Through the Waters and the Wild

CHAPTER I

What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow

Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,

You cannot say, or guess, for you know only

A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,

And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,

And the dry stone no sound of water.

—T.S. Eliot, The Waste Land

The late summer day welled up at its rise like a great, giant bird, wings spanning the horizon from end to end, allowing no breath of air to penetrate. As it did, Conor Finnegan woke as always. He showered, rode the train to work. Nothing new there. He blocked out the distinction of the day, wrestled with himself to make it seem commonplace, any other Thursday. The hours of work were an insulation.

Long ago, Conor had mastered the skill of creating the illusion of dedication. Those around him, those he answered to, thought him a utile employee, someone who could be relied upon for solid if not unspectacular work, someone who cared for the nature of what he did as much as anyone could expect. They did not need to know how he really felt. They need not know that he performed well below his capabilities, and that he did so by choice. Thirty-eight-year-old Conor felt secure in his job. He knew it provided everything he needed . . . except a challenge. He could go through his days mindlessly, expending minimal effort, showing minimal creativity. And at the end of each day, he could go home.

Days came and went this way. Conor did not stride through his profession as much as he sneaked through it, trying to draw as little attention to himself and his labors as he could. Long ago, he had abandoned any notion that what he did composed any part of what he was.

Today had been no different. At day’s end, he could scarcely remember how he had spent his working hours, just what he had accomplished. The insulation had ceased. He had to go home now. He had to face that against which he had no insulation.

Conor left his office only slightly later than normal, walked slowly out the door, and headed down Independence Avenue. He walked past the Smithsonian, past the various buildings of the National Gallery of Art, past the monuments. The sun shone low, orange and hot. Waves of heat wafted up from the pavement around him. Tourists and natives sought to cool themselves with ice bought from immigrant vendors or bottles of soda. As during most of the summer, everyone tried to keep their movements to a minimum. Few Frisbees flew across the green lawns. Few bicycles pedaled down the wide streets.

Conor peeled off his jacket and hung it over his shoulder as he walked. He carried a briefcase, but he almost never opened it away from the office. This was his security blanket, another grasping effort to portray a role. He carried it only because he felt he should.

In due course, he turned up Fifteenth Street, and in two blocks he came to the Old Ebbitt Grill. He hesitated, but he had come to love the feel of this classic place. It was an authentic piece of the city, a throwback to the nineteenth century. He loved the rich paneling and the heavy, hanging chandeliers. He loved the staff’s quick wit, period uniforms, and unflagging efficiency. Most of all, he loved the anonymity with which he could sit alone, allow himself to be absorbed with nothing at all or everything at once, and know that he would be undisturbed. Tonight, of all nights, he sought distraction, even knowing it would be no distraction at all. He opened the heavy door, walked in, and took a seat at the half-empty bar.

Good evening, sir.

The bartender was predictably unctuous, a gaunt man in his early fifties, smiling on cue but lacking real warmth. A Washington bartender. On more serene evenings, Conor would wonder what it was that kept a man a bartender for so many years. Was that an aspiration in itself? Had this man, so comfortable in his duties, so deft with the potions of the grain, the potions of social numbness, reached his ultimate plateau? What, in God’s name, could the rewards possibly be?

Good evening. Scotch on the rocks with a twist. Johnny Walker Black. With the order of Walker Black instead of Red, Conor took his first step to commemorate what must come from the flow of the evening. This would not be typical. It was, now at last, foolish to try to deceive himself any longer. This evening was not typical, could not be. Because that was so, all governances could be put aside. Let the evening come out as it would. He would be more spectator than author.

The bar contained no surprises. Around him sat the usual contingent of government workers, mostly young, a near equal mix between male and female. At one corner table, two older men chatted. Conor thought they looked familiar, but he had come across so many faces during his years on the Hill that they had long since lost their distinction. He knew the type. They were senior bureaucrats, no doubt, perhaps civil service but just as likely to be legislative assistants—dressed conservatively, jackets across the backs of their chairs, enough lines on their faces to be wizened or charactered but not so many as to give any evidence of decline. They spoke intently to each other, completely oblivious to anyone else at the old grill.

