CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
DANTE HAD SCHEDULED A SEVEN-O’CLOCK meeting with Megan Magee Kelly. He maintained a small efficiency apartment on the upper East Side for times when it was inconvenient for him to commute from Westchester to Manhattan. It was where he relaxed, studied, entertained on a very small scale, and held discreet meetings with lobbyists out of the glare of Washington, D.C. It was also where he went to be alone and to be left alone, to pull back from the demands of the Capitol and the sometimes overwhelming burdens of his senatorial duties.
In preparation for their meeting, he sorted through his position papers and through the various papers Megan had prepared for him. Her psychiatric practice was mostly with women, and she had been concentrating on a disturbing trend among many of her most educated, intelligent, and ambitious clients—women who came to her because of her activism in women’s rights.
Among other things, Megan’s research was beginning to reveal that many women were becoming emotionally crippled as a result of violations of their most basic civil rights. Megan cited, in her report to Dante, the case of a young policewoman who, a few years ago, had been given a headline promotion, in the glare of publicity following an outstanding act of valor. Some time later, the young married detective took maternity leave. When she returned to her job, she was told that she had been “redesignated” to the rank of policewoman, a loss not only of prestige and authority, but of pay. After all, she was told, she had a husband to support her. The gold shield went to a man with more responsibilities, if less public validation. None of her arguments of entitlement made a dent. Not even the PBA would take up her cause. Even worse, emotionally, the young woman found no support among other women on the job, who had been brainwashed so totally that they supported her demotion.
Finally, reluctantly, the officer accepted Megan’s offer of political intervention. Surely not the psychiatrically proper procedure, Megan knew, but an expedient one. Through Frankie Magee’s intervention, the gold shield was given back to the young woman almost without delay. In her report, Megan discussed the woman’s intense resentment and humiliation. She had felt degraded and devalued. She was a prisoner of a time when it was mandated by law that a woman could not even take the sergeant’s exam—the first step up the NYPD ladder—for the simple reason that she was a woman.
Megan maintained in her position papers that it should not be necessary for women to have to approach every violation of their civil rights on a case-by-case basis.
Megan arrived exactly on time, tapped a code—two-two-one-two-three—that harkened back to their childhood days. When Dante opened the door, they both grinned in recognition of the longtime signal.
Nearly fifty, Megan still had the high energy, the quick movements, all the enthusiasm of her earlier years. She also looked pretty terrific. Her two-piece bright blue knit outfit set off her pale, redhead complexion. She had taken to wearing eye makeup that brightened her honey-colored eyes. Her hair, as red and springy as ever, fell carelessly over her freckled forehead; in a characteristic gesture, Megan ran her fingers through it, without much effect. That his old friend the middle-aged psychiatrist should still have smooth skin and a mischievous grin gave him a real kick.
Megan looked around, impressed. “So this is your pad. I wonder what deeds have been done here, away from prying eyes.”
“All kinds of nefarious intrigues, believe me. You drinking these days?” He gestured to a tray set up with an assortment of liquors, wines, soft drinks.
“Oh, yeah. You know me. A strong seltzer with lime, if you have it.”
Dante shook, his head, smiling. “Perrier, Megan. Can’t you get with it, kid? Seltzer—jeez, once a Bronx girl …”
Megan settled into a chair sideways and swung her good leg back and forth. “God, did I ever tell you about Patsy and me and the seltzer caper? We were about ten, eleven. Remember how the seltzer man used to come around every Wednesday with those wooden crates? He’d hit about eight families in the apartment building across from my house. Patsy and I used to wait till he was gone; then we’d creep around with paper cups and squirt some from every bottle in a crate, drink it, then go to the next door with a crate in front of it. We’d get so bloated. Hell, we didn’t even like the stuff. Then we’d worry—did we take the same amount from each bottle, so they would look even? So nobody’d notice any was missing? I think the worrying was half the fun.”
Dante handed her a tall glass of Perrier and lime. “Like cutting a hedge, a little more and a little more, to even it out.”
