Gossip (16 page)

When we were past the jetty, Sam sent me forward again to crank up the mainsail. I’d been demoted to crew, but didn’t mind. Work gave me purpose. I furiously turned the winch and a shadow slowly climbed overhead. The sail thudded and buckled, then snapped taut and lifted the boat out of the water. We began to fly. Wind was alligatoring the blue-green bay, where other wings moved with a soothing running-in-place stillness, their masts and hulls tilted over the water at beautifully tense angles.

I received a brusque, comradely nod from Sam when I returned: the companionable silence of real men. If he only knew. Everything blew in one direction. Weiss’s necktie slipped out and streamed from his neck. Only Whitaker’s hair remained in place.

When the motor was shut off, the Republicans came out of their William F. Buckley reveries to chat. Weiss asked Whitaker about his kids.

“Couldn’t be better. We have another on the way.”

“Numero four, right? Karen must have her hands full. Have you met Karen yet, Mike? She’s a doll.”

I’d noticed the wedding ring on the boy’s finger, but was startled to hear he was a multiple father.

I sat across from Bill, who kept his arms folded, looking miffed that Weiss gave so much attention to Whitaker. The Christian wasn’t my type, but he was pretty. Even with that haircut, he would not look out of place at Wonderbar.

Their rivalry was about rank, not sex, of course, but old habits of seeing are hard to break. We were all men and, except for Weiss, not unattractive. I’d lived too long in New York: The scene suggested the setup for the obligatory orgy in a porn movie. I was amused to find myself checking out
the
slim thighs and basket of the spokesman for the Christian right.

When Bill finally looked at me, I stuck my index and middle fingers obscenely in my mouth, wanting to slap him out of his pompous pose. He frowned at me and tightly shook his head.

Weiss plumped down beside me, facing Senator Mike. “Feeling better, Mike? About being down here, I mean. Less negative than you feared. Am I right?”

Senator Mike shrugged. “For the most part. Until yesterday when Claude Raymond got up to speak.”

Weiss smiled. “Good old Claude. We keep our distance from him, you realize.”

“Your people sure loved him,” said Mike, smiling too.

“Not everyone,” Weiss insisted. “A faction.”

“Sounded like everyone from where I was sitting.”

“Ren,” said Weiss. “I meant to compliment you on how well you handled that yesterday.”

Whitaker rolled his eyes. “I did what I could. Once Claude was up there, nothing I could do except let him say his piece. Or we’d have had half the conference walking out.”

“Not half,” Weiss claimed. “A few people. Not many.”

I thought half was closer to the mark, but couldn’t say so without letting Bill know I’d been there.

“Didn’t I warn you?” Weiss chuckled. “You should’ve had someone tailing that boy to shy him away from the cameras.”

“We did. Only he vanished a half hour before the session.”

Into the men’s room, where I had seen him.

“Now be honest with me,” said Senator Mike, a wink in his tone. “You’re telling the truth when you say that man’s appearance wasn’t planned? Not at all ‘accidentally on purpose’?”

“Lord, no,” said Whitaker. “You saw the networks last night! Sodomites and baby killers. That’s the sound bite they chose to represent us. Not what we wanted.”

“Just be glad it was a Saturday,” said Weiss. “When nobody watches the news.”

“Well, my wife watches,” said Senator Mike. “It’s the image she has of this conference. She did not want me coming, you know. She thinks the AFC is out to create a Baptist police state.”

They all laughed, even Senator Mike.

“Is she the only one who thinks that?” asked Weiss. “You’re among friends. You don’t have to use her as your mouthpiece.”

“No, I know better than that. But I listen to Martha. I have to. I live with her. And she’s right every now and then.”

I was fascinated by these maneuvers disguised as banter, but Bill looked bored. For a journalist he was awfully incurious.

“What do your wives say about your politics?” asked Mike.

“Karen backs me a hundred percent,” said Whitaker.

“Mine couldn’t care less,” Weiss snorted. “So long as she gets a new car every year.”

Senator Mike glanced at me and Bill, passed us over and said, “Well, Martha is a skeptic. She’s no feminist. I better make that clear. But she has friends who’re feminists, friends who’ve had abortions, friends who’re gay. She’s of the ‘mind your own business’ school of government. She hates scapegoating. I’ll have a hard time telling her I have no qualms about the AFC.”

Bill shook his head and smirked. “So who wears the pants in your house?” he said scornfully. “You or your wife?”

