Undertow

by Warren Adler

  “We built this country on individual responsibility.”

  “Technology has made it too big for the individual to cope. Only joint efforts can pay off. The government must assume the total coordination of this joint effort.”

  “Technology does not preclude individual responsibility.”

  They would argue long into the night.

  “Bullhead” was Don’s inevitable parting shot, but under his breath. No one called Dr. Whitford a bullhead to his face.

  Dad was right, because individual responsibility was supposed to work for marriage too. Her anger rose in her. If only I were stronger, like dad.

  What did that girl, that—what was her name—Jackson, give him besides a good suck? On top of everything, she had to be a Negro. The whole world will feel sorry for poor little Karen Whitford James. As for the great senator and that ass of a hanger-on, Lou Castle—well, for one thing, the presidency will go down the tube. What a chance he had! He would have whipped the president badly. All the polls said so. And the boys were so proud of him. The boys. He had never been a father to the boys; he was always away. She, too. She had tried to soften the blow, lied to them, told them not to worry. Lies within lies within lies.

  Maybe now she had carte blanche to have an affair of her own. She had creamed her face and massaged the goo into the skin. After all, she also had her desires. It was just that they were different than his. I must be a shallow woman, she thought. I am a shallow woman. Why don’t I have the same passionate nature? Self-doubt had now crept in with self-pity. One thing is certain, he’ll be faithful now. He got caught before the eyes of the world. He couldn’t step out of line again. That’s a consolation. And he’s still young enough to stick it out another five years. Maybe it all happens for the best. Tears began to well up in her eyes. “I will not cry,” she said aloud. “Dad wouldn’t like me to. Why don’t I have more fight in me? I’m a sad, weak bitch.”

  She put on her nightgown and lay down on top of the covers. Where was Don now? He said he couldn’t bear to come home. He needed to expend energy. Anything but be with me. It could be that she had failed him.

  She dozed. Then she opened her eyes and Don was moving around the room. The sickly smell of alcohol was intense.

  “You stink like a brewery,” she said harshly. If only she could be more forgiving. She would try to be more forgiving.

  “I had a few drinks.”

  She could hear him throwing his shoes on the floor, unzippering and dropping his clothes, leaving them where they fell. He lay back next to her.

  “Well, it’s been one hell of a day,” he said.

  She thought, “What does a wife say to a husband in moments like these?” If only he would turn toward her.

  As if he had read her thoughts, he did so.

  “I need you to forgive me,” he said. But there was little conviction in his tone, as if he were saying it by rote, as if it were expected of him. Well, it was, she thought. She didn’t answer him at first.

  How did she fail him? He brought his body closer. The smell of alcohol was nauseating. She turned her face away. He whispered in her ear, “Forgive me. Forgive me. Forgive me.” She could feel the hardness under her nightgown.

  He pinched her buttocks. His breath came shorter, heavier. Her hand found his sex. She stroked gently.

  “I am feeling something,” she thought. “Why am I feeling something?” Her head moved down his chest, her tongue over his stomach and then her mouth was over his erect member.

  “I am as good as anybody,” she thought.

  XXVII

  “All in all,” Davis said, “I’d say we’re on our own ten-yard line and we’ll have to punt.”

  He was not one to use sporting expressions. It must have been a line picked up from Barnstable, who was beginning to show the effects of the ordeal. His eyes were encased in black pockets. Don, on the other hand, was strangely fresh, his face again returned to its old look of balance. He appeared to have slept well and was now eating his breakfast with relish. Virginia, the maid, quietly poured their coffee. The morning papers were piled beside him, but he had not opened them. Davis, too, seemed fresher, alert, his ice-blue eyes as intense as ever. I was numb with fatigue, having twisted and turned all night, trying to understand the careening chain of events. My chest still hurt from last night’s exertions. I noticed that Don’s right fist was carefully taped, like that of a professional boxer.

  “Must have bumped it somewhere,” he said, winking at me, but putting an end to the subject. His spirits were extraordinary.

  “Where the hell did you guys go last night?” Barnstable had asked.

  “Walked around. Had a few,” I said, hoping that Barnstable would drop the subject.

