The Court

by William J. Coughlin

  “Okay, I’ll contact Green and tell him to shake a leg.”

  Huntington nodded. “There’s another matter, Amos. You’ll be assuming the full title of Press Secretary next week.”

  “I figured, but it’s always nice to hear it confirmed.”

  “That means you’ll be before the cameras a lot yourself. You’ll be handling the daily press briefings and so on.”

  Deering inhaled and blew out smoke. “You don’t have to tell me, Ed. I know my job.”

  Huntington looked at him. “The President wants you to shave off that damn beard.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  Huntington shook his head. “It’s an image thing. Get rid of the beard. The President wants you created in his own image and likeness.”

  “Shit.”

  “Bad word, Amos. The man would have said ‘that’s just swell.’ Try to clean up your act.” Huntington turned and headed back toward the White House.

  “Who are you having talk to Howell’s family?” Deering called after him.

  Huntington didn’t even turn his head as he walked away. “That’s on a need-to-know basis. You have no need to know.”

  Deering stopped. He stood motionless for a moment in the drizzle. “Life and death. Pulling plugs.” He spoke the words in a whisper. “Need to know.” He took a last drag on the soggy cigarette and then flicked it away.

  Amos Deering suspected why they had come outside in the rain to talk. Had Huntington wanted to escape being picked up on any electronic recording devices? It seemed absurd, but perhaps White House bugs had been installed once again. Or maybe Huntington was just playing it safe.

  Deering looked up into the dark gray clouds above the White House.

  * * *

  Despite the passage of so many years and the change in the student body, both in composition and dress, Jerry Green felt at home. The stately old dormitories and class buildings still remained, although gleaming new structures had been sandwiched in between them. High-tech and nuclear science were partners with the mysteries of producing a good asparagus crop.

  In a way, the change of classes was not unlike midtown Manhattan during rush hour; there just didn’t seem to be enough walkway to go around. Platoons of bicycles glided through the moving human tangle, their riders floating like smoke through a forest, silently weaving in and out, but managing to miss anything that might bar their progress.

  He could remember other times, pleasant times, years ago, when he used to go on campus to visit his father. He had the same feeling now. Many of the physical elements had changed but the spirit of the place remained, tangible somehow, more like a ghost than a memory. He thought of his father, and for the first time in years the recollection was neither bitter nor obscure. He could vividly picture his father in his cubicle of an office, wrapped in a mountain of sweaters, a stained and battered pipe grasped between his teeth, his ragged mustache completely concealing his upper lip. And he recalled the glasses, the half glasses perpetually perched upon the end of his father’s nose. They were for reading, yet he could never remember his father ever actually looking through the glasses. In his memory he could conjure up his father’s dark piercing eyes, always peering just over the top of the frames of those half spectacles.

  His father had been an associate professor, teaching courses in political anthropology, plus a graduate seminar in cultural anthropology. He could recall listening to his father’s lectures at the dinner table. Green had enjoyed the anecdotes of classroom give-and-take, but not the subject matter of the courses themselves. As a boy living in East Lansing it mattered little to him what kind of social structure the Tygodas of Central Africa employed to organize their sweating black ranks. His father never mentioned the social and political turbulence that struck the campus. But his accounts of student antics could be, hilarious, especially when he acted them out, taking both parts, the student and the instructor. His mother, who taught art, tolerated the wild stories, but obviously didn’t encourage them. Hank, his brother, seemed to ignore the whole thing, at least during those rare times when Green could remember him being home for family dinner. Yet, today Hank was a full professor of anthropology, a descendant not only in blood, but also in the academic discipline of their father.

  Suddenly, as if the memory had been jolted loose and thrust up into his consciousness, he could remember word for word his father’s discourse on the anthropological significance of his mother’s funeral. It was as if his father had been describing the tribal rites connected with the demise of some far-off African woman; he had been completely objective and analytical. He had showed no emotion, at least not in front of his sons. The death of his mother had been a numbing shock. One day she was there, and the next she was gone. Green remembered there had been songs chanted in some kind of chapel. People had crowded around, looking uncomfortable in the issued skull caps. And then that was that. Life went on the next day just as if she had never existed. They already had a full-time housekeeper, so the usual food was ready on time, the laundry done, everything went on just as before. Or almost.

  Hank had been at the top of his form then, the hard-charging fullback and hero of East Lansing High. After a Navy stint in Vietnam, Hank played second string on State’s football team before President Hannah had brought in Biggie Munn to be State’s football coach. Munn had recruited, imported, and raided, putting together invincible teams that could match even professionals. His brother had played out the remaining years of his college eligibility, but only as a member of the hamburger squad. He seldom saw action on Saturday. But his early reputation plus hard work kept him on the squad even if he wasn’t lightning fast like the running backs who had come from distant places.

  Even Regina Kelso had been impressed by Hank Green. But her appraisal had been objective, not like the near-idolatry afforded Hank by his East Lansing peers. But Jerry had impressed Regina too, or so he thought at the time. Hank was the athlete, but he was the brain, at least he believed that’s how people saw the two of them then.

