Until a week ago, her time hadn’t been her own for almost two years. Once the campaign was officially lost, she’d been desperately looking forward to taking Davey and Ed away for a week of total sanctuary up in her hideaway shack in the Green Mountains in Vermont. But those plans had to be delayed by the drudge of mandatory party post-mortems, and the exhausting whirl of soirées and breakfasts all around the country. There was nothing to celebrate, but she knew her supporters had to be thanked, especially for sticking with Hank.
So Christmas was welcome, a time when she could legitimately say no to anything official. The shack was put on hold till early January. Christmas would be in Manhattan.
SPENCER spied Isabel before she saw him. He’d phoned earlier, asking to see her urgently, anywhere, just name the place and no, it couldn’t wait.
It was 5:30 PM when she peered into the crowd as she and Davey skated the ice under Rockefeller Plaza’s floodlights. Ah, there was Spencer’s wave. He was leaning on the rail at the end, a golden aura glowing around him from the huge Grecian statue behind him. Where else would Spencer wait? The defiant Prometheus, the giant Titan who stole fire from the gods to give to humanity, would appeal to Spencer, she decided.
Spencer watched Isabel skate off the rink and leave Davey with a woman and her son. They were neighbours in the Dakota on West 72nd Street and Central Park West, where Isabel and Ed had their Manhattan pad, just one floor below John Lennon’s old place. Coincidentally, they were also at the Rockefeller Plaza’s four o’clock tea with Santa Claus and they had hooked up with Isabel and Davey for skating afterwards. The mother was delighted to keep an eye on Davey, and almost as soon as the two boys got onto the ice they joined hands and were gliding round and round as if they were junior Torvills and Deans. It was better for Isabel than leaving him to George, her original plan: not only was his wrist strained, but these days his centre of gravity was a foot in front of him; not good on the ice. She left him sitting hunched in the café complaining about the coffee and the service.
It was while Isabel was crouched down lacing up Davey’s skates that she told him Spencer was coming later to chat. With her head down, she missed the dark frown that clouded over the boy’s face.
Davey had met Spencer a few times and knew Isabel liked him, but the boy also sensed his father had a different opinion; Ed made no pretence about things like that.
When Isabel skated off to the side to meet Spencer, she waved back at Davey, unaware it was how his Mommy used to wave, or so Davey’s mind told him. Spencer waved too, just like The Man. And also like The Man, Spencer was an Afro-American. The “look at me, I’m skating” gleam on Davey’s face dimmed as the memories filled his head and he dropped his skating partner’s hand. Slipping backwards, he crashed onto the ice. He lay flat for several seconds, narrowly being avoided by several skaters till his friend’s mother skated over, and since eight-year-olds don’t have far to fall, she got him up fast. She mistook the tears and patted the back of his coat, “It’s only a little fall,” she soothed, careful to mouth the words slowly, but he wasn’t crying about that.
He grasped her hand tight for the next ten circuits, whimpering each time he spied the couple near the golden statue, their heads close together.
ISABEL and Spencer finished their tête-à-tête just after Davey was off the ice and back with George in the café at the end of the ice rink. Davey’s hot chocolate with two floating marshmallows was steaming on the table.
“What was so crucial Spencer had to interrupt your skating time?” George asked.
“A proposition,” she said, and saw Davey’s blue eyes clamp shut. “We’ll discuss it later, George. Something’s bugging Davey.” She squeezed the boy’s ear lobe and rested her hand on his cheek but his eyes stayed closed, damming back the tears.
The two adults were silent, contemplating, until George said, “The only proposal you should’ve accepted from Spencer was when he wanted to marry you.”
Davey had cracked his eyes open and read George’s lips. His body began to shudder, he couldn’t stop it. “Don’t leave us,” Davey signed, his tears streaming.
“I’m not leaving you.”
“He wants to marry you. George said so,” the boy signed.
Isabel wanted to laugh, but was careful not to, “That was a long time ago. Now I love your daddy, and you.”
Davey looked away. After a long pause, he turned his head back, “Why did he come?” he signed, his hand motions abrupt, angry.
Isabel inhaled deeply and spoke—quietly, of course—but paced to give just enough emphasis to her words, “The President wants me to do something important and he got Spencer to ask me to accept.”
George was as captivated by this as Davey.
“But,” signed Davey, his hands a blur, “we don’t like the President.”
“What does he want?” interrupted George.
Isabel could see Davey’s lips pressed. “He wants me to become House Speaker.”
“What?” George blurted, almost blowing his buckteeth out of his mouth. He sprayed with such force his puffy cheeks and turkey neck quivered.
“What’s a house speaker?” Davey asked, imagining something like a talking building. Whatever it was, he knew it was bad, and it only got worse after she explained it might disrupt their planned special trip.