Ten Words No. 7:
Marion Beauregard Flagler’s Last Day
A Short Story
by Sylvia Sikeston
(See 10 Words Intro for an explanation of the concept.)
The random words:
Marion, trio, simultaneously,
brinkmanship, haying, opener, coquette,
experiment, kidnapped, idler
trio, simultaneously, brinkmanship, haying, opener, coquette, experiment, kidnapped, idler
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"'Kooie Bono'? What’s that? Sonny and Cher had a boy too? Sonny, may he rest in peace, only ever told me about Chastity." Marion Beauregard Flagler snorted, puffed his fat Cuban, and looked around the Monday morning staff meeting to see which one of the ass lickers was laughing at his little joke. "No, Senator," said Dan Laughlin, his mirthless chief of staff. "It’s Latin. C-U-I bono. Means ‘who benefits’. We got to ask that bout this bill from the Teamsters." Time to take old Dan down a notch or two. Get this danged meeting off on the right foot. Senator Flagler had little patience with principle. He knew Dan still carried and treasured his John Birch Society membership card, but damn, the boy knew how to run an office full of fluff-head spawn of old South Carolina families. Still, every now and then, he needed reminding who was boss. The senator fixed Dan with his well-known steely gaze, a combination of squint and smirk, which even in his ninetieth year could still make the rich and powerful tremble. "There was a time, Dan, my boy, when children in this country got a proper education, when the word ‘classics’ meant something. My fourth grade I still remember was spent simultaneously savoring the delights of Virgil AND Homer, while yours, I suspect, a fortiori, was spent unsticking the pages of your older brother’s copies of Playboy." The senator snorted again, puffed again, smiled as his little bunch of apple polishers delighted in seeing their boss blush. . . . His attendant pushed Marion Flagler down the Capitol hall at a goodly clip, as he liked. Whoosh, there went George, and old Tom Jefferson, and one of the Adams. Nice big, white statues. The senator knew he’d never have one here, too many enemies louder than his many friends, but no matter, he had plenty back home: post offices, schools, freeways, a beach, who knew what all bearing his name, and one nice white statue of his own self in the state capitol from when his legs were still good for something besides getting in the way. Dead weight. So much dead weight now. Almost at the door to the Senate chamber, the senator was waylaid by what looked a mound of big, flowery breasts. He put on his campaign smile and looked up as he gestured to his attendant to stop. A trio of elderly female constituents always took precedent over whatever worthless pork barrel business the Senate might be about to transact. Oh, they were lovely! He wondered if anyone else could see the glowing flowers of Southern girlhood still hiding beneath these overweight figures covered in brightly colored, starched! (it did his old heart so much good to know that some women still starched and ironed their summer cottons) dresses. He leaned forward to smell. Nothing smelled clean like a freshly put on, starched cotton dress. He chatted with the ladies, and continued to inhale deeply as he signed autographs for them. Wheeling away, he hoped they knew that they would all appear as the loveliest, slenderest, ivory skinned coquettes in his dreams tonight. . . . Harold pushed him past the guards into the Cloakroom, through more doors onto the floor itself. Ah, the deep floral carpet, the hush, the flag, the deeply coffered ceiling. Home. It was, he felt, though he had never said as much to anyone, his one true home. My God, in eight terms he had spent more time here than in any other place, certainly in any of the houses his four wives had gone through. Harold knew the routine, knew who his friends were, knew where to push him here without being told. One of the young whippersnappers from his own party who knew he had all the answers was speaking to an almost empty chamber. The senator automatically tuned him out; these young voices, no accent, the voices of spoiled idlers, layabouts, good for nothings, whose rich daddies sent ‘em to Yale where they learned they could go a long way in this world just by learning when to bite their tongue and when to say "yessir" in a good, reverent tone to anybody with over a million dollars—God, how Senator Flagler despised these whelps who believed in nothing except the next dollar, and the one after that, which they were sure would always come. Harold was pushing him toward the desk of an old friend across the aisle. No, the senator thought, not today. He dropped his hands to the wheels and stopped the chair almost in front of the speaker’s podium. He caught the youngster’s eye, communicated with a look what he wanted, and, good boy that he was, the junior senator from Texas yielded five minutes of his time to the distinguished senior senator from South Carolina. Harold detached the microphone and handed it to Senator Flagler. "Ladies and gentlemen, guests, just a little experiment in oratory, if you will indulge an old man. Shortest speech of my career, maybe ever in this chamber." He made a large sweeping gesture, indicating the Capitol, the country. Giving the whippersnapper a brief taste of the old squint-scowl-smirk, he looked