Senator

by Richard Bowker

  "That sounds right. I bet Cavanaugh's just itching to get his hands on me."

  "I'm afraid so. You ought to know that there've been some reporters nosing around."

  "Brad Williams," I said, remembering the name. "I met him at the funeral. A real slimeball."

  "There may be some bad publicity coming up, Jim."

  "We'll just have to roll with the punches. Listen, I'd like to come over and talk if you're not busy."

  "Not busy at all. I'd be delighted."

  "Fine. I'll be right over."

  I refilled my father's glass and brought it back to him. "Problems?" he asked.

  "Always problems. 'fraid I have to go."

  My father rubbed his nose, a sure sign that he was trying to avoid getting emotional. "You are going to win this election, aren't you, Jimmy?"

  "I don't know. We're ahead, but anything can happen."

  "You'll destroy that guy in the debate."

  "That's what everyone expects."

  "Irv Goldfine next door sent you a contribution yesterday. He says he'd vote for anyone but Finn."

  "Tell Irv Goldfine his support is heartwarming. See you, Dad."

  My father raised his glass to me. "Good luck."

  I drove to Newton, not knowing whom to worry about most: Cavanaugh, Liz, Roger, Brad Williams... The list was getting too long.

  Newton is one of those suburbs where the rich people live who don't want a long commute into the city. Urban life without urban worries. Brighton kids always despised the stuck-up Newton kids, but none of us with any brains would have turned down a chance to move there. Roger lived in a mock-Tudor brick house on a pleasant little street glowing with the autumn colors of its maples and oaks.

  Roger had let the place go since Doris died. The flower beds had turned into crabgrass; the driveway was mapped with cracks and fissures; the once carefully sculpted bushes were now scraggly and misshapen. I was surprised the neighbors hadn't sent a delegation to complain; perhaps they had, and he'd greeted them looking befuddled and apologetic, and they decided to leave the poor grieving widower alone.

  Roger was at the door when I pulled into the driveway. He was wearing lime green pants and a white Izod sweater—the official leisure uniform of the professional class.

  "Hey, Roger," I said, getting out of the car.

  "Hey, Jim."

  I followed him inside. The house was dim and musty, filled with unused furniture—like my father's house when he finally sold it, only Roger's furniture was much more expensive. "You should buy a condo," I said. "Get rid of all this stuff. Simplify your life."

  "Oh, well, I just seem to be too busy."

  Doing what?

  He led me into the spacious living room, lined with bookshelves and dominated by a grand piano that no one played anymore. I remembered sitting there and listening to Doris, grim-faced, work her way through a Schubert waltz while Roger looked on proudly. Some baroque string piece issued from the stereo. A jug of Chivas Regal, a silver ice bucket, and a couple of glasses were set out on a side table. "Are you drinking?" Roger asked.

  I shook my head. "Had one at my father's." His face fell, and I immediately changed my mind. "Maybe a small one."

  "Okay. Great. Just a small one."

  I sat in a leather recliner. Roger poured a medium one for me and a somewhat larger one for himself. His hands shook a little, I noticed, as he used the ice tongs. "Cheers," I said, raising my glass.

  "Cheers." He downed about half his drink. "We don't get a chance to do this anymore," he said. "We had some good times in this room, though, in the old days. Didn't we?"

  "Sure did. Just too busy nowadays."

  He nodded. "Especially now. This business about Cavanaugh worries me, Jim. There's just no telling what's going to happen."

  "People are unpredictable."

  "That's certainly true."

  I sipped my drink. We had never really had an argument, the two of us. Different personalities, different backgrounds, but somehow everything had meshed. He had been brokenhearted when I won that first election and left the firm. "I can't make it by myself, Jim," he had said. "You're the heart and soul of this place."

  "You'll be fine," I had responded. "You'll blossom. You'll never look back."

