Old bastard seems genuinely contrite but can’t trust him, never will again.
“Fuck you, Ross,” says Corky, “—your price is too high.”
At the door, as Corky’s got it open, Drummond’s virtually blocking him, breath labored and mean little eyes enlarged, alarmed—must be, he can’t believe the dumb mick is actually walking out. “Corky, you’re too hotheaded, c’mon back inside and have a drink and cut this bullshit. You want Corcoran, Inc., to go belly up?—that’s what you want?”
“I said fuck you, Ross, and thanks,” says Corky as amiable as he can manage, outside and walking to his car hoping he won’t slip and fall on his ass on the rain-slick flagstone walk, at the driveway he turns to wave back at Drummond astonished on the doorstep of the French Normandy mansion glistening in the rain and ludicrous in its outsized proportions as a painted house in a children’s fairytale book, and the old man shrunken in height if not in girth, staring after Corky Corcoran, that leathery face, that shiny-scaly scalp, that vacant death’s-head grin that’s the last sight Corky will have of his wealthy ex-father-in-law.
And Corky in his tux by Valentino arriving at the Chateauguay Country Club at 7:27 P.M. makes his second mistake of the evening arriving there at all.
Stone cold sober in his elegant black silk-wool coat and trousers, black satin cummerbund, black bow tie, impeccably starched dazzling-white pleated-front shirt with gold studs, gold cuff links, and $240 Bally dress shoes, not only stone cold sober but determined, resolute he isn’t going to fuck up tonight except by his own decision, if he so decides, he’s the one to decide: the one in control and seeing as soon as he pulls the Caddy up to the white stucco portico of the county club who else but Mike Rooney outside beneath the canopy among the uniformed parking attendants waiting for him.
Rooney!—that bastard!
The way Rooney’s grim eyes snatch at Corky through the Caddy’s windshield, that accusing anxious-furious Drunk aren’t you! Drunk! the very set of his head, neck, shoulders in his tux—Corky sees.
Seeing too how Rooney takes in the Caddy’s battered front fender and bumper, the myriad scratches, dents, pockmarks in the finish, yes and the fine-cracked windshield exposed like an X ray of Corky Corcoran’s brain—Corky registers this insult, too.
On the way out to Chateauguay—speeding north along Lakeshore Drive to Edgewater Boulevard, past the handsome gray stone buildings of St. Thomas Aquinas Academy for Boys, north into the suburbs of St. Claire, St. Claire Shores, across the river on the gleaming metallic bridge of I-190 in hard-hissing splashes of rain into a sky dissolving in darkness as if giant dark-feathered wings were opening obscuring the sun—Corky’s been thinking This is it! it will be decided not knowing exactly what will be decided, if he is thinking of Vic Slattery, or of Christina Kavanaugh (if she isn’t here tonight, it is finished between them—absolutely), or of his father who need not have died, thus of the course of his own life which need not have been invented, lived. And thinking Why am I here, why am I doing whatever it is I believe I am doing thinking is it a vow I’ve taken? to see things through? but why me? and why such—not giving a word to it: desperation, destiny. Seeing then before him on the left side of Bloomfield Road the manicured-green undulating hills of the Chateauguay Country Club’s golf course eerily iridescent in the fading light like a cinematic set reduced to the size of a tabletop yet, magnified by an illusion of optics, faithful in every particular as if it were real. And there, emerging out of the green, the tall pillar-like gateposts with their discreet warning sign CHATEAUGUAY COUNTRY CLUB PRIVATE MEMBERS ONLY.
Corky Corcoran isn’t a member of the country club (you have to figure: they haven’t gotten around to inviting him yet; or, he’s so associated with Union City, downtown, even his close Chateauguay friends don’t think of him as a likely candidate for a club so suburban) but of course he’s been invited here many times. Not just for political reasons, for social reasons, too.
Yet feeling the stab of that warning, fine-engraved letters on brass PRIVATE MEMBERS ONLY as, entering here, though always by invitation, Corky can’t help feeling.
