Always

by Timmothy B. Mccann

  With my throat dry and a quake traveling from my head to my toes, I whispered, “Penelope, we can’t take out money without it raising red flags.”

  “Trust me, we can, but if you have a better idea, let me know. I’ve seen the photos, Les. If we don’t want them to hit the six-o’clock news every night between now and the election, we gotta pass the hat, wash cars, hold bake sales, or something to get that money, now!”

  Dearborn, Michigan

  Joe Lewis Center

  Presidential Debate

  October 2000

  CHERYL

  The most memorable event of the election for me came the Sunday of the first debate. Due to the hours I was working at the hospital, I was forced to volunteer fewer and fewer hours to the Davis/Gallagher campaign.

  The reason I was nervous was that Henry’s numbers were starting to fall as it got closer to Election Day. Initially he tried to stay above the mud that both candidates were slinging at him, but eventually he had to sink to their level and the first negative ads rolled out regarding Vice President Steiner.

  Earlier in the week, footage had surfaced of Henry at Harvard. No one had seen the tape before it surfaced on an Internet web site, and an AP writer wrote a story that appeared in papers all over the world. In the article the young man, who was originally unidentified, was quoted as saying, “Is calling yourself an American not good enough, sir? Not good enough for the man wishing to run this country?” The headline for over a week was “Hyphenated President?” The day after the release of the tape, the young man was on Good Morning America, the Today show, and The Early Show, all before 8:00 A.M. Eric King, whose appearance screamed bigot, spoke with a deep southern slur and wore his slick, black, cowlicked hair pulled back and to the side. After his appearance on Larry King Live, there was a debate on Crossfire as to why the term African-American was or was not needed in our society. By that time talk radio caught wind of the story and the national firestorm of debate had begun, and Henry’s once apparently insurmountable lead had evaporated.

  Two days before the presidential debate, while Dirk Gallagher was campaigning in Atlanta, a reporter asked him if he thought it sent the right message for a presidential hopeful to refer to himself as an African-American and refuse to consider himself as simply an American.

  “Well, guys, you know me. I’m a straight shooter. Let me speak for myself. My grandpaw died for this country. He was stationed in France and died of mustard-gas wounds. My daddy fought in World War II and Korea and was injured. I, as many of you know, fought in Nam and was imprisoned in the “Hainoi Hilton” for two years. So I don’t think anything is wrong with being called an American. Too much of my family’s blood was shed to give us the right to say that, and that’s all I can say about the subject.” When I heard his answer, it was obvious this man was sabotaging Henry’s campaign for his own run to the White House.

  Henry looked stunning the night of the first and only presidential debate. He wore a wool navy pin-striped suit with an American flag on the lapel and a light blue shirt with a bold striped navy tie. On C-SPAN they showed his wife as she and his key staff people walked into the auditorium and she waved at him for good luck. The moderator was Bernard Shaw. Since Henry had given in on the number of debate stipulations, he wanted to have the moderator of his choice.

  Henry smiled often and looked poised and relaxed as he gave his opening statement. He spoke of the America he envisioned and bills he had sponsored in the Senate that would help not only the people of his home state but people throughout the country. As he spoke, his campaign theme of “One People, One Man, One Vision” clearly came to life. When he completed his statement, the crowd was not allowed to applaud, but there was no need to. He had gotten a hit and was standing on base.

  Governor Tom spoke next and he was not very effective. Just as you could tell every comma of Henry’s opening was carefully crafted, the governor seemed to fly from the seat of his pants. Then he looked at Henry, wrinkled his lips, and said to the world, “I’m a little older than both of you young fellas. But I will say that I’m just a plain ole ordinary American, a proud American. I am an American today. I will be an American tomorrow, and forevermore will I be an American.” A collective gasp coupled with a sprinkling of applause was heard throughout the building as Henry looked him in the eye and smiled that confident smile of his. But I wondered, Will a smile be enough?

  After the dust settled, Ronald Steiner spoke of his dreams for America, ignoring the bombshell that had just exploded in the building.

  The first question from the three-person panel was directed toward Henry. “Senator Davis. Why is it you refer to yourself as an African-American, and not just an American?”

  “My question to you is this. Does my statement that I am an African-American offend you? And if so, why? No one in this room is prouder of their American blood than I. No, my grandfather did not die fighting German soldiers, but he cleaned a storefront where Americans shopped for goods and services for over fifty years. My dad was not killed or maimed in World War II, but he raised two sons and sent them to college while he later graduated from college after he worked for sometimes eighteen hours on his feet. To me, that’s the embodiment of the American dream. This is a great country and there is no doubt about it. Leslie and I have had opportunities to travel abroad and I have been to some wonderful cities, but if I am gone more than three days, there’s a burning desire inside of me to return home.

  “But by the same token, my ancestors were brought here against their will and helped build what is the most wealthy country this world has ever known, with free labor. They were brought from a continent that was rich in resources, had given birth to mathematics and science, and was the cradle of history.

