The Presence

by T. Davis Bunn

  Deftly Catherine guided him out of the cemetery and back toward the car, helping to support his weight, surrounding him with her love.

  Chapter Five

  The taxi that brought TJ into Washington from National Airport was driven by a black man with a weather-beaten face and hair the color of dirty snow.

  “Bancroft Place,” the man said, giving TJ a friendly eye in the rearview mirror. “That’s up Kalorama way. Nice area ‘round there. Lots of embassies and ‘spensive houses.”

  “I’ve got a friend up there,” TJ said, staring out at the gloomy twilight of a February afternoon, wondering what he was doing here.

  Congressman John Silverwood had confirmed TJ’s appointment less than a month after that Sunday morning call. Following that, he had continued to phone TJ every week or so, passing on news of the new administration and its takeover, keeping TJ apprised of Washington developments and making sure his man stayed hooked.

  Through November and December the new President’s skeleton crew—called his Transition Team—worked out of the cavernous basement of the Commerce Building, taking up some two hundred thousand square feet of space. It was staffed primarily by people who had been with the President through the campaign. On Silverwood’s recommendation, TJ did not come up to make himself known.

  Chaos was how the congressman described it. Three thousand phones ringing all at once, people chasing around like maniacs. Total chaos. You might wind up in a better position by carving your niche out now, Silverwood told him, but I doubt it. Either way, you’ll be entering the arena at a disadvantage. These people have been working together for as much as three years, all dreaming of this moment. Let them scream and run around in little circles for a while. Come up when the dust settles.

  The first call from the White House came in early January and gave TJ another sleepless night. It was from one of the personnel officers, a mid-level staffer who stressed his importance by trying to bully TJ into arriving the following week. I have a law practice to put in order, TJ had replied. The man was not impressed. What do you have that’s more important than serving your President? But TJ refused to be pushed. He told the man he’d be in Washington in two weeks, and hung up.

  The next day he told Jeremy about it, letting some of his worry show through. Jeremy had been strangely silent, and then with an even stranger abruptness stood and said he was leaving town for a few days on business. What business, TJ asked. Just business, Jeremy replied. Somethin’ that’s been on my mind for a while. Well, TJ said, more than a little confused by this lack of concern, will I see you again before I leave? But Jeremy had remained evasive and seemed in a hurry to get going.

  Nine days later, he called just as TJ was sitting down to breakfast. Got a pencil, Jeremy asked. Okay, take this down. TJ noted the address his friend gave him, asked, what is this? When you get to Washington, grab a taxi and tell the driver to bring you here, Jeremy replied. I’ve already made hotel reservations, TJ said. Cancel them, Jeremy said. It’s all taken care of. What’s been taken care of, TJ asked. Tell you when you arrive, Jeremy replied. Have a good trip.

  And then the world seemed to do everything possible to stand in the way of his going. It was one crisis after another. His law office lost three secretaries and two paralegals in one week, a senior partner had a heart attack, and an associate left for a three-week honeymoon. There was simply no one to take over the work, which meant he had to do it all himself before he could leave.

  Then his younger daughter, Elaine, caught a virus of the inner ear, which left her with such a severe case of vertigo that she could not stand up without support. Her husband was frantic, trying to hold down a full-time job and take care of two young children and a sick wife all by himself, which meant Catherine was needed there. So TJ had left for Washington alone and exhausted.

  ****

  “Nice area, Kalorama,” the cab driver repeated. “Stayin’ long?”

  TJ turned away from the window and pushed himself into polite alertness. “I have a job with the new administration.”

  The driver smiled his approval. “Ain’t that nice. Gonna be living here for a while, then. Well, Washington’s a nice town. Got its bad areas nowadays, but still a mighty nice town. Good place to live.”

  “You been here long?”

  “All my life. Yessir, close on sixty-eight years.”

  TJ nodded. “Seen a few changes, haven’t you?”

  “That’s the truth.” The man laughed. “When I was a little boy, I used to like watchin’ the old men come by an’ light the streetlamps. They was all gas back then, you know. Then in the mornin’ they had this little cup on a stick and they’d go ‘round turnin’ ’em off. That’s how much things’ve changed.” Once more he glanced at TJ in the rearview mirror. “You ever been here before?”