  I had wanted that to be true, to keep from feeling guilty. And it was true—or at least it seemed to be. He dropped the criminal stuff for the most part and concentrated on civil. He was great at arbitration and negotiation. He was great at keeping clients happy. His association with me didn't hurt him in drumming up business, although he was scrupulous about not trying to use his influence. It wouldn't have done him any good to try; I, too, was scrupulous, at least about that.

  I didn't know how to bring up the subject of my visit, so I tried avoiding it at first. "Remember that day you and Doris came over to see my study after Liz and I finished papering it?" I said. "I was thinking about that just yesterday."

  Roger smiled but I could tell he didn't remember. "Good times," he said. "Good times. And remember that surprise birthday party we had for Liz here? She thought it was just going to be another evening of boring legal shoptalk, and then everyone piled in from the kitchen and started hugging her. I don't think I've ever seen her so happy. There's nothing like a surprise party to make you feel wanted."

  "Liz hasn't been looking very happy lately," I said.

  Roger finished his drink and poured himself another.

  It was time to stop reminiscing. "Roger, how come Sally O'Malley thinks you're taking Friday afternoons off to go to our strategy meetings, and we think the reason you don't come to the meetings is you're too busy at the office?"

  The blood drained from his ruddy face. I thought he was going to keel over in his chair. His hand started shaking so badly that an ice cube spilled from his drink as he set it down. He couldn't have looked guiltier if he were a bad actor on the witness stand at the end of a Perry Mason episode. "I, uh, that's really none of your business Jim, now is it?" he managed to blurt out finally.

  "I don't know. Is it?"

  "Of course not."

  "As far as I can tell, that leaves you without an alibi for Amanda Taylor's murder. That's of some concern to me."

  His guilt turned to puzzlement. "You think I murdered her?"

  "I don't know. Did you?"

  "That's absurd. It's outrageous. You're out of your mind. What a thing to suggest."

  He picked up his drink and managed a sip. The string piece finished on the stereo, and an announcer began to drone. I knew it was absurd. But then I thought of something slightly less absurd.

  I don't know why. No, that's not true; I do know why. It was the memory of Liz's face in that room as everyone yelled "Surprise!"—her face aglow with the delight of knowing she was loved, all barriers down for once before this sudden onslaught of affection.

  It made no sense for her to lie about her course in order to have an alibi for murdering Amanda. But it made perfect sense if she had something else to do with her Friday afternoons, something that she wanted to keep secret from everyone, but especially me.

  "Roger," I said, "never mind Amanda. Let's talk about Liz."

  His lips quivered. His hand squeezed the glass. "You're just toying with me," he said belligerently. "How long have you known?"

  I shook my head. "I don't know anything, Roger," I whispered. "I don't know anything."

  He sighed and reached for the bottle of Chivas, then changed his mind. "No one wanted to hurt you, Jim," he said, his tone mournful. "These things happen."

  He was going to be nice, I realized; he was going to be adult; he was trying to spare me. It made me furious. "Yes, I know, I know," I said, barely restraining my anger. "So why don't we assume we've uttered all the clichés and get to the facts?"

  Roger nodded; he looked frightened. "Well, what do you want to know? Dates? Friday afternoons mostly. Places? Here mostly. When did it start? This spring. Do I feel guilty about it? Yes, of course I do. But not very. You've treate
d Liz shamefully, Jim. You know what I'm talking about."

  "She's using you to get back at me," I said.

  That caused his anger to overcome his fear. "You would think that, wouldn't you?" he said. "But the world doesn't revolve around you, Senator—pardon the cliché. Isn't it at least possible that I can offer her something that you can't or won't: attention, affection, companionship, sympathy? Isn't it possible that she could fall in love with someone who isn't witty or handsome or a United States senator, but someone who loves her back, who thinks she's more than just a campaign prop?"

  I remembered the day after the murder, the press conference outside our house. She hadn't wanted to go through with it. She wouldn't listen to me or Sam Fisher. But there was Roger—loyal Roger—to talk her into it. "Why hasn't she asked for a divorce then?" I said. "Why is she still making up phony courses and sneaking over here on Friday afternoons?"

  "After the election," Roger said. "We were going to tell you then. We didn't want to jeopardize your career. And of course, it would have looked even worse after the murder. You know, it isn't just sex, Jim. That's probably not even the main thing. Sometimes we just sit here and talk. She's a very intelligent woman, and you've never given her a chance to demonstrate it. You don't listen to her opinions about the issues. And you do nothing but make fun of her graduate program."

  "I do not. I keep my opinion to myself."

  "And you think she's too stupid to know what your opinion is. Or you don't care if she knows; the whole thing is just not important enough to consider."

  "What would Doris think?" I said, trying to hurt him."In her own home."

  "Doris is dead," Roger replied. "You're the one who's always trying to convince me to get on with my life. Well, that's what I'm doing. Doris is dead, and I'm alive, and Liz loves me. And that's the way it is."

  I wanted to attack him some more; I wanted to defend myself. But everything I had to say seemed pointless and demeaning. My best friend was fucking my wife, and all my oratorical skill wasn't going to change that. Roger looked much better now, with the secret revealed: sitting up in his chair, arms crossed, color back. He had probably rehearsed this conversation a million times, and now he was getting through it quite well, thank you. So why shouldn't he look good? He had defeated me in the most primitive struggle of them all. He should have been swinging from vines and beating his chest in triumph.

  So if I wasn't going to trade clichés with him, what should I do? I thought of Liz telling Amanda the worst thing she knew about me. What was the worst thing I knew about Liz? Damned if I could think of anything especially bad. She brooded. She was a cheapskate. She didn't put enough mayonnaise in the tuna. She understood me too well.

  She was having an affair with Roger.

  I certainly couldn't act self-righteous. How dare she! Perhaps I should have felt relieved, since this could erase some of my own guilt. Ours was just another modern marriage that had gone sour. No one to blame. People change. Let's shake hands and go on with our lives.

  Perhaps I could do that eventually, but not now. Now there was just pain and rage and a numbed sense that my life was spinning totally out of control.

  I couldn't think of anything to do, so I stood up. "Thanks for the drink, Roger," I said. "See you around."

  Roger got to his feet, too. "Are you okay, Jim?"

  He was triumphant; he could afford to be solicitous. "I'll live," I muttered. I headed out of the living room.

  "Let's talk about this some more, Jim. I don't want you to—"

  But I was out the door and racing toward my car. I had to leave that house. I had to leave Roger and his sympathy.

  But I couldn't leave the pain.

  * * *

  I thought about going to stay with Marge, but I decided I was angry with her, too. She had known, and she hadn't told me. Was that her revenge for my affair with Amanda? Who else knew? Was I the laughing stock of the political world?

  No matter what her reasons for not telling me, I figured Marge, too, would be full of sympathy if I showed up; she might even be expecting me to come. Where else would I go? Well, I wouldn't give her the satisfaction.

  And then I thought: What if she doesn't want me on the rebound? What if she doesn't want me at all? Maybe I didn't understand her any more than I understood Liz or Roger. Or Amanda.

  It started to rain. I pulled the car over and closed my eyes. I felt safe and protected as the raindrops pounded the metal roof inches above my head. The phone rang; I ignored it. Wouldn't it be nice to just keep driving? I thought. Go to an ATM and clean out an account, then point the car toward an entrance ramp and disappear into the interstate highway system. Spend the night at some Motel 6 where the proprietor never looks up from his National Enquirer, wouldn't recognize me if he did. Watch dirty movies on cable. Forget about the crime bill and Bobby Finn and tracking polls and murder investigations. End up in some anonymous midwestern state and become a farmhand, a short-order cook, a day laborer, get any damn job where I didn't have to be quick-witted and golden-tongued, where the whole world didn't seem to be depending on me.

  I remembered dancing with Liz under that rotating globe at Danny's reception. Oh, Liz, we were such a couple. The world sparkled for us then like that globe. I remembered our own wedding reception—smaller than Danny's, because we had to pay for it ourselves and we were still poor, but big enough, because Liz insisted on doing things right. "Gotcha," I whispered to her as we danced our first married dance.

  "I'm making the biggest mistake of my life," she whispered back, but her eyes were aglow, and she kissed my chin, and I knew that this couldn't be a mistake for either of us.

  The rain let up. I was cold and tired and confused. My car suddenly seemed like a terrible place to be. I decided to go home.

  * * *

  Liz was in bed, awake. She knew. Roger must have called her. Watch out, darling, he's in a state! Perhaps her gun was hidden beneath the pillow, just in case. One glance at her lying there, and I knew she had passed already from the fear-of-my-reaction stage to the what-else-did-you-expect stage. Or, more likely, she had skipped all the early stages and gone directly to this one. I sat down on the Boston rocker next to the bed; Liz had nursed Kathleen in it a lifetime ago. It needed to be reglued.

  "Do you love him?" I asked.

  She gestured vaguely. "Roger is solid," she said. "He's reliable. He cares about me."

  "You could be talking about a dog, not a lover."

  That wasn't such a smart thing to say. Liz glared at me. "Roger is a wonderful man."

  "Yes, I know. I'm sorry. I agree. Roger is wonderful. I owe him more than I can ever repay. But I'm not interested so much in Roger right now as in you. What you're thinking, what you're feeling. What you're going to do."

  "Well, isn't that novel?" she said. "Senator O'Connor is interested in his wife."

  This wasn't going well. I thought about my conversation with Liz the night Amanda died. I understood that conversation a lot better now. "Liz," I said. "I apologize again. Tell me what you want me to do. Tell me what you want me to say."

  She shook her head. "You fool. If I tell you, it doesn't count, now does it? Oh, who cares anyway? I want you to tell me that you love me desperately, you hope it's not too late, you'll do anything to win me back. But you can't say it now because I've already said it for you; it'd just be an act, like everything else you do. How will it play with the voters? How will it play with the wife? You aren't real anymore. You stopped being real when you became a politician."

  She turned away from me. I stifled the urge to defend myself, as I had stifled it when talking to Roger. Instead I got up, went around the bed, and laid my head on her lap. She was wearing one of my pajama tops; I could feel that her legs were bare beneath the covers. It was freezing in here, and she was still wearing the outfit I had once told her was sexy. Her chin was quivering. "Are you going to leave me?" I asked. "I don't want you to, if that matters."

  "Of course you don't want me to leave.
What would that do to your popularity ratings? How would it affect the presidential primaries? Even Roger worries about that. After the election, after the election, as if it matters if America has one more hypocritical politician who's against crime and taxes and in favor of good wholesome family values."

  "Liz," I said carefully, "I think you might give me credit for being a little more complex than that."

  "Why should I? Who cares?"

  "Are you going to marry Roger?"

  She started to cry, her head still turned away from me. "Damn you. Of course I'm not going to marry him. Damn you."

  "Why not?"

  She choked back a sob. "Because I'm still in love with you," she said, an ache in her voice, as if her love for me were a disease from which she was desperately trying to recover.

  I moved forward on the bed and tried to kiss her, but she pushed me violently away. "Go," she said. "Get away from me. Get out."

  I thought about staying. Struggling against her struggles. Perhaps we would end up making love, as we had before. But I knew it wouldn't make any difference. If I didn't leave the room, Liz would. If things were to work out, it would take much more than a single moment of passion.

  And perhaps they would never work out. Her love was almost indistinguishable from hatred at this point. And my love—was it just a habit? Or worse, an act, as Liz believed?

  I didn't know. I retreated from our bedroom. I got a couple of blankets out of the linen cabinet and took them downstairs to the living-room couch. It would be nice, I thought as I lay on the couch, if I could get up early and keep Kathleen from seeing me here. And then I thought: What if she knew about good old Uncle Roger and her mother? She was no dope; she could pick up vibes that a stupid male like her father would be unaware of. Oh, Lord. What a picture of adult life she was getting. No wonder she didn't want to go on a date; it was a miracle she didn't run away from home.