“Worse than that. One day we just kept squirting and measuring and drinking and squirting until, oh, God, there was about four inches left in every bottle in the crate in front of Mrs. Steinberg’s door. Remember her—nice old lady whose three sons all became dentists? She was home all the time, but we didn’t know it, so we thought we were getting away with it. But we were nervous. We’d never gone that far before. We almost died when she opened the door and caught us redhanded. Gulping her seltzer and squirting more to even up the bottles.”
“You were never cut out to be a second-story man, Megan.”
“Well, Mrs. Steinberg shook her head at us. She asked us to carry the heavy box in and put it on her kitchen table. She took the bottles out, one by one and held them up. Then she went to her cupboard, took out fruit-jar glasses, went from bottle to bottle, filled them up, and gave them to us. “Drink, darlings,” she said. “You want seltzer so bad, you should just ring my bell and ask. That’s all.”
Dante laughed. “Beautiful. Old Mrs. Steinberg.”
“Of course, we both started to cry and pleaded with her not to tell. ‘Tell what?’ she said. ‘That two young girls were so foolish? No, I will just tell you both this: Don’t do things like this. It isn’t nice.’”
“Talk about being a natural-born psychologist.”
“It ended our career of crime.”
They smiled with the warm memory of simpler times. Megan glanced at Dante. He had kept himself in good shape, carefully groomed, and had a good head of thick, just slightly graying black hair. He needed a shave, but that only made him more attractive somehow. He looked tired; that made him seem more relaxed, less “on” than when he was in public. More like Danny. Less like the senator.
“So; kiddo, let’s get to it. I read through all of your papers. I have no argument with any of it—just the timing, Megan. Everything in Washington is timing. Once we get my new bill through Congress, it will open doors to all kinds of other rights and entitlements.”
“Push it through now, Danny, while you’ve got the momentum. I’m talking about women of every age, educational level, skilled or unskilled. I’m talking about—”
Dante held his hand up. “Oh, jeez, Megan, not from you. Okay? It’s just you and me here, no audience, just us guys from Ryer Avenue. I agree with you. Totally, completely. It’s just in the timing. You have to leave that up to me.”
Danny stood up, poured some Perrier into his glass of white wine. “They call this a ‘spritzer.’ Very classy. My father-in-law would have a stroke if he saw me desecrate wine like this.” He walked to the window, looked out for a moment, turned, and seemed to be thinking of a way to continue.
Megan, trained to read body language, leaned forward. “Danny, you’ve got something on your mind, right?”
“Boy, try to fool a shrink.”
“You and Lucia-Bianca okay?”
He smiled. “Fine. Nothing like that. As a matter of fact, I do have something on my mind. That you might be able to help me with. Are you in close touch with Eugene? Now that he’s in New York?”
“Well, I wouldn’t say ‘in close touch,’ but you know Gene. He’s remote, but available if you need him. Yeah, I’d say I could talk to him, if it was important.” She put her glass of soda water down and watched Dante closely. “We talking here about some kind of a deal, Danny? You and me? You know, the old quid pro quo?”
He grimaced. “God, I’ve created a monster.” He sat down oppo
site Megan. “Not really. Not exactly. Let’s just say yes, I suppose I could introduce a bill to include women’s rights, specifically, as part of my new civil rights package. I can’t promise anything; I’m still not convinced this is the time. But I could try to get as much support as possible, going in. And no, it would not be contingent on what I’m going to ask you. So, it really isn’t a quid-pro-quo situation.”
“But sort of.”
Danny grinned and shrugged. “But sort of.”
He told her of his father-in-law’s lifelong dream of becoming a Knight of the Holy Sepulchre. He knew that Gene could effect it. A dream is only overwhelming and unobtainable when you haven’t anyone to help you.
“I’d like you to set up a meeting for me with Gene. I want to do it on the quiet.” He glanced around the room. “Just Gene and me, here, one evening.”
“I’ll talk to him. I can’t promise anything either, but I’ll try. To get Gene here, anyway. Brief him, then let the two of you talk.”
