Always (17 page)

“Do you have to leave?
Right
now?” she asked, leaning over just enough to let me know she was braless.

With the words and her cleavage on the table, her intentions clarified and I smiled and said, “Yes,” then left her sitting in the corner as I caught up with my staff.

When I entered the Congress, a representative from the Midwest asked me to dinner one night. He'd served with distinction on the Hill for more than forty years and wished to retire. During our conversation I got the distinct impression he was sizing me up. For what, I had no idea. As soon as the appetizer was served, he started giving me advice on how to deal with lobbyists and how to raise money without breaking any campaign finance rules and regulations. By the main course we'd discussed who the real movers and shakers were in Washington politics. Then he looked at me over coffee with these clear green eyes, and said, “Let me tell you, son, the easiest way to win in this city. Remember three things. Talk about the economy. Talk about the press. And if that doesn't work, talk about your competition.
Always
in that order. Always. Forget all that bullshit about foreign policy, because most people cannot find three major foreign cities on a map if you paid them. And as far as your past accomplishments, save them for the mantel at home. No one outside of your publicist and your mother cares. But there are three surefire ways to lose as well,” he added. “Women, women, and girls. Most decent people when they get to this
level in politics can avoid the temptations of drugs and money. Most,” he said with a chuckle. “But with women, women, and girls . . . you're always suspect, given the right time and circumstance. And trust me. This town is full of film and Fotomats.”

I'd never forgotten what he'd told me, and used it as my personal mantra of sorts.
Press, economy, competition, women, women, and girls
.

We arrived at Miami International a little past midnight, and I wanted to call Leslie, but she usually went to sleep around ten because she has always been an early riser. So as I drove through the streets of Miami, I was proud that I had done the right thing earlier, but a part of me wondered how after all these years I still had thoughts of Cheryl. Other girls I dated before Leslie were a distant memory. But I could still remember how she smelled like water and soap. I could still feel her touch when we held hands.

When I pulled into our driveway, the enormity of the earlier nationally televised disaster rested on me like cinder blocks.
Did I really forget Castro's first name? And what the hell did I mean when I made the comment about Libya? Oh my God
. So I sat in the car with my forehead slowly thumping the backs of my hands, which were grasping the steering wheel. The house was dark, so she was obviously asleep. I'd had Marcus call from the airport to tell her we would probably sleep over in Atlanta so she could get some rest.

I opened the car door and reached for my briefcase and overnight bag. I needed a meeting with my people in DC to plan a way to get me back in the public eye so the first taste of me for Middle America would not be a lasting one. There was this conservative gathering in Seattle who'd asked me to speak and I had turned them down. But as I searched for my house key I was having second thoughts. As I opened the door and turned off the alarm system, I clicked on the light switch. Nothing happened.
Damn fuse box
. I then picked up my briefcase and out of the darkness came the light from a flashlight. “Aha, excuse me, sir. Umm, where do you think you are going?”

“Hey, Baby,” I said, with the first real smile I had felt all day.

“Aha, boo? Excuse me, there's no
Boo
here. This is the Davis residence, and Senator Davis will be staying over in Atlanta tonight. So who are you?”

We had not played games like this in years. When we were younger we would do and try anything. But we had grown comfortable with each other, like most married couples, I suppose. Even though I was tired and my body ached from the long day of traveling and extended layover in Atlanta, I played along.

“I'm sorry, ma'am. I guess you've found me out. I'm a Secret Service agent, hired by the government to protect your husband and—”

“You're lying. He's just a junior senator. He doesn't need protection.”

“Oh. Well,” I said, walking toward the source of the light after dropping my briefcase and overnight bag in the foyer, “I'm a doctor. I was told that someone at this address needed a little”—I know it was corny, but I had to say it—“sexual healing.”

