The Heir

by Paul Robertson

  “That’s the main reason we’re meeting.” What did Nathan know about Melvin and Big Bob? “I’d like to know your impression of him.”

  “Well, well. I’ve known Bob Forrester for quite some time, from school days, in fact. He was years ahead of me, but he took me in hand as a newcomer and was very kind. We’ve kept up with each other since, at least slightly. He was at the conference I attended last weekend in Washington, though we didn’t cross paths. So . . . my impression is that he would be quite above anything improper—and that’s more than just an impression. I feel quite certain of it.”

  “He wasn’t part of the family corruption. I know that. But he wasn’t above making deals.”

  “Yes, Jason. I’m afraid that’s true. Probably Fred has given you his version of the dealings?”

  “Is there another version?”

  “Where Fred sees ambition, I might have seen idealism.”

  Idealist Robert Forrester. Right up there with virtuous Harry Bright. Or frugal Katie Boyer. “I don’t know him very well, Nathan, but that’s hard to believe.”

  “I’m speaking of years past. I know he’s not a friendly person, and he has an aristocratic bearing that can be unwelcoming. But aristocrats sometimes have a surprising sense of responsibility, of noblesse oblige, and Bob once had real plans concerning social justice.”

  “And now?” I asked.

  “I’m not sure he still has those concerns.”

  He’d gained power. “Idealism is hard to maintain in a place like the Senate.”

  “Yes, Jason,” Nathan said. “I expect you understand that.”

  “There must be people who survive having power.”

  “Only if there is something stronger in their life, some higher purpose.”

  “But what?” I asked, but then there was the roar of many cylinders, and Eric and Katie blew in.

  Katie had the goods, a dozen bags at least. She shoved half at Eric, two at me, and kept the rest.

  “Now, go,” she said. “We will only barely make it.”

  “This is going to be so cool,” Eric said.

  Katie’s we was really an I. Within forty minutes I was showered, sitting by the fireplace in my high society suit, with new shirt and tie. Just before six, Eric pranced in to join me.

  “Check it out,” he said.

  He, too, was also wearing new tie, brown leather, and shirt, black linen. Dark brown corduroys, black shoes, a flash of purple socks. No jacket.

  There should be a Nobel for whatever it is that Katie does. With our black hair and dark complexion, I never touch brown. Eric could have walked into a Manhattan architecture firm and looked like one of the partners. His spiky hair was a lethal weapon; he had learned to do that to himself somewhere in college.

  “I’m charging you for Katie’s time. She makes you look so classy, it’s worth money.”

  “It’s just the real me coming out.”

  “Then it’s been buried real deep for about twenty-five years.”

  I was only three years older, but I was going to dinner as an adult, and he still got to be a child.

  And then we waited, each of us deep within his own specially constructed aura of style and presence. At six fifteen I thought about peeking in the television room for a slice of our Channel Six interview, but I knew it wouldn’t be on until at least six thirty. The recorder would get it and we would enjoy it at our leisure.

  At six thirty we stood in awe. Sky blue silk. Glistening pearls and pearl-white shoes. Auburn hair, with more life in it than in most people.

  “You’re gorgeous,” I stammered.

  Smile of pearls. “Thank you, Jason. I want to look my best for you.”

  “I didn’t know it got this good.”

  Sweet smile again. “Then let’s go show this senator a thing or two,” she said.

  Formality would place Eric next to me in the car and Katie in the back seat, but I would have none of it. This lady sat at my side. The dress cost at least two thousand, and once she wore it to the Forresters’, she could never be seen in it again. I wanted maximum appreciation.

  29

  Birds of a feather flock together; we did not have far to go from our nest to theirs. The sky was dim. The sun had places to go and things to do and so did we, so we parted company with it. It left a few clouds behind, but not many, and some warmth.

  A few trees were getting bare but most were in full glory. In the twilight they were dull until our headlights kindled them into flame—red and gold and yellow.

