by Susan Isaacs
I often wondered if Barry and Noreen ate the salami and cheese. I had a couple of Danish beers in the refrigerator. Also some Dijon mustard.
Eight
I was frightened for Jerry, for I knew he would suffer badly. Born to elicit joy, he would reel at a slap in the face. Pain would shock his system. Fury could mutate him.
And if he changed, what would happen to me?
Everyone on Paterno’s staff knew something was wrong. Whispers slipped along the corridors of the office, rumors skitted about in closed rooms, and innuendos wafted up, only to be obscured by frosted glass doors. A few words reached me anyway: “Morrissey gave Paterno one last chance” and “Jerry said it was either him or LoBello, and if Bill didn’t make up his mind soon …” and “There was such geshreiing and carrying on” and even “Morrissey threw a chair across the room, but Bill ducked” and, of course, “Shhh, here comes Marcia.”
I asked Jerry later, “Did you really throw a chair at Bill?”
His face brightened for an instant. A grin emerged. “Is that what they’re saying?” I nodded energetically, pleased at any sign of animation on his part. “No,” he said. “Of course I didn’t throw a chair. Do you think I’d risk throwing out my back again for that double-dealing bastard?” I smiled, prepared to remain in lighter times with him, but his face fell back into seriousness.
“What happened then?” I asked, more subdued. “I mean, someone obviously heard something.”
“I really don’t remember. I probably pounded my fist on his desk a few times. Anyway, it’s not important.”
“Of course it’s important. It’s your entire life, your job.”
“I’m going for a walk. Don’t wait up.”
But that was later. The night of the Dollars for Dick dinner, when I told Jerry that Lyle LoBello was going to be involved in the campaign, Jerry’s anger worked itself up into such a fever of rage that he was nearly struck dumb. He turned, marched away from the table, and returned a few minutes later, his eyes moist from a few belts of scotch, although that was not sufficient anesthetic. But he remained in control; he mumbled a few words to our host, Mike Mazer, that he had an extremely hush-hush municipal emergency, and Mazer, extracting the stub of an unaltered cigarette from his mouth, said, “Gotcha, Jer.” Jerry gave the rest of the table a fast wave and a wink and left. I received no special signal.
“Well, honey,” Mazer said, turning his attention to me, “tell me about yourself.”
“I’m Bill Paterno’s speech writer,” I explained, and offered him a smile. It did not suffice. Mazer wanted a speech. “Let’s see,” I began. When not actually writing, my value to Paterno was as an observer. The others—Jerry, Eileen Gerrity—talked. I watched. But after Jerry left I became his surrogate, so I offered my repertoire of Dave-Flaherty-Unforgettable-Character stories, tossing about phrases like “on the Hill” and “standing committee” which nearly always capture the interest and respect of New Yorkers.
But my conversation was mechanical, and by the time it was Mike Mazer’s turn to reciprocate, I felt nauseated with tension.
Mazer fancied himself a raconteur, chortling at his own mots, creating dramatic tension by smoking at least a quarter of a cigarette between sentences. Puff. “… and this pimple-face fucker from the Senate …” Puff, puff. Finally, the conversation turned to bond ratings. I didn’t have to seem interested. I could excuse myself, return to the apartment. But as I began to inch my chair back, I felt a hand on mine.
Mrs. Mazer, young and so perfectly coiffed and made up that she seemed to have been dipped in Plexiglas, talked out of the side of her mouth, like a convict. “Tell me, you work with that Jerry Morrissey?” Her hand was cool over mine. Her long slender fingers were heavy with twisted gold rings. Although she was a brunette, she hadn’t a trace of hair on her arms.
“Yes, he and I—”
“Shhh,” she said. “Not so loud.” She motioned me closer. “Have you known him long?” Her voice was low enough that the murmur that arose implied girl talk; we could be discussing leg waxing, menstrual cycles.
“Yes.”
“Tell me, hon, is he married?”
“No.” I tried to pull my hand from hers, but she pressed mine onto the table.
Francine Mazer continued, “Is he straight? Not gay or anything?”
“No.”
“No what?”
