The Book of Fate

79

Silent for almost twenty-five minutes, Rogo was hunched over the archival box in his lap as his fingertips walked through each page of the open file. “Who d’ya think the mom is?” he finally asked as the sun faded through the nearby window.

“Of Boyle’s kid?” Dreidel replied, picking through his own box. “I’ve got no idea.”

“You think it was someone big?”

“Define big.”

“I don’t know — he could’ve been sleeping with anyone: a senior staffer… some intern… the First Lady—”

“First Lady? You joking? You think we wouldn’t notice if Mrs. Manning—while in the White House—started vomiting, gaining weight, and suddenly seeing a doctor — not to mention if she showed up one day with a kid that looked like Boyle?”

“Maybe she didn’t have the kid. It could’ve been—”

“‘Paternity issue’ means the kid was born,” Dreidel insisted, crossing to the other side of the table and picking up a new box. “It would’ve said ABT if they thought there was an abortion. And even if that weren’t the case — the First Lady? Please… when it came time to leave the White House, she was more upset than the President himself. No way she’d put any of that at risk for some dumb fling with Boyle.”

“I’m just saying, it could’ve been anyone,” Rogo said, nearly halfway through the file box as he reached a thick brown accordion folder that held two framed photos. Pulling out the silver frame in front, he squinted down at the family shot of Boyle with his wife and daughter.

Posed in front of a waterfall, Boyle and his wife playfully hugged their sixteen-year-old daughter, Lydia, who, at the center of the photograph, was in mid-scream/mid-laugh as the ice-cold waterfall soaked her back. Laughing right along with her, Boyle had his mouth wide open, and despite his thick mustache, it was clear that Lydia had her father’s smile. A huge, toothy grin. Rogo couldn’t take his eyes off it. Just one big happy—

“It’s just a photo,” Dreidel interrupted.

“Wha?” Rogo asked, looking over his shoulder.

Behind him, Dreidel stared down at the framed shot of the Boyles at the waterfall. “That’s it — just a photo,” he warned. “Believe me, even though they’re smiling, doesn’t mean they’re happy.”

Rogo looked down at the photo, then back to Dreidel, whose lips were pressed together. Rogo knew that look. He saw it every day on his speeding ticket clients. We all know our own sins.

“So the mom from Boyle’s paternity problem…” Rogo began.

“… could be anyone,” Dreidel agreed, happy to be back on track. “Though knowing Boyle, I bet it’s someone we’ve never even heard of.”

“What makes you say that?” Rogo asked.

“I don’t know — it’s just… when we were in the White House, that’s the way Boyle was. As Manning’s oldest friend, he was never really part of the staff. He was more — he was here,” Dreidel said, holding his left hand palm-down at eye level. “And he thought the rest of us were here,” he added, slapping his right palm against the worktable.

“That’s the benefit of being First Friend.”

“But that’s the thing — I know he kinda got sainthood when he was shot, but from where I was standing on the inside, Boyle spent plenty of days in the doghouse.”

“Maybe that’s when Manning found out about the kid.”

For the second time, Dreidel was silent.

Rogo didn’t say a word. Unloading the second picture from his own box, he propped open the back leg of the black matte picture frame and stood it up on the worktable. Inside was a close-up photo of Boyle and his wife, the apples of their cheeks pressed together as they smiled for the camera. From the bushiness of his mustache and the thickness of his hairline, the photo was an old one. Two people in love.

“What else you got in there besides photos?” Dreidel asked, turning the box slightly and reading the word Misc. on the main label.

“Mostly desk stuff,” Rogo said as he emptied the box, pulling out a hardcover book about the history of genocide, a softcover about the legacy of the Irish, and a rubber-banded preview copy of a highly critical book called The Manning Myth.

“I remember when that came out,” Dreidel said. “Pompous ass never even called us to fact-check.”

“I just can’t believe they keep all this crap,” Rogo said as he pulled out a decade-old parking pass for the Kennedy Center.

“To you, it’s crap — to the library, it’s history.”

“Let me tell you something — even to the library, this crap is crap,” Rogo said, unloading a small stack of taxi receipts, a scrap of paper with handwritten directions to the Arena Stage, a blank RSVP card to someone’s wedding, a finger-paint drawing with the words Uncle Ron neatly printed on top, and a small spiral notebook with the Washington Redskins football logo on the front.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa — what’re you doing?” Dreidel interrupted.

“What, this?” Rogo asked, pointing to the finger-paint drawing.

“That,” Dreidel insisted as he grabbed the spiral notebook with the football logo.

“I don’t get it — whattya need a football schedule for?”

“This isn’t a schedule.” Opening the book, Dreidel turned it toward Rogo, revealing a daily calendar for the first week of January. “It’s Boyle’s datebook.”

Rogo’s eyebrows rose as he palmed the top of his buzzed head. “So we can see all his meetings…”

“Exactly,” Dreidel said, already skimming through it. “Meetings, dinners, everything — and most particularly what he was up to on the night of May 27th.”