Noises in the Corridors

By Rick Horowitz

-- President Clinton, explaining.

In the night, in the shadow-blue hours when no sleep comes, does he ever hear the footsteps? Such an old house -- a haunted house, some people say -- with so much history rattling down the hallways. Does he ever feel the ghosts?

It wasn't supposed to be like this.

It wasn't supposed to be remotely like this, with parallels drawn and analogies crafted -- and now adjectives. One adjective, that is, more and more frequent in these endless accounts of these ceaseless battles:

Nixonian.

Did he ever dream it would come to this? Does he ever dream of anything anymore?

He has to hear the footsteps -- an independent counsel gaining ground, grand juries launching indictments, a judge dismantling his defenses. He can fight back, of course, with a press conference, with one more lawyer's brief. Fighting back is what he's always done best. He may even win. But now, even fighting back conjures up the dreaded adjective.

The ghosts are walking.

These were supposed to be the good times. If the world is at peace, if the nation he leads sits unchallenged astride that world, churning out product, churning out wealth -- he can't take all the credit, but hasn't he been the man in the chair while it's been happening? A little gratitude would be nice, instead of all this carping and snooping and --

What does he say to her? Is she really asleep, lying beside him in the predawn dark, or does she hear the footsteps, too? All that money business, strangers declare -- that money business was her doing. Land deals and law-firm shenanigans. He wouldn't be in this fix, they announce, if it weren't for that money business.

But then there's all that monkey business. This woman. That woman. Some other woman. Does he blame himself even a little for that part of it, or does he truly believe it's nothing but a plot?

Is that what he tells her when she asks? Or doesn't she ask?

What do they talk about when they talk about things? How much do they leave unsaid, leave floating in the air where footsteps echo and ghosts lurk?

On the TV every evening, the latest scenes of confidants and loyalists marching in for questioning. Here in the sleepless slices of nighttime, he has to wonder: Is there a John Dean among them, one who will leap to safety and send a stone wall tumbling?

The second-term clock always runs bittersweet -- the triumph of re-election, then the immediate, steady ebbing of power. If only we had more time! If only the days could move more slowly! This one may be different. Does he pound a sweat-drenched pillow and bid the night to pass quickly, and the days and months that follow it? The closer the end of his term, after all, the greater the chance they'll let him reach it in peace.

He's still battling for his place in history; for now, that means surviving, outlasting them. If he leaves in disgrace, there's only one comparison.

When the night seems endless, does he feel the ghosts?

5/8/98