  At just five minutes after seven our forces breached the moat and came to the courtyard of the oldest old money in the state. This was the mansion that Melvin’s grand estate was trying to be.

  We dismounted and a young retainer took our steed away. The drawbridge lowered and we were ushered into the hall.

  “Mr. Spellman has just arrived,” the squire informed us. “He is in the library.”

  We, too, were taken to the library, where we found not only Friar Tuck but also the Sheriff of Nottingham himself.

  I considered my adversary carefully. The senator, tall and straight as ever, crowned with dignity and silver hair, possessed every quality that could make him impregnable: office, wealth, reputation, family, height.

  “Bob,” Fred murmured, “you know Jason, of course. This is Katie, and Eric.” It wasn’t proper for Fred to introduce my family, but it was less awkward. The senator and I were only acquainted through business, not socially, so I didn’t really have standing myself to introduce him to others.

  And, of course, we had also now traded public insults and were on the verge of war, not that this would technically affect our proper behavior toward each other. I watched for clues of how the evening was scheduled to unfold.

  He stiffly shook my hand and bowed to the lady. Eric’s age and avant-garde appearance were a problem, whether he qualified for a handshake or a pat on the head. He got the shake—his hair would have impaled the senatorial hand.

  And then we were through the first indignity. Everyone had been introduced and we were no longer aliens. The next issue was polite conversation. Certainly the host would have a plan to avoid that. On cue, the library door opened. With maximum drama the granddaughters entered.

  And they were all that Eric was hoping for.

  The first was a Botticelli, dusky blond, blithe and carefree in a casual yellow sleeveless dress and thin white sweater. Cheerful blue eyes rested immediately on Eric, lighthearted smile shone as the sun.

  But directly following came a Raphael, poised and deep, luminous green eyes beneath lustrous brown hair, carefully arrayed in a burgundy pullover and tan slacks. This smile rested on Eric as the silver moon shining on a cloudless night.

  Their attention to him centered the attention of us all.

  Dark young Boyer was the lone and towering pine, the brooding thundercloud caught in the rays of Sun and Moon. A genial grin slowly lifted the corners of his mouth but his eyes were enigma, unfathomable.

  “These are my granddaughters,” the senator said. “Genevieve.” The blonde international economist. “Madeleine.” The brunette European historian. Katie had known perfectly how to dress our young cavalier to match these damsels. “Jason and Katie Boyer”— the introduction was continuing—“And this is Eric Boyer.”

  This was his moment. Don’t say anything stupid, Eric. Please. Or just do it and get it over with.

  “Je suis ravi de vous rencontrer,” he said.

  I do remember more than six words of French, but not as many as he was using. He cocked his head to the side a little and let the smile grow. “J’espérais avoir ce plaisir.”

  “Nous avons beaucoup entendu parlen de vous,” Madeleine said, glowing.

  “Et maintenant nous commes face â face.” Not only was he saying his own words, he was understanding hers.

  Genevieve sparkled. “Rencontrer une personne vaut mieux que d’en entendre parler.” She giggled and said to her sister, “Je t’avais dit qu’il était m
ignon.”

  Eric blushed. Mignon I knew, and it was not helpful to the situation. She’d told Madeleine she thought he was cute.

  “Tais-toi!” Madeleine said. “Tu ne devrais pas dire ça!”

  “Mais je peux dire que vous êtes touts les deux ravissantes,” he said. Now he was calling them beautiful, which they were, and things were getting out of hand.

  “Now, Eric,” said Katie, “don’t use all your compliments at once.” For a moment her own light had been eclipsed, but only for a moment. Her colors were Monet, but her essence was Rembrandt, stronger in character, and deeper and more powerful in meaning than any Italian master, and worth ten times as much. “We have the whole evening.”

  “And you’ll conduct yourselves properly,” Grandpa said, half in humor.

  And then, one more entrance. Gladys Forrester was last, shortest, and least concerned. If she didn’t care much for us, she still didn’t mind showing off a dull scarlet evening dress that was quite becoming with her blue-gray helmet. We had our last round of names.

