Gay Place (37 page)

Later, in the guest bed, she lay quietly waiting for sleep, waiting and coming wider and wider awake. She thought about a tranquilizer, but then reminded herself that the effect was cumulative, building up over the days, and that the condition it brought on was not so much blessedness as a mere sapping up of nervous energy. She took three aspirin instead and lay there waiting for them to work inside her. In the last stages, just before sleep, she was dimly aware of Neil’s footsteps in the hall, but she could not get the words formed on her lips to call out, and she had nearly forgotten what it was she had to tell.

He did not undress, but loosened a button and half unzipped the fly on his Bermuda shorts before lowering himself onto the bed. He did not think much about her; those few thoughts that came through were muddled and confused by the re-creation of emotion, or what remained of emotion, of the gorgeous feeling evoked from his ruminations on the intramural field. What was it he had lost? Beauty, or the illusion of beauty, or the illusion of loss. Real or imagined — that was of no importance. What counted most was the
sense
of loss, a value collapsed or in imminent danger of collapse. Those decaying timbers underneath. How had he let it happen?

He ought not be a politician, he told himself. Nice line of work but requiring a vision … a dedication, a certainty of belief in what one is doing. He’d had it once; the trouble was, all those sturdy affirmations began to dissolve. Right before the eyes … Front of my eyes? Perhaps a little left of center. You’d had it once, I do believe you did, but you just stopped believing … Stopped it altogether …

I remember once oh boy you had it, as singleminded and certain and unremittingly earnest as the best of them. Those old pols. That the way the old pol pounces? Old pols! Why is it we have to be so all-fired sure of ourselves? Or at least make like. How come I got the thing dumped on me just now of all times, of all ages, my spiritual prepubescence, when those wondrous self-righteous juices have temporarily ceased pulsing, or gone to vinegar, and I stand here waiting for wisdom or meaning or sweet bliss? They got me at this difficult age — too old and whiskery for playclothes and not yet grown tall enough for cufflinks and striped pants. I lost that vision, that monumental sustaining self-assurance. Just the illusion would be a comfort — perhaps that’s what old Arthur Fenstemaker’s got himself so high on. The real or the imagined, he’s got it, got hold of it good, they all have, all the great ones, like Stanley says, pushed along by that vision, like artists. But those artists are indulged and almost encouraged in their weakness. Because they got the poetic vision. What the hell! They got a different kind? They hold a monopoly or something? Picture an old pol revealing his frailty. Unthinkable. No prayer-meeting confessions please. Get up there like a man and tell ’em how it is you got the cure for all those ills …

If I could just see this script old Stanley wrote …

Ladies and gentlemen, if you’ll bear with me a moment — ten years or so would do nicely — while I grope around in the shadows for a new fuse. Around here backstage. That great hot light in my head seems to have gone dark. Got a match? Perhaps I can scrounge around in these perfumed sheets till dawn and then I’ll set us back on course.
Of course!
The one my John Tom charted … I know it well, my friends, and him too, that happy navigator. Never a need to spit into the wind with him around. But who the devil got us into these latitudes in the dead of night? Man the boats!

Those two fellows who knew the way seem to have perished at sea, in those sweet-smelling bedsheets … You see?

There was this nice lady on board for a time, and she knew the way partly, but the women and children went first and there’s no telling where they’re drifted now. Who knows? If I could read that script I just might walk on the goddam water. I did it once before. That women and those children might be just over the next swell … And of course and perhaps and in any event, all of us and any number of scripts should be visible in the first light of the dawn …

H
E WAS AWAKENED BY
the giggling of the little girls. They stood a few feet away, trying to control their laughter, delighted with the picture of him bunched up miserably in the sheets. The older one held his breakfast in a tray; the younger was laying out silver and an undersized tablecloth. He attempted to smile for them; it felt like an act of contrition.

Their voices were not really coming through to him just yet; they were merely singsong sounds in the beginning. The older girl set the tray in his lap and fled downstairs for salt and pepper. The younger pulled herself onto the foot of the bed and sat watching him, enormously pleased.

“This your mother’s idea?”

“No. She’s asleep.”

“Really?”

