Fly on the Wall

Jason rolls around the house to the grassy parking lot. It’s full of cars. Full. Bursting. He’s got to weave in and out before he finds a place. Great idea, being the last one in. Great.

In the back seat, Sheba is wearing a very short Greek tunic. Her legs are bare, and she has strappy sandals on her feet. She and her father had what you might almost call a spat, back at the house. The dress was too short. She did not look like a child; she looked like a woman. She was not a woman; she was only twelve years old. She was popping out on top (not from any bra, either - from exuberant youth). And her hair was up. What did that mean? It’s Grecian, she told him.

“In one week, I’m going to be thirteen. Thirteen. Teen, Dad. I’ll be a teen-ager. Teen-agers wear what they want to, not what their parents tell them to.”

Was it true? Next week was her birthday. Yes. Thirteen came after twelve. In a week he would have a teenage daughter.

“You’re not a teen-ager yet. You’re still a child. Go upstairs and put on something decent.”

“Mom said I could wear it.”

Oh. Salome of the seven veils said she could wear it. He’d lost the battle before it began.

All through the ride, he’d caught Sheba catching glimpses of herself in the mirror, while Zeke provided a running commentary on the cars on the road, entranced by the new little Smartcars that look like toys.

Jason pulled in past the last car. They got out and walked back to the house. There was no one outside, it having turned hot. There was no one to greet them. Who was he, anyway? The chauffeur. Madam hadn’t said a word to him the whole ride.

They walked up the broad steps, through the big doors and a small foyer, into a room with a stone fireplace that went all the way up to a far-away cathedral ceiling. In front of it, behind a large table, stood the lady of the house.

Nina had come as a canary, in a puffy yellow dress. She moved like one too, hopping deftly from guest to guest with glasses of what was probably going to be their downfall today, whoever they were. If anyone knew, he did. Mitchell Wagman was a master of the dark art of dosing, and his wife his accomplished accomplice.

His children had disappeared. Gone to find Mommy, most likely. Sheba was obviously looking for the limelight, and that would be where it was. He spotted Zeke talking to a little dog. There was nothing for him to do but move further in.

Nina saw him before he could slip quietly by her. He didn’t intend to drink. Not a drop. He pretended not to see her waving hand, and walked past the table, only to have her reach out and grab his arm as he was almost clear.

“Hello, stranger,” she said. “Feeling left out?”

He couldn’t manage to deny it in time. “Here,” she said. “This will make it better.” She gave him a glass of the pink punch. What the hell. She was probably right. It would make him feel better, and it was only punch. Old ladies drank punch. How could it hurt him? He badly wanted something.

He took it, took a sip and let himself look around. On the other side of a curved staircase, a humongous room opened up. It was full of people. He couldn’t even spot Brenda. Sheba was nowhere to be seen, but Zeke was still with the little dog, talking away, telling him who-knows-what.

We’re going to spend some time at this party, folks. I like parties. Never want to go, but once I’m there, I have a good time. So do the room with me, please. Let’s see what the members of the cabal are up to.

Over there, is Adele the Adorable, in the purple dress, meant to set off and yet support, the candidate, her light and airy Lady Lavender. She’s over at the wall of windows, but she’s not looking out. She’s twinkling up at Michael Isaacson, one of the congressmen. The Jewish congressman, in case you’re post-racial, and can’t tell. Very active member of Congress, an independent cuss (a lot of those Jews are), he’s got himself a reputation for being bi-partisan. Pro-woman, pro-military (those Jews are a belligerent bunch), the man’s a Blue Dog Democrat. Stood with Bush at Ground Zero. Isaacson wants to attack the Middle East problems through the schools. That’s why he’s here.

“You can’t do anything,” he’s telling Adele, “if a nation is bringing up its children to hate you. We’ve got to get into the schools and change them around.”

“That’s exactly what Brenda thinks,” Adele says, never having spoken to Brenda on the matter. “The schools are where citizens are made. Not only here, but there.” She assures him, with her easy, affable smile, that Brenda will be solid on all his issues. She reinforces this benefit by moving in close, looking up into his eyes and sweetly radiating her sincerity.

The place is packed, and we can hear fragments of other conversations, so we’ll move around and eavesdrop on some.

Nat Grogan, policy wonk, in a black and white striped suit is haranguing Nicole Evans, a black, but not African, American “congresswoman”. (She, taking the opposite stance from Brenda’s, insists upon “congresswoman” for the same reason Brenda insists upon “congressman”.)

Nat’s subject is Nigeria. Nicole, a cute, chunky 44 year old, is descended from a long-ago generation of successful Caribbean immigrants. She barely knows Jamaica, let alone Nigeria. Her passions are women and children. She gets smaller classes and more computers for kids, upgrades ghettoes, and like Brenda, would like to teach the world to sing in perfect harmony. While she’s lending an ear to Nat, her eyes are searching for Brenda, who holds, for her, the hope that she has found a sister.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the room, Wagman, who had been shepherding Brenda from group to group, introducing her, then snatching her away, has left her, for the first time, on her own, with a director of the NEA, the long arm of the teachers, the National Education Association, America’s largest teachers union.

