On Monday morning, December 20th, the day after they got back from Ireland, Judy hitched up the skirt of her sari, said “Excuse me, gotta run,” and cut in front of Hank’s wheelchair to chase after Rosemary down the tenth-floor center hallway.
She caught up with her outside the ladies’ room and pulled her in. “Rosemary, I’ve got to talk to you,” she said, closing the door. She crouched, checked under stall doors, and stood up, catching her breath, smoothing her sari.
“My gosh, Judy,” Rosemary said, rubbing her arm. “From I Walked with a Zombie to this? I’m glad you’ve recovered.”
“I’m sorry,” Judy said. “About the way I behaved—it was all I could do to get through the trip—and for hurting you now. I’m so anxious to get out of here. I’m leaving. Please, can we get together this evening? We must!”
“Leaving?” Rosemary said.
Judy nodded. “Leaving GC, leaving New York.”
“Oh Judy, I know you and Andy have problems—”
“Had,” Judy said. “It’s over. I knew it the second night in Dublin. Remember? That was the night he had the fever, after you and he got caught in the rain—where was it, in the park?”
Rosemary nodded.
Judy sighed. “He used to like it when I had to play nurse or Mommy—all men do, or so I hear—but that night he—oh, I’ll tell you later. Please, you have to make time. There’s too much to tell you now, and I have to tell you before I go. And I want your counsel too about certain things.”
“Judy,” Rosemary said, “in my culture, which is basically Omaha with a thin overlay of New York, women really don’t like hearing details about their sons’ private affairs.”
“It’s nothing like that,” Judy said. “Not in the sense you mean. It involves matters you’ll be reading about anyway, in April or May, if not sooner.”
Rosemary looked at her. “What do you mean?” she asked.
“I’ll tell you everything later,” Judy said. “And I beg you, don’t tell Andy I’m leaving. I’ll call him tomorrow or late tonight, but I’ll never make the break if I have to face him. He gives me his soul-searching looks and romantic words and completely derails me every time; I despise myself for it.”
Rosemary drew a breath, and said, “Okay. Tonight. Eight o’clock?”
“Thank you,” Judy said, taking her hands, clasping them. “Thank you.”
They went out into the hallway. Hank sat waiting a few yards away, his moon face aglow, his eyes twinkling behind his glasses. “Okay, Rosemary,” he said, “let’s have the scoop about you and the King!”
Judy said, “Oh yes please! I intended to broach the subject!”
“There is no scoop whatsoever,” Rosemary said. “You know those Brit reporters, so-called. He kissed my hand; what was he supposed to do, slap me?”
“Oh well,” Hank said, “there’s fun news here. I’ve got the weekend poll results.”
“They’re good?” Rosemary asked.
Judy, touching her shoulder, said, “They’re great. See you later.” She kissed Rosemary’s cheek, said “Hank . . .”
“Take care,” Rosemary said, and moved closer to Hank’s chair.
“For the first full week the commercial’s been running,” Hank said, “ ‘Make them light candles’ is down from an average of twenty-two percent to thirteen. Look.”
“I don’t believe it,” Rosemary said, bending to read printouts. She whistled, read.
Hank smiled, watching her. He leaned his head side-ways, said, “Hi.”
Rosemary turned, standing straight, and said “Hi” to Sandy in the ladies’ room doorway—serene and blond in high-collared beige, even more Tippi-Hedren-in-The-Birds than usual. She must have been in one of the farthest stalls—too far away, surely, to have overheard what Judy had said.
Coming out smiling, Sandy said, “Hello. Welcome back. I was hoping you wouldn’t be too jet-lagged to come in. What an exciting trip that must have been! You were a vision in the Belfast gown.”
“See you later,” Hank said, wheeling around and heading up the hallway.
“All right, give!” Sandy said, coaxing Rosemary with both red-nailed hands. “What’s with His Majesty?”
“Absolutely nothing,” Rosemary said. “You know those Brit reporters, so-called.”
They followed after Hank’s chair, their heads close together.
Craig came down the hallway. He and Hank played at blocking and pushing, then Hank showed him the printouts and everybody huddled over them a minute or two.
Then Rosemary waved and went into the TV division, Hank rode on up the hallway, and Craig headed for the men’s room. Sandy stayed where she was. “Craig,” she said. “We have to talk when you’re through.”
* * *
One of the strangest things to the fresh eyes and ears of Rip Van Rosie was the way everybody in 1999 wrote and talked about terrorists claiming responsibility for their atrocities. Sister Agnes would have split her ruler and deepened the scars in her desk: “We claim that which is good!” Whap! “Responsibility implies intelligence and maturity!” Whap! “They’re admitting guilt!” Whap! “Shame on those who say otherwise!” Whap!
Though Andy had cooled terrorism way down from last year’s terrible peak, acts of violent barbarity still occurred, and not only in the Middle East. The morning they landed in Belfast, they had learned that over six hundred people in Hamburg had been killed by a new variant of an old terrorist gas. No one had yet “claimed responsibility.” The affected area, a dozen square blocks near the harbor, was still toxic. Details were being withheld.
