The Rise & Fall of Great Powers (27 page)

Her life among the students seemed so distant and frivolous when she was with Venn. Those kids had no clue—all their debates about the left and the right, as if ideology mattered anymore. Despite their dinner-table bravado, none of them would have stepped in to help that battered man back there, though all would have wanted to. But Venn intervened. He didn’t act for praise; he cared nothing of what people thought. Nor did he fear spittle or punches, if suffering them was necessary in order to live as he intended.

They reached Times Square, where the glittering ball drop and the fireworks installations were in place, vendors hawking Year 2000 paraphernalia, tourists stumbling around in sensory overload. She and Venn passed unnoticed through the crowd. They could have chosen almost any of these strangers and spun them in knots within minutes. Venn and she had engineered many people in the past. It was intoxicating, the unholy control of another human. They never did so with cruel ends, however—engineering another’s fate was not necessarily destructive. Often, Venn knew better than they what was best. After all, he had been engineering her for years.

2011

A
FTER HER
A
NZIO TRIP
, Tooly phoned Duncan. She wanted to see Humphrey again and was coming back. Duncan was relieved—“Got worried you’d left me with this situation,” he said—and insisted that she save on New York hotels by staying in their basement. She, in turn, insisted on helping out while there.

This proved timely because Bridget was about to start her new part-time job, which left a gap in the ferrying of Mac to his summer courses at the YMCA each morning. Thankfully, the triplets didn’t require a driver to their day camp, enjoying transportation courtesy of various peer admirers, whose moms shuttled them everywhere. “Abi, Mads, and Chlo are the rockstars of third grade,” Duncan explained. Mac enjoyed no such fan base. He had not even been invited to a birthday party in several years.

That first day, Tooly dropped him outside the Y and parked the family minivan at the train station, commencing her two-hour commute to south Brooklyn. She intended to get Humphrey reading again, out of that room, out of his torpor. He still had moments of clarity, according to Duncan.

“Hello,” she said, closing the door after herself. “I came back.”

“Okay,” he replied from his armchair.

“Not pleased to see me?” She stood at his window, daylight silhouetting her. “I flew back over the ocean so we could spend a few days together and talk. I’d like to discuss some things with you, Humph. Okay? And we can go out, too—fresh air, walks, chess possibly. When you’re ready, we’ll talk.”

“Don’t know what you’re saying.” She found his hearing aid by the sink and helped him insert it. He stuffed his hands between his thighs, blinking toward the convex reflection in the switched-off television. “Is there coffee?”

“Let me make you a cup.” She did so in the communal kitchen, returning with two mugs of Nescafé, his abundantly sugared. He raised the coffee, lips twitching to meet the mug.

She looked into her own cup, stared at the black liquid. Hearing him speak—Russian accent gone—incensed her anew. She mentioned her visit with Sarah. “You know who I’m talking about,” she said. “Don’t you?”

“Frankly,” he responded, “I find your questions strange.”

She left him for a few minutes to finish his drink and occupied herself by organizing his books by subject. Yelena had lined them up by size—tall with tall, short with short—creating peculiar neighbors: Plato’s
Republic
beside
The Ultimate Food Processor Cookbook
beside
Selected Cautionary Verses
by Hilaire Belloc, each a long-lost acquaintance of Tooly’s (“The Chief Defect of Henry King/Was chewing little bits of String”).

Humphrey mumbled something.

“What?” she asked, arms laden with volumes.

“Relieved to see you again.”

“What’s that?” she said, stalling because the remark upset her.

“I’m relieved to see you.”

“That’s nice, Humphrey.” She spoke louder than intended.

“I have a problem with my memory,” he said. “It’s uneven. Depends what cells are attacked. Blood doesn’t flow in that direction. But I don’t want to exaggerate the problem.” His lips smacked together; he took a breath.

Her pocket rang. She took out the cellphone: Bridget calling, with an apology and a plea. Starting her new job was requiring nightmarish admin, and the tech guy still hadn’t set up her laptop. As an exceptional favor, could Tooly pick up Mac this afternoon?

So, all the way back to Connecticut she went. Outside the main
doors of the Y, the pudgy boy waited. She tapped the horn of the minivan, opened the passenger door. He failed to notice, so she parked and walked over. Mac recognized her only when she was three steps away. “Oh,” he said shyly. “Hi.”

