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Best Man

Page 14

by Doug Raber

I walked over to her.

  “Do you think it fits okay?”

  “I think it doesn’t fit you the same as it does me. Your shape seems to be different.”

  “I should hope so.”

  I put my hands on her shoulders and slowly pulled the shirt collar to the sides. I did not try to remove the garment, but I slowly moved my hands along the collar, widening the neckline and opening the front of the shirt as I did so. She definitely was not wearing a bra. I then put my hands on top of the shirt near her waist and pushed gently to open the shirt completely. When my hands reached her hips, the shirt was completely open, her front completely exposed. I thought she looked like a goddess.

  “I want to see if you feel as good as you look.”

  I again put my hands by her collar, this time completely beneath the fabric, and I pushed the shirt back until it fell from her shoulders. I moved to her breasts, then down to her hips, and I pulled her toward me.

  She lifted her head, and we kissed. Slowly at first, and then with increasing intensity. We held each in a tight embrace, and my hands explored her. Everywhere.

  “Take me to bed, Tim. I can’t stand any more of this.”

  It seemed that it was over almost as quickly as it had started, but that was only the first time.

  It was probably around midnight, and we might have been dozing. I lifted myself onto an elbow, and I realized that she was weeping.

  “What is it, Laurie? What’s wrong.”

  “We shouldn’t have done this, Timothy. It was wrong. I don’t mean it was your fault, but we shouldn’t have. I mean … Rick. And what am I going to tell my parents? They’re going to ask about it. They know we’re staying overnight at a hotel. They’re going to ask if I slept with you. And I’m a terrible liar. They’re going to find out, and it’s going to ruin everything.”

  I took her in my arms and stroked her hair. I soothed her.

  “It’s okay, Laurie. It’s all okay. This wasn’t a bad thing. It was wonderful. For both of us. But it was just us. Only the two of us. And we have to keep it that way.”

  “How? If they ask? What do I say?”

  I got out of the bed and took her hand, so she was standing next to me. I guided her to the doorway between our rooms and picked up the shirt from where it had fallen earlier. I put it on her and fastened several of the buttons. I kissed her again, softly and gently, and I continued to stroke her hair.

  “You tell the truth, Laurie. We had to stop for the night because the roads were unsafe. We got separate hotel rooms. We had dinner together, and later we each went to our own room. You went to bed. You slept in your own bed. That’s what you’re going to do right now. And I slept in my own bed in the other room. It’s all the truth. That’s the best way to lie. It’s the best way to make certain you never get caught.”

  * * *

  21

  Cambridge

  My graduation from Dartmouth was more banal than exceptional. From my perspective, the former was the more accurate description. The ceremony, which I found quite boring, added nothing to my educational experience. In a year that I had devoted to expanding my horizons beyond Hanover and beyond the shores of our country, there was not a single speaker from outside Dartmouth.

  My mother could not have been more enthusiastic. She had a brand new SX-70 camera, the newest and most expensive model that Polaroid produced, and I think she personally guaranteed the company a profitable year by the number of photographs she took that day.

  She had driven to Hanover with Uncle Christopher, and they arrived in fine fashion. Even at a college where wealth was commonplace, my uncle’s arrival in the new model Lincoln Continental Mark V was notable. He had ordered it with the Luxury Group option, and from the moment the two-tone midnight blue and cream automobile reached the outskirts of Hanover on South Main Street, heads turned to follow its progress.

  After the commencement ceremony, the requisite photos with family and classmates, and many goodbyes, it came time to leave. My clothing and other belongings were minimal, the consequence of a half-year overseas, and they were already stowed in the trunk of my roadster. I offered to drive my mother to Boston, but she wouldn’t hear of it.

  “Good heavens, Timothy. I couldn’t bear riding in that rattletrap. I know how much you like it, but I’m much too old to be forcing myself into a tin can like one more sardine. I’ll gladly confess that riding in your Uncle Christopher’s automobile will be much more comfortable. You go ahead and enjoy yourself zooming along in that MG of yours, but don’t expect me to share the enjoyment of feeling every little bump in the road between here and Boston.”

  She had driven her Mustang to the summer cottage before coming to graduation, and I learned subsequently that it was the last time she would make a long trip in that car. Uncle Christopher arranged to trade it for his most recent Mercedes Benz, and the Mustang was being assigned the role of spare vehicle at Webster House. She would return to D.C. in a much nicer car.

  When I offered to drive my mother to Boston, it was because that was my destination. I was not returning to Washington that summer, because I had a summer job. Officially, it was called an internship, but I would not be a student, and I would not be stocking shelves in a grocery store.

  • • • • •

  During my spring break, I had driven to Boston for several days to do some work for my senior thesis on recent economic developments in the Soviet Bloc. The library at Dartmouth was excellent, but I needed access to some government documents that were available at the Boston Public Library. In addition, I was confident that the extensive collections of the Harvard Library system would have additional materials that would be of use to me.

