Tuesday's Caddie

by Jack Waddell

It was nearly dark when they reached the high desert linking Arizona and New Mexico. She was tired of the monotonous emptiness of the western landscape. Dusk only blurred the few details to be seen. She pulled the shade on the window and turned her thoughts to Conor and all the pain, all the finality that had come in those few moments Sunday afternoon at Biarritz. She had been as angry with herself as she had been at him. She felt stupid to have been taken in by such a seemingly genuine, gentle, loving man. But she had loved him. More deeply than she ever imagined she could love someone. And she knew that part of her loved him still, despite what she witnessed. In the days that followed the Calcutta she had thought often that she wished she had continued to run out onto the green and confronted Conor and his little servant girlfriend. It would have been better for her to vent her anger and her hurt right there in front of everyone than to slink off unnoticed. There could have been some satisfaction in that, some closure even. But she also understood how at the time that was impossible. She couldn't meet anyone much less confront them in the state she had been.

  As happened over and over again, her mind went back to their nights together. Despite all that happened after, those nights had been real. She knew it in her heart. Maybe he did have someone else. Maybe it was a lie. But somehow she knew it wasn't. In those nights he had been hers and hers alone… and she his. Those times would never change. Knowing what she knew now, she would never repeat them. But that they did happen were the only truly beautiful moments she would take away from the horror that had been her last days in California. She thought they were like a fading, dying tulip blossom that becomes most beautiful just before the petals fall away.

  She suddenly felt cold. She used the raincoat she had carried with her as a blanket. She shifted in her seat and pulled it up over her face. She would try to sleep.

  * * *

  Conor opened the door to his apartment and flipped on the light. The living room glowed warmly. He took off his hat and jacket and loosened his tie. He went into the kitchen and took a glass from the cabinet and poured himself a scotch from the bottle Billy had given him when he'd moved in the night before. He went back into the living room and sank into the plush club chair beside the couch. He lit a cigarette and reflected on the day.

  It was difficult to comprehend how much his life had changed in just a few days. Everything was new and different. It was as if he could barely recognize himself. His first two days at Graves Industries had been a blur; the tour of the factory, meeting the head of sales, studying product sheets and contracts, meeting the secretary who would support him, all the while in clothes and shoes he'd never worn before. Strange, it was. Uncomfortable even. But exciting too. He was determined to make good Robert's confidence in him. He knew this was his chance at all he'd ever wanted. He couldn't wait for the next day to come when he could learn more, do more.

  At the same time he felt deeply troubled. Annie was nowhere to be found. The phone was never answered. Meg told him she still had not been able to contact Annie. When he called from the office on Wednesday all he got were busy signals. Today the operator told him the line had been disconnected.

  After work he had driven into the Hollywood Hills no longer able to wait for her. He had to see her. As he approached her house he could see a black sedan parked on the street in front. As he got closer he could see the red Cadillac backing out of the garage. His heart leapt. He quickly pulled into the drive. He blocked the Cadillac and blew the horn. He jumped out of the car and raced to the driver's door. He stopped short. A man was behind the wheel. The man told him the car was being reclaimed. He had no idea where the owner was. Could he please move his car so he could leave?

  Conor watched the Cadillac back sideways across the drive. He noticed the hood ornament was missing. It pulled forward and then turned right out of the driveway. The black sedan pulled out and followed it.

  He saw the notice on the front door and went over to read it. Foreclosed it said. Annie was gone from here. But where? He walked off the front porch and back to his car. He looked back at the house. It was grand to be sure. And it had been home to his love. But he knew it had been a house of sorrow and finally horror. He couldn't get away fast enough.

  He watched the smoke waft from the stub of his cigarette. He took a last drag and put it out. He took another sip of scotch and put down the glass. He got up and went to one of the boxes yet to be unpacked. He opened it and sifted through it for a moment before he found what he was looking for. He took the handkerchief with the embroidered yellow tulip in the corner and held it to his face. He could still smell her. There had to be a way to find his Annie. There just had to be.

