UNTIL LOVE

The fate of the country rests on two people falling in love.

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Until Love

“We are asleep until we fall in love!”

War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy

CHAPTER ONE

Washington, D.C. – September – the candidate

The roller-skater glided down the one-way of 10th Street, and whisked into the traffic of New York Avenue. She surfed between cars, trucks, and buses, keeping her thirty’s figure in shape. Rap music through her headphones swayed her movements. A high five to the young boys staring from the bus windows as she skated by in tight jeans and a form-fit suede jacket. 

With speed and exuberance, she cruised past the National Museum of Women in the Arts—the only museum dedicated to women—and smiled with wonder at this renovated Masonic temple. She’d traveled by so many classical buildings throughout the city over the years and loved them all.

Her inline skates were faster but not as maneuverable as her four wheels once leaving the asphalt wave. Skipping curbs, zipping between people-covered sidewalks, and climbing steps were her city-streets existence, not to mention jumping the occasional urban animal that skittered past in a blur.

She skitched—grabbed the back panel of a metro bus—as it passed, whipping her purple and black hair across her Hāfu, half Japanese face. As the bus slowed at a light, the blare of a megaphone grabbed her attention. People came from the corner and walked up the cordoned-off street that ran in front of the White House. The bus moved away, and she released her grip, gliding into the intersection.

An air horn shriek scooted her from the advancing truck toward the mass of moving pedestrians. She swayed through the people, oblivious to their stares and sudden jerks as she rolled past.

A dozen White House Police roamed the two-block road, keeping spectators from the fence in front of the People’s House. Across the road, meters of yellow tape channeled tourists and other curious onlookers into Lafayette Square. At the southeast corner—where the ten-foot statue of Marquis de Lafayette stood on a fifteen-foot base—the attendees gathered. Cellphones held above heads aimed at those speaking, promoting the candidate who hadn’t arrived yet.

*****

Senator Dorothy Lawrence and her entourage strode into the park on a mission. Her face was on the stubborn side of passive, but her gait, forceful. The blue pants suit, brilliant against her fair skin, snapped with every stride.

Dorothy barked out above the clattering feet on the brick walkway. “Okay, people, this is our first campaign stop in our nation’s capital. Let’s make an indelible impression here, today.”

Vincent Mallory, the speechwriter, already breathless, came alongside the front row. His brand jeans with a silk pullover and tousled hair kept his demure look in the nineteen-fifties. “Did the rewrite work for you this time, Dorothy?”

“I made a few changes, Vincent. Don’t worry about it.”

Vincent worried.

Cristhal Mason, Dorothy’s confidant and political advisor, craned her head to see past Dorothy. “Breathe deeply, Vincent.”

He gazed at this woman in purple silk trousers and vest, who emphasized her tall physique on elevated sneakers. Braided hair flowed from her Afro-Hawaiian face.

“In the words of Friedrich Nietzsche,” Paul Vandross, the campaign manager, shouted from behind, “be careful not to tread on the exuberant fertility of the universal will.”

Dorothy frowned. “What…”

At fifty, keeping this pace for Paul wasn’t easy. He tried again. “Please refrain from confrontational recitals, today.”

Dorothy motioned to him. “Step closer, Paul, so I can whack you one. Recitals of truth seem confrontational when held up to steadfast ignorance.”

Millennial Black woman, Keisha Taylor, the campaign’s spokesperson, backed Paul’s observation. “Speaking bad to our voters isn’t the best approach across the street from the White House.” Her shoulder-length curls against a black satin dress flourishing red accents, bounced with determination as she hurried along.

Behind them strode Laima, both driver and security, a 6’ 2” blond woman with a renegade pixie cut and burgundy suit. She scanned the surrounding area and moving pedestrians, but said nothing.

*****

The police eyed the buzzing crowd, now spread out along the street and into the grass around the statue. A half-dozen expectant reporters surrounded the small podium set up at the bottom of Lafayette’s effigy.

A baseball cap reporter nudged his tartan tie-wearing friend. “Well, this should be interesting.”

