Palace Council (27 page)

Aurelia had other friends whose lives seemed to her normal—Sherilyn in New Jersey, Claire on Long Island—and she marveled at her inability to achieve the same. She could have chosen another husband. It needn't have been Kevin, or even Eddie. Plenty of men would have married Aurie over the years, had she given them the smallest encouragement, and lots of them would have provided her a simple, happy life, where she could write letters burbling about how everything was going great.

Mona Veazie, whose degrees were in psychology, often warned that the words “what if” were a signpost on the road to depression, especially if you treated yourself to a couple of drinks along the way. But loneliness is too powerful a force to be countered by mere effort of will, and sometimes “what if” is all we have.

CHAPTER
39

The American Angle

(I)

J
ANUARY OF
1967 was a month of peculiar contrasts. The state of Georgia, supposed heart of the “New South,” swore in a new segregationist governor. The United States Army was accused of conducting secret germ-warfare experiments, and the Pentagon announced yet another new offensive in Vietnam, and yet another new call-up of reserves. In Kenya, a paleontologist claimed to have found the oldest remains of a human evolutionary ancestor, but three American astronauts died in a fire on the launch pad, so perhaps science was not clicking along at quite the expected pace. A month later, the great Edward Trotter Wesley Junior managed to squeeze all of these events into a clever piece in
The Nation,
drawing a series of broad themes to which he referred, collectively, as the American Angle. Only Aurelia, tut-tutting over the essay as she sat, snowbound, in Ithaca, knew the source of his inspiration, remembering how his younger sister used to distinguish between the Eddie Angle and the Junie Angle. The American Angle, wrote Eddie, involved the determination to stay far ahead of everyone in the world but, at the same time, to keep everything exactly the same. We wanted endless technological progress that would never alter society one iota. We wanted to dominate the world without suffering any consequences. If America failed to change the angle from which it looked at life—wrote Eddie—then the nation was at a moral dead end.

Aurelia took the American Angle to be just another silly Eddie Wesley idea, which would pass, as all his nonliterary brainstorms did, without notice. He had written that complimentary piece about Nixon in 1962. Two years ago, he had criticized black leaders for growing too chummy with their corporate donors. Last year, he had argued that the Vietnam War might be necessary, because Communism had to be stopped. Nobody remembered those essays, Aurelia told herself. Nobody would remember this one.

She was mistaken.

She first sensed something was up when Lawrence Shipley, the historian, mentioned the piece at a faculty seminar. The following week, a congressman from California went to the House floor to read into the record a formal condemnation of “this man Wesley.” Nixon called Aurelia to say, after a bit of huffery, that under the circumstances he did not think his campaign could use Eddie after all. He still admired Eddie, and liked him, but publicly—

Aurie wanted to laugh, but it was too late. Events were rolling. A Southern legislature adopted a resolution of condemnation. A respected
Times
columnist weighed in, urging restraint. One of the news weeklies did a cover story about how the nation looked at the world:
IS THERE AN AMERICAN ANGLE
? Eddie's picture was on the cover, superimposed over images of Vietnam, student protests, and the Apollo 1 fire. Furious letters to the editor accused him of profiting from the tragedy.

And, just like that, Edward Wesley was not a novelist any more. He had become exactly what he had never sought to be: a public figure. Lecture bureaus called. So did other magazines. His publisher wanted a nonfiction book, a longer version of the same essay. The idea of writing a nonfiction book, Eddie told Aurelia when he escaped briefly to a tiny stone cottage she found for him on one of the farther Finger Lakes, scared him out of his wits. So did the idea of being recognized on the street. Besides, he needed all his energy for the search for Junie. They had not said she was dead, he explained, voice rich with hope. They had only said she was no longer part of them. She could be anywhere.

Actually, they had this conversation in bed. Aurelia had finally broken her firm rule. The cottage was musty and damp and very near the water. Ice formed at the bottom of the windowpanes, on the inside. The kerosene heater worked intermittently. Aurelia had rented the place for the month of March from a Binghamton automobile salesman, a hunter who would be up later in the season. She thought the cottage atrocious, but guessed that Eddie, who assessed physical surroundings differently from most people, would find it rustic and inspiring. She was right. She was showing him around the place when their bodies brushed accidentally together, once, a second time, and that was the end of resolution. She had managed to keep her promise for nearly two years.

