The Parnell Affair

by James, Seth

  “A woman likes to hear it said,” said Sally. “Especially a woman who hasn't been in this seat for twenty years. Oh my god, is it that long?”

  “A fella likes to hear it too, you know,” he said dryly.

  She rolled her eyes before seeing he wasn't kidding. “I sometimes feel you can see right through me,” she said. “Which is pretty unsettling for someone in my line of work. But yes, I've been thinking a lot about you, too. God, this is high school—sickening,” she said, wriggling her shoulders uncomfortably. Her legs found one of his beneath the table, though.

  “I guess it is, really,” he said, making a face like a bad smell. “Probably the only benefit I've seen to marriage—not facing this scene.” He grinned his grin. “But maybe not,” he said: “it's kind of fun, too. When the other person feels the same, anyway.”

  “Yes,” she said. She drained her glass and he refilled both of theirs. “We may need another bottle, but I'll need to be carried out of here if we drink it.”

  The thought of his apartment three blocks away flashed through Tobias's mind, and for the first time in a dozen years he felt nervous.

  “My turn to see through you,” she said. She tried for a mischievous smile but it was brilliant nonetheless. “Apartment just around the corner, is it?”

  “Damn champagne,” he mumbled. “An aphrodisiac it may be but it's not doing a hell of a lot for my smoothness.” He rest his chin on his palm and kept grinning, not really disappointed.

  “Mmm, you are one delicious looking man and I'd love to go home with you, Tobias,” she said, seeming to enjoy the feel of his name as her mouth formed the word. She touched her forehead. “Okay, now I'm just indulging myself in saying things like that.”

  “Don't let me stop you,” he said.

  “I'd better stop me,” she said.

  “Yeah,” he said, sounding disappointed enough for form's sake. “So what happened? It sounded like things between you and Joe started out well.”

  “They did,” she said. “Better than well. You know how it is when you're young and in love and newly married. Or do you?”

  He bounced his head from side to side noncommittally.

  “Ever been married?” she pressed.

  “No,” he said. “Committed bachelor but, no no, not a player as it is called these days. Well, not really. It's a story, too. But you go first.”

  “Why me?” she asked.

  “You're a spy,” he said. “You're brave and used to danger and all that. I'm just a lowly reporter.”

  “Ex-spy,” she said.

  “Go on,” he said. “That's like saying, formerly pregnant.”

  “I did have children with him,” she said, eyes seeing something outside the room for a moment. “I did love him. Still love him, and he loves me, but just not as husband and wife. Or not as lovers. More siblings, now, or cousins or some other equally disturbing analogy. I don't know. I had some pretty odd ideas about love when I met him—seeing love as being as realistic as unicorns—and never found the time to think things through. We had physical passion, a hell of a lot of trust, and very busy and important lives. Everything seemed to be humming along as it should and then fifteen years passed and I looked over one day and he was the father of my children but not my lover.” Sally shrugged her shoulders. “He felt the same—feels the same—and we were both very grown up about it. We decided to stay together until Lucy—my younger daughter, Lucy—left for college. They had a hectic enough childhood being dragged around the world, her and her sister Anna. We wanted them to at least have an intact one. And Joe and I said we should both try to be happy; dating was allowed, even encouraged. He fell in love with his secretary at the foundation a couple years after we returned to the states. I don't know if he's proposed to her yet, but he won't wait long after the divorce is finalized. Joe's a guy who likes to be married,” she said and smiled. “This is why you're such a good reporter, isn't it? People just talk to you. Something to do with the shape or your face, I think,” she said, reaching across the table to turn it appraisingly one way and then the other by his chin.

  “Well don't mess it up,” he said playfully, squirming, “I got to eat. So Joe moved on. But you didn't? What held you back?”

  “Who says I didn't move on?” she said, also playfully.

  “You did,” he said gently. “You said it's been twenty years.”

  “Oh,” she breathed. “Right. Well, it a sense he moved on,” she said, her voice rising for a moment. “He didn't just run off, though. No one could have been better about it than Joe. He asked my permission, if you can believe it,” she said. She smiled bleakly at the memory.

