Murder at Ford's Theatre - Margaret Truman [37]
Klayman said nothing, not because he didn’t agree, but because he agreed too much. He considered bringing children into the world an act of extreme courage, and knew he didn’t possess that brand of bravery. Was it selfish to have children, or to decide not to? It probably didn’t matter why the thought of marrying and having babies was anathema to him. It simply was. It seemed you got married and babies naturally came as part of the deal. No decision involved. He’d met young women who’d professed agreement with his viewpoint. “I really don’t want children,” he’d say. And they’d respond, “Oh, I agree. I don’t see why people can’t get married and not have children.” “You really feel that way?” he’d ask. “Absolutely,” they’d reply. Somehow, he didn’t believe them. You got married and the babies came. Maternal needs took over at some point. It was in the genes, in the hormones.
“Let’s get out of here,” he growled, his voice mirroring the foul mood that had descended upon him. Such introspection always seemed to do that.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CLARISE EMERSON HAD LUNCH at her desk at Ford’s Theatre before heading for the final briefing session in preparation for her confirmation hearing. The meeting was held, as it usually was, in a small, seldom used conference room in the Executive Office Building, directly across from the White House.
“You certainly charmed good ol’ Senator Sybers,” one of three people from the administration’s presidential personnel office said after Clarise had taken her customary chair across from her mock inquisitors. The woman was one of eleven people on the team the White House had assembled to whip Clarise into shape as a witness. It was informally known as the Murder Team, and the intensity of their questioning had led Clarise to consider it an apt description.
“The president had coffee with Sybers this morning,” the woman in charge of President Nash’s task force responsible for the arts and humanities agencies said lightly. “The senator said you were ‘one damned impressive lady.’” She delivered the line the way a very old southerner would.
“That’s good to hear,” said Clarise. “He was charming when we met. I think he was flirting with me.”
A lawyer on the team laughed. “Senator Sybers is one of the biggest flirts in Congress. He may be eighty-six years old, but he still has an eye.”
“Southern shtick,” said a publicist, who’d been brought in to generate positive press for Clarise and her quest to head the NEA. “The senator’s charming, all right. It’s a shame his politics aren’t.”
“How do the numbers look so far?” Clarise asked.
“Solid. Unless somebody drops a bombshell, I’d say your confirmation is a slam dunk.”
Clarise sat back and smiled. “What would we do without sports metaphors?” she asked, more of herself than of the other people at the table. She came forward. “Now, what’s on tap for today?”
A young man from intergovernmental affairs spoke. “The way we see it, Ms. Emerson, the last possible sticking point could be that film you coproduced a dozen years ago, the one with incest as its theme. And these.” He pulled half a dozen posters from a large black carrying case and displayed them on the table, promotional material for made-for-TV motion pictures Clarise had produced. “Senator Sybers has been circulating these to members of Congress, along with other things he considers examples of your lack of morality.”
“Do I lack morality?” Clarise asked everyone with a sweep of her head. She laughed. “God, I hope not. It’s no fun without morality.”
“All in the eye of the beholder. As far as Sybers is concerned, he’s the last bastion of morality in America.”
“The film you mentioned,” Clarise said. “You’re talking about that film.”
“Yes,” said the White House arts and humanities czar. “Sybers pointed to it a couple of years ago as an example of why the NEA shouldn’t receive an increase in funding.”
“As I remember it,” Clarise said, “it wasn’t that he didn’t want to increase government funding. He wanted to eliminate funding.”
“He