Gossip (14 page)

“I wasn’t coming on strong. Was I, Ralph?”

“Uh no. Not at all.” I was ashamed of thinking what I’d thought. There must be closet cases here, but most of these people were what they seemed. Among their kind, they could talk to strangers without secret motives.

Irene tugged at her watch. “Shouldn’t we be getting to the auditorium? If we want a seat for the noon thing.”

“All righty,” said Frank. “You coming, Ralph? Would you like to sit with us?”

“Thank you. Yes. That’d be nice.” Know thy enemy, I thought, although Frank and Irene seemed too innocent to count as foe. But if I were in there with someone, I’d be less visible to Bill.

We settled in the center of a back row. Surrounded again by that uniform smell of fresh-baked clothes, I wondered if Republicans all used the same brand of spray starch.

“Yup. No Robertson or Falwell,” said Frank, reading his brochure. “Someone was telling me they were asked not to come.”

“Fine by me,” said Irene. “I don’t trust those Protestant evangelicals. They have no one to answer to but themselves.”

“Open mind,” Frank chided. “Open mind.”

The gray screen over the stage snapped on like a television, magnifying the head and shoulders of the man at the podium. Even those in the front rows craned their necks up, more accustomed to public figures on TV than in person. A smooth-faced boy in pinstripes—he looked all of fourteen—the speaker had the easy voice and manners of a game show host. A bar on the screen identified him as Ren Whitaker.

He opened the session by declaring that politicians were what was wrong with Washington, but there were exceptions and we were going to meet them. He introduced a congressman from Georgia as if he were a special treat. A white-haired man like a dyspeptic Phil Donahue stepped up and declared that the American family was besieged on all fronts: crime, drugs, sex, taxes and attacks on religion. It was time government worked with the family, not against it. Liberals held the White House, but the Republicans were going to sweep Congress in the midterm elections this fall and render the president helpless.

“That’s right, that’s right,” Frank agreed, talking back as if he were watching TV in his living room.

To the left of the stage, four or five television cameras nodded on and off according to the cameramen’s whims.

I braced myself for vicious words, but there were no sneers at welfare mothers or AIDS spending or gays in the military. Hate was confined to smirky jokes about liberalism and the Clintons. The rest was bromides about family virtue and Republican success, yet the audience basked in the speech as if it were a warm fire.

The politicians who followed, a half dozen smoothly coiffed talking heads, kept their remarks as short and general as contestants at a beauty pageant. A familiar, square-jawed face appeared, Senator Mike Griffith, whom I’d seen at the Capitol elevators with Nancy. His speech was totally noncommittal. “It’s an honor to be with you this weekend. I’ve enjoyed talking to some very wonderful people. Thank you for inviting me.”

A startlingly raw face popped onto the screen, a sunburn with sandy hair and wire rims. It was the man I’d seen praying in the rest room. No name appeared with him. The men in suits upstage went into a panic of whispers and pointed fingers.

“My name is Claude Raymond,” he declared loudly, not trusting the mike; the loudspeakers brayed with feedback. “Our so-called friends in the Republican Party did not want me to speak today. And no wonder. Because the party that claims to be our friend is a party of compromise and mendacity. What does it gain a man to lose his soul for the kingdom of earth?”

A stage manager in a headset came out from the wings to signal the control booth. Whitaker, the boy emcee, hurried over and gestured that everything was fine.

“You who know me can guess what I intend to say. Which is that this party is a home for sodomites and baby killers!”

Somebody shouted, “Amen!” The crowd began to ripple and shift uncomfortably. Nobody booed.

“Yes, sodomites and baby killers. In league with each other in their unholy war against the unborn. And we are among those who can compromise with such people. Let our so-called friends prove their belief by purging their ranks. Let them clean their own house before making cause with ours.”

He glared at Whitaker, who stood a few feet away, nodding as if granting him permission to speak. They looked surreal up there, the rawboned face in the big screen, the small yet controlling figure to the side.

All the television cameras were on, straining forward like cows at a trough. A young woman hurried up the aisle, arms folded angrily across her chest.

“They only want your votes,” Raymond continued. “So that they can achieve a program that deals naught with the Kingdom of Heaven. What does God care for capital gains? How does the national deficit compare to our country’s deficit of righteousness? We spend billions on overseas war, but not one cent to stop the massacre of innocents at home.”

