Benchley, Peter - Novel 06 (33 page)

 
          
 
"You don't smell at all, of
anything."

 
          
 
"Well ... I had taken a shower, and my
clothes were clean."

 
          
 
"Not even soap. Or laundry detergent. You
have a non-smell."

 
          
 
"That's why WASPS have trouble with
girls. We don't leave a spoor."

 
          
 
"You had trouble with girls? I don't
believe it."

 
          
 
Burnham was flattered. He didn't delude
himself about his looks. He was good-looking, in an antiseptic, Protestant way—
tall, well proportioned, symmetrical, unblemished. But not intriguing-looking.
He didn't turn heads.

 
          
 
The main course arrived, which was fine with
Burnham, because the conversation was traveling into undiscovered country from
which, he worried, he might not find a return.

 
          
 
The food was as mysterious as the
soup—multicolored vegetable-like things bathed in a spicy sauce and dotted here
and there with chunks of meat-textured delicacies. Like the soup, it tasted
nourishing, worthy. But it also contained surprises: hidden bits of pepper that
ambushed the tongue and made Burnham gasp.

 
          
 
"'Are you married?" Eva asked
suddenly.

 
          
 
"I guess."

 
          
 
You turkey! Burnham assailed himself. Why did
you say that? What do you want to do, spill your guts about your troubles with
Sarah, about the bug in the car, about the fact that she kicked you out of your
own house?

 
          
 
"You guess!''

 
          
 
"I said 'yes,' " Burnham said.
"My mouth was on fire.'

 
          
 
"Oh." She nodded. "The good men
are."

 
          
 
The conversation was escalating in spite of him.
He knew he should try to turn it around, but, at the same time, he didn't want
to.

 
          
 
Suddenly he noticed that his fingertips felt
warm. Not tingly, as they did when he hyperventilated, just warm. His earlobes,
too, and a patch down each side of his neck. He assumed that these were the
first signs of an allergic reaction to something in the food. He put down his
fork, and he waited.

 
          
 
"Something wrong?" Eva said.

 
          
 
"I don't know." He paused. "No,
I don't think so."

 
          
 
And then a rush of warmth, of mild euphoria,
flooded his guts, as if a dam of goodness had burst inside him. He was suffused
with a sensation of calm and well-being and—as he looked across the table at
Eva—gratitude and generosity and affection. None of which made any sense.

 
          
 
"What's in this stuff?" he said.

 
          
 
"Nothing. Why?"

 
          
 
"I feel . . ."

 
          
 
"What?"

 
          
 
"I don't know. Fabulous!"

 
          
 
"What, you mean high?"

 
          
 
"No! Yes! I'm not . . . Just
fabulous."

 
          
 
Eva looked at him, and in her eyes Burnham saw
a great deal more knowledge than she was willing to share with him. "I
told you to trust me," she said.

 
          
 
"Holy smokes." Burnham sat back and
closed his eyes, letting the wonderful feeling wash over him.

 
          
 
"Hey!" a man's voice called out,
shattering Burnham's peace. "Somebody here named Bums?"

 
          
 
Burnham opened his eyes. The man stood in the
door of the men's room.

 
          
 
"Anybody here named Bums?" the man
said again.

 
          
 
"I'm Burnham."

 
          
 
"Yeah, well, whatever. There's a call for
you."

 
          
 
Under his breath, Burnham whispered,
"Shit." He took a couple of deep breaths and stood up, holding onto
the table just in case.

 
          
 
Eva stood up, too, and took his hand.
"Are you okay?"

 
          
 
"Sure." Burnham grinned. "My
pretty poisoner."

 
          
 
The receiver was dangling from the phone box.
Burnham picked it up and said, "Hello."

 
          
 
"Mr. Burnham?" It was a White House
operator.

 
          
 
"Yes."

 
          
 
"One moment, please, for the
President."

 
          
 
The word "No!" burst unsummoned from
Burnham's mouth. He couldn't talk to the President, not here. You don't talk to
the President of the
United States
from a public toilet in a Viemamese
hashhouse.

 
          
 
"I beg your pardon?"

 
          
 
"I . . ."

 
          
 
"One moment, please."

