The Hearing

by James Mills

  “Of course. But subviolent.”

  A cloud of silence fell over the white chairs.

  Helen said, “What’s your thinking, Isaac?”

  “Are you talking about lying? If we minded lying we wouldn’t be here. Let’s not get philosophical.”

  “Is that what you meant when you suggested something more effective?”

  “Helen, let’s stop screwing around. This isn’t Politics 101. You want to keep Parham off the Supreme Court, keep him off the Supreme Court. Do what’s necessary.”

  After the meeting, Helen asked Isaac if he needed a lift.

  He said, “Where are you going?”

  “Wherever you are.”

  In the car, Helen said, “Isaac, you’ve been in this town a long time, including places most people never go. In your opinion, as you say, what will we have to do to win?”

  “I like the word subviolent. It’s a nice euphemism.”

  “Euphemism for what?”

  “There’s a spectrum, Helen. What word you use just depends on how many people get hurt. It’s a progression. At first, people call it politics. A smile, a handshake. Polite hypocrisy. A lie. Then gentle intimidation. A small threat. Mild blackmail. Someone gets beaten up. Suicide. Murder. People die. Before you know it, you’ve got bombs in subways, parking garages, department stores. Politics changes its face, changes its name. Now you call it terrorism. But it’s all still politics. Getting people’s approval, getting them to see things your way.”

  “Isaac—”

  “Bombs in London, bombs in Beirut, bombs in Palestine, New York, Oklahoma—acts of war or terrorism or politics? Politics.”

  “Isaac, this is a Senate confirmation hearing.”

  “Sorry. Right. Not even a campaign. Not politics at all.”

  She turned her head to look at him. Warren Gier would have had a cynical smile. Isaac was just staring out the window—looking rumpled, detached, and not very happy.

  Michelle was filled with longing and dread. She wanted to know everything there was to know about Samantha, but she did not want to meet the man who had raised her, cared for her, the man Samantha called Daddy. As the plane banked low over the Mediterranean and its tires screeched onto the tarmac of the Nice airport, Michelle felt fear grow into terror. Where was Samantha? Her adoptive father was waiting in the airport, but where was Samantha?

  She glanced at Gus. He was pale. How would Larry Young react, meeting Samantha’s biological parents? Would he see them as enemies, a threat? Maybe he wouldn’t even talk to them.

  Holding hands, they moved with the crowd through Passport Control, down a corridor, and reached a wide stairway to their left. She looked down the stairway and saw Carl waving up at them. She smiled and waved back, keeping her eyes on his face, not ready to see Larry.

  She started down the stairs, and her knees went limp. She stumbled. Gus grabbed her arm. “You all right?”

  She didn’t answer. She had seen a face at the bottom of the stairs. The face was looking back, timid, trying to smile. A girl. It was like staring into a mirror.

  Carl shook their hands. “Gus … Michelle …”

  The face was behind him, eyes lowered. For the first time, Michelle noticed the man next to Carl.

  Carl said, “How was the flight?”

  “Fine.”

  It was the only word Gus spoke. Michelle reached for his hand. It was damp. She looked at him, tearing her eyes off the girl.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Carl said, “let me introduce Larry Young.”

  They shook hands.

  “How do you do?”

  He appeared as distressed as she was—nice looking, an uncomplicated face, simple enough to look embarrassed.

  “Nice to meet you.”

  “And Samantha.”

  Michelle said, “Hi, Samantha.”

  Samantha put out a hand. The grip was firm, but shock and fear covered her face.

  “It’s wonderful to meet you, Samantha.”

  “Me, too.” The voice was soft. She was as tall as Michelle. “I mean I’m happy to meet you.” Michelle could see it in her eyes—she’d had the same reaction, her face in a mirror.

  Carl said, “Baggage claim is over here.”

  They passed through double glass doors.

  Michelle said, “I’m sorry. Is there a ladies’ room?” She thought she was going to be sick.

  Larry said, “Back up the stairs and turn left.”

  “Thanks.”

