Page 78 of 28 Summers
“Sorry, man,” Cooper says. “I’m all jammed up.”
Summer #16: 2008
What are we talking about in 2008? Eliot Spitzer; Wisteria Lane, the New York Giants,Dancing with the Stars;the Beijing Olympics; the Kindle;Slumdog Millionaire;SoulCycle; Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac; Wii; Lehman Brothers,High School Musical;the global financial crisis; the election; “Who Would Ever Want to Be King?”
Everyone is focused on who will be the next president of the United States. But not Mallory. She watches the election coverage—Wolf Blitzer on CNN because her beloved Tim Russert passed away in June—only to find out if Ursula de Gournsey unseats incumbent Indiana senator Thomas Castillo.
Why, yes; yes, she does.
Ursula de Gournsey—UDG—is a United States senator.
Summer #17: 2009
What are we talking about in 2009? Bernie Madoff; US Airways Flight 1549 landing in the Hudson River; Springsteen Super Bowl; Somalian pirates; the Nook; Michael Jackson; Sonia Sotomayor; Twitter; barre class; Ted Kennedy; Dunder Mifflin; Tiger Woods; al-Qaeda;The Hangover;“Boom Boom Pow.”
The older Jake gets, the more he realizes that very few situations are purely good or purely bad. Ursula wins her Senate seat, which initially seems purely good. She has launched herself onto an even larger platform, and she secures a coveted spot on the Judiciary Committee. She’s only forty-three years old; her future is bright.
There’s a victory party in Washington held at the Willard Hotel, and all of the donors who gave above a certain level have been invited. Bess has been spared—she’s back at the condo with Prue—but Jake has to stand by his wife and thank every single person who comes through the line. Only about half of these people are from Indiana. The other half are Washington establishment and political operatives, people who use their money to buy influence.
A big man in a double-breasted blazer comes through the line and Ursula murmurs, “Bayer Burkhart, the guy from Newport, and his wife, Dee Dee, in the pink. They’re friends with Vince and Caroline Stengel, remember?”
Jake remembers Newport, the invitation that he declined because it was on Labor Day weekend, yes, but the who-knows-who-from-where has been lost. Obviously Jake knows Vince Stengel, the Rhode Island senator, but has he ever met the wife? He can’t remember. His brain has short-circuited when it comes to meeting people. He knows everybody he needs to know, and even that number can be whittled down to double digits. Low double digits.
Still, Jake plays along. “Hello there, Mr. Burkhart.” He shakes the guy’s huge, powerful hand. “I’m Jake McCloud.”
Bayer tilts his head like he has a crick in his neck. “Jake McCloud. I told your wife this already, but I feel like I’ve met you somewhere. Years ago. Your name is familiar. I’ll figure it out at some point.”
Jake has never seen this guy before in his life. He laughs. “All right, Mr. Burkhart. Thank you for your support.”
Bayer Burkhart holds on to Jake’s hand an instant longer than is socially acceptable—Jake has at least developed an instinct for this much—and he’s still looking at Jake strangely. He thinks he knows him from somewhere. Everyone wants a personal connection, Jake gets it, but come on. He extracts his hand.
A little while later, there’s a familiar face in the line that Jake hasn’t seen in a long time. It’s Cody Mattis, the guy who tried to get Jake a lobbying job with the NRA. Cody has risen in the ranks there. Now he’s the number-two or number-three guy.
But what is he doinghere?“What is Cody Mattis doing here?” Jake asks Ursula. His voice is low but she can probably sense his concern. “You didn’t…Ursula, you didn’t take money from the NRA, did you?” If Cody Mattis is here, then the answer is yes. Even if Ursula didn’t accept money directly from the NRA, she took it from a dark-money source in bed with the NRA. For all Jake knows, Bayer Burkhart is the dark money.
“We’ll talk about it later,” Ursula says.
“Later” is midnight in the condo. Bess is asleep; Prue has gone home after a long day. Jake goes into the dark bedroom, where Ursula is pretending to be asleep.
“Your campaign accepted money from the NRA?” he says.
“Don’t sound so self-righteous,” she says. “You were the one who lined up an interview to work for them.”
“That was ten years ago, Ursula. And I canceled it.”
“Because I told you to,” Ursula says.
“No, because you told me about the shooting in Mulligan, and, using my own moral compass, I decided I didn’t want anything to do with the gun lobby.”
“You’re sounding pretty sanctimonious,” Ursula says.
“How much did you take from them?”
“Seven hundred,” she says, then she clears her throat. “Seven fifty.”
Seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars. “What did you have to promise them in exchange for that money, Ursula?”
She sighs. “You and I both know that Indiana is a pioneer state. Hoosiers like their rifles. All I promised was that I wouldn’t vote to take them away or make them any harder to get.”
