Always (7 page)

“What are you talking about?”

Silence. Then I heard her exhale a deep breath. “Henry, remember when you wanted me to be a cheerleader and I didn't try out?”

“Yeah. At first you wanted to and then you changed your mind. Just like I guess you changed your mind about going to FAMU, like you changed your mind about us.”

“I never changed my mind about being a cheerleader!” she exclaimed. Then she gathered herself and said, “And
you
never asked me one time
why
I didn't try out!”

“Because you didn't want to!”

“You never asked me, Henry, never once. Did you know after my mom was diagnosed with diabetes that not a day has passed that I have not had to cook and clean that house? That I could not be in student government because I had to come home and—”

“Why didn't you just tell me? All you had to say was ‘Henry I'm not trying out because—'”

“Because you didn't ask, damn it! You never seemed to care. That's why, Henry. You never cared. We spent all our time talking about you, and getting married, and you and children, and you and the election, but we never spent any time talking about me. What's my favorite color, Henry?” Silence broken only by more traffic in the background. “We never spent any time talking about us.”

I was tongue-tied. The words hit me like a blunt object across my shoulders, because it was true. It just never occurred to me to ask her what was happening in her world. “So,” I whispered, “is that why you're going with Darius now?”

“Henry, this has nothing to do with him.” And then I heard a monotone female voice on the phone say,
“You have two minutes.”

“Henry,” Cheryl continued, “this is about us. You never asked me if I wanted to go to Florida A&M. You never asked me if I wanted to leave Miami and my parents.”

“Is that what this is about? If you don't want to go to
FAMU, we could go to the Bethune Cookman or even the University of Miami. Wherever you want to go, I'll go. Okay?” And then I heard her tears again. I could feel them sliding down her face as I said, “Cheryl, just tell me what can I do to make it right? I'm sorry, okay? Just tell me and I'll do it.”

“If the truth be told, Henry, yes,” she said with a smile in her tone, “I would love to go to Florida A&M. I would love to go out for Rattlerette when I got there and help you run for student-government president too. It's just not that simple. See—”

“You have one minute left.”

“See, I have an aunt . . . in Arkansas who is ninety-five and deathly ill. She has a few kids, but none of them can move in with her. So my momma and daddy want me to move up there to be with her for a while.”

“But—”

“Henry, I can't talk much longer. I just wanted you to know that I love you and what you thought you saw, you didn't see. I would never quit you and go with Darius. I would never do that to you. Henry, I've never met a boy like you before. And I mean that. But I'm not going to be the person you need in your life. I just can't. And sometimes we just have to face what is. But I do love you. I really . . .”

The previous smile I heard in her voice was no longer present and I could hear the tears flowing nonstop. I had to say it. If I was going to ever win her back, I had to tell her then. And then this loud truck started honking its horn in the background as I said, “Cheryl? Cheryl, can you hear me?”

“Just barely, Henry.”

“Cheryl,” I repeated, wanting to make sure she heard me say the words. And then the phone line went dead. There was no traffic. There was no truck horn and there was no Cheryl.

The next time I would see her would be in the spring of '73, exactly two years and one day since she had seen me running up and down those stadium steps. When I saw her, I wanted to hold her, to kiss her, to love her even then, but I couldn't.

Washington, D.C.

NBS News Studio

8:00
P.M
. EST

“Welcome back. This is Franklin Dunlop reporting from the NBS Studios in Washington, D.C., on election night 2000. Tonight we have our reporters all across this country to bring you the latest news as America travels on a course to elect the first president of a new millennium. So far it is shaping up just as the experts have expected, with Senator Henry Davis jumping out to a sizable lead as all the work he has done on the East Coast starts to pay dividends. For more on the story we will turn to Butch Harper down in Miami, Florida, home of the Dolphins, Marlins, Heat, and possibly the first president of the new millennium. Butch, can you hear me?”

“Yes, Franklin, but just barely. The crowd here is exultant and has almost doubled in the last half hour as the results begin to come in. Although they expected the election to run its present course thus far, as one campaign official told me, it's like a baby. You may already know its sex, but there's nothing like seeing the birth.”

“Tell me, is there any concern about the Lone Star State? There was a considerable amount of speculation regarding friction between Davis and his running mate, Dirk Gallagher. Can you confirm that story?”

“There has been friction, Franklin. There is no question about that. Many of us in the traveling press corps detected it as far back as two weeks ago before the last debate when Senator Davis attempted to distance himself from remarks made by the outspoken Texas governor. They have tried to paint the best face on it. I spoke to the press secretary for Senator Davis, Edward Long, about five minutes before going on the air, who said, and I quote, ‘When America elected its first Catholic president and a Texan, they, too, had friction, but the country was never in better hands.'”

“Well, thank you, Butch Harper, for the inside scoop. Now we will look at the tote board thus far.

DAVIS	25
STEINER	  3
BALDWIN	  0	Â

“So far, the races that are hotly contested are in New York, where there is literally a three-way tie for her thirty-three electoral votes, the Peach State of Georgia, and there is a surprising race in a state that at one time looked like a slam dunk for Senator Davis, and that's his home state of Florida. He did not campaign as much there in the last few weeks, and with the scandals swirling around the campaign, as well as torrential rains which are affecting voter turnout in south Florida, the state is a toss-up.”

