“Sure,” Mac said. Both he and Benny hated corned beef, but if they didn’t eat it, Sadie threw it out with tears in her eyes.
“Didn’t you find out anything on Bill?” Mac demanded as he fired up a cigarette.
“I think old Bill’s six feet under,” Benny said under his breath. “You sure you want those private dicks to keep on with this? It’s costing a damn fortune.”
“Yeah, I do. I don’t care what it costs. Goddamn it, I want to know now. It’s getting personal with me at this point. I thought you said you had a lead.”
“The last report said there were four possibilities. Two haven’t panned out. The dick is working on the third as we speak. It doesn’t look good. It’s personal with Dominic Snedeker, that’s the dick’s name. His business claim is he always finds his man. His reputation is at stake. I’m telling you, old Bill isn’t on this earth.”
“I think he is, and when we finally do find him, I’m going to bend him into a pretzel. When I’m done doing that, you can straighten him out.”
“I’ll be back later. Call me if you need me,” Sadie said, setting two corned beef dinners down on the table. Her smile was all-encompassing as she walked about the room, touching one man’s shoulder, bending to whisper something in another’s ear, asking about family, always smiling. The patrons preened.
“Okay, let’s get to it,” Benny said, washing the hateful taste of corned beef down with the last of his beer.
They talked far into the night.
Two weeks later, the Star carried the banner headline: WAR HERO TO TRY FOR VIRGINIA SENATE SEAT.
Those in the know in the nation’s capital drew in their collective breaths and immediately chose up sides.
The owner of the Star, whose picture was third from the right in the second row of Sadie’s picture board, swung his paper’s support to Mac. It was whispered among the power brokers that Marcus Carlin considered the man’s support of his son an act of treason to their friendship. They never spoke again.
The smart money, and there was plenty of it, was on Malcolm Carlin, who was running against an old Democratic warhorse in the primary.
Mac pulled up his socks, tightened his belt, squared his shoulders, and looked the public square in the eye. “If you send me to Washington,” he told the voters, “I will never lose sight of the fact that by voting for me you trust me to do what’s best for our state. I won’t let you down.”
IT WAS A warm summer day in early June with blue skies and fluffy clouds when Alice Carlin waylaid her husband as he was backing his car out of the garage. “Mac, I need to speak with you.”
She looks pretty, Mac thought as he cut the engine. “Yes?” God, they were so polite to one another.
“First of all I want to apologize to you for not being at your side when you announced. Even though your father . . . said some . . . He started talking about Jenny and how children like her don’t live long . . . oh, he said so many things, none of them worth the breath he used to utter them. I just want you to know I would have been there that day, regardless of your father, but Jenny was running a very high fever. I couldn’t leave her. You probably don’t care, but I had to tell you. He’s done a complete turnaround, Mac. He’s your enemy now. You ripped his world apart when you refused to run for governor. Then when you thumbed your nose at him and announced for the Senate . . . he’s not accepting it gracefully.
“I’m on your side, Mac, whether you believe it or not. I can’t campaign with you because of Jenny. She takes too much of my time, and I won’t neglect her. I’ve agreed, if you’re willing, to do one interview with pictures the day after tomorrow. It’s scheduled for eleven o’clock, right before lunch. Is that okay, Mac?” she asked anxiously.
“Why?” Mac asked suspiciously.
“Because I don’t trust your father. I feel . . . he intimated . . . he has . . . I don’t know,” she said miserably. “I think it would be better for you and your campaign if I align myself with you. Not for me, but for you. It’s the truth, Mac.”
For some strange reason, Mac believed her. “What can my father do now? Nothing, it’s too late. He can bluster and blow smoke, but that’s about it. He’s my father, for God’s sake. I think you’re overreacting with that enemy business.” There was no need to tell her he’d thought the same thing not too long ago. “I’ll do the interview with you, and yes, it will help. I appreciate it, Alice.”
“There’s no need to say you live in the guest house, is there? I don’t want to be humiliated, Mac.”
“I’ll be at the house in plenty of time. I won’t say anything. How’s Jenny?” he asked coolly.