And so, seeing Rooney waiting for him so conspicuously, staring grim and unsmiling and not raising a hand in welcome as Corky pulls up, Corky thinks Don’t lose it: see it through. Stone cold sober and dignified in his tux if slightly flush-faced and his eyes like a poached fish’s Corky hands over his ignition key to the young Latino parking attendant, approaches the entrance to the club unhurried even as Rooney approaches him saying, “Corky, for Christ’s sake where were you? We’ve been waiting for forty minutes! You knew about the press conference! You promised not to be late!” and for a beat or two Corky’s all right but then Rooney like a vexed brother unable to keep from pushing it keeps on, clearly he’s upset and maybe there’s a legitimate reason but this isn’t the way to handle Corky Corcoran and particularly not in the near-presence of others (guests are entering the club in a discontinuous stream, some of them known to and known by both Corky Corcoran and Mike Rooney), saying, accusing, “Where the hell were you? Getting tanked up?” like an angry wasp flying straight into Corky’s face, so, without breaking his stride, Corky veers at Rooney and grabs his front, black satin lapels, starched-pleated fancy shirt in his fists shaking the little prick saying, “Fuck you, Rooney! I’m not late! It’s just seven-thirty! I’m not late and I’m not drunk!”—grabbing and releasing Rooney in virtually the same gesture, no threat of violence to it but Rooney’s staggering backward into the dripping shrubbery white-faced and absolutely astonished, as stunned as if Corky had walked up to him and fired a bullet through his brain.
Yet regaining his dignity then Corky walks quickly on, past men in tuxedos, women in shimmering dresses, faces turned toward him in astonishment too and in certain of the faces recognition which, in his state of exemplary dignity, Corky need not see; isn’t required to see; blinded as if striding through walls of fire. And now, and now—what? still believing, after the accelerated motion of the past several days, that I’m in control: stone cold sober and actually pausing, to catch his breath, inside the club amid the high-chattering clamor of cocktail-wielding guests to shake a few hands, a dozen hands, to kiss women’s warm proffered cheeks and to have his own kissed in turn, exchanging greetings Hello! How are you! Quite an occasion isn’t it! A part of Corky’s mind detached, even fatalistic as he glances rapidly around the crowded space not seeing Christina Kavanaugh though glimpsing at a short distance a tuxedo-clad man in a wheelchair his back to Corky so Corky can’t identify him: ex-Judge Harry Kavanaugh?
As if there would be only a single man in a wheelchair in all of Chateauguay.
As if, if Harry Kavanaugh is here, at a fund-raiser for Vic Slattery, his presence can have any significance for Corky Corcoran.
Yet here’s Corky suddenly determined threading his way through the crowd smiling his sunny heedless smile into faces turned toward him in recognition without seeming to recognize them in turn, passing by the bar and the lavish hors d’oeuvres tables where chattering laughing people are jammed in together like cattle bound for slaughter headed for the reception lounge into which, with several others, the man in the wheelchair has rolled. I will shake his hand, declare myself to him even as voices call out sharply, “Jerome! Jerome Corcoran!” and it’s Andy van Buren’s assistant Maggie, and Vic’s assistant Kimberly, and now these women have got Corky Corcoran by both arms they’re not going to let him go.
Leading him with hard strained smiles into the dining room, empty yet of guests, where a vast sea of elegantly decorated tables has been set up each with its number prominent on a sign incorporating too a small tasteful American flag, not scolding but informing him that the rest of the people involved in the program have been here since six-thirty. “Vic was getting a little worried, Jerome,” says Kimberly who’s a young aggressive thirty, new on Vic’s staff and disapproving of much of what she knows of Jerome Corcoran yet even now subtly coming on to him, baring her gums in a sexy-combative smile,
“—evidently you got in some kind of accident with your car this morning? Or yesterday morning—”
Corky lets this pass. Or maybe doesn’t register it.
The main dining room of the Chateauguay Country Club is an immense space much of which is glass, including vaulting skylights, and at the far end technicians are adjusting a microphone at a flower-and-flag-bedecked podium at the center of the head table; this long table on a raised platform so the diner-dignitaries have to face out. They’ve dropped me from the head table Corky thinks almost calmly but no: he checks the place cards, there’s JEROME CORCORAN between SANDRA SLATTERY and ANDREW VAN BUREN the Mohawk County Democratic chairman. First time in Corcoran’s career he’s been so publicly so visibly raised.
