A Song for Julia

  I promptly moved to the bar, Carrie trailing behind me. “Gin and tonic, please,” I said.

  Both of my parents’ heads swiveled in my direction, my mother looking alarmed, my dad puzzled. And that’s when Harry decided to approach Carrie and me at the bar.

  “Hello, Julia,” he said in a low tone.

  I whispered, my voice shaking just like the rest of me, “Don’t come close to me, Harry. Don’t talk to me. Don’t talk to my sisters.”

  He froze in place. I tossed back half my drink at once. Carrie looked back and forth between us and then whispered to me, “I guess I don’t need to ask if this is the Harry you told me about.”

  I shook my head.

  I was puzzled by my reaction. I didn’t feel grief or sadness. Just anger, rage, disgust. By this time, everyone in the room was staring at us, and Harry backed away, nodding his head at us in an ultra-polite manner. I remembered that look. It was his ‘What did I do?’ look, and I’d seen it a hundred times when we were teenagers. His look that squarely placed the blame for any situation on me. His look that said he was responsible for nothing, cared for nothing; that said I was nothing.

  I turned away from him, finished off my drink and ordered another. Carrie’s eyes grew wide as I took the second drink. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” she whispered.

  “Nothing about being here is a good idea,” I muttered.

  A moment later, I felt a familiar and unpleasant presence by my side. My mother.

  “I don’t know what you think you’re doing, Julia, but your behavior is inexcusable.” Her voice was quiet but urgent.

  I gave her a sideways glance, and responded, equally quiet. “So what’s new, Mother? Everything about me has always been inexcusable.”

  She blanched, and I turned and walked away from the bar, positioning myself with my back to the wall, where I could see everyone in the room and sip my drink. My father was chatting up Ambassador Easton, oblivious of the undercurrents in the room. Harry had returned to his father’s side, undoubtedly trying to preserve his precious standing in his parents’ eyes. My mother held Alexandra’s hand clamped in her own, standing next to Carrie, as Mrs. Easton spoke with her in an animated tone, her hands waving. My mother’s eyes darted to me. I’d spent twenty-two years knuckling under whenever she spoke. I’d spent a lifetime listening to her tell me that my behavior, my dress, my choices, my very life, were unacceptable. I’d had it. I wasn’t taking any more.

  I glanced around the room, momentarily alone, except for the Secret Service agent who eyed me closely. It was hard to tell if he thought I was a possible assassin or if he was merely undressing me with his eyes, but the effect was the same. I felt uncomfortable under his scrutiny, and the skin on the back of my neck started to flush.

  Why was I here? This wasn’t the life I wanted. This wasn’t the life I asked for. I’m sure plenty of people would have killed for a chance to dine here in this company. I wasn’t one of them. What I really wanted was to get back to Boston, back to the band. I wanted to find myself a nice, safe place. A place that was all mine, where I could live without moving for the next thirty years. I wanted some stability in my life. Despite the problems they’d had in their lives, I wanted what Jack and Margot had worked to give their kids: a stable, decent life.

  Two more Secret Service agents entered the room, taking up their position on either side of the door. A moment later, the President and the First Lady entered.

  The President walked with a bit of a bounce, a sideways grin on his face, as he approached my father and Ambassador Easton. Like both ambassadors, he wore the required Washington uniform, a dark suit and white shirt with a bold, striped tie. My father and President Bush both wore the obligatory American flag pin on their lapels, something I’d noticed on the news since September 11th, but which hadn’t been part of the uniform prior to that.

  The men shook hands, and then Ambassador Easton and my father introduced their families. I was called over and shook hands with the President and Mrs. Bush.

  “My eldest daughter, Julia,” my father said. “She’s in her senior year at Harvard.”

  The President grinned and said in his soft Texas accent, “Well, you should have considered New Haven, but I guess you can’t have everything.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir,” I said. I wanted to say to my mother, See, I can be polite, but that would have been … impolite. Instead, I grinned at the President, throwing his reference to Yale right back at him. “You should have considered going to college in Cambridge, Mr. President. It’s never too late to go back.”

