by Ira Levin
Joe stood by the window some twenty feet away, holding a glass at his lips, looking at someone or something down in the park or just thinking—big and solid looking, in a tan corduroy jacket and jeans. Men seemed to be wearing jeans everywhere now. His hair was graying but he was oddly attractive for an old man—sexy in a way. She hadn’t felt that in a while.
A really old man. Her age plus two. Maybe. He turned, saw her looking. She smiled. “Rosemary”— Diane clamped her shoulder, turning her—“Jay our financial director wants to meet you.”
“Such an honor, Rosemary!” Jay said. “Such a blessing! And that ride! Diane, you’re a genius!” He looked like a jay—small, beaky, bright-eyed behind glasses, with hair from the raven side of the family. “Over an hour’s exposure, global exposure!” he crowed. “At a total cost of five hundred dollars! That’s if the stable bills us, and chances are they won’t!”
She excused herself and went to the bar for a refill.
“We don’t get many calls for Gibsons nowadays,” the bartender said, stirring.
“Andy’s Mom?”
She turned. “Crab cakes,” Joe said, holding out a pair of wood picks.
“Oh, thanks, Joe,” she said, taking one.
He asked the bartender for a scotch, and they ate the hot round crab cakes, eye-smiling at each other. His eyes were dark brown, his nose looked as if it had survived a break or two.
“Good,” she said.
“Mmm,” he said, wiping his lips with a napkin, finishing chewing. “I can’t tell you, Rosemary,” he said, “how proud I am to know your son up close and to be able to help him. I thought my best years were behind me—I was a cop here in the city, gold badge—but was I ever wrong. And now that you’re part of the picture too—well, I don’t know what to say.”
“How about cheers,” she said, smiling.
“Good idea,” he said.
“Cheers,” they said, and clinked glasses and sipped.
No ring on his finger. Did that still mean anything? She rested her left hand on the bar.
“Anybody gives you any trouble,” he said to her, “I’m the guy you want to speak to. Nuts or pests—and rest assured you’ll be getting them—any problems of any kind whatsoever, just let me know.”
“Will do,” she said.
“When Andy’s at the retreat,” he said, “or just busy somewhere and doesn’t need me, I usually hang out up in the spa on the fortieth floor. And I live right over on Ninth Avenue. So don’t hesitate.”
“I won’t,” she said. “What’s your last name, Joe?”
He sighed. “Maffia,” he said. Raised two fingers. “Two F’s, and no, I don’t belong, and yes, I get a lot of respect.”
She smiled at him. “I’m sure you would if you were Joe Smith,” she said.
“Rosemary,” Diane said, clamping her shoulder, turning her around, “Craig is especially anxious to meet you. He’s our director of TV production.”
While she was talking with Craig, Joe touched a fingertip to her shoulder. “Take care,” he said. “Andy said twelve noon.”
She didn’t want to offend Joe Maffia—because she liked him, not for what she imagined were the more common reasons—so for the first fifteen minutes or so it was a three-way conversation. He explained over his shoulder why the Vikings had a good chance of upsetting the Cowboys, and she told him and Andy about the temptation to drop sharp objects when viewing the Macy’s balloons from a floor above, and about being screamed and waved at and having to do the whole Princess-Grace-on-the-balcony bit from the bedroom window.
When they got out of the Lincoln Tunnel, though, she signed to Andy, and in the next space of silence he put a finger into the armrest at his right. A wide black shield slid up from the back of the front seat, blocking out the balding back of Joe’s head and half the daylight too, closing them in a humming black-leather roomette lit bluely through tinted glass.
“Andy,” she whispered, “I’m so uncomfortable having to watch what I say about Guy, and the divorce, and—”
“You handled it beautifully,” he said. “It was just that one question.”
“And the ones about Minnie and Roman?”
