Matter of Trust (6 page)

They were at Saint Stephen's Prep. It was her son's old school. They were on a stage in the gymnasium-cum-assembly hall that smelt of damp and rubber and young men's sweat.

Her son was giving a speech about the new education bill he had pushed through the senate. It involved the pledging of twenty million dollars to high school students with special educational needs – or, as Gloria thought of them, government-fund-sucking ingrates who were either too lazy or too stupid to learn their ABCs.

But here she was, Chris's wife Rebecca and her three grandchildren beside her – Connor looking ridiculously out of place in his private school uniform and (unlike his grandmother) too selfish to attempt to hide the discomfort on his face.

Gloria smiled and clapped and even deigned to hug the school's longstanding principal, Father Patrick O'Reilly, while inside she cursed her dead husband yet again for forcing her to send their only son to this rat hole so that his father could look like the egalitarian Governor ‘for the people'. She vowed then and there that this was the last time she would set foot in this poor man's version of an educational institution for those doomed to a life of insignificance.

‘It has been a long time since I stood here in this hall,' her son continued, looking tall and handsome in his charcoal Armani suit, ‘surrounded by young men of integrity, of honour, with dreams of building a better life for themselves, for their families, and for those of the community in which they live.

‘It has been a long time since I felt that familiar sense of belonging in a school dedicated to helping all students, no matter what their intellectual, physical or creative talents.

‘It has been a long time since I felt my heart fill with the power of possibility you each hold in your hearts and in your hands.

‘And it has been way too long a time since Father Patrick here,' Chris gestured at the white-haired headmaster sitting behind him, ‘received me so graciously here in this hall of memories, instead of in his office which, in case he hasn't told you, I frequented
way
too regularly.'

The assembly laughed, and Rebecca smiled and Gloria gave a little nod and a knowing half-smile which said,
It's true, you know – my son the rascal! Who would have thought!

‘But it's men like Father Patrick here and initiatives like the new education bill I am determined to push through the Senate that results in boys like me making something of themselves. And I am determined to make sure that each and every one of you has the same opportunities that I had – that this school and the teachers in it receive the assistance they deserve to continue their work – so that you can reach your goals and one day, your sons and daughters will do the same.'

Five minutes later, when the ceremony was finally over, and Father Patrick
finally let go of her son's arm and directed his shabbily dressed staff to send their multi-coloured wards back to class, Gloria approached her son and kissed him gently on his cheek, her neck titling ever so slightly so that she might shift her ash blonde hair behind her pearl studded right ear. ‘Thank God that's over,' she whispered. ‘If you leave now, you have just enough time to make that corporate heads of technology lunch at the Sheraton.'

She felt Chris hesitate ever so slightly, before he pulled back slowly and shook his head.

‘I got Denise to ring and say I couldn't make it. I have some urgent calls to make.'

Gloria frowned. ‘Then why didn't you cancel this little hug-fest so that you could make your calls this morning and be at the lunch by one?'

She furrowed her brow but maintained her smile as Rebecca and the grandchildren shook hands with the rest of the staff and students now inching out of the musk-smelling assembly hall. She cringed when she saw that Connor had found his two inappropriate friends – another case of Chris's poor judgment – and his penchant for clinging to the past.

‘Governor Powell is expecting you at that lunch,' she told her son. ‘Those technology directors are on the cusp of donating substantial amounts to your next campaign. They know you are the real deal, Christopher, and cancelling – well . . .' She took a breath, her frustration now getting the better of her. ‘In my opinion, that is extremely unwise.'

But as she straightened her pastel Chanel suit and looked into her son's eyes, those deep, dark pools that had never been able to hide his inner emotions, she realised there was something else on his already overcrowded mind today – something more personal, something troubling – and in that moment she took some relief in knowing that her plan had worked.

‘Is there anything wrong, Christopher?' she asked, understanding there was no way he would confide in her – at least not about this.

‘I'm fine,' he said, escorting her off the stage and toward the rest of his family. ‘Just tired.'

‘I understand,' she said, knowing he would be fine in the long run – better than fine if truth be told. ‘Look, why don't I ring the Governor and tell him you'll pop into the lunch briefly? And then I'll instruct Denise to hold your calls for the rest of the afternoon so you can focus on clearing your backlog, and start tomorrow afresh.'

Newark, New Jersey

C
hris Kincaid knew the house would be empty. Thursday was the day Rebecca took the girls to ballet class – and Connor had basketball practice from six till eight.

He used to look forward to Thursdays – when he'd finish work early and meet Marilyn at one location or another, hotel rooms scattered about the city, all dark and discreet.

Despite what most people would assume, it was never about the sex. Of course they made love, but not every time. In fact, more often than not of late, their meetings had been spent sitting, talking, holding each other warm and tight until 10 pm approached and Chris would head for home.

She never asked him to drive her home. She said that if they had a car accident or got pulled over by the police there would be too many assumptions made and too few ways to explain them. She was like that – always thinking of everyone else except herself. And to some degree he knew he took advantage of her selflessness, by having his cake, and eating it too.

But he was paying for it now. Despite all the responsibilities of work and family, Marilyn Maloney was all that he could think about – Marilyn
and David, and what his attorney friend might reveal when Chris finally got the chance to return his call.

It was almost seven. The corporate heads of technology lunch had dragged on until four, after which several of the more influential diners had suggested a few quiet whiskies in the Sheraton's private bar. And despite Chris's desperation to call his old schoolfriend to see what he'd discovered, he had done what was expected of him and turned off his cell so that he might listen and respond and smile and impress and lay the foundations for the next chapter in his flourishing political career. But all the time, all he could think of was the sparkle in her eyes, the sweet smell of her hair and the warmth of her body as she lay her head against his shoulder and told him that she wanted nothing from him bar his love – and that she had resolved long ago where she belonged and where she didn't, and that she was grateful for the little they had.

