The Senator and the Priest

by Andrew M. Greeley

  “Will the Senator from Illinois yield?” Jeremey Cline from Oregon.

  “The Senator from Illinois gladly yields to the distinguished Senator from Oregon.”

  A small man from a small town in eastern Oregon who wandered around the Senate with the perpetual frown of someone who thinks someone else is trying to put something over on him.

  “Will the Senator from Illinois please explain the reason for all the rush about this piece of legislation? Why didn’t we get a chance to read it before today and to discuss it?”

  “The Senator from Kentucky already explained the urgency. We fear an epidemic of such misuse of the right of eminent domain all around the country unless we act quickly. Moreover as the Senator from Oregon doubtless remembers we had extensive debate on this legislation before the holiday recess. Comments were, I’m sure the record will show, quite favorable. There simply was no time to vote on it. My colleague from Kentucky and I think it is important that we complete Senate action on the legislation before we are caught up in the tumult of legislation that we will have to consider as we prepare for the election in November.”

  “Thank you, Senator.”

  I noticed that both leaders had enough dependable men on the floor to win easily. During the voting men moved in and out of the Senate to signal the clerk, thumbs-up, thumbs-down how they wanted to vote. There were only a handful of thumbs down. No one loses many votes by opposing venal local governments and greedy developers.

  We carried the day. I was elated. Immigration and eminent domain were two promises I had made during the election campaign. I had delivered on both of them. As long as there was a semblance of bipartisanship in the Senate, one could move quickly on an important issue.

  There were some handshakes of congratulations. The two leaders appeared together to commend us.

  “We’d better watch it,” said my guy, “these two connivers might have their eyes on our jobs.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Hat’s guy, who was notorious for the fact that his wit was a vestigial organ. “Still they work well together.”

  “It’s the blarney, Senator.”

  At the door of the chamber, Robbie waited with a warm smile of congratulations.

  The woman was flirtatious, but it was hard to prove it. Also very distracting. My imagination was unruly whenever she was near.

  “Will you speak to the media, Senator?”

  I looked at Hat.

  Why not?

  “I want it to be clear to everyone,” Hat began, “that I have not been taken in by this conniving Democrat from Chicago. However, he’s not a bad man for a Democrat. He’s a man you can work with on matters that pertain to the common good of all Americans.”

  “I’m delighted by the passage of the McCoy-Moran bill and to have my name on with that of Senator McCoy. I think many of our colleagues who are running for reelection will be happy when they realize how popular this act is.”

  “Do you think Senator it will be signed before the November election?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised at all.”

  There was another celebration in the office.

  “All you guys want to do is drink champagne on the Senate’s time!”

  “Not bad, Senator,” Chris said, “not bad at all. You work well with folk from the mountains.”

  “As long I’m a going along with whatever they a telling me to do.”

  “It will probably be the last victory until the next session in January.”

  “I know that, Chris, so everyone enjoy your champagne.”

  My personal phone rang. I picked it up. I knew who it would be.

  “I’m not sure, Senator, that I could vote for you again. What kind of Senator is it who keeps two promises during his first year in office?”

  “A Senator who gets the best legal advice possible from a member of the Supreme Court bar.”

  We both laughed. How long had it been since my wife and I had laughed together.

  Chris’s prediction was correct. The election was close, but we lost. Democrats have to win by substantial majorities in key states or one way or another they lose. That’s just the way things work out. We picked up a couple of seats in the Senate. We were in striking distance. When we adjourned for the holiday recess, the Minority Leader caught me in the dining room after I had lunch with Mary Rose, who had walked over from Gonzaga.

  “Bye, Daddy. The Boss wants to talk to you.”

  “That child gets more like her mother every day,” he said to me.

  “Funny, I noticed that too.”

  “You’re moving up in seniority in both committees, Tommy.”

  “I’m not sure that’s a good idea, though maybe I’ll get to ask my questions earlier.”

  “I’m wondering if you would be willing to become part of our leadership team, Assistant Minority Whip for a start. You’re affable and charming, but you’re also as tough as they come. We need people like you in the Congressional leadership. We could offer you one of those hideaways where you can work on your books.”

  “I’d be happy to do so, Senator. I’ll learn more about how the Senate works.”

  “Our day is coming, Tommy, our day is coming.”

  When I told my wife about the new job on our way to a reception at the British Embassy, I said apologetically that I knew I should have asked her first.

  “Tommy love, you knew what I would say. You don’t have to ask me anything when you know what I will say. I’m proud of you!”

  I realized that she thought I was much better at the job than I really was. She thought I was becoming a power in the land. I didn’t want that to happen, but I didn’t want to disappoint her either.

  CHAPTER 24

  I WAS HAILED as a success as an assistant during the next year and a half. The national news magazines described me in the very words the leader had used (and apparently given them). I was charming and affable but as tough as they come.

  I wasn’t ashamed of that label. My good wife was ecstatic, though we were having less and less time for one another. I knew that after the off-year election, we would be only a vote or two from taking control of the Senate. Then I would have to make up my mind about reelection. I kept telling myself that it was a wise idea to quit when I was ahead.

