by Jean Stone
Part III
Year 2000
Chapter 12
The worst part about being in a wheelchair was that you got parked in the damnedest places, facing in the direction that the person who parked you wanted you to face. Or didn’t want you to face. Or didn’t much think about at all.
Right now, Danny faced the wall. He knew he was perfectly capable of turning his chair around—he was, after all, only paralyzed from the waist down—but he didn’t much feel like staring at the black-veiled strangers filling the sanctuary, or the dark-suited politicians who’d come to pay their last respects to a man they either loved or hated, nowhere in between, or the stone-faced Secret Service agents who were only there because it was their job, a job that apparently did not include saving the life of an old man who had the misfortune of dying during a national presidential convention. Will Adams, Danny’s grandfather, had died of natural causes. As if anything about Will had ever been natural.
Suddenly Danny’s chair moved backwards, with the ghostlike motion he’d come to expect in the three years since his football injury.
“Why are you sitting over here?” came the voice of his sister, Mags, the mysterious chauffeur behind him.
“I guess Aunt Evelyn thought the congregation shouldn’t have to look at me.”
“Aunt Evelyn is wearing reinforced-toe pantyhose with sandals today. Which only proves what an asshole she is.” Mags spoke with a matter-of-factness that amused Danny, even though he knew it created an edge that irritated their mother and did little to endear his sister to some people she encountered except, of course, Aunt BeBe, who was a different story altogether and who at least couldn’t be stopped by asshole Aunt Evelyn from attending her own father’s funeral no matter how much she’d disliked him, too. Danny wondered if BeBe’s hair was still orange.
Mags wheeled him toward the side door of the small steepled church that had been built three hundred years ago and was probably not wired for the media presence today any more than the narrow white pews with the small wooden doors had been constructed to accommodate wheelchairs.
As Mags parked Danny under a stained glass window of John the Baptist, Danny wondered if their ancestors hadn’t needed to accommodate wheelchairs because if someone became handicapped, they simply hanged him. No longer able to toil in the fields or defend the colonies. No longer necessary. Simply a burden.
He surveyed the church’s white and maroon and mahogany decor that had not changed since the last time he’d been here, before the accident. Hell, it probably hadn’t changed since the Adamses’ ancestors arrived on Cape Cod in 1652 … or since the Bartons came a generation later. His mother, his father, families rooted so thick in New England soil that their tentacles shot downward to China instead of sprouting out toward the west, the wild, wild west. Pioneers, the Adamses and the Bartons were not. They were Yankees, rock-rigid, Boston-deep Yankees. Who ate their young and hanged their weak. And never—ever—discussed it with anyone.
The organmeister—a shriveled old man who perhaps had served at the Second Congregational Church of Boston since soon after the ancestors had arrived—pumped the pedals, and the recently refurbished (with Will Adams’s money, of course) tall brass pipes came to life. “Amazing Grace,” the brass pipes bellowed. Danny was surprised that Will had not had the words changed to “Amazing Will” in honor of himself. Perhaps he would have, had he known he’d have a massive coronary the night before the biggest night of his life.
Moving his eyes from the pipes to the altar to the purple-velvet-draped pulpit, Danny asked Mags, “Where’s Mom?”
His sister leaned down, lips to his ears. “Uncle Roger said it would be better if she and Daddy came in last.”
A sardonic grin passed across Danny’s face. “A grand entrance at a funeral? Yeah,” he nodded, “I suppose old Will would have wanted that.”
Mags lightly slapped Danny’s arm, which he would not have felt if she’d swatted him anywhere below the waist.
Below the waist. That mysterious place he once knew so well.
The organ music droned on.
Danny looked around at the dark suits and solemn dresses of the men and women of the funereal congregation. How many of them had taken a sidelong look at Will Adams’s grandson, wondering if he had any sensation below the waist—specifically (because though most of these stiff-upper-lipped folks wouldn’t admit it, what they really wanted was the specifics), could Danny get an erection and, if yes, could he feel it?
