Tiny Little Thing Read online

  They pose me with Frank first. I’m familiar with the drill by now. I tilt my body at the exact correct angle toward him and disappear my gloved arm into his. Chin down, shoulders back, stomach in. Don’t blink. Never, ever blink. The massive camera lenses point toward us like a cluster of erect phalluses, while the men behind them shout instructions—To the right! A little more smile! Put your arm around her!—and the flashbulbs make their ecstatic little explosions against my skin.

  Beautiful, shout the photographers. Beautiful.

  Frank’s father joins us, Hardcastles to the right and left of me, and then Frank by himself, solid and presidential, while I stand to the side with my father-in-law and long for a cigarette. “He looks well,” says Mr. Hardcastle, arms crossed and appraising, and then, “Oh! Hello, Cap. You’re late.”

  Caspian’s voice, on the other side of my father-in-law: “You said six o’clock, sir.”

  “You didn’t get the message? You’re wanted for the photo call.” Mr. Hardcastle nods toward the flashing bulbs. “Say hello to Tiny.”

  “Hello, Tiny.”

  “I believe Major Harrison prefers to take pictures. Not to be taken,” I say.

  “Well. I guess my cousin-in-law knows me already.”

  “It’s not a question of what Cap wants,” says Mr. Hardcastle. “It’s a question of what’s required.”

  “Of course.” Caspian takes off his hat and smooths an unnecessary hand over his short hair. “Whatever you need, Uncle Franklin.”

  Well, at this angle I can’t see much, and I’m not going to step out of line to get a better look at him, not if you offered me a priceless diamond-and-sapphire necklace. I can’t afford to lose my composure when the cameras are nearby. Still, there’s no avoiding the awareness at my periphery, the Caspian-shaped imprint on my senses. He’s wearing his dress uniform again. A few inches of his head rise above Mr. Hardcastle’s silvering hair. Some bit of gold braid on his hat keeps catching the explosions of light, and then casting its reflection on the sides of his large fingers. The constant soft pop of the bulbs can’t disguise the tone of his voice, which is low and genial.

  I want to say, Where have you been for the past few weeks? Why did you disappear like that?

  I want to say, The photograph. I know it wasn’t you. It can’t have been you, blackmail’s not your style, but in that case, how did the photo end up in a manila envelope, addressed to me? Who did you show it to? Who did you give it to? Why would you share such an unbearably intimate moment with someone else? Why would you not guard it against all other eyes, for my sake? Why would you betray me? When I trusted you.

  “I hope we haven’t inconvenienced you,” I say. “I’m sure you have a thousand things you’d rather be doing.”

  “Family first,” says Caspian.

  Mr. Hardcastle holds up one hand. “All right. You’re on.”

  “Hat or no hat?”

  Mr. Hardcastle considers. “No hat.”

  Caspian turns to me, hands me his hat, and walks toward the dais without a single hint of a limp. The hat is still warm from his head, even through the silk fibers of my gloves, and I hold it against my stomach and finger the gold braid.

  By five thirty, the photographers are finished, and Frank’s campaign staffers step in to brief me. The donors are the usual mix of businessmen and wives, the prominent and the ambitious and the curious, the old guard and the rising middle, linked by money and a weakness for glamour and an evangelical faith in Frank. I know many of them already. A piece of cake. The reporter from the Boston Globe, now. Had I met him before?

  “No,” I say. “Is he new on the society page?”

  “He’s not on the society page,” says the staffer, a pretty girl named Josephine with startling auburn hair and streaks of dark mascara on her daring loop-the-loop lashes. She rims her upper eyelids with swooping lines of kohl for that catlike effect that’s all the rage. “He’s on the political beat.”

  “Really? But this is a soft piece, isn’t it? The candidate and his wife at home.”

  The other staffer, a young man in his very early twenties, shrugs his shoulders. “Wants to do his background, I guess. The business is changing. People want to know about the candidate’s life. Character, style, personality. People want mystique. The Camelot effect.” He checks his watch, taps it, and looks back up into my silence.

  I say: “Well, I don’t suppose it makes much difference, as long as he knows the rules. Is he bringing his wife?”

  “He’s not married.” This from Josephine, who is smiling at me. Smugly, I think.

