My Father's Wives (5 page)

That’s me.

You are likely asking the same question I never got to ask him, which is: If he was Percival the third, why wasn’t I Percival the fourth? I didn’t ask him because I never saw him again after my ninth birthday party. But, fortunately or not, he was asked the question by his chosen biographer.

“I didn’t name my son Percy,” he was quoted as saying, “because, let’s face it, there could never be another one like me.” It wasn’t made clear in the book if he was kidding, or even smiling, when he said it. Knowing what I do of him I’d say it’s likely he was not.

I was born when my father was in his forties and still on his first wife, my mother, Alice, of whom he told the press on their wedding day: “She puts the ‘sweet’ in Sweetwater.” It was a line he would use five more times, with each of his subsequent wives, and with no hint of apology. When reminded by reporters that it wasn’t the first time he had used the phrase, his stock response was: “In life, as in Congress, we rarely get things right the first time.” With women, Percy continued trying to get it right throughout his life. When it came to children it seems he gave up after me.

On the rare occasion that a reporter contacted me I too had a stock reply, which never failed to generate a laugh. “Mother’s Day,” I would say, “has always been my most expensive day of the year.” It was funny, but it wasn’t true. Of my father’s six wives, I only ever met two. And apart from my mother, I haven’t been in touch with any of them in thirty years. But that doesn’t make the line any less funny. I learned that trick from my father too: another of his stock comments was “Percy Sweetwater never lets the facts get in the way of a good story.”

How, you may wonder, did a man so brazenly self-indulgent manage to ascend to such a towering place in society? The best answer I
ever got to that question came from my mother, who had more reason than anyone to bad-mouth Percy but never did. “Say what you will about your father,” she told me, “but at least he was his own man. He was unapologetically, unequivocally, unreservedly himself. And in the world we live in today, people respond to that.” I always thought she might have been talking more about herself responding to Percy than anyone else, but either way it remained that Percival Sweetwater III was a treasured figure in American politics.

When my father died, the
New York Times
eulogized him as THE LAST LION. The funeral was covered by CNN, MSNBC, and all the major broadcast networks; I saw the satellite trucks parked outside the church on Fifth Avenue. In fact, they were
all
I saw. I didn’t get into my father’s funeral. I was invited, but I managed to misplace the invitation somewhere en route from my apartment, a mistake my mother called “the ultimate Freudian slip.” I tried to explain to the security guards outside the church doors that I was the son of the deceased, but it was very much like trying to talk your way past the bouncers guarding the velvet rope at a nightclub: they were listening to me, but they couldn’t have cared less what I was saying.

I watched from across the street as two former U.S. presidents entered the church. Then I went into an Irish pub, ordered corned beef and cabbage, washed it down with four beers, and watched the coverage on television. Then I went into the men’s room, threw it all up, rinsed my mouth and face with cold water, and went to the office.

When I told my mother what happened she responded by giving me a gift. It was a car, with vanity license plates.
NOT IV
. She said that was the perfect sentiment for me to express to the world as I passed it by. It wasn’t especially funny but I laughed anyway. That’s the way it works when you have a famous father to drive away from: you make jokes even though there really isn’t anything funny at all.

UPON OUR RETURN FROM
San Francisco, where the business went well and the basketball was especially spirited, I lingered on the jet. I am usually up before the door is open, my belongings gathered, with just a quick hug for Sandra and nod to the pilots before I am off, down the stairs to where the familiar Lincoln Town Car is idling.

But that evening I was in no such hurry. Bruce was up and about, and Sandra had unbuckled her seat belt and sent her blessings for a safe landing skyward, and the pilots were in the rear of the aircraft gathering their wheeled suitcases, and I hadn’t budged. I wasn’t quite sure what would happen when I got home, and I wasn’t in any rush to find out.

Bruce patted me on the shoulder. “I’m going into the city,” he said. “See you in the morning.”

Sandra gave me a squeeze about the neck. “Isn’t it wonderful to be home, Mr. Sweetwater?”

The pilots were milling about, checking their watches and clearing their throats, looking forward to dinner or a gym or a woman or wherever
it is pilots go when the flying is done. I couldn’t think of any way to further delay the inevitable.

