The President's Shadow (36 page)

H
ow’s he doing?” I ask the nurse who likes poppy-seed bagels.

“Same,” she replies, well aware it’s too late for bagels. “You okay?” she adds as I head for my usual spot in the ICU. “You look tired.”

Sometimes I forget—nurses spot pain like no one else. “I’m good. Just one of those weeks at work.”

“You’re a terrible liar, Beecher. But if it makes you feel better, I’m sure he appreciates you coming.”

Nodding my thanks, I stop at the sliding glass doors of Room 355. Inside, Tot’s eyes are closed, his skin is gray, and as his palms face upward, his mouth is still open like a urinal: right where
I
left him. Taking a deep breath, I touch my Kenny Rogers belt buckle and…

“Okay, who’s ready for the single greatest moment in country music history—and yes, I’m including the Dixie Chicks being naked on the cover of
Rolling Stone
,” I call out, marching into the room and approaching his bed.

Tot’s only response is the automated hiss from his ventilator. A spitball of air shakes the accordion breathing tube in his neck.

“No, okay, you’re right—this may not be better than Billy Ray deciding we needed an ‘Achy Breaky Heart Part 2
,’ but just wait…this is up there,” I tell him. “For your listening pleasure: Kenny Rogers and Kris Kristofferson—together—
in concert
. It’s like
A Star Is Born
with two guys and no Streisand. It’s country music heaven.” From my pocke
t
, I pull out an old silver iPod. I’m about to switch it with the black iPod in the sound dock on the rolling cart, but at the last minute, I stop myself.

I look over at Tot. The pale purple scar that curves down the side of his head looks as gruesome as ever.

Stuffing the iPod back in my pocket, I pull out my phone and swipe to my own music. Enough with the Gambler. Time for something new.

“Oh, stop complaining, you old fart. Just give it a chance,” I tell Tot.

The ventilator pumps back his usual response.

“And now…presenting the true fearsome four—the outlaws from Detroit who like to rock loud, like to wear makeup, and are prepared to melt your face off… I give you: KISS, live from the Los Angeles Forum—
the 1979 Dynasty Tour
!”

With a cheering crowd and a steady haunting drumbeat, the song “Rock and Roll All Nite” begins to thunder from my phone’s tinny speaker.

“You’re judging now, aren’t you?” I ask Tot. “Don’t. When they were getting inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, someone said that KISS was never a critics’ band; they’re the
people’s
band. In fact, at this concert, Ace Frehley shot rockets from the neck of his guitar. Real rockets—
from a guitar
! At one point in the show, a guitar would rise into the air, and then Ace would grab his rocket guitar and shoot the first guitar down! Let’s see the Gambler do that! It may be loud and childish, but sometimes you unapologetically need to be who you are.”

“
You drive us wild, we’ll drive you craaazy
,” KISS sang from my phone.

“You feel that? That’s not just nostalgia. That’s your heart pumping, screaming that you’re alive. Feels great, right?” I ask, sitting in the vinyl chair next to his bed and grabbing Tot’s open palm. “C’mon, Tot, this is your chance. I need you to squeeze my hand.”

Tot doesn’t squeeze back.

“You can do it. I know you can,” I tell him, gripping him a little harder.

His hand feels dead in my own.

“Fine, you leave me no choice. I bring you
this
…” From my coat pocket, I hold out a photo of a woman in a black sweater. “Verona. From Human Resources. Sweater tighter than ever,” I explain, wedging the photo into the faux paneling on the guard rail of his hospital bed. “I took it secretly with my phone, and I swear to you, there are four Archives employees who would pay for this picture. If you open your eyes right now, it will greet you like a big-bosomed sunrise.”

Tot’s hand just sits there.

Can’t say I expected any different. However long it takes, I’ll be here. “By the way, I met with Wallace today. As usual, he’s awful. His ego’s awful. He’ll always be awful. He even thinks he actually fooled me, as if I didn’t know he snuck that penny into the dead hand. But by playing along, at least for now, he’s done coming after us.” Leaning in close to Tot, I whisper, “Big secret? I’ll never stop hunting him.”

The automated blood pressure cuff tightens around Tot’s arm. The rest of the monitors sing a song of beeps and pings.

“Best of all, we stopped the real bad guy: Ezra and his so-called Knights,” I say, though as the words leave my lips, all I see is Clementine’s coffin from today’s funeral. No question, the Culper Ring has the potential for so much good. I just wish Tot had warned me it could also bring so much bad.

“I know,” I tell him, still holding his hand. “And I do realize that the longer I talk to you, the more I’m like Nico with his imaginary friend.”