  Uncle Christopher invited me to stay with him during this time, and one evening we ate dinner together at the Harvard Club. This was one additional part of our shared experience. I would soon start my MBA at Harvard after completing undergraduate study at Dartmouth, and Uncle Christopher had followed that same path some twenty-five years before me.

  That evening, he brought up what for me had been the uncomfortable topic of finances.

  “I don’t want you to worry about all this, Timothy. You are family, and I feel an obligation to assist.”

  I started to demur, but he stopped me.

  “You needn’t be concerned, my boy. I consider this all to be an investment. An investment in you. That is not to say that I shall ever desire any sort of pecuniary return from you, for I shall not. What I do expect is that you continue with your hard work and high achievement. When you finish your education and embark on a career, perhaps in business, or maybe in government affairs, you undoubtedly will be successful. Your success will bring financial rewards to you, and if you plan the journey of your life properly, it will simultaneously bring great benefit to your country. That is what I ask of you.”

  I agreed that I would seek that pathway.

  “Excellent. You will go far, Timothy. I have no doubt.”

  At precisely that moment, he waved to someone across the room, and a man I did not recognized came to our table. Uncle Christopher asked him to sit down after introducing us.

  “Timothy, the Congressman is an important person, and his future is limitless. Governor, Senator, perhaps President. He has been a good friend to me, and I have no doubt he will be a good friend to you as well. And you to him.”

  The three of us chatted for a few minutes, and the Congressman stood to leave.

  “It’s a pleasure to have met you, young man.”

  He handed me his business card, which was printed with raised ink and displayed the seal of the U.S. House of Representatives.

  “Give me a call next week. I may have a suggestion for you.”

  I was dumbfounded, and I looked at Uncle Christopher as the man walked away.

  “I couldn’t really say what he wants. But when someone like that asks you to call, it isn’t really a request. It’s an order. One that you must follow.”

  “I will do so.”


  When I called his office in Washington a week later, an anonymous staffer answered. I asked to speak with the Congressman.

  “Who may I say is calling?”

  I gave my name and said that the Congressman had asked me to call him.

  “Hold, please.”

  The tone was not encouraging, but the receptionist came back on the line a few seconds later.

  “I’ll connect you.”

  I was surprised yet again, when he seemed to know more about me than I had told him the week before.

  “So, you’re moving to Boston. Cambridge, to be more accurate. Have you moved into your apartment yet?”

  The previous week, Uncle Christopher made arrangements for me to rent an apartment near Harvard. It was the second floor of a brownstone in Cambridge, across the river from Boston and quite near the University. We drove past it, and he assured me that despite its apparent elegance, the rent he had negotiated would be within my budget.

  “Not until June, sir. As soon as I graduate this spring.”

  There was a brief pause.

  “I suppose that would work. I want you to work for me this summer. Before you start your MBA program. Your official title would classify you as an intern, but it’s the experience that matters. You’ll work in my district office, which is not far from your apartment.”

  I didn’t know what to say, so I gave a simple answer.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Excellent. Then it’s all set. Call the district office when you arrive in Cambridge in June. They’ll arrange everything.”

  The line went dead.

  • • • • •

  Arriving promptly at nine a.m. for my first day at work on a Monday in mid-June, I wasn’t certain what to expect. When I reached the designated address, I was surprised to discover a small, dusty storefront office. I had been expecting a stately, well-staffed location with dark wood paneling and marble trim, but I was greeted instead by peeling yellow paint and Formica. As I looked around, I could see only a single person and three empty desks.

  “Good morning.”

  The greeting came from a woman who looked to be my mother’s age. I was somewhat off balance, and I stammered my reply.

  “I, uh … I’m Timothy O’Connor. I was supposed to be starting my internship today.”

  She didn’t miss a beat.

  “Of course, Mr. O’Connor. I’ve been expecting you. We usually start by eight o’clock, so the Congressman can touch base before his day in Washington gets hectic.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize.” I looked at the nameplate and added, “… Miss Daniels.”

  “It’s ‘Mrs.’ Actually. But you should just call me Doris. We’re rather informal here. Especially since there’s only two of us. Three, now that you’re here.”

  “Only two?”

  “Most of the real work gets done in Washington. We’re here to facilitate a direct interaction with constituents when the Congressman is in town. Basically, our job is to be nice. If someone shows up or calls with a problem, we get the information, we tell them we’ll try to help, and we pass on the information to the D.C. office.”

  “We don’t actually do anything? If there’s a problem, I mean.”

  “Not usually. At least not in an official capacity, although we might try to gather additional information. If it’s a problem with the federal bureaucracy, then it gets turned over to the people in Washington. And we can’t get involved in local politics, although sometimes if there’s a problem with local government, Carl might put in a call to a friend at the Mayor’s office. Something like that.”

  “Carl?”

  “Yes. Carl Franklin. He’s the District Director. He runs this place when the Congressman isn’t here. That’s his office in the back, right next to the Congressman’s.”

  I craned my neck to see better.