“Fine. She’s doing fine, Mac. Thank you for asking about her. She asks about you all the time. Of course, I’m the only one who understands what she’s saying. She loves the red ball you bought her. She . . . she isn’t coordinated enough to . . . to catch it. Yet. Someday she will be,” Alice said positively. “I work with her every day. I’m sorry, Mac, I’ve kept you long enough. I know how busy you are. They say that every night on the news. I’ll see you on Wednesday then.”
“Okay.” Mac pretended not to see the tears in his wife’s eyes. Guilt washed through him. Alice’s offer was so sincere, so genuine, it was hard not to like her. The thought jolted him. They were acting like friends. That thought jolted him more. He continued to back the car out of the garage. He found himself smiling into the rearview mirror. Imagine being friends with your wife.
WHEN MAC WALKED into his busy campaign office on Thursday morning, Benny and his volunteer workers, most of them Vietnam vets, were holding copies of the Star. “This is great!” Benny chortled. “This is better than great! How’d you get Alice to do it? This is a wonderful interview. This picture of you holding Jenny in the air is . . . it’s nice, Mac. It’s good copy. It’s real copy. There’s a difference.” Noticeably absent from the interview was a quote or statement from Supreme Court Justice Marcus Carlin, who, according to the paper, was unavailable for comment.
Benny immediately started to pick apart the interview, looking for the pluses and minuses. “I love this one where you say your three weeks of intense jungle training was spent in San Francisco due to a military snafu. I imagine the army’s face is going to turn several shades of red and purple. I can’t find one negative in this whole interview, and, man, they gave you some serious space here. Will Alice mind if we spread this about, you know, use it over and over again?”
“I don’t think so, but she only agreed to do this one. I think the reporters understood. She let them know she was behind me one hundred percent, and that was all they wanted to hear. My father now. . . they pretty much glossed over that. One of them said sotto voce, ‘Judge who?’ ”
“You’re gonna win the primary, Mac. I can feel it in my bones,” Benny said gleefully. “Your father . . . he’ll come around. Better to have a son in the Senate than one clipping coupons. A governor is just a governor. Lighten up, Mac, it’s all going to work out just fine. Trust me, buddy.”
“The primary is just the battle, Benny. I have to win the war in November,” Mac said quietly.
“You will,” Benny said confidently. “It’s time to go to work. Big smiles everyone!” He was pleased at what he called Mac’s shit-eating grin. He was going to make it.
WHILE MAC AND his campaign workers were rejoicing over the news coverage, Judge Marcus Carlin was ringing Alice’s doorbell. He stomped his way inside and said to Olga, “Get Mrs. Carlin and then get lost.” His tone was so imperious, so arrogant, the dour-faced Olga ran up the steps to the second floor and rapped sharply on her mistress’s door.
“Tell him I’m busy,” Alice snapped, “and there’s no need for you to get lost. My husband pays your salary. Never mind,” she said angrily, throwing on a gold-colored robe. She tied the sash so tight, she gasped. “Stay here, Olga,” she called over her shoulder.
“What is it, Marcus?” Alice snapped. “I don’t like it when you come here and interrupt my day. I’m due to take Je
nny for a hearing test, so let’s make this quick.”
“I thought we were allies, Alice. After all I did for you,” the judge said ominously. “I didn’t like that article in this morning’s paper. You swore to me you could bring Mac around to our way of thinking. He’s made a laughingstock out of me. And you permitted it. You swore to me you could bring him into line, and what happens? He comes home and moves into the goddamn guest house. So much for your wiles, Alice. Why didn’t you tell me you weren’t woman enough to hold Mac?”
Alice was speechless. “You’re blaming me!” she cried out shrilly when she finally found her voice. “It was you! He hates you! You hate him! I’m not a miracle worker. You told me he would step into line. Those are your exact words, Marcus. You’re the one with the power. Do something for yourself and stop bothering me. Get it through your head, I have no influence over Mac. He damn well does what he feels like doing. It was my idea to do the interview, not his. I owe him that much support.”
“You owe me, Alice,” the judge said.
“This is getting us nowhere, Marcus. Mac is running for the Senate. Someone else is going to be governor. Cut your losses. Throw in with Mac now before it’s too late.”