The sound technicians are being instructed by a middle-aged man in tux, red carnation in his lapel, it’s Andy van Buren himself who happens to glance down to see Corky and he’s wordless for a moment then says loudly, “Corky Corcoran!—at last. Good to see you,” reaching down to shake Corky’s hand and the handshake seems sincere on both sides, “—great you’ve showed up. Speech all prepared?” grinning at Corky with his mouth and the realization floods over Corky He hates me for some reason: why? but the effort of remembering is too much. Corky grins back at van Buren saying, “Sure. All prepared,” even as the women tug him away. Corky winks at van Buren shrugging as if to indicate how cooperative he is, what a good sport, these pushy broads dragging him around.
Leading him into the adjoining Rotunda Room where Vic Slattery and Sandra Slattery and some others are standing, Corky guesses it’s the end of a photography session, the Slatterys posed with the evening’s organizers and top donors, several photographers are packing up their gear to leave and seeing Corky Sandra hurries at once to hug him, kiss his cheek, how warm Sandra Slattery is and how breathless murmuring into Corky’s ear like he’s an old lover, “Corky, hello! But you seem feverish.” Corky hugs Sandra in turn, more roughly than he intends. He’s got a cigarette in his hand and this pisses her off but she doesn’t say anything, Corky shrugs amiably, “—You seem feverish, Sandra.” And Vic shaking Corky’s hand smiling warmly at him his eyes not smiling but unlike van Buren’s betraying no anger nor even anxiety but instead that glisten of blank perplexity with which young boxers confront their opponents in the ring—not the insolence of the pro who has come to do injury but the wonderment of the amateur who, in this space where he suddenly finds himself, can have no idea what will happen to him, or by way of him. Saying, “Corky, hello!” As if not lovers but brothers. For the second time, Corky’s thinking, in twelve hours.
Corky screws it up into a joke, “—Heard you were worried I might not make it,” he says, “—but what’s this shit about me having an accident with the car? I don’t have accidents.” There’s some nervous laughter, enough to encourage Corky to push it, “Red Pitts has accidents with cars: they run over him.”
This remark, senseless, yet meets with moderate laughter, you can count on laughter if you say even senseless things in the right tone of voice.
The photographer from the Journal who knows Jerome Corcoran by name, face, reputation insists upon a quick shot of Corky and Vic, so they pose obligingly together against a glassy wall beyond which tennis courts float in twilit wind-slanted rain: this photograph, to be published in the next day’s newspaper, on the front page, showing both men to advantage though Corky looks dazed and bleached out standing at his full height yet still two full inches shorter than Vic.
Vic Slattery, handsome in his tux. In his photographs you don’t see the signs of strain bracketing the eyes, the oily enlarged pores of the nose, the faint rosy flush of broken capillaries in the cheeks. In his photographs he’s got a burnished look. Intelligence, pride, humility and capability in equal measure. Corky says in an undertone, “Vic, before the dinner begins I need to talk to you.”
“But that’s right now.”
“Right. Right now.”
Vic hesitates. His mouth works. From somewhere he takes up his glass of whiskey. Leading Corky into a hallway outside the Rotunda Room as Corky’s smoke trails behind. Sandra watches after them with worried eyes and seems about to follow but does not.
Corky’s tongue is suddenly swollen and numb. He has to speak with unnatural care. “Vic, just tell me: did Marilee Plummer lie about Steadman? Is that the deal?”
Vic winces but doesn’t reply. Nor does he look at Corky. His whiskey glass is raised to his mouth and he drinks, this gesture too performed with care. Corky sees his friend’s hand is no steadier than his own.
Persisting, still in that slow, careful voice, “Vic, I’m asking you: did Marilee Plummer lie about Steadman? Did Oscar pay her off? Is that what it’s about, all this shit? Marilee killed herself because she got in over her head, she couldn’t deal with it?”
