by Melody Clark
"Almost impossible,” Jack said stiffly.
"There's a whole heap of slip between a cup and a lip, my boy. The devil is always in the almost. You know Deke Mendehlson, don't you?"
"Representative Deke Mendehlson? Of course. He was in the Mass State Senate for years. He won my Congressional seat after I went to the Senate. I know him, but I don't know him very well."
"He's something of an expert in finessing majorities out of legislatures and the like. Wrote his master’s thesis on it, I believe. I recommended to Thomas that he go down and see him. Be a good idea for you to go with him. You know the boy a little. Schmooze, talk, and establish trust. He might have good insights on transforming this from impossible to what old Ben Franklin called the art of the possible."
"And in exchange for this almost impossible possibility, you want me to vote for Edison-Sobo?"
"We have the already-mentioned improvement in the domestic partnership. This gives us improved present and future chances as reasons enough. And as I recall, they tallied the votes far into the night before they called your last election.”
Jack rolled his gaze toward the ceiling. “I don’t give a damn about that crap and you know it.”
“Well, when reup comes and the moronic right calls you a queer lover, and you know they will, you can splatter your re-election TV commercials with those good-paying Massachusetts jobs you helped create. Who’d you rather have in your chair, you or that young Big Oil whore, Michael Rhodes?"
Jack gradually rose to his feet. He nodded slowly. "I'll think about it," he said, turning toward Hamilton's door. “Anything else?”
Hamilton leaned toward him. "Just what I said. I'm not expecting an instant decision, particularly in your current state of being. Oh, before I forget, word on the Hill is somethin' big is gonna break tomorrow."
Jack tried to care. He really did. He looked around. "Like what?"
Hamilton smiled like he had gulped the fat canary whole and in a single swallow. "Somethin' big ... and potentially goddamned useful, too, if it’s anything like I hear it is. You keep that in mind."
Jack groped his way into the welcome darkness of his inner office. The curtain was closed, for which he made a mental note to thank Taneesha. He saw the new set of messages on his desk. He saw his flashing PDA. He saw his telephone system, like a distant city, alive with the lights all blinking. He noticed, finally, the small urn newly setting next to his Harvard Speakers Club trophy. He petted the urn lightly and then surrendered his body to the deep, black depths of the sofa.
And then, of course, his cell phone rang. He knew that one of only ten people could be at the other end.
He answered it, muttering, "You'd better be dying."
"No," T.J. piped back, “but I am by the porter exit waiting for you to motivate yourself through the door. You talked to Ham I'm assuming."
"We exchanged grunts,” Jack whispered through his hand.
"Then let's get a move on. We've an appointment with Deke to keep."
"T.J. ... please ... “ Jack pleaded, slumping harder against the couch. “I have a murderous hangover. Either that or a whole village of rabid elves is living in my hair. Can't this wait until tomorrow?"
"Don't be silly. You don't have enough hair left for a whole village. And no, I am afraid this cannot wait. Besides, if you had kept with our kiss last night, you'd have awakened in a far happier state of being this morning. I'd have fed you strawberries and cream in bed. I might have even put whipped cream on the strawberries."
"We're on a cell line," he snapped dully.
"No one is going to listen to us. You can barely get them to hear you on the Senate floor. I'll expect you in ten minutes. Don't lollygag around." The line hung up.
"Lollygag this," Jack said roughly and shoved the cell phone back into his jeans.
He once more donned the man-eating hoodie. He again put on his sunglasses. He groped his way through the new Senate block to the old porter exit. He saw his oldest friend through the glass gateway doors as T.J. waited with evident impatience while leaning against a wall. Jack walked out to join him.
T.J. gave him a thorough if droll once-over. “You look like one of the Sand People from Star Wars.”
“Gosh, thanks, T.J.,” Jack said, having to move quickly to keep up with T.J. as he began a quick stride around the scalloped security wall toward the House block. “I guess you’re still mad, huh?”
“My God, you’re a walking, talking Anglo Charlie Chan, you inscrutable sot you. Yes, Mr. John Adams Paulson, I am angry. I realize you were pissed, in the English sense, when I left last night, so you may not realize that I was pissed in the American sense as I left.”
As they walked, Jack stole a sheepish glance over at T.J. "I don't suppose you realize that I might be feeling a little awkward and embarrassed about what happened last night."
"Yes, I realize that, Jack ... because you're an unmitigated jackass." T.J.’s angry laugh lashed out at the space between them. "Let me guess ... you want me to forget the kiss last night ever happened."
"I don't think that's possible."
"Well, why not?" Thomas said as they walked over the barricade toward House Block Building. "You've asked me to forget all of our past, haven't you? Why not overlook last night? While we're at it, what else shall I forget for your pleasure, Jack? Canada perhaps? We’ll just make a hard steep right should we ever drive north. Hey, why not forget a whole continent? The vastness of Africa ceases to exist because Senator Jack Adams Paulson asks it be so. Poof. Happy, Jack?"
