Proctor Cyril Bemis, emeritus C.E.O. of the securities firm that bore his name—Proctor Bemis, grossly fat, not yet altogether bald, cheerful when undisturbed by gout, sat beside the fire as a fat man likes to sit with fingers laced across his belly, jowls at rest, and thought about Costa Rica while his wife sorted the mail. He thought he would enjoy a visit to Costa Rica. Sunshine, gentle waves lapping sugar-white beaches, palm fronds dipping in the breeze, carioca music or whatever it was, pretty girls smearing oil on their legs, deep sea fishing, rum, ocean fresh lobster—oh yes, Mr. Bemis thought, twirling his thumbs on his belly. No drizzly, threatening overcast. No winter storm watch. No schoolboys in black trenchcoats gunning down classmates. No lunatics blowing up federal buildings. No hillbilly militia. No politicians braying platitudes. Costa Rica ought to be just fine, yes indeed. He dropped one hand into the silver bowl of cashews, scooped up a handful, and tossed them into his mouth.
How many people want money? he asked.
His wife looked at him over the top of her spectacles and he thought she was going to say something about the cashews. Then she turned through the envelopes.
Democratic National Committee, addressed to you. HOPE. CARE. Bread for the World. Alligator Refuge. I think that’s all, except bills.
How many bills?
One, two, three, she said. Three. No, here’s another.
My God, said Mr. Bemis.
Here’s a note from Robin. I do hope they’re enjoying the trip. Let’s see, what else? This looks like an invitation from the Wibbles.
He watched her open the envelope. I don’t want to go, he said.
Now isn’t this tricky! A masquerade party the night before election. They’ll have presidential masks. George Washington. Lincoln. Eisenhower. Nixon. Jimmy Carter, who wasn’t one of my favorites. Harry Truman. Gerald Ford. You can take your choice.
No, Mr. Bemis said. No.
You could be Grover Cleveland. He weighed three hundred pounds.
I don’t weigh three hundred, Mr. Bemis said. I won’t go. Absolutely not.
She opened the envelope from their daughter. Well, my goodness! Mark won a prize at a carnival.
What did he win?
A statue of Donald Duck. He loves it. Melanie skinned her elbow. Ed has a touch of flu. Oh, my word! Somebody broke into their car and stole the radio. They’ll need to see the insurance company. Otherwise, everything’s fine.
I’ m glad they’re having a good time, Mr. Bemis said. Now listen, Marguerite. I am seventy-three years old. My knees hurt. My back hurts. I don’t want to stand around listening to Thornton and Stu and Betsy and Cliff and all the rest. I know their opinions on everything from school vouchers to nuclear bombs. Let’s go to Costa Rica.
You were seventy-five last March. I’m going to phone Renée and tell her we’ll be delighted.
I will throw up, Mr. Bemis said. I will kick their damn Siamese cat.
Ooma isn’t Siamese. She’s Persian. She’s just adorable. And you needn’t have a fit. The party isn’t for another month, three weeks from Monday.
Monday? Mr. Bemis asked with dismay. That’s football night. I think the Chiefs and Broncos are playing.
I’ll be right back, she said.
Mr. Bemis threw a cashew into the fireplace and wondered how he might talk her out of it. He remembered going to costume parties when he was a child. He had worn a red devil mask and remembered looking through the eye holes. Witches, goblins, clowns, all sorts of games—pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey, blindman’s-buff, spin-the-bottle—little girls shrieking, balloons popping, parents watching, candied apples, licorice whips, paper hats, ice cream. It had been fun. However, those days were gone. I don’t want to bump into Charlie Hochstadt wearing a Reagan mask, he thought. Lord, what have I done to deserve this?
Reagan. Mr. Bemis threw another cashew at the fire. Why hadn’t the man been dragged out of office by the heels? Ollie North funneling weapons to the Contras from the White House basement but El Presidente knew nothing about it. Smacking his lips when he was questioned, pretending to think. Let me see, now, that must have been some time back, some time ago. Smack. Yes, sir, a while ago. Smack. Well, now, I’m afraid I don’t quite recall.