  She took three steps, stopped, and heard herself say, “Samantha, would you like to come with me?”

  Stupid! Why would Samantha—

  “Yes, sure.”

  When they reached the bathroom, Michelle went to a sink, splashed water on her face, held her fingers over her eyes, pressing, trying to make her head stop spinning, her thoughts come to rest. She put her hands under the tap. The florescent bulb was broken, flickering. Samantha moved next to her, looked at her in the mirror, staring.

  Michelle smiled back, her face dripping. “Hi.”

  Samantha met her eyes in the mirror, silent.

  Michelle said, “You know who I am, don’t you?”

  Samantha said, “You’re my mother.” Samantha’s head was up, her eyes moist. “You look just like me.”

  Michelle reached for her, touched her shoulder. The water was still running, the bulb flickering.

  “Samantha …”

  The shock and fear were gone, replaced by an expression of uncertain hope.

  “How did you—”

  The uncertainty disappeared and a smile broke out.

  Michelle hugged her. Samantha’s hair smelled like sunshine.

  Gus felt sorry for Larry. Suddenly he finds himself at the Nice airport with a mysterious stranger from the States and a woman who’s the spitting image of his daughter. His tanned, soft, piano player’s face looked bewildered, embarrassed, unfamiliar with all these strange people, uncomfortable with his ignorance of the relationships between them.

  Gus said, “The first thing I want to do, Larry, is answer questions.” He reached into an inside breast pocket of his jacket, withdrew a white envelope, and handed it to Larry. They were with Carl at a bar one flight up from the baggage claim area. Michelle had taken Samantha for a walk around the boutiques.

  Larry’s dark eyes fixed hesitantly on the envelope.

  Gus said, “Open it.”

  Larry tore the envelope, removed six sheets of paper, and studied them for five silent minutes. Then he looked up at Gus and said, “Samantha’s your daughter?” The pages were certified copies of documents attesting to the identity of Gus and Michelle and their relation to Samantha.

  “Yes, Larry. I’m a federal judge in Montgomery, Alabama. I’ve been nominated for a seat on the Supreme Court. People who oppose the nomination have discovered that Samantha is my biological daughter. They’ve also discovered that thirteen years ago, when I first found out my wife Michelle was pregnant, I urged her to end the preg nancy. In fact, I’ve been under the impression throughout our marriage that she had done that. I only found out three weeks ago that she had the child and put her up for adoption and that that child is Samantha. Before I decide to remain as a nominee, Michelle and I want to obtain your and your wife’s permission. We feel that’s necessary because once the news media know about Samantha there’ll be a lot of publicity and we don’t want to put you through that without your permission.”

  Gus had rehearsed this speech a million times, and now he felt as if it had all come out in one breath.

  Larry looked as if he’d turned to stone.

  After about fifteen seconds Gus said, “How do you feel about that?”

  “I don’t know. Sitting here—I mean, meeting you, Samantha’s father, I just … I don’t know what’s—what’s going to happen. I just … love her very much.”

  “Nothing’s going to happen that you don’t want to happen.”

  Larry lowered his head. Gus thought he was crying. But when he looke
d up, his eyes were dry.

  “And that’s really true? You’re Samantha’s real father and you’re going to be a judge on the Supreme Court?”

  “Well, Larry, you say ‘real father.’ I’m her biological father, but I know that, in a sense, you’re her real father. You raised her. I never saw her before today. That upsets me. It upsets me a lot—that Michelle and I lost all those precious years. But I’m not kidding myself. Biology doesn’t make fathers. Time and care makes fathers.”

  Larry stared at Gus. Now Larry’s eyes were moist, and Gus himself knew that if he said another word his own voice would break.

  Larry said, “You’re really going to be a Supreme Court judge? I can’t believe Samantha’s the daughter of a Supreme Court judge.”

  “She’s not, yet. The nomination has to be confirmed. There’s strong opposition. You and Doreen and Samantha may find yourselves under a lot of pressure. I’m not going to let you be put through that unless you agree.”

