The Senator and the Priest

by Andrew M. Greeley

  I had a lot of fun seducing him and a lot more fun in what became a violent romp. Then the night visitor intervened and the change was written in fire.

  “Tommy,” I asked him the first day we had lunch in the Senate Dining Room, “what was the name of that gorgeous young woman who had the crush on you? Am I are placement for her?”

  “Robbie Becker?”

  “That’s right.”

  “No, Chris and Manny had already made up their minds to bring you on board before she left.”

  “You broke her heart, I assume?”

  “I told her thanks but no thanks.”

  “Poor dumb kid. She should have realized that you’re not that kind of Senator.”

  “You think I’m immune to temptation?”

  “Certainly not! Just immune to that kind of temptation. You don’t exploit the helpless and the lonely … Only the wild and the crazy!”

  He threw back his head and laughed.

  So, I whispered to the night visitor, we were both right, weren’t we?

  Then something quite unexpected happened. I developed a crush on my husband and I was not a lonely and helpless arrested adolescent. I found it hard to concentrate my thoughts on our Web page and our mailings and our DVDs. My imagination flooded with memories of making love with Tommy and desires to make love again as soon as possible. Women my age in life are prone to love affairs, imaginary more than real, but with their own husbands? Wasn’t there something, well, transgressive about these daydreams?

  I wanted to spend the whole day with him, naked in his arms, in some place warm and cozy with the sound of surf in the background. Failing that, our marriage bed would do.

  You are not a teenager, I told myself, you are a member of the bar of the United States Supreme Court. Grow up and act your age.

  I called Rosie—my mom—and in an indirect fashion asked her about this, uh, syndrome.

  “You’re goofy over poor Tommy?” She said, clearing the air of all obscurity. The word “poor” in our ethnic group is affectionate and has nothing to do with income or possible victimization.

  “All the time …”

  “With any luck, it will last for the rest of your lives.”

  “Will he get tired of it?”

  “A man get tired of a woman who is obsessed with him? Don’t be silly, Marymarg. He’ll think he’s died and gone to heaven.”

  I didn’t ask her whether it was that way between her and Chucky. I guess I didn’t have to.

  Worse still, Tommy seemed to know that I belonged to him completely. He never said that, of course. He wouldn’t dare. But he didn’t have to. He’d occasionally catch my eye in the office with a special cat-that’s-got-the-canary smile which would melt me. Or he’d touch my arm when we were marching down the corridors towards a press briefing and set me on fire. I wanted to take off my clothes then and there. He’d grin slyly. Or I thought it was a sly grin. Maybe I was imagining it all. But he’d have no trouble ravishing me when we finally made it to our bedroom.

  It still seemed transgressive, but nice transgressive.

  I find myself slipping into transgressive daydreams in the office. No one really supervises me, I’m there as a wife object, though they’re delighted when I produce something intelligent. I recreate in my imagination our last encounter and fantasize about the next. Then my body gets involved and I have to stop. I know that this interlude of passion not quite adolescent, but not unlike adolescent either, will shape or maybe reshape our marriage. I tell myself prudishly that we ought to grow up, that we’re too mature to be playing silly games. Only I don’t listen to myself because the silly games are so much fun and because I love him so much. He is unfailingly tender with me, though I find that the paths of tenderness are many and varied and lead through glorious and mysterious and multi-colored lands.

  Then one day we slipped over the boundary of transgressive and became decadent.

  It was a Monday after Thanksgiving, just before the holiday recess. My Tommy had just added his voucher proposal to the Distributive Justice Amendment. He was having a grand time with it. Win or lose it would make lots of trouble for the other side. Like Chucky says, “You gotta remember that for us Micks, politics is a game!”

  After our Monday lunch in the Senate Dining Room—a custom we had quickly established—he took my hand and said, “Let’s go over to my hideaway.”

  ‘Why?” I asked.

  “Why do you think?”

  “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

  “You don’t have to join me.”

  Of course I did and he knew that I did.

  “Dreary place,” I said, glancing around, “like Mother Superior’s office in a Catholic grammar school. It doesn’t look very sexy to me.”

  He touched the zipper on my dress. I gasped as I usually do when he uses that approach.

  “Tommy, we shouldn’t be doing this. It’s decadent, dissolute, and debauched.”

  “Transgressive too,” he said as my clothes fell to the floor.

  I tried to cover myself with my arms. He laughed and pulled them away.

  “This is the place where you rape innocent matrons!”

  “There are very few such wandering through the corridors here.”

  My protests were for the record, weak and ineffectual. I wondered what it would feel like to make love so close to the Senate Chamber.

  His love play was interesting and original. I was groaning even before he pushed me back on the couch. Ever so gently I might add. I abandoned my pro forma objections.

  Would our mysterious night visitor intrude on love even in this unlikely venue? I was aware that She was around.

  When we were finished, I huddled in this arms, my body covered with sweat, my soul filled with joy.

  “Well, at least we won’t have to do it tonight after the Christmas party at Senator Hewitt’s.”

