by Allen Drury
It was Tay’s first direct contact with the Court, and although, in the way of Washington, nothing much came of it but paperwork, also—in the way of Washington—his personal reputation and public visibility were much enhanced. At the conclusion of their study he received a glowing letter of commendation and approval from the Chief. At Tay’s suggestion it was released to the media. The image grew.
And it was not an empty image, either, he could tell himself with justified satisfaction. He worked hard at his new assignment, spent many hours studying the administration of justice, traveled around the country to visit most of the major federal and state courts, offered recommendations that were practical, specific and, he felt, sound. If they did not do much to break the growing logjam of an increasingly litigious nation, that was not his fault. His work was diligent, thorough, constructive, farsighted. “Somebody else will have to follow through on it,” he told Moss when he was moved up two years later to be Solicitor General, “but at least I’ve laid a good foundation.” Later he was to perform equally diligent service, and gain further public acclaim, when as Secretary of Labor he was appointed vice-chairman of the President’s Special Commission on Crime and Violence. Unlike most of his politically cautious fellow members he came out strongly against the rising tide of vigilantism, which brought him much praise from major media and much bitter condemnation from his more worried countrymen. But he felt it must be said.
Only one thing galled him as he ascended the public ladder toward what he continued to hope would eventually be appointment to the Court, and that was Mary’s apparent growing disaffection and dissatisfaction with their life in Washington. The political melting pot throws together the multimillionairess who has come to the capital to trade her lavish parties for the chance to call the mighty by their first names and the wife of the truck driver from New Jersey who by some fluke happens to get himself elected to the House of Representatives. It blends them into a fascinating and amicable mélange of backgrounds and interests.
The charm of this escaped Mary. She had been reared to associate with a certain class of people and that was really all she wanted to do. She was, he realized, a genuine snob; and in the extremely democratic society of the capital, where office and rank, not an individual’s background, wealth or even manners, determine whatever snobbism exists, she was never entirely at ease. She was one of the few people he had ever known who did not find Washington fascinating. At the same time she had a loud and frequently expressed horror of “going back to California and just being a farmer’s wife.” Going back to California was of course the last thing he himself intended to do, but it had inspired quite a few dramatic scenes in recent years.
The only thing that would make her really happy, he felt, would be for him to join a top law firm in Philadelphia, buy a house on the Main Line and sink slowly into affluent desuetude as the years passed profitably, and lifelessly, by.
This was not for him; yet he could not really conceive that this alone was enough to bring about the slowly growing separation he had sensed, fought against, and ultimately found too strong to overcome. There must be something more to it; and being an honest, generous and compassionate man who often blamed himself for others’ errors, he felt that it must be something in him that was lacking. They had been married six years when they were finally blessed with one child, Jane, on whom he gradually came to focus much of his time and emotion; Mary announced firmly that she was having no more. He had balked but she had been adamant. After a time he had come to accept it and had hoped that by giving Janie the best possible home and trying always to keep them a close-knit and love-surrounded family unit, he could both protect his daughter and strengthen his marriage. Because he was also a man of great tenacity and determination and because Janie obviously grew to love him considerably more than she did her increasingly cold and absentminded mother, which did not help, he had been able to pretend to himself for far longer than most that something less than half a loaf could be made to seem better than none. In the last few years the pretense had become increasingly thin.
Mary did her duty socially, entertained for him, smiled and bowed and flattered the people she thought would advance his career, and he could not fault her on that. But she made it increasingly clear that she did it not really for him but simply because that was what girls from her background were trained to do. Her private comments on his growing success and rising reputation became increasingly sharp and destructive. She did not seem to approve of ambition, and she apparently realized that he had far more than most people, observing no more than his pleasant smile, steady calm and quietly decisive manner, perceived.
It was only after he became Solicitor General, however, that she began to be really outspoken about this. He had long ago ceased to discuss his duties or his dreams with her, but with the shrewdness of the disgruntled (and, in fairness, the unhappy, because he thought sometimes—and tried not to think it—that she must be very unhappy) she knew where his ambitions lay.
“You want to be on the Court,” she said flatly after his first day of arguing the government’s cases before it. “You’re positively glowing. I’ve never seen you so excited. Did they make you an honorary member?”
“I don’t think anybody but you would know I’m excited,” he said with the calm that seemed increasingly to annoy her. “And if I ever make it, it won’t be honorary. I’ll be there.”
“I can’t think of anything more boring. Those dowdy old men and their dowdy old wives! But I suppose you’d love it.”
“I don’t think you can call Sue-Ann Pomeroy dowdy,” he said mildly. “She has enough glamour for—”
“For all of us? Yes, I know you like Sue-Ann, you always have. And she likes you, too. I wonder if you think Moss is fooled?”
“There’s nothing for Moss to be fooled about!” he said sharply, provoked into the sort of retort he felt she was looking for, nowadays. “You know Moss and I and Sue-Ann are the best of friends, always have been, and always will be.”
