American Quartet (14 page)

“Hey, Fiona, they’re letting females in the farces.”

It was an offhand remark, but it penetrated with the full force of a powerful ancestral urge.

“Would you like that, pop?” she had asked. She had heard an inarticulate sound from behind the paper. She had always wondered if it had meant approval, even though he railed against it when he found out.

“A punk nearly did me in last week,” she said. “And my superiors are only worried about their jobs.”

“So it’s the same there. The punks are always trying to do you in and the superiors are always worried about their jobs.”

“They’re also corrupt.”

“The same,” he sighed. He had never been on the take, haranguing others who had. Nor had she ever felt proud of him. Where did it get you? she wanted to ask. She knew the answer. Nowhere.

“Then why?” she asked instead, surprised how easy it was to talk to him in shorthand.

“Somebody has to do the dirty work.”

“But why fight them too?”

“You want to give the streets to the animals?”

“Maybe we already have.”

It was the closest thing to a conversation she had ever had with him. And it annoyed her to be actually seeking his advice, this man of monumental prejudices. Anger was pushing it out of her.

“I may marry a Jew. He’s a politician. A congressman.”

“Lord have mercy.”

Behind her, she heard the coffee cups rattling on a tray, and she knew her mother had heard.

“He’s also divorced. The whole bit.”

Her mother held the tray over the bridge table while her father gathered the cards with shaking fingers. After her mother had poured out the coffee she crossed herself.

“It won’t do any good,” she said firmly.

“And she wants to leave the farces,” her father said, blowing on the hot surface of the coffee. He raised his eyes and looked toward her picture on a mahogany table, standing in a gilt frame on a doily. It was a photograph of her in uniform. For the first time, she realized how accessible it was for him to gaze at from his seat at the bridge table.

When she was away from them she could articulate it clearly to herself. There was a childlike purity about them and a well-rutted road one followed. One for men. One for women. One for Irish Catholics. One for others.

“I’m sorry,” Fiona said, disappointed. She had strayed from the well-rutted road.

“Who’s to say?” her father said, and then firmly: “It’s still the greatest calling in the world. No thanks for it. God’s work.” The old Paddy Fitz.

She wondered if he still believed it.

She finished her coffee but did not stay for lunch.

“I love you both anyway,” she said, embracing them. Her father seemed to clutch her tighter than he had ever done before. It was simply too early to surrender. Perhaps that was why she had come home.

IN
the waning days of October, politicians, like desperate schoolboys on the eve of the big game, came to Thaddeus Remington. They came in person. Occasionally they came through high-level emissaries, but always they had a single goal in mind. Money.

He was amused by the subterfuges and strategies they had to work out to gain his attention and his favor. He, too, had developed a strategy for receiving them and set responses to their requests. For those with whom he had some relationship, he laid out a private lunch in the dining alcove overlooking the swimming pool, usually quiche and salad and a bottle of chilled Chablis. For those with whom he had a conversational acquaintance but who had never been invited to his home, he arranged for coffee and cakes in the Rustic Room. Those with whom he had a nodding acquaintance, he invited for cocktails in late afternoon. And, a special few, regardless of his previous relationship, he invited to dinner, a quiet repast of beef and Burgundy in front of a roaring fire.

He had also developed a metaphor for the process. They were the exotic fish in his fishbowl, and he was their only observer. To complete the metaphor, he visualized himself as standing before the lighted tank, arm poised above the waters, a vial of food in his fingers. As the mood struck him, so the vial tipped. Because of federal limits on personal contributions, they invariably asked him to go beyond it, to throw a fundraiser in his home. Sometimes he did, as he had done recently for the Republican presidential candidate.

If there were amusements in his manipulations, they were tempered by the knowledge that he was searching for still another sign. He knew he could not force it. Because of the impending late November deadline, he was getting impatient. It was, he was sure, an inexorable cycle. He must be watchful and alert. The sign would come.

In mid-October, a young senator, Craig Taylor, came to him for financial help. Remington had mixed the martinis and settled into a wing chair opposite the supplicant. He remembered the rush of publicity that had greeted the man when he was elected from the State of Washington six years ago. The man had an attractive wife, two pretty children. A golden family. Central casting could not have done better.

The senator’s blond hair had not yet begun to gray. It was perfectly trimmed. He wore a matching moustache as well and cufflinks stamped with the seal of his state. There was, Remington observed, a crispness about him, a cleanliness that reminded him of himself. He saw the man’s persona clearly, the fragile but effective facade, the obsessive yearning.

“I’m thirty-seven,” Taylor said. He had just catalogued his desperation. He was two hundred thousand short. He couldn’t understand what was happening. He had worked hard for his constituents. Remington studied him. Perhaps he had started out too assured, too certain, too cocky. Remington’s eyes darted to the portrait of himself above the mantel.

