Mortal Friends

by Jane Stanton Hitchcock

  I hated it. I wanted to torch the place and redo it from top to bottom. Naturally, I didn’t tell that to Grider. Not only did he seem unaware of its shabby state, he was actually proud of the old homestead.

  “If Flora had to re-cover anything, she always used the same exact fabric. She was a woman who knew her mind.”

  The living room was antimacassar hell. Those crocheted white dirt catchers, yellowing from age, were draped over the backs and arms of every piece of upholstered furniture. A batch of family photographs populated a mahogany credenza against the wall. The largest one, front and center, was a picture of Grider and his late wife in their younger days. They reminded me of Grant Wood’s famous painting American Gothic. They dared the viewer to challenge their lack of humor.

  Grider fixed us a nice little dinner made from his housekeeper’s leftovers. He also made me grits, as promised. They were quite delicious.

  “I thought grits were a southern dish,” I said.

  “Neighbor of ours in Omaha was originally from Rock Hill, South Carolina. He taught Flora how to make ’em. But hers were so awful I had to learn how to make ’em myself.”

  We ate in the little breakfast nook, just off the kitchen with its ancient linoleum floor. He offered me a glass of the sherry he kept on hand for company. It tasted foul, but I drank it anyway. I was a little nervous, being there alone with him so late at night. I’d been to the house before, but just to pick him up, and never for any length of time. I hoped he wasn’t going to pounce on me and ruin a lovely friendship.

  “Corinna seemed very anxious to talk to you tonight,” I said as we ate.

  “Yup. She had some very interesting information for me. Sharp as a tack, that girl is.”

  I waited for him to elaborate. When he just kept eating, I said, “Can you share it, as they say?”

  “Nope. Well…I shouldn’t. Senate business. But I s’pose it can’t do any harm, since you’ll find out about it tomorrow anyway.”

  He took a swig of milk, which left a thin white mustachio on his upper lip.

  “You have a mustachio,” I said, pointing to my own lip.

  He quickly wiped it off with his napkin. “See now, some gals woulda just ignored that. Then I woulda looked in the mirror later on and felt like a damn fool. But you take care of me.”

  He stared at me with cow eyes.

  I cleared my throat. “So what did Corinna have to say?” That broke the spell.

  “Well, see, the Rinehart gal, who’s testifying before us tomorrow? She fired her lawyer.”

  “Is that significant?”

  Grider guffawed. “I’ll say. She’s hired some tough son of a gun from Billgood and Connors. You don’t hire Billgood and Connors unless you’re expecting some nasty litigation.”

  “So you think she’s worried?”

  “If she ain’t, she oughta be.”

  “Grant left her none too soon, I guess.”

  “So he went back to his wife, eh?”

  “Yup. They’re in Europe as we speak. The reconciliation tour.”

  “He should never have left her to begin with,” Grider said. “Marriage is a sacred state and should be respected as such.”

  “I take it you don’t believe in divorce?”

  “Nope. I think once you make a commitment, that’s it. You stick with it, no matter what the consequences.”

  “You’re a better man than I am, Gunga-Din.”

  “Know that film, do you? Cary Grant—one of my favorite actors. Never won an Oscar. Anyway, I don’t say other people have to think like I do. No law against divorce. People only have to think like I do where the law is involved.”

  “Like Cynthia Rinehart.”

  “Exactly…. Like to talk to you about something else, if I may.”

  “Sure.”

  “Let’s clear the dishes and go into the parlor.”

  I loved that he called it the parlor. Grider and I sat on the couch—or the settee, as he said. He didn’t look at me. He stared straight ahead through the lace-curtained windows out at the black night, tapping his foot nervously as he spoke.

  “Went fishing back home last week, and realized I’m out of practice,” he began.

  If ever there was a conversation stopper, that was it.

  “Really? You didn’t catch anything?” I said, feigning an interest just to be polite.