  He chuckled and suddenly I warmed to him, even if I did despise his politics.

  My dad looked stressed. I felt buzzed. President Bush looked amused.

  My dad said, “Julia’s planning on graduate school next year, then following me into the Foreign Service.”

  “Oh, isn’t that nice?” Mrs. Bush said.

  “Actually, I’m going into the music industry,” I said. “I manage a punk rock band.”

  The President raised his eyebrows, and my father, an edge in his tone, said, “Right now might not be the best time to discuss this, Julia.”

  “Sure, okay, Dad. You brought it up.”

  Now the President really did laugh, and then he leaned close to me. “I know how it feels to be pushed into a career. My dad wanted me to be President.”

  Everybody laughed politely. My mother looked like she was going to faint.

  “I don’t know about y’all,” the President said, “but I could eat a horse. Let’s have dinner.”

  So, we all moved into the dining room next door.

  At official functions, protocol requires everyone to sit according to rank. Consequently, my father and Ambassador Easton were seated across from each other next to the President. My mother and Mrs. Easton were at the foot of the table with Mrs. Bush, and in between, Alexandra and Carrie sat across from each other, while I was stuck across from Harry.

  As we all sat, waiters brought out wine. I took a healthy sip of mine as Harry leaned forward. “Barrett Randall called me a few weeks ago and mentioned he’d run into you on the train, and the two of you were planning on dinner. You’re at Harvard now? That’s a long way from when we met, isn’t it?”

  I ignored him. I had no intentions of speaking with Harry. My mother shot me a look, her eyebrows drawn together.

  Harry leaned closer, and his voice dropped. “I don’t understand why you won’t speak with me.”

  I really didn’t want to make a scene or cause a diplomatic incident. But I’d had enough. I leaned forward, too, and met his eyes. I smiled, not sincerely, and said in a conversational tone, “I’d rather eat live maggots than speak with you. Why don’t we just pretend there’s no one sitting across from us, and this dinner can go well for everyone else?”

  Mrs. Bush covered her mouth and tittered, almost an outright laugh. My mother looked like she was going to slide underneath the table and die. Score one for Laura Bush. I liked her now, too.

  My father, sitting next to Harry on one side and the President on the other, stopped speaking mid-sentence. His eyes widened in shock, his face going a little bit pale. The President grinned, leaned close to my dad, and whispered something. I don’t think my dad thought it was funny, but President Bush’s shoulders shook. Then he turned to me. “Miss Thompson … it’s Julia, right?”

  I smiled at him. “Yes, Mr. President.”

  “Tell me what your fellow students think of the situation with Iraq.”

  I thought about the question. “I think at Harvard most of them are indifferent, Mr. President. They’re too busy being over-privileged and competing with each other. On the other hand, a good friend of mine from Boston? His father’s National Guard unit has already been activated, and they’re going to Kuwait.”

  The President nodded. “I see. And what about you?”

  “Me, sir?”

  “Yes. I’m always curious what people think.”

&nbs
p; My father, at this point, had closed his eyes. He couldn’t help but be aware that I’d had a role, however small, in the huge protest here in Washington back in October.

  “Honestly, Mr. President, the impression I have from the news is that we’re going to war with Iraq no matter what happens. I think that’s a shame.”

  The President nodded. “Well, then. Let’s hope you’re wrong. I have high hopes for your father’s mission over there. All Saddam has to do is turn over his weapons of mass destruction, and no war. See? Simple.” Then he leaned over the table, planting one elbow on it as he spoke with me. “It’s good to hear an opinion. I don’t have many people around me who actually tell me what they think. Are you sure you aren’t interested in government service?”

  “Thank you, sir, but no. I spent most of my life going from one post to another following the Foreign Service. I’m headed in a different direction now.”

  Mrs. Bush chimed in, “You know, with all this talk of war, sometimes it makes me sad that no one pays attention to George’s domestic agenda. He has a lot of important ideas for tackling domestic issues.”

