No one on the House Intelligence Committee had known about Colonel Carranza, nor had any member of the equivalent Senate committee. Caught off guard, they were all embarrassed. They were supposed to supervise the CIA. People thought this mess was their fault. But what could they do if spooks lied to them?
He sighed and stood up. He left his study, turning out the light, and stepped into Jack’s room. The boy was fast asleep. When he saw his child like this, so peaceful, George felt as if his heart would burst. Jack’s soft skin was surprisingly dark, like Jacky’s, even though he had two white grandparents. Light-skinned people were still favoured in the African-American community, despite all the talk about black being beautiful. But Jack was beautiful to George. His head lay on his teddy bear at what looked like an uncomfortable angle. George slipped a hand under the boy’s head, feeling soft curls just like his own. He lifted Jack’s head a fraction, gently slid the bear out, then carefully rested the head back on the pillow. Jack slept on, oblivious.
George went to the kitchen and poured a glass of milk, then carried it into the bedroom. Verena was already in bed, wearing a nightdress, with a pile of magazines beside her, reading and watching TV at the same time. George drank the milk then went into the bathroom and brushed his teeth.
They seemed to be getting on a little better. They rarely made love these days, but Verena was more even-tempered. In fact, she had not erupted for a month or so. She was working hard, often late into the evenings: perhaps she was happier when her job was more demanding.
George took off his shirt and lifted the lid of the laundry hamper. He was about to drop his shirt in when his eye was caught by Verena’s underwear. He saw a lacy black brassiere and matching panties. The set looked new, and he did not recall seeing it on her. If she was buying sexy underwear, why was she not letting him view it? She sure as hell was not shy about such things.
Looking more closely, he saw something even more strange: a blond hair.
He was possessed by a terrible fear. His stomach cramped. He picked the garments out of the hamper.
Carrying them into the bedroom, he said: ‘Tell me I’m crazy.’
‘You’re crazy,’ she said; then she saw what he had in his hand. ‘Are you going to do my laundry?’ she quipped, but he could tell she was nervous.
‘Nice underwear,’ he said.
‘Lucky you.’
‘Except that I haven’t seen it on you.’
‘Unlucky you.’
‘But someone has.’
‘Sure. Dr Bernstein.’
‘Dr Bernstein is bald. There’s a blond hair in your underpants.’
Her cappuccino skin went paler, but she remained defiant. ‘Well, Sherlock Holmes, what do you deduce from that?’
‘That you had sex with a man with long blond hair.’
‘Why does it have to be a man?’
‘Because you like men.’
‘I might like girls too. It’s the fashion. Everyone is bisexual now.’
George felt profoundly sad. ‘I note you’re not denying that you’re having an affair.’
‘Well, George, ya got me.’
He shook his head incredulously. ‘Are you making light of this?’
‘I guess I am.’
‘So you admit it. Who are you fucking?’
‘I’m not going to tell you, so don’t ask again.’
George was having more and more difficulty suppressing his anger. ‘You act as if you’ve done nothing wrong!’
‘I’m not going to pretend. Yes, I’m seeing someone I like. I’m sorry to hurt your feelings.’
George was bewildered. ‘How did this happen so quickly?’
‘It happened slowly. We’ve been married more than five years. The thrill is gone, like the song says.’
‘What did I do wrong?’
‘You married me.’
‘When did you become so angry?’
‘Am I angry? I thought I was just bored.’
‘What do you want to do?’
‘I’m not giving him up for the sake of a marriage that hardly exists any longer.’
‘You know I can’t accept that.’
‘So, leave. You’re not a prisoner.’
George sat down on her dressing-table stool and buried his face in his hands. He was swamped by a wave of intense emotion, and found himself suddenly taken back to childhood. He recalled the embarrassment of being the only boy in the class who did not have a father. He felt again the agonies of envy he had suffered when he saw other boys with their fathers, throwing a ball, fixing a punctured bicycle tyre, buying a baseball bat, trying on shoes. He boiled anew with rage at the man who had, in his eyes, abandoned his mother and him, caring nothing for the woman who had given herself to him, nor for the child that had been born of their love. He wanted to scream, he wanted to punch Verena, he wanted to weep.