  But now that his brother had four degrees, including his doctorate in anthropology, Jerry wondered if those appraisals remained the same. He wondered if anyone really cared.

  A young woman on roller blades almost collided with him. She deftly turned and missed him by a hair. “Sorry,” she called after him. He turned and found himself staring at the skintight lycra that clung to her working buttocks. Dirty old man, he thought to himself.

  Classes had started and the crowds had disappeared, although quite a few pedestrians and cyclists still moved along the walkways.

  He saw the lawn sign Anthropology Building and looked up. It was new, a no-nonsense square structure of concrete and glass panels. He stopped and studied the place. On an impulse he walked up to the glass doors of the anthropology headquarters and stepped in. A few students lounged about the large open lobby. They were engrossed either in one another or the books they seemed to be committing to memory. The usual notices were posted on a large bulletin board. He glanced at it. They ranged from room ads to offers of used books. A glass-enclosed board held the office directory. He looked at that too. It was there. Prof. Henry A. Green, Rm 202.

  He experienced an odd feeling, almost like panic, but the board held a strange fascination for him.

  “Can I help you?” A young woman in a plaid shirt and khakis spoke to him. She wore hiking boots.

  “Pardon me?”

  “You look lost.” She smiled. “I thought I might be able to help.”

  He grinned at her. “That’s very kind. I am many things, but lost isn’t one of them. However, I do appreciate your concern.”

  She laughed. “Are you thinking of coming on the faculty?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I’m a graduate student. We like to know about these things. There’s a lot of jockeying for position around here. An outsider is always considered a threat.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Marcia. Marcia Johnson. Does that m
ean I’m in trouble?”

  He liked the girl. She wasn’t pretty, but there was an openness about her, a confidence in her manner and eyes that made her attractive nevertheless.

  “What’s this Professor Green like? Have you ever had him in class?”

  She stopped smiling. “You’re a headhunter!”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Don’t try to fool me, mister. I recognize your New York clothes. You’re here to try to steal our Hank Green away, aren’t you?”

  He laughed. “Not necessarily. Obviously you think a lot of Dr. Green.”

  Her eyes became wary. “I don’t know how to answer that. If I say nice things you’ll want him. If I say bad, it just wouldn’t be true.”

  “Maybe I’m just a bill collector. Ever think about that?”

  “Not likely, dressed like that.” She studied him for a moment. “You know, you look like him a bit. A little older maybe. Are you a relative?”

  She couldn’t have known she had hit a nerve. Older! He was eight years younger than Hank. The rigors of Washington life must be taking a greater toll than he thought, he reflected.

  “I’m a friend. Do you think he’s up in his office?”

  She glanced at her watch. “Probably not. Too early for this time of day. I think he has a class, but I could be wrong. His office is on the second floor, right at the top of the stairs.”

  He really didn’t want to go up the stairs, but she waited expectantly.

  “Thanks.” Reluctantly he began to climb. This is not the right way to do it, he thought to himself. Because of the trouble between them, a telephone call would have been better. To just drop in unannounced would only risk an ugly scene. He realized it was a juvenile reaction, but he felt intimidated by the girl who waited at the foot of the stairs. So he continued up.

  The office door was plastered by a montage of magazine and newspaper cartoons, all aimed at pricking the pomposity of university life.

  The metal sign screwed into the door proclaimed Henry A. Green, PhD.

  He hesitated. The girl said it was unlikely that Hank was in. Based on that, he went through the motions of tapping gently on the door.

  To his surprise, he heard a gruff “Come in.”

  It was too late to retreat. He felt like a young boy again, hesitantly violating the sacred precincts of his older brother. He opened the door and stepped in.

  The man in the chair was thick, very thick, and the bulky turtleneck sweater he wore accentuated his weight. His faded blue jeans had been cut off at the cuffs, leaving a ragged edge. His feet, propped up on top of the desk, were clad in worn leather loafers. A pair of half glasses perched on the tip of his nose. Jerry Green was shocked. He was staring at a heavier, younger version of his own father.

  The man looked up from the book propped up on his protruding stomach. His eyes peered up over the rim of his glasses. “Yeah? What can I do for you?”

  If the man had held a pipe in his teeth he would have seemed to be more an apparition than real.

  “I was in town. I thought I should stop by and say hello.”

  The man removed his feet from the desk and squinted at him. There was no sign of recognition. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid I don’t.…” Then his eyes widened. “Jesus, is that you, Jerry?”

  Green felt an urge to deny the fact, to admit it was a mistake, and to flee. But he nodded. “Yes, Hank. How have you been?”

  His brother said nothing, just stared. They hadn’t seen each other since that nightmare scene at the funeral. No communication had passed between them since.

  “If I’ve come at an inconvenient time.…”

  Hank Green stood up. He was still much taller than his brother, although the thick bulk had destroyed forever the youthful image of a dashing athlete.

  “Jesus, it’s not inconvenient, it’s just a shock.”

  Jerry felt as uncomfortable as usual in his brother’s presence.

  “I know we had our differences, Hank. And I’m sorry about that. How’s Adele and the children?”

