I went over to Carl Hutchins in the cloakroom beforehand. "How's it going, Carl?" I asked.
He shrugged. "I'm down by ten. That congressman just has too many teeth. How about yourself?"
"Up six, but it's still volatile—lots of undecideds. I wish I could get the hell out of here and press some more flesh back home."
Hutchins nodded, but he didn't look as if he shared my desire. He much preferred the cloakroom, the private Senate dining room, his hideaway office with the majestic view.
"Carl, I need to know if you're with me on this prison aid amendment. It's coming up in a few minutes."
He looked at the floor, and I knew I had a problem. "The congressman is in favor of your amendment," he said.
"So what? You don't have to disagree about everything. Bobby Finn and I have the same position on something, I forget what it is."
"Well, we're going the tax-and-spend route against him. So my people say I should line up on the opposite side on all these big spending bills."
"But Christ, this is spare change. Fifty million or so. We spend more than that designing the men's room in the new bomber."
Hutchins looked up. His eyes were bloodshot, I noticed. "Will it make a difference?" he asked.
"I'll lose without you, Carl."
"To America, Jim. Will it make a difference to America?"
The arguments in favor of the plan popped smartly into the foreground of my consciousness, clean and well-dressed and ready to do their job. But suddenly I couldn't bring myself to utter them. Suddenly I was confused. How did I know what was good for America if I couldn't figure out that my wife was having an affair with my best friend, couldn't figure out whether my lover really loved me or was planning to destroy me for a scoop? Everything had seemed so clear to me once; everyone had seemed so predictable. What had gone wrong? Or, perhaps, what had been wrong before that was now painfully righting itself?
"I don't know," I said to Senator Hutchins. "But maybe it's worth a shot."
"Maybe," he agreed, but he didn't seem convinced.
And then it was time to offer my amendment.
I got to make a speech. Speeches rarely change votes. They're mostly for the Congressional Record, for the TV camera, for the gallery. But occasionally a thoughtful senator will listen and be persuaded—or he'll decide that you don't know what you're talking about. So it pays to do a good job.
It's better if you can speak extemporaneously, but that was no problem for me on this issue. I knew the facts. I had my arguments and the rebuttals to my opponents' arguments. I didn't need a speech writer.
But I needed passion. And on the Senate floor that day I couldn't find any. One more hypocritical politician who's against crime and taxes and in favor of good wholesome family values. That's what the person who knew me best thought of me. And who was I to disagree with her? This amendment might help me get reelected, but I had no more idea than Carl Hutchins if it would help America. And did I care? Oh, it would be nice if it reduced the crime rate and put people to work and improved our way of life. But that all seemed so unreal as to be almost not worth thinking about. Whereas this election and the presidential primaries after that... they seemed very real to me.
My speech was bland and dry. No one stopped to listen, as people sometimes did, impressed by my eloquence; business went on as usual in the aisles as votes got traded and deals made. I noticed that Hutchins wasn't on the floor. No chance of persuading him. And then I understood: He couldn't vote with me, but he wouldn't vote against me. He just wouldn't vote.
That might salve his conscience, but it also doomed my amendment. After I was finished, a few other senators had their say. Larmore and Dayton, the guys whose votes the President had offered to deliver to me, spoke against the amendment. And then the roll was called. It was over in a couple of minutes. I lost by five votes. And then the next amendment was offered, and the business of the Senate continued.
I went over to Denny Myers and Art Chandler, who were standing in the back of the chamber. Art was okay; he'd been around long enough to take these things in stride. But Denny was new, and this had been his idea, and it was dead, at least for this year. He was trying to look professionally blasé, but I knew he was hurting. "Small consolation," I said to him, "but you did a good job. We just couldn't pull it off."
"Where was Hutchins?" Art asked.
"Hutchins took a walk. He's fighting for his life back home, and this figured in. That's the way it goes."
"We'll do better next session," Denny said, trying to be upbeat.
"That's right." I glanced at Art, and I knew what he was thinking: Let's hope there is a next session for us. I went back to vote on the next amendment.
* * *
I found Hutchins later in his hideaway office, staring out at the Washington Monument. His tie was loose, and he had a glass of whiskey in his hand. He motioned to the bottle, and I poured myself a small drink. "Alcohol is boring, but it's predictable," he said. "It does the job."
"If the voters knew how much drinking goes on in this town, they'd never reelect any of us." I sat down next to him.
"I never drank much when Emma was alive," he went on. "Never minded the pressure. I'd just talk everything over with her when I got home, and then we'd go to sleep holding on to each other, and that was better than any amount of liquor."
"My marriage seems to be going to hell," I said after a while.
He glanced at me. "A lot of that goes on down here, too," he remarked.
"How did yours become so strong?"
"I've often wondered that, and the only answer I've come up with is that I was the luckiest man alive."
There were tears in his eyes. I suddenly felt like crying myself. Carl's luck had passed, as everyone's must, and mine—well, perhaps I had kicked mine away. Now the session was ending, and the stretch run of our campaigns was about to begin. And what were the odds that the two of us would sit in this spectacular room together again? "I can make an appearance for you," I said, "if you think it'll help."
