by Warren Adler
He waited now for the last signs to come, the ultimate signals. Every sensor in his being was tuned in to pick them up. They would come of their own accord, as the others had come. Yet, they had merely been dress rehearsals for the main event.
During the swearing-in ceremonies, he had sat a number of rows behind the President on the Capitol steps, a reward for his fundraising efforts. He was probably visible in the photographs, another footnote to history, and archivists would one day pore over them with a magnifying glass looking for his face. This is the man that saved America, they would say.
Before he dressed, he studied the photograph of Lincoln’s swearing-in. It was the first photograph ever taken of that event. Lincoln and the crowd behind him looked blurred, but an astute eye could see that the tall man in the stovepipe hat, looking wan and tired, was marked for death. Hadn’t Wilkes himself been in that crowd?
It was appropriate that the cosmic presence had urged him to do Lincoln last. Wasn’t he the last great leader, the Emancipator, the one who preserved the American nation as God had meant it to be? Were we one day doomed to be a splintered nation again, torn apart irrevocably by decadence, alien creeds, indifference, selfishness, greed? The nation craved the historical reminders he was being ordained to recreate.
Each mission accomplished had brought him one step closer. The day would come when the world would understand what he had achieved. I am tolling the bells, he told his images in the mirrors. There was one spot in the room where bits of his reflected image could be seen on every mirror at once. They were like people, seeing him differently. Only one had ever truly seen him whole.
“Mother! See me.” He stood, as he always did in that spot, naked, revealing himself to her. He watched that part of him grow, pulsate with life, the blood surge. “My young god,” she had told him. He had watched her eyes, lashes fluttering, felt her sweet soft touch gently on his flesh, the ecstasy so moving that the joy of it, the residual wonder of it, would stay with him for a lifetime. Even now, he felt it; could recall it at will.
“You mustn’t ever,” she had told him. He had stood before her, contrite, humiliated, ashamed. The gardener’s boy. She had seen them at it. The boy was pretty, with large sad eyes that would stare out with longing as he helped his father trim the hedges, rake the flower beds around their pool.
Young Tad, as he referred to himself even then, had invited the boy for a swim. It was, he knew, even then a powerful unnatural force, leaving him without will. It was dusk, the sun glowing golden in a display of California spring and he had told the boy that there was no need of bathing suits, not then with darkness coming. Hadn’t he shown him by removing his own clothes? The boy had hesitated, turning shyly as he removed his shirt and pants, his pink skin glittering in the golden glow, a fleshed reed swaying gently in the warm breeze.
“It’s all right,” he had whispered, still not diving, showing himself, watching the boy’s grow and lift. Time had only deepened the imagery. The boy had come closer, hesitant, moving silently. He had by then grown to his fullest. Young Tad as well. They had simply moved toward each other. The dusk was tardy that night. It was the first time in his life that he had understood the sign. The divine will had simply stopped time so that his mother could see.
On the balcony above the pool, backlit by her dressing mirror, which had caught the last golden spears of the hesitant sunlight, she had seen them. What had brought her to the balcony at exactly that moment? Since it was the first sign, he had naturally puzzled over it. Why had she deliberately waited?
He had seen her only when he had turned; he, a bitch dog in heat, on his hands and knees on the trimmed grass, the gardener’s boy doing him like a giant mastiff, grunting, sweating. By then, neither of them could stop. The gardener’s boy was too busy with his pleasure. It came, young Tad was certain, at exactly that point that he had seen his mother, had met her eyes and seen in them the terror. Young Tad knew, too, that he could never live with that look of terror, that it had to be erased for all time.
She had quickly disappeared inside her room. The darkness had descended like a dropping stone and he seemed at once to be faced with only two alternatives. To throw himself in the pool or go up to her and erase that terror. He chose the latter.