“If I lose, it won’t be the end of the world,” Taylor said. Then, after a long pause, he drained his martini. “Will it?” Remington watched the senator’s eyes search the room, then glitter like hot coals. He rose and refilled his glass.

“Depends on how you see your world.” Remington watched him shrewdly, feeling the spur of pursuit.

“They didn’t much like my vote on the Panama Canal,” he said. “Hell. A junior senator hasn’t much power.” He sipped his drink. “I need this win. I learned a hell of a lot. I’ve made my mistakes.”

“And if you had the two hundred thousand, could you win?”

The man looked up. A light flush rouged his cheeks.

“I think I can,” he said earnestly. “I come over well on the tube. My record is respectable.”

“And the polls?”

“That’s why I need the money. I’m down.”

“And then?” Remington prodded, the vial of fish food tipping, teasing.

“Then? I’ll win.”

“How can you be sure?” Remington asked softly.

The man shifted in the chair.

“I want to serve.”

“Serve whom?”

Obviously, the man hated the role of supplicant. Remington wondered how far he would have to go to destroy the man’s facade.

“The country,” Taylor said firmly. Did he really believe that? Remington knew the force of it, the power of wanting; the agony of being lost in the black tunnel of ambition. To disguise his agitation, he got up and mixed another batch of martinis. Refilling Taylor’s glass, his fingers shook and a drop of the liquid spilled on the man’s lap.

“You’ve been politically defeated. You know what it means.” Taylor pleaded.

“I do know.” He could see that the senator did not have the inner reserves to withstand defeat.

“I really need your help,” the senator implored.

“Why come to me?” Remington asked, enjoying the malice. He enjoyed seeing them dangle. Some were less vulnerable than others. Some would never buckle, no matter what defeat they sustained. He was interested only in the weak ones. Like Taylor.

“You know the score,” Taylor said. “You know where I’m coming from.”

“It’s late in the game,” Remington said.

“I know I can pull it out.”

Taylor emptied his glass again. There had been no talk of ideology. No talk of party. The level of the man’s appeal was even more basic. Remington sensed it. Did it signal a coming sign?

Standing up, he stepped close to the senator’s chair and tipped the pitcher once again. With his free hand, the senator reached for Remington’s waist.

“I know you understand,” he said. He looked down, meeting the man’s tortured gaze. Remington felt the pull of it, frightened. Had he been looking for this? Surely not this. The man’s touch became a caress. He felt the blood surge, the center of him respond. Before the man could touch him there, he had moved back. Taylor flushed and downed his drink quickly.

“You’re a fucking fag!” Remington shouted. He felt his legs tremble. Deep in his pants, his erection twitched. “It’s disgusting.”

“You’re wrong,” the senator pleaded. “It’s a complete misinterpretation.”

“Get out of my house!”

“You’ve misinterpreted . . .” Taylor began. His voice, high-pitched, was on the verge of hysteria. Remington would not turn, would not look at the man’s face.

“At least . . .” The words began as a sob, then, tremulous: “. . . let’s keep it in this room. Whatever it is you think.”

The senator’s footsteps receded. He heard the door close and sought out a mirror to see his image. His skin was pale, like alabaster. A film of sweat covered his face. Had the other man seen it, sensed it?

In the steamroom, he turned the cold taps on full blast, hoping to clear his head. An errant memory had snaked its way into his thoughts. Perhaps the cold would strangle it. Receding, it still clung, like smoke smell to the edge of memory. Then he shut the taps and put the steam on full blast, feeling the surge of heat singe his skin and chase the cold.

He brought himself to a nebula of consciousness, that moment when the mind clouded over and anxiety faltered. Feeling faint, he shut the steam taps and let the cold drench him again. Revival came slowly, then quickened as the adrenalin surged up again and he was able to stand without dizziness.

He wrapped himself in a towel, groped for the bed, and staring at the eagle’s beak, which reassuringly hovered above him, let himself sink into a deathlike sleep.

In the distance he heard the door chimes. Opening his eyes, he listened for voices. Remembering, he cast off the chilled towel and with a dry one rubbed himself alert. A buzzer sounded and he flipped the intercom switch.

“Congressman Rosen, sir,” Mrs. Ramirez said.

“
Si.
”

He dressed quickly. His skin still glowed from his heat-cold shock treatment. He took a tiny gold scissors from his dresser, clipped off a white carnation from a bunch in the tapered Meissen vase and stuck it in the buttonhole of his charcoal gray jacket.

