Always (30 page)

I rubbed the linen of her bed with the tips of my fingers, and said, “Actually what I really wanted to be when I grew up was a housewife. Go figure, huh?”

“Yeah,” she replied groggily. “But what you're doing is good too, because you get to help people.”

I saw her drifting off and I tried to stop myself, but I could not. I had to continue the conversation. “So . . . are you married?”

Her eyebrows rose but her eyes remained closed. “Yep. Been married now going on thirteen years. We don't have any kids, though. Never found the time, I guess.”

I smiled. I wanted to ask her if she really loved him; if she thought he really loved her, but I couldn't keep up the charade, so as her eyes closed, I turned again to walk out the room when the phone rang.

Barely awake, she asked, “Will you get that for me, Cheryl? Please?”

“Sure. Hello?” And it was him.

“G'morning. Is this the room of Yvette Shaw?”

“Yes. She's right—”

“Before you put her on,” Henry asked, “how is she doing?”

As he said those words, I knew it would give me the closure I needed. His tone said he loved her and showed just how much he cared. “According to her charts . . . sir, she had a rough night, but this morning she's doing much better.”

“Great.” And then there was a pause as I prayed my voice had not changed that much in the past twenty years. “Listen, I'm in Texas and I'll be flying back home this morning.
Do you think she will still be there when I arrive about one o'clock?”

“I don't know, Hen . . . I mean sir. But I can have her doctor call you.” I hoped against hope that he'd not caught my slipup with his name.

And then he said, “Thanks. Put her on the phone. Oh, wait,” he said. “What's your name?”

I looked at Leslie, who knew he was on the phone, so I could not lie to him and said, “Cheryl.”

“Thanks.” Pause. “Cheryl.”

I handed her the phone and saw her face light up as if his voice were the only medication she'd needed. As I left the room, I heard her call him Teddy and hoped the same medication would bring me the relief I needed as well.

A week before Christmas, Brandon, who had been promoted within the Sheriff's Department, was invited to a holiday fund-raiser. We rode in his Honda Accord through this exclusive neighborhood in South Beach named Harris Hills looking for the right address. As we drove around this corner there was no need to look at the house numbers, because the split-level home was identified by a row of just about every luxury car on the market. Dr. Kenneth Jarvis was a prosperous OB-GYN and held fund-raisers for African-American causes in his home twice a year. Every black person who was anyone in south Florida was present, and I immediately looked for—who else?—Henry. This was the type of function I was sure he would be a part of. But when I saw Leslie, my heart beat faster. As medicated as she had been in the hospital, and with me here in civilian clothes, I doubted she would make the connection, but I wasn't positive. She was having a drink with Susan Taylor, Diane Atkinson, and several silver-haired rich-looking black women, and in my gut I had a feeling Henry was somewhere near.

I left Brandon, who was talking to a couple of individuals from his job, and found a bathroom. I looked at my makeup in the mirror, and it seemed tired. I scrambled through my purse for a makeup brush to freshen it up and remembered I'd left it home. “Damn.” I started to search through the
cabinet and found one with the double-G emblem on it under the basin. As I reapplied my makeup and repinned my hair, I thought,
This is the first time I'm going to see him face-to-face in over twenty years
. Unlike at the Donahue show, I was prepared for whatever might happen. A part of me feared that Brandon would not understand why I'd been less than honest with him, but I would explain and hoped he'd not get too upset. As I pinned back the last remaining loose strands of hair, I looked at myself in the mirror. What was wrong with me? Here I was acting like I was in high school and I wanted Henry to take me to the prom. This man was married, very married, and
very
much in love with his wife. I smiled at myself in the mirror, patted my do, returned the expensive makeup brush, and walked out of the bathroom.

“You look beautiful.” I was shocked to hear his voice behind me.

“Hello, Herbert, how are you?”

“God, it's been a long time. What, ten, fifteen years now?”

“Try twenty,” I said, wanting to ask him the obvious question.

