Later Friday, however, he received a phone call from Matsuo Noda. After the usual preliminaries, saying how much he'd enjoyed their meeting, Mr. Noda confided he was calling as a personal favor to the senator, since they'd hit it off so well the previous day. Turns out he'd just been talking to the CEOs of various Japanese outfits scheduled to set up manufacturing operations in some of the "rust-belt" mill towns in upstate New York. Here was the distressing development: seems they were all of a sudden taking another look at sunny Tennessee. The problem was, they were upset by the anti-Japanese tone a lot of New York publications were taking these days—Japan bashing in the Times editorial pages, things like that. Noda, however, felt all this was very shortsighted of those Japanese investors; and he wondered if Senator O'Donnell would like him to put in a word for the Empire State. Pause. He hated to mention this, but people were even talking of closing certain Japanese-operated factories already in place, such as that big one in Elmira, Jack's hometown, and moving them south. But he thought threats such as that were very impolite and he was hoping he could find time to straighten the whole thing out.
Like I said, it would have been a hell of a speech.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
That Saturday turned out to be the day when winter descended abruptly and with rare vengeance. Remember we're only talking mid-December, still a dozen full shopping days till you know what, but it could have been the depths of January. After things kicked off with what seemed a foot of snow around three, the elements really started to unload. Everything from sleet in historic proportions to a wind-chill that would have frosted the horns off a Bexar County billy goat.
While I waited for Tam, I battened down the garden, covered the outdoor furniture, and prudently provisioned the larder with a flagon of Remy antifreeze. Ben in the meantime was lumbering around downstairs, eyeing the snow-covered garden with an air of disgruntlement. The universe had turned unacceptable, something he never greeted with equanimity. I decided to try and divert his misery by hauling him up on the long Country French dining table and combing some of the knots out of his shag. When that merely reinforced his overall gloom, however, I called it quits, located a consoling rawhide stick for him to gnaw, and poured a brandy. It was along about then, shortly after nightfall, that Tam finally appeared.
A cab with snow chains dropped her off (she'd come directly from the office, which Noda had just shut down for the weekend), and I helped her navigate the sleet-covered steps. I got the immediate sense that her first impression of my living quarters was unchanged from the old days. In spite of all the art, armor, and antiques, the place had a poignant rootlessness about it. Boys like toys; they just get more expensive as the bank account grows. Also, since she'd been in the man game long enough to spot a divorce-rebound case a mile off, she probably had me figured from the start: part of that army of emotional paraplegics in our feckless day and age.
After the MITI twist, however, I suppose she was ready to consult with somebody concerning the direction things were headed. I warmly invited her downstairs to the sisal-carpeted den just off the garden and dumped some logs in the fireplace. Next I pulled out a few discs—Mendelssohn seemed about right for some reason—and offered to whip up a batch of margaritas. 'Twould be, I dared to hope, a long winter's eve. Alas, she said no thanks, a club soda and lime would do fine. Looked as if I would be working barehanded, without aid of that universal socializer, distilled spirit, so I rustled up a Perrier, then poured another snifter of brandy for myself.
Since she appeared exhausted, my first suggestion was she kick off her shoes and get comfortable. No argument.
After settling in, shoes off and feet to the fire, she announced she was ready to hear what I'd come up with.