"Could you try to be a bit more sarcastic? Your imperious glower is a little off today."
T.J. groaned at the man beside him with a loud sound of frustration as they reached the crosswalk to their destination. "All these years I cherish you. I cherish what we shared ... or what I thought we shared. And now I find out that all it ever was to you was a visual aphrodisiac for your wife."
"I’ve already told you twice that I never said that!"
"You came close!"
"No, I didn't!" Jack shouted back even louder. He looked around quickly, grateful to find them standing alone as they waited for their turn to cross. "Look, can't we just discuss this -- "
"Some other time? Which other time? Every moment that presents itself you seem to find something wrong with." T.J. exhaled as they got the green and made their way to the building. After a moment of tense silence, T.J. looked back at Jack and blurted as if somewhat reluctant to do so, “I'm throwing a party this evening and I'd like for you to be there."
Jack had been opening the side door. He stopped to look back at T.J. as if the man might have spontaneously burst into flame. "You're inviting me to a party?”
“Yes, I am. Didn’t it seem like I was?”
“Well, yeah,” Jack said, as they walked into the primary hall. Jack punched an elevator button for the new C wing floor. “But I am, in your words, a surly bridge troll at social gatherings. I'm a one-man party demolition crew, remember?"
"I have never said that, you just imagined it. It's a small party at Charles Heights. At my house. Just some friends and associates. And yes, I do very much want you to be present. If you want to prove to me that our relationship is at all important to you, you'll be there."
Finally, Jack acquiesced with a bouncing nod. "Okay, okay, I'll try to be there. What do I wear?"
T.J. fixed eyes of warning on him. "You'll do more than try, you'll be there. And I don't care what you wear so long as you're in attendance. Well, no frankly vulgar t-shirts or that sort of thing. Slacks would be an asset."
"Nothing vulgar, wear pants, I think I can handle that," Jack said as they finally entered the elevator.
Mendelsohn’s office lay in one of the older wings of the building.
Jack remembered Mendelsohn as animated and busy and friendly and industrious beyond the range of the everyday energetic jack rabbit. The man before them was not even a little like that. He looked pale and drawn and diffident as hell as the other men la
id out their need for information. He definitely seemed to be urging the meeting through to a quick end.
"Sure, I can probably help with that," the man said, pushing his overly large glasses up to his eyes. He raked a nervous hand back through his hair and checked his laptop for the sixth time since they’d been sitting there. He pushed it away and turned back to them. “Kinda like teaching cat herding, but there’s some science along with the art.”
Jack dredged up one of his better encouraging smiles. “Everything okay, Deke?”
“Sure.” Mendelsohn’s smile got nervous. He plucked up a pencil from his desk and tossed it into a drawer. “You guys, you know, give me a few days. I’ll look over the domestic partnership bill, other pending legislation we can barter with, and any existing position papers. I’ll come up with something.”
Jack felt like the conversation had been quickly brought to an end. It felt like barely a moment after he’d sat down that he stood up. “That’s all we can really ask.”
“Can I ask … “ Mendelsohn said, pausing for a long, hard moment. He looked from one man to the other as if reluctant to go on. “Is there a particular reason you came to me about this? Other than Hamilton’s recommendation, I mean?”
Jack looked to T.J., already moving for the door; T.J. looked quizzically over at Jack. “No, none,” Jack said. “Why do you ask?”
The younger man tried to laugh. “You know the gossipmongers. Don’t have to tell you that. I mean, you had this job before I did, Jack. I thought maybe … because it had something to do with gay rights legislation … well, that … “
“No!” Jack said quickly. “Not at all. I haven’t heard anything … not that I listen to gossip anyway.”
“Unless it’s about you,” T.J. countered.
“Well, of course if it’s about me. Or you. Deke, try not to worry about that crap. Old jerks with nothing better to do than pry and blabber. It’s pointless to be concerned.”
“Hard not to worry about it,” Deke said, with a gesture of mild despair. “Like this morning, there are all these rumors about some list with names on it that’s going to be published, you know? Makes you wonder what names? Even if it’s not true, you know. A little false allegation can crush a career.”
“What list?” T.J. asked, walking a step toward Jack.
Mendelsohn shrugged. “Some list of names from somewhere. You know how it is. It may not even exist, right?”
Jack smiled his assurances again. “Probably doesn’t exist, Deke. Don’t let them get to you. Is this what Ham was talking to me about? The thing about to break?”
Mendelsohn shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. Everyone’s heard about it, but no one has seen it.”
“We haven’t done either one,” T.J. said, grinning as he finally opened the door. “We’ll be back to you in a couple of days then?”
Mendelsohn looked back quickly, smiling nervously. He nodded. “Couple of days.”
