The Henderson Equation (35 page)

"I know, Nick," Margaret said, taking a deep sip
of her drink. "And I really don't want to invoke that silly wheeze of
woman's intuition. A male must have concocted that, as if women couldn't really
think except intuitively, a mystical gift. But goddammit, Nick, from what I
know about Myra, and myself, I'd say she's put all that behind her and was more
tantalized by her role, the thrill of achievement, the sense of being
boss."

He watched her huge ballooning breasts as she spoke. It had
always been a distraction, was one even now.

"The titular head," he said. She understood the
implication and flushed slightly, looking down at her ravaged glory. He knew
she was concocting some kind of a put-down, drawing again from the well of old
hates, ancient angers.

"Your problem, Nick," she said with
deliberation--her eyes told him that she was softening the blow--"is that
you don't understand the mind of a woman. You look at her too much from the
crotch."

"Goddammit, Maggie," he exploded. "Not now.
Don't lay that superior sister shit on me now, not now."

She hesitated, watching him, nervously lapping at her drink
as he finished his off. She rose, moved her heavy body toward the Scotch
bottle, and repoured their drinks.

"I'm just trying to get you to understand a woman's
mind. To take the blinders off."

"You and your damned female generalizations," he
said, more tranquil now as he felt the alcohol move into his blood, soothing
him. "Believe me, Maggie, what Myra has in her mind is not as mysterious
as you allow."

"Not mysterious at all, not to me."

"Or me."

"But you can understand her only if you look at it
from the vantage of her femaleness. And the way that being a woman has shaped
her."

His mind groped back to that first dinner at Mr. Parker's
house. He could almost smell the steaming vegetables and hear the clink of the
crystal wineglasses. "I understand her perfectly," he said.
"That's exactly the point."

He wondered how far he could go with Margaret, who he knew
must be relishing the idea of this conversation and its implications. But could
he really trust her? Surely, half a lifetime shared counted for something. He
caught himself looking at her breasts again, feeling perhaps the beginnings of
an urge to bury his face in those warm pillows of flesh. He imagined his head
lying there, an embryo in the safety of the womb, hearing only the heartbeat of
life.

"I'm frightened," he said, aware that the words
had been mumbled, as if he had not wished himself to be understood. But
Margaret's hearing was alert.

"You are down," she said, surveying him suddenly
like some prized butterfly pinned to a specimen card.

"But not out," he said quickly, shivering as he
finished the Scotch which she quickly rose to repour. Could he really trust
her? he wondered. Was the paranoia seeping into his marrow? He felt his mind
racing in different directions at once. His eyes searched around the still
familiar room, alighting on a picture of Chums. It had been taken at her fifth
birthday. The innocent child's eyes stared back at him, large eyes, like his,
always questioning, never able to hide a hurt. Margaret followed the direction
of his concentration.

"Remember how pretty she looked then?"

"I had forgotten," he said honestly, although he
had the same picture in his apartment. Odd, he thought, that he had never
really looked at it for years.

"We botched that one up rather badly," he said,
recalling the memories of the painful parts of their marriage.

"Someday she'll simply have to stop using it as an
excuse for self-destruction," Margaret mused aloud. Perhaps she had
repeated it silently to herself and was testing its effect as a spoken thought.
"And I don't intend to feel guilty about it forever." Like him, she
was still fighting her guilt about Chums.

"She'll find herself, Maggie," he said gently,
but without conviction. It was the one element of sharing still left. They
drifted into silence. Nick sipped his drink and placed the glass on the
cocktail table. Talk of Chums rekindled his sense of home, and he untied his
shoes and stretched his legs.

"More?" she said, holding out the bottle.

"Just a drop." It would be futile to get drunk,
he thought.

Finding his concentration again, he felt the tension had
begun to ease. He felt his guard slipping, more secure somehow.

"I can't shake this sense of being surrounded,"
he said. "And I can't seem to find my way out, the path out. The fact is,
Maggie, that Myra's got me by the short hairs."

