What I Lived For

by Joyce Carol Oates

  Fuck, what’s he care if he is dropped? He’s finished with politics anyway.

  Corky enters Oscar’s office with a quick shy knock on the door and steps inside seeing Sandra Slattery sitting long-legged and poised on a couch, Vic Slattery pacing between Oscar’s big glass-topped desk and a window. On the wall above Oscar’s desk is the framed hand-lettered quote that’s a favorite of Oscar’s, Steve Owen of the Giants—FOOTBALL IS A GAME PLAYED DOWN IN THE DIRT, AND ALWAYS WILL BE.

  Corky’s first impression of Vic and Sandra is they’re talking together earnestly in low voices. And the way, when he enters, their eyes swing onto him.

  “Corky! At last!”

  Vic shakes Corky’s hand practically crushing it, and Sandra rising with a cheerleader’s bounce to kiss Corky on the cheek says warmly, with that air of flirty feminine reproach Corky loves, “But you look fine, Corky, really you do!”—to reassure him, after all he’d spilled to her of his misery over the phone.

  It’s a weird fact of Corky’s life, though he feels like shit much of the time, in others’ eyes, if he shaves, combs his hair, dresses in his usual dapper style, he looks good.

  (What the hell did Corky tell Sandra over the phone?—he can’t remember, exactly. Has only a vague shamed memory of breaking down, crying. God damn!)

  (Once you confide in a woman she’ll never let it go like a dog with a bone but if you confide in a man, next time he sees you he’ll pretend to have forgotten.)

  Vic is saying, frowning, “—sorry we interrupted your breakfast, Corky. We meant to get here to join you but, as always, something came up—I was on the phone for forty minutes. Sorry!”

  Quickly Corky says, “Hell, no, breakfast’s over,” grinning and patting his stomach kidding around like he’s bloated when, in fact, painfully, he is. “Your father put on a fantastic spread and I had all I want. I’m fine.”

  “You’re sure, Corky?” Sandra asks doubtfully. “You did manage to get something to eat?”

  “I’m fine. I’m not that hungry.”

  Sandra Slattery, of a height with Corky in her smart patent leather medium-heeled pumps, looks him level in the eye in that way of hers she seems to have cultivated for Corky Corcoran alone, direct, sisterly, solicitous. Her voice is husky, sexy. She’s been a teacher, a college professor, there’s a brusque familiar just slightly condescending tone to her remarks, a kind of nudge in Corky’s ribs. “This bachelor life is hard on you, Corky, I can tell. You have too much freedom—you don’t eat regular meals and you don’t sleep . . .” Sandra’s voice trails off nervously without lessening its pitch.

  And Vic cuts in, solicitous too, concerned, “Well, it’s a relief to see you, Corky. We’d been wondering, these last couple of days—”

  “—Why have you been avoiding us?”

  Corky stares at Sandra. The question is more playful and flirty than accusatory, but what’s he to make of it? It’s never occurred to him that the Slatterys might interpret his behavior as an avoidance of them.

  “Are you serious?” Corky protests. “Me, avoiding you?”

  Quickly Vic says, “No, Sandra isn’t serious. But she’s been worried.”

  Glancing at Sandra reprovingly, as Sandra chatters nervously on, Corky can see Vic’s a little pissed at her—Vic’s become, over the years, the kind of public man, the larger-than-life public presence, who can register near-imperceptible annoyance to an aide or a spouse even as he remains affable and smiling and squeezing your arm signaling all’s well. Like Oscar Slattery beaming into an audience while with a quirk of his eyebrow he’s sending a signal to one or another assistant, Red Pitts for instance, he’s furious, he’ll explode in a rage in the limo.

  The Slatterys have been drinking coffee in Vic’s father’s office, there’s a cup for Corky too, no thanks says Corky again rubbing his stomach above the sharp indentation of his belt, but he sits down at their invitation, facing a window, whitish-sun-lit and the river more slate-colored than blue, and to his side, prominent on the wall in its campy-ornate frame, FOOTBALL IS A GAME PLAYED DOWN IN THE DIRT, of course it’s POLITICS IS A GAME PLAYED DOWN IN THE DIRT that’s Oscar’s secret meaning.

  As they talk, Corky senses there’s been some disagreement between Vic and Sandra, tension in the air. Corky Corcoran can’t be the cause but can maybe be the pretext.

  As, when a marriage is beginning to go down, or a public career about to explode, the first thing that comes along can be the pretext.

  Corky’s flattered at the Slatterys’ concern. The way, as Vic looks on somber and nodding, Sandra guides the conversation, deft, friendly, tactful. Corky hears himself apologizing again for standing them up, two evenings in a row, Christ he’s sorry, he is sorry, of course he wasn’t avoiding them, far from it—“I’d a helluva lot rather been with you two, than where I was, that’s for sure.” Playing his Irish-kid bit, the melancholy beneath, he has been through some rough times and there’s more to come. “Someday I’ll explain in more detail when we have time, and you’re in the mood for some laughs.”

  “Maybe you can come visit us in Washington, stay with us for a weekend, next month?”—Sandra’s smiling at Corky like all’s forgiven.

  “Sure,” says Corky. “I’d like that.”

  Sandra Slattery’s in her early forties, but still a striking-looking woman—wheat-blond hair, a round wide-cheeked face, eyes a resolute green-brown, intelligent, watchful. She doesn’t wear much makeup, unlike Charlotte who wears, in public, a flawless cosmetic mask, there are fine white wrinkles fanning out at the corners of her eyes, a puffiness beneath her eyes, faint shadows like she’s been crying. (Why? Has it anything to do with Marilee Plummer’s death, did Sandra know Marilee from Vic’s campaign? Better not ask.) When, just out of Georgetown Law, Vic introduced Corky to the girl from Washington he was going to marry, he took care to enunciate her name—“Sandra Birney”—as if half-consciously he’d thought Corky might confuse her with Sandy Sherman who’d been Vic’s devoted girlfriend through high school, whom he’d outgrown after a few months at Villanova. Those Marymount girls, sweet dumb virgins you wanted to die for, how quickly boring they became, like D.A. haircuts, outmoded fashions and slang of the day. Corky’d been in love with Sandy Sherman and might’ve fallen in love with Sandra Birney except she’s a little too sharp-edged for him, watchful; too smart. The rap on Sandra Slattery since Vic’s been elected to the House is she’s the brains behind his career but Corky, who’s known since high school how serious, smart, dedicated, determined, if sometimes wooden-slow Vic can be, knows this is bullshit.

  Still, as Vic’s friend, supporter, sometime advisor, Corky wishes to hell that Sandra would keep more in the background. Not seem so often to be interfering, pushing. She’s got a Ph.D. from Johns Hopkins in something trendy like urban planning, or is it public health policy, writes articles for newspapers, national magazines like Newsweek, appears on TV forums, teaches part-time at George Mason University—Sandra’s been throwing herself into this like it’s her career, not Vic’s. Which lots of people, friends of Vic’s, resent.

  Vic’s telling Corky what an excellent job the organizers for tonight’s fund-raiser have done, how grateful he is, terrific news it’s completely sold out. Cuomo has promised to try to come, and the Lieutenant Governor is definitely coming, also Moynihan’s right-hand man, also Archbishop O’Dwyer, the chancellor of SUNY Union City, CEOs from AT&T, GM, Squibb, the chairman of the board at Ewing Trust who’d been a locally prominent Reagan man, the dean of Syracuse Law School, the president of Cornell, a good number of state legislators including Whit Post the majority leader, plus the vice-president of the American Council of Education—Vic’s ticking these off with an enthusiasm that strikes Corky as a little forced, if you know Vic, but he goes along with it saying, “Great!” and “Terrific!” God knows he’s enthusiastic, too. There’s sure to be guaranteed-friendly media coverage upstate, Vic Slattery’s a favorite son of the region and since the energy bill out of the Energy and Commerce Committee
passed with such a majority in the House, and Vic was central in drafting it, he’s been the object of some national attention, too—“Great timing, if accidental,” Vic says.

  Corky says, not knowing what the hell he’s saying, “Nothing’s accidental! You’ve earned it!”

  Remembering then the inexplicable complaint of Oscar’s My son doesn’t know how to campaign. He’s afraid to get his hands dirty.

  Vic makes a confession: he hasn’t exactly finished writing his speech yet. Corky says laughing, he hasn’t exactly finished writing his—“But I promise to keep it under eight minutes.”

  There’s a pause. Some odd tension. Corky can’t figure it.

  Then Sandra says dryly, touching Vic’s shoulder, “Vic’s never kept anything under eight minutes. Not over a microphone.”

  Vic laughs self-consciously, there’s a sullen-wry twist to his mouth. Then a pause again, Corky can almost feel the strain, like charged air before a storm.

