Behind Every Good Man

1

Look, I’m not saying that I was the perfect wife, but ... Well, maybe I am saying that.

Every morning, I woke up at five. Actually, most mornings, it was 4:59. I didn’t want my alarm to wake Larry after all. He needed his beauty sleep until 6:00.

No, I woke up a full hour and one minute before he did so that I could shower, put on my makeup, dress, and have breakfast on the table for him by the time he came downstairs after his alarm went off at six. No pounding on the bathroom door and telling me he had to shower for work in our house. No sir.

By the time he arrived in the kitchen at 6:30, breakfast was on the table. Eggs, toast, fruit, coffee, and orange juice. The newspaper folded just so at his left. I got a quick kiss on the cheek, then went to wake and dress the kids, ensuring they didn’t disturb his breakfast. Honestly, the only thing I didn’t do was squeeze the juice myself. A girl’s got to have limits after all.

Larry left at seven on the dot every day, at which point the kids and I exhaled. It wasn’t that we didn’t enjoy having him around. But he spoke so highly of how well I ran the house that I preferred he keep thinking that was the day-to-day reality. Which any mother will tell you isn’t how parenting actually works.

But for the ten minutes that he actually saw the children sitting down to eat their breakfast, all three of us could keep the illusion going. The second he was out the door, the real day began.

And the day that my perfect little world fell apart was a doozy.

The latch had barely clicked behind Larry before Debbie threw a fistful of soggy Cheerios at Robbie, who retaliated with a piece of toast smeared with strawberry jam. Larry complained frequently about how high our water bill was, and I blamed it on an unseen leak under the house. Which could be the case. But I wasn’t admitting to how much laundry those two little troublemakers generated. They were my little troublemakers after all. And they were awfully sweet when they weren’t throwing food and destroying the house.

“Hey!” I said, snapping my fingers at them. “Food goes in your own mouth. This isn’t Cinderella . No little birds and mice are going to come help me clean up after you.”

“She started it,” Robbie said, pointing at his two-year-old sister. Debbie immediately burst into tears, which mixed with the strawberry jam smeared across her face.

“Well, I’m ending it,” I said, wiping her face with a napkin as she squirmed to get away from me. “And even if she starts it, you know better.”

Robbie crossed his arms, a scowl emerging that resembled his grown father’s way too much for a five-year-old. “You always blame me!”

“She’s a baby,” I said.

“I big girl,” Debbie said, also scowling.

“Big girls don’t throw food,” I countered. I checked my watch. “And if you don’t behave today, you don’t get to watch Captain Kangaroo .”

“That’s a baby show,” Robbie said.

“Then don’t watch it.”

He pouted for another second, then apologized to his sister. I ruffled his hair and kissed his forehead. “Finish your breakfast—eating it, please, not throwing it. Then we’ll change your clothes, and you can watch TV while Mommy makes some cookies.”

“For me?” Debbie asked, rubbing her hands together gleefully. “I help!”

“For Daddy’s office,” I said, shaking my head. If there was sugar involved, that child would be there. Her bottom lip quivered. “Doesn’t Mommy always let you lick the beaters and make sure you get a cookie?” She nodded, and I leaned to kiss her cheek. “You will today too, sweetheart.” I straightened and pointed at her. “Now eat that cereal, missy.” Perfect mother in addition to perfect wife. I even turned the mixer off before I let her lick the beaters.

I poured my second cup of coffee while they chewed, then nibbled on a piece of toast and flipped through Larry’s newspaper, sighing at the water ring on it. I asked him not to put his coffee cup on the paper when he was done with it so I could read it too, which he never remembered, and I didn’t want to nag. But you’d think he could at least do it on the sports section instead of news. I suppose he thought he was being considerate, saving the tablecloth. But there was a saucer there for a reason. And it wasn’t like I didn’t have to wash the tablecloth multiple times a week because of the kids. I glanced up from the paper at it. Yup. I would be washing it today as well.

Eventually, he would call my bluff and get a plumber to inspect the pipes, but that was a problem for another day.

With the kids in clean clothes—again—and planted in front of Captain Kangaroo , I turned to tidying up the kitchen before making my famous cookies. I usually brought them to the office on Fridays as a treat for a week well done. Sometimes Mondays if Larry said it was going to be a rough week. He was the campaign manager for Sam Gibson, Maryland’s first-term senator, who was angling for his second stint.