  “Nope. Made me think of us.”

  “Oh?”

  “You and I have been keeping company for some time now,” he went on. “We’ve both had a good look-see at each other, and I’d like to get some idea where we’re headed.”

  “I’m not exactly sure what you mean.” Actually, I was sure. But I didn’t want to go there.

  “Like to know if your intentions toward me are honorable,” he said, cranking up one of his deep belly laughs.

  I laughed too, in an effort to disguise my discomfort.

  “What I mean is, I’m not getting any younger—although you’re a youth tonic for me. I’m feeling an itch to settle down. I was a happily married man once, and I’d like to be so again. Get my drift?” He glanced at me out of the corner of his eye.

  “Is this a proposal?”

  “I guess it is. In a way, yes. I guess it is. Not a formal one. But I’ll give you a formal one—down on my knees with a ring the old-fashioned way. Promise.”

  I paused for a long moment. I didn’t want to offend him by appearing flip or uncaring.

  “Oh, Zack…I’m so flattered. Truly I am. But we haven’t even, you know—”

  “Done the do?” he interrupted. “I know. I’m old-fashioned about that too.”

  “Well, I know you’re not a virgin,” I said, glancing at the generations displayed on the credenza.

  “Nope. But waiting to consummate a relationship under the sanctity of marriage is not something I’m opposed to.”

  I just looked at him and shook my head in amazement. “You’re so dear and so quaint—like something out of the nineteenth century.”

  “Not a bad century if you don’t count the Indian massacres, which I do. Unforgivable treachery on the part of our government. But I won’t go into that now. Did you know they closed the patent office in the 1890s, ’cause they didn’t think anything else could be invented?”

  Another conversation stopper.

  “Look, Zack, I just don’t think I’m ready to settle down.”

  “With me, or in general?”

  I hesitated before answering. “Maybe a little bit of both.” He bowed his head. I felt bad for him. And for me. I went on, trying to be as gentle as I knew how.

  “I’m really fond of you, Zack. I am. And I admire you so much. You’re such a fine and principled man.”

  “Oh-oh. When a woman says that, you’re a goner.”

  “It’s just that, well, I…I’m not sure I feel about you the way I think I need to feel about a husband, that’s all.”

  “That’s enough.” He rose abruptly from the couch. “Appreciate your honesty. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll take you home. Big day tomorrow.”

  We drove in silence back to my house. He parked the Buick and walked me to my door.

  “Does this mean I won’t see you anymore?” I asked him.

  “I’m going to take some time to think about this. You take some time too. They say absence makes the heart grow fonder. Maybe that’ll be the case.”

  “Maybe it will. I hope so."

  “’Course they also say, out of sight, out of mind.”

  “Somehow, I don’t think I’ll forget you.”

  He shuffled his feet. “You ever get into a spot, you tell them you have a friend in high places. Hear me?”

  “Thank you, Zack. I’ll remember that.”

  “By the way, I once asked you who you’d come back as if you could come back as anyone. Remember?”

  “I remember. You said you’d come back as Teddy Roosevelt and, after that, Fred Astaire.”

  “What about you? Given it any thought?”

/>   “I’m afraid not.”

  “Well, I know who I’d like you to come back as.”

  “Who?”

  “Ginger Rogers. So we could dance together forever.”

  He kissed me on the cheek and ambled down the steps, favoring his right leg. Before he ducked into the Buick, he called out, “Take care now!”

  “Good luck tomorrow!” I called back.

  As I watched him drive off, a feeling of desolation swept over me. I wished I could be more attracted to him, but passion is like faith: you either feel it, or you don’t.

