He shook his head. “Fenwich.” He wrist-flicked the sommelier. “I don’t mean immortal soul, of course,” he hastened to add. Thumb in bottle punt, the wine waiter topped off their bubbly. Les tongued the liquid. “So, tell me a little about our future son-in-law.”
“Angus Culvertdale, heir to Global Boffo.”
“A Republican.”
She made a face as if snapping into a jalapeño.
“No social conscience at all?”
“That’s the heck of it, Les. He’s got a heart of gold. He set up his own charitable trust—”
“Tax dodge.”
“—that gives gobs of money to causes we could only dream about. Plus, he treats Karma like a queen—”
“Cunning!”
“Takes her on trips around the world, introduces her to celebrities, buys her expensive jewelry. He bought her a new Mercedes SUV, and they’re not even married yet. A gas-guzzler. Twelve miles to the gallon.”
“Capitalist skullduggery.You won’t fall for it, of course.”
“That’s the worst part of it. I like him. I mean, really like him. He’s sweet and thoughtful and never says a harsh word about anyone. He’s offered to take me to Switzerland with them in November, and I’m embarrassed to say I’m considering it. He’s funny and optimistic and cheerful and completely supportive of everything Karma wants to do, and I just want to squeeze his cheeks to death. I’m so confused.”
“It so happens, I do have one of my brilliant suggestions. It wouldn’t be an entire solution to the problem—more a palliative than a cure—but it would be a start.” He swished bubbly around his molars and swallowed contemplatively. “You know the state is insolvent, and, naturally, this being such a brutally plutocratic country, the universities are always the first to suffer. If the governor would raise income taxes again, fine, but the malefactor is more concerned about not offending wealthy landowners than nurturing our wombs of intellectualism.”
She clung to his every word, trying desperately to hold on, as he dragged her around by his linguistic ankle.
“The department hasn’t hired anyone in five years, and the faculty haven’t gotten a raise in three. It’s abominable, unconscionable, and disgraceful. How do they expect us to attract superior theorists? The best we’d ever be able to snare are literature people. Now, if your…our future son-in-law…”
“Angus.”
“…could be persuaded to include the English Department on his list of foundation recipients? Oh, I know it’s ill-gotten money—no doubt profiting off the poor—but if you, let’s say, could persuade him to add the department to his charitable trust, or however those things work, to the tune of, oh, as much as humanly possible, I believe he could depend on his future father-in-law’s blessing, in terms of walking down the aisle?”
She frowned. “Does it mean that if he won’t—”
He squeezed her hand. “You know me better than that. Of course I will. It’s within the framework of my moral cadre”—he pronounced it cahd-ray. “I’ll walk my daughter down the aisle irregardless—or regardless, if you believe irregardless is a tautology, which I don’t happen to—pardon ending my clause with a preposition. I hope to meet her beforehand too.”
She smiled again.
“That’ll be our little secret for now—leverage, you know? If you make the presentation the correct way—you know, don’t actually conjoin the ideas formally, no ultimatums per se, he’ll undoubtedly seize the opportunity to display his so-called generosity to his prospective in-laws—assuming he’s as self-centeredly charitable as you portray.”
“Brilliant!”
“Précisément. I do feel we have to give him some guidance, in terms of amount? He surely has no idea what dire straits DePewe State is in. Probably never bothered himself with the exigencies of higher callings. I haven’t the faintest idea how much he’d be inclined to contribute. A chair is only a million dollars. Quite spectacular recognition, though. Probably name the cafeteria meatloaf after him. Unless he’s a vegetarian, and then he’ll get the cauliflower.”
“A million dollars?!”
“They arrange payment plans, I’m told.”
“A million dollars,” she murmured, deflatedly.
“Or for the less committed, a hundred thousand could secure an endowment. A family endowment, for that matter. Maybe he’d get the mashed potatoes.”
“A family endowment! Far out!”
“Something the grandchildren would be proud of.”
“Grandchildren! Oy!”
“Then you’d…we would certainly never have to worry about them getting into DePewe. I mean, in the unlikely event their high school grades aren’t stellar.”
“Oh, I’m sure they’ll be brilliant grandchildren.”
“Consider it a safety net, then.” He raised his flute. “To Angus.”
“To Angus.”
“To…”
“Karma.”
“To Karma. And to genius grandchildren.”
She pressed her hands to her cheeks. “Kinders! From your mouth to God’s ears!”
They clinked glasses. Sipping, he muttered, “Whatever.”
The captain of Elysium Cruise Line’s newest and grandest ship, Countess of the Sea, currently docked at the Port of Miami, received an e-mail from his marketing director and sent this reply:
Dear Miss Bjornson:
Let me see if I understand you correctly. A certain apparently very wealthy young woman…the future Mrs. Culvertdale, you say?…has chosen to charter, for her and her bridegroom’s exclusive use, our magnificent new ship, in order to grace us with her wedding ceremony and subsequent honeymoon, during which bride and groom will ply the Eastern Caribbean with a complement of two hundred crew—all because she believes Countess of the Sea resembles a giant wedding cake? Do I have, then, a full understanding of the situation?
To which the marketing director replied:
Dear Captain Pfeffing: This is an outstanding opportunity for us, it being off-season.
To which the captain responded:
Dear Miss Bjornson:
I understood the line to be doing well. The bonuses were certainly generous—which, needless to say, we appreciate.
The marketing director wrote:
Dear Captain Pfeffing: Times aren’t always so wonderful.The industry is just now recovering from the recession, barely, and another economic slowdown seems always around the corner. The business cycle, you know. It’s simply prudent to bury your nuts for the winter.
The captain wrote back:
Dear Miss Bjornson:
Bury my nuts?
The marketing director clarified:
Dear Captain Pfeffing: Not your nuts. Not anyone’s nuts per se. Not any man’s nuts, certainly. We simply see this as an unexpected profit source—a windfall, if you will.
The captain explained:
Dear Miss Bjornson:
The staff works hard all season. Most work twelve,