He shook his head. "Stay home," he said. "Take care of yourself. Take care of your wife. I've got some tricks left. I'll pull it out. And if I don't, the world won't come to an end."
And then I realized: It wasn't that Hutchins was afraid of losing; his problem was that he was afraid of winning. He was tired of it all and didn't want to admit it. Emma wouldn't have approved. "We need you," I said.
"No one is irreplaceable, Jim. Anyway, I'm sorry about that amendment."
I shrugged. "What amendment?"
And then we sat in silence for a long time, sipping our drinks in the darkness, taking one final break before our final battles.
Chapter 22
So You Think You Know Jim O'Connor!
Take this simple quiz and find out about the real Jim O'Connor.
1. How many major defense bills has O'Connor voted for in the past three years?
2. How many pieces of legislation authored by O'Connor have become law?
3. How many meetings of the important Governmental Regulations Subcommittee—of which O'Connor is a member—did he attend in the past session of Congress?
4. How is O'Connor rated by the prestigious National Foundation for Women's Issues?
5. How much federal aid has O'Connor obtained for the Commonwealth's financially strapped cities and towns?
If you answered 0 to all these questions, then you know the real Jim O'Connor. A guy who talks a good game but fails to deliver. Who has consistently opposed efforts to maintain America's military strength. Who has shown a callous disregard for the needs and rights of women.
The real Jim O'Connor has been hiding out in Washington for six years, hoping we wouldn't notice. On Election Day, tell Jim O'Connor you weren't fooled. Enough is enough.
Robert Finn.
Because Tough Times Demand a Tough Leader.
"What do you think?" Sam Fisher asked as we examined Finn's latest print ad.
"I think they could have foun
d a worse photograph of me," I said. "One where my finger is inserted all the way up my nostril."
"Yeah," Marge agreed. "And your little finger would've been more effective than your index finger. These guys are just not on the ball."
"Still," Harold said, "the prestigious National Foundation for Misleading Political Advertising gives the ad a ninety. Marge, you'll have to hold a press conference to heap scorn on this reprehensible piece of demagoguery."
"Right."
"Now, Jim, what about this piece that's coming up in the Real News?"
"Well," I said, "there'll be a problem with that. The piece will say that Amanda and I were in San Francisco together at a convention over the Easter recess."
Sam groaned. "Can we deny it?"
"Sorry, no. I admitted it to the reporter." He groaned a bit louder and ran a hand through a mass of frizzy hair.
"It was all perfectly innocent. She was chasing after me to get material for her book."
Marge and Harold stared at the table.
"I was beginning to hope this would go away," Sam said, ignoring my protest.
"It won't go away," I said. "Even without this article the Democrats were bound to try something before the election. They can't just let the case drift along. We've made too big a deal of the crime issue."
"But what's the motive?" Kevin demanded. "I mean, I thought their theory was that she was going to print something nasty about the senator, and he killed her to stop it. Sounds like this article will suggest they used to be lovers. They can't have it both ways."
"Why not?" Marge asked. "What if Jim thought he and Amanda were lovers, and then he found out she was really just using him so she could write nasty stuff about him? Or they were lovers and had a falling-out, and then she starts with the nasty stuff. That sounds like a pretty good motive to me."
Me too, unfortunately. "Well, I don't know what to do about it," I said. "Maybe see if we can come up with something on this reporter. He strikes me as being pretty sleazy."
Sam paced. "Thank goodness the story isn't coming out till after the debate," he said.
"But it'll blow away any good publicity we get from winning it," Harold pointed out.
"Probably won't be all that much good publicity anyway," Marge said. "Everyone expects Jim to win."
"It'd be nice if we could get some good publicity for a change," Sam muttered.
Marge was glaring at me. I'd had enough. "Let me know what you come up with," I said. "I have to study up for the debate." And I left the glum meeting.
* * *
There comes a time when it gets to you: the endless pressure, the sniping from the press, the attacks from the other side. You think you're immune, you're all pros and can handle it, but one day all the news is bad and the coffee is cold and the doughnuts are stale and you start wondering why you're doing this to yourself. We had reached that point in the campaign.
Only for me it was much worse.
The session was over. The crime bill ran out of time and died in conference, so all my work on the amendment would have been wasted anyway. I threw out the half-empty cartons of Chinese food and headed home from Washington—possibly for good. In Hingham I was still sleeping on the couch. Liz and I were civil, and we stayed out of each other's way. Kathleen didn't come out of her room much; her computer was probably better company than either of us.
Now that the session was history, I figured there was nothing to stop Cavanaugh from arresting me. President Kenton couldn't hope to squeeze anything out of me, and it was far too late for the GOP to come up with another candidate. But still nothing happened, and that only increased my tension.
Paul Everson didn't return my phone calls, and eventually I stopped trying to reach him. Kevin had nothing to report from his private eye. "We're going to try some new approaches," he said. "Don't worry." I worried. The countdown to the election was measured in days now, not weeks, my lead was scarcely beyond the statistical margin of error, and whether or not Cavanaugh had come across the Jackie Scanlon angle to the case, I just knew he was going to pull something before the first Tuesday in November.
