Senator

by Richard Bowker

  I let Kathleen turn the TV on finally, and we saw a report on the mood downstairs in the ballroom. The place was starting to fill up. The perceptive newsman detected an undercurrent of tension in the air. A feeling that we could be in for a long night. He interviewed Marge. And yes, I, too, could detect the undercurrent of tension.

  Harold came in. He had been watching in the outer room. "Someone should tell Marge to lighten up," he murmured.

  "I hear that NBC News is projecting me as the winner," I said, "based on three absentee ballots from West Tisbury."

  "I think I'll go downstairs," he said.

  There was a report from Bobby Finn's ballroom next. People there didn't seem any less worried.

  And then it was eight o'clock, and there was nothing more anyone could do, short of reprogramming the computers that were already starting to count the votes.

  Kathleen gripped the sides of her chair. "Are we going to win, Daddy?" she asked.

  "Absolutely, princess."

  She didn't even object to her title.

  Liz sat silently in a corner of the room, her eyes not moving from the TV screen.

  "Channel Four says it's too close to call," Sam Fisher reported from the outer room, just as Channel 5 said the same thing on our set. Sam looked as if he could pace a four-minute mile.

  Exit poll data flashed on the screen: Women preferred me; men preferred Finn. Catholics split evenly. I was getting a majority of independent voters. My percentage of Democratic voters seemed a little low, but in the ball park of what I needed. I didn't see any surprises in the data.

  "I'm going to get a little fresh air," Liz said.

  I nodded absently, mulling the figures.

  Analyzing early election returns is probably as useless an activity as there is in politics, but try stopping yourself if you're a politician. Everything else has been done; now there is nothing left except to study the numbers and try to figure out if all your years of effort are about to go down the drain.

  The first returns are always from the big-city precincts with machine voting. The Democrat usually does well in those precincts; the question is whether he will come out of the cities with enough of a lead to withstand the Republican strength in rural paper-ballot towns.

  I knew what to expect, but it was still depressing to see the initial vote count appear with Finn in the lead. Kathleen looked stricken. "It's okay," I said. "This is normal."

  Sam Fisher popped in again. "Not bad," he said. "Not great, but not bad either."

  "See?" I said to Kathleen.

  Another report from the ballroom. This time Roger was being interviewed. He was pretty good: rumpled and untelegenic but articulate. He managed to sound confident without sounding banal. It was far too early to make any predictions, he said. The senator was watching the returns closely, and he expected to be watching them for quite a while. I looked around for Liz; she hadn't come back. I wondered if my father and Danny would want to come upstairs. Probably not. Probably wouldn't want to be in the way. I sent Kevin down to the ballroom to make sure they were taken care of.

  And then things started to blur for a while. More returns, more precincts reporting. Still too close to call. Sam with a cordless phone pressed to each ear, talking and pacing, talking and pacing. People coming in to offer tidbits of encouragement: We're creaming him in Marblehead; we lost Brockton by a smaller margin than we expected.

  I thought of Bobby Finn, sitting in a similar suite in some other hotel, listening to the same kind of encouragement. You're holding the Democratic vote, Governor. You're holding the cities. He's got to make up a lot of ground.

  Finn's wife would be sitting by his side, of course, studying the returns as intently as he was. Would his son be there, too, bored and sullen?

  All politicians are the same.

  Where was Liz?

  There were reports from other ballrooms, other races. Who cared? Kathleen started flipping channels, frantically looking for the latest returns on the Senate race.

  And then, slowly, the trend became clear. With 25 percent of the vote counted we had pulled even; with 30 percent we had gone ahead. Great cheers from the ballroom. Harold was on TV now for the first time: calm, authoritative, convincing. He admitted that things were starting to look good. But it was still awfully early....

  But it wasn't, not really. With a third of the votes counted, Channel 5 put a check mark next to my name, and a shout went up from the other room. Sam Fisher lit a foot-long cigar, and Kevin had tears in his eyes as he pumped my hand, and Kathleen was jumping up and down and screaming, a little girl once again....

