Close Relations (16 page)

“Couldn’t you have called earlier?”

“I wasn’t sure whether I’d have to stay late.”

“Okay. I’ll go out for a bite.”

“There’s some chicken left over from last night.” It wasn’t much, just half a poitrine from a somewhat desiccated coq au vin rouge, but perhaps enough to satisfy him, although it was the first night in our almost three-year marriage that I had not prepared at least four courses for him. “Or I can stop on my way home….”

“That’s all right. Don’t put too much pressure on yourself. I’ll run downstairs, see if the deli has any decent canned pâté.” He added, “When will you be home?”

“I’m not sure. It depends if Flaherty wants any revisions. Ten thirty, eleven. Midnight at the latest.”

“I’ll try to wait up.”

And that night, when I knew Barry was agonizing over the semi-circular canals, I had my first postnuptial proposition. The administrative assistant of the Honorable Quincy Dade of Little Rock, Arkansas, came into our office, which was next to his, to use our electric pencil sharpener. He leaned over my desk, blinked a pair of green eyes at me, and asked me out. “Wan’ go out?”

“I’m married,” I explained.

“Me too!” he said, sounding pleased that we had something in common.

I was not even tempted. With a hearty “No thank you” I arose and strode into Flaherty’s office, proclaiming that the bill’s language was both literate and precise.

“Good. Thanks for staying, kid,” he muttered, not looking up from the Knights of Columbus newsletter he was reading.

It had begun to sleet, but I drove as fast as I could, stopping first at the French market for Genoa salami and Swiss cheese for two, and made it home by nine o’clock. My hair was soaked, hanging in strings, dripping icily down the back of my neck. Through the door I heard
Don Giovanni
blasting. I think I smiled. If Barry was playing Mozart, he was in a good mood. In any case he liked Genoa salami.

He was not in the living room, stretched out in his usual place on the rug between the two stereo speakers. I marched into the bedroom, paper bag in hand. And there, of course, was Barry.

The future Dr. Plotnick was lying on the bed, naked, fully and awesomely tumescent. And not inches away, chin resting on the mattress, probably catching a quick breath between slurps, was Noreen Ostermann.

“Remember Noreen Ostermann?” he had asked a few weeks before. “That nice little speech therapist? Let’s invite her over for dinner.”

“Okay.” She had brought a bottle of Beaujolais.

Noreen saw me first. Perhaps she hadn’t been as excited as Barry. Perhaps she was not as much a music lover. She let out an off-pitch scream, capturing Barry’s attention. Following her stare to me, his mouth went slack, rapidly followed by his member. I dropped the bag and ran out of the apartment and spent the night driving over the icy, twisted roads of the Virginia hunt country.

I often wondered if Barry and Noreen ate the salami and cheese. I had a couple of Danish beers in the refrigerator. Also some Dijon mustard.

I
was frightened for Jerry, for I knew he would suffer badly. Born to elicit joy, he would reel at a slap in the face. Pain would shock his system. Fury could mutate him.

And if he changed, what would happen to me?

Everyone on Paterno’s staff knew something was wrong. Whispers slipped along the corridors of the office, rumors skitted about in closed rooms, and innuendos wafted up, only to be obscured by frosted glass doors. A few words reached me anyway: “Morrissey gave Paterno one last chance” and “Jerry said it was either him or LoBello, and if Bill didn’t make up his mind soon …” and “There was such geshreiing and carrying on” and even “Morrissey threw a chair across the room, but Bill ducked” and, of course, “Shhh, here comes Marcia.”

I asked Jerry later, “Did you really throw a chair at Bill?”

His face brightened for an instant. A grin emerged. “Is that what they’re saying?” I nodded energetically, pleased at any sign of animation on his part. “No,” he said. “Of course I didn’t throw a chair. Do you think I’d risk throwing out my back again for that double-dealing bastard?” I smiled, prepared to remain in lighter times with him, but his face fell back into seriousness.

“What happened then?” I asked, more subdued. “I mean, someone obviously heard something.”

“I really don’t remember. I probably pounded my fist on his desk a few times. Anyway, it’s not important.”

“Of course it’s important. It’s your entire life, your job.”

“I’m going for a walk. Don’t wait up.”

