Bryce sank slowly into a side chair as Nathaniel Gorham finished typing and peered at the screen. He gave an audible grunt of satisfaction, then turned to look for Bryce. When he saw the look on Bryce’s face, his eyes widened.
“Oh,” he said, a bit startled. He looked at his hands, then down at his feet, which were just becoming fully visible now. Finally, he turned back to Bryce. “Well, judging from your expression, I guess you can see me now, huh?”
It didn’t register. Bryce just continued to gape at him, his jaw slack.
Gorham’s heavy eyebrows narrowed. “Look, I know this all comes a little hard for you, but the sooner you start accepting what your eyes are telling you, the sooner we can get on with this.”
“On with what?” Bryce finally managed.
“With getting this amendment thing put to rest.”
“The amendment?” Bryce echoed.
“Of course. You think I came down just to play with your writing machine?”
“Are you…Are you really Nathaniel Gorham?”
“Of course. You think I’d make up a name like that?”
“And…” Bryce let his breath out slowly, still fighting off the dreamlike quality of what was happening. “And you really are from…the seventeen hundreds?”
“Absolutely.” He peered at Bryce closely. “So now what? Are you ready to talk?”
Bryce rubbed his eyes, still dazed. “Am I really supposed to just sit here and accept the fact that I’m talking with a ghost?”
Gorham winced. “Please! Not ghost. I mean, really, that word has such ridiculous connotations.”
“Then what?” Bryce burst out, the frustration suddenly boiling over. “Spirit? Specter? Spook?” He laughed, a bit more wildly than he had intended.
“Are you about through?” Gorham said dryly.
“Or, how about goblin? Or…or boogeyman?”
“How about human being?” Gorham asked quietly.
That brought Bryce up short, and the twisted smile slowly disappeared.
“I’m no different than you,” Gorham went on softly, “except for the fact that you still inhabit your mortal body and mine lies in a churchyard in Massachusetts.”
Once again Bryce felt the rush of madness rising. “Why are you here?” he finally whispered.
“The Council of the Founding Fathers sent me. I was chosen because you’re from Massachusetts, and I was a delegate from that state.”
“But why? Why me?”
“I told you. The Council of Founding Fathers is deeply concerned about this amendment you and the senator rammed through the Senate yesterday.”
Gorham began to pace, obviously getting agitated. “It’s foolish business, Boy, foolish! We couldn’t just stand by and let you throw away all we worked for.”
“You haven’t answered my question.”
That caught the older man in midstride. He turned back, puzzled. “What question?”
“Why me? If this is really happening, why did you come to me? Why not to Senator Hawkes, or the president of the United States for that matter?” He shook his head. “Or if you really wanted to change things, why not appear during a full session of the Senate?”
Gorham nodded. “Good question. There are two reasons, actually. The first is simple. The Council of Founding Fathers is not allowed to interfere directly in the events of your world. To appear directly to the president or to try scare the Senate into a different vote is much too direct.”
Bryce threw up his hands. “And this isn’t!” he cried.
“Not in the same way. But the second reason is as important as the first.”
“What?”
Gorham suddenly reached into a vest pocket and pulled out a pocket watch. “But I believe you’ve got to be meeting Miss Adams for dinner. I—”
Bryce started. For some obscure reason, his date with Leslie had completely slipped his mind. He glanced at his watch. It was eight minutes to seven.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Gorham said, putting his watch away. “Then we can really talk.”
He started to fade rapidly, to the point that Bryce could see things starting to appear through him.
“Wait!” he cried.
The fading halted, and Gorham’s quizzical look was barely discernible in the dimming light of the office.
“What is the second reason?”
“You are more important than you think in this whole thing,” Gorham said quietly. “The council sent me to see if I could change your mind.”
Bryce gave a bark of derisive laughter. “You came to a senator’s aide to try to change the course of American history?” Bryce laughed again, a hollow sound without mirth. “Boy, do I have some bad news for you.”
Gorham didn’t smile. “Don’t underestimate yourself, Son. Even though they were just trying to flatter you last night, what Mannington and Jennings said was true. You do have great potential.”
Bryce’s head came up sharply. “You know about that?”
“Of course. That’s what finally convinced us we had to do something.” He smiled faintly at the dazed look on Bryce’s face. “But in spite of their motives for doing so, what they were telling you was the Lord’s truth, Lad. You’re at a pivotal spot.”
When Bryce just stared back at him—or through him—he smiled again. “Well, don’t you keep Miss Adams waiting. She doesn’t know it, but she’s on my side. Listen to her. She’s got some good common horse sense. And we’ll talk some more tomorrow.”
And with that Gorham was gone, leaving Bryce to stare into the empty air where he had been just moments before.
Chapter 7
Still churning from his encounter with Nathaniel Gorham, Bryce swung over to Third Street and found Leslie waiting for him at the curb. She was wearing a dress of soft floral pastels and a pale pink linen blazer. Bryce caught an envious look from a passing male as he helped her into the car.