Rosemary had spoken to Andy on the plane home about the possibility of his doing a commercial or speech aimed at getting everyone to stop speaking Terrorist, so that those of them remaining and growing up would be goosed in the direction of thinking Civilized. He had agreed it was a good idea for next year, but he hadn’t sounded wildly enthusiastic, so she was putting together some thoughts on possible approaches she’d stored in her memo gizmo, with the aim of either getting him more stirred up or doing something herself on the subject somewhere down the line.
That was what she really wasn’t concentrating on while she waited for him to call about the nine-point drop in “Make them light candles.” That’s radiation!
He was busy with someone. He had to have seen the printouts by now.
After another half hour or so, she called him—and got his recorded message.
She called Hank and got his message.
She got up to speak to Craig. Opened the door and goggled.
No Film Society!
No Craig, no Kevin, no nobody . . .
Nothing on the three TV’s; how’s that for weird?
She moved out amid the empty cubicles, where, if she cocked an ear and squinted, she could usually detect signs of life in the central hallway and the legal division beyond—a shift of light, a footfall, the far-off artillery of a computer game . . .
Not today.
Stillness unbroken.
She went back into the office.
Called Sandy, got her message.
She looked at the date of the Times—Monday, December 20, 1999 (hamburg death toll mounts . . .)—and finally realized why everybody had taken off so mysteriously.
And why she should take off too. Right now.
Only five more shopping days till Christmas.
* * *
In her shades and a kerchief, dark sweater, and slacks, she browsed the Christmas-decorated windows of the lobby boutiques. Bellmen waved white-gloved fingers; she waved back, paused for a laugh and a word. “You know those British reporters . . .”
She had sent sweaters from Dublin to her whole list of siblings, siblings-in-law, nephews, and nieces—but that still left everyone here to find gifts for: the GC crew (seven men, five women), a few members of the hotel staff who had earned more than just cash in an envelope (two men, two women), and Andy and Joe.
Andy, of course, had presented a problem.
Last Christmas had been a breeze—a tricycle, jigsaw puzzles, and a couple of Dr. Seuss books. This Christmas, a little over six months later, was different somehow, with him nearly twenty-eight years older and knowing who his real father was. Not a problem of what, but of whether.
Give him a present for His birthday?
Yes, she had decided. In a way it was like the don’t-speak-Terrorist thing: keep him aware of the alternative.
She priced gloves in the Gucci boutique, costume jewelry at Lord & Taylor, cologne at Chanel.
In the Hermès boutique she picked out half a dozen kerchiefs and a scarf. She would give the scarf to Judy tonight—if she couldn’t get her to change her mind about leaving. Couldn’t she and Andy stay friends? (And what had she meant by that unsettling “matters you’ll be reading about anyway, in April or May”?)
She paid with her credit card, reminding herself that regardless of who had planned and initiated GC—and let’s not think about him at this time of year!—its funding today came mainly from plutocrats like René What’s-his-nom, who also contributed to a separate fund earmarked specifically for Andy’s personal expenses; he had told her about it when he had given her the card, before they left for Ireland. No one in his or her right mind expected people today to identify with and be guided by someone who didn’t live well. Get real, Mom. As for the dimes and dollars, and pesos et cetera that came in to GC’s offices, that money all went entirely to local social programs and expenses; the IRS and its foreign cousins saw to that.
Okay. But she looked forward to Christmas shopping with her own money next year.
In the Sulka boutique she examined a handsome black satin robe trimmed and lined in royal blue that would be super on Andy. Wildly expensive, of course, and maybe a little too bedroomy, but a possibility . . .
She got back to the suite a little after four, having kept a two-thirty appointment for a hair touch-up and questions about the King. She’d barely gotten the shades off when the private line beeped; Andy had been trying to reach her.
“Hi, I wasn’t going to bother you with this but then I remembered, wasn’t Luther one of the plays Andy’s father was in on Broadway?” Diane, an assumer-you-know-the-voice.
Rosemary said, “Yes . . .”
“I thought so. You may want to give these kids a hand. They’re doing a revival of it, off-Off-Broadway, just started rehearsals. It turns out the owner of the space is a Lutheran; he says it’s heresy and he’s kicking them out on some technicality. The check was two seconds late.”
“If he’s a Lutheran why does he think it’s heresy?” Rosemary asked. “It’s a pro-Luther play.”
“Do I know what’s in the man’s head? All I know is they’ve got two days before they’re out on the sidewalk, they’re having some kind of rally, and the director is the granddaughter of an old friend. If you could give them five minutes on freedom of speech, it would get them on the news and in the papers and save the day. That’s the theory. Frankly I don’t think the landlord will budge; he’s pulled crap like this before and gotten away with it.”
Rosemary said, “Where and when is this rally?”
