NINE

Earlier that day, Rotondi had called Neil Simmons.

“Neil, it’s Phil Rotondi. I just left Polly at the Hotel George.”

“How is she?”

“She’s fine. Where are you now?”

“At the office. The press won’t leave me alone. I ducked in here to get rid of them.”

“Have you spoken with your father?”

“A couple of times. He wants to see you.”

“I was there this morning.”

“He wants you to call him.”

“As soon as I hang up on you.”

“I have to go to see the police this afternoon.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’m bringing a lawyer.”

“Can’t hurt, although you probably don’t need one at this stage.”

“You’re saying I will later?”

“Bring a lawyer, Neil. Look, I have to run. I’ll call your dad. Anything I can do for you?”

“Yes. Make it all go away.”

“If only I could.”

Rotondi had called Neil Simmons’s cell phone from the District ChopHouse and Brewery on Seventh Street, where he’d settled at the bar and enjoyed a beer and a cheeseburger. Although the restaurant was crowded and noisy, he felt very much by himself. He was good at that, creating solitude in the midst of chaos. Kathleen used to comment after leaving a party that he seemed in his own little world. To which he invariably replied, “I was, and it was a more pleasant place than the party.” He wasn’t necessarily antisocial, nor was he a stereotypical loner. But he treasured his inner spaces, and his ability to summon them when it suited.

He called Senator Simmons from outside the restaurant.

“Oh, Mr. Rotondi, the senator is waiting to hear from you. He’s in an important meeting, but he said to put you through.”

The senator’s voice broke in. “Hello, Phil. Polly arrived all right?”

“Yes. She’s at the hotel. I’m sure she’ll be calling.”

Would she?

“Hold on a second, Phil.” Rotondi heard Simmons ask those meeting with him to leave. When they had, he came back on the line. “Phil. I need a favor from you.”

“Sure.”

“The police have told me that I can go back to the house. I’d like you to come with me.”

Rotondi hesitated. “Sure you wouldn’t rather have Neil and Polly?” he said.

“I’d like you with me.”

Another pause from Rotondi.

“Please, Phil.”

“Okay. Emma and I are having dinner with friends tonight at seven. Other than that—”

“Come by the office at five. Walter will drive us.”

“I’ll be there. Oh, Lyle, by the way. I spoke with Neil a few minutes ago. He’s giving an interview to the police this afternoon.”

“I know. He was going without a lawyer. I told him to get smart. I’m negotiating now for a convenient time and place for them to interview me. It’s bad enough when you lose your wife, but they’re making it doubly hard. I can’t even arrange for a proper funeral for Jeannette. The medical examiner says he won’t release the body for God knows how long. See you at five. And thanks, Phil. I knew I could count on you.”

Rotondi went to Emma’s house, where he took Homer for a walk. He intended to make it a long one, but the combination of the heat—when would it break?—and his aching leg precluded that. He settled on the couch and watched the ongoing TV news reports about Jeannette’s murder. He tried to focus on what the talking heads were saying, but it was a lost cause. Images of times past dominated, rendering the words from the TV nothing more than a drone. He turned off the set, closed his eyes, and allowed his thoughts to take him where they wanted him to go, back to his senior year at the University of Illinois.

Back to when Jeannette was alive.

It had been two months since Rotondi first got up the courage to ask Jeannette Boynton out. He’d dated little during his first three years at the university. Between his studies, and basketball and track practice, there didn’t seem to be time for the opposite sex. At least that’s what he told himself. He often closed the library at night, and was the last athlete to leave the gym and weight room.

Not that he’d failed to notice the multitude of attractive coeds in his classrooms and around the campus. Nor was he a virgin. The sexual freedom of the 1960s was pervasive on campus, as it was across America. As a freshman, he’d had sex with a “townie,” a young woman from Champaign-Urbana. The experience had been revelatory. He wasn’t sure what he’d learned, but it had been pleasurable aside from the fear that she might become pregnant, which as far as he was concerned would ruin his life. Fathering a child out of wedlock, before his education was completed and he’d become a married man, would devastate his father. His relief was palpable when she called one evening to advise that she’d had her period. He didn’t see her again after that.

