William Krueger - The Devil's bed

“In the two minutes we have before they get this car moving again?” She gave him an exasperated look. “Do you ever hear anything except what you want to hear?”

“You’re answering a question with a question. You’re trying to evade something. What?”

The elevator suddenly dropped an inch, then began a smooth descent. Dixon reached out and punched the Stop button furiously but to no avail. In a few moments, the elevator ceased moving and the doors glided open.

“We’ll continue this at the hotel,” Dixon said.

“I don’t think so. I’m not coming back with you.”

Dixon saw that in the lobby the throng of the press waited. He addressed his wife with quiet intensity, “Why?”

“I still need to think through a few things. When I’m ready to talk, we’ll talk.”

“Great,” he said. “Just great. The press will have a field day speculating on this one.”

“I’m sure Ed McGill can come up with a positive spin for you, something they’ll love in Peoria.”

“Fuck Peoria.” He stepped out of the elevator, hauling up a smile for the media.

The President dined with his closest staff. Over a good Caesar salad and rare prime rib, the business of the government was carried on, especially discussion of Lorna Channing’s report on national youth service. Although Clay Dixon’s personal enthusiasm had waned, he gave it his full attention. Afterward, he asked Lorna to stay. He poured brandy for them both and lit a hand-rolled cigar, and they reminisced for a while about growing up on the Purgatoire River. She told him the smell of the cigar reminded her of sitting on the porch with her father after dinner and looking at the evening sky. It was a good memory, she said.

“Kate hates the smell of cigars,” Dixon told her.

“Most women do, I think. You keep looking toward the door,” Lorna finally noted.

“I thought Kate might come.”

“Give her time, Clay. She’s been through a lot.”

“Time isn’t the issue.” He got up from the sofa and walked to the window. The sky outside was the color of blackberry jam and seeded with stars. The city lights were split by the dark curve of the river. “When did you know your marriages were over?”

“It can’t be that serious,” she said.

“When she looks at me, its like she’s seeing me through a wall of ice. It’s been like that for a long time now.”

“I’m sorry.”

He put the cigar in an ashtray and turned to look at her. “You have friends in D.C., Lorna?”

“Yes. Many.”

“Me, I feel like I’ve got practically none. I have more acquaintances, more advisers, more hangers-on than I can keep track of. But friends?” He sighed heavily. “Bobby Lee, you, and Kate. And now I don’t have Kate.”

“You still have Bobby. And you still have me.”

She left the sofa and walked toward him. Her feet made a softhush-hushon the carpet as she came. He could smell her perfume when she drew near. The fragrance was a trigger for an explosive desire that had been building in him for some time. Impulsively, he took her in his arms and he kissed her. She didn’t resist.

“That was nice,” he whispered against her lips.

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, it was.” Very gently, she removed herself from his embrace. “And that’s all there will be.” She took a half-step back. “Clay, you’re the president, and I’m your adviser for domestic affairs. I don’t want that to be an ironic title. I know you’re feeling alone right now, but this isn’t the answer.” She put her hand on his cheek. “I’m not saying it’s not tempting. It’s just not right, and you know it. Talk to Kate. Work things out. I know you can.”

The phone rang and startled them both. Reluctantly, Dixon answered it. He listened a moment and then said, “Thank you.” He looked at Lorna Channing. “Kate’s here. She’s on her way up.”

“You see? Didn’t I tell you?” She smiled. As she left the suite, she paused long enough to give the president a kiss on his cheek. “Good luck.”

He didn’t have much time to settle himself before Kate arrived. He was undoing his tie when she entered the room. She wore a lovely dress, black and sheer, and she looked wonderful in it.

“I was under the impression you wouldn’t be here tonight,” he said.

“I wanted to apologize for my behavior this afternoon. It’s been a difficult time for me.”

“I’m sure it has.”

She lingered near the door, as if not entirely certain she should be there with him. “Clay, we all make mistakes. Horrible mistakes, sometimes. And there’s nothing to be done about it except to hope we’re forgiven.”

“Is that why you’re here? You’re going to offer me forgiveness. Kate, I don’t need-”

“I need to know that I can trust you.”

“You can.”

“I’ve watched you change, Clay. I’m not sure what you believe anymore. Sometimes I’m not even sure who you are.”

“I am who I’ve always been. A not-at-all perfect man. But one who loves you.”

She stared at her hands and seemed concerned that they held nothing. “We haven’t been happy for a long time.”

“We can find a way again.”

“I wish I could believe that.”

“Then do, Kate. Believe it. Believe me. Trust is a leap of faith, isn’t it? Take that leap. Take it, and I swear I won’t let you fall.”

She considered him a long time. Finally he moved to her, crossed the room slowly, put his arms around her, and held her tightly. He could feel her soft and yielding in his embrace. Then she went rigid.

“Chanel,” she said.

“What?”

“You reek of it.” She pushed away from him.

“Kate-”

“I ran into Lorna Channing at the elevator. She bathes in Chanel.”

“She was here, of course. She’s one of my advisers,” he explained calmly.

She looked closely at his face, and her own face frosted over. “And what exactly was she advising you on? There’s lipstick smeared all over you.”

“Kate, I swear nothing happened.”

“Only because of my bad timing.”

“Kate,” he said, and he reached for her.

“Stay away, Clay. I don’t want you near me.”

The door of the suite shook as she slammed it behind her.

Clay Dixon’s legs were shaky. He sat down. He felt as if he’d taken a long fall, and the wind had been knocked from him. He stared dumbly at the door, at the place where his wife had walked out on him. He understood quite well that at the moment, not only the fate of his marriage, but also of his reelection, perhaps even of his place in history, rested in her angry hands.

Clay Dixon sat at his desk in the Oval Office, scanning a State Department memo that dealt with the upcoming Pan-American summit meeting. Beyond the window at his back lay a dripping sky. A storm front had moved through in the dark of early morning bringing with it a steady rain. Dixon’s whole body ached. Whenever a front moved through, it was a curse, and the old football injuries rose up inside him, working some kind of painful voodoo on his joints and bones.

There was a knock at the open door. The president’s chief of staff, John Llewellyn, stepped in. Senator William Dixon stood just behind him.

“Mr. President, may we have a few minutes of your time?” Llewellyn asked.

The president put aside the memo. “In five minutes, we have a meeting to discuss the Pan-American summit, but until then I’m all yours, John.”

Leaning on his cane, Senator Dixon entered the Oval Office with Llewellyn and sat down.

The president sat back in his chair and crossed his arms. “You look like a delegation. What’s up?”

“So she’s left you.” The senator’s words were rife with both satisfaction and disapproval.