“I’m surprised it’s even a threesome,” she remarked as she hurried into her jewelry (they were on their way to dinner at the gracious old Spanish Embassy on Fifteenth Street Northwest, their fourth black-tie affair in that one typical week). “The way you and Moss worship each other.”
“We don’t ‘worship each other,’” he said, putting on studs and cufflinks, keeping his voice low-keyed and matter-of-fact. “Next to my brother Carl and my brother-in-law Johnny, I expect he is my best friend, but we don’t worship each other. We know each other’s faults too well for that.”
“You tell him things you’d never tell me!”
He gave her a level look.
“I often get the distinct feeling that you don’t want me to tell you anything. So why shouldn’t I tell Moss?”
“But I’m your wife!” she said, angrily, and as he saw it, completely irrationally.
“Really?” he said in a cold tone that only she ever heard, and that only lately. “I didn’t know.”
“Well, why don’t you know!” she demanded, her voice suddenly ragged between held-back tears and growing anger. “I’ve done my best to be a good wife to you, all these boring years in this boring town with all its boring parvenus from all over America! And all the time I’ve hated it! Hated it, hated it, hated it!”
“And hated me too, I guess,” he said, staring at her with a thoughtful reasonableness he knew must anger her still further, but he couldn’t help it; he was thoughtful and he was reasonable. “I’m sorry I’ve been such poor company for you, all this time.”
“Well,” she said, turning back to her dressing table, adjusting her hair, voice returned abruptly to normal, “you weren’t once, I guess I have that to be thankful for. We had a few good years.”
“Oh, don’t sound so damned elegiac all of a sudden!” he said, suddenly angered himself now. “Why haven’t we got good years now? Whose fault is that, tell me? Not mine, I assure you, not mine! I do my best! I try.”
&n
bsp; “Noble you,” she said, no longer tearful, no longer sounding even angry. “And I suppose I don’t?”
“I don’t see very damned many signs of it.”
“Well,” she said, gone away, dismissing it and him in one of the rapid mood changes that seemed to be increasingly frequent, “don’t worry about it. I won’t leave you. I’ll stick around and be your dutiful little Supreme Court wife, if that ever comes.”
He hesitated for a fraction of a second and then put it into words.
“What makes you so sure I don’t want you to leave me? What makes you so sure I won’t leave you?”
“And jeopardize your career?” She gave a hoot of disbelieving laughter. “Oh, come on, now, Mr. Justice! Never that! Never, never, never that!”
All he could manage was a “Don’t be so sure!”—which sounded weak. And was weak, for he was certain, then, that she was right.
And yet, he told himself later as he drove in silence to the Spanish Embassy—and yet. Whatever was left of it for her, if anything, there was much still left for him. He had loved her very much once, and the residue could not be dismissed so ruthlessly. He still sought desperately from time to time for some way to re-establish it, but increasingly in these recent months he found himself gradually giving up the fight, retiring more and more into the patient uncommunicative silence he observed in so many Washington unions that gave substance to the standard aphorism, “Washington is full of great men and the women they married when they were young.” Increasingly he found that this concentrated his thoughts and emotions on Janie, who gave promise of developing into a stunning young lady, beautiful, intelligent, lively and interested in a thousand things, most particularly her father’s career.
“I suppose she wants to be a lawyer, too,” Cathy suggested, having without comment made a few brief notes on his brief comments about his marriage: “a real partnership … a sharing of mutual interests … her consistent and helpful devotion to my career … think you’ll agree she’s considered one of Washington’s best hostesses, which has been of great assistance … always supportive, always helpful…”
Whatever Cathy thought about this—and she had already made clear in tone and glance that she didn’t think much—she did not quite dare challenge him openly. All she did was grow increasingly silent and thoughtful as he telescoped some fifteen years of happy marriage and four or five increasingly unhappy ones into a few bland sentences from which emerged a picture of domestic partnership resting on a solid foundation of love and mutual absorption in his career.
“So you really aren’t going to get a divorce after all,” she said at the end, mockery muted but present. “You had me fooled for a minute there. That’s good. There has to be something solid in this world, and I’m glad you and Mrs. Barbour are it. It restores one’s faith.”
“I hope so,” he said, matter-of-factly, giving her an impassive gaze, which she returned with an amused and unmistakable skepticism in her eyes. But he continued to stare at her with a bland interest and after a moment her eyes dropped and she made the pretense of another note.
“So,” she said, “tell me about Jane. I suppose she wants to be a lawyer, too.”
“Janie,” he said, eyes and voice suddenly filling with pride, “is quite a girl. She’s almost fifteen—tall-blond-dark-eyed, which makes for a combination—everything in the right proportions and getting more so-charming—lovable—extremely intelligent—quick-witted—just a hell of a bright kid.”
“And obviously the apple of daddy’s eye.”
