"More meat," Annabelle suddenly blurted as though drawing the idea from his action. "Ah thinks we should have more meat. And we needs more clothes. Tha's another thing. The government should give us money for clothes 'n' things. Oh, yeah," she went on, warming to her subject, "they should build us better places to live, and in the summertime they should have these trips for the chilluns to go to the country."
"What about the Portarickens?" Jaime Garcia cut her off. "That's the problem. They been giving it all to the blacks and nothing to the Portarickens." He turned to Sully. "You tell me what are you going to do for Portarickens."
"I don't know," Sully said. "What would you do?"
As if the question had loosed a dam, a torrent of pent-up Spanish words began — swift, lyrical, endless, and replete with gestures of the hands and shoulders. Mr. Garcia seemed hardly to pause for breath. Ms. Pikulski looked at the ceiling in despair, while the two black women watched Mr. Garcia with concentration as if they understood the language. Finally, as abruptly as he started, he finished.
"I'm sure you've got a good case," Sully said, looking slyly at Ms. Pikulski. He remembered the mayor's words about everybody wanting more. Suddenly he felt weighted down with demands. Where had they all got the idea that being born was all the requirement needed for a suck on the public tit? Where? _From all those bullshitting politicians, like me,_ he thought. And here they were, taking it all seriously.
"You see, Congressman Sullivan," Ms. Pikulski began again, obviously feeling that Ms. Rose's and Mr. Garcia's opinions had validated her point of view. "There are massi demands. Massive. In the field of education alone, for example, we must have total control. That is the key. For only _we_ know what the problems are and where the solutions lie…."
"You got solutions, Ms. Pikulski?" Sully asked.
"Yes, we do," she said without hesitation. "We've got to rip apart the defense budget and get that tax money back here where it belongs. To the people. We need massive expenditures in social welfare, education, prisoner rehabilitation, drug abuse. I could go on and on. And you, Congressman Sullivan, are simply not responsive to our needs."
Sully watched her. She was totally without humor, a walking mass of obsessions. He wished she would go away and take her needs and demands with her.
"Believe me, Congressman. Our evaluation is made on the basis of objective criteria."
"I guess I flunk," Sully said finally. His tongue felt heavy. "I guess I've let you all down." He had, of course, already come to believe it. "I'm sorry," he added thickly, and saw Annabelle Rose's face, caught her sympathy, the commonality of defeat.
"I want you to know that I agree with everything you say," he said finally, reverting to the great old cliches, the meaningless contrition. Give them the pap they came for. "I'm absolutely convinced that you have put your fingers on the solutions, and I can assure you that if I'm reelected I will strive … strive with all my strength … to make this district the flower of the country, an example to the world, an inspiration for one and all…."
"Rhetoric," Ms. Pikulski said imperiously.
He slid down in the tub, took a deep breath, and let his head sink beneath the surface for a moment, hoping they would be gone when he surfaced.
"I see right through you, Congressman Sullivan," Ms. Pikulski said when he emerged. She had caught his heavy sarcasm, grew flushed with indignation. "You're a drunken disgrace to American democracy. You're unfit to represent the good people of this district. Come on," she addressed the group, "let's get out of here." She started toward the door, and Ms. Washington and Mr. Garcia stood up to follow. Annabelle Rose held back.
"Annabelle," Ms. Washington hissed.
"Ah was gettin' another drink," Annabelle answered petulantly.
April had gone off to open a new bottle. Now she maneuvered her way through the door and poured Annabelle's drink.
Sully, meanwhile, gripped the side of the tub and began trying to stand, a bloated, naked, sudsy giant. _Not a g ood, scrubbed Irish face in the bunch,_ he told himself. Who the hell were these people anyway? _The bastards have done me in,_ he told himself, hearing echoes of his father's last complaint. "You can't make bread with horseshit," he said aloud inexplicably, searching in the alcoholic haze of his mind for the meaning of his own words.
"You are disgusting," Ms. Pikulski said, dramatizing her contempt with a jutting action of her chin. She turned and walked from the room, with Ms. Washington and Mr. Garcia quickly following. Annabelle Rose started to go, then turned, her broad body planted in the center of the doorway. Sully reached out his hand, and moving forward, Annabelle took it. He gripped it and then placed his other hand on her shoulder and eased himself out of the tub.
"You're the salt of the earth, Annabelle, darlin'," he said, kissing her on the cheek. He felt her humanity, caught a sense of Irish futility in her black face.
"Don't let them abuse you, Annabelle," he said. "Don't let all us bastards abuse you." She squeezed his hand and turned to follow the others. He started to follow her, but April blocked his way with an outstretched towel.
"You better dry yourself; you'll catch cold," she said, wrapping the towel around his bulk. He knew he was drunk now. His tongue was thick, and the room was slightly wobbly as he steadied himself against the rim of the bathtub.
"We gotta protect Annabelle from them, April. They'll eat her up."
"We'll protect her," Apl said.
"We forgot to protect her," he mumbled.
"I know, Sully."