  I felt more relief than joy. I had almost let these people down. But somehow, like Danny, I had managed to muddle through.

  I shook everyone's hand and then granted a few brief interviews to the TV reporters, who set up shop outside the suite. Like Harold, I admitted that things were looking good, but I wasn't willing to claim victory. I hadn't heard from Governor Finn, and I didn't expect to, at least for a while; it was still much too early for him to concede. No, of course, I had no comment on any run for the presidency; as far as I was concerned, I wasn't sure yet that I had been reelected to the Senate.

  But I was lying, and everyone knew it. The numbers weren't going to change at this point. The people had spoken, and the computerized vote totals were their voice. I was up 52 to 48 percent now, and it looked as if I would hit 53 or 54 by the time it was over. Hardly a landslide, but against a popular governor in a heavily Democratic state, it was impressive enough to keep my name high on the pundits' short list of presidential contenders. The protocol of election nights said we should wait for the vanquished opponent to call before we claimed victory, however—as long as he didn't push our speech past the eleven o'clock news. So I settled back to watch more TV and let reality sink in.

  "Have you seen your mother, Kathleen?" I asked during a commercial.

  She shook her head. "Maybe she's downstairs with Grampa and Uncle Danny?" she offered, although she seemed nervous about making the suggestion.

  "Oh. Right. I'm sure that's where she is."

  We went back to staring at the TV.

  Bobby Finn called at ten-thirty. Kevin answered, and then handed the receiver to me with the solemnity of Lee passing his sword to Grant at Appomattox. I shooed everyone out of the room before answering. "Governor," I said.

  "Senator," Finn replied. "I'm calling to congratulate you on your victory. Right after I hang up I'll be going downstairs to make my concession speech."

  "Well, thank you, Governor. We put on a hell of a fight, I think."

  "We sure did. I just wanted you to know, Jim, I did what I could about the Monsignor. I called up Kenton directly and told him if he backed Cavanaugh on this, I'd do everything I could to defeat him when he runs for reelection. He was pretty surprised, but I think I got him to reconsider."

  "Thanks, Bobby. I think you did."

  "Cavanaugh's still talking tough, but he won't do anything. With the election over, the thrill is gone."

  "I sure hope you're right."

  "Anyway, I'm kind of glad you won, to tell you the truth. It's much more fun being governor than living in Washington and going to a bunch of committee meetings. Now no one can say I didn't try."

  "Funny thing, Bobby: I have this feeling I might have been better off losing myself."

  "Why the hell would you feel like that?"

  "I don't know. Maybe I just need a vacation."

  "Me, too. Although I won't get much of one. And I bet you won't either. A politician's always on the job, right, Jim?"

  "Truer words were never spoken, Bobby."

  Kevin went down to the ballroom to get things ready for my speech; he took Kathleen with him. I glanced over Marge's text and decided to ad-lib; Marge would understand. I noticed Roger lurking in a corner of the suite, drink in hand. I went over to him. "Thanks for all you've done, Roger. I know I made things tough on you for a while. And it looks like we needed every cent you managed to
raise."

  "You're welcome, Jim." He finished off his drink. As usual nowadays, Roger acted as if he wanted to be in another time zone when he was in my presence.

  "Did you, uh, happen to see Liz downstairs, Roger?"

  "No. Wasn't she—I mean, the place is jammed, of course. She could've been there and I just didn't see her."

  "Of course."

  "Jim, I—that is, Liz and I—I think it's over between us. We haven't seen each other since, you know, when you and I talked. It was—maybe it was just one of those, you know, one of those things. She had to get something out of her system. I don't know."

  He seemed intensely embarrassed; I was, too. It wasn't his idea that they stop seeing each other, I realized. "Thanks for telling me that, Roger. Now let's go downstairs. You belong onstage with us."

  And off we all went.

  There is nothing that can quite compare with the election night celebration of a victorious campaign. The people there have spent all their energy, and often a good deal of their money, working toward this moment, and now they're ready to party for a few glorious hours before they collapse.