  (back to top)

  Part Two – 1964-1969

  “Then you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.” John 8:21 NIV

  Chapter 32

  Politics

  Wednesday, September 9, 1964

  Bridie Aiken was angry. Incensed, actually. Sitting on the edge of the bed in her room in Hollywood's Ambassador Hotel she had again watched the TV spot for Lyndon Johnson in which the image of a little girl counting daisy petals turned into a countdown to an exploding atom bomb. Lyndon Johnson's voice spoke of peace. The unspoken point was to further paint Barry Goldwater a lunatic too radical to have his finger on the button to set off a nuclear Armageddon. Of course Goldwater hadn't helped with his blunt offhand remarks about bombing enemies. But it wasn't so much the ad was a bald-faced lie; lies were a part of the game. It was the tactic of fear mongering that made her so irate. How dare they deal that card when what really should be feared was the racial turmoil dividing the country and the conspiracy of deceit that was driving the nation deeper into a war of consequence not worth its cost?

  She got up from the bed and snapped off the television. She would have to talk to her husband. Mitchell Aiken would be delivering the opening remarks and introducing the featured speaker that night at the fundraiser. He should make some reference to the truth of the matter, remind the faithful present that the nation was heading into a quagmire of debt that could cost it any leverage it had as the world's economic power. Bridie felt the country was at a tipping point and still too shaken by Kennedy's death and subsequent martyrdom to trust a big leap to the right. Safe it would seem to stay with Johnson. And the polls clearly showed that seemed the nation's sentiment. Still, she felt, it was important to state the case, if nothing else to lay the groundwork for another shot in four years.

  She moved back to the bed and sat next to the nightstand. She picked up the phone and called her home in Costa Mesa. Her two children had started school the day before and she wanted to hear how their second day had gone. As she expected, Tommy the fourth grader was excited and could talk only about the games he had played at recess and how he had done so well at tetherball. Aimee the second grader was more reticent. She was unsure about her new teacher and didn't like the desk she had been assigned. Bridie was unhappy she couldn't be there to share this important time. But such was the life of a politician's wife. Of course, she also was more than that. A speechwriter and consultant, she was an integral part of the campaign for several state politicians. She had even written the keynote that Ronald Reagan would be delivering at tonight's gala. She was excited about that. As an actor he had an uncanny ability to turn words into ideas that people could hang onto and believe in. She liked when a speaker could make her speech sound as good as she'd imagined it in her head. And, of course, his speech supporting Goldwater at the Republican National Convention had been a sensation.

  After she talked to the nanny to make sure all was fine at home she hung up and dialed her husband at his law office. He would be leaving soon to meet her at the event. "How's it going for you this afternoon?" she opened when he finally got on the line.

  "Hectic," he replied. "I talked to Phillips and he said we really need to milk this crowd for money. Our only hope to carry California is going to be a barrage of TV ads to counter what's going on. And we just don't have the money rig
ht now to pull that off. He's got a list of potential donors for us he wants us to go after, you and me both. We'll take a look at it when I get there and split them up."

  Bridie sighed. "Oh, all right. One of these days we're going to attend a dinner and just sit there and eat," she whined. "But, okay. I've got to be over there early to meet with Randall anyway. He wants to talk about his speech for the Rotary Club over in Whittier. Can you imagine – one day I'm hearing Reagan deliver one of my speeches to the powers that be and the next I'll be sitting there with a bunch of bored businessmen listening to Randall trying to read words he can't even pronounce."

  Mitchell laughed. "Hey, that's what you get for being the go-to girl. Listen, gotta run. I'll see you there around seven."

  "Okay, see you. Love you."

  "Love you, too."

