For All Their Lives (3 page)

Marcus rarely smiled, but he smiled now. Mac would be a figurehead, and he would be the power behind his son. It would be
almost
as good as being governor himself.

Judge Carlin stepped from his chauffeur-driven stretch limousine, and within seconds was ushered to his favorite table at the rear of the room. Almost immediately a drink was set in front of him. He nodded when a copy of the
Washington Star
appeared on the table. Carlin allowed himself one quick glance around the room. There was nobody of importance there. Not that it mattered. He rarely spoke to anyone, and he never invited anyone to join him at his table if he was lunching or dining alone.

He did like being seen with his son, however. Although they didn't look much alike, Marcus felt he looked as youthful as Mac, and he wanted people to notice that. As far as he was concerned, the only sign that he was older than Mac was his hair, which was gray, while his son's was dark chestnut, almost black. The judge was fit and trim, weighing exactly 180, which was also his son's weight. He had blue eyes, like Mac's, but his own were calculating and shrewd, where Mac's were trusting and open. They both had the same straight nose and the same cleft in what one reporter called a Grecian jaw. Fully clothed, Marcus Carlin could easily pass for a dashing forty-eight, thanks to a skilled plastic surgeon in Switzerland. When associates commented on his youthful appearance, he gave the credit entirely to a line of vitamins he said he took religiously. But he also worked out regularly, played tennis and squash, and jogged three miles every morning. However, he never wore shorts or short-sleeved shirts. Marcus didn't want any observe-ers to see what he detested about himself—loose, flabby skin. For that, he hated his son's rippling, muscular thighs and hard biceps.

The judge sensed rather than saw his son approaching. Sensed because he noticed the slight rustle of moving chairs, was aware of craning necks and a soft murmur of voices, especially from the women. Mac was almost as distinguished in his captain's uniform as the judge was in his English-tailored suit.

“Dad, good to see you,” he said, slipping into his chair.

Marcus wondered with annoyance how his son could be so unaware of the stir he was creating. He himself was always attuned to the effect of his own entrances.

Mac reached for his glass of wine, which appeared as if by magic. His father was lighting a cigarette, and Mac wanted one too. He waited a moment to see if his father would offer him one from the crocodile leather case, but he didn't. His father never offered anything.

“How's everything over at the Pentagon?” the judge asked in a bored voice.

Mac watched the perfect smoke ring rise and then waft toward him. He brushed at it impatiently. He didn't like the Jockey Club, because it was one of his father's favorite restaurants. He also didn't like his father's narrowed eyes or grim jaw. Mac's heart fluttered. Had the old man somehow gotten wind of what was going on? It was unlikely, he decided, since he'd learned to
play the game
almost as well as his old man.

Mac leaned back in his cane chair, a picture of nonchalance. He took his own cigarettes from a pocket, a crumpled pack of Chesterfields, and lit up. It amused him when his smoke ring circled the judge's head. Rather like a halo. He thought he could see little tufts of hair resembling horns on the sides of his father's head. He found himself grinning. “Things are about the same as they were yesterday and the day before that. I don't sit in on policy-making decisions.”

“By your choice,” the judge snapped.

“Yes, by my choice,” Mac said quietly.

He wasn't going to miss his father at all. How could you miss someone you were never allowed to know, to get close to? He could feel his eyes start to spark when a bowl of French onion soup was set before him. He detested onion soup. He waved it away, his jaw tightening. He wasn't going to touch the cobbler's salad either. He could almost picture the grilled salmon steak that would be forthcoming shortly. His father's favorite meal; his guests too, like it or lump it. He'd seen people force down food, stifle their gagging impulses, just to impress his father. He'd done it himself, and all he'd gotten for it was acute indigestion. But not today. Not ever again.

Mac lit a second Chesterfield, then drained his wineglass and signaled for another. His father's eyebrows shot up. One drink at lunch was his father's motto, two for dinner. All things in moderation. Mac gulped at the dry wine.

Judge Carlin dabbed at his lips. He worked his tongue around the inside of his mouth.

