I’m not sure what most disturbed me, Vulter’s discursive nuance-free style or my son’s “my mother, the nutcase albatross” insinuations.
Laluna and I watched the cable news broadcast in the main house, another of our attempts at filial piety. Things went sour when I quipped, “At least he didn’t bring up my ‘troubles’ after the woman was shot.” Laluna picked up Persephone from her blanket on the floor where she’d been tapping on a tiny computer screen like a modern Etch A Sketch. “Time for bed. Kiss Granmamma good night.” Laluna didn’t like Persephone to hear a word of my vacation history, as if it would contaminate her. Only in my studio would she allow me to be alone with Perse. She wouldn’t let me babysit at night without a nanny in range. When Perse got older, she damn well was going to hear all about it from me. (I’d tell her now, if Parnell Palmer would allow me to see her.)
I didn’t demean myself by offering to take Persephone upstairs and sing her to sleep, only to be rebuffed. I watched alone as Vulter zinged Alchemy about his “Socialist dogma” and desire to close the stock market. He parried the attacks with aplomb. “Don’t misquote me — I said I’d shed no tears if we could do away with traders and bankers who prey on the middle class. I made a fortune by taking risks on ideas I believe in, not companies that cut workers’ salaries or fire people to aid the bottom line. I am all about creativity in all forms and profiting from it and using that money to do good.” Nathaniel would have been proud.
Laluna returned during the audience Q&A. A jealous prig was asking Alchemy an insipid question about why he lived with a woman twenty years his junior. Next to him I glimpsed a familiar face.
“That woman”—I pointed at the screen—“do you recognize her?”
“Sure, it’s Jay. She lives with Mose. He’s probably backstage.”
“So you know her?”
“Yeah. She’s cool. It’s not like we’re BFFs or anything. I see Mose more than I see her.”
Ah, yes. I remembered at a Nightingale-sponsored play, just before the curtain came up I caught a glimpse of him, mealy skinned and slinking down the aisle. My first reaction — another setup. Thankfully, no one attempted to force a confrontation. During intermission I followed the woman, who was clearly with him, and tapped her shoulder just outside the restroom. Startled, she spun around. “Are you his wife?” I asked.
“That is none of your business.”
Her eyes shredded me with hatred, and for that I admired her. “You love him. That is good.”
“You are missing out by not loving him.”
I stared now at the TV. Laluna had muted the sound and was already texting someone. As the credits rolled, I saw Alchemy, Vulter, him, and his wife talking and laughing together.
I waved good night to Laluna, who barely waved back. I walked to my studio, Margarita’s words circling above me: “You are their mother, you must be the one.”
72 THE MOSES CHRONICLES (2015)
So Cynosure of Yourself
After years of debate, exploratory research, and financial planning, Alchemy had dived into assembling a “professional” political team that would aid in his run for the presidency in 2020. Alchemy was seriously considering hiring Dewey Winslow to be his chief political consultant, but before making a final choice he wanted Moses’s opinion.
Moses drove alone to Winslow’s Dana Point home. He and Alchemy welcomed Moses to the wing of the house that served as Winslow’s office. In his pink Lacoste shirt, Gucci glasses, and a caterpillar mustache, he impressed Moses as someone who’d spent his childhood summers partaking in the Newport, Rhode Island, regatta. A modest five foot six and muscular, he assumed a larger presence by thrusting his chest forward. Alchemy introduced him as the “best political consultant in the business.”
“Patronizing me already? And why not? With everything I’m going to do for you.” Winslow guffawed. They took seats around a table carved from an oak tree trunk, which he quickly explained was not taken down for logging but had been damaged during a lightning storm. It was laid out with snacks and two pitchers of iced tea, two pitchers of lemonade, and two open bottles of white and red wine. Moses noted the photographs on the walls of Winslow with Nancy Pelosi, Barbara Boxer, and other California Democratic luminaries.
Winslow began with his prepared remarks. “Moses, your synopsis of third-party movements is impressive, as is your analysis of how, in the last elections, more people, both white and nonwhite, stayed home than voted for either candidate. Your hypothesis that they did this not because they were uninterested but because neither candidate enthralled them opens the door for us.”
He took a few gulps of lemonade and continued, consciously directing himself toward Moses.
“Alchemy already made it clear that he does not want a ‘spin doctor.’ I prefer to call myself a ‘contextualizer.’ ” Moses took out a pad and pen from his frayed brown leather briefcase. Winslow stopped him. “Sorry, no note taking, no tapes today. Questions?”
“We want to undo the status quo. You are the establishment. The last time any national third-party candidate got anywhere, and Nader doesn’t apply here, was Ross Perot in 1992 and he soon fizzled out. Why are you doing this?”
Winslow, unperturbed, shifted from his effervescent prattle-patter to a measured imperiousness. “My father was an air traffic controller fired by Reagan in ’81. He couldn’t get another decent job, tumbled into a sinkhole, and never dug himself out.” Winslow’s face didn’t betray a scintilla of emotion. “I’ve worked within the establishment for over twenty years. The ‘great hopes’ of my party have let me down. As Alchemy says, we need a twenty-first-century Social Contract. Is this venture risky? Sure. What defines failure? Not getting Alchemy elected president, not establishing a third party — or not pursuing the dream?” He sipped his lemonade again. “I’m not looking to make friends. I got one.” He nodded toward a white cat sleeping on a large pillow in the far corner of the room. “I honestly don’t know what ‘winning’ means here. I just want to help.”
“Whatever it is, what is your ‘winning’ strategy for us?”
Winslow picked up a sealed plastic bag and tossed it to Moses. “Open it. Take a close look.” The bag contained four cloth wipes, which Moses examined skeptically.
“It says here, ‘Four Fabulous Colors, Red, Green, Blue, and Yellow.’ ”
“And?” Winslow challenged him.
“Um, they’re all blue.”
“Correct!” Winslow laughed loudly. “Back in the late ’80s I was the kid gofer at AMACON Worldwide ad agency on a campaign for these wipes. We used all four colors in the ads. In the stores, only one out of every ten bags had four colors. The rest, all blue — it was so much cheaper to produce. They sold hundreds of millions, ninety percent of them blue.” Winslow caught a subtly skeptical glance between Moses and Alchemy. He dropped the wipes angle, and his tone became more serious. “Lincoln said, ‘You can fool some of the people all of the time, and all of the people some of the time, but you can’t fool all of the people all of the time.’ That’s where Abe got it wrong. You only have to fool fifty point one percent. With a third party, you need even less.” He turned toward Alchemy. “My aim is not to fool people but to persuade them that you are the all-American great leader that the country needs now.”
Moses understood it wasn’t essential for him to like Winslow. They needed someone like him. And Winslow was about to make it even more clear why they needed him.