But that was later. The night of the Dollars for Dick dinner, when I told Jerry that Lyle LoBello was going to be involved in the campaign, Jerry’s anger worked itself up into such a fever of rage that he was nearly struck dumb. He turned, marched away from the table, and returned a few minutes later, his eyes moist from a few belts of scotch, although that was not sufficient anesthetic. But he remained in control; he mumbled a few words to our host, Mike Mazer, that he had an extremely hush-hush municipal emergency, and Mazer, extracting the stub of an unaltered cigarette from his mouth, said, “Gotcha, Jer.” Jerry gave the rest of the table a fast wave and a wink and left. I received no special signal.

“Well, honey,” Mazer said, turning his attention to me, “tell me about yourself.”

“I’m Bill Paterno’s speech writer,” I explained, and offered him a smile. It did not suffice. Mazer wanted a speech. “Let’s see,” I began. When not actually writing, my value to Paterno was as an observer. The others—Jerry, Eileen Gerrity—talked. I watched. But after Jerry left I became his surrogate, so I offered my repertoire of Dave-Flaherty-Unforgettable-Character stories, tossing about phrases like “on the Hill” and “standing committee” which nearly always capture the interest and respect of New Yorkers.

But my conversation was mechanical, and by the time it was Mike Mazer’s turn to reciprocate, I felt nauseated with tension.

Mazer fancied himself a raconteur, chortling at his own mots, creating dramatic tension by smoking at least a quarter of a cigarette between sentences.
Puff.
“… and this pimple-face fucker from the Senate …”
Puff, puff.
Finally, the conversation turned to bond ratings. I didn’t have to seem interested. I could excuse myself, return to the apartment. But as I began to inch my chair back, I felt a hand on mine.

Mrs. Mazer, young and so perfectly coiffed and made up that she seemed to have been dipped in Plexiglas, talked out of the side of her mouth, like a convict. “Tell me, you work with that Jerry Morrissey?” Her hand was cool over mine. Her long slender fingers were heavy with twisted gold rings. Although she was a brunette, she hadn’t a trace of hair on her arms.

“Yes, he and I—”

“Shhh,” she said. “Not so loud.” She motioned me closer. “Have you known him long?” Her voice was low enough that the murmur that arose implied girl talk; we could be discussing leg waxing, menstrual cycles.

“Yes.”

“Tell me, hon, is he married?”

“No.” I tried to pull my hand from hers, but she pressed mine onto the table.

Francine Mazer continued, “Is he straight? Not gay or anything?”

“No.”

“No what?”

“No, Jerry isn’t gay,” I replied, tempted to raise my voice and let her husband in on the conversation. But I had been in politics too long. I recalled Mazer’s lavish potential as a campaign contributor and realized he would not be generous if threatened.

“Now, hon,” Francine said, “tell me. Is he living with anyone?” She licked her darkly glazed lips. Her words came faster as she grew closer to her goal.

“Yes.”

“What’s she like, the one he’s living with? Decent looking?”

“He’s living with me, Mrs. Mazer.” She pulled her hand away. “We have an apartment in the Village. We’ve been together for years….”

“But you’re not married. Right, hon?” Several minutes later, as I left, she was clinging to her husband’s arm, her glossy black hair flowing over his sagging shoulder.

She had her man. I had an empty apartment. Jerry was either drinking or walking. For a minute I imagined him on a suicidal solo hike, trudging through the South Bronx until stopped by a machete across his face or a bullet in his spine. That forced the inevitable: I dashed into the bathroom and got sick.

But the storm of garlicky roast beef and three cups of coffee still raged. I had gobbled dinner as Mazer orated, gnashing the mealy meat between my teeth as though it were Paterno’s heart. And then I got sick again.

My mother would demand: Would he make himself sick over you? And my Aunt Estelle would second the motion: You bring him rain instead of sunshine, darling, and in two minutes flat he’d find himself a sweet little shiksa, the kind that doesn’t have moods.

“Jerry? What time is it?” I had fallen asleep and, as usual, he had slipped into the apartment silently.

“Late,” he whispered. He lowered himself down slowly and sat on the edge of the bed.

“Are you okay? Where did you go?”

“Just leave me alone. I feel sick.”

“Me too. I got sick twice. The whole thing is literally disgusting. Listen, Jerry, I’ll make some tea and we’ll talk about it and—”

“No!” he bellowed, and put his head into his hands, but not before a gust of whiskey breath nearly toppled me.

“You don’t want to talk?” Obviously not, because he didn’t reply. “Let me get you something for your stomach,” I suggested.

“No,” he whispered from between his hands.

