Gossip (21 page)

Through it all, Bill himself was weirdly invisible. There were repeated mentions of someone named William O’Connor, treated even by his critics as a serious journalist, a sane adult who knew what he was doing. The affectionate body in a bed and frantic voice on a phone disappeared in clouds of print.

Hillary Clinton’s press conference was on Friday, the first week of April. The following Wednesday, late at night, Nancy finally called me.

“You were wrong, Ralph. It didn’t disappear.”

“I know. But it’s not selling,” I said, grabbing at that silver lining. “Not here anyway.”

“Well, New York,” she mumbled. “What does New York know?” She sounded exhausted, beaten, a mood that worried me far more than her anger. I heard a collapse of ice cubes in a glass. “I can’t get on the Metro without seeing people with their noses stuck up that book’s ass.”

“Has it been getting much press down there?”

“Does the pope shit in the woods? The papers have been full of it since Hillary’s press conference, all tarted up with ethical thumb-sucking about journalism and privacy.”

“I haven’t seen any mention of the footnote. Not one. They talk only about the Clintons.”

“People on the Hill have seen it. They know who it’s about.”

“What do they say?”

“Not a damn thing. But I can feel fingers pointing me out. The whispering that stops when I enter a room.”

“Has Kathleen said anything?”

“Not yet. But it’s coming. At first, whenever she was cool or curt with me, I thought, She’s seen it. Then an hour later she’d smile or joke and I thought, She hasn’t. But this week, she started avoiding me. Meetings I usually attend with her? She takes one of the guys instead. But tomorrow—she’s taking me to lunch tomorrow. Not here at the Capitol but out. Where we can talk in private. Which can mean only one thing.”

Another pause, another echo of glass and ice.

“She’s a smart woman, Nance. She’s not going to let loose talk scare her into firing you.”

“No, she
is
a smart woman. And smart women cut their losses. For political or personal reasons. Oh shit, Ralph.” Her voice tightened, fighting tears. “I didn’t know her respect meant so much to me. If she dumps me, who will I be? Nobody. Nothing. I’ll just want to curl up and sleep for a hundred years.”

She’d spoken the same way when she broke up with Annie. “What’re you drinking, Nancy?”

“Screwdrivers. Appropriate for somebody who’s been screwed.”

She rarely drank, and never alone.

“Do you want me to come down this weekend?”

“And do what? Hold my hand? Say you’re sorry for the umpteenth time? I’m not calling for help, Eck. I’m calling only because you’re the one person on the planet I can discuss this with. But talking to you only reminds me that a person did this to me, and you know him.”

I audibly winced.

“All right. I’m not being fair,” she admitted. “But this thing in my gut has overwhelmed me, no matter what I tell myself. You and it and everything else. I feel so alone. There’s nobody I can talk to or trust anymore.”

“Well, I’m grateful you called to let me know what was happening.”

“I didn’t call for you, Ralph. I called only so I could hear myself talk and find out if I’m as crazy as I feel. Do I sound crazy to you?”

“You sound depressed. And a little drunk.”

“I am depressed. But I’m not going to throw myself out a window anytime soon.”

“I didn’t think you would.”

“But do you know what stops me from considering something like that? It might hurt Kathleen. Not personally, but it might hurt her reputation. Is that sick or what?”

I was too taken aback to know what to say except, “Don’t drink anymore tonight, Nancy. It’s only making you feel worse.”

“No worse than talking about it makes me feel. I better get off before I say something even more stupid.”

“Can I call tomorrow night and find out how the lunch went?”

“Why? You need to feel like you’re in the loop?”

Again I felt slapped. “I’m your friend. I want to know what’s happening.”

“Oh all right. Call me. Although I can’t promise I’ll be more coherent than I am tonight.”

“Good luck,” I said. “Good night.”

I hung up, more irritated than worried for Nancy. Her suffering was so superior, and irritation made a good defense against my fears for her.

The next day at work, Thursday, Peter came up to me in the men’s room with a wicked grin. “Do you know your boyfriend’s on
Nightline
tonight?”

“Shh.” I checked the stalls for feet.
“Nightline?”
I whispered. “You’re kidding. The whole show?”

