The Presence (38 page)

“Perfectly clear,” TJ replied quietly.

“The only way this is possible is by having one, and only one, conduit of information to the press. This is why leaks are absolutely not permitted by this administration. The President has a very strict policy with regard to leaks. Has anyone bothered to tell you what that is?”

TJ shook his head. “No, I don't believe so.”

“No, that's right. You haven't been with us very long, have you? Let's see, now, how long is it that you've been here in Washington?”

“Four weeks,” TJ said quietly, wishing the man would just get it over with and stop the patronizing lectures, stop shaming him like this.

“Yes, that's right. Four weeks.” Norman Greenbaum shook his head. “Four weeks in Washington and you're already expert enough to go in front of national television and make a major policy statement.”

There was nothing TJ could say to make the man understand, so he clenched his jaw muscles tight and said nothing at all.

“Where were we? Oh yes, leaks. Well, the President gave us very strict orders regarding leaks on his first day in office. Anyone who spoke to the press without explicit authorization was to get the boot. No matter who it was, or how important the work they were doing. Out they go.”

What bothered TJ the most was that he felt totally alone. There was no answering comfort from the Spirit, no solace, no assuring Presence. Nothing. He felt empty, alone, threatened. He prayed for guidance, heard nothing in reply.

Changing gears again, Norman Greenbaum slapped a cheery hand on TJ's shoulder, said, “C'm on, let's go back up to my office and have a chat.”

They entered Greenbaum's cramped quarters via the Cabinet Room. The office was shaped somewhat like a wedge of pie with the first bite taken out of the narrow end. Much of the space was taken up by a cluttered desk too large for the room. The walls were covered with framed prints of famous people and numerous diplomas bearing Greenbaum's name. The outer wall had glass louvered doors opening out onto a small patio and neat lawn. Two seats sat facing the desk, one of them occupied by Congressman John Silverwood.

He looked up from the pad where he was making rapid notes as TJ and Greenbaum entered, did not rise, did not offer TJ a greeting. His handsome features remained set in very stern lines.

“You two know each other, I believe,” Greenbaum said, going over behind his desk and sitting down.

“I've been wondering about that a lot these past couple of days,” Silverwood said, his eyes still on TJ. “What did you think you were doing?”

“Let's keep this friendly, shall we?” Greenbaum waved at the empty chair, said, “Have a seat, Mr. Case.”

But Silverwood was not finished. “If you want to commit political suicide, that's your choice. But it's a sad state when you repay friends by trying to take them down with you.”

“That's enough, I said,” Greenbaum's voice remained mild. He pointed to a narrow door set flush in the wall behind his desk, asked TJ, “Know where that leads?”

TJ shook his head, not wanting to speak.

“The Oval Office. The President sits right behind that door. Yes, sir, the most powerful individual in the world, bearing responsibility for the most powerful nation on earth. And I'm his man.

“I gave up an office ten times the size of this one, heck, my secretary's office was bigger than this. As a matter of fact, this very office used to house the President's personal secretary. I obtained permission to move in here, so I could be right at the President's side just as soon as he needed me. I took an eighty percent cut in pay and came down to Washington just so I could sit here and answer to President Nichols. What that man says is solid gold in my book. And he has told me that we are to discuss making an arrangement with you. He did not ask my opinion, so I didn't give it. If it were up to me, I'd have you out on the street so fast your trousers would still be searching for your legs. I personally have no time whatsoever for a man who doesn't respond to his nation's call of duty with one hundred percent loyalty to his President. But that's not what my President has instructed me to do. And like I said, Mr. Case, what President Nichols says, goes.”

TJ could scarcely believe his ears. Were they going to keep him on? Was this why there had been no answering comfort to his desperate prayer, that it simply wasn't needed? Then why did he still feel so empty?

“Too much dust has been raised over these wild statements of yours, Mr. Case. There are a lot of people out there who feel like you've touched a very deep nerve when you started talking about their children's education. We need you to stand up for the President and his own agenda, and in return we're going to invite you to stay around and develop an educational policy for gifted children.”

TJ felt his hope depart like air from a deflating balloon. Not that, please, he prayed. Don't tempt me with that.

“Now why don't you take a couple of minutes and just describe for us what it is you want to get done here.”

TJ took a deep breath, struggled to gather his frantic thoughts, hoped against hope that he might be able to leave behind at least a shadow of his policy, his dreams, his life's work.

“There are two basic patterns of thought about gifted children,” TJ began, repeating words he had said a thousand times before. “One states that every child is gifted in one way or another. This school of thought generally maintains that it is better to keep all children together in a sort of melting-pot approach to education. The more intelligent children stimulate the slower children to learn faster. The slower children are not ostracized by being placed in visibly slower-paced classes. Teachers are not placed in the situation of lowering their expectations for a group simply because they carry the label of slow learners.

“I disagree with this, and I feel that the most recent data supports my opinion. Our u
NIV
ersity system is not based upon the concept of treating all students the same, and I feel that latitude should be built into the grade school system as well, especially after the age of puberty. We are holding back the learning potential of our brightest children because of the unproven belief that slow learners will suffer if special classes or special schools are pulled ahead. We are punishing some of our young people for being intelligent, or for wanting to learn, or for having a deep interest in a subject that other children their age are not yet ready to tackle.”

Norman Greenbaum made a couple of notes on the pad in front of him, said, “So what you're proposing is a nationwide system of special classes for gifted children.”

“Classes and in some cases schools,” TJ replied. “With a series of checks and balances designed to maintain an even spread across the range of race and income level. And with the opportunity given every year, through a series of national examinations, for new students to join in.”

Greenbaum showed no reaction save for a brief nod of his head and another series of scribbled notes. “How long do you think it would take to put together a position paper?”