  “I can,” Tobias said. “I can imagine, in his shoes, thinking that was the upstanding thing to do—but my mind recoils from it being asked of me. Sounds nice but it couldn't have been fun.”

  “No,” she said, “no, it was not. It made me feel like the other woman. Not at first but—” she left her sentence hanging as she felt her face flush at where she'd been headed. “That's it,” she said, smiling at her embarrassment. “That's as brave as I can be for now. Go, say something. Bit of a playboy, are you?'

  “Not really,” he said absently; his eyes were still boring into her, routing around in what she'd left unsaid. “I never juggled three women at once or anything,” he said and sighed when she pulled her eyes away from his. Window closed. “I just—I couldn't,” he began, halted, thought through what he wanted to say, his eyes scanning the air as if reading, and then continued. “I couldn't see marrying any of them. Anyone, really. I like my space, my privacy.”

  “Two things you lose in marriage,” she said, looking at him again, now that he'd stopped staring so hard. “And definitely with children.”

  “I bet,” he said. “But I suppose it could be managed; that I'd want to try—with the right woman. The thing is, I've always thought of myself as a complete human being and I, well—resented is the only word I can think of—resented their trying to conscript me into filling a position within their lives. Friends don't do that to one another.”

  “Lovers aren't friends,” she said. “That's something I had to learn. For me anyway; and it's not that they're unfriendly or anything—”

  “No, I get it,” he said. “I think I'm saying the same thing: friend is just another role, which I've had no more interest in playing than that of son to be mothered by some women nor being turned into a father by women who'd like to stay children. Hell, I suppose lover is a role, too, come to think of it,” he said, cheek deep in his palm. “What a terrible mess we humans make of things.”

  They sat thinking of the labels people use with one another, with themselves.

  “Tobias Hallström,” she said quietly, “introverted playboy.”

  “Ha,” he laughed and sat back. “I had a lot more fun when I didn't think about it.”

  “You've almost killed this one,” Mike said, suddenly standing beside them. “Ready for another?”

  “I want another,” Tobias said. Mike raised his eyebrows, knowing his regular hadn't decided. Tobias looked across at Sally but couldn't tell if she wanted him to order another bottle or not. Maybe she doesn't know, he thought. In the end, he'd prepared himself too well to resist—and the thought, 'she's still married,' lie unresolved. “But we want to be able to walk out of here, so how about a bottle of sparkling water?”

  “You got it,” Mike said and left.

  Sally looked both relieved and disappointed, which is how Tobias felt. He didn't want a long silence.

  “My sister's a lesbian,” Tobias said.

  “My father's a lawyer,” Sally replied. “What game are we playing?”

  “Ha, I'm back to people making a mess of their lives with labels,” he said. “My sister, Mary, middle child. She had it kind of rough growing up. And then when Magnus died she lost it all together.”

  “Who's Magnus?” Sally asked. She could see he was talking in the casual voice people often use when concealing or ignoring pain, part
icularly old pain.

  “My older brother,” Tobias said. “Yeah, he drew Magnus, I got Tobias, but mom put her foot down and Mary got the easy name to take through school. Heh, not that my brother had a hard time. Did you ever read, oh what's that book called?” he asked, looking at the ice bucket as Mike came up and removed it. “By Roth. Set in Jersey.”

  “American Pastoral,” she said. “Yes.”

  “That's it,” he said. “Well, my brother was the Swede, but unlike Roth's, we actually have Swedish ancestors. He played nearly every sport, captained the teams; flocks of girls after him all the time. I said Mary had the easy name but no one made fun of Magnus. I think one kid, one time, tried to and Magnus walked over to him and asked him what was wrong, like he was concerned—scratch the 'like'—and the kid, who was a minor schoolyard bully, broke into tears. Magnus told him to come outside and throw the ball around—it was lunchtime—and to just forget whatever was bothering him. No more bullying,” Tobias said, smiling goofily at the memory.

  “Wow,” Sally said. “Sounds like he got a fare helping of the Hallström charm.”

