by Diane Capri
Jason looked down at his heavy crystal wine glass, studying the circles the red wine had made on the cream damask table cloth. He seemed to be considering Frank’s question, but probably was only timing his answer.
Senator Warwick and the other Democrats on the Judiciary Committee had been openly hostile to Andrews’s nomination on national television for the past three weeks. Yesterday’s questioning was the topper. Every news reporter had made more than one comment about it on every newscast, news magazine or teaser since the televised hearings began.
Jason must have strategized a well prepared response, although he acted as if he was thinking about it for the first time.
The curious thing was that the committee’s hostility hadn’t dented Andrews’s popularity in the daily and weekly polls that controlled everything in political America now.
Like everything else inside the beltway, I viewed this as one great political game that usually made me yawn. If General Andrews got Borked, the insiders’ euphemism for a nominee being attacked and rejected by the committee instead of being submitted to the full senate, the story would be over.
And it was all old ground between George and Jason. They’d argued every angle endlessly for weeks now. My interest had long since evaporated.
But Frank was still looking for his sound bite. The trick to dealing with the media is to ignore what they ask you and answer their questions with what you want them to repeat. Jason had lots of experience at this and finally delivered what I was sure he’d planned to say all along, something he knew Frank would air. “Senator Warwick supports the President, Frank,” Jason said. “What the President wants, we aim to deliver.”
Both Frank and George seemed satisfied with that, which was curious, I thought at the time. But I noticed that Jason didn’t say what the President wanted them to deliver.
After Frank left us, he stopped briefly at Warwick’s table and then the general’s. The tension in the room was as thick as concrete.
George said, “Why don’t we talk about something besides politics?” He flashed a wicked grin. “Jason, anything new on the romance front?”
Jason smiled wanly and I laughed at their antics, even though I knew they were purposely designed to relax us all.
“Way to go, George,” Jason quipped back, “Choose a comfortable, non-controversial topic, why don’t you?”
Jason’s bad luck in love was a family joke. He always seemed to choose the wrong woman, one way or another. He kept us amused with his self-deprecating accounts of failed relationships for the next hour while we consumed the heavenly cuisine for which diners are willing to pay George’s exorbitant prices.
We ordered the chef’s special Grilled Beef Tenderloin with Marsala Mushroom Sauce, Roasted Garlic and Brie Soup and dill bread. By the time we got to the Coconut Cardamom Custard Tart with Oven roasted Bananas, our fatigue and all bad humor had completely dissipated. Even the tension seemed a little lighter. Anger starves on heavenly food.
“Coffee and cigars on the veranda of the Sunset Bar?” George suggested. When I hesitated, he added to entice me, “It’ll be quieter. And there’s a full moon tonight casting a shimmering trail over the water.”
We started toward the door, coincidentally following Senator Warwick and his wife, Tory. The Warwicks didn’t see us and we were about to pass safely out of the dining room, when they made a tactical error. Warwick turned to avoid a tray sitting in the aisle and walked within six feet of the Andrews’s dinner table.
That was when General Andrews glanced up and saw us. He raised his voice almost to the shouting point. “I’d sneak on by if I were you, too, Sheldon. You’ve always been a coward.”
Senator Warwick, perpetually cognizant of his public image, said, “Andy, now is neither the time nor place to discuss this. Why don’t you come by the house in the morning and we’ll talk about it.” That was the wrong tone to take with a general, even a retired one, and apparently the wrong thing to say as well.
Andrews’s next statement was even louder. “Sure, Sheldon. Then you can blow smoke up my ass in private instead of saying whatever it is you have to say in front of everyone here.”
Abruptly, Andrews rose, knocking the chair over backward as he stood. He threw his napkin down on the table by his plate and started to move toward Warwick, who was now almost all the way past the table.
“It hasn’t bothered you to attack me in front of the entire country in those damn hearings you’re heading up. Why should it bother you to have it out, here and now?”
Deborah Andrews placed a restraining hand on her husband’s arm, but he shook it off.
“This doesn’t concern you, Deborah,” he snarled.
“Do you want to step outside, Senator, and settle it right now?” General Andrews challenged, his chin high, with the air of a man accustomed to fighting his battles with his fists.
There was no way Sheldon Warwick could beat Andrews, if it came to that. I noticed Tory Warwick’s nostrils flair and her eyebrows come together over her perfectly sculpted nose. Tory was the wildcat, everybody knew. She’d been raising hell in Tampa all her life.
By this time, we had reached the Andrews table and both George and Jason tried to calm things down while all eyes in the crowded restaurant watched the show. George walked toward Andrews and Jason approached his boss.
Deborah’s eyes had widened to the size of cornflower blue saucers. She’d be blaming herself for this, I knew. Deborah believed everything her husband did was her fault. The twelve step program she’d completed hadn’t been able to change her basic personality.
Calmly, quietly, George said, “Gentlemen, please. You’re upsetting my guests. Why don’t we just ”
Before George could work his magic, Tory Warwick had had more than enough. I glanced up and noticed Frank Bennett standing in the doorway, taking it all in.
