My only objection was his choice of where to sit. I’d made room for him next to me, but he slid in on Jeff Slade’s side. It was the oddest feeling, the two of them next to each other, both facing me. I thought of that Sesame Street song about how one thing is not like the others.
Before we ordered from the menu, Jeff announced that this would be his treat. I started to object, but Tim said, “Kate, don’t be rude.” I shut up because Tim was right.
Jeff ordered what I ordered, the grilled chicken salad, and Tim went for a bacon cheeseburger with twice-dipped fries.
During the meal, Jeff talked all about Jeff. He spoke about his show, which Tim claimed we’d seen and liked. “It’s your best work,” Tim said. Jeff looked in my direction. I nodded.
“You don’t know what that means to me,” Jeff said.
We saw plenty of pictures of Jeff’s new dog, the ineptly named Korky, a Great Dane with a disturbingly large penis. We saw pictures of his new car—a Mercedes-Benz SUV—and his new house, a 1920s Spanish villa-looking structure, red tile roof, once home to none other than Zsa Zsa Gabor. It was your typical movie-star mansion. What was atypical was that it belonged to someone we knew.
“It’s just a house,” Jeff said with humility. “It doesn’t make a person happy.”
I wasn’t sure if he believed that to be true.
Tim listened intently, appearing fascinated by everything Jeff Slade had to say. On several occasions, during our Jeff-dominated conversation, Tim found a way to segue in my direction—from a discreet mention of my work to what the boys were like and how we enjoyed life in the Heights. Later, Tim became so frustrated that he out-and-out bragged about the grants Bruno and I were going to give away. Of course, Jeff countered that he’d been recently approached by Make-A-Wish, which caused Tim to snap and say, “But Kate is actually doing something . . .”
I reached under the table and squeezed Tim’s knee.
It was that kind of night. Annoyed one moment, relieved the next. But it went well, considering, and it probably would have continued going well if it weren’t for a cell phone. When it rang, Jeff flipped open the receiver and pushed talk only to realize he and I had the same ring.
Digging through my purse, I found my phone. The caller ID was flashing our home number, and I answered. Pearl, our babysitter, sounded worried. Teddy had come down with a fever, and while she was taking his temperature, he’d thrown up all over his pajamas. I asked if he was all right, and she said, “He’s doing fine, considering,” and that he was asking for Daddy.
I told her I’d be right home.
TIM
HUBERT HUMPHREY, FORMER VICE PRESIDENT, EX-SENATOR FROM MINNESOTA, AND Democratic candidate for president in 1968, was a patient at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester on and off in the spring of 1978, while undergoing radiation and chemotherapy for a quick-spreading cancer of the bladder that would soon claim his life. One evening while being visited by his devoted wife, Muriel, and other loved ones, he said he was feeling very tired, so they hugged and kissed him good night. On the way out, Muriel informed the nurse that the vice president was not to be disturbed. Desperate for sleep, Humphrey himself dialed up the switchboard to make sure they would turn off his phone. With the promise that they would, he fell quickly asleep. Ten minutes later, the phone rang. Startled and annoyed, Humphrey fumbled around for the phone and answered it, none too happy, only to discover that Richard Milhouse Nixon, his opponent in the ’68 election, was on the other end of the line, calling from his house in San Clemente, California, where he’d been living in disgrace since resigning the presidency on August 8, 1974.