No Harm Can Come to a Good Man

‘Sure. Pizza. Deal. Clean your teeth and get to bed.’ She stands at the bottom of the stairs and listens to them doing their routine, finely tuned as it is. Always Sean into the bathroom first, then he cleans his teeth in the hallway while Alyx goes in. Then she cleans her teeth and both of them stand at the sink. They spit the toothpaste out at the same time. They get into bed, and she tucks them in, kisses them on their foreheads. ‘Pizza – if I don’t hear a peep from you,’ she says. ‘That’s the deal.’ They both do the same gesture: zipping their mouths shut with invisible zips, and they smile. She doesn’t understand them, not all the time, because there’s something she simply can’t get close to there, that only they share. She worried, when she knew that she was having twins, because she was older than she thought she would be when having another child, and because she thought that they might be too much for her to cope with. But now, eyes shut, they’re what she wants, two perfect halves of a perfect whole. She wonders if they’ll always be like this.

The sound of music, wafting down the corridor from Lane’s room, stops her daydreaming and reminds her what’s gone on here. She pulls the twins’ door shut and strides down the corridor. All the tricks that they’ve learned over the years about how to make the kids respect them – or, at least slightly, fear them – come into play now. Lane is almost too old for them, but still, they’re worth a shot; and residual feelings of what they used to inspire in her might just swing it in Deanna’s favor.

She opens the door wide, letting it swing until it hits the stopper. It thuds, and the whole door shakes. Lane is on the bed, lying back, staring at the ceiling of her room. There are still the remnants of the pale stars there that they put up when they moved in, when Lane was the same age as the twins are now. She wanted the stars because she’d had them in the old house. Laurence and Deanna relented, even though she was too old for them, maybe. It was easier.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ Deanna asks. Lane doesn’t look at her. ‘Lane, you know the rules.’ She walks over, stands next to the bed. ‘You know that we don’t want you drinking, and we don’t want you smoking. You know about your father’s career – you get yourself arrested, and God only knows what that does to him, the sort of questions he’ll have to answer about that.’

‘Fuck that,’ Lane says.

Deanna steps back. ‘Okay, you’re done. Lockdown for the next week.’

‘You can’t do that!’ Lane retorts.

‘Can and will. Watch me.’ She leaves the room, slamming the door shut behind her, and she goes to the bedroom and takes her cellphone from her pocket. She starts writing a text to Laurence, explaining what has happened, telling him that he’s going to need to talk to Lane when he gets home; that she always listens to him, or pretends to. Something about the father-daughter relationship works while Deanna and Lane have always had this wall between them when it comes to basic levels of respect. She writes all of that out, and then thinks. She doesn’t press Send. Instead, she goes downstairs and she brings up the calendars on the screen embedded in the door of the refrigerator, and looks at Laurence’s. The next few weeks are brutal for him: back tomorrow morning, Sunday working in DC on policy, then leaving first thing Monday for the announcement, then on to LA, Seattle, back to DC, home for three days, then NYC for a week. She taps through the following weeks and months, looking for a break, but there’s nothing. He’s barely hers, barely part of the family with his schedule the way that it is.

She clears the text. This is hers to deal with.

2 (#u15c6d3d1-bfdc-572f-b6da-94e96de10fa8)

Laurence sits up in bed holding the tablet. He scrolls through the questions while Deanna reads, and he sighs exaggeratedly at them. She puts her book down and laughs at his face, a mock-grimace at the task ahead of him.

‘These fucking questions,’ he says.

‘How many are there?’

‘A thousand; a thousand questions. Which is, what, nine hundred and fifty more than for a citizen ID?’ Deanna puts the coffee down on the table at his side of the bed and leans in. She pulls the laptop away from him and turns it around to face her.

‘Aged eighteen, where did you see yourself aged thirty?’ she reads. ‘You’ve only made it to eighteen years old?’

‘Which is about a third of the way through. Because, apparently, they can tell if I would be a good president based on whether I ever gave some kid a wedgie when I was in high school.’

‘It’s not a science,’ Deanna says.

‘Probably not,’ Laurence tells her, ‘but ClearVista sure as hell acts as if it is.’ He collapses backwards in mock anguish. ‘It’s fine. I have to do it.’

‘Says who?’ Deanna touches his chest. He’s so warm, she thinks.

‘They do. Shadowy they. The would-be Illuminati of America. And Amit.’

‘Of course Amit does. He probably still has shares in the company.’

‘He says that it’s the future of politics.’

She leans in and kisses him. ‘And there was me thinking that the future of politics would be you,’ she says. ‘You ready for today?’

‘Barely.’

‘Did you sleep?’

‘Barely.’

‘Barely?’

‘Barely.’ He smiles. ‘It’ll be fine.’