  Chapter 40

  The Finance Committee hearings were televised live on C-SPAN at ten o’clock the following morning. I tuned in just as Cynthia was taking her seat in front of the committee. She was accompanied by her lawyer, a thin man with sharp features and eyes like razorblades, who kept leaning in and whispering to her. She was dressed in a prim black suit accented with a white collar and cuffs, suggesting the piety of a cleric. Her hair was pulled back in a bun—echoes of Rainy Bolton. She wore no noticeable makeup—not even lipstick—and no jewelry. In fact, she looked so demure that I almost didn’t recognize her. It was hard to believe this was the same woman I’d seen over a year ago at the opening of the Symphony Ball, when she’d burst onto the Washington scene as flashy and formidable as a bolt of lightning.

  After a brief explanation of why they were all there, Grider began the grilling. Speaking in a slow, deliberate voice, he came at Cynthia with a quiverful of questions, one right after another, aimed directly at the real heart of the matter—namely, income tax evasion.

  How much salary did she pay herself? How did she justify the expenses she had charged to her foundation? Had she purchased her house with foundation money? Did she use foundation money to buy her private plane? Were her Rinehart Retreats funded by foundation money, and if so, what did they accomplish, and who did they really benefit? Was more foundation money spent on her lavish Golden Key dinners than on charity? Did she buy the gifts she gave people with foundation money? On and on, like that.

  Cynthia answered each of his questions with the same words in the same dull tone of voice: “Senator, on the advice of counsel, I invoke my right to plead the Fifth Amendment.” She must have said it at least fifty times.

  Grider got fed up. He glared at Cynthia and said, “I understand that you do not wish to incriminate yourself. And that is your right. But it is my right to tell you and others in your position that it’s not your right to live high off the hog of a charity, just as it’s not your right to donate a sow’s ear, call it a silk purse, and claim a ten-thousand-dollar deduction for it. Privileged entities must be held accountable. Otherwise there will be no privilege in this country. There will be revolution.”

  Violet got back from Europe a couple of days later. She called me up and begged me to come over. The Ancient Maureener had TiVoed Cynthia’s appearance before the Senate Finance committee, on Violet’s instructions. Violet wanted me to watch it with her. I hurried over to her house. Grant opened the door and just stood there, staring at me. Jet lag notwithstanding, he sure didn’t look like a man who’d spent the last three weeks lounging around in five-star European hotels with the woman he supposedly loved. He looked like a hostage who’d just been released from a terrorist cell in downtown Baghdad. He had lost weight, and his face was drawn. A wispy little pilot light of apprehension flickered deep within his eyes as he greeted me.

  “Hello, Reven,” he said stiffly, stepping aside to let me in.

  “Hi, Grant. Did you have a nice vacation?”

  “Let’s just say I hope I won’t have to pay nine dollars for a glass of orange juice ever again in my life,” he said.

  “Oh. Well, I hope it was fresh.”

  “Not fresh enough. Violet’s in the library.”

  Violet greeted me warmly, but she too looked haggard. I had to wonder if their reconciliation trip hadn’t been more like a Himalayan trek. Before we discussed anything, Violet wanted to see the hearings. She switched on the TV. We sat down next to each other on the couch.

  “Oh, my God, she looks like the flying nun!” Violet exclaimed at the sight of Cynthia on-screen.

  Since I’d already seen the hearing, I was more interested in watching Violet. She sat leaning forward, her eyes glued to the set. Every time Grider asked Cynthia a question, Violet raised her fist and cried, “Go for it, Zack!” or, “That’s right, get ’er!”

  When it became clear that Cynthia wasn’t going to do anything but plead the Fifth, Violet turned to me and said, “Oh, she is so toast!”

  Grant walked into the library just as the show was ending. Cynthia was still on camera. Violet didn’t say a word. She crossed her arms in front of her and stared at Grant, waiting for his reaction. He watched impassively for a few seconds, then turned and left the room without saying a word. The hearing concluded. Violet switched off the television.

  “How was Europe?” I asked.

  She didn’t answer right away. She was lost in thought.

  “How was Europe?” I repeated.

  She snapped to. “Okay. Grant bought me a new outfit in Paris.”

