Senator Page 8

  "She's way beyond both of us, I think." I had set his mind at ease. I had survived; Kathleen had survived; the world would go on.

  He took another sip of his drink. "I never met a person who got murdered before," he said. "At least, not that I know of."

  "You met her?"

  "Sure. She came out here to interview me—two, three weeks ago." I tried not to look as if this news surprised me, but my father could tell. "I would've cleared it with you," he hastened to add, "but you know I don't like bothering you. You haven't minded before when I give interviews. And then it just slipped my mind."

  "Oh, no, it's okay, it's just that... maybe you'll have to talk to the police now. I hate to get you involved in all this."

  "Don't worry about it. It's too bad, though, about her. She seemed very nice."

  "Did you tell her good things about me?"

  "Oh, I said you were all right for a Republican. She thought that was very funny."

  "Swell."

  We sat in near darkness and continued our visit, although I found it hard to concentrate. Amanda had been here, had probably sat in this chair. What was she looking for? What did she think she could get from my father?

  I asked about his health; he complained. He asked about the campaign; I told funny stories. We talked about Dickens, whom I hadn't glanced at since college. I offered to do any chores that needed doing; he couldn't think of any. These Sunday evening visits had been going on for so long that they were now like a ritual. They were probably the most important thing in my father's life, although he wouldn't dream of telling me that, any more than I would tell him the truth about Amanda.

  He went to the bathroom, and I looked around the apartment. His world was so small now: a few rooms filled with faded furniture from our old house in Brighton; a few old friends—every year fewer. And memories, although it was impossible to tell if he spent his days drifting through the past. Where was the evidence? There was only one photograph of me in the place: of the two of us, actually, on the Capitol steps after my swearing in. And one of Danny, scoring the winning touchdown against South Boston High.

  And none of my mother.

  But what did that prove? Gramma told me once that he never got over my mother's death. Of course, she was as sentimental as my father is gruff. But I think she was probably right. What do you need photographs for if your past is so much more powerful than the present that it is what seems real, while the present is just a vague succession of TV shows and novels and nagging ailments?

  "Another?" my father asked as he emerged from the bathroom.

  I shook my head, as I almost always did when he made the ritual offer. "I'm driving."

  "Well, I'm not going anywhere," he said, and he poured himself some more bourbon.

  "You should take a trip," I said. "Go on a cruise maybe."

  "I've been everywhere I want to go."

  "You've never been anywhere."

  "Well, that sums me up in a nutshell, wouldn't you say?"

  "You could come with Liz and Kathleen and me. We'll go to Bermuda after the election."

  "Liz would just love that, wouldn't she? No, I'll just stay here and tackle Little Dorrit."

  "Bring Little Dorrit with you."

  My father just laughed. "Imagine my bony knees in those shorts." He laughed some more. "Imagine your bony knees."

  "My knees are exquisite," I said. "Some magazine named me one of the ten sexiest politicians in Washington."

  "Don't believe everything you read, Jimmy. You'll never get anywhere in life if you do."

  "I'll try to remember that."

  There was a loud knocking on the door. My father and I exchanged a glance. "I wonder who that could be," he murmured.

  "I'll put the bottle away," I replied. We knew who it was. Danny was aware of our Sunday evening ritual and had been known to butt in, especially when he'd been drinking. I was relieved that I would finally get a chance to talk to him, but I was also frightened of what he might have to tell me.

  I shoved the bourbon into the kitchen cabinet next to the refrigerator while my father answered the door. "Why, Daniel, what a pleasant surprise," I heard him say.

  I came out of the kitchen and saw my brother grinning his world-class grin at my father. "Dad," he said. "And Jim," he added when he saw me. "Our little family, together again."

  "Hi, Danny," I said.

  He was wearing a raincoat that looked vaguely familiar. I could smell the liquor on his breath from across the room. He walked past my father and ensconced himself in my father's favorite armchair. Under the raincoat he was wearing a white dress shirt, open at the collar, and faded jeans. "Any more of that?" he asked, pointing to my father's glass of bourbon.

