Medium Rare, page 3
In retrospect, it was about as innocuous an outcome for which one might possibly hope in establishing social ties based on shared appreciation for the same brands of jeans. The two groups maintained a polite veneer of intimacy and benefitted more or less equally from it. The house was large and brick and ivied, simultaneously exclusive and inviting, offering glimpses of its plush, easter-egg interiors. The events at which I ignored Phil also included the sort of boys to whom I paid delicate attention; whom, on some level, I eventually wanted to wed and procreate with—and eventually did. All in all, it was the essence of effective mutual symbiosis. The nice Christian girls lent us an unearned air of future goodness, of—if I’m being honest (and I always am)—marryability, while we lent them an unearned air of fun.
And so, for all our differences, Phil, Raleigh, and I were in close enough proximity for a substantial enough period of time for me to inadvertently collect the sort of information about them that vanishes with absence but, on reacquaintance, is resurrected effortlessly. I knew, for instance, that he’d played basketball on UVa’s club team; Phil had the sort of height that would have posed a formidable advantage in high school but disappeared collegiately. Six-two, maybe six-three. He had the tangential affect—and this he shared with his wife—of the hometown hero, the cursory markers of hotness failing to materialize into any subtler intrigue. And the gifts she made the most of via cleavage, cosmetics, and a frankly rapturous array of—natural, yet still enhanced—blonde hair, he had fewer socially acceptable means to elevate. Phil looked much like every other guy on the Hill, basically: like a disappointing version of the man who would play him in a movie, simultaneously insecure and overconfident in his suitability for the role.
While perfectly true, this is also a roundabout way to say that Phil looked like—almost was—a disappointing version of my husband. Not just because they were both lobbyists, though Miles was of the lofty, big-firm kind, or that they’d graduated from UVa the same year with majors in government. In 2007, while Raleigh was lining up a job in DC to be near Phil, I returned to New York, where Miles was suffering a stint in investment banking, and moved into his Soho apartment in lieu of my parents’ place on the Upper East Side. No, I only clocked their resemblance many years later (a seer’s insights do not always arrive all at once): After I left my post-collegiate job in the art world and applied not to MFA or PhD programs, but alongside Miles to the Kennedy School. After we graduated and consummated our pivots into politics as well as our more personal union, settling in his hometown of DC—eventually in the very neighborhood he grew up in, buying a Georgetown townhouse six blocks away from his parents in 2013. After our boys were born at thirty-seven weeks, full-term for twins; olive beauties with dark hair and light eyes. Even after I started seeing Phil in the odd elevator.
It wasn’t until Sunday, March 24, 2019, when I again found myself, at thirty-four years of age and with my husband, on the other side of the room from Phil and Raleigh at a social function in support of some vanity charity, that it dawned on me how little separated us from them. What I’d taken in college to be opposing factions—a sharp, partisan delineation between our modern, self-aware empowerment and their stifling parochialism—all at once appeared less a difference in kind than degree. Perhaps it was because the lighting is better at adult parties, or the way the absurd ceilings of our mutual acquaintances’ house dwarfed us all; perhaps it was that Raleigh was so ostentatiously pregnant I was almost getting sympathetic pains, but the few dozen feet that had seemed to form some titanic chasm in college was now, so clearly, all part of the same bourgeois room. I had made all the traditional choices of the unenlightened women I looked down on; my only distinction was having made them more elegantly.
Miles snuck a glance at the television above the fireplace, silently flashing UVa’s second-round matchup vs. Oklahoma. His ego wasn’t wrapped up in it the same way Phil’s was, but he’d played on Virginia’s D1 lacrosse team, winning national championships in his first and fourth years, and was thoroughly, if genially invested; invested enough not to notice when I excused myself from our cluster. Across the room, Phil’s attention was divided. The Virginia game was in sufficient control for him to be simultaneously monitoring Houston vs. Ohio State on his phone, which was still close, and responding mechanically to the occasional social prompt from his wife.
