Decision

by Allen Drury

  He paused and smiled. “Is that enough, or do you want more?”

  “If you manage all that,” she said, smiling too, “you’ll be doing very well. I just want to say, quite seriously,” she added, putting away pen and notebook, closing her handbag, “that as one American citizen I am personally very pleased with your appointment. I think you’re a real liberal and a fine person and I feel genuinely good about having you on the Court. I really do.”

  “Well, thank you,” he said, surprised and pleased. “I know you journalists are chary with personal accolades, so I appreciate that doubly.” He hesitated and then yielded to impulse, something he almost never did, for he had become a thoughtful and careful man. “As you know,” he said, and something in his tone made her look at him with a sudden close attention, “we almost never give interviews on the Court, but if you want to stop by sometime just to check and see how things are going—talk about the country or the world or whatever—feel free. I’ll be glad to see you.”

  For a moment she did not reply, continuing to study him with the same grave expression. He felt with sudden panic that he had said too much, gone too far, been very foolish. But she showed him it was not so.

  “Why,” she said quietly, “I’d be delighted. I will try to do that. Soon.”

  “Please do,” he said, and ventured further. “I’d be pleased.”

  “Yes,” she repeated gravely, “I will do that… Mr. Secretary—Justice—thank you very much for your time. I think we’ve got a good interview. I’ll send you a copy when it comes out in the magazine. I hope you’ll like it.”

  “I’m sure I will,” he said with equal formality, shaking hands as he saw her to the door. “Thank you so much.”

  “Good luck,” she said.

  He smiled.

  “Thanks. I’ll need it.”

  And so he would, he thought as he turned back to his desk, and perhaps not entirely with the law.

  But this thought, for whatever it was worth—and he told himself with some impatience that it probably wasn’t worth much, certainly shouldn’t be worth much—did not occupy him for long. His secretary buzzed and he returned to his desk to pick up the phone. He assumed it must be Mary, who had not been home when he called earlier with the news. He braced himself for some sort of sarcasm, he was not sure exactly what.

  “Yes?” he said, tone sharp.

  “Is that you, Daddy?” Janie asked with some hesitation. “You sound awfully—awfully mad, somehow. I thought you’d be happy. I just heard about your appointment. I’m happy.”

  “Thank you, baby,” he said, tone softening immediately as he sat down and swiveled his chair around to stare out at the dull blue sky and the sunlight getting heavier as the afternoon lengthened. It would be a hot night: full summer not far behind. “I’m not mad, just busy. I’m pleased too. It’s good of you to call.”

  “Everybody out here at school is jumping up and down, they’re so excited,” Jane said; honesty prompting her to add, “At least, my friends are excited. Betsy Randall says her father is going to get you through the Senate Judiciary Committee in ‘jig time.’”

  “Oh, she does, does she?” he said with a chuckle. “And how does she know? He hasn’t told me that, yet.”

  “He will,” she said positively. “Betsy says they talked about it at dinner last night after the President called him. Has the President called you?”

  “Oh, yes,” he said, remembering that quick, terse notification that assumed, as it always did, that anyone approached about anything would automatically recognize its wisdom and accept immediately without question; which in this case, of course, was true. “Yes, he called. I think it’s nice of him to select me.”

  “He’d better pick you, silly old President,” Janie said. “Who else is there?”

  “Lots of people.”

  “Not any better!” she said stoutly.

  He laughed. “Well, I can’t argue with that.”

  “Have you talked to Mommy?”

  “I called her earlier.”

  “Yes, I know,” she said, “but did you talk to her?”

  “She wasn’t home. She hasn’t called back yet.”

  “But she must know by now. It’s on the news. Everybody knows.”

  “I expect she’ll be calling pretty soon,” he said, tone revealing nothing. “She’s probably busy doing some errands or something.”

  “I doubt it,” Jane said, sounding much older than fifteen.

  “Well, I don’t know where she is,” he said, a little sharper. “I told you I called her and left word. That’s all I can do, isn’t it?”

  “She ought to call you right away,” Jane said. “I did, just as soon as I knew.”

  “Now, see here, Janie,” he said, “just lay off it, okay? She’ll find word at the house, or she’ll hear it on the news, or somebody will tell her—”

  “Not me,” Janie said.

  “—or somebody will tell her,” he repeated firmly, “and then she’ll call me. Would you like a report when she does?”

  “No,” she said, laughing in spite of herself. “Of course not. But I just want her to call you, that’s all.”

  “So do I,” he said calmly.

  “But I expect,” Janie added, “she may say something mean. I don’t think she likes you to be famous.”

  “No, it isn’t that. And you mustn’t be so critical of your mother.”

  “She’s critical of you.”

  “That’s something else. It’s also none of your business, young lady.”

  “Well, I don’t understand it!” his daughter said flatly. He sighed.

  “I think she just doesn’t—like Washington too well. She’d rather I wasn’t in public life.”

  “Well, you are,” Janie remarked. “She ought to be used to it by this time.”