“Great, Megan. I don’t think it would be wise for me to call him directly. Since this is definitely not a political favor. Just between friends for a member of my family. God, it would mean so much to the old man.”
“Just like I want to keep this addition to the civil rights program between friends. You turn it into politics, Danny. That’s your part of it.” She looked around the room. “Hey, this is a nice place. Real class. You have a decorator here, or did Lucia-Bianca take a hand, or what? It really is lovely.”
Dante took her arm. “C’mon. I’ll show you around, take you on the grand tour, all two rooms and hidden kitchenette.”
He told her the history of the building. Built in the early twenties by a group of multimillionaires for their home away from their real home, up in Westchester, the building had contained ten apartments, each consisting of fourteen rooms. After the Depression, the apartments had been broken up into as many as four small rental units each. They were the New York base for famous actors in from Hollywood for stage or television work, for artists, for dancers. And, in this case, for a politician.
“I bought the furniture as it stood. Not bad. And I got it cheap. From guess who? Our little old movie-producer chum, Willie Paycek.”
“You’re kidding. This was Willie’s place?”
“Yep. I met him at a fund-raiser of mine a couple of years ago. He contributed quite handsomely. He told me he was relocating more or less permanently in Europe, between France and Italy, he said. Felt he had more ‘artistic freedom’—maybe it was more freedom for his particular lifestyle—over there. He’d kept this apartment for a few years, and was planning on dumping it. He gave me a great price on the furniture, and I took over the lease; the rent is very good, particularly in today’s market. So here I am, with the breath of Willie all around me. Not bad, huh?”
“It’s great. I hear he’s knocking them dead in Europe. Winning all kinds of awards for his films. Not bad for the neighborhood shrimp.”
“Hell, his whole life is pretty amazing.” He took Megan’s hand. “I guess you could say that about us, too, right?”
“We learned about hard work early, Danny. We earned everything we got.”
He held her by the arms and studied her. “Hey, did I ever get around to telling you how terrific I think you are? Running your practice, getting involved in all these public issues. Like your father always said, you’d be running the country if you’d been a boy.”
Megan’s face went serious. “Wrong plumbing. That’s what my father always said.”
There was a growing sense of something very serious happening between them. Dante’s eyes went to her lips, full, smiling slightly in the corners, tempting. He leaned down and whispered, “Hey, remember when I gave you your first kiss?”
Her hands went to his face. He leaned down and kissed her gently. Then, as she returned his pressure, the kiss went deeper. When she pulled back, they were both stunned by the intensity between them. They had actually never been alone like this before.
Megan reached for him this time, and they embraced and moved together, the sudden electricity stunning both of them.
Finally they pulled back, breathless, and Dante put an arm around her and carefully led her to the next room—the bedroom.
“Not exactly my taste, but here it is.” He turned to her, cupped her chin carefully, kissed her lightly. “Up to you, Megan. What do you want to do?”
Suddenly, Megan began to laugh. Dante looked at her, momentarily stunned, then, catching the glint in her eyes, he laughed with her. They fell on the bed together, laughing. Tears ran down Megan’s cheeks and she snuffled, then supported her face with her hand, her elbow digging into Dante’s shoulder.
“Oh, God, Danny, if you only knew how many times, through the years, that I …”
Danny pulled himself up and looked down at her, grinning. “Me too. And you want to know something?” He gestured broadly. “Every time I fantasized about you, about making love to you, it started out perfect, and then, goddamn it, you would burst out laughing and I’d get mad at first, and then laugh too. Just like now. So what does that tell us?”
Megan playfully pinched his cheek. “It tells us what we both have always known, buddy. You and I are friends, and I’d sure hate to spoil that with a quick roll in …” She stopped speaking, thumped the bed, and began to sputter with laughter. “With a quick roll in Willie Paycek’s bed, for God’s sake!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
DESPITE HER FAMILY’S LIFELONG WARNINGS that Aunt Catherine would be left destitute upon the demise of Albert William Harlow, “the old man,” she was left with a handsome house in Hollywood, Florida, and the considerable furnishings of the Riverside Drive apartment.
