Penelope Butler-Richardson was my press secretary. She and I have butted heads a few times, but I respect her because she will not roll over when I raise my voice. Our relationship can be described as incendiary because we both have something in common. We tend to shoot off our mouth at times and ask questions later. Sometimes the words we use get us in trouble, but they are always from the heart.
We’re not friends because I don’t mix business with emotions. But many times I think if Henry is the heart of our operation and I the soul, she would be considered the fire that pushes us forward.
It was Penelope who stood up to Henry regarding his image, which was something even I did not do. Henry never wanted to smile in campaign photos, and one time he wore glasses to downplay his looks and to look older. Penelope told him how he should style his hair and picked out conservative, custom-tailored suits for him to wear. She refused to use any photos in which he was not smiling, and soon the Davis Factor was picked up by the press. The Davis Factor was described by one reporter as the phenomenon whereby men saw Henry as a jocular friend, women wanted to go out with him, college kids saw him as a cool older brother, and the elderly viewed him as the son they could brag about to their friends. The Davis Factor was devised on a yellow pad as we were flying to London. As I watched her doodle, I thought the idea was too pedestrian to amount to anything. But now we were riding the idea toward the White House.
After our first congressional victory, Penelope and I were in D.C. looking for shoes that would match the dress she’d planned to wear to Henry’s congressional swearing in. I knew next to nothing about Washington at that time, so she drove us to this mall in an urban neighborhood. As we got out of the car, she continued talking as she put the Club on the steering wheel and never acted as if she was at all uncomfortable being a minority in a parking lot where there were nothing but black and brown faces. Then she started to talk about congressional committees, and as she spoke I was thinking, Is she trying to impress me with her blackness? While I’d known Penelope for years, even before she joined our campaign, I never knew much about her, so I could not resist the temptation. After she picked up the shoes and we returned to our car, I asked her point-blank. “Penelope, why did you choose this mall?”
“What do you mean? Didn’t you see the shoes in that store?”
“No, I saw that. But how many malls with J. Linz stores did we pass to get to this one?”
“Two or three. But I wanted to help out the inner-city stores. You know, show support.”
I shook my head. I knew there was more.
“I know what you want to know. You wanna know why I’m like this. Don’t worry, you can ask me. God knows I’ve been asked before.”
I remained silent.
“I’ve always been like this. Even in elementary I mostly had black friends. As I got older, I found out that they call you guys Oreo when you act white. They just call us nigga lovers. My daddy hated it that I was, as he would say, ‘infatuated with nigras,’ and I think that only reinforced me to do it more. In college you think I wanted to pledge Tri Delta? I tried to pledge a black sorority and they turned me down. That would have really pissed my family off, but—”
“You ever dated a brother?”
The question made her pause and she looked in the rear-view mirror for the answer. “Have I dated a brother?” she said, stalling for a little more time. “I guess it depends on what you mean by date. If you mean date date, with flowers and a movie and all . . . no.”
“Oh. So you’ve had a taste of chocolate?”
She smiled and said, “Yeah, I guess you could say that.”
“Why did you do it? I mean, why didn’t you date date the guy?”
“Because I . . .” She glanced at me and again at the road. As the traffic merged onto the Beltway she said, “It’s a long story, but it could have never worked out.”
“Was it because of his job? Your parents? What?”
“No. No, not really. I mean they have this power thing in south Florida politics, but that’s where it ends.”
“Sooo?”
“So what?” she giggled.
“Check you out Miss Thing. Blushing. You know. Why didn’t you find this brother good enough to, as you say, date date? Did you cross over to see how it felt for a while, or did you just let go the little ho inside ya?”
