Son of Rosemary

  An oldster in a Yankees cap and an I SYMBOLS sweatshirt shook a fist after her. “Watch where you’re going, Greta Garbo!”

  She slowed herself down at the drive, waited, and jogged across into the southbound lane.

  Jogged in the stream of joggers toward Andy in the tower of blinding gold sunshine.

  He had told her Tuesday that her card had been validated for the lobby entry to the private elevator; she hadn’t expected to make use of it. She touched 10, rocketed upward. It was still early, but he was usually at his desk by eight, he and the media said.

  He was there this morning. When she was halfway through his quarter floor of empty cubicles with barren desks, she heard him speaking to someone doggedly, trying to get a word in. As she neared the open door to his anteroom, she heard him clearly. “Please? Please? Will you—Hey! Please! Just let me finish, okay? Half the billboards aren’t even up yet, more than half in China and South America, but they’re all going to be up by Friday the latest, everywhere.”

  She went into the anteroom—Judy wasn’t at her desk yet—and went on across the anteroom toward the open door of Andy’s office. “We’re absolutely saturating TV from Monday the thirteenth right through to the end of the month with the two commercials you yourself said got the point across most clearly, the kid and his grandfather and—You did! Just the other day! Oh shit...”

  She could see his hand raking through his tawny hair above the chair back as he sat facing the window behind his desk. She put hat and glasses into one hand, raised the other to the door—and paused, not wanting to interrupt him. Sniffed coffee.

  “The numbers are going to get better, I promise you; I honestly don’t think it’s necessary or practical, and it just doesn’t seem like the right thing to— Well of course she’ll want to, I know that.” His chair turned around and he looked at her.

  She stepped into the office, turning her hands out apologetically.

  He smiled, beckoned. “René,” he said to the phone, standing up in a GC sweatshirt and jeans. “Excuse me. Excuse me. René, my mother just came in; could we cut it short, please?” He came around to the side of the desk as she came farther into the office. “Yes,” he said. “I will.” He said to her, “He says bonjour. The airport.”

  “Oh,” she said, recalling the elderly Frenchman whose hand she had shaken. She waggled fingers.

  “Mom says bonjour back,” he said, eye-smiling at her. “We’ll talk when you’re home, okay? Have a good flight. And please, thank Simone for the generous offer and tell her I wish there were time to schedule a dozen more concerts. Ciao to the lovely granddaughters.” He put the phone down. “Whew,” he said, coming to her, wiping his hands back over his brow and hair. “Thanks for rescuing me. He’s one of our main supporters and a sweet old guy but what a worrier!” He wiped his hands on his jeans. “And his wife is the world’s worst soprano.”

  He held her shoulders, kissed her cheek.

  She leaned against him, her cheek against his shoulder, held him; listened to his heart beating as his arms enclosed her. He said, “You’re cold; were you running outside?”

  “Mm-hmm,” she said, staying close against him.

  “With Joe?”

  “Alone.”

  “And nobody bothered you?”

  She raised the hand with the hat and glasses.

  He drew back, looked down at her. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  She said, “I’ve been worrying about you.” Looked up at him. “I’m afraid—something awful might happen to you . . .”

  He sighed, nodded. “It’s possible,” he said. “Awful things happen to awful people all the time. Look at Stan Shand. Kersplat.”

  “Oh don’t,” she said, hitting his arm.

  He said, “Did you have something particular in mind?”

  “No,” she said. “I just got scared. Up across from the Bram...” She looked at him.

  “Did you see what they did to it?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “I feel guilty about it,” he said. “That isn’t what scared you; what did? I can see you’re upset...” He stroked her back.

  She said, “I saw...”

  “What?” he asked, stroking, looking down at her.

  She shrugged, sighed. “Just a man with an anti-Andy sign...”

  “An ‘Original Son of Liberty’?” he said. “They’re a joke, like the Ayn Rand Brigade. Don’t worry, I’m as safe or unsafe as the next guy. Safer. Everybody loves me, remember?”

  “If people found out...” She looked at him.

  “Don’t tell,” he said, “I won’t. Want some coffee? I just got a pot. Nice and fresh.”

  She sighed and said, “I’d love some.”

  He kissed her head and they let go of each other. She unwound her muffler as he went to the side table by the desk. “Go with Joe next time,” he said. “Or me; I keep meaning to jog. Or with security. If someone recognized you, you could have been mobbed.”

  “Okay,” she said, sitting on the sofa. She rubbed her hands.

  He brought her a GC mug of coffee lightened to the right shade, with a spoon and a packet of sweetener. “Actually, I was going to call you in a few minutes,” he said, sitting down in a side chair with a mug of his own. “Before René,” he said, nodding toward the desk, “I was talking with Diane. She’s had one of her theatrical brainstorms, but it’s nothing essential and you shouldn’t feel any pressure to do it, I really mean that. If you want to get right onto your own plans next week, I can have Judy set up appointments for you with the networks or you could—”

  “Cut to the chase, Andy,” she said.

  “We go to Ireland,” he said. “Next week for a few days. Dublin and Belfast. Because of your Irish roots and my lightening up the IRA. The idea is, they’ll go more ape over us there than anywhere else and it’ll get maximum coverage worldwide, maybe GCUK can get the King to move up his visit, and we’ll mention the time-zone thing every five minutes. I can see this is going to be a hard sell.”

  She sat back, blinked a few times, and squinted at him, putting her mug down. “Of course I want to do it,” she said. “Andy, I don’t understand you.” She leaned close to him, took his hands. “You act as if we’re selling cigarettes,” she said. “We’re promoting a wonderful, beautiful event that’s going to stir and excite the entire world! Don’t minimize it; the Lighting is a work of art. I mean that. We had lots of artist friends, Guy and I, and some of them created ‘happenings,’ public events that people participated in and were enriched by, so I know what I’m talking about. The Lighting is going to be the greatest happening ever.”

  Andy sighed. “Okay, Mom,” he said, “I’ll stop minimizing it.”

  “Of course we’ll go to Ireland,” she said. “I always meant to someday.” She shook her head. “How I wish Brian and Dodie weren’t on that cruise...”

  “It’ll just be the two of us,” he said.

  She looked at him.

  He smiled at her. “That was the champagne last night,” he said. “Otherwise I never would have rubbed against you like that. I’ll behave. Really.” He tiger-flashed.

  “My angel Andy,” she said, and thought a moment while he waited, watching her. “No,” she said, “I’m definitely going to need a secretary at my side. Preferably someone I know and have a rapport with. Any suggestions?”

  He sighed and said, “Not off the top of my head, but I’ll try to think of someone.”

  “Good,” she said. “And my boyfriend comes too.”

  He looked at her. Said, “Your boyfriend?”

  She nodded. “That’s the way we big stars travel.” She smiled, batting her lashes at him. He didn’t seem amused.

  11

  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 sideways, 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 deci
ded. 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.