  “I can’t wait to see it.”

  “I have it on.”

  I looked more closely at the dowdy brown wool suit with its boxy jacket and round collar, wondering what Lisa would say.

  “Very pretty,” I said, trying to sound convincing.

  “You hate it, I know.”

  “It was sweet of him to buy it, though.”

  “Not that sweet. He bought it out of guilt.”

  “How are you two?”

  Violet sighed and slumped back on the couch. “Who knows? Are things ever the same after something like this?”

  “Did you guys talk about it at all?”

  “Talk? Grant? Are you kidding? Besides, what’s there to say? If you take someone back after an affair, you can’t keep rubbing their nose in it.”

  “I guess. Well, at least your long national nightmare’s over. He’s home.”

  She snickered. “Yeah…so are the suitcases. He’s more withdrawn than ever.”

  Now that was really saying something.

  “Oh, he’ll get over it,” I assured her. “Just give him time.”

  Violet shook her head. “No…he’s changed in some fundamental way. I can’t put my finger on it, but this whole fiasco notwithstanding, he’s just different.”

  “How so?”

  “I keep thinking about what it took for him to leave me in the first place, knowing the scandal it would cause. Risking his parents’ disapproval. Having to face his son. I can’t figure it out. Let me ask you something, Rev. You think she was that good in bed?”

  “You want to know what I think? I think he had a midlife crisis, and now he’s come to his senses. It happens.”

  “I agree with the first part of that. But I don’t think he’s over it, and I don’t think he’s over her. I think he still loves her. I think he’s obsessed with her. I think she’ll always be between us.”

  “Well, if you think that, you should leave him,” I said.

  Violet looked at me askance. “Are you crazy? You think I got him back just so I could leave him?”

  “But if you think he still loves her—”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “What is the point?”

  “Reven, sometimes you amaze me. You really do. Marriage isn’t always about love.”

  “It is for me,” I said, thinking of how I turned down Grider.

  “You’re not me. I’m much more practical than you are.”

  “But there has to be love, doesn’t there?”

  She hesitated. “I guess. But love changes. It becomes part of a larger canvas. And right now, I’m looking at the big picture. Where am I gonna go at my age, huh? I ask you. You think I’m gonna find another guy? A better situation? Dream on. I was lucky to get Grant when I did. I have a wonderful son, a beautiful house, a position in the community, and a date for New Yea
r’s Eve. Believe me, I’m much better off with Grant than I am without him—even if he does still love her.”

  Violet looked at me with eyes that begged for contradiction. I had no idea whether Grant still loved Cynthia or had ever loved Cynthia, or whether if he was even capable of love in the traditional sense. But I knew that my friend needed to be reassured.

  “Listen, Violet, Grant loves you. And you love him. This has just been a terrible time, that’s all. It will get better. You must believe that.”

  “It either will or it won’t,” she said.

  That was something I hadn’t heard her say since boarding school. Back then, I’d say something innocuous like, “Do you think it will rain?” and Violet would respond, “It either will or it won’t.” It usually meant she was depressed.

  “Come on, let’s go out,” I said, getting up. “I’ll show you something that’ll cheer you up.”

  Violet and I stood looking up at the blue-and-white Sotheby’s For Sale sign planted near the gate in front of Cynthia’s house.

  “Wow. When did it go on the market?” Violet asked.

  “The sign went up the day of the hearing. Peggy told me that Cynthia’s selling her plane too. Dumping assets. Probably hoping to make a deal. Feel better now?”

  “I do. Revenge is restorative. Thank you, Rev. Come on, let’s go get a coffee.”

  We strolled down R Street toward Wisconsin. It was a muggy, overcast day.

  “What will happen to her now, do you think?” Violet asked.

  “Depends on if she broke any laws. One thing I’m sure of. She’ll be the catalyst for changing some laws. Grider will see to that.”

  “How are things with you two?”