Corky’s looking desperately at Vic but Vic, frowning and eyes downcast, isn’t looking at him.
Corky explodes, “For Christ’s sake tell me, Vic! You owe that to me, don’t you? I’m your friend! I thought I was your friend!”
“You are my friend, Corky—”
“But—? But what?”
“But we can’t talk about it now. This isn’t the time.”
“This is the time!”
Vic doesn’t answer, or can’t. Corky says in a fury, accusing, “And you’d let Steadman take the blame for that, too! For her killing herself, too! Oscar set it up, Oscar or somebody working for him, and it went too far, is that it? And Marilee was paid? How much? And put on a payroll?—at the history museum? Sure! It’s obvious! I just can’t believe you and your father would lie to me. You’d do such a thing, or be a party to such a thing, and then lie to me.”
Vic’s gaze slides onto Corky’s, such misery such anguish What can I say? don’t ask! Corky rocks back on his heels. His skin in a fever.
Corky’s about to walk away, and Vic stops him, and seems about to speak but does not speak, and Corky shrugs off his hand, and again Vic seems about to speak, and this time manages to speak, his voice hoarse and cracked, shamed, “Corky, it isn’t like that—exactly. It’s far more complicated. As soon as this—tonight—is over, I promise I will—”
“Look, she did kill herself, didn’t she? It wasn’t—arranged?”
“Corky, for God’s sake what do you think my father is! He isn’t a—”
“If not him, people around him. Red Pitts, for instance—”
“Don’t insult my father, God damn you! Who are you to insult my father!”
“Fuck your father, Vic, the girl’s dead. What about her?”
Vic says slowly, “Corky, if there was anything I could do to bring Marilee back, I would do it. If there was anything—”
“That’s bullshit. She’s dead, and people need to know why. You think you can keep the lid on all this? That’s what you think?”
“Corky, please—”
Now Corky does shove away from Vic, slamming along the corridor past the bright-lit bustling kitchen with its myriad aromas swirling to nausea in his stomach, he pushes out a rear door to stand cursing Fuck! fuck! fuck! trembling in the rain staring at the straight lines and planes of the clay tennis courts, the greeny twilight of sloping hills beyond. And gigantic clotted brain-like masses of clouds in the sky, shot with the light of the setting sun, orangey-red, radiant as illuminated arteries he’s staring at unseeing and uncomprehending. There’s a sensation in his head like a rubber band being pulled tighter and tighter to the point of bursting yet not bursting but at that point, that tremulous point so he fumbles to light another cigarette which falls from his fingers to the pavement and which he dares not retrieve for the pulsing tension in his head and so takes out another cigarette and lights it instead aware of the door behind him shut, and no one coming after.
And so he’s free, safe. Just walk away.
And yet: some minutes later Corky Corcoran enters the dining room alone amid a dense stream of guests, now pale in the face and damp-haired and his tuxedo damp and bow t
ie drunkenly crooked so a woman acquaintance (whose familiar face, name, Corky doesn’t register, but who will remember him, the pupils of his eyes like pinpricks! she’ll say telling of him, of what happened, afterward) stops him to adjust it matter-of-fact as any wife; and Corky walks on murmuring thanks which he himself doesn’t hear. He’s sighted another time the man in the wheelchair—or is this another man, in another wheelchair—now in profile and it’s a strong dignified profile, heavy head, steely-gray hair and there’s a woman walking beside him, slender in black, black hair: Christina?—but the two are moving away from Corky to a distant table, he can’t be certain.
Thinking, She loves me! I’m the one.
Thinking, No. Let her go. Don’t involve her.
And thinking too, You can still leave: just walk out of here.
Yet for some reason Corky doesn’t leave the Chateauguay Country Club but continues making his way forward, in fact passing close by Father Vincent O’Brien with whom he shakes hands, exchanges brisk friendly greetings though not remembering this exchange even ten seconds afterward. Yet more remarkably Corky encounters his ex-wife Charlotte and her new husband Gavin Pierson with whom too he exchanges warm greetings yet within a few seconds he’s forgotten them, perhaps even as he speaks with them he’s forgetting.
What I Lived For Page 72