  “Are you familiar with Frank’s positions, Mrs. Hardcastle?” asks the young man. What’s his name? I’m supposed to be better at this. Stephen. That’s it, Stephen.

  “Of course I am, Stephen,” I say. “You might be surprised to know that my husband and I discuss politics frequently.”

  “It’s Scott,” he says, “Scott Maynard, and I’m sure you do. But just in case, I’ve prepared a brief for you. Very simple, one page, lays out the key points of the platform in clear language.”

  “Thank goodness.” I take the paper from him, fold it into tiny squares, and tuck it into my pocketbook. “We wouldn’t want my poor little brain to be overwhelmed, would we?”

  “We just want to make sure you’re up to date,” says Josephine. “Frank’s been on the road a lot, after all. You’ve hardly seen each other. In fact, that’s a question that might come up. The strain of campaigning on a marriage. You know the rumors about Jack Kennedy.”

  Did I know the rumors.

  “Well, I’m sure my poor little brain will find a way to answer that one, too, if you give me enough time to think about it.” I rise from the chair. My shoes are new and a little stiff, not quite molded to my feet. I feel like a mouse on stilts. “After all, Frank and I have been intimate for many years. We have such a solid foundation together.”

  Scott and Josephine rise in unison. Josephine’s wearing an elegant dress, a short silver halter overdraped by a tent of shimmery translucent chiffon, and a pair of expensive diamond stud earrings, at least a carat each. Though the heels of her silver shoes are a fashionably modest inch and a half, she’s nearly as tall as Scott. “Perfect,” she says. “That’s exactly how we want you to answer.”

  • • •

  The Globe reporter arrives late, just after the salad is removed and the filet arrives under silver domes. He begs our pardon. He’s younger than I expect, fresh of face and sleek of hair, and the hand he holds out to me appears to have been manicured.

  “A pleasure, Mr. Lytle. Don’t give it another thought.” I look up at his rather handsome face, his sharp hazel eyes, and think, This is a man I can do business with.

  “A newsroom is a dangerous place to be when you’ve got a pressing engagement,” he says. “I hope I haven’t missed the speech.”

  “No, we’re running late. You know how these things are.”

  He nods at my neck. “Red, white, and blue. The patriotic touch.”

  I glance down at my priceless new necklace, at the diamonds and sapphires hovering above the raspberry satin. “Isn’t it, though. Do you like it?”

  He flips up his tails and takes the seat next to me. “I do indeed.”

  I signal to the nearby waiter for wine—an excellent Bordeaux has just replaced the white Burgundy—while Mr. Lytle arranges himself. Frank’s still deep in conversation with his neighbor, the frosted wife of an extremely wealthy financier, who smiles and nods in rapture as he speaks to her. I glance across the table at Caspian, who has just turned away from some distant contemplation to catch my gaze.

  “Have you met my husband’s cousin, Major Harrison?”

  “I haven’t had the pleasure. Major Harrison? Congratulations. I saw the ceremony on TV. An honor to meet you.”

  “Caspian,” I say, “this is Mr. John Lytle, a political e
ditor at the Globe. He’s doing a background feature on Frank.”

  Caspian catches my drift. He smiles, all toothsome and welcoming. Even Caspian knows what’s required at a moment like this. “Mr. Lytle. Welcome. You’ve come to the right place. I can tell you all his buried secrets, for the right price.”

  Lytle laughs. “Music to my ears.”

  By the time Frank steps up to the podium, we’re all pleasantly drunk and ready to laugh at his jokes, good and bad. In Frank’s case, of course, they’re all good. The dessert has been set, the cigarettes have come out, the lights are dim and alluring. Frank looks terribly handsome, up there with the microphone. Handsome and energetic. He speaks about taxes, about the importance of prosperity, about the necessity of ensuring a just society in which opportunity is the birthright of each and every citizen. He slides smoothly into the subject of Vietnam, the link between our national security and the threats to personal and economic freedom around the globe, and then he introduces Caspian.

  As soon as Frank uttered the word Vietnam, Caspian took his cue. He laid his napkin in neat folds alongside his plate, took a last sip of wine, and rose to his feet. He stands now near the podium, at the perfect respectful distance, hands folded modestly behind his back. Attentive to Frank.

