The Rake (16 page)

Boulder, September 1991

The postcard from Justin had brought on dismemberment in her emotional life, Henrietta acknowledged late at night, after trying for hours to fall asleep. That postcard had collapsed her self-hypnosis. Her son now knew who his father was, his very public father. On divulging it all to Amy, Henrietta had finally acquired at least a counselor. She thought, self-reproachfully, of all those years devoted to keeping her father and her aunt—and her growing boy—ignorant of the true story. Her father had died never knowing that he had a son-in-law who was not dead in Vietnam, but very much alive in Washington.

Having turned now to Amy—motherly friend, professional superior, and warm companion—she felt all the more keenly the need for her company. Amy and Henri crossed paths many times a day in the great Chinook Library, where they both worked, but if Henri wanted uninterrupted time with Amy she needed to make special arrangements. Amy was always obliging. “We can have lunch, Henri, how's that?…You'd rather not? After work then? Maybe at your place—John won't be home till dinnertime…. So that's simple: we'll meet at your place. Is five-fifteen okay?”

Henri brought Amy a cup of the strong Colombian coffee she liked, and then gave her the letter from Jean-Paul to read.

In that letter Gallic indirectness was gone. Henri observed Amy struggling with the French and finally retrieved the letter from her. “Oh, Amy, let me translate. That first passage—Never mind. It just says how much he…loves me, and how…determined he is to ‘open the door to our happiness.' He has been delayed returning from Paris, and he wants to stop off in Washington on his way here.”

She leaned back in her chair and put the letter on her lap. Before she started reading, she said: “Amy, I don't know how much of this you already know, since you were friends with both JP and Stephanie. Anyway, JP is a close friend of a…apparently a very tenacious lawyer called—let me get it right”—she turned her eyes down to the letter—“Harrison Ledyard. Their wives were first cousins. JP and his wife—I never knew Stephanie, but I know you did—JP and Stephanie had the Ledyard daughter living with them in Paris for an entire year. It's that kind of family closeness.”

Henri turned back to the letter and read slowly, giving it idiomatic translation: “I wish you to authorize me to retain the Ledyard…the firm of Ledyard…to pursue the matter of your marriage. ‘La question de ton mariage.'…Any investigation will require your authorization. When dear Stephanie died, I inherited some money and can easily pay whatever costs pile up, which will not be large because Harrison is like my brother. Dear dear Henri, I wish you to send a telegram to Harrison Ledyard, saying—it must be in English of course—saying: ‘This telegram authorizes the firm of Covington & Burling to repre
sent me in matters which will be divulged to Harrison Ledyard by Professor Jean-Paul Lafayette.' The telegram must be there when I arrive in Washington on September 20.” Henrietta put the letter to one side.

“Amy, I need advice. Legal, yes. But also moral. I need to know whether I am free to remarry. After twenty-one years' desertion. When I gave the impression that my husband was dead in Vietnam, obviously others thought I was free to remarry. Only I—no one else—knew that the man I married was alive. I hid it from Justin, but now, in just a few days, he has come to know it all.”

“Henri, have you—”

“And now I must decide—”

“Henri!
Stop talking for a minute!
Now. Answer my questions.”

Henri bent her head, a lock of hair falling over her cheek. She left it there.

“My first question: have you heard anything from Justin about what he intends to do? He has some pretty hot information, at a time when Senator Castle is in the papers practically every day.”

“No. I tried to phone him right after I got his card. He wasn't in, but I left a message asking him please to say nothing until we met and discussed the matter.”

“Did he reply?”

“Yes. By postcard.” She reached to her desk, a tense smile on her face.

She handed the postcard to Amy, who had no problem with the French on this one. It consisted of two words: “Maman,
d'accord.” But then pasted on one half of the card was a news photo of Senator Reuben Castle. Printed below it was the legend: “President, Bigamists for Castle.”

Henri sniffled. But she finally capitulated, and smiled along with Amy.

And then she said, drying her tears with a tissue, “Before I met Jean-Paul, I never thought seriously about the question of annulment. I had always assumed that it was not possible. Obviously the marriage had been consummated. But now I've done some looking around in the library. The Vatican texts I found all agree that if one of the parties harbors an intention not to commit to a lifetime together, then the marriage never took place as a Christian union. It is therefore annullable. And Reuben couldn't have intended a lifetime together, given what he did just a few months later.

“On the legal question, I can't deny Jean-Paul permission to conduct an investigation. Of course, I know enough to ease the work of his friend Harrison Ledyard. What do you think of this text? I drafted it before I telephoned you.” She passed the sheet of paper over.

“I signed it, ‘Henriette Leborcier Durban.' That, after all, is the name on my passport.”

