The Governor's Sons (47 page)

“Don’t mind if I do.”
 
Harland smiled.
 
“Can I pour you some?”

“Yeah, please.” Ash said, but he couldn’t bring himself to sit just yet.
 
He fidgeted nervously with the peppermints in his pocket, making the wrappers crackle.
 
Then he began pacing over the red carpet like a caged bear.
 
“I—uh—just want to apologize for Gavin again.”

“No need for more apologies, sir.”
 
Harland’s eyes followed Ash as he paced back and forth.
 
“I’m confident he had nothing to do with the materials found in his car.
 
And as for the propaganda in his room—I think when we’re young—we all make--misguided decisions.
 
We make choices for a lot of the wrong reasons.
 
Unfortunately, we just don’t think about the consequences until it’s too late.
 
And that’s usually after we get caught.”
 
Harland laughed.
 
“I certainly can’t say I was perfect at that age.”

“Well,” Ash stopped pacing for a moment, “I can assure you, Gavin won’t have time to make any--misguided decisions for a while. He’s got a new job that’s keeping him pretty busy.”

“And what’s that, sir?”

“Oh,” Ash began pacing again, “I’ll let him tell you about it.
 
And that’s one of the reasons I wanted you to come by today.
 
Gavin’s working long hours four days a week.
 
But he’s off on Fridays, so I’d like him to do a little volunteering for you; maybe just a half day or so.
 
He needs to better understand what Negroes are working for.
 
And-- I’m hoping that--the two of you can maybe, get along—as friends.
 
With all the security you have now, I don’t think your safety or Gavin’s is an issue.”

Harland hesitated.
 
“Well, Governor, if that’s what you want--I can certainly arrange it.”

“Good.”
 
Ash finally forced himself to stop moving and leaned against the wall by the chairs.
 
A tall window, with Venetian blinds drawn to block out the bright afternoon sun, was nearby.
 
Ash fiddled with the drawstring, but made no adjustment to the blinds.
 
“So--tell me how things are going with your practice and your civil rights work.”

“Are you trying to spy on me, Governor.”
 
Harland said this with a smile, but Ash was insulted that he’d even joke this way.

Ash dropped the drawstring and crossed his arms.
 
He eyed Harland seriously, as he said, “I think you know the answer to that.”

Harland took a sip of water.
 
“I’m sorry.
 
I didn’t mean to offend you.”
 
He set down his glass, then leaned back comfortably in his chair, crossing an ankle over his knee.
 
 
“As for the practice, I’ve accumulated quite a few clients for the short time I’ve been in town.”

“Your reputation precedes you.”

Harland cocked his head.
 
“I don’t know about that, sir.
 
I’ve instituted a sliding fee scale based on income.
 
And I do some pro bono work.
 
I’m convinced that’s the main attraction.”
 
He laughed.

Ash sat down and tried to appear as comfortable as Harland.
 
He smiled stiffly, trying to relax.

“As for Civil Rights work,” Harland leaned forward, “I’m meeting regularly with a group of Negro Churchmen in the area.
 
We’re in the process of organizing a voter registration march in Mississippi.
 
I had suggested doing some marches right here in our own state, in the more rural areas. But,” Harland smiled, “my colleagues informed me that Negro voter registration is already high throughout the entire state because you’ve encouraged it.”

This time Ash’s smile was genuine.
 
He was pleased at having scored points with his son.

“The NAACP has asked me to handle their legal affairs,” Harland continued, “and they also want me to speak at every meeting, just to give a local and nationwide civil rights update.”
 
Harland pushed himself back and propped one elbow on the arm of his chair. Pointing his index finger upward, he shook it as he spoke. “I’ll also use that as an opportunity to encourage our black population, that together we can make a difference, and bring about change in a peaceful way; not only here,” he made a sweeping gesture with his hand, “but across the country.”

“Sounds like your move here was worth it.”

“I think so, Governor.”
 
Harland smoothed a crease in his brown trousers.
 
“And after the Willie Cane tragedy, I feel like I’m providing some moral support for Clarkstown’s black population.”

“And since you’ve been here, there haven’t been any more violent attacks against the black community.”

Harland leaned toward Ash and clasped his hands.
 
“Well, I don’t think I can take credit for that.
 
But it does make me feel like the hate groups are planning something big—when we least expect it.
 
If there is some idiot out there planning to kill me, he wouldn’t draw attention to himself by planting evidence in your son’s car.
 
That evidence can be taken with a grain of salt.
 
But I don’t doubt plans are underway for something.”

“I hope that’s not the case, but you can rest assured security’s gonna stay tight around you.
 
And the FBI and police are still investigating.”
 
Ash paused for a few seconds.
 
“Now, Harland—there’s something else—I really
need
—to discuss with you.”
 
That was a good start.
 
But now what? Ash thought.

“All right.”
 
Harland sat attentively, but Ash didn’t say anything.
 
Instead he stood up and began pacing again.

Ash finally stopped at the window with his back to Harland.
 
He stuck a finger between the blinds and peered outside, looking at nothing in particular.
 
He continued to stand silently while waiting for an eloquent explanation of Harland’s conception to flow from his lips.
 
The words were in his head, but at the moment jumbled together like a train wreck.

Ash removed his finger from the blinds, and then shoved his hands deeply into his pockets.
 
With his back still toward Harland he said, “So—what do you know about—your mother? Your—
real
mother.”

