“Yes. It’s true, and he is.”
Liam folded his hands. “He’s also taking Jamie’s place. After a decent interval, our governor’s appointing him to the United States Senate. Pending the election.”
“They’d put that whore in Jamie’s seat? He’ll never win.”
“Hewill win. He’s got a cartload of suburban voters and all the money he needs.” Pausing, Liam’s voice was gentle. “There’s no one who can beat him.”
The sentence ended abruptly. What Liam had not said, suddenly did not need to say, hit Kerry in the pit of his stomach.
Liam looked at him calmly. “I’ve talked to the state chairman, and most of the committee. We know what we’re asking, son. But it’s you we’re wanting.”
Kerry sat back, shaken. “I’ve never wanted this, even when he was alive. I surely don’t want it now, likethis .”
Liam watched his face. “Then all I ask, Kerry, is that you tell me that tomorrow.”
A swirl of emotions brought Kerry to his feet—shame, anger at Liam, a feeling of betrayal. “All I’ve got to offer is a dead brother and the name Kilcannon. They’d be voting for a corpse, not for me. Why should they?” Kerry’s voice grew quieter. “They don’t knowme at all. But there’s one thingI’ve always known, ever since I was old enough to know anything. That I’m not Jamie.”
Liam gave him a bleak smile. “ ‘My arms are too short to box with God.’ Is that what you’re feeling?”
Kerry flushed. “It’s simpler than that. I’ve got no qualifications.”
“You’ve made yourself a fine prosecutor, Kerry, a friend to women. You’re a hero. And yes, you’re Jamie’s brother. All things to be proud of. Together, they can make you a senator.” Liam paused. “If you decide to be one.”
Kerry felt the irony come crashing down on him—so many assets, none earned. He slowly shook his head.
Liam’s voice was still gentle. “You’ve gone through a great deal, yourself been wounded by a madman. You’ve your mother to consider, and a wife. You’ve every right to say no. But before you do, ask yourself one question, for your own sake. Ask how you’ll feel if you turn your back on this.” Pushing up from the chair, Liam stood to face him. “You understand politics well enough, Kerry. I raised you to. But you’ve never understood just how much you can do.”
Kerry looked into his godfather’s face. “The other day,” he said at last, “I learned what Jamie said before he died. The last part.”
“And what was that?”
Kerry told him.
For a moment, Liam was quiet. “Pray on it,” he said.
TEN
When he told his mother of Liam’s request, she fell into deep silence, eyes veiled. Perhaps, Kerry thought, she was praying.
They were sitting in her living room. It was late afternoon and the room was shadowed; so little of this had changed, Kerry thought, since Jamie had lived here. Now only the two of them were left.
“What answer have you given him?” she said at last.
“I haven’t.”
She raised her eyes to him. “And you were expecting me to tell you no?”
He touched her arm. “I know how you feel, Mom.”
Tears came to her eyes. “Since you were born, I’ve prayed for your safety, like any mother. But I’ve always thought there was a reason for things, one that I can’t quarrel with.” Her hand covered his. “Search your heart, Kerry. Whatever you find there, then that’s what you should do. Because I know God loves you even more than I.”
* * *
Kerry entered the sanctuary at Sacred Heart.
At this hour, five in the afternoon, it was close to empty. He knelt before the altar, crossing himself, waiting for the vastness of the sanctuary, its hush, to calm the terrible force of his emotions.
Jamie hardly dead a week, and now they wanted him. Kerry shut his eyes.
Such a joke,he thought to himself.But what does it mean?
They wantedJamie , not him. What obligation did he have, because his brother had died, to live his brother’s life for him? And badly at that: Kerry could never be James, and the cost would be what Kerry dreaded most—endless comparisons to his brother; the merciless scrutiny of a thousand eyes along a path not of Kerry’s choosing; the jeers of those who thought him callous and an opportunist; the disappointment of others who projected onto Kerry all their hopes for Jamie; the fantasies that no man could fulfill.
You’re next, Kerry—if you can get your grades up a little.
How Kerry had despised him for it. How deeply, now, did he wish him still alive. How could they ask him to take Jamie’s place, when he might never sort out his feelings about Jamie himself?
They’d put that whore in Jamie’s seat?he had asked.He’ll never win.
He will win . . .
What was he most afraid of, Kerry wondered—Jamie’s shadow, or his own incapacity? Perhaps his brother had simply been a mirror in which Kerry saw his own truth more clearly than anyone else could see.
You’re a hero.
Once more, in Kerry’s memory, Anthony Musso raised the gun.
Perhaps that was his deepest fear, Kerry acknowledged. Another madman with a gun, driven by some warped circuitry that Kerry would never know.
You’ve every right to say no.
One more time,he had promised John Musso,and this will be over.
It’s not your fault,Clayton had said to him,that you’re still alive.
Kerry closed his eyes again, and prayed.
* * *
When, at last, he opened his eyes, Kerry saw Father Joe Donegan standing in the doorway behind the altar.
Rising, Kerry acknowledged him. The priest hesitated and then came forward.
“The quiet,” Kerry said. “It helps me think.”
Father Donegan studied him. It was thirteen years, Kerry thought, since Father Joe had vainly tried to dissuade Michael Kilcannon from brutalizing Kerry’s mother. Now he was gaunt, graying, growing older in the service of the Church as he watched his parish dwindle.
“Would you care to talk?” the priest asked gently.
No,Kerry thought,not about this. Of all the people in the world, there’s only one to whom I’d say all this. “I’ve been wanting to thank you,” Kerry answered. “For looking after my mother.”
“Mothers don’t expect to bury sons, Kerry. Sometimes faith in God is the only answer. That’s why she comes.”
“She’salways come.” Pausing, Kerry looked around them. “But it’s changed, hasn’t it?”
“That it has.”
Kerry shoved his hands in his pockets. “What would help, I wonder.”
“The parish, or the community . . . ? We need so many things—compassion, reconciliation. And then there are the more practical forms of help, like renewing abandoned buildings or simply tearing them down. They’re breeding grounds for all the things that corrupt our children.” The priest sighed. “Truth to tell, the kids are what worry me most. Not this parish, love it as I do.”
Kerry nodded and, touching the priest’s shoulder, left.
* * *
Driving home, Kerry thought of Liam.
You understand politics well enough. I raised you to. But you’ve never understood just how much you can do.
He found Meg in the living room, studying for her last exam; by fall, Kerry reminded himself, Meg would be an English teacher. Her job was already set.
As calmly as he could, Kerry explained what had happened.
Meg’s eyes widened. “My God, you’re really thinking about it, aren’t you? After all that’s happened.”
“It deserves at least that much, Meg. Whatever I decide, I’ll be a long time living with it.”
“Youhope .” Meg stood, arms folded. “You’ve just buried your brother, Kerry. How can you do this?”
“Please, I haven’t said I will. But there’s a reason Liam asked. If I don’t run, he thinks, Ralph Shue takes Jamie’s seat. That’s the last thing I’d want.”
She stared at him in incomprehension, her voice choked with emotion. “Ralph Shue?He’d be one senator among a hundred.” She caught herself, then came to him, laying her head against his chest. “I’m sorry, Kerry. I nearly lost you . . .”
Torn, Kerry stroked her hair. “I’m sorry too.”
“Please.” Her voice was muffled by tears. “You promised me.”
“I know,” he murmured. “But Jamie was alive then.”
Kerry felt her stiffen, looking up into his face. “And now you want tobe him. Because he’s dead?”
Kerry drew a breath. “No, Meg. I don’t want to be Jamie.”
She pushed back from him, her face tear-streaked. “I’m sorry. But if you do this, I won’t help you. I’ve got a life here, and a job I’ve worked hard for. Even if I weren’t afraid for you, I hate what politics does to women.” Meg shook her head, as if stunned by all that had happened, and then she spoke more quietly. “I won’t stand in your way, Kerry. If you go to Washington, I’ll come there when you need me. But I won’t go with you.”
Kerry looked at her. “Well,” he said softly, “at least our kids won’t miss me.”
Tears sprang to her eyes again. Turning, Meg left the room.
That night, they lay next to each other, silent. Kerry never slept.
In the morning, Kerry called Clayton Slade. “There’s something I need to ask you,” he began.
* * *
Four days later, schooled by Liam Dunn, an apprehensive Kerry met with Liam and three members of the party’s state committee—its chairman, Joseph Auletta; Walter Shipman, the head of an important union; and Carl Cash, a black former civil rights activist and a friend of Newark’s mayor. Looking around the table, Kerry reflected on the shrewd instincts that had enabled Liam, and Jamie, to survive among competing forces. But all of them wanted to keep the seat, and Kerry was the instrument at hand.
“There’s no point in my running,” he told them, “if the sixty other Democrats who’re better qualified start saying so in public. Which is surely what Shue’s hoping for, if he’s caught wind of this.”
His directness seemed to take Auletta by surprise. “Under these circumstances, Kerry, there won’t be any primary. If Senator Kilcannon hadn’t won the presidential nomination, he’d still have been our nominee for Senate.” Auletta paused. “No guarantee. But if you commit to us now, I think we can head off any problems.”
Kerry glanced at the others. “Do you agree?”
They nodded, watching Kerry.
“What else?” Auletta said.
“Money. Will there be enough?”
Auletta nodded. “There’s your brother’s network, Kerry. I know where the organization is,and the money. In that way, Senator Kilcannon left you in good shape.”
Senator Kilcannon,Kerry thought to himself. How long might it be, if ever, before these men thought of him as anything but Jamie’s surrogate. “I appreciate that,” he answered. “But if I do this, I’ll be running as me—whateverthat turns out to be—not as some poor imitation of my brother. Everyone will know why you’ve come to me. Why make it worse?”
Auletta nodded his agreement. This was meaningless, Kerry knew; what they expected was a malleable amateur, appealing enough—with proper coaching—to win by running under his brother’s name.
“There’s one more thing,” Kerry said. “I’d expect to name my own campaign manager. And I’d want it understood that everything, and everyone, goes through him.”
Auletta raised his eyebrows. “Do you have someone in mind?”
“Clayton Slade. We worked together in the prosecutor’s office.”
Watching Kerry, Auletta idly touched his nimbus of gray-black hair. In a dubious tone, he said, “I don’t know him. Has he ever run anything?”
“No. But he’s a very quick study. All he’ll need is help from you.”
Auletta gave him a long look of appraisal.Take your time, Kerry thought.We both know who asked me here, and that I can walk away.
“All right,” Auletta said at length. “We can put some good people around him. But you need to decide, Kerry—soon.”
“By tomorrow.” Kerry looked around him, speaking to the group. “One question, just for my own curiosity. The two senators pretty much control who the President appoints for U.S. attorney, right? Including in the district covering Newark.”
Not even a senator,Kerry could see Auletta thinking,and you’re already dispensing patronage. “You’d have a lot of influence,” Auletta replied. “Assuming that a Democrat’s in the White House.”
“That’s what I thought,” Kerry said.
They shook hands all around. It was only after the others left that Liam asked, “You’re going after Vincent Flavio, aren’t you? Your U.S. attorney would indict him.”
Kerry gave his godfather the smallest smile. “You forgot Nunzio,” he answered.
* * *
It was not easy.
“A Senate seat is not a bequest,” theNewark Star-Ledger editorialized, “however tragic the loss.” Its political columnist was more direct: “The Democratic Party has determined to replace a potential President with an Irish machine politician whose name, curiously enough, also happens to be Kilcannon.”
Kerry and Clayton worked hard to overcome this. But Kerry’s inexperience showed—there were issues he did not yet grasp, constituencies he did not understand—and Ralph Shue hammered relentlessly on Kerry’s lack of qualifications, his own years of experience. Frustrated, Kerry burst out at a rally, “Where did Mr. Shue learn to roll over and do tricks whenever the gun lobby whistles? Or drool like Pavlov’s dog when polluters ring the dinner bell? It must be all thatexperience . . .”
Almost instantly, Kerry regretted this; to his list of adjectives for Kerry, Shue now added “intemperate” and “immature.” For some voters, followers of Jamie, nothing Kerry could do or say was excessive; for others—and much of the press—Kerry seemed too volatile. When Auletta suggested that Kerry contact John Musso and his aunt, hoping for a TV ad to soften his image, Kerry refused. For several weeks thereafter, hamstrung by caution, he suffered Shue’s attacks, delivered from the lofty vantage point of the man’s knowledge and years of service.
The climax occurred at their last debate. Now leading by a point, Shue, emboldened, decided to attack with new force—Kerry would either lose his temper, as before, or suffer the attacks in silence. Finally, Shue turned to Kerry and said, “If your name was Kerry Francis, sir, your candidacy would be a joke.”
For a moment Kerry was silent, gazing into Shue’s square, smug face. “If my name were Kerry Francis,” he answered softly, “my brother would still be alive.”
Shue blinked. With an otherworldly detachment, Kerry realized that the last man he had seen this wounded was his own father, on the night when Kerry had beaten him. Only Clayton, perhaps, would understand how much the answer cost Kerry himself.
At thirty, the same age as his brother, Kerry narrowly won election to the United States Senate.
The Campaign
Day Two
ONE
Telling Kerry about Lara—the counselor’s notes, Cutler’s question, her lie in return—Clayton watched his friend closely.
Kerry’s stillness was so complete that he seemed not to breathe. His thoughts could have been anything—a terrible regret; the fear of discovery; the potential destruction of his hopes for the presidency—except for the look in his eyes. So that it did not surprise Clayton that Kerry’s first words were “How is she?”
They sat across from each other in Kerry’s suite. It was a little past six; Kerry had just come from the gym, and his hair was mussed, his forehead damp. Surrounding them was the hush of a giant hotel in the moments before the clatter of room service carts began, the muffled sounds of doors opening and closing. They had led this life for so long, uprooted from home yet surrounded by people, that Clayton sometimes forgot the utter solitude at its core.
“Devastated,” he answered simp
ly. “Because of then, and because of now. Though she’s trying not to show that.”
Kerry seemed to wince. His pain for Lara was so naked that Clayton looked away.
“She didn’t lie just for you, Kerry. She did what was best for both of you.”
Kerry folded his hands. “That’s what she thought two years ago. Does she still think it was, I wonder?”
Clayton was silent. “Whatever else,” he said at last, “you could never have become President. She left you free to choose. Just like now.” He paused again, then added quietly, “She doesn’t want to see you. For your sake as much as hers.”
This time, it was Kerry who looked away.
For a moment, Clayton let him be. They sat together in silence.
“So,” Clayton said at last, “there’s only one decision left for you to make.”
Kerry did not answer. The only sign that he had heard was the gaze he directed at Clayton, level but impenetrable.
“Newsworld,”Clayton continued, “will try to break this before Tuesday. That means Cutler’s coming to you next. Kit can try to buy you a little time. But it won’t be long until you’re face-to-face with Cutler, and have to make a choice.”
“Haveto?” Kerry stood, suddenly angry. “What happened between Lara and me has nothing to do with whether I’m fit to be President. Answering validates his right to ask.”
To Clayton, the response revealed how shaken Kerry was: unlike many politicians who, faced with trouble, create their own reality, Kerry had always been willing to acknowledge whatever difficulties he faced. “A ‘nondenial denial’?” Clayton asked. “Everyone knows that means ‘I did it.’ That won’t stopNewsworld from trying to get your cell phone records, questioning your neighbors, finding any maître d’ who ever saw you two together. What are you going to say when Cutler asks why you called her at three in the morning, or left her apartment at six—‘None of your business’?” Clayton stood to face him. “There’ll be enough to make you look bad. Without a flat denial, he prints it all.”
Kerry folded his arms. “So I let Nate Cutler make a liar out of me.”
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