“She was cruel, too. She always went along with him whenever he sent me to one of those places.”
“I’m sure she had your best interests at heart, Marlene.” He staved off another interruption by saying quickly, “Did you see Jeannette the day she was murdered?”
She nodded, sat back against the back of the stool and encircled herself with her arms. “I did.”
“And?”
“And what, Philip?”
“How was she? What did you talk about?”
“She was drunk.”
“How drunk?”
“Not stumbling around, if that’s what you mean. Jeannette wasn’t a perfect person. She drank too much, you know.”
He knew.
“She used to go with him to those fund-raising dinners where all they do is drink. Washington! Nothing but whiskey and payoffs. It’s disgusting. Polly wanted me to move to California.”
“Did she? When?”
“Oh, now and then she’d mention it. I should have gone, too, gotten as far away as possible from the distinguished senator and my cruel big sister.”
“They’ve been good to you, Marlene,” Rotondi said, not sure why he felt the need to defend them.
“They’ve controlled me,” she snapped. “Do you know what Jeannette said to me the other afternoon when I visited?”
“No.”
“She said I was jealous of her.”
Which was true
, Rotondi knew.
“She said I was pathetic.
A pathetic creature
, is what she said exactly.”
Somehow Rotondi couldn’t envision the Jeannette he knew saying anything that harsh to anyone, especially to her sister. How drunk had she been? Maybe it’d been the booze talking. He made a mental note to check with Crimley on the autopsy to see how much alcohol she had in her system, although the passage of time between her death and the autopsy would cause the level to drop.
“What time did you visit Jeannette?” he asked.
“Does it matter?”
“It might.”
She waved her hands in the air to chase away the importance of the question, and answer. “The afternoon. I went in the afternoon.”
“Was anyone else there?”
She snorted. “Nobody ever visited Jeannette except me. After she got fed up with having to be at the distinguished senator’s side night after night, she decided to stay home. Like me.” A laugh. “What a pair the Boynton sisters are, a couple of recluses, two old bags sitting around the house studying their navels.”
Rotondi glanced up at a clock decorated with colorful birds. “I think I’d better go, Marlene.”
“So soon?” The little girl voice again. “Please stay. I haven’t seen you in a while, and I need comforting. My poor sister is dead. I didn’t ever hate her, Philip. It’s just sometimes I—”
He stood and stretched his leg, grimacing as he did.
“Poor dear,” she said. “I hope the man who shot you rots in hell.”
“He’s close to it,” he said. Rotondi had never been in favor of the death penalty: As far as he was concerned, life behind bars was a fate far worse than having a needle stuck in your arm, delivering you to a more peaceful place.
He’d started toward the living room when she stopped him with, “Jeannette should have married you, Phil. You were the one she loved.”
He turned and leaned on his cane.
“She told me that many times,” said Marlene. “She told Polly that, too. She should have married you.”
“I’ll stop by again, Marlene,” he said and continued to the front door.
She came to him. One hand went to his cheek, her fingertips caressing it.
“You take care, Marlene. Everything will work out.”
He left quickly.
“T
he war was a mistake to begin with.”
“They say we had to take a stand somewhere against Communism.”
“My father says that if we hadn’t gone to war in Vietnam, the whole area would’ve fallen to the Communists.”
“The domino theory.”
“That’s what he called it. The domino theory.”
“We went into Vietnam because we were misled. The Gulf of Tonkin was a deliberate lie to justify sending in troops. Our involvement in Vietnam isn’t justified on the grounds of vital national interest, or of moral commitment. The government says we had to go in because North Vietnam was aggressively attacking the south. That makes it a civil war, and we have no right injecting our national will into a civil war. Not only that, Vietnam was one nation until it was temporarily split by the Geneva Accords of 1954. There were supposed to be national elections to unify the country, but it was the South Vietnamese president, Ngo Dinh, who violated that agreement.”
