The Henderson Equation (36 page)

He stood up, felt shakiness in his knees, as he looked down
at her seated figure, bloated by time, the big breasts no longer objects of
desire, merely appendages.

He put on his shoes and staggered, letting himself out, not
looking back. It was quite enough for one night. Perhaps he was only dreaming
after all, a nightmare induced by a late snack of heavy cheese, and he was
really lying on his bed, fully dressed, still waiting for Jennie. But once
outside, his sense of place returned. He breathed deeply, felt better as gulps
of fresh air recharged him.

There were no cabs to be found, and after he had stood in
the chill for some time, he began to walk again, feeling now the drag of his
exhaustion as he willed himself forward. Tiredness, he knew, had always left
him vulnerable.

Each of them, Margaret and Myra, had good reason to detest
her femaleness, had always detested it. He felt compassion for them. But what
did it matter to him? If that was the issue then he was doomed. There were simply
no defenses against it. Like his marriage. Destroyed before it began.

In his bedroom again, he undressed. Even the aching absence
of Jennie seemed trivial. It was nearly five. He lay on the bed, and felt his
pores open, the juice of his sweat emptying over his skin. It was, he knew, a
time to search deep within himself.

He was suffering, he suspected, from brutalizing
self-analysis, from an offensively programmed Semitic reaction which insisted
on sweeping into all the inner corners, overturning all the psychic furniture
to get at every wisp of offending dust. This thing that he had discovered,
lurking under the carpet's edge, hard as rock, was his own fear. It had him
scared out of his wits. The ends of his hair ached. He was frightened,
terror-stricken, frozen with petrification at the prospect of catastrophic
events rushing down at him like a great tidal wave.

Without the
Chronicle
what would his life be?
Without the
Chronicle,
he was certain his mind would explode, his
tissues clog, his cells atrophy. What did he care about Henderson and his
insufferable blue eyes, his ambition, his aspirations? What mattered was the
Chronicle
and he was the
Chronicle
. The paper was a mirror of his soul, his
prejudices, tastes, hopes, ideas, passions. When he changed a comma, the subtle
rearrangement sent shocks through an army of analysts who probed, ingested, and
regurgitated the words he had let through the screen. It was not the illusion
of power that he held in his fingers, the kind of negative veto power that Myra,
up to now, had been content with, could play with, like a form of masturbation.
It was real, raw, uncut, creative power, the kind that counted, that could move
men's minds. He had always been modest in his own evaluation of the extent of
this power, but now, with fear splashing all around him, he could tell himself
exactly what was at stake. The prospect of handing this kind of control to Myra
was preposterous, stultifying, patently sinful. It was one thing to have a
disembodied idea of how the world might be refashioned, to maintain a posture
of political ideology, to control the sword of Damocles that hung over all
public figures, but quite another to exercise the balance that kept the
credibility of the machinery intact.

Was it his ego or his fear? The
Chronicle
gave
meaning to his life. To lose it might prompt him to the gun case, like Charlie,
to whom the recently oiled guns and the clearly visible keys were unmistakable
road signs to oblivion. Even avenging angels could not be perfect, he told
himself finally, the fear beginning to recede, like a flood seeking the level
of gravity.

He could imagine Henderson and Myra spending long hours in
contemplation of their envisioned world, mulling over the abstractions of
political promise, the details of the impending joint rule outlined, expanded.
Between them they could control America. He could imagine Henderson posing as
the zealot, fresh-faced, craggy, high-cheeked, the blue eyes blazing with
contrived sincerity as he pandered, persuaded, flattered, assured her that he,
Henderson, was her kind. Little did he know that he was ransoming his manhood.

Let her have her goddamned president, he agreed finally,
feeling drowsiness descend. It was giving him too much pain to resist. Nothing
was forever.

