Close Relations (42 page)

“You’re bullshitting me,” he whispered. “Where did you find someone so fast? Where?”

He called out “Where?” again as I stomped out of my office and down to Paterno’s. “Excuse me, Bill,” I said.

Paterno lifted his big head from his hands. “Didn’t hear you come in.”

“How are you doing?”

“Fine. It’ll all be over tomorrow, one way or another. How are you doing?”

“Fine. I just have those three speeches to do, the victory and the other ones.”

“Where would you put your money?”

“On you, Bill. Win or lose.”

“Thanks.”

“Can we talk?” He nodded. “Jerry was just in to see me. He mentioned something about how awkward things are, with the two of them and me….”

“That Morrissey. I don’t get him. He’s a good-looking fella. Why does he have to keep picking people on my staff? Can’t he look outside?”

“Well, he won’t be looking anymore,” I observed. Paterno agreed, looking away from me in embarrassment. “Bill, he suggested that because things were so—well, uncomfortable, for Eileen and for him, that I resign.”

“He
what?”

“I just wanted to make sure that it wasn’t coming from you, that—”

“Are you kidding? That son-of-a-bitch. Let me tell you something, Marcia. That wife of his, that Eileen, is no shrinking violet, and she can learn to handle things or get out. So can he and so can you. I’m a city official, not a producer of some damned soap opera, and the three of you can either put your personal lives behind you or get the hell out. All of you. I mean it.”

“Okay, Bill.”

“Hey, why am I yelling at you?”

“Maybe it feels good.”

“Listen, this whole thing isn’t your fault. I don’t know whose fault it is. Crazy, carrying on in the middle of a campaign, like it was spring fever. Who has time for that? Your boyfriend, that’s who, that crazy Morrissey … Oh, sorry.”

“That’s okay. Listen, I’ll see you tomorrow night, at the victory party.”

“Marcia, come on. You’ve been straight with me for too long. Don’t start changing now.”

“Then I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

“And after that? No matter where?”

“As long as you need a speech writer.”

The polls closed at nine o’clock. By ten, the ballroom of the Hotel Knickerbocker was pulsating with a badly amplified three-piece band and shouted conversations. A limp Paterno banner hung from the empty stage. Balloons hung in a net from the ceiling, waiting to be released in case of victory.

Volunteers from the boroughs and the suburbs milled around, their smiles still as wide as Paterno’s was on the campaign buttons on their lapels. They peered up at the balloons, gazed in awe at the TV correspondents, and sipped their free drinks. Some of them dashed around purposefully, jotting down telephone numbers, knowing this was their last chance for a big romance.

By ten thirty, the returns began coming in. I stood beside Joe Cole, in front of one of the four television sets in the ballroom, each tuned to a different station. “Look at Westchester County,” he said. “Twenty-eight percent for us. Just twenty-eight percent. Shit, that LoBello must be grinning from ear to ear. We counted on at least forty.”

“My God, Queens,” I replied. “His home borough.” Paterno was pulling in only thirty-eight percent of the vote.

Brooklyn’s returns were, surprisingly, more favorable to Paterno. He received a clear majority. He also did well in Manhattan. But each time the camera switched to the tote board, the results became, as the anchorman suggested, fairly inevitable. Governor Parker was being reelected. Paterno was losing. Uncle Sidney was being humiliated. “At least Appel is getting his,” Cole said. “Do you know how much he spent, what it cost him per vote? He could have just gone out and bought each voter a color TV or a vacuum or something and they’d still be screaming ‘Yeah, Sidney!’ Jesus, if I had his wife’s money, I wouldn’t waste it in politics.” I agreed with him.

At eleven, I saw Eileen Gerrity Morrissey on the other side of the ballroom. I walked toward her. For a moment, she looked to each side of her, trying to find a friend or an exit, but finally she stood motionless, waiting for me. “I don’t know what to say,” she said quietly.

“Well, there’s not a lot to be said. I just don’t want any more pressure on me about quitting. I’m here and I’m staying here. Understood?”

“Yes.” She chewed the inside of her cheek nervously. “Well, I hear you’re engaged. I guess congratulations are in order.” I didn’t answer. “Marcia,” she said then, “I’m so sorry. I can imagine what you must think of me.”

“Then I don’t have to tell you,” I responded, and crossed back across the ballroom, to watch the television set with Joe Cole.