“You will telephone JP?”

“Yes. When he reaches Washington. That will be next Friday. I will tell him everything I know.”

“Have you decided how to proceed?”

“Yes. I want very much to marry Jean-Paul.”

“Well. If your fancy lawyer in Washington can't arrange for that, you'll just have to—”

“Get a fancier lawyer!”

They clasped each other's hands.

“Thanks, Amy. Thanks.”

Washington/Manhattan, September 1991

On Thursday, early in the afternoon, Susan rang Reuben on the intercom. “It's Jim Stannard. I know you want him put through when he calls.”

“Yep.” He pressed the lighted button.

“Reub, the guy you told me about in Canada has sent a special-delivery letter for you.”

“You haven't opened it, Jim?”

“Of course not. But on the outside of the sealed envelope is a note. I'll read it to you: ‘Sir: I think you will want to telephone me provided you receive this before two
P.M.
on September 26.' September 26 is today. The note goes on, ‘In the envelope is material you will want on file. Yours, H. Griswold.'”

“Shoot me the telephone number.”

“204-349-9221.”

“Thanks. I'll send Susan for the envelope. Or maybe I'll pick it up myself. I've got a joint committee meeting at four.”

“Okay. If I wake up and read you own the Brooklyn Bridge, I want in on it.”

Reuben dialed the number, and Henry Griswold was on the line. “I have important information, Senator. But the reason I had you telephone is that I am going to be in New York on business tonight and all day tomorrow, Friday. You could meet me in New York tomorrow, or, on Saturday, I could travel down to Washington and meet with you there.”

Reuben opened his appointment book. “Does New York, six
P.M.
tomorrow, sound okay?”

After a pause, “Yes. I expect to be back from the courthouse well before then.”

“Where do we meet?”

“I suggest the offices of Taggart Brothers—156 West 56th Street. That's near Seventh Avenue.”

“Ask for you by name?”

“No. Get off at the twenty-third floor, turn right, go into the Taggart offices. I'll be in room 2337.”

He told Priscilla the next morning that he'd be away in New York on business later in the day, but might be back before bedtime.

“You mean
my
bedtime?”

“No, no way I could be back
that
early.”

“So we can't have any fun until
Saturday
?”

“I'll manage to have some fun.”

She sat up on the bed. “Don't you go havin' fun without me, Reuben. Senator Reuben.”

He kissed her on the forehead and said he'd try to make it home “before all the fun is spent.”

“Bring me somethin' from Tiffany's.”

“Like a diamond bracelet?”

“Hmm. Yes. But don't forget to put your card in the box. Otherwise I might get it mixed up.”

He poked her in the stomach with a finger, and blew her another kiss.

Walking up Seventh Avenue, Reuben found himself wishing he were less readily recognizable. He knew that relative invisibility was possible to achieve. Kaltenbach had told him that some public figures—even some movie stars—can go from one end of a city to the other without being stopped by a single person. “But then you'll run into the bit player in a movie or the guy who wrinkles his brow on TV to tell you about erectile dysfunction, and he might not make it three blocks without somebody recognizing him. Even if they think it was somebody else! You remember Adolphe Menjou?”

“Sort of,” Reuben had said.

“Well, just about everybody who had a mustache and a sort of a dapper look, which means most barbers and all French barbers, was stopped because he was Adolphe Menjou, only usually he wasn't.”

Reuben paused to extend his hand to a greeter carrying a Bergdorf-Goodman bag. “Thanks. Thanks a lot. I'll pass your word to the Senate!”
Don't slow your walking pace.
Maybe he should take to wearing a hat—hats often confuse people. Trouble with that is Jack Kennedy made wearing hats unconstitutional. At least for presidents. Or presidents-elect. Reuben wasn't that. Yet. Maybe he would buy a hat just for when he had to walk a few blocks in a city.

He returned the greeting of the black woman at the reception desk. “Thanks. Thanks very much, ma'am.” In the elevator, no one addressed him. It helped, in discouraging impromptu interruptions, to appear engrossed in a newspaper. His
Washington Post
, held up in front of him, told of the FDA's quest for authority to regulate tobacco consumption. Thank God North Dakota isn't a tobacco-growing state!

He followed instructions and knocked on the door of 2337. Griswold was seated behind a desk. He rose, and pointed to the chair opposite.

“We've got a complicated situation in Letellier. And in Winnipeg. Let's deal with Winnipeg first.

“The Vital Statistics Agency records that a marriage license in your name and that of Henrietta Leborcier was issued on Wednesday, November 14, 1969.”

“Does it say whether it was mailed or picked up?”

