Senator

by Richard Bowker

  I wasn't really expecting it when it did happen, but even that wouldn't have been surprising if I had thought about it. We were huddled over the text of a statement, eating pizza and disagreeing about a dangling participle, and then we were kissing—a long, probing kiss that left us both breathless. She tasted of pepperoni; she felt great. We gazed at each other afterward, and Marge smiled a crooked, expectant smile—and abruptly I knew I couldn't go any further. I put my hand over hers as she started to unbutton her blouse.

  "Why not?" she whispered, her big eyes filling with tears.

  "I can't do it to Liz."

  "Why not?" she repeated.

  And it was only at that moment that I could say why not. "Because I love her," I said.

  "You love me, god damn it," she said, pulling back from my hand. "You know you do. You're just feeling a spasm of Irish Catholic guilt. It's like indigestion. It'll pass."

  "I wish you were right," I responded. "But when you smiled just now, I thought of the way Liz smiles when we're about to make love. No—I saw Liz, I saw the smile. We've had our problems, but that doesn't mean I can't still love her."

  "You love me, Jim. Say it."

  "All right. Yes, I love you, too. But you're not the one I'm married to. You're not the mother of my child."

  "So it is guilt. Mr. Morality. Let's pass a bill: Stone the adulterers. Off with their cocks." She leaned forward and grabbed my hand. "No one will know, Jim," she whispered. "No one but God, and He doesn't exist. I'm not asking you to leave Liz. I just want to make love with you."

  I was tempted—oh, so tempted. But I didn't. I left the apartment to the sound of her crying.

  I half expected her to quit after that evening, but she hung on. Hoping I would change my mind? Because she wasn't likely to get another job as challenging and exciting as this one? I don't know. We fell out of step a little bit then; I didn't want to ask, and she certainly wasn't going to tell me.

  Was I a fool to pass up the opportunity Marge offered me? Or a saint? That was, of course, the question she wanted my answer to. I had spurned her and had fallen instead for that tramp, that lying blond bitch with the toothy smile. If I really was Mr. Morality, if I really did love my wife, Marge could have stood it—but not if I was just a jerk, like Alan with the beard, like every other man she had ever met.

  "Did you love her?" Marge asked after a while, as we sat in her office.

  "I don't know," I said. "I had the hots for her. I was seventeen years old again."

  "You were never seventeen."

  "No, probably not."

  "Did she love you?"

  I shrugged. "She said she did."

  Marge lit up another cigarette. "You can imagine how this makes me feel."

  "I know, Marge. And I'm sorry. And I know you must hate me, but right now I need you to see this thing through. The convent will still be there in November."

  Marge appraised me. "Beg," she said finally.

  I went over next to her desk and got down on my knees. "Please, Marjorie," I said, my hands clasped in front of me. "I've never asked you for anything before, and I'll never ask for anything again, but now I need you. Please remain as the highly paid media coordinator for the Campaign to Reelect Senator O'Connor."

  She leaned forward and blew a lungful of smoke in my face. "I've always wanted to do that," she said.

  "Bless you," I replied. I kissed her kneecap and stood up. "It's going to be a wonderful few weeks. Wait and see."

  She shook her head. "It's going to be hell on all of us. It's already hell."

  "The worst is past, Marge. I have a feeling."

  She smiled a weary little smile, and then the smile faded, and she gave me a look filled with, dripping with, sympathy. "Jim, things are more complicated than you know. More complicated than you can imagine."

  "Then enlighten me."

  "I can't. Forget it. You've got me, and that's all you're getting."

  What did she mean? What did she know? "Marge," I said, "you can't just drop a hint like that and leave it."

  "Yes, I can. I can do anything I want, at least until I take my vows. Now go away and let me do the job for which I'm so highly paid."

  I knew her well enough to know that I wasn't going to get anything out of her. Marge had her little secret, and she was going to keep it. "I'll never forgive you," I said.

  "Then we're even," she said, smiling once again. I left her office.