“It was
our
idea. Emma helped, but it was
our
idea.”

She was silent, watching him. Then she said: “Who do you love?”

“Who do I love?”

“Yes!”

He had to think a moment. “You and your sister and … your mother … and Emma … and. I guess those people best of all.”

She picked at her nose. He told her not to pick her nose.

Then he said, “Who do
you
love?”

Now she had to think. She yawned.

“The sandman!” she said, smiling, surprised with herself.

“The sandman? That’s —”

“And the
Easter
rabbut and the fairies that bring valentines …”

“Really? … What about Santa Claus?”

“
No!
There
isn’t
any Santa Claus.” This was stated as incontrovertible fact.

“Well … But there’s a sandman and a fairy and an Easter bunny?”

“Sure.”

“Well then you hold on to those few illusions …”

“What?”

“Don’t you love any people?”

“Not yet,” she said. It seemed a profundity.

The older sister appeared with the salt and pepper. The two of them sat solemnly and watched him eat. Soon they grew restless and ran downstairs to examine the test pattern that preceded the morning television. Occasionally one or both would reappear to let him know Captain Kangaroo was coming
soon
and to
hur-ry.

On his way to shower he could see that Andrea was indeed fast asleep. Her face was only faintly drawn and her bare arms and legs were lovely. He wore his blue “speechmaking” suit. He wondered who in the world ever coined that awful word.

The girls wanted to know where he was going.

“Speechmaking,” he said. They stared at him, uncomprehending. He sat with them for a few minutes and exchanged views on the quality of the television. Emma was banging around in the kitchen. He gave her three phone numbers where he could be reached during the day and started out the back door with the keys to the other car. The morning was clear and sunny and uncompromisingly beautiful, and he began to feel a little better. Emma met him in the driveway at the front of the house to give him a message from Andrea. There was a party somewhere that evening. He could meet her here or there or …

Or what? he wondered, driving through the nice neighborhoods toward the Capitol grounds, past the cool, deep-piled lawns and the serpentine walks that were bordered by thick blooms of flowers. He parked the car near the main entrance to the old granite building and proceeded unrecognized toward the Governor’s suite. Even the receptionist gave him her No Visitors smile until he identified himself. Fenstemaker met him at the door after the girl had delivered the message.

They sat in the huge, high-ceilinged office; it smelled of good cigars, leather and polished furniture. A secretary was making coffee behind a partition. There were two secretaries — they moved about noiselessly on the thick carpets. Enormous cut-glass chandeliers hung down from the ceiling, and a massive mirror, framed in gold leaf, was set above the marble fireplace, too high even to see one’s head, reflecting only and rather pointlessly the opposite wall. One of the secretaries served coffee. She stood waiting, watching them. Governor Fenstemaker blew across the top of the cup. Then he glanced at the girl.

“Ah?”

“You be needing me around noon?”

“Sybil be here?”

“Yes … She’s having a sandwich at her desk.”

“Okay.”

“Thanks …”

She turned, but the Governor called to her.

“Where’re you goin’?”

“Down on the Avenue. I thought I’d buy some shoes … It’s a good day to buy shoes …”

“Oh.” The Governor looked at Neil and made a Frenchman’s face. Again he called to the girl. “Vydora …”

“Yes?”

“Why is it a good day?”

“For shoes?”

“Yes.”

“Well, because it’s cool and it’s supposed to cloud up around noon and …”

“Yes?”

“… And your feet don’t swell.” The girl bolted through the door.

The Governor looked at Neil, mystified. “Last week,” he said, “last week it was the lights — the fluorescent lights. She insisted they were hot and were burning her. Way the hell up there on the ceiling and she was getting heat stroke or something … Probably flashes. She wanted to turn out all the lights and stumble around in the dark. We get an appropriation of twenty-five thousand to air-condition these rooms, and she’s hot from the lights …”

They sipped their coffee. Then the Governor said: “Well what’re you gonna do about that fourteen-carat sonofabitch?”

Neil set his cup down and looked at the older man. “Who’s this?”

“Edwards. Who the hell you think —”

“What’s he done?”

“Haven’t you seen the morning papers?”

“I saw ’em about two this morning. Something on Edwards … Just his usual.”

“You haven’t seen this? You’re a hell of a politician. I’ve been up since five reading most of the papers in the state and last Wednesday’s
New York Times.
”

“I got to bed about five,” Neil said. He examined the front page of one of the papers. Owen Edwards, in another city, had finally got hold of a copy of Neil’s remarks made at the impromptu airport news conference.

OWEN EDWARDS BELIEVES CHRISTIANSEN WEAKENING

‘Knuckled Under’ in Past — Now Losing Nerve Again?

State Senator Owen Edwards said last night he feels he can win a seat in the United States Senate “practically uncontested.”

In an interview following his speech at Miller Auditorium, Edwards assailed Senator Neil Christiansen’s “characteristic mental flabbiness” and “noticeable lack of any real conviction
—
good or bad.”

Christiansen is “poorly equipped, emotionally and intellectually, to hold a position of public trust,” Edwards said. “I’m not telling anything new. Christiansen will probably confirm this in a few days when he disqualifies himself for holding public office. This facet of his nature was first apparent when he refused to stand up on his own two feet and fight like a man for his political life seven years ago. He didn’t give the people the opportunity to replace him then, as they surely would have done, and I’m certain he won’t let the people judge for themselves now, as I would like for them to do. He lacks any real qualities of leadership — most of all he lacks heart and guts …”

“I wonder why,” Neil said, “they didn’t report spitum dribbling down his chin …”

The Governor nodded. “But what are you going to do about it?”

“Well … Like you said last night. Stay above it … Ignore him … Jesus Christ, listen to the rest of this …”

“I’ve read it. Several times,” the Governor said. “I don’t want you to
say
anything. I want you to
do
something. And the obvious thing is for you to announce as a candidate. Today. Soon as possible.”

“I’m not going to let that baboon make up my mind or push me into anything before I’m ready …”

The Governor got to his feet and paced around, hands jammed into trouser pockets, breathing hard. He, too, had married into money long ago, long before he had entered public life. But Arthur Fenstemaker hadn’t resisted the idea of wealth. He had gone after it, seized it, invested wisely and made some on his own. He had fought
with
the money and had, therefore, a healthy respect for wealth and its gorgeous machinations.

“Well,” he said, “it’s a goddam good day to buy shoes.”

“Because it’s cool and your feet don’t swell,” Neil said. And the mind doesn’t boggle, he thought to himself.

“The way I see it,” the Governor said, “you’ve just about got to get into this thing now — whether you announce today or tomorrow or the day after. Whenever. Otherwise —”

“Otherwise he will have put a pox on my house … He may be right. Maybe I
don’t
have the heart for this sort of thing.”

The Governor stood with his back to him, staring through the window, unwrapping an enormous cigar. “I’ll tell you something,” he said. “You want to know something?”

Neil nodded. The Governor had pushed open a window and through it came the sounds of birds and dogs and children and morning traffic in the streets.

“If you don’t get into this, it’ll ruin you. As a man. I know you — I’ve known you for seven, eight years. You’re goddam good. You got sense. Hell! I remember the first time I saw you. When I was Attorney General … I’d dropped in to visit some friends on the House floor. There was a bill coming up that day. I forget exactly … Something that permitted state funds to be deposited in banks without drawing interest. A real jackpot. I didn’t particularly like it; not many people did. But it had some solid support and the skids were greased. I was sitting next to the press table and you brushed by heading toward the back microphone, reading the bill and mumbling to yourself. I remember — I heard what you were saying: ‘What a lousy goddam bill.’ So you got the floor and I sat back and watched you, throwing out a few parliamentary questions, making notes all the time on little pieces of paper. You stood up there and talked and made notes for more than an hour, passing bits of paper to your secretary and whispering to anybody who came near you. After an hour the secretary came back with that pile of typed amendments and then you went after them — you must have tried to change every line during the course of the debate. You stood up there and organized the opposition yourself, operating right out of the seat of your goddam pants, and by God you beat ’em down. It was a real pleasure to watch, Neil … what the hell’s happened since? You run out of gas at the age of thirty-three?”