  "Fresh out," I said.

  Danny looked as if he were deciding whether to be an obnoxious drunk or an obliging one. He pulled at his ear and sneezed and chose to be obliging. He waved a hand as if to say that it was okay, he'd forgive us this once. "Doesn't matter, long as I'm in the bosom of my family," he said. He blew his nose, then folded his hands on his stomach and smiled beatifically.

  When I look at my father, I see myself grown old; when I look at Danny, I see myself gone bad. Well, not bad, exactly: tired; defeated; helpless.

  He was born less than a year before me; we were "Irish twins," as they used to refer to such siblings. And our appearance has always been as close as our age: the same black, curly hair and pale skin, the same dark eyes. He had the readier smile, although I had proved that I could smile with the best of them, too. But now there were slight differences between us, perhaps only noticeable to a twin: the sprinkle of gray in his sideburns, the bulge of his belly over his pants. The deadness in his eyes, even when smiling. The slight tremor in his hand when he reached for his glass. The difference between success and failure, between someone who is trying to keep winning and someone who is trying desperately to stop losing.

  "A little glitch in the campaign, eh, Jimmy?" he said.

  "Nothing we can't handle."

  "Wouldn't be so sure," he said. "Voters can turn on a guy real fast nowadays." Danny liked to pretend that he knew something about politics. What he said was right, of course, but that didn't mean anything. It's easy to pontificate. "You were looking for me, Jim?" he asked innocently.

  "We need to talk," I said.

  "What about?"

  I gave him a stare that would have reduced most of my staff to tears. Danny was oblivious.

  "Can I get you some coffee, Danny?" my father broke in. He looked nervous. This obscure conflict between his children was more than he could handle.

  "Coffee. Great," Danny said.

  Relieved, my father headed off to the kitchen.

  Danny got up and gazed at the two photographs: me on the steps of the Capitol, him on the football field, long ago. What must he have felt when he looked at them, side by side? "She was a stunner, wasn't she?" he said, his back to me. "Amanda Taylor. Name reeks of money. Where'd the paper say she was from? Wayland? Weston? Probably rode horses, you think? Lunch at the country club, put it on Daddy's bill. Want a little condo in the Back Bay? Sure, princess. Whatever makes you happy."

  "You talked to her, didn't you?" I said.

  He turned and looked at me. "You didn't tell me not to, did you?"

  "You bastard," I whispered.

  "Milk and sugar, right?" my father asked, returning to the room.

  "Great," Danny replied. He blew his nose again. He really did look sick.

  "How about those Patriots, huh?" my father said. "Gonna stink it up again this year?"

  Danny didn't respond. I could feel both of them looking at me. My father counted on me to take care of things. Why wasn't I doing that now?

  "How's business, Danny?" my father tried. "Picking up now that summer's over?"

  "Business sucks," Danny said.

  I stood up. "I'm driving Danny home," I said.

  "But what'll he do about—"

  "He can come back and get his car when
he's sober. He's got no business driving in this condition anyway. Right, Danny?"

  Once again he faced a choice, and miraculously he chose not to be obnoxious. "Whatever you say, Jim. Wouldn't look good to have your brother picked up for drunk driving, right?"

  "I have a funeral to attend tomorrow," I said. "I don't want to go to one the day after, too."

  A cloud seemed to pass over his face, but then he shrugged and got to his feet.

  "I could drive Danny's car," my father said, "but my eyes... after dark—"

  "Don't worry about it," I said. "It's his problem. I'll see you next Sunday. Let me know how Bleak House turns out."

  "Oh, the lawyers'll win," he replied. "The lawyers always win."

  "Will our lawyer win?" Danny asked, gesturing at me. "Things don't look so great for him all of a sudden."

  "Don't worry about Jim," my father said. "You just take care of yourself."

  "But I'm my brother's keeper, am I not? My brother's keeper."

