He laughed. “We’ll see.”
Crow nodded. “Do you care to speculate on why you’ve avoided marriage for so long?”
“Oh geez. Give me a break.” Anton fixed his gaze on the older man. “Are you married, John?”
“Divorced, actually.”
“There you go. That’s a vast improvement over never having married, right?”
Crow gave him an appreciative look. “Fair enough,” he said at last. He peered at his notebook and then looked up. “During the campaign, you made it an issue how your biracial background would help you bridge the racial divide. Yet polls show that many of the minority citizens of your state don’t even see you as one of them. And the charge is you have done precious little to help them.”
I can’t decide whether you’re the whitest black man or the blackest white man I’ve ever met. Carine’s words, spoken a lifetime ago, came rushing back at him with their full, shameful velocity. The memory made Anton grimace. “Wait a minute. The charge against me? Can I ask who is leading this charge? Or are these just more anonymous accusers?”
For the first time during the interview, Crow appeared to be on the defensive. “Well, every black woman I have interviewed for this story has commented on the fact that all your girlfriends have been white. That’s just for starters.”
“I see. So this is no longer a political issue. Now we are talking about my personal life?”
“Well, you know what they say, Mr. Coleman. In politics, perception is reality. And it’s undeniable that you have only been seen in the company of white women.”
Anton stared at the spot on the wall behind Crow’s head as he struggled to control his temper. “It may be undeniable to you, John, but I’m going to deny it anyway.” His voice was cold, dripping with hostility.
John Crow gave a start of surprise. “Mr. Attorney General. Are you telling me you’ve dated a black woman?”
“For three years in college,” Anton said. And realized, with satisfaction, that he had thrown Crow off his stride, albeit momentarily.
“Really. What was her name?”
Anton smiled and wagged his finger. “You’ll just have to take me at my word. The last thing I want to do is have the poor woman see her name in Rolling Stone.” He looked at his watch pointedly. “As you know, I have another appointment at three-thirty. Are we almost done here?”
Crow smiled. “Almost.”
THE INTERVIEW RAN three weeks later, and it was not the hatchet job he’d feared. He was mentally composing a thank-you note to Crow when he turned to the jump and his heart stopped momentarily as his eyes fell on Carine’s name. Fuck. Damn that John Crow. How the hell had he managed to track her down? Stomach muscles clenching, Anton read the paragraphs dealing with his relationship with the “enigmatic, charismatic Carine Biya,” as the article described her. John had done his homework—there was Colin George, Anton’s doubles partner at Harvard, recalling, “They were inseparable. And very much in love.”
And then there was a quote from Carine herself. Jack had managed to find her in a suburb of Atlanta, where she now lived. Anton closed his eyes for a second, bracing himself for the worst. And was flooded with gratitude when he read what she’d said: “He was the most even-tempered guy I’d ever met and not the least bit pretentious. I mean, I think we’d dated for months before I even found out who his daddy was.” She went on to tell some funny anecdote about an old red flannel shirt with holes in the elbows that Anton refused to throw away despite her cajoling. He hadn’t the slightest idea whether the story was real—he could recall no such shirt—but he read the anecdote with an appreciative politician’s eye: It was the kind of story about frugality and regular-guy behavior that voters loved.
He almost immediately signed on to his personal email account. His in-box was already flooded with friends offering their congratulations; apparently more of them read Rolling Stone than he’d been aware of. He began to compose a thank-you message to John Crow, then stopped. Instead, he picked up the phone and dialed the reporter’s cell number.
John answered on the third ring. “Yup?”
“John? It’s Anton Coleman. Good piece. I just wanted to call and thank you.”
“Great. Glad to know it worked out.”
“Though I do wish you’d left that poor woman alone.” He said it friendly, with just the slightest reproach in his voice.
“Carine? Oh, she was fine. She was more than happy to talk to me about you.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Anton hesitated a second before asking, “So, do you have an email for her or something? I’d—I’d like to thank her, you know, for her gracious remarks.”
He heard John’s low chuckle, knew that the reporter had picked up on his awkwardness. “No problem, Mr. AG. Give me a second to find it.” He heard Jack rummaging around. “Here it is. You ready?”
After they hung up, Anton stared at the piece of paper where he’d written Carine’s email address. Would Katherine be mad if she found out he’d written to Carine? Well, there was no reason for her to be jealous. Carine was someone from his distant past, and all he was going to do was send her a note thanking her for her kind words. Why, it was virtually part of his job description.
His tone in the email was friendly but polite, and he was careful to avoid any personal reminiscence. In other words, it was Katherine-proof. He reread the email and was about to hit send when he added, “P.S. Let me know what’s new in your life?”
Even though he hated himself for it, he found himself checking his in-box during the day, but Carine had not written back. As had become his custom, he drove to see his father directly after work and agreed to stay for supper when he caught the look of loneliness in his mother’s eyes. He sent a quick text to Katherine explaining the situation. William, who had taken a leave of absence from the hospital to be full-time in his father’s employ, cut David’s chicken for him as they ate.
“So did you see the article, Dad?” he asked, and David nodded.
“I read it to him this morning, honey,” Delores said. “He wouldn’t even go for his bath until I had.”
His father was saying something in the low, raspy voice that he’d acquired after his bypass, and Anton leaned in to catch what he was saying. “That girl—Carine—she said nice things.”
“Why wouldn’t she?” Delores’s voice was tight with remembered insult. “We were nothing but good to her.”
Anton grinned. “Mom. Relax. Everything’s fine.”
Delores nodded. “Where’s Katherine tonight?”
“At home.” Anton kept his tone light. “Why?”
“No reason. I like Katherine. She’s more—your type.”