Senator Mike flinched, then regained his smile, recognizing this was only a pup imitating the bigger dogs.

I couldn’t understand why Bill jumped in, except Senator Mike had lumped gays with feminists. Bill shared his smirk with the others, expecting them to laugh with him.

“Who wears the pants in your house, Billy?” said Whitaker.

Bill lifted his chin in the air. “I’m single,” he sniffed.

“Ah. Then nobody wears pants at all,” Whitaker quipped.

Bill indignantly puffed himself up, his face turning red. He sank back, glaring at Whitaker.

Weiss ignored their exchange. “Let’s cut to the chase, Mike. You must agree with Martha some or you wouldn’t bring her up. But this conference was about love, not hate. A veritable love feast. No fire and brimstone. And no Pats. Buchanan
or
Robertson. That wasn’t just window dressing. Because we learned our lesson in ninety-two. People don’t like hating other people. Oh, they hate them plenty in private, but get uncomfortable when their hate’s made public. They don’t like holier-than-thou-ness. Ren will back me on this. The coalition is pro-family without being anti-others. We don’t have to go after feminists or anyone else to give ourselves a warm hug. Sure, you need bad guys to hold a movement together. But hey, we got Clinton in the White House.” He laughed loudly. “Which has been a gift from heaven. People can hate someone in office without feeling that they’re hating flesh and blood. And, by proxy, hate everyone and -thing he stands for, and still feel good about themselves. We didn’t know it at the time, but Bubba and Hillary are the best thing that could’ve happened to us.”

For a moment, I thought Weiss had been carried away by his golden voice and said more than he intended. But no, it was what he wanted Senator Mike to hear. When I looked at Bill to see what he made of this rhetoric of sublimated hate, he sat with his head lowered, still stewing over Whitaker’s supersubtle put-down.

“But when Clinton is out and the AFC is in?” said Senator Mike. “Will you stay nice? Or will we be hearing from the Claude Raymonds and Pat Robertsons again?”

“Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies,” said Weiss, exchanging a look with Whitaker. “We don’t even know if the AFC will be in business by then. Do we, Ren?”

“But we’re committed to this new approach,” said Whitaker. “It’s not just an end run around the liberal media. And we’ll be in operation long after Clinton is gone, if I have a say in it.”

Weiss chuckled. “Ren is new to the game. But I’m an old whore. I think only in the short term. It’s not like we’re asking you to marry us, Mike. Just sleep with us for as long as it feels good. You know why a dog licks his dick? Because he can.”

Before anyone could figure out what he meant by that, Weiss called out, “How about some music, Skipper? That’s a tape deck by the helm, isn’t it?”

“Affirmative. Any requests?” Sam asked over his shoulder.

“No rap music,” said Whitaker. “And no gospel.”

“What do you have?” Senator Mike got up to look at the tapes shelved under the instrument panel. “Any Grateful Dead?”

“Hey, a man who speaks my language,” said Sam. He found a tape and popped it in. The speakers inside the cabin began to drive us through the water with the steady beat of “Truckin’.”

“That’s more like it,” said Weiss. “We were getting too serious. Invited you out today, Mike, only so we could get better acquainted. Anybody hungry? Thirsty? I got soda, beer, sandwiches from Wolfie’s.” He glanced at the brooding Bill, but thought better of asking him and went to the cooler himself, handing out the drinks, wrapped sandwiches and napkins.

I was not yet ready to drop politics. A useful yet safe question had come to me. “Something I still don’t understand,” I said. “Why do Republicans hate Hillary Clinton so much?”

They all laughed, Bill joining with a thin, deliberate snicker while he warily watched me.

“No more than the rest of the country,” said Weiss. “She’s been a gift to us from the start.”

“The lady could take paint off a barn just by looking at it,” said Whitaker.

“Even Martha grumbles over Hillary,” said Senator Mike.

“You haven’t gotten the skinny from Billy here?” asked Weiss. “After all, he wrote the book.”

“We haven’t talked about his book.”

“No?” That surprised Weiss. “You’re in for a treat. Go for it, Billy. Give us your spiel. You should’ve seen the crowd at his presentation yesterday, Mike. They loved him.”

Basking in the sudden attention, Bill smiled and sat up again. “She’s a bitch,” he said proudly. “So says anyone who’s ever worked with her. Pushy, cold and humorless. Nobody elected her, but she carries on like they did.” He had to know I’d disagree, but he wasn’t speaking to me. “And there are things people suspect but that my book proves. Her marriage is a fraud. She doesn’t love her husband and never did. She uses him as a front for her own ambition.”

