been cold was warming and softening. The effect of this on Janet was enormous, as if she suddenly sensed love coming at her, into her. How random this was! How dependent on the chance circumstances of labor! No story that anyone had ever told her, not her mother’s stories about being put to sleep in 1950 and 1953, not her grandmother’s dimly remembered tales of parturition on the farm (always terrifying), not even Debbie’s earnest parsing of Carlie’s and Kevvie’s moment-by-moment progress, had mentioned this little thing, what the child did in your arms, next to your body. And yet, perhaps, that was the magic bean that dictated the anatomy of the beanstalk. At any rate, Janet couldn’t remember ever in her life looking into anyone’s face with the pleasure she now felt looking into Jonah’s. She cradled him in her left arm, removed his little hat once again, and laid her right palm gently on his warm forehead.
And the nurse returned and said, “Want to try nursing? He does seem a sweetheart! Have you nursed before? Let’s see if we can get some colostrum into this boy. Mmm. Delicious? Ready, babe?”
1992
RICHIE WOULD NOT have said that he had many political opinions, but once the Dems put him in the race for Congressman Scheuer’s seat, his mouth opened, and opinions came out. They were, he discovered, quite similar to the congressman’s own opinions, and not that much different from Ivy’s. In fact, they were pretty much standard opinions for someone living in Brooklyn (fortunately, his and Ivy’s co-op was just inside the line separating his district from the next one over), but he realized as he enunciated them that he actually felt them—his voice warmed to them, shaped them, emphasized them. When he spoke, images came into his mind of Ivy and Leo and their neighborhood, and how they fit into the larger picture (or, indeed, sometimes how the larger picture fit into them), and he waxed profound. It was true, though, that he didn’t want anyone in his family—certainly not Michael, but not Ivy or his mom, either—to come to rallies. He was convinced that if he saw them in the audience he would return to the shapeless being he had been before Leo was born, the same being he was only now emerging from.
He was thirty-nine, he was tall, he was friendly from all those years of showing properties, he had a good smile. He was called “Rick.” He was “the son of war hero and self-made defense industry innovator Frank Langdon,” and in this day and age Michael wasn’t as much of a liability as he might have been—their relationship appealed to some of Richie’s voters in the Manhattan portions of the district. Richie had connections to the Italian community and through Ivy and her parents to the Jewish community. Once he started purveying these advantages, he was rather amazed at how it had all come together without his realizing it. And then there was Loretta, an avid supporter of Bush. She was a little prominent around certain parts of the city now, though still registered to vote in California; she was so eccentric that Richie knew that, if anyone brought her name up, all he had to do was smile and very slightly roll his eyes and he would get the I-have-crazy-relatives-too vote, hands down. The political landscape seemed to be changing—to be smoothing out almost everywhere. And Richie had more energy now than he had ever had before. It was in this that he knew that he really was related to that kid Charlie Wickett, who occasionally stopped by campaign headquarters on his daily run between Fort Tryon Park and Sag Harbor, or something as insanely breathtaking. Richie liked Charlie, and threatened to put him to work distributing leaflets. Charlie said that he was only allowed to distribute leaflets about the greenhouse effect, but Richie didn’t pay any attention to that—he just liked to see him. And, of course, he knew Charlie’s looks, fitness, and good-natured out-to-lunch quality would appeal to the youth vote.
Ivy was almost proud of him; she let him know this by telling him that her parents had decided that he was a “late bloomer.” They, of course, assumed that the blossom had a pinkish tinge (they continued to pay for his subscriptions to The Nation and Mother Jones and to refer to Herbert Marcuse and Raymond Williams), but Richie thought maybe those days were gone. Both sides had so sullied their reputations that what he had—a kind of get-it-done-and-shake-hands-across-the-aisle sort of openness—was the wave of the future. His Republican opponent was an obvious sacrifice, fifty-four, with the forgettable name of Kevin Moore; he had run against Congressman Scheuer twice, losing by twenty points and then twenty-four points. The Republicans had pretty much already conceded.