  Three and a half years after our trip to the Beltway and the beginning of my term in the Senate they went after my daughter—the Examiner, Leander Schlenk, and Bobby Bill Roads. And eventually my brother. The costs of being a Senator had become unacceptable. I made up my mind I would not run for reelecton.

  Mary Rose had creamed—her word—Gonzaga. She had become a young woman who in most ways was a clone of her mother, though her hair was even brighter and her poise even more self-assured and she lectured us daily on what we should do. We were proud that she would be the valedictorian and did not dare suggest what she might say in her address—unless she asked, which she certainly would not do.

  There then appeared an article on the front page:

  DID TOMMY’S KID CHEAT OTHER GIRL OF HIGH SCHOOL HONOR?

  Mother Alleges School Cooked Records

  The ethical problems that have dogged Cute Little Tommy Moran since he was elected to the United States Senate have now tainted his daughter, Mary Rose Moran, age 17. Mrs. Cordelia Burton Mulholland has charged that the Tom Cruise of the United States Senate has conspired with the Jesuit Fathers at Gonzaga to cheat her daughter Agnes of the valedictorian prize to be awarded at the school’s graduation ceremony next week.

  “My Aggie is smarter than the Moran girl,” Mrs. Mulholland said, “and has better marks.”

  “Aggie’s a nice kid,” Mary Rose told us. “Kind of shy. Her mother’s a pusher. Everyone knows that I had better marks.”

  I was reassured until the evening news the next day reported the “controversy” over Senator Moran’s daughter.

  Standing in front of the old Victorian pile of bricks that house the Prep, Aggie’s mother, a thin, perfervid woman with disorderl
y blond hair and a rapid-flow voice made her claim.

  “Everyone in the school knows that they have cheated my Aggie. The poor kid is brighter than that little slut. She had better marks and should be valedictorian. She needs it to get into Harvard. She is not lucky enough to have a Senator for a father. I’m going to sue the Jesuits and Senator Moran and make them appoint Aggie as valedictorian.”

  Then Burton Braxton, a high-powered and high-priced Washington lawyer replaced her on the screen from the booklined sanctum of his law office.

  “It would seem there’s prima facie validity in Ms. Mulholland’s claim and she has the right to seek relief. Her daughter’s grade score is 3.68, surely high enough for a valedictorian. We’re going to file a motion asking the school to show cause why it should not reveal the scores of both young women.”

  Finally Fr. Michael Crosby, S.J., the president of the Prep, stopped in mid-flight while rain poured down.

  “As a matter of policy we don’t reveal the grades of our students,” the young priest said. “However, I do know that Ms. Moran has had the highest grades in her class for the last four years.”

  Robbie Becker, leaning very close to me as I watched, was irate.

  “Did they call for a comment?”

  “No, Tom, they didn’t.”

  Even beautiful young women should not call me Tom. It’s either “Tommy” or “Senator.”

  “We should issue a statement. ‘Senator Thomas Moran denied that he had ever spoken to the Jesuits at the Prep about his daughter being valedictorian of her class. He also denied any knowledge of a conspiracy.’”

  “You could sue her for calling Mary Rose a slut.”

  “What good would that do?”

  When I returned home about nine-thirty, the four women in my life, all wearing the standard issue of jeans and sweatshirts, were gathered in a solemn high conference. The eldest partner was in high dudgeon, the others, as they would say were “like totally cool.”

  “Chill out, Mom,” the eldest daughter was saying in the tone of voice of a patient grandmother reproving an out-of-control teen. “It’s no big deal.”

  “That bitch called you a slut.”

  “That’s not a word we use around this house,” said little Mary Ann, not so little any more.

  “Two words actually,” Mary Therese added.

  “Everyone knows she’s off the wall,” Mary Rose insisted. “What difference does it make?”

  “It will be on national television tomorrow!”

  “My fifteen minutes of fame.”

  Mary Margaret turned to me.

  “I suppose you think we should just let it go?”

  Those were fighting words.

  “Which one of your colleagues will represent us in court?”

  I knew that she’d already laid court plans.

  “Jack Ahern.”

  “Ah, a true fighting Irishman. You have doubtless recommended to him that he warn Braxton Burton …”

  “Burton Braxton! You always do that!”

  “I beg the court’s pardon …”

  Giggles from the daughters.

  “That unless there is an apology for the use of the term ‘slut,’ his clients will seek relief.”

  “I don’t want to have to prove that I’m not a slut!” Maryro sighed, “It’s all too heavy.”

  “You can show them that you’re still a virgin,” Marytre chortled.

  “Brat!”

  “You’ll be on national TV tomorrow,” her mother insisted.

  “I can take care of myself.”

  “Since you’re your mother’s daughter, we have no doubt about that.”

  In bed that night as we tried to sleep, Marymarg sighed, “It’s Bobby Bill again.”

  “Of course. He saw the piece in the Examiner and moved in with big bucks for the legal heavy.”

  “Do we want our children to live this way?”