He managed to speak at last. ‘I’m not leaving Jack,’ he said.
‘Your choice,’ said Verena. She switched off the TV, threw her magazines to the floor, turned out the bedside light, and lay down, facing away from him.
‘Is that it?’ George said amazedly. ‘Is that all you have to say?’
‘I’m going to sleep. I have a breakfast meeting.’
He stared at her. Had he ever known her?
Of course he had. In his heart he had understood that there were two Verenas: one a dedicated activist for civil rights, the other a party girl. He loved them both, and he had believed that with his help they could become one happy, well-adjusted person. And he had been wrong.
He remained there for several minutes, looking at her in the dim light from the street lamp on the corner. I waited so long for you, he thought; all those years of long-distance love. Then, at last, you married me, and we had Jack, and I thought everything would be all right, for ever.
At last he stood up. He took off his clothes and put on pyjamas.
He could not bring himself to get into bed beside her.
There was a bed in the guest room, but it was not made up. He went to the hall and got his warmest coat from the closet. He went to the guest room and lay down with the coat over him.
But he did not sleep.
* * *
George had noticed, some time ago, that Verena sometimes wore clothes that did not suit her. She had a pretty flower-print dress that she put on when she wanted to seem like an innocent girl, though, in fact, it made her look ridiculous. She had a brown suit that drained her face of colour, but she had paid so much for it that she was not willing to admit it was a mistake. She had a mustard-coloured sweater that made her wonderful green eyes go muddy and dull.
Everyone did the same, George reckoned. He himself had three cream-coloured shirts that he wished would fray at the collars soon so that he could throw them away. For all sorts of reasons, people wore clothes they hated.
But never when meeting a lover.
When Verena put on the black Armani suit with the turquoise blouse and the black coral necklace, she looked like a movie star, and she knew it.
She had to be going to see her paramour.
George felt so humiliated that it was like a gnawing pain in his stomach. He could not subject himself to this much longer. It made him feel like jumping off a bridge.
Verena left early, and said she would be home early, so George figured they were going to meet for lunch. He had breakfast with Jack then left him with Nanny Tiffany. He went to his rooms in the Cannon House Office Building, near the Capitol, and cancelled his appointments for the day.
At twelve noon, Verena’s red Jaguar was parked as usual in the lot near her downtown office. George waited down the block in his silver Lincoln, watching the exit. The red car appeared at half past twelve. He pulled into the traffic and followed her.
She crossed the Potomac and headed out into the Virginia countryside. As the traffic thinned he fell back. It would be embarrassing if she spotted him. He hoped she would not notice something as common as a silver Lincoln. He could not have done this in his distinctive old Mercedes.
A few minutes before one she pulled off the road at a country restaurant called The Worcester Sauce. George sped by, then U-turned a mile down the road and came back. He drove into the restaurant parking lot and took a slot from which he could see the Jaguar. Then he settled down to wait.
He brooded. He knew he was being stupid. He knew this could end in embarrassment or worse. He knew he should drive away.
But he had to know who his wife’s lover was.
They came out at three.
He could tell by the way Verena walked that she had had a glass or two of wine with her lunch. They came across the lot hand in hand, she giggling at something the man said, and hot fury boiled inside George.
The man was tall and broad, with thick fair hair, quite long.
As they came closer, George recognized Jasper Murray.
‘You son of a bitch,’ he said aloud.
Jasper had always had a yen for Verena, right from the first time they had met, at the Willard Hotel on the day of Martin Luther King’s ‘I have a dream’ speech. But lots of men had a yen for Verena. George had never imagined that Jasper, of all of them, would be the betrayer.
They walked to the Jaguar and kissed.
George knew he should start his car and drive away. He had learned what he needed to know. There was nothing else to be done.
Verena’s mouth was open, George could see. She leaned into Jasper with her hips. Both had their eyes closed.
George got out of his car.
Jasper grasped Verena’s breast.
George slammed the car door and strode across the tarmac towards them.
Jasper was too absorbed in what he was doing but Verena heard the slam and opened her eyes. She saw George, pushed Jasper away, and screamed.
She was too late.