"Nothing lasts, forever," Margaret said, forcing
an attempt at cheerfulness.

"You're a great help."

"Please don't misunderstand, Nick," she said.
"Let's face it. You couldn't expect her to remain passive little Myra
forever. It wasn't in the cards."

His antenna caught an odd vibration. His defenses rose.
Again he had the feeling of something amiss, the furniture awry. She finished
her drink, an action perhaps to cover a sudden discomfort. She knew him well
enough to tread cautiously.

"Sounds like you've seen some of the hands."

"I have, Nick," she said emphatically. He
remembered her odd frown, the joining together of lines on her forehead, her
unconscious signal of determination.

"You're not going to lay this intuition shit on
me?"

"No. We were close once."

"You and Myra?"

"Perhaps I'm exaggerating. Let's say I had her
confidence once."

"The sister thing?"

"As a matter of fact."

"I hadn't realized."

"You wouldn't have known what to look for at the
time."

His mind groped back over the years. There had never
appeared to be any real closeness between Myra and Margaret.

"It was just after Charlie died." She took a deep
breath, sipped her drink again. "She was frantic with guilt and
despair."

"Guilt."

"She needed someone then," she said evasively.
"Someone who might understand. She took a stab at me and I was there. She
was lucky. I did understand."

"Understand what?"

"Well, for one thing," she paused. "What it
means to suffer the humiliation of male domination..."

"Christ," he interrupted. "That was just
ass-kissing. Charlie was dead. You saw in it a good opportunity to
short-circuit me." He had not wanted to say it just that way, to reveal
his vulnerability. But his training had taught him the smell of a half-told
story.

"Don't, Nick," she said gently. "I'll tell
it." Watching him, her eyes misted. She wasn't prone to tears and quickly
recovered, finding control. "Myra needed someone," she continued, her
hands folded as if to restrain nervous fingers. He could see the whiteness of
the pressure around the knuckles.

"She was glad that Charlie had blown his brains
out," she said quickly, an ejaculation. She paused again and refilled her
glass, ignoring his, drinking swiftly, as if to drown the words that she must
have known were coming. "It was unbearable for her to endure his madness,
his hate. He was detestable, disgusting. He beat her, abused her."

"I know all that," he said bitterly. "But
Charlie was already institutionalized. She had the power to keep him
there."

"She thought he was getting better. She felt she owed
him that last chance."

"I saw him there," he said, remembering that last
visit, the flights from lucidity. It had puzzled him when he was released.
"He was still sick. He was beyond hope."

"She owed him that last chance," Margaret said
flatly. "She told me that herself."

"And you believed her?"

"Yes."

"And the guns. Her father's guns. They were in a gun
case in their old house on Massachusetts Avenue. The case was kept locked. And
how come the guns were in such perfect working order? Charlie never
hunted."

"What are you implying?" Her mouth remained open,
the circles under her eyes seemed to deepen.

"Come on, Maggie. She didn't have to pull the trigger.
He was sick, crazy. All she had to do was give him the opportunity."

"She wouldn't," Margaret whispered, on the edge
of panic. "Not Myra."

"That was the only way she could get control. She must
have tried to break the trust agreement on grounds of non compos mentis. I'll bet
she consulted lawyers."

He could see that she was reacting now out of some wisp of
memory, confirming what he had suspected, although he had kept it hidden, even
from himself. Was it merely Charlie talking through him? Did he need a
justification for Charlie's death?

"No matter what you say, I'll never believe it."
She paused, watching him. "And even if I did, she had good cause." He
remembered the day at the funeral parlor in Hempstead, the memory clear. The
secret was buried, never to emerge again in Charlie's lifetime, except in his
anguished brain. He might have seen his suicide as an act of retribution.

"You've always been in league with him," she
said, the panic receding as she found her strength again. "That
relationship was a real aberration," she hissed. He could feel her anger
now.