In the middle of the KISS song, there’s an explosive boom. “Here we go…
pyrotechnics
!” I call out. The crowd erupts with raucous cheers that turn me into my twelve-year-old self, when Marshall and I used to listen to this in his treehouse.

Back when Tot was first shot and the doctors told me to play him his favorite music, they explained that the reason people like old songs is because
they know what’s coming. When that classic song starts playing and you know all the words, you mentally start singing along. According to neurologists, that feeling provides a true sense of safety that doesn’t exist in real life. In real lif
e
, there are so many unknowns.

“Imagine it this way,” the doctor told me. “When you go down a slide, it’s usually a fun ride. But if I blindfolded you, and you didn’t know you were at the top of that slide, and I suddenly gave you a push, you’d scream, ‘
Whoa! Hey! What the hell’s going on!?
’ Same ride. Two different reactions,” the doctor said.

Yet the longer I sit here and hold Tot’s cold hand, the more I realize that, whether it’s through song or anything else, there’s no getting rid of the unknown. The bumps will always be there. And so will those who love you.

Taking out a ballpoint pen, I turn Tot’s hand palm-down, getting ready to press the point into his nail bed to test his reflexes.

For months no
w
, I’ve been searching through history, sifting through the most complex and screwed-up history of all: family history. I thought that finding the truth about my dad would bring me certainty and wipe away the unknown. But now that I have it, it doesn’t make me feel any better. In fact, during all the time I was searching for the father I
didn’t
have, I’m not sure I fully appreciated the one I
do
have.

I press the point of the pen into Tot’s nail bed. At the pai
n
, he jerks his hand back. He’s definitely still in there.

“You think I’m done with my bribes, old man? Father’s Day is coming, and until the day they die, KISS will still tour. Verizon Center. This August. You and me, third row. We’ll throw our panties onstage—or maybe some obscure historical documents.”

The ventilator hisses in agreement. The machines ping. And KISS continues to rock and roll all night.

As I hold Tot’s hand, his fingers convulse and jerk slightly, which always happens after I press the pen into his nail bed. It’s a reaction to the painful stimulus. But as I grip his hand tighter, I feel something. His fingers move more than before. Not by much. But by enough.

“It was throwing the historical documents that got you in a tizzy, wasn’t it?” I ask.

Tot still doesn’t answer. Not yet. But eventuall
y
, he will.

“You really know the most romantic spots,” a female voice calls from the hallway. I turn just as Mina enters the room, twisting out of her winter coat. She’s wearing a great charcoal knit sweater and black boots that make her look even taller than she is.

“Sweet mother of Abraham Lincoln! Are you playing
KISS
?” she asks. Before I can even answer, her smile lights the room. “I used to
love
this song!”

“Used to?” I challenge.

She glances over at Tot. “He looks better than last time.”

“He does, doesn’t he?” I say, still sitting in the vinyl seat, holding his hand.

“If you want, we can stay.”

“No, it’s okay. He knows I’ll be here tomorrow. Besides, he told me never to refuse a dinner date with a beautiful woman.”

“Dinner? I thought you said you had something special planned.”

“I do. When we’re done, I’m taking you on a brand-new tour of the Archives. The lights in the Treasure Vault have a dimmer. I’ll read you Lincoln’s early draft of the Emancipation Proclamation, and we’ll figure out what changes he made.”

She looks at me, standing there. “Beecher White, you are the nerdiest, sexiest man I’ve ever met in my life. You know how to turn a girl
on
!”

Laughing out loud and getting up from my chair, I give Tot a soft kiss on his forehead. “Toldja, right? You can fake boobs—you can’t fake brains.”

“By the way,” Mina asks as I follow her out of the room and into the hospital hallway, “why’s there a picture of me in my black sweater on the armrest of Tot’s bed?”

I grin at that. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Nico was right about one thing: Our souls have missions. Missions that we repeat over and over until we conquer them. For so long, I thought I knew what my mission was: to uncover my family’s history. I spend every day showing people the power of history. But history only has the power you give it.

Heading for the elevator, I turn and take one last look at Tot, then another at Mina. You may never make peace with your father. But you can always make peace with yourself.

Novels

The Tenth Justice

Dead Even

The First Counsel

The Millionaires

The Zero Game

The Book of Fate

The Book of Lies

The Inner Circle

The Fifth Assassin

Nonfiction

Heroes for My Son

Heroes for My Daughter

History Decoded

I Am Amelia Earhart

I Am Abraham Lincoln

I Am Rosa Parks

I Am Albert Einstein

I Am Jackie Robinson

I Am Lucille Ball

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