The Race (29 page)

Shaking his head in disapproval, Flaherty declared, "By implicitly calling white voters racist, Ms. Hart introduces a divisive strain into a contest that Senator Grace insists should be more elevated. And after last night's debate, it's clear that Senator Grace has chosen to make Lexie Hart his 'running mate.'" The commentator's smile was smugly knowing. "One of the many average Americans unhappy about this is Senator Grace's own mother."

Astonished, Corey saw a clip of Nettie Grace in her living room. "If Corey wants to date a black woman," she maintained stoutly, "that's
his
affair. I'm more worried about the sex and violence in her movies."

Corey felt a jolt of shame and anger. "Mom
should
be worried," Flaherty said. "Look at this, folks."

In clips from a science-fiction movie, Lexie dispatched a creature with a laser gun and kissed her leading man, conveniently white. "Is
that,
" Flaherty asked, "the role model we want for our children? In raising this question, Senator Marotta is not only speaking for America's kids but for Senator Grace's mom."

Walking to a corner of the room, Corey called her. "Corey?" she said, her voice tentative. "It's been so long since we've heard from you."

"Doesn't seem like that to me, Mom. I just heard from
you
on TV."

"Well, I'm worried about you. I thought you should hear what normal people say every time I go for groceries."

"I know what they think," Corey told her softly. "I've known since I was six."

"Corey?" It was his father, sounding blurry and hungover, speaking on an extension phone. "You've gotta get tougher on gay marriage, son. I'm telling you, people hate that."

It was all Corey could do not to answer,
You mean like your dead son?
"Don't worry about gays," he said softly. "It's harder for them than you'll ever know."

"I'm so proud you're speaking at Carl Cash University," his mother chimed in with artificial brightness. "I so wish Clay had gone there—in a proper Christian atmosphere, he wouldn't have fallen into his depression."

Corey closed his eyes. "Yeah," he said. "I'm trying to make that up to him.

"Please do me a favor. Next time some reporter wants to talk to you, tell him to try
me
. Trust me that you've made my life much harder."

His mother fell quiet. "All right," she answered dubiously. "I'm sorry."

Hanging up, Corey felt as though he were trapped in a recurring nightmare. "Family," he said to Rustin. "The people you didn't choose, and can never escape."

A VOLUNTEER DROVE Corey to Greenville, home of Carl Cash University; he needed solitude and—at this moment—did not trust himself in a bus full of reporters. The fact that another ad had hit the airwaves, using the same clips of Lexie, had further soured his mood.

Sitting in the back seat, he took in the rolling, wooded countryside, the Smoky Mountains receding in a hazy distance. When he did not think of Lexie, he thought of Clay. He was tempted not to answer when his cell phone rang.

"Corey?" the deep voice said. "It's Cortland Lane."

This, Corey realized, was a call he welcomed more than any. "I guess you've been watching," he said.

"Pretty rough," Lane said. "The whole tone last night was a little sharp. Before you give this speech, would you mind some advice about religion, and maybe race? Or would you rather be left alone?"

It struck Corey anew that at several turning points in his life, Cortland Lane had helped sustain him. Taking out his pen, Corey answered, "Go ahead, Cortland. If you'd left me alone, I'd have never come this far."

ENTERING THE CAMPUS, Corey saw one sterile beige building after another, as though the color was being leached out of the students' lives. The students themselves, pleasant looking and uniformly white, seemed like actors portraying some mythic time of innocence. But the school's Web site was militant in tone: "We deny the right of anyone to call himself Christian who questions the authority of the Bible. We oppose all atheistic, agnostic, liberal, modernistic, or humanistic attacks upon the Scriptures. Grounding young people in the Word before they are exposed to godless secularism inoculates them against sin, immorality, and loss of faith." In a bow toward racial amity, the Web site encouraged donors to fund scholarships for minorities, "because of the shortage of trained Christian leadership among the non-Caucasian population."

Lexie, Corey thought, would be gratified. As they approached the auditorium, he took a last look at the words that Cortland Lane and he had crafted.