Few people were talking to them, to Phil and Raleigh. They were among the least powerful couples there, an AASSS lobbyist and a nurse, in a room brimming with people capable of currying meaningful favors. It wasn’t so obvious as to be generally embarrassing, everyone else being tied up in their own affairs, but it was obvious enough to Raleigh herself. In Phil’s half-presence and of course entirely sober, she exhibited all the visible anxieties of social discomfort. And with every protective touch of her belly and stroke of her hair, I felt the uncanny effect of witnessing a scene I’d long ago predicted.
In college I’d had rather a habit of vainly warning other young women when I sensed the objects of their affections unworthy. I now remembered Raleigh had been among them. My late arrival; a single open chair; the pale tonal yellows of the chapter dining room blanching against her crimson face across the table:
—Well— Raleigh chafed against my admonition, cutting off a tiny bite of grilled chicken. I’m not about to give up on Phil quite yet! He’s so sweet when it’s just the two of us—
—But you just said he’s going to “Snow Pants or No Pants” with Savannah Quincy, I balked, amazed by the speed at which her complaint had become defense.
—He promised just as friends—and they’re wearing snow pants.
—I don’t snow, Raleigh, I see you getting played. Even if you prevail, by the way. I see inconstancy and fitfulness—success portending pain. Better steer clear. It’s not like there aren’t other middlebrow frat boys at UVa.
I could feel the table grow quiet, the cautionary eyes of the glossy hydra resting not on Raleigh but on me, discerning the vicarious threat that I posed to the interpretive buffing of their own delicate situationships. More disconcerting: Raleigh’s own eyes, hovering between hurt and something else, a look I was accustomed to giving, but not receiving. At the time I lumped her look in with the others, distinguishing Raleigh only as the direct target of my insight, naturally more affected by its personal implications. I was still learning how to share my gift, how to mitigate its side effects; that self-preservational conviction lays some of the least hospitable foundations for otherwise convincing. And yet, I was also familiar enough with collective dismissal, with awkward social balking. I knew how to rise above it. I rolled my eyes and went to see if there was any ice cream.
* * *
—
Now I discovered lemon cake and macarons, tiered under the absurd, adult ceilings, and wondered. That look, the something else from all those years ago. To fail to heed a warning is not the same as to dismiss it. Raleigh hadn’t listened—but had she seen? Had she seen me? And him—Phil. Had she seen something in him that I’d missed? I passed the dessert table. I headed for the Fayetons.
Did I approach them out of some true feeling, some reconciliatory compassion for a largely private cruelty? A belated sense of “sisterhood,” perhaps? Or was it more maternal, some psychic response to my flaring instincts? Was it raw curiosity? The novelty of my very uncertainty?
Or, already, did I intuit it? Did I sense the outlines of the denouement even in the rising action, something no one else could see? A crystal basketball? Of my corresponding curse: There was not, would never be, any escape in status or power; no level of congressional, even executive, intimacy that could truly free me from incredibility. Did I, in looking not up, but down, happen upon something amazing? I should have seen it sooner, after all those seminars in art history, and enough in literature. About suffering they were never wrong, the old Masters. In this tableau, hiding in plain sight, was the rarest of things: a great story. If not an epic, then at least a piece of one, primed to unspool through the centuries into threaded derivatives, history into legend, legend into myth. I alone was the person to tell it.
I didn’t even have to force it, my charm, my most precious natural resource, so great yet limited in supply; unwieldy. It blossomed of its own accord, in effortless abundance, as if having suddenly discovered the secret to its own self-regeneration.
—Raleigh, Phil, what a delight to see you both! I don’t think I’ve had the chance yet to say congratulations.
—Cassandra! Raleigh greeted me, if not with personal affection then at least the gratitude of social relief. I—
—Thank you, said Phil, interrupting her. There are only two of us left now: me and a bracket called “roadsary.” Pains me to say it, but I was worried about Duke there for a second. With Houston starting to take control, though—and look, our game’s final—I might just stay perfect through the weekend!
—Well, that too, I guess, I said. But I meant the baby.
