“I see. So this is no longer a political issue. Now we are talking about my personal life?”
“Well, you know what they say, Mr. Coleman. In politics, perception is reality. And it’s undeniable that you have only been seen in the company of white women.”
Anton stared at the spot on the wall behind Crow’s head as he struggled to control his temper. “It may be undeniable to you, John, but I’m going to deny it anyway.” His voice was cold, dripping with hostility.
John Crow gave a start of surprise. “Mr. Attorney General. Are you telling me you’ve dated a black woman?”
“For three years in college,” Anton said. And realized, with satisfaction, that he had thrown Crow off his stride, albeit momentarily.
“Really. What was her name?”
Anton smiled and wagged his finger. “You’ll just have to take me at my word. The last thing I want to do is have the poor woman see her name in Rolling Stone.” He looked at his watch pointedly. “As you know, I have another appointment at three-thirty. Are we almost done here?”
Crow smiled. “Almost.”
THE INTERVIEW RAN three weeks later, and it was not the hatchet job he’d feared. He was mentally composing a thank-you note to Crow when he turned to the jump and his heart stopped momentarily as his eyes fell on Carine’s name. Fuck. Damn that John Crow. How the hell had he managed to track her down? Stomach muscles clenching, Anton read the paragraphs dealing with his relationship with the “enigmatic, charismatic Carine Biya,” as the article described her. John had done his homework—there was Colin George, Anton’s doubles partner at Harvard, recalling, “They were inseparable. And very much in love.”
And then there was a quote from Carine herself. Jack had managed to find her in a suburb of Atlanta, where she now lived. Anton closed his eyes for a second, bracing himself for the worst. And was flooded with gratitude when he read what she’d said: “He was the most even-tempered guy I’d ever met and not the least bit pretentious. I mean, I think we’d dated for months before I even found out who his daddy was.” She went on to tell some funny anecdote about an old red flannel shirt with holes in the elbows that Anton refused to throw away despite her cajoling. He hadn’t the slightest idea whether the story was real—he could recall no such shirt—but he read the anecdote with an appreciative politician’s eye: It was the kind of story about frugality and regular-guy behavior that voters loved.
He almost immediately signed on to his personal email account. His in-box was already flooded with friends offering their congratulations; apparently more of them read Rolling Stone than he’d been aware of. He began to compose a thank-you message to John Crow, then stopped. Instead, he picked up the phone and dialed the reporter’s cell number.
John answered on the third ring. “Yup?”
“John? It’s Anton Coleman. Good piece. I just wanted to call and thank you.”
“Great. Glad to know it worked out.”
“Though I do wish you’d left that poor woman alone.” He said it friendly, with just the slightest reproach in his voice.
“Carine? Oh, she was fine. She was more than happy to talk to me about you.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Anton hesitated a second before asking, “So, do you have an email for her or something? I’d—I’d like to thank her, you know, for her gracious remarks.”
He heard John’s low chuckle, knew that the reporter had picked up on his awkwardness. “No problem, Mr. AG. Give me a second to find it.” He heard Jack rummaging around. “Here it is. You ready?”
After they hung up, Anton stared at the piece of paper where he’d written Carine’s email address. Would Katherine be mad if she found out he’d written to Carine? Well, there was no reason for her to be jealous. Carine was someone from his distant past, and all he was going to do was send her a note thanking her for her kind words. Why, it was virtually part of his job description.
His tone in the email was friendly but polite, and he was careful to avoid any personal reminiscence. In other words, it was Katherine-proof. He reread the email and was about to hit send when he added, “P.S. Let me know what’s new in your life?”
Even though he hated himself for it, he found himself checking his in-box during the day, but Carine had not written back. As had become his custom, he drove to see his father directly after work and agreed to stay for supper when he caught the look of loneliness in his mother’s eyes. He sent a quick text to Katherine explaining the situation. William, who had taken a leave of absence from the hospital to be full-time in his father’s employ, cut David’s chicken for him as they ate.
“So did you see the article, Dad?” he asked, and David nodded.
