The Dearly Departed Read Online Free Page B

seat in the House of Representatives was attainable to a member of the Class of ’96. When she returned from her graduation grand tour (London, Paris, Venice, and the Greek Isles) she took a bar-review course by day. By night she found a campaign to work for. Conspicuously wearing outfits of Republican red and Betsy Ross blue, she volunteered for an earnest young firebrand running for the city council. She stood in for him at a Republican kaffeeklatsch after practicing answers and sharing aphorisms with a voice-activated pocket recorder.
    â€œYou should run,” said an elderly man by the dessert table as his wife dusted confectioner’s sugar off one of his veiny cheeks.
    â€œMaybe one day,” said Emily Ann.
    â€œDon’t wait too long or I might not be able to vote for you,” he said, chuckling.
    â€œThis evening,” she reminded him nobly, “is about Greg Chandler-Brown and
his
race, and about the bond rating of a dying city.”
    â€œI didn’t catch your name,” he said.
    â€œEmily Ann Grandjean.”
    â€œMrs. or Miss?” he asked.
    â€œI’m not married.”
    â€œHave a piece of fudge cake,” he said. “You could use a little meat on your bones.”
    A year later, Mr. Grandjean was sliding a Big John catalog across the conference table to Fletcher, who had managed the last candidate to lose to d’Apuzzo, under budget and with dignity. “You look like you work out. Is there anything in here that appeals to you?”
    Its glossy cover displayed the rowing machine that was the Rolls-Royce of Fletcher’s health club. Through some trick of digital photography, it appeared to be gliding past pyramids on the Suez Canal. Fletcher didn’t open the catalog; didn’t even touch it.
    â€œNo obligation. Absolutely none,” said Mr. Grandjean. “A thank-you for your time and attention today, no matter what you decide. And, please. It’s nothing to us. This is what we do. We assemble parts and turn a few screws and—presto—we have a bike.”
    Fletcher turned the catalog facedown. Equally compelling was the back cover—a computerized stationary bike, titanium, featuring a built-in CD player and a Tour de France winner perched on its fertility-friendly seat.
    â€œShe can win the primary,” continued Mr. Grandjean. “I don’t think there’s any question about that.”
    â€œWhen you run unopposed, you win,” said Fletcher. “But I’m not interested in being the campaign manager for a sacrificial lamb.”
    Emily Ann snapped, “You’ve never heard of upsets? DEWEY DEFEATS TRUMAN ?”
    Fletcher folded his hands in front of him on the hammered-copper conference table. “Let me paint a picture for you: Yesterday, in the village center of a very staid Republican suburb, in a chic café named Repasts, I ate a sandwich called The d’Apuzzo. Not a sandwich meant to be an insult, like baloney or marshmallow fluff, but one named out of affection and respect and because it was what Representative d’Apuzzo ordered on his last whistle-stop there.”
    â€œWhat kind of sandwich?” asked Emily Ann.
    â€œTuna club. Traditional yet popular. No negative symbolism there.”
    â€œYour point being that a man who has sandwiches named in his honor is unbeatable?” she asked.
    â€œWhen he’s a Democrat and it’s on a Republican menu? Yes.”
    â€œRather unscientific,” grumbled her father.
    â€œCan I be blunt?” asked Fletcher.
    Both Grandjeans sipped their water.
    â€œMiss Grandjean would be a gnat on the campaign windshield of Tommy d’Apuzzo and nothing more. He wouldn’t respond to her speeches, he wouldn’t pay for ads, he wouldn’t campaign, and he sure as hell wouldn’t fly home from Washington to debate her. And the editorial writers? Forgive me—they’ll dismiss her as a rich girl without experience