Authors: Susan Isaacs
“Mr. Morrissey? No. It’s some woman. It sounded really important.”
He led me into a spacious room filled with long tables, probably left from salad days when the hotel had done a big catering business. The tables were loaded with petitions. A telephone, its receiver off the hook, rested on a windowsill.
“You want privacy, Ms. Green?” the kid asked.
“Yes,” I said. He left. “Thank you,” I called after him. “Hello.”
“Darling, how are you?”
“Fine, Aunt Estelle.”
“Good. I’m so glad.”
“Is everything okay?”
“Yes. Of course. I just wanted to talk to you.”
“Could I call you back? Another candidate, Sidney Appel, is declaring. He’s—”
“I know who he is. His wife is from a very prominent German-Jewish family. Philip went to Harvard Law School with a nephew of hers. They’re a monied family, you know.”
“Yes. Cat food.”
“Marcia, they were originally investment bankers, and they happen to be accepted by Our Crowd.”
“Their Crowd. Good, I’m really glad. Anyway, Appel is on TV right now.”
“I’ll only take a minute of your time, Marcia. I know it’s your busy season, but you can see it all on the news tonight. They always run films of things like that. What I called to say is this: I know I sometimes have a tendency to be overbearing, and I want to apologize. I know you’re going to say it’s not necessary, but I want to get it off my chest.”
“Okay.”
“What’s the point of holding things back? Especially with family. You lost your temper and maybe I would lose mine too, if I was in your shoes, not the same way, obviously, but we’re of different generations. In any case, I just wanted to say a small ‘I’m sorry’ and also to thank you for coming to the Leventhals’. It meant a great deal to them.”
“I’m glad.”
“Lydia Leventhal said you were a dream, a doll. Sweet, polite. Not like the ones who can’t look a person in the eye. Chewing gum.”
“What ones?”
“Plenty of girls your age. And Butch. He was touched too. I think it was nice for him to have a contemporary there to talk to. Someone near his age.”
“Well, I’m glad I could do—”
“Marcia, he’s still there.”
I peered around the room. It contained only petitions. “Who?”
“Butch. He’s staying home for the next week or two, just to help Lydia settle into her new life.”
“Very considerate.”
“He always was. You might consider giving him a call, you know. I know he’s impressed with your important job. He won’t go out with just anyone, like secretaries or teachers. Only girls with important careers.”
“I don’t want to call him, Aunt Estelle.”
“You know, I really can’t understand your attitude. On one hand you’re the modern girl, and then you stand on ceremony. Look, darling, you know and I know that ten-fifteen years ago I never would have suggested the girl calling the boy. But we’re living in a different world now.”
“It’s not that I’m standing on ceremony, Aunt Estelle. I told you, I tried to tell you, he wasn’t for me. I didn’t like him.”
“Marcia, are you sure in your own mind that you really didn’t like him or was it a reaction against us? You know what I mean. You felt your mother and I were putting on the pressure, so you made up your mind that under no circumstances was Butch Leventhal going to—”
“Aunt Estelle,” I said slowly. “I did not like him at all.”
“All right. Your tastes are your own. It’s just too bad. He’s free. Available. Comfortable. His wife was like you, one of those who wouldn’t accept alimony. Very independent, she was. And I know he’d like to hear from you. I mean, how often do two intelligent—”
“No, Aunt Estelle.”
“Can I ask you something?”
“What?”
“Marcia, I hope you won’t take offense. Is it because you had that miscarriage? Is it?”
“What?”
“Because it can happen, darling. It happened to me before Kenny was born. I’ve never told you that, but it happened. It’s nature’s way. It doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with you. You can still get married and have children.”
“Aunt Estelle, I have to go.”
“I know. I’m sorry if I upset you again. But Marcia, you’re thirty-five years old. You still have time to make a life for yourself. Look ahead. Someday you’ll be forty. Fifty. What do you want for yourself?”
Not Butch Leventhal, I thought a moment later, meandering around the petition room. I came to a table with a large oak-tag sign taped to it saying
GREENE COUNTY.
