“I assume they just don’t talk about it.”
“But how is that possible? I mean, when she told me they were at your house—with your husband, Bob—right? He works for the DOJ?—I would’ve imagined the four of you having a big argument about it. Susie’s pretty feisty in her opinions.”
At that moment there was a bang from upstairs where Amanda had left the children to play. She heard Sophie cry out.
“Look, it didn’t come up, okay?” Amanda half listened for further noise. “At least not in that context,” she added, realizing Susie might contradict what she had just said.
“I find it hard to believe that the night before the Senate hearings, the topic simply didn’t ‘come up’—”
Sophie materialized at Amanda’s side sobbing. She pushed her wet face onto her mother’s bare leg, but the gesture did little to muffle her squalls.
“I’m not saying it didn’t come up. I’m saying—” Oh God, what was she saying? “I’m saying there was no disagreement. The men may have talked about the case a little—strategy and stuff—but it was really just a dinner between friends, all right? A private dinner. Please, let’s just leave it at that. I really don’t want to talk about it anymore, and I can’t see why it’s relevant to your story. Frankly, I’d appreciate you not mentioning it.”
“Fine. Just one more question—”
“Look, my children. I better go—”
“I’m sorry, I don’t want to keep you. Your husband spells Clarke with an e, correct?”
“Yes—” Amanda crouched down and put a consoling arm around Sophie. “But why do you need the spelling of my husband’s name?”
“Just in case the editor asks. I’ll let you go. Thanks.” Click.
Amanda stared at the dead receiver for a second before hanging it up. She pulled Sophie close and stroked her hair.
“There, there, sweetie, it’s all right. You go back upstairs and play.”
“Ben’s a bad boy!”
“I’ll make him say sorry. Go on, I’ll be up in a minute.”
The little girl heaved a few more sobs. Amanda kissed the top of her head and prodded her in the direction of the stairs. When she was gone, Amanda immediately phoned Bob.
“I know you’re busy but …”
“I’m just about to walk over to the Hill to watch the hearings but I have a minute. What’s going on?”
Bob sounded cheerful; Amanda knew he was up about the hearings.
“I just got the weirdest call. Do you know Grover Mudd? He writes ‘The Ear’ column for the Post.”
“Yeah—what would he want?”
“Well, at first I thought he was trying to find out about Susie and Jim.”
“Jesus,” said Bob, suddenly alarmed. “What did you tell him?”
“Nothing—nothing at all. He already knew all about it. He’s a friend of hers—or so he said. I think I remember vaguely Susie telling me that she had once dated him.”
“God, she can’t keep anything secret, can she? But why did he want to talk to you?”
“He said he was writing an item on Susie’s show, and since I know Susie so well, he just wanted a bit of background—you know, was Susie ambitious in college, that sort of thing.”
“That seems okay.”
“Yes, I thought so, too.”
“Was that all he wanted?”
“Um, there was a little more—he said he couldn’t understand how Susie could work for Frith when she was dating Hochmayer, and asked me what I thought about it.”
“You didn’t answer that, did you?”
“No—not really. I told him I didn’t want to talk about her personal life, but I did say that Susie had always been pro-Megabyte.”
“Good, good—that was exactly the right thing to say.”
“I’d better call Susie—”
“Yes, you should. And ask her why she’s such a blabber-mouth. Christ, Hochmayer. Why would she tell ‘The Ear’ that?”
“Don’t ask me.”
Susie was in a story meeting with her producers, and Amanda left a message. By the time her friend called back, Amanda was halfway through a floor puzzle with the children. She took the phone into the bathroom for privacy and seated herself upon the toilet.
“Susie, I just got a call from Grover Mudd.”
“I know. He told me he was going to call you. I was going to warn you, but I got called into a meeting.”
“I wish you had warned me.”
“I didn’t think he’d phone so quickly. It must be for tomorrow’s column.” Susie sounded pleased.
“Susie! This is serious—he knows about you and Hochmayer. He asked me about it.”
“And what did you say?”