  * * *

  It was Friday night. What a difference a week made. I had flown up from D.C. in the late morning, taped the commercial and had the regular Friday afternoon meeting, and now I was driving home from campaign headquarters—I really was. I had the night off. "A chance to get reacquainted with your wife and daughter," Harold had said in that annoying ironic way of his.

  I sat in my car in the expressway traffic and thought: Something more has to be done. They'd had a week to arrest me, and I was still a free man. I couldn't understand it, but I wasn't going to complain; it meant I still had a chance to control events. But I couldn't control them unless I understood them, and so far I wasn't even close. In fact, understanding seemed to be getting further away from me all the time. What was Marge's damn secret? And Finn's war record. What was that all about? Like Everson in one of his business deals, I needed information.

  Asking Everson to help was a start, but it had felt all wrong. He hadn't gotten back to me yet, and I wasn't optimistic that he would come up with anything. So much for the favors he owed me.

  Something more.

  Jackie Scanlon, of course. I hated to do it, but I had to see him again.

  More than that? Yes, I thought, I would probably need more than that.

  After a while I forced myself to stop thinking about it and turned on a talk show. I drove home listening to what my constituents had on their minds.

  * * *

  Domestic life. A quiet, home-cooked meal in the dining room—pot roast and apple pie. It occurred to me that Liz had gone to some trouble to prepare it, what with the tough course she was taking, and it also occurred to me to thank her. Liz blushed. "Kathleen did most of the work."

  "Well now, Kathleen," I said in my imitation brogue, "you'll be making some lucky man a wonderful wife one of these fine days."

  "Not likely," she said. And I wondered: Were we souring her on marriage?

  "Some boy asked her for a date," Liz informed me.

  "And are his intentions strictly honorable, Kathleen?" I asked.

  "He's a dex," she replied.

  "What's a dex?"

  "You know, a nerd, a dweeb."

  "One of the Hingham Dweebs? Excellent stock. Shall we invite the parents to brunch, get better acquainted?"

  "She turned him down," Liz said.

  "What? And jeopardized the union of our two great clans? I won't have it. The nuptials will take place next spring, young lady, whether you like it or not."

  "He picks his nose in French class," Kathleen said.

  "Oh. Well then. The nuptials are off, I guess."

  Kathleen rolled her eyes. She didn't seem especially interested in kidding around. Perhaps this was the wrong subject to be kidding about. I had seconds of the pot roast.

  After supper Kathleen went over to a friend's house, and Liz and I were left alone to clean up. "Boys," I said. "Can't we keep her away from them for another ten years or so?"

  "I'd certainly like to," Liz replied. She looked distracted; that wasn't unusual.

  "So how's school?" I asked. "How's the mystic tradition?"

  "Fine," she said, turning away from me to scrub a pot.

  "Great." I tried to think of something else to say about the mystic tradition, but I could only come up with jokes, and I knew by now that Liz's education was also not a subject to kid about.

  After the dishes were done we watched Washington Week in Review and Wall Street Week in silence together, and then Liz went to bed. She seemed to need about twice as much sleep as I did.

  I went into my o
ffice and called Roger. Roger never came to our Friday afternoon meetings: too busy with his law practice, he said, although I assumed that he just wasn't interested enough. He was happy to work on fund raising, but he didn't seem especially excited about the cause; he was simply doing a favor for an old friend. Politicians expect total commitment, of course, and so this occasionally irritated me. But then, a lot about Roger irritated me nowadays.

  It was since Doris died, actually. Yes, that had been tragic; she was only forty when the cancer got her. And yes, it takes awhile to recover from the ordeal. But it had been a couple of years now, and Roger still seemed stuck in the doldrums. There were no kids, and he had plenty of money. So apparently he couldn't see the point of doing anything—except maybe drink. I found this attitude extremely frustrating, because Roger was as smart as I was, and he was too young to just give up.