  The tykes had switched to English, and the minimum amount of pre-dinner socializing was accomplished. Now we were even: four gentlemen, four ladies; four Forresters and four Boyers. What Fred lacked in real Boyer blood, he made up for in volume.

  We were taken to the dining room. The table was as long as Katie’s, but there was no hint of rusticity here. From the English country garden pictures on the walls to the Wedgwood china settings on the table, we were being told very plainly that the Forresters were better than the Boyers. It was the theme of the evening.

  We were seated by rank, the senator at the head, I at his right and Katie opposite me, Genevieve beside me with Fred opposite, Eric beside Genevieve with Madeleine across from him, and the matriarch at the end. It would not have been proper for Katie and I to be so close, but with only eight, the rules were flexible. I did know which fork to use for each of the many courses, from watercress soup and lobster salad to raspberry aspic, with a beef Wellington in between that almost made me wish I were enjoying the meal.

  Eight at the table was just enough to keep two conversations going. I couldn’t monitor Eric two seats down and attend to Forrester simultaneously, so I had to throw the babe to the wolves.

  “The president may yet listen to reason,” the senator was saying as the salads were served, this apparently being his designated topic for his dinner lecture. “Otherwise the Senate will rein him in, as usual. I have explained to him more than once that his position is unacceptable.”

  There was nothing to answer, nor was there meant to be. I didn’t even remember what policy issue it was he was talking about. It didn’t matter. We were not just being given a clue to the schedule of the evening; we were being subjected to a full volume broadcast that the senator was in command, and the next hour at the table was for him to show off his importance.

  There would be time later to wrest control of the evening. I listened and made vague comments. Katie could see Eric, and I watched her for any alarms.

  I stole a glance myself. He was surrounded, Genevieve to the left of him, Gladys to the right of him, Madeleine in front of him. His was not to question why, his was to make witty answers and look cute. I heard a few words about his motorcycles. Genevieve was next to me and we should have spoken at least once during each course, but after our first polite two sentences we had tacitly dismissed each other to the assigned tasks.

  Fred ate. He shifted his attention to the senatorial end and made even vaguer comments than I, and less frequently. Dinner was flyover, something to get past between destinations—not that he neglected it. He did not mind that, at the dinner table tonight, only food and not conversation was meant to be substantial. But he surely did know what Bob Forrester was doing.

  Because, so far, Bob’s plan for the evening had not included any gesture meant to conciliate me. Much more the opposite, in fact, and I had plenty of time to think about it. He had invited me to his house and then insulted me publicly on television after doing so privately in his Washington office weeks ago. Now he was dominating the conversation and stressing his own importance.

  I let my thoughts linger on the insult, and a little ember of annoyance broke through my defenses. I lost the senator’s thread for a moment but his words continued to blow against me, encouraging the glowing red spark, and it began to spread.

  “The subcommittee will decide that, of course,” Forrester was saying. “I may require a delay in the hearing if these questions are not answered, but I will not allow the bill to go forward in its present state.”

  I was getting impatient with this harangue. It was dry tinder for the flame to grow and thrive. Should I stifle the fire or the senator? Katie was keeping an eye on me. She could see the signs. Fred was just eating. He was more aware than he looked, but he didn’t look it.

  What was I mad about? Of course I was being treated contemptuously. Why should that matter? This was politics.

  But it did matter. The flames and heat were mounting.

  “One might wonder why the Senate should consider that such issues are important.”

  Good question, Bob. One might wonder why I was considering his attitude as important. There was no reason to get mad and a dozen reasons not to. I could be patient. There were years to go. Why was any challenge to my own authority so troubling to me? It just was, and the flames kept growing.

  “Some might say the consideration is long overdue,” Fred commented.

  Good point, too, Fred. Because now it was a full bonfire, long past any hope of extinguishing. It was controlling me. What was it?

  More than just anger. I had to escape.

  “But no one is willing to provide leadership,” said the senator.