“Presumably mailed. The register says, ‘Care Saint Anne's Church, 119 First Avenue, Letellier.' The document was in a loose-leaf binder. The page recording your license has been…withdrawn.” Griswold handed a folder over to Reuben. “It can always be reinserted at the agency, should you choose to do that.”

Reuben nodded. He slipped the folder into his briefcase. “And then?”

“And then I arranged to send someone to Letellier. My associate, Dumont, went to Saint Anne's and asked if he could examine the church records for November 1969. The pastor, Father Daniel, said there had recently been interest shown in his church records for that month. ‘You are representing whom?' the priest
asked. Dumont said that he was tracking down Henrietta Leborcier because of a bequest.

“Father Daniel said the parish kept records of baptisms, first communions, confirmations, marriages, and funerals, records accessible to responsible parties. He took Dumont to his study and pulled down a heavy leather-bound volume. Dumont examined it and looked for November 1969.

“And, yes, the names are there. The matrimony is recorded on November 18, and there are the signatures of the two principals.” Griswold paused.

“
I remember!
” Reuben thumped his forehead with his right hand. “The marriage license!”

“You remember what, Senator?”

“We didn't
have
a marriage license!”

“Then how is it that you were listed in the registry as having married?”

“What happened,” Reuben spoke now excitedly, “was that when Henri—Henrietta—proposed that we should be married, the father asked, did we have a marriage license? Of course we didn't. But dear old Father Lully, dumb shit, said, ‘Never mind. I have marriage-license application forms. Just fill one out, and I'll send it on to Winnipeg. On account of the required twenty-four-hour waiting period…' I remember exactly! He was counting out the days on his fingers—he said, ‘They'll get the application day after tomorrow, November 13, send the license back to me the next day, November 14. To play it safe, I'll set the wedding date at November 18.' That is exactly what happened.”

“That corresponds with our examination,” Griswold nodded. “The Vital Statistics Agency reports that the Castle-
Leborcier license was issued on November 14. And the church registry records the marriage on November 18.” Griswold raised his hand. “Is there any way you could prove that you were in Grand Forks on November 18?”

“I doubt it. That's one week after the actual date, meaning that it was also a Sunday. We—
I
, actually; I was chairman of the Student Council—I got to use the university station wagon on Sundays. That's how we drove to Letellier. But the offices of the
Dakota Student
—I was also the editor of the student newspaper—are closed on Sundays, so I wouldn't have been on record as being there. And there are no classes Sundays—and in any case professors don't keep rosters of class attendance.”

“Senator—” Griswold had raised his hand again as if to arrest the flow of reminiscences. “Senator, it doesn't look to me as if you can prove that you and…Ms. Leborcier…weren't in Letellier on the day recorded in the registry of Saint Anne's. But”—he needed to shake his raised hand to stop Reuben—“I'm not sure it would make any difference.”

“What do you mean? If the church records are just plain
false
?”

“If they are false, the Province of Manitoba could charge Father Lully with a clerical misdemeanor—if he's still alive. But your signatures are in the parish registry. So the good father acted impulsively? What kind of punishment would you expect would be meted out? For writing ‘Sunday, November 18' instead of ‘Sunday, November 11'—twenty years ago? As long as that registry survives, there is no way you can guard against the charge that you were married to Henrietta Leborcier in Letellier on November 18, 1969.”

Bill and Susan were waiting for him at the airport. Susan handed him the large manila envelope. “This is what you asked for.” He nodded, and she said, “See you Monday, Senator,” and left.

Bill drove Reuben to the restaurant on G Street. They were shown to a booth in a dimly lit corner. They ordered drinks and steaks.

Rode was quiet. He knew something was up. He waited for Senator Castle to set his own pace.

Castle spoke randomly about duties ahead and projects undertaken and the need to be present for Monday's vote on the tobacco bill.

The steaks were served, and Reuben started cutting into his, but without paying it the kind of appreciative attention he habitually showed when served good steak. He filled his wine-glass.

“Can I trust you, Bill?”

“Senator—Reuben—I will do anything for you. Anything at all.”

“You realize I'm going to be president of the United States.”

“Yes, sir. I know that. That's where you belong. And anything I can do to make that happen, I'm doing for the benefit of my country.”

Reuben took out Griswold's card from his pocket and handed it to Bill. On the back were written a name and a telephone number.

“This man,” he pointed to the card, “knows what to do. What
you
have to do is go to Winnipeg, check in at the Radisson
Downtown, and call and let him know where you are. When he arrives at your hotel room, hand him this envelope. That's all. Just make sure it's him.”

“How do I know it's him?”

“He's been told to show you his passport. His name is René Benoît. Give him the envelope and get back to Washington.”

“Consider it done, Reuben.”