Mid-Life Friends and Illusions

by Jeffrey Freeman

  “Beth, is it?” Samuel asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You don’t have to do that,” he said, pointing at the coffee. “It’s not politically correct.” He smiled his campaign-winning smile.

  “Well, technically, Senator, it’s only politically incorrect if you asked me to get coffee. There’s nothing wrong with me taking the initiative.”

  “Oh? I thought you went to Vassar. I’m pretty sure the women’s lib movement wouldn’t approve.”

  She smiled. “I did. And whether they approve or not is their problem. Will there be anything else, Senator?”

  “Just one. Do you prefer Miz Ware or is Beth all right?”

  “If you call me Miz Ware, Senator, I’ll assume I have done something wrong.”

  He took a sip of coffee. “Thank you, Beth.”

  “You’re welcome, Senator.” She closed the door behind her.

  His intercom buzzed. “Yes, Jean?” he answered.

  “Senator Ramirez won’t be available until after lunch,” came the soft-spoken reply.

  Samuel checked the time. “1:25.” “After lunch” was code for after four pm. It meant that Senator Ramirez had had more than one drink with lunch and was now partaking of a siesta, customary for Latinos even those from south Florida. “Fine. Remind me, please.”

  “Yes, sir.” The intercom clicked off.

  Samuel began skimming the Florida file, looking for points of agreement and points of contention for his eventual meeting with Chairman Ramirez.

  A knock on his door. “Yes?”

  Sara walked in. “Afternoon, daddy.”

  “Sara, what are you doing here?”

  She plopped in a chair opposite him. “I had some follow-up questions about your accident.”

  “Howard’s accident,” he corrected her. “You could have called. How’d you get here anyway?”

  “I got the last seat on the same plane you were on out of Burlington. Guess you didn’t see me.”

  “No, I, look I have, ah, look why don’t you talk to Howard about it? Are you staying over or are you headed right back?” He regretted the suggestion almost before it came out. He forced last night’s image out of his mind.

  She stood. “Just tonight.”

  “Okay, were you planning on staying at the apartment?”

  “No, I’m billing my editor for a hotel. I don’t think he’ll mind.” She opened the door. Looking at Howard, she asked, “So you don’t mind if I borrow Howard for a while?”

  Howard swallowed, tried not to blush. Both Jean and Beth noticed his discomfort.

  “Don’t keep him long,” Samuel called. “He’s got a lot of work to do. Dinner later?”

  “I’ll call you,” she replied to Samuel, though smiling at Howard.

  It was three-thirty before Howard returned to the office. Jean greeted him. “He said the minute you got back.” She gestured at Samuel’s closed door.

  Howard rapped on the inner door before opening it.

  Samuel looked up. “How’d it go?”

  Howard rubbed his chin. “She is a tough cookie. I hope she’s not planning a move to the Washington press corps any time soon.”

  “I have no clue.” Samuel thought for a moment. “God, I don’t have a clue.” He let out a long breath. “Did she say anything about dinner?”

  “Dinner?” Howard appeared caught off-guard.

  “She said she’d call but as you know by now she’s a bit unpredictable.”

  “Ah, dinner with you, no, she did not. You have everything you need for Senator Ramirez?”

  “Yes, I think so. But I’m still puzzled. I can’t find any reason why he’s hesitant to support Florida rail.”

  The intercom buzzed. Samuel pressed the button but before he could speak, Jean’s voice announced, “Senator Ramirez’s office on the line. He can see you at four. Shall I confirm?”

  “That’ll be fine. It shouldn’t take more than ten, fifteen minutes,” Samuel answered. “Move whatever you need to on the calendar.”

  Howard turned to leave.

  “How’d you make out with the rental car?” Samuel asked.

  Howard faced him, hung his head. “Five hundred deductible.”

  “That’s not too bad. It was official business. We should be able to cover that.”

  Howard raised his head. “Thanks. There will also be charges, as yet unspecified, for loss of use of the vehicle while it is being repaired or replaced.”

  “You better talk to Ed quick before he spends everything we took in yesterday.”