  “A good argument for not seeking reelection.”

  Leander Schlenk was at it again the next morning.

  LIKE FATHER LIKE DAUGHTER

  Polls show that the people of Illinois would like to have H. Rodgers Crispjin back in the United States Senate. Small wonder. Cute Little Tommy Moran, the Tom Cruise of the Senate, is back in court again with the charge that he and his daughter conspired to steal the valedictory at her high school from another young woman who had earned it. Tommy is always in court, it seems. He has been charged with stealing the senatorial election three years ago, living illegally in a multi-million-dollar house in Washington, demanding an increase in the advance on his clunker of a book after he was elected, and using Senate funds for his annual trip to a high-toned Mexican resort. With good example like that, one can understand his daughter’s legerdemain with her grades.

  There was no truth in any of these allegations and in fact there were no active suits, save for a motion for a rehearing in Supreme Court on the outcome of the Senatorial election. Already rejected once, this motion would certainly be rejected again. But it did keep alive the myth that we had stolen the election from the distinguished H. Rodgers Crispjin.

  We had made the decision to refrain from any direct replies to Schlenk and simply issue statements denying the charges, as I had yesterday. But trying to fight back would be to play his game. It was, however, hard not to.

  As usual the Daily News picked up the denial and printed it the day after the attack. I’m not sure how many would read it, however. People don’t read denials.

  “Well,” said Maryro at breakfast, “I’m going to see the president and the headmaster this morning.”

  “Ah?” I said.

  “And … ?” my wife wondered.

  “I’m going to settle the matter.”

  Beyond that deponent sayeth not.

  Nor did her parents ask her.

  “So chill out,” she said as she left for school, her junior partner trailing after her.

  “We’ll cream them,” Maran assured us.

  At noon a call came to the office.

  “Mary Rose?”

  “Who else?”

  “Well?” I said to the phone.

  “Like Maran said we creamed them. And, Daddy dear, your daughter will be on all the networks tonight.”

  “Did you tell your mother?”

  “Of course! You’ll both be proud of me. Gotta run now. Bye!”

  At six o’clock all the four TV monitors in the office went on. My daughter was the lead off on all of them. In her school uniform and accompanied by another stern Irish goddess (as in Biona or Siona or Erihu) she strode out of the red brick building and faced the media with poised confidence.

  MEDIA: Mary Rose, is it true that you met with the school authorities this morning?

  MARY ROSE: Ms. Moran, please.

  MEDIA: What did you talk about? Did you admit that Aggie Mulholland had higher grades?

  Ms. MORAN: Hardly, I told the president and the headmaster that I would not give the valedictory address. They said I had to. I said again that I would not They said that I couldn’t graduate and that I wouldn’t get a diploma.

  MEDIA: What did you say?

  Ms. MORAN: I told them that I didn’t care. I already had a

  President’s Scholarship to Georgetown University because I’m a National Merit Scholar. So I was out of there. MEDIA: You scared them?

  Ms. MORAN: I hope so. My grades are my business—and my parents’ and God’s. I’m not in competition with anyone and I don’t want to get into a public argument about them. That defeats the whole purpose of knowledge being a good in itself. I won’t do it.

  MEDIA: Do you think the Jesuits conspired to make you the valedictorian?

  Ms. MORAN: I trust the integrity of the Jesuits. I know what my grades were. I don’t know Aggie’s and I don’t want to know. But if she wants to be valedictorian, that’s fine with me. Like I say, I’m out of here.

  (The two solemn goddesses stalked away.)

  MEDIA: Ms. Moran … One more question. We
re you accepted at Harvard?

  Ms. Moran (glaring over her shoulder): Yes.

  MEDIA: Why are you going to Georgetown?

  Ms. MORAN (wicked grin): Because my poor family needs me here!

  My phone rang.

  “Tommy, who is this child!”

  “Her mother’s daughter!”

  Then my brother called.

  “Tommy, it’s what I’ve been warning you about all along. That girl is so proud, so hard. You have to make her give the prize to the other poor child.”

  My stomach twisted as it usually does when I get one of those calls from Tony.

  “You didn’t watch very carefully, Tony. She did just that.”

  “There’s no gentleness, no femininity, no grace in her. You and Mary have really failed her.”

  “On the contrary, I thought she was very graceful.”

  And then, my gut turning over and over and over, I hung up.

  Needless to say the two little witches were inordinately proud of themselves.

  That night as the five of us watched a repeat performance on the evening news, Mary Rose, serenely proud of herself, was embarrassed.

  “I was a little brat,” she exclaimed.

  “You were wonderful,” I said.

  “I could never do that when I was your age,” her mother added.

  “She could too, couldn’t she, Daddy?”

  “She never had to, but she did some equally gutsy things like the day your great-grandmother died.”

  “We’ve never heard that story,” Maran complained.

  “Ask your grandmother when she’s here for the graduation.”

  The next news item was the president of Gonzaga Prep announcing that if necessary he would appeal any court order forcing him to reveal the grades of his students all the way to the United States Supreme Court.