He's worried there might be specks of spinach on his teeth, Mac thought.

“Just spit it out, Malcolm, and let's see what we can do with it,” the judge said, patting his lips a second time.

Mac crossed his legs and fixed his stare on his father, across the table. “I volunteered for Vietnam. I leave the day after tomorrow. My orders are carved in granite, if that's your next question.” He signaled for a third glass of wine.

“You did what!” the judge hissed.

Mac smiled. He wondered how his father did it: his jaw had barely moved, his lips hadn't parted, but the angry horror was there for anyone to see. “You pledged me ten years, Malcolm. An honorable man doesn't go back on his word.”

“I'm not going back on my word. One year in Vietnam will finish up my time in the service. I'm giving you exactly what I promised. When I get back, if I get back, we'll discuss the second part of my career,” Mac said tightly.

The salmon steak arrived just as Mac knew it would. He waved it away. Today there were two sprigs of parsley on the plate.

The judge leaned across the table, a ghoulish look on his face. The other diners were supposed to think he was smiling. It was such a neat trick, Mac thought, being able to talk and not move your lips or jaw. “This is about the most stupid thing you've ever done. I've pulled strings, I've called in favors, and I've gone out of my way to get you a comfortable job in the Pentagon. Now you toss it all aside.”

“I'm not needed here, and I hate staff duty,” Mac replied. “I want to contribute.”

“Do you have any idea of what's going on over
there?”
the judge demanded. He didn't wait for a response, he never did. “You don't have to go. Let someone else go.”

“Father, I am the someone else. I'm not going to change my mind,” Mac said firmly.

“You didn't answer my question. Do you know what's going on over there? Well, do you?”

“I'm in the army, for Christ's sake, of course I know what's going on over there. I hope to make a difference. At least I'm going to try.”

The judge laid his fork down across his plate next to his knife. Now he's going to tell me all the things on his mind, Mac thought, all the things that are important right now, more important than me. He sat back and fired up another cigarette.

“I have a lot going on, Mac. I don't want to have to worry about you, and contrary to what you believe, I will worry. They're yellow-eyed weasels, and they don't fight the way you've been taught. There are no rules over there. You've learned jungle warfare from a book. The real thing is nothing like what you've been taught.

“LBJ told me himself he had a meeting with Premier Nguyen Cao Ky on the seventh. Ky said his government would never deal with the Viet Cong. They talked about economic and social reforms to win the war against the communists. We both know that's bull. This war will be won or lost by force of arms. That's why I prefer you stay stateside. I don't want to stand by your casket the way I stood by Chester Nimitz's. Do you hear me, Malcolm?”

“I don't want your blessing,” Mac said firmly. “I just want your support. I need you to tell me you understand why I'm going over there.”

Judge Carlin picked up his fork and poked at his salmon. It was the most Mac would get. There would be no words, no pat on the back. He would finish his lunch. Mac found himself grinning.

“What's gotten into you, son?” the judge asked.

Son. Mac couldn't remember the old man ever calling him son. It was always Malcolm or Mac around his friends. It was too late for words like son. It was too late for a lot of things. He steeled himself to maintain the outward show of respect that was demanded of him.

“Jesus, Dad, I'm supposed to be a goddamn combat leader. They couldn't wait to change my orders. They need me over there. I'm going. Do you want to say good-bye here or stop by the house? You will keep an eye on Alice for me, won't you? Maybe this will take the edge off things. Alice is pregnant. She told me this morning. I'm not changing my mind. She wants to go to France and have the baby there,” Mac said cooly.

The elder Carlin snapped his lips shut. He hated having his judgment questioned. He never backed down. Never. And now, on top of everything else, a brat!
That
wasn't in his plan. He didn't like children, never had liked them. He tolerated Mac because it was expected. It was wholesome. It was the way things were done. But he didn't have to like it.

“You could have asked me first.”