“I didn’t say anything! Why would you talk to him about it?”
“Oh, Grover’s an old friend. We dated years ago and—”
“Susie, I can’t believe you told him,” Amanda interrupted. “What would possess you to tell him?”
“Grover asked me,” she said calmly. “I bumped into him and he asked if I was seeing anyone these days, and I said yes, Jim Hochmayer. It’s not a secret. A lot of people know.”
“And so you decided to announce it to the newspaper?”
“No, I told Grover. It’s different—he’s a friend. He’s doing an item about the show. That’s why I told him to call you.”
Amanda was speechless—was Susie being deliberately stupid with her?
“Well, I can tell you that’s not what he’s interested in—he’s interested in you and Jim.”
“Oh?” Susie sounded remarkably unruffled.
“You’re not worried? What if his wife finds out?”
“Gee, that would be too bad,” Susie replied with heavy irony.
Ah, it was she, Amanda, who was being stupid—at last it dawned upon her what Susie was up to. “You did this—on purpose?”
“Look,” said Susie, lowering her voice, “it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if a little heat were put on Jim. I told Grover because I can trust him to do it right. I’m sure he’s going to do one of those blind items, you know, like ‘What married computer executive is seeing a well-known TV pundette?’ It won’t cause Jim any problems—who reads ‘The Ear’ in Texas?—but he’ll get the idea that word is slowly leaking out, and he can’t keep sitting on the fence.
“I’m not going to be anyone’s goddamn mistress.”
Amanda decided not to challenge the glaring falseness of this assertion, but she remained staggered by Susie’s recklessness.
“What if it backfires?”
“It can’t. Jim’s been saying how much he loves me, so let’s just put him to the test.”
“I wish you hadn’t dragged me into it.”
“I didn’t mean to—he asked me for the names of some friends, and how could I not give yours? Ostensibly his interest is in the show. I’m sure you handled it well.”
“I told him I didn’t want to be quoted about that stuff.”
“Then he won’t quote you. Grover’s a good guy.”
“Are you certain he won’t quote me? Maybe you should call him—because, Susie, I don’t want to be involved in this, okay?”
“I’ll let him know how you feel.” Susie sounded slightly affronted by Amanda’s mistrust. “Grover wouldn’t do anything to hurt me.”
“Yes, but my God, Susie—”
“Grover will listen to me,” Susie repeated. “I’ll call him. Stop panicking.”
Ben began banging on the locked door. “I need to pee!”
“Let me know what you find out,” Amanda said, before hanging up.
But Susie did not let her know. Bob did. He came storming into the bedroom the next morning before Amanda was fully awake and threw the newspaper down on the bed.
“I thought you told me you said nothing!”
Amanda sat up on her elbow. She glanced back and forth between the newspaper—opened to “The Ear” column—and Bob’s furious face. She picked up the newspa
per and, squinting, read the following:
Strange Bedfellows
On the night before the Senate began grilling Megabyte executives, guess where one of the Justice department’s key witnesses was dining? The Ear hears that Jim Hochmayer, billionaire owner of Texas CompSystems, was chowing down at the Woodley Park home of Bob Clarke, who is spearheading the DOJ’s antitrust case against Megabyte. Clarke’s wife Amanda confirmed in an interview yesterday that the two men talked “strategy and stuff” and that there was “no disagreement” between them—“it was really a dinner between friends.” This intimate tête-à-tête certainly lends credence to the “paranoid” rantings of Megabyte’s Mike Frith, who has accused the DOJ of cozying up to his competitors in order to destroy his company. But wait, Mike, the story gets better. The Ear has learned that Hochmayer’s date that evening was none other than beautiful TV pundette Susie Morris, whose new political affairs show, Morris & Johns, airs on Megabyte’s cable station, MBTV. Hmm, do we sense a conflict of interest here? If this news doesn’t keep Frith up at night, then it ought to worry Hochmayer’s missus, who is back on the ranch in Texas. Hochmayer himself was unavailable for comment but Morris claims the two are “just good friends.” Frith, meanwhile, is scheduled to testify before the hearings later this week.
