‘Enjoy yourself tonight,’ he said quietly. ‘As I shall be doing. And don’t fret about things. I’ll see you later.’
Mike’s seat was at one of the lowlier tables, far from the podium and close to the service door. On his right a very old lady said she was representing the Hibernian Societies of America, but her deafness made conversation impossible; and the place on his left, labelled ‘Robert Hampden’, remained empty for an hour or so after the meal began. As the harpist played continuously, irritatingly, Mike felt his mood sliding from initial excitement to gloom. The gravity of Roger’s news made the evening seem trite and empty.
Reagan was speaking now, welcoming his Irish guests and talking of his forthcoming trip to some village called Ballyporeen, which had clearly been picked at random as ‘the ancestral home of the Reagans’: ‘President and Mrs Hillery, distinguished guests, and I want to add with the greatest of pleasure – I’ll try – A chairde Gaeil.’ There was laughter from part of the room. ‘How did I do?’ Applause. ‘Welcome to the White House. Next week I shall stand on the ancient soil of my ancestors and I want you to know that for this great-grandson of Ireland, this is a moment of joy . ’ More applause. ‘So much of what America means and stands for we owe to Ireland and to your indomitable spirit . . .’
Mike grimaced. At other times he might have enjoyed the ham Irishness, but now he found it grating.
‘America has always been a haven of opportunity for those seeking a new life,’ Reagan was saying, ‘and Irish blood has enriched America. Your smiles, mirth and song lifted our spirits with laughter and music. And always you reminded us by your faith that wisdom and truth, love and beauty, grace and glory begin in Him – our Father, our Creator, our loving God.’
Mike cringed as Reagan launched into an Irish ditty.
‘Ireland, O Ireland / Country of my father / Mother of my yearning / Love of all my longings / Home of my heart / God bless you.’
‘My God, where did he get that from?’ Mike said out loud, just as the occupant of the seat on his left sat down with a laugh.
‘My, my! Well, he got it from me. I tell you, it was either that or “Mother Macree”. Robert Hampden, by the way; very pleased to meet you.’
Mike saw a slim, handsome young man in his late twenties, with smartly slicked-down hair and a tuxedo that oozed style. Despite his gloom Mike reciprocated the stranger’s laugh and stretched out his hand.
‘Mike Hess, RNC. Pleased to meet you. I take it you’re in White House communications?’
‘Surely, surely am! Work with Mike Deaver. We keep the president handsome, on message and well lit. It’s responsible work!’
Mike laughed again – the fellow had a smooth southern charm about him, and he was undeniably attractive. Reagan was onto serious topics now, in the pulpit for the elections six months ahead that would crown or break his presidency.
‘When we Republicans took office we were determined to make a new beginning, and our message as we approach this year’s election is simple: our country’s best days are still to come. And with faith, freedom and courage, there’s no limit to what America can accomplish. If we do everything in our power to carry that message to the voters on November sixth, they’ll respond by keeping Republicans where we belong: on the job, in the House, in the Senate, and in the administration . . .’
Mike smiled at Robert Hampden.
‘Did you write that bit too?’
Hampden shook his head.
‘That’s the big boys’ stuff. I chose the flowers, though – real pretty, don’t you think?’
They fell silent as they sensed the president was wrapping up.
‘Ladies and gentleman, the challenges to peace and freedom in the world today are not easy. But face them we must. Edmund Burke’s warning of nearly two centuries ago still holds true: “The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.” Thank you, and have a wonderful evening!’
As the applause rang round the room, Mike realized Robert Hampden was standing up and about to leave with the president. He grabbed his sleeve.
‘How can I get in touch with you? Will you leave me your number?’
Robert took a Mont Blanc fountain pen from the breast pocket of his jacket, leaned down to scribble a phone number on the back of a menu card and walked quickly off.