By early February, Richie hadn’t actually answered when people (people from the Times, the Post, the Village Voice, the Key Food weekly circular) asked him what he thought of the presidential race—Wilder, Kerrey, Clinton, Tsongas, Harkin, Brown—Virginia, Nebraska, Arkansas, Iowa, California, with a tragicomic touch of Massachusetts in Tsongas. He said nothing. They all had their advantages; the main thing was to pick the one who best combined intelligence, decisiveness, compassion, and the will to win. When Gennifer Flowers had appeared on the scene, he’d kept a straight face and said, “We should wait and see what’s really going on.” When everyone started talking about Clinton’s dodging the draft, Richie told his own story, about showing up to enlist in Boston, ending up on a bus full of antiwar activists, and having to wait and try to enlist again, but by then the war was over. This was a story that even Ivy had never heard—how Debbie had found him wandering around Boston, wondering what to do. He was so stupid that he’d thought he would sign up, they’d take him, and he wouldn’t have to come up with bus fare home, so he spent his last dollar on, not anything manly like a pack of smokes, but an ice-cream cone. Ivy thought it was cute and funny, so Richie learned how to tell it in a way that promoted an image of self-effacing patriotism combined with subsequent moral and practical growth.
Richie watched all the presidential candidates—not to see what they thought, but more to observe how they presented themselves. From Clinton, he took sheer brazen forward motion; from Harkin, the habit of smiling just before saying something; from Brown, an air of contained impatience at the bullshit presented by the other side; from Wilder, a trick of dropping into seriousness just at the right moment—the joking is over, let me lead you into a discussion of the issues. From all of them he took a willingness to speak to any size crowd. At the end of February, he was asked to a breakfast group at Lefferts Historic House. His audience numbered three persons, including the one who had arranged the breakfast; she apologized profusely for forgetting to put it in the paper. Richie spoke earnestly and at length, as if he had a full house. The only truly awkward part was the question-and-answer period—dead silence. But he kept smiling.
People in his neighborhood began recognizing him. As the winter progressed into spring, they went from staring at him just a moment too long to saying, “Are you that guy, Rick Langdon? I saw your picture somewhere,” to “You know, I heard what you said, and here’s where you’re wrong.” It was both an advantage and a disadvantage that Leo’s absolute favorite thing to do was to go for a walk in the park; on Saturdays and Sundays, when Allie, their nanny, was off, Richie would carry him across Prospect Park West to the entrance at the end of Ninth Street, and as soon as they neared the Lafayette Memorial, Leo would start bouncing in Richie’s arms, and then hit the ground running. The disadvantage was that everyone in the park recognized him, and most people had something to say. The advantage was that Leo had to be followed, because he wouldn’
t stand still or allow himself to be held, and almost all of Richie’s interlocutors were left behind, while at the same time, Richie hoped, noting that the candidate was a responsible and involved father. He knew he could not let Leo (1) throw a tantrum, (2) appear to be in danger, or (3) eat dangerous (carrots) or suspect (Popsicles) foods. All in all, it was better to let the darling child go, staying right with him. In March, there was even a little squib on Page Six—“Eighteen-Month-Old Beats Candidate Dad by a Length,” with a very cute picture of Leo running and laughing, Richie right behind him, also laughing. Richie had expected the fund-raising and the meetings with constituents to be arduous, and the campaign to be time-consuming, but in fact the people funding his campaign were satisfied by his relationship to and near-identification with Congressman Scheuer, whom everybody liked.
Michael called this “the machine at work,” but Richie had never enjoyed anything so much in his life.
