Always (13 page)

“In the last few weeks they have done skits on me on
Saturday Night Live, MAD TV
, and the comedians on BET just can't get enough of talking about it. I was a diehard
SNL
fan but we've just stopped watching TV, period. I don't even like watching some of the so-called news programs. On one of them, this guy said, ‘I don't want to sound prejudiced . . . but I'm not sure if I want to live in a country with a black president.' To this day I laugh at this, because the first thing out of his mouth was—‘I don't want to
sound
prejudiced.' Now Henry and I just read a lot more.” Leslie turned away from the TV, looked up at the chandelier, and tried to blow a smoke ring, but failed. “Like I said, though, it's the life we chose. But it's tough living in a fishbowl.”

There was a knock at the door. “Who is it?” Myles asked, as Leslie turned her attention back to the television.

“It's me.”

“Oh, that's Penelope,” Leslie said without looking up. “Let her in for me, would you?”

Walking through the doorway, Penelope said, “I remember you. You're, umm, Dizzy, right?”

“Wrong trumpeter, but close. Myles.”

“Yeah, yeah, that's right, Myles. I met you and your family,” she said, and rested a stack of files on the coffee table, “at that function in Detroit.”

“Close,” he said.

“So, chickee poo, what's up?” Penelope said as she stood over Leslie's shoulder and watched TV.

“Nothing. Not a goddamn thing,” Leslie said quietly. “Just trying to figure out how you and Ed are going to put a positive light on the Florida numbers.”

“That's no big deal as far as I'm concerned. We'll give them some big-picture bullshit and that'll keep them fat and happy until we win the next big state. Have they said anything about Texas or New York?”

“We're looking good in both. In New York it's a dead heat right now between us and Steiner. Baldwin is helping us more than I expected upstate. We've all but won by a landslide in the city. I'm just worried about California at this point.”

“Well, Les, I really don't want you to worry about that. Let me and Eddie handle that shit. Talk to me,” Penelope said in her best sister-girl voice, and then looked around at Myles, who was over on the couch.

“Oh, I'm sorry. You all need to talk I guess?”

“You're all right,” Leslie said as Penelope took a cigarette from her boss's purse, tapped it on her forefinger, and fired it up.

“On second thought, I think I will go out for a breath of fresh air.”

“Oh, I'm sorry,” Penelope replied. “Don't leave because of—”

“No, seriously, I want to go walk around and mingle a little bit. This is my first time coming to something like this. It looks so much different on television.”

“Hey, Myles,” Leslie said, “make sure you get your credentials before you leave, otherwise you'll catch hell coming back up here. I have never seen the security as tight as it is tonight.”

“I'll be fine. Talk at you later,” he said, putting on his jacket and closing the door behind him.

“So what's up? Talk to me.”

Without turning from the TV, Leslie said, “That's the second time you've said that. What do you wanna know?”

“The truth. Give it up.”

“About what?”

“About you and Henry, Leslie. What the fuck is up? NBC is reporting that the two of you are splitting up after the election. They're rolling out celebrity divorce attorneys on CNBC like that guy Raoul Felder and Susan Aldridge to discuss what would happen to the presidency if the president and first lady called it quits. We have got to make a public statement and we must make it now.”

Clicking off the TV, Leslie stretched her body, wiggled her toes, and then dissolved into her chair as her lifeless hand dropped the remote to the floor.

“Penelope, first of all,” she said in a low tone, “you're too damn emotional for a white girl.” Penelope laughed. “Secondly, we don't have to say anything about this until tomorrow. If we win, we will say it's all bull. If we lose, it won't matter because we will be private citizens again for the first time since I don't know when.”

Penelope ran the tip of her finger lightly up and down the pressed crease in her dark gray slacks, and then mumbled, “Goddamn. I don't believe this shit.”

“What now?”

“What you just said is if you win tonight, you will stay
together for the good of history . . . but if you lose, it's over. Right?”

“I didn't say that. See now, you're not
reading
between the lines. You just flipped the page over entirely.”