“Bob,” Amanda whispered, letting the paper fall, “I didn’t say it like that. I swear to you, that wasn’t what I said.”
“Then why did he quote it?”
“I—I don’t know,” she faltered. “Sophie was crying …”
“Oh God.” Bob sat down on the opposite corner of the bed, as far away from her, it seemed, as it was possible to be without leaving the room. He stared hopelessly into the armchair where yesterday’s shirts, socks, and pants had collected; his robe hung limply on him as if his whole being had suddenly become inanimate, like a suit valet. Amanda knew that she must say something—she wished to console him, to apologize, to convince him that there had been a terrible misunderstanding—but he had never seemed so remote from her, and Amanda feared that uttering even a gentle word might alienate him further. Instead she picked up the paper again and skimmed the item urgently, hoping that upon a second or third reading it would not seem so terrible, but every time she read it, it only got worse and she flung the paper down, sick to her stomach.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” Bob said, as if to some invisible third party.
“Bob, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—” Amanda edged nearer, hesitating before placing her hand upon his shoulder.
He shrugged it off and stood. “I better get going.” Without looking at her, he fetched his clothing from the closet and took it with him to the bathroom to change.
Amanda curled up under the covers. She felt paralyzed; she did not think it possible that she would be able to leave the bed. It was only when she heard noises from Sophie’s room that she raised her head. Her eyes strayed across the headline again—strange bedfellows—and she buried her face tightly in the pillow, moaning, “Oh God, oh God, oh God.”
The light padding of feet told her that Sophie had entered the room. “What are you doing?”
“Mommy doesn’t feel well.”
“Mommy need medithine?”
“No, honey. Maybe just a hug.”
The little girl obliged and Amanda clutched her, trying to banish her horrible feelings. After a few minutes Sophie began singing a nursery rhyme to herself and idly twisting Amanda’s hair. Amanda knew that she could not lie there indefinitely; Ben would awaken shortly and demand breakfast … and the day’s chores would begin their relentless assault upon her, regardless of whether she was able to stand or not.
Actually, Amanda realized, the prospect of a thousand tiny tasks in which to lose herself was not altogether unappealing. She winced once again at the sight of the newspaper, then folded it to take to the recycling bin.
“C’mon, Sophie. Let’s get you something to eat.”
Downstairs the remnants of Bob’s breakfast—a crumb-covered plate and a still-warm quarter cup of coffee left on the kitchen table—caused her stomach to lurch again. He had left without a word of good-bye. What he would face at work she couldn’t predict. The only thing Amanda could do was to wait—and to wait without distraction was intolerable. Rather than set out a bowl of cereal for Sophie, she gathered her purse and got the stroller bag ready.
“Sophie, wake your brother and start getting dressed. We’ll go out for breakfast. Would you like muffins in the park?”
“Yeth!”
Within half an hour, the three of them had emerged into the fire-wall heat of a Washington summer morning.
They stayed out the whole day. After the park, they ventured downtown to look at dinosaurs in the Smithsonian. Amanda wanted to keep going, but by three o’clock, they were all hot and exhausted and Amanda had spent her last bit of change on ice cream. Reluctantly, she brought the children back home. There were six messages on her answering machine. None of them was from Bob. Four were from the mothers in her play group, including a long-distance call from the odious Patricia vacationing in Portugal. How had she heard? One of the other women must have phoned her, which meant—they were all gossiping about it. Patricia’s message, however, was less odious than might have been expected. It was almost simpering: “Heard about ‘The Ear’ and had to call. Imagine Jim Hochmayer at your house! Congratulations, and can’t wait to hear all about it when I’m back. By the way, Meredith has just learned to dive. She’s such a little fish!” Amanda ignored the veiled reference to Ben’s aquatic shortcomings: he still refused to put his head in the water. Kim’s and Ellen’s messages were much the same, both offering their “congratulations” on the item. Christine’s was the oddest. She called about an event she purported to be organizing “on the spur of the moment” to celebrate her new, postsurgical look (“although I’m only telling you that”). Then Christine added, almost shyly, “I’m sorry about the late notice and I hope you and Bob will be able to come, although with your newfound celebrity status maybe you’ll be spending the weekend at the Hochmayer ranch. Ha ha!”