And then I did. “Bruce! Wait!” I unbuckled my seat belt and hurried for the door.

Bruce was going to “the city.” I knew what that meant. His home isn’t in the city. Home, for Bruce, is in Greenwich, with the other Wall Street billionaires. “The city” is where his other life is, namely a penthouse in the residences of the St. Regis Hotel, a perk he negotiated into his contract and takes full advantage of. That was where Bruce was going, and god knows who would be waiting when he got there and what they would do. But he was always inviting me to do it with him and that night, for the first time, I found the idea appealing.

“Afraid he’s gone, Mr. Sweetwater,” one of the pilots said. “As always it’s been our pleasure to get you home safely and we look forward to seeing you again real soon.”

Outside the air smelled fresh and there was a chill in it, a good chill, the sort that awakens the senses after a long flight. What there was not, however, was the Lincoln Town Car. In all the years Sonny had been my driver he had never been late; perhaps he stopped at a gas station to pick up some of that cologne he thought masked his body odor. I was just thinking I would have to bust his chops good-naturedly when I saw a car pull out onto the tarmac, but it wasn’t the Lincoln Town Car. It was a Range Rover. So it wasn’t Sonny.

It was Claire.

THERE IS AN INN
in Vermont where Claire and I like to go. We joke that it is as far from civilization as you can be while still able to get a decent bottle of wine. In fact, the wine is better than decent, it is legendary, as is the inn itself among foodies. Tucked safely away from the ski resorts that attract the wildest and loudest of crowds, our inn is not for skiers, it is for those of us whose preference on a snowy day is a casual stroll, a good book by a fire, and world-class food and drink.

We discovered our Vermont getaway during the first winter of our marriage, when Claire’s parents insisted over dinner in the city that we join them for a weekend in the same ski house where we had almost gotten engaged.

“We can’t this weekend, Dad,” Claire said, and put a hand on my knee and squeezed. “We’re going up to Vermont with friends.”

Her smile came so easily, so casually, there was no way anyone could have guessed we had no such plans. It was a bald-faced lie. I remember I marveled at the coolness of her dishonesty; rather than see it as a sign of danger, I loved it. Her hand on my knee meant she was doing exactly what she promised she would: lying
with
me, as opposed to
to
me.

Later that night, at home, I asked why she had lied to her parents.

“I hate skiing!” Claire said. This was stunning coming from a woman with whom I’d had to ski constantly during our courtship; I’d been dragged to her parents’ house in the mountains countless times so I could behold her effortless grace while I mostly just hoped for the sensation to return in my toes.

“You’re kidding,” I said. “I hate it too! I thought you loved it.”

“Never! My parents have been making me ski since I was six; I’ve hated every day of it. It’s freezing cold, the lift lines are endless, and the food in the lodge is disgusting, even the hot chocolate. I just never had the heart to tell my parents because it makes them so happy. But come on, I’m a married woman now.”

I think every couple has that perfect moment, when both people realize they really are right for each other and all the assumptions they had to make along the way have been verified. Little doubts melt away, and for the first time they both know for sure they really are going to be all right after the euphoria of the engagement and the buzz of the parties and the whirlwind of the wedding and the sporadic arrival of fancy dishes; when life becomes just life again, they really are going to love each other after all. For Claire and me, that was our moment. We embraced like we had never embraced before and made love on the floor. Afterward we sat in our underwear and drank tea and
searched the Internet for the name of a Vermont inn we could give to her parents to complete our lie.

As it turned out we found a place that sounded so delightful, so far from the hectic squalor of the slopes, that we decided to try it, and we loved it and have spent at least one weekend a year there ever since. And every time we go, at least once during the visit, often while savoring the last remnants of a particularly piquant Burgundy, I am reminded of how casually and artfully Claire began the whole thing, how naturally the deceit had come to her. How easy the smile had been on her lips, and the steadiness of her breathing, the certainty of her eyes. And the stillness of her hands.

