The Henderson Equation (38 page)

"I just couldn't lift them." Murray shrugged as
he looked at the ceiling. "What the hell was I supposed to do?"

"They're gone," Nick said.

"Gone," Murray agreed.

Between him and Murray they managed to get Charlie and Mary
Lou separated. It was ludicrous, Nick thought, sadly seeing his friend's
deterioration, the sympathy waning, since Charlie was a burden now, beyond
rationality. Seeing them, the blank mooning paralyzed faces, the rubbery limbs,
the deadweight immobility, he could not resist the humor the scene invoked.

"The lovers," Murray said.

"A beautiful couple," Nick replied with disgust.

Black humor, it seemed in retrospect, for Charlie and Mary
Lou became in the next few weeks a weird kind of Bonnie and Clyde duo.

To make matters worse there were moments of lucidity, or
apparent lucidity, since the words were clear but the logic faulty, in which he
was forced to witness his friend's further debasement. One afternoon Charlie
called at the
Chronicle,
urging him to rush over to his house, an
invitation he would just as soon have declined, especially in the middle of the
day with the endless pressures of the
Chronicle
building to their peak.

Charlie apparently had shaved and cleaned himself up,
dressed himself in a silk robe, and seemed unaccountably steady after his usual
night's revelries. He rarely showed up at the
Chronicle
anymore. He and
Myra sat facing each other on the matching wing chairs, the ones that later had
been used to front the fireplace of her cozy den. There was a strange air of
calm in the room. Myra looked at him briefly as he came in, lowering her eyes.
It was apparent she had been humoring him. Charlie sat stiffly in the chair, pale,
the first traces of his future gauntness beginning, since his diet was now
erratic, as if the act of eating were offensive.

"We've agreed to separate, Nick," Charlie said.
Myra nodded, shrugging.

"I told him I wouldn't stand in the way of his
happiness," Myra said. She seemed to be playing a role.

"I love Mary Lou, Nick," Charlie said. He had
half expected him to wink. Nick summoned up the memory of the woman, a glob of
flab in Matt Kane's bar. They had since been checking into various Washington
hotels from which he had finally been called upon to extract them. It was
becoming a public embarrassment to both Myra and himself, not to mention the
Chronicle,
although one could depend on the discreet Washington hotel managers to keep the
matter quiet. Besides, he controlled what went into the
Chronicle
and
there was, after all, a gentlemen's agreement between competitive editors. It
was quite rare, almost nonexistent, to find media competition spilling over
into the denigration of editorial personalities. Myra knew they were quite safe
on that score.

"You should follow your loving instincts,
Charlie," Myra responded, as if she were speaking to a small child.

"I know I've been acting strange these last few
months, but I'm convinced now that Mary Lou is what I need."

"Whatever you say, Charlie," Myra said.
"Don't try to talk him out of it, Nick," she said, winking.

"I don't intend to."

Charlie stood up.

"You can't know how it feels to be in love," he
said. Nick wondered why he had been called, then realized that Myra had
persuaded Charlie to call, to witness this new aberration, a kind of final
validation of his madness, which indeed it was. She, too, had seen Mary Lou.
Keeping an eye on them had been a full-time job and she had been reluctant to
recommit him, but this meeting was apparently an attempt to convince herself
that there was no longer any choice. The evidence was compelling. Myra looked
at him, her eyes indicating that she was about at the end of the rope.

"I know when I'm licked," Myra said to Charlie,
who took the remark in a totally different context.

"You're very understanding, Myra," Charlie said.
"Considering the way I've treated you, that's very understanding. Don't
you think so, Nick?"

"Yes, Charlie, very understanding."

"But I do think you should check yourself into the
hospital. Get yourself together. You'll see how wonderful you'll feel."
She winked again. "Even Mary Lou will think so."

Reacting like a wind-bent tree snapping back after a heavy
gust, Charlie stood up, his face contorting.

"Never," he said. "See, Nick. See, she wants
me out of the way. I'll never go back there."

"It was just a suggestion," Myra said quickly.

"All I need is Mary Lou."

"Sure, Charlie, sure," Nick responded. Charlie
sat-down again, briefly placated.

