heaving with sobs.
Gage knelt down next to her. “I didn’t mean it that way. I only meant that I have to trust the person who hired me just as much as I’m asking you to trust me.”
Footsteps pounded in the hallway. Vicky ran into the room.
“What the fuck did you do to her?” she yelled, then pushed Gage away and wrapped her arms around her mother.
Gage regained his balance, but didn’t rise.
Elaine straightened in her chair, then took in a long breath and exhaled as she wiped her eyes. She gazed up at Vicky.
“He didn’t do anything to me. Life did something to me.”
Elaine looked over at Gage. “I’m just so angry,” she said. “At myself for divorcing him. At him for abandoning us.”
Vicky pulled away, her face reddening, clenching her fists. “He didn’t abandon us. Stop saying that. He didn’t.”
“Then why isn’t he here?” Elaine said, opening her hands toward her daughter. “Why isn’t he still alive?”
Vicky glared at her mother, mouth open, but no answer emerged. She then turned and stared out through the window at the blizzard that had walled off their world.
Gage could see that every time she’d reached out to protect her mother, she found herself handcuffed and speechless, paralyzed by conflicting emotions and loyalties and unanswered questions.
“I can’t dissolve the cloud he left behind,” Gage said, rising to his feet. “But at least let me try to take some of the mystery out of how his life ended.”
Gage looked at Vicky.
“The man who asked me to do this believes that your father died for something important.”
And then at Elaine. “And after my meeting you two, I wonder if maybe his search was really an attempt to find a way to come back home as a man you could be proud of.”
CHAPTER 9
T wo years ago,” the president of International Society for Econometrics said, “the Federal Reserve was in disarray, having been managed by a succession of chairmen who spent their days testing the political winds, instead of interrogating the hard economic data.”
Harold Lasker scanned the upturned faces of the twelve hundred conference attendees in the ballroom of the Grand Hyatt in midtown Manhattan. To Milton Abrams, sitting to his left on the raised dais, they looked like refugees huddled in the safety of a school gymnasium after fleeing a war zone.
Antiglobalization demonstrators had gathered for a second time that day, blocking the hotel entrance, forcing the attendees to sneak in by way of Grand Central Station, their underground route fortified by police and private security guards against the surging protestors.
“What changed?”
Lasker shifted his gaze to Abrams, who felt himself recoil as twenty-four hundred eyes fell on him. He felt less like an honored keynote speaker and more like a burglar caught in a patrol officer’s high beams. The sudden attention caused him to cease his fidgeting that had accelerated during Lasker’s introduction. He withdrew his hand from the sweating water glass and the tracks its erratic movements traced on the starched white tablecloth, then dried his fingers on his napkin and dropped his hands to his lap.
“I’ll tell you what changed,” Lasker said. “We finally have a chairman who has refused to play politics with the economy by pursuing policies that brought a series of booms and busts because of the central bank’s unwillingness to control the expansion of credit.”
Lasker held up a copy of the society’s latest journal. Everyone in the room knew the single topic to which it was devoted: the coming collapse.
“The question is whether it’s too late.” Lasker paused, and then said, “I believe that it isn’t. If … if … we’re tough-minded enough.”
Easy for him to say, Abrams thought—for all of them to say. He knew that to the tenured academics in the room, “tough-minded” meant nothing more than standing firm in their demand for a new photocopier for the economics department or for an
Gage knelt down next to her. “I didn’t mean it that way. I only meant that I have to trust the person who hired me just as much as I’m asking you to trust me.”
Footsteps pounded in the hallway. Vicky ran into the room.
“What the fuck did you do to her?” she yelled, then pushed Gage away and wrapped her arms around her mother.
Gage regained his balance, but didn’t rise.
Elaine straightened in her chair, then took in a long breath and exhaled as she wiped her eyes. She gazed up at Vicky.
“He didn’t do anything to me. Life did something to me.”
Elaine looked over at Gage. “I’m just so angry,” she said. “At myself for divorcing him. At him for abandoning us.”
Vicky pulled away, her face reddening, clenching her fists. “He didn’t abandon us. Stop saying that. He didn’t.”
“Then why isn’t he here?” Elaine said, opening her hands toward her daughter. “Why isn’t he still alive?”
Vicky glared at her mother, mouth open, but no answer emerged. She then turned and stared out through the window at the blizzard that had walled off their world.
Gage could see that every time she’d reached out to protect her mother, she found herself handcuffed and speechless, paralyzed by conflicting emotions and loyalties and unanswered questions.
“I can’t dissolve the cloud he left behind,” Gage said, rising to his feet. “But at least let me try to take some of the mystery out of how his life ended.”
Gage looked at Vicky.
“The man who asked me to do this believes that your father died for something important.”
And then at Elaine. “And after my meeting you two, I wonder if maybe his search was really an attempt to find a way to come back home as a man you could be proud of.”
CHAPTER 9
T wo years ago,” the president of International Society for Econometrics said, “the Federal Reserve was in disarray, having been managed by a succession of chairmen who spent their days testing the political winds, instead of interrogating the hard economic data.”
Harold Lasker scanned the upturned faces of the twelve hundred conference attendees in the ballroom of the Grand Hyatt in midtown Manhattan. To Milton Abrams, sitting to his left on the raised dais, they looked like refugees huddled in the safety of a school gymnasium after fleeing a war zone.
Antiglobalization demonstrators had gathered for a second time that day, blocking the hotel entrance, forcing the attendees to sneak in by way of Grand Central Station, their underground route fortified by police and private security guards against the surging protestors.
“What changed?”
Lasker shifted his gaze to Abrams, who felt himself recoil as twenty-four hundred eyes fell on him. He felt less like an honored keynote speaker and more like a burglar caught in a patrol officer’s high beams. The sudden attention caused him to cease his fidgeting that had accelerated during Lasker’s introduction. He withdrew his hand from the sweating water glass and the tracks its erratic movements traced on the starched white tablecloth, then dried his fingers on his napkin and dropped his hands to his lap.
“I’ll tell you what changed,” Lasker said. “We finally have a chairman who has refused to play politics with the economy by pursuing policies that brought a series of booms and busts because of the central bank’s unwillingness to control the expansion of credit.”
Lasker held up a copy of the society’s latest journal. Everyone in the room knew the single topic to which it was devoted: the coming collapse.
“The question is whether it’s too late.” Lasker paused, and then said, “I believe that it isn’t. If … if … we’re tough-minded enough.”
Easy for him to say, Abrams thought—for all of them to say. He knew that to the tenured academics in the room, “tough-minded” meant nothing more than standing firm in their demand for a new photocopier for the economics department or for an
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