“Be serious,” she whispered, as I stood inches away from her nude body lying on the couch. I loved the way she took care of herself, always eating healthy and dieting. I loved the way she smelled. Her scent was so feminine. My Leslie's body suggested flowers, and it was a luscious, erotic, and beautiful scent that always helped me reach my peak. And as she lay there, with her legs slightly apart, my blood rushed as I reached for my collar to undo my tie.

“Aha, excuse me,” she said, with the light still shining in my face. “What are you doing? First of all, yes, I'm in need of healing, as you put it, but I already know a doctor,” she said, and stood up. “In fact, I married a doctor,” she said, cutting off the beam of light and leaving the room pitch dark. “My doctor is sleeping over in Atlanta,” Leslie continued, and brought her nude body as close as she could without making contact. “And I must say, sir, you're no doctor.”

“Okay, ma'am,” I replied in my Billy Dee Williams,
Lady Sings the Blues
voice as I pulled off my tie and brought my
lips a hair-width from her mouth. “I must be honest with you. I am a . . . compulsive liar. I do it,” and then my lips almost touched hers, “for a living.”

“See what I'm talking about? You're even lying about the lies that you're lying about. You must be a lawyer or a politician. Now, come here,” she commanded. “That's better.” Leslie then grabbed my hand before I could unbutton my shirt. “Listen to me,” she continued as her eyes grazed the surface of my face. “I love you, Teddy. Okay? Not for who you are, or what you have done. I love you because you mean more to me than
anything
on this earth, and I will love you until the day I die. And if I am fortunate enough to be given the opportunity by God to love you after I am gone, I'll love you even more then.”

We moved slowly as one in the middle of the room to the radio, I held her inside of me, and it pained me to think of ever letting her go again. She allowed her kisses to slide up and down the center of my chest, and as we danced, the radio disc jockey said, “We're sending this song out to Teddy. Welcome home, and remember,” he said in a voice that reminded me of Barry White, “today is just a small step backward, toward bigger things to come tomorrow. I love you madly, and that's from Yvette.”

As the Bee Gees started to sing our song, she looked at me, and before I could say thank you, she whispered, “I was reading a story about this man who lost his hearing when he was struck by lightning in a field. He had just gotten married and was bitter about what had happened. As he lay in the hospital, he was in complete denial and was against learning sign language initially. So he and his bride made up a code that only they knew. When they wanted to express their love,” she said, rubbing the top of my eyebrow with the length of her thumb slowly, “they just did this. So whenever you miss me, or need me, or want me, just do this, and you will feel my love wherever you are.”

“I love you so much, girl.” That was all I could say. I guess that was not a day for words to come easily to me.

A month later I got a call at two in the morning from Marcus, who was working on a senatorial campaign in Utah. “Senator Davis, I hate to call you this late, sir, but I called and paged Herbert first. For some reason I can't get in touch with him.”

Still half asleep, I rolled over, rubbed my eyes, and said quietly so as not to disturb Leslie, “Herbert's on vacation. What's going on?”

“Well, sir. I don't now how to tell you this without just saying it.”

As he said those words no politician wants to hear at any hour and definitely not past midnight, I was sitting on the side of my bed, putting my feet in my slippers.

“We just got back to the hotel in Salt Lake and . . . well . . .”

“Marcus,” I repeated, this time from the hallway, “what's going on?”

“Well, sir, NBS
Overnight
is reporting that you had an affair with a twenty-five-year-old model.”

“What?” I said, trying to gather myself as I walked toward my office. “They're reporting what?”

“Well, sir, I just caught the tail end of it as I was getting undressed in my hotel room. But this is not the worse part. It's that girl you talked to in Atlanta. Alicia something.”

I could not say a word as I turned my television to NBS, which by this time was running the sports scores.

“Also, they mentioned that the story would be running in a major national publication this week.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” I said to him. “Is it the
Atlanta Constitution?
The
Washington Post?
Did they mention a source?” As I spoke, I could hear Leslie walk up behind me, and ask, “What's wrong?”

“No, they didn't mention a source or name the paper. But as you know, they're connected to
The Globe
, and I've been told that they've run stories based on a feature in that newspaper. Did they not contact you before running the story?”

“Hell no! They would have called . . .” And then I remembered that Herbert was on a cruise ship in the Mediterranean
and did not have his pager, nor was there a way to reach him. “Damn.”

“Senator Davis? Is there anything I can do?”

“No . . . I mean, yes. What else did they say? Anything?”

“No, sir, that's basically all that I caught.”

“Okay,” I said, trying to think quickly of the best course of action. But most important was how I would handle this with Leslie.

As I hung up the phone, she sat down on the couch in front of my desk. So? she asked with her eyebrows without saying a word.

“Les, umm. It ain't pretty.”

And then my wife pulled out the business card from the pocket of her robe, and asked, “Was it anything to do with this Alicia person?”

There was a long, prickly silence as I looked at the card and then flipped it over to see Alicia's home phone number scrawled in pen, which I had not noticed before. Looking into Leslie's eyes, again, I said, “Yeah. First of all”—and as I said the words, even I didn't believe them—“I never noticed her number on the back of this card, but apparently she went to a tabloid with a story about us having an affair. The truth is I hardly even know her.”

“So how did you get the card?” she calmly asked.

“We were at the Underground and she came up to all four of us and gave me the card. Then she started talking about her company and her mother, and one thing led to another . . .” I didn't want to even tell her I had a cup of coffee with Alicia, but I saw from Leslie's eyes that she was expecting the worst. “Well, she and I sat in the eatery in full view of everyone, and
talked
about her mom dying of AIDS. And that's all that happened . . .”

Leslie stood up and walked toward the door, then spun around and walked back toward me. She asked, “So since Herbert's gone, who do you know at NBS?”

“Umm, I know Philip Valdez, but he's a producer and won't be in until—”

“No good. We need an editor,” she said, walking back toward the door and then again thoughtfully toward me.

“Give me the phone,” she continued as she punched
N
on my electronic Rolodex. As she scrolled down to the National Broadcasting Service, she asked, “Did you know both NBS and
The Globe
are owned by Kevin Childs?” Kevin Childs was a South Carolinian majority shareholder in a large tobacco company. He also spent thousands of dollars through his various political action committees in an attempt to defeat me in my last election.

Leslie stayed on the phone for more than fifteen minutes in an attempt to find a major decision maker in the news division of NBS. Finally she reached the night desk senior editor, who confirmed that the source was in fact
The Globe
and asked her if she wanted to make a comment. Being as savvy as she was beautiful, she stated, “On the record, no comment.” That was a brilliant move, because if she had just said that they had no right to run the story, her denial of the segment neither of us had yet to see would have given them just cause to run the story again and again. Leslie would have inadvertently become the source of the story. It was almost 3:00
A
.
M
. and Leslie was bubbling like a kettle, clearly in her zone. I hoped in my heart that she really did believe me, but I could tell by the way she spoke to the editor that what had actually happened was secondary to what was being reported.

“And I repeat,” she said again, off the record, “that story has no merit whatsoever. The plane was delayed and they talked in a mall. That's all that happened,” she continued, looking at me and then again into space. “So if you insist on running that story, all we ask is that you have complete disclosure and add in the body of the text that your source was
The Globe
. And while you're at it, I think next week they're running a story on a three-headed chicken you might want to get a jump on also.”

I couldn't believe my ears. All that I'd known all along was inside of her had been given a chance to shine for the first time, and she was brilliant. Before she hung up, she and the editor were actually laughing. I think even he had to get a kick out of the chicken comment. And then she and I sat together without uttering a single word and watched
Overnight
, waiting to see if they would run the story again. Although the editor had given her assurances that the story would not run in the four-o'clock segment, I was still afraid we were not out of the woods. I could just hear the anchorman saying: