Senator

by Richard Bowker

  No, the prosecution responds. She never really loved you; she was lying to you all along, looking for her opportunity, and finally she found it. Or, at best, she was a jilted lover preparing to destroy you. Why did she hand the tapes over to Everson? Out of the goodness of her heart, simply to prove the purity of her intentions? More likely it was out of fear. She knew he was a murderer, and what Paul Everson wanted, he got. Why didn't she tell me what she was up to? Maybe she was going to, with that final phone call, but by that time she had more than enough information to destroy me.

  "Imagine writing your biography," she says. Is she remarking on the absurdity of such an idea, or is she showing her excitement at the task in front of her?

  Perhaps the truth, as usual, lies somewhere between the defense and the prosecution. She was tempted. The relationship is over, and she has to figure out how to get on with her life, her career. And then Liz shows up and hands her the scoop of a lifetime. She follows up on it and finds out that it's true. Does she publish? Does she confront me with it? Perhaps she finally decides not to destroy me, but by then Danny is sitting in a bar and getting up his courage to confront her, and it's too late.

  Perhaps. But Amanda is gone now, and I can only guess; I can only hope.

  * * *

  And Liz. She told me she loved me. But if she really loved me, how could she tell Amanda about Jackie Scanlon? Perhaps she secretly wanted me to be destroyed, to validate all the resentment and anger she had built up toward me over the years.

  What if she has never really loved me at all, just gave in to my relentless courtship and then spent the rest of her life regretting it? What if now she is simply afraid—afraid of losing the last semblance of family life, of becoming the pitiful, discarded wife of the famous politician? Afraid of growing old, alone and eccentric?

  What if she does love me, but it is with a love that I am incapable of understanding? What if Roger is really better for her than I could ever be?

  * * *

  And Danny. Oh, Danny. You admitted that you couldn't figure out how you felt about me. How can I be sure that what you told me in the mud of that playground was the truth? Did you really murder Amanda because you wanted to help me? Perhaps you knew that she was my lover and you murdered her out of resentment and jealousy, because an exquisite woman like Amanda would never give you a second look. Perhaps you finally found a way to even the score between us.

  Did I make a mistake in shielding you from the crime you committed years ago, and am I repeating that mistake now as you try to find the courage to confess?

  Or was I right to lie to you in the playground, to comfort you when I was the one who should have needed comforting? It felt right, but I don't know if I can trust my feelings anymore.

  Oh, Danny. I love you because you are my brother, but how can I ever trust you?

  * * *

  And, finally, Jim.

  How did you really feel about Amanda, Senator? Did you love her? Or were you in love with a dream that could never become real? "Relaxation," Amanda says. Or lost youth. Or a simpler life. Or just hot sex and a beautiful, admiring face.

  And do you still love Liz? Or is that another you, as Amanda puts it? Are you tired of her, or are you only tired of seeing the truth reflected in her eyes?

  Your house of cards has collapsed yet again. Will you start building another, or will you do the job right this time?

  * * *

  It is December, and time to go home. I am bored with the woods; I have run out of coffee; if I don't read a newspaper soon, I'll go crazy. The pile of pages next to the printer isn't going to grow any larger. I have no answers, but finally I begin to see that the lack of answers is the point. Like Kathleen's fractals, the closer you look, the more complex everything becomes. The answers are always somewhere beyond the limits of your vision.

  But that doesn't mean you should stop looking for them.

  Epilogue

  December 26

  I write this in longhand, in my office back home in Hingham. The pen feels primitive, compared to the snazzy computer in Shangri-la, but it will do the job just as well.

  The day after Christmas seems like a good time for a final update, one last chance for reflection before the tasks of the new year begin. So I'll give it a shot.

  In the outside world there is little to report. The presidential punditry has died down until the holidays are over. According to the conventional wisdom, I'm one of about a half dozen legitimate Republican contenders—if I choose to contend. The conventional wisdom is that I will contend. Harold hasn't pressed me; even he took a vacation.

