Thy Brother's Wife

by Andrew M. Greeley

  * * *

  Michael Cronin’s suite in the John Hancock Center was equipped as a sort of halfway hospital, with a nurse in attendance as well as a housekeeper. Sean visited his father every week, a ritual that left him emotionally exhausted. The doctors assured him that his father’s crippling stroke had been inevitable, but Sean knew that their quarrel about Mary Eileen had been the catalyst.

  When the hospital first called to tell him of the stroke he had still been so angry that he had refused to go to see his father. Then the rage faded. Who was he to sit in judgment of another human being? Nora had been right again.

  The old man sat in his room and either watched television or stared at Lake Michigan. He could walk a few feet by himself and with one hand operate the television remote control. Sometimes he would scratch a few words on a pad of paper attached to the side of his wheelchair. Often, when Sean left their brief meeting, he wondered if the magical science that had saved his father’s life and now kept him alive was a blessing or not.

  “I think Agnew got off lucky.” Sean went through the political events of the previous week. “And I can’t imagine anything funnier than Gerald Ford as vice-president. You know, they say that he can’t walk and chew gum at the same time.”

  There was a faint grimace on Mike’s face.

  “And Paul is calling for Nixon’s impeachment for the Watergate cover-up. He’s taking some heat from his constituents, but I bet by next summer Paul will get so much credit for being one of the first to call for impeachment procedures that the Mayor will be happy to slate him for the Senate in ’76. What do you think?”

  The cramped hand scrawled two illegible words on the note pad. Sean, who had learned with practice to understand most of his father’s scrawling, peered over his shoulder and deciphered Nixon-bum.

  “You better believe he’s a bum,” Sean agreed. “Too bad Paul isn’t going to be able to run against him. There wouldn’t be an easier man to beat for the presidency in ’76.”

  His father’s response was to turn on the television to the Notre Dame game. The Fighting Irish, everyone agreed, were destined to be national champions this year. His father’s apartment in the Hancock Center was sufficiently high for the signals from the South Bend television station to get through clearly.

  Sean watched the first quarter and then excused himself. It was time to get back to the cathedral to hear confession.

  His father made no sign that he heard him say goodbye or that he noticed he had left the room.

  * * *

  After he heard confessions, Sean went to his room and tossed his cassock on the battered old ottoman. Then he hurried down the stairs for dinner. As he went by the office at the entrance of the cathedral, the telephone operator handed him a note. Sister Margarita from St. Helena’s Home asked you to call at once. Important.

  Sean returned the call quickly, nervously jabbing at the telephone dial. “Bishop Cronin here, Sister,” he said at Sister Margarita’s infinitely courteous “Good evening.”

  “Oh, yes, Bishop. I’m glad you called. Mary seems to be slipping. I don’t think she can last too much longer.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  1973

  Most days in Washington for Congressman Paul Cronin were good days. A rising power in Congress, chairman of a subcommittee of the Judiciary Committee, admired and respected by his colleagues, and a favorite of the press, the forty-four-year-old Congressman from Illinois was marked by everyone as a man with a very promising future. He had managed to combine the Cook County organization and the support of Richard J. Daley with liberal stands on race, women’s rights, and, especially, the war in Vietnam. His wit and charm and good looks made him a favorite of Washington hostesses and a popular escort for many of the unattached young women of Washington.

  But this particular November day had been a disaster. First of all, a delegation from home had called upon him to express grave reservations about his resolution calling for the impeachment of President Nixon. They were not important people from the district, but blacks and whites from the East End. They had come to Washington to press for release of loan funds to stabilize their community. Paul expected their visit to him to be a gesture of gratitude for his success in prying the monies loose. It turned out, however, that they were less interested in his clout with HUD than his failure to support “Our President” against the odious John Dean.

  As he sat in the bar at the Statler Hotel, waiting for Stan Carruthers, a colleague from Upstate New York, to join him for an evening on the town, Paul remembered his response.

  “As a congressman of the United States, I am sworn to uphold the Constitution. As a member of the House Judiciary Committee, it is my most solemn obligation to consider whether a president—any president—is guilty of high crimes or misdemeanors in office. There is sufficient evidence, it seems to me, to warrant further investigation by my committee. I would be derelict in my constitutional obligations if I did not demand that investigation. I would like very much to have your support, but in the absence of your support, I will go ahead with my sworn obligation. I can do nothing else.”

  There was some applause, but Paul was well aware that there were many who were not applauding either his opposition to the war or his enthusiasm for impeaching Nixon.

  Then Makuch had appeared in his office. He had decided that the twenty-thousand-dollar-a-year subsidy he was getting from Paul was not enough.

  “I must say, Paul, that I’m dismayed by your opposition to the President.” He flipped the envelope with the twenty thousand-dollar bills into his pocket as though it were a payment for an electric light bill.

  “I have a constitutional responsibility—”

  “Fuck constitutional responsibility,” Makuch said. “He’s our president and you’d better leave him alone, or some people are gonna find out about the Reservoir. I imagine that there are people over at the White House who would be interested in that information.”

  Paul felt his face flame and his fists clench. He choked back the impulse to say that Makuch had grown moderately wealthy with Cronin money, and he would be cutting off a source of regular income. Maybe Makuch didn’t need the money any more. “We’ll have to see what the investigations turn up,” he said instead.

  “Fuck the investigations,” Makuch said. “You’d better think about what I’m saying. You’re skating on thin ice.”

  After Makuch left, Paul drummed his fingers thoughtfully on his desk. Blackmail was bad enough, but now Makuch was demanding more than money. He was demanding political power, cracking the whip to see if Paul would jump. He almost certainly knew that Paul was destined for the Senate and possibly the White House. If he enjoyed throwing his weight around politically, he would revel in the years ahead. The bind would get worse for Paul. If he waffled on the impeachment now, it would certainly be held against him when he was up for reelection next year and when he was running for the Senate. He could probably survive, but it would be awkward, very awkward. Unless he completely misread the signs, Nixon would be terribly unpopular by summer, and a liberal Democrat who voted in favor of him would look like a hypocrite. Of course Makuch might change his mind before summer. But what if he didn’t?

  And the bind would get worse as the years went on.

  Paul nursed his drink thoughtfully. He was really not up to a night with Carruthers. It would be much better to go to Sally Grant’s apartment. She was half expecting him anyway.

  Carruthers finally arrived, apologizing for his tardiness. His wife and children had arrived unexpectedly from home for the weekend, and hence he was unavailable for the evening. But they might at least have a drink before he went home, he said.

  “I’m taking a lot of heat,” Paul said. “People from back home are leaning on me. Some fellow is even digging around in my war record trying to find something dirty.”

  Carruthers, a thin, sallow man with a high hairline and long black sideburns, shook his head sympathetically. “It’s a rough one. The crowd ove
r at the White House are not going to get more pleasant if the walls begin to crumble around them. Anyway, your war record is all right. You’re a Medal of Honor winner, aren’t you? And a POW? I mean, isn’t the big line on you that a Medal of Honor winner was opposing the war in Vietnam?”

  “I’m okay,” responded Paul. “But it’s hard to prove that charges are false once they’re made. All I need with the senatorial race coming up in ’76 are unsubstantiated charges like that drifting around.”

  Carruthers stirred his vodka martini thoughtfully. “Is this an individual or a group of people?”

  “Just one guy.”

  “There are ways things like that can be taken care of. People can be leaned on a little bit, if you know what I mean. Nothing really messy, of course. It’s usually pretty effective.”

  “Oh?” said Paul. “I might be interested in something like that.”

  Carruthers scribbled something on a napkin and passed it across the table. “They’re a very discreet bunch, Paul. You can trust them.”

  Paul stuffed the napkin into the pocket of his jacket without looking at it. “I hear Tip O’Neill is just about ready to send the signal to the party regulars. We’re not going to be alone much longer.”