She seemed genuinely pleased to see him, and as they drove south out of the city and along the Potomac, they kept the conversation easy and filled with lighthearted banter. Bryce felt the tension slowly melting away, and he realized that he was finding the company of this crusading young volunteer very pleasant medicine.
The Casa del Sol was a small Mexican restaurant tucked off one of the main streets of Alexandria, Virginia. It wasn’t long on decor, but the two olive-skinned brothers from Guatemala played authentic Central American music, and the food beat anything Bryce had found between D.C. and Boston.
Dinner was pleasant, and Leslie seemed to enjoy both the music and the food. Now as Bryce watched her, he noted how the pale pink of her blazer set off the tanned skin and wide, green eyes. That, added to the dark hair that framed her face, made the overall effect very nice indeed. Washington had a considerable number of lovely women, and at twenty-seven, Bryce had dated his share of them. But while there were some who might outdo Leslie in sheer beauty, Bryce couldn’t remember one that had drawn his approval quite so readily. There was an openness, a frank earnestness about her that he found even more attractive than her physical beauty.
She looked up suddenly, catching him, and cocked her head, her eyebrows rising quizzically.
“Would you like some fried ice cream?” he said quickly, to cover himself.
“Fried ice cream?” she echoed, pulling a face.
He nodded. “Don’t knock it if you haven’t tried it. It’s great stuff. What they do is take a ball of ice cream, dip it in a caramel sauce, roll it in some kind of crunchy stuff, then put it in a deepfried pastry shell. It really is good.”
She hesitated only for a moment. “All right, I’ll take your word for it.”
Bryce beckoned for the waitress, chalking up another point in Leslie’s favor. One of the things that irked him most about women he dated was when they went to great lengths to let him know they had offered all on the altar to the great God of Slenderness. Nothing deterred these worshippers—not social etiquette, not the risk of offending a hostess who had labored for ho
urs preparing a meal. They shrank in horror from anything with more than three and a half calories per ton, and watched him with sad, mournful eyes, daring him to be so insensitive as to eat as if there were no Bathroom Scales awaiting him at the judgment. When Leslie had hesitated, he had expected more of the same, and it pleased him greatly that she had surprised him.
Again he suddenly realized she had caught him watching her and was returning his gaze with questioning eyes. He smiled and looked away, then looked back in time to see a smile start to play around the corner of her eyes. “Is all this being nice to me an initial feint to throw me off guard before the duel begins?”
“Absolutely,” he said in mock seriousness. “Want to eat your fried ice cream before I unsheathe the swords?”
She laughed lightly. “The condemned is given a hearty meal, right?”
“Exactly!”
At that moment, the waitress reappeared with their order. He fell silent until she left, then nodded toward the ball of ice cream. “You first.”
Picking up her spoon, she took a bite, then smiled. “Ummm. That really is good.”
“Great, another convert.” He picked up his spoon and they ate in silence for a few moments. He finally spoke without looking up. “So how did you ever come to be a high-school teacher?”
“My father teaches history at George Washington University. From the time we were little, he took us to every major historical site along the eastern seaboard. I grew up loving history.”
“And is high school just a stepping stone to a college professorship some day?”
Her eyes widened slightly at his perceptiveness. “Well, at first that was my plan. I was sure I would hate dealing with teenagers—I mean all the horror stories you hear about what goes on in the classroom.”
“I heard that’s where the nuclear arms race first started.”
She smiled. “I guess that’s true of some of the inner-city schools, but not at Arlington.”
“And now? Have you changed your mind?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m just finishing a master’s degree at Georgetown. I’d like to go on for a doctorate. Right now I find the high-school age exciting. Their minds are so pliable.”
“So’s Play Doh,” Bryce remarked dryly.
She tossed back her head and laughed. “Are you really that cynical about today’s youth? It isn’t that long ago that you were one of them.”
He pulled a face. “Actually, I had to speak at a high school once not long ago. Covered an assignment for Senator Hawkes. I found the kids as a whole loud, obnoxious, overdressed, growing up too fast with too much. And yet they were also bright, articulate, full of so much potential. Somehow it was exhilarating and depressing all at once.”
She nodded soberly. “The permissiveness of this generation is creating numerous tragedies, but I find it more exhilarating than depressing to think that I might shape and mold those minds.”
For some reason, at that moment, the image of Nathaniel Gorham popped into Bryce’s mind. He frowned slightly, playing absently with his ice cream. “And so, do you teach those pliable young minds that the Constitution is the answer to all of our national dilemmas?”
She rocked back slightly, taken by surprise. Finally she forced a small smile. “Did I just detect the launch of the first strike?”
He pulled a face, cursing himself. He had spent the night steering the conversation safely through the mine fields; then, without thinking, he had opened up with a broadside salvo when she was least expecting it.
He tried to cover it with a smile. “Sorry, I lost my head there for a moment.”
But there was no answering smile. She was silent for several seconds, then nodded. “Yes, as a matter of fact that is what I try to teach them. Guilty as charged.”
