Balance of Power

TEN

Standing in her kitchen, Joan Bowden held the telephone to her ear, one finger of her other hand resting on the replay button of her answering machine. Her throat was dry. The living room was filled with flowers; the answering machine jammed with messages. It was only two p.m.

"I didn't want to call you," she said to Kerry. "But it's been like this since I got the stay-away order. Deliverymen ringing the doorbell, John leaving message after message. He sounds more desperate every day."

"What does he say?" the President asked.

"Listen," Joan said, and pushed the button. Her husband's disembodied voice echoed in the kitchen.

I love you, Joanie. I know there's something wrong with me. But I can't change unless you help me . . .

"Did you talk to him?" Kerry cut in.

"Yes. I asked him to go with me to counseling . . ."

I don't need therapy, the recorded voice said. I don't need anyone but you. We can fix it together . . .

Joan stabbed the stop button. Wearily, she said, "He just keeps saying that, over and over . . ."

* * *

As Kerry listened, her words over the speakerphone sounded in the Oval Office. Their tension kept him taut and still. "Joanie," he entreated, "don't let John pull you back in . . ."

"His trial's coming up." Her voice became constricted. "I'm scared for him, scared for us. If he loses his job . . ."

"He's trying to scare you. It's emotional terrorism . . ."

"Listen," she insisted, and her husband's plaintive voice filled the Oval Office.

I can't go to work, Joanie. I can't even get out of bed . . .

"He managed to send you flowers," Kerry interjected. "To make phone call after phone call . . ."

You're destroying me. Bowden's tone approached hysteria. You've taken my home, my daughter, my reason for living . . .

"It's like he's in the room," Joan was saying. "I can feel him." Her husband's voice sounded muffled by choked tears.

Marie. I miss my little girl . . .

Softly, Kerry requested, "Please, turn him off."

There was a moment's delay, and then Bowden's pleading went silent in midsentence.

Kerry exhaled. "There's nothing new here. 'I'm the victim,' John keeps saying. 'Come back into my closed-off world, or terrible things may happen.' "

Kerry waited out her silence. Tiredly, Joan asked, "What if I just tried it . . ."

Hearing her despair, Kerry fought his worry and impatience. "Last week, Joanie, he put a gun to your head."

There was a knock at Kerry's door, and Clayton stuck his head in.

Switching off the speaker, Kerry picked up his telephone. "Hang on," he said to Joan, and stared at Clayton. In silent inquiry, Clayton raised his eyebrows.

"I'm on with Joan," Kerry snapped. "What is it?"

Clayton's brusque nod was, Kerry knew, meant to telegraph his concern about Joan Bowden. "Sorry to interrupt," Clayton answered, "but Martin Bresler's on the line, sounding close to suicidal."

Kerry frowned. While useful, Martin Bresler struck him as someone whose sense of disproportion might lead him to deem every internecine skirmish worthy of a President's attention. "Try Jack Sanders," Kerry instructed. "He's Bresler's contact person."

"I suggested that. Bresler says he has to talk to you. Do you want to just say no, or set another time?"

Pausing, Kerry thought of Joan. "How much time do I have right now?"

"The AIDS activists have been waiting for ten minutes. After them you've got the National Security Council."

Kerry glanced at his watch. "Tell the AIDS people I'll be with them in five, and put Bresler through."

Clayton briefly disappeared, giving instructions to Kerry's secretary. With fresh urgency, Kerry said to Joan, "Please, hang in there until the hearing. Keep calling to check in."

"Okay." She sounded unsettled and unsure. "It's just so hard . . ."

Distracted, Kerry motioned Clayton to take a seat. When Joan said a wan goodbye, he picked up his second line.

"Martin?" he asked. "What's up?"

"I'm sorry, Mr. President. The gun-show deal's off."

Bresler sounded jangled, like a man who had drunk too much coffee with too little sleep or food. "Why?" the President asked.

"They just did it." Bresler's speech was rapid. "I really can't talk about that. I just wanted to tell you myself. I was proud to work with you, Mr. President. But now I've got no job . . ."

"Is there something I can do?"

"No." Bresler's voice lowered. "You've got no idea how much they hate you."

Kerry did. But there was no point saying that to a man in extremis. "What if you expose what the SSA is doing . . ."

"That would ruin me, Mr. President." Abruptly, Bresler summoned a belated dignity. "I just wanted you to know, and to thank you for your courtesies."

Feeling anger overwhelm his pity, Kerry repeated, "If I can be of any help . . ."

"I wish you could." With these last dispirited words, Bresler thanked him again and got off.

Kerry slammed the phone.

Clayton stood. "What is it?"

"The SSA. Somehow they got Bresler, though he won't say that directly. It's their message to anyone who tries to deal with me on guns." Belatedly, Kerry stood as well. "They must have put the screws to the gun companies. Maybe the antitrust division should take a look at this."

Clayton folded his arms. "Hardball's not illegal—if it were, you'd be in jail. Bring in the Justice Department, and you'll be the overreaching proto-dictator the right wing says you are."

"In my dreams, Clayton."

"Maybe in your second term. In the meantime, it's enough to try and conquer AIDS."

At this reminder, Kerry headed for the door. But he could not let go of his anger. "We'll conquer AIDS," he said over his shoulder, "before we ever stop slaughtering each other with guns. AIDS doesn't have the SSA behind it—at least officially." Opening the door, he turned and ordered, "Track down that guy George Callister, from Lexington Arms. I'd like to have a word with him."