“Don't tell Gary,” Aurelia said, lying naked in his arms for the first time in over a decade. “He'll just tell Mona, and Mona would laugh her head off.”

“I won't tell anybody.”

“I can't believe this.”

“Are you sorry?”

“No,” she said, but got out of bed anyway. The heater was working for the moment, and the cottage was sweltering. In a couple of hours, it might be freezing. Like marriage, Aurie decided. She found her Virginia Slims. Ten years, she was thinking. More. This was not the awkward young man starting out. This Eddie was less gentle in bed but more confident. She had started out trembling with anticipation and wonder, but the look in Eddie's eyes told her he had known all along this day would come. Now she stood in the window, tugged aside the tattered curtain, and looked out at the frothy gray winter water. The sweetly acrid cigarette smoke calmed her. Aurelia watched the waves. Eddie, studying her forty-year-old body, thought he had never seen anything so beautiful.

“So—what happens now?” she asked, acting with her back.

Eddie yawned. The drive from Washington was eight hours, and he had made it without stopping. “Probably I leave the country for a while. It's not a matter of safety,” he added hastily. “It's just, right now, I can't go anywhere without drawing a crowd.”

“I meant, to us. What happens to us?”

“Us.
Us.
” Savoring the word, Eddie, too, slipped out of bed. He padded over and hugged her from behind. “Are you asking me or telling me?”

“Am I what?”

“Asking me or telling me. Because, if you're asking me, I say we get married. But I have a hunch you're going to say no—”

“That would be correct.” She heard the sadness in his voice but could offer no comfort. She blew a smoke ring, then a second.

“Then don't ask me what happens next,” he said. He kissed her nape. “Tell me what happens next.”

She turned, looked into the eyes that had yearned unashamedly for so long. “For the moment, we go back to bed.”

It was late morning, she had no classes today, and the children were at school, so the moment was long indeed.

(II)

B
UT IT ALSO ENDED,
as all such precious moments do. Aurelia picked up her watch from the bedside table, squawked, blundered around looking for her clothes. She promised to call him later, but the cottage had no phone. The nearest was the booth at the Sinclair station a mile down the road. Eddie promised to call her instead. Racing back to town in the station wagon, Aurelia could not believe what she had allowed to occur. This was not just some man. This was not a stupid fling, like the one with Lawrence Shipley. This was Eddie. Her Eddie, yes, from Harlem, but the great Edward Trotter Wesley Junior, too. There were a thousand reasons not to be involved with him, from his present notoriety to the fact that if today's slip ever became known, Sherilyn and Claire and the others would decide that the old Harlem rumors were true, that Aurelia and Eddie had been messing around on the side all through her marriage to Kevin.

And there were other complications, complications she could never make him understand.

Aurie cursed and reviled herself, sulking silently for much of the evening despite the children's efforts to lighten their mother's mood. She yelled at the dog. When Eddie finally called, around ten, she was ready to bite his head off. She had prepared a speech, and even managed to get through most of it, but somewhere along the line began sobbing instead. There had been a time in Aurelia's life when she never cried. Now she seemed to do it once a week.

Eddie remained the perfect gentleman, unwilling to go away, but unwilling to press. “I won't push you,” he said. “I can wait until you're ready.”

“I won't ever be ready,” she snapped, thinking, to her surprise, of Kevin, who always used to take such protestations on her part as challenges, not warnings. She remembered their courting days. The harder she had tried to erect walls, the harder Kevin had tried to break them down and sweep her off her feet.

Not until this moment, listening to Eddie's smooth placations, did Aurelia realize how much she missed her late husband. And not until the following morning, as she bustled about, herself again, singing silly songs with the children as she readied them for school, did Aurelia realize that she had loved Kevin Garland after all.

