Gay Place (52 page)

(… desks are modified replicas of those used in the Old Senate Chambers; a few are originals brought to the new Chamber in 1859. Two historic desks still serving today’s Senators are those once used by Daniel Webster and Jefferson Davis. A small block of wood inlaid on the left side of Davis’s desk marks the spot where a Union officer reportedly thrust his sword …)

Now let’s not deal in hearsay or histrionics, gentlemen. Either the Union officer did or he didn’t and. …

(… Two tiny snuff boxes of black lacquer, adorned with Japanese figures, rest on marble ledges flanking the rostrum. They are kept filled with snuff, and, though never used, they remain a tradition of the Senate …)

Never
used
? My God we’ll call in the Hoover Commission! Waste, duplication, bureaucracy … And how about that other? That
Japanese
stuff. Foreign imports, unfair competition — wait’ll the Tariff Commission hears …

(… Another custom carried over to the Senate today is blotting sand …)

Blotting
sand? And who was it got the contract for
that
? Billions for defense, I say, but not one more red cent for blotting sand. And I say — and I think all reasonable men will join with me in saying —
Up in Harlem … Table for two … They was four of us … Me … Your big feet … And you
— join me in saying, in asking, in
demanding
… unanimous consent to take me down off this rostrum framed by red Levanto marble pilasters. Let me withdraw from this glittering world of gold damask and Hauteville cream marble. I remember a time we withdrew, for all of two weeks one spring when the azalea bloomed along the back fence of that little house and Andrea had that little miscarriage. Of Justice. Missed that goddam carriage house, lost it somewhere between the patch of heather and the flowerless turf …

(… Beyond the Lobby is the Marble Room, a private chamber for reading and consultation. The entire interior of this comfortably furnished room is of various hues of marble. Two large, gold-framed mirrors placed at each end reflect and re-reflect the room’s magnificent crystal chandelier and create an illusion of endless halls and countless chandeliers …)

Well! Give a cheer! Home at last with my misplaced illusions, my endless halls, my chandeliers. Ready for some reading and consultation. Thought the time would never come — those fellows out there, they don’t understand, never had to meet a payroll. But now I’m here, what’s a Very Junior Senator to do? Belt a whiskey from a paper cup?
Hah do, hah do … Hah do, Senter, hah do …
All my betters. I could place a call on the long distance and (make it a
conference
call, Operator) talk with Andrea and (failing at that?) all my other friends, three-quarter million of ’em, just back from votin’ their conscience. Ought to explain how awfully nice it is to be here, folks, and I appreciate the great mandate you give me. Only what in hell was it now? Seems to slip my mind. I could do that, place that little call, or maybe check the supper clubs to see what’s doin’ in town, deciding between Paul Desmond and Lefty Frizzell …

He stood staring at the others. The older men moved past, smiling, pausing to inquire about the early returns, clapping him on the shoulder and moving on. He examined news ticker bulletins, but it was too early to tell … primary elections in the South … tantamount to election … only token Republican opposition expected in November … near-record turnouts …

Stanley and Elsie waited for him at the entrance, standing in the vaulted reception room (… east end of the Lobby, where visitors may consult their Senators … outstanding example of the artistry of Brumidi … beautiful frescoes and murals by the Italian artist …). They walked into the hallway and waited for the elevator. Outside, it was nearly dark, and the Air Force band was playing in an open space in front. They paused, listening to the music for a few moments, and then caught a cab to the hotel, brass and bass drum fading as they rolled along.

There was a huge crowd present, spread through the suites of rooms. A cry of approval went up when he entered, and he worked his way round the room, shaking hands, the beaming faces, young and middle-aged, faintly awed, grinning their confidence. They talked about the campaign for half an hour. He stood there with an oversized drink in his hand, making the words come, nodding, tilting his head, grinning back. All kinds of faces floated past: housewives, lobbyists, displaced provincials, soldier boys, people from other staffs, union agents, Negroes (extra-warm handshake, clap ’em on the back, had to avoid ’em during campaign), old pols, Mexican bandits. After half an hour he slid away through the crowd and found an empty bedroom where he lay down and fell immediately to sleep, thinking about news tickers and pilaster columns and somebody’s feet bein’ too big. Stanley woke him with the report about the very early returns — only a few counties reporting, most of them incomplete. He blinked his eyes in the bedside light, squinting at the figures.