  “. . . my cousin, of whom I believe you’ve all heard, or should have heard, Major Caspian Harrison of the Special Forces. Caspian?”

  My God, I think, as Caspian strides to the podium, as he shakes Frank’s hand and turns to the audience. He looks seven feet tall, even though he isn’t. He looks like a warrior king, like he could snap the metal arm of the microphone in half and toss both ends like javelins into the crowd. He doesn’t belong here, he doesn’t belong in the same universe as these people. How had I forgotten that about him? Forgotten the magnitude of him, when seen from a distance.

  Frank is an inch or two shorter. Caspian tilts his neck downward to meet the microphone. “Good evening. I’m honored to be here tonight, honored to have the opportunity to speak to all of you about my cousin Franklin Hardcastle, one of the best men I’ve ever met.”

  The edges of my vision grow a little blurry, and Caspian’s image swims in the middle. I reach for my wine. At my side, Lytle crushes out his cigarette in the ashtray and leans into my ear. “Holy cow. He almost looks as if he should be the candidate.”

  I pick up my raspberry satin pocketbook from the edge of my plate. “Excuse me.”

  Outside, the air is still hot and stale, and the sun hasn’t quite set. I stand on the balcony, staring at the pinks and purples rimming the nearby rooftops, the square penthouse of the hotel itself, while I suck on my cigarette. The faint drone of Caspian’s voice drifts through the open door. I can’t quite pick out the words. There is applause, and more heroic low-pitched Caspian eloquence, and a final rolling thunder of clapping hands, scraping chairs, approval. Then Frank’s voice, briefly, and just as the cigarette burns out between my gloved fingers, the opening notes of the orchestra, to start the dancing. I drop the stub just in time and crush it under the square heel of my shoe.

  • • •

  I dance with the financier first, while Frank dances with his wife. I smile and flirt and thank God for the wine. Then we switch partners, and Frank asks me if I’m enjoying myself. “Very much,” I say.

  “How did I sound up there?”

  “Perfect. You hit all the right notes.”

  “Cap did all right. God bless him. People were practically pulling out their checkbooks as he spoke.”

  “Yes, the Globe reporter was awfully impressed.”

  Frank leans in. “Have you been smoking?”

  “Just one.”

  The orchestra is playing an old standard, and we dance automatically. Frank’s eyes wander the crowd around us, the people standing at the edge. A high pitch of energy surrounds him, a pitch I recognize from other nights, other events. I suppose we all recognize it, we wives of performers (and that’s what politics is, isn’t it—performing, I mean): celebrity or charisma or plain old razzle-dazzle, a brilliance that you might call artificial, a masquerade, but really it isn’t. The mask is part of the person. That’s why it’s so compelling. I grasp his chin and tug him back to face me. “You should be careful, though. Lytle said that it almost looks like Caspian should be the candidate.”

  Frank frowns down at me. “What the hell does that mean?”

  “Just that he’s very impressive up there. He’s a natural leader.”

  “I can hold my own against fucking Cap.”

  “Shh.” I glance to either side. “Of course you can. But you don’t need to have him following us around at every fund-raiser, either.”

  A flashbulb pops nearby, and another.

  “Not that you weren’t wonderful up there,” I say. Smiling.

  “Cap’s loyal. Cap’s not going to burn me.”

  “Of course not. Politics is the last thing he’s interested in.”

  “How do you know?”

  “You know how I can size people up.”

  Frank looks past my ear, over my shoulder to the rim of the dance floor. “Well, you’re right. Cap doesn’t know jack about politics.”

  “Not like you,” I say, but it’s too late. My husband’s arm is stiff around my waist, his hand touching mine only at the necessary fingertips.

  The music concludes. Frank leads me to the side, where Josephine waits, talking and laughing with the financier from our table. Her hair is much longer than mine, a shiny loose auburn mess that hovers casually over her bare shoulders. The bangs are pulled back into a sparkling clip at the top of her head, very mod. The thick kohl around her lids reminds you of Bardot, or maybe Fonda. She seems remarkably self-possessed for such a young woman, just out of college, twenty-two years old. Where did my husband find her?

