THE PRICE SHE'LL PAY: For the secret she never knew she had...

by Cara Charles

  “I think we’ll take that beer to go.” Trevor said.

  Kate gave him the best second kiss he’d had in a long time.

  He stroked her cheek. “I’ve loved you Kate Silva longer than you know.”

  “Coulda fooled me.”

  Kate slugged him hard in the deltoid. It stung. She raced ahead.

  “What? Hey you! Come back here!”

  They started laughing and running faster until he caught her, swooped her up and carried her into the tree line as a line of headlights came into the front gate and the cheers and whistles made them feel like newlyweds.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN -- HYATTSVILLE, MARYLAND

  0304, 18 DECEMBER

  WHAT WEIGHED ON Joseph Roosevelt Jefferson had him awake and anxious even though he didn’t realize he had a METAPHOR protective team outside and another roaming his neighborhood. But his instincts did.

  ‘I’m too old for this,’ he’d pleaded with Dr. Richards since January 2009, just after President Obama’s Inauguration. Her logic was too sound and reassuring. Finally he’d agreed, all these years later.

  ‘There was no one else. No one else favored enough to ask the President to possibly skirt or even violate the PRA of 1978, the Presidential Records Act, created because of the Nixon tapes. All communications with the President and Vice President were to become public record five to twelve years after he left office. But indirect communication was probably out of the scope… She was right. Who else was closer to the President?’

  RING...

  Joseph jumped. His heart galloped. It was now 3:30 a.m. He’d dozed off.

  RING...

  “Pick up the damn phone!” Joseph shouted at his cowardice.

  RING...

  Pressure built in his chest. Answering the phone was suddenly terrifying.

  RING...

  ‘They took a huge risk asking you to join, making you part of a grander purpose for the second time in your life. Answer the damn phone!’

  “Joseph Jefferson.”

  “Second thoughts, Mr. Jefferson?” Desiree asked in a modulated voice.

  “No, ma’am."

  Her modulated voice still had her British inflections.

  “I woke you out of a deep sleep. I apologize.”

  “It’s all right. I just needed to clear my head is all.”

  “Then it’s a Grand Good Morning, Mr. Jefferson.”

  “A rich unfolding morning,” Joseph replied on cue.

  “We truly hope so. Mother’s maiden name, please?”

  “Jackson.” His heart jumped into overdrive.

  “Today is the day, Mr. Jefferson. Understand your instructions?”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “I will lend you...” Desiree began.

  “...the wings of the future for I have them,” Joseph finished.

  “Our immense gratitude is inadequate for your possible sacrifice. But thank you again Mr. Jefferson for standing with us. ‘Virtue is the fount whence honor springs.’”

  The line went dead as Joseph took a breath to say ‘the honor is mine.’

  Their years of hiding were innocently, over.

  ‘Unexpectedly,’ she’d told him.

  Joseph rolled onto his back stared at the ceiling, and recited, “The silence surged backward when the plunging hoofs were gone. - De La Mar.”

  The face in the mirror Joseph saw in the reflected morning, looked old. After retrieving the package off his back stoop the morning’s Tai Chi complimented by Vivaldi centered him. Today would be the most memorable of his life. As he shaved, his shaking hands gave him away.

  ‘It’s the coffee,’ he hoped as he rinsed FDR’s double-edged razor and his chest tightened.

  Soon they will stop making blades for this old razor. He splashed Bay Rum on his cheeks, and chest, dried his hands, and rubbed in the good lotion. His manicured nails still looked acceptable. Joseph tied the double Windsor knot expertly, took the silver and black striped silk tie off the doorknob and pulled it over his head.

  His new Blackberry’s check-list reminded him to put it and the blank 3x5 papers in his interior pocket. Expecting strangers in his house by evening, he re-hung his hand towel neatly.

  ‘This is how a man on death row must feel as the last test of the man was upon him. The desperation to cling to dignity and not go to his demise kicking and screaming like a naughty child, would demand the last measure of who he had become and how he would be remembered,’ he shared with his reflection, a new habit since he had lost his mother a decade earlier.

