Win (Windsor Horne Lockwood III #1)(72)

“Yes.”

“Not much hesitation there,” she says.

“None.”

“Almost like you’ve been in that situation before.”

I see no reason to reply. Like I said before, I don’t really know Patricia, and she doesn’t really know me.

*



Years ago, I was at a private weekend “retreat” with a number of Washington, DC, politico types, including Senator Ted Kennedy. The location of said retreat is confidential, so the most I can tell you is that it was held in the Philadelphia area. On the final night, there was a party where—I kid you not—the United States senators took turns performing a karaoke number. I admired it, truth be told. The senators looked like fools, as we all do when we perform karaoke, and they didn’t care.

But back to Ted Kennedy.

I forget what song Ted—even though we had just met, he insisted I call him that—chose. It was something from the Motown family. It may have been “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough.” Or was that Barbara Boxer? Or did Ted and Barbara do it as a duet like Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell? I can’t remember. Anyway, even though we disagreed on many issues, Ted was ridiculously charming and fun. He drank at the party. A lot. He started to stumble-dance, and if he didn’t put a lampshade on his head, it was only because he was too drunk. By the end of the night, Ted needed to lean on a loved one to get through the door and find his room.

Why am I telling you this?

Because the next morning, I had to depart the retreat early. I woke up at 5:30 a.m. and hit the breakfast room at six. When I arrived, only one person was up. You guessed it.

“Good morning, Win!” Ted called out to me. “Sit with me.”

He was reading the Washington Post with a cup of coffee, a mountain of food on the plate in front of him. Ted was clear-eyed and showered and wide awake. We had a spirited discussion on a variety of topics, but the gist is this: I have never seen someone handle spirits quite like that, and I don’t know whether that was a positive or negative.

My guess is, it was a negative.

The long and short of my name-dropping tale? I am very good at handling spirits. But I’m no Ted Kennedy. My head aches when I wake up. I let out a low groan and as though on cue, there is a knock on my door.

“Good morning!”

It is Nigel. I groan again.

“How are we this morning?”

“Your voice,” I manage.

“What about it?”

“It soothes like a jackhammer against a cranial nerve.”

“Are we hungover, Master Win? Be grateful. I brought you my top-secret cure.”

He drops two pills into my palm and hands me a glass.

“It looks like aspirin and orange juice,” I say.

“Shh, I’m thinking of applying for a patent. Should I open the curtains?”

“Only if you want to get shot.”

“Cousin Patricia is getting dressed.”

Nigel leaves the room. I shower for a very long time and get dressed. Patricia is gone by the time I get downstairs. I down a quick breakfast with my father. The conversation is stilted, but that’s not a surprise. When I’m done, I head out to see Edie Parker’s mother and Billy Rowan’s father at the Crestmont Assisted Living Village in New Jersey.

Mrs. Parker gave me her first name, but I don’t recall what it was. I like to use titles, such as Mr. or Mrs., when I converse with my elders. It is how I was raised. The three of us are in Mr. Rowan’s room, which has all the warmth of a dermatologist’s office. The colors are beyond-bland beige and golf-club green. The décor is Contemporary Evangelical—plain wooden crosses, tranquil religious canvas prints of Jesus, wooden signs with biblical quotes like PUT GOD FIRST, which is cited as Matthew 6:33, and one that really catches my eye from Micah 7:18:





FORGIVE AND FORGET




An interesting choice, no? Does Mr. Rowan really believe that, or does he need the daily reminder? Does he look up on that wall every day and think about his son? Has he come to terms with it? Or is it more the flip side? Does Mr. Rowan embrace this particular passage in the hope that the victims of the Jane Street Six will pay heed?

Mr. Rowan is in a wheelchair. Mrs. Parker sits next to him. They hold hands.

“He can’t speak,” Mrs. Parker tells me. “But we still communicate.”

I assume that I am supposed to ask how, but I’m not all that interested.

“He squeezes my hand,” she tells me anyway.

“I see,” I say, though I don’t. How does squeezing a hand lead to genuine communication? Does he squeeze once for yes and two for no? Does he squeeze out some kind of Morse code? I would ask, but again I can’t see the relevance for me or what I’m after here. I soldier on.

“How did you and Mr. Rowan meet?” I ask.

“Through my Edie and his Billy.”

“May I ask when?”

“When…” She makes a fist and puts it up to her mouth. We both look at Mr. Rowan. He stares at me. I don’t know what, if anything, he sees. Oxygen cannulas run from his nostrils to a tank attached to the right side of his wheelchair. “When Edie and Billy disappeared.”

“Billy and Edie were dating though, yes?”

“Oh, more than that,” Mrs. Parker says. “They were engaged.”