Noah Hawley - Before the Fall

Bill picks up on the tension between mother and daughter. He looks at Doug, who raises his half-drunk beer as if in a toast.

“Good, right?” he says, oblivious.

“What?” says Bill, who has clearly decided Doug is some kind of hipster douchebag.

“The beer.”

Bill ignores him, reaches over and ruffles the boy’s hair. Four hours ago he stood in Don Liebling’s office and faced down Gus Franklin from the NTSB and representatives of the Justice Department. They said they wanted to know where he got O’Brien’s memo.

I bet you do , he told them, thumbing his suspenders.

Don Liebling straightened his tie and told the government shock troops that of course their sources were confidential.

Not good enough , said the attorney from Justice.

The black guy, Franklin, seemed to have his own theory.

Did O’Brien give it to you? Because of what happened?

Bill shrugged.

It didn’t just fall out of the sky , he said. That much we know. But I’ve been to court before, defending a source, and I’m happy to go again. I hear they validate your parking now.

After the agents stormed out, Liebling closed the door and put himself in front of it.

Tell me , he said.

On the sofa, Bill spread his legs wide. He’d been raised without a dad by a weak woman who clung to shitbird men like she was drowning. She used to lock Bill in his room at night and go paint the town red with menstrual blood. And look at him now, a multimillionaire who tells half the planet what to think and when. The fuck if some silver spoon, Ivy League lawyer was going to shake him in his shoes. No way was he going to out Namor. This was about David. About his mentor. His friend. And okay, maybe they didn’t get along that well at the end, but that man was his brother, and he will get to the truth here, no matter what the cost.

Like the spook said , he told Don, it was the FBI man. They kicked him off the team and he was pissed.

Liebling stared at him, wheels turning in his head.

If I find out , he started.

Gimme a break , said Bill, standing, then walked to the door, step by step, putting himself in the lawyer’s face. Forget you’re in an office , he said with his body. Forget hierarchy and the laws of social behavior. This is a warrior you’re facing, king stud on the open savanna, poised and ready to rip off your face, so either lower your horns or get the fuck out of my way.

He could smell the salami on Liebling’s breath, saw him blink, off balance, unprepared for the old bear versus bear, the dirt-pit cockfight. For thirty seconds, Bill hate-fucked him with his eyes. Then Don stepped aside and Bill sauntered out.

Now, in the kitchen, he decides to take the high ground.

“Just a friendly visit,” he says. “These are difficult times and you — well, to me you’re family — you were family to David and that makes us — so I want you to know I’m looking out for you. Uncle Bill is looking out — watching over.”

“Thank you,” says Eleanor. “But I think we’re going to be fine.”

He smiles generously.

“I’m sure. The money will help.”

There’s something in his tone, a bite that belies the sympathy on his face.

“We’re thinking of moving into the town house in the city,” says Doug.

“Doug,” Eleanor snaps.

“What? We are.”

“It’s a beautiful place,” says Bill, thumbs hooking into his suspenders. “A lot of memories.”

“I don’t mean to be rude,” says Eleanor coldly, “but I need to feed JJ.”

“Of course,” says Bill. “You’re the — I mean, a boy this age still needs mothering, especially after — so don’t feel you have to—”

Eleanor turns away from him, seals the ziplock with the turkey in it, puts it in the fridge. Behind her, she hears Bill stand. He’s not used to being dismissed.

“Well,” he says, “I should go.”

Doug stands.

“I’ll walk you out.”

“Thanks, but there’s — I can find it.”

Eleanor brings JJ his plate.

“Here you go,” she says. “There’s more pickles if you want them.”

Behind her, Bill walks to the kitchen door, stops.

“Have you spoken to Scott?” he asks.

At the name, the boy looks up from his meal. Eleanor follows his eyes to Bill.

“Why?”

“No reason,” says Bill, “just, if you’re not watching the news then maybe you haven’t heard the questions.”

“What questions?” asks Doug.

Bill sighs, as if this is hard for him.

“There’s just — people are wondering, you know. He was the last one on the plane, and — what was his connection to your sister, really? And then, have you heard about his paintings?”

“We don’t need to talk about this now,” says Eleanor.

“No,” says Doug, “I wanna know. He calls, you know. In the middle of the night.”

Doug looks at his wife.

“You think I don’t know, but I do.”

“Doug,” says Eleanor. “That’s not his business.”

Bill thumbs his suspenders, bites his lower lip.

“So you are talking to him,” Bill says. “That’s — I mean, just — be careful, you know? He’s — look, it’s just questions right now, and this is America. I’ll fight to the death before I let this administration take away our right to due process. But it’s early days, and these are real questions. And I just — I worry about — you’ve been hurt so much — already. And who knows how bad this’ll get? So, my question is, do you need him?”

“That’s what I said,” says Doug. “I mean, we’re grateful. What he did for JJ.”

Bill makes a face.

“Of course, if you — I mean, a who-knows-how-long swim in the middle of the night. And with a busted arm, dragging a little boy.”

“Stop,” says Eleanor.

“You’re saying,” says Doug, picking up the idea like a germ — that the hero maybe isn’t that much of a hero after all—“hold on. Are you saying—?”

Bill shrugs, looks at Eleanor, his face softening.

“Doug,” says Bill, “come on. Eleanor’s right. This isn’t—”

He leans right, trying to see JJ around Eleanor’s blocking body, then keeps bending “comically” until the boy looks at him. Bill smiles.

“You be a good boy,” he tells him. “We’ll talk soon. If you need anything, tell your — tell Eleanor to call me. Maybe we’ll go see the Mets sometime. You like baseball?”

The boy shrugs.

“Or the Yankees. I’ve got a box.”

“We’ll call you,” says Eleanor.

Bill nods.

“Anytime,” he says.

* * *

Later, Doug wants to talk, but Eleanor tells him she’s going to take JJ to the playground. She feels as if she’s being squeezed inside a huge fist. At the playground she forces herself to be fun. She slides with the boy and bounces on the seesaw. Trucks in the sand, digging it, piling it, watching it fall. It’s a hot day and she tries to keep them in the shade, but the boy just wants to run, so she feeds him water to keep him hydrated. A thousand thoughts are going in her head, colliding, each new idea interrupting the last.

Part of her is trying to put together why Bill came. Another part is parsing through what he said, specifically about Scott. What is she supposed to think, that the man who saved her nephew actually crashed the plane somehow and then faked his heroic swim? Every idea in that sentence is absurd in its own right. How does a painter crash a plane? And why? And what did he mean about Scott’s relationship with Maggie? Was he saying there was an affair? And why drive out to the house to tell her this?

The boy taps her arm and points to his pants.