“Were you waiting long?”

“Don’t think so.”

“Went well today?”

He nodded, and she handed him a banana, having bought two from a grocery store outside the Sheepshead Bay subway. Mac peeled his oddly, not like a blooming flower but removing a single strip all the way down, then finding nowhere to put it. He looked for a garbage can, as if one might materialize amid the parking spaces. In distraction, he dropped the rest of the banana on the tarmac, then crouched and resumed peeling, one strip at a time, right there on the ground. How odd, this boy. “Come on,” she said gently. To spare his evident embarrassment, she kept walking toward the vehicle.

Mac hurried after, catching her hand, but only for a few strides. “Whoops—I’m not supposed to do that.”

“Why not? You’re allowed to with me.”

When Bridget arrived home, she changed into civvies and debriefed Tooly on her first day at the law firm. While she chatted, the long-faced triplets yanked at their mother’s jean pockets. “There’s going to be a revolution,” Bridget warned, and stepped away for a bit of blender-grinding and oven-checking, then returned to the conversation. Talk of the job shifted to her anxieties about Mac, who was being left behind at this new school, already his third. “But boys are always slow to get going. He seems smart to you, right?” she suggested. “Was he being good when you picked him up?”

“Absolutely fine.” She recounted the banana anecdote, thinking it endearing.

But Bridget looked so disappointed.

The triplets scowled at Tooly, then at their mother, who detailed Mac’s troubles and his diagnosis of TDD (temper dysregulation disorder with dysphoria), which his psychiatrist was managing with Seroquel,
Azaleptin, and Lamictal, a cocktail that left the boy sluggish and dissociated and had doubled his weight—but otherwise seemed as if it might be working. Bridget was so connected to her son, tortured by anything that afflicted him, yet powerless to suffer it on his behalf. It didn’t occur to her that it could be unwise to speak openly of one child’s flaws before his siblings, who were likely to report it back, possibly with malice. At least Mac wasn’t present, having disappeared downstairs to snoop at Tooly’s things, which was fair game as far as she was concerned. She’d have done the same had a strange grown-up invaded her home.

When the tuna melt was served, Tooly excused herself, claiming to have eaten earlier. In truth, she just needed a break—wasn’t accustomed to so many people at once. And she had resolved to intrude as little as possible during her stay, planning to skip their meals (only partly because eating with a YouTube soundtrack made her want to scream into her sleeve). But, as soon as dinner ended upstairs, Mac came down to the music room and watched her tune the ukulele. “Want to try?” she asked.

“I’m supposed to be doing piano,” he said, pointing at the Yamaha keyboard in the corner.

“Oh, sorry—I’m in your way.”

“You want to play with me?”

“I can’t really sight-read music,” she explained. “I just battle at this piece by Rossini. It’s all I know.”

“I mean play Xbox.”

“What does that involve?” She found herself being pulled upstairs.

Still puzzling over game-controller buttons, Tooly was already riddled with bullets. Duncan appeared in the doorway, eating a microwaved burrito and checking his BlackBerry, still in suit and tie. “How’s it hanging?” he asked, mouth full, flopping on the couch and turning the plasma screen to a news channel.

“We were playing!” Mac complained. Finding no recourse, the boy departed.

Duncan switched among CNN, Fox News, MSNBC, and CNBC,
appearing to scrutinize Tooly with faint irritation. “Do you work out?”

“I walk. Does that count?”

“I sit on the train. Does that count?” It seemed to: he had spread, especially in the sitting regions. “You notice many changes in your body from walking?”

“To be honest, Duncan, I make it a policy not to look below my neck. I try to keep all this area”—she indicated from collarbones down—“free of major injury, but I don’t see any reason to actually look at it. Hey, it might be terrible to ask this, but you don’t have a small drink I could steal, do you?”

“Wait here.” He rose from the couch. He thumbed in a text. He looked at her. “Why did I just get up?”

“Drinks.”

“What? Oh, right. Some old wine in the fridge, possibly? I could open something.”

“Not just for me,” she protested, her voice fading from lack of conviction. She did want a drink; this day had constricted her.