TJ hesitated, said, “No more than a couple of hours. Most of the information is already gathered, and written down in one form or another.”

“Can you let me have it before three o'clock?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Good.” Norman Greenbaum set down his pen, stood, brought the others to their feet with his eyes. “The President wants to speak to you at the earliest possible moment, I would say either late this afternoon or sometime tomorrow. Let me have your paper as quickly as you can, so that I can brief him in advance.” He nodded once. “Good morning, gentlemen.”

Outside in the hallway TJ turned to Silverwood, said, “John, I can't tell you how sorry—”

“Don't press your luck,” Silverwood cut in, his voice hard as stone. “There's nothing I'd like more right now than to punch your lights out.”

Silverwood turned away, said over his shoulder, “I don't care what arrangement you work out with Greenbaum. You're poison, TJ. If I never see your face again it'll be too soon.”

TJ entered his office still sick at heart from the exchange with Silverwood. Quietly he instructed Nak to pull out the related files and have the papers retyped in concentrated form. The paper Greenbaum wanted was essentially complete, and had been since before TJ arrived. It was the same concept he had been working on for more than five years. Five years. A long time to carry a dream. TJ felt deeply for those children, wished there was something concrete he could do for them, ached at the very clear choice that had been placed before him. He tried not to think about the meeting with the President. Whenever it trickled into his conscious mind the fear ran through him like an electric shock.

TJ went into his office and closed the door. He stood in the middle of the floor, made a silent plea for guidance. A thought struck him, as though it had been waiting for him to ask. TJ reached for his coat, walked out, told his secretary he would be back in a couple of hours. He hoped he could find this place in Adams-Morgan where Catherine was working without too much trouble.

****

“They won't let me work with nobody but the little ones,” Catherine said, as she led him down the musty-smelling hall and into the ratty kitchen. Tape held the cracked windowpanes in place, the linoleum was so scarred and pitted that the floorboards showed through, and all the appliances were rust-covered. But the place was spotlessly clean, and there was not a speck of dust anywhere.

“I'm really sorry to take you away from your work, honey,” TJ told her.

“Shoot, these old bones could do with a rest. Would you like some coffee?”

“No, thank you.”

“That's probably best. Last time I tried to light that stove I thought I was gonna set the house on fire. How ‘bout some juice? I believe we've got some apple juice left. I swear, those children must drink a gallon a day.”

“Yes, all right, some juice would be fine.”

“Here, take that chair with the busted arm and set it by the window. That's probably the strongest one in here.” She pulled the squeaky refrigerator door open with a hard yank. “Like I said, they won't let me work with the teenagers, though Lord knows they's just as much in need as the little ones. The thing is, they're not as trusting of strangers as the young ones are, so they won't let anybody work with them who can't give them a promise of staying at least three years.”

“You look very happy, though,” TJ said quietly. And she did. Her hair was pulled back and pinned tight to either side of her head, which accented her broad features and strong high cheekbones. She looked tired, and her shoulders seemed to be drooping a little as she poured his juice into what looked like a former jelly jar. But her face was alight and her eyes were sparkling. “Your expression reminds me of when our daughter was still a baby,” he remarked.

That made her laugh. “Lord, have mercy, I'm way past that time.”

“No, I mean, that joy on your face, it reminds me of how you used to look when you were playing with Nancy.”

“Well, I don't know anything that's ever brought me as much happiness as a house full of children.” She pushed the refrigerator door to, but it sprang back again. She set the glass down, took the door with both hands, and whammed it shut. The door admitted defeat and stayed put. “I swear, there are kids out there so love-starved that when I hug 'em they start to cry. ‘Bout broke my heart the first time it happened. Know what that lady I worked with told me? At least they still know how to cry. They've got a special class to work with the really disturbed children. The ones who never cry. That's what they call 'em. Disturbed.”

She walked over, set down his glass on the windowsill beside his arm. Catherine pulled over a second chair, rocked the back to test its strength, and eased herself down. “Forgot to make sure a chair would hold me this morning, and the thing just collapsed. Landed right smack on the floor. Children thought it was the funniest thing they'd
ever
seen. I got to laughing myself and thought I was never gonna be able to get up.”

“You didn't hurt yourself, did you?”

“I'll be all right.” She reached over, took his free hand, said, “Now why don't you tell me what's troubling you so.”

He gave her a wry smile, said, “It shows, doesn't it.”

“Lord, honey, who's been living with you for over thirty years? Now stop beating around the bush and tell me what's on your mind.”

It took quite a while, not because Catherine needed to know all the details in order to understand, but because he needed to tell her. It brought the whole thing into perspective to be able to share the burden with her. Catherine listened as she always did, sitting in total silence, the attentive concern in her eyes all the assurance TJ needed to know that she was with him. She never moved, never let go of his hand, only narrowed her eyes slightly when he told her of the offer the White House presented him that morning.

“I know I can't take their offer unless the Lord guides me to do so,” TJ concluded. “The more I think about it, the more certain I am that He's not going to point me in that direction. It hurts, Catherine, it really does. I've spent five years of my life working to try to help these children obtain an education that is set for the level they
need
, not the median—the average—level the school system
wants
them to have.”

He rubbed a tired hand across his face. “When I was sitting in their office this morning, listening to myself talk about the plans I had for those children, I found myself wondering, was it real? Did the Lord really speak to me? Or am I just throwing away a lifetime's work on some fantasy I cooked up from stress and fatigue and overwork? Sure, I've doubted it all before. Hardly a day goes by that I don't doubt. But always before there's been some kind of sign, some answer that gives me peace and a sense that it really is divine guidance that's leading me along. Today there wasn't anything. Nothing. I don't believe I've ever felt more alone in my entire life.”