There had also been a woman back in Batavia, a waitress ten years older than he was, with whom he’d ended up in bed—twice. These brief encounters happened one week apart while he was home on the Christmas break during his junior year. She provided protection, and told him after their second experience that she was going back to her husband. Her decision made him happy.

None of these encounters was particularly memorable; nor had they piqued his masculine interests the way Jeannette did. When attending one of two political science classes he’d enrolled in early in his senior year, he often found himself tuning out the lecturer and looking at Jeannette, who sat one row in front and to his left. Objectively, she wasn’t any prettier than many other young women at the university, but there was something different about her, an intangible quality that tripped his male synapses and caused warm feelings from head to toe. They barely spoke in that classroom, nothing more than pleasant greetings and farewells.

Their first real conversation occurred in the coffee shop of the school’s Student Union. He was sitting alone at a booth studying for an English lit exam when she suddenly appeared at his side.

“Hi, Phil. Mind if I join you?”

“What? Oh, sure. Please do.”

“Studying?” she asked.

“Yeah. English lit.”

“Can I help? That’s my major.”

“It is? Thanks, but I don’t think so. Just have to finish this assigned reading and—”

“I saw the game last night. You were terrific.”

“Thanks. We almost lost it.”

“You scored the winning basket.”

“I got lucky.”

“You’re too modest. Where are you from?”

“Upstate New York. A small town called Batavia.”

“I know it.”

Her perfume was intoxicating. So was her smile. It was that smile that he’d first noticed in class, wide and genuine and full of life. She wore a powder-blue sweater over a white blouse, a simple gold chain, and gold earrings in the shape of tiny birds. Her large, hazel eyes said she was thinking of nothing but him.

“You do? Where are you from?”

“Greenwich, Connecticut.”

“Oh.” He’d heard that Greenwich was a wealthy place. “Connecticut’s pretty, huh?”

“It is. I like it.”

“Why did you decide to come to school out here?”

“My father thought it would be good for me to see another part of the country. I’m glad I did.” She moved as though she was about to leave. “I’ll leave you alone with your book,” she said.

“No, no, that’s okay. Want a cup of coffee or something?”

That smile. “I’d love it,” she said.

They spent the next half hour learning a little about each other. When she announced she had to leave, he stood.

“That’s so nice,” she said.

“What is?”

“That you stood. It’s so—so old-fashioned.” She sensed he might have taken it as a criticism and quickly added, touching his hand, “I like the old-fashioned way. There isn’t enough of it these days.”

“I’ll walk you home,” he said.

As they stood in front of the Alpha Phi house, he said, “We’re having a party Friday night at the fraternity house. I was wondering whether you’d like to go.”

“I’d like that very much, Philip. See you in class.”

She was gone, but only physically. The vision of her, her voice, her scent lingered far into the night as he sat in his room at the fraternity house and tried to finish the book he’d been assigned. It was after midnight when his roommate arrived.

“There you go again,” Simmons said, “hunched over a book. All work and no play—”

“I am doing some playing,” Rotondi said, allowing a sly smile to emerge.

“You are?” Simmons said, exaggerating how impressed he was. “A girl?”

“Yeah, a girl. Now shut up and let me finish before I flunk the exam tomorrow.”

Simmons laughed. His roommate was always expressing concern that he would do poorly on exams, but seemed never to receive anything but straight A’s.

The Friday-night party at the Kappa Phi Kappa house turned boisterous, as such parties often did. Beer flowed freely from a keg in the basement rec room, and there was a lot of male posturing for the benefit of the females. Lyle Simmons was absent for most of the party. He arrived a little after eleven, saw Rotondi sitting with Jeannette, gave his roommate a wink, and disappeared, not to be seen again that evening. Some of Rotondi’s fraternity brothers, including a few who were there without dates, spent time talking to Rotondi and Jeannette, and a few of their comments were inappropriate in Rotondi’s opinion. One frat brother in particular made a crude reference to Jeannette’s bosom. When he walked away, Rotondi muttered, “He’s such an ass, pardon my French.”

