The Presence (12 page)

“I've been thinking about that too,” TJ confessed.

“Yeah, well, you and Catherine are gonna need a place to come home to, you understand what I'm sayin'? An island of peace. I tell you, TJ, there hasn't been anything in a whole long time that's felt as right as gettin' this house for y'all.”

“You mean for us,” TJ said, giving in.

“That's right, and don't you forget it.” Jeremy hid his pleasure in a flurry of activity. “You best go get yourself ready for work while I tidy things up here. We need to leave extra early this morning. I've studied a map, but I swear we might end up in Kentucky before I find my way downtown.”

TJ climbed the curving stairs, tried to accustom himself to the fact that this was his home. He looked around the spacious bedroom with its four-poster bed and period furniture, then stepped into the marble-tiled bath. He stood in front of the full-length mirror that opened into a walk-in closet.

His friends said TJ was a man whose age was hard to place. He could look fifty, they said, or thirty, depending on whether he was smiling. In truth he was fifty-three, and for the past few years had been struggling against a bulging middle. But in a suit he looked fighting fit, broad in the shoulders and tapering to a leanness accented by his six-foot height.

His reddish brown curls were trimmed close to his head. He had inherited most of his grandfather's face—a strong jaw, razor-sharp features, slightly slanted eyes—but there among the harshness were his mother's full lips. And the color of his skin told the whole world about his father.

TJ learned about his heritage at the ripe old age of eleven. After a long week of worry he approached his grandfather. He did not hesitate because he was afraid his grandfather would be angry. His grandfather's stern yet placid nature was one of the foundations upon which his young life was based. No, he hesitated because he knew his grandfather would be totally honest.

His grandfather had a favorite chair, a throne that was reserved for his exclusive use in the evenings. When TJ had been very young, that chair had been his favorite playground during the day. No matter how miserable he might have felt at any time, the chair was there to embrace him with the ancient strength of his grandfather.

The chair was an old winged horesehair monstrosity with a back so high that TJ could barely see over it when he stood on the seat. The chair was covered with a blood-red crushed velour that his grandmother despised. She tried on numerous occasions to get his grandfather to let her have it re-covered. You most certainly may, was his traditional reply. On the day I am dead and buried you may take it out and burn it as far as I am concerned. The chair stayed as it was.

Beside it stood an equally ancient brass lamp, an enormous edifice as tall as a man. It possessed a magnificent total of five bulbs, which could be turned on one-by-one until the brightness rivaled the sun. As a child, TJ loved to turn the switch, watching with fascination as the room became illuminated in stages. His grandfather would lift him, his strong old hands around TJ's ribs, squeezing so hard it threatened to stop his breathing as he switched the bulbs up to four. The only time all five were lit was when his grandmother sat across the room reading her Bible.

That evening he stood at the doorway for the longest time, watching his grandfather read the newspaper and wondering if he should ask. He was almost ready to turn away when his grandfather lowered the paper slightly and peered over the top of the glasses that always slid down his nose as he read.

“What you want, son?”

“I was just wondering something,” TJ said lamely, wishing he could back out, knowing it was too late.

“Well, these old ears can't hear if you're gonna talk like a summer wind and stand on the other side of the room.”

The old man dropped the paper to his lap and signaled him to come nearer. Standing beside his grandfather's chair, his eyes dancing all over the room, TJ asked, “I was just wondering why you don't never talk about my daddy.”

His grandfather sighed. “Been waiting for you to ask me this,” he said, his voice a rumbly echo and his face grave as he carefully folded his paper and laid it on the side table. “Kept wondering whether I should say something, but how's a body supposed to know? I just decided to leave it up to the Lord. I figured He'd know better than me when it was time.”

His grandfather's tone set TJ's heart to hammering. He stood on legs that suddenly felt weak and wished he were somewhere else, anywhere else, knowing without knowing what was about to come.

“Son, your momma ran away to marry your daddy,” his grandfather said, reaching one hand out to caress TJ's shoulder, as though feeding strength to young limbs.