"I'll bet it was quite a coffee klatch, all that
damned confiding. She found the right person, all right. Someone with whom to
share hatred of Charlie. Sick old Charlie, who wore out his substance trying to
make the
Chronicle
something. Where the hell would any of us be without
Charlie?" He stood up, pacing the room in his stocking feet. "You
ungrateful bastards. Charlie made us ... even Myra." He paced silently,
feeling her eyes watching him.

"There are limits, Nick."

"To gratitude?"

"Even that." She paused. "Also to
pain."

"He was sick. He didn't know what he was doing."

"That didn't make the pain any less."

He sat down again.

"The two of you must have had a field day. It's a
wonder I'm still around."

"She had planned to fire you," Margaret said,
softly now. The words stabbed into him. "She was determined to get rid of
any last vestige of Charlie. I convinced her to keep you, Nick. I did. I
invoked the power of our relationship and her manipulated vulnerability. I did it."

He felt the beginnings of a retch, an exploding glob in the
pit of his stomach. Fighting it back, he stammered, "The
Chronicle
would have fallen on its ass. She had no experience, no training. She would
have blown it."

"She was willing to take that chance," she said
smugly. "It wasn't easy to convince her." But he was protesting
within himself, without conviction. He believed her, refusing to be grateful.
It was her only logical move. "As it turned out, I was right. Years later
she admitted it. Thanked me."

"So you're still sharing confidences."

"I'm afraid not. I said Myra had changed. She's more
protective of herself these days. Considering her responsibilities, I can't
blame her. Besides, I'm a little wary myself. And, you may not believe this,
but I don't want you to think I've gone over your head."

"That doesn't seem to bother some people."

"Like who?"

"I'm not sure," he admitted.

"Ambition does strange things, Nick."

"So they tell me."

Despite her outward look of confidence, he knew she was
concerned with his reaction. He believed her. He felt her trust and loyalty.

"I'm not ready to give it up, Maggie," he said.
"Not yet."

"I know that, Nick."

"But I'm in a damned jackpot, and I haven't been able
to figure a way out."

"Are you asking for advice?"

"Let's say I'm open to it."

She hesitated, perhaps carefully going over her response.

"I'd say she is determined. If it came to a showdown
she'd expect you to bend. She's strong now, probably sure of herself. It's
obvious to me just from the little bit you've told me that she's come to some
understanding with Henderson. She was always intimidated by Charlie's talents.
Beyond her hate. She wants herself a president, Nick. Wants to surpass Charlie.
She wants to be on the inside."

"That's what's frightening, Maggie."

"She's entitled," Margaret said.

"Entitled?"

"It's her ball game. She owns us, all of us, even
you."

"Delusions of grandeur," Nick shrugged.
"Only they're not delusions. We can tell people what to think. It's not
ordinary property rights she has, Margaret. She owns one of the most important
information monopolies in the country. Getting a president to resign might only
be a beginning."

"You're exaggerating," Margaret said.
"Besides, Nick, you've had that power all along. And before you, Charlie.
She has a right to clip your wings."

"The full extent of our power was only a myth, until
we proved we were stronger than the presidency, stronger than our most powerful
institution. It's like putting an atomic bomb in the hands of a child."

"That's so typical of you men," Margaret sneered.
"Since when are you the sole repository of all wisdom? As soon as a woman
gets ascendant you buck like hell." She threw her head back and laughed,
the deep well of some secret malevolence revealed. "She's cutting your
balls off, Nick, and there's not a goddamned thing you can do about it."

His mind groped for a reply. But he was too stunned to
respond. He could only look at her empty-eyed.

"You seem almost joyful about it," he said after
a long pause, recovering himself.

"Not joyful. Oddly proud to see her make the move. But
damned upset about you."

"And the thing with Henderson?"

"The prerogative of power."

"You've missed the point."

"You asked me for advice."

"You're advising capitulation."

"I'm facing reality."

He searched her face for some softness, a sense of
yielding. But he could find no solace there, only the harshness of her own
fixation, the warped vision of generations of trapped females. But the fact
that she was torn, teetering between the poles of her inner life, invalidated
her advice.