  The Amanda Taylor murder case has disappeared from the newspapers; there are newer murders, newer scandals to take its place. Everson tells me that Cavanaugh dragged him in for an interrogation, but the DA's heart didn't seem to be in it. Mackey says the word is that the Monsignor is talking about retirement; Mack doesn't think the murder will ever be solved.

  My own little world has been a little busier. I returned from my vacation, shaved off my beard, locked up the pile of papers I produced at Shangi-la, and got back to work. My heart, too, wasn't in it, but I couldn't stand any more inactivity.

  At home Liz was as silent as ever when I returned. The approach of Christmas delayed our inevitable reckoning.

  I didn't talk to Danny at all.

  At the staff Christmas party Marge Terry resigned—for certain, for good, no foolin' this time. I had bought her a book of devotional poetry—suitable for use in a convent—and when she unwrapped it in her office, she started to cry. "I'm going freelance," she said between sobs. "It's just no good for me to hang around you anymore."

  I gave her my handkerchief. "Freelance?" I said. "But there are already too many Sam Fishers in this world. You don't want to become another one."

  "Don't try to talk me out of it, Jim, because you might succeed, and that'll only make me more miserable than I already am."

  And I realized that she was right. So instead of getting down on my knees one more time, I embraced her and we clung to each other while her tears soaked my shoulder.

  It was only later that I thought to open her gift to me. It was a gold cigarette lighter. I flicked it on a few times in my car, and then I put it in my pocket, smiling at the memory of the flame.

  When I got back from Shangri-la, Kathleen had clearly made up her mind to take one last shot at saving her parents' marriage. One day she herded us into the car to go buy a Christmas tree, and then she supervised as we set it up in the living room. "Isn't this great?" she gushed as we hung ornaments on the tree. "It's just like—"

  "Just like a normal family?" I suggested.

  "Just like the old days," she said, and she stuck her tongue out at me.

  Not quite. Liz and I went Christmas shopping together, and it was awkward, as everything seemed to be now. Did Roger stay on our Christmas list? What should we get Kathleen? I thought she wanted software; Liz insisted on clothes. "Computers are just a phase," Liz said. "Boys are the real thing." I deferred to her judgment, but I threw in a fractal calendar just in case.

  It took a long time for me to figure out what to give Liz. When I finally made up my mind, life began to seem a lot simpler.

  The tradition in the O'Connor household is that after Kathleen goes to bed on Christmas Eve, Liz and I put her presents beneath the tree, then uncork some champagne and exchange our gifts to each other in the living room. I wasn't sure the ritual was going to be followed this year, but I bought a bottle just in case. When I went to put it in the refrigerator, I found a bottle already chilling there. Liz's brand was cheaper.

  The three of us spent the evening preparing for the meal on Christmas Day; my father and Danny's family were coming. "It's so nice to be doing things together," Kathleen remarked. It should have been, but I was too nervous to notice.

  Once Kathleen finally went upstairs to her room, we quickly got her gifts out of my clever hiding place in the garage and arranged them beneath the tree. Liz put Johnny
Mathis on the stereo. I fetched the bottles of champagne and a couple of glasses. "Cheap or good?" I asked.

  "Save the good one for the company," Liz said.

  I returned my bottle to the refrigerator and popped the cork of Liz's over the kitchen sink. Then I brought the bottle back to the living room and filled the glasses. Liz sat in the wing chair, hands folded, looking tense. She couldn't be as tense as I was, I thought. I gave her a glass. "Merry Christmas, Liz," I said.

  "Merry Christmas, Jim."

  Our glasses touched, and I sipped the champagne; it was awful. I sat down on the couch opposite my wife. In years gone by we had sat on the couch together, my arm around her shoulders, her head on my chest. Not any more, apparently. I took another sip. Johnny Mathis sang "Hark! The Herald Angels Sing." The lights on the tree blinked blue and red. Liz had turned the heat down for the night, and it was getting chilly. There was no putting it off.