Jeannette laughed and grabbed his hand. “You don’t have to apologize, Philip. I’ve heard all the four-letter words, and three-letter ones, too.”

“He shouldn’t have said it in front of you,” he countered.

“It’s okay. I’ve heard worse. Want to dance?”

Despite being a skilled and graceful athlete, Rotondi knew he was a clumsy dancer, and told her that. His protestation went unheeded: “There you go being modest again,” Jeannette said. “Come on, just move with me.”

A slow tune came through the speakers, “Close to You” by the Carpenters. He was self-conscious not only because of his perceived shortcomings as a dancer, but also because he was in front of his fraternity brothers. He moved awkwardly to the strains of the music, enjoying the soft feel of her, her cheek against his, the sound of her humming along with the tune. When he developed the telltale sign that he’d become aroused, he pulled slightly away. She pulled him back, and he no longer fought the pleasure.

They left the party shortly after that dance, and he walked her home.

“Thanks for a nice evening, Philip,” she said.

“Thanks for coming with me,” he said.

“I really like you,” she said.

“I, ah—I really like you, too, Jeannette.”

She pulled him close and their kiss lasted for what seemed an eternity to him. When they disengaged, she asked, “When will I see you again?”

He caught his breath. “In class and—”

“I mean like this, silly, on a date.”

He grinned. He was in control of his senses again. “As soon as possible,” he said. “Next week?”

“Sure.”

“How about dinner? I think I can borrow a car.”

“Whatever you say.”

He floated back to the fraternity house. But once there, a set of conflicting emotions gripped him. There was euphoria. There was also a vague sense of dread. Jeannette Boynton was out of his league. She was from Greenwich, Connecticut, which a fraternity brother told him was one of the most expensive zip codes in America. Another classmate, also from Greenwich, knew of the Boynton family whose father, Charles Monroe Boynton, founded and was CEO of a New York City venture capital firm. Rotondi’s stomach tightened when hearing these things. This was never going to work, and he practiced what to say when telling her that it wasn’t a good idea for them to see each other again outside of class. He was certain that he’d come off the way he’d felt all evening, unworthy, bumbling, old-fashioned—yet she’d encouraged him to ask her out again. He was supremely confident on the basketball court and during track meets, and carried that confidence into his classes. But with her…

“I was wondering if tomorrow night would be good for you,” he told her when political science class ended on Monday.

“Sure.”

“I’ll see if I can borrow a car. Otherwise—”

“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “If you can’t, we’ll grab a bite at the Union.”

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll call you tonight.”

At noon, he went to the fraternity house, where he found Lyle Simmons in their room hunkering down with a textbook.

“Nice sight, if rare,” Rotondi said. “Got a minute?”

“This is all gobbledygook,” Simmons said, closing the book.

“I was wondering whether I could borrow your car tomorrow night, Lyle.”

“Tomorrow night? Sorry, pal, but I’ll need it. I’ve got a date. Hey, are you taking out that beauty—what’s her name?—Benson?”

“Boynton,” Rotondi said. “Jeannette Boynton.”

“How about this?” Simmons said. “We’ll double-date.”

“I don’t know, Lyle, I—”

“Cynthia and I thought we’d catch dinner at that new Italian restaurant outside of town. We’ll make it a foursome.” Cynthia was a redhead he’d been dating for the past couple of weeks.

“I hear it’s expensive,” Rotondi said.

“Hey, pal, it’ll be my treat.” He held up his hand against the expected protest. “I insist. What’s a few bucks when I can play Cupid for my best buddy? We’re on?”

Rotondi smiled. “Yeah. Thanks, Lyle. We’re on.”

The restaurant was faux Venice with murals of gondolas plying the canals and statues of nymphs spouting water through their mouths. Simmons was in his usual gregarious mood during the drive there, and continued to dominate the conversation at the table as a succession of courses were delivered; wineglasses were never empty.