Mr. Bemis grunted and opened the newspaper. Oil prices rising. Electricians vote to strike. Light planes collide. Drought in Oklahoma. Post office worker shot dead. Charlton Heston looking less and less like Moses, more like Madame Tussaud’s lover. Another religious cult swallows poison. Mutual funds merge.
He glanced up when his wife returned from the telephone.
Renée and I had the most delightful chat. Everyone is excited. It’s going to be gobs of fun.
Somebody will put on a Truman mask and play the piano, Mr. Bemis said. Somebody will be FDR and wave a cigarette holder. Some jackass will do Nixon, hunch the shoulders and give us that V sign. Let’s go to to Costa Rica. Call that nice young woman at the travel agency and book us a flight.
I cannot bear it when you behave like this, she said. Will you please stop whining.
I only whine if there’s a reason, Mr. Bemis said. I’m not as fat as Grover Cleveland.
Stop eating those cashews. All you get from now on is grapefruit juice.
Mr. Bemis glared at his left foot, which had begun to ache. He thought about the palm trees and sandy beaches and pretty girls in bathing suits. He looked out the window. It was raining, almost snowing.
As they were being chauffeured to the party on election eve he remembered how much he despised Reagan. The man had spent the war in Hollywood and never heard a live bullet but he could not stop saluting. He saluted and saluted and saluted. He would snap off that Hollywood salute to a flagpole or a fireplug. He would salute a dachshund if there was a photographer nearby.
Proctor, stop that, his wife said.
Stop what? he asked.
You’re grumbling.
I’ll keep it to myself, he said.
How long have we been married?
Mr. Bemis thought about this. Why do you want to know?
I know perfectly well. But even now, after so many years, I cannot for the life of me understand you. At times you might as well be a complete stranger. She leaned forward. Phillips, do you have trouble seeing the road?
Phillips answered in his pleasantly neutral voice. No, Madam.
You will be careful, won’t you?
Phillips replied that he would be careful.
Mr. Bemis watched snowflakes dissolve on the window and thought about trying to explain, but it would be difficult. She had voted for Reagan. She voted for Bush and Dole and Nixon. If she had been old enough she would have voted for Landon and Hoover and the Whigs. She hated Kennedys, all Kennedys, including wives and fifth cousins, and thought they contaminated whatever they touched. She disapproved of modern art and welfare and foreign aid. She did not like immigrants. She subscribed to newsletters warning that liberals had weakened the armed forces. The United States could be destroyed at any moment. Crazed, malignant letters oozing poison. Absurd theories. Libelous charges. Implausible conspiracies. Rhetorical questions. Secret societies. Jewish bankers. Communist armies in Montana. Letters concocted of hate and fear. Doomsday letters. Nourishment for the paranoid.
We’ll have oodles of fun, she said, patting him on the knee. Just you wait.
I do not intend to wear a mask, he said. I like who I am.
Renée told me that several husbands objected. You can be yourself. I wouldn’t expect anything else.
What about food?
There’ll be a nice buffet.
Itty-bitty pinkie sandwiches and cheese dip, Mr. Bemis said. I wish we were going to Costa Rica.
However, the Wibble buffet was sumptuous, imperial, a whopping tribute to an exemplary bourgeois life. Mr. Bemis gazed with satisfaction at the roast beef, sliced breast of duck, venison, platoons of shrimp, a giant salmon, lambchops sprinkled with herbs, prosciutto, crisp little sausages, and more. Rosy red tomatoes stuffed with something creamy. Butterfly pasta. Mushrooms. Mr. Bemis gazed at the beautiful mushrooms. Asparagus points, juicy pickles, Gargantuan black olives. Nor was that all, oh no. Desserts. An absolute regiment of alluring desserts. Lemon tart. Mince pie topped with hard sauce. Blue and white cheeses. Chocolate mousse. Peaches. Pears. Melons. Petits fours. Nuts. Strawberries. A silver compote of mints. Fancy bonbons individually wrapped in gold foil. Nor was that all. Mr. Bemis clasped his hands.
