Always (24 page)

When I returned home, Leslie was out by the pool. She has this incredibly rich milk chocolate complexion, and when she suns herself she looks like a Hershey bar. I used to like to sit and just watch her sweat. As I walked out to the pool, she looked up at me and said, “Hey.” After two weeks, that was it. Hey. I placed my briefcase on the chaise lounge beside her, sat there, and watched her as usual.

“What would you like for dinner?” she asked dryly.

“Are you okay?” Now I'm thinking, did I forget an anniversary? Did I forget to call? Was it a holiday or something?

We talked and she told me she had been feeling a little sick. Said she was having a cycle every two weeks and was having trouble sleeping. She spoke to our friend Dr. Snodgrass and he asked her to visit his office. She later found out she was going through early menopause.

“Aw, baby,” I said as I got on my knee and hugged her. I didn't know exactly how to respond. I couldn't say it's no big deal because that would be trivializing it. I couldn't ask, “What would you like me to do?” because I felt I should already know and that might add drama, which was something she didn't need. So I just smiled at her and rubbed my fingers featherlike over her eyebrows as I looked into her sad ebony eyes.

“I'm surprised I have any eyebrows left, I've done that so much in the past week,” she said, and moved her head away from my hand. “He told me I need to start doing those Kegel exercises at least once a day.”

“What's that?”

“It's not important,” she replied, and rolled over.

We had never had any children because she was infertile, and I don't think she ever really got over that. I would watch her when our family members or staff brought their kids over or she saw children in the store dressed in some cute outfit.

There is something about a woman who cannot have children holding a child. There is a look of maternal longing as if something was missing. Some women and men don't want kids. But we really did want children and could not have them. That was all we talked about when we first got married. We would lie in each other's arms after making love and toss around baby names and debate sending them to private or public schools. Every house we bought, we asked the realtor about the school zoning and made sure we had at least one room for the child. For us, adoption was not an alternative. The intellectual side of us said to do it, while our hearts wanted to see our flesh come together in one being. Our chances were slim, but we expected we would have at least four or five more years to hope for a miracle. Now any small chance we had of that happening had come to an end.

She looked at my lips and said to me, “The last few times we made love, I knew something didn't feel right. But I'm only forty-two, so I figured it couldn't be menopause. I ignored it, and while you were away I started getting these sweats and feeling weak, and then came the kiss of death, the fucking hot flashes. So I went to see George, hoping what I felt was happening was somehow not happening, and he was no help at all,” she said, putting back on her shades and reaching for a cigarette. “It's official. I'ma old bitch.”

“Please, Leslie. Now I think you're going too far. You are beautiful. You don't make
People
's list of hottest couples in America unless you're beautiful. They would—”

“I made it because of you, Henry!” she exclaimed, sat up, and walked through the sliding glass door to our bedroom. I was speechless. When I came home, I was tired. All I
wanted to do was grab a glass of tea, put on my old raggedy Norfolk State sweatshirt, and watch the Dolphins game. But all of a sudden that was immaterial. This beautiful woman I'd fallen more and more in love with over the years needed me, and for the first time in my life, I didn't know what to do.

I made a few calls, then went to our room, where Leslie was lying on the bed wearing a two-piece string bikini and a pair of football socks.

I walked in, put my overnight bag on the bed, and took out the suits as she watched me. I never hang up my clothes, so she was in awe.

“Henry? What are you doing?”

“What does it look like?”

“Why aren't you letting Kadesha do it tomorrow like you always do?”

“Why are you wearing football socks and a string bikini?”

Leslie continued watching me as I neatly put away the last of the blue and dark gray suits and red power ties. And then I opened another drawer and took out some shorts and T-shirts.

“Henry, what are you doing?”

“Packing.”

“I see that. But where are you going? And why you taking so many casual clothes?”

“Not I,” I said, and walked over to sit beside her. “Not I. We.
We
are going to Cancún. I just called and the flight leaves from Miami International in two hours, so you might want to get rid of those socks.”

“We can't go to Cancún, Henry,” she said with a smile, and I could tell she was hoping I had not forgotten anything. “You have that fund-raiser next week in Charlotte and you're scheduled to address the governors' conference in Washington on Tuesday night.”

“I just spoke to Herbert. He will be in Charlotte for me, and Penelope is setting up a direct feed for us in Cozumel so I can address the governors via satellite.”

“Oh my goodness, Henry.” She searched for a word and
found nothing was there, so she laid her head on my shoulder and started to cry. “Teddy, I've always felt that I'd shortchanged you in some way. That somehow . . . I wasn't the woman you deserved. That's why I didn't want to gain a pound more than what I weighed the first day you laid eyes on me. I thought if I couldn't give you a child, I could at least give you something nice to come home to.” She wiped away a tear with the heel of her palm. “But I still felt that I was not everything you needed or deserved.” I could feel her warm tears sink through my shirt and onto my skin. “Henry, if I live to be a hundred, I could never tell you how much I love you, how much I need you, and how much you mean to me.”

I leaned away from this beautiful creature God had given me and tilted her head up. “You know something? I could never repay you for everything you've given me already.”

After our Mexican getaway, things were a little better, but she was different. I don't know if it was because of the depression from the menopause or her physical body going through so many changes so rapidly, but she was not the same. When we returned I stayed in Miami overnight and then headed out before the sun rose to D.C. and our condo in Arlington. Since we were running two households, usually Leslie stayed in Florida to manage the local senate office and run a couple of small businesses we owned. I would hold down the fort in D.C. Being an African-American, I was very careful about my image. I knew all it would take is a few snapshots of my empty chair during an open Senate debate and people would have me smoking crack in a room with a prostitute in no time.