  “I had nothing on him,” Tobias said. “Well, at least not back then. I'm a late bloomer. Not him. He was a grown man at thirteen. My dad's pride and joy. Which is probably why he went into the army in 1970. Dad had served in World War II with the 101st Airborne. He'd come to this country as a child, with his grandparents, in the '30s. When war broke out, he joined up. He was in Sicily, behind Normandy, and at Bastogne. Yeah, he'd seen it all. And always been proud of his service, of joining—the US and the Airborne. A frequenter of the local legion, you understand. He said it was in our blood, when he told stories about what he'd done in the war. So despite everyone knowing how bad and useless Vietnam was, Magnus had to join. Surprisingly, my dad was against it. I'd never seen my dad look scared until that dinner when Magnus told us. This was '68, right after the Tet Offensive, for christsake. I don't think dad wanted him to go but wouldn't hold him back, knowing how important it was to him. Yeah, so—he died. About six weeks after he arrived in Vietnam. Wait a minute, wasn't I supposed to be seducing you?” he asked, throwing a leer at Sally.

  “You already did,” she said, sympathy showing around the edges. “Don't be obtuse. What happened?”

  “Oh, you don't get real detailed reports,” Tobias said, toying with his glass of fizzing water. “He'd been shot during operations near some goddamn place, I don't remember the name.”

  “I mean, what happened to you?” she said. “To your family? You said it hit your sister particularly hard.”

  “Yes, that's where this began,” he said. “Well, Magnus apparently knew what Mary hadn't told anyone else: that she was a lesbian. I don't think she knew, actually, or put it into those words, not at the time. She was two years younger than him and, at fifteen, had fallen in love with a girl at school. Not a big deal these days, I guess; people are finally a little more sane about these things. But in 1968? Hell, she didn't know what a lesbian was. All she knew was that it was breaking her heart to see this girl—showering after basketball, hugs and kisses the way girls do, and with all that intimacy best friends share—and have to keep quiet.”

  “Oh no,” Sally said. “That poor girl.”

  “Yeah, it was pretty bad,” he said. “She had to be around this girl—Melissa—all the time and couldn't tell her. Didn't dare. Hell, the penalties back then? She would have been expelled from school at least. Magnus was the only person Mary talked to about it. He'd kept her sane; told her not to worry; said, what's so awful about loving someone? Mary'd always been high strung, on top of it all, and needed that. After he died, she couldn't take the strain. I found out years later that Mary, in hysterics, finally told Melissa that she loved her and Melissa turned out not to be such a nice girl. Apparently she asked if Mary was fucking all the dykes in Georgetown, which was the nicest thing, in retrospect, she could have said. In a daze, that's where Mary went. She met some nice woman at a college meeting, that night, but didn't come home. Not that she shacked up with whomever she met, the woman just took her in. But she didn't come home. She said later, at my dad's funeral, that she felt too ashamed to face us. Wound up going to California.”

  “Oh god, I'm so sorry, Tobias,” Sally said. “And right after your brother's death, too, her running away. That must have been horribly difficult.”

  “Bewildering for me,” he said. “Hard on my parents. My dad, anyway. Mom was a rock. She was a nurse, after all. Worked in the ER; nothing phased her. Oh, she'd cry sometimes. I'd walk into the kitchen and there she'd be sitting at the table, hands folded as if she had set aside those few minutes to cry. She'd say, 'I'm crying about your brother.' No sobbing, silent tears. It hit dad harder. And he hit the bottle. He'd get drunk on Fridays before Magnus died; afterward, every night. He was a happy/sad drunk, never violent. Very sentimental. He'd enlist my help in trying to keep his drinking hidden from mom,” he whispered. “Fat chance. She knew and told me it was alright; that dad was just trying to deal with his loss; and then ask me how I was.”

  “How were you?” Sally asked.

  “Fine,” he said with a shrug and a smile. “Really. I didn't use the phrase at the time, but the journalist popped up then, too. Watching things. I loved my brother as only a ten year old can love a high school hero. And his loss was heavy but I had no experience with the weight. It wasn't until years later that I understood what his death had meant to me, which had nothing to do with his being a high school hero; he was my hero. At the time, though, I saw what his death meant to others. At the funeral, the budding journalist watched and listened. Later I'd call it 'outsider vision.' Seeing a group from within but not as a member of the group. You understand that,” he said.