  In eighty and eighty-four when President Reagan indicated with pride that he was an Irish-American, it was not an issue. When I speak to my friends who are the chairmen of the board for major corporations such as Sony or Hitachi and they say they are Japanese-Americans, there is never any fallout. Italian-Americans wear their heritage on their sleeves with pride. And you know what? They should. Because we have all helped create this vast quilt of dreams which is stitched together with a vision, this place called America. Is it Utopia? No, in fact, it’s far from it, but it is a place where our conscience is our guide. A place where courage is our goal and a place that searches for the best in us while ignoring the worst deep within the hearts of others.”

  Henry’s statement was poetic and beautiful and brought a thunderous applause. But I thought it would be the death blow to his campaign.

  A week after the debate, Henry was back in Miami. With two weeks before the election, he and his staff were making final arrangements for an all-out blitz of the country. The press reported he and Dirk Gallagher were no longer speaking and that the campaign was struggling to get across the finish line. I was cleaning out a drawer in my room when I found his pager number. He had given it to me after we made sex, not love, and I’d never used it before. In fact, I thought it was lost. But as I sat in front of the television watching this man I had loved most of my life, I decided to call him to tell him I was with him in spirit, if that was any consolation at all.

  As soon as my phone rang, I knew it was my Henry.

  “Ahh, yeah. This is Louis. Someone paged me from this number a couple of minutes ago?”

  “It’s me, Henry.”

  There was silence, and before I could give him my name, he said, “Cheryl. Damn, it’s nice to hear your voice.”

  When he said that, I wanted to faint. He was actually glad I’d paged him. We spoke for about fifteen minutes about anything other than the campaign and neither of us mentioned the less-than-romantic night we had shared. Actually, I spoke to him as if I had not even heard he was running for president. And then I heard a lady in the background calling him for a meeting. “Listen, Cheryl, I really have to run. Do me a favor?”

  “Sure.”

  “Meet me tomorrow night. Leslie’s in Misso
uri and I’ll be leaving town the next day and won’t be back until after the election. I would really like to see you before I leave.”

  My heart sank when he said that. A part of me felt like a slut he could bang anytime he wanted. But then I looked at the bigger picture. It was said that Kennedy had a death wish. That he knew there was a good possibility he would be killed in Dallas, but he took chances anyway. Henry was made of the same stuff. A month before, he was in this shopping mall in Nebraska and cherry bombs went off and firecrackers popped, and then the distinct sound of gunfire was heard. Several Secret Service men dove on top of Henry, and I could tell, as I watched live on MSNBC, that he was trying to get them off of him so he could see what was going on. As soon as the shots ended, he gathered himself and told the frenzied crowd he was okay and to be calm because kids were getting hurt. But that was typical of him to think of children moments after shots had been fired in his direction.

  When I heard him say, “I would like to see you before I leave,” how could I say no and I prayed it did not mean one last time. For the first time I could empathize with Coretta, Jacqueline, Ethel, and possibly even Leslie.

  “Sure,” I said. “Just tell me when and where.” As I hung up the phone, something told me after this we would never be together again.

  The next day after returning home at six, I laid out my ivy sweater shrug and A-line skirt and took a nap. When I woke up, I felt physically ill. I didn’t want to cheat on Brandon again, but my heart was left with no other choice. I sat in front of the tube watching as much of the election news on C-SPAN II as I could when the phone rang. It was Henry.

  “Listen, ew, Cheryl. I’ve been thinking. It might not be such a good idea for us to get together.” He went on to explain that he had decided to break our date because if the media got wise to it, he would have even more controversy and I would be forced into a very uncomfortable position. Before he hung up, there was a pause. While I could feel pain and uncertainty in his voice, I could also sense just how much he loved her. Then he said, “Cheryl, I love you. And I will love you . . . for always. No matter what happens, always remember that.” With those words he hung up the phone. As I hung up the receiver, I was in shock, and in tears.

  The next morning Brandon asked me why Henry Davis’s phone number was on our Caller ID box not once, but twice.

  Fountainebleau Hotel

  Presidential Suite

  The master bedroom suite of room 1701 had been transformed into a bunker against the rest of the world. Penelope and Marcus paced the floor while Herbert occasionally glanced at his brother, who lay on the bed with his forearm flung across his eyes. No one knew what to say, so the room was silent. As they paced, sat, and lay in the master bedroom, no one knew what was happening in the election, and for the first time in his life, Henry did not care. Lying on the bed, he repented in his heart for the nights he’d had to write one more speech that really could have waited another day. He repented for having taken Herbert on campaign trips on which his wife had been invited, but he’d thought he could get more accomplished with his campaign manager. Last but not least, he atoned for having been unfaithful to her and for treating her the way he had when he had doubted her fidelity. Closing his eyelids tightly, he tried to block out the worst things that could be happening to her at that very moment. He asked for forgiveness and prayed as he had not in years for her safe return.

  The cellular phone rang again, yet no one moved, thinking it was just another member of the press who had padded the right pockets in an attempt to scoop yet another news story on the bizarre morning.

  Ringgggggg.

  Herbert looked at the others and said, “Fuck it, I’ll get rid of them.” He listened for a moment. “Yeah? Oh my God!”