Fontainebleau Hotel

Miami, Florida

Suite 1717

Leslie sat watching the TV, flipping back and forth between her favorite news reporter and a Delroy Lindo movie on Spectravision, and tried to ignore the knock at the door.

Damn, I wish whoever the hell that is would leave
, she thought as she blew a puff of smoke in the nonsmoking bedroom. The living room of her suite, which was previously full of staffers, had been cleared by her administrative assistant so Leslie could get a little well-deserved rest. Taking a sip of her diet cola, she swallowed a Paxil and reluctantly asked, “Who?”

“It's me, Vette, open up.”

“Oh my God,” she said as she jumped off the bed to open the door to the suite. “Myles, how are you!” As the Secret Service agent moved aside, she wrapped her arms around her brother and asked, “What are you doing in town?”

“Baby girl, I couldn't let you go through all of this by yourself! I know I told you I couldn't make it, but hell, Wall Street was there before me and it'll last if I'm away a few
days.” As they released their embrace and walked into the bedroom, Leslie held his hands and stood away from him.

“Well, look at you. I like that jacket, and you lost those fifteen pounds, didn't you?”

“Yep, and I bought this jacket from this designer in Beverly Hills named Reggie Jenkins. You like?”

“I love,” Leslie said with a smile.

“Well, you're not looking too bad yourself.”

“Child, please. Don't even try it. I look like crap and I know it. Who let you up here?”

“Sally. She remembered me from that fund-raiser in mid-town and got me past security. I told her I wanted to surprise you.”

“So where's Vicki and the babies?”

“Hell, the babies are seven and eight. Can you believe my little man turned seven on the seventh of last month? Time flies, doesn't it? They're riding around South Beach and they'll come up tomorrow to meet the
new
first lady.”

“God, don't start with that,” Leslie said, returning to the bed. “Oh, I'm sorry, can I get you something to drink?”

“Oh, no. Well, maybe a tomato juice, but you don't have to get it. Just point me in the direction.”

“Walk back there in the other bedroom, honey, and there's an honor bar. Just get what you like and let the Democrats pay for it. And get something for Vicki and the babies too.”

As he stood up, Myles removed his dark blue blazer and rolled up the sleeves of his starched white monogrammed shirt. As he walked down the hall, his voice echoed in the hallway. “So tell me, how does it feel?”

“The truth?” Leslie replied, watching a Carlos Santana video. “The truth is, I have not eaten a bite in the past forty-eight hours. I know I need to eat something, but I just can't hold anything down. I'm running on two hours sleep. My hair is falling out. Need I say more?”

“You're that nervous, huh?” he said from the bedroom as he popped the top of the can.

“Nervous, scared, pissed off, ashamed, scared, betrayed, tired, and did I say scared?”

“Yeah, you did, baby girl,” Myles said as he walked over to the curtains and looked out the window. “They call New Yorkers crazy. You know, there's actually a guy in the building across from us wearing dark shades with his head hanging out the window? What's up with that?”

“Yeah, I saw him earlier. It's probably some photographer for a tabloid trying to get an exclusive, so unless you want to be on the checkout stand next week as the
mystery man
in my suite, I'd close the curtains. Besides, the Secret Service was up here a few hours ago and was adamant about keeping the curtains shut.”

“My bad. As I was going to say,” he continued, reentering the bedroom and sitting beside his sister, “it's gonna be all right. I promise you it's gonna be fine.” Then Myles, who was just under six feet with a pudgy frame, squeezed closer to his petite sister and rested her head on his shoulder. He held her as he had so many times as a child, when they watched
Chiller Thriller
together, although she was two years older than he. And then he took another sip of his tomato juice and made himself comfortable by loosening his Windsor knot and taking off his Senegal loafers. “So what's the deal, baby girl? You wanna tell me about it now?”

Looking down and gazing at the floor, she whispered, “Yes. Yes, I want to tell you everything. But please do me one favor.”

“Aw, sugar, anything. That's what I'm here for. What is it?” he said, stretching his body and spreading his toes.

Leslie turned toward her brother as her eyes darted back and forth, looking into each pupil. Then she replied in earnest, “Would you please put back on your shoes? Child, your feet still stank!”

Myles laughed so hard he rolled off the bed, and Leslie fell back on the thick paisley comforter, holding her empty stomach to stop it from cramping while both howled as they had in years gone by.

“See. You wrong. You are so wrong. I fly three thousand miles just to console you and you talking ‘bout my feet?”

“You flew? Baby, the way your feet smell, I thought you walked here. I mean, honestly, I can't deal with this election,
not eating, and those hoofs. Either put on your shoes or we drop right out of the election tonight!”

LESLIE

Nineteen seventy-three? Whoa. Let me think a minute. Of course, '73. That's the year I first laid eyes on Henry. God, how could I ever forget that? This is how it happened.