  “The politics make it difficult.”

  Yes, Fred, very difficult. Impossible. There was no escape. Bob’s interminable hectoring was driving me mad. Perhaps I was supposed to be honored. Since the president was too unintelligent to receive instruction, I was privileged to receive it instead.

  Was this meant to be intimidation? I should be overawed and surrender? Then he’d badly miscalculated. Had he even calculated at all? Did he know he was taking a gamble, hoping that I was too young and insecure to stand up to him, or in his arrogance did he just assume it? Had he considered that I might be driven to a very different reaction?

  “I doubt anything will be resolved under the current circumstances,” the senator said with finality. We were done with the meal; Gladys had set her folded napkin on her dessert plate. The pompous fool had dragged it out too long, even far too long. The inferno had consumed me, and what was left?

  We were back in the library. The senator’s speech was over and for the moment we were silent. Eric was on the veranda with the four ladies, just outside the open French doors. I declined a cigar but Fred accepted, so our host was free to smoke one, as well.

  Fred started the discussion. “We should get down to business now, I think.”

  “The whole affair has been a disaster,” Forrester said.

  It was finally time to draw the long knives.

  “I would simply call it unfortunate,” Fred said.

  “It should have been avoided.” Forrester was using the same dictatorial tone. Did he have any other?

  He was standing in the center of the room, and I was by the doors. I could see Eric on a bench, the girls on either side, laughing. Were they enjoying his company or just waiting to mock him once he was gone? I would cram him down their throats.

  Fred was seated in an armchair that deserved him. He exhaled a vast lungful of smoke. “It became unavoidable.”

  “It shouldn’t have. This has been childish.”

  Wrong word, Senator. Very bad word to use at this moment. I was not speaking—as much anger as I had, there was still capacity for much more. It wouldn’t do to pull the trigger while there was still the risk of one short outburst using it all up.

  “It may seem so, Bob.” Fred was interpreting my silence as
permission for him to manage the negotiations. “But it did become unavoidable, and we took necessary actions. Surely you know the sequence of events. The governor brought it on himself. Certainly you aren’t grieved by his departure.”

  Bob only frowned. “I never meant for Henry Malden to be governor. When I selected him for lieutenant governor, it was only to manage the state senate. Never for this.”

  “He will be governor on Tuesday. The impeachment bill has been written and will be debated Monday.” Fred breathed in, and out. “Would you instruct the state senate to vote it down?”

  “Would you?” Forrester sneered at the thought. “Of course not. Even if I had a reason to, Harry Bright is far past rescue. But now there will be anarchy. Malden won’t impose order. Someone will need to.”

  “Jason and I have discussed this, of course.”

  Yes, Jason. Remember him? He’s part of this.

  The senator did not turn toward me. “Melvin Boyer might have had influence. His son does not.”

  I was at least looking at him. Fred waited for me. He was realizing that my silence was not from respect for my elders. It was even causing Forrester a little unease.

  “The strengths of the Boyer family have not changed,” Fred said. “The assets and organization are still intact. The governor made the mistake of not realizing that.”

  “Is that a threat?” Four bullets, point blank at Fred’s vest.

  Fred’s cigar smoke deflected them. “Of course not, Bob.”

  “The governor is a fool. Don’t think you’ve done anything impressive by exposing him. Anyone could have done it; it was no show of strength.”

  “If that is how you see it . . .” Fred shrugged.

  “And a show of strength is necessary, and so I will be meeting with Malden and senate leaders tomorrow morning.”

  Your strength, Senator? Listening to this was pure jet fuel for the fire.

  “We should discus that,” Fred said. “I’ve made a few phone calls already.”

  “I’m aware of your calls, and there is nothing to discuss. I want you to stay out of this—you and your . . . your client.” His voice was rising, so that the galleries and television cameras could catch every word. “Your actions this week have destroyed any credibility the Boyer name might still have had and clearly demonstrated this young man’s incompetence and immaturity.”