The anchorman, who had perfect, even teeth, all the same size, returned after a commercial. “I have with me here in the studio Midge Bashian, the Albany correspondent of the
New York Times.
Midge, what’s happening here? The polls predicted the governor would go down to ignominious defeat. And as we can see, with sixty-three percent of the vote counted, we have him as the projected winner. What happened? What went wrong?”

“Well,” Midge began, shaking her head back and forth until she found the right camera to address, “it looks like the Democratic voters of New York State gave their hearts to their ailing governor. I think his speech before he entered the hospital, its unusually direct and unashamed appeal to the emotions of his constituency, served Larry Parker well. He showed himself as a man with a problem, and people responded.” Midge would probably not be asked to return as a guest commentator. Her teeth were spotted and crooked, pushing for room in a tight mouth. “As opposed to him”—the camera went back to the spiffy newscaster—“Sidney Appel looked like a media creation, too studied, too perfect. Shades of the 1968 Nixon.” He nodded on-camera as she spoke off. An excellent television arrangement. “And William Paterno was perceived as, if we can say such a thing, too smart for his own good. This is a year of simplicity.”

She was right about Appel, and perhaps about Paterno too. In a year of simplicity, the simp had won. No doubt, politicians in Utah and South Carolina would soon be running on a prostate platform.

“Thanks again to Midge Bashian of the
Times.
Fine analysis, Midge. And now I think we’re going to switch to Paterno headquarters. Betty-Jean, are you ready?”

She was, but Paterno wasn’t. He could not be coaxed from his room in the hotel until eleven thirty. He stood before the cameras dry-eyed. He read my concession speech in a clear, calm voice. He repeated to two TV correspondents that yes, he would be proud to support the nominee of the Democratic Party and no, he hadn’t meant to disparage Governor Parker’s abilities, but everyone says things in the heat of a campaign that might be misinterpreted. And maybe he would consider running for mayor in three years’ time, but first he wanted to get home and get a good night’s sleep.

And when the television lights turned off and the reporters shuffled away, Paterno put his hands over his face and cried. Joe Cole patted his shoulder; Jerry put his arm around him; Eileen said he’d done a fine job; the women’s affairs coordinator said his mother would have been proud.

I reached him a minute later. “I’m so sorry, Bill. You were the best man. You should have won.”

“I know,” he murmured.

David waited up for me. “I saw you on TV! You looked beautiful. But upset. You were talking to a black man and you both looked upset.”

“We were watching the returns,” I said softly, taking off my shoes and curling up beside him on the couch. “It was enough to make anyone upset. David, it’s such a sad loss. Paterno’s a bright, decent man. He would have been a terrific governor. He deserved to win.”

“I know.”

“It’s all so uncontrollable. Who would have believed Gresham would choke to death? Who would have thought Sidney Appel would decide he was a politician? Can I tell you something? I have it in for your uncle. If it hadn’t been for him running around and obscuring the issues with all his goddamned money, we could have won.” I rubbed my hands over my face. “You know, experience doesn’t make losing easier. It’s harder, the older I get. I try so hard, I’ve become so professional at it, but it’s still completely out of my hands. I did fabulous work this summer. Parker’s speech writer is a goon. And look what happened.”

“I’m sorry he lost. Really. I voted for him today.”

“For Paterno? Did you? Honestly?”

“Honestly. He deserved to win. But don’t be too hard on Sidney. He’s responsible for us meeting each other. If he hadn’t run, I’d be working late tonight, staring out the window and wondering what my blind date for Saturday night would be like.”

“A beast.”

“Of course. Here, let me help you up. You’re starting to get that overtired, hypnotized stare. Come on, right to bed.”

I slept even closer to him than usual that night, my face pressed against his chest, thinking exactly where I’d be if it weren’t for Uncle Sidney.

The next night I wondered where I would be if it weren’t for my Aunt Estelle. “Darling,” she said, “wasn’t I right? Look at him sitting there. Such a person. So fine. I told you….”

I tried to catch David’s eye, but he was deep in conversation with Barbara and Philip, sitting on a corner of my aunt’s titanic sectional couch, their three heads bent together as though sharing rich, exclusive secrets.

