The Presence

by T. Davis Bunn

  TJ found it terrifically difficult to sift through the rubble and the noise and the clamor and the stress and locate the truly essential. His staff were of little help. Their perspectives were so different from his own. They viewed everything from the political angle; what a memo contained was much less important than how much power its author wielded. What an individual represented was secondary to how much political clout his group possessed. For TJ the crucial element remained, how to seize the initiative, how to put his educational policy in place.

  Discussions with his staff soon degenerated to the level of petty politics. None of them had a background in education, none of them had the depth of experience he sought. For them, education was one of a multitude of interchangeable topics to which their new-found political influence could be applied.

  He was constantly amazed at the game-playing, the scorecard of favors owed and revenges sought that his staff carried around in their heads. They judged others on the most trivial of points, from tardy arrival at a meeting three months before to supposed slights whispered behind their backs, from luncheon privileges in the White House to the color of their badges. This ruled his staff’s opinion of whom he should meet, which letter should be answered first, which reception attended. Were it not for the seriousness with which they viewed it and the amount of time they wasted daily on it, TJ Case would have laughed out loud.

  From their side, his staff clearly did not know what to make of him, nor of his faith. They had never known so much as a flicker of the moral and spiritual laws that guided TJ’s direction. That became very clear to him every time he made reference to any sense of higher responsibility. They were afraid to work on issues with him, because they were fearful of his direction. TJ did not need to discuss these points outright. It was there in their faces for all the world to see. They did not trust him. He was not one of them.

  He himself felt besieged by unanswered questions. How could he cope with so many competing demands for his time? Nothing in state legislature had ever prepared him for the sheer number and diversity of organizations that now had him targeted. How could he respond to every one of them fairly? How available should he be for the hundreds of invitations he received—to lunches, dinners, receptions, seminars, group meetings, working breakfasts? The demands were constant. How could he discern their agendas and their hidden agendas? When should he be diplomatic, and when should he be bluntly outspoken?

  And how did all this tie in to serving God, and doing what he was here for?

  Numerous times he pushed his work aside, bowed his head and prayed for guidance. The answer was both clear and calmly present. Wait.

  Earlier that week, TJ had begun retreating to the familiar. He called it going back to the basics. His first responsibility was to God, his second to the President. He was not sure how the multitude of lobbyists and hand-shakers and elbow-grabbers and smilers and talkers fitted into this, but he knew it was somewhere further down the line. So he assumed his old role of lawyer and legislator.

  His office was not quiet enough to concentrate, so he found another work place, a hidden alcove within the OEOB Law Library. It was three floors of book-lined alcoves, with circular balconies bordered by delicate cast-iron railings. The floor was mosaic, the ceiling ornate. It was a perfect place to sit in solitary refuge and work.

  There he studied the reams of background material he found amassed in his office filing cabinets. He researched the cases and statutes related to education, pulling down book after book from the library stacks until he had built his own little barrier against outside distraction. He outlined arguments in favor of and against each of the major educational issues he felt were confronting the administration. This, he decided, was the real essential. This to him was vital. He hammered his statements out as though working on a key court case, preparing himself for possible queries from the President as though anticipating points from the prosecution. It was the only time in those overcrowded days when TJ Case felt that work was really getting done.

  Early in the evening TJ returned to his office. He could tend to his mail and messages in peace, knowing that the two secretaries with their sullen gazes and rock music and cynical humor had already gone for the day.

  That Friday evening he opened his inner door to find a man sitting at his conference table, bent over a writing pad.

  The man stood up immediately. TJ recognized the Oriental face as belonging to one of the people who had attended every prayer meeting that week. TJ asked, “Can I help you?”

  “I’m sorry if I surprised you,” the man said, “but your secretaries told me I could wait in here.”

  “That’s quite all right,” TJ replied, thinking how unusual it was to hear such a strong American accent coming from those Asian features before him. “I’m TJ Case.”

  “Yes, I know,” the man shook hands. “I’ve been attending your prayer meetings.”

  “Won’t you sit down?” TJ went around behind his desk. “I hope they’ve been helpful.”

  “More than that. Much more. They’re a real inspiration. There hasn’t been a single one where I haven’t left feeling in tune with God.” The man waited for TJ to sit before seating himself again. “My name is John Nakamishi. My friends call me Nak.” He pronounced it to rhyme with “knock.”

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Nakamishi?”

  The man regarded him with dark, unreadable eyes. TJ guessed him to be in his late twenties or early thirties, but it was difficult to tell. There was a solid strength to the man that belied his years, a sense of deep awareness. He wore wire-rimmed glasses and a dark three-piece suit. His hair was as black as his eyes and neatly cut. His skin was tanned the color of old leather; TJ wondered where he had been to get sun in February. Certainly not here.

  “I was assigned to the Political Affairs Division back in December,” John Nakamishi began. “But the person I was supposed to answer to brought his own man. I’ve been kind of like a third leg for the past couple of months. So I took my wife and family on a vacation and got back last week. Ever since then, I’ve been hanging around Presidential Personnel and praying that something else would come up.