‘All you have to do is dance, monkey.’ She leans in to kiss him, and he pushes his tongue behind his lip, imitating the animal. She grins as she feels it, and he pulls her towards him, onto the bed. She rests her head in the nook between his chin and his shoulder. ‘You’ll be fine.’

‘I know.’

‘I’m going to the house, to try and make a start on stuff. Cleaning it.’

‘I’ll come and join you when I’m done.’

‘There’s no party?’

‘Don’t care if there is.’ He thinks about what happens after this, and how busy he suddenly becomes. He’s seen the effect that it’s had, his slight withdrawal from them all in the wake of his career. This is, he thinks, important.

‘I’ll wake the kids,’ she tells him, and then he hears her go down the corridor and into the twins’ room. He hears them giggling. They’ve been waiting for her. Laurence gets out of bed and goes to the bathroom. He looks at his face. He thinks about how old he looks and wonders how old he will look at the end of this, what sort of effect even running for the role will have on him. He pulls at gray hairs, and he examines the lines on his mouth and eyes, the slight jowl underneath his chin. He rubs at his temples, and the spots on his head where the hair will start to go. It’s in his family, or it was; and it feels like an inevitability to him. He’ll turn forty and his stress levels will be off the charts, and then he’ll just be clinging to whatever aspects of youth feel like letting him off the hook for the longest.

Deanna reappears in the doorway. ‘Lane isn’t coming,’ she says. ‘I told her she can have lockdown here or there, but she chose here.’

‘Foolish girl.’

‘I’m going to call her every hour, check she’s not gone out.’

‘We can trust her,’ Laurence says.

‘I wouldn’t have trusted myself when I was her age,’ Deanna replies. ‘Anyway, the twins are getting dressed. What time are you on?’

‘Ten,’ he tells her. He goes to the wardrobe and pulls his suit out – the gray suit, the lemon-yellow tie – and as he dresses himself he hears her go downstairs and switch on the TV. He hears his name mentioned, and then the set goes quiet.

‘Can we go swimming?’ Sean asks.

‘Later,’ Deanna says. ‘Maybe we can go in later.’ She’s packed all the cleaning supplies and the toolkit, and she pulls them both out of the trunk of the car. She wants to start clearing the house out, getting rid of the crap that’s been left, making sure that there are no splinters. There is furniture in the house; wooden tables and chairs that match the walls and floors and make it feel like the set of a horror movie. She pulls up outside the front, driving as close to the house as she can. There’s no real space for the car, just the dirt and gravel ground. ‘Watch yourselves,’ she says. ‘No running, no picking up anything that looks as if you shouldn’t pick it up, okay?’ She looks at the twins. ‘And stick close,’ she says, ‘No idea what’s waiting to bite you in this place.’ She snaps her teeth at them, and they both laugh.

The front door sticks and she has to shoulder it as hard as she can, really putting all of her weight into forcing it open. It finally swings, a hard arc that makes it smack into the wall and kick up clouds of dust. To Deanna’s eyes the house looks as if it’s barely holding itself up. It’s a building of pencil-drawn monochrome, the walls slightly askew, in need of a ruler. Rays of light hit the dust that seems to fill every part of the place, the light coming from not only the windows, but also through the cracks in the walls. There’s a smell inside that she struggles to recognize, that’s not totally unpleasant. It’s on that fine line, and it needs such a clean. They should have hired somebody, she thinks.

‘Right,’ she says, and she opens her bag, pulling out cloths and disinfectant sprays. ‘We need to get this place a little more habitable.’ She holds a cloth out for each of the kids. ‘Help me today, maybe we think about buying you guys a videogame later in the week. Deal?’ The kids snatch the cloths from her hands, and she shows them how to use the spray on the work surfaces in the kitchen, and how to wipe them down. She knows she’ll have to go over it again, but this is fun, the three of them working on this. She knows that when this is done, the place might feel like more of a home.

There’s no water from the taps; she writes it into her phone as something for Laurence to sort out when he arrives.

The delegates usher him onto the stage. ‘This is official,’ one of them says, ‘so treat it with some goddamn respect, you hear?’ He’s smiling while he talks, so Laurence smiles too; but it sounds, for a second, like an actual threat. ‘You do us proud,’ the man says. Not, ‘Do the party proud,’ Laurence notices. He takes Laurence’s hand, reaching for it and forcing the handshake.

Laurence reaches the stage and the flashbulbs go, the cameras all pointing at him. He’s got a speech that was prepared for him and he uses it while he speaks, but only as a frame. Most of the time he tries to be as much himself as he can.

They ask questions, and he poses for photographs. He checks his phone and his Twitter, his Facebook, his emails all scream alerts at him as people congratulate him. Amit takes the phone.

‘Clear your notifications,’ he says. ‘You won’t have time to read them.’ He pulls a schedule out.