"We passed all the wrong laws."
"Yeah, Sully."
"We did all the wrong things."
"All the wrong things," April repeated.
"We fucked it all up."
"Yeah, Sully. But the hell with them. Fifty years from now what will
it matter?" She reached out and caressed his damp head. She led him to the bedroom and gently helped him into bed, pressing the sheets around his chin and kissing him on his nose. ———— *20* ARAM sat looking at the sea, watching the breakers slice
themselves against the jetties into harmless, but noisy, fingers of foam-edged water. Except for the cold and the absence of crowds, the setting was exactly as he remembered it — following his father along the sunbather-strewn beach with the bright sunlight dancing off the water, the surface of the sand burning his bare feet even as his toes sought the cooler sand below.
Now the November sun lit without warming either sand or sea and only served to change somewhat the color of the scene. Aram had insisted that Alby come with him here, to Rockaway Beach, perhaps because it was the one thing in his life he knew would not have changed. They sat, arms wrapped around knees, looking out at the oncoming waves.
It was the windup day of the campaign, and they had been working the subway stations, roaming from one to the other, a traveling dog-and-pony show with poster displays, a loud-speaker system mounted on a following truck, and groups of Yomarian girls handing out literature.
"I'm Aram Yomarian. If you're a registered Democrat, vote for me in the primary tomorrow." It had become a litany, an endless refrain, as if his voice had become disconnected from his mind. They had started out at 6 A.M., the morning clear and cold. Waves of people rolled by him into the maws of the stations. These were the early people, the bottom-rung workers who arrived early at the offices to open the doors, put on the lights, and start the heat.
Aram's hand began to ache. His nose persisted in running. Even his lips, fixed in an ever-present smile, had begun to pain him, making it difficult to speak clearly. Toward midmorning Alby caught up with him and pulled him away to a coffee shop for a break. Midway through their second cup of coffee, Alby spread the _Post_ in front of him on the counter. He saw the by-line before the headline.
"Petrucci again?" He shook his head, dreading to read beyond the name.
"LAST HURRAH FOR JOHN J. SULLIVAN. Question mark," he said aloud. There was a smaller headline below: ONCE POWERFUL POL CRUMBLING UNDER ONSLAUGHT BY YOUNGER CHALLENGE
R.
"Coup de grace," Alby said.
Aram read the story, his eyes racing over the page. He could not understand why his emotions could not register elation.
Can a massive last-ditch political rally pull out the chestnuts for John J. Sullivan, the perennial Congressman from Brooklyn's Eighth Congressional District?
Highly unlikely, the polls indicate. Yomarian's two-to-one lead at this stage seems too formidable to overcome. Interviews with professional politicians, the man in the street, and dispassionate observers indicate that Sullivan's reign is over. Tonight's Sullivan Rally is being likened to the boy whistling in the cemetery.
The pros look at Sullivan's impending defeat as the result of both strategic and tactical miscalculation. In short, overconfidence. Heavy desertions among campaign workers and contributors, as well as general campaign lassitude, are pointed to as symptoms of a politician in deep trouble.
But probing among close associates indicate more specific factors. A citizens' delegation who visited the Congressman during the campaign reported seeing a broken, pitiful, inarticulate figure. Rumors of excessive drinking on the part of the Congressman and his staff have been rampant for years. Just two days ago Sullivan's administrative assistant, Thomas Fitzgerald, had to be bailed out of a drunank after being found senseless in a Manhattan flophouse. A cursory investigation has also revealed an enormous collection of debts, and other sources, who would not be quoted, indicated that special loans, with interest in arrears, are on the books of major banks in New York and Washington — a development that could become a major scandal since Sullivan is second- ranking member of the House Banking and Currency Committee.
Then there is the Congressman's personal life. Washington sources say
that the Congressman's marriage has been "in name only" for years while he has cavorted blatantly with other women, including members of his staff. Still other rumors persist that he has long been estranged from his only son, who reportedly is a homosexual.
"Everybody knows about the Congressman's tragic personal life," a member of the opposition conceded after much prodding. "We'd never use information like that. It would be a low blow. We wouldn't stoop to such tactics."
Yomarian's campaign people attribute Sullivan's slippage primarily to the changing times. They eschew the gossip as irrelevant. The district itself is a patch of geography in deep trouble. It has become a backwater of crime, drug abuse, poverty, and despair. Critics blame Sullivan for poor leadership and lack of interest in the problems of the district's teeming, mostly impoverished population and say that he has failed to relate or even to respond to their needs.
On the other hand, Yomarian is a fresh face with fresh ideas and a charismatic manner. Many perceive him as a political comer with a great future ahead of him, a new breed, people-oriented, insistent and tenacious about raising the quality of life. His campaign has been on the road for weeks with the message that it is the people's needs that come first. His emphasis, as his campaign slogan implies, is on the reestablishment of "dignity."
The polls seem to validate the opinion of the people we talked to. Yomarian is heading for a primary win. In the Eighth District, where "Republican" is an unpronounceable word, that means victory. When he finished the story, Aram slowly folded the paper and sipped his tepid coffee.