  “This morning your assistant, Joan Sammons, had a meeting with the Director of Personnel. I know because his secretary goes to my church. It was their third meeting, and this time Joan basically told him to find her another place to work. She was not coming back here another day. I just checked her office. It’s cleaned out.”

  TJ nodded, trying to take it in, feeling a little as though he had failed. “I see.”

  “I would consider it a real honor to work for you, Mr. Case,” John Nakamishi said. “I think I would make you an excellent assistant.”

  The announcement was made with no change in inflection whatsoever. John Nakamishi’s voice remained calm and flat, as though he were discussing the weather.

  “Tell me something about yourself,” TJ asked.

  “I’ve been in Washington for five and a half years, and in the OEOB for two. I was one of a handful of people asked to stay over from the last administration, primarily because the policy issue I was working on is still being pushed. They want to keep me around for advising on continuity, but the guy who’s responsible now feels more comfortable with his own man as assistant.

  “Before coming to Washington I was Advisor to the Governor of California for Education for three years.” At that, TJ sat up straight. If John Nakamishi noticed the change, he did not show it. “All my work here has been on the political side, but I’ve tried to keep up with educational policy issues in my spare time. It’s where my heart has always been.”

  He crossed his legs, looked down at his hands for a moment, seemed to come to a decision. He looked TJ straight in the eye, said, “My grandparents immigrated to the United States from Japan at the end of World War One. My parents are both Buddhists. I was raised in the Japanese Zen tradition until I was sixteen, when I accepted Jesus Christ as my Lord and Savior. I haven’t had contact with my family
since then. My father banished me from his house, and erased my name from the family scroll.”

  TJ marveled at how calmly the story was told, as though John Nakamishi were speaking of another person. “It must have been very difficult for you.”

  “In some ways, but it forced me to rely totally on the Lord. I think we are given what we need to have, and looking back I can see how this separation forced me to come to know Him at a very deep level.”

  TJ thought it all over, realized he really needed some help. “I’m not sure how my staffing is going to shape up, but I’d like you to join us on a temporary assignment at least.”

  “That would be fine, sir. Thank you very much.”

  TJ bent over his calendar, thought a moment, said, “I have some research I need to finish Monday morning. Then Monday afternoon I’m scheduled to meet with the Secretary of Education for the first time. Do you know him?”

  “I know of him,” John Nakamishi replied.

  “Why don’t you meet me in the Law Library around three o’clock and we’ll go over together. We can talk some more on the way.” TJ rose and extended a hand. “John, it’s been a real pleasure meeting you.”

  Chapter Ten

  “My heart’s on fire today, on fire for my Lord.” Reverend Wilkins paused to wipe a steaming brow. It was approaching the end of the service, and the reverend was showing the strain. “Can I have me an Amen.”

  “Amen, brother.”

  “Say it!”

  “My heart’s on fire, now, for all those poor souls out there who’re doomed to never know my Lord!”

  “Tha’s the truth!”

  “I don’t know which would be worse, the agony of the fire, or not knowin’ our Lord. And these poor souls are gonna know both!”

  “Lawd have mercy!”

  “Yes, they’s a lotta poor folks out there, Jesus knows how my heart reaches out for them.” He wiped his face again. “Got a call from Brown’s Funeral Home the other day, man asked me to come over and officiate at a funeral. Fam’ly passin’ through Washington, you know the story. Didn’t have no regular home, or if they did they’d lost it. Traveled from place to place lookin’ for work. Had a baby girl get sick and die. Girl was only four years old.”

  There was some rustling in the church, a few groans from mothers with young children of their own.

  “Coffin was awful small,” the preacher went on. “Awful small. I said the words, not so much for that little soul, ‘cause I knows she was on her way to a higher place. Knew she’s gonna be restin’ in the arms of Jesus tonight. No, I was tryin’ to find something to say to that couple so’s to help them feel a little peace. There we stood—the man, his wife, three gravediggers and me. All there to see this little girl off to be gathered in the arms of our Lord.

  “When it was all over, the man came up and tried to offer me money. I told him it was the last thing I wanted from him. Wished there was somethin’ more I could do, I told him. The man was bunchin’ his old battered hat in his hands and cryin’ soft like. Not makin’ any real noise, just had these tears streamin’ down his face. The woman, now, she couldn’t even talk, she was so broke up.

  “So the man stuffs the money back in his pocket and says to me, ‘Reverend, the thing that just eats at me so is how my little girl never heard her daddy pray.’ “The church was so quiet the entire congregation seemed to hold its breath. The reverend paused again to wipe his face, then went on in that hoarse, revival-broken voice.

  “The woman snuffles and tries real hard to collect herself. She walks up beside me so’s to be able to look her husband right square in the face. She takes this long shaky breath, and says real low, ‘Neither have I.’ “The preacher took a long moment to gaze out over the silent gathering. “Lot of folks gonna be callin’ His name on that day. ‘Lord, Lord,’ they’re gonna say. We know it’s gonna happen ‘cause Jesus told us. And we know what He’s gonna say to them. ‘Be gone,’ He’s gonna tell ’em. ‘Be gone, I know thee not.’ “His face a mass of sharp angles and dark shadows, he looked at them with dire warning in his eyes. “I’m tellin’ you, people. I’m tellin’ you the only way I know how. Get right with God while there’s still time.”

  ****

  Jeremy did not get out of the car once they were home. “Reckon I might as well hit the road.”

  TJ offered his hand, said, “Have a good trip, Jem. Be careful.”

  “Always am. Too many crazies out there not to be careful.”

  “When do you think you’ll be back?”

  “Tuesday or Wednesday. I’ll call you once I see how much trouble that burst pipe’s caused.”

  “It’s kind of you to help, but I don’t want to trouble you,” TJ said, feeling vaguely guilty that it was Jeremy and not he who was traveling back to pick up Catherine. “You could just call in a plumber and have one of the children look in on it.”

  “Not with an old house like yours, TJ, and you know it. Never can tell what damage’s been done. Gotta have somebody go down under there and check real careful.” Jeremy offered him a calm smile. “Don’t fret yourself, TJ. Spent a lifetime crawlin’ around in the dirt. One more time ain’t gonna hurt none.”

  “Well, give both the girls and all the grandchildren a hug from me.”

  “Sure will.”

  “And tell Catherine I’ll be awfully glad to see her again.”

  Jeremy chuckled. “Know what that old girl said to me last night? Said, Jem, I believe I’ve slept alone just about as long as I can stand.” He shook his head. “Washington won’t know what hit ’em.”

  ****

  Congressman John Silverwood met Sally Watkins that Sunday evening in the lobby of the Four Seasons Hotel and decided that he had been totally foolish to worry about being seen. But before they sat down, he had also decided that the vast expanse of the hotel bar was not what he wanted for atmosphere, so he asked her if she would mind a little walk.

  They went to Nathan’s, a bar and restaurant located on what was considered to be the intersection in Georgetown—Wisconsin Avenue at M Street. It was expensive and dark, lit by candles and flickering lamps, lined with leather and hand-rubbed wood, filled with interesting people and laughter and murmured conversation. Silverwood had fallen into the habit of stopping there almost every night on his way home. He found it a pleasant way to put off entering an empty house.

  Tonight was the first time he had entered the bar in the company of someone else. He felt a certain pleasure at seeing the reaction of other patrons to Sally Watkins’ beauty.

  Just the same, he didn’t like to think of it as a date. Something within him rebelled against the term. Even though the quarrels with his wife continued to worsen, he didn’t want to see himself as going out with another woman. He was simply meeting an attractive colleague for a drink.

  She allowed him to help her off with her coat, gracing him with a brilliant smile. “It’s so nice to go out with a gentleman.”

  A sky-blue silk blouse with matching wool skirt set off the white-blond hair that hung like a fringe across her shoulders. Her pale blue eyes held a sparkling eagerness that made his chest tight.

  “You look ravishing,” he said.

  Full lips that seemed ever ready to laugh turned up to reveal tiny white teeth. “It’s nice to have someone to look good for,” she said softly.

  He laughed and led her toward the bar. “I doubt seriously that a girl like you has much trouble finding escorts.”

  “Depends on how choosy the girl is,” she replied.

  Drinks were ordered and arrived swiftly. She sat on the corner stool; he stood beside her so that she faced him and the wall. He looked out over the room, occasionally nodding at acquaintances and familiar faces. Her attention remained totally focused on him. There was seldom a moment when her knee was not pressed upon his leg. Her hand settled on his sleeve, her shoe traced a pattern along his shin.

  As their conversation flowed smoothly and laughter came more frequently, Silverwood found himself think
ing about his wife. This morning there had been the first reference to a legal separation. Looking into Sally Watkins’ eyes, he could not recall whether he or his wife had brought it up. He gave a mental shrug, decided it did not matter.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “No, why?”

  “Your expression turned so serious all of a sudden.” She laid a concerned hand upon his, squeezed gently, asked, “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  He was filled with the desire to kiss her. She saw it in his eyes. She parted her lips slightly, looked at him quietly. He felt as though a flame soared through him. Yet something held him back. Silverwood reached for his glass with uncertain fingers, took a sip, realized that the move was entirely up to him. When he wanted it, she was ready. He had never been unfaithful to his wife, though. There had been other opportunities, but this was different. Very different. He realized that he wanted her as badly as he had ever wanted anything in his entire life.

  And his wife was so very far away—and not just in distance.

  “You’re so quiet,” she said.

  He turned to her, saw the welcome still in her eyes. “I was just thinking.”

  Sally opened the tiny purse hanging from her shoulder, fished around, brought out a penny, handed it over with a smile. “Payment in advance.”

  He hesitated, decided that he wasn’t ready yet, sought another subject. “I was thinking about a committee hearing Friday afternoon.”