Galilee. Clive Barker

odd little exchange wasn’t the only crack in the bliss of the day. There were three other incidents which are probably worth remarking upon, though none of them were significant enough to spoil the celebrations.

      The first of the three, perhaps inevitably, involved Margie. Champagne was not her preferred mode of transport, so she’d made sure that the bar was stocked with good whiskey, and once the first round of bubbly was drunk she switched to Scotch. She rapidly became a little testy, and took it into her head to tell Senator Bryson who, along with his family, had flown up from Washington, what she thought of his recent comments on welfare reform. She was by no means inarticulate and Senator Bryson was plainly quite happy to be chewing on a serious issue rather than nibbling small talk; he listened to Margie’s remarks with suitable concern. Margie downed another Scotch and told him he was talking out of both sides of his mouth. The senator’s wife attempted a little leavening here, remarking that the Gearys weren’t likely to be needing welfare any time soon. To which Margie sharply replied that her father had worked in a steel mill most of his life, and died at the age of forty-five with twelve bucks in his bank account; and where the hell was the man with the whiskey anyway? Now it was Garrison who stepped in to try and bring the exchange to a halt, but the senator made it perfectly plain that he was enjoying the contretemps and wished to continue. The man with the whiskey duly arrived, and Margie got her glass refilled. Where were they, she said; oh yes, twelve bucks in his bank account. “So don’t tell me I don’t know what’s going on out there. The trouble is none of you high and mighties gives a fuck. We’ve got problems in this country, and they’re getting worse, and what are you doing about it? Besides sitting on your fat asses and pontificating.”

      “I don’t think any caring human being would disagree with you,” the senator said. “We need to work to make American lives better lives.”

      “And what does that all add up to?” Margie said. “A fat lot of nothin’. Is it any wonder nobody in this country believes a damn word any of you people say?”

      “I think people are more interested in the democratic process—”

      “Democratic, my ass!” Margie said. “It’s all lobbies and paybacks and doing your friends favors. I know how it works. I wasn’t born yesterday. You just want to make the rich richer.”

      “I think you’re mistaking me for a Republican,” Bryson chuckled.

      “And I think you’re mistaking me for someone who’d trust a fucking word any politician ever said,” Margie spat back.

      “That’s enough now,” Garrison said, taking hold of his wife’s arm.

      She tried to shake him free, but he held on tight. “It’s all right, Garrison,” the senator said. “She’s got a right to her opinion.” He returned his gaze to Margie. “But I will say this. America’s a free country. You don’t have to live in the lap of luxury if it doesn’t sit well with your political views.” He smiled, though there was not a trace of warmth in his eyes. “I really wonder if it’s entirely appropriate for a woman in your position to be talking about the agonies of the working man.”

      “I told you, my father—”

      “Is part of the past. This administration is part of the future. We can’t afford sentiment. We can’t afford nostalgia. And most of all, we can’t afford hypocrisy.”

      This little speech had the ring of an exit line, and Margie knew it. Too drunk by now to mount any coherent riposte, all she could say was: “What the fuck does that mean?”

      The senator was already turning to leave, but he pivoted on his heel to reply to Margie’s challenge. The smile, even in its humorless form, had gone.

      “It means, Mrs. Geary, that you can’t stand there in a fifty-thousand-dollar dress and tell me you understand the pain of ordinary people. If you want to do some good, maybe you should start off by auctioning the contents of your closet and giving away the profits, which I’m sure would be substantial.”

      That was his last word on the subject. He was gone the next moment, along with his wife and entourage. Garrison went to follow, but Margie clutched his arm.

      “Don’t you dare,” she told him. “Or I’ll quote what you said about him being a spineless little shit.”

      “You are contemptible,” Garrison said.

      “No. You’re contemptible. I’m just a pathetic drunk who doesn’t know any better. You want to take me inside before I start on somebody else?”

      ii

      Rachel didn’t hear about Margie’s exchange with the man from Washington until after the honeymoon, when Margie herself confessed it. But she was very much a part of the second of the three notable exchanges of the afternoon.

      What happened was this: toward dusk Loretta came to find her and asked if she’d mind bringing her mother and sister to meet Cadmus, who was going to be leaving very soon. The old man hadn’t joined the celebration until the cake was about to be cut, at which point he’d been brought out to the big marquee in his wheelchair—to much applause—and made a short, eloquent toast to the bride and groom. He’d then been taken to a shady spot at the back of the house, where the flow of folks who wanted to pay their respects to him could be strictly controlled. Apparently he’d been anxious to meet Rachel’s family earlier in the day, but only now, at nine in the evening, had the line of people eager to shake his hand diminished. He was very tired, Loretta warned; they should keep the conversation brief.

      In fact, despite the demands of the day, Rachel thought he looked better than he had at his birthday party, certainly: positively robust for a ninety-six-year-old (sitting comfortably in a high-backed wicker chair generously packed with cushions in a backwater of the garden, nursing a brandy glass and the stub of a cigar). His face was still handsome, after its antique fashion; he’d aged beyond the gouges and furrows into a kind of skeletal grandeur, his skin so tanned it was like old wood, his eyes set in the cups of his sockets like bright stones. His speech was slow, and here and there a little slurred, but he still had more charisma than most men a quarter his age, and sufficient memory to know how to work it on the opposite sex. He was like some much beloved movie star, Rachel thought; so adored in his season that now, though he was well past his prime, he still believed in his own magic. And that was the most important part, belief. The rest was just window dressing.

      Loretta made all the introductions, and then returned to the party, leaving Cadmus king of his own court.

      “I wanted to tell you how proud I am,” he told Rachel, “to have you, and your mother and your sister, as part of the Geary family. You are all so very lovely, if I may say so.” He handed his glass to the woman (Rachel assumed it was a nurse) who stood close to his chair, and reached out to take the bride’s hand. “Excuse my chilly fingers,” he said. “I don’t have the circulation I used to have. I know how strong the feeling is between you and Mitchell and I must tell you I think he is the luckiest man alive to have won your affections. So many people…” He stopped for a moment, and his eyelids fluttered. Then he drew a deep breath, as if pulling on some buried reserve of energy, and the moment of frailty passed. “I’m sorry,” he said. “So many people, you know, never have in their lives anything like the kind of deep feeling you two have for one another. I had it in my life.” He made a small wry smile. “Regrettably it wasn’t for either of the women I married.” Rachel heard Deanne suppress a guffaw behind her. She glanced back, frowning, but Cadmus was in on the joke. His smile had spread into a mischievous grin. “In fact, you my dear Rachel, bear more than a passing resemblance to the lady I idolized. So much so that when I first set eyes upon you, at that little party Loretta threw for me—as if I wanted to be reminded how antiquated I am—I thought to myself: Mitchell and I have the same taste in beauty.”

      “May I ask who this was?” Rachel asked him.

      “I’d be pleased to tell you. In fact, I’ll do better than that. Would you care to come to the house next week?”

      “Of