Gay Place (32 page)

“Miz Chris’ensen went out ’bout five. Say she call if she was late.”

“Thanks. Let me know when they’re ready for bed.”

He went back downstairs and stood in the big room for a few moments, listening to the music. It was Ellington — an old composition but a fairly new record. He remembered there was an old shellac version of it somewhere in storage, one he had bought before the war, his freshman year in college. He remembered pushing a secondhand lawnmower out into these neighborhoods twice a week that year. It was miles from the campus, but he had earned enough money at yard work to pay for nearly all his room and board. Sweet melancholy, he thought — and all of it now seemed so unimaginably remote.

In the kitchen he spooned out meat and vegetables from open pots. He poured some whiskey. There was a pitcher full of an aging martini mixture in the freezer, gone cloudy in a film of ice. He walked back toward the front of the house, humming to himself, sipping the whiskey. The piece of paper with the telephone number was still in his pocket — he would have to make the call …

“Capi-tawl …”

“Is the Governor in?”

“Who are you calling please?”

“Governor Fenstemaker …”

“Who is calling please?”

“This is Neil Christiansen.”

“Mister … Christian? I’m afraid —”

“Christiansen. Neil Christiansen … I’m returning the Governor’s call.”

“Mister Christiansen returning a call … I’ll check our rec —”

“Yes. That’s right …” Then he thought:
What the hell? Throw your weight around.
“Listen,” he said, “this is Senator Christiansen … In Washington … I’m calling long distance, so will you please —”

“Oh!
Sen-
ator … I’m
real
sorry … I’ll ring the Mansion.”

He stood and carried the phone from the hallway into the other room, holding the instrument in one hand, the drink in the other, executing a little dance step. He lowered the volume on the phonograph and lay back in an overstuffed chair. It seemed he had just got settled, holding the receiver to his head, when he noticed the glass was nearly empty. He sucked on an ice cube and wondered if there was time to pour another drink. “Operator …” He said, “… Operator.”

“Just a moment, Senator,” she said.

He lay back in the chair again and closed his eyes. He opened them almost immediately and stared at a painting partially hidden by a vaguely oriental lamp that was suspended from the ceiling. He had not seen the painting before. It was unmistakably his wife’s work — there were a number of her oils hung throughout the house — but this one was new to him. He sat upright in the chair and stared across the room at the picture. It was himself and yet not quite himself, a portrait of him, younger and older, grinning like death with white-glazed eyes as in a poorly done piece of sculpture. Then he realized it wasn’t himself … but his brother. He lay in the chair with his head against a rough-textured Mexican cushion, his eyes closed, for perhaps half a minute. He started up suddenly, unaccountably, as if his whole body had been seized by a furious bunching of the nerves, some enormous tic, a spasm of old horror, wonderful and ecstatic. He heaved a great sigh and from upstairs came the sweet singsong voices of the little girls.

“Senator … Senator … Senator …”

He brought the receiver up. “Yes.”

“I have Governor Fenstemaker for you.”

“David McNeil Christiansen,” the Governor said. His voice was loud and always reassuring. “I think you ought to use that some — the full name — part of the time at least.
Neil
most of the time, but occasionally the whole goddam works. Names are important.”

“How are you, sir?” Neil said. He was trembling slightly and he wondered about another drink. There was a decanter of sherry on a small table nearby; he reached across, got hold of it, and splashed half a glassful over the ice. It had a nutty, sour-mouth taste.

“Whattayou think of that, Neil? You agree with me?”

“You mean the name — in campaigning?”

“Exactly. Your last name’s too long — like mine, Fenstemaker — too much name for political purposes. Tom Moore — that’s a good political name for an unknown. You can remember a name like that. Fenstemaker … Christiansen … They’re too much. But you can reverse the psychology. You can make the name even longer and they’ll sure as hell remember
that.
The full name has a nice sound to it, and it registers visually, whereas —”

“Assuming, of course, you’re in a campaign,” Neil said.

“Assuming — yes. Am I assuming too much, son?”

“Well. It’s just that I really haven’t decided. Really. You’d know if I had.”