Roger Allan Moore’s driver picked them up from the North Portico. It was nearly eleven and the evening had left Mike feeling troubled. Roger seemed in a bubbly mood, though, chatting happily about the president’s performance – ‘He says he wants a majority in Congress, but he’s not going to get it unless you and Mark Braden can bribe the Supreme Court to hurry Bandemer through in six months!’ – the company – ‘What a bunch of doughy old Republicans, don’t you think? Thank goodness the Irish were there to brighten things up’ – the food, the music and a dozen other things. The car was already approaching the intersection of Connecticut and Columbia when it dawned on Mike that Roger had been hogging the conversation to steer him away from more serious topics. Pulling up outside the Wyoming, Mike opened his mouth to broach the subject of Roger’s sickness, but Roger lifted a finger to silence him.
‘Goodnight, Michael. The estimable Ronald was far from Ciceronian tonight, I feel, but his closing lines from Edmund Burke may be something you could perhaps think about. I’ll be in touch about the future and, ahm, other things. Delighted to have seen you, my dear fellow.’
Roger did not return to work. His retirement, on grounds of ill health, led to a reshuffle in the top legal posts, with Mark Braden becoming chief counsel and a competition opened to replace him as deputy chief. The Republican National Committee went through the motions of interviewing candidates, but Braden made it clear he wanted Mike to get the post and he did. At the age of thirty-two Michael Hess had risen from illegitimate birth in an obscure Irish convent via the lottery of adoption to a position of influence in the world’s most powerful nation. At times a feeling of vertigo came over him. His appointment should have satisfied his striving to belong, confirmed his acceptance by the world, but the lurking sense of his own unworthiness did not leave him: I don’t deserve to be where I am; I am an impostor, just waiting for my secret to be exposed. He was a gay man in a homophobic party, a rootless orphan in a world of rooted certainties.
When he called Mary to tell her about his promotion, she shrieked with delight. ‘Mikey, that’s amazing! To think one of us – well, it was always going to be you of course. To think: deputy chief counsel of the Republican National Committee! Wow!’
‘Well, yes. I guess . . . It’s sad Marge didn’t live to see it, though – she would have been proud. And then, you know, I always wonder what my real mom would have thought about it all. I guess she’s back there living in Ireland someplace and she’s got no idea whatever happened to me. I just wish I could tell her, Mary.’
‘Sure. I hear what you’re saying, Mike. It makes everything seem kind of . . . incomplete, you know what I mean? To think my mom will never hear what we’ve become and what we’ve made of life . . . To think she’ll never meet her grandson . . .’
‘Yeah. Unless . . .’ Mike hesitated. ‘Unless I go back again and make those nuns tell us what they know. It’s so frustrating knowing they’ve got the information, and I don’t understand why they won’t give it to us. Or maybe I do understand. Maybe they think they’ve got something to hide . . .’
‘Yeah, I thought that too,’ Mary said. ‘But I wouldn’t care, would you? Whatever we found out, whatever the big secret is, all we want is to find our moms . . .’
TEN
1984
Mike and Pete were invited to a house party the following weekend, and the hosts decided it would be fun to make it a celebration of Mike’s new job. The place was a clapboard townhouse not far from Market Square in Old Town Alexandria. It had a little pool in the backyard and the July weather drew the forty or so guests out onto the terrace. Midway through the evening Mike saw Mark O’Connor walk in.
It was the first time he had seen him since they split and he felt the blood rising to his cheeks.
‘Oh, hi, Mark,’ he mumbled, embarrassed. ‘I want you to meet Pete Nilsson. We’ve been together for three years now. And Pete, er, this is Mark – I think I told you about him.’
Mike’s worries were groundless: Mark did not bear a grudge. He had a promising law career and a new boyfriend he loved and trusted.
‘I’d like you both to meet Ben Kronfeld. Ben works for the government.’
Kronfeld was a dark-haired man with a moustache and calm, serious eyes.
‘Hello, Michael; I’ve heard a lot about you.’
‘Right . . . So which part of the government do you work for, Ben?’ Mike asked.
‘I work at Interior – mainly labour policy and statistics. And I liked it until this administration came in. Then we got James Watt as interior secretary and everything went crazy.’
Mike sensed the antagonism in Ben’s voice and wanted to walk away, but Pete was already asking, ‘How do you mean “crazy”? What did he do?’