  All eyes in the room sprang in his direction. It was obviously news about Leslie. Henry leaped to his feet and snatched the phone from his startled brother.

  “Senator Davis. Who is this?”

  There was silence on the other end, and panic such as he had never experienced before welled in Henry’s throat.

  “Henry. Henry, it’s me. I’m okay. I’m okay.”

  “Oh my God, Leslie. We were . . . I was so worried about you. Where are you?”

  “Teddy, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for making such a big mistake, again. Myles came up to visit me, and to be honest, I may have had a drink or three too many. I was a little upset about what had happened between us, so he asked me to go for a ride to clear my head. The room was packed and I changed into some jeans and put on a baseball cap and shades. He diverted the guy’s attention at the door, and before you know it, we were going down in the service elevator through the kitchen and outside the hotel. We were driving around and I heard on the radio I was missing. I never meant to—”

  “Les, that’s okay. One second, okay?” Relaxing his massive shoulders, Henry smiled at his staff, and said, “She’s okay. All right, guys, she’s okay.”

  “Great!” Penelope said, picking up her cell phone to make the appropriate media calls.

  “Ahh, Penelope? Put that down.”

  “What do you mean? We need to call—”

  “Just what I said. I want to think this through before we alert the press. Just put down the phone,” he said with a smile, “and step back . . . three paces. Okay?”

  Shaking her head, Penelope returned the phone to her purse as Henry walked into a corner of the room to talk privately with his wife.

  “Les, I was lying on the bed just now and it occurred to me that I have worked my entire life for this night. And I asked myself for the first time, why? Why did I want to be president? So I could help people. So I could mark my place in history. So I could be happy with myself. Well, I have done a lot to help people already. After being the first black this and that, I’ll go down in history. But you know something? Even if we win tonight, I wouldn’t be happy if I could not share this . . . with you. You’re everything I’ve ever wanted. I just never knew it. Leslie, I have put you through a lot over the past twenty-seven years. All I ask is that you give me one last chance to make it right.”

  Leslie’s voice filled with emotion. “Teddy . . . Teddy, I’m so sorry for what I did. I didn’t want to. I mean—”

  Standing tall, Henry cut her short. “Honey, we’ll talk about it later. I just want to see your face. Where are you?”

  “Okay, guys, here’s the scoop,” Henry announced to his family of workers as he softly clapped his hands on every other word. “Leslie just went out for a ride with Myles. She’s okay. She’s headed back here right now and is going to try to come back through the kitchen to avoid the press since she has her credentials with her. We’ll just wait by the phone in case she calls us with any problems.”

  Washington, D.C.

  November 8, 2000

  NBS News Studio

  3:25 A.M. EST

  “America, this is Franklin Dunlop with an up-to-the-minute report on the ongoing stories of tonight. We are told that momentarily we will have an opportunity to speak with the press secretary of Yvette Leslie Davis. She is on her way down, and will be speaking in our Miami studio exclusively with our very own Butch Harper. The news regarding Vice President Steiner is not good. For the first time we are able to confirm the report that the vice president is in critical condition. His running mate, Sydney Ackerman, is at the hospital, and in the event the team is victorious tonight and the vice president is unable to fulfill his duties as president, America will have elected its very first female president. I should also note that Cardinal Edmond Giacomo has been called to the hospital in the event the worst is a reality. Now, if those two updates were not enough for you, this is the latest breaking news. The individual we showed you in the photograph earlier is not the man stalking the Davis campaign at this time. Sources confirmed that the individual in the photo, Calvin Arthur, was killed a month ago in a hunting accident. The FBI estimates Arthur sent over a hundred threatening letters to each of the major candidates as well as the president of t
he United States during the campaign. For the latest on Vice President Steiner, we’ll swing it out to Chicago and Judy Finestein.”

  “Hello, Frank, and hello once again, America. The mood here is subdued. An hour ago there was singing and chanting, but that has been supplanted by fear now that Chicago’s favorite son has been confirmed to be in critical condition. As you reported, Mayor Ackerman is with the vice president’s family at this time. We have been advised that they have not watched the returns since this event has occurred. Obviously at this time some things are much more important. Back to you, Frank.”

  “Thank you, Judy, for that report. Now we will head down to Miami for the much-awaited interview with Penelope Butler-Richardson. As soon as the information regarding California is in, America, we will let you know. Now, Butch, take it away.”

  “Thank you, Franklin. Mrs. Butler-Richardson, what can you tell us about the story floating around these quarters concerning the senator’s wife? Was she in fact missing as was reported by many news organizations about an hour ago?”

  “No, she was not. That is why I am down here, Butch. The rumor mill this morning is working overtime. We’ve been listening to these fallacious allegations regarding Henry and Leslie’s marriage and now this report about her missing, and we have attempted to stay above the fray. Yes, I hate to say it, but this could be racial, because I have never seen other candidates on the most important night of their lives being subjected to such blatant scrutiny. But Senator and Mrs. Davis asked me to visit with you about a half hour or so ago in an attempt to squelch these tabloidesque reports. They are simply not true. In fact, they’re disrespectful and, might I say, unfair!”