  Well, I didn't have the time to solve his problems, but perhaps he could help me solve mine. I asked him what he'd heard about the investigation.

  "Word is," he said, "that Cavanaugh wants to remove our friend Jerry Tobin from the case and take over himself."

  I didn't like the sound of that at all. "Roger, do you think he hates me enough to arrest me even if he doesn't have a case?"

  "Mackey wouldn't let him do that."

  "Mackey can be replaced."

  "Sure, but what's the point? It hurts Cavanaugh and Finn more than it does you if he can't make the charge stick. Right now he doesn't have a prayer of getting an indictment. So you don't have an alibi, half the world doesn't have an alibi. Maybe if this witness ID'd you—but obviously she couldn't, or we'd know about it."

  "I'm not talking logic here, Roger, I'm talking hatred. The Monsignor can't see straight when it comes to me. What if he gets it into his head that he's got enough to pull me in even if—"

  "Jim, take it easy. Pour yourself a stiff drink and go to bed. This isn't going to happen. Even if he is a bit unhinged about you, he's got to deal with Finn, and Finn isn't going to let him screw up the election."

  Exactly what Everson had told me. "I certainly hope so," I said.

  "Trust me. Now, how's Liz? Last Saturday, before the press conference—"

  "Oh, you know Liz. She hates it, but she comes through."

  "This must be especially tough on her."

  "At least she has the spirit world to comfort her, Roger."

  "Well, it's good to have something to comfort you. Night, Jim."

  "See you."

  I sat in my office and stared at the phone. Roger wasn't worried; Everson wasn't worried. I was the only one who was worried, but then, I was the only one who knew the truth. It was possible that Cavanaugh didn't have the tape of Danny's interview; it was possible that Amanda didn't leave any notes about me and Scanlon. But even so, if Cavanaugh took over, he would probe and probe and probe, and he would find something, and then he would try to destroy me. Finn might be able to stop him if the case looked shaky, but what if it didn't look shaky?

  Something more has to be done.

  I called up Kevin Feeney.

  Roger should take lessons in total commitment from Kevin. There are two kinds of Irishmen in politics. There are the conventional hard-drinking ward heeler types, who are attracted to politics because so much of it involves simply sitting around and talking and doing favors for one another. And then there are those who are looking for a cause, who need to submerge themselves in an organization that is greater than themselves. These men don't want to talk; they want to serve. Kevin is such a man.

  In the old country, in another era, Kevin might have been a priest, preaching the Vatican party line about sex and marriage to village maidens, content to have his every thought and belief provided for him from on high. Until lately in America he would have ended up a Democrat, but the times are changing, much to my father's chagrin. Kevin embraced the conservative philosophy as a young man, and then he embraced me. He was a volunteer in my first campaign, and he immediately made himself indispensable. I gave him a job in the AG's office, and he has been with me ever since. He seems to disappear into the woodwork for long stretches, rarely speaking at our opinionated staff meetings, but he's always there when I need him.

  He was there that night when I called. "Kevin," I said, "I'd like to ask you for a favor."

  "Anything, Senator."

  "Remember at Harold's last Friday night, when you said we should be investigating Amanda Taylor's murder?"

  "Of course."

  "Well, I've been thinking maybe you were right. And I think you're the man for the job."

  "I knew it, Senator," Kevin said, exalted by my agreement. "I bet someone like Donato—"

  "Now, Kevin. Let's not get hung up on your theory about the Democrats. You may be right about that, too, but it could be a blind alley. The important thing is to get this murder solved. And of course, we want to keep the police from finding out we're doing this, if possible. And Kevin?"

  "Yes?"

  "We also want to keep the rest of the people in the campaign from finding out. I don't think they'd approve, and I don't want any battles with Harold and Marge just now. This is just between you and me."

  "Okay, but how am I—"

  "Hire people if you need to, but the fewer, the better. Pay them yourself, and I'll reimburse you. You can also tell Harold you're sick and take some time off from the campaign."