"You'll see," he said, then looked ominously at
Myra.

"She'll never put me away again." Charlie's hands
began to shake and sweat started to show on his forehead. Nick watched him,
glazed, lucidity fading, lips twisting as if he couldn't make up his mind
whether to laugh or smile. Suddenly he got up and walked out of the room.

"I'm scared to death, Nick."

"You've got good reason," he conceded.

"This thing with Mary Lou. It's beyond belief. It's a
wonder he hasn't come down with a physical disease." She stood up, walked
the length of the large room, then back again. He noted that her fingers
clutched a handkerchief. "I've got to put him away, Nick. I think we've
both got to face the fact that he's almost beyond hope." Nick didn't
answer. He couldn't bring himself to echo her sentiment, to articulate the
truth of it, legitimize it. Myra was no Mr. Pell, no dedicated saint ready to
sacrifice her life to someone else's madness. As if reading his thoughts, she
said, "He could do something crazy at the
Chronicle
. Undermine all
that has been built up."

"That he built up," Nick corrected, annoyed at
his compulsion. What good did it do to defend Charlie now? It seemed a lost
cause.

"I know, Nick. Believe me, I'm grateful." It was
a clue to the way she thought, that Charlie had built up the
Chronicle
for them, her and her father, always the son-in-law. She looked at her watch.

"I told them to come at four," she said, looking
at the grandfather clock in the corner. "I don't think I have a
choice."

He still refused to agree. He knew he was being selfish,
insuring himself against future regrets. When Charlie came back into the room,
he held a glass of whiskey in his hand. He sat down cross-legged in the wing
chair.

"My father hid my bicycle," he said, suddenly
giggling. Something tugged at Nick's memory, the neat house, the clean snow,
the painted face of his mother, the talk of bicycles. It was almost as though
he had willed himself to madness. Myra looked at him and sighed. See, she
seemed to say, there is no hope.

It was not easy for them to remove him from the living
room. Two big burly men held him down on the floor while they strapped him into
an ugly khaki-colored straitjacket. He writhed and fought them, finally in his
helplessness reverting to spitting, screaming like some abandoned animal. Myra
gripped Nick's arm, digging her fingernails into his biceps as she watched them
lift Charlie between them and carry him to the waiting ambulance.

"What could I have done?" she said, turning to
Nick as they heard the ambulance leave the driveway. "I had no
choice." Still he refused to respond, feeling that to do so would be a
betrayal of his doomed friend.

"I didn't want this to happen, Nick."

But he only half-believed it, not that it was the first
time that Charlie had been committed. "What choice did I have?"

Remembering that scene, he had secretly agreed with her
decision, although he could not, would not give her the satisfaction of
affirming it. She had, indeed, been abused by Charlie in the last months,
physically, mentally, cruelly used. He, Nick, had also been driven to despair.
But why couldn't he trust her, with the same warm openness that he imagined had
existed between him and Charlie? Had Charlie ruined that possibility forever?

Perhaps that was why he was confused when she had called
him that day and told him that Charlie was coming home again, that he had made
great progress, that he was ready for a return to meaningful living. It had
been a placid time at the paper. He was careful not to make major changes, as
if to tamper with the existent chemistry would somehow be an act of disloyalty.
Besides, the
Chronicle
seemed to be moving relentlessly forward, powered
by Charlie's early decisions, creating the inertia of success. Even Myra held
back, although they met occasionally with advisors, the various business types,
whom he detested.

He wondered if he, too, had been actually expecting to hear
the shotgun blast, a single sound-searing explosion that shook the windows in
the room and twinkled the bric-a-brac. Neither he nor Myra had moved quickly,
rooted. He had wondered why Myra had turned her face from his, as he finally
roused himself and opened the sliding doors. The room was a mess, the ceiling
and walls slopped with bloody pulp. Even at the initial horror of the sight, he
remembered Charlie's sloppiness when they lived together in New York. With his
usual disdain for neatness, he had put the shotgun in his mouth, pointed
upward. Even in death, his features showed no calm, distorted by the blast, as
if he had exited cursing. Stepping backward, he slid the doors closed and
turned to Myra, shaking helplessly now in a far corner of the room. He would
save the questions for later, he decided, the matter of the oiled guns, the
access to the case, the availability of ammunition.