“It’s no trouble,” I said sweetly, shimmying up from under the blanket.

“I don’t want any goddamn medicine, Marcia!” he shouted. Then, in a lower voice, as though the shout had exhausted his last reserve of energy, he murmured, “Just leave me alone. Please.”

But I trotted into the bathroom, closing the door tight behind me. I made a show of turning on the light and rummaging through the medicine cabinet, but after a few seconds, dazed by the brightness, I lowered the toilet seat and sat. I forced myself to breathe quietly. I wanted to be able to hear any threatening noise Jerry might make.

I was, after all, my mother’s daughter. Out there, in the bedroom, was no friend or lover who had over-imbibed, no decent middle-aged man feeling frightened, vulnerable, depressed. Hilda’s daughter saw that, of course, but she also saw with her mother’s eyes: beyond the bathroom door was a beefy Irish brute with whiskey slopping down his filthy undershirt. She saw him leaping from the bed, ripping open the door, and smashing a thick, calloused hand across her gentle Jewish jaw.

They are suspect when sober. When drunk, dangerous.

Ridiculous.

Read history. They kill.

“Marcia,” he called. I swallowed, stiffened, but remained rigidly on my sanctuary. “Hey, Marcia, get finished in there, okay?” I rose, opening the door enough to let one eye peer out. He was still sitting on the edge of the bed, hunched over. “Do me a favor,” he called softly. “Come here and rub my head. It hurts like anything.” I emerged. When I reached the bed, he grabbed my arm.

“Ow!” I nearly screamed.

“Sorry. Look, Marcia, I just want quiet. No discussions now.” Having delivered his message, he let go of my arm. I glanced at it; there were no bruise marks.

“Lie down,” I said quietly. I eased him down, placing a pillow under his head. I massaged his temples and shoulders, feeling his skin hot and damp under the soft cotton fabric of his shirt. Ten minutes later he whispered thanks and fell asleep, so deeply that when I curled up right beside him he didn’t even move. I reached over him and loosened his tie. He made a short humming sound.

But when I woke the next morning, he was in no mood for tenderness. Clean, showered, wearing a banker’s-gray suit, he spoke brusquely. “See you around six tonight. Maybe we’ll go to a movie.”

“Are you all right?” I slid over to his side of the bed, but it was already cold.

“Yes. Leave me alone.”

Jerry spent the day in Paterno’s office. I could only gather the mistiest rumors about what was going on. I sought counsel from Eileen Gerrity; analytical, curious, she was the person most likely to possess at least a tidbit of inside information. She would sit behind her desk, relaxed and reassuring, and people would enter her office, close the door, and drop off confidences.

But all she was able to report was that at one thirty someone in Paterno’s office had ordered sandwiches. “One Swiss cheese on whole wheat and one bologna with mayo,” she reported. “Does that tell you anything?” I shrugged. “I gather you don’t want to be amused,” she observed.

“No. I’m really worried about this, Eileen.”

A strand of her pale, silky hair drooped over her forehead. She pushed it back with a pencil. “Well, let’s be serious, then. What did Jerry say?”

“Nothing. That’s the worst part of it. He won’t confide in me at all. He just keeps telling me to leave him alone, so naturally I keep imagining the worst.”

“Well, he’s had quite a shock.”

“I know that. But I can help him. I mean, even if we can’t get Bill to change his mind, I can still be there for Jerry. I can offer—you know, support. But he’s so afraid of anything smacking of commitment—”

“Marcia, in fairness to Pretty Boy, he’s had a major kick in the pants and it’s hardly the time to expect him to cement your relationship.”

“I know that. I know exactly what he’s capable of giving.”

“Do you? Then why do you keep expecting him to bare his soul to you when he’s never seen it himself?”

“I don’t know,” I said quietly.

Eileen began tapping her pencil on the desk, concentrating on its rhythm. “Look, let’s try to analyze what’s happening here.” I glanced at her. “No, not with you and Jerry. I mean this Lyle LoBello intrigue. Now, is Bill Paterno smart?” I nodded. “Is he an astute politician?” My mother would have corrected Eileen’s pronunciation. Not
as-toot, as-tyut.

“Yes.”

“Then why would he get rid of Jerry, the very man who made him? And why now, at the beginning of the most important campaign of his career?”

“Because he wants to be remade in the Gresham image, by LoBello. Eileen, he wants the governorship desperately, and he knows this may be his only shot. He’s scared. He’s looking for upstate magic—”