The Governor's Sons (38 page)

“Mrs. Kroth,” Libby’s eyes were cool, “what’s the real reason you’re here?”

Charlene tried to muster a genuine smile.
 
“To see how you’re doing.”

“Then don’t make me go through what happened again—I just can’t.”

“I understand,” Charlene said softly, as tears filled her eyes.
 
What she didn’t understand was why there were no pictures of Otis anywhere in Libby’s apartment.
 
Charlene looked deeply into Libby’s eyes.
 
“You know, Libby--Otis loved you very much.”

“I know,” Libby replied.
 
Her eyes remained cool and no change of expression crossed her face.
 
Then almost as an afterthought, she added, “I loved him, too.”

****

After his gut wrenching upheaval in the powder room, Ash quickly washed his face and rinsed his mouth.
 
His fingers rambled frantically in his suit pocket for a peppermint.
 
As a politician, he was never without them; fresh breath was a must.

For a few seconds he sucked on the mint to calm himself.
 
The peppermint soothed his stomach and cleansed the acidity from his mouth.
 
Ash heard muffled voices as the butler showed Harland to the drawing room.

Ash felt faint for a moment, and held tightly to the basin.
 
He studied his reflection, white as a sheet.
 
Ash couldn’t do anything about that, but he did pull a comb from his pocket to neaten his hair.
 
Upon first meeting Harland, Ash didn’t want to look like a panty waist sucking on a candy, so he quickly crunched up what remained of the mint and swallowed it.

Ash looked in the mirror one last time, then took a deep breath.
 
He held up his hands; they weren’t trembling.
 
Finally, he was ready to face his son.
 
But what would they talk about?
 
Ash pondered this as he opened the powder room door.
 
It was too early for the truth.
 
But when
would
be a good time for the truth?
 
Ash didn’t know.
 
Well, he reminded himself, he wouldn’t be at a loss for words.
 
Politicians never were.
 
No group of people was more talented in the art of B.S.

It took only seconds to walk from the powder room to the drawing room, which was just down the hall and to the right.
 
But now, Ash thought while slowly plodding along, the brief stroll was taking an extraordinarily long time.
 
When he approached the outside of the entranceway, his feet stopped completely.

Just one more step—just one more step--and he’d be in the presence of his son.

Libby’s hands shook as she lit a Marlboro.
 
Although Mrs. Kroth was gone now, Libby felt cornered like a cat by a broom wielding witch.
 
Mrs. Kroth had been nice enough, and sweet, but Libby suspected that she, along with the Governor, were on to her.
 
Now Libby had no choice, like a cornered cat she had to spring.

So angered by her predicament, Libby picked up the teacup Charlene had used and threw it crashing to the wall.
 
Who was she kidding?
 
Libby asked herself.
 
She couldn’t pull off killing Hall alone.
 
And what could she get from Gavin, other than information?
 
He could build a bomb, although not as well as Otis, but he’d certainly never build one to kill somebody.

Gavin might have said he wanted to see Hall dead, but he wasn’t a murderer.
 
He didn’t even know his uncle was responsible for the three previous bombs before Willie Cane.
 
Gavin wasn’t fully indoctrinated, so he didn’t completely understand the importance of the Cause and the extreme measures necessary for it to succeed.
 
And of course, when Otis had fully understood—Libby chose not to dwell on that.

There wasn’t much Libby was afraid of.
 
She was, however, terrified of explosives.
 
With a gun, pull the trigger and it’s over.
 
With explosives, a high level of skill is required.
 
A skill she lacked.
 
Libby didn’t want to end up maimed for life or dead, so she’d have to call in Caldwell for help.
 
This wasn’t what she wanted to do, but at least it would be
her
choice, not the Organization’s. The deadline was closing in.
 
If she couldn’t do what was expected, she’d be taken off this mission.
 
She was the first woman in the Organization to be given an opportunity of this magnitude and she had no intention of failing.
 
She had more than a month to complete her assignment.
  
That would be plenty of time to eliminate Harland Hall, especially with Caldwell on the case.

****

Ash forced himself to walk into the drawing room.
 
So nervous, he bumped into a brass floor lamp, knocking it over.
 
He managed to catch the light fixture before it hit the floor.
 
Harland wore a gray suit with a red and blue paisley tie, against a crisp white shirt.
 
As he rose from one of the gold armchairs, to Ash Harland appeared to unfold.

A tall, massive man with a powerful build, Harland’s rock like stature reminded Ash of Kitty’s father.
 
But to Ash, Harland’s most arresting feature was his handsome face.
 
Ash had noticed a slight family resemblance on television and in photos, but in person, it was even more pronounced.
 
Though not a spitting image, Harland looked like Heath.
 
He even sported a generous sprinkling of premature gray.

Harland extended his hand and smiled.
 
“Good save, sir,” he said in reference to the lamp.

Ash heard the words but they didn’t register.
 
That smile Ash thought, and Harland’s deep brown eyes--those belonged Kitty.
 
As an infant, Harland’s skin had been described as toffee colored.
 
But as an adult, his complexion had deepened into a coppery reddish brown.

Ash felt slightly cheated; his first born son bore no physical resemblance to him, whatsoever.
 
Ash clasped Harland’s hand in a firm handshake, though he felt almost compelled to embrace him.

“It’s nice to finally meet you, sir,” Harland said.
 
Ash didn’t respond.
 
He was still too busy absorbing Harland’s presence.
 