  She nodded. Her expression had been 'observer's intuition.' “Yes, I understand,” she said. “People are always telling you about themselves, but you rarely open up to others, do you?”

  “No, not often,” he said. Do you count as an 'other?' “Been a while since I was in a relationship of any sort. Almost as long as it's ever been.” He grinned mischievously and said, “Usually, I'm nude and exhausted before I talk about myself at any length.”

  She laughed, maybe feeling the champagne, maybe something else. “Don't let me stop you,” she replied.

  “I better stop myself,” he said.

  “Oh, damn it all,” she said. Her leg found his again under the table. “You've told me some of what happened when you were young—and thank you; it means a lot to me to be trusted, and I know all about concealment, from both sides—but what were you like back then?”

  “Well, I wasn't really interested in girls—until I saw what you could do with them,” he said, leering comically.

  “Not that,” she said. “No man who's still dangerous to women at your age had any interest in girls as a boy. They all had some other interest. What was yours?”

  “Led Zeppelin,” he said.

  “No way,” she said, imitating a roady's squeal.

  “Oh yeah,” he said. “That, without anything else, makes my brother my hero because he introduced me to them when I was about eight years old. To Led Zeppelin I! Not like those band-wagon fans,” he said with facetious scorn. “The epic glory that is Zeppelin is enough, but it led to my career, too, which makes his introduction to them life-alerting to boot.”

  “Listening to Led Zeppelin,” she said slowly, “made you a journalist. Right. Of course. It was on the tip of my tongue.”

  “Ha!” he said. “Some people followed the Dead, I followed Led Zeppelin. Well, mom worked a lot of nights, dad was safely drunk, and there were no siblings around to tell on me,” he said with the bravura of someone familiar with pain, “so at thirteen I started sneaking off to go to concerts. Hitchhiking, usually. Sometimes by train. I stayed away two days once, pretending to call from friends' houses! My senior year in high school, I wrote a review of a concert for the school newspaper (extra credit: needed it). Mrs. Walsh, the advisor, thought it was so good sh
e sent it off to the local paper. They paid me $25, which was enough for a seat at another concert I wanted to see. And a cycle started that continued after graduation. I became a sort of arts-and-entertainment reporter for the now defunct Standard.”

  “So, without a college education,” she said, “you went from concert reviewer—I'm guessing a long-haired, pot smoking concert reviewer—to covering Congress? That's, that's impressive.”

  “I had beautiful hair,” he said wistfully, looking into the distance. He gave her a wink and said: “I have some pictures at home I could show you that will make you very disappointed in how I look now.”

  “I doubt that,” she said. “But I'd love to see them sometime.”

  “Anytime,” he said. “But I did go to college, eventually. Even took a masters in Journalism. Mom made a deal with me. Dad had died in '78—mom said he went to see Magnus,” he said, watching history with a sad smile. “She was right, I think. Died of a broken heart. So, it was just me and mom. (Mary showed up for the funeral but returned to California with her wife afterward; I think she'd been in secret contact with mom.) Anyway, mom wanted me to make something of myself so she agreed to fund my concert going—with airfare, if necessary—provided I went to college part time. Deal! Once the paper saw I was becoming more serious—I was writing honest to god English sentences—they had me cover a wider variety of stories. Mostly stories where my appearance and counter-culture credential would be an asset, which often meant crime stories but not from within the police beat. A lot of drug stories, and this wasn't the happy '60s weed smoking or '70s eight balls at the disco—this was 1981. Crack had just hit the streets. Can't tell you how many times I've had a gun in my face or fired off at me. And the cops were no help until I discovered a few undercover vice squad guys and kept quiet about it. After that, they trusted me and I got tip offs. And didn't get 'accidentally' shot by them. When the Standard folded, I joined The Observer to cover the so-called war on drugs.” They both chuckled, Sally covering her mouth negligently. “Yeah, that's worked out great but it made my career. I spent half the '80s in South America; the other half was split between talking to gangs and harassing Congressmen about drug laws. That eventually led to the glorious position it is now my honor to hold.”