“A Republican I really admire is Gerald Ford,” my mother said. “What a difficult situation to enter into, and his poor wife, struggling like that with her health.”
“Jerry is a loyal foot soldier,” Charlie said. “He’s a man who knows his strengths and limitations.”
There was a pause as we all tried to determine which direction the conversation would go. Charlie seized the reins. “This is a lovely home, Mrs. Lindgren,” he said and it was clear that the Mrs. Lindgren he was addressing was not my grandmother but my mother. “How long have you lived here?”
“Oh, mercy, it’s been—help me, Emilie—we came here right before Alice was born, so I suppose thirty-one years. Now, Charlie, you must have met Alice’s dear friend Dena. Mack and Lillian, Dena’s parents, are just across the street, and they moved in not but six months after we did.”
“I have met Dena,” Charlie said warmly. “She’s the life of the party.”
“Oh, she’s a pistol. Lillian tells me business is booming at her store.”
“How’s her sister?” I asked.
“I think she’s doing better now.” My mother smiled. “Charlie, did Alice tell you her father managed Riley’s branch of Wisconsin State Bank and Trust?”
Charlie smiled too, but blankly.
“They also have branches in Madison,” I said. “There’s one at West Washington off the square.”
“They’re the best bank in the region.” My mother nodded fervently. “Are you sure I can’t get either of you something to eat? Alice, I made apple kuchen again last night, and you were exactly right about adding sour cream to the dough.”
“That I can vouch for,” Lars said. “I must say that if I’d known when I woke up this morning I’d end up sitting across from the son of the governor of Wisconsin, I’d have brought along my camera. Everyone at the post office will be tickled pink when I tell them on Monday.” Directing his comment at Charlie, he added, “That’s where I work, at the one down on Commerce.”
I willed myself not to be embarrassed or to give in to adolescent shallowness.
“You’d be surprised that even in a town like Riley, people send their mail to the most unusual of places,” Lars was saying. “The other day a gentleman shipped a package all the way to Brussels, Belgium.”
“Where Audrey Hepburn was born,” my grandmother said.
There was a lull, and Charlie, who appeared neither troubled by nor interested in Lars’s employment, said, “Mrs. Lindgren, have I missed my chance at the apple kuchen?”
“Not at all.” My mother sprang from her seat. “Alice?”
“None for me, but let me help you,” I said.
In the kitchen, a foil-covered pan sat on a burner, and my mother turned on the oven and stuck the pan inside.
“Charlie can eat it cold, Mom.”
“But it’s so much better warmed up. I just wish we had a little vanilla ice cream left—you don’t think I ought to run down to Bierman’s?”
“You definitely shouldn’t.”
“I had no idea he was the son of Harold Blackwell,” she said, and then, after a beat, “I know Lars’s presence must be quite a surprise. I was in buying stamps one day, and we got to talking—he’s a very kind man, Alice.”
“No, he seems like it. I’m sorry I didn’t call to say we were coming.”
“No one will ever replace your father for me.” There was a fierceness in her expression, as if she expected that I would not believe her.
“Mom, I think it’s fine. It’s good for you to, you know, socialize. You two should come to Madison for dinner, either with Granny, or just you and Lars if you want to come when Granny’s in Chicago.”
My mother appeared confused. “Did Granny tell you she’s going to Chicago?”
“Isn’t her visit to Dr. Wycomb in the next week or two?”
My mother shook her head. “Granny hasn’t visited Gladys Wycomb in years.”
I was startled. “Does she not have the energy anymore?”
“Well, she’s eighty-two,” my mother said. “She’s so sharp that it’s easy to forget.” My mother had picked up her egg timer, and I watched her set it for seven minutes. As she did, she said, “I’ve been meaning to say, Alice, thank you for selling the brooch. I know we probably didn’t get as much as it was worth, but every little bit helps.”
WE DID NOT stay long; I think all of us, with the exception of my grandmother, had found the encounter draining. My mother insisted on sending Charlie home with the portion of kuchen he didn’t eat, and the five of us stood in the living room exchanging goodbyes. “I can see why Alice speaks so fondly of where she comes from,” Charlie said to my mother, and his voice was loud and confident but also distant—it was the way I’d later see him speak to constituents. When my grandmother shook his hand, she said, “I never voted for your father, but I always admired your mother’s sense of style. There’s a picture I once saw of her in a stunning fox cape.”
Charlie was not smiling as he said, “I’ll tell her you said so.”
In the car, I directed him out of town, and after we reached the highway, neither of us spoke for nearly ten minutes. “I’m sorry if that was awkward,” I finally said. “You were a good sport.”
He said nothing.
“Are you angry?” I asked.