Danny would have given just about anything to be able to crawl from his wheelchair, climb up to the pulpit, lean into the microphone, and shout: The answer is no.
Instead, he closed his eyes and tried to keep his mind from wandering to that long-ago, magical place of glorious sex, to that wondrous place of pulsing great hard-ons and panting hot heat, of newly grown coed breasts and wet places between legs.
How sweet the sound … that saved a wretch like me …
Danny’s thoughts drifted to Anna, the young physical therapist at the rehab clinic in Switzerland where he’d spent two hapless years of costly treatment that went nowhere, though not for lack of effort on Anna’s part. Especially when, just before he returned to the States, she’d sneaked into his room long after dark, stood by the side of his bed, watching him watch her as she stripped in the moonlight that leaked through the wood-shuttered windows, her lovely round breasts firm and eager for tasting, her taut thighs invitingly parted ever so slightly. Anna had tried, but in the end it had not worked.
“You will never feel complete until you feel it in your mind,” Anna said as she tried to prod him. “In your mind is the only place it really counts.”
But it had not counted in his mind—at least, not enough—and Danny had been left staring up at the ceiling, asking God if his life was worth living and hearing only the peal of Swiss church bells chiming four o’clock in response.
I once was lost, but now am found, was blind, but now I see.
“Fuck,” he muttered.
“What?” Mags asked, leaning down to the wheelchair again.
He opened his eyes, shook his head, and slowly pulled himself back to today. “I’m going to miss Gramps,” he lied.
“No you’re not,” Mags replied. “Neither am I.”
Danny smiled and moved his gaze toward the lineup of the children of Will Adams who now filed in from the small chapel in the back: Roger, with Aunt Evelyn, leading the way, followed by BeBe, whose hair, hooray, still flamed like a sun-ripened carrot. Then there was a pause in the action, perfectly timed to the start of the final refrain of the hymn. His mother appeared. On her arm was the now-official candidate for president of the United States—better known to Danny as Dad—who had been unanimously selected in absentia while he’d been making funeral plans instead of taking bows. He’d been making funeral plans and trying to console Danny’s mother, who, quite possibly, was the one and only person who would miss Amazing Will Adams very much.
Aaaaamen.
The house on Beacon Hill had taken on the same eerie pallor that it had after Daniel’s funeral twenty-eight years ago: sunlight filtered in through the long lace draperies, the dust specks suspended over the polished mahogany woodwork, velvet sofa and easy chairs, and the century-old oriental carpets. It was a house of high ceilings and tall windows; a house that had once harbored Will and his wife and their four children until one of their children died, one left, and two married. It was a house where Mother had spent the ten years after Daniel’s death mostly in the bedroom. A house where three years ago the steps from the cobblestone walk had been converted to a wheelchair ramp, but where inside, the book-lined, cigar-scented study still overlooked the Hill, the way Will Adams had planned it, the way Will Adams had lived it.
Liz moved around the kitchen knowing it was up to her to see that the guests were fed, even though she had the aid of six catering people, even though she was the potential next First Lady of the United States and might have expected to be waited on instea
d of waiting on everyone else. She did, after all, have another job: like preparing to hit the campaign trail with her husband tomorrow—somewhere in Illinois, Roger had informed her, somewhere where the swing vote was critical, as if it weren’t critical everywhere Roger had organized for them to go, though some, he claimed, were more critical than others.
Michael had already lost three precious days of campaigning because Will Adams had inconveniently chosen now to drop dead.
Liz grasped the side of the counter, trying to quiet the wave of nausea that had been rolling within her since Father had turned gray and clutched at his chest. His death had been quick: the reporters had learned of the 911 call and one had even managed a shot of Michael administering CPR, a photo which saw Michael’s rating jump six points. In fact, if Liz had not seen them lower Will’s body into the ground with her own eyes today, she would have bet that it had all been an act—one more strategy in years of strategies choreographed by Father to ensure that his son-in-law and his daughter would make it to Pennsylvania Avenue.
