Balance of Power

    At once, Kerry had the sense of Lara's family stepping through the looking glass—for reasons Marie could not truly comprehend, the world was signalling her that she had become a child apart. Even without this, too much had happened to her—a home life that must seem unpredictable and often dangerous; a mother who was fearful and confused; a father who, in his banishment, had become a frightening enigma. 'It may be big,' Kerry assured her, 'but it's pretty nice inside. Would you like to see it?'

    The little girl bit her lip. 'Can you show me where Mommy and I are sleeping?'

    Kerry heard the implicit plea: please don't separate me from my mother. 'Sure,' he answered with a smile. 'It's called the Lincoln Bedroom. The bed's big enough for both of you.'

    Around them, the White House ushers came for the Costello's luggage. Perhaps, Kerry thought, it was the presence of more strangers; perhaps it was that Kerry was a man, and that Marie Bowden missed her father. But when they entered the East Wing, the fingers of Marie's left hand rested lightly in Kerry's.

* * *

John Bowden sat amidst the wreckage of his life.

    His clothes were flung over chairs and on the floor; there was nothing in the refrigerator but bagels, ice cream, and a chilled bottle of vodka. The red light on his answering machine was a message from his probation officer, asking why he had missed the workshop for convicted batterers, and warning that this was a parole violation. In his hands he grasped the framed picture of Marie; at his feet, on the front page of the afternoon paper, Joan and Marie stepped out of a limousine at San Francisco International, above a caption saying 'Wedding Bound.' From his television, CNN assaulted him.

    'The arrival of the Costello family,' the anchorman said, 'begins a unique chapter in American history—the marriage of a President, the son of Irish immigrants, to the daughter of a woman who came to the United States from Mexico . . .'

    In an act of will, John Bowden forced himself to look up.

    Their backs were to the camera: four women, a man, and a little girl, entering the portals of the White House. But no one needed to identify President Kerry Kilcannon, or the child who held his hand in one of hers, her doll clasped in the other.

    Tears filled John Bowden's eyes; outrage filled his heart.

* * *

Though Lara considered it a failing, Kerry was indifferent to what he considered the frills of history—which First Lady had procured what portrait, which President had been given a French Empire clock. But for Lara's family he had read up on the evolution of the White House, committing discrete chunks to memory.

    Among those were the histories of each upstairs bedroom in which the Costellos were staying. Entering the Queen's suite, he told Inez, 'This is where Queen Elizabeth stayed, along with Queens Juliana and Wilhelmina of the Netherlands, Queen Frederika of Greece, a gaggle of princesses, and even Winston Churchill. But not at the same time.'

    Inez eyed the room with the mock-critical gaze of a woman concerned that it met her standards of domestic order, her gaze resting last on the canopied bed. Then she turned to Kerry, touching his arm. 'It's wonderful, truly.'

    'I'm still getting used to it myself,' Kerry answered with a smile, and led them to the Lincoln Bedroom—Inez, Joan and Marie, with Lara and Mary chatting behind. 'This was actually Lincoln's office,' he explained. 'But after he was assassinated, it was felt no one should work here.' Turning to Marie, he said, 'A long time ago, in this country, white men were allowed to own blacks as slaves. This is where President Lincoln signed what they called the Emancipation Proclamation, making slavery against the law.'

    And it was in this room, Kerry thought, where history became palpable for him. But it was not easy to explain to a six-year-old girl the ineradicable stain which slavery had left on our nation, the ongoing legacy of which remained one of Kerry's deepest concerns. Scooping her up in one arm, Kerry walked over to an oil depicting a cluster of slaves, hiding in a cellar as they gazed at a watch by candlelight, waiting for the hour of emancipation to strike. 'These were slaves,' he told her, and pointed to the worn face of an old man. 'This man has been waiting all his life to be free.'

    For a long time, Marie gazed at the painting, doll held tight to her. Perhaps, Kerry thought, this reflected less a conscious understanding of slavery than of the fear and hope she read in the faces, the sense of hiding in the darkness. It was that sense, Kerry suspected, which Marie could feel as intensely as Kerry had at her age, listening to the sounds of his father's anger, his mother's cries.

    'Come on,' he told her. 'I've got another room to show you.'

* * *

This solarium was light and sunny—there was a television, and Lara had stocked it with children's books and the same games Marie had at home. To Marie, her mother exclaimed, 'Oh, sweetheart, this is really nice.' More softly, she said to Lara, 'Thank you.'

    Quiet, Lara touched Joan's arm.

    Perhaps now, Kerry hoped, things would change between them. If so, that would be a wedding present to Lara beyond anything else she could receive. Together, the adults watched Marie place her doll at a small wooden table.

    The telephone rang. Glancing at the caller ID number, Kerry saw that it was Clayton Slade.

    'Yes?' he answered.

    'I'm sorry to bother you,' Clayton apologized. 'But we've got a problem, with the San Francisco Chronicle.'

    At once, Kerry felt hope turn to apprehension. 'What?' he asked. 'Did I lose the recount?'

    'They're working on a story about Joan. And you.'

SE VENTEEN

'Carole Tisone called me ,' Marcia Harding told the President. 'From the Chronicle. She knew all about the stay-away order; Bowden's threats to Joan; his visit to Marie; his conviction. Even that he's in a program for abusive men.'

    Sitting in his upstairs office, Kerry glanced at the others—Clayton, Kit Pace, and Lara—as Harding's voice resonated from the speakerphone. 'How?' he asked.

    'Not from me.' Harding's voice was flat. 'Maybe from court files, or the cops. Maybe someone in the PD's office told somebody else—the only thing that isn't run-of-the-mill domestic violence is that Joan is Lara Costello's sister. Now that she's left for your wedding, her life has become a 'human interest story' . . .'

    'What's the public interest in humiliating Joan?'

    'I asked much the same thing. She started with some pieties about domestic violence being 'our most closely guarded family secret,' and how Joan's case was like Nicole Simpson's—a wake-up call that exposes the issue.' Harding paused, then added with palpable reluctance. 'Then she asked about your call.'

    At the corner of his eye, Kerry saw Lara's look of alarm. 'There were only three of us on that call,' Kerry said tersely. 'You, me, and Halloran.'