Which is why I didn’t see Tory Warwick reach over, pick up a full lead crystal water glass, draw back and throw it with all her strength at General Andrews. If she’d hit him, it would have knocked him cold, she’d thrown the heavy glass with the force she’d perfected as the baseball pitcher she’d been in college.
Unfortunately, Tory’s aim wasn’t improved by her alcohol consumption and she missed. The next thing I knew, I was flat on my butt on the floor.
Tory didn’t knock me out, but I definitely felt dazed. I reached up and felt the tender spot on my forehead, just in front of my right temple. A small “Oh,” slipped from my lips. My first thought was how Frank Bennett would report this scene on the eleven o’clock news. At least it wasn’t on film.
The spot swelled rapidly. Someone handed me a linen dinner napkin filled with ice. I couldn’t open my eyes because the subdued light in the dining room was blinding.
There was nothing wrong with my ears, though. I heard George shouting. In public. Angrier than I’d ever witnessed. Through my slitted eyelids, I saw George’s red face as he gave Andrews a push toward the door that landed Andrews against Warwick and nearly knocked them both down on the floor next to me.
“Get out! Get out right now and don’t any of you attempt to come back here! Andrews, Warwick, I’m disgusted with both of you!”
Andrews reached for his wallet, but George waved him away. “Forget the checks, just leave. And do not try to make a reservation here again.”
George turned to his Mater ‘d. “Peter, these people are leaving and they are not to return. Ever.”
The Andrews family hurried to rise and leave the table, glancing down my way. Tory tried to reach me to apologize, but Jason grabbed her arm and pulled her toward the exit.
George bent down to me then. “Are you alright?”
Still feeling dazed, I tried to get up, glad I’d worn pants tonight and wasn’t sitting with my legs splayed open in front of half of Tampa.
“It was an accident. Tory meant to hit Andrews,” I said.
This made George even angrier. I guess it would have been okay if she’d been trying to hit me
. Go figure.
Peter ushered the Andrews and the Warwicks out and Frank Bennett followed them. He must have been tickled pink to have been witness to a brawl involving high level politicians in Tampa’s classiest restaurant.
Tory tried to reach me again. “I’m so sorry, Willa,” she apologized while Jason kept moving her toward the door.
CHAPTER SIX
Tampa, Florida
Friday 11:10 p.m.
January 21, 2000
PETER RETURNED AND BEGAN to placate the remaining diners, who were openly staring now. I heard him offer apologies and a dessert of their choice, compliments of the house.
After a while, I could stand up without feeling too dizzy. We walked over to the Sunset Bar, the big white ice filled dinner napkin pressed against the rising lump on my forehead, George holding one elbow and Jason close beside me.
“I cannot believe that woman,” George sputtered, although his color had returned to normal.
“You know she wasn’t herself,” Jason soothed.
George wouldn’t be calmed. “So when she’s herself, I suppose her aim is better? Then she could have beaned the next justice of the Supreme Court? That’s just great, Jason. Just great.”
“What do you want Sheldon to do? He can’t hang around at home with her every night he’s in Tampa and he lives in D.C. as much as possible,” Jason retorted. His defense of Warwick was nothing if not consistent.
“Well, they can both go somewhere else to eat from now on. And I don’t need that hothead Andrews in here, either. Tory wouldn’t have thrown the glass at him if he hadn’t started a fight. I meant it when I said neither one of them is welcome here again.” He turned toward me, his anger renewed by the sight. “If Willa’s seriously hurt, it’ll be worse than that. For both of them.”
George seemed really pissed, and it scared me. He rarely displayed a temper. My husband is the most civilized man I know.
To my George, violence is a bad thunderstorm. Who was this testosterone laden, protective male next to me, anyway?
I felt as if my entire world had become a strange foreign land where I didn’t understand the language or the customs and from which I might never emerge. My eyes started to tear. Great. Just great.
Judges don’t cry, I told myself.
I blinked back the water and took a deep breath.
“Look,” I said. “You two need to calm down. Everybody’s gone now. I’m still living. And I’m thirsty. Where’s that drink and cigar you promised me?”
They gave up their bickering reluctantly. The passion they’d both been feeling over Andrews’s confirmation was intense. The steam had blown past their control here tonight, but the controversy was still boiling under the lid, threatening to spill over again if we dropped our guard for more than a few seconds.
I fingered the tender lump on my forehead, now about the size of a small spoon bowl. It would look awful in the morning. How in the name of heaven did I ever get involved in such a mess?
George and Jason had calmed down but they didn’t pretend to be interested in anything else now. They took up the political discussion they’d wanted to have at dinner but hadn’t been willing to risk being overheard.
“How is the committee vote going to go? Any idea?” George asked, anger still heating his tone.
Jason visibly resisted a sharp retort and replied, “Some of the senators have declared themselves already. Some did it in their opening statements and others have formed their opinions during the questioning.”
“Do you know?” George demanded. “Or not?”
Jason gave him a look that would have quelled a lesser adversary. “There are still enough that are at least undeclared to make it a horse race. Right now, I’m not sure how it will go. Fifty-fifty, maybe.”
