"Ha! That'll be the day."
"Just consider it, okay?"
"You and Liz have enough problems without an old devil like me kicking around."
"Me and Liz? Problems? Nonsense."
"Your house is too small. Where would you put me?"
"I was thinking of sticking you out in the toolshed, next to the lawn mower. Look, we can deal with this, okay? I have an office on the first floor that I don't use much anymore. Or we can put up an addition. Or, what the heck, we can move into the White House. You can share a room with Lincoln's ghost. How would that be?"
"I like where I am."
"Yeah, well, life goes on, right?"
"That's very profound. You should save that up for the debate."
I laughed. "I'm glad I'm not debating you."
My father didn't laugh back. And then he started to reminisce—a sure sign that things were serious. "I remember when your gramma moved in," he said. "Neither of us wanted it, but what could we do? I had two of you in diapers, and the Post Office sure didn't pay me enough so's I could afford a maid. It was awful. Here I'd been, expecting a nice life with my wife and two beautiful babies, and suddenly she's dead and I'm stuck with my mother-in-law instead."
"You always seemed to get along with Gramma," I said. "More or less."
"Oh, by the time you fellows were old enough to notice we'd pretty much figured out how to make it work. But you know, I don't think she ever liked me."
"That's hard to believe."
He nodded solemnly. "It's true." His gaze drifted out the window again. "She never wanted Kathleen to marry me. Thought I was a dreamer, always with my nose in a book. Didn't think I could be bothered supporting a family. She couldn't figure out a way to blame me for Kathleen dying, but I bet she felt that if her daughter'd married someone else, she'd still be alive."
"Then Gramma wouldn't have had the pleasure of raising Danny and me," I pointed out. I couldn't remember the last time my father had referred to my mother as "Kathleen."
My father looked back at me. "Yes, and what a thrill that was," he said. "Funny, we always thought you were the one who took after me—the dreamer, you know. I guess we got that wrong. Anyway, I know what it's like to have an old person come to live with you, and it's no fun."
"We're not talking fun here, any more than you were talking fun forty years ago. We're talking survival." My father closed his eyes momentarily, and I figured I'd badgered him enough for one day. I stood up. "Just keep it in mind," I said. "And don't worry. You've got friends in high places."
"Do you think I should rent the TV to watch you tonight?" he asked.
"No, no. What does it cost—two, three dollars? That's way too much money to see your son demolish the governor of the Commonwealth. Maybe your buddy here will be watching."
My father rolled his eyes as the old man in the next bed gasped for breath. I leaned over and kissed my father on the forehead, next to his bandage. He let me, but then, he didn't have much choice. The Beverly Hillbillies was starting as I left the room.
* * *
When I returned to the lobby, Danny, too, was reminiscing; this was a much more normal state of affairs. He started up whenever he was around Kathleen, trying to impress her, I figured. "Oh, those were great times," he was saying as I approached. "Great times." He looked up at me. "I was just telling Kathleen about how we used to sneak onto the Beacon Street trolley and go downtown to watch the Red Sox play."
"You're not suggesting that I broke the law as a youth, are you?"
"Aw, come off it, Jim. We got into our share of trouble back then. Admit it."
He was inventing a past for us. Partners in crime. Take the senator down a peg. As far as I could remember, he had forced me to sneak onto the trolley once to go to the ball park with him, and that was it. I had hated doing it, and I had hated the baseball game. Didn't matter now. "Well, anyway, the patient is not happy, but he'll live," I said. "And now Danny and I want to take a walk and have a little chat."
Danny winced. What did he think I was going to do to him? He followed me out of the lobby into the cold late-afternoon air. "You don't mind me talking about the old days, do you, Jimmy?" Danny said. "Time like this, you can't help but think back."
I knew what he meant. "I don't mind," I said.
"You know who I was thinking of the other day?" he went on. "Old lady Billings. Remember she had that little poodle, and we used to throw snowballs at it and it'd go nuts? What was that poodle's name?"