  The candidate's speech is the focal point of the celebration. It is the easiest speech anyone could possibly give; people will cheer you if you tell them the sun is going to rise tomorrow morning. But you also feel the obligation to reiterate the themes of your campaign, in case the TV audience starts to get the mistaken idea that this was only about winning and losing. By this time, though, you can recite your campaign themes in a drunken stupor, so even that should not be difficult.

  I paused outside the ballroom, waiting for the signal that Finn had finished his speech. It was just after eleven—perfect timing, if Bobby didn't get carried away and start thanking each of his campaign workers and relatives by name. I adjusted my tie and shook a few hands, and after a couple of minutes Kevin came out. "We're ready to go," he said. He looked around. "Is Liz, uh—"

  "Liz isn't feeling well. She had to go home."

  "Oh. I'm sorry. Well, I guess we'll have to do it without her then."

  I nodded. "Let's do it."

  Kevin held the door open, and I strode into the ballroom. The band was playing "When Irish Eyes Are Smiling," but the cheers quickly drowned it out when people spotted me. It took me five minutes to make my way up onto the stage. Everyone had to be greeted; everyone's hand had to be shaken. I didn't remember the names of half the people pressing up to me, but it didn't matter because no one could hear anything I said.

  Onstage I spent a few more minutes greeting people. I embraced my father, who kept rubbing the side of his nose, as if that would keep the tears from spilling out of his eyes. I held out my hand to Danny, who sheepishly accepted it. Kathleen stopped applauding long enough to give me another hug. "I don't know where she is," she whispered in my ear, and she looked a little worried.

  "Everything will be all right," I whispered back.

  And then I faced the cheering crowd and the mass of TV cameras, and I gestured for quiet. But the crowd wasn't about to be quiet just yet; they were cheering themselves as much as they were cheering me, and they would stop when they were good and ready.

  "Thank you very much," I kept repeating until they had settled down. "Thank you. Thank you."

  Finally I could begin. "Someone once asked me to name a memorable event from my past that has shaped the person I am today. Tonight I'd like to take another stab at answering that question, if I may."

  Loud laughter.

  "Tonight I would say it was the day a young man named Harold White marched into my law office and told me I should go into politics. Now, as you may know, Harold White can be a very persuasive man."

  More laughter.

  "If Harold hadn't persuaded me to go into politics, my life would have been infinitely poorer. For one thing, I wouldn't have met any of you folks—the best bunch of campaign workers in the country."

  Cheers.

  "For another, I wouldn't have had the honor of standing here tonight and thanking the voters of the great commonwealth of Massachusetts for allowing me to serve them in the Senate for six more years."

  More cheers. Eardrum-shattering cheers. Cheers that threatened to last till morning. I smiled and waved and smiled some more, and I tried to remember all the people I had to thank, and I wondered where Liz was—

  And I wondered if I meant what I was saying: if I could tell the difference between my lies and the truth anymore.

  The cheering continued—women with tears streaming down their cheeks, men shouting their undying loyalty—and I wondered if Amanda Taylor was watching on some celestial TV set. Was she joining in the cheers? Or was she shaking her head sadly at this ultimate injustice in the unjust world she had left behind?

  * * *

  I had told Kevin the truth, it turned out. Liz had indeed gone home. Kathleen and I took the campaign car back to Hingham at two in the morning; it was the latest she had ever been out on a school night. She fell asleep in the front seat next to me, a smile on her face. The Buick was in the driveway, as I had hoped it would be. I roused Kathleen to come inside, wishing that she were small enough to carry. Liz was upstairs in bed. She stirred when I got in next to her.

  "I won," I said.

  "I know," she replied. "Congratulations."

  "Thanks. I thanked you in my speech."

  "I heard."

  "I meant it."

  "Glad to help," she said.

  "Liz—" I started to say. The election's over now. All those things we put off—but it was almost three in the morning, and I still had a lot of thinking to do, and I figured they could wait awhile longer. "Good night, Liz," I said.

