The discussion focused on two specific areas, whether Kennedy or I won the debate and whether we were correct, and what effect, if any, this would have on the future Bush presidency. The answer to the first part was that I had the facts on my side and Kennedy had emotion on his side, so Kennedy lost the debate and won the election, so to speak. As for the second question, it was universally agreed that politicians couldn’t care less about the facts, and that there was going to be no effect on government policies.
It made me wonder why I ever wrote the damn book to begin with.
Chapter 93: Wreckage
That wasn’t the end of it, of course. Both Time Magazine and the New York Times came calling, since Paying the Bills came out in time for their yearend gift ideas and non-fiction book lists. The Times quoted me as ‘one of the leading young intellectuals of the fiscal conservative agenda’, which made me wonder just how many of them were there. There obviously weren’t very many at all, if I was a leader. Time did a puffy human interest piece, and I let my mouth run away with me. They pushed how Kennedy was still damning me as a billionaire out to savage the sick, poor, and elderly, so I hit back. A few memorable quotes included, “I earned my money. Senator Kennedy’s father earned his money.” and “Senator Kennedy’s family gave him millions. Mine gave me the back of the hand when they threw me out at sixteen.” The one that made the most news was, “The day I start using Ted Kennedy as a moral compass we’ll be throwing snowballs in hell!” That last line might have been over the top, but the man was a drunk with a zipper problem, who bought his way out of more problems than I can remember. I heard about that one from a number of people, including Marilyn’s parents.
John chewed on me to watch my mouth. It wasn’t that he disagreed with me, just that I needed to be careful what I said. What I did could reflect on the company, and not all of our clients and investors would agree with me. Missy chewed on me since she was a good and loyal Democrat. I promised to behave myself in the future. That promise didn’t last too long. Shortly before Christmas I was invited to speak at a meeting of the American Conservative Union in Washington, and that made some headlines, too, when I stood up at the podium and said that while I was fiscally conservative, I was not a social conservative, and if the Republican Party wanted to stay relevant in the future, they needed to keep their noses out of people’s religion and bedrooms. That made both Time and National Review.
It wasn’t all politics or business, though. Two weekends after Thanksgiving, Marilyn and I took a long weekend by ourselves down at Hougomont. Tusker and Tessa took care of the girls. Charlie and Dum-Dum stayed with the Parkers (yes, the same Parkers who he wanted me to punch in the nose or something. He and Johnny were now best friends.) We left Friday morning and flew home Monday afternoon, and packed very light. Pregnancy made Marilyn very horny, and she didn’t spend much time wearing anything more than high heels and sunglasses.
Realistically, this would be our last child. We were now 33 years old, and we had spaced the kids out some. By the time Marilyn wanted another, it wouldn’t be possible. After 35 a woman’s fertility starts dropping drastically. By 40 her childbearing years are over. Forget about the tabloids and their reports of women in their fifties and sixties giving birth. Those types of events are one in a million, and require massive medical support to allow.
I teased my wife several times about what our son thought about all that athletic activity going on around him. She responded that I was getting old, and that the athletics were slowing down! Why, I was only able to make love twice in a row anymore, and that just had her getting warmed up! My response? Quality, not quantity! It made for a pleasant argument, and we tried to solve it many times that weekend.
Yes, we were having a boy. The ultrasound showed that the littlest Buckman was a male Buckman! That made us start picking names. I suggested Carling Parker III, as the start of a dynasty. Marilyn put the kibosh on that! Then, at Christmas in Utica, she found a book on the history of the saints from her mother, and suggested some saints’ names, like with her brothers. I rolled my eyes and took the book from her hands. After I went through the index I came up with Nicholas Cayetano.
“Nicholas Cayetano!? Where did that come from?” she asked, taking back the book.
“The patron saints of prostitutes and gamblers,” I replied, keeping a straight face.
“Carl! That’s not funny!” scolded Harriet.
“No, it’s not!. Now, behave!” ordered Marilyn.
I shrugged and smiled. I turned to Mark, who was sitting on the couch next to me. He was grinning back at me. “So, who was the patron saint of trailer salesman?” I asked.
He laughed while Marilyn stewed. “That would be Saint Big Bob!”
I laughed, too. “Sorry, that name is already taken.” Charlie’s middle name was Robert.
Marilyn protested, and then looked up the patron saint of salesmen, who turned out to be Saint Lucy. Unless the youngest Buckman turned out to be a drag queen, Lucy wasn’t going to cut it. We spent the next few minutes coming up with other strange patron saints (Saint Drogo, patron saint of ugly people, got a lot of commentary around the kitchen table, with everybody claiming that this brother or that brother qualified) but never came up with an answer. We tabled it for a bit longer.
We took the kids down to Hougomont again right after Christmas. That would probably be our last vacation until after the birth. In January we settled on James Ryan, though I was still making a strong push for Nicolas Cayetano.
In January we all went over to Fifth District for the winter concert, featuring Charlie in the chorus. He was as much of a soprano as any of the girls. I whispered that to my wife, earning a giggle and an elbow in the ribs. I was glad when we left, though, because the weather was closing in. It doesn’t snow all that much in Maryland, but it does snow somewhat, and the locals simply can’t handle it. They don’t get enough snow to need the investment in plows and sanders like they do up north. When you get more than about half an inch, they start shutting down the state. We had almost an inch when we left the concert, and there was an announcement for everyone to drive carefully, because it was getting slick. Joy!
It was slick as snot out on Mount Carmel Road. It was about a five mile drive, and I was going very slow. We made sure the kids all were buckled in, and Marilyn grumbled about the seat belt across her expanding waistline, but she buckled up, too. We drove home slowly.
Then there was a light and the sound of crashing metal, and things got very dark.
I came to with that sickening feeling of a bright light, and a smell you don’t get outside of a hospital. It took me a few seconds to realize what was happening, and then I tried to sit up, but I was strapped down and could only thrash around. I settled down and tried to figure out what was happening, and somebody in white came around. “Mister Buckman! Calm down, please. Calm down!”