AFTER THE BRIEFEST of courtesies, Carl Cash—whom Corey mentally compared to a walking cadaver—led him to the stage. As Corey had required, and unlike the rules for Marotta's appearance, the reporters at the back of the auditorium were armed with minicams and tape recorders. The students seemed to regard him less with hostility than curiosity, as though Corey had dropped in from Zimbabwe.

Stepping to the podium, Cash told them sternly, "Listen to this man's words, and ask yourselves these questions: where does he stand on the deadly sin of homosexual congress, the degraded culture of Hollywood, and the immorality that allows so-called leaders—such as Martin Luther King himself—to preach virtue in public and practice sexual license behind closed doors?" Pointing to Corey, he concluded, "Listen, and judge."

This, Corey supposed, was calculated to unnerve him. Walking to the podium in silence, he nodded to Cash. "Thank you, Reverend, for that gracious introduction. To be compared to Martin Luther King—however obliquely—is an honor."

In contrast to the solemn students, Corey saw Kate McInerny shoot Jake Linkletter of Rohr News a wicked grin. "So here's what I believe," Corey began.

"I believe in a God of love.

"I believe that truth can be found in all religions, and that all who pray address the same God.

"I believe that how we live is a truer expression of faith than any prayer we recite in public.

"I look to God for wisdom and calm. And," he finished pointedly, "I am far more concerned with whether I'm on His side than with asserting that He is on mine."

Standing to his right, Cash eyed him with the chill sharpness of a bird studying its prey. Carey focused on two students nearest him—a pretty brunette and a boy with a crew cut—wondering who they might become if they were encouraged to open their minds. "Frankly," he told them, "I don't think God cares much about this election. The God I believe in doesn't vote, nor is He a tool of the politically ambitious. For me, there is no candidate or party of God—only
people
of God."

The brunette's mouth accented a dubious frown. "Nor does the God I believe in," Corey said, "tell us which car to buy. Instead, He gave us minds to think for ourselves, and to help improve the human condition."

Pausing, Corey reminded himself that he was speaking to two audiences: the students in this auditorium, who might be beyond his reach, and the media and voters across America, for whom this speech, given at a moment of bitter political antagonism, might define him. Kate McInerny scribbled furiously, her face as intent as her peers'. "The human condition," Corey continued, "counsels humility. For even if we deem the Bible infallible,
we
are not. And in this very dangerous world, religious absolutism—at its worst—breeds a hatred and violence that may well consume us all."

The young faces in front of him became more sober and attentive. In even tones, Corey told them, "I don't write off people who, like you, believe in the same God I do but express that belief in different ways. I believe in listening to one another. And given that it's my turn to talk, I should mention that—as one example—I can't find a single line where Jesus condemns homosexuals for being who they were born to be."

Biting his lip, the boy with the crew cut looked down, briefly shaking his head, a study of polite resistance. But Kate McInerny's head snapped up in surprise. "As
I
understand Jesus," Corey went on, "morality is about far more than sex. It is about saving people from starvation, protecting the health of the young and the dignity of the old, and giving the next generation a safer and more peaceful world. And that means the practical kind of caring exemplified by Christ himself.

"To put money in a collection plate, you need a job.

"Though you pray for the sick, you need a medical system that works.

"We may want our children to pray in school, but we also need them to
learn
in school."

Standing straighter, Corey gazed out at his audience. "Professing faith without works is empty. That's why I believe that those who invoke religion to divide us from one another serve neither God nor man." Glancing toward Cash, Corey said firmly, "The terrible tendency to cheapen our public discourse with personal attacks will, like the slow dripping of water on a stone, erode our collective sense of decency and compassion. Martin Luther King was an adulterer, and he made our country far better than it was."

The audience was still—perhaps because of Corey's challenge to Cash but also, he hoped, because he had challenged them to search their own hearts. "This school," he told the students, "condemns the religion of your recent guest, Senator Marotta, as 'a satanic cult.' As the senator chose not to challenge this, I will.

"Mother Teresa was Catholic. Pope John Paul was Catholic. Robert Kennedy was Catholic. And so are millions of your fellow Americans who try to follow Christ's teachings every day of their lives." Pausing, Corey added wryly, "Any fault I might find in Senator Marotta lies not in his religion, but in his application of it.