  “This is a bonus card,” he said, kissing me delicately. “A new senate rule. Monday lunch and ravish a matron in my hideaway.”

  “You should come down here to work on your book … No shower here, not even a towel. I’ll remember to bring one the next time.”

  He watched me with an approving leer as I dressed. “There’s one other thing,” I said.

  “Ah?”

  “Your brother … He called you yesterday and you went into one of your slumps.”

  The pleasure went out of his face.

  “I get over them.”

  “You shouldn’t have to … I could tell the switchboard that calls from him should be relayed to me and I’ll deal with him … that is, if you want to.”

  “He’s my bro, Marymarg.”

  “He has a powerful negative influence on you. He has no right to ruin your life.”

  He frowned and shook his head sadly.

  “He told me that he would certainly campaign against me if I run for reelection.”

  “The bastard!”

  “I’m surprised at such language within a whisper of the United States Senate.”

  “If you don’t want me to brush him off, Tommy, I won’t.”

  He zipped up my dress.

  “Let’s try it and see if it works.”

  We did return to the game after the noisy party at Senator Hewitt’s house in Capitol Hill.

  “You’re a satyr,” I told him.

  “You’re a temptress.”

  “Slander,” I laughed as I drifted off into pleasant sleep.

  The next morning, my phone rang.

  “Mary Margaret O’Malley.”

  “I want to speak to my brother.”

  “The Senator is in conference now, Father.”

  Actually, that was true. He and his LAs were working on a final version of the Distributive Justice amendment.

  “I want to talk to him NOW.”

  “I’m afraid that is quite impossible, Father. I’ll tell him you called.”

  Click.

  It was the first barrage in what could easily be a long war.


  CHAPTER 29

  MARY MARGARET’S arrival in my office generated more cheers and applause than one of my triumphs on the floor of the Senate. She was assigned a desk in the rear of the room, as far as possible from the one vacated by Robbie, from whom nothing had been heard, according to Chris, except that she was looking for a job at the State Department.

  I had to admit, though only to myself, that I felt less oppressed by the job than I had been in weeks. Maybe I did need to hear her laughter more often. Looking back on the campaign, I had hardly noticed it, but it had kept me going. Our eldest child had it all figured out.

  My new staff member did not escape the eagle investigative eye of Leander Schlenk of the Examiner.

  TOMMY CHARGED WITH NEPOTISM

  Hired Wife as part of Presidential Fantasy

  Little Tommy Moran is apparently showing presidential ambitions. He has hired his wife, Mary O’Malley—daughter of the soft-core pornographer—to work in his Senate office. Since no one thinks he has a chance in a rerun election next year with Senator Rodgers Crispjin, a presidential bid might be an easy way out of that race. Unfortunately for the Tom Cruise of the United States Senate, he has violated the Senate rule against nepotism. His double-dipping wife may have to quit her job at a prominent Washington law firm.

  With Manny on one side and Chris on the other, Mary Margaret, in a clingy mauve dress which left no doubt about the durability of her figure, responded with her own little press conference in the lobby of the Dirksen Office Building.

  “Mr. Leander Schlenk would not make so many mistakes in his ‘Under the Dome’ column if he had time to check his facts. I am not double dipping. I have taken a temporary leave from the firm of Brown, Berger, Bobbet, and Butts to work in Senator Moran’s office. I am a volunteer, as this ID shows, and I will receive no salary. I am listed on the rolls that Senate security keeps as a volunteer. I am, alas, not even single dipping. Finally, the Senator has said repeatedly that he will not run for the presidency and that he has not made up his mind about reelection. Other than that, Mr. Schlenk hasn’t made any mistakes.”

  REPORTER: What about his claim that your father is a soft-core pornographer?

  MARY MARGARET: Ambassador O’Malley is quite capable of defending himself, but if I might quote one of his remarks on this subject, in the Pulitzer contest he leads Mr. Schlenk five—zip.

  I had lunch with the Leader that same day. I was a bit uncertain about his reaction and fearful that he might object.

  “Smart idea bringing herself into the office.”

  “My staff’s idea. They didn’t even tell me about it till it was a done deal!”

  “You might have put the kybosh on it. Nepotism and that kind of thing.”

  “She’s a volunteer.”

  “She’s just not your typical senatorial wife … I hope you give her charge of Lee Schlenk. Serve the little so-and-so right … But I did not invite you to lunch just to praise Mary Margaret. I’m thinking of making a little trouble when our friends get back from the election. We’ll pick up two or three seats, just a shade short of our majority … We might just bring up a couple of issues that could stir up the pot for the presidential election … Catch up on some of our issues, if you take my meaning.”

  “Embarrass the other side for a change?”

  “That bill of yours to repeal the tax benefits for those making more than two million a year is languishing in committee, isn’t it?”

  “We’ll never be able to pass it, will we?”

  “We might come close. The President would veto it of course. We could make a great hue and cry that his whole administration has concentrated on giving more money to the rich … You’re right that it probably won’t get through this year or during the next session. But it will be fun to watch all the efforts of the other side to protect their fat cats … You aren’t earning more than that are you, with your royalties and her billable hours?”