“Man oh man, is Henry going to be pissed that he missed this event.”
Damn
, I thought.
He missed it? Wait a minute . . . He will be pissed?
“Yeah, I can't wait to rub it in that you were here. He's in Chicago, or is it New Hampshire? I don't even know anymore,” Herbert said, as he took a sip of his drink. “I just know it's someplace cold as hell.”

I gave him a “that's nice” smile and saw him patting his pockets.

“Listen,” he continued, “if you don't mind, can I get your phone number for Henry? I know he will be happy to hear from you.”

Happy to hear . . . from me?
“Sure, why not?” I replied with insouciance, praying he wrote down
every
digit correctly and that Brandon would not walk around the corner looking for me.

Our brief chat was cut short when Mrs. Henry Louis Davis called Herbert over to meet a few seemingly important people.
Shuffling his hors d'oeuvres to one hand and shaking mine with two fingers of the other, he said, “Duty calls. I'll make sure Henry gets your number. We both thought you were still in Arkansas for some reason.”

As he walked away, I thought,
Did he say
both?
That means my name has come up?
So much for closure.

After Herbert left, I walked into the living room and saw a trail of people headed toward the opposite wing of the house where jazz flowed like liquid velvet. As I entered the den I noticed a four-piece combo performing and a small crowd starting to gather around them. A poet from my old neighborhood of Liberty City who was called Skillet was in the midst of the combo, displaying his words.

“I know I'm a man,” he said in a semiscream, loud enough to gather everyone's attention.

Skillet then walked across the room and for dramatic effect looked toward the crystal chandelier in the ceiling.

I saw Brandon in the growing crowd. He looked so innocent and I felt bad for a moment because I had not been totally forthcoming with him. But I resolved that I couldn't be, because even now I didn't know what the truth was regarding my feelings for Henry. Brandon looked like a kid at the circus as he watched Skillet spin words into gold. I walked over in front of him and he wrapped his arms around me
snugly as he rested his chin on my head, and we listened together.

The combo continued to play Train and the sax soloist was in rare form. The crowd around us grew larger, entranced by the brother we had all thought was a little crazy when we were growing up together in my old neighborhood. His insanity had now come into vogue. As Skillet prepared for his finale, he did a decent imitation of James Earl Jones, cupping a little boy's face as if he were looking out a window, and going a tad overboard in the drama department.

Folding his outstretched hand into a fist, Skillet brought it securely over his heart and bowed his head. After a brief pause to make sure he was finished, the now large gathering applauded. Brandon clapped with his hands above my head and then returned them lovingly around my torso, pulling me closer toward him. As I closed my eyes, enjoying this gentle man's gentleness, he kissed me on the top of the head. Brandon had incredible lips. Whatever the man kissed would always feel better and I melted, like chocolate rain, right into his arms.

Brandon spent the rest of the day glad-handing public officials and swooning over the Miami Dolphin players who were there as I tried my best to avoid making eye contact with Yvette Shaw. If anyone had told me three weeks before that I would meet Leslie up close and personal, speak to Henry on the phone, talk to Herbert, have Herbert imply that they have mentioned my name, and take my number for Henry to call me, I would have wanted to drug-test the person. But it all happened in 1995. So when Brandon squeezed my hand while we walked toward his car, I wondered if I'd ever really be over the junior senator from Florida.

Washington, D.C.

November 8, 2000

NBS News Studio

2:30
A.M
. EST

“Welcome back, America. We will alert you as to the latest developments on the assassination attempt on the vice president and his condition, as well as the latest news developments on the reported plot against Senator Henry Davis of Florida. But first we would like to update you on the race for the White House. As you may or may not be aware, Governor Tom Baldwin of Arizona has given his concession speech, effectively making this a two-horse race. As of thirty minutes past the hour, here are the latest results. We are projecting that Oregon with her seven electoral votes will go into the Steiner fold. But the election headline news for this hour is this: Davis Bounces Back!

