Decision (8 page)

“I don’t see very damned many signs of it.”

“Well,” she said, gone away, dismissing it and him in one of the rapid mood changes that seemed to be increasingly frequent, “don’t worry about it. I won’t leave you. I’ll stick around and be your dutiful little Supreme Court wife, if that ever comes.”

He hesitated for a fraction of a second and then put it into words.

“What makes you so sure I don’t want you to leave me? What makes you so sure I won’t leave you?”

“And jeopardize your career?” She gave a hoot of disbelieving laughter. “Oh, come on, now, Mr. Justice! Never that! Never, never,
never
that!”

All he could manage was a “Don’t be so sure!”—which sounded weak. And was weak, for he was certain, then, that she was right.

And yet, he told himself later as he drove in silence to the Spanish Embassy—and yet. Whatever was left of it for her, if anything, there was much still left for him. He had loved her very much once, and the residue could not be dismissed so ruthlessly. He still sought desperately from time to time for some way to re-establish it, but increasingly in these recent months he found himself gradually giving up the fight, retiring more and more into the patient uncommunicative silence he observed in so many Washington unions that gave substance to the standard aphorism, “Washington is full of great men and the women they married when they were young.” Increasingly he found that this concentrated his thoughts and emotions on Janie, who gave promise of developing into a stunning young lady, beautiful, intelligent, lively and interested in a thousand things, most particularly her father’s career.

“I suppose she wants to be a lawyer, too,” Cathy suggested, having without comment made a few brief notes on his brief comments about his marriage: “a real partnership … a sharing of mutual interests … her consistent and helpful devotion to my career … think you’ll agree she’s considered one of Washington’s best hostesses, which has been of great assistance … always supportive, always helpful…”

Whatever Cathy thought about this—and she had already made clear in tone and glance that she didn’t think much—she did not quite dare challenge him openly. All she did was grow increasingly silent and thoughtful as he telescoped some fifteen years of happy marriage and four or five increasingly unhappy ones into a few bland sentences from which emerged a picture of domestic partnership resting on a solid foundation of love and mutual absorption in his career.

“So you really aren’t going to get a divorce after all,” she said at the end, mockery muted but present. “You had me fooled for a minute there. That’s
good.
There has to be
something
solid in this world, and I’m glad you and Mrs. Barbour are
it.
It restores one’s faith.”

“I hope so,” he said, matter-of-factly, giving her an impassive gaze, which she returned with an amused and unmistakable skepticism in her eyes. But he continued to stare at her with a bland interest and after a moment her eyes dropped and she made the pretense of another note.

“So,” she said, “tell me about Jane. I suppose she wants to be a lawyer, too.”

“Janie,” he said, eyes and voice suddenly filling with pride, “is quite a girl. She’s almost fifteen—tall-blond-dark-eyed, which makes for a combination—everything in the right proportions and getting more so-charming—lovable—extremely intelligent—quick-witted—just a hell of a bright kid.”

“And obviously the apple of daddy’s eye.”

“Obviously,” he conceded with a smile. “But she deserves to be. She’s at the top of her class at Madeira School right now, associate editor of the school paper, going to be editor, captain of the basketball team, head of the social committee, president of the honor society—you name it, she’s got it. And she does think she wants to be a lawyer, yes. I think some astute young man is going to get to her first and change that into home and babies. But maybe not—maybe not. Maybe he’ll be a lawyer, too, and they can work out a legal career together. And still have home and babies. That would be the ideal thing. Tell me about Sandra.”

“Oh, you remembered,” she said with a pleased smile. “Her name came up so far back in the conversation I thought you’d forgotten.”

“I don’t forget things of interest to me,” he said; and this time his direct glance caused her to blush, which caused him to say sternly to himself:
Whoa.
But he did not stop looking at her and after a second she returned a gaze as steady as his. This time his eyes shifted first and his voice was not quite so matter-of-fact as he asked, “How old is she?”

“She’s eight. Pretty much the tomboy and hoyden right now, but she’s going to blossom when the time comes. I don’t think she’s as smart as Jane, probably, but then”—she smiled—“she probably doesn’t have as smart a mother. Or father.”

