The Race (30 page)

"I know," she said. "Don't think I haven't thought about that. But when Mama was close to my age, she still couldn't vote. When I turned eighteen, I could. A whole lot of people sacrificed, and some died, to make that happen. I don't want to be histrionic, but they didn't do that so I could hang my head."

Watching his driver—a polite young college student who had said little in response to Corey's occasional questions—Corey wondered what the young man might have gleaned from his side of the conversation. In a lower voice, he told Lexie, "I don't have a Secret Service detail yet."

"Then maybe you should, baby. Who's to say I'd be the one they'd shoot?"

The fatalism in her tone betrayed her sense that tragedy was commonplace. Though his own life might have argued for this, Corey knew that he, as a white man, could not grasp the depths of her foreboding. "I need to think about all this," he said. "Can I call you in a couple of hours?"

"Sure. I'll be here."

This, Corey felt, was no way to end this conversation. "The most important thing, Lexie, is that I love you. Please know that."

He waited for her answer. "Yes," she replied, "I think I do." Only then did Corey realize that if his driver had had any doubt about whom Corey was speaking with, his last words had erased it.

When they reached the hotel in Columbia, Corey thanked the volunteer. "I'm usually more talkative, Jeff," he apologized with a smile. "Some days, running for president is more distracting than others."

The young man gazed at him with deep sincerity. "Sir," he said, "it's been an honor. I mean for politics to be my life."

"Leave some time for girls," Corey said, and went to find Blake Rustin.

"JESUS." IN HIS astonishment, Rustin nearly moaned. "Please God, no."

Though startled himself, Dakin Ford said dryly, "Lighten up, Blake. It's only a liberal black lady, not a plague of locusts."

"Bring on the fucking locusts." Facing Corey, Rustin said vehemently, "You been sniffing airplane glue? The only time blacks down here even dream about voting for a Republican is when he's pitching more God, less gays, and a whole lot of prayer in school. For every black voter Lexie pulls in, you'll lose twice as many whites. Defending her is one thing—sticking her in their faces is another."

Corey stared at him. "Let me get this straight: Magnus Price can draw an X across her face, but she can't show her face in her home state? Those ads with snippets of her movies aren't in their faces—but
she
would be? Don't you think by now every racist who's not brain-dead knows to vote against me?"

"There are still people on the fence, Corey. Don't push them." Rustin picked up a sheet of paper. "Here are the latest tracking numbers: Marotta at thirty-four percent; you at twenty-nine percent; Christy at twenty-seven. That's after you got a bump for New Hampshire that put you and Marotta in a statistical tie, and after you and Christy kicked Marotta's ass around the block in that debate. And do you know why? Values. And values down here means Lexie Hart."

Standing at the bar in Corey's suite, Dakin Ford poured himself some bourbon. "Let's do the math," he told Rustin. "It's late Friday afternoon—come Tuesday morning, people vote. And even you've got Corey five points down.

"Where's he gonna make it up—Christy voters? If they go anywhere else, it's to Marotta, not Corey."

"And they
will
if she shows up," Rustin said sharply. "That's Marotta's pitch—he alone can save the believers and the bigots from Corey Grace."

"Then it seems like you're stuck." Ford took a hasty swallow of whiskey. "Want God's honest truth, Blake? I'm pretty sick of living off whites and kissing off blacks. I've been working to change that. But it's a long, hard slog, and that fucking lizard Magnus Price will set it back two decades.

"Lexie's uncle is as hard-shelled as they come—we're polite and all, but the last thing Johnny Hart wants is to be telling blacks it's okay to vote for Corey. Hell, next time they might vote for
me
." Ford took another swallow. "Race cuts both ways: Johnny remembers pissing in 'coloreds only' bathrooms, and he likes starting an election with a shitload of black voters in the Democrats' hip pocket. He doesn't trust us worth a damn—I don't know that he'd turn out votes for Corey if Lexie begged him.

"On top of that, I wish she were a missionary rather than an actress—our stay-at-home moms would swallow that better. And the country clubs are full of white people who think blacks have 'caught up' and don't cotton to hearing that it ain't so. But still ..." Sitting down with the drink cupped in his hands, Ford said, "You got nothing much to lose, Blake. I'm the one who's got to live with this after Tuesday. If Corey wants to be the first canary in the mine shaft, I'm kind of curious to see what happens."