Her eyes narrowed and her smile waned. “No, it wasn’t like that at all. He was in a relationship at that time, and I don’t know if I wanted him because he was untouchable or if I really just wanted to see if there was anything to the myth. The more I think about it . . . I think I had feelings for him.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. He was deep and honest and just totally the opposite of every man I’d dated before or after. And yes, that includes my husband. But I knew it could never work. I mean, relationships are hard enough as it is, but when you add to that the pressure of the family, being stared at whenever you walk around in public, of sometimes being ostracized by one or both families, and even the way society sometimes treats children who are biracial, it was more than I wanted to deal with.”
As I listened to the tone of her voice, I could tell she had feelings for this man, and it brought back to me just how special my relationship with Henry was. How many people could say they were married to their first serious sweetheart, who, in spite of problems, was still their best friend? And then I asked, “Whatever happened to him?”
“You mean the brother?” she asked after clearing her throat and returning her eyes to the rear view mirror. “He moved out of town and is happily married. Life’s a bitch, huh?”
Although Penelope was more than qualified for the position of campaign manager, it was already taken, so she asked to be Henry’s press secretary, which both of us agreed would be very well suited to her talents. The running joke in the campaign was who would call Mr. Guinness because she had the world’s largest Rolodex. Need someone to host a fund-raiser in Gallup, New Mexico? She knew who to call. If you wanted the support of the mayor of Dot Lake, Alaska, I would imagine she not only had his office number but his kid’s birth dates as well. The massive file filled with names was a virtual who’s who in politics, the arts, and industry. She told me once that she began saving the information as a teenager when celebrities and politicians would visit their home. At that time she wanted to one day become an agent and never knew when the information would be of value. This, together with the fact that she was a brilliant speech editor fact checker and could read a crowd just by mingling with them before Henry went onstage to tell us what issues to stress and which ones to avoid, made her a very valuable component to our plans.
When I initially met Edward Long, I immediately did not like him. I trust my gut instincts and knew I could not be wrong about him. Maybe it was the huge, black supernerd watch he wore, the slight lisp when he pronounced th, or his small stature and erudite attitude, but the first impression was lasting for all the wrong reasons. He would speak for ten minutes after you asked him a question, but in fact had said absolutely nothing. As I shook his hand and he left the room, I was ready to file his resume in the circular file when I gave his employment history a second look. He’d worked in the Bush White House as the deputy director for public affairs and in the governor’s office as a press aide. He also had network experience with NBS and CNN as an assistant producer. He’d run several statewide campaigns and was familiar with our position on a number of important issues.
I called a friend of ours in the governor’s office. And then I called both networks. I even called each of the five references he gave us, and the report was the same. “Edward Long is one of the most meticulous, organized, hardworking individuals I know.” I looked at his resume in comparison with the other candidates, and it was an obvious decision for me. Now I had to decide exactly what to do with him. I did not think he and I could connect, and to be honest, the image of him as my spokesperson was not too appealing. I considered him for a position as a polic
y adviser, but he just did not have the experience needed, so I called up Penelope and told her I’d decided to have Ed work with Henry, and I would offer her the position I had open for a press secretary. There was silence on the phone before she said, “I accept.” I told her it was not meant as a demotion, but I just wanted to have the two best people working for us, and she said quietly, “I understand. Will that be all?”
The next day I asked Ed to come to Henry’s office to meet him, and they had a cordial conversation. That night after dinner, Teddy told me about a few mutual friends we shared with Ed and that he’d decided to take him instead of Herbert on a trip with us the following week to Kentucky. We were lying in front of the fireplace with a stack of newspapers and watching Living Single on TV. When I told him how Penelope had reacted, he didn’t respond. I said, “The way you’re acting, you would think there was something more to it,” and Henry remained quiet. So I rolled over and asked him point-blank without an ounce of anger in my voice while staring him dead in the eye, “You fucking her?”
He looked at me like Sylvester the Cat with his cheeks full of yellow feathers, and said, “Why you ask me something like that?”