“I don’t know the father,” he said, “but I don’t doubt the mother.”

She blushed again and gave him a little mock bow.

“Thank you, sir, you’re most kind. I also have Rowland.”

“Yes, I remember. Younger or older?”

“He’s ten. A reflective kid, but active. Thinks a lot and then goes out and plays baseball with the rest of the guys on the block. A funny combination, in some ways. I think he’s going to go places.”

“I’m sure of it. You have a housekeeper?”

“Yes, during the day, until I get home. She babysits at night if I want to go out.”

“Which I imagine is frequently. You must have half the males in the press corps at your feet.”

She looked pleased again, but shook her head and laughed.

“We’re too busy competing all the time. It doesn’t leave much room for romance.”

“Oh, well,” he said lightly, but with a little excitement he told himself sternly was nonsense, “maybe one of your interviews will lead to something, someday.”

“Yes,” she agreed levelly. “That’s always a possibility… So then, last but not least, came the Labor Department.”

He nodded, accepting her lead, turning businesslike again also. “Yes, two years ago, as you know. A lot of work, a lot of headaches. Off the record, I really wasn’t all that interested; I would have preferred Attorney General. But the President seemed to think I could do a good job here, so I agreed and took it on. It hasn’t been dull, I can say that.”

“And you’ve probably gained perspective from it.”

“Oh, yes. The Court takes a lot of cases that are labor-related. I argued some before them as Solicitor General. This is a different perspective, as you say. I expect it’s been good for me.”

“And it’s been good for the country,” she said thoughtfully. “You’ve done a good job here, in a tough spot.”

“I’m glad you approve,” he said, intending it to be a lighthearted remark. It came out, however, somewhat more seriously. For a second her eyes widened and she gave him a quick glance, though her face remained noncommittal.

“As a matter of fact,” she said with a pleasant smile, “I think you’ve been on the right side of nearly everything.”

“Still a good boy,” he said wryly.

“Always,” she agreed. And added with a sudden mischievous little grin, “Have you ever had any desire not to be?”

“Never,” he said with mock solemnity, a restless little excitement stirring again. “Miss Tillson wouldn’t let me. To say nothing of my mother.”

“I hope
not,”
she said, laughing with genuine amusement. “So that’s your story… And now you’re on the Court—and you’ve achieved your life’s ambition—and so where do you go from here?”

“Nowhere. I’m on the Court, it’s where I’ve always wanted to be, it’s where I expect I’ll stay for the rest of my life.”

“No presidential ambitions?”

“None, and that’s the truth.”

“Chief Justice?”

“Off the record, it would be nice, but essentially, aside from five thousand dollars a year more and a little better chance of getting your name in the history books, we’re all on about the same level. It’s nothing I’ll look for. If it comes someday it’ll come, and if it doesn’t I’m going to be quite content where I am. I won’t lobby for it.”

“A contented man in Washington,” she said. “There’s a rarity. Maybe I’ll suggest that for the title of my piece: ‘He’ll Be Happy Where He Is.’”

“It’s true,” he said, and for the first time the full impact of his appointment hit him and he realized with a sudden deep satisfaction that, yes, it
was
true. He had achieved everything he wanted now. The years opened before him full of dignity and service.

“What would you like to have said of you when you retire?” she asked. “I always find that’s usually a good question with which to conclude an interview. People reveal a lot about themselves when they write their own obituaries. After all, with a little luck and good health you’ll be on the Bench for—good Lord, thirty years or more. It’s awesome.”

He laughed.

“Yes, it is, isn’t it? Frightening, too… Well…
I’d
like it said of me that I tried always to help the people of this land who need help—to uphold the law, and peaceful orderly process, in all disputes—to strengthen the law and make it fairer, insofar as one Justice can do that—to work amicably and well with my brethren—and Mary-Hannah and any of her sisters who may join us in the future—in trying to bring justice to our judgments and to all who appeal to us for help. I’d like it to be said that I was a fair, decent, honorable and worthy judge—that I had some consistent view of social betterment and social progress for America—and that I did what I could, as effectively as I could, to advance that view in a tough and difficult time in the life of our country…”

He paused and smiled. “Is that enough, or do you want more?”