The sound of the alarm found him, like a beam of light in a
dark pit. He felt surprisingly refreshed, although he had only slept for two
hours. At first he had reached out, feeling for Jennie, her warm flesh. He felt
ridiculous. That was another thing, he vowed. He would untangle himself from
these debilitating emotional distractions, these unnecessary anxieties that
drained energy. Not that he would abdicate sexual adventures, and Jennie was a
great comfort in that way, but to step over the brink of emotional chaos, was,
he felt now, adolescent stupidity.

He showered, found himself whistling, and dressed, picking
out his newest suit, blue pinstriped, vested, and choosing a gay tie that
Jennie had bought him. There's life in the old carcass yet, he told himself,
patting his greying hair, and rearranging it over the crown to hide the growing
bald spot.

Outside it was a bright morning, although a chill
persisted. He hailed a cab. There was luck in the swift response, he agreed, a
kind of harbinger of good tidings. Saturdays at the
Chronicle
were
mainly reflective days, since most of the huge Sunday edition had been locked
in, a great mass of trivia, filler for the gobs of advertising that hungered
for their mass Sunday circulation, which was more than fifty percent that of the
daily and double that of their nearest competitor. It was good to be thinking
about the technical details of newspapering again, although contemplation of
the Sunday paper always elicited a kind of professional despair. It was a
formless monster, a mass of treacle, with inserts upon inserts falling over
each other like snowflakes. As a work of newspaper art, it was a mess, although
financially it was a fantastic success, which inhibited motivation for change.
But he was ashamed of it, another symbol of compromise that he somehow managed
to live with. After all, he could tell himself and those among his staff who
found the courage to protest, the
Chronicle
was not an eleemosynary
institution--a cop-out that would send some of them scratching in panic for their
dictionaries. He resolved now to renew his efforts at rethinking its structure,
which meant gearing for the inevitable clash with Delaney and the rest of the
advertising department. He chuckled at the prospect. It was good, reassuring,
to think about.

Myra's house came into view on his right. He signaled the
driver to pull into her driveway. What the hell, he thought. It was time to
reduce the tensions, remove the anxieties. He'd tell her he'd drop the
Henderson story, although he foresaw problems with Gunderstein and now Martha
Gates and Robert Phelps. He should have let it die aborning. Besides, he could
always hide behind the veil of inconclusiveness, the absence of an airtight
second source.

In every war there is an appropriate, even honorable time to
retreat. Nothing should ever be measured in absolutes, he told himself. Let
Myra have her little victory. There were a thousand subtle ways to scuttle the
machinery, gum up the works. A new tactic was called for now. Let it appear as
surrender. He would simply call off the confrontation ... for the moment.

Standing in her doorway, he felt light-headed, suffused
with warmth. Wasn't he taking things far too seriously? Hell, he chuckled to
himself, he'd make her a buddy, one of the boys. They'd cement their new
friendship by pissing side by side in the urinals.

The maid seemed hesitant, but let him in, leading him to
the den, paneled, filled with floor-to-ceiling bookcases which he recognized as
part of Mr. Parker's extensive library. Two wing chairs faced a large
fireplace. Between them, on the floor, was a thick animal skin. He sat down on
one of the chairs and crossed his legs, looking about the room, enjoying the
smell of recently burnt wood, stirring old boyhood memories of forests and
mysterious nights around the fire.

He noted two brandy snifters near the legs of the opposite
chair, indicating a cozy night spent peering into the fire. On the floor above
him, he heard hurried movements, voices, then the sound of footsteps on the
stairs. It was an intrusion on his part, he agreed, but necessary. Better to
clear the air immediately.

Myra breezed into the room, her dressing gown rustling. Her
hair looked freshly combed but her makeup was incomplete, still shiny, as if
she had been interrupted while applying the finishing touches. She wore a thin
smile and her eyes seemed nervous.

"Nick," she said, forcing a lightness, betrayed
by the way she held her arms, hands buried in the pockets of her dressing gown,
tight to her body, the bulges in the shiny material indicating fists.

"It's a lousy trick, Myra. A compulsion," he
said, smiling at her confusion. He noted that she had refused to sit down, as
if by standing she would emphasize the transitory nature of this visit, hasten
his departure. He sensed her discomfort, but was not deterred. The news he
brought, he thought, would be well worth the visit.