“No, Jerry isn’t gay,” I replied, tempted to raise my voice and let her husband in on the conversation. But I had been in politics too long. I recalled Mazer’s lavish potential as a campaign contributor and realized he would not be generous if threatened.
“Now, hon,” Francine said, “tell me. Is he living with anyone?” She licked her darkly glazed lips. Her words came faster as she grew closer to her goal.
“Yes.”
“What’s she like, the one he’s living with? Decent looking?”
“He’s living with me, Mrs. Mazer.” She pulled her hand away. “We have an apartment in the Village. We’ve been together for years….”
“But you’re not married. Right, hon?” Several minutes later, as I left, she was clinging to her husband’s arm, her glossy black hair flowing over his sagging shoulder.
She had her man. I had an empty apartment. Jerry was either drinking or walking. For a minute I imagined him on a suicidal solo hike, trudging through the South Bronx until stopped by a machete across his face or a bullet in his spine. That forced the inevitable: I dashed into the bathroom and got sick.
But the storm of garlicky roast beef and three cups of coffee still raged. I had gobbled dinner as Mazer orated, gnashing the mealy meat between my teeth as though it were Paterno’s heart. And then I got sick again.
My mother would demand: Would he make himself sick over you? And my Aunt Estelle would second the motion: You bring him rain instead of sunshine, darling, and in two minutes flat he’d find himself a sweet little shiksa, the kind that doesn’t have moods.
“Jerry? What time is it?” I had fallen asleep and, as usual, he had slipped into the apartment silently.
“Late,” he whispered. He lowered himself down slowly and sat on the edge of the bed.
“Are you okay? Where did you go?”
“Just leave me alone. I feel sick.”
“Me too. I got sick twice. The whole thing is literally disgusting. Listen, Jerry, I’ll make some tea and we’ll talk about it and—”
“No!” he bellowed, and put his head into his hands, but not before a gust of whiskey breath nearly toppled me.
“You don’t want to talk?” Obviously not, because he didn’t reply. “Let me get you something for your stomach,” I suggested.
“No,” he whispered from between his hands.
“It’s no trouble,” I said sweetly, shimmying up from under the blanket.
“I don’t want any goddamn medicine, Marcia!” he shouted. Then, in a lower voice, as though the shout had exhausted his last reserve of energy, he murmured, “Just leave me alone. Please.”
But I trotted into the bathroom, closing the door tight behind me. I made a show of turning on the light and rummaging through the medicine cabinet, but after a few seconds, dazed by the brightness, I lowered the toilet seat and sat. I forced myself to breathe quietly. I wanted to be able to hear any threatening noise Jerry might make.
I was, after all, my mother’s daughter. Out there, in the bedroom, was no friend or lover who had over-imbibed, no decent middle-aged man feeling frightened, vulnerable, depressed. Hilda’s daughter saw that, of course, but she also saw with her mother’s eyes: beyond the bathroom door was a beefy Irish brute with whiskey slopping down his filthy undershirt. She saw him leaping from the bed, ripping open the door, and smashing a thick, calloused hand across her gentle Jewish jaw.
They are suspect when sober. When drunk, dangerous.
Ridiculous.
Read history. They kill.
“Marcia,” he called. I swallowed, stiffened, but remained rigidly on my sanctua
ry. “Hey, Marcia, get finished in there, okay?” I rose, opening the door enough to let one eye peer out. He was still sitting on the edge of the bed, hunched over. “Do me a favor,” he called softly. “Come here and rub my head. It hurts like anything.” I emerged. When I reached the bed, he grabbed my arm.
“Ow!” I nearly screamed.
“Sorry. Look, Marcia, I just want quiet. No discussions now.” Having delivered his message, he let go of my arm. I glanced at it; there were no bruise marks.
“Lie down,” I said quietly. I eased him down, placing a pillow under his head. I massaged his temples and shoulders, feeling his skin hot and damp under the soft cotton fabric of his shirt. Ten minutes later he whispered thanks and fell asleep, so deeply that when I curled up right beside him he didn’t even move. I reached over him and loosened his tie. He made a short humming sound.