I shook my head. I had never thrown snowballs at Poochie. Danny hadn't shaved very well, I noticed. His eyes were bloodshot; his raincoat—the one Liz had given to Melissa—was rumpled. "How's work?" I asked.
"Work's fine. Just fine. And you? How's the campaign?"
"Fine."
"The, uh, you know, the murder. What's going on with that?"
"Beats me. I take it the police haven't talked to you yet?"
He looked down at the ground. "A guy named Mackey came by a few days ago. I was gonna tell you, but..."
I suppressed a groan. "What happened?"
"Well, it really wasn't much; it seemed sort of routine. He didn't ask me about—you know, anything dangerous. He said you mentioned that she'd interviewed me. Why'd you do that, Jim?"
"I was trying to find out if he had a tape of the interview. He didn't ask you anything that suggested he did?"
Danny shook his head emphatically. "Honest to God, Jim. It was like he was fishing, seeing if I knew anything that could help him."
"And what did you say?"
"Nothing, Jim. Honest. I just said, you know, I talked to her about growing up with you, what a great guy you are, stuff like that."
"You think he believed you?"
"Why not?"
I tried to imagine Danny up against Mackey. Not a fair fight. It had been a mistake to tell Mack about him. Still, if Mackey didn't know what he was looking for, maybe it was all right. Maybe it was just routine, and he'd chalk up Danny's nervousness to a hustler's natural fear of the police. But why didn't he know what he was looking for?
"All right, Danny," I said. "I guess that's good news." And then I tried to focus on my real purpose for the conversation. "Look," I said, "Dad's going to need help when he goes home. He can't drive, and he doesn't want to be a burden, but he has to be able to get around or he'll go nuts. So you have to help out. I've asked him to come live with Liz and me, but it'll take awhile to talk him into it, and obviously I've got a lot going on right now. So meantime, we've just gotta make do. Okay?"
"Of course. Jesus, Jim, what do you think—you're the only one who's responsible around here? You're the only one who cares about him? Shit, Lissa and I spend more time with him than you do anyway, even if it's a big deal when you show up. He's already asked me to take care of the bills and the insurance stuff and so forth, and I said fine. Don't worry."
"Okay, okay. I'm sorry. I just don't want him to feel helpless, that's all."
Danny smiled and patted me on the back. "I'll take care of it."
It pleased him to be able to do something that I couldn't; why deny him the pleasure? "I appreciate it, Danny," I said.
He left his hand on my back. The family in crisis. We draw together. Forget about Mackey and Scanlon; forget about blackmail and murder. "We were okay growing up, you and me," he said. "Weren't we?"
Were we? We had certainly gone our own ways. And he had certainly heaped his share of scorn on my bookishness. But overall I realized that I didn't have much to complain about. The envy I had felt was my problem, not his. "For an older brother, you didn't beat me up very much," I offered.
Danny laughed. "I wasn't older, not really. We're twins, remember? Irish twins."
"You have to admit we weren't very close, though. It's not as if we snuck on the trolley together every day."
"You don't have to hang around together all the time to be close," Danny said.
He was getting maudlin over Dad, I figured. We were both having intima
tions of mortality. "Look," I said. "Why don't you come to the debate tonight? It's just over in Cambridge. It might be fun."
I could feel him stiffen. His hand fell away from my back. "Oh, no, I don't think so," he said. "You don't want me there."
"Why not? As long as you promise not to tell the reporters about me throwing snowballs at defenseless poodles."
"No, I don't think so," he repeated. "A debate's not—it's not the sort of thing—"
"All right, Danny," I said. "Just a suggestion. Let's go back inside."
Danny looked relieved. "Sure, Jim. I'm glad we had this chat."
"Me, too."
When we were back in the lobby, Kevin glanced meaningfully at his watch. I nodded. "Well, it's time for me to go win this election," I said. "Liz, Kathleen, I'll see you there?"
Kathleen had a special dispensation to attend a political event. Liz was going as well, probably because Roger had asked her to. "Good luck, Daddy," Kathleen said. She hugged me.
