“Mr. Chairman, if I might suggest a recess …” It was Oscar O’Brien, competing for attention.
Nim said firmly, “I intend to finish, Oscar.” He observed that everyone at the press table was scribbling and the official stenotypist had his head down, fingers racing.
“There will be no recess for the moment,” the commissioner said, and O’Brien subsided unhappily, with a shrug. Birdsong was still standing, silently, but a half-smile now replaced his surprised expression. Perhaps he was reasoning that Nim’s outburst had harmed GSP & L’s cause and was helping p & lfp. Well, Nim thought, whether that was true or not, having gone this far he was damned if he would get fainthearted. He addressed the commissioner and the administrative law judge, both watching him curiously.
“This entire exercise, Mr. Chairman—and I mean this hearing and others like it—is a futile, time-wasting, costly charade. It’s futile because it takes years to accomplish what ought to be done in weeks, and sometimes even longer to do nothing. It’s time-wasting because those of us who are real producers, not paper-eating bureaucrats, could spend the endless hours we’re required to be here a helluva lot more usefully to the companies we work for and society as a whole. It’s outrageously costly because taxpayers and power users—who Birdsong claims to represent, but doesn’t—get stuck with paying millions for this crazy, counterproductive, comic-opera pseudo-system. And it’s a charade because we pretend that what we are doing here makes sense and reason when all of us on our side of the fence know damn well it doesn’t.”
The commissioner’s face flushed crimson. Decisively, this time, he reached for his gavel and slammed it down. Glaring at Nim, he pronounced, “That is all I will allow on that subject, but I give you due warning, Mr. Goldman: I intend to read the transcript carefully and consider other action later.” Then to Birdsong with equal coldness: “Have you concluded your questioning of this witness?”
“Yessir!” Birdsong grinned broadly. “If you ask me, he just pissed in his own nest.”
The gavel slammed. “I am not asking you.”
Oscar O’Brien was on his feet again. Impatiently the commissioner waved him down and announced, “This hearing is adjourned.”
There was a buzz of excited conversation as the hearing room emptied. Nim did not share in it. He had glanced toward O’Brien, who was stuffing papers into a briefcase, but the lawyer shook his head—a gesture combining disbelief and sadness—and a moment later stalked out alone.
Davey Birdsong joined a group of supporters who were noisily congratulating him, and they all went out, laughing.
Laura Bo Carmichael, Roderick Pritchett, and several others from the Sequoia Club regarded Nim curiously but made no comment as they, too, left.
The press table emptied quickly, except for Nancy Molineaux, who appeared to be reviewing her notes and making more. Her head came up as Nim passed by. She said softly, “Baby, oh baby! Did you ever crucify yourself!”
“If I did,” he told her, “I’m sure you’ll make the most of it.”
She shook her head and smiled lazily. “Don’t need to make anything, man. You stuck your own ass in the blender. Man, oh man! Wait till you see tomorrow’s papers.”
He didn’t answer and left Ms. Molineaux still working on her notes, no doubt seeking the sharpest quotes with which to impale him. Nim was sure the bitch would slant her story to make him look as bad as possible and she would enjoy it, he thought, even more than her report about the helicopter at Devil’s Gate.
A sense of loneliness engulfed him as he left the hearing room alone.
Outside he was surprised to find several TV reporters with minicameras awaiting him. He had forgotten how fast the visual media, once tipped off, could cover a breaking story.
“Mr. Goldman,” one of the TV men called out, “we heard about some things you said in there. Would you repeat them so we can have a story on the news tonight?”
For a second Nim hesitated. He didn’t have to do it. Then he decided: He was in so much trouble already that nothing more which might be said or done could make things worse. So why the hell not?
“Okay,” he responded, “here’s the way it is.” He began speaking forcefully, heatedly, once more as cameras rolled.
14
“From this moment on,” J. Eric Humphrey said, his voice with a cutting edge like steel, “you will cease to be a spokesman for this company about anything. You will not appear on TV or radio. You will not give interviews to the press or respond to a reporter’s question, even if asked the time of day. Is that clear?”
“Yes,” Nim said, “it’s clear.”
The two faced each other, the chairman’s desk between them. The setting was unusually formal since Humphrey had chosen not to use the more casual conference area where he and Nim normally had discussions.
It was the afternoon of the day following Nim’s outburst at the California Energy Commission hearing.
“As to public hearings,” Humphrey went on, “you will, of course, no longer appear at any. Other arrangements will be made.”
“If you want my resignation, Eric, you can have it.”
Nim had been thinking about that possibility all day. His departure, he reasoned, might relieve GSP & L of some embarrassment, and he was aware of owing a loyalty to the utility which in the past had treated him well. Also, from his own point of view he was not sure he wanted to continue working with some kind of stigma, expressed through a restriction of his activities. His pride was involved there, and why not?
One thing Nim knew for sure: He would have no trouble getting a senior appointment elsewhere. Plenty of public utilities would jump at a chance of recruiting someone with his background and experience, as he had learned from job offers before now. On the other hand, he was reluctant to leave California, which Nim, and a multitude of others, believed to be the most agreeable and exciting place in the world to live and work. Someone had said: If something happens—good or bad—it happens in California first. Nim agreed wholeheartedly.
