Gossip (22 page)

She cleared her throat. “I feel I have no choice. I did not want to get into the specifics of Mr. O’Connor’s book tonight. But, because he continues to mention it, I fear viewers might get the impression that
Regiment of Women
is a serious work of journalism. It isn’t. It’s nothing but rumors. All smoke and no fire. A tired male fantasy about women in power.”

Bill happily snorted. “One can tell an opponent is cornered, Ellen, when they resort to an ad hominem attack. And where there’s smoke there’s fire.” He was proud of his retort.

“There’s a fire, but not the one you claim,
Bill,”
she said, rebelling against his TV intimacy. “All I see behind your blanket attack on women in politics, an
ad feminem
attack if you will, is your own confusions and difficulties. Women cannot win in your book. If they date more than one man in their life, they’re tramps. If their marriages look good, their husbands must be wimps. And if they’re single, well, they can only be lesbians. One can’t help concluding that you don’t like women very much. You clearly don’t know many. You seem to have a problem relating in any way to the opposite sex.”

Bill’s lips turned pale. His hard eyes glared at her. I’d seen that same insulted look in beds and restaurants.

When his silence lasted an infinity of seconds, Koppel said with deep concern, “I feel we should give you a chance to reply to that, Mr. O’Connor. We can cut to our affiliates while you gather your thoughts.”

“No. Not necessary,” said Bill. “I can answer that—that below-the-belt blow. It’s exactly what I mean by the liberal media’s double standard. Let me say right off that my criticisms of Hillary Clinton have nothing to do with my being gay.”

My head jerked forward. He actually said that?

“I’m shocked a reputable journalist thinks she can humiliate me on national television: You can’t. Because I’m not ashamed of being gay, and it does not kill the truth of my book.”

The studio confusedly cut to Goodman staring, then back to Bill, then to a medium shot of them both while Goodman twisted around to glance off-camera in disbelief.

Peter and I turned to each other with our mouths wide open.

Goodman quickly recovered. “I hadn’t stopped to think that you might be gay. In fact, until I saw how young you were, Mr. O’Connor, I assumed you’d been through a bad divorce. But that’s neither here nor there. Whatever your sexual orientation,
you
have a problem with women.”

Bill recovered too, a look of triumph replacing his hurt and anger. “You ‘out’ me in public and can’t be honest about it? Dirty pool, Ellen. I’m ashamed of you.”

“I must say on Ms. Goodman’s behalf,” said Koppel, “that I don’t think that’s what she was implying.”

“Well, we all know the little games used by the liberal media to get their enemy.” He remained insanely pleased with himself. “But my book speaks for itself. And people who want the truth about Hillary and her kind will know better than to let you besmirch the man who brought them that truth.”

“I am sure they won’t,” Koppel said kindly, the bizarre exchange producing little more than a slight rearrangement of his brow. He pressed a finger to his ear. “Ah. It seems we have run out of time. I regret that I cannot ask either of you for closing statements. But Mr. O’Connor, Ms. Goodman, thank you for joining us. Tomorrow night our guest will be Secretary of State Warren Christopher and we will discuss Bosnia and …”

Lady Glencora Palliser, the Duchess of Omnium, could not have dispatched a social embarrassment more adeptly.

“My God!” crowed Peter. “Do you believe that? Do you fucking believe that?” He fell back on the sofa, gasping and laughing. We’d been drawn to the edge of our seats during the scene.

“To receive a transcript of tonight’s broadcast,” began the announcer, and I realized that hundreds of thousands of people had seen that, Nancy and Kathleen among them.

“He’s out of his mind,” said Peter.

“I knew he was nuts,” I said, “but I never dreamed—”

“A gay man has to be schizophrenic to work for the right. But he can kiss that career good-bye. Can’t you just see it? All over the country, Republicans going yuck?”

“And flushing his book down the toilet,” I laughed.

“Happy now?”

“Oh yeah.” I was elated by the sheer surprise of it, but under that was something more solid: the feeling that the problem had solved itself. The revelation that the author of
Regiment of Women
was not just gay but as mad as a hatter would save Nancy’s relationship with Kathleen.

“Uh, it didn’t make him attractive again?” said Peter.

“Are you kidding? He’s more screwed up than I ever dreamed. He calls a bunch of women dykes, then claims he’s a victim?”

