Christopher Buckley - Supreme Courtship

“I’ve screwed everything up. Everything,” Pepper blubbered.

“It’s not every day we get candor of this quality in Washington. Go on.”

“Everyone hates me at the Court. There’s an FBI investigation because of me. And that’s made everyone hate the Chief Justice. Who’s got enough problems. There’s a constitutional amendment movement on account of me. And I’m voting on the side of criminals…”

“Not to mention making goo-goo eyes with the Chief Justice over the pasta.”

“I… You read about that?”

“Oh, yes. You’ve been a big topic of conversation. I was at Binky Slocum’s last night and we talked of practically nothing else.”

Pepper groaned.

“Well,” he said, “remember what Oscar Wilde said. The only thing worse than being talked about is not being talked about. Most justices go through a period of adjustment. That’s not so unusual. Though I will say, normally they aren’t quite so… what’s the word…?”

“Tragic.”

“Tragicomical, perhaps. Shakespeare.”

“I know,” Pepper said sharply. “Why does everyone here think a Texas accent means you’re illiterate?”

“There are precedents. That’s right-you’re named for one of his characters, aren’t you? No, I wouldn’t say tragic. Though in this town, sometimes the tragedy can be comical, and vice versa. But did you come here for advice, or for my justly famous martinis? Or the cheese puffs? They are good, aren’t they?”

“You’re a wise man,” Pepper said, blowing her nose into the Frette napkin. “I could use some wisdom.”

“I’ve dispensed it all. I’m all out. But please don’t tell the clients of Graydon Clenndennynn Corporation. It would ruin our bottom line and make the board of directors very unhappy. One does run out, you know. You have to replenish. It’s been a long while since I’ve had the chance to do that. I’ve been… coasting for years. Lucrative years. Though I wonder to what end? No family to leave it to. Why does one work so hard at this age? To leave it to my foundation? I suppose it beats boredom and golf. Look now”-he patted her hand-“you’ll sort all this out. I wouldn’t have gone along with it, you know, if I hadn’t thought you’d make the whistle. I liked you from the start. But I did warn you that the bull was an arm-jerker.”

“You did, and it is.”

Pepper, eyes now dry as the martini, sipped and let the gin do its thing. They talked for a while of politics and elections. Feeling relaxed, she pointed at the photograph of the young man in uniform and said, “Who is that?”

“My son.”

“What does he do?”

“He was killed in Vietnam. Not long after that was taken.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t…”

“No reason you should have known. His name was Everett. His mother wanted to name him Graydon, but I said, ‘No, let’s give that a rest for a generation.’ The other soldiers in his unit-he was with the Special Forces, the Green Berets-they teased him about it. Soldiers can be rather merciless. I don’t suppose Everett was a common name in the army.”

“His mother…”

“She died. Not in Vietnam,” he sipped the last of his martini, “though it played its part. So now you’ve seen the family album. It’s Sunday. Let’s have another.”

“I should go,” Pepper said. “I’ve got a ton of work.”

Graydon pressed a button, summoning the butler. “Oh, stay. Unless you and the Chief…”

“It’s not that,” Pepper said.

“Good. Anyway, if you went back to work, you’d only make another pig’s breakfast of things.”

“Well, kiss my…”

“Now you’re getting the hang of it,” he grinned. “Ah, George, another pair of these lovely see-throughs, if you would. And we’d better have some more of Annabelle’s cheese puffs. They seem to be rather a success with Justice Cartwright.”

Pepper, suddenly aware that she’d eaten the entire plate, blushed, and then laughed.

Donald Vanderdamp found himself in the one-thousandth- or was it the two-thousandth?-greenroom of his political career, reflecting on the strange vicissitudes that had brought him here while wishing, with every fiber in his Ohioan being, that he was back at the Wapakoneta Lanes. He imagined the feel of the kidskin soft leather glove as he pulled it on, the shoes that fit like ballet slippers, the ambient rumble of balls going down polished lanes, the rattle of the pins being struck, of the pin setting machines, jubilant cries of “Strike!” and groans of despair, of the buttery aroma of popcorn, the mouthwatering tang of broiling hot dogs and sizzling burgers, of ice-cold beer, the huggy cluster of grandchildren as you explained how to score… If there was an afterlife paradise, surely it looked something like this. Keep your heavenly choir of archangels. Meanwhile, here he was, very much this side of paradise, preparing to go onstage to debate former Senator Dexter Mitchell, President Lovebucket, for a prize that he, Donald Vanderdamp, did not even want. How, he wondered, had it come to-this?

His campaign manager was talking to him. Perhaps he should listen? Though why, really? Well, one had to be polite.

“Right,” the President said. “Good point.”

“Sorry, sir?” the campaign manager said.

“What you were saying. I agree. I’ll hit that point hard.”

“Right,” the campaign manager said diffidently. “Probably best to stay off the POTUS thing. It could open us up to the, well, the Cartwright… you know. Now, on the border mining,” he said. “The numbers are pretty clear there.”

The President, suddenly alert, said, “Charley.”

“I know sir, but-”

“I don’t care what the numbers are.”

“I’m only pointing out that-”

“Charley. I don’t care if every citizen, man, woman, and child, of Texas, of New Mexico, Arizona, California, or Guam for that matter is in favor of mining the gosh-darn border with Mexico. The United States Constitution says, in blazing neon letters, that individual states may not engage in their own foreign policies. It’s just not up for discussion.”

“That may be, sir, but four states legislatures are about to-”

“Make fools of themselves.”

“Agreed. All I’m just suggesting is that we… that a little tactical ambiguity would go a long way toward-”

“ ‘Tactical ambiguity’? Charley. Is that what you think of me?”

“No, sir. Never mind.”

“I appreciate what you’re doing for me, Charley. I do. I know it’s an unusual campaign.”

“When you go out onstage, you’ll walk toward each other, meet midstage, shake hands, go to your respective podiums. Now, he may try to pat you on the back or the shoulder. We have made it clear to his people that we do not want any pitty-patting, but I don’t trust them. So when you shake his hand, do it face on so he can’t reach your shoulder.”

“Why don’t I give him a kiss,” the President said. “Full, on the lips. Our tongues melting into each other’s, our bodies touching, becoming as one, heaving…”

Charley stared.

“I read that in a book when I was fifteen years old,” President Vanderdamp said. “It was a spy novel. Not a very good one. Pretty awful, actually. But at the time I thought it was the sexiest, steamiest thing I could ever imagine. Now, my Lord, you can’t turn on a television without seeing bodies writhing. I love this country, Charley, but I worry for it. What young people today see… Well,” he smiled, “I’ll try to restrain myself from making mad, passionate love to President Lovebucket.”

“Sir?”

“Yes?”

“This campaign, honestly? It’s the most bass-ackward thing I’ve ever worked on. I don’t get it. But however it turns out, I want to say, it’s an honor working for you. You’re a decent guy.”