  "You've got it backwards, I think," I said, as I hustled him out the door, with my father gazing anxiously after us. As he closed the door behind us, I realized where I had seen Danny's raincoat before. It used to be mine. Liz must've given it to Melissa at some point when things were especially bad. Did Danny realize that? He couldn't have known, or he would never have worn it.

  We walked out of the courtyard and into the parking lot. "Good old Buick," Danny said when he saw my car. "Wouldn't do for a senator to be driving around in some foreign car, would it?"

  Right again. He could be right forever, though, and it wouldn't make a bit of difference, because I was the senator. We got in the car and headed off to Brighton, and finally I had the chance to find out just what my brother had done to me.

  "Why the hell did you tell her about Jackie Scanlon?" I demanded.

  "What makes you think I did that?" Danny said.

  "Because Scanlon told me Amanda knew about the Sea-Star, and she was interviewing people and trying to get a confirmation about me and him. He's telling me this in Southie at the same time she's being murdered in the Back Bay. So what am I supposed to tell the police? Oh, I've got an alibi, all right. I was in a meeting with the second biggest mobster in New England, trying to figure out how to keep the murder victim from writing a story that would destroy my career. The Democrats would love to know that."

  That shut Danny up for a moment. "I guess I should have told you," he muttered finally.

  "But why the hell did you say anything to her in the first place? How could you be that stupid? It's your ass, too."

  "She knew already," Danny replied, on the defensive now. "She said: 'Your brother and Scanlon had a deal, right? He kept Scanlon out of prison while he was attorney general, right?' So what was I supposed to do? I had to give our side. Your side. I was just protecting you."

  "What do you mean, she knew already? How could she have found out? I didn't tell her, and Scanlon certainly had no reason to tell her."

  "I don't know how she knew. Maybe it was one of Scanlon's buddies; those guys are always knifing each other in the back."

  "Scanlon swears it wasn't his people. None of them know. It was too important to tell any of them. He figured it had to be you. Did you ask her how she knew?"

  "Of course I did. She was real cagey. Protecting her sources, she said."

  "Sources? Plural? More than one?"

  "Source, sources, I don't know. Jesus, don't play your lawyer games with me."

  "This isn't a game, Danny. I need to know everything. Did she say what she was going to do with the information?"

  "No. I assumed it was for this book she was writing."

  And then I asked the most important questions of all. "Did she tape the interview, Danny? Did she take notes?"

  He didn't respond. I looked over at him. He was chewing on a knuckle. "I don't know," he said. "Maybe. I don't remember."

  "That's great. Try re-creating the scene in your mind. Where was it?"

  "Her apartment," he replied grudgingly.

  "Okay. You're sitting in her living room. White walls, bookshelves, glass coffee table. She puts a little black machine on the table between you and her, says you shouldn't let it intimidate you—"

  "I don't fucking remember, all right?"

  "Were you drinking before the interview?"

  "Jesus Christ, I don't know. Nothing out of the usual."

  "So you'd been drinking."

  "Drinking, drinking. I'm always drinking. What else is there to do?"

  "I don't know. Ask Melissa. Ask your children."

  If there was a tape, if there were notes, why hadn't Mackey and Tobin arrested me by now? All they had to do was listen to the tape and they had their motive. Were they taking their time, digging deeper?

  I wanted to cross-examine my brother some more. I wanted to bludgeon him into submission, into telling the truth. But it suddenly seemed like a waste of time. "What exactly did you say, Danny?" I asked, as calmly as I could. "What exactly did she say? I've got to know. I've got to know what might be on the tape."

  "I said enough," he replied. "She said enough. I mean... it's there. Okay?"

  What else was there to say? "Okay."

  We were silent for a moment. "You're going to lose the election, aren't you?" Danny said finally.

  "If they find out about Scanlon and me, of course I am."

  "Maybe we'll both be out of work before long."

  I shook my head. "That's the least of our worries at this point, Danny."