She called Judy at her apartment. Got her message and held on. After the beep she said, “Judy, this is Rosemary. Could we possibly—”
“I’m here, Rosemary. What is it?”
“Hi,” she said. “Could we possibly make it a little later tonight? There’s this rally for some kids who are putting on a show . . .” She explained.
“Yes, of course! Help them! What a terrible thing when people try to stop the expression of ideas! Although, if the check was late and the man owns the property—”
“I’ll be back by nine, according to Diane,” Rosemary said, “but it’s on Carmine Street in the Village so let’s say nine-thirty to be safe.”
“That’s fine for me. I’m packing; I can use the time.”
“Don’t be in such a hurry,” she said. “Let’s talk a little.”
“My mind is made up. Speak well. What do they say? Break a leg.”
She called Diane. Said only a low-pitched “Okay.”
“Oh good. It just may work; wouldn’t that be nice. I’ll arrange for a car. Seven-thirty?”
“I’m going to call Joe,” she said. “If he wants to go, he may want to give his own car a workout. I’ll call back. Have you seen Andy today?”
“I haven’t seen anyone except my maid. I’m in bed with sciatica.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Diane!”
She called Joe at his apartment.
“Yeah, sure. We can use my car. Will he be there?”
“Andy?”
“The Lutheran.”
“Joe,” she said.
“Maybe we have some friends in common, that’s all. I know theater owners. What time?”
She called Diane and got the address. “Your contact is the stage manager, Phil something. Oh, and congratulations on the polls!” The buzzer buzzed, Andy’s buzz.
“Andy’s here now,” Rosemary said. “I’ll let you know how it goes.”
“Give him my—”
She clapped the phone down and hurried to the door as Andy buzzed again. She opened and roses came at her, rose-smelling roses round and red like the roses surrounding magi.
Andy beamed at her—too brightly? “Count them,” he said, giving her the bundle of stems wrapped in the lobby florist’s gold paper.
“They’re beautiful,” she said, cradling the bouquet, “thank you”—watching his face as he came in and closed the door. “Is something wrong?” she asked.
“You jest,” he said. “Count them.”
Nine.
“For the nine-point drop,” he said. “That’s radiation!”
“That’s what I thought!” They pressed cheeks, kissed them. “Oh thank you, darling,” she said, “they really are beautiful!” She nuzzled her face in the roses.
“Your hair looks different,” he said, unzipping his jacket.
“You like it? Ernie got inspired.” She showed him both sides.
Squinting, his head cocked, he said, ‘Mmmmm . . . it’s going to take a teeny bit of getting used to.”
“I love it,” she said, opening the kitchen as he took his jacket off and dropped it. “Where’ve you been all day?” She opened a cabinet.
“The Mayor flew a bunch of us up to Albany,” he said, “to beg the Governor about the hospital bill.”
She got out a cut-glass vase. “And that’s how you dressed?”
“Yeah,” he said. Nodded. “And boy, was the Governor pissed off.” They smiled at each other. He leaned against the counter, watching her as she put the roses into the vase. He said, “The thing I had on for tonight was canceled. You want to go to a movie?”
“Can’t,” she said, leaning back, squinting. “I’m speechifying, briefly.” She explained, jockeying the roses.
He said, “I’d love to hear you.”
“Come on along,” she said, “but Joe’s taking me in his car. “It’s a two-seater, isn’t it?”
“Three,” he said.
Running water into the vase with the spray hose, she looked at him and said, “On one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“Not one ‘old buddy,’ ‘old man,’ or ‘old pal,’” she said. “Not one in the entire evening.”
“What are you talking about?” he said. “I don’t—”
“Oh Andy,” she said, wiping the vase, “honestly! I really expect a little more subtlety from you. You know perfectly well what I mean.”
“All right,” he said, walking away toward the TV, “all right, all right . . .”
“I’m going inside,” she said, carrying the vase to the coffee table. “I want to rest and make some notes. If you’re staying, there’s half a ham-and-Swiss in the fridge. Or just take it with you if you want. I’m going to order something around six. Joe’s coming at seven-thirty.”
“Here’s Van Buren.” Andy stood at the TV, holding the remote. “Did you hear? He cut both gun lines out of his stump speech.”
“Because of the commercial?” she asked.
“He reads polls.”
Mike Van Buren, in a cowboy hat, against a blue sky, his breath pluming, said above several hand-held microphones, “—sides can cool down a little, don’t you? The Original Sons of Liberty now say that if they’re not being pushed, they’ll reconsider lighting, so it really does look as if, thanks to Rosemary’s thoughtful, heartfelt message, and Andy’s too of course, we’re all coming together as a nation.”
Andy clapped his chest. “My career is over!” he cried.
Laughing, Rosemary said, “Oh God, he’s moving toward the center; he’ll be the next president because of us!”
Chuckling, channel-hopping, Andy said, “No way, I promise you.”
“You never know in politics,” she said.
“Trust me on this one,” he said.