  My eyes darted to Harry, and I blurted out, “Like statutory rape?”

  My mother gasped, and Harry went absolutely still. Mrs. Bush simply looked puzzled, “Well, I suppose, but I had in mind priorities like the economy.”

  “Oh, I see.” Carrie was right. I shouldn’t have had two gin and tonics. I’d substitute wine instead. I turned slightly in my seat, waving to one of the white-jacketed waiters standing around the edge of the table. He looked at me, and I pointed at my empty glass. It was going to be a long, long night, and I didn’t have enough fuel.

  Alexandra said, “What’s statue rape?”

  My mother, teeth clenched together, replied, “I don’t think that’s really an appropriate topic for the dinner table, Julia.”

  Whatever. I’d pretty much had enough of whatever my mother thought. I was going to remain civil for the rest of the dinner here in the White House, at least as much as I could imagine. But she’d better not say anything to me in private, or I was seriously going to go off on her. I mattered. It was time she knew it.

  Luckily, the remainder of the dinner stayed relatively peaceful. After a fierce warning look from his father, Harry didn’t attempt to speak to me again, and shortly thereafter, the staff brought out dinner. I concentrated on eating and keeping my mouth shut before I said something really embarrassing. My head was swimming from the alcohol, and if nothing else, I didn’t want to set a bad example for Alexandra. She was really a sweet kid and had no clue what was going on with me anyway.

  Carrie, in solidarity with me, completely ignored Harry. Which left him to talk with my father and his, as well as President Bush. The four of them seemed to get along well. My father and Ambassador Easton laughed at the President’s jokes, even when they weren’t funny, which was most of them. At the opposite end of the table, my mom, Mrs. Easton and Mrs. Bush chatted about differences in public education between the United States and the United Kingdom. I wasn’t interested in either conversation. So I turned to Alexandra and asked her about school, and how she was adjusting to living in the United States again after being in Moscow. She promptly reported that it was a lot warmer in San Francisco, and that the boys at her school were a lot cuter.

  I felt a pain in my chest. She was only twelve. Way too young to be thinking about boys. I wanted to fold her up in my arms and protect her. I wanted to tell her to stay away from boys and men and their stupid and destructive games. But I knew it wouldn’t be long before they started chasing her. She had those huge green eyes and long, lush hair I’d have killed for, and puberty was already changing the shape of her body.

  No, it wouldn’t be long at all before boys started chasing her. For just a moment, I regretted living in Boston, thousands of miles away. How could I protect her from that distance? I was ten years older than Alexandra. Even older still than the twins or Andrea, who in truth I barely knew. It felt futile. But one thing I knew, is that my mother, no matter what her intentions, wasn’t going to do them any good when it came to protecting them from harm. The only thing she knew how to do was cast blame and hurt.

  Finally, the excruciating dinner came to a close. The President stood and said a few words wishing the two Ambassadors success in their mission. We all rose and shook hands and said our goodbyes, and began the walk back to the van, escorted by a uniformed Secret Service agent. We walked out, and it suddenly hit me, that outside of the crazy emotions evoked in me, Crank and Harry had absolutely nothing in common. Nothing. For weeks I’d associated Crank with Harry … the rush of conflicted emotions, the out of control feelings.

  But Harry had often been cold, superior—almost contemptuous of my younger self. Polished, with exquisite manners, upper class attitudes and an overwhelming need for power; at that age, I’d been no match for him. He’d forced his way into my life and tried to control everything I did. And I let him.

  Crank had been nothing but considerate. Kind. Fiercely protective. Even as I held him at arms’ length, constantly pushing him away, he’d made it clear that his primary concern was me, his brother, his father … never himself.

  And I’d been horrible to him. Over and over again.

  I was broken out of my thoughts the moment we stepped into the darkness outside the White House. Ignoring the Secret Service agent who escorted us, my mother turned on me.