He shrugged. “Don’t do any more interviews. If you don’t enjoy them, there’s no reason to. But really, you were fine. Here, look again. Read.” He had the papers there. The front pages of both tabloids were the same full-page photo of him kissing her cheek at the press conference, one overlaid with a white GIVING THANKS!, the other with THANKSGIVING! “And you don’t have to whisper,” he said, nodding his head toward the front. “He listens to tapes or sports. He can’t hear a thing from here; believe me, I know.” He Groucho-Marxed his eyebrows.
“What about the others?” she asked. “I don’t know who knows what—Diane, William—”
“Nobody knows anything!” he said.
“They aren’t involved in . . . ?”
“What? Witchcraft? Satanism?”
She gave a nod.
He laughed. “I promise you they’re not,” he said. “I had enough of that to last me a lifetime. Ten lifetimes. Everyone who works for GC—the key people, I mean— they were picked by me and hired by me after I decided to change things around. William was our ambassador to Finland under three presidents. Diane is like the queen of press people; she was with the Theatre Guild for thirty-five years. They have no idea GC was ever intended to be anything but what it is—an organization that’s helping people in lots of different ways. They’re proud to be part of it, and the same goes for all the others.”
She said, “But where do they think it came from?”
“The same place everyone else does,” he said. “It was founded and endowed years ago by an anonymous group of high-minded industrialists. It’s all documented. And as far as who my father is”—he took her hands, leaned closer—“there are now exactly two people on earth— which reminds me, there’s something else I have to tell you, don’t let me forget—there are now only two people on earth who know who he is.” He swung a finger back and forth between them. “Us.” He squeezed her hands, held her eyes with his. “That’s why it’s such—joy for me to be with you again. Not just because you’re my mother. Because you know who I am, because I don’t have to hide the truth from you! And don’t you feel something like that toward me? How many people have you told about that night back then?”
Shaking her head, she said, “No one. Who would believe me?”
“I do,” he said.
They looked at each other—hugged each other tight. “I love you so much!” he said in her ear, and she in his, “Oh Andy, I love you, darling!” They kissed each other’s temples, kissed cheeks, the corners of their mouths—she pushed; they let each other go, turned.
Sat apart.
Breathing.
He fingered-combed his hair back, turned to the window, looked out. Touched the armrest; the window tops on both sides dropped half an inch.
She looked out her window at a shopping mall swinging past.
Brown hills.
“Stan Shand died November ninth.”
She turned.
“At the same time you woke up,” he said, “just after eleven. A cab hit him in front of the Beacon Theater.”
She winced, drew breath.
“It can’t possibly be a coincidence,” he said. “He was the last one alive of the coven, the thirteenth. Roman said there were spells that went on forever and spells that stopped when the last caster died. He left me one of his engravings, Stan; that’s how I found out. He’s the one who taught me art and music, and the right way to floss.” He showed his teeth.
She smiled, sighed. “I wish he had died a few years sooner,” she said.
“It wouldn’t have helped you much. Leah Fountain only died a couple of months ago. She was over a hundred.”
The leather roomette took a wide right turn.
“Andy, listen,” Rosemary said. “Once I got going with the physical therapists, I conked out whenever I hi
t the pillow. Tuesday and yesterday were—crazy, and last night I was reading an almanac I got at the newsstand but I’m not up to date yet. Is Mike Van Buren the TV evangelist who’s also the head of the Christian Consortium?”
“No, no,” Andy said. “That’s Rob Patterson. Mike Van Buren is the former TV commentator who’s bolted the Republicans and is running as a third-party candidate.”
“I hope I don’t get them mixed up,” Rosemary said.
6
MIKE VAN BUREN, in a red tie, white shirt, blue suit, and gold I ANDY button, a carving knife in one hand and a two-pronged fork in the other, stepped back from the head of the table to allow his sister and campaign manager Brooke, in a white apron over a blue dress, to set down a large, succulent turkey bedded in parsley on a white china platter. The guests clapped, twelve on each side of the table, their faces bright with light bouncing from white damask, white china, silver, and glass.
Brooke moved aside, shaking her hands and blowing at them, as Mike stepped forward. “It’s just beautiful, Brooke!” he said. “Compliments to Dinah!”