Now, I don’t know a lot about men since I have spent my entire adult life with just one, but I have a Ph.D. in HLD, and the translation to what he said was, “Damn, I’m busted, let me stall for time to think up a good lie.” I asked him again, and he said, “No, Leslie. No, I didn’t fuck Penelope. Damn.”
I rolled back over and looked at the TV on the brink of tears. Her reaction plus the story about the brother she once had feelings for, combined with his answer, led me to believe he had either gone down on her or she had gone down on him. I tried to remember if her middle name was Cheryl and wondered if she was the one he’d called for in the midst of making love. From the way he said it, I knew there was no penetration. He would never outright lie to me, but I didn’t want to hear the actual truth from his lips. I never mentioned it, yet I never got over it or fully trusted him again.
Chicago, Illinois
November 8, 2000
NBS News Studio
2:15 A.M. EST
“Welcome back. We have a few election-night results to give you, but first we will send it out to Chicago and Judith Finestein for an update.”
“Franklin, the hall is all but deserted at this time. We, and most of the traveling press, are reporting from the parking lot of the Four Seasons. I will say that the FBI, Illinois state troopers, and what seems to be a half dozen other law enforcement agencies assigned to protect the area have been hush-hush about the matter. Few official facts have been given to us. Therefore, rumors are swirling this morning. One rumor was that the shot was fatal, and another indicated that it was merely a flesh wound. The view here is that the truth lies somewhere in the middle.
“I have with me the governor of Illinois, Richard Campbell. Governor Campbell, we are told you were on the floor reserved for the key staffers when all of this occurred. Can you answer any of our questions in regards to the health of the vice president?”
“Unfortunately, since I was not on the rooftop, I cannot. My wife and I were in the presidential suite with Mr. and Mrs. Steiner before they went with the FBI to board the chopper, and before you knew it, we could hear the faint sound of gunfire.”
“Can you tell us, sir, if the vice presidential nominee, Sydney Ackerman, was in the suite at that time?”
“No. She and her family were taken out via another route. Actually she never came back up to the suite after addressing the campaign staffers.”
“Well, there you have it, Frank. The vice president’s condition is still, to the best of our knowledge, critical, and according to the governor, the vice presidential nominee was not in the area when the incident transpired. This is Judy Finestein sending it back to Frank Dunlop in Washington, D.C”
Carol City, Florida
The Allen Residence
After Cheryl hung up the phone, she knew deep inside that what the man she’d dreamed of since she was a teenager had just told her was true. But it didn’t take away the bite.
When she turned to look at the television, the first face she saw was Henry’s. They were showing a tape of him from the debate. He had just addressed a question regarding his Middle Eastern policy when a few people in the audience booed. After gathering his composure, Henry slowly rubbed his eyebrow, which was a sign to the commentator that the candidate was beginning to crack under pressure. As Cheryl watched, part of her felt betrayed. After all, Henry had walked back into her life. She’d been perfectly content to survive on just the memories from the past. But those feelings of betrayal were soon replaced by feelings of remorse and then respect. She wanted him. There was no need to lie to herself about it. But there was no way that could ever occur. Even if he divorced Leslie, which was the hot buzz on the television tonight, he would never marry a common nurse. He would probably date some starlet or another mover and shaker in the Washington scene. When the rumors regarding photos circulated in the press, for a millisecond Cheryl dreamed of rekindling the distant memory. But as she looked at the phone, she knew for always was not only a distant memory but a faded one as well.
“Cheryl, wassup?” Sarah asked, slowly making a fist and stretching her large body on the tiny sofa. “Is Henry the president or what? You first freak yet?”
“No, not—” Cheryl said from her bedroom. “Why must you always be so doggone vulgar?”
“Yo, like Popeye the sailor man, I yam what I yam. Wassup? You not watching?”
“No. I’m, ah, I’m too nervous to watch,” she said, lying on her bed leafing through an old issue of Black Elegance.
“Too nervous?” Sarah shouted while walking into the kitchen and opening the fridge. “The first man you fell in love with, who might be the next president, is handling his bid’ness, and you too nervous to watch? That’s jacked up.”