‘Dad,' said Connor Kincaid as his father switched on the kitchen light and saw the three boys sitting on the granite-topped kitchen counter before him. He had obviously given his son a start – which was more than understandable given Chris was home much earlier than usual and the boys were sitting in the semi-darkness cupping three cans of ice cold Buds.

‘Basketball got cancelled and I . . .' Connor trailed off, obviously not sure how to explain himself. Chris felt an almighty wave of nostalgia – for those three other kids, all those years ago, who used to steal the odd beer or two from their parents' refrigerators, and sit comforted by the dark in some out of the way household corner, feeling nervous and courageous at the same time.

‘Is there another one of those in the fridge for me?' he asked, and he saw his son's shoulders relax.

‘Sure,' said Connor, jumping from the bench, a look of confusion and relief on his dark narrow face. Connor was not used to anyone giving him a break, and Chris decided then and there that was one of many things that had to change around here. Life was short, after all.

‘Hi, Mr Kincaid,' said the boy nearest him, and Chris took the opportunity to focus on his son's two guests – once again finding a strange sense of comfort in the identity of the two boys sitting before him.

‘Jack,' he said, moving into the kitchen proper and extending his hand
toward the good-looking, brown-haired kid before him. ‘Will,' he said, turning to the second boy – a taller, darker, older kid who was eighteen but could pass for twenty-five. ‘It's good to see you both. Did you boys catch up at Saint Stephen's this morning?'

It was a fair question. Jack Delgado and Will Cusack were not part of Connor's usual private school crowd. The three boys had met in September 2002, when Chris had helped organise a fundraising rally a year after the 9/11 attacks. The rally honoured the ‘Brave 37' men of the New York/New Jersey Port Authority Police Department who had died on that fateful day – men who included George Delgado and John Cusack. What made it worse, at least in Jack's case, was the fact Jack's brother had been killed as well. George Delgado had been freelancing for extra cash as a part-time security officer at the World Trade Center – and he had taken Jack's twin brother Joshua to work with him that morning because the boy had a lunchtime appointment with an orthodontist in Manhattan.

Jack and Will had grown up as friends – their parents enrolling them in the same Catholic elementary and high schools. And when, at the 2002 fundraiser, Chris recognised their school uniforms as the one he had worn as a kid, he'd introduced himself to their mothers and invited them around for dinner. And despite his own mother's protests that this was way beyond his political obligations, Chris was glad that he had, for Connor had struck up a friendship with the pair – a friendship that had continued despite their social and economic separation.

It was Will, the more confident of the two, who answered Chris's question. ‘We cornered Connor after your speech, Senator,' he said. ‘And he invited us around for a . . .'

‘I'm glad,' said Chris, finding a strange comfort in being surrounded by kids from his old neighbourhood. ‘But, if you don't mind, I am going to take my beer into the study.' All these memories were reminding him of the task at hand – the need to return the brief message left by
his
old schoolfriend late this afternoon.

‘I'll assume that was your one and only Bud, though.' He managed a smile as he met Jack Delgado's eye. ‘I know both your moms, and I don't think they'd appreciate my serving a trio of underage boys some icy-cold Buds before dinner.'

‘Of course,' said Will. ‘You're a champion, Mr K, and your secret is safe with us,' he added.

Chris could have sworn Connor shuddered.

‘You know, Will, you are one of the few people in this city who feels comfortable enough to call me Mr K,' he responded, with what he hoped sounded like a light-hearted chuckle. ‘And you have to promise me that whatever title they end up putting before my name, that you will never call me anything else.'

He looked at Connor, whose dark, brooding face managed a rare smile.

‘You got it, future Mr President.
Oops!
I mean, Mr K,' said Will.

Chris grinned, thinking this kid probably had the makings of a President himself.

‘Thanks, Dad,' said Connor then, and for the slightest of moments he thought he detected a trace of sadness in his son's dark eyes.

‘No problem, son,' he said as he took the beer from Connor's outstretched hand, their eyes meeting for just a second before Connor dropped his gaze.

Unable to help himself, Chris drew his son into a tight and unexpected embrace – Connor's body taut and stiff, obviously not used to such open displays of affection in a household devoid of physical shows of emotion.

‘I love you, son,' he whispered into his oldest child's ear, before releasing him once again, and moving quickly, quietly from the room.

Boston, Massachusetts

It was barely eight but Sara had already fallen asleep horizontally across the bed, exhausted from hours of trying to get an over-energetic Lauren to drift off for at least an hour or two. David sat quietly in the living room, the only light coming from the unusually strong moon beam and the muted TV whose colours danced like rainbows across the kitchen annexe wall.

His cell was resting on the sofa beside him, and he saw it light up before the ringtone had a chance to kick in. He scooped it up quickly and pressed the receive button so as not to disturb the peace around him, the only noise coming from the hum of the dishwasher, and the unusually loud beating of his heart.

‘Chris,' he said.

‘DC,' his friend replied.

After Chris had apologised for not having had the opportunity to return his call sooner, David started from the beginning and told his friend everything Joe had shared with him earlier in the day. Chris did not interrupt, David hearing his even breathing on the other end of the line.

And then when David had finally finished, Chris asked the question that David had known he would. And despite his promise to himself, David found himself answering the only way that he could.

Newark, New Jersey

I
t was early Saturday morning and Detective Harry McNally was seated in Salicia Curtis's Norfolk Street conference room – the Chief Medical Examiner was dressed down in jeans and a cable knit sweater, but still looked uncannily like Angelina Jolie.

‘Thanks for coming in on a Saturday, Sal,' said McNally.