Saturday was a day when Washington motors were revved down
and those workaholics who insisted on attending to the bureaucracy's business,
or their own, could be seen in their offices blue-jeaned and sport-shirted,
assuaging loneliness, persuading themselves that they were involved with their
highest priorities.

In the city room of the
Chronicle,
the difference of
the day could be detected in subtle ways. The sound of the reporters'
typewriters, more thoughtful and labored. The murmur of conversation among the
staff, leisurely, expansive. For the staff of the
Chronicle,
Saturday
was distinctively make-work, a time of suspended hopefulness.

In his office, the coffee steaming beside him, its pungent
odor deliciously tranquilizing, he could feel again the mastery of himself, the
agitation dissipating as his mind picked up the rhythm of his work. He assured
himself that he would not let emotions rule his judgment, that he would
preserve this oasis within himself, this place of purity, where there would be
no ruffling breezes, no changes in temperature, or seasons, or time, or even
light. Let people victimize others or themselves by betrayal and mendacity. He
would simply lock himself in that pure place, that chamber of weighted
judgments, through which the information would have to pass, through him, the
screen. He would become the disembodied brain, all mysterious inner systems
alert and ready for decision. No amount of outside interference would deflect
his concentration.

From where he sat he could see Gunderstein, Phelps, and
Martha Gates, a triumvirate of conspirators, he thought, glancing at him in
turn, waiting for the word. It would not be the first time he had dashed golden
hopes. What did it matter? It was all a pinprick on the ass of time, he told
himself. He had made his decision. His resolution was clear. It must not be
deflected by what he had just learned about Jennie and Myra. One thing had
absolutely nothing to do with the other. He was surprised, too, that he could
not sustain the anger, or the humiliation of having been deceived. To have
illusions about Jennie's sense of faithfulness would have been the epitome of
self-deception. Her ambitions were suspect from the beginning and he had just
been a simple rock across the stream, the stepping-stone. A fair trade, he had
concluded. He had gotten his money's worth.

He looked at his watch. The editorial meeting was scheduled
for nine-thirty, a half hour away. Lifting his head again, he watched the
unholy three waiting for their chance, animals anticipating raw meat. He could
sense the tension transmitted between them, as his mind sought logical
explanations, credible rationalizations. He might say, for example: "Look,
kids. If we run that piece, yours truly will be wasted." It was a
good-word for honesty, a military word incongruously hatched in connection with
Viet Nam. "You wouldn't want to see the old boy canned, would you now?
Truth? Responsibility? Come on now, kids. He who fights and runs away, lives to
fight another day. Besides, there is no absolute, positive, conclusive,
undeniable. proof." He could always use that as the final cop-out, the
ultimate ploy. "You must understand that nothing is all black or all
white. We're newspaper people, not judges."

Better face them now, he told himself, feeling the inadequacy
of his hypothetical explanations. Perhaps in the give and take he would think
of something more convincing. Maybe he would find some clue in them, in their
reaction. Lifting his arm, he hailed them.

Watching their faces as they came in, he could feel their
anticipation. Martha Gates, her blonde hair glistening and fresh, like golden
thread, her eyes dancing, smiled as she entered. He could actually read what
the others must have felt in the young girl's face, the clean, satisfied look
of dedication. Apparently there was an agreement between them that the older
man would provide the opening gambit. Phelps was clean-shaven, clear-eyed, the
pipe jaunty in his teeth, the grey hair neatly combed.

"We've written the story, Nick," he said, putting
a sheaf of copy paper on the desk. "Spent half the night at it."
Gunderstein, who surely had guided the typewriter keys, sat impassively picking
his pimples. Nick had not expected this complication. He looked down at the
offering with revulsion, resisting the impulse to read it.

"We've concluded," Phelps said, "that there
can only be one decision you can make. The issue demands presentation. It goes
to the very heart of the system, not only of ethics in the intelligence
community, but the moral obligation of our national leadership. It simply can't
be ignored."