“I read it to him this morning, honey,” Delores said. “He wouldn’t even go for his bath until I had.”
His father was saying something in the low, raspy voice that he’d acquired after his bypass, and Anton leaned in to catch what he was saying. “That girl—Carine—she said nice things.”
“Why wouldn’t she?” Delores’s voice was tight with remembered insult. “We were nothing but good to her.”
Anton grinned. “Mom. Relax. Everything’s fine.”
Delores nodded. “Where’s Katherine tonight?”
“At home.” Anton kept his tone light. “Why?”
“No reason. I like Katherine. She’s more—your type.”
William was looking at them quizzically and Anton sighed. “I know, Mom. I know.”
After he got home, he and Katherine stayed up to watch The Daily Show and then went to bed with their personal iPads. Both insomniacs, they would listen to music or watch a movie until they dozed off. He was almost asleep when he heard the ping announcing the arrival of a new email, and his stomach lurched when he saw it was from Carine. He glanced over at Katherine, lying inches away from him, and with a spasm of guilt, he realized that he wished he was alone. He rolled out of bed, ignoring Katherine’s half-asleep “Where’re you going?,” and went into the kitchen, taking his iPad with him. He pulled a carton of milk out of the fridge, slamming the refrigerator door loud enough for Katherine to hear it, and opened the email. He was gratified to see that it was several paragraphs long.
She had received his email earlier today but wanted to wait until she’d put the kids to bed. Yes, she had kids, twins, five-year-old boys. Could he believe it, that she was a mom? Some days she could hardly believe it herself. And boy, did they keep her busy. There was no mention of a husband, a fact that Anton noticed immediately. It didn’t surprise him, the possibility that she was a single parent. She was brave enough to do something like that.
She had kept tabs on his career, of course. She confessed that she had a Google alert that informed her of his accomplishments. The night he’d won his AG election, she’d toasted him with some friends. She was so proud of him, she wrote, but not the least bit surprised that the boy that she had known and loved in college had made his way in the world. Anton’s gaze lingered over that word—loved—and suddenly, something opened up within him, a large, hollow spot, and he was crying. He knew he was being ridiculous, knew that Katherine could walk in on him at any moment and that he’d have a hard time explaining away his tears, but he couldn’t stop. Carine had been his first real love, and he was grateful that he had chosen someone as decent and kind and substantial as she. He had not always been so lucky or discriminating, had dated some real doozies. He had seldom argued with those women the way he had with Carine, but, it occurred to him now, it was only because he had cared less.
But Katherine’s not one of those women, he now reminded himself. Katherine is smart and funny and compassionate and sensitive. You love her. And she would be mortified if she knew that you were coming undone because of an email from a woman you loved when you were a boy. Katherine is the present and possibly the future. Carine is the past. A woman whose life, by her own admission, is deadly dull and boring. Whereas Katherine had dinner with Bill and Melinda Gates a week ago.
In Rio. And that’s not even it. The point is, it is Katherine, not Carine, who is in the bedroom, waiting for you to crawl under the covers with her.
He poured the glass of milk into the sink, rinsed it, and turned off his iPad. Then he switched off the kitchen light and slipped back into the bedroom.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Uncle Connor was glowering at the man who sat across from him when Anton walked into the conference room. The only other person present was Annie Bunter, John Newman’s press secretary. “Hey, guys,” Anton said as he pulled up a chair next to Connor. “What’s so urgent that it couldn’t wait till after the ceremony?”
Before either one of Newman’s staff members could speak, Connor pushed a sheaf of papers toward Anton. “Get a load of this,” he growled. “This is what Newman plans to say in his acceptance speech. In less than half an hour.” Connor bared his teeth at Bill Schroder, Newman’s speechwriter, who scowled back. “Over my dead body,” Connor added.
