On Sunday afternoons, between the hours of five and six, Tanner closeted himself in his study, a walnut-paneled room with three television sets, and watched three different interview shows simultaneously.
Alice knew her husband had to watch. As Director of News for Standard Mutual, it was part of his job to be aware of the competition. But Alice thought there was something sinister about a man sitting alone in a half-lit room watching three television sets at the same time, and she constantly chided him for it.
Today, Tanner reminded his wife that he’d have to miss next Sunday—Bernie and Leila would be there, and nothing ever disturbed an Osterman weekend. So he sat in the darkened room, knowing all too well what he was going to see.
Every Director of News for every network had his favorite program, the one to which he gave extra attention. For Tanner it was the Woodward show. A half hour on Sunday afternoon during which the best news analyst in the business interviewed a single subject, usually a controversial figure currently in the headlines.
Today Charles Woodward was interviewing a substitute, Undersecretary Ralph Ashton from the State Department. The Secretary himself was suddenly unavailable, so Ashton had been recruited.
It was a gargantuan mistake by the Department. Ashton was a witless, prosaic former businessman whose main asset was his ability to raise money. That he was even considered to represent the Administration was a major error on someone’s part. Unless there were other motives.
Woodward would crucify him.
As Tanner listened to Ashton’s evasive, hollow replies, he realized that a great many people in Washington were soon going to be telephoning each other. Woodward’s polite inflections couldn’t hide his growing antagonism toward the Undersecretary. The reportorial instinct was being frustrated; soon Woodward’s tones would turn to ice and Ashton would be slaughtered. Politely, to be sure, but slaughtered nevertheless.
It was the sort of thing Tanner felt embarrassed watching.
He turned up the volume of the second set. In ponderous, nasal tones a moderator was describing the backgrounds and positions of the panels of experts who were about to question the U.N. delegate from Ghana. The black diplomat looked for all the world as if he were being driven to the guillotine in front of a collection of male Madame Defarges. Very white, well-paid Madame Defarges.
No competition there.
The third network was better, but not good enough. No competition there either.
Tanner decided he had had enough. He was too far ahead to worry, and he’d see Woodward’s tape in the morning. It was only five-twenty, and the sun was still on the pool. He heard his daughter’s shouts as she returned from the country club, and the reluctant departure of Raymond’s friends from the backyard. His family was together. The three of them were probably sitting outside waiting till he finished watching and started the fire for the steaks.
He’d surprise them.
He turned off the sets, put the pad and pencil on his desk. It was time for a drink.
Tanner opened the door of his study and walked into the living room. Through the rear windows, he saw Alice and the children playing follow-the-leader off the pool diving board. They were laughing, at peace.
Alice deserved it. Christ! She deserved it!
He watched his wife. She jumped—toes pointed—into the water, bobbing up quickly to make sure that eight-year-old Janet would be all right when she followed her.
Remarkable! After all the years he was more in love with his wife than ever.
He remembered the patrol car, then dismissed the thought. The policemen were simply finding a secluded spot in which to rest, or listen to the ball game undisturbed. He’d heard that policemen did that sort of thing in New York. Then why not in Saddle Valley? Saddle Valley was a lot safer than New York.
Saddle Valley was probably the safest place in the world. At least it seemed that way to John Tanner on this particular Sunday afternoon.
Richard Tremayne turned off his one television set within ten seconds after John Tanner had shut off his three. The Mets had won it after all.
His headache had left him and with it his irritability. Ginny had been right, he thought. He was simply edgy. No reason to take it out on the family. His stomach felt stronger now. A little food would fix him up again. Maybe he’d call Johnny and Ali and take Ginny over for a swim in the Tanners’ pool.
Ginny kept asking why they didn’t have one of their own. Heaven knew they had an income several times that of the Tanners. Everybody could see that. But Tremayne knew why.
A pool would be that one symbol too much. Too much at age forty-four. It was enough that they had moved into Saddle Valley when he was only thirty-eight. A seventy-four-thousand-dollar house at thirty-eight years of age. With a fifty-thousand-dollar down payment. A pool could wait until his forty-fifth birthday. It would make sense then.
Of course what people—clients—didn’t think about was that he had graduated from Yale Law in the top five percent of his class, had clerked for Learned Hand, had spent three years at the bottom of his present firm’s ladder before any real money came his way. When it came, however, it came rapidly.
Tremayne walked out to the patio. Ginny and their thirteen-year-old daughter Peg were cutting roses near a white arbor. His entire backyard, nearly half an acre, was cultivated and manicured. There were flowers everywhere. The garden was Ginny’s pastime, hobby, avocation—next to sex, her passion. Nothing really replaced sex, thought her husband with an unconscious chuckle.
«Here! Let me give you a hand,» shouted Tremayne as he walked toward his wife and daughter.
«You’re feeling better,» said Virginia smiling.
«Look at these, daddy! Aren’t they beautiful?» His daughter held up a bunch of red and yellow roses.
«They’re lovely, sweetheart.»
«Dick, did I tell you? Bernie and Leila are flying east next week. They’ll be here Friday.»
«Johnny told me… An Osterman weekend. I’ll have to get in shape.»
«I thought you were practicing last night.»
Tremayne laughed. He never apologized for getting drunk, it happened too seldom, and he was never really difficult. Besides, last night he had deserved it. It had been a rotten week.
The three of them walked back to the patio. Virginia slipped her hand under her husband’s arm. Peggy, growing so tall, her father thought, smiled brightly. The patio phone rang.
«I’ll get it!» Peg dashed ahead.
«Why not?» shouted her father in mock exasperation. «It’s never for us!»
«We’ve simply got to get her her own telephone.» Virginia Tremayne pinched her husband’s arm playfully.
«You’re both driving me on welfare.»
«It’s for you, mother. It’s Mrs. Cardone.» Peggy suddenly covered the receiver with her hand. «Please don’t talk too long, Mother. Carol Brown said she’d call me when she got home. You know, I told you. The Choate boy.»
Virginia Tremayne smiled knowingly, exchanging a conspiratorial look with her daughter. «Carol won’t elope without telling you, darling. She may need more than her week’s allowance.»
«Oh, mother!»
Richard watched them with amusement. It was comfortable and comforting at the same time. His wife was doing a good job with their child. No one could argue with that. He knew there were those who criticized Ginny, said she dressed a little … flamboyantly. He’d heard that word and knew it meant something else. But the kids. The kids all flocked around Ginny. That was important these days. Perhaps his wife knew something most other women didn’t know.
Things … «things» were working out thought Tremayne. Even the ultimate security, if Bernie Osterman was to be believed.