  “I think we already have enough on the bastard to impeach him four times over.”

  After Carruthers left, Paul had another drink and then walked down Massachusetts Avenue to Dupont Plaza. Under a streetlight, he took out the napkin from his pocket. On it there was the name “Eric” and a phone number. He memorized the phone number and tore the napkin into tiny pieces.

  * * *

  Sally Grant lived in an elegant apartment just off Dupont Plaza. A lush redhead, she was an analyst at the Securities and Exchange Commission. She had a simple, uncomplicated animal hunger. Indeed, when she opened the door of her apartment, she was dressed in thin black lace, more than ready for Paul’s arrival. “God, Paul, I thought you’d never come.” She hugged him ferociously and half dragged him into the bedroom.

  His dreams after they made love were restless and troubled. He was back at the Reservoir, flares exploding over him in the dark. The hordes of screaming, bayonet-wielding Chinese burst out of the darkness and stabbed at his gut.

  “What the hell’s the matter with you?” Sally demanded, as he woke up in the middle of a scream.

  “Nightmares from the war days,” he said sluggishly. “They come and they go.”

  “The trouble with you, Paul Cronin,” Sally said, “is that you’re too goddamned reckless.”

  She scurried out of the bedroom and came back with a tumbler full of Scotch. He drained it in a single gulp.

  “What do you mean, I’m too reckless?” he asked.

  She sat on the edge of the bed, clutching her frilly nightgown at her throat. “I don’t quite know what I mean. I guess I think you get off on taking chances, running risks, courting danger. You’re a married congressman from a district where your wife is as popular as you are, if not more so, and you’ve got at least three different women—that I know of—in this city, and if I’m able to find out about the other two without any trouble, just about everyone in Washington must know about them too. What if you get caught? What if your wife catches you? What if the press catches you? What if the White House goes after you to stop you from pushing this impeachment?”

  “I don’t intend to get caught,” Paul said.

  “Do you know what people say on the Hill about you? They say you’re smart, you work hard, you’re charming, and that you’re a Mississippi riverboat gambler. You lucked out on opposition to the war. You’re probably going to luck out on impeachment. But one of these days you’re going to draw for the high card and lose. Mississippi riverboat gamblers, they say on the Hill, never become committee chairmen, much less presidents.”

  Paul rubbed his eyes. “And what does all this have to do with my dreams?”

  “I don’t know how it figures, Paul. I have the feeling that you did something reckless a long time ago, and it comes back and haunts you in your sleep.”

  Paul slid out of bed and began to dress. “I am what I am, Sally,” he said. “Take me or leave me.” He wasn’t sure which option he wanted Sally to take. She was getting too serious. She was beginning to remind him of Maggie Shields.

  * * *

  The next day in the kitchen of his home in Georgetown, Paul was poring over his staff’s memo on impeachment. He had called “Eric” an hour before and had arranged to meet him in a bar around the corner from the Shoreham Hotel. The voice at the other end of the line had been smooth and cultivated. It asked no questions; indeed, it did not even seem particularly interested in Paul’s name.

  The doorbell rang and Paul, who was fending for himself since his housekeeper had Saturday off, answered it. It was his daughter Eileen and her friend, Nicole Shields. They were both high school seniors and had come to Washington for the weekend to investigate colleges for the following year. The trip was a lark for Eileen, a slightly shorter version of her mother who was certainly going to St. Mary’s of Notre Dame. Nicole, an introverted but sexy-looking girl, was just as certainly not going to Notre Dame.

  Tom Shields had remarried two years previously. His second wife was a black-haired nurse from Ireland with a gorgeous figure and a mind that matched Tom’s. All the kids except Nicole seemed to get along well with their stepmother, but the tempestuous older daughter of Maggie Shields treated Fiona with silent contempt.

  “Too bad Notre Dame isn’t on national TV.” Eileen hugged him dutifully. “I can’t stand to listen to games on the radio. They make me so nervous.”

