economy, and the good—enlightened—will of the people.
She would call her (secret) lover when she arrived at the conference center hotel. Just to ask What do you advise? Do you think I am risking too much?
Just to ask Do you love me? Do you even think of me? Do you remember me—when I am not with you?
It was M.R.’s practice to start a project early—in this case, months early—when she’d first been invited to give the keynote address at the conference, back in April—and to write, rewrite, revise and rewrite through a succession of drafts until her words were finely honed and shimmering—invincible as a shield. A twenty-minute presentation, brilliant in concision and emphasis, would be far more effective than a fifty-minute presentation. And it would be M.R.’s strategy, too, to end early—just slightly early. She would aim for eighteen minutes. To take her audience off guard, to end on a dramatic note . . .
Madness in individuals is rare but in nations, common.
Unless: this was too dire, too smugly “prophetic”? Unless: this would strike a wrong note?
“Carlos! Please put the radio on, will you? I think the dial is set—NPR.”
It was noon: news. But not good news.
In the backseat of the limousine M.R. listened. How credulous the media had become since the terrorist attacks of 9/11, how uncritical the reporting—it made her ill, it made her want to weep in frustration and anger, the callow voice of the defense secretary of the United States warning of weapons of mass destruction believed to be stored in readiness for attack by the Iraqi dictator Saddam Hussein . . . Biological warfare, nuclear warfare, threat to U.S. democracy, global catastrophe.
“What do you think, Carlos? Is this ridiculous? ‘Fanning the flames’ . . .”
“Don’t know, ma’am. It’s a bad thing.”
Guardedly Carlos replied. What Carlos felt in his heart, Carlos was not likely to reveal.
“I think you said—you served in Vietnam. . . .”
Fanning the flames. Served in Vietnam. How clumsy her stock phrases, like ill-fitting prostheses.
It hadn’t been Carlos, but one of her assistants who’d mentioned to M.R. that Carlos had been in the Vietnam War and had “some sort of medal—‘Purple Heart’ ”—of which he never spoke. And reluctantly now Carlos responded:
“Ma’am, yes.”
In the rearview mirror she saw his forehead crease. He was a handsome man, or had been—olive-dark skin, a swath of silver hair at his forehead. His lips moved but all she could really hear was ma’am .
She was feeling edgy, agitated. They were nearing Ithaca—at last.
“I wish you wouldn’t call me ‘ma’am,’ Carlos! It makes me feel—like a spinster of a bygone era.”
She’d meant to change the subject and to change the tone of their exchange but the humor in her remark seemed to be lost as often, when she spoke to Carlos, and others on her staff, the good humor for which M. R. Neukirchen was known among her colleagues seemed to be lost and she drew blank expressions from them.
“Sorry, ma’am.”
Carlos stiffened, realizing what he’d said. Surely his face went hot with embarrassment.
Yet—she knew!—it wasn’t reasonable for M.R. to expect her driver to address her in some other way—as President Neukirchen for instance. If he did he stumbled over the awkward words— Pres’dent New-kirtch-n .
She’d asked Carlos to call her “M.R.”—as most of her University colleagues did—but he had not, ever. Nor had anyone on her staff. This was strange to her, disconcerting, for M.R. prided herself on her lack of pretension, her friendliness.
Her predecessor had insisted that everyone call him by his first name—“Leander.” He’d been an enormously popular president though not, in his final years, a very productive or even a very attentive president; like a grandfather clock winding down, M.R. had thought. He’d spent most of his time away from campus and among wealthy donors—as house
She would call her (secret) lover when she arrived at the conference center hotel. Just to ask What do you advise? Do you think I am risking too much?
Just to ask Do you love me? Do you even think of me? Do you remember me—when I am not with you?
It was M.R.’s practice to start a project early—in this case, months early—when she’d first been invited to give the keynote address at the conference, back in April—and to write, rewrite, revise and rewrite through a succession of drafts until her words were finely honed and shimmering—invincible as a shield. A twenty-minute presentation, brilliant in concision and emphasis, would be far more effective than a fifty-minute presentation. And it would be M.R.’s strategy, too, to end early—just slightly early. She would aim for eighteen minutes. To take her audience off guard, to end on a dramatic note . . .
Madness in individuals is rare but in nations, common.
Unless: this was too dire, too smugly “prophetic”? Unless: this would strike a wrong note?
“Carlos! Please put the radio on, will you? I think the dial is set—NPR.”
It was noon: news. But not good news.
In the backseat of the limousine M.R. listened. How credulous the media had become since the terrorist attacks of 9/11, how uncritical the reporting—it made her ill, it made her want to weep in frustration and anger, the callow voice of the defense secretary of the United States warning of weapons of mass destruction believed to be stored in readiness for attack by the Iraqi dictator Saddam Hussein . . . Biological warfare, nuclear warfare, threat to U.S. democracy, global catastrophe.
“What do you think, Carlos? Is this ridiculous? ‘Fanning the flames’ . . .”
“Don’t know, ma’am. It’s a bad thing.”
Guardedly Carlos replied. What Carlos felt in his heart, Carlos was not likely to reveal.
“I think you said—you served in Vietnam. . . .”
Fanning the flames. Served in Vietnam. How clumsy her stock phrases, like ill-fitting prostheses.
It hadn’t been Carlos, but one of her assistants who’d mentioned to M.R. that Carlos had been in the Vietnam War and had “some sort of medal—‘Purple Heart’ ”—of which he never spoke. And reluctantly now Carlos responded:
“Ma’am, yes.”
In the rearview mirror she saw his forehead crease. He was a handsome man, or had been—olive-dark skin, a swath of silver hair at his forehead. His lips moved but all she could really hear was ma’am .
She was feeling edgy, agitated. They were nearing Ithaca—at last.
“I wish you wouldn’t call me ‘ma’am,’ Carlos! It makes me feel—like a spinster of a bygone era.”
She’d meant to change the subject and to change the tone of their exchange but the humor in her remark seemed to be lost as often, when she spoke to Carlos, and others on her staff, the good humor for which M. R. Neukirchen was known among her colleagues seemed to be lost and she drew blank expressions from them.
“Sorry, ma’am.”
Carlos stiffened, realizing what he’d said. Surely his face went hot with embarrassment.
Yet—she knew!—it wasn’t reasonable for M.R. to expect her driver to address her in some other way—as President Neukirchen for instance. If he did he stumbled over the awkward words— Pres’dent New-kirtch-n .
She’d asked Carlos to call her “M.R.”—as most of her University colleagues did—but he had not, ever. Nor had anyone on her staff. This was strange to her, disconcerting, for M.R. prided herself on her lack of pretension, her friendliness.
Her predecessor had insisted that everyone call him by his first name—“Leander.” He’d been an enormously popular president though not, in his final years, a very productive or even a very attentive president; like a grandfather clock winding down, M.R. had thought. He’d spent most of his time away from campus and among wealthy donors—as house
Similar Books
The Duke's Temptation
Addie Jo Ryleigh
The Orphans (Book 3): Strangers
Mike Evans
Catching Falling Stars
Karen McCombie
Survival Games
J.E. Taylor
Battle Fatigue
Mark Kurlansky
Now I See You
Nicole C. Kear
The Whipping Boy
Speer Morgan
Rippled
Erin Lark
The Story of Us
Deb Caletti