“For always?” Nick said.

His question brought his father back. “No,” he said, “things change. That’s why we need people like you,” he added, his voice lighter now. He pulled up the covers again. “Who weren’t there. Who don’t even remember it. It’ll be different for you. What’s going on now—” His voice lifted, like a verbal wave of the hand. “You’ll forget that too. It’ll just be history.” He paused. “Just a bad dream.”

“It’s not a dream now,” Nick said quietly. “I saw it.”

His father looked at him, stalling again. “No,” he said, “not now.” Then he tapped Nick’s forehead with his finger. “You’re a pragmatist, Nick. That’s what you are.”

“What’s that?”

“Oh, someone who keeps his eye on the ball. Feet on the ground. You know. Not like someone else we know, huh?” he said, pointing to himself.

“Mom says I’m like you. Aren’t you a pragmatist?” Nick said, getting it right.

“Sure. Not as good as you, though. You’ll have to help me out, okay? Keep me on my toes.”

Nick nodded, but he knew, with the same dread he’d felt in the movies, there was nothing he could do to help. His father was just trying to make him feel better–a different land of lie, like pretending he wasn’t worried, pretending it was all going to go away.

“That’s the thing about history anyway,” his father said. “You still have to live through it. Before you know how it’s going to come out. So you keep me on my toes. Of course, to do that you have to grow, and to do that—”

“I know. Sleep. But Dad—”

“Ssh. No more. We’ll talk tomorrow. It’s supposed to snow, you know. I’ll bet it’s already snowing up at the cabin. Wind blowing it all over the place. Swoosh.” His father leaned over and made a wind sound in his ear, tickling him and making him burrow deeper under the covers. It was their old game, from when he was little. “Here it comes, down the chimney.” He made another wind sound. “But we don’t care, do we? We’ll just stay warm and cozy.” His father always said that.

“Snug as a bug in a rug,” Nick said, as he always did.

“That’s right,” his father said softly. “Snug as a bug in a rug.”

“Dad? If it snows, will you have to go to the hearing?”

His father smiled. “I think Mr Welles would insist. No snow days for him.”

“Don’t go,” Nick said, his voice suddenly urgent. “He’s trying to get you. I saw him.”

“Ssh. Don’t worry, he won’t. He’s only a bogeyman, and they never get anybody. We make them up, remember?” he said playfully. Then, seeing Nick’s solemn face, he nodded. “I know. I’ll be careful. This one’s really there.” He stood up, smoothing the covers. “He made himself up, I guess. Some world, isn’t it? All he used to be was a dumb cluck from Oklahoma.”

“Walter?” his mother said from the doorway. “Larry’s here. Nick, are you still up?”

“We’ve been going over my defense strategy,” Nick’s father said. “We’re hoping for a snow day.”

“Walter,” his mother said, shooting him a glance.

“Uncle Larry’s here?” Nick said, starting to get up. “Where?”

“Not tonight, kiddo,” his father said. “It’s late.”

Larry wasn’t really his uncle. His father had met him in college — over the serving line in the dining hall, according to the family story, when Nick’s father was dishing out food to work his way through Penn and Larry, nursing a hangover, tipped a tray onto his father’s white jacket without knowing it. His father used to joke that they never changed–he kept working behind the line and Larry kept getting things handed to him on a platter, indifferent to spills. In Washington it had been the dining hall all over again. His father worked long hours in the agencies; Larry moved his tray all the way to the White House, where, his father said, he was one of the fair-haired policy boys. His hair in fact was fair, a bright ginger that reminded Nick of Van Johnson, and he had the same open face and easy smile. When he took Nick and his mother to see the White House one day–even upstairs, since the President was away–he moved through the rooms as if they were his, kidding with the secretaries, who waited for his grin, an effortless seduction. It’s easy to be charming, his father said, when your family owns half of Philadelphia, but in fact he couldn’t resist it either. He was different with Larry–easy and comfortable, the way people were when their jokes are too old for anyone else to remember. But Larry hadn’t been to the house for weeks, and it was late to call. Nick wondered what was wrong.

“He’s in the study,” his mother said. “Go ahead. I’ll take care of the others. The Kittredges look as if they’re settling in for the night.” Nick heard the laugh in her voice, the way she used to be at parties. So maybe it was all right. “Night, Nick,” she said, blowing him a kiss. She pulled the door behind her but left it half open, so that Nick could see them starting down the stairs, their heads together.

He didn’t wait. When he heard the click of her heels on the landing, he slid out of bed and darted into the hall. He peered over the banister, watching his mother’s skirt swish down the next flight of stairs, then tiptoed down to the second floor. He waited until his father’s back disappeared into the study before he crept along the wall, angling himself at the open door to see through the crack. Uncle Larry was still wearing his topcoat, as if he didn’t mean to stay.

“Long time no see, Larry.”

“Sorry. I couldn’t get away,” Larry said quickly. “We’re redoing the speech.”

“I didn’t mean the dinner. It’s been a while,” his father said, moving out of Nick’s line of vision. “Want a drink?”

“No. I can’t stay.”

“Don’t worry. Nobody saw you. The reporters don’t show up until morning.”

“For Christ’s sake, Walter.” Larry looked over toward his father, then dropped his hat on the leather couch. “All right. Maybe a short one,” he said, taking off his coat.

Nick heard his father pour the drink at the sideboard. “Good. I thought maybe I’d reached the leper stage. Have I?”

Larry glanced up sharply. “No. But you’re not making any friends in there either, Walter. You’ve got to stop fighting with him.”

“I can’t help it,” his father said, coming back into view and handing Larry a glass. “He’s a moron.”

“He’s a moron who’s getting headlines. He’s got nothing going for him but a district full of dust farms and a bunch of Indians who don’t vote, and you’re making him a national figure. How smart is that? Come on, Walter, you know how it works. You’re not exactly new in town.”

“The town’s changed.”

“The town never changes,” Larry said evenly. “Never. You just got on the wrong side of it.”

“That the view from the East Lawn these days?” his father said. “Okay. Withdrawn. Cheers.” He took a sip of his drink, then paused. “You don’t know what it’s like,” he said quietly.

“I’m sorry I missed the party,” Larry said. “How’s Livia?”

“I need your help, Larry,” his father said, ignoring the question.

For a minute neither of them said anything.

“I can’t get involved with the case, Walter. You know that. We don’t go near the Hill these days. Christ, we don’t even cross the street. Everybody’s too busy ducking under the table.”

His father nodded with a small smile. “So I heard. They’re starting to get lonely over at State.”

“State’s like sick bay–everybody’s afraid they’ll catch something. Anyway, you’ve already got Benjamin. He’s the best lawyer in town for this.”

“Devoted as he is to lost causes,” his father said, taking a drink.

“You’re not going to lose. Just stop fighting with Welles. He’s on a fishing expedition and you keep biting. He hasn’t got anything, so he’s trying to nail you for contempt.”

“How do you know he hasn’t got anything?”

Larry looked at him. “Because he never does,” he said, tossing back his drink. “Because I know you. The Mine Workers, for Christ’s sake. What’s next, the fucking Red Cross? He hasn’t got a thing, Walter.” He paused. “If he did we’d have heard about it.” He turned and started walking, a courtroom pace. “One witness who doesn’t even look stable. You see the way she twists her handkerchief? If this were a real trial, Benjamin would discredit her in two minutes. Two minutes.”