Balance of Power

    Turning, Kerry saw Lara's youngest sister, Mary. Neither as plump as Joan nor as pretty as Lara, Mary had crescent eyes, a wide mouth, and the tentative look of someone who was waiting to be invited to dance, but felt uncertain that this would happen. She was a kindergarten teacher: it was with children, Lara had told him, that her hesitant manner was replaced by an air of unflappability.

    Kerry kissed her on the forehead. "Mary," he said, "it's terrific that you're here."

    After a tentative moment, she hugged him. "To me, it's amazing that I am. But Lara's an amazing person."

    To Kerry, Mary's comment had a faint and unintentional undertone—that Mary felt more awe for Lara than she found comfortable. Then he saw Joan standing behind her, and extended his arm. When Joan came forward, he gently pulled her closer, until she rested the crown of her head against his cheek.

    "How are you?" he murmured.

    "Better, for now." She leaned back; her liquid brown eyes were filled with a trust which reminded Kerry of how much he still worried for her, how deeply he had become enmeshed in the life of Lara's family. Quickly, Joan glanced down at Marie. "Thank you, Kerry. For everything."

    Grasping her mother's hand, Marie was looking about her with the shyness of a six-year-old in the presence of a stranger. It struck Kerry that Marie, so much a part of his thoughts, had never met him.

    Kneeling, he took both of her hands. "Hi, Marie. I'm Kerry."

    She looked at him, head slightly angled away, as if to keep her inspection surreptitious. "You're the President."

    Kerry smiled. "True. I'm also marrying your Aunt Lara. That makes me your uncle, believe it or not."

    Marie gazed at him, as if torn between interest and suspicion. As her picture had suggested, she was so much like a miniature Lara that it pierced him, yet there was something harder to define, perhaps the set of her mouth and the apprehension in her eyes, which reminded Kerry of his encounter with John Bowden.

    "At the airport," she informed him, "they took my picture."

    "Yeah—they do that a lot. After a while you sort of get used to it."

    Marie gave a fractional shrug. "I didn't really mind," she allowed, and then looked past him at the White House. "It's huge. My teacher said it would be."

    At once, Kerry had the sense of Lara's family stepping through the looking glass—for reasons Marie could not truly comprehend, the world was signalling her that she had become a child apart. Even without this, too much had happened to her—a home life that must seem unpredictable and often dangerous; a mother who was fearful and confused; a father who, in his banishment, had become a frightening enigma. "It may be big," Kerry assured her, "but it's pretty nice inside. Would you like to see it?"

    The little girl bit her lip. "Can you show me where Mommy and I are sleeping?"

    Kerry heard the implicit plea: please don't separate me from my mother. "Sure," he answered with a smile. "It's called the Lincoln Bedroom. The bed's big enough for both of you."

    Around them, the White House ushers came for the Costello's luggage. Perhaps, Kerry thought, it was the presence of more strangers; perhaps it was that Kerry was a man, and that Marie Bowden missed her father. But when they entered the East Wing, the fingers of Marie's left hand rested lightly in Kerry's.

* * *

John Bowden sat amidst the wreckage of his life.

    His clothes were flung over chairs and on the floor; there was nothing in the refrigerator but bagels, ice cream, and a chilled bottle of vodka. The red light on his answering machine was a message from his probation officer, asking why he had missed the workshop for convicted batterers, and warning that this was a parole violation. In his hands he grasped the framed picture of Marie; at his feet, on the front page of the afternoon paper, Joan and Marie stepped out of a limousine at San Francisco International, above a caption saying "Wedding Bound." From his television, CNN assaulted him.

    "The arrival of the Costello family," the anchorman said, "begins a unique chapter in American history—the marriage of a President, the son of Irish immigrants, to the daughter of a woman who came to the United States from Mexico . . ."

    In an act of will, John Bowden forced himself to look up.

    Their backs were to the camera: four women, a man, and a little girl, entering the portals of the White House. But no one needed to identify President Kerry Kilcannon, or the child who held his hand in one of hers, her doll clasped in the other.

    Tears filled John Bowden's eyes; outrage filled his heart.

* * *

Though Lara considered it a failing, Kerry was indifferent to what he considered the frills of history—which First Lady had procured what portrait, which President had been given a French Empire clock. But for Lara's family he had read up on the evolution of the White House, committing discrete chunks to memory.