“No, it’s about journalism and ethics. But they announced on the radio this morning that
he
was one of the guests. You want to come over and watch with me?”

“In front of Nick? No way.”

“Nick leaves for a medical conference in Boston this afternoon. He won’t be back until Saturday. Come over. I’ve rented a couple of bad movies. We can order in food, watch a flick, then see your old trick get his fifteen minutes. Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m not taking this in the proper spirit. Would you rather I bitch and moan over what a terrible thing you did by knowing this person?”

“No, I bitch and moan plenty on my own.” It was difficult to tell what was callous and what was good sense in Peter. “I’d rather nobody I cared about even see what this guy looks like.”

“Well, I’m watching, with or without you. Wouldn’t you like to be there to point out his good features?”

“Oh. Why not? Yeah. Maybe sharing the experience will undo the weirdness of seeing the jerk go national.”

So instead of worrying about how Nancy’s lunch went, I spent the day wondering what Peter might think and I might feel when we watched Bill on television.

We took a cab to Seventh Avenue after work, at Peter’s request, and entered the building that with its tiers and penthouses stood over the West Village like a redbrick ziggurat. Their one-bedroom co-op, purchased during Nick’s years in high finance, was not a penthouse, but it had a terrace. The living room was big enough for their lemon tree to sit indoors during the cold months without turning the room into a jungle. The furniture was simple yet expensive, the television in an altar of honey-colored wood. Framed posters of off-Broadway and regional productions hung on the walls; Peter had played Peachum in both
The Threepenny Opera
and
The Beggar’s Opera.

Tossing my coat in their bedroom, I saw again the cartons of medical supplies stacked against the wall, the IV stand like a medical gibbet in the corner. On the night table by Nick’s side of the bed was a copy of the
New England Journal of Medicine,
on Peter’s side,
The Wind in the Willows.

“You don’t have to do your drip tonight?” I asked when I returned to the living room.

“I’m off the IV for now. I’d love to get rid of that crap but don’t know what my doctor will be pushing next month. Do you want Chinese or pizza?”

While Peter phoned our order, I looked again at the photos on the bookcase. Their long history was a touching, challenging mystery to me tonight. I picked up a snapshot in Lucite—Nick and Peter preserved as young clones in lumberjack shirts, Peter with a blond mustache that echoed Nick’s black one. Peter appeared at my shoulder.

“They say lovers grow to resemble each other,” he said. “Like people and their dogs. But not us. We grow more different.”

“And you’ve been together, what, fifteen years?”

Peter rolled his eyes and groaned. He disliked having people count their years, hearing not envy but condescension, as if their longevity betrayed a lack of imagination.

“I just don’t know how you do it.”

“Habit, guilt and duty,” he muttered.

“And love,” I added.

“Oh sure. But you need the others as glue.” He made a face. “I’m not the easiest person to live with either, you know.”

I followed him into their shiny kitchen, where he poured himself a glass of juice.

“I know it’s not easy,” I said. “But I do envy you having each other.”

“Like hell you do. You’re a romantic lover. Nick and I are domestic lovers. The world is divided between those who want to live in couples and those who prefer quick hits of lightning. I don’t think any less of you because you’re single.”

“I wasn’t criticizing.” How could he think I was in a position to judge anyone? “Just impressed by your ability to stay together. Especially when you’re so different.”

“Oh yes. The frivolous and the serious. The self-centered and the selfless.”

“But you complete each other. It’s good to be frivolous now and then. And you’re not self-centered.”

“Oh but I am. Now more than ever. I have to be. While Nick remains a man of principles. All thumbs with the personal, so he gives his love institutionally. Other boyfriends bring you soup. Mine goes to meetings. But Nicky doesn’t know how to fuss or hand-hold, so this works out for the best.”

These occasional grumbles were part of his normal gestalt with Nick. Each of us was at the center of his or her own story; I did not expect Peter to forget his story for the sake of mine.

“I didn’t ask you over tonight to talk about Nick,” he said. “Let’s talk bad movies. What shall it be?
Madame X
or
Mothra?