CHAPTER
40

Two Bites at the Apple

(I)

T
HE NEXT TIME
she saw Eddie, he was not alone. He had arrived at the cottage on a Friday. Saturday had been taken up by the children—Locke's youth hockey in the morning, Zora's flute recital in the afternoon—for Aurelia was yielding to the town's conventions as fast as she could. Sunday she had surprised the kids by waking them early for a rare visit to the snooty Episcopal church near the campus, where she spent a lot of time on her knees. The sermon was about unmerited grace, and Aurelia figured she unmerited a lot of it. Not until Tuesday did she feel sufficiently fortified. Even so, she took care to dress as sexlessly as possible, changing after classes, throwing on the worn, heavy sweater in which she lounged around the house in the wee hours. She decided to take Crunch along as chaperone, penning him behind the mesh in the back of the station wagon. When she reached the stone cottage, she found in the driveway not only Eddie's huge Cadillac but one of those tiny round modern machines made by a hesitant Japanese company called Subaru, advertised with a cute little jingle about saving money and gas.

She got out of her station wagon. Eddie's visit was supposed to be a secret. She felt skittish and irritated, as if he had broken the rules. She opened the liftback, and the dog ran barking around the back of the house. She walked over to the Subaru. The shiny blue panels were caked with salt from the roads. The plates, like Eddie's, read
DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA.

No way to find out but to knock.

The rickety door flew open as soon as her knuckles touched it, and Aurelia could not suppress a gasp. A comely black woman stood there, early twenties if that, slim and green-eyed and fair, all the things the old Harlem families used to worship. She was dressed to the nines, and Aurelia was at once ashamed of her own costume. The girl said, “Hello, Mrs. Garland, please come in,” and Aurelia, regaining her composure, recognized the melodious Southern voice. She had heard it a time or two on the telephone. This was Mindy, a graduate of Spelman, Eddie's latest assistant. He hired black women right out of college. People whispered that the duties Eddie required of them were considerably more than secretarial, an assertion Aurelia always laughed off. Yet the rumor mills of the darker nation never associated him with anybody else, and, stepping inside, Aurelia felt herself stiffening with what could only have been jealousy, and burning with what could only have been shame. The events of last Friday had happened to somebody else, a long time ago, and would never, ever happen again.

Over by the sofa stood a delicately feminine overnight bag.

Eddie was sitting at the plank table, reviewing a document that Mindy had obviously brought along.

“I just wanted to make sure you had everything you needed,” Aurelia said, voice strained. “But I guess you're well taken care of.”

“What? Oh. Make yourself at home.” He had barely glanced up. “I'll just be another minute.”

“No, no, I can't stay—”

Eddie was already reading again, distressed as well as distracted.

“Well, I'll check on you in a few days,” said Aurie, backing toward the door. “You know how to reach me if you need anything.” Again her eyes moved toward Mindy, who stared back with a guileless triumph that appalled her.

“Yes,” said Eddie, going back to page one. “Fine.”

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Garland,” said well-bred Mindy in her syrupy tone.

“Mutual,” was all Aurelia could manage. To Eddie: “Take care.”

“Right,” he echoed, still studying the document. Then his head jerked up, and he was seeing her as if for the first time. “I'm sorry. Wait.”

“I really have to go—”

“Aurie, wait. I need to talk to you for a minute.”

“I can't just now, Eddie. I'm sorry.”

“Mindy, dear, please give us a minute.”

“Certainly, Mr. Wesley,” she drawled, and vanished into the only other room, which happened to be the bedroom. The door clicked behind her.

Aurelia stood there, feeling like an idiot.

“I really can't stay,” she said.

“Please sit.”

“I'd rather not.”

His eyebrows went up. “What's the matter with you?”

“Nothing,” she snapped, hating herself in this mood, unable to keep her eyes from cutting toward the bedroom.

Eddie's gaze followed. Understanding gleamed in his clever face, and now Aurelia was ready to scream. He had always been able to read her, and she had never been able to read him. His grin was wolfish. His voice was soft. “Aren't you the one who just told me we can't see each other again?”