Anton glanced at the highlighted section:
Our previous governor came into office nearly two decades ago promising to clean up corruption. Instead, we have seen one scandal after another during his time in power. After our last attorney general resigned in disgrace there was a real chance to clean house, to bring fresh blood into that office. But what did Governor Coleman do instead? He threw his support behind his own son, despite the thinness of his résumé. The people of this state are sick of nepotism. While we are grateful to Governor Coleman for his years of service, the time has come to turn the page. From this day forth . . .
The paragraph rolled on, but Anton looked up, sickened by Newman’s treachery. “You bastards,” he swore, looking straight at Bill. “This is how you repay my father for putting Johnny on the ticket? By kicking him while he’s down?”
“For chrissake, Anton,” Bill said. “We’ve been more than patient, I’d say. Any other politician would’ve demanded that your dad resign months ago, given his prognosis. The state’s been left in limbo for five months now.”
“That’s what this is about? Johnny’s pissed because he didn’t permanently get his grubby hands on the levers of power fast enough?”
“Aw, come on, man,” Bill protested, shifting in his seat. “You guys are taking this far too seriously. It’s one lousy paragraph. He praises David elsewhere in the speech. Look, it’s politics. We have the freakin’ Tea Party breathing down our necks. It’s nothing personal.”
Anton’s hand, which was resting on the pile of paper, curled into a fist. “You’re calling my father corrupt, you jerk,” he said. “So you bet your ass it’s personal.”
Bill shook his head. “Anton. Be reasonable.” He turned to look at Annie for support, but she stared straight ahead. “I don’t believe this,” he said. “I’ve never seen such thin-skinned people.”
Anton stood up and pulled a pen out of his shirt pocket. He picked up the paper and drew a large X over the offending passage. “You take this back to your boss, you New York flack,” he said, his eyes flashing. “You tell him to delete any insults to my dad. Or else he’s going to have a primary challenge for 2016.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Anton saw Connor’s head jerk up. Annie, too, was staring hard at Anton, her eyes searching his face. But he focused his attention on Bill, who seemed unsure what to do next. “You’re full of shit,” Bill said finally, but his voice lacked conviction. “You’d just be throwing the election to the Republicans. You know that.”
Anton smiled a slow, predatory smile. “And that is precisely why you will change your goddamn speech.” He nodded to Connor. “Come on, Uncle Connor. Let’s give Billy here some time to rework his pretty little speech.”
Anton could feel Annie’s gaze on him as he crossed the room. He and Annie had always liked each other, and he had a hunch that she was rooting for him on this one. His body vibrated a little as he walked out of the room, adrenaline surging through him. He crossed the hallway, heading toward the ballroom in the Governor’s Mansion. Connor hurried to keep up with him, saying something laudatory, but Anton wasn’t really listening. He was amazed by the purity of his anger, that rush of aggression, something he had always abhorred. But now that he’d had a taste of it, he knew he wanted to taste it again. He understood now why his father had clung to his office until today, five months after his heart attack, hoping against hope that he’d recover enough to run the state again. Power was a drug, a high, an addiction. Truth be told, he felt a little high himself, his body reverberating, his small but brutal victory over Bill compensating in some tiny way for the sad, empty feeling he was about to feel, watching his father hand over the governorship to a man they all knew could never fill the shoes of a giant named David Coleman.
CONNOR AND ANTON slipped into a small room to the side of the state ballroom, where supporters and state officials had begun to gather. David was in his wheelchair facing Delores, who sat across from him, their heads bowed together. With a start of surprise, Anton realized that they were praying. He felt embarrassed, as if he were an interloper, but David looked up, smiled, and opened his arms toward Anton in a gesture that was so loving and unguarded, it brought a lump to the younger man’s throat. “Hey, Dad,” he said, his eyes tearing. “How you doing?”
David shrugged. “It’s a sad day,” he said simply.
Connor walked up to his old friend, a broad smile on his face. “Don’t worry,” he said. “There’s gonna be a Coleman in this office again, you mark my words.” He pointed at Anton. “You should’ve seen him in there, taking on Bill Schroder. I’d been going round and round with the jerk for an hour. Anton walks in and demolishes him in two seconds flat. Told him his boss could expect a primary challenge if he didn’t remove his bullshit remarks.”