Good to see you! boomed a familiar voice. Mighty good! I am counting on your vote, sir!
There stood Quint Huckleby disguised as Abe Lincoln.
Hello, Quint, said Mr. Bemis.
Lincoln is the name, sir. Abraham Lincoln. May I take this opportunity to remind you that our great nation stands at a crossroads. Tomorrow we decide. Shall we permit ourselves to be hornswaggled? Or do we fulfill our grand and glorious destiny with the Grand Old Party? Should I be fortunate enough to earn the confidence of the American public I shall propose to Congress that we chase those Democrat scalawags out of town. Tar and feathers, sir! That’s the ticket!
Huckleby shuffled into the crowd, bowing to ladies, clapping men on the shoulder.
Mr. Bemis looked around and saw Marguerite chatting with the Vandenhaags. He looked again at the buffet. An olive, perhaps? One or two little sausages? What harm could there be in a slice of duck?
He noticed Speed Voelker loading a plate. Voelker never seemed to change. Year after year a bulky, menacing presence in a tailored pinstripe suit. Broken nose. Massive, sloping shoulders. Neck like a tree stump. Diamond ring. Hair slicked back like a hoodlum in some gangster film. Big as a water buffalo.
I hear you and Dodie went to Europe, Mr. Bemis said.
Voelker nodded. The whole shebang. Tower of London. Norway. Copenhagen. Swiss Alps. Berlin. Venetian gondolas. You name it. Europe costs like the elephant these days.
Uncle Sam gave me a tour, Mr. Bemis said. Didn’t cost a cent. France, Belgium, Rhineland. Mostly on foot.
Voelker grinned. I was a lieutenant in Patton’s outfit. Like to froze my nuts off. Mud, rain, C rations, bugs. I saw that old fart once, close enough to touch.
I saw Ike, Mr. Bemis said. He drove by in a Jeep.
McCarthy deserved a medal. Ike didn’t do squat about those Commies at State.
Yankee Doodle and all, Mr. Bemis thought.
Voelker pointed his fork at the dessert table. Eisenhower was reaching for a chocolate mousse.
He ought to be here. Straighten out the lefties.
They watched Eisenhower pick up a handful of bonbons.
Tomorrow we kick butt. Dump the goddam liberals. They ought to move to Russia if they don’t like the U.S.A.
Enemy headquarters, Mr. Bemis thought. He watched Voelker stab a slice of beef and tried to remember how long they had been acquainted. Norman Voelker. Star athlete. Captain of the high school football team. Honor roll. Class president. Speed to his friends. And what was I? Corridor guide. Nothing else after my name in the yearbook. I didn’t know how to catch a football and if I tried to jump a hurdle I’d have broken my neck. He never spoke to me. Not once. Not once in four years did he say hello. Now here we are, high-priced attorney and ex-stockbroker, members of the same country club, almost equal. Almost. Not quite.
Jerry, Voelker said.
And there he stood, jaw protruding, vacuous, amiable, shaking hands with Lucy Waldrop.
He played at Michigan. Pretty good lineman.
Mr. Bemis munched a spear of asparagus and thought about Ford pardoning Nixon. Twenty-five flunkies went to jail, maybe twenty-six, but not Tricky Dick. Everybody thought the republic would collapse if Richard Milhous wore prison stripes. In fact, the republic would be better off if Nixon had spent a couple of decades mumbling and raving in the jug. No man is above the law, we told ourselves. What a lie. The time has come to put this matter behind us, declared his faithful subordinate who by the grace of God and a terrified Congress inherited the office.