"Thanks, kitten."
She stuck her tongue out at me. I pecked Melissa on the cheek. "Thanks for calling me," I said to her. She looked as though she were taking this worse than anyone else. She bit her lip as if holding back tears and said nothing. Kevin waved at everyone, and we headed quickly out to the car.
Kevin had already started the engine when I heard the rapping on my window. Melissa was standing outside, panting from the exertion of running after us. Alarmed, I lowered the window. "Did something happen?" I asked.
She shook her head, gasping for breath. "Danny's in the men's room. He'll kill me if he finds out I—" She paused to compose herself. "He got fired, Jim," she said finally. "Excessive absenteeism. I told you how he's been sick. Anyway, he just wasn't doing his job, so finally they let him go. I know I shouldn't bother you with it, especially on top of everything else, but—"
I put my hand on top of hers. "This isn't a bother, Lissa. Of course you should have told me. How's he taking it?"
"I don't know, it's sort of scary. He didn't even tell me for a week or so. He went off like usual in the morning, and then he just drove down to the beach or someplace and stayed there until it was time to come home. When I found out, I expected him to carry on, you know, blame the company, blame me, blame you. But he didn't. He just doesn't want to talk about it. And of course, he doesn't want to talk about getting a new job, no, we're not allowed to bring up that subject until he's got through brooding about the old one, and God knows when that'll be. I don't know, Jim, sometimes I get so angry with him I think I'll—"
I squeezed her hand. "I know the feeling, Lissa. How are you fixed for money?"
"Oh, he got some severance pay. We're all right for a few weeks, I guess, and then there's the unemployment, although—"
"Can you hold out until after the election?"
She nodded. "I think so."
"Well, if there's a problem, be sure to let me know. Otherwise we'll put our heads together after the election and see if we can find something for him."
"Jim, I swear I'll make him straighten out. Give up the booze, start exercising again, take care of himself so he doesn't get sick all the time. He's just got to do it."
Best of luck to you and the Red Sox, I thought. "You're a good woman, Lissa," I said.
She shook her head. "I'm stupid, Jim. Stupid and stuck, and I don't know what to do about anything."
"Me neither, but I'll try to help."
Melissa leaned over and kissed my hand, and then she ran back toward the hospital.
I raised the window, fell back in my seat, and closed my eyes. Kevin put the car in gear and headed out of the parking lot. "Are all families like this, Kevin?" I asked.
"Pretty much," he replied. "Mine is bigger, so it's worse."
I sighed. "I'm sorry to hear that. So who's this guy I'm debating tonight?"
"Try to relax, Senator. We've got awhile. Clear your mind. You'll be fine."
"Christ, I hope so." But I knew that clearing my mind wasn't going to be easy. Danny out of work, my father hurt and frightened. What next? Breast cancer for Melissa? Kathleen knocked up by a dweeb?
And I thought suddenly: What if Danny murdered Amanda?
I had sworn off theories, but this one seemed worth considering. He was physically capable of stabbing Amanda to death, and when he was drunk he could get angry enough to do almost anything. But what was his motive? To get the tape of the interview back? If anything, he had seemed rather pleased by the problems the tape was causing me. It wasn't as if he were going to get into trouble over it; the government would be wasting its time if it tried to prosecute Danny for his gunrunning. The case was just too stale; the witnesses were far away or dead, the evidence no longer existed; all the prosecution would have was his confession to a reporter, which he could easily recant. He might have been embarrassed by the revelation of the way he had to come crawling to his brother to get out of the jam caused by his gullibility, but I didn't think so. He might even be pleased that people knew about his dealings with the underworld. His stature in the eyes of his drinking buddies would undoubtedly be raised.
And if he had killed Amanda to get the tape, why mention its possible existence to me and risk looking stupid, risk having me explode at him?
And then I remembered that Danny had an alibi as well. Melissa had told me he was home sick that day, and she had been forced to take care of him. And surely Melissa was too angry at him to lie in order to protect him.
