Burial of the Dead

SEASONAL COLDS - Drew Somers

DREW SOMERS

Columbus Day and the Victor Emmanuel Society gathers for its annual Citizens’ Dinner in the ballroom of the Hotel Chevrie, after which they’ll bestow on Mr. Coop Johnson their Honorary Italian-American Citizen of the Year Award.

Drew’s cell phone vibrates three times before he checks the incoming number and takes the call in the coat room behind the curtains behind the dais. His brother, the candidate, is mid-speech, full-blow, referencing again the idiocy of the Congress that changed “french fries” to “freedom fries” in the Congressional cafeteria when France urged caution and more debate prior to the invasion of Iraq. He says the Italians wanted more debate, too, but the Congressmen liked the pasta dishes too much to mess with that part of the menu. The comment sparks laughter and light applause and Somers uses it to advance more substantial criticism of the Administration’s foreign policy. The speech might be a little heavy on the international news, but given the event and future considerations, Drew’s convinced his brother to lace his speeches with more foreign policy to build a record as they look to future campaigns for the Senate and beyond.

Drew listens for the smattering of laughter and applause he’d hoped for and then answers the cell phone vibrating in the palm of his hand.

The caller’s a reporter from the Courant. He’s a young kid, unknown to Drew. The kid says he’s going to run a story about the candidate that rehashes old rumors and something new that happened aboard a sail boat earlier that summer. The old rumors are a chronic threat but Drew goes pale with the new stuff and feels the anxiety carve out a dome of air that becomes a vacuum and pulls him into himself. He steps two steps forward, heavy steps, deliberate, determined to maintain balance, to keep his composure. He’s silent as the kid rambles on. He knows that everything will depend upon the tone of voice he’s able to project, everything will depend upon the next thing he says:

“That is such utter nonsense. Is this for real or some kind of joke? C’mon, guys, we’re at an awards ceremony here; he’s talking with the crowd; we don’t have time for the frat stuff.”

“This is no joke, Mr. Somers. My source is very credible.”

“Did you say ‘your source’?”

“Yes sir, I did.”

“Your source,” Drew says, and the disdain is palpable. “Now look, Cannava, Cannoli, whatever the fuck your name is, I’m going to assume that you’re a young turk looking to make a name for yourself. I’m going to assume that you’re too new to this city to comprehend the extent of the mistake you’re about to make. I’m going to assume that you like working for the paper that pays your rent and everything else, and I’m going to assume that you want to keep your job. So, listen to me very carefully, son, because I’m about to give you the best advice you’re ever going to get. You forget your source. We know who she is and we know what she’s worth. You forget this story, because it will only hurt you, and you forget that you ever made this call, because it can only hurt you. You do that, and I’ll forget it too, and everything will go back to life as we know it around here. Otherwise, kid, you’ll have to prepare yourself for the law of unintended consequences.”

With that Drew slaps his cell shut and returns to his seat on the dais where his brother presents Mr. Coop Johnson with a lovely plaque etched with something in Latin.

*

The after dinner gathering in the Presidential Suite is packed with the best of Hartford’s business and political community, all drawn together to remind themselves that power’s nothing if it can’t be enjoyed from time to time in the company of one another. The Attorney General, running hard for Governor, stands at one end of the room. He looks tired; the eyes are heavy and the brows descend as if he were sad. Drew can see it and with the phone call from the reporter he’s concerned that his brother’s career might have a built-in self-destruct button. Up till now there’s been nothing but advance and hide, advance and cover-up, advance and duck and cover, advance and retreat. Fifty years ago the boys had let everything slide with Kennedy, even liked most of the shit he pulled, but times are different. Clinton found out how things had changed, and after Clinton any public person has to be very pure or three times as careful.