“Don’t eat the hamburger!” Cheryl called out, knowing her daughter. “It’s for meat loaf tomorrow. Want me to make you something else?”
“Naw, that’s awright,” Sarah said, and Cheryl could hear her continuing to rummage through the fridge for food. “So, Cee, what’s up with Brandon? I thought he was taking time off for this shit—stuff tonight?”
“Don’t drink all the Pepsi either!” Cheryl shouted, trying to avoid the question. “In fact, while you in there, make some tea.”
“Wud-eva,” Sarah said. “So you never answered my question. What’s up with your husband? I thought he was going to be here tonight.”
“He had to go out.”
“Go out. Hell, it’s what, three, fo in the morning and he had to go out? Right . . . sure.”
Just then the phone rang and on the half tone Sarah answered. “Talk.” After a pause, she said, “Well, I’ll be dammed, Cheryl. Talk about the devil and he will definitely show up, won’t he?”
Closing her room door and picking up the phone as her daughter hung up, Cheryl said softly, “Hello?” Brandon did not respond. “Honey, I’m sorry for what I said. I really am. I’ve thought about it for the last couple of hours and I can see how wrong I was. Please come home.”
“Cheryl, don’t go there, okay? Do . . . not . . . go there. I deserve more than that from you after all these years!”
“What do you mean?” she asked, sitting on the edge of her bed and scared to death of what he was about to say.
“I’ve been thinking . . . What I mean is this.” He lowered his voice. “Cheryl, I can’t live in this man’s shadow. I’ve tried hard to make things work out between us, and to be honest . . . to be perfectly honest, I’m tired.”
Cheryl stood and paced the tiny bedroom as she nervously ground her fist into her thigh, trying to think of the right words to say and not to say. “I know you’ve been patient. You’ve been patient beyond a fault, and I understand it must be tough. I know how you—”
“Shut up!” Brandon shouted. Cheryl’s eye swelled and she was stunned because he had never spoken
to her that way before. He apologized and said, “But please don’t say it. You cannot . . . even . . . relate to it. Most men have women whose ex-boyfriends are in some other city or they hardly see him. Not me. Fuck, I pass a thirty-foot billboard of your ex-boyfriend every day. I have to watch him on TV every night. I watch him with his wife, his nice suits, living in fancy-ass Harris Hills, and on top of everything else, the man has . . .” And then he paused.
Cheryl closed her eyes for the first time, hearing the pain in her husband’s voice.
“And on top of everything else,” he whispered, “he has you too.”
Cheryl couldn’t say a word as she started to cry.
“You know something, Cheryl? When I was a kid, I was always the first one picked for anything we played. If it was marbles, twenty-one, or even high school baseball, I was always first team. Even when I graduated the academy, I was in the top half of my class. Will I have to live the rest of my life playing second fiddle to this man’s memory? Not to what he was . . . but to what could have been? I can’t compete with that, Cheryl. How can I compete with Henry fucking Davis the Second? I can’t . . . and I won’t!”
“Brandon,” she replied barely audible. “Brandon, I’m not asking you to compete with him. Brandon, I do love you. I told you that. And because I love you, I can’t lie to you. I have to be one hundred percent honest. Maybe if I would have just lied—”
“And that’s supposed to make me feel better?” he yelled into the phone so loud Cheryl jumped.
Hearing his rage and knowing her husband, she said, “Brandon, please don’t hang up.”
“How would you feel, Cheryl? How would you feel if the man you loved with all of your heart, body, and soul told you he didn’t love you? Or at least he didn’t love you in the way you deserved to be loved? It’s a deep hurt, Cheryl. It’s a pain I can’t even begin to describe. If someone had reached into my body, yanked out my veins, and dragged me down the road with them over cut glass, it would have hurt less than hearing you say what you said to me.”
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