She had sent him a long email the week before graduation, telling him her future plans—she was going to take some time off and then go to grad school in international relations somewhere in the South—and asking him to stay in touch. She had included the phone number to her parents’ home, something she’d never shared with him. She also wrote that her parents were going to be in town for graduation, and would he like to have breakfast with them? He found this curious and then, upon reflection, mildly offensive, since she’d made no previous attempt to invite him to meet them. But the part of the email that made him guffaw was the postscript. It read: “Please say hi to your folks from me. I really enjoyed my time with them.”
Was it really possible that two people could see the world in such different ways? Were they all like those blind men, each one describing a different part of the elephant? He traced the disintegration of their relationship to that disastrous Thanksgiving weekend at the Cape. Was it possible that Carine really had seen it differently? Dimly, he recalled something she’d said about how political debates and arguments had been part of her family life. At that time, he had heard the statement as a challenge and a taunt. But what if she hadn’t meant it that way at all? What if Carine, the daughter of an African father, saw debate as a way of claiming her Americanism?
Dammit. This was precisely the reason he had broken it off, this twisted logic, this maddening way she had of messing with his head. He had not imagined her rudeness that day, nor his parents’ relief when he’d told them last week that he and Carine were no longer an item. His mom, who seldom had an ill word to say about anyone, had gone so far as to say, “Well, there was just a degree of hostility there that was . . . unnecessary.”
He spent half a day composing a response to her email in his head. And then it came to him. The whole beauty of being broken up with someone was that you didn’t have to reply.
Still, it wasn’t until he was on the plane at Logan airport with his parents the day after graduation that he relaxed. He would never see Carine again. And instead of nicking him like a blunt razor, the thought soothed him.
He looked out the plane window. Boston looked blue and sunny and distant, sort of like the future that awaited him. Law school would be a challenge, but he was up for it. His parents had been ecstatic when he’d gotten in, David more so, because his son would be following in his footsteps yet again. And like David decades earlier, Anton had graduated summa cum laude from Harvard College.
Anton reclined in his plane seat and yawned. He had no plans for the summer except hanging out with Brad and their friends, going fishing, swimming in the lake, and playing soccer. At some point he would run up to the Cape for a few days to visit alone with Pappy. Or Pappy might come down to see them—Uncle Connor was apparently engineering a political event with three generations of Colemans in attendance.
“Happy to be going home?” Delores asked from across the aisle.
Anton beamed. “More than I can say.”
BOOK THREE
November 2012
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Anton Coleman stood before the microphone, blinded by the flash of the cameras. A trickle of sweat ran down his face. It was hot under the klieg lights. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see his parents standing in the wings, the wattage of David’s smile even brighter than the stage lights. He tried to think, but it was impossible, his thoughts scrambled by the raucous crowd chanting his last name over and over again. Anton smiled his toothy grin, and their cheers grew even louder. He ran his fingers through his hair in a nervous gesture and flashed an imploring look at Uncle Connor, who was standing at the bottom of the stage, part of the cheering crowd. For the next thirty seconds, the sound of their celebration mixed with the sound of the floor monitors pleading for quiet.
“Thank you,” Anton said. “Thank you. Thanks. Please.” He made a gesture with his hand, at once placating and commanding, asking them to take their seats. “Wow,” he said as the crowd fell silent. “What a night. Friends, we have made history tonight.” And with that, they were back on their feet, stomping, cheering, hooting in the Hilton ballroom.
Anton turned slightly to his right, to where his father was standing just out of the line of vision. David was pumping both fists in the air, looking happier than he had on any previous election night that Anton could remember. Anton laughed spontaneously, different from the slightly strained smiles and grins with which he had greeted his supporters as he’d strode through the room a few minutes earlier. It had been David’s idea that Anton personally thank and greet all the campaign workers from the floor before making his acceptance speech, and although Anton had agreed at once, these interactions never came easily to him. Unlike his father, who had grown to genuinely love the glad-handing with voters, Anton was a wonk, focused on what he wanted to accomplish once he got into the attorney general’s office. The election was simply the means to an end. Throughout the campaign, Anton had been acutely aware of a slightly ironic internal critic who mocked him as he tried to play the role of politician. He had, after all, grown up in the age of Barack Obama’s cool and Jon Stewart’s puncturing wit, and the internal critic seemed to be lodged permanently in his body.
What he had no doubt about, however, was his vow to clean up the AG’s office.
He pulled his carefully prepared speech out of his pocket and cleared his throat. He had practiced the victory speech enough times to have it memorized. He would begin by thanking his parents and repeating that their state had made history tonight by electing the first father-son team as governor and attorney general. Then he’d get into the laundry list of challenges that lay ahead of them.
They were finally quiet, waiting for him. He opened his mouth to speak and found that he couldn’t. All at once, the momentousness of the occasion hit him—he had graduated from law school just a few years ago, had worked briefly as a trial lawyer and then served as a federal prosecutor. And now here he was, the youngest ever AG in the state. His eyes filled with tears and he chewed on his lower lip, trying to regain his composure. He looked around the crowded room, his eyes searching for the one person he knew wouldn’t be there—Pappy. What a triumph this night would’ve been for him. But Pappy had died nine months ago, felled by a massive stroke.