“That may be true, but—”
“Besides, we’ve never had a treaty agreement to defend South Vietnam. All SEATO did was to establish a structure through which its members would get together and talk about Communist aggression in the region. It didn’t dictate military action by us or anyone else.”
Lyle Simmons laughed. “I see why you’re the captain of the debate team, Phil. You guys won the tournament, right?”
“You bet we did.”
Rotondi had returned a month earlier from a four-day Midwest collegiate debate competition on the campus of the University of Wisconsin. He’d joined the team as a sophomore, and had been elected captain at the start of his senior year. He considered the debate team a natural extension of his studies as a pre-law major; it would provide valuable experience for arguing cases in courts of law.
Rotondi, Simmons, and Jeannette Boynton were having this discussion about Vietnam on a gentle, warm afternoon in May 1971. They’d driven to an idyllic knoll a few miles outside the campus and had spread a blanket. It was a sunny day, with a hesitant breeze that put leaves, and their hair, into motion, hardly a time and place for arguing over a nasty, controversial war.
But this was May 1971. Only one year earlier, on May 4, 1970, the nation’s universities and colleges had erupted in protest over the killing of four Kent State students by the Ohio National Guard. The students had rallied against the Vietnam War and President Nixon’s decision to send troops into Cambodia. By May 4, more than three thousand protesters had flooded the university and downtown Kent. When the wind caused tear gas to float away from the crowds, the Guard opened fire. The torch had been lit, banners raised high.
Two days later, almost five million students at 850 colleges and universities across the nation, the University of Illinois among them, went on strike, the only national student strike in U.S. history.
“I don’t know what to think sometimes,” Jeannette said. “It’s all so confusing.”
Rotondi was tempted to break through her confusion with another speech against the war, but thought better of it. Lyle had adopted his usual stance of seeing both sides without committing to either.
Phil and Jeannette had been seeing each other on a fairly regular basis since the previous fall. They were “an item” to some, the handsome basketball and track star and budding attorney, and the strikingly lovely daughter of a wealthy Connecticut family. But it hadn’t all been smooth sailing.
Like many seniors, Jeannette viewed her final undergraduate semester as a time to kick back and soak up springtime after four long years of study. Her grades were slightly above average, more than good enough to graduate. She wanted to be with Rotondi every waking minute—at least it seemed that way to him—which wasn’t possible. Unlike many of his peers, he considered his senior year to be the time to really turn it on academically, to raise his grade point average as high as possible. He felt an obligation to Maryland University’s law school, which had granted him a scholarship. They were putting their faith in him, just as his father had, and he was not someone to take that lightly. Added to that commitment were the debate team’s demands and extended, strenuous track team practices and meets.
Which left scant time for Jeannette. She wasn’t happy about that, of course, and had become open in expressing her dissatisfaction to him. While she admired his drive and commitment, she had her own needs to satisfy, and many a night at the sorority house found her sharing her growing frustration with sorority sisters. The prevailing, giggle-inducing subject was, of course, sex.
Their first full-fledged sexual encounter occurred shortly before they were to leave campus on their Christmas break. There had been frantic grappling on local lovers’ lanes in Lyle Simmons’s Thunderbird, which Rotondi managed to borrow on occasion. Jeannette found these moments to be immature, the stuff of freshmen. She was, after all, a senior, a grown woman about to leave behind sophomoric backseat fumbling. The libidinous 1960s were not long gone.
Philip was not without sexual experiences of his own. But Jeannette was different. Those few other women had meant little to him in a personal, caring sense. They’d come and gone. Making love with Jeannette Boynton transcended the physical for him. This was love in all its glory, which was precisely why he had trouble initiating sex with her.
“Why not?” she asked. They’d been necking in the car, juices flowing, frustration levels nudging the unbearable. She suggested taking a motel room.
“I’m just not sure that we should,” he said, his breathing labored.
“Why not?” she repeated, discarding the bra that he’d pulled down to her waist.
“Because—because I love you, Jeannette.”
