I?”
“Getting rid of ‘push.’”
Paterno marked his copy of the speech. He sighed. “I should have listened to my mother, been a tenor.”
“What stopped you?”
“No talent. Did you ever think of doing something different?”
“No,” I replied. “Never.”
Four
W illiam Paterno’s lawyer suggested that he get an electroencephalogram.
“You really think so?” Paterno demanded, his large head bent forward intently, his slender shoulders hunched up around his ears.
“Well,” Eileen Gerrity said, “it could rule out a brain tumor.”
“Dammit, Eileen!” Jerry, from the chair nearest Paterno’s desk, glared across the room at the couch where Eileen and I were sitting. “This is no time—”
“I mean,” Paterno said, ignoring Jerry, “I’m not really worried that it’s a brain tumor. It’s just that I’ve been getting these headaches for the last few weeks. All of a sudden. I’ve never been headache-prone, and now, every morning, I wake up with this tightness around my forehead, and by the time I get dressed and downstairs for breakfast it’s developed into a—”
“Look,” soothed Eileen, smoothing out a crease in her gray flannel skirt, “you’re under a lot of pressure. Why give yourself something else to worry about? I’ll make a few calls, get the number of a good neurologist, and you can go have yourself checked out.”
“Does this kind of thing, I mean, around the forehead, have any—urn, significance?” Paterno asked, talking to a pile of papers on his desk.
“Yes,” Jerry hissed. “It means you’re a marked man, Bill. You’ll be dead before sunrise tomorrow.”
“Jerry,” Eileen said softly, glancing up at the ceiling.
“Eileen,” Jerry crooned, matching her voice in softness, “if you cater to that kind of crap, he’ll be in a wheelchair by the time Marcia drafts his declaration. Just ignore him.”
Her voice grew a little sharper. “You don’t just ignore something like that. If he’s on edge, doesn’t it make more sense to reassure him?”
“No,” said Jerry, “no, no, no.” He slammed his fist on the edge of the desk. “Once you start playing his hypochondriac games…”
Paterno still leaned forward, listening intently, his dark eyes darting from chair to couch to chair. It was not clear whose side he was on, although he seemed to nod more when Jerry spoke. I shifted around, trying to find a perfect niche for myself, somewhere between the back and the armrest of the sofa, debating whether or not to direct the meeting back to its purpose: deciding the best time for Paterno to declare his candidacy for governor.
Eileen stretched a long thin finger at Jerry and suggested he was insensitive. Jerry countercharged with an accusation of mollycoddling. Paterno remained aloof, although an expression of contentment that seemed nearly a smile played about his mouth. He glanced aross the room, finally focusing on a gleaming brass log basket that sat by the mahogany mantel of his massive nonworking fireplace.
The three top officials of New York City, Paterno, the mayor, and the comptroller, all worked in surroundings that would have been appropriate only for an Anglican bishop. In Paterno’s office, the chairs and couch were all of a worn oxblood leather, except for the chair Jerry sat on. That was a pull-up of glossy mahogany, upholstered in a faded blue brocade. It looked as if it had been dragged in from some dining room, an extra seat for a visiting vicar.
“Listen, you two,” Paterno began slowly, “we really ought to get down to the business of planning a campaign.” He rubbed his hands together, not in glee but in a kind of awed respect, as if conscious of touching the hand of the future governor of New York. But none of us spoke. We peered out the window, down to our shoes, over at the painting of Giovanni da Verrazano Discovering the Narrows. We looked everywhere except at William Paterno.
“Let’s get started,” he finally
“Getting rid of ‘push.’”
Paterno marked his copy of the speech. He sighed. “I should have listened to my mother, been a tenor.”
“What stopped you?”
“No talent. Did you ever think of doing something different?”
“No,” I replied. “Never.”
Four
W illiam Paterno’s lawyer suggested that he get an electroencephalogram.
“You really think so?” Paterno demanded, his large head bent forward intently, his slender shoulders hunched up around his ears.
“Well,” Eileen Gerrity said, “it could rule out a brain tumor.”
“Dammit, Eileen!” Jerry, from the chair nearest Paterno’s desk, glared across the room at the couch where Eileen and I were sitting. “This is no time—”
“I mean,” Paterno said, ignoring Jerry, “I’m not really worried that it’s a brain tumor. It’s just that I’ve been getting these headaches for the last few weeks. All of a sudden. I’ve never been headache-prone, and now, every morning, I wake up with this tightness around my forehead, and by the time I get dressed and downstairs for breakfast it’s developed into a—”
“Look,” soothed Eileen, smoothing out a crease in her gray flannel skirt, “you’re under a lot of pressure. Why give yourself something else to worry about? I’ll make a few calls, get the number of a good neurologist, and you can go have yourself checked out.”
“Does this kind of thing, I mean, around the forehead, have any—urn, significance?” Paterno asked, talking to a pile of papers on his desk.
“Yes,” Jerry hissed. “It means you’re a marked man, Bill. You’ll be dead before sunrise tomorrow.”
“Jerry,” Eileen said softly, glancing up at the ceiling.
“Eileen,” Jerry crooned, matching her voice in softness, “if you cater to that kind of crap, he’ll be in a wheelchair by the time Marcia drafts his declaration. Just ignore him.”
Her voice grew a little sharper. “You don’t just ignore something like that. If he’s on edge, doesn’t it make more sense to reassure him?”
“No,” said Jerry, “no, no, no.” He slammed his fist on the edge of the desk. “Once you start playing his hypochondriac games…”
Paterno still leaned forward, listening intently, his dark eyes darting from chair to couch to chair. It was not clear whose side he was on, although he seemed to nod more when Jerry spoke. I shifted around, trying to find a perfect niche for myself, somewhere between the back and the armrest of the sofa, debating whether or not to direct the meeting back to its purpose: deciding the best time for Paterno to declare his candidacy for governor.
Eileen stretched a long thin finger at Jerry and suggested he was insensitive. Jerry countercharged with an accusation of mollycoddling. Paterno remained aloof, although an expression of contentment that seemed nearly a smile played about his mouth. He glanced aross the room, finally focusing on a gleaming brass log basket that sat by the mahogany mantel of his massive nonworking fireplace.
The three top officials of New York City, Paterno, the mayor, and the comptroller, all worked in surroundings that would have been appropriate only for an Anglican bishop. In Paterno’s office, the chairs and couch were all of a worn oxblood leather, except for the chair Jerry sat on. That was a pull-up of glossy mahogany, upholstered in a faded blue brocade. It looked as if it had been dragged in from some dining room, an extra seat for a visiting vicar.
“Listen, you two,” Paterno began slowly, “we really ought to get down to the business of planning a campaign.” He rubbed his hands together, not in glee but in a kind of awed respect, as if conscious of touching the hand of the future governor of New York. But none of us spoke. We peered out the window, down to our shoes, over at the painting of Giovanni da Verrazano Discovering the Narrows. We looked everywhere except at William Paterno.
“Let’s get started,” he finally
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