“Slight lead, hah?”

“Holds the trend, be more than slight,” Stanley said.

Elsie came in to say the Governor was on the telephone. He lifted the receiver and said hello.

“Feelin’ better?” Fenstemaker’s voice was like a cannon in his ear.

“Not especially,” Neil said. “I’d hesitate to make a victory speech on the basis of —”

“What’ve you got? What’s the count you got?”

Neil told him, reading from the report Stanley had received.

“Hell! Goddam and hell! No wonder! I’ve got a real tally for you — been receivin’ reports from my county men last two hours. They’re way ahead of that election bureau. Listen to this — you got fifty thousand on him up to now, with two hunnerd thousand cast and reports from most of the counties. You like that? Listen — that’s a real trend. That knocks ’em in the goddam plexus. It’ll hold even when old Edwards’ snuff dippers are still tryin’ to stuff boxes out in the boondocks …”

He told Stanley and Elsie. They went to tell the others. He talked with Fenstemaker several minutes more and then rang off. He could hear Stanley reading the report in the other room and the great whoop of pleasure going up as the figures were chalked on a blackboard. There was some singing and a demand that he come make a speech. He put this off until the next report from Fenstemaker, letting Stanley take the figures from Jay McGown, and when it was an obvious runaway — so far outdistancing Edwards that opposition campaign managers were conceding even before Edwards himself gave in — when his
election
to the Senate was unmistakable, only then did he come out front and make the speech. They clapped and howled for more, but he moved inside while the friends began passing whiskey bottles back and forth and organizing a snake dance through the suite of rooms. He sat on the side of the bed and tried to get Andrea on the long distance.

Fat Emma took her time answering. He could hear her coming on, finally, and giving the operator another number. He broke in to ask if he could talk with the little girls but changed his mind when Emma said they were already asleep. There was a pause and then another series of rings and then it was like being forced back into the party underway just beyond the door. There was a great deal of confusion at the other end, and he told the operator he would speak with anyone there.

“Hey! Hey, Neil! Congratulations man. Great … Great … How ’bout that?”

He thanked the younger man and asked if Andrea was present.

“Yeah — hey — just a minute — hey — you know you pulled us all in on your shirttail?”

“You didn’t need any help,” Neil said.

“Hell we didn’t. Listen — hey, listen — our majorities were bigger than ever. That’s one thing. And we pulled in a bunch of others — new kids we never expected would win. It was you did it. You talked by-God sense and pulled in the youngsters because you were such an apple-pie type yourself …”

Apple pie-eyed type, he thought, and then said, “Well that’s fine. You ought to have a good session next year … Andrea around anywhere?”

“Yeah … Yah … Just second … She was here … second ago. Listen, how about I get her to call you. Hah? What’s number?”

Neil asked the young man to look around. He tapped his foot to music coming in from the nightstand radio. The music ended and the announcer came on. “Colonaid!” the fellow exulted. “For aging colon … The colon muscles lose
tone
and
strength
…”

“Hey, Neil … Neil?”

“Yes.”

“She was here minute ago. Ought to be back. What’s your number, I’ll have her …”

He gave the number and said Thanks, thanks again, and rang off after the young man invited him to join them at Aspen for the weekend. They were all flying up. Chartered a plane. Big ski trip. “We think we got Andrea talked into it … Why don’t you fly up there, hah? It’s great up there, it’s …”

He said he just might do that. He would take it under advisement. He set the receiver down and lay on the bed. “Aging colon?” he said aloud, rubbing his eyes. The colon muscles lost
what
? He stood and slipped on his coat and left by one of the doors that opened onto the hall. They had stopped singing inside and switched to dance music …