Those eighteen minutes of tape. What skulduggery did they preserve? Jimmy Hoffa. Mr. Nixon, high priest of law and order, scourge of corrupt unions, pardoned Jimmy Hoffa, who strolled out of prison and dropped from sight as if he had walked the plank. Was he squashed inside an old Chevrolet? Why did Mr. Nixon intervene? Rosemary Woods deserved a medal for loyalty, if nothing else, trying to demonstrate how she accidentally erased those eighteen minutes, almost twisted her back out of joint. Meanwhile the world’s greatest investigative body, the FBI, couldn’ t figure out what happened.
Mr. Bemis grunted, heard himself make some disrespectful remark and observed Voelker light up with rage.
Norman! Marguerite exclaimed. What a pleasure! It’s been ages! You look marvelous! Ida Mae tells me that you and Dodie treated yourselves to the Grand Tour. That must have been a thrill. Did you see the fountains of Rome? Proctor and I are so jealous.
She went on talking while Mr. Bemis considered the situation. People were gathering around Voelker. They wanted to be seen chatting with him. That being so, why not slip away to the buffet? Nobody would notice. Why not two or three of those tasty little shrimp? Prosciutto? Of course. Mushrooms? Yes, indeed. Another pickle? Maybe a soupçon of pasta?
He found himself at the table. He spoke cheerfully to the Armacosts, recommended the mushrooms. He said hello to Woody Schenk, discussed the Wyandotte Hills Country Club renovation. He nodded to Virginia Tyler, whom he did not like very much, spread anchovy paste on five crackers, reached for some olives, and moved along. He walked around the table for another slice of duck. Then he paused.
Missouri Waltz, he said.
Sure enough, Harry was thumping the piano. Beside him stood Jimmy Carter theatrically beating time.
He thought about Jimmy’s struggle with the rabbit. Nobody except Bosch or maybe Lewis Carroll could have dreamed it up-March hare bent upon murder swimming crazily toward the President, planning to bite his ankle. Jimmy in that canoe flailing away with a paddle. The rabbit finished him. Inflation got out of control, which was serious. And that hostage fiasco, American helicopters on a cloak-and-dagger rescue mission lurching around the desert like injured bats, that was humiliating. But the rabbit did him in. The President fighting a loony rabbit, that was too much.
Nancy Reagan should have been there, he thought as he slipped a cracker into his mouth. The newspapers said she carried a pistol, itty-bitty derringer or some such. Whap! No more bunny. Mr. Bemis stopped chewing. Why did she carry a pistol? He tried to remember if she had been in any of Reagan’s films, maybe the dance hall girl in some Wild West horse opera. What could happen in the White House? He imagined her leading a gaggle of tourists. They pause to admire a portrait of John Adams when out pops the masked intruder from behind a marble bust of Spiro Agnew. Stick ’em up! Your purse or your life! But the First Lady is prepared. Not so fast, young fellow! Just you wait till I find my derringer. Let’s see. Kleenex, aspirin, nail file, sun glasses, eye shadow, lipstick, mascara, brush, comb, tweezers, cold cream, lotion, scissors, hair spray, compact—I know it’s here someplace.
He thought about Charlton Heston brandishing an eighteenth-century musket for the benefit of photographers and gung ho patriots. Moses defending life, liberty, and his Beverly Hills mansion from the redcoats. Why not an assault rifle? Why not wave a Saturday Night Special?
I do believe, murmured a voice from the past, I know this handsome dog.
Mr. Bemis turned around and there beneath a ragged brown toupee resembling a smashed bird nest, decades older than when last seen, was Howie—the same Howie Price-Dodge who got so drunk he tried to climb the Spanish-American War memorial and served heroically in the OSS and married a Chicago stripper and demolished the family fortune.
Get yourself a plate and let’s talk, Mr. Bemis said. In fact, I’ll join you.