  “How dare you behave that way, Julia? Is it your goal to destroy your father’s life? I knew you shouldn’t have come tonight. I told him that, but he wouldn’t listen.”

  I stopped. I looked back and forth between my father with his pained, sad expression, and my mother, who looked at me with rage.

  I stood up straight and said, “Mother—”

  She interrupted me. “You just tell me, young lady, what did the Eastons ever do to you? What right did you have to make a … a spectacle of yourself in there?”

  I felt so tired. Tired of protecting my mother’s secrets, when she offered me no such courtesy. Tired of being berated, treated like an outcast. Tired of this family. Quietly, I said, “Mother, it’s many years too late for you to be asking what Harry did to me. If you’d asked that years ago, maybe we could have had a different life together.”

  Abruptly, I turned to the Secret Service agent. “Can you escort me to the gate? I’m taking a cab directly to the airport.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said.

  Carrie said, “I’ll come with you. I can take a cab back to the condo after.”

  “You will not!” my mother shouted. “Carrie, you’ll go nowhere.”

  My father, who had an intensely sad expression on his face, said, “Adelina, I think …”

  My mother turned on him in a fury, and he faltered. But then he went on, “Adelina, it’s time to stop. I don’t know what this was all about tonight, but we’re going to let Julia go, and Carrie with her. Carrie, I expect you home by midnight. And Julia … please call me. I don’t understand what’s going on here.”

  She started to turn her tongue on him, saying sharply, “I don’t think you’ve got any right to—”

  Gently, he said, “Adelina. Shut up. Let them go. Get in the car.”

  Unexpectedly, I felt a lump in my throat. Not once, in all these years, had my father intervened. Not once had he stepped in. And I needed him to. Because, I don’t know when, but somewhere along the line, my mother had become almost hateful, and for years she’d taken that out on me, and to a lesser extent, my sisters. I needed someone to protect me from that, especially that last year in high school. But he’d been too preoccupied with work, with his academic pursuits, to even notice my existence.

  My mother grabbed Alexandra’s hand and walked off in a huff. Alexandra, for her part, twisted her head and body around to wave goodbye to me. I gave her a smile, and she blew me a kiss before Mom practically threw her into the van.

  I turned to follow the Secret Service agent, but my dad said, “Julia … w
ait.”

  I stopped but didn’t turn around. I didn’t face him. I couldn’t.

  He said, “I know I’ve not been the best … the best father. But I need you to know, I love you. I want you to be happy.”

  I let out an ugly, half-choked sob. Carrie grabbed my hand, holding it tight. “Dad, I think you need to leave it alone right now. I’ll talk with her, and we can deal with it over the holidays.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t think I’m coming home for Christmas this year, Carrie. I can’t be in the same house with her any more.”

  She whispered, “But … Julia…”

  My father’s pained voice behind us. “Julia … please? Give us one chance. I mean it. Come home. You’re our daughter.”

  I was shaking, and right now the only thing I wanted to do was run home. Not to California, which had never been home to me, but to Boston, to that little row house in Southie, where I’d find Crank and Sean and Margot and possibly a stray neighbor or two. That was home now. But … I couldn’t do that to my sister. Not now. Not when we’d just recently started to grow close.

  I nodded. “I’ll come home for Christmas,” I whispered. “But I’m not promising anything after that.”

  I started to walk toward the gate, gripping my sister’s hand in mine the whole way.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Lights came up (Crank)

  “Five minutes,” Julia said, putting her hand up and spreading her fingers wide to visually indicate the remaining time. It was necessary: the club was loud as hell. Then she turned and disappeared back through the door. I’d only seen her for a few minutes tonight, when just as we arrived, she led us to the green room at the back of the club. She looked subtly different. She’d streaked her hair and looked relaxed, wearing faded dungarees and one of our new Morbid Obesity t-shirts with a black suit coat.

  The t-shirts were new. She showed up at our show two weeks ago with a carload of them, and from what I could see looking out at the crowd, she must have sold two hundred of them the first night. We’d never even tried that before.