  Which of them, Corky’s wondering, is going to mention Marilee Plummer first?

  It’s true, Vic Slattery, giving speeches, at any podium, starts off John Kennedy–style like every youngish good-looking liberal Democrat tries for, then something sets in like lockjaw and he turns wooden, ponderous, his forehead actually furrowing with thoughts bombarding him in the interstices of his typed text, so he’s got to speak extemporaneously to expand, explain, illustrate, qualify. It’s all but impossible for him to make a simple declarative statement. In politics you have to take sides, everything’s black or white, in the voting booth it’s just one lever for one office, any shithead can figure it except sweet-dumb Vic Slattery with his Jesuit hairsplitting morality—but even the Jesuits lost patience with him sometimes. You can think too much, you can trip over your own feet. In the boxing ring where Vic was trying to figure out his opponent’s strategy when most of the time his opponent didn’t have any strategy, on the debate team where he’d spend too much time qualifying his position. Basically, Vic said, he couldn’t believe in Aristotle’s logic—a thing can’t be both X and non-X at the same time. His idea of “reality” was things are a lot more mixed up than that.

  His heroes were Thomas Jefferson, Daniel Webster, Abraham Lincoln, FDR, Thomas Merton, Adlai Stevenson. For a Catholic-school kid, naming Stevenson (so infamously divorced and fucked over in public by his ex-wife) was what you’d call daring.

  As they talk, a little more relaxed now, Vic taking over, Corky sees not wanting to see that his friend is looking his age: no, older than forty-four: fifty, at least. Christ, it’s sad! The strain showing around the eyes, the cheeks flushed and looser-jowled than Corky recalls, a drinker’s skin, Corky wonders how much Vic’s been drinking lately, what it means. Since high school Vic hasn’t grown more than a couple of inches in height but he’s put on at least thirty pounds, not fat exactly but that fatty-muscled bulk of an ex-athlete, thickening in the shoulders, torso, waist. His thighs, in shorts, are big as hams. His tawny-blond hair is thinning more rapidly than Corky’s, and shading to gray. Yet there’s that boy’s face innocent-seeming and perplexed inside the other. Hey, tell me! Explain to me! I want to know! My heart is pure, my intentions are pure, I want to do good: how?

  Corky notes that both Slatterys are dressed for the occasion of a communion breakfast at Stuyvesant House though for some reason they missed the breakfast. Sandra in a yellow linen suit, white silk blouse and bow at her throat, medium-heeled patent leather shoes, here’s a woman not out to display her legs but she is feminine—to a point. A good wholesome signal. Vic’s in one of his typical suits, custom-made but nothing out of the ordinary, somber dark blue tropical wool, plain dark tie, trousers wrinkled at the knees, thighs. A middle-of-the-road Democrat, a Trust-Me appeal to Republicans, businessmen.

  By contrast, Corky Corcoran’s dressed like he’s hoping somebody will take his picture. No wop designer clothes for today, today he’s All-American in a Macy’s double-breasted navy blue blazer with brass buttons if you’re nearsighted you’d mistake for a Marine dress uniform. A red-sheen necktie that’s actually an Enzio Cenci silk at $75 but looks like American issue. White cotton shirt, starched. And the almost-new Florsheims polished and gleaming sending a signal you can trust this man.

  (Except: through the window beyond Sandra’s pert attentive head there’s the Mayor and the favored VIPs of the day still being photographed. Corky counts six, seven men, most of them known to him, millionaire Party donors. So it figures. And the priests, toothy Father Vincent, that figures.)

  One of the black waiters returns smiling with a fresh pot of coffee and this time Corky says O.K., he’ll have some. Purely black, and hot, bitter on the tongue. And lighting up a cigarette to calm his nerves clattering A drink, why not a drink? you’ve earned it though knowing he’s risking Sandra Slattery’s disapproval. But he’s been dying for a smoke. A smoke and a drink: it’s past noon the well-stocked wet bar’s close by in the billiard room and never absolutely never has Corky Corcoran been in the Mayor’s residence so God-damned long without being offered a drink. God damn!

  So he lights up a Camel, and at once Sandra cries, “Corky, no!”—like he’s personally insulted her. “You’re smoking—again? How can you!” Eyes fierce and intolerant and lips damply parted in that affronted way that, in good-looking women, Corky finds sexy as hell. In homely women, it’s repulsive.

  Vic, who hasn’t smoked in fifteen years, grins wistfully-reproachfully at Corky. His old teammate, sneaking a cigarette against Coach’s orders. If I catch any of you smoking, if I hear of any of you smoking—there’ll be hell to pay. Got it?