—
ANDY DIDN’T KNOW anyone as open and free with her opinions as Loretta. Just now, sitting across from her in the BG Restaurant on the seventh floor at Bergdorf’s, Loretta had remarked that, as much as she loved Ivy, she knew in her heart that Ivy was more loyal to Israel than to the United States. When Andy responded that never, ever had she heard Ivy or her entirely nonreligious parents say anything of the sort, Loretta shrugged, took a sip of her oolong tea and a bite of her scone (it was four in the afternoon, and they had spent the whole day shopping), and said, “Well, wait till push comes to shove. It’s inside all of them.” But the other side of this sort of statement was the reason they were there. Loretta had called her up two weeks before (apparently after having her hair done) and said, “Andy, I look like hell, and I need you.” For two weeks now, Loretta had been mining her for the two types of ore everyone knew Andy could produce—fashion advice and AA advice, one for herself and the other for Michael.
Frank had said, “So which will be the more difficult task?” but Andy didn’t think like that—they asked, you answered, Fate unfolded.
Loretta was too short for the loose, boyish pastel suits they were featuring, but at least huge shoulder pads were out now. She looked reasonably good in shaped, not-quite-clingy dresses. She’d tried on the green sleeveless, which brought out her eyes; the black capped-sleeve; and a nice violet item with something unusual, an asymmetric hemline. She had good ankles and feet—they’d spent a fair amount of time in the shoe department. The nicest thing she’d bought was for parties: an elaborately embroidered, rather stiff, square-necked gold sheath with a smallish waist that stopped just above knee-length, expensive and flattering.
The most salient fact was that Binky would be in first grade in the fall; no doubt, over the last six years, many opportunities to conceive a fourth child had occurred and not been utilized, and so Loretta (thirty-eight?) must have accepted that that phase was over. And, of course, Michael had changed in the last year. In the same relentless way he had formerly pursued his selfish desires for sensation (speed, money, oblivion, independence), he now pursued the amazing new goal of family happiness. Andy and Frank were invited to their place on Madison and Eighty-fourth (two floors, four bedrooms) every other Sunday for Sunday supper—not a fake event. Loretta served (and cooked herself) prime rib, roast chicken, braised leeks, potatoes au gratin. Michael sat at the head of the table, Loretta stood at the foot of the table (she did the carving), and both of them pestered the life out of Chance, Tia, and Binky. Chance paid no attention, Tia enjoyed answering questions, and Binky was passively resistant. It was evident to Andy, and, she thought, to Loretta, that Michael was making up fatherhood out of whole cloth.
Now Loretta looked at the little pyramid of treats sitting on their table. Andy had eaten a single shortbread cookie and a strawberry dipped in dark chocolate. Loretta said, “What do you think of Weight Watchers?”
“Nothing,” said Andy.
“I want him to desire me.”
“Did he ever desire you?”
Loretta gave her tea a thoughtful stir, and said, “Not in particular.”
“What were the girls like that he desired?”
“Unfortunately, all types.”
“What did he marry in you?”
Loretta put her teacup down, gazed into Andy’s face, and tapped her spoon on the plate. At last, she said, “I’m thinking he married a known quantity. I’m thinking he didn’t have the patience to figure the other girls out, so he, well, he went for the easy option. I think he liked that I was definite and didn’t take any bullshit.” She stopped tapping. “And no one else was the only child of a hundred thousand acres.”
Andy admired her ruthlessness; maybe it was the ranching background. She nodded, then said, “Well, my guess is that your looks belong to you, then—you can get in shape if you want to, and why not? It’s very soothing to do it, especially when the kids are in school. As far as Michael is concerned, I think you should be specific about your requirements.”
“You mean, like, sex?”
“I mean that, whenever he’s indecisive, you decide. That could work for sex.”
Loretta licked her lips. She said, “Yes, that could.” She pushed away her plate and shifted in her chair. The waiter eased over with a smile and took away the pyramid of treats. Now, Andy knew, would come what Loretta would consider the twisting of the knife. Loretta licked her lips again and said, “Was he really a bad child? I don’t mean disobedient, I mean not nice.”
But for Andy, no knife could be twisted that she herself had not already twisted many times. She said, “To be honest, Loretta, only Richie knows the answer to that question.”
“Richie seems so slick, especially now. I get the feeling he would read all my unconscious facial expressions and tell me exactly what I wanted to hear. At least Michael’s brutally honest.”
