Like that.
I remember I have not eaten all day. I still cannot find enough appetite to be able to distract myself with food. I open and look in my liquor cabinet. It looks back. I close the door, attempt to watch the news, decide to try Bobby’s hotel again. And then, before I can stop myself, I am reviewing the day one more time. I had a chance to protect Bobby and save his campaign. I failed. Though not, this time, out of negligence or distraction or trusting to luck or simply missing the chance to try. No matter the reason. I fucked up. Again.
I think about how nice, how very very nice, a drink would be right now.
Although I watch out my window for car headlights and listen for the sound of my mailbox clicking open and clunking closed, I hear nothing. At ten o’clock, I decide to go look anyway, and, lo, there it all is, as promised, sitting in a white plastic bag. I bring it into the light of my kitchen and turn everything out carefully onto the counter. Inside two small white boxes are the devices, one box with a number of objects the size of a thick dime, the other with two wafer-thin devices the size of a quarter, each of them with two tiny alligator-toothed clips depending from thin wires. They look less like insects than modernist gems awaiting a ring setting. I look back in the bag and find a piece of paper faxed from Teleline Electronics and Security in Chicago. On it are the date, prices, invoice and registration numbers of the bugs, as well as the home address and American Express number of the card one Clive S. Sanford used when he ordered them. I stare at it, amazed. I read it over several times to make sure I have not misread it.
This is good news. No, this is great news. Clive S. Sanford has fucked up, too.
I look at the piece of paper. It is like having a weapon in my hand, sleek and powerful and wonderful to look at. With it, I can destroy Clive Sanford utterly. As much as he may have enjoyed playing the tape of Laura’s and my conversation to Bobby, I will savor ten times more his slow and permanent and painful ruination. He will get to discover the woes of being a defendant in civil and criminal lawsuits, all of which, sooner or later, after great expense and long public humiliation, he will lose. He will never work in politics again. He will never make another dollar most of which won’t have to go to pay fees and fines and penalties. He will be the equivalent of drawn and quartered, and his body parts, if they escape actual durance vile, will certainly all be sown with salt and involved in many hundreds of hours of community service.
If revenge is a dish best served cold, I will have a nearly endlessly renewable groaning board of chilled delicacies.
I sit down on the sofa, put my feet up, and think about what else I can do.
I can make Congressman Richard Wheatley look bad—though perhaps not as bad as I would want to, given that Clive has already been separated from the campaign and Wheatley has doubtless maintained deniability, or, more likely, actually doesn’t know about the wiretapping. But I can make him look pretty bad nonetheless. When your longtime friend and chief aide turns out to be involved in felonious activities on your behalf, tar gets on you even if the press paints the story with the narrowest of brushes, and that is not a tool it is much known to use in any case.
I can get the tapes confiscated and, very probably, sealed from being heard except in camera by the judge. I can get the threat of serious civil and criminal penalties being imposed if any fragment of a conversation ever surfaces anywhere for any reason.
I look at the paper for a last time and wish Jeannie was here to gloat with me. Or Bobby.
I finally get through to Cindy early the next morning.
“It’s Ben,” I say. “What the hell is going on?”
“Just a minute,” she says. I hear her tell her kids to hold it down. “Nothing’s going on,” she says to me. “Absolutely nothing.”
“What do you mean?”
“You left. Laura went up to the room, Scott and his staff left them alone, and since then, nothing. Bobby called to cancel all his afternoon and evening schedule. I hear Laura called around ten at night asking for a couple of sandwiches. She’s come out to see Annie and Jimmy a couple of times. Jimmy keeps wanting to do more movie footage, except Alexander was suddenly called away. If Annie knows what that means, she isn’t saying.”
“How is Laura?”
“I don’t know. The kids are the only ones who’ve seen her. She and Bobby are taking no calls and have a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign out. So. Like I said. Nothing.”
“Why didn’t you take any calls?”