  "So," I said. "Here we are again."

  Liz nodded. She hadn't touched her champagne, I noticed. She grasped the glass in both hands, like a chalice.

  "I decided not to buy you anything this year," I said. No, that wasn't the way to start. What was the matter with me? Liz raised an eyebrow but didn't respond. "I decided to give you something different," I said, hurrying on. "Liz, I'm going to resign my seat in the Senate."

  Her mouth opened just a little, and I thought I heard a strangled sound deep in her throat.

  There. I had said it, and I couldn't take it back. "I love you," I said, "and I think our marriage is worth saving—not for Kathleen, not to keep up appearances, not for my career, but for us. And this is the only thing I can think of that will save it."

  "What would you do instead?" she whispered—croaked, I suppose, would be more accurate.

  "Go back to practicing law. What else do I know how to do? Any firm in town would make me a partner just to get my name on the letterhead. I could probably earn three, four hundred grand a year just by staying awake eight hours a day."

  "Would you like that?"

  "Like what? Being able to send Kathleen to college without worrying about the bills? Having a home to return to every night instead of that pit stop of an apartment? Not having to attend a single fund raiser for the rest of my life? There are attractions to it, Liz. Definite attractions."

  "But the presidency," she objected.

  "Lots of people would make as good a President as I would. I haven't got a monopoly on virtue, God knows, or on truth. The government will survive without me, Liz, and I'll survive without the government."

  Liz stared at her champagne. A single tear made its way down her cheek. "I didn't expect this," she said.

  "I didn't expect it either. But that's what thinking will do to you."

  She shook her head. She still didn't look at me. "It's kind of funny, I guess," she murmured. "You remember on election night when I suddenly disappeared? I wasn't angry at you or sick or anything, Jim. I was nervous. I was so nervous I couldn't stay there and watch. See, I was afraid you'd lose.

  "And that made me angry at myself, really, because wasn't that the best thing that could happen to me? To have you lose, I mean, to have you come crawling back to your old life and forget about Washington and being President and changing the world? But I couldn't help myself. I was listening to the radio while I drove home, and they kept saying, 'Too close to call, too close to call,' and I started feeling guilty about all the things I should've done and didn't, all the events I could've attended instead of going to class or sitting at home, the people I could've convinced to vote for you, and I thought: Oh, God, just let him win, and we'll straighten it all out; somehow we'll straighten it all out.

  "And then I got home, and you won—you always win—and I could feel the resentment start up in me again. You didn't need me, you never need me, you're involved in a scandal and you run a lousy campaign and you still manage to win, and now Harold will talk you into running for President, and another two years will be cut out of my life. Unless I—unless I—"

  Liz stopped and gulped down her champagne. She tried glancing at me and quickly looked away, as if afraid my gaze would turn her to stone. That was the longest speech she had made to me in years. "So you don't have to do anything," I said. "We sit home nights and watch Leave It to Beaver reruns on cable. When it gets too cold, we let my father in from the toolshed and have him read Dickens to us. On weekends we can have séances at the kitchen table and talk to the spirit world. It'll be exciting."

  "No, it won't," Liz whispered. "It'll be boring."

  "I won't be bored," I replied, getting a little exasperated. "I promise."

  "No, Jim. I'll be bored."

  I let that sink in for a moment. "More bored than when I'm away in Washington all week?" I said.

  "Well, maybe not. But maybe we can figure that out, too. I don't want you to quit the Senate, Jim. I can't believe I'm saying this, but it's true. If you stayed home to watch TV with me, you'd be a different person, and I don't want that person; I want you. You'll still be infuriating, and I'll still hate politics, and your career may still drive me into divorce court, but, I don't know, our marriage is nowhere near perfect, Jim, but I guess I can't imagine it being any different. Better, sure, but not different."

