The First Counsel

* * *

After a quick game of Connect Four, we head to the backyard for lunch. Polishing off the remains of our turkey and ketchup sandwiches, the three of us are sitting at an old wooden picnic table. "Want a surprise for dessert?" my dad asks as soon as he's done eating.

"I do," Nora says immediately.

"Michael, what about . . ."

"Sure," I add.

"You got it! Wait right here." He shoots up out of his seat, almost knocking over his plate.

"Where're you going?" I ask as he heads away from the house.

"Next door," he explains without turning around.

My eyes are locked on him as he waddles toward the log fence that separates the two properties. "Be careful," I shout.

He waves back at me, his arm flailing through the air.

"You really get crazy about him, don't you?" Nora asks.

I rip a piece of crust from my bread and crumble it in my hand. "I can't help it. Ever since that photographer took my picture . . . If they're that interested, you know they're going to come out here eventually."

"And what's so terrible about that?"

She thinks I'm embarrassed of him. Even if I am, I wish it were that simple. "Don't tell me there's no reason to worry."

"Maybe it's just a mind game. Maybe it's Simon's way of telling you to keep quiet."

"And what if it's not? What if the press already knows about this guy Vaughn--?"

"I told you before, don't play what-if. You're meeting with Vaughn on Monday--you'll find out soon enough. Until then, we'll talk to Marlon and tell him to keep a close watch."

"But what if . . ." I catch myself. "Maybe I should bring him back to the city. He can stay with me."

"That's a crap idea and you know it."

"You have anything better?"

"I'm going to ask the Service to keep tabs on him out here."

"They'd do that?"

"They're the Secret Service. They'd suck bullets from a tommy gun if they thought it'd keep us safe."

"You mean, if it'd keep you safe."

"The benefit cup runneth over," she says, raising an eyebrow. "If something suspicious happens to my friends, I'm supposed to report it. They'll open a file and look into it. That should be more than enough to keep him safe."

I push the crumbs on my plate into a small, neat pile. Time for some order. "Thank you, Nora. That'd be great." Looking up, I notice that she still hasn't put on her baseball cap. "That'd really mean a lot to us."

All she does is nod. Standing from her seat, she picks up her empty plate and starts to clean up.

"Leave it," I tell her. "Marlon likes my dad to do it himself. The group home's goal is self-sufficiency."

"But doesn't he--" Nora cuts herself off.

"What?"

"No, nothing. I just--" Once again, she interrupts herself. She's lived her whole life on the receiving end of this one. Fascination with dad. It's killing her to pry.

"He's mentally retarded," I offer. "And don't worry, I don't mind you asking."

She looks away, but her face is flushed red. She's blushing. So that's what it takes to rattle her. "How long has he suffered with it?" she asks.

"He doesn't 'suffer,'" I explain. "He was just born with a slower ability to learn--which means he takes a little longer with logic and other complex reasoning. The upside, though, is that he'll never lie about his emotions. It's the charm of openness. He means what he says."

"Does that mean I have small breasts?"

I laugh. "Sorry about that one. It sometimes takes its toll on some of his social skills."

"So is your mom . . . ?"

There it is--the first question everyone asks. "No, my mom was normal. At least, by my standards."

"I don't understand."

"Take another look at the wedding photo. She was a full-figured nurse with inch-thick glasses--the kind of sad, heavyset woman you never see out, because she never goes out. She just sat home and read books. Tons of books. All of them fantasies. When my dad went to the hospital with a bladder infection, she took care of him. Penis jokes aside, he adored her--couldn't get enough--kept hitting the call button on his bed so she'd come and visit. His 'butterfly' he called her. That was all she needed. For the first time, someone said she was beautiful and meant it."

"Some people would call that true love."

"No, I agree. My mom loved him for everything he was, and he loved her right back. It was never one way--slow learner doesn't mean brain dead. He's a loving, caring person and she was the one he picked. At the same time, she saw him unobscured by his disability. And the fact that she could take care of him--it's the same thing he did for her--after all those years alone . . . well, everyone wants to be wanted."

"So I guess she's the one who raised you."

Nora's careful the way she says that. What she really wants to know is: How'd I turn out so normal? "However she felt about herself, my mom always found her outlet in me. When I started reading early and asked her if we could subscribe to a newspaper, she did everything in her power to keep me going. She just couldn't believe she and my dad produced . . ." I pause. "She was so shy, she was afraid to talk to the cashier at a Kmart, but she couldn't have possibly loved--or supported me--more."

