“The
bastard broke his agreement,” said
Goldblatz
furiously, as he strode down the corridor toward the boardroom.
“Which
was what precisely?” asked Nat, trying to remain calm.
“I
agreed to say that he was a party to the successful negotiations, if in turn he
would resign and withdraw as the legal representative of the new company, and
make no further comment.”
“Do
we have that in writing?”
“No,
I agreed to it over the phone last night.
He
said he would confirm it in writing today.”
“So
once again Elliot comes out smelling of roses,” said Nat.
Goldblatz
came to a halt outside the boardroom door and turned to face Nat. “No, he does
not. I think the smell is more akin to manure,” he added, “and this time, he’s
chosen the wrong man to cross.”
The
popularity of an individual in life often only manifests itself in death.
The
funeral service for Harry Gates, held at St. Joseph’s Cathedral, was filled to
overflowing, long before the choir had left the vestry.
Don
Culver, the chief of police, decided to cordon off the block in front of the
cathedral, so that mourners could sit on the steps or stand in the street,
while they listened to the service being relayed over loudspeakers.
When
the cortege came to a halt, an honor guard carried the coffin up the steps and
into the cathedral. Martha Gates was accompanied by her son, while her daughter
and son-in-law walked a pace behind them. The throng of people on the steps
made a passage to allow the family to join the other mourners inside. The
congregation rose as an usher accompanied Mrs. Gates to the front pew. As they
walked down the aisle, Fletcher noted the coming together of Baptists, Jews,
Episcopalians, Muslims, Methodists and Mormons, all unified in their respect
for this Roman Catholic.
The
bishop opened the service with a prayer chosen by Martha, which was followed by
hymns and readings that Harry would have enjoyed. Jimmy and Fletcher both read
lessons, but it was Also Brubaker, as chairman of the party, who climbed the
steps of the wooden pulpit to deliver the address.
He
looked down at the packed congregation and remained silent for a moment. “Few
politicians,” he began, “inspire respect and affection, but if Harry could be
with us today, he would see for himself that he was among that select group. I
see many in this congregation I have never come across before,” he paused, “so
I have to assume they’re Republicans.” Laughter broke out inside the cathedral,
and a ripple of applause outside in the street. “Here was a man who, when asked
by the president to run for governor of this state, replied simply, I have not
completed my work as the senator for Hartford,” and he never did. As chairman
of my party, I have attended the funerals of presidents, governors, senators,
congressmen and congresswomen, along with the powerful and mighty, but this
funeral has a difference, for it is also filled with ordinary members of the
public, who have simply come to say thank you.
“Harry
Gates was opinionated, verbose, irascible and maddening. He was also passionate
in the pursuit of causes he believed in. Loyal to his friends, fair with his
opponents, he was a man whose company you sought out simply because it enriched
your life. Harry Gates was no saint, but there will be saints standing at the
Gates of Heaven waiting to greet him.
“To
Martha, we say thank you for indulging Harry and all his dreams, so many
achieved; one still to be fulfilled.
To Jimmy and Annie, his
son and daughter, of whom he was inordinately proud.
To Fletcher, his
beloved son-in-law, who has been given the unenviable burden of carrying the
torch.
And to Lucy his granddaughter, who became class
president a few days after he died. America has lost a man who served his
country at home and abroad, in war and in peace. Hartford has lost a public
servant who will not easily be replaced.
“He
wrote to me a few weeks ago,”
Brubaker
paused, “begging for money-what a nerve-for his beloved hospital. He said he’d
never speak to me again if I didn’t send a check. I considered the pros and
cons of that particular threat.”
It
was a long time before the laughter and applause died down. “In the end, my
wife sent a check. The truth is, that it never crossed Harry’s mind that if he
asked, you wouldn’t give, and why? Because he spent his whole life giving, and
now we must make that dream a reality and build a hospital in his memory of
which he would have been proud.
“I
read in the Washington Post last week that Senator Harry Gates had died, and
then I traveled to Hartford this morning and drove past the senior citizens”
center, the library and the hospital foundation stone that bears his name. I
shall write to the Washington Post when I return tomorrow and tell them, “you
were wrong.
Harry
Gates is alive and still lacking.” was Mr. Brubaker paused as he looked down
into the congregation, his eyes settling on Fletcher.
“Here
was a man, when comes such another?”
On
the cathedral steps, Martha and Fletcher thanked Also Brubaker for his words.
“Anything
less,” said
Also
, “and he would have appeared in the
pulpit next to me, demanding a recount.” The chairman shook hands with
Fletcher.
“I
didn’t read out the whole of Harry’s last letter to me,” he said, “but I knew you
would want to see the final paragraph.” He slipped a hand into an inside
pocket, removed the letter, unfolded it and passed it across to Fletcher.
When
Fletcher had read Harry’s last words, he looked at the chairman and nodded.
Tom
and Nat walked down the cathedral steps together and joined the crowds as they
quietly dispersed.
Ill
“I wish I’d known him better,” said Nat.
“You
realize that I asked him to join the board when he retired from the Senate?” Tom
nodded. “He wrote-hand-wrote-such a charming letter explaining the only board
he would ever sit on was the
hospital’s
.”
“I
only met him a couple of times,” said Tom, “he was mad, of course, but you have
to be if you choose to spend your life pushing boulders up a hill. Don’t ever
tell anyone, but he’s the only Democrat I’ve ever voted for.”
Nat
laughed. “You as well?” he admitted.
“How
would you feel if I recommended that the board should make a donation of fifty
thousand to the hospital fund?” asked Tom.
“I
would oppose it,” said Nat. Tom looked surprised. “Because when the senator
sold his Russell’s shares, he immediately donated a hundred thousand to the
hospital. The least we can do is
respond
in kind.”
