“Long shot,” I said.
“Nah, Bill Clinton was a long shot in 1992,” Abe says, and continues to explain the concept. I pretend to be entranced. Abe goes on and on in a whisper and gradually it occurs to me that whether Charles really could be vice president in 2000, or 2004, or whenever, it doesn’t actually matter, for I see now why Alan Houghton had to die. It’s enough that Charles has convinced himself that Congress and the vice presidency are possibilities and it gave him that final push to kill his tormentor, his shadow, his blackmailing familiar. Yes. And poor Victoria got in the way. I take a sip of beer, nod at Abe, and make a mental note that I’m going to have to find out who Alan Houghton is and what connection he has to Charles.
Abe whispering now: “Alex, listen, you didn’t hear it from me, ok? And it goes for all of us. We can’t rock the boat, we can’t do anything official until Wegener’s birthday announcement. Do you see? We all have to go hush-hush.”
“I do see, and I see why they moved CAW to Denver. This is going to be a campaign HQ as well? Right?”
“Change the topic, here’s Robert,” Abe whispers.
Robert’s in the pub looking for us. Looking for Abe. He can’t find the route maps for where they’re going tonight.
Abe gives me a look to say nothing, gets up, and they head out of the bar.
Later…
We get in a large van, almost a bus, and head south toward Littleton. Charles isn’t with us again tonight and Robert’s driving. Surprisingly, Amber’s accompanying her brother-in-law. I’ve seen Amber only twice since I started here. And this is the first time I’ve seen her without Charles. She’s dressed down in a sweatshirt and black jeans, but she still looks stunning. You’d have to be misogynistic, the president of Greenpeace, Maoist, and blind to refuse to join the CAW if she asked you.
Robert drives and talks. Robert doesn’t have the charm or salesmanship of his older brother. Where Charles has us telling our favorite movies and books and gets Abe to rehearse us through doorstops and the rap (to increase group cohesion and team spirit, Charles says), Robert senses that he has to do something but is a bit of a wet blanket. He seems to have digested management guru books and gives us pep talks based largely on sports metaphors and stories about the rebirth of Chrysler.
We drive south down Broadway rather than the highway and after a time we stop in a typical leafy suburb, or what would be a leafy suburb, were not all the trees dying and the lawns turning brown.
“We’re here,” Robert says, and switches off the engine.
He turns around to look at us.
“You should tell them where here is,” Amber whispers.
“Oh yes, Englewood. It’s a borderline area, mixed incomes, so I want everyone to go in p-pairs tonight.”
Everyone nods.
Amber whispers something to him.
“Oh, yes, of course, we all have to g-get pumped up, don’t we?” Robert asks, almost rhetorically.
“Yes, we do,” Abe says.
“Ok, then. Um, Abe, are you ready to go?” Robert asks with fake enthusiasm.
“Yes, I am,” Abe says.
“I c-can’t hear you,” Robert says.
“Yes, I am,” Abe says, louder.
“I still c-can’t hear you,” Robert says.
Abe yells that he’s ready to go. Robert does the same routine with everyone in the van. It’s cringe making. When he gets to me, he says:
“Alexander, are you r-ready to go?”
“Sir, yes, sir,” I shout, USMC fashion.
And then something a little odd happens. Robert laughs. Strange noise, like a small animal drowning. Really, it wasn’t that funny. In fact, it wasn’t funny at all, but Robert’s cracking up about something. Snot comes out of his nostrils and he takes out a tissue, wipes his eyes, blows his nose. No peeler worth his salt makes snap judgments à la Columbo, but suddenly I don’t see Robert as the murdering type.
“Oh my God, that reminds me, r-really reminds me. You know, I got thrown out of the ROTC after one week? I would have made the worst s-soldier in the world,” Robert says to Amber, forgetting, I think, that the rest of us are here.
“I thought they’d banned ROTC at Harvard?” Amber asks.
“At school. At B-Bright. They said the only one worse was Charles and they didn’t throw him out because he was l-lacrosse captain. Oh, you should have seen me, it was—”
“Robert, the business at hand,” Amber interrupts, and gives him a look that none of the rest of us can see but which freezes him.
“Oh, yes, sorry folks, f-forgot what I was doing there. Um, who’s next?” Robert asks in a still-cheerful mood.
We go through the rest of the van and everyone claims that they are ready and enthused about going out tonight.
“Does everyone have their m-maps?”
We all nod and say yes.
“Does anyone not know how to read their map?” Robert asks.
One shy girl with curly brown hair puts her hand up.
“Ok, I’ll go with you,” Robert says.
We pile out of the van. It’s another warm night. Englewood looks like everywhere we’ve been going. Another white ’burb. By fluke or luck or foul design, Amber and I are the only two left without a pair, but it’s ok, I’m still new enough to need training by the top people.
“Looks like you’re with me, marine,” Amber says, twisting her hair behind her into a tight ponytail.
“Looks like,” I agree, somehow managing to get the words out.
We gather our clipboards and materials and walk out into Englewood. I stare at her ass all the way to the first house and my internal monologue is: Bloody calm down, Alex, she’s just a woman.
The first house we go to: a chubby lass, twenty years old, black hair, glasses, pretty, holding a wineglass. She opens the door, looks at us.
“Let me guess, you’re a little bit country, he’s a little bit rock and roll,” she says.
I have no idea what she’s talking about, and I look at Amber, baffled.
“She thinks we’re Mormons,” Amber says.
“What?” I say, still confused.
“We’re not Mormons, uh, we’re from the Campaign for—” Amber attempts.
“Let me tell you something,” the girl says, taking a large sip of wine, “I do not believe that the Angel Gabriel appeared in upstate New York and said go take dozens of wives. It makes no sense. Ok? No sense.”
“We’re not Mormons,” Amber persists.
“Damn right you’re not,” the girl says, “and I’m not going to be one either. And then he went to Utah? Jesus is no cowboy, I mean, come on, you people are seriously misguided.”
“Does the issue of deforestation concern you at all?” I ask.
“No, but converting dead people does, that’s a disgrace,” she says.
She closes the screen door and then the front door, leaving us outside feeling very foolish.
“What was that all about?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” Amber says briskly.
“She must have been drunk,” I suggest.
We turn and walk down the path.
“I just don’t get the ‘you’re a little bit country’ thing,” I say.
“It’s from a TV show you would never have seen, a song they used to sing, from the Donny and Marie show. You know, the Osmonds.”
“Oh, who are Mormons, oh, I see, that was a good line, then.”
“Yes,” Amber says.
“Aren’t their missionaries always men, though?” I ask.
“I have no idea,” Amber says, a bit snootily. “I don’t know anything about the Mormons.”
The encounter has embarrassed her, she doesn’t think it’s funny at all, whereas I think it’s hilarious, it’ll amuse Pat and John when I tell them.