His words dumbfounded her. She said, “That’s exactly why we should make love, Phil,
because
we love each other.”
“I just don’t want you to think I’m with you because of sex, because I’m after your body. I want you to know that I love you, the person. It’s more than sex, Jeannette. At least it should be.”
Does he have a sexual identity problem?
she wondered. That had been a recent topic in her class on human sexuality.
In any event, his rationale didn’t appease her. She put herself back together, turned from him, and stared out the passenger’s side window.
“I want us to sleep together,” he said, touching her shoulder.
“Then why won’t you?”
“I—I will. I have to get the car back to Lyle.”
“Call him. He’ll understand.”
The way she said it pricked him. It sounded as though she was making a comparison with Simmons, one not favorable to him.
“All right,” he said.
They drove to a motel that posted a
VACANCY
sign. He told her to wait in the car while he registered for a room, and used the pay phone in the lobby to call Lyle.
“Lyle, is it okay if I keep the car overnight?”
Simmons’s laugh was pointed. “Why do I think my best buddy is about to shack up?”
“It isn’t that. Well, anyway, can I bring the car back in the morning?”
“Sure. Have fun, pal. I’ll be thinking of you.”
Philip and Jeannette awoke at three the following morning. Their lovemaking had, at first, been tentative. But it soon became intense—and wonderful for both.
“I have an idea,” she said, sitting up against the headboard.
“What’s that?”
“Why don’t you come home with me for Christmas and meet my folks.”
He turned on his side, rested his head on his hand, and looked up at her. “I can’t,” he said. “I promised my brothers and sisters that I’d be with them over the holidays.”
“You don’t have to spend the whole break with them, Phil. Batavia, or whatever the name of your town is, isn’t that far from Greenwich. You could drive down and at least spend a few days with us.”
He swung his legs off the bed, which positioned his back to her. He felt her fingertips on his neck, then her lips. “Please,” she said. “For me?”
“I don’t know, Jeannette. Probably not. I made a lot of promises to the family, things to do, stuff like that. And I planned to write a paper that’s due when we get back.”
She pulled away, got out on the opposite side of the bed, and disappeared into the bathroom. The grayness of the room matched Rotondi’s mood. He knew he wouldn’t go to visit her over Christmas—couldn’t go. What he’d said was true, that plans made with his sisters and their families would take up some of his time while at home. But not that much. It was also true that he intended to write a paper to get a jump on things when he returned from the break.
He knew that those reasons for not going were just rationalizations. The truth was that he did not feel comfortable spending time with Jeannette’s wealthy parents, to be judged by them, to be asked questions about his own family. Was he truly in love with Jeannette Boynton? The answer to that was beyond debate. He was, and desperately so. At the same time, he was convinced that he wasn’t worthy of her. It wasn’t a matter of self-loathing. It was just that his feelings of love seemed always to be tempered by a need to disengage—for her sake.
He was terminally confused.
As winter surrendered to spring, they continued to date, although less frequently and with diminished urgency. There were a few more nights in motels, pleasurable physical experiences but with both instinctively realizing that the fire had lost some of its intensity—not extinguished by any means, but banked. Phil became less and less accessible, taking refuge in his studies and finding pleasure in the physical exhaustion that followed workouts and track meets.
Now, on this lovely day in early May 1971, he shared a blanket with the woman he loved, and with his best friend.
“What are you doing for the summer, Phil?” Simmons asked.
“Working back home. I’ve lined up a job in a local factory. Not the sort of job I wanted, but it pays better than anything else. I’ll need the money at Maryland.”
“Like I told you, buddy, you can come to work for my father in Chicago. Wouldn’t hurt a future lawyer to learn something about the
real
real estate business.”
“I appreciate it, Lyle, but I’d rather be home.” He glanced at Jeannette, who was on her back, her arms folded over her eyes against the sun.
“You look beat,” said Simmons. “Man, you should back off the books a little.”
“Not much longer to go,” Rotondi said. “I think I can ace a straight four-oh this semester.”