The Go-Between by Frederick Turner

Author:Frederick Turner
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins

Before she left the White House, she and Jack had a serious conversation that went on so long it was early evening when she got into the car for the ride back to the Mayflower. They had the habit, you might remember, of lying in bed afterward, often enough sitting up with drinks; a lot of that, I suppose, would have been pillow talk. This wasn’t. This was strictly business, and so here again I think of Jack’s emotional makeup, his ability to turn romance on and off like a faucet. And she, I think, had a bit of that compartmentalizing ability herself. I’m not sure just what I think of this trait. When I talked about it with Lucy one evening, she said men were a lot better at it than women, and I came back to say we all might be better off if we kept emotions out of areas where they didn’t belong. The Nazis, she retorted, were great at that, filling out requisition forms for boxcars and Zyklon B gas and then going home to dandle their children on their knee and toss sticks for their German shepherds.

However, there they were, with Jack telling Judy he had some “delicate” matters he still had to work on with Sam Giancana. Some had to do with the election, and some were of a different nature, and these in his judgment would be going on for some months, maybe as long as a year. It was hard to say. These ongoing matters were in fact so delicate he didn’t want to use the usual channels, even those topsecret ones now available to him. As soon as he mentioned Sam she knew where this conversation would end up, what he wanted from her, and instantly she thought with real horror of the FBI’s invasion on North Flores. How totally different she now felt, she thought as Jack went on, from the Judy who had been so hot to make his election team that he’d practically had to force her to look inside that attaché case to see the cargo she was delivering to Chicago.

She didn’t want to know now, either, what the materials were that she’d be carrying, and he obviously didn’t want to tell her, skirting around this in his adroit fashion. But now her aversion was so strong she thought that if he did start to tell her, she’d stop her ears, put her hand over his mouth, or run into the bathroom—anything to keep from learning what was so delicate that not even top-secret would do. Writing this down, she crossed out the word delicate with a single strong stroke of her blue pen and put in dangerous instead, then crossed that out, too, so that the sentence lacks a critical, characterizing word. The irony of this grew on me, I can tell you here, the deeper I read in her diaries, like your own shadow when you’re walking a long road in summer and suddenly find

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