The Presence (10 page)

Then his grandmother would reach a point when she would grow extremely quiet, and the sadness and the tension would hang heavy in the air.

TJ had never known what to do or say when his grandmother reached that point. He usually just waited, and she usually sighed a long breath and said, if I've asked myself once I've asked it a thousand times, whether we made a mistake in letting your mother go off to that school. There's a hundred questions I'm set to ask the Lord when my time comes, but that one's gonna be at the top of the list. Yes, Lord, once and for all you're gonna put my poor mind to rest and tell me if I did as I should.

All he had known was that she had run away and that she had later returned. Once, only once, TJ had asked his grandmother why his mother had left home to go live up north.

His grandmother turned around and looked at him as though she couldn't quite place him in her mind. The look was so full of pain and longing that it had scared him worse than just about anything that had ever scared him before or since. Then her mind seemed to focus and she asked, what was that you said, child, her voice all soft and full of love. Nothing, he said, not wanting to bring back that awful look of suffering, not ever. I was just talking to myself.

His grandfather, now, that was a completely different matter. Every time he talked about his daughter, a shadow would heave across his face for a moment; then his features would turn to stone.

His grandfather had a face that always reminded TJ of those old portraits of American Indian chiefs—full of planes and hollows and sharp angles—all set under skin the color of ebony. The nose was a hatchet, the mouth a thin line that was kept from looking cruel only by the stern integrity that radiated from the man.

His grandmother told him once that the old man was one-quarter Arapaho, one-quarter Choctaw, three-quarters saint, and one-third stubborn old goat. TJ said he didn't think that all added up right. I'm not talking arithmetic, she replied sharply. I'm talking about your grandfather. He's twice the man anybody else is, and ‘bout more than I can handle the best part of every day.

His grandfather remained the memory that held him firmly to the path of the Lord. In his moments of greatest doubt and indecision, TJ always asked himself what his grandfather would have done in the same situation. It amazed him how other people were able to find their way down the twisting, winding road of life without someone like his grandfather to guide them.

****

It startled him when Catherine came up and slipped her arm around his waist. She looked up at him with compassion and understanding. “You ready to go home, honey?”

He looked back to the grave and said, “I miss that old man.”

“I know you do,” she replied quietly, holding him close.

Especially now, he thought to himself. I feel so weak, so vulnerable, so unsure of what I'm supposed to do.

Deftly Catherine guided him out of the cemetery and back toward the car, helping to support his weight, surrounding him with her love.

The taxi that brought TJ into Washington from National Airport was driven by a black man with a weather-beaten face and hair the color of dirty snow.

“Bancroft Place,” the man said, giving TJ a friendly eye in the rearview mirror. “That's up Kalorama way. Nice area ‘round there. Lots of embassies and ‘spensive houses.”

“I've got a friend up there,” TJ said, staring out at the gloomy twilight of a February afternoon, wondering what he was doing here.

Congressman John Silverwood had confirmed TJ's appointment less than a month after that Sunday morning call. Following that, he had continued to phone TJ every week or so, passing on news of the new administration and its takeover, keeping TJ apprised of Washington developments and making sure his man stayed hooked.

Through November and December the new President's skeleton crew—called his Transition Team—worked out of the cavernous basement of the Commerce Building, taking up some two hundred thousand square feet of space. It was staffed primarily by people who had been with the President through the campaign. On Silverwood's recommendation, TJ did not come up to make himself known.

Chaos was how the congressman described it. Three thousand phones ringing all at once, people chasing around like maniacs. Total chaos. You might wind up in a better position by carving your niche out now, Silverwood told him, but I doubt it. Either way, you'll be entering the arena at a disadvantage. These people have been working together for as much as three years, all dreaming of this moment. Let them scream and run around in little circles for a while. Come up when the dust settles.

The first call from the White House came in early January and gave TJ another sleepless night. It was from one of the personnel officers, a mid-level staffer who stressed his importance by trying to bully TJ into arriving the following week. I have a law practice to put in order, TJ had replied. The man was not impressed. What do you have that's more important than serving your President? But TJ refused to be pushed. He told the man he'd be in Washington in two weeks, and hung up.

