“Senator
Davenport and Mr. Cartwright,” he said, as if addressing two people he’d never
met before, “I have to inform you that, having checked and double-checked both
your DNA samples, there can be no questioning the scientific evidence that you
are not only brothers,” he paused, his eyes returning to the birth certificate,
“but dizygotic twins.” Dr.
Renwick
remained silent as he allowed the significance of his statement to sink in.
Nat
recalled those days when he still needed to rush to a dictionary to check the
meaning of a word. Fletcher was the first to break the silence. “
Which means we’re not identical.
”
“Correct,”
said Dr. Renwick, “the assumption that twins must look alike has always been a
myth, mainly perpetrated by romantic novelists.”
“But,
that doesn’t explain...” began Nat.
“Should
you wish to know the answer to any other questions you might have,” said Dr.
Renwick, “including who are your natural parents, and how you became separated,
I am only too happy that you should study this file at your leisure.” Dr.
Renwick tapped the open file in front of him once again.
Neither
man responded immediately. It was some time before Fletcher said, “I don’t need
to see the contents of the file.”
It
was Dr. Renwick’s turn to register surprise.
“There’s
nothing I don’t know about Nat Cartwright,” Fletcher explained, “including the
details of the tragic death of his brother.”
Nat
nodded. “My mother still keeps a picture of both of us by her bedside, and
often talks of my brother Peter and what he might have grown up to be.” He paused
and looked at Fletcher. “She would have been proud of the man who saved his
brother’s life. But I do have one question,” he added, turning back to face Dr.
Renwick, “I need to ask if Mrs. Davenport is aware that Fletcher isn’t her
son?”
“Not
that I know of,” replied Renwick.
“What
makes you so sure?” asked Fletcher.
“Because
among the many items I came across in this file was a letter from the doctor
who delivered you both.
He
left instructions that it was only to be opened if a dispute should arise concerning
your birth that might harm the hospital’s reputation. And that letter states
that there was only one other person who knew the truth, other than Dr.
Greenwood.”
“Who
was that?” asked Nat and Fletcher simultaneously.
Dr.
Renwick paused while he turned another page in his file. “A Miss Heather
Nichol, but as she and Dr. Greenwood have since died, there’s no way of
confirming it.”
“She
was my nanny,” said Fletcher, “and from what I can remember of her, she would
have done anything to please my mother.” He turned to look at Nat.
“However,
I would still prefer that my parents never find out the truth.”
“I
have no problem with that,” said Nat. “What purpose can be served by putting
our parents through such an unnecessary ordeal? If Mrs. Davenport became aware
that Fletcher was not her son, and my mother were to discover that Peter had
never died, and she had been deprived of the chance of bringing up both of her
children, the distress and turmoil that would quite obviously follow doesn’t
bear thinking about.”
“I
agree,” said Fletcher. “My parents are now both nearly eighty, so why resurrect
such ghosts of the past?” He paused for some time. “Though I confess I can only
wonder how different our lives might have been, had I ended up in your
crib,
and you in mine,” he said, looking at Nat.
“We’ll
never know,” Nat replied. “However, one thing remains certain.”
“What’s
that?” asked Fletcher.
“I
would still be the next governor of Connecticut.”
“What
makes you so confident of that?” asked Fletcher.
“I
had a head start on you and have remained in the lead ever since. After all,
I’ve been on earth six minutes longer than you.”
“A tiny disadvantage from which I had fully
recovered within the hour.”
“Children,
children,” admonished Ben Renwick a second time. Both men laughed as the doctor
closed the file in front of him. “Then we are in agreement that any evidence
proving your relationship should be destroyed and never referred to again.”
“Agreed,”
said Fletcher without hesitation.
“Never
referred to again,” repeated Nat.
Both
men watched as Dr. Renwick opened the file and first extracted a birth
certificate which he placed firmly into the shredder. Neither spoke as they
watched each piece of evidence disappear. The birth certificate was followed by
a three-page letter dated May 11, 1949, signed by Dr.
Greenwood.
After that came 5 several internal hospital documents and
memos, all stamped 1949.
Dr. Renwick continued to place them one by one
through
the ?
” shredder until all he was left with was
an empty file. On top were printed the names Nathaniel and Peter Cartwright.
He
tore the file into four pieces before offering the final vestige of proof to
the waiting teeth of the shredder.
Fletcher
rose unsteadily from his place, and turned to shake hands with his brother.
“See you in the governor’s mansion.”
“You
sure will,” said Nat, taking him in his arms.
“The
first thing I’ll do is put in a wheelchair ramp so you can visit me regularly.”
“Well,
I have to go,” said Fletcher, turning to shake hands with Ben Renwick. “I’ve
got an election to win.” He hobbled toward the door, trying to reach it before
Nat, but his brother jumped in front and held it open for him.
“I
was brought up to open doors for women, senior citizens and invalids,”
explained Nat.
“And
you can now add future governors to that list,” said Fletcher, hobbling
through.
“Have
you read my paper on disability benefits?” asked Nat, as he caught up with him.
“No,”
Fletcher replied, “I’ve never bothered with impractical ideas that could never
reach the statute books.”
“You
know, I will regret only one thing,” said Nat, once they were alone in the
corridor and could no longer be overheard by Dr. Renwick.
“Let
me guess,” said Fletcher as he waited for the next quip.
“I
think you would have been one hell of a brother to grow up with.” dr.
renwick’s
prediction turned out to
be accurate. Senator Davenport had discharged himself from St. Patrick’s by the
weekend, and a fortnight later no one would have believed he had been within
hours of dying only a month before.
With
only a few days left before the election, Clinton went farther ahead in the
national polls as Perot continued to eat into Bush’s support. Both Nat and
Fletcher went on traveling around the state at a pace that would have impressed
an Olympic athlete. Neither waited for the other to challenge them to a debate,
and when one of the local television companies suggested they should face each
other in three encounters, both accepted without needing any persuasion.
It
was universally agreed that Fletcher came off better in the first duel, and the
polls confirmed that impression when he went into the lead for the first time.
Nat
immediately cut down on his travel commitments, and spent several hours in a
mock-up television studio being coached by his staff. It paid off, because even
the local Democrats conceded that he had won the second round, when the polls
put him back into the lead.
So
much rested on the final debate that both men became overanxious not to make a
mistake, and it ended up being judged as a stalemate or, as Lucy described it,
“
dullmate
.” Neither candidate was distressed to learn
that a rival station had aired a football game that had been watched by ten
times as many viewers. The polls the following day put both candidates at
forty-six percent, with eight percent undecided.
“Where
have they been for the past six months?” demanded Fletcher as he stared at the
figure of eight percent.
“Not
everyone is as fascinated by politics as you are,” suggested Annie over
breakfast that morning.
Lucy
nodded her agreement.
Fletcher
hired a helicopter and Nat chartered the bank’s small jet to take them around
the state during the final seven days, by which time
the
don’t
-knows had fallen to six percent, shedding one point to each rival.
By the end of the week, both men wondered if there was a shopping mall,
factory, railway station, town hall, hospital or even street that they hadn’t
visited, and both accepted that, in the end, it was going to be the
organization on the ground that mattered. And the winner would be the one who
had the best-oiled machine on
election day
. No one was
more aware of this than Tom and Jimmy, but they couldn’t think of anything they
hadn’t already done or prepared for, and could only speculate as to what might
go wrong at the last minute.
For
Nat,
election day
was a blur of airports and main
streets, as he tried to visit every city that had a runway before the polling
booths closed at eight P.m. As soon as his plane touched down, he would run to
the second car in the motorcade, and take off at seventy miles an hour, until
he reached the city limits, where he would slow down to ten miles an hour, and
start waving at anyone who showed the slightest interest. He ended up in the
main street at a walking pace, and then reversed the process with a frantic
dash back to the airport before taking off for the next city.
Fletcher
spent his final morning in Hartford, trying to get out his core vote before
taking the helicopter to visit the most densely populated Democratic areas.
Later that night, commentators even discussed who had made the better use of
the last few hours. Both men landed back at Hartford’s
Brainard
airport a few minutes after the polls had closed.
Normally
in these situations, candidates will go to almost any lengths to avoid one
another, but when the two teams crossed on the tarmac, like jousters at a fair,
they headed straight toward each other.
“Senator,”
said Nat, “I will need to see you first thing in the morning as there are
several changes I will require before I feel able to sign your education bill.”
“The
bill will be law by this time tomorrow,” replied Fletcher. “I intend it to be
my first executive action as governor.”
Both
men became aware that their closest aides had fallen back so that they could
have a private conversation, and they realized that the banter served little
purpose if there was no audience to play to.
“How’s
Lucy?” asked Nat. “I hope her problem’s been sorted out.”
“How
did you know about that?” asked Fletcher.
“One
of my staff was leaked the details a couple of weeks ago. I made it clear that
if the subject was raised again he would no longer be part of my team.”
“I’m
grateful,” said Fletcher, “because I still haven’t told Annie.” He paused,
“Lucy spent a few days in New York with Logan Fitzgerald, and then returned
home to join me on the campaign trail.”
“I
wish I’d been able to watch her grow up, like any other uncle. I would have
loved to have a daughter.”
“Most
days of the week she’d happily swap me for you,” said Fletcher. “I’ve even had
to raise her allowance in exchange for not continually reminding me how
wonderful you are.”
“I’ve
never told you,” said Nat, “that after your intervention with that gunman who
took over Miss Hudson’s class at Hartford School, Luke stuck a photograph of
you up on his bedroom wall, and never took it down, so please pass on my best
wishes to my niece.”
“I
will, but
be
warned that if you win, she’s going to
postpone college for a year and apply for a job in your office as an intern,
and she’s already made it clear that she won’t be available if her 4 father is
the governor.”
“Then
I look forward to her joining my team,” said Nat, as one or two aides
reappeared and suggested that perhaps it was time for both of them to be moving
on.
Fletcher
smiled. “How do you want to play tonight?”
“If
either of us gets a clear lead by midnight, the other will call and concede?”
“Suits
me,” said Fletcher, “I think you know my home number.”
“I’ll
be waiting for your call, Senator,” said Nat.
The
two candidates shook hands on the concourse outside the airport, and their
motorcades whisked off in different directions.
A
designated team of state troopers followed both candidates home. Their orders
were clear. If your man wins, you are protecting the new governor.
If
he loses, you take the weekend off.
Neither
team took the weekend off.
Nat
switched ON the radio the moment he got into the car. The early exit polls were
making it clear that Bill Clinton would be taking up residence in the White
House next January, and that President Bush would probably have to concede
before midnight. A lifetime of public service, a year of campaigning, a day of
voting, and your political career becomes a footnote in history. “That’s
democracy for you,” President Bush was later heard to remark ruefully.