“Governor?”
 
Harland asked concerned.
 
“Are you alright?”

Tears clouded Ash’s vision.
 
“I’m—I’m sorry, Mr. Hall, just—hay fever acting up.
 
Please.” Ash gestured for Harland to sit down, as he seated himself on the sofa next to the armchair.
 
“So I—uh—trust you had good ride up from Atlanta?”
 
Ash’s hands shook slightly as he poured them both iced tea from a pitcher on the marble top table in front of them.

“Very nice, sir, and very uneventful.
 
And Governor, I trust that all is well with your family—regarding my stay here.”

“Why—uh--yes, of course.” Ash tried not to stammer.
 
He drank a few gulps of tea to remedy his dry mouth and clacking speech.

“Good.
 
I certainly don’t want to create an awkward situation.”
 
Harland took a sip of tea. “Your driver filled me in on all the political news in these parts.
 
I’d read about the Negro men being released, but he told me that you and your father-in-law were rather instrumental in that decision.”

“Well, it was wrong to incarcerate all those men when there was really no excuse to hold them.”

“I know that wasn’t a popular decision, but you know, as well as I do, that it was the right one.”

“Agreed.”
 
Ash smiled.
 
“Now, how’s your mother?”

“She’s fine; still not crazy about me being here.
 
But once she found out I’d be staying with you on this particular trip, she stopped complaining.
 
And, Governor, my mother still talks about the beautiful flowers you sent for my father’s funeral.
 
That meant a lot to her, and so did your generous donation to the United Negro College Fund on Dad’s behalf.”

Ash sat mesmerized by each of Harland’s mannerisms, the way he drank his tea, the way he sat, desperate to find a bit of himself.
 
Suddenly, he realized Harland had stopped talking.
 
“Uh—that was
 
the least I could do.”

For the first time, Ash felt a little embarrassed by the portraits on the wall.
 
Beauregard Bennett, William Henry Scott and Jonathan Lee St. Claire, the state’s greatest Civil War heroes, stared ominously down on Ash and his Negro son.
 
But Harland didn’t seem fazed at all by the unsmiling beady eyes of the austere Confederate generals.
 
As a matter of fact, Harland seemed an adaptable sort, and quite comfortable here.
 
Ash imagined he’d be comfortable anywhere, as any good politician would.
 

Ash hesitated, then clasped his hands.
 
“Mr. Hall—I admire—what you’re trying to do—bring about change—civil rights—in a peaceful way.
 
But it’s dangerous work and you’re gonna need protection—”

“Governor.” Harland laughed, a laugh similar to Heath’s.
 
“I don’t think I’m important enough to need body guards.
 
I’m just a small fry compared to someone like Dr. King.”

“Well, with the way things are here in Clarkstown,” Ash said, “you need security.
 
And while you’re here with me, you’re gonna have it—whether you like it or not.
 
You’re mother would kill me if something happened to you.”

“So, I don’t have a choice?”

“Not in this matter.
 
And once you’re settled here to stay, I’ll see to it that you have full time security.”

“Governor, until I’m convinced there’s a need for it, I’d prefer we just start with minimal protection.”

“We can start minimally, but if I see a need for increased security, I’ll increase it.”

“If there really is a need, I won’t argue.”

“Your mother might argue with me for agreeing to start small.”

Harland smiled.
 
“So—you really do care about her?”

“Why wouldn’t I?
 
She’s a friend.”

“That’s what she says.” Harland sounded skeptical.
 
“I just didn’t know how true that really was.”

White man
—that’s how Ash assumed he’d wanted to finish his last sentence.
 
Though stung, Ash tried not to take offense at Harland’s sentiment

“You know,” Harland continued, unaware of Ash’s feelings, “one of the main reasons I’m pursuing Civil Rights so passionately is because of my mother.
 
Mama always said, ‘don’t fight for a cause unless it’s worth dying for.’”
 
Harland sat back and crossed an ankle over his knee.
 
His shoes were highly polished black leather.
 
“I’m not easily intimidated.
 
I don’t have a wife or kids…so all those—‘good old boys’ can take from me is my life; because this is a cause worth dying for.”

Ash leaned closely to Harland.
 
“But—you don’t
want
to die.”
 
This thought terrified Ash.
 
For a brief second he remembered seeing Kitty dead after Harland’s birth. He’d been denied a relationship with his child all those years ago, but now he had another chance.

“Of course not—but I’m prepared to.”

Both sat silently before Ash spoke.
 
“Charlene and I were already married when I went off to fight in World War II.
 
I believed I owed it to my country.
 
Fighting for America was a cause worth dying for.
 
But I wasn’t only fighting for my country—I was fighting for my wife; nothing like a good woman to stand behind you.
 
So, any reason you’re putting off marriage?”

Harland laughed.
 
“I played the field for a while, but before my dad died, he told me to either get married, so I could have a strong wife to support me and my work, or leave the ladies alone and just be married to the Civil Rights Cause.
 
He said that a wife provides balance, but too many women—just a lot of distraction.

“And on top of that, Mama nagged me about not walking as a godly man should.
 
So I’ve been on the straight and narrow ever since.
 
Church on Sunday, pray and read the Bible every morning—all that’s made a difference in my life and helps to keep me focused.
 
But one day,” Harland looked toward the portrait of the Governor’s family, “I hope to have a lovely wife and some beautiful children, just like you, sir.”