The Tartan replied with a sardonic laugh. “Only if she throws a zinger and decides not to keep running.”

“I thought you were into her?”

“Yeah, when she started out, she was ballsy. ­But somewhere along the line she became—”

“Ambivalent?”

“I was thinking, more like, safe. She grabbed whatever she needed from either side of the aisle.”

Both men looked up as police led Senator Dorothy Lawrence and entourage through the crowd to the podium. Unlike a cheering wave that might go through a gathering, everyone faded to silence.

The campaign manager stepped upon the podium and to the microphones. Paul cleared his throat and leaned in to speak, but cut off by shouting endorsements for Dorothy. He smiled to the faces aimed at him and started again.  The crowd broke into a chant.

“Dorothy, Dorothy, Dorothy…!”

Flustered, Paul stepped away as Dorothy climbed the few steps and edged past him. The crowd fell to silence.

Dorothy scanned her waiting public and took a deep breath. “Well, that was encouraging! Thank you, so much. Nobody promised you anything in return, did they?”

A woman’s high pitch came back. “Only a new government is all!”

Dorothy laughed. “Okay, Mom, you can go home now.”

Sporadic chuckles. The two reporters glanced at each other. Eyes focused on Dorothy.

“First, let me thank you for coming down and giving us a chance at competing for the most sacred of our American rights: your vote.”

A scattering of cheers and applause.

Baseball Cap raised his hand and shouted, “Madam Senator, you were the last candidate to enter the race back at the end of May. Why did you wait so long to make your first footfall on the path to the White House?”

Dorothy jerked her eyes to the front row.

“It was no secret I’d enter this race. In fact, Mr. Mills, I read it in your very own newspaper… before I had even decided to run.” She waved a finger at him. “A little preemptive news reporting, I must say.”

A few laughed.

Tartan reporter weighed in. “Senator, your agenda for opposing the President seems well thought-out, but appears more like a checklist, or chapter headings. There are no details.”

“You know, if I gave you every single detail in a tome, I’d have no need to go out on the campaign trail. So, where’s the fun in that, I ask you?”

Tartan nudged Baseball Cap. “A tome?”

Baseball shook his head. “A book, my erudite friend.”

“Let’s try this.” Dorothy spoke to the crowd. “The President has said, on many occasions, that he wouldn’t cut into Social Security. But his government has been borrowing against it for the last four years, and they never paid a cent back, not even interest. There’s where your tax break for the rich may have come from. Now, where is the fairness in that?”

A wave of cheers and boos rippled through the spectators.

Another reporter, further back, shifted to something more media acceptable.

“Senator Lawrence, what’s your take on the First Lady and recent comments she made speculating on your entry into the race?”

Dorothy considered another deep breath until the roller-skating woman glided by the back of the crowd. Her body seemed motionless, magical, as she floated past the swaying movements of Dorothy’s potential voters.

Her eyes drifted from the ephemeral figure to zero in on the reporter. “You mean when she questioned how I could run our great country because I didn’t have a First Man?” She held up her hand and counted her fingers. “One former President was a bachelor his whole life, another got married a moment before being sworn in, others lost the wives to disease. Who knows what will happen in the next 14 months.” Her smile spread. “Why, the First Lady and I were sorority sisters, back in the day, and everyone knows how sisters can be to each other, sometimes.”

Dorothy grinned. Her eyes rose over the audience just as the skater turned her head, her sensuous face and eyes coming up… “We all know the First Lady is as wholesome—” Dorothy’s eyes locked with the skater, “—and tasty as apple pie.”

The skater disappeared behind a tree. Dorothy snapped back to reality with the horrid realization of her Freudian slip. “American! American as apple pie.”

Paul stepped in as a shield, speed talking. “Uh, we want to thank everyone for coming down to welcome Dorothy to the Nation’s Capital. But as you know, schedules are tight, and we have a luncheon with the mayor. Remember, let’s not forget this is National Hispanic Heritage Month, so please support many of our nation’s population. We hope to see you again, real soon. Bye for now.”