There was also the problem of Ruth and Leah and Benjy. Would Ruth want to move—to Illinois, for example—the way things were between them? Probably not.
“No one said anything about resigning,” Eric Humphrey acknowledged huffily.
Nim resisted an impulse to smile. This was not the moment. But he knew, without indulging in egotism, that he was valuable to the chairman in a host of ways, entirely apart from public appearances. His planning role was one. In fact, being a GSP & L policy spokesman had not been part of Nim’s original duties, but had been added later and increased as time went by. In a way, Nim thought, he would be glad to be rid of the public aspect, so maybe he could put the pieces together and carry on. Anyway, he decided, for the moment he would do nothing rash.
“That is all for now,” Humphrey said coldly, returning to papers he had been studying when Nim was summoned. It was clear that the chairman would need time to get over his personal displeasure.
Teresa Van Buren was waiting in Nim’s office.
“I want you to know,” the p.r. director said, “that I spent an hour with Eric this morning arguing against his decision not to let you loose in public any more. At one point he got as angry with me as he is with you.”
“Thanks, Tess.” Nim dropped into a chair. He felt exhausted physically, as well as mentally.
“What truly sent our esteemed chairman up the wall, and made him unpersuadable, was your doing your thing on television after the hearing. That really guaranteed maximum exposure.” Van Buren chuckled. “If you want the truth, I don’t object to that, though you could have been more tactful, then and at the hearing. But the main thing is, I think you’ll be vindicated eventually.”
“In the meantime,” Nim said, “I’m gagged.”
“Yes, and I’m afraid that’s going to be known outside of here. Do you mind?” Without waiting for an answer, Van Buren produced a California Examiner. “Have you seen the afternoon paper?”
“I saw an early
edition.”
At lunchtime Nim had read a front-page Nancy Molineaux story which was headed:
Tirade by GSP & L’s Goldman
Disrupts Energy Hearing
The report began:
An intemperate attack by Nimrod Goldman, a Golden State Power & Light vice president, on opposition witnesses and the California Energy Commission itself, created turmoil yesterday at a public hearing called to consider a proposed new generating plant at Tunipah.
A shocked Commissioner Hugh G. Forbes, who presided, later dubbed Goldman’s remarks as “insulting and unacceptable” and said he will consider possible legal action.
The later Examiner edition which the p.r. chief had brought contained a new lead and heading:
GSP & L Disciplines Goldman
And Disavows His Outburst
Nimrod Goldman, former “fair-haired boy” at Golden State Power & Light, today stands in disgrace, his future with the giant utility uncertain because of a public temper tantrum yesterday. Meanwhile his GSP & L bosses have disassociated themselves from Goldman’s vitriolic attack on …
And so on.
Van Buren said apologetically, “There was no way to stop the news getting out about your being cut off as a spokesman. If it hadn’t come from my office—and, as it was, I only answered questions—someone else would have leaked it.”
Nim nodded glumly. “I understand.”
“By the way, don’t take seriously any of that stuff about the commission taking action. I talked to our legal department and it’s just hot air. There’s nothing they can do.”
“Yes,” he told her, “I already figured that.”
“But Eric did insist on a repudiation statement. He’s also writing a private letter of apology to the commission.”
Nim sighed. He still did not regret having spoken out; he had thought about that, too, since yesterday. But it was depressing to be treated like an outcast by colleagues. It also seemed unfair that most press reports—including that of the morning Chronicle-West and other California papers—had focused on the sensational aspects of yesterday, glossing over or ignoring the serious points which Nim had made. Nor had Davey Birdsong’s antics—the insults and provocation—been given more than the briefest mention, and even then not critically. The press, it seemed to Nim, operated on its own double standard. However, that was nothing new.
Van Buren glanced at the Examiner again. “Nancy made the most of it all, and has given you the hardest time; she goes for the jugular as a habit. You two don’t seem to like each other.”
Nim said feelingly, “I’d gladly cut that bitch’s heart out. If she had one.”
The p.r. director frowned. “That’s pretty strong, Nim.”
“Maybe. But it’s how I feel.”
Nim thought: It was Nancy Molineaux’s description, “Nimrod Goldman … today stands in disgrace,” which had really got to him a moment ago, had really hurt. Not least, he admitted to himself, because it was true.
PART THREE
1
“Daddy,” Leah said, addressing Nim across the dinner table, “will you get to spend more nights at home now?”
There was a moment’s silence in which Nim was aware that Benjy had put down his knife and fork and was watching him intently, silently endorsing his sister’s question.
Ruth, too, who had been reaching for the pepper mill, changed her mind and waited with the children for Nim’s answer.
“I might,” he said; the suddenness of the question, and having three pairs of eyes focused on him, were disconcerting. “That is, if I’m not given a lot of other work which could keep me at the office late.”
Benjy, brightening, said, “And at weekends too—will you get more time with us, Dad?”
“Maybe.”
Ruth intervened. “I think you are being given a message.”