The crowd mills about and power flows of its own accord from pod to pod. A light music filters through the room from speakers in the ceiling, something off a satellite channel or maybe a tape prepared by the hotel. The conversations create a low hum and the men perfect the stance of one hand on chilly glass, under-touched with napkin, one hand in pocket, head bowed, the nods and whispers. This is the preferred stance of powerful men who converse with powerful men, as if nothing said has not been said before (the repetition understood and encouraged), the import coming not from the words but from the person who’s saying them. These are the small moments of agreement and affirmation necessary for the turn and pull of the invisible gears and levers that make things work. Some matter’s about to take shape with near-silence. Some force is about to infuse an otherwise inert system and move it forward. A deal’s about to be closed, a reputation’s about to be made.

“Yes, I agree completely,” Tyler Bach whispers to Judge Nash and some elderly gentlemen of Hartford Casualty when the door opens and Coop Johnson enters the room. The entrance is casual, but everyone feels it and the men with cocktail glasses and the remains of shrimp tail in the folds of damp napkins step back and make room. All smile. All greet him with a murmur of respect that mimics light applause. This is necessary and uncomfortable for Johnson. He need not be reminded of himself – true power always self-informs.

“Please, gentlemen,” he says, “they must be serving very good booze to get a rise like that,” and the wit’s perfect and the laughter over-sails the applause which tends to embarrass everyone.

Drew Somers crosses the room and waits by a small table near the end of an empty couch. He watches Coop Johnson move from man to man, group to group, shaking hands, laughing, promoting more complex banter.

Drew waits, torn by the opposing forces of concern and the supplicant’s etiquette. Drew has no real power. And, except for a few perks of office, neither does his brother. At this stage of the Attorney General’s career, Tom and Drew Somers are merely the hired help with nice job titles. Ann Dillon, the dreaded “source,” however, is Coop’s goddaughter. He owns her and she’ll do whatever he says. He owns her and because he owns her he’ll underwrite just about everything she does. Drew knows why his entreaties to Coop to call her off have failed. As between a future Governor Somers and Ann Dillon there’s no contest. Coop will back the girl, and yet he’s hesitated to push her admission to the Bar, the one thing she’s demanded since early Spring. “There’s a reason,” Drew says to himself. “Coop won’t push it for his own reasons, but we’re the ones catching hell for it.”

“Mr. Johnson?” Drew calls out, having shadowed him across the room until they stand a few feet from where Tom Somers sips bottled water and tells stories from Trinity.

“Yes, Drew,” Coop says, turning from Judge Nash to face Drew. “You’ve been busy tonight.”

“Mr. Johnson, if you could give me a minute, we really have to talk about something.”

“Of course, Drew, maybe you can come by the office tomorrow. Now let me think, yes, I’ll be in tomorrow, late-morning.”

An overweight gentleman in a suit tailored by giants to fit his frame steps in front of the Judge and interrupts the conversation. The guy leans forward, coughs into a napkin, excuses himself and grabs Coop’s hand with two huge hands, bowing and leaning forward as if he were about to kiss Coop’s ring. He tells Coop how great he is and all of the praiseworthy nonsense that diminishes the big-guy as he speaks. Coop cuts him short and introduces him to Judge Harry Nash, one of Coop’s favorite judges, and Drew Somers. The guy puffs himself up, turns his head, sneezes, and takes off again, shaking the Judge’s hand and then telling Drew how great he is. Drew notices the perspiration and short breath of obesity. He can’t wait for the guy to move on. But the guy keeps talking about the “new Governor” and how great Tom Somers will be for Connecticut, and Drew watches as Coop slips away, quietly, engaging in conversations with other men, comparing golf scores and the make of certain clubs.

“Mr. Johnson,” Drew calls out, his voice too loud for the company, the call too forward for the event.

Coop Johnson turns slowly and looks at Drew, more admonition than response.

“Tomorrow, Drew,” Coop Johnson says, turning before he finishes the name, making it clear that he’s putting off the Governor and his brother, knowing the whole story from the kid reporter long before the kid reporter called Drew, knowing his goddaughter, the cheat, the source, still wants to be a lawyer and has decided to make the candidate’s life miserable until she is, knowing it’s in his best interest (Coop’s best interest) to keep her from getting what she wants, knowing that his refusal to pull that lever makes her his weapon and check on the young and future Governor’s power – as important as anything in the game Coop Johnson plays.