  We headed into Brighton, a working-class neighborhood in the northwest corner of Boston. Irish Catholic in our day, now increasingly occupied by Cambodians and Vietnamese. My father and I had gotten out long ago; Danny had been left behind. Or, rather, he had chosen to stay behind. He could complain all he wanted about fate and bad luck, but all his life he had made choices that had brought him to where he was today.

  "Look," Danny said. "They've put in a video store where Callahan's pharmacy used to be. Remember those Coke floats we used to get there for a nickel?"

  I didn't respond. Danny was always filled with memories, especially when the present was painful—as it usually was for him. I gazed at the convenience stores and the ATMs and the shabby condos as we headed toward Danny's home; I saw the signs printed in Vietnamese; I saw black kids with strange patterns cut in their hair hanging on the corner and staring back at us. Brighton had been a different place back then—and yet not so different. It was still a dreary urban neighborhood that people got out of when they had the chance.

  Returning to Brighton always made me uneasy, as if the choices I had made were not irreversible, and I could end up back here with my Irish twin, Hingham and the Senate and everything else just a memory or a fantasy.

  It was utterly improbable in the first place. Danny was the one who should have made it big; Danny was the one who should have been in politics. After all, he was named after Daniel O'Connell, the Irish statesman. After all, he was the one who had girls adoring him and guys admiring him from as early as I can remember. I was the shy one, resigned to living in his shadow. All I wanted to do was to get good grades, to be well behaved, to please Gramma and my father. I had so much to make up for.

  It was all my fault, you see. I don't know when or how I figured this out. I certainly can't believe that my family would have consciously instilled this belief in me—although perhaps Danny, in a bullying mood... At any rate, I believed it. Believed it was my fault that my mother died. In the deepest recesses of my soul I still believe it today.

  And it's true in a sense. She died from giving birth to me. Puerperal fever. It sounds so Victorian; in fact, it was on its way out back in my mother's day, with the discovery of antibiotics. I never learned the details; my father was not the kind to volunteer them, and I was afraid to ask. All I knew was that after she had me, she got sick, and then she died of that disease with the awful name. For years I thought it was called "purple" fever, and I imagined my mother turning a deep bl
oody color in the course of dying, as if she had held her breath for far too long. I would stand in front of a mirror and hold my own breath, imagining that I, too, could come down with puerperal fever if I had the courage to keep from exhaling for long enough.

  Danny had no such morbid thoughts, I believe. If anything, he figured that the world owed him, having taken away his mother at such an early age. He did whatever came easily to him, whatever had the surest reward. In school that was athletics. So he became a football star.

  And oh, the glory! What can compare with those adolescent triumphs? When you're an adult, you know too much, your triumphs are always tinged with sadness, tempered by wisdom. This, too, will pass. They love me in November; they'll forget my name by January. But when you're in high school, you don't think like that; certainly Danny didn't. He was great then, and he assumed that he would always be great.

  He was mistaken.

  The high point came when he got a football scholarship to Notre Dame. Notre Dame! My father didn't have much use for Catholic education, but he couldn't very well object to Notre Dame or to a scholarship; a postal worker's salary wasn't going to put the two of us through college.

  But the leap from Brighton High to the real world, to the big leagues, proved to be too much for Danny; he didn't make it through his freshman year at South Bend. He complained about the coaches; he complained about the hicks out in Indiana; he complained about the boring courses and the boring professors. He was homesick, obviously. His attachment to his home was far stronger than mine, even though I went to college just across the river in Cambridge.

  But if that was his only problem, why didn't he transfer to a school nearer home and try again—at Boston College up the street, for example, or Holy Cross a few miles away in Worcester? The problem was clear enough, at least to me: in college he would have to work to succeed, and he was unwilling to do that.

  Instead he enlisted in the Navy. What was left of his good luck kept him away from Vietnam, but other than that the service didn't do him much good. He certainly didn't come back with a more mature perspective on life. He didn't come back ready to leave Brighton behind and make his way in the real world. He came back wanting to own a bar.