  “And if I do agree?”

  “You’ll probably find yourself hounded by reporters and by others wanting information from you about how you feel, what you think. Some will want statements critical of me.”

  “That doesn’t sound so difficult. Samantha’ll love it. She’s always ready for a fight. What’s Doreen say? Did she agree? She wanted money, right?”

  “We haven’t asked her yet.”

  Carl said, “I talked to her, when I was looking for you, but no one’s asked her about the nomination.”

  “Don’t bother.”

  “Why?”

  “She won’t care what you do, just as long as she gets something out of it. If you’re concerned about her feelings, forget it. She’s a tough lady. Something like this, she won’t care one way or the other, except as a business proposition.”

  “So you don’t mind if I proceed with the nomination?”

  “No, not at all. Go for it.”

  Gus said, “May I ask you a question?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does Samantha know she’s adopted?”

  “Yes, she does. Doreen told her. I don’t think it upset her too much. She was never all that happy having Doreen as a mother, and there were times when she didn’t think that much of me, either.”

  Gus felt his pulse pounding. He’d been afraid Larry would see him as an adversary, someone who might take Samantha from him.

  Larry said, “She’s happy with me as her father, but—”

  “I’m certain she is.”

  “—but Doreen, to be honest, and I hope you won’t think it’s wrong of me to say this, but being honest, Doreen’s—I don’t know how much you know about Doreen?”

  “Almost nothing.”

  Gus felt Carl’s eyes on him.

  “Not that I’ve been a great father. I haven’t even really been a father. I’ve been away so much and we’ve always had a relationship that was more, sort of—sort of buddies, if you know what I mean. And to tell you the truth, I used to have a pretty bad drinking problem and I think if I’d been more of a father I’d have got that under control sooner than I did.”

  He stopped and gave Gus and Carl a long, steady look.

  “I don’t drink now. And I try to keep Sam away from places where I work. Saint-Tropez is hard. London, I could leave work and it was just a city, lots of things we could do together. But Saint-Tropez’s not a city or a town or anything, it’s just a big playground full of people who want to drink and do drugs and have sex. I go for a walk with Sam and you should see the looks she gets. She’s very mature for her age. People think she’s my girlfriend. Everyone wants to meet her, rich guys, guys with yachts with helicopters on the back. Sooner or later one of them’s gonna get through to her, and then what? I see her staring at guys, really good- looking guys, and you can see it in her eyes, it’s natural, she’s attracted. I’m afraid what could happen. Maybe I should send her away to school, but I looked into that in London and that’s not so great either, a thirteen-year-old with her parents on the other side of an ocean. I’ve seen what happens. So I don’t know. I’m sorry. I’m just going on. You didn’t come to hear all this.”

  He stopped. No one said anything. Finally, Gus broke the silence.

  “There’s something else, Larry, and this may be more difficult for you. We’ve had information that for the past few days an investigator working for a group of people who oppose my nomination has been in and around Saint-Tropez—”

  “Saint-Tropez?”

  “Yes. We don’t know what he’s there for. We don’t know if he knows about you and Samantha or if for some reason he just followed Carl there. But it’s troubling having him around you and Samantha. So—well, I’d like to suggest that you and Samantha come back to the States with us. We’ll put you up someplace comfortable, just until the confirmation procedure is over.”

  It was a toss-up who looked more surprised, Larry or Carl.

  Larry said, “I can’t do that. I’ve got a contract. If I just took off—I can’t do that. When? When do you want to leave?”

  “The next flight. Tomorrow morning.”

  “I can’t. Even if everything else was right—I mean, I haven’t had a chance to think about it, but even if—no, I can’t. I’ve got another six weeks on my contract. Is it that important? I mean, this guy—why’s he here? What can he do? So we’re here and he’s here. What’s he gonna do?”

  “We don’t know.”

  Carl said, “And we don’t want to find out.”

  Gus said, “Larry, what if for a few weeks, Samantha just took a vacation, went away on a trip for a while. Would that upset you? Is that a possibility?”

