Always

by Timmothy B. Mccann

  Fountainebleau Hotel

  Presidential Suite

  As soon as the numbers in Florida were announced, the phone in Henry’s room started ringing. Since it was the hotel phone, he did not answer. Close friends and advisers knew to call him on one of two cellular phones or on the private line installed for this night, so as Franklin Dunlop and the other three anchormen reported on the upset, they had his undivided attention. Henry broke his gaze from the TV sets and looked over at the ringing phone and then unplugged the cord from the back of it.

  Ringggggg . . .

  It was the private line. Looking at it on the end table, he quickly debated if he should answer it. What could anyone say now to help this situation? But he had promised his staff that he would be accessible. “Hello?”

  “Hello, Senator,” he said with church-mouse timdity. “I was wondering if we could come up to chat about what’s happening. You know, uh, people down here are starting to talk and what have you about—”

  “Talk about what, Ed?”

  “Well, sir, that you are sitting up there alone. I think it was leaked to the press that you and Mrs. Davis are not talking, and the rumor is growing that you might be headed for a divorce. I know it’s nonsense, sir, but I wanted to quell speculation before—”

  “I’m sorry, Ed, you misunderstood my question,” Henry said, lowering the volume of the TV as well as slowing the pace of his voice. “When I asked you what you wanted to talk about, I was referring to why we should have a powwow at this time. We’ve spent the last two years talking about the election, the polls, and the other candidates. Hell, Ed, you and I have been talking about this for—what?—four or five years, nonstop, every day? So tonight, with all due respect, I just need to gather myself a little.”

  “Yes, sir, I understand,” Ed replied despondently.

  “No offense. I’m not throwing in the towel. We still have a lot of night ahead of us. I feel really good about California as well as Texas, so don’t take this move as a defeatist one. I just need a little time to myself to regroup and be at my best. In the event we win this thing, it’s gonna be a long night, and in the event we lose . . .” Henry closed his eyes again and said with a smile, “If we lose, Eddie, I don’t want to look like a haggard sore loser. Okay?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Fantastic. Listen, I saw you on CNN and you did a great job. What time is Herbert going to be on CBS?”

  “C-SPAN, sir. Mr. Davis will be on MSNBC and within the hour, I was told.”

  “Good. Well, if you need me, just—”

  “Senator? May I ask you a question, sir?”

  “Sure, go right ahead,” Henry replied as he put his feet on the couch and leaned back on the hind legs of the chair.

  “Why did you decide to read . . . Forever last night?”

  Laughing, Henry said, “Good night, Ed. I appreciate the call.” And then instead of hanging up on his concerned press secretary, he added, “Ed, the author sent me the book. It was really well written and I just happened to want to finish it last night. That’s all, okay? Now, go put a spin on this thing so people out there don’t get overly worried. Tell the press you just spoke to me and that we’re excited about the key states I just mentioned as well as the returns in New York, the West, and Midwest.”

  “Yes, sir, I’ll, umm, I’ll let them know.”

  Hanging up the phone, Henry alternated his attention between the TVs, turning up the volume whenever they showed the electoral maps and turning it down whenever the talking heads would appear. There was a line down the middle and underneath it the words Splitville was inscribed. And then on NBC, a picture of Leslie and him together appeared on the screen. Damn, that didn’t take long, he thought while turning up the volume.

  “That’s right,” the green-eyed reporter with a glint in her eye replied. “My reliable sources inside the campaign tell me that there’s heavy friction between the two at this time. Friends who have known them for years attribute it to the tension of the race more so than the recent photos of Mrs. Davis thought to be floating around Washington. Others are concerned that if Senator Davis is elected, we may have our first presidential divorce. I have traveled with Leslie Davis and the thought here is—”

  Henry turned down the volume as his brother’s face appeared on one of the other TV screens.

  “We are here with the older brother of presidential candidate Senator Henry Davis, Herbert Davis. Now, I must say, Herbert, you have been one of the most camera-shy campaign managers we’ve seen in recent years While the other campaign managers have visited all the major talk shows, you seem to outright avoid the spotlight. Why is that?”

  As Herbert began to speak, Henry leaned forward on his elbows to hang on his every word. He noticed the other reporters start to swarm around as soon as the spotlight centered on Herbert, and Henry could tell his brother was uncomfortable being the focus of attention. You’ll do well, Herbert. You’ll do just fine.

  “Well, Beth, I have stayed out of the limelight because I, or should I say we, have always wanted the attention to be focused on the problems of this country.” Looking into the camera, he said, “We feel this is a race that should have focused on the candidates’ ideology and not the prospective parties’ ideology. We did not get into this race for glory or for personal gain but to put this country back on its feet fiscally, socially and morally for the twenty-first century and beyond.”

  Henry leaned back, absorbing his campaign manager’s words. Knowing Herbert did not enjoy being in the spotlight, Henry appreciated even more his speaking to the media, because he spoke not as a senior adviser but as a brother.

  A newsman muscled past the female reporter and his elbow hit her in the mouth as he held his microphone stiffly in front of Herbert. “Duke Kilroy, AP! Tell me, Herbert, what is the status of the candidate’s marriage? The word on the floor is that they are headed to divorce court after the election, win, lose, or draw, and that Mrs. Davis has had conversations with Marvin Mitchelson. Will you confirm or deny either of those stories?”

