Always

by Timmothy B. Mccann

  “Marcus,” I repeated, this time from the hallway, “what’s going on?”

  “Well, sir, NBS Overnight is reporting that you had an affair with a twenty-five-year-old model.”

  “What?” I said, trying to gather myself as I walked toward my office. “They’re reporting what?”

  “Well, sir, I just caught the tail end of it as I was getting undressed in my hotel room. But this is not the worse part. It’s that girl you talked to in Atlanta. Alicia something.”

  I could not say a word as I turned my television to NBS, which by this time was running the sports scores.

  “Also, they mentioned that the story would be running in a major national publication this week.”

  “Wait, wait, wait,” I said to him. “Is it the Atlanta Constitution? The Washington Post? Did they mention a source?” As I spoke, I could hear Leslie walk up behind me, and ask, “What’s wrong?”

  “No, they didn’t mention a source or name the paper. But as you know, they’re connected to The Globe, and I’ve been told that they’ve run stories based on a feature in that newspaper. Did they not contact you before running the story?”

  “Hell no! They would have called . . .” And then I remembered that Herbert was on a cruise ship in the Mediterranean and did not have his pager, nor was there a way to reach him. “Damn.”

  “Senator Davis? Is there anything I can do?”

  “No . . . I mean, yes. What else did they say? Anything?”

  “No, sir, that’s basically all that I caught.”

  “Okay,” I said, trying to think quickly of the best course of action. But most important was how I would handle this with Leslie.

  As I hung up the phone, she sat down on the couch in front of my desk. So? she asked with her eyebrows without saying a word.

  “Les, umm. It ain’t pretty.”

  And then my wife pulled out the business card from the pocket of her robe, and asked, “Was it anything to do with this Alicia person?”

  There was a long, prickly silence as I looked at the card and then flipped it over to see Alicia’s home phone number scrawled in pen, which I had not noticed before. Looking into Leslie’s eyes, again, I said, “Yeah. First of all”—and as I said the words, even I didn’t believe them—“I never noticed her number on the back of this card, but apparently she went to a tabloid with a story about us having an affair. The truth is I hardly even know her.”

  “So how did you get the card?” she calmly asked.

  “We were at the Underground and she came up to all four of us and gave me the card. Then she started talking about her company and her mother, and one thing led to another . . .” I didn’t want to even tell her I had a cup of coffee with Alicia, but I saw from Leslie’s eyes that she was expecting the worst. “Well, she and I sat in the eatery in full view of everyone, and talked about her mom dying of AIDS. And that’s all that happened . . .”

  Leslie stood up and walked toward the door, then spun around and walked back toward me. She asked, “So since Herbert’s gone, who do you know at NBS?”

  “Umm, I know Philip Valdez, but he’s a producer and won’t be in until—”

  “No good. We need an editor,” she said, walking back toward the door and then again thoughtfully toward me.

  “Give me the phone,” she continued as she punched N on my electronic Rolodex. As she scrolled down to the National Broadcasting Service, she asked, “Did you know both NBS and The Globe are owned by Kevin Childs?” Kevin Childs was a South Carolinian majority shareholder in a large tobacco company. He also spent thousands of dollars through his various political action committees in an attempt to defeat me in my last election.

  Leslie stayed on the phone for more than fifteen minutes in an attempt to find a major decision maker in the news division of NBS. Finally she reached the night desk senior editor, who confirmed that the source was in fact The Globe and asked her if she wanted to make a comment. Being as savvy as she was beautiful, she stated, “On the record, no comment.” That was a brilliant move, because if she had just said that they had no right to run the story, her denial of the segment neither of us had yet to see would have given them just cause to run the story again and again. Leslie would have inadvertently become the source of the story. It was almost 3:00 A.M. and Leslie was bubbling like a kettle, clearly in her zone. I hoped in my heart that she really did believe me, but I could tell by the way she spoke to the editor that what had actually happened was secondary to what was being reported.