There was applause, Frank and Irene clapping with the others. “Good,” said Frank. “Time someone said that.”

Even Whitaker applauded as he approached the podium.

“That is what I came here to tell you today,” Raymond declared, satisfied by the response. “Know that you are dealing with murderers. Do not trade righteousness for a portion of bloodstained pottage. I leave you to your consciences and your love of Jesus Christ. The unborn dead are all in heaven. But those who do nothing will burn in hell.”

I expected a tussle at the podium, but Raymond only sniffed at Whitaker and marched past him off the stage. Whitaker stepped up, still smiling. In the magnifying glass of the screen, his smile looked less convincing. His audience was now two and even three audiences: the shouting supporters of Raymond, the polite clappers like Frank and Irene, and the uneasily silent.

“God’s house has many mansions,” Whitaker declared. “And so do we. We can make room for all causes, so long as we keep our common cause in view. And just as Protestant, Catholic and Greek Orthodox alike share a belief in one Jesus Christ—and all Christians share a belief in one God with our Jewish brethren,” he remembered to add, “so do those of us with other goals all believe in the value and safety of the American family.”

Despite appearances, this conference was as full of factions as any ACT UP meeting. I wondered about the amount of cynicism behind Whitaker’s damage control. Which was reality and which the mask here: Whitaker and his smiling pols or the angry Raymond?

Whitaker made a closing statement about knowing who our friends were come November and declared the session over.

“Politicians,” chuckled Frank as he stood and stretched. “Can’t live with them, can’t live without them. You got to admire that pro-life man though. Real conviction is a beautiful thing.”

It was, which worried me. Purity was always more electric than compromise. “So the Republicans have to clean house before you’ll cast your lot with them?”

“Ohhh,” Frank hemmed. “Be nice if they took tougher stands on the moral issues. But they’re still the best game in town.”

“Something else I didn’t get,” I said, playing dumb to learn more. “What do homosexuals have to do with abortion? Getting pregnant is one thing they don’t have to worry about.”

“It’s simple,” said Frank, all too happy to explain. “People like that can’t have children. They resent those who can. So they do everything in their power to trick normal women into aborting their babies.”

I couldn’t believe such a nice, personable man could believe anything so vile and idiotic. I didn’t know how to respond, which made me angry, and anger carried me too far. “You should know that you’ve been sitting with one of those people.”

“Oh?” said Frank. “You have a girlfriend who—?” He was too embarrassed to say it. “I’m so sorry. That must have been very painful for you. For both of you.”

“Hmm?” went Irene, a whimper of distress that we even talked about this.

“No. The other category.” Now
I
became embarrassed. “I’m gay.”

“Ah!” he said, relieved, as if it were a lesser evil. Irene flinched and turned away, but Frank remained concerned. “That must be painful for you too. Being a marine and Catholic. But so long as you keep your nose clean, trust in the Church and read good books, you’ll be able to overcome it.”

“But I don’t want to overcome it. It’s who I am.”

Even that didn’t make a dent. “You might think so now, son. But you’ll come around when you meet the right girl. We were going to get a bite to eat. Would you like to join us?”

Irene stared at him in alarm.

I stared with her. Was my sexuality so trivial to him? “Thank you, no. I should be getting back to my hotel.”

“Certainly.” He didn’t press; the invitation was only a courtesy. “Nice meeting you, Ralph.” He bravely shook my hand. “Enjoy the conference. And don’t forget: G. K. Chesterton. A wonderful writer.”

Irene refused to look at me as Frank took her arm. She whispered something as they strolled off; Frank responded with a sorrowful, worldly shrug.

I felt like a fool for firing that pistol in their faces. I should have at least brought the talk back to abortion. Did they really think gays were so malicious and pregnant women so passive? I was sorry I hadn’t educated Frank about “sodomites.” He was so cushioned with courtesy that to argue would have been like punching feathers, but I should have handled myself better. Too late now. Feeling very useless and stupid, and remembering Bill was still about, I had to get out of here.

I returned to the corridor of merchandise, recalling a back entrance that way. I noticed a booth for
American Truths
up ahead. Issues of the magazine were hung on the wall, a rogue’s gallery of caricature liberals. I slowed my steps, then halted.