Wisely, Catherine invited Harlow’s sons and their families to take whatever they wanted from among his collection of paintings, silverware, antiques, and clothing. Though she was totally protected by the terms of his will, she wanted as little trouble from anyone as possible, and the distribution of the estate went smoothly.
Megan agreed to help her aunt pack up her own belongings in preparation for her move to the South.
“I’ve always loved it down there, and Pop knew it. I have made a nice group of friends, sweetie, through the years. Both women and men, families and single people. It will be a lovely retirement.”
Aunt Catherine, in her seventies, despite a cigarette-hacking cough, remained vital and interested in everything around her, determined to live her own life with or without the approval of anyone in her family.
She kidded Megan. “Looks like your boyfriend from Ryer Avenue is getting to be a real political dynamo, kiddo. Think he’ll invite you over to the White House one day, for old times’ sake?”
“We’re good friends, Aunt Catherine, you know that. I don’t think Danny’s decided yet. When he does, I’ll let you know personally.”
“Good. I’ll drum up the elderly vote down in Florida. Most of my friends—well, a few, anyway—try to keep as active as I do. C’mon, let’s knock off the packing and take a break for a nice cuppa. I still have some of that strong loose Irish tea you’ve always loved.”
Despite the weight her aunt had put on over the years, her face was still lean, and her dark blue eyes bore an amazing resemblance to Megan’s father’s. In their later years, Catherine and Frankie looked more and more like twins.
As they sat over the steaming cups of tea and slices of coffee cake, Catherine seemed dreamy. She had spent most of their time together talking about her move to Florida, the disposal of all the remaining things in the apartment, insisting Megan take some antiques the sons didn’t want. But now, relaxed, she began to talk of other things, as though this might be the last time the two of them would be alone like this.
“You know, Megan, last night I dreamed of Papa—my father, your grandfather. Isn’t that the strangest thing? I guess the death of Pop here sent my mind back in time, but, oh, it was so real, this dream. That’s your department, isn’t it, dreams? I n
ever have talked to you about Papa. He was so handsome. None of us kids looked like him. Well, my brother Timmy did. But Timmy died when he was just a kid. You never knew him. Timmy was a hotshot. Just like Papa.”
Megan had heard, vaguely, of a Tim Magee who had died long ago. Her aunt’s voice became stronger; her eyes glowed with memory. She seemed stronger, more alive than was possible.
“Mama gave poor Timmy a hard time. ‘Just like your father, look like him, act like him. A bum.’ He couldn’t help it, poor Tim, he was only a little kid when Papa died.”
Softly, Megan asked, “How old were you, Aunt Catherine?”
The eyes went vague, then blinked. “Three years old. A baby. But I remember him. I remember running down the block—we lived on the West Side in those days, on Forty-third Street. All Irish then. I think it still is Irish. Who’s left anyway? And Papa was a dock walloper. You know what that is? A longshoreman. He was so big and so strong and so handsome, black hair and blue eyes—‘black Irish’ my Mama said. With the moods, you know. Gloomy, so sad, God knows. That’s why he drank. That and the bullet in his head they could never get out.”
“Bullet in his head?” This was news to Megan.
“From the war, you know. The Spanish-American War. He went down there, to Cuba, with the Fighting Sixty-ninth. With Father Duffy as their pastor. He baptized us, you know, Father Duffy. That statue across the street from Macy’s? That was him. When Papa came home with the bullet, they said it was better to let it alone than try to get it out. He got such bad headaches. And so he drank. To get away from the pain. Mama said he was just a no-good drunk, period. And one day he just walked off a dock and drowned. Right in the middle of a morning’s job, just walked off and drowned. I was almost four. I remember. Oh, yes, I remember.”
Megan had been told her father’s father had died of a heart attack in his mid-thirties. Had been buried out in Pinelawn, because he’d been a veteran. She’d never heard of a bullet wound or a drinking problem or a drowning.
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