 
          
 
There were two clicks on the phone line, and
then a voice said, "Timothy?"

 
          
 
Evelyn Witt. Thank God.

 
          
 
"Hi, Evelyn."

 
          
 
"Where are you?"

 
          
 
"Ah . . . around the corner. Getting a
sandwich."

 
          
 
Peter Benchley

 
          
 
"How soon can you be back?*'

 
          
 
"Couple minutes."

 
          
 
"Good. The President wants to see
you."

 
          
 
"When."

 
          
 
"Five minutes ago."

 
          
 
"I'm on my way."

 
          
 
"Good."

 
          
 
Burnham had almost replaced the receiver when
he heard Evelyn say, "Timothy?"

 
          
 
"Huh?"

 
          
 
"If he asks, you were in a meeting over
at State. That's why it took you a few minutes to get back."

 
          
 
"Okay. Who was I meeting with?"

 
          
 
"Anybody. It's just that, in the mood
he's in today, our rights to life, liberty and the pursuit of food do not
exist."

 
          
 
"Thanks, Evelyn."

 
          
 
Burnham hung up, checked in the mirror to make
sure his tie was straight, and returned to the table.

 
          
 
"Problems?" Eva said.

 
          
 
"Apparently. Himself has been scouring
the town for me."

 
          
 
"I thought you said a writer's life was
boring."

 
          
 
"It is, usually. But for some reason,
I've suddenly become a critical cog in the machinery of the Republic."

 
          
 
"The caterpillar becomes a
butterfly."

 
          
 
"Right." Burnham tried to smile.
"And you know how long butterflies live. Anyway, I've got to go. I'm
really sorry." He reached for his wallet.

 
          
 
Eva held up her hand. "Your money's no
good here. My treat."

 
          
 
"Can we play again?"

 
          
 
"Any time."

 
          
 
Burnham hurried toward the door, shouldering
his way through the crowd at the takeout counter, muttering "Excuse me,
excuse me." Halfway down the aisle, he suddenly stopped and turned back,
muttering to the annoyed people he shoved aside, "Forgot my wallet."

 
          
 
"I don't know how to get hold of
you," he said to Eva.

 
          
 
She handed him a slip of paper on which she
had written her name, address and phone number, and she smiled warmly and said,
"I thought you'd never ask."

 
          
 
Outside, Burnham ran, for he was not around
the comer, he was a full five blocks from the White House.

 
          
 
Sergeant Thibaudeaux saw him coming from a
block away—a tall, thin figure running flat-out toward the West Gate of the
White House, hair flying, tie askew, coattails trailing like a cape. He didn't
recognize Burnham at first, so he stepped outside the guardhouse, put his right
hand on the butt of his pistol and, with his left hand, held the bulletproof
door of the guardhouse open between himself and the approaching man.

 
          
 
Assume everybody's a loon, was Sergeant
Thibaudeaux's motto, and you'll make it to supper without being blowed up.

 
          
 
Burnham tried to dash through the gate without
stopping, but Sergeant Thibaudeaux stood resolutely in his way. Even though he
now recognized Burnham, he wasn't about to take any chances: For all he knew.
Mr. B. had come unwrapped that very morning and got himself fired and had his
pass lifted.

 
          
 
Frantically, Burnham searched his pockets for
his pass, spilling coins and lint balls and bits of paper onto the pavement.
"The President wants to see me!" he said.

 
          
 
"Who told you, your hair dryer?"
Sergeant Thibaudeaux rocked back on his heels, appreciating himself.

 
          
 
At last, Burnham found his pass in his shirt
pocket, flashed it at the sergeant, and continued up the path.

 
          
 
The air-conditioning in the West Wing was running
on its afterburners, and Burnham felt that he had walked into a meat locker.
The sweat on his forehead dried and caked his soaking hair into ringlets. His
shirt stuck to his armpits.

 
          
 
He turned into a lavatory, straightened his
tie, dried his face and ran his fingers through his hair. His hands were
shaking. He checked his pulse: 140. He had just eaten, so he shouldn't be at
risk for a sugar crisis. Trouble was, he had no idea what had been in the food.
It had made him feel terrific, but that didn't mean sugar, necessarily.