  His brother didn’t move. “Jesus, is that all you can do? Ask about the family? How long has it been, Jerry? Five years? Six?”

  “Six.”

  His brother moved around the desk. He was at least a hundred pounds overweight and he moved like an old man. He stood in front of Green.

  “Jesus. Six years. I’m really sorry about that.”

  The overwhelming presence of his brother was almost physically intimidating. “So am I.”

  Hank Green cleared some books from an old swivel chair. “Sit down.” He deposited the books on a larger pile near a wall. “This place is a mess.”

  “It looks like Pop’s old office.”

  Green saw the flash in his brother’s eyes, a quick look of resentment. “I’m usually neater than this,” he protested. “But between trying to force some knowledge into empty heads, and some private research, I haven’t had much time to pretty things up. Can I get you some coffee?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “It’s decaff. You wouldn’t know it to look at me, Jerry, but I’m on a diet. I drink buckets of coffee. Sometimes I think it’s the only pleasure I have left. Anyway, that’s all I have to offer. No milk, sugar, or cream.”

  “I noticed you put on some weight.”

  A genuine smile creased his brother’s features. “Some? Shit, I’m a tub and you know it. Not much like the old ‘Flying Hebe’ of high school days, eh?” His brother smirked wryly. “How did I get this way?” He shrugged. “Who knows. I always managed to hold my weight down pretty good, remember? Of course, then I was a hell of a lot more active. Anyway, I suppose I started eating to compensate for the general frustrations of life. Behold before you, then, a living monument to junk food.” He thrust out his arms dramatically. “I’m a cookie addict. I have to have my hourly fix or I go berserk.” He opened a desk drawer and took out a tin box. “Today I’m featuring chocolate chip, plus some cream-filled little beauties. They’re not on the diet. But I’m trying to wean myself off slowly.” He offered the box to his brother.

  Jerry Green shook his head.

  His brother shoved one cookie into his mouth. Two chews and a swallow, and it was gone. “I’m not the only one who’s changed. You look like a banker. I didn’t even recognize you. When did you turn gray? You used to have jet black hair and glasses. But now you look like an ad for a New York bank, very distinguished.”

  Jerry Green offered a pack of cigarettes to his brother.

  “No.” Hank Green shook his head, rather violently, causing the flesh to shake about his face. “I quit those things. That put on a few pounds too.”

  “You don’t mind if I.…”

  “I’m no reformer. Blow some my way. I could use it.”

  Green felt uncomfortable under his brother’s steady gaze. But the smoke seemed to help.

  “My hair turned gray rather quickly,” he said. “At first there were only a few white strands. Then it seemed like it happened overnight. You say it’s distinguished, I think it just makes me look old.”

  “What happened to the glasses, kid? You started wearing them in the eighth grade, as I recall.”

  “The magic of contacts. The rate of my nearsightedness was accelerating, so they prescribed contacts. I don’t know if they actually slow the process but I’ve become accustomed to them, and I think I see better with them, at least I’ve persuaded myself that I do.”

  They looked at each other. They were like two diplomats from warring countries, being carefully civil and urbane, making small talk, trying to ignore the reality of their hostile situation.

  “So, how’s Alice?” Hank Green asked.

  “Fine. At least as far as I know. We’re divorced.”

  Hank shrugged. “I’m sorry.”

  “No reason to be. We were both glad to get out of the marriage. She’s married to a dentist in Oregon.”

  “And David?”

  “He lives with his mother. He likes Oregon much better than Wash
ington. The dentist is an outdoors type. He takes David hunting and fishing. He likes that kind of life.”

  “You see him much?”

  Jerry Green inhaled deeply on the cigarette. “I take a week off in January. I take him down to St. Thomas during his semester break. I sit on the beach while he snorkles, sails, and chases all the young girls. Other than that, we seldom get together.”

  “Must be tough on you.”

  Green watched the smoke rise toward the ceiling. “David is very much like you used to be, Hank. He’s an active kid, into sports, and on the go constantly. You know me, I like the quiet life. I think one week a year is all we can really stand of each other. At least that way we manage to stay friends.”

  His brother demolished another cookie. “Your kid must be … fifteen?”

  “Sixteen.”

  Hank Green nodded. “Yeah, that’s right.”

  Again there was an awkward silence.

  “I’m married again,” Jerry Green said to end the statement. He didn’t want to continue to talk about himself but it was the only thing he could think of. “Her name is Carol. She owns her own accounting firm in Washington. Second marriage for both. She has no children.” His own words sounded stiff, like the abbreviated language of a resume or an obituary.

  “Happy?”

  Jerry Green met his brother’s eyes. “As happy as anyone, I suppose. How about you, Hank? I asked about Adele and the kids.”

  “What can I say? Adele is still as crazy as ever. Christ, I dread the time when she goes into menopause. Shit, she’s off the wall most of the time now. God help us all when the hormones zap her.”

  Jerry Green remembered his brother’s wife, a tall dark-haired beauty with a lush, yet athletic body. But what Hank said was correct, he could remember that she was a classic neurotic with a long history of treatment.

  “You’re still in the law racket, I presume?” Hank asked.

  Green nodded.