  Julia Mae Jackson Jefferson chose a passing peaceful and dignified. So like her. The old vanity mirror from Warm Springs threatening to lose its silver was her most precious possession given to her by Mrs. Roosevelt.

  Joseph straightened his tie, a final present from his Mama. It would give him strength. He put on the black wool suit jacket and felt the pocket. Mama’s thimble was there. He checked the Blackberry, the papers, then patted the pockets flat to keep them safe. In his breast pocket, Joseph tucked the handkerchief Caroline had returned when her mother died, the last in the set of monogrammed handkerchiefs Mama had given him on the first day of his job in 1960. His most precious possessions would remind him. With one last look at his reflection, he smiled feeling the significance of the duty upon him.

  Joseph walked down the narrow stairs of his 1940’s brick cottage opened the hall closet and selected the black cashmere top coat from Gieves and Hawkes’ Savile Row London, the clothier to princes, prime ministers, and privileged presidents, a gift from President and Mrs. Clinton. He picked a gray felt hat with a wide brim, a soft red, black plaid cashmere scarf, lined black leather gloves, gifts from the Reagans and the Obamas.

  Joseph took a last look in the hall mirror. He smiled at the framed flour sack and Mama’s photograph. Her adoring face was the last thing he saw before leaving the house, everyday.

  Joseph opened the front door on the new life that waited out there. The cold air cut him to the bone. A sobering reminder he was in the October of his life. The Cyclamen in his window boxes were pushing back the winter. He hoped he’d live to see his spring bulb collection from Lady Bird delight the neighborhood, one more season.

  JOSEPH STOOD on the threshold of his little brick cottage and looked behind him, perhaps for the last time. This home he had shared with his mother was as dear to him as if it were his child. They’d taken such great care with it, decorating each room with mementoes that had represented every Presidency since the Roosevelt era. Joseph’s memento collection spread around their parlor in tall glass curio cabinets. Without meaning for it to happen, tears were welling in his eyes as he remembered the people and the moments behind those gifts.

  He turned to look out upon the new day, to live in the moment not the past. With more life behind him than in front of him, Joseph let good-bye ease into appreciation for a charmed life seeing their faces, and remembering their precious time together. His call to duty was stronger than any anticipated judgment. They would understand, but hoped they would never know.

  He grabbed his briefcase. He’d nearly forgotten to leave his will on the hall table, under Mama’s photograph and stepped back inside to place it there. He stepped back on the landing. He dared not look back.

  His comfortable life was begging him to reconsider and he knew it.

  With one last look at Mama’s smiling face, Joseph closed the evergreen wreath decorated door and turned the lock.

  The bolt fell into place with a painful finality that he pushed aside remembering Dr. Richards’ tearful gratitude that came when he had said ‘yes.’ Miraculously, the sidewalks were clear of ice and snow. He listened to his footsteps descend the concrete stairs. Step by step, he was honoring his commitment to her. If all of his eighty years were leading to this moment, so be it.

  Joseph Roosevelt Jefferson, the personal valet to every president since JFK, walked down the street of his Hyattsville, Maryland neighborhood lined with old maple trees, stripped bare by winter.
Christmas decorations adorned the lawns and facades of the small red brick houses, all bearing witness to his mission.

  He hadn’t felt this somber, duty-bound feeling for over fifty years. In his mind’s eye, he could still see her, bravely stoic, focused on her duty as the newest widow of the land, standing before her husband’s open closet. As she reached for the sleeve of a particular suit, young Mrs. Kennedy froze, her hand suspended in mid-air. She began to tremble.

  Joseph sees himself grabbing her hand. She had gripped it so hard, it seemed to have been with all the strength she had left in her. When he had added his other hand to strengthen his grip on hers letting her know he’d be strong for her, she took it as a sign to let go. Young Mrs. Kennedy’s legs slowly buckled. He barely caught her and held her close to his chest, moments longer than proper. She put her head on his shoulder. He gently eased them both down to sit on the side of the President’s bed. He’d intensified the strength in his embrace afraid it was not the proper thing to do. But for the rest of his life, he knew it was the right thing to do.

  Mrs. Kennedy, too young and vital to be a widow, released unfathomable grief and outrage, like he’d never heard anyone cry since.

  ‘Eternal heartbreak,’ he remembered thinking.

  His heart broke for her. His tears burned his eyes, dropping on the back of her neck and the shoulder of her mourning suit. Not knowing where the impulse came from, he began gently rocking her. Feeling this was what his Mama would have done had she been in his place until finally, Mrs. Kennedy’s sobs melted away. She had released her suffocating grief. She slowly re-gained her composure, now prepared to meet her duties head on. Joseph handed her his brand new monogrammed handkerchief.

  Joseph remembered saying, “he will be remembered. It will be because you will make it so.”

  She’d lifted her head from his shoulder, her beautiful face transforming by this new thought.

  She blinked, then wiped her tears with his handkerchief.

  Joseph’s words had shown her a new goal for her life. The path was hers to take. His words had shown her a new journey full of purpose. It foretold of her creation of a legacy for her husband, the heroic young President.

  Now he understood the lesson his Mama had tried hard to teach.

  ‘Powerful people live with powerful pressure on their hearts. Care for them, body and soul.’

  Joseph and Mrs. Kennedy had seen each other many times, publicly and privately after she left the White House. They had kept in touch years afterward, even when she was ill. He missed those special notes that arrived at his tiny brick home, always recognizing her handwriting and her personal scented stationery. Mama always left them in the box for him to find, knowing the sight of them gave him a catch in his heart. He could see them on the top shelf of his first keepsake cabinet tied in a Tiffany ribbon, next to the photograph of the three of them.

  Joseph heard his own footsteps on the sidewalk. He saw offspring of his red and white cyclamen blooming in his neighbors’ yards. He smiled, knowing the Jefferson legacy would live on in their neighborhood as a new thought fell into his head like a gift.

  ‘Only a handful of people would have seen the President’s clothes, yet it was her final duty as a wife, and my final duty as his valet, to see her husband, my President, properly dressed.’

  Joseph smiled thanking his imagined messenger, knowing this thought was meant to be a comfort to him now.

  Together, they had picked out the President’s favorite navy blue suit and his last Father’s Day tie. She’d insisted Joseph get another of his handkerchiefs for the President’s breast pocket. He had honored her request.

  THE MORNING crept back in. A school bus slowed, they were singing Jingle Bells.

  “Good morning Mr. Jefferson,” the children said emphasizing every syllable in their unified voices.

  He tipped his hat because that always made them giggle. In their sweetness, he found renewed confidence. Their smiling faces took the burden off his heart and placed it onto his shoulders, where he knew it belonged. He was a respected man and a chosen man. Tonight, he’d either be back in his room or in Federal Prison. That depended entirely on his President.

  A BLACK STRETCH LIMO with government plates and dignitary flags turned the corner and pulled into view. Joseph stopped in his tracks as it slowly made the turn into the narrow street.

  ‘They wouldn’t send a limo to arrest you, you old fool.’

  Common sense restored, he sighed. Jamal Smith, the limo driver exited the big car. Joseph felt his entire body relax.

  Unnoticed, Jamal’s smile grew into a dazzling grin.

  “Good Morning, Mr. Jefferson.”

  “That it is son, a mighty fine morning. Thank you for the ride.”

  Jamal bowed. Joseph patted him on the back as he entered the car. They rode slowly through the neighborhood and people stopped in their tracks, then waved as Joseph waved to them from the window.

  For years Joseph had repeatedly refused the car service, but he finally admitted he was getting a little older, and every year when winter came, he didn’t relish the Monday morning wait at the bus stop. The deep snow and icy streets made him choose his steps, slowly and carefully. He carried his ice cleats in his briefcase everyday. He’d hate to break a hip. But this size limo was too proud. A town car would have been preferable.

  Joseph had proudly guarded his privacy. With every new administration and new set of agents, the reaction to his tidy middle class neighborhood was something he didn’t like explaining every four to eight years. But he understood, security clearances and the desire of the new agents in the detail to be thorough. So graciously, during the Clinton era, he and his mother had accepted a small room in the White House and only went home on the weekends by bus, or when the First Family was traveling. Maybe the First Lady was behind this unexpected ride.

  The ride to the White House took about an hour. Jamal wondered what Joseph was thinking about so intently. As they entered the District, they drove past the old brick row houses finally refurbished. It had taken years for someone to recognize the entrance to the Capitol of the Free World deserved not to shout neglect and class division.

  The METAPHOR team reported to Dez after Joe’s limo cleared the White House gates.

  THE WHITE HOUSE gates and trees were beautifully decorated for the Holidays with lights, evergreen swags and wreaths. Big smiles spread across the guard’s usual somber faces, as they snapped into a formal salute. The guard inside the guardhouse picked up the phone.

  “Dwayne and Jorge snap a right smart salute. They can practice on me anytime.”

  “What makes you think they were practicing, Mr. Jefferson?”

  Jamal sunk into his jacket.

  The red carpet was the first thing Joseph noticed.

  The President and Mrs. Obama stepped onto the red carpet from under the maroon awning smiling, as Joseph’s limo approached.

  “The President must think I’m someone else.”

  “Probably,” Jamal said, trying not to snicker.

  Barack Obama, the 44th President of the United States and his beautiful, engaging wife Michelle stood waiting as the limo stopped in front of the vibrant, popular couple. The President opened the door for Joseph Roosevelt Jefferson, Master Chief White House Valet.

  “A fine good morning to you Joseph,” President Obama said beaming.

  Joseph accepted the President’s hand and help out of the limo.

  “Beautiful day isn’t it Joseph?”

  Michelle smiled with a twinkle in her eye.

  “Thank you sir. Good morning, ma’am, ’tis the season full of sweet memories. I do believe the Spirit is finally upon us. A very good morning to you both and Ma’am? Thank you for sending the car.”

  “Entirely my pleasure,” Michelle said searching his face.

  “Mr. President? I thought you were in Japan, sir?”

  “Well I was. But Joseph, it is not every day a man of your distinguished service celebrates fifty-five yea
rs at the White House. Sorry the economy got in the way of your fiftieth Joe.” The President beamed.

  “Oh my goodness,” Joseph said. Today’s date had completely skipped his mind.

  “A dear friend’s Golden Anniversary is just as important as any State visit. Besides. I guess I’m the boss. Come on now, let’s get this party started!”

  The President ‘raised the roof.’

  Joseph chuckled. Barack Obama slapped his valet on the back as Michelle threaded her arm through Joseph’s.

  Peter Souza, the White House photographer appeared. They posed for a photograph. Peter and his team of photographers followed close behind.

  The stately Marines snapped to attention and saluted. The President saluted them in return as they opened the doors.

  Joseph nodded as Peter got in front of them and snapped photos.

  “If this means a gold watch and retirement, it’s not for me, sir. I just want to work.”

  “This is your house Joseph. For as long as you want to call it home. We do understand. Like your mother Julia before you, no retirement is planned or anticipated.”

  “I do love this People’s House. Thanks for understanding. I’d forgotten about today.”

  “We were hoping you had,” Michelle kissed his cheek. “Happy Belated Anniversary.”

  FROM INSIDE THE WHITE HOUSE, the five piece Marine band in the corner of the East Room softly played Gershwin’s “Summertime” from ‘Porgy and Bess,’ Joseph’s favorite song.

  Michelle Obama’s mother Mrs. Robinson, who Joseph had grown very fond of, Michelle’s brother, Craig Robinson, and the girls, Malia and Sasha were waiting just inside the door, excited as they reached up to hug Joseph.

  “My beauties.” Joseph said, hugging them both.

  Malia whispered, “They thought it would be me who spilled the beans.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t, I am so surprised!” Joseph said giving Malia a squeeze.

  A huge crowd he couldn’t yet see yelled, “Surprise!”

  Sasha and Malia were happy, “he’s surprised. He’s really surprised!”

  Everyone was cheering and clapping. Lining the hallway decorated beautifully for the Holidays was the White House staff, past and present.