  Bridie replaced the receiver and looked at her watch. Five thirty. She'd need to get a move on. She'd checked into the Ambassador that afternoon. The fundraiser would likely go late and it would be too long a drive from the event back to the house that night, especially after a drink or two and hours spent on her feet. Plus she looked forward to a night alone with Mitchell free of the kids. She smiled to herself as she opened her bag and took out her clothes for the evening and along with them the teddy she'd be wearing for Mitchell that night.

  After showering and spending time on her makeup she tackled her hair. Her jet black hair was very fine so teasing it into a bouffant took patience and a lot of hairspray. She admired the results in the mirror for a few seconds and thought again how ironic that even Republicans had adopted Jackie Kennedy's style. With her hair down she looked like some sort of gamin, thin and pale with large, expressive green eyes. With her hair in the beehive she could have been a McCall’s cover. She got dressed in her formal gown. She checked her clutch purse for the pen and small notepad she always carried to jot names, phone numbers and words and ideas for her speeches. The room key also was there. She snapped it shut and headed down to the lobby to pick up a cab to take her to the Biarritz Country Club.

  * * *

  As had become his habit of late, Conor had spent too much time in the men's grill with his cigars and his scotch and his cronies. Ever since his wife died his evenings were too long and empty and so he found it necessary to routinely seek the collective company of those three friends as a coda to his days. Even with a dinner to attend this evening he had indulged himself beforehand and thus found it necessary to revive himself before making his entrance. He went downstairs to the locker room and took off his tuxedo jacket, undid his bowtie and opened his shirt collar. He went to the row of basins opposite the showers and brushed his teeth, gargled and washed his face. He looked in the mirror as he dried off and saw again the toll of the years. His pale complexion had gone ruddy, florid even, thanks to all the hours in the sun he'd stolen to play golf. Then again, maybe it had been the scotch. Although his thick black hair had gone prematurely white in his late forties, he was thankful he still had a full head of it. The pounds he'd added over the years made his face more square and his build more stocky. But the crow's feet around his eyes only added to their twinkle and when he smiled into the mirror he could still see the good-looking charmer he always had been.

  After putting himself back together he climbed the stairs. When no one was looking he took the steps one at a time. Years before he'd stumbled into a gopher hole in the rough and twisted his right knee. Arthritis eventually settled in and gave him a slight limp he worked hard to hide. Once upstairs he made his way out to the veranda. The sun was setting behind the far end of the course and he loved to watch the shadows creep away from the light toward the clubhouse. He never tired of the view. After all, this is where his life had truly begun. He took satisfaction looking out at the changes he had wrought. During his tenure as president of the club he had added some tees for more length and some bunkers for more strategy. One of the bunkers he'd dubbed "Gino's Revenge" in honor of his long departed friend. He also had Bogey House razed and replaced with a dormitory for the migrants on the greens crew. Although no one knew the true reason, it was because its presence fostered a memory too painful and abiding to plague him any more than it already did. At last he became aware of the crowd noise building inside in the ballroom. His reverie complete, he grabbed his lapels, straightened his jacket and made his way in.

  * * *

  Bridie and Mitchell sat with George Phillips in an arrangement of chairs and settees out in the clubhouse lobby. Phillips had handwritten notes for both of them that listed names, affiliations and table numbers. He was going through each list name by name filling in more details about each prospective donor. There were a lot of them at the dinner. At two hundred and fifty dollars a plate, the fundraiser weeded out those who couldn’t afford more as well as those with less than a steadfast commitment to the cause. Halfway down the list with Bridie, he reached Conor O’Reilly’s name.

  “Here’s a real hot one for you,” Philips said. “Conor O’Reilly, president and CEO of GCI. Made a fortune during the war in aviation, made another after the war in real estate. The guy is crazy wealthy and there’s been some indication he’s become interested in politics. Doesn’t think the Democrats are committed to a strong military. Not too crazy about taxes, either. He came over from Ireland around the Depression. Widowed a couple of years ago. No children to leave his fortune to. He’s a member here at Biarritz, in fact a past president.”