"And she did it all by herself?"

"I know you're thinking it's impossible, but it happens all the time. Didn't you see the New York Times Magazine a few weeks back? They did a whole piece on kids with mentally retarded parents. When I was younger, we had a support group of six people we met with twice a week--now they have comprehensive therapeutic programs. Other than that, we got some help from my mom's aunts and uncles, who were some Ohio wealthy-types. Too bad for us, every one of them was a jerk-off--including the ones who live around here. They tried to get her to divorce my dad, but she told them to go scratch themselves. Hearing that, they told her the same. It's one of the biggest things I respect her for. Born with everything, she went for nothing."

"And what's your twist? Born with nothing, you now want everything?"

"It's better than nothing."

She takes a long look at me, studying my features. Her short fingernails are picking at the edge of her paper plate. I have no idea what she's thinking, but I refuse to say anything. I've always believed people connect in silence. Mental digestion, someone once called it. What happens between words.

Eventually, Nora stops picking at the plate. Something clicked.

"You alright?" I ask.

She shoots me a look I've never seen before. "Do you ever mind taking care of your dad? I mean, do you ever feel like it's a burden . . . or that's it's . . . I don't know, more than you can handle?"

It's the first time I've ever heard her say something's difficult. Even as a thought, it doesn't come easy. "My mom used to tell me that there was always someone who had it much worse."

"I guess," she says. "It's just that sometimes . . . I mean, even coming out here. This place must cost you half your salary."

"Actually, it's barely over a quarter--Medicaid picks up the rest. And even if they didn't, it's not about the money. Didn't you see the way he was walking when he gave us the tour of the kitchen? Chest straight out, ear-to-ear smile. He's proud of himself here."

"And that's enough for you?"

I turn toward the swaying corn stalks in the field next door. "Nora, that's why Caroline pulled my file in the first place." Now it's out there. No regrets. Just relief.

"What're you talking about?"

"My file. We've been waiting for the FBI to clear it, but there's a reason Caroline had it."

"I thought it was the Medicaid thing--since they pay for your dad to stay here, it was a conflict of interest to let you work on the legislative overhaul."

"There's more to it than that," I say.

She doesn't flinch. It's hard to surprise someone who's seen it all. "Out with it," she says.

I lean forward and pull my sleeves up to my elbows. "It was right after I first started in the office. I had just relocated to Washington, and I still hadn't found a place for my dad. You have to understand, I didn't want to put him just anywhere--in Michigan, he had one of the best places in the state. Like this, he was out on a farm, and they made sure he was safe, and stimulated, and had a job--"

"I get the picture."

"I don't think you do. It's not like finding daycare."

"What did you do?"

"If I didn't get him in here, they would've sent him to a training center--an institution, Nora. Forget about a normal life--he'd have languished there and died."

"Tell me what you did, Michael."

I wedge my fingernails into the grooves of the wooden table. "When I first started in the Counsel's Office, I used White House stationery to contact the head of Virginia's residential services program. Three phone calls later, I made it clear that if he accepted my dad into a private group home, he--and the entire mental retardation community--'would have a friend in the White House.'"

There's a long pause after I finish. All I can do is focus on the corn stalks.

"That's it?" she asks with a laugh.

"Nora, it's a complete abuse of power. I used my position here to--"

"Yeah, you're a real monster--you cut the cafeteria line to help your mentally retarded father. Big whoop. Find me one person in America who wouldn't do the same."

"Caroline," I say flatly.

"She found out about it?"

"Of course she found out about it. She saw the letter sitting on my desk!"

"Calm down," Nora says. "She didn't report you, did she?"

I nervously shake my head. "She called me into her office, asked me a few questions about it, then sent me on my way. Told me to keep it to myself. That's why she had my file. I swear, that's the only reason."

"Michael, it's okay. You don't have to worry about--"

"If the press picks up on it--"

"They're not--"

"All Simon has to do is give Inez my file . . . that's all it takes. You know what they'll do, Nora--he can't survive in an institu--"

"Michael . . ."

"You don't understand . . ."

"Actually, I do." She leans forward on both elbows and looks me straight in the eye. "If I were in your position, I would've done the exact same thing. I don't care what strings I had to pull, you better bet your ass I'd help my father."