“But Grandma said—”

“I know what your grandma's been saying, and I know how she's spent years tiptoeing all around this subject. She's done the best she knew how, raising a boy when most people her age are getting ready to meet their Maker. You know I never said anything when she started off on her stories, you know how I always left the room, and you know I've never lied to you in all your life. And that's why you've come to me, isn't it?”

TJ nodded, growing more scared by the minute.

“Son, your momma fell in love with a white boy when she was eighteen years old. I don't mean she was infatuated. I mean that little girl was totally head over heels in love with the man.

“We all make mistakes, son. All of us. Your granddaddy most of all. I gave that angel an ultimatum. You know what that is? Well, that's when you tell somebody they've got to either do what you say or else. I told your momma—” The old man stopped, clenched his jaw for a moment, then went on in a quieter voice. “I told your momma that she either had to leave that boy or leave my house. Two days later she quit school and ran off with him to Boston.

“We all pay for our mistakes. All of us. I lost my little girl for being such a pigheaded fool. Maybe God will be able to forgive me. I hope so, because I sure as goodness can't.”

He was silent so long that TJ thought his grandfather had forgotten he wasn't alone. The boy stirred impatiently, and his grandfather turned two misty eyes toward him. He seemed to search his mind for a moment before bringing the world back into focus.

He sighed a shaky breath. “We didn't hear anything for eleven of the longest months in my life. Then a letter came, just four lines long. The boy had died of pneumonia in the coldest winter anybody could remember. She didn't have any money for food and she was pregnant. She knew that we”—the old man stopped, fought for control, went on—“she knew that we hated her, she said. She asked for pity for the sake of her unborn child.

“I drove up to Boston and brought her back. Child wasn't nothing but skin and bones. Your grandma spent what time she had putting some meat back on her. But she never came home. Not really. The light in her had died with that boy.”

He looked down at TJ, tears flowing freely now, not the least ashamed of crying. “It was love that brought you onto this earth, child. That's the one thing you got to remember above all else. Your momma loved your daddy with all her heart and soul, and she never got over losing him. When she went into labor, the doctor saw at once that she was too weak. Said he'd have to do a Cesarean to save you. That's when the doctor cuts a hole in the mother's stomach and takes out the baby. But while he was doing that, your momma just slipped away. He did what he had to do, son. He brought you into this world and made sure you were all right. Then he tried to save her, but it was too late. She was gone.”

TJ clung to his grandfather and cried, and the old man held him close, rocking him gently. “It was hate that killed your momma, son. I've waited these eleven years to tell you how sorry I am, and to say I hope one day you'll be able to forgive me for what I did. Hate and fear are the devil's tools, son. White against black, black against white, it don't make the tiniest bit of difference. It's a sin big as all creation. And I promised God there wouldn't be any of it in the way I brought you up. It's too late to do anything about your momma, son, but sure as tomorrow's sunrise, this is one lesson you're gonna learn from me.”

****

Jeremy pulled up to the Old Executive Office Building entrance on Seventeenth Street. Beyond the gate and the uniformed guard the building loomed like a palace, all lofty towers and spires and turrets and gray granite carved in gingerbread shapes.

“Got that letter in case they ask?” Jeremy inquired quietly.

“In my briefcase,” said TJ, making no move to leave the car.

“Well, if there was ever a time for prayer, this is it.”

“You start,” TJ suggested.

“Heavenly Father,” Jeremy prayed, “all-powerful Lord, we stand here before you and ask for your help. We are dwarfed by the might of this world. It is so big and fancy and impressive. It makes us feel so small. Help us remember who you are, Lord. Help us remember that all power comes from you.

“I'm prayin' for my brother here, Lord. He's answered your call, and he's come to a place far from home. Watch over him, Father. Guide his footsteps. Give him the strength he needs to do your will.”

TJ remained silent a moment, then began to pray. “Lord, everything in my heart has been spoken by my brother. Thank you for sending Jem to enrich my life. It is at times like these that I realize how truly important friendship is, and what it means to be brothers in Christ. Make us vessels of your love and mercy. In Jesus' name I pray. Amen.”

