[Brackets] (29 page)

“That’s right!” Regina called from the hallway.

The metal piece belonged to a souvenir statue of the Eiffel Tower that Henry had collected during his time in the Peace Corps. The statue broke down into five pieces: the four individual leg
s
, and the central tower. Every year, on the week before Selection Sunday, the statue was divided up between his parents, his two older brothers, and himself. After the tournament, the bracket winner got to display the Tower prominently in the place of his or her choosing. For many of the past ten years, that place was on the kitchen counter, on top of Tucker’s old Transformers lunchbox. His mother grumbled about losing counter space to a trophy display, but Tucker insisted on his rights as bracket champion. The glory of beating his older brothers and parents had not diminished with time. Tucker flipped his dad’s piece in his hand with a satisfied smirk and set it next to his plate.

“So what are the headlines this morning?” his mother asked, taking a seat next to him and filling a plate.

“Huskers dominate!”

“I know that one, honey, anything else?”

“Let’s see… gridlock in Congress, arson on Wall Street, death, death, death, and… crop failure in Thailand. Those are the main ones.”

“News is about as cheerful as today’s weather,” Regina remarked on her way to a sip of coffee. “So what are the headlines going to be next week?”

It was a
n old
game that Regina played exclusively with Tucker. She
had
made sure that all
of
her boys knew what was going on in the world and
had
quizzed them regularly when they were young
.
But
Tucker
retained current events so easily
that he got bored, so Regina
changed the game: she
began
to make him
guess
what would
show up
in
the
next week’s paper and offered a dollar every time he got something right. She had to stop handing out money when he got to high school—
he was cleaning her out
—but it remained a tradition between herself and her
youngest
son. Tucker didn’t mind.

“Next week?” Tucker hesitated only long enough to finish his bite. “Next week Tucker Barnes watches eight more hours of basketball and blacks out after a Skyline Platter overdose.”

“Speaking of that, you get enough sleep last night? TV was on pretty late.” Henry joined them at the table and began rifling through the paper.

“Hey, I got more games in last night than I got in the whole first two days. This summit thing is taking up all my time.”

“You aren’t still making up schedules for
that Dr. Tonkin
, are you? Doesn’t he have people for that?”

\
“Yeah, but he’s been asking me to do a lot of background research for him, just little things that he doesn’t want to give the grad students, looking up stuff he can’t remember, that kind of thing. Like, he wants me to write a page on why the South Koreans decided to be neutral in the w
hole famine aid debate. I don’t think it
will come up at the big
State
dinner tonight since none of the Koreans will be there, but he still wants to know. It won’t take long to write, but when he asks me to do a bunch of these things, it starts to add up.”

“But he’s paying you,
right?” Henry asked.

“Yeah, he’s paying me.”

“And
you’re gonna get free food at this dinner
?
”
It was an article of faith among the Barnes men that free food was nearly sacred.

“It’s supposed to be barbecue. It might be good, if it isn’t
fake barbecue.”

Henry raised an eyebrow over the edge of the newspaper. “
It
’s the Secretary of State, I’m sure he knows how to put on a good
spread
.”

“Not that he’s the one doing the cooking,” added Regina. “
So, w
hy
is
South Korea staying out of this?”

“Because they
’re worried about the barbecue,
too.”
Tucker said slyly,
Regina whacked him lovingly with the spoon. “I don’t know, I don’t think there’s a lot of public support in the
ir
country to get involved, and the president has his own problems. Tonkin says the U.S. wants them involved, and I think it might help if they
were
, but, you know, that’s how i
t is. Tonkin doesn’t think they’re
committed enough to be helpful
, anyway
.”

“Then why is he having you write the paper?”

“Probably to prove that he’s right.”

“I see,” said Regina, who
always took pride when her little boy said something smart.
“When do you have to leave, honey?”

“Now,” Tucker said, swiping the last bite from his mother’s plate and narrowly avoiding her retaliatory swat. “Five minutes ago. Lena wants to meet this morning so she can try to get me in on her latest project.”

“So things are going well with you two, then?” His mom had finally come to her favorite subject.

“We had our ‘Drama-free February’. That was our deal. We’ll see how it is after March. This was when she dumped me last year. I wasn’t paying enough attention to her with all the games. She won’t like it this year, either.”

Tucker glanced over at his dad, expecting the typical wisecrack about how basketball was more important than girlfriends anyway. But Henry was absorbed in a pile of papers that showed crinkles and bends from being handled by worried hands. Looking back to his mom, Tucker saw her shake her head slightly.

“Okay, Dad, gotta go now.” Tucker’s voice sounded cheerier than necessary.

“OK, son, OK,” Henry lifted a hand without raising his head.

“You do good tonight,” Regina said, hugging him. “Don’t embarrass us in front of all those diplomats. We don’t want them
going back to their countries talking smack about those darn Barnes.”

“Mom, they won’t even know I’m there.”

“That’s my boy,” she smiled. “I love you, sweetie.”

Tucker ran upstairs for his laundry and returned outside to find his car already running.

“Have to let these things warm up,” Henry said, stepping out of the driver’s side. “It pays to take care of them, especially in the winter.”