“Obviously,” he conceded with a smile. “But she deserves to be. She’s at the top of her class at Madeira School right now, associate editor of the school paper, going to be editor, captain of the basketball team, head of the social committee, president of the honor society—you name it, she’s got it. And she does think she wants to be a lawyer, yes. I think some astute young man is going to get to her first and change that into home and babies. But maybe not—maybe not. Maybe he’ll be a lawyer, too, and they can work out a legal career together. And still have home and babies. That would be the ideal thing. Tell me about Sandra.”
“Oh, you remembered,” she said with a pleased smile. “Her name came up so far back in the conversation I thought you’d forgotten.”
“I don’t forget things of interest to me,” he said; and this time his direct glance caused her to blush, which caused him to say sternly to himself: Whoa. But he did not stop looking at her and after a second she returned a gaze as steady as his. This time his eyes shifted first and his voice was not quite so matter-of-fact as he asked, “How old is she?”
“She’s eight. Pretty much the tomboy and hoyden right now, but she’s going to blossom when the time comes. I don’t think she’s as smart as Jane, probably, but then”—she smiled—“she probably doesn’t have as smart a mother. Or father.”
“I don’t know the father,” he said, “but I don’t doubt the mother.”
She blushed again and gave him a little mock bow.
“Thank you, sir, you’re most kind. I also have Rowland.”
“Yes, I remember. Younger or older?”
“He’s ten. A reflective kid, but active. Thinks a lot and then goes out and plays baseball with the rest of the guys on the block. A funny combination, in some ways. I think he’s going to go places.”
“I’m sure of it. You have a housekeeper?”
“Yes, during the day, until I get home. She babysits at night if I want to go out.”
“Which I imagine is frequently. You must have half the males in the press corps at your feet.”
She looked pleased again, but shook her head and laughed.
“We’re too busy competing all the time. It doesn’t leave much room for romance.”
“Oh, well,” he said lightly, but with a little excitement he told himself sternly was nonsense, “maybe one of your interviews will lead to something, someday.”
“Yes,” she agreed levelly. “That’s always a possibility… So then, last but not least, came the Labor Department.”
He nodded, accepting her lead, turning businesslike again also. “Yes, two years ago, as you know. A lot of work, a lot of headaches. Off the record, I really wasn’t all that interested; I would have preferred Attorney General. But the President seemed to think I could do a good job here, so I agreed and took it on. It hasn’t been dull, I can say that.”
“And you’ve probably gained perspective from it.”
“Oh, yes. The Court takes a lot of cases that are labor-related. I argued some before them as Solicitor General. This is a different perspective, as you say. I expect it’s been good for me.”
“And it’s been good for the country,” she said thoughtfully. “You’ve done a good job here, in a tough spot.”
“I’m glad you approve,” he said, intending it to be a lighthearted remark. It came out, however, somewhat more seriously. For a second her eyes widened and she gave him a quick glance, though her face remained noncommittal.
“As a matter of fact,” she said with a pleasant smile, “I think you’ve been on the right side of nearly everything.”
“Still a good boy,” he said wryly.
“Always,” she agreed. And added with a sudden mischievous little grin, “Have you ever had any desire not to be?”
“Never,” he said with mock solemnity, a restless little excitement stirring again. “Miss Tillson wouldn’t let me. To say nothing of my mother.”
“I hope not,” she said, laughing with genuine amusement. “So that’s your story… And now you’re on the Court—and you’ve achieved your life’s ambition—and so where do you go from here?”
“Nowhere. I’m on the Court, it’s where I’ve always wanted to be, it’s where I expect I’ll stay for the rest of my life.”
“No presidential ambitions?”
“None, and that’s the truth.”
“Chief Justice?”
“Off the record, it would be nice, but essentially, aside f
rom five thousand dollars a year more and a little better chance of getting your name in the history books, we’re all on about the same level. It’s nothing I’ll look for. If it comes someday it’ll come, and if it doesn’t I’m going to be quite content where I am. I won’t lobby for it.”
“A contented man in Washington,” she said. “There’s a rarity. Maybe I’ll suggest that for the title of my piece: ‘He’ll Be Happy Where He Is.’”
“It’s true,” he said, and for the first time the full impact of his appointment hit him and he realized with a sudden deep satisfaction that, yes, it was true. He had achieved everything he wanted now. The years opened before him full of dignity and service.
“What would you like to have said of you when you retire?” she asked. “I always find that’s usually a good question with which to conclude an interview. People reveal a lot about themselves when they write their own obituaries. After all, with a little luck and good health you’ll be on the Bench for—good Lord, thirty years or more. It’s awesome.”
He laughed.
“Yes, it is, isn’t it? Frightening, too… Well… I’d like it said of me that I tried always to help the people of this land who need help—to uphold the law, and peaceful orderly process, in all disputes—to strengthen the law and make it fairer, insofar as one Justice can do that—to work amicably and well with my brethren—and Mary-Hannah and any of her sisters who may join us in the future—in trying to bring justice to our judgments and to all who appeal to us for help. I’d like it to be said that I was a fair, decent, honorable and worthy judge—that I had some consistent view of social betterment and social progress for America—and that I did what I could, as effectively as I could, to advance that view in a tough and difficult time in the life of our country…”