Howie explained that during the Vietnam War he went back into service. He had been a liaison officer stationed at the Pentagon. He knew McNamara. He attended high-level briefings. He shuttled between Washington and Saigon and learned quite a bit. He knew Westmoreland. He had ridden in helicopters while enemy soldiers were interrogated and saw them pushed out.
This world is no place for idealists, he said.
On the contrary, said Mr. Bemis.
Howie squinted, adjusted his toupee, and went on talking while Mr. Bemis thought about the days when they agreed upon almost everything from politics to women to beer. It was strange that so much time had gone by. He looked around the room at familiar faces and it occurred to him that this was where he belonged. Yes, he thought, I’m one of these people. I’ve lived a solid Republican life. I earned money the good old-fashioned way selling stocks and bonds, lots of money. I joined the best country club. Marguerite and I have a couple of fancy cars and a very expensive home. I drove myself to the office for at least a hundred years while Marguerite took care of everything else. We’ve done our work, toted that bale. We deserve what we have. Yes, I belong here. The trouble is, I feel like an Eskimo.
Howie was explaining that America could have won the war if it hadn’t been for draft dodgers and the liberal media. And while Mr. Bemis listened to Howie justify Vietnam he remembered the ugliness. Even now, after all this time, it festered like the Nixon pardon, provoking arguments, refusing to heal. The flesh of the nation was raw. The photograph of that naked child seared by napalm running toward the camera screaming in agony, that image would not fade. And he reflected that he had frequently touted E. I. Du Pont, which manufactured napalm. Du Pont, as everyone knew, was a substantial corporation with good earnings, a secure dividend, and offered the likelihood of capital appreciation. A dollar invested with Du Pont was a dollar prudently invested.
Mr. Bemis examined his plate. Celery. Two olives. One radish. Not much. Howie was interpreting the disaster, explaining why the security of the United States depended upon Southeast Asia. Mr. Bemis munched an olive and looked around. Next to a flattering oil portrait of Cope Wibble in a huge gold frame stood Emmajane Kathren, Democrat, chatting with the Altschulers while holding a shrimp impaled on a toothpick. Beneath the glowing chandelier stood Monte and Lorraine Fordyce, Democrats both, listening to Joslyn Upshaw. We’re not many, he thought. Oh, not many. What’s to become of us? Half a century from now will we be extinct? And as he considered this it did not seem implausible.
Is that Speed? Howie asked.
Mr. Bemis nodded. Voelker was holding DeWitt Simms firmly by one elbow while talking to his wife.
Lord God, Howie said, I’ll never forget the way he flattened that Rockhurst defensive back. Everybody in the bleachers whooping, then you could hear a pin drop. What was that kid’s name?
It happened sixty years ago, Mr. Bemis said. McNabb, McNee, McGee, one of those names.
Paralyzed, Howie said. Just a kid. Hell of a note. I still see that ambulance on the field.
They watched Simms try to pull away. Voelker ignored him.
Built like a piano. Give him the ball and Katie bar the door.
Harry Truman was plunking out Sewanee River. A woman laughed insanely. Voelker— arrogant as a Babylonian king—held Simms captive, demeaning the man in front of his wife. A Texas voice boasted about upholding law and order with a noose. Two masks collided and all at once it seemed to Mr. Bemis that he had entered a madhouse where the inmates were performing a macabre dance.
Voelker approached casually but rapidly, sapphire-blue eyes fixed on Howie. Almost at once they were discussing Vietnam, why it was necessary, how the war could have been won.
Voelker gripped Mr. Bemis by the elbow. What about you, sport? Tell us what you think. Did you support our troops?
I mistrusted the government, Mr. Bemis said.
Tell us about it, soldier. We want to know what you think.
You want to know what I think? I remember how Ike tiptoed into that swamp and Kennedy followed. The best and brightest had no more sense than Hogan’s goat. And I remember LBJ plunging ahead like a goddamn rhinocerous. I remember Nixon after everybody got sick of the war telling us he had a secret plan for ending it. He told us delicate negotiations were under way. My grandfather’s banana. Nixon kept it going past election day because he wanted another term in office. You want my opinion, lieutenant? I didn’t salute.