  “It was a dumb chance,” Barnstable said. “It was dangerous.”

  “Forget it.”

  “Were you recognized?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Where did you go?” Barnstable tried again.

  “Stop worrying. I wasn’t recognized.”

  The bloody face of the man on the floor of the bar came back to me. What must the man be thinking now? How could he know that by an accident of fate, he was a victim of forces beyond his comprehension, beyond his own daily rounds, a foil for someone else. Who was this man? He was merely a sacrifice. It was a cruel trick to play on this man. Oh, shit, why am I getting so damned philosophical?

  “Leave it alone,” I said. Barnstable pouted, repressing his anger.

  “Okay, gentlemen,” Don said. “Where do we go from here? I’m ready now.”

  Davis stood up. He was neatly dressed in a grey suit, dark tie, white shirt—a fastidious man, totally absorbed. He had been with us eight years, a smart-assed kid straight out of USC, always controlled. He had that uncanny ability to orchestrate well in a small group. Hell, he was always the best salesman in the room, articulate and unflappable. I envied this quality in him. When not doing his thing, he was a pretty cold fish, completely nonsocial, stuck to himself. I had never seen him with a date.

  “The options are narrowed,” Davis began, standing up and removing the cover on a large art pad. He rested it on a countertop and held it up for all of us to see. He was energized by all the strategies he had worked out in his mind. I know he must have worked all night. The man was indefatigable. On the top of the page he had written in magic marker, “Options.” Below that, “1. To make ‘The Speech.’ ” “2. Not to make ‘The Speech.’ ”

  “In order to evaluate these options,” he said, “we must first reach a basic conclusion. One, we are no longer a contender for the next Democratic presidential nomination.” He looked around at us. Acceptance was obvious. I saw Barnstable shake his head. He had the most to lose. He was older. We could wait. “Two, the credibility factor, while shaken, is not completely gone. To most of the senator’s hardcore supporters, the roots of credibility remain. Our opponents will always be our opponents; the rest, the vast middle, our basic election target, are probably ambivalent—although we must assume that at this moment in time, many have taken strong pro and con positions, which, in my opinion, time will dissipate. And three, the crowd mind is, thank goodness, quite fickle, and subject to manipulation. One device is the television speech. Such a speech has risks.” He turned the page. “More options: One, we could botch the job with lousy presentation—unbelievability, bad wording, poor emphasis, bad makeup, bad lighting, inferior technology, and the rest. Murphy’s Law; Anything that can go wrong goes wrong. Two, we could misread the timing; or, three, an outside event, some cataclysmic, natural disaster could throw the whole thing into a cocked hat. Believe it or not, the fact that we’re still front page is a tremendous plus. People will want to listen. I believe we should make the speech, and make it in California at your mother’s home in Carmel. There is something reassuring about a mother’s home. And, certainly, I needn’t go into the political importance of doing the speech in California.”

  “Suppose we do nothing?” Barnstable asked. I
was just on the verge of asking the same question myself.

  “I was coming to that.” Davis flipped the page of his art pad on which was written, “No Speech Option.” 1. Time-passage—our ally. 2. Crisis of believability.

  “The shortest thing on earth is the human memory, someone once said. People will forget. The coals will be harder and harder to stoke and raise fire. Should we leave it alone? Batten down the hatches, lower the mainsail, and hope for the storm to pass?” His metaphors were insufferable this morning. I guessed it was because he was thinking about it hard last night and wanted to sharpen his arguments.

  “There’s a lot to say for that,” Don said.

  “Yes, there is,” Davis pointed out. “But then we leave no record of denial. I think we’ve got to have that. Four, ten, twenty years from now we’ll need it. Senator, the record—it haunts a politician, and no matter what you do or say in your political career, this episode will be your sword of Damocles. It will hang over you forever. It will never go away. Someone will always be dredging it up. There could be books written about it, articles in exploitation magazines and the Sunday supplements for years to come. Some definitive statement must be made by you, publicly, aggressively, bravely.”

  “What you’re saying is that no matter what happens in the future, I’ll always have to run first against the record of this—episode.”

  “Exactly. I don’t think we have any options on that one.”

  “But will they believe me?”

  “I don’t know,” Davis said. “How can we be sure? But one thing is certain: whatever you say, most of the people must be willing to give you the benefit of the doubt.”

  “What doubt?”

  “Doubt about your—fitness. Let’s face it. Regardless of how the media reports the events, certain lingering doubts remain. Did you have an affair with the Jackson girl? Not that this is crucial. This is not England. You’re allowed your sex here, providing it hangs out there in the clouds somewhere. It’s only when the public validates it that it assumes negative political significance. If sex were a political danger, we might as well close up Washington. All we have to do on that point is deny it. Everybody might turn to each other and wink, but that will be the end of it, except for hardcore purists who won’t support us anyway. The real problem is the eleven hour delay. This is where we have to finesse things. That’s the point that’s sticky.”

  “How do we attack it, in your opinion?” Barnstable asked. He seemed agitated, building up a hostility.

  “Well,” Davis said, “obviously I opt for the speech.”

  “I say,” Barnstable said, “that we simply lie low. We’re sticking our necks out, besides the expense. Why go through something as chancy as this?”

  “We need the record,” Davis replied quickly. “We’ve got to plant this doubt in people’s minds.”

  “But will they believe it?” Don persisted.

  “Some will. Some won’t,” Davis said. Don rubbed his taped hand against his chin.

  “What do you think, Lou?” he asked.

  “We’re pretty well damaged as it is, Don. I think you’ve got to do something. There’s also a hell of a lot of fence mending you’ve got to do inside your own structure—the staff, the contributors, even your three buddies in the senate, one of whom will most likely get the nomination, whoever he is. I feel for him. No matter what, he hasn’t got a chance in hell. Christ, Don, I don’t know. I’m inclined to go.”

  “Jack?”

  “I wish I had a sure answer,” Barnstable said sadly. “Maybe I’m just getting too old for this game.” His self-pity was showing.

  “Christine?”

  She was sitting quietly in the corner, her inevitable steno pad on her knees.

  “I appreciate your asking, Don. It’s over my head. I go wherever the ship goes.”

  Don looked into his empty coffee cup.

  “Do you think I should ask Chuck Chalmers? I got a note to call him.”

  “He’d be flattered,” Davis said. “He’s a powerful man. The Washington Chronicle can be a heavy gun in anyone’s arsenal.”

  “What should I tell him?”

  “Tell him exactly what you told the police chief,” Davis said.

  “You think he’ll buy it?”

  “He’ll want to believe you,” Davis said. “He’ll buy it. If he does, then ask his advice.”

  “Suppose he gives me advice that I won’t take—like not making the speech.”

  “Tell him it’s a matter of conscience. Liberals go for that word,” Davis said.

  “You’re such a leering cynic, Davis,” Barnstable said. “I still say, don’t make this speech. It’s too much exposure. You’ll have to tell an outright lie, a whopper. It’ll come back to haunt you.”

  “There’s no proof,” I said.

  “I’m afraid to say ‘conscience’ now,” Barnstable said. “A lie is a lie.”

  “It’s a white lie,” Davis said.

  “Just a little white lie,” I sang.

  “There really isn’t a better option,” Davis said, taking command again. “I’ve already got the setting planned. Your mother’s place would be perfect. Might even take an opening shot of the rugged hills around there. And the sea. The mysterious forces of nature. I can hire out of San Francisco and bring in a good crew. It’ll be expensive as hell, but well worth it.”

  “How’s the old bank balance, Jack?” Don asked.

  “We’ve got enough to cover, but that’s about it. I still think it’s crazy.” He was seething.

  “It’ll be a rough two days for you, Senator,” Davis said. “We’ll also arrange a meeting at your mother’s place with Schwartz, Basil, and Hammond.”

  Don made a grimace of derision.

  “Let’s face it, Don,” Barnstable said. “They’re the moneybags. If you can’t convince them, you’ll have one hell of a rough time convincing anyone else.”

  “I’ll convince them,” Don said confidently. He was right. The fat cats were easy. Feed them flattery. They soaked it up like a sponge.

  “Then, there’s Marlena’s funeral,” Davis said, “the day after tomorrow. We’ve got to have a good turnout for that. Fellow workers. All of us. I can assure you that will be one of the best-covered funerals in the country.”

  “I can’t see why we have to go to the funeral, either,” Barnstable said angrily. “All we should do now is just lay low—like gangsters. Just shut up.”

  “But it won’t go away,” Davis said.

  “I just don’t agree with it.”

  “Christ, Jack, it’s a simple act of human decency,” Don snapped.

  “Human decency?” Barnstable said. “What’s all this got to do with human decency?”

  “How people perceive human decency,” Don corrected. “It’s a simple act of kindness, okay?”

  “It’s a charade,” Barnstable said testily. He seemed suddenly out of place.

  “Come off it, Jack. We’re talking politics, image. We’re not discussing moral questions.”

  “Yeah, Jack, what’s eating you?” Don said.

  He looked at each one of us.

  “I guess I’m tired,” he said, retreating. “I’ve been at it too long.”

  “Of course, we’ll be at the funeral. That makes good sense,” Don said. He smiled.

  Don’s cool optimism was infectious. I began to feel good about things for the first time since yesterday morning. Lord, it seemed like a century since Christine and I went walking along the beach. Well, why not? Confidence seemed to well up in all of us again. All was not lost, after all.

  Davis grabbed the phone and began to arrange time on the California stations. We’d have to pay for an all-California hookup. The networks would carry choice quotes free. A good network news director would carry long excerpts from the speech. Davis, always the pro, would alert them in time to pick up a feed. The speech was to be on prime time and last no longer than five minutes, in just enough time for a network feed for the eleven o’clock
news in the East.

  “Okay, Christine,” Davis said abruptly, “into the study. Let’s take a crack at a first draft. I’d suggest you call Chuck Chalmers, Senator.” They went into the study and closed the door.

  “Well, Jack,” I said. “What do you think?”

  “I don’t think anymore,” he said, bitterly. “Because if I did think, I’d get the hell out of this racket. I wish I could be as optimistic as the rest of you. But the odds against recovery are staggering. Maybe I’m old fashioned. But how dumb do you really think the American people are? Pretty dumb, I guess. To tell you the truth, Lou, it’s way over my head. Davis is in control now, like some scavenger. The media man. He’s in control now. I’m like Christine. I guess I go where the ship goes.”

  “Come on, Jack. Hell, cheer up. It’s all part of the game.”

  It was hard seeing this loyal workhorse down in the dumps, while the rest of us were buoyant. But Jack was pushing sixty, and he knew that time was as much his enemy as it was Don’s friend.

  At that stage, I don’t believe I was too introspective. Events were occurring faster than I could absorb them. Yet there was something that had begun to nag at me, something indefinable, something I was fighting back within myself. I really don’t consider myself a very important character in these events. There’s something so terribly blunted in the way I perceive things. It was as if my feelings were gone—no passion, no compassion. It was as if I were strapped into an electric chair with all those electrodes in my head and on my hands and legs, and when they pulled the switch I wouldn’t die because the electric current wouldn’t hurt me. Because I couldn’t feel anything. I felt fear. I know I felt fear last night in the bar. But that’s where it seemed to end. No feeling beyond fear. Was I unique? Hell, no! There must be millions like me who have lost the power to feel anything—love, hate, anger, indignation—nothing. Worse than that, I had no destination. Don was at the tiller and I was on the deck, a listless crewman. I didn’t have power over my own destiny. But who has? Even a controlled force like Don James was the victim of an enigma, of the mysterious power of the ocean. Maybe we could manipulate man’s technology, but the fucking oceantides had got him anyway. I said to myself: Hey, you’re Lou Castle. You know your role: Don’s friend. His old roomie. Damon and Pythias. Bread and butter. Don’t go and get reflective on us. That’s no way to act. He didn’t kill that girl. There it was. Even Lou Castle was saying it. The old goddamned guilt tugging at Lou Castle’s sleeve. You’re damned right he didn’t kill that girl. Why the hell weren’t we both Catholics? We could get it off our chests the easy way, in a dark cubicle talking to a faceless man.