“After the fact? That’s not my style, Alice. I’d rather see him ruined. I can do that you know.”
“You wouldn’t! He’s your son! How can you talk like this?” Alice cried wretchedly. Overhead she could hear Jenny wailing. Alice hated pressure of any kind. He looks insane, she thought fearfully.
“Did Mac tell you about the Vietnamese woman’s son, whom he’s been trying to bring over here?”
“What are you talking about, Marcus?”
“Are you all going to live together, Alice? Will she be your housekeeper? Will the little slant-eye play with Jenny? That’s rich, a retard and a gook.”
“I—How dare you! I think you should leave, Marcus. I don’t want to hear this. You’ll do anything to get back at Mac. That makes you a sick man, Marcus. Sick!” she screeched. Overhead Jenny wailed louder. Damn, now she was going to have to cancel the child’s hearing appointment. Once Jenny got upset, there was no controlling her.
“Really. Take a look at these. Or if you don’t want to read them, I can tell you what’s in them. While Mac was still in Vietnam, he started on the paperwork to bring a woman named Lily Gia and her son Eric here to the States. The woman is dead now, but Mac still wants to bring her son here. It’s all there, read it. If you aren’t too stupid, you should be able to put two and two together and come up with the right answer. You came in a poor second, Alice. That doesn’t say much for you, now does it?”
“What do you want from me? What do you plan on doing with this information?” Alice demanded, a sick feeling settling in her stomach.
“I want what I always wanted, for Mac to be the governor of this state. It’s not too late. Tell him to withdraw from the Senate race. He can still make a run for the governorship. I have the political power to pull this off,” the judge barked.
“Go to him yourself. You tell him.” Mac and a Vietnamese woman. A child, a boy. Men always wanted sons. Mac wouldn’t care if the boy’s eyes weren’t Western. Mac had loved someone else. The thought was so horrendous, she thought she was going to throw up. While she didn’t physically want Mac, the idea that he’d wanted someone else left her feeling sick.
“You’ll do it, Alice. If you don’t, I’ll . . .”
“You’ll what, Marcus?” Alice asked, trembling so badly she could hardly stand. “Don’t you understand? He won’t listen to me!” She was losing control, screaming at the top of her lungs.
“I’ll tell him you welcomed me into your bed, and you did. I paid for your favors.”
“You got me drunk. You seduced me. Then you blackmailed me. I never went to bed with you willingly. Not once. You’re an old man, Marcus. Why would I want you? You wait right here. I have something to show you. Don’t leave, Marcus. I will not allow you to blackmail me, not now, not ever,” Alice screeched.
Her satin robe billowing out behind her, Alice raced up the steps to the second floor. She ran down the hall to the nursery, where she grabbed Jenny. She whirled and ran back downstairs, her breathing harsh and ragged. “Here,” she said, “is the result of what you did. Jenny is your daughter, not Mac’s. And you know what else? Mac knows she isn’t his, but he allowed me to give her his name. They have blood tests, Marcus. I can prove that Jenny is your daughter. You have a sister just like her. Now, what do you have to say, you son of a bitch!”
The look of revulsion on the judge’s face repulsed Alice. She cried brokenly as she hugged Jenny to her breast. “Get out of my house! Mac’s sterile!” she shrilled, the child’s cries just as shrill.
The judge was halfway to the door when Alice plopped Jenny down on the floor to run after her father-in-law. She snatched at his arm, a maniacal look on her face. “If there’s one thing we both know, it’s that Mac is no liar. Leave him alone. If you tell the press about his . . . what you found out, then I will tell Mac you are the father of this child. Your silence for mine, Marcus. And support for Jenny in the form of cash. Once a month. And don’t ever set foot in this house again. Your word, Marcus. Now!” Alice threatened.
“You wouldn’t dare! You would never give up this comfortable life. Where would you go with a child like Jenny? Even if you divorce, no man will want a brat like that. So don’t threaten me, Alice,” the judge said, his face a hateful purple. A huge vein in his neck bulged.