“Get me a fresh one …”

“What, sir?”

“I was talking to the butler,” the Governor said. “I’ve got this great old dark-complected butler who …”

Dark-complexioned, Neil said to himself. And he really ought to have one in his own white-columned mansion. Someone standing by at all times to replenish those sweating highball glasses. He’d call him Gunga Din. And equip him with a syringe so the stuff could be fed directly into one of the main arteries. He touched a distended vein on his forehead and wondered if it led to the brain.

The Governor was talking between loud smacking gulps of whiskey.

“You’re in town, aren’t you?”

“Yes. Got in late this afternoon.”

“That girl must have been confused … Neil?”

“Yes?”

“There’s only a few more days, son. You got to make up your mind soon.”

“I know, I know. Tonight … Tomorrow … Sunday. I’ll be sure by then.”

“Well how do you feel? As of now.”

“I feel that perhaps I’ll lose … That I’ll be murdered. I don’t much like that feeling.”

“Nobody does,” the Governor said happily. “But nothing ventured, nothing by God gained! And you can take that bastard. I
know
you can. Hell! I just didn’t pick you in a lottery. Hell and damn! I looked all over for someone I thought could take that sonofabitch. He ran against me once, you know. And by God he was the favorite in the early polls. But I stuck him — I
harpooned
him. And I think you can. He panics in the stretch.”

“But everybody
knows
him. And nobody knows me. After ten months as Senator I’m still just a cipher to most people. Who
knows
me?”

“I know you. A lot of ’em do — more than you think. You using your frank?”

“About four hundred times a day.”

“Good … Good … You get those lists I sent you? Those mailing lists are worth a goddam fortune. It took me ten years to put those names together. Even
I
couldn’t afford to buy them now.”

“Yes sir, I got them.”

“You got some speeches coming up?”

“A couple tomorrow. A few more next week if I decide to get into this. So I’ve got to decide by Sunday. Otherwise, I’m just wasting my time in public.”

“You stick with it, son. You’re doin’ just fine. You got a good press. The reporters like you — I can tell. And I can goddam well take care of the publishers.”

“You don’t think he’s hurting me? I think he’s hurting me.”

“With a few people, a few people. But listen — he’s been beating you over the head with a talisman — a goddam good luck horseshoe. It’s perfect! You couldn’t ask for anything more. He’s puttin’ your name right up there. You’re somebody! You’d be nothin’ without him. By their enemies ye shall …”

“You think so? I feel like I’m already on the defensive.”

“Listen — You just play it cool. Give them that boyish, air-conditioned smile of yours on the television once a week, for a while and don’t pay attention to the
extremists.
That’s what he is — an extremist. Goddam I’d like to get a liberal in there, some wild man at the opposite end, and let him give you hell too. I just might find one — I’ll try. But listen — you remain aloof from all that whoopin’ and hollerin’. You just give them the old smile and the image of the wholesome young man trying to do good job, and keep makin’ those pretty speeches. Who’s doin’ those speeches for you?”

“A friend of mine named —”

“Listen … You just stay above it all. You just keep doin’ your job up there. Fly home couple times next month, make some speeches, film some for the television, and then stay out of it. Ignore the campaign. Tell ’em you’re not coming back until the last week. You can tear all over the state in four or five days and accomplish more that last week than you ever thought possible.”

“Then I shouldn’t debate him? Neither of us has even filed yet, and he’s already challenging me to debate him.”

“Oh hell no. You’re
above
all that now. You’re too busy workin’ for the folks.”

“All right.”

“Never get into a pissin’ contest with a polecat.”

“Well … That’s wonderful. You’ve put it beautifully — your characteristic eloquence.”

“Damn right …”

The Negro woman was calling to him from upstairs. He tilted the decanter to his mouth and finished the sherry.

“I have to hang up,” he said. “I’ll talk with you tomorrow. I’ve got to say goodnight to my little girls.”

“Fine. They’re beautiful children. And Andrea! You ought to have them up there with you. You ought to get them on the television sometime.”

“Well I don’t know about that …”

“Well … I don’t blame you. You’ll be by tomorrow, then? Nine in the morning too early for you?”