That job was how we met, seven years ago, though he wasn’t the campaign manager back then. Sam had wanted my father’s support and invited the whole family to dinner. Papa had been a congressman until he retired nearly two years ago, which was a bit of a euphemism. He wasn’t so sure he would win reelection after suffering a minor heart attack on the House floor, and his doctor warned him that if he stayed in politics, the next heart attack would kill him. Now, he spent his days playing a lot of armchair politics over checkers in the park, debating endlessly over how President Kennedy was doing and what those blasted Soviets were up to.

Sam’s first campaign manager had gotten the flu, so Larry stepped in at dinner. He called the house the next day, and I answered the phone. I said I would get my father, but he stopped me, saying he wasn’t calling for him. We went out that night, and the rest ... Well, here we were.

I did sometimes wonder if Sam put him up to asking me out. Because Larry winning my father over definitely helped get Sam that endorsement. Larry swore Sam didn’t know he asked me to dinner. But there wasn’t a lot that Larry did without Sam knowing.

One more outfit change later, thanks to the chocolate from those cookies, the kids and I walked the three blocks to my parents’ house. That was something I had been adamant about when Larry and I got married. I wanted Mama and Papa nearby. Larry had no objections—the Chevy Chase neighborhood was perfect. Our house wasn’t so grand as theirs, but neither were we—yet. Larry swore we would get there though. He secretly had political aspirations of his own. And, as he liked to say, with me on his arm, he couldn’t lose.

“Hello?” I called, opening the door, cookies balanced in my left hand. Robbie and Debbie went barreling past me into the house.

“Beverly, darling.” My mother walked down the stairs, fastening a pearl earring. “Ah ah ah,” she said as the children approached. “Are your hands clean?” They stopped and held them out for her to inspect, which she bent down to do. “Wonderful. You may hug me now.” She opened her arms, and they threw themselves into them.

I rolled my eyes while she cooed over them. Had there been a speck of dirt under a nail, they would have been frog-marched to the bathroom to wash while I was castigated for their uncleanliness instead of them being showered with the affection they got now.

But help was help, and I appreciated that she would take them while I ran errands. As long as it didn’t interfere with bridge, lunch, or her myriad of hair and nail appointments.

“I’ll head out, then,” I said.

“Don’t you want to sit and chat?”

That was code for she was feeling neglected. But if I stayed, it meant the cookies were made in vain. “What time do you need me back today?” I asked.

“One.”

“Then no, I can’t.”

She sighed. “Always rushing about. You need help, darling.”

Do you want to pay for it? rose in my throat. Larry had been harping on about my overspending as it was. But I swallowed the words. “I do, which is why you’re the best, Mama.” I moved forward and kissed her cheek, then leaned down to kiss the top of each child’s head as well. “You two be good for Grandma now.”

My mother waved a hand in the air. “They’re angels. I don’t know what your mother thinks you’d ever do wrong,” she said to them in a singsong voice.

“Right. I’ll be back by one.”

“Noon.”

I felt my jaw tighten. “I thought you said one?”

“Why would I say one?”

Deep breath. “I’ll be back by noon.”

“Come with me, darlings,” she said to the children as I left the house.

We only had the one car, so I took the bus downtown to Larry’s office. I didn’t mind, to be honest. Driving into the city was harrowing with the traffic circles and tourists. Papa said they laid out Washington, DC, to confuse the British if they invaded, but they apparently did their job too well because DC traffic was still confusing everyone 72 years later. Larry didn’t work out of the Capitol though—his team was in an office just off the Hill. And on the bus, I actually got to read the water-stained newspaper without the distraction of my children throwing food. I had to be up on everything happening on the Hill if I was going to be the perfect wife to my politics-adjacent husband.

The campaign workers swarmed me when I walked in. My cookies were popular, and therefore so was I. I smiled and greeted them all by name, asking about wives and children. But Larry was noticeably absent. “Is Mr. Diamond in his office?” I asked.

In hindsight, Louis had looked alarmed when Frank said yes. But Louis was always a little bug eyed, and I didn’t think anything of it. Nor of the empty desk where Larry’s secretary, Linda, sat.

I also didn’t knock. Which perhaps I should have. He could have been in there with Sam. Or President Kennedy. Or Khrushchev for that matter.

But he wasn’t.

No. Instead, when I walked in, I saw Larry at his desk, arms behind his head, Linda’s feet sticking out from the side of the desk, her blonde head bobbing up and down.

Neither of them noticed I had walked in.

For an interminable moment, I stood there, frozen to the spot. Then the moment ended. “Ahem,” I said loudly. Larry jumped, and I heard the sound of Linda slamming her head into his desk.

“Beverly,” Larry said, fumbling to fasten his pants. “I—uh—Linda was just—”

“Taking dictation?” I asked drily. He started muttering inanities, but I shook my head and walked out.