up toward the tourists in the gallery, at the few senators on the floor, at the presiding officer. "One question, always, always, my friends. Only one." Orator that he was, he gave it a three beat pause. "Cui." Pause. "Bono." Pause. "Thank you." He gave the microphone back to Harold, and they continued across the chamber. He had not known he was going to do the little speech, but now he understood the two Latin words this morning had gone deep into his mind, burrowing through layers and layers of ancient, heated battles, noisy disagreements, messy compromises, oh so clever exercises in brinkmanship when principle was shredded and tossed to the winds, what a trash heap his five decades here sometimes seemed to him. Times when he had been grossly unfair to the weak, more than fair to the strong, layers and layers of expedience, and who, who, who benefits, indeed? He hastily drew a handkerchief to wipe away an unexpected, unwanted tear. . . . Maybelle, his secretary who’d been with him longer and certainly had been more faithful than any of his wives, handed him the two phone messages she judged he needed to see. Marion placed them on his desk beside his lunch: grits swimming in butter, real butter, white toast, one perfectly breaded pork chop. His gift to himself on his ninetieth birthday had been to toss all the doctors’ diets out the window. One was from Marcy, his December child, sired when he was seventy-eight. She wanted to remind him that he was taking her to see "Cats" at Kennedy Center tonight and would he please call her so she would know that he remembered. Yes, he would call, but only after responding to the other message. He had Maybelle dial, he heard secretaries yielding through levels of protocol, and then the familiar voice: "Thanks for the fast callback, Marion. I—" "For openers, Mr. President, let me assume I know why you called. If it’s about that damned Teamsters bill, you know there’s no way…" Marion tuned out his own voice. It was all automatic. He would say this, the President would say that, and on and on. For a fucking piece of crap legislation no better or worse that all the other pieces of paper they fought over. The motions, were they all just going through the motions, doing what they could to win, so they could go through the motions again tomorrow, next year, dear God, next century? Good thing the CIA never perfected those mind readers they were trying to develop during the Cold War, Marion thought as he half listened to the President going through the motions. Cui bono, cui bono? Dear God, what has gotten into me today? He looked around at his office, the walls covered with photographs of him and world leaders, a half century of world history on his walls. And he felt a stranger. As if he had been kidnapped as a teenager from the old homeplace outside Charleston, brought here, kept in a drugged coma all this time and just now woke up. Silence on the phone. Which meant it was his turn. "Sorry, Mr. President, can’t help you this time. Just no way." . . . Wife Number Four—that’s how after four years he thought of her: W.N.F.—never touched him, but, Lord, did she talk. He was laid out on the bed to make it easier for the evening attendant to change his clothes for the Kennedy outing. W.N.F., as always, was present, supervising the choice of cufflinks, the right tie, the right socks. "Do you know, Marion, she got their catalog in the mail today? I’m telling you, it’s never too early. You’ve got to step in. As the twig is bent. She won’t listen to me." This continuing conversation had been going on for some months, since last fall when Marcy had announced that her heart was set on going to Branard. Six years off, and the girl had made up her mind. Marion was secretly delighted to see his own singlemindedness, his own fierce focus reproduced in this angel child, this product of his own artificially removed semen (he still blushed when he remembered the procedure) and Wife Number Three. Branard? Marion had thought when he first heard. So be it. Let her learn the ways of the other side of the aisle. Maybe she’ll go on to try to solve the world’s problems with their ways. Suits me, just let her be happy and well. But of course, W.N.F., coming from Wyoming ranch and oil money, would not have it. Sophie Newcomb and then Vanderbilt Pi K. A. Marion was saved from responding by the business of the evening attendant helping him out of bed and into the chair. W.N.F. continued the conversation singlehandedly, making points he had already heard a hundred times. He wheeled himself to the window overlooking their Georgetown backyard. Marcy, dressed like a picture, was sitting on the patio, holding her cat. Sensing something, she looked up at him, smiled and returned her attention to the cat. The glance, the smile, the perfect arch of those Flagler lips: Georgetown, the Capitol, Washington vanished and as his heart decided it was time to rest, Marion Beauregard Flagler was a boy haying in his father’s field, sweating in the September sun, looking up to see his mother smiling with those same lips, coming from the house with a big glass pitcher of iced tea, rich brown liquid among the ice cubes, drops of water condensing like perfect diamonds on a painted pattern of yellow daisies. END Back to 10 Words Intro and Contents
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