On the table stood a three-foot-high placard: “Coming in April. The Truth the Liberal Press Does Not Want You to Know.
The Regiment of Women
by William O’Connor.” On the placard were book dummies with glossy brown jackets, three of them staggered on little ledges to form a milk chocolate angel.

I pulled at a wing. It was taped to the cardboard but peeled off easily. It was not a dummy but bound galleys, the thing itself. I read the back. “‘There is a specter haunting American politics, the specter of feminists in government.’ With a clear, objective, satirical eye, veteran journalist William O’Connor explores the effect of women in power as illustrated by the careers of Hillary Rodham Clinton and her friends…. Challenging, even shocking, certain to incite controversy and meaningful debate …”

I nervously opened it. The book was dedicated to his mother. The title was explained by the epigraph, which wasn’t Shakespeare after all:

Weak, frail, impatient, feeble and foolish creatures.—John Knox, 1558,
First Blast of the Trumpet Against the Monstrous Regiment of Women

It was supposed to be funny, only who would be laughing?

“Excuse me?” I asked the attendant, a young woman in a frilly blouse. “Are these for sale?”

“Sorry, sir. No. They’re not real books. Only for display.” She frowned at what I’d done to her display. “You can look. But please return it to its exact spot when you’re done.”

I nodded and resumed reading.

The introduction began with the “specter of feminism” line, followed by promises of what the book would reveal about a powerful network of feminists in Washington. The contents page listed such chapters as “The Smoke-Filled Powder Room,” “The Fall of a Quota Queen” and “Girls Just Want to Have Fun.” When I opened at random, however, all I found was dull journalese about who knew whom in an alphabet soup of federal agencies.

But I couldn’t concentrate knowing that this was Bill’s magazine and he might drop by. When the attendant began a sales pitch to a possible subscriber, I slowly turned away while I continued to read, and slipped the galleys under my coat. I swung back around and tapped a remaining copy as if I’d just returned it. “Thanks,” I said, and walked away.

It could not be as bad as it looked, I told myself, hurrying downstairs into a level of shops under the hotel, shifting the book from armpit to coat pocket. It was a critique of Hillary Clinton, that was all,
packaged
as a sneering attack on women in politics. You can’t judge a book by its cover or epigraph.

I didn’t believe that for a minute. Nevertheless, passing a pharmacy in the underground mall, I went in to buy the condoms that Bill wanted, as if to make amends for what I was feeling, not yet able to blame him for his book. A cashier with a cropped red beard studied me as he set a pack of Trojans and tube of K-Y on the counter. “Not a teensy bit hypocritical, are we? Honey?”

“What? Oh.”
He
was gay. And I was still tagged with the Jesus button. I frowned and pried it off. “Not me. Just visiting. A tourist in the city of God.”

“Hey. No skin off my ass if you shoot yourself in the foot,” he said. “But don’t make it shitty for the rest of us.”

I didn’t have a good answer for that either. I hurried out, nervously batting the weight in my coat pocket.

Riding the minibus back to South Beach, I kept opening and closing the book, reading a sentence or two, then shoving it back in my pocket, afraid to read more. Not until I’d returned to the hotel and lay on our bed could I start at the beginning.

It quickly became clear that it really was an ugly book. I was not surprised. That was what disturbed me most: I wasn’t surprised. As if I’d known all along Bill’s book would be poison. And it was not just mean-spirited but dull, the prose gray and pompous, the facts trivial. The first chapter, “Blond Ambition,” was a potted bio of Hillary Clinton where the simplest details—she won countless prizes in high school in Illinois—were presented as sinister. Special attention was given to remarks that ran with her photo in the senior yearbook. “Most likely to succeed. And succeed and succeed. Unless Bob Dylan or Boone’s Farm get her first.” This proved that she was already a radical adept at passing as a Goody Two-shoes. As if it weren’t a joke.

I felt like I was reading a report by an extraterrestrial: Familiar objects were presented with weird proportions and alien meaning. Whole passages made no sense unless you already shared the beliefs behind them. Bill expressed his meaning most clearly when he tried to deny it in a footnote: “15. This is not to suggest that women in politics are inherently ludicrous or that their feeling of inferiority makes them less flexible than men. History is full of admirable public women: Margaret Thatcher, Coretta King and Barbara Bush. Yet there is no denying that while difficult for a man to retain his humanity in political life, it is impossible for a woman to retain her femininity.”