“How do you know that?” I said.

His smile broadened. “The evidence speaks for itself.”

“What? You hid under their bed?” I faked a friendly laugh. “And what does their marriage have to do with their politics? It’s a totally private matter. Isn’t it?”

Bill didn’t recognize his own phrase. “No, it’s about character. Hers and his.”

Before I could press him, Whitaker launched into the joke about Hillary and the high school sweetheart who’d become a wino. I’d first heard it from Nancy, but the joke had another meaning in this crowd. Bill’s maraca laugh joined the chorus. He was happily one of them now.

He barely knew that I was here. I didn’t care. This wasn’t the place to attempt a serious conversation about sexism and hypocrisy anyway. I resumed my invisibility and ate my sandwich while Weiss shifted the talk into real estate and possessions.

“I hear you got yourself a Lexus, Mike.”

Senator Mike shook his head. “You’ve made quite a study of me, Jeb.” He lifted his can of Dr Pepper as further evidence.

“Small town. You hear things. Great car, isn’t it? I own two. One in Houston and one for D.C. Billy takes care of the D.C. car when I’m at home. Still no problems, Billy?”

“Runs like a dream,” he replied.

The boat lurched over the rocky wake of a cabin cruiser.

I stared at Bill. I chewed and swallowed. I said, “You keep an apartment in Washington, Jeb?”

“That’s right. Out in Cleveland Park,” he replied, assuming I already knew. “You and your wife still looking at weekend getaways out in Frederick, Mike?”

Bill was too busy wiping mustard off his chin to understand what I’d just learned. Jeb Weiss was “the friend.” He owned the car that Bill drove, the fancy apartment where Bill lived. I’d forgotten such a man existed. Jeb Weiss was not just a useful contact, but an extremely important, necessary figure.

“If your wife is into horses,” he was telling Senator Mike, “I should put you in touch with …”

Bill had kept his importance a secret from me. Why?

Ego? He wanted me to think he’d done it all alone?

Or were they lovers? That would be perfect, I thought, final proof of Bill’s low worth. He was not his own man but a closeted politico’s kept boy.

Yet much as I wanted to believe that, I couldn’t. Bill said Weiss was a family man, but family men sometimes dabbled. And he said Weiss compared homosexuality to alcoholism, but maybe he drank too. No, the only justification for my disbelief was Weiss’s perfect ease around me. A homely older man was not going to be so relaxed in the company of his boyfriend’s trick.

I was not jealous myself. You cannot be jealous of something you’ve already rejected. If my pride was hurt, it was only over my failure to suspect any kind of sugar daddy in Bill’s life, political or otherwise. I should be pleased to gain complete knowledge of this rat’s nest before I said good-bye to it.

Bill nodded at me, smirking with a mouthful of sandwich, expecting me to share his happiness.

Just then, a catamaran hissed across our stern, a quartet of young women on board shouting and whistling at us. When we turned to look, they bent over in unison, dropped their sweatpants and flashed four white asses.

“Did you see that?” sputtered Whitaker. “That was gross!”

Senator Mike was laughing. “We can’t let them get away with that,” he said. “Skipper, Skipper. Can you come around? Can we pass them? We got to give as good as we got.”

“Yeah yeah,” cried Whitaker. “Let’s moon them back!”

“Right you are, gentlemen,” said Sam, and he spun the wheel, unfazed. “Watch your heads.”

“Ho ho. You boys aren’t serious,” said Weiss.

“Come on. Are we men or are we mice?” cried Senator Mike, on his feet and undoing his belt, the man who listened to his wife now chortling like an adolescent. “All butts to port.”

Bill stood up with them. Our boat was faster than the catamaran and we were gaining on his side. “Come on, Jeb. We’re waiting for you. You too, Ralph.”

“Not enough room,” I said. And there wasn’t after Weiss shuffled over, shaking his head while he fumbled with the buckle under his double-breasted jacket. He did not stand by Bill but next to Senator Mike.

“Oh ladies! Ladies!” hollered Whitaker.

But I could not sit by priggishly when four Republicans faced me and bowed. Before I knew what I was doing, I’d jumped up too, turned and yanked down my shorts.

There was a blast of air across damp skin, and shrieks from across the water.