  “Look, Chief, if things are that tight, I can cover the deductible.”

  “I was kidding. Ed wouldn’t spend a penny without okaying it with me first. Maybe you should spend some quality time with Ed and Betty. Get to know us better,” Samuel said, reaching for his jacket. The look on Howard’s face told Samuel he still didn’t get it. He touched Howard on the shoulder in passing. “Don’t worry, I wouldn’t let you do it. Cost me too many votes.”

  After Samuel had departed and with Howard still in the inner office, Beth quietly asked, “Jean, why do they call Missus Winters ‘jaws’?”

  Jean’s glasses dropped on her chest, dangling by the chain. Her fingers stopped typing. “Where did you hear that?” she snapped.

  Beth was taken aback. “From one of the girls,” she said hesitantly.

  Susan hid her face, typing nothing furiously on her own keyboard.

  “Nobody calls her that,” Jean hissed. “Not in this office.” She looked at Howard through the open door. “And don’t you if you want to keep your job.”

  “Sorry.”

  Jean put her glasses back on and continued typing. Beth shot Susan a dirty look.

  Without looking at her, Jean reminded Beth, “Curiosity killed the cat.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Beth responded.

  Senator Ramirez’s office befit his many years in Washington. It was much larger than Samuel’s. Photo-op pictures of the senator and important Washington people, past and present, bedecked the outer and inner offices. They told the story of his longevity in this world of power brokers, from the telltale boyish grin and full, wavy hair in black and whites to the frozen smile that followed in a parade of coloreds from brown hair to the current thinning styled silver locks.

  “Samuel,” the gravely voice laced with sugar cane syrup called from inside the open door. “Come in here. Tell me how I can help you.” It was Senator Ramirez’s standard greeting. It instantly put every visitor in the senior senator’s debt. Samuel knew the ploy too well to be deceived.

  “Senator, good of you to see me on such short notice,” Samuel countered, walking briskly, extending his hand before Ramirez could fully rise to greet him.

  Just after five, Howard’s cell phone vibrated in his shirt pocket. An 802-area code—Vermont. He didn’t recognize the number and there was no name associated with it. “Yes?” he answered. Jean watched him. “I thought we had that all cleared up,” he said. Short pause. “We are still working here.” Another short pause. “I will see what I can do.”

  Howard knocked before entering.

  “What?” Samuel asked, looking up from a file on his desk.

  “The, uh, insurance company. They want some additional information. I have to sign some forms.”

  “Okay.” Samuel returned to studying the file.

  “I do not want them coming here. It might raise questions.”

  Samuel smiled at him. “Yes.” Then it dawned on him. “Oh, I see. Go ahead. I won’t need you any more tonight.”

  “You are sure?”

  “Yes, absolutely.” Samuel looked at his watch. “In fact, tell Jean and the others they can leave as well.”

  “Somebody should stay.”

  “Fine, Jean, then.” Samuel’s attention went back to the file.

  Howard closed the door behind him.

  “He said everyone can leave,” he announced to the staff. Everyone began putting their work away, locking drawers, power
ing-off computers, and gathering their personal belongings. “Except you, Jean. Someone should be here to answer the phone, et cetera.”

  Jean closed her purse. “Fine,” she said. Unintentional resentment came through her voice.

  “Is that a problem?” he asked.

  “No, no problem,” came the curt reply. She turned her computer back on. “I’d promised my sister. It doesn’t matter.”

  “I can stay,” Beth interjected.

  They both looked at her. “He’s not expecting anyone,” Jean offered.

  Howard again rapped on the door, holding it open and leaning in. “Beth is going to stay, if that is acceptable.”

  Samuel looked puzzled momentarily. “That’s fine.” He resumed studying.

  Pentagon City, well away from Capitol Hill. Most of the shops were already closed. They served the day crowd, not the after-hours people.

  Howard stood just inside the door of a small snackbar, looking very Sam Spadish in his cream colored trench coat, top button undone, collar pulled high on the back of the neck, belt stuffed in the pockets. Sara intently watched him over her paper cup of coffee. The thin, middle-aged man with dark thinning hair watched them from behind the counter. Sara felt the stare. She smiled at him. Howard sat down. She stood.