When they had left the Congressman’s office and made it down the hall, past the bank of elevators in order to take the short flight of stairs that led to the main annex and over to the Senate chamber, T.J. stopped in his tracks and looked back in the direction of the office they had left. “That young man looks fucking frightened.”
“I got that impression, too. It seems like half this town is scared at the moment.” Jack conferred with his watch, leaning to the sconce lamp only to have his gaze slide off the watch face and focus on the wall. A weirdly familiar wall. “I thought this was all new building.”
“No, I believe some of it is a repurposed old building. Why?”
"This wall ...” Jack said, laughing. He shook his head in amazement. “How weird."
"Looks like a thoroughly pedestrian wall to me. What's weird about it?"
"No, it's weird because ... I know it. I mean, I recognize it. I don't remember ever having an office here but somehow I know this place really well. How could it be a new building?”
T.J. shrugged. “As I said, they repurposed a whole existing structure.”
“I know this so well though.” He walked across to the wall and placed his hand against it. “I think there’s a hiding place or something behind here. Don’t ask me why I know it but I do. Jesus, this is strange as hell. Maybe I’m catching your delusion.”
“Or perhaps you’re remembering the truth,” T.J. said with a grudging smile. “Look, we both are in committee. We’d better get cracking. I will see you tonight, yes?”
Still distracted, Jack murmured something that sounded vaguely like he concurred. "I guess."
"No guessing. Tell me yes. You will be there."
Jack looked around, finally called to attention. He shrugged in a gesture of provisional uncertainty. "Like I said, I guess."
"If you are not there, John Adams Paulson, I will come for you and drag you there, understood? So accept your fate and tell me you'll be there. Just say yes."
"Okay, okay, yes ...” Jack said, crossing his arms.
"Excellent. I'll see you there," T.J. replied, jogging the few steps down to the landing in the direction he had to go.
And as his friend pushed open the outer door to the far-ranging circle of street, Jack watched as T.J. blended into the first flow of heavier foot traffic.
Then Jack added softly, "I guess."
It had, in fact, been a barefaced lie. He had never had any intention of going to the party and had only told Tommy yes to shut him up. But it hadn't really been a lie since he was virtually certain T.J. had known he was bullshitting him. So in a way it wasn't a lie ... even if it was one.
He had forcefully shut-off his half-born memory of that wall into a distant corner of his mind in favor of a little mindless television.
The longer he sat there in his front room, staring at the utterly meaningless scramble of images leaping through his TV screen, the more he was thinking of Izzy. That was pretty much status quo these days. She had always been his flotation device amid the social swim of things. When they attended Washington parties, all Jack had to do was stand there, smiling, with a glass of something in his hand and occasionally answer a question. Izzy did most of the smiling and shaking of hands.
She was supposedly in attendance as his wife at the parties. Really, he was Isabel Smithton Paulson's husband whenever they went to those things. It had always been that way.
There would be no friends of Jack's at T.J.'s party. Jefferson's parties were uniformly for the DC gay community. So you will do what? Jack asked himself. Sit there, staring into a drink while being stared at like a sideshow exhibit by curious strangers? Come see the two-headed aardvark man? But the fact of the matter was he felt badly about lying to T.J. And the idea of Jack being there, for some indeterminate reason, had seemed so important to his friend.
"Okay, you want to go, so go," he said to himself, flipping unproductively through one zillion cable channels.
So finally he went.
Charles Heights was to Washington, DC what Main Street was to Disneyland, USA. It was a clear, good face – a charming little artist colony replete with beguiling houses big enough to be lovely but small enough to seem friendly and quaint. On the day Jack had helped T.J. move into the neighborhood, Jack had looked at him and asked, "So where do Snow White and the Seven Dwarves live?"
The area was occupied by the financially well-endowed who were far too mannerly and gracious to seem “rich.” And T.J. owned one of its largest, oldest homes, sprawling like a turn-of-the-century manor on a darkly recessed hill. He had become a gay gothic hero of sorts, Jack had told him a time or two.
That night, the lights around his friend’s home could be seen from the road that swerved around until it reached the Colony’s conditionally open gates.
The bored if vigilant young man at the gate looked at his clipboard. “Name?”
“Jack Paulson.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No. Why?”
“Because I hate you,” the kid said. “You’re always rude t
o everyone on the TV. Especially the hot anchor babe on Facts Network.”
Jack rubbed at his very tired eyes. He wanted to scream right back at him, ‘the hot anchor babe who works for corporate entities that would enslave you, body and soul, you sub-mental putz?’ Instead he quietly asked, “Who are you? The Ferryman on the River Styx?”
The mercury in the kid’s eyes instantly rose. “What did you call me?”
Jack finally pounded his forehead, trying to wake himself up from an apparent nightmare. “Look, will you just let me in? I’ve been invited. I’m on Senator Jefferson’s guest list?”