Andy decided that Michael and Loretta must have had an argument in the last twenty-four hours. She said, “And you like that.”
Loretta nodded, but said, “I don’t like it. I appreciate its benefits.”
Now Andy regarded her daughter-in-law for a long moment. She had never seen her with a bruise or a black eye, and in all the tattling he had done, Richie had never reported that Michael hit a girl (though there was a suspicious incident from that period when they were both at Cornell, where Michael ended up in the infirmary with a slash on his arm or leg, after which Richie fled Ithaca and ended up at Rutgers; Andy had been so happy to have him around that she had, mistakenly perhaps, overlooked the details). She hazarded only, “Michael has always had a bit of a temper.” Then, “And he’s a foot taller than you.”
“I’m quicker,” said Loretta, and Andy saw that, though this might be a possibility that she herself was only thinking of now, Loretta had reckoned with it for a long time—her matter-of-fact tone told Andy that she had strategies in place. She said, hesitantly, “I don’t know that you can rely on that.”
Then Loretta said the reassuring thing—“I haven’t had to so far”—and Andy found herself taking a deep breath. Had she really gone for so long without asking herself what Michael was capable of? But maybe that was what mothers were supposed to do. The conversation couldn’t go on after that; they both put their handbags on the table, and Andy said, “Shall we?” and Loretta said, “I really like what we’ve chosen. You’re parked in that garage on Fifty-eighth Street, aren’t you?”
“Yes, but you don’t have to walk me over there. It’s only a block.” And then, she had to admit, she fled.
—
THE POLLS LOOKED GOOD: Kevin Moore still had a problem with name recognition. Richie suspected that the problem was the “Kevin.” Once you thought “Kevin,” whatever came next fell away, whereas “Richard” was like “Mister”—it pointed at whatever followed. And “Rick” hardly existed at all. Even so, in the weeks before the convention at Madison Square Garden, the smart commentators predicted disaster for the Democrats. Clinton and Gore were marginally okay (in fact, whenever Clinton started talking, his poll num
bers went up word by word, only to drop after he fell silent) but Hillary was a worry. Operation Rescue threatened to make a fuss about abortion; the Women’s Action Coalition threatened to make a bigger fuss about choice.
When Richie looked around the convention hall the first night, though, he knew everything would be fine. It was filled, not with regular, cynical, bored functionaries, but with women, blacks, Hispanics, people in wheelchairs and with canes—all sorts of people who never thought they would see the day they could cast their vote and nominate the next president. The enthusiasm told Richie (and Congressman Scheuer told him, too) that almost everyone in the Garden, shouting, screaming, laughing, waving posters, was experiencing him- or herself, at last and maybe for the first time, as a power broker. Congressman Scheuer said that it was a fine way to go out and a fine way to come in. And he clapped Richie on the shoulder as if he were dubbing him with a sword.
As a delegate, Richie’s job was to applaud, cheer, give information, and be a helpful public servant. He handed out a few “We Love Cuomo” signs so the New York delegation could cheer Cuomo’s nominating speech. He stood respectfully during the movie about the governor, whistled and shouted when the governor came onto the podium, made sure to stand up straight when the TV cameras turned toward him. And then he actually listened to the speech and was affected by it—“Nearly a whole generation surrendered in despair….They are our children.” Richie could not help thinking of Leo. “This is more than a recession! Our economy has been weakened fundamentally by twelve years of conservative Republican supply-side policies.” Of course, Richie could not fail to hear, in a corner of his brain, Michael laughing about outsourcing jobs, and Loretta saying, in her self-righteous way, “They don’t have any right to those jobs!” and then Ivy saying, “She doesn’t have any right to that ranch,” but only to him, in bed, after Michael and Loretta had gone home. “In no time at all, we have gone from the greatest seller nation, the greatest lender nation, the greatest creditor nation, to today, the world’s largest buyer, the world’s largest borrower, the world’s largest debtor nation. That is Republican supply-side.”