Picking up the remote, turning on the T.V., and clicking from Bernard Shaw to Franklin Dunlop, Penelope said, “Not only did you just say that, Les, you just screamed it.”

“Damn,” Leslie said, walking toward the bathroom as Penelope flicked the channels, “you
think
you know me so damn well.”

LESLIE

“What's the significance of the number 9,871? For nine thousand, eight hundred and seventy-one
consecutive
days, Teddy and I have communicated either by phone, E-mail, or letters. He and I have made love, we once calculated, more than two thousand times, yet we have not kissed or even held hands in four days, and today, on the most important day of our lives, we have yet to exchange a single word.

Have you ever heard a song that took you back to a place no matter what you were doing or where you were when you heard it? I hear “Here on Earth” by C. Wilhemina and I think of seeing
Saturday Night Fever
for the first time, the oil crisis, and my Teddy in a black tuxedo and red bow tie. I think of his whispering seductively in my ear as we danced unexpectedly on one of the sweetest nights we ever shared.

When I met Teddy, I must admit I had a few guys on the side who I continued talking to even after we met. I was attracted to him, but it wasn't love at first sight. On our first date we went to see a movie, and he constantly spoke of his dream to be the president to the point I thought he was a little obsessed by the whole notion. It was more than a little weird, but as I sat in the theater squeezing his arm, I knew why he was my Teddy.

That night we watched
American Graffiti
, and as I took my seat after getting some popcorn, I could tell something had happened while I was away. I knew by the way she acted that Veronica my friend who came with us, was up to something. Previously I'd noticed how she stared at Henry's crotch, which I thought was very disrespectful. I started to read her ass on the spot, but I decided not to so I could see what I was dealing with. There's an African proverb that says, “Two steps ahead and you will never fall behind.” With that in mind, for the rest of the trip I watched my back and measured my words. When we got back to California, I told her off and she caught major ‘tude and since then we have never spoken.

Henry was not, at that point, the only man in my life . . . but he was in
my
life and she'd crossed the line. Years later when Henry told me about the incident, I told him we were testing him. Why? Two steps ahead and you'll never fall behind.

Henry and I decided to go to Georgetown, although to this day I wish I had gone to Yale, and we both graduated with honors. I fulfilled my dream of living in Manhattan, and with my inheritance from my grandfather's estate I bought a brownstone in the neighborhood I'd always dreamed of.

Now, let me tell you how good a salesman this Henry Louis Davis the Second is. He got me to sell the brownstone to Myles, resign from one of the most well-respected firms on Wall Street, and move to Florida so
he
could eventually quit
his
job. And believe it or not, the word
marriage
had not even come up yet, okay? But my thought process at the
time was, do I want a brownstone now or the White House later? Yes, he was a little irritating talking about it all the time when we were college kids, but I've always believed in him. I never doubted that one day Henry would be president of the United States. Not even for a millisecond. Now, that's selling.

So I helped out in the campaign and we lost by, 4 percent. Naturally we considered that a moral victory since we were basically novices at the time. That night I was sealing up this box of unused lapel buttons that we could use next time around and Henry walked up to me and said, “Baby Boo, I'm tired.”

“I know, so am I. Let's go grab an early breakfast or something, okay?”

Then he said it. My Teddy said, “That would be fine, and I wish I could find a better way to say this.” Then he dropped to one knee and continued by saying, “Yvette Leslie Shaw, will you marry me?” And when he said it, he did not just say it. He asked it from the depths of his heart as if there was a possibility of my saying no. The look in his eyes was so pure.

By this time I was feeling light-headed. I mean yes, we had talked about it, but I was not expecting it now. I said, “Oh my God, Henry, yes! Yes, I will marry you!”

He closed his eyes and brought my left hand to his sexy lips and kissed my arm while he was down on a knee. Just soft, sweet, wet little kisses until he got to my finger and he looked up at me all coy and nibbled my ring finger like he would sometimes do when we made love. I closed my eyes and felt him put the entire finger in his mouth, and when it came out, I was wearing this ring. Believe it, or not, since that moment, this ring has not left my finger.

