by Sally Quinn
Several park police spotted them and came running over. The two men took off amid shouts to halt. The police were too late. The men disappeared.
She closed her eyes. She didn’t move. She knew what had happened. Sprague had been shot. Sprague was dying. That’s what happened. That’s what always happened. The people she cared about died. How could she have thought that Sprague would be any different? How could she have been so selfish? How could she not have known? She lay back on the ground, resigned. She tried to stop breathing.
“Ally? Are you all right?”
It was his voice. Was it her imagination? Is that what she wanted to hear or was it really he?
She opened her eyes slowly, afraid of what she would find.
It was Sprague. He was kneeling down by her with a worried look.
She stared at him for a moment, not believing it at first, then, unable to control her emotions she flung herself into his arms.
“Ally. Ally, it’s okay. I’m fine.”
He was stroking her back and holding her tightly. She couldn’t stop clinging to him and she couldn’t stop crying. She certainly couldn’t speak.
“Oh God, it’s nothing, Ally. Those two Colombian assholes were so inept they couldn’t have hit an elephant with a cannonball. It’s okay. I’m fine.”
Finally he let her go and she sat up and leaned against the tree, wiping her eyes with a paper napkin.
“I thought you were dead,” she said in a low voice.
“Why?”
“I heard a shot. It came from where you were standing.”
“I heard it, too, but it wasn’t a gun. It was a truck backfiring in front of the White House. Those guys never even got their guns out. Ralph hit one of them in the ribs and the nuts. That was the cry you heard. What a couple of bozos. I don’t think they were trying to do anything but scare me.”
“Well, they certainly scared me.”
“Oh c’mon. They’re harmless.”
She didn’t believe him and she didn’t think he believed it either.
“I want you off this story.”
“You sound like Jane.”
“Jane? What did she say?”
“She says she’s sick of the fear and the hiding and she wants me off the story. She also says she hates Washington. She and Melissa are not coming back. She wants me to quit the paper and go home to Savannah.”
“What are you going to do?” She could barely get the words out.
“I’m going to stay here.” He paused. “I don’t want off the story. I don’t want out of the paper… and I don’t want to leave you.”
* * *
For the first time in what seemed like months she and Des were home together at the same time. It was a Sunday evening, July 2, the night before her birthday. She had been working. Des had been out to his cabin in West Virginia. He came back, showered, changed, and joined her on the terrace off the dining room for a drink.
It was a beautiful evening, not at all humid, and the air was redolent of the honeysuckle that climbed along the wooden fence separating her from the neighbors. The fireflies were out in full force and it reminded Allison of her childhood in this house. Sam would punch holes in the top of a jar and she would run around squealing with delight each time she caught one, showing them off with pride to her father and Nana.
Kay Kay would be six months old. Old enough to sit up and swat at fireflies. This house should have a child. She should have a child. Des should have one, too. A son maybe. It wasn’t too late. She was only in her early forties. She could still get pregnant. She hadn’t allowed herself to think that before. She shouldn’t now. She didn’t trust anything she thought or felt. One minute she thought she was in love with Sprague or deeply attracted to him, the next minute she was thinking about having another baby with Des. What was wrong with her? She didn’t know who she was anymore. She was so used to being in control, knowing what she wanted. Now she didn’t know anything. Her moods changed by the hour and so quickly that it made her dizzy. She had lost all of her resources. She would just have to accept the fact that she was crazy and would be for a long time.
Still, she was feeling calmer. She and Des were talking about the election and the upcoming conventions. They were going to both of them. They hadn’t discussed yet whether they would stay in the same hotel rooms or not. Mainly because they hadn’t discussed anything important at all since dinner at Nora’s.
She got up to fix herself another drink.
“I’ve got some fettuccine with fresh tomato sauce and basil in the icebox,” she said. “Does that interest you?”
“Sounds great.”
Was there hope in the air? The rancor was gone. Her enervating mood swings were gone for the moment. Her surge of sexual energy that day in the park with Sprague had not disappeared. She glanced at Des and remembered how good-looking he was, how sexy and masculine.
She went into the kitchen, got out the pasta and some focaccia, a delicious Italian bread she had bought that day. She brought it out to the terrace, along with some candles, which she placed on the small round table. Des opened a bottle of wine and got the wineglasses.
They sat down, he poured the wine and lifted his glass to her.
“Here’s to us, baby.”
He had picked up on the feeling of hope, of renewal in the air.
She didn’t demur. She clicked his glass and smiled.
The phone rang.
“Shit,” she said. “If that’s the office… I’ll get it.”
She reached over to the coffee table, got the cordless phone, and answered it. A young woman, so hysterical that Allison could hardly understand her, asked for Des.
She handed it to him, giving him a quizzical look.
When he answered it a look of horror came over his face.
“Oh, no. Oh, no. Oh my God, Holy Mother. Where is he? Okay, I’ll be right there. Tell her I’ll be right there.”
He jumped up from the table, nearly knocking over the chair.