Corey put his hands in his pockets. "I just don't want her killed, Dakin."

Ford gazed up at him. At length, he said, "I think I can get our new governor to lend us some state police. But the pros are in the Secret Service. Might be good if you called your great pal the president."

Rustin emitted a mirthless laugh. "Can I listen in?" he inquired mordantly. "When the man said 'Wanted dead or alive,' he wasn't just talking about bin Laden."

Corey picked up his cell phone.

Within the hour, time enough for him to consume some room service soup and a sandwich, the White House switchboard called back. A few moments later, the president listened in silence to Corey's request. "I'll call the Secret Service," he said with bluff humor. "Truth is, I'd rather see Marotta kick your ass than go to your memorial service. The shape our politics is in, I couldn't afford the satisfaction."

The surprisingly amiable call ended with the president's good wishes. "I guess that's it," Corey told Rustin. "You've been wanting me to start showing up in churches. What about Lexie's?"

When he called Lexie, she had already chartered a private plane.

RETURNING FROM A church meeting where the preacher had prayed for his success, Rob Marotta watched Magnus Price in the back seat of their limousine, listening to the Allman Brothers on his headphones and tapping his feet to a beat only he could hear, eyes half shut, a dreamy look drifting across his face. "Dickey Betts," Price murmured. "Best fucking lead guitarist God ever made."

The comment, Marotta knew, was not meant to elicit a response; nor was it directed at Marotta in particular. Listening to southern bands was Price's way of letting his subconscious work for him unimpeded. When the cell phone vibrated in his pocket, Price said, "Must be the fucking Dixie Chicks, calling to spoil a good time."

Watching Price listen to his caller, Marotta saw his keen expression reappear. The moment induced an uneasy, sour feeling—too often now, Marotta felt that the forces that controlled his destiny operated beyond his reach. His cold comfort was that Mary Rose was not here to witness this.

"No shit," Price was saying into his cell phone. "I almost can't believe it—except it's Corey fucking Grace."

"What is it?" Marotta asked.

Getting off the call, Price shook his head in wonder. "One man's courage," he said, "is another man's death wish. She's coming back here to campaign."

"How do you know?"

Price laughed. "Don't think I left staffing Grace's campaign down here to Rustin, do you? There are plenty of idealistic young people just dying to work for a man like that. One or two might hear things. Anyhow," Price added, "Lexie just drove out to LAX. So now we know it's true.

"Gotta look in my iPod. Somewhere I've got a cover of 'Fool for Love.'"

DESPITE RUSTIN'S PROTESTS, Corey met her at the airport shortly after three A.M.

Alone in the car, he waited at the curb. She hurried out of the dark, threw her roller bag in the trunk, and slid inside.

"Hi," she said. "Want to go parking?"

Though her face was in the shadows, he could see her eyes and smell her hair. Seeing her after two months apart gave him a buzz of wonder and surprise. "I just want to look at you," he said.

With a swift, darting movement, she kissed him, then let her lips linger so that he felt their warmth. Pulling back, she said, "This is so dumb, Corey. It's like we're kids with a million chaperones who want to ground us."

"Fuck 'em."

"No," she corrected airily. "Not them. Wish
we
could." Her voice softened. "This is a funny time to tell you, but I miss that like I never thought I could. You, Corey Grace—of all the people in the world—seem to have made
that
a whole lot better. Sure didn't see it coming when I came to beat on you about stem cells." She gave a rueful laugh. "But then, we didn't imagine a lot of this."

"Nope. All I knew was that I liked you."

"Hmm," she said. "Guess you didn't run
that
one past Mom."

Once again, Corey contemplated his shame and frustration. "It's been years, Lexie, since I ran anything past Mom. To me 'family values' are just a rumor." Softening his voice, he said, "Sorry about her."

"Oh, I'm about to make it up to you. Tomorrow you get to meet Uncle Johnny. He couldn't be more thrilled if I were bringing home Pat Buchanan."

The remark, though delivered lightly, carried an undertone of doubt. "I don't know how this is going to work out," she admitted. "Any of it. All I know is you were out here on your own, and I didn't want to hide. Maybe that's selfish, or maybe just stupid—whatever, it sure goes against my grain. But I wanted us to be together." Touching his face, she softly asked, "Was I wrong?"

