House of Secrets - v4 (53 page)

The closest Andy Foster came to missing his stride was about forty minutes before the swearing-in ceremony, when a bulldog of a man, accompanied by a pale nervous woman, appeared at the office door pushing a ruby red wheelchair in which sat Lindsay Packard, Senator Foster’s former intern. Her left leg was elevated and bound up in a plastic cast. Lindsay introduced the senator to her parents, and both she and her mother blushed as Tom Packard sputtered his apologies for his behavior over the phone with the senator the evening of Lindsay’s accident.

“I… we’re both fathers,” Packard said. “We’ve each got our little girls. I just… I guess it’s easy to overreact.”

Senator Foster assured the man there were no hard feelings. At Lindsay’s request — she was a bit embarrassed about asking — the senator posed for a photograph with the family. Andy parked himself behind the wheelchair, flanked by Tom Packard and his wife, and smiled broadly for the camera. He gave his former intern a peck on the cheek before she and her parents trundled off.

A
t a quarter to eleven, Christine appeared. She was wearing a brand-new outfit she had picked up shopping with her mother. She kissed her husband lingeringly on the cheek.

Andy asked, “Where’s Michelle?”

“She and Emily are with Lillian. I left them in the rotunda. The girls are trying to get the statues to speak.”

“Please,” Andy said. “There’s enough yabbering around this place as it is. The last thing we need are the mighty ones weighing in.”

Andy turned to his aides. “That’s it for visitors, Linda. Tell them happy hour’s over.”

He escorted his lovely wife into his private office and closed the door behind them.

C
hristine stood with her arms crossed and her chin dipped slightly, considering the framed photograph on the wall. Out the window, the crowds both on and around the front steps of the Capitol appeared highly restive and excited.

“I suppose you could turn this one into a dartboard.”

The photograph she was referring to had been taken seventeen years before, when Andy had made his first run for statewide office. Then ambassador to Great Britain Hoyt had been back in the country for the annual meeting of the U.N. General Assembly and had taken time out to make a campaign appearance with his daughter’s boyfriend. Christine had taken the photograph of “her two men” at a rally in the Bronx. Both the candidate and the ambassador had donned Yankees caps for the occasion, and Christine’s photograph captured them at a moment when they’d been glancing at each other, both clearly exhilarated by the moment.

Andy was at the window, his hands in his pockets. On the Capitol steps, a large American flag was being unfurled. He pulled his attention away from the activity and considered the photograph. What was striking about the image was the commonality of the two men’s expressions.

“It’s depressing to think that the final judgment on a person’s entire life is going to be based on his absolute worst moments.”

Christine turned from the photograph. “That depends on who is doing the judging, don’t you think?”

“I’m thinking about history’s judgment.”

“I’m sorry, I just don’t find that so important.”

Andy asked, “Is that because we won’t be around to hear it?”

“Not at all. It’s because what you’re calling history is really just another snapshot, don’t you think?” She indicated the photograph. “It’s like this. That’s history, it took place. It happened to be a good moment. Then along came the next moments, and the ones after that. And in this case, a lot of those weren’t so good. So which history is being judged?”

“I can’t pretend that’s a different Whitney,” Andy said. “I’ve tried.”

“Why does it have to be a different anything?” She tapped her finger against the photograph. “It’s a good moment.”

“A good moment of a bad man.”

Christine wasn’t having it. “I’m fatigued with
bad
. Flawed. He’s deeply flawed. Last time I checked, there was a lot of that going around.”

Andy pulled his hands from his pockets and placed them lightly on his wife’s shoulders.

“I am so sorry, Chrissie. I am so, so, so sorry.”

Christine’s reply was barely above a whisper. “I know you are.”

“I’m never going to ask you to forgive me.”

“I think that’s a smart plan.”

Andy gave her shoulders a squeeze. “You’re an angel. I mean it.”

Christine reached out and ran her hand down her husband’s tie, smoothing it against his shirt. “Well, that’s sweet of you to say. I’ll tell you what, though. We should let history decide that one.”

“I thought you just said—”

She silenced him, placing her fingers on his lips. Her eyes played over his face. “I say a lot of things, Andy. Most of it happens to be brilliant, of course, but not all of it. You’ll just have to sort through it yourself.”

Andy always felt he was good at reading his wife’s expressions, but Christine had managed to find one he’d never seen before. It was a kaleidoscope. On the steps outside, the flag was waving furiously. The general movement was decidedly in the direction of the doors at the top.

“We’d better get going,” Christine said. “I’d hate to miss democracy in action.”

C
hristine sat with her mother and the two girls in an area in the gallery reserved for special guests. Michelle and Emily were fidgety. Christine and Lillian took turns patting the girls on the leg and hushing them. They might as well have been urging tadpoles to stop swimming.

The chief justice of the Supreme Court delivered the oath of office. Seated in the front row was President Hyland, along with his wife and their three children. It had been at Hyland’s urging that the ceremony was being conducted in the Senate chamber and not in a more intimate setting at the White House. His new vice president was a product of the Senate. The people with whom he had worked were all gathered here. It was here he would preside as president of the Senate. The country was going to be handed a vice president who had not been offered up to them in the election, and Hyland wanted the matter handled as openly and publicly as possible. He had informed his new political partner that after the swearing-in he wanted to hear a podium-pounding, roll-up-the-sleeves-and-get-to-the-people’s-work barn burner of a speech.

“We’re rebooting this administration,” Hyland had said to him in their brief meeting. “Not to disparage Chris Wyeth, by any means, but I want them to like you
more
. For the one day at least, it
is
a popularity contest. So damn it, be popular.”

“
I
do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; and that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which I am about to enter: So help me God.”

Senator Mitchell Cutler of Colorado lowered his right hand. The chief justice caught it on the way down and gave it a vigorous shake.

“Congratulations, Mr. Vice President. Good luck, sir.”

The chamber erupted into applause and cheers. Cutler’s wife turned to her husband, and the two embraced. President Hyland was on his feet, and in no time so was every single person in the room.

“
W
here’s Daddy?”

Michelle looked up at her mother. Her own view of the main floor was hopelessly interrupted by the big people all around her.

Christine was clapping vigorously. “He’s down there, honey. I can’t see him right now, but he’s there.”

Her hands came together over and over. The huge smile refused to leave her face. She had no control over it, any more than she did the tears that flowed freely down over her cheeks.

C
hristine sat near the Reflecting Pool with her camera, watching as Michelle and Emily played a game nearby with ice-cream cones. The idea of the game was to swap the cones back and forth as swiftly as possible, slurping a speed-bite from each cone before passing it right back. Christine knew full well where the game would lead. And it did. Within thirty seconds, one of the cones failed to complete a clean handoff, and down it went, landing on the pavement, ice-cream side down.

The girls thought it was the funniest thing in the entire universe.

The steps of the Lincoln Memorial were dotted with tourists. From deep in the marble shadow, the gaze of the sixteenth president of the United States directed itself past the steps, past the Reflecting Pool and the Mall, ostensibly off into an endless future of possibilities for freedom, harmony, peace, happiness. Or something along those lines.

Christine focused her camera on the two laughing children, their faces a picture of pure delight. She didn’t shoot. A strong breeze kicked up and was moving along the water of the Reflecting Pool, turning its ripples back on themselves. Christine lowered her camera. By the time the breeze reached her, her eyes had closed. A serene expression graced her face.

R
ICHARD
H
AWKE
lives in New York City. He is the author of
Speak of the Devil
and
Cold Day in Hell
, and under the name Tim Cockey is the author of the award-winning “hearse” novels. Visit his website, RHawke.com.

SPEAK OF THE DEVIL
COLD DAY IN HELL