"And you're absolutely convinced," Nick said,
stupidly, he felt.

"There is not a shadow of a doubt that this was
standard practice for the CIA, on direct orders of the President--all
presidents since Eisenhower. There is enough evidence to cast suspicion."

"And Henderson?"

"He's going to have to pay the piper."

"In 1963, it would have been concluded that it was an
act of patriotism." He felt he was going over old ground, stalling. He
knew they could detect his hesitation.

"Patriotic or not, it was still immoral."

"Absolutely," Martha Gates chirped. She seemed
certain that he would give them a complete go-ahead. "It's not the moral
question alone, Mr. Gold. It's..."

"But it is," Phelps interrupted. "In the end
it boils down to a moral question."

"We run a newspaper, Robert," Nick said, thankful
for the issues being raised, "not a church."

"You can't deny we have a moral point of view,"
Phelps persisted, looking at Martha, who was watching him with admiration. Had
Phelps made love to her, Nick wondered, prancing like a cock in a barnyard,
preening his feathers?

"You can't take it lightly, Nick," Phelps said,
flushing. "How can you preach a kind of national morality and deny this
story? It's wrong. Patently wrong."

"I agree," Martha Gates said. Gunderstein kept
his eyes on Nick, searching for a reaction.

"I think if you'll just read the story, Mr.
Gold," Gunderstein said, "it will speak for itself."

Peripherally, Nick could see Henry Landau's tanned face
peering through the glass. Welcoming the intrusion, he felt the emergence of a
new idea.

"We're going to have an editorial meeting in a few
minutes. Let's submit the story to them."

They seemed caught unawares by his new tack. Phelps
exchanged a knowing glance with Martha. He knew the two of them would be easily
persuaded, led into the trap like sheep. After all, how could they possibly
believe that other fair-minded men could not see the compelling moral position?

"No," Gunderstein said quietly, his pimples
reddening, the Adam's apple bobbing in his thin neck. Phelps and Martha turned
to him in confusion.

"No," Gunderstein repeated, "that wouldn't
be right at all."

"Why not?" Phelps asked as Martha's eyes flitted
between them.

Gunderstein ignored them and looked at Nick, who could see
the glisten of his contact lenses as they caught the light.

"You know why, Mr. Gold," he said. Of course,
Gunderstein knew his motive. The men around the editorial table were too
ideological, oriented to the Left, protective of the liberal view. It wouldn't
do to have them sit in judgment on one of their darlings.

"I don't understand," Nick lied. "These are
people of great independent spirit and judgment."

"That's not the point," Gunderstein said.

"Then what is?" Nick snapped. He couldn't understand
why he could not simply will the story out of existence. He had the power to do
so and he had accepted his surrender. Why did they complicate matters with
their insufferable principles? He felt himself losing patience, knew that
Gunderstein's view of him was diminishing. If he were Gunderstein he might feel
the same way. What would Gunderstein do in his place? He knew that too.
Gunderstein would have walked, turned his back and simply walked away. What
would Charlie have done?

"The decision is yours to make, Mr. Gold. You're our
editor."

"If the story has integrity, it should stand up before
these men."

"That's not their job," Gunderstein said with
conviction.

"I don't see why you're so wary, Harold," Phelps
said.

"The story stands by itself. It has nothing to do with
moral principles or your own feelings of guilt."

"That's absurd," Phelps said. "My feelings
are not involved."

"I really don't believe that, Robert,"
Gunderstein said quietly. Nick knew he was right. "It's not meant to be
insulting. You've been very helpful to the story, Robert. You've been a
corroborative source and a great help in shaping the story. In fact, your
knowledge of events in Viet Nam in 1963 has been crucial, the missing link.

"But this moral stuff is not relevant,"
Gunderstein said, ignoring the attempt to be insulting. "The story is
quite simple. Henderson is quite obviously running for President. He has
something in his past that bears on the question of his future leadership. Many
might condone his action or even the suspicion of his action. Others will
detest it. Who are we to ascribe constituencies? Make prejudgments on the
political impact of the story? That's all irrelevant. You mustn't let that
inhibit your judgment, Mr. Gold."