  “And I repeat,” she said again, off the record, “that story has no merit whatsoever. The plane was delayed and they talked in a mall. That’s all that happened,” she continued, looking at me and then again into space. “So if you insist on running that story, all we ask is that you have complete disclosure and add in the body of the text that your source was The Globe. And while you’re at it, I think next week they’re running a story on a three-headed chicken you might want to get a jump on also.”

  I couldn’t believe my ears. All that I’d known all along was inside of her had been given a chance to shine for the first time, and she was brilliant. Before she hung up, she and the editor were actually laughing. I think even he had to get a kick out of the chicken comment. And then she and I sat together without uttering a single word and watched Overnight, waiting to see if they would run the story again. Although the editor had given her assurances that the story would not run in the four-o’clock segment, I was still afraid we were not out of the woods. I could just hear the anchorman saying:

  “Senator Henry Davis’s office is refusing comment on a soon-to-be-published account of an improper relationship between the senator of Florida and an Atlanta businesswoman.”

  So as the reporter gave the headline for the hour, we waited for him to mention my name, and he didn’t. I exhaled a sigh of relief, and Leslie, who had to fly out at 6:00 A.M. for a fund-raiser at Disney, stood up and walked out of the room. As she did, I followed her, and said, “Baby. Thank you.”

  She looked at me and nodded her head as she yawned and returned to our bedroom. In my heart I knew she believed I had more than a coffee with Alicia. Otherwise she would not have held on to the business card. But I’d told her the truth, so I did not mention it ever again. Nor did she bring it up to me.

  The next week, in spite of the fact that Herbert returned and FedExed two signed affidavits from Wayne and Marcus as well as one from a lady who worked in the sporting goods store who’d asked him for my autograph, The Globe ran the article internationally. Inside Edition did a story on Alicia Simmons, and she and her record lable got their fifteen minutes of fame.

  Washington, D.C.

  NBS News Studio

  1:15 A.M. EST

  “Okay, America, this is Franklin Dunlop from our NBS studios in Washington, D.C. As we reported at the top of the hour, our sources have confirmed that an assassin has been stalking the campaign of Senator Henry Davis for the past several months, and the FBI is close to making an arrest. The gentleman in question is this man, Calvin I. Arthur. Arthur, we’re told, was hired by or heads an organization whose name the FBI has not been willing to release to the press at this point. But they have released photos. As you can see, Arthur is a Caucasian male in his early thirties, and it is believed that the beard he has in these photos may have been shaved off. He is five feet ten, approximately one hundred sixty-five pounds and has a small scar under his cheek, which, if he is clean-shaven, should be very prominent. We are told that he is a former college athlete and a skilled marksman. The FBI and CIA have been closing in on him for the past three weeks, and we are told tonight an arrest is imminent. We will be back with more election-night coverage right after this message.”

  Fountainebleau Hotel

  Suite 1717

  Leslie lay on the bed in silence in the master bedroom of her suite. While the living room was beginning to fill with a few of her close friends and members of their inner circle, she still needed a few moments of solitude. She
had called Henry three times within the past half hour, and twice he had hung up on her. The first time he had asked her why she was calling him. The next two times all she heard was the click. So as she lay in a ball, still wearing her dress and panty hose, she checked again to make sure the phone was working. And then Leslie pulled out the first cigarette from her third pack tonight and lit it while feeling an alcohol and Valium buzz.

  Hearing a knock at the door, Leslie wearily looked at it, and said, “Yes?”

  “It’s me, open up.”

  “It’s open,” Leslie said to Penelope.

  Penelope walked in talking on her cell phone. “Excuse me? Of course not. Please, we’re talking about a major interview. Jane Pauley called this morning and Barbara wants her for a full hour on 20/20. So we’re not giving an exclusive to a morning show even if it is sweeps week. Call me back when you guys are serious. Bye!” “Les, what’s up, girl? You know you can’t stay in here all night.”

  “I know,” Leslie said as she sat up slowly and stretched. “God it’s been a long day. What time is it anyway?”

  Penelope looked at her friend and laid her files and cell on the dresser. As she sat beside her she said, “Les, talk to me.”