Once, Alice would have buckled, crying and whining to get her way. But now she was different, a mother. She stood her ground and said, “Try me. I have nothing to lose. You, on the other hand, have everything to lose. Remember what I said about a blood test? Shall my attorney get in touch with your attorney, or will you do what you and I both know to be right?”
She didn’t expect an answer, and none was forthcoming. She watched as her father-in-law slammed his car into gear and careened down the driveway, taking half an azalea bush with him. Obviously, the judge needed glasses.
Alice slammed the door shut. She bent over, taking several deep breaths before she ran to Jenny and gathered the child in her arms. Jenny wiped her tears and slobber on the sleeve of her mother’s dressing gown.
“Shhh, everything is going to be all right. Mama is going to make things right for you. Let’s go upstairs and play with that pretty red ball. Please don’t cry, Jenny. I’m doing my best.”
The child cried harder and louder, until Alice thought she would go out of her mind.
“I’ll take her, Mrs. Carlin,” the nanny said.
“No,” Alice said sharply. “It’s my fault she’s upset, so it’s up to me to calm her.” I have to do this as punishment for the lie I’m living.
NO ONE IN the political arena was surprised when Malcolm Carlin won the primary, which gave him the right to run against the Republican contender. He campaigned vigorously, day after day, sometimes for eighteen hours at a stretch. Over and over he told himself he was meant to do what he was doing. In the Senate he would get himself appointed to as many committees as possible. The Armed Services Committee, The Near Eastern and South Asian Affairs subcommittee—of which George Mc Govern was chairman—the Senate Foreign Aid subcommittee. He was going to plan his strategy just the way he did when he was on the Ho Chi Minh trail.
He thought about the pile of telegrams on his desk from his men. To a man they said, “Don’t let us down. If you need us, get on the horn.” By God, he’d die before he let even one of them down. When he allowed thoughts of Casey, Lily, and her son into his head, he knew he’d made the right decision.
On October 4, months after winning the primary, when Mac felt he had the election sewn up tight, three things happened in rapid succession. The morning edition of the paper announced that Cambodia had opened its doors to provide sanctuary to the Viet Cong; the private detective Benny hired to find Bill Trinity called to say he’d located the elusive and reclusive Bill in Perth Amboy, New Jersey; an
d the evening edition of the paper carried a front-page article saying that Malcolm Carlin, the Virginia Democratic contender for the Senate, was rumored to have a mistress and an illegitimate son in Vietnam, both of whom he was trying to bring to the United States.
While Mac, Benny, and Sadie tried to come up with a solution to the devastating news story, Alice was trying to figure out how she could elude the newspaper reporters camped out at the end of her driveway so she could drive to her father-in-law’s house in Georgetown. In the end she knew there was no way she could leave the house. The reporters would follow her. Her face a mask of fury, she dialed the judge’s home.
Alice immediately launched into her tirade. Her voice dripped venom. “You went back on your word, Marcus. I told you what would happen if you did that. Right now there must be thirty or forty reporters outside this house. How dare you! You had no right!”
“Get ahold of yourself, Alice,” the judge barked. “I didn’t tell anyone anything. I’m not a fool. If I found out about . . . the woman and child, what makes you think other people wouldn’t find out the same thing? Nothing is sacred in a political campaign. What surprises me is they waited so long to spring it.”
“With just thirty-four days to the campaign it could destroy Mac,” Alice shouted angrily.
“Why, Alice,” the judge said mockingly, “I didn’t think you cared. Why the sudden change of heart? After all, Mac has moved out of your bed, and if what you say is true, he was finished with you long before I tasted your . . . charms.”
“You are nothing but a dirty old man, Marcus. My skin crawls every time I think of you. Damn you, I’m trying to make up to Mac for what I did, for what you made me become. And now this. Mac doesn’t deserve this . . . this kind of press. If that child were his, he’d be here with Mac now, and we both know it.”
With his reputation at stake, the judge knew he had to make Alice believe it. He did know it, that was the trouble. He hadn’t leaked the story to the press. The only way he could do that was to issue a statement, something he had not wanted to do. It was all going wrong. Everything in his life was wrong. A vision of Jenny rolling and screaming on the floor made him wince.
For All Their Lives Page 32