No Safe Place (28 page)

Leaving, Kerry found Niall Callahan. “Close it,” he said.

Jamie’s aide, Nat Schlesinger, oversaw the funeral arrangements. Soldiering on through his own grief, Nat treated both Kilcannons with a deep kindness. When Nat asked Kerry if he wished to give the eulogy and Kerry answered, “He deserves someone who knew him,” Nat seemed to understand how Kerry meant this.

It was Nat, as well, who made arrangements for Stacey Tar-rant. But the morning of the funeral, Kerry asked to see her.

She was alone in a hotel room, with a bodyguard outside. Passing through the door, Kerry wondered at the life she had chosen, that Jamie had chosen—so public and yet, in some terrible way, so isolated. When she stood to shake his hand, quite formally, Kerry was struck by her composure, her look of keen perceptiveness.

“I’m sorry,” Kerry told her.

Her grave blue eyes registered brief surprise—perhaps that
he
was consoling
her
—and then comprehension. “Jamie spoke of you often,” she told him.

Kerry did not ask in what way, or care to press the point. It struck him that all he shared with this beautiful woman, his peer in age but from a different world, was a man both knew only a part of—she, Jamie’s present; Kerry, his past.

Their talk was polite. It was only when Kerry asked what she might do next that her composure slipped.

Staring at the floor, she slowly shook her head. “I can’t imagine,” she said softly, “that I’ll ever perform in public. I feel so responsible …” Her eyes shut. “All that I can think about are those last few moments, Jamie trying to talk to me, knowing it was finished.”

What, Kerry wondered, did Jamie need to tell her? Perhaps
it would explain him, make clear what Kerry had never understood.

Hesitant, he asked her.

The look she gave him was guarded. Beneath this, Kerry detected a fresh hint of pain. “Just as they reported,” she said. “‘Is everyone all right?’”

Kerry thought of the film clip, his brother’s lips moving. “That was all?”

Stacey studied him. “No, not all.” Pausing, she inhaled. “‘Such a joke,’ he said to me. ‘But what does it mean?’”

They buried Jamie in Princeton. The President was in Europe, but Vice President Bush came, many congressmen, most senators. They filed gravely past Kerry and his mother, like emissaries from Jamie’s life; Kerry thought that Mary Kilcannon took some consolation from that, and in her prayers for Jamie now, for the afterlife of his soul. Throughout, Liam Dunn was a silent presence, attentive when they needed him but, Kerry sensed, nursing thoughts of his own.

A week later, Liam called.

Could Kerry come to see him? he wondered apologetically. There was a private matter to discuss, which it seemed could not wait.

Entering the spartan office Liam maintained as Essex County chairman, Kerry thought how different it was from Vincent Flavio’s: for Liam, the trappings of power had never mattered; only its uses. With unwonted gravity, seemingly born of Jamie’s death, Liam motioned Kerry to sit.

“How’s your mother?” Liam asked. “I’ve been wanting to call on her.”

“Resigned.” Kerry tried to find words for what he saw. “It’s like she has some immutable core, something that can’t be reduced to ashes. God, perhaps.”

Liam nodded. “And you?”

“I have work.”

Liam gave him a long, almost cool appraisal; it was so different from the way his godfather had ever looked at him that it made Kerry uneasy. “I have something to ask you,” Liam said at length. “And it’s not an easy thing to ask. Probably not a fair thing. But then politics, like rust, never
sleeps.”

“What is it?”

“There’s still an election this November, Kerry. Someone will fill Jamie’s seat now.” Liam’s voice became quieter. “You’ll recall Congressman Shue. The gun lobby’s best friend.”

Kerry watched his godfather’s face. “You’ve heard the story, then.”

“What I heard, Kerry, was that you virtually called Ralph Shue an accomplice to murder. Is it true?”

“Yes. It’s true, and he is.”

Liam folded his hands. “He’s also taking Jamie’s place. After a decent interval, our governor’s appointing him to the United States Senate. Pending the election.”

“They’d put that whore in Jamie’s seat? He’ll never win.”

“He
will
win. He’s got a cartload of suburban voters and all the money he needs.” Pausing, Liam’s voice was gentle. “There’s no one who can beat him.”

The sentence ended abruptly. What Liam had not said, suddenly did not need to say, hit Kerry in the pit of his stomach.

