The Woods
“It’s going to be weird,” she said.
“I know.”
“I mean, I don’t want it to be. And that’s not why I called. To see you. But I think we should meet up and discuss this, don’t you?”
“I do,” I said.
“I’m babbling. I babble when I get nervous.”
“I remember,” I said. And then, again, I regretted saying that, so I quickly added, “Where should we meet?”
“Do you know where Reston University is?”
“Yes.”
“I have another class and then student appointments until seven-thirty,” Lucy said. “Do you want to meet me at my office? It’s in the Armstrong Building. Say, eight o’clock?”
“I’ll be there.”
When I arrived home I was surprised to find the press camped out in front of my house. You often hear about that—about the press doing stuff like that—but this was my first experience with it. The local cops were on hand, clearly excited to be doing something that seemed quasi–big time. They stood on either side of the driveway so that I could pull in. The press didn’t try to stop them. In fact, when I pulled in, the press barely seemed to notice.
Greta gave me the conquering-hero welcome. She was full of kisses and quick hugs and congratulations. I love Greta. There are some people you know are pure good, who are always on your side. There aren’t many of them. But there are some. Greta would jump in the way of a bullet for me. And she made me want to protect her.
In that way she reminded me of my sister.
“Where’s Cara?” I asked.
“Bob took Cara and Madison to Baumgart’s for dinner.”
Estelle was in the kitchen, doing laundry. “I need to go out tonight,” I said to her.
“No problem.”
Greta said, “Cara can sleep over at our house.”
“I think I’d rather she slept at home tonight, thanks.”
She followed me into the den. The front door opened and Bob came in with the two girls. Again I envisioned my daughter sprinting into my arms while screaming, “Daddy! You’re home!” That didn’t happen. But she did smile and she did come over to me. I swept her up in my arms and kissed her hard. She held the smile but wiped her cheek. Hey, I’ll take it.
Bob slapped my back. “Congrats on the trial,” he said.
“It’s not over yet.”
“That’s not what the media is saying. Either way it should get that Jenrette off our back.”
“Or more desperate.”
His face paled a little. If you were to cast Bob in a movie, he’d be the bad-guy rich Republican. His complexion was ruddy, his jowls thick, his fingers short and stubby. Here was another example of where appearances could be deceiving. Bob’s background was totally blue collar. He studied and worked hard. Nothing had ever been given to him or made easy.
Cara came back into the room carrying a DVD. She held it up as though it were an offering. I closed my eyes, and remembering what day of the week it was, I cursed to myself. Then I said to my little girl, “It’s movie night.”
She still held up the DVD. Her eyes were wide. She was smiling. On the cover was something animated or computer-generated with talking cars or maybe farm animals or zoo animals, something from Pixar or Disney, something I had seen a hundred times already.
“That’s right. Will you make popcorn?”
I took a knee so I was at her eye level. I put a hand on either shoulder. “Honey,” I said, “Daddy has to go out tonight.”
No reaction.
“I’m sorry, sweetie.”
I waited for the tears. “Can Estelle watch it with me?”
“Sure, honey.”
“And she can make popcorn?”
“Of course.”
“Cool.”
I’d been hoping for a little crestfallen. No go.
Cara skipped away. I looked at Bob. He looked at me as if to say, Kids—what can you do?
“Inside,” I said, gesturing toward my daughter. “On the inside, she’s really crushed.”
Bob laughed as my cell phone buzzed. The read-out simply said, NEW JERSEY, but I recognized the number and felt a little jolt. I picked it up and said, “Hello?”
“Nice job today, All-Star.”
“Mr. Governor,” I said.
“That’s not correct.”
“Excuse me?”
“Mr. Governor. You would properly address the President of the United States as Mr. President, but governors are addressed as either Governor or by their last name, for example, Governor Stallion or Governor Chick Magnet.”
“Or,” I said, “how about Governor Anal Compulsive.”
“There’s that.”
I smiled. During my freshman year at Rutgers, I first met (now Governor) Dave Markie at a party. He intimidated me. I was the immigrant’s son. His father was a United States senator. But that was the beauty of college. It is made for strange bedfellows. We ended up becoming close friends.
Dave’s critics could not help but notice this friendship when he appointed me to my current post as Essex County prosecutor. The guv shrugged and pushed me through. I had gotten very good press already, and at the risk of caring about what I shouldn’t care about, today should have helped my possible bid for a congressional seat.
“So, big day, no? You da man. Woo hoo. Go, Cope, go, Cope, it’s your birthday.”
“Trying to appeal to your hip-hop constituency?”
“Trying to understand my teenage daughter. Anyway, congrats.”
“Thanks.”
“I’m still no-commenting this case to death.”
“I’ve never heard you say no-comment in your life.”
“Sure you have, just in creative ways: I believe in our judicial system, all citizens are innocent until proven guilty, the wheels of justice will turn, I am not judge and jury, we should wait for all the facts to come in.”
“Cliché as no comment.”
“Cliché as no comment and every comment,” he corrected. “So how is everything, Cope?”
“Fine.”
“You dating?”
“Some.”
“Dude, you’re single. You’re good-looking. You got some money in the bank. Do you see where I’m going with this?”
“You’re subtle, Dave, but I think I can follow.”
Dave Markie had always been a lady slayer. He was okay-looking, but the man had a gift for pick-up that could be conservatively called dazzling. He had that sort of charisma where he made every woman feel as though she was the most beautiful and fascinating person in the world. It was all an act. He just wanted to nail them. Nothing but. Still, I had never seen anybody better at picking up women.