“What is it, Des? What’s happened?”
“It’s Willie Grey. That was his nanny. He’s had an accident, fallen down the stairs, hit his head. He may not live. They’re taking him to Georgetown Hospital. Sadie wants me to come. I have to go right away.” He was stumbling over his words, stumbling toward the door, clearly not anxious to answer any questions.
“Willie Grey? But why would Sadie…?”
Des looked at her in such a way that she didn’t finish the question.
He came over to her and put his hands on her shoulders.
“Sonny… Sonny. Oh God, I don’t know how to…”
A terrible image was beginning to form in her brain, a slow dawning, a recognition of something that she had never wanted to think about.
“I’ve wanted to tell you so many times…” he was saying.
Those pictures in all the magazines and on television, that dark curly hair, those masculine little features, that jaunty strut. They had always reminded her of somebody, but she could never figure out who.
“It’s just that I didn’t want to hurt you.…”
But of course it was because she didn’t want to know. It was too awful.
“And we thought, I thought, it was better for Willie’s sake if nobody knew.…”
She knew. She knew in her gut. She had always known. Willie was his son.
“Of course,” she said. “How could I have been so stupid?”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m really sorry.”
“It’s okay,” she said, stricken.
“Try to understand.”
He turned and bolted out the door.
Allison stood there for a long time. Then she went back out on the terrace and sat down on the chaise longue and leaned back. She took a long sip of wine and concentrated on the fireflies. She had just been thinking that Des needed a child. What she hadn’t known was that all this time he had one. Now maybe he didn’t. Maybe Willie would die, too. She tried to analyze how she felt a
bout this. It hadn’t sunk in yet. Did she feel jealous? Angry? Sad? She didn’t know. What she did know was that she felt enormous pity for Des. To have a son he couldn’t acknowledge must be the worst torture possible for him. To lose a baby daughter, and now, only six months after Kay Kay’s death, to face losing that son was unthinkable. And yet if Willie lived, Des would be tied to this woman and this child forever. What she had just learned put a huge distance between them, a distance that might be unbridgeable. She couldn’t tell now. It would take time to know. Maybe a very long time.
They announced on the news that night that Willie was in intensive care but stable. Sadie Grey, it said, had been accompanied to Children’s Hospital by a family friend. She was glad for Sadie and for Des that Willie would not die. She was not so glad about what it meant for her and Des.
* * *
Des never came home that night. She went to work the next day. When she came home he was at the studio. He got home at one-thirty that morning. She was still awake. He didn’t turn on the lights. He got undressed in the dark and slid into bed.
“How’s Willie?”
“He’s going to be okay. Thank the good Lord.”
“I’m glad.”
He reached over and took her hand. They were quiet for a while.
“We’re losing each other and it makes me very sad,” she said.
“I know. I know, Sonny. I know.”
17
Her suite at the Ritz Carlton was filled with flowers. There was a large basket of fruit on the table, a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket. On the desk was a folder containing her schedule for that evening plus messages from Freddy and Blanche.
Nobody knew she was in Atlanta. Her appearance at the last night of the Democratic convention was a closely guarded secret. She had flown in on a private plane in disguise and been ushered in through the back entrance of the hotel so as not to be seen. Her suite was on the same floor of the hotel as the President’s, so it was heavily guarded by Secret Service. There was no chance of anyone seeing her there.
She had not wanted to come. She had refused at first. In the end she had succumbed to the pressure and agreed. Now she was sorry but it was too late to back out.
The plan for her to appear on the platform the last night was the idea of the media types Freddy had surrounded himself with. They were frantic at his slip in the polls. He had gone from an 80 percent approval rating to 26 percent, a free fall of public opinion due, in large part, to Sprague Tyson’s stories in the Daily linking members of the administration to the drug trade. Since the Daily had begun its stories, every other news organization in the country had picked up on them. They were all over Freddy, Foxy, Antonia, Garcia, and the rest of them. Although neither Sprague nor any of the others had nailed anyone yet and the allegations were vague, the perception of corruption and sleaze permeated the administration.
Blanche had done a good job as First Lady. She had overcome her image by reestablishing herself as a country singer and had garnered goodwill for raising funds for AIDS. The problem was that no matter how hard she tried the public didn’t really want Freddy back in the White House.
This was all aside from the fact that the President had tested positive for HIV. Of course, nobody knew this except Blanche, Sadie, Michael, and several of his trusted NIH researchers. They all understood that if it were to be made public it would be a disaster. Freddy refused to discuss it, even with Blanche. He was clearly in a state of denial. He never once considered not running, though both Blanche and Sadie felt strongly that he shouldn’t.
Sadie didn’t think he was worthy of occupying the same office once filled by better men, including her husband. And she couldn’t help but think her endorsement was the height of hypocrisy.
Not only that, but she really felt that it was time to get on with it. She was no longer in politics; her life was about other things. She felt as if she were retracing old steps, backtracking. The only thing that had saved her in the last two years was being able to look ahead, to hope. She didn’t want to lose that.