“What does Warwick think? He’s the chair of the judiciary committee. He has some influence,” George said with exaggerated irony.
“He has a lot of influence,” Jason snapped. “But the
Democrats are not the only ones who have a say in this.”
“You can’t seriously think any elected Republican would cast a vote for that ignoramus,” George shot back.
I felt a little like a spectator at a wrestling match. Jason must have known more than he was willing to share with George, and George was determined to find out what Jason knew.
My head really started to throb. I hoped that eventually this, too, would pass. I had committed to the golf tournament tomorrow and I didn’t want to cancel over a headache. I called it a night and left them deep into their argument. When I went up to bed, they hardly noticed.
I should have stayed up for the late news, just to see how bad Frank Bennett’s report really was, but I couldn’t face it. The story would be repeated ad nauseum anyway. Bad news usually gets worse in the night.
I hate thinking I’m powerless over events like what happened in the restaurant tonight, even though I know I can’t control everything and especially can’t control everyone. If George had wanted me to know what was going on in his political scheming, I realized he’d have told me long before that Friday. I fell into troubled sleep, promising myself that I’d fix everything tomorrow, which never works.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Tampa, Florida
Saturday 6:00 a.m.
January 22, 2000
THE ALARM WENT OFF at six o’clock. When I rolled over to turn it off and snuggle up to George for a few more winks, my hand felt only the cold, empty sheets on his side of the bed.
George never gets up before six o’clock. We’re both owls. We detest those bright eyed larks with their worm fetish.
No matter. I snuggled down into the covers instead.
The confirmation hearings were over. Our lives would return to normal today. We had survived George’s single-minded pursuit of Andrews’s defeat.
With the release of all that tension, perhaps George just couldn’t sleep and I’d find him in the kitchen. I sniffed the air but couldn’t smell an aroma of brewing coffee.
An uneasy feeling crept into my body but I pushed it away with the covers.
In the bathroom, through tired eyes, I examined the big purple egg on my forehead where Tory Warwick’s glass missile had hit me. In total denial of the pain in my head, I shrugged into my running clothes. With Harry and Bess at my heels, I shuffled through to the kitchen, planning to tell George where I was going. He wasn’t there.
Harry and Bess refused to tell me where he went, but there were only so many places he could be. Not too worried, I expected to find him outside on the veranda with his newspapers.
When I glanced up at the clock, I realized I had only about an hour to get ready for the golf tournament today, so the dogs and I rushed down the back stairs to the beach.
Harry and Bess ran way ahead of me. When I’m in good form, I do an entire lap around our island. Sometimes two laps. Other days, I just do half a lap and take a golf cart back. Today would be a quick mile. It was all the time I had.
When I started to run, I began to feel better. A lot of people run just for exercise, hating every minute of it. For me, though, it’s a spiritual experience. I love the sand, the water, the sunshine and the companionship I get from Harry and Bess. After years of running, I’m able to get to the runner’s high in about fifteen minutes and it carries me the remainder of the run. Sometimes, I have to consciously bring myself to stop.
By the time we returned to the house, huffing and puffing, I was sweating like an NBA player in the final two minutes. I jumped into the bay with Harry and Bess to cool off. This is the part they like the best because they get to submerge me and each other ten or twenty times before I’m completely exhausted and give up.
Our Labradors, Harry and Bess, are littermates, even though Harry’s yellow and Bess is black. They were very cute puppies, obnoxious adolescents and now, the equivalent of twenty-something adults. They are a joy to be around and we love them both in place of children: We don’t have to pay for college and we’d like
ly get arrested for putting kids in a cage. That, and being childless has made our marriage seem more like a long honeymoon. Until the Andrews’s hearings, I reminded myself. But those hearings were over now. The realization made my heart sing.
The dogs and I got out of the salty water and rinsed off at the outdoor shower. I left them in their kennel to dry off while I trudged up the back stairs. Now, they would wait patiently until after my shower for their breakfast.
Even with the bruised lump on my forehead, everything about the morning was so blessedly normal, except that I still hadn’t found George.
I started Cuban coffee before I headed to the shower. When I came out, dressed in purple and jade plaid crop pants and a jade golf shirt, not wanting my clothes to detract from the lovely purple color of the egg on my forehead, my coffee was ready.
Where could George have gone, so early in the morning? I had no idea. I glanced at my watch. No more time to wait. I called the dogs to eat, filled a travel cup with coffee, let myself out of the house and went down to Greta, my car. Unlike my husband, I could always count on Greta being exactly where I left her.
It was still early enough that dew on the St. Augustine grass and bright pink, red, purple, white and melon colored impatiens gave the morning a crystalline shimmer. As I drove Greta out from the circle in front of Minaret, the sun softly lightened the sky over the Port of Tampa and Harbour Island to the east.
Why would anyone live in Florida without a convertible? In a convertible, you experience all of the gloriousness Florida weather has to offer. I have discussed this, over wine of course, with a number of native Floridians. Sometimes they say they never had a desire for a convertible until they owned one, or rented one, or took a ride with a friend. Once exposed, they’re all hooked.
But how could you not know that being outside, able to feel the warmth of Florida living, would be glorious?