Uncertain, Corey searched for words of reassurance. "No," she said, "don't answer. In some way or another, this is bound to go wrong. You already know that, don't you?"

Yes,
Corey thought,
I know that
. "What I know for sure," he told her, "is that we had to choose. And this is our decision."

She leaned her forehead against his. "Tomorrow," he told her, "there will be Secret Service all around me. They can't be assigned to you—only me. So the safest place for you is to be wherever I am. They'll watch out for us both."

For a moment she was still, and then, very gently, she kissed him. "Curfew time," she said. "Better drive me to Uncle Johnny's."

AT FIVE A.M., bleary-eyed, Magnus Price studied the infrared photographs. "This is all you got?" he asked. "Two shadowy heads in a car, maybe kissing. For all I can tell it's a fucking sonogram."

"Look," the photographer said testily, "all I do is take the pictures. I can't tuck them into bed."

Price gazed at the useless photos. "I'd like to think they were just too tired," he said wearily. "Keep on them. Judging from those swimsuit pictures you took, that boy's an absolute fool for love."

AT SEVEN A.M., COREY SAT AT CONGRESSMAN JOHNNY HART'S KITCHEN table, drinking coffee as the first morning sun lit a corner of the room. Already dressed for church in a brown suit and tie, Hart faced Corey as Lexie, to one side, looked wary but composed. To Corey, the dominant expression on the grizzled congressman's otherwise implacable face came from his large yellow-brown eyes, filled with disbelief that this upstart was proposing to reorder his corner of the world.

"So," he said to Corey, "now that they've whopped you and Lexie with the race stick, you're expecting me to turn out droves of offended blacks."

Johnny Hart, Corey saw at once, would not respect him for kowtowing. "I'm here for advice," Corey answered crisply. "No one thinks you can push a button."

"Well, I can't," Hart answered in his rumbling voice. "And won't. I love my niece dearly—if you're what she wants, so be it. But that doesn't make you black South Carolinians' new best friend."

"I've got a record," Corey said. "You can look it up—"

"I have, Senator. The chambers where we work are only a hundred yards apart. Funny we've never met, isn't it?" Hart leaned forward, elbows on the table. "Except it isn't. Your party is where southern racists stampeded to when black people got the right to vote. The only way those people try to do business in my community is by saying that Democrats aren't Christian enough."

"Funny," Corey countered, "that's what they're saying about me."

Hart shrugged his broad shoulders. "My last election, your party put up a white guy whose outreach to the black community was to call me a friend to gays and abortionists. I went right at him, reminding folks that Jesus wasn't about persecuting the weak or the despised, but ministering to them." His tone became milder. "Saw your speech at Carl Cash. You've got a good enough handle on that part."

"Johnny," Lexie intervened, "whether you help him or not, in an hour or so I'll be introducing Corey at our church. What's your advice to him?"

"Simple." Hart fixed Corey with the same impenetrable stare. "It's not enough you've been picked on—when it comes to victims of racism, you're just passing through. And don't get hung up on style: unless you're Bill Clinton, there's nothing funnier than seeing some white politician try to act all loose and comfortable in a black church. It's like watching a bear on roller skates.

"Let Lexie handle that part. When your turn comes, remember that there's no substitute for substance." Jabbing the table, Hart admonished, "Black folks can smell a phony ten miles down the road. They want to know what you'd do for their mama who's got no health care, or their kid whose textbooks are twenty years old.

"One more thing." Hart sat back, hands folded across his ample stomach, looking from Corey to Lexie. "It's all right to care for each other, but don't flaunt it. Folks aren't going to look at you and see Romeo and Juliet—let alone themselves. Let them come to the idea of you in their own way.

"God knows it's gonna take
me
a little while."

THE CHURCH WAS packed. But what struck Corey was the difference in atmosphere from the all-white congregation of his youth.

Even at nine or ten, Corey had intuited a joyless sense of duty among the worshippers; to him, they had seemed like bodies in life's harness, spending an hour as they would at a Kiwanis meeting, but with far less animation. Emerging into the sunlight, they engaged in desultory chitchat, then went home to mow the lawn or pay the bills or watch sports on TV, their duty to propriety discharged until next Sunday. It was little wonder, he supposed, that the parched soul of Nettie Grace had responded to Bob Christy.