  “I know,” he said. “But—maybe she never will be. We’ll just have to see. Anyway,” he went on firmly, closing that subject, “I’m glad I’m in public life, and I’m very glad I have your support. I’m very glad you called. Thank you very much for that, baby. I’ve got to get back to work and clear up a few things here, right now, so I’ll see you later at home, okay?”

  “Okay, Daddy,” she said. “I love you.”

  “I love you too, baby,” he said, and put down the phone with another sigh. His secretary promptly buzzed again. This time it was the call he expected.

  “Well,” she said, “you made it, Mr. Justice. I suppose I should congratulate you.”

  “I expect most people will,” he said, voice calm and, he knew, infuriating. Her voice rose sharply, as expected, in reply.

  “And so I’d better not go against the crowd, hm? Well, I expect they’ll congratulate me, too. In fact, some of my friends already have.”

  “And how did you answer them?” he couldn’t help asking. “With a scream?”

  “I should have. But no, as always I’m being the perfect wife. ‘Thank you so much—such an opportunity for him—yes, he can be of great service—so honored the President considered him worthy—you think he will be a great Justice?—well, aren’t you kind and sweet—I shall certainly tell him… You seem to be very popular.”

  “I’m getting a few calls myself.”

  “All favorable?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “There’s no possibility you’d turn it down?”

  “The Supreme Court?” He snorted. “Oh, come now. I accepted two hours ago, when the President called. But don’t worry. The Court doesn’t have a very heavy social schedule. You won’t have to play the perfect wife too many times a year.”

  “Then I really will be bored,” she said, and sounded genuinely bleak. “But I think I’ll go right ahead entertaining anyway. It’s the only thing to keep myself from going mad.”

  He uttered a sound that combined protest and resignation.

  “You’re always so frantic lately. Why don’t you just relax and take it easy? There are plenty of things to keep you busy in this t
own. And even on the Main Line I think they consider Supreme Court Justices worthy of some respect.” He tried to be light. “I mean, there are only nine of us in the whole world, after all. Rarity should mean something.”

  “I’m bored,” she said, “don’t you see? Bored, bored, bored! As I’ve told you before.”

  “Then,” he said quietly, “I can only conclude that, at the heart of it, you’re bored with me. Because Washington is not all that boring a city. It is, in fact, a very exciting city. So I guess I’m the culprit.”

  There was silence, after which she said in a rather distant, thoughtful voice, “Yes, I’m afraid that’s probably the truth. There was a time once, quite a long time, when you weren’t. We had fun when we were younger and you were just starting up the ladder. And for quite a while after that. But the higher you’ve gone, the more absorbed you’ve become. The more your career and ambitions have meant to you, the less I have.”

  “That isn’t true! That’s a horrible thing to say! I have been a good and loving husband, a good father—”

  “Yes,” she interrupted sharply. “You’ve taken Janie away from me, all right, there’s no doubt of that.”

  “I haven’t taken Janie away from you! I can’t help it if Janie finds you cold and me loving. You’ve had her with you a lot more than I have. I’m sorry if you feel left out, but that must have been your own decision. It wasn’t mine.”

  It was her turn to cry out.

  “Oh! How can you be so—so cruel! How can you be so obtuse? I don’t think you’ve understood anybody’s feelings but your own, or been interested in anybody’s feelings but your own, for the past ten years. You’ve been so busy scheming how to get on that Court that you’ve just lost all touch with human emotions! You no longer have a heart, if you ever had one!”

  “That isn’t how Janie sees it,” he said, knowing he shouldn’t, but driven by some devil he seemed unable to control. “Now is it?”

  “Oh!” she cried again. “Oh!” And began to cry, which he thought was probably just a trick, so far had they parted from one another in these recent years and so little did he trust the honesty of her emotions now.

  “The thing I will always remember about this day,” he went on quietly in words that he knew were searing, but again, he seemed unable to stop, “is that my own wife spoiled it for me with this telephone call. I thought all my family would be happy for me. The rest are, but the most important one is not. I feel a dead weight of opposition as I take up these new burdens. It doesn’t make them any easier to carry, and it spoils the day that should have been one of the happiest of my life.”

  “You are impossible,” she said in a choked voice. “Just impossible. So superior. And so smug. And so—so perfect.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said evenly, “but if that’s the way you feel, then maybe we’d better be honest about it and get a divorce.”

  “Oh, no,” she said with a bitter little laugh. “Oh, no, I won’t let you get away with it that easily. I’ll stay around for a while and go right on pretending that everything’s all right. You’ve put me in hell, but that will be your hell, Tay. The perfect Justice will continue to have the perfect wife. And how envious the rest of them will be. And how happy we will be.”

  “I’m going to hang up now,” he said in a dulled voice. I’ll see you at home. We can talk about it there.”

  “No!” she said. “We won’t ever talk about it again! We’ll just go on, that’s all. We’ll just go on.”

  “All right,” he said in the same lifeless tone. “Well just go on.”

  But how they could, or how he could take up his new responsibilities with the clear head and untroubled heart he felt he must have, he did not know; and all through the afternoon as he took more calls, accepted more congratulations, answered questions from the media, taped two television segments for the evening news, a leaden sadness and worry dragged him down. Just before he left the Department of Labor at 6 p.m., after his secretary had gone for the day, he put in a call to the Washingtonian.