Amanda was flummoxed that her friends viewed “The Ear” column as anything but an embarrassment and potential calamity. Was it possible it was less bad than she thought? Then she listened to the fifth message. It was Alan. “Hey, read today’s ‘Ear.’ I guess there’s not really anything to say, but—I feel for you.” Sigh, long pause. “I’m sorry about the other night, too. I meant to call and tell you how much I appreciated it that you came. I guess I was really just disappointed with everything and—”
Amanda hit the delete button.
The last message was from a female editorial assistant at the Wall Street Journal, wanting to “fact-check something.” Amanda took down the number and automatically began punching in the numbers for Bob’s office. Then she stopped. She was too afraid to tell him. Let the reporter find him, Amanda thought. I’m not going to do it.
Instead she spent the next hour assembling something that reasonably approximated a home-cooked meal—ground beef hastily unthawed from the freezer and simmered in canned tomato sauce.
Bob came through the door around six—not a good sign. Amanda hadn’t expected him until past eight. She could see immediately that his mood had improved from that morning, although the kiss he administered to her cheek was perfunctory and not altogether forgiving.
“Bob, what happened today?” she asked tentatively.
“I think it’s going to be okay.” He sat down by the table and loosened his tie. “God, I need a drink.”
“I’ll get it. Scotch?”
Bob nodded.
“What did Frank say?”
“He was a bit upset, there’s no doubt about it.” Bob suddenly looked tremendously weary, as if all the excitement that had animated him through these past weeks of hard labor had been switched off. He slumped slightly in his chair, his eyes as dull as unlit lamps. “But overall he dismissed it as gossip. I assured him of course that Hochmayer
and I had discussed nothing improper, that it was entirely a social visit. Frank said to just let it pass.”
“Does it hurt the case?” She placed a large dose of Scotch in front of him.
“I hope not. Frith might make a bit of a fuss—but then he fusses about everything. I think Frank’s right. Let it pass.” He drained the glass.
They avoided the topic for the rest of the evening. Several times Amanda attempted to mention the call from the Wall Street Journal, but she could not get it past her lips. Bob took refuge, as she had done, in the distraction of the children, and offered to give them their bath while she cleared up.
By the time she came to bed, Bob had already tucked himself in and was going through a copy of Hochmayer’s testimony. She settled in next to him with a book, and they both fell asleep early, exhausted by the tension of the day.
The next morning she was again awoken by Bob. And he was again holding a copy of a newspaper. This time he was not angry, but ashen.
“Amanda,” he said, rousing her. “Good God, Amanda, listen to this.”
He sat down beside her with the Wall Street Journal opened to the editorial page. In the left-hand column, below the two main editorials, was a smaller one headlined who is bob clarke?
Bob read it out loud:
Antitrust supremo Frank Sussman has promised to pursue the government’s investigation of Megabyte impartially. And even though we’ve been vigorous critics of this Justice department, we respect Mr. Sussman’s reputation as a fair and open-minded lawyer. We have to wonder, though, what is going on when we hear that Mr. Sussman’s right-hand man, Bob Clarke, is coordinating the government’s case with Megabyte’s competitors over barbecue and beers.
“Oh no,” said Amanda.
“Hold on, it gets worse.” Bob swallowed and continued:
Mr. Clarke, who has taken an increasingly public role in the case, had Jim Hochmayer of Texas CompSystems over for an out-of-the-limelight dinner the night before Mr. Hochmayer’s Senate testimony. While the DOJ refuses to comment on the record, Amanda Clarke—wife of Bob Clarke—confirmed to the Washington Post that her husband used the dinner to go over “strategy” for the hearings.
Amanda Bright @ Home Page 18