Surveying himself in the mirror, he brushed his damp hair, checked the part, the knot in his tie, the position of his belt, the knife edge of his pants, the loops of his shoelaces, alternating his gaze to the different mirrors, catching himself at various angles. He was pleased with himself; he was well girded. Who was it downstairs? Another supplicant? He waited patiently for recall, knowing that he had deadened the past. As he reached the upper step and began his descent, he remembered. Of course, Bruce Rosen. He felt the first cutting edge of exhilaration as the sign, the true sign, began to emerge in his mind.

“Bruce.” He held out his hand.

“Tad.” Their eyes met. He watched the inside of the man’s hazel field, observing the yellow-flecked center, until they shifted nervously. He understood instantly, the animal alertness. Fight or flee. All exits were closed to this beast. He smiled with delight.

“What will it be?”

“Scotch, please.”

His eyes searched the forest of bottles on the glistening bar cart. He picked up a pinch bottle, displaying it.

“The good stuff. You look as if you need it. It’s been getting better for twenty years.”

“I wish I could say the same,” Bruce said.

“I can,” Remington replied, holding up a glass and pouring it half full. He reached for the ice and Bruce nodded. He poured one for himself.

Remington lifted his glass, “To victory.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

They settled into chairs opposite each other. From somewhere in the house two clocks chimed at once. It was precisely eight o’clock. Remington checked his watch, which was always perfectly timed, then studied Rosen again. He had never really looked at him before, although they had bantered scores of times at Washington social rituals, yet revealing nothing to each other. The man had style, he observed, in a dark brooding Semitic way. The graying curly top and deep-set eyes gave him a theatrical air that he had obviously turned into an asset. Also, he could hide behind his cheekbones, as he was doing now, trying unsuccessfully to mask his desperation.

“Winning isn’t everything,” Remington purred, determined to tear off the mask immediately. No sense in wasting time, he thought. Rosen shifted in his chair and put his glass down. He had, Remington was sure, decided to keep a clear head.

“Yes, it is,” Bruce said. “They changed the battle plan. While I wasn’t looking. The traditional liberal is as dead as Kelsey’s nuts. They want raw meat at the lower depths. The limousine liberals are stepping on the brakes. The Kennedy aura went south with the Pepsi generation.”

Rosen had obviously strung the new clichés on a necklace of cynicism, hoping to find the right appeal. Remington chuckled to himself.

“It’s a new ballgame,” Bruce continued, unwinding a tight spring. “My district’s falling into the slime. I’m wrong for it, the wrong sex, the wrong color, the wrong antecedents, the wrong voice, the wrong party. I look wrong. I sound wrong.” He bent over and stuck a finger in his chest. “I think wrong.”

“You’re hard on yourself, Bruce,” Remington said.

“We’re both wrong,” Bruce said. So he’s also shrewd, Remington thought, feeling the thrust at his innards. “The Oswald bullet made us both obsolete.” Remington felt his pulse quicken. “Only it’s taking me longer to die.”

There it was. The sign. A bullet can change history. He wanted to stand up and cheer.

“I’m looking for resurrection, Tad,” Bruce said after a long pause. He had picked up his drink and finally drained it. Remington had resisted getting up for a refill, not wanting to break the spell. “Maybe you as well.”

“Me?”

“You can’t be comfortable with throwing in with those aging Boy Scouts with their sash of merit badges flapping over their chests. Jack was our man. He’s always going to be our man.”

“He got caught in the wrong rhythm of history,” Remington said cautiously. Would Rosen understand?

“You believe that old wheeze about them dying in office every twenty years?

“They do. Facts are facts,” Remington said, elated.

He wanted to explain about the cosmic force. Instead he said:

“When the natural order fails, providence intervenes. In 1860, Lincoln. In 1880, Garfield. In 1900, McKinley. In 1960, Kennedy. Do you think these all happened by accident?”

“Who the hell knows?” Bruce said irritably. He got up and poured himself a refill.

I know,
Remington wanted to tell him.

“It will undoubtedly happen again,” he said instead.

Bruce was obviously confused by the tack the conversation had taken.

“We don’t understand history’s lessons. Someone has to point them out. Keep pointing them out. There is a cosmic force, a divine rhythm . . .” He checked himself, still unsure. He wanted to scream it out. I am the instrument; you are the sign.

Sensing that he was losing control, he stood up quickly and strode out of the room. In the corridor he paused, leaning against a wall to catch his breath. Suddenly he felt their eyes staring down at him from the pictures hung along the walls, Garfield, McKinley, Lincoln, Kennedy. They were randomly placed, seemingly without design, scattered among other historical memorabilia. But there was no escaping them. They anchored the corners, reaching out, reminding him what he must do. Perspiration ran down the sides of his chest. Recovering, he came back into the room.