Phil blushed, though not as deeply as Raleigh. But I smiled warmly, reassuringly, and, after Phil turned back to the screen, now showing the early minutes of Oregon vs. UC Irvine, I wrapped my other hand around Raleigh’s, which I was still holding. Husbands can be such fucking imbeciles, the gesture seemed to say—not in accusation, but conspiracy. Believe me, I know.
—Thank you, she whispered in a little exhale, and without further hesitation, let her embarrassment go. How are you? Am I right in thinking you’re working on a novel? And your boys must be what, three now? Tate and Percy, yes?
—Yes, I said, uncharacteristically struck by her memory.
—Can I see pictures?
I let her scroll through my camera roll, which she did long enough to assure me her cooing was genuine. She was looking forward to becoming a mother, was going to be a good one. A better one, I thought—not bitterly or self-deprecatingly, but as a mere point of fact—than me. She returned my phone and looked down at her belly, reverently, passionately waiting. She still wasn’t exactly beautiful up close, but her dense stature, the impossible breasts, lent a certain grandeur to her condition. There was something miraculous about her body, even if it was more Breughel than Caravaggio. Maybe it was just her humanness, the miraculousness, on some level, of every pregnancy, every birth—that inherent to the fresh human growing inside her was its being a specific one. Not a rarity, not even close, and yet beyond rarity. Unique, that most misused of words.
—Phil thinks it’s a boy, but I’m certain it’s a girl.
—You haven’t found out yet?
—I want it to be a surprise—you know.
I didn’t. It had been agony waiting even until thirteen weeks to confirm my own suspicions. I was aware this was the new pregnancy trend, though, being surprised, as if not knowing your child’s sex offered some feminist proof of not caring, or implicit defense of its future right to gender fluidity. In their heart of hearts? Women nearly always hope for girls, even though on some level they know life will invariably be harder for them, are grateful to have boys after all. To pretend otherwise is sort of lovely, if also lunatic. I’d been half expecting Raleigh to recount a “gender reveal party,” though, so I had to give her a little credit—even if labor and delivery was, to my mind, likely to offer enough surprises without one more.
—Mm, I said simply.
—By the way, Cassandra, Phil cut in, I’ll shoot you an email, too, but I’d like to contribute and attend the DEMO-W PAC thing Wednesday…. Cool?
—Sure, I said. That’d be great.
* * *
—
He worried I was being lightly sarcastic, or worse, temporarily humoring him to spare his wife. But you know what? I actually meant it.
SWEET SIXTEEN
VIRGINIA (1) VS. OREGON (12)
The initial flurry of public attention started first thing Monday morning, with journalists and podcasters calling Phil to schedule interviews. He was featured on the UVa sports podcasts CavsCorner and Streaking the Lawn, as well as in a Skype interview with Andy Katz for NCAA.com alongside “roadsary,” who turned out to be a middle-aged psychiatrist named Nigel Gregory. Nigel was a Michigan fan who’d picked Duke to win it all, and, more immediately, Tennessee where Phil had Purdue.
—Welcome, welcome. This is an NCAA.com March Madness tournament challenge video chat, the video began, the three of them lined up in horizontal boxes, like a low-budget version of the talking heads on CNN. I’m Andy Katz, happy to have Nigel Gregory and Phil Fayeton on the show today. These two gentlemen have the only two perfect brackets in America right now, and I think it’s safe to assume the only two globally. So, you guys have me beat at the moment—although I still have my all my Elite Eight teams intact. I could still overtake you. But obviously you outdid me in the earlier rounds, so let’s talk about what you saw that I didn’t when you were making your bracket selections. Talk to me about the first and second rounds. What were you after in your picks? I want to understand the rationale, here. Nigel, let’s start with you.
—Yeah sure, said Nigel. I’m just a Wolverine through and through. I watch a ton of Big Ten ball, and I know I have a Big Ten bias. Occasionally I’ll throw on another game—Kentucky, Duke. Duke, with Zion Williamson, looks totally unstoppable this year. But there are a lot of teams I haven’t seen play. I rely on Bracketology, obviously, on journalists like you. But a lot of it is just personal preference and a lucky bounce of the ball.