My mother cooed, “May I see your ring again?” I held out my left hand. David had bought me a diamond engagement ring large enough to please my aunt and my mother combined. “Oh,” she said, “it’s very fine looking. David has such classic taste.” I had picked it out. “Do you know what jeweler he used?” she asked, her voice so hushed and reverent it was nearly a whisper.

“We went to Carrier’s.”

“Shh, Marcia,” my aunt said. “Not so loud. He’ll think we’re talking about the ring.”

“Well, of course we’re talking about the ring. I’m standing here with my left hand out and the two of you are—”

“Marcia,” my mother explained, “it’s not considered in good taste to discuss jewelry.”

“Then why are we discussing jewelry?”

“Don’t get temperamental, Marcia,” my aunt said. Then she turned to my mother. “Pre-wedding jitters. They all get them.”

I marched across the room. David made a place for me on the couch. “Marcia,” Barbara said, “we’re talking about the wedding. High Oaks should be beautiful this time of year.”

“We’re going to be married in the rose garden. And the rabbi—your father-in-law recommended him—turns out to be this guy I went to high school with. We were in the same plane geometry class. I mean, David and I walked into his study for an interview with him, and there’s Sandy Langer. But now he’s Sandford and has a mustache and a doctorate in Judaic studies. Isn’t that unbelievable?”

“Yes,” Barbara agreed. “Who’s the caterer?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” Barbara looked surprised, but her expression lost none of its unfailing good humor. Her face, however, although tanned and glowing from her biweekly facial, had grown rounder over the summer. By marrying Philip, she had traded up her love of Mallomars for
milles feuilles,
but her month in Europe meant an annual gain of fifteen pounds. When she had walked through the door that evening, her mother had squeezed her full chin and remarked, “No dessert for you tonight, darling.” A mere glint from Philip’s icy stare had caused an immediate amendment. “You were never so crazy about blueberry crumb cake, so I bought a gorgeous melon. Cranshaw. You’ll love it.”

Barbara turned to David. “Who’s the caterer?”

“Sara Asher,” he answered.

“Oh, she’s marvelous. Her lemon mousse cake! Everybody’s dying to get her, but she’s so booked! How did you manage it?”

“I don’t know. My aunt made the arrangements.”

“What’s your first course?” she asked me.

“I don’t know.” I glanced at David. “Have we decided?”

Barbara interjected, “Marcia, you’re getting
married,
for goodness’ sake.” She took Philip’s hand. “When we got married we went over every single hors d’oeuvre. We knew exactly what we were getting, down to the filling of the last quiche.” David sensed I was about to say something; he pressed his leg against mine to signal not to. “Do I dare ask?” she said.

“What?”

“Have you bought a dress yet?”

“No. I will. Yesterday was election day. Today was chaos. But we’re going tomorrow night. The stores are open late.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know, Barbara. Someplace horribly expensive, all right?”

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing. I’m going for a walk.” I looked at David. “Alone.”

“Not alone,” he said.

He followed me out the wide front door that my Uncle Julius had paid the builder extra for thirty years before.

“What’s the matter, Marcia?” He circled his arm around me and pulled me close, so my cheek rubbed against the cashmere of his sweater.

“This isn’t going to work.”

“What isn’t going to work?”

“Us. I can’t be what I’m supposed to be. I don’t want to have to deal with arrogant, disgusting decorators and worry that I won’t know which caterer is chic and which designer dress I should buy. I came in the house tonight and you saw what happened. My mother runs up to me and says ‘Marcia!’ like she just discovered me and kisses me. Plants a kiss right there, on my cheek. And it only took an eighty-million-carat diamond ring from Cartier’s to get that kind of warmth from her. And my cousin. Did you hear her? Have I told Paterno I’m going to quit? That was the first thing she asked, like my old life is over and now I can spend all my time taking Chinese cooking courses. And your wonderful friend Philip. The only thing he’s ever spoken to me about is politics, and suddenly he’s asking me about our honeymoon plans, the new apartment. Not a word about the election. It’s as if nothing I’ve done is worth anything. Excuse me. One thing. Hooking you. That justifies the thirty-five years of sweat and tears they put into me. Well, let me tell you something. I don’t want any part of it.”

David said nothing. I walked up the block silently then, and he followed. We passed the Leventhal house next door where, presumably, Lydia Leventhal was learning to live alone. We continued to the end of the street.