  “Let’s go,” she said.

  “You said you had more questions,” he protested.

  “The man wants to close,” she answered.

  Howard saw she was right. They were the only ones in the shop. The lights in the display cases had been turned off. The thin man behind the counter had an unwelcoming look.

  “I’m at the Marriott. Next stop down.”

  Howard was uncomfortable walking next to her through the Marriott lobby to the elevator. He felt every eye was on him, perhaps even the FBI. It was all in his guilty mind. No one was watching, much less caring, that he was escorting an attractive woman several years his junior to a hotel room at the end of a workday. If they had stopped to talk in the lounge it would have been a different story. There, many minds behind the inquiring eyes would have speculated on their relationship and pending activity.

  Sara tossed her coat with the ricochet tear on the bed. She stepped out of her shoes.

  “What is it you want?” he asked.

  “You have to ask?” Her business-like demeanor morphed into a determined coquettishness.

  “You came all this way just for that?”

  “When I want something, I go for it.”

  “This is not happening,” Howard protested.

  “No? Daddy’s little helper?” Sara asked, her smile expanding devilishly.

  “No,” he said with all the conviction he could muster. “I just lied to your father about meeting the insurance people. I am not doing this.”

  She walked past him. Turned the security lock. He turned to face her.

  She stepped toe-to-toe with him, reached up and unfastened the second button on his overcoat. He grabbed her hand, preventing her from undoing another. She pressed her body into his.

  “Do you know why daddy doesn’t like me?” she asked.

  “I was not aware that he does not.” His nervousness showed in his grammar.

  “It’s because I respond to a challenge like a man. Women are supposed to respond to a need. I don’t. I’m more like him than mommy.”

  Her left hand undid the third button. He grabbed it. For a moment, time was suspended, he holding her wrists firmly, she pressing firmly against him, each staring into the other’s eyes.

  “I like being told no. It invigorates me. When they told me I couldn’t complete undergrad in three years, I did it just for spite.” She emphasized the last word by shoving her pelvis against his leg. “When they told me I couldn’t survive without daddy’s money, I proved I could.” She shoved him again.

  He swallowed. “I do not appreciate being raped.”

  Her smile was devilish. “Really? As I recall, you seemed to be enjoying it.”

  “The sex, what man can help himself? The act itself, no, I did not.”

  They both recognized his folly in uttering the word, “no;” she first, then him.

  He snorted, simultaneously signaling acknowledgement of his error and dismissing it as inconsequential. “I repeat, this is not happening.”

  “Maybe you’d rather I tell daddy about Vermont. How you seduced me when I was most vulnerable.”

  “You would not,” he said unconvincingly.

  She laughed. “No, I wouldn’t. But I would tell him I fucked your brains out and you loved it. That he would believe. After, I’ll still be his albeit distant daughter. Will you still be his chief of staff?”

  “I will take my chances.” He threw her wrists aside, staring hard at her, his eyebrows arched. He took one step past her toward the door. She grabbed his crotch from behind. Even through the overcoat, she could tell he was aroused.

  “Just wanted to be certain. Call me when …”

  He pushed past her, out the door, slamming it in frustration behind him. He heard her laughter as he walked away.

  Samuel leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. It was nearly dark outside. A light rap on his door. “Come,” he said.

  Beth held onto the knob as she opened the door. “I’m going to get something from the cafeteria before they close. Can I bring you something, Senator?”

  “No, thank you, Beth.” His stomach growled. He changed his mind. “A sandwich, piece of fruit, a little something. I won’t be much longer.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  She carefully closed the door. She smiled to herself. The phone rang.

  “Senator Winters’ office,” she answered. “Just a moment, sir. I’ll see if he’s still here.” She put the call on “hold.” “A Mister Walter Bensen for you, Senator?”

  “I’ll take it,” Samuel responded. He took a deep breath before punching the lit button. “Walter, what can I do for you this evening?” He leaned back, putting his feet on the desk.

