The Devil's bed

The report was an analysis of a program that for years Kate had advocated establishing-compulsory youth service, a requirement that all young women and men in the United States give a year of service to the nation upon graduation from high school. It wasn’t at all a new idea, and Clay Dixon knew it had never enjoyed great popularity in the United States. However, Kate had grown up with the concept of service to the nation as a basic tenet of her life, and she’d lived her belief. She’d helped to organize a number of international conferences on youth service, had spoken across the country, written dozens of articles. She argued that too many Americans grew up without any sense of national responsibility or even a sense of belonging. They grew up separated by economic status, by religion, by race, by creed, by color. Only in times of war did Americans seem to unite, to feel the sense of oneness that came with common sacrifice. Americawasat war, she insisted. The enemy was poverty, ignorance, neglect. America needed its young women and men to bolster the ranks of understaffed hospitals, nursing homes, day care centers. They were needed in the fields and in the inner city, in the parks and in the streets, in programs of national importance where the money was too little and the personnel too few. And they were needed abroad in the same way. She saw it not only as a pragmatic way of dealing with labor shortages in areas of social need, but also as a way of instilling a sense of stewardship in youth and an allegiance to the nation and its people. She’d stumped for the idea long before she married Clay Dixon.

Upon entering the White House, however, she’d been strongly advised by Alan Carpathian to discontinue her public crusade. It was, he pointed out, an issue without popular support, and it risked putting the president in a politically awkward position. She’d acquiesced, but only after extracting a promise from her husband and the chief of staff that they would undertake a study of the feasibility of such a program. After Carpathian’s death, John Llewellyn advocated scrapping the whole project, but Lorna Channing had championed the idea, and Dixon had listened. Although it had taken nearly four years to keep his promise to Kate, he now held the study in his hand.

“What will you do with it?” Lorna asked.

“Sit on it for a while.”

She looked unhappy. “A lot of effort just to have it end up buried.”

“Just until the election is over.”

“Don’t rock the boat, huh? That’s your father talking.”

“Llewellyn, too.”

“If you’re not careful, Clay, they’ll keep it buried. I think that would be a mistake. Besides, Kate would shoot you.”

“She’s already got her finger on the trigger,” he said.

She crossed her arms and relaxed against the door. “I watched your interview this evening. You were stellar.”

“Thank you.”

“Kate seemed a little…reserved.”

“You’re a great diplomat, Lorna.”

“Anything you want to talk about?”

“No. But thanks.”

He was standing very near her. “Nice perfume. What is it?”

She laughed, a brief but enticing utterance. If chocolate had a sound, Dixon thought, that would be it.

“You don’t recognize it? Chanel. You gave it to me for Christmas. I was impressed that you remembered my favorite scent.”

Dixon decided not to tell her that it was Kate who’d chosen the gifts, who’d noticed her preference for the perfume.

“You know,” he said, “just before you came I was thinking about that night on the Purgatoire the summer before Stanford.”

“That was a long time ago.”

“But you remember?”

“Of course.”

“Christ, everything seemed so simple then.”

“It wasn’t. We just didn’t realize it.”

He saw her face change, saw something sad creep into her expression.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Talking about the Purgatoire. I got a call from my father yesterday. He had to put Sultan down.”

“Oh, Lorna, I’m so sorry.”

Tears glistened suddenly in her green eyes, and he put his arms around her.

“I knew it would happen,” she said. “He was so old. But it still feels awful.”

“He was a magnificent horse,” Dixon said.

“Thanks.” She wiped her eyes with her hand. “I should be going. It’s late.” She started to leave, but seemed to think better of it, and turned back to him. “Listen, Clay, if you need someone to talk to, about anything, think of me, okay?”

“Of course.”

After she left, he thumbed the thick report, but he made no move to read it. For a long time, he simply stared at the open door where Lorna Channing had been, and he savored the ghost of her presence.

Ghosts. There were too many of them in his life now. He lifted his glass, and with the last swallow of his sherry, he toasted the dead.

“To Alan Carpathian, and all the dreams that died with him.”

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