A Song for Julia

and glazed with some kind of caramel and unfamiliar herbs. And a gravy that I wouldn’t feed to the guys in the Pit at Harvard Square. It was all very artfully presented and completely lacking in any heart. I was glad I’d already eaten so much, because I was only going to be able to nibble this. Not to mention, the disapproval raining down from both ends of the table wasn’t helping.
    We sat in silence until the servers had finished refilling wine glasses and laying out our meal. Once that was done, Mr. Thompson cleared his throat. “As you know, Julia, I leave for Baghdad next Friday as part of the negotiating team. The President has invited us to dinner at the White House, with a few select guests, on Wednesday evening.”
    “I have a meeting on Wednesday,” Julia said.
    I didn’t quite gawk at her. But close. She was being invited to the White House. Not something you turn down, especially for a meeting with a near bankrupt second-rate record studio.
    “I cannot possibly imagine what meeting you may have that could be more important than an invitation to dine with the President of the United States.”
    Julia said, “I think I’d prefer to drive a nail through my own forehead than meet with this President.”
    Mrs. Thompson gasped, then said, “Julia … do not use that language in front of your sisters.”
    The little girls were gawking. They clearly weren’t used to seeing anyone defy their parents. Carrie’s eyes were darting back and forth, between me, Julia, her parents.
    Mr. Thompson simply smiled. “Very colorful, Julia. But, in the event you do decide to go into the Foreign Service … or for that matter, anything else that may ever involve the government … this could be a smart thing for you to attend. After all, the President will likely win a second term. Not to mention, even if your politics disagree with his, it’s still an honor.”
    Julia shook her head. “Seriously, Dad. I’m proud of you. I’m proud of you being part of the negotiating team. But, don’t you get the feeling that it’s all preplanned? That you going to Baghdad is just window dressing? They’re already activating troops for deployment. Crank’s dad just got called up, and he’s leaving for Kuwait next week. I don’t see how you can stomach working for that man.”
    Mr. Thompson frowned. “I’m sure you know an ambassador’s role is to be nonpartisan, Julia.”
    “So, why exactly am I going?”
    “Alexandra and the younger girls are too young, but you and Carrie are coming. And I expect you to behave diplomatically.”
    Julia looked at her father. “I can be diplomatic when I have to, Dad. But if you want my honest opinion? I think it’s all cooked up. The President wants to go to war in Iraq, and it doesn’t matter what you do, what the inspection teams do, what the UN does. I … I wish you could step back and not be a part of that.”
    Mr. Thompson closed his eyes. “I will do what I can to prevent that.”
    “Okay. But that doesn’t change my original concern. I have a meeting on Wednesday at noon.”
    Her father shrugged. “That we can deal with. Dinner isn’t until eight, so we’ll get you on a three o’clock flight. All right?”
    “I suppose.”
    I sat back in my chair, pretending to eat, and looked at this family. I thought my family was screwed up. But some things here just made my skin crawl. The absolute silence required of the younger kids, especially. Even Carrie hadn’t spoken much, and Alexandra and the younger ones, not a peep. That would never have flown in my house.
    I tried to get my mind around it, step back from the Julia I knew. This was Ambassador Thompson, discussing dinner at the White House with his wife and daughters. I’m generally not intimidated by anything. But this was like being on another planet. Was I making a mistake getting involved with Julia? She was brilliant, attending Harvard, and if she wanted, she could have a future attending dinners at the White House, a future traveling all over the globe, a future as a possible ambassador or … who knew?
    What did I have to offer that matched that?
    Not a damn thing.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

    Don’t say yes to anything (Julia)
    “Why the hell do we have to be there so early?” Crank asked for what felt like the hundredth time.
    “Security, Crank. Ever since last year,” I answered. Had he been living under a rock since September 11? I’d dropped him off at home after dinner and told him I’d be back at