Close Relations Read Free Page A

Invincible. Paterno, who probably began coveting the governorship the day he learned the office existed, had, after a few perfunctory conversations with supporters, decided that challenging Jim Gresham in a primary was faster suicide than a revolver to the temple. He took Jerry’s advice, which was that if Gresham, in his second term, decided to try for the Presidency, he would rather bestow the governorship on a man who would not embarrass him, like Paterno. The current lieutenant governor, Lawrence Parker, né Piatagowski, had been one of Gresham’s few public mistakes.
    “Okay, get back, everyone,” a cop ordered, stretching out his arms to herd the last few strays behind the barricade. On the platform of the flatbed truck, Paterno sat stiffly on a gray metal folding chair, three seats away from where Gresham would be.
    “He’s sweating,” I commented. “Why is he so nervous?” Paterno’s high, furrowed forehead was shiny with perspiration. With his sallow complexion, it gave him a sickly look. “Do you think it’s because he’s with Gresham, that he feels so much is riding on their relationship?” Paterno’s dark eyes darted about the crowd, as if he were searching for someone who loved him. He was a small man, about five feet six inches, and beside the mayor, the borough president, and the city comptroller, he looked quite fragile. The only things big about Paterno were his eyes, huge and a little protuberant, his great forehead, and his stomach. He had a huge appetite, and all the food he ate seemed to settle in his belly, as if the rest of his small body was not equipped to assimilate it. If a frog who’d been kissed by a princess turned into a man, he would look like Paterno and not like the prince in fairy tales.
    “Sure he’s sweating,” Jerry conceded. “He’s wearing long johns.”
    “Why? It’s warm today, for God’s sake.”
    The sound equipment shrieked a wild, high-pitched cry and then calmed down, emitting only intermittent crackles, random pops. “And seated next to the Mayor of this great City, ladies and gentlemen, the President of the great Borough of Queens!” The reflexive booing of the mayor subsided, and the crowd, responding a little to the manic joy in the advance man’s voice, applauded lightly.
    “I know it’s warm today,” said Jerry, sounding peeved. “But it’s February. And you know Bill. If it’s February it’s winter and if it’s winter it’s cold and if it’s cold he needs long underwear, so he won’t get the chills and die.” Even in frigid weather, politicians do not like to be seen in overcoats. They feel it makes them look weak, vulnerable, old.
    We watched Paterno lift the back of his hand to his face, ostensibly to massage the tip of his nose. He wiped some perspiration off his upper lip.
    “And, ladies and gentlemen,” the advance man continued, his voice soaring to new heights of ecstasy, “the President of City Council, the man from this wonderful Borough of Queens who almost single-handedly settled the police strike
and
the great garbage strike, ladies and gentlemen, the son of immigrant parents who rose to become a great New Yorker, a truly great American, William Paterno!”
    Shoving my handbag under my right arm, I applauded furiously, accidentally poking the woman next to me with my left elbow. Reflexively, she started clapping, a gold crucifix bopping rhythmically each time her upper arms crashed into her huge balloon breasts. Jerry, on my right, stuck two fingers between his lips and gave a piercing, practiced whistle. It was not the sort of sound people anticipate from an adult. Several glanced around, looking for the acne-ridden fifteen-year-old responsible; unsuccessful, they applauded anyway, not without enthusiasm.
    “Hear that?” Jerry demanded, his eyes moist, sparkling. “They love him.”
    “They
like
Bill. They love Gresham.”
    “Marcia, you’re wrong. They just know Gresham better. He’s been more visible, that’s