The Submission Read Free Page A

with a ruthless efficiency that implicated her in his effacement. Offering her children memories of their father, only to load the past with so much value it strained beneath the weight.
    But aftermath had to end. She sensed herself concluding a passage that had begun fourteen years ago, when a blue-eyed man notable less for good looks than for sheer vitality and humor and confidence had stopped her as she came off the tennis court he was taking over and said, “I’m going to marry you.”
    The comment, she would come to learn, was typical of Calder Burwell, a man with a temperament so sunny that Claire nicknamed him California, even though it was she, having grown up there, who knew the state’s true fickle weather: the frost and drought that had kept her grandfather, a citrus farmer, perched near ruin for years before her father plunged straight into it. Of all her anguished, unanswerable wonderings about Cal’s death—where, how, how much pain—theworst, somehow, was the fear that his last moments had buckled his abiding optimism. She wanted him to have died believing that he would live. The Garden was an allegory. Like Cal, it insisted that change was not just possible, but certain.
    “It’s eleven o’clock,” Paul said. “I think someone may need to reconsider his or her vote. How can we ask this country to come together in healing if this jury can’t?”
    Guilty looks. A long silence. And finally, from the historian, an almost speculative “Well …” All bleary eyes turned to him, but he said nothing more, as if he had realized he held the fate of a six-acre chunk of Manhattan in his hands.
    “Ian?” Paul prodded.
    Even if inebriated, Ian wasn’t going without a lecture. He noted the beginnings of public gardens in suburban cemeteries in eighteenth-century Europe, segued into the garden-based reforms of Daniel Schreber in Germany (“We’re interested in his social reforms, not the ‘reforms’ he carried out on his poor sons”), jumped to the horror conveyed by Lutyens’s Memorial to the Missing of the Somme at Thiepval, in which seventy-three thousand names—”Seventy-three thousand!” Ian exclaimed—were inscribed on its interior walls, pondered the difference between “national memory” and “veteran’s memory” at Verdun, and concluded, some fifteen minutes later, with: “And so, the Garden.”
    Paul, then, would be the tenth and final vote, and this didn’t displease him. He had insisted, for himself, on not just public neutrality but internal neutrality as well, so that no design had been allowed to catch his fancy. But over the course of the evening he had begun rooting for the Garden. “Stumble on joy”—the phrase had knocked something loose in him. Joy: What did it feel like? Trying to remember, he was overcome by longing. He knew satisfaction, the exhilaration of success, contentment, and happiness to the extent he could identify it. But joy? He must have felt it when his sons were born—that kindof event would surely occasion it—but he couldn’t remember. Joy: it was like a handle with no cupboard, a secret he didn’t know. He wondered if Claire did.
    “The Garden,” he said, and the room broke loose, less with pleasure than relief.
    “Thank you, Paul. Thank you, everyone,” Claire whispered.
    Paul slumped in his chair and allowed himself some sentimental chauvinism. The dark horse had won—he hadn’t thought Claire could trump Ariana—and this seemed appropriately American. Champagne appeared, corks popped, a euphonious clamor filled the room. Paul clinked his flute to command their attention for a moment of silence in the victims’ honor. As heads bowed, he glimpsed the part in Claire’s hair, the line as sharp and white as a jet’s contrail, the intimacy as unexpected as a flash of thigh. Then he remembered to think of the dead.
    He thought, too, of the day, as he hadn’t for a long time. He had been stuck in uptown traffic when his secretary called to