  Herbert’s appearance was unflappable, yet Henry knew he did not want to lie and didn’t want to say the wrong thing either. Looking at the female reporter who had been pushed to the side, he asked with a smile, “Are you all right, madam?” After she nodded her head, he looked at the AP reporter and said, “Sir, that is a family issue.” And then Henry felt Herbert was looking at him as he said into the camera, “But I can assure you that there is absolutely no friction between my brother and his wife. None whatsoever. These insipid and cruel remarks being hurled by members of the vast right-wing media outlets are unfounded and, on a night such as this, both shameful and appalling. Henry and Les are upstairs now . . . together . . . and expecting wonderful things to happen this night.”

  No words he could have said could hurt Henry as much as those. In the Davis/Gallagher headquarters, signs were posted everywhere: “DO IT ONCE YOU’LL DO IT AGAIN.” It was Marcus’s haiku because Henry was fond of saying it in staff meetings, “If you compromise your integrity once, it’s a slippery slope toward repeating it.” He had never known his brother to flat-out lie before. As a tear glistened in his eye, he knew that his ultimate goal had made his brother do something he as a politician had done more times than he wanted to count. His brother, just like other Davis/Gallagher campaign officials, had compromised his integrity in pursuit of Henry’s dream.

  HENRY

  Forever is a novel that was sent to me a month or so ago by its author. Or at least by his literary agent, who was interested in eventually selling my memoirs. I had heard about it shortly after it was published because of the controversial content. The character’s life in the book closely mirrored my own. He was from a deep southern state and was voted the most effective congressional representative three consecutive years. He even chaired the same committees I had in the senate. He was an African-American who would run for and eventually win the presidency. Now, this character, whose name was—get this—Donnell Ro
osevelt Jones, was a cardboard cutout of a president. In part it was degrading because of the way the author had developed the character’s wife, Angie. She decided to redecorate the White House, and in the Purple—yes, I said Purple—Room she had one of those clocks shaped like a cat with the tail that wags and eyes that move back and forth. There was a bowl of dusty plastic fruit in their private residence and a little placard that said “May You Be Dead an Hour Before the Devil Knows You’re Gone” over her desk. They even had one of those big stereos with a record player and eight-track in it that looks like a coffin in the Lincoln bedroom.

  While the author touched on a few serious world problems that this character handled, the book, all in all, was not believable. The worse part of it was the ending. He was the president, and this scandal, not too dissimilar to my own, catches up to him. He tries to stay above the fray, but he has all these people who want him out of the White House. So he is watching his numbers fall, like I have, on the night of his reelection with his family, and suddenly he leaves them, walks onto the front lawn of the White House, and offs himself in the midst of reporters and staff. He says some corny line like, “You want my blood, now you have it,” before he dies. The end. I thought it was such a cop-out to use guns and death to finish the novel, but to each his own. When I dug a little deeper, the story told me how some people with very good intentions can be changed in politics. We want the best and the brightest in office, and when they get there we look for the absolute worst in their character, which causes them in turn to self-destruct. Anyway, it sucked, but the author is a really nice kid. I hear they just paid him a million three for the movie rights.

  Nineteen-eighty-three. I guess you could say that was the year I started my drive toward being elected president in earnest. Let me back up a little. When I was at FAMU, I ruptured a vertebra during the last game of the football season. They tried rehab, but nothing really worked. So it was a bittersweet time in my life. Yes, I was upset because now I had to get assistance from my parents and work to stay in school, but it was sweet in a way. Because of my size, when people looked at me they would always say, “Damn, I know you play football somewhere.” It was a way to say, “Yeah, I did, but, man, my back went out.” Don’t misunderstand me. I loved the sport. But I knew what my goals were, and even if I had had the opportunity to play pro football, looking back, I would have turned it down and parlayed the attention I would have gained from doing that into a congressional seat.

  Know why I love politics? In many respects it is the ultimate sport society has to offer. First you come up through the Minor Leagues (local politics, etc.), then you graduate to the Big Leagues (national politics) and then there’s a playoff, (primaries) until you reach the Superbowl (presidential election). Along the way we keep score (polls) and there’s bloodshed (scandal) and if you win you’re the champion (in office) until the next season.

  I met Yvette Leslie Shaw at my job while in college and she was only in town forty-eight hours. Since she lived in California, I knew my work was cut out for me, so I asked her if I could take her out to dinner and a movie. She told me she didn’t want to leave her friend alone, but when she went back in the hotel room I got the impression by looking at them through the open curtains that she wanted her friend to come along for security.

  I forget what movie we went to see, but I do remember her friend Veronica. I’d noticed both of them a couple of days before I built up the courage to make a move on Leslie, but actually it was Veronica who caught my eye at first. But then I crossed her off my list when I noticed that she would only try to get the attention of white guys or very fair-skinned brothers.