But when I woke the next morning, he was in no mood for tenderness. Clean, showered, wearing a banker’s-gray suit, he spoke brusquely. “See you around six tonight. Maybe we’ll go to a movie.”
“Are you all right?” I slid over to his side of the bed, but it was already cold.
“Yes. Leave me alone.”
Jerry spent the day in Paterno’s office. I could only gather the mistiest rumors about what was going on. I sought counsel from Eileen Gerrity; analytical, curious, she was the person most likely to possess at least a tidbit of inside information. She would sit behind her desk, relaxed and reassuring, and people would enter her office, close the door, and drop off confidences.
But all she was able to report was that at one thirty someone in Paterno’s office had ordered sandwiches. “One Swiss cheese on whole wheat and one bologna with mayo,” she reported. “Does that tell you anything?” I shrugged. “I gather you don’t want to be amused,” she observed.
“No. I’m really worried about this, Eileen.”
A strand of her pale, silky hair drooped over her forehead. She pushed it back with a pencil. “Well, let’s be serious, then. What did Jerry say?”
“Nothing. That’s the worst part of it. He won’t confide in me at all. He just keeps telling me to leave him alone, so naturally I keep imagining the worst.”
“Well, he’s had quite a shock.”
“I know that. But I can help him. I mean, even if we can’t get Bill to change his mind, I can still be there for Jerry. I can offer—you know, support. But he’s so afraid of anything smacking of commitment—”
“Marcia, in fairness to Pretty Boy, he’s had a major kick in the pants and it’s hardly the time to expect him to cement your relationship.”
“I know that. I know exactly what he’s capable of giving.”
“Do you? Then why do you keep expecting him to bare his soul to you when he’s never seen it himself?”
“I don’t know,” I said quietly.
Eileen began tapping her pencil on the desk, concentrating on its rhythm. “Look, let’s try to analyze what’s happening here.” I glanced at her. “No, not with you and Jerry. I mean this Lyle LoBello intrigue. Now, is Bill Paterno smart?” I nodded. “Is he an astute politician?” My mother would have corrected Eileen’s pronunciation. Not as-toot, as-tyut.
“Yes.”
“Then why would he get rid of Jerry, the very man who made him? And why now, at the beginning of the most important campaign of his career?”
“Because he wants to be remade in the Gresham image, by LoBello. Eileen, he wants the governorship desperately, and he knows this may be his only shot. He’s scared. He’s looking for upstate magic—”
“Nonsense, Marcia.” She tossed her head in an imperious gesture, the sort she used when dealing with the hyper-emotional and the silly. I will not deal with irrationality, her head announced. Behave! I settled back in my chair. “All right. Would Bill Paterno risk offending his supporters, his biggest contributors, by firing Jerry? Would he risk alienating the staff by bringing in Lyle LoBello? Would he risk alienating you?”
“Why not? I mean, he could hire someone else.”
“Marcia, think about it. One day he rents space for headquarters and the next morning fires his chief of staff. And by doing that, he mortally offends his writer. Would he risk that, leaving himself actually speechless at a time like this?”
“Yes. He absolutely would, if he thought it was part of the price to win. Anyhow, LoBello would get another writer for him in a minute. He wouldn’t know the difference.”
“Stop that,” Eileen snapped, shaking her pencil at me. “Modesty doesn’t become you. You know you’re the best there is. Now, let’s think. Analyze. Yes, Bill could conceivably find another speech writer, and for the next two months he’d go around sounding like an Alabama senator or a Cambridge don, and you know and I know how that would play in—wherever, Plattsburg. He needs you and he needs Jerry. Anyway, you know Bill. He’s very insecure. He needs people who have proved themselves, people who he can trust. He knows what a slippery fish LoBello is supposed to be. When push comes to shove, do you think he’d rely on someone like that?”
I found out later. Jerry pushed open my office door a few minutes before six thirty.
“Look, I want you to get your things together.” I’m sure my jaw dropped. I must have stared. But Jerry was ticking off a list in his mind and simply didn’t focus on me. He continued impersonally. “As of next Monday you’re off the city payroll and on the campaign payroll. You’ll be uptown at headquarters, and Bill expects—”
“Jerry?”
“What?”