“What does your father do?” Jeannette asked Simmons at one point in the conversation.

“Real estate in Chicago. He owns half of Lake Shore Drive.”

“Will you be going into business with him when you graduate?” Cynthia asked.

“Not me. I’m off to law school, U of Chicago. I tried to get my buddy here to come along, but he’s heading for Maryland. After that, who knows? I like politics.”

“Law school?” Jeannette asked Rotondi.

“Yup.”

“What does your dad do, Phil?” Cynthia asked.

He deflected the question with one of his own. “What’s your goal after graduation?” he asked.

She laughed loudly. “To marry a rich guy, have a bunch of kids, and live happily ever after.”

“How about you, Jeannette?” Simmons asked. “Same goal?”

“I’d like to teach English back home for a while,” she said. Her laugh was gentler. “So my dad doesn’t think he wasted money on my education. But sure, someday I’d like to be married and have a family.” She said to Simmons, “You want to go into politics?”

“I think so.”

“He’ll be president someday,” Rotondi said.

“Will you really?” Cynthia said with mock awe.

“Maybe,” Simmons replied. “Politics is where the action is. Everything that happens comes out of politics.”

“A lot of bad things,” said Cynthia.

“I like politics,” Jeannette said. “I worked back home in Connecticut on some local campaigns.”

“I bet you were good at campaigning,” Lyle said.

“I worked hard,” she said.

“The way I see it,” Lyle said, “I…”

The discussion of their respective goals went on for the rest of the meal. Rotondi, always a good listener, took in what they said without offering many comments of his own. His goals, he decided, weren’t worth discussing. He’d always been a tightly focused person, comfortable dealing with the here and now and convinced that overall success was achieved by a series of smaller successes, one upon another—excel on today’s exam, win today’s game, chase the next goal, and face the next challenge as each came, one at a time. The others at the table spoke in more sweeping terms about their futures than he preferred to contemplate. He recognized that his approach to life might be termed shortsighted by those with distant visions. Having money helped fuel grandiosity, he knew. For him, there hadn’t been the luxury of dreams beyond the day’s challenge. And that was all right. He was comfortable with it—and with himself.

Later, Rotondi and Simmons sat in their room.

“Thanks for treating us,” Phil said.

“My pleasure,” said Lyle.

“Cynthia’s very nice,” Phil said.

“She’s okay. She’s not the brightest bulb in the drawer but it’s not her brains that attract me. Speaking of brains, you’ve landed yourself a real winner, all that beauty—and brains, too.”

“I really like Jeannette.”

“That’s pretty obvious, Phil. I assume you’ll be seeing her again.”

“She’s—well, I’m not sure she’s for me.”

Simmons laughed. “You talk like you’re thinking of marrying her.”

Rotondi joined the laughter. “The last thing I’m thinking about is getting married, Lyle. I’ve got law school ahead of me and getting a career started before I marry anyone. I just like being with her.”

“She’s obviously money, Phil. Getting hitched to her could make getting through law school a breeze and set you up with a nice, fat law practice.”

Rotondi searched for something on his desk rather than responding. Lyle often viewed things from the perspective of money, which made Rotondi uncomfortable.

“Well, I’m glad you finally hooked up with a nice gal, Phil. I was getting worried about you. Is my roommate queer? I wondered.”

“Say you didn’t think that,” Rotondi said.

“Of course I didn’t. Just having some fun.” Simmons stood. “Time to hit the sack.”

“I’ve got a couple of hours with the books before I do that,” Rotondi said.

Simmons changed into pajamas and retired to the dormitory that took up the entire third floor of the house. Rotondi started to study but found his mind wandering, which bothered him. He’d meant what he’d said: Marriage was the last thing on his mind. But he couldn’t help envisioning being married to Jeannette Boynton. He fell to the floor and did a series of push-ups to clear such visions from his mind. Tomorrow’s exam took center stage, and he studied until three.