The next day he told Jeremy about it, letting some of his worry show through. Jeremy had been strangely silent, and then with an even stranger abruptness stood and said he was leaving town for a few days on business. What business, TJ asked. Just business, Jeremy replied. Somethin' that's been on my mind for a while. Well, TJ said, more than a little confused by this lack of concern, will I see you again before I leave? But Jeremy had remained evasive and seemed in a hurry to get going.

Nine days later, he called just as TJ was sitting down to breakfast. Got a pencil, Jeremy asked. Okay, take this down. TJ noted the address his friend gave him, asked, what is this? When you get to Washington, grab a taxi and tell the driver to bring you here, Jeremy replied. I've already made hotel reservations, TJ said. Cancel them, Jeremy said. It's all taken care of. What's been taken care of, TJ asked. Tell you when you arrive, Jeremy replied. Have a good trip.

And then the world seemed to do everything possible to stand in the way of his going. It was one crisis after another. His law office lost three secretaries and two paralegals in one week, a senior partner had a heart attack, and an associate left for a three-week honeymoon. There was simply no one to take over the work, which meant he had to do it all himself before he could leave.

Then his younger daughter, Elaine, caught a virus of the inner ear, which left her with such a severe case of vertigo that she could not stand up without support. Her husband was frantic, trying to hold down a full-time job and take care of two young children and a sick wife all by himself, which meant Catherine was needed there. So TJ had left for Washington alone and exhausted.

****

“Nice area, Kalorama,” the cab driver repeated. “Stayin' long?”

TJ turned away from the window and pushed himself into polite alertness. “I have a job with the new administration.”

The driver smiled his approval. “Ain't that nice. Gonna be living here for a while, then. Well, Washington's a nice town. Got its bad areas nowadays, but still a mighty nice town. Good place to live.”

“You been here long?”

“All my life. Yessir, close on sixty-eight years.”

TJ nodded. “Seen a few changes, haven't you?”

“That's the truth.” The man laughed. “When I was a little boy, I used to like watchin' the old men come by an' light the streetlamps. They was all gas back then, you know. Then in the mornin' they had this little cup on a stick and they'd go ‘round turnin' 'em off. That's how much things've changed.” Once more he glanced at TJ in the rearview mirror. “You ever been here before?”

“A few visits. Mostly official stuff, and never for very long.”

“You'll prob'ly like it fine. Color don't mean any more here'n anyplace else, and a lot less'n in some places I know. Fella got the right job, he could be green all over and not wear nothin' but big purple feathers, people'd still bow and scrape.”

TJ smiled at this. “Last I heard we were living in a democracy.”

The driver laughed. “Yessir, I heard somethin' ‘bout that too. Tol' me we was all equal under the law, jes' some is more equal than others.”

TJ leaned forward and squinted against the gathering dark. “Is that the Potomac up ahead?”

“That's her. I been drivin' this same road for nigh on eleven years, and I still do enjoy this sight. That's the Washington Monument over there, an' the Lincoln Memorial. Then up there you can see the top of the Capitol.”

“What'd you do before you drove a cab?”

“Near ‘bout everythin'. My first memories're all ‘bout work. I was still in school, you know, an' this fella put me on a truck. That was the beginning for me. Life of hard work's all I ever knowed. Twenty-five, thirty-five-pound blocks of ice. Used to take these tongs, sling that ice over my back, and carry it up four ‘n five flights of outside stairs—fire escape stairs—in all kinds of weather. Tough work. All my life's been filled with hard work.”

TJ leaned back, touched by the man's words. “What'd you do after that?”

“Got a good job after that. Good for those times, anyways. Worked in a grocery store. All these fine black folks'd come in. Lawyers, doctors—mostly wives but some gentlemen too—in all their fancy white-man's clothes. Wouldn't never touch nothin'. They'd walk down the aisles, point out what they wanted, or jes' stand there at the counter and name it, brand and all.