Mentally kicking himself, Bryce searched for a way to rectify the damage, but she wasn’t about to sit dead in the water waiting for him to fire again.
“I guess it is a little disconcerting,” she said evenly, “for you and the Committee on Constitutional Reform to have young people who value this country and who understand what made it strong. That will certainly make your task more difficult.”
Bryce gave her a long searching look, knowing that there was little choice left now but to answer. “And you don’t see any danger in that? I mean, treating the Constitution with this sense of reverential awe?”
“No,” she replied, with just a touch of barb in her own voice. “I think the danger lies with those who view their own wisdom with reverential awe.”
“Look,” he said, trying to keep his voice light, “I have as much respect for the Founding Fathers as you do, but I don’t think we honor them by blindly accepting the Constitution as though it were the Ark of the Covenant or the tablets from Sinai.”
Bryce had cut his teeth on debate, and in spite of his previous resolve he found himself being drawn into it. “Leslie,” he said, “we’re no longer talking about a collection of small, rural colonies that were protected by two oceans. We’re part of a worldwide community that is interdependent economically, socially, and militarily. The farmer in Montana or the steel worker in Pittsburgh can be as profoundly affected by Japan’s economic policies as they can by a decision of Congress.”
“Not nearly as profoundly as they will be if they lose their Constitutional freedoms!”
“We are not talking about losing Constitutional freedoms!” he burst out. “All we are trying to do is make a very large and unwieldy government more responsive to the voice of the people.”
“Now you sound like a recording of Elliot Mannington the Third,” she said quietly.
It hit home and he instantly bristled. “Why is it all you pulpit thumpers insist that you’re the only ones who love the Constitution? I love America as deeply as you do.” Nathaniel Gorham’s face flashed before him again. “And I think I love it every bit as much as the Founding Fathers.”
He sat back, a little surprised at his own intensity. Leslie’s eyes had dropped, and she studied her hands carefully. Finally, she set down her spoon. “It’s been a lovely evening,” she said, voice low. “I guess it’s time to go.”
Bryce took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “Leslie, look, I…”
She looked up at him, her eyes unreadable.
“I apologize. That remark about pulpit thumpers was totally out of line.”
“It was no more out of line than my comment about Elliot Mannington. I’m sorry too.”
He forced a smile. “What say we put away the swords and sign a truce, at least for tonight?”
She smiled faintly. “Where’s the pen?”
But the damage had been done. They finished their dessert pretty much in silence, and though the ride home was pleasant enough, the earlier warmth was gone, and the barriers were clearly back in place.
When he let her off at her house his nerve failed him, and his previous determination to try to set another date with her faltered. He drove home slowly, his mind alternating between self-recriminations for blowing it with Leslie and the depressing realization that tomorrow he had to face additional visits from one Nathaniel Gorham, whose body lay somewhere in a graveyard in Massachusetts.
Chapter 8
Even though it was barely 7:00 A.M., someone was already at the bank using the automatic teller machine, so Bryce shut off the BMW’s engine, stepped out of the car, and leaned back against the fender. It was going to be another scorcher in the nation’s capital—it was already getting uncomfortably warm, and the humidity was rapidly becoming oppressive.
The woman at the machine, a slender, well-dressed young brunette, finished her transaction and returned to her car. Bryce watched her, absently comparing her to Leslie. He shook his head in sudden irritation and moved to the machine. What was it about Leslie that he couldn’t shake her out of his thoughts?
He inserted his card and punched in the code number without thinking. Suddenly he started. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that a man in a busin
ess suit had come up behind him. Bryce moved his body slightly so the man couldn’t watch the screen, a little annoyed. ATM etiquette called for standing back a polite distance while another completed a transaction.
Punching in the amount on the keypad, he asked for a hundred dollars, then waited. There was a soft whir, then the machine started clicking out the five twenties.
“Well I’ll be a two-legged stool!”
Bryce whirled, then groaned.
“How’d you do that?” Gorham demanded, staring at the money.
“Gorham?” Bryce blurted, unable to believe his eyes. “Is that really you?” The face was unmistakable, with the sharp, angular features, the hooked nose. But what a transformation! Threepiece gray pinstripe business suit, maroon handkerchief in the pocket, gray and maroon tie, gleaming black wing-tipped shoes, hair short and neatly trimmed, expensive-looking steel-rimmed bifocals. He could have walked through any corporate boardroom in America and never raised an eyebrow.
He looked down at himself, then smiled primly. “Judging from the expression on your face, I guess I look okay.”
Bryce just nodded slowly, still eyeing him up and down.
Gorham stepped forward and peered at the machine, leaned over, tried to see where the money had come from, all the time shaking his head. “Incredible,” he mumbled softly. “Absolutely incredible.”
Suddenly Bryce’s irritation was back. “Can’t you just leave me alone? Why don’t you go haunt the IRS or something?”
The gray eyes narrowed slightly as Gorham straightened. “You know, Sherwood, sometimes you can be an insolent pup. My patience is starting to wear a little thin.”
“Your patience is wearing thin! What about mine?”
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