Another hand for Dinah—in the kitchen, presumably, and not alone.
Rosemary, seated at Van Buren’s left, scanned the opposite team as she clapped. Could you believe it? Every man, from Andy across from her down to Joe, and the men on her side of the table too—she leaned forward and looked past Rob Patterson clapping—yes, every last man at the table had on a basically red tie, a white shirt, and a blue suit. All wore plain or fancy I ANDY buttons—except, of course, the Great Communicator himself. At least his suit had a pinstripe. And of course he looked fabulous, dressed decently for a change.
“Folks...” Van Buren said. He stood behind the turkey with his arms at his sides, waiting for silence. “Before we go any further...” He turned to his right and smiled. “Andy, will you do us the honor of saying grace?”
“No, sir,” Andy said, smiling back at him, “not when Rob Patterson is at the table.”
Murmurs of approval hummed. Mark Mead, the executive director of Patterson’s Christian Consortium, leaned clear of the woman at his left and smiled at Andy. “Well spoken, Andy,” he said.
Patterson himself, standing up beside Rosemary, said, “Thank you, Andy. I’ve never been more flattered in my life. If you’ll bow your heads...”
Rosemary stole a peek across the table; Andy winked at her, and rubbed at his eye as if something had gotten into it.
When the relatively brief sermon was over, Van Buren started carving. He was good at it; you had to give him credit. Leaning over the turkey, operating on its outer side with knife, fork, and occasional shears, he sliced off leaf after unbroken leaf of dark meat and light, talking all the while. “As a former broadcaster myself, Rosemary, I can tell you with a fair degree of authority that you acquitted yourself magnificently yesterday.”
“Thank you,” she said.
“You radiate candor and sincerity. Those are admirable qualities in a woman.”
“And not in a man?” she asked.
“And a ready wit!” Van Buren cast a pixie smile at her, slicing away. “That’s something I value highly.”
“Rosemary, my dear.”
She turned to Rob Patterson.
“That was so gracious of Andy,” he said. “So typical of his boundless generosity. It’s a moment I’ll treasure the rest of my life.”
Smiling at him, she said, “You’re too kind.”
“Sometimes, Rosemary,” Rob Patterson said, touching her wrist, “I feel that Andy himself is a mite too kind, and too generous, and too forbearing. I’m thinking in particular about PA’s, in connection with the candles. I hope you don’t share your son’s tolerant position. I feel Mike is dead right on this one; something has to be done about them, they’re going to spoil it for the rest of us!”
She knew that PA’s were paranoid atheists, and one of the GC commercials she had seen early on had something to do with candles, but she had no idea what the man was talking about. She looked for help, but the Great Communicator was communicating with the Great Slicer.
The woman beyond Patterson rescued her, slapping his arm with gusto. “Now, Rob, don’t you start bawling about PA’s again! This is the day we count our blessings, not our curses, isn’t that so, Rosemary? Andy says a few candles more or less won’t matter a snip and that’s good enough for me! Rosemary, you must be popping out of your skin with pride! Merle and I, we celebrate if the boys stay two years in the same school!”
“Andy,” Mark Mead said, leaning clear of the woman on his left, smiling, “would you mind passing me the celery?”
Joe, down at the end of the table, caught her eyes, waggled fingers at her.
She smiled, waggled back.
He too looked good in Republican, sitting there with his head on his hand listening to Mrs. Lush Rambeau.
“YOW! JESUS!” Van Buren dropped the knife and clutched his hand, red blood dripping on white turkey breast.
Gasping, Rosemary thrust her napkin at him.
As soon as Andy climbed into the back of the limo after her, she collapsed against his shoulder, moaning. “Ye gods! What a—yuuch! Yowwww!” He hugged her as their black roomette rolled forward. “Ah, poor baby,” he said, raining kisses on her head, “thank you, thank you. The corn fritters were good, weren’t they?”
She mumbled something in his coat, and squirmed her head around to look up at him. “Am I crazy,” she asked, “or was the table set to look like the Norman Rockwell painting?”
He smacked his forehead. “Yes!” he said. “That’s it! I kept feeling déjà vu! That’s what it was! All the white stuff, and the plain glasses...”
“And Brooke’s dress and apron, that’s in the picture too I think.”
They sighed. He let go of her and they sat up straight, shaking their heads. Settled their coats, fixed their hair.
Lights whipped by bluishly, a steady lashing.
“Hey, what is it with the candles?” she asked. “I saw something about them early on, but then...”
“A thing we’re doing,” he said. “Tell you later. You think Mark Mead is gay?”
“The possibility crossed my mind,” she said.
“I think he was coming on to me.”
“Van Buren was coming on to me,” she said. “I radiate candor and sincerity.”
“Well you do,” he said, poking at her hair.
“Yeah,” she said. “Especially when I’m lying to the entire world on TV.”
“We said, no more interviews. Unless you want to.”
“How about conversations with people?”
They looked out their windows. A slower lashing began, amber lights.
“You know why he was, don’t you?”
“Why who was what?” she asked, turning.
“Why Van Buren was coming on to you,” he said.
“I radiate candor and sincerity,” she told him. “And I have a ready wit.”
“And a charming innocence,” he said. “You also radiate signatures. On petitions. One date with you and he’s on the ballot in every state.”
She leaned away, peering at him. “Go on with you,” she said.
He smiled at her. “You’ve got clout, Ma!” he said. “People heart Andy’s Mom even more than they heart Andy.”
“Oh go on,” she said, giving him a poke.
He chuckled.
She sat back. Settled herself against his shoulder.
Pink lights, slow and steady.
“What was Saturday night at the White House like?”
He told her for fifteen miles or so.
“Wow,” she said.
He sighed. “Democrats are more fun,” he said. “There’s no getting around it.”
“The only exits,” he said, “are at the garage levels, the lobby, on eight, nine, and ten, and my apartment. It’s the highest-speed elevator allowed by law; only six of them in the city. Two thousand feet per minute. That comes down to—” “Spare me the details,” she said
. They stood face to bearded chin in a cylindrical cab not much wider than a phone booth, rocketing upward faster, far faster, than she liked. The thing was like a lipstick turned inside out—red leather to shoulder height, her shoulders, and brass, or solid gold for all she knew, from there up to the glowing ceiling. “He put this in just for you?” “He owes me.” They waggled their jaws till their ears popped. “I’ve scored a few times in here.” “Spare me those details too, Andy.” “Here we are. Brace yourself for the mother of all views, mother of all mothers.” A red 52 pinged alight above his head as they slowed.
The cab split open behind him; he backed out through widening space, taking her hand, leading her out—his other hand slapping wall—into a softly lit, black-floored, art-movie-house-lounge kind of space, sparely but handsomely furnished in brass-trimmed black, its far wall a Cinerama of city and stars and three-quarter moon, moving lights of planes.
“Oh Andy!” she said, and gasped, biting her lip.
He led her forward, lifting her coat away, dropping it, shedding his own as they passed between sofas. She swayed—at an open plane door a good few minutes from touchdown. The park below was dark carpet lightly salted; the East Side and miles beyond, a glittering World’s Fair display. The white moon above washed stars from the cobalt sky.
“A perfect night,” he said behind her, harnessing her between his elbows, holding her shoulders from the front. She leaned back against him, sighed. “I ordered a full moon,” he said, his cheek at her temple, “and they sent that. What are you gonna do?”
She smiled, scanning the glittering diorama, caressing his hand on her shoulder. He reached his other arm out, pointing. “That’s the Whitestone Bridge . . . And that’s Queens, the whole shootin’ match ...”
“It’s incredible,” she said.
His arm dropped; he held her at waist and shoulder, kissed her ear. “I had a twenty-seven-year hole too,” he said, his breath hot, “only I was awake through mine.”