  “About?”

  “Don’t start that shit!” Penelope said, looking at the clear brown unmarked prescription bottle under the edge of the bed. “I got too much going on tonight, okay, girl? Now, I know there is something you ain’t telling me. What’s up? What’s going on?”

  “Aha, Penelope,” Leslie said, sitting up, kicking the bottle under the bed with her heel, and rubbing the stress lines in her forehead. “I know you do your job well and that is why you’re press secretary. I respect you,” she said, looking at her assistant. “But you have a habit of pushing and pushing and pushing until you can get on people’s nerves sometimes. Now, I’m sorry to tell you, but tonight I can’t deal with your attitude. I mean, I try to overlook it at times, but damn.”

  Penelope looked at her friend and moved the tip of her burgundy alligator pumps stiffly against the nap of the carpet. “You may be right, Leslie. You may be right. But you know something?” she said, still looking down. “I’ve given you and that man down the hall one hundred percent of my heart and soul for the past seventeen years. Outside of the two of you, no one, and I do mean no one,” she repeated, “is more responsible for you guys being here tonight than me, and you know it. Now, I respect you. God knows I respect Hen. And, Leslie,” she said, looking up at her boss, “I expect the truth and I will not allow you to disrespect me or my work. I’m damn good at what I do and I don’t have to—”

  “Who’s disrespecting what you do? Why are you taking it like that? Now, maybe it’s the alcohol or something, but this has nothing to do with what you do. See, a sista would not go there. This is about you. You sometimes cross the line into our personal lives too much, and that . . . is where . . . I draw the line.”

  “I see,” Penelope said, standing up and leaning her willowy frame against the edge of the highboy. “So if the papers all around the country run photographs with you and that asshole in Rome for the world to see, and I have to put a spin on it, it’s okay, but I’m crossing the fucking line. I understand.”

  “No, what you should understand is what I told you. And to tell the fucking press the truth that I told you! I have never run from that story or those fucking photos and I won’t start now. I have . . . Henry and I have worked too damn hard to get here to lose it over some bullshit opportunistic prick looking for a quick payday!”

  “Okay, Les. If that’s all you want to tell me, cool. I work for you and I’m fine with that. But it would help me to do my job better if I knew the whole story,” she said, walking toward the door preparing to place a call on her cell phone.

  “Bring your fifty-cent ass back here! How, Penelope? How would it help you do your job better if you knew the intimate details? Huh? Would you like to know how James and I met? How we went up to the room together?” Leslie demanded, her voice getting angrier and lower with each word. “How we fucked? Is that what you’re looking for? Huh? Would you like to know the details so it can help you do a better job?”

  After a pregnant pause Penelope said, “I thought you said you never had sex with him.”

  Staring through her press secretary, Leslie was speechless. She had never told anyone they had actually had sex, and now the words had fallen from her lips. “Yeah,” she said above a whisper. “Yeah, we had sex. Not made love, had sex. Had fuck. Whatever you want to call it.” And then she took a drag on her cigarette looked away, and exhaled. “I had no feelings for him. I was lonely and it happened and I have to deal with it,” she said as her eyebrows fell and a calm came over her face. “But tell me, Penelope,” Leslie said, looking at the tip of her burning cigarette once again and then toward her press secretary. “When my husband’s dick was in your mouth . . . did you love him?”

  LESLIE

  What do I think of when I think of 1993? It was both the best and worst year for Teddy and me.

  The first part of that year was incredible. We were getting a lot of national attention, and Teddy was even featured on the cover of Time magazine under the heading “The New Face of the Democratic Party?” To this day he doesn’t know how he got on that cover. I met this gentleman who worked for Time at an elaborate party given by Ben Bradlee. Colin Powell, John McCain, Tipper Gore, and Secretary of State Madeleine Albright were just a few of the A-list attendees. Teddy was out of town and I was filling in for him. I really didn’t like doing these types of functions alone, but I was starting to get used to it. Teddy was elected to the Senate in ’88 and we received a considerable amount of attention with the first-black-Senator-from-the-deep-South stories for a while. However, eventually that grew stale and we needed something to rejuvenate our presence outside the state, but nothing seemed to work. Teddy drew up a couple of bills, one dealing with the environment and another regarding Internet regulation, but both were page-three stories, and in no time they were swept under the carpet. We had to do something big and we had to do it fast if 2000 was to be a reality. So when I met James Wolinski at this function, I knew it could possibly be a solution to our problem.

