Jonathan and Jenna’s father, at the far end of the table, was holding forth on foreign affairs at such commanding length that, little by little, the other conversations petered out. The turkeylike cords in his neck were more noticeable in the flesh than on TV, and it turned out to be the almost shrunken smallness of his skull that made his white, white smile so prominent. The fact that such a wizened person had sired the amazing Jenna seemed to Joey of a piece with his eminence. He spoke of the “new blood libel” that was circulating in the Arab world, the lie about there having been no Jews in the twin towers on 9/11, and of the need, in times of national emergency, to counter evil lies with benevolent half-truths. He spoke of Plato as if he’d personally received enlightenment at his Athenian feet. He referred to members of the president’s cabinet by their first names, explaining how “we” had been “leaning on” the president to exploit this unique historical moment to resolve an intractable geopolitical deadlock and radically expand the sphere of freedom. In normal times, he said, the great mass of American public opinion was isolationist and know-nothing, but the terrorist attacks had given “us” a golden opportunity, the first since the end of the Cold War, for “the philosopher” (which philosopher, exactly, Joey wasn’t clear on or had missed an earlier reference to) to step in and unite the country behind the mission that his philosophy had revealed as right and necessary. “We have to learn to be comfortable with stretching some facts,” he said, with his smile, to an uncle who had mildly challenged him about Iraq’s nuclear capabilities. “Our modern media are very blurry shadows on the wall, and the philosopher has to be prepared to manipulate these shadows in the service of a greater truth.”
Between Joey’s impulse to impress Jenna and its irruption in actual words there was only one short second of free-fall terror. “But how do you know it’s the truth?” he called out.
All heads turned to him, and his heart began to pound.
“We never know for certain,” Jenna’s father said, doing his smile thing. “You’re right about that. But when we discover that our understanding of the world, based on decades of careful empirical study by the very best minds, is in striking accordance with the inductive principle of universal human freedom, it’s a good indication that our thinking is at least approximately on track.”
Joey nodded eagerly, to show his total and profound agreement, and was surprised when, in spite of himself, he persisted: “But it seems like once we start lying about Iraq, we’re no better than the Arabs with the lie about no Jews being killed on 9/11.”
Jenna’s father, not ruffled in the slightest, said, “You’re a very bright young man, aren’t you?”
Joey couldn’t tell if this was supposed to be ironic.
“Jonathan says you’re a very fine student,” the old man continued gently. “And so I’m guessing you’ve already had the experience of being frustrated with people who aren’t as bright as you are. People who are not only unable but
“But that’s because they’re free,” Joey said. “Isn’t that what freedom is for? The right to think whatever you want? I mean, I admit, it’s a pain in the ass sometimes.”
Around the table, people chuckled at this.
“That’s exactly right,” Jenna’s father said. “Freedom is a pain in the ass. And that’s precisely why it’s so imperative that we seize the opportunity that’s been presented to us this fall. To get a nation of free people to let go of their bad logic and sign on with better logic, by whatever means are necessary.”
Unable to bear another second of exposure, Joey nodded even more eagerly. “You’re right,” he said. “I see, you’re right.”
Jenna’s father went on to unburden himself of further stretched facts and firm opinions that Joey heard hardly a word of. His body was throbbing with the excitement of having spoken up and being heard by Jenna. The feeling he’d misplaced all fall, the feeling of being a player, was coming back to him. When Jonathan stood up from the table, he rose unsteadily and followed him into the kitchen, where they collected enough undrunk wine to fill two sixteen-ounce tumblers for themselves.
“Dude,” Joey said, “you can’t mix red and white like that.”
“It’s rosé, dufus,” Jonathan said. “Since when are you Mr. Oenophile?”
They took their brimming glasses down to the basement and consumed the wine over air hockey. Joey was still so throbbing that he hardly felt the effects, which proved fortunate when Jonathan’s father came downstairs and joined them. “How about a little Cowboy Pool?” he said, rubbing his hands together. “I assume Jonathan’s already taught you our house game?”
“Yeah, I totally suck at it,” Joey said.