  “Not with her working as a volunteer, but even if she were we wouldn’t come close. Mind you I wouldn’t mind paying more taxes in the name of fiscal responsibility. I’d still have more money after taxes.”

  “There’s a lot of people in this building who would be furious at paying more.”

  “Your bill says that the money could be earmarked for education?”

  “That would be up to the House to decide, but it’s one of the arguments.”

  “We have an appropriations bill coming over from the House before the election. We’ll vote on it after the election but before the new session begins in January. By then it will be a big issue.”

  “It’s good politics and good government,” I argued. “The Democrats balanced the budget then the Republicans created the biggest deficit in history. It’s time to return to a responsible budgetary policy. No reason to sell our children and grandchildren’s lives to the Chinese and the Saudis and the Venezuelans.”

  “We could add an amendment for a small increase in the gasoline tax to promote further development of hybrid cars as a conservation measure? … Your man Peter Doherty is your tax specialist, isn’t he? … First rate … Have him get together with my guy and we’ll put it on the agenda the day after the election—with solemn high publicity.”

  “Any support from the other side?”

  “The fiscal conservatives over there might like it, but that would mean repudiating their president.”

  “Co-sponsor?”

  “George Hewitt from Montana, prairie populist. I’ll have his LA get involved in the drafting. He’s on the appropriations committee and will be sympathetic, but he isn’t the alley fighter you are.”

  “We’ll get on it right away.”

  “Mind you, it’s still secret. Tell your AA and LA—and herself of course and tell them to keep it quiet.”

  “AA”—administrative assistant was the term some of the old timers used for “Chief of Staff.” It dated to the time thirty years ago when a Senator needed only one or two aides and not a crowd of them.

  I had always told the good Mary Margaret what was going on—good lawyer that she is, she knows how to keep secrets, though silence violates her ebullient personality.

  Did I really need her laughter as a response to my wit? Maryro thought it was self-evident. I hadn’t thought about it that way. No one laughed much in our house when I was growing up. My parents were quiet, serious people. My dad had a dry wit, I guess you’d call it, but the most he expected from one of his low-key jokes was an appreciative smile. My brother was a noisy, serious presence overshadowing me and my life. In school my teachers and classmates, on the contrary, laughed frequently at my attempts at humor, so I played the game often, earning a measure of popularity which I never found at home. The red-haired O’Malley girl laughed more loudly than the rest. Indeed she seemed to be laughing all the time, though she was the smartest kid in the class. The O’Malley’s, it was said, were a crazy family. I fell in love with her, of course, a silly junior high school crush. I was also terrified by her.

  I’m not sure that primitive adolescent reaction to her has changed all that much.

  When I attempted humor with Tony and his friends, it earned me ridicule.

  “Shut up, Tommy,” he would tell me, “we don’t need your silly comments.”

  If he didn’t need them, then none of his friends would dare laugh.

  Had Mary Margaret saved me from my family, rescued me? She saw only my smile and heard only my jokes. She could not imagine me as a repressed little boy and never paid attention to him when he tried to surface during our marriage.

  Maybe that’s why I relaxed in my responsibility-heavy Senate office when I heard her laughter. It was, I concluded, medicine for me and for everyone else. No wonder they were delighted to have her around.

  Was it her laughter which attracted God in our marriage bed? Did He find her laughter irresistible too? If so, God had good taste. Who was I to deny Him that characteristic?

  I began to lay plans to seduce her in my
hideaway. Exorcise my memory of the temptation by Robbie, poor lonely Robbie. Such plans were pure delight.

  We picked up enough seats in the November election for a virtual tie, 49–51. It was not difficult to find a few people from the other side of the aisle who were really closet Democrats when we needed a majority. Better, the leader said, that we didn’t quite have control yet because that way the Republicans couldn’t blame us for the “politics” that went on in the chamber.

  As though politics were something bad, a point to make in my book on democracy as a failure (though still the only way!).

  On the Thursday morning after the election, Senator Hewitt, the Leader, and a dozen reelected Democrats and I met the media to announce the “The Distributive Justice Amendment”—also the Hewitt-Moran Amendment—to the appropriations bill.

  “It is a statistically demonstrated fact that for the last thirty years,” I began, “that the poor in our society have grown poorer, the rich have grown richer, and the middle class has not improved its share in national wealth. The present administration has devoted its major efforts to make the rich richer, witness the President’s remark that his people were the haves and the have-mores. We proposed three items in our amendment that will be the first steps in modifying this situation. We will repeal the tax relief that was given to the rich in the last tax reform package. The tax rates for those who make more than a million dollars will return to what they were when the present administration came to power. The income level above which no taxes will be collected will increase by ten thousand dollars, and we will add a dollar to gasoline tax which will also become an income tax credit. The last proposal will be to enforce conservation by other methods than urging people to drive less. The funds collected will be used to subsidize the purchase of such gas-saving vehicles as hybrid cars.

  “These reforms will bring somewhat more equality to our country and to serve notice that the days of free yachts are over for the rich and the super rich.”

  “Will rates for you and your wife go up this year, Senator?”