  When I first met James, he knew me and I did not know him, which was unusual because the room was a virtual who’s who in national politics. I spoke with several senators who were interested in Teddy cosponsoring legislation with them, but not one of them asked him to visit their state to campaign for them. When we first came into office, we would get two or three requests a week to campaign from California to Maine, but that was a thing of the past.

  James walked up behind me, and said over my shoulder, “So where is the first man from Florida?” Yeah, I know it was corny, but I laughed because I was a little tired of talking about polls, politics, programs, and prostitutes.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “Have we met?”

  “No, we haven’t. My name is Wolinski, James Wolinski. Time magazine.”

  I laughed. “The way you said that, I thought you would say Bond . . . James Bond.”

  “That’s funny. Actually, I covered your husband’s congressional campaign in Florida in eighty-two.”

  “Oh,” I said, and extended my hand to shake his. “So what part of Florida are you from?”

  “Originally I’m from Delphi, Indiana, but I moved down South for a job with the Tampa Tribune, which is how I got assigned to cover your husband. I’m living up here now covering the Washington beat for Time.”

  “How nice,” I said. A part of me wanted to turn into the dutiful wife of a senator and see if I could get them to run a story on us, and another part of me wanted to talk to him about anything else but politics. And although we could use the coverage, I chose the latter.

  James wasn’t what I would call a good-looking guy. He looked like a journalist who had ink in his blood and lived for late-night deadlines. His hair was darker than the wrinkles around his eyes would suggest his age to be, and even in
a tux he looked disheveled.

  We chatted about the D.C. social scene for a while and then he told me about his ex-wife, who was from Manhattan. She was a corporate attorney who worked for Dr. Pepper in Dallas and had always looked down on him because he’d had a child out of wedlock before they met. She would call him “Cooter” because of his Hoosier accent and always thought she was his superior because she’d graduated from an Ivy League school and his degree was from a community college. When I asked him why he married her, he simply replied, “ ‘Cause I loved her.”

  This was a party I had not wanted to attend. It was on a Thursday night and my plan had been to make an appearance, shake a few hands, and get home to watch Blair on L.A. Law. But it was nice to meet a genuine person in this city of fake smiles and even faker intentions. As we parted that night, he thanked me for not mentioning politics or asking him to write a story about my husband or about some charitable affair I was a part of. I think we both enjoyed the change of pace.

  Two months later Teddy rushed into my home office like a kid who’d just received a good dental checkup in a Crest ad. “Guess what! Time magazine is going to do a cover story on me! Not on the programs I’m backing or the class of senators I came in with, but me. A cover! Can you believe that?”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “No! I can’t believe it,” he said, looking at the pink telephone call-back note with the number of the reporter on it. “I can’t believe we’re finally going to get some real national exposure, and it couldn’t have come at a better time. I guess the decision to take the high road and work on all those important issues is finally paying off, huh?” he said, and put the call-back slip on my desk. “I gotta call Herbert and Penelope to put together some talking points for the interview. They’ll never believe this. Then I’ll call . . .”

  As he reached for the cordless phone on my desk, I looked at the note, and it was from Wolinski . . . James Wolinski.

  After the article ran, we rode a crest of popularity and were the hottest commodity in D.C. Teddy was on morning shows almost every day and talk-radio shows around the country every afternoon for a month. Before the taping of the Today show, Herbert and Marcus had posters made up that read “Davis ’96,” and paid people in the audience ten dollars just to enthusiastically wave the signs when the cameras scanned the crowd. Naturally we had no intentions of running in ’96, but we were seeding the ground for a 2000 harvest.