Well, good. One less problem to worry about. But there were plenty without it. And no time left to think about them. The most important event of the campaign was just ahead, and I had to get ready for it.
The brain trust was waiting for me at campaign headquarters. Kevin and I arrived there half an hour later.
Chapter 23
Sam Fisher paced along one end of the conference room. "Maybe you can use this as a human-interest story," he suggested. "You know, they ask you about health care, the elderly, so on, work in about how you just came from visiting your aged father in the hospital, you saw what wonderful care he was being given, and your reforms to the medical system would provide every senior citizen with the opportunity for the same kind of care."
I rolled my eyes. "I'll keep it in mind," I said.
"You've got to stay personal," Sam warned. "You have a tendency to come across as a know-it-all. People can't digest strings of statistics in a debate; they like anecdotes."
"Welfare mothers using food stamps to buy heroin," I said. "OSHA inspectors shutting down pro football 'cause it's dangerous to the employees."
"And don't be a wiseass. You can be witty, but don't get nasty, and don't go over people's heads."
"And above all, be myself," I said.
"Well, that goes without saying," Sam replied, and I wasn't sure he got the joke.
"Perhaps we could go over the main points one last time," Harold said.
The debate, we figured, would be the campaign in a microcosm. Each candidate had his themes; they'd been tested on countless focus groups and honed to a fine edge by master political craftsmen. They didn't have a great deal to do with policies and issues, which made some op-ed types gnash their teeth, but they weren't entirely devoid of content. We both stretched the truth in support of our themes, but they were close enough to reality (they had to be) that people wouldn't notice or care if we fibbed a bit.
Bobby Finn's main theme was that he was in touch with the people of Massachusetts. Their concerns were his concerns. He was the guy you could go have a beer with and talk about your sewer bill, your car insurance rates, your kid's drug problem. He wasn't the handsomest or wittiest politician around, but he understood how to make government work for the average citizen.
The corollary of this was that Jim O'Connor was out of touch with people. Out of touch philosophically, since many of my positions were not shared by the majority of voters. And out of touch as a senator, hobnobbing with the rich and famous and planning my run for the presidency instead of takin
g care of the voters' business. Bobby Finn wanted to be senator so he could serve the people, not so he could gratify his own ego.
Our main theme, on the other hand, was that I was the candidate who had the stature to be the United States senator from the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. I had the leadership skills; I had the experience; I had the intelligence; I had that extra something that made me a worthy representative of the Bay State in the world's greatest deliberative body. You might not always agree with Jim O'Connor, but don't you feel proud that he's your senator?
Our negative theme, therefore, was that Bobby Finn was just not "senatorial." He hadn't done a good job as governor, and he wouldn't do a better job as a senator. You might go out for a beer with him, but can you imagine him debating the great issues of the day on the floor of the Senate?
Our debate would be a contest to see who would do the better job of getting across his themes. I would stress my accomplishments and try to project my senatorial image—without sounding too intellectual—while portraying Finn as just another local politician who was in over his head. Finn would try to come across as the friend of the workingman—without sounding too inarticulate—while portraying me as distant, uncaring, interested only in my own career. And the one who had the edge might see a spurt in his tracking polls, and that spurt, if properly nurtured, might be enough to win the race.
I listened to all the advice as Harold led the last-minute strategy session, but I didn't pay much attention. Harold, of course, noticed. He cornered me in the men's room afterward. "You're not here," he said.
"I'm on my way," I responded.
"Would you please make sure you show up? I mean, I'm sorry about your father, I'm sorry about your marriage, but this is important. This is crucial."
He knew about my marriage then; Marge had probably told him that she had given away the secret about Liz and Roger. "Doing my best, Harold," I murmured. "Honest."
He gazed at me, helpless. A campaign manager can take care of a lot of things, but he can't step out in front of the TV cameras for his candidate and debate the opposition. We flushed in unison and washed our hands, and it was time to go.
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