Mr. Bemis jerked his arm away from Voelker.
He had addressed the office staff on various occasions, but this was different. It occurred to him that he should have chosen public life. He saw himself on the floor of the Senate addressing misguided colleagues, instructing, ridiculing, exhorting, convincing. Persuasive arguments came to mind, burning rhetoric, soaring imagery.
No doubt you gentlemen recall the domino theory. No doubt you recall the days when half the citizens of this country thought we should turn Hanoi into a parking lot because if we didn’t stop the Communists over there we’d have to stop them on the beaches of Hawaii. Do you remember when schoolchildren were taught to crouch underneath their desks? Keep away from windows. Pull down the shades. Do you recall the backyard bomb shelter? Of course you do. We were advised to dig holes in the ground. Furnish the hole with toilet paper, matches, bottled water, spinach, dehydrated beef, Graham crackers. Newspaper delivery may be suspended. Magazines and phonograph records may help to pass the time. Moon-struck madness, gentlemen, if I might borrow a phrase from the great John Milton.
Mr. Bemis discovered that he had an audience. People were staring. Obviously they wished to know more.
Ladies and gentlemen, while destitute citizens rummage through garbage cans and prowl the streets, what does our government do? It sheathes the Pentagon in gold. I submit to you that we could at this moment vaporize whatever creeps, crawls, flies, walks, hops, slithers, or jumps. I submit to you that we could do this thirty times over. Meanwhile, Republicans wring their hands, claiming we are defenseless, ill prepared, at the mercy of two-bit tyrants. In fact, no eight countries on earth allocate as much to the splendid science of war as we do, yet conservatives argue that we need a Maginot Line in the sky. As Mr. Reagan explained it, a missile shield will protect us from nuclear attack just as a roof protects a house from rain. The simplicity of such logic astounds us, but let it pass. Will a magic roof suffice? Of course not. We are surrounded by godless enemies from Zamboanga to Uttar Pradesh.
Mr. Bemis realized that his voice had risen. He patted his brow with a handkerchief.
May I remind you that when Isaac Newton was president of the Royal Society he caused a newly designed cannon to be rejected. Why? Because, Sir Isaac said, it was a diabolic instrument meant only for mass killing. Our culture, ladies and gentlemen, is a culture of death.
What do people in other countries think of us? he asked. How do they regard us?
This was a provocative question so he paused significantly before continuing.
They see a nation steeped in righteousness where guns are as easy to buy as lollipops. A nation that executes criminals without losing a drop of blood. A nation of lecherous hypocritical preachers with the brains of pterodactyls and politicians who would sell their daughters for a vote. But I digress. Let me say a few words about our teflon President. He informed us that pollution is caused by trees. Many of us did not realize that. He told us that a Nicaraguan army could march from Managua to Harlingen, Texas, in two days. Quite a march, yes indeed. Honduras, El Salvador, Guatemala, Mexico. And once across the Rio Grande what would these Nicaraguan Communists do? Burn the Harlingen County Courthouse?
Folks, I’m just getting started. Dutch opened his presidential campaign in Philadelphia, Mississippi. He did that for a reason. He went to that town where three civil rights workers were lynched and declared that he stood for States’ Rights. Every good ol’ boy from Tallahassee to Kalamazoo got the message. Hey, the big guy says it’s okay.
Nor should we forget those Marines in Beirut. The Joint Chiefs advised pulling out of Lebanon. Mr. Reagan knew better. What happened? Some Lebanese kid drove up to Marine headquarters in a truck loaded with TNT. Two hundred and forty-one dead Marines.
It occurred to Mr. Bemis that he might have talked long enough, but there was so much to be said.
Ronald Reagan attempted to overthrow the elected government of another country and what did Congress do? Renamed the airport in his honor. Fifty years from now people will wonder what kind of dope we were smoking. Ladies and gentlemen, the emperor has no clothes.