  She looked as if she had something to say, too, and then decided not to say it. "Good night, Jim," she murmured instead, and turned away.

  I slept the peaceful sleep of a winner.

  * * *

  I went to my downtown Senate office later that morning and fielded congratulatory phone calls from across the country. And I made a few of my own; it pays to keep in touch with the winners.

  I also called Carl Hutchins; sad to say, he was one of the losers. "I'm sorry, Carl," I said. "The Senate will never be the same."

  "Nonsense," he replied. "The Senate will survive. The world will survive. And what's most important, I'll survive."

  "Tell me something, Carl. If you'd had to choose between the Senate and your wife, what would you have done?"

  He chuckled. "I was a lucky man. I never had to think about such a thing."

  "Still," I persisted.

  He thought for a moment. "Well, when I was your age, I suppose I would have chosen the Senate," he said. "And that would have been a mistake."

  "I see. Well, thanks for the advice, Carl. Thanks for everything."

  "I'm not sure I envy you, Senator. Good luck."

  * * *

  That afternoon Harold stopped by the office and dropped a manila envelope on my desk. "What's this?" I asked.

  "It's a memo. It explains how I'm going to make you the next President of the United States."

  "Harold, couldn't you at least wait till we've gotten over our hangovers from last night?"

  "Why? You think your opponents are waiting?"

  "I don't have any opponents unless I decide to run."

  "Read the memo. It'll explain why you have to run."

  "All right. I'll read it."

  "And then what?"

  "Then I'll make paper airplanes out of it and float them down over Government Center. What do you want me to do?"

  "I want you to promise me that you'll think about it."

  "Okay," I said. "I'll think about it."

  Harold nodded his satisfaction and left.

  I sighed. I practiced making a paper airplane out of a leftover sheet of campaign stationery. I opened the envelope and read the memo.

  And this, you see, is my way of thinking about it—and everything else.

  Chapter 31

  Now that my ladder's gone,r />
  I must lie down where all the ladders start

  In the foul rag-and-bone shop of the heart.

  So we know who murdered Amanda Taylor. We know who won the election. All the mysteries have been solved.

  All the mysteries remain.

  * * *

  I had plenty of work to do, even ignoring Harold's memo. There was the upcoming session to start planning for, new issues to master, staffing decisions to be made. But I always have plenty to do.

  I decided to take a vacation instead. A different vacation from the kind I was used to, one with neither palm trees nor position papers. A vacation where I could think about what happened and what was going to happen and what it all meant.

  So I called up my good friend Paul Everson.

  "I have the perfect place," he said.

  And here I am, in Shangri-la.

  Not in the mansion, actually, but in the guesthouse, tucked away in a corner of the estate, far from the M.B.A.'s and the Rottweiler. No one to bother me, nothing to do but walk in the woods and stare at the computer screen.

  Liz thought it was a good idea when I explained what I wanted to do. "We've both got some thinking to do," she said.

  Kathleen didn't seem surprised at my plan, but she wasn't exactly overjoyed either. "Could be worse" was all she had to say.

  So I packed my bag and headed off along the Mass Pike once again. The fog had lifted somewhat, but it had by no means disappeared.

  It made sense to me, the old English major, to write the whole story down instead of, oh, going fishing and hoping to find silent wisdom somewhere between the sea and the sky. But now that I am near the end, with the stack of pages sitting proudly by the printer, now that it is almost time to leave this place, and I need to decide just what it is that I have learned, I realize how few answers I actually possess.

  * * *

  Did Amanda really love me?

  Yes, the defense insists. Harold said so; Everson said so; even Brad Williams said so. She loved you all along and was simply trying to figure out a way to get you back. After all, she handed over the tapes to Everson without a fuss. And there was apparently no manuscript of an article, even though she possessed information about me that would have made her a household name. There were only the brief pages of notes, which I have in front of me now. And they are more the musings of a puzzled lover than the outline of a muckraking article. "I was part of the complexity," she says. And who can doubt it?