“No … That’s perfect. I’ve got to make this speech in the early afternoon at —”

“I’m talkin’ to the same people tomorrow night. I’ll give you a plug. Hell! I’d talk about you forty-five minutes if you’d make your announcement in the afternoon. That would be a perfect —”

“Maybe I’ll know something by then. Right now … I’m just … not sure. I’ve really got to go …”

“Fine. That’s fine …
Senator.
You like the sound of that? You think about what I’ve said …”

He set the phone down and increased the volume on the phonograph. He turned the records over. The maid called him a second time, and he headed up the stairs.

The girls were in their beds, giggling against the pillows. Their cheeks were flushed, and they were so lovely — there was so much of their mother’s vitality and abundant good looks in them — that he had to sit there speechless between the beds for a moment, reaching out to touch their bare shoulders.

“Read us a story … A sto-
ree
.”

He read
Winnie the Pooh.
It seemed to have an oddly therapeutic effect on him. The girls were notably unmoved. They wanted to know if he would watch
Tom Terrific
in the morning. They remembered
Tom Terrific
as one of his favorites. He told them he would be able to watch
part
of it. And that, of course, was always the best part.

“
Which
part?”

“
That
part. It’s my favorite part. My all-time favorite part.”

“Which
part
is that, Daddy?”

“The part I always
watch.
Which part do you think I could
poss
ibly mean? I’ve never seen the other part.”

“I like the other part best,” the younger one said smugly.

“I like Daddy’s part best,” said the older.

“Go to sleep,” he said to them. They kissed him fiercely.

The maid was finishing the dishes when he got back downstairs. She talked with him for a moment about her daughter who was in law school at the college. She wondered where in the world a colored girl would ever be able to practice law. He said he would give it some thought. Then he wondered if he could possibly risk putting the girl on his staff. He decided he couldn’t — he would get her a job in the Government. Justice Department. Or Internal Revenue. She could hide out in one of the agencies and send huge sums of money home to help get the other brothers and sisters through college. But then he had to remind himself that he might not be in any position to help. It depended on whether he decided to stay on — and on whether he could win if he did.

The big old Negro woman, complaining of her corns, vanished into a bedroom off the kitchen. She had seven children in her own home across town. They always seemed able to take care of themselves.

He poured another whiskey and sat in the overstuffed chair in the front room. Once he got to his feet and studied the painting closely. The face was all bright colors; the rest of it somber grays and browns. He returned to the chair; then almost immediately he was up again and heading toward the kitchen; back in a moment with the whiskey bottle. He slumped in the chair, quiet for a period of time before he was conscious of a voice in the room. He did not immediately recognize it as his own.

No more these pure oases:

These bubble-cups are burst.

Neither fables nor faces

Can appease my thirst.

Fables nor faces? How ’bout
feces
? He edited the line mentally. And then:

Songster, my crazy drouth

For thy daughter craves —

Hydra without a mouth

That saps and enslaves.

He rather wished they were his own lines, but he should not be a perfect ass about it. Wasn’t it enough that he could remember them? Whose were they then? His dead brother’s? No. That late fellow only quoted them. We are all such quoters and
poseurs.
Whatever happened to the old-time manufacturers of such lines? The inventors, the innovators, the real genuine aboriginals? Out of the business, gone out of the business — it’s the way things are in this welfare state, gentlemen. No incentive to write lines like
that
any more. Now we are all sewn from some miracle fabric spun out of test tubes. Better living through chemistry …

He dialed for information; then he dialed the number of Stanley’s hotel. They put him through, but there was no answer there. Or anywhere. No answers. Only the low mournful signal of some distant distress. He put the receiver in the cradle, and almost immediately it rang back at him. He picked it up again, put it to his ear …

“Big Emma, honey, you’ve really got to stop using the phone so much, so long. I’ve been trying to get through every fifteen minutes and — Just a sec — I
know.
I’m coming, you louse, but I’ve got to make this phone call. Don’t you understand some people in this great happy world have got respon — Hello. Emma? Big Emma? Listen —”