  "But I never call in sick."

  "It's okay, Kevin. You won't go to hell. You won't even go to purgatory."

  "I know, but Harold might suspect something."

  "Then I'll take care of Harold. All right, Kevin?"

  "Of course, Senator. You can count on me."

  "I know I can, Kevin. Thank you."

  I hung up. There. Everson was on the case, and now Kevin. If Kevin came up with anything terrible about me, well, he would also come up with a way to not believe it. And if he managed to find out something about the murderer that the police didn't know—because Cavanaugh was keeping Mackey on too short a leash, for example—then we might be able to forestall the arrest that I knew Cavanaugh was itching to make.

  Not likely, but it was worth the effort.

  And now for the toughest phone call.

  Kathleen came home as I was about to make it. My hand froze over the receiver as she stuck her head in the door. "I'm in," she said.

  "Hi. Thanks for supper. Great pot roast."

  "We should do it more often," she said meaningfully.

  "I know," I said. "I know. Good night."

  She waved to me and went upstairs. I picked up the receiver and made the call before I lost my nerve.

  A woman answered.

  "Jackie, please." The less I said, the better.

  "Who's calling?"

  "Tell him it's about the Sea-Star."

  "Hold on."

  I held. At least he was home. I didn't relish the thought of trying to track him down. He came to the phone almost immediately. "Yeah," he said. His voice was low. He knew who it was.

  "We've got to talk."

  "I figured. When?"

  "Sunday evening. About six."

  "Fine. Just park. I'll find you."

  "Have the police—"

  "No, nobody."

  "All right," I said. "I'll see you Sunday." I hung up and breathed a sigh of relief. Fast and cryptic, but it had done the job.

  And I couldn't think of anything else to do until Sunday evening. I sat in my office for a while and then went up to bed.

  Liz was asleep in pajama tops and panties. I got in next to her, as I had thousands of times before, and read for a few minutes before turning the light out. A week ago, could I have imagined that domesticity would settle in again so quickly? It wouldn't have surprised me then if I never slept in this bed again.

  Well, it was at best old habits reasserting themselves, or a truce arranged by Kathleen. Liz could hardly have forgiven me so soon. It was hard to imagine that she ever would. I looked over at her and sighed, and then I p
ut the book down, set the alarm, and went to sleep next to her.

  * * *

  We made love the next morning. I awoke in a fog when the alarm went off. It was dark out; the bed was warm, the house was cold; I didn't want to get out of the bed and go make a speech to a bunch of businessmen. I snuggled up to Liz; she snuggled back. And then we were kissing, and then we were making love the way we had been making love for twenty years—silently, our hands moving over each other's bodies, the two of us kissing hard, and then breaking off as we gasped for air. And when it was time, I held her more tightly and plunged more deeply into her, and she gasped one final time, and it was over.

  I remember the first time we made love, on the floor in my apartment, and she gasped just like that as I came. "Did I hurt you?" I whispered.

  She smiled and shook her head. "It just took me by surprise."

  "What did?"

  "That it finally happened. That you made love to me."

  "Was it worth the wait?"

  And she just kept smiling.

  Now, in the darkness, in our home, I stayed where I was for a while, looking at my wife. She opened her eyes and briefly returned my gaze before turning her head away. She waited until I rolled off her and then immediately put on her robe and went into the bathroom. I lay back for a moment and tried to figure it out.

  It was just your basic married sex. We were both adults, and we hadn't been getting any lately.

  It was something more than sex. But what? A yearning for a simpler past: Eat supper, watch TV, go to bed, wake up early and have a pleasant roll in the hay? Or a silent agreement about the future: We've managed to stay together this long; let's keep trying awhile longer?

  I didn't know. We could talk about it, but I didn't have time, and Liz probably wasn't interested. She returned from the bathroom, got right back into bed, and closed her eyes. I got up and went about my business.

  When I came back into the bedroom after taking my shower, her eyes were still closed, but her face was wet with tears.