She was sitting quietly, looking into her mirror, staring through tears. He was certain that all she was seeing was the two boys, in their animal squirming, their obscene coupling. In his panic, he had not bothered to put on his bathing suit and he kneeled against her, naked and miserable, a supplicant.
“Forgive me, mama,” he cried, flooding her peignoir. He reached upward, hungering for her embrace. She turned toward him after a while, her cheeks moist, her lips trembling. Briefly, she studied young Tad’s ravaged face, then grasped him to her soft, soothing, billowing breasts. Below her peignoir, she, too, was naked and, surely by divine design, a snowy breast revealed itself and he kissed the hard nipple.
She held him there for a long moment, then lifted him, stretching her arms before his nakedness.
“You mustn’t ever,” she said gently. By then, her peignoir was fully opened.
“My darling boy,” she whispered, her lips touching him. He watched the rising of himself again, not obscene now, pure, cleansing. She lifted her breasts, which formed their own warm caress, around him.
“A man,” she said, looking clearly at him. His hands caressed her soft blonde hair. “My man. You must be a man.”
Standing there, wrapped in her flesh, he felt the floodgates open and the obscenity, the unnatural evil, spill out of him. In its place was his gratitude, his love.
“Oh, mama,” he cried as she held him. Tears of joy came then. He felt the sweet touch of her, her goodness and purity. She stood up and removed her peignoir, showing him her full body in the soft light, the curved womanly form.
“Look at me.” She turned in a complete circle. Then she walked toward her bed, leading him by the hand. She lay back, watching him.
“I am woman,” she said. Her voice was a song. She opened her body to him and, for the first time, he saw what a woman was.
“My baby,” she purred. He hesitated, wanting to stand there forever. He stared at the darkness between her legs until she reached out to touch him and bring him to her.
“Mama. Mama.”
He heard it again. Now! How many times had he said it when she was alive?
“You are a man. My man,” she had cried out.
He heard the words again, gasping out of her, proving his manhood.
“Mama, mama.”
He shuddered, feeling waves of pure joy, the intensity of which would mark him forever. But he knew the pact was made at that moment.
Moving from that spot which replicated his full mirror image, he carefully laid out his tuxedo, his jade studs, his patent leather shoes with the bows, his diaphanous bikini undershorts, lingering over the smooth silky fabric, then laying it neatly on the bed. A long shower calmed him and by the time his guests arrived, he could greet them with complete confidence: with his carefully cultivated charm, the shy self-effacing smile to put them at their ease, the humorous jibe, offering the intimate bonding of peers.
He knew exactly how it was done, the admiring glance for the ladies, the discreet flap of his lashes, the meassured pressure of the handclasp, the brief intensity of serious conversational exchange, revealing a bit of personal, informed knowledge that flattered and reassured them.
“Soon you will be playing ping-pong with computers on your television sets,” he told the Chinese ambassador who arrived, as always with his interpreter and his inscrutable smile.
To a defeated congressman already connected to a major defense contractor, he said: “By the end of the year, you’ll be screaming for tax shelters.” And to his wife, he whispered: “Put it in diamonds. They’re still a girl’s best friend.”
“That’s what I need most,” she agreed with pleasure.
Most of the guests arrived red faced and agitated by the tr
affic, the crowds and congestion of the various Inaugural balls. When one bar got too crowded, he showed people to the others.
“The President looks marvelous. It’s a wonder he can still smile in that flesh crush,” a senator said, between bits of cheese puffs.
“He must show himself as superior to the discomfort,” Remington said seriously. “A true leader knows what to do.”
“Your house is the only place to be, Tad.” It was the wife of the German ambassador, showing her usual expanse of bosomy flesh, itching as always for a flirtation, and he chose not to discourage her. There was currency in flirtation as well. Everything depended on appearances, mystique that hinted of vast potential gain.
He had invited people new to Washington, politicians and administrators swept in by the winds of change, their eager faces unable to mask their ambition as they wallowed in the trough of power. They came to town in waves, grasping at the coattails of the ultimate manifestation of it, the Presidency.
“It was wonderful. Wonderful.” A newly appointed cabinet minister exulted. “I love it.”
“That’s because you’re one of the stars,” Remington said. The man flushed with happiness and dipped into a glass of champagne.
“We may not be able to get things done. But we’ll sure as hell have fun.”
He had invited members of the press as well, although cameras were strictly forbidden. To a lady from “W,” he was charmingly firm.
“He can come in and drink, but he’ll have to check his camera at the door.” A number of photographers had gathered shivering in the cold, their puffy faces lost in icy vapors. They were like a herd of cattle, magnets to the trappings of power.
“We must remember to feed the animals,” he told the caterer.
“We have an outdoor coffee van for the chauffeurs,” the caterer assured him.
“Those as well,” he said, pointing to the growing knot of reporters and photographers. The caterer scurried off.
“Fantastic as always, Tad.” The voice was familiar and Remington turned to face Bruce Rosen and his girl friend. He shook his hand and embraced his upper arm, then gave Fiona a two-cheeker.
“This guy is going places,” he told her.
“Thanks to you, Tad.” Bruce lowered his voice. “I’m very grateful.” He felt Fiona’s uneasy stare.
“I’ve got a clear shot . . . “
It was Bruce speaking, but Remington’s mind had drifted. A spear of panic jogged him. Shot? He remembered suddenly what kind of work she did. Another sign! Had she worked on any of the cases?
“ . . . at the Senate seat,” Bruce continued.
“We’ll make it,” he murmured, nodding, turning to the girl. Was she probing? Was it his imagination? He shook off the strange sensation, determined to speak with her later.
“Maybe even higher some day. The President,” he said, watching the policewoman’s face.
“Why would anyone want that job?” Fiona asked.
“Because it’s there,” Remington quipped.
“There’s not a man in this room wouldn’t give his right nut for the job,” Bruce said, upending his Scotch.
“Soon maybe the left as well,” Remington showed his teeth, masking the sting. There was a sign in this somewhere, he told himself, certain the woman would respond. The odd tension between them quickened his interest.
“What’s a woman to give?” she asked.
“The matter hasn’t come up,” Bruce said, grinning stupidly. A slight thickening of his speech revealed that he had taken one drink too many.
“It will,” she said firmly.
“A good woman can work wonders,” Remington said.
“You mean an ambitious woman,” Fiona responded quickly. Remington wondered whom she was really addressing.
“Behind every great man is a woman,” Bruce said, clasping her arm. “I hope this one will go the route.”
“You could do worse,” Remington said.
“I have,” Bruce giggled.
A female guest distracted him suddenly, tapping his shoulder. He turned and grimaced. It was Louise Padgett. She hadn’t been invited and he was surprised to see her. “We’ll talk later,” he said smoothly. It was meant for Fiona and he was certain that she understood.
“I came anyway,” Louise said, obviously drunk. Her makeup was smeared, her face puffed and distorted.
“I read about your party in the papers.”
“You look wonderful, Louise,” he said, determined to placate her. He had discarded her, never answering her calls. She had only been an instrument. Didn’t she know that?
Louise took a glass of champagne from a silver tray, tossed it off and took another one.
“You threw me away like a piece of meat.”
“Not here.”
“Where then?” she sneered.
Guests crowded in. The noise level increased. Remington nodded, shaking hands.
“Prince Charming,” Louise snickered, spilling some champagne on her gown.
She finished her champagne and leaned on the wall for support. He took the glass from her, grasped her arm and led her through the crowd, smiling as he maneuvered her through the corridors, into the kitchen.
“A bit under the weather,” he whispered to Mrs. Ramirez.
“I’ll help.”
He signaled her away.
“It’s all right,” he said, dragging her along. He managed to get her to the back stairs and, half-lifting her, steered her into his bedroom, locked the door and pushed her on the bed. She fell with a half bounce and lay there like a discarded puppet.
Her eyes were open. She looked at the carved eagle and dissolved into hysterical laughter.
“Drunken slut.” He hadn’t expected her to comprehend, but she turned her bloated face toward him, squinting, struggling to focus her eyes.
“Gimme a drink,” she blurted, her lips dribbling saliva. He felt a wave of nausea.
“I’ll get somebody to drive you home.”
“Drink,” she cried. “Fuggin’ bastard. Use people. All alike. Like him. Somebitch. Stick it in, then spit on me. I’m a human been, you fuggin’ bastard.”
She tried to rise on one elbow, fell, then, grabbing a bedpost, lifted herself.
“Ish not fair,” she whimpered.
“All right,” he said, flashing a forced smile, moving toward her, touching her cheek. His hand recoiled. “Just stay quiet.”
He ran down the stairs, found a glass and took a bottle of champagne from an ice bucket and brought it back to the bedroom. She was still sitting where he had left her.
“See.” He held up the bottle of champagne. “Nothing but the best.” She took the glass he offered her with a shaking hand, she drank unsteadily, the liquid slopping down her chin. He poured more.
“Drink up.” He tipped the glass for her, watching her swallow repeatedly. Her eyes glazed over and she dropped the glass on her lap. The stain spread over the satin material of her gown and she looked at him dumbly, barely able to raise her head. Pushing her gently, he laid her on her side. She had passed out.
Relieved, he let himself out, locking the door from the outside. Breathing deeply, composing himself, he walked slowly downstairs into the crowd and made his host’s rounds.
The drunken woman was a brief annoyance. After she slept it off, she would be mortified and embarrassed. Now, he sensed, the true tests were coming. Would he measure up? He would be given doubts to overcome. He would be rendered vulnerable. He would have to be alert. All his inner resources would be questioned. His courage as well. Obstacles would be placed in his path. He would have to take risks.
At that moment he saw Bruce’s girl friend. She was sitting alone on the floor of his Rustic Room, eating from a plate balanced on her lap. One of a group clustered around a television set, she watched the election night activities. The President was getting out of his limousine, waving to a crowd, making an appearance at the last Inaugural ball, one of ten. The announcer was commenting on his ebullienc
e, his lack of fatigue after such a frenetic day. In the camera’s eye, the President plunged into the crowd, shaking hands, wearing his well-honed grin. The phalanx of Secret Servicemen were obviously having a difficult time, jostled by the surging crowd. But the President was undaunted, displaying himself, an offering for their adoration. He was the President, the American leader, the father.
“Isn’t it dangerous?” someone asked. Remington saw the picture through a film of mist. Below him, he heard Fiona say:
“Yes, it’s dangerous. Any crackpot with a weapon can do him in.”
“Then why expose himself?” another man asked. He was a lobbyist for an important arms manufacturer, a heavy-set man with a plate piled high with food.
“He is the President,” Remington said with passion.
“We’ve had enough dead Presidents,” the man said. “That’s not his job.”
“A child also needs a father,” Remington said sharply.
“I agree,” Fiona said. “He wants the job. He takes his chances. Anyone with the will could do him in.”
“Or with a gun,” Remington said. Again the words came in a rush, without prior warning. He knew that he was merely a spokesman, a conduit.
“They’d have to be crazy. A psychopath.”
“Not necessarily,” Remington said. Again by rote. The woman turned to him and eyed him curiously. He felt her careful observation, the sense of exhibitionism in himself. See me, he commanded silently. Can you really see me?
“Nobody in their right mind could possibly want to shoot the President of the United States.”
“Right is relative,” he said. She was silent for a moment, turning back to watch the television screen. The President was moving through the crowds. The Secret Service had reorganized its phalanx and the President and his wife were moving toward the stage, still waving, still smiling.
“I suppose,” she said, “a person could construct his own logical motivation, even though it may be logical only to himself. I’ve seen it a number of times in my work.”