Liam looked at him calmly. “I’ve talked to the state chairman, and most of the committee. We know what we’re asking, son. But it’s you we’re wanting.”

Kerry sat back, shaken. “I’ve never wanted this, even when he was alive. I surely don’t want it now, like
this
.”

Liam watched his face. “Then all I ask, Kerry, is that you tell me that tomorrow.”

A swirl of emotions brought Kerry to his feet—shame, anger at Liam, a feeling of betrayal. “All I’ve got to offer is a dead brother and the name Kilcannon. They’d be voting for a corpse, not for me. Why should they?” Kerry’s voice grew quieter. “They don’t know
me
at all. But there’s one thing
I’ve
always known, ever since I was old enough to know anything. That I’m not Jamie.”

Liam gave him a bleak smile. “‘My arms are too short to box with God.’ Is that what you’re feeling?”

Kerry flushed. “It’s simpler than that. I’ve got no qualifications.”

“You’ve made yourself a fine prosecutor, Kerry, a friend to
women. You’re a hero. And yes, you’re Jamie’s brother. All
things to be proud of. Together, they can make you a senator.” Liam paused. “If you decide to be one.”

Kerry felt the irony come crashing down on him—so many assets, none earned. He slowly shook his head.

Liam’s voice was still gentle. “You’ve gone through a great deal, yourself been wounded by a madman. You’ve your mother to consider, and a wife. You’ve every right to say no. But before you do, ask yourself one question, for your own sake. Ask how you’ll feel if you turn your back on this.” Pushing up from the chair, Liam stood to face him. “You understand politics well enough, Kerry. I raised you to. But you’ve never understood just how much you can do.”

Kerry looked into his godfather’s face. “The other day,” he said at last, “I learned what Jamie said before he died. The last part.”

“And what was that?”

Kerry told him.

For a moment, Liam was quiet. “Pray on it,” he said.

When he told his mother of Liam’s request, she fell into deep silence, eyes veiled. Perhaps, Kerry thought, she was praying.

They were sitting in her living room. It was late afternoon and the room was shadowed; so little of this had changed, Kerry thought, since Jamie had lived here. Now only the two of them were left.

“What answer have you given him?” she said at last.

“I haven’t.”

She raised her eyes to him. “And you were expecting me to tell you no?”

He touched her arm. “I know how you feel, Mom.”

Tears came to her eyes. “Since you were born, I’ve prayed for your safety, like any mother. But I’ve always thought there was a reason for things, one that I can’t quarrel with.” Her hand covered his. “Search your heart, Kerry. Whatever you find there, then that’s what you should do. Because I know God loves you even more than I.”

Kerry entered the sanctuary at Sacred Heart.

At this hour, five in the afternoon, it was close to empty. He knelt before the altar, crossing himself, waiting for the vast-ness of the sanctuary, its hush, to calm the terrible force of his emotions.

Jamie hardly dead a week, and now they wanted him. Kerry shut his eyes.

Such a joke,
he thought to himself.
But what does it mean?

They wanted
Jamie
, not him. What obligation did he have, because his brother had died, to live his brother’s life for him? And badly at that: Kerry could never be James, and the cost would be what Kerry dreaded most—endless comparisons to his brother; the merciless scrutiny of a thousand eyes along a path not of Kerry’s choosing; the jeers of those who thought him callous and an opportunist; the disappointment of others who projected onto Kerry all their hopes for Jamie; the fantasies that no man could fulfill.

You’re next, Kerry—if you can get your grades up a little.

How Kerry had despised him for it. How deeply, now, did he wish him still alive. How could they ask him to take Jamie’s place, when he might never sort out his feelings about Jamie himself?

They’d put that whore in Jamie’s seat?
he had asked.
He’ll never win.

He will win …

What was he most afraid of, Kerry wondered—Jamie’s shadow, or his own incapacity? Perhaps his brother had simply been a mirror in which Kerry saw his own truth more clearly than anyone else could see.

You’re a hero.

Once more, in Kerry’s memory, Anthony Musso raised the gun.

Perhaps that was his deepest fear, Kerry acknowledged.
Another madman with a gun, driven by some warped circuitry that Kerry would never know.

You’ve every right to say no.

One more time,
he had promised John Musso,
and this will be over.

It’s not your fault,
Clayton had said to him,
that you’re still alive.

Kerry closed his eyes again, and prayed.