“What happened?” His eyes had puffed from the effects of a hangover and fatigue and he squinted at me through two slits, not quite comprehending what I wanted from him. “What happened?” I repeated. “With Bill. You were in his office all day and—”
“Oh, that. I’ll tell you later.” He studied his watch as if just learning to tell time. Finally, he said, “If you can wait till seven thirty, we can go for dinner. Okay?”
“Jerry…”
“Not now, Marcia.” Under the fluorescent lights, his end-of-day stubble of beard shone gray, giving his face an ashen cast. With his color drained, bright eyes obscured, I felt I was seeing a Technicolor extravaganza that had inexplicably turned a bleak black and white.
“All right. I’ll leave you alone. But are you all right?”
“I’m fine. See you for dinner.”
“If you’re too tired …” He turned and left, not even bothering to mutter under his breath.
Later we shared a silent subway ride uptown. Jerry stared at an ad for suppositories, probably not even seeing it. I stared at him.
But when we came up to street level, he revived for a few minutes, recapturing a trace of his usual flash. Jerry seemed to thrive in midtown Manhattan. He’d nod benevolently at limousines idling in front of restaurants. He’d smile as a couple swathed in fur—like a pair of urbane foxes—glided by. He had self-confidence enough to feel such style was a mere matter of money; if he took a different job, made a hundred thousand or two a year, he could fit in. I don’t think he questioned his right to belong anywhere.
Of course I did. I never felt at ease in sleek Manhattan. My country was the outer boroughs, where ethnics huddled in tight little groups to insulate themselves from assimilation and rebuffs. Down at City Hall, working with my kind of people, I felt at ease. Sometimes I shone. Uptown, I always felt frumpy, out of place, but didn’t know how to remedy the situation. That night, I wore a blue dress and a beige raincoat. I had thought I looked all right. But we passed women who were so flawlessly groomed they made me look naked. They dressed every part of themselves; they wore textured stockings, armloads of bracelets, intricately knotted scarves, hats that were themselves accessorized with pins or plumes or nets.
Jerry exchanged the hand he had been holding for my elbow and guided me eastward on Fifty-eighth Street as I tried to make conversation. “Do you want French food? Because if you do, we’d be better off downtown. The prices around here are—”
“You
know, the thing that first attracted me to you was that you were quiet. You didn’t blab all the time.”
We continued toward the river until Jerry discovered a restaurant whose facade unaccountably beckoned him. It was a tiny, seedy place, an Indian restaurant, with an almost palpable fog of garlic and curry hanging about. The maître d‘/owner/waiter sat us at an uncomfortably large square table covered with a blue vinyl cloth. Only one other table was occupied, by two Indian men, probably relatives of the owner commandeered to give the place the appearance of authenticity. They were neither drinking nor dining.
Jerry didn’t even smile at the waiter. He was not looking for votes that night. “Johnnie Walker red, straight up,” he said.
“You want?” the waiter asked me.
“Nothing, thank you.”
“Good,” said Jerry. “You wouldn’t want to become an alcoholic.”
“Your fight isn’t with me, Jerry.”
“‘Your fight isn’t with me,’ “he mimicked. “All right, all right,” he added. “Just leave me alone.”
“You were the one who asked me out to dinner.”
“Everyone makes mistakes.”
I turned away from him and watched the waiter, who was standing behind a small bar, pouring scotch as though it were his own blood he was donating. He brought it to the table and Jerry drained it and demanded another before he spoke.
“Sorry if I was a little rough.”
“It’s okay.”
“I’m out of sorts.”
“I know. You should be. Do you want to talk now?”
“I’m campaign manager,” he said.
“Jerry! That’s wonderful. I mean, that’s what you wanted, isn’t it?” He didn’t reply, but ran his finger hard along the tablecloth, making deep x’s. “Okay. Listen, Jerry, let’s just have a quiet dinner and we’ll talk later.”
“There’s nothing to talk about. We had a few words at the beginning that must have lasted about two, three hours. Then, when the dust settled, he said I was campaign manager, and so we spent the rest of the afternoon mapping strategy. We’re opening headquarters next Monday, and about half the City Hall staff will go up there. Then—”