“Scott and I decided to shut everything down and shut everyone up. We wanted no loose talk or speculation getting out. I’m the only one authorized to do any talking, and that’s only to reporters who showed up in person.”
“What’s on the schedule for today?”
“A seven-thirty three-mile run. That’s out because of his fever. A breakfast meeting in an hour. Scott plans to cover for that one. And then some review and rehearsal until lunch, a lunch he’s supposed to have with Governor and Mrs. Roberts. And then a final press conference in the afternoon. But who knows? I was going to say your guess is as good as mine. But under the circumstances, your guess ought to be better than anyone’s.” There is an ironic edge to her voice.
“I suppose it ought to be. Though not for the reason you think.”
“Well?”
“Well what?”
“What’s your guess?” she asks.
I am disappointed she has not asked me for an explanation of what she heard yesterday on the tape. “I have no idea. Except Bobby will debate tonight. He may do terribly, but he’ll debate. As for him and Laura, I am in the dark.”
“You think he’ll do terribly?”
“I don’t know. He could.”
“He’s a pretty cool customer,” she says hopefully.
I sigh. So was Othello. But public men, even brave military men, can get blindsided by private concerns, and he has had not the ocular but the aural proof. I try to shake this cheerless line of thought.
“Say something reassuring,” Cindy says into my silence.
“Bobby does better than anyone I know with difficult news.”
“I know, but…”
“Now it’s your turn, Cindy. You say something reassuring.”
“Somebody’s at the door,” she says. “I’ve got to go. I’ll call you as soon as I hear anything.”
“Wait. I need to talk to Bobby. It’s important. Something critical has come up.”
“Something else?”
“Something entirely else.”
The news of Clive Sanford’s involvement in wiretapping can wait until after the debate, I suppose—though knowing it might give Bobby’s spirit of combat a boost.
“I’ll tell him,” she says.
✳
Cindy calls me at midday to say Bobby has canceled his lunch with the governor and his wife but has agreed to one brief rehearsal before dinner. His fever, at least, is reported to have dropped to under a hundred. The press conference will be a brief one. She passed along my message that something’s come up but has no idea if he will call me.
I come home to my office in the mid-afternoon to check my answering machine. Its tiny red light is blinking. There is a message from Laura.
“I’m just checking in,” she says, sounding exhausted. “I don’t really have any n-news. Bobby and I have talked for hours and hours. His sense of being betrayed is fading and he’s beginning instead to be sad. He hasn’t made any decisions. I haven’t made any decisions. We’re each of us just doing the best we can. I’ll try and talk to you tonight after the debate. Bye.”
I play the message again. Underneath the weariness she, too, sounds sad. She must have chosen to call me at home in order to avoid talking to me in person. I respect her decision but still wish she would have talked to me directly. She could have told Bobby about Clive Sanford, and he could have advised me how he wanted it
handled.
I watch his afternoon news conference on a cable news channel. During it, a bad thing happens. He loses his temper again, though this time he loses it before the cameras. You could say it was nerves, flu, lack of sleep, the tape he’d been played, the steady cumulation of campaign stress and chronic fatigue, troubles with Laura and me, and you’d be right. But it is one other thing, I think, that provides the last straw. At first he is peppered with questions about Jeannie’s settlement, and he deflects them skillfully enough with the suggestion that they should talk to her and to Erickson Bruce. He didn’t have the details. Then he is asked about his debate preparations, and he answers briskly and with some humor.
But then Jeremy Taylor rises, says he has a question and wants a follow-up. “Have you ever consumed an illegal drug other than marijuana?” he asks.
Bobby does his level best to deflect this question, too, saying he has already answered it many times, and there are a whole host of other important issues he would like to focus on.
Jeremy Taylor stands and again asks, “Have you ever consumed an illegal drug other than marijuana? With respect, sir, I’d like a yes or no answer to the question.”