George reached back with his right arm then hit Jasper with a punch that had all the force of his back and shoulders in it. His fist connected with the left side of Jasper’s face. George felt the deeply satisfying squish of soft flesh then, a split-second later, the hardness of teeth and bones. Then pain blazed in his hand.
Jasper staggered backwards and fell to the ground.
Verena yelled: ‘George! What have you done?’ She knelt beside Jasper, careless of her stockings.
Jasper lifted himself on one elbow and felt his face. ‘Fucking animal,’ he said to George.
George wanted Jasper to get up off the ground and hit back. He wanted more violence, more pain, more blood. He stared at Jasper for a long moment, seeing through a red mist. Then the fog cleared, and he realized Jasper was not going to get up and fight.
George turned around, went back to his car, and drove away.
When he got home, Jack was in his bedroom, playing with his collection of toy cars. George closed the door, so that Nanny Tiffany could not hear. He sat on the bed, which was covered by a counterpane that looked like a racing car. ‘I’ve got something very difficult to tell you,’ he said.
‘What happened to your hand?’ Jack said. ‘It’s all red and puffed up.’
‘I banged it on something. You have to listen to me.’
‘Okay.’
This was going to be hard for a four-year-old to understand. ‘You know I’ll always love you,’ George said. ‘Just like Grandma Jacky loves me, even though I’m not a little boy any more.’
‘Is Grandma coming today?’
‘Maybe tomorrow.’
‘She brings cookies.’
‘Listen. Sometimes Mommies and Daddies stop loving each other. Did you know that?’
‘Yeah. Pete Robbins’s Daddy doesn’t love his Mommy any more.’ Jack’s voice became solemn. ‘They got
divorced
.’
‘I’m glad you understand that, because your mom and I don’t love each other any more.’
George watched Jack’s face, trying to see whether he understood or not. The boy looked bewildered, as if something apparently impossible seemed to be happening. The look on his face wrenched George’s heart. He thought: How can I be doing something this cruel to the person I love most in the world? How did I get here?
‘You know I’ve been sleeping in the guest room.’
‘Yeah.’
Here comes the hard part. ‘Well, I’m going to sleep at Grandma’s house tonight.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s because Mom and I don’t love each other.’
‘Okay, then, I’ll see you tomorrow.’
‘I’m going to be sleeping at Grandma’s a lot from now on.’
Jack began to see that this would affect him. ‘Will you read my bedtime story?’
‘Every night, if you like.’ George vowed to keep this promise.
Jack was still working out the implications. ‘Will you make my warm milk for breakfast?’
‘Sometimes. Or Mom will. Or Nanny Tiffany.’
Jack knew prevarication when he met it. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I think you better not sleep at Grandma’s.’
George ran out of courage. ‘Well, we’ll see,’ he said. ‘Hey, how about some ice cream?’
‘Yeah!’
It was the worst day of George’s life.
* * *
Driving from the Capitol homeward to Prince George’s County, George brooded on hostages. This year in Lebanon, four Americans and a Frenchman had been kidnapped. One of the Americans had been released, but the rest were languishing in some prison, unless they were already dead. George knew that one of the Americans was the CIA head of station in Beirut.
The kidnappers were almost certainly a militant Muslim group called Hezbollah, the Party of God, founded in response to the Israeli invasion of Lebanon in1982. They had been bankrolled by Iran and trained by Iranian Revolutionary Guards. The United States regarded Hezbollah as an arm of the Iranian government, and classified Iran as a sponsor of terrorism, therefore a country that should not be allowed to buy weapons. George found that ironic, given that President Reagan was sponsoring terrorism in Nicaragua by funding the Contras, a brutal anti-government group that carried out assassinations and kidnappings.
All the same, George was angry about what was happening in Lebanon. He wanted to send the Marines into Beirut with all guns blazing. People should be taught the cost of abducting American citizens!
He felt this strongly, but he knew it was an infantile response. Just as the Israeli invasion had bred Hezbollah, so a violent American attack on Hezbollah would spawn more terrorism. Another generation of young Middle Eastern men would grow up swearing revenge upon America, the great Satan. George and all thinking people realized, when the blood cooled, that revenge was self-defeating. The only answer was to break the chain.