“A creep. A real creep.” Peter got up. “I’m sorry. This is too good not to share. I’ll just take a minute.”

I followed him into the bedroom, where he sat at his desk and turned on his computer.

“You’re not going to mention you know someone who knew him?” I worriedly asked.

“Hey, Shanghai Lily is the soul of discretion. And this dish is so good that I don’t need you to make it tasty.”

He clicked his mouse into another show already in progress, the box filling with handles that raced from their televisions as quickly as Peter had. I never knew
Nightline
had such a gay following.

“What an asshole.”

“A real maroon.”

“Just what we need. Another hypocrite homo.”

“I thought he was kind of cute. Duh.”

“You would. You find George F. Will humpy.” Peter spoke the sentence as he typed it.

I watched for another minute before I stepped away to take my coat off the bed.

“Don’t go,” said Peter. “Tomorrow’s Friday, remember? I’ll be off in two shakes. I don’t mean to be rude.”

“No, I should get home and call Nancy. Share the good news.” I kissed him good night and went out to the door, hearing the castanet clicking of his keyboard behind me. I could not stop grinning over the gorgeous comedy of William O’Connor’s self-destruction.

It was half past midnight but I only got Nancy’s machine. “Did you see it? He shot himself in the foot on
Nightline.
Nobody can take his book seriously now. Nancy? Are you there? How did your meeting with Kathleen go? Look, no matter what was said, it’s not too late to undo. Right? Please pick up. I don’t mean to be a pest, but this is good news. Isn’t it? Call when you get this message. Please. No matter how late.”

I told myself not to worry. Nancy often turned off the volume of her machine when she didn’t want to talk. I was much too happy to take seriously the possibility that her meeting with Senator Freeman had gone badly.

Still chuckling to myself, I fell asleep with an ease I hadn’t experienced in weeks. It was over. Everything would be fine. I dropped into a dream of London and a street of bookstores full of new paperback editions of old novels I wanted to reread.

A telephone beeped. I grabbed it in my sleep.

“Hello?”

“Did you watch? Did you see me?”

I floated in warm darkness. “Bill?”

“Now I’m your equal. I did it for you.”

I was not awake enough to be surprised that a voice from television now spoke to me. He seemed to be calling from somewhere inside my head.

“What did you do for me?”

“I came out. Nationally. It was a brave thing to do, but I did it. Uh, don’t you watch
Nightline?”

“No.” I resisted letting him know, but only for a second. “But I did tonight. And I saw you self-destruct.”

“It wasn’t self-destruction. It was my moment of truth. And I did it for you. To prove that I’m not a coward or hypocrite.”

“Bill. That was the least of my problems with you. Out or in, I don’t care. And you didn’t do it for me. You didn’t even do it for yourself. I saw what happened. You thought you were being outed, which you weren’t. You jumped at the chance to make yourself the injured party, the holy victim. What does your good buddy Jeb Weiss have to say?”

“I haven’t talked to him yet. I don’t care what he thinks. I care only what you think.”

“Well, I think you made an ass of yourself. You showed the world that you’re a paranoid twit.”

“Okay. Okay. You say that but you don’t really believe it. You’re envious. But success has made me magnanimous. I’m every bit as good as you are now. I am.”

I was amazed that my damning words passed straight through him. He continued to speak softly, gently.

“I’m coming to New York, next week. For my book. I want to see you again.”

“Bill? Don’t you understand? I don’t want to see you. Ever. Seeing you on TV tonight was bad enough, but I knew not to take a punch at the set.”

“Do you know what I’m doing while we’re talking?”

And I understood why his voice remained low and preoccupied.

“Here. Listen.” He moved the receiver toward a brushing noise like a dog scratching at a door to be let in.

My skin crawled, but I did not hang up.

“I’m naked on my bed, pretending you’re beside me,” he said, as if afraid I hadn’t figured it out.

“What? It’s a turn-on to be called an idiot?”

“I know you don’t mean it. I want to hear your voice.”

It was like being told I was nobody, nothing. Anger poured through my head and muscles.

“You’re dead, Bill. Your right-wing buddies are going to drop you like a stone. The chatline tonight was full of gay men who can’t wait to piss on your grave.”

“Keep talking. Hmm. I have your finger in my bottom.”

