Send Down the Rain(30)
“One thing my senior trip taught me is that killing a man doesn’t kill the pain.”
He studied me a long minute. “You sure about that?”
I weighed my head side to side. “I’m pretty sure.”
He smiled. “You remember when Allie’s old man beat down the door and you hit him with a crescent wrench?”
“And you bit off half his ear?”
We laughed. The sound surprised us both, but rather than speak, we let the echo drift through the trees. When it disappeared, I said, “I ate through a straw for six weeks.”
“That’s my image of you. Standing over her mom. Shielding Allie. Looking up at that crazy, drunk old man and telling him that he can’t do what he wants to do. Not today.”
I ate another antacid. “Standing up always costs something.”
He laughed and waved his hand across the front of his pants. “Cost me a change of pants.”
I laughed. Squinted one eye. “My image of you is a little different.”
“Not sure I want to know this.”
“You’re standing next to Allie, in the church.”
He knew the picture. “Not my best moment.”
“Have to agree with you there.” I paused. “That one hurt.”
Moments passed. When he did speak, his tone was softer. “I used to look for you in crowds. Windows. Back alleys. Cars driving by. I was convinced you were waiting on me.”
“That’s because I was.”
“Thought I was just being paranoid.”
“Miami. Second reelection campaign. Had a suite next to yours at the Biltmore. Top floor. When you walked out on the patio at two a.m. to talk on the phone, I was standing three feet from you.”
“That was a long way down.”
“Six years later, you were acting as master of ceremonies at some Disney function. I drove your car in the parade. A shotgun inside my costume.”
He raised both eyebrows.
“And later, you were speaking in Pensacola at the Air and Space Museum. I was in the stall next to you in the bathroom. A guitar string in my hand.”
“Why a guitar string?”
I shrugged. “Just something I learned.”
“Senior trip taught you that, too?”
I nodded.
“What stopped you?”
I shrugged. “Same thing that’s been stopping me for four decades. Same thing stopping me now.”
He eyed his two goons. “Which is . . .”
“It won’t help. You, or me.”
“You sure?”
“I’ve got some experience.”
He nodded. “Jo-Jo?” He spoke softly, with his chin resting on his chest. “Don’t underestimate the other man’s pain.”
I turned toward him. His bodyguards took a defensive step toward me. He waved them off. I said, “You sober?”
He looked away. “Yes.”
I waited until he looked at me. “Really?”
He rubbed his palms together. “Yes.”
I spoke what we both felt. “A tough stretch of years. We all lost a little something.”
He agreed. “More so for you than anyone.”
This was a realization he’d never voiced. “What makes you say that?”
“I saw your file.”
“You mean I actually have one?”
He laughed. “Not officially. Wasn’t until I got clearance. It’s top secret.”
“How’d you get ahold of it?”
“I’m chairman of the Senate Committee on Armed Services. I see what the president sees—” He smiled. “Often before he sees it.”
“Ironic, don’t you think?”
He nodded. “Yes.”
We stood a long moment. “You should burn it.”
He put his hand on my shoulder. An offering. The first time my brother had touched me in decades. “Good to see you, Joseph.” There was no malice in it.
“Bobby?”
“Yes.”
“Your secret’s safe with me.”
The hawk on Capitol Hill didn’t seem so hawkish. “I wouldn’t blame you if you decide otherwise.”
“I don’t want what you have. What good would it do me? Would it take us back in time?”
“Sometimes . . . No, most times, when I’m sitting at my desk, I don’t ask myself what I think I should do. I ask myself what would you do?”
“No wonder you have so many critics.”
He laughed.
I picked at a stone with the toe of my shoe. “Bobby, I can never reconcile our history, but I’ve never hated you.”
“Never?”
I stared back through the years. “Hate is a powerful weapon. But it is powerless when it comes to cutting chains off the human heart.”
When he looked at me, he slid his sunglasses back over his eyes. “What does?”
I stared up, then down at Mom’s grave. “Many nights I used to envision holding your throat in my hands. Squeezing. Until your eyes popped out of your head. Until I felt your neck break.”
“What stopped you?”
“The memory of one good day.” I crossed my arms. “You were nine. I was seven. We were running up and down the beach. No shirt. No shoes. Tanned skin. Our hair streaked blond from the sun. You found three dollars, and we ran a mile down the beach to the store. Bought a—”