She was afraid, too, of sad memories that she had only just begun to bury. The memories were not just of Rosey. They were of Des as well. It had been in Atlanta four years ago, at another convention, that she agonized over whether to leave Rosey. Rosey had told her that if she left him he would give up the presidency. But she was pregnant, possibly, though she wasn’t sure then, with Des’s child. She loved Rosey. She was in love with Des. Des was demanding an answer from her, not knowing she was pregnant. She had been avoiding him for weeks. In desperation he had had her Secret Service agent deliver a note to her, as she stood on the platform with her husband, accepting the nomination for his first full term. In keeping with their private way of setting up a tryst, it had said, simply, “Regrets Only.” She had shaken her head, knowing she was giving him up to Allison forever.
These were all perfectly good reasons for her not to appear on the platform that evening. It was Blanche who finally talked her into it. If Freddy was going to run, Blanche wanted him to win.
Blanche had begged her to come on stage with them to present a show of unity in the Democratic party. Sadie knew that she could make a difference. If Freddy lost, the next President would be the Republican candidate, a right winger, a former evangelist, a bigot. She had finally acquiesced to Blanche’s request. Partly because she felt sorry for Blanche. But the one mitigating factor was that Malcolm Sohier was the vice presidential candidate. Freddy would more than likely have to resign and Malcolm would end up being President. If Malcolm hadn’t been on the ticket she never would have campaigned for Freddy.
She was to appear at ten o’clock that evening. She would be the last person out on the platform, after the Vice President, a few senators and congressmen, and some Democratic heavies. That gave her time to bathe, rest, and have her hair done by Blanche’s hairdresser.
Monica and Willie were in a bedroom off the suite, and Willie had gone down for a nap so he could go to the hall later. She took a long hot bath, trying to steam the tension out of her body. She wrapped herself in the hotel terry-cloth robe that had her name embroidered on it and lay down on the bed. She couldn’t sleep so she phoned Outland. Annie Laurie and Outland had their own rooms down the hall. Then she thumbed through a magazine. She was so restless and jittery. Hotel rooms always made her that way. She always felt she should be doing something in them, like making love to someone.
She reached for the folder again to see if she had missed anything on her schedule. That’s when she saw the envelope. It was a Ritz Carlton envelope, which was why she hadn’t noticed it at first. This time she saw his handwriting. She tore it open almost cutting her finger.
“Sadie,” it said, “I would like to see you tonight after the convention. Des.”
How did he know she was going to be there?
Jenny. She must have told him. Sadie had made her swear on the Bible that she would tell no one. In a way, she couldn’t blame Jenny. Des had given her a job at the Weekly as a reporter, his last act before he left to be the anchor of “Good Night.” Jenny was extremely grateful. She hadn’t had any luck finding a job she wanted in journalism after she left the White House. She had been getting a little desperate. Allison, despite the fact that they had renewed their friendship, never offered her a job. Jenny told Sadie everything about Des. She had no reason to think Jenny wouldn’t do the same for Des. She was pretty sure that Jenny had no idea when she told Des about Sadie’s plans to be at the convention that he would try to see her. Jenny would not betray Allison like that. Especially after what Allison had been through.
She had not seen him in over three weeks, not since Willie’s accident. He had not responded to her note. She knew from Jenny that he and Allison were having problems, but Jenny was pretty circumspect about Allison. She also knew from Jenny that Des and Allison were staying in different hotels for the convention. Their hours were so different, according to Jenny, that they had decided it would be more convenient. She coul
dn’t help wondering whether that decision had anything to do with what had happened with Willie. She had no idea what Des had told Allison, but she couldn’t imagine that Allison wouldn’t have figured out by now, if she hadn’t already, that Willie was Des’s son.
Rosey, Des, Michael… visions of all of them kept swirling around in her mind. Who did she love? Who did she want to see? She had told Michael she couldn’t see him again. But that didn’t mean she no longer cared about him, didn’t think about him, didn’t love him.
Willie’s accident had shunted Michael off to the side in her thoughts. She was so concerned with Willie and his needs. Willie needed a father. Willie had a father. Des had been wonderful that night in the hospital. She had felt so secure having him there with her. He was the one person in the world who understood how she felt at that moment. No one would ever be able to share that with her. She had told Des in the letter that she needed him. She did. And she loved him. But she wanted Michael.
If she agreed to see Des what would happen? What would they talk about? What would they do? What should she do? What did she want to do?
It was impossible. She couldn’t see him. She wouldn’t see him. That was final. She had made up her mind. She felt enormously relieved.
* * *
The noise was deafening when she walked out onto the platform. The band struck up “Sweet Georgia Brown” just as it had four years earlier and the crowd went wild. People were jumping up and down, screaming, waving, and crying. As the television cameras panned over the packed convention hall there was hardly a face that wasn’t glowing, hardly an eye that wasn’t wet.
Someone shouted her name and the thousands of delegates in the convention hall picked up on it. An uproarious chant obscured even the music.
