Murder at Ford's Theatre - Margaret Truman [67]
“Mac,” she said, “I must admit a certain disappointment that you don’t seem to understand the situation I’m in.”
“Your son is in trouble, Clarise,” he replied. “If there’s any truth to his alleged relationship with the murder victim, his troubles are just beginning.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m not thinking clearly. Forgive me.”
“Nothing to forgive.”
“Set up your meeting with Jeremiah whenever it’s convenient for you and Mr. Becker. I don’t want to impede the process. I’ll try to free myself up to be available whenever you need me.”
“Good. I’ll keep in touch.”
“Best to Annabel.”
She clicked off the phone and went to her bedroom, where the bed was still unmade. The housekeeper hadn’t gotten to it yet. How many times have I told her to start with the bedroom? she thought, closing the door and sitting atop the rumpled bedclothes. She suddenly felt cold, and wrapped her arms about herself. Don’t let this happen now, she thought, referring to the feeling of confusion that was beginning to envelop her. It was a sensation she seldom suffered, and when such episodes struck, she was usually capable of controlling it, willing it away, negotiating with her emotions: Think it through, Clarise. Don’t allow yourself to be overwhelmed. Compartmentalize. There’s nothing you can’t handle.
What she hated at that moment was her lack of control over events. The police, the lawyers, and the courts would control Jeremiah’s fate. Topper Sybers and his Senate Committee on Labor and Human Resources would determine whether she became the new head of the NEA. She’d managed to control her destiny since the time she left the family farm in Ohio to attend college in California, and to forge what had been a winning and rewarding career, first in television, and now in the nation’s capital as head of Ford’s Theatre Society. She’d made all the decisions during her transformation from teenager to successful businesswoman. They weren’t all good ones, she knew. Marrying Bruce Lerner, which had seemed a dream come true at the time, had been a mistake, and her sense of relief and freedom after the divorce was palpable. Giving birth to Jeremiah was—no, she would never label it a mistake—hadn’t filled her with the sort of joy other mothers experienced when having a child.
She preferred to not dwell on memories of the day Jeremiah arrived in the world, the tiny, helpless infant handed her in the hospital by a beaming nurse, her emotions clashing, joy tempered with fear, exultation sliding into resentment at what having a child would mean to her career and life. She was almost afraid to love this son born to her, and a keen sense of responsibility became the overriding commitment.
Her husband, Bruce, wasn’t there for the birth. He’d been on the road campaigning for weeks leading up to the day, and learned he had a son from a phone call from an aide. That night, he called Clarise at the hospital.
“So,” he said brightly, the sound of a party in the background, “little Jeremiah Lerner has officially arrived. Is he as handsome as his father?”
She laughed and confirmed that he was. They chatted for a few minutes. As they did, Clarise’s cheerful mood deteriorated into bitterness toward her husband. That he wasn’t there, that he seemed to be discussing the arrival of a new car or delivery of a rug, said to her—promised to her—that he would not allow the child, their child, to impact his career and schedule. And she grimly, silently pledged to herself that she would not allow that to happen, either.
The housekeeper knocked on the door.
“In a minute,” Clarise said, getting up from the bed and going into the bathroom, where she was surprised to see that she’d welled up, and that two teardrops had run down her left cheek, streaking her makeup. She made the necessary repair, opened the door for the housekeeper—“Please, do the bedroom first!”—and went downstairs,