  “Well, I—”

  “And then we’d bring her back, or you could come over and get her.”

  “If—this is coming at me pretty fast. I’m not sure why this is all so important. That she leave here. What’s the problem? Really.”

  Carl said, “Larry, maybe this is just what you’re looking for, get Samantha out of the Saint-Tropez atmosphere for a while. Maybe—”

  Gus interrupted. “The people who oppose this nomination will want to make as much as they can out of my suggestion to Michelle that she end the pregnancy. To get maximum mileage out of that, they’ll want to publish pictures of Samantha, probably try to talk to her. They’ll search for her, want to televise her. They will be very, very persistent. Having seen one of their investigators in Saint-Tropez, it’s likely they already know she’s here. If she comes to the States with us we can put her up someplace safe where none of these people will be able to get to her. I would just feel very nervous about getting on a plane out of here and leaving Samantha—well, I don’t want to sound alarming, but leaving her unprotected.”

  “You think she’s in danger?”

  “I don’t think she’s in physical danger, but—”

  Carl made an abrupt movement in his chair and let out an animal-like snort that said, Oh yeah?

  Gus said, “You can be on the phone with Samantha as much as you like. And we’ll be in touch with you by phone, as well.”

  Larry said, “Will Doreen know where she is?”

  “No one will know where she is. Except us.”

  Samantha and Michelle came through the door of the bar and headed for the table.

  Gus said, “Why don’t you talk it over with Samantha—and Michelle, too, if you want.”

  Five minutes later, when Samantha heard from Larry the suggestion that she go to Washington, she almost dropped her Coke glass. Suddenly she was once again the Samantha who’d banged on the car window in Saint-Tropez.

  “Go to Washington? Without you? With them? I don’t even know them.”

  Gus and Michelle tried to be invisible. Larry said, “They’re your parents, Samantha.”

  “My parents! I never saw them before. You’re my parent, you and—you’re my father.” She cocked her head at Gus. “He’s not my father. I’m not going anywhere with him.”

  Larry said, “Don’t talk like that, Sa
mantha. It’s best if you go to Washington.”

  She looked at Gus. “I’m sorry.” Back to Larry. “It’s not best. How can it be best? If it’s so good, you come. You come, too. You come with me, and I’ll go.”

  “I can’t come. I explained that. I’ve got a contract.”

  “You’ve got a contract. So what am I, chopped liver?”

  “Don’t be rude, Samantha.”

  He looked down at his coffee.

  Samantha’s fists were clenched.

  Larry said, “It’s just for a few weeks, Samantha, maybe a couple of months. It’s not forever. It’d be good to get to know your real parents. Someday you’ll be glad you got to know them.”

  “They’re not my real parents. You’re my father. They’re not like you. They scare me.”

  “They don’t scare you, Samantha. Don’t say that. We can speak on the phone.”

  Samantha put her hands to her face, then clasped them in her lap and remained silent. In a moment, tears replaced words. Samantha looked at Larry and said softly, “Daddy, I don’t want to go.”

  It was a final plea, made to anything and everything that might be touchable in his heart.

  “I’m sorry, honey. I don’t want you to go. But …”

  She smiled miserably through her tears. “Yeah. But …”

  Michelle wondered how many times Samantha had had conversations like this. And how many times they had ended like that. “Yeah. But …”

  15

  Samantha’s face was alive in the brilliance of sunlight reflected from banks of clouds beneath them. Alive but troubled. Michelle, sitting on the aisle, slipped over into the center seat beside Samantha. She put her head next to Samantha’s and looked with her through the narrow window.

  “Beautiful.” Maybe she could cheer her up.

  Samantha smiled and nodded, but did not speak.

  The night before, Michelle and Gus had asked Samantha to call them by their first names. They wanted her to know they did not expect her suddenly to stop thinking of Doreen and Larry as Mom and Dad. Samantha had only shrugged.

  Michelle looked with Samantha through the window at the clouds and sunshine. Referring to the difficulty of leaving Larry, she said, “Is it better now?”