"I've been thinking over the Henderson thing,
Myra," he began, deliberately leisurely. She watched him woodenly. "I
believe Henderson, despite what he says, was mixed up in this Diem thing."
He felt compelled to say that, to give her further evidence of his sacrifice.
Could she find a measure of her own guilt? He hoped so. "But I've decided
to drop it."

He watched her face brighten, the smile, held tightly,
loosen and broaden, although the hands remained fisted in her dressing gown.
Did he detect a deep sigh, tension giving way?

"Thank goodness, Nick," she said.

"You're the boss." She was, indeed.

"It's never been that way with us, Nick." In a
way that was true. She seemed to be clipping her sentences, urging his
departure. He was disappointed at her reaction, expecting more gratitude.
Surely she could see the immensity of his decision?

"I'll have to do some fancy stepping as far as
Gunderstein is concerned."

"You can handle it, Nick."

"I'm sure you don't want us to go overboard the other
way, Myra. You wouldn't want us to overkill him with kindness."

"No, I was only concerned about a kind of reverse
bias. I just didn't want you to lose your objectivity about him."

He heard the echo of Mr. Parker, although that old
gentleman would also have seen through the narrow, quite inaccurate definition
of the word.

"I never intended to."

"He's our kind of folks, Nick," she said as if
compelled to justify herself. "His is the kind of leadership we need. He
stands for the same things as we do. I've talked to him. He's a warm,
compassionate man and I'd hate to see us ruin him just on the verge of his
greatest triumph. Nick, he deserves the chance. I'm convinced of that."

"I'll grant you that he's got great political
acumen."

"More important, Nick, he knows what this country
needs."

"You understand, Myra, that our dropping the story
doesn't mean that it's dead by a long shot."

"We've calculated that." It was the first time
she had used the collective pronoun, a portent of her complicity. "If the
conservative press breaks it, it will backfire in their faces. Imagine throwing
stones at their darling CIA. Actually it would raise his stock with their
readers. We'd only worry about the
Times,
but their approach might be
far more cautious, as it was in the last go-round." She checked herself,
as if she hadn't expected to say so much.

"It's not important now, Myra. You sound as if you're
planning his campaign strategy."

"Does it?" She smiled. "I'd better be more
circumspect."

"It definitely wouldn't do to flaunt your bias, Myra.
Now that we've made this decision, you should be cooler about it."

"If I can't be honest with you, Nick, then with
whom?"

Remembering Margaret's conversation, he wondered if she
really believed that. Her ability to slip into a skin of self-righteousness was
maddening. Finally, he stood up. Her reaction seemed mechanical, distant, as if
she had expected it all along. Once again, he had exaggerated his expectations.
He noticed that her eyes were staring nervously at the two brandy snifters on
the floor. He imagined that she wanted to bend down and pick them up, her
passion for neatness offended.

"You've made the right decision, Nick," she said,
lifting her eyes, for the first time removing her hands from her pockets, the
fists gone. She thrust an arm through his and moved with him out of the den.
"It's a great relief to me. It proves that we're not all that
cold-blooded, are we, Nick?"

"That was never the issue, Myra," he protested
lamely, conscious that he was trying to avoid any hint that he was pandering to
her.

"We do have a responsibility to this country,
Nick."

"And to the truth," he said.

"Absolutely."

He let himself be led through the hallway, toward the front
door. Stopping for a moment, he pulled a paper from the pile on the table near
the door. As he did so, he felt a brief tug, almost a physical magnetism, that
channeled his vision toward a familiar leather purse lying beside the papers as
if it belonged there, was comfortable being there. Its initials, that odd
eccentricity, the J and the L in antiquated script flourishes, encapsulated the
story, the cause of Myra's nervousness, the mute evidence of his betrayal. So
Jennie was the conduit! He covered his sudden shock by a kind of stage business
with the newspaper, as if he might be surprised by a story on the front page.

"What is it?" she asked, unsuspecting.