‘Hey, don’t get me started.’ Ben grimaced. ‘James Watt is the worst bigot you ever met. First day on the job, he called the policy staff together and he says, “Do you all work here?” In a couple of weeks he was handing out pink slips. And it wasn’t like just reducing numbers, it was ideological. Everyone who didn’t fit in, everyone identified with the Carter years, got fired. Then he moved onto minorities, including us right at the top of the list. Gay guys were the first to go, then all the others. He really did a number on the thing. And he even boasted about what he was doing. You remember that speech he made last year saying how he had “a black, a woman, two Jews and a cripple” on his staff? What a Republican hypocrite!’
Mike tugged Pete’s arm. ‘I think maybe we should go get a drink?’
‘No, no, this is interesting.’ Pete shook himself free. ‘And I want to get to know Mark. Maybe you could fetch the drinks, Mike?’
By the time Mike got back he could hear the other three in heated conversation.
‘What I can’t understand,’ Ben was saying in a voice tinged with exasperation, ‘is why he agreed to go work for them in the first place. How can anyone work for a party that’s got people like Pat Buchanan in it? How can you have one life where you’re liberal and Democratic and open about being gay, and then have this secret, closeted life where your co-workers don’t know you’re gay and you’re helping people do things that are not beneficial to the gay community? I can’t understand how he can live with that.’
Mike coughed and handed over the drinks.
‘Look, Ben, I heard what you’re saying and I know it looks bad, OK? But don’t be judgmental – we can all get on our high horse – and so far as I know you’re working for the same government I work for, and you didn’t get fired, did you?’
Ben Kronfeld was a reasonable man.
‘OK, but let me say one thing: I survive in my job because I’m discreet about my private life, but that’s not something any grown man should be forced to do. It’s just bizarre to see men in their forties and fifties still hiding. I know in my chain of command right now there are at least two gay guys, both formerly married with children, and I know they’re gay because they said so to one of my friends, but they both said, “Don’t tell my boss because he doesn’t know.” And the other thing is I work for the government; I don’t work for the Republicans. I don’t work for the people who’re doing those things . . .’
As Ben was speaking, the group was joined by a small, balding man with an overbite and a flamboyant dress sense who introduced himself as Rudy.
‘Hey, this is no good time to be gay in America,’ he said firmly. ‘But it’s suicide to hide away and pretend we’re not there. Reagan doesn’t care a nickel about us getting sick and dying. You remember Alvin Tranter, don’t you? He died last month – pneumonia on his death certificate so as not to offend his parents, but it was AIDS. Hiding doesn’t help. We need to start making ourselves visible and making things—’
He was interrupted by a spoon tapping on a glass and the announcement of a toast to congratulate Michael Hess on his new job. Mike responded with a brief expression of thanks, but the argument had left him feeling uncomfortable, as if he were somehow being held responsible for people getting sick and dying.
After midnight Mark managed to get him alone. ‘Hey, Mike, are you avoiding me? I’m not going to attack you. I was hoping we could treat each other as grown-ups and be friends. You and Pete seem pretty happy and Ben and I are too.’
‘Sure, Mark. No hard feelings. It’s just that everyone seems to be on my case nowadays. It’s like working for the RNC makes you some kind of pariah.’
Mark shrugged. ‘Actually, I was going to ask you about that myself. It’s a pretty strange choice, don’t you think?’
‘Hey, don’t you start as well! I was looking for work. I needed a job, OK? I know a lot of people are pissed about it, but that’s the way it is. We all have motives that move our lives and we don’t always understand them. I thought your Ben was a little harsh, you know.’
‘Ben’s lovely, Mike. He likes you a lot, but I guess he’s worried about you, and I am too. You know that Alvin Tranter guy Rudy mentioned? Ben knew him and he’s been pretty cut up since he died. I think in some ways you remind him of Alvin. He was very beautiful and outgoing and sexually active. We met him at a party a couple of years back where the living room was covered in plastic and Alvin was doing everything – you know, I mean really everything – and he chided me and Ben for being so reserved. I can remember him saying, “Why should I be concerned about getting sick? Why go through life not having as much fun as I can?” And now he’s dead. It’s hard to understand that frame of mind, Mike. I hope you’ve been careful.’