“If you manage all that,” she said, smiling too, “you’ll be doing very well. I just want to say, quite seriously,” she added, putting away pen and notebook, closing her handbag, “that as one American citizen I am personally very pleased with your appointment. I think you’re a real liberal and a fine person and I feel genuinely good about having you on the Court. I really do.”

“Well, thank you,” he said, surprised and pleased. “I know you journalists are chary with personal accolades, so I appreciate that doubly.” He hesitated and then yielded to impulse, something he almost never did, for he had become a thoughtful and careful man. “As you know,” he said, and something in his tone made her look at him with a sudden close attention, “we almost never give interviews on the Court, but if you want to stop by sometime just to check and see how things are going—talk about the country or the world or whatever—feel free. I’ll be glad to see you.”

For a moment she did not reply, continuing to study him with the same grave expression. He felt with sudden panic that he had said too much, gone too far, been very foolish. But she showed him it was not so.

“Why,” she said quietly, “I’d be delighted. I will try to do that. Soon.”

“Please do,” he said, and ventured further. “I’d be pleased.”

“Yes,” she repeated gravely, “I will do that… Mr. Secretary—Justice—thank you very much for your time. I think we’ve got a good interview. I’ll send you a copy when it comes out in the magazine. I hope you’ll like it.”

“I’m sure I will,” he said with equal formality, shaking hands as he saw her to the door. “Thank you so much.”

“Good luck,” she said.

He smiled.

“Thanks. I’ll need it.”

And so he would, he thought as he turned back to his desk, and perhaps not entirely with the law.

But this thought, for whatever it was worth—and he told himself with some impatience that it probably wasn’t worth much, certainly
shouldn’t
be worth much—did not occupy him for long. His secretary buzzed and he returned to his desk to pick up the phone. He assumed it must be Mary, who had not been home when he called earlier with the news. He braced himself for some sort of sarcasm, he was not sure exactly what.

“Yes?” he said, tone sharp.

“Is that you, Daddy?” Janie asked with some hesitation. “You sound awfully—awfully
mad,
somehow. I thought you’d be happy. I just heard about your appointment.
I’m
happy.”

“Thank you, baby,” he said, tone softening immediately as he sat down and swiveled his chair around to stare out at the dull blue sky and the sunlight getting heavier as the afternoon lengthened. It would be a hot night: full summer not far behind. “I’m not mad, just busy.
I’m
pleased too. It’s good of you to call.”

“Everybody out here at school is jumping up and down, they’re so excited,” Jane said; honesty prompting her to add, “At least,
my
friends are excited. Betsy Randall says her father is going to get you through the Senate Judiciary Committee in ‘jig time.’”

“Oh, she does, does she?” he said with a chuckle. “And how does she know? He hasn’t told me that, yet.”

“He will,” she said positively. “Betsy says they talked about it at dinner last night after the President called him. Has the President called you?”

“Oh, yes,” he said, remembering that quick, terse notification that assumed, as it always did, that anyone approached about anything would automatically recognize its wisdom and accept immediately without question; which in this case, of course, was true. “Yes, he called. I think it’s nice of him to select me.”

“He’d better pick you, silly old President,” Janie said. “Who else is there?”

“Lots of people.”

“Not any better!” she said stoutly.

He laughed. “Well, I can’t argue with that.”

“Have you talked to Mommy?”

“I called her earlier.”

“Yes, I know,” she said, “but did you talk to her?”

“She wasn’t home. She hasn’t called back yet.”

“But she
must
know by now. It’s on the news. Everybody knows.”

“I expect she’ll be calling pretty soon,” he said, tone revealing nothing. “She’s probably busy doing some errands or something.”

“I doubt it,” Jane said, sounding much older than fifteen.

“Well, I don’t know where she is,” he said, a little sharper. “I told you I called her and left word. That’s all I can do, isn’t it?”

“She ought to call you
right away,”
Jane said. “I did, just as soon as I knew.”

“Now, see here, Janie,” he said, “just lay off it, okay? She’ll find word at the house, or she’ll hear it on the news, or somebody will tell her—”