  “Catherine Corning, please,” he requested, holding his voice steadier than he at first thought he could.

  “I’m sorry,” the receptionist said, “but I believe she’s gone for the day.”

  “Do you have a home number for her?”

  The standard Washington answer came back.

  “I’m sorry, but she has an unlisted number and we’re not permitted to give them out. If you wish to leave your name and number, I can have her call you tomorrow—”

  He took a deep breath.

  “Just tell her that her friend from Civics I called.”

  “Civics I?” the receptionist asked in a puzzled voice. “What agency of the government is that?”

  “Just tell her,” he said with a sudden impatient harshness. “She’ll understand.”

  “Is this some kind of a joke?”

  “That’s for her to decide,” he said in the same tone. “Just do as I say, please.”

  “I’ll see she gets the message.” There was a sniff. “I only hope you know what you’re doing.”

  I hope so, too, sister, he thought bitterly as he put on his coat and hat and let himself out, saying good night to the handful of guards on night duty. You bet your bottom dollar I hope so, too.

  ***

  Chapter 3

  In the obscure little cabin huddled in the woods near the town of Pomeroy Station, Earle Holgren was slowly and methodically putting on his jogging shorts and shoes as the sun slanted swiftly lower through the trees and the long southern twilight began. He had just made love to Janet, who lay sprawled on the bed.

  “You look like a damned sack of potatoes,” he said in a contemptuous voice.

  “I didn’t notice you minding much in the last few minutes,” she replied with an unimpressed yawn. “Or maybe you were so hot it wouldn’t have made any difference.”

  “Don’t be so damned smart,” he said, suddenly threatening, swinging around and coming toward her with a menacing air.

  “Okay, okay,” she said, waving him off with an unhurried hand. “No need to get nasty about it. You must really be full of p. and v., to be going jogging after that.” She chuckled suddenly. “I know you aren’t full of anything else at the moment.”

  “You’re so damned funny,” he said. “Someday you’ll die laughing.”

  “Maybe,” she said. “Maybe. We’ll see. Where are you going now, back to your precious atomic plant?”

  “It isn’t my plant,” he said, “and it isn’t precious. It’s a damned vicious crime against all of humanity. It’s a desecration of the earth and the sky and all the creatures therein. It’s an abomination against mankind.”

  “You really sound like a hill preacher,” she said with mock admiration. “I guess it’s living around here for the past few months. When are we going to leave this dump and get back to someplace that’s fun?”

  “Soon enough,” he said grimly. “Soon enough.”

  “Going to take me and John Lennon Peacechild with you?” she inquired, sitting up lazily and pulling on her robe; but he could tell she was really asking and really paying attention to his answer.

  “Of course I am,” he said scornfully. “What makes you think I wouldn’t?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, yawning again. “Sometimes I just wonder.”

  “Well, don’t wonder!” he ordered sharply. “People get hurt wondering.”

  She looked suddenly alert. The dullness miraculously dropped away.

  “That’s the second time today you’ve told me about people getting hurt. What are you planning? Going to hurt somebody? Going to hurt us?”

  “No, I am not going to hurt somebody!” he said furiously. “And I’m not going to hurt you! Why don’t you mind your own business?”

  “Have fun at the old atomic plant,” she said, yawning yet again and apparently turning dull and uncaring as abruptly as she had roused. “They must think you’re part of the scenery, by this time.”


  “They won’t be there,” he said sharply. “It’s past quitting time. You don’t catch those capitalistic two-TV bastards working any more than they have to. The day crew won’t be there.”

  “Well,” she said, looking around vaguely for John Lennon Peacechild, who was peacefully snoring in his crib in the corner, “don’t get hurt prowling around. I imagine they’ve got guards.”

  “Yes, they’ve got guards. They’re friends of mine.”

  “Oh, you know them,” she said, and once again he had the impression that she was paying attention much more closely than she would have him know.

  “Yes, I know them. Now get your ass up off that bed and start getting supper. I’ll be back in half an hour.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said, standing up and starting toward the crib. “Yes, sir. When are they ever going to finish that old plant, anyway? 1995? It seems like we’ve been here forever.”

  “Next Friday,” he said with a grim satisfaction. “At three p.m. in the afternoon.”

  “My,” she said admiringly as she scooped up John Lennon Peacechild and began crooning to him as he grunted and reached for her breast “You do know everything about that old plant, don’t you?”

  “I don’t know a damned thing,” he said angrily as he flung open the door and stepped outside. “Not a damned thing.”

  “That’s good!” she cried as he slammed the door. “Because I think it’s best not to know about things like that!”

  Instantly he flung the door open again and glared at her.

  “And what the hell do you mean by that?”

  “Not a thing,” she said as John Lennon Peacechild nuzzled greedily at her bulging flesh. “Not a thing at all. After all,” she said, giving him an innocent look over the baby’s busily working head, “what could I know? You’re the one who knows everything.”

  “You get that damned supper,” he ordered grimly. “And don’t ask me any more damned questions, hear?”