  This was as astonishing to me as my offer to resign must have been to Liz. How hard must those words have been for her to speak? I felt relieved; I felt grateful; I felt unworthy. I thought: Would she feel the same way about my resigning if she knew I was hiding yet another of Danny's crimes?

  I thought: If I want Liz to do this for me, I have to offer up something in return. There was only one thing more I had to give her: the truth. And so I gave it to her.

  "Danny killed Amanda," I said.

  Liz stared at me.

  "At first I thought it was Everson, but finally I figured it out," I continued. "That's where I went with the gun that night. Danny thought he was protecting me because Amanda knew about Jackie Scanlon. I don't know if he's going to confess or not. If he does—"

  Liz came over and sat next to me on the couch. She put a hand on my thigh. "I know," she said.

  It was my turn to stare at her. "You know?"

  She nodded. "I suspected Danny all along. I figured your girlfriend would try and talk to Danny after I told her about Scanlon. I didn't really think he was capable of cold-blooded murder, but I thought he was capable of, I don't know, bumbling into it. And from what I read in the papers about the murder, it sure looked as if someone had bumbled into it. I went to see Melissa after the election, while you were off communing with nature or whatever you were doing. She told me the whole story. She was glad to have someone to talk to about it. Poor Lissa."

  "Poor Lissa," I agreed. I put my hand on top of Liz's. "You gals really got yourselves a pair."

  "It's not like I'm totally innocent in this, you know," she pointed out. "If I hadn't blabbed to that woman about Scanlon, none of this would have happened. As soon as you told me she had been murdered, I knew that I was to blame, too. If I hadn't wanted to hurt you so much..."

  "I guess there's enough guilt around for everyone," I said. "What do you think Danny's going to do?"

  Liz shook her head. "I don't think even Lissa knows." She leaned back, and I put my arm around her shoulders. "Thank you for telling me, Jim. That means more to me than you can imagine."

  "Sometimes even a politician has to tell the truth," I said.

  We were silent for a while, and then she looked up at me. "Do you remember the Christmas when we were engaged? We sat like this on that broken-down couch in your apartment, and I asked you what you wanted to do with your life, and you said you didn't care, as long as you spent it with me?"

  I searched my memories, terrified that I might have lost this one. But no, there it was. We had been eating popcorn and watching The Mary Tyler Moore Show. The couch was lumpy, and my arm was tired, but I didn't want to move—except perhaps to go to bed. "Why don't we eat popcorn anymore?" I asked.

&n
bsp; Liz smiled. "I remember your eyes when you said it," she went on. "I never really trusted you, Jim—even after I fell in love with you. Even now I guess I don't really trust you. But when I looked into your eyes that Christmas Eve, I knew I didn't have anything to worry about. It's moments like that one that make life worth living, despite all the pain and confusion—don't you think?"

  "Moments like this one," I said. I kissed her hair, and she snuggled closer, and pretty soon it was midnight, and we had survived another Christmas Eve together.

  * * *

  Kathleen opened her presents the next morning. She was thrilled.

  "I picked the clothes out myself," I said.

  "Sure you did. Now you guys open up your presents."

  She had given us each a framed copy of the campaign photograph taken of our happy family. "Don't we all look nice together?" she asked.

  "We're gorgeous," I replied.

  "What did you two give each other?" she asked.

  "Nothing," we replied in unison.

  She looked worried for a moment, but our expressions gave us away, and she grinned finally, and it was as if the spring sun had broken through leaden winter clouds.

  * * *

  Danny and Melissa arrived in the afternoon, bringing my father and their kids. Danny looked clear-eyed and healthy; my father's arm still wasn't working very well, and he still had nothing good to say about doctors, but otherwise he seemed fine. Before dinner we opened the good champagne and had a toast: to my reelection, to Danny's new job. Danny and the kids drank ginger ale. Then we sat down to our turkey dinner—one big happy family, with every reason to celebrate. I felt as if I were in a Norman Rockwell painting.