The two men raised their heads and knew a moment of embarrassed silence, as most men will after letting their hearts be seen. TJ studied the misty rain that had begun trickling down the windshield until he saw Jeremy stick out his hand. With effort he met his friend's gaze.

“Go get 'em, TJ.”

He found himself reluctant to let go of that rock-hard hand. “Why do I feel as if I'm about to be fed to the lions?”

Jeremy smiled. “Prob'ly because you are.”

Breakfast at Au Pied de Cochon had become a daily ritual for Congressman John Silverwood. “At the Foot of the Pig”—he remembered enough of his college French to translate the name—was an all-night cafe possessing a sort of low-life charm. It was also the only neighborhood place open at six in the morning, which was when he normally wanted breakfast. At that hour the clientele consisted of groggy lovers just ending a night of revelry and early risers trying to get a jump on the competition.

The restaurant was a three-block stroll from Silverwood's small Georgetown house. Actually “small” did not begin to describe it, especially when he thought of what he had left behind in North Carolina. This place was four cramped rooms on three floors, with bathrooms so squeezed under stairways and eaves that he could not stand up straight in the shower. From the outside the house was quaint, and the address and location were what he'd been looking for, but none of the rooms were large enough to give him any breathing space. And the price was simply staggering.

It was a pleasure to escape the claustrophobic atmosphere and walk to the restaurant through the early-morning air. After a few weeks he knew all the waiters by name, and it gave him a sense of belonging to walk to his accustomed spot, dump his newspapers on the table, and spend a few minutes exchanging political gossip with the locals. They treated the freshman politician with the carefully studied nonchalance of any true Washingtonian, but he could tell they were pleased by his attention. He anticipated the early meal with the eagerness of a deeply lonely man.

His wife, Suzanne, was not going to join him in Washington. Her decision troubled Silverwood more than he wanted to admit, even to himself. Suzanne was an audit partner with a major accounting firm, and her position gained him bonus points with the local feminist groups. But she hated politics, hated the disruption it caused her career, and loathed the role of dutiful wife called for around election time.

Silverwood did not know whether the clients who refused to turn over their work to another accountant were the real reason for her not coming. Nor did he care. All he knew was that he felt like the low man on his wife's totem pole.

He did what he could to ignore the gnawing ache of loneliness during those first nights in Washington. Thankfully there was enough challenge to keep him fully occupied, so he threw all his energy and emotion into his work. During their daily phone conversations, however, he fought a constant desire to yell and scream at her.

The truth was, he needed her. He needed her more than he had ever needed anyone in his entire life. Sometimes he felt as if he were suffocating in the alienness and the conflict and the petty backstabbing of the Washington political jungle. He kept waiting for Suzanne to say that she was ready to move, that missing him was a voice speaking louder to her heart than her ambition. He tried to find the words to express his own need, but he could tell she did not want to hear them, did not want to be tempted, did not want to come. And he burned with the anger and the shame of being second to a career in his wife's eyes.

The glass walls of Au Pied de Cochon's patio looked out over Wisconsin Avenue. Despite the misty rain blowing like wayward fog, the street vendors were busy setting up their stalls. He sipped his coffee and thought of his wife and watched with blind eyes as the hawkers fumbled with trinkets and watches and scarfs and sunglasses, stomping their feet to keep warm. Why couldn't Suzanne see how much he needed her? Why couldn't he express that need? He was a politician, for heaven's sake! He could convince an entire district to back him for public office. Why on earth couldn't he communicate with his own wife?

He pushed away the thoughts and rattled open his papers. On top was
The Washington Post,
and under that
The Washington Times.
Though he would never say it to anyone else, he always thought of it as
The Post
for facts and
The Times
for bias. The latter was the city's right-wing paper, and it often skewed the facts violently. Still, it was essential reading if he wanted to fathom the right-wing position on any major issue.