Chapter 24
Early the next morning, the Tuxes, after being fed and housed at a Washington hotel, were summoned to the Oval Office. The Pershings had been gratefully reunited and stood together, arm in arm, before the President’s desk. Reata was back in her First Lady finery, or as she’d put it, “my work drag.”
Reata laid out how yesterday’s events were being handled: “My abduction wasn’t reported and I’m not pressing charges.
Reese Dantine’s life is in shreds, and a prosecution, based on the paranormal effects of a relic, could be problematic.
So I like the Tuxedo Society solution. Dismantle Reese’s organization, expose his sham of a marriage, let all those terrific nonprofits benefit, and hang the bastard out to dry. ”
Earlier in the day, Devotion had issued a statement, ending her marriage on the basis of “emotional and spiritual abandonment.” She was already showing glimmers of independent thinking, announcing that she’d be voting for Reese’s opponent, “a fine and honorable woman.” Donations to Reese’s instantly declared “Holy Defense Fund” were almost nonexistent, as his followers perused the internet for a new charlatan to subsidize.
The blindly faithful rarely learn from experience, but they can be fickle.
Overnight, Reese had sunk from being “America’s Golden Future” to the tabloid headlines “God’s Little Cheater” and, in the more responsible media, “Bankrupt and Besieged” as he was buried under lawsuits from his creditors.
Reese was hiding out in Fleming Fairmont’s Washington basement, with few other options, since Marcus had emptied Reese’s campaign war chest as well.
He’d stepped down from his ministry, citing “overwork,” and had been glimpsed in the back seat of one of his remaining limos, glowering silently.
He’d had a mechanic investigate Edwin’s tampering, but he’d been thwarted: even a recording of Reese’s voice had caused a Bentley to detonate, on a stretch of empty highway.
Fleming’s video had hit 198 million views on YouTube, along with an equally popular TikTok meme in which teenagers danced with underwear over their faces while shouting, “Lord have mercy!” Fleming had granted a single interview, to a right-wing podcast, in which he inferred that “a cabal of Deep State Communists” had hypnotized him and doctored the footage, “to make me appear pruriently homosexual.” Fleming was battling an even greater obstacle to redemption, after his beloved MeeMaw, upon watching the footage, had remarked, “I’m not surprised. ”
“Reese is refusing to leave the race,” Reata said, “which helps our side. He’s still pretty deluded.
Before you guys got to the cathedral, he’d bragged about becoming all-powerful, and how he’d kidnapped me as bait.
And while arresting him would have its satisfactions, seeing him lose the election, along with his family and livelihood, will be more effective. ”
“I’m sorry that your courage and ingenuity will never become public knowledge,” President Pershing told the Tuxes.
“But you have our most sincere thanks,” said Reata, “and you’re my personal heroes, as well as truly great Americans.”
Reggie was beaming, since this was exactly why he’d formed the Tuxedo Society to begin with. He’d made his point. Although I’d once asked him, “You do such amazing things, but how do you love a country that doesn’t always love you back?”
“I’ve thought about that,” he’d told me.
“And Marcus and I have dealt with it, since we were both kicked out of the military. And there are dirtbags everywhere, including on the Supreme Court, trying to repeal the slightest steps forward. But here’s what I’ve decided: I love the Tuxes and the Pershings and my buddies from the service.
That’s my idea of America. It’s our country, too.
And as for the assholes, well, Marcus says, ‘Give me a few seconds on my laptop to fuck with their mortgages, their gun permits, and their 401(k)s.’ ”
“I’ve spoken with the Greek ambassador,” Reata continued, “and we’ve agreed that the Diadem must be stored in a lead-lined vault in Athens, with copies on display in both of our countries. But I’ll always remember Andrew wearing the real thing. He looked so distinguished. A god among gods.”
I was floored by Reata’s admiration, which she repeated while FaceTiming with my parents on her phone. “I can’t really get into specifics,” she told them, “but you’ve got a terrific son, who’s served his country and his organization. You should be very proud.”
“Always,” said my dad. “The details don’t matter and might keep us up nights. But we’d like you and your husband to know that we’re big fans.”
“And we thank you for looking after Andrew,” said my mom. “And please give Reggie our best.”
Reata tilted the phone toward Reggie so he could salute, as the other Tuxes applauded and Timothy yelled, “We love you, Birnbaum family!”