"But if . . ."

"No one'll ever find out. I keep my secrets--and yours."

She reaches across the table and motions for my hand. Finger by finger, she pries open my closed fist. It's the second time today she's done that. As her nails skate tiny circles inside my palm, the calm settles on my shoulders.

"How's that?" she asks.

Questions don't come any easier. Behind her, the sun lights the edges of her hair. People wait their whole lives and never get a moment this good. Refusing to let it pass me by, I lean forward and close my eyes.

"Mickey-Mikey-Moo!" my dad shouts at the top of his lungs.

Startled, I pull away. Calmly and with far more poise, Nora does the same. Leaning back, she slowly looks over my shoulder. The moment's lost, and here comes Daddy.

"Got a surprise!" he yells from behind me.

"Where'd you get that?" Nora blurts as a smile lifts her cheeks. In seconds, she's out of her seat.

On the opposite side of the log fence, my dad's holding on to a leather strap, which is attached to a gorgeous chocolate brown horse.

"She's beautiful," Nora says, squeezing between the horizontal logs of the fence. "What's her name?"

"You were gonna kiss him, weren't you?" my dad asks, his eyes even wider than usual.

"Kiss who?" Nora asks as she points at me. "Him?" My dad nods vigorously. "Not a chance," she says.

"I think you're boyfriend and girlfriend," he says, giggling.

"You're very smart."

"You maybe gonna get married?"

"I don't know about that, but I wouldn't rule anythin--"

"Nora," I interrupt. "He doesn't--"

"He's doing just fine." Turning back to my dad, she adds, "You raised a good son, Mr. Garrick. He's the first real friend I've had in . . . in a while."

Hanging on her every word, he's mesmerized. Suddenly, his lips start to quiver. He tucks his thumbs into his fists. I knew this was going to happen. Before it even registers with Nora, his eyes well up with tears and his forehead furrows with anger. "What's wrong?" she asks, confused.

His voice is the enraged cry of a little boy. "You're not gonna have me at the wedding, are you?" he shouts. "You weren't even gonna tell me!"

Nora steps back at the outburst, but within seconds, she extends her hand to reach out. "Of course we'd--"

"Don't lie!" he yells, slapping her hand away with the edge of the leather strap. His face is bright red. "I hate lies! I hate lies!"

Nora takes another step toward him. "You don't have to--"

"I do what I want! I can do what I want!" he screams, tears streaming down his cheeks. Like a lion-tamer, he swings at her again with the leather strap.

"Dad, don't hit her!" I shout, racing for the fence. Nora can't handle this one. She backs away just as he swings again. From the look on her face, I can tell she's taken aback, but she's still determined to break through. Counting to herself, she times it just right. He takes another full swing with the strap, and before he can wind up again, she rushes forward. Just as I hop over the fence, she opens her arms and takes him in. He fights to pull away, but she holds tight.

"Shhhhhh," she whispers, lightly rubbing his back.

Slowly, he stops struggling, even as his body continues shaking. "How come you . . ."

"It's okay, it's all okay," she continues, still holding him. "Of course you're invited."

"F-For sure?" he sobs.

She lifts his chin and wipes away the tears. "You're his father, aren't you? You're the one who made him."

"I did," he says proudly as he tries to catch his breath. "He came from me." With all five fingers erect, he picks at the edge of his nose with his middle one. Growing more confident, he once again wraps his arms around her. He's still sobbing, but the gleam in his eyes tells the story. They're tears of joy. He just wanted to be part of it. Not left out.

In a moment, the whole thing's over. Still in Nora's arms, he's pressing his head against her shoulder, rocking back and forth. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. She's got it all taken care of, and for the first time, I realize that's her gift. Identifying with what's missing. That's what she knows. A life that's half-complete.

"Is this your horse?" Nora finally asks, noticing my dad hasn't let go of the leather strap of the chocolate horse.

"T-This's Comet," he whispers. "She belongs next door--to Mrs. Holt. Laura Holt. She's nice too."

"She lets you take care of Comet?"

"Clean her, groom her, feed her," my dad says, his voice rising with excitement. "First the curry comb, then the dandy brush, then the hoof pick. That's my job. I have a job."

"Wow--a job and a son. What else do you need?"

He shrugs and looks away. "Nothing, right?"

"That's it," she says. "Nothing at all."