The pizza arrived, Peter served it up on atomic-colored Fiestaware, and we settled on their wide, soft leather sofa to watch Japanese sci-fi. Peter enthused over the dada qualities of the poor dubbing and cheap special effects while I watched the digital clock in the VCR. I hadn’t talked to Nancy today, but there would be time to call from my apartment after
Nightline.

The movie was not yet over when Peter took it out to put in a blank cassette. “I’ll tape this for you,”

“What makes you think I want to save it?”

“For posterity.”

“His posterior was his only good point,” I grumbled.

The portentous theme music came on, a sliced spaceship of letters floated forward, and the giant moth flapping over Tokyo was replaced by the winglike ears of Ted Koppel.

“We have learned to say that the personal is political. But have the media gone too far? Are we in journalism engaged in real character issues or only tabloid excess? How much private life are men and women in public office required to share with us? These are the questions we hope to explore later in the broadcast with our guests, Ellen Goodman, syndicated columnist, and William O’Connor, author of a controversial new book about women in Washington. But first, a special commentary from our correspondent, Jeff Greenfield.”

Introduced with old clips of Gennifer Flowers accusing and the Clintons denying, Greenfield delivered an instant history of sex and politics. There was stock footage of Franklin and Eleanor, JFK and LBJ—the good old days—followed by Gary Hart and a repeat of Hillary’s unconvincing laugh at her news conference—examples of the New Honesty.

“Why are they all Democrats?” said Peter. “Republicans must have no sex drive. Except for yours.”

“Joining us now in our Washington studios are Ellen Goodman and the author of the book cited by Mrs. Clinton—”

I didn’t recognize him at first. He sat stiffly in the blue-gray ether, blinking behind his glasses like a marmoset appearing on a talk show.

“Him!” cried Peter. “You made yourself miserable over him?”

No, there was nothing appealing about Bill on TV. The studio lighting washed out his color and fattened his moon face. He looked shiny and stuffed, packed with more of the success that had begun in Miami. Only his skittish brown eyes suggested he was ever warm-blooded.

“He’s better naked,” I claimed.

But Goodman too looked like acrylic, the exactness of video giving too much definition to her lipstick and sienna hair. She spoke first, talking about the political uses of gossip and her concern that the phrase “The personal is political” had been taken from feminists to justify a new kind of mudslinging.

She and Bill were not with Koppel but on a screen within the screen, in another part of the studio, a separate room, just as Peter and I and the rest of the country were in our own rooms, the whole world a vast honeycomb of glass.

“What Ellen neglects to mention is that liberals have been slinging this kind of mud ever since …”

Bill used his pompous FM voice, yet it was enough to turn his moon face into a logo of dead love.

“We’ve had double standards for liberals and conservatives, men and women. What I do in
Regiment of Women,
Ted, is simply bring the same standard …”

As with any talking head, I stopped listening and studied his hair, his necktie, the stark absurdity of human ears. Yet I’d licked those very ears. He was a hole in the screen, an empty space that I filled with regret, shame and, yes, nostalgia.

“No,” said Goodman. “The report of a rumor about President Bush in an alternative newspaper, which I won’t repeat, or jokes about him on a late-night comedy show are not the same thing as calling someone a bad wife and claiming it’s hard news.”

“He looks like a pig,” said Peter. “A paranoid little pig. Look at his eyes.”

And it was true. When Bill spoke, he seemed at ease, yet when the camera caught him while Goodman or Koppel was talking, his eyes hardened with distrust.

I impatiently waited for Goodman to cut through the generalities and attack what was foul and stupid in Bill’s book, only she couldn’t report innuendoes without spreading them. It was like watching a fight between boxers in straitjackets.

“Yack yack yack yack yack,” said Peter during the commercial. “What a load of windbaggage.”

“You think I was a jerk for going to bed with him?”

“Not my type. But I don’t understand the attraction of three-quarters of the men my friends find hot. Whatever blows your hair back. But you said he was a good kisser?”

“Yeah.”

“I can see it. Oral. Although he looks like he’d have an easier time kissing doughnuts than guys.”

When Koppel returned, his implacable brow had a faintly anxious crimp. Something had been said during the break. Bill looked cockier than ever, Goodman more edgy. Koppel said, “Ms. Goodman, I believe there was a new point you wanted to bring up?”