The rolling buzz of the perplexed attendees, overrode the few cheers. Dorothy’s smile faded as she sent out a hearty presidential wave. The entire entourage swept Dorothy away like a wounded bird.

Paul leaned to Dorothy’s ear. “What, in the holy hell, was that?”

Dorothy dropped her waving hand. “Probably tomorrow’s headline.”

“Don’t even.”

Police, with entwined arms, held ­spectators back. The skater stood on the brick path, now forced forward by the crush of people aiming for their candidate. Dorothy’s shoe skipped a pebble across the sidewalk beneath the massive police guards. The skate wheel caught on the stone, propelling the askew skater into the policemen’s linked arms.

With athletic skill, she pushed off those meaty limbs, flipping head-over-heels between the interlocked protectors to land on her feet. Physics plowed her forward, careening her into Dorothy and Paul, crashing them to the sidewalk, piled three high.

Unhurt, but out of breath, shock and delight took turns in the women’s expressions, inches apart. The skater blinked, which was enough to elevate Dorothy’s heart and restart her arrested breath.

She gasped, “Roller-skating and acrobatics. Oh, my!”

“May’ve lost…” the skater returned in short breaths, “…technical points here.”

“But a solid 9.5 on artistic expression.”

A red hue washed over the skater’s face. “This is majorly unfortunate!”

“Fortune can swing both ways…”

A moan issued, “I can’t breathe,” from Paul, below them.

Reality snapped back. Rough grips pulled the skater up, trapping her between beefy officers. Laima eased Dorothy to her feet. Within a moment, the police dragged the skater away. Her entourage encircled Dorothy. No hands helped Paul from the pavement.

He staggered himself up, bent over, wheezing in exaggerated grasps. “I’m fine, thanks.”

Dorothy pulled away from her comrades and wrapped an arm around Paul’s shoulders, whispering in his ear.

“Straighten up, Paul. You want that headline tomorrow to include my weight statistics?”

He straightened into an arm-over-head yoga stretch, his sheepish grin looking around and nodding to the crowd who hadn’t paid him any attention.

The Senator assured the police that everyone was fine and no charges filed for the accident. The bustle of a police escort led Dorothy and her team through the baffled gathering that now followed them. Laima ran back to the limo, bringing it alongside the park. As Dorothy climbed in, she scanned the crowd, looking for those eyes.

CHAPTER TWO

Washington, D.C. – September – entourage

Dorothy peered through the limo’s darkened glass. With a huff she fell back into the seat, flanked by Cristhal and Keisha. Vincent and Paul sat opposite on jump seats. The silence overrode the road noise and defined everyone’s special form of fidgeting.

Dorothy leaned forward and began to speak, but everyone spoke at the same time.

“What was—”/ “Don’t you—”/ “Is this—”/ “Why didn’t—”/ “I was—”

Mouths snapped shut. Dorothy closed her eyes, took a breath, and opened them. She started again…

“You think—”/ “It’s fair to—”/ “I’m sure—”/ “We are—”/ “How could—”

Voices cut short. Eyes flicked at each other. No one wanted to speak first. Dorothy, squinting, held up her arms and crossed them; a referee’s time-out. She raised a hand and pointed at it with the other. She sat back and waited. Everyone skimmed each other’s potential involvement. Keisha sat up straight and raised her hand. Dorothy nodded to her.

“Harsh to say, but the spin we’ll need on your little slip of the tongue will have to be Pulitzer Prize inspiring?”

Red clouded Dorothy’s face, and she started to speak—Paul beat her to it, pointing at Keisha. “From your mouth to God’s ears.”

Vincent leaned over, finger skyward. “Nowadays, cyberspace gets more play than astral space. God’s ears are bugged.”

Cristhal raised both hands to heaven, rolling her eyes. “Hey, you got any towels in here?”

Paul reached and patted her shoulder. “You need to have a cry, dear?”

“Not quite. The towels are for you weenies to throw in.”

Keisha peeked around Dorothy, eyeballing Cristhal. “Well, I didn’t hear any stop-gap suggestions from you.”