David laughed his silent laugh, and for a second he looked like his old self. “Did you really?”
Anton looked at his dad shyly. “Aw, you know. I was just messing with him, Dad.”
“From your mouth to God’s ear,” Delores said unexpectedly, raising the water glass she’d been holding. “Here’s to another Coleman in the Governor’s Mansion.”
“Amen.”
“Okay, people. I already have a job, remember?”
Connor had opened his mouth as if to argue when Brad walked in. “You guys ready?” he said. “They’re waiting for us.”
They all froze in place, David’s eyes resting on each of them for a second. “Thank you,” he whispered. “It’s been a great ride. And I couldn’t have done it without each one of you.”
Anton stared at the ground, unwilling to let his father see the tears filling his eyes. Then he stepped behind David’s wheelchair. “Let’s get it over with, Dad,” he said.
ANTON SAT IN the front row, flanked by his mother and Katherine, and watched as his father said a few words, formally resigning from his post and wishing Newman well in the task ahead. He listened to Newman’s speech, ready to bristle at the slightest hint of a slam against his father, but the few times Newman did mention David, he was complimentary. After the ceremony, Anton glowed with pride as several officials gathered around David’s wheelchair, shaking his hand and thanking him for his years of service. He thought back to election night, when he and his father had shared the victory stage as the first father-and-son team to win two statewide offices together. Who could have predicted this abrupt, ignoble end to David’s career?
Annie Bunter walked up to Anton. “That was quite a performance in there,” she said dryly, her eyes brimming with laughter, her manner flirtatious.
“Thanks.”
She touched his arm lightly. “What you said in there. About a primary challenge. Were you serious?”
“Annie,” he said, looking deeply into her face. “If I were, you’d be the last person I’d confide in.”
She searched his face for a long moment and then laughed. “Yup. That’s what I figured.” She walked away, her high heels clicking on the tile floor, and then she stopped and looked back. “It’d be f
un. Having you as an opponent, I mean.”
He stood staring at her back, trying to parse what she’d said. Was she encouraging him to run? If he could capture the aggression that he’d displayed in the conference room, trap that feeling of power, like lightning in a bottle, he would win. If he ran, there could be a Coleman in the Governor’s Mansion again. And there was nothing, he knew, no gift he could give his father, that would mean more to him than that.
BOOK FOUR
August 2016
CHAPTER THIRTY
The news kept getting better and better.
Any misgivings Anton had had about challenging the incumbent governor had been laid to rest by the twelve-point blowout in the April primary. And even though Uncle Connor would bite off the head of anyone who said it out loud, internal polling showed that Anton would beat Joe Irving, his Republican opponent, by an even wider margin, an almost unheard-of rout in this political climate.
Indeed, it was obvious that the Coleman name was still golden within the state. On the campaign trail, as Anton worked the ropes, person after person would stop him with a fond recollection about his dad or about Pappy, and despite his exhaustion, Anton left these encounters more certain than ever why he was running. He enjoyed these interactions with the older residents of the state much more than he did the screaming and adulation that now greeted him when he was surrounded by girls too young to vote and women old enough to know better, but as Brad always said, this was the state of retail politics now, and he’d best shut up and learn to enjoy it.
In fact, he was enjoying the campaign. Even if the June issue of People magazine had featured a picture of him with the headline “The Stud Muffin Governor?” He had been mortified, but Brad, who had taken a leave of absence from his business to run the campaign, was thrilled. Anton tried to argue that such fluff pieces undermined the rationale of his campaign, which claimed that he had reluctantly chosen to throw his hat into the ring only because John Newman had governed from the center right and had moved away from the progressive legacy he had inherited. “If we wanted a Republican governor, heck, we’d elect a Republican governor,” Anton had said at the news conference announcing his candidacy. The press had loved that line. But when Anton reminded his campaign manager of the reasons for running, Brad was having none of it. “Listen, idiot,” he’d growled. “I worked for months to get you that People piece. This is national exposure, baby.”
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