"How much did it cost?" he asked quietly, feeling a tightening in his throat that would not let him speak beyond a whisper.
"Plenty," Alby said, watching him.
"I mean specifically, Alby. I want to know exactly how much. Exactly."
"I think Norman gave him five thousand in cash."
"And there are others?"
"The television people. We allocated another ten thousand for the television boys."
"Sandra's money?"
"And Mrs. Margolies'. Where else?"
"And Sandra is totally aware of where it has gone?"
"Come on, Aram. She's in it. She's part of it. With you, Aram, and me. It's no mystery. It's part of the game plan."
"I didn't know the extent …"
"Oh, shit, Aram. This is standard operating procedure."
Aram felt it coming on again, the squeamishness, like an anxiety attack. He found himself unable to sort out his feelings accurately. Somewhere inside him he sensed a need to act, but he did not know how or where.
"Let's drive around awhile, Alby," he said finally.
They did not talk in the car. Aram's mind had simply turned blank, as if some defensive mechanism had become operative inside him and he could no longer will himself to think. It was only after they reached the beach and sat there for some time watching the ocean that Aram's mind began to reawaken. Perhaps it was the memory of those long hot treks along this same beach, following the little dark man whose singsong plaint now returned to his memory with its odd quiver, that set his thoughts going again.
"I haven't got the balls, Alby," he said. "I think you've got a lousy candidate. I haven't got the killer instinct."
"Accept the reality of the business, Aram," Alby said.
"I've been trying."
"Your problem, Aram, is that you think of yourself as basically a
moral man."
"Maybe."
"Well, then, you've got to make a choice. Morality or politics. One simply can't go both ways."
"I'm not convinced you ha ve to sell out completely."
"You mean you'd like to be a little bit pregnant." Alby got up from the sand and brushed the grains from the seat of his pants. He hovered over Aram, his feet planted on either side of him. "You only think of yourself as a moral man. I say bullshit to that. And let's get it all out now. You're no more qualified to be a political leader than a flea. What do you know about technology or science, for example? Have you the knowledge required to make decisions in the fields of space, ecology, education, transportation? What knowledge do you have that will provide you with the know-how to lead us all away from the brink of nuclear annihilation, to solve the problems of our cities, the energy crisis, population control? How will you determine what ways will be best? Will you use the scientific method? Experimentation? Or make your decisions by the seat of your pants, politically or, even worse, emotionally? How are you going to help people? What makes your instincts any better than Sullivan's? Why do you want to be a politician? Shall I tell you? You want to make your own half-baked glory fantasy come true. You want all the glory, all the power, for its own sake. You want to be fawned over. The old Frank Merriwell hero fantasy. 'Here I am, Pop. See what happened to little Aram? I got even, Pop, I got even.'"
Aram listened quietly, watching Alby's face.
"If you were a truly moral man, you wouldn't have stuck your toes in the water in the first place. So don't be so fucking self-righteous. How in the name of hell did you think you were going to get elected?" Alby paused. "A strange configuration of circumstances, all meeting in a single plane at a single point in time? Item: Your own ambition. Hell, I can remember the constant repetition of your boyhood dreams. Item: You're a pleasant fellow, reasonably intelligent, the makings of a good, maybe even a great, public speaker. Item: Your wife's money. It's money that greases the skids. Item: Your wife's own ambition. Her own special fantasy of how the world should be. Superliberal chic. Item: A district crumbling. Item: A Congressman aging and, yes, irrelevant. Item: Your own contempt for a system in which all the above items become criteria for political office. Item: Without modesty, my own special abilities to put it all together and make it happen. It's easy, Aram. Easy as falling off a log. The ultimate objective is — yes, by God — to make you President of the United States. Aram, I can make your fantasy happen.
"The game plan is this: You won't try for a second term in this district. You look good next to Sullivan, but they'll want one of their own next time. Then you go for a Senate seat, maybe the governor's office, whichever is a better springboard and/or attainable. It can be done. I will _prove_ it can be done. Like a perfect equation. And that's _my_ motiv
ation. I will make a science out of getting you elected. I'll show you how to do it. I'll show you how we can discipline all the variables, like a master equation, perfectly balanced, a weight for each character, a value for each number. You're worrying about Sullivan. Who is Sullivan? There will be a whole army of Sullivans before we're finished."
_Should I feel a sense of shock?_ Aram wondered. _Of betrayal?_ He felt strangely calm. He had already known that he was merely a pawn in Alby's game. They all were. He, Sandra, Norman, Mrs. Margolies, Sullivan, and all the victims of Sullivan's demise. And that was the very nub of his own reluctance. Not really Alby's _method_ at all. Not the hard realities of politics. Just that he was nothing more than a chess piece suspended in midair, waiting to be moved to a new square. But _now_ was the moment in which he could will himself out of the game if he wanted. Now — his chance was now.
Adler, Warren - Banquet Before Dawn Page 23