My sister, Kathleen, had gotten married in the late seventies to this Iranian real estate salesman who used her inheritance to invest in a disco. Even in the late seventies everyone knew that clubs like the one they invested in were going the way of the dinosaurs, but I'm told they kept pouring money into it and kept it afloat all of eighteen months.

Both Kathleen and Myles married outside our race, and I have always wondered if it was nature (something that was natural to them) or nurture (my father and his bleaching creams) that made them cross over. A few weeks before Kathleen's wedding she asked me to be her maid of honor, which completely blew me away. After I moved out of my parents' home, I could count the number of conversations we had on the phone on one hand. But I was honored to be a part of her wedding, and she and Ansar would later have three beautiful children. Unfortunately she died of a stroke in her late thirties, and we later found out that Ansar had been able to convince a company to overinsure her. After her funeral, he and the kids went directly to the airport, and I'm told he remarried in less than six months. Last year when we were in Denver for a gun control rally, he came to the hotel, and I told the security guards not to let him up.

In spite of our differences, when Henry and I married, it would have been nice to reach for my sister's hand and have had it there.

In the spring of '83 my firm sent me to Hawaii. Believe it or not, I had to almost break Henry's arm to get him to go with me. How did I get him to come along? I told him that Mr. Moiré knew some key Democrats and that it would be to his advantage to meet them. Teddy replied that Hawaii
only
had three electoral votes and it would not be worth the flight. He actually said this with a straight face. I had to break him down in a way only a sister can break a brother down. By the time my neck stopped swiveling, he was calling around for tour packages in Waikiki.

Once we got there and I finished with my meeting, he seemed to be enjoying himself. He actually went out and played basketball with a couple of the other attorneys attending the meeting, and that made me happy because I have always worried about his health since he works so much. But that night we went to this black-tie gala I was invited to and I noticed he kept looking at his watch. The old I-want-to-be-president-in-2000 Henry had returned. I
asked him if there was a problem, and he replied abruptly, “No.” I tried to ignore it in hopes that within the next forty-eight hours I could get the other Henry to at least walk on the beach with me before our flight out.

When we left the convention hall I asked, “Do you want to catch a movie?” and he grunted, “I don't care.” Then I said, “Well, would you like to go dancing?” With a shrug of his shoulders he replied, “Don't care.” I was getting more than a little irritated at this point. Other couples were kissing and caressing, and all I could get ready for was a romantic night researching Polish martial law. Then suddenly as we walked toward our hotel and I swallowed my anger to think of the ultimate goal we passed this little hut with a hand-painted sign in front of it. “That's an idea,” Henry said out of the blue.

I looked around and there's this guy on the shore holding a canoe by a string and staring at us, showing a few more teeth than necessary. I had never been in a canoe in my life, and I found out later that night, neither had Henry. But he walked over to the thing and said, “Come on. Let's get in. This might be fun”

Although I was dressed in a designer gown and expensive shoes with tape on the soles, I say to myself,
What the hell
. At least it was better than writing out campaign speeches. So we paddle to the middle of this lagoon and it was dark except for the stars above. All we could hear was the sound of birds nestling peacefully in the distance. That night we talked. We talked about the dream house we wanted to build, and debated how many rooms we would need for the family we were planning. He also looked at me and cut me off in mid sentence to tell me how beautiful I was and I really needed to hear that. Then he paddled for about ten or fifteen minutes, and just as I started getting a little concerned, I thought back to when we got in this thing and remembered Henry had acted as if he'd met the guy before. As I was thinking this I felt the thump of land. Now, we were dressed in our best evening attire and we were now on a tiny, seemingly secluded island. I looked at Henry and said, “What are you doing?” He flashed those dimples at
me and pulled out a bag he'd stuffed in the bottom of the canoe which contained one of his shirts he always enjoyed seeing me wear and my bikini. He'd also left a portable boom box on the island and somehow managed to get four slices of NY style cherry cheesecake which awaited us in a box. That night he popped in the C. Wilhemina eight-track, pulled out a blanket, and we danced shoeless in our formal black and white attire on a deserted island under the light of the moon to: