Meanwhile, the President who had elevated her to the high court was mounting the most quixotic reelection campaign in history. He had announced his firm intention not to spend one dime on television advertising, nor a single day campaigning in Iowa or New Hampshire or any of the early primary states. His campaign slogan was almost defiantly prosaic: “Vanderdamp: More of the Same.”
“As a rallying cry,” one pundit put it, “it’s not quite up there with ‘Once more into the breach.’ ”
The Presidential Term Limit Amendment, meanwhile, was busily ratifying its way through various state legislatures. State senators were furious with Vanderdamp for years of having denied them pork. The people, on the other hand, seemed to find the President’s breathtaking honesty refreshing, if not downright unique. According to the polls, many were rethinking their quondam odium. He was up by twelve points-or as they put it in Washington, “double digits.”
In the midst of this howling gale, Pepper blew her nose, dried her tears, and tried to go about the business of interpreting the U.S. Constitution as best she could. But it wasn’t much fun and she missed the view of Central Park. She missed lying in bed and looking out over it and eating hot bagels. Buddy had been wrong about there being no good restaurants in Washington, but she had yet to find New York-quality carbohydrates. Given other developments, this was a minor disappointment.
ONE LUNCH HOUR in the Court cafeteria, she found herself standing in line behind Crispus Galavanter.
“Why is it,” he said in his plummy cello voice, “that you and I are always taking up the rear of the procession? When will we take our rightful places in the pageant of greatness? The world wonders.”
Crispus bantered in these mock-heroic tones. His nickname among the clerks was “the Licorice Caesar.” He quite liked it, even occasionally signed his memos “LC.”
Pepper smiled, gathered up her Jell-O with embedded fruit, cottage cheese, and iced tea. Crispus’s tray held a trencherman’s portion of meat loaf, mashed potatoes, lima beans, onion rings, and two Dr Peppers.
“May I… join?” Crispus said. It was a mild breach of protocol, as Pepper had papers tucked under her arm, a signal she’d intended a reading lunch. But you couldn’t say no to Crispus.
“How you making out,” he said, “in the midst of all this Sturm und Drang?”
“Okay. No one’s asked me to take a polygraph, anyway,” Pepper said, forking up some cottage cheese.
“Disgraceful business. You shouldn’t have been put through it. Makes us all look bad. I don’t blame the CJ for being furious. But neither do I think that unleashing the FBI has enhanced the spirit of communality.”
“I begged him not to do it on my account,” Pepper said. “But he’s running hot about it. Went on and on about what a disgrace, etc, etc. I think he’s… he’s not in a good way.”
Crispus chewed his food pensively. “I am concerned for him. Either he is facing a periodontal crisis-he’s awful minty of late-or he is partaking of John Barleycorn in a voluminous manner. Well,” he said, “the man has been through a crucible. I like Declan. I don’t agree with him nine out of ten times. I didn’t agree with him on gay marriage. But that cat is well out of the bag and it ain’t going back in. No, it can’t have been easy. And now this Swayle business. Unfortunate. Say, how is that Jell-O? Would you like some of this meat loaf? It is… I have no words to describe its Platonic ideality. Do you know whose recipe it is? Mrs. Frankfurter’s. It lives on after her. Now, there’s a legacy. I would be well pleased to have such a one myself. Perhaps my nachos con everything in el pantry? Nachos Galavanter. Nachos Crispus. I will have the recipe entered into the record. And to think that you were present at the creation. Do you sense the historicity of the moment?”
“Try the Jell-O.” Pepper smiled.
“I demur,” Crispus said. “Demur most strenuously. Jell-O will not again pass these lips.”
“You got enough saturated fats on that plate to kill a marathon runner.”
“For your information, Miss Pritikin, that odious substance on your plate-intending no collateral disrespect to the cottage cheese-was about all I could afford to eat back in law school. That and those repellent Japanese noodles.” He shuddered. “No, neither Jell-O nor ramen shall frequent these digestive organs in this lifetime. But,” he said, “I do worry about Declan. I try to avoid the water-cooler style of discourse, but I confide to you here and now that I am alarmed for him. So is Paige, dear, kind woman that she is. But she can’t get anywhere with him. Shuts her out. And when you’re shutting out Paige Plympton, you are denying yourself the very quintessence of humanity. I saw him yesterday and he had a look on him… like a character out of Edgar Allan Poe. It gave me pause, I tell you. I said to him, in the most fraternal way, I said, ‘Dec, remember that on the other side of the wall of humiliation lies liberation.’ ”
“What did he say?” Pepper said.
“He said, ‘Did you find that in Pilgrim’s Progress or in a fortune cookie in a not very good Chinese restaurant?’ I laughed. He did not. Not even at his own bon mot. When you derive no joy from your own felicity, well, it’s like dying of thirst in your own wine cellar.”
“I feel like a fried green tomato about all this,” Pepper said. “I…”
Crispus shrugged. “It’s not your fault someone leaked Swayle. But I will say that your matriculation here has been”-he smiled companionably-“not uneventful.”
Pepper stared forlornly at the remains of her fruit-dappled Jell-O. “Do you think I should…” She couldn’t bring herself to finish the sentence.
“Eat any more of that ghastly substance? No. You need meat and potatoes, woman. So tell me, Justice Cartwright, what is it you like to do?
“Do?”
“Come on, this isn’t oral argument. It’s not a complicated question. Do you listen to music? Do you go to movies? Do you dance? Solve Sudoku puzzles in the bathtub while listening to Chopin’s nocturnes? Maurizio Pollini is my preferred version. That man is touched by God. All due respect to Horowitz and Rubinstein, but next to him they sound like they’re playing chopsticks. Do you climb mountains wearing lederhosen? Do you shoot elk with high-powered rifles and mount their horns? Do you keep tropical fish? Do you speak to your houseplants? Do you knit?”
“The only thing I’ve been doing,” Pepper said, “is working my Texas butt off.” She leaned forward and whispered across the table, “I’m drowning here, Crispus. I don’t think I’m gonna make this whistle.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Nothing. Bull-riding.”
“Steady on,” he said, wiping his mouth with his napkin, “steady on. For your information, everyone feels like they’re drowning the first year. Except maybe Silvio.” Crispus chuckled. “Silvio, you understand, was not appointed by the President, but from on high.”
Pepper felt tears welling. “I’m a catty whompus.”
Crispus stared. “What is a catty whompus? Something out of Lewis Carroll? It sounds… unpleasant.”
“Something that’s out of place. Something that doesn’t fit. Something like me.”
Crispus leaned back in his chair and patted his round belly pensively, as if posing for a nineteenth-century caricature. “Justice Cartwright, you disappoint me. I had not marked you for the self-pitying kind. You say you don’t fit? You’re here, aren’t you? You’re a Justice of the United States Supreme Court, aren’t you? Suck it up, girl.”
“Yeah,” Pepper said, suddenly dry-eyed, “you’re right.”
Crispus stood and bussed his tray, a habit left over from working his way through college. “Meantime,” he smiled, “I suppose the CJ could use a friendly word. Some bucking up. You’re not to blame for the Swayle leak, but it squirted all over onto his lap and he’s having a bad time with the mopping up. So, if you’re not otherwise occupied writing landmark opinions legitimizing the grievances of bank robbers, drop him a note or something, tell him you appreciate his… oh, whatever. Now I must leave you. I’ve got to go see a man about a horse.”