Balance of Power

been too little lightness in Kerry's life. Even his first success in politics, election to the Senate at age thirty, had been as surrogate for his brother, Senator James Kilcannon, assassinated in San Francisco while running for President. Lara had been nineteen then; she remembered watching the telecast of James's funeral, the haunted look on Kerry's face as he attended to his widowed mother. So that when, as a reporter for the New York Times, she had met him seven years later, the first thing she noticed was not his fine-featured face, incongruously youthful for a potential President, nor his thatch of chestnut hair, nor even the scar at the corner of one eye. It was the startling contradiction presented by the eyes themselves: their green-flecked blue irises, larger than most, gave Lara the sense—rare in a white male politician—of someone who had seen more sadness than most. Then, she had thought this an illusion, abetted by her memory of the funeral; only later, when Kerry shared the private history he had entrusted to almost no one, did she understand how true it was.

    'If so,' he answered, 'you're free to take it personally. Tongue-tied Catholic boys from Newark don't usually get much practice. Lord knows that Meg and I weren't much good to each other, in any way.'

    If only, Lara thought, Meg could be dismissed so simply. But her existence affected them still—publicly, because Kerry's lack of an annulment had forestalled them from marrying in the Church; privately, because their love affair had begun while Kerry was married. Its secrecy had saved Kerry's chances of becoming President: only after his divorce and the California primary, when Kerry himself had been wounded by a would-be assassin, had they come together in public.

    Now she touched the scar the bullet had left, a red welt near his heart. 'We've been good to each other,' she said. 'And very lucky.'

    To Lara, he seemed to sense the sadness beneath her words, the lingering regrets which shadowed their new life. 'Just lucky?' he answered softly. 'In public life, we're a miracle. Rather like my career.'

    This aspect of his worldview—that good fortune was an accident— was, in Lara's mind, fortified by his certainty that gunfire had made him President: first by killing James, the deserving brother; then by wounding Kerry, causing the wave of sympathy which, last November, had helped elect him by the narrowest of margins, with California tipping the balance. But this had also given him a mission, repeated in speech after speech: 'to eradicate gun violence as surely as we ended polio.'

    'Speaking of miracles,' she asked, 'is your meeting with the gun companies still a go?'

    'A handful of companies,' Kerry amended. 'The few brave souls willing to help keep four-year-olds from killing themselves with that new handgun Dad bought for their protection. If you listen to the SSA, tomorrow will be the death knell of gun rights in America.' Suddenly, he smiled. 'Though in preparing for the meeting, I discovered that it's you who's hell-bent on disarming us.'

    'Me?'

    'You, and your entire profession.' Turning, Kerry removed a magazine from the briefing book on his nightstand; as he flipped its pages, Lara saw that it was the monthly publication of the Sons of the Second Amendment, perhaps Washington's most powerful lobby, and that its cover featured a venomous cartoon of Kerry as Adolf Hitler.

    ' 'Surveys,' ' Kerry read, ' 'have shown that most reporters for the major media live in upper-class homes, head and shoulders above most of us in fly-over country. Many took their education at Ivy League universities where they protested the Vietnam conflict, smoked dope, loved freely, and ingested every ultraliberal cause their professors threw at them.' ' Pausing, he said wryly, 'Truth to tell, they're onto something. What was wrong with you?'

    Lara propped her head up with one hand. 'My mother cleaned houses. So I was afraid to lose my scholarship. Besides, I missed the war by twenty years.'

    'It hardly matters—you caught up soon enough. Listen to this: 'Once they graduated, they faced the prospect of going to work. What better way to earn a fat paycheck and change the world than become a reporter for ABC, or CBS or NBC or CNN or write for the New York Times?'

    'That's you,' Kerry added, fixing her with a mock-accusatory gaze, and then continued. ' 'Having become gainfully employed, these men and women from Yale and Harvard and Brown and Princeton brought their own biases with them. Many do not know anyone who owns guns. Their only exposure to firearms comes when they report on the carnage left by a deranged shooter going 'postal' . . .' '

    'How about knowing someone who actually got shot?' Lara interjected. 'Does that count?'

    'Oh, that? That just means you've lost your objectivity. Like me.'

    The rueful remark held an undertone of bitterness. This involved far more, Lara knew, than what his opponents claimed—anger at his brother's death, or his own near death. Kerry was sick of bloodshed, weary of meeting, year after year, with families who had lost loved ones, of trying to comfort them with the same empty phrases. For him, his failure was both political and deeply personal. And Kerry did not live with failure—especially regarding guns— well.

    'Sooner or later,' Lara assured him, 'you'll get Congress to pass a decent gun law.'

    Kerry raised his eyebrows, exchanging bitterness for an irony tinged with good-natured frustration. 'Before or after we get married?'

    Lara smiled, unfazed. 'That I can't tell you. But certainly before I find a job.'

    This was another blind curve on the road to marriage. Though she was developing a degree of fatalism, the resignation of a would-be First Lady to the limitations of her new life, Lara had always been independent, beholden to no one for support or a sense of who she was. That Kerry understood this did not change what she would lose by marrying him—her own identity. Already she had been forced to take leave from NBC: the potential for conflicts of interest, or at least their appearance— that a powerful network might profit by employing the President's fiancee— also applied to any other segment of the media. A brief flirtation with the presidency of the Red Cross—based on her high profile as a television journalist and experience in war zones—had floundered on the fear that major donors might want something from President Kilcannon. Other jobs had similar problems, and the best ones, Lara acknowledged, would take away from her public duties and her private time with Kerry. 'I'm sorry,' she said at last. 'I was being a brat. It may not seem so, but you're actually more important to me than running the Red Cross.'

    Though he knew this, or at least should, to Lara his expression betrayed a certain relief. 'Then your fate is sealed, I'm afraid.'

    'I guess it is,' she answered dryly. 'I'm a fool for love.'

    Once more he drew her close. 'The thing is,' he continued, 'I'm forty-three. Even if we started tomorrow, by the time our first son or daughter graduates from college I'll be on Social Security. If there's any left.'

    'Tell that to the Pope.'

    'Oh, I have. I even mentioned that Meg couldn't stand the thought of children.' There was a different tone in his voice, Lara thought; hand gently touching her chin, he raised her face to his. 'And, at last, he's heard me.'

    She felt a tingle of surprise. 'The annulment?'

    Kerry grinned. 'Yes. That.'

    Astonished, Lara pulled back to look at him. 'When?'

    'Yesterday.'

    'Why didn't you tell me?'

    'I was in Pittsburgh.' There was new light in his eyes, and he spoke more softly. 'This just seemed like a better time and place.'

    Knowing how much he wanted this, Lara felt the depth of her love for him. This moment was the last threshold, she knew, before she entered the hall of mirrors which was the Presidency, the omnipresent, often merciless scrutiny which could change lives and warp marriages until even the most private act assumed a public