Adam Haslett - Union Atlantic

“I don’t think anyone’s talking about a bailout,” Holland said. “We’re talking about capital injections. I think you’d agree, the brand has value, not to mention assets. All we’re looking for is a way to reassure potential investors.”

“You’re talking to the Emirates?”

“Among others, yes. We’ve got some interest in Singapore as well. The issue is the timing. I’ve got seventy-two hours to make a margin call. That’s not very long to roll out a sales pitch. If Citi or Morgan or someone of that scale were to come on board, even in a symbolic way, it would make a big difference.”

Holland dipped his head to one side and gave a slight roll of the eyes, a gesture that combined genuflection with a modicum of fatalism. He was nothing if not a good actor. His fellow CEOs, who thrived on their relative appeal in the eyes of various corporate boards, were circling to watch the kill, despite what would be in the enlightened self-interest of their own companies — that is, to prevent a broader crisis. Meanwhile, the big foreign investors sensed opportunity but didn’t want to be taken for fools. What Holland needed was Henry’s back-channel cajoling and if not the Fed’s cash, at least its imprimatur on the deal to save the bank. The loan he wanted was one of gravitas and prestige.

“And what if we say no?” Henry said, setting his silverware down on his plate. “What if I get on the phone and instead of suggesting the ‘community’ rally around to protect one of its own, what if I tell them you’re an awfully bad bet and that in the end the market will do its job and decide what you’re really worth? And if that’s a dollar a share then so be it. What then?”

For the first time since they had sat down, Holland’s big politician’s guile fell away and he leveled at Henry a cold stare, his act of forthrightness and contrition gone.

Henry’s instinct had been right: Fanning was too close to this man for Holland not to have been involved. He had been Holland’s instrument.

“What then?” Holland echoed, in a slower, more deliberate voice. “Well, I guess I’d wonder if that was the outcome our government actually wanted.”

“Really? Are you suggesting the Fed lacks independence? Are you suggesting we take our marching orders from the political branches?”

Holland leaned back from the table. “Come off it, Henry. I’ve spoken to Senator Grassley’s people. I know what you’re hearing from Treasury. So what’s with the civics lesson?”

In his mouth, the phrase sounded almost dirty. Incredible, Henry thought. Here he was, Henry Graves, the gray pragmatist, accused of naïveté. It made him wonder. Could it be that despite all the legalized venality he’d witnessed over the years, despite even what he would have said of himself not ten minutes ago, that he actually was naïve? That some kernel of protest had survived in him? What would that even mean? That after forty years he should stand up and say to the system he’d spent his life protecting, I disagree? Stability doesn’t save anyone. Regulation is just a ruse to cover up organized theft and it convinces no one but the public. He didn’t believe this. And yet like some wide-eyed undergrad, like the philosophy major he’d once been, he felt an urge. A longing even. One he barely recognized.

A secretary appeared and handed Holland a note. He read it in a single glance and then crushed the paper in his fist.

“Make that forty-eight hours,” he said, shoving his plate aside. “Singapore wants its margin Thursday morning.”

Holland stood and signaled for the waiter to clear the table.

“Is that really what you want, Henry? You want to see us fail?”

IN THE CAR on the way out to Finden, Helen phoned to update Henry on the calls he’d missed during his meeting: two from the FDIC, an agency terrified of a bank the size of Union Atlantic winding up on its books; another from the Office of the Comptroller, whose examiners had been caught flat-footed; and two more from Treasury.

“And the chairman phoned,” Helen said. “He spoke to the chief of staff over at the White House about an hour ago.”

“I’m sure he did.”

“What am I supposed to tell him? That you’re unavailable? It’s rather implausible, under the circumstances.”

“Just buy me a few hours. I’ll be on a plane by four.”

He directed his driver through the center of Finden and out Winthrop Street to the house. As they came up the driveway he saw his sister wielding her clippers on a fallen branch of the old apple tree in the front yard. She didn’t notice the car at first and turned only when she heard his door closing. Fragments of leaves covered the front of her fleece sweater and some had caught in the strands of her hair.

“What on earth are you doing here?”

“I called you about it — our appointment. Over at Larch Brook. I told you I’d be coming.”

The dogs trotted over and sniffed at Henry’s waist.

“We had a tremendous rain last night,” she said. “This all came down in the wind. Sounded like a shotgun being fired. Woke me right up. You used to climb this tree, do you remember?”

“Charlotte. We’re supposed to be there in twenty minutes. Wouldn’t you like to change first?”

She set her clippers down. Crushed and rotting apples lay all about her on the grass.

“This was the tree you wanted to build your fort in, but Mommy thought it would be an eyesore. Which is why you built it down by the river. Did I tell you there were still planks of it left when they cut down the woods? The dogs and I went by it every morning.”

“No, you didn’t mention it,” he said. “We really should be going. I’ve got the car here waiting.”

“I have an idea. Why don’t we go for a walk? There’s something I want to show you.”

“We don’t have time.”

“It’ll only take a minute.”

Closing his eyes momentarily, he tried to marshal his patience. Every hour counted at this stage of the crisis. The markets were relentless, the system more fragile than most people imagined. Duty called now more than ever. But Charlotte … she had something to show him.

And so he followed her, around the far corner of the house, past the woodshed and into the garden. For years, she’d maintained the bushes and flower beds and small trees that their grandparents had planted. Recently, however, her attention had wandered. Thistle had taken root along the foot of the evergreen hedge and the beds were covered in ground ivy. A bench where his father used to sit and read the paper on August evenings rotted at the edge of the path down which they walked now toward the rear of the garden.

Henry wanted to be gone from here, once and for all. To be done, at long last, with the decay of this place. How Charlotte could stand living here all these years, he’d never understood.

When they reached the field at the back, Charlotte led him down the far side of the hedge, through the dead grass, and came to a stop in front of a skeletal bush six or seven feet high and quite wide, a collection of upright, arching branches, its leaves and flowers long since gone.

“What is it?”

“It’s a lilac,” she said. “The funny thing is, after all this time, I only discovered it a few years ago. It had been hiding here behind the hedge. It’s the same shape as the one we had at home in the yard. In the springtime, don’t you remember? You used to love to play inside it. To chase me. To listen to me sing.”

How insupportable, he thought, to remember in the way she did. The present didn’t stand a chance against such a perfectly recollected world.

Just then, to his shock, Charlotte stepped toward him and taking his face in her chapped hands touched her lips to his. Smiling, her watery gray eyes impossibly close, she said, “I’m not going to visit that place, Henry.”