  “A few visits. Mostly official stuff, and never for very long.”

  “You’ll prob’ly like it fine. Color don’t mean any more here’n anyplace else, and a lot less’n in some places I know. Fella got the right job, he could be green all over and not wear nothin’ but big purple feathers, people’d still bow and scrape.”

  TJ smiled at this. “Last I heard we were living in a democracy.”

  The driver laughed. “Yessir, I heard somethin’ ‘bout that too. Tol’ me we was all equal under the law, jes’ some is more equal than others.”

  TJ leaned forward and squinted against the gathering dark. “Is that the Potomac up ahead?”

  “That’s her. I been drivin’ this same road for nigh on eleven years, and I still do enjoy this sight. That’s the Washington Monument over there, an’ the Lincoln Memorial. Then up there you can see the top of the Capitol.”

  “What’d you do before you drove a cab?”

  “Near ‘bout everythin’. My first memories’re all ‘bout work. I was still in school, you know, an’ this fella put me on a truck. That was the beginning for me. Life of hard work’s all I ever knowed. Twenty-five, thirty-five-pound blocks of ice. Used to take these tongs, sling that ice over my back, and carry it up four ‘n five flights of outside stairs—fire escape stairs—in all kinds of weather. Tough work. All my life’s been filled with hard work.”

  TJ leaned back, touched by the man’s words. “What’d you do after that?”

  “Got a good job after that. Good for those times, anyways. Worked in a grocery store. All these fine black folks’d come in. Lawyers, doctors—mostly wives but some gentlemen too—in all their fancy white-man’s clothes. Wouldn’t never touch nothin’. They’d walk down the aisles, point out what they wanted, or jes’ stand there at the counter and name it, brand and all.

  “Old man Thompson—that’s the fella what owned the store—he’d have this big ol’ wad of bills in his pocket and the change on the counter in a cigar box. I’d stick all the groceries in a wicker basket and carry ’em home for ’em, walkin’ behind them fancy folks. Got ‘bout a dollar a day in tips. Big money for a poor boy back then.”

  The man kneaded the steering wheel with stubby work-worn hands. “Sounds like nothing now, don’t it. Lemme tell you how hard it was. Two years ‘fore I started with the ice company—lessee, I was twelve then. Biggest thing in my life was when my brother got home; he was six years older’n me. He’d count his pennies from begging or piece-work or haulin’ coal, whatever. Wasn’t no such thing as a steady job. Didn’t have no daddy. We needed forty-five cents for him, me and momma to go down and eat our fill of soup. Kitchen down the street sold big bowls of soup with a hunk of bread for fifteen cents. When I was twelve, there was so many people out there waiting for soup some days, we stopped traffic. Had to have a policeman there to hold the crowd back. Lotsa people waiting for the kitchen to open meant a lotta work that day. Yessir. After that and the ice work that grocery job was easy street.”

  “Mister, something about the way you say that scares the dickens outta me.”

  The man chuckled. “Reckon it could scare a sensible fella. If’n it came once, sure as the sun
’s gonna rise tomorrow, it could come again. Problem with this world is there ain’t too many sensible people ‘round…. Hey, look over here,” he said, returning to his tour-guide role. “That’s the J. Edgar Hoover Building. Used to be a store there called S. Kann’s. That and Lansburgh were the two big department stores back then. And right there, between ninth and tenth on Pennsylvania Avenue, was what they called Market Place. Worked there for a while too. They’d bring the fruits and vegetables in there by horse, set up these little stalls, and sell there all day.”

  TJ inspected the front of several high-rise buildings for a sign of the past, but found none. “You were working two jobs?”

  “Two, sometimes three. Momma got sick ‘bout then, and doctors gotta be paid.”

  How long, oh, Lord? TJ shook his head, feeling admiration for the quiet strength of this man. The matter-of-fact way he spoke of hardship made TJ feel smaller than the less fortunate of his people. His people. How seldom he thought of them in that way. He had lived a truly sheltered life, shielded from the horrors that this man and so many others had suffered. He was thankful he had never had to face such trials, but knew that because of it, he lacked something. Something only found through the pain of such a life. A fountain of strength drawn from depths he had never fathomed within himself.

  “My house didn’t have no electricity,” the driver went on. “No furnace neither. Had a coal-fire stove in every room. Had a waist-high ice box; you stick your block of ice in there, and your perishables on the ice. Summertimes you wrap newspaper ‘round the ice, keep it from melting so fast.

  “Didn’t have no hot water, no bathroom,” the man continued. “Cold water faucet, one for the whole house was all there was. Took a bucket of water out with us when we went to the shed, washed it down good. Hot water we cooked up over the stove. Didn’t have much. Knew we were poor. But we had our Lord. Yessir, Sundays was a time of settin’ work aside and gettin’ right with God. Only thing that saw us through.”

  TJ sent a short prayer heavenward. Thank you for this man, Father. I was filled with doubt when I arrived, and was plain deep-down scared to boot. But I see in this man the power of simple faith and the wondrous ways in which you work. I don’t know why this man had to suffer through such a life, and I don’t know why I was called to this place. But I hear in his voice that he knows you, and I feel in my heart that he has done your will. Thank you for this example, and give me the strength to do as you want.

  “Biggest things in my life back then was church doin’s and the Louis fights. Fella down the street used to take the radio outta his car and bring it in his house. Radio, speaker, battery, wire, the works. Took him the best part of the afternoon. Then the whole neighborhood crowded in the room listenin’ to Joe Louis fight. Yessir. Happy times. Folks nowadays got all this television, movies, nightclubs, you name it. Don’t know what happiness is. Spend all their lives chasin’ after this ‘n that. Don’t get ’em nothing but old. They’s forgot the Lord. Don’t know there ain’t nothin’ in this whole world ‘cept Him can fill that emptiness.”

  He turned the corner and pulled up in front of a brownstone house. “Number forty-six, Bancroft Place. Real nice home. Your friend must be doing all right. Yessir, hope you enjoy your stay here in Washington.”

  TJ glanced through the window and saw a charming three-story home with white shutters trimming large windows. The house was tall and narrow, with space for just one window on either side of the front door, three on the second floor, and another tiny one under the eaves. A minuscule lawn with carefully trimmed shrubs fronted the house. A battery of gaslights flanked the front door, the driveway, and the walk. TJ decided the place must be worth a fortune, wondered what Jeremy was up to, telling him to come here.

  “I surely enjoyed what you had to say,” TJ said to the driver as he paid him.

  “Nothin’ but an old man ramblin’ on ‘bout things been dead and gone for too long. Don’t hardly ever talk ‘bout those things no more. Been nice havin’ someone wants to hear ‘bout ’em.”

  TJ found himself reluctant to get out. Beyond the safety of the taxi lay an unknown world and untold responsibilities. “What’s your name?”

  “Sam’l. Sam’l Jones.”

  “Well, Samuel, it’s truly been a pleasure making your acquaintance.” He stuck out his hand. “My name’s Thomas Case. All my friends call me TJ.”

  The man’s grin threatened to split his face. “Likewise, Mr. Case, sir. Likewise.”

  “Call me TJ. Please.”

  The door to the taxi opened and Jeremy stuck his head inside. “If y’all are gonna sit there jawin’, slide on over and make room for me.”

  TJ introduced the two men and watched Samuel retreat behind a barrier of reserve in the presence of the white man. He said, “I sure would like to see you again, Samuel, once I’m settled in.”

  “That’d be just fine, Mr. Case, just fine,” the man replied, recovering a bit of his former friendliness. “Matter of fact, I goes to a church not far from here. New Jerusalem Baptist, over on P Street, ‘bout ‘leven blocks thataway. You’d be mighty welcome.”

  TJ handed him a pen and paper. “Write down that address, will you? And put your phone number down too, if you don’t mind.”

  “Nossir, I don’t mind. You need something, you jes’ call us anytime.”

  “I truly appreciate that, Samuel. I’m sorry, I don’t have a number yet—”

  “Yes, he does,” Jeremy interjected. “It’s 376–9924. And this is his address.”

  Samuel gave the house another look, took in the new gray Continental in the driveway, returned to his former reserve. “Well, that’s just fine. Say, I best be gettin’ along. Got a livin’ to make. Been nice meetin’ you, Mr. Case. You too, sir.”

  “See you in church, Samuel,” TJ said.

  “Sure thing, Mr. Case. Y’all welcome anytime.”

  After they had unloaded the bags and waved Samuel on his way, TJ said, “What’s this about my living here?”

  Jeremy lifted the two heaviest bags, said, “You sure you want to talk about that right now, TJ? You look plum wore out.”

  “I asked you a question, Jem.”

  Jeremy headed for the house, said over his shoulder, “I’ve taken a lease on it. ‘Bout the only place I could find that’d come furnished.”

  “You’ve done what?” TJ hefted the remaining luggage, hurried after his friend.

  “This here street’s called Bancroft Place. Area’s called Kalorama. Realtor lady said it means ‘beautiful view,’ but she couldn’t say in what language. Didn’t know what the view was of either. Another too-expensive house prob’ly. Or a million-dollar pothole. City’s full of ’em.”

  “I can’t live here,” TJ said.

  “Don’t talk nonsense. ‘Course you can.”

  “This house is worth a fortune.”

  “No, you got it wrong there. This house mighta cost a fortune, but it ain’t worth half of what people here’d like to make you think it’s worth.” Jeremy stopped, turned around, and said, “Tell you what, TJ. Why don’t you just sleep on it tonight? You look about as tired as I’ve ever seen you.”

  TJ saw the concern in his friend’s eyes, felt the barriers melt. His shoulders slumped and he sighed. “I don’t know if I can do this, Jem,” he said, his voice low.

  “Yeah, I kinda figured you weren’t gonna be all thrilled about leavin’ your world behind. Don’t know anybody who’d be real happy about that, come to think of it. It sounds all nice and noble when some preacher says, ‘Follow the Lord’s will.’ And you’re sittin’ there thinking ‘bout the country ham and biscuits waitin’ back home, your mind buzzin’ with this ‘n that. Then around He comes and tells you to drop everything and go shootin’ off to the ends of the earth, to the last place you’d ever want to live. You’re gonna be happy, right?”

  “You don’t belong here either, Jem.”

  “Now that’s for certain. But I heard His voice too, ol’ buddy. Said to hustle myse
lf on up to Babylon and make sure His man don’t get eaten alive.”

  “You’re a real piece of work,” TJ said. “You sound about ten times more hick than you really are.”

  “Can’t let these boys know how much you know, TJ. That’s lesson number one. They don’t mind a fool. It’s the smart ones they gotta guard against. You might shake their little house of cards. Upset the power structure.”

  “You saying I got a lot to learn?”

  “Anything you need to know, TJ, He’ll tell you. Talk when He tells you to talk. The rest of the time, keep your trap shut. I always figured that’s why He chose Moses, with his speech problem and all. Lord chooses the silent ones ‘cause they know when to keep quiet.”

  Jeremy led the way up the brick steps to a massive oak door. “I’m doin’ what I gotta do, TJ, same as you. I’m your butler, your chauffeur, your bodyguard, and anything else that comes up.”

  “You’re nothing of the sort, Jem.”

  “Listen to what I’m sayin’. My service to God means servin’ you right now, same as yours is to be His mouthpiece.” He pushed the front door open with his foot. “Now just let it drop. You’re so tired you’re slurrin’ your words. Anything else you got to say can wait till tomorrow.”

  TJ hesitated, then nodded his agreement, glad in spite of himself for the reprieve.

  Jeremy led him into an entrance hall that would have been better suited to a full-sized mansion. A crystal chandelier was suspended from the ceiling two floors above their heads.

  “The living room is there on the left, and what I guess is going to be our den is on the right—unless you want a study all your own. The kitchen and dining room are at the back, down that hall. Catherine’s and your bedroom is up at the top of the stairs. Mine’s on the left there beside it.”

  “This is too much, Jem,” TJ murmured, looking up and around. “I can’t—”

  “Let it ride, I said. Go on up and get some sleep. We can talk about it in the morning, once you’ve had a chance to get your strength back. You couldn’t whip a wet rag right now.”