Bobby must have seen his choices unfold before him. If he ducks the question, the rest of the press conference will be about getting him to answer it. No matter what happens in the debate later, the news afterward will be dominated by his non-answer. If he answers with the truth, yes, he had consumed another illegal drug, that will be the hot story all the way up to the election, a perfect recipe for him to lose.
I’d already told Bobby about what I had told Jeremy Taylor on the subject. I’d hoped, of course, that my emphatic denial was enough to help spike the story. But it wasn’t.
Bobby looks at Jeremy Taylor, his cheeks drawn in and forehead pale. He blinks. Then, quietly, he says, “No.” A moment passes in which Bobby seems to forget where he is. Finally, his eyes focus and he says, “Next question?”
I can tell from Bobby’s face that this lie cost him. He had been hoping to get through this election without having to tell it. To other observers he might have seemed distracted and unfocused after this exchange, but I have known him long enough to know he is suffering.
So when a television reporter asks him a few minutes later if he has ever been offered an illegal drug, Bobby blows sky high. His face turns red and seems to expand over his collar like a balloon filling with air. His eyes glitter and bulge.
With a furious expression, he points his finger at the reporter in a way that made you think if it were a gun, he would have pulled the trigger. His voice rises to a shout. “This is an important race. The economic and social and political health of the state and of the country are on the line. And yet all of you reporters keep asking about is a bunch of trivial crap.” He gives a broad sweep of the hand. “And you don’t ask about it once, but over and over and over again. The people of this state deserve better than that. This entire campaign has been run in the gutter. In it. And I’m here to tell you it’s not just Richard Wheatley who is responsible for letting it get that way. The press has been serving up the damned sewage, the garbage. It’s inexcusable. It’s outrageous. It’s sick. And this press conference is over.”
He turns on his heel and walks out.
I slump down in my chair in dismay. So much for sane and good-humored. Going into the debate, every news broadcast in the state will have this outburst as its lead film clip tonight. And Wheatley’s minions will be out whispering “post-traumatic stress disorder” into every ear. “Nut case.”
I had been looking forward to seeing this debate in person. I still have my blue-and-white ticket authorizing my entrance to the Hindley Auditorium, and my name is on the list of people invited to sit with the candidate’s family in the front row. I think for a while about sneaking in and sitting in the back, but I worry that if Bobby spotted me, it would distract him at a time when distraction is the last thing on this blue-green globe he will need.
I settle into the chair in front of my television, preparing to see the debate the way most people will see it. First, though, I set up my VCR to tape the evening for posterity.
My stomach flutters, my hands grow clammy. My old friend is about to decide his future, and that of those he hopes to represent as well. I look at the liquor cabinet but am feeling too queasy to want to open it.
Both campaigns know from their polling and focus groups—and know with great precision—what the voters are concerned about, what the issues are, what both candidates’ strengths and weaknesses are perceived to be. Each of them will be ready (or at least Wheatley will be ready) with quips and one-liners and lines of attack and defense. But despite all the expert opinion-sampling and the media wizards’ advice and the debaters’ tricks, who wins will finally come down to some mysterious and ineluctable question of chemistry between the voters—especially the large group of undecided ones—and what they see on television tonight.
Bobby’s blowup, whatever it did to his wavering supporters and which did lead the news on every channel I surfed through, will serve to increase the viewership for the debate. There is a new element of suspense now. They’ve read about it in the papers and seen it on TV. Now people will be wondering: Will he lose it again?
There is a statement by a representative of the state’s League of Women Voters explaining the rules of the debate and introducing the panel of journalists who will ask the questions. Then the candidates are named. They come out in their dark suits, white shirts, and red ties from opposite wings of the stage. They shake hands briefly, nod at each other, and then step behind the two lecterns set up for their use. I glance again over at my liquor cabinet, wondering if a drink would ease my nerves and settle my queasy stomach. I lick my lips and discover I’m not thirsty that way. Not now at least. I make a deal with myself: if Bobby wins the election, I’ll throw the cabinet out and every fucking thing in it.
