Davey signed, “I want to go to the shack. You promised!”
“We’ll go, for sure, but it will have to be later.”
Davey pulled his cap over his eyes and slumped in his chair.
“Say no,” said George. “For a change, do something for yourself. And for Davey,” he looked at the boy cringing into the back of his chair. “Take him up to the shack and damn them all. For once, Ed’ll agree with me. You’ll see.”
Davey could see through the weave of his cap. George was Isabel’s dad, sort of. She had to listen to what he said, didn’t she? He pushed his cap up and sipped the last syrupy dregs of his hot chocolate. “Can I have another one?” Before Isabel could even swivel to signal, the waitress, who had recognised her celebrity customer even under the hat, came over. She explained she could sign ASL—her mother was deaf—and she winked at Davey and told them another hot chocolate was already on its way, with three marshmallows this time.
She also thought of phoning her friend at NBC to tell him the other snippet of their conversation she’d seen Isabel signing.
ED was late for dinner at the restaurant. Who was surprised? The mood around the table, already tense over whether Isabel would take the job, and whether Davey would get to go to the shack, stretched even tighter the longer they waited. The best George could suggest was another round of “I Spy” which, in ASL, was quite a challenge, especially for him.
Having delayed ordering as long as they could, they were just digging into their shrimp cocktails when Ed came up behind Davey and tousled his hair. Instead of getting a big hug from his son, all Ed got was a melancholic signing that dumped the speakership question at him, even before he had a chance to sit down.
Despite Ed’s loathing for Foster—George picked that right—and the obvious jibe that Foster had to be desperate, Ed was as much for it as Isabel was.
“It is the country’s third most important job,” said Ed.
“Third?” asked George, wondering what Ed was getting at. Surely a Secretary of State or Defence, or the chairmanship of Coca-Cola rated over someone who banged a gavel every day.
Isabel explained it for him, “After the Vice-President, it’s the Speaker who’s next-in-line for the presidential succession.” From Davey’s blank expression, it was obvious he had no idea what she was talking about, so she tried afresh, “Davey, if something bad happens to both the President and the Vice-President, like they die or something, then the Speaker automatically steps up to become President.”
“But not in your case,” said George, “since you’re not a natural born citizen, right?”
“You never know,” she said curiously.
To George, the strange advent of both Ed’s and Isabel’s eager harmony set off his suspicions big time. He didn’t let up, right through dinner. He kept pushing how she needed a break after the gruelling campaign but Isabel wasn’t listening, he could see that. She maintained a look: an unfamiliar glaze. He imagined it was the wash of exhaustion, proof of his point, but the distance in her eyes and the flicker of a smile he thought he detected in the corners of her mouth made him wonder if it was something else? Ambition? Lust for power? If it had been Ed, for sure. But Isabel? No way.
She closed the debate when dessert arrived. She held up her spoon and said, “George, enough. I’m doing it,” and then dug it into her pear soufflé.
Davey burst into tears.
THE four were back at the apartment in front of the fire, but there wasn’t a lot of warmth in the room. Davey was pretending to fool around with his toy penguin Pip on the silk and gold-thread Savafid prayer rug, playing at being Eskimos while secretly reading the adults’ lips. He didn’t know, and wouldn’t have cared that there are no penguins in the Arctic. Isabel wondered if Ed would ask the boy to be careful of his prized 400-year-old rug, but he seemed more focused on what her plans were.
She had been explaining that the House’s first session would sit for ten days at the start of January before it recessed again until Inauguration Day on the twentieth. Then, there’d be a five-day session and a further break of around a week, resuming for the President’s first State of the Union Address. He was delivering it early in February, she said.
“Pretty soft, this congressional life,” said George.
“Oh, George!” Isabel sighed. She’d explained her new plan, a plan regrettably without Davey: that she’d still fly up to her shack, but it would have to be later and alone, for the few free days just ahead of the State of the Union.
She caught Davey lip-reading and looked directly at him. “Davey darling, like I said, you can’t come because you’ll be back at school and they need you for rehearsals for the school pantomime. But,” she said, pointing between the two of them, “we’ll still get up there one day, I really do promise… ”