Mac laughed, a loud guffaw that made the other diners stare at the two good-looking men dining alone. “When? As I was unzipping my pants, or when Alice couldn't find her diaphragm? I guess there was a minute there when I could have called you.” His laugh sounded bitter. For once, he noticed, the old man actually looked embarrassed.

“That's not what I meant, and you damn well know it,” the judge seethed. It was a shock and he hadn't been prepared for it. Then again, a baby, a toddler, would look good when he announced his son was going into politics. Mac was better looking than Jack Kennedy. Alice had the same kind of savoir faire as Jackie Kennedy. Maybe a stint in Vietnam would add to the political flavor of things. Providing Mac came home a hero. He gave voice to the thought.

Mac winced. He'd known the old man would think of it. “Well, hell yes, Father, I wouldn't have it any other way,” he said mockingly. “You will keep tabs on Alice, won't you?” He waited for his father to nod, then said, “Then you won't mind if I skip dessert. My sweet tooth runs toward apple pie, not rice pudding. And I don't like chicory in my coffee.”

“Your mother must be rolling over and over in her grave,” the judge muttered.

Mac could feel the beginnings of a heat flush on his neck. He wasn't going to get suckered into
that
game. The old man always pulled out his mother as a last resort.

Mac stood, every eye in the room on him. “I guess this is good-bye, sir,” he said quietly.

There was little the judge could do but extend his own hand. Mac crushed it. “Good-bye, Malcolm. Make me proud of you.”

“You bet,
sir.
Yes,
sir.
Right,
sir.
Whatever you say,
sir.”
Mac fired off a snappy, mocking salute to his father before he strode from the restaurant.

And that was the end of that.

Outside in the brisk air, Mac inhaled deeply. He'd wanted the old man to slap him on the back. He'd wanted some encouraging words. Wanted, but never expected.

He started to walk; it was the only thing he could think of to do to get rid of the knots in his neck, the tension in his gut. Maybe a long walk in the brisk air would heal his heart.

He wandered aimlessly, up one street and down another; until he didn't know where he was. Not that he cared at that moment. He walked until he was almost numb with the cold, then he hailed the first cab he saw. Forty minutes later he climbed into his own car and headed for his and Benny's favorite bar. Their favorite because Bill's Bar and Grill was the only place that served them when they'd been underage.

As he was locking his car, Mac surveyed Pennsylvania Avenue. Not much traffic. The bar would probably be empty. He could sit in the back and nurse his misery until Benny arrived. He stared at the garish neon sign that burned twenty-four hours a day. It looked like a sleazy, ramshackle tavern from the outside, but it was clean inside, warm, and full of camaraderie. The clientele, for the most part, wore three-piece business suits and Brooks Brothers shoes. There were no fistfights here, and the place didn't smell like stale beer and cigarette smoke. It was, in his opinion, a class operation. Sadie Switzer ran the place. There was no Bill. She had named it, she said, after her only true love, who had left her high and dry when he found out she was pregnant. Sadie was fond of saying she kept the exterior shabby on purpose in case old Bill ever decided to come back and ask for a part of the profits.

There was a picture of Bill on one of the walls; it doubled as a dart board. Sadie gave free draughts to anyone who hit Bill's nose dead center. During Mac's senior year in prep school he'd practiced throwing darts every evening, but he'd used a picture of his father for a target. He'd gotten a vicious kind of pleasure out of plucking out the old man's eyes and shredding his nose. Jesus, he'd used up a whole week's allowance having pictures of his father blown up just so he could mutilate them. The day Sadie got tired of serving him free draughts, she asked him how he got so good at throwing darts. He told her. She'd hugged him, tears in her eyes. It was the best hug he'd ever had, sweet and motherly.

Warm, lemon-scented air wafted toward Mac when he opened the door. He blinked several times till his eyes adjusted to the dim interior.

In a way, coming to Sadie's was like coming home. He felt comfortable both here, in the bar itself, and upstairs in her four-room apartment. When he was younger, Sadie had never let him drive even after just one beer. Serving him when he was underage was one thing, but letting him drive under the influence of alcohol was something else.