When, at last, he opened his eyes, Kerry saw Father Joe Donegan standing in the doorway behind the altar.

Rising, Kerry acknowledged him. The priest hesitated and then came forward.

“The quiet,” Kerry said. “It helps me think.”

Father Donegan studied him. It was thirteen years, Kerry thought, since Father Joe had vainly tried to dissuade Michael Kilcannon from brutalizing Kerry’s mother. Now he was gaunt, graying, growing older in the service of the Church as he watched his parish dwindle.

“Would you care to talk?” the priest asked gently.

No,
Kerry thought,
not about this. Of all the people in the world, there’s only one to whom I’d say all this.
“I’ve been wanting to thank you,” Kerry answered. “For looking after my mother.”

“Mothers don’t expect to bury sons, Kerry. Sometimes faith in God is the only answer. That’s why she comes.”

“She’s
always
come.” Pausing, Kerry looked around them. “But it’s changed, hasn’t it?”

“That it has.”

Kerry shoved his hands in his pockets. “What would help, I wonder.”

“The parish, or the community … ? We need so many things—compassion, reconciliation. And then there are the more practical forms of help, like renewing abandoned buildings or simply tearing them down. They’re breeding grounds for all the things that corrupt our children.” The priest sighed. “Truth to tell, the kids are what worry me most. Not this parish, love it as I do.”

Kerry nodded and, touching the priest’s shoulder, left.
Driving home, Kerry thought of Liam.

You understand politics well enough. I raised you to. But you’ve never understood just how much you can do.

He found Meg in the living room, studying for her last exam; by fall, Kerry reminded himself, Meg would be an English teacher. Her job was already set.

As calmly as he could, Kerry explained what had happened.

Meg’s eyes widened. “My God, you’re really thinking about it, aren’t you? After all that’s happened.”

“It deserves at least that much, Meg. Whatever I decide, I’ll be a long time living with it.”

“You
hope
.” Meg stood, arms folded. “You’ve just buried your brother, Kerry. How can you do this?”

“Please, I haven’t said I will. But there’s a reason Liam asked. If I don’t run, he thinks, Ralph Shue takes Jamie’s seat. That’s the last thing I’d want.”

She stared at him in incomprehension, her voice choked with emotion. “
Ralph Shue?
He’d be one senator among a hundred.” She caught herself, then came to him, laying her head against his chest. “I’m sorry, Kerry. I nearly lost you …”

Torn, Kerry stroked her hair. “I’m sorry too.”

“Please.” Her voice was muffled by tears. “You promised me.”

“I know,” he murmured. “But Jamie was alive then.”

Kerry felt her stiffen, looking up into his face. “And now you want to
be
him. Because he’s dead?”

Kerry drew a breath. “No, Meg. I don’t want to be Jamie.”

She pushed back from him, her face tear-streaked. “I’m sorry. But if you do this, I won’t help you. I’ve got a life here, and a job I’ve worked hard for. Even if I weren’t afraid for you, I hate what politics does to women.” Meg shook her head, as if stunned by all that had happened, and then she spoke more quietly. “I won’t stand in your way, Kerry. If you go to Washington, I’ll come there when you need me. But I won’t go with you.”

Kerry looked at her. “Well,” he said softly, “at least our kids won’t miss me.”

Tears sprang to her eyes again. Turning, Meg left the room.

That night, they lay next to each other, silent. Kerry never slept.

In the morning, Kerry called Clayton Slade. “There’s something I need to ask you,” he began.

Four days later, schooled by Liam Dunn, an apprehensive Kerry met with Liam and three members of the party’s state committee—its chairman, Joseph Auletta; Walter Shipman, the head of an important union; and Carl Cash, a black former civil rights activist and a friend of Newark’s mayor. Looking around the table, Kerry reflected on the shrewd instincts that had enabled Liam, and Jamie, to survive among competing forces. But all of them wanted to keep the seat, and Kerry was the instrument at hand.

“There’s no point in my running,” he told them, “if the sixty other Democrats who’re better qualified start saying so in public. Which is surely what Shue’s hoping for, if he’s caught wind of this.”

His directness seemed to take Auletta by surprise. “Under these circumstances, Kerry, there won’t be any primary. If Senator Kilcannon hadn’t won the presidential nomination, he’d still have been our nominee for Senate.” Auletta paused. “No guarantee. But if you commit to us now, I think we can head off any problems.”