 “Okay, screw the 20/20 hindsight. Really, just what’s the big deal, anyway? A little misspeak?”

“Maybe Vincent has a point?” Paul nodded for agreement. “I mean, is there a calamity, actually.”

“Gee, I don’t know?” Keisha made a frame in front of Dorothy’s face. “How does close-up footage of our presidential candidate referring to the First Lady as a tasty morsel of apple pie, sound to you? Then broadcast to every TV and computer screen across the nation.”

Dorothy raised her hand, knocking Keisha’s Vogue frame away. “How about I just tell the truth?”

Keisha scowled. “And what natural and convincing truth would that be?”

“It was lunchtime.” Dorothy shrugged. “I was hungry?”

Nodding, Paul put fingers to temples. “I think we could meditate on this approach.”

While everyone pondered in despair, Dorothy glanced out the window. They passed the skating woman.

*****

The skater puffed along at a good pace, smoothing out the asphalt in long, even strides. A limo passed, and she caught her reflection in its darkened windows. A half-block later, she cruised into a medical clinic driveway. At the entrance, she hopped the curb, heading straight for a striking Black man in a summer suit. With a frown, he held up his mobile, tapping it, mouthing the words, tu es tard, you’re late. The gloominess erased from his face as Deirdre rolled into his hug.

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President Strather Prescott and First Lady Dominique Alden Prescott sat upright and stiff on a 19th century Queen Anne couch in the First Family’s living room. They stared emotionless at the large TV and Senator Dorothy Lawrence’s embarrassing coverage.

A giant image of Keisha Taylor alternated with the mirthful reporter. “Ms. Taylor, you must know that your candidate will get ribbed about this misspeak for quite some time. We haven’t had a guffaw like that since the days of W. Bush mangling the word ‘nuclear’.”

Keisha pulled a happy grin. “Well, we’re happy to give everyone a good laugh.” She turned to the camera, staring straight into it. “However, we’d like to say to the First Lady, that in no way was Senator Lawrence’s remark meant to disparage her. It was a mere slip of the tongue.”

“A tasty tongue,” an off-camera male yelled.

The reporter ignored the interloper. “What about the attack by the demonstrator? Was the Senator hurt?”

Keisha smiled. “No, no, there were no injuries. Apparently, in their excitement, the wonderful crowd that turned out to welcome the Senator caused the hapless skater to lose her balance. You might say that it was nothing more than an enthusiastic greeting.”

“Well, Ms. Taylor, that certainly was one way to look at the inauspicious events of yesterday.”

“I believe, Marty, that we can move ahead from here and chalk yesterday’s incidents up to competitive jitters.”

“Really? You’d think seasoned professionals might be a little calmer coming out of the gate, wouldn’t you, Ms. Taylor?”

Keisha nodded. “Even Olympians make false starts.”

The First Lady stood up and clicked the remote, erasing the past.

President Prescott burst out in an uproarious laugh. “Utterly astounding!”

The First Lady huffed her agreement. “Understatement.”

“I mean, unbelievable as it seems, after all these years, the wench has said something I’m in complete agreement with.”

Narrowed eyes cast their glare to the President. Her soft Southern accent made an ironic phrase sound pleasant. “This better be good, Strather.”

The President took his wife’s cast in stone face between his hands, leaned in, and planted a big sloppy kiss. She pulled away delightfully appalled.

“You are as sweet as apple pie!”

First Lady Dominique glanced around. “You’re not recording this, are you?”

Strather laughed again. “My eternal darling, I do believe the goat has slaughtered itself.”

“Strather, please. Don’t underestimate Dot. I’ve seen her climb out of a shallow grave before.”

“Okay, my scrumptious jujube. I believe you, as always. And as a precaution, I’ll enlist the CIA comedy squad to make sure pies and pratfalls are at her televised events!”

Dominique walked away. “You go ahead and jest, Mr. President, but if you want to keep 1600 on our letterhead, we better be sure that all the polls she’s likely to climb, are well-greased.”

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