“And Reata,” added my mom, “I love your memoir and your mental health awareness program and everything you’re doing for the LGBTQ+ community. I’m dedicating a bulletin board to you in my library. And Andrew, tuck in your shirt.”
I looked down—how did she know?
As I fixed my sloppiness, Reata invited my folks to drop by the residence, and I was already guessing which baked goods they’d bring (a platter of assorted butter cookies, with a nondairy allotment, beneath a plastic freshness dome).
“Mr. President and Ms. Pershing,” said Reggie, “what’s our next assignment?”
“We’ll be in touch,” said the President, and then it happened, as I’d dreamed it might: Reata hugged me and whispered, “We’re making a lunch date and you’re telling me everything that went down with the Moirai.
I bet it was major: I could see it on your face.
And in exchange I’ll get us seats for that new Disney musical about King Tut, and I’m coming to see your next improv show. You’re the best.”
My first thought was, Maybe I could ask Reata to repeat this as my new ringtone. My second and more lasting response was, Why don’t I just remember every word?
At the airport, I told the group, “I’m going to use a final piece of highly sophisticated technology that Edwin gave me,” as I slid the Tuxedo Society black Amex card from my wallet. “To upgrade all of us to Business.”
Reggie said, “Fine,” and a cheer went up.
That afternoon, as I sat with Brock at the imitation Starbucks where he’d first explained about the Tuxes, he asked, “So are you okay with everything? With me bringing you into all this?”
“Of course. And thank you. I owe you a free candle. From the sale table.”
“Everyone had placed bets on how long you’d last. But I defended you. I said, ‘As long as we don’t ask him to do push-ups or ski.’ But you did great. You’ve been working on yourself.”
I had been. Maybe that’s what a person’s twenties are all about: not just obliterating your comfort zone, but rocking a diadem to fend off an unscrupulous zealot.
Becoming an actor, or trying to, and moving into the city had been baby steps.
Joining the Tuxes had molded me, and almost killed me repeatedly, and shown me what I might be capable of, if I stick with the program.
“Ralph Lauren should put you in his ads,” I told Brock.
“Even better—I just got promoted to being the deputy manager of the Men’s Shoe Department.”
“Mazel tov!”
“Bonjour,” said a French-accented voice.
Luc was standing beside our table, in a caramel-toned suede jacket, perfectly fitted jeans, and aviators.
“What are you doing here?” I asked. “Why are you out in public?”
“And where did you get those aviators?” asked Brock.
“Dior, and I’m no longer officially dead. Since the jewels are out of my family’s reach, I can emerge. I’d only been reported missing, so I’m letting people think I was being treated at a clinic for fatigue and a gambling addiction.”
“Which everyone will assume means cocaine,” said Brock, “and that you owed money to the Mob. Wait, is there a French Mob?”
“Of course. They’re called literary critics. But I’m back, and my lawyers have sued for half ownership of Parnassus. So I’ll essentially be running the company, with my sister. My father is livid, but he can’t say a word, or I’ll expose his trading in stolen artworks.”
“But why are you in America?” I asked.
“Unfinished business.”
Brock looked at Luc, then at me, and started making kissing noises.
“Can I see you? For whatever?”
“That means oral in an Uber,” Brock suggested.
“I’ll text you,” said Luc, with one of those imperceptible French smiles that read as “I’m thinking about either sex, money, or the perfect chambray shirt.” He began to leave, then turned and murmured to me, “Your friend is right. About the Uber.”
After he was gone, Brock commented, “I’m not judging you. Because once you’ve seen a guy fake his own death, that’s a commitment. Go for it.”
I hadn’t expected to encounter Luc, and while Brock had given his blessing, I was beset by romantic travail. I had to check in with my family, which I did, at my parents’ welcome-home-we’re-not-asking-any-questions-yeah-right dinner in Commack.
As my mom brought take-out Szechuan to the table, and my dad tossed me a package of my favorite potato stix from CVS, we were joined by Jenn and Aunt Libby (whose husband, my uncle Josh, was on call, after a patient’s braces had come loose right before prom, where the theme was Bitcoin and Solar Energy, because she went to a progressive private school with an investment folio limited to countries that let women get divorced).
“So,” said my mom, “you’re still in one piece.”
“And the Pershings said such nice things,” said my dad.
“And how’s Reggie?” asked Jenn. “And by the way, I met a vascular surgeon online but we’re taking it slow. And I’ve asked Pei-Sze and Mikaela to be in my upcoming YouTube episode on reversing sun damage in ten days or less.”