Huck and Lulu throw parties. It’s their thing. The second act of their American lives. Huck does other things, too: teaches those sought-after seminars colleges trumpet in their promotional materials, gives talks at the Council on Foreign Relations, takes the shuttle to D.C. to meet think-tank people to do think-tank things, writes querulous letters to the editors of policy journals, shuffles to his office on the fourth floor of the house to produce op-eds or the introductions to books his friends and students have written. Henry “Huck” Thomas (CNN’s chyron usually includes the quotation marks; the nickname’s origins are forgotten): not a maker of history, but present at its conception. Confidant to presidents (some of them, anyway), an ambassador to the world on behalf of what he’s always believed to be its greatest nation. Huck is hardworking, sure, but it’s possible to view his rise as evidence of something else—luck; right time, right place; the indomitable spirit of a certain kind of white man. Arriving at the State Department just as one presidency was collapsing, then proving himself invaluable as the subsequent officeholder tried to find his feet. That brief American presidency had birthed Huck’s long and successful career. He knew enough about the game to get his wife’s assets out of Venezuela by 1979, and, from there, into all the right places. They’ve been millionaires for at least that long. That is his specialty: being a step ahead of things.
Huck’s office has dormer windows from which you can see the backs of all the houses on the next block over. Lauren and Sarah used to smoke cigarettes in there, fanning the smoke out of the open window, even though no one would have smelled it because at the time Huck himself went through half a pack a day, the Kents burning away to nothing in the ashtray as he typed furiously about what Johnson got wrong in Vietnam or the welfare state’s inherent evils. They were idiots as teenagers.
Lulu is retired. Her one album—a couple of traditional corridos, a Chilean tune closely associated with Joan Baez, a few folky pop songs—remains a cult favorite, had a bit of a renaissance when one of her originals was used over the opening titles of what turned out to be a blockbuster holiday film. Royalties: one way the rich get richer. The voice is not entirely gone, though it’s changed, deepened, grown slack, as female voices do with age. She’d never seriously made a go of it, had ended up married while only twenty-four, which was how it was done at the time. She’d followed the rest of the script: decamping to New Haven and making lunches and dinners for Huck, as though he were her child, tagging along to Washington and dressing to impress for various, boring parties, giving birth, going out to dinner, decorating the Connecticut house, hosting fund-raisers for this and that. It’s time-consuming, being a part of this family. Lauren never knew three busier people. It’s remarkable that none of them actually have jobs.
They’re throwing a party tonight. Something to do with a book, maybe, she can’t remember, but Sarah has insisted that she come, has reminded her about it with weekly e-mails for two months now, as well as helpful voice-mail messages:
Hey Lolo, it’s me, don’t forget, Thursday night, my parents’ place, you promised promised promised, wear something amazing, be your usual beautiful self, but don’t be late, I’m going to have no one to talk to because Dan can’t make it because who cares OK, I’ll see you the day after tomorrow.