by Greg Fields
“You said some mean things. I don’t know if I accept your apology.”
“Please, Anne. I’m sorry. You know how much I respect your opinions. I was too quick to jump on them.”
“Yes you were. You also called me inflexible and judgmental, as I recall.”
“I’m sorry, Anne. You’re neither, of course. You just have high standards. That’s not a bad thing.”
“I know it’s not. It’s the best we can do for ourselves. Let’s forget this whole conversation, shall we?”
“Fine with me. I don’t like to fight. Not with you.”
“Because I’m always right,” she said, a coy smile returning to her lips.
And vain Arachne spun her finest fibers.
CHAPTER XI
The force that through the green fuse
drives the flower
Drives my green age; that blasts the roots
of trees
Is my destroyer.
And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose
My youth is bent by the same wintry fever.
—Dylan Thomas, The Force That Through the Green Fuse
Drives the Flower
Conor Finnegan’s world became a jungle of logistical details. Once he had confirmed his position with the Washington office he immersed himself in the needs and necessities that position entailed.
First of all, he would need a place to live. The staff in Washington proved little help—they knew of nothing that was both inexpensive and safe—but, they said, people come and go so frequently in the capital that things open up without much notice. Finnegan should just keep checking. And so he did, throughout the month of April, with no luck.
In the meantime he realized that he would have to make drastic improvements in his wardrobe. He had one suit and several sport coats, acceptable garb for casual Los Angeles but, he felt, inadequate for the world of Washington politics. That same month he sniffed for a Washington flat, he bought two summer suits and a pair of slacks that matched one of his sport coats. It would have to do.
Both apartment and wardrobe cost money, much more than Finnegan had set aside. So, at the end of his telephone conversation with his parents explaining his opportunity in Washington, he broached the subject of cash.
“So you’ll be in the East all summer, then?”
“It looks that way, Dad.”
“You sure you want to do this?”
“Yeah, this is good. Very good. Although I’ll miss you two.”
“Well, if you’re sure. Where are you going to live?”
“I’m not certain yet. I’m still looking for a cheap apartment. Housing is so damn expensive down there. Which brings me to the point at hand.”
“Which is?”
“I’ll need to put down a security deposit and first month’s rent wherever I go. And, to be honest, I don’t have it. I’ll pay you back by the end of the summer.”
“Damn straight you will. How much do you need?”
“I’ve got to beef up my wardrobe, too, Dad. A couple of suits, maybe a few ties.”
“Christ be with us, Conor. You haven’t been named Secretary of State.”
“Not yet, no.”
It took some assurance of repayment before Ed Finnegan would give in, but the check was mailed within the week.
Finnegan did not mind setting up his summer world. It deepened for him his conception of independence, his appreciation of responsibility. He looked at his own evolution from callow adolescence to a composed young man who was truly reaching the current limits of his capabilities and, in so doing, outperforming even his most naïve imaginings. It filled him with a sense of power, for he had in fact succeeded on a new playing field, one far more diverse and intense than any he had ever traversed.
Finnegan also did not mind because Philadelphia lay squarely on the way to Washington, and on each trip down to the capital he saw Glynnis. Sometimes he could only stay for an hour or so before driving on to meet with the senator’s aides to discuss his assignments or to peruse the Washington papers for a place to live. It did not matter. She transfused his blood and sharpened his thoughts, always. Even in their briefest meetings she took him to new inner places. He came away convinced more than ever of his own selection, his own distinction, and felt very proud.
Owing to Finnegan’s enforced frugality, their times together were simple. Most often they would sit in the lounge of Glynnis’s dormitory or walk around campus. If Conor had time they would get something to eat. In truth, Finnegan’s trips to Washington proved a mixed blessing. Although he saw Glynnis more frequently than he might under normal circumstances, he had no time to make his visits as relaxed as he would have liked. There would be no other chance to spend a full day together until Finnegan got settled.