That is one thing about my wife that is remarkable: her stillness. There are some people who are naturally jumpy, constantly tapping their feet or jiggling their legs or rustling their fingers; Claire is the exact opposite. Her hands never move. It is an amazing quality, one you would not notice until you became aware of it, but once you do it never ceases to draw your attention. It was in Vermont that I first noticed her hands, at the dining table, resting ever so gently on a folded linen napkin, graceful, slender, perfectly still. There is something in her stillness that suggests everything is all right. Which, if you know Claire, it usually is.

So, as I watched the Range Rover circle around the rear of the aircraft and stop beneath the stairs, my first thought was that I needed to see her hands.

The window went down and Claire looked up at me with a crooked smile on her face. “Surprise!” she shouted. “How’s this for service?”

“Very nice.” I couldn’t quite manage to return the smile. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Well, did you want to spend your fortieth birthday with your wife or your driver?”

“Isn’t that tomorrow?” I said. I had been so preoccupied I had completely forgotten my birthday, my fortieth no less. Although, we don’t normally make too much fuss over birthdays anyway. The day I turned
nine was the worst day of my life. Since then, I haven’t had much appetite for celebration.

“This is close enough,” she replied. “Come on, let’s go have dinner!”

“How about the kids?”

“I got a babysitter, they’re fine.”

“But I won’t see them tonight, and I’ve been gone so long.”

Claire shook her head. “Jonathan, you’ve been gone one day. The kids are fine. Let’s go to Angelo’s and have some fun.”

Angelo’s is our favorite spot: Italian, great food, charming owner who always greets me with a kiss on both cheeks and a bottle of Pinot Grigio on ice. I love Angelo’s, but I was in no mood to go out.

I stepped carefully down the stairs and kissed Claire as quickly as I could. Her lips were dry. Usually they were not. Backing away, I darted around behind the car and slid into the passenger seat.

“Not much of a kiss,” Claire said.

“Sorry.” I wanted to say more but I didn’t know what. Hadn’t I read somewhere that dry lips are a sign of nerves? I needed to see her hands.

Claire regarded me skeptically. “Everything go okay in California?”

“Fine, I’m just a little tired. I’m going to close my eyes a few minutes if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind,” she said, but didn’t look like she meant it. She looked like she minded a great deal. She looked as though my being tired was causing her great distress.

“Unless there’s something you need to talk to me about,” I said. Every muscle in my body clenched. There are few moments like that in life, when absolutely everything hangs in the balance. I braced myself for it, whatever
it
was. I felt like I had been living with it for too long to bear, even if it had only been a day.

“No,” Claire said. She turned away from me, put the car in drive, and drove toward the exit, following the lead of a man in a yellow plastic vest. “Nothing out of the ordinary. I just wanted to celebrate a little. Are you too tired to go out?”

She wanted to go to Angelo’s. It seemed important to her. Maybe
she needed a drink to build up her nerve, or maybe she wanted to tell me in a public place where I would have to maintain my composure. If that was how it had to be I would go, because I needed her to tell me. I couldn’t carry this another day. If she needed to go to Angelo’s, I would go.

“I’m fine,” I said. “I’ll just close my eyes a few minutes.”

I pressed deeply into the headrest and let my hands fall by my sides. My eyes really did feel heavy. The hum of the engine was soothing, and when Claire pulled out onto the highway the ride was smooth. I cracked the window a bit and the air was cool and smelled fresh. I took a deep breath and felt my head settle gently onto my shoulder. Perhaps a few minutes’ sleep was just what I needed. It was only twenty or so to the restaurant. My entire life might change when we got there; I might as well rest while I still could.

Then, ever so softly, I felt a hand resting on my thigh. I opened one eye just enough to see the creamy white of Claire’s skin, the flash of a diamond, soft pink nail polish. I looked up at her face and she looked back and smiled sweetly. “You rest,” she said, and patted my leg.

I yawned and rested my head back on my shoulder. A warm, dizzying wave rushed over my brain, and I think I was more asleep than I was awake when I realized something was wrong. I opened my eyes once more and looked down and instantly knew what it was. Claire’s hand was trembling. Not a lot, but enough. I closed my eyes again. It hurt too much to look.