He returned from the kitchen with a bottle of Beck’s for her, then lay on the floor, raised the volume on CNN, and checked both cellphones at once, each intermittently bleeping, as if the two devices were communicating with each other. “The girls just texted me that you play the ukulele. What’s up with that?”

“That’s thanks to you—you’re the one who got me into music.”

He pointed the remote at a couple of debating pundits. “The Bush crew were right on one count: people in this country
don’t
live in the reality-based community.”

Bridget appeared in the doorway. “I sense a state-of-the-Union rant,” she warned Tooly. “Listening not advised.” She asked her husband, “Are we going to have your decline-of-Western-civilization thing now, where you end up railing against call centers?”

“I’ll try not to drag the call centers into it. But, parenthetically, call centers do mark the decline of Western civilization.”

Tooly laughed.

“I’m not actually kidding.”

Bridget looked at Tooly. “He’s actually not.”

“Explain,” Tooly said.

“ ‘Explain’ is the single most dangerous word to utter in front of my husband.”

“Okay, here’s my theory. So, like, in the past,” he began, “when the American people acted like dumb-asses, it actually didn’t matter. Because we were being led by smart-asses, right? But now we’re basically run by lobbyists and pollsters, while Congress is a bunch of squabbling brats. So when the people act like dumb-asses today it matters. We had the war on terrorism, the war in Iraq, the war in Afghanistan. We’re going broke buying these billion-dollar drones to chase a bunch of clowns through the Pakistani tribal areas. Meantime, every serious country is burning past us.”

“You make it sound like a race,” Tooly said.

“That’s what it is. There’s, like, one point two billion Chinese, and they want what we got. They become as rich as we are? Well, they just can’t. We’re at war already. You hear this stuff about hacking? I guarantee you, China has a zillion geniuses stapled to their desktops figuring out how to ram us. Look how they’re hoarding our debt. We basically mortgaged this country to Beijing.”

“I remember people saying doomsday stuff like this in the 1980s,” Tooly noted. “How America was falling apart and Japan was going to run the world.”

“Japan was a boutique. China is the whole shopping mall,” he replied. “Our country was in charge of the world for a few seconds. So what did we do? Bitch-slapped Milosevic and Saddam, let global warming go out of control, and convinced the world that we’re a bunch of whack-job crusaders. And went broke doing it. That’s the story of our generation—the peak and the collapse, all in twenty years.”

“I don’t actually mind the U.S. not being in charge anymore,” Bridget commented. “Not like we did such a great job with that whole superpower thing.”

“You think that
we
suck at it?” Duncan responded. “Check out the competition. You want Russia and China running stuff? Russia is, like, the scariest place in the sort-of-free world. And the Chinese will sabotage every climate-change proposal till they’ve had their fair turn at fucking the planet.”

“Language.”

“But, Duncan, I don’t get where you stand,” Tooly said.

“He’s an against-everyone guy,” Bridget said.

“All politicians in this country are forms of Blagojevich,” he said.

“Obama isn’t,” Bridget said, trying to wrestle the remote from him as he switched to Fox News.

“Obama’s from Illinois,” he said. “A politician cannot come from Illinois and be clean.”

“Isn’t that where Lincoln was from?”

“Yeah, and you saw what they did to him.”

“Well,
I
think Obama is clean,” Bridget said.

“His feet are clean from all that water you think he walks on,” Duncan said. “Today’s leaders aren’t at the standards of the past. Nowhere near.”

“Hmm,” Tooly began hesitantly, wondering whether to speak her mind. “I don’t know,” she said. “Just, I always wonder if all this stuff about decline is false nostalgia—as if the old days were full of people opening doors for each other and memorizing poetry and playing the piano.”

“That’s exactly how I imagine the old days!” Duncan said, laughing.

“People in the old days were as rotten as people now, don’t you think?” she continued. “They were probably
more
ignorant and violent. There were great people back then—I’m sure your grandparents were very nice, especially to you, their grandson. But people from the Greatest Generation also spent a fair bit of time abusing and enslaving each other. No?”

“You think this current period is so fantastic?” he retorted. “Everything is progress everywhere?”

“Not progress or decline. I just think most people probably have a few years at their peak, and attribute to that period all the hope and wholesomeness they had then. Once their moment has passed, everything seems in decline.”