DAVIS	229
STEINER	226
BALDWIN	126

“That's right. After sustaining losses in his home state of Florida as well as New York, it was not looking good for the first African-American senator from the deep South since Hiram Rivals. But with victories in South Carolina, New Jersey, and Pennsylvania, as well as the Lone Star state of Texas, Henry Davis is making a strong charge tonight to
become the first president of color in the history of the country. Let's swing down to the Fountainebleau Hotel and our correspondent Butch Harper. Butch, we are told that the crowd has returned. Can you fill us in?”

“If I may borrow your headline, Frank, you are exactly right. When the news was reported that an assassin was in the building, this place cleared out like a group of young Republicans at a Greenpeace rally. But a little later after it finally stopped raining here, we in the press corps noticed that the crowd actually became larger. It may also have something to do with the closeness of the race at this time.”

“Tell me, Butch. Has there been any official word from the FBI or any other law enforcement agency regarding the reported threat on the life of the senator? Was it just a diversionary ruse?”

“There is still no official word. But there are those who believe, shall we call it, the ‘ruse theory.' I have attempted to get the inside story from several of our key sources, and as of yet, all we have is speculation.”

“Butch, I am going to ask you to hold on for a second as we swing due north to our colleague in Illinois, Judith Finestein. Judy, what are the latest developments from the Steiner campaign?”

“We are awaiting a briefing by Steiner's press secretary, so I will be quick. Here is what has been confirmed. Vice President Ronald Steiner was shot twice. Once in the right shoulder and again in the left leg or thigh. There was a report floating around that a major artery may have been severed, causing a great loss of blood and putting him in critical condition. That part of the story, we are unable to confirm. But we will keep you posted.”

“Thank you, Butch Harper from Miami and Judith Finestein from Chicago, Illinois. Before we send you to a commercial break, America, I will remind you that as of this hour, Senator Davis has a small lead, and we are told he is running well ahead in Utah and Kansas, and the all-important race in California. We reported an hour ago that the man who wins the Golden State of California will, in all
likelihood, win the election. All indications thus far point to that being true. We will be back in a moment.”

Fountainebleau Hotel

Presidential Suite

Tension filled the air in Suite 1701 as Henry, Herbert, Marcus, a few other advisers, and media representatives listened to the partylike atmosphere next door and the televised reports from the various news agencies on the ballroom floor.

“California will be good to us, I just know it. The bear won't hibernate tonight. We've spent too much damn money and time to lose it,” Herbert said as he slid his foot from his shoe and rubbed his sole on the shin of his weight-bearing leg.

Henry said nothing.

“We're going to win, Henry. We are going to pull this shit off, man. Don't you realize that?”

Henry sat stoically.

“Don't tell me you scared now, Henry,” he said, looking at his brother. “All night long when I was scared you were telling me it looked good. We gonna win this thing, man.”

“Marcus?” Henry said soothingly.

“Sir?”

“Did they bring up my suit?”

“The one we had in our limo? Yes, sir. Would you like me to go get it?”

Looking back at Peter Jennings on television, he replied, “No. I just want to make sure it's not wrinkled when we make our victory speech.” As the words fell from his lips, the tension was lifted by laughter and clapping hands.

Standing in the midst of the gathering, Herbert raised his hands and said, “I just want to say something here and now. Where is the young man from
Ebony?

A bony man raised his hand from the back of the suite.

“Great. What about the young lady from
U.S. News & World Report? Is
she here?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I think we also have a photojournalist from
Life
magazine here. Steven Mizzel?” As his name was announced, the photographer clicked his lens into place and walked toward the front of the room.

“Fantastic. I wanted to make sure you all were here to chronicle this moment. You can feel free now to take as many snapshots as you like, and I appreciate your cooperation in not taking pictures of us earlier.” Looking down, he said to his brother, “I've always loved you, man. Always have. I have envied you, coveted what was yours, fought you, fought for you, was embarrassed by you, missed you, been proud of you, and hated you. But more than all of those things,” he said, looking at Henry, who had his undivided attention, “more than all of those things, Henry, I've loved you.” A collective “aww” went up in the room as Henry stood and hugged his brother.

“Now, sit down!” Herbert said, looking at the room. “The floor is mine. Years ago we were brought here in the bowels of ships against our will. We were not asked to come. We were forced to ride, and I concur with Dr. King when he said, America has not fulfilled its promise to us. And when I say ‘us,' I mean all Americans. She's given us a bad check because we are only as strong as our weakest link. But this morning America prepares to take a quantum leap toward making good on her promise.”

A few members of the campaign clapped as the photojournalists angled their shots to get both brothers in one photograph. In the rear of the suite a security guard opened the door and tried to look at Penelope's credentials as she stormed through and said, “Goddamn, son! I've been in here fifty times tonight. Move the fuck out my way!”

“My brother,” Herbert continued, “had this dream when he was fifteen years old. When he was fifteen, he knew he would not just
run
for president. He knew he would win. In the Davis household the first one to the TV decided the station we watched. We would race each other home after school, to see who would be the one to pick the program. He wanted to watch Huntley-Brinkley, and I wanted to
watch Bugs and Road Runner. Who knows where we would be this morning if I'd been a step or two faster.

“Throughout this campaign, hell, even before it when he got the flop sweats on
Meet the Press”
—laughter sprinkled the room—“I knew he would bounce back. Why? Because he's the walking, talking embodiment of a winner.” Henry looked down at his lap as Herbert paused to contain his emotions. “And he will put this country back on course to fulfill its promise to all of its citizens, white, black, Hispanic, Asian, and female. All its citizens.”

At that moment Penelope walked over to Henry and whispered in his ear as everyone clapped and smiles of confidence showed where none had existed moments before. “Guys, gals, I'm sorry to go on like that. I just want to finish by saying, remember our campaign song. Tonight we will indeed change the world.”

And then the clapping stopped as Henry shouted, “What do you mean missing! You all can't find Leslie?”

HENRY

Although we'd not made any public announcement regarding our intentions to run, by 1998 all cylinders of the “Davis for President” engine were moving along at a feverish pace. In February of that year I released a few of my positions on issues in book form. Leslie and Penelope wanted me to entitle it
Courage Undaunted
, but thinking that was a little too self-aggrandizing, I went with the more academic title of
The Courage to Change Vs. the Compulsion to Compromise
.

The book spoke of how people from all walks of life had the guts to change the course of their lives, and some even changed the history of the world. I also outlined a detailed plan whereby we could save the rain forest without creating a monetary crisis for the rest of the world, reduce the threat of chemical warfare, and essentially end homelessness in twenty years. To many people's surprise, the 915-page book spent nineteen weeks at the top of the
New York Times
bestseller list, and after I did
Oprah
and
60 Minutes
in the same
week, our presidential favorability numbers were at an all-time high. In nearly every historically black college as well as many other major universities across the country, “Run Henry, Run” groups organized. Newspapers around the country ran articles favorable to my entering the race for the good of the country, and people started sending in donations for a candidacy that had yet to be declared.

We put together a presidential exploratory committee and it was determined that we could raise over seventy million dollars over the duration of the campaign, which was much more than even we expected. With this information we planned to announce in Miami around Christmas of '98. Why so early? We wanted all of the potential threats to the Democratic nomination to look at the poll numbers, see how much we had raised for the campaign, and decide it was not worth it for them to enter the race. In every major poll across the country we were ahead of everyone, including Vice President Steiner, by seven to ten percentage points. After the announcement I was literally on the road all but two days a month. Actually I wanted to campaign those two days as well, but Herbert thought it best I spend time with Leslie and get some rest.

In April I flew home to attend Easter Mass with Leslie, and I think Penelope had arranged for every major news organization in America to have a photographer there. Walking down the steps of the cathedral holding hands, we cast the Rockwell image we wanted to present. It was wholesome, it was apple pie, it was Americana. But as we sat in the limo, she sat on her side and I on mine, and we did not say a word to each other. Earlier that day we'd spoken, but not as husband and wife, more like two business partners after a board meeting. We both knew something was happening, but I did not make the effort to correct it. Every moment I was awake I gave the run for the White House every fiber of my being. I ate one meal a day, willed myself to survive on four hours of sleep and as a result the other candidates and our marriage ran a distant second.