"Which, inevitably, brings me to another policy of Carl Cash University—its ban on interracial dating." Briefly, Corey smiled. "For those who may have missed it, I'm seeing a native of South Carolina who's a graduate of Yale, an Oscar-winning actress, and a woman of great compassion and intelligence. And whatever one thinks of
me,
I'm a United States senator and a veteran of the military, and I've tried to make some contribution to my country. Yet if Lexie Hart and I were students here, we would not be allowed to date."

Without exception, the students in his line of sight seemed riveted. In a mild tone, Corey continued: "One can say, I suppose, that you chose to come here knowing about this ban. All I ask is that you ask yourselves whether it really represents the best in America, or whether this university should allow for the same change of heart and mind that has so enriched the South."

Someone in the audience let out a hiss of dissent. Ignoring it, Corey said calmly, "There is so much that we share. We worship God; we love our families; we cherish our friends; we are all vulnerable; and we are all mortal.

"What we need in this country is not more hatred and division. What we need is to heed the God of the New Testament, who told us to care for the weakest among us and for each other—striving always to leave our world better than we found it.

"Thank you."

After a moment, applause began—not quite enthusiastic, but more than polite. Turning to Cash, Corey smiled into his frozen face. "Thanks, Reverend. Think I'll visit with your students for a while."

Wading into the crowd, Corey saw the boy with the crew cut extend his hand. Cameras flashed and minicams whirred, capturing the moment.

ALONE IN HIS car, Corey answered his cell phone. "Tell me," Cortland Lane inquired, "where you came up with those lines about Martin Luther King."

Corey smiled. "Improvisation. The Reverend Cash inspired me."

Lane laughed softly, and then his voice became serious. "You probably haven't seen this, but the first reaction has been extremely good. In my amateur opinion, you've just gone from 'interesting' to 'presidential.' Moments like that are rare in politics."

After the last few days, this praise warmed Corey more than he could express. "Thanks," he said. "If you and I keep talking, this may just work out."

ON THE DRIVE BACK TO COLUMBIA, COREY TOOK CALLS FROM RUSTIN, who was cautiously pleased, and Dakin Ford, who allowed that his political career might yet survive Corey's visit. Only then did Lexie succeed in getting through.

"The day's been interesting," Corey told her. "I just passed a billboard for a personal-injury lawyer complete with a biblical quotation."

Lexie did not respond to this. "Saw your speech, Corey." Her voice was warm. "Kind of liked it."

"Did it come across that I miss you?"

For a moment she was quiet. "I've been thinking—about all of this. It's up to you. But if you'd like me to, maybe I might fly back."

Startled, Corey tried to sort out his emotions—doubt, delight, confusion, fear. "Even before this," he said, "you've wanted to stay away. The last three days are the most vicious I've seen in politics. And somebody's rummaging through your life."

Corey waited through another silence, watching the pale winter sun slide behind a scrim of clouds. "I'm scared," she acknowledged at last. "But I'm even more angry.

"It's your call whether I'd help or hurt. But South Carolina's my state, too—not just Magnus Price's. My uncle's a congressman with his own organization. I've got a whole bunch of friends—from growing up, from church, from college." Her cool tone did not conceal her outrage. "After I won the Oscar, Governor Tate invited me down and made me Citizen of the Year. He gave a lovely speech about me as a symbol of how people's hearts had changed. If Tate's people have a right to draw an X across my face and trash you for being with me, then I've got a right to ask people—including
my
people—whether that's how our state's going to be. Seems like the least a Citizen of the Year can do."

Her last words were etched in acid. Corey tried to weigh, as a practical politician must, the risks and rewards of Lexie's offer. But two reflexes kept colliding: pride in Lexie and fear for her. "I'm afraid, too," he said softly. "We'd be putting you in the crosshairs.

"And politics is the least of it. I'm afraid for us. I'm afraid for you if they keep digging." He hesitated, then spoke aloud his deepest fear: "The reason Cortland didn't run," he told her, "is because his wife was afraid some racist would kill him. There are a lot of folks down here with guns."