“Old man Thompson—that's the fella what owned the store—he'd have this big ol' wad of bills in his pocket and the change on the counter in a cigar box. I'd stick all the groceries in a wicker basket and carry 'em home for 'em, walkin' behind them fancy folks. Got ‘bout a dollar a day in tips. Big money for a poor boy back then.”

The man kneaded the steering wheel with stubby work-worn hands. “Sounds like nothing now, don't it. Lemme tell you how hard it was. Two years ‘fore I started with the ice company—lessee, I was twelve then. Biggest thing in my life was when my brother got home; he was six years older'n me. He'd count his pennies from begging or piece-work or haulin' coal, whatever. Wasn't no such thing as a steady job. Didn't have no daddy. We needed forty-five cents for him, me and momma to go down and eat our fill of soup. Kitchen down the street sold big bowls of soup with a hunk of bread for fifteen cents. When I was twelve, there was so many people out there waiting for soup some days, we stopped traffic. Had to have a policeman there to hold the crowd back. Lotsa people waiting for the kitchen to open meant a lotta work that day. Yessir. After that and the ice work that grocery job was easy street.”

“Mister, something about the way you say that scares the dickens outta me.”

The man chuckled. “Reckon it could scare a sensible fella. If'n it came once, sure as the sun's gonna rise tomorrow, it could come again. Problem with this world is there ain't too many sensible people ‘round…. Hey, look over here,” he said, returning to his tour-guide role. “That's the J. Edgar Hoover Building. Used to be a store there called S. Kann's. That and Lansburgh were the two big department stores back then. And right there, between ninth and tenth on Pennsylvania Avenue, was what they called Market Place. Worked there for a while too. They'd bring the fruits and vegetables in there by horse, set up these little stalls, and sell there all day.”

TJ inspected the front of several high-rise buildings for a sign of the past, but found none. “You were working two jobs?”

“Two, sometimes three. Momma got sick ‘bout then, and doctors gotta be paid.”

How long, oh, Lord? TJ shook his head, feeling admiration for the quiet strength of this man. The matter-of-fact way he spoke of hardship made TJ feel smaller than the less fortunate of his people. His people. How seldom he thought of them in that way. He had lived a truly sheltered life, shielded from the horrors that this man and so many others had suffered. He was thankful he had never had to face such trials, but knew that because of it, he lacked something. Something only found through the pain of such a life. A fountain of strength drawn from depths he had never fathomed within himself.

“My house didn't have no electricity,” the driver went on. “No furnace neither. Had a coal-fire stove in every room. Had a waist-high ice box; you stick your block of ice in there, and your perishables on the ice. Summertimes you wrap newspaper ‘round the ice, keep it from melting so fast.

“Didn't have no hot water, no bathroom,” the man continued. “Cold water faucet, one for the whole house was all there was. Took a bucket of water out with us when we went to the shed, washed it down good. Hot water we cooked up over the stove. Didn't have much. Knew we were poor. But we had our Lord. Yessir, Sundays was a time of settin' work aside and gettin' right with God. Only thing that saw us through.”

TJ sent a short prayer heavenward. Thank you for this man, Father. I was filled with doubt when I arrived, and was plain deep-down scared to boot. But I see in this man the power of simple faith and the wondrous ways in which you work. I don't know why this man had to suffer through such a life, and I don't know why I was called to this place. But I hear in his voice that he knows you, and I feel in my heart that he has done your will. Thank you for this example, and give me the strength to do as you want.

“Biggest things in my life back then was church doin's and the Louis fights. Fella down the street used to take the radio outta his car and bring it in his house. Radio, speaker, battery, wire, the works. Took him the best part of the afternoon. Then the whole neighborhood crowded in the room listenin' to Joe Louis fight. Yessir.
Happy
times. Folks nowadays got all this television, movies, nightclubs, you name it. Don't know what happiness is. Spend all their lives chasin' after this ‘n that. Don't get 'em nothing but old. They's forgot the Lord. Don't know there ain't nothin' in this whole world ‘cept Him can fill that emptiness.”