Several weeks after our Mexican vacation, I came home from Arlington for a fund-raiser for the local Democratic party and found Herbert's daughter at the house. She was about seven years old and her name was K'ren. She had an adorable smile and coal black eyes she got from her mom. She obviously got her curiosity to know everything from our side of the family. As I drove up she was playing with
her doll on the front porch. When she saw me she dashed for the car.

“Hey there, pudda! When did you come over here?” I asked, picking her up and spinning her around.

“Last night. Daddy and Mommy had to go out of town. They took Gerald.”

As I put her down she said, “Uncle Hen, spin me again! Uncle Hen, spin me again!”

I smiled at her and noticed the curtains swaying. I'd wanted to surprise Leslie, but obviously that plan had been short-circuited.

Walking up the pathway, K'ren grabbed two fingers of my free hand and swung it back and forth. We always loved it when she came over. Herbert and his wife had moved from central Florida when his company had laid him off, and he managed a printing company we owned. Leslie and I always looked forward to K'ren and Gerald coming over because they added a certain vitality to the house. The most painful part of baby-sitting for us would be going out in public with K'ren, or especially their oldest child, Gerald, and having people say he or she looks just like you. Leslie always smiled on the outside, but I know it left a mark.

I opened the front door and saw Leslie look at me and then close her eyes. Lying on the floor was no big deal because we have this bearskin rug I was presented with in Oregon, so I didn't think twice about it. But she looked like she had been sleeping, and I was a little curious about that.

“Hon? You taking a nap . . . with K'ren out there?”

She rolled onto her stomach, and said, “You're here. Take care of your niece.”

Now, being abrupt like that is not Leslie's style. But I was tired and thought maybe I was reading too much into it. Then I remembered the changes she was going through, and said, “Oh, well, okay. I'll take her to Dairy Queen. Would you like something?”

“No, I'm okay.”

“Are you sure?”

And then my wife looked at me with eyes narrowing in anger, and said, “You know, Henry, I really wish you
wouldn't do that. You can be so patronizing at times. Why must I repeat myself to you all the time?”

“What are you talking about, Leslie?”

“Maybe you should get your hearing checked, Henry. I'm serious. Are you deaf or are you asking me to repeat myself again?”

I was dumbfounded as I glanced outside and noticed K'ren jumping rope on the carport. After a moment of silence Leslie said, “Just fuck it!” then she stood and marched off into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her. At this point I knew what the problem was. I'd had a similar problem two or three years earlier and she'd been there for me. So I walked up to the door, took off my coat, and said just above a whisper, “Leslie?”

“Henry, just go away. Can you do that or will I have to repeat myself again and again and again about that too?”

“Leslie, would you please just talk about it?”

“GO AWAY!” she screamed so loud I could feel the thin wood of the bathroom door vibrate.

“Fuck you, Leslie!” I know I should not have come at her like that, but I had to do something to get her attention.“I am not leaving until you open this door. Now, please don't make me force my way in!”

“That's right,
Senator
Davis. Knock the damn door down because you can't get your way. That's so like you.”

Obviously my approach was not working. I caught my breath and tried to decide between leaving her in the bathroom drunk or attacking this problem head-on. I chose the latter. “Leslie,” I said with a little more decorum, remembering K'ren was still outside. “I'm sorry for hollering. That was wrong and I apologize. I'm not going to force you to do anything you don't want to do, but would you
please
come out of the bathroom?”

“What part of ‘leave me the hell alone' don't you understand, Henry? The leave me part or the fucking understand part?”

I sat on the floor with my back perched against the door. There was no way in this world I was going to leave her, so I settled in to wait her out. I sat there thinking about our
wedding day, about the time we slow-danced in Hawaii, even back to the first time I saw her at the Days Inn in Tallahassee. We had too much water under the bridge to allow this thing to come between us. If I were an average everyday Joe, I would have suggested she go to an AA meeting or get some type of professional help, but when you're in the spotlight you must give up certain basic privileges most other people take for granted. One of which is getting help when you need it without fear that it will be headline news in the
Enquirer
.

“Leslie?” I said after a few minutes. “I know what the problem is and I just want to say—”

“See,
that's
the problem. There is nothing you can say or do! You are not God, Henry. You can't fix everything. Because if you could
fix
everything, you would
know
everything. And if you knew everything, you would know . . . you would know . . . I don't love you anymore.”

I closed my eyes.

“I'm tired of staying together because of the fucking presidency. I look at us, Henry, and all I see is a dream. I don't see shit that's real, just some
illusion
of what might happen someday. I'm tired of
asking
your staff if we can go on vacation or how I can wear my damn hair or where we can go to dinner or if I can have some time this weekend . . . to fuck you! I'm just tired of being Leslie. When you leave I'm scared as hell, Henry. I'm scared, lonely, and miss the shit out of you and can't wait till you return. But you know what? I feel the same . . . damn way . . . when you sleep next to me.

And you know what the really sad part is, Henry? You wanna know the worst part of it all? You can't win! They'll never elect you president. White folk pumping your head up with all of that bullshit and you falling for it. How in the hell you gonna have a black president in a country where black folks can't get
jobs
with companies because of their color? Where Texaco, for God's sake, won't promote Harvard grads? Where niggas are getting burned and decapitated for being in the wrong area of town by crackers right here in Florida? Fuck the polls! I don't care what the damn
polls say. White people just feel good saying they would vote for a black person. They're too ashamed to say they would not vote for you, because they know you are the best qualified. But when that curtain closes, trust me, they gonna vote white. All you are doing is paving the way for some other nigger to make it because you . . . will never . . . win!” And then she screamed, “Get . . . away . . . from that . . . window!” Obviously K'ren had climbed up the tree and peeked in the bathroom window.