To Conor’s left, two young, attractive women came to take the two stools adjacent. He noticed their presence before he even saw them. Their cologne pierced his nostrils like two small stilettos, a sharp mingling of florals and oils. In the split second it took his brain to register the source of the scent, he turned to see the women, laughing between themselves. In another time, they would have engaged his interest beyond their perfume, and he would have entered a different mode. He would have become another Conor Finnegan, cultivatedly charming, boyishly shy yet exuding a gentle confidence, a sly predator thrilled as much by the hunt as by the conquest.

Almost ironic that he should find himself presented with such a situation on this particular night, he thought. Silly, really. It had been years since such skills had been necessary. Now, it turned out that he may well be in need of them again. Just not tonight. Tonight, he wanted to drink, that was all, and to do so broodingly.

The scotch arrived without comment, the bartender delivering it politely before turning his attention to the two newcomers next to him. The color of the drink pleased Conor. It was a rich gold, not the watered down light amber of scotch served weakly, with too much water. The first sip palpably warmed his gullet, a shaft of heat moving toward his stomach. It complemented the heat around him, the heat of the day, the heat of these past weeks. The heat of days now gone. The fire he had felt since waking, the fire that had welled within him for the past several days—not heat at all. Shame, that was it. A burning incarnation as much a part of him now as the synapses that carried the notion to his psyche.

Conor took a second sip, then another. He let the sounds swirl around and through him without allowing them to penetrate. He became at once a silent observer, an invisible bystander. For several minutes, he sat on his stool. He drew a single finger blindly around the rim of his glass. He stared down at the circle it made on the bar, eyes numb to the image. The pattern of his thought absorbed only color and shape—the woody brown of the bar, the burgundy of the padding against it, the gold of the scotch that sat in his glass. The bar was a rectangle, the glass an uneven cylinder, the other patrons indefinable, colorless shapes. He occasionally felt their press on either side, but they took no mind of him, nor he of them. The night had begun to creep toward him, and he hated the thought of it.

His scotch disappeared by notches.

The bartender returned to make a perfunctory effort at conversation, an assumed part of his job but one he clearly approached with something less than enthusiasm. A fine way to close a hot day, sir. Can I get you another?

My friend, the day for me has been only prelude. What really counts comes tonight. And by all means, bring me another. Please.

That could be either wonderful or quite frightening. The words did not come from the bartender, who, with a nod of acknowledgment, had turned to his bottles to refill the order. Conor swiveled his head slowly to his left to find one of the ladies smiling, her head cocked slightly, her sharp blue eyes gazing at him in . . . what? Bemusement? Expectation? His own form of cultivated charm thrown back at him? The liquor, and all the dead years, stunted his ability to read her.

Despite himself, he smiled in return. Excuse me?

‘What really counts comes tonight.’ An ominous statement you made. You either have a wonderful evening ahead of you or one that you want to hide from.

I’ve never been good at hiding. Not that I haven’t tried, mind you. I’ve tried very hard. I just never managed to succeed at it. I’ve always been uncovered in the end. Conor heard his own voice as if it were detached. It sounded heavier, more leaden than normal. The lilt of it was nowhere to be found.

Have I uncovered you here? Have I found you out? she teased. She was undeniably lovely, a slender blonde, hair falling past her shoulders. She wore a lightweight dark suit, probably linen, and smelled like a distant fantasy. Her voice teased him.

Apparently you have, lass. I thought I’d be invisible in this place and have a few moments to collect myself before what promises to be a memorably rotten night. You seem to be well on the way to taking a bit of the edge off it.

This is no place to be invisible. Especially someone who looks as if he could use a new friend. I’m Jill.

Conor turned around on his stool to face her more fully, allowing her to see how his light-brown hair and brown eyes accentuated a round, handsome face. Conor, he said. And thank you for noticing.

To be honest, I’ve noticed you since I walked through the door. I’ll bet you had no idea you were making any kind of an impression. Her voice continued to tease him.

None at all, and it was the furthest thing from my mind. Didn’t you come in with a friend?

Who had places to go. I thought I’d stay behind and take a chance intruding into the life of a handsome young professional.

A familiar resonance trilled somewhere deep within Conor, something long buried, alive more as instinct than conscious thought. But conscious thought elbowed its way past instinct. Conor quieted the resonance.

I’m sorry, angel, but I fear I’d be terrible company tonight. The best thing I can do now is gain enough of a head to get through the evening. I should be on my way. He quickly took a deep drink from the glass before him, enough nearly to drain it. The liquor swam his length then floated back to the space behind his eyes.

Jill frowned, a girlish pout.

She’s quite good at this, thought Conor.

Damn, Jill said. My luck continues to run cold. You’ve mentioned again how little you’re looking forward to the rest of this night. What is it you’re up to?

A redefinition, lass, and a painful one at that. Conor took a final swallow then placed the glass firmly back on the bar. One I never thought I’d have to suffer. But, really, I shouldn’t be surprised at all. It’s remarkably consistent. I won’t bore you with details.

He rose, slightly wobbly but aware enough to gain control of himself. I hope to find you here again, love. It’s my loss that I can’t stay.

As you wish. Jill’s smile returned, and her eyes darted around the bar. When Conor stood, she looked back at him, taking in his tall, strong, and supple form. I come here often enough, usually at the end of the day. I hope to find you again, too, mysterious stranger. Be well until then.

Doubtful, said Conor, and he turned to walk out the door. As he opened it onto the sidewalk, a blast of late-day heat struck him fully and caused him to reel. The liquor had had the desired effect.

Conor walked up Fifteenth Street to the Metro station at Federal Triangle. Down the tunnel he rode on the narrow escalator. He gripped the railing firmly, aware now of the effects of the scotch, the effects of the heat. He felt woozy. He wanted to sit.

His time at the Old Ebbitt had diffused the end-of-the-day subway rush. The platform was uncrowded, and those who were there were out for the evening, not going home after a workday.

Some minutes after arriving on the platform, the train arrived, almost silent in its smooth approach. Conor expected no trouble finding a seat at this hour, and there was none. The car was two-thirds empty. The doors closed, and the train pushed forward almost imperceptibly. No more delays, he told himself. No more equivocations. He sat back and closed his eyes . . . and for a short time, his thoughts took him away to words his late grandfather Liam Finnegan had penned to him in a letter thirteen years ago . . . the words of an Irish bard.

The crack spreads the length of the rock in silent phases. And where does the crack begin? What force of nature or of man sends a minute shard, imperceptible and unfelt, into the solid rock, there to start the slightest of rifts? We do not know it when it occurs. Our senses continue oblivious until the crack itself grows too wide, too strident so that it can no longer be ignored.

But then, when our numbed perceptions finally break free from the stultifying comforts, from the smothering assumptions, it is too late. The crack has taken an animus of its own, like a living being, a demon that silently, immutably, pushes the rock farther apart until it becomes no rock at all. We become helpless in the process, bystanders only, as the crack works its way along our spines. All we can do is petition whatever power that guides the animus to have mercy, to let the rock remain somehow whole. And in the dimly aired chambers that rearguard our delicate psyches, we hear the faint tinkling of laughter.

We stand then among pebbles, or, if Time and Fate have been particularly virulent conspirators, we sink into sand.

***

The escalator moved Conor almost silently back to the street. From there, he walked the few short blocks up Connecticut Avenue to Woodley Park, then down the familiar pathway to his condominium. An overweight black man wearing a dark maroon coat and sporting ridiculous white gloves greeted him. His face, smiling in a manner of practiced deference, betrayed nothing beneath the surface, showed not a spark of hidden knowledge, although Conor had never even bothered to doubt that in fact this man knew secrets others could scarcely imagine.

James knew the comings and goings of the building, the places where the hidden keys were kept, the assignations, the mistresses, the cross-dressers, the abusers of drugs, alcohol, spouses, girlfriends, boyfriends, and each other. He knew the license numbers of the cars that drove up late at night with their lights turned off. He knew where to find an otherwise invisible husband when an emergency phone call arrived, and he knew when an emergency phone call was in truth no emergency at all. He knew a thousand facts, large and small, significant and inconsequential, and he held it all in intractable confidence. He knew everyone’s business and cared about no one’s. He held his station, provided his service, and, in so doing, offered a security valuable far beyond the meager pay he drew.

He knew whether Maggie would still be here. Or, more likely, whether she would not.

’Evenin’, Mr. Finnegan.

Good evening, James, replied Conor in scarcely more than a whisper. As always, my friend, it’s good to see you here.

James’s face softened very slightly, but the voice did not alter beyond its ever-familiar, well-rehearsed tone. And where else would I be on such a hot night? James opened the wide glass door as he spoke. The air conditioning of the lobby struck Conor bluntly. He caught his breath as it hit him, another subtle blow.

Anywhere else would bound to be cooler, James. If I were you, I’d want to be anywhere but here wearing that hot uniform and being nice to the likes of me. Conor walked quickly past him. He had never become accustomed to another human being waiting on him like this. He was perfectly capable of opening his own door.

Mr. Finnegan, you know it’s always my pleasure to see you good people here.

Conor did not reply. He merely waved as a parting gesture then headed down the hallway. The walk, no more than fifty yards down a comfortable, carpeted, cool corridor, suspended itself as he took it. He absorbed minutiae by osmosis, unconsciously noting the weave of the fabric under his feet, the flow of the walls, a single fly that buzzed before him then disappeared behind his head as he passed it. No walk he had taken before had ever been like this. He floated through the familiar setting, apart from it, a disembodied wraith, the wail of a banshee weaving its way to the ear of the sufferer.

He had no idea how long it took him to reach his door. He may even have stopped midway to lean against a wall or take a few deep breaths for courage, although if he did so it was not the product of forethought. After some indefinable length, he stood before the solid wooden door. No more delays. There was nothing left to do. He took the key from his pocket, inserted it into the lock, heard the familiar clicking as he turned the knob, then walked into the place he had assumed would always be his own.

Maggie? he called in a voice too low to be heard at the far end of the condo. He took two steps through the entryway and turned the corner to the great room. Maggie? he called again, louder, more forcefully.

No answer. All he heard was the regular ticking of the old clock on the mantel. Maggie was not home.

Conor took a quick look around the great room. From there, he walked into the dining room. Nothing on the table. Then nothing in the kitchen. Upstairs to his study. Nothing there. Then at last to the master bedroom, green and quiet. Nothing there. No sign of her. And, more troubling, no note. Nothing left behind for him to read. No final statement. No plea. No reconsideration. No part of her there to touch him.

The effects of the scotch had not worn off, would not do so for quite some time. Conor felt at once numb and sore. His head took on a vague ache emanating from some deep recess. It pushed its way from the base of his skull to the point between his eyes. A faint gloss of perspiration moistened his brow and upper lip. To his surprise, he noticed his right hand tremble, a tiny shaking he could not control. He wondered how long his hand had been spasmodic.

Conor sat on the edge of the bed to compose himself. There would be no need to rush. No, his entrance, and the silence that greeted it, told him that. Maggie was not here and would not come back until very late, if at all. Then she would not find him. That was her wish. As with almost all her wishes, it would come true for her.

Lights from the street seeped in between the window blinds and created a slanted pattern on the far wall. Conor sat without moving and watched the lines wave on the flat surface, watched them rise and swirl when a car drove by, watched them deepen and soften in turn. He sat there for a long time. The sweat thickened along his now throbbing forehead. A tiny line of it dripped down his cheek near the corner of his eye. He heard the blood pulse through his skull, felt the mysterious trembling in his hand, listened to the ticking of the old clock downstairs, clearly audible even in this distant room. Conor sat, numb and shocked, to face a reckoning he had never envisioned. Another failure. This time it was more graphic, less transitory. This time it tore at the very core of his soul. There would be not even the pretense of recovery.

***

Conor met Margaret Kelly eleven years before, when he was twenty-seven. He had been a confident but reserved minority aide to the Congressional Joint Committee on the Library. She had been a graduate student at Georgetown working on a master’s degree in government. She had requested a tour of the office, some cursory facts of its operation, an overview of where this peculiar committee fit into the workings of a complex body ostensibly concerned with far more weighty issues than how the Library of Congress catalogued its holdings.

She had set the appointment with Stacy, the scheduling secretary and receptionist, who had promptly forgotten to mark it down on the master calendar and therefore neglected to arrange a junior staffer to walk Margaret through the office. Margaret had shown up there on a Thursday morning, exactly at ten. Stacy had greeted her professionally, asked if she could hang up her coat, offered her a seat in the lobby and a cup of coffee, then retreated into the back offices to search frantically for someone, anyone, who could provide an impromptu tour and treat it as if he had been expecting the privilege of doing so.

The first two desks, the area where the junior staff sat, had been empty. That day, Stacy spun her way further back into the suite and found Conor eating a doughnut and flipping through the Post.

Conor, I’ve got a huge favor to ask.

Conor looked up, swallowed what was in his mouth, and leaned forward. If I can help, Stace, let me know.

Some grad student from Georgetown is in the lobby and wants to speak with someone about what we do.

Is this a surprise?

Yes. Well, I mean no. It shouldn’t be. I forgot to mark it down. Now I’m stuck. I’d be happy to do it myself, but I don’t know anything.

Right. You just sit up front, look good, and answer every inquiry that comes in off the street. I can see where you’ve been sheltered from the nuts and bolts. Christ, Stacy, you know more about this place than anyone.

Conor, come on. She wants to speak with a real staffer. You can be charming and informative for a little while, can’t you?

Conor genuinely liked Stacy. She was young, one of the callow, eager faces that appeared on the Hill yearly and took any job that was offered, even if it was well below her competency. In this case, simple Stacy had found the proper niche. He rose to put on his suit coat.

At least tell me she’s cute.

I can’t tell you that, Conor. I’m sorry, she whined. She looks like a typical grad student.

Intelligent and oversexed?

Mousy and spoiled.

Damn. Conor picked up his portfolio and a summary of the staff’s operational plan for the year. Well, lass, you’re fortunate that I have nothing on my calendar for the morning. Show me to the mouse.

Stacy led him to the outer lobby where Margaret Kelly sat waiting. He approached her warmly with his hand outstretched. Good morning. My name’s Conor Finnegan. I’m the minority legislative assistant—an impressive title, but in truth it means very little.

Margaret Kelly, Mr. Finnegan. She offered a hand, which Conor shook gently. Her touch was cold. Stacy was right. Margaret Kelly was definitely not cute. But to Conor’s eye, she had the potential to be pretty. Her hair rounded her face, falling below her collar in an almost bowl-like pattern. It was thick and brown, surprisingly well maintained in contrast to the rest of her. She wore a plain beige skirt and a dark blue sweater that showed more than average wear. The woman’s face seemed pleasant enough if not noteworthy, what he could see of it behind her huge glasses.

It was the glasses that first caught his eye. They were large and thick, a pair of goggles, really, that dominated the curves of her face. She had little color—no blush to her cheeks, no color on her lips, no shading around her eyes, or so it seemed. Her lips formed a nervous line. In doing so, they accentuated the distinctive cleft in her chin.

I understand you’re looking to see the committee’s workings from the inside, so to speak, Conor said.

I’m writing a paper for a graduate seminar on the legislative process. I chose this committee as my model. Whatever you can tell me, I’d greatly appreciate it.

An interesting choice. Most people are scarcely aware that we even exist.

I thought I’d have less competition in doing my research. Most of the students in the seminar gravitated to the more visible committees. Judiciary, Ways and Means, Armed Services—they’ll all get worked over. I took a chance that no one else would select the Joint Committee on the Library.

I’d wager that you took no chance at all. We’re as close to invisible as the Hill can offer, Conor replied, his cultivated charm now on display, hiding the painful realization that his statement was in fact very true. What can I show you?

Tell me how you’re put together. Tell me what happens on a typical day, who you see, your lines of communication, the types of issues you deal with, any legislative initiatives. I’d be interested in all of that.

Conor began a monologue he had delivered before—the committee composition, how it came to be that way, majority and minority representation. He produced from his portfolio a summary of that term’s pending legislation and its likely disposition. Usually, his audience was a busload of elementary schoolchildren or perhaps a senior citizens club taking a tour. He could not remember the last time he was called upon to give an individual presentation. Despite the fact that this was all extremely familiar and more than a little dull, he found himself enjoying it.

Margaret and Conor walked back through the office suite as he spoke, stopping in the middle of the cramped quarters long enough to give the impression of clutter, of too many