On the fiercely lighted, half-deserted street he began to walk. The white Capitol dome was spectacular, veiled in mist. He walked the several blocks, toward and past the big white dome, pausing finally in front of the Library to stare back and around him. The Library building was lost in shadow, but lights shone softly on the fountain in front. He stood looking at Neptune’s Court, conscious suddenly of the rush of water and the coiled snakes the size of a man’s arm, spewing liquid, dark and glittering, toward the bronze figures. The Great King stared back, moody, contemplative, his tarnished face and beard catching the light. The King sat on rocks, thinking, ignoring the impossibly muscled young men on either side who trumpeted wild-soundless tunes on conch shells. The towering women were at right and left of the young men. They sat astride rampaging seahorses. All of them were washed in greens and blues, and Neil stood in front, thinking he loved the heavy-thighed woman at Neptune’s right most of all. She was majestic — storm-tinted and lonely — her huge blue-green breasts swaying slightly in the rush of water, her face clouded by streaks of dark decay. He stood there peering through the bad light and was suddenly transported toward her, into the water, onto the moss-slick bottom, cold liquid filling his shoes and ballooning the air inside his trouser legs. He staggered, sliding sideways on the green bottom, and gripped a snake’s head for balance. The spray fell all around him and he walked along, squish-squash, shoes sucking feet, moving deeper into the King’s chamber. He staggered once again, brushing the weathered bronze of the seahorse, got a grip (on a hand? a foot?) and hoisted himself up behind the big wonderful woman. She was magnificent! Primal, content, constant, quietly abused. There was no other like her — he was certain of it. He sat astride the gleaming horse hips and held on to his lady, reaching round her swollen ribcase, marveling at the curve of her bare stomach and the way her big legs joined the trunk. He had never felt such love.

He held on for a moment longer and then began pulling himself around toward the front so that he could get his face up next to the cold blast of her breath and kiss her lovely, barely parted, rain-rusted lips.

Lights shone at him. He ignored them at first, thinking they might go away. But then the two Capitol policemen got out of their car and stood at the rail separating the sidewalk from the pool of water. They yelled something and he held on tight. One of them got down into the water and came toward him, flashing the light in his eyes.

“… Senator …? That you Senator …?” He turned back and yelled at his partner: “It’s Senator Christiansen.” He turned round again, keeping the light low. “You all right, sir?”

“Hello,” Neil said, smiling. He began to climb down. He steadied himself against the younger man. A wad of papers, shaken loose from his hip pocket, floated nearby. He bent down and retrieved them, shaking the water off. “I was up there,” he said, pointing to the stairs that circled above the fountain. “I lost these papers. Very valuable papers. Had to go into the water to get them.”

“You should’ve given us a call,” the young patrolman said. “We give you a lift, sir? You ought to get home and take off those wet clothes …”

Neil said that would be fine; it would work out perfectly. The policemen remembered the primaries and asked about the vote, and he told them and they were real happy for him. The three of them climbed into the patrol car. He was borne through the quiet streets, past row houses and ruined balustrades and awful-smelling basement entrances to the apartment he shared with Stanley. He could hear the phone’s ringing halfway up the stairs.

He slipped off his trousers and wet shoes and socks and talked with newsmen on the phone. Yes, he was quite pleased … He had expected to win, of course, but not … not so overwhelmingly as it now appeared … What was the latest count?
That
much? Well, now … Well. It was all very something something something.

He pulled off his clothes and got himself dried and bathrobed, thinking he would have to call Fenstemaker first thing next morning (they would plan some victory dinners for the fall, clear some federal appointments in the home state); thinking that with such a showing in the primary he might very likely get by without an opponent in the general election; thinking he should call Andrea (should he fly home [avoiding Aspen] to stare at his children?), write some letters, thank-you notes to contributors, a good long note to Andrea’s father who’d come through with twenty-five thousand — Thinking he should make a film for television, give old Stanley a raise in pay and a month off (soon as he’s written the script); raise Miss Elsie, too, hoping to get one last breath of her nut-smelling hair. He thought about these things, reminding himself he had six years — a full term — to advance on the committees, secure his position, pursue his blue bronze ladies — tarnished and faithful — in the fountain, saving their storm-violated world. He lay in the bed, watching the great white bulk of the dome grow dim, sorrows and joys oddly approximated by the incredible fact of success.