The Presence (29 page)

Anna led them through ancient double doors into what had once been a formal dining room and which now held a large conference table. Around all four walls was a collapsible metal stand holding perhaps fifty black and white photographs.

“This was our first building,” Anna explained. “We started here, at least Tom Nees did, with a homeless shelter about five years ago. Tom used to be pastor to a big white church down near the Capitol. He gave it up, spent a year just walking the streets down here, then started this.”

A graceful hand pointed out beyond the room's front wall. “The shelter's been moved across the street. The downstairs rooms have been made into a medical treatment center. I run that with a doctor and two other part-time nurses. This floor and the one above are administration.”

Jeremy listened, but his eyes were snagged by one picture after another. He moved over to give the photographs a closer inspection.

“The next project Tom took on was a condemned building over next to where the shelter is now. He raised seventy-five thousand dollars and organized a group from his old church to come down and rebuild the interior. It took over a year, but now it's a housing co-op with thirty-seven apartments. First time any of the tenants have ever owned their own home. You wouldn't believe the difference it makes in their lives.”

Each of the photographs was a silent cry, a voiceless appeal for compassion. Jeremy stared at a young black child running with such unleashed excitement that he seemed ready to take flight. He was wearing his father's ragged T-shirt and a pair of tennis shoes without laces, and he was springing up from a mound of rubble surrounded by sooty tenement blocks. Yet the expression on the child's face was one of untrammeled joy.

“We're working on a couple of things right now,” Anna went on from behind him. “The shelter needs to be expanded into a place where homeless families can come and live for anywhere from six to eighteen months. A family that's lost everything usually's not in any shape to set up house for themselves, even if public housing were available. We've got to start getting them out of those awful old hotels and into places that help them find their feet again.”

Jeremy turned to the next picture, saw a white mother and four children sitting on a mattress and box springs set upon a sidewalk, surrounded by all their possessions. The mother had the dull look of utter, hopeless defeat. The children ranged from an infant in diapers to a boy of perhaps eleven, and all mirrored the same look of terrible emotional pain. The eldest boy, his face scarred and twisted by inner turmoil, had eyes set back in their sockets like a man of eighty.

“One big problem is all the government assistance programs have offices that are split up and spread all over town. A single parent dragging four or five kids from place to place by bus hasn't got time to cook, to take care of a sick child, or even to look for work. And if she has problems with reading and writing, there's just no telling how many times she's got to go down and work over their forms.”

The faces pulled at him, tugged at something deep in his gut. The poverty and the hardships described in the photographs were nothing but frames for the faces. The children made him want to weep.

Anna's voice remained hidden behind that cool reserve. “We need to set up an assistance program inside the shelter that will take over all this paper work for them, give them the chance to look for jobs and take care of their families.”

Jeremy moved to a placard set among the photographs and read, “I don't accept poverty and despair as part of God's plan. Instead, I believe they result from greed and injustice. I believe God has a special concern for the poor and dispossessed.” Underneath was written, “Jim Hubbard, Photographer.”

Footsteps heralded the arrival of another. Anna said, “Jeremy Hughes, I'd like you to meet Reverend Tom Nees.”

Jeremy turned and shook the hand of a white man whose lined face shone with a calm inner strength. Jeremy looked toward Anna, said quietly, “I believe I've found what I was looking for.”

When they arrived home Wednesday evening, TJ kissed his wife, took Nak's coat, said, “Catherine, Jeremy, I'd like you to meet John, er, Nak Nakamishi.”

“How nice to meet you—Nak, is it? You're our first dinner guest.”

“I hope I'm not too much of a bother, Mrs. Case. I understand you just arrived yesterday.”

“No bother at all. We're all going to have dinner anyway. Would you like a glass of tea? I've just made some fresh.”

“Thank you, that would be great.”

Jeremy extended a work-worn hand, said straight-faced, “And no knock-knock jokes, right?”

“If it's not too much trouble,” Nak replied seriously.

“Jeremy Hughes,” Catherine said sharply. “You're ‘bout this close to wearing my skillet upside your head.”

“Is that what I think it is?” TJ sniffed the air, smiled at Nak, said, “I do believe Catherine's cooked us up a mess of fried chicken.”

“May smell like fried chicken to you,” Jeremy said. “But to an old country boy like me that smells like Sunday afternoon.”

Catherine came back with two glasses of iced tea. “Young man, I hope you like chicken.”

“Yes, ma'am, I love it.”

After the blessing, while the meal was being passed around, TJ told them he was going to be interviewed by a network show.

“On television?” Catherine's expression was a mixture of pride and concern.

“He's already been on television here in the city,” Nak answered for him. “This is for
Good Morning America.
”

Catherine's eyes squinted. “I don't recall you telling me about being on TV.”

“I thought it was best to give you a chance to get adjusted,” TJ replied mildly. “I didn't see it, but Nak said it was on television the day before yesterday.”

“What was?”

“An interview they did while Jeremy went down to fetch you.”

“He was great,” Nak confirmed.

“What happened?” Jeremy asked.

TJ looked a plea toward Nak, who proceeded to give them an almost verbatim report of what was said, all in that calm, quiet voice of his. When he was finished, nothing broke the silence except the tinkle of silverware on plates.

“This is delicious, Mrs. Case.”

“Call me Catherine. I'm glad you like it.” And to TJ, “I can't get over it. I missed my man being on Washington television.”

“It wasn't all that much,” TJ said.

“Yes, it was,” Nak said.

“I guess it's started, then,” Jeremy said.

Catherine looked at him sharply. “What has?”

Jeremy shrugged. “Whatever the Lord brought him up here to do.”

“I think so too,” Nak agreed. “I mean, I don't know exactly what brought you up here, Mr. Case—”

“Call me TJ, please.”