In early May, Finnegan received a call from Steve Krall, one of the senator’s other legislative assistants. Steve’s aunt, an analyst in the Defense Department, would be spending the summer on assignment to the U.S. NATO delegation in Brussels. Would Conor like to take her place? He would pay no rent, merely keep an eye on things and make certain her place stayed in good repair.
Finnegan repressed his excitement. “Yeah, Steve, I think it sounds great. Where is it?”
“Georgetown. Actually, Foggy Bottom, if you know where that is. She has a townhouse on New Hampshire Avenue, near the Watergate. It’s quite a place, Conor.”
“When can I look at it?”
“This weekend. In fact, if you want it you’ll have to tie things up by Saturday. She leaves for Brussels Monday morning. She really wants you to take it, Conor. The lady’s desperate at this stage. You’ll be doing her a huge favor. Otherwise it’ll sit empty and God knows what’ll happen. Washington has some pretty sophisticated thieves. They know when people are out of town.”
“I think I’ll probably be more than happy to help her out, Steve.”
Finnegan drove to Washington Saturday morning and closed the deal. It was as Steve described it; no rent, just routine maintenance and a warm body to see that the household stayed put. Only one string was attached, and that was Leona Krall’s Siamese cat, Jade, a haughty beast who would eat only freshly boiled chicken livers. Conor must make certain to buy enough every week, and he must not let them boil too long. Jade liked them with a smooth consistency. Oh, and the litter box must be cleaned every other day.
But the townhouse itself was beautiful enough to compensate for any obligation. It was tucked into a row of similar houses, each long and narrow, their two stories built solidly of brick in an old Federal style. Upstairs were two bedrooms linked by a short hallway and a bathroom. Downstairs the front door opened to a square living room, the kitchen appended to its rear. In back was a tiny rectangular squat of land, all the backyard the crush of buildings permitted. Finnegan noted the rich hardwood floors. The rugs looked expensive. The furnishings, too, were hardly humble: couches and chairs covered with plush brocade. The bed in the guest room, Finnegan’s room, sat in an old brass frame. King-sized, it was easily big enough for two.
Finnegan spent an hour with Leona Krall reviewing the care and keeping of both the house and the cat.
“She sleeps where she wants, Conor, but usually in the upstairs hall. She likes to curl up on top of the old desk in the hallway. Sometimes if it’s not too hot she’ll come into my room. Just let her go wherever she wants. She won’t hurt anything, will you, baby?”
Jade walked across Leona Krall’s feet and arched her back against her mistress’s shins. She yawled the deep baritone of the Siamese, oblivious to the fact that her leisurely lifestyle was now under scrutiny. Leona, a tall, attractive, worldly woman of nearly fifty, poured the limits of her affection on Jade. Finnegan noticed the artwork in the living room—prints and drawings of cats, framed, some abstract, on the walls, feline sculptures of ebony or stone on the tables. Finnegan did not wish to pass judgment, but he thought the woman’s devotion to this cat might be a bit eccentric, and certainly odd for one who travels in some of the governm
ent’s highest circles.
After a while she changed the subject to matters more human. “Now, the bus to the Capitol, the ’E’ bus I think, stops at the circle and goes right to the Senate Office Buildings. Or you can walk several blocks to the George Washington metro stop. It’s up to you, but the bus is more direct. If you’ve got a car, don’t drive it to work. Parking on the Hill is impossible. Parking around here is impossible, too, so take any spot you can find and leave it there. And don’t park illegally, even for a minute. The police ticket everything. It’s their humble contribution to keeping the city coffers filled. You can do your shopping at the Watergate. There’s a supermarket there, and a drugstore and some other shops. Prices aren’t cheap, so be prepared.” and so on. Leona Krall, once started, did not slow down. By the end of her discourse Finnegan had been well briefed on life on New Hampshire Avenue.
She gave him a key. Finnegan would move in as soon as classes were done next week. “Relax and enjoy yourself. Enjoy the city. Use whatever you want and replace whatever you break. Have parties if you want, but don’t tell me about them.”
“Thank you, Ms. Krall. I’ll try to take good care of things. Enjoy Brussels. You know, I think I’d gladly trade places with you if you wanted.”
Leona Krall smiled. “I wouldn’t let you. I’ve looked forward to this for a long time. Good luck, Conor.”
But as Conor drove northward toward Philadelphia and Glynnis, he suspected that there was no need for luck. Once again, all the pieces had fallen snugly into place.
Conor and Glynnis had dinner together at a small Italian restaurant near downtown. They spoke of Washington and what lay ahead. Or rather, Conor spoke and Glynnis listened, for the young man’s excitement this evening rose unbridled, all restraints thrown aside. His finding such an elegant address at virtually no cost capped his anticipation at what promised to be yet another grand adventure.
***
The day had been hot—the smothering, blanketing, breathlessly mucky heat of dead summer. Around 2:00 it had rained, a thunderstorm rolling out of the southeast across the bay and erupting at once. But the storm did not cool things at all. It merely thickened the blanket. People stayed inside, unwilling to leave the air-conditioned, breathable space of their homes or offices.
Conor Finnegan, too, did not want to leave. He lingered at his desk after most of his colleagues had headed for the door. He knew how hot it was, and he liked being cool. He would not be so cool that night, for Leona Krall’s townhouse did not have central air conditioning. Instead, he would strip off his clothes and open all the upstairs windows, hoping for cross-ventilation. He would kick the covers on the floor, turn the small fan directly on his sweaty, contorted body. Sometime beyond midnight his drained form would slide over the elusive edge of slumber, and there he would alternately doze and wake, crossing back and forth over that edge, semi-conscious of the room around him, until the fine first light of morning called an end to his poor efforts. He would be fully awake before his 7:00 alarm sounded. Finnegan always felt tired these days.
The heat notwithstanding, Finnegan delayed going home. His desk imparted an identity he cherished. The desk itself was a clanky metal thing thrown into a corner of the suite amid six or seven others, each as chinked, as dented and as cold. But he had stamped this desk with his unique perspective. On two corners were piled several Congressional Reports, hearings transcripts and studies, all dealing with the plight of senior citizens. Between them sat a standard desk blotter on which were sketched his doodles, most of which were imaginary faces, all male. Finnegan did not know how to draw anything else. His technique was residue from a distant elementary school art lesson. Occasionally he would draw pointed ears and antennae on one of the faces to make it a space alien, but that marked the extent of his creativity.
On the upper corners of his desk sat his in- and out-trays, three-tiered, each full of paperwork, statistical tables or printouts of charts. Tucked behind his phone were that day’s Washington Post and New York Times. A small framed picture of Glynnis stood ahead of the clutter on the desk’s edge. This was his space, a space in the Dirksen Senate Office Building, reflective of his projects and his presence. Conor Finnegan was here. Is here.
Finnegan swiveled his chair to face the window, an unromantic view of the back of the Russell Building, blurred through the horizontal slats of blinds. He picked up the Times, heretofore unread, and flipped through the front section to the editorial page at the end. It did not matter that Finnegan rarely found time to read the papers. Everyone on staff carried them into the office in the morning, and Finnegan wanted to be no different. It was a matter of image, he thought. When he did read them, in unhurried moments such as this, he seldom found them enlightening. News and issues traveled by word of mouth on the Hill. Finnegan could learn more about things from an hour lunch with Steve Krall than from both papers combined.
“What about the Kurds, Steve? Refugees still pouring out of Iraq and Iran?”
“In droves. I’ve got a friend on the Judiciary Committee. Majority counsel. He tells me that no one’s going to take the poor bastards. The last thing Turkey wants is a few more Kurds, but at least they’re not shooting the convoys, unlike our good friends in Azerbaijan, Syria and Armenia. Nobody wants any part of them. The whole region’s scared to death of food shortages, not to mention the strain on health systems. And of course these are Kurds we’re talking about, the folks on the bottom rung of the regional ethnic totem pole.”
“Any chance we could help them?”
“Doubtful. Even the liberals are skittish. Too many practical concerns to make it a sexy issue. I mean, where do we put them, how do we reach them, are camps even the answer? Then the nuts-and-bolts steps of feeding them, societal reintegration, educating the kids. And who the hell pays for that? Nobody wants to face the backlash of refugee support for a group that no one gives a damn about. My friend tells me that State’s trying to find some third-party nations to step up, maybe get them relocated to a safer place that nobody can find, like Moldova.”
“’Land of the free. Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses,’ and all that. Another ideal bites the big one.”
“It bit it a long time ago, Conor. Not an ideal, just a slogan. Every immigrant group had always had to fight its way in. Krauts like my people, Micks like yours. Our tribes were at least recognizable. Nobody likes the Kurds.”
Finnegan read the Times quickly, then tossed it onto the corner pile of old newspapers to be recycled. His watch said 6:42. Only the senator’s administrative assistant remained in the suite, sketching out a position paper in the office directly adjoining the boss’s. Finnegan envied that location: the assistant’s desk faced out of his office in such a way as to provide a constant view of Joyce, the senator’s red-haired, green-eyed secretary-goddess. Of all the attractive women on staff (and there were easily eight or nine), Finnegan lusted after Joyce most frequently. But there was nothing to be done.
He grabbed his suit coat from a rack near the window, rolled down his sleeves and looked at the city. The sky was a sweaty gray, a function of the humidity. In the upper reaches hung occasional thick clouds, their bottoms barely visible through the murk. The sun, its size exaggerated, hovered westward, a giant cycloptic eye. The marble buildings themselves seemed to drip moisture and glow with the subtle radiation of heated stones. Finnegan pulled on his coat and walked silently out of the suite and down the hallway to the stairs. On his way out he smiled at the security guards, who did not, could not, know his name but who were universally friendly.
“G’night, sir. See you tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir. Have a good evening, gentlemen. Try to stay cool.”
“Oh no, sir. We don’t even try no more. Body’s got to sweat itself out in the summertime,” and the great thick gold door closed behind him.
The air, heavy and as thick as the door he had just closed, cast its own presence. Finnegan walked down the street to the bus stop. Beads of sweat popped out o
n his forehead and at his temples. They slicked the hair above his ears.
’Ninety, at least,’ he thought. ’Both temperature and humidity.’
At the bus stop, a group of four young black men wearing shorts and tank tops talked among themselves. They punctuated their words with supple movements of their bodies, fluid waves of spines, wrists and elbows. The young men were no more than eighteen or nineteen, a year or so younger than Finnegan. They noticed him as he approached.
“Uptown dude,” said one, his voice neutral, neither friendly nor hostile. Finnegan chose not to ignore it.
“Yeah, but I’m as hot as you guys.”
“Shit, man, you be headin’ for some cool rooms. Some air conditioning. All we got’s a porch.”
“No air conditioning for me. Just open windows.”
One of them snorted, “But everything in Georgetown’s cool.”
“What makes you think I live in Georgetown?”
“Jack, you got it written all over you. Some young government boy on the move.”
“Don’t call me ’boy,’ said Finnegan with a half-smile. A couple of the others smiled too.
“Ya’ll are okay, White Bread.”
“I guess,” said Finnegan, “I’m just a friendly sort.”
The E bus rolled around Maryland Avenue and stopped in front of Finnegan. He climbed the steps, dropped his fare in the steel box and quickly surveyed the length of the bus for a suitable seat. He was relieved to see that it was not crowded at this hour, so there would be no need to plop down next to a stranger. Finnegan stepped toward the rear. As the bus began again to move, he was thrown forward and had to take three choppy steps to right himself. He took a seat three-quarters of the way back, immediately behind a man in a three-piece suit and horn-rimmed glasses. The man was working on a book of crossword puzzles, moving the corners of his mouth as he read the clues and frowning as he penciled in his answers.