  “No wife, no children?” Bridie mused. “Maybe he’s lonely. Maybe he’d like to do more than just write a check.”

  “Maybe,” Phillips responded. “But guys like that are usually too busy making it or spending it. But if you feel like it could work why don’t you offer him a spot on that advisory committee Mitch set up to support economic development down here?”

  “Good idea,” Mitchell interjected. “Could represent the aerospace industry or the real estate sector. We don’t have anybody on it yet from those areas. So that might work.”

  “ I’ll approach him tonight, then,” Bridie announced. “In fact, I’ll try to track him down first. Now who’ve you got next on the list?”

  * * *

  As usual, Bill and his wife were late to the affair so Conor took a seat at the table and waited nursing what he vowed would be his last scotch of the evening. He’d never been a fan of galas like this and with his wife gone it always seemed awkward to show up alone. He knew he could always drum up a date from among his friends, but somehow it just didn’t seem worth the effort. He’d come to the dinner because he wanted to hear Ronald Reagan speak. He’d seen the speech he’d given at the convention and knew there was more to this man than Death Valley Days. He felt Goldwater didn’t have a prayer and displayed the “AuH2O” bumper sticker on his Cadillac more because he thought it clever than because he thought he was backing a winner.

  He was looking around the room from his chair for anybody he knew when he sensed a presence glide next to him. He looked over and did a complete double take. Standing next to him was a beautiful young woman of such familiarity he was struck silent. Then he heard the vision speak.

  “Mr. O’Reilly? Mr. Conor O’Reilly?”

  “Yes,” was all he heard himself say.

  “How do you do? I’m Bridie Aiken, Mitch Aiken’s wife – you know, the state senator? Could I impose upon you for a moment of your time? I promise I won’t be long.”

  “Birdie did you say?”

  “No, Bridie. Bridie Aiken. The Bridie part is Irish, you know,” she corrected with a smile knowing that should strike a chord.

  Finding his voice Conor said, “Oh, I know that. Sure… sit down. What’s on your mind?” He thought he’d done a good job of masking his amazement at her appearance. But, he reasoned, even if he hadn’t a good looking woman like this must be used to stunning men now and then.

  “Thank you,” she said taking the empty seat next to him. “To begin, on behalf of the campaign committee I want to thank you for your support and for coming out toni
ght. We’re facing a real uphill battle here in California for Goldwater and we need all the financial backing we can get.”

  “You need more than money. You need a candidate that doesn’t keep putting his foot in his mouth.”

  “Yes, well, it’s not just about this election, it’s about the country’s future, the party’s future in California. We’ve got a gubernatorial election coming in a couple of years and we have to lay the groundwork for that as well.”

  “So you’re putting the arm on me? Is that what you’re doing?”

  Bridie was taken aback by his bluntness but quickly redirected the message. “No, that’s not all,” she said shifting in her chair. “Mitch needs someone like you to get involved at the state level. Not just politically but in a way that can make a difference. He wants to talk with you about the economic development committee he’s setting up. No matter who’s elected president there’s going to be a need to make sure we keep growing our commercial and industrial base here in Southern California. We know how successful you’ve been in your businesses and we think you could help.”

  Conor caught himself going cynical. People were always after him for his money or his influence. But he stopped short of delivering his standard refusal. There was something about this woman that was too familiar, too intriguing to put off. “Well, I might be interested in hearing more. I’m not doing that much outside the company right now. Have your husband’s people get in touch and we’ll see about getting together.”

  Bridie smiled. “Wonderful. I’ll do that. We’ll have somebody…”

  “And I want you at the meeting,” Conor interrupted impulsively.

  “Me? Really?”

  Conor scrambled for an answer. “Yes. I sense you’re a big part of your husband’s team. I want to get to know you better. We need more women like you in politics.”

  “All right, I’m sure I can manage that if you like. So we’ll get on that then.”