Mr. Bemis took a deep breath. He felt encouraged. People were attentive.
He heard himself speak of George Bush whose nose kept growing—longer, longer, and longer. He spoke of the oil in Kuwait, of April Glaspie. He spoke of Jesse Helms, of Joseph McCarthy, J. Parnell Thomas. He pointed a finger while speaking of the National Rifle Association. Ladies and gentlemen, he said, some things about this country turn my innards upside down. Politicians claim they trust the judgment of ordinary people. Well, sir, I do not. Athenian citizens condemned Socrates to death. So much for the perspicacity of John Q. Public. Did I mention Roman Hruska?
He noticed that his audience was dwindling. He looked around for his wife. There she stood, her face a deathly mask, arms crossed.
Are you satisfied? she asked. Dodie and Norman left in a huff. Norman was livid.
Mr. Bemis felt tired. It was late and his knees ached. He wanted to go home. He saw that it was snowing and wondered if they might have trouble on the Sycamore hill.
All at once people stopped talking because somebody outside had fired a gun. Several men walked uneasily toward the windows.
On the way home Marguerite suddenly threw up both hands like an opera singer. I do not believe, she said, enunciating each word, that ever in my life have I felt so embarrassed and ashamed.
I thought I did quite well, said Mr. Bemis.
Proctor, what in the name of sense? What on earth? I cannot imagine what got into you. Oh, I could simply expire.
It just happened, he said. It felt good.
That speech was utterly incomprehensible. April Glaspie! J. Parnell Thomas! Nobody had the faintest idea what you were talking about.
I did, said Mr. Bemis.
Roman Hruska! I haven’t heard that name in fifty years.
I didn’t like him, Mr. Bemis said. There were a lot of people I didn’t get around to. J. Edgar Hoover. Thurmond. Rusk. Laird. I could think of plenty.
Proctor, do you realize what you’ve done? We won’t be on anyone’s guest list. Never again. Never! Never! Never!
That wouldn’t be the end of the world, said Mr. Bemis.
She put one hand to her forehead. Oh, this has been a perfect nightmare! I can just see Eunice Hupp telling everyone under the sun. And let there be no mistake, Proctor, I certainly want the United Nations out of our country. Foreigners have no business telling us what to do. If those foreign bankers get their way they’ll take every cent we have. Every last cent. Furthermore, you know quite well that the Trilateral Commission is bent on enslaving America.
We’ve gone through this a hundred times, said Mr. Bemis.
I think I’m going to cry. It was such a nice party. Socrates! I have not the remotest idea what goes on inside your head. There are times when I think I married an alien.
That’s interesting, Mr. Bemis said. That hadn’t occurred to me.
Everybody was having so much fun. I’m just sick. Honestly, I wanted to sink through the floor. Phillips, she said, raising her voice, are you able to see the road?
Yes, Madam, Phillips replied.
It looks awfully snowy. Shouldn’t we take Leimert?
I believe we can make it up Sycamore, Phillips replied in the same neutral voice. We could take Leimert if you prefer.
Mr. Bemis grinned. Phillips didn’t want to lose his job. Who are you pulling for? he asked. The elephant or the jackass?
In tomorrow’s election, sir? Both candidates seem qualified.
He’s afraid I’ll fire him, Mr. Bemis thought. I wish he’d speak up. All of us had better speak up.
Phillips looked straight ahead, gloved hands on the wheel, attending to business.
I know who I’m voting for, Mrs. Bemis said. I am unbearably tired of scandal. One thing after another. It’s time we restored decency to government.
Mr. Bemis considered mentioning Nixon, but that was a long-dead horse. Decency in government. What an oxymoron. Both candidates seem qualified. Ha! One of them can’t remember how to button his shirt and the other would lick dirt from a voter’s boots.