Wheatley, who is several inches shorter than Bobby, steps out from behind the lectern, turning to grin and wave at the cheering audience. Bobby, whose face looks drawn and tight, gives a smile in which his puffy eyes seem unable to participate. He, too, comes out from behind his podium and nods at the various people in the front rows, pausing to say hello to each of the journalists. Wheatley steps to the apron of the stage and, to my surprise, toward Bobby’s side. There he says a few polite words to Laura and Jimmy and Annie, the back of whose heads I can see. This unusually graceful gesture causes Bobby to decide to do the same to the Wheatleys. It is a reassuring moment: at least Bobby has enough presence of mind to notice what Wheatley has done and reciprocate.
I wait for the camera to pan those front rows showing each candidate’s family. I want to look at Laura and see if I can read the news on her face. First, though, it pans Wheatley’s side as a television voice tells us we are seeing his wife and three grown children and their spouses. I then see something in the row immediately behind Mrs. Wheatley that causes the hairs on the back of my neck to lift. I cannot concentrate after that to process what I see when Laura and the kids are shown next.
I press my cold hands against my hot face and eyes and hope my vision has played a trick. Though I know I will miss the opening statement, I still immediately rewind the videotape and replay the shots of Wheatley’s family, thinking I must be mistaken. When the camera reaches Wheatley’s wife, I press pause. And there it is, yes, just what I feared. In the second row I can make out one-half of Clive Sanford’s head. Sitting next to him, clear as day and fully visible, is Allan Bernstein with a huge smirk on his face.
This is not a debate. It is psychological warfare. They are attempting to unnerve Bobby completely, as if Clive’s playing the tape of Laura and me was not enough. Wheatley’s gesture of greeting Laura and Annie was a ploy, a gambit to get Bobby to do the same so he could not possibly miss seeing Allan. Who no doubt waved or said hello loudly or did something to draw Bobby’s attention to him.
I return to watching the debate live, trying my best to follow the exchange. I do a poor job of it. All I can think of is Allan. He must have flown to the capital in order to make his charges about drug use in person and on statewide television. No matter how well Bobby does now in the debate—and my impression, admittedly fragmented and distracted, is that he’s doing well—he will be spending the last days of the campaign defending himself. Whatever upward bounce he gets from a successful debate will be nullified, or worse.
Halfway through the program, I conclude there is only one thing left to do. I turn off the television, get in my car, and begin the forty-five-minute drive to the auditorium, thinking I am lucky not to have guzzled the booze this time. I know I will not be able to get to the city in time for the end of the debate, but the spin doctors will still be spinning and the staffs working and, regardless of how well or poorly they did, the candidates and their families will be smiling bravely and celebrating victory.
I listen to the rest of the debate on the radio, where, if anything, Bobby’s superiority is even more pronounced. He is expressive, funny, natural, engaging, unscripted, a man alive to the context and the moment. Wheatley sounds over-rehearsed yet fumbles for the right word, attacks too aggressively, tells homey anecdotes he can’t quite finish in the allotted time. I get the image of a bull charging at a brilliant matador who waves his cape with a flourish, athletically sidesteps the horns, and sticks him hard with a feathered lance with each pass, playing the crowd and waiting patiently for the right time to bring out the sword. The pressure, the wiretapping, the flu, his lost temper, Allan Bernstein’s presence, trouble with Laura—it all seems to have honed his competitive edge. As the debate continues, I can hear he is having one of those hours I’ve seen lawyers have in court, and even had myself once in a great while. As in dream, the words and phrases come to you just the way you want them, fused seamlessly to feeling and to meaning and even with precisely the expression of voice you wish them to enjoy. It is like being a professional athlete who, after hundreds of hours of practice, suddenly, in the big match, hits the zone, that spacious place where everything is clearer and brighter and sweeter and the actions flow automatically, effortlessly, perfectly.
Sounding the Waters Page 31