  So while we were at the movies, I gave Leslie fifty cents to buy us some more popcorn, and out of nowhere, Veronica starts telling me about her blond boyfriend who lived in Santa Cruz, California. She made sure I knew that his eyes were as blue as Paul Newman’s and that he wanted her to learn how to surf. Next she starts telling me how much she liked red men with curly hair. How she thought red brothers were so much finer then white men and how our butts were nicer and our thighs were so powerful looking. She said, just as Leslie returned with the jumbo buttered popcorn, how she had never done a red brother but would love to someday. I never told Leslie about that conversation until we were married. When I did, she laughed about it and said she knew. They’d set a trap for me, which is why Leslie kept giving me the opportunity to grab the bait. When I didn’t, she knew I was the one. Women are funny like that sometimes.

  After Leslie left Tallahassee, we wrote letters back and forth constantly. She sent me a postcard from every city they traveled to, and when they arrived back in California three weeks later, she had twenty-five letters from me in her box. I was sending her two letters a day at that time. I would have given anything to see her smile when she opened the mailbox. She said the day after she arrived home, the mailman came to her door, and when she walked out he smiled at her and said, “I only have these two letters for you today, but the reason I knocked on the door was to see the lady who inspired someone to write so many love letters.”

  I made a concerted effort to let Leslie know how I felt. I did not want to scare her away, but I definitely wanted her to know that I was interested in her.

  Seeing Cheryl the day my car broke down in Lake City stung. It hurt beyond description. But looking at her, I wasn’t mad. Why? I guess because when I saw them drive up, and him get out of the car, I watched her with the baby. I watched her kiss and rub her nose against that child’s as if everything else in the entire world ran a distant second. And I knew she had found love in a much greater sense then I would or could provide. Watching her with that baby was akin to watching love take the form of flesh and blood. When she got out of the car, I watched her walk back and forth a couple of times before she saw me, and then, well, it appeared we both stopped breathing.

  I didn’t see cars passing or even feel the wind against my skin. All I saw was an opportunity to make it right. Then Darius walked out and it dawned on me for the first time that it was totally, completely, and unmistakably over between Cheryl and me. It had been years since I’d seen her, but in my heart the thought that we would never be together again had never jelled. I’d heard rumors that she and Darius were a pair ever since he’d left town, but hearing it and seeing it were two different things. As she drove away in that old Chevrolet, I saw her looking back as if kissing us good-bye. And on that day I was finally able to close that chapter of my life once and for all. At least that’s what I assumed.

  Since I was young, broke, and in college, a long-distance relationship with Leslie was difficult to sustain. We could only afford to talk on the phone once a week. So every Sunday, between six-thirty and eight-thirty, we would alternate calling. It seemed by the time I said, “Hello, Leslie, how are you?” it was time to hang up. In all honesty, my feelings for her were not as strong as they were for Cheryl. I thought that was because Cheryl was my first in most ways. But I worked hard on my grades, and Leslie and I put together a plan to meet for the summer since her father decided not to spring for another cross-country trip for her. I would get an internship on the West Coast or she would get one on the East Coast and somehow we would get together. And it worked. My internship counselor at FAMU pulled a few strings and got me a job in southern California. I got an internship in Paramount Studios Legal Department in L.A., so she decided to stay in town as well and work as a paralegal for a law firm.

  It was going to be strange being together that much. Being able to see her, feel her, touch her every day. As I rode the bus cross country, I thought about my first time. Her name was Toni, but everyone called her Li’l Momma.

  Shortly, after breaking up with Cheryl I met Li’l Momma on a weekend trip to FAMU. Although she was younger, she was much more experienced. Her tongue darted back and forth like a snake. She started at my toes and explored every inch of my body.

  When I went to my dorm room, although I was walking straight, it felt like my hips were still m
oving round and round. So the first thing I did when I got to the room was to call my Li’l Momma.

  When she answered the phone I could tell she was surprised since I had copied the number from her phone without her seeing it.

  She told me how much she “enjoyed what happened,” but her voice was not the same. We said goodbye but I held on the phone trying to figure out what went wrong. She hung up but the phone was still off the hook. I heard a man say “Who was that?” Must have been her father. “Where he from?” Maybe it was her brother. Then I heard a smack smack smack and grunting sound of a kiss that could only come from her man.

  Soon my thoughts of Toni were replaced by Leslie and my biggest fear, which was that the distance was keeping us together and that once we were in the same city, the relationship would fizzle. As I traveled closer to the Golden State, I wondered if I could ever fulfill this fantasy I had created on the phone.

  The first night I was in the City of Angels, she came over to my apartment. To be honest, I’d had sex a couple of times by then with coeds whose names left me as soon as they left my arms. I had never made love at that time, and I really did not understand the distinction between the two. I’d heard women say things like, “I don’t want to screw, I want to make love.” I’d never understood the true meaning of that until I made love for the very first time with Yvette Leslie Shaw.

  Leslie came over, just beating the rain, and brought a couple of books. No wine, no cheese, no candles. Just a couple of thick Russian literature books she thought I would enjoy reading. So I tried to read between the lines. Was she trying to tell me to slow down? That we had all summer? Did she think I was her intellectual inferior? I mean, we’d set fire to the phone lines our conversations were so hot, but was all of that just talk?