  Sandra’s been known to boast, she’s never smoked. Nor even cared to experiment as a teenager.

  Corky shrugs, annoyed. “It’s just temporary, till the pressure’s off. If it bothers you, I’ll put it out.”

  “But why begin?” Sandra demands. “You’re too smart for such ignorant behavior, Corky!”

  Sandra’s fierce, dazzling. The intensity of her concern is disconcerting: Corky’s made to realize how rare it is, how rare it’s going to be, that anybody gives a damn about him. Whether he smokes, drinks, dies in a car wreck . . . gets his head blown off.

  Protesting, “Christ, Sandra, I have quit drinking, don’t I get any credit?”

  Sandra doesn’t hear. She’s lecturing Corky, bombarding him with statistics, four thousand Americans die every day of cancer! of which thirty percent are attributable to smoking! which means twelve hundred needless deaths a day! even with the Surgeon General’s warning! what’s to be done if people like him—! Corky’s listening, isn’t listening, drawing a toxic hit deep into his lungs, but wishing he could swallow the smoke and not provoke this excitable woman who’s leaning toward him so urgently. Corky’s never seen Sandra Slattery so high-pitched, aggressive. Usually she’s poised, careful, cautious—the seasoned politician’s wife—even in private company.

  Vic says, embarrassed, “Hey Sandra, let’s not upset Corky right now. We can talk about it another time.”

  Sandra says recklessly, “There might not be another time!”

  This is such an extravagant statement the three of them laugh.

  Corky exaggerates being chastised, like a child quickly stubbing out his cigarette—“O.K.! Sorry.” He stubs out the cigarette in a brass ashtray on Oscar’s desk, sees several wrapped cigars close by, Macanud, and a big stub of another in the ashtray. Atop the desk are scattered documents Corky isn’t in a position to read without being obvious about it but he recognizes the distinctive laser printout of City Council memos and reports, must be the forty-page committee report on the Civilian Complaint Review Board proposal that’s on Corky’s desk, too, at home. Not exactly read but thumbed through.

  Now Corky has capitulated to Sandra, like most women she’s immediately conciliatory. They don’t want to seem, to be bossy, even when they are. Getting their own way makes them feel guilty, maybe? Sandra takes Corky’s hands in hers, how cold her hands are, thin-boned, saying, “It’s because w
e love you, Corky. We don’t want you to endanger your health. We care.”

  Bullshit, thinks Corky.

  No, in fact he’s moved. He’d make a joke of such lavish talk but he is moved. And Vic looking on frowning, inscrutable.

  As if on cue then Sandra excuses herself to make a telephone call, the men are left alone together. Abrupt and disorienting, and Corky feels uneasy. Since they were in their twenties, Corky and Vic have rarely been alone together; have rarely talked together as they’d used to do in high school. Corky’s thinking he should leave soon . . . if he wants to get to Uncle Sean’s this afternoon. Can’t break his promise another time.

  To take the edge off their awkwardness with each other, Vic and Corky have been observing the photo session outside the window, now breaking up. Vic identifies the men Corky doesn’t know, one of them a new presence in Union City—a partner at Niagara Frontier Commodities, from Dallas. Another Reagan man disillusioned with Bush. And he’s bought tickets for tonight.

  “Great,” says Corky. Then, since this doesn’t sound enthusiastic enough, “Terrific.”

  Vic says, emphatically if a little flatly, “It’s the wave of the future. It’s the way the country will be going. After Clinton wins the nomination—”

  That roaring sound like a freight train barreling overhead—it’s the wind. Late May in upstate New York, a reasonably clear-blue day, but, as always, that fucking wind out of Canada. On its thirty-foot pole at the tip of the grassy-manicured peninsula a giant American flag is whipping in fierce convulsive gusts. The river’s surface is choppy and pocked, you’d never know which way the current is going. Corky smiles meanly seeing one of the men in Oscar’s party trying to tamp his hair down—he’s grown it long on one side of his head to comb it over his bald pate but the wind keeps dislodging it. Sad.

  Corky vows, he’ll never resort to that.

  Vic shifts in his seat, uncrosses his legs, seems about to say something further then decides against it. “Corky, my man!—what can I get you? Scotch?” Suddenly ebullient, Vic’s on his feet headed for the wet bar recessed in the wall, and Corky feels almost a stab of panic, he is dying for a drink.