Tom
nodded his agreement and turned back to see Mrs. Gates standing on the top of
the cathedral steps. He would write to her that afternoon enclosing the check.
He sighed. “Look
who’s
shaking hands with the widow.”
Nat
swung around to see Ralph Elliot holding Martha
Gates’s
hand. “Are you surprised?” he said. “I can just hear him telling her how
pleased he was that Harry took his advice and sold those shares in Russell’s
Bank, and made himself a million.”
“Oh,
my God,” said Tom, “you’re beginning to think like him.”
“I’m
going to have to if I’m to survive during the coming months.
“That’s
no longer an issue,” said Tom.
“Everyone
at the bank accepts that you’ll be the next chairman.”
“It’s
not the chairmanship I’m talking about,” said Nat. Tom came to a halt in front
of the steps of the bank and turned to face his oldest friend.
“If
Ralph Elliot puts his name forward as the Republican candidate for governor,
then I shall run against him.” He looked back toward the cathedral. “And this
time I will beat him.”
“L
adies
and gentlemen, Fletcher Davenport, the next governor of Connecticut.”
It
amused Fletcher that within moments of being selected as the Democratic
candidate, he was immediately introduced as the next governor; no suggestion of
an opponent, no hint that he might lose. But he recalled only too well Walter
Mondale continually being introduced as the next president of the United
States, and ending up as ambassador to Tokyo while it was Ronald Reagan who
moved into the White House.
Once
Fletcher had called Also Brubaker to confirm that he was willing to run, the
party machine immediately swung behind him. One or two other Democratic heads
appeared above the parapet, but like ducks at a shooting range they were
quickly flattened.
In
the end, Fletcher’s only opposition turned out to be a congresswoman who had
never done any harm-or enough good- for anyone else to notice. Once Fletcher
had defeated her in the September primary, his party machine suddenly turned
her into a formidable opponent who had been soundly beaten by the most
impressive candidate the party had produced in years. But Fletcher privately
acknowledged that she hadn’t been much more than a paper
opponent,
and the real battle would begin once the Republicans had selected their
standard bearer.
Although
Barbara Hunter was as active and determined as ever, no one really believed she
was going to head up the Republican ticket. Ralph Elliot already had the
backing of several key party members, and whenever he spoke in public or
private, the name of his friend, and even occasionally his close friend,
Ronnie, fell easily from his lips. But Fletcher repeatedly heard rumors of just
as large a group of Republicans who were searching for a credible alternative;
otherwise they were threatening to abstain, even vote Democrat. Fletcher found it
nerve-racking waiting to discover who that opponent would be. By late August,
he realized that if there was to be a surprise candidate, they were leaving it
tantalizingly late to come forward.
Fletcher
looked down at the crowd in front of him. It was his fourth speech that day,
and it wasn’t yet twelve o’clock. He missed Harry’s presence at those Sunday
lunches, where ideas could be tested and found wanting. Lucy and George were
happy to add their contributions, which only reminded him how indulgent Harry
had been when he had come up with suggestions the senator must have heard a
hundred times before, but never once hinted as much. But the next generation
certainly left Fletcher in no doubt of what the Hotchkiss student body expected
of their governor.
Fletcher’s
fourth speech that morning didn’t differ greatly from the other three: to the
Pepperidge Farm plant in Norwalk, the
Wiffle
Ball
headquarters in Shelton and the Stanley tool-workers in New Britain. He just
altered the occasional paragraph to acknowledge that the state’s economy would
not be in such good shape without their particular contribution. On to lunch
with the Daughters of the American Revolution, where he failed to mention his
Scottish ancestry, followed by three more speeches in the afternoon, before
attending a fund-raising dinner, which wouldn’t produce much more than ten
thousand dollars.
Around
midnight he would crawl into bed and put his arms around his sleeping wife and
occasionally she would sigh. He’d read somewhere that once, when Reagan was out
on the stump, he had been found cuddling a lamppost. Fletcher had laughed at
the time, but no longer.
“Romeo,
Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo?”
Nat
had to agree with his son’s assessment.
Juliet
was beautiful, but not the sort of girl Luke was likely to fall for. With five
other females in the cast, he tried to work out which one it could possibly be.
When the curtain came down for the interval, he thought that Luke had given a
moving performance, and felt a glow of pride as he sat there in the audience
listening to the applause. His parents had seen the play the night before, and
told him that they’d felt the same pride as when he had performed Sebastian in
the same hall.
Whenever
Luke left the stage, Nat found his mind wandering back to the phone call he’d
taken from Washington that morning. His secretary assumed it was Tom playing
one of his practical jokes when he was asked if he was available to speak to
the president of the United States.
Nat
had found himself standing when George Bush came on the line.
The
president congratulated him on Fairchild and Russell’s being voted Bank of the
Year-his excuse for the call-and then added the simple message, “Many people in
our party hope you will allow your name to go forward as governor. You have a
lot of friends and supporters in Connecticut, Nat.
Let’s
hope we can meet soon.”
The
whole of Hartford knew within the hour that the president had called, but then
switchboard operators also have a network of their own. Nat only told Su Ling
and Tom, and they didn’t seem all that surprised.
“The exchange of thy love’s faithful vow for mine.”
The
father’s mind switched back to the play.
Nat
found that people began to stop him in the street and say, “I hope you’ll run
for governor, Nat”-Mr. Cartwright-even sir. When he and Su Ling had entered the
hall that evening, heads had turned and he sensed a buzz all around him. In the
car on the way to Tail he didn’t ask Su Ling if he should run, simply, “Do you
think I can do the job?”