—For me, it’s all about game analysis and metrics, said Phil, bristling visibly at the mention of luck. Like, yes, I went to Virginia and I want them to win, but our stats are also just there. Defense is systematically undervalued in college basketball—people forget that. I do keep up with, like, SportsCenter, with Bracketology, but I think it’s my independent analysis that’s really set my bracket apart. It’s all about probability, you know?
By the morning of Wednesday, March 27—that is, the day of my DEMO-W PAC event—the marketing department at Buick had seen the video. The aging car company, presumably as a part of some attempt to rehab its image, wanted to send Nigel and Phil to see their respective teams play in the Sweet Sixteen. Nigel would go to Anaheim, where the Wolverines were up against Texas Tech after Gonzaga vs. Florida State, and Phil to Louisville, to see his Cavaliers take on Oregon following the Tennessee–Purdue game. Travel was booked, Buick was tweeting about its generosity by early afternoon, and within minutes Senator Sheila Campau’s staffers were making the connection between one of her top corporate sponsors and the AASSS lobbyist going to Louisville on their dime—and calling me. Yes, I told Sheila’s chief of staff, Sally Yu, Phil bought a ticket Sunday night. No, he hasn’t canceled. I still expect him to be there. She reminded me what a big sports fan the senator was (first I’d heard of it) and said she’d like to personally congratulate Phil.
Will van der Wende called me, too. It was important, he emphasized, that Maria speak with Phil, ideally semiprivately. He wouldn’t have given it a second thought before—but had I heard the Buick news? He was worried, not unjustifiably, that Phil’s time would be monopolized by Sheila, who was not only more powerful, but, as more of a centrist Democrat, likely to have greater ideological common ground with Phil. Get there early, I advised, and texted Phil to do the same, that there were big Bosses eager to meet him. Phil texted back ok immediately, his cadence undercutting the blasé confirmation, the implied suggestion of how could it be otherwise?
* * *
—
Phil would have preferred to attend a Republican fundraising event in general, but especially during the heart of March Madness. Republicans tend to be more reverent when it comes to sports. But in addition to Representative Muñoz and Senator Campau, rumor had it the Speaker of the House would be there—and Phil was riding high enough on his still-perfect bracket to endure more than the usual degree of professional hardship.
He arrived so early that I was still giving instructions to catering, but I greeted him amicably, with congratulations actually intended for his bracket this time.
—And when are you leaving for Louisville? I asked him.
—First thing, he said. I’m going to be interviewed during the Tennessee–Purdue game—like, on national television—so I have an hour of “media training” beforehand with people from the network.
—How thrilling! I’ll be sure to watch.
—Then there’s a late lunch with the Buick team.
—You’ll be the perfect brand ambassador for them.
Phil frowned.
—I drive an Audi, he said.
—How pure of you to think that reflects how others see you.
—Is that so, said Phil. And what about you? How’s that novel you’ve been working on?
—Thanks for asking, I said. I got an agent yesterday.
Phil flinched, as if unsure whether he’d heard me correctly—
—No you didn’t—what do you mean, an agent?
—A literary agent, to help me sell the novel. Phil, are you—jealous?
—What? No! He said, his face contorting further, but resetting instantly as Maria Muñoz walked in the door.
* * *
—
On the spectrum of parties—as in social events, as opposed to factions—political fundraisers fall somewhere between a casual wedding and formal holiday office party. While people attend, on some level, for a mix of obligatory and opportunistic reasons, the purpose of these functions is rarely to accomplish anything in and of themselves, but rather to secure certain contacts for secondary meetings. And once this has been accomplished, the balance tips precipitously toward having a good time.
By all accounts, this was precisely what Phil was having far too early in the evening for his tête-à-tête with Maria not to have gone well, though he kept it together long enough to schmooze Sheila, too. The people of Michigan, you know, are great champions of infrastructure, I overheard her say, serving herself a canapé (in my experience, what—and who—civil servants are best at serving). He even shook the Speaker’s veiny hand—a bit too vigorously, the rush of his proximity to power outweighing any ideological hesitance.