He’s Ed Bradley. Good looking, and slippery as an eel. His eyes look like Spock’s, but he has no Vulcan or Oriental blood; they turn up like James Carville’s, and the Devil’s, out of pure conceit. He’s a smoothie. “So you’re the young woman who’s going to carry our banner into the war,” he says, looking her up, but not down. After the inspection, his eyes linger on hers, teasingly.

She doesn’t fall for it. “You watch your step, young man,” she says. “I’m a strict old schoolmarm who deplores war.” The lightly lewd smile is wiped off his face. “I see,” he says. But he likes it. “You may rap my knuckles with a ruler,” he says. “Anytime.”

They get no more than those few seconds to establish their relationship. Mary Steele, of a local newspaper sticks her hand past Bradley and introduces herself. “May I ask you a question?” No sooner has she said it, than three other newshounds appear behind her, tiny notebooks in hand, two men and a woman.

For a moment, Brenda’s heart plunges again, but she remembers her discovery on the way in. These people are all drunk. She is sober. They can’t have their way with her, they’re nothing worse than a rambunctious class, and she’s been handling those for fifteen years.

“Ask away,” she says to Mary, ignoring the press of the others, who are hanging on her words.

It’s a surprise question. Nothing to do with education.

“How do you feel about Sonya Sotomayor?” Mary asks, a “gotcha” look on her sharp face.

Sotomayor? Oh, yes, that tremendously ugly woman. Where had they found anyone so ugly? Not since Janet Reno… Worse. A pity more pretty women didn’t go into politics. And isn’t she a bit of a racist? Why should Spanish women have any better judgment than any other women? The women part she would grant. Men were too emotional. They had that territorial thing that prevented them from really co-operating.

“I think she’ll be a fine Supreme Court justice,” she says. Taking Ed Bradley’s unoffered arm, she walks away as though he’s leading her. She doesn’t want to be unavailable, but there’s a short press conference scheduled for after the speech, and she doesn’t want to waste the good questions.

That portly man they’re passing, the one impeccably dressed in the latest fashion, is Sid Sachs who owns the largest mall in the district. He’s trying not to talk to a reporter about Wal-Mart, but the reporter, notebook in hand and pen poised, is point-blank asking him for a quote.

“Get out of my face,” says Sachs. “I don’t want to talk to you.”

“May I quote you Mr. Sachs?” says the reporter. Sachs doesn’t answer. “There’s a rumor that you’re going to buy up the land Wal-Mart is looking to lease. Is that because you politically oppose Wal-Mart, or because you’re afraid of the competition?”

“That’s like asking me if I’ve stopped beating my wife,” Sid says, trying to escape with a humorous reference. But the reporter lights up, and asks, “And have you?” He thinks he’s onto something. He’s too young to have heard the phrase, and too dumb to figure out its meaning.

Small groups are beginning to form, voices getting louder with the punch and the liquor. Everybody is holding a glass of something.

A couple of bankers in the district are comparing sad notes, shaking their heads, looking generally forlorn amidst the hub-bub. Even the ones who still have control of their banks don’t know how long they’ll have it. We hear Edwin Meyers say to Barry Fitzgerald, “Municipal is going under. Frank’s announcing it tomorrow.” Let’s move on. These guys are depressing.

Gathered around the back of the long couch that faces the window is an animated group consisting of Muriel Wang, the superintendent of schools, and therefore Wagman’s boss, Samuels, head of the local teacher’s union, and Chauncey Donahue, distant devotee of education, basking in their erudition.

Gary Sutton, who according to Wagman on the night of the Orange Duck, had once been arrested for mooning a busload of people when the driver refused to open his doors at a red light, is telling them a story about his cousin Mitchell and an airline stewardess. Ms. Wang is frowning. She’d been infatuated with Wagman at the time of this happening. Not knowing, or perhaps knowing well, Samuelson is egging Sutton on.

The rest of the friends and relatives are hanging together in clumps of two or more, with orders not to engage any of the other guests, not to give away secrets, and without being rude, not to fraternize with the other guests.

The pitch of the voices has reached its peak. It sounds like everybody’s talking at once. You might call it a din, wouldn’t you say? When clang, clang, clang, someone bangs on a glass, relentlessly, until the noise begins to subside.

It’s Wagman, standing in front of the windows. Slowly, the revelry comes to an end. The room is down to a quiet buzz. “And now, ladies and gentlemen, what you’ve come for. A few words from the star of the show, Brenda Shapiro, your next congressman.”