“My God, Eddie, you could have waited more than two days!”

“Four days, actually.”

She wanted to slap him, but the act would require a dangerous proximity. She backed toward the front door. “Goodbye, Eddie.”

“Wait.” On his feet, heading toward her. She kept moving. “Aurie, come on. I was joking, okay?”

“I really do have to go. The school bus—”

“Won't be along for another hour and a half. Here. Sit down. Please.”

So Aurelia sat, managing to look disdainful and bitchy, a side of her she knew he had always found alluring.

“What is it?” she asked coldly.

“First of all, there is nothing going on between Mindy and me. She works for me, honey. That's all.”

Aurelia lifted her chin a little higher. “What you do is your own business. It doesn't make any difference to me. And I am not your honey.”

Eddie looked exasperated. “Mindy came to deliver this to me,” he said, tapping the pages. The folder was bordered with a dull red stripe. “Aurie, look. This file is important. I've been waiting a long time for it. A very long time. Mindy is just doing her job. She drove all night, and she's worn out, so she's staying over. She's leaving tomorrow.” He saw her face move, but now he was getting angry. “Unless I ask her to stay longer.” Another pause, heat building on both sides. “So now I suppose you'll ask me about the sleeping arrangements.”

“Fuck you.” She made the five steps to the door in about half a second, wishing he would stop her, knowing he was too proud.

His hand touched her shoulder, and she froze.

“Let's not do this, okay?” The voice was the old Eddie, the Harlem Eddie. Her Eddie. “I'm sorry, honey. I have no right to talk to you that way.”

He waited. Aurelia held her tongue, waiting right back. If he said he loved her, she would slap his face for thinking she was easy. If he said Mindy was sleeping on the sofa, she would curse him out for thinking she was jealous.

Instead, he said the only words that could have made her stay.

“I need your help, Aurie. It's about Junie.”

(II)

T
HE WOODEN TABLE WOBBLED
when she put her weight on it, because one of the legs was loose. Kevin would have been underneath tightening the screws, but Eddie was immune to the need to showcase his masculinity.

“It took me years to get this,” he said, putting the pages back in order. “I pulled in all the markers I could think of. Gary Fatek. Everybody I knew from my White House days. Even Lanning Frost.”

“Lanning? I didn't realize—”

“I met him in the Kennedy campaign. I went through Margot, and—well, I guess I implied—I'm sorry, Aurie. I used your name.”

“My name? What does—Oh.” She had not considered this angle. The whole world thought Lanning Frost was alive today because Kevin Garland died in his place. Lanning would naturally believe he owed her. Aurelia supposed she should be furious at Eddie, but her anger was, for the moment, exhausted. As for the memories being dredged up—well, she would deal with those later, and alone. Eddie was still apologizing, but she waved him silent. “It's okay. I understand.” She found a smile somewhere. “Really, Eddie. Tell me about what Mindy brought you.”

Eddie hesitated, then reached down to pick up the red-bordered folder from the floor. The words
SECRET—LIMDIS
were stamped prominently on the cover. Eddie saw her looking. “They use a special paper that can't be copied. This is a set of originals. They're the ones that go to senior executive-branch and elected officials. They're redacted to protect sources, and, well, this is why I need your help.”

“Elected officials.” Aurelia tilted her head to one side, the schoolmarm look from the old days. “This is Lanning's personal copy, isn't it? Oh, Eddie. Why would he take this chance for you? What did you have to promise him?”

But they both knew the question was rhetorical. She gave up and reached for the folder. Eddie grabbed her hand.

“What's the matter? Why can't I touch it?”

“Let's just say this set is borrowed. It doesn't matter who from. The point is, Aurie, I have to give it back. Now, it's okay for my fingerprints to be on the folder. If there's ever an investigation, they'll already know I had it in my possession. But there's no reason for them to know you had anything to do with this.”

Aurelia took her hand back. His protectiveness annoyed her. “What about little Mindy?”

