in fact, the whole thing begins to shimmer—and Glenn Burrant, as much as anyone, remains a mystery. After all these years, I don’t know what I would have done if I had known, or at least suspected, what I think he knew.
But that house: it was irresistible. On the one hand, here was Henry Bonwiller, striding across the magnificent bluegrass lawn to a microphone set up on the great porch, while TV reporters milled in the drive: on the other, here was my mother, sitting at the kitchen table re-sewing the seams in my father’s work apron. Here she was, beating the rugs outside our back door or hanging sheets from the line. And here was I, driving Averell Harriman’s Aston Martin with its mahogany gearshift down the short gravel lane to the garage. Taking a set of lambskin-covered keys from Tom Watson, the chairman of IBM. Lining up Henry Bonwiller’s set of dark leather valises on luggage stands in the guest cottage and unzipping them halfway. I hung his dark suits in the closet and propped his hand-sewn Maine shoes on the wooden tree. The shoes of the man who was going to be president! The Senator’s own house was only a half hour away, in Islington, and his wife and family were there, but he had permanent quarters now at Aberdeen West. Two other guest apartments had been set up for his advisors now, as well, men who arrived at all hours from cities on the coast, their black cars wheeling up the drive or their planes touching down behind the trees. Senator Bonwiller’s rooms looked out on the riding ring and the two oblong casting pools behind it, and before going home every evening I made sure a bamboo fly rod was hung by the coat rack and a corkboard of flies was on the sill.
And yet even as it was happening, it was all half unreal to me. I was still surprised, I have to say, every time his dark blue Eldorado rolled down the garden turnaround, still relieved every time Henry Bonwiller emerged from it, shaking hands with Liam Metarey and handing his briefcase to his driver. I suppose from my upbringing I expected some disappointing news to be at hand, some inevitable punishment for this kind of ambition.
One evening, on the library balcony where Christian had invited me after my shift, she said, “Daddy’s going to be secretary of the treasury again.”
Clara snorted. “Daddy’s going to be secretary of the pub.”
The three of us were sitting on iron chairs, looking down over the band tent, where a campaign party was being held. It was the first time Christian had invited me anywhere since the night in the tree, an episode that I still didn’t understand, and I was wary. She wasn’t outside on the bur oak’s iron bench anymore when I finished work in the afternoons, and she wasn’t anywhere in the house—at least, not that I could see—when I arrived in the mornings. But sitting now on the balcony, she looked the same as she always had. And to my relief she acted the same, as though nothing had happened.
Below us, a couple of hundred guests stood on the grass drinking cocktails, and under the entrance awning a jazz trio was playing. Senator Bonwiller and Liam Metarey were speaking privately underneath the stretched guylines outside the tent, and I could see that there were other men waiting nervously to join them. Churchill lay across Christian and Clara, stretched out on their laps like a white stadium blanket they were sharing.
Christian said, “Daddy said Treasury or maybe Interior, Clara.”
“Church agrees with
me
,” said Clara. “He thinks the interior of the pub.” She was drinking something with liquor in it. She kept offering it to us, but since Christian refused, I did too. Gil McKinstrey tended bar at these parties.
“Not at all,” said Christian. “Daddy says Senator Bonwiller will win Iowa or maybe finish second there.”
“Glenn Burrant thinks he has a good chance in New Hampshire, too,” I added. “Even though it’s a conservative state.”
Clara snickered. “We’ve
But that house: it was irresistible. On the one hand, here was Henry Bonwiller, striding across the magnificent bluegrass lawn to a microphone set up on the great porch, while TV reporters milled in the drive: on the other, here was my mother, sitting at the kitchen table re-sewing the seams in my father’s work apron. Here she was, beating the rugs outside our back door or hanging sheets from the line. And here was I, driving Averell Harriman’s Aston Martin with its mahogany gearshift down the short gravel lane to the garage. Taking a set of lambskin-covered keys from Tom Watson, the chairman of IBM. Lining up Henry Bonwiller’s set of dark leather valises on luggage stands in the guest cottage and unzipping them halfway. I hung his dark suits in the closet and propped his hand-sewn Maine shoes on the wooden tree. The shoes of the man who was going to be president! The Senator’s own house was only a half hour away, in Islington, and his wife and family were there, but he had permanent quarters now at Aberdeen West. Two other guest apartments had been set up for his advisors now, as well, men who arrived at all hours from cities on the coast, their black cars wheeling up the drive or their planes touching down behind the trees. Senator Bonwiller’s rooms looked out on the riding ring and the two oblong casting pools behind it, and before going home every evening I made sure a bamboo fly rod was hung by the coat rack and a corkboard of flies was on the sill.
And yet even as it was happening, it was all half unreal to me. I was still surprised, I have to say, every time his dark blue Eldorado rolled down the garden turnaround, still relieved every time Henry Bonwiller emerged from it, shaking hands with Liam Metarey and handing his briefcase to his driver. I suppose from my upbringing I expected some disappointing news to be at hand, some inevitable punishment for this kind of ambition.
One evening, on the library balcony where Christian had invited me after my shift, she said, “Daddy’s going to be secretary of the treasury again.”
Clara snorted. “Daddy’s going to be secretary of the pub.”
The three of us were sitting on iron chairs, looking down over the band tent, where a campaign party was being held. It was the first time Christian had invited me anywhere since the night in the tree, an episode that I still didn’t understand, and I was wary. She wasn’t outside on the bur oak’s iron bench anymore when I finished work in the afternoons, and she wasn’t anywhere in the house—at least, not that I could see—when I arrived in the mornings. But sitting now on the balcony, she looked the same as she always had. And to my relief she acted the same, as though nothing had happened.
Below us, a couple of hundred guests stood on the grass drinking cocktails, and under the entrance awning a jazz trio was playing. Senator Bonwiller and Liam Metarey were speaking privately underneath the stretched guylines outside the tent, and I could see that there were other men waiting nervously to join them. Churchill lay across Christian and Clara, stretched out on their laps like a white stadium blanket they were sharing.
Christian said, “Daddy said Treasury or maybe Interior, Clara.”
“Church agrees with
me
,” said Clara. “He thinks the interior of the pub.” She was drinking something with liquor in it. She kept offering it to us, but since Christian refused, I did too. Gil McKinstrey tended bar at these parties.
“Not at all,” said Christian. “Daddy says Senator Bonwiller will win Iowa or maybe finish second there.”
“Glenn Burrant thinks he has a good chance in New Hampshire, too,” I added. “Even though it’s a conservative state.”
Clara snickered. “We’ve
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