iron resolve to achieve his goals, was as misunderstood by others as the reasons for it. If so, Kerry thought, let it be: he did not believe in calculated self-revelation, or that piercing his mother’s fiercely held privacy was the necessary price of public office. His defense was humor, as when a reporter had asked him to describe the traits of the child Kerry Kilcannon. “Sensitivity,” Kerry had answered with a smile. “And ruthlessness.”
Now, quiet, he took his mother’s hand, even as the death of Roger Bannon shadowed his thoughts.
At dusk—after hours spent on a bullet-proof reviewing stand watching his inaugural parade which, by actual count, had included seven hundred thirty horses; sixty-six floats; and fifty-seven marching bands—Kerry Kilcannon entered the West Wing for the first time as President. As he did, he felt the White House encase him: the eight guardhouses with uniformed protectors; the surveillance cameras; the seismic sensors planted on the grounds to detect intruders; the trappings and safeguards which flowed seamlessly from one occupant to another.
At Kerry’s request, Clayton Slade and Kit Pace, his press secretary, waited in the Oval Office.
Looking from one to the other, Kerry crossed the room and settled into a high-backed chair behind an oak desk once used by John F. Kennedy.
“Well,” he inquired of his audience, “what do you think?”
Eyeing him, Kit suppressed a smile. “Reverence aside, Mr. President, you look like a kid in the principal’s office. Your predecessor was six inches taller.”
Kerry’s amusement was muted; he sometimes resented reminders that he was, at most, five-ten. “They say Bobby Kennedy wore elevator shoes. Maybe you can find some for me.”
A smile crossed Clayton’s shrewd black face. “Won’t help,” he told his friend crisply. “Lose the chair before the White House photographer shows.”
“‘Scandal in the White House,’” Kerry said sarcastically. “‘Dwarf Elected President.’” But he got up, closing the office door, and, waving Clayton and Kit to an overstuffed couch, sat across from them.
“I take it he’s dead,” Kerry said.
Kit nodded. “Massive stroke.” Softly, she added, “He might have lived longer if he hadn’t despised you so much.”
Kerry accepted this for what he thought it was—not callousness, but fact. “Do we have a statement?” he asked.
Kit handed him a single typed page. Scanning it, Kerry murmured, “I suppose it’s a mercy, at moments like this, that we so seldom say all we feel.” He paused, then asked Kit, “How’s his wife?”
“Numb, I’m told. His death’s hardly a surprise, but they’d been married fifty-two years. Three kids, eight grandchildren.”
“I’ll call her before the inaugural balls start.” Turning to Clayton, Kerry inquired, “What do we do about
them?
”
“For sure not cancel. You’ve got thousands of supporters here, waiting for that night they’ll tell their grandchildren about. You owe them, and the country, a new beginning. And Carlie“—referring to Clayton’s wife—“has a new dress.”
Kerry smiled briefly. “So does Lara. I’ll just have to find something appropriate to say at every ball, perhaps after a moment of silence. What else?”
Clayton leaned back on the couch. “For openers, you’ve got a new Chief Justice to appoint.”
Once more, Kerry had a moment of disbelief—first that he was President, then that he would be tested so soon. “Not tonight, I hope.”
“Soon. We’ve got a four-four split on the Court— conservative versus moderate-to-liberal—with a full calendar of major cases. And it’s not like anyone thought the Chief Justice would be with us that long—our transition team already has a shortlist of names, and they’ve started up files on each.”
“Good. Run them by our political people.”
“Your constituent groups will want to weigh in, too,” Kit observed. “Hispanics, blacks, labor,
David Sherman & Dan Cragg