“I’ll explain if this guy ever stops talking,” Street whispered back.
At last the Canadian governor-general finished his speech, to polite and sustained applause. After a few minutes, as Street and Charlie walked back to the House Office Building, Street elaborated. His wife had been raised in Mossville, and her family still lived in and around the town, in Calcasieu Parish, Louisiana. General Kinetics all but ran the parish, since it owned a number of plants there—oil and gas refineries, factories that produced synthetic rubber, ammonia, magnesium, salt cake.
“Sounds like it would be booming.”
“It is,” Street agreed. “A lucrative express train to the cemetery.”
After the plants had been operating for a few years, the scent of the air changed. No one who lived there noticed; the change came gradually. But those who visited from outside the parish would note the vinegary scent in their nostrils and the odd flavor in the backs of their throats. Tap water soon took on a smoky aftertaste.
“First to die were the mud lizards Renee and her brothers used to catch as children,” Street said. “The kids would find piles of their dead bodies on the shores of the bayou. Then came the herons and gulls and pelicans. Bloated corpses just floating by the dozens. Then the livestock followed: chickens and cattle and horses. Then Renee’s grandparents got sick.
“These plants are booming now, Charlie,” Street said as they reached the top of the stairs. “But that sound you hear isn’t just the engine of capitalism. It’s also a ticking time bomb. Might not go off for twenty, thirty, even forty years. But it’s going to go off.”
On the fourth floor, they prepared to go their separate ways. “I’ll do whatever I can to help block the plant, Isaiah,” Charlie said. “I don’t know that I can do much, but I will try.”
The rest of his day was spent catching up with work he’d let fall by the wayside, returning calls and going over memos with Leopold. “Senators Kefauver and Hendrickson’s offices both called this morning to see if we’ve arranged for a venue in Manhattan for the juvenile delinquency hearing,” she said. She made no secret of her irritation; for weeks, he’d declined to give her the go-ahead to do so.
From behind his desk, Charlie bit his lower lip; Leopold stood before him, refusing to indulge his ambivalence.
“Congressman, if you don’t mind my saying so, you’re going to end up doing this, so you might as well do it now and get the credit for it,” she observed. “I’m going to exit this room and call the Foley Square Courthouse. Unless you physically block my path, this is what’s going to happen.”
She left his office. Charlie remained in his seat, staring glumly at the closed door.
The sun had already set by the time Charlie drove himself from Capitol Hill to Dent Place in Georgetown, parked, and walked up the steps of his brownstone. Turning the key and entering quietly so as not to wake Margaret, he was surprised to see the lights on in the foyer, the living room, and upstairs in the kitchen, where he found Margaret drinking tea at the kitchen table. He looked at his watch; it was after eight p.m.
“You’re up late,” he said with a smile, bending over to kiss her on the back of her head as he reached for the day’s stack of letters.
Margaret put her hand on top of his. “I have two things to tell you.”
“Okay,” he said.
“Strongfellow just called from the hospital.” Charlie sensed what was coming. “I’m really sorry, Charlie, but Mac didn’t make it.”
He stood frozen for a second.
“I’m so sorry, honey,” Margaret said, now gripping his hand tightly.
He gave her hand a slight squeeze, then let it go. Suddenly he was a world away. Private Rodriguez had ripped off his gas mask, which was of no help. His nose was streaming mucus; his eyes were red, and tears ran down his cheeks. His body, pinned beneath the beam, began bouncing off the floor in convulsive spasms. Death was seizing Rodriguez and dragging him away, and there was nothing Charlie could do.
The wall clock in the Marders’ Georgetown kitchen delivered its tinny half-hour chime and returned Charlie to the present. He looked bleakly at Margaret, shaking his head in disbelief.
Through the window, which was cracked open, came the sound of a swallow chirping. It was interrupted by the vroom of a car, its radio blasting one of the latest from Frank Sinatra.
A foggy day in London town…had me low and it had me down.
They sat in silence for one minute. Two minutes.
“How’s the baby?” Charlie finally asked.
“She’s good,” Margaret said.
“She?”
“He. It. Whatever.” She rubbed her stomach. “He-she-it is great.”
Charlie smiled sadly.
“Good,” he said, his gaze drifting out the darkened window.
“Honey?”
“I’m okay. I knew he wasn’t going to make it.”
“It’s horrible. Just awful.” She stood and embraced him. But he patted her absently on the back and broke away.
“I have to go to a meeting,” he told her.
“A meeting? At eight thirty at night?”
“A reception. At the Mayflower.”
“Really?” she asked incredulously.
“Believe me, it’s the last thing I want to do.”
She stared at him as if she didn’t recognize him.
“Thanks for waiting up to tell me about Mac,” he said.
They were maybe five feet away from each other, but it felt like a mile.
“What’s the second thing?” he asked her.
Through the fog of his grief, Charlie could sense Margaret wanting to say more; her disappointment in him had lingered between them for weeks now. It was a conversation he would not be able to face tonight.
“Nothing,” she said.
“Okay,” Charlie said. He went upstairs, changed into his tux, came back down, and grabbed his car keys from the counter.
And without another word to his pregnant wife, he walked out of the room, down the stairs, and back onto their chilly Georgetown street.
The Mayflower was a popular venue for DC events, and Charlie had already been there half a dozen times. Its first-floor bar, the Mayflower Lounge, was nicknamed the Snake Pit; on Friday nights, it became a rogues’ gallery of politicians, lobbyists, captains of industry, and local women eager to make their acquaintance. Until tonight Charlie hadn’t known the hotel had a penthouse, and what he encountered when the elevator deposited him there made the Snake Pit look like a Boy Scout meeting.
Standing in the foyer, facing two immense oak doors, Charlie could hear the muted blare of a trumpet and the deep roar of a party in full swing. A young curly-haired woman dressed like a chorus dancer at a burlesque show greeted him with a smile and asked him to remove his shoes.
“My shoes?” he asked
“Yes, please, sir,” she said. “Connie feels it helps everyone relax.”
Charlie reluctantly surrendered his shoes and, feeling surprisingly disarmed by their loss, squared his shoulders as she opened the door, flashed a bright and possibly flirtatious smile at him, and ushered him inside.
Chapter Fourteen
Thursday, March 4, 1954—Evening
Mayflower Hotel, Washington, DC
The immense room was dark and rich with a bouquet of sinful aromas—cigars and cigarettes and grain alcohol and fruity cocktails being enjoyed by a roomful of older men and younger women. Thanks to DC’s restrictive 1899 Height of Buildings Act, the Mayflower stood as the tallest building in the neighborhood, so the ceiling-high windows offered revelers a clear panoramic view of the city at night—the floodlit Capitol Building on the far left, the glorious White House straight ahead, the Washington Monument and Lincoln Memorial farther toward the horion. A dozen or so beautiful waitresses—nubile was the word that sprang to Charlie’s mind—glided around, tending to the men’s drink and food and conversational needs. Charlie accepted a martini and made his way into the room.
Je cherche un millionnaire, avec des grands Cadillac car, sang Eartha Kitt through the hi-fi speakers.