  Frank’s smile breaks out. “Ah, Jo! There you are. How are we doing tonight?”

  She looks up at him like he’s Moses. “You, Frank Hardcastle, are a star. You had me in tears.”

  “All credit to my crack campaign staff.”

  “Hardly.” Josephine reaches up and caresses the diamond stud in her left ear. I can’t quite be certain in this light, but I think she’s blushing.

  My husband holds out his arms. “Dance?”

  Off they go. “She’s a pretty thing, isn’t she?” says the financier.

  “She’s very good at her job,” I say. “Frank does have an eye for talent.”

  “I’ll say.”

  I open my mouth to change the subject, but someone addresses him from the other side, and he turns away, leaving me suspended and solitary at the edge of the dance floor.

  You know, it’s funny. When I first met Frank at a Radcliffe mixer seven years ago, he was dancing with another girl. A blonde, that time, but otherwise a lot like this one: swollen of bosom, smoky of eye. The hair was perhaps a few shades too bright for credibility. She wasn’t even a Radcliffe girl at all; she was somebody’s friend or cousin, I found out later. A ringer. Anyway, he caught my eye, because how could Franklin Hardcastle not catch your eye when you’re nineteen and he’s twenty-one, and you’ve never kissed a boy and he’s the handsomest man you’ve ever seen? All that razzle-dazzle. I turned away. He went on dancing, and then the two of them disappeared from sight for an hour or so. When I saw him next, his hair was tousled, his skin was a little flushed, and I was struggling with my coat in a dank linoleum hallway, preparing to head back to my dormitory before curfew. A pair of hands appeared on my sleeves, helping me in, and I looked up and there he was, Franklin Hardcastle, Harvard senior, radiant in blue eyes and sandy tousled hair. A smooth brown tweed jacket cradled his shoulders. He said, Who’s the lucky fellow? and I said, Who do you mean? and he said, The one you’re hurrying off to meet, and I said, Nobody, actually, just heading to my dormitory, and he said, You’re Tiny Schuyler, aren’t you? and I said, How did you know?
(heart galloping), and he said, Because I’ve spent the last six months hoping I’d run into you like this, and I said, Well, here I am, and long story short, I never saw that other girl again, though I saw plenty more of Frank.

  But I do think of her often, that platinum ringer at the Radcliffe mixer, and I think of her now as I watch my husband wing around the dance floor with his campaign staffer. Josephine. I turn the name over in my head, as her bright head revolves in and out of sight, twenty or thirty yards away from me. Frank’s arm is around her back, his hand is splayed wide at the far quadrant of her back, so that the extreme tips of his fingers curve around her trim young waist. His gold wedding ring gleams against the silver halter. They are both smiling.

  “You look as if you could use a drink,” says a male voice at my elbow, and for an instant my heart gallops, but it’s only Lytle from the Boston Globe, handing me a glass of champagne.

  “Thank you.”

  He watches me gulp it down. “A hell of a life, isn’t it, for a nice girl like you.”

  “How do you know I’m a nice girl?”

  “Just a guess. Dance?”

  I place the empty glass on a nearby table and take Lytle’s outstretched hand. The song is just ending, so we hang on into the next. He’s an easy man to talk to, John Lytle—“Call me Jack, Mrs. Hardcastle”—really terribly personable.

  He delivers me back to my seat and I reach for my pocketbook, a smidgen unsteady, and that’s when I notice the manila envelope tucked underneath the raspberry satin, with my name, MRS. FRANKLIN HARDCASTLE, JR., printed in black block letters, a quarter-inch high, in the corner.

  • • •

  I’m Tiny Schuyler, I’m Mrs. Franklin Hardcastle, Jr., and for the first time in my whole square life, I’m thoroughly drunk.

  I have had several too many. (I couldn’t give you an exact count, but several should cover it.) I have rolled up the manila envelope into a stiff little tube and shoved it into my raspberry satin pocketbook, and I have marched to the nearest waiter and taken a glass of champagne and bubbled it merrily down my throat while that dear Jack Lytle tagged affectionately along behind me. I have had a sophisticated conversation with him, while smoking the remaining cigarettes in my pocketbook. They’re all bores, you know. Rich, contemptible bores. The women are the worst.