By 2 a.m. a lot of alcohol had been consumed and a group was inside the house watching porn movies on the VCR. Some were making out, but the atmosphere was relaxed and sleepy. Mark and Ben had left, and Pete was outside on the terrace in quiet conversation with four or five other guys. Mike poured himself a whisky and sat by the pool. In the darkness he felt very alone.
ELEVEN
1984
Mike had left a couple of messages for Robert Hampden, but there had been no reply. One Tuesday in late July he returned from lunch to find a note from his secretary asking him to call ‘Mr Horden at the White House’. Mike didn’t recognize the name but checked the number and realized it was Robert.
‘Mission Control, Hampden here.’
Mike chuckled. ‘Michael Hess here, Robert. Is that how everyone answers the phone over there, or is it just you?’
‘Oh, just me, of course. I’m glad you called. I have a walking assignment I’d like you to help out with. Are you free this Friday lunchtime by any chance – Chevy Chase Country Club, 12.30?’
‘Well, sure. What kind of walking do you have in mind?’
‘Oh, no actual walking,’ Robert said. ‘Just wear a smart suit with a silk handkerchief in your top pocket and look lovely. Can you manage that?’
Mike laughed. ‘I’ll try.’
Robert was waiting for him outside the sprawling half-timbered clubhouse.
‘Michael, it’s very good to see you. Now, Nancy has got Jerry Zipkin walking her – do you know Jerry? I’m squiring Jennie Edelman and you will take care of the delectable Laura Thurgood. The ladies don’t arrive for another half-hour, so we’ve got time for a drink if you like? Let’s go straight to the Gable Room and I’ll order up some grog.’
In the slightly gloomy high-ceilinged room with its wood panelling and tables set for lunch the two men sat and drank Prosecco. Robert, in double-breasted grey herringbone with shiny black Oxfords on his feet, was clearly a regular: the waiting staff greeted him as ‘Mr Hampden’ and asked what the ladies would be wanting for lunch.
‘Oh, something light. Mrs Edelman doesn’t eat meat, as you know; the First Lady will have her usual two courses and Mrs Thurgood will be delighted
to eat whatever Mrs Reagan has.’
Turning to Mike, Robert winked.
‘As you may have deduced, our happy lot is to accompany the beautiful wives of powerful, busy men. When your husband is tied up in the White House or the Senate, the essential accessory for any woman is a charming walker who’ll be your companion, not to mention your card partner and confidant.’
A week after the lunch in Chevy Chase Robert invited Mike over to the White House and the two men sat and drank coffee in the West Wing office of Robert’s boss, Mike Deaver, who was out of town.
‘I must congratulate you, Michael,’ Robert said with a sly smile. ‘Nancy told me she found you quite charming and if she weren’t committed to the wonderful, marvellous Jerry she would love to have you walk her in the future. What do you think of that?’
Mike leaned back in his chair and laughed.
‘What do I think? I think Mrs Reagan is very kind and I liked her a lot. But to be honest I don’t see my future as a walker for other people’s wives, however important they are. It’s really not my style, you know.’
Robert pulled a little face.
‘Oh, I see. You’re the serious type with no time for frivolity, is that it? Always slaving away over your law books and worrying about the future of the party? More interested in gerrymandering than Jerry Zipkin?’
Robert slapped the desk and guffawed at the awfulness of his own joke. Mike rolled his eyes.
‘Yep, that’s the measure of it, I’m afraid. All work and not much play.’
Mike liked Robert’s energy, wit and enthusiasm for life; he liked the way he made a joke of the most serious things, and he found him physically very attractive.
‘But what’s with Jerry Zipkin, anyway?’ Mike asked. ‘Where on earth did he spring from? And why does Nancy set so much store by him?’
Robert looked at Mike as if he were a hopeless case.
‘Where have you been all your life, Michael? Jerry Zipkin is the original walker and most probably the third most powerful man in Washington – if you count Nancy as a man, that is. Get on the wrong side of Jerry at your absolute peril. His tongue’s sharp as a razor and one word from him can ruin careers and reputations. But if Jerry likes you and you treat him right, he can be the most loyal and most useful friend you ever had.’
The Lost Child of Philomena Lee (Original Edition) Page 33