“Dad wants to know if there’s any bourbon,” said Liz’s youngest child, Greg, as he skittered his seventeen-year-old, always-in-motion body across the hardwood floor and into the room. “It’s for Senator What’s-his-name. You know.”
Yes, Liz knew. It was for Senator Jameison, from somewhere in the south, who rumor had it dined on bourbon for breakfast and for most other meals, too, and spent more time juggling “favors” for the good old boys than working in his Washington office. Another wave of nausea rumbled through her. She wished that everyone would leave, that everyone, for once in her life, would just get out of the house and leave them the hell alone.
It really was their house now. Hers. Michael’s. The children’s. They had moved in with Father after Mother had died, bringing life once again to the old four-story place. Saving my damned life, Will Adams was known to have told others—especially reporters who might pick up on the image of family values and remember it when writing a piece on Michael.
“Mom?” Greg asked again.
She closed her eyes. “The bourbon is in the filing cabinet beside his desk,” she told him. Though no alcohol ever passed his lips while in public, even Will Adams enjoyed a good shot now and then. Mother, of course, had pretended not to know.
In the same way Liz pretended so many things, in order to have peace in her life.
“Oh, Daddy,” Liz whispered, suddenly longing for that controlling old man. While he’d been in charge, it had always been clear what was expected of you. There had been strength and security in his rules, as tough as they had sometimes seemed.
She opened her eyes and stared out the kitchen window, feeling not at all like a grown woman now, but like a little girl who wanted to sit on her father’s lap and hear him tell stories of farmers and blacksmiths and brave young soldiers—stories of their hero-ancestors without whom surely the colonies would never have survived, let alone risen to power; stories that underscored the responsibility of their family name, and the importance of never forgetting it.
BeBe, of course, had long since forgotten it, somewhere around age ten, Liz suspected.
Roger had not forgotten, though he preferred to do his duty behind the scenes rather than at the podium.
And Daniel … well, Daniel was dead.
Gazing up at the pale summer sky that hung over the garden, Liz wondered what would have happened if Daniel had not been killed. He would have been the one on his way to the White House, and maybe then Will Adams would have found a way to survive until after the inauguration.
Daniel’s funeral, of course, had been much different. The mourners had spoken in disbelieving, hushed voices marked by occasional outbursts of sobs and deep, painful wails. There had been no talk of what a wonderful life Daniel had had, for twenty-two years did not account for much of a life. And the house on Beacon Hill was not filled with senators and congressmen and people who mattered.
Even Will Adams had succumbed to a grief so penetrating that he could not share it with the world, could not exploit his son’s death for the sake of front-page news.
At least, it had seemed that way until Will decided to place a gold star in the front window on Beacon Street—a World War II symbol meaning that a son had been killed in a war, defending his country.
It was that star that had driven BeBe from the house once and for all.
“Daniel was not killed in the war, Father,” BeBe had said.
“He was killed during wartime, that’s all that matters,” Will gruffly replied.
“He wasn’t even in Vietnam yet,” BeBe hissed. “He was still in boot camp.”
Father had not replied, and BeBe grew angrier.
“For godsake, Father,” she’d shouted, “he was shot by an overeager kid from the Bronx who had an M16 shoved into his hand. He was shot by a kid, Father. One of ours. In boot camp, Father. Not in the fucking war!”
Father’s face had turned deep purple; thick veins appeared where Liz hadn’t known there were veins. He pointed his finger in BeBe’s face and yelled: “Your brother is a hero, missy. And if, for one minute, you don’t believe that, then you don’t belong in my house.”
BeBe had seethed. “What I know, for a fact,” she said evenly, firmly, “is that Daniel’s death is no one’s fault but your own. You know it, and I know it. You may as well have killed him yourself.”
Liz could still feel the shiver that had run down her spine then, could still remember the cold, accusing look in her sister’s eyes, and, worse, the way Father had stood statue-still, not denying her charges, not defending himself.