“Well, sir,” Nak hesitated. “Out of the office maybe. I don't know what brought you up here, but after what happened yesterday I know there's a higher purpose behind all this. I just
know
it.”

“Tell us about it, son,” Jeremy said.

With a nod from TJ, Nak proceeded to sketch for them their discussion after the prayer meeting, the telephone call, and the prayer. “So I went back and did just what TJ told me to do,” Nak went on. “This Mr. Roberts from the network first says they'll cancel it because they don't accept restrictions being put on them by the people being interviewed. Then so help me if five seconds later he doesn't turn around and say, okay, everything's fine. And their affiliate stations are all going to run segments of the Washington interview as a lead-in to next week's show.” Nak looked at TJ, ended with, “Just like you said would happen.”

TJ watched Catherine's face throughout. It was a lot to be hitting her with, so soon after arriving. When Nak had finished she reached across the table, took one of TJ's hands in hers, and said, “If it's His will, then let it be done.”

“Amen,” Jeremy agreed.

“I can't tell you how happy I am to have you up here with me,” TJ said, not caring who heard him.

“Everything's gonna be just fine,” Catherine replied, patting his hand with her other one. “You'll see.”

“Before we have us a prayer,” Jeremy said, “I think it's time this young man hears what brought you to Washington.”

TJ looked a question at his wife, who nodded. “If he's gonna be with us on this, honey, he has a right to know,” she said.

So he nodded his head in return, took a breath, turned and told Nak what had happened on the boat that dawn. It pleased him to see the young man register surprise for the very first time.

****

Congressman John Silverwood turned from the work that cluttered his desk that Thursday afternoon, and watched the snow fall outside his window. He could hardly believe his own good fortune.

He had met a beautiful woman who truly loved him. It baffled him sometimes to think that Sally had chosen him above all others, but it was so. She
appreciated
him. She admired him for who he was and what he did. She shared his love of politics and looked up to him for making it to the top in a truly tough profession. Well, fairly near the top. And it seemed as though he would be reaching up even higher very soon. John Silverwood watched the heavy flakes drifting earthward, and saw Sally as she had been when he had left her that morning.

When sleeping she looked like a little girl. Her lower lip pushed out in a tiny pout, making her look vulnerable and appealing. Her blond hair lay scattered across her pillow like a halo. Slender fingers curled under her chin, clutching the sheet to her. She was a lovely girl, and she seemed to have nothing more important in her life than to make him happy. The thought of that childlike face and the adoration he had seen in it last night stirred his desire again. Silverwood sighed, pushed the thought away, turned back to his work.

He had simply stopped calling his wife. It felt as though an enormous burden had been lifted from his shoulders. Their last talk had been Monday night, when she had accused him of seeing someone else, and he couldn't stop himself from laughing. So what, he had said once he had recovered. Do you really think you've been very much of a wife? She had started to break down then, struggled to keep control, asked him if ten years of marriage meant nothing to him. A lot more than it does to you, he had replied. If you'd been capable of seeing beyond your credits and debits, you'd have realized a long time ago that I needed you here with me. By then she'd been crying full out. You never needed anyone in your life, she had sobbed over the phone. That's where you're wrong, he had replied. It's the most perfect example I can think of, of how little you know me, and how little you really care. Silverwood had hung up and not spoken to her since.

When he told Sally about it, she was all sympathy and practical advice. I know it's hard to think about, she told him after holding him tenderly and telling him how it hurt her to see him suffer. But if it's over between you, then you need to take action immediately. Even though it's hard, you have
got
to think about your career. Silverwood had nodded morosely, knowing she was right, hating to hear it stated in such starkly practical terms.

If she files action against you, Sally went on, then it could really hurt your reelection chances. But if you file for a legal separation yourself, you can claim abandonment as the reason, and in the eyes of the press you'd have the upper hand.

Each evening, Silverwood planned to call a lawyer the next morning and get things moving. Every morning, however, he found it very difficult to take that first step. It was one thing to say their marriage was over. It was another thing entirely to make it so.

So he kept putting it off, not really hoping for a change, just not wanting to see it all down in black and white. And now that he was not in contact with Suzanne, it became easier to push the unfinished business aside. Sally made him happier than he had ever been in his life, and his political fortunes were climbing skyward like a missile.

Silverwood's reverie was interrupted by his secretary, who called in to say Mr. Shermann was on the phone. The lobbyist normally called at about this time every day. It was simply a polite reminder that he was waiting for Silverwood's decision, never pressing, always understanding. For the past several days Silverwood had left instructions to say that he was not in when the man called. This had pleased his secretary mightily. He had not spoken to Sally about the offer or his deliberations at all.

Today he decided to pick up the phone. “Good afternoon, Mr. Shermann.”

“Ah, Congressman, what a pleasant surprise to find you in. I hope I'm not disturbing anything important.”

Silverwood ignored his rising unease over the man's toneless voice, and concentrated on the matter at hand. “I've been contacted by several people about this Ways and Means appointment. More than several, as a matter of fact. The
Washington Post
fellow, what's his name, the one who covers the White House, he told me he'd heard a rumor that the position was as good as mine.”

“Yes, well, I thought it wise to begin putting the wheels in motion, Congressman. Not assuming anything, I hope you understand. I just wanted to show you that I truly am as good as my word.”

“I also noticed that the Atlas questioning had been tabled for a few days.”

“Yes, I was fortunate enough to be able to have that set aside for the moment. There are so many other aspects of this investigation that require your committee's urgent attention, I'm sure you agree. How many construction companies are now being considered for indictment?”

“Seventeen,” Congressman Silverwood replied after a moment's hesitation.

“That's right. Seventeen. My goodness, you would hardly think that one company more or less would make any difference, would you?”