James Grippando - Born to Run

“That sounds like a yes to me. Who is she?”

It was one of Theo’s favorite games-getting men in committed relationships to admit that they could identify every beautiful woman in any room they ever entered, whether it was a wedding or a funeral. Jack could never fool him, so he just gave it up.

“All right. You got me. Grayson’s daughter is a knockout.”

“You gonna get her number?”

“No.”

“Jack, Jack. You disappoint me.”

“First of all, I’m dating Andie. So why are we even having this conversation?”

“Because you’re not married, and you automatically assume that a gorgeous woman is off-limits. That’s wrong.”

“Look, even if I wasn’t seeing Andie, and even if this wasn’t Phil Grayson’s funeral, she’s in her twenties and I’m, you know”-Jack could barely say it-“hours away from forty.”

“Dude, you don’t understand. Every man her age has been addicted to Internet porn since high school and truly believes that the only conceivable way to pleasure a woman is to lay back and let her give him a blow job. You could be the Clark Gable to an entire generation of Sara Lees.”

“Sara Lee is a pound cake, moron. The actress was Vivien Leigh.”

“No-Tara Lee, wasn’t it?”

“No, Tara was the plantation that Scarlett-”

“Forget Clark Gable. You’re Steve McQueen with a new Mustang.”

“Right. I gotta go.”

“Loser.”

“Pound cake.”

Jack closed his flip phone and tucked it into his pocket. The mist had turned to a light drizzle, and Jack took a moment on the covered porch to listen to raindrops falling on kudzu. A door opened at the far end of the long porch. It was the vice president’s widow stepping out for air. Jack didn’t want to intrude on her quiet moment. He could scarcely imagine what the past five days had been like for her-the phone call from the Everglades, the emergency flight down from Washington, the rush to a Miami hospital, the news of her husband’s death. And that was only the beginning. From there it was nonstop public appearances that left no time for private grief.

Jack remained at the porch rail, about fifty feet away from Marilyn Grayson. She dug into her pocketbook, foraged for a cigarette, and lit it. The patter of falling rain was almost hypnotic, and she was deep in thought, standing beside a pair of white rocking chairs, one of which had gone permanently still. Finally, she returned from wherever her mental journey had taken her, crushed out her cigarette in the ashtray beside the rocking chair, and walked over to thank Jack for coming.

It was strange to finally meet someone you’d seen thousands of times before, but only on television. Invariably, they were taller or shorter, wider or thinner, meaner or friendlier than even your high-definition television had led you to believe.

“You’re Harry Swyteck’s son, aren’t you?”

“I am,” said Jack as he approached. “Agnes is sorry she couldn’t make it, but my father and I thought my coming might show how sorry the entire Swyteck family is for your loss.”

“Thank you. It means a lot that you came to our home to tell me that.”

She fell quiet and looked across the lawn toward a stand of fir and pecan trees. Jack got the distinct impression that the former Second Lady was positively tired of small talk, tired of all the ceremonies. She also seemed to appreciate the fact that Jack didn’t mind the momentary silence-didn’t feel compelled to spoil it with words that were just words.

“Do you think your father is going to take the job?” she said.

Jack was taken aback. No public announcement had been made, but of course she would have known about the impending nomination.

“Honestly, I think it’s all up to Agnes. No one was happier about his retirement than she was.”

“I can fully understand that,” she said, “though I can’t imagine a successor who would have pleased Phil more.”

“That’s very kind of you to say.”

“But your father needs to go into this with eyes open.”

“Not to worry,” said Jack. “My father’s a good man, but he’s also a seasoned politician.”

She turned to face him squarely, her voice lowering. “I will never say this directly to your father. From now on, I can’t say anything to him that I don’t want divulged in his public confirmation hearing. So I will tell it to you: I have serious questions about Phil’s death.”

Jack struggled for words, not wanting to insult her intelligence. “Mrs. Grayson, your husband had a heart attack.”

“That’s what they say.”

She said the word they the way conspiracy theorists said it.

“You have reason to doubt that?” said Jack.

She considered it, then seemed to think twice about elaborating. “I know what you’re thinking. I’m grief-stricken, my judgment clouded. But I’ve a feeling that, with the direction your father is headed, you might have some questions, too. If you do,” she said, as she reached inside her pocketbook and removed her card, “call me.”

She handed it to Jack, who had no idea how to respond.

“As I say,” she continued, “I have serious questions. And I intend to get answers.”

She stepped away, and Jack watched in stunned silence as she went back inside the house, ever gracious toward her guests.

President Keyes and the First Lady took center stage with Harry Swyteck and his wife, as the world awaited the televised address from the East Room of the Executive Mansion. It was the largest room in the White House with the least amount of furniture, truly multipurpose over the course of history, the place where Teddy Roosevelt’s kids had once roller-skated and the body of John F. Kennedy had lain in repose before being moved to the Capitol. It took some temporary rearranging of Christmas trees and the traditional White House creche to accommodate the invited guests, who were officially listed as the Keyes family, Governor Swyteck’s son, cabinet officers, congressional leaders, members of the diplomatic corps, and “other dignitaries.” A small number of White House correspondents were also invited, while the rest watched on a monitor from the press room in the West Wing.

Chloe watched from her living room, alone.

“My fellow Americans,” the president said into the camera. “A little less than one week ago this country suffered a terrible loss.”

Chloe was no longer among Washington’s elite, no longer on anyone’s list of rising journalistic stars. As a college student at Columbia she’d dreamed of becoming a White House correspondent. Snagging a coveted White House internship with the Keyes administration in the spring of her senior year had made that long-term career goal seem entirely achievable. Chloe had certainly shown the required dedication. Some interns arrived at 9:00 A.M., went to lunch at noon, and headed out to see the sights at 5:00 P.M. Chloe was there before 8:00 A.M., took lunch in the cafeteria when she could get it, and left when the rest of the office staff left, usually around 8:00 P.M. Her assignment was to the White House press office, where she knew a late night lay ahead whenever the speechwriters came back from a briefing with their Chinese food orders ready. Chloe never complained. She quickly learned that the good stuff happened after 6:00 P.M. Sometimes, the bad stuff did, too-bad enough to get her fired. Some said that her career and her life in general had gone downhill since then.

Chloe would have said it was more like falling off a cliff.

“Upon Vice President Grayson’s death, I immediately met with the Speaker of the House and Senate majority leader and asked members of both houses of Congress to submit the names of possible nominees for the vice presidency.”