  The voice from the other end was cordial but more business-like than their face-to-face conversation. “Y’all are working late, Senator.”

  “The people’s business never sleeps. And I never seem to get enough of either.” It was a standard phrase Samuel used. It usually drew at least a smile, often a polite chuckle from the recipient. There was no reaction from Walter that Samuel could detect.

  “I’m sorry we didn’t have a chance to finish our conversation,” Walter said.

  Samuel noticed a decided lack of a Texas drawl.

  “You are undoubtedly aware of certain competing interests regarding our high-speed rail.”

  “I’m sure there will be others interested in its construction and operation,” Samuel said.

  “It’s not that so much I’m concerned with. I’m pretty certain we can outbid whoever. No,” Walter said the drawl creeping back into his voice, “it’s certain parties who don’t want it built, y’all understand?’

  “I understand that the governor is on the fence.”

  “Not him,” Walter interrupted. “Ah kin handle that good ole boy. He’s a dyed-in-the-wool politician. You evah hear of Martín Czeiler?”

  Samuel thought for a moment before answering. “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Uh huh, well, let me clue y’all in about this here Senior Czeiler. His real name is Martin but he calls himself Martín so’s he can blend in. He’s a New York Jew married inta the Miami Cuban mafia. Y’all might have seen him slippin’ in the back door of my headquarters as you was walkin’ out the front.”

  Samuel’s feet hit the floor.

  “I’m goin’ ta send y’all some background material that y’all won’t find on the Internet.”

  “Okay,” Samuel replied, slowly drawing out the word.

  “The man’s as dirty as the day is long. But he’s got some powerful friends. New York. Washington. Miami. Tel Aviv. Y’all call me after ya have time ta digest it. Courier should be there first thing.”

  “I’ll do that.�
�

  “Good talkin’ ta y’all, Sam.” The phone clicked dead.

  Samuel dropped the receiver on the cradle. He swiveled to stare at the picture behind him. The look on his face showed precisely what he was thinking—what the hell have I gotten myself into?

  “I found an apple and a ham sandwich in the vending machine,” Beth announced.

  Surprised, he spun to face her. He hadn’t heard the door open.

  “The apple feels good,” she said, “but I’m not so sure about the sandwich.” She set both on the desk. “Shall I make some fresh coffee?”

  “No, thank you, Beth. I won’t be much longer. In fact, why don’t you go ahead? Just lock the door.”

  “Thank you, sir. If you’re sure?”

  He waved. “Yes, I’m sure. Good night. Thanks for staying late.”

  After she left and he heard the click of the outside door locking, he dropped the apple and the sandwich in the wastebasket. He was too curious to eat. What was in the packet that would cause a man like Walter to speak so plainly and so derisively? Samuel’s words had foreshadowed him. He wasn’t going to get much sleep this night. His private cell phone buzzed in his pants pocket.

  “Sara?” he answered.

  “Did you forget about dinner?” she asked.

  “No,” he lied.

  “I’m at the Marriott. Unless you don’t want to.”

  “No, that’s fine. Meet you in the dining room.”

  Samuel followed the crowd down the long escalator to the Metro stop. It was impossible to walk faster; the moving stairs were packed with homeward bound commuters. No one said anything but he could feel the anger and frustration just under the surface from having had to endure another eight or nine hours of servitude at jobs they felt owned them but about which they bragged to their friends and distant relatives who knew nothing of Washington life. The forced niceties of the day ended with the dash for home.

  The gray concrete of the Metro stops was in concert to the gray lives of most workers crowded there. Color punctuated both the instant the doors of the train opened. In a flurry, people pushed and shoved to get out, others doing likewise to get in before the doors chimed shut. Unlike in an elevator, the doors didn’t open if one’s arm or briefcase got caught in the closing jaws. Only when the conductor noticed a blinking safety light would he momentarily stop the train and open the doors. You had a split second to retrieve your body part or parcel before the doors slammed shut again. Samuel’s coat caught in the doors. The train did not stop.