Liz had left the room, not wanting to know more.
That night, BeBe had left home and never returned, not until now, when it was no longer Will’s house but Liz’s. Liz and Michael’s, according to the will. The star had long since been removed from the front window, and yet the scars forever remained: scars of Daniel, and now, scars of Will.
Liz closed her eyes to the ache in her head and wondered how she was supposed to get on a plane tomorrow and head for Illinois as if nothing had happened, as if she had no feelings inside her at all.
“They’ll be gone soon, Lizzie,” Roger said, carrying dirty dishes into the kitchen instead of leaving them for the caterers. “Then you’ll be able to pack.”
He set the dishes on the counter, and she stared at the remnants of brown “party” meatballs and bits of coleslaw. “I’m not sure if I can handle tomorrow, Roger.”
“It’s a National Businesswomen’s Alliance luncheon. Followed by the dedication of a new Center for Handicapped Youth. You’ll love it.”
“I won’t love it. I’m tired.”
“You can sleep on the plane.”
She kept her eyes fixed on the dishes. “You seem to be forgetting that Father just died.”
“And you seem to be forgetting that the last thing Father would have wanted would be for you to stay here moping when Michael needs you out there by his side.”
She blinked and looked up at her brother, at the angular-boned face she knew so well, framed though it was now by thinning, graying hair. She was not familiar with this strength in his voice. A thought flashed through her mind: now that Will Adams was dead, would the second son—finally, truly—become his own man after all? She looked squarely into Roger’s eyes. “I don’t believe it’s called ‘moping,’ dear brother. I believe it’s called ‘mourning.’ ”
Roger recoiled. “I’m mourning, too, Liz. But the campaign …”
From the next room came the sounds of laughter. Male laughter. Good-old-boy, guffawing kind of laughter. Liz came precariously close now to a full, gut-wrenching vomit. “You see?” she cried, pointing toward the doorway. “The campaign. Everything is about the damn campaign.”
“It’s how Father wanted it …”
Heat rose in her cheeks. “Well, it’s not what I want. Not anymore. I want some peace and quiet. I want some time without clusters of cameras around me and a bevy of Secret Service m
en in my face. I need some time, dammit. I need some time to grieve.” Her lower lip quivered.
Roger held out his hand and lightly touched her cheek. “But don’t you see, Lizzie? There is no time. Not now. After November you can grieve. After the election.”
The voices guffawed again.
“No,” she said, turning away from Roger. “I’m not going to Illinois tomorrow, Roger. I can’t. And if Michael loses the election, it won’t be my fault.” But along with the wave of nausea now came the fear that maybe it would be her fault, and that maybe the rest of her world would come crashing down, too, for maybe she had been a fool to think that it wouldn’t. And maybe she had been the biggest fool of all to have allowed herself to live in the vortex—and by the directives—of Will Adams all her life. And maybe his death would signify the beginning of her own demise.
Liz grabbed the plates and scraped off the garbage as if it were poison, as if it could kill.
Evelyn, of course, had overheard the whole thing, because she’d always practiced the art of lingering in doorways. One learned so much that way.
And now she learned that her sister-in-law had decided not to campaign. God, she hated it when people were directed by their emotions.
As Roger emerged from the kitchen, Evelyn grabbed him by the medium-starched collar. “And just what do you plan to do about this?”
Roger blinked. “Evelyn, stop it. Let go of my shirt.”
She released her grasp and pointed her finger close to his face. “You can’t let her do this,” she whispered hoarsely, making sure to keep her voice below the monotone cadences of the after-funeral visitors in the other rooms. “Your sister is as important to the campaign as Michael himself.”
“Excuse me, but Michael is the one who will be elected, not Liz.”
“You know better than that. Your father always stressed that the public buys not just the man but the package. Part of that package is the dead war-hero brother, the son in the wheelchair, and the strong woman heroine.” She put one hand on her hip and stared into his eyes.