It was the afternoon of the debate, however, when things really started going downhill.
I was driving back to Boston with Kevin. I was looking forward to a few hours in the office by myself, to glance through the briefing papers one last time and prepare myself mentally for my performance. We had already gone over my talking points, the catch phrases that I was supposed to fit in every chance I could get. Marge had written Lincolnesque openings and closings for me, and I had them down pat. Sam Fisher had videotaped my delivery and dissected it gesture by gesture. Everything had been done that could be done. But now I just wanted to be alone for a while to get focused.
Melissa called on the car phone. When I heard her voice, I assumed that Danny was up to something. She wouldn't bother me unless it was serious. Just like him, I thought. "What did he do now?" I asked.
"No, no, it's not Danny," she replied. "It's your father. He had an accident, Jim."
He's dead, I thought. But no, he couldn't be dead. He hadn't finished rereading Dickens; he was only up to Hard Times. Or was it Little Dorrit? "What's the matter?" I managed to say.
"He's all right, Jim. Really he is. He smashed up his car. He broke his arm, and he's got some cuts, but he's okay. Except he's pretty upset. We thought it'd be a good idea—"
"What hospital is he at—the Faulkner?"
"Uh-huh. He said not to bother you, but you know him. I wouldn't have called, but—"
"I'll be there in—twenty minutes?" I looked to Kevin for confirmation; he nodded. "Twenty minutes, Lissa. You were right to call."
"Thank you, Jim."
I hung up. Kevin headed for the hospital.
* * *
Liz was there, along with Kathleen. And Danny, looking tired and sullen. So why was it Melissa who had made the call? Was she the only one who felt like talking to me? They were all sitting in the lobby, as if waiting for me to make things happen. "He threw us out," Melissa explained.
"He must be all right then," I said. "What room is he in?"
Melissa smiled. "Four-twelve. He'll throw you out, too."
"Let him try." I took the elevator up to the fourth floor. One of the advantages of my position is that even doctors leap to attention when I arrive. The guy who had treated my father was an earnest-looking young resident with thick tortoiseshell glasses. He was explaining Dad's condition to me within a minute of my appearance on the floor. My father would live, although his left arm would probably never be the same. More worrisome was what had caused the accident. He couldn't remember anything about it. One moment he was driving along Centre Street on his way to do some errands; the next he was parked partway inside a bank, with several frightened customers and employees gaping at him.
"Alzheimer's?" I asked. "A stroke?"
"Too soon to tell," the doctor replied, in typical doctor fashion. "We'd like to run some tests. It could be nothing more than old age: Your reflexes slow down, you mistake the accelerator for the brake. It happens."
"Well, he's a menace, no matter what caused it."
The doctor nodded. "I think he realizes that, even if he won't admit it."
"Can I see him?"
"It should be okay. Don't get him too excited, though."
I went into the room. He was in the bed by the window. Nearer the door was another old man watching a Hogan's Heroes rerun. The old man seemed to think it was hilarious, and every time he laughed he went into a spasm of coughing. He didn't glance at me as I walked past. My father was staring out the window.
He's going to die, I thought. Not necessarily from the accident. I was simply pondering his mortality. I was so used to denying it when he brought up the subject that now I felt as if I'd had an insight. He's going to die, I thought, and I never really knew him.
Or perhaps I did. Perhaps what I knew was all there was to know. A simple, quiet man who worked at the Post Office for forty years,
then retired and did what he really wanted to do: sit by himself and read books all day. He wasn't interested in his job; I can't remember him ever talking about it. He gardened grudgingly, as if it were a homeowner's responsibility to have a few tomato plants. He was hopeless at all but the most basic home repairs. He liked to talk about politics, but never seemed especially passionate about the subject; he never worked for a candidate or a party. He drank a little but never went to bars, never got noticeably drunk. He seemed content.
Was he? I always assumed that my mother's death had taken something out of him, crushed his ambition, made him turn away from other people. But perhaps he was like that anyway; perhaps the loss of his wife hadn't really changed him at all, and it was only my own ambition or guilt or imagination that made me think he must once have been different.
The hardest people to understand are the ones you've known the longest.
"I hate hospitals," he said when he noticed me standing there.
"Then quit driving into banks, unless you're inside an M-l tank or something. Are you in any pain?"
My father ignored the question. "The doctor's a jerk," he said. "And he can't be more than eighteen."
"Well, he needs the practice then." I went over and sat down next to him. He had a bandage over one eye. His left arm was in a cast. He looked terribly vulnerable away from the familiar surroundings of his apartment. This is it for him, I thought. The end of his independence. And that is the beginning of the end of everything. The question was how to handle it. The patient in the next bed hacked as the laugh track roared.
"You shouldn't be here," my father said. "You've got that debate tonight."
"I can outdebate Bobby Finn in a coma," I said. "Don't worry about me."
"Well, don't you worry about me. It was the car, I'm pretty sure. I never liked that power steering. Too loose. You can't control the thing."
"Look," I said, "I could beat around the bush, but what's the point? You don't have to decide right away, but I want you to think about moving in with us."
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