“It was delivered inside another envelope, and I told her to wear gloves. She hasn't touched the folder itself.” Eddie waited, but Aurie had no more questions. “These are summaries of surveillance reports. What the senior officials get. This is everything they have about Jewel Agony. And it's not enough.” He banged his hand on the table. “It's not enough. There's information here, and it helps, but I need more.” He opened the folder, pulled the pages apart, finger darting. “Look at this one. Junie's code name is
WAKEFUL CURRENT.
Don't touch. Just read. See?”

Aurelia read. And saw. And was careful not to touch the pages. The sources supplying the intermittent reports were similarly obscured:
ORANGE VOLUME
,
SILVER APPLE
, and so forth. It took Aurie only a minute to understand that the good guys—the FBI's informants—were all given code names beginning with colors. She looked wherever Eddie pointed. The pickings were as thin as he described. 1960: Wakeful Current seen passing through a safe house in Dallas. 1962: Wakeful Current overheard arguing with another commander about a proposed action. 1963: Wakeful Current believed to have left the country. Wakeful Current attends Ghana summit with heads of two other radical groups, names redacted. 1964: Wakeful Current spotted in Los Angeles, believed in Boston, moved to Georgia. 1965: Wakeful Current renounces violence, charged with ideological error, placed on trial, stripped of her authority—

Aurelia looked up.

Eddie's face was pale. No wonder he had been distracted.

“Eddie—”

He shook his head, tapped the page. “Keep reading.”

She did.

The next report was dated spring of 1966, just under a year ago. It was brief and, in its toneless way, poignant:

Multiple sources report subject WAKEFUL CURRENT no longer in contact with elements of Agony. Current whereabouts unknown. Source GREEN SADDLE (q.v.) reports rumors subject WAKEFUL CURRENT expelled. Source GOLD DECKHAND (q.v.) reports rumors subject WAKEFUL CURRENT liquidated by elements of Agony. Rumors not substantiated. (Note: Multiple sources report subject WAKEFUL CURRENT in the past sought assistance on urgent matters from unknown Negro male known as FERDINAND, surname not given, no ref, no file. Sources believe witness FERDINAND might be aware of present condition and whereabouts.)

Aurelia realized that she was gripping Eddie's hands. Tightly, her nails digging into his flesh. Her arms trembled. She did not know which of them was being reassured. When Eddie spoke, his words were empty of emotion.

“Ferdinand is Perry Mount. It's a name from when we were kids. Perry works for the State Department, in the Agency for International Development. These days, that usually means CIA.” Aurie said nothing. “None of my sources can get information out of that particular vault. This is where you come in.”

“Me?”

“I need to know where Perry is. I promised not to ask you about Kevin, and I won't. But I need your help to find Perry. I need to find him, and make him tell me what's happened to my sister.”

Aurie let go of his hands. “Eddie, come on. I'm a half-salary lecturer in English at Cornell. I don't know anybody at the CIA.”

“But you know somebody who will know somebody. I bet he'll be happy to help.”

“Who? You already tried Lanning!”

“Nixon.”

“What?”

“Dick Nixon. You always liked him, Aurie. The Garlands raised a ton of money for him. They say he keeps in close touch with the intelligence people, and, well, I'm sure he'd be delighted to hear from Matty's daughter-in-law.”

“Be serious, Eddie. He's running for President next year. Even if he took my call, well, it's not the best time to ask him to spill the Agency's secrets.”

“Would you try? That's all I'm asking.” She had never seen such pain in his patient eyes. “Please, Aurie. I need this. I'm out of ideas.”

Somehow Aurelia was back in the station wagon, Crunch yapping in his pen. Probably she had promised to try. She could scarcely remember anything but those imploring eyes. She glanced at the Subaru, reminded herself that Eddie's sex life was none of her business, and backed into the road. She was late, but could still beat the school bus if she broke enough laws. She skipped lights and, passing through one of the villages, touched eighty miles an hour. Aurelia told herself that she was running home to greet the children, but another part of her knew she was running away. Eddie demanded too much of her. If she allowed him to get too close, he would turn her inside out, and she would find herself telling the secrets she most needed to keep.

Odd how he had never doubted she would do as he asked.