As he reflected upon the evening he felt pleased with himself. I blew that party to smithereens, he thought. Hoisted the Jolly Roger—not that it will do any good. And the shot. Sooner or later everybody will find out that Speed blasted a snowdrift or a tree or punched a hole in the sky. Nobody will be able to make sense of it. Ha!
What a blessing Ronald Reagan wasn’t there, she said as they waited for a traffic light.
That fake, Mr. Bemis said. I needed another twenty minutes.
Ronald Reagan was a President we could admire and trust. He won the Cold War and cut taxes and set us on the road to prosperity. He made us feel good about ourselves and he brought back morning to America when many people thought we were on the verge of night. Those tax-and-spend Democrats want to give our money to black people.
She heard that on the radio, Mr. Bemis thought. Some right-wing gasbag. She believes whatever they say. She’s a true believer and she’ s terrified. She gets up in the middle of the night to pray.
I just hope the Republicans win, she said.
Mr. Bemis folded his hands across his belly and considered the invasion of Grenada. A sleepy tourist island near Venezuela. Reagan ordered the attack without consulting Congress, probably without consulting anybody except Nancy’s astrologer. Why? Because the Prime Minister was liberal and the airport runway was being extended. Soviet bombers would be able to land and refuel en route to the United States. True enough, if they flew the wrong direction a couple of thousand miles. Reagan never looked at a map in his life. If he did, he couldn’t understand all those numbers and squiggly lines. So what happened? U.S. Navy planes bombed the Grenada mental hospital. They didn’t mean to bomb a hospital but they did. An international court of justice at The Hague condemned Reagan. Nobody cared. Millions want his face on the ten-dollar bill. Millions want him on Rushmore. All right, there’s room enough if we get rid of Lincoln.
People forget, he said. They ought to be reminded.
You certainly don’t forget. And I do not wish to be reminded of anything else. I have heard more than enough, Proctor. More than enough.
She had almost divorced him because of Vietnam so he decided to keep quiet. He thought about Howie, who seemed a bit uncomfortable with himself. Years at the Pentagon. Policy wonks. Alice in Wonderland briefings. Light at the end of the tunnel. Somewhere along the way they got him.
Now what are you grumbling about? she asked.
I wasn’t, he said.
I thought you would never stop eating. I was so humiliated. You made four trips to the buffet.
Three, Mr. Bemis said, holding up three fingers.
Eunice Hupp was watching me while you made a fool of yourself. Oh, Proctor, how could you do such a thing? I’ll never live it down.
I took one small step for mankind, said Mr. Bemis.
I do not understand what possesses you. We have so much to be thankful for. We have a nice home in the loveliest neighborhood. We have everything we could possibly want. Everything.
She was right, of course. And yet, he thought, she’s wrong. Is there anything I want, he asked himself, that I don’t have? I don’ t know. I’m a success. I ought to feel satisfied.
Phillips drove carefully up the Sycamore hill. Streetlights through falling snow reminded Mr. Bemis of a village in France when he had been a private in the Army. He tried to recall the name of the village but it was gone. He touched the window with one finger. The glass was warmer than he expected and the snow was turning to slush. He wondered how he could be seventy-five years old when he had been a young soldier just yesterday.
Marguerite, he said, I’m hungry.
What little of her face could be seen above the collar of the fur coat proved that he had not been forgiven.
You are imagining, she said. You couldn’t conceivably be hungry.
That was an hour ago, he said. What’s in the fridge?
She refused to answer.
He thought affectionately of the buffet—gorgeous black olives, anchovy crackers, lamb chops, venison, duck, salmon, lemon tart—and heard a familiar rumble in his stomach. He considered the evening while Phillips drove them homeward and something from Aristophanes sifted like a snowflake through the years. What heaps of things have bitten me to the heart! A small few pleased me, very few.
That was not the whole of it, but he could not remember what came next. For now, that was enough.
Evan Connell’ s last two books were Deus Lo Volt! and The Aztec Treasure House. He is currently working on a biography of Goya.