  “I think football is ridiculous,” said Nicole, staring at Paul with bold appraisal.

  “I’m afraid I won’t even be able to listen to the game,” he said. He remembered for the first time that he was supposed to take the two girls to dinner. “If I’m going to show off you beautiful young girls at the Lion d’Or tonight, I’ve got to finish these memos about getting rid of Mr. Nixon.”

  “Getting rid of Mr. Nixon?” Nicole said. “That would be a lot of fun.”

  Paul suspected that if Eileen were not with them her friend would almost certainly make a pass at him. It had been a long time since he had had one that young. He would bet that she was anything but inexperienced.

  “We won’t keep you,” said Eileen with characteristic efficiency. “Just stopped by to say hello. We have to get over to Trinity College. We’ll probably listen to the game there.”

  “I wish you were staying here tonight,” he said. He was actually rather pleased with the fact that they were not. “But I know how young people like to hang around college dorms.”

  “It’s where the action is,” said Eileen brightly. She was a typical high school senior: bright, attractive, happy, her whole life stretching out ahead of her in promise. Nicole, on the other hand, with her angry, dangerous eyes, seemed doomed already. Why did Eileen hang around with her? Concern or family loyalty, he supposed. And why did Nicole hang around with Eileen? Maybe she sensed there was some chance of survival in the radiance of his eldest daughter.

  “Your mother called from Panama night before last, Eileen. She was going out to San Miguelito to see about the housing project there.” What did his daughters think of their parents’ intermittent marriage? Indeed, what did they think of him? Lively Eileen, quiet Mary, and madcap Noreen seemed utterly unperturbed by anything their parents did. Self-possessed like their mother. Did they make the same sharp, keen judgments that Nora made?

  “Is she going to stop here on the way home?” Eileen asked.

  “No, she’s going home for a board meeting; then she’s coming here.”

  “Mother’s just amazing,” Eileen said. “I don’t know how she does it, much less make it seem so easy … I mean, you’re a marvel too, Dad, but mother’s a woman.”

  “That she surely is, Eileen.”

  After the two girls left, Paul went back to his memo, although he did turn on the radio to listen to
the Notre Dame-Georgia Tech game. Nora was an amazing woman. Eileen was right about that. His respect for her increased each year. He was now talking the feminist line in his public speeches and was thankful that his wife was a feminist role model. He could point to the proof that he practiced what he preached.

  Their interludes together were cordial. Living apart some of the time, he supposed, was good for the marriage. That way he could imagine to himself that Nora was one of his mistresses. It was easier for him to deal with Nora as a part-time mistress than as a full-time wife.

  * * *

  Eric was a tall, handsome Nordic blond, hardly the mafioso that Paul had expected. Rather, he was a smooth businessman in impeccably tailored clothes. He had a faint Swedish accent.

  “We have a full range of services, sir.” He never called Paul by name. “We guarantee full satisfaction, total discretion, and we accept payment only after our task is accomplished.” He hesitated for a moment. “Normally we make a minimal response to the problem. It’s just as well, however, that you do not ask too many specific questions about the exact technique we will use, since it might be disruptive for you to know. I can assure you that in a case like the one you have described, it will be very likely that quite simple preventive measures will be more than adequate. Our charge, by the way, will be twenty-five thousand dollars.”

  “You’re sure there won’t be any trouble afterward?” Paul asked.

  Eric gestured suavely over his glass of soda water. “None at all. There are certain kinds of pain which, when professionally administered, dissuade even the bravest men from doing anything that would risk a repetition.”

  Paul was horrified by the Swede’s cruel businesslike attitude, yet he knew of no other way to deal with the problem of Joe Makuch. “Remarkable,” he muttered softly.

  “Now, if you will provide me with some more details about this Mr. Makuch, we’ll be able to activate our program against him.”

  “You’re sure it will work?”

  “You may rely on us, sir. We guarantee satisfaction.”