She smiled as she said it, something she had done infrequently since her return home several days ago. She was more serious than before, Nim was aware, at times preoccupied. The two of them still had not had their definitive, heart-to-heart talk; Ruth seemed to be avoiding it and Nim, still depressed from his recent experiences, had not felt like making the effort on his own.
Nim had wondered in advance: How did a husband and wife treat each other on the wife’s return after she had been away for two weeks, almost certainly with another man? In their own case the answer seemed: Exactly as before she left.
Ruth had arrived back without fuss, had collected the children from her parents, then picked up the threads of life at home as if she had never dropped them. She and Nim continued to share a bedroom, as they always had—though not a bed; it seemed a long time since Nim had left his own twin bed to join Ruth in hers. But in other respects their regular life resumed. Of course, Nim reminded himself, in the past there had been similar situations—in reverse—when he returned from extramarital excursions which, at the time, he believed Ruth had not known about, but now suspected that she had. And one final reason for the quietus was, again, Nim’s bruised ego—bruised elsewhere. He simply wasn’t ready for more emotion yet.
Now they were all at home, having a family evening meal, the third in three days, which, in itself, was unusual.
“As you all know,” Nim said, “there have been some changes at the office but I don’t know yet how everything is going to work out.” He noticed something about Benjy and leaned forward, inspecting him more closely. “What happened to your face?”
Benjy hesitated, his small hand going up to cover a bruise on his left cheek and a cut beneath the lower lip. “Oh, it was just something at school, Dad.”
“What kind of something? Were you in a fight?”
Benjy appeared uncomfortable.
“Yes, he was,” Leah said. “Todd Thornton said you’re a fink, Daddy, because you don’t care about the environment and want to spoil it. So Benjy hit him, but Todd’s bigger.”
Nim said severely to Benjy, “No matter what anyone says about anything, it’s wrong and stupid to go around hitting people.”
His son looked crestfallen. “Yes, Dad.”
“We had a talk,” Ruth said. “Benjy knows that now.”
Beneath his outward reaction Nim was startled and shocked. It had not occurred to him until now that criticism directed at himself would find a target in his family also. He said softly, “I’m truly sorry if anything that happened to me has hurt any of you.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” Leah assured him. “Mommy explained to us how what you did was honorable.”
Benjy added eagerly, “And Mom said you had more guts, Dad, than all the others put together.” Benjy made clear, by the way he snapped his teeth together, that he enjoyed the word “guts.”
Nim had his eyes fixed on Ruth. “Your mother told you that?”
“It’s true, isn’t it?” Benjy asked.
“Of course it’s true,” Ruth said; she had flushed slightly. “But your father can’t say it about himself, can he? Which is why I told you.”
“So that’s what we tell the other kids when they say anything,” Leah added.
For an instant Nim felt a surge of emotion. The thought of Benjy fighting with his small fists to defend his father’s reputation, then Ruth, rising above the differences between the two of them, to protect his honor with the children, left Nim with a choked-up feeling close to tears. He was saved from more embarrassment by Ruth’s exhortation, “All right, now let’s everyone get on with dinner.”
Later, while Nim and Ruth were still at the dining table sipping coffee, and the children had left to watch TV, he said, “I’d like you to know that I appreciate what you told Leah and Benjy.”
Ruth made a dismissing gesture. “If I hadn’t believed it, I wouldn’t have told them. Just because you and I aren’t Romeo and Juliet any more, doesn’t mean I’ve stopped reading and thinking objectively about outside things.”
“I’ve offered to resign,” he told her. “Eric says it isn’t necessary, but I may still.” He wen
t on to speak of the various possibilities he was considering, including a move to another power company, perhaps in the Midwest. If that happened, Nim asked, how would Ruth feel about moving there with the children?
Her answer was quick and definite. “I wouldn’t do it.”
“Do you mind telling me why?”
“I should think it’s obvious. Why should three members of our family—Leah, Benjy, me—be uprooted, go to live in a strange place, and mostly for your convenience, when you and I haven’t yet discussed our own future together—if we have one, which seems unlikely.”
So there it was, out in the open, and he supposed the signal for their serious talk had come. How strange, he thought, that it should happen at a moment when briefly they had seemed closer than in a long time!
He said, with the sadness that he felt, “What the hell happened to us?”
Ruth answered sharply, “You should be the one best able to answer that. I’m curious about one thing, though—just how many other women have there been in our fifteen years of marriage?” He was aware of the recent hardness he had observed in Ruth as she continued. “Or maybe you’ve lost count, the way I did. For a while I could always tell when you had something new going—or should I say ‘someone’ new? Then later on I wasn’t so sure, and I guessed that you were overlapping, playing the field, with two or even more at once. Was I right?”
Having trouble in meeting Ruth’s eyes directly, he answered, “Sometimes.”
“Well, that’s one point settled anyway. So my guess was right. But you haven’t answered the first question. How many women altogether?”
He said unhappily, “I’ll be damned if I know.”
“If that’s true,” Ruth pointed out, “it isn’t exactly complimentary to those other females you must have felt something for, however briefly. Whoever they were, I’d say they deserved better from you than not even to be remembered.”
He protested, “It was never serious. None of it. Not with any of them.”