"I'm afraid it does, Harold," Nick said gently,
feeling Gunderstein's confusion.

"It shouldn't be submitted to the editorial
conference. They also deal in moral postures. It's not their job. I'd rather
you reject the story yourself than submit it to them."

"Well, it wouldn't frighten me," Phelps said,
pouting.

"Nor me," Martha said.

"It was just a suggestion," Nick said sheepishly.
"I wanted to be fair since my inclination is to reject it."

"I can't believe it," Phelps said.

"On what grounds, Mr. Gold?" Martha Gates asked.

He felt cornered, unable to come up with an adequate
explanation.

"I really feel put upon, Nick," Phelps said.
"You send for me from across the country. I feel misled. Used badly.
Really, Nick. It wasn't fair." It seemed odd to hear protestations of
unfairness from one his age. Coming from Martha Gates, who obviously agreed
with Phelps' assessment, it might not have seemed so out of character.

"You'll just have to live with your disillusionment,
Robert. After all, you managed it for more than a decade. You've had lots of
practice swallowing your sense of morality." He paused, feeling rotten.
"I'm sorry," he said, tasting the backwash of his own cowardice.

"Ours not to reason why," Phelps said sadly. He
seemed spent now, the optimism of his arrival gone.

"I don't see why you don't let him submit it to the
others," Martha said.

"Gunderstein is right," Nick said. It was, after
all, only a self-serving bureaucratic ploy, as Gunderstein knew.

"The story should be run," Gunderstein said.

Nick fingered the copy on his desk.

"I'll read it," he said. "I'll continue to
keep an open mind."

"That's doubtful," Phelps said bitterly. Nick let
it pass. Leave him something, he thought.

Gunderstein stood up, an action obviously protective of
Phelps. He knew now why he admired Gunderstein.

Gunderstein was truly the man in the hermetic room,
untouched by the river of emotion that threaded its way through a personal
life, the unencumbered observer, the true journalist. During the heady days
when they were pulling down the President, Gunderstein had been the centerpiece
of the drama, the man who shook the trunk of the tree itself, rattling the
coconuts to the ground. And yet he had never, like them, been ideologically
committed. Gunderstein had taken only the slice of the glory that was his,
while he and Myra glutted themselves on the moral niceties.

He would have liked to view the Henderson story from
Gunderstein's viewpoint. But he was hopelessly trapped, compromised by
position, by power, by age, by fear.

"I'll read it. That's the most I can promise," he
said.

"I want you all to know," Phelps began--one could
easily see he was headed for personal martyrdom.

"Don't, Robert," Nick warned, "it wouldn't
be any use."

"It's contemptible, an outrage," Phelps said.

"Restrain it," Nick pleaded.

Phelps sputtered, a fleck of saliva on his lip. His eyes
misted. "It's wrong, Nick, wrong." Martha Gates gripped Phelps' arm
and moved him out of the office.

Let them think what they wanted, he decided. Somewhere
along the line he would square it with Gunderstein. He watched them move from
his office, not at all graceful in their defeat. Martha Gates turned back and
watched him with unmistakable contempt.

"I'm sorry," he said, then seeing Gunderstein
hesitate, he waved him back.

"There are wheels within wheels, Harold," he
said, knowing that such a ridiculous explanation would hardly be adequate.

"Read the story, Mr. Gold."

"I will, Harold," he said, hoping that he could
explain his position without revealing his infamy. He could find no other word
to describe it, annoyed that Gunderstein could still find hope in the
possibility of publication. It is as dead as Kelsy's nuts, he wanted to say and
might have whispered it if Gunderstein had lingered a moment more.

Lighting a cigarette, he proceeded into the editorial
conference, where the men were waiting. Things went smoothly, the sourness of
their last two sessions muted with Bonville still pouting, nodding with eyes
fixed on his yellow pad, as they agreed on the positions of the next day's
editorials, bland subjects, it seemed.

"We could do something on gun control," Peterson
suggested.

"Shotguns will never be regulated," Henry Landau
said.

"Then how are these matters preventable?"
Peterson retorted.