I remembered a corner of flesh, the tight ring and soft core. “No. If it was me it’d be something that hurt.”

“Uh-uh. You want your penis in there. Your tongue.”

I was all nerves and no body. I didn’t even touch myself to see if I had a body.

“Oh yeah. Getting there. Keep talking.” His breathing thickened. “See me when I’m in New York, Ralph. You want to.”

“Don’t you get it, Bill!”

An overture of grunts indicated he’d soon be deaf. My thumb found the button on the phone.

“You’re dead! I could kill you right now. I’m so angry. Only you’re already dead, so why should I bother! You have no soul, no brains. You mean nothing to me and I don’t care—”

But I suddenly heard myself snarling in the flat air of the room. My thumb had pressed the button to kill the first insulting sound of his joy. I pressed again, but there was only the hum of electrons, a prolonged buzz of infinity.

I hung up. I was glad I’d accidentally cut him off. I turned off my machine in case he called back for a postcoital chat. But he continued to linger in the dark, as if somewhere in my room. He couldn’t seriously believe his televised breakdown had set things straight. No, he’d called only to let me know that I was nothing to him now but jerk-off fodder.

Why had he called and not Nancy? Why was it that whenever I needed to hear from her, I heard from that bastard instead?

Was she all right? Anger made my body hum like a tuning fork, but my agitated thoughts suddenly swarmed around Nancy. Without happiness to protect me, I became full of concern and worry for her.

Was Bill’s network suicide too late? Was that why she didn’t call? Had Kathleen broken her heart? I pictured Nancy drinking herself sick while her phone rang and the dome of the Capitol peered in at her window.
I’m not going to jump out a window anytime soon.

I hated imagining such a thing, but I carried the scene to its trashy, melodramatic conclusion, needing to assure myself that I was being ridiculous before I could get back to sleep.

T
HAT SHOULD HAVE BEEN
the end of it, but Friday was my day off; I had too much time to think. I woke up worried about Nancy, as if after a bad dream. I remembered Bill’s call, knew it hadn’t been a dream, but all thought and emotion gathered around Nancy.

I waited until ten and phoned her office. The receptionist said she was out for the day.

“Out sick? Did she call this morning or yesterday?” If she called this morning, then she should be all right.

“All I can say is that Ms. Wenceslas won’t be in.”

I phoned her machine again and ordered her to pick up. “You have me worried. If you don’t call me back, I have no choice but to come down there and see if you’re all right.”

I grew more certain that something awful was happening. Poets are the antennas of the race, and I was a poet only to myself, but even neurotics can pick up danger signals inaudible to others. Waiting for a call, able to do nothing except sit and wait, my fear spun tales. Kathleen had ordered Nancy to clear her desk. She wandered the city in a daze. She’d drunk herself unconscious at home. Or she lay sober yet catatonic in bed, with no thought in her head except hatred for the man she had once considered her best friend. When I didn’t deliver on my threat to come see her, she would write me off forever.

My slow, corrosive panic did not subside until that afternoon, when I was already on the train to Washington.

Only then, trapped in a crowded passenger car racing through New Jersey, committed to the long trip south, did I calm down enough to recognize the neurotic foolishness of my fears. What had I gotten myself so worked up about? Even at the best of times, Nancy didn’t return calls. What did I hope to prove to myself with this gratuitous mission of mercy? I almost got off in Trenton to catch a train back to New York, but decided to finish this and let Nancy see that I cared about her so much I could behave like a lunatic.

My concern had been so genuine that I’d brought nothing to read. Relaxing into my foolishness, I could only watch the scenery, look at other passengers and give in to the erotic woolgathering of train travel. Six weeks ago, I had ridden this same route to Baltimore with simple expectations of sex and a nervous hope of love. Even today the sweep of fields and bridges had the three-dimensional depth of bodies in a bed.

No, I told myself. I was not going to see Bill. Not in Washington. Not next week in New York. Never. If this journey had an unconscious demon, it was a bad conscience, not vestigial lust for an old mistake.

I came up in Dupont Circle shortly after six, in twilit clouds of flowering trees. I felt like a vagrant arriving at Nancy’s building without luggage. The doorman said Ms. Wenceslas was out. When I claimed that she was expecting me, he said she should be back sometime tonight, she had not left town.