“Yeah, Dad, I know.”

“Well, I left some gas money for you in the cup holder. Remember to use premium.”

“Dad, you don’t have to give me money. Really, I don’t need it. You and mom—”

“
Your mother and I
are doing just fine,” Henry interrupted him. For a moment, the two men stared at each other silently. “You go focus on school and such and let us old folks take care of ourselves.”

There was no more room for argument. Tucker opened the car door and slid in as his dad stepped back.

“Oh, and don’t forget.” Henry
, smiling a little,
pointed to the side seat where he had placed his piece of the Eiffel Tower. Tuc
ker hopped in behind the wheel. Then, waving
good-bye to his dad,
he
drove off down the cold, straight road, his dad becoming smaller and smaller in his rear-view mirror.

*
             
*
             
*
             
*

The barn on Secretary Maxwell’s ranch was anything but a barn. It was shaped like one and painted like one, but the wide red doors opened to row after row of round tables, each
spread
with fine linen tablecloths
and
set with wine glasses, candlesticks, and centerpieces made of small hay bales and corn husks. In the serving area, engraved silver chafers piled with food sat steaming on red-checked tablecloths
,
while a line of caterers stood in white shirts and ties to make sure the barbeque was served correctly. Tucker had actually grown up with a barn, and to him the room had the feel of an amusement park attraction. But it wasn’t his barn or his party, so he didn’t care.

Representatives from all over the Pacific coast of Asia began
to gather at 6:30. Most were prompt, some tardy. The dinner was to mark the beginning of a four-day summit on Southeast Asian politics, so it was full of all the niceties and ceremonial good expressions that always prevailed before a tense, high-stakes political scrum. Delegates, aides, business leaders, and other guests were assigned seats that assured maximum diversity, and State Department staffers circulated tensely between tables making introductions and encouraging everyone to try the hors d’oeuvres. After all, it was a conference on bringing nations together, on unity, on the kind of diplomacy that would prevent a severe multinational military conflict. For Secretary Maxwell, the best way to begin achieving those goals was through well-orchestrated mingling over roasted corn on the cob.

Tucker
had opted out of sitting next to the diplomats, much to his boss’s disappointment. Tonkin was always trying to get him more interested in international affairs as a career, but Tucker steadfastly resisted. It was
a great job by
undergrad
uate standards
,
but not what he wanted to do with his life
. So, for the night, he found an empty seat at an empty table that was far enough away that he could watch the games on his phone—
fully charged
this time—and not bother anybody. And he would still get the free food.

As he leaned back, watching a tiny Syracuse player shoot a three-pointer
in transition
over a hapless Arizona defender, he felt someone walk up behind him. A hand patted his shoulder. He looked up to see a man not much older than him with a friendly, slightly familiar face and a plate of kabobs stacked haphazardly. A woman was close behind him. He couldn’t quite place them until the
man
spoke.

“Tucker!” Richard O’Shea greeted, sitting down across from him. “You look much warmer.”

Despite Rick’s full plate, they looked like they had just entered in a hurry. They were slightly out of breath
,
and Abby’s hair was still staticky from a hat recently pulled off. But in that moment
,
they showed no hurry. They both settled into their seats,
and
Abby began to inventory her purse
while
Richard took a kabob in each hand and slid several pieces of meat into his mouth.

“Uh, are you guys supposed to be here? I thought it was no press tonight.” Tucker actually cared less about getting them in
trouble than having to share his table. Now it would be harder to follow the games.

“Oh, we’re not press tonight,” Rick said offhandedly.

“What, so you used to be reporters and now you’re not?”

“Well, it comes and goes.” There was no sign that he wasn’t serious.

“Um… so what are you now?”

Rick glanced at Abby, who looked up from her purse to answer. “Attachés,” she said. “We’re representing a guest that wasn’t able to attend.”

Tucker didn’t know how to respond. They cle
arly weren’t attachés
or reporters. He wondered if he should warn security, but nothing about them seemed dangerous. They were more like wedding crashers than spies, and
they
didn’t
seem to
warrant start
ing
a commotion.
But if they became more annoying…

“Don’t wo
rry, Tucker,
Maxwell knows we’re here. See? Look at all this food he gave us!” Rick brandished an ear of barbequed corn and grinned. “So enough about us. Who’s winning?”

“What?”

“The game
—dude, I can see
it
on your screen. Is Arizona winning?”

Tucker took a deep breath and contemplated ignoring the man. But it was an irresistible part of his nature to talk about basketball.

“Arizona’s down 12 to with three minutes left.”

“Ha!” Abby was suddenly in the conversation, pointing her finger at an unsmiling Richard. A few people at the closest table turned to investigate. “Ha!”

“We have a litt
le bracket bet between us,” Rich
ard explained. “Arizona was in my Final Four.”

“That was stupid. What did you bet?” Tucker asked in spite of himself.

“The loser has to buy a freezer-full of Ben and Jerry’s ice cream,” Abby said gleefully. “And I’ve almost finished my winnings from last year.”

“Wait a second,” said Rich
ard. “Why was that stupid? How could anybody see Syracuse over Arizona when Arizona went 10-0
to end the season and Syracuse is a 12-seed?”