  “But he’s not here. He’s taking his vacation now, so he can be back and ready to work hard during the month of August.”

  Apparently, my inexperience was totally obvious to her, but she wasn’t critical in response.

  “You’ll get used to it, Timothy. It’s a different world, and it will take some time. But we’ll have you up to speed by the time the Congressman arrives at the beginning of August. That’s when the House goes on recess, and the representatives return to their home districts. It’s when we get really busy here. We’ll hire a couple of temporary staff, and the office won’t be anything like it is right now.”

  She was being very patient with me, and I appreciated her tolerance.

  “Okay, Doris. I guess I’ve got a lot to learn, so just tell me what to do.”

  She smiled warmly.

  “You take that desk over there, Timothy. Try to figure out the buttons on the telephone, and we’ll have you start in by answering phone calls. Your biggest challenge will be listen and not talk. When people call with a problem, you aren’t going to solve it. You just have to let people know that you’re going to get the information to the Congressman so he can work on it. Usually it’s his staff, but you don’t ever say that to the caller. They should always think it’s the Congressman himself.”

  Within a week, Doris had helped me become comfortable with the workings of the office, so when Carl returned from his vacation, I was able to carry out almost any assignment he might give me. By the time the Congressman arrived in August, we were all working together like a well-oiled machine.

  I had become accustomed to a daily routine of mundane, almost trivial tasks, so I was unprepared when the Congressman called me into his office a week later.

  “You work hard, Timothy. I like that in a man.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “You studied European governments, did you not? And you studied in Germany for a year as well?”

  “Not an entire year, but otherwise the answer is yes.”

  “Good. Then I would like your assistance. Some people have suggested that the United States will be expanding its foreign trade with countries in Eastern Europe. Now that may be a good thing, but it must be done properly. These are communist nations, after all. So, I plan to propose legislation that will regulate such activity. I want your assistance in drafting the language for such a bill.”

  This was unheard of. Even Carl Franklin, who had worked for the Congressman for years, had lamented that he had never had the opportunity to work on any sort of legislation. And there I was, two months out of college, and I was being asked to take on a major role in developing national policy.

  “Certainly, sir. I would be honored to assist you in every way possible.”

  There was no doubt in my mind that the task lay within my sphere of competence. After all, no small part of my senior thesis had addressed these exact issues.

  I was reassigned from the humdrum activities that had been my daily life for the previous two months, and a brand-new IBM Selectric typewriter appeared on my desk the following morning. For almost an entire month, I was the first to arrive in the office and the last to leave, often working late into the night. I spent every waking moment at my desk, save for those brief interludes when it was necessary for me to obtain needed reference materials. Even then, it was frequently unnecessary for me to leave the office, because a telephone call to the Library of Congress would result in the needed information being provided in short order.

  As I was nearing the end of my internship, the Congressman was preparing to return to Washington. Several days prior to his departure, I carefully placed the completed document on his desk. He had seen parts of it previously, and we had discussed some of the key points, but this was the first time he was able to see the entire package. He smiled broadly.

  “Good work, Timothy. I knew you’d come through.”

  I subsequently became so involved in my studies at Harvard that I never learned the exact outcome of my work. Whether or not my exact wording ever appeared in an act of Congress, history has borne out the validity of my ideas. My policy proposals, if not impleme
nted immediately, were adopted in bits and pieces as part of our national policies. International trade has flourished with those countries that were previously under the thumb of the Soviets.*

  Nobody else knew of my contributions to international progress in this arena. It is yet one more of my secrets. Parenthetically, I should clarify that statement, since the Congressman also knew. So, while it was a secret, it should be described more accurately as a shared secret.

  • • • • •

  Harvard was everything I had hoped for. My love of reading, my international experience, my work with the Congressman, and my educational background all coalesced in a way that allowed me to excel in business school.

  My goals were coming into focus more clearly for me in those days, and I spent relatively little time in social activities with my classmates. I found the material we were studying to be so compelling that I preferred to use my free time, if one can call it that, to delve more deeply into the background and history of whatever topic was under consideration at the time. I thrived on my diet of information and new knowledge.

  Fall semester moved quickly, and I finally took some time off at Thanksgiving. The holiday feast at my Uncle Christopher’s home was the occasion I described earlier when I saw Cynthia and Dave for the first time since their wedding the year before.

  When winter recess came around, I opted to remain in Cambridge. The reason was straightforward — a request for assistance from the Congressman. An important new law was about to be signed by the President, and the Congressman believed I could help him understand its scope and implications.

  Consequently, I spent two weeks prior to Christmas mastering the language and legislative history of the Foreign Corrupt Practices Act. The law deals not with improper behavior by foreigners but with proscribed actions by Americans dealing with foreign businesses. The points in question were right up my alley.

  The principal target of the new law was bribery of foreign officials by U.S. businesses and their agents. Payments to foreign officials had ceased being part of the cost of doing business and had become a crime. The penalties were severe, and a violation could result in a prison sentence.

 

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