When Ash turned to look at Harland, he could tell Harland wasn’t ready for this line of questioning.
 
Ash watched him shift uncomfortably in his chair.
 
Moments earlier Harland had been confident, self assured, and animated.
 
Now he appeared defensive, and his posture stiff,
 
as though an invisible brick wall had erected itself around him.

“Why do you want to know?”
 
Harland’s eyes were downcast, and his tone cool.

“I suppose I’m just--curious.
 
And I—want to tell you--what a beautiful girl she was.
 
She was beautiful—beautiful and vivacious.
 
She’d—she’d be proud of you.”

“That’s what Mama tells me.”

“Good.”
 
Ash hesitated.
 
His eyes fell to the floor.
 
“Harland—Harland—I’m proud of you, too.
 
Betty Jean and your mother—Catherine—we—”

“I know.
 
You were good friends,” Harland said mechanically.

“Yeah.
 
But Harland,” Ash made himself look at his son, even though Harland still stared downward, “your mother—Catherine—I called her Kitty--I knew her better than Betty Jean.”
 
Ash’s heart pounded like a kettle drum.
 
“And I…”
 
Visions of Kitty flashed through his mind with each heartbeat as he remembered her smile, her laugh, and the way she held him when he loved her.
 
“And she…”
 
Harland finally looked up at Ash, almost incredulously, like he knew what Ash was about to say.
 
“Harland—I’m your father.”
 

He’d finally done it, Ash thought.
 
He’d told Harland the truth.
 
Proud of himself, Ash stood tall, puffing out his chest just.
 
But at the same time, Harland seemed to shrink.
 
But why would he shrink? Ash wondered.
 
Wouldn’t Harland accept him, and be proud to know he’s the Governor’s son?

****

Harland slouched, dropping his head into his hands.
 
Had he really heard what he
thought
he’d just heard?
 
Harland’s head was spinning.
 
He shut his eyes tightly and let out a deep breath.
 
He felt almost sick.
 
A segregationist governor was his father and he’d fantasized about what each of his half sister’s looked like naked.
 
At the time, he’d had no idea they were related.
 
He’d even envisioned making love to JoBeth.
 
That thought almost made him want to puke.

But then the anger seized him like a lasso bound around his neck.
 
This man was the white man who’d raped his mother!
 
Now Harland felt like a bull, enraged after being branded.
 
His nostrils flared as he stood angrily to confront the Governor.
 
Irate, he took a stand three inches from Ash’s face and yelled, “You’re not my father!
 
You’re just the rapist!”

Ash appeared nonplussed.
 
When he tried to speak, Harland wouldn’t let him.
 
“You raped her!
 
You raped my mother!”
 
With each accusation, he moved closer to Ash, pinning him against the wall.

“Harland!” Ash firmly grabbed Harland’s shoulders, “that’s not true!
 
I didn’t rape your mother!”
 
Still angry, Harland didn’t back away.
 
As Ash squeezed his shoulders he said, “I loved your mother!” The Governor held Harland’s eyes determinedly. “I
loved
your mother.”
 
Harland slowly eased away as Ash softly repeated himself for a third time.
 
“I loved your mother.”
 
Did he really love her? Harland wondered, or was the Governor’s definition of “love” a sick way of defending rape?
 
But as the Governor spoke, his voice quivered.
 
“And you have no idea what I went through—not being able to know you--as my son.”

Slowly, Harland sat back down, again lowering his eyes.
 
“I—I don’t know what to believe.”
 
He held his head with one hand. “Mama told me my father was white—and that he loved me.
 
But—my dad---Dad said that a white man only wants one thing from a black woman—and that my father was no exception.”
 
Harland punched a fist into his palm, then kept his hands balled up tight.
 
“I’d tell him what Mama said, and all he’d say was ‘you figure it out.
 
You can listen to her—or you can listen to me.
 
But that man’s never come to see you.
 
  
He doesn’t care about you.
 
As far as he’s concerned--you don’t even exist.’”
 
Harland felt the hot burn of a tear. Embarrassed he said, “I haven’t cried since my father died.”

Ash hesitated.
 
His voice broke as he said, “Now—you have your real father.”

Harland’s head snapped up quickly.
  
His eyes bore angrily into Ash’s.
 
“Do I?”

“If— you’ll let me be your father.”

“I—I,” Harland stammered, almost at a loss for words.
 
Finally, he threw up his hands.
 
“I’m 28 years old—and
now
I learn who you really are.
 
You can imagine what a shock this is to me.”

“I know it is.”

Neither man spoke for a few moments.
 
Harland again looked down. “You really
did—
love my mother?”

“Yes.”

“Did she love you?”
 
The Governor started to speak, but his eyes watered, and the words caught in his throat.
 
He only nodded in reply.
 
“And did you really love me?”

“Harland,” the Governor’s throat sounded dry, “I’ve always loved you, and I always will.”
 
Ash walked to his desk, then returned with the two brown envelopes.
 
He placed them on the table in front of Harland. “I keep these in my safe.”
 
Ash pulled out Christmas cards and correspondence from Betty Jean with family photos from one envelope.
 
From the other he pulled out news clippings and magazine articles, all about Harland Hall.

Harland looked through the items amazed.
 
The Governor had his whole life documented through baby pictures, annual Christmas cards, and a plethora of news articles.