There were not many petitions on it, but the one I picked up had names like Simon Flood and J. Maureen Turner and Eulalie Benson. Why shouldn’t I pickup and move to Greene County, buy a little frame house or a big frame house, depending on the Greene County real estate market, and settle in before I hit forty? Fifty. Get a job with WGRN, the voice of Greene County, as their political analyst or sell mitten clips at the five and ten. Maybe Simon Flood would ask me out. Conversely, maybe Simon Flood would burn a cross on my lawn, but J. Maureen, a hotshot lawyer for the Greene County ACLU, could come running to protect my rights, and Eulalie Benson would invite me over to apologize for Mad Simon and to share her dinner of red-flannel hash. She would tell me how much she admired the Old Testament.
“Do you want to tell me what you’re doing in here, Marcia?” Lyle LoBello’s voice was calm, but since he flared his nostrils at me, he was either aroused or angry.
“I had a phone call.”
“And now? Checking how the petition drive is going?”
“I’ll ask you for a hall pass the next time I leave the room.”
“A little sarcastic, aren’t you?”
“Lyle, come on. Let’s forget it. Is Appel finished speaking?”
“Yes. What were you doing here? Don’t you think it’s important to hear him? Take notes?”
“I’ll listen to the news tonight. I don’t take notes for something like that.”
“Debbie Drake always did.” She had been one of Gresham’s speech writers. “No matter where she was, she always had a little spiral notebook and a pen. And let me remind you that despite your loyalty to your boyfriend, I’m the one who’s in charge.”
“So hire Debbie Drake.”
“I didn’t say that, Marcia.”
“You want Bill to sound like he’s running in California, hire Debbie. He can go on television and say, ‘Hey, I want to share my feelings with you.’ Why in God’s name she needs a notebook when she writes like that I’ll never know.”
“That’s not funny, Marcia. Now listen, you and I have to talk.”
“Okay.”
“Not here. After work.”
“No, Lyle.”
“Hey. Come on. Do you really think I’d try anything?” His nostrils flared again. “Marcia, what happened with us happened a long time ago. All right, I kid about it every now and then, but you know I respect you. I won’t get frisky.” Frisky was a word he must have picked up from Gresham. It made lust sound snub-nosed. Lyle could no more frisk than he could gambol or romp. “Listen, we’re colleagues now. Trust me.”
“What’s it about, Lyle?”
“Speech-writing. Hey, Marcia, I’m serious. Even if I had ideas, and I don’t, I wouldn’t mess around because of Morrissey and because you’re too important now. Anyway, I go for the young ones. You know that. So come on, have a drink with me. I swear, no male chauvinist passes. I’ll let you pick up the check if you want to. Anything.”
“You can pay.”
“About seven? Meet me in my office, okay?”
I didn’t want to call Jerry because I was almost paralyzed by his coldness. Each icy interchange froze something between us. But I began to worry about his back, imagined him screaming in pain, being ignored by all Greenwich Village, so I phoned. “Do you need anything?” I asked, using an aloof Department of Social Services voice.
“No thank you.”
“Would you like me to bring you a sandwich for dinner?”
“It’s not necessary.”
“All right. See you later.”
He hung up the phone.
“Marcia!” Lyle seemed delighted to see me, and I realized that half his joy was that our being seen together would be construed as an alliance of one sort or another. He kept smiling as we walked down the dark, shabby corridor of headquarters. At least five people, including Joe Cole and Paterno himself, saw us leaving together. Since I was dragging around a weighty attaché case, a handbag, and a sweater, there was no way I could pretend I was on my way to the Xerox. And it was clear that Lyle was also on his way out because he was wearing a hat—his latest piece of Protestant haberdashery—which seemed to have been made from a soiled raincoat.
Paterno met us as he was leaving the men’s room, pushing the door open with his elbow so as not to break sterility, his just-washed hands red and still damp looking.
“Hey, Bill,” Lyle crowed, “you caught us! We were just sneaking out of here for a drink.”
Joe Cole nipped by us as we waited for the elevator. Lyle put his hand on my shoulder, a gesture that could be interpreted as the boundary of friendship or the door to romance. “Night, Joe,” he called out.
Although there were at least two bars and three cocktail lounges within a block radius, Lyle led me on a half-mile sprint through the lazy spring twilight to what he hinted was the chicest bar in New York, known only to high-ranking U.N. diplomats and high-fashion models. It was a dark place and mirrored, the walls lined with banquettes so thickly upholstered in blood-red wool that they were more suitable for a snooze than a chat. We were the only patrons.
“Hi,” he said to me, after the waitress disappeared into the darkness that gave birth to her, carrying our order. “How’s it going?”
“How’s what going?” I snapped. Each time I looked at Lyle, I saw a familiar face beyond him, like the face of someone I went to high school with. Although I realized after a moment it was my own reflection, it was disconcerting, because the mirror image looked younger and more attractive and might, at any moment, walk over and tell me how happily married she was or recommend a good hairdresser.
“Marcia, take it easy. I gave you my word of honor, didn’t I?”
I made myself peer at the bridge of Lyle LoBello’s nose, so he would know I was unafraid of eye contact and so that I would not be distracted by the woman in the mirror. Lyle peered at me too, but lower, at my mouth or maybe my chin, and kept talking.
“I promised I’d be a good boy, and I keep my promises.”
“What did you want to talk about?” My skirt was pulled up under me. The wool seat irritated the backs of my thighs.
“About us. Listen….”
The waitress seemed to be curtseying before us, acknowledging Lyle’s sexuality, but then I realized she was just bending her knees to lower herself as she set the drinks on the table. “One white wine spritzer,” she told me. And, turning to Lyle, “And one champagne cocktail for the gentleman.” In exchange, she got a quick wink.
“Where was I?” Lyle demanded.
“You wanted to talk,” I replied, lowering my head to study my drink. The bubbles seemed unusually large and rose languorously to the surface.
“Look at me,” he said. I did, pulling my eyes from the magnetic mole under his eye back to the bridge of his nose. “Tell me the truth. Do I look like a bad guy? Do I, Marcia? Because you’re treating me like I was one, and it hurts. It really hurts.”
I went back on carbonation patrol, staring at my drink.
“Here I am,” he continued, “a virtual stranger in the midst of friends, and instead of making me welcome, you set the tone and I’m treated like I’m an enemy.”
“What did I do?” I asked.
“You were snotty at the staff meeting.”
“Lyle, for God’s sake. I just told you I was leaving early.”
“You set everybody off. They were just waiting for a signal from you.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“It is not. Here I am, trying to run a campaign that your boyfriend fucked up and—”
“He did what?”
“You heard me. His contacts upstate are older than whatever his name is, that old guy in the Bible.”
“Methuselah.”
“Right. Come on, Marcia, what choice did Bill have? I’m not saying this to hurt you. Jerry Morrissey is a very valuable guy. I wouldn’t make a move in the city without consulting him. But on a statewide basis? Look, we both know there’s a whole generation up there that your boyfriend hasn’t even been introduced to. I’m talking about powerful people, Marcia. People who can help Bill.”
“Then how come Sidney Appel was able to get such a lineup today?”
“What do you mean?”
“All the old Kennedy people. Maryjo Beinstock. They all came out for Jim Gresham. Why couldn’t you get them for Bill?”
“I don’t understand you. Maryjo’s an ultra-liberal.”
“She went for Gresham.”
“Jim could make liberal noises.”
“So? Why aren’t you teaching Bill to make them? What’s your value, Lyle? Why are you here? You were supposed to pull in the up-state heavies, and all anyone’s seen is one senile county chairman and four or five of your old buddies on the payroll.”
He caressed the rim of his glass. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you, Marcia, that it doesn’t pay to make enemies? Didn’t anyone? Because what you are doing here tonight is so fucking stupid that I cannot believe it. Here I am, giving you the opportunity to save yourself, to keep your job, and—”
“Who’s going to fire me, you? Do you think Bill would go for that?”
“He’ll go for what I say is good for the campaign.”
“Crap.”
“You shouldn’t talk like that. Listen to me, Marcia, you’re so goddamn smart. You get canned now, where will you be? Who’s going to hire you if I make thumbs down? And what would you do for money? You went off the city payroll, and you haven’t been working for the campaign long enough to get unemployment, so what are you gonna do?”
I forced my mind to move from fear to consciousness. I thought, I have been in politics for fifteen years. I said, “Double crap. Let me tell you a couple of things, Lyle. One is that Bill is not